Working a Passage, and Other Stories
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

WORKING A PASSAGE,

AND OTHER STORIES

BY

CHARLES FREDERICK BRIGGS

List of sources and original registration or publication dates:

- Working a Passage; or, Life in a Liner—reg. 1845, by HOMANS & ELLIS

- The Knickerbocker, Vol. 14 (Jul-Dec)—pub. 1839, by CLARK AND EDSON

- The Knickerbocker, Vol. 15 (Jan-Jun)—pub. 1840, at 145 FULTON-STREET

- The Knickerbocker, Vol. 18 (Jul-Dec)—reg. 1841, by JOHN BISCO

- The Knickerbocker, Vol. 21 (Jan-Jun)—reg. 1843, by JOHN ALLEN

- The Knickerbocker, Vol. 23 (Jan-Jun)—reg. 1844, by JOHN ALLEN

- The Knickerbocker, Vol. 27 (Jan-Jun)—reg. 1846, by JOHN ALLEN

- Asmodeus; or, the Iniquities of New York—reg. 1848, by C. G. GRAHAM & CO.

- Putnam's Monthly, Vol. 1 (Jan-Jun)—reg. 1853, by G. P. PUTNAM & CO.

- Putnam's Monthly, Vol. 2 (Jul-Dec)—reg. 1853, by G. P. PUTNAM & CO.

- Putnam's Monthly, Vol. 3 (Jan-Jun)—reg. 1854, by G. P. PUTNAM & CO.

- Putnam's Monthly, Vol. 4 (Jul-Dec)—reg. 1854, by G. P. PUTNAM & CO.

- Putnam's Monthly, Vol. 1 [New Series] (Jan-Jun)—reg. 1868, by G. P. PUTNAM & CO.

CONTENTS.

————

Working a Passage; or, Life in a Liner.

[1846 Edition]

- Chapter I.—The Cause Why.

- Chapter II.—Getting Adrift.

- Chapter III.—The Scattergood

- Chapter IV.—The Cove.

- Chapter V.—The Passage.

- Chapter VI.

- Chapter VII.

- Chapter VIII.

Short works from The Knickerbocker:

- Gimcrackery [August, 1839]
- Gimcrack the Second [September, 1839]
- Gimcrack the Third [October, 1839]
- Gimcrack the Fourth [November, 1839]
- Gimcrack the Fifth [December, 1839]
- Gimcrack the Sixth [March, 1840]
- The Day-Dream of a Grocer [November, 1841]
- The Two Pledges [April, 1843]
- International Copy-right [October, 1843]
- A Veritable Sea-Story [February, 1844]
- Peter Funk's Revenge [January, 1846]
- Playing on One String [April, 1846]

Asmodeus; or, the Iniquities of New York

[1849 Edition]

- Publisher's Notice.

- Preface.

- Chapter I.—The Magdalens of New York.

- Chapter II.—The Model Artiste.

- Chapter III.—The Three Sisters—as Model Artistes.

- Chapter IV.—The Counterfeiters.

- Chapter V.—The Betrayer and the Betrayed.

- Chapter VI.—Mose in a Muss.

- Chapter VII.—The Old Brewery.

- Chapter VIII.—A Wife with Two Husbands; or, the Adventures of a Beautiful Woman.

- Chapter IX.—The Woman with Two Husbands, Concluded.

- Chapter X.—Scenes and Actions in the Society of Moral Reform

- Chapter XI.—A Scene in Duane-street.

- Chapter XII.—Scenes in a Boarding House, in which a Beautiful but Mysterious Young Widow Figures.

- Chapter XIII.—The Fancy Ball.

- Chapter XIV.—A Word About Gamblers.

Short works from Putnam's Monthly:

- Uncle Tomitudes [January, 1853]

- Elegant Tom Dillar [May, 1853]

- Miss Bremer's Homes of the New World [December, 1853]

- Literary Piracy [January, 1854]

- Places of Public Amusement [February, 1854]

- The Cruise of the Steam Yacht North Star [May, 1854]

- A Yankee Diogenes [October, 1854]

- The Old and the New: A Retrospect and a Prospect [January, 1868]

Working a Passage; or, Life in a Liner.

CHAPTER I.

THE CAUSE WHY.

A NEW book is not so great a rarity in these days as to require an apology for its appearance; but when an author has a reasonable excuse to offer for his work, it is better to give it than to put the reader to the trouble of divining excuses for him. Besides, I cannot but think, judging from my own feelings, that the public will be more ready to listen patiently to any one who challenges their attention, when the challenger explains his motives for so doing in the outset.

My motive, then, in writing and publishing this little book, is to furnish a hint to those young men, very numerous I fear they are, who sometimes find themselves suddenly deprived of their accustomed means of support, and before they become used to standing alone, fall so heavily to the ground, as to be unable ever to rise again. I can conceive nothing more melancholy, than to see one human being dependent upon another for support, when nature has not deprived him of the lawful means of supporting himself. In one sense, men are all dependent upon each other; and therefore, whosoever receives anything from his fellow creatures should return an equivalent, or he is not worthy to remain among them; he is a useless member in the arch of society, a block that gives neither ornament nor strength, and should therefore be removed.

No man should ever hesitate, either to ask, or receive aid from others, who is conscious of a desire to aid himself. In working for himself, he has worked for others. The most selfish people do a vast deal of good to their neighbours without knowing it. The farmer, who from motives of intense selfishness, tills his ground so that it produces a double crop, lightens the burden of his poorer neighbour, who is in consequence enabled to buy cheaper bread. Society has nothing to ask of its members, but that each one should be intensely selfish and provide for his own necessities.

Though an honest man should never blush to receive aid, yet nothing can be more gratifying to such an one, than the consciousness of having extricated himself from pecuniary embarrassments by the sweat of his own brow; while the most depressing condition that an intelligent mind can be placed in, is that of dependence upon friends, or of indebtedness to any body. To have eaten the bread of honest industry—the industry that causes the sweat to start from the brow—is to have tasted, one of the greatest enjoyments of life. How many miss it, who dream of having skimmed the cream of human felicities! Many rich men seek after this enjoyment by boisterous amusements, and violent exercises in the open air; but they mistake the negative pleasure of repose after weariness, for the positive zest of enjoyment, which is the sure reward of industry. "Labour for labour's sake is against nature," says Locke. They mistake fatigue of the body for the refreshment of mind which only an honest purpose can give to labour. A man may strengthen the muscles of his arms by the use of dumb-bells, but such exercise will enfeeble his mind, as much as though he wasted his time in toying with a doll.

Many young men, both in town and country, have disgracefully resorted to fraud and meanness to save themselves from what they have falsely considered the degradation of labour; and for so doing they have not been so much open to blame as the instructors who instilled such pernicious ambition into their minds. Society should be most lenient to the vices which its own rules engender; but in an ill-organized community, everything is distorted from its right use, and punishments and rewards are meted out to the greatest extent, where they are least deserved. Our statute law makes no distinction between the man who eats his bread by the sweat of his own brow, and him who eats it by the sweat of another's. Not so our common law—our law of daily habit—which is read by all men, and therefore most regarded. The soft hands and the hard hands are distinct orders in our social constitution; where all men are very far from being equal. It was my lot to be reared among the former, and to imbibe all their prejudices, and be swayed by all the effeminate customs of the caste. For this I do not blame those who had the direction of my education. It would be impossible, by precept, to counteract the effect which the practice of the world has upon the minds of the young. The only true teaching for youth is example.

Happily, I was compelled to learn a lesson in regard to these things, before my mind had become so hardened in the mould in which it was first formed, as to be incapable of receiving other impressions.

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CHAPTER II.

GETTING ADRIFT.

IN the beginning of July, l832, New-York was thrown into a consternation by the appearance of the Asiatic cholera, and all who had the means of leaving the city, began to make arrangements for their departure. Being an only son, I was a pet with my mother, who urged my father to send me away until the threatened pestilence should be passed. For my father's occupations were of a nature that compelled him to remain in the city, and she refused to leave without him. But where should I go? Since the terrible epidemic had made its appearance upon the continent, it was impossible to anticipate the points of its attack; and there seemed as much danger in visiting any neighbouring city, as in remaining at home. A place of safety immediately suggested itself to my own mind,—Europe. At first my father opposed it strongly. I was in my twentieth year, and it had been arranged that I should go into business with a fellow-clerk a few years older than myself, when I reached my majority. He was apprehensive that I should fall into loose habits; the very sound of Europe seemed to alarm him with vague notions of uncertain expenses. He had an idea that one could not go to Europe without associating with the nobility and kings and emperors. But after making some inquiries among the importers of his acquaintance, he became satisfied that one might visit Europe without mixing with such expensive company; and finding that travelling abroad would cost very little more than travelling at home, he consented to my going.

My father's misapprehension about the kind of company that I should fall into in Europe, was not so much out of the way as some may think. He was a very diligent reader of newspapers, but he rarely read anything else; and as the health and doings of princes and the nobility form the greater portion of the European news dealt out to the public by the morning and evening presses, these personages naturally came first into his mind when Europe was mentioned; just as one would think of being introduced to the Grand Seignior, if he should talk of going to Constantinople.

My mother was very anxious that I should visit Europe, not only for my own improvement, but for the credit of the family. None of our name had gone back to the father-land since our ancestors came over two hundred years before. It was the 2d of July when my going was determined upon, and a packet, the Philadelphia, was to sail on the 10th for London; I engaged my passage immediately, and devoted the intervening time to preparations for my journey. At first it was determined that I should go no farther than Paris, and return as soon as I heard of the disappearance of the cholera; but as going to Europe was not likely to be an event of very frequent occurrence in my life, I prevailed upon my father to allow me to remain abroad a year, for I had a very strong desire to visit Florence and Rome. When the day of my departure arrived, I was half inclined to remain, for the pestilence had begun to spread to a very alarming extent, and I took leave of my parents and sisters with a heavy heart.

We had a tedious passage across the Atlantic, at least it seemed tedious to me, for I had never been at sea before and I suffered a good deal from sea-sickness.

The ship was new and her accommodations were excellent, but there was a woful difference between the narrow state-room of a ship's cabin, and the spacious chamber I had always occupied at home. And then the table! capital for a ship, no doubt; but I thought it a great hardship to eat my dinner without fresh vegetables, and to drink stale water; but worse than all, the uncertainty when I took a cup of coffee or a spoonful of soup in my hand, whether it would go down the inside or outside of my throat. These things were the merest trifles, scarcely worth a passing thought with an old traveller, but I thought they were very serious matters, and looked upon myself as quite a hero for enduring them.

There were some forty or fifty men, women and children, cooped up in a little hole between decks, forward of the cabin, called the steerage, who slept in hanging shelves eight or ten in a tier, and cooked their own food, when the weather would admit of a fire being kindled in the galley allotted to their use, who doubtless looked upon the passengers in the cabin as enjoying quite a Heaven afloat. But, never having suffered any discomforts myself, I could not feel for those who did, and therefore it never occurred to me that I was enjoying privileges which were denied to others, who were quite as worthy as myself. I have since looked back with amazement when I have thought of the apathy of feeling with which I regarded delicate looking women enduring hardships that I should have considered unbearable in my own case, and wondered that I could not perceive what a favoured creature I was. But the fish do not know that there is such an element as water, until they are drawn out of it.

The life of a passenger, whether in the cabin or steerage, on board of a packet ship, can hardly be called life; it is a state of half way existence between dreaming and waking, and, is not the kind of "life" which I intend to describe in these pages. Eating and sleeping are the only employments which a passenger can attend to, and these are never enjoyed with a zest, because they are indulged in too freely. The only event which really appears like life on the ocean, to a mere spectator, is a death. Death is always so near, so solemn, so positive and thought-compelling, that wherever he may come he forces us to remember that we are living beings, and that we have interests at stake beyond the little affairs which surround us. I was made fully sensible of the truth of these trite reflections before our passage was half made. In the cabin there was a lively young gentleman, who, like myself, had left New-York to avoid the cholera. He had been at sea before, and was almost the only passenger among us who did not suffer from sea-sickness. One day after dinner he stood by the fife-rail of the mainmast, smoking a cigar and chatting with Captain C——, when an iron marlinespike fell from the hands of a sailor who was at work at the head of the topmast, and struck him on the crown of his head. The sharp end of the marlinespike buried itself two or three inches in his brain. He died, almost instantly, and was buried the same evening. It was a calm, moonlight night, the ship was hardly moving through the water, but the main topsail was thrown aback according to sea etiquette; the peak of the spanker was lowered, the corpse, sewed up in a canvass shroud, with a heavy weight attached to the feet, was placed upon a plank with an end resting upon the taffrail. Our captain read the services for the burial of the dead at sea, while the crew and passengers gathered round with uncovered heads; when the last amen was pronounced, the plank was raised and the body of our companion plunged into the ocean. I could not see it, but looking over the taffrail immediately after,

I saw a few bubbles rise and burst, which seemed to say, this is life.

"Hard up your helm; wear round!" cried the mate, and we were once more on our way.

We arrived at Spithead on the 6th day of August, and I hurried ashore in the first boat that came off from Portsmouth, quite as anxious to get something comfortable to eat and drink, as to step upon English soil. Some of the passengers remained on board the ship until she reached London. But I got there a day or two ahead of her, and when she hauled into the St. Katharine's dock, I went on board of her with some such feelings of curiosity as a released prisoner may be supposed to experience in revisiting the place of his confinement, after tasting the sweets of freedom. Disagreeable as my recollections of the ship were, a few days' acquaintance with Mivart's, for an inconsiderate friend of my father's had recommended me to lodge at that expensive hotel, caused her to appear so very uncomfortable in my eyes, that I only took one look at my old state-room, with its narrow berth and blue morocco curtains, and shuddering at the thought of being compelled to squeeze myself into such contracted quarters again, I leaped ashore, and blessed myself that I was on dry land

I had determined to spend the summer and autumn in England and Scotland, and not visit Paris until November, when I expected to receive letters from home, and a bill of credit on Hottinguer & Co., which my father had promised to send me. I had the good fortune to make some pleasant acquaintances in Scotland, who detained me longer than I intended remaining there, so that I did not reach Paris until the middle of November, when my money was nearly spent. I called upon Hottinguer & Co. the day after my arrival, and found letters that had been lying there for more than a month. They contained no bill of credit, but they informed me of my father's death. He was almost the last victim of the cholera. In addition to this distressing news, I was informed by a letter from the young gentleman with whom I was to have formed a business connection, that my father had died insolvent, but that he would, on my return, complete the arrangements for our partnership, without regard to the deficiency of capital on my part, which he knew this unhappy event would cause. I was touched by his generosity, but it gave me the bitterest feelings I had ever experienced in my life, to find myself considered an object of compassion.

