As the symbol of a joyous faith, the Ivy seems to have been especially repugnant to the Hebrews, whose stern monotheism admitted few attributes to the Deity save those of tremendous power, vengeance, and gloom. So we find (Maccabees, book ii., c. 6., v. 7) that it was regarded by them as most horrible that, 'in the day of the king's birth, every month, they were brought, by bitter constraint, to eat of the sacrifices; and, when the feast of Bacchus was kept, the Jews were compelled to go in procession to Bacchus, carrying Ivy.' A dislike to this emblem of heathen joy seems, however, to have clung to them through all changes of faith—a fact apparently well known to Ptolemy Philopater, king of Egypt, who ordered that all the Jewish renegades who had abjured their religion should be branded with an Ivy-leaf.

When the reader who may be interested in the architecture of the middle ages meets in its tracery, as he often must, the Ivy-leaf, let him recall that here is a symbol which was not used unthinkingly by the Free Masons, who seldom lost an opportunity to bring forward their orientally derived Nature-lore. In fact, the whole mass and body of mediaeval architectural emblems presents nothing less than a protest of Nature and life, independence and intelligence, knowledge and joyousness, against the gloomy prison of form and tyranny which held Truth in chains. The stone Ivy-leaf carved on the capitals of old cathedrals was as reviving a symbol to the heart of the Initiated as was the living Ivy on the walls without, green and beautiful among mid-winter's snow. It has been well conjectured by a German writer (STIEGLITZ, Archaeologie der Baukunst der Griechen und Roemer, Weimar, 1801, I Theil, Sec. 268), that the relation of the Ivy to Bacchus was probably the cause why it was so frequently introduced by the Greeks among the architectural ornaments of their temples; a very natural conjecture, when we remember that it was a firm conviction in the early faith, even of India, that where the Ivy was found, the god had literally been. The same bold spirit of tradition which brought into the very bosom of the church so much genial, latent heresy and heathen daring, kept the Ivy alive—for Nature and Truth will live, and man will have his guardian angels, who will hope for him and for the dawn, though buried in the deepest night and lost among horrible dreams and ghastly incubi. A French writer on mediaeval art[5] has declared that an excellent work might be written on the foliage of Christian architecture, but regrets that the relations of the leaves as employed—or, in fact, the law guiding their employment—should be unintelligible. Let them be studied according to their symbolical and antique meaning, and they will seem clear as legible letters; and to those who can read them, the gloomy Gothic piles will ray forth a strange and beautiful light—the sympathetic light of congenial minds long passed away, yet who did not vanish ere they had breathed out to those who were to come after them, in leaf or other character, their hatred of the tyrant, and their unfailing conviction of the Great Truth. GOD bless them all! I have studied for hours their solemn symbols—each a cry for freedom and a prayer for light; and when I thought of the gloom and cruelty and devilishness of the foul age which pressed around them, I wondered that they, knowing what they did, could have lived—ay, lived and sung and given a soul to art. And, understanding them in spirit and in truth, every Ivy-leaf carved by them seemed the whole Prometheus bound and unbound—yes, all poems of truth, all myths, all religion.

And as it is the leaf of life, so is it by that very fact the leaf of death; for death is only the water of life. And in this sense we find a rare beauty in the poem by Mrs. Hemans, though she saw its truth, not through the dim glass of tradition, but by direct communion with Nature.

TO THE IVY.

OCCASIONED BY RECEIVING A LEAF GATHERED IN THE CASTLE OF RHEINFELS.

Oh! how could fancy crown with thee, In ancient days, the god of wine, And bid thee at the banquet be, Companion of the vine? Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound Of revelry hath long been o'er; Where song's full notes once peal'd around, But now are heard no more.

The Roman, on his battle plains, Where kings before his eagles bent, Entwined thee, with exulting strains, Around the victor's tent; Yet there, though fresh in glossy green, Triumphantly thy boughs might wave— Better thou lov'st the silent scene Around the victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown, The bards and heroes of the past, Where through the halls of glory gone, Murmurs the wintry blast; Where years are hastening to efface Each record of the grand and fair— Thou, in thy solitary grace, Wreath of the tomb! art there.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime Beneath a blue Italian sky, Hath nought of beauty left by time, Save thy wild tapestry. And, reared 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine To wave where banners waved of yore, O'er towers that crest the noble Rhine, Along his rocky shore.

High from the fields of air look down Those eyries of a vanished race, Homes of the mighty, whose renown Hath passed and left no trace. But thou art there—thy foliage bright, Unchanged, the mountain storm can brave— Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, And deck the humblest grave.

The breathing forms of Parian stone, That rise round grandeur's marble halls; The vivid hues by painting thrown Rich o'er the glowing walls; Th' acanthus on Corinthian fanes, In sculptured beauty waving fair— These perished all—and what remains? —Thou, thou alone art there.

'Tis still the same—where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see, The marvel of all ages fled, Left to decay and thee. And still let man his fabrics rear, August in beauty, grace, and strength,— Days pass, thou 'Ivy never sere,'[6] And all is thine at length.

There was a strange old belief that Ivy leaves worn as a garland prevented intoxication, that wine was less exciting when drunk from a cup of its wood, and that these cups had finally the singular property of separating water from wine by filtration, when the two were mingled—or, as it is expressed by MIZALDUS MONLUCIANUS in his delightfully absurd 'Centuries,'[7] 'a cup of Ivy, called cissybius, is especially fitted for two reasons, for feasts: firstly, because Ivy is said to banish drunkenness; and secondly, because by it the frauds of tavern keepers, who mix wine with water, are detected.' It is worth remarking, in connection with this, that, according to LOUDON(Arboretum et Fruticetum Brittanicum, c. 59), the wood of the Ivy is, when newly cut, really useful as a filter, though it is highly improbable that anything like a complete analysis of mingled water and wine can be effected by it.

It may interest the literary critic, should he be ignorant of the fact, to know that the golden-berried Ivy—worn by Apollo ere he adopted the Daphnean laurel—is the plant consecrated to his calling. Witness Pope:

'Immortal Vida, on whose honored brow The poet's bays and critic's Ivy grow.'

Perhaps it is given to the critics to remind them that they should be kindly sheltering and warmly protecting to poor poets and others, who may be greatly cheered by a little kindness. For there is an old legend that the Druids decorated dwelling places with Ivy and holly during the winter, 'that the sylvan spirits might repair to them, and remain unnipped with frost and cold winds, until a milder season had renewed the foliage of their darling abodes. (DR. CHANDLER, Travels in Greece.) Think of this when ye ink your pens for the onslaught!

It is worth noting that in two or three 'Dream Books' the Ivy is set down as indicating 'long-continued health, and new friendships'—an explanation quite in keeping with its ancient symbolism, and still more with its most literal and apparent meaning of attachment. This latter sense has given poet and artist many a fine figure and image. 'Nothing,' says ST. PIERRE in his Studies of Nature, 'can separate the Ivy from the tree which it has once embraced: it clothes it with its own leaves in that inclement season when its dark boughs are covered with hoar frost. The faithful companion of its destiny, it falls when the tree is cut down: death itself does not relax its grasp; and it continues to adorn with its verdure the dry trunk that once supported it.'

And of the golden-berried Ivy, Spenser sings:

'Emongst the rest, the clamb'ring Ivy grew, Knitting his wanton arms with grasping hold, Lest that the poplar happely should rew Her brother's strokes, whose boughs she doth enfold With her lythe twigs, till they the top survew And paint with pallid green her buds of gold.'

Madame DE GENLIS tells us of a true-hearted friend, who clung to a fallen minister of state, through good and ill fortune, and followed him into exile, that he adopted for a 'device' a fallen oak tree thickly wound with Ivy, and with the motto: 'His fall cannot free me from him.' An 'emblem' of the later middle age expresses undying conjugal love in a like manner, by a fallen tree wound around with Ivy, beneath which, is the inscription in Spanish: 'Se no la vida porque la muerte.' (RADOWITZ, Gesammelte Schriften.) A not uncommon seal gives us the Ivy with the motto; 'I die where I attach myself;' while yet another of the ivied fallen trees declares that 'Even ruin cannot separate us.'

Ivy is the badge of the clan Gordon, and of all who bear that name. In conclusion, lest my readers should object that the subject, though eminently suggestive, has been treated entirely without a jest, I will cite a quaint repartee, shockingly destructive of the sentiment just cited:

'Woman,' said a lovelorn youth, 'is like Ivy—the more you are ruined, the closer she clings to you.'

'And the closer she clings to you, the sooner you are ruined,' replied an old cynic of a bachelor.

Poor man! He had never realized the truth of the French saying, that to enjoy life, there is nothing like being ruined a little.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] New Curiosities of Literature, and Book of the Months. BY GEORGE SOANE, B.A. London, 1849, Vol. i., p. 57.

[2] The Poetical History. By P. GALTRUCHIUS. London 1678.

[3] Galtruchuis, c. 7.

[4] 'Hedera quo que vel laurus et hujusmodi, quae semper servant virorem, in sarcophago corpori substernantur, ad significandum, quod qui moriuntur in Christo, vivere non desinant; nam licet mundo moriantur secundum corpus, tamen secundum animam vivunt et reviviscunt in Deo.'—DURANDUS, Ration. Div. Offic., lib. vii., cap 35.

[5] BERTY, Dictionnaire de l'Architecture du Moyen Age. Paris, 1845.

[6] 'Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.' MILTON'S Lycidas.

[7] 'Poculum ex hedera, cissybium dictum, ratione duplici conviviis summe est accomodum: imprimis, quod hedera vini temulantiam, arcere fertur: deinde quod cauponum fraudes, qui vinum aqua miscent, eo poculo deprehenduntur.'—Memorabilium, Utilium ac Jucundorum Centuriae Novem, &c. Paris, 1566.



THE MISHAPS OF MISS HOBBS.

'New beauties push her from the stage; She trembles at the approach of age; And starts, to view the altered face That wrinkles at her in her glass.'

