* * * * *

Yet, somehow, with all his readiness, and capability, and actual value to his employer, he was not a comfort to him. Despite all, Hiram's presence cast a shadow across the soul of Mr. Burns. While he approved of every thing he did, while he appreciated his extraordinary business abilities, while he could not but feel satisfied and pleased with his competency, his assiduity, and his untiring devotion, the quick, sensitive nature of this truthful, genuine man felt magnetically the malign force working in the brain of the subtle and calculating schemer.

* * * * *

It was remarked after a while about the village, that Hiram never visited. It was soon understood though, what a moral, pious youth he was. The Rev. Mr. Baker said he never conversed with a young person whose religious experience was so interesting, and who manifested such implicit trust in Providence.

Hiram was quick-witted enough to perceive that his situation with Mr. Burns was enough of itself to give him a prominent position in the village. The girls were crazy to be introduced to him, and one young lady who had hitherto held out against it, took a class in Sunday-school so as to make young Meeker's acquaintance at the meetings of the teachers. I have said Hiram never visited; I will tell you why. So long as he made no visits, it would not appear singular that he did not call at Mr. Burns's, otherwise his omission to do so would certainly attract attention. True, Hiram did not, perhaps, require an invitation to justify his going to see Miss Burns, but he resolved he would not go without one. He was careful, however, that not a soul should know he felt slighted, and this led him to spend his time at home, and devote himself to the widow Hawkins and her daughters. It is true he rapidly made the acquaintance of the whole church. Some very pleasant seasons he enjoyed with the young ladies at the various gatherings connected with it. He was rallied on his being so much of a recluse. Arch hints were conveyed that doubtless his home was specially agreeable. Was it Louisa or Charlotte? Both these young ladies would simper and look conscious when they were attacked on the subject; for both candidly believed they were liable to the innuendoes.

* * * * *

Thus matters went on during the first six months of Hiram's career at Burnsville. In that time he managed to make himself fully acquainted with Mr. Burns's affairs. In fact, he knew more about them with reference to value and availability than did Mr. Burns himself. For with the latter life possessed higher objects than the mere acquisition of property; while with Hiram it was the great earthly good, and not a thought or a fancy entered his brain which did not have reference to it. We can see how very useful such a person would be to Mr. Burns. Indeed, after a while he found himself listening to occasional suggestions which Hiram modestly put forth about this or that matter.

The liberal terms allowed to every one in his service was a matter of great annoyance to the confidential clerk. But here he touched a vital principle in Mr. Burns's course of action, which was, to regard all who served him as entitled to share according to their usefulness in the benefits of the business or enterprise in which they were engaged. The result was, that their wages or salaries were on a generous scale. A further result appeared in the pleasing aspect of the village, betokening a more diffused prosperity than is ordinarily observed.

Now, Hiram had early mastered the doctrine of making the many contribute to the success and fortunes of the few. It had already become one of his cardinal ideas. The reader will recollect that about the first thing which impressed our hero on coming to Burnsville, was the fact that Mr. Burns was not as rich as he ought to be considering the facilities he had to make money. Here was a point beyond Hiram Meeker's comprehension. Turn it whichever way he would, he failed to understand Mr. Burns in this. You see, Hiram could have no more idea of his employer's large and humanizing views than a blind man of colors. He could not attribute it to lack of sagacity, for he saw such abundant proofs as compelled his admiration and respect. It did not appear to grow out of any strict religious theories, for Mr. Burns held mere professions in such low esteem that he never spoke of an act or of a course as dictated or regulated by a sense of duty, so called. Since his wife died, he had tried to obey her dying injunction, 'to live right,' which he soon discovered had reference to the state of his heart, and thus to his motives, while his actions were such as would naturally flow from such a condition of the 'inner man.' Hiram, on the other hand, practiced on the philosophical principle of 'means to ends.' He had two ends in view, namely: To be SUCCESSFUL here, and to be SUCCESSFUL hereafter. He was determined to omit nothing which could further these ends. But since these (as we have before stated) had no reference to or connection with any thing except self, the reader will readily see how Hiram failed to understand Mr. Burns.

On other points there was no difficulty. And on his part, Mr. Burns could not help being struck with the clear, rapid, comprehensive business mind of the young man. Despite his prejudices, Hiram advanced daily in his confidence.

* * * * *

There was one matter, and that an important one, in Mr. Burns's affairs which was going wrong. I refer to the paper-mill. Mr. Burns had undertaken the enterprise in connection with an excellent man, an old friend and an extensive paper-dealer, residing in New-York. Each furnished half the capital for the erection of the mill and for the machinery, and they were, therefore, joint owners of the property. The season after it went into operation, his friend failed and felt himself obliged, without having time to consult Mr. Burns, to convey his portion of the mill to a Mr. Joslin—Mr. Elihu Joslin, one of the largest paper-merchants in the city, to whom he owed a heavy confidential debt. This Joslin was a very rich man and also very unscrupulous—such was his reputation with the trade. Not a few thought he was the means of forcing his brother-merchant into bankruptcy, having first lent him considerable sums of money on a pledge that it should be considered confidential in any event. In this way Elihu Joslin came to be owner of one half the paper-mill with Joel Burns. At the first interview every thing passed pleasantly between the two. Joslin was planning how to get the other in his power, and so finally possess the whole of the property. It was arranged, as was very proper, that Mr. Joslin should act as merchant for the mill, as his predecessor had done. He was to purchase and forward rags of which to manufacture paper, and should receive on consignment all paper produced at the mill. He sounded Mr. Burns on his own wants for money, and was disappointed to find him in no need whatever. On the rendering of the first accounts, Mr. Burns was much chagrined at the state of things which they discovered. True, every thing was correct on paper. Rags were entered at the market price; consignments when sold were properly credited. But there were charges for all sorts of commissions, for accepting, and paying, and accepting again, because paper remained unsold, and for a variety of things hitherto unheard of in ordinary dealings, and which the previous correspondent of Mr. Burns had never made, which were positively startling. Mr. Burns remonstrated by letter. It did not do the least good. He was dealing with a bold, daring, unscrupulous man, who, in the language of his acquaintances, always practiced the grab-game.

Mr. Burns finally made the best settlement of the account in his power, determining, before another six months should pass, that he would make a change of some sort. Unfortunately, he was at that time rather short of money, for he was expending considerable sums in other enterprises, and supposed the paper-mill could not fail of taking care of itself. So he continued to send forward to Mr. Joslin the consignments of paper, and to draw on him as usual. The next rendering of accounts showed affairs in a sad plight. Paper was very dull, so Joslin wrote. The lots sent forward were not as good as usual, (which was a falsehood,) so that much that had been sold was returned to him, (another lie,) and he had been forced to sell the most of it at auction to cover his advances, and the last cargo of rags still remained unpaid.

Mr. Burns was thunderstruck. He saw at once that he had fallen into the hands of a knave; but what was to be done? The idea of going to New-York to obtain satisfaction and thus encounter the scoundrel on his own ground was not pleasant; but what else could be done? He decided, after some reflection, as he could not just then leave the place, to send the superintendent of the mill to Mr. Joslin for the purpose of investigating the account, and all the circumstances connected with the business. He prepared a strong letter to Joslin, in which he spoke with great severity of the course pursued by that individual.

At this juncture Hiram was taken into the consultation. He begged Mr. Burns to write no letter, but to send any message he chose. 'The man will accomplish nothing,' he rather curtly added, 'still, it is well enough to send him.' Mr. Burns thought Hiram's suggestion a prudent one, so the head man of the paper-mill was dispatched with his instructions. He returned in three days very well satisfied with his journey. He had been received by Mr. Elihu Joslin with the utmost politeness. He expressed entire willingness to go over the account and correct any mistakes in it. Indeed, he had succeeded in convincing Mr. Joslin of one error of thirty-one dollars and twenty-six cents, which the latter at once made right. As to the main points at issue, however, Mr. Joslin could not alter the amount. There were the advances, here the sales, there the charges, here the credits. As to the commissions for buying, for selling, and guaranteeing, and for accepting, why, let him consult the very first houses in the city, the very first. He would leave it to Mr. Burns to select the house, and abide by its decision.

The man came back to Burnsville completely bamboozled. Hiram was present in Mr. Burns's office when this report was made. Mr. Burns received it in silence. He saw at once how his messenger had been over-reached.

When the latter left the office he turned toward Hiram and said:

'This is an unfortunate business.'

'I want to ask an especial favor of you,' said Hiram.

'What is it?'

'I want you to permit me to go to New-York and try what I can do.'

'Have you any plan?'

'I can not say I have. It would depend on circumstances.'

'Have you confidence in achieving something?'

'I have sufficient to induce me to wish to make the attempt.'

'Well, you shall go.'

'I would like to start to-morrow.'

'Very well; come to my house after tea and we will look over the papers.'

'I am much obliged to you, sir.'

Mr. Burns started to leave the office; he opened the door and was half out; then he turned.

'By the way, Meeker, come and take tea with me; we will then be ready to go at once into the accounts.'

'Thank you, sir.'

The door closed and Hiram was left alone. What a moment of triumph, as he regarded it!

'Invited to the house at last! I knew I should fetch it. Let us see ... very good.... Now, young lady....'

The murmurings finally became inaudible as Hiram rose and walked up and down the room, stopping occasionally, and then starting rapidly on.

Mr. Burns proceeded homeward, quite unconscious of the excitement he had raised in Hiram's breast. Always considerate and just, it occurred to him since he had requested the young man to come to his house on business, thus breaking over his usual rule, that he ought to ask him to tea, and accordingly he did so. He announced the fact to Sarah as he entered the house. He was too much preoeccupied to observe a slight flush rise to her cheeks as he spoke. She, however, only replied:

'Any thing unusual, father?'

'Yes; Stevens has returned from New-York, accomplishing nothing. I am going to send Meeker. We are to look over matters this evening.'

'Indeed, Do you think he can do better than Stevens?'

'Yes, I think so. Besides, he wants to go. He volunteered to go.'

'Is it possible?'

'Why not, my child?'

'I am sure I don't know; it seems strange.'

