Chapter 3

Returning from the South a few weeks after the events narrated in the previous chapter, Frank and I were met at Goldsboro by Preston and Selma, when the latter accompanied us to the North, and once more resumed her place in David's family.

On the first of February following, Frank, then not quite twenty-one, was admitted a partner in the house of Russell, Rollins, & Co., and, in the succeeding summer, was sent to Europe on business of the firm. Shortly after his return, in the following spring, he came on from Boston with a proposal from Cragin that I should embark with them and young Preston in an extensive speculation. Deeming any business in which Cragin was willing to engage worthy of careful consideration, I listened to Frank's exposition of the plan of operations. He had originated the project, and in it he displayed the comprehensive business mind and rare blending of caution and boldness which characterized his father. As the result of this transaction had an important influence on the future of some of the actors in my story, I will detail its programme.

It was during the Crimean war. The Russian ports were closed, and Great Britain and the Continent of Europe were dependent entirely on the Southern States for their supply of resinous articles. The rivers at the South were low, and it was not supposed they would rise sufficiently to float produce to market before the occurrence of the spring freshets, in the following April or May. Only forty thousand barrels of common rosin were held in Wilmington--the largest naval-store port in the world; and it was estimated that not more than two hundred thousand were on hand in the other ports of Savannah, Ga., Georgetown, S. C., Newbern and Washington, N. C., and in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia. Very little was for sale in London, Liverpool, or Glasgow, the largest foreign markets for the article; and Frank thought that a hundred and fifty thousand barrels could be purchased. That quantity, taken at once out of market, would probably so much enhance the value of the article, that the operation would realize a large profit before the new crop came forward. The purchases were to be made simultaneously in the various markets, and about two hundred thousand dollars were required to carry through the transaction. One hundred thousand of this was to be furnished in equal proportions by the parties interested; the other hundred thousand would be realized by Joseph Preston's negotiating 'long exchange' on Russell, Rollins & Co.

I declined to embark in the speculation, but the others carried it out as laid down in the programme; the only deviation being that, at Frank's suggestion, Mr. Robert Preston was apprised of the intended movement, and allowed to purchase, on his own account, as much produce as could be secured in Newbern. He bought about seven thousand barrels, paid for them by drawing at ninety days on Russell, Rollins, & Co., and held them for sale at Newbern, agreeing to satisfy his drafts with the proceeds. These drafts amounted to a trifle over eighty-two hundred dollars.

About a month after this transaction was entered into, our firm received the following letter from Preston:

'GENTLEMEN: An unfortunate difference with my son prevents my longer using him as my indorser. I have not, as yet, been able to secure another; and, our banks requiring two home names on time drafts, I have to beg you to honor a small bill at one day's sight. I have drawn for one thousand dollars. Please honor.'

To this I at once replied:

'DEAR SIR: We have advice of your draft for one thousand dollars. To protect your credit, we shall pay it; but we beg you will draw no more, till you forward bills of lading.

'You are now overdrawn some five thousand dollars, which, by the maturing of your drafts, has become a _cash_ advance. The death of our senior, Mr. Randall, and the consequent withdrawal of his capital, has left us with an extended business and limited means. Money, also, is very tight, and we therefore earnestly beg you to put us in funds at the earliest possible moment.'

No reply was received to this letter; but, about ten days after its transmission, Preston himself walked into my private office. His clothes were travel stained, and he appeared haggard and careworn. I had never seen him look so miserably.

He met me cordially, and soon referred to the state of his affairs. His wife, the winter before, had agreed to reside permanently at Newbern, and content herself with an allowance of three thousand dollars annually; but at the close of the year he found that she had contracted debts to the extent of several thousand more. He was pressed for these debts; his interest was in arrears, and he could raise no money for lack of another indorser. Ruin stared him in the face, unless I again put my shoulder to the wheel, and pried him out of the mire. The turpentine business was not paying as well as formerly, but the new plantation was encumbered with only the original mortgage--less than six thousand dollars--and was then worth, owing to an advance in the value of land, fully twenty thousand. He would secure me by a mortgage on that property, but I _must_ allow the present indebtedness to stand, and let him increase it four or five thousand dollars. That amount would extricate him from present difficulties; and, to avoid future embarrassments, he would take measures for a legal separation from his wife.

I heard him through, and then said:

'I cannot help you, my friend. I am very sorry; but my own affairs are in a most critical state. I owe over a hundred thousand dollars, maturing within twenty days, and my present available resources are not more than fifty thousand. I have three hundred thousand worth of produce on hand, but the market is so depressed that I cannot realize a dollar upon it. The banks have shut down, and money is two per cent. a month in the street. What you owe us would aid me wonderfully; but I can rub through without it. That much I can bear, but not a dollar more.'

He walked the room for a time, and was silent; then, turning to me, he said--each separate word seeming a groan:

'I have cursed every one I ever loved, and now I am bringing trouble--perhaps disaster--upon _you_, the only real friend I have left.'

'Pshaw! my good fellow, don't talk in that way. What you owe us is only a drop in the bucket. We have made twice that amount out of you; so give yourself no uneasiness, if you _never_ pay it.'

'But I must pay it--I _shall_ pay it;' and, continuing to pace the room silently for a few moments, he added, giving me his hand: 'Good-by; I'm going back to-night.'

'Back to-night!--without seeing Selly, or my wife? You are mad!'

'I _must_ go.'

'You must _not_ go. You are letting affairs trouble you too much. Come, go home with me, and see Kate. A few words from her will make a new man of you.'

'No, no; I must go back at once. I must raise this money somehow.'

'Send money to the dogs! Come with me, and have a good night's rest. You'll think better of this in the morning. And now it occurs to me that Kate has about seven thousand belonging to Frank. He means to settle it on Selly when they are married, and she might as well have it first as last. Perhaps you can get it now.'

'But I might be robbing my own child.'

'You can give the farm as security; it's worth twice the amount.'

'Well, I'll stay. Let us see your wife at once.'

While we were seated in the parlor, after supper, I broached the subject of Preston's wants to Kate. She heard me through attentively, and then quietly said:

'Frank is of age--he can do as he pleases; but _I_ would not advise him to make the loan. I once heard my father scout at the idea of taking security on property a thousand miles away. I would not wound Mr. Preston's feelings, but--his wife's extravagance has led him into this difficulty, and her property should extricate him from it. Her town house, horses, and carriages should be sold. She ought to be made to feel some of the mortification she has brought upon him.'

Preston's face brightened; a new idea seemed to strike him. 'You are right. I will sell everything.' His face clouded again, as he continued: 'But I cannot realize soon enough. Your husband needs money at once.'

'Never mind me; I can take care of myself. But what is this trouble with Joe? Tell me, I will arrange it. Everything can go on smoothly again.'

'It cannot be arranged. There can be no reconciliation between us.'

'What prevents? Who is at fault--you, or he?'

'I am. He will never forgive me!'

'Forgive you! I can't imagine what you have done, that admits of no forgiveness.'

He rose, and walked the room for a while in gloomy silence, then said:

'I will tell you. It is right you should know. You _both_ should know the sort of man you have esteemed and befriended for so many years;' and, resuming his seat, he related the following occurrences:

'Everything went on as usual at the plantation, till some months after Rosey's marriage to Ally. Then a child was born to them. It was white. Rosey refused to reveal its father, but it was evidently not her husband. Ally, being a proud, high-spirited fellow, took the thing terribly to heart. He refused to live with his wife, or even to see her. I tried to reconcile them, but without success. Old Dinah, who had previously doted on Rosey, turned about, and began to beat and abuse her cruelly. To keep the child out of the old woman's way, I took her into the house, and she remained there till about two months ago. Then, one day, Larkin, the trader, of whom you bought Phylly and the children, came to me, wanting a woman house-servant. I was pressed for money, and I offered him--a thing I never did before--two or three of my family slaves. They did not suit, but he said Rosey would, and proposed to buy her and the child. I refused. He offered me fifteen hundred dollars for them, but I still refused. Then he told me that he had spoken to the girl, and she wished him to buy her. I doubted it, and said so; but he called Rosey to us, and she confirmed it, and, in an excited way, told me she would run away, or drown herself, if I did not sell her. She said she could live no longer on the same plantation with Ally. I told her I would send Ally away; but she replied: 'No; I am tired of this place. I have suffered so much here, I want to get away. I _shall_ go; whether alive or dead, is for _you_ to say.' I saw she was in earnest; I was hard pressed for money; Larkin promised to get her a kind master, and--I sold her.'

'Sold her! My God! Preston, she was your own child!'

'I know it,' he replied, burying his face in his hands. 'The curse of GOD was on it; it has been on me for years.' After a few moments, he added: 'But hear the rest, and _you_ will curse me, too.'

Overcome with emotion, he groaned audibly. I said nothing, and a pause of some minutes ensued. Then, in a choked, broken voice, he continued:

'The rosin transaction had been gone into. I had used up what blank indorsements I had. Needing more, and wanting to consult with Joe about selling the rosin, I went to Mobile. It was five weeks ago. I arrived there about dark, and put up at the Battle House. Joe had boarded there. I was told he had left, and gone to housekeeping. A negro conducted me to a small house in the outskirts of the town. He said Joe lived there. Wishing to surprise him, I went in without knocking. The house had two parlors, separated by folding doors. In the back one a young woman was clearing away the tea things; in the front one, Joe was seated by the fire, with a young child on his knee. I put my hand on his shoulder, and said: 'Joe, whose child have you here?' He looked up, and laughingly said: 'Why, father, you ought to know; you've seen it before!' I looked closely at it--it was Rosey's! I said so. 'Yes, father,' he replied; 'and there's Rosey herself. Larkin promised she should have a kind master, and--he kept his word.' The truth flashed upon me--the child was his! My only son had seduced his _own sister_! I staggered back in horror. I told him who Rosey was, and then'--no words can express the intense agony depicted on his face as he said this--'then he cursed me! O my God! HE CURSED ME!'

I pitied him, I could but pity him; and I said:

'Do not be so cast down, my friend. I once heard you say: 'The Lord is good. His mercy is everlasting!''

'But he cannot have mercy on some!' he cried. '_My_ sins have been too great; they cannot be blotted out. I embittered the life of my wife; I have driven my daughter from her home; sold my own child; made my generous, noble-hearted boy do a horrible crime--a crime that will haunt him forever. Oh! the curse of God is on me. My misery is greater than I can bear.'

'No, my friend; God curses none of his creatures. You have reaped what you have sown, that is all; but you have suffered enough. Better things, believe me, are in store for you.'

'No, no; everything is gone--wife, children, all! I am alone--the past, nothing but remorse; the future, ruin and dishonor!'

'But Selly is left you. _She_ will always love you.'

'No, no! Even Selly would curse me, if she knew _all_!'

No one spoke for a full half hour, and he continued pacing up and down the room. When, at last, he seated himself, more composed, I asked:

'What became of Rosey and the child?'

'I do not know. I was shut in my room for several days. When I got out, I was told Joe had freed her, and she had disappeared, no one knew whither. I tried every means to trace her, but could not. At the end of a week, I went home, what you see me--a broken-hearted man.'

The next morning, despite our urgent entreaties, he returned to the South.

* * * * *

The twenty days were expiring. By hard struggling I had met my liabilities, but the last day--the crisis--was approaching. Thirty thousand dollars of our acceptances had accumulated together, and were maturing on that day. When I went home, on the preceding night, we had only nineteen thousand in bank. I had exhausted all our receivables. Where the eleven thousand was to come from, I did not know. Only one resource seemed left me--the hypothecation of produce; and a resort to that, at that time, before warehouse receipts became legitimate securities, would be ruinous to our credit. My position was a terrible one. No one not a merchant can appreciate or realize it. With thousands upon thousands of assets, the accumulations of years, my standing among merchants, and, what I valued more than all, my untarnished credit, were in jeopardy for the want of a paltry sum.

I went home that night with a heavy heart; but Kate's hopeful words encouraged me. With her and the children left to me, I need not care for the rest; all might go, and I could commence again at the bottom of the hill. The next morning I walked down town with a firm spirit, ready to meet disaster like a man. The letters by the early mail were on my desk. I opened them one after another, hurriedly, eagerly. There were no remittances! I had expected at least five thousand dollars. For a moment my courage failed me. I rose, and paced the room, and thoughts like these passed through my mind: 'The last alternative has come. Pride must give way to duty. I must hypothecate produce, and protect my correspondents. I must sacrifice myself to save my friends!

'But here are two letters I have thrown aside. They are addressed to me personally. Mere letters of friendship! What is friendship, at a time like this?--friendship without money! Pshaw! I wouldn't give a fig for all the friends in the world!'

Mechanically I opened one of them. An enclosure dropped to the floor. Without pausing to pick it up, I read:

'DEAR FATHER: Mother writes me you are hard pressed. Sell my U. S. stock--it will realize over seven thousand. It is yours. Enclosed is Cragin's certified check for ten thousand. If you need more, draw on _him_, at sight, for any amount. He says he will stand by you to the death.

'Love to mother. FRANK.'

'P. S.--Fire away, old fellow! Hallet is ugly, but I'll go my pile on you, spite of the devil. CRAGIN.'

'SAVED! saved by my wife and child!' I leaned my head on my desk. When I rose, there were tears upon it.

It wanted some minutes of ten, but I was nervously impatient to blot out those terrible acceptances. I should then be safe; I should then breathe freely. As I passed out of my private office, I opened the other letter. It was from Preston. Pausing a moment, I read it:

'MY VERY DEAR FRIEND: I enclose you sight check of Branch Bank of Cape Fear on Bank of Republic, for $10,820. Apply what is needed to pay my account; the rest hold subject to my drafts.

'I have sold my town house, furniture, horses, etc., and the proceeds will pay my home debts. I shall therefore not need to draw the balance for, say, sixty days. God bless you!'

'Well, the age of miracles is _not_ passed! How _did_ he raise the money?'

Stepping back into the private office, I called my partner:

'Draw checks for all the acceptances due to-day; get them certified, and take up the bills at once. Don't let the grass grow under your feet. I shall be away the rest of the day, and I want to see them before I go. Here is a draft from Preston; it will make our account good.'

He looked at it, and, laughing, said:

'Yes, and leave about fifty dollars in bank.'

'Well, never mind; we are out of the woods.'

When he had gone, I sat down, and wrote the following letter:

'MY DEAR FRANK: I return Cragin's check, with many thanks. I have not sold your stock. My legitimate resources have carried me through.

'I need not say, my boy, that I feel what you would have done for me. Words are not needed between _us_.

'Tell Cragin that I consider him a trump--the very ace of hearts.

'Your mother and I will see you in a few days.'

In half an hour, with the two letters in my pocket, I was on my way home. Handing them to Kate, I took her in my arms; and, as I brushed the still bright, golden hair from her broad forehead, I felt I was the richest man living.

* * * * *

Within the same week I went to Boston. I arrived just after dark; and then occurred the events narrated in the first chapter.

WAR.

[J. G. PERCIVAL.]

For war is now upon their shores, And we must meet the foe, Must go where battle's thunder roars, And brave men slumber low; Go, where the sleep of death comes on The proudest hearts, who dare To grasp the wreath by valor won, And glory's banquet share.

A CHAPTER ON WONDERS.

'Obstupui! steteruntque comæ, et vox faucibus hæsit.'

There is a certain portion of mankind ever on the alert to see or hear some wonderful thing; whose minds are attuned to a marvellous key, and vibrate with extreme sensitiveness to the slightest touch; whose vital fluid is the air of romance, and whose algebraic symbol is a mark of exclamation! This sentiment, existing in some persons to a greater degree than in others, is often fostered by education and association, so as to become the all-engrossing passion. Children, of course, begin to wonder as soon as their eyes are opened upon the strange scenes of their future operations. The first thing usually done to develop their dawning intellect, is to display before them such objects as are best calculated to arrest their attention, and keep them in a continual state of excitement. This course is succeeded by a supply of all sorts of _toys_, to gratify the passion of novelty. These are followed by wonderful stories, and books of every variety of absurd impossibilities;--which system of development is, it would seem, entirely based upon the presumption, that the faculty of admiration must be expanded, in order that the young idea may best learn how to _shoot_. It is therefore quite natural, that--the predisposition granted--a faculty of the mind so auspiciously nurtured under the influence of exaggeration should mature in a corresponding degree.

Thus we have in our midst a class, into whose mental economy the faculty of _wonder_ is so thoroughly infused, that it has inoculated the entire system, and forms an inherent, inexplicable, and almost elementary part of it. These persons sail about in their pleasure yachts, on roving expeditions, under a pretended '_right of search_,' armed to the teeth, and boarding all sorts of crafts to obtain plunder for their favorite gratification. They are most uneasy and uncomfortable companions, having no ear for commonplace subjects of conversation, and no eye for ordinary objects of sight.

When such persons approach each other, they are mutually attracted, like two bodies charged with different kinds of electricity--an interchange of commodities takes place, repulsion follows, and thus reënforced, they separate to diffuse the supply of wonders collected.

By this centripetal and centrifugal process, the social atmosphere is subjected to a continual state of agitation. _Language_ is altogether too tame to give full effect to their meaning, and all the varieties of _dumb show_, of _gesticulation_, _shrugs_, and wise shakes of the head, are called into requisition, to effectually and unmistakably express their ideas. The usages of good society are regarded by them as a great restraint upon their besetting propensity to expatiate in phrases of grandiloquence, and to magnify objects of trivial importance. They are always sure to initiate topics which will afford scope for admiration; they delight to enlarge upon the unprecedented growth of cities, villages, and towns; upon the comparative prices of 'corner lots' at different periods; and to calculate how rich they _might_ have been, had they only known as much _then_ as _now_.

They experience a gratification when a rich man dies, that the wonder will now be solved as to the amount of his property; and when a man fails in business, that it is _now_ made clear--what has so long perplexed them--'_how he managed to live so extravagantly_!' See them at an agricultural fair, and they will be found examining the 'mammoth squashes' and various products of prodigious growth--or they will install themselves as self-appointed exhibiter of the 'Fat Baby,' to inform the incredulous how much it weighs! See them at a conflagration, and they wonder what was the _cause_ of the fire, and _how far_ it will extend?

They long to travel, that they may visit 'mammoth caves' and 'Giant's Causeways.' We talk of the 'Seven Wonders of the World,' while to them there is a successive series for every day in the year--putting to the blush our meagre stock of monstrosities--making 'Ossa like a wart.' Nothing gratifies them more than the issuing from the press of an anonymous work, that they may exert their ingenuity in endeavoring to discover the author; and, when called on for information on the subject, prove conclusively to every one but themselves, that they know nothing whatever about the matter.

The ocean is to them only wonderful as the abode of 'Leviathans,' and 'Sea Serpents,' 'Krakens,' and 'Mermaids'--abounding in 'Mäelstroms' and _sunken_ islands, and traversed by 'Phantom Ships' and 'Flying Dutchmen' in perpetual search for some 'lost Atlantis;'--all well-attested incredibilities, certified to by the 'affidavits of respectable eye-witnesses,' and, we might add, by 'intelligent contrabands,'--and all in strict conformity with the convenient aphorism '_Credo quia impossibile est_.' They are ever ready to bestow their amazement upon a fresh miracle as soon as the present has had its day--like the man who, being landed at some distance by the explosion of a juggler's pyrotechnics, rubbed his eyes open, and exclaimed, '_I wonder what the fellow will do next!_'

If a steamboat explodes her boiler, or the walls of a factory fall, burying hundreds in the ruins, their hearts--rendered callous by the constant stream of cold air pouring in through their _ever-open mouths_--are not shocked at the calamity, but they wonder if it was _insured_!

The increase of population in this country affords a most prolific and inexhaustible fund for statistical astonishment, as an interlude to the entertainment, while something more appalling is being prepared.

The portentous omens so often relied on by the credulous believers in signs, have so frequently proved 'dead failures,' that one would suppose these votaries would at length become disheartened. But this seems not to be the case--like a quack doctor when his patient dies, their audacity is equal to any emergency, and, with the elasticity of india rubber, they come out of a 'tight squeeze' with undiminished rotundity. With _stupid_ amazement, hair all erect, and ears likewise, they pass through life as through a museum, ready to exclaim with Dominie Sampson at all _they_ cannot understand, 'Pro--di--gi--ous!'

It matters little, perhaps, in what form this principle is exhibited, while it exists and flourishes in undiminished exuberance. Thus says Glendower:

'At my nativity The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, Of burning cressets; and, at my birth, The frame and huge foundation of the earth Shak'd like a coward.

_Hotspur._ Why so it would have done At the same season, if your mother's cat had But kittened, though yourself had ne'er been born.'

Glendower naturally enough flouts this rather impertinent comment, and 'repeats the story of his birth' with still greater improvements, till Hotspur gives him a piece of advice which will do for his whole race of the present day, viz., 'tell the truth, and shame the devil.'

The English people of this generation are rather more phlegmatic than their explosive neighbors across the channel, and neither the injustice of black slavery abroad, nor the starvation of _white_ slaves at home, can shake them from their lop-sided neutrality, _so long as money goes into their pocket_. The excitable French, on the contrary, require an occasional _coup d'état_ to arouse their conjectures as to the next imperial experiment in the art of international diplomacy.

The press of the day teems with all sorts of provisions to satisfy the cravings of a depraved imagination, and even the most sedate of our daily papers are not above employing 'double-leaded Sensations,' and 'display Heads' as a part of their ordinary stock in trade; while from the hebdomadals, 'Thrilling Tales,' 'Awful Disclosures,' and 'Startling Discoveries,' succeed each other with truly fearful rapidity. Thus he who wastes the midnight kerosene, and spoils his weary eyes in poring over the pages of trashy productions, so well designed to murder sleep, may truly say with Macbeth, 'I have supp'd full with horrors.'

It is certainly remarkable (as an indication of the pleasure the multitude take in voluntarily perplexing themselves), how eagerly they enter into all sorts of contrivances which conduce to bewilderment and doubt. In 'Hampton Court' there is a famous enclosure called the '_Maze_,' so arranged with hedged alleys as to form a perfect labyrinth. To this place throngs of persons are constantly repairing, to enjoy the luxury of losing themselves, and of seeing others in the same predicament.

Some persons become so impatient of the constant demand upon their admiration, that they resist whatever seems to lead in that direction. Washington Irving said he 'never liked to walk with his host over the latter's ground'--a feeling which many will at once acknowledge having experienced. A celebrated English traveller was so annoyed by the urgent invitations of the Philadelphians to visit the Fairmount Water Works, that he resolved _not_ to visit them, so that he might have the characteristic satisfaction of recording the ill-natured fact.

