"Pride lives with all; strange names our rustics give To helpless infants, that their own may live; Pleased to be known, they'll some attention claim, And find some by-way to the house of fame. 'Why Lonicera wilt thou name thy child?' I asked the gardener's wife, in accents mild. 'We have a right,' replied the sturdy dame; And Lonicera was the infant's name."

He stopped reading just here, to look at the evening paper, which had been brought in. I read something in it, and then we all went to sit on the piazza, with the street-lamp shining through the bitter-sweet vine, as good as the moon, and the conversation naturally and easily turned on odd names. I told what I had read in the paper: that our country rivalled Dickens's in queer names, and that it wasn't for a land that had Boggs and Bigger and Bragg for governors, and Stubbs, Snoggles, Scroggs, and Pugh among its respectable citizens, to accuse Dickens of caricature. I turned, a little tremulously, I confess, to "him," saying,—

"If you had been so unfortunate as to have for a name Darius Snoggles, now, for instance, wouldn't you have it changed by the Legislature?"

I shivered with anxiety.

"Certainly not," he replied, with perfect unconsciousness. "Whatever my name might be, I would endeavor to make it a respectable one while I bore it."

Laura sat the other side of me, and softly touched me. So I only asked, if that great star up there was Lyra; but all the time Anodyne, Ambergris, Abner, Albion, Alpheus, and all the names that begin with A, rolled through my memory monotonously and continually.

After we went up-stairs that night, and while I was trying in vain to do up my hair so as to make a natural wave in front, (sometimes everything goes wrong,) Laura said,—

"Delphine!"

My mother mixed romance with good practical sense, and very properly said that girls with good names and tolerable faces might get on in the world, but it took fortune to make your Sallies and Mollies go down. She had good taste, too, and didn't name either of us Louisa Prudence, like an unfortunate I once saw; and we were left, with our nice cottage covered with its vine of bitter-sweet and climbing rose, fifteen hundred dollars each, and our names, Delphine and Laura. Not a bad heritage, with economy, good looks, and hearts to take life cheerily. Still it is plain enough that a fifty-dollar note for the bride was not to be despised nor overlooked. In fact, with the exception of Polly's present of a brown earthen bowl and a pudding-stick, it was the first approach to a wedding-gift that I had yet received. And this note was trouble the second. But of that, by-and-by.

"Delphine!" said Laura, softly.

Some people's voices excoriate you, Laura's was soft and soothing.

"Well!"

"Don't say any more to—to Mr. Sampson about names."

"Oh, dear! hateful!"

"Delphine, be thankful it's no worse!"

"How could it be worse,—unless it were Hog-and-Hominy? I never knew anything so utterly ridiculous! America! Columbia! Yankee-Doodle! I'd rather it had been Abraham!"

All this I almost shouted in a passion of vexation, and Laura hastily closed the window.

"Let me loosen your braids for you, Del," said she, quietly, taking up my hair in her gentle way, which always had a good effect on my prancing nerves; "let me bathe your forehead with this, dear;—now, let me tell you something you will like."

"Oh, my heart! Laura, I wish you could! for I declare to you, that, if it wasn't for—if it didn't——Oh, dear, dear! how I do hate that name!"

"It is not so very good a name,—that must be owned, Del. All is, you will have to call him 'Mr. Sampson,' or 'My dear,' or 'You'; or, stay, you might abbreviate it into Ame, Ami. Ami and Delphine!—it sounds like a French story for youth. If I were you, I wouldn't meddle with it or think any more about it."

"Such a name! so ridiculous!" I muttered.

"You have considered it so much and so closely, Del, that it is most disproportionately prominent in your mind. You can put out Bunker-Hill Monument with your little finger, if you hold it close enough to your eye. Don't you remember what Mr. Sampson said to-night about somebody whose mind had no perspective in it? that his shoe-ribbon was as prominent and important as his soul? Don't go and be a goosey, Del, and have no perspective, will you?" And Laura leaned over and kissed my forehead, all corrugated with my pet grief.

"Well, Laura, what can be worse? I declare—almost I think, Laura, I would rather he should have some great defect."

"Moral or physical? Gambling? one leg? one eye? lying? six fingers? How do you mean, Del?"

"Oh, patience! no, indeed!—six fingers! I only meant"——

And here, of course, I stopped.

"Which virtue could you spare in Mr. Sampson?" said Laura, coolly, fastening my hair neatly in its net, and sitting down in her rocking-chair.

When it came to that, of course there were none to be spared. We undressed, silently,—Laura rolling all her ribbons carefully, and I throwing mine about; Laura, consistent, conservative, allopathic, High-Church,—I, homoeopathic, hydropathic, careless, and given to Parkerism. It did not matter, as to harmony. Two bracelets, but no need to be alike. We clasped arms and hearts all the same. By-and-by I remembered,—

"Oh! what's your good news, Laura?"

"Ariana Cooper and Geraldine Parker are both married,—both on the same day, at Grace Church, New York."

"Is it possible? Who told you? How do you know?"

"I read it in the 'Evening Post,' just before I came up-stairs. Now guess,—guess a month, Del, and you won't guess whom they have married."

"No use to guess. They've found somebody in New York at their aunt's, I suppose. Both so pretty and rich, they were likely to find good partis."

"Merchants both, I think. Now do guess!"

"How can I? Herbert Clark, maybe,—or Captain Ellington? No, of course not. A merchant? Julius Winthrop. I know Ariana was a great admirer of a military man. She used to say she would have loved Sidney for his chivalry, and Raleigh for his graceful foppery; and Pembroke Dunkin she admired for both. It isn't Pembroke?"

And here I sighed over and over, like a foolish virgin.

"Now, then, listen. Here it is in the paper," said Laura.

"'Married, at Grace Church, by the Rev. So-and-So, assisted, etc., etc., Ossian Smutt, Esq., of the firm of S. Hamilton & Company, to Ariana, eldest daughter of the late George S. Cooper. At the same place, and day, Hon. Unity Smith, M.C., to Geraldine Miranda, daughter of the late Russell Parker of Pine Lodge. The happy quartette have left in the Persia for a tour in Europe. We wish them joy.'"

"Ugh! Laura! goodness! well, that outdoes me," I screamed, with a sudden sense of relief, that set me laughing as passionately as I had been crying. For, though I have not before owned it, I had been crying heartily.

The Balm of a Thousand Flowers descended on my lacerated heart. To say the truth, I had dreaded more Ariana's little shrug, and Geraldine Parker's upraised eyebrows, on reading my marriage, than a whole life of that name, on my own account merely. But now, thank Heaven, so much trouble was out of my way. Mrs. Unity Smith, and Mrs. Orlando—no, Ossian Smutt, could by no possibility laugh at me. Mrs. A. Sampson wasn't bad on a card. It would not smut one, anyhow. I laughed grimly, and composed myself to sleep.

The next morning had come the pleasant letter from my Albany aunt, with the fifty-dollar note. Laura continued rocking, fifty strokes a minute, and stitching at the rate of sixty. I held the note idly, rubbing up my imagination for things new and old. Laura, being industrious, was virtuously employing her thoughts. As idleness brings mischief, and riches anxiety, I did not rock long without evil consequences. Eve herself was not contented in Eden. She had to do all the cooking, for one thing,—and angels always happening in to dinner! For my part, the name of Adam would have been enough to spoil my pleasure. Here Laura interrupted my thoughts, which were running headlong into everything wicked.

"What do you say?"

"What do you?" I answered; for, like other bad people, I had the greatest respect for good people's opinions.

"I think—a small—silver salver!"

"Do you think so, really?"

"Yes, Del. That will be good; silver, you know, is always good to have; and it will be handsome and useful always."

"What! for us?"

"Yes,—pretty to hand a cup of tea on, or a glass of wine,—pretty to set in the middle of a long table with a vase of flowers on it, when you have the Court and High-Sheriff to dine,—as you will, of course, every year,—or with your spoon-goblet. Oh, there are plenty of ways to make a small silver salver useful. Mrs. Harris says she doesn't see how any one can keep house without a silver salver."

The last sentence she said with a laugh, for she knew I thought so much of what Mrs. Harris said.

"We've kept house all our lives without one, Laura."

"Yes,—but I often wish we had one, for all that. As Mrs. Harris says, 'It gives such an air!'"

What a dreadful utilitarian Laura was, I thought. Now, the whole world and Boston were full of beautiful things,—full of things that had no special usefulness, but were absolutely and of themselves beautiful. And such a thing I wanted,—such a presence before me,—"a thing of beauty and of joy forever,"—something that would not speak directly or indirectly of labor, of something to be wrought out with toil, or associated with common, every-day objects. When that life should come to which I secretly looked forward,—when my soul should bound into a more radiant atmosphere, where the clouds, if any were, should be all gold- and silver-tinted, and where my sorrows, love-colored, were to be sweeter than other people's joys,—in that life, there would be moments of sweet abandonment to the simple sense of happiness. Then I should want something on which my mind might linger, my eye rest,—as the bird rests for an instant, to turn her plumage in the sun, and take another and loftier flight. Not a word of all this, which common minds called farrago, but which had its truth to me, did I utter to Laura. Of course, none of these things bear transplanting or expressing.

"Laura, do you like that statue of Mercury in Mrs. Gore's library?"

"Very much. But I am sure I should be tired of seeing it every day, standing on one toe. I should be tired, if he wasn't."