'Perhaps it does; but I confess I have a great deal of confidence that he will bring something about.'

That evening the appearance of the table was slightly changed—not enough to attract Mr. Burns's attention, but there was a greater display of silver than usual, and a nicer regard to arrangement. The same might be said of Sarah herself. The casual observer would not notice it, one of her own sex would.

One minute past the appointed time master Hiram arrived, direct from the office, where he had been so immersed in accounts, head and hands so full of business, as almost to forget the tea-hour.

Yes, he came direct from the office. But previously he had stepped to his room, and without 'dressing up,' or apparently disturbing the usual arrangement of his wardrobe, managed to make himself especially presentable. In short, he had done just what Sarah Burns had done.

I wish you could have witnessed the meeting between them. You would have thought Hiram in the habit of going all his life to the house, instead of entering it for the first time. No forwardness, though, no assumption, yet entire freedom from awkwardness or embarrassment.

Sarah, on her part, received him with a pleasant lady-like greeting, quite unconscious, as we have already intimated, of having given Hiram any cause of offense.

Various topics were discussed: the condition of the Sunday-school, the health of the clergyman, the high water at Slab City, the lecture of the celebrated Charles Benjamin Bruce, the prospects of the Lyceum, the new town-hall.

Mr. Burns said but little. It was very unusual to see him engrossed with any business matter to the exclusion of social enjoyments. Was he thinking of business altogether? Occasionally and unconsciously his eye would glance from his daughter to Hiram and then back again. Little did he know, little could he guess what was passing in that crafty, scheming brain—else....

Mr. Burns was called out for a few moments just as tea was concluded.

'So,' exclaimed Sarah suddenly, 'you are going to New-York?'

'How do you know that?' returned Hiram.

'How do I know it? Are you not aware that I know every thing going on? I was very jealous of you at first.'

'Of me?'

'Yes, for depriving me of my situation.'

'You speak in riddles.'

'Did you not know I was father's 'confidential clerk' before you cut me out?'

'Indeed I did not. If I had, I should never have presumed to offer my services.'

'I suppose it was well you did. Some time I will tell you what I used to do. But father talks to me about every thing just as ever. Oh! I hope you can do something with that Mr. Joslin. Do you think you can?'

'I hope so; I shall try, and—(he hesitated, looked down, and blushed—consummate actor that he was)—'and all the harder now that I find you take such an interest in it.'

'Oh! thank you,' replied Sarah.

[There was the slightest perceptible hauteur in her tone, and the slightest perceptible drawing in from her previous pleasant, free manner—only the slightest.]

'For,' continued Hiram, lifting his eyes and looking at her boldly, as if not noticing the remark, 'if you take so much interest in my mission, you will be forced to feel some sort of interest in me.'

'If you succeed, why, I will say yes,' replied Sarah, with entire good humor. 'If you do not—'

'I accept the alternative,' interrupted Hiram, 'but do not forget your pledge.'

Here Mr. Burns came in, and the two proceeded at once to business. He did not see Sarah again.

It was at a late hour that Hiram left the house. With Mr. Burns's aid he had mastered the whole subject, accounts and all. He was happy. Once as he walked along he turned and cast his eyes up at the window. I do not like to think of the look which flitted across his face. He nodded significantly, and went on his way.

Louisa Hawkins opened the door for him the moment he put his foot on the step.

'Where have you been?' she whispered, 'I was so frightened. I persuaded them to go to bed. Did you think I would be waiting for you?'

'I was sure of it, Lily.'

'You were, weren't you?'

They went in and sat half an hour in the parlor together. But Hiram gave her no inkling of where he passed the evening.

The next day our hero started for New-York. Of his adventures there, and the result of his interview with Elihu Joslin, we will speak in another chapter.



KENTUCKY.

The Dark and Bloody Ground of yore, Kentucky, thou art that once more. But where is he who gave the name— The Indian? Lost like meteor's flame! Gone, as the bandits soon shall be, Who brought the name again to thee!



LITERARY NOTICES

LIFE AND LETTERS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. By Pierre Irving. Vol. II. New-York: G. P. Putnam. Boston: A. K. Loring. 1862.

We have perused this second volume of 'Irving's Life and Letters' with even greater relish than the first, and return sincere thanks to its editor for the zeal and skill shown in his work. Such compilations, when not very well done, are proverbially dull; it is therefore the highest compliment which we can pay to say that the work thus far is extremely interesting. We have in it, as in the brilliant memoir of some great man of the world, constantly recurring glimpses of world-wide celebrities, pictures of travel, bits of gossip of people in whom every body is interested, the whole interwoven with the kindliest and most genial traits of character. If Irving's works are essential to every library, it may be said with equal truth that the 'Life and Letters' are quite as inseparable from the works themselves.

BAYARD TAYLOR'S WORKS. NORTHERN TRAVEL. New-York: G. P. Putnam. Boston: A. K. Loring.

Within a few years the tide of English and of American travel has flown far more than of old over Scandinavia, a land so little known as to bear a prestige of strange mystery to many. Books of travel describing it are comparatively rare; it has not, like Germany or England, been 'done to death,' and the consequence is, that a good book describing it, like this of Taylor's, has a peculiar charm of freshness and of novelty. In it, as in every volume of his travels, Bayard Taylor gives us the impression that the country in question is his specialty and favorite, the result being a thoroughly genial account of all he saw. Readers not familiar with this series may be pleased to know that as regards typography, illustration, and binding, it is in all respects elegant, though furnished at an extremely moderate price.

EDWIN BROTHERTOFT. By Theodore Winthrop. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1862.

To a certain extent novels are like dishes; while there is no dispute as to the surpassing excellence of a few, the majority are prized differently, according to individual tastes. Public opinion has unanimously rated the Winthrop novels highly, some readers preferring 'Cecil Dreeme,' while to judge by the press, it would seem that 'Edwin Brothertoft' best pleases the majority. It is certainly a book of marked character, and full of good local historical color. The author had one great merit—he studied from life and truth, and did not rehash what he had read in other novels, as do the majority of story-tellers at the present day, when a romance which is not crammed with palpable apings of 'Jane Eyre' and 'Adam Bede' is becoming a rarity. In 'Edwin Brothertoft' we have a single incident—as in 'John Brent'—the rescue of a captive damsel by a dashing 'raid,' as the nucleus, around which are deftly woven in many incidents, characters, and scenes, all well set forth in the vigorous style of a young writer who was deeply interested in his own work. That he is sometimes rather weakly grotesque, as in his sporting with the negro dialect, which in the person of a servant he affects to discard and yet resumes, is a trifle. That he shows throughout the noblest sympathies and instincts of a gentleman, a philanthropist, and a cosmopolite is, however, something which can not be too highly praised, since it is these indications which lend a grace and a glory to all that Winthrop wrote. Noblesse oblige seems to have been the great consciousness of his nature, and he therefore presented in his life and writings that high type of a gentleman by birth and culture, who without lowering himself one whit, was a reformer, a progressive, yes, a 'radical' in all things where he conceived that the root to be extracted was a great truth.

In many things 'Edwin Brothertoft' is most appropriate to these our times, since its scenes are laid in that Revolutionary War for the cause of freedom, of which this of the present day is, in fact, a repetition. We feel in its every page the anxiety and interest of war, an American war for the right, sweeping along through trials and sorrows. To characterize it in few words, we may say that in it the author reminds us of Cooper, but displays more genius and life than Cooper ever did.

OUT OF HIS HEAD. By T. B. Aldrich. New-York. Carleton.

It is said that the 'grotesque' romance is going out of fashion; if this be so, the beautiful and quaint collection of interwoven fancies before us proves that in literature as in horticulture, the best blooms of certain species are of the latest. Strange, indeed, is the conception of this work—the fancied biography of one literally 'out of his head,' who imagines himself surrounded by a world of people who act very singularly. Madmen are never ordinary; therefore the writer has not, while setting forth the most extraordinary fancies, once transgressed the limits of the probable. This was a bold stroke of genius in the very inception, and it is developed with a subtle tact which can hardly fail to claim the cordial admiration of the most carping critic. It is true that in using the strange aberrations of a lunatic as material for romance, Aldrich has provoked comparison with some of the world's greatest writers; and it is to his credit that he has met them evenly, and that too without in any particular incurring the charge of plagiarism. But had the thema of the work been less ingenious or striking, its defects would have been unnoticed among the beautiful pictures, the unconscious breathings of poetry, and the sweet caprices which twine around the strange plot, as the tendrils and leaves of the vine cover over, yet indicate by their course the fantastic twinings of the parent vine. It is needless to say, that we commend this most agreeable work to our readers. We are glad to see that 'Pere Antoine's Date Palm' which has attained so great a popularity, and several other fascinating tales by Aldrich, are incorporated into the present volume as the 'library' of the hero.

LES MISERABLES. III. Marius. By Victor Hugo. New-York: Carleton.

'Sure an' didn't I tell ye I was a poor scholar,' said the young Irish sham-student-beggar to the gentleman who refused him alms because he could not read. In the same strain, as it seems to us, Victor Hugo might reply to the wearied readers of these tales: 'Why, do they not call themselves miserable?' Miserable indeed is the 'Marius' installment now before us—a mere sensation plot, brilliantly patched here and there with the purpureus pannus, or purple rag of a bit of imperial or later history, 'coached' up for display, but falling lamentably into what under any other name would be called a gross imitation of Eugene Sue. The point of the present volume, to which its scenes tend, is, of course, a robber's den—a decoyed victim—the police in waiting, and a tremendous leap from a window—the whole suggesting Mr. Bourcicault's moral sensational drama, or rather its French originals, to an amusing extent. Still the genius of the author, always erratic, of course, is shown in more than one chapter. The trials and sufferings of 'Marius,' and his noble independence of character, as well as the peculiar and widely differing traits of his friends the students are set forth with great spirit, and with the intention of a good purpose. Victor Hugo is in all his works unequal unless we except 'Hans of Iceland,' which is completely trashy throughout; but he was never more so than in 'The Miserables.' We have spoken of this third part as though its first title were an illustration of the nomen et omen so much believed in of old. We may add that like the Mois of Alexandre Dumas, it has simply an s too much,

THE FLY-ING DUTCHMAN. By John Q. Saxe. Illustrated. New-York: Carleton. 1862.