'Swift mentions a gentleman who made it a rule in reading, to skip over all sentences where he spied a note of admiration at the end.'

The instances here quoted are, to be sure, carrying out the '_Nil admirari_' principle rather to extremes, and are not recommended for general observance. The most remarkable and prominent wonders in the natural world seldom meet the expectation of the beholder, because he looks to experience a new sensation, and is disappointed; and so with works of art, as St. Peter's at Rome--

----'its grandeur overwhelms thee not, And why? it is not lessen'd; but thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot, Has grown colossal.'

_Wonder_ is defined as 'the effect of novelty upon ignorance.' Most objects which excite wonder are magnified by the distance or the point of view, and their proportions diminish and shrink as we approach them. It is a saying as old as Horace, 'ignotum pro magnifico est': we cease to wonder at what we understand. Seneca says that those whose habits are temperate are satisfied with fountain water, which is cold enough for them; while those who have lived high and luxuriously, require the use of _ice_. Thus a well-disciplined mind adjusts itself to whatever events may occur, and not being likely to lose its equanimity upon ordinary occasions, is equally well prepared for more serious results.

'Let us never wonder,' again saith Seneca, 'at anything we are born to; for no man has reason to complain where we are all in the same condition.' But notwithstanding all the precepts of philosophers, the advice of all men of sense, and the best examples for our guides, we go on, with eyes dilated and minds wide open, to see, hear, and receive impressions through distorted mediums, leading to wrong conclusions and endless mistakes.

'Wonders will never cease!' Of course they will not, so long as there are so many persons engaged in providing the aliment for their sustenance; so long as the demand exceeds the supply; so long as mankind are more disposed to listen to exaggeration rather than to simple truths, and so long as they shall tolerate the race of _wonder-mongers_, giving them 'aid and comfort,' regardless of their being enemies of our peace, and the pests of our social community.

THE RETURN.

July,--what is the news they tell? A battle won: our eyes are dim, And sad forbodings press the heart Anxious, awaiting news from him. Hour drags on hour: fond heart, be still, Shall evil tidings break the spell? A word at last!--they found him dead; He fought in the advance, and fell.

Oh aloes of affliction poured Into the wine cup of the soul! Oh bitterness of anguish stored To fill our grief beyond control! At last he comes, awaited long, Not to home welcomes warm and loud, Not to the voice of mirth and song, Pale featured, cold, beneath a shroud.

Oh from the morrow of our lives A glowing hope has stolen away, A something from the sun has fled, That dims the glory of the day. More earnestly we look beyond The present life to that to be; Another influence draws the soul To long for that futurity.

Pardon if anguished souls refrain Too little, grieving for the lost, From thinking dearly bought the gain Of victory at such fearful cost. Teach us as dearest gain to prize The glory crown he early won; Forever shall his requiem rise: Rest thee in peace, thy duty done.

THE UNION.

VI.

VIRGINIA AND PENNSYLVANIA COMPARED.

Virginia was a considerable colony, when Pennsylvania was occupied only by Indian tribes. In 1790, Virginia was first in rank of all the States, her number of inhabitants being 748,308. (Census Rep., 120,121.) Pennsylvania then ranked the second, numbering 434,373 persons. (Ib.) In 1860 the population of Virginia was 1,596,318, ranking the fifth; Pennsylvania still remaining the second, and numbering 2,905,115. (Ib.) In 1790 the population of Virginia exceeded that of Pennsylvania 313,925; in 1860 the excess in favor of Pennsylvania was 1,308,797. The ratio of increase of population of Virginia from 1790 to 1860 was 113.32 per cent., and of Pennsylvania in the same period, 569.03. At the same relative ratio of increase for the next seventy years, Virginia would contain a population of 3,405,265 in 1930; and Pennsylvania 19,443,934, exceeding that of England. Such has been and would continue to be the effect of slavery in retarding the progress of Virginia, and such the influence of freedom in the rapid advance of Pennsylvania. Indeed, with the maintenance and perpetuity of the Union in all its integrity, the destiny of Pennsylvania will surpass the most sanguine expectations.

The population of Virginia per square mile in 1790 was 12.19, and in 1860, 26.02; whilst that of Pennsylvania in 1790 was 9.44, and in 1860, 63.18. (Ib.) The absolute increase of the population of Virginia per square mile, from 1790 to 1860, was 13.83, and from 1850 to 1860, 2.85; whilst that of Pennsylvania from 1790 to 1860, was 53.74, and from 1850 to 1860, 12.93. (Ib.)

AREA.--The area of Virginia is 61,352 square miles, and of Pennsylvania, 46,000, the difference being 15,352 square miles, which is greater, by 758 square miles, than the aggregate area of Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Delaware, containing in 1860 a population of 1,803,429. (Ib.) Retaining their respective ratios of increase per square mile from 1790 to 1860, and reversing their areas, that of Virginia in 1860 would have been 1,196,920, and of Pennsylvania 3,876,119. Reversing the numbers of each State in 1790, the ratio of increase in each remaining the same, the population of Pennsylvania in 1860 would have been 5,408,424, and that of Virginia, 926,603. Reversing both the areas and numbers in 1790, and the population of Pennsylvania would have exceeded that of Virginia in 1860 more than six millions.

SHORE LINE.--By the Tables of the Coast Survey, the shore line of Virginia is 1,571 miles, and of Pennsylvania only 60 miles. This vastly superior coast line of Virginia, with better, deeper, more capacious, and much more numerous harbors, unobstructed by ice, and with easy access for so many hundred miles by navigable bays and tide-water rivers leading so far into the interior, give to Virginia great advantages over Pennsylvania in commerce and every branch of industry. Indeed, in this respect, Virginia stands unrivalled in the Union. The hydraulic power of Virginia greatly exceeds that of Pennsylvania.

MINES.--Pennsylvania excels every other State in mineral wealth, but Virginia comes next.

SOIL.--In natural fertility of soil, the two States are about equal; but the seasons in Virginia are more favorable, both for crops and stock, than in Pennsylvania. Virginia has all the agricultural products of Pennsylvania, with cotton in addition. The area, however, of Virginia (39,265,280 acres) being greater by 9,825,280 acres than that of Pennsylvania (29,440,000 acres), gives to Virginia vast advantages.

In her greater area, her far superior coast line, harbors, rivers, and hydraulic power, her longer and better seasons for crops and stock, and greater variety of products, Virginia has vast natural advantages, and with nearly double the population of Pennsylvania in 1790. And yet, where has slavery placed Virginia? Pennsylvania exceeds her now in numbers 1,308,797, and increased in population, from 1790 to 1860, in a ratio more than five to one. Such is the terrible contrast between free and slave institutions!

PROGRESS OF WEALTH.--By Census Tables (1860) 33 and 36, it appears (omitting commerce) that the products of industry, as given, viz., of agriculture, manufactures, mines, and fisheries, were that year in Pennsylvania, of the value of $398,600,000, or $137 per capita; and in Virginia, $120,000,000 or $75 per capita. This shows a total value of product in Pennsylvania much more than three times that of Virginia, and, per capita, nearly two to one. That is, the average value of the product of the labor of each person in Pennsylvania, is nearly double that of each person, including slaves, in Virginia. Thus is proved the vast superiority of free over slave labor, and the immense national loss occasioned by the substitution of the latter for the former.

As to the rate of increase; the value of the products of Virginia in 1850 was $84,480,428 (Table 9), and in Pennsylvania, $229,567,131, showing an increase in Virginia, from 1850 to 1860, of $35,519,572, being 41 per cent.; and in Pennsylvania, $169,032,869, being 50 per cent.; exhibiting a difference of 9 per cent. in favor of Pennsylvania. By the Census Table of 1860, No. 35, p. 195, the true value then of the real and personal property was, in Pennsylvania, $1,416,501,818, and of Virginia, $793,249,681. Now, we have seen, the value of the products in Pennsylvania in 1860 was $398,600,000, and in Virginia, $120,000,000. Thus, as a question of the annual yield of capital, that of Pennsylvania was 28.13 per cent., and of Virginia, 15.13 per cent. By Census Table 35, the total value of the real and personal property of Pennsylvania was $722,486,120 in 1850, and $1,416,501,818 in 1860, showing an increase, in that decade, of $694,015,698, being 96.05 per cent.; and in Virginia, $430,701,082 in 1850, and $793,249,681 in 1860, showing an increase of $362,548,599, or 84.17 per cent.

By Table 36, p. 196, Census of 1860, the _cash_ value of the farms of Virginia was $371,092,211, being $11.91 per acre; and of Pennsylvania, $662,050,707, being $38.91 per acre. Now, by this table, the number of acres embraced in these farms of Pennsylvania was 17,012,153 acres, and in Virginia, 31,014,950; the difference of value per acre being $27, or largely more than three to one in favor of Pennsylvania, Now, if we multiply the farm lands of Virginia by the Pennsylvania value per acre, it would make the total value of the farm lands of Virginia $1,204,791,804; and the _additional_ value, caused by emancipation, $835,699,593, which is more, by $688,440,093, than the value of all the slaves of Virginia. But the whole area of Virginia is 39,265,280 acres, deducting from which the farm lands, there remain unoccupied 8,250,330 acres. Now, if (as would be in the absence of slavery,) the population per square mile of Virginia equalled that of Pennsylvania, three fifths of these lands would have been occupied as farms, viz., 4,950,198, which, at the Pennsylvania value per acre, would have been worth $188,207,524. Deduct from this their present average value of $2 per acre, $9,800,396, and the remainder, $178,407,128, is the sum by which the unoccupied lands of Virginia, converted into farms, would have been increased in value by emancipation. Add this to the enhanced value of their present farms, and the result is $1,014,106,721 as the gain, on this basis, of Virginia in the value of her lands, by emancipation. To these we should add the increased value of town and city lots and improvements, and of personal property, and, with emancipation, Virginia would now have an augmented wealth of at least one billion and a half of dollars.

The earnings of commerce are not given in the Census Tables, which would vastly increase the difference in the value of their annual products in favor of Pennsylvania as compared with Virginia. These earnings include all not embraced under the heads of agriculture, manufactures, the mines, and fisheries. Let us examine some of these statistics.

RAILROADS.--The number of miles of railroads in operation in Pennsylvania in 1860, including city roads, was 2,690.49 miles, costing $147,283,410; and in Virginia, 1,771 miles, costing $64,958,807. (Census Table of 1860, No. 38, pp. 230, 232.) The annual value of the freight carried on these roads is estimated at $200,000,000 more in Pennsylvania than in Virginia, and the passenger account would still more increase the disparity.

CANALS.--The number of miles of canals in Pennsylvania in 1860 was 1,259, and their cost, $42,015,000. In Virginia the number of miles was 178, and the cost, $7,817,000. (Census Table 39, p. 238.) The estimated value of the freight on the Pennsylvania canals is ten times that of the freight on the Virginia canals.

TONNAGE.--The tonnage of vessels built in Pennsylvania in 1860 was 21,615 tons, and in Virginia, 4,372. (Census, p. 107.)

BANKS.--The number of banks in Pennsylvania in 1860 was 90; capital, $25,565,582; loans, $50,327,127; specie, $8,378,474; circulation, 13,132,892; deposits, $26,167,143:--and in Virginia the number was 65; capital, $16,005,156; loans, $24,975,792; specie, $2,943,652; circulation, $9,812,197; deposits, $7,729,652. (Census Table 35, p. 193.)

EXPORTS AND IMPORTS, ETC.--Our exports abroad from Pennsylvania, for the fiscal year ending 30th June, 1860, and foreign imports, were of the value of $20,262,608. The clearances, same year, from Pennsylvania, and entries were 336,848 tons. In Virginia the exports the same year, and foreign imports were of the value of $7,184,273; clearances and entries, 178,143 tons, (Table 14, Register of U.S. Treasury.) Revenue from customs, same year, in Pennsylvania, $2,552,924, and in Virginia, $189,816; or more than twelve to one in favor of Pennsylvania. (Tables U.S. Commissioner of Customs.) No returns are given for the coastwise and internal trade of either State; but the railway and canal transportation of both States shows a difference of ten to one in favor of Pennsylvania. And yet, Virginia, as we have seen, had much greater natural advantages than Pennsylvania for commerce, foreign and internal, her shore line up to head of tide-water being 1,571 miles, and Pennsylvania only 60 miles.

We have seen that, exclusive of commerce, the products of Pennsylvania in 1860 were of the value of $398,600,000, or $137 per capita; and in Virginia, $120,000,000, or $75 per capita. But, if we add the earnings of commerce, the products of Pennsylvania must have exceeded those of Virginia much more than four to one, and have reached, per capita, nearly three to one. What but slavery could have produced such amazing results? Indeed, when we see the same effects in _all_ the Free States as compared with _all_ the Slave States, and in _any_ of the Slave States, as compared with _any_ of the Free States, the uniformity of results establishes the law beyond all controversy, that slavery retards immensely the progress of wealth and population.

That the Tariff has produced none of these results, is shown by the fact that the agriculture and commerce of Pennsylvania vastly exceed those of Virginia, and yet these are the interests supposed to be most injuriously affected by high tariffs. But there is still more conclusive proof. The year 1824 was the commencement of the era of high tariffs, and yet, from 1790 to 1820, as proved by the Census, the percentage of increase of Pennsylvania over Virginia was greater than from 1820 to 1860. Thus, by Table 1 of the Census, p. 124, the increase of population in Virginia was as follows:

From 1790 to 1800 17.63 per cent. " 1800 " 1810 10.73 " " 1810 " 1820 9.31 " " 1820 " 1830 13.71 " " 1830 " 1840 2.34 " " 1840 " 1850 14.60 " " 1850 " 1860 12.29 "

The increase of population in Pennsylvania was:

From 1790 to 1800 38.67 per cent. " 1800 " 1810 34.49 " " 1810 " 1820 29.55 " " 1820 " 1830 28.47 " " 1830 " 1840 27.87 " " 1840 " 1850 34.09 " " 1850 " 1860 25.71 "

In 1790 the population of Virginia was 748,318; in 1820, 1,065,129, and in 1860, 1,596,318. In 1790 the population of Pennsylvania was 434,373; in 1820, 1,348,233, and in 1860, 2,906,115. Thus, from 1790 to 1820, before the inauguration of the protective policy, the relative increase of the population of Pennsylvania, as compared with Virginia, was very far greater than from 1820 to 1860. It is quite clear, then, that the tariff had no influence in depressing the progress of Virginia as compared with Pennsylvania.

Having shown how much the material progress of Virginia has been retarded by slavery, let us now consider its effect upon her moral and intellectual development.

NEWSPAPERS AND PERIODICALS.--The number of newspapers and periodicals in Pennsylvania in 1860 was 367, of which 277 were political, 43 religious, 25 literary, 22 miscellaneous; and the total number of copies circulated in 1860 was 116,094,480. (Census Tables, Nos. 15, 37.) The number in Virginia was 139, of which 117 were political, 13 religious, 3 literary, 6 miscellaneous; and the number of copies circulated in 1860 was 26,772,568, being much less than one fourth that of Pennsylvania. The number of copies of monthly periodicals circulated in Pennsylvania in 1860 was 464,684; and in Virginia, 43,900; or much more than ten to one in favor of Pennsylvania.

As regards schools, colleges, academies, libraries, and churches, I must take the Census of 1850, those tables for 1860 not being yet arranged or printed. The number of public schools in Pennsylvania in 1850 was 9,061; teachers, 10,024; pupils, 413,706; colleges, academies, &c., pupils, 26,142; attending school during the year, as returned by families, 504,610; native adults of the State who cannot read or write, 51,283; public libraries, 393; volumes, 363,400; value of churches, $11,853,291; percentage of native free, population (adults) who cannot read or write, 4.56. (Comp. Census of 1850.)

The number of public schools in Virginia in 1850 was 2,937; teachers, 3,005; pupils, 67,438; colleges, academies, &c., pupils, 10,326; attending school, as returned by families, 109,775; native white adults of the State who cannot read or write, 75,868; public libraries, 54; volumes, 88,462; value of churches, $2,902,220; percentage of native free adults of Virginia who cannot read or write, 19.90. (Comp. Census of 1850.) Thus, the church and educational statistics of Pennsylvania, and especially of free adults who cannot read or write, is as five to one nearly in favor of Pennsylvania. When we recollect that nearly one third of the population of Pennsylvania are of the great German race, and speak the noble German language, to which they are greatly attached, and hence the difficulty of introducing common _English_ public schools in the State, the advantage, in this respect, of Pennsylvania over Virginia is most extraordinary.

These official statistics enable me, then, again to say that slavery is hostile to the progress of _wealth_ and _education_, to _science_ and _literature_, to _schools_, _colleges_, and _universities_, to _books_ and _libraries_, to _churches_ and _religion_, to the PRESS, and therefore to FREE GOVERNMENT; hostile to the _poor_, keeping them in _want_ and _ignorance_; hostile to LABOR, reducing it to _servitude_ and decreasing _two thirds_ the value of its products; hostile to _morals_, repudiating among slaves the _marital_ and _parental_ condition, classifying them by law as CHATTELS, _darkening_ the _immortal soul_, and making it a _crime_ to teach millions of _human beings_ to _read_ or _write_.

And yet, there are desperate leaders of the Peace party of Pennsylvania, desecrating the name of _Democrats_, but, in fact, Tories and traitors, who would separate that glorious old commonwealth from the North, and bid her sue in abject humiliation for admission as one of the Slave States of the rebel confederacy. Shades of Penn and Franklin, and of the thousands of martyred patriots of Pennsylvania who have fallen in defence of the Union from 1776 to 1863, forbid the terrible degradation.

DOWN IN TENNESSEE.

Sultry and wearisome the day had been in that Tennessee valley, and after drill, we had laid around under the trees--tall, noble trees they were--and the fresh grass was green and soft under them as on the old 'Campus,' and we had been smoking and talking over a wide, wide range of subjects, from deep Carlyleism--of which Carlyle doubtless never heard--to the significance of the day's orders. It was not an inharmonious picture--Camp Alabama, so we had named it--for it was with a 'here we rest' feeling that a dozen days before we had marched in at noon. The ground sloped to the eastward--a single winding road of yellow sand crept over the slope into the horizon, a mile or more away; north, a hill rose with some abruptness; south and west, a grove of wonderful beauty skirted the valley. A single building--an old but large log farmhouse--stood near the tent, whose fluttering banner indicated headquarters. This old house was well filled with commissary stores, and, following that incomprehensible Tennessee policy, four companies of our regiment, the twenty-third, had been detached to guard them under Major Fanning--'a noble soldier he, but all untried.' We had never yet seen active service, and our tents were still white and unstained. The ground had been once the lawn of the deserted house--in the long ago probably the home of a planter of some pretension; and, as we lay there under the trees watching the boys over the fires, kindled for their evening meal, the blue smoke curling up among the trees, it made, as I have said, a most harmonious picture.

That fair June evening! I can never forget it, and I wish I were an artist that I could show you the sloping valley, the white tents, flushing like a girl's cheek to the good-night kisses of the sun, the curling smoke wreaths, and far, far above the amethystine heaven, from which floated over all a dim purple tint. I was the youngest commissioned officer in the regiment, having been promoted to a vacancy a week or two before through Major Fanning's influence.

We were all invited that evening to supper with our commanding officer and his wife--who had been with him for a few days. A fresh breeze stirred the trees at sunset, and, after slight attention to our toilette, we dropped by twos and threes into the neighborhood of the major's tent. A little back from the rows of other tents, a few fine oaks made a temple in front, worthy even of its presiding genius, Grace Fanning--but I am _not_ going to rhapsodize. She was a fair, modest, young thing, with the girl rose yet fresh on her wife's cheek. I had known her from childhood; very nearly of the same age, and the children of neighbors, we had been inseparable; of course in my first college vacation, finding her grown tall and womanly, I had entertained for her a devoted boyish passion, and had gone from her presence, one August night, mad with rejection, and wild with what I called despair. But _that_ passed, and we had been good friends ever since--she the confidential one, to whom I related my varied college love affairs, listening ever with a tender, genial sympathy. I had no sister, and Grace Jones (I am sorry, but her name _was_ Jones) was dear to me as one. Two years of professional study had kept me away from my village home, and a few words came once in a long while, in my mother's letters 'to assure me of Grace's remembrance and regard.' A little of the elder sister's advising tone amused my one and twenty years and my incipient moustache amazingly; and I resolved, when I saw her, to convince her of my dignity--to patronize her. But the notes that called me home were too clarion-like for a relapse into puppyism. My country spoke my name, and I arose a man, and 'put away childish things.' I came home to say farewell. A regiment was forming there, I enlisted, and a few days before our departure, I stood in the village church, looking and listening while Grace promised eternal fidelity to Harry Fanning. I was a stranger to him. He had come to Danville after my departure, winning from all golden opinions, and from Grace a woman's priceless heart. She gave him freely to his country, and denied not her hand to his parting prayer. I had had time only to say farewell to her, and the old footing had not been restored, but I _think_ she spoke to the major of me, for he soon sought me, giving me genial friendship and sympathy, and procuring for me, as I have related, my commission. I had seen her but once since she came to Camp Alabama, and she gave me warm and kindly welcome as I came in, the last of the group, having found in my tent some unexpected employment. Being a soldier, I shall not shock my fair readers if I confess that it was--buttons. Ah! me, I am frivolous. But I linger in the spirit of that happy hour. Grace's chair was shaded by a gracefully draped flag; the major stood near her, his love for her as visible in his eye as his cordial kindness for us. To me, in honor of my 'juniority,' as Mrs. Fanning said, was assigned a place near her. The others had choice between campstools and blankets on the grass. And the oddest but most respectable of contrabands served us soon with our supper, so homelike that we suspected 'Mrs. Major's' fair hands of interference.

It was a happy evening. Merry laughter at our camp stories rang silverly from her fair lips. Or we listened eagerly to her as she told us of the homes we had left, and the bonny maidens there, sobered since our departure into patriotic industry. Stories of touching self-denial, with a wholesome pathos, and sometimes from her dainty musical talk she dropped, pebble-like, a name, as 'Fanny,' 'Carry,' 'Maggie,' and responsive blushes rippled up over sunburned, honest faces, and a soft mist brightened for a second resolute eyes. Presently the band--a part only of the regiment's--began to play soft, well-known tunes. Through a few marches and national airs, I looked and listened as a year before, in the village church at home. And as the 'Star-Spangled Banner' rose inspiringly, I felt the coincidence strangely, and could scarcely say which scene was real: the church aisle and the bridal party, in white robes and favors, with mellow organ-tones rising in patriotic strains concerning the 'dear old flag,' or the group under the oaks; the young wife in her gray travelling dress, and the uniformed figures gathered around her; the moon-rise over the hill, lighting softly the drooping flag, the major's dark hair, and Mrs. Fanning's sunny braids, the wild notes of the same beloved melody overswelling all. But voices near aroused me, and we joined in the chorus, and in the following tune, 'Sweet Home,' the usual finale of our evening programme. Then, as the tones died, Grace lifted her voice and sang with sweet, pure soprano tones, an old-time ballad of love and parting and reunion.

