'Did you get no trace of her in the morning?'

'Yes, but soon lost it. When she did not appear at work, Sam went to her cabin to learn the cause, and found the door open, and her bed undisturbed. She had not slept there. Knowing that Sandy had returned, I sent for him, and with Jim and his dog, he commenced a search. The hound tracked her directly from Pompey's cabin to the run near the lower still. There all trace of her disappeared. We dragged the stream, but discovered nothing. Jim and Sandy then scoured the woods for miles in all directions, but the hound could not recover the trail. I hope otherwise, but I fear some evil has befallen her.'

'Oh! no, there's no fear of that,' said the Colonel; 'she is smart—she waded up the run far enough to baffle the dog, and then made for the swamp. That is why you lost her tracks at the stream. Rely upon it, I am right; but she shall not escape me.'

We shortly afterward adjourned to the library. After being seated there a while, the Colonel, rising quickly, as if a sudden thought had struck him, sent for the old preacher.

The old negro soon appeared, hat in hand, and taking a stand near the door, made a respectful bow to each one of us.

'Take a chair, Pompey,' said Madam P—— kindly.

The black meekly seated himself, when the Colonel asked: 'Well, Pomp, what do you know about Jule's going off?'

'Nuffin', massa; I 'shures you, nuffin'. De pore chile say nuffin' to ole Pomp 'bout dat.'

'What did she say?'

'Wal, you see, massa, de night arter you gwo 'way, and arter she'd worked hard in de brush all de day, and been a strung up in de ole cabin for to be whipped, she come to me wid her baby in her arms, all a-faint and a-tired, and her pore heart clean broke, and she say dat she'm jess ready to drop down and die. Den I tries to comfut her, massa; I takes her up from de floor, and I say to har dat de good Lord he pity her—dat he doan't bruise de broken reed, and woan't put no more on har dan she kin b'ar—dat he'd touch you' heart, massa—and I toled har you's a good, kine heart at de bottom—and I knows it, 'case I toted you 'fore you could gwo, and when you's a bery little chile, not no great sight bigger'n her'n, you'd put your little arms round ole Pomp's neck, and say dat when you war grow'd up, you'd be bery kine to de pore brack folks, and not leff 'em be 'bused like dey war in dem days.'

'Never mind what you said,' interrupted the Colonel, a little impatiently, but showing no displeasure; 'what did she say?'

'Wal, massa, she took on bery hard 'bout Sam, and axed me ef I raily reckoned de Lord had forgib'n him, and took'n him to heseff, and gib'n him one of dem hous'n up dar in de sky. I toled har dat I know'd it; but she say it didn't 'pear so to har, 'case Sam had a been wid har out dar in de woods, all fru de day; dat she'd a seed him, massa, and dough he hadn't a said nuffin', he'd looked at har wid sech a sorry, grebed look, dat it went clean fru har heart, till she'd no strength leff, and fell down on de ground a'most dead. Den she say big Sam come 'long and fine har dar, and struck har great, heaby blows wid de big whip!'

'The brute!' exclaimed the Colonel, rising from his chair, and pacing rapidly up and down the room.

'But p'raps he warn't so much ter blame, massa,' continued the old negro, in a deprecatory tone; 'may be he s'pose she war shirking de work. Wal, den she say, she know'd nuffin' more, till byme-by, when she come to, and fine big Sam dar, and he struck har agin, and make her gwo to de work; and she did gwo, but she feel like as ef she'd die. I toled her de good ma'am wudn't leff big Sam 'buse har no more 'fore you cum hum, and dat you'd hab 'passion on har, and not leff har out in de woods, but put har 'mong de nusses, like as she war afore.

'Den she say it 'twarn't de work dat trubble har—dat she orter work, and orter be 'bused, 'case she'd been bad, bery bad. All she axed was dat Sam would forgib har, and cum to har in de oder worle, and tell har so. Den she cried, and took on awful; but de good Lord, massa, dat am so bery kine to de bery wuss sinners, he put de words inter my mouf, and I tink dey gabe har comfut, fur she say it sort o' 'peared to har den dat Sam would forgib har, and take har inter his house up dar, and she warn't afeard ter die no more.

'Den she takes up de chile and gwoes 'way, 'pearin' sort o' happy, and more cheerful like dan I'd a seed har eber sense pore Sam war shot.'

My host was sensibly affected by the old man's simple tale, but continued pacing up and down the room, and said nothing.

'It's plain to me, Colonel,' I remarked, as Pompey concluded, 'she has drowned herself and the child—the dog lost the scent at the creek.'

'Oh! no,' he replied, 'I think not. I never heard of a negro committing suicide—they've not the courage to do it.'

'I fear she has, David,' said the lady. 'The thought of going to Sam has led her to it; yet we dragged the run, and found nothing. What do you think about it, Pompey?'

'I dunno, ma'am; but I'se afeard ob dat. And now dat I tinks on it, I'se afeard dat what I tole har put har up to it,' replied the old preacher, bursting into tears. 'She 'peared so happy like, when I say she'd be 'long wid Sam in de oder worle, dat I'se afeard she's a gone and done it wid har own hands. I tole har, too, dat de good Lord oberlooked many tings dat pore sinners does when dey can't help 'emseffs, and it make har do it, oh! it make har do it!' and the old black buried his face in his hands, and wept bitterly.

'Don't feel so, Pomp,' said his master very kindly. 'You did the best you could; no one blames you.'

'I knows you doan't, massa—I knows you doan't, and you's bery good notter; but oh!' and his body swayed to and fro with the great grief; 'I fears de Lord do, massa, for I'se sent har to him wid har own blood and de blood of dat pore, innercent chile on har hands. Oh! I fears de Lord neber'll forgib me—neber'll forgib me fur dat.'

'He will, my good Pomp, he will!' said the Colonel, laying his hand tenderly on the old man's shoulder. 'The Lord will forgive you, for the sake of the Christian example you've set your master, if for nothing else;' and then the proud, strong man's feelings overpowering him, his tears fell in great drops on the breast of the old slave, as they had fallen there when he was a child.

Such scenes are not for the eye of a stranger, and turning away, I left the room.

The family met at the breakfast-table at the customary hour on the following morning; but I noticed that Jim was not in his accustomed place behind the Colonel's chair. That gentleman exhibited his usual good spirits, but Madam P—— looked sad and anxious, and I had not forgotten the scene of the previous evening.

While we were seated at the meal, the negro Junius hastily entered the room, and in an excited manner exclaimed:

'O massa, massa! you muss cum ter de cabin—Jim hab draw'd his knife, and he swar he'll kill de fuss un dat touch him!'

'He does, does he!' said his master, springing from his seat, and abruptly leaving the apartment.

Remembering the fierce burst of passion I had seen in the negro, and fearing there was danger a-foot, I rose to follow, saying as I did so:

'Madam, can not you prevent this?'

'I can not, sir; I have already done all I can. Go and try to pacify the Colonel. Jim will die before he'll be whipped.'

Jim was standing at the farther end of the old cabin, with his back to the wall, and the large spring-knife in his hand. Some half-dozen negroes were in the centre of the room, apparently cowed by his fierce and desperate looks, and his master stood within a few feet of him.

'I tell you, Cunnel,' cried the negro, as I entered, 'you touch me at your peril.'

'You d—d nigger, do you dare to speak so to me?' said his master, taking a step toward him.

The knife rose in the air, and the black, in a cool, sneering tone, replied: 'Say your prayers 'fore you come ony nigher, for, so help me God, you're a dead man!'

I laid my hand on the Colonel's arm, to draw him back, saying as I did so: 'There's danger in him! I know it Let him go, and he shall ask your pardon.'

'I shan't ax his pardon,' cried the black, 'leff him and me be, sar; we'll fix dis ourselfs.'

'Don't interfere, Mr. K——,' said my host, with perfect coolness, but with a face pallid with rage. 'Let me govern my own plantation.'

'As you say, sir,' I replied, stepping back a few paces; 'but I warn you—there is danger in him!'

Taking no notice of my remark, the Colonel turned to the trembling negroes, and said: 'One of you go to the house and bring my pistols.'

'You kin shoot me, ef you likes,' said Jim, with a fierce, grim smile; 'but I'll take you to h—l wid me, shore. You knows WE won't stand a blow!'

The Colonel, at the allusion to their relationship, started as if shot, and turning furiously on the negro, yelled out: 'I'll shoot you for that, you d—d nigger, by——.'

'It 'pears ter me, Cunnel, ye've hed 'bout nuff shootin' 'round har, lately; better stop thet sort o' bis'ness; it moight give ye a sore throat,' said the long, lean, loose-jointed stump-speaker of the previous Sunday, as he entered the cabin and strode directly up to my host.

'What brought you here, you d—d insolent hound?' cried the Colonel, turning fiercely on the new-comer.

'Wal, I cum to du ye a naboorly turn—I've kotched two on yer niggers down ter my still, an' I want ye ter take 'em 'way,' returned the corn-cracker, with the utmost coolness.

'Two of my niggers!' exclaimed the Colonel, perceptibly moderating his tone, 'which ones?'

'A yaller gal, and a child.'

'I thank you, Barnes; excuse my hard words—I was excited.'

'All right, Cunnel; say no more 'bout thet. Will ye send fur 'em? I'd hev fotched 'em 'long, but my waggin's off jest now.'

'Yes, I'll send at once. Have you got them safe?'

'Safe? I reckon so! Kotched 'em las' night, arter dark, and they've kept right still ever sense, I 'sure ye—but th' gal holes on ter th' young 'un ter kill—we couldn't get it 'way no how.'

