The success of this exploit, and the rich reward by which it was crowned, at once stimulated the cupidity of the Tortugans, and fired their breasts with the ambition of emulating the bravery of the Great Peter. Those who were yet engaged in planting or in other honest occupations, at once abandoned them, and betook themselves to the more inviting trade of piracy. Being unable to build larger vessels than the boats or hoys then in use, they carried on the war in these against the smaller vessels of Spain engaged in the coasting trade and in the traffic of hides and tobacco with the inhabitants of Jamaica. The vessels thus captured were substituted for their own smaller craft, by means of which they were soon enabled to make longer voyages, and stretch across to the coasts of the Spanish main. At Campeachy and other points they found many trading vessels, and often ships of great burden. Two of these commercial vessels they captured, and also two large armed ships, all laden with plate, within the port of Campeachy, which they boldly entered for that purpose, and sailed with them in triumph to Tortuga. Such rich returns greatly augmented the wealth of the island; and every additional capture enabled them to increase their marine, until at the end of two years from the last achievement of Pierre Le Grande, the pirates had a navy, very well manned and equipped, of more than twenty ships of different sizes. With such a force, composed of men of the most desperate fortunes and dauntless courage, the commerce of Spain with her colonies in Central and South America was in a few years almost entirely destroyed. The ships bound from Europe for the colonies were rarely molested by the pirates, who chose to fall upon them when laden with the precious metals, which Spain, in her avarice, was transporting home—not foreseeing that by that very process she was gradually working her own national ruin. Sometimes a fleet of galleons, when under strong convoy, succeeded in the return voyage; but a single ship, of whatever strength or force, seldom escaped the vigilance of the pirates. They followed such fleets as they judged it unsafe to attack, and a slow sailer or a straggler was inevitably captured. So daring were these robbers, that even before they were enabled to obtain a smaller craft, a crew of fifty-five of them in one of the large canoes sailed into the Southern Ocean, and proceeded along the coast of the continent as far north as California. On their return, they entered one of the ports of Peru, and captured a ship, the cargo of which was valued at several millions. Their canoe was then exchanged for the noble prize, in which they returned in triumph.

Preparations for their expeditions were made with the utmost care, and articles of agreement were always carefully written out and signed; and the dealings of the robbers among each other were usually characterized by the most scrupulous honor. In regard to their provisions, the rations were distributed twice a day—the officers, from the highest to the lowest, faring no better than the common sailor. It was stipulated exactly what sums of money or what proportionate sums each person engaged in a voyage should receive, with the understanding, of course, no prey, no pay. The commanders of the ships were frequently the owners. Sometimes they belonged to a company of adventurers on board. In other instances they were chartered for the service of individuals or companies on shore. The first stipulation, therefore, on arranging for a voyage, regarded the compensation to be received by the owner or owners of the ship, being ordinarily one third of the products of the cruise. If the boat or vessel in which an enterprise was first undertaken was the common property of the crew, the first vessel captured was allotted to the captain, with one share of the booty obtained. In cases where the captain owned and fitted out the original vessel, the first ship taken belonged to him, with a double share of the plunder. The surgeon was allowed two hundred crowns for his medicine chest, and a single share of the prizes; and whoever had the good fortune to descry a ship that was captured, received a reward of a hundred crowns. A tariff of compensation for the wounded was also adjusted according to the greater or less severity of the wounds they might receive. For example, the compensation for the loss of a right arm was six hundred pieces of eight, or six slaves as an equivalent; for a left arm, five hundred pieces of eight, or five slaves; for the loss of a right leg, five hundred pieces, or five slaves; for an eye, one hundred pieces, or one slave; for the loss of a finger, the same. Claims of this character were first paid at the close of a voyage, from the common stock of the prize money. The commander of an expedition was allotted five portions of a common seaman; and the subordinate officers shared in proportion to their rank. The residue of the booty was then divided with exact equality among the crews, from the highest to the lowest mariner, not excepting the boys. Some of the duties of these latter were peculiar. For instance, when the pirates had captured a vessel better than their own, they transferred themselves to it, leaving the boys to escape from the deserted vessel last, after having set it on fire. Favor never had any influence in the distribution of the booty, which was rigidly decided by lot—lots being drawn for the dead as well as for the living. The portions for the dead were given to their surviving companion; or if the companion had also been killed, the allotment was sent to the family of the deceased. If they had no families, then the money or plate or other goods that would have belonged to them was distributed to the poor, or piously bestowed on churches, which were to pray for the souls of those in whose names the benefactions were given. These allowances to the dead and wounded were considered debts of honor—such as the brokers of Wall street would note as 'confidential.' Their intercourse with each other was marked with civility and kindness. They, of course, squandered their money on coming ashore, in all manner of dissipation, and with the recklessness which has ever characterized the sailor. To those who were in want they would contribute freely; and the kind offices of humanity among each other were readily interchanged. In ordinary cases, their prisoners were liberated, save those who were needed for their own assistance; and these were generally discharged after two or three years. Whenever they were in want of supplies, they landed upon the islands and levied exactions upon the people—planters and fishermen. The green turtles, however, among the Florida Keys, supplied a large portion of their food; and it is presumed that they became as great adepts in the turtle line as the corporation pirates of modern times.

So extensively was the commerce of Spain in these seas, under her own flag, cut up, notwithstanding the ships of war repeatedly sent for its protection, that foreign flags were resorted to, in hopes of deceiving the rovers. But the ruse was not successful. Two of the buccaneer chiefs, Michael de Basco and Brouage, receiving intelligence that a cargo of great value had been shipped under the Dutch flag at Carthagena, in two ships much larger than their own, boldly entered the harbor, captured both, and plundered them of their treasure. The Dutch captains, chagrined at being thus beaten by inferior vessels, said to one of the pirate chiefs that had he been alone, he would not have dared thus to attack them. The buccaneer haughtily challenged mynheer to fight the battle over again—stipulating that his consort should stand aloof from the engagement, and, that should the Dutchman conquer, both the pirate vessels should be his. The challenge, however, was not accepted. At another time, when Basco and two other chiefs, named Jonque and Laurence Le Graff, were cruising before Carthagena with three indifferent vessels, two Spanish men-of-war put out to attack them. The result was the capture of both the latter by the pirates, who kept the ships, but magnanimously sent the crews on shore—affecting, from the ease with which they had been vanquished, to look upon them with utter contempt.

There was yet another pirate chief, whose name stands out in bold relief, for his infamous cruelties, even among the bloody records of the buccaneers. He was a Dutchman by birth, who had settled in Brazil during the occupancy of that country by the United Provinces. On the restoration of the Portuguese to their Brazilian possessions this bloody wretch retreated to Jamaica. His name not being known, he received the soubriquet of Rock Braziliano, by which he was henceforward known. Very soon after his arrival at Jamaica, he joined the pirates, first as an ordinary mariner; and acquitted himself so well as to gain, in a short time, the respect and affection of his comrades. A mutiny breaking out on board the vessel in which he was embarked, caused a separation of the crew; a second vessel was taken possession of by a portion of them, and Braziliano chosen chief. He pursued his career with various success and the most frightful cruelty. His hatred of the Spaniards was exceedingly bitter, and when landing in Spanish settlements to procure provisions, he frequently roasted the inhabitants alive if they were not forthcoming at his command. In one of his cruises upon the coast of South America, he was wrecked, and his vessel lost. Escaping to the shore with his crew of only thirty men, he was pursued by a troop of one hundred Spanish cavalry. Upon these he turned, and defeated them with terrible slaughter, and with but trifling loss to himself. Mounting the horses of the slain, Braziliano continued his course coastwise, until, falling in with some boats from Campeachy, which he seized, he made sail for Jamaica—capturing another ship on the voyage laden with merchandise and a large amount of money in pieces of eight. Remaining on shore long enough to dissipate their booty in the usual round of drunkenness and debauchery which characterized the buccaneers when not upon the wave, Braziliano and his companions put to sea again, directing their course to his old haunts about Campeachy. Shortly after his arrival, while looking into the port, in a small boat, to espy what ships were offering for prizes, he was captured and thrown into prison. The Spanish authorities determined upon his execution; but in consequence of an admonition that terrible vengeance would be inflicted upon all Spanish prisoners falling into the hands of the pirates, in the event of his punishment, this horrible villain was released upon the security of his own oath, that he would forthwith relinquish his profession. But before he reached Jamaica on his return, he captured another prize; and after the avails of that were spent in every species of debauch, he went to sea again, committing greater robberies and cruelties than ever.

Jamaica, though a British possession, having, as we have seen, long afforded a market for the pirates, had in process of time become equally a rendezvous with Tortuga. Wealth, in immense quantities, had been poured into that island by the pirates, and had been diffused thence among the other West India possessions, British and French. The licentiousness of the buccaneers was unbounded, and their blood-stained spoils were scattered with incredible prodigality. Indeed they seemed to be at a loss how to spend their money fast enough. Their captains had been known to purchase pipes of wine, place them in the street, knock in the head, and compel every passer-by to drink; and mention is made of one, who, returning from an expedition with three thousand dollars in his pocket, was sold into slavery three months afterward for a debt of forty shillings. If admonished in regard to their reckless waste of money, their reply was that their lives were not like those of other men. Though alive to-day, they might be dead to-morrow, and hence it was folly for them to hoard their treasure. 'Live to-day,' was their maxim, 'to-morrow may take care of itself.' Those, therefore, who were worth millions to-day, robbed by courtezans and stripped at the gaming table, were often penniless in a week—destitute of clothes and even the necessaries of life. They had therefore no recourse but to return to the sea, and levy new contributions, to be dissipated as before.

