'You don't! why, I could have sworn it was in my coffee this morning.'

'I wouldn't trust you to buy brandy for me, if your organs of taste are not keener than that. It was goat's milk.'

'Then how do you get your butter?'

'From the North. I've had mine from my New York factors for over two years.'

We soon arrived at Sandy the negro-hunter's, and halted to allow the Colonel to inquire as to the health of his family of children and dogs,—the latter the less numerous, but, if I might judge by appearances, the more valued of the two.

* * * * *

SOUTHERN AIDS TO THE NORTH.

II.

If war did little else, it would have its value from the fact that it acts so extensively as an institution for the dissemination of useful knowledge. Every murmur of political dissension sends thousands to consult the map, and repair their early neglect of geography. Perhaps if atlases and ethnographical works were more studied we should have less war. And it is by no means impossible that the mutual knowledge which has been or is to be acquired by the people of the South and the North during this present war will eventually aid materially in establishing a firm bond of union.

That we have much to learn is shown in the firm faith with which so many have listened to the threats of 'a united South.' Until recently the fierce and furious assurances of the rebel press, that south of Mason and Dixon's line all were wedded heart and soul to their cause, were taken almost without a doubt. Who has forgotten the late doleful convictions of the dough-faces that the South would hold together to the last in spite of wind or weather, concluding invariably with the old refrain,—'Suppose we conquer them—what then?' Had the country at large known in detail, as it should have known from a common-school education, what the South really is,—or from experience of life what human nature really is,—it would never have believed that this boasted unanimity was based on aught save ignorance or falsehood. The Southern press itself, almost without an exception, betrays gross ignorance of its own country, and is very superficial in its statistics, inclining more than any other to warp facts and figures to suit preconceived views. We, like it, have tacitly adopted the belief that south of a certain line a certain climate invariably prevailed, and that under its influences, from the Border to the Gulf of Mexico, there has been developed a race essentially alike in all its characteristics. The planter and the slave-owner, or the city merchant, has been the type with which our writers have become familiar at the hotel and the watering-place, or in the 'store,' and we have accepted them as speaking for the South, quite forgetful that in America, as in other countries, the real man of the middle class travels but little, and when he does, is seldom to be found mingling in the 'higher circles.' Yet even this Southern man of the middle class and of 'Alleghania,' when at the North frequently affects a 'Southern' air, which is not more natural to him than it is to the youthful scions of Philadelphia and New York, who, when in Europe, so often talk pro-slavery and bowie knife, as though they lived in the very heart of planterdom. But the truth is that when we search the South out closely we find that in reality there is a very great difference between its districts and their inhabitants, and, in fact, as has been very truly said, 'not only is there no geographical boundary between the free and slave States, but no moral and intellectual boundary.'

In the great temperate region which, parting from either side of the Alleghanies, extends from Virginia to Alabama, and is still continued in the pleasant level of Texas, slavery has rolled away from either mountain side like a flood, leaving it the home of a hardy population which regards with jealousy and dislike both the wealthy planter and the negro. James W. Taylor, in his valuable collection of facts, claims that through the whole extent of the Southern Alleghania slavery has relatively diminished since 1850, and that the forthcoming census tables will establish the assertion. 'The superintendent of the census,' he says, 'would furnish a document, valuable politically and for military use, if he would anticipate the publication of this portion of his voluminous budget.' If government, indeed, were to communicate to the public what information it now holds, and has long held, relative to the numbers and strength of the Union men of the South, an excitement of amazement would thrill through the North. It was on the basis of this knowledge that our great campaign was planned,—and it can not be denied that thousands of stanch Union men were greatly astonished at the revelations of sympathy which burst forth most unexpectedly in districts where the stars and stripes have been planted. But the Cabinet 'knew what it knew' on this subject. Much of its knowledge never can be revealed, but enough will come to-night to show that in our darkest hour we had an enormous mass of aid, little suspected by those weaker brethren who stood aghast at the Southern bugbear, and who, falling prostrate in nerveless terror at the windy spectre, quaked out repeated assurances that they had no intention of 'abolitionizing the war,' and even earnestly begged and prayed that the emancipationists might all be sent to Fort Warren,—so fearful were the poor cowards lest the united South, in the final hour of victory, might include them in its catalogue of the doomed. What would they say if they knew the number and power of the ABOLITIONISTS OF THE SOUTH,—a body of no trifling significance, whose fierce grasp will yet be felt on the throat of rebellion and of slavery? It is grimly amusing to think of the aid which the South counted on receiving from these Northern dough-faces,—little thinking that within itself it contained a counter-revolutionary party, far more dangerous than the Northern friends were helpful.

It should be borne in mind that where such an evil as slavery exists there will be numbers of grave, sensible men, who, however quiet they may keep, will have their own opinions as to the expediency of maintaining it. The bigots of the South may rave of the beauty of 'the institution,' and make many believe that they speak for the whole,—a little scum when whipped covers the whole pail,—but beneath all lies a steadily-increasing mass of practical men who would readily enough manifest their opposition should opportunity favor free speech. Such people, for instance, are not insensible to the enormously corrupting influence of negroes on their children. Let the reader recall Olmsted's experiences,—that, for example, where he speaks of three negro women who had charge of half a dozen white girls of good family, 'from three to fifteen years of age.'

Their language was loud and obscene, such as I never heard before from any but the most depraved and beastly women of the streets. Upon observing me they dropped their voices, but not with any appearance of shame, and continued their altercation until their mistresses entered. The white children, in the mean time, had listened without any appearance of wonder or annoyance. The moment the ladies opened the door, they became silent.—Cotton Kingdom, vol. i. p. 222.

The Southern Cultivator for June, 1855, speaks of many young men and women who have 'made shipwreck of all their earthly hopes, and been led to the fatal step by the seeds of corruption which in the days of childhood and youth were sown in their hearts by the indelicate and lascivious manners and conversation of their fathers' negroes.' If we had no other fact or cause to cite, this almost unnamable one might convince the reader that there must be a groundwork somewhere in the South among good, moral, and decent people, for antipathy to slavery,—human nature teaches us as much. And such people exist, not only among the hardy inhabitants of the inland districts, who are not enervated by wealth and 'exclusiveness,' but in planterdom itself.

There are few in the North who realize the number of persons in the South who silently disapprove of slavery on sound grounds, such as I have mentioned. Does it seem credible that nearly ten millions of people should socially sympathize with some three hundred thousand slave-holders, who act with intolerable arrogance to all non-slave-holders? 'Even in those regions where slavery is profitable,' as a writer in the Boston Transcript well expresses it, 'the poor whites feel the slaveocracy as the most grinding of aristocracies.'

In those regions where it is not profitable, the population regard it with a latent abhorrence, compared with which the rhetorical and open invectives of Garrison and Phillips are feeble and tame. Anybody who has read Olmsted's truthful narrative of his experience in the slave States can not doubt this fact. The hatred to slavery too often finds its expression in an almost inhuman hatred of 'niggers,' whether slave or free, but it is none the less significant of the feelings and opinions of the white population.

As I write, every fresh thunder of war and crash of victory is followed by murmurs of amazement at the enthusiastic receptions which the Union forces meet in most unexpected strongholds of the enemy, in the very heart of slavedom. Yet it was known months ago, and prophesied, with the illustration of undeniable facts, that this counter-revolutionary element existed. One single truth was forgotten,—that these Southern friends of the Union, even while avowing that slavery must be supported, had no love of it in their hearts. Emancipation has been sedulously set aside under pretence of conciliating them; but it was needless,—'old custom' had made them cautious, and mindful of 'expediency;' but the mass of them hate 'the institution.' It is for the traitorous Northern dough-faces, and the paltry handful of secessionists, 'on a thin slip of land on the Atlantic,' that slavery is, at present, cherished. The great area of the South is free from it,—and ever will be.