I had no friends in Paris; my money was nearly gone, and the necessity of taking some immediate steps towards home, would not allow me to give way to the bitterness of my grief. I had not sufficient money to pay for a passage from Havre to New-York, and I could not think of asking credit, with a probability of being unable to pay on my arrival. In looking over a file of English papers at Galignani's the day before, I had seen in Gore's Advertiser, the ship Seneca advertised to sail in a few days from Liverpool for New-York. This ship belonged to the merchants in whose counting-room I had served my time; I was well acquainted with the master, and I determined to return to England immediately, and go home in her; for I knew that a passage would cost me nothing. I left Paris the next morning, and arrived at Liverpool in three days. But a new disappointment awaited me. The Seneca had hauled out of dock, was still in sight, and bound down the river. The wind and tide were in her favour, and I found it would be impossible to overtake her with a boat. I returned to the Star and Garter Hotel in Castle-street, where I had landed, in a most unhappy state of mind. The expenses of coming from Paris had left me with a bare sovereign, but little more than enough to defray another day's expenses at the hotel.

I had but little time for thought; the next packet for New-York would not leave under a week, and even though I should get credit for a passage, what would support me in the mean time? I could sell my watch. But it was a gift from my father; and I could not endure the thought of parting with it. I could go as a steerage passenger; but I had no money to purchase provisions; and I remembered how wretchedly the steerage passengers had seemed to live on board the Philadelphia, how they were abused by the mate, and jeered by the sailors; my soul revolted at the thought of herding with such people. By appealing to some of the American ship-masters in the port, I could doubtless have borrowed the money; but as I had no prospect of repaying it when I got home, I could not entertain such an idea. It was humiliating enough to return to my mother penniless; I would not go to her in debt. Could I work my passage? The thing seemed impossible, but why should I not? why should not I work as well as another? was I composed of more precious material than other men? If not, why should I be exempt from their tolls and hardships? The possibility of such a thing gave me new life, and I went to bed and slept more soundly than I had done since I heard of my father's death. I rose early in the morning, paid for my lodging, for I had not ventured to eat anything at the hotel, told the clerk that I would send an order for my baggage, and sallied out, resolutely bent on looking steadily at Fortune, let her frown upon me as harshly as she might.

It was the last day of November; a cold, dreary, drizzling day; a dirty yellowish vapour hung over the city, so impervious to the sun's rays, that from any luminous appearance in the sky it was impossible to determine in what quarter of the heavens the great illuminator of our globe was shedding his beams. A suffocating stench of coal smoke pervaded the atmosphere, and everything dripped, dripped, dripped, dismally with rain; the gutters poured out never-failing streams of muddy water, too thick and slow to make a bubble; most of the shops had gas lights burning; and the fish-women, with baskets of herrings upon their heads, as they waded their miserable rounds, seemed too disheartened to cry their scaly commodities. Everybody was encased in oil-cloth, as though rain was a matter of course, quite the natural order of things; and women stalked securely through the streets with high pattens on their feet, which showed that long practice had enabled them to walk securely on those dangerous-looking stilts. Heavy, dismal, cheerless. I wonder now that I had the heart, in such an atmosphere, to keep my resolve. One such a day in New-York would create a panic, but here it was a matter of course. If it produced any effect at all, it only caused a trifling increase in the consumption of ale. If a traveller were to enter Liverpool on a clear day, he would be likely to notice the great number of "ale and spirit vaults," sooner than anything else; but on a day like this he would not think there was one too many; although nearly every other house in the business parts of the town displays either a bunch of grapes, or an "arms" of some kind

Travellers pretend to discover a resemblance in Liverpool to New-York; but the likeness is such as that of Monmouth to Macedon; there's a river runs by New-York, and there's a river runs by Liverpool,—but here all likeness ends. There are not two places in the world more unlike.

Having made a cheap breakfast at a gloomy chop-house in Pool Lane, I went directly to a second-hand clothing dealer's in Dale-street, and exchanged the clothes I had on for a complete suit of thick sea-togs, including a varnished sou'wester, a canvass cap lined with flannel, fitting tight to the head, the hinder part of it forming a kind of cape for the shoulders to keep the rain from running down the neck. My clothes were nearly new, so I received ten shillings besides the sea-togs, which, added to the remains of my last sovereign, gave me seventeen shillings; quite a little fortune, it seemed to me, now that I had got on a covering which I was not taxed for the privilege of wearing.

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CHAPTER III.

THE SCATTERGOOD.

I FELT very sailorish, but a professional observer would have detected some little incongruities between my manner and my dress, which would have revealed the fulness of my pretensions to the character I had assumed. It would be easier to ape the port of an emperor than the gait of a sailor. Of all the shams in the world there is none so easily detected as a sham sailor. However, regardless of the rain and the cold, the dismal lowering clouds, and drooping tendency that seemed to possess everything, I moved briskly through the dirty lanes and alleys that conducted me to Prince's Dock, where the majority of the American ships in port lay. I went the rounds of the dock, applying to every ship I found bound home, first for a berth as a sailor, and then for the privilege of working my passage. I was on the point of abandoning the pursuit in despair, when I espied a little dirty-looking bark with a high poop, which I had at first taken for an Englishman, with Baltimore painted on her quarter boards. Her name was the Scattergood, and a full length figure of her patronymic decorated her cutwater.

Unlike all the other American ships in the dock, she was a very shabby, disorderly-looking craft: her rigging all hanging in bights, points and gaskets flying from her yards, and her side and bulwarks stained with iron rust, she looked as though she had been fitted out by the parish. Her decks were in confusion, and her mates looked like anything but sailors. I stepped on board and asked for the captain; the cook, a Chinaman, pointed him out to me, standing upon the poop. He was a feeble little old man, dressed in a long snuff-coloured surtout; his hands were encased in a pair of buckskin mittens, and he was trying to screen himself from the penetrating mist by holding a faded green cotton umbrella over his head. The ship, her master, and her crew, seemed made for each other. But I was not in a condition to be squeamish; so without taking a very critical view of the wretched craft, I asked the captain to ship me as a sailor. He replied in a querulous piping voice, "No, no, no, I won't. I don't want you. What's your name?" I told him. "Go ashore, go ashore, go ashore, I won't have you."

To be driven off by such a character rather touched my pride, and I meant he should have me. So paying no attention to him, I told him he would miss it if he didn't take me.

"I won't have you, I can't, I can't, I don't like your looks; get out of my way, I don't want you."

So far from being intimidated by this unhandsome repulse, I felt angry with the miserable old skipper, and resolved he should have me. "If you won't give me wages," I said, "I will go without pay; but you must take me; I want to get home to my friends."

"What's your name?" I told him again.

"Are you a good sailor?"

"No, I am no sailor at all."

"I won't have you. You'll eat too much."

"Shall I go with you?" I said again, pretending not to hear his last reply.

"Plague on you, yes; if you will only leave me. The bark will sail after dinner, so bring your kit right off."

"Thank you, thank you," I replied, and jumping ashore, I ran to the hotel where I had left my baggage, and delivering an order for it which I had written myself, the porter gave me my trunk and carpet-bag, without recognising me, and I took them upon my back and bore them off to the bark, where I stowed them away in the forecastle; very strange looking baggage for a sailor. The forecastle was a wretched hole. It was even with the ship's deck, a mere shelter from the rain, called a top-gallant forecastle. The berths were merely rough boards loosely nailed together; and, as the chain-cables led directly through it, warmth and comfort were utter impossibilities, for the hawse-holes would admit water in all weathers, when there was the least motion to the ship, and the bulk-head was too slight and rickety to keep out the wind. It was not a very encouraging prospect for a winter passage across the Atlantic, particularly for me, as I had but a scanty supply of sea-clothing; but I was not disheartened by it. Anything seemed better than getting in debt. Besides, I should have companions, and I had too much pride to shrink from anything which more experienced men made no hesitation in encountering. It appeared, however, that the ship's whole crew had run away on account of this very top-gallant forecastle, and a new crew had been shipped, who shook their heads and looked very dismal when they saw what accommodations they had got to put up with. However, it was too late for repentance, they had received their month's advance, and were forced to go, but they looked very grim about it. When all the sailors were on board, the dock-gates were opened, lines were run out, and we began to warp the bark out into the stream. I worked as hard as I could, kept falling over ropes, and hauling upon everything, and raised dreadful blisters upon my hands. The two mates flew about from one part of the ship to the other, made a tremendous noise, were cursed by the pilot and shook their fists at the dock-gate men, who laughed at them, and called them Yankees. The wretched little captain stood all the while in a bewildered state, holding his cotton umbrella over his head, on the poop-deck, seemingly quite unconscious where the ship was going, or what they were doing with her. The sailors in the midst of all manned the capstan, and began to sing a manly air with a roaring chorus, ending in "Round the rock to Sally."

The two mates were as great curiosities in their way as the skipper himself. They were brothers; one of them wore a bob-tailed pepper and salt coat, with steel buttons, such as the flashy grocers in Orange and Mulberry streets wear when they go down town to buy cheap goods at auction, and the other, the second mate, sported a blue embroidered jacket, with large frogs, such as the skippers of Havanna and Mexican traders wear in New-Orleans. After an inconceivable waste of noise and ill-directed exertion, the Scattergood got fairly into the stream, the sails were loosened and sheeted home, a fair breeze sprung up, the heavy yellow clouds which had been all the morning hanging over the city began to loosen and melt away, and just as we rounded Black-Rock, the sun, which was fast sinking to the horizon, suddenly burst out, and illumined our ship with a ray of cheerful light that was quite electrifying. I was very willing to receive it as a happy augury, for I had need of something to keep my spirits from falling to zero.

The little breeze that had sprung up when we first quitted the dock, died away soon after the sun went down, the clouds all disappeared, and as it grew dark, the stars began to glitter and shine as we lay becalmed the whole night. And a mercy it was, for such was the want of order and regularity on board, that had it chanced to blow hard, we must have gone to the bottom. It being very still, gave us in the forecastle an opportunity to make the most of our accommodations. Wretched as they were, my companions did not appear to regard them as unusual, from which I supposed they had lived in as uncomfortable quarters before, and if they had not found them supportable, would never have sought such again; and I took heart, determined not to repine at what others could endure with cheerfulness, although it seemed to me impossible that I could ever live, even for one passage across the Atlantic, in such a hole.

It was quite dark before we were ordered to go to our supper, and as the matches had not been chosen, all hands went into the forecastle, excepting only the man at the wheel, (the helmsman.) A tub of boiled salt beef, very salt and very hard, resembling a knotty piece of mahogany, and another tub of navy bread, biscuits made of wheaten bran, called middlings, were brought to us by the cook, who informed us that no small stores, tea, coffee and molasses, were allowed. Some of the sailors grumbled a little at this information, and asked for a light, and the steward brought word from the captain that no light would be allowed. This caused a more general murmur of discontent, but one of the sailors had brought a pound of candles on board in his chest, and he lighted one and stuck it in an empty porter bottle that we had found in the forecastle, and good humour soon prevailed among us. The sailors' chests served for seats, and we arranged ourselves in a very small circle, with the beef and bread in the centre, and helped ourselves in turn, the oldest sailor taking the piece of beef in his hands first, and passing it round. I had eaten nothing since morning, and I had a voracious appetite; repulsive as this manner of carving seemed to me, I was rather impatient for my turn at the kid. I believe I ate my share of the bread and beef, although I could not help contrasting this meal with my last on shore, and thinking of Mivart's and the Star and Garter. I am not certain that I ever enjoyed one better. It was the first bread and meat that I had ever eaten in the sweat of my own brow. One of the crew had brought on board a small jug of beer, for rum was too costly a drink to be indulged in, which he served out to us, reserving no larger share for himself than he gave to the others. There was a fraternal kindness in this little act, that impressed me very favourably towards my shipmates. A jug of beer is no great matter on shore, but at the outset of a winter passage across the Atlantic, in a ship where no drops of comfort of any kind could be looked for, but a great many of cold water were certain, it required a degree of generosity amounting almost to heroism, to enable one to share such a precious cordial with others. The generous fellow who dealt out his beer so freely, proved to be one of the most chivalrous souls I have ever known. In the little time that we were together, I witnessed so many acts of true heroism in him, actions performed in the dark, when he was not conscious of being seen, that I have ever entertained a high regard for his memory. He called himself Jack Plaskett, though I found afterwards it was an assumed name. He was young, exceedingly good-looking, and, though a thorough sailor, well educated, and evidently accustomed to the society of very different associates from his present forecastle companions. There was a mystery about him which I could not unravel. He was rather an exception to, than a specimen of, the sailor character. But disinterestedness is by no means a rare virtue in the forecastle.

Another thing that pleased me among my rude companions, was their cutting off the best piece of beef and putting it aside for their absent companion—the man at the wheel. I found that sailors were very exact in the performance of certain little punctilios in their conduct towards each other, and that they regarded a breach of their code of sea morals with superstitious fear. I heard one relate a story of a shipmate who once called the watch ten minutes too soon, and the next night fell from aloft and was drowned; a judgment that he seemed to consider neither doubtful, nor disproportioned to the offence.

The hardships of sailors are so unmixed with pleasures; their sufferings are so certain, and their deprivations so much a matter of course, that they can never afford to look upon the dark side of their circumstances. If they should once stop to think, they would be lost; nothing but the most determined cheerfulness can ever keep them in heart. When they do murmur, it is about the most inconsiderable trifles, as if they did it to keep their thoughts from dwelling on their real grievances.

When our supper was finished, instead of indulging in gloomy anticipations, or of wasting any idle regrets over their past days of joviality, they blew out the candle, with a praiseworthy spirit of economy, and began to sing a dismal ballad with a chorus. It is a great mistake to suppose that vulgar people have vulgar tastes; at least the uneducated vulgar. They are always fond of sentiment. The popular forecastle ditties might be sung by a choir of nuns. There are a few boisterous songs that have found their way to the forecastle, but they are rather tolerated than admired, and I have noticed that sailors always listen to them with a very apparent disrelish; but when the ballad is long drawn out, with the sufferings of some distressed damsel, if a princess all the better, or the miseries of some despairing cavalier, they will sit like children listening to the witch stories of an old beldame; and the sad strain seems to touch a responsive chord, in every bosom. Dibdin's sea songs are very admirable for nautical dramas, but they are as ill adapted to the forecastle as Italian bravuras are for real lovers. A genuine sea song never contains any nautical slang; that would be homely and common-place; but in the theatre it satisfies the sentiment; for sentiment can only endure what is foreign.