We had a wild little battle song in 'Our Mess,' written by Charlie Marsh, our fair-haired boy-poet soldier, speaking of home, and the country's need, and victory, and possible deaths in ringing notes. We sang it there in the light of the slowly rising moon. The chorus was like this:

'Our country's foe before us, Our country's banner o'er us, Our country to deplore us, These are a soldier's needs.'

As we closed, Grace caught the strain, and with soft, birdlike notes sang:

'Your country's flag above you, Your country's true hearts love you-- So let your country move you To brave, undying deeds.'

More songs followed, and happy words of cheer in distress, of self-consecration, of past and future victory; but Major Fanning was unusually silent. Hardly sad, for he flung into our conversation occasional cheerful words; but gravely quiet, his dark eye following every motion of his fair young wife. Finally we called on Captain Carter, our 'oldest man,' a grave bachelor of forty-five, and to our surprise, who knew him harsh and sometimes profane, he sang, with a voice not faultless, but soft and expressive, that exquisite health of Campbell's:

'Drink ye to her that each loves best, And if you nurse a flame That's told but to her mutual breast, We will not ask her name.

'And far, far hence be jest or boast, From hallowed thoughts so dear; But drink to her that each loves most, As she would love to hear.'

Then silence for a little space; and the moonlight full and fair in soldiers' faces, young and old, but all firm and true, and fair and full on Grace Fanning's fresh, young brow. Then 'good-nights,' mingled with expressions of enjoyment, and plans for the morrow. I left them last.

'I am glad you are here, Robert,' said the major; 'Grace would not be all alone, even if I'--

Her white hand flashed to his lips, where a kiss met it, and laughingly we parted. A few rods away, I paused and turned. They stood there under the flag. Her bright head on his bosom, his arms about her, and the silver moonlight over all. Fair Grace Fanning! Have I named my story wrongly, pretty reader? I called it 'Camp Sketch,' and it reads too like a love story. 'Ah! gentle girl, seeking adventure in fiction, but shrinking really from even a cut finger, there is enough of battle even in my little story, though you slept peacefully and happily that fair June night, or waltzed yourself weary to the sound of the sea at the 'Ocean House.'

A few 'good nights' commendatory of our hostess and our evening greeted me as I sought my tent and made ready for sleep. I was very happy, no memory of our talk was sullied by coarse or unlovely thought; pure as herself had been our enjoyment of Mrs. Fanning's society, and I slept sweetly.

The long roll! None but those who have heard it when it means instant danger and possible death, can conceive the thrill with which I sprang from deep slumber, and made hasty preparation for action. Quick as I was, others had been before me, and I found the half-dressed men drawn up in battle line before the encampment. I took my place.

Behind us lay the camp, a wide, street-like space, fringed with a double row of tents--at its foot the old log mansion; near that, a little in front, but at one side, the flag of headquarters--this behind. Before us the major--the western wood, and the flashing sabres of a band of hostile cavalry. They came on heedless of the fast-emptying saddles, on, _on_, and more following from the wood, the moon in the mid heaven, clear like day.

A gallant charge--a firm repulse. Major Fanning's clear voice on the night air, rallying the men to attack the furious foe. They sweep their horses around to left, but calmly the major wheels his battalion, still unflanked; again those fierce steeds try the first point of attack; again we front them undaunted. In our turn, with lifted level bayonets we charge; the enemy falls back--a shout threads along our lines, changing suddenly into a wail, for, calling us on, our leader falls. Pitiless to his noble valor, a well-aimed carbine-shot lays him low. They lift him, some brave soldiers near; and, his young face bathed in blood, they bear him to his waiting bride; he opens his eyes, as he passes.

'Courage! victory! my boys!' he calls; then, seeing me: 'Go! tell her, Robert.'

I call my orderly to my place, and before they have pierced our lines with their beloved burden, I am at the tent door. She stands there waiting, a little pistol in her hand--a light wrapper about her, and her fair hair streaming over her shoulders. I look at her mutely; she knows there is something terrible for her, and while I seek words, her eye goes on, resting where down the moonlit trees they are bringing him. A moment, she is by his side, and tearless and white, her hand on his unanswering heart, she moves beside him. The soldiers lay their leader on the ground under his flag, and her imperious gesture sends them back to their places in the battle. And then she, sinking beside him, cries out:

'Oh, Robert! will he never speak to me again? Help him!'

My two years at lectures had not been passed in vain, and surgery had been my hobby. I knelt and strove to aid him. It was a cruel wound. I asked for bandages. She tore them from her garments wildly. I stilled the trickling crimson stream, and going into the tent, found some restoratives. I poured the wine down his throat, and, soon opening his eyes, he spoke:

'Grace!'

I stepped away--near enough for call, not near enough for intrusion. Looking at the lines of dark forms topped by the light glimmer of stray bayonets, I saw with dismay that our men were retreating before those heavy charges; in thick, dense masses they moved back, nearing us. I thought of our soldier chief, crushed under those wild hoofs; I thought of Grace, unprotected in her youth and widowed, desolate beauty, and sprang to her side, ready with my life for her.

The major saw it all, and, faint as he was, rose on his elbow, watching. Charge after charge, wild and impetuous, break the slowly retreating battalions. In vain I heard Carter's stern oaths (may the angel of tears forgive him!), and Charlie Marsh's boyish calls. The men are facing us. The enemy, cheering, and in the background huge torches flaming with pitch, are ready for incendiarism.

'Grace! Grace! I _must_ rally them, let me go!' and I see Major Fanning straggling in her arms. I clasp him also.

'It is certain death,' I say to her, mad with fright and misery.

'And this is worse, worse, Grace; you might better kill me!' his voice was harsh--cruel even.

Suddenly she was gone, and I held him alone; catching his sword, she sprang like a flash of lightning into the open space before the log house, and, lifting the bare blade with naked, slender arm, its loose sleeve floating from her shoulder like a wing, she faced those panic-stricken men.

'For shame!' she cried; but her weak voice was lost; then, stern as the angel of death, she stepped forward.

'The first man that passes me shall die!' and she swung the flashing blade up, ready to fall. A moment's halt, and then, she spoke to them with wonderful strange words. I cannot recall them; with inspired eloquence she spoke, a slight, white-robed figure in the clear moonlight, and the rout was stayed, and they turned bravely to meet the foe. Then she came faint and weak to her husband's side again. He looked up with glad, eager eyes.

'Darling!'

Infinite love, soul-recognition, shone on both faces, and then blank unconsciousness crept over his. Firmly our boys met the charging steeds now. That moment had restored to them their courage. Emptied saddles were frequent, but still fresh forces dashed from the wood. Is there no hope for us? Must we be overpowered? Is all this valor vain? Grace from her husband's side looks mutely up to heaven. I find my place among the men. Little hope remains. Some one calls 'retreat.' 'Just once more,' cries Charlie, and falls before us. But listen; above the battle din comes a new, an approaching sound from the eastward.

Along the yellow road pours swiftly a force of cavalry, behind the rumble of cannon almost flying over the ground, and high in air, reeling from the swift motion of its bearer's steed, the banner of the free. We are saved! A wild shout rings along our lines. Among the enemy, frightened consultation followed by flight; another second, and our friends are with us and beyond us in hot pursuit.

Brief question and answer told us of the friendly warning in the distant camp, the hasty march to aid us. The rest we saw. Then, 'A surgeon for Major Fanning.' The man of the green sash had not grown callous. There were tears in his eyes as he rose from his vain endeavors, saying only:

'I can do nothing here; I am needed elsewhere.'

Our young hero was dead!

They composed his limbs, laying him on a blanket under the trees, and Grace sat down beside him, tearless still, but pale as her dress, or the white hand lying cold over the soldier's pulseless heart.

'Robert, send them away,' she said to me, as sympathizing strangers pressed round; and they left us alone with the dead. I spoke at last the commonplaces of consolation, suggested and modified by the hour and my soldier feelings.

'Yes, Robert,' she answered, 'I gave him long ago. GOD will comfort me for my hero--in time. Do not speak to me just yet. Do not let any one come.'

The tears came now, and she wept bitterly, silently, under the starry banner, beside the dead. I heard the hum of many voices, and now and then a cry of pain, and knew they were all helping the sufferers. Then I turned to her again. Her streaming hair swept the ground, golden in the light. Her fair face was hidden on the cold dead face. And I dared not speak to her. Oh, that picture! Poor Grace Fanning! and the silver, silver moonlight over all.

POETRY AND POETICAL SELECTIONS.

'Oh, deem not in this world of strife, An idle art the Poet brings; Let high Philosophy control, And sages calm the stream of life; 'Tis he refines its fountain springs, The nobler passions of the soul.'

In the annals of literature, Poetry antedates Prose. Creation precedes Providence, not merely in the order of sequence, but what is usually called intellectual and physical grandeur. So in genius and taste, Poetry transcends prose. In the work of Creation the Almighty broke the awful stillness of Eternity, by His first creative fiat, and angels were the first-born of God. They took their thrones in the galleries of the universe, and in silent contemplation sat. They spoke not; for words, as signs of thought or will or emotion, were not then conceived, and, consequently, then unborn. They gazed in rapture on one another, and in solemn silence thought. Their emotions bodied forth the Anthem of Creation.

Human words being created breath, and breath being air in motion, prior to these language was impossible. And as the deaf are always dumb, language, like faith, comes by hearing. But hearing itself is a pensioner, waiting upon a speaker; consequently, it must ever be contingent on a cause alike antecedent and extrinsic of itself. It is, therefore, equally an oracle of reason and of faith that, however God may have communicated to angels, to _man_ He spoke in articulate sounds, before man articulated a thought, a feeling, or an emotion of his soul. And as an emotional soul is but a harp of many strings, a hand there must have been to play upon its chords, before melody and harmony, twins-born of Heaven, had either a local habitation or a name.

But, it may be asked--Is there not in the regions of Poetry an æolian harp, found in the cave of Æolus, on which the winds of heaven played many a celestial symphony, without the skill or touch of human hand? Grant all that the Poetic Muse assumes, and then we ask--Who made the harp? And whence directed came the musing sylvan Zephyrus and his choir? Came they not from a land of images and dreams?

But we are inquiring for originals. Images and originals are the poles apart. An original without an image is possible; but an image without an original is alike impossible and inconceivable. Hence, alike philosophically and logically, we conclude that _neither man nor angel addressed each other until they themselves had been addressed by their Creator_. Then they intercommunicated thought, sentiment, and emotion with one another as God had communicated to them.

The mystery of language and Poetry is insoluble but on the admission of a revelation or communication of some sort, unconceived by the human mind, unexecuted by the human hand. If invention and creation be the grand characteristics of the Poet, Moses, if uninspired, was a greater Poet than Homer, or Milton, or Shakspeare, on the hypothesis that he invented the drama which he wrote. The first chapter of Genesis is the greatest and most splendid Poem ever conceived by human imagination, or written by human hand.

All Poets, ancient and modern, are mere plagiarists, if Moses was uninspired. We prove his Divine Legation by the intrinsic and transcendent merits of the Poem which he wrote. Imagination originates nothing absolutely new. It merely imitates and combines. It is regarded as the creative faculty of man; but its material is already furnished. The portrait of an unreal Adam is as conceivable as a child without a father, or an effect without a cause.

Thus we are obliged, by an inseparable necessity, to admit the credibility of the Poem which he wrote. And what does Moses say? Nothing more than that _God spoke, and the universe was!_ This is the sublime of true Poetry. This is more than the logic of the proposition, _God was, therefore we are!_ It is more than the philosophy, _ex nihilo, nihil fit!_ or than, that _nothing_ cannot be the parent of _something_.

But we must place our foot on a higher round of the ladder, before we can stand on such an eminence as to see, in all its fair proportions, the column on which the Muses perch themselves.

Job, and not Moses, shall be our guide, and the oracle alike of our reason and our imagination. But who is Job? There is not much poetry in the name, Job. But Rome and its vulgate vulgarized this hallowed name, and Britain followed Rome. His name in Chaldee, Syriac, and Arabic, is Jobab. There is more poetry in this. There is no metre, no poetry in a monotone or monosyllable. Born among rocks and mountains, the proper theatre of a heaven-inspired Muse--not in Arabia the Happy, but in Arabia the Rocky--he was a heart-touching, a soul-stirring, emotional Bard. In such a case the clouds that overshadow the era of the man only enhance the genius and inspiration of the Poet.

In internal and external evidence, according to our calendar of the Muses, he is the first-born of the Poets that yet survive the wasteful ravages of hoary Time. He sings not, indeed, of Chaos and Eternal Night. But as one inspired by a heaven-born Muse, he echoes the chorus of the Angelic Song, when on the utterance of the first _fiat_ the Morning Stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy. Hence we argue, that Poetry is not only prior to prose, but that language, its intellectual and emotional embodiment, is heaven-conceived, and heaven-born.

But in a short essay it would be out of place and in bad taste to attempt a discourse upon the broad field of ancient or modern Poetry. We merely attempt to suggest one idea on this rich and lofty theme. Our radical conception of the essential and differential attribute of Poetry, as contradistinguished from prose, however chaste, pure, beautiful, and philosophic, is not mere art, nor science, but _creation_.

The universe itself is a grand Heroic Poem. Hence its instrument is that power usually called Imagination. But _human_ imagination is not first, second, or third in rank on the scale of the universe. God Himself imagined the universe before He created it. His imagination is infinite. The Cherubim and Seraphim have wings that elevate them above our zenith. And angels, too, excel us in this creative faculty, and therefore veil their faces before the Majesty of heaven and earth. Still, man has an humble portion of it, and can turn it to a good account.

But there is another idea essential to the character of Poetry, as good or evil in its spirit and adornings. We need scarcely say, for we are anticipated by every reflecting mind, that this is the _spirit_ of the Poem. Poetry, in the abstract, is not necessarily good or evil. It may be Christian, Jewish, Pagan, or Infidel in its spirit and tendencies. It may corrupt or purify the heart. It may save or ruin the reader in fortune or in fame. Hence, as Poetry is powerful to elevate or degrade, to purify or to corrupt a people, much depends on the spirit of the Poetry which they may put into the hands of the youth of a country; as well observed by an eminent moralist: 'Let me write the poems or ballads of a people, and I care but little who enacts their laws.'

The genius of a Poet is a rare genius. And most happily it is so; for elevated taste and high-toned morality are not, by any means, the common heritage of man. Anacreon and Burns were genuine Poets. They uttered, in fine style, many truths; and were not merely fluent in their respective languages, but affluent. But, perhaps, like some other men of mighty parts and grand proportions, better for mankind they had never been born. A Cowper and a Byron, in their whole career of song, will exert a very different influence, not only on earth, but in eternity, on the destiny of their amateurs. We need not argue this position as though, among a Christian people, it were a doubtful or debatable position. If the evil spirit, or the melancholy demon, that fitfully possessed the first king of Israel, was expelled by the skilful hand of his successor, even when his youthful fingers awoke the melodies of the lyre, how much more puissant the exquisite Odes of the sweet Psalmist, inspired as they were with sentiments and views alike honorable to God and man, to elevate the conceptions, purify the heart, ennoble the aspirations, and adorn the life of man!

As the cask long retains the odor of the wine put into it, so the moral and religious fragrance of many a fine poetic effusion, securely lodged in the recesses of memory, may yield, and often does yield, a rich repast of pleasurable associations and emotions which, beside their opportune recurrence in some trying or tempting hour or season of adversity, do often energize our souls with a moral heroism to deeds of nobler daring, which result in enterprises full of blessings to ourselves, and not unfrequently to our associates in the walks of life, and radiate through them salutary light for generations to come.

Imagination, like every other faculty, is to be cultivated. But here we are interrogated--'What is Imagination?'

No distinction has given critics more trouble, in the way of definition, than that between Imagination and Fancy. Fancy, it is held, is given to beguile and quicken the temporal part of our nature; Imagination to incite and support the eternal.

It would be vain to enumerate the various definitions of this term, or to attempt to give even an abstract of the diversity of views entertained by philosophers respecting the nature and extent of its operations. It is regarded by some writers as that power or faculty of the mind by which it conceives and forms ideas of things communicated to it by the organs of sense. So defines our encyclopædias. Bacon defined it to be the 'representation of an individual thought.' But Dugald Stewart more philosophically defines it as the 'power of modifying our conceptions, by combining the parts of different ones so as to form new wholes of our own creation.' The Edinburgh Encyclopædia, not satisfied with this, says Webster defines it to be the _will working on the materials of memory, selecting parts of different conceptions, or objects of memory, to form some new whole_.

This has long been our cherished view of Imagination. It creates only as a mechanic creates a chest of drawers, a sideboard, a clock, or a watch. It originates not a single material of thought, volition, or action. But, mechanic-like, it works by plumb and rule on all the materials found in the warehouse of memory; and manufactures, out of the same plank of pine, or bar of iron, or wedge of gold, or precious stone, some new utensil, ornament, or adornment never found in Nature. In its present form it is the offspring of the art and contrivance of man. Hence our invulnerable position against Atheism or Deism. _No one could have created the idea of a God or of a Christ, without a special inspiration, any more than he could create a gold watch without the metal called gold._

The deaf are necessarily dumb. The blind cannot conceive of color. A Poet cannot work without language, any more than the nightingale could sing without air. Language and prototypes precede and necessarily antedate writing and prose. Hence the idea of Poetry is preceded by the idea of Prose, as speaking by the idea of hearing. There was reason, and an age of reason, without, and antecedent to, rhyme; and therefore we sometimes find rhyme without reason, as well as reason without rhyme.

Rhyme, however, facilitates memory and recollection. Memory, indeed, is but a printed tablet, and recollection the art and mystery of reading it. Poetry, therefore, is both useful and pleasing. It aids recollection, and soothes and excites and animates the soul of man. It makes deeper, more pungent, more stimulating, more exciting, and more enduring impressions on the mind than prose; and, therefore, greatly facilitates both the acquisition and retention of ideas and impressions. Of it Horace says ('Ars Poetica'):

'Ut pictura, poesis; erit, quæ, si propius stes, Te capiet magis, et quædam, si longius abstes. Hæc amat obscurum; volet hæc sub luce videri, Judicis argutum quæ non formidat acumen: Hæc placuit semel, hæc decies repetita placebit.'

No one ever attained to what is usually called _good taste_ who has not devoted a portion of his time and study to the whole science and art of Poetry. We do not mean good taste in relation to any one manifestation of it.

There is a general as well as a special good taste, but they are distinguishable only as genus and species. There is, it may be alleged, a _native_ as well as an _acquired_ taste. This may also be conceded. There is in some persons a greater innate susceptibility of deriving pleasure from the works of Nature and of Art than is discoverable in others. Still we cannot imagine any one gifted with reason and sensibility to be entirely destitute of it. It is an element of reason and of sense peculiar to man. As a fabulist once represented a cock in quest of barleycorns, scraping for his breakfast, saying to himself, on discovering a precious and brilliant gem: 'If a lapidary were in my place he would now have made his fortune; but as for myself, I prefer one grain of barley to all the precious stones in the world.'

But what man, so feeling and thinking, would not 'blush and hang his head to think himself a man'? Apart from the value of the gem, every man of reason or of thought has pleasure in the contemplation of the beautiful diamond, whether on his own person or on that of another. Taste seems to be as inseparable from reason as Poetry is from imagination. It is not wholly the gift of Nature, nor wholly the gift of Art. It is an innate element of the human constitution, designed to beautify and beatify man. To cultivate and improve it is an essential part of education. The highest civilization known in Christendom is but the result or product of good taste. Even religion and morality, in their highest excellence, are but, so far as society is concerned, developments and demonstrations of cultivated taste. There may, indeed, be a fictitious or chimerical taste without Poetry or Religion; but a genuine good taste, in our judgment, without these handmaids, is unattainable.

But as no interesting landscape--no mountain, hill, or valley, no river, lake or sea--affords us all that charms, excites or elevates our imagination viewed from any one point of vision, so the poetic faculty itself can neither be conceived of nor appreciated, contemplated out of its own family register.

There is in all the 'Fine Arts' a common paternity, and hence a family lineage and a family likeness. To appreciate any one of them we must form an acquaintance with the whole sisterhood--Poetry, Music, Painting, and Sculpture.

And are not all these the genuine offspring of Imagination? Hence they are of one paternity, though not of one maternity. The eye, the ear, and the hand, has each its own peculiar sympathetic nerve. For, as all God's works are perfect, when and where He gives an eye to see or an ear to hear, He gives a hand to execute. This is the law; and as all God's laws are universal as perfect, there is no exception save from accident, or from something poetically styled a _lusus naturæ_--a mere caprice or sport of Nature.

But the philosophy of Poetry is not necessary to its existence any more than the astronomy of the heavens is to the brilliancy of the sun or to the splendors of a comet. A Poet is a creator, and his most perfect creature is a portraiture of any work of God or man; of any attribute of God or man in perfect keeping with Nature or with the original prototype, be it in fact or in fiction, in repose or in operation.

Imitation is sometimes regarded as the test of poetic excellence. But what is imitation but the creation of an image! Alexander Pope so well imitates Homer, that, as an English critic once said, in speaking of his translation of that Prince of Grecian Poets--'a time might come, should the annals of Greece and England be confounded in some convulsion of Nature, when it might be a grave question of debate whether Pope translated Homer, or Homer Pope.'

For our own part, we have never been able to decide to our own entire satisfaction, which excels in the true Heroic style. Pope, in his translation of the exordium of Homer, we think more than equals Homer himself:

'Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring Of woes unnumbered, heavenly goddess, sing! That wrath which hurled to Pluto's dark domain The souls of mighty chiefs in battle slain; Whose limbs, unburied on the fatal shore, Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore; Since great Achilles and Atrides strove, Such was the sovereign doom and such the will of Jove.'[18]

We opine that Pope, being trammelled with a copy, and consequently his imagination cramped, displays every attribute of poetic genius fully equal, if not superior, to that of the beau ideal of the Grecian Muse.

