Chapter 1

talons. There are nothing but conceivable realities in their story. There is nothing strange or supernatural in their accessories. But in the Scandinavian elves the case is different. They vanish and reäppear at different times; they have no actual, permanent existence. The crow of a cock or the sign of the cross is enough to drive them back to their hiding-places. They shun daylight and fixed, customary spots. They generally surprise casual travelers, and upon them in lone, romantic spots, practice all their arts of enticement and seduction. There is always something of magic, of the supernatural, connected with them. The Greek sirens are not like common women; but once conceive of their physical existence, and you understand them thoroughly. Their laws of action are purely human, and we do not find them one half so unnatural as our neighbor that has a splay foot or a hunchback. The Northern witches, however, are formed like human females, but obey unknown and mysterious powers. The commonest words and associations of men are bans to them. Only so long do they have power as nothing human disturbs and overthrows their supernatural spells.

Again let us look for a moment at another division of Grecian fiction. The grim Cyclops who toils for Vulcan, working like mortal men, and forging divine things, it is true, like any Grecian blacksmith, has a counterpart of a somewhat different character in the North. The reality and vividness of the Greek changes as we approach the Pole. In deep caverns distorted, strange little dwarfs work by the aid of supernatural powers wondrous weapons, swords of incredible qualities, armor that defies mortal blades, bracelets of wondrous and cunning finish and singular properties--all here is miraculous, the workman, the process, and the work. The vividness with which Homer presents to us the one-eyed Polyphemus, with his tree-staff and his ponderous body, is exchanged by the Scandinavian for smallness, indistinctness of form and of power. The grand in the South is obtained by giving enlarged pictures of man as he is; in the North, by investing him with strange, magic, mysterious qualities. In mental as well as material nature, a general haziness of outline conveys the idea of greatness as strongly, though in another manner, as the sharp and perceptible outline of any thing really great.

This peculiarity we shall find running through the literature, the character, and the mind of the two nations. The North is misty, undefined, illimited; the Greek is clear as crystal, sharp and angular, on every side. Its conceptions are never vague, but are tangible, real, and human. Thus with the Greek, a vast ocean, like that they know, encircles the whole earth, and fixes its bounds and the limits which man shall not pass; the Northerns compassed it about with a vast serpent of immense size, which bounded infinity and space, time and eternity, thereby mirroring, in some degree, as it were, the ancient symbol for time and space without end, the snake biting his own tail, the circle with no one beginning nor end. The heaven of the Greeks is the summit of one of their own mountains, known to every peasant and inhabitant. Accessible only to the gods, there they live, as unconcernedly as though the earth were not. Thor, and Odin, and Freia live in the 'Shining Walhalla,' whither go the souls of brave and good warriors. Their way thither is over the heavenly bridge, the many-colored rainbow, thrown over between heaven and earth for the passage of the happy souls. And there in this dim, ghostly Walhalla they sit like the Grecian gods, and drink mead instead of ambrosia and nectar. They do not share in the earthly vices of the Southern gods. Thor never begat such a progeny as Jupiter.

Repose is also, as hinted at, a characteristic of Southern mythology, while action, assisted by supernatural agencies, is the feature of the Northern deities. Thus Jupiter sits majestic and silent upon Olympus and nods his head, and the whole earth shakes. He is human in his character, but of an ideal and superior human nature--man immensely magnified. The gods of Norway are also human, but they are, in themselves, _mere_ men. What makes them gods is the magic power which is joined with them, a mere adjunct not forming a part of them. They toil and act like men--they are never still. Thor bears the hammer, the emblem of physical strength, energy, and activity. He can at a draught half drain the sea, and cause the tides to rise and ebb; he can lift the serpent that surrounds the world; he can wrestle with Death himself, and almost come off victorious. The giants are his mortal enemies, and against them he wages war and bears deadly hatred, as Jupiter against the Titans. None but the warrior, who has fought long and well, enjoys the long dreamt-of mead of Walhalla. A death on one's own bed is almost as ignominious as that of the coward. The straw-death (_strödod_) they will endeavor to avoid by opening their own veins and bleeding to death, and as the warm life-blood pours forth, they sing triumphant death-songs, and see the portals gradually open to receive them, and Braga the Scald, seated at the gate with his magic-sounding harp, his fingers running through the golden strings, and in such ecstasies they give up the ghost. The Greek dies in a more quiet, philosophical, and practical manner. He does not fear the shame of a warm and soft bed. Achilles, and Ajax, and Diomed, are not the only inmates of Elysium. Socrates, and Plato, and Homer, Apelles and Zeuxis, are all there too. The poet and the philosopher, the painter and the sculptor, rank as high through pen, pencil, and chisel, as the warrior by his blade and his bloody exploits. Art, in the North, finds no existence, and strikes no sympathizing chord in the bosoms of the sturdy Northmen. Art, to be perfect, requires a distinctness of conception, and an assimilation to human nature in its subjects, entirely at variance with the dim, mysterious character of the Scandinavian imagination. Painting is a thing utterly unknown, and sculpture, where found, deals in shapeless blocks and huge, massive, ill-proportioned forms, analogous to the primitive Egyptian art. In the Northern mythology and legendary history, minstrels play an important part. They are as indispensable as the Welsh bards, though not invested with the same authority as they. At the table of the gods, Braga strikes his wonderful harp and chants the triumphal hymns of dead warriors as they enter the Walhalla. Round the boards of the rougher Vikings, among the muscular, sun-browned champions, hardened to blood and strife, the minstrel is ever present, and as the huge cups pass around the long line, they sing the triumphs and praises of their hosts. They are like the old Grecian minstrels; like Phemius and Demodocus, they chant old memories of great sea-kings and champions, legends of magic elves and dwarfs, and wondrous and often touchingly beautiful stories of love and passion. The vague impressions of music seem to harmonize marvelously with the Northern nature. It is wild and weird in its character, for much of it, with the innumerable ballads of those days, have reached us from father to son, and vividly recall the times whence they date, and the men whose characters they mirror. There is often a magic element connected with their music. The music of the elves is like that of the sirens and of Orpheus, often irresistible. Through many of their ballads runs the same legendary undertone. A maiden's song moves the king's heart, and one by one he offers in vain every gift in his power, to the very half of his kingdom, and ends by placing a crown of gold upon her head, and seating her beside him on his throne as his lawful queen. The story of the two sisters, one ugly and one beautiful, reappears in the North in various forms. The younger and more lovely of the two is murdered, and the elder is to wed her bride-groom. Pilgrims who meet with the body, make a lyre from the bones, and string it with the golden hair of the maiden, and as they play at the bridal, each string tells its tale of horror in turn, while the unhappy sister sinks under these inanimate accusations.

In the Greek myths we find none of these mysterious elements. The supernatural creations we meet with are innumerable, and no less strange in themselves. But there is nothing in Polyphemus, in Circe, in the Sirens, beyond their physical natures, which can make us look beyond ourselves to understand and fully sympathize with them. Once fully grasp their superhuman endowments, and you feel they act like men on a large scale. Not so with the Northern supernatural beings. In themselves they approach nearer to men, and are but little above them in endowments and character, but it is their mode of action which makes them superior to us; their divinity and power lie not in themselves, but in the agents, visible and mysterious, that they employ. They are not like Jupiter, omnipotent. They are brought to a stand quite as often as more humble mortals. Thor, without his hammer, is no longer Thor himself. His trusty Mjölner is more to him than the thunderbolt of Zeus to the Grecian father of the gods. The eagle and thunderbolt of Jove, the ægis of Minerva, the girdle of Venus and Mercury's wands, are mere emblems of what powers their own natures give them. With the Northern deities their whole strength lies in the possession of these. Without them they are powerless, and in spite of all their might, they are often obliged to call on one another for assistance, and sometimes even stand in need of mortal aid. We may, perhaps, consider the Grecian gods as mere personifications and idealities, but those of the North are essentially real. They are the creations of a powerful but vague imagination, forms which resemble a Norwegian mountain, distinct in itself by its glittering snows and icy rocks, but which shrouds its head in a perpetual mist, except when some adverse wind with its indiscreet blowing, displays it in all its nakedness, and plain though grand reality.

Analogous to the story of Circe and Ulysses is a myth which forms the foundation of some of the most beautiful and pathetic ballads of Sweden, Denmark and Norway. The mountain king bears to his cavern in the hill-side a fair maiden, and with him

'For eight long years, I ween, she lived in the mountain there, And sons full seven she bore him, and eke a daughter fair.'

And here the resemblance ceases, and the Northern legend assumes a more beautiful tone. The maiden longs for her mother and her old home, and goes from the mountain king with the promise not to mention her seven sons. She tells her tale, however, and the elf-king straightway appears, and strikes her till the life-blood flows. She then says:

'Farewell, dear father, and farewell, dear mother, too, Farewell, my sister dear, and dear brother, farewell to you. Farewell, thou lofty heaven, and the fresh, green earth, farewell! Now wend I to the mountain where the mountain king doth dwell.'

And so they ride to the mountain, through the long, wild, black wood, the mother weeping bitter tears, while the elf-king smiles. Her little daughter reaches her a golden chair:

'Oh! rest thee, my poor mother, so sad and woe-begone.'

She takes the foaming mead in her hand,

'And scarce from out the mead-glass bright the first draught does she take, (The hour goes heavy by,) Her eyes were sudden closed, and her weary heart it brake, (Ah! well sorrow's burden know I.)'

That the Greeks had similar ballads and legends can not be doubted, but to revive them from their present destruction is a task beyond the power of science and antiquarianism. Hardly more than a quarter of a century has elapsed since the first important steps were taken in the North of Europe to preserve these ballads which had thus been orally handed down from ages that vanish in the darkness of the past, and which in a few years more, with the gradual disappearance of primitive simplicity in Sweden and Norway, might have been, for the greater part, lost to us forever. Who knows but that in some remote corner of Greece, in spite of the revolutions and shocks which have convulsed it, there may still lurk an occasional shadow at least of some good old popular song?

The refrains which accompany the Northern ballads, and which are, in fact, found among all nations whose ballad poetry has been preserved, merit some attention. Sometimes melancholy and sad, sometimes gay and joyous, they impart character wonderfully to the piece. There is something peculiarly mournful in the recurring of these sad, touching thoughts and words, and as the interest of the ballad deepens, their touching simplicity grasps more deeply into the soul, and affects us in a manner which nothing else could. When they are joyous--a rarer form, however--they impart to us also their own buoyancy and gayety. Sometimes they convey the moral of the piece, some simple yet profound reflection, which marks by itself the feeling that pervades the whole ballad; at other times they are merely descriptive of nature, and borrow their enlivening or heart-rending character from the assimilation or contrast they present with the groundwork of the poetry. The origin of this kind of refrain is evidently due to the manner in which the ballads were composed. Mainly extemporized, both words and music, by wandering scalds or minstrels, the refrain was a pause to enable the singer to compose the next line. The utter disregard of rhyme, alliterations the most slight and imperceptible, and words of no similarity of sound almost always taking their place, rendered this a very easy task. A thorough knowledge and mastery of legendary lore, and a little power and concentration of thought and imagery, were the only qualities requisite for a ballad-monger. Some of them bear the marks of superior minds, both by their wonderful vividness of description and by the tone of deep, genuine feeling which pervades them throughout.

There is a wonderful affinity between the Scotch and the Norwegians and Swedes, especially in their traditionary literature, which marks a common origin and common customs at some remote period. We find among the genuine Scotch ballads many that are almost literal versions of the same Scandinavian legends no less indigenous in their own land. A large number of the most beautiful Scotch ballads plainly point to an extraneous Northern origin, and their exact counterparts in form, ideas, and words, we find circulating as popular songs among the Swedish, Danish, and Norwegian peasantry. These may often be traced back centuries, at the end of which they seem still to be as old and as thoroughly implanted in their native soil as they now seem. They have been sung from mouth to mouth, with the same wild old melodies and the same quaint language, as they were sung centuries ago among the scenes they so faithfully depict.

The characteristics we have so briefly alluded to as marking the two classes of nations, namely, mysterious grandeur among the Northmen, and among the Greeks ideality, grandness, and vividness of conception, might by skillful hands be traced in more modern times under the influence of an ever-changing and growing civilization. I will only allude, in passing, to a few prominent points.