'How did you catch them?'

'The' got 'gainst my turpentime raft—th' current driv 'em down, I s'pose.'

'What! are they dead?' exclaimed the Colonel.

'Dead? Deader'n drownded rats!' was the native's reply.



WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

'Do but grasp into the thick of human life! Every one lives it—to not many is it known; and seize it where you will, it is interesting.'—Goethe.

'SUCCESSFUL.—Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or intended.'—Webster's Dictionary.

CHAPTER III.

The people are anxious for the detail of sentiments, not for general results.'—Lamartine.

Hiram exhibited almost from his boyhood a fondness for female society. Even when at the district-school, he preferred spending 'noon-time' among the girls to racing around with the boys, pitching quoits, wrestling at 'arm's-end,' 'back-hold,' or playing base-ball and goal. His mother was careful to encourage Hiram's predilections. She remarked that nothing was so well calculated to keep a young man from going astray as for him to frequent the society of virtuous females.

Before Hiram had got into his teens, he appeared to be smitten with at least half a score of little girls of his own age. As he grew older, his fondness for the sex increased. I do not record this, as any thing extraordinary, except that in his case a characteristic selfishness seemed to be at the bottom even of these manifestations. Hiram was not influenced by those natural emotions and impulses which belong to youth, and which, unless kept under proper restraint, are apt frequently to lead to indiscretions. For there ran a vein of calculation through all he did, whose prudent office it was to minister to his safety.

After Hiram joined the church he was regular in his attendance on the evening meetings. He always went to these meetings with some young girl, whom, of course, he accompanied home after the services were over. As I have said, he was a handsome fellow, and bestowed particular care on his dress and his appearance generally. He was good-natured and obliging, and withal sensible, so that the young men who envied him and might be inclined to call him a fop or a dandy, could not prefix 'brainless' to these epithets and thus ridicule on him. The fact is, he was shrewder than any of them, and he knew it. They soon discovered it, and so did the girls, to the utter discomfiture of his rivals.

At all the village gatherings, including the sewing-societies, and the lectures, the prayer-meetings, and meetings of Sunday-school teachers, and so forth, Hiram was not only a favorite, but the favorite with the other sex. He had a winning, confidential manner, when addressing a young lady even for the first time, which said very plainly, 'We know all about and appreciate each other,' and which was very taking. He assumed various little privileges, such as calling the girls by their first name, giving notice that a curl was about to fall, and offering to fix it properly, picking up a bow which had been brushed off, and pinning it securely on again, holding the hand with a kind and amiable smile for a brief space after he had shaken it, and sometimes, when he had occasion to see one of his friends home, keeping her hand in his all the way after it was placed within his arm.

You may ask why such liberties were permitted. Simply because they were so very equally distributed they had come to be regarded as a matter of course. In fact, Hiram was a privileged person. He was so polite, so attentive, so considerate, what if he did have his peculiarities—how ridiculous to make a fuss about such trifles! So the 'trifles' were acquiesced in. Besides, I am inclined to think each fair one supposed she was the especial object of Hiram's regard, and that his attentions to others were mere civilities. I do not say Hiram so announced it. I know he did not; for he was not a person, even when a youth, to commit himself foolishly. Yet if they would mistake general politeness for particular attentions, surely it was not his fault—oh! no.

There were those who refused to give their adherence to Hiram's almost unlimited sway. And as parties generally proceed to extremes, the girls who formed the opposition generally declared him to be a pusillanimous, mean-spirited fellow; they detested the very sight of his smooth, hypocritical face; he had better not come fooling around them—no, indeed! Let him attempt it once, they would soon teach him manners. It is to be observed that these remarks did not emanate from the prettiest or most attractive girls of the village—all of whom were decidedly and emphatically on Hiram's side. They seemed to enjoy the excitement under which their adversaries were laboring, and retorted by exclaiming, 'Sour grapes!' asserting that those who so shamefully vilified Hiram, would be glad enough to accept his attentions if—they only had the opportunity.

Hiram, meantime, pursued the even tenor of his way, secure in his position, enjoying to the full extent of his selfish nature all his 'blessings and privileges,' for which he thanked God twice daily, wondering how men could be so blind and misguided as to turn their backs on religion when there was such happiness and peace in giving up all to God!



CHAPTER IV.

Mr. Bennett was correct in his surmise that there were two stores in the little village of Hampton. Of one of these Thaddeus Smith was proprietor. He was one of the solid men of the place, and had 'kept store' there for the last forty years, succeeding his father, who was one of the early settlers in the town. He had continued on with his customers in the good old fashion, extending liberal credits and charging a regular, undeviating profit of thirty-three and a third per cent. About five years previous to Hiram Meeker's leaving school, Mr. Smith's peace was greatly disturbed by the advent of a rival, in the person of Benjamin Jessup, who took possession of an advantageous locality, and after a week's bustle with teams and workmen transporting, unpacking, and arranging, displayed his name, one fine morning, in large gilt letters to the wondering inhabitants of Hampton, and under it the cabalistic words: 'CHEAP CASH STORE.' A large number of handbills were posted about the village, informing the good people of the opening of the aforesaid 'cash store,' and that the proprietor was prepared to sell every variety of goods and merchandise 'cheap for cash or ready pay,' by which last expression was meant acceptable barter. Of course, the whole town flocked to inspect Mr. Jessup's stock and price his goods. The cunning fellow had valued them only at about cost, while he declared he was making a living profit at the rates charged, and a living profit was all he wanted. Furthermore, he allowed the highest prices for the commodities brought in by the farmers, and gave them great bargains in return. He was especially accommodating to the ladies, permitting them to tumble his whole stock of dry goods for the sake of selecting a pretty pattern for an apron, or finding a remnant which they were 'welcome to.'

Mr. Smith was sadly grieved. Although some very old-fashioned people stuck sternly to him, refusing to be allured by the bait of great bargains, and so forth and so forth, yet his store was nearly deserted. Thaddeus Smith was a perfectly upright man. It is true, he charged a large profit on his goods—this was because it had always been his habit, and that of his father before him. But he was accommodating in his credit and lenient to debtors in default. His word could be relied on implicitly, and his dealings were marked by scrupulous honesty.

On this trying occasion he called his son, who was supposed to be his partner, into consultation, and asked him what he thought of the state of things.

'I think this, father,' was the reply, 'that we can not expect to go on longer in the old style. We must reduce our profits one half, and to do this, we must be more particular in our credits, and buy with more care and of different people. In this way I will engage—by pursuing a straightforward, energetic course, we shall hold our own against the cash-man over the way.'

It was some time before Mr. Smith, Senior, could be persuaded. It was not just the thing, taking advice from a 'boy,' although the boy was past thirty, and had a family of his own. He yielded, however, and Thaddeus, Junior, was permitted to carry out his plan. He made a trip to New-York and purchased goods, instead of sending an order for them as had been their habit, where he could find the best bargains at least ten per cent cheaper than his father was in the habit of buying, came home, got out handbills in his turn, requesting the people to call at the 'old stand,' look at the fresh stock, selected personally with great care, and bought cheap for cash, but which would be sold as usual on approved credit. This gave the tide a turn in the old direction, and Mr. Jessup had to set to work anew. He was not a bad man in his way, but neither was he a good one. He was not over-scrupulous nor severely honest. His prices varied, so the folks discovered, and he, or rather his clerks, sometimes made mistakes in the quality of articles sold. After a while the cash system sensibly relaxed, and at last both establishments settled down into a severe and uncompromising opposition. There was a pretty large back country which received its supplies from Hampton, and so both stores managed to do a thriving trade. The Smiths retaining as customers the large portion of the staid and respectable population, while Mr. Jessup's business depended more on his dealings with the people from the surrounding country. There was a very different atmosphere around the stores of these two village merchants. The Smiths were religious people, father and son, not merely so in name, but in reality. A child could have purchased half their stock on as favorable terms as the shrewdest man in the place. Mr. Jessup, on the contrary, varied as he could light of chaps, that is, according to circumstances. He was, however, an off-hand, free-and-easy fellow, with many generous qualities, which made him popular with most who knew him. He did not hesitate to declare that his views on religious subjects were liberal—a bold announcement for a man to make in Hampton. Indeed, his enemies put him down for a Universalist, or at best a Unitarian, for which they claimed to have some reason, since he seldom went to church, although his wife was a communicant, and very regular in her attendance.

I have been thus particular in describing the two rival establishments because Hiram Meeker is to enter one of them. The reader will naturally suppose there can be little doubt which, and he has a right to exhibit surprise on learning that Hiram decided in favor of Mr. Jessup. I say HIRAM decided. His father preferred that he should go with the Smiths. His mother was of the same opinion, but she permitted her son, who now was very capable of acting for himself, to persuade her that Jessup's was the place for him: 'More going on—greater variety of business—much more enterprise,' and consequently more to be learned. It would be difficult to follow closely the train of reasoning which led Hiram to insist so perseveringly in favor of Mr. Jessup. For the reasons he gave were on the surface, while those which really decided him were keen and subtle, based on a shrewd appreciation of the position of the two merchants, and his probable relation to one or the other. With the Smiths, Hiram saw no room for any fresh exhibition of talent or enterprise; in the other place he saw a great deal.