An amusing little series of pictures, drawn and written, setting forth the accidents which befell a 'Dutchman' in catching a fly.

THE POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. With a Memoir. By Charles Eliot Norton. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1862.

Arthur Hugh Clough was an English gentleman of high university education and honors, and gifted with liberal and progressive views in politics, who, after distinguishing himself somewhat in his native land, resided for one year in this country as an instructor at Cambridge, Mass. On returning to England to take a place in the Education Department of the Privy Council, he wrote: 'I am rather unwilling to be re-Englished after once attaining that higher transatlantic development. However, il faut s'y soumettre, I presume, though I fear I am embarked in the foundering ship. I hope to heaven you'll get rid of slavery, and then I shouldn't fear but you would really 'go ahead' in the long run. As for us and our inveterate feudalism, it is not hopeful.'

It is needless to say that an English poet with such feelings must be, if not vigorous, liberal, and original, at least ambitious of becoming such, and this Clough is. A vigorous naturalism, such as is becoming half the religion and all the art of the scholars and thinkers of the present day, inspires every page. Truthful yet picturesque, he is more than pleasant to read, he is good to think, and most relishing to feel with. Had he been a meaner mind, he would have been a mere Adam Bede-ish pre-Raffaelite in word-painting—'the Bothie of Taber-na-vuolich,' the first poem in this volume is often photographic in its rural views, as well as in its characters. As it is, literal nature is to him material for fresh brave thought. Through all his poems, owing to this simple vigorous truth, and an innate sense of refinement, he rises head and shoulders above the 'sweet-pretty' Miss Nancy Coventry Patmores or spasmodic Alexander Smiths or other cotemporary English stuff of later poetry.

England has of late years deluged and wearied us so much with thousand times told tales of herself and her social life, and her writers have run so exceedingly in ruts, that there are few really thinking men in America who have not begun to tire woefully of her endless novels and worn-out poetry. We could write against the whole 'connu, connu,' and at the end a 'deliver us'—from evil it might be, certainly from no great temptation. Let the world believe it—it will some day—English thought is at present exhausted, stagnant, and imitative. It is cursed with mannerism, even as the Chinese are cursed, and every honest man of mind knows it. In such a state of national art it is cheerful to open a volume like these poems, in which one hears, as it were, the first lark-notes of an early dawn and sees from afar a few gleams of morning red. It is not the full light nor the great poetry which reforms and awakes nations, but it is the forerunner in many things of such, and will be read with great pleasure by those who long for some faint realization of the great Nature-Art of the future.



EDITOR'S TABLE

It is evident enough that all questions between North and South must settle themselves, should the war only go far enough. When it comes to the struggle for life; to the last most desperate effort on either side for political and personal existence, then people will begin to open their eyes to the fact that the one who conquers must conquer effectually, and hold the vanquished at utter will. Very few among us have as yet realized this extreme case as the nations of the Old World have done a thousand times. We who lived at home, have, looking at the late wars of Europe, imagined that 'the army' might beat or be beaten, but that 'the country' and the mass of its in-dwellers would remain unharmed. We have not seen cities captured, farms laid waste, and experienced the horrors of war. When it comes to that, the case becomes desperate, and nothing is left at last but unconditional victory or defeat. Had we done so, we should have 'gone to extremes.'

The South has begun the war, dared its terrors, encountered them, and become desperate. It is win or lose with them. We too, with every loss gather fresh strength. Ere long we shall probably have every man in the Federal Union capable of bearing arms summoned to the field, and that less by Executive command than by an individual sense of duty, or dread. Our people have learned very slowly indeed what disasters may befall them in case of defeat, but they are gradually coming to the knowledge, and are displaying a rapidly advancing energy of interest and of action. They have immediate and terrible disasters from hostile armies to repel, and they have to apprehend in the future such a picture of ruin and disorganization as the result of secession as no one can bear to contemplate. We are coming to it, and may as well make up our minds at once to the fact that it is to be a Southern rule in the North or 'Northern' rule over the South—if we may call that 'Northern' which means simply the principles of the Constitution as applied to all States, and of justice as recognized by all nations. He must be blind who can not see that it is to this extreme stage of war to the knife that we are rapidly advancing, and that its result is far more likely to be complete conquest than reconciliation.

The nations of Europe are waiting for the crisis of the fever to be passed before they intervene. The sympathy of England is in great measure with the South; yet England may well doubt the expediency of any partial interference. This tremendous North can yet send forth another million if needs must be, and still leave those who with tears in their eyes and stern resolve in their hearts would plant and weave and work to sustain the soldiers a-field. When it comes to this death-struggle—when we begin to live in the war and for the war alone—where can the foe be? They have long since sunk in great measure from the social condition of peace into that olden-time state of full war, when as in Sparta, or Rome, in her early days all things in life were done solely with reference to maintaining the army. With us it has been—is as yet—very different. The voice of the highly-paid opera-singer is still heard in our large cities—Newport and Saratoga never saw gayer seasons than those of 1862—splendor and luxury are still the life of thousands, and even yet there exists in the North a large political party who are so far from feeling that there is any desperation involved as to still dally and coquet with the political principles of the enemy, and talk largely of compromise. When it comes to the bitter end, those trivial, superficial, temporary men will, we believe, in most cases, be changed into good citizens, for necessity is a hard master.

For surely as we live it is approaching; the terrible struggle of rule or ruin, which so few have dared to anticipate. We have ever been so free from tremendous crises of life and death that even with a war devouring scores of thousands of our best men, very few have realized what we must come to with a brave and desperate foe. Union victories may defer such a struggle—and God grant that they have such result!—but in case they do not, what hope remains for our foe? They have fought well, they are willing to hang out the black flag; but what then? They have not and can not establish a real superiority of strength, and yet have voluntarily forced upon a stronger opponent a war which must become deadly.

The tremendous enthusiasm which spread over the country on the last day of August, 1862, was after all only an awakening. The extraordinary voluntary response to President Lincoln's calls for six hundred thousand men was merely a beginning. The South, in proportion to its strength did as much long ago. But the ball is rolling on and the storm grows more terrible. We have great trials, probably, still before us, but let no one despair. Out of our agony and our desperation must come victory—a dire and terrible victory it may be for us all—but it will be overwhelming, and after that victory there will be left no strength in the South to lift a hand.

And in those days the different principles involved in this war will have forced themselves so fiercely to a result that those who contended for them will seem to have acted almost as vainly as those who were such children as to resist them. What will become of the Negro if the South strives to the death, dragging the North down on and after it! What became of Serfdom during the Thirty Years' War and the other desperate and exhausting wars which followed it? What will become of Cotton if new markets are opened, as they must be? England has not realized, as we are beginning to do, that there is not, can not, and will not be a time, when both combatants, mutually wearied, must let go. Men do not weary of war; the new generation grows up fiercer than its fathers. The sooner England begins to plant her cotton in Jamaica, and Asia Minor and India, the better it will be for her. Unless we gain some extraordinary Union victories this autumn, there will be but little cotton planted next year in Dixie.

We are becoming too strong and fierce for intervention. These be the days of iron-clads and of great armies. Before England and France engage in war with a desperate nation like ours, it will be well to think twice. And we are not at the end yet.

Every man and woman in the North may as well, therefore, be warned betimes, and give all his and her aid to forwarding this war. It will not avail to be feeble, or lukewarm, or indifferent, to wish it well and do nothing, to give a little or dribble out mere kind wishes. Every one's property is at stake, or will be, and the sooner we go to work in right earnest the better. Had we one year ago done what we are even now doing—had we sprung up like a grizzly bear on a buffalo, and given it for its insolent kick a sudden, tremendous blow, tearing through its very heart, we should not have dragged out a year of doubt. It is our curse that we are always 'just a little' behind the enemy in enthusiasm. In due time we shall be in the struggle for life—the faster we advance, the better it will be for us.

On and on and on! We are marching on, and will we, nill we, must conquer or perish.

'Ye mountains that see us descend to the shore Must view us as victors or view us no more!'

It is written that North-America is to rise purified, regenerated, and perfectly free from the most tremendous and probably exhaustive struggle in history. Believe it, you who live in it—premonitus, premunitus—'forewarned is to be forearmed.'

* * * * *

If President Lincoln were to call out every man in the North capable of bearing arms—according to medical judgment—between the ages of sixteen and sixty, there would be less difficulty in assembling them than in drafting a minority. If it were once realized that all must go, all would go, and with rare exceptions, right cheerfully. It is not so much the dread of battle and the trials of camp-life which keep men back as the idea that there should be any exempt. Unless the six hundred thousand be speedily brought into the field, and unless when once there, they secure us a speedy victory, the voice of the whole country will cry out for a general and unexcepted conscription.

And if so—why, then, hurrah for it! Let us show Europe and history how far a great nation can go for a great truth and for its rights. Why should we not all arise in tremendous power as whole races rose of old, and trample to the dust this insolent, slaveholding, liberty-defying foe to us and to the holiest rights of man? Such an uprising would be worthy of us—it would rank as the noblest deed of history—it would cast fresh lustre on the name, already great, of our noble President—it would be unparalleled in grandeur, in daring, and in majesty. Its very greatness would thrill the people and inspire them to do each man his utmost. Hurrah for the onward march of the millions!

Watch the times well, Father Abraham—and the instant that the time comes, call for us all. You are not afraid of great measures—neither are your people. What a thing it would be to have led such a movement—what a glory it would be for every man who marched in the great uprising.

Let us continue by singing:

'TRELAWNEY.'

Shall Freedom droop and die And we stand idle by, When countless millions yet unborn Will ask the reason why?

If for her flag on high, You bravely fight and die, Be sure that God on his great roll Will mark the reason why.

But should you basely fly. Scared by the battle-cry, Then down through all eternity You'll hear the reason why.