"Mrs. Gore says she never tires of it. I asked her. She says it is a delight to her to lie on the sofa and trace the beautiful undulations of his figure. How airy! It looks as if it would fly again without the least effort,—as if it had just 'new-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill'! Don't you think it perfect, Laura?"

"Well—yes,—I suppose so. I am not so enthusiastic as you are about it."

"Why don't you like it?"

I would not let Laura see how disappointed I was.

"One thing,—I don't like statuary in any attitude which, if continued, would seem to be painful. I know artists admire what gives an impression of motion; and I like to look at Mercury once; as you say, it gives an idea of flight, of motion,—and it is beautiful for two minutes. But then comes a sense of its being painful. So that statue of Hebe, or Aurora,—which is it?—looks as if swiftly coming towards you; but only for a minute. It does not satisfy you longer, because the unfitness comes then, and the fatigue, and your imagination is harassed and fretted. I think statuary should be in repose,—that is, if we want it in the house as a constant object of sight. Eve at the fountain, or Echo listening, or Sabrina fair sitting

"'Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, With twisted braids of lilies knitting The loose train of her amber-dropping hair.'

"No matter, if she is represented employed. The motion may go so far."

I suppose I looked blank.

"Oh, don't think I am not glad to admire it. I thought you were thinking of it for Aunt Allen's gift," continued Laura.

"And so I was. It costs just fifty dollars. But I think you are right about it. And, besides, do you like bronze, Laura?"

"I like marble a great, great deal best. There is a bronze statue of Fortune, and a Venus, at Harris & Stanwood's, that are called 'so beautiful!'—and I wouldn't have them in my house."

Here was an extinguisher. Laura didn't like bronze. And Laura was to be in my house, whether bronzes—were or not.

* * * * *

The sun shone brightly through the bitter-sweet that ran half over the window, and lighted on the corner of an old mahogany chest.

"That reminds me!" said I, suddenly. "Yesterday, I was looking at crockery, and there was the most delightful cabinet!—real Japan work, such as we read of; full of little drawers, and with carved silver handles, and a secret drawer that shoots out when you touch a spring at the back. Wouldn't that be a beautiful thing to stand in the parlor, Laura?"

"For what, Del? Could you keep silver in it? How large is it?"

"Why, no,—it wouldn't be large enough to hold silver. And, besides, I don't know that I want it for any such purpose. It would hold jewelry."

"If you had any, Del."

"There's the secret drawer,—that would be capital for anything I wanted to keep perfectly secret."

"Such as what'?"

"Oh, I don't know what, now; but I might possibly have."

"I can't think of anything you would want to shut up in that drawer," said Laura, laughing at my mysterious face, which she said looked about as secret as a hen-coop with the chickens all flying out between the slats. "In the first place, you haven't any secrets, and are not likely to have; and next, you will show us (Mr. Sampson and me) the drawer and spring the first thing you do. And I shall look there every week, to see if there's anything hid there!"

"Oh, bah!" said I to myself; "Sumner told me that cabinet was just fifty dollars."

Something—I know not what, and probably never shall know—made me rise from my rocking-chair, and walk to the chamber-window. At that moment, a man with a green bag in his hand walked swiftly by, touched his hat as he passed, and smiled as he turned the corner out of sight. A little spasm, half painful in its pleasure, contracted my chest, and then set out at a thrilling pace to the end of my fingers. Then a sense of triumphant fulness, in my heart, on my lip, in my eyes. Not the name, but the nature passed,—strong to wrestle, determined to win. Not the body, but the soul of a man, passed across my field of vision, armed for earth-strife, gallantly breasting life. What mattered the shape or the name,—whether handsome or with a fine fortune? How these accidents fell off from the soul, as it beamed in the loving eye and firm lip!

"The moment that his face I see, I know the man that must" lead "me."

And gently as the fawn follows the forest-keeper does my heart follow his, to the green pastures and still waters where he loves to lead. I did not think whether he had a name.

"Are you considering what to put into the secret drawer, Del?"

"Yes,—rather."

Again Laura and I sat and rocked,—this time silently, for my head was full, and I was holding a stopper on it to keep it from running over; while Laura was really puzzled about the way to make a dog's eyes with Berlin wool. As I rocked, from association probably, I thought again of Eve,—who never seems at all like a grandmother to me, nor even like "the mother of all living," but like a sweet, capricious, tender, naughty girl. Like Eve, I had only to stretch forth my hand (with the fifty-dollar note in it) and grasp "as much beauty as could live" within that space. Yet, as fifty dollars would buy not only this, but that, and also the other, it presently became the representative of tens of fifties, hundreds of fifties, thousands of fifties, and so on,—different fifties all, but all assuming shapes of beauty and value; finally, alternately clustering and separating, gathering as if in all sorts of beautiful heads,—angel heads, winged children,—then shooting off in a thousand different directions, leaving behind landscapes of exquisite sunsets, of Norwegian scenery, of processions of pines, of moonlight seen through arched bridges, of Palmyrene deserts, of pilgrims in the morning praying. Then came hurdy-gurdy boys and little flower-girls again, mingling with the landscapes, and thrusting their curly heads forward, as if to bid me not forget them. Then they all ran away and left me standing in a long, endless hall with endless columns, and white figures all about,—in the niches, on the floor, on the walls,—each Olympian in beauty, in grandeur, in power to lift the entranced soul to the high region where itself was created, and to which it always pointed. The white figures melted and warmed into masses and alcoves, and innumerable volumes looked affectionately at me. They knew me of old, and had told me their delightful secrets. "They had slept in my bosom, and whispered kind things to me in the dark night." Some pressed forward, declaring that here was the new wine of thought, sparkling and foaming as it had never done before, from the depths of human sympathy; and others murmured, "The old is better," and smiled at the surface-thoughts in blue and gold. Volumes and authors grew angry and vituperative. There was so much to be said on all sides, that I was deafened, and, with a shake of my head, shook everything into chaos, as I had done a hundred times before.

"What are you thinking of, Del?" said Laura, pointing the dog's eye with scarlet wool, to make him look fierce. "You have been looking straight at me for half a minute."

"Half a minute! have I?"

That wasn't long, however, considering what I had seen in the time.

"At Cotton's, yesterday, I saw, Laura, a beautiful engraving of Arria and Paetus. She is drawing the dagger from her side, and saying, so calmly, so heroically,—'My Paetus! it is not hard to die!'"

I had inquired the price of this engraving, and the man said it was fifty dollars without the frame.

"Those pictures are so painful to look at! don't you think so, Del? And the better they are, the worse they are! Don't you remember that day we passed with Sarah, how we wondered she could have her walls covered with such pictures?"

"Merrill brought them home from Italy, or she wouldn't, perhaps. But I do remember,—they ware very disagreeable. That flaying of Marsyas! and Christ crowned with thorns! and that sad Ecce Homo!"

"Yes,—and the Laocooen on that centre bracket! enough to make you scream to look at it! I desire never to have such bloody reminders about me; and for a parlor or sitting-room I would infinitely prefer a dead wall to such a picture, if it were by the oldest of the old masters. Who wants Ugolino in the house, if it is ever so well painted? Supping on horrors indeed!"

We rocked again,—and Laura talked about plants and shirts and such healthy subjects. But, of course, my mind was in such a condition, nothing but fifty-dollar subjects would stay in it; and, most of all, I must not let Laura guess what I was thinking of.

"Do you like enamelled watches, Laura,—those pretty little ones made in Geneva, I mean, worth from forty to sixty dollars?"

"How do you mean? Do I like the small timepieces? or is it the picture on the back?" said Laura.

"Oh, either. I was thinking of a beauty I saw at Crosby's yesterday, with the Madonna della Seggiola on the back. Now it is a good thing to have such a picture about one, any way. I looked at this through the microscope. It was surprisingly well done; and I suppose the watches are as good as most."

"Better than yours and mine, Del?" said Laura, demurely.

"Why, no,—I suppose not so good. But I was thinking more of the picture."

"Oh!" said Laura.

I was on the point of asking what she thought of Knight's Shakspeare, when the bell rang and Polly brought up Miss Russell's card.

Miss Russell was good and pretty, with a peach-bloom complexion, soft blue eyes, and curling auburn hair. Still those were articles that could not well be appraised, as I thought the first minute after we were seated in the parlor. But she had over her shoulders a cashmere scarf, which Mr. Russell had brought from India himself, which was therefore a genuine article, and which, to crown all, cost him only fifty dollars. It would readily bring thrice that sum in Boston, Miss Russell said. But such chances were always occurring. Then she described how the shawls were all thrown in a mess together in a room, and how the captains of vessels bought them at hap-hazard, without knowing anything about their value or their relative fineness, and how you could often, if you knew about the goods, get great bargains. It was a good way to send out fifty or a hundred dollars by some captain you could trust for taste, or the captain's wife. But it was generally a mere chance. Sometimes there would be bought a great old shawl that had been wound round the naked waist and shoulders of some Indian till it was all soiled and worn. That would have to be cut up into little neck-scarfs. But sometimes, too, you got them quite new. Papa knew about dry goods, luckily, and selected a nice one.

Part of this was repulsive,—but, again, part of it attractive. We don't expect to be the cheated ones ourselves.