But the commerce of Spain with her colonies was ruined. Failing in her exertions to conquer the buccaneers, and finding them to be so firmly established as to defy any force which she could send against them, and wearied in making so many consignments, as it were, directly into their hands, Spain dismantled her commercial marine and closed her South American ports, in the hope—a vain one, as it proved—that when the resources of the pirates upon the high seas were cut off, their establishments would be necessarily broken up, and the freebooters themselves disperse. But far different was the event. No sooner had these rapacious and savage men ascertained that there were no more galleons of her bullion to be taken, than they concentrated their forces, with a determination to strike nearer the mines themselves. Powerful expeditions were therefore openly organized at Jamaica and elsewhere, for the purpose of making descents upon the cities and towns of the Spanish main. The temptations to such a course were indeed strong; and the Spaniards, by their ostentatious display, materially assisted in their own ruin. For instance, the city of Lima, in 1682, on the occasion of the public entry of the viceroy, actually had the streets paved with ingots of silver, to the amount of seventeen millions sterling! 'What a pretty prize,' exclaims the London Times, 'for a few honest tars!' Then the splendor and magnificence of their churches, ornamented with immense gold and silver images, crucifixes, and candlesticks, and not unfrequently large altars of massive silver, became objects of a devout regard. Nor did the pirates fail to present themselves before every accessible shrine; for in truth, they swept over the vast central portion of the continent from Florida to Peru, plundering and laying in waste the most populous regions, and the wealthiest cities—meeting, moreover, with less resistance than attended the march of Cortez and Alvarado in achieving the conquest. Their visitations were sudden, and wherever they struck their blows fell like the thunderbolt. The consequence was that the consternation of the people upon the land became as great as their terror upon the ocean. The great roads were deserted; and the lands were no more ploughed than the sea.



VIRGINIA.

(SUGGESTED BY A PAINTING BY J. McENTEE.)

'The tree has lost its blossoms,... But the sap lasts,—and still the seed we find Sown deep even in the bosom of the North; So shall a bitter spring less bitter fruit bring forth.'

Childe Harold.

Wan and weird the solemn twilight gleameth in the dreary sky, Dusky shadows growing deeper, sad night-breezes sorrowing by, Sighing 'mid the leafless bushes bending o'er the sullen stream, Wailing 'mid the fire-stained ruins darkly rising 'gainst the gleam Of the wild unearthly twilight. In the shivering evening air Cheerless lie the gloomy meadows—blight and ruin everywhere!

Far away the wide plain stretches, dark and desolate it lies 'Neath the shuddering winds that murmur, 'neath the gleaming of the skies; Hark to the swollen river, how it moaneth in its flow, 'Mid the bridge's fallen arches, 'neath the bushes bending low, Now unbroken by a ripple, flowing silently and still, Gives again unto the heavens twilight gleaming wan and chill.

Where the corn once waved in beauty its bright wealth of shining leaves, Glittering in the noonday's glory, rustling in the summer eves, As the murmuring wind swept o'er it, bending low each tasselled head, 'Neath the soft and shimmering radiance by the moon of summer shed— There no plough will make its furrow—waste the sunny field doth lie, And no grain will wave its tresses to the breezes wailing by.

Where amid the whispering forests once the laughing sunlight fell, Fallen tree and blackened stump now the dreary story tell Of the woe and desolation sad Virginia shadowing o'er, From the fatal Rappahannock to Potomac's fort-crowned shore, Tell the tale of saddened hearthstones, desolate hearts that mourn each day For the dearly loved ones stricken, wounded, dying, far away.

Wake, Virginia! from thy slumber, from thy wild and traitorous dream; Wake! and welcome loyal Northmen, sabres' ring and bayonets' gleam; Cast aside the clanking fetters that still echo on thy soil, Teach thy sons that no dishonor clings to manly, honest toil: So again thy tree shall blossom, fairer, stronger than before, And God's peace will rest upon thee, thy scourged fields will hover o'er.



VISIT TO THE NATIONAL ACADEMY OF DESIGN.

APRIL, 1863.

We remember many years ago passing directly from the gallery of Duesseldorf pictures, then recently opened in New York, to the hall of the National Academy. The contrast to a lover of his country was a painful one. The foreign school possessed ripeness of design, and accurate, if in many instances somewhat mannered and artificial execution. The native collection exhibited a poverty in conception, and a harshness and crudity in performance, sadly discouraging to one who would fain see the fine arts progress in equal measure with the more material elements of civilization. Since that time, however, year by year, the art of painting, at least, has steadily advanced, the light of genius has been granted to spring from our midst, our artists dwelling in foreign lands have returned to find a congenial atmosphere under their native skies, and, in so far as landscape is concerned, we have now no need to shun comparison with the best pictures produced abroad. Our school is an original one, for our artists have gone to the great teacher, Nature, who has shown them without stint the bright sun, luminous sky, pearly dawns, hazy middays, glowing sunsets, shimmering twilights, golden moons, rolling mists, fantastic clouds, wooded hills, snow-capped peaks, waving grain fields, primeval forests, tender spring foliage, gorgeous autumnal coloring, grand cataracts, leaping brooks, noble rivers, clear lakes, bosky dells, lichen-covered crags, and varied seacoasts of this western continent. Here is no lack of diversity, here are studies in unity, both simple and complex, and here, too, even civilized man need not necessarily be unpicturesque; witness Launt Thompson's 'Trapper,' Rogers's bits of petrified history, or Eastman Johnson's vivid delineations of scenes familiar to us all. We have no reason to follow in any beaten, hackneyed track, but, within the needful restrictions of good sense, good taste, and the teachings of nature, may wander wherever the bent of our gifts may lead us. We may choose sensational subjects, striking contrasts, with Church, follow the exquisite traceries of shadow, of mountain top and fern-clad rock, with Bierstadt, learn the secrets of the innermost souls of the brute creation with Beard, revel in cool atmospheres and transparent waters with Kensett, paint in light with Gifford, in poetry with McEntee, or with Whittredge seek the tranquil regions of forest shade or quiet interior.

In the examination of every work of art, we find three questions to be asked: Has it something to say; is that something worth saying; is it well said? In painting, poetry, music, sculpture, and architecture, satisfactory replies must be given, or the mind refuses to recognize the work under consideration as fulfilling the conditions necessary to perfection within its individual range. Too often worthlessness of meaning is hidden under exquisite execution, the most dangerous form an aberration from the true principles of art can take, especially in an age when the material receives an undue proportion of attention, and the spirit is exposed to so many risks of being replaced by a false, outside glitter. A worthy, noble, or beautiful idea, clad in a corresponding form, is then the core of every art production; and although much of which the fundamental idea is neither worthy, noble, nor beautiful, is sometimes admired, yet the impression on the whole is painful, as would be exquisite diction and entrancing eloquence flowing from the lips of a man of genius arguing in a cause unholy and pernicious to the best interests of humanity.

Notwithstanding the tasteful and judicious arrangement of the pictures in the hall of exhibition, No. 625 Broadway, a cursory survey only is required to enforce the conviction that the necessities of light and space demand the erection of a building especially adapted to the purposes of an academy of design, and we hope the fellowship fund will speedily justify the commencement of that important undertaking.

The first picture that meets the eye on entering, is one of 'Startled Deer,' by W. H. Beard, N. A. (No. 197). This is a noble delineation—such stately forms, splendid positions, and expressive eyes! This artist is not content with giving us color, shape, and every hair exact, but we look through the creatures' eyes into the depths of their being. His animals love, fear, wonder—in short, are capable of all the manifold feelings pertaining to the brute creation. Who can say how much of that creation is destined to perish forever! The gesture of the spotted fawn seems reason sufficient why the Lord of love should one day give happiness and security in return for apprehension and pain suffered here below, especially if indeed the sin of man be the moral cause of the sorrows incident to the lower existences. At all events, Beard's animals are so endowed with individual characteristics, that we make of them personal friends, who can never die so long as our memories endure. The herbage in the foreground is tenderly wrought, and the whole picture preaches an impressive sermon.

No. 151. 'An Autumn Evening'—Regis Gignoux, N. A. This picture does not satisfy us nearly so fully as others we have seen by the same artist. The general effect strikes us as somewhat artificial, the light does not seem to fall clearly from the sky, but as if through prisms or tinted glass. We have seen the inside of a shell, or the edge of a white cloud turned toward the sun, glittering with similar hues, very beautiful for a small object, but wanting in dignity and repose for an entire landscape. We remember with great pleasure Gignoux's 'Autumn in Virginia,' and his painting of 'Niagara by Moonlight' gave us a far more majestic impression of the great cataract than the famous day representation by Church. As we gazed, we called to mind a certain night when the moon stood full in the heavens, vivid lunar bows played about our feet, and, mounting the tower, we looked down into the apparently bottomless abyss, dark with clouds of mist, seething, foaming, and thundering. We shuddered, and hastened down the narrow stairway, feeling as if all nature must speedily be drawn into the terrible vortex, and we become a mere atom amid chaos. The picture caused us a shivering thrill, and we acknowledged the power of the artist.

No. 90. 'Mansfield Mountain, Sunset'—S. R. Gifford, N. A. A glorious tale, gloriously told! 'The heavens show forth the glory of God, and the firmament declareth the work of his hands. Day to day uttereth speech, and night to night showeth knowledge. * * * He hath set his tabernacle in the sun; and he * * * hath rejoiced as a giant to run the way: His going out is from the end of heaven, and his circuit even to the end thereof: and there is no one that can hide himself from his heat.' This artist seems literally to have dipped his brush in light, pure light. We remember a juvenile book, entitled, 'A Trap to catch a Sunbeam;' such a trap must Gifford possess; he surely keeps tubes filled with real rays wherewith to flood the canvas and transfigure the simplest subject. Here we have a mountain, a lake, some sky, clouds, and a setting sun—but what an admirable combination! The picture seems fairly to illumine that part of the gallery in which it is placed. Had the artist lived in the olden time, he might have been feloniously made way with for his secret, but the present age seems more generous, and his fellow workers delight to praise and honor his genius. We find from the same hand 'Kauterskill Clove' (No. 15)—a flood of golden beams poured upon a mountain glen, with rifted sides, autumn foliage, and a tiny stream; a coming storm obscures but does not hide the distant hills. A bold delineation—but very beautiful, and true to the character of the scenery it represents. There are also a reminiscence of the present war ('Baltimore, 1862—Twilight,' No. 409), and one of foreign travel ('Como,' No. 385), equally suggestive of—not paint—but real, palpitating atmosphere.