It has frequently been insisted on that the mere geographical obstacles to disunion are such as to render the cause of slavery hopeless in the long run. Yet to this most powerful Southern aid to the North, men seem to have been strangely blind during the days of doubt which so long afflicted us. These obstacles are, briefly, the enormous growing power of the West, and its inevitable outlet, the Mississippi river. 'For it is the mighty and free West which will always hang like a lowering thunder-cloud over them.'[N] On this subject I quote at length from an article, in the Danville (Ky.) Review, by the Rev. R. J. Breckenridge, D.D.:—

Whoever will look at a map of the United States, will observe that Louisiana lies on both sides of the Mississippi river, and that the States of Arkansas and Mississippi lie on the right and left banks of this great stream—eight hundred miles of whose lower course is thus controlled by these three States, unitedly inhabited by hardly as many white people as inhabit the city of New York. Observe, then, the country drained by this river and its affluents, commencing with Missouri on its west bank and Kentucky on its east bank. There are nine or ten powerful States, large portions of three or four others, several large Territories—in all, a country as large as all Europe, as fine as any under the sun, already holding many more people than all the revolted States, and powerful regions of the earth. Does any one suppose that these powerful States—this great and energetic population—will ever make a peace that will put the lower course of this single and mighty national outlet to the sea in the hands of a foreign government far weaker than themselves? If there is any such person he knows little of the past history of mankind, and will perhaps excuse us for reminding him that the people of Kentucky, before they were constituted a State, gave formal notice to the federal government, when Gen. Washington was President, that if the United States did not require Louisiana they would themselves conquer it. The mouths of the Mississippi belong, by the gift of God, to the inhabitants of its great valley. Nothing but irresistible force can disinherit them.

Try another territorial aspect of the case. There is a bed of mountains abutting on the left bank of the Ohio, which covers all Western Virginia, and all Eastern Kentucky, to the width, from east to west, in those two States, of three or four hundred miles. These mountains, stretching south-westwardly, pass entirely through Tennessee, cover the back parts of North Carolina and Georgia, heavily invade the northern part of Alabama, and make a figure even in the back parts of South Carolina and the eastern parts of Mississippi, having a course of perhaps seven or eight hundred miles, and running far south of the northern limit of profitable cotton culture. It is a region of 300,000 square miles, trenching upon eight or nine slave States, though nearly destitute of slaves itself; trenching upon at least five cotton States, though raising no cotton itself. The western part of Maryland and two-thirds of Pennsylvania are embraced in the north-eastern continuation of this remarkable region. Can anything that passes under the name of statesmanship be more preposterous than the notion of permanent peace on this continent, founded on the abnegation of a common and paramount government, and the idea of the supercilious domination of the cotton interest and the slave-trade over such a mountain empire, so located and so peopled?

As a further proof of the utter impossibility of peace except under a common government, and at once an illustration of the import of what has just been stated, and the suggestion of a new and insuperable difficulty, let it be remembered that this great mountain region, throughout its general course, is more loyal to the Union than any other portion of the slave States. It is the mountain counties of Maryland that have held treason in check in that State; it is forty mountain counties in Western Virginia that have laid the foundation of a new and loyal commonwealth; it is the mountain counties of Kentucky that first and most eagerly took up arms for the Union; it is the mountain region of Tennessee that alone, in that dishonored State, furnished martyrs to the sacred cause of freedom; it is the mountain people of Alabama that boldly stood out against the Confederate government till their own leaders deserted and betrayed them.

It is not a strong point, but it is worth noting, that even in South Carolina there is an Alleghanian area of 4,074 square miles, equal to the State of Connecticut, in which the diminished proportion of slaves, with other local causes, are sufficient to indicate the Union feeling which indeed struggles there in secret. These counties are:—

FREE. SLAVE. Spartanburgh, 18,311 8,039 Greenville, 13,370 6,691 Anderson, 13,867 7,514 Pickens, 13,105 3,679

Slavery is here large, as compared to the other counties of 'Alleghania,' but the great proportion of free inhabitants, as contrasted with the districts near the Atlantic, makes it worth citing. In accordance with a request, I give from Jas. W. Taylor's collection, illustrating this subject, the table of population in East Tennessee:—

The following table, from the census of 1850, presents the slave and cotton statistics of this district, in their relation to the free population:

COUNTIES. FREE. SLAVE. COTTON, 400 lb. bales. Johnson, 3,485 206 0 Carter, 5,911 353 0 Washington, 12,671 930 0 Sullivan, 10,603 1,004 153 Hancock, 5,447 202 2 Hawkins, 11,567 1,690 0 Greene, 16,526 1,093 0 Cocke, 7,501 719 3 Sevier, 6,450 403 0 Jefferson, 11,458 1,628 0 Granger, 11,170 1,035 1 Knox, 16,385 2,193 0 Union, new county, Claiborne, 8,610 660 0 Anderson, 6,391 503 0 Campbell, 5,651 318 1 Scott, 1,808 37 0 Morgan, 3,301 101 9 Cumberland, new county, Roane, 10,525 1,544 121 Blount, 11,213 1,084 6 Munroe, 10,623 1,188 0 McMinn, 12,286 1,568 2,821 Polk, 5,884 400 29 Bradley, 11,478 744 1,600 Meigs, 4,480 395 2 Hamilton, 9,216 672 0 Rhea, 3,951 436 0 Bledsoe, 5,036 827 0 Sequatche, new county, Van Buren, 2,481 175 2 Grundy, 2,522 236 24 Marion, 5,718 551 24,413 Franklin, 10,085 3,623 637 Lincoln, 17,802 5,621 2,576

The geographical order of the foregoing list of counties is from the extreme north-east—Johnson—south-west to Lincoln, on the Alabama line. I have included a tier of counties the west, which embrace the summits and western slopes of the Cumberland Hills, regarding their physical and political features as more identified with East than Middle Tennessee. Such are Lincoln, Franklin, Grundy, Van Buren, Cumberland, Morgan and Scott counties.

I estimate the area of this district as about 17,175 square miles, an extent of territory exceeding the aggregate of the following States:

Massachusetts, 7,800 square miles. Connecticut, 4,674 square miles. Rhode Island, l,306 square miles. ——— 13,180 square miles.

Yet it is not many months since even this Tennessee region, it was generally feared, would be false to the Union, on account of its attachment to slavery.

The reader who has studied the facts which I have cited, indicating the existence of a powerful Union party at the South (and the facts are few and weak compared to the vast mass which exist, and which are known to government), may judge for himself whether that party is Union in spite of pro-slavery principles, as so many would have us believe. Let him see where these Union men are found, where they have come forth with the greatest enthusiasm, and then say that he believes they are friends to slavery. Let him bear in mind the hundreds of thousands of acres, the vast tracts, equal in extent to whole Northern States, in the South, which are unfitted for slave labor, and reflect whether the inhabitants of these cool, temperate regions are not as conscious of their inadaptability to slave labor as he is himself; and whether they are so much attached to the institution which fosters the Satanic pride, panders to the passions, and corrupts the children of the planter of the low country.

Since writing the above, the long-expected declaration of President LINCOLN has appeared in favor of adopting a plan which may lead to the gradual abolishment of slavery. He proposes that the United States shall cooeperate with such slave States as may desire Emancipation, by giving such pecuniary aid as may compensate for any losses incurred. No interference with State rights or claims to rights in the question is intended.

It is evident that this message is directed entirely to the strengthening and building up of the Union party of the South, and has been based quite as much on their demands and on a knowledge of their needs, as on any Northern pressure. And it will have a sure effect. It will bring to life, if realized, those seeds of counter-revolution which so abundantly exist in the South. The growth may be slow, but it will be certain. So long as the certainty exists that compensation may be obtained, there will be a party who will long for it; and where there is a will there is a way. The executive has finally officially recognized the truth of the theory of Emancipation, and thereby entitled itself to the honor of having taken the greatest forward step in the glorious path of Freedom ever made even in our history.

* * * * *

THE MOLLY O'MOLLY PAPERS.

NO. I.

In addressing you for the first time, you will perhaps expect me to give some account of myself and my ancestry, as did the illustrious Spectator.

My remote ancestors are Irish. From them I inherited enthusiasm, a gun-powder temper, a propensity to blunder, and a name—Molly O'Molly. The origin of this name I have in vain endeavored to trace in history, perhaps because it belonged to a very old family, one of the prehistorics. As such it might have been that of a demigod, or, according to the development theory, of a demi-man. Or it might have been that of an old Irish gentleman, gentle in truth;—in the formative stage of society it is the monster that leaves traces of himself, as in an old geologic period the huge reptile left his tracks in the plastic earth, which afterward hardened into rock.

Then, too, I have searched in vain for anything like it in ancient Irish poetry, thinking that my progenitor's name might have been therein embalmed. 'The stony science'—mind you—reveals to us the former existence of the huge reptile, the fragmentary, mighty mastodon, and, imperfect, the mail-clad fish. But, wonder of wonders, we find the whole insect preserved in that fossil gum amber. And even so in verse, characters are preserved for all time, that could not make their mark in history, and that had none of the elements of an earthly immortality. Did I wish immortality I would choose a poet for my friend;—an In Memoriam is worth all the records of the dry chronicler.

But, it is not with the root of the family tree that you have to do, but with the twig Myself.