The bell rang again, and this time Lieutenant Clarence Herbert entered on tiptoe: not of expectation particularly, but he had a way of tiptoeing which had been the fashion before he went to sea the last time, and which he resumed on his return, without noticing that in the mean time the fashion had gone by, and everybody stood straight and square on his feet. The effect, like all just-gone-by fashions, was to make him look ridiculous; and it required some self-control on our part to do him the justice of remembering that he could be quite brilliant when he pleased, was musical and sentimental. He had a good name, as I sighed in recalling.

We talked on, and on, instinctively keeping near the ground, and hopping from bough to bough of daily facts.

When they were both gone, we rejoiced, and went up-stairs again to our work and our rocking. Laura hummed,—

"'The visit paid, with ecstasy we come, As from a seven-years' transportation, home, And there resume the unembarrassed brow, Recovering what we lost, we know not how,'—

"What is it?—

"'Expression,—and the privilege of thought.'"

"What an idea Louisa Russell always gives one of clothes!" said Laura. "I never remember the least thing she says. I would almost as soon have in the house one of those wire-women they keep in the shops to hang shawls on, for anything she has to say."

"I know it," I answered. "But, to tell the truth, Laura, there was something very interesting about her clothes to me to-day. That scarf! Don't you think, Laura, that an India scarf is always handsome?"

"Always handsome? What! all colors and qualities?"

"Of course not. I mean a handsome one,—like Louisa Russell's."

"Why, yes, Del. A handsome scarf is always handsome,—that is, until it is defaced or worn out. What a literal mood you are in just now!"

"Well, Laura,"—I hesitated, and then added slowly, "don't you think that an India scarf has become almost a matter of necessity? I mean, that everybody has one?"

"In Boston, you mean. I understand the New York traders say they sell ten cashmere shawls to Boston people where they do one to a New-Yorker."

"Mrs. Harris told me, Laura, that she could not do without one. She says she considers them a real necessary of life. She has lost four of those little neck-scarfs, and, she says, she just goes and buys another. Her neck is always cold just there."

"Is it, really?" said Laura, dryly. "I suppose nothing short of cashmere could possibly warm it!"

"Well, it is a pretty thing for a present, any way," said I, rather impatiently; for I had settled on a scarf as unexceptionable in most respects. There was the bargain, to begin with. Then it was always a good thing to hand down to one's heirs. The Gores had a long one that belonged to their grandmamma, and they could draw it through a gold ring. It was good to wear, and good to leave. Indicated blood, too,—and—and——In short, a great deal of nonsense was on the end of my tongue, waiting my leave to slip off, when Laura said,—

"Didn't Lieutenant Herbert say he would bring you Darley's 'Margaret'?"

"Yes,—he is to bring it to-morrow. What a pretty name Clarence Herbert is! Lieutenant Clarence Herbert,—there's a good name for you! How many pretty names there are!"

"You wouldn't be at a loss to name boys," said Laura, laughing,—"like Mr. Stickney, who named his boys One, Two, and Three. Think of going by the name of One Stickney!"

"That isn't so bad as to be named 'The Fifteenth of March.' And that was a real name, given to a girl who was born at sea—I wonder what she was called 'for short.'"

"Sweet fifteen, perhaps."

"That would do. Yes,—Herbert, Robert," said I, musingly, "and Philip, and Arthur, and Algernon, Alfred, Sidney, Howard, Rupert"——

"Oh, don't, Del! You are foolish, now."

"How, Laura?" said I, consciously.

"Why don't you say America?"

"Oh, what a fall!"

"Enough better than your fine Lieutenant, Del, with his taste, and his sentiments, and his fine bows, and 'his infinite deal of nothing.'"

I sighed and said nothing. The name-fancies had gone by in long procession. America had buried them all, and stamped sternly on their graves.

"What made you ask about Darley's 'Margaret,' Laura?"

"Oh,—only I wanted to see it."

"Don't you think," said I, suddenly reviving with a new idea, "that a portfolio of engravings is a handsome thing to have in one's parlor or library? Add to it, you know, from time to time; but begin with 'Margaret,' perhaps, and Retzsch's 'Hamlet' or 'Faust,'—or a collection of fine wood engravings, such as Mrs. Harris has,—and perhaps one of Albert Duerer's ugly things to show off with. What do you think of it, Laura?"

"Do you ever look at Mrs. Harris's nowadays, Del?"

"Why, no,—I can't say I do, now. But I have looked at them when people were there. How she would shrug and shiver when they would put their fingers on her nice engravings, and soil, or bend and break them at the corners! Somebody asked her once, all the time breaking up a fine Bridgewater Madonna she had just given forty dollars for, 'What is this engraving worth, now?' She answered, coldly,—'Five minutes ago I thought it worth forty dollars: now I would take forty cents for it.'"

"Not very polite, I should say," said Laura. "And rather cruel too, on the whole; since the offence was doubtless the result of ignorance only."

"I know. But Mrs. Harris said she was so vexed she could not restrain herself; and besides, she would infinitely prefer that he should be mortally offended, at least to the point of losing his acquaintance, to having her best pictures spoiled. She said he cost too much altogether."

"She should have the corners covered somehow. To be sure, it would be better for people to learn how to treat nice engravings,—but they won't; and every day somebody comes to see you, and talks excellent sense, all the while either rolling up your last 'Art Journal,' or breaking the face of Bryant's portrait in, or some equal mischief. I don't think engravings pay, to keep,—on the whole; do you, Del?" And Laura smiled while she rocked.

"Well, perhaps not. I am sure I shouldn't be amiable enough to have mine thumbed and ruined; and certainly, if they are only to be kept in a portfolio, it seems hardly worth while."

"So I think," said Laura.

This vexatious consideration—for so it had become—of how I should spend my aunt's money, came at length almost to outweigh the pleasure of having it to spend. It was perhaps a little annoyance, at first, but by repetition became of course great. The prick of a pin is nothing; but if it prick three weeks, sleeping and waking, "there is differences, look you!"

"What shall I do with it?" became a serious matter. Suppose I left the regions of art and beauty particularly, and came back and down to what would be suitable on the whole, and agreeable to my aunt, whose taste was evidently beyond what Albany could afford, or she would not have sent me to the Modern Athens to buy the right thing. Nothing that would break; else, Sevres china would be nice: I might get a small plate, or a dish, for the money. Clothes wear out. Furniture,—you don't want to say, "This chair, or this bureau or looking-glass, is my Aunt Allen's gift." No, indeed! It must be something uncommon, recherche, tasteful, durable, and, if possible, something that will show well and sound well always. If it were only to spend the money, of course I could buy a carpet or fire-set with it. And off went my bewildered head again on a tour of observation.

[To be continued.]

* * * * *

HARBORS OF THE GREAT LAKES.

In a recent article upon "The Great Lakes,"[A] we remarked, that, from the conformation of their shores, natural harbors are of rare occurrence. Consequently, for the protection and convenience of commerce, a system of artificial harbors has been adopted by the Federal Government, and appropriations have been made from time to time by Congress for this purpose; and officers of the United States Engineer Corps have been appointed to carry on the work. It is to some extent a new and peculiar kind of engineering, caused by the peculiar conditions of the case.

[Footnote A: See Atlantic Monthly for February.]

Most of the lake-towns are built upon rivers which empty into the lakes, and these rivers are usually obstructed at their mouths by bars of sand and clay. The formation of these bars is due to several causes. The principal one is this:—The shores of the lakes being usually composed of sand, this is carried along by the shore-currents of the lake and deposited at the river-mouths. Another cause of these obstructions may be found in the fact, that the currents of the rivers are constantly bringing down with them an amount of soil, which is deposited at the point where the current meets the still waters of the lake. A third cause, as we are told by Col. Graham, in his Report for 1855, is the following:—

"Although the great depth of Lake Michigan prevents the surface from freezing, yet the ice accumulates in large bodies in the shallow water near the shores, and is driven by the wind into the mouths of the rivers. A barrier being thus formed to the force of the lake-waves, the sudden check of velocity causes them to deposit a portion of the silt they hold in suspension upon the upper surface of this stratum of ice. By repeated accumulations in this way, the weight becomes sufficient to sink the whole mass to the bottom. There it rests, together with other strata, which are sunk in the same way, until the channel is obstructed by the combined masses of ice and silt. In the spring, when the ice melts, the silt is dropped to the bottom, which, combined with that constantly deposited by the lakeshore currents, causes a greater accumulation in winter than at any other season."

These bars at the natural river-mouths have frequently not more than two or three feet of water; and some of them have entirely closed up the entrance, although at a short distance inside there may be a depth of from twelve to fifteen or even twenty feet of water.

The channels of these rivers have also a tendency to be deflected from their courses, on entering the lake, by the shore-currents, which, driven before the prevailing winds, bend the channel off at right angles, and, carrying it parallel with the lake-shore, form a long spit of sand between the river and the lake.

Thus, in constructing an artificial harbor at one of these river-mouths, the first object to be aimed at is to prevent the further formation of a bar; and the second, to deepen and improve the river-channel. The former is attained by running out piers into the lake from the mouth of the river; and the latter, by the use of a dredge-boat, to cut through the obstructions.