Once decided on, he was speedily settled in his new abode, where he formed a part of the household of the proprietor, together with the head-clerk, a 'cute fellow of five and twenty, who was reported to be as 'keen as a razor.' It was evident Mr. Jessup valued him highly, from the respect he always paid to his advice and from his giving up so much of the management of the business to him. Besides, it was rumored he was engaged to Mr. Jessup's oldest daughter, a handsome, black-eyed girl of eighteen, a little too old for the 'meridian' of Hiram; but who, with her mother, was on excellent terms with the Meeker family. The name of the head-clerk was Pease—Jonathan Pease; but he always wrote his name J. Pease. There was also a boy, fourteen years old, called Charley, who boarded at home. This, with Mr. Benjamin Jessup, constituted the force at the 'cash store.'

Hiram had taken the place of a pale, milk-and-water-looking youth, with weak lungs, who had been obliged to quit on account of poor health. This youth had been entirely under the control of Pease, so much so that he dared not venture an opinion about his own soul or body till he was satisfied Pease thought just so. All this helped add to the importance of the head-clerk, so that even Mr. Jessup unconsciously felt rather nervous about differing with him. Indeed, Pease was fast becoming master of the establishment. This Hiram Meeker knew perfectly well before he entered it.

When Pease ascertained that Hiram was about to come there as clerk, without his advice being asked, he regarded it as an invasion of his rights. He did not hesitate to speak his mind on the subject to Mr. Jessup. He tried strongly to dissuade him from taking a gentleman-clerk, and declared it would require an extra boy to wait on him and another to correct his blunders. It was of no use; Mr. Jessup had not the slightest idea of the peculiar qualities of Hiram, but he knew if he received him, it would be the means of making an inroad into the conservative quarter, and he should secure the trade and influence of the Meekers beside. He went so far as to explain this to Pease, in the most confidential and friendly manner; but the latter was not to be persuaded or mollified. As he could not prevent the advent of Hiram, he resolved to make his position just as uncomfortable as he possibly could. But he little knew the stuff he had to deal with.

The first morning after he had taken possession of his new quarters—his sleeping-room was over the store—Hiram rose early, and was looking carefully about the place, when Pease came in and asked him why he did not sweep out.

'I have not yet learned the regulations, Mr. Pease, but am ready to begin any time,' was Hiram's quiet reply.

Now, Pease had purposely sent Charley away on an early errand, so as to be able to put this work on the new-comer. He simply replied, in an arrogant tone, that it was his business every morning to sweep out the store, and then sand the floors, adding, in order to preserve a semblance of truth: 'When the boy happens to be here, he will help you.'

Pease was a little astonished to see how readily Hiram set to work. The store was not only carefully swept, and the floors sanded, but many articles which were scattered about were put in their place, and carefully arranged, so that after breakfast, when Mr. Jessup came in, he remarked on the neat appearance of the store, without knowing to what it was owing. Thus was the first attempt of J. Pease to annoy Hiram completely foiled. Furthermore, Hiram kept on sweeping and sanding, although Charley was present; indeed, he declined his assistance altogether, and once, when Mr. Jessup remarked (he had observed to whom the change in the appearance of the store was due) that it was quite unnecessary for him to do the boy's work, Hiram quietly answered, that he much preferred to do it to seeing the store look as it did when he first came there.

It took our hero but a short time to familiarize himself with the minutiae of Mr. Jessup's business. It was not long before Pease began to feel that there was a person every way his superior who was fast acquiring a more thorough insight into affairs than he had himself. He began to fear that certain private transactions of his own would not escape Hiram's observation. He felt magnetically that instead of bullying and domineering over the new-comer, Hiram's eyes were on him whatever he did. This was insupportable; but how could he help it? The more work he imposed on Hiram, the better the latter seemed to like it, and the more he accomplished.

'Damn him!' said Pease between his teeth; but cursing did not help the matter, so Pease discovered.

By degrees, several young ladies who were not in the habit of calling at Jessup's began to drop in to look at the dry-goods. It was in vain Pease stepped briskly forward to wait on them, with his most fascinating smile; they wanted to see Mr. Meeker. Pease was bursting with rage, but he was forced to restrain his passion. On one occasion, on seeing two attractive-looking girls approaching, he sent Hiram to the cellar to draw a gallon of molasses, and as the weather was cold, he calculated he would have to wait at least a quarter of an hour for it to run. When the young ladies entered, they inquired for Hiram; Pease reported Mr. Meeker as particularly engaged, and offered his services in the most pathetic manner.

'Oh! we are in no hurry,' was the reply, 'we can wait.'

And they did wait, greatly to Pease's disgust, and to Mr. Jessup's delight, who happened to come in at that moment, for he knew Hiram would be sure to make some handsome sales to them. At length came poor Pease's crowning misfortune. Mary Jessup began to give token that she was not slow to discover Hiram's agreeable qualities, and his superiority in every respect over his rival. Now, if there is any one thing which the sex admire in a man more than another, it is real ability. Mary Jessup was a quick-witted girl herself, and she could not fail to perceive this quality in Hiram. She had heretofore regarded him as a boy; but the boy had grown up almost without her observing it, and now stood, with his full stature of medium hight, admirably proportioned. It was not long before she consented to accompany Hiram to the Thursday-evening lecture. What a pleasant walk they had each way, and how gracefully he placed her shawl across her shoulders. Pease was furious. 'How absurd you act,' that was all Mary Jessup said in reply to his violent demonstrations, and she laughed when she said it. What could Pease do for revenge? He thought, and cogitated, and dreamed over it; it was of no use. He began to feel himself under the fascination of Hiram's calm, persevering, determined manner, a manner distinguished by tokens of latent power. For no one in praising him ever made the ordinary exclamations, 'Such a smart, energetic fellow,' 'So active and efficient,' 'A driving business chap.' No; on the contrary, one would set him down as quite the reverse, for he was always very quiet, never in a hurry, and by no means rapid in his motions. Yet he impressed you with an idea of his superiority, which his peculiar repose of manner served to highten. It can easily be guessed that Mary Jessup and J. Pease quarreled, at last seriously, and the engagement, if there had been any, was broken. The next evening, on her return from the sewing-society with Hiram, he ventured to retain her hand in his, and from that time she felt that there was an 'understanding' between them. She would have found it difficult to say why, for Hiram had never spoken sentimentally to her. His conversation was on ordinary topics, yet always in a low, meaning, confidential tone.

[Has the reader any desire that I should lay bare the innermost thoughts and feelings of this youth not yet eighteen? Would you like to be told how curiously he smiled to himself as he continued to sweep out and sand that little village store? Would you care to know how he gloated over the discomfiture of his rival? Shall I endeavor to depict his feelings when he saw he had actually gained the affections of Mary Jessup, for whom, beyond a sensuous enjoyment of her presence and her society, he did not care a fig? Shall I explain how, while acting for his employer quite as a good, honest man would act, his motive was to serve self and self only? or shall I permit the reader gradually to acquire a knowledge of Hiram's characteristics as the narrative proceeds?]

This brings us to the end of Hiram's first year with Mr. Jessup. He had accomplished nothing rapidly, but he had kept on accomplishing something every day. He had not made a single false step. The consequence was, he had not a single step to retrace. The end of the year found him already very high in Mr. Jessup's esteem. Hiram had proved his value by increasing his employer's business at least ten per cent in the village, while he was daily becoming more popular with all who traded at the store. To Pease this was an enigma, for Hiram never volunteered to wait on a customer, when the former was present, and only stepped forward when specially sought. Even with the young ladies who came to the place, with whom he was on intimate terms of acquaintance, Hiram found no time to laugh and talk, although he always managed to say an agreeable word in a quiet, low tone. Toward Pease, Hiram's conduct was always the same, perfectly respectful; as if never losing sight of the situation of the one as head-clerk and of the other as subordinate. But by continually making himself so useful in the establishment, he was gradually undermining his comrade's position, and Pease felt his influence dissolving, he hardly knew how or why; but he felt it all the more forcibly for not knowing.

Thus the commencement of the new year found the occupants of the cash store. Hiram's situation had become very agreeable. He was putting into practice the theories of his education. He was high in favor with his employer, and whenever he entered the house, which was but a few steps from the store, he was greeted by Mary Jessup with that peculiar welcome so charming between those who love each other, yet which to him was pleasing only because it gratified his animal nature and his self-love.

Early in the second year, an incident occurred which served to bring out Hiram's character, and change decidedly the state of affairs. One morning, while he was engaged with a customer, Mrs. Esterbrook entered the store. Now, that lady was the wife of Deacon Esterbrook, one of the most substantial men of the town, and a strong supporter of the Smiths. In fact, she had never set foot in Mr. Jessup's place before that morning, but certain goods, lately ordered by the Smiths, were unaccountably delayed, while Mr. Jessup's were fresh from the city and just opened. The dress-maker had been engaged, and could not come again for she did not know how long, and Ellen must have a nice school-dress ready forthwith. So the lady determined for once to break over rule, and step into the opposition store. No doubt the fact that so respectable and pious a young man as Hiram was a clerk there had its influence in the decision; it made the place itself more reputable, many said. And now she came slowly in, a little distrustful, as if entering on forbidden ground, and expecting to see some extraordinary difference between the place of business of an ungodly person like Jessup and that of the honest-minded Smith. Thanks, however, to Hiram's persevering industry, it was a model of neatness and order, and Mrs. Esterbrook, who was herself a pattern in that way, found her harsh judgment insensibly relaxing, as she stepped to the counter where Pease stood, and asked quite amiably to see some of the best calicoes, just in from New-York. Pease, the narrow-minded idiot, thought this a good time to play off a smart trick on one of Smith's regular customers. So he paraded a large variety of goods before her, and took occasion to recommend a very pretty article, for which he charged a monstrous price, because he said it was a very scarce pattern, and it was with great difficulty they had secured a single piece. As the lady herself could perceive, it had not been opened before; not a soul in the village had even seen the outside of it. Now, it must not be supposed that Mrs. Esterbrook was different from the rest of her sex, and insensible to the pleasure of having the first dress cut from the piece. Indeed, she determined, on this occasion, to take two dresses instead of one; Emily was coming home, and would want it. Just as Pease was about to measure off the desired quantity, Mrs. Esterbrook exclaimed:

'You are sure those colors are fast?'