As for my physique,—I am not like the scripture personage who beheld his face in a glass, and straightway forgot what manner of man he was. I have, on the contrary, a very distinct recollection of my face; suffice it to say, that, had I Rafaelle's pencil, I would not, like him, employ it on my own portrait.

And my life—the circumstances which have influenced, or rather created its currents, have been trifling; not that it has had no powerful currents; it is said that the equilibrium of the whole ocean could be destroyed by a single mollusk or coralline,—but my life has been an uneventful one. I never met with an adventure, never even had a hair-breadth escape,—yes, I did, too, have one hair-breadth escape. I once just grazed matrimony. The truth is, I fell in love, and was sinking with Falstaff's 'alacrity,' when I was fished out; but somehow I slipt off the hook—fortunately, however, was left on shore. By the way, the best way to get out of love is to be drawn out by the matrimonial hook. One of Holmes' characters wished to change a vowel of the verb to love, and conjugate it—I have forgotten how far. Where two set out to conjugate together the verb to love in the first person plural, it is well if they do not, before the honey-moon is over, get to the present-perfect, indicative. Alas! I have thus far, in the first person singular, conjugated too many verbs, among them to enjoy. As for to be, I have come to the balancing in my mind of the question that so perplexed Hamlet—'To be, or not to be.' For, with all the natural cheerfulness of my disposition, I can not help sometimes looking on the dark side of life. But there is no use in setting down my gloomy reflections,—all have them. We are all surrounded by an atmosphere of misery, pressing on us fifteen pounds to the square inch, so evenly and constantly that we know not its fearful weight. To change the figure. Have you ever thought how much misery one life can hold in solution? Each year, as it flows into it, adds to it a heaviness, a weight of woe, as the rivers add salts to the ocean. I do not refer to the most unhappy, but to all. Some one says,—

'If singing breath, if echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven.'

If breath to every hidden prayer were given, could it be singing breath? Would it not be a wail monotonous as the dirge of the November wind over the dead summer, a wail for lost hopes, lost joys, lost loves? Or the monotony would be varied—as is the wind by fitful gusts—by shrieks of despair, cries of agony. No, no, there is no use in trying to modulate our woes,—'we're all wrong,—the time in us is lost.'

'Henceforth I'll bear Affliction, till it do cry out itself, "Enough, enough," and die.'

But why talk thus? why mourn over dead hopes, dead joys, dead loves? 'Tis best to bury the dead out of our sight, and from them will spring many humbler hopes, quieter joys, more lowly affections, which 'smell sweet' though they 'blossom in the dust,' and they are the only resurrection these dead ones can ever have. I have been reading, in Maury's Geography of the Sea, how the sea's dead are preserved; how they stand like enchanted warders of the treasures of the deep, unchanged, except that the expression of life is exchanged for the ghastliness of death. So, down beneath the surface currents do some deep souls preserve their dead hopes, joys, loves. Oh, this is unwise; this is not as God intended; for, unlike the sea's dead, there will be for these no resurrection.

Thus far I wrote, when the current of my thoughts was changed by a lively tune struck up by a hand-organ across the street. I am not 'good' at distinguishing tunes, but this one I had so often heard in childhood, and had so wondered at its strange title, that I could but remember it. It was 'The Devil's Dream.' Were I a poet, I would write the words to it;—but then, too, I would need be a musician to compose a suitable new tune to the words! The rattling, reckless notes should be varied by those sad enough to make an unlost angel weep—an unlost angel, for, to the hot eyes of the lost, no tears can come. 'The Devil's Dream'—perhaps it is of Heaven. Doubtless, frescoed in heavenly colors on the walls of his memory, are scenes from which fancy has but to brush the smoke and grime of perdition to restore them to almost their original beauty. I could even pity the 'Father of lies,' the 'Essence of evil,' the 'Enemy of mankind,' when I think of the terrible awaking. But does he ever sleep? Has there since the fall been a pause in his labors? Perhaps the reason this tune-time is so fast is because he is dreaming in a hurry,—must soon be up and doing. But it is my opinion that he has so wound up the world to wickedness, that he might sleep a hundred years, and it would have scarcely begun to run down on his awaking; when, from the familiar appearance of all things, he would swear 'it was but an after-dinner nap.' Indeed he might die, might to-day go out in utter nothingness like a falling star, and it would be away in the year two thousand before he would be missed,—we have learned to do our own devil-work so rarely. Meanwhile the well-wound world—as a music-box plays over the same tunes—would go on sinning over the same old sins. Satan is a great economist, but a paltry deviser,—he has not invented a new sin since the flood. My thoughts thus danced along to the music, when they were brought to a dead stop by its cessation; and it was time, you will think....

But, permit me to remind you that my name is not acquired, but inherited.

At your service,

MOLLY O'MOLLY.

NO. II.

I detest that man who bides his time to repay a wrong or fancied wrong, who keeps alive in his hardened nature the vile thing hatred, and would for centuries, did he live thus long,—as the toad is kept alive in the solid rock. Hugh Miller says he is 'disposed to regard the poison bag of the serpent as a mark of degradation;' this venomous spite is certainly a mark of degradation, and it is only creeping, crawling souls that have it, but the creeping and crawling are a part of the curse.

Yet I have a respect for honest indignation, righteous anger, such as the O'Mollys have ever been capable of. And all the O'Molly blood in my veins has been stirred by the contemptuous manner in which some men have spoken of woman. 'Weak woman,—inconstant woman;' they have made the wind a type of her fickleness. In this they are right; for it has been proved that the seasons in their return, day and night, are not more sure than the wind. Such fickleness as this is preferable to man's greatest constancy. Woman weak! she's gentle as the summer breeze, I grant;—but, like this same breeze, when she's roused—then beware! You have doubtless heard of that gale that forced back the Gulf Stream, and piled it up thirty feet at its source.

Take care how you sour woman's nature,—remember that, once soured, all the honey in the universe will not sweeten it. There is such a thing as making vinegar of molasses, but I never heard of making molasses of vinegar. Do you wish to know the turning process? Grumbling—everlasting fault-finding—at breakfast, dinner, and supper, the same old tune. I don't see how the man who boards can endure it; he is obliged to swallow his food without complaint. The landlady at the head of the table is a very different-looking individual from the meek woman he afterwards calls wife,—not a word can he say, though he morning after morning, in his breakfast, recognizes, through its various disguises, yesterday's dinner. By the way, this is after Dame Nature's plan; she uses the greatest economy in feeding her immense family of boarders; never wastes a refuse scrap, or even a drop of water. If one of these boarders dies, it is true he is not, like 'the poor work-house boy,' served up as one dish, but he becomes an ingredient in many 'a dainty dish' fit to 'to set before a king.' But I am not, like 'Miss Ophelia' in 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' going to explore the good dame's kitchen,—will rather eat what is set before me, asking no questions; which last, what man ever did, if he could help it?

For an insignificant man, originally but a cipher, who owes it to his wife that he is even the fraction that he is, to talk about 'woman knowing her place—he's head,' etc.! If he had given her the place that belonged to her, their value, not as individual figures, but as one number, would have been increased a thousand fold. I have made a calculation, and this is literally true, or rather, you will say, figuratively true. Well, this kind of figures can not lie.

'The rose,' the Burmese say, 'imparts fragrance to the leaf in which it is folded.' Many a man has had a sweetness imparted to his character by the woman he has sheltered in his bosom—though some characters 'not all the perfume of Arabia could sweeten;' and, strange as it seem, most women would rather be folded in a tobacco leaf than 'waste their sweetness on desert air.' Though it is a long time since I have been a man lover, I am not a man hater. I can not hate anything that has been so hallowed by woman's love,—its magnetism gives a sort of attractive power to him.

Notwithstanding all that has been said about woman's weakness, it is acknowledged that she has a pretty strong will of her own. Well, we need a strong will,—it is the great centrifugal force that God has given to all. Only it must be subordinate to the centripetal force of the universe—the Divine will.

It is said that the centripetal force of our solar system is the Pleiad Alcyon. I know not whether the other stars of that cluster feel this attraction; if they do, what a centrifugal force the lost Pleiad must have had, to break away from 'the sweet influences' which, through so immense a distance, draw the sun with all his train. This is not without a parallel—when 'the morning stars sang together' over the new-born earth, one 'star of the morning' was not there to join in the chorus.

But Old Sol will probably never so strongly assert his centrifugality as to set such an example of secession to his planets and comets.

Pardon this astronomical digression. I have just returned from hearing an itinerant lecturer, and it will take a week to get the smoke of his magic lantern out of my eyes. If there is any error in these observations, blame the itinerant, not me.