No. 49. 'Mount Tahawas, Adirondacs'—J. McEntee, N. A. A picture of great simplicity and grandeur, and one we should never weary of looking into, waiting for the opaline lights of dawn to deepen into the full glory of day. This, like all the works of McEntee we have had the good fortune to see, bears the impress of a poet-soul. A vague stretching forth toward the regions of the infinite, a melancholy remembrance of some enduring sorrow, a tender reminiscence of scenes peculiar to certain heartfelt seasons of the year, a hazy foreshadowing of coming winter, a lingering over the last dying hour of day, a presaging of storms to come, or a lotus-eating dream by some quiet lake, are the themes to be evolved from many of his conceptions. Alas for 'Virginia' (No. 218), mother of presidents, and nurse of the Union! Can it indeed be her sky that shines down so weird and strange over desolate plains, through broken walls and shattered beams, and darkens as it shrinks in horror from the broken bridge once spanning the blood-stained waters of the fatal run? No. 233 is a 'Twilight,' No. 58 an 'October on the Hudson,' and No. 171 a 'Late Autumn,' by the same artist, all excellent specimens of his tender and poetical mode of handling a subject. In looking at one of his pictures, we think more of the matter than the manner, and, carefully correct as is the latter, the mind is often too filled with emotion to care to examine into the very minutiae, whose delicate execution has so powerfully aided to produce the general effect.

No. 123. 'Morning in the White Mountains'—J. F. Kensett, N. A. Excellent in every way, with crystal water, living rocks, and rose-tinted morning clouds.

No. 74. 'Coast Scene, Mount Desert'—F. E. Church, N. A. A puzzle. We are glad once more to welcome to a public gallery a significant work by this widely known and much admired artist. Of late, the exhibition of such works (in so far as we know) invariably alone, may perhaps have subjected him to some misconception.

No. 73. 'The Window'—W. Whittredge, N. A. This is a charming picture of a home that must be dear to all the dwellers therein. A lovely landscape is seen through an open window, which admits a mellow light to fall upon a Turkey rug, tasteful furniture, and that 'wellspring of joy in a house,' a young soul, endowed with undeveloped, perhaps wonderful capacities, crowing in the arms of a turbaned nurse. It is altogether one of the best interiors ever exhibited in New York. No. 305, 'Summer,' a pleasant nook, and No. 121, 'Autumn, New Jersey,' are by the same accomplished hand. The latter is a meadow scene, with a pleasing sky, some graceful trees in the foreground, and a most attractive bit of Virginia creeper dipping into a clear pool. The gifts of W. Whittredge are manifold, and his works conspicuous for variety in subject and treatment. In the small room, we observed a portrait of this artist by H. A. Loop, N. A., a beautiful picture and excellent likeness. We do not wonder the fine head tempted Mr. Loop to expend upon it his best care.

No. 181. 'Portrait of Dr. O. A. Brownson'—G. P. A. Healy, H. A powerful portrait of a man who has never been ashamed openly to confess that he could be wiser to-day than he was yesterday. We never met Dr. Brownson, and it was with a thrill of pleasure that we beheld the massive head containing so eminent an intelligence. The learned tomes, antique chair, and entire attitude are in excellent keeping.

No. 66. 'Fagot Gatherer'—R. M. Staigg, N. A. We owe this artist much for his beautiful inculcations of the charities of life. How many stray pennies may not his little street sweeper have drawn from careless passers-by? No. 59, 'Cat's Cradle,' is another pleasing representation of an attractive subject.

No. 202. 'Anita'—George H. Hall. The sweet face, harmonious coloring, and simple pose of this little Spanish girl has made an ineffaceable impression on our memory. We should like to have her always near us. The fruit and flower pieces of this genial artist are delightful and satisfactory.

No. 468. 'Elaine,' Bas Relief—L. Thompson, N. A. The face of Elaine is of great sweetness, and the tender trouble on the brow, in the eyes, and quivering round the mouth, seems almost too ethereal to have been actually prisoned in marble. We think if the Elaine of the legend had looked thus upon Launcelot, and he were truly all that poets sing him, he could not long have preferred to her the light-minded Guenevere. The busts of children by the same hand are also fine, so truthful and characteristic. A worthy pupil is Thompson of that natural school of which Palmer was our first distinguished representative.

No. 466. 'The Union Refugees'—John Rogers. This group tells its own sad tale. The stern defiance in the face of the young patriot, the sorrow-stricken but confiding attitude of the mother, and the child's uplifted gaze of wonder, speak of scenes doubtless often repeated in the history of the past two years—scenes which must sink deeply into the hearts of all beholders.

No. 467. 'Freedman'—J. Q. A. Ward, A. This picture, no doubt, has its fine points, but to our mind it is rather conventional. Neither does it bear out its allegorical relation to the freedmen of our continent. If the chains of the negro are being broken, he does not appear in the character of a Hercules, but rather as a patient and enduring martyr, awaiting the day of deliverance appointed by Heaven.

No. 10. 'Sunrise at Narragansett'—W. S. Hazeltine, N. A. A fine effect of transparent sky, faithful rocks, and rolling surf. The warmth of coloring and vivid reality of this picture render it eminently pleasing.

No. 211. 'The Adirondacks from near Mount Mansfield'—R. W. Hubbard, N. A. A beautiful foreground of fine trees and rocks, with a far-away lookout over a hazy distance. A lake glitters in the plain beneath, and the whole scene is harmoniously bewitching and tranquillizing.

No. 158. 'Out in the Fields'—A. D. Shattuck, N. A. A charming pastoral, with some elms, graceful and feathery as the far-famed trees on the meadows of North Conway.

No. 27. 'Heart's Ease'—William P. W. Dana, A. We heard a little three and a half year old reply, in answer to a question as to which picture she would prefer taking home with her from the Academy: 'The sick child;' and we could not wonder at her choice, for a more touching design has seldom been placed on canvas. The name, the accompaniments, and the child's expression betoken a rare delicacy of conception. The flowers are exquisite, and the cheerful contrast of color in the drapery seems a promise of gayer, if not happier hours.

But space—together, probably, with the patience of our readers—fails for the enumeration of all the interesting and meritorious paintings in the exhibition of '63; otherwise, we might discourse at length upon the two masterly works by Bierstadt (Nos. 6 and 35), the 'Swiss Lake,' by Casilear, W. T. Richards's carefully elaborated foregrounds, Huntington's charming figures, De Haas's spirited sea scenes, and other meritorious productions under names well known to the lovers of art in New York.

As good ofttimes springs from evil, may not perhaps the present severe trial through which our country is passing aid in lifting the hearts of her children to more spiritual regions, that they may approach ever nearer and nearer to a more thorough comprehension and enjoyment of the 'Eternal Beauty, ever ancient and ever new,' as feebly mirrored in human art?



WAS HE SUCCESSFUL?

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

'SUCCESSFUL.—Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or intended.'—WEBSTER'S Dictionary.

CHAPTER IV.—(Continued.)

During the long weeks of Joel Burns's illness and convalescence, he had become much attached to James Egerton. And when the medical student quitted Burnsville, after carrying Mr. Burns through the fever in triumph, the latter felt more grateful than words would express. It is true, young Egerton remained at his bedside by direction of the physician whose pupil he was: still the manner in which he had discharged his duties won the heart of the patient. So, when at length he was preparing to depart, Joel Burns endeavored to think of some way to manifest his appreciation which would be acceptable to the youth. This was difficult. Both were of refined natures, and it was not easy to bring the matter to pass. Mr. Burns, at length, after expressing his grateful sense of his devotion, plainly told Egerton that he would delight to be of service to him if it were possible.

'I feel obliged to you, Mr. Burns,' said the student; 'but it is not just that I should excite such emotions in your breast. Let me confess that while I do respect and esteem you, it is love of my profession, and not of any individual, which has led me to use more than ordinary care while attending to your case. I have a firm belief in the method of my principal, and it is a labor of love with me to endeavor to demonstrate the truth of his theory in the treatment of typhus fever. Your case was a magnificent one. My master is right, and I know it.'

'Now you take just the ground I admire; you enable me to say what before I hesitated to speak of,' said Mr. Burns, warmly. 'Tell me honestly how you are situated. Can I not aid in affording you still further advantages for study and practical observation?'

'Mr. Burns,' replied the student, 'it is my turn to feel grateful—grateful for such genial recognition of what I am, or rather what I hope to make myself. Something of your own history I have learned in this place—this place of your own creation—and I may say there are points of analogy between your own early struggles and mine. But I must depend on myself. To accept aid from you would weaken me, and that you would not wish to do.'

'Go,' said Mr. Burns, with enthusiasm; 'go, and God go with you. But promise me this: let me hear from you regularly. Let me not lose sight of one of whom I hope so much.'

'That I promise with pleasure.'

Then he turned to find Sarah, to bid her good by. She was running across the lawn, but stopped abruptly on hearing her name called.

'Little maiden,' said the young man, 'I am going away. We shall have no more races together. When I see you again, it won't do for either of us to romp and run about.'