These piers are formed of a line of cribs, built of timber, and loaded with stone to keep them in place, and enable them to resist the action of the waves. They are usually built about twenty or twenty-five feet wide, and from thirty to forty feet long. They are strengthened by cross-ties of timber, uniting together the outward walls of the crib. Piles are usually driven down into the clay, inside of these cribs, and they are covered with a deck or flooring of plank. As the action of the currents is constantly tending to remove the bed on which the cribs rest, and thus cause them to tilt over, their bottoms are constructed in a sort of open lattice-work, with openings large enough to allow the stones with which they are loaded to drop through and supply the place of the earth which is washed away.

The effect of these piers is to concentrate and deepen the river-channel, and to retard the formation of bars, though they do not wholly prevent it. In the spring it is often necessary to employ the services of a steam-dredge-boat to cut through the bar, before vessels can pass out.

The portion of these cribs above water is found not to last more than ten or fifteen years; so that it is now recommended to replace them with piers of stone masonry, wherever the material is easy of access.

As to the cause of the shore-currents which produce this mischief, Col. Graham says, in one of his Reports,—

"The great power which operates to produce the littoral or shore currents of the lake is the prevailing winds; just as the great ocean current called the Gulf Stream is produced by the trade-winds. The first-mentioned phenomenon is but a miniature demonstration of the same principle which is more boldly shown in the other. The wind, acting in its most prevalent lakeward direction, combined with this littoral current, produces the great power which is constantly forming sand-bars and shoals at all the harbor-entrances on our extensive lake-coasts. To counteract the effect of this great power, upon a given point, is what we have chiefly to contend for in planning the harbor-piers for all the lake-ports intended to be improved. The point which an engineer first aims at, in undertaking to plan any of these harbor-works, is to ascertain as nearly as possible the direction and force of the prevailing winds."

The length of the Chicago piers is as follows:—North pier, 3900 feet long, 24 feet wide; south pier, 1800 feet long, 24 feet wide; and they are placed 200 feet apart.

Harbors of this kind have been constructed at Chicago, Waukegan, Kenosha, Racine, Milwaukee, Sheboygan, Manitoowoc, Michigan City, and St. Joseph, on Lake Michigan; at Clinton River, on Lake St. Clair; at Monroe, Sandusky, Huron, Vermilion, Black River, Cleveland, Grand River, Ashtabula, Conneaut, Erie, Dunkirk, and Buffalo, on Lake Erie; at Oak Orchard, Genesee River, Sodus Bay, Oswego, and Ogdensburg, on Lake Ontario.

For Lakes Huron and Superior it is believed that no appropriations have been made, the scanty population of their shores not seeming as yet to demand it, and those two lakes having in their numerous groups of islands more natural shelter for vessels than Michigan or Erie.

Besides these river-harbors, Col. Graham recommends to Government the construction at certain points on the lakes of sheltered roadsteads, or harbors of refuge, to which vessels may run for shelter in bad weather, when it may be difficult or dangerous to enter the river-mouths. These are proposed to be made by building breakwaters of crib-work, loaded with stone, and extending along the shore in a sufficient depth of water to admit vessels riding easily at anchor under their lee. Many lives and much property would undoubtedly be saved every year by such constructions; for it is a difficult matter for a vessel to enter these narrow rivers in a heavy gale of wind, and if she misses the entrance, she is very likely to go ashore.

Another very important work to the navigation of the lakes is the deepening of the channel in Lake St. Clair.

Between Lakes Huron and Erie lies Lake St. Clair, a shallow sheet of water, some twenty miles in length, through which all the trade of the Upper Lakes is obliged to pass. At the mouth of the river which connects this lake with Huron, there is a delta of mud flats, with numerous channels, which in their deepest parts have not more than ten feet of water, and would be utterly impassable, were not the bottom of a soft and yielding mud, which permits the passage of vessels through it, under the impulse of steam or a strong wind.

Mr. James L. Barton, a gentleman long connected with the lake-commerce, thus wrote some years ago upon this subject to the Hon. Robert McClelland, then chairman of the House Committee on Commerce:—

"These difficulties are vastly increased from the almost impassable condition of the flats in Lake St. Clair. Here steamboats and vessels are daily compelled in all weather to lie fast aground, and shift their cargoes, passengers, and luggage into lighters, exposing life, health, and property to great hazard, and then by extraordinary heaving and hauling are enabled to get over. Indeed, so bad has this passage become, that one of the largest steamboats, after lying two or three days on these flats, everything taken from her into lighters, was unable, with the powerful aid of steam and everything else she could bring into service, to pass over; she was obliged to give her freight and passengers to a smaller boat, abandon the trip, and return to Buffalo. Other vessels have been compelled not only to take out all their cargoes, but even their chains and anchors have been stripped from them, before they could get over. To meet this difficulty as far as possible, the commercial men around these lakes have imposed a tax upon their shipping, to dredge out and deepen the channel through these flats."

Col. Graham, in one of his Reports to the Department, writes as follows upon the importance of this improvement in a military point of view:—

"Since the opening of the Sault Ste. Marie Canal, the only obstacle to the co-operation of armed fleets, which in time of war would be placed upon Lakes Superior, Michigan, and Huron, with that which would be on Lake Erie, is at St. Clair flats. That obstacle removed, and a depth of channel of twelve feet obtained there, which might be increased to sixteen or eighteen feet by dredging, war-steamers of the largest class which would probably be placed on these lakes would have a free navigation from Buffalo at the foot of Lake Erie to Fond du Lac of Lake Superior.

"It would be very important that these fleets should have the power of concentration, either wholly or in part, at certain important points now rendered impracticable by these intervening flats. It would no doubt often be important as a measure of naval tactics alone. It would as often, again, be equally necessary in cooeperating with our land-forces. It might even become necessary to depend on the navy to transport our land-forces rapidly from one point to another on different sides of the flats.

"When a work like this subserves the double purpose of military defence in times of war, and of promoting the interests of commerce between several of the States of the Union in time of peace, it would seem to have an increased claim to the attention of the General Government. If any work of improvement can be considered national in its character, the improvement of St. Clair flats, in the manner proposed, may, it is submitted, justly claim to be placed in that category."

The plan proposed by the United States Engineers for this improvement is to construct two parallel piers of about four thousand feet long, as a permanent protection to the channel-way, and to dredge out a channel between these piers, six hundred feet wide and twelve feet deep. The cost of this work is estimated at about $533,000. This may seem a large sum of money; but when it is considered that the value of the commerce which passed over these flats in the year 1855 was ascertained by Col. Graham to be over two hundred and fifty millions of dollars, or considerably more than the whole exports of the Southern States for the year 1860, more than a million of dollars per day during the period of navigation, and that the increased charge on freights by reason of this obstruction is more than two millions of dollars per annum, which of course has to be paid by the producer, the investment of one quarter of that annual charge in a work which would do away with the tax might seem to be a measure of economy.

To show the importance of these lake-harbors, and the vast amount of commerce which depends upon them, and which has grown up within the last twenty years, we will give an extract from another of Col. Graham's very interesting Reports, upon the Chicago harbor.

"The present vast extent and rapidly increasing growth of the commerce of Chicago render it a matter of absolute necessity, in which not only Illinois, but also a number of her neighboring States are deeply interested, that her harbor should be kept in the best and most secure state of improvement, so as always to afford, during the season of navigation, a safe and easy entrance and departure for vessels drawing at least twelve feet water.

"The States which are thus directly interested in the port of Chicago are New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. The shores of all these are washed either by Lake Michigan or the other Great Lakes, with which Chicago has a direct and very extensive commerce through the St. Clair flats. The other States and Territories, which do not reach to the Great Lakes, but which are nevertheless greatly interested in the preservation of Chicago harbor, are Iowa and Missouri, and Nebraska and Kansas. A very large portion of the wheat and other grain produced in those last-mentioned States and Territories will be brought by railroads to the port of Chicago, to be shipped thence to the Eastern Atlantic markets.

"The average amount of duties received annually at the Chicago custom-house for three years, 1853, '54, and '55, was $377,797.86. The imports at Chicago for 1855 were,—

By lake shipment, $100,752,304.41 " Illinois and Michigan Canal, 7,426,262.35 " Railroads, 68,481,497.90

Total imports in 1855, $196,660,064.66

Exports.

By lake shipment, $34,817,716.32 " Canal, 79,614,042.70 " Railroads, 98,521,262.86 ———————— Total value of exports in 1855, $212,953,021.88

"Aggregate value of imports and exports at Chicago in the year 1855, $409,613,086.54.[B]

[Footnote B: This is more than half of the value of all the exports and imports of the Union in the year 1860, King Cotton included.]

"These statistics have been obtained by much labor and perseverance, with a view to the strictest accuracy. The result has amply justified the labor; for the published statistics of this commerce, which have gone forth to the country through the newspaper-press of the city, fall far short of its actual extent. On discovering this fact, I felt it to be a matter of duty to obtain the information directly from the only authentic sources, namely, the custom-house, mercantile, and warehouse records.

"Such are the claims which, in a civil point of view, are presented in behalf of the preservation of this harbor.

"There is still another, of not less magnitude, which is exclusively national. It is the influence it would have on the military defence of this part of our frontier, and the success of our arms in time of war. A single glance at the general map of the United States will be sufficient to show the importance of Chicago as a military position in conducting our operations in defence of our northwestern frontier in time of war.