* * * * *

'Great Onion victory!' cried a little newsboy, lately, through the streets of a certain village, wherein we were 'over-nighting,' as the Germans say. He had not well learned orthoepy, and held that u-n, un, was to be pronounced as in 'unctuous.' Still there are some droll sounds to be extracted from the word—witness the following song in which by a slight modulation of sound the word Union is made a war-cry to advance:

DE-CAMPING SONG.

U-ni-on—you an' I on! It's time that you and I were gone; Gone to fight with all our might, And drive the rebels left and right; There is Uncle Sam, and I am Sam's Son, And we'll crush the Philistines with you an' I on.

CHORUS.

U-ni-on—you an' I on! It's time that you an' I were gone.

U-ni-on, are you nigh on? It's time we were there, and the fight were won; O Old Samson! you never knew What this Sam's son, when he tries, can do; Your jaw-bone made the enemy flee— They shall walk jaw-bone from Tennessee. U-ni-on—you an' I on! It's time that you an' I were gone.

Reader, if the great call should come, drafting the whole North, why, pack up your blankets and travel, light of heart, remembering that when you are there, the secession-pool of rebellion must 'dry up' in a hurry.

Much has been said as to the degree of complicity in which the confederates were guilty in stirring up savages against us. In a 'Secesh' poem which 'De Bow' declares to be among the best which belong to the war, we find the following, which seems to have been written in the Indian interest:

'Our women have hung their harps away, And they scowl on your brutal bands, While the nimble poignard dares the day In their dear defiant hands; They will strip their tresses to string our bows Ere the Northern sun is set; There's faith in their unrelenting woes, There's life in the old land yet.'

Now it is very evident that if the author of the lyric was not describing Indian squaws when he alluded to the 'scowling' females whose 'nimble poignards dare the day,' he certainly ought to have been. But the allusion to 'the bows,' settles the matter. Bows and arrows are not used in the confederate army, though they are by Albert Pike's Indians—enough said.

But if the secessionists will come North, and hemp should give out, we may find a new application, with a slight alteration to the verse in question. For then our women of the North may

'Strip their tresses to string your beaux.'

And serve 'em right, too. That's all. But really, if this be, in the opinion of the first magazine of the South, one of the best of Southern poems, what must the 'common sort' be?'

GONE.

BY H. L. SPENCER.

Gone! the South winds come again, Sweeping over bill and plain, Murmuring through the sombre pines, Singing o'er the budding vines, Bringing with them birds that sing All the glories of the spring; But they bring not back to me The boy without whose smile earth's smiles I never see.

His bed the wood-nymphs strow With all the flowers that blow, And the sweet tones of their minim harps His quiet slumbers lull;

For Nature was his joy, And he was Nature's toy: Where sleeps the peerless boy, She scatters with a lavish hand The bright, the beautiful.

He reigns, though lost to sight! Through the long day and night Is his sweet influence shed Around the paths I tread: He is not lost—ah! no—he is not dead.

Not dead! his voice I hear When South winds murmur near; I feel, when stars arise, His soft and loving eyes, And from the forest flower His face at evening hour Smiles on me as of old, And dreamily my neck his tiny arms enfold.

Not lost to joy, but lost to pain, Which never shall he feel again; Earth's acrid fruits he shall not taste, And wrong it were to chide the haste With which he left this barren field, That with its flowers so few, so many thorns doth yield.

I can not mourn my king, for his Still, still the kingdom is, And the cares which earth-bred kings annoy, No more disturb my king—my boy.

Do you smoke? If so, read the following:

IS SMOKING BENEFICIAL?

Leaning from the balcony of the old hotel at Stresa, on the Lago Maggiore, the old hotel kept by Papa Bolangaro, and watching the sunset over Isola Bella and the lake, my friend Blome knocked away the ashes from his Vevay segar—wretched segars those—and dreamily gazed at the beautiful scene before him.

Vino Barbera, as they wrote its name in the bill, was not a bad wine; a bottle of it assisted imagination as a percussion-cap does the powder in your rifle. In the present ease it also brought on an explosion, for as Blome knocked off the segar-ashes for the second time, he heard a loud exclamation from a balcony on the primo piano below him. He looked down. You have seen, I have seen, all the world has seen the Italian woman of paintings and engravings—black eyes, black hair, golden and red-peach complexion—there she was.

My friend passed down apologies for his oversight; an oversight—bowing preux-chevalier-ly—he was afraid unpardonable, when he saw the object he had overlooked. The beautiful Italian received the apology most charmingly. It proved the overture to a brilliant adventure culminating in Milan.

'You observe,' said Blome to me, 'what real benefits can be derived from smoking. Here have I formed the acquaintance of a very pretty woman, who will fall desperately in love with me, who will call me by my first name within two days, all through segar-ashes. I had a friend in Jena once, the university-town——'

'Where you got that sword-cut over the cheek?'

'Where I received it. Good! My friend in Jena was a theological student, a very steady young man. While others would come reeling home from the beer-kneips, he would be careful always to keep steady and under gentle sail; but he had one weakness, a want of confidence while in the presence of woman—one strong point, pipe-smoking.

'One afternoon he was smoking a pipe at his chamber-window, and regarding the passers-by in the street below. When his pipe was smoked out, he emptied its ashes in the street; as he did so, he looked down, Himmel! The ashes fell on the head of Fraeulein Baumann, who dwelt in the same house in the story below him, and who was at that time knitting a pair of stockings and also looking at the passengers in the street.

'The theological student drew his head in from the window with the quickness of a turtle. He sat down and meditated.

'Now Fraeulein Baumann was a good-hearted blonde, very well calculated to make a good wife to somebody, and her mother, the widow Baumann, determined that this calculation should become a mathematical certainty the first time there was any opportunity of its becoming a fixed fact. She had for some time regarded our student as the coming man. When he flung ashes at her daughter's head, the mother said to her daughter:

''Angelika, thou must find time to make a potato-salad, and see that the smoked goose is well cooked on thy wedding-day.'

''Ma, when am I going to be married, and who to?'

''Stille! here comes thy husband.'

'With great trembling the student summoned up force enough to descend the stairs, in order to make a humble apology to the Fraeulein for the ashes accident. He knocked at the Frau Baumann's door, and asked to see the Fraeulein; but lo! her mother stood before him with a very affable air.

''Mad-dad-ame, I have called in—in, in relation to your d—d-daughter. I——'

''Are you not the theological student, Herr Mueller, who lives overhead?' asked Frau Baumann.

''I am, Mad-dame. I——'

''Be seated, I pray you, and O mein Herr! I am so glad to learn from your own lips the declaration of your love for my dearest, best, kindest daughter, Angelika. She will make you the best of wives; a nurse in affliction, a companion in distress, a soother in sorrow, a housekeeper in tribulation, a—but here she is! Angelika, my daughter, behold the Herr Mueller, who has sought thy hand; give him the betrothal kiss.' Here Frau Baumann bursting into tears, left the room and the young people together.

'I draw a curtain over the thunderstruck theological student. He went in about ashes and was coming out with hymeneal torches! Before he knew where he was, he had given the betrothal kiss, and one year afterward married the blonde Angelika. If you ever meet an old lady who says smoking is beneficial, you may be sure her name is Frau Baumann, mother-in-law of our theological student.'

* * * * *

Shoddy is not so much heard of now. But he still lives—especially in memory and in poetry—videlicet.

'SHODDY.'

BY J. IVES PEASE.

Old Shoddy sits in his easy-chair, And cracks his jokes and drinks his ale, Dumb to the shivering soldier's prayer, Deaf to the widows' and orphans' wail. His coat is warm as the fleece unshorn; Of a 'golden fleece' he is dreaming still: And the music that lulls him, night and morn, Is the hum-hum-hum of the shoddy-mill.

Clashing cylinders, whizzing wheels, Rend and ravel and tear and pick; What can resist these hooks of steel, Sharp as the claws of the ancient Nick? Cast-off mantle of millionaire, Pestilent vagrant's vesture chill, Rags of miser or beggar bare, All are 'grist' for the shoddy-mill.

Worthless waste and worn-out wool, Flung together—a specious sham! With just enough of the 'fleece' to pull Over the eyes of poor 'Uncle Sam.' Cunningly twisted through web and woof, Not 'shirt of Nessus' such power to kill. Look! how the prints of his hideous hoof Track the fiend of the shoddy-mill!

A soldier lies on the frozen ground, While crack his joints with aches and ails; A 'shoddy' blanket wraps him round, His 'shoddy' garments the wind assails. His coat is 'shoddy,' well 'stuffed' with 'flocks'; He dreams of the flocks on his native hill, His feverish sense the demon mocks— The demon that drives the shoddy-mill.

Ay! pierce his tissues with shooting pains, Tear the muscles and rend the hone, Fire with frenzy the heart and brain; Old Rough-Shoddy! your work is done! Never again shall the bugle-blast Waken the sleeper that lies so still; His dream of home and glory's past: Fatal's the 'work' of the shoddy-mill.

Struck by 'shoddy,' and not by 'shells,' And not by shot, our brave ones fall. Greed of gold the story tells. Drop the mantle and spread the pall. Out! on the vampires! out! on those Who of our life-blood take their fill. No meaner 'traitor' the nation knows, Than the greedy ghoul of the shoddy-mill!

* * * * *

Some years ago, a German writer informed his astonished readers: 'Thieves are so rare in America, that I observe, from reading their journals, that those who are curious in such studies are obliged to offer a reward to find them.' To judge from a recent attempt at imposition in New-York, one might suppose that negroes were so rare in this country that we are obliged to imitate them, by way of keeping up the supply. Not long ago, a young woman, named Perry, and a Dr. Perkins, of Oneida county, engaged with a broker of the curb-stone persuasion to show off the lady as a case of gradual external carbonization; it being asserted that for four years her body had gradually been turning to charcoal! Examination by Dr. Mott and others revealed the fact that 'the supposed epidermis was made of woven cotton, into which charcoal mixed with gum had been worked.' This was tightly gummed to the fair dame, who was to have been exhibited 'in style' in a stylish house in Fourth street; but who was taken to Bellevue Hospital, to be 'ungummed,' as the French say of people who are turned out of place and lose their chances—as this damsel did. The incident will doubtless, at a future day, find a conspicuous place in the history of remarkable impostures. As it is, we conclude with the remark of a friend, to the effect that the lady, by putting the Coal On, had brought herself to a Full Stop!