Our songs did not last long, for the mate came to the door of the forecastle and mustered us all upon deck to choose watches. There were twelve of us, and the chief mate had his first choice of men. The second mate represents the captain, and makes the second selection. They chose a man alternately, and by this means the good and bad are equally distributed in the two watches. The first man chosen was Jack Plaskett, and the mate showed his discrimination in selecting him; but his superiority was so obvious that he would have been a dolt not to have done so. Fortunately for me, I got in the mate's watch, for I was anxious to be put in the same watch with Jack. As I had brought no bed on board, not knowing that bedding was not provided by the ship, I was obliged to ask one of the other watch to allow me the privilege of sleeping in his berth when he was on deck. I met with no difficulty in finding somebody who allowed me this privilege, and I turned in at eight o'clock and slept soundly till twelve, when we were called up to let the other watch turn in. It was not very pleasant to turn out of a warm berth and stand four hours on deck; but the night being calm, though cold, I soon coiled myself on deck and fell asleep; but I woke before the watch had half expired, almost dead with cold. The wind had changed again, and we were enveloped in sleet, the decks were slippery, and the motion of the ship being quick and jerking, owing partly to the short waves caused by the current running opposite to the wind, and partly to the dead weight of our cargo, it was with great difficulty that I could stand upon my feet. My hands were blistered and cracked, and the salt water, though it probably had a healing effect, yet gave me indescribable pain. There was a good deal of work above and aloft, but I could only haul upon a rope when it was put into my hands, for I could neither understand the orders that were given, nor execute them when explained to me. At four o'clock the starboard watch was called, and we again turned in, but I was so wet and cold, and my hands were so painful, that I found it impossible to sleep; and I was not sorry when the watch was again called at half-past seven to turn out. We were called half an hour before the watch had expired, to give us time to get breakfast, that the other watch might have their full time below. Or at least this is the general practice, but in this case the other watch was not allowed to turn in after breakfast, as it was necessary for all hands to work in putting the ship in order while she was in the channel. Our breakfast consisted only of the remains of the dry piece of indigestible beef that had served for our suppers, and a bit of hard bread. I thought it hard fare, and when I saw the steward taking the cabin breakfast aft, consisting of hot coffee and boiled potatoes, I blushed to find myself following the smoking dish of humble vegetables with a lickerish eye.

About nine o'clock we discharged our pilot off Point Linus. There was too high a sea running to allow the small boat to be lowered, and they threw a rope from the pilot boat, which the pilot fastened under his arms in a bowline, leaped overboard, and in that manner was drawn on board his boat; as the two vessels neared each other, the cook threw on board the pilot boat a piece of salt beef. This I found was the custom when a pilot is taken on board or discharged. All hands were now set to work, seizing on scotchmen, that is, fastening long strips of board upon the stays and rigging, where they come in contact with the ship's yards, to prevent chafing; so that a ship at sea looks as though she has been wounded in her rigging, and all the sore places had bandages upon them. This was simple work, and I had no very great difficulty in doing my part; but when I first went aloft I could not work with that feeling of security which comes to one after a little practice; my head swam when I looked down upon deck, and twice I came near falling; and my sickness increased when I went to mast-head, but I found that continual exercise helped to cure me. The sailors soon discerned my greenness, but were very patient in explaining the names and uses of the ropes, and in teaching me the art of making knots.

The wind was ahead, the fog was very dense, and in consequence of the narrowness of the channel, we were compelled to tack the ship every two hours, which kept us very busy, and my arms were so cramped and lame from continued hauling, it was painful to lift my hand above my head. As night approached the wind increased, and we were forced to shorten sail to close-reefed topsails and a reefed foresail and jib.

Our miserable little captain walked back and forth in front of the poop, with his hands behind him, looking pale and frightened, and every now and then called one of his mates to him and asked him what he thought about it. It was plain enough that the captain thought it a very doubtful prospect. The only man on board excepting the officers, who had left home in the ship, was a Dutch carpenter, who informed us that this was the captain's first voyage. I was sufficiently startled at this, but much more so when he said that our captain was a tailor; that six months before he commanded a clothing-store in

Philadelphia: but with a hope of improving his health and his fortune, he had sold out his establishment and bought this old ship, worn out in the Canton trade, and had shipped the two brothers now on board for his navigators; obtained a freight for Liverpool in Savannah, and was now returning with a load of salt for Philadelphia. The ship was leaky, her rigging was rotten, and her sails old; and to increase the catalogue of our mischances, the mates were in the habit of indulging in too strong potations of brandy. A knowledge of our condition had a disheartening effect on the crew, for they were all old sailors, who knew the dangers of the channel, and the rough time we should have of it on our passage across the Atlantic. While a sailor can have confidence in his officers, he dismisses all care for himself, knowing that there is somebody who will neglect nothing essential to his safety; but joviality loves not the companionship of care, and I found that sailors could be serious and thoughtful, like their betters, when they felt that self-preservation depended upon their own exertions.

Instead of songs and long yarns, when we went into the forecastle, the watch debated the chances of our getting safe out of the channel; every one had some dismal tale to tell of shipwreck and danger. One of the watch was a native of the Isle of Man, and his intimate knowledge of the reefs and shoals in that part of the channel where we now were, added to his apprehension, and many a frightful story did he tell us of shipwrecks about the coast, which he had witnessed when a boy. The mates had never been in the channel before, one of them having been always employed in the Canton trade, and the other had only been in the coasting service.

We kept constantly tacking during the night, and once we narrowly escaped plumping upon a reef of rocks, called the Calf of Man, The fog was thick; and suddenly a light flashed on our deck from the leeward; the man on the look out cried out "breakers, breakers, put down your helm!" The watch jumped out upon deck, for they had not undressed themselves, but lay down in their wet clothes on their chests, and we succeeded in getting the ship headed round on the other tack. The light seemed close aboard of us, and it could not have been far off, or we could not have seen it through the fog. At daylight the fog lifted a little, like a curtain, just to show us the Welsh coast under our lee, and then shut down again, more dense and impenetrable than ever. The wind continuing to blow, we were not able to make any sail, so we drifted back towards the Isle of Man again, and continued, to tack every two hours during the day. Excitement and hard work together, had entirely cured my sea-sickness, and I began to feel myself of some consequence. I could run about deck without falling, and go to any rope in the dark that I was ordered to; it still made me dizzy to go aloft, but soon this feeling began to wear off. The wind and the fog continued, and some of the sailors said they had known such weather to last in the channel more than a mouth. We began to calculate the chances of escape in the forecastle, in the event of the ship getting ashore, and the most experienced among us agreed that they were very slender. The sailors tied up their little valuables in handkerchiefs, to be prepared for quitting the ship at a moment's warning, for the ignorance of our officers was now apparent, and we had very nearly the command of the vessel; the man at the wheel taking it upon himself to tell the captain when it was time to tack the ship.

Nothing was further from my thoughts than a wish to create dissatisfaction among the crew, but I thought it mould be a wicked deference to the captain of the ship, merely because he was our superior in office, to allow him to peril our lives and the safety of his ship, without remonstrating with him, and I told the crew that it was their duty to advise him to put back to Liverpool, and provide himself with suitable officers and a new suit of sails, before he attempted to cross the Atlantic. The majority of them shook their heads at the proposition, for they said it could be construed as mutiny; but Jack Plaskett was in favour of the measure, and offered to stand by me if I would make a move. But seeing that I was the youngest man in the forecastle, and only a green hand, I thought it would be rather a bold step, and declined, unless they would all go aft with me. This they refused to do, and we had another fearful night. The next day our little captain appeared quite bewildered and beside himself; the mates were half drunk, and acknowledged that neither they nor the captain knew where the ship was. The storm continued without abatement, and at four o'clock in the afternoon, I discovered a very high bluff through the fog at the leeward, and ran aft and told the captain that there was land under our lee. "I know it," he replied. "Do you know what land it is?" I said. "Yes, it's Bluemorris." "No," I said, "it is not Beaumaris; we are on the opposite side of the channel; this is either the coast of Lancashire or Ireland; and if you don't put the ship about, we shall be ashore in a few minutes." "Do you think so?" he said, looking very much terrified, "then tell the mate to 'bout ship."

By the time the ship was put upon the other tack, we were very close in shore, and the land was so distinctly visible, that our Manxman in the forecastle knew it to be St. Bee's head. A very few minutes longer, and we should have been ashore. The wind increased as the sun went down, and we reefed the foresail, took in the jib, and close-reefed the spanker. The mates, seeing that the captain was frightened, grew frightened themselves, and drank so much brandy that they were soon stupidly drunk; the captain retired to his cabin and locked himself in, and then there was no officer upon deck. The storm continued to increase, the wind drew more to the north, and the fog turned to hail. I now told the men that there was no other course left for us but to take charge of the ship, and try to preserve her until morning, and then advise the captain to return to Liverpool, and if he should hesitate, to compel him. They agreed to be governed by my advice. But I was entirely incapable of giving any in regard to the management of the ship, and as none of us knew anything about the tides or the depth of water, or the proper course to be steered, I told the carpenter, if he would go to the captain's cabin and get his chart and navigator, I would try to prick off our course; for I had learned something about navigation at school, and the captain of the Philadelphia, in our passage to London, had taught me how to mark a ship's position on the chart. The captain had locked himself in his state-room, and the only way we could get at his chart was by forcing the lid off his chest. This the carpenter did, and by the aid of a pair of dividers and a ruler, I found that we were a few miles southeast of St. Bee's head, on the coast of Lancashire, and that the tide was drifting us directly on shore. I called Jack Plaskett, and told him our situation; and he said that the only way of saving the ship would be to make more sail, but he was afraid of carrying away the spars if we did so. We held a consultation with the rest of the crew, and it was at last determined to make sail. We accordingly shook a reef out of the foresail, hoisted the jib, loosed the mainsail, and then set the spanker. As we got aboard the main tack, and flattened in the jib shoat, the increased force of the wind caused the ship to leap and plunge like a spirited horse when the whip is applied to his back. The masts bent like a poplar tree in a nor'wester, and every time she plunged into the waves, I thought they would all have gone by the board. Every man was on deck, ready to execute an order the moment it was given; and the carpenter stood at the mainmast with an axe in his hand, to cut away the masts if we should strike the bottom; the long-boat was got ready for hoisting out; and the lead was kept going, to find out whether we shoaled the water. As I was the least efficient hand on deck, I stationed myself on the foretopsail-yard, to look out for breakers, but the cold was so intense that I could not remain long. Not one of the crew lay down for the night, and by morning we were all pretty well exhausted; but as day was breaking, the captain and mate both came on deck. It was time to tack ship, for I judged we were well over upon the Welsh coast, as it proved we were when it grew lighter, and I told the captain he had better put the ship about. He gave orders to the mate to do so, and we wore round. The wind had moderated a little, and the ship laboured less than she had during the night; but the press of canvass that she was still under, made it rather unsafe and uncomfortable to stand upon deck.

It was now certain that we should have another such a night as the last, and perhaps a worse one, unless we carried our resolution into effect, and compelled the captain to put back. The crew were faint-hearted, but I called them together and told them they had nothing to fear; that the captain would be ashamed to make any complaint against us, and that if he did so, we could easily prove by the carpenter and steward, that but for our exertions the ship would have been lost; and instead of blame, they would get the thanks of the insurers, at least. I tried to prevail upon the oldest sailor to be spokesman for us, but he urged that he had no gift of speaking; and as they all said that I could do it best, I consented, very unwillingly, to take the lead, knowing that if any difficulty should ensue, that I would be singled out as the ringleader. I accordingly marched aft to the cabin-door, with all the crew at my back, and asked for the captain. The mates turned pale as they saw us coming, and retreated into their hurricane-house, and the captain came out trembling, and asked what we wanted

I represented to him that the crew were unwilling to continue the voyage, unless the ship were better supplied with sails; and that it was their opinion, his proper course would be to square his yards and go back to Liverpool, and wait for a fair wind, before he ventured out to sea again. Two or three of the sailors spoke up, and said they thought so too. The captain looked very much puzzled, but ruminating a minute or two, he said he thought we were about half right, called out for the mate, and told him to square the yards and go back into port. I was rejoiced to hear this, for I was fearful of being compelled to speak in a harsher manner; and we all went to work shaking reefs out of the topsails, and making sail,—for as soon as we began to sail before the wind, it seemed comparatively light. By ten o'clock we were opposite Point Linus, where we took another pilot, and that evening, at dusk, we dropped anchor opposite George's Dock, in Liverpool. As I had neither signed the ship's papers, nor taken any advance wages, I had a right to leave the ship when I pleased, and I made up my mind to do so without delay, and to take the precaution of inquiring whether the captain of any other ship I could get on board of were a tailor or a sailor before I went to sea again. My shipmates looked upon me as a hero, and said that if I left the bark, they would not remain behind. A wherry came off from the shore, and they bargained with the boatman to come back at midnight with a larger boat to take us all from the ship. It chanced to be a clear starry night, and one of the mates kept watch to prevent the desertion of the crew. The boat was rowed a long distance above the ship, and then dropped down directly in range of her bows, so that she could not be seen from the poop, where the mate was walking. We all passed our dunnage, chests and hammocks, over the bow without being discovered, and then jumped into the boat, and shoved off, leaving only the cook and steward behind. I felt very happy to be free from such an uncomfortable and dangerous craft; and now that I knew what I could endure in the way of work and hard fare, I felt much better prepared to take the rough side of things, than I did before I had been tried. As I was a stranger in Liverpool, I was compelled to follow my shipmates after we got ashore to their boarding-house, at the sign of the Ship in Old Hall-street, where they spent the remainder of the night in drinking ale, smoking, and singing. I had some fear of difficulty with the little tailor captain, and, to keep out of his reach, I went to live with an acquaintance of Mrs. Collins, the landlady of the Ship, who occupied a cellar near the Clarence Dock, and supported herself by washing for sailors. Her husband was a Swede, who occasionally earned a trifle as a ship-keeper. Their entire establishment consisted of two very small rooms in the cellar of a new brick house, the upper part of which was occupied by people in the higher walks of life, as was very proper; two families—one the family of a ship-joiner, and the other a block-maker. Of course, we in the cellar had no communication with those so much above us. My hostess was an excellent woman,—devout, neat, cheerful; her husband was a quiet, intelligent man, and unaffectedly pious. In the evening, when her work was done, and her hearth cleanly swept, one or two of her gossips would drop in with their sewing, generally some part of a sailor's wardrobe, for it was a marine neighbourhood, and I used to listen to their conversation with pleasure and profit. One woman interested me above all the others. She was a meek, gentle creature, whose husband belonged to a fishing smack; she busied herself all the time of his absence, in mending his clothes, and selling the fish that he brought; and he repaid her by spending his earnings at the ale-house, and beating her when he came home to her drunk. This I learned from one of her cronies, for she made no complaints of the brute herself, but when spoken to about her husband, she would look as cheerful as she could, and say, "James is doing pretty well, but he will do better one of these days."