'Fast, ma'am! fast as the meeting-house round the corner. We will warrant them not to run nor change. Why, for color, we have nothing like it in the store.'

All this time, Hiram had been serving his customer; but with both ears and at least one eye attentive to what was going on near him.

Again Pease commenced to measure, when Hiram stepped deliberately forward and said:

'Mr. Pease is mistaken, Mrs. Esterbrook, those colors are not fast.'

'What the——' hell do you know about it? Pease was going to say; but he stopped short at the second word, utterly abashed and confounded at the extraordinary assumption of the junior clerk. Never before had Hiram made such a demonstration. Now he stood calm and composed, firmly fortified by the truth. He looked and acted precisely as if he were the principal, and the objurgation of Pease died on his lips. He attempted to cast on Hiram a contemptuous glance, as he managed to say:

'Perhaps you know more about it than I do,' and turned away to attend to a new-comer.

'I am much obliged to you, Mr. Meeker, I declare,' said Mrs. Esterbrook.

'On the contrary, it is I who should be obliged to you for looking in. You must excuse the mistake. Mr. Pease is not so familiar with calicoes as I am. But I will now wait on you myself. We have a box of goods in the back-store, not yet open, and I am sure I can find in it just what you want.'

Any one who had seen Hiram's air, and heard him speak, would have taken him for the proprietor. With what a low, respectful tone he addressed the lady. How pleasantly it fell on the ear. An immense box of merchandise to be opened and all the contents overhauled to please her! Charley was summoned, hammer and hatchet freely used, and the goods displayed. Hiram, who knew much better what Mrs. Esterbrook wanted than she knew herself, selected something very acceptable. The price he put at first cost. Not content with that, he actually sold the lady silk for a dress, putting it at cost also, and no human being could have been in better humor than she.

'I am very sorry, Mrs. Esterbrook, for your disappointment about the first calico you selected,' continued Hiram. 'I do hope you and other members of your family will look in often, even if you do not purchase; it sometimes helps one to form a judgment to look at different stocks. But I must be perfectly frank with you. We profess to sell cheap, very cheap, but I can never offer you similar articles at the price you have these; they are given you precisely at cost, as a slight compensation for your trouble in having to look a second time. Besides, it is a matter of mere justice to those worthy people, the Smiths, to say we do not sell our goods at these prices, and I beg you not to so report it.'

'What an excellent young man you are,' said good Mrs. Esterbrook, in the fullness of her heart.

'My dear madam, really I can not see any special excellence in simply doing my duty.'

Hiram smiled one of his amiable, winning smiles, and bowed his new customer politely out of the store.

By this time the dinner-hour had arrived. Not a word had been spoken by Pease to Hiram since the scene just recounted. Not a syllable did he utter at table. Hiram, on the contrary, entered into familiar conversation, placid as usual, and enjoyed his dinner quite as well as he ever had done. When the meal was over, Pease asked Mr. Jessup if he would step into the store a few minutes. Mr. Jessup accordingly walked over.

'I want to know, Mr. Jessup,' he demanded, when all were together, including Charley, 'whether you are the owner in here or Hiram Meeker?'

'Why do you put such a question, Pease?'

Thereupon Pease told the whole circumstances very much as they occurred. Mr. Jessup made no reply. He was taken aback himself. Hiram said not a word.

'It's so, an't it, Charley?' cried Pease.

'I've nothing to say about it,' answered the boy. He liked Hiram, and detested Pease, and was glad to see him humiliated.

'It is so,' observed Hiram.

Mr. Jessup was astounded.

'I shall think the matter over seriously, young men, and make up my mind about it this evening. Now let us attend to business.'

Mr. Jessup had decided in his own mind that Hiram's conduct was very reprehensible—not that he cared about Pease being snubbed, that he rather enjoyed than otherwise, but he thought what Hiram had done would serve to cast discredit on the establishment. Before, however, deciding to censure him in presence of his fellow-clerks, he determined to speak with him privately. He took occasion without the knowledge of Pease, to ask Hiram to step to the house, and once there, he requested him to give his version of the affair. Hiram replied that Pease had stated it very correctly.

'What could be your object,' asked Mr. Jessup, 'in doing what would throw disgrace on my store, for you know such an admission would disgrace us?'

'To serve your interests, as in duty bound,' replied Hiram.

Mr. Jessup could not so understand it, and Hiram undertook calmly to explain how dishonest it was for Pease to do as he did. It had very little effect on Mr. Jessup. His nerves were too strong to be unsettled by a moral appeal. He told Hiram he was to blame, and said he should be obliged to so express himself, when they all met, and he must add a caution for the future.

'Fool!' exclaimed Hiram, startled out of his usual calm propriety, 'do you not comprehend if that woman had gone out of your store with the calico, that she not only would never enter it again, but she would publish your name over town as a swindler and a cheat, and you never would hear the end of it. Pease had charged her double prices, and the goods would not stand a single washing. And you know whether or not you are ready to pay off the mortgage Deacon Esterbrook holds on this house.'

Mr. Jessup colored deeply. When he purchased his house he left a pretty large mortgage on it, which the owner had sold to Deacon Esterbrook, who was a moneyed man, and who now held it quite content with his yearly six per cent.

'You seem to interest yourself in my private affairs,' said Mr. Jessup in a sarcastic tone.

'Why shouldn't I, sir, so long as I am in your employ,' answered Hiram, without noticing the irony.

'You're a devilish strange fellow, any how,' said Mr. Jessup, musingly, 'but I confess I never had a person about me half so useful.'

'I could be of much more service to you if you would conduct your business on strict mercantile principles.'

'Why, what would you have me do different from what I am doing?'

'I would have every thing done straight and HONEST, Mr. Jessup,' said Hiram firmly.

'Do you mean to say I am not honest?'

'It is not necessary for me to say any thing on the subject. I am only talking about the management of your business. You censure me for not standing still and seeing one of your neighbors grossly cheated, by which you would have lost some of the best customers in town, to say the least. By taking the course I did, I saved the credit of the concern instead of injuring it, and I even spoke of it as a mistake of Pease, instead of a deception.'

Mr. Jessup was already convinced, as indeed, his petulance proved, that Hiram was right, but he had some pride in not appearing to yield too soon.

'I understand the matter better now, and really, Hiram, you did just about the right thing, that's a fact. Honesty is the best policy, after all. I shall tell Pease he did very wrong to attempt any of his tricks on such a person as Mrs. Esterbrook, and in future—'

'In future one of us must be an absentee from the premises,' said Hiram coolly.

'Why, what do you mean?'

'Just this. Pease's year is up next week, and then one of us must leave.'

Mr. Jessup fell into a brown study. He reflected on the admirable manner Hiram had performed his duties; he could not shut his eyes to the fact that several excellent customers had been secured through his influence; he considered the respectability of the Meeker family, and called to mind how indifferent Mary had become to Pease, while she seemed gratified when Hiram was near. Again, Pease, when measured by Hiram's more comprehensive tact and shrewdness, seemed a booby, a nobody, and Mr. Jessup wondered how he ever acquired such an influence over him, and he was the more disgusted with himself the more he thought about it.

'It is working right, after all,' he said to himself. 'I shall be well rid of Pease, and Hiram shall take his place.' Then rising from his seat, he observed: 'I will think the matter over carefully, and you shall have my decision on the day. Now set to work as if nothing had happened.'

Hiram went back to the store as certain of the fate of Pease as if he was himself to decide it. 'Check-mated'—something like that passed from his lips. His countenance, however, gave no sign of triumph, nor, indeed, of any feeling.

In the evening Mr. Jessup announced that, after due consideration, he was of opinion the conduct of Pease was so censurable that the interference of Hiram was very proper, if not, indeed, praiseworthy.

'Perhaps you would like to settle with me?' said Pease ferociously.

'Just as you please,' replied Mr. Jessup.

'Well, I guess I have staid about long enough in this place when I've lived to see you coming the honest dodge so strong as that—darned if I han't!'

Next week Pease had quit, and Hiram Meeker was head-clerk.

Great was the astonishment through the town when it was ascertained that Pease had been 'discharged from Jessup's store for cheating'—so the story went. Mr. Jessup was too shrewd not to make the most of the circumstance. He declared, in his off-hand manner, that he never professed to have the strait-laced habits of some people; he confessed he did not like a fellow the less for his being 'cute in a trade, and eyes open, but when it came to lying and cheating, then any of his folks must look out if he caught them at it, that's all.