* * * * *

We are indebted to the Amsterdam (N. Y.) Weekly Dispatch for remarks to the effect that THE CONTINENTAL MAGAZINE is reaching a point in American literature seldom gained at so early a period by any young magazine. 'We hail its independence of thought as the development of a new era in the literature of our land. Its matter is high-toned and interesting, it is the most outspoken print we know of, and its outspokenness is the result of a fresh and vigorous life that is not warped by petty conventionalities.'

We thank our editorial friend for his compliment, and sincerely trust that those who have followed us in our career will not disagree with him. We honestly and earnestly believe that we are outspoken and independent, and accountable in no earthly way to any one, or aught save our conscience and the public. We can imagine no measure for the good of the people, which we would not urge heart and soul, and we most certainly know of no public official, in any capacity, whom we should feel bound to spare in the event of his unworthiness becoming patent. We are neither Radical nor Conservative, neither anti-capital nor anti-poor-man's rights, but hold to the great and glorious creed of Labor and Intelligence hand in hand with Capital, and the harmony of their interests. We believe in constantly enlarging the area of human freedom, holding that the freer and more responsible you make a man, the more, as a rule, will you stimulate him to improve himself. And we detest from our very soul the Southern-planter and Northern-democratic-conservative doctrine that society should consist of two grades, the first being the mudsill poor, to whom certain protections and privileges should be granted, and are due by the second or the 'higher classes;' holding that a free American, beyond a good education (to which every tax-payer contributes) should claim 'nothing from any body,' and that the less use is made of such phrases as 'lower orders,' 'aristocracy,' and 'social nobility,' the more creditable will it be for man or woman, let their 'position' be what it will.

This war has inaugurated a new era when earnest, honest thought, and bold straightforward speech alone can effect any thing. It is the time for fearlessness and straightforwardness if there ever was one in our history. We have a great war in hand, and great political reforms and measures of tremendous importance are crowding thickly around it, while others, not less mighty, are looming dimly behind them. The great principles of Republicanism, of man's capacity for self-government, of freedom and of progress, have been brought to 'the struggle for life,' and it depends upon our national American energy and honesty to determine whether they shall live. If they are to live, we shall be first among nations, not in the narrow, wretched sense of old-fashioned diplomacy, but in the high Christian sense of aiding all oppressed humanity in their hopes of attaining their rights. But if these principles are to perish—better would it be for this whole land to become a wilderness, and every life a death, than that we should survive the degradation. We have not yet sunk so low that there is no truth left worth dying for. There was a time when men, women, and children were martyred by countless thousands for their fidelity to the faith that extended the same religious rights to all, and now that time has come again to us, calling for fresh sacrifices to the same principle as regards earthly rights and the common happiness of mankind.

But we believe that the truth will prevail, after a sore trial, and that we shall be rewarded to the full. 'No cross, no crown.' But there is a crown after the cross, and God will give it to us. We are passing through the baptism of fire—and verily we needed it, both South and North. The South had become mad with vanity and aristocracy; the North was, is still, corrupt and rotten beyond all healthy life, with such villainy in 'politics,' and such indifference to all that was noble and honorable through the greed of gold, that honest and able men were cast aside, or at best, used as mere tools by the 'intelligent.' Now we are in the struggle for life, and rascals, whether of the Union or of the confederacy, will sooner or later be tried, tested, and rejected. The people are very patient, and they can be for a long time fooled with this or that man's reputed honesty and ability. But we have come to the time of trial, and the people will soon find who is false and what is true.

It is not to be expected that in one year, or in two, the country will be rid of all the old, corrupt politicians and demagogues who continually work every subject of public interest into the question of a 'party.' But it is gratifying to observe that, whether Radical or Conservative, such men are beginning to be regarded with contempt. In times like these, we, at least, blame no man for honestly advocating any policy which he thinks will aid the Union cause. But the country was never more disgusted than it is at present, with men who use politics as a mere trade by which to live. The infamy which has attached to the miserable and imbecile Buchanan, that type of degraded, pettifogging diplomacy, is rapidly extending to his whole tribe—and their name is legion. It is significant that a bank, whose notes bore as vignette a portrait of the ex-honorable ex-President, has been obliged to call them in, and substitute another device, since so many of the bills were marked beneath the picture with such words as 'traitor,' and 'Judas Iscariot.'

The people are 'all right' in this struggle: but they are awaking very rapidly to the fact that those in power must be honest or able. The coming year is to witness either a grand sifting or a tremendous protest, whose thunder-tones will be heard through all history. It is all very well for conservatives to lay the blame on their enemies and yell for their blood; to recommend the assassination of Charles Sumner, as has been done by one Boston journal; or the hanging of all leading Radicals, as recommended time and again by the New-York Herald; but this will not satisfy the people who can not see how the country is to be saved by holding up and aiding the enemy. Neither, on the other hand, will the people long regard with favor any persons of the opposite party, who are suspected of having managed the war for their own selfish purposes. The old hacks who can only live for personal preferment and for plunder, will be found out, and their places taken by honester and younger men, whose minds will have been shaped, not in by-gone political pettifogging, but in the great earnest needs of the times—in honor and in truth.

* * * * *

Even before authentic copies of General Butler's famed 'Woman Order' had reached us, it was generally understood that he had really done very little more than enforce an already existing local law; yet 'with the word' there went up a squall from the democratic press, clamoring for his instant removal; so angry were the 'Conservatives' that any thing should be said or done which would in any way injure the 'susceptibilities' of their beloved rebel friends.

If we are really at war, it is neither fit nor proper that such expressions of sympathy for the enemy should continually appear, to keep alive in the heart of the foe continual hopes of Northern aid. What does the reader think, for instance, of such a paragraph as the following from the Washington correspondence of the New-York Herald—which has been copied with commendation by its colleagues:

'All conservative men here are shocked at the sweeping measures of confiscation proposed by the radicals. They provide substantially for the abolition of slavery, because slaveholders, for the most part, are considered as rebels by these bills. There are a quarter of a million of slaveholders, and a quarter of a million of other property-holders in the South, that would be made beggars by the execution of this programme. It is pretended that this wholesale confiscation is for the purpose of compensating for the expenses of the war; but none will dare to go into the Africanized South among an infuriated people to purchase estates. It is proposed, also, to arm the negroes, and in effect make them superior to the million of whites, who are to be deprived of their property. Of course, under such circumstances, there will be no cotton or other crops, nor any demand for Northern manufactures from the South.'

Really! and so legislation at Washington is to be conducted with special reference to protecting the property of the rebels! No confiscation, forsooth, because the half million of rebels who have plunged us into this iniquitous and horrible war, in the hope of utterly ruining us, might thereby be reduced to poverty! Northern men may pay a million a day in taxes, but the select slaveholding few who caused the taxation are to be exempted. How shallow is the concluding 'of course, under such circumstances there will be no demand for Northern manufactures from the South.' Will there not? Wait until the South has been well subdued, thoroughly Butlered and vigorously Northed; wait till the Yankee is at home there, and then see if there will be 'no demand for Northern manufactures.' Quite as tender to the rebels is the spirit of the following from the Boston Post of May 31st:

'Senator Sumner,' a correspondent writes, 'in an argument against the proposed tax on cotton, not only opposed it as an act of injustice to the unrepresented South—for grain, hemp, and flax are left untouched—but as oppressive on manufacturers.' Mr. Sumner's sense of justice is called into exercise only when it suits its owner's convenience. He has no thought of 'injustice to the unrepresented South,' when he wishes to tax negroes, emancipate slaves, and confiscate Southern property.'

Such remarks require no comment. If a rebel in arms, disgraced by every infamy of treason, is only to be treated as his representatives would like, then it is indeed time for the honest friends of the Union to inquire what safeguard we have in the future against national ruin?

* * * * *

MY MOCKING-BIRD.

With wings a-quiver, eyes irate, He watched me coming near, Each plume upon his panting breast Astir with kindling fear.

My hand, though always kindly stretched, He would not think it good; And as I placed some sugar in, He pecked, and drew my blood.

So have I seen the souls caged here, To learn celestial speech From angels chanting love so near They seemed within arm reach;

When closer to them drew God's power, In wrath or terror stand; And while he dropped the sweet, dart up And rend His dear, warm hand.

* * * * *

The London Times is becoming malignantly consistent, and has declared that there should be at present nothing more said of intervention in American affairs, because it would have the effect to immediately strengthen the Federal army.

'If we wish to give the Civil War a new impetus, to recruit for the North with a vigor with which they never can again recruit for themselves, we have only to take some step, we do not say what step, but any step which can be represented as being an interference on our part in the quarrel. The spirit of conquest is worn out, but we know the Americans too well to doubt that the spirit of national independence is as strong as ever. If we interfere at all, we assist Mr. Lincoln to raise his three hundred thousand men, we give a new impetus to the war, and postpone indefinitely the chances of peace, which will never come till the North has been convinced that it is useless to prosecute the war any further. To do nothing is often the wisest, but generally the most difficult policy. We hope that, unless some complete change in the conditions of the problem take place, our government will on no account allow itself to be tempted out of its present policy of expressive silence and masterly inaction.'

The Times speaks too late. One year ago it did not express the sentiments of all England—now unfortunately we find that it has not only poisoned all Great Britain, but is rapidly stirring up Europe against us. The steady stream of falsehood; the reports of Federal defeats which never occurred, and of confederate victories more unfounded, are gradually weakening the faith even of Americans abroad in the great cause of freedom. Let our people arm and out, in all their strength. England and France are only waiting for reverses to our Government to attack us right and left.

* * * * *

We clip the following in reference to a popular eccentric phrase from a note by a friend:

'By the way, do you know that the phrase, 'Or any other man,' can be found in Byron's Letter to my Grandmother's Review? He writes:

"Charley Incledon's usual exordium when people came into the tavern to hear him sing, without paying their share of the reckoning: 'If a maun, or ony maun, or ony other maun,' etc., etc.''

That settles it. After all, there is nothing original in this world, or, as we presume, 'any other world.'