TRUMBULL'S Progress of Dulness.

CHAPTER I.

Ann Harriet Hobbs was getting cured of her youth. 'She was going backward,' as the French say of people when Time is running forward, and they themselves are being forwarded a little too rapidly by his Express. All the ladies said so of her; all the gentlemen said so; and, worse than all, even the mirror made similar reflections a little—the only difference being that the ladies and gentlemen said so behind her back, but the mirror expressed it before her face. One by one her sisters and companions ripened and were plucked by the admiring crowd, but Ann Harriet remained untouched. No one even pinched her to see if she were good. And finally, as the throng were rapidly passing on, it became her settled conviction that she must shake herself into some one's hands, or she would be left to wither forsaken on the ancestral tree.

Ann Harriet, like some patent medicines, was not bad to take. True, children did not cry for her as they did for the famous cough lozenges of old; but the fact was, that in Peonytown most of the people were homoeopathists, and preferred small doses; therefore Ann Harriet, who was popularly reported to weigh three hundred and one pounds—vires acquirit eundo—was altogether too large a dose for any gentleman of the homoeopathic persuasion. Possibly, if Ann Harriet could have been divided into twin sisters of about one hundred and fifty pounds each, her matrimonial chances would have greatly increased; for however it may have been in years past, this putting two volumes into one is not at all popular at the present duo-decimal time.

Business, too, was dull in Peonytown, and the men could not afford to marry a wife who would require twenty-five yards for a dress, when they could get one that ten yards would cover up.

Miss Hobbs's twenty-sixth birthday was approaching. She could see it in the dim distance, and she knew too well that the twenty-seventh was ready to follow it up; and that Time stepped heavier than he used to—the clumsy fellow; for, 'handsome' as she was, she could see the marks of his feet on her face.

Ann Harriet had an uncle residing in Boston, whom she had never seen, but had often heard him favorably spoken of by her mother, whose only brother he was. Ann therefore determined that she would write to her Uncle Farnsworth, and ask him if it would be agreeable should she visit him for a few weeks.

Her letter met with a cordial response from the old gentleman, who expressed himself 'highly gratified at the prospect' of seeing his sister's daughter; named the day for her to come, and said that Gregory, his son, would meet her at the railroad station in Boston, when the train arrived.

Ann Harriet had never been in Boston, and the thoughts of a journey thither animated her 'to a degree.' Her wardrobe was renovated; a bran-new bonnet was purchased; and as all Peonytown was informed that it was to be deprived of her presence for several weeks, the 'meeting-house' was of course filled on the following Sunday to hear Parson Bulger preach about it; for he was one of the new-fashioned ministers, who considered the Bible as a wornout book, and generally preached from a newspaper text, or the last exciting piece of news. Alas! they were disappointed; for the sermon was on Barnum's Baby Show.

The appointed day came, and Ann Harriet paid Seth Bullard, the butcher's boy, a quarter of a dollar to 'carry' her and her luggage over to the Yellowfield depot, where she was to take the cars for Boston. She bore in her hand a rhubarb pie, nicely tied up in a copy of the Peonytown Clarion, which was intended as a gift for her Aunt Farnsworth. It was a pie she made with her own hands, and would have taken a prize for size at any cattle show.

After asking engineer, brakeman, and conductor which they thought the safest car, and getting a different answer from each, she finally ensconced herself in the third car from the engine. Opening the window, her attention was attracted by a neat tin sign, on which was painted, 'Look out for Pickpockets!'

'Now, that is kind,' said she, 'to give people notice. I forgot all about pickpockets. I would really like to see some, and will certainly look out for them.''

She accordingly thrust her head and neck out of the car window, and looked sharply at the bystanders. While engaged in this detective service, the signal was given, and the cars started, when Miss Hobbs, thinking it was needless to keep up a longer lookout, reentered, and was surprised to find a nice-looking young man by her side. He wore a heavy yellow watchguard, yellow kid gloves, and a moustache to match, patent-leather boots, a poll-parrot scarf, and a brilliant breast-pin. Ann Harriet was delighted to have such a companion; and her wish that he would enter into conversation was soon gratified.

'Travelling far?' asked the 'city-looking chap.'

'Yes, sir; I am going to my uncle's, in Boston,' replied Ann Harriet.

'Taking a vacation, I suppose?' continued he of the yellow kids.

['How delightful!' thought Miss Hobbs; 'he takes me for a boarding-school girl.']

'For a few weeks,' replied she, with a bland smile; and dropping her black lace veil to improve her really fine complexion, knowing, as well as Shakspeare, that

'Beauty, blemished once, is ever lost, In spite of physic, painting, pains, and cost.'

'Is not this Miss Hobbs, of Peonytown?' suddenly asked the proprietor of the patent leathers, after a few minutes' conversation.

'Why! yes; how did you know?' was Ann Harriet's reply.

'Oh, I had a friend as went to the academy in Peonytown, and he always kept me posted up on the pretty girls; and he talked about you so often, I knew it must be Miss Hobbs,' was the flattering answer.

'How strange!' thought Ann Harriet. 'Well, it proves that I am not wholly overlooked by the young men of my native village.' She did not remember that she carried a little satchel, on which the stranger had read, 'ANN HARRIET HOBBS, Peonytown.'

At this time a boy entered the car with a supply of ice water for thirsty passengers. In handing a glassful to Miss Hobbs, he spilled a part on the floor.

'What a waste!' remarked he.

Ann Harriet blushed deep crimson—fat folks are always sensitive—and, with a grave, fat, solemn air, she said:

'I think you are quite rude, sir.'

'I'd like to know how?' inquired he, with a look of surprise.

'By making remarks on my waist, sir. No gentleman would be guilty of such an offence,' replied the indignant lady.

Fortunately, the train at this juncture stopped at a way station, and the yellow moustache, poll-parrot scarf, and kid gloves got out, first bowing very politely to their late companion. Ann Harriet was a little sorry to have their inmate go, but consoled herself with the thought that he was altogether too familiar.

About fifteen miles farther on, an orange boy made his appearance; and Ann, thinking an orange would moisten her throat, felt for her portemonnaie, and found it not; for, while she was so intently looking out for pickpockets at Yellowfield, her agreeable companion had appropriated her cash, by looking in her pocket.

'There! that dandy villain has robbed me of my wallet, with fifteen dollars in it, and the receipt for Sally Lunn cake I was going to give Aunt Farnsworth!' exclaimed she, placidly. Stout folks bear disasters calmly. Luckily, she had two or three dollars in her satchel, which she had received from the ticket master when she purchased her ticket, so she was not entirely bankrupt. Some of the passengers attempted to sympathize with her, but they found it a thankless task, and soon desisted.

Ann Harriet, her griefs digested, drew herself into as compact a compass as possible, and in a few minutes was fast asleep.

The cars rolled, in due time, into the noisy station at Boston, and our traveller, after much exertion and trepidation, safely reached the platform, with her rhubarb pie unharmed. She looked anxiously around for her cousin Gregory, whom she had never seen, save in his carte de visite, and by that she found him in a few minutes. Gregory was a handsome man, quite young, and dressed in a neat suit of light clothes, donned that afternoon for the first time. He had never seen his cousin, and was therefore not a little surprised when the corpulent beauty introduced herself as Miss Ann Harriet Hobbs, of Peonytown. Gregory had come down to the station with a light buggy, in which he intended to convey his fair relative home, but at the first glance saw that it would be disastrous both to the buggy and Ann Harriet to attempt any such feat. He therefore escorted her to a hack, and left her a moment. While he was gone, Ann Harriet, who had forgotten all her troubles in the contemplation of riding home with her handsome cousin, laid the rhubarb pie on the opposite seat of the carriage, reserving the place by her side for Gregory. But this gentleman, not feeling sure that he would find room by the side of his massive cousin, when he entered the carriage, sat hastily down opposite her. Crash went the Peonytown Clarion, and 'sqush' went the juicy rhubarb, completely saturating Gregory's new garments. Ann Harriet gave a loud shriek, exclaiming: 'Oh! you have spoilt that nice pie that I made for Aunt Priscilla, from Mrs. Wilkins's receipt.'

'Hang Mrs. Wilkins's receipt!' exclaimed Gregory, who was imperturbable. 'I think I shall have to get some one to reseat my pantaloons.'

There was nothing to be done but to drive home as quickly as possible. The hackman was paid for the damage to his vehicle, and Gregory hastened up stairs to resume the old suit which only a few hours before he had thrown aside disdainfully.

Ann Harriet found her uncle's family all that she expected. They found her a little more than they expected. Everything was done to make her comfortable. Aunt Farnsworth condoled with her niece on the loss of her money, and the receipt for Sally Lunn cake. They brought a fan to cool her, and placed a footstool for her feet. Her cousin Miranda exhibited a photograph album containing all the family likenesses, besides a number they had purchased to fill up the book, such as the Prince of Wales, McClellan, Stonewall Jackson, Beauregard, and Butler. All this comforted her greatly, and Ann Harriet was much interested, but was obliged to inquire which were fighting for the North, and which for the South—'she had heard something about it, but was not thoroughly informed,'—for, to tell the truth, the only medium for news in Peonytown was the Clarion, and the only portion of even that which Ann Harriet attended to was the deaths, marriages, and dry goods.