The literature of Greece, as we know it, had already reached its hight, two thousand years before our time. It was already gray with years before the North had begun its infancy. Homer is the boundary which is insurmountably opposed to our further retrospection, and Homer is already the beginning of perfection in Greek letters. Of earlier periods we can but conjecture that there must have been such, bearing a character analogous to the relics of those nations whose fabulous history is better known to us. Northern literature can hardly be said to have had an existence till within the last hundred years. Before that time we must look for all phases of progress and germs of progress in the physical and animal character of the nation, their social and political features and relations. The vividness and ideality of the ancients find their natural change in the more purely impassioned style of more modern Southern poetry. Their creations have naturally lost with the fall of paganism, the supernatural endowments they had, and retaining in some their ideality, they have hightened and fired the human nature they depict by the addition of wilder and more flaming passions, of love that consumes, and ambition, revenge, and hatred that destroy. Thus we again obtain consistent characters governed by human laws, but raised above the ordinary mass of men by different qualities from those which ennobled ideal creations among the ancients. Repose still constitutes greatness in some instances; but the inner man is made all fire, and seething metal, ever-burning and quenchless. Elevation and subtlety of ideas naturally follow these causes, they are another natural growth of the simple ideality of conception.

The Northern character at the present day has very different qualities. Though renowned for philosophical and metaphysical prose, yet their poetry they require to deal with realities and not with ideas; it must be clear as a fountain, and any opaqueness is an inexcusable flaw. They are yet in the infancy of literature, and the imagination is still more sensuous than acute and subtle. However much they court abstractions in prose, in verse they love only the actual, the real, the tangible. Nature, and not metaphysics, are the subjects of their poetry, and they still preserve a freshness and simplicity reminding of more ancient and ruder days, delightful amidst the hair-splitting of most modern poetry. Their infancy is like the infancy of all national literatures, peculiarly modified by the advanced state of civilization in which their birth was thrown. At first sight there seems something unnatural and unaccountable in this apparent contradiction in the character of the nation, manifested respectively in their prose and their poetry. But on farther examination all becomes clear as a spring day. Their prose was, as their whole literature might and should have been, contemporary with their civilization through its various phases. Metaphysics is the last refinement, or rather, corruption, which national literature undergoes. Their prose had naturally arrived at this stage when the true poetic feeling woke for the first time. And in spite of the rational tendencies of the age, it assumed that character of warm, bodily imagination which marks all early literatures. The tendency to the mysterious and the superhuman has mostly vanished, and more vivid conceptions of every thing have, under their Christian development, taken the place of dim magic and weird creations. Northern poets still delight in dealing with those wonderful poetical inventions of their own ancient mythology, and revel among the elves and dwarfs that surround the bosoms of mountains and woods. Lif, with her golden hair, Gerda, with cheeks like auroras, the cunning Loke, with his mixture of guile, wickedness and deceit, Thor's mighty Mjölner, and the mead-horns of Walhalla--from among these wonderful beings, they have culled with a careless hand, and every sprig and flower is radiant with poetic beauty. The taste for old legends and traditions has revived within a few years, and scholars and antiquarians are now laying open unknown mines of treasure.

A TRUE ROMANCE.

Among my friends at Rome, during a few weeks that I spent there, was one old resident of the 'Eternal City' whom I had often begged to give me some authentic narrative of Catholic experience. He was naturally reserved, jealously truthful, a 'know-nothing' upon religious controversy, not at all the man to invent an exciting story, not fond of legends, Romish or Genevan, not a violent partisan of republicanism in church or state, and not familiar enough with American thought to suspect the use that might be made in the United States of such an incident as I am now to repeat. In fact, as I compare him with other sources of intelligence open to travelers, sure as I am that no one could question his belief of whatever he told, every weight that character, intelligence, years, experience, could confer, rests upon the only monkish secret which he professed to know. One night he invited me to a subterranean restaurant, famous for its excellent creature-comforts, and there over some royal English beer, without any graces of style or attempts to exaggerate the incidents, he unfolded what I believe to be a true record of unblessed love.

General readers are familiar with the fact that many a nun immures herself for life under a sort of moral compulsion, because her high-born family has become too indigent to maintain its stately style of living, because the lady herself is in danger of contracting some degrading alliance, declines peremptorily such connection as her relations approve, or has committed some imprudence that clouds over her future prospects. The secret influences which entangle men in the Catholic orders correspond to this. It would be arrant bigotry to doubt that some offer up an unstained heart, in aspirations for usefulness or sighs for holiness; but many times a youth is led blindfold to the altar by ambitious relatives, like Talleyrand, and discovers too late his perfect unfitness for the vow he has assumed. And these last are they whose lives become a scandal to their profession, whose levity shocks so many Protestant observers, whose consciences have no true peace, who die sometimes in open unbelief and, living, are the worst enemies of the cause they advocate.

As my story goes, at nearly the same time that a gallant young man of high family disappeared from the gay circles of Rome, a lovely girl of distinguished parentage had suffered her blonde tresses to be shorn, her graceful limbs draped in forlorn russet, her merry meetings with girlish spirits like herself exchanged for the tears of the confessional, the lengthened prayers of the cloister, the frequent fastings and sometimes scourgings of monastic life. The cause of this contemporaneous disappearance was known only to the most intimate friends of two celebrated but no longer wealthy families, who deemed the sacrifice necessary, and so recked not of the wounds it might make, the perjuries it might tempt, the life-struggle of duty with feeling it might cause.

Time passed on. Forgotten by society, it was supposed these victims of artificial life had forgotten the circles they were wont to charm, forgotten almost themselves in a system most ingeniously arranged to blot out one's individuality and to make its subject a perfectly ordered part of a grand machine. But, unsuspected by their friends, unknown to their superiors, these two pledged hearts had met. Love will break through even convent-walls, will speak amidst monastic silence, will rise unbidden under ascetic discipline. No one can tell, very few can imagine how they agreed upon their trysting hour. Through a neglected drain, from some underground apartment, where she had been imprisoned for negligence, the slender form of the delicate maiden worked its way into the free air where her lover awaited her in the eagerness of a stolen pleasure; and the hours supposed to be given to prayer or repose flew fast in the worship of the 'winged god.' If I recollect rightly, there were deeply-shaded groves not far from their place of meeting, in which they felt secure from observation during the night season.

But Love has always been blind to its own peril: a prudent lover would be indeed a black swan; if such there have been, these were not. And one night, when the beautiful nun would return through the friendly passage in season, that her absence might not be detected when the sisters were summoned to their matin service, the rain, whose torrents she had not noticed while her lover's arm sheltered her, had filled up the only pathway to her cell, and not even by the hazard of life could she recover her room once more. A few hours more, and her absence would inevitably come to light, would be fearfully punished, if not by a death such as Scott portrays in one of his poetical legends, by a disgrace far worse than physical suffering, from which nothing but the grave could give her relief. The alternative, flight, where no provision had been made, with no possible help from any friend, with the likelihood of treachery where they might least expect it, seemed impossible.

In despair rather than hope, the forlorn lady recollected that her uncle, who had some spiritual supervision over the Roman convents, though he was sure to be more outraged by her misstep than any one else, had (besides the motive of shielding a family name from disgrace) perhaps some remaining affection for his favorite niece. At any rate, if she were to die, she thought it would be a satisfaction to die humanely, by the speedy stroke of offended honor than by such cruel penances as would slowly wear life away. And, what might she not hope, if there were still one humane drop in that aged bosom, one indulgent memory of youthful passion beneath that austere cowl, one fond thought of a childhood which seemed to herself a dream of paradise, when his hand blessed her curling head, and his lips gave a parting kiss, returned so heartily by herself.

There was not a moment to lose--they hardly knew how time had sped, but they had never found his wings slow when they were together. So, hand in hand they hastened to the presence which was to be either deliverance or condemnation to them both; and when at last they reached the palace, and after some delay were admitted to kneel before his eminence, no words can paint the horror with which he exchanged his dreams of the papal chair for a sight of the apostate priest and self-doomed nun confessing in one breath that they had 'loved not wisely, but too well'--that God once brought together those whom cruel relatives tore asunder--that _he_ was their only escape from double ruin, and infamy worse than death.

The moments seemed hours while he who had approved the punishment of other celibates for no greater sins, sought how he might ward off a blow that struck so near his own bosom--that was to crush one the grace of whose childhood had not been more marked than her affection for himself--than the earnestness of the tone with which she was wont to declare herself 'his little daughter.' He had not the courage to hazard his position by espousing her cause or undertaking her escape. He felt that she had been more sinned against than sinning, in having been forced into a vow of perpetual virginity when she had already made another vow which her loving nature had rejoiced to keep.

And yet, the preservation of his dignity was of infinite moment to his peace--nor could he help seeing that a flood of disgrace would sweep over the Church were such breaches widened by the public protection of the offenders, and, of course, the enemies of monastic institutions would seize upon the opening for fiercer assaults.

Suddenly he dismissed the erring brother in too much trouble to bestow the admonition which the other was in too great anxiety to heed--threw over the trembling girl the cloak and hat of a common citizen--summoned his household servants together as quickly as possible, and hastened in the twilight of early dawn to the sleeping convent with as large an attendance as such hot haste would permit.

For some time no admittance could be obtained; and the rain seemed to pour down in sheets, as if all the windows of heaven were open. But his orders were peremptory, his authority was ample, his excuse ingenuity itself: 'He had just heard that a man was secreted within those consecrated walls; he was determined to see for himself, if he had to tear one stone from another; under his supervision no such infamy should be so much as suspected.' And so, making a virtue of necessity, the panic-struck lady abbess yielded her dignity, and the _posse_ of pretended inspectors stood within the drowsy walls before one rose-tint in the East threatened their secret with exposure.

So responsible an official could not be satisfied with seeing the nuns together, or witnessing their earliest chapel-service; he must enter every room, survey every cranny, and leave no possibility of deception, no corner for concealment. And posting some of his servants--whose excessive watchfulness might prove a little inconvenient--at the two principal entrances, with his remaining attendants he proceeded orderly from room to room, the superior refusing, as was expected, to sanction by her presence such an invasion of the sacred privacy of her institution. When they reached the cell adjoining that where our tale properly ends, the disguised nun was far enough in the rear of the feebly-lighted party, and they too busy in the pretended search, for her disappearance to be noticed--her uncle had made her see that this was the only chance--so, flinging the coat and hat through an open window into the yard, she glided with ghost-like tread into her own apartment, and when the drowsy servitors opened her door, she was seen upon her knees before the crucifix, praying more fervently than ever the jubilant prayer of a newly-rescued soul.

The trouble threatened to lead to some farther difficulties. For these ladies were of the Roman aristocracy, and their honor had been impeached, their sanctuary invaded, their solemn asseverations had been disregarded, their protector had become their accuser. It might have gone hard with the father who had planned this ingenious device to save his name from disgrace and shield his niece from suffering. But, just before the party turned from the convent-gate, a keen eye detected the fallen mantle; and the trophy was exhibited to the agitated superior, in proof that some of the forbidden sex had been lurking around, and had stolen away in terror from so formidable a search; she was warned to new vigilance, and offered every assistance for the future which the papal guards could bestow.

And so ends all that my informant knew of the love-lost girl. Her accomplice in guilt, who did not desert her till he saw there was hope in her uncle's face, was hurried away as a missionary to South-America; and, as the waves of the sea rolled between him and his only object of affection, he must have 'rejoiced with trembling' that the crimson waves of death had not mingled her and him in a common doom. He wanted the independence to detect the injustice of a system which made a pure attachment guilt, and its discovery condemnation; so he raised no protesting voice against it. Truly, the day of strange stories in Italy is not yet over.

HUGUENOTS OF NEW-YORK CITY.

Governor Stuyvesant was among the earliest to encourage the emigration of the Huguenots to New-York, and whose descendants for generations have ranked with our best and most honorable citizens. On the twenty-fourth of January, 1664, N. Van Beck, a merchant in New-Amsterdam, received letters from Rochelle, stating the wish of some French Protestants to settle in New-Netherland, as their religious rights had been invaded and their churches burned. The Governor and Council resolved to receive them kindly, and grant them lands gratuitously. In a letter of M. de Denonville to the French government, dated sixteenth November, 1686, he reports that fifty or sixty 'men, Huguenots,' arrived at New-Amsterdam, 'who are establishing themselves at Manat, (New-Amsterdam,) and its environs. I know that some have arrived at Boston, from France.' Although the waves of the Atlantic divided the two countries, the French King does not seem to have forgiven his banished subjects in America. In his instructions to Count De Frontenac, respecting the expedition from Canada against New-York, and dated seventh June, 1689, he directs him to 'send to France the French refugees, whom he will find there, _particularly those of the pretended Reformed Religion_,' or Huguenots. His royal but remorseless spirit was not gratified, however, as the French did not venture to attack New-York, and instead of their Protestant brethren being sent back to France, a few years afterward they erected a church for their own religious services. This was _Du Saint-Esprit_, and built on Pine street, directly opposite to the present Custom-House, by the Huguenots and Walloon settlers, the last of whom were a part of the French Protestants, although they emigrated to America from the river 'Wael.' An earlier French chapel had been erected on Marketfield street, then called Petticoat Lane, near the Battery. It was an humble edifice, but hither, every Lord's day, the Huguenots from the city, Staten Island, the Wallabagh, and New-Rochelle, by wagons, in which they lodged, were wont to assemble to worship God, without the fear of royal, persecuting edicts, or armed bands. _L'Eglise Saint-Esprit_ was founded in the year 1704, with a cemetery adjoining. It was a plain, neat, stone building, and nearly square--its bell the gift of Sir Henry Ashurst, of London. On its tablet in front was inscribed: ÆDES SACRA GALLOR PROT. REFORM. FONDA. 1704. PENITUS REPAR. 1741. In our day its sacred walls have been taken down, the dead removed, and the venerable spot, like many others in our busy city, is now devoted to Mammon. The successors of _Saint-Esprit_ long since united with the Episcopalians, and erected the beautiful marble church in Leonard street, where the doctrines of the ever-blessed Reformation continue to be declared in the same language in which they were so eloquently preached two centuries ago, by Claude, Laurin, and other Reformed French Ministers.