But Alexander Pope, of England, is not the Pope of English Poetry, a brother Poet being judge, for Dryden says:

'Three Poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn; The first in majesty of thought surpassed, The next in melody--in both the last: The force of Nature could no further go, To make the third she joined the other two.'

And who awards not to Milton the richest medal in the Temple of the Muses! Not, perhaps, for the elegant diction and sublime imagery of his PARADISE LOST, but for his grand conceptions of Divinity in all its attributes, and of humanity in all its conditions, past, present, and future.

We Americans have a peculiar respect for Lyric Poetry. We have not time for the Epic. If anything with us is good, it is superlatively good for being brief. Short sermons, short prayers, short hymns, and short metre are peculiarly interesting. We are, too, a miscellaneous people, and we are peculiarly fond of miscellanies. The age of folios and quartos is forever past with Young America. Octavos are waning, and more in need of brushing than of burnishing. But still we must have Poetry--_good_ Poetry; for we Americans prefer to live rather in the style of good lyric than in that of grave, elongated hexameter. Variety, too, is with us the spice of life. We are not satisfied with grand prairies, rivers, and cataracts, and even cascades and _jet d'eaus_!

Collections of miscellaneous Poetry seem alike due to the Poetic Muse and to the American people. We love variety. It is, as we have remarked, the spice of American life; and our country will ever cherish it as being most in harmony with itself. It is, moreover, more in unison with the conditions of human nature and human existence. There is, too, as the wisest of men and the greatest of kings has said, 'a time for every purpose and for every work.' No volume of Poetry or of Prose can, therefore, be popular or interesting to such a nation as we are, that does not adapt itself to the versatile genius of our people, and to the ever-varying conditions of their lives and fortunes.

There is, therefore, a propriety in getting up good selections, because a greater advantage is to be derived from well selected specimens of the Poetic Muse than from the labors of any one of the great masters of the Lyre! Who would not rather visit a rich and extensive museum of the products and arts of civilized life--some well assorted repository of its scientific or artistic developments, than to traverse a whole state or kingdom in pursuit of such knowledge of the wisdom, talents, and contrivances of its population?

Of all kinds of composition, Poetry is that which gives to the lovers of it the greatest and most enduring pleasure. Almost every one of them can heartily respond to the beautiful words of one who was not only a great Poet, but a profound philosopher--Coleridge--who, speaking of the delight he had experienced in writing his Poems, says: 'Poetry has been to me its own exceeding great reward. It has soothed my afflictions; it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the Good and the Beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me.'

In no way can the imagination be more effectually or safely exercised and improved than by the constant perusal and study of our best Poets. Poetry appeals to the universal sympathies of mankind. With the contemplative writers, we can indulge our pensive and thoughtful tastes. With the describers of natural scenery, we can delight in the beauties and glories of the external universe. With the great dramatists, we are able to study all the phases of the human mind, and to take their fictitious personages as models or beacons for ourselves. With the great creative Poets, we can go outside of all these, and find ourselves in a region of pure Imagination, which may be as true to our higher instincts--perhaps more so--than the shows which surround us.

If it be as truthfully as it has been happily expressed by the prince of dramatic Poets, that

'He who has no music in his soul Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils,'

it should be a paramount duty with every one who loves his species, and cultivates a generous philanthropy, to patronize every effort to diffuse widely through society, Poetry of genuine character, and to cultivate a taste for it as an element of a literary, religious, and moral education. We commend, as a standard of appreciation of the true character of the gifts of the Poetic Muse, the following critique from Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham:

''Tis not a flash of fancy, which sometimes, Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhymes, Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done; True wit is everlasting, like the sun, Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retired, Breaks out again, and is by all admired. Number and rhyme, and that harmonious sound Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound, Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts; And all in rain these superficial parts Contribute to the structure of the whole, Without a genius too--for that's the soul; A spirit which inspires the work throughout, As that of Nature moves the world about; A flame that glows amidst conceptions fit; E'en something of divine, and more than wit; Itself unseen, yet all things by it shown, Describing all men, but described by none.'

We neither intend nor desire to institute any invidious comparisons between Old Britain and Young America. We are one people--one in blood, one literature, one faith, one religion, in fact or in profession. Our language girdles the whole earth. Our science and our religion more or less enlighten every land, as our sails whiten every sea, and our commerce, in some degree, enriches every people. There is a magnanimity, a benevolence, a philanthropy, in English Poetry, whether the Muse be English, Scotch, Irish, or American, that thrills the social nerve and warms the kindred hearts of all who think, or speak, or dream in our vernacular. The pen of the gifted Bard is more puissant than the cannon's thundering roar or the warrior's glittering sword; and the soft, sweet melodies of English Poetry, gushing from a Christian Muse, are Heaven's sovereign specifics for a wounded spirit and an aching heart!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 18:

[Greek: Mênin aeide, thea, Pêlêiadeô, Achilêos, Oulomenên, hê myri' Achaiois alge' ethêken, Pollas d' iphthimous psychas Aidi proiapsen Hêrôôn, autous de helôria teuche kynessin

K.T.L.]]

PATRIA SPES ULTIMA MUNDI.

FLAG OF OUR UNION.

National Song.

BY HON. ROBERT J. WALKER

_Dedicated to the Union Army and Navy._

The day our nation's life began, Dawned on the sovereignty of man, His charter then our Fathers signed, Proclaiming Freedom for mankind. May Heaven still guard her glorious sway, Till time with endless years grows gray.

Flag of our Union! float unfurled, Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

Americans, your mighty name, With glory floods the peaks of fame; Ye whom our Washington has led, Men who with Warren nobly bled, Who never quailed on land or sea, Your watchword, _Death or Liberty_!

Flag of our Union! float unfurled, Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

It was the Union made us free, Its loss, man's second fall would be. States linked in kindred glory save, Till the last despot finds a grave; And angels hasten here to see Man break his chains, the whole earth free!

Flag of our Union! float unfurled, Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

Ye struggling brothers o'er the sea, Who spurn the chain of tyranny, Like brave Columbus westward steer, Our stars of hope will guide you here, Where States still rising bless our land, And freedom strengthens labor's hand.

Flag of our Union! float unfurled, Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

Ye toiling millions, free and brave, Whose shores two mighty oceans lave: Your cultured fields, your marts of trade, Keels by the hand of genius laid, The shuttle's hum, the anvil's ring Echo your voice that God is King.

Flag of our Union! float unfurled, Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

Hail! Union Army, true and brave, And dauntless Navy on the wave. Holy the cause where Freedom leads, Sacred the field where patriot bleeds; Victory shall crown your spotless fame, Nations and ages bless your name.

Flag of our Union! float unfurled, Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.

A FANCY SKETCH.

I am a banker, and I need hardly say I am in comfortable circumstances. Some of my friends, of whom I have a good many, are pleased to call me rich, and I shall not take it upon myself to dispute their word. Until I was twenty-five, I travelled, waltzed, and saw the best foreign society; from twenty-five to thirty I devoted myself to literature and the art of dining; I am now entered upon the serious business of life, which consists in increasing one's estate. At forty I shall marry, and as this epoch is nine years distant, I trust none of the fair readers of this journal will trouble themselves to address me notes which I really cannot answer, and which it would give me pain to throw in the fire.

Some persons think it beneath a gentleman to write for the magazines or papers. This is a low and vulgar idea. The great wits of the world have found their best friends in the journals; there were some who never learned to write,--who ever hears of them now? I write anonymously of course, and I amuse myself by listening to the remarks that society makes upon my productions. Society talks about them a great deal, and I divide attention with the last novelist, whether an unknown young lady of the South, or a drumhead writer of romances. People say, 'That was a brilliant article of so and so's in the last ----, wasn't it?' You will often hear this remark. I am that gentleman--I wrote that article--it was brilliant, and, though I say it, I am capable of producing others fully equal to it.

Many persons imagine that business disqualifies from the exercise of the imagination. This is a mistake. Alexander was a business man of the highest order; so was Cæsar; so was Bonaparte; so was Burr; so am I. To be sure, none of these distinguished characters wrote poetry; but I take it, poetry is a low species of writing, quite inferior to prose, and unworthy one's attention. Look at the splendid qualities of these great men, particularly in the line in which the imaginative faculties tend. See how they fascinated the ladies, who it is well known adore a fine imagination. How well they talked love, the noblest of all subjects--for a man's idle hours. Then observe the schemes they projected. Conquests, consolidations, empires, dominion, and to include my own project, a bullion bank with a ten-acre vault. It appears that a lack of capital was at the bottom of all their plans. Alexander confessed that he was bankrupt for lack of more worlds, and is reputed to have shed tears over his failure, which might have been expected from a modern dry-goods jobber, but not from Alexander. Cæsar and Bonaparte failed for the want of men: they do not seem to have been aware of the existence of Rhode Island. I think Burr failed for the lack of impudence--he had more than all the rest of the world together, but he needed much more than that to push his projects ahead of his times. As for myself, when I have doubled my capital, I shall found my bullion bank in the face of all opposition. The ten-acre lot at the corner of Broadway and Wall street is already selected and paid for, and I shall excavate as soon as the present crop is off.

There is no question that the occupation of banking conduces to literary pursuits. When I take interest out of my fellow beings, I naturally take interest in them, and so fall to writing about them. I have in my portfolio sketches of all the leading merchants of the age, romantically wrought, and full of details of their private lives, hopes, fears, and pleasures. These men that go up town every day have had, and still have, little fanciful excursions that are quite amusing when an observer of my talent notes them down. I know all about old Boscobello, the Spanish merchant, of the house of Boscobello, Bolaso & Co. My romance of his life from twenty to forty fills three volumes, and is as exciting as the diaries of those amusing French people whom Bossuet preached to with such small effect. Boscobello has sobered since forty, and begs for loans as an old business man ought to. I think he sees the error of his ways, and is anxious to repair his fortunes to the old point, but it is easier to spend a million than to make it. My cashier reports his account overdrawn the other day, and not made good till late next afternoon. This is a sign of failing circumstances, and must be attended to.

When Boscobello comes in about half past two of an afternoon for the usual loan of a hundred dollars to enable him to go on, I amuse myself by talking to him while I look over his securities. He has two or three loans to pay up before three o'clock, in different parts of the town, and we cannot blame him for being in a hurry, but this is no concern of mine. If he _will_ get into a tight place, one may surely take one's time at helping him out: and really it does require some little time to investigate the class of securities he brings, and which are astonishingly varied. For instance, he brought me to-day as collateral to an accommodation, a deed to a South Brooklyn block, title clouded; a Mackerelville second mortgage; ten shares of coal-oil stock; an undivided quarter right in a guano island, and the note of a President of the Unterrified Insurance Company. 'How much was the cartage, Bos?' said I, for you see my great mind descends to the smallest particulars, and I was benevolent enough to wish to deduct his expenses from the bonus I was about to charge him for the loan. 'Never mind the cartage,' said he, 'that's a very strong list, and will command the money any day in Wall street, but I have a particular reason for getting it of you.' 'The particular reason being,' said I, 'that you can't get it anywhere else. Jennings,' I continued to my cashier, 'give Mr. Boscobello ninety-five dollars Norfolk or Richmond due-bills, and take his check payable in current funds next Saturday for a hundred.'

Poor old Boscobello! A man at forty ought not to look old, but Bos had often seen the sun rise before he went to bed, and he _had_ been gay, so all my aunts said. Some stories Bos has told me himself, o' nights at my house, after having in vain endeavored to induce me to take shares in the guano island, or 'go into' South Brooklyn water lots. 'I'm too old for that sort of a thing, Bos,' I say; 'it's quite natural for you to ask me, and I don't blame you for trying it on, but you must find some younger man. Tell me about that little affair with the mysterious Cuban lady; when you only weighed a hundred and forty pounds, and never went out without a thousand dollars in your pocket--in the blooming days of youth, Bos, when you went plucking purple pansies along the shore.'

Boscobello weighs over two hundred now, and would have a rush of blood to the head if he were to stoop to pluck pansies. Mysterious Cuban ladies, in fact ladies of any description, would pass him by as a middle-aged person of a somewhat distressed appearance, and the dreams of his youth are quite dreamed out. Nevertheless, when he warms with my white Hermitage, the colors of his old life come richly out into sight, and the romantic adventures of wealth and high spirits overpower, though in the tame measures of recital, all the adverse influences of the present hour. But as the evening wanes, the colors fade again; his voice assumes a dreary tone; and I once more feel that I am with a man who has outlived himself, and who, having never learned where the late roses blow, is now too old to learn.

The reader will perceive I am sorry for Boscobello. If I am remarkable for anything, it is for my humanity, consideration, and sympathy.

These qualities of my constitution lead me to enter into the affairs of my clients with feeling and sincerity, but I fear I am sometimes misunderstood. Not long ago I issued an order to my junior partners to exercise more compassion for those unfortunate men with whom we decline business, and not to tumble them down the front steps so roughly. Let six of the porters attend with trestles, I said, and carry them out carefully, and dump them with discretion in some quiet corner, where, as soon as they recover their faculties, they may get up and walk away. I put it to the reader if this was not a very humane idea, and yet there are those who have stigmatized it as heartless.

I wish I was better acquainted with the way in which common people live. I can see how I have made mistakes in consequence of not understanding the restricted means and the exigencies of these people, who are styled respectable merchants. Thus when Boscobello has made some more than ordinarily piteous application, I have said, 'Boscobello, dismiss about fifty of your servants;' or, 'Boscobello, sell a railroad and put the money back again into your business;' or, 'Boscobello, my good friend, limit your table, say, to turtle soup, champagne, and truffles; live more plainly, and don't take above ten quarts of strawberries a day during the winter,--the lower servants don't really need them;' or, 'Boscobello, if you are really short, send around a hundred or so of your fast trotters to my stables, and I'll pay you a long figure for them, if they are warranted under two minutes.' Boscobello has never made any very definite replies to such advice, and I have attributed his silence to his nervousness; but I begin to suspect he has'nt quite understood me on such occasions. Then again, when Twigsmith declared he was a ruined man, in consequence of my refusal of further advances, and that he should be unable to provide for his family, I said: 'Why, Twigsmith, retire to one of your country seats, and live on the interest of some canal or other, or discount bonds and mortgages for the country banks.' Actually, I heard Twigsmith mutter as he went out, that it wasn't right to insult a man's poverty. Now I hadn't the remotest idea of injuring Twigsmith's feelings, for he was a very clever fellow, and we made a good thing out of him in his time, but it seems that my advice might not have been properly grounded.

It begins to occur to me that there _may_ be such a case as that a man may want something, and not be able to get it; and again, that at such a time a weak mind may complain, and grow discouraged, and make itself disagreeable to others.

There is a set of old fellows who call themselves family men, and apply for discounts as if they had a right to them, by reason of their having families to provide for. I have never yet been able to see the logical sequence of their conclusions, and so I tell them. What right does it give anybody to my money that he has a wife, six children, and lives in a large house with three nursery-maids, a cook, and a boy to clean the knives? 'Limit your expenses,' I say to these respectable gentlemen, 'do as I do. When Jennings comes to me on Monday morning, and reports that the receipts of the week will be eighty millions, exclusive of the Labrador coupons, which, if paid, will be eighty millions more, I say, 'Jennings, discount seventy, and don't encroach upon the reserves; you may however let Boscobello have ten on call.' This is true philosophy; adapt your outlay to your income, and you will never be in trouble, or go begging for loans. If the Bank of England had always managed in this way, they wouldn't have been obliged to call on our house for assistance during the Irish famine.'

These family men invite me to their wives' parties, constantly, unremittingly. The billets sometimes reach my desk, although I have given orders to put them all into the waste basket unopened. I went to one of these parties, only one, I give you my honor as a gentleman, and after Twigsmith and his horrid wife had almost wrung my hand off, I was presented to a young female, to whom Nature had been tolerably kind, but who was most shamefully dressed. In fact her dress couldn't have cost over a thousand dollars--one of my chambermaids going to a Teutonia ball is better got up. This young person asked me 'how I liked the Germania?' Taking it for granted that such a badly dressed young woman must be a school teacher, with perhaps classical tastes, I replied that it was one of the most pleasing compositions of Tacitus, and that I occasionally read it of a morning. 'Oh, it's not very taciturn,' she replied; 'I mean the band.' 'Very true,' said I, 'he says _agmen_, which you translate band very happily, though I might possibly say 'body' in a familiar reading.' 'Oh dear,' she replied, blushing, 'I'm sure I don't know what kind of men they are, nor anything about their bodies, but they certainly seem very respectable, and they play elegantly; oh, don't you think so?' 'I am glad you are pleased so easily,' I answered; 'Tacitus describes their performances as indeed fearful, and calculated to strike horror into the hearts of their enemies. But,' continued I, endeavoring to make my retreat, for I began to think I was in company with an inmate of a private lunatic hospital, 'they were devoted to the ladies.' 'Indeed they are,' said she,'and the harpist is _so_ gallant, and gets so many nice bouquets.' It then flashed across my mind that she meant the Germania musicians. 'They might do passably well, madame,' said I, 'for a quadrille party at a country inn, but for a dress ball or a dinner you would need three of them rolled into one.' 'Oh, you gentlemen are so hard to please,' she replied; and catching sight of the Koh-i-noor on my little finger, she began to smile so sweetly that I fled at once.

It was at that party that I perspired. I had heard doctors talk about perspiration, and I had seen waiters at a dinner with little drops on their faces, but I supposed it was the effect of a spatter, or that some champagne had flown into their eyes, or something of that sort. But at this party I happened to pass a mirror, and did it the honor to look into it. I saw there the best dressed man in America, but his face was flushed, and there were drops on it. This is fearful, thought I; I took my _mouchoir_ and gently removed them. They dampened the delicate fabric, and I shook with agitation. The large doors were open, and after a struggle of an hour and three quarters, I reached them, and promising the hostess to send my _valet_ in the morning to make my respects, which the present exigency would not allow me to stay to accomplish, I was rapidly whirled homeward. I can hardly pen the details, but on the removal of my linen, it was found--can I go on?--tumbled, and here and there the snowy lawn confessed a small damp spot, or fleck of moisture. Remorse and terror seized me. Medical attendance was called, and I passed the night in a bath of attar of roses delicately medicated with _aqua pura_. Of course, I have never again appeared at a party.

People haven't right ideas of entertainment. What entertainment is it to stand all the evening in a set of sixteen-by-twenty parlors, jammed in among all sorts of strange persons, and stranger perfumes, deafened with a hubbub of senseless talk, and finally be led down to feed at a long table where the sherry is hot, and the partridges are cold? Very probably some boy or other across the table lets off a champagne cork into your eyes, and the fattest men in the room _will_ tread on your toes. One might describe such scenes of torture at length, but the recital of human follies and miseries is not agreeable to my sensibilities.

I dare say the reader might find himself gratified at one of my little fètes. The editors of this journal attend them regularly, and have done me the honor to approve of them. You enter on Twelfth avenue; a modest door just off Nine-and-a-half street opens quietly, and you are ushered by a polite gentleman--one of our city bank presidents, who takes this means to increase his income--into an attiring room. Here you are dressed by the most accomplished Schneider of the age, in your own selections from an unequalled _repertoire_ of sartorial _chef d'ouvres_, and your old clothes are sent home in an omnibus.

I might delight you with a description of the ball room, but the editors have requested me to the contrary. Some secrets of gorgeous splendor there are which are wisely concealed from the general gaze. But a floor three hundred feet square, and walls as high as the mast of an East Boston clipper, confer ample room for motion; and the unequalled atmosphere of the saloon is perhaps unnecessarily refreshed by fountains of rarest distilled waters. This is also my picture gallery, where all mythology is exhausted by the great painters of the antique; and modern art is thoroughly illustrated by the famous landscapes of both hemispheres. The luxuriant fancy of my favorite artist has suggested unique collocations of aquaria and mossy grottoes in the angles of the apartment, where the vegetable wealth of the tropics rises in perfect bounty and lawless exuberance, and fishes of every hue and shape flash to and fro among the tangled roots, in the light of a thousand lamps. In the centre, I have caused the seats of the orchestra to be hidden at the summit of a picturesque group of rocks, profusely hung with vegetation, and gemmed with a hundred tiny fountains that trickle in bright beads and diamonds into the reservoir at the base. From this eminence, the melody of sixty unequalled performers pervades the saloon, justly diffused, and on all sides the same; unlike the crude arrangements of most modern orchestras, where at one end of the room you are deluged with music, and at the other extremity you distinguish the notes with pain or difficulty. The ceiling, by a rare combination of mechanical ingenuity and artistic inspiration, displays, so as to quite deceive the senses, the heavens with all their stars moving in just and harmonious order. Here on summer nights you see Lyra and Altair triumphantly blazing in the middle sky as they sweep their mighty arch through the ample zenith; and low in the south, the Scorpion crawls along the verge with the red Antares at his heart, and the bright arrows of the Archer forever pursuing him. Here in winter, gazing up through the warm and perfumed air, you behold those bright orbs that immemorially suggest the icy blasts of January: Aldebaran; the mighty suns of Orion; diamond-like Capella; and the clear eyes of the Gemini. Under such influences, with the breath of the tropics in your nostrils, and your heart stirred by the rich melodies of the invisible orchestra, waltzing becomes a sublime passion, in which all your faculties dilate to utmost expansion, and you float out into happy forgetfulness of time and destiny.

Rarely at these fêtes do we dance to other measures than those of the waltz, though at times we find a relief from the luxuriance of that divine rhythm in the cooler cadences of the Schottish. By universal consent and instinct, we banish the quadrille, stiff and artificial; the polka, inelegant and essentially vulgar; and the various hybrid measures with which the low ingenuity of professors has filled society. But we move like gods and goddesses to the sadly joyful strains of Strauss and Weber and Beethoven and Mozart, and the mighty art of these great masters fills and re-creates all our existence.

Sometimes in these divine hours, thrilled by the touch of a companion whose heart beats against and consonantly with mine, I catch glimpses of the possibilities of a free life of the spirit when it shall be released from earth and gravitation, and I conjecture the breadth of a future existence. This will only seem irrational to such as have squeezed out their souls flat between the hard edges of dollars, or have buried them among theologic texts which they are too self-wise to understand. History and the experience of the young are with me.