'Why? Are you not coming to see us till you are old?'

'I don't know that, but I shall not come very soon. After a while I shall go across the ocean, and you will grow up to be a young woman. So I must say a long good-by now to my little patient.'

Sarah was twelve, Egerton scarcely twenty. For the instant, young as she was, there was actually established between them a sentimental relation. They stood a moment looking at each other.

'Good-by,' said Egerton, taking her hand. 'I think I must have this for a keepsake.' It was a straggling curl, detached from its companions, which the student laid hold of. Sarah said not one word, but took a neat little morocco 'housewife' from her pocket, produced a small pair of scissors, and clipped the curl quickly, leaving it in Egerton's hand.

'You won't forget me,' he said.

'No.'

In an instant more she was bounding over the green grass, while the other walked slowly into the house. In a few minutes he was off. I do not think this scene produced any impression on Sarah Burns beyond the passing moment; but to Egerton, who was just of an age to cherish such an incident, it furnished material for a romantic idea, which he nourished until it came to be a part of his life plans. Whatever was the reason which actuated him, it is a fact that he wrote Mr. Burns, not often, to be sure, but quite regularly. After two or three years he went abroad, still keeping up his correspondence. Mr. Burns, for some reason we will not conjecture, was not in the habit of speaking to his daughter about Egerton. Possibly he did not wish her to remember him as a grown-up man while she was still a little girl. Possibly, he desired, should they ever meet, that their acquaintance might commence afresh. At any rate, Sarah was left quite to forget the existence of the young fellow who watched by her so faithfully; or if by some chance some recollection of him, as connected with that dreadful season, came into her mind, it was purely evanescent and without consequence. Mr. Burns, however, always cherished certain hopes. The reader will recollect his sadness of heart when he discovered how matters stood between Sarah and Hiram Meeker. This was owing principally to his honest aversion to Hiram; but a disappointment lurked at the bottom. It was only the week before the scene at the preparatory lecture that he had received a letter from Egerton, written on American soil, advising him of his return from Europe in a vessel just arrived from Marseilles. Mr. Burns answered it immediately, inviting him to come at once and make him a visit; but he breathed not a word of this to Sarah.

Affairs between her and Hiram were brought to a crisis much faster than Mr. Burns could have anticipated. In short, Dr. Egerton arrived at the most auspicious moment possible. But I shall not be precipitate. On the contrary, I shall leave the lovers, if lovers they are to be, to pursue their destiny in the only true way, namely, through a tantalizing maze of hopes and fears and doubts and charming hesitations and anxieties to a denouement, while I return to the proper subject of this narrative—Hiram Meeker.

CHAPTER V.

Hill has opened a wholesale liquor store on his own account! Where did Hill raise the money to start in business—a poor devil who could never get eighteen pence ahead in the world? It does not appear. For one, I will say that Hiram Meeker did not furnish it. He not only belongs to the temperance society, but he believes all traffic in the 'deadly poison' to be a sin. Still where did Hill get the money or the credit to start a wholesale liquor concern? More than this, Hill is doing a pretty large business. Singular to say, he drinks less and swears less than he did. He is more respectable apparently. He has a very fine store in Water street. He does not deal in adulterated liquors. He sells his articles, if the customer desires it, 'in bond;' that is, from under the key of the custom house, which of course insures their purity. By a singular coincidence, Hill's store is adjoining a 'U. S. Bonded Warehouse.' Hill's goods, for convenience' sake, are sent to that particular warehouse—frequently. The liquors are stored in the basement. This basement is not supposed to communicate with the basement of Hill's store. Certainly not. Yet Hill, solus, entirely and absolutely solus, spends many evenings in the basement of his store. Hill is a large purchaser of pure spirits. Pure spirits are worth thirty-one cents a gallon, and brandy of right brand is worth two or three dollars a gallon. One gallon of pure spirits mixed with two gallons of brandy cannot be detected by ninety-nine persons of a hundred. Some say it is equally difficult to detect a half-and-half mixture. Still Hill sells his brandy in bond. I repeat, Hiram Meeker does not furnish Hill the money. It is true, their intimacy still continues. Further, Hill has good references—none other than H. Bennett & Co. Strange as it may seem, H. Bennett himself has been known to put his name on Hill's paper. Yet I am told he does not even know Hill by sight! Hill is making money, though—is making it fast. Hiram is still in the house of Hendly, Layton & Gibb, but this has not prevented him from making, with permission of the firm, several ventures on his own account. These ventures always turn out well. It was not long since he shipped a schooner load of potatoes to New Orleans on information derived from the master of a vessel which had made a remarkably rapid passage, and who reported to him, and to him only. He more than doubled his money on this venture.

In Dr. Chellis's church, Hiram has made respectable progress. He has permitted himself to break over the strict rule first adopted as to his social life. He goes a little into society—the very best society which that congregation furnishes. Report says he is engaged to Miss Tenant. She is the only child of Amos Tenant, of the firm of Allwise, Tenant & Co. This firm is reputed to be worth over a million of dollars. Miss Tenant—Miss Emma Tenant—is the young lady who, from the first, took such an interest in Hiram at the Sunday school. She is an excellent girl. She is very pretty, too, and, I am sorry to say, she seems to have fallen in love—really and positively in love with Hiram. He, the calculating wretch, has canvassed the whole matter, has made careful investigations of the condition of the house of Allwise, Tenant & Co., and has satisfied himself that it is firm as a rock, and that Mr. Tenant is no doubt worth the pretty sum of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, or such a matter.

Emma is an only child!

Oh, Hiram, how dare you utter those vows of love and constancy and everlasting regard and affection, coming, as you do, with your fingers fresh from turning the leaves at the register's office, where, forgetting your dinner, you have spent the entire afternoon in satisfying yourself about the real estate held by 'Amos Tenant?' Had the record under your precious investigation not been satisfactory, you would not have spent five minutes thereafter in the society of Emma Tenant.

Yet your conscience does not reproach you. No, not one bit. Positively you are not aware of anything reprehensible or even indelicate in what you are about. Thinking of the matter, as you carefully scan the books of record, you regard it precisely as you would any other investigation. To you it is essential that the girl you are to marry should have money. If she has, you will love her (for it is your duty to love your wife); if she has not, you cannot love her, and of course (duty again) you cannot wed her.

Poor Emma Tenant! No protecting instinct warns you against the young man who is now making such fervid protestations. You receive all he says as holy truth, sincere, earnest avowal, out of his heart into yours, for time and for eternity!

You, Emma Tenant, are a good girl, innocent and good: why, oh, why does not your nature shrink by this contact?

* * * * *

We forbear to paint the love scene in which Hiram figures. Enough to say that Emma could not and did not disguise the state of her affections. Yes, she confessed it, confessed she had been attracted by Hiram (poor thing) from the day she first saw him enter the Sunday school to take his place as one of its teachers.

How happy she was as she sat trembling with emotion, her hand in Hiram's calculating grasp, while she blushingly made her simple confession.

'But your father,' interposed Hiram, anxiously—'he will never give his consent.'

'And why will he not?' replied Emma. 'I am sure he likes you already, and when he knows'—

She stopped, and blushed deeper than ever.

'When he knows,' said Hiram, taking up the sentence, 'he will hate me: I am sure he will.'

'How can you say so?' replied the confiding girl. 'I am his only child, and he will approve of anything which is for my happiness.'

'But he may not think an engagement with me (you see Hiram was determined on the engagement) will be for your happiness. I am not known here—am not yet in business for myself, although so far as that is concerned'—

'Don't speak so—it pains me; as if I could think of such things now,' she whispered, as if really in bodily distress.

'But it must be mentioned, and at once; we must tell your parents. It would be highly improper not to do so.'

He meant to make all sure.

'Oh, well, I suppose you are right, but it will make no difference to papa if you had not a penny. I have heard him say so a thousand times.'

'Have you,' replied Hiram, drawing a long breath, 'have you really?'

'Indeed I have. He has always said he would prefer to see me marry a high-minded, honorable young man, of strict integrity, without a cent in the world, to the richest man living, if he were sordid and calculating. Oh, he despises such persons. Now are you satisfied?'

Hiram was satisfied, that is, logically; but somehow he felt a hit, and in spite of himself his countenance was clouded, and he was silent.

'I have said something to wound you. I know I have,' exclaimed Emma.

'To wound me! My angel, my'—etc., etc., etc. (the pen refuses to do its office when I come to record Hiram's love expressions). 'How can you think so at this moment of my greatest rapture, my most complete'—etc., etc., etc. (pen fails again). 'It was my intense joy and satisfaction to learn how noble and disinterested your father is, that rendered me for the moment speechless.'

After considerable discussion, it was arranged that Emma should be the one to communicate to her parents the interesting fact that Hiram sought her hand. On this occasion his courage so far failed him that he preferred not to break the subject himself, although generally so very capable and adroit in personal interviews.

Mr. Tenant, as usual with papas, was a good deal surprised. He had not thought of Emma's marrying—considered her still little else than a school girl, and so on—well—he supposed it must come sooner or later. He knew very little about the young man, but what he did know was certainly in his favor.

To cut the story short, the whole matter was soon pleasantly settled, and Hiram established as the accepted of Miss Tenant.

In a subsequent interview with Mr. Tenant, our hero quite won his heart. That gentleman was an old-fashioned merchant; the senior member of a house known as one of the most honorable in the city. I say senior member, for the 'Allwise' whose name stood first was a son of the original partner through whose capacity mainly it had been built up and made strong. Mr. Tenant, I repeat, was a merchant of the old school, high minded and of strict integrity, not specially remarkable for ability, but possessing good sense and a single mind. The house once on the right track, with its credit and its correspondents established, he had only to keep the wheel revolving in the old routine, and all was well.