The remainder of the day passed quietly, and the hour for retiring approached. Before Ann Harriet's arrival, it had been arranged that she should share Miranda's bed; but it was now very evident that Ann would get very much more than her share, and it was therefore decided to give her a bed to herself. A lamp was brought, and Aunt Farnsworth escorted her to her room, and bade her good night. Ann Harriet had the usual share of curiosity which all females—even plump ones—possess; and wishing to know how a Boston street appeared in the evening, she hoisted the curtain with a vigorous jerk, and looked forth: it was not a very beautiful scene; long rows of brick houses stretched away on either side, relieved at intervals by the street lamps and loafers, which, as they appeared at a distance, reminded her of a torchlight procession she had witnessed once in Peonytown, when the Hickory Club turned out with twenty torches and a colored lantern. Having satisfied her eyes with the view, she attempted to draw down the curtain, and found that it would not move. She had pulled it up so vigorously that the cord had slipped from the wheel, and rendered the curtain immovable. By stepping on a chair she could, indeed, reach and adjust it; but the only chairs in the room were cane-seated, and seemed altogether too fragile for such a weighty lady as Ann Harriet. To add to her perplexity, the dwelling directly opposite was a boarding house, full of young men; and she noticed that one or two of them had already discovered her, and that the news was probably being communicated to all their fellow boarders, for in a very few minutes every window had two or more spectators at it, armed with opera or eye glasses, while one saucy fellow had a telescope three feet long. What to do she did not know: there was but one window in the room, and no recess into which her portly beauty could retreat. Once more she tried the curtain, giving it a forcible twitch, and this time it came down—but the whole fixture came with it, and, after striking her on the head, slid out of the window into the street, much to the amusement of the spectators opposite.

Here was a dilemma—and what would her aunt say? She had to give up all hope of excluding the gaze of her impudent neighbors. Poor damsel! She would have asked assistance of some of the family, but they had all been asleep some time, and she disliked to disturb them. Finally, she decided to extinguish her light and undress in bed—a difficult undertaking, which was, however, accomplished, with the loss of sundry strings and buttons; and Ann Harriet laid her wearied head on the pillow, and thought her troubles for that day were over. But Sleep forsakes the wretched, and her eyes would not 'stay shut.' While coaxing them to 'stay down,' she was startled by a flash of light on the wall and an explosion, then another, and then a third, accompanied by a shower of gravelly substance in her face and eyes. Miss Hobbs, as we have seen, was

'A woman naturally born to fears,'

and this sudden and inexplicable exhibition of fireworks in her chamber almost burst the strings of her night cap, by causing her curly black hair to stand on end.

The mischievous young men opposite had procured a sarbacane—vulgarly known as a 'bean-blower,'—and were shooting torpedoes into Ann Harriet's chamber. Not daring to rise to shut the window, she was wholly at their mercy; but fortunately their stock of ammunition was limited to half a dozen pellets, and in a few minutes the bombardment ceased.

About midnight Ann Harriet fell into a deep slumber, and when she awoke the broad sunshine was illuminating her chamber, while the rattling of teams along the paved streets reminded her that she was in the great metropolis of New England. She missed the green foliage and healthy perfume and bird songs of her pleasant country home: all she could see was a combination of bricks, slate, and stone; and not a green thing was visible in the street, save a few Irish servants, who were washing off the doorsteps and sidewalks. In the middle of the cobble stones lay the curtain which had fallen during the scene of the previous evening, muddy and torn, its sticks broken by the heavy wagons which had passed over it. A glance at the hostile boarding-house assured her that all was quiet there; so, after arranging her dress with studied nicety, and disposing her hair in the most enchanting style—and Ann Harriet was really neat and winsome—she descended to the breakfast room. Her cousin Gregory was the only person present—he sat by the window, reading. After the customary greeting, Ann Harriet inquired what interested him.

'I have been glancing over an article called 'Ludicrous Exaggerations,' in Leigh Hunt's Indicator,' replied Gregory, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Ann Harriet did not notice any point to this remark, but said: 'I do not remember having seen that book.'

'What have you been reading lately?' pursued Gregory.

'Oh! I have begun a splendid book that Mrs. Orrin Pendergast lent me; I have forgotten who wrote it, but its name is 'The Bloody Butcher's Bride; or, The Demon of Dandelion Dell.'

Here Gregory was so impolite as to burst into a loud laugh, much to the discomfiture of Ann Harriet, who was on the point of describing a thrilling scene in the story.

'I see nothing to laugh at,' remarked she, solemnly; 'it is a very nice book, Cousin Gregory. Why, some parts of it were so powerful that it made me tremble all over.'

'It must have been powerful,' said Gregory, drily.

'You're a saucy fellow,' said his cousin. 'But, by the way, where is that new suit that was damaged yesterday? You do not look so stylish this morning.'

'Stylish? I hope not. I hate that word; it is only fit to be applied to pigs; they always look sty-lish,' replied Gregory.

The door opened, and the rest of the family appeared, much to Ann Harriet's discomfort, for she liked her cousin, and was just thinking how she could make an impression upon him. The surest way would have been to sit in his lap.

They seated themselves at the table, when the customary question came from Aunt Farnsworth:

'How did you rest last night, Ann Harriet?'

This, of course, called forth the history of the mishaps she had experienced, and the indignation of her uncle and aunt was great when they heard how the occupants of the boarding house had behaved.

'Those young men over there are Boarder Ruffians,' remarked Gregory.

'Mercy!' exclaimed his fat cousin; 'if I had known that, I shouldn't have slept a wink all night. I have heard Miss Pendergast tell about those awful men: she had a sister out in Kansas, and a parcel of Border Ruffians came to her house one Sabbath day and ate up everything she had, and then carried off her cow and five pullets.'

'What cow-ardly and chicken-hearted fellows, to rob a poor woman in that manner!' remarked Gregory, grimly.

'Oh yes,' said Ann Harriet; 'and they spit tobacco juice all over her clean floor, and whittled all over the hearth, and told her it was lucky for her that she was a widow, for if she hadn't been, they would have made her one. I should think you would feel dreadfully to have a whole houseful right opposite.'

'We do feel pretty dreadfully,' replied Gregory; 'often.'

'Miranda, you must have a little company while your cousin is here, and make her acquainted with some of the ladies and gentlemen of the city,' said Aunt Farnsworth.

'I should like to, very much, mother; and if you are willing, I will set about it immediately after breakfast; and perhaps I can arrange things so as to have it to-morrow night,' was Miranda's reply.

This suggestion was eagerly seconded by Gregory, who always enjoyed the social parties that his sister had a peculiar knack in getting up at short notice.

Their pleasant anticipations of the soiree were suddenly checked by quite a melancholy mishap to the solid Ann Harriet. In reaching forward to receive a cup of coffee from her aunt, she was obliged to rise a little from her seat. Now, the chair in which she was sitting had been broken the day before and was glued together, strong enough for any ordinary usage, but wholly inadequate to sustain such a weight as now taxed it; so when Ann 'set back' into the furniture, the already strained joints came apart, and she felt herself descending to the floor; to save herself, she clung to the edge of the table, but, of course, that was no support; on the contrary, it tilted up and launched its whole contents over the prostrate form of the unfortunate Ann Harriet. There she lay, pinned to the floor by the heavy table, while her face and neck and dress were covered with butter, gooseberry pie, hot coffee, broken eggs, and slices of fried ham. The carpet was in a similar condition, and the Old Dominion coffee-pot was found expiring under the sofa.

Mr. Farnsworth, in an attempt to save the table from going over, lost his own balance, and fell flounder-flat on the floor, where he lay shuddering, with his hair in a dish of Shaker apple-sauce: the rest of the family escaped unscathed, but were sadly astonished at the sudden turn things had taken.

Mr. Farnsworth and Gregory raised the fallen table to its former position, and Miranda set about collecting the scattered dishes.

'I knew that we were going to breakfast, but I did not think we should break so fast as that,' remarked Gregory, ruefully.

Ann Harriet, up to this time, had retained her consciousness, when it suddenly occurred to her that, in the stories she had read, the heroines always fainted when anything unusual happened; so she shut up her eyes and began to gasp, just as her uncle and cousin were about to assist her to her feet.

'She is faint; get some water, quick!' exclaimed Miranda.

Gregory seized the 'Old Dominion,' and dashed what coffee there was left in it on Ann's face, then threw on all the cream in the pitcher, and wound up his frightful orgie by emptying over her locks a lot of brown sugar from a bowl which stood near. The effect was that the faint damsel 'came to' very fast, and requested to be helped up. Her aspect was remarkably ludicrous; the moistened sugar, clinging to her hair and plastering up her eyes, caused so much mirth on Gregory's part that he could hardly restrain it within the bounds of politeness.

'Oh, do help me up!' implored Ann Harriet.

Easier said than done. Mr. Farnsworth took hold of one arm, and Gregory the other, but their united effort was not sufficient. Mr. Farnsworth had but recently recovered from an attack of the rheumatism—and apple sauce—and was by no means strong enough for such work; while Gregory was so full of laughter that it deprived him of half his strength. After one or two futile attempts, Miranda had a happy thought: she ran into the parlor and brought out half a dozen thick volumes of music; then Gregory and his father lifted Ann Harriet as far as they could at one effort, while Miranda pushed a book under; at the next lift, a second book was inserted, and this movement was repeated until Ann was seated—alto and allegro—on a pile of six large music books. Aunt Farnsworth then brought a basin of water, and carefully bathed her niece's face, removing all traces of the catastrophe, in which she was assisted by a copious flood of tears from Ann's eyes—so copious, indeed, that Gregory guessed there would be a rainbow when she ceased.

In about twenty minutes 'things were put as near to rights as possible,' but their appetites, like the breakfast, were thoroughly spoilt; so Miranda and her cousin went up stairs to make their plans for the entertainment, which was to be given in honor of the fair Peonytowner. This kept them busy all day; for there was shopping to be done, pastry and cake to be made, dresses to be 'fixed,' and other arrangements, 'too numerous to mention.'

Ann Harriet's thoughts dwelt incessantly on the appointed evening; the iron would then be hot, and she knew that she must strike, or lose a golden opportunity for exchanging the desolate monotony of a heavy single life for the sparkling, honorable, enviable title of wedded wife.

Surely, Ann Harriet, he who leads thee to the altar will possess a brave and stout heart—one on whom you, although fat, can lean, and of whose home you, though heavy, will be the light. You will so fill his heart that there will be no room for discontent, melancholy, or any evil or mischievous visitor. Whoever the fortunate man may be, you can rest assured that you will exceed his greatest expectations, and he will not attempt to exaggerate your charms and attractions.