Mr. and Mrs. Peterson, my host and hostess, indulged in the luxury of meat only on Sundays; at other times, bread and butter formed the staple of our meals; and, Saturday night was quite a gala night with them, for then, in company with some of their neighbours, they went to St. George's Market, and after promenading through long avenues of vegetables, game, poultry and fruits, and pricing rounds of beef, saddles of venison, cauliflowers and oranges, they would come home bringing a small bit of beef in a very large covered basket; and the price of provisions furnished a topic of conversation until the recurrence of another Saturday night. I never expected to regard a piece of baked beef and potatoes as a very grand affair, but it was impossible to sit down with these honest people to their Sunday dinner without sympathizing with their feelings. The meat was salted and dredged with flour over night, all ready for the oven, to avoid unnecessary work on Sunday morning, and placed upon a high shelf, and covered with a snowy white napkin. In the morning Peterson took it to the baker's with an air bordering on grandeur; holding his head higher than on ordinary occasions, for he had a drooping habit on other days, as though he had no right to carry his head erect. But when he brought it home—that was the most trying time, for all house-keepers know that beef will shrink in baking, if not killed in the right quarter of the moon, and to people who eat beef but once a week, it is a matter of intense curiosity whether their joint has shrunk or swollen in the oven.

"I don't think it has shrunk much, Peterson," the cheerful creature would say, as she looked anxiously at the pan when Peterson placed it upon the table.

"Shrunk! no, I believe, as I am living, it is greater as ever," the hopeful Peterson would reply, smacking his lips as he looked at the unusual luxury.

"At all events, there's plenty of gravy, and the potatoes are browned very nice," said Mrs. Peterson.

"They are lovely; I don't believe as the king has got better spuds for dinner as them," responded her husband

The little deal table was spread with very humble appointments, but in the purity of neatness, and when we took our seats, Mrs. Peterson asked a blessing, a longer one than usual, not only because the dinner was better, but to prolong the enjoyment and make the most of it. Mrs. Peterson not only said grace, but she carved, her husband being inexpert with the knife, and made an imposing ceremony of it. First, the knife must be deliberately sharpened; then its edge must be felt; then the fork must be thrust into the beef, and a little time taken up in observing whether the juice were red or not; then the joint must be properly placed in the dish, and after a preliminary flourish with the knife, the first slice is cut; rich, juicy; and altogether delightful; quite beyond the suspicion of a fault. It is necessary to eat baked beef and potatoes under such circumstances, to comprehend their merits, and so eaten, they are finer, more digestible and healthier, than any fricandeau that ever came from the hands of a Parisian cook. Mrs. Peterson was not entirely free from human weaknesses, and with a vanity that none but a very pious person could condemn, she informed me that she and Peterson had often had a gooseberry tart for dinner in the summer when fruit was plenty, and that once they had been the owners of quite a large basket of American apples, which were presented to them by the sthuard of a liner. And the fragrant recollections of these rarities served a long while for a dessert after dinner; and it gave me greater pleasure to hear her tell of them than it would to have partaken of them.

It was impossible to remain long in the society of Mr. and Mrs. Peterson (by the way, nobody but myself ever applied the Mr. to Peterson's name,) without feeling conscious that the hearts of these good people must be buoyed up by the recollection of some departed glory which had once surrounded them. There was a mysterious dignity, a solemn content, which seemed to envelope them, as though they were not what they seemed, but were willing that the world should regard them as a childless couple, living happily on four shillings a week; only, if the world did but know something which they knew themselves! Such an air the rebel duke of Berwick must have had, when he used to sit with his peasant wife in the company of his rude neighbours, who never suspected him of being better than themselves, except in manners; and so Louis Philippe must have seemed, when he earned his bread by teaching a school. I had partly made up my mind that Peterson was, at the least, a descendant of Gustavus Vasa, when the secret of their quiet dignity leaked out. Their fire-side had once been blessed by the presence of an angel, a little boy-angel, a child of their own, who was too bright, too beautiful for this world, and had been taken home to Heaven. Little Frederick! There never was such a child; everybody said so, even Mrs. Briton, the baker's wife. It was foreseen from the first that the child would never live to grow up; Peterson, himself, who of course knew the child thoroughly, said more than a hundred times, "that child is too knowing to live." The child died before it reached its first birth day, and yet, would anybody believe that there could be people in the world of a nature so depraved as to doubt, nay, even to positively say, that there never had been such a child; that little Frederic was a humbug? To the disgrace of humanity, it cannot be denied there were such people; and to the disgrace of the female sex, it must be owned that one such person was a lady, Mrs. Barker, the wife of another ship-keeper, who had never had any children of her own, and was unwilling that any of her neighbours should have the advantage of her in that respect. But there were little Frederick's shoes, as genuine a pair of dear little shoes as ever were worn upon a baby's feet, and there was the cradle, and the spoon, and the little cups. How could anybody refuse to believe in little Frederick? For my own part, I believe in little Frederick as firmly as I do in any of my creditors, and were it not for my sins, I should expect to meet him in Heaven.

In the family of the ship-joiner above our heads, lived, as a servant, a pretty black-eyed Jewess. Her name was Antoinette; her family name I have forgotten. Her father was a wealthy jeweller, with a house at Everton, and she had been turned out of doors for joining the established church; and having received but an indifferent education, and being shunned by all her tribe, she had been compelled to go to service for a livelihood. She, too, was an occasional visiter in Mrs. Peterson's cellar, and her black eyes and rosy lips gave a tinge of romance to the homely scene; for Mrs. Peterson herself was a plain woman, as were all her cronies, the brightness of their womanhood having faded, or rather lost its glossiness of surface, and like a piece of good cloth, showed the fineness of the material of which it was composed the better for it. And here the pretty Christianized Jewess and Jack Plaskett met one evening by accident, and fell in love with each other directly. He was too honourable to marry her and leave her to toil in a kitchen, and she loved him too well to let him leave her; so, like a fond Jessica, she proposed to put on the habit of a sailor and follow him to sea. But he would not consent to it, knowing, as she did not, the perils and hardships of a sailor's life. Although her father had turned her from his doors, and would allow neither her brothers nor sisters to afford her any relief, she loved them still, and used to make them stealthy visits by night, always creeping like a menial into the kitchen door of her father's house. Once I accompanied her there with Jack Plaskett, and we stopped at the corner of the street, while she went in alone. It was a handsome house, with a large garden in the rear, and from the appearance of numerous lights and the bustle of servants, I supposed they must be entertaining company. She was gone but a few minutes, and returned to us weeping. She refused to tell what had happened, but I heard afterwards that she had encountered her father in the garden, and that he took her by the arm and thrust her rudely into the street. I know not whether her family were ever reconciled to her; and as Jack Plaskett was drowned on his next voyage, I fear that poor Antoinette is still a patient drudge in some humble kitchen. Perhaps she is in Heaven.

The Scattergood lay in the river but three or four days, and then sailed with a fair wind and a new crew. I believe she reached Philadelphia that voyage, but was wrecked the next. As soon as she was fairly under way, I left my troglodytish lodging and rose into the upper air; and after much trouble, succeeded in getting a berth on board a New-York liner, the name of which I must omit, lest I give offence to somebody in the course of my little narrative. She was a new ship, I believe it was only her second voyage, well equipped, strongly manned, a fast sailer, and a perfect beauty to look at. She was the handsomest vessel in port. Everything about her was neat, substantial, and in perfect order. She had a flush deck, as smooth as a nine-pin alley, varnished waists, which looked like a strip of yellow satin, and a gilded billet-head, with scroll-work, copied from some of Raphael's frescoes, for it was before poop-decks, painted ports, and figure-heads had come in fashion. There were three mates, two stewards, two cooks, twenty sailors, two boys, and a carpenter. We hauled out of dock on the 14th of December, and in three days were out of the channel and past Cape Clear. The weather was cold and murky, the nights were long and dreary, but our officers were experienced, the ship was new, and I had a home in prospect, so I looked resolutely ahead, and strove to forget my present discomforts by imagining future pleasures.

Our forecastle was a handsome apartment compared with the wretched top-gallant forecastle of the Scattergood. Our fare, too, was comparatively sumptuous; a tin pot full of tea every night and morning, sweetened with Cuba molasses; it was not exactly pecco, but it was hot, and quite as wholesome as Oulong Souchong; and the weather being very cold, even the hot steam was refreshing. In addition to this luxury, we were served twice a week with a kid of lob-skous, a hash of salt meat and potatoes, seasoned with a dash of hot water, which made it very acceptable, after we had worked hard in the wet and cold all night. And then we had the very great luxury of a tub of hot mush and molasses occasionally, very nearly, but not quite so good as that which is given to criminals in our city prison. I do not mean, by this comparison, to intimate that we were entitled to as good fare as prisoners, because they are frequently gentlemen, who have been used to better times, and of course are entitled to more consideration than mere sailors, who are generally treated as though they were entitled to nothing but hard work and hard words.

We had the same labour to perform on board the liner the first few days after leaving port, that we had on board the Scattergood; for it is the practice on board of all ships, to strip their rigging and spars of all superfluous gear, when lying in the dock, to give them an appearance of neatness and order. But as we had more men in proportion to the size of our ship, our work was sooner finished, and we were indulged with watch-and-watch,—four hours on deck, and four hours below, night and day, excepting when we were making or taking in sail; and then all hands were kept at work. It is the custom on board of packet ships, to carry sail as long as possible, and often when they do attempt to take it in, they are obliged to let it go altogether. It sometimes happens that the officer on deck is not possessed of sufficient judgment to know when to take in and when to make sail, and thereby the greater part of those disasters at sea, which we read of in the papers, take place, and are attributed rather to the violence of storms, than to the ignorance of commanders. Some shipmasters never meet with accidents at sea, while others are a continued drain upon underwriters, by carrying away spars and sails. But that instinctive prudence which warns a man when to shorten sail, is a rare virtue on land as well as at sea.

I soon discovered that our officers, though old sailors, were entirely deficient of judgment; and they seemed as thoughtless as children about making and taking in sail, and I began to feel apprehensive of danger. The weather was so changeable that we were rarely allowed to sleep out our entire four hours below, being turned out continually, either to make or shorten sail. Hardly would we get warm in our berths, when there would come a thumping upon deck above our heads, and the gruff voice of one of the watch would roar out, "Larboard watch a-h-o-o-o-y! tumble up, tumble up, and shorten sail." This at last became so unpleasant, that the chief mate, in whose watch I was stationed, seeing a squall to leeward one dark night, swore he would reef topsails without turning up the other watch, hoping that they would be induced to imitate the example. This we could have done without difficulty, if he had made the attempt in season; but he delayed it, with his usual foolhardiness, until the squall struck us, and then tried to carry out his designs, for he was one of those foolishly resolute men, who will persist in an attempt when they see that success is impossible. In order to increase his force, he called the man on the lookout away from his post, and placed a boy at the wheel; and, when we had succeeded in hauling out the reef-tackles of the mizzen topsail, he sent everybody aloft, thus leaving the ship, in the commencement of a threatening squall, with nobody on deck but himself to take care of her. The sailors murmured as they went aloft at the danger we were unnecessarily incurring, and vented a torrent of abusive oaths upon the head of the foolish mate. He was an old sea-dog, who had been several times wrecked, and received complimentary silver watches from passengers, and a gold chronometer from the board of underwriters, for his fearlessness and faithful conduct in times of peril, and for getting ships out of danger in which his own folly had placed them. He seemed never easy unless the wind was blowing a hurricane, and the straining masts were threatening to go by the board

We had but just gained the topsail-yard, and were beginning to haul out the earings, when we heard a terrible crash, a loud scream, and at the same time we were almost thrown from the yard, by a shock as if the ship had struck upon the bottom. We could not see what had happened, but thought that the foremast had been carried away by the squall. It was very dark, but I saw a streak of foam in the water like that made by the track of a ship, which I supposed was occasioned by a whirlwind. We hurried upon deck, and there found that we had been run into by a ship sailing before the wind with all the canvass she could stagger under. The captain and passengers had jumped upon deck in their night clothes, and the greatest consternation prevailed for a short time, until it was found that we were not in a sinking state. The wind blew so strong that the ship which struck us soon drifted out of sight; and from her disappearing so suddenly, we thought she had gone down, and that all on board had perished. But we afterwards learned that she sustained but a trifling injury. Our own damage was very serious; the ship had struck us on the cut-water, and swept everything off, bowsprit, head, sails and all. There was a tremendous sea running at the time, and had we been struck a foot more inboard, the ship must have sunk before it would have been possible to clear away our boats. The accident, which seemed unavoidable, was the effect of pure carelessness and imprudence. If the man at the lookout had not been called away from his post, the ship would have been seen in time to have been avoided

We lay to until daylight, hard at work, clearing away the wreck, and then squared our yards, and put back for the Cove of Cork, where we arrived on New-year's morning.

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CHAPTER IV.

THE COVE.