The Rev. James Laboire was the first pastor of the _Saint-Esprit_, which soon numbered a flourishing congregation. Some of its members would walk from New-Rochelle, on Saturday night, to worship God in this place, and thus spending the holy day, would return home again in the evening, joyfully singing Marot's old French hymns to cheer them by the way. The Staten-Island Huguenots would make the same pious journey in their light skiffs and boats. For some years Mr. Laboire, the pastor, toward his support was 'allowed a yearly sallary of twenty pounds per ann. out of ye Revenue of this Province.' The religious services were here performed in the primitive manner of the French Calvinistic churches; but after the sovereignty of the English was established over the Dutch, the forms of their church worship were gradually introduced, until at length the Huguenot congregation united with the Protestant Episcopal, in this diocese.

In the _Documentary History of New-York_, vol iii. p. 427, may be found an old curious article, entitled, 'A Full and Just Discovery of the weak and slender foundation of a most Pernicious SLANDER, raised against the FRENCH PROTESTANT REFUGEES, inhabiting the Province of New-York, generally, but more particularly affecting Captain BENJAMIN FANUEL, a person of considerable note amongst them. Printed and published by license of his Excellency Edward Viscount Cornbury, Captain-General and Governor-in-Chief of the said Province, in favor of Justice.'

It appears that one Morris Newinhuysen, a mate of a vessel, in 1706, was taken by the French, and a prisoner of war, at New-York, reported that the 'French Protestants' here corresponded with 'the inhabitants of France, tending to the taking and destruction of this city, by Her Majesty's declared enemies.' The New-York Huguenots considered this accusation a 'crime of so high a nature in itself,' and so 'altogether false and untrue,' as to petition Governor Burnet to cause 'the said Morris Newinhuysen, and all others who may appear concerned, to be strictly examined upon the same report, and if found out, be punished according to the nature of the crime.' This petition is dated 'February 10, 1707/8,' and signed by 'Stephen D'Lancey, Elias Nezereau, Abraham Jouneau, Thomas Bayeux, Elias Neau, Paul Deoilet, Augustus Jay, Jean Cazale, Benjamin Fanuel.' These must have been leading Huguenots at the time. To another petition of a similar character, we find the names of Daniel Cromelin, John Auboyneau, Francis Vincent, Alexander Allaire. His Excellency the Governor, ordered the report to be considered, which was done, when his Council reported that there was not 'any ground to suspect Captain Faneuil of holding a correspondence with France.' This was cheering news to the 'French Refugees' in the Province of New-York, as such a slanderous report, to use their own language on the occasion, was 'of pernicious consequence to all the French refugees in general, and disturbs their peace and quiet, and obstructs that affection and familiarity which they had formerly enjoyed with the other inhabitants of this Province, to their just grief and resentment.'

The Rev. Louis Rou was also a pastor of the 'Reformed Protestant French Church in New-York.' As early as the year 1713, among other names in its official records, are found John Barberie, elder, Louis Carré, ancien, Jean Lafont, ancien, André Fuyneau, ancien.' During the year 1724, there was great excitement in the French congregation, caused by a party question. Stephen De Lancey, a wealthy merchant, and patron of the church, with others became dissatisfied with the pastor. He was dismissed for want of zeal, and for innovations which they contended he had introduced into their church discipline; but the minister, with his friends, appealed from this decision to Governor Burnet and his Council, when they sustained him. Indignant memorials were published by both parties, and things went so far, that when De Lancey was elected to the Colonial Assembly, the Governor refused to administer his oath of office, alleging that he was not a subject of the British crown. De Lancey, the Huguenot, contended that he had left France before the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and had received denization in England, under the great seal of James II. He was right, and the Assembly sustained his argument and claims against his Excellency the 'Captain-General and Governor-in-Chief of the Provinces of New-York, New-Jersies, and Territories thereon depending in America.'

For the curious in old families, among the official friends of the French minister, we find James Gou, John Hastier, Elias Pelletreau, Jr., Jean Va Chan, Andrew Foucault, Jacques Bobin, N. Cazalet, Samuel Bourdet, David Le Febrer, Francois Bourdet, Peter Morgat. They testify to Mr. Rou's 'exemplary piety and instruction for upwards of fourteen years,' which 'have rendered him exceedingly estimable to all who knows him, which can't but be acknowledged even by those who are now the occasion of this trouble.' We find a more general list of French families, his friends also, and dated thirty-first December, 1724, and they speak well of him, 'with edification, always leading an exemplary life:' James Bergerron, Francis Bosset, Daniel Girand, Daniel Gailliard, Elias Chardavoine, Paul Pelletreau, James Many, Gamaliel Guyele, Anthony Pintard, Jeremie La Touche, Samuel Bourdet, Jean Bachan, Elie Mainburt, Andrew Richard, James Belleveau, Peter Quintard, John Bosset, James Bobin, Daniel Bossuet, Charles Jardin, Amand Perot, William Huertin, John Vezier, Peter Dennys Doctr, John Many, Peter Tillou, Peter Ebrard, Henry Collier, John David, Noe Cazalet, Gabriel Le Boyteix, Jr., Elias Groséllier, Andrew Girand, Francis Baumier, James Des Brosses, James Renaudet, Lawrence Cornisleau, Daniel Mesnard, John Ganeau, Peter Monget, John Hastier, David Le Telier, Jean Le Chevalier, Philip Gilliot, Abraham Bertrand, Abraham Butler, Daniel Cromelin, John Pintard, Abraham Pontereau, Peter Burton, Stephen Bourdet, Paul Pinaud, Peter Fauconnier. As the same old chronicle says: 'Here followeth the names of the widow women, and others, members of the same church:' Rachel Ebrard, Elizabeth Heurtin, Marie Anne Ablin, Magdalene Fauconnier, Anne Bachan, Mary Perot, Susanne Magle Bosset, Mary Sergeran, Esther Bouniot, Marquise Boyteul, Martha Brown, Renée Mary Rou, Judith Morget, Martha Pentereau, Mary Bargeau, Susanne Boutecon, Susanne Ford, Mary Oaks, Mary Ellison, Martha Perot, Esther Masse, Elizabeth Tillou.

At this period, a Rey. Mr. Moulinars was the assistant minister of Mr. Rou, and united with the party who opposed him, and they also have left records of their views, in which they claim to have paid Mr. Rou in full, and that then the Consistory could dismiss him when they saw fit. 'We are not indebted unto Mr. Rou one farthing for all the time he hath served us,' is their language, and to their official act are the signatures of 'I. I. Moulinars, ministre, John Barheweeld, Louis Carréansien, Abraham Gouneau, ans., Fran. Cazalz, ans., René Het, ans., January twenty-eighth, 1724.' Still the Council decided in favor of Mr. Rou, and were 'of opinion that the said congregation be admonished that every person in it do all in his power to preserve peace and unanimity in their congregation.' That body also advised 'that the ministers of the French congregation who shall officiate next Sunday be ordered to read publicly the said opinion and admonition, immediately after divine service in the forenoon.'

All these efforts did not produce harmony in the French congregation. Moulinars evidently had a restless spirit, and was much opposed to the Church of England, at that time the established religion of the New-York Colony, and respected by many of the Huguenots. Through his efforts, a 'meeting-house' was erected for the French refugees at New-Rochelle, and its members numbered one hundred persons. One old document (May twelfth, 1725) records 'that the said Mr. Moulinars has declared (as can be proved) that he finds our Church (Episcopal) and that of Rome as like one another as two fishes can be ... and one of the chiefest reasons of this violence against Mr. Rou has no other ground than his constant affection to the Church, and the public approbation he has at all times given to its ceremonies and doctrines.' The churchmen also complained that Moulinars caused 'great prejudice in general to the Church of England, and in particular to that of New-Rochelle, where he would come quarterly from New-York, and plead among the people.' New-Rochelle was then a parish, and its rector, of course, considered the French preacher a dissenter. From the parochial account of the former, the town embraced two Quaker families, three Dutch ones, four Lutherans, and several of the French; and the Huguenots settling among them in the year 1726, gathered a congregation of 'about one hundred persons.'

The Rev. Messrs. Daille and Labord appear early to have served the French Protestant Church in New-York; but of the latter we have learned nothing. The former had been pastor awhile to the French Protestants in Boston. About the year 1690, the Dutch Church Consistory employed Mr. Daille to preach to the French in their own language, at New-York, and also to conduct the religious services of the pulpit during a part of the Lord's day.

In 1763, Jean Carll was the pastor of Du Saint-Esprit, for we discover his name, together with Peter Vallade and James Desbrosses, the present elders, Daniel Bounet and Charles Jardine, the present deacons of the French Protestant Church in the city of New-York, to a petition for a charter. Their church property, they state, was purchased agreeable to an act of the Legislature in 1703; 'a decent edifice for the public worship of Almighty God, according to the usage of the French Protestant Churches,' erected; 'and the residue they devoted to the use of the cemetery or church-yard for the interment of their dead.' 'Ever since, they have maintained a succession of ministers there, who have dispensed the ordinances of divine worship in the French tongue.' Besides this property, they received the rents of a house and parcel of ground in the township of Breucklin, on Nassau Island, near the ferry, and the French Church now asked from the legislative authorities a proper charter. With honest pride they boast, in their petition, of the most inviolable fidelity 'to all those indulgent states and powers who protected them from the merciless rage of their Popish persecutors. As your petitioners in particular are the descendants of a people who suffered the greatest hardships and flew from their native country to preserve the purity of the Christian faith and worship.' Eloquent and truthful words. The Huguenots were a great blessing to every land where they settled. The name of their body politic was 'the Ministers, Elders, and Deacons of the Protestant French Church of the City of New-York.'

During the Revolutionary War, New-York became literally a city of prisons. The pews of the North Dutch Church in William street were used for fuel, and eight hundred American prisoners were incarcerated within its old walls, without fuel or bedding, and here many died from cold and starvation. The 'Brick Meeting,' in Beekman street, was also used at first for a prison, and afterward changed into an hospital. The Rose-street Friends' Meeting-house and the Wall-street Presbyterian church became hospitals also, and Du Saint-Esprit was made a dépôt for military stores. The Middle Dutch, the present Post-Office, stripped of its sacred furniture, was the abode of three thousand American prisoners. 'Here,' says John Pintard, himself a most respectable member of the Protestant French Church near by, and an eye-witness of the disgusting sight, 'the prisoners taken on Long Island and at Fort Washington--sick, wounded, and well--were all indiscriminately huddled together by hundreds and thousands, large numbers of whom died by disease, and many were undoubtedly poisoned by their inhuman attendants, for the sake of their watches or silver buckles.' The suffering inmates were afterward transferred to other places of confinement, and the venerable building turned into a riding-school for the British dragoons. Its floor was taken up, the ground covered with tan-bark, and the window-sashes removed for this sacrilegious purpose. The French Huguenot church remained in its original form one hundred and thirty years, until 1834, when it was taken down, the grounds sold, and its dead disinterred and removed to other resting-places. In their native lands, the ashes of the Huguenots would sometimes be dug up, burned, and scattered by persecuting hands to the winds of the heavens; but in ours--Protestant and more favored--their sainted dust, wherever buried, is watched and preserved with pious care and affectionate fidelity. It would be a pleasant but an impossible duty to trace the histories of thousands of our most excellent New-Yorkers, whose pious ancestors worshiped God in the old sanctuary of Du Saint-Esprit, and whose ashes reposed, in Christian hope, alongside of its humble and venerable walls. But records are scarcely to be found. Still we may love their characters and strive to imitate their noble and generous virtues. Hallowed be those precious memories!