* * * * *

If the steamers for Europe take every week gold from this country, there is at least some comfort in the reflection that we received and continue to receive something for it. If American securities are returning to us from abroad, we are at least getting them back cheap and shall some day sell them again dear. There is some comfort and common-sense in the following from one of 'Hallett and Co.'s' circulars:

'We certainly ought not to complain. We had their money at the right time. It has done for the nation all that money could do—by giving the highest possible value to all our resources and products. Having reaped the full advantage of the investment, which has increased our means more than five-fold, we were never in a better position to commence its return. The securities are still very low; on an average from ten to fifty per cent below what they were originally sold for. To this discount is to be added something over twenty per cent in the present price of exchange. We are getting back our securities at about one half what we parted with them for. As money is plenty, the foreigner paying the premium on gold, we are certainly driving a very good bargain. We can, without the least inconvenience, part with one hundred million dollars in specie, which is lying idle in the vaults of our banks and the hands of our people, and get back nearly twice the amount of interest-paying securities, which is equivalent to the payment of a debt too, and stopping the interest on an equal amount, assuming securities of this country to a similar amount were held abroad, which is an excessive estimate, the aggregate not probably exceeding one hundred million dollars.'

* * * * *

We have heard of a German, who having been strung up in jest and cut down, declared it was 'a fery pad choke.' The best 'choke' of the season was issued by our friend the Boston Traveller, who in commenting on the remark of the London Times, to the effect that Mr. Lincoln is eating his artichoke, the South, leaf by leaf, but thinks it will not agree with him, said: 'It will not trouble him a thousandth part so much as Jeff Davis will be troubled when he shall, by and by, take his 'heartychoke with caper sauce.''

* * * * *

HON ROBERT J. WALKER knows the South well, and he has of late written well on it and on the present state and future prospects of our country. Those who have read Mr. Atkinson's instructive pamphlet upon 'Cheap Cotton,' will be interested in the strong confirmation of his arguments given by Hon. Robert J. Walker, late of Mississippi, in the following statement contained in one of his recent letters:

'From long residence in the South, and from having traversed every Southern State, I know it to be true that cotton is raised there most extensively and profitably by non-slaveholders, and upon farms using exclusively white labor. In Texas, especially, this is a great truth, nor is there a doubt that skilled, educated, persevering, and energetic free labor, engaged voluntarily for wages for its own use, would in time, especially when aided by improved culture and machinery, produce much larger crops and better cotton than is now raised by the forced and ignorant labor of slaves, and at a much cheaper rate and a far greater profit than any crop now produced in the North.'

With this great truth before us, will Government hesitate to seize on and settle Texas, as soon as circumstances admit? We have urged Texas from the beginning as the great stone of resistance which must eventually, by means of free labor be employed to stem the progress of cotton-ocracy in the other Southern States. On this subject Hon. Robert J. Walker's letter of June 28th is one of the most instructive and remarkable documents issued since the beginning of the free-labor agitation, and it is to be desired that it should be read by every freeman in the Union. Colonization, voluntary but effective, is, as he holds, the only remedy for the terrible evil of slavery, and the only basis of the peaceful restoration of the Union.

It was urged, months ago, against THE CONTINENTAL by a radical Abolition organ, that while favoring Emancipation, we were quite willing 'to colonize the negro out of the way.' And if it could promote the real welfare of both black and white, why should he not be colonized, even 'out of the way'? 'But it is impossible,' say the Conservatives; to which we reply that this is an age of great conceptions and great deeds, and it would be strange indeed if we, with steamboats, could not effect as much as was done of old by the most primitive races of both hemispheres. The Incas of Peru had no difficulty in moving hundreds of thousands of a conquered race to fresh fields and pastures new—why should we find it impossible? Let the same enthusiasm which has been displayed on the bare subject of freeing the black, be devoted to freeing and placing him at the same time in a climate congenial to his nature, and we should soon witness a solution of our great national difficulty.

* * * * *

We are indebted to a genial Western correspondent for

TOM JOHNSON'S BEAR.

A STORY WITH A MORAL.

To ABRAHAM LINCOLN, President of the United States, this poem is dedicated with the 'distinguished consideration' of

THE AUTHOR.

Tom Johnson he lived on the Western border, Where he went to escape from 'law and order,' For Tom was a terrible fellow, was he, He drunk, and he swore, and he fou't[B] like the Old Harry—and Tom he had a wife: Fit partner she was of his backwoods life.

Tom lived on the border for divers years, Where he fou't the red-skins, and he fou't the bears And there wasn't a thing that could bite or scratch For which Tom Johnson wasn't a match, Excepting his wife, and she was the better Half by all odds—he'd often get her In a tight place, and give her a strapping. But somehow or other 'twould always happen, In every tussle and every bout, In every 'scrimmage' and every rout, She'd come out ahead of the cross-grained old wizzard, And by hook or crook manage to 'give him a blizzard.' Sometimes from a brawl of which Tom was the hero, Returning at midnight, the weather at zero, His wife snug in bed, and the door safely barred, Long time would elapse ere his shouts could be heard; And sometimes she'd catch him dead drunk or asleep, When he'd find himself suddenly 'all of a heap,' And open his eyes on his bellicose bride, Hot mush in his mouth and his under-pins tied. So she managed to keep just inside of the law, While he ever would find himself 'hors du combat.'

As Johnson was one day exploring the wood, To replenish the meat-tub—then empty—with food, While a tree-top near by he was leisurely viewin'' He spied the short ears and sharp eyes of old Bruin, Peering out 'mid the branches—a sight worth a dollar When the rifle is charged and the stomach is hollow; So he drew a bead on him, and sent him a missile, Which Brain perceived, by an ominous whistle, Was very near taking him plump in the eye, But he dodged just in time, and the bullet went by.

Now bears are pugnacious—as much so as wives, And whenever assaulted will fight for their lives; So seeing that Tom's ammunition was spent, He determined at once on a hasty descent; For knowing that he or Tom Johnson would eat, The question arose which should furnish the meat; For although the bullet had wrought some confusion, A moment's reflection produced the conclusion, That he at the foot of the tree with the gun, Minus powder and bullet, must needs be the one; So he slid down the tree, with much scratching and clawing, Designing to give poor Tom's carcass a gnawing.

But Thomas, intent upon saving his life, And calling to mind a sharp trick of his wife, As Bruin came down, his legs clasping the tree, Caught a paw in each hand and held tight as could be: He put on a grip unto Bruin quite new, Like a vice when the blacksmith is turning the screw.

But now what to do there arose a great doubt, For Bruin and Johnson had both just found out What neither had thought of until 'twas too late, That each was exposed to a merciless fate At the hands, or the teeth, or the claws of the other, At which neither could his astonishment smother, And neither knew what it was safest to do; 'Twas hard to hold on, but 'twas worse to let go!

Now Johnson still being not far from his house, Bethought him in time of his excellent spouse, So he hooted and hallooed and made such a noise She distinguished at last his affectionate voice, Calling loudly for help as it rose on the breeze, Like the panther's wild scream in the tops of the trees: 'O Julee, dear Julee! come, help me this time, And I never again—will—(oh! bother the rhyme,) Will bite you, or scratch you, or whip you, not I, But love and protect you till you or I die.'

Now good Mistress Johnson, dear soul, when she heard The piteous cries of her penitent lord, Got herself to the wood with broom-stick in hand. 'I am, most respectfully, yours to command,' Said the wife, as she came and found Tom and the bear Both hugging a tree with the grip of despair. 'O Julee, dear Julee! How can you?—now come, Do help me, or quickly-confound it!—our home Won't have any master!—dear Julee, consider— The children no daddy, and you a lone widow!' An unlucky hint for poor Tom, by the by, 'For worse things might happen!' thought she with a sigh.

But good mistress Johnson, though love was but scant, Had a heart never hewn from the worst adamant; It softened apace, so with broom-stick in air And ire in her eye she advanced on the bear, Who seeing the enemy thus reenforced Tried to get his fore-paws from Tom's clutches divorced.

O woman, poor woman! dear woman! sweet thing! O light of earth's darkness! O treasure supernal! Thy fond heart, though crushed, win unceasingly cling To a loved one, though fallen, degraded, infernal!

Thrice Bruin's tough hide from the broom-stick now had a cut; Quoth Johnson: 'My darling, that weapon's inadequate— Hold a bit—let me see—now we'll fix him—here, Mother— Reach your hand—take this paw—hold it tight—now the other. There, I will dispatch him—ah! where is my gun? And bullets? dear me!—ah!—why, what have I done? I will run to the house, and be back in a trice— Hold on, my beloved! be 'still as a mice!'' 'Quick! quick!' the wife shouted. 'Be off—get away! Make tracks, Mr. Johnson! don't stand there all day!'

So Tom started off in pursuit of assistance, And leisurely walking a very short distance, Turned, paused to reflect, then addressed her: 'My dear, My conscience upbraids me concerning this bear; A very great doubt has arisen in my mind— I am not quite sure—but am rather inclined, Indeed—I may say—I have reached the conclusion That bears have been made a Divine Institution; This is plainly deduced from the Scriptures of truth, Which frightened me much in the days of my youth, With the story of forty of ages quite tender, Torn to strings by two gears of the feminine gender: And not only so, but you see, Mistress Julia, This same institution is very 'peculiar;' I found it somewhat inconvenient to hold, (The cubs are quite harmless, but this one is old,) He is gentle at first, but as muscle increases, Shows some disposition to tear one in pieces. Then hold him the tighter, and keep up good heart, As it's all in the family, you'll do your part.'

Tom closed his oration with actions to suit, Then went to his house, where the reprobate brute Whipped the children and kicked his old mother out-door, Got tipsy as Bacchus and rolled on the floor, While his wife held the bear, fast tied to the spot, And how long she staid there, deponent says not.