"The great depth to which Lake Michigan here penetrates into a populous and fertile country totally devoid of fortifications would constitute an irresistible inducement to an enemy to aim with all his strength at this point, should he find it divested of any of the chief means of defence which are by all nations accorded to maritime ports of chief importance, He would find Chicago very much in such a state of weakness, if the harborworks here are allowed to fall into a dilapidated condition; for then our naval force would not itself be secure in hovering about this port, or in cruising in its immediate vicinity for purposes of military defence. There is scarcely a week in the year that a fleet might not have occasion to take refuge from the lake-gales in a safe harbor. Deprived of this advantage, the only resort would be to take the open sea, and there buffet out the storms. On their subsiding, this defensive fleet, on attempting to resume its proper position, might find it occupied by an enemy, with all the advantages, in a combat, which ought to be secured to our side.

"An enemy, once possessing this harbor, could by a powerful fleet cover the landing of an army in pursuit of the conquest of territory, or designing to lay heavy pecuniary contributions upon the inhabitants. Peace is the proper time to prepare against such a catastrophe, and the protection of the harbor is the first element in the military defence that should be attended to. With the harbor secured permanently in good condition, the port of Chicago, through the enterprise of the people of Illinois and the surrounding States, will possess the elements of military strength in perhaps a greater degree than any other seaport in the Union.

"The immense reticulation of railroads, amounting to an aggregate length of 2720 miles, which are tributary to this port, now daily brings into Chicago the vast amount of agricultural produce exhibited in our tables. These are their peace-offerings to other nations. In the emergency of war, however, these railroads could in a single day concentrate at Chicago troops enough for any military campaign, even if designed to cover our whole northwestern lake-frontier. Besides this, they would be the means of bringing here, daily, the munitions of war, and, above all, the necessary articles of subsistence and forage, to sustain an army of any magnitude, and to keep it in activity throughout any period that the war might last. In other words, Chicago would be in time of war the chief point d'appui of military operations in the Northwest."

In regard to the military importance of the command of the Great Lakes, history ought to teach us a lesson. At the breaking out of the War of 1812, this matter had been entirely neglected by our Government, in spite of the earnest appeals of the officer in command in this quarter. The consequence was the utter failure of the campaign against Canada, and the capture of the principal posts in the Northwest by the British, who had provided a naval force here, small, indeed, but sufficient where there was no opponent. It was not until the naval force organized by Commodore Perry swept the British from Lake Erie that General Harrison was able to recover the lost territory. From these considerations, the importance of strong fortifications in the Straits of Mackinac, to command the entrance of our Mediterranean, would seem to be evident.

The early advocates in Congress of these lake-improvements had to encounter a very violent opposition from various quarters.

First, the abstractionists of the Virginia school—men who "would cavil for the ninth part of a hair"—affirmed in general terms, that this Government was established with the view of regulating our external affairs, leaving all internal matters to be regulated by the States; and then, descending to particulars, declared, that, while Congress had the power to make improvements on salt water, it could do nothing on fresh. Furthermore, they argued, that, to give the power of spending money, the water must ebb and flow, and that the improvement must be below a port of entry, and not above. Another refinement of the Richmond sophists was this:—If a river be already navigable, Congress has the power to improve it, because it can "regulate" commerce; but if a sand-bar at its mouth prevents vessels from passing in or out, Congress cannot interfere, because that would be "creating," and not "regulating." Other Southern orators and their Northern followers denounced these appropriations as a system of plunder and an attack upon Southern rights, forgetting the fact, that, in these harbor and coast appropriations, the South, with a much smaller commerce than the North, had always claimed the larger share of expenditure. Thus, from 1825 to 1831,

New England received $ 327,563.21 The Middle States, including the Lakes, 982,145.20 The South and Southwest 2,233,813.18

Others joined in this opposition, from ignorance of the great commerce growing up on the lakes; and frequently, where bills have been passed by Congress, Southern influence has caused the Executive to veto them. In spite of all these obstacles, however, this great interest forced itself upon the attention of the country; and in July, 1847, a Convention, composed of delegates from eighteen States, met in Chicago, to concert measures for obtaining from Government the necessary improvements for Western rivers and harbors. This body sent an able memorial to Congress, and the result has been that larger appropriations have since been made. Still, however, much remains to be done, and it appears by the last Report of Colonel Graham, that his estimates for necessary work on lake harbors and roadsteads amount to nearly three millions of dollars, to which half a million should be added for the improvement of St. Clair flats, making an aggregate of three and a half millions of dollars, which is much needed at this time, for the safe navigation of the lakes.

It may be remarked, in tins connection, that the lakes, with their tributary streams, are furnished with nearly a hundred light-houses, four or five of which are revolving, and the remainder fixed lights,—Lake Ontario having eight, Lake Erie twenty-three, Lake St. Clair two, Lake Huron nine, Lake Michigan thirty-two, and Lake Superior fourteen.

When we say that Chicago exports thirty millions of bushels of grain, and is the largest market in the world, many persons doubtless believe that these are merely Western figures of speech, and not figures of arithmetic. Let us, then, compare the exports of those European cities winch have confessedly the largest corn-trade with those of Chicago.

1854. Bushels of Grain. Odessa, on the Black Sea, 7,040,000 Galatz and Bruilow, do., 8,320,000 Dantzic, on the Baltic, 4,408,000 Riga, do., 4,000,000 St. Petersburg, Gulf of Finland, 7,200,000 Archangel, on the White Sea, 9,528,000 ————— 40,496,000

Chicago, 1860, 30,000,000

or three-quarters of the amount of grain shipped by the seven largest corn-markets in Europe; and if we add to the shipments from Chicago the amount from other lake-ports last year, the aggregate will be found to exceed the shipments of those European cities by ten to twenty millions of bushels. Will any one doubt that the granary of the world is in the Mississippi Valley?

The internal commerce of the country, as it exists on the lakes, rivers, canals, and railroads, is not generally appreciated. It goes on noiselessly, and makes little show in comparison with the foreign trade; but its superiority may be seen by a few comparisons taken from a speech of the Hon. J.A. Rockwell, in Congress, in 1846.

In the year 1844, the value of goods transported on the New York Canals was..... $92,750,874

The whole exports of the country in 1844......... 99,716,179

The imports and exports of Cleveland the same year amounted to the sum of...... $11,195,703

The whole Mediterranean and South American trade, in 1844, amounted to....... 11,202,548

And if, as we have shown, the trade of one of these lake-ports, in 1855, amounted to over four hundred millions, we may safely claim that the whole lake-commerce in 1860 exceeds the entire foreign trade of the United States.

A few statistics of the lake-steamboats may not he uninteresting. They are taken from Mr. Barton's letter, above referred to.

"The 'New York Mercantile Advertiser,' of May—, 1819, contained the following notice:—

"'The swift steamboat Walk-in-the-Water is intended to make a voyage early in the summer from Buffalo, on Lake Erie, to Michilimackinac, on Lake Huron, for the conveyance of company. The trip has so near a resemblance to the famous Argonautic expedition in the heroic ages of Greece, that expectation is quite alive on the subject. Many of our most distinguished citizens are said to have already engaged their passage for this splendid adventure.'

"Her speed may be judged from the fact that it took her ten days to make the trip from Buffalo to Detroit and back, and the charge was eighteen dollars.

"In 1826 or '27, the majestic waters of Lake Michigan were first ploughed by steam,—a boat having that year made an excursion with a pleasure-party to Green Bay. These pleasure-excursions were annually made by two or three boats, till the year 1832. This year, the necessities of the Government requiring the transportation of troops and supplies for the Indian war then existing, steamboats were chartered by the Government, and made their first appearance at Chicago, then an open roadstead, in which they were exposed to the full sweep of northerly storms the whole length of Lake Michigan.

"In 1833, eleven steamboats were employed on the lakes, which carried in that year 61,485 passengers, and only two trips were made to Chicago. Time of the round trip, twenty-five days.

"In 1834, eighteen boats were upon the lakes, and three trips were made to Chicago. The lake-business now increased so much, that in 1839 a regular line of eight boats was formed to run from Buffalo to Chicago.

"In 1840, the number of steamboats on the lakes was forty-eight. Cabin-passage from Buffalo to Chicago, twenty dollars."

About 1850 was the height of steamboat-prosperity on the lakes. There was at that time a line of sixteen first-class steamers from Buffalo to Chicago, leaving each port twice a day. The boats were elegantly fitted up, usually carried a band of music, and the table was equal to that of most American hotels. They usually made the voyage from Buffalo to Chicago in three or four days, and the charge was about ten dollars. They went crowded with passengers, four or five hundred not being an uncommon number, and their profits must have been large. The building of railroads from East to West, such as the Michigan Central and Southern lines, and the Lake Shore and Great Western, soon took away the passenger-business, and the propellers could carry freight at lower rates than those expensive side-wheel boats could pretend to do. So they have gradually disappeared from these waters, until at present their number is very small, compared with what it was ten years ago, while the number of screw-propellers is increasing yearly, as well as that of sail-vessels.

Great as is this lake-commerce now, it is still but in its infancy. The productive capacities of most of the States which border upon these waters are only beginning to be developed. If in twenty-five years the trade has grown to its present proportions, what may be expected from it in twenty-five years more?

The secession of the Gulf States from the Union, and the closing of the Mississippi to the products of the Northwest, could we suppose such a state of things to be possible, would still more clearly show the value of the lake-route to the ocean.

Run the line of 36 deg. 30' across the continent from sea to sea, and build a wall upon it, if you will, higher than the old wall of China, and the Northern Confederacy will contain within itself every element of wealth and prosperity. Commerce and agriculture, manufactures and mines, forests and fisheries,—all are there.