I had been low-spirited all day, had tried reading, work,—all of no avail. Dyspeptic views of life would present themselves to my mind. Some natures, and mine is of them, like the pendulum, need a weight attached to them to keep them from going too fast. But a wholesome sorrow is very different from this moping melancholy, when the thoughts run in one direction, till they almost wear a channel for themselves—when the channel is worn, there is insanity.

Neither are my gloomy religious views to-day those that will regenerate the world. Those lines of Dr. Watts,—'We should suspect some danger nigh When we possess delight,'—it is said, were written after a disappointment in love—it was 'sour grapes' that morning—with the grave divine.

As a general rule, where we possess continued delight, there is no 'danger nigh.' Where an enjoyment comes between us and our God, it casts on us a shadow. When we have plucked a beautiful flower, if poisonous, it has such a sickening odor that we fling it from us. We do not 'pay too dear for our whistle,' unless it costs us a sin; then it soon becomes a loathed and useless toy. Otherwise, the dearer we pay, the sweeter its music.

And even if there is 'danger nigh'—because we are pleased with the beautiful foam, need we steer straight for the breakers? Not every tempting morsel is the enemy's bait, though we should be careful how we nibble;—he is no blunderer (a proof positive that he is not Irish), never leaves his trap sprung—and we may get caught.

This is a synopsis of the arguments, or rather assertions, with which I opposed those of the blues; but, finding they were getting the better of me, I started out for a walk. It was a chilly afternoon; the whole sky, except a clear place just above the western horizon, was covered with those heavy, diluted India-ink clouds; the setting sun throwing a dreary red light on the northern and eastern mountains, adding sullenness to the gloom, instead of dispelling it. But why describe this gloomy sunset, there are so many beautiful ones?—when, as the grand, old, dying Humboldt said, the 'glorious rays seem to beckon earth to heaven?'

Well, I walked so fast that I left my blue tormentors far in the rear. On the way I met a friend, who invited me to go to the astronomical lecture. Here you have it, after many digressions. My thoughts never strike a plane surface, but always a spherical, and fly off in a tangent.

Sydney Smith says, 'Remember the flood and be brief.' You know I belong to a very old family; and from an ancestor, who lived before the flood, has been transmitted through a long line of O'Mollys a disposition to spin out. Unfortunately an antediluvian length of time was not an heir-loom to

Your humble servant,

MOLLY O'MOLLY.

* * * * *

SKETCHES OF EDINBURGH LITERATI.

BY A FORMER MEMBER OF ITS PRESS.

There was a time when the little hamlet of Cockpaine, ten miles from Edinburgh, in addition to the charms of its scenery, was also socially attractive from the high literary talent of several of its residents. It was situated on the banks of the Esk, whose rapid flow affords a valuable water-power. This had been improved under the enterprise of Mr. Craig, an extensive manufacturer, who became at last proprietor not only of the mills, but of the entire village. Mr. Craig was successful for several years; but the revulsions of trade during the Crimean war swept away his previous profits, and in 1854 he sank in utter bankruptcy.

The extensive domain of the Earl of Dalhousie lay next to Cockpaine, and the village site seemed all that was necessary to its completeness. As soon as the latter was offered for sale, the earl made the long-desired purchase, and then began the immediate eviction of its population. I saw four hundred operatives, of all ages, driven off on one sad occasion—a scene which reminded me most painfully of Goldsmith's lines in the 'Deserted Village:'—

'Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day That called them from their native walks away, When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, And took a long farewell, and wished in vain For seats like these beyond the western main; And shuddering still to face the distant deep, Returned and wept, and still returned to weep.'

A subsequent visit to what was once the thriving village, with its embowered cottages reflected from the waters of the Esk, its groups of romping children, its Sabbath melodies and its secular din, now changed to a nobleman's preserves, recalled the following truthful sketch from the same poem:—

'Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed, In Nature's simplest charms arrayed; But verging to decline, its splendors rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms, a garden and a grave.'

Among those whom Mr. Craig had numbered with the friends of his better days, the first rank might have been conceded to that most eccentric and interesting child of genius, Thomas DeQuincey.

Mr. Craig had thrown open to his use a lovely cottage and grounds, commonly known as 'the Paddock,' which DeQuincey and his family occupied for several years as privileged guests. 'The Opium-eater,' as he was universally called by the villagers, was not more remarkable in character than in appearance. His attenuated form, though but five feet six in height, seemed singularly tall; and his sharply aquiline countenance was strongly indicative of reflection. This aspect was increased by a downward cast of the eyes, which were invariably fixed upon the ground; and in his solitary walks he seemed like one rapt in a dream. Such a character could not but be quite a marvel to the literary coterie of Cockpaine, which found in him an inexhaustible subject of discussion; while the more common class of the community viewed him with solemn wonderment—'aye, there he gaes aff to th' brae—he'll kill himsell wi' ower thinkin'—glowrin all the day lang—ah, there's na gude in that black stuff; it's worse nor whiskey and baccy forbye.' Such were some of the ordinary comments on the weird form which was seen emerging from 'the Paddock' and moving in solitude towards the hills. Taciturnity was a striking feature in DeQuincey's character, and was, no doubt, owing to intense mental action. The inner life, aroused to extreme activity by continued stimulus, excluded all perceptions beyond its own limits, and the world in which he dwelt was sufficiently large without the intrusion of external things. In his walks I would often follow in his track, with that fondness of imitation peculiar to childhood, but was never the object of his notice, and never heard him converse but once. Overcome by such recluse habits, DeQuincey showed no desire to court the patronage of the great, and had but little intercourse with the lordly family of the Dalhousies. Indeed, his only intimacy was with Mr. Craig, whose hospitality had won his heart. He was at this time still consuming enormous quantities of opium, having never abated its use, notwithstanding his allusions to reform in the 'Confessions.' His two daughters, like those of Milton, cheered the domestic scenes of 'the Paddock,' and the trio formed a circle whose interest pervaded the literary world.

DeQuincey was at that time writing for Hogg's Instructor, a popular Edinburgh periodical, in which his articles were a leading attraction. The Instructor was published weekly, and in addition to the pen of the 'Opium-eater,' could boast the editorship of the brilliant George Gilfillan. The former of these devoted himself to a series of interesting miscellanies, in which he brought out many pen-and-ink portraits of striking power. At times, indeed, he was almost considered joint editor; but his use of opium was so little abated, that it forbade dependence upon his pen. The quantity of the drug consumed by him, according to report, was astonishing. In his daily walk along the Esk, his form was easily distinguished, even at a distance, by the prim black surtout, whose priestly aspect was somewhat in contrast with his 'shocking-bad' hat. DeQuincey had by this time escaped from the poverty of his early days, of which he speaks so bitterly in his 'Confessions,' and was, if not a man of wealth, at least in easy circumstances. He was reputed to own a snug little estate, called 'Lasswade;' but he abandoned it to a tenant, and gave preference to Cockpaine, which charmed him by its romantic scenery. His pay for contributions to the Instructor could not have been less than a guinea per page; and Hogg, its publisher (who was no relation to the Ettrick shepherd), would have given him more had it been demanded. The Instructor was subsequently merged into the Titan, and its place of publication changed to London.

Removing from Cockpaine, my initiation into Edinburgh life was through an acquaintance with the noted publishing house of the Messrs. Black, who were then getting out their splendid edition of the Encyclopedia Brittanica.

This vast enterprise, which cost L25,000, was highly profitable, through the energy and cleverness of Robert Black, who conducted it. Among other distinguished contributors, I frequently met in its office Mr., subsequently Lord, Macaulay, who furnished the articles on 'Pitt,' 'Canning,' and other distinguished statesmen. Although at that time a man of slender means, Mr. Macaulay refused compensation for these papers, on the score of strong personal friendship. However, he received an indirect reward, more valuable than mere gold, since Robert Black was his strong political supporter, and frequently presided at public meetings held to further Macaulay's interests. I have often seen Music Hall crowded by an enthusiastic mass while the bookseller filled the chair, and the great reviewer appeared as a public orator. Macaulay's person was very striking and impressive. He was tall, and of noble build and full development. Although one of the most diligent of readers and hard working of students of any age, his ruddy countenance did not indicate close application, and his appearance was anything but that of a book-worm. Indeed, at first glance, one would have taken him for a fine specimen of the wealthy English farmer; and to have observed his habits of good living at the social dining parties, would have added to the impression that in him the animal nature was far in advance of the intellectual. Macaulay, on all festive occasions, proved himself as elegant a conversationist as he was a writer; his tone was thoroughly English, and his pronunciation, like that of Washington Irving, was singularly correct. As a speaker, he at times rose to splendid flights of oratory, although his delivery from memory was less effective than the extemporaneous style. Macaulay never married, but was always happy in the social circle of his friends.