The remains of many Huguenots repose among the innumerable dead of old Trinity church-yard, that vast home of the departed; and where can be found their memorials of honor, patriotism, and exalted piety. Here lie the ashes of the Rev. Elias Neau, near its northern porch. He was a man of more than ordinary eminence; his life useful, beneficial, and religious. Mr. Neau was the paternal ancestor of Mrs. Commodore Oliver H. Perry, of Rhode-Island.

Previous to his escape from France, he suffered confinement for several years in the prisons and galleys, and while in his dungeons, learned by heart the liturgy, and became attached to the English Church service. When the Rev. Mr. Vesey was rector of Trinity, Mr. Neau was appointed catechist of that church. For a number of years, he faithfully discharged the duties of this important appointment among the Indians and the slaves, of whom some fifteen hundred were catechumens in the city of New-York. He could only collect them together on Sunday nights, after the last public services; and when properly prepared, would present them to Mr. Vesey, for baptism. Mr. Neau may be said to have founded the Free School of Trinity, an institution so useful and well known among the noble charities of New-York. Its former tablet is still preserved among the mementoes of the olden time. This excellent Huguenot closed his useful life in 1722, resting from his earthly labors alongside of God's holy temple, where he had so long worshiped and' served him.

The Rev. Elias Neau, his wife Susannah, and daughter Judith, left France, for America, with the Huguenots, about 1685. Judith married a Rabineau in New-York, and their only child, Marie, married Daniel Ayrault; their issue was six sons and five daughters; and the second son, Daniel, married Susannah Eargrass, whose children were Daniel and Mary Ayrault. Mary married Benjamin Mason, and their children were two sons and two daughters. The eldest son, Benjamin Mason, M.D., was educated in England, marrying Margaret Champlin, of Newport, R. I., and their issue was three sons and one daughter. This daughter, Elizabeth Champlin Mason, became the wife of the patriotic and brave Captain Oliver Hazard Perry, of the United States Navy. From this last union were four sons and one daughter, Elizabeth Mason Perry. This daughter married the Rev. Francis Vinton; and their children, seven sons and three daughters, make the _eighth_ generation from their venerable, pious Huguenot ancestor; Mr. Vinton himself serving in holy things at the same sacred altar of old Trinity, where the Rev. Elias Neau worshiped, and after a lapse of one hundred and fifty years. How enduring is sacred truth! It will abide forever.

Johannes Delamontagnie was another Huguenot refugee, who reached New-Amsterdam in 1773. Governor Kieft appointed him a member of his council, then the second office in the colonial government. He purchased a farm of two hundred acres at Harlaem, for seven hundred and twenty dollars, naming it' Vriedendel', (Valley of Peace.) The land was situated East of the Eighth Avenue, between Ninety-third street and the Harlem river. His grandson, named Vincent, died in May, 1773, at the very advanced age of one hundred and sixteen years. Numerous descendants are still among us from this early French Protestant emigrant, although some abbreviations have been made in the name.

THE BANE OF OUR COUNTRY.

While sharing the Provost-Marshal's office, in Portsmouth, Virginia, I was struck with the almost utter absence of cultivation of the understanding of the people living there or in the surrounding country, who entered to obtain passes, or for other purposes. Scarce one of them at first appreciated the nature of an oath, which they all shrank from taking, or objected to, when proposed as a condition of obtaining either the passes or the protection they wished. They were not merely illiterate and untaught, but showed also an extremely low grade of reasoning power. There was, indeed, in most cases, but little development even of those lower grades of intellectual ability which are so frequently seen in simply 'illiterate' persons. They hung back from committing themselves, in any way, as friendly to us, though they evidently did not feel that hatred or ill-feeling characteristic of the bolder secessionist. I afterward saw many more of these people, in Norfolk, at our office. With our continued occupancy of the city, and in the absence of any aggressive action by our Government, they presented themselves more frequently. Among them there was occasionally one who avowed himself, without reservation, for the Union. These people are, I am confident, the only ones in the rebellious States who are other than secessionists. Love of the Union--that which the reader identifies with patriotism and nationality--they had not, because this can nowhere be found in the rebellious States, except in isolated instances. That they remained silent and subdued under the progress of the acts of the secessionists, and never raised hand or voice in contradiction to them, proves in this class an absence of that force of character, or of that moral courage or 'energy' which is the distinguishing attribute of our Northern people, even the poorest, and this was also evinced when we first occupied the town. It was not peacefulness of disposition which I remarked, but the lack first, of _decision of character_, and next, of _decision of understanding_ respecting the questions at issue. In conversation they could express only very simple notions, nor could I promptly elicit more from them. Even their feelings lacked the qualities of force and intensity. Yet this class is next to the ruling and leading part of the population, which is composed of planters, cotton, tobacco, and produce factors' families, professional men, and others, who court patronage, including shopkeepers, small manufacturers, and money-lenders, and who support in political affairs _their_ own _clientéle_ of supporters. The latter people constitute the determinedly rebellious. It is the first class only, that we can regard as the sole support to Unionism which there is in the rebellious States; but in them we shall find no moral force or power even when the reign of the leading class shall have ceased. These facts, I am aware, are in striking contrast to the usual estimation of the courage and daring of the people of the South. But the usual estimation is true only of the people who have a concert of interest in slavery, and who, whatever their petty disagreements may be, concur in their politics. Nowhere, therefore, is democracy less actual than in the rebellious States; a ruling and a subservient class exists precisely as in England or Austria. To increase the latter, comprising the people I first described, is by no means to increase the power and extend the domination of the other, but the contrary; and undoubtedly the diminution of their number by the sacrifice of their lives in the rebellion, is considered by the chief managers as desirable, in view of the success of their scheme of polity and government.

Accordingly, in enforcing their plan of formally identifying the various States with secession--the form being the ordinance of secession--the suffrages and sense of this ruled class were ruthlessly unheeded, and denied validity.

Hence we say that several of the rebel States did not 'secede,' it being true that a majority of the people expressed their aversion to rebellion--this majority being, for the occasion, the ruling one, in virtue of the principle to which _all_ equally deferred. But it is the _will_ of the ruling or aristocratic class in all similar cases, and not the forms of law or principle, which accomplishes such changes, whether according to the forms of law or in disregard of them. _This class are never respecters of principle_, but rule in virtue not of what principles empower them to do, as a majority, but of the power of might and dominant strength. It is obvious that were they to do the former, they would be destitute of any other power than pertained to the whole community, they in part, and others equally. Accordingly, they having, once for all, in their adhesion to the Constitution, and again on its eve, consented to an election, and therefore its issue, when a majority of the entire nation elected a representative of the Chicago declaration, they reverted to their power of might, and rebelled.

It is, therefore, the subversion of an _un_principled (the term is of the strictest accuracy) ruling class, or aristocracy, and the obliteration of their peculiar power, that we have to accomplish. This power consists wholly of certain peculiar interests as masters. To deprive them of these, is the only possible terminus of the question at issue. So plain and palpable is the whole question, that we need hardly say that their whole scheme of government turns upon and clusters about this interest. For the preservation of this interest, which they thought touched by the advances of freedom, they rushed into war, and for the conservation of their power, they base all upon it.

That the general question of property is at all affected by the obliteration of this interest, is an egregious error. The property, the possession of which is valid and inviolable, is the product of human skill, industry, labor, invention, or what not. Nor does it confer political dominance on its possessor. The slaveholders are the only class in the nation whose property interest does so; and reciprocally, the sole object of the maintenance of this interest is the maintenance of this dominant power. Whether it be or be not criminal to possess it, is not the point upon which the demand for the abrogation of this interest turns--at least, there is no legal precedent to so think of it--but it turns upon the fact that it is ruinous to a republican system. Not the whole force of republicanism can at once maintain itself and conserve and cherish _that_; and _if_ it, to a certain extent cherish it, it will do no more than continue the basis of the power of a class, who will use it in the only way it can be used, namely, in contesting whatever interests, principles, or practices are averse to it.

Hence, for more than thirty years not a single widely beneficent measure of legislation has been allowed to pass and become operative by the representatives of this interest. So the South, the seat of this interest, has always been, in its own estimation, 'the South,' despite what we have said of a national Union; rendering it impossible that the republican patriot could _unite_ in one sentiment that which this particular interest _divided_ itself from.

That humanity should dictate the freedom of the slave in the interests of morality, is but natural. With this we have nothing to do; but that the being of an 'aristocracy based on property' should be excluded from the bounds of a republic, is of an importance to it and mankind, not second to religion itself.

THE MOLLY O'MOLLY PAPERS.

VII.

The Chinese thief, they say, greases himself and sticks knives in his queue, so that it is nest to impossible to catch him. Old Time is about as slippery a fellow as a Chinese thief. I don't know that he has a queue, and have fancied that when queues were worn, and Time was in the fashion, some old fogy, too slow to keep up with him, caught him by his queue. Time, who never yet was detained by mortal grasp, pressed on and left it behind. Since then he has cultivated only that _ungraspable_ forelock. Fleet of foot as he is, it is thought that Young America, with his telegraphs, will, in the long run--that is, in the race round the world--come out 'a leetle ahead' of him. Indeed, Young America talks of annihilating Time. But, though he may have 'one foot on land and one on sea,' he has no commission to 'swear that time shall be no more.'

We are a fast people--no mistake. Perhaps a little too fast. Did we only _anticipate_ Time, and pull down only what, with those sure sappers and miners of his, the years, he is certain to overthrow, it would be well enough. But we wish to destroy what he has left untouched, or would remodel it, would modernize it.

The dear old creed of our fathers; _old_ creed, did I say? Ever _new_ creed; for what Time passes by, never grows old. This we would change to suit ourselves, fancying we have outgrown it; or thinking it, like the Spartan iron coin, too cumbersome for general circulation, we would change it for lighter, and as we think, more precious metal. We deem this the age of gold.

There is a great deal said about our progress toward mental and moral perfection. Some seem to think that education is all we need to make us perfect moral beings. 'Ignorance is the cause of all evil;' all things are as they should be; our minds are as the _camera obscura_, a darkened chamber which a few rays enter, and every thing only _appears_ upside down. All we need is more light, to see to set every thing straight. It is true that we see things in an inverted position; but in this prison-house, we shall never have light enough to see them as they are. There is a lens that corrects these false impressions, and the light that enters through it shows us many things upside down that we before saw right side up, and _vice versa_.

Intoxicated with conceit, we fancy that we have but to eat of the tree of knowledge to become gods. Some go so far as to say that we are even now a part of divinity. 'The universe--it is God;' therefore we, as a part of the universe, are a part of God. The universe God? If it is a part of God, (which it is not,) it is so small a fraction that in all mathematical calculations, it would be called nothing. Were all the minds in the universe mingled into one, that one would be but as a drop to the ocean that girdles Infinity--God.

You will think me too earnest. The O'Mollys were ever an earnest race and an orthodox race. With what earnestness did they, in the good old times, from those peculiarly Irish goblets, that wouldn't stand, drink Irish whisky, till they partook of the nature of the goblets and came to the floor with them--the goblets with a crash, but the O'Mollys got up as sound as a bell, and next morning were ready to attend mass, into which they entered with as much earnestness as into their revelry. No people equal the Irish in earnestness in _spiritual_ matters. It is perhaps not for a female O'Molly to record these roysterings; but I am the last of my race, I only am left to chronicle the glorious doings of my ancestors. Then, too, on our escutcheon is one of these same goblets. The origin of this escutcheon it has been a family task to trace, with but little success, however, till the present generation, I had a cousin who inherited all the family pride. He became a martyr to his devotion to the 'time-honored custom;' for alas! good old Irish whisky is as certainly among the 'things that were,' as are the Irish kings. Some have shrewdly thought that it was the only real Irish king. Well, then, it is owing to this cousin's loyalty to the usurper, or rather pretender, that I am the family chronicler. He was wonderfully ingenious; could from the slightest hint guess at the whole story; he was equal to those naturalists who from one bone can make out the animal. With the remains of an old family tradition for his clue, he traced the origin of the escutcheon. It was on this wise. One of the Irish kings, traveling incog., stopped at the castle of an O'Molly, who, though he knew not the rank of his guest, entertained him with the utmost hospitality. Freely the goblet circulated, and as they two only drank from it, it was soon broken. The king, next morning, revealed his rank to his host, and dubbed him _Knight of the Goblet_; hence the goblet on the shield, an emblem of hospitality. And never has there been a stain on the escutcheon of the O'Mollys.