From twelve to four you sup, when, and as, and where, you will. A succession of little rooms lie open around an atrium, all different as to size and ornament, yet none too large for a single couple, and none too small for the reunion of six. What charming accidents of company and conversation sometimes occur in these Lucullian boudoirs! You pass and repass, come and go, at your own pleasure. Waltzing, and Burgundy, and Love, and Woodcock are here combined into a dramatic poem, in which we are all star performers, and sure of applause. These hours cannot last forever, and the first daybeams that tell of morning, are accompanied by those vague feelings of languor that hint to us that we are mortal. Then we pause, and separate before these faint hints of our imperfection deepen into distasteful monitions, and before our fulness of enjoyment degenerates into satiety. Antiquity has conferred an immortal blessing upon us in bequeathing to us that golden legend, NE QUID NIMIS;[19] a legend better than all the teachings of Galen, or than all the dialogues of Socrates. For in these brief words are compressed the experiences of the best lives, and Alcibiades and Zeno might equally profit by them. They contain the priceless secret of happiness; and do you, reader, wisely digest them till we meet again.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 19: 'Not too much.']

THE SOLDIER.

[BURNS.]

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor; But glory is the soldier's pride, The soldier's wealth is honor. The brave, poor soldier ne'er despise, Nor count him as a stranger; Remember he's his country's stay In day and hour of danger!

OUR PRESENT POSITION: ITS DANGERS AND ITS DUTIES.

ADDRESSED TO THE PEOPLE OF ALL POLITICAL PARTIES.

When Daniel Webster replied to Senator Hayne, of South Carolina, during the exciting debate on the right of secession, he commenced his ever-memorable speech with these words:

'When the mariner has been tossed for many days in thick weather and on an unknown sea, he naturally avails himself of the first pause in the storm--the earliest glance of the sun--to take his latitude, and ascertain how far the elements have driven him from his true course. Let us imitate this prudence before we float farther, that we may at least be able to conjecture where we now are.'

No words are fitter for our ears at this tumultuous period than are these, when the passions of our countrymen, North and South, are excited with the bitterest animosity, and when the discordant cries of party faction at the North are threatening a desolation worse than that of contending armies. In considering, then, our condition, it behooves us first, to 'take our latitude, and ascertain where we now are,'--not as a section or a party, but as a nation and a people. Let us avail ourselves of that distant and dim glimmer in the heavens which even now is looked upon by the sanguine as the promise of peace, and in its light survey our dangers and nerve ourselves to our duties. We behold, then, a people, bound together by the ties of a common interest, namely, national prosperity and renown, and in possession of a land more favored by natural elements of advantage than any other on the face of the globe. We see them standing up in the ranks of hostile resistance each to each, the one great and glorious army fighting for the restoration of a nation once the envy of the world; the other great and glorious army equally ardent and valorous in behalf of a separation of that territory in which they are taught to believe we cannot hold together in peace and amity. Both armies and people are evincing in their very warfare the elements of character which heretofore distinguished us as a nation, and are employing the very means for each other's destruction which were of late the principles of action which rendered us in the highest degree a nation worthy of respect at home and admiration abroad. It is not the purpose of this paper to go back to causes or to relate the subsequent events which have placed us where we are. These causes and events are well known to us and to the world. But here we now stand, with this fratricidal war increased to the most alarming proportions, and with, results but partially developed. Here we of the North stand, with a still invincible army, loyal to the cause nearest to the heart of every patriot, and confident in the ability to withstand and overcome the machinations of the enemy. Here, too, we--ay, _we_ of the South stand, bound together in a common aim, an ardent hope, and a proclaimed and omnipotent impulse to action. _This is the only proper view to take of the case_--to regard our opponents as we regard ourselves, and to give due credit where credit is due for valor, for motives, and for principles of action. The North believes itself to be engaged in a strife forced upon it by blinded prejudice and evil passion, and fights for that which, if not worthy of fighting, ay, and dying for, is unfit to live for, namely, national integrity. The South claims, little as we can understand it, the same ground for rising against the land they had sworn to protect, and whose fathers died with our fathers to create. We at the North would have been pusillanimous and weak indeed had we silently submitted to that which is in our view against every principle of national right and renown. To have acted otherwise would have been to bring down upon our heads the scorn and contempt of our enemies and of every foreign power, from the strongest oligarchy to the most benevolent form of monarchical government. Hence it is that while certain foreign powers have not failed to improve the opportunity of our weakness, as a divided nation, to insult and sneer, to preach peace with dishonor, and advocate separation, which they know to be but another word for humiliation, yet have they not failed to see and been forced to confess that, divided as we are, we have shown inherent greatness and power, _which, united, would be a degree of national superiority which might well defy the world_. Nothing is more striking at this moment than this great fact, and no topic is more worthy of the serious consideration of our countrymen, North and South, than this. No time is fitter than now to suggest the subject, and to see in it matter which is pregnant with hopes for our future. If nothing but this great truth had been developed by the war--this truth, bold, naked, defiant as it is, _is worth the war_--worth all its cost of noble lives, of sacred blood, of yet uncounted treasure. We stand before the world this day divided by the fearful conflict, with malignant hate lighting the fires of either camp, and with hands reeking in fraternal blood--with both sections of our land more or less afflicted--with credit impaired, with the scoff and jeers of nations ringing in our ears--we stand losers of almost every thing but our individual self-respect, which has inspired both foes with the ardor and courage born within us as Americans. This it is that leaves us unshorn of our strength; this it is that enables us in this very day of trial and adversity to present to the world the undeniable fact that we have within us--not as Northerners, not as Southerners, _but as Americans_--the elements of innate will and physical power, which makes the scale of valor hang almost with an even beam, and foretells us, with words which we cannot but hear--and which would to God we might heed!--that, united, we can rear up on this beautiful and bountiful land a temple of political, social, and commercial prosperity, more glorious than that which entered into the dreams and aspirations of the fathers who founded it.

Alas! that the contemplation of so worthy a theme is marred by the 'ifs' and 'buts' of controversial strife. Alas! that we cannot depress the sectional opposing interests which are but secondary to a condition of political consolidation, and elevate above these distracting and isolated evils, the great and eternal principle, Strength as it alone exists in Unity. Alas! that with the beam of suicidal measures we blind the eye political, because, forsooth, the motes of individual or local injuries afflict, as they afflict _all_ human forms of government.

The great evil, North and South, before the war, during the war, and now, is the want of political charity--that charity which, like its moral prototype, 'suffereth long and is kind.' We the people, North and South, have been and are unwilling to grant to the other people and States the right to think, speak, and urge their own opinions--the very right which each insists upon claiming for itself. It has been held 'dangerous' to discuss questions which, though in one sense pertaining only to particular States, nevertheless bear upon the whole country. It has been considered 'heresy' to urge with rhetoric and declamation, even in our halls of Congress, certain principles for and against Slavery, for example, lest mischief result from the agitation of those topics. But in such remonstrance we have forgotten that the very principle of democratic institutions involves the right of all men to think and act, under the law, as each pleases. We have also forgotten that any subject which will not bear discussion and political consideration must be dangerous _in itself_, and pregnant with weakness, if not evil. There is no harm in discussing questions upon which hang vital principles; for if there exists on the one side strength and justice, all arguments on the other side can do it no injury. With regard to Slavery, one of the 'causes' or 'occasions' of this unhappy war, it may be said that the North owes much to the South which it has never paid, in a true and kindly appreciation of the difficulties which have ever surrounded the institutions of the latter. But let us not forget that one reason why this debt has not been paid is because the South owes the North its value received, by not being willing to admit in the other's behalf the motives which underlay the efforts which have been made by the earnest, or so-called 'radical' men, who have opposed the institution of slavery. Pure misunderstanding of motive, pure lack of political as well as moral charity, has been wanting between the men of the North who opposed, and the men of the South who maintained the extension of slavery. Had each understood the other better, it is probable that the character of each would have assumed the following proportions: The slaveholder of the South, inheriting from generations back a system of servitude which even ancient history supported and defended, and which he in his inmost heart believes to be beneficial to the slave not less than the master, regards himself as violating no law of God or man in receiving from this inferior race or grade of men the labor of their hands, and the right to their control, while they draw from him the necessary physical support and protection which it is in his belief his bounden duty to give. The planter, a gentleman educated and a Christian, with the fear of God before his eyes, believes this--the belief was born in him and dies in him, and he is conscientiously faithful in carrying out the principles of his faith. I speak now of no exceptional, but of general cases, instancing only the representative of the highest class of Southern men. Is it to be wondered at that such a man, looking from _his_ point of vision, should regard with suspicion and distrust the efforts of those who sought to abolish even by gradual means the apparent sources of his prosperity? Is it remarkable that he should regard as his enemy the man who preaches against and denounces as criminal the very system in which he trusts his social and political safety? He will not regard that apparent enemy what at heart and soul he really is, namely, a man as pure and devout, as well meaning and conscientious as himself. The man whom he scoffs at as a 'radical,' an 'abolitionist,' and a 'fanatic,' by education and intuition believes in his very soul that the holding of men in bondage, forcing from them involuntary labor, and the consequences thereof, are pregnant with moral and political ruin and decay. The system, not the men, is offensive to his eyes. Is he to blame for this opinion, provided it be well founded in his mind? Admit it eroneous in logic, still, if he believes it, is he to be condemned for holding the belief, and would he not be contemptible in his own eyes if he feared to express the moral convictions of his soul? The error of both has been that both are uncharitable--both unwilling to allow the right of opinion and freedom of debate on what both, as American citizens, hold to be vital principles, dependent upon constitutional provisions; the one claiming Slavery as the 'corner stone of political freedom,' the other as the stumbling block in the way of its advancement. This unwillingness to appreciate the motives of opposing minds led at last one section of our beloved country to an unwillingness to recognize the right of election, and, worse than all, an unwillingness to abide by the results of that election. When that principle--submission to the will of the majority--was overthrown, then, indeed, did the pillars of our national temple tremble, and the seat of our national power rock in its foundation.

And now a word in connection with this same principle of submission, as applicable to the people of the North in our present emergency. In accordance with the plan adopted by the founders of our Government, and practically illustrated in the election of George Washington and his successors, the people by a plurality of votes elected to office and placed at the head of our political system as its highest authority and ruler, the present Chief Magistrate. From the day of his acknowledged election, party politics settled into the calm of acquiescence, and all loyal and true States and men bowed to the arbitrament of the ballot box. That man, Abraham Lincoln, instantly became invested with the potential right of rule under the Constitution, and the great principle of constitutional liberty in his election and elevation stood justified. It mattered not then, nor matters it now, to us, what may be individual opinion of his merits or demerits, his ability or his disability. There he is, not as a private citizen, but as the head of our Government: his individuality is lost in his official embodiment. This principle being acknowledged, and party opinion being buried, in theory at least, at the foot of the altar of the Government _de facto_, whence is it that at this time creeps into our council chambers, our political cliques, our social haunts, our market places, ay, our most sacred tabernacles--a spirit adverse to the principles for which we are fighting, laboring for, and dying for? Let us--a people anxious for peace on honorable grounds, anxious for a Union which no rash hand shall ever again attempt to destroy--look, with a moment's calm reflection, at this alarming evil.

It is very evident to most men that, in spite of temporary defeats and an unexpected prolongation of the war, the loyal States hold unquestionably the preponderance of power. Nothing but armed intervention from abroad can now affect even temporarily this preponderance. As events and purposes are seen more clearly through the smoke of the battle fields by the ever-watchful eyes of Europe, armed intervention becomes less and less a matter of probability. The hopes of an honorable peace, therefore, hang upon the increase and continuance of this military preponderance. With the spirit of determination evinced by both combatants, the unflinching valor of both armies, and with the unquestioned resources and ability to hold out of the North, it appears evident that the strife for mastery will in time terminate in favor of the loyal States. There is but one undermining influence which can defeat this end, and still further prolong the war, or, what is worse, plunge the North into the irretrievable disaster of internal conflict--and that undermining influence is _dissension among ourselves_. Such a consummation would bring joy to the hearts of our enemies and lend them the first ray of real hope that ultimate separation will be their purchased peace. We will not here draw a picture of that fallacious peace, that suicidal gap, whose festering political sore would breed misery and ruin, not only for ourselves, but for our posterity, for ages to come. But let us be warned in time. Even now the insidious movement of dissension is hailed with satisfaction and delight in the council meetings at Richmond, and no effort will be spared to aid its devastating progress. False rumors will be raised on the slightest and most insignificant grounds. Trivial mistakes and blunders in the cabinet and the field will be magnified; facts distorted, and the flame be blown by corrupting influences abroad and at home, in the hopes--let them be vain hopes--that we the people will be diverted from the great cause we have most at heart into side issues and sectional distrust. And why? Because more powerful than serried hosts and open warfare is the poison of sedition and conspiracy that is thrown into the cup of domestic peace and confidence--more fatal than the ravages of the battle field is that of the worm that creeps slowly and surely--weakening, as it works, the foundations of the edifice in which we dwell unsuspicious of evil. Is it astonishing that they, the enemies of our common weal, should rejoice in these signs of incipient weakness, or fail to resort to any expedient whereby our strength as a united and loyal people can be made less? Have they not shown themselves capable and ready to avail themselves of every weakness in our counsels and in the field? Would not we do the same did we perceive distrust and dissatisfaction presenting through the mailed armor of our opponents a vulnerable point for attack? Then blame them not with muttered imprecations, but look--ay, look to ourselves. The shape of this undermining influence is political dissension at a period when the name of 'party' ought to be obliterated from the people's creed. Let opinion on measures and men have full and unrestricted sway, so far as these opinions may silently work under the banner of the one great cause of self-preservation; but let them not interfere with the prosecution of the efforts of the Government, whether State or national, to prosecute this holy and patriotic war in defence of the principles which created and are to keep us a united nation. Let us not tempt the strength of the ice that covers the waters of political and partisan problems, while we have enough to do to protect and cover the solid ground already in our possession. The President of the United States, be he who or what he may--think he how or what he will, enact he what he chooses--is, let us remember, the corner stone of our political liberty. The Constitution is a piece of parchment--sacred and to be revered--but it is, in its outward presentment, material and inactive. The _spirit_ of the Constitution is intangible and ideal, its interpretation alone is its vitality. We the people--through equally material morsels of paper entitled votes--raise the spirit of the Constitution by placing in the halls of Congress the interpreters of that Constitution, over whom and above all sits the Chief Magistrate, who, once endowed by us with power, retains and sways it until another, by the same process, carries out at our will the same eventualities. Our part as electors and adjudicators is done, and it ill becomes us to weaken or hold up to the ridicule of the world the power therein invested, by questions as to the President's 'right' or 'power' or 'ability' to enact this measure or that.

Away then with the unseemly cry of 'the Constitution as it is,' 'the Union at it was,' the 'expediency' or 'non-expediency' of employing the war power, the interference or the non-interference of the man and the men established by us to represent us with the military leaders, the finances, or the thousand and one implements of administration, _which they are bound to employ_, not as we, but as they, holding our powers of attorney for a specified and legalized period, in their human wisdom deem best for the common good of the land. Let us have faith in the motives and intentions of our political administration, or if we have lost our faith, let us submit--patiently and with accord. Above all, at a period like this, when the minds of the best men and the truest are oppressed with a sense of the injustice with which a portion of our countrymen regard us, it most behooves us to keep our social and political ranks closed and in order, subject to the will of that commander, disobedience to which is infamy and ruin. No matter with what diversity of tongues and opinions we pursue our individual avocations and aims, we are all pilgrims pressing forward like the followers of Mohammed to the Kêbla stone of _our_ faith--Peace founded on Union.

What if a party clique utters sentiments adverse to our own on the never ceasing topic of political policy? Is it not the expression of a mind or a hundred minds forming a portion of the great body politic, of which we ourselves are a part, and are they not entitled to their opinion and modes of expressing it, providing it be done with decorum and with a proper respect for the opinions of their adversaries? Why then do we or they employ, through the press and in rhetorical bombast, opprobrious epithets, fit only for the pot-house or the shambles? Shall we men and citizens, each of us a pillar upholding the crowning dome of our nationality, be taught, like vexed and querulous children, the impotence of personal abuse? Why seek to lay upon the head of this Cabinet officer or that, this Senator or that, the responsibility of temporary military defeats, when we are no more able to command and prevent reverses than are they? Or if in our superior wisdom we deem ourselves to be the better able to direct and administer, why do we forget that others among us, inspired by the same love of country, and equally ardent for its safety and advancement, hold exactly contrary opinions? It is not a matter of opinion--it is not a matter for interference, it is simply and only a matter for untiring unflinching confidence and support. We have done our duty as a people, and elected our Administration--let us, in the name of all that is sublime and fundamental in republican principles, support and not perplex them in the hard and complex problem which they are appointed to solve. These are principles, which, however trite, need to be kept before us and practically sustained at a period when, as is often the case in long and tedious wars, the dispiriting influence of delays and occasional defeats work erroneous conclusions in the minds of the people, leading to unjust accusations against the men in power, and an unwillingness to frankly acknowledge that the evil too often originated where the result most immediately occurred. In other words, our armies have often suffered simply and for no other reason than that they were outgeneralled on the field of battle, or overpowered by military causes for which no one is to blame--least of all, the President or his advisers.

And here let one word be said against the arguments of those well-meaning and patriotic men who attempt to prove that certain acts of the Government have been injudicious and unwise--such, for example, as the suspension of the habeas corpus, the alleged illegal arrests, and the emancipation policy. It is not the purpose of this paper to enter into additional argument to sustain this opinion or to disprove it. But in justice to the Government--simply because it is a Government--let it not be forgotten that when events heretofore unforeseen and unprepared for are throwing our vast nation into incalculable confusion, and when it becomes absolutely imperative that the head of the Government must act decisively and according to the promptness of his honest judgment, and when we know equally well that that judgment, be it what it may, cannot accord with the various and diverse opinions of _all_ men, then it behooves his countrymen, if not to acquiesce in, to support whatever that honest judgment may decide to be best for the emergency. No doubt, errors have been made, but they are errors inconceivably less in their results than would be the unpardonable sin of the people, should they, because differing in opinion, weaken the hands and confuse the purposes of the powers that be. With secret and treacherous foes in our very midst, hidden behind the masks of a painted loyalty, the President, after deep and earnest consultation and reflection, deemed it his duty to authorize arrests under circumstances which he solemnly believed were the best adapted to arrest the evil, though, by so doing, many good and innocent men might temporarily suffer with the bad. So too with regard to the proclamation of freedom--be the step wise or unwise, and there is by no means a unity of sentiment on this head--the President conceived it to be the duty of his office--a duty which never entered into his plans or intentions until the war had increased to gigantic and threatening proportions--to level a blow at what he and millions of his countrymen believe to be the stronghold of the enemy, viz., that system of human servitude which nourished the body politic and social now standing in armed and fearful resistance to the Constitution and the laws. It matters not, so far as opinion goes, whether the step was wise or foolish, if the executive head deemed it wise. Nor was it a hasty or spasmodic movement on his part. Months were devoted to its consideration, and every argument was patiently and candidly listened to from all the representatives of political theory for and against. Even then no hasty step was taken; but, on the contrary, our deluded countrymen in arms against us were forewarned, and earnestly, respectfully advised and entreated to take that step in behalf of Union and peace, which would leave their institution as it had existed. Nay, more: terms whereby no personal inconvenience or pecuniary loss to them would be involved if they would but be simply loyal to the Government, were liberally offered them, with three months for their consideration. Let those of us who, notwithstanding these ameliorating circumstances, doubt the good policy of the act, remember that they of the South, our open foes, invited the measures. Their leaders acknowledged and their press boasted that the Southern army never could be overcome--if for no other reason, for this reason, that while the army of the North was composed of the bone and muscle of the great working classes, drawn away from the fields of labor and enterprise, which must necessarily, in their opinion, languish from this absence, the Confederate army was composed of 'citizens' and property owners (to wit, slaveholders), whose absence from their plantations in no way interfered with the growth of their cotton, sugar, corn, and rice, from which sources of wealth and nourishment they could continue to draw the sinews of war. They went farther than this, and acted upon their declaration by employing their surplus slave labor in the work of intrenching their fortifications, serving their army, and finally fighting in their army.

Upon this basis of slave labor they asserted their omnipotence in war and ability to continue the struggle without limit of time. The subsidized press of England supported this theory, and declared that with such advantages it was idle for the Federal Government to maintain a struggle in the face of such belligerent advantages! Then, and not till then, were the eyes of the President open to a fact which none but the political blind man could fail to observe, and then it was that not only the President, but a very large proportion of our countrymen, heretofore strictly conservative men, felt that the time had come when further forbearance would be suicidal. Although many doubted and still doubt if slavery was the cause of the rebellion, very many were forced to the conclusion that what our enemies themselves admitted to be the strength of the rebellion was indeed such, and that the time had arrived to avail themselves of that military necessity which authorizes the Government to adopt such measures as may be deemed the most fitting for crushing rebellion and restoring our constitutional liberty. Let us think, then, as we please upon the judiciousness of the proclamation--that it was uttered with forethought, calmness, and with a full sense of the responsibility of the President to his God and his country, none of us can deny. With this we should be satisfied. We have but one duty before us, then, as a government and a people--and that is, an earnest, devoted prosecution of this war for the integrity of our common country. In the untrammelled hands of that Government let us leave its prosecution. We have but one duty before us as individuals, and that is to support the existing Government with our individual might. Let the cry be loud and long, as, thank Heaven, it still is, 'On with the war,' not for war's sake, but for the sake of that peace, which only war, humanely and vigorously conducted, can achieve.

Fling personal ambition and individual aggrandizement to the winds. Let political preferment and partisan proclivities bide their time, and as a united and one-minded people, devote heart and mind, strength and money, to the prosecution of the campaign, without considering what may be its duration, and without fear of circumstance or expenditure. If it be necessary, let the public debt be increased until it reaches and exceeds the public liabilities of the most indebted Government of Europe. We and our descendants will cheerfully pay the interest on that expenditure which purchased so great a blessing as national endurability. Meanwhile, with unity, forbearance, perseverance, and the silent administration of the ballot box, we will, as a people, maintain, notwithstanding that a portion of the land we hold dear stands severed from us by hatred and prejudice, the prosperity which we still claim, and the renown which was once accorded to us. By so doing, and by so doing only, shall our former grandeur come back to us--though its garments be stained with blood. A grandeur which, without hyperbole, it may be said, will outstrip the glory which, as a young and sanguine people, we have ever claimed for our country. The reason for so believing is the simple and undeniable fact that out of the saddening humiliation and devastation of this civil war has arisen the better knowledge of the wonderful resources, abilities, and determined spirit of the American people. We see--both combatants--that we are giants fighting, and not quarrelling pigmies, as the foreign enemies of us both have vainly attempted to prove. We see, both combatants, how vast and important to each is the territory we are struggling for, how inseparable to our united interests are the sources of wealth imbedded in our rocks, underlying our soil, and growing in its beneficent bosom. We see, both combatants, how strong is the commerce of the East to supply, like a diligent handmaiden, the wants of every section; how bountiful are the plantations of the South and the granaries of the West to keep the world united to us in the strong bonds of commercial and friendly intercourse; how absolutely necessary to the prosperity of both are the deep and wide-flowing rivers which run, like silver bands of peace, through the length and breadth of a land whose vast privileges we have been too blind to appreciate, and in that blindness would destroy. Above all, we are _beginning_ to see that like two mighty champions fighting for the belt of superiority, we can neither of us achieve that individual advantage which can utterly and forever place the other beyond the ability of again accepting the gauntlet of defiance, and that our true and lasting glory can alone proceed from a determination to shake hands in peace, and, as united champions, defying no longer each other, defy the world. Nor would the South in consenting to a reunion _now_ find humiliation or dishonor. She has proved herself a noble foe--quick in expedient, firm in determination, valorous in war. We know each other the better for the contest; we shall, when peace returns, respect each other the more; and although the cost of that peace, whenever it comes, will be the sacrifice of many local prejudices and sectional privileges, what, oh, what are such sacrifices to the inestimable blessings of national salvation?