The Blacks were likewise publishers of Scott's novels, the demand for which was so great that they were seldom 'off the press.' Three standard editions were issued,—one of forty-eight volumes, at a low rate, another of twenty-five volumes, at higher cost, and an additional library edition, of still greater price. Of these, one thousand 'sets' per year were the average of sale.

Shortly after this, I was in connection with the Ballantynes, who published Blackwood's Magazine, one of the most profitable periodicals in the United Kingdom. This connection led to an acquaintance with John Wilson, better known as 'Christopher North,' of 'Old Ebony.' When the printers were in haste, I have frequently walked down to his residence in Gloucester Place, and sat by his side, waiting patiently, hour after hour, for copy. The professor always wrote in the night, and would frequently dash off one of his splendid articles between supper and daybreak. His study was a small room, containing a table littered with paper, the walls garnished with a few pictures, while heaps of books were scattered wherever chance might direct. At this table might have been seen the famous professor of moral philosophy, stripped to his shirt and pantaloons, the former open in front, and displaying a vast, hirsute chest, while a slovenly necktie kept the limp collar from utter loss of place. This was his favorite state for composition, and was in true keeping with the character and productions of his genius. When in public, the professor was still a sloven; but his heavy form and majestic head and countenance—though he was not a tall man—at once commanded respect. He never appeared anything but the philosopher, and I, who saw him in the dishabille of his study, never lost my awe for his greatness. He had a worthy family, and maintained an excellent establishment. Aytoun, who is now editor of Blackwood, married one of his daughters, and has proved, by his stirring ballads, that he was worthy of such an alliance. In writing, the professor eschewed gas light, and made use of the more classic lamp. A bottle of wine was his companion, and stood at his elbow until exhausted. This will perhaps explain much of the convivial character of the 'Notes.' The old-fashioned quill pen was his preference; and as the hours advanced, and mental excitement waxed in activity, the profuse spattering of ink rattled like rain. As a matter of course, his pay was of the highest rate, and his articles were read with avidity. One reason of this may be found in the boldness with which he drags into the imaginary colloquies of Noctes Ambrosianae the literati of both kingdoms. This liberty was sometimes felt keenly, and sharply resented. Poor James Hogg, the 'Ettrick Shepherd,' who was just then getting a position in the literary world, sometimes found himself figuring unexpectedly in the scenes, as the victim of relentless wit. As a retaliation, Hogg attacked Wilson in a sheet which he was then publishing in the Cowgate, under the aid and patronage of a hatter.

It was one of John Wilson's fancies to affect a love of boxing, and it was a favorite theme in the 'Ambrosial Discussions.' From this some have imagined that he was of a pugilistic turn, whereas he knew nothing of the 'science,' and only affected the knowledge in jest.

Next to old 'Kit North,' the most truly beloved contributor to Blackwood was 'Delta,' whose poetry was for years expected, almost of course, in every number. As Wilson's identity was well-nigh lost in his imaginary character, so plain Dr. Moir was, in the literary world, merged in 'Delta' of Blackwood. But to the inhabitants of Musselburg he sustained a character altogether different, and the gentle Delta was only known as one worthy of the title of 'the good physician.' I lived at Musselburg two years, and had ample opportunities of personal acquaintance. Dr. Moir was a man of highly benevolent countenance, and of quiet and retiring manners. His practice was very extensive, and at almost all hours he could have been seen driving an old gray horse through the streets and suburbs of the town. The ancient character of Musselburg seemed to have been as congenial to his temperament as Nuremberg was to that of Hans Sachs. Indeed, in antiquity it can glory over 'Auld Reekie,' according to the quaint couplet,—

'Musselboro' was a boro' when Edinburgh was nane; Musselboro'll be a boro' when Edinburgh is gane.'

Moir was buried at Inveresk, where his remains are honored by a noble monument; the memory of his genius will be cherished by all readers of Blackwood. He died in 1854.

While engaged on the Encyclopedia to which we have made reference, I made the acquaintance of McCulloch, the distinguished writer of finances, who furnished the article on 'Banking.'

However distinguished may have been the position of this man in point of talent, he failed utterly to command respect; and I chiefly remember his coarse, overbearing tone of boastful superiority, and his abusive language to the compositors who set up his MSS. That they found the latter difficult of deciphering is not surprising, since the sheet looked less like human calligraphy than a row of bayonets. McCulloch had edited the 'Scotsman' with decided ability, and having attracted the attention of Lord Brougham, had received an appointment in the stationer's office. But in his promotion he quickly forgot his humble origin, and displayed his native vulgarity by lording it over the craftsmen who gave form and life to his thoughts.

Among the giants of Scotland at that time, Thomas Chalmers ranked chief, and the death of Sir Walter Scott had left him without a peer. I used to meet him as he took his early walks, and in his loving way of greeting youth he often bade me a cheerful good-morning. He was then living at Kinghorn, about eight miles from Edinburgh. Dr. Chalmers' robust stature was in keeping with the power of his intellect. He was of massive frame, and displayed a breadth of shoulder which seemed borrowed from the Farnese Hercules. Though so distinguished as a divine, there was nothing clerical in his appearance—nothing of that air of 'the cloth' which at once proclaims the preacher. His noble features were generally overspread with a benevolent smile, which seemed to shed an illumination as though from the ignition of the soul; while at other times he was possessed with a spirit of abstraction as if walking in a dream.

As a theologian, Chalmers was great beyond any of his contemporaries; and yet, strictly speaking, his genius was mathematical, rather than theological. In this respect he resembled that famed American of whom he professed himself a disciple—Jonathan Edwards. Of the latter it is stated by no less a critic than the author of the Eclipse of Faith (Henry Rogers), that he was born a mathematician. Chalmers, however, was a master of all science, and it would have been difficult for even a specialist to have taken him at an advantage. As greatness is always set off by simplicity, the latter feature was one of the chief beauties in what we may call the Chalmerian Colossus. I have often seen him leaning upon the half open door of a smithy, conversing with the intelligent workmen, as they rested from the use of the sledge. Having referred to his love of children, I may add, in respect to myself, that when I, in my childhood, spoke to him in the street, I was generally favored with an apple. He was indeed an ardent lover of the young, and his genius seemed to gather freshness from his intercourse with childhood.

Edinburgh will not soon forget his interest in the welfare of the poor, in which he has been so ably seconded by the present Dr. Guthrie. I well remember beholding the two Christian reformers, standing above the slums of the city, contemplating the fields which the latter had assumed. Suddenly Chalmers clapped his friend upon the back, and exclaimed, in rude pleasantry, 'Wow, Tummus Guthrie, but ye ha a bonnie parish.' Chalmers' pronunciation was singularly broad, and not easily understood by many. Stopping once, during a tour in England, at a place where there was a seminary, a gentleman inquired of him how many Scotch boys were in attendance. 'Saxtain or savantain,' was the reply. 'Enough,' says the gentleman, sotto voce, to corrupt a whole school.' As regards calligraphy, Chalmers wrote the most illegible hand in Scotland. He could not even read it himself, and was frequently obliged to call his wife and daughters to his aid. Many of his discourses, when intended for the press, were copied by them. His manuscript, when fresh from his hand, looked as though a fly had fallen into the ink-stand, and then crawled over the page. When his letters were received at his paternal home, the language of the father was, 'A letter from Tummus, eh; weel, when he comes hame, he maun read it himsel.' There was something Homeric in Chalmers' mind; and Hugh Miller always considered him the bard of the Free Church, as well as its great theologian and still greater benefactor; and this, too, notwithstanding the fact that he never wrote a line of verse in his life. The simplest truths, when announced by him, took a poetic shape, and moved along with all the majesty of his towering genius. Speaking of Hugh Miller brings him before us at the time that he was writing for the Caledonia Mercury. He was then editor of The Witness, but gave to the former paper such moments as he could abstract from his more serious duties. His department in the Mercury was the reviewing new publications. Besides his engagement with these two journals, he was pursuing those studies which made him the prince of British geologists. Geology was his passion. Indeed, while writing leaders for the Witness, or turning over the leaves of hot-pressed volumes, his mind was wandering among such scenes as the 'Lake of Stromness,' and the 'Old Red Sandstone' of his native Cromarty. His geological sketches in the Witness were a new feature in journalism, and formed the basis of that work which so admirably refuted the 'Vestiges of Creation.' I met Miller daily for several years. He was tall, and of a well-built and massive frame, and evidently capable of great endurance, both of mind and body. Considered as one of the distinguished instances of self-made men, Hugh Miller finds his only parallel in Horace Greeley, although the path to greatness was in the first instance even more laborious than in the latter. Let any one read Miller's experiences and adventures, as described in 'My Schools and my Schoolmasters,' and he will find a renewed suggestion of the thought which Johnson so pathetically breathes in his 'London:'—

'The mournful truth is everywhere confessed, Slow rises worth by poverty depressed.'