THE MAN WHO NEVER WAS YOUNG.

At Munich, last summer, I made the acquaintance of M—-y, the famous painter. I had heard much of him during my stay there, and of his eccentricities. Just then it was quite the mode to circulate stories about him, and I listened to so many which were incredible that I was seized with an irresistible desire to meet him. I took, certainly, a roundabout way to accomplish this. M—-y had a horror of forming new acquaintances,—so it was said. He fled from letters of introduction coming in the ordinary way, as from the plague. Neither prince nor noble could win his intimacy or tempt him out of the pale of his daily routine. We are most eager in the pursuit of what is forbidden. I became the more determined to make M—-y's acquaintance, the more difficult it seemed. After revolving the matter carefully, I wrote to America to my intimate friend R., who I knew had subdued "the savage," as M—-y was sometimes called, and begged him to put me in the way of getting hold of the strange fellow. In four or five weeks I received an answer. R. simply inclosed me his own card with the painter's name in pencil written on it,—advising me to go to the artist's house, deliver the card in person, and trust the result to fortune. Now I had heard, as before intimated, all sorts of stories about M—-y. He was a bachelor, at least fifty years old. He lived by himself, as was reported,—in a superb house in an attractive part of the town. Gossip circulated various tales about its interior. Sometimes he reigned a Sardanapalus; at other times, a solitary queen graced but a temporary throne. He was addicted to various vices. He played high, lost generally large sums, and was in perpetual fear of the bailiffs. It was even reported that a royal decree had been issued to exempt so extraordinary a genius from ordinary arrest. In short, scarcely anything extravagant in the category of human occurrences was omitted in the daily changing detail of the scandal-loving society of Magnificent Munich. Only, no one ever imputed a mean or dishonorable thing to M—-y; but for the rest, there was nothing he did not do or permit to be done. He painted when he liked and what he liked. His compositions, whether of landscape or history, were eagerly snatched up at extravagant prices,—for M—-y was always exorbitant in his demands. Besides, when he chose, M—-y painted portraits,—never on application, nor for the aristocracy or the rich,—but as the mood seized him, of some subject that attracted him while on his various excursions, or of some of his friends. Yet who were his friends? Could any one tell? I could not find a person who claimed to know him intimately. Everybody had something to praise him for: "But it was such a pity that"—and here would follow one of the thousand bits of gossip which were floating about and had been floating for years, I had seen M—-y often,—for he was no recluse, and could be met daily in the streets. His general appearance so fascinated me that the desire to know the man led me to adopt the course I have just mentioned. So much by way of explanation.

And now, furnished with the card and the advice contained in my friend R.'s letter, I proceeded one afternoon to the —— Strasse, and sought admittance. A decent-looking servant-woman opened the door, and to my inquiry replied that Herr M—-y was certainly at home, but whether engaged or not she could not answer. She ushered me into a small apartment on my right, which seemed intended for a reception-room. I was about sending some kind of message to the master of the house, for I did not like to trust the magic card out of my possession, when I heard a door open and shut at the end of the hall, and the quick, nervous step of a along the passage. Seeing the servant standing by the door, M—-y, for it was he, walked toward it and presented himself bodily before me. He wore a cap and dressing-gown, and looked vexed, but not ill-natured, on seeing me. I was much embarrassed, and, forgetting what I had proposed to say to him, I put R.'s card into his hand without a word. His eye lighted up instantly.

"You are from America?—You are welcome!—How is my friend?" were words rapidly enunciated. "Come with me,—leave your hat there,—so!"—and we mounted a flight of stairs, passed what I perceived to be a fine salon, then through a charming, domestic-looking apartment into one still smaller, around the walls of which hung three portraits. Portraits did I say? I can employ no other name,—but so life-like and so human, my first impression was that I was entering a room where were three living people.

"Never you mind these," exclaimed M—-y, pleasantly, "but sit down there," pointing to a large fauteuil, "and tell me when you reached Munich, and if you will stay some time: then I can judge better how to do for you."

My face flushed, for I felt guilty at the little fraud I seemed to have practised on him. I hesitated only an instant, and then frankly told him the truth: how it was eighteen months since I left America; how I had been three months in Munich already; how, hearing so much about him and observing him frequently in the streets, I became anxious for his acquaintance, and had written to R. accordingly.

The man has the face of a child: cloud and sunshine pass rapidly over it. Pleasure and chagrin, sometimes anger, oftener joy, flit across it, swiftly as the flashing of a meteor. While I was making this explanation, he looked at me with a searching scrutiny,—at first angrily, then sadly, as if he were going to cry; but when I finished, he took my hand in both of his, and said, very seriously,—

"You are welcome just the same."

Soon he commenced laughing: the oddity of the affair was just beginning to strike him. After conversing awhile, he said,—

"Ah, we shall like each other,—shall we not? Where do you stay? You shall come and live with me. But will that content you? Have you seen enough of the outside of Munich?"

I really knew not what to make of so unexpected a demonstration. Should I accept his invitation, so entirely a stranger as I was? Why not? M—-y was in earnest; he meant what he said; yet I hesitated.

"You need feel no embarrassment," he said, kindly. "I really want you to come,—unless, indeed, it is not agreeable to you."

"A thousand thanks!" I exclaimed,—"I will come."

"Not a single one," said M—-y. "Go and arrange affairs at your hotel, and make haste back for dinner: it will be served in an hour."

The next day I was domesticated in M—-y's house.

I have not the present design to give any account of him. Should the reader find anything in what is written to interest or attract, it is possible that in a future number a chapter may be devoted to the great artist of Munich. Now, however, I remark simply, that the gossip and strange stories and incidents and other et ceteras told of him proved to be ridiculous creations, with scarcely a shadow to rest on, having their inception in M—-y's peculiarities,—peculiarities which originated from an entire and absolute independence of thought and manner and conduct. A grown-up man in intellect, experience, and sagacity,—a child in simplicity and feeling, and in the effect produced by the forms and ceremonies and conventionalities of life: these seemed always to astonish him, and he never, as he said, could understand why people should live with masks over their faces, when they would breathe so much freer and be so much more at their ease by taking them off. This was the man who invited me to come to his house,—and who would not have given the invitation, had he not wanted me to accept it.

I have spoken of three paintings which excited my attention the day I paid my first visit. These were masterpieces,—three portraits, not life-like, but life itself. They did not attract by the perpetual stare of the eyes following one, whichever way one turned, as in many pictures; in these the eyes were not thrown on the spectator. One portrait was that of a man of at least fifty: an intellectual head; eyes, I know not what they were,—fierce, defiant, hardly human, but earthly, devilish; a mouth repulsive to behold, in its eager, absorbing, selfish expression. Another,—the same person evidently: the same clear breadth and development of brain, but a subdued and almost heavenly expression of the eyes, while the mouth was quite a secondary feature, scarcely disagreeable. The third was the likeness of a young girl, beautiful, even to perfection. What character, what firmness, what power to love could be read in those features! What hate, what revulsion, what undying energy for the true and the right were there! A fair, young creation,—so fair and so young, it seemed impossible that her destiny should be an unhappy one: yet her destiny was unhappy. The shadow on the brow, the melancholy which softened the clear hazel eye, the slightest possible compression of the mouth, said,—"Destined to misfortune!" Were these actual portraits of living persons, or at least of persons who had lived? Was there any connection between the man with two faces and two lives and the maiden with an unhappy destiny? After I became better acquainted with M—-y, I asked him the question, and in reply he told me the following story, which I now give as nearly as possible in his own words.

* * * * *

Many years ago, in one of my excursions, I came to Baden-Baden. It was a favorite resort for me, because I found there so many varieties of the human countenance, and I liked to study them. One evening I was in the Conversation-Haus, looking at the players at rouge-et-noir. At one end of the table I saw seated a man apparently past fifty; around him were three or four young fellows of twenty or twenty-five. It is nothing unusual to see old men at the gaming-table,—quite the contrary. But this person's head and forehead gave the lie to his countenance, and I stopped to regard him. While I was doing so, his eyes met mine. I suppose my gaze was earnest; for his eyes instantly fell, but, recovering, he returned my look with a stare so impudently defiant that I directed my attention at once elsewhere. Ever and anon, however, I would steal a glance at this person,—for there was something in his looks which fascinated me. He entered with gusto into the game, won and lost with a good-natured air, yet so premeditated, so, in fact, youthfully-old, I felt a chill pass over me while I was looking at him. Later in the evening I encountered him again. It was in the public room of my own hotel, at supper. He was drinking Rhine-wine with the same young men who were with him at rouge-et-noir. The tone of the whole company was boisterous, and became more so as each fresh bottle was emptied. The young fellows were very noisy, but impulsively so. The man also was turbulent and inclined to be merry in the extreme; but as I watched his eye, I shuddered, for there enthroned was a permanent expression indicating a consciousness in every act which he committed. Once again our eyes met, and I turned away and left the apartment. During my walk half an hour afterwards, I encountered the same party, still more excited and hilarious, in company with some women, whose character it was not easy to mistake. As I passed, the Unknown brushed close by me, and again his glance met my own. He seemed half-maddened by my curious look, which he could not but perceive, and, as I thought, made use of some insulting expression. I took no notice of it, but passed on my way, and saw him no more during my stay in the place.