Mr. Tenant was quite carried away by Hiram's conversation. The latter was so shrewd and capable, yet so good and honest withal. He first recounted to his prospective father-in-law a little history of his whole life. He portrayed in feeling terms how God had never forsaken, but on the contrary had always sustained and supported him—in his infancy, at school, through various vicissitudes—had conducted him to New York, to Dr. Chellis's church, into his (Mr. Tenant's) family; and now, as a crowning mercy, was about to bestow on him the greatest treasure of the universe to be a partner of his joys and sorrows through life.

Then he discoursed of affairs; of what he hoped with a 'common blessing' to accomplish. He informed Mr. Tenant confidentially that in the approaching month of May he should commence a general shipping and commission business. His plans were matured, and though his capital was small—

'Count on me, young man, count on the house of Allwise, Tenant & Co.,' interrupted the kind-hearted old gentleman. 'I have no boy,' he continued, with tears in his eyes; 'my only one was snatched from me, but now I shall look on you as my son. You will start in May. Good. And what the house can do for you will be done.'

'Then perhaps I may be permitted to refer to you?'

'Permitted? I shall insist on it. What is more, I will see two or three of our friends to make up your references myself. You must begin strong. Where do you keep your account?'

Hiram told him. It was a bank where Mr. Bennett had introduced him.

'That is well enough, but those are dry goods people, not at all in our line. I must introduce you at our bank, or, what is better, I will get Daniel Story to introduce you at his. There you will get a double advantage.'

Need I add that Hiram was in ecstasies? His position would now equal his most brilliant dreams. To be placed at once on an equality with the old South-street houses! To have Daniel Story introduce him to his bank! It was even so. The future son-in-law of Amos Tenant would gain just such an entree to business life.

And profitable use did Hiram Meeker make of these 'privileges.' He no longer thought of depending on H. Bennett & Co. Very quietly he thanked his cousin for his kind offer of assistance by way of reference, etc., but he was of opinion it would be better to have some names in his own line. Then he mentioned who were to be his 'backers,' whereat Mr. Bennett was amazed, yet highly gratified, and, without seeking to inquire further, told Hiram he 'would do,' he always said he would, that he must call on him, however, whenever he thought he could give him a lift, and predicted that he would be very successful on his own account. All which Hiram received meekly and mildly, but he said nothing in reply.

It is not my purpose to give in detail the particulars of Hiram's commercial life. Having been sufficiently minute in describing his early business education, the experience he acquired, the habits he formed, the reader can readily understand that his career became from the start a promising one. He was familiar with all the ramifications of commerce. He thoroughly knew the course of trade in New York. He had studied carefully the operation of affairs, from the largest shipping interest to the daily consumption of the most petty retail shop. He had managed to lay up quite a respectable sum of money, and all he now wanted was a good opportunity to launch himself, and it was presented.

I am inclined to think Mr. Tenant would have been willing to have taken him into his own firm, had Hiram wished, but he had no such ambition. He desired by himself to lay broad and deep the foundation of a large business, and have it expand and become great in his own hands. He did not believe in partnerships; it is doubtful if he were willing to trust human nature so much as to admit anybody to such a close relation as that of business associate.

In the management of his affairs, Hiram made it a point to acquire the reputation of fair and honorable dealing. His word was his bond. That was his motto; and he carried it out fully and absolutely. Mistakes could always be corrected in his establishment. No matter if the party were legally concluded. He stood by his contracts. A mere verbal say so, though the market rose twenty-five per cent. on his hands the next half hour, could be relied on as much as his indenture under seal. And so he gained a splendid name the very first year of his mercantile career. Yet, I must say it, behind all this fine reputation, this happy speech of men, this common report and general character, sat Hiram alert and calculating, whispering to himself sagaciously: 'Honesty is the best policy.'

[In affairs, he meant. Had he carried the apophthegm out into every detail of life, through its moral and social phases, it would have required indeed the eye of the Omniscient to have discerned and penetrated his error.]

I come to the close of Hiram's first year of business on his own account. He had suddenly loomed into importance. But never was there an effect more directly traceable to a cause. He did not embark till he was in readiness for the venture, and results came quickly. With change of position he had made corresponding changes in his social life. He left Eastman's, and took pleasant though not expensive quarters in a more fashionable part of the city, not far indeed from Mr. Tenant's house. He visited in company with Emma all her family friends and acquaintances. He made such progress in the church, that the majority of the female teachers in the Sunday school were in favor of electing him superintendent. In short, he was becoming a very popular young man.

As I have said, I come to the close of Hiram's first year. I wish I could stop here. I go on with that reluctance which I invariably feel when recording what must add to the repugnance with which we all regard Hiram's character.

The engagement between Hiram and Miss Tenant had been made public. The time for the marriage was fixed at about the first of July—only six weeks distant. It was a period when Hiram felt he could leave town most conveniently for his wedding trip. The preparations on Emma's part were ample as became her family and social position. She was very happy. She loved this young man, and believed he loved her. Hiram was good natured and agreeable, and did all in his power to exhibit his best qualities. The result was that he was very much liked by both Mr. and Mrs. Tenant, and was already quite domesticated at their house.

During the spring there was a great deal of speculation in certain leading articles of export. The house of Allwise, Tenant & Co., having first class correspondents abroad and enjoying large credit, advanced more liberally than was prudent. It was the younger members who decided to go largely into the enterprise. There came a panic in the market. Several leading houses in London and Liverpool failed, others in New York followed, and among them Allwise, Tenant & Co.

It proved that this firm, though eminently sound and above board, was not as wealthy as was generally supposed. Its high character for integrity and honor, and an existence of near forty years without a reverse gave it great reputation for wealth and stability.

The blow was sudden and effective. The capital of the concern was wiped out of existence, and the individual property of the partners followed in this wake of destruction.

Hiram, like others, had overestimated Mr. Tenant's property. The latter was nevertheless a rich man for those days, and worth over one hundred thousand dollars. By this reverse he was penniless.

Hiram was on 'Change when he first caught the rumor of the catastrophe. His position with regard to the family (for his relations with it were now well understood) made it difficult for him to make many inquiries, but he hastened to his counting room and despatched a messenger to Hill to come to him forthwith. Hill was prompt, and having been carefully charged with his commission, at once started to execute it. He came back duly.

'All gone to——. Not a grease spot left of them.'

'Don't be so gross, Hill. You are constantly shocking me with your idle profanity. Are you sure, though?'

'Yes. More bills back, twice over, than they can pay. A clean sweep, by——.'

'That will do, Hill—that will do; but don't swear so, don't.'

'Now I am here,' continued Hill, 'what about that invoice of brandy to Henshaw? He declares the brandy ain't right. You know you thought'—

'Hill,' interrupted Hiram, 'I can't talk with you now. Leave me alone, and close the door after you.'

Hill went out without saying a word.

If we except a slight paleness which overspread his countenance, Hiram had exhibited no sign of emotion from the moment he heard of Mr. Tenant's failure to the time he disposed so summarily of his satellite Hill. When Hill left, he rose and walked two or three times quickly up and down the room, and then took his seat again. His thoughts ran something in this way: 'I never supposed old Tenant to have any business ability, but I thought the concern so well established it could go alone. So it could if those young fellows had not made asses of themselves. What's to be done? Tenant certainly has a large amount of individual property. It is worth saving. Respectable old name—if he keeps his money. (Hiram smiled grimly.) I will step round at once and offer my services, before other folks begin to tinker with him.'

On my word, reader, during all this time Hiram never once thought of Emma Tenant. She did not for a solitary instant enter in any of the combinations which he was so rapidly forming and reforming. So entirely was he occupied with canvassing the effect of the failure on his personal fortunes and thinking over what was best to be done under the circumstances, that he had no space in his brain, much less in his selfish heart, for the 'object of his affections,' to whom he was to be married in one little month.

How would she feel? How would the blow affect her? What could he do to reassure her? How could he best comfort her? What fond promises and loving protestations could he offer that now more than ever he desired to make her happy?

Nothing of this, nothing of this occupied him as he sat in his private office, rapidly surveying the situation.

Poor Emma!

Carrying out his decision, Hiram took his way to the establishment of Allwise, Tenant & Co.

He was immediately admitted to Mr. Tenant's private room. That gentleman sat there alone, with his eyes fixed on a long list which his bookkeeper had just furnished him. He looked somewhat disturbed and solicitous, but presented nevertheless a manly and by no means dejected mien.

'Ah, my dear boy, I knew there was no need of sending for you. I knew you would be here. God bless you. Sit down, sit down. I want to use your ready wit just now for a few minutes. Thank God, I have your clear head and honest heart to turn to.'

All this time Mr. Tenant was pressing Hiram's hand, which lay impassively in his. The honest man was too much carried away by his own feelings to notice the other's lack of sympathetic pity.

'Why, my dear sir,' said Hiram, at length, 'did you not give me some hint of this? We might have'—

'I had no idea of it myself till the mails were delivered this morning. Phillipson & Braines's stoppage has destroyed us. Such a strong house as we thought it to be! When they suspended, it discredited us with our other friends, for everybody knew our relations with them, so that they would neither accept our bills nor protect us in any way. We are struck down without warning.'

'No hope of reconstruction?' asked Hiram.

'None.'

'You wanted me just now, I think you said.'

'Yes. There are one or two matters which I am inclined to think should be treated as confidential. Certain collections, and so forth. We have already discussed it somewhat. You shall examine and give me your opinion.'

'Had you not better first make some arrangements to protect your individual property?'

'What?'

Hiram repeated the question, and in a more definite shape.

He was astounded when the honorable old merchant told him that he should make no reservations—that his property, all of it, belonged to his creditors, and to his creditors it should go.