HERE we were compelled to discharge our cargo into lighters, and as our captain and passengers were impatient of delay, we had to work until midnight by lanterns, in getting the ship in order for sea. We had a sore time of it, for it rained nearly every day, and our work was too urgent to allow us any rest, except on Sunday, and then but little. But this little was the sweeter for its rarity; and I enjoyed one Sunday afternoon ashore at the Cove, and thought more of the privilege, than I had of all the time I had spent in travelling at my ease over England and Scotland

I had discovered in Liverpool, that virtue and content might dwell together in a cellar and be happy, with a meat dinner once a week,—a truth that had no conception of before; and here I found that beauty and innocence could grow up in a garret, and thrive upon potatoes and buttermilk. Although there were several men-of-war in the harbour, a New-York liner being a very rare bird, in these waters, and the most extravagant stories having been told of the magnificence of our ship's interior arrangements, caused our crew to be regarded in a more favourable light than any of the sailors belonging to the other ships. We were the elect of the best society, and received many attentions from the washer-women and small whiskey dealers, which made us the envy of the other crews on liberty. One of our crew, who was, in fact, a native of Cork, introduced us to his relations,—among the rest, a highly respectable widow, who traded in snuff and small marine stores. He had boasted a good deal of his aunt and her store, and he took me there alone, as if it would not comport with his aunt's pretensions, to bring the whole crew of common sailors to her house. We found this excellent lady sitting at the entrance of her warehouse, selecting out bits of nails and rusty screws from a heap of scrappy old iron; she was delighted to see her nephew, Dennis, and invited us to walk into the parlour and be comfortable. It was just in the dusk of the evening, so that the parlour was not very light, and being illuminated only by such particles of the sun's beams as could make their way through a little window of oiled paper, it was not easy at a glance to discover all that it contained; not that it was a very magnificent apartment as to its dimensions, or very much crowded with curious furniture; on the contrary, the floor was clay, very hard though, and tidily swept, and the walls were close together. I heard a singular noise in one corner of the parlour, and perceiving that the widow seemed anxious to hide the cause of it, I was not over curious to try to discover it; but the mystery soon cleared itself up; a full grown pig started up from a bundle of straw, and ran squealing past me into the street. The widow apologized for his rudeness, and said that he was not in the habit of coming into the house, but that his companion had been killed the day before, and he was lonesome, and had come into the parlour for companionship. Could a better reason have been given for a pig being found in one's parlour? I have seen guests in parlours since, whose presence could not be accounted for in half so satisfactory a manner. After tasting a drop of the widow's poteen, and leaving with her a small package of black tea, we repaired to the house of Mrs. Donovan, another widow lady; for I found that nearly the entire female population of the Cove consisted of widows, who lived in a superior manner in the attic of a tall house, whose chimneys were only even with the terrace of the hill on the side of which it was built. Mrs. Donovan was a blanchisseuse; I dare not speak plainer, and must trust to the reader being within reach of a French and English dictionary; and if there is anything in her professional calling calculated to impart such a sweetness of temper, such a very tempting complexion, such dazzling teeth, and so soft a voice as she possessed, I should recommend all the ladies of my acquaintance to adopt it in preference, not only to any other, but in preference to doing nothing. It is true, her hands were not so white and corpse-like as the hands of idler ladies are used to be, but they were more plump and soft for the exercise of her calling. But what was the widow Donovan, by the side of her daughter Bridget! A coal droger by the side of the Queen's yacht; a goose by the side of a turtle dove; a hollyhock by a moss rose. She was the widow Donovan, in short, by the side of her daughter Bridget. Bridget Donovan had budded and blossomed in the very garret in which I saw her, probably ignorant of the luxury of a stocking during the greater part of her life; she was only sixteen, and as beautiful and bewitching as innocence, youth and beauty could render her. Although she spoke English well enough, she could prattle her native Greek, and sing it too, like a bird; she had a voice like a bob-o-link, and seemed as happy. We did not visit without an invitation. No, indeed. Her mother gave a soiree, expressly in our honour. All the liners were there, some wearing white shirts and frock coats, with breast-pins and satin stocks. O, it was a beautiful time! There were many other ladies beside the widow and her daughter, and many beautiful ones, too, but they were nothing by the side of Bridget. I wondered at their venturing where their charms must be compared with hers; but it was fortunate they came: else there would have been fighting, and perhaps bloodshed, in striving for the honour of sitting by the widow's daughter.

When we first came in we had poteen, (it was before Father Mathew's day,) and afterwards wheaten cakes, with butter and coffee; unusual luxuries, I fear, in the sky-parlour of the widow Donovan! Then we had songs, genuine Irish melodies, not such faint things as you hear in theatres and concert rooms, nor such words as you find in Tom Moore, but better, a good deal better. More poteen and dancing. Reels, three-handed, five-handed, and seven-handed. And I danced with Bridget Donovan, set after set, and I felt very happy. I knew that I ought not to be,—that I had more cause for grief than merriment,—that I was out of my proper sphere, in a low situation, herding with people in whose company I should not be seen; but I could not help it: I never enjoyed myself better; and when it was time to go, I began to dream how delightful it would be to stay altogether. I bade farewell to Bridget, and have never seen her again, excepting in my dreams.

Dennis, who had introduced us to his aunt, gave me another instance of his partiality. While we were reloading one day he called me aside, and told me he had formed a high opinion of my abilities, and knew I was a lad he could depend upon, and asked me if I had a mind to join him in a little speculation. I asked for an explanation. He said the mate trusted to him every night to lock up the hatches, and as we were now taking on board bales of cloth, he had selected one which he judged, from its size and weight, must be fine broadcloth, and had hid it between decks, with an intention of leaving the forward hatch unlocked, and during his watch on deck taking it up and stowing it away in his berth. But as he couldn't well do it alone, he offered to give me half the spoils if I would assist him. I knew if I refused that he would persuade another of his shipmates to join him, and if they were detected they would suspect me of informing against them. So I listened to his proposition, and without assenting to it, told him to let me know when he was ready. He pointed the bale out to me during the day, which he had rolled aside, and I contrived, just before the hatches were closed, to jump down between decks and tumbled it into the lower hold without being perceived. He went to look after it that night, and was in a great rage when he found that it had been removed. The next day he selected another, which I disposed of in the same manner, and after that I contrived to give a hint to the second mate that he had better see the hatches secured himself. Dennis never suspected that I was not as great a rogue as himself, for he was very friendly during the passage, and rendered me many little kindnesses, which I did not hesitate to accept, for I considered he was indebted to me for saving him from committing a theft. But sailors have a very loose morality in regard to a ship's cargo, which is not owing so much to their want of honesty as to an instinctive feeling that they are themselves parts of the vessel, and have a right to anything on board of her, which the tyranny of their commander hinders them from enjoying. But in the case of Dennis I fear that there was something more than this feeling, and that he really had an unlawful hankering after other people's goods, for he had the misfortune, not long afterwards, to get confined in the tombs for something or other, I never knew exactly what.

There is a large Roman Catholic church in the Cove of Cork, which speaks more for the zeal than the taste or wealth of its builders. The poor people regard it with a good deal of religious pride, and I heard some very marvellous stories about its erection. A man with some pretensions to intelligence told me, that a few years ago there was an English Admiral on the station who had a residence on shore, in the rear of the church, and finding that it shut out his view of the harbour, he threatened to pull it down. The priest, hearing of his threat, called upon the Admiral, and found him sitting in an arm chair in his library.

"I have been told," said the priest "that you have threatened to pull down our chapel, because it interrupts your prospect."

"I have," replied the Admiral gruffly, "have you anything to say against it?"

"I have this to say," replied, the priest, making a mysterious sign with his finger; "sit you in that chair until you promise to leave our chapel untouched by your sacrilegious hand"

The priest looked sternly upon him, and the Admiral attempted to rise, but could not move a finger. He found himself fastened to his chair by some unseen power, and he begged the priest to release him; but the priest would not, until he had made a vow not only to let the chapel alone, but never to commit any act of violence against any of the children of the holy Catholic church.

My informant had entire faith in this marvellous story, and I did not offend him by seeming to doubt it; but I was relating the circumstance to a learned friend, a short time since, who, instead, of laughing with me at the simplicity of the credulous Catholic, reproved my own want of faith, and said he believed the story himself, and began gravely to explain to me that the priest was undoubtedly a mesmerizer, who, instead of making a mysterious sign with his finger, had mesmerized the Admiral by a few passes of his hand. But I doubt whether the Catholic himself would be willing to believe the story on such scientific terms.

We remained in the Cove of Cork three weeks, and put to sea again in good order; we cleared the land with a fair breeze, and I was beginning to anticipate a short passage, when the want of prudence and good judgment, that had led to our first disaster, very soon produced another almost as serious.

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CHAPTER V.

THE PASSAGE.

OUR captain was a rash, petulant man, without any of the generous roughness of a sailor, but with all his domineering and unfeeling vices. He prided himself on his gentlemanly qualities, having been well educated, and being the son of a rich merchant; he had no sympathy with his crew, and neither appreciated their efforts in times of difficulty, nor understood or cared to alleviate their hardships. Before leaving Cork some of the men applied to him for money to furnish themselves with shoes and other articles of dress, which our stay there had rendered necessary. One man in particular, who was very destitute, and had only one pair of thin shoes to last him the passage home, asked for money enough to pay for a pair of boots; but he refused to advance a shilling for any of them. Although he should have known that suitable clothing was as necessary for his crew to enable them to do their duty; as sails and rigging were for his ship. But he not only refused to advance any money to his crew, or provide them with proper clothing, but he neglected to lay in any extra provisions, although the ship had only enough on board for an ordinary passage when she left New-York. But he neglected nothing for his own comfort or that of his passengers, laying in a fresh stock of provisions, sheep, poultry, hampers of ale and soda water, and every imaginable delicacy which the port would produce. And he was right in doing so: but he was as regardless of his own interests as of the welfare of the men under his command, in neglecting to furnish food enough to last the passage.

Although we left the channel with a fair breeze, in a day or two it changed to the southwest, and we had repeated squalls, which threatened to blow our masts away. One night the wind lulled a little, but the sky still looked threatening, and though the wind was dead in our teeth, the mate began to make sail,—shaking the reefs out of the topsails, and setting the main top-gallant sail. The men grumbled at his folly, for they knew it would not be long before all hands must be called to shorten sail again. We had hardly set the top-gallant sail, when the wind began to pipe louder and louder; but as the mate had but just made sail, he was ashamed to take it in again before the ropes were coiled up. The men saw that a squall was coming, and stationed themselves, without being ordered, at the halliards, ready to let them run at a moment's warning. The wind increased so rapidly that the mate was obliged to cry out, "call all hands to shorten sail;" but before the order could be executed, whew came the blast out of a pile of mountainous-looking black clouds, and the ship was on her beam ends. Crash, crash, went the jib-boom and maintop-gallant mast; the topsail halliards were all let go by the run; the main tack parted, and the ship righted, but the wind continued as fierce as ever; and what with its roaring and screeching, the hissing of the sea, the banging of the broken spars, the flapping of sails, and thrashing of ropes, such a wild hubbub prevailed, that it was impossible to hear the orders of the captain, and we all worked at sixes and sevens on our own responsibility. Here was another night and another day spent in clearing away the wreck; no rest, no refreshment, save dry salt beef and hard bread; and, at work we went again, getting out a new jib-boom and a new maintop-gallant mast. Before they were rigged, the wind came out fair, a light easterly breeze, which for want of sails did us but little good. It was ten days before we got the ship in order again, and then we had another change of wind, and more squalls from the northwest. Three of our man gave out from sheer exhaustion, and were compelled to remain below, one of them mainly for the want of clothes, which the captain had refused to furnish him.

The day after our jib-boom was rigged we had another blow, and all hands were called again to shorten sail. The wind was from northwest, accompanied with hail squalls; the hail stones were as hard as pebbles, our hands and faces were sorely bruised with them, and it was with great difficulty that we could cling to the yards in reefing and furling. We were nearly four hours in getting things snug aloft; and just as the watch was going below, the captain thought it advisable to furl the mainsail, and all hands were again turned up. When we got upon the main yard the sail was stiff with hail and ice, and not being well hauled up, it was impossible to furl it. We tried the best we could do, but we could do nothing: ten minutes spent on deck in hauling the sail up, would have enabled us to furl in as short a time. But the captain and mate stood upon the quarter deck, sipping hot coffee; and feeling warm and comfortable, they amused themselves by calling us a pack of old soldiers, and threatening to keep us there until morning if we did not furl the sail. It was to no purpose that we called out to them to haul up the bunt-lines and leech-lines; they only replied to us by damning our eyes, and calling us Mahon soldiers. We had now been more than six hours aloft, and were nearly exhausted; whether we should have made out to cling much longer to the yard is doubtful. The captain went below, and the mate then ordered us down, and told us to haul the sail up snug, which we did, and went aloft again to furl it. The wind had increased to a hurricane, and the waves ran higher than I had ever seen them before. The sun had gone down, but the sky was clear, and the foam of the sea made it as light as noon. We mere not long in furling the sail; but while we were on the yard a long rolling sea, a huge mountain of brine, broke upon deck and buried the ship completely under water; it reared its foaming crest so high as to wet us on the yard. Fortunately nobody was washed overboard; but the sea carried away the cook's galley, filled the cabin full of water, and washed away the forecastle scuttle, so that they were forced to nail boards on its entrance to keep the ship from being swamped; and when we came down upon deck, frozen, weary and hungry, we had no place to retreat to—for such an enormity as taking a sailor into the cabin of a liner, in the presence of passengers, was never heard of or dreamed of. The mate, seeing that we were like to die, very compassionately gave each of us a gill of raw whiskey, which I drank without winking; but I was chilled so thoroughly that I never felt it after it got down my throat. At another time it would have taken me off my feet.

I am entirely in favour of temperance, even total abstinence; but if I were a captain or owner of a ship, she should never go to sea without whiskey. Hot coffee, and hot ginger and water, are unquestionably excellent substitutes for ardent spirits; but there are occasions at sea when hot water cannot be had; and some kind of stimulant is necessary, if not to preserve life, at least to impart enough to enable men to preserve the ship.

We remained on deck until midnight, when the watch, whose turn it was to go below, went down the fore hatch, and creeping over the coal and salt between decks, made out to knock off some boards from the forecastle bulkhead, and get into the forecastle, which we found knee deep in water. All our beds and clothes were soaking wet; and instead of sleeping, we had to go to work and bale up the water, and hang up our clothing to dry.