From Baden I made an excursion into Switzerland. I was stopping at a pleasant village in the romantic neighborhood of the Bernese Alps. One afternoon I took a walk of several miles in a new direction. I left the road and pursued a path used only by pedestrians, which shortened the distance to another village not far off. A little way from this path was erected a small chapel, and in a niche stood an image of Christ, well executed in fine white marble. The work was so superior to the rude designs we find throughout the country that I stopped to examine it. I was amply repaid. In place of the painful-looking Christ on the Cross,—too often a mere caricature,—the image was that of the Youthful Saviour,—mild, benignant, forgiving. In his left palm, which was not extended, but held near his person, rested a globe, which he seemed to regard with a heavenly love and compassion, and the effect on me was so impressive that the words came impulsively to my lips,—"I am the light of the world."

For several minutes I stood regarding with intense admiration this beautiful exhibition of the Saviour of Sinners. Presently, I saw the door of the chapel was open. Should I look in? I did so. What did I behold? The individual I had seen at Baden,—the gamester, the bacchanal, the debauchee! Now, how changed! He was kneeling at a tomb,—the only one in the chapel. The setting sun fell directly on his features. His fine brow seemed fairer and more intellectual than before. His eyes were soft and subdued, and destitute of anything which could partake of an earthly element. Even the mouth, which had so disgusted me, was no longer disagreeable. Contrition, humility, an earnest, sincere repentance, were tokens clearly to be read in every line of his face. I took very quietly some steps backward, so as to quit the spot unobserved, if possible. In doing so, I stumbled and fell over some loose stones. The noise startled the stranger, who was, I think, about to leave the chapel. He came forward just as I was recovering myself. We stood close together, facing each other. A flush passed over the man's face. He seized my arm and exclaimed fiercely,—

"What are you doing here?"

Without appearing to recognize him, I hastened to explain that my presence there was quite accidental, and it was in attempting to retreat quietly, after discovering I was likely to prove an intruder, that my falling over some stones had attracted his notice. Thus saying, and bowing, I was about to proceed homeward, when the stranger suddenly exclaimed,—

"Stop!"

He came up close to me. Every trace of angry excitement had vanished. Calm and self-possessed, but very mournfully, he said,—

"Are you willing I should put my arm in yours, and walk back with you to the inn? I am alone,—and God above knows," he added, after a pause, "how utterly so."

I could only bow an assent, for this sudden exhibition of weakness was annoying to me. My new acquaintance took my arm, much in the manner a child would do, and we walked along together.

"I am staying at the same house with you," he said, as we proceeded. "Did you know it?"

"No, I did not."

"Yes," he continued,—"I saw you when you dismounted, and I knew you at once. Don't you recognize me?" he inquired, sadly.

"I do," was all I replied.

"So much the better!" he went on. "I like your countenance,—nay, I love to look at your face. You are a good man; do you know it? I suppose not: the good are never conscious, and I should not tell you. Excuse my rude approach just now: the Devil had for a moment dominion over me. Will you remain here awhile? Shall we sit and be together? And will you—say, will you talk with me?"

I promised I would. My feelings, despite his miserable weakness, were becoming interested, and in this manner we reached the inn. Then I persuaded this strange person to sit down in my room, where I ordered something comfortable provided for supper. In fact, I thought it the best thing I could do for him. Very soon I gained his entire confidence. After two or three days he exhibited to me a small portrait, exquisitely painted, of a most lovely young girl, and permitted me to copy it. It is one of the three which you see on the wall there. The others, I need not add, are portraits of the man himself in the two moods I have described. For his history, it teaches its lesson, and I shall tell it to you. He narrated it to me the evening before he left the inn, where we spent two weeks or more, and I have neither seen nor heard from him since. Seated near me, in my room, he gave the following account of himself.

* * * * *

I was born in Frankfort. My parents had several children, all of whom died in infancy except me. I was the youngest, and I lived through the periods which had proved so fatal to the rest. The extraordinary care of my mother, who watched me with a melancholy tenderness, no doubt contributed to save a life which in boyhood, and indeed to a mature age, was at the best a precarious one. My parents were respectable people, in easy circumstances. I grew up selfish and effeminate, in consequence of being so much indulged. I exhibited early a studious disposition, and it was decided to give me an accomplished education, with reference to my occupying, could I attain it at a future day, a chair in some university. My mother was a very religious woman. From the first, she had a morbid sense of the responsibility of bringing up a boy. She believed my way to manhood was beset by innumerable temptations, almost impossible to escape, difficult to be resisted, and absolutely ruinous to my soul, if yielded to. She preached to me incessantly. She kept me from the society of boys of my own age, for fear I should be contaminated,—and from the approach of any of the other sex, lest my mind should be diverted from serious matters and led into wantonness and folly. She would have made a priest of me, had it not been for my father;—he objected. His brother, for whom I was named, was a distinguished professor, to whom I bore, as he thought, a close resemblance, and he desired I should imitate him in my pursuits. I had good abilities, and was neither inefficient nor wanting in resolution or industry. At first I longed for natural life and society; but by degrees habit helped me to endure, and finally to conquer. In fact, I was taught that I was doing God service in cultivating an ascetic life. My studies were pursued with success. I rapidly mastered what was placed before me, and my relations were proud of my progress. At the usual period the ordinary craving for female society became strong in me. My mother took great pains to impress on me that here commenced my first struggle with Satan, and, if I yielded, I should certainly and beyond all peradventure become a child of the Devil. I was in a degree conscientious. I was ambitious to attain to a holy life. I believed what my mother had from my infancy labored so hard to inculcate, and I trod out with an iron step every fresh rising emotion of my heart, every genuine passion of my nature. But I suffered much. The imagination could not always be subdued, and there were periods when. I felt that the "strong man armed" had possession of me. Nevertheless his time was not come, and at length the struggle was over. It was not that I had gained a laudable control of myself; but, having crucified every rebellious thought, there was nothing left for control. I had marked my victory by extermination. To live was no joy; neither was it specially the reverse: a long, monotonous, changeless platitude; yet no desire to quit the terrible uniformity.

I was forty years old. I had obtained my purpose. I was a learned professor. As I gained in acquirements and reputation, I became more and more laborious. My health, which had become quite firm, began to yield under incessant application. I was advised, indeed commanded, by my physician to take repose and recreation. I came here among the Alps. I stopped at this very house. The season was fine, the inns were filled with tourists, and great glee and hilarity prevailed. It was not without its effect on me. By slow degrees, with returning health, the pulses of life beat with what seemed an unnatural excitement. The world, as I opened my eyes on it from the window of the inn, was for the first time not without its attractions. I quieted myself with the idea, that, once back with my books, my thoughts would flow in the regular channel; and I called to mind something the physician had said about the necessity of my being amused, and so forth, to quiet my conscience, which began to reproach me for enjoying the small ray of sunlight which shone in on my spirit.

One day, in a little excursion with two or three gentlemen, I was attracted by the beauty of a spot away from the travelled road. Leaving my acquaintances resting under some trees to await my return, I strolled by a narrow path, across the small valley, till I reached the wished-for place. You know it already. It is where you beheld erected the Christ and the Tomb. I was looking around with much admiration, when from the opposite direction came some strolling Savoyards, with a species of puppet, or marionnette, called by these people Mademoiselle Catherina. Without waiting for my assent, the man stopped, and with the aid of his wife arranged the machine and set Catherina in motion, accompanying the dance with a song of his own:—

"Ma commere, quand ja danse, Mon cotillon, va-t-il bien? Il va d'ici, il va de la, Ha, ha, ha! Ma commere, quand je danse," etc.

I stopped and looked, and was amused. The music was rude, but wild, and carried with it an abandon of feeling. I avow to you, it stole upon me, penetrating soul and body. How I wished I could, on the spot, throw off the coil which surrounded me and wander away with these children of the road!

While I stood preoccupied and abstracted, I was roused by a low voice pronouncing something,—I did not hear what,—and, coming to myself, I saw standing before me, with her tambourine outstretched, a young girl, fourteen or fifteen years old. She spoke again,—"S'il vous plait, Monsieur." Large, lustrous, beaming eyes were turned on me,—not boldly, not with assurance, neither altogether bashfully,—but honestly regarding me full in the face, questioning if, after being so attentive a spectator, I were willing to bestow something. It was strange I had not noticed this girl before. I had hardly perceived there were three in the company. Now that I did observe her, I kept looking so earnestly that I forgot to respond to her request. She was faultless in form and physical development,—absolutely and unequivocally faultless. Her face, though browned by constant exposure, was classically beautiful; the foot and hand very small and delicate. Heavens! how every fibre in my frame thrilled with an ecstatic emotion, as, for the first time in my life, I was brought under the influence of female charms! My head swam, my eyes grew dim,—I staggered. I think I should have fallen, had not the young girl herself seized my arm and supported me. This brought me to myself. I bestowed nothing on the strollers, but asked if they were coming to the village. They answered in the affirmative; and telling them to come and play at the inn where I was lodging, I hastily quitted the scene.

Do not think I am in the least exaggerating in this narrative. God knows, what I have to recount is sufficiently extraordinary. I hastened homeward, my soul in a tumult. On a sudden, the labor of a lifetime was destroyed, the opinions and convictions of a lifetime stultified and set at nought. And how?—by what? By a strolling, vagrant Savoyard. Rather by an exquisite specimen of God's handiwork in flesh and blood! And if God's handiwork, why might I not be roused and touched and thrilled and entranced? Something within boldly, in fact audaciously, put that question to me.