I said they were an orthodox race. Perhaps they were too bigoted in their adherence to the old customs and the old faith. But there is too much latitudinarianism in this nineteenth century. Too many think it matters but little what a man's belief is, if he is only sincere in it; as if the consequences of any thing could be averted by not believing in it. The hands of your clock may be so turned around that they will point to the wrong figures; does that change the time? Or, what amounts to the same thing, it may be so ill-regulated, the machinery may be so out of gear, that you are deceived. But morning, noon, and night do not regulate their face by your clock. There is a dial that unerringly marks 'the stately stoppings' of the sun of suns--let us regulate our belief by it.

Truth is not like the clouds that, it is said, take the form of the country over which they pass. It does not change to suit your condition or mind, and we can not change it, neither can we dilute it. What is not truth is falsehood, and this, as the acid dissolved the pearl which Cleopatra dropped into it, will dissolve truth and convert it into its own nature.

How little we prize truth, even if we do not thus attempt to dissolve it. It lies in our heart unheeded. We are almost as unconscious of it as the oyster is of the pearl within his shell.

A friend of mine, having a daughter 'to finish,' looked over advertisement after advertisement, till finally her eye lighted on the circular of Mrs. Smith's Female Seminary, situated in the quiet and salubrious village of----, within a few minutes' walk of three or four places of worship.... Great care taken of the health, manners, and morals of the pupils.... Exercise insisted on.... Those whose parents may wish it, allowed the use of a quiet saddle-horse.... The pupils under the immediate supervision of the principal.... They have all the comforts of Home, etc., etc. All this, in addition to a thorough course of instruction in every thing ever heard of, not forgetting the Use of the Globes.... Music on the piano and guitar; there are six pianos in the institution.... Drawing, Monochromatic, Grecian, Oriental, etc., etc. Painting in oils and water-colors.... Embroidery, ten different kinds.... Terms, $--per annum. Then follows an imposing list of references, Reverends, Esquires, and Honorables.

My friend, taken with this, decided that her daughter, Bessie, should go to Mrs. Smith's seminary. Accordingly, a short time before the commencement of the next term, she accompanied her there; was so pleased with Mrs. Smith's bland politeness toward herself, and her affectionate, almost matronly manner toward her daughter, that she came away relieved of all anxiety on Bessie's account.

I hope I am not 'violating the sanctity of private correspondence,' in giving the following letter from Bessie:

'MY DEAR MOLLY: I received yours last evening, and hasten to reply, though, to answer your numerous questions will take me till after prayers. I shall consequently, as I am not the _model_ pupil, get an absence-mark. You inquire as to the advancement I am making in my studies. One thing is certain, I shall not come home the _encyclopedia_ mother expects. I'll not say that this 'flourishing institution' is a humbug; but will say that facts and the circular do not exactly tally. A few of the facts I will give, and you can judge for yourself.

'To begin with the supervision of the bland, portly principal. She enters the school-room makes a few criticisms, asks a blessing at the table; occasionally a misdemeanor is reported to her, when the offender is cited to the august presence, and duly reprimanded, not according to the quality of the offense, but, in an inverse proportion, to the _quality_ of the offender. Her teachers do the mental drudgery of the institution. Their life is about as varied and pleasant as that of a churn-dog; that is, if the dog were kept churning all day. The balancing of accounts with them, and the making out of the bills for the patrons, are certainly 'under the immediate supervision of the principal.' These bills, which fond parents suppose amount to $--, have a rat-like appendage (excuse the expression) of 'incidentals,' that wasn't drawn into the _modest_ 'terms' of the circular. I nearly forgot her Friday afternoon lectures, for which she sometimes substitutes _Hannah More_, and the _Young Ladies' Own Book_. These lectures are as commonplace as expatiations on the importance of cultivating the mind and heart, interspersed with 'hence the necessity,' and 'highly essential,' can mate them. Last Friday, as she was enlarging on the advantage of having had our birth in an enlightened, Christian land, Jenny Dean wrote on a slip of paper, and poked it over to me,'not _have_ our _berth_ in a Christian land.' Mrs. Smith saw her, confiscated the paper, and gave her a severe reprimand, for evincing such a disposition to trifle with serious things. Jenny was right; if ours is a Christian berth, commend me to heathendom. Mrs. Smith neglected to mention in her circular the instruction in _entomology_ her pupils receive; probably because they are, as 'the Autocrat' says every traveler is, _self-taught_. I wish she would omit a few lessons in the 'Use of the Globes,' and teach the servants the use of hot water, corrosive sublimate, and roach-poison.

'I begin to understand why it is called a _finishing_ school. Don't tell mother, or she will have me put in quarantine when I return. But, really, I'm getting quite thin; the demand made on my system being greater than the supply of 'plain wholesome food.' Now, I'm not going to complain of this 'plain wholesome,' though the butter is sometimes strong, the lamb (?) ditto, (see circular in regard to home comforts.) But I wish you would suggest to mother the propriety of sending me another box; the last we finished in short metre. You know this is a _finishing_ school. Only one of the girls of our hall is too mean to _treat_, and she gets _lots of things_ from home. Yesterday, she brought a beautiful basket of apples to my room, just to show me how nice they _looked_. I suggested that 'the proof of the pudding was in the _eating_.' She was too obtuse to take the hint. It is almost sacrilege to talk so about her; she is Mrs. Smith's _model_ pupil, which, as I before informed you, your humble servant is not. Jenny Dean and I are always getting into trouble. Somehow, we've got a bad name, and our _slightest_ misdemeanor is noticed, so we think that we 'might as well be killed for a sheep as a lamb:' in other words, if the camel's back must be broken, it may as well be by a hundred-pound weight as a feather.

'We have an Italian music-teacher, chiefly noticeable for his length of limb, an exiled nobleman, of course. I hinted to Jenny a doubt as to his nobility. She said, if he didn't belong to 'the Brahmin caste,' he did to the _Bramah cast_, and that was the next thing to it. He has become violently attached to the assistant music-teacher, who is very thin. Now, he has been teaching us to screech 'For Bonnie Annie Laurie.' Jenny persists in calling it, For bony Annie Laurie. The gravity with which he each time corrects her is amusing. Signor _executes_ to the admiration of patrons, etc.; though music on those horrid pianos is rather like music on the rack. Of the six inventoried, (see circular,) two are in the garret, superannuated; two more ought to be; as for the remaining two, on one of them your friend Bessie practices, and it is too great a trial to her nerves to speak of them. You say that you have music in your souls that I must learn to express for you; that you can't turn a tune to save your life; that the attempt is like the attempt to make a curve of straight lines, (you see how I remember all you write or say.) If you were here, you would wish all the melody of the institution _voiceless_, and that it wouldn't ooze out at the finger-ends.

'As for drawing, (see circular,) this department, to save expense, Mrs. Smith's _accomplished_ daughter has. She teaches crayoning and pencilling--a few learn to daub in water-colors--but this she rather discourages, as colored crayoning is much easier and quite as _showy_--this is the word for everything here. Miss Smith also teaches French--_Anglicized_. It is hardly worth while to mention 'the solids,' as these are shoved into a corner to give place to the accomplishments.... As for the exercise--we do, two or three times a week, file down the street, then file back again--are thus exhibited to the admiring gaze of the Esquires, Reverends, and Honorables, (see circular.) The 'quiet saddle-horse' (see circular) is a 'poetic fiction,' a 'pious fraud'--as much a myth as Pegasus himself. Though there is a tradition in the school that, a short time after the founding of the establishment, the late lamented husband of Mrs. Smith, who was fond of equestrian exercise, kept a horse--which a parlor-boarder, niece of Mrs. Smith, was allowed to ride--hence the provision in the circular. One part of it is correct--he doubtless is now a _very_ quiet saddle-horse--that is, if he had not the tenacity of life of the _lamb_ that, judging from the savory odor, we are to have for dinner, ('what's in a name?') Perhaps the 'late lamented' was as fond of his nag as was the man who entertained his guests with his horse in the form of soup. Jenny Dean says that is what she calls true _horse-pitality_.

'There goes the bell. Don't forget the box. Mrs. Smith--unlike many principals--approves of them--the reason you can guess--the _fact_ please mention to mother. In haste,

BESSIE.'

It seems hardly consistent with my regard for the 'dear reader,' to add any thing by way of remark on this true school-girl letter. But it is so suggestive. How many circulars do tally with facts? Even in those of the best schools, that need none of this clap-trap, there is a little humbug. But this is rather the fault of the patrons; like Bessie's mother, they will hardly look at a plain advertisement. The truth is, we love to be humbugged. Among the 'wants of the age' may be classed _humbug_.

I have read of a painter with disproportionately short legs, who, in all his pictures of human figures--from Moses down to the Mayor, done in heroic style--substituted his own legs. Your thorough utilitarian, deficient in imagination, his idea of mental symmetry being his own mental proportions, thinks no mind well balanced that has not a similar deficiency. He is a believer in nothing but the real and the useful--all else is stuff and nonsense; to him a mountain is a high elevation of land; a plain, a level tract; a forest, so much timber in a green state; a cloud, a collection of vapor. He sees in every thing just what there is in it and nothing more. Why does any one see more? It has been a puzzle to me, the undefinable longing I have sometimes felt in looking at a beautiful scene; a feeling akin to this, though lower, is that awakened by the fragrance of some flowers--it is so unsatisfactory, you wish to _taste_ them. These somethings bring up a shadow of 'shadowy recollections,' an echo of an echo of a past so indistinct, so dimly distant, that it seems to have been a part of another life.

It may be that all earthly things are but types of spiritual things in a future spiritual existence--hence the yearning; or they may be expressions of spiritual things in a past spiritual existence--hence the 'shadowy recollections.' One thing is certain: all beauty and grandeur are faint expressions of the ideas of the All-Father; therefore, O utilitarian! you do wrong to ask of them: 'What use?' Better cultivate a taste for them, and with this taste an earnest desire to look into that Mind and read there thoughts of which Mont Blanc and the exquisite flowers are but feeble utterances.

How the Great Teacher has lavished on us illustrations of his goodness, as if he would in some way make it plain to all, '_what use_.' There _must_ be a use in every thing he creates. Every dew-drop that the meanest weed has wooed and won from the atmosphere, is as tenderly cared for by him, as the stream is that supplies your mill-pond; every briny tear on the infant's cheek, as the ocean that bears on its bosom your merchant-vessels. What use? Have not some things been made useless--in your sense of the term--that they might be preserved from destruction? The gorgeous-plumed birds, and brightly-enameled fish of the tropics, are unfit for food--so, to your mind, of no use. I wonder if this holds good in cannibal countries; if so, it would be no protection to poor Molly O'Molly if she were there.

I, too, am a believer in the real and the useful; but to me, the sphere of both is almost infinite. Are not the feelings awakened on viewing a beautiful sunset, as real as your satisfaction after eating roast-beef? Though I acknowledge that no one can thoroughly enjoy the one, who feels the need of the other; if then weighed in the scale, the sunset would 'kick the beam.' All things 'by season seasoned are to their right praise and true perfection.' It would, for instance, be rather out of place to talk of the beauty of the stars to the houseless wanderer, for whom there were no 'cheerful lights of home;' to expatiate on the loveliness of the moon to him who must spend the chill night with no other covering than her 'silver mantle.'... Moonlight and memory are associated together in my mind--reflections of a set sun, wrapping in their calm, beautiful light, all things, even the graves of those we love.... I have thought that the murmur of the brook was the _voice of Silence_. Moonlight expresses to the eye--_silence_.... 'All this unreal?' I beg your pardon; I claim for my feelings the same reality that you claim for yours. Is only what is gross real? Is not the sky as real as the mountain that pierces it? Is there more reality in the chink of the dollar than in 'the music of the spheres'? This first is, I acknowledge, to me a pleasant sound, though only 'heard at rarest intervals.'... Yet I am rather inclined to believe in the reality of the music of the spheres; it is too ethereal, too spiritual a music for the ear to _sense_ it; the food and drink of the gods, ambrosia and nectar, even were we to swallow them, could our mortal palates taste them? Even thus may we drink in the music of the spheres, and, strange as it may seem, the more _ear_ we have, the less likely we will be to hear it.

But--_not_ 'in this connection,' in no connection--the utilitarian also thoroughly despises cobweb theories, as he terms them. The world owes its greatest achievements to theories--cobwebs they may be. In caves have been found books of stone, whose nucleus was but cobweb; along these webs the calcareous solution ran, and hardened into stone. A cobweb theory has been the thread, on which, drop by drop, as it were, experiments have run and hardened into a possibility on which might be hung a _steam-boat_.