Miller's appearance, when in trim attire, was that of the Scottish 'Dominie,' or parish schoolmaster; but, like the great American editor, he was exceedingly slovenly, both by nature and by long habits of carelessness. When in the street, he always wore the plaid, although that garment was quite out of use, and indicated at once something quaint or rustic in the wearer. At this time Miller was living in one of the suburbs of Edinburgh, called Porto Bello. When we exchanged greetings in the street, his countenance, usually overcast with the pale hue of thought, would light up with a bright and open smile, which continued as long as he was speaking, but soon yielded to returning abstraction. One of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen was the groups of youth whom Miller used to invite as companions of an afternoon walk. None were forbidden on the score of childhood, and many a 'wee bairn' trotted after the larger lads who accompanied 'the gude stane-cracker,' and 'the bonnie mon what gaes amang the rocks.' He might well be called the 'stane-cracker,' since I have seen him on Calton Hill, or Arthur's Seat, or among the crags, lecturing, in a calm, quiet tone, on the mysteries which his hammer had brought to light. These were the only recreations of one whose days and nights were, with the exception of a brief and often wakeful season of rest, given to laborious study. Had he indulged more freely in them, he might have escaped the terrible fate which overtook him. But he never could emancipate himself from the labor to which he was chained. His 'Impressions of England,' which is one of the most delightful of his books, was the product of a subsequent tour for health. If such were his recreations, what must have been his labors? Miller's domestic life did much to cheer an over-worked system. He gives, in the 'Schools and Schoolmasters,' a pleasing allusion to the fascination of his courtship; and his subsequent life was graced by one whoso appearance, as I remember her, was singularly lovely and interesting. In his home circle, Miller was truly a happy man. I may remark, in passing, that this is a feature in Scottish genius. While Shelley, Byron, Bulwer, Dickens, and other English authors, have been wrecked by home difficulties, Scott, Chalmers, Miller, Wilson, and the whole line of Scottish authors, drank deep of domestic felicity. Perhaps this may be explained by the contrast between the warmth of Scottish character, and the saturnine and unsocial disposition of the English. Edinburgh could at that time boast of two distinguished men of the name of Miller; and the great geologist had almost his fellow in the professor of surgery. The two were very intimate, and the one found in the other not only a friend, but a faithful medical adviser. Professor Miller was then printing his leading work, and I had frequent occasion to visit him with reference to its publication. One morning, as I rang, the professor came to the door with a hurried and nervous step. As it opened, I noted that his tall form was peculiarly agitated, and his countenance was deadly pale. In a calm, subdued voice, he informed me that Hugh Miller had just committed suicide with a pistol. The terrible news overcame me with a shudder, and I almost sank to the floor. The fact was not yet generally known; and oh, when it should be made public, what a blow would be felt by the moral and scientific world! The professor knew that the affair might possibly be ascribed by some to accident, but he at once referred it to insanity. The over-worked brain of the geologist had been for some time threatened with a collapse. He had, in addition to the management of the Witness, been elaborating a work of deep and exhausting character, and the mental excitement which accompanied its completion was like devouring fire. I have frequently gone to his room at a late hour of the night, and found him sitting before the smouldering grate, so absorbed in thought that, as he balanced the probabilities of contending theories, he unwittingly accompanied the mental effort by balancing the poker on the bar. I have seen, on such an occasion, a greasy stream oozing from the pocket of his fustian coat, and supplied by the roll of butter which at morning market he had purchased for home use. On the table lay his MSS., so marred with interlinings and corrections, that, notwithstanding his neat and delicate hand, it was almost a complete blot. These habits could not but terminate in utter wreck, and I have ever coincided with the professor's opinion as to the cause of his death. This gentleman stated to me a fact not generally known, that a few days before the awful catastrophe, the unfortunate man called on him in great distress, and sought his advice. He complained of a pain in his head, and then added an expression of fears with regard to that which was to him of untold value. This was his mineral and geological collection in Shrub Place, which was, no doubt, the most valuable private one in the kingdom. He was haunted by apprehension of its robbery by a gang of thieves, and asked what measures of safety would be advisable. The professor endeavored to expel the absurd idea by playful remark, and supposed himself somewhat successful. The next thing he heard was the intelligence of his death. It is quite evident that the fatal revolver was purchased for the defense of his treasures. What a lesson is this of the danger of excessive application, of unreasonable toil, of late hours, and mental tension. A continued exhaustion of his energies had brought upon the geologist a state of mental horror from which death seemed the only relief. The reaction of the nervous system was, no doubt, similar to that arising from delirium tremens; and thus extremes met, and the savant perished like the inebriate.

The tragedy did not seem complete until another victim should be added. The professor took the revolver to Thompson's, on Leith Walk, in order to learn by examination how many shots had been fired by the unfortunate suicide. The gunsmith took the weapon, but handled it so carelessly, that it went off in his hands, and the ball caused his death.

Speaking of excessive labor, we may observe that this is the general rule among men of science or letters. They are, as a class, crushed by engagements and duties, as well as by problems and questions of which the world can not even dream.

The Edinburgh literati know but little of rest or recreation; from the editor's chair up to the pulpit, they are under a lash as relentless as that of the taskmaster of Egypt. For instance, we might refer to Buchanan, of the Mercury. He has sat at his desk until he has become an old man, with the smallest imaginable subtraction of time for food and sleep, writing night and day, and carrying, in his comprehensive brain, the whole details of an influential journal. This feature, however, is not confined to the Old World, and may easily be paralleled in the journalism of America. Both Raymond, of the Times, and Bennett, of the Herald, almost live in the editorial function; and the former of these, though now Speaker of the Assembly, will either pen his leaders in his desk, during the utterance of prosy speeches, or in hours stolen from sleep after adjournment. In addition to these, we might quote the caustic language of Mr. Greeley, in reference to some mechanics who had 'struck,' in order to reduce their day's labor (we think to nine hours). 'He was in favor of short days of work, and having labored eighteen hours per diem for nearly twenty years, he was now going to "strike" for fifteen during the rest of his life.' But I doubt the success of Mr. Greeley's 'strike,' and apprehend that his early application has continued with but little abatement.

Before leaving Edinburgh for the New World, it was my good fortune to become acquainted with Jeffrey. He was at this time not so much distinguished as the reviewer, as he was by his new title of Lord Jeffrey, Judge of Court Session, with a salary of L3000 per annum. Lord Jeffrey was a small man, of light but elegant make, and peculiarly symmetrical. His head was quite small, but his countenance was of an imposing character; and his eye, brilliant but not fierce, often melted into a pensive tenderness. Such was Jeffrey's appearance on the bench in his latter days. I should have little judged from it that he was the relentless critic, whoso withering sarcasm was felt from the garrets of Grub Street to the highest walk of science or university life. My intimacy with Ballantyne, who published the Edinburgh Review, often brought the different MSS. before me, and I could contrast the exquisite neatness of Wardlaw with the slanting school-boy hand of Jeffrey. The tone and style of review literature have changed greatly since its inception, when each quarterly gloried in the character of a literary ogre, and dead men's bones lay round its doors, as erst about the castle of Giant Despair. Authors are not now thrown to the wild beasts for the entertainment of the multitude, as in former days; and had John Keats, or even poor Henry Kirke White, written and published fifty years later, they would never have perished by the critic's pen. Yet the same malignant assault which crushed their tender muse was the only thing which could amuse the latent powers of a far greater genius; and had not Byron been as cruelly attacked by the Edinburgh, he would never have given 'Childe Harold' to the world. The authorship of that most unjust and malignant critique, which, however brief, was sufficient to make the author of 'the Hours of Idleness,' foe the time, contemptible, was long a secret; but it is now admitted that it was by Jeffrey. Little did the murderous critic think that his challenge would bring out an adversary who would soon unhorse him, and then dash victoriously over the field under the especial patronage of fame.

* * * * *

THE HUGUENOT FAMILIES IN AMERICA.

III.

THE HUGUENOTS OF ULSTER.