* * * * *

Secesh has a bear, and has had many years, At first, a mere pet, he engendered no fears; But now he's grown strong and can fight like a major, And has like his master become an old stager; He has taught him to work, and has trained him to fight, Adding strength to his hands and increasing his might; Albeit if free he would turn on his master, Who knows it full well, and hence holds him the faster; But not only so, he insists we shall help While he fights to destroy us, at holding his whelp! And strangely enough, we obey his command, While he strikes at our vitals and plunders the land! He has murdered the son and led captive the brother, Has broke up the home and made war on his mother; And now while our sons by the thousand are slain The nation to save and its life to maintain, When the patriot's eyelids are closing in death, While a prayer for his country inspires his last breath, Or bleeding he lies as the foul traitor's dart Is caught in the folds of the flag round his heart, While freedom's bright bow, for the millions unborn, No longer encircles the brow of the storm, While the sun of our glory grows dim in our sight, And the star of our destiny's shrouded in night; Still our paralyzed hands, to our country untrue, Are stretched out to succor the traitorous crew, As they strike for our lives, fully bent on our ruin, We lend them assistance by holding their Bruin, And tell all the world that our national wars Shall be waged to protect constitutional bears.

And now let us know, my dear sir, in conclusion, How long must continue this monstrous delusion, (If not a state secret, so sacred a one That it may to the Cabinet only be known,) While being destroyed by a traitorous war, How long we must aid them by holding their bear? Or how long shall we flourish our broom-stick, and say, To one who would help us: 'Keep out of the way! Go home to your master, your Samaritan neighbor; Return all his kindness and give him your labor, Plant corn, hoe the cotton, and keep things all bright, Give him plenty to eat and more leisure to fight; For we mean to protect him in every 'RIGHT;' And the best way of keeping the 'whole Constitution' Is to help those who fight for its whole dissolution, (Though this proposition may seem somewhat strange,) While we dig our own ditches and fire at long range, For our duty is plain, when the traitor makes war, To give aid and comfort by holding his bear.'

[Footnote B: In the border dialect this word rhymes with 'shout,' 'about,' etc.]

* * * * *

We find the following in the notice of THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY by a contemporary:

'The CONTINENTAL looks upon Slavery through blood and murder eyes. It sees in the institution nothing but lashes, salt-rubbed wounds, bloodhounds, and iron-hearted taskmasters. It looks upon the war as solely for the freedom of the nigger; and judging from its tone for the past six months would undoubtedly go in for an entire separation, if its editors and contributors thought at the end of the conflict the rebellious States would be restored to the Union with the 'peculiar institution' still in force.'

Ab uno disce omnes. This, reader, is the manner in which every democratic-conservative journal which has undertaken to notice our Magazine speaks of it. And the reader who has followed us—who has fairly and equitably appreciated our views of the war and of Emancipation—will not hesitate for an instant in pronouncing it as perfectly false a verdict as was ever yet given against any one. We have never in any way looked upon the war as 'solely for the freedom of the nigger,' and we have been chid by the regular Abolition press because we did not look more to the welfare of the negro, or, as the Liberator accused us, of being willing to 'colonize the slave out of the way.' It was in the Knickerbocker and in these pages, and editorially, that the principle of the true Republican, Free White Labor Emancipationists, in the words, 'Emancipation for the sake of the WHITE Man,' first appeared. And while we advocate ultimate emancipation, it is not as the matter of primary importance that we do so. Slavery has inextricably entangled itself with the war, and no one who takes a broad, comprehensive view of the struggle, or of contemporary history, can fail to see that slavery must ultimately go, because it makes bad citizens of the masters, wastes soil, represses manufactures, neutralizes the proper development of capital, and, worst of all, degrades labor—man's noblest prerogative—and inflicts grievous wrong on the white working man. And does not every Southern journal and every Southern 'gentleman' prove what we say? 'Aristocrat,' 'Norman gentleman,' 'Yankee serf,' 'vile herd'—is it not enough to make the heart sick and the brain burn to hear the poor sons and daughters of toil, those whom God has appointed to be truly good and useful, cursed and reviled in this manner by the few owners of black labor? Is there not enough in the wrongs of the white man to inspire all the headlong zeal and boldness with which the press credit us, without making the miserable negro the chief aim? Not but that we pity the latter, God knows! But it is the elevation of the dignity of white labor that we have in hand, and while we advocate 'emancipation to come' sooner or later, it is as a means of doing justice to the white man. Let us emancipate white labor from the comparison with slavery and from the sneers of an aristocracy which will be 'Caesar or nothing' among us.

The South has sinned against man and God by voluntarily, boldly, shamelessly reviling the poor, who are the chosen children of God. And for all this they shall be judged by those whom they have cursed and ridiculed. The most crushing tread of destiny is reserved for those who impertinently aid her in trampling the lowly. Does Christ, think you, whose whole teaching was one upholding of the poor and the hard-working, approve this scorn of the 'laboring scum'? So surely as this thing has been fevered to a war, so surely shall there be one last moment when dying Southern sin shall exclaim: 'Vicisti Galilae!'

But what are we to think of the hangers-on and parasites and shadows and 'shadows of shadows,' as Plautus calls the vilest toadies to sycophants, who, hard-working men themselves, try to catch some faint reflection of sham gentility by 'talking pro-slavery because they think it aristocratic,' as Winthrop says? What of an editor—the one who of all men works hard for indifferent reward—who forgets the nobility which should surround all who speak for and to the people, and beslabbers the meanest and most contemptible of even sham aristocracies, that which is self-conscious, self-glorifying by comparison and forgetful that noblesse oblige? Or what of him when he cunningly and with the vulgar 'cuteness which characterizes the most degraded snobbery, takes pains to make it appear that the labor of another on behalf of the poor white man is meant solely for the negro, and that the former is to be sacrificed to the latter!

We know, see, and feel clearly what we want and what we believe. It is the progress of the rights of free white labor, which correctly considered means all that is right. And if this were understood and felt, as it should be by those most deeply interested, our police would be amply sufficient to punish the soi-disant Normans of the South.

* * * * *

If we could speak a word to all men in or about to enter the army, it would be: 'Don't drink.' We know the fever and ague country, and assure our readers that all advice to the contrary notwithstanding, he who lets liquor alone will fare best in the end. Apropos of which we clip the following:

'Hall's Journal of Health recommends to those writing to soldier friends to inclose a little capsicum (in the vulgar, simply strong cayenne pepper) in the letter. The editor declares that the effect of the slightest pinch in a glass of water, is better than quinine whisky. It prevents thirst, and wards off miasma; it protects from chills, and does not induce too much animal heat. It stimulates without leaving any depressing effect; all of which we most firmly believe. The weight is so small that enough to do a great deal of good may be put in tissue-paper and be inclosed in a single letter without cost additional to the regular postage rates.'

* * * * *

Every mail brings fresh proof of English antipathy to the Federal Union. It is now only a question of time when we are to be attacked by the great Abolition nation. John Bull is hammering away at his iron-clads and doing his best in every direction to aid the aristocratic and despotic principle, so dear to his soul—nay, which is his very soul and self. In China he is helping the Imperialists, whose awful and heart-rending atrocities go beyond all belief—in the West, the slaveholder meets with his warmest sympathy. How well—how human—how Christian he looks now with his sheepskin thrown aside—this selfish, brutal savage, howling for cotton and trade and gold as though all truth, honor, and nobility were as dirt before them.

For all this, England will have its reward. In the history of nations, 1862 shall be marked as the year of British falsehood, infamy, and guilt. Upharsin!

* * * * *

DEAR CONTINENTAL: Curious fellows those Pre-Raphaelites!

Do you remember Holman Hunt's picture of the Light of the World? I remember that one evening at the Century, among a cheerful group of Leutze, Durand, Gifford, Mignot, and others, you once called it a pre-Raphaelight of the World!

Well, 'twas far away in Switzerland, tilly hi ho—tilly i o! all in the mountains high, several years ago, and I was touring and sketching somewhere along in the Oberland. I found at last a retired village without English. No—not without them altogether—there was one little man with a barba rossa, and he was pre-Raphaeliting round for a subject.

He found it at last in a small rock about nine inches by twelve—full of sentiment, tone, color, piety, feeling, reality, child-like faith and trustingness.

And he went to work to paint the rock.

Day after day he painted. When it rained he worked under an umbrella; when it sun-shone on him he toiled in the heat.

I pitied him. 'Smith,' said I, 'what do you do that for? Why don't you pick your stone up and take it home with you? Put it in your trunk and carry it back to London. It isn't a landscape, you know.'

'By Jove!' quoth he, 'I never thought of that. So I will, d'ye know. 'Ow very hodd! Vell! you Yankees are werry hinwentive, I must hadmit.'

And he did; and the portrait of the rock went into the 'Annual Exhibish,' and was thought to be the deepest-toned thing 'out.'

And it's true.

Yours also, GALLI VAN T.

* * * * *

It is odd, but after all, the world seldom sees a real original letter. Letters of business, old letters, love-letters, and letters written for print, the world sees enough. But the real life-descriptive gossiping letter is rarely en-typed. More's the pity.

Here is one—from a never-seen friend—which has been lying for months in THE CONTINENTAL his drawer. Shall we be pardoned for publishing it? We hope so, for we remember that it pleased us well when we received it, and what is good for the editor must be good for the reader. Let it go!

The Hermitage, May, 1862.

DEAR FRIEND: Appearances—to make a very original remark—are deceitful. To the traveler who may chance to cast his eyes upon this little brown, house, a little brown house it will be to him, 'and nothing more.' He will not even notice the woodbines that are flinging their arms around the windows, nor will he dwell for an instant upon the thrifty cotton-woods that guard the door, or bestow more than a casual glance on the artistically arranged garden-beds, wherein I have anxiously watched tulips and radishes sprouting into existence. Anxiously—for winter has been writing a somewhat lengthy postscript to his annual message, and the modest, gentle-mannered spring retreats in lady-like fright before his furious blasts.

Now we are having an interval of hazy warmth—the really royal weather of the year—red sunshine, the hills purple and blue in the distance, and the still air savory with the smoke of brush-burnings and the wild breath of new-lifed vegetation. Lovelier than the Indian summer, for mingled with all things is the consciousness of the flowering and fruiting to come. The Indian summer has a sweet sadness. The spring is full of hope and promise, and the heart buds with the flowers.