CHAPTER II.

'There was music and mirth in the lighted saloon; The measure was merry—our hearts were in tune; While hand linked with hand in the graceful quadrille, Bright joy crowned the dance, like the sun on the rill, And beamed in the dark eyes of coquettes and snobs; But the belle of the hall was Ann Harriet Hobbs.'

MRS. OSGOOD (with slight variation).

Bright shone the gas at Mr. Farnsworth's on the evening of the grand soiree given for the gratification of Ann Harriet, who was anxious to see some of the beaux of Boston. Both of the parlor chandeliers were in full blaze, much to the delight of Miss Hobbs, who, after gazing at them in admiration, expressed the wish that her friend surnamed Pendergast might see such a sight.

'That takes the shine all off of Miss Pendergasses' double back-action, self-adjusting, anti-corrosive, herring-bone, powerloom lamp, don't it, my dear cousin?' asked Gregory, who had been regaled several times with an account of a wonderful lamp that burnt one hour at a cost of only ten cents, or ten hours at a cost of one cent—Gregory never could remember which.

'Now, Gregory, if you bother me so, I sha'n't tell you anything more; please hand me that fan on the table, and tell me who that man is by the corner of the mantelpiece.'

'That is Captain Dobbs; he is very fond of poetry, and has written some, too; but it was never published, for the editors charged too much for putting it into their papers. Shall I introduce him to you?' said Gregory.

'A captain and a poet, too? Oh, certainly, I should be delighted to know him,' replied Ann Harriet, who began to cool down her countenance by a vigorous application of the fan, while Gregory went after the poetical captain. He was soon back again, and presented him, as follows:

'Captain Dobbs, Miss Hobbs; Miss Hobbs, Captain Dobbs.'

The Captain bowed so low that Ann Harriet could see the brass buttons on the back of his coat, and then, taking her hand, he said, earnestly:

'I rejoice exceedingly that our acquaintance with each other should have commenced under such charming auspices!'

Now, they were standing directly under one of the beautiful chandeliers, which glistened with brilliant pendants; and Ann, supposing that the gallant Captain alluded to them, accordingly replied:

'Yes, they are very charming auspices, and make a beautiful jingle.'

What the Captain really alluded to was the rhyming of their names when Gregory introduced them; the jingle of the rhyme pleased him much, and he regarded it as propitious to their future acquaintance: Ann Harriet's reply happened to suit the case precisely, and placed her in high estimation with the Captain.

Drummond Dobbs was about thirty-two years of age, a gentleman, and a right good fellow, but so very sentimental that few ladies could endure his company. Yet was he anxious to please the fair sex and be popular with them: unfortunately, he supposed that the way to be so was to shower on them love-sick poetry and sentimental speeches; 'he wore his heart upon his sleeve,' fell in love with every new face, and had been rejected a score of times; he comforted himself, however, with the very scaly proverb, 'there is as good fish in the sea as ever was caught,' and—cast in his line for another chance. He had tried poor women and rich women, young school-girls and elastic old maids, brunettes and blondes, but all in vain; and the moment he saw Ann Harriet he determined to make one more attempt to secure a heart that should beat for him alone, an ear that should be ever on the alert for his footstep, and eyes that should sparkle only when he was near.

Ann Harriet, on her part, saw all in Captain Dobbs that she could wish for; and she thought that if she could return to Peonytown with a live captain as her affianced lover, she should be the happiest of fat girls. What a sensation she would create on Sunday, when she went to meeting arm in arm with him, and how the folks would stare at his bright buttons and shoulder straps! She wondered if he would wear a 'trainer hat,' with feathers in it.

To Captain Dobbs, Ann Harriet Hobbs was 'a devilish fine-looking woman;' there was something tangible in a woman like that, sir; she was not one of your flimsy, languid girls, with waist like the stem of a goblet. Somebody had said,'the nearer the bone the sweeter the meat,' but he did not believe in that; he wanted a wife, and if he could get one twice the size of any one else's, so much the better, by Jove!

Gregory, with the tact of Young America, saw instantly what the result of an evening's interview would be; so, telling Dobbs that he would find his cousin from Peonytown very in-fat-uating, he left them to their own enjoyment.

'It is very singular,' remarked the Captain, promptly, 'how much alike our names are: Hobbs and Dobbs!'

'Yes; but I think that yours is much the prettiest; I always hated the name of Hobbs,' remarked Ann Harriet.

'Hate Hobbs? Well, I detest Dobbs; but you have the advantage of me, for you can change yours without much trouble,' replied the Captain.

He did not know that Ann Harriet had been longer, and at more trouble, in trying to get her name changed, than if she had applied to seven legislatures. She blushed deeply, and raised her fan to hide the rosy hue—but it was a small, round fan, and only partially concealed her face, leaving a crimson disk of two inches around it. Captain Dobbs was delighted; a blush to him was a certain proof of maiden coyness, and bespoke a heart so full of love that every emotion sent it mantling to the face.

Gregory here returned, to say that they were getting up a dance, and Captain Dobbs and his cousin must certainly join in it.

'But I never danced in my life!' said Ann Harriet, innocently.

'Oh, never mind that; it is a very simple dance—the Virginia Reel; every one can dance that; only do as others do,' replied Gregory.

Ann Harriet, accepting Captain Dobbs's proffered arm, proceeded to the room where the arrangements for the dance were progressing.

'I understand that Miss Hobbs is the star of this business,' remarked Mr. Pickett to Gregory, as he crammed himself behind a bookcase, to allow the lady and her escort to go by.

'Star? ' repeated Gregory. 'Yes; the full moon of the concern.'

'You mean of the firm,' quoth Pickett.

'Yes,' replied Gregory, 'the full moon of the firm, I meant.'

The dancers took their places, and a merry tune soon set them in motion. Ann Harriet watched the others carefully, and soon understood the figure. At length her turn came to advance. She performed her part very well until she came to that step known as dos a dos, and here her good luck forsook her; for, in stepping back, she struck with full force her companion, a slim young man with shell eyeglasses, and sent him forward with an impetus which was only checked by his coming in collision with a plaster-of-Paris pedestal, on which stood a bust of General Zachary Taylor; his head penetrated the column, and the bust came down on his back with a thump that nearly knocked the breath out of his body. His eyeglasses were shattered, his soul rent, and his shirt bosom torn asunder. The unfortunate youth gathered himself up and retreated to an anteroom, where he rearranged his disordered clothing; but was not seen again, having disappeared through a side door and hastened home.

Ann Harriet came out of the collision like a second 'Monitor,' unscathed and undaunted; indeed, she was not aware that anything unusual had happened till she heard the crash, and then was surprised to learn that she was the cause of the catastrophe.

When our heroine heard how serious the collision had been, she felt much disturbed, until Gregory observed that, although she had been backward in causing the mishap, she should not be backward in making what reparation she could.

On this suggestion, Ann Harriet inquired the whereabouts of Mr. Google, and learning that he was in an anteroom, started in search of him. She found herself in the supper room, hurrying across which, she pulled open a door on the other side with such a vigorous effort of elephantine strength, as to precipitate a waiter, who had just caught hold of the handle, headlong into the room. The unfortunate servitor, who was dressed in white cravat and black coat, landed under the supper table, where he lay motionless. Ann Harriet made her way back to the parlor as quickly as possible, where she startled the visitors by exclaiming:

'Oh dear, come here, quick! I have killed a minister!'

Miss Helen Bumpus, who was playing a quickstep on the pianoforte, uttered a sharp shriek, which was echoed from various parts of the room, and the whole company, headed by Captain Dobbs, followed Ann Harriet to the scene of the disaster.

When they reached the dining room they found her 'minister' sitting on the floor, rubbing his head, and using language more appropriate to one of Captain Kidd's profession than to an expounder of the gospel. When the damaged waiter saw the immense crowd entering the room, he vanished into the kitchen amid shouts of laughter from the assembly, who comprehended at once Miss Hobbs's error. Ann Harriet felt much relieved to find that the accident was no worse, and explained the mishap to her friends, ending by inquiring what denomination he belonged to. Gregory informed her that the individual was not a clergyman, but a lay-man and a waiter.

Soon after, the guests were requested to repair to the supper room, and each gentleman chose his partner for the occasion. Unfortunately for Ann Harriet, Captain Dobbs chanced to be at the farther end of the room, and before he reached the object of his adoration she had already accepted the arm of an exquisite youth with patent eyeglass, pink necktie, and tomato-colored moustache. The disappointment nearly destroyed Dobbs's appetite. He had intended to be irresistibly attentive to Miss Hobbs; to furnish her with every little delicacy the table afforded; and now, she must depend upon the languid movements of a 'snob:' it was too bad, by Jove!

The table was elegantly decorated with flowers, and the neatly prepared dishes and ministerial waiters presented a scene which to Ann Harriet's vision was enchanting.

'What shall I have the pleasure of obtaining for you?' asked Mr. Struttles of Ann Harriet.

'Let me see,' replied Ann. 'It's some time since I eat anything, and I feel pretty hungry: if you will get me a plateful of pandowdy[8] and some ginger snaps, I shall feel thankful.'

Mr. Struttles was a very polite man, and would not laugh in a lady's face for a farm; but his tomato-hued moustache quivered, and he had to frown fiercely to conceal the laughter which threatened to burst him asunder.

'What amuses you so much, Strut?' asked a friend, who found him a few moments later in the entry, giggling all by himself.

'Oh dear! I shall die!' he replied, shaking with mirth; 'that fat girl asked me to get her something to eat that I never heard of: I believe she called it slam dowdy, or rip snap, or something like that, and, of course, there is nothing of the kind on the table.'

'Go and tell her it is all eaten up,' suggested the friend; 'article all sold.'