I slept none that night. I was haunted by that form and face. I essayed to be calm, and to compose myself to slumber. Impossible! For the moment was swept away my past, with its dreary, lifeless forms, its ghostly ceremonies, its masked shapes, its soulless, rayless, emotionless existence. To awake and find life has been one grand error,—to awake and know that youth and early manhood are gone, and that you have been cheated of your honest and legitimate enjoyments,—to feel that Pleasure might have wooed you gracefully when young, and when it would become you to sacrifice at her shrine,—gods and fiends! I gnashed my teeth in impotent rage,—I blasphemed,—I was mad!

The morning brought to me composure. While I was dressing, I heard the music of my Savoyards under the window. I did not trust myself to look out; but, after breakfasting, I went into the street to search for them.

I was not long unsuccessful, and was immediately recognized with a profusion of nods and grimaces by the man and a coarse smile by the woman, who prepared to set Mademoiselle Catherina instantly at work. The young girl took scarcely any notice of me. I bestowed some money on the couple, and bade them go to the nearest wine-shop and procure whatever they desired. They started off, quite willing, I thought, to leave me alone with the girl. I lost no time. Going close to her, I said,—

"You are not the child of these people?"

"Alas, no, Monsieur!—I have neither father nor mother."

"And no relations?"

"No relations, Monsieur."

"How long have you lived in this way?"

"Almost always, I suppose. But I remember something many years ago—very strange. I was all the time in one place,—such a beautiful spot, it makes it hurt here," (putting her hand on her heart) "when I think of that. Afterwards it was dark a long time. I do not remember any more."

"And do you like to wander about in this way?"

"Oh, no, Monsieur!—no, indeed!"

"Would you be pleased to go to a nice home, and stay, as you say, all the time in one place, and learn to read and write, and have friends to love you and take care of you?"

"Yes! oh, yes!"

"Would you be afraid to go with me?"

The young girl regarded me with a look of penetration which was surprising, and replied calmly, but with some timidity,—

"No."

"Then it shall be so," I said.

I bade the child sit down and wait for my return, I took the direction which the man and his wife had pursued, and found them already busily engaged in the wine-shop, where they had purchased what for them was a sumptuous entertainment.

"You have stolen that girl," I exclaimed, with severity; "and I shall have the matter investigated before the Syndic."

They were not so frightened as I expected to see them, although a good deal decomposed.

"Monsieur mistakes," said the man. "It was we who saved the poor thing's life, when the father and mother were put to death far away from here in Hungary, and not a soul to take compassion on her. She was only four years old; the prison-door was opened and her parents led to execution, and she left to wander about until she should starve."

I asked if they knew who her parents were. They did not, but were sure they were people of distinction, condemned for political offences. This was all I could learn. The child, they said, was in possession of no relic which betrayed her name or origin. She only wore a small gold medallion on which was engraved a youthful Christ,—the same in design as you see erected near the tomb in yonder valley. It has been faithfully copied.

It was difficult to induce the couple to part with Eudora,—that was her name. She was now useful to them, and her marvellous beauty began to attract and brought additional coin to their collections, after the performances of the marionnette. But I was resolved. I offered to the strollers so large a sum in gold that they could not resist. It was arranged on the spot. With very little ceremony they said "Good-bye" to Eudora, and, taking the path over the mountain, in a few minutes were out of sight.

What a new, what a strange attitude for me! Could I believe in my own existence? There I stood, a grave professor of the University of ——, educated and trained in the discipline I have already explained to you. There stood Eudora, just as perfect in form and feature as imagination of poet ever pictured.

My plan was formed on the spot, instantly. It was praiseworthy; but I deserved no praise for it. A deep, engrossing selfishness, pervading alike sense and spirit, actuated me. I had already brought under control the fever of the previous day. I could reason calmly; but my conclusions had reference only to my own gratification and my own happiness. I regarded Eudora as mine,—my property,—literally belonging to me. I was forty,—she not fifteen. Yet what was I to do with her? Recommend her to the care of my mother, who was still alive? Certainly not; she would then be lost to me. I had a cousin, a lady of high respectability, well married, who resided in the same town in which I lived. She had no child of her own; she had often spoken of adopting one. I frequently visited her house; and when there, she never ceased to criticize me for leading such an ascetic life. Here was an excellent opportunity for my new charge. My cousin would be delighted to have the guardianship of such a lovely creature. She would be as devoted to her as to an own child. She would sympathize in my plans, and would be careful to train Eudora for me.

Such was the programme. It flashed on me and was definitely settled before I had time to bid her follow me to the inn. She came unhesitatingly, and as if she had confidence in my kind intentions. I did not converse much with her, but, making hasty preparations, we left the place and proceeded rapidly homeward.

I was not disappointed. My cousin entered readily into my plans. She was a really good person, seeing all things which she undertook through the complacent medium of duty. This was, she thought, such a fortunate incident! It gave her what she had long desired, and it would serve to distract me from the wretched life I had always led. Thereupon Eudora was installed in her new home, where she found father and mother in my cousin and her husband, where her education was commenced and got on fast. She had a quick intellect, instinctively seizing what was most important and rapidly forming conclusions. How, day by day, I witnessed the development of her mind! How I watched every new play of the emotions! How I saw with a beating heart, as she advanced toward womanhood, fresh charms displayed and additional beauty manifested! I shall not tire you with a prolonged narrative of how I enjoyed, month after month, for more than two years, the society of Eudora, during which time she made satisfactory advances in education and accomplishment and attained in grace and loveliness the absolute perfection of womanhood.

And what, during this period, were my relations with Eudora?—what were her feelings toward me? I approach the subject with pain. I look back now on those feelings and on my conduct with an abhorrence and disgust which I cannot describe. From the first she trusted to me with implicit confidence. Discriminating in an extraordinary degree, her gratitude prevented her perceiving my real character. She gave me credit for absolute, unqualified, disinterested benevolence in rescuing her from the wretched and precarious condition of a vagrant. Thus she set about in her own mind to adorn me with every virtue. I was magnanimous, noble, unselfish, truthful, brave, the soul of honor, incapable of anything mean or petty. How often has she told me this, holding my hand in hers, looking full in my face, her own beaming with honest enthusiasm! How my soul literally shrank within me! How like a guilty wretch I felt to hear these words! How I wished I could be all Eudora pictured me! How I essayed to act the part! How careful I was lest ever my real nature should disclose itself! Even when, despite my efforts, something did transpire to excite an instant's question, she put it aside at once by giving an interpretation to it worthy of me. Now, what was I to do? Eudora had reached a marriageable age. She had seen but little of society, though by no means living a recluse. My cousin had watched carefully over her, and was to her, indeed, all a mother could be. I had remained perfectly tranquil, secure, as I supposed, in her affections. I thought I had but to wait till the proper period should arrive and then take her to myself.

My cousin, as I have intimated, understood my views. It was therefore with no sort of perturbation, that, one day, I heard her ask me to step into her little sitting-room in order to converse about Eudora. I supposed she was going to tell me that it was time we were married,—indeed, I thought so myself. I was therefore very much astonished when she commenced by saying that I ought now to begin to treat Eudora as a young lady, especially if I expected ever to win her hand. I turned deadly pale, and asked her what she meant.

"I mean," she replied, "that you ought to act toward Eudora as men generally act who wish to win a fair lady. Do not deceive yourself with the idea that she loves you. She would tell you she did in a moment, if you asked her,—and wonder, besides, why you thought it necessary to put the question. But she knows nothing about it. The thought of becoming your wife never enters her head, and you would frighten her, if you spoke to her on such a subject. No, my cousin; it is time you behaved as other men behave. Eudora is grateful to you beyond expression. She believes you to be perfect; and you seem content to sit and let her tell you so, when you ought to be a manly wooer."

I will not detail the remarks of my cousin. She talked with me at least two hours. I was perfectly confounded by what she said. I began to hate her for the ridiculous advice she gave me. I put it down to a curious, meddlesome nature. I grew vexed, too, with Eudora, because my cousin said she did not love me. I did not reflect that I had done nothing to excite love. I had drawn perpetually on a heart overflowing and grateful,—selfish caitiff that I was! This, however, I did not then understand,—so completely were my eyes blinded!

I left my cousin in a petulant spirit, and sought Eudora. She saw I was troubled, and asked me the cause. I told her. A shadow, a dark, portentous shadow, suddenly clouded her face;—as suddenly it passed away, giving place to a look of sharp, painful agony, which was succeeded by a return of something like her natural expression. Then she scrutinized my face calmly, critically. All this did not occupy half a minute. Ere one could say it had been, Eudora was apparently the same as ever. God alone knows all which in that half-minute rose in that young girl's heart. She took my hand; she reproached me for my apparent distrust of her; she said she was mine to love and to honor me forever. She would go at once to her mother—so she called my cousin—and tell her so. Thus saying, she left me. And I—I did not then understand the struggle and the victory of the poor girl over herself. I did not reflect that no maidenly blush, no charming confusion, announced my happy destiny,—no kiss, no caress, no sign that the heart's citadel had surrendered; but, instead, a calmness, a composure, and a hastening from my presence. No, I thought nothing of this; I only considered that now the time was at hand when Eudora would be mine!