THE COMPLAINING BORE.

About the most disagreeable people one meets with in life are those who make a business of complaining. They ask for sympathy when they merit censure. There is no excuse for man or woman making known their private griefs except to intimate friends or those who stand in the nearest relation to them. I have no patience with the man who wishes to catch the public ear with the sound of his repining. Be it that he complain of the world generally, or specify the particular occasion of his dumpishness, he is in either aspect equally contemptible. What a serio-comic spectacle a man presents who imagines that everybody is in a leagued conspiracy against him to disappoint his hopes and thwart his plans for success! He thinks he is kept from rising by some untoward fate that is bent on crushing him into the ground, feels that he is the victim of persecution, the sport of angry gods. Not having the spirit of a martyr, he frets and fumes about his condition, and finds a selfish relief in counting over his grievances in the presence of all who are good-natured enough to listen. Such a fellow is a social nuisance--away with him! The fact usually is that the world has more reason to complain of him than he of the world. For instance, I know a man who has become misanthropic, but who should hate himself instead of the whole race.

Mr. Jordan Algrieve has become disgusted with life, and confesses than his experiment with existence has thus far proved a failure. He has combated with the world, and the world has proved too much for him, and he acknowledges the defeat. Mr. Algrieve is on the shady side of fifty, and his hair getting to be of an iron gray. His features are prominent, with a face wrinkled and shrivelled by discontent and acidity of temper. His tall figure is bent, not so much by cares and weight of years, as in a kind of typical submission to the stern decree of an evil destiny.

Strange to say, he is well educated, and graduated with honor at one of our Eastern colleges. With a knowledge of this fact, it is pitiable to see him standing at the corner of the street in his busy town in a suit of seedy black and a shockingly bad hat, chafing his hands together and pretending to wait for somebody who never comes.

Poor Algrieve, he is a man under the table, and he knows it. He has tried to be somebody in his way, but has failed sadly in all his efforts. It is said that Algrieve always had a constitutional aversion to legitimate and continued labor, but has a passion for making strikes and securing positions that afford liberal pay for little work.

Thinking a profession too monotonous and plodding, he never took the trouble to acquire one. As to honest manual toil, that was an expedient he never so much as dreamed of. In early life he was so unfortunate as to secure an appointment to a clerkship in the Assembly, and after that he haunted the State Legislature for five or six winters in hot pursuit of another place, but his claims failing to be recognized, he relapsed into the natural belief that his party was in league to proscribe him. After making a large number of political ventures of a more ambitious order, and with the same mortifying results, he abandoned that field and took to speculation in patent rights. He vended a wonderful churn-dash, circulated a marvellous flatiron, and expatiated through the country on the latest improvement in the line of a washing machine. But these operations somehow afforded him but transient relief, and left him always involved still more largely in debt. At different times in his life he had also been a horse dealer, a dry-goods merchant, a saloon keeper, the proprietor of a tenpin alley, and managed to grow poorer in all these various occupations. The last I saw of him he was reduced to peddling books in a small way, carrying his whole stock in a new market basket. He was very importunate in his appeals to customers to purchase, putting it upon the ground that he had been unfortunate and had a claim to their charity. I happened to see him in the office of the popular hotel in Podgeville, when he was more than usually clamorous for patronage. He accosted nearly every man in the room with a dull, uninteresting volume in his hand, and for which he asked a respectable price. At last he set down his basket, and commenced a kind of snivelling harangue to his little audience. Mr. Algrieve opened by saying:

'Gentlemen, you'll pardon me for thrusting myself upon your attention; but it is hard to have the world turned against ye, and to work like a slave all your life to get something to fall back on in old age, and then have to die poor at last! I hope none of you have ever known what it is to be born unlucky; to never undertake anything but turned out a failure, and to meet disappointment where you deserved success. I am such a man!'

Here Mr. Algrieve produced a fragmentary pocket handkerchief for the ostensible purpose of absorbing an expected tear, but really to give his remark a tragic effect. He continued:

'Behold an individual who has been doomed to penury and destitution, but who has not met his fate without a struggle. You who have known me, gentlemen, for the last thirty years, know that Jordan Algrieve has battled with life manfully.' At this point he put out his clenched fist in defiance of his fancied enemy.' But I have been compelled to yield to the force of circumstances--not, however, till I had taken my chance in nearly every department of honorary endeavor, and experienced the most wretched success. The world has pronounced its ban upon me, and I must bow submissively to its cruel imposition. I tried to serve my country in the capacity of a public official, but my services and talents were repeatedly rejected--the majority of voters always so necessary to an honest election was forever on the side of my lucky opponent. When I withdrew from the political field, impoverished by my efforts to advance the prosperity of my party, I embarked in a small commercial enterprise; but owing to the tightness of the times, and my want of capital, I was soon obliged to give up and throw myself upon the mercy of my creditors. I have tried popular amusements, and lost money--that is, I failed to make it. I even branched out into fancy speculations, but they only served to sink me still deeper in the yawning depths of insolvency!'

Mr. Algrieve here paused, and seemed to look down into the frightful gulf with a shuddering expression, as if he were not quite accustomed to the descent yet.

'In short, gentlemen, I am completely prostrated--I am floored! And is the world willing to help me up? By no means! On the contrary, when I commenced falling and slipping on the stairs of human endeavor the world was ready to kick me down, down, till I reached the--in short, gentlemen, till I became what I now am. Now, what have I done, let me ask, that I should fare thus? Have I not made an effort? I appeal to you, gentlemen, to say. [A voice from the crowd here chimed in: 'Yes, Algrieve, your efforts to live without work have been immense!'] But here I am, poor and persecuted; my family are in want of some of the common necessaries of life; and now, gentlemen, I beg some of you will buy that book (holding out a copy of the 'Pilgrim's Progress'), and do something to avert for a while, at least, the pauper's fate!'

Some benevolent gentleman, either from a charitable motive, or to put an end to his lachrymose oration, bought the volume for $1.25. Mr. Algrieve received the money with many expressions of gratitude, and, gathering up his stock, moped off into the drinking room, and invested a dime in a gin cocktail, and five cents in a cigar, with which he sought to solace himself for all the inflictions of the inexorable world.

Thus Jordan Algrieve goes about telling of his reverses and misfortunes, exhibiting them to the public eye like a beggar his sores, without shame or remorse; seeking to levy contributions on his fellow men, as one who has been robbed of his estate. Reader, will you say that you have never met with Jordan Algrieve?

Another common species of the complaining bore are those who are continually parading their bodily infirmities. For example, a man will call on you, apparently for the express purpose of illustrating a most interesting case of neuralgia. He comes into your office, perhaps, with his head tied up in a handkerchief, and an expression of face as if he had some time winked one eye very close, and had never since been able to open it. Thinking himself an object worthy of study, he shows how the darting pains vacillate between his eyes, invade his teeth, hold general muster in his cheeks, take refuge in the back of his neck; and demonstrates these points to you by applying his hands to the parts designated, and uttering cries of feigned anguish to give effect to his description. He informs you, as a piece of refreshing intelligence, that it is devilish hard to bear, and enough to make a saint indulge in profanity. When he has proceeded thus far, he may be taken with one of his capricious pains, ducks his head between his knees, squeezes it with his hands, and bawls out: 'O-h! Je-ru-sa-lem!' with a duration of sound only limited by the capacity of his wind. He feels that he has a witness to his sufferings, and wishes to make the most of it. When he gets sufficiently easy, he tells you his experience with various remedies, enumerates all the lotions, liniments, ointments, and other applications he has used, with his opinion on the merits of each.

Another person will accost you on a bright day with a most saturnine and wo-begone visage, informing you that he is in a terrible way, that his food distresses him, and he can't any longer take comfort in eating. He places his hand in the region of his stomach, remarks that he feels a great load there, and makes the usual complaints of a dyspeptic. He is pathetic over the fact that his physician has denied him fried oysters and mince pie for evening lunch, and closes his observations by exclaiming in a moralizing vein that 'such is life!'

A third individual has a throat disease, and, forgetful of his bad breath, desires you to take a minute survey of his glottis, and inform him of its appearance. Accordingly he opens his mouth and throws back his head as if he were inviting you to an entertaining show.

These are but a tithe of the examples of people who exhibit in public and at social gatherings their ills and ailments, accompanied with dreary complainings of their bodily inflictions. It implies no indifference or lack of sympathy for physical pain and hardships to say that its victims have no right to mar the enjoyment of others by the unnecessary display of their infirmities or present sufferings. If a man will make a travelling show of his disorders, he should be obliged to carry a hand organ to give variety to his stupid entertainment. Were these fellows all compelled to furnish this accompaniment, what a musical bedlam our streets would become! Of course, there is no law against complaining and repining--it may not be immoral--but it is a very poor method of making those around us happy, which is a duty that none but selfish natures can forget. A man who goes through life with a smiling face and cheerful temper, despite the grievances common to us all, is a public benefactor in his way, as much as one who founds a library or establishes an asylum.

Misanthropy is a sublime egotism that mistakes its own distemper for a disease of the universe. With all the mishaps to which our life is subject, a glance over a wide range of human experience proves that God helps those who help themselves, and whatever be the tenor of our fortune, levity is more seemly than moodiness, and under any circumstances there is more virtue in being a clown than a cynic. But in adversity, a subdued cheerfulness and quiet humor are, next to Christian fortitude, the golden mean of feeling that makes the loss of worldly things rest lightly on the heart, and spreads out before the hopeful eye the vision of better days!

DEATH OF THE BRAVE.

'How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When spring with dewy fingers cold Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She then shall dress a sweeter sod Than fancy's feet have ever trod.'

LITERARY NOTICES

THE ICE MAIDEN, AND OTHER TALES. By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. Translated by FANNY FULLER. Philadelphia: F. Leypoldt. New York: C. T. EVANS. 1863.

Probably no writer of stories for the young ever equalled Hans Christian Andersen; certainly none ever succeeded as he has done in reproducing the nameless charm of the real fairy tale which springs up without an author among the people,--the best specimens of which are the stories collected by the Brothers Grimm in Germany. But this exquisite fascination of an inner life in animals and in inanimate objects, which every child's mind produces from dolls and other puppets, and which makes fairies of flowers, is by Andersen adroitly turned very often to good moral and instructive purpose, without losing the original sweet and simple charm which blends the real and the imaginary. Here he surpasses all other tale writers, nearly all of whom, in their efforts at simplicity in such narratives, generally become supremely silly.

The present volume contains four stories--'The Ice Maiden,' 'The Butterfly,' 'The Psyche,' and 'The Snail and the Rose Tree,'--all in Andersen's usual happy and successful vein; for he is preëminently an _equal_ writer, and never falls behind himself. Perhaps the highest compliment which can be paid them is the truthful assertion that any person may read them with keen interest, and never reflect that they were written for young people. Poetry and prose meet in them on equal grounds, and any of them in verse would be charming. The main reason for this is that such stories to charm must set forth natural objects with Irving-like fidelity; nay, the writer must, with a few words, bring before us scenes and things as in a mirror. In this 'The Ice Maiden' excels; Swiss life is depicted as though we were listening to _yodle_ songs on the mountains, and felt the superstitions of the icy winter nights taking hold of our souls.

'The Psyche' is an art-story. Most writers would have made it a legend of 'high' art, but it is far sweeter and more impressive from the sad simplicity and gentleness with which it is here told. 'The Butterfly,' on the contrary, is a delightful little burlesque on flirtations and fops; and 'The Snail and the Rose Tree' is much like it. Both are really fables of the highest order, or shrewd prose epigrams.

The volume before us is well translated; very well, notwithstanding one or two trifling inadvertencies, which, however, really testify to the fact that the best of all pens for such version--a lady's--was employed in the work. A _Skytte_, for instance, in Danish, or _Schutz_ in German, is generally termed among the fraternity of sportsmen a 'shot,' and not a 'shooter.' But the spirit of the original is charmingly preserved, and Miss Fuller has the rare gift of using short and simple words, which are the best in the world when one knows how to use them as she does. We trust that we shall see many more stories of this kind, translated by her.

We must, in conclusion, say a word for the dainty binding (Pawson & Nicholson), the exquisite paper and typography, and, finally, for the pretty photograph vignette with which this volume is adorned. Mr. Leypoldt has benefited Philadelphia in many ways,--by his foreign and American circulating library, his lecture room, and by his republication in photograph of first-class engravings,--and we now welcome him to the society of publishers. His first step in this direction is a most promising one.

NOTES, CRITICISMS, AND CORRESPONDENCE UPON SHAKSPEARE'S PLAYS AND ACTORS. By JAMES HENRY HACKETT. New York: Carleton, 413 Broadway. 1863.

This work will be one of great interest, firstly to all those who visit the theatre, secondly to readers of Shakspeare, and thirdly to all who relish originality and naïvete of character, such as Mr. Hackett displays abundantly, from the rising of the curtain even to the going down of the same, in his book. There are no men who live so much within their profession as actors, or are so earnest in their faith in it; and this devotion is reflected unconsciously, but very entertainingly, through the whole volume. Shakspeare tells us that all the world is a stage--to the actor the stage is all his world, the only one in which he truly lives.

We thank Mr. Hackett for giving us in this volume, firstly, very minute and excellent descriptions of all the eminent actors of Shakespeare within his memory--not a brief one, he having been himself a really excellent and eminent actor since 1828. It is to be regretted that there are not more such judicious descriptions as these. The author has, as we gather from his book, been in the habit of recording his daily experiences, and consequently writes from better data than those afforded by mere memory. The reader will also thank him for many agreeable minor reminiscences of celebrities, and for giving to the public his extremely interesting correspondence on Shaksperean subjects with John Quincy Adams and others. The views of the venerable statesman on _Hamlet_, and on 'Misconceptions of Shakspeare on the Stage,' indicate a very great degree of study of the great poet, and of reflection on the manner in which he is over or under acted. Nor are Mr. Hackett's own letters and criticisms by any means devoid of merit--witness the following:

'Mr. Forrest recites the text (of King Lear) as though it were all prose, and not occasionally written in poetic measure; whereas, blank verse can, and always should, be distinguishable from prose by proper modulations of the voice, which a listener with a nice ear and a cultivated taste could not mistake, nor, if confounded, detect in their respective recitals: else Milton as well as Shakspeare has toiled to little purpose in the best-proportioned numbers.'

The criticism on Forrest is throughout judicious, and, though frequently severe, is still very kindly written when we consider the 'capacities' of the subject.

As regards Mr. Hackett's views of readings, we detect in them a little of that tendency to excessive accentuation, and that disposition to 'make a hit' or a sensation in every sentence which renders most, or all, Shaksperean or tragic acting so harsh and strained, and which has made the word 'theatrical' in ordinary conversation synonymous with 'unnatural.' Something of this is reflected in the enormous amount of needless italicizing with which the typography of the book is afflicted, and which we trust will be amended in future editions. We cheerfully pardon Mr. Hackett for sounding his own praises--sometimes rather loudly and frequently, as in the republication of a sketch of himself--since, after all, we thereby gain a more accurate idea of a favorite actor, who has for thirty-six years pleased the public, and gained in that long time the character of a conscientious artist who has always striven to improve himself.

To one thing, however, we decidedly object--the questionable taste displayed by the author in answering in type criticisms of his acting, and in republishing them in his work. We can well imagine the temptation to be great, but to yield to it is not creditable to a good artist. With this little exception, we cordially commend the work to all readers.

DEVOTIONAL POEMS. By R. T. CONRAD. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1862.

The late Judge Conrad left a number of religious poems, which fortunately fell into the hands of those who appreciated their merit, and we now have them in volume, with an introductory poem to the widow of the deceased and a preface by George H. Boker, to whom the editing of the present volume was committed. These lyrics, as we infer, were written in the spirit of private devotion, and are therefore gifted with the greatest merit which can possibly inspire religious writing--we mean deep sincerity. But apart from the _spirit_,--the _sine qua non_,--the beauty of the form of these works will always give them a high value to the impartial critic. They are far above the mediocrity into which most religious writers always at first _appear_ to be lost, owing to the vast amount of thoughts and expressions which they are compelled to share in common with others. And as there has been awakened within a few years a spirit of collecting and studying such poetry, we cordially commend this work to all who share it.

As regards form, one of the more marked poems in this collection is 'The Stricken;' we have room only for the beginning:

Heavy! Heavy! Oh, my heart Seems a cavern deep and drear, From whose dark recesses start, Flatteringly like birds of night, Throes of passion, thoughts of fear, Screaming in their flight. Wildly o'er the gloom they sweep, Spreading a horror dim,--a woe that cannot weep!

Weary! Weary! What is life But a spectre-crowded tomb? Startled with unearthly strife, Spirits fierce in conflict met, In the lightning and the gloom, The agony and sweat; Passions wild and powers insane, And thoughts with vulture beak, and quick Promethean pain.

We select this single specimen from its remarkable resemblance to Anglo-Saxon religious poetry,--by far the sincerest, and, so far as it was ripened, the soundest, in our language. With the exception of the Promethean allusion, every line in these verses is singularly Saxon--the night birds, screaming in gloom--as in the '_Sea Farer_,' where, instead of joyous mirth,

'Storms beat the stone cliffs, Where them the starling answered, Icy of wing.'

The divisions of this work are 'Sinai,' which is in great measure a commentary on virtues and vices, 'Sonnets on the Lord's Prayer,' and 'Bible Breathings.' Of these we would commend the Sonnets, as forming collectively a highly finished and beautiful poem, complete in each detail. The little poem, 'A Thought,' is as perfect as a mere simile in verse could be.

Robert T. Conrad, who was born in Philadelphia in 1810, and died there in 1858, first became known to the public by a drama entitled _Conrad of Naples_, a subject which has been extensively treated by German writers, Uhland himself having written a tragedy on it. After being admitted to the bar, Conrad connected himself with the press, but resumed the practice of law in 1834 with success, being appointed judge of the criminal sessions in 1838, and of the general sessions in 1840. He was subsequently president of a well-known railroad company, and mayor of his native city. During the intervals of his business he was at one time editor of _Graham's Magazine_, and acquired a literary reputation by his articles in the _North American_, and by the well-known tragedy of _Aylmere_, in which Mr. Forrest, the actor, has frequently appeared as 'Jack Cade.' In addition to these, Mr. Conrad published, in 1852, a volume entitled 'Aylmere and other poems,' which was very extensively reviewed. In it the 'Sonnets on the Lord's Prayer' first appeared.

The volume before us is very well edited in every respect, and makes its appearance in very beautiful 'externals.' The paper, binding, and typography are, in French phrase, as applied to such matters, 'luxurious.'

SKETCHES OF THE WAR: A Series of Letters to the North Moore Street School of New York. By CHARLES C. NOTT, Captain in the Fifth Iowa Cavalry. New York: Charles T. Evans, 448 Broadway. 1863.

Were this little work ten times its present length, we should have read it to the end with the same interest which its perusal inspired, and arrived, with the same regret that there was not more of it, at its last page. It is simple and unpretending, but as life-like and spirited as any collection of descriptive sketches which we can recall. We realize in it all the vexations of mud, all the horrors of blood, and all the joys of occasional chickens and a good night's rest, which render the soldier's life at once so great and yet so much a matter of petty joys and sorrows. The love of the rider for the good horse--for his pet Gypsy--her caprices and coquetries, are set forth, for instance, very freely, without, however, a shadow of affectation, while in all his interviews with men and women, the characters come before us 'like life,' and give us a singularly accurate conception of the social effects of the war in the West. The appearance of the country is unconsciously detailed as accurately as in a photograph, and the events and sensations of battle are presented with great ability; in fact, we have as yet seen no sketches from the war which in these particulars are equal to them. They are free from 'fine writing,' and are given in simple, intelligible language which cannot fail to make them generally popular. The occasional flashes of humorous description are extremely well given--so well that we only wish there had been more of them, as the author has evidently a talent in that direction, which we trust will be more fully developed in other works.

EDITOR'S TABLE

With all the outcry that has been raised at the slow progress of the war, it is difficult for a comprehensive mind to conceive how, on the whole, the struggle with the South could have advanced more favorably to the _general interests_ and future prosperity of the whole country, than it has thus far done. 'Had the Administration been possessed of sufficient energy, it could have crushed the rebellion in the first month,' say the grumblers. Very possibly--to break out again! No amount of prompt action could have calmed the first fire and fury of the South. It required _blood_; it was starving for war; it was running over with hatred for the North.

The war went on, and, as it progressed, it became evident that, while thousands deprecated agitation of the slave question as untimely, the war could never end until that question was disposed of. And it also became every day more plain that the 'little arrangement' so frequently insisted on, and expressed in the words, 'Conquer the enemy _first_, and _then_ free the slaves,' was a little absurdity. It was 'all very pretty,' but with the whole North and South at swords-points over this as the alleged cause of war--with all Europe declaring that the North had no intention of removing the cause of the war--with the slave constantly interfering in all our military movements--and, finally, with a party of domestic traitors springing up everywhere, at home and in the army itself, it became high time to adopt a fixed policy. It _was_ adopted, and President LINCOLN, to his lasting honor, and despite tremendous opposition, issued the Proclamation of January First--the noblest document in history.