It was now nearly a month since we left Cork, and we had not made a third of our distance; the wind was ahead, the weather was cold, and my clothes were beginning to give out. I had enjoyed capital health, had an appetite like a horse, and slept soundly whenever I got a chance. Constant practice had made me perfectly familiar with my duty, and I could run about the rigging with any man on board. Notwithstanding all our buffetings, we had our songs and stories, and some very good singers and romancers we had too. We now found that our provisions were getting short, and we were put upon a very meagre allowance of bread and beef, although we were allowed a plenty of potatoes and salt. But potatoes were watery food for stomachs that had to endure the cold and toil of our ship's deck; and many a night when I turned into my bunk I was too hungry to sleep. Another fortnight passed without any marked disaster, when we encountered a gale from the southwest, compared with which all other tornadoes were mere zephyrs. Like all southwesters, it gave timely notice of its approach; and had our officers been possessed of seaman-like prudence, half its disastrous consequences might have been avoided. We shortened sail in good season, leaving nothing set but a close-reefed fore and main topsail, mizzen staysail, and fore-topmast staysail; but we neglected to put preventer braces upon the fore and main yards, in consequence of which the strain of the topsails sprung the main yard, and carried away the fore yard in the slings; we lost our new jib-boom, all three topsails and main top-gallant sail. They had all been snugly furled, but they were blown into shreds and ribbons. For seven or eight hours we were at the mercy of the gale, unable to do more than secure ourselves to the deck. It was a frightful sight to see our ship, with her broken spars held by their chain fastenings, and blown out upon the wind like feathers, the ropes and sails fluttering, snapping and cracking, flying before it, now buried between cavernous waves, and now thrust up into the upper world, as though she were in the power of some malicious demon who was wreaking his vengeance upon her in the wantonness of malice. For the first time our captain seemed to forget his formal consequence, and while clinging to the ring-bolts to save his life, appeared to feel that he was in the keeping of a power greater than himself. If he had any such thoughts, they subsided with the storm, for as soon as we mere able to go to work upon the wreck, he was as petulant, as trifling, and as ill-natured as ever. We had now to get up a new fore yard, a new jib-boom, to fish the main yard, and bend an entire new suit of sails, and try to make something out of the remnants of the old ones that were left. Here was unmitigated hard work all night and all day; three or four of our sailors were on the sick list, and our allowance of beef and bread had grown so scant, that even with all the help of potatoes and salt, we suffered from hunger. The mates had their hot coffee every morning brought to them as soon as the cook got a fire under his coppers, and our chattering teeth were only set on edge by seeing them sip it. While we mere working upon the main yard, I chanced to cast my eyes down the sky-light into the cabin, and saw the captain and his passengers at their breakfast. A sheep had been slaughtered the day before, and they had mutton chops, fried ham, hot rolls, buckwheat cakes, omelets, tea and coffee, and boiled milk. I had been on deck nearly the whole night, my clothes were wet, and I had just come from my own breakfast, which consisted of nothing more than a kid of boiled potatoes; for while I was carrying my pot of tea from the cook's galley to the forecastle, a little jet of spray had leaped over the bow and fallen plump into it and spoiled it. I could get no more. I was very hungry, and for the first time I thought of my former comforts; the cabin breakfast had such a natural look, and seemed to belong to me as a matter of right.

The inequalities of civilized life, where one portion of the people are privileged to live without work, and the other portion are doomed to work without living, are more perceptible on ship-board than in any other condition of life. Here are twenty or thirty men, afloat upon the ocean, confined to a space so small that they cannot get out of each other's hearing, yet dwelling apart from each other as though they belonged to different worlds, and had no wants in common. At one end of the vessel which contains them live ten men, who are carefully screened from the cold and wet; their hands are soft, their sleep undisturbed, and every good thing which the earth, air or ocean produces is procured for their appetites; they are the superfine of the earth,—gods that have neither cares nor duties,—birds in gilt cages, that are not required even to sing in return for the lumps of white sugar that are thrust between the wires. At the other end of the vessel are ten other men, upon whose exertions the lives and fortunes of the other ten depend; these are exposed to every danger; they brave the lightning; their faces are pelted by hail, they are soaked in spray, they toil unceasingly, their food is coarse and scant, their hours of rest uncertain; no kind words are spoken to them; their wishes are never consulted, and they are beaten if they think or dare to act contrary to the will of those whose lives depend upon their exertions. Idlers should be content to be idlers; they should at least allow those who labour to enjoy an equal portion of the fruits of their own industry.

Our bread and meat were reserved for dinner; there was but little of either, and one man was appointed to divide it into eleven equal parts, the number of our watch; he was a natural mathematician, and succeeded in dividing the little bits of gristle and crumbs of bread into hexagon heaps, as exactly of a size as the cells in a bee hive. But to prevent anything like favouritism, after he had made the division, we blindfolded him, and one of us pointed to a heap and said, "Who shall have this?" "Donovan." "Who shall have this?" "Futtuck" and so on until the whole was disposed of. All this, though disheartening enough, was made a subject of merriment, and we had our songs through it all, and laughed at our miseries. And such stories as we had! a perfect library of romance. Every man in the watch was a character, and had passed through as many strange adventures as Sinbad. They were all good fellows, without a particle of meanness in them, and they never hung back to avoid danger, or work, or wet. But one of our number was constitutionally heavy; not lazy, but sanguineous; fat and good-tempered. He wouldn't work if he could avoid it, and liked sleeping better than anything in the world. He must have had pleasant dreams, and no doubt preferred them to the hard-featured realities of his waking hours. He was not indifferent to eating, but sleep was his pet enjoyment. Once he fell sound asleep on the topsail yard, with a shower of hail beating in his face. What could have tempted such a man to go to sea I could not learn. His name was George, a fat, heavy name; he had a broad, good-humoured, ruddy countenance, and the richest voice for a sentimental song that ever piped in a forecastle. Nobody disliked him, because he was always in a good humour, and it was not easy to think of famine with such a fat subject before you. Sailors have sometimes been put to strange straits, and have liked a shipmate the better for being fat. The world is full of antagonists, and George had his in our forecastle—a sharp, bustling, discontented, sleepless, planning, ill-natured, hungry blue-nose from Nova Scotia. He had once been chief mate of a two-topsail schooner, and could never forget his present degradation, as he seemed to consider it, long enough to take anything easy. He was always hunting after his knife or his tin pot, and never failed to quarrel with the cook whenever he went to the galley for his pot of tea. At his meals he was sure to remember some Nova Scotia delicacy, such as a leg of smoked mutton, or a dried halibut's fin, that he would have had for his dinner if he had been at home.

It is very strange that men who have once been up in the world, should think it necessary to make themselves wretched, by continually dwelling upon their former grandeur, when they happen to fall to a lower sphere; and yet it is natural enough. The devils in hell would not be half so wretched if they had not once been inhabitants of heaven. But this is not a just analogy. The fall from innocence to guilt can only produce unmitigated bitterness; but such a fall as our Nova Scotian's, from smoked mutton to salt and potatoes, ought not to rumple the pin-feathers of an independent mortal. Another man might have grumbled over a dried halibut's fin, although such a delicacy would have filled up the measure of our grumbler's content. The best way is to grumble at nothing, and make the best of what we can get, even though it may not be the fill of our desires.

The remainder of our crew were very good sailors, and were always ready to perform their duty, when they were not prevented by illness, else we should have had a more terrible time of it. Every nation in Europe was represented in our forecastle; there were two Swedes, one Dane, one Norwegian, three Scotch, one Irish, one Prussian, one Pole, one Frenchman, one Welshman, one Hanoverian, six English, one American, myself, and two English boys. Not a soul of them had been naturalized, even; and yet our laws say that none but American citizens shall serve as sailors on board of our ships. But such laws are made to be broken. How absurd it would be to pass a law to prevent any but American citizens serving as waiters in our hotels, or to hinder foreigners from carrying the hod, or digging our canals. But such a law would not be a jot more absurd than that which is meant to keep foreigners out of our ships. Indeed it would not be half so absurd; for we have one law that says that none but American citizens shall serve on board our ships, and another that virtually excludes them from such employment. We have hardly a statute in our books that is not contradicted by another, but none so absurdly as the laws for creating the materials for a navy. The one ruling motive with Americans in adopting a profession, is the hope of preferment, and where that is denied to them, they cannot be enticed to enter. Our laws, therefore, by denying preferment to the seamen of our navy, let their merits be what they may, deprive Americans of every honourable inducement to serve their country as sailors, and even make the badge of the navy a disgrace to those who wear it. For nothing can be more disgraceful to an honest American, than to accept of a situation where promotion is denied to him. The poorest boy in the nation may aspire to the highest office in the gift of his countrymen; but if he should enter the navy as a sailor, though he had the spirit of a Decatur, he could never rise a single step beyond the degraded condition of a serving man. The effect of a regulation like this could be easily foreseen, and it was foreseen by the time-serving place-hunters who framed it, who knew that no American, unless he were degraded by vice, would ever enter a national ship, and, therefore to compel Americans to do so, they framed a law, declaring that none but American citizens should navigate either our national or merchant vessels. And were any attempt made to enforce this law, our ships would rot at our wharves and navy-yards. There should be no more disgrace in serving as a sailor on board our war ships, than in serving as a clerk in the War Department at Washington; and there would not be, if the line of promotion in our naval service were thrown open to the deserving. In what manner, or by whose ill-judgment the ridiculously aristocratic regulations of our naval service were imposed upon the nation, I know not; but a more efficient plan for destroying that arm of our national defence, could not have been devised by our bitterest enemy. The navy of no nation in the world is so hampered and enervated by such exclusive and aristocratic regulations as ours.

It may be asked, in what manner are the laws regarding sailors evaded? Nothing is more easy. Two thirds of the sailors in our ships perjure themselves; and so lightly are such false oaths regarded, that they are among sailors a common subject for mirth; and certificates of citizenship are bartered for knives or plugs of tobacco.

There is but one way in which American seamen can be made, and that is by throwing open the line of promotion in the navy. As long as the officers in the service are selected from the sons of political favourites, without regard to their fitness, our national and merchant vessels will continue to be manned by the drippings of European navies; and if war should ever again call for a naval force, we should have to begin at the beginning, and create sailors, the same as though we had not spent hundreds of millions to maintain a navy in time of profound peace.

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CHAPTER VI.

WHILE we were engaged in repairing the damages of the last gale, we were tantalised by another haul of easterly wind, which died away before we got in a condition to use it. We had kept well to the northward, anticipating a prevalence of northerly winds; but our hardest gales had been from the southwest, which had driven us into such a high latitude that the cold was very severe, and our decks were all the time covered with hail. Our ship was a fast sailer and a good sea-boat; but being deeply laden with a dead cargo, she laboured heavily, and when there was much wind, the sea made a continual breach across her bows, so that when we had, by any lucky chance, kept our clothes dry for a whole watch, we usually got well soaked in attempting to go below. Yet, notwithstanding that we were literally under water more than half our time, we were compelled to wash the ship's deck every morning at daybreak, without any regard to the weather, if we could stand on our feet long enough to carry a bucket of water to the mate, who would dash it upon the deck with a perfectly grave face, although at the time the sea would be making a breach over us. But it is the universal custom at sea to wash down a ship's decks at daylight, whether it be necessary or not.

We had laboured under a great disadvantage in making our last repairs, from having lost our carpenter a few days before the last gale. As the cause of his death was peculiar, it will require some remarks before I relate it.

A ship's deck is an absolute monarchy, where the chief officer holds unchecked sway over the lives and pleasures of his people. There are no constitutional balances at sea. The captain can do no wrong. The laws of the deck are made for the protection of the king, who, having absolute command, needs no protection; his orders must be obeyed without thought; to question them is mutiny; his humours must be regarded as divine wisdom; his tyranny is only discipline. Right or wrong, his word is a law that cannot be broken with impunity. If from weakness or meekness he allows the transgressor to escape, the law seizes him and punishes him ashore. If a sailor raise his hand in self-defence against his superior in command, 'tis mutiny; if he is starved, he is not allowed the privilege of complaint; if he is overworked, he can claim no extra pay, if he refuse to work, his pay is stopped. He may be ordered aloft at the peril of his life, ay, where death would be certain, to save a bit of rope not worth a shilling; and if he refuse to go, he can be put in irons and tried for a capital offence. The authority of a ship-master, like that of a slave-owner, is too great not to be abused. It is not in human nature to resist the temptation to tyranny that our law holds out to ship-masters. Men cannot help holding in contempt those over whom they exercise unlimited control. The prerogatives of tyranny smother all kindly feelings in the human breast, and therefore they should in all cases be forbidden by law, and not established as they are in the case of a sea-commander. There is nothing in the relation of a ship-captain to his crew, which requires such a wide distinction as the law makes between them. A sailor has the same instinctive feelings of self-preservation which other men have, which would lead him to obey his commander in times of difficulty, and which should allow him the privilege of expostulation, when he sees his superior is unfit to command.

There is no better reason for giving the master of a ship unlimited power over his crew, than there is for giving the same authority to a mechanic over his apprentices or journeymen.

The great error of our naval discipline is its being adopted from the British service, in which it is perfectly consistent with the other departments of the government; with us it is a monstrous anomaly, a foul blot upon our free system of laws. In truth, our marine is governed by a code greatly inferior to that of England; for while she has made many improvements, we have stood still. Merit may do something towards promoting a man in any European naval service; but in ours, the most worthless poltroon, whose friends possess political influence sufficient to gain him an appointment in our navy, rises side by side to pay and station, with the brightest, and best spirits in the service. No government in Europe is half so exclusive, so tyrannical, so aristocratic in regard to its subjects who act as its defenders, as ours to its citizens. A Nelson, a Decatur, might serve in our navy until he was gray, and never be rewarded with promotion.

The strange darkness of the public mind in regard to this matter has recently been sadly developed in the case of the horrible murders committed on board the Somers. View that terrible transaction as you may, with all the apologies of the main actor in the unparalleled tragedy before you, and it must be accounted a cowardly murder. I am exceedingly unwilling to allude to a subject which must be alike painful to the friends of the unhappy victims of our tyrannical laws, and to those of the ill-judging officers who acted as their executioners. But the subject is one of too great importance to allow it to be passed by, when it will serve to illustrate the evils which the people can only remove by being made acquainted with them.

We have been maintaining a naval force for nearly thirty years, at an expense to the industry of the nation exceeding two hundred millions of dollars; and all the glory that we have earned in return has been the capture of two feeble towns,* whose inhabitants had done us no wrong, and for which we were compelled to make apologies, and court-martial the captors; and the murder, in cool blood, of three unarmed men, who were hung at the yard-arm of a national ship, without even being tried, or informed of their offence. It is the foulest, darkest, bloodiest spot upon our national history. Although perpetrated by one or two individuals, it is a national offence, because it was the legitimate result of our national LAW; and because the deed itself has been approved by the public voice. It was the inevitable effect of a system, miscalled of defence, which has reared in the midst of our boasted, democracy, an absurd aristocracy, at variance with our beautiful system, which, beyond all other human governments, helps to restore humanity to its rights. The wisdom of Washington is misinterpreted by us. In time of peace prepare for war, is a caution to avoid war by practising the arts of peace, and not to hasten it on by arming ships and fortifications, and thus creating a war-spirit in our bosoms when we have not an enemy in the world, and all the world is in profound peace. The true watch-word of the nation is, in time of war prepare for peace. No man thinks of going into the street with a sword in his hand, lest an enemy should attack him, when he knows of no enemy. Why then should a nation keep itself in a state of warlike defence, when no one attempts to make an aggression?