Struttles had not thought of that; it was a good idea, so off he went and told Ann Harriet that the object she wished had been so fashionable that it was all devoured before he reached it.

'Oh, well! I had just as lief have some gingerbread and a pickle-lime,' was her calm response.

Struttles rushed desperately to the table, filled a plate full of anything that came handy, brought it to his dame, and informed her that there was not a pickled lime to be had. Ann Harriet did not care; she was soon busy devouring the contents of the plate, while Struttles stood by, chuckling and grinning.

Captain Dobbs, in the mean time, was doing all he could to make hungry and handsome Miss Helen Bumpus happy, by giving her oyster salad, ice cream, frozen pudding, and cake, with plenty of champagne to wash it down; but his heart was with Ann Harriet, and many an anxious glance he bestowed on her, to see if she was well supplied with the niceties of the festive board. He thrilled with joy at seeing her behind a plate piled nearly as high as her chin with a variety of cakes, tarts, fruits, and jellies.

After a while every one was surfeited, and gradually the supper room was deserted, leaving none but the waiters, who quickly cleared away what there was left of the supper.

On entering the parlor, Captain Dobbs caught a view of himself in a large mirror, and saw to his dismay that he had not escaped the usual fate of gallants who endeavor to make themselves agreeable to the ladies in a crowded supper-room; lumps of blanc-mange adhered to his shirt bosom; particles of calf's-foot jelly coruscated like gems on his patent-leather gaiters, and quivering oysters hung tenaciously to his coat sleeves. He looked around for some place of refuge where he could retire and remove the remnants of the banquet, and espying a side room apparently deserted, there being no light in it, stepped in, and, taking off his coat, commenced the task of restoring it to its pristine splendor. While doing this, he was startled by a sound so singular that his coat nearly fell from his hand, so alarmed was he. Glancing at the door, his eyes met the known form of Ann Harriet, when he instantly hurried on his coat in horror, and, apologizing to his fair friend for being caught without it, referred to the curious noise he had heard.

'What did it sound like?' asked Ann Harriet.

The Captain tried in vain to find a simile; he had never heard anything that resembled it; and Ann Harriet's suggestions as to what it might have been were equally fruitless.

The truth was, that when Miss Hobbs appeared at the threshold of the door she heaved a deep sigh, and it was this that startled her lover; but as he had his head in a stooping position, and was busy brushing his coat, the sound seemed to him to come from the farther end of the room, which was obscured in darkness. He was not aware that fat ladies' sighs were proportionate to their size. However, now that his heart's idol was present, he cared nothing for aught else; so, taking her small hand, he led her to the window, and they stood gazing with mutual consent at the starry heavens. Gregory spied them there, and mischievously closed the door. What conversation ensued is only known to the two who were engaged in it, but every one noticed that when Ann Harriet reappeared her step was light if not actually fantastic, and her mild countenance beamed with a moonlike radiance, so serenely bright as to reveal a heart buoyant with bliss. Soon after, the company dispersed, and the damsel, retiring to her dormitory, was soon dreaming sweetly of 'her betrothed,' and imagined that all the bells in Peonytown were rung on her wedding day.

Sleep on, Ann Harriet! Thou hast waited long for the happy hour; but thou wert thyself weighty, and it was fit that thou, too, shouldst deal deliberately in matters of 'great' weight.

The next day she informed her uncle of her intention to marry the accomplished Drummond Dobbs, and received his hearty approval; for Dobbs's character was good, and without a scar.

The nuptials were to take place without delay, and so Ann Harriet hastened home to make the requisite arrangements.

CHAPTER III.

'In wedlock a species of lottery lies, Where in blanks and in prizes we deal; But how comes it that you, such a capital prize, Should so long have remained in the wheel?'

MOORE.

Ann Harriet was determined that her wedding should be a romantic one; she said that it was by no means an every-day affair, and therefore it should be carried out in a style proportionate to its rarity. After consulting Mrs. Pendergast, and searching through a pile of 'New York Dashers,' she was much inclined to a midnight wedding, especially as Mrs. Pendergast offered to loan her patent lamp for the occasion; but when they suddenly happened to hear of a marriage celebrated in the wild and picturesque woods of the White Hills, it was immediately decided that there was no better place; so sacred a ceremony should be performed 'under the broad canopy of heaven,' and the birds of the air and the countless leaves of the trees should sing their epithalamium.

After some search, it was decided that the happy spot should be on 'Huckleberry Hill,' a picturesque elevation about a mile from the postoffice in Peonytown, covered with a luxurious growth of pines and hemlocks, interspersed with huckleberry bushes, sweet fern, and mullenstalks. A small, open place was selected, where the long moss made a beautiful carpet, and the tall trees on every side entwined their arms as lovingly together as if they, too, were about to take each other 'for better for worse,' while the ripple of a brook hidden in the woods lent a pleasant melody to the scene.

'This is the place of all others,' remarked Ann Harriet. 'Houses may burn down or decay, churches may be sold and turned into ice-cream saloons and lager-beer depots—as Mr. Dunstable's was; but these lofty pines and rugged hemlocks will stand for centuries, to mark the spot where, in my girlhood, I plighted my troth to that dear Dobbs.'

Preparations for the bridal went gloriously on. The Peonytown dressmaker was busy day and evening in making up the trousseau of the expectant bride. The wedding dress was to be of fine white muslin, and no ornaments to detract from its spotless purity.

The important day at length arrived. The sun rose warm, brilliant, calm, and cloudless—and so did Ann Harriet. Her heart beat quick and tumultuously as the coming event of the day suddenly occurred to her, and she rejoiced to think that she was now to have one to shield her from the chilling blasts of a cold, relentless world—a husband on whose breast her weary head could rest and feel secure.

These thoughts made her footsteps light, and she hastened to array herself for the bridal, which, was appointed at ten o'clock. The barber of Peonytown was sent for, and, although dressing a bride's hair was something as yet unknown to him, yet, after much perseverance and more ox marrow, he succeeded in twisting and braiding her luxuriant black locks into a kind of triumphal-arched basketwork, that resembled a miniature summer-house. The white muslin dress was then put on, and a pair of white kid gloves drawn over her small fingers (plump people have little hands), and Ann Harriet awaited her husband elect.

All Peonytown had been apprized of the hour of the wedding, and, in consequence, the grove was at an early period filled with spectators. Boys climbed into the trees; camp stools were provided; and one enterprising Peonytowner brought a long wooden settee, and let the weary rest on it for the slight consideration of half a dime each. The Rev. Derby Sifter was there too. He was to perform the ceremony, and, as it was the first wedding in Peonytown for six months, he was in unusual humor, rubbing his hands together, and laughing at every remark that was made.

At the appointed time Ann Harriet appeared, hanging lovingly on the arm of the gallant Captain. The bride attracted universal attention. At first, indeed, many were impressed with the idea that a crowd of girls were coming, dressed in unsullied white; but as she approached nearer, they saw that it was the fair Ann Harriet in her white muslin, leaning on the arm of Captain Dobbs, who was dressed in full uniform, and had a carnation pink in his mouth. The Rev. Derby Sifter now stepped forward, and the parties took their places. No bridesmaids were needed, the bride 'answering' for several. After a few preliminary remarks, the reverend gentleman pronounced them—under green leaves—husband and wife! Ann Harriet heaved a sigh of relief: the H had vanished forever from her name, and D now reigned in its stead. A short prayer then followed.

Meanwhile, a boy in a tree directly over their heads spied a caterpillar's nest near him, and, breaking a twig from a branch, he probed the nest, causing a tremendous stampede among the inmates. Down they dropped, silently and softly, upon the elaborate head of the bride, who stood wholly unconscious of the additional ornaments so profusely decorating her hair; the company noticed it, and very soon every one was in a broad grin. Ann Harriet became conscious of some merriment in that portion of the party immediately under her observation, and a succession of blushes suffused her face as she felt that something ridiculous to herself must have caused it. At that instant a caterpillar, that had been swinging to and fro on his attenuated web, landed plump on Ann's nose as she raised her face (he had been waiting for something to turn up), causing her to give utterance to a scream that made the clerical gentleman open his eyes, and a couple of catbirds to fly frightened and squealing from their nests.

At the same time an angry cow, rendered furious by the sting of some insect, plunged frantically into the wedding circle, bellowing, tossing her head, and flourishing her tail in a terrific and antinuptial manner. The Rev. Mr. Sifter was the first one to leave, and, being very spare, he passed swiftly through the trees and bushes, never looking behind him till he had reached the meeting house, where he stopped and in his unconscious delirium caught at the bell rope and rang the bell with a vigor that started every one from his work, so that in a few minutes 'Extinguisher No. 1' was hurried along the roads by an extempore company of about fifty men and boys.

Meanwhile, the witnesses of the rural wedding had all skedaddled—to borrow a Greek word—into the woods, in dire confusion, tearing dresses, pulling down 'back hair,' hitching hoop skirts, and tumbling over blackberry vines—but each intent on increasing the distance from the mad cow. Ann Harriet was not so fortunate; her size prevented her running, and a fiery peony on her bosom attracted the animal's attention, so that, with a loud roar, the beast rushed directly upon her. Had Ann Harriet been—as she was a few weeks before—an unprotected female, the undertaker of Peonytown would have had a 'big job' that day; but luckily, he who had just sworn to love and protect her saw that now was his time and chance to begin; so, drawing his sword, he stepped in front of his trembling bride, and, as the cow approached with head down and eyeballs glaring wildly, he aimed a blow with his weapon, which inflicted a severe cut on her nose.

The cow paused.

'Step backward gradually, my Ann Harriet,' said the valiant Dobbs, 'and I will see that she does not touch you.'

Ann Harriet stepped backward, but not 'gradually,' for she trod on a loose stone, which upset her, and she rolled over and over down a sloping rock, ruining, on the way, any quantity of huckleberry bushes and pennyroyal. This started the cow, who made another furious charge at the soldier, who this time, by a well-directed blow, cut one horn sheer off.