With most of the people this frank, open avowal was very convincing; but there were certain obstinate persons such as are every where to be found, and who are fond of going against the general opinion, who did not hesitate to declare this was all gammon. They knew Jessup too well to 'allow' he cared any thing about it, not he. Nothing but the fear of that honest young Meeker led to the disgrace of Pease, who no doubt would now be made the scape-grace for all Jessup's shortcomings in the store-way. So it went. But in the balance of accounts Jessup was a great gainer. Of course, numerous were the questions put to Hiram. He preserved great discretion—would say little. It did not become him to speak of Mr. Jessup's private matters. Good Mrs. Esterbrook was not silent, however. The story was repeated and repeated. It reached the parsonage; it found its way among the customers of the Smiths. Mrs. Esterbrook felt herself a good deal raised in her own importance, that the head-clerk of a store she was never in before should be summarily dismissed for misconduct toward her. She began rather to like that Mr. Jessup, (the calicoes and silk proved such bargains, and just what she wanted,) a man to do as he did was not so very far out of the way, and as for his wife, she was a charming woman, she always said so. Mary, too, what a sweet girl! Well, she should at least divide her custom between the two stores if the Deacon was willing—and the Deacon was willing, for he wanted Jessup to do sufficiently well to keep up his interest money prompt. Not only did Mrs. Esterbrook call frequently, but so did many others of the Smith faction. I need not say that Hiram was indefatigable. He secured the services of a nice, active young fellow, whom he took great pains to teach, and every thing went on like clock-work. Mr. Jessup was content, for he saw he was constantly gaining custom, but, in fact, he was a good deal confused, and hardly felt at home in his own place, so completely did Hiram bring it under his own control.

The first thing he undertook was an entire overhauling of the stock, and a close examination of its value. Then he insisted, yes, insisted that the prices should be marked in plain figures on the goods, so every body could see for themselves.

Jessup remonstrated: 'Thunder! what will become of us at this rate? I tell you there are some it won't do to be frank with. Even old Smith never undertook to expose his marks!'

'The very reason why we should do so,' said Hiram. 'We are honest.'

I wish you could have heard the tone in which Hiram said that, and have seen the expression of his countenance. It made Jessup's flesh creep, he did not know why. So Hiram, as usual, had his own way, and overhauled every thing. Lots of old goods piled away out of sight, as unsalable, were brought forward, carefully examined, and marked down, on an average, to half cost. Then appeared hand-bills to the effect that Mr. Jessup had determined, prior to getting in a complete new, fresh, fashionable lot of dry goods, to dispose of the stock on hand at a tremendous sacrifice. These were sent all over the country into the adjoining villages, every where within twenty miles. How the people rushed to buy, and when they came, and found really that great bargains were to be had, they resolved to come again when the new goods should arrive.

Thus Hiram triumphed. In six months after J. Pease left, Benjamin Jessup's store was the store of Hampton, and Benjamin Jessup himself on the road to prosperity and wealth.

Hiram Meeker was sitting alone in his room over the store, late one evening. He had been with Mr. Jessup a year and eleven months. Another month, and the second year would be completed.

'I believe,' so ran the current of his thoughts, 'I have learned pretty much all there is to be found out here; have not done badly, either. Cousin Bennett's advice to mother was right. I am not ready to go to New-York yet. There is much country knowledge to be gained. Let me see, I will drive over to Burnsville next week. Joel Burns is carrying every thing before him, they say. All sorts of business. A first-class man; neither a Smith nor a Jessup. I met Sarah Burns last week at a party over at Croft's—lovely girl. I think Burnsville will suit me.'

Thereupon Hiram Meeker took up his Bible, which lay on the table near him, drew himself a little closer to the fire, moved the lamp into a convenient position, and read one chapter in course; it was in Deuteronomy. Then he kneeled in prayer for about five minutes. As soon as he had finished, he went to bed, equally satisfied with his labors and his devotions; complacently he laid his head on the pillow, and was soon asleep,

* * * * *

'I am sorry to go, Mr. Jessup, but I have my fortune to make yet, you know, and I must look a little to my own interests.'

'Yes, but confound it, Meeker, what is it you want? I expected to raise your salary; in fact, it's no account what you charge me, you mustn't go, that's settled.'

'Indeed I must.'

'Why, what is the matter? If you say so, I will take you into partnership, though you are not one and twenty. Really, Hiram, don't leave us in this way.'

'I repeat, I am sorry to do so, but as I have no intention of living in Hampton, it is now time I should quit.'

'But what on earth am I to do without you?'

'Persevere in the course you are now pursuing. Stick honestly to good principles, Mr. Jessup, and you will continue to prosper.'

'Damn it, I know better,' exclaimed Jessup pettishly; 'I mean—I swear I don't know what I mean, [Hiram's cold blue eye was fixed calmly on him,] cussed if I do; but I say 'tan't honesty which has done the thing for me. No; old Smith is honest—so is his son; I respect both of them for being so, yes I do. You are honest, too, Hiram; straight as a shingle—have always found you so; but I can't tell why, yours seems another sort of honesty from Smith's honesty, and that's a fact.'

Benjamin Jessup had a dim perception of the truth, but the more he tried to explain, the more he floundered, till Hiram came to his relief and to his own also, for he did not greatly enjoy the comparison Jessup was attempting to institute.

'I think I understand you. The fact is, in the management of your business, I have endeavored to combine what tact and shrewdness I am master of with scrupulous fair dealing and integrity.'

'That's it, Hiram, now you've hit it, but it's the shrewdness that's done the work. Oh! I shall never get a man who can fill your place.'

* * * * *

In due course, Hiram left for Burnsville. The prayers and good wishes of the village went with him. Mary Jessup was disconsolate; but why? Hiram had never committed himself. All the girls said: 'What a fool she is to think he was going to marry any body older than himself!' and they laughed about Mary Jessup.



NEWBERN AS IT WAS AND IS.

That part of North-Carolina borders on the Sound, has within the past six months became the theatre of events of the most exciting nature, in which Newbern, its principal town, has borne a prominent part.

It may be interesting to review its history. The earliest notice of it dates back to the explorations of Raleigh's colony in 1584, when they visited an Indian town named Newsiok, 'situated on a goodly river called the Neus,' but the adventurers did not examine the river, and more than a century elapsed before any further record of the visit of white men occurred. The north-eastern counties had, however, been partially settled by refugees from Virginia, where in the absence of law and gospel they became as degraded a community as there was on the continent. Their descendants have, to a considerable extent, overrun the South to the Mississippi and on to Texas.

But it was the good fortune of the counties on the Neuse to derive their immigrants from and to have their institutions formed by a better class than the inferior families of Virginia, further degraded by a residence in Eastern North-Carolina, at that period known as the harbor for rogues and pirates.

The earliest settlers on the Neuse were French Huguenots, who first located on the James River, in Virginia, but were afterwards induced by the proprietors of Carolina to accept grants of land in what is now known as Carteret County, to which place they removed in 1707. In 1710 a colony from Switzerland and Germany, under the management of Baron de Graffenreid and Louis Michell arrived, and were settled between the Neuse and the Trent, and in the triangle formed by these rivers, laid out a town with wide streets and convenient lots, which in remembrance of the capital in the Old World, was called New-Bern.

The settlers who already resided north of New-Bern soon rebelled against their local government, and by continued depredations on the Indian tribes in their vicinity at last brought on a fearful war, during which a large part of both the white and red men were exterminated, so that many of the poor Swiss and German Protestants found they had only escaped their vindictive persecutors at home to find a bloody grave in the forests of Carolina.

After the surrender of their grant to the crown by the lords proprietors of Carolina, in 1729, a better state of affairs succeeded, and a more energetic government, with its blessings and prosperity was the result. The country was then settled and Newbern gradually rose to be a place of importance, and subsequently the capital of the province.

The first printing-press in the province was established in 1764, and the first periodical, The North-Carolina Magazine, issued the same year, but it is doubtful if any book excepting the State laws was ever published there. A public school was incorporated the same year, and Newbern became the principal seat of education and social intelligence in the province. As the seat of government and the residence of the royal Governors, it attracted much wealth, and developed a degree of culture which it has retained to a later day.

Arthur Dobbs, for a long period the Colonial Governor, was at this time closely identified with the history of Newbern. He was 'by birth an Irishman, and by nature an aristocrat.' He died at an advanced age in 1764.

In 1765, William Tryon succeeded Dobbs as Governor of North-Carolina. He first resided at Brunswick, on the Cape Fear River, then a town of note, but now a complete ruin, and where among its remains are still seen the massive walls of St. Philip's Church, built by his request, at the expense of the British government.

As Newbern was a more central position, and possessed more social advantages, Tryon took up his abode there, not, however, till he had made himself odious by irritating the people of the western part of the province into a rebellion, and had butchered many who were contending only for justice and their rights.

Tryon was aristocratic, tyrannical, and vindictive. To gratify his pride he conceived the idea of erecting a magnificent palace, and to obtain an appropriation from the Provincial Assembly he exhausted all his promises and intrigues. In this effort on the legislators he was aided by the blandishments of his lady and her sister, Miss Wake, relatives of Lord Hillborough, and he was finally successful. The result was, that he erected in Newbern, in 1770, the most elegant and expensive building on the continent, the cost of which was far beyond the resources of the province. The plans of it, which are still preserved, show that the old descriptions of its splendor are not overwrought. Its foundations can still be traced, and a part of one of the wings, though in a dilapidated state, is yet in existence.

A Provincial Congress was held at Newbern, in August, 1774, of which John Harvey was President. In April, 1779, they elected delegates to the famous Continental Congress which met at Philadelphia, and Newbern was for some time the most important place in the province.

During the Revolution, the State was twice invaded by the British, and many towns suffered severely, but Newbern being remote from the seat of war, did not particularly feel its effects.

It is somewhat strange that in Newbern secession once found its strongest opposition, and finally its death-blow. It will be recollected that North-Carolina once extended to the Mississippi, and included all of what is now the State of Tennessee, the whole of which territory was ceded to the United States in 1784. It was then partially settled, and before the general Government had accepted the grant, the residents established a temporary government, and formally seceding from North-Carolina, formed 'the State of Franklin.'