It is said that the lands of the early Huguenot settlers in Ulster County were so arranged in small lots, and within sight of each other, as to prevent surprise from the Indians whilst their owners were cultivating them. Louis Bevier, one of the most honored patentees, was the ancestor of the highly-respectable family bearing his name in that region. When he was about to leave France, his father became so exasperated, that he refused to bestow upon him the commonest civilities. Nor would he condescend to return the kind salutations of another son in the public streets, affectionately offered by the pious emigrant, and for the last time.

Another of the patentees, Deyo, visited France to claim his confiscated estates, but, failing of success, returned. Kingston, at this early period, was the only trading post or village for the French Protestants, and sixteen miles distant from their settlement, although in a straight line. Paltz was not more than eight miles west of the Hudson River; this route, M. Deyo undertook, alone, to explore—but never returned. It was thought that the adventurous Huguenot died suddenly, or was devoured by the wild beasts. A truss and buckle which he owned were found about thirty years afterwards, at the side of a large hollow tree. His life seems to have been one full of toils and dangers, having endured severe sufferings for conscience' sake, before he reached Holland from France. For days he concealed himself in hiding places from his persecutors, and without food, finally escaping alone in a fishing boat, during a terrific storm.

The descendants of the Ulster Dubois are very influential and numerous in our day, but there is a tradition that this family at one time was in great danger of becoming extinct. For a long while it was the custom of parents to visit Kingston, for the purpose of having their children baptized. M. Dubois and wife were returning from such a pious visit, and while crossing the Roundout, on the ice, it gave way, plunging the horses, sleigh and party in the rapid stream. With great presence of mind, the mother threw her infant, an only son, upon a floating frozen cake, which, like the ark of Moses, floated him safely down the stream, until he was providentially rescued. For some time this child was the only male Dubois among the Paltz Huguenots, and had he perished on that perilous occasion, his family name would also have perished with him; still there were seven females of the same house, called the seven zuisters, all of whom married among the most respectable French Protestant families. To no stock do more families in Ulster County trace their origin than that of Dubois. Some antiquarians deny this tradition of the seven sisters, but contend that they were Lefevres.

There were two Le Fevres among the Ulster patentees. Their progenitors it is said were among those early Protestants of France who distinguished themselves for intellectual powers, prominence in the Reformed Church, with enduring patience under the severest trials, and death itself. Le Fevre, a doctor of theology, adorned the French metropolis when Paris caught the first means of salvation in the fifteenth century. He preached the pure gospel within its walls; and this early teacher declared 'our religion has only one foundation, one object, one head, Jesus Christ, blessed forever. Let us then not take the name of Paul, of Apostles, or of Peter. The Cross of Christ alone opens heaven and shuts the gates of hell.' In 1524, he published a translation of the New Testament, and the next year a version of the Psalms. Many received the Holy Scriptures from his hands, and read them in their families, producing the happiest results. Margaret, the beautiful and talented Princess of Valois, celebrated by all the wits and scholars of the time, embraced the true Christianity, uniting her fortune and influence with the Huguenots, and the Reformation thus had a witness in the king's court. She was sister to Francis the First, the reigning monarch. By the hands of this noble lady, the Bishop of Meuse sent to the king a translation of St. Paul's Epistles, richly illuminated, he adding, in his quaint and beautiful language, 'They will make a truly royal dish of fatness, that never corrupts, and having the power to restore from all manner of sickness. The more we taste them, the more we hunger after them, with desires that are ever fed and never cloyed.'

Abraham Hasbroucq, which is the original orthography of the name among the patentees, was a native of Calais, and the first emigrant of that family to America, in 1675, with a party of Huguenot friends; they resided for a while in the Palatinate on the banks of the Rhine. To commemorate their kindness, when they reached our shores the new settlement was called 'De Paltz,' now 'New Paltz,' as the Palatinate was always styled by the Dutch. Here, also, the beautiful stream flowing through New Paltz was known by the name of Walkill, after the river Wael, a branch of the Rhine, running into Holland.

The first twelve patentees, or the 'Duzine,' managed the affairs of the infant settlement as long as they lived, and after their death it was a custom to elect a court officer from among the descendants of each, at the annual town meetings. For a long period they kept in one chest all the important papers of their property and land titles. The pastor or the oldest man had charge of the key, and reference was made to this depository for the settlement of all difficulties about boundaries. Hence they were free from legal suits as to their lands; and to this judicious, simple plan may be traced the well-known harmony of the numerous descendants in this region,—the fidelity of their landmarks, with the absence of litigation.

We know of no region in our land where property has remained so long in the same families, as it has at New Paltz; since its first settlement, there has been a constant succession of intermarriages among the French descendants, and many continue to reside upon the venerable homesteads of their early and honored forefathers.

Devoted as the Huguenots ever had been to the worship of the Almighty, one of their first objects at New Paltz was the erection of a church. It was built of logs, and afterwards gave place to a substantial edifice of brick, brought from Holland, the place answering the double purpose of church and fort. Their third house of worship was an excellent stone building, which served the Huguenots for eighty years, when it was demolished in 1839, and the present splendid edifice placed on the venerable spot and dedicated to the service of Almighty God. It is related that a clergyman of eccentric dress and manners, at an early period, would occasionally make a visit to New Paltz, and, for the purpose of meditation, would cross the Walkill in a canoe, to some large elms growing upon a bank opposite the church; on one occasion the stream was low, and while pushing across with a pole, it broke, and the Dominie, losing his balance, pitched overboard. He succeeded, however, in reaching the shore, and proceeded to the nearest house, for the purpose of drying his clothes. This partly accomplished, he entered the pulpit and informed his congregation that he had intended to have preached a sermon on baptism; but, eyeing his garments, he observed that circumstances prevented, as he could now sympathize with Peter, and take the text, 'Lord, save, or I perish.'

To serve God according to the dictates of their own conscience, had ever been a supreme duty with the French Protestants, and paramount to everything else. For this they had endured the severest persecutions in France, and had sacrificed houses, lands, kindred and their native homes; they had crossed a trackless ocean, and penetrated the howling wilderness, inhabited by savage tribes—and for what?—To serve their MAKER, and the RIGHTS OF CONSCIENCE. They had been the salt of France, and brought over with them their pious principles, with their Bibles,—the most precious things. Some of these faded volumes are still to be found among the children of the American Huguenots, and we have often seen and examined one of the most venerable copies. It is Diodati's French Bible, with this title:—

LA SAINTE BIBLE, INTERPRETEE PAR JEAN DIODATI, MDCXLIII. IMPRIMEE A GENEVE.

The sacred book is 219 years old, in excellent condition, and well covered with white dressed deerskin, its ties of the same material. It was brought to America by Louis Bevier, a French Protestant of Ulster, and has been preserved as a precious family relic through nine generations. It was carried from France to Holland, and thence to New Paltz. 'Blessed Book! the hands of holy martyrs have unfolded thy sacred pages, and their hearts been cheered by thy holy truths and promises!' There is also a family record written in the volume, faintly legible, of the immediate descendants of Louis Bevier and his wife, Maria Lablau, from the year 1674 to 1684.

Above anything else did the Huguenots of France love their BIBLES. Various edicts, renewed in 1729, had commanded the seizure and destruction of all books used by the Protestants, and for this purpose, any consul of a commune, or any priest, might enter the houses to make the necessary search. We may therefore compute by millions the volumes destroyed in obedience to these royal edicts. On the 17th of April, 1758, about 40,000 books were burned at one time in Bordeaux; and it is also well known that at Beaucaire, in 1735, there was an auto-da-fe almost equal to that of Bordeaux. It was a truly sad day, in France, when the old family BIBLE must be given up; the book doubly revered and most sacred, because it was the WORD of GOD, and sacred too from the recollections connected with it! Grandparents, parents, and children, all, from their earliest infancy, had daily seen, read and touched it. Like the household deities of the ancients, it had been always present at all the joys and sorrows of the family. A touching custom inscribed on the first or last pages, and at times even upon its margins, the principal events in all those beloved lives. Here were the Births, Baptisms, Marriages, and the Deaths. Now all these tender, pious records must perish at once in the flames.

But mind, immortal mind, could not be destroyed; for free thought, and truth, and instruction, among the people, were companions of the Reformation, and books would circulate among all ranks throughout Protestant France. The works generally came from Holland through Paris, and from Geneva, by Lyons or Grenoble. Inside of baled goods, and in cases and barrels of provisions, secretly, thousands of volumes were sent from north to south, from east to west, to the oppressed Huguenots. The great work which Louis XIV. believed buried beneath the ruins of his bloody edicts still went on silently. At Lausanne was established a seminary, about the year 1725, where works for the French Protestant people were printed and circulated. The Bishop of Canterbury, with Lord Warke, and a few foreign sovereigns, actively assisted in the founding of this institution. Thus did that beautiful town become the source of useful and religious knowledge to thousands, although it was conveyed far and wide in a very quiet and secret way. One man was condemned to the galleys for having received barrels, marked 'Black and White Peas,' which were found full of 'Ostervald's Catechisms.'