'That's good!' exclaimed he; 'next time I'll take t'other horn, and then commence on her legs.'

The cow made another retreat, but appeared by no means vanquished. The Captain stood his ground manfully. Ann Harriet sat on the moss at the foot of the rock, disentangling from her hair the bruised and mangled caterpillars which still remained there.

Just as the cow was about to make her third charge, shouts were heard in the path which led to the village, and in a moment 'Extinguisher No. 1,' with its brave volunteers, was on the ground. They had followed the directions of the parson and arrived at an opportune moment.

The boys at once decided that, as there was no fire to put out, they would 'put out' the cow; so, unreeling the hose, they drew the water from the brook, and in a very little while a stream of water from a two-inch pipe struck the astonished cow full in the face, when she turned and scampered off into the forest, jumping over Ann Harriet at a single bound, and was seen no more.

Captain Dobbs wiped his gory weapon on the greensward, and returned it to the sheath. He then sprang to the side of his wife, and, with the help of the foreman and two brakemen, raised her. She said her nerves were all unstrung, and she 'never could walk home in the world;' so she was placed on the box of the hose carriage and carried to the village.

The Peonytowners turned out en masse to meet them, and were anxious that the heroic Captain should make a speech from the town pump; but he declined.

In a short time the happy couple were comfortably seated on the sofa in the parlor of the old homestead, and his arm was as far round her waist as it would go. Here we will bid them adieu. Ann Harriet being married, she will have no more miss-haps—albeit at some future time something may be heard of Captain and Mrs. Dobbs—and all the little Dobbses.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Broken-up apple pie.



THE UNION.

IV.

The census tables of the North and the South, and especially of Massachusetts, Maryland, and South Carolina, heretofore presented, have proved that slavery greatly retarded the progress of population, wealth, science, education, and religion. The comparison now instituted between New York and Virginia demonstrates the same law.

By the census, the population of Virginia in 1790 was 748,308, and in 1860, 1,596,318, making the ratio of increase 113.32 percent. In 1790, New York numbered 340,120, and in 1860, 3,880,735, the ratio of increase being 1,040.99. (Table 1, Prelim. Census Rep., p. 132.) Thus, the rate of increase in New York exceeded that of Virginia more than nine to one.

In 1790, the population of Virginia was largely more than double that of New York. In 1860, the population of New York was very largely more than double that of Virginia. In 1790, Virginia, in population, ranked first of all the States, and New York the fifth. In 1860, they had reversed their positions, and New York was the first, and Virginia the fifth. (Rep., p. 120.) At the same rate of progress, from 1860 to 1900, as from 1790 to 1860, Virginia, retaining slavery, would have sunk from the first to the twenty-first State, and would still continue, at each succeeding decade, descending the inclined plane toward the lowest position of all the States. Such has been, and still continues to be, the effect of slavery, in dragging down that once great State from the first toward the last in rank in the Union. But if, as in the absence of slavery must have been the case, Virginia had increased from 1790 to 1860 in the same ratio as New York, her population in 1860 would have been 7,789,141, and she must always have remained the first in rank of all the States.

AREA.—The natural advantages of Virginia far exceed those of New York. The area of Virginia is 61,352 square miles, and that of New York, 47,000. The population of Virginia per square mile in 1790 was 12.19, and in 1860, 26.02. That of New York, in 1790, was 7.83, and in 1860, 84.36. Now, if New York, with her present numbers per square mile, had the area of Virginia, her population, in 1860, would have been 5,175,654, and that of Virginia, reduced to the area of New York, on the basis of her present numbers per square mile, would have been 1,320,000. This illustrates the immense effect of area, as one of the great elements influencing the progress of population. But, wonderful as are these results, the great fact is omitted in this calculation, that Virginia, in 1790, had largely more than double the population of New York. Thus, if we reverse the numbers of New York and Virginia in 1790, and take the actual ratio of increase of each for the succeeding seventy years, the population of Virginia, in 1860, would have been 728,875, and that of New York, as we have seen, would have been 7,789,141, making the difference exceed seven millions, or very largely more than ten to one. Reverse the areas also, and the difference would exceed eight millions.

SHORE LINE.—As furnishing cheap and easy access for imports and exports, creating marts for commerce with great cities, and affecting the interior most beneficially, the shore line, with adequate harbors, constitutes a vast element in the progress of states and empires. Now, by the last tables of the United States coast survey, the shore line of Virginia was 1,571 miles, and of New York 725 miles. The five great parallel tide-water rivers of Virginia, the Potomac, the Rappahannock, the York river, James river, and Roanoke (partly in North Carolina), with their tributaries, furnish easy access for hundreds of miles into the interior, with both shores of the noble Chesapeake bay for many miles, as well as its magnificent outlet and the main ocean for a considerable distance, all within the limits of Virginia. We have seen that the coast line of Virginia is largely more than double that of New York, and the harbors of Virginia are more numerous, deeper, and much nearer the great valley of the Ohio and Mississippi. By the coast-survey tables, the mean low water into the harbor of New York by Gedney's channel is 20 feet, and at high-water spring tides is 24.2; north channel, 24, mean low water, and 29.1 spring tides, high water; south channel, 22 and 27.1; main ship channel, after passing S.W. spit buoy, on N.E. course, one mile up the bay, for New York, 22.5-27.06. By the same tables, from capes at entrance of Chesapeake bay to Hampton, at mean low water, 30 feet; spring tides, high water, 32.8. Anchorage in Hampton roads, 59-61.8. From Hampton roads to Sewell's point, 25-27.8. South of Sewell's point (one mile and a half), 21-23.8; up to Norfolk, 23-25.8. From Hampton roads to James river, entering to the northward of Newport News, middle ground, 22-24.8. From Hampton roads to James river, entering to the southward of Newport News, middle ground, 27-29.8. From abreast the tail of York spit, up to Yorktown, 33-35.8. Elizabeth river, between Norfolk and navy yard, 25.5-28.3.

When we leave the tide-water rivers for the interior navigable streams, Virginia has a vast advantage. New York has no such rivers above tide, but Virginia has the Ohio for hundreds of miles, with its tributaries, the Kanawha, Guyandotte, and Big Sandy. It is true, New York has several of the great lakes, and the vast advantage of connection with them through her great canal. But, in the absence of slavery, the canal projected by Washington (preceding that of New York) would have connected, through Virginia, the Chesapeake bay with the Ohio river. The James river, flowing into the Chesapeake, cuts the Blue Mountains, and the Kanawha, a confluent of the Ohio, cuts the Alleghany; thus opening an easy and practicable route for a great canal from the eastern to the western waters. The valley of the lakes, with which New York is connected by her canal, has an area of 335,515 square miles. The valley of the Mississippi, with which the Chesapeake would long since, in the absence of slavery, have been connected by the Virginia canal, has an area of 1,226,600 square miles. The shore line of the Mississippi and its tributaries, above tide water, is 35,644 miles. (Page 35 Compend. Census of 1850.) Our shore line of the lakes is 3,620 miles, including bays, sounds, and islands; and that of the British, 2,629. (Ib. 35.) The connection of the lakes with the Ohio and Mississippi would be the same for both States, the one being from the lakes to these rivers, and the other from the rivers to the lakes. The location of Virginia is more central than that of New York, and Virginia runs farther west by several hundred miles. We are so accustomed to look at the connection of New York with the West by her canal, and Virginia with no such union, that it is difficult to realize the great change if Virginia had been connected by her progressing work with the Ohio and Mississippi, and thence, by the present canals, with the lakes.

It is apparent, then, that, as regards easy access to the West, the natural advantages of Virginia surpass New York, and with greater facilities for artificial works. How many decades would be required, after emancipation, to bring the superior natural advantages of Virginia into practical operation, is not the question; nor do I believe that the city of New York will ever cease to be the centre of our own trade, and ultimately of the commerce of the world. But although Virginia, in adhering to slavery, has lost her supremacy in the Union, it is quite certain that, as a Free State, she would commence a new career of wonderful prosperity, that capital and population from the North and from Europe would flow there with a mighty current, her lands be doubled in value, and her town and city property far more than quadrupled.

MINES.—Virginia has vast mines of coal, the great element of modern progress. New York has none. It is coal that has made Great Britain a mighty empire, giving her power, by land and sea, equal to the manual force of all mankind. It is stated by the Commissioner of the General Land Office, in his report before referred to, of November, 1860, 'that an acre of coal, three feet thick, is equal to the product of 1,940 acres of forest trees; and each acre of a coal seam four feet in thickness, and yielding one yard of pure coal, is equivalent to 5,000 tons, and possesses, therefore, a reserve of mechanical strength in its fuel, equal to the life labor of more than 1,600 men.'

This statement of the Commissioner is made on the highest authority, and proves the vast natural advantages of Virginia over New York. Virginia, also, has far more abundant mines of iron, more widely diffused over the State, reaching from tide water to the Ohio. She has also these iron mines in juxtaposition with coal and all the fluxes. Virginia, also, has valuable mines of gold, lead, and copper. New York has no gold or copper mines, and produced in 1860 but $800 worth of lead. (Table 14.)

HYDRAULIC POWER.—Omitting Niagara, which thus far scorns the control of man, the hydraulic power of Virginia very far exceeds that of New York. It is to be found on the Potomac and its tributaries, and upon nearly every stream that flows into the Chesapeake or Ohio. The superior mildness of the climate of Virginia makes this power available there for a much greater portion of the year. The great falls of the Potomac, where Washington constructed the largest locks of the continent, has a water power unsurpassed, and is but twelve miles from tide water, at Washington. This point is a most healthy and beautiful location, surrounded by lands whose natural fertility was very great, and, in the absence of slavery, must have been a vast manufacturing city. This water power could move more spindles than are now worked on all this continent.