[*The capture of Foxardo by Com. Porter, and of Monterey by Captain Jones.]

The unequaled outrage committed on board the

Somers, should have opened the eyes of our people to the enormous wrongs that they were nursing in their navy; but the leaven of aristocracy which was left in our laws at the time of our dissolution with England, has not yet worked out, and the fresh supplies which we continue to receive from her in our daily reading, must account for the unnatural verdict of the public mind in regard to this matter.

With a kind of bitter irony, but not less severe for that, the inhabitants of Boston or Philadelphia, I forget which city has a right to this honour, bestowed upon the cowardly actor in that dreadful tragedy, a sword. A SWORD! What should he do with a sword? In judging of a case like the inhuman massacre on board the Somers, we might safely trust to the verdict of British officers, without any fear of leaning on the side of mercy. But the voice of the British navy, speaking through its acknowledged organs, pronounces the act one of the most dastardly and inhuman that has ever been perpetrated upon the ocean.

Men who live on shore, see a mist whenever they look out to sea. Everything with them suffers a sea change. Mariners are a strange kind of monsters to them; with unnatural proportions and distorted passions; they live at sea, out of the pale of the sweet charities which encompass them on shore; they are laughed at and wondered at as odd fish, and are not sympathized with as men possessing human feelings, and subject to suffering from the wrongs which oppress other men.

The chief mate of our ship was a model quarter-deck tyrant; too much of a man to be despised, and too bad a one to be respected. He had all the elements of a tyrant in him; he was courageous, revengeful, and capricious; sufficiently kind to his favourites to make it desirable to gain his good will. Towards some of us in the forecastle he manifested a fondness almost parental, bringing us dry stockings, plugs of tobacco, and sly drinks of whiskey. Sometimes he would even take off his jacket and throw it to some of the men who looked cold; while he would refuse others a patch of canvass to mend a tattered sou'wester. Towards me has evinced a partiality which added nothing to my comfort, for it made me an object of suspicion with my companions in the forecastle, upon whom I was more dependent than upon the officers. The friendship of a tyrant is always dangerous. Sometimes he would call me aft, and under a pretense of keeping me at work, he would make me stand inside the hurricane house during a whole watch, to keep me out of the wet.

Our second mate was an amiable young man, ambitious of getting ahead, and a good sailor enough for one of his age. But the mate treated him worse than a dog, and I saw him sometimes shed tears when the mate "blew him up," as he called his abuse. Every mishap that occurred on board the ship was attributed to the unfortunate second mate, who was rarely called by any other name than a Mahon soldier. "Don't fall, dummy," the mate would call out to him when he was aloft, in a sneering voice. Every epithet of contempt that he could invent was bestowed by the mate upon the unfortunate second dickey, until the poor fellow was harassed within an inch of his life. And yet, to have spoken or acted in his own defence would have been mutiny. The mate would not strike any body, because he had suffered in the Marine Court for doing so. Flogging a sailor at sea on board a merchant vessel, is an expensive amusement; but any other cruelty or abuse may be practised with impunity.

Our carpenter was another of the mate's buts. He was a Norwegian, a huge titanesque creature, who might have personated the god Woden, or any other of the beer-drinking heroes of the Northern mythology, He towered up above our heads with his broad scowling face, like a being of a different race. He was an old man, past sixty-five, and all his life had been spent at sea. It is inconceivable that a man could have lived so long upon the earth, and should know so little about it. A green leaf was as great a novelty to him as it was to Noah's dove. The greater part of his life had been spent on board of a Swedish frigate, where he had acquired a habit of obedience rarely found in an Englishman or an American. His shoulders were of immense breadth, but not an inch too broad for his ponderous head, which was but scantily provided with hair, that looked like steel wires. His face was brown, like a piece of old mahogany; and a scar on his right cheek, and another that divided his under lip on the left side, gave it a singular appearance of ferocity. His nose was enormous, full of holes, and in colour resembling a bunch of Isabella grapes, looking as if it had been used as a target by a rifle company; his eyes, which were a greenish blue, were shaded by a pair of heavy black eyebrows, as shaggy and hard looking as the dwarf cedars that frown upon the brow of a stony hill which I look upon from my window as I sit and write. These were very far from the elements of beauty, certainly; but grouped as they were on the person of old Derrick, they created an impression by no means unpleasant. He was mainly good-natured, but uncontrollable when excited to passion by an affront, and therefore we in the forecastle all took good care not to offend him: a blow from his fist was not a thing one would be likely to forget in a hurry. He would have been a most amusing companion, if it had been possible to understand him, for his wild northern stories were just the kind of amusement fitted to our stormy watches, but the scar in his lip, and his barbarous tongue together, made his attempts at English the most incomprehensible jargon that was ever uttered. He could understand the orders given him, and he always executed them faithfully, but we had to guess at his meaning whenever he spoke. The mate took a fancy to torment the carpenter, not from spite or malice, but from the pure wantonness of tyranny: for no other reason than that he had the power to do so. He used to call Derrick leather-lips, instead of carpenter, which vexed the soul of the old man the more because his habit of duty would not allow him to make any reply, even though his imperfect speech would have allowed him to do so.

"What now, leather-lips?" the mate would say, when the carpenter stepped upon the quarter-deck; at which the old man would knit his shaggy brows, and stride back to the forecastle, venting his terrible northern curses, and gnashing his teeth horribly. Sometimes he would be so vexed at the mate's jokes, that he would not eat a mouthful for two or three days. Instead of getting used to the mate's banter, the old man grew more and more irritable, and, his paroxysms of passion became more frightful. He would sit upon his tool-chest, and mutter something after this fashion: "Fut te tyvil in hell! fut leffer-lips; I fill kill myself; I fill kill myself and go to hell fit him. Fut te tyvil ist to leffer-lips. I fill be tammed fit hell fit him."

Thus the old Norwegian giant would sit and threaten; and the mate, so far from being moved to pity by his unhappy petulance, would only laugh at him, and say, "Go it while you're young, leather-lips." He at last grew so petulant and wrathful from the continued banter of the mate, that no one in the forecastle dared to speak to him. One night after a day of unusual fatigue, the old man came down into the forecastle, and struck the lid of his chest with his clenched fist, and swore a tremendous oath, that the next time the mate called him by that hated name he would jump overboard and drown himself. His old eyes flashed fire as he spoke, and I was fearful that he would be as good as his word. During the night we had a very heavy blow from the southeast, but towards morning it died away, and by sunrise it was nearly calm, but as there was a little air, all hands were turned up to make sail; and while we were mast-heading the topsails, old Derrick came upon deck, and the mate called out, "Come aft here, leather-lips, and give us a pull."

The old man instantly pulled off his cap and jumped upon the railing forward of the main rigging, and standing erect, shook his fist at the mate.

"Get down, you old fool, or you will fall overboard," cried the mate. Derrick made no reply, but glared fiercely upon us, and leaped into the sea. The act was so sudden that we were all paralyzed for a moment and the mate turned as pale as death, and trembled violently. We immediately threw overboard all the loose articles about deck, and in five minutes the stern boat was in the water. But the old man had disappeared for ever. It was nearly calm; and although there was a very heavy swell, we could have saved him, but it seemed that he had purposely held his head under water. The mate tried to make light of the matter, and said the old man was crazy; but it was very evident that he felt himself encumbered by the weight of a murdered fellow being.

The old man was a great annoyance to us the remainder of the voyage, for hardly a night passed that some of the crew did not fancy they either saw him or heard him; they always had called him a Fin, and they believed he had power to raise or allay the wind at his pleasure; and every unusual gale we experienced the rest of the passage, they would say, "Old Derrick is giving it to us again." Although it was known that he had a case bottle of schnapps in his chest, not a soul had the courage to touch it, fearing that he would appear to them if they did.

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CHAPTER VII.

A CELEBRATED naval commander has said that mere courage is not sufficient for a sailor; he must be "fool-hardy;" but he must be more than this—an unconsciousness of hardship and peril will not do; he must love danger for its own sake, or he can be no genuine sailor. There are no inducements held out to sailors to make them in love with their fool-hardy business, but on the contrary, all the discouragements that would keep men from other employments. Owners and masters of ships understand perfectly well that sailors go to sea for pure enjoyment, and not for gain, and therefore they give them for their invaluable services the smallest pittance possible for them to subsist upon. A hod carrier is magnificently rewarded, compared with a sailor; a chambermaid, whose heaviest duty is in shaking up a bed, receives nearly the same wages as a foremast hand in our packet service. It is very clear that sailors do not go to sea for the sake of what they get, but from some other motive, which none but a sailor can comprehend. There may be some inquisitive spirits who go to sea for the sake of what they can see; but there are but few such. The genuine sailor is a reckless, daring spirit, whose hell is quiet. He must have strong and powerful excitements, such as only dallying with death produces. Generally he is as indifferent as the vessel he floats in about the length of his voyage or the port of its termination; the Gulf of Mexico and the Gulf of Finland are the same to him.

On board of our ship there was a sailor who never discovered, until we were out of the channel, that we were bound to New-York instead of New-Orleans; he having shipped, in a vessel bound to the latter port. And when he discovered his mistake, he said less about it than an omnibus traveller would at being carried a block out of his way. One of our crew told me of a strange incident in his life, occasioned by this carelessness of destination. He left his native place in a brig bound to Havana, and after his arrival in that port deserted his ship and went on board of a slaver bound for the coast of Africa, probably enticed by the peril of the employment, and with the hope of being hung for a pirate. The brig in which he had left home returned in due time, and when in sight of port was wrecked, and every soul on board perished. When the wreck was discovered, the friends of her crew took measures to recover the bodies of their relations; and among the rest, the father and brothers of the young sailor who had been left behind, never having heard of his desertion, and supposing him drowned, as a matter of course, were at great pains to discover his body. A corpse was found upon the beach which they thought was his; it was much defaced, but they had no doubt of its identity, and therefore bestowed upon it due funeral rites, and erected a marble stone over it in the village burying ground, with an inscription bearing as little truth, perhaps, as ever a tomb-stone bore. The runaway was drifted about upon the ocean two or three years, when, having been paid off in Boston with money enough to buy a new suit of clothes, he determined to go home and see his mother. It was dusk when he reached his father's door, and entering without ceremony, he found the family seated at supper. The tumult and confusion which followed his sudden appearance among them must be left to the reader's imagination. The next morning his father took him to the burying ground and showed him the stone that had been erected to his memory, and he enjoyed the pleasure, which has probably fallen to the lot of but few mortals, of reading his own epitaph; he told me there were some first rate lines on his tomb-stone, but he had forgotten them.

Sailors generally come from the country; the majority of them have worked on a farm. Town-bred youths are too effeminate for the sea; they have too many recollections of the delicacies and amusements of a city life to "scorn delights and live laborious days."

One of our crew was a young Englishman, who had the chivalrous disposition of a knight-errant; placed in a higher sphere, he would have been acknowledged the flower of gallantry. His name was Macartney; he told me that his brother was a major in the service of the East India Company, and that his aunt was the wife of an earl. His father was killed at the battle of Waterloo. But Jack required no extraneous honours; he was an honest fellow, and a brave-hearted gentleman—who might have lived ashore in ease, but he delighted in the dangers and hardships of a sea life. When our provisions were getting short, and it required the soul of a philosopher to resist the temptation of cutting a larger slice of beef than fell to your share, Jack would never help himself until every man in the watch had had his cut. On one occasion, when we had been kept from our dinner by some unnecessary work which the mate had put upon us for the sake of "working up" somebody whom he had taken a dislike to, on going down into the forecastle, we found the kids which contained our beef and pudding (duff, as the sailors call it,) capsized, and the contents rolling in the lee scuppers, cold and dirty. Everybody began to grumble at the bad treatment we received, and to complain of our cold dinner. But Jack sat looking on in silence, until he saw one of the watch make a motion to cut a piece of the beef.

"Avast there!" said Jack; "are you going to sit there, like dogs in a kennel, and growl and eat whatever your master throws at you? Take your kids and go aft to the captain and tell him you will not be fed like dogs." But nobody moved.

"Never mind; I'll go myself," he said; and taking the kids in his hands he carried them on to the quarter-deck, where the captain was walking with his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest.

"What do you want?" said the captain, sternly.

"I want to be treated like a man, and not like a brute," said Jack; "see what has been served up to us for our dinner; haven't we done our duty, and more than our duty?"

"Go forward, you mutinous rascal," said the captain, "or I will put you in irons."

"It will not be safe for you to attempt it," said Jack. "But you are no gentleman, or you would not talk to me in that manner."

The captain grew livid with rage, and called for his pistols, which were immediately handed to him by the steward.

"Poo! poo!" said Jack "you are a cowardly wretch. I won't make a disturbance by taking hold of you, but I'll thrash you as soon as we reach New-York. We won't eat your dirty beef;" and so saying, he threw the two kids overboard, and walked forward.

"What! have you thrown our grub overboard.?" muttered one of the men.

"Yes," said Jack, "I have; and if a soul of you grumbles at it, I'll flog him."

So we ate dry bread for our dinner that day. It was not long afterwards that the captain and his passengers lost their dinner, but didn't manifest much heroism under their disappointment.

————

CHAPTER VIII.

AMONG the luxuries which the captain had provided for himself and passengers was a fine green turtle, which was not likely to suffer from exposure to salt water, so it was reserved, until all the pigs, and sheep, and poultry had been eaten. A few days before we arrived, it was determined to kill the turtle and have a feast the next day. Our cabin gentlemen had been long enough deprived of fresh meats to make them cast lickerish glances towards their hard-skinned friend, and there was a great smacking of lips the day before he was killed. As I walked aft occasionally I heard them congratulating themselves on their prospective turtle soup and force-meat balls; and one of them, to heighten the luxury of the feast, ate nothing but a dry biscuit for twenty-four hours, that he might be able to devour his full share of the unctuous compound. It was to be a gala day with them; and though it was not champagne day, that falling on Saturday and this on Friday, they agreed to have champagne a day in advance, that nothing should be wanting to give a finish to their turtle. It happened to be a rougher day than usual when the turtle was cooked, but they had become too well used to the motion of the ship to mind that. It chanced to be my turn at the wheel the hour before dinner, and I had the tantalizing misery of hearing them laughing and talking about their turtle, while I was hungry from want of dry bread and salt meat. I had resolutely kept my thoughts from the cabin during all the passage but once, and now I found my ideas clustering round a tureen of imaginary turtle in spite of all my philosophy. Confound them, if they had gone out of my hearing with their exulting smacks, I would not have envied their soup; but their hungry glee so excited my imagination, that I could see nothing through the glazing of the binnacle but a white plate with a slice of lemon on the rim, a loaf of delicate bread, a silver spoon, a napkin, two or three wine glasses of different hues and shapes, and a stream of black, thick, and fragrant soup pouring into the plate. By and by it was four bells; they dined at six. And all the gentlemen, with the captain at their head, darted below into the cabin, where their mirth increased when they caught sight of the soup plates. "Hurry with the soup, steward," roared the captain. "Coming, sir," replied the steward. The cook opened the door of his galley, and out came the delicious steam of the turtle, such as people often inhale, and step across the street of a hot afternoon to avoid, as they pass by Delmonico's in South William-street. Then came the steward with a large covered tureen in his hand, toward the cabin gangway. I forgot the ship for a moment in looking at this precious cargo, the wheel slipped from my hands, the ship broached to with a sudden jerk; the steward had got only one foot upon the stairs, when this unexpected motion threw him off his balance, and down he went by the run; the tureen slipped from his hands, and part of its contents flew into the lee scuppers, and the balance followed him in his fall.