Even in this juncture Mr. Tenant was so taken up with his own position that he failed to discover Hiram's real object. He actually turned consoler.

'Courage, my boy,' he exclaimed. 'My wife has a little sum of her own, about twelve thousand dollars, enough to keep us old folks from starving; and as soon as you are married, we will club together, and live as happy as ever—hey?'

'I hope, after all, matters are not as bad as you suppose,' said Hiram, wishing to make some response, but determining not to commit himself.

'Oh, but they are,' said Mr. Tenant. 'We must not deceive ourselves. However, let that pass. Now tell me what you think about these collections?'

Hiram forced himself to listen patiently to Mr. Tenant's statement, for he had not yet decided on the course he was presently to pursue. So he talked over the question, pro and con, managing to fully agree with the views of Mr. Tenant in every particular.

'I knew you would think as I do about this,' exclaimed the latter, joyfully. 'It does you credit, Hiram. It shows your honorable sense. How could I take that money and put it into the general indebtedness? How could I? Well, well, I have already employed too much of your time. We shall do nothing to-day but examine into matters. You will be up this evening?'

'Certainly.'

'Good-by till then, my dear boy.

Emma must spare you to me for once. To-night we will have our various statements ready, and I shall want your help to look them over.'

'The old fool,' muttered Hiram, as he left the place. 'The old jackass. I won't give it up yet, though. I will try his wife. I will try Emma. No, I won't give it up yet. I will go there this evening, and see what can be done. But if I find that—'

The rest of the sentence was inaudible.



HOW MR. LINCOLN BECAME AN ABOLITIONIST.

Perhaps, Messrs. Editors, you may recall A story you published some time in the fall,— I think 'twas October—your files will declare,— Bearing the title of 'Tom Johnson's Bear.'

* * * * *

Well, the story since that time has grown somewhat bigger, And has something to say about holding the 'nigger;' And something, likewise, about letting him go, The which I've no purpose at present to show: To wit, how a woodman, a kind-hearted neighbor, Returning at night from his rail-splitting labor, Found poor Mistress Johnson forlorn and distressed, In that perilous posture still holding the beast; And how she besought the kind gentleman's help, And how he'd have nothing to do with the whelp; And how he and Johnson soon got by the ears, And fought on the question of 'freedom for bears;' And how, inter alia, the beast got away And took himself off in the midst of the fray; And how Tommy Johnson at last came to grief: All which I omit, as I wish to be brief. The story's too lengthy—it must not be sent all To cumber your pages, my dear CONTINENTAL. At present my purpose, my object, my mission is To show how the woodman became 'Abolitionist.' Introductions, you know, like 'original sin,' Hang on, while you long for some sign of repentance In shape of the last and the welcomest sentence, So, in short, I'll cut short, draw a line, and begin.

* * * * *

The woodman one night was aroused by a clatter, Each one in the house crying, 'Ho! what's the matter?' All jumped out of bed and ran hither and thither, Scarce knowing amid their alarm why or whither; But soon it was found 'mid the tumult and din That burglars were making attempts to break in. And now there arose o'er the turmoil and noise The woodman's loud summons addressed to 'the boys.' 'The boys' quickly came, and on looking around, At one of the windows a ladder was found, And on it a burglar, who, plying his trade, A burglarious opening already had made.

Now the woodman, though making this nocturnal sortie All armed and equipped, at the rate of 'two-forty,' Called a halt, and proposed, before firing a gun, To question with care what had better be done. Forthwith he assembled a council of war, To gravely consider how fast and how far In a case of this kind it was lawful to go. Some said, 'Smash the ladder,' but others said, 'No, There were many objections to that, and the chief Was the constitutional rights of the thief; That the ladder was property all men agreed, And as such was protected, secured, guaranteed; And if 'twas destroyed, our greatest of laws Could not be upheld and maintained 'as it was.'' But others replied, 'That ladder's the chief Supporter, as all men may see, of the thief; Let's aim at the ladder, and if it should fall, Let the burglar fall with it, or hang by the wall As well as he can; and by the same token, Whose fault will it be if his neck should be broken?' To which it was answered, 'That ladder may be The chattel of some honest man, d'ye see.' 'Well, then, we will pay for't.' 'No, never!' says V., 'To be taxed for that ladder I'll never agree; You have brought on this fuss,' said V., mad and still madder; 'You always intended to break the man's ladder; You have been for a long time the people deceiving With false and pretended objections to thieving; You never desired to have robbing abolished; You only have sought to have ladders demolished.'

'Pray, hold!' said another, 'perhaps while we're trifling About this old ladder, the thief will be rifling The house of its contents, or, venturing further, May set it on fire—the children may murder.' 'Can't help it,' says V.; 'though he murder to-day, Who knows but to-morrow the murderer may Repent and reform; then who shall restore The ladder all perfect and sound as before? But whether or no, I can never consent That the thief and the ladder should make a descent, Which haply might hurt a burglarious brother, Or totally wreck and demolish the other.'

The woodman bade 'Silence!' He cried out, 'Ho! list!' Then called on the burglar his work to desist, And made proclamation throughout all the town That if in a specified time he came down And gave a firm pledge of obeying the laws, He might keep his old ladder all safe 'as it was;' But if he pursued his felonious intent Beyond the time given, he'd cause to be sent 'Mid the conflict of arms and the cannon's loud thunder, A missile to knock his old ladder from under. Then pausing to see the effect of his speech, He saw nought but the thief still at work at the breach; And, being opposed to thieves visiting attics, Combined with those vile anti-ladder fanatics, And sent a projectile which left the thief where Thieves and traitors should all be, suspended in air, Except that he lacked what was due to his calling, A hempen attachment to keep him from falling.

Then burglars, and thieves, and traitors, and all Their friends sympathetic forthwith 'gan to bawl, 'We're ruined! we're ruined! To what a condition The country is brought by this man's abolition!' And echo replied: 'Oh! dreadful condition! Abolition—bolition—bolition—abolition!'



COST OF A TRIP TO EUROPE, AND HOW TO GO CHEAPLY.

The question is often asked of those who have been to Europe: 'What does it cost?' 'For how little can one travel abroad?' etc. For it is within the hopes of many to go at one time or another; and many would indulge the anticipation more freely, if they 'could see their way,' as the Yorkshire man wanted to do when he thought of getting married. I propose to throw some little light on this oft-repeated question.

The expense of a journey depends greatly on the manner in which it is made. People who go to Europe, frequently imagine that they must go in a certain degree of style; they must expend something by way of showing that they are somebody in their own country! To carry out this idea, they go, on first landing, to expensive hotels; they carry considerable luggage, travel in first-class carriages, and incur various other expenses, to show John Bull and the continentals that they belong to the superior class at home. These people pay largely for their whistle, or trumpet. They will tell you you cannot go to Europe for less than three or five thousand dollars apiece. They fancy they have made a good impression on the Europeans; whereas the Europeans never noticed their vain little attempts at showing off. Nobody cared what they paid or gave away; and the very courier who flattered, or the servants who fawned on them for their money, laughed at them behind their backs. There is another class, more quiet and moderate, who want to be economical, but do not know how to be. They will tell you a short trip can be taken for a thousand or fifteen hundred dollars. They go by the guide books, and those are based always on 'first-class prices and a liberal expenditure.' There are no guide books for those who would study economy; who would submit to some privations for the sake of seeing foreign lands and acquiring the desirable knowledge which can only be gained by personal observation. For such, a guide book is very much needed. They constitute a large class of persons. They have an ardent desire to visit the Old World and places of renown—they would go in crowds, but for fear of the expense, and the assurances of their friends that it will cost so much. When we assure them that a trip to England and Scotland, and a tour through France, Germany, Prussia, Holland, Switzerland, and part of Italy, covering four or five months, may be made, has been made, for four hundred dollars, including first-class steamship passages going and returning, they may be encouraged to think of starting as soon as gold is at par.

A gentleman who has established hotels in England and Scotland, and published a Guide through London, says no traveller need pay at a hotel more than eighteen pence (thirty-seven cents of our money) a day for his room. To this is usually added from eighteen to twenty-five cents for attendance; gas being two cents extra per night. In London, however, such moderate hotels are usually in the business part of the town. In the desirable portions for a sojourn, private board and lodging can be had from a guinea to a pound and a half a week; or two furnished rooms may be taken at four or five dollars or more per week. This includes the service of cooking and serving meals; the tenant furnishing the marketing, which costs from two dollars to two dollars and a half a week for each person. This is the cheapest way of living for a party. Such rooms may be found by looking in newspaper advertisements. Agents make them cost more. It will be easy, by making a few inquiries, to hear of a dozen such places; and as people do not move so often in London as here, the knowledge may be available for a year or two.