On the 1st of June, 1785, the Legislature assembled at Newbern, when Governor Martin addressed them on this subject. Declaring that 'by such rash and irregular conduct a precedent is formed for every district and even for every county in the State, to claim the right of separation and independence for any supposed grievance as caprice, pride, and ambition may dictate, thereby exhibiting to the world a melancholy instance of a feeble or pusillanimous government, that is either unable or dares not restrain the lawless designs of its citizens,' he advocated putting down the movements by force if necessary. But the leaders were not to be dissuaded from their ambitious purpose, and being joined by a few adjoining counties in Virginia, they elected General Sevier, a hero of the Revolution, as Governor, and the insurrection assumed a formidable shape. But the old State met the trouble energetically, and after exhausting all proper conciliatory measures, Sevier, with several of the leaders, was arrested, their councils became divided, and the rebellion was crushed. The leaders asked and obtained pardon, and an act of amnesty was passed, so that in the subsequent political changes the matter was forgotten.

For a long period Newbern has been the residence of wealthy and influential families. George Pollock, a descendant of one of the original proprietors, who died some thirty years ago, dwelt there. He owned immense tracts of the best land in the State, and over a thousand slaves.

There, too, was the home of Judge Gaston, a learned lawyer and a most estimable man, who, though a Roman Catholic, was respected by all sects and conditions, even in those days of fierce sectaries. John Stanly for a long time gave celebrity to Newbern as a lawyer and legislator, his oratorical powers being second to those of no man in the State. He was the father of Edward Stanly, now appointed to act as military Governor of the State.

The country around Newbern was originally moderately fertile, but much of it has become exhausted by reason of improper tillage. The forests which were once a vast extent of stately pines, and from which great quantities of turpentine and tar were for a century and a half exported, are now little better than barren fields. Pine lumber and staves have long been a large article of export, which with corn and cotton make up nearly all the articles sent abroad. But the pines are now nearly exhausted, the trade in naval stores and lumber lessened, and in consequence a better state of agriculture has commenced. It is found that by the aid of fertilizers good crops of cotton can be raised on the pine lands and the fields kept in an improving condition. For the last thirty years it can hardly be said that the town has improved; indeed, as a whole it has hardly held its own. Still it is a place of wealth and comfort. There is an air of respectability in its ancient and stately buildings, its wide streets, and abundant shade-trees, and it is as healthy as any Southern town can be.

Some twenty years ago Newbern had what no other Southern town possessed, a commerce of its own, that is, vessels built, owned, and sailed by its own people. Many of these—then engaged in the West-India trade—were partly manned by slaves who belonged to the proprietors of the vessel or its captain, and at times, when other seamen could not be procured, these slaves were allowed to make a voyage to a Northern port, but as their value yearly augmented, and the risk of their suddenly disappearing, not again to visit 'Dixie,' increased in a corresponding ratio, they gradually retired to other duties where their services were less precarious.

And here I will relate an anecdote which an old salt once told me when I was strolling along the wharves of this ancient town in his company.

In consequence of a bar, or 'swash,' which stretches inside Ocracoke Inlet, (at that time the only passage to the sea,) the vessels take in but a part of their cargoes at Newbern, while lighters with the remainder accompany them across the 'swash,' where the lading is completed. Quite a number of small craft are thus constantly employed, and they are generally manned and commanded by slaves. In this trade was once engaged 'Jack Devereaux,' an intelligent black man who formerly belonged to the Devereaux family—one of the F.F.s of Newbern—but who had latterly become the property of H—— & C——, a mercantile firm then doing a flourishing business there. He was captain of a famous lighter, which for its enormous carrying capacity had received the cognomen of 'Hunger and Thirst.' In due time the firm of H—— & C——dissolved, and C—— 'moved West,' leaving an undivided half of Captain Jack in the hands of his attorney. Jack had sailed the craft 'on shares,' and compromised his services by monthly wages to his masters, and so had gradually accumulated some hundreds of dollars. Not fancying his new share-holder, he concluded to invest his hard-earned dollars in his own bone and muscle, or in other words, buy half of himself. After considerable higgling, he made the bargain, paying five hundred dollars for the share. On the next trip to the bar, as the entrance to the sea is usually called, there came up one of those sudden hurricanes known as a Southeaster, whose force nothing can withstand. The small craft was foundered, and Jack, after floating for a long time on a plank, finally drifted on to a sand-spit, and was saved.

Finding a passage home, he landed on the 'old County Wharf,' a melancholy, disheartened, and depressed individual, and without conferring with a single person, made his way to the attorney, from whom he had so lately purchased himself, and by dint of persuasion succeeded in having the trade canceled and his money returned. Jack was then himself again. He recounted over and over his adventures by flood and field to his wondering friends, and said no man, white or black, could imagine the trouble he felt when floating on that plank, the waves breaking over him every moment, when he considered he had just bought half of 'dat nigger' that was now going to destruction, and paid all the money he had for him. But he had 'traded back,' and then if he was drowned, 'he wouldn't lose a cent by it.' It was long after this event when he told me he would never again risk a cent in 'nigger' property, it was too 'onsartin' entirely. Jack was a good deal of a wag, and told this story with a gusto I can not describe.[A] But if Captain Jack is still on this 'side of Jordan,' he has doubtless ere this found 'nigger' property still more 'onsartin.'

Let us, however, turn from the past to the present condition of affairs in Newbern. Secession would never have originated there. When South-Carolina passed its act of folly and madness, it met with a firm opposition from the old Whig party, which still had here a vital existence. Every exertion was made throughout the State to repel the insidious influences of the demagogues of South-Carolina and Virginia, and but for the Jesuitical management of the politicians at Richmond, the 'Old North' would have remained loyal. But all the efforts of the true Union men could not avail in warding off the storm that swept over the South; and the Convention at Raleigh passed, or rather was forced to assent to, the Act of Secession, on the twentieth of May, 1861. In August the fortifications below Newbern were commenced, and continued for some months, and well garrisoned, till they were supposed capable of defending the town against any force that might be brought against it. General Burnside, however, attacked them on the fourteenth of March, 1862, and after a sharp battle the rebels fled, and he occupied the old place as a military conquest. All the wealthy and prominent citizens fled, and have not returned.

The present condition of things will not long continue; a more permanent government, either civil or military, will soon be established, and with it must come a new era which will settle for all time the destiny of Newbern.

Should the leading men of the town and all Eastern North-Carolina make an effort and throw off the incubus that slavery has for a century placed over it, a bright career of prosperity would open before them. A new emigration, bringing energy and industry, would restore their worn-out lands, drain their swamps, educate their youth, and make Newbern echo with the hum of manufactures and commerce. The enterprise of such a people would soon open a channel from the Neuse to Beaufort harbor, and so avoid the shoals and dangers of Ocracoke and Hatteras, and with the present railroads, make it the port of exchange for a wide extent of country. The times are propitious; already the true men of the State—and their name is legion—are anxiously awaiting the fall of Richmond, when they will decide for the old flag and the Union, never again to repudiate it.

* * * * *



OUR BRAVE TIMES.