Out in the midst of all this country springtime freshness, our 'Hermitage' looks up from its shrubberies and rejoices within itself, and does not care for the traveler's careless glances. The traveler may call it stupid and ugly, if he calls it at all; our Hermitage still patiently wears its havelock of weather-beaten shingles, for it knows that beneath its lowly roof—radiant with whitewash and fresh paper—are cozy, coolly curtained rooms, where friendly books look down from the wall, and drowsy arm-chairs woo from the corners.

Yes, many Wisconsin banks have yielded up their lives in the past year, and in one of these fatal safes our little pile of 'ready' irrevocably evaporated! Ah! the palmy days! when we had rooms at the ——; when our tables were marble-topped and our mirrors presented full-length portraits of us; when every dinner was a feast for epicures; when servants awaited our nod or beck; when Davis's best turn-out bowled us away to the purple bluffs yonder, at every sunset, and bowled us back again happy in pocket and in heart! Those days have gemmed themselves in the past.

We find it necessary to 'put in for repairs,' as they say of a steamboat when her smoke-stacks are snapped off by a Lake Pepin gale, and she goes ashore. At no distant day we will again go out into the tide. From any quantity of 'wild lands'—which we have the felicity of paying taxes on—we have selected a ten-acre patch in the neighborhood of the city, and are living something after the style of Thoreau, except that we have a better cook!

From our modestly architectured porch we look out upon the broad, far-stretching valley of the Mississippi. It is a vast view—so that a shower becomes a part of the landscape, and it is delightful to watch it trailing over the hills. Alexander Smith is ahead of me in this idea, but no matter. East and west the picturesque bluffs mingle in hazy softness with the sky; the roofs and steeples of the city glimmer in the sunny distance; now and then, away through the wooded banks we see columns of pearly steam, as some stately boat goes gliding by. I shall always have a weakness for these proud, screeching steamboats, for there is one among them—the dear old 'Milwaukee'—for which I entertain a confirmed infirmity! We went honey-mooning in the 'Milwaukee.' Its musical and far-heard whistle is doomed for evermore to deluge my soul in a 'sea of soft-blue memories.'

Our carpets are of matting and oil-cloth, islanded here and there with a choice bit of rug. My little kitchen is exultant in shining tins, a glittering 'Hotspur,' patented 1860, and a capacious cupboard, through the glass doors of which shines forth a complete set of 'Ironstone.' On Mondays a little Bohemian—with surprising strength in her diminutive person—comes, and out from the fury of suds and steam issues a line of snowy, flapping clothes. She receives her 'tri shealing' and trots home. Aside from washing, I am addicted to that unpoetical, homely, dry, and utterly plebeian practice of doing my own work. Think you I could endure to have a poetic mood burst in upon by a red-faced girl, smelling of dish-water, exclaiming, 'The tay's out'? Besides, I never was born to, had thrust upon me, or achieved, any surplus amount of 'greatness,' consequently my laurels will not suffer from being in contact with sauce-pans and toasting-forks. (But fancy the idea of Mrs. Browning a-frying flapjacks!) I have lived for the most part in the country, you know, and at the old home I was applauded on by an appreciative mamma to rare feats in this department of humble life. I combine the artist with the cook—the ideal with the material. I consult color and the nice shades of taste. Indeed, I make cooking and furniture-arranging an art. The emerald lettuce I mingle with the ruby radish; the carefully browned trout I surround with a wall of snowy and hot potatoes; the roseate shavings of beef and ham flank the golden butter, which is stamped in a very superior manner, I may say, with the American Eagle; the amber honey sides with the royal purple of grape-jelly; and the creamy biscuit contrasts with the deep chrome of the sponge-cake beside it, etc., etc. Of various pastries and entrees—of which I alone hold the original recipes—I will not speak. Suffice to say, that it may be of interest to some housekeepers to send me a prepaid envelope!

Should you go Minnehahaing this summer, I shall hope that you may fail to make connections with the St. Paul Packet Company, so that while waiting a boat you may find it convenient to immortalize 'The Hermitage' by breaking fast beneath its humble roof.

Hermetically thine, MARIE.

We would that we could. Alas! there is very little 'ha-ha-ing' of any kind this serious 'battle-summer'—least of all for us toward the rosy West. Well, a time may come, and when it does, of a verity the Hermitage shall become well known to 'Esquire CONTINENTAL.'

* * * * *

A CORRESPONDENT, whose style, by the way, is quaint enough to be printed with black-letter, thus favors us with his protest against certain merely 'bread-and-butter' notions of Woman:

I object to the current newspaper 'Advice for Girls.' A woman may know how to cook, sweep, sew, tend babies; but is this what a young man—Spanish, virgen—most looks, or cares for, or thinks of, when he seeks life-companionship—a Somebody to get him dinner, tidy his room, fasten his shirt-buttons, and bear him children? 'Tis not for spread tables, kept house, mended clothes, nor pleasure, that the young man's soul thirsts. For sympathy, for love, for the object of his manliness, for its complement, for his wife—and not a servant, nor a mistress.

He does indeed holily choose the mother of their little ones, but newspaper-notice hints nothing of that; it teaches bodily, not spiritually, and simply trains up a female able to bear offspring of healthy flesh.

However, the husband requires a lover fit to join with him in spirit also, for the total benefit of posterity.

The education which best suits a woman, then, is it carnal or soulful? to make a kitchen-drudge or a soft-eyed maiden? a prudent housewife or a thoughtful heartsweet? 'a special breeder' (POPE) or a trusted bosomer? Cattle and machinery are for this labor-saving. The true end of woman is feminity. Therefore, if she is any brighter and heartsomer for playing in the fields, any more pensive and sober for meditating there, who shall deny her God's free air and sunshine?

If she is more delicate and softer to handle the light embroidery, or plan the curious patchwork, who shall restrict her busy ingenuity to garments of wear—coarse jackets, trowsers, shirts?

If she is more earnest and devoted for loving and suffering through a romance, who shall hinder from reading and writing, or limit the one to Pilgrim's Progress, the other to a letter, or confine her pity to street-beggars, for whom alms-giving is act of charity not more than tears are for imagined woes?

If she is more winning and tender by dwelling with old friendships and memorable passages of trial or happiness, who shall fetter her thoughts to the selfish indifference of the present, or the dull routine of daily toil called duty?

If she is gentler and meeker, purer and loftier, Christlier, for contemplating God and the angels, who can bind her conscience to worship her husband or 'God in him'? (MILTON.)

Summarily and concisely, if she is more womanly, in any sort, for doing, saying, thinking, whatsoever, howsoever, whithersoever, is not what she ought the term and measure of what she may? or else who shall presume to prescribe other bounds to her nature, and undertake to restrain its ongoings in this or that direction?

Is female determined by male? woman's mind by the wind of man's caprice? or both mutually interdetermined by the law of their correlation, his wants and her capacities, her wants and his abilities? And if he preaches utility, but she follows taste, whether is to be concluded, that he needs more of practicality in her, or she more of aestheticality in him? Is it that women lack usefulness or that men lack beautifulness?

The sterner sex, by assuming to itself superior desires, can stigmatize the other because the female disposition does not meet its own; but truth and right may be much upon the other side. Women may be nearer standard, just in this land and age, than men; and their unsatisfied longings for handsome, chaste, and noble men are swifter witnesses than all the low complaint about feminine finery and extravagance. When men can seem to better understand that it is not necessarily madness to prefer (as Nero) a fortune in marble to a fortune in gold, or a Raphael's painting to 'money in the bank,' when they shall come to recognize the utility of beauty and holiness, then will not women be slow to acknowledge the use and usefulness of so much utility.

* * * * *

Honor to Sigel! honor to Heintzelman! Whatever may have been said or sung against others, there is no doubt as to the ability, faithfulness, perseverance, and courage of these gallant Deutschers, and with them of many others of their glorious nation who have followed their national and instinctive hatred of tyranny, and taken part with us in battle against the South. Hurrah then for our German Generals. Sigel soll leben, vivat hoch!

Wir geh'n die Waffen in der Hand, Zu retten unser Vaterland, Und unser Kampf ist Sieg. Wir tragen nicht Erober-Schwerdt, Wir schuetzen Weib und Kind und Heerd, Gerecht ist unser Krieg.

(ENGLISH.)

'We go with weapon in our hand, And all to free our Father-land, A victory is our fight. We seek to win no foreign earth, We fight for wife and child and hearth: God knows our cause is right.'

How many hundreds of thousands of Germans are there to whom these lines have become as applicable in this our 'Trans-Atlantic Germany' as when sung of old under the oaks of the Teuton father-land. When this battle shall be over, let every one bear in mind the good and faithful aid they gave us. Nor shall the Irish be forgotten, who with such desperate courage have contributed so largely to swell our armies. They are in every regiment, they have been foremost in every battle, their dead lie on every field. Let those deny it who will, we should have fared badly enough had it not been for the Irish. They have shown themselves from the beginning as presenting

'First fut on the flure, First stick in the fight.'

They gave us the poet-warrior O'Brien, and the brave and generous Kearney, and the noble Corcoran—but the list is too long. Honor to them all.

There are many very good sort of people who will tell you, 'I don't like Germans,' or 'I don't like Irish!' We trust that this war will drive all such dislikes among us out of existence. Those who indulge in them are generally narrow-minded, un-cosmopolite sort of people. The principles of our day and of our war—the Republican principles—are opposed to all such illiberality. The Southerner, indeed, proposes to exclude all foreigners—it is his 'policy'—the Republican would give to the brain and muscle of every living being the fullest chance for development every where. Free Soil and Free Labor forever!

* * * * *

Literature and religion have of late sustained a great loss in the death of Benjamin J. Wallace, D.D., which took place in Philadelphia August first. The deceased was a descendant of the great Harris family, which may be almost said to have founded Western Pennsylvania, and which gave a name to its largest city. Originally educated at West-Point, he subsequently studied divinity at Princeton, distinguished himself as a New-School clergyman in many States, especially in the West, was at one time a professor at Delaware College, Newark, and was well known during the later years of his life as editor of and contributor to that very able magazine, the Presbyterian Quarterly Review.