In Edinburgh, Glasgow, and other cities, the cheap hotels are found in the very best localities. They usually advertise in Bradshaw's 'Monthly Guide,' and in the newspapers. They have clean beds and nice rooms almost universally. If the traveller desires strictly to economize, he need not pay for meals in the hotel, where 'a plain breakfast' (tea and bread and butter) will cost twenty-five cents, and dinner fifty cents; he can, if he choose, go to one of the numerous restaurants in the vicinity, and dine comfortably for twelve cents: other meals in proportion. These places are numerous and good in the cities of Great Britain. On the Continent, the prices at restaurants are higher, for strangers at least; a marked distinction being made between them and the inhabitants of the country. 'I forestieri tutti pagano' (foreigners all pay), said a Venetian sexton; and that is the rule for universal practice throughout Europe. An order for roast beef at a restaurant will not cover, as it does here and in England, potatoes and bread; they are charged for extra; from three to five cents for a roll; six or eight for potatoes. Ice is too expensive a luxury everywhere across the seas to be thought of by the tourist limited in means. But if restaurants are dear, the markets are cheap in Europe; and the people of the country usually carry provisions with them. You may see ladies provided each with a small basket, from which are produced in the cars a bottle of vin ordinaire and water, rolls of bread, and slices of ham or tongue. These furnish the simple but wholesome repast. Cream cheeses, delicious in quality, are to be procured in France and Italy, with cooked mutton chops, parts of roast fowl, sausage of fresh chicken and tongue, pork and mutton pies, etc., all obtainable fresh at provision stores. A bunch of grapes that will cost a franc (twenty cents) at the railway-station refreshment room, may be had in the market for one or two cents; and other articles in proportion. The custom of the people, and the abundant provision of such things, will suggest to the economical traveller a method of saving largely in his daily expenses. Those who like tea—which they cannot get well made on the Continent—had better take a spirit lamp and apparatus for making it in their rooms. But little trouble is involved in thus providing for one's wants; the most is in making tea or coffee. Those in the habit of so living will save the expensive hotel meals. In hotels, where there is a table d'hote, dinner costs from three and a half francs (seventy cents) to five (a dollar). The breakfast consists merely of bread and cafe au lait, unless extras are ordered, and those are liberally charged for. Nowhere are travellers expected to pay for meals at hotels unless they choose to take them. Se non mangiate, non pagate. ('If you eat nothing, you pay nothing.')

The prudent tourist will always bargain for the prices of rooms. In the first-class hotels on the Continent there are usually to be had upper rooms at thirty or forty cents a day. In second-class hotels in France and Italy a room may be obtained for twenty cents, the charge for service being ten cents extra. Candles are always charged for separately; in cheap rooms, ten cents; in higher priced, a franc each per night; the waiter being careful to remove the partially burned one. The best plan is to carry wax candles in one's basket. Soap is never provided, and is an expensive article when called for.

In Germany and Holland the price of a room per day is a florin or guilder—about forty-three cents. Living generally is higher than in Italy, but cooked provisions are abundant and excellent. Throughout Europe, you may be sure of clean beds and tables, no matter how uninviting the premises appear.

One half the cost of travel, and one's temper besides, may be saved by going in third-class carriages. On the Continent the second-class ones are as luxurious as the first, and are preferred by tourists generally. But, except in having no cushions, the third class will prove comfortable enough; the chance for seeing the country is rather better. Here the people of the country are met—chiefly the poorer class—very decent in appearance, however, and invariably respectful and kind in their manners. A large number of monks and nuns will be found here, also well-dressed ladies, who feel more protected than in the superior class of carriages. In the latter, indeed, one is exposed to various annoyances escaped in third-class carriages. The tourists, who abound, are often insolent and encroaching. A burly Englishman or stolid German will not hesitate to turn a timid lady out of her seat; and if ladies have no gentlemen with them, they may be insulted by rude staring or scornful looks from women provided with escorts or a little more finely dressed. All these causes of disturbance are escaped among the third class, where the utmost deference is always shown to strangers.

In Great Britain, where Mrs. Grundy reigns with absolute sway, there is a prejudice against the inferior classes of railway carriages, partially overcome among the middle people of late, as far as the second class is concerned; they dare not go in the third. But strangers may be more independent, and may do as they please without reproach. There is nothing to choose in the way of comfortable accommodation between the second and third-class carriages in England; the latter are called 'parliamentary,' on account of the governmental regulation compelling the companies to run them, and fixing the fare at one penny (two cents) a mile. Smoking is not permitted at all in England; on the Continent it is customary, even in first-class carriages and in diligences. When travelling in the diligence or stage coach, secure, if possible, the coupe or highest priced places. The front windows command a better view than the side ones of the interior; and where a better view can be had, it is worth paying for. On the Mediterranean steamers take first-class places; the best are bad enough to be intolerable. The second cabins of the steamers crossing the British Channel are pretty good for a short voyage.

A copy which I am permitted to make from the diary of one who travelled with some ladies last summer, from Paris to Florence in Italy and back, gives the entire cost of the trip—occupying a month—at $106.13. This estimate includes hotel fares, fees, carriage hire, etc., as well as travelling expenses. A copy from the note book of a party who travelled over England and to Edinburgh and Glasgow—spending over two months—gives the sum total of that as $119.42. This includes fares to and from Paris ($5 second class), and board in Paris as well as in Great Britain. We may therefore put down the cost of a trip to Europe as follows:

Passage (first class) on steamship of New York, Philadelphia and Liverpool line, from New York to London $80 00

Returning in same line (fifteen guineas) 79 00

Travelling and board in Great Britain and Paris 119 42

Tour on the Continent 106 13

Allow for stewards' fees, cabs, omnibuses, and a few expenses not noted 15 45

Total cost of European trip, $400 00

Fees to guides, sextons, etc., on the Continent, seldom exceed a franc (twenty cents) each; half that, or a franc for a party, will often suffice. If a church is open for service, nothing is to be paid. Gifts to guides in England average sixpence or an English shilling. The custom of giving money to servants in private houses where one is entertained as a guest, is burdensome and unjust.

In Paris, board and lodging can be had at excellent houses, filled with fashionable guests, for a dollar a day, exclusive of a franc a week each to the maid and waiter. Arthur's celebrated family hotel, 9 Rue Castiglione, afforded accommodation to a party of three at this rate, with a suite of rooms in the Rue St. Honore, breakfast to order in the private parlor, the constant attendance of a servant, and dinner at the hotel table d'hote. The party found their own candles. A party thus can be as well accommodated as in one of the chief hotels. A single gentleman, who cares less for the elegancies of life, can have a furnished room for seven dollars a month with attendance, or a room at a cheap hotel for a dollar a week, without meals.

It must be understood that the estimate of $400 for the cost of a tour abroad does not include the price of exchange at the present time, or any exchange. It is simply the amount paid out in our own currency. The purchases made by a tourist of clothing, curiosities, etc., are of course extra. The amount will provide for a tour extending to between four and five months. Three or four weeks are allowed for in London, and two or three weeks in Paris. If the tour be extended and more time be consumed, the additional expense may easily be calculated. Bradshaw's 'Continental Guide' will give the exact cost and distance on the railways; and for hotel expenses, lunches, and fees, a dollar a day will provide the economical traveller. He will need no courier, nor, if he knows the language (French will do, but it is better also to understand Italian and German), a valet de place. Both are better dispensed with.

One word as to luggage. Let no traveller encumber himself or herself with a trunk on the Continent. A valise or a carpet bag that can be carried in the hand, will hold enough. Four or five changes of linen, and one dress, besides the travelling costume, are all sufficient. Washing can be done in a few hours anywhere. A lady had better wear a dress of strong dark stuff, and have a black silk for a change. She will need no more, even if months are spent abroad. Even in England a trunk is a nuisance; for luggage cannot be checked, and continual care is necessary. In some remote stations even labels cannot be had, and porters are scarce. I have known passengers, when no porters came to take their trunks to the van, compelled to thrust them into the carriage at the last moment. The better plan is to have only what can be carried under your own eye.



TOUCHING THE SOUL.

Reader, did it ever strike you that there are many theories touching this soul of ours which are generally accepted as truths, without any thought whatever on the subject; so universally accepted, indeed, that it is considered a waste of time to think upon them at all; but which, upon a thorough investigation, might possibly lose some of their old-time infallibility, and the consideration of which might well repay the trouble, by opening a field of thought at once interesting and instructive?

Such there are, and in this province alone are we of this day and generation entirely controlled by the opinions of those over whose dust centuries have rolled. We may speculate freely upon religion, and, while all must acknowledge that true religion is not progressive, new schemes of salvation spring almost daily into life from the brains of heretical thinkers, in their bold presumption stamping with error the simple faith of the primitive Christians. We may peer into the arcana of science and boldly question the theories of the learned of all ages. We may exhaust our mental powers upon points of political economy and the science of government; and even the domain of ethics may be fearlessly invaded and crowded with doubt. But into the unpretending pathway that leads to the secret nooks of the soul, to the foundations of all spiritual excellence, few feet may stray, and even those only to follow the beaten track worn by the feet of those olden thinkers whose very names have long since passed into oblivion, lest by their deviations they should outrage some of those universal prejudices, whose only claim to consideration is their traditionary origin.

And this path is but little trodden in our day, for two reasons; first, because, to the careless eye, it possesses few attractions, and its claims are lost in those of a more exciting and more eminently practical course of thought; secondly, because it seems to have been so thoroughly explored that we have only to read the writings of those who have gone before, and listen to traditionary speculations, to learn all that can be known about that which is our very existence, and, indeed, the only true existence.

Two great mistakes. The dying philosopher, one of the wisest the world has ever known, declared that all the knowledge he had gained was but as a grain of sand upon the seashore. So all that is known to-day about the soul is but a drop in the ocean of that great revealing which shall one day dawn upon man's spiritual existence. There is an infinite field yet unexplored—a very terra incognita to even those who pride themselves upon being learned in the mysteries of the soul. And to him who ventures upon this seemingly lowly path, so far from proving unattractive, it becomes a very Eden of thought. Unlooked-for beauties spring to light on every side; the very essence of music and poesy float around him as he advances; while above, around, and through all, sounds the magnificent diapason of everlasting truth.