I wonder if we, as a people, have any conception of the grandeur and glory of the Times in which we are living; if we at all appreciate the importance of the history which is being lived all around us; if we feel the colossal magnitude of the every-day events which so crowd upon us that we have hardly time to grasp them; if we are fully aware of the infinite possibilities of what has been so well called this 'fearfully glorious present'? I think not, and I do not know that it is possible for us to do so. Only when we look back upon it from the hight of the far-off future, shall we see the country through which we are journeying in all its grand, sweeping outlines, its majestic proportions, and its imperial tints of coloring. The days of peace and tranquillity in a nation as in a life are robed in colors sweet and grateful to the eye—softened hues of green and gold—but the days of war and tribulation are days of scarlet and crimson, and all that can be seen in heaven and earth is black and flame; but the days when Right achieves great triumphs, even through bloodshed and desolation, are days of imperial purple, hues royal in their magnificence. Thank Heaven that, through the days of blood and black, we have at last reached the purple days of life as a nation. A little more than a year of war, and now the skies are brightening. Thank God! for they have been black, black, black with horror and suffering and crime. And yet such a year as this, I am almost persuaded, is worth a score of years of peace. It certainly has achieved more for truth and humanity and God than the score of years which preceded it. As a nation, we had become almost despicable. Such supple, yielding slaves of 'Democratic' demagogues; such cringing, fawning, knee-bending, hand-kissing agents of the diabolical, traitorous Slave-Power; such apologists and supporters of Wrong; such pusillanimous, weak-hearted advocates of the unpopular Right; such slaves to Cotton and its threats, that we had almost lost the God-given independence of American freemen, and seemed—thank God! events have proved only seemed—to be entirely given up to money and mechanics, to have become, indeed, a nation of peddlers. So much so, indeed, that our prophets were stoned in their own lands, our apostles stricken down in the national councils, and the few voices that were raised for God and humanity, from out the miry slough of a trafficking age, were almost unheard in the general din which went up from all the nations, and the burden of whose song seemed to be: 'There is no God but Cotton, and we are all his prophets.' But the moment the first gun was fired, how all this changed! How regally the whole nation rose up! How magnificently she threw off the garment of rags and filth which had hidden her fair proportions, and donned the imperial toga of humanity, and wrapping the rich folds of the gorgeous mantle around her, stood out before the world in all the dignity of freedom and virtue—a form which made the whole earth glad and the heavens clap their hands in exultation. What giant leaps the nation made in manhood and heroism, strides following each other thick and fast, until the most cynical of the doubters of humanity began to open their eyes, and acknowledge that they would not have thought her capable of such unexampled deeds. The national heroism which the Northern people have displayed is indeed unparalleled. They have risen up as one man to the support of the Government. They have offered property and life and the most sacred treasures of the heart upon the shrine of constitutional liberty. At the sound of the drum, they have left the farm and the barn, the anvil and the mill, the church and the forum, and formed into the grand army of invincibles which, at the word of command, have marched forward, conquering and resistless. They have borne patiently with delay and defeat, with blunders and crimes, with humiliation and taxation, and have, in short, proved themselves Americans worthy of the name. Of course, national heroism has inspired individual heroism, and to-day the country blazes from frontier to metropolis with gallant records of daring deeds. Their number is infinite; they can not be individually remembered, but only massed together, one sublime mosaic by which the gallantry and heroism of the free, untrammeled North is proved. We doubt not there is a leaf for each hero in the heroic record of heaven, and the due share of hero-worship paid to each by those angels who love to pore over the chronicles of earth. And we mourn less over the coming of this war at the present time than we should, did we not perceive that sooner or later it was inevitable. It was written in the fate-book of God. Never before was war so emphatically a war of principle. It mitigates the suffering much to know this. It is something to know that all the brave men who have fallen have fallen for the right; and when we believe so, we do firmly believe that their death will give liberty and happiness to millions yet to be. We can not think but that their lives are well spent. There are some who are written upon God's muster-scroll as martyrs to liberty. Who would not esteem it a happiness and a glory to belong to this Old Guard, who from age to age have rallied and rallied and rallied to the support of liberty, to the rescue of this holy sepulchre from the hands of desolators and barbarians, who have ever fought where the fight was thickest, have ever been the advance-guard of the world in its onward progress, and been enshrined in the great heart of the world, there to glow like the stars forever and ever? Is it a hardship to die that one may live forever? Is it a hardship to die that millions who now live in wailing and woe, in chains and degradation, may live in happiness and freedom in all time to come? The voice of the great army of American freemen rolls back the answer, like the majestic anthem of the sea, No! a deep, continuous no, which echoes from the broad Atlantic to the sunset-dyed Pacific, from the summits of Nevada to the great lakes of the North. Yes, I tell you the whole people feel the depth and sacredness of this war; they feel it to be, as Carlyle said of the French Revolution, 'truth, though a truth clad in hell-fire.'

Then forward, noble army of the brave and true! Rally and forward, and forward again, until every Malakoff of Wrong is reduced, and every suffering Lucknow of our country hears the slogan of deliverance. You have glorious successes to cheer you now. You can think of Somerset and Donelson, and all the glorious battles of the war—of forts taken, of enemies driven, of towns evacuated, of the great cities of the enemy in our hands, of all the stirring, glorious successes of our army and our flag—and even had you none of these to think of, you could think of our cause, and this would be enough. Then let the bugles sound, the trumpets clang, the drums beat, the cannons roar, and we will march, and rally, and forward, and charge and charge and charge, until victory or death crown our labors; and if death to us, so let it be—it will be victory to our successors. This is the spirit of our Northern army. Sing plaudits to it, ye sons of song. Let your eloquence be inspired by it, ye golden-mouthed men—ye Everetts and Sumners. Write of them, ye gifted who would live in the coming time. Weave garlands for them, ye white-handed and lily-browed. Write anthems and oratorios for them, ye men of music. Pray for them, each and all of you, night and day, with heart and voice. But we can not, if we would, overlook the desolation which the war has brought and must bring upon our favored land. We can not conceal from ourselves the fact that, end when it will, or how it may, it must bring desolation to thousands of happy households, and inflict never-healing wounds upon thousands of happy hearts. For every man who falls in battle some one mourns. For every man who dies in hospital-wards, and of whom no note is made, some one mourns. For the humblest soldier shot on picket, and of whose humble exit from the stage of life little is thought, some one mourns. Nor this alone. For every soldier disabled; for every one who loses an arm or a leg, or who is wounded or languishes in protracted suffering; for every one who has 'only camp-fever,' some heart bleeds, some tears are shed. In far-off humble households, perhaps, sleepless nights and anxious days are passed, of which the world never knows; and every wounded and crippled soldier who returns to family and friends, brings a lasting pang with him. Oh! how the mothers feel this war! If ever God is sad in heaven, it seems to me it must be when he looks upon the hearts of mothers. We who are young, think little of it, know nothing of it; neither, I think, do the fathers or the brothers know much of it; but it is the poor mothers and wives of the soldiers. God help them! But the theme is too sad—let us leave it. And amid this wild rush of war, let us not forget our individual duties and responsibilities. Carlyle truly says: 'Each of us here, let the world go how it will, and be victorious or not victorious, has he not a little life of his own to lead? One life—a little gleam of life between two eternities—no second chance to us for evermore.' Let us not forget the loves, the amenities and charities of social life. Let us not forget that the education of the world must go on as ever, that the great virtues of charity and self-denial must more than ever be exercised, and that the discipline and perfection of our own characters is as ever our grand life-work. Then let the angry waves of tumult dash up and froth at our feet, let the skies blacken and the tempest roar, God is over all. This one thing we are to remember, and be cheerful. Browning says:

'God's in his heaven— All's right with the world.'



THE CRISIS AND THE PARTIES.

From two points of view, the great and preeminently American nation vibrates at present in a crisis of immense historical significance. The first is, that of the war between the United and so-called Confederate States, which is virtually a strife between Free Labor seeking to enlarge its sphere and retain its power against agricultural aristocracy maintained by slave labor. All the energies and theories of industrial progress, of science, and of constant intellectual development; in a word, all that is most characteristic of 'the spirit of the Nineteenth Century,' is enlisted on the one side; all that is fading out and wearing away, with all that characterizes the unwisest conservatism has taken its last stand on the other. It is the old story of 'the generation which comes and of that which goes,' reduced to the intense form of a fierce fight. All of this—but little understood within a very few years—has been of late made generally intelligible on this side of the border, thanks, perhaps, as much to Mr. Hammond's word 'mudsill' as to any other cause. In the short sentence which declared that there should always exist, in every community, one ever-sunken and permanently degraded class, the great point of difference between the South and North was set forth in a form intelligible to the humblest capacity, and it was understood—how well has been shown in many a bloody field.

The other crisis in which we are at present involved is domestic and purely political. It is the growth of opposing political parties, and its existence is undoubtedly to be regretted, if we take only a superficial view of the causes of its birth. We could all wish for some time to come—perhaps forever—to see only a single Union-party, with all men, looking neither to the right nor the left, pushing steadily on to the great goal of unity, commercial development, and social progress. But we forget that so surely as night follows day, even so surely, in every community, will there be a conservative section and a progressive; the 'extreme right' of the former consisting of frozen conservatives, advocating the preservation of every antiquated evil, because it has acquired in their eyes a halo of 'respectability,' while on the 'extreme left' of their opponents will be found the radical innovators, for whom no extravagance of reform is too great; so that as each molecule or group of atoms has its positive and negative electrical point, and as each atom in turn obeys the same law, so we see the positive and negative poles of North and South again reflected in the rapidly increasing divisions among us of Conservatives, who, by a singular fatality, still indicate the plebeian origin which they would now so gladly disown by the term Democrats; and, on the other hand, of Republicans, nick-named at present Radicals—somewhat unjustly; since the term is strictly applicable only to a very limited portion of their number.

There were men of high intelligence among the founders of the old Democratic party; men who understood in many respects the true interests of humanity and its inevitable tendency, under the influences of free labor, free schools, and science. But with the masses, it owed its growth to the old assumed 'natural antagonism' of labor to capital, or of 'the poor against the rich.' It was essentially the same party as that which was played upon by low demagogues like Cleon in the old Greek day; by men who stirred up the poor and ignorant against the privileged and rich, for their own selfish advantage. Of late years, more enlightened and intelligent views have prevailed in all parties, and the Cleons of the present day have been compelled to adventure more and more among the lowest and most ignorant for dupes. For the workman is gradually learning with his employer that there is a harmony of interests and a gradual adjustment of the prices allotted to the relative values of time, labor, brains, and capital, and that the most serious obstacle to this adjustment is, the keeping up of a constant warfare between laborers and employers. It is the skilled employe who becomes himself the capitalist in due time, under a peaceable and well-organized system, as labor and brains rise in value, and the greatest impediment to his rise is a settled state of war between himself and the employer. Education and political equality, the competition of capital, and the ever-increasing appreciation of intelligence, are constantly promoting this harmony and enabling labor to secure its rights.

It is easy to see how the ancient Democracy, or rather its leaders, having for many years held political supremacy and shared the spoils, actually took the place of their opponents, and, in their decline, naturally enough, formed a coalition with the intensely aristocratic South. Meanwhile, what became of the once aristocratic Opposition, with its 'silk-stocking gentry,' as they were termed? Like the Democracy, it died a natural death, so far as the active enforcement of its principles was concerned, after those principles had no longer a foundation in the social developments of the age. Here and there, an old and incurable devotee to mere forms or party shibboleth, who could not comprehend the new order of thought, went over to the 'Democratic' conservatives. Of such were the old gentlemen who, in Philadelphia, voted for the white waistcoat and immaculate snowy neck-tie of James Buchanan. They fled to their ancient foes, that they might die happily in the holy odor of respectability, quite ignorant that a new gospel of what may be termed Respect Ability was being preached, and building up a higher and grander order of nobility than they had ever dreamed of.