There goes the night-train. Every morning as the engine with its train passes, the dark smoke rushing out of the chimney is touched by the rays of the rising sun and made glorious. I doubt not my enjoyment in looking at it is as real as that of the heaviest stockholder. Here I 'pitch my foot against'--as Paley says in his famous watch-argument--_a quotation_.

'Life is transfigured in the soft and tender Light of love, as a volume dense Of rolling smoke becomes a wreathed splendor In the setting sun.'

But this warm subject of love I avoid as the whale avoids the warm water of the Gulf Stream. So I will wheel about--first, one more digression: This love, like the Gulf Stream, softens many a climate naturally as cold as that of Labrador. I just throw out this hint for the sentimental reader to enlarge upon.

That quotation from Alexander Smith reminds me of one other thing, for which your utilitarian has a sovereign contempt--that is _poetry_. What is poetry? Every thing that stirs the soul to its depths, or but crisps the surface, is poetry--every truth does this, therefore every truth is poetry. Mind, I don't say _conversely_, etc. There--that word 'conversely,' suggests to you that now you have me; there is mathematical truth, you say; you might as well attempt to raise a tree from cube-root as to attempt to make poetry sprout from mathematics.... Is there no poetry in the marked path of the vessel on the trackless ocean--no poetry in the magnificent sweep of suns and worlds through space--in the eccentric orbit of the faithful comet--faithful, for from the most distant errands he passes right by earth, and even Venus, lingers not a moment, but hastens back to his lord--is there no poetry in the icing over of the brook, (if you think not, read Lowell's _Sir Launfel_,) each icy crystal being an exact geometrical figure? When 'God geometrizes,' he also poetizes.

Then if we can't say conversely all poetry is truth, yet poetry gives to every thing she touches with her magic wand, the charm of reality. Are not Ariel, Puck, Oberon, real characters, though but 'beings of the mind'? Shylock and Lady Macbeth are to me as real as John Wesley and Hannah More, and far more real than the dimly defined heroes of Plutarch, except those that Shakspeare has thrilled with his own life-blood--his very ghosts have an awful individuality--they are enough to make you believe in ghosts. But hark! what was that--pshaw! it is only a screech-owl on the maple near my window--Keats' 'owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold,' I should think this was, from his shivering notes. Listen again! how old is the dead Time, whose age the distant town-clock is tolling? I don't care to count--to tell the truth, that owl makes me nervous--and if it is 'the witching time of night,' I don't care to know it--so good-night.

In haste, MOLLY O'MOLLY.

WOUNDED

Up the quiet street in the early Sunday morning, came with slow steps and silently, two wounded soldiers: One with shattered arm and a cruel sabre-cut on his forehead; One with amputated leg, hobbled slowly along on crutches.

In the thunder-storm and sharp crash of terrible battle, 'mid blood, carnage, and death, Comrades in arms, they fell side by side; one of them senseless, the other feeling his life-blood flowing away... Faintness came over him, breathing the sulphurous smoke, with the tornado of battle stunning his brain-- Faintness--forgetfulness. A vision of childhood, of the sweet Heaven-time of life, came to him... He hoped it was death, coming as no king of terrors, but as a beautiful flower-crowned child, Bidding a hero welcome to the great halls of the laurel-wreathed dead--those who died for their country.

From this dream of the Future came sharp awaking to life; rattling away in the ambulance... Crashing pains shooting wildly from leg to brains--the heart now and then grasped with steel fingers and squeezed... The knife and the tourniquet, the rapid surgical operation: the poor, pale fellow maimed for life.

At home in a hospital kindly nursed and tended, hearing for the first time in life the name of God--not taken in vain: seeing the good DEEDS of true woman... Knowing that should he die he would ask no gentler sounds to cheer him on his road to the Hereafter, than the prayer he once heard read by The Lady in Gray to a dying soldier in the same hospital:... thus passed he back again to life. Now convalescent he walks in the fresh morning up the quiet street, under the leafy shadow of lindens... he and his comrade in battle.

In the faces of both you may see that they know how earnest is life... The Angel of Death on the battle-field raised the veil of the Future: transient the glimpse, but they will never forget it... The Angel of Mercy here in the hospital bound up their wounds, cheering their hearts with kind looks and well-spoken words of true sympathy... Solemnly earnest and beautiful is Life to these two wounded soldiers.

The lame one is weary, and halts by the steps of a handsome house; his comrade with one arm helps him sit down there, on the lowest step, leaning against the white marble balustrade. Through lace and silk curtains, from drawing-room window, looks down the street a beautiful woman, waiting impatiently carriage, coachman, and footman, to carry her grandly to church. Up comes the carriage; wide open the doors of the house: Madame descends... How is this?... She stops by the two wounded soldiers.

I have two sons in the army, she thought; what if they were weary and wounded like these? Then she speaks to the comrades in battle, and learning where they were going, insisted on their taking her carriage. She will have no refusal: and now John the footman, inwardly groaning, assists the lame man to enter, then the other one takes a seat... Off they whirl to their hospital-home, with a blessing upon the fair lady who dared follow the teachings of ONE whom that morning she worshiped with words ... and with deeds.

Open your hands--and your hearts--ye who stand afar off from the battle! Lo! the wounded and dying are here at your doors. Slumber no more; but awake, AWAKE TO THEIR CRIES!

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ASTOR AND THE CAPITALISTS OF NEW-YORK.

The accumulation of wealth has always been a chief proclivity of our race. The earliest of all books (Job) mentions it with sharp reproof, as though even then it had become a theme with the moralist. In olden time, wealth was even more unreliable than at the present day, especially as the mere possession of gold was enough to endanger one's life. The modern capitalist avoids this by devolving the custody of his cash on some bank and holding its stock instead of a hoard of ingots. The science of wealth now takes a more philosophic turn, and may be summed up in one word, _debt_. To be rich is simply to have brought the community in debt to yourself; and the greater it is, the greater, of course, your riches. To be poor is simply to reverse this condition, and to be in debt to others. The richest of all mankind may not have on hand, in specie, at any one time, more than the amount of a single day's income, and may be only able to show for his entire capital sundry pieces of paper, representing value. This is a vast improvement upon antiquity, since then wealth was identified with the holding of bullion, for whose protection an especial deity was invented. By a strange coïcidence, while Pluto was god of the lower regions, a slight change of the name represented his moneyed colleague, and Plutus presided over money. This connection is with sober wit hit off by Milton, who sets the fallen angels at once to work digging gold.

'Soon had his crew Opened into the hills a spacious wound And digged out ribs of gold. Let none admire That riches grow in hell: that soil may best Deserve the precious bane.'

The term 'almighty dollar' is stereotyped in modern slang, and yet the idea could not but have existed under other words in the days of those flush individuals, Midas and Croesus. The first of these moneyed gentlemen found gold too plenty for comfort, while the latter, by his unfortunate end, proved that even at that early time riches had learned to fly away. Gold entered very largely into the politics of antiquity, and by this means Crassus got a partnership in the grand triumvirate of which Mark Antony and Octavius formed the more active parties. Poor Crassus found, however, that to be a sleeping partner in a concern was quite a dangerous position.

The danger in which money involves its possessor, is shown with dramatic power by Scott, in his splendid medieval dream, _Ivanhoe_--in the torture-scene, where the Jew is racked to obtain his gold. In connection with this, it may be noted as a surprising fact that while poverty has always been dreaded, it has ever been exempt from one term of peculiar wretchedness. With all his privation, who ever heard a poor man designated as a _miser_?

Wealth is a matter of comparison. The original term applied by the New-England savages to the white was, _knifeman_; the possession of one implement making the latter rich in the view of the Indian. What a vast investment in wampum would such a weapon be? Carrying out the same comparative idea, it is reported as one of John Jacob Astor's sayings: 'That a man worth fifty thousand dollars is as well off as though he was rich.' So strong is this comparative aspect, that the money-hunter finds his mark continually receding, and when he has attained his hundred thousand, he is appalled by finding himself but a mere beginner compared with others. He is but at the foot of the mountain which others have climbed, and which towers above him in

'Many a fiery, many a frozen Alp.'

Hence, there is nothing more clearly proven in the psychology of man than that accumulation utterly fails to fulfil the idea attached to riches; that is, satiety or even satisfaction, and there is often a bitter poverty of soul gnawing the owner of millions. The organic thought crops out of great and small alike. It is said that the chief of Boston merchants of the olden time, William Gray, when asked what would satisfy him, replied, 'A little more;' while the Indian to whom the same inquiry was made, replied with aboriginal simplicity: 'All the whisky and all the tobacco in the world.' 'Nothing else?' added the inquirer. 'Yes,' replied the Indian in an anxious tone, 'a little more whisky.' The same insatiable craving is shown in poor Isaac K----, the half-witted boy, whose droll sayings of a half-century ago are still remembered about Boston. 'Father,' he one day exclaimed, 'I wish every body was dead but you and me.' 'Why so, my son?' 'Why, then, father, you and I would go out and buy all the world.'

The power of gold to inflict pain on its possessor suggests deep philosophical inquiry. Even at a superficial view, one can not but be struck by the fatal facility which it affords to vice on the one hand, while on the other, how many suffer untold distress from the miser's self-inflicted poverty? There are multitudes of ruined youth, who, had they been bound to labor instead of being reared to a life of affluent ease, would have become useful men. Indeed, by merely changing the costume of Hogarth's _Rake's Progress_, we may see it enacted by scores of young men in any of our leading cities. The writer once knew a worn-out debauchee of thirty, who, even at that early age, had got rid of an inheritance of a half-million.

The miseries of poverty are severe, and such men as Johnson and De Quincey have painted them in colors drawn from their own experience; but what scenes vastly more terrible might they not have sketched had they held that master-key which unlocks the abodes of pleasure and summons the dreadful crew of temptation?

One can not but pity the former of these, as he thinks of his wandering the live-long night through the streets of London, unable to buy a lodging, and eating each occasional meal, not knowing when he would get another. Yet, had as this might have been, how vastly more pitiable would his case have been, had he fulfilled the infernal career of some of his rich cotemporaries, such as Lord Lyttelton or Lord Euston, whose dying horrors Young has so thrillingly described in his _Altamont_. Horace, who had so thoroughly studied the philosophy of life, could refer to his lowly condition:

'Sæva paupertas et avitus apto Cum lare fundus:'

and then cite the race reared in poverty as those who saved the commonwealth, by defeating Hannibal. His deep-toned objurgations at the degeneracy of Rome are brought to mind by the increased dissipation and licentiousness of American youth.

Who can read lines like these without thinking of our concert-saloons and other facilities of vice? (the former happily suppressed.)

Damnasa quid non immmuit dies.

The history of capitalists would be interesting, if only as showing this single feature, namely, that the secret of great success lies in one's placing himself in some channel where the stream must soon flow, and thus anticipating the future.

Johnson, in the midst of his cheerless poverty, had some golden dreams, was sensible of this fact, and illustrates it in one of those Oriental apologues which occur in the _Rambler_, where he shows the tiny rivulet gradually filling a lake. With the same idea permeating his mind, he exclaims, when Thrale's brewery was to be sold: 'Here are the means of wealth beyond the dreams of avarice.'

The history of rich men also proves that it is not so much the art of getting as that of keeping which insures success. New-York and other of our great cities contain thousands of poor men who, but a few years ago, were heavy operators, and whose future seemed brilliant with promise. Yet here they are, now struggling for mere bread.

Riches are winged creatures, which break cage with strange facility and are not to be whistled back again. The array of agents, brokers, book-keepers, and decayed gentlemen who but lately were numbered among merchants, bankers, and ship-owners, is quite a moving spectacle. Thus A. B----, for thirty years connected with trade, during most of which period he was a leading member of the great cloth house of----, has been worth two hundred thousand dollars, but is now a book-keeper for a concern in John street. I. S---- has been forty years in trade, and was considered successful beyond all liability to future risk; and for many years ranked among the rich men of the street, but has since failed, and is now poor. B---- and M----, princes in the dry-goods line, built two palatial stores in Broadway, have been immensely rich, but after battling honorably with adverse fortune, have failed. J. R----, a retired merchant, estimated at five hundred thousand dollars, holding at one time fifty thousand dollars in Delaware and Hudson Canal stock, subsequently got involved and lost all. Instances like these might be multiplied to volumes, but they are sufficient to illustrate the transitory nature of earthly possessions.