It is difficult to see how, when, or in what manner slavery would have disappeared from a single State, had the war been sooner ended; and nothing is more certain than that any early victory or temporary compromise would have simply postponed the struggle, to be settled with compound interest. But another benefit has resulted and is resulting from the experience of the past two years. Our own Free States have abounded with men who are at heart traitors; men who have, by their ignorance of the great principles of national welfare involved in this war, acted as a continual drawback on our progress. This body of men, incapable of comprehending the great principles of republicanism as laid down in the Constitution, and as urged by Washington, would be after all only partially vanquished should we subdue the rebels. They are around us here in our own homes; their treason rings from the halls of national legislation; they are busy night and day in their 'copperhead' councils in giving aid and comfort to the enemy, and in poisoning the minds of the ignorant, by hissing slanders at the President and his advisers as being devoid of energy and ability.

It would avail us little could we conclude a peace to-morrow, if these aiders and abetters of treason--these foes of all enlightened measures--these worse than open rebels--were to remain among us to destroy by their selfishness and malignity those great measures by which this country is destined to become great. The war is doing us the glorious service of bringing the 'copperheads' before the people in their true light--the light of foes to equality, to the rights of the many, and as perverse friends of all that is anti-American. Who and _what_, indeed, are their leaders! Review them all, from FERNANDO WOOD down to the wretched SAULSBURY, including W. B. REED, in whose veins hereditary traitorous blood seems, with every descent, to have acquired a fresh taint--consider the character which has for years attached to most of them--and then reflect on what a party must be with such leaders!

These men have no desire to be brought distinctly before the public; they would by far prefer to burrow in silence. But the war and emancipation have proved an Ithuriel's spear to touch the toad and make him spring up in his full and naturally fiendish form. The sooner and the more distinctly he is seen, the better will it be for the country. We must dispose of rebels abroad and copperheads at home ere we can have peace, and the sooner the country knows its foes, the better will it be for it. We have come at last to either carrying out the great centralizing system of an Union, superior to all States Rights, as commended by Washington, or to division into a thousand petty principalities, each ruled by its WOOD, or other demagogue, who can succeed in securing a majority-mob of adherents!

It is with such men and their measures that Gen. GEORGE B. MCCLELLAN, the frequently proposed candidate for the next presidency, is becoming firmly connected in the minds of the people! Fortunately the war has developed the objects of the traitors, and the Union Leagues which are springing up by hundreds over the country are doing good service in making them thoroughly known. Until treason is fairly rooted out at home and abroad, and until _Union at the centre for the people everywhere_ is fully enforced, this war can only be concluded now, to be renewed in tenfold horror to-morrow.

* * * * *

There is a complication of interests at present springing up in Europe, which is difficult to fathom. Just now it seems as if the Polish insurrection were being fomented by Austria, at French instigation, in order that the hands of Russia may be tied, so that in case of war with America, we may be deprived of the aid of our great European friend. England sees it in this light, and angrily protests against Prussian interference in the matter. Should a general war result, who would gain by it? Would France avail herself of the opportunity to array her forces against Prussia, and seize the Rhine, and perhaps Belgium? Or would the Emperor avail himself of circumstances to embroil England in a war, and then withdraw to a position of profitable neutrality? Let it be borne in mind, meantime, that it required all the strength of France, England, and Austria, combined, to beat Russia in the Crimea, and that a short prolongation of the war would have witnessed the arrival of vast bodies of Russian troops--many of whom had been nearly a year on the march. Those troops are now far more accessible in case of war.

A war between England and the United States, however it might injure us, would be utter ruin to our adversary. With our commerce destroyed, we should still have a vast territory left; but nine tenths of England's prosperity lies within her wooden walls, which would be swept from the ocean. With her exportation destroyed, England would be ruined. We should suffer, unquestionably, but we could hold our own, and would undoubtedly progress as regards manufacturing. But what would become of the British workshops, and how would the British people endure such suffering as never yet befell them? Even with our Southern Rebellion on our hands, and English men-of-war on our coast, we could still, with our merchant marine, bring John Bull to his face. And John Bull knows it.

England is now building, in the cause of slavery and for the South, a great fleet of iron-clad pirate vessels, which are intended to prey on our commerce. How long will it be before retaliation on England begins, and, _when_ it begins, how will it end? Ay--_how_ will it end? It is not to be supposed that we can long be blinded by such a flimsy humbug as a transfer to Southern possession of these vessels 'for the Chinese trade!' Are the English mad, demented, or besotted, that they suppose we intend to endure such deliberate aid of our enemies? When those vessels 'for the Chinese' are afloat, and our merchants begin to suffer, let England beware! We are not a people to stop and reason nicely on legal points, when they are enforced in the form of fire and death. Better for England that she weighed the iron of that fleet pound for pound with gold, and cast it into the sea, than that she suffered it to be launched. _Qui facit per alium, facit per se._ England is the _real_ criminal in this business, for her Government could have _prevented_ it; and to her we shall look for the responsibility. All through America a spirit of fierce indignation has been awakened at hearing of this 'Chinese' fleet, which will burst out ere long in a storm. We are very far from being afraid of war--we are in it; we know what it is like--and those who openly, brazenly, infamously, aid our enemies and make war for them, shall also learn, let it cost what it may.

England hopes to cover the world's oceans with pirates, with murder, rapine, and robbery--to exaggerate still more the horrors of war--and yet deems that her commerce will escape! This is a different matter from the affair of the Trent.

* * * * *

Don't grumble! Don't be incessantly croaking from morning to night at the war and the administration and the generals, and everything else! Things have gone better on the whole than you imagine, and your endless growling is just what the traitors like. Were there no croakers there would be no traitors.

It was growling and croaking which caused the reverses of the army of the Potomac--sheer grumbling. Now the truth is coming out, and we are beginning to see the disadvantages of eternal fault-finding. The truth is that the war in the Crimea was much worse conducted than this of ours has been--even as regards swindling by contracts--and it was so with every other war. We have no monopoly of faults.

Now that the war is being reorganized, we would modestly suggest that a little severity--say an occasional halter--would not be out of place as regards deserters. There has been altogether too much of this amusement in vogue, which a few capital punishments in the beginning would have entirely obviated. Pennsylvania, we are told, is full of hulking runaway young farmers, and our cities abound in ex-rowdies, who, after securing their bounties, have deserted, and who are now aiding treason, and spreading 'verdigrease' in every direction by their falsehoods. Let every exertion be made to arrest and return these scamps--cost what it may; and let their punishment be exemplary. And let there be a new policy inaugurated with the new levy, which shall effectually prevent all further escaping.

* * * * *

Reader--wherever you are, either join a Union League, or get one up. If there be none in your town, gather a few friends together--and mind that they be good, loyal Unionists, without a suspicion of verdigrease or copperhead poison about them--and at once put yourselves in connection with the central Leagues of the great cities. Those of Philadelphia, New York and Boston are all conducted by honorable men of the highest character--and we may remark, by the way, that in this respect the contrast between the leaders of the League and of the Verdigrease Clubs is indeed remarkable. When you have formed your League, see that addresses are delivered there frequently, that patriotic documents and newspapers are collected there, and finally that it does good service in every way in forwarding the war, and in promoting the determination to preserve the Union.

The copperheads aim not only at letting the South go--they hope to break the North to fragments, and trust that in the general crash each of them may secure his share. When the war first broke out, FERNANDO WOOD publicly recommended the secession of New York as a free city--and a very free city it would have been under the rule of Fernando the First! And this object of 'dissolution and of division' is still cherished in secret among the true leaders of the traitors.

The time has come when every true American should go to work in earnest to strengthen the Union and destroy treason, whether in the field or at home. A foe to liberty and to human rights is a foe, whether he be a fellow countryman or not, and against such foes it is the duty of every good citizen to declare himself openly.

* * * * *

It will be seen by the annexed that our Art correspondent, a gentleman of wide experiences, has gone into the battle. We trust that his experiences will amuse the reader. As for the _facts_--never mind!

CAMP O'BELLOW, _Army of the Potomac_.

MY PATRIOTIC FRIEND AND EDITOR:

I have changed my base.

When I last wrote you, it was from the field of art--this time it is from the floor of my tent--at least it will be, as soon as my fellows pitch it. N. B.--For special information I would add that this is not done, as I have seen a Kalmouk do it, with a bucket of pitch and a rag on a stick. One way, however, of pitching tents is to pitch 'em down when the enemy is coming, and run like the juice. Ha, ha!

But I must not laugh too loudly, as yon small soldier may hear me. Little pitchers have long ears.

Now for my sufferings.

The first is my stove.

My stove is made of a camp kettle.

It has such a vile draught that I think of giving it a lesson in drawing. _Joke._ Perhaps you remember it of old in the jolly old Studio Building in Tenth Street. By the way how is WHITTREDGE?--I believe _he_ imported that joke from Rome where he learned it of JULES DE MONTALANT who acquired it of CHAPMAN who got it from GIBSON, who learned it of THORWALDSEN who picked it up from DAVID who stole it from the elder VERNET to whom it had come down from MICHAEL ANGELO who cribbed it from ALBERT DÜRER who sucked it somehow from GIOTTO.

I wish you could see that stove. I cook in it and on it and all around the sides and underneath it. I wash my clothes in it, make punch in it, write on it, when cold sit on it, play poker on it, and occasionally use it for a trunk. It also gives music, for though it don't draw, it can sing.

My second friend is my Iron Bride--the sword. She is a useful creeter. Little did I think, when you, my beloved friends, presented me with that deadly brand, how useful she would prove in getting at the brandy, when I should have occasion to 'decap' a bottle. She kills pigs, cuts cheese, toasts pork, slices lemons, stirs coffee, licks the horses, scares Secesh, and cuts lead pencils. In a word, if I wished to give useful advice to a cavalry officer, it would be not to go to war without a sword.

A revolver is also extremely utilitarious. A _large_ revolver, mind you, with _six corks_. Mine contains red and black pepper, salt, vinegar, oil, and ketchup--when I'm in a hurry. A curious circumstance once 'transpired,' as the missionaries say, in relation to this article of the _quizzeen_. All the barrels were loaded--which I had forgotten--and so proceeded to give it an extra charge of groceries. * * *

It was a deadly fray. _Rang tang bang, paoufff!_ We fought as if it had been a Sixth Ward election. Suddingly I found myself amid a swarm of my country's foes. Sabres slashed at me, and in my rage I determined to exterminate something. Looking around from mere force of habit to see that there were no police about, I drew my revolver and aimed at JIM MARRYGOLD of Charleston, whom I had last seen owling it in New Orleans, four years ago. He and DICK MIDDLETONGUE of Natchez (who carved the Butcher's Daughter at Florence, and who is now a Secesh major), came down with their cheese knives, evidently intending to carve _me_. Such language you never heard, such a diluvium of profanity, such double-shotted d--ns! I drew my pistol _at once_, and gave Dick a blizzard. The ball went through his ear--the red pepper took his eyes, while Jim received the shot in his hat, and with it the sweet oil. In this sweet state of affairs, CHARLEY RUFFEM of Savannah was descending on me with his sabre. (He was the man who said my browns were all put in with guano.) I put him out of the way of criticism with a _third_ barrel--killed him _dead_, and _salted_ him.

The best of this war is, it enables me to exterminate so many _bad artists_.

The worst of it is that Charley owed me five dollars.

A fifth Secesh now made his appearance. We went it on the sword, and fought--for further particulars see Ivanhoe, volume second. My foe was RAWLEY CHIVERS, of Tuscumbia, Ala., and as the mischief would have it, he knew all my guards and cuts. We used to fence together, and had had more than one trial at _'fertig-los!'_ on the old _Pauk-boden_ in Heidelberg.

'POP!' said he on the seventeenth round, 'are we going to chop all day?'

'CHIV,' said I, as I drew my castor, '_are you ready_?'

'Ready,' quoth he, effecting the same manoeuvre--'_one_, _two_, _three_.'

I scratched his cheek, but the mustard settled him. Sputter--p'l'z'z'z--how he swore! I went at him with both hands.

'_Priz?_' I cried.

'Priz it is,' he answered.

So I took him off as a priz. He was very glad to go too, for he hadn't had a dinner for six weeks, and would have made a fine study for a Murillo beggar so ar as rags went.

I punish my men whenever I catch them foraging. Punish them by confiscation. Mild as I am by nature, I never allow them to keep stolen provisions--when I am hungry.

Yesterday evening I detected a vast German private with a colossal bull-turkey.

'Lay it down _there_, sir!' I exclaimed fiercely--indicating the floor of my tent as the bank of deposit.

'But den when I leafs it you eats de toorky up!' he exclaimed in sorrowful remonstrance.

'Yes,' I replied, like a Roman. 'Yes--I may _eat_ it--but,' I added in tones of high moral conscientiousness, 'remember that I didn't STEAL it!'

He went forth abashed.

No more till it is eaten, from

Yours truly,

POPPY OYLE.

* * * * *

We are indebted to a Philadelphia correspondent for the following:

Alas! that noble thoughts so oft Are born to live but for an hour, Then sleep in slumber of the soul As droops at night the passion flower, Their morn is like a summer sun With splendor dawning on the day-- Their eve beholds that glory gone, And light with splendor fled away.

J. W. L.

True indeed. The difference between the great mind and the small is after all that the former can _retain_ its 'noble thoughts,' while with the latter they are evanescent. And it is the glory of Art that it revives such feelings, and keeps early impressions alive.

* * * * *

FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE.

My love, in our light boat riding, We sat at the close of day; And still through the night went gliding, Afar on our watery way.

The Spirit Isle, soft glowing, Lay dimmering 'neath moon and star; There music was softly flowing, And cloud dances waved afar:

And ever more sweetly pealing, And waving more winningly; But past it our boat went stealing, All sad on the wide, wide sea.

* * * * *

Here is an

ADVENTURE WITH A GRIZZLY BEAR,

from a Philadelphia correspondent:

'We had gone out one morning, while camping upon the river San Joaquin, to indulge in the sport of fowling. There were three of us, and we possessed two skiffs, but an accident had reduced our sculls to a single pair, which my companion used to propel one of the boats down the stream, after securing the other, with me as its occupant, in the midst of a thicket of tule, where I awaited in ambush the flying flocks. As geese and ducks abounded, and nearly all of my shots told, in a few hours I had killed plenty of game; but becoming weary, as the intervals lengthened between the flights of the birds, I sat down, and had already begun to nod dozingly, when a startling splash, near the river bank, instantly aroused me. Grasping my gun and springing upright, I looked in the direction whence the sound had come; but, owing to the intervening mass of tule, could not see what kind of animal--for such I at once conjectured it must be--had occasioned my sudden surprise. Having hitherto seen no domestic stock hereabouts, I therefore felt fully satisfied that it could not belong to a tame species. Judging from the noise of its still continued movements, it was of no small bulk; and, if its ferocity were correspondent with its apparent size, this was indeed a beast to be dreaded.

'The thought at once occurred to me that, as I possessed neither oars nor other means of propulsion, it would be difficult to move the boat from its mooring if chance or acuteness of scent should lead the creature to my place of concealment. In short, this, with various suggestions of fancy, some of them ludicrously exaggerated, speedily made me apprehensive of imminent danger. Nor was my suspicion unfounded, for a crisis was at hand.

'There was a space of clear water between the river bank and the margin of the tule, in which the brute seemed to disport a few moments; and then the rustling of the reeds indicated that it was about to advance. With heavy footfalls it came toward me; as it approached my nervousness increased; I could not mistake that significant tread; undoubtedly it was a grizzly bear. But how could I escape? Bruin, though his progress was not unimpeded, was surely drawing near. Following my first impulse in this pressing emergency, I placed myself forward in the boat, and, seizing a handful of green blades on either side of it, endeavored, by violently pulling upon them, to force the craft through the thick growth which surrounded it. The headway of the skiff was slow, but my efforts were not silent. In fact, the commotion occasioned by my own panic became, to my hearing, so confounded with the sound made by my floundering pursuer that my excited imagination multiplied the single supposed bear, and the water seemed to be dashed about by several formidable 'grizzlies.'

'You smile, gentlemen, but really I was so impressed with this and like extravagant creations of fear that my better judgment was temporarily suspended. This deception, however, was only of momentary duration.

'Suddenly the skiff encountered some obstacle and remained immovable. Quickly clutching my gun and firing it aimlessly, I sprang overboard, and, with extraordinary energy, made for the other side of the river and safety.

'My remembrance of that hazardous crossing even now fills me with a sympathetic thrill. The river, near where I had leaped in, varied in depth from my middle to my neck, and the snaky stalks of tule clung to me, retarding my retreat like faithful allies of the enemy. An area of this plant extended to the channel, a distance of some fifty yards, where a clear current rendered swimming feasible; and this I essayed to reach, urged onward by terror, and regardless of ordinary obstructions. So vigorous was my action that, notwithstanding the frequent reversals of my head and 'head's antipodes' as I tripped over reeds and roots, perhaps I should have reached the 'point proposed' with only a loss equivalent to the proverbial 'year's growth,' had not a hidden snag unluckily lain in the way, which 'by hook or by crook' fastened itself in the part of my trowsers exactly corresponding, when dry, with that 'broad disk of drab' finally seen, after much anxiety, by the curious Geoffrey Crayon between the parted coat-skirts of a certain mysterious 'Stout Gentleman,' and inextricably held me in check despite my frantic struggles.

'Imagine my feelings while thus entangled by a bond of enduring material, a bait for a fierce brute which eagerly pressed forward to snap at me. Believe me, boys, this was _not_ the happiest moment of my life. I knew no reason why I should resignedly submit to so undistinguished a fate. My knife, however, was in the boat, so that my release could only be attained by extreme exertion. Accordingly I writhed and jerked with my 'best violence,' all the time denouncing the whole race of bears, from 'Noah's pets' down; and you may be sure, emphatically expressing not a very exalted opinion of snags.

'Ah! how that brief period of horrible _suspense_ appeared to stretch out almost to the crack of doom. I roared lustily for help, but no aid came. The bear continued its course through the thicket; in another instant I might be seized.

'Rather than suffer such a 'taking off' as this, which now seemed inevitable, I should have welcomed as an easy death any method of exit from life that I might hitherto have deprecated. Incited then by the proximity of the beast, which so intensified the horror of my situation, to a last desperate effort to avert this much dreaded fate; and, concentrating nearly a superhuman strength upon one impetuous bound, the _stubborn fabric burst_, and--joy possessed my soul!

'Even greater than my recent misery was the ecstasy which succeeded my liberation. The happy sense of relief imparted to me such a feeling of buoyancy that I was enabled to extricate myself from this 'slough of despond,' and I soon reached the swift current, when a few strokes landed me in security on a jutting bar.

'Without unnecessary delay I sought out my comrades, to whom I told the story of my escape. Their response was a hearty laugh, and certain equivocal words which might imply doubt--not as to my fright, for that was too plain--but concerning the identity of the 'grizzly.' I observed, however, that, as they rowed nearer to the scene of my disaster, their display of levity lessened; and as we came within sight of the suspicious locality, there was not the 'ghost of a joke' on board; but, on the contrary, thay both charged me to 'keep a bright look out,' as well as to 'see that the arms were all right,' thus showing a remarkable diminution of their previous incredulity.

'While cautiously exploring the vicinity of my memorable flight, we saw the bear in the distance, upon a piece of rising ground. It moved off with a lumbering shuffle and probably a contented stomach, for, on searching for my scattered game, we found but little of it left besides sundry fragments and many feathers.'

* * * * *

In the old times people received queer names, and plenty of them. On Long Island a Mr. Crabb named a child 'Through-much-tribulation-we-enter-into-the-kingdom-of-heaven Crabb.' The child went by the name of _Tribby_. Scores of such names could be cited. The practice of giving long and curious names is not yet out of date. In Saybrook, Conn., is a family by the name of Beman, whose children are successively named as follows:

1. Jonathan Hubbard Lubbard Lambard Hunk Dan Dunk Peter Jacobus Lackany Christian Beman.

2. Prince Frederick Henry Jacob Zacheus Christian Beman.

3. Queen Caroline Sarah Rogers Ruhamah Christian Beman.

4. Charity Freelove Ruth Grace Mercy Truth Faith and Hope and Peace pursue I'll have no more to do for that will go clear through Christian Beman.

Some of the older American names were not unmusical. In a Genealogical Register open before us we frequently find Dulcena, Eusena, Sabra, and Norman; 'Czarina' also occurs. Rather peculiar at the present day are Puah and Azoa (girls), Albion, Ardelia, Philomelia, Serepta, Persis, Electa, Typhenia, Lois, Selim, Damarias, Thankful, Sephemia, Zena, Experience, Hilpa, Penninnah, Juduthum, Freelove, Luthena, Meriba (this lady married 'Oney Anness' at Providence, R.I., in 1785), Paris, Francena, Vienna, Florantina, Phedora, Azuba, Achsah, Alma, Arad, Asenah, Braman, Cairo, Candace, China (this was a Miss Ware--China Ware--who married Moses Bullen at Sherburne, Mass., in 1805), Curatia, Deliverance, Diadema, Electus, Hopestill, Izanna, Loannis, Loravia, Lovice, Orilla, Orison, Osro, Ozoro, Permelia, Philinda, Roavea, Rozilla, Royal, Salmon, Saloma, Samantha, Silence, Siley, Alamena, Eda, Aseneth, Bloomy, Syrell, Geneora, Burlin, Idella, Hadasseh, Patrora (Martainly), Allethina, Philura, and Zebina.

Some of these names are still extant--most have become obsolete. It would be a commendable idea should some scholar publish a work containing the Names of all Nations!

* * * * *

Doubtless the reader has heard much of the Wandering Jew and of his trials, but we venture to say that he has probably not encountered a more affecting state of the case than is set forth in the following lyric, translated from the German, in which language it is entitled 'Ahasver,' and beginneth as follows:

THE EVERLASTING OLD JEW.

'Ich bin der alte Ahasver, Ich wand're hin, Ich wand're her. Mein Ruh ist hin, Mein Herz ist schwer, Ich finde sie nimmer, Und nimmermehr.'

I am the old Ahasuér; I wander here, I wander there. My rest is gone, My heart is sair; I find it never, And nevermair.

Loud roars the storm, The milldams tear; I cannot perish, O _malheur!_ My heart is void, My head is bare; I am the old Ahasuér.

Belloweth ox And danceth bear, I find them never, Never mair. I'm the old Hebrew On a tare; I order arms: My heart is sair.

I'm goaded round, I know not where: I wander here, I wander there. I'd like to sleep, But must forbear: I am the old Ahasuér.

I meet folks alway Unaware: My rest is gone, I'm in despair. I cross all lands, The sea I dare: I travel here, I wander there.

I feel each pain, I sometimes swear: I am the old Ahasuér. Criss-cross I wander Anywhere; I find it never, Never mair.