Meanwhile, the arrogance of the South and its desperate struggle to secure political preponderance, by extending slavery to the territories, developed in the North a free-soil and free-labor party, which received, most appropriately, the name of Republican. The doctrine of free-labor being intimately allied to every other form of social freedom, and of active thought and social science, had a natural affinity for 'intellect.' The old Opposition, which had boasted, or been taunted with, possessing 'all the dignity,' including that of superior culture, swelled the ranks of this new party with writers and thinkers of eminence. So it grew in power, taking in, of course, many varied elements, both good and bad.

As might have been expected, the proper conduct of the war, and the disposal of the enemy in case of victory, soon led to decided differences between the Democracy, who could not—owing to ancient custom—throw aside their love for the name, or their antipathy to the new doctrines which threatened their power. The mass of them had grown up in firm alliance with the South, and duped and cat's-pawed as they had been—irritated as they were at the treachery of their old allies and despite the noble service which many of them rendered, in fighting the common foe—many have never been able to hate ab imo pectore the men of that false and foul feudal party which, when the rupture fairly came, expressed for their old allies a scorn and contempt deeper even than they felt for 'the Abolitionists.' In vain the South protested fiercely that it meant disunion and nothing but disunion, and made its words good by offering, both in Europe and in its own press, to sacrifice, if need be, even slavery, rather than be longer bound to the North; still, the remaining ultra Democracy could not, would not, even now will not believe that the South would or could be so unfriendly. It was this hope of compromise and conciliation which lost us forts, and ships, and millions of dollars in munitions of war; for it was said: 'The South is only boasting, and must not be driven to extremes.' With eyes wide open to the thefts, the Democratic leaders smiled a languid, cowardly assent, and let the enemy prepare for war. And war came. It might have been prevented; it might, beyond all doubt, have been limited and crushed; but the hand of the braggart South had been so long on the throat of the doughfaces, that they dared not move, and the doughfaces were in power. The country at large has had to pay dearly for that old doughface love for the South; it is paying every day in lives and money.

Even now, it is amazing to see how the leaders among the Democracy, while pecking the South with the bill, continue to fondle it with the wing. Again and again, since the war began, they have humiliated the North and encouraged the desperate foe by efforts at peace-parties, conciliations, outcries for amnesty, and entreaties not to 'exasperate' the enemy. They have urged and advocated the maintenance of slavery, the great cause of Southern arrogance and secession, with as much zeal as any Southron of them all, and fiercely deprecated any allusion to a subject which can no more he kept from consciousness than can a deadly and madly irritating cancer. Every suggestion, even the mildest and most equitable, for arranging this difficulty, has been stigmatized by them as out of place and time, while their press has, without exception, as we believe, given currency to statements denouncing directly as swindlers and prostitutes the innocent and well-meaning men and women who went South with the sole object of clothing, nursing, and teaching the disorganized masses of blacks set free by our army. In all of this, we have a melancholy illustration of the difficulty with which unthinking men of the blind mass which rolls itself away into 'parties,' and follows its leaders, embrace new truths or shake off old habits of slavery.

While the modern Democratic party firmly believed—as its majority still seems to—that all this trouble was caused solely by the Abolitionists, and simply for the sake of liberating some four millions of blacks, they had at least some color for their iron conservatism. European humanity did not agree with us; but we of America are more tropical in our feelings, and so we made up our minds that it was too bad to cut one another's throats for the sake of benefiting certain 'fat and lazy niggers,' who were probably rather better off as chattels than as free men. But it is not from this point of view that the world is now beginning to view the subject. Common-sense has ascertained clearly enough that without the agitation of Abolition, the South would have become intolerable and tyrannical—it was imperious, sectional, and arrogant in the days of its weakness, while the Abolitionists scarcely existed, and given to secession for any and every cause. The insolent, individual independence which prompted the wearing of weapons, wild law and wild life, free from mutual social obligations, contained within itself the germs of withdrawal from a civilized and superior people and a stable government. For such men, one pretense served as well as another. They of South-Carolina employed Nullification long before they dreamed of Anti-Abolition.

Still more absurd is the 'Democratic' opposition, since Abolition for the sake of the Negro has been changed into the cry of Emancipation for the sake of the White Man. Before this cry, before the inevitable and mighty demand of the free white labor of the future on the territories of the South, all protestations against 'meddling' with emancipation shrivel up into trifles and become contemptible. The prayer of the ant petitioning against the removal of a mountain, where a nation was to found its capital, was not more verily frivolous and inconsiderable than are these timid ones of 'let it alone!' And why let it alone? The Emancipation-for-the-sake-of-the-white-man party, as represented by President Lincoln's Message, commending remuneration, asks for no undue haste, no violent or sudden aggressive measures. It is satisfied to let the South free itself when it shall be disposed so to do; simply offering it a kindly aid when this measure shall become popular and expedient. More than this we have never asked for in these columns; yet it would be hard to imagine a term of 'newspaper abuse,' which has not been given us by the 'Democratic' press. Yes, at a time when ninety-nine men in a hundred in the free States avow that they would like to see slavery 'out of the way,' if only to avoid the endless war which its continuance must entail, all mention of it is tabooed by the men who claim to head the party of the virtual majority! No matter how far off the friends of Emancipation and of the Administration are willing to postpone the practical execution of the measure, 'it must not be mentioned.' For the greater part, these Northern friends of the South at present still earnestly desire the perpetual establishment of slavery 'on a constitutional basis.'

The contemptible efforts at Washington to build up a separate and distinct Democratic party, when no party save that of the Union existed, will condemn to everlasting opprobrium the Vallandighams, Carlisles, Garret Davises, and other false friends of freedom, who at such a time crowded together like hungry political cormorants, to hatch out the egg of faction, and secure a prospective share of the spoils. Have these 'Conservatives' reflected on the disgraceful show which their names will make in history, in after-years, when freedom shall have been proclaimed throughout the land, and when those who opposed its progress will appear like nothing else than traitors! Heaven help the men who, at a time when others were gathering in full measure of glory in a holy cause, were piling up naught but shame for their posterity. For it is not more certain that God is just, than that the full measure of iniquity will be heaped upon their names in the after-chronicles of freedom.

Even to the present moment, the 'Conservative' alias the 'Democratic'—or the Black, alias the White—party struggles with might and main to defend and protect its old Southern whippers-in, even at the risk of dividing and distracting the Union. To effect this, it has—almost successfully—insolently thrust the Commander-in-chief forward as its centre, and broadly slandered the Secretary of War and President in no measured terms, as having toiled to defeat McClellan and prolong the war. Through all the glossy web of lies, the light of truth shines or will shine to their disgrace.

Chiefly and most unwisely is the conservative hand shown at present in opposition to every proposition for confiscation or punishing the rebels. After having hurried us by their cowardice and Southern toad-eating into this war; after urging it by their contemptible procrastination to its present tremendous proportions, they cry out 'humanity!' for the men who have murdered our relatives, and shake the Constitution for protection over estates which have been directly used to contribute to Southern war! While every mail from the South gives fresh instances of desperation, and while we search in vain for a trace of proof that there is the slightest hope of reconciliation, we are still entreated to restore every thing in statu quo ante bellum, and bear all the results of the war ourselves, as if forsooth we had been after all in the wrong. And so the Vallandighams and Davises declare that we were. 'Abolitionism caused it all,' they say, 'nothing but Abolition.'

Meanwhile, the question urges itself on us every day with more pressing power, how we are really to settle the whole difficulty? We see but one course—the 'Northing' of the South. We are content to waive for the present all theory or project of confiscation, save so far as promoting the settlement of those soldiers and emigrants who may wish to settle in the South is concerned. This question demands consideration, and must have it. Whether the lands to be appropriated for this purpose come from rebel estates which have ministered to the war, or whether they are to be taken from State property, they must be had; for the settlement of the South and the proper rewarding of the army are matters of paramount importance. The South can no longer exist in its present social condition. People who believe, to use the language of their most respectable journal, the Richmond Whig, that:

'Yankees are the most contemptible and detestable of God's creation; vile wretches, whose daily sustenance consists in the refuse of all other people; for they eat nothing that any body else will buy;... who have long very properly looked upon themselves as our social inferiors, as our serfs:'

People, we say, who believe this of us, must be taught to think differently and truthfully. If they lived in China, it would be otherwise; but linked to us as they are, we can no longer tolerate such outrageous superciliousness as they manifest. Those among them who will learn, may be taught; those who will not, must be supplanted by people who are not too proud to work, who do not 'abominate the system of free schools, because the schools are free,'[B] and revile free labor, because it consists of 'greasy mechanics, filthy operatives, and small-fisted farmers.' The task is great; but it must be accomplished. The war is drawing to an end; but a greater and nobler task lies before the soldiers and the free men of America—the extending of civilization into the South. Let us lift our minds above the narrow limits of 'party,' and realize the mighty work which we have in hand. Let the introduction of free labor to the South be in future the subject to which every thinking American mind shall be devoted. Let them stream in by millions!—the free laborers of all the world!—there is room for them all; and the right of man to work never yet had such fair and just opportunity to have justice done it. Agricultural aristocracy, supported by involuntary servitude and unsupported by manufactures, has been tried, and found worse than wanting. Let its place be filled as promptly as possible by that truly higher aristocracy of industry and of culture which is at present common to Europe and our own portion of America. The turn of the North to rule has at length come. Let its reign be inaugurated by great, noble, and philanthropic efforts to extend the blessings of true civilization to all the continent.