True, there may be little of practical benefit—as the world defines practicality—in searching out the causes of the myriad emotions that sweep with lightning rapidity across the soul, now raising us to the summit of bliss, now plunging us into the depths of despair—little of practical benefit in endeavoring to analyze the soul itself into its constituent elements, and to bring ourselves face to face with our better, nobler selves, and with the Mighty Power which created us and all things. But there is, in this inner life, a pleasure higher and more lasting than those evanescent ones which the world can afford, and which elevates and purifies as they do not. And aside from mere pleasure, there is in such a study a practicability—taking the word in a broader and nobler sense—which puts to the blush man's busy schemes for wealth and honor. The beauties and sublimity of nature may indeed fill us with awe at the omnipotence of the mighty Architect, and with love and gratitude for His goodness, but it is only in the presence of the soul—His greatest work—that we realize the awful power of the Creator; it is only when threading the secret avenues of our own intellectual and spiritual being that we are brought into actual communion with God, and bow in adoration before Him who 'doeth all things well.' Therefore, I maintain that he whose meditations run most in this channel is not only the happiest, but the purest man; that his views of life are the broadest and noblest; that he it is who is most open to the appeal of suffering or of sorrow; who is most ready to sacrifice self and work for the good of his fellow beings, and to discharge faithfully his duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call him.

But I am digressing into a prosy essay, which I did not intend, and neglecting that which I did intend, namely, to jot down a few theories which have crept into the brain of one not much given to musing.

For even I—a poor 'marching sub'—sitting here by a cheery coal grate, and watching the white smoke as it curls lazily up from the bowl of my meerschaum, have theories touching the soul—theories born in the glowing coals and mounting in the curling smoke wreaths, but, unlike them, growing more and more voluminous as they ascend, till I am like to be lost in the ocean of speculations which my own musings have summoned up.

I heard, to-night, a strain of weird, unearthly music, sweet and sad beyond expression, but distant and fleeting. Yet long after it had ceased, the chord that it awakened in my heart continued to vibrate as with the echo of the strain which had departed. An unutterable, indescribable longing filled my soul—a vague yearning for something, I knew not what. My whole spiritual being seemed exalted to the clouds, yet restrained by some galling chain from the heaven it sought to enter. And then I asked myself, What is the secret of this mysterious power of music; where shall we look for the cause of those undefinable yet overwhelming emotions which it never fails to excite? A hopeless question it seemed, one which the philosophers of all ages have failed to solve, perhaps because they have not troubled themselves to inquire very seriously about it; and again, perhaps it has baffled them as it has me, and tens of thousands of others of the humbler portion of humanity. And so I fell to dreaming after this wise:

The soul of man is created perfect, so far as regards the presence of every faculty necessary for its development, for its happiness, or misery, in this world or the next. Circumstances may alter it in degree, but in its constituent elements never. The same yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow, at the moment of its creation and a thousand ages to come. Not even its passage from the body into its future and eternal home can endow it with a single new faculty, or eradicate one of the old. Yet each one of these faculties, capabilities, or sensibilities, is capable of development to an infinite degree. And in this development lies the soul's progress to perfection; it is to go on, through all the ages of its eternal existence, constantly approaching the divine, yet never reaching the goal, like that space between two parallel lines, which mathematicians bisect to infinity. Certain of these faculties, of the very existence of which even the soul itself is unconscious, are those whose province lies purely in the world beyond, to which we all are tending. Never exerted in this life, with which they have nothing to do, through all the earthly existence they sleep quietly in their hidden cells; but when once the silver cord is loosed, and the freed spirit mounts into its native atmosphere, then these dormant powers and susceptibilities are awakened from their slumbers, and take the lead in the march of development, outstripping all others in the race, and soon becoming the ruling powers of the soul. These are they which shall listen to the music of heaven—these are the spiritual senses which shall hear and see and taste and feel those ineffable glories, of which our earthly pilgrimage has no appreciation, and which, if presented to us in the body, we could not perceive, nor, perceiving, comprehend. These are they which shall worship and adore, comprehending the glory of Omnipotence, and drinking in and pouring out the full stream of divine and never-failing love and gratitude.

Reader, did you ever listen to the sympathetic vibrations of a musical string? Place in the corner of your room a guitar—it matters not if it have but a single string, that alone is sufficient for the experiment—then, sitting at some distance from it, sing, shout, or play upon some loud-toned instrument, or, beginning at the foot of the chromatic scale, sound, round and full, each semitone in succession and at separate intervals. The instrument is mute to every note until you strike the one to which the guitar string is attuned; then indeed, the spirit of melody imprisoned within the musical string recognizes its kindred sound, and springs sweetly forth to meet it. You pause, and a low, sweet strain sighs softly through the room, as if a zephyr had swept the string, dying gently away like the faintest breathing of the evening breeze. Repeat the note, and louder than at first, and again its counterpart replies, swelling higher than before, as if in gentle remonstrance that you should deem it necessary to call again to that which has already replied.

Even so it is with these hidden faculties or susceptibilities of which I have been speaking. In the notes of witching music, in the numbers of poesy, in the sight of beauty, either of nature or of art, either aesthetic or moral, these silent powers recognize a faint approximation to that beauty with which they will have to do in that world where they shall be called into action: they too recognize the kindred spirit, and, springing forward to meet it, vibrate in unison with the chord. But yet, restrained by their prison of clay, bound down by the immutable law which bids them wait their time, their great deep is but troubled, and while, from their swaying and surging, a delicious emotion spreads over the soul, filling the whole being with indescribable joy, it is an emotion which we cannot fathom, vague and undefined, at which we wonder even while we enjoy. To each and all of us the doors of heaven are closed for the present; we never have heard the songs of the celestial spheres, and how should we recognize their echo here on earth, even though that echo is swelling through our own hearts? And the sadness and yearning which such emotions invariably produce, may they not be the yearning for heaven's supernal beauty, and sadness for the chains which bar us from its full realization? Or is it the reflex of the struggles and the disappointment of that portion of the spirit which I have assigned as the mover of the emotion itself?

Carry still further the parallel of the vibrating string, and we shall illustrate the different degrees of emotion. It is only by sounding a note in exact unison with that to which the string is attuned that we get the full force of the sympathetic vibration, which is more or less distinct according as we approach or depart from the keynote, till we reach the semitone above or below, when it ceases altogether. Even so do our emotions increase in exact proportion as the exciting cause approaches perfection—according as the beauty heard or seen or felt approaches the heavenly keynote. A simple ballad awakens a quiet pleasure, while the magnificent symphonies of Beethoven or Mozart fill the soul with a rapture with which the former feeling is no more to be compared than the brooklet with the ocean; for the latter is inexpressibly nearer to its heavenly model.

Carry out the theory to its legitimate result, and we shall see that if it were possible to produce, here on earth, music equal to that which rings through the celestial arches—if it were possible here to create beauty in any form, which should fully equal that which shall greet the freed spirit on its entrance into that better world, then indeed would our emotions reach their highest possible climax; then indeed should we hear and see and feel, not with the bodily senses, but with the senses of the soul; then would there be no vagueness, no sadness in the feeling as now, but clear and well defined would be our knowledge, comprehending all spiritual things. Then would our heaven be here on earth, and we should desire no other. Wisely has a great and merciful God thrown an impenetrable veil between the soul and its future belongings, and clipped its wings lest it soar too soon.

So much for a simple strain of music. A trifling matter, perhaps you will say, to make so much talk about. Not quite so trifling as you may think, however; for a single musical chord is a more important and complex thing than to the careless ear it would seem. Who ever cares to study a single chord of music? And yet how few are there who know that it is composed of not three or four but a myriad of separate and distinct sounds, appreciable in exact proportion to the cultivation of the ear? The uncultivated ear perceives but the three or four primitive or fundamental notes of the chord, while, to the nicer perception, the more delicate susceptibility of the ear trained by long study and practice to analyze all musical sounds, come harmonic above harmonic, sounds of melody above, beneath, and beyond the few prime motors which act as the nucleus to the gush of tiny harmony which fills the ear—sounds clear and distinct, yet blending in perfect order and symmetry with their fundamental notes, and partaking so much of their character and following with such unerring certainty their direction as to become voiceless to the ear unskilled.

And why should this not be so? Is it not reasonable to suppose that the current of undulations in the atmosphere producing these united sounds should communicate its agitation in some degree to the circumambient air, creating thousands of delicate ramifications branching off in all possible directions from the main channel, yet all partaking of its peculiar character, and becoming in themselves separate sounds, yet consonant and harmonious?

Ah! could we but see the vibrations of the atmosphere which a single musical chord produces—the rolling bass, the gliding alto, the sweeping soprano, and the soaring tenor, rolling onward in one broad channel of harmony, with its myriad tributary streams of thirds and fifths, and its curling, twinkling, shifting, blending, soaring mists of delicate-toned harmonics, how would our enjoyment of music be enhanced! how would both eye and ear be delighted, enraptured with the poetry of motion, the harmony of sound, the eternal and indestructible order and concord and consonance of both sight and sound! But this is reserved for the experience of pure spirit—this is reserved to enhance the beauty of the celestial realm. Some day we shall see and hear and know it all—some day in that heavenly future, when the soul of man shall converse and praise and adore in one blended strain of aesthetic beauty, which shall contain within itself the essence of all music and poesy and enraptured sight.

Thinking thus earnestly about the soul, one comes naturally to speculate upon the question of the spirit's return to earth after its final departure from the body. It is a beautiful belief that the souls of our departed friends are permitted to hover around us here on earth, watching all our outgoings and incomings, sympathizing in all our joys and sorrows, mourning over our transgressions, and rejoicing at our good deeds—in a word, acting the parts of guardian angels. And there are many, even in our day, who hold such a faith. Yet it is a belief founded in imagination and poetic ideas of beauty, rather than in sober truth either of reason or of revelation. The strongest argument I have ever heard against this belief is contained in the remark of a poor old English peasant. 'Sir,' said he, 'I doan't believe the speerits can come back to us; for if they go to the good place, they doan't want to come back 'ere again; and if they goes to the bad place, why God woan't let 'em.' There was more philosophy in the remark than he knew of, and I have not yet found the philosopher who did not stagger under it.