Against the wale I lean my spear; I find no quiet, I declare. My peace is lost, My heart is sair: I swing like pendulum in air.

I'm hard of hearing, You're aware? Curaçoa is A fine _liquéur_. I 'listed once _En militaire_: I find no comfort Anywhere.

But what's to stop it? Pray declare! My peace is gone. My heart is sair: I am the old Ahasuér. Now I know nothing, Nothing mair.

Truly a hard case, and one far surpassing the paltry picturing of Eugène Sue. There is a vagueness of mind and a senile bewilderment manifested in this poem, which is indeed remarkable.

* * * * *

One fine day, some time ago, SAVIN and PIDGEON were walking down Fifth avenue to their offices.

A funeral was starting from No. --. On the door plate was the word IRVING.

'Such is life,' said Savin. 'All that is mortal of the great essayist is being borne to the grave: in fact, the cold and silent tomb.'

A tear came to Pidgeon's eye. Pidgeon has an enthusiastic veneration for genius. He adores literary talent.

'Savin,' said he, 'there is a seat vacant in this carriage. I will enter it, and pay my last tribute of respect to the illustrious departed. But I thought he had a place up the river.'

'This was his town house,' said Savin. 'How I should like to join with you in your thoughtful remembrance, and in your somewhat unceleritous journey to the churchyard! But, no, the case of Blackbridge _vs._ Bridgeblack will be called at twelve, and I have no time to lose.'

Pidgeon entered the carriage. There was a large man on the seat, but Pigeon found room beside him. The carriage slowly moved off. Pidgeon put his handkerchief to his eyes; the large man coughed and took a chew of tobacco.

Presently said Pidgeon:

'We are following to the grave the remains of a splendid writer.'

'Uncommon,' said the large man. 'Sech a man with a pen _I_ never see--ekalled by few, and excelled by none; copperplate wasn't nowhere.'

'Indeed,' replied Pidgeon, 'I wasn't aware his chirography was so unusually elegant; but his books were magnificent, weren't they? So equable, too, and without that bold speculation that we too often meet with, nowadays.'

'Ah, you may well say so,' returned the large man. 'He always kept them himself; had 'em sent up to his house whenever he was sick, likeways; but he wasn't without his bold speculations neither. Look at that there operation of his into figs, last year.'

'Figs!'

'Figs, yes; and there was dates into the same cargo.'

'Dates! figs! My good friend, do you mean to say that the great Washington Irving speculated in groceries?'

'Lord, no, not that _I_ know of. This here is Josh Irving, whose remains'--

Pidgeon opened the carriage door, and, being agile, got out without stopping the procession. Arriving at his office, where the boy was diligently occupied in sticking red wafers over the velvet of his desk lid, he took down 'Sugden on Vendors,' to ascertain if there was any legal remedy for the manner in which he had been sold, and at the latest dates had unsuccessfully travelled nearly half through that very entertaining volume.

THERE is no time to be lost. Either the Union is to be made stronger, or it is to perish; and the sooner every man's position is defined, the better. If you are opposed to the war, say so, and step over to Secession, but do not falter and equivocate, croak and grumble, and play the bat of the fable. The manly, good, old-fashioned Democrats, at least, are above this, and are rapidly dividing from the copperheads. The Philadelphia _Evening Bulletin_, a staunch patriotic journal, says:

'The sooner that the fact is made clear that the mass of the Democrats, as well as of all other parties, are loyal and opposed to the infamous teachings of Vallandigham, Biddle, Reed, Ingersoll, Wood, and their compeers, the sooner will the war be brought to an end and the Union be restored.'

Show your colors. Let us know at once who and what everybody is, in this great struggle.

* * * * *

LOVE-LIFE.

In a forest lone, 'neath a mossy stone, Pale flowrets grew: No sunlight fell in the sombre dell, Raindrop nor dew.

Bring them to light, where all is bright, See if they grow? Yes, stem and leaf are green, While, hid in crimson sheen, The petals glow.

Girl blossoms, too, love the sun and dew, And the soft air: Hidden from love's eye they fade and die, In city low or cloister high, Yes, everywhere.

Give them but love, the fire from above, And they will grow, The once cold children of the gloom, Rich in their bloom, shedding perfume On high and low.

* * * * *

We beg leave to remind our readers that Mr. LELAND'S new book, _Sunshine in Thought_, retail price $1, is given as a premium to all who subscribe $3 in advance to the CONTINENTAL MONTHLY. Will the reader permit us to call attention to the following notice of the work from the Philadelphia _Evening Bulletin_:

'A beautiful volume, entitled _Sunshine in Thought_, by Charles Godfrey Leland, has just been published by Charles T. Evans. No work from Mr. Leland's pen has afforded us so much pleasure, and we recommend it to all who want and relish bright, refreshing, cheering reading. It consists of a number of essays, the main idea of which is to inculcate joyousness in thought and feeling, in opposition to the sickly, sentimental seriousness which is so much affected in literature and in society. That a volume based on this one idea should be filled with reading that is never tiresome, is a proof of great cleverness. But Mr. Leland's varied learning, and his extensive acquaintance with foreign as well as English literature, combine with his native talent to qualify him for such a work. He has done nothing so well, not even his admirable translation of Heine's _Reisebilder_. He is thoroughly imbued with the spirit of his motto, '_Hilariter_,' and in expressing his bright thoughts, he has been peculiarly felicitous in style. Nothing of his that we have read shows so much elegance and polish. Every chapter in the book is delightful, but we especially enjoyed that on 'Tannhæuser,' with the fine translation and subsequent elucidation of the famous legend.' But the boldest and most original chapter is the concluding one, with its strange speculations on 'The Musical After-Life of the Soul,' and the after-death experience of 'Dione' and 'Bel-er-oph-on,' which the author characterizes in the conclusion as 'an idle, fantastic, foolish dream.' So it may be, but it is as vividly told as any dream of the Opium-Eater or the Hasheesh-Eater. Mr. Leland is to be congratulated on his _Sunshine in Thought_. It is a book that will be enjoyed by every reader of culture, and its effect will be good wherever it is read.'

The aim proposed in this work is one of great interest at the present time, or, as the Philadelphia _North American_ declares, 'is a great and noble one'--'to aid in fully developing the glorious problem of freeing labor from every drawback, and of constantly raising it and intellect in the social scale.' 'Mr. LELAND believes that one of the most powerful levers for raising labor to its true position in the estimation of the world, is the encouragement of cheerfulness and joyousness in every phase of literature and of practical life.' 'The work is one long, glowing sermon, the text of which is the example of Jesus Christ.'

E. K.

BUST-HEAD WHISKEY.

For two days the quiet of the Rising Sun Tavern, in the quaint little town of Shearsville, Ohio, was disturbed by a drunken Democratic member of the Pennsylvania Legislature, who visited the town in order to address what he hoped would turn out to be the assembled multitude of copperheads, but which proved after all no great snakes!

For two days this worthless vagabond insulted travellers stopping at the tavern, until at last the landlord's wife, a woman of some intelligence, determined to have her revenge, since no man on the premises had pluck enough to give the sot the thrashing he so well merited.

On the third day, after a very severe night's carouse on bust-head whiskey, the Pennsylvanian appeared at the breakfast table, looking sadly the worse for wear, and having an awful headache. The landlady having previously removed the only looking glass in the tavern--one hanging in the barroom--said to the beast as he sat down to table:

'Poor man! oh, what _is_ the matter with your face? It is terribly swollen, and your whole head too. Can't I do something for you? send for the doctor, or'--

The legislator, who was in a state of half-besottedness, listened with sharp ears to this remark, but believing the landlady was only making fun of him, interrupted her with--

'There ain't nothin' the matter with my head. I'm all right; only a little headache what don't 'mount to nothing.'

But a man who sat opposite to him at table, and who had his clue from the landlady, said with an alarmed look--

'I say, mister, I don't know it's any of my business, but I'll be hanged for a horse thief, if your head ain't swelled up twicet its nat'ral size. You'd better do something for it, I'm thinking.'

The drunken legislator! (Legislator, _n._ One who makes laws for a state: vide dictionary) believing at last that his face must in fact be swollen, since several other travellers, who were in the plot, also spoke to him of his shocking appearance, got up from the table and went out to the barroom to consult the looking glass, such luxuries not being placed in the chambers. But there was no glass there. After some time he found the landlady, and she told him that the barroom glass was broken, but she could lend him a small one; which she at once gave him.

The poor sot, with trembling hand, held it in front of his face, and looked in.

'Well,' said he, 'if that ain't a swelled head I hope I may never be a senator! or sell my vote again at Harrisburg.'

'Poor man!' exclaimed the bystanders.

'Fellers,' said the legislator, 'wot d'ye think I'd better do?' Here he gave another hard look in the glass. 'I ought to be back in Harrisburg right off, but I cant go with a head like that onto me. Nobody'd give me ten cents to vote for 'em with such a head as that. It's a'--

'Big thing,' interrupted a bystander.

'Fellers,' said the blackguard, 'I'll kill a feller any day of the week, with old rye, if he'll only tell er feller how to cure this head of mine.'

'Have it shaved, sir, by all means,' spoke the landlady: 'shaved at once, and then a mild fly blister will draw out the inflammation, and the swelling will go down. Don't you think so, doctor?'

The doctor thus addressed was a cow doctor, but, accustomed to attending brutes, his advice was worth something in the present case; so he also recommended shaving and blistering.

'I'll go git the barber right off the reel, sha'n't I?' asked the doctor, to which the legislator assenting, it chanced that in fifteen minutes his head was as bald as a billiard ball, and in a few more was covered with a good-sized fly blister.

'Ouch--good woman--how it hurts!' he cried. But that was only the beginning of it.

'Ee-ea-ah!' he roared, as it grew hotter and hotter. One might have heard him a mile. The neighbors did hear it, and rushed in. The joke was 'contaminated' round among them, and they enjoyed it. He had disgusted them all.

'Golly! what a big head!' cried a bystander.

The legislator took another look at the glass. They held it about a yard from him.

'It's gittin' smaller, ain't it?' he groaned.

'Yes, it's wiltin',' said the landlady. 'Now go to bed.'

He went, and on rising departed. Whether he ever became an honest man is not known, but the legend says he has from that day avoided 'bust-head whiskey.'

* * * * *

Don't you _see_ it, reader? The landlady had shown him his face in a convex mirror--one of those old-fashioned things, which may occasionally be found in country taverns.

* * * * *

WAR-WAIFS.

The chronicles of war in all ages show us that this internecine strife into which we of the North have been driven by those who will eventually rue the necessity, is by no manner of means the first in which brother has literally been pitted against brother in the deadly 'tug of war.' The fiercest conflict of the kind, however, which we can at present call up from the memory of past readings, was one in which THEODEBERT, king of Austria, took the field against his own brother, THIERRI, king of Burgundy. Historians tell us that, so close was the hand-to-hand fighting in this battle, slain soldiers did not fall until the _mélée_ was over, but were borne to and fro in an upright position amid the serried ranks.

* * * * *

Although many and many of England's greatest battles have been won for her by her Irish soldiers, it is not always that the latter can be depended upon by her. With the Celt, above all men, 'blood is thicker than water;' and, although he is very handy at breaking the head of another Celt with a blackthorn 'alpeen,' in a free faction fight, he objects to making assaults upon his fellow countrymen with the 'pomp and circumstance of war.' A striking instance of this occurred during the Irish rebellion of 1798. The 5th Royal Irish Light Dragoons refused to charge upon a body of the rebels when the word was given. Not a man or horse stirred from the ranks. Here was a difficult card to play, now, for the authorities, because it would have been inconvenient to try the whole regiment by court martial, and the soldiers were quite too valuable to be mowed down _en masse_. The only course left was to disband the regiment, which was done. The disaffected men were distributed into regiments serving in India and other remote colonies, and the officers, none of whom, we believe, were involved in the mutiny, were provided for in various quarters. The circumstance was commemorated in a curious way. It was ordered that the 5th Royal Irish Light Dragoons should be erased from the records of the army list, in which a blank between the 4th and 6th Dragoons should remain forever, as a memorial of disgrace. For upward of half a century this gap remained in the army list, as anybody may see by referring to any number of that publication of half-a-dozen years back. The regiment was revived during, or just after, the Crimean war, and the numbers in the army list are once more complete.

THE

CONTINENTAL MONTHLY.

The readers of the CONTINENTAL are aware of the important position it has assumed, of the influence which it exerts, and of the brilliant array of political and literary talent of the highest order which supports it. No publication of the kind has, in this country, so successfully combined the energy and freedom of the daily newspaper with the higher literary tone of the first-class monthly; and it is very certain that no magazine has given wider range to its contributors, or preserved itself so completely from the narrow influences of party or of faction. In times like the present, such a journal is either a power in the land or it is nothing. That the CONTINENTAL is not the latter is abundantly evidenced _by what it has done_--by the reflection of its counsels in many important public events, and in the character and power of those who are its staunchest supporters.

Though but little more than a year has elapsed since the CONTINENTAL was first established, it has during that time acquired a strength and a political significance elevating it to a position far above that previously occupied by any publication of the kind in America. In proof of which assertion we call attention, to the following facts:

1. Of its POLITICAL articles republished in pamphlet form, a single one has had, thus far, a circulation of _one hundred and six thousand_ copies.

2. From its LITERARY department, a single serial novel, "Among the Pines," has, within a very few months, sold nearly _thirty-five thousand_ copies. Two other series of its literary articles have also been republished in book form, while the first portion of a third is already in press.

No more conclusive facts need be alleged to prove the excellence of the contributions to the CONTINENTAL, or their _extraordinary popularity_; and its conductors are determined that it shall not fall behind. Preserving all "the boldness, vigor, and ability" which a thousand journals have attributed to it, it will greatly enlarge its circle of action, and discuss, fearlessly and frankly, every principle involved in the great questions of the day. The first minds of the country, embracing the men most familiar with its diplomacy and most distinguished for ability, are among its contributors; and it is no mere "flattering promise of a prospectus" to say that this "magazine for the times" will employ the first intellect in America, under auspices which no publication ever enjoyed before in this country.

While the CONTINENTAL will express decided opinions on the great questions of the day, it will not be a mere political journal: much the larger portion of its columns will be enlivened, as heretofore, by tales, poetry, and humor. In a word, the CONTINENTAL will be found, under its new staff of Editors, occupying, a position and presenting attractions never before found in a magazine.

TERMS TO CLUBS.

Two copies for one year, Five dollars.

Three copies for one year, Six dollars.

Six copies for one year, Eleven dollars.

Eleven copies for one year, Twenty dollars.

Twenty copies for one year, Thirty-six dollars.

PAID IN ADVANCE.

_Postage, Thirty-six cents a year_, TO BE PAID BY THE SUBSCRIBER.

SINGLE COPIES.

Three dollars a year, IN ADVANCE. _Postage paid by the Publisher._

JOHN F. TROW, 50 Greene St, N.Y.,

PUBLISHER FOR THE PROPRIETORS.

[Symbol: Hand] As an inducement to new subscribers, the Publisher offers the following liberal premiums:

[Symbol: Hand] Any person remitting $3, in advance, will receive the magazine from July, 1862, to January, 1864, thus securing the whole of Mr. KIMBALL's and Mr. KIRKE's new serials, which are alone worth the price of subscription. Or, if preferred, a subscriber can take the magazine for 1863 and a copy of "Among the Pines," or of "Undercurrents of Wall Street," by R. B. KIMBALL, bound in cloth, or of "Sunshine in Thought," by CHARLES GODFREY LELAND (retail price, $1.25.) The book to be sent postage paid.

[Symbol: Hand] Any person remitting $4.50, will receive the magazine from its commencement, January, 1862, to January, 1864, thus securing Mr. KIMBALL's "Was He Successful?" and Mr. KIRKE's "Among the Pines," and "Merchant's Story," and nearly 3,000 octavo pages of the best literature in the world. Premium subscribers to pay their own postage.

EQUAL TO ANY IN THE WORLD!!!

MAY BE PROCURED

At FROM $8 to $12 PER ACRE,

Near Markets, Schools, Railroads, Churches, and all the blessings of Civilization.

1,200,000 Acres, in Farms of 40, 80, 120, 160 Acres and upwards, in ILLINOIS, the Garden State of America.

* * * * *

The Illinois Central Railroad Company offer, ON LONG CREDIT, the beautiful and fertile PRAIRIE LANDS lying along the whole line of their Railroad, 700 MILES IN LENGTH, upon the most Favorable Terms for enabling Farmers, Manufacturers, Mechanics and Workingmen to make for themselves and their families a competency, and a HOME they can call THEIR OWN, as will appear from the following statements:

ILLINOIS.

Is about equal in extent to England, with a population of 1,722,666 and a soil capable of supporting 20,000,000. No State in the Valley of the Mississippi offers so great an inducement to the settler as the State of Illinois. There is no part of the world where all the conditions of climate and soil so admirably combine to produce those two great staples, CORN and WHEAT.

CLIMATE.

Nowhere can the industrious farmer secure such immediate results from his labor as on these deep, rich, loamy soils, cultivated with so much ease. The climate from the extreme southern part of the State to the Terre Haute, Alton and St. Louis Railroad, a distance of nearly 200 miles, is well adapted to Winter.

WHEAT, CORN, COTTON, TOBACCO.

Peaches, Pears, Tomatoes, and every variety of fruit and vegetables is grown in great abundance, from which Chicago and other Northern markets are furnished from four to six weeks earlier than their immediate vicinity. Between the Terre Haute, Alton & St. Louis Railway and the Kankakee and Illinois Rivers, (it distance of 115 miles on the Branch, and 136 miles on the Main Trunk,) lies the great Corn and Stock raising portion of the State.

THE ORDINARY YIELD

of Corn is from 50 to 80 bushels per acre. Cattle, Horses, Mules, Sheep and Hogs are raised here at a small cost, and yield large profits. It is believed that no section of country presents greater inducements for Dairy Farming than the Prairies of Illinois, a branch of farming to which but little attention has been paid, and which must yield sure profitable results. Between the Kankakee and Illinois Rivers, and Chicago and Dunleith, (a distance of 56 miles on the Branch and 147 miles by the Main Trunk,) Timothy Hay, Spring Wheat, Corn, &c., are produced in great abundance.

AGRICULTURAL PRODUCTS.

The Agricultural products of Illinois are greater than those of any other State. The Wheat crop of 1861 was estimated at 85,000,000 bushels, while the Corn crop yields not less than 140,000,000 bushels besides the crop of Oats, Barley, Rye, Buckwheat, Potatoes, Sweet Potatoes, Pumpkins, Squashes, Flax, Hemp, Peas, Clover, Cabbage, Beets, Tobacco, Sorghum, Grapes, Peaches, Apples. &c., which go to swell the vast aggregate of production in this fertile region. Over Four Million tons of produce were sent out the State of Illinois during the past year.

STOCK RAISING.

In Central and Southern Illinois uncommon advantages are presented for the extension of Stock raising. All kinds of Cattle, Horses, Mules, Sheep, Hogs, &c., of the best breeds, yield handsome profits; large fortunes have already been made, and the field is open for others to enter with the fairest prospects of like results. DAIRY FARMING also presents its inducements to many.

CULTIVATION OF COTTON.

_The experiments in Cotton culture are of very great promise. Commencing in latitude 39 deg. 30 min. (see Mattoon on the Branch, and Assumption the Main Line), the Company owns thousands of acres well adapted to the perfection of this fibre. A settler having a family of young children, can turn their youthful labor to a most profitable account in the growth and perfection of this plant._

THE ILLINOIS CENTRAL RAILROAD

Traverses the whole length of the State, from the banks of the Mississippi and Lake Michigan to the Ohio, As its name imports, the Railroad runs through the centre of the State, and on either side of the road along its whole length lie the lands offered for sale.

CITIES, TOWNS, MARKETS DEPOTS.

There are Ninety-eight Depots on the Company's Railway, giving about one every seven miles. Cities, Towns and Villages are situated at convenient distances throughout the whole route, where every desirable commodity may be found as readily as in the oldest cities of the Union and where buyers are to be met for all kinds of farm produce.

EDUCATION.

Mechanics and working-men will find the free school system encouraged by the State, and endowed with a large revenue for the support of the schools. Children can live in sight of the school, the college, the church, and grow up with the prosperity of the leading State in the Great Western Empire.

* * * * *

PRICES AND TERMS OF PAYMENT--ON LONG CREDIT.

80 acres at $10 per acre with interest at 6 per ct. annually on the following terms:

Cash payment $48.00 Payment in one year 48.00 " in two years 48.00 " in three years 48.00 " in four years 236.00 " in five years 224.00 " in six years 212.00 " in seven years 200.00

40 acres, at $10.00 per acre:

Cash payment $24.00 Payment in one year 24.00 " in two years 24.00 " in three years 24.00 " in four years 118.00 " in five years 112.00 " in six years 106.00 " in seven years 100.00

Number 17.

25 Cents.

THE

CONTINENTAL

MONTHLY.

DEVOTED TO

Literature and National Policy.

MAY, 1863.

NEW YORK: JOHN F. TROW 50 GREENE STREET (FOR THE PROPRIETORS).

HENRY DEXTER AND SINCLAIR TOUSEY. WASHINGTON, D.C.: FRANCK TAYLOR.

CONTENTS.--No. XVII.

The Great Prairie State. By Mrs. C. M. Kirkland, 513

A Winter in Camp. By E. G. Hammond, 519

In Memoriam. By Richard Wolcott, 527

A Merchant's Story. By Edmund Kirke, 528

Shylock _vs._ Antonio. By Carlton Edwards 539

A Heroine of To-Day, 543

National Ode, 554

The Surrender of Forts Jackson and St. Philip, on the Mississippi. By F. H. Gerdes. Assistant U. S. Coast Survey, 557

Reason, Rhyme, and Rhythm. By Mrs. Martha Cook, 562

The Value of the Union. By William H. Muller, 571

War Song--Earth's Last Battle. By Mrs. Martha Cook, 586

Miriam's Testimony. By M. A. Edwards, 589

The Destiny of the African Race in the United States. By Rev. J. M. Sturtevant, D.D., 600

Was He Successful? By Richard B. Kimball, 611

The Union. By Hon. Robert J. Walker, 615

The Causes and Results of the War. By Lieut. Egbert Phelps, U.S.A 617

Great Heart, 629

Literary Notices 630

The June No. of the Continental will contain an article on 'The Confederation and the Nation,' by Edward Carey.

* * * * *

ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by JAMES R. GILMORE, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

* * * * *

JOHN F. TROW, PRINTER.