AGRICULTURE AND MANUFACTURES.—The natural fertility of the soil of Virginia far exceeded that of New York, with a more genial sun, and much more favorable seasons for agricultural products, as well as for stock. The number of acres of land in Virginia susceptible of profitable culture, is nearly double that of New York, but much of it has been impoverished by slave labor, scratching and exhausting the soil, without manure or rotation of crops. The census shows that Virginia has all the products of New York, and cotton in addition. Virginia produced, in 1860, 12,727 bales of cotton (table 36), worth, at present prices, nearly $3,000,000. She also adjoins the States of North Carolina and Tennessee, producing, in 1860, 372,964 bales, worth, at present prices, nearly $90,000,000. Virginia is also much nearer than New York to all the other cotton States. With these vast advantages, with her larger area, more fertile soil, cheaper subsistence, her coal and iron and great hydraulic power, with so much cotton raised by herself and in adjacent States, Virginia should have manufactured much more cotton than New York. But, by the census (table 22), the value of the cotton manufacture of Virginia in 1850 was $1,446,109, and in 1860, $1,063,611—a decrease of one third. In New York, the value of the cotton manufacture in 1850 was $5,019,323, and in 1860, $7,471,961, an increase of over 48 per cent. So, if we look at the tables of mines, manufactures, and the fisheries, with the vastly superior advantages of Virginia, the whole product in 1860 was of the value of $51,300,000, and of agriculture $68,700,000; whilst in New York these values were respectively $379,623,560 and $226,376,440. (Tables of Census, 33 and 36.)

CLIMATE AND MORTALITY.—By table 6, page 22, of the Census, there were for the year ending June 1st, 1860, 46,881 deaths in New York, being 1 in every 82 of the population, and 1.22 per cent. The number of deaths in Virginia, in the same year, was 22,472, being 1 in every 70 of the population, or 1.43 per cent. There was, then, a slight difference in favor of New York. But Virginia is divided into four geographical sections: the tide-water, the Piedmont (running from the tide-water region to the Blue Mountains), the valley between these mountains and the Alleghanies, and the trans-Alleghany to the Ohio. These three last sections, containing three fourths of the area and white population of the State, surpass New York in salubrity, with the most bracing and delightful climate. The climate of Virginia is far more favorable for stock and agricultural products than New York, with longer and better seasons, and is more salubrious than the climate of Europe. (Comp. 1850.)

PROGRESS OF WEALTH.—We have seen how great was the advance in population of New York over Virginia, from 1790 to 1860, being in the ratio of more than 9 to 1. Now let us compare the relative progress of wealth. It is contended by the advocates of slavery, that it accumulates wealth more rapidly, and thus enriches the nation, although it may depress its moral and intellectual development, its increase of numbers and of power, and tarnish its reputation throughout the world. As population and its labor create wealth, it must be retarded by a system which, as we have seen in this case, diminishes the relative advance of numbers in the ratio of more than 9 to 1. But the census proves that slavery greatly retards the increase of wealth. By tables 33 and 36 of the census of 1860, it appears, omitting commerce, that the products of industry, as given, viz., of agriculture, manufactures, mines, and fisheries, were that year in New York $604,000,000, or $155 per capita; and in Virginia $120,000,000, or $75 per capita. This shows a total value of product in New York more than five times greater than in Virginia, and per capita, more than 2 to 1. If we include the earnings of commerce, and all business not given in the census, I think it will be shown hereafter, that the value of the products and earnings of New York, in 1860, exceeded those of Virginia at least 7 to 1. As to the rate of increase, the value of the products of agriculture, manufactures, mines, and fisheries of Virginia, in 1850, was $84,480,428 (table 9), and in New York $356,736,603, showing an increase in Virginia from 1850 to 1860 of $35,519,572, being 41 per cent., and in New York $247,263,397, being 69 per cent., exhibiting a difference of 28 per cent. Now the increase of population in Virginia from 1850 to 1860 was 12.29 per cent., and in New York 25.29 per cent., the difference being only 13 per cent. (Table 1, p. 131.) Thus, it appears, the increase of wealth in New York, exclusive of the gains of commerce, as compared with Virginia, was more than double the ratio of the augmentation of population. By the census table of 1860, No. 35, p. 195, 'The true value of the real and personal property, according to the eighth census was, New York, $1,843,338,517, and of Virginia $793,249,681.' Now we have seen the value of the products of New York in 1860 by the census was $604,000,000, and in Virginia $120,000,000. Thus, as a question of the annual yield of capital, that of New York was 32.82 per cent., and Virginia 15.13 per cent.; the annual product of capital being more than double in New York what it was in Virginia. The problem then is solved in Virginia, as it was in Maryland and South Carolina, and all the South compared with all the North, that slavery retards the progress of wealth and accumulation of capital, in the ratio of 2 to 1. Our war taxes may be very great, but the tax of slavery is far greater, and the relief from it, in a few years, will add much more to the national wealth than the whole deduction made by the war debt. Our total wealth, by the census of 1860, being, by table 35, $16,159,616,068, one per cent. taken annually to pay the interest and gradually extinguish the war debt, would be $161,596,160; whereas, judging by Virginia and New York, the diminished increase of the annual product of capital, as the result of slavery, is 2.8 per cent., or $452,469,250 per annum, equal in a decade, without compounding the annual results, to $4,524,692,500.

That our population would have reached in 1860 nearly 40,000,000, and our wealth have been more than doubled, if slavery had been extinguished in 1790, is one of the revelations made by the census; whilst in science, in education, and national power, the advance would have been still more rapid, and the moral force of our example and success would have controlled for the benefit of mankind the institutions of the world.

By table 36, p. 196, of the census of 1860, the cash value of the farms of Virginia was $371,096,211, being $11.91 per acre, and of New York $803,343,593, being $38.26 per acre. Now, by the table, the number of acres embraced in these farms of New York was 20,992,950, and in Virginia 31,014,950, the difference of value per acre being $26.36, or much more than 3 to 1 in favor of New York. Now, if we multiply this number of acres of farm lands of Virginia by the New York value, it would make the total value of the farm lands of New York $1,186,942,136, and the additional value caused by emancipation $815,845,925. Now the whole number of slaves in Virginia in 1860, was 490,865; multiplying which by $300 as their average value, would be $147,259,500, leaving $668,586,425 as the sum by which Virginia would be richer in farms alone, if slavery were abolished. But, stupendous as is this result in regard to lands, it is far below the reality. We have seen that the farm lands of Virginia, improved and unimproved, constituted 31,014,950 acres. By the census and the land-office tables, the area of Virginia is 39,265,280 acres. Deduct the farm lands, and there remain unoccupied 8,250,330 acres. Now, Virginia's population to the square mile being 26.02, and that of New York 84.36, with an equal density in Virginia, more than two thirds of these Virginia lands, as in New York, must have been occupied as farms. This would have been equivalent, at two thirds, to 5,500,000 acres, which, at their present average value of $2 per acre, would be worth $11,000,000; but, at the value per acre of the New York lands, these 5,500,000 acres would be worth $206,430,000. Deduct from this their present value, $11,000,000, and the remainder, $195,430,000, is the sum by which the unoccupied lands of Virginia, converted into farms, would have been increased in value by emancipation. Add this to the enhanced value of their present farms, $815,845,925, and the result would be $1,011,275,925, as the gain of Virginia in the value of lands by emancipation. To these we should add, from the same cause, the enhancement of the town and city property in Virginia to the extent of several hundred millions of dollars. In order to realize the truth, we must behold Virginia as she would have been, with New York railroads and canals, farms, manufactures, commerce, towns, and cities. Then we must consider the superior natural advantages of Virginia, her far greater area, her richer soil, her more genial sun, her greater variety of products, her mines of coal, iron, gold, copper, and lead, her petroleum, her superior hydraulic power, her much larger coast line, with more numerous and deeper harbors—and reflect what Virginia would have been in the absence of slavery. Her early statesmen, Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Mason, Tucker, and Marshall, all realized this great truth, and all desired to promote emancipation in Virginia. But their advice was disregarded by her present leaders—the new, false, and fatal dogmas of Calhoun were substituted; and, as a consequence, Virginia, from the first rank (longo intervallo) of all the States, has fallen to the fifth, and, with slavery continued, will descend still more rapidly in the future than in the past. Let her abolish slavery, and she will commence a new career of progress. Freedom and its associates, education and energy, will occupy her waste lands, restore her exhausted fields, decaying cities, and prostrate industry, employ her vast hydraulic power, develop her mines, unite by her grand canals the waters of the Chesapeake and Ohio, and, placing her feet upon slavery, hear her proclaim, in the proud language of her own State motto, 'Sic semper tyrannis.'

By census table 36, p. 197, the value, in 1860, of the farm lands of all the Slave States, was $2,570,466,935, and the number of acres 245,721,062, worth $10.46 per acre. In the Free States, the value of the farm lands was $4,067,947,286, and the number of acres 161,462,008, worth $25.19 per acre. Now if, as certainly in the absence of slavery would have been the case, the farm lands of the South had been worth as much per acre as those of the North, their total value would have been $6,189,713,551, and, deducting the present price, the additional cash value would have been $3,619,346,616. Now the whole number of slaves in all the States, in 1860, was 3,950,531, multiplying which by $300, as their average value, would make all the slaves in the Union worth $1,185,159,300. Deduct this from the enhanced value of the farm lands of the South as above, and the result would be $2,434,087,316 as the gain in the price of farms by emancipation. This is independent of the increased value of their unoccupied lands, and of their town and city property.

By census tables of 1860, 33 and 36, the total value of the products of agriculture, mines, and fisheries in the Free States was $4,100,000,000, and of the Slave States $1,150,000,000, making the products of the Free States in 1860 nearly 4 to 1 of the Slave States, and $216 per capita for the Free States, and for the Slave States $94 per capita. This is exclusive of commerce, which would greatly increase the ratio in favor of the North, that of New York alone being nearly equal to that of all the Slave States. Now, multiply the population of the Slave States by the value of the products per capita of the Free States, and the result is $2,641,631,032, making, by emancipation, the increased annual product of the Slave States $1,491,631,032, and in ten years, exclusive of the yearly accumulations, $14,916,310,320.