How strange it seems to us, writing in our own Protestant land, that cruel authority should ever have intervened with matters of faith! What can be more plain or truthful than that there should be liberty of conscience; and that God alone has the power and the right to direct it, and that it is an abuse and a sacrilege to come between God and conscience? After the revocation of the edict of Nantes and the death of Louis XIV., his royal successor sometimes vaguely asked himself why he persecuted his Protestant subjects? when his marshal replied, that his majesty was only the executor of former edicts. He seemed to have consoled himself that he had found the system already established, and he only carried out the errors of his predecessor. Forty years of remorseless persecutions against his best subjects, without asking himself why! Of all the weaknesses of his reign, this was the most odious and the most guilty; his hand was most literally weary of signing cruel edicts against the Protestants of his kingdom, without even reading them, and which obedience to his mandates had to transcribe in letters of fire and blood, on the remotest parts of his realm.

Let us return to the Frenchmen of Ulster, who for some time after their emigration used their own language, until a consultation was held to determine whether this, or the English or Dutch, should be adopted in the families. As the latter was generally spoken in the neighboring places,—Kingston, Poughkeepsie and Newburgh,—and also at the schools and churches, it was decided to speak Dutch only to their children and servants. Having for a while, however, continued the use of their native tongue, some of the Huguenot descendants in the Paltz still write their names as their French ancestors wrote them more than two centuries ago. Dubois, Bevier, Deyeau, Le Fevre, Hasbroque, are well-known instances.

Petronella was once an admired name among the Huguenot ladies, and became almost extinct in Ulster at one time. The last was said to have been Petronella Hasbroque, a lady distinguished for remarkable traits of character. Judge Hasbroque, of Kingston, the father of the former President of Rutger's College, was very anxious that his son would give this name to one of his daughters. In case of compliance, a handsome marriage portion was also promised; but the parents declined the generous offer, whether from a dislike to the name, or a belief that the property would be theirs, at any rate, some day, is not known. A granddaughter, however, of a second generation, named her first-born Petronella, and thus gratifying the desire of her near kinsman, secured a marriage portion for the heir, and preserved the much-admired name from oblivion—certainly three important results.

It was a well-known and distinguished trait of the New Paltz Huguenots, that but few intermarriages have taken place among their own families (Walloon); they differed in this respect from all other French Protestants who emigrated to America and mingled with the other population by matrimonial alliances. In Kingston, Poughkeepsie, and other neighborhoods, near by, there is an unusual number of Dutch names—the Van Deusens, Van Benschotens, Van Kleeds, Van Gosbeeks, Van De Bogerts, Van Bewer, and others, almost ad infinitum, whilst for miles around the populous and wealthy town of Old Paltz scarcely a family can be found with such patronymics. Notwithstanding, somewhat like the Israelites, these Frenchmen classed themselves, in a measure, as a distinct and separate people; still, the custom did not arise from any dislike to the Hollanders,—on the contrary, they were particularly attached to that people, who had been their best friends, both in Holland and America; and these associations were ever of a most friendly and generous character. After a while, the Huguenots of Ulster adopted not only the language, but the customs and habits of the Dutch. After the destruction of the Protestant churches at Rochelle, in 1685, the colonists of that city came in such numbers to the settlement of New York, that it was necessary sometimes to print public documents not only in Dutch and English, but French also.

We do not wish to make our articles a Doomsday-book for the Huguenots, still it is pleasant for their descendants to know that they came from such honorable stock, and, with all of our boasted republicanism, we are not ashamed that we are so born. Here are some of the names to be found in the old records of Ulster:—Abraham Hausbrough, Nicholas Antonio, 'Sherriffe' Moses Quartain, 'Leon,' Christian Dubois, Solomon Hasbrook, Andries Lafeever, Hugo Freer, Peter Low, Samuel Boyce, Roeleff Eltinge, 'Esq.,' Nicholas Roosa, Jacobus DeLametie, Nicholas Depew, 'Esq.,' Philip Viely, Boudwyn Lacounti, 'Capt.' Zacharus Hoofman,' Lieut.' Benjamin Smedes, Jr., 'Capt.' Christian Dugo, James Agmodi, Johannis Low, Josia Eltin, Samuel Sampson, Lewis Pontenere, Abra. Bovier, Peter Dejo, Robert Cain, Robert Hanne, William Ward, Robert Banker, John Marie, Jonathan Owens, Daniel Coleman, Stephen D'Lancey, Eolias Nezereau, Abraham Jouneau, Thomas Bayeuk, Elia Neau, Paul Droilet, Augustus Jay, Jean Cazeale, Benjamin Faneil, Daniel Cromelin, John Auboyneau, Francis Vincent, Ackande Alliare, James Laboue (Minister). In 1713-14 we find, in an address of the ministers and elders of the Huguenot Church in New York, 'Louis Rou, Minister of the French Church, in New York, John Barberie, Elder, Louis Cane, ancien (the older), Jean Lafont, ancien, Andre Feyneau, ancien.' To another religious document there are Jean la Chan, Elias Pelletrau, Andrew Foucault, James Ballereau, Jaque Bobin, N. Cazalet, Sam'l Bourdet, David Le Telier, Francois Bosset.

* * * * *

'TEN TO ONE ON IT.'

When the Union was broken, truly then One Southron was equal to Yankees ten. When the Union war began to thrive, One Southron was equal to Yankees five. When Donaldson went, 'twas plain to see One Southron scarce equalled Yankees three. Now, Manassas is lost; yet, to Richmond view, One Southron still equals Yankees two. And lo! a coming day we see,— And Oh! what a day of pride 't will be,— When a Northern mechanic or merchant can Rank square with a Dirt-eater, man for man. Perhaps this point we may fairly turn, And Richmond, to her amazement, learn, When peace shall have come, and war be fled, And its hate be the tale of time long sped, That where there is work or thought for men, One Yankee is equal to Dirt-eaters ten.

* * * * *

LITERARY NOTICES.

UNDER CURRENTS OF WALL STREET. A Romance of Business. By Richard B. Kimball, Author of 'St. Leger,' 'Romance of Student Life,' &c. New York: G.P. Putnam; Boston: A.K. Loring. 1861.

In the United States about one person in a hundred is engaged in mercantile pursuits—in other words, in 'broking,' or transferring from the producer to the consumer. Of this number, a larger proportion than in any other country are brokers in the strict sense of the word, buying, selling, or exchanging money or its equivalents, and managing credit so that others may turn it into capital. A more active, eventful, precarious and extraordinary life, or one calling more for the exercise of sharpness and shrewdness, does not exist, than that of these men. They are among regular business men what the 'free lance' is among military men, or the privateer among those of the true marine. Any one who has been familiar with one of the 'craft,' has probably heard him say at one time or another—'what I have seen would make one of the most remarkable novels you ever read;' and he spoke the literal truth.

Realizing this fact, Mr. KIMBALL, a lawyer of twenty years' standing in Wall St., and consequently perfectly familiar with all its characteristics, has devoted literary talents, which long ago acquired for him not merely an enviable American but a wide European celebrity, to describing this broker-life, with its lights and shadows. Choosing a single subject and a single class, he has elaborated it with a truthfulness which is positively startling. As we often know that a portrait is perfect from its manifest verisimilitude, so we feel from every chapter of this book that the author has, with strictest fidelity, adhered to real life with pre-Raphaelitic accuracy but without pre-Raphaelitic servility to any tradition or set mannerism. The pencil of a reporter, the lens of the photographer, are recalled by his sketches, and not less life-like, simple and excellent are the reflections of the business office as shown in its influence in the home circle. The reader will recall the extraordinary popularity which certain English romances, setting forth humble unpoetic life, have enjoyed of late years. We refer to the Adam Bede and Silas Marner school of tales, in which every twig is drawn, every life-lineament set forth with a sort of DENNER minuteness—truthful, yet constrained, accurate but petty. In this novel, Mr. KIMBALL, while retaining all the accuracy of Adam Bede, has swept more broadly and forcibly out into life;—there are strong sorrows, great trials seen from the stand-point of a man of the world, and a free, bold color which startles us, while we, at the same time, recognize its reality.