The great capitalists of New-York are chiefly identified with its real estate, and their wealth has generally arisen from its advance in value. Few great fortunes have lasted long, when left to 'the caprices of trade, and the sons of our merchant-princes generally turn out poor men. The great estates of the city are of a very limited number, and are mainly included in the names of Whitney, Goellet, Lorrillard, Rhinelander, Stuyvesant, Lenox, and Astor. The first of these was so long an _habitué_ of Wall street, Front street, and Coenties Slip, that even now, when wandering along those thoroughfares, we almost momently expect to meet him. We can not but think that at the next turn we shall see that shrunken and diminutive form, that meagre, hungry-looking countenance, and that timid, nervous eye, which indicated the fear of loss or the dread approach of charity. His office was held for years in the second story of a warehouse in Front street, a spot in whose vicinity he had passed nearly three-score years. Thither he had come in his boyhood, a poor, friendless, New-Jersey lad, had found friends and employment, had at last got to be a grocer, and had gradually accumulated a large capital, by the closest economy. At this time the war of 1812 broke out, and cotton became very low, in consequence of the difficulty of shipping it to England. Mr. Whitney had at that time a vast amount of outstanding accounts in the Southern States, and his debtors were glad to pay him in this depreciated article. We have been informed that Jackson's cotton defences of New-Orleans were of his property. As neutral ships were permitted to sail between the belligerent ports, Mr. Whitney exported large quantities of cotton to England, and held the balance of his stock until the close of the war, when it advanced enormously. This advance, together with the proceeds of his exports, at once made him a millionaire, and the capital thus acquired never lost a chance of increase. Giving up the details of trade, Mr. Whitney bought large quantities of real estate, on which he erected warehouses and obtained a princely rental. In addition to this, he dealt more largely in commercial paper than any other man in the city and perhaps in the Union. His habits of industry continued, and were a theme of remark, as we observed him in his daily walk from his office to the great moneyed centre of America, where the price of paper and money rates regaled his ears. He was a good judge of paper, and needed no one to advise him. He touched nothing but what in commercial parlance is termed 'gilt-edged,' and of this he purchased almost daily for thirty years. These notes being made payable to the order of the drawers, needed no other indorsement, and hence might pass through an hundred hands without this fact becoming known. Mr. Whitney's bills receivable falling due in Wall street must have been at the rate of thirty thousand dollars per day, and his purchases of paper, of course, were at about the same rate. Much of this paper brought rates but little better than interest, but on others from one to two per cent per month was obtained. The secrets of this trade are deep and little understood, and few even of the best dealers knew that when their notes had been given for invoices of merchandise, they passed almost directly into the hands of a few bill-buyers, and that perhaps in Stephen Whitney's portfolio might be found almost the whole amount of good paper made in Front or South streets. Mr. Kimball's recent work, _Undercurrents_, throws much light on this traffic, and exhibits the result of deep study of our mercantile system.[4] Mr. Whitney's management of his estate soon brought him up to an estimate of ten millions. I used not only to meet him daily at the mart, but also attended the same church, (Dr. Alexander's.) He was a regular attendant, and a close listener, and I used to marvel how he could bear the plain truths that fell upon my ears. Here in the pulpit, at least, was one who was no money-worshiper. How well we remember the exclamation from that earnest preacher: 'Wealth! in comparison with this thing, (religion,) let it not be mentioned!' Whitney was a great admirer of plain preaching, though, we believe, he never got into the communion of the Church. Both the preacher and his millionaire listener are now dead, and the church has been pulled down, and the site is now covered by a block of splendid stores. Mr. Whitney's charities were on a very limited scale. When the congregation above referred to were building a mission-house, he was applied to, to head the subscription, which he did with a trifling sum. The gift was refused, and a larger one was demanded, as in better keeping with his position. 'Sir,' was his reply, 'if you go on this way, there will not be a rich man left in the city of New-York.' It is also said that on a certain occasion, he was called on to aid a political movement with his subscription. 'Sir,' was his reply, 'I have no money to spare, but I'll come and sit up all night to fold ballots for you.'

The Lorrillard estate was chiefly acquired through an immense tobacco business which the patriarch of that house started nearly a century ago, and which led to the purchase of large landed property. The original identity of the name continues, and 'short cut' and 'ladies' twist' are still sold under the sign and brand of the Lorrillards. We presume that it is the oldest house in America.

The Stuyvesant farm was a vast but unprofitable tract of marshes in the eastern part of New-York, but now covered by serried blocks, and among the most densely populated portions of the city. Forty years ago, these marshes were favorite skating-fields in winter, and here a lad was at that time actually drowned by the breaking of the ice. Being out of town, the drier portions were converted into an American Tyburn, and here the murderer Johnson was hanged. Such were the Stuyvesant meadows, whose worthless wastes have been raised to immense value by the growth of the city.

Among those of our city capitalists who are more identified with general benevolence, the names of Stuart and Lenox are chief. Messrs. Stuart are two brothers, who are largely engaged in refining sugars, and who have in this business made large sums. The concern originated in a small shop, where, some fifty years ago, a Scotchwomen sold candy, with her two boys as clerks. Instead of that little candy-shop, there stands on the same spot an enormous refinery, whose operations employ hundreds of hands, and whose purchases are by cargoes. What would the worthy mother say to this transformation of her shop, as by some act of magic? But it is the magic of industry and enterprise. The Stuarts use their wealth with judicious liberality, and evidently mean that the world shall be better for their living in it. Their contributions are large, and their opportunities are great, for be it remembered, such men are under incessant solicitation. Indeed, there are few things more fatal to one's peace than a reputation for liberality, which lays one open to a siege of begging faces and an inundation of begging letters, whose demands would exhaust all resources. It is our opinion that, avoiding ostentation on the one hand and importunity on the other, the Stuarts contribute conscientiously to every worthy enterprise, in a proportion corresponding to their profits.[5]

The name of Lenox appears among some of the early Scotch emigrants, such as the Irvings, Masons, Douglases, Grahams, etc. Robert Lenox became a distinguished New-York merchant. His profits were wisely invested in land, and this became very valuable. His only son, James, inherited the larger portion of this estate, whose increasing value made him a millionaire, and in its use, he has exhibited a remarkable benevolence.

We say _exhibited_, for though acting with studied secresy and silence, his life has been so full of good works, that they can not be hid. In these benefactions, Mr. Lenox exercises close discrimination, and for this purpose has for years refused personal applications. This measure, indeed, was necessary, in order to escape a perpetual siege, which would soon have driven any man distracted. He has been in the habit of considering written applications, and of selecting such as seemed worthy of his patronage. Mr. Lenox annually disburses an enormous sum in a most useful as well as most quiet manner. Indeed, his mansion is one of the benevolent institutions of the day, and to all intents and purposes, its occupant is but an actuary driven by perpetual duties and working with assiduity to fulfil an important trust. He is a thoroughly practical man, posted on all the details of business, and, inheriting the peculiar abilities and energy of his father, puts them to the best of use.

We may say that the whole purpose of his life is benevolence to all classes. Mr. Lenox will pardon us if we allude to his munificent gifts toward educational enterprise, and especially to those which enrich the institutions of Princeton. He has long been a trustee of Nassau Hall, in whose behalf he has expended large sums, and whose gallery is enriched with his portrait. The Theological Seminary is also an object of his affectionate care. A few years ago, he observed that it needed increased accommodation for its growing library. Carrying out a scheme which had its inception in this circumstance, he quietly employed an architect to draft plans, while at the same time a suitable range grounds was obtained, the materials hauled from New-York, and the present noble edifice, known as the Lenox Library, erected. That library has been of vast assistance to the institution, and not a student visits its alcoves, who does not gratefully remember its founder with a sentiment like that uttered by Gray in reference to Eton:

'Where grateful science still adores Her Henry's sacred shade.'

We understand that it has been recently decided to change this structure into an oratory, and to build another library, and we presume that in this also Mr. Lenox takes the initiative. We have referred to the fact that Mr. Lenox only considers written applications, but lest this statement should lead to their increase, we would add a word of explanation. Their number has already become so large as to create a great burden, and the daily task of reading these his begging letters is very annoying. Mr. Lenox is greatly overladen, and we advise any one who may think of his name as a _dernier resort_, to refrain from adding to the labors of an overworked philanthropist. Rest assured, dear reader, that Mr. Lenox will do all possible good with his money, and if it fails to reach you, it may flow to a more deserving object.

Mr. Lenox is deeply interested in the Free Church of Scotland, and was one of its most efficient helpers at the time of its exodus. A correspondence between him and De. Chalmers conveyed his benefactions through the noblest of instrumentalities, and a portrait of the great Scottish theologian graces the mansion of his American friend. It was painted by Henry Inman, during his sojourn abroad, and is the finest picture of Chalmers we have ever seen. Mr. Lenox is a man of fine taste, and finds recreation in gathering rare books, of which he has a valuable collection, and he possesses, in addition, a splendid gallery of pictures. Among them are two of Turner's landscapes, and we know of no others in America.[6] We might say more of this estimable man, but will not too soon anticipate the voice of fame. Our statements are made mainly to correct some false impressions about one who, with all his reticence, is one of the public men of his day, and who fulfills the idea of the poet:

'Do good by stealth and blush to find it fame.'

Such a man was George Douglas, one of the same circle of wealthy citizens of Scotch descent, who, though in a pecuniary view, hardly in the same rank with Mr. Lenox, was still very rich. Mr. Douglas preserved a studied retirement, and passed much of his time on his noble farm, but was still active in philanthropy. His estate can not be far from a half-million, yet it was used humbly in the service of his race.

'Though nursed in greatness, and to riches born, Yet in earth's fairest flower he saw the thorn. Beneath the finest linen sackcloth felt, And bound his purple with an iron belt; Lived Heaven's trustee, and lent, and gave away, To God's own heirs who never could repay; And died a rare example to the great, Of lowly virtue in a high estate.'

But among all American capitalists the name of Astor looms up in unapproachable solitude, and stands as it has stood for nearly forty years.

We may get the better idea of the Astor estate by a comparative view. Thus, a man worth one hundred thousand dollars is a rich man; a man worth five hundred thousand dollars is a very rich man; a millionaire is still more the ideal of wealth. Mr. Astor, then, is, if rightly estimated, equal to twenty-five millionaires, or two hundred and fifty rich men of the class first mentioned. In the seven hundred thousand inhabitants of New-York, there are not more than two hundred men worth one hundred thousand dollars; not more than twenty-five of the second; not more than ten of the last. Approaching the assessment-roll, we may estimate the Astor estate at one thirtieth of the entire city. Thus he stands one seven hundred thousandth in the proportion of population, and one thirtieth in that of wealth; or in other words, he owns what would be a fair proportion for twenty-five thousand of his fellow-citizens. The commencement of this estate was, as is well known, by small beginnings.

Among the emigrants who landed in New-York about the close of the French Revolution, was a rude German, from Baden Baden, whose life in the New World was commenced as a laborer. He afterward became a peddler of fancy goods, and eventually a dealer in peltries. In 1791 there appeared at Number 40 Little Dock street, the unpretending name of John Jacob Astor, and here the foundation of his estate was laid. Astor soon took fair rank among business men. He was prompt and snug in his dealing, honest and straightforward, and beside this, carried great weight of character in his countenance. No man could be much with him without being struck with his depth of character, and the solidity of his views. At that time the fur-trade was brisk along the Mohawk, and the peltries, after passing through the hands of frontier dealers, generally found their way into Astor's warehouse, in Liberty street. Here they were sorted with great care by his own hands, and prepared for foreign markets. An octogenarian merchant informed me that, calling once at Mr. Astor's store, he found him in an upper loft clad in a long, coarse wrapper, and engaged among his furs. 'I shall get for that,' said he, holding up the skin of a splendid silver fox, 'forty dollars, in St. Petersburg.' It probably cost him less than five dollars. Astor had no sooner gained a position as a thrifty trader, than he took a higher step by induction into Free-Masonry. We say a higher step, not with a view of glorifying this institution, but because at that time it was exceedingly popular and aristocratic, and gave tone to citizenship. Among the leading Free-Masons of New-York were Peter Irving and his brother William, Martin Hoffman, the founder of the great auction business, and father of the late L. M. Hoffman. Moving among these magnates, John Jacob Astor became Grand Treasurer. Mr. Astor had a brother of the same thrifty turn, though not so successful in acquiring wealth. He was a butcher by trade, and slaughtered himself into a pittance of one hundred thousand dollars, which, as he died early, he bequeathed to William B., his nephew. 'To him that hath shall be given.' Mr. Astor's oldest son is said to have been a very promising lad, but his brain became injured by a fall, and he soon fell into a state of derangement. A private asylum was arranged for his use years ago, and this, with its grounds, covers an entire block in the western part of the city.