By the table 35, census of 1860, the total value of all the property, real and personal, of the Free States, was $10,852,081,681, and of the Slave States, $5,225,307,034. Now, the product, in 1860, of the Free States, being $4,100,000,000, the annual yield on the capital was 38 per cent.; and, the product of the Slave States being $1,150,000,000, the yield on the capital was 22 per cent. This was the gross product in both cases. I have worked out these amazing results from the census tables, to illustrate the fact, that the same law, by which slavery retarded the progress of wealth in Virginia, as compared with New York, and of Maryland and South Carolina, as compared with Massachusetts, rules the relative advance in wealth of all the Slave States, as compared with that of all the Free States. I have stated that the statistics of commerce, omitted in these tables, would vastly increase the difference in favor of the Free States, as compared with the Slave States, and of New York as contrasted with Virginia. I shall now resume the latter inquiry, so as to complete the comparison between New York and Virginia. By commerce is embraced, in this examination, all earning not included under the heads of agriculture, manufactures, the mines, or fisheries.

RAILROADS.—The number of miles of railroads in operation in New York, in 1860, including city roads, was 2,842 miles, costing $138,395,055; and in Virginia, 1,771 miles, costing $64,958,807. (Census table of 1860, No. 38, pp. 230 and 233.) Now, by the same census report, p. 105, the value of the freights of the New York roads for 1860 was as follows: Product of the forest—tons carried, 373,424; value per ton, $20; total value, $7,468,480. Of animals—895,519 tons; value per ton, $200; total value, $179,103,800. Vegetable food—1,103,640 tons; value per ton, $50; total value, $55,182,000. Other agricultural products—143,219 tons; value per ton, $15; total value, $2,148,055. Manufactures—511,916 tons; value per ton, $500; total value, $391,905,500. Other articles—930,244 tons; value, $10 per ton; total value, $9,302,440. Grand total, 4,741,773 tons carried; value per ton, $163. Total values, $773,089,275. Deducting one quarter for duplication, makes 3,556,330 tons carried on the New York roads in 1860; and the value, $579,681,790. The values of the freights on the Virginia roads, as estimated, is $60,000,000, giving an excess to those of New York of $519,681,790, on the value of railroad freights in 1860. The passenger account, not given, would largely increase the disparity in favor of New York.

CANALS.—The number of miles of canals in New York is 1,038, and their cost $67,567,972. In Virginia, the number of miles is 178, and the cost $7,817,000. (Census table 39, p. 238.) The estimated value of the freight on the New York canals is 19 times that of the freight on the Virginia canals. (Census.)

TONNAGE.—The tonnage of vessels built in New York in 1860 was 31,936 tons, and in Virginia 4,372. (Census, p. 107.)

BANKS.—The number of banks in New York in 1860 was 303; capital $111,441,320, loans $200,351,332, specie $20,921,545, circulation $29,959,506, deposits $101,070,273; and in Virginia the number was 65; capital $16,005,156, loans $24,975,792, specie $2,943,652, circulation $9,812,197, deposits $7,729,652. (Table 34, p. 193, Census.)

INSURANCE COMPANIES.—The risks taken in New York were $916,474,956, or nearly one third of those in the whole Union. Virginia, estimated at $100,000,000; difference in favor of New York $816,474,956. (Census, p. 79.)

EXPORTS AND IMPORTS, ETC.—Our exports abroad from New York for the fiscal year ending 30th June, 1860, were $145,555,449, and the foreign imports $248,489,877; total of both, $394,045,326. The clearances same year from New York were 4,574,285 tons, and the entries 4,836,448 tons; total of both, 9,410,733 tons. In Virginia, the exports the same year were $5,858,024, and the imports $1,326,249; total of both, $7,184,273; clearances, 80,381 tons, entries, 97,762 tons; total of both, 178,143 tons. (Table 14, Register of United States Treasury.) Revenue collected from customs same year in New York, $37,788,969, and in Virginia $189,816, or 200 to 1 in favor of New York. (Tables, U.S. Com. of Customs.) No returns are given for the coastwise and internal trade of either State, but the tables of the railway and canal transportation of both States show nearly the same proportion in favor of New York as in the foreign trade. Thus the domestic exports from New York for the above year abroad were $126,060,967, and from Virginia $5,833,371. (Same table, 14.) And yet Virginia, as we have seen, had much greater natural advantages than New York for commerce, as well as for mines, manufactures, and agriculture. But slavery has almost expelled commerce from Virginia, and nearly paralyzed all other pursuits.

These tables, taken from the census and the Treasury records, prove incontestably, that slavery retards the progress of wealth and population throughout the South, but especially in Virginia. Nor can the Tariff account for the results; for Virginia, as we have seen, possesses far greater advantages than New York for manufactures. Besides, the commerce of New York far surpasses that of Virginia, and this is the branch of industry supposed to be affected most injuriously by high tariffs, and New York has generally voted against them with as much unanimity as Virginia. But there is a still more conclusive proof. The year 1824 was the commencement of the era of high tariffs, and yet, from 1790 to 1820, as proved by the census, the percentage of increase of New York over Virginia was greater than from 1820 to 1860. Thus, by table I of the census, p. 124, the increase of population in Virginia was as follows:

From 1790 to 1800 17.63 per cent. " 1800 " 1810 10.73 " " 1810 " 1820 9.31 " " 1820 " 1830 13.71 " " 1830 " 1840 2.34 " " 1840 " 1850 14.60 " " 1850 " 1860 12.29 "

The increase of population in New York was:

From 1790 to 1800 72.51 per cent. " 1800 " 1810 63.45 " " 1810 " 1820 43.14 " " 1820 " 1830 39.76 " " 1830 " 1840 26.60 " " 1840 " 1850 27.52 " " 1850 " 1860 25.29 "

In 1790 the population of Virginia was 748,318, in 1820, 1,065,129, and in 1860, 1,596,318. In 1790 the population of New York was 340,120, in 1820, 1,372,111, and in 1860, 3,880,735. Thus, from 1790 to 1820, before the inauguration of the protective policy, the relative increase of the population of New York, as compared with Virginia, was very far greater than from 1820 to 1860. It is quite clear, then, that the Tariff had no influence whatever in depressing the progress of Virginia as compared with New York.

We have heretofore proved by the census the same position as regards the relative progress of Maryland and Massachusetts, and the same principle applies as between all the Free, as compared with all the Slave States. In New York, we have seen that her progress from 1790 to 1820, in the absence of high tariffs, and, even before the completion of her great canal, her advance in population was much more rapid than from 1820 to 1860. Indeed, it is quite clear that, so far as the Tariff had any influence, it was far more unfavorable to New York than to Virginia, New York being a much greater agricultural as well as commercial State.

Having shown how much the material progress of Virginia has been retarded by slavery, let us now consider its effect upon her moral and intellectual development.

NEWSPAPERS AND PERIODICALS.—The number of newspapers and periodicals in New York in 1860 was 542, of which 365 were political, 56 religious, 63 literary, 58 miscellaneous; and the number of copies circulated in 1860 was 320,930,884. (Census tables, Nos. 15, 37.) The number in Virginia was 139; of which 117 were political, 13 religious, 3 literary, 6 miscellaneous; and the number of copies circulated in 1860 was 26,772,568. Thus, the annual circulation of the press in New York was twelve times as great as that of Virginia. As to periodicals: New York had 69 monthlies, of which 2 were political, 25 religious, 24 literary, and 18 miscellaneous; 10 quarterlies, of which 5 were religious, and 5 literary; 6 annuals, of which 2 were political, 2 religious, and 2 miscellaneous. Virginia had 5 monthlies, of which 1 was political, 2 religious, 1 literary, and 1 miscellaneous; and no quarterlies or annuals. The annual circulation of the New York monthlies was 2,045,000; that of Virginia was 43,900; or more than 43 to 1 in favor of New York.

As regards schools, colleges, academies, libraries, and churches, I must take the census of 1850, those tables for 1860 not being yet arranged and printed. The number of public schools in New York in 1850 was 11,580, teachers 13,965, pupils 675,221; colleges, academies, etc., pupils 52,001; attending school during the year, as returned by families, 693,329; native adults of the State who cannot read or write, 23,341. Public libraries, 11,013; volumes, 1,760,820. Value of churches, $21,539,561. (Comp. Census, 1850.)

The number of public schools in Virginia in 1850 was 2,937, teachers 3,005, pupils 67,438; colleges, academies, etc., pupils 10,326; attending school during the year, as returned by families, 109,775; native white adults of the State who cannot read or write, 75,868. Public libraries, 54; volumes, 88,462. Value of churches, $2,902,220. (Compend. of Census of 1850.) By table 155, same compend, the percentage of native free population in Virginia over 20 years of age who cannot read or write is 19.90, and in New York 1.87, in North Carolina 30.34, in Maryland 11.10, in Massachusetts 0.32, or less than one third of one per cent. In New England, the percentage of native whites who cannot read or write is 0.42, or less than one half of one per cent.; and in the Southern States 20.30, or 50 to 1 in favor of New England. (Compend., table 157.) But, if we take the whole adult population of Virginia, including whites, free blacks, and slaves, 42.05 per cent., or nearly one half, cannot read or write; and in North Carolina, more than one half cannot read or write. We have seen, by the above official tables of the census of 1850, that New York, compared with Virginia, had nearly ten times as many pupils at schools, colleges, and academies, twenty times as many books in libraries, and largely more than seven times the value of churches; while the ratio of native white adults who cannot read or write was more than 10 to 1 in Virginia, compared with New York. We have seen, also, that in North Carolina nearly one third of the native white adults, and in Virginia nearly one fifth, cannot read or write, and in New England 1 in every 400, in New York 1 in every 131, in the South and Southwest 1 in every 12 of the native white adults. (Comp. p. 153.)