Mr. Astor's profits rolled in upon him at a rate which no one could have dreamed of, and he kept their amount a secret until he had so penetrated the frontier by his agencies that he controlled the whole trade, when he occasionally acknowledged a degree of wealth which astonished those who heard. For instance, we may state this fact in illustration: He had occasion at a certain time to use a large amount of cash, and what was very rare with him, applied to his bank for a heavy discount. The unusual circumstance and the sum demanded startled the cashier, who in a plain, business way, put the question: 'Mr. Astor, how much do you consider yourself worth?' '_Not less than a million_,' was the reply. _A million_! the cashier was overwhelmed. He supposed that he knew all his customers, and had rated Astor at hardly more than one tenth of that sum.

Mr. Astor commenced at an early day to buy real estate, and the habit grew upon him until it became a passion. He was for years a leading character at sheriff and other land sales, and it was the commonest thing at such places to hear the closing words of the auctioneer: 'Last call--going, going--gone--to John Jacob Astor.' At that time many large estates were broken up, and among others, that of Aaron Burr was put into the market, and speedily became the property of Mr. Astor. It embraced a small suburban principality, whose mansion, 'Richmond Hill,' was Burr's country-seat. The whole property is now in the heart of the city and is worth millions, where once it brought thousands. Mr. Astor boldly bought those wild lands, including swamps, rocky knolls, and barren commons, which lay at waste from Canal street onward to Bloomingdale, and while others affected to laugh at his judgment, the correctness of that judgment is now quite apparent. A case similar in character is that of the late eccentric Jonathan Hunt. This man, who had accumulated a vast fortune South, was quite noted, a few years ago, for his dashing land purchases in New-York, and his relatives actually served on him a warrant _de lunatico inquirendo_, with a view of preventing him from wasting his estate. Subsequently, however, it turned out that these incessant purchases which had made him a leading man at the Merchants' Exchange, and an object of distrust to his family, were splendid operations. Poor Hunt's bid was subsequently refused by the auctioneers, on the score of insanity, while the lots he bought on Madison avenue and elsewhere, were, in fact, as speculations, superior to the operations of the most sagacious speculators.

Astor's boldness increased with years. He bought government loans at a time when other capitalists shrunk, and the price had run down to the lowest mark. He bought claims against old estates--one of which paid an enormous profit, and would have been accounted a splendid fortune of itself--while the gradual increase of the city brought his waste lands into demand; and the opening of the Erie Canal may be said to have at one stroke added a million of dollars to the value of his estate. Whatever was bought was held with determined grasp, however small the prospect of advance. For instance, a friend of ours (now dead) purchased, in company with Mr. Astor, two lots on Broadway, of which they took separate deeds, and held for an advance. Year after year passed by, but no advance appeared, while assessments were continually made for city improvement. At the end of this period our friend called on Mr. Astor and stated that he was weary of such long delay in getting return for his investment, and asked him if he would not take the lot and give him its simple cost. Mr. Astor calmly acceded to the proposal. Had our friend held the same views as the great land operator, he would have realized a fortune from this single lot, since what then cost one thousand dollars is now worth fifty thousand dollars.

The Napoleonic character of Mr. Astor's mind is shown by the great commercial schemes which shared the claims of real estate. He was extending the ramifications of his trade through the North-west wilderness and competing with the Hudson Bay Company for the peltry taken by the numerous tribes of savages, while at the same time a vast export trade was carried on with Europe, and also with China, whence he brought teas in exchange for furs. It was this broad ambition which prompted the grand scheme of a new station at the mouth of the Columbia. And this scheme, though it failed, was not without great national results. Its misfortunes were chronicled by the pen of Irving, and in his pages the story of the crew murdered, and the ship plundered and burned, was recorded among the tragedies of commerce.

Mr. Astor lived to old age, and his life was one of few changes. From his humble shop in Little Dock street (now Water street near Coenties Slip) he removed his place of business to Liberty street, (Number 71,) and subsequently to Broadway. His longest place of abode was Number 223 Broadway, now a part of the site of the Astor House, whence, after a residence in Hoboken, he removed up-town to a block in Broadway near Prince street. Here he remained until death, but he lived long enough to see the progress of the city covering his lands with dwellings, and bequeathed to his son the largest estate in America. Mr. Astor had a literary taste, and was fond of book-men. He gave Fitz-Green Halleck a snug and profitable clerkship, and on the death of the capitalist, William B. Astor presented to the poet the sum of ten thousand dollars. Mr. Astor also sought the acquaintance of Washington Irving on the return of that distinguished gentleman from Europe, and it was at his especial request that the _Astoria_ was written. The friendship between these two distinguished men continued until death, when it was found that Mr. Irving had been appointed one of the executors of the will. The fees connected with this office could not have been less than one hundred thousand dollars, and the executors (six in number) at one time received ten thousand dollars apiece.

Mr. Astor's project of the library was conceived long before his death, and he had Dr. Cogswell for several years engaged in the collection of books for this purpose. The full provisions, however, were not known until the reading of the will developed the plan and funds. The plan was not carried out in detail, but was left to the judgment of the trustees, who modified it considerably, making an institution for reference instead of a mere circulating library.

To the original bequest Mr. William B. Astor has since added a large conveyance of real estate, and the institution is nearly double its original size. Speaking of Mr. William B. Astor, we may be led to a few references of a personal nature. As the ordinary street-passenger is traversing Prince street, he is not likely to be struck by any of its surroundings. The street itself is but of third-rate character, and the houses are but of a common stamp. Near Broadway, however, one may notice a small brick office, neatly built, of one story, with gable to the street, but with doors and windows closed, and the whole appearance one of security. Near the door may be seen a little sign which reads thus: 'Entrance next door: office hours from nine to three.' The next door, to which we are referred, is a plain three-story brick dwelling, with no name on the door, and might be taken for the residence of some well-to-do old-fashioned family. Hence one is quite startled to find that this is the headquarters of the chief capitalist of America. Entering the street-door, one will find himself in a small vestibule, neatly floored with checkered oil-cloth, and opening a door on his left, he will enter a well-lighted front-room, destitute of any furniture but a counting-house desk and a few chairs. At this desk stands an accountant (or perhaps two) working at a set of books, and evidently enjoying an easy berth. He will answer all ordinary inquiries, will do the duty of refusing charitable demands, and will attend to any thing in the ordinary run of business; but if one has any thing special on hand, he will point to a door opening into a rear office. This apartment is of moderate size and of simple furniture. On the table are a few books, and on opening one of them, which appears well thumbed, it will be found to contain maps of plots of city property, carefully and elegantly executed, and embracing the boundaries of an enormous estate. Seated by the table may generally be seen a stout-built man with large and unattractive features, and upon the whole an ordinary face. He is plainly dressed, and has a somewhat care-worn look, and appears to be fifty or sixty years of age. One naturally feels (that is, if he be a poor man) that it is quite a rare thing to address a capitalist, and especially when that capitalist is the representative, say of twenty-five millions of dollars. Such, at least, was our experience at our first interview with William B. Astor.

Mr. Astor occupies an imposing mansion in Lafayette Place, and immediately adjoining is the magnificent library to which we have referred, and which should commemorate the name of the son as well as that of the father. At this house he spends that small portion of his time which is not occupied by his duties in Prince street, where he does a full day's work (Sundays excepted) every day in the week. Thus the daily routine of the richest man in America is a walk to and from home, of a half-mile or so, and close attention to business.

The care of Mr. Astor's estate is a vast burden. His tenements of all grades number several hundreds, ranging from the dwelling at three hundred dollars per annum to the magnificent warehouse or hotel at thirty thousand dollars. To relieve himself from the more vexatious features of his business, he has committed his real estate collections to an agent who does the work well, and who is, no doubt, largely paid. He, with his clerks, collects rents, and makes returns of a rent-roll, whose very recital would be wearisome. As a matter of course, such a man must employ a small army of painters, carpenters, and other mechanics, in order to keep up suitable repairs. As Mr. Astor pays no insurance, the work of rebuilding after fires is in itself a large item.

A large part of Mr. Astor's property consists of vacant lots, which are in continual demand, and which he generally prefers to hold rather than sell; hence he is much employed with architects and master-builders, and always has several blocks in course of erection. This is a very heavy burden, and were it not for the help derived from his family, would, we believe, crush him. However, his son, John Jacob, is quite a business man, and bears his share of the load. This young gentleman has shown his patriotism by serving in the army for the Union, in which he bears an important commission. In addition to this, Mr. Astor has the aid of a gentleman of business character and habits, once a member of one of the largest shipping houses in the city, who has become connected with the family by marriage. The labors of all these parties would not be more than adequate to the task of collecting interest on bonds, looking after dividends, etc., since that little fire-proof office in Prince street contains several millions of Government and State securities.

In order to give something like an estimate of the immense income rolling in upon this family, we must commence with the fact that two dollars per day is considered fair wages for working men; that the man who makes five dollars per day all the year round may be considered very fortunate; that ten dollars per day is attained by that few who are more favored and gifted, and whose proportion to the mass is about one to a thousand. Starting from this estimate, we may be better prepared to rate Mr. Astor's position by comparing any of the above sums with six thousand dollars, which is said to be his daily income. Bless me! one can not but exclaim; here Croesus himself might die with envy. Yet we reply, after a moment's pause, let no one envy the man of gold. It is said that when John Jacob Astor was once congratulated by a certain person for his wealth, he replied by pointing to his pile of bonds, and maps of property, at the same time inquiring: 'Would you like to manage these matters for your board and clothes?' The man demurred to the idea. 'Sir,' continued the rich man, '_it is all that I get_!' Hence, thinking on these things, we have never envied Mr. Astor, and would not bear the burden of his wealth for all its glory. It is not the possession but the use of money, which affords enjoyment, and this is a secret which the rich seldom learn. Alas! among the annals of moneyed men, how seldom do we meet a Stuart or a Lenox--men who have learned what Goldsmith calls 'the luxury of doing good.'

It is one of the peculiar misfortunes of the rich, to be subject to the attentions of parasites and flatterers, and hence they can not possess that same certainty of the value of friendship enjoyed by the poor. The latter of these classes know that when a kind act is done to them, it comes from a pure motive; the other seldom can be sure that it is not from selfish ends. To illustrate the idea which wealth suggests, as to the motive of friendly visitors, we may state that among Mr. Astor's class-mates in Columbia College was a young man who became a preacher. The students separated--the one to handle millions, and to touch the springs of the money-market, and become the colossus of wealth; the other to his flock, as a poor domestic missionary, whose history was indeed a 'shady side.' The latter struggled on through thick and thin, and never in all his privations thought of sending a begging-letter to his old class-mate. But being once upon a time in New-York, he yielded to the inclination to make him a visit. Mr. Astor received him courteously, and the two conversed on the scenes of their early days. As the pastor arose to depart, an idea struck the capitalist's heart, which we mention to his credit. '_Can I do any thing for you_?' he inquired. He had, in fact, misconceived the object of the visit, and supposed that under the guise of a friendly call, lurked an inclination to beg, which fear of refusal had suppressed. The poor clergyman at once perceived the drift of the question. Nothing could have been farther from his mind, and blushing at the thought, he acknowledged the suggestion with an expression of gratitude, and retired.

Perhaps a view of the unrest of the human heart appears most terrible when contrasted with the almost fabulous heaps of surrounding wealth, and one is thus led to the conclusion arrived at by Goldsmith:

'Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind; With secret course which no loud streams annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy; Still to ourselves in every place consigned, Our own felicity we make or find.'

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: _Undercurrents_ is not a romance, and although its author calls it a 'Romance of business,' it is a life-like presentation of the deep things of trade, a series of dramatic scenes, holding the mirror up to a terrible reality. The characters are no fictions; they exist, they labor, they suffer daily, and will continue to do so, go long as the present system obtains, Mr. Kimball boldly lays bare the secret disease, like a demonstrator of anatomy. He is the only author who has succeeded in this department of literature, and here he shows himself a master.]

[Footnote 5: Since writing the above, we have heard of that masterpiece of munificence, the gift of fifty thousand dollars to the Theological Seminary of Princeton by the Messrs. Stuart.]

[Footnote 6: Calling on Church lately, we found him finishing his Cotopaxi for Mr. Lenox. Price, six thousand dollars.]

THUNDER ALL ROUND!

'When it once begins to thunder, You will hear it all around!' And we waited--till in wonder Soon we heard the awful sound: Crashing cannon, rifle-rattle, Bowing many a traitor-head: On, McClellan, with the battle! Strike the Typhon-serpent dead!

WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Every one _lives_ it--to not many is it _known;_ and seize it where you will, it is interesting.'--_Goethe_.

'SUCCESSFUL.--Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or intended.'--_Webster's Dictionary_.