I laughed outright. I enjoyed the turtle a thousand times more than I should have done if I had eaten the whole of it. But I was forced to restrain my mirth, for the next moment the steward ran upon deck, followed by the captain, in a furious rage, threatening if he caught him to throw him overboard. Not a spoonful of the soup had been left in the coppers, for the steward had taken it all away at once to keep it warm. In about an hour afterwards the passengers came upon deck, looking more sober than I had seen them since we left Liverpool. They had dined upon cold ham.

On the first of March we got soundings on St. George's bank. Cold as it was before, the weather now grew colder. Hail was changed to snow, and our ship's decks were covered with ice; all the tacks and sheets were frozen stiff, and we were forced to keep away to the south to thaw out, for if we had been struck by a squall it would have been impossible to shorten sail. Before we could square our yards we had to pour hot water upon the tacks, to render them pliable enough to start them. It was so extremely difficult to work the ship, in consequence of the ice upon the running rigging, and the wind was so fresh, for we were under close-reefed topsails, that it was considered prudent to clue up the foresail while we were wearing ship, lest it should blow away; and it being discovered that one of the clue-garnets was stranded, I was sent aloft to secure it. I was chilled to the midriff before leaving the deck, and I had not been aloft many minutes before I began to feel benumbed and drowsy, and perceiving that I had lost the power of sustaining myself, I grasped my arms around the forward swifter, (one of the shrouds of the foremast,) and contrived to drop upon deck without injuring myself. How I did it I do not know, and, at the time I did not care, for I was past feeling, and I remember that I had half a mind to drop myself overboard. I lost all consciousness as soon as I struck the deck, and being taken below, they poured some hot brandy and water down my throat, and in an hour or two I revived and went to my duty on deck. This was the only time during the passage that I was off duty an hour.

After standing to the southward twenty-four hours the weather moderated, and a warm sun gave us all new life. In another fortnight we passed Sandy

Hook, that seemed to welcome me back to my home. It was the last object I had seen on leaving it, and it was the first to greet me on my return. How unchanged did the long sandy point look with its few scrubby trees and its faithful beacon—but how changed was I!

————

WELL. I had not made a profitless trip to Europe, although it had ended very differently from what I had anticipated when I set out. I had learned how to rough it with the world, and with the elements,—a lesson that I sadly needed. I had preserved my independence and my integrity, and I had improved my health. I had missed seeing the picture galleries of Italy, but I had found something vastly better. I fear that few who go to Europe for improvement, return home with so valuable a stock of experience.

Spite of the hardships I had endured on board the ——, I left her with a feeling of regret; and I could scarce part with my forecastle companions without a tear for the loss of their fellowship. Suffering has a more potent influence in binding men to each other than pleasure.

But the feeling of regret at parting with my shipmates was but slight, compared with my ardent desires to see my friends; and I jumped ashore as soon as the ship struck the dock, proud of my hard hands and weather-beaten appearance, because I could return to my mother without the incumbrance of debt, and better prepared to bear the burden which my loss had imposed upon me, than I was when I left her.

My little narrative is at an end. It is too common-place, I am aware, to deserve notice for its events, since it relates nothing which has not been related before; but the moral of it is worth having, if the reader can pick it out—if he cannot, it would be idle to do it for him.

Bear in mind, young traveller, when you pine after luxuries that do not happen to be within your reach, that it is possible to endure hard labour and be happy with no other refreshments than potatoes and salt, provided they are honestly earned.

Short works from The Knickerbocker

Gimcrackery

——

PRELUDIAL: IN WHICH THE READER WILL BE VERY LIKELY TO DISCOVER SOME OF HIS OWN THOUGHTS PUT INTO PRINT.

——

WHEN a man suddenly thrusts himself before the world, it is meet and proper that he should give some account of himself, as well as an intimation of the objects he has in view in stepping boldly out from the rank and file of his fellow-creatures, to challenge their attention. In conformity, therefore, with what I conceive to be so just and proper, I beg leave, most gentle reader, to introduce myself to you, and also to make some explanation of my motives in obtruding myself upon your consideration.

Know, then, that I am one of those unhappy creatures, whom the fates have appointed to labor for the benefit, not only of their own immediate contemporaries, but also of posterity, with the almost certain prospect of receiving nothing in return, but the reflections, pleasurable or otherwise, to which the subject may give birth. That there should be such a race of individuals, may appear somewhat marvellous to the thoughtless; but even they cannot deny the fact; neither should it be an object of especial wonder to them, seeing that themselves are a proof, that it takes all sorts of people to make up a world. That men should volunteer to serve the living public, is not indeed a cause for such monstrous surprise; but that they should volunteer to sweat and toil for posterity, may well cause wonder, even in the thoughtful; since, from the very nature of the case, as an ingenious philosopher has somewhere hinted, posterity can have laid them under no possible obligation, neither can it, by any possibility, reward them, were it so disposed. But so it is. And with my eyes wide open to the folly and inconsistency of such a course, I must go on and fulfil the object of my being, whether I be so inclined or not.

That a man should ever take up his pen, with the avowed purpose of using it for the world's benefit, dipping it, as it were, in the sweat of his own brain, with the knowledge that that very world will never thank him for his pains, is indeed surprising. Better were it, that he should take a sword in hand, for men are paid good fat salaries, and have rations of bread and meal allowed them, for keeping themselves in readiness to slaughter their fellow-creatures, when called upon to do so; nay, they are educated at the public expense for this very purpose; they are afterward complimented with costly presents by the country, and honored with an apotheösis at their death. Scarcely a legislative season passes by, in which the people's representatives do not vote a gold-hilted sword to some one of those men who have attained a Niles' Register immortality, by slaying with their own hands more or less of their fellow beings. But when did a legislature vote even a steel pen to a patriotic author, who, having educated himself at his own expense, and given up the profitable occupations open before him, has devoted his precious days and nights to writing for the benefit of his country; creating employment to hundreds, nay thousands, of artizans; putting steam-presses and paper-mills in motion; solacing the minds of the mature, and elevating the morals of the young; gaining a name for his country, and making her known among the nations, by the products of his pen; and enriching and benefitting every body but himself? How many such men have lived and died among us, of whom the people, by their representatives, never so much as acknowledged the existence, even while they were enjoying the liberal bounties of their genius; while never yet was there a Major Marrowfat, who, having been put into the army by his parents, because they were either too poor or too indolent to provide for him themselves, and finding himself marching toward a hostile army, on some pleasant day, and seeing retreat impossible, has shut up both eyes, and in very desperation has cut and slashed at the men before him, until his sword has wept human blood; and having, by some lucky chance, escaped unhurt, or perhaps with a slight scar on one of his fat cheeks, did not immediately become a pet of the people; towns and counties are called after him; his portrait is painted at the expense of the state; his pay is increased; he is elevated in rank; and he never exerts himself again, except to spend his pay, and eat his rations, and he is a hero! True, our blessed country does but imitate other christian nations in this respect, to a certain extent; yet it must be borne in mind, that England grants pensions to men-preservers, as well as to men-destroyers; for among the numerous marble effigies which decorate the interior of Saint Paul's cathedral, there are two, erected at the expense of the nation, to the memory of men who labored more assiduously to benefit their fellow-creatures, than ever did colonel, captain, commodore, or admiral, to destroy them. These are the philanthropist Howard, and the no less philanthropist, Johnson. And France, too, the bare mention of whose name calls up images of blood and carnage, and hosts of armed men, even fighting France, has never been unmindful of her sons who wielded the pen. The bourgeois of Toulouse, even in a warlike age, if my memory does not deceive me, presented a massive silver Minerva to the poet Rousard, as a testimonial of their respect for his talents. Let me put it now to the honorables, the representatives of this mighty people, if they do not esteem such a man, for example, as the author of the Life of Columbus, quite as much entitled to a trifling compliment, as though it could be proved, on the testimony of credible witnesses, that he had killed a white man, or even an Indian, at the battle of Madakelchamp, or some equally renowned field of blood?

But, gentle reader, I did not observe that you were standing all this time, with your hat in your hand, waiting for an introduction. Doubtless you have by this received sufficient insight into my character, to satisfy your curiosity. So I will say not another word about myself, but proceed immediately to lay before you the plans and principles by which I shall be guided, in the preparation of these forth-coming Gimcrackeries.

In the first place, the author will honestly confess, that he has been mainly induced to the preparation of these papers, by a desire for immortality; and the Editor of 'OLD KNICK.' having, in the most generous manner, undertaken to embalm the creations of his fancy in his time-defying pages, he will henceforth be easy on that score; looking upon himself as already handed down to posterity; consequently, his mind being at rest, and his affairs prosperous, he can devote himself to his undertaking, with undivided energies.

The principles by which he will be guided, are those of universal benevolence; but within their extended circumference are innumerable considerations, neither possible nor profitable to enumerate. But as it is infinitely easier, as must have been discovered some time since, for a man to promise what he will not do, than to promise what he will, I shall therefore let the reader draw his own conclusions as to what he may expect, from that which I shall caution him not to expect, in the future Gimcrackeries that will be presented to his notice.

FIRST. He must not expect any translations from, nor imitations of, any of the high Germanorum mystery-mongers, now in vogue among fashionable authors and scholars; for, Doctor Channing to the contrary notwithstanding, I am willing to undertake to prove, in the teeth of all the smoke-dried professors of Heidelburgh and Harvard, that a feeble thought can gain no strength from being smothered under heap of dictionary words; and that truth can never be made truer, by being surrounded with ever so many mysterious-looking falsehoods.

SECONDLY. He must not expect any quotations from Latin or Greek authors; from 'Old Play,' nor from the British classics; for, taking it for granted that he is quite as well read in the Dictionary of Quotations, and the 'Elegant Extracts,' as myself, I should consider it a work of supererogation to place any of the dainties contained in those erudite works before him.

THIRDLY. He must not look for any learned dissertations on any subject whatever; such, for instance, as the probable number of old men of which the chorus in a tragedy of Æschylus may have been composed; as I consider it a matter of very little moment to the present, or any other generation, whether there were fifteen or twelve, or indeed whether there were any at all.

FOURTHLY. He must not expect one syllable about the Subtreasury, the Presidential question, Lady Bulwer, nor any other fashionable subject.

FIFTHLY. He must not expect that I shall, in conformity with the advice of one the countless multitude of modern authors, put forth my strongest thoughts first; as that would be manifestly contrary to all precedent, and in violation of Nature herself, whom I am anxious to propitiate, by striving to follow her dictates. Buds and blossoms before fruits and flowers, is her universal prescription. And in elegant society, we all know that 'Potage à la Julienne' invariably precedes 'Bas grillée au maître d' Hotel,' or a 'Fricandeau de Veau.'

Therefore, O reader! peruse this Gimcrack in the same pleasant temper with which you smack your lips over a plate of thin potage, at Monsieur Blancard's, while the carte à manger, open before you, gives promise of entremets both rare and numerous.

But this being one of those ad infinitum discourses which may be prolonged with pleasure, or brought to a close with profit, I shall here endeavor to stop, premising, first, that in the mighty undertaking I have assumed, I have secured the assistance of an association of gentlemen, on whom I can rely with great confidence, and from whom, as the reader will believe, great things may be expected. I will give the names of these individuals, as they have been christened by that eminent philosopher, Mr. GEORGE COMBE. They are as follows:

MR. CONCENTRATIV. LARGE;
MAJOR COMBATIV. FULL;
HON. SELF-ESTEEM LARGE;
FIRMNESS LARGE, ESQ.;
REV. BENEVOLENCE VERY LARGE, D. D.;
IDEALITY LARGE, LL. D.;
MR. IMITATIV. LARGE;
MR. MIRTHFUL LARGE;
MR. INDIVIDUALITY VERY LARGE;
MESSRS. LANGUAGE, CAUSALITY, AND
COMPARISON LARGE, AND
THE BROTHERS LOCALITY AND ORDER LARGE.

With this array of respectability and talent for endorsers, I think I may, to speak more directly to the understanding of my mercantile reader, offer my note of hand, with the full confidence of its being received as a piece of negotiable paper:

New-York, August 1, 1839.

On the first day of every succeeding month, after date, without grace, I promise to tickle the fancies and elevate the morals of the readers of the KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE. No value received.

————
$ GIMCRACK.
————

HARRY FRANCO.

GIMCRACK THE FIRST.

——

CONTAINS A VARIETY OF MATTER, WHICH IT IS CONFIDENTLY BELIEVED THE READER NEVER SAW BEFORE; AND THEREFORE HE IS ADMONISHED NOT TO OMIT THIS OPPORTUNITY OF BECOMING ACQUAINTED WITH WHAT NOBODY BUT HIMSELF AND THE AUTHOR CAN, BY ANY POSSIBILITY, KNOW ANY THING ABOUT.

——

IT is not many months since, that I had been travelling day and night, over roads of iron, for nearly a week, until my sense of hearing was almost destroyed, by the continued fiz, fiz-fiz, fiz-fiz, fiz-fiz, of a steam-engine, the incessant ding-ding, ding-ding, of the alarm bell, and the prolonged rumble, rumble, rumble, of the rail-car's wheels. My eyes, too, were well nigh destroyed by sparks of fire, and flying ashes; but above all, from the want of rest and sleep. It will be readily imagined, therefore, that it was with no ordinary degree of pleasure, that I exchanged a seat with an upright wooden back, in a rail-road car, for the almost by-gone luxury of a couch-like seat in an old-fashioned stage-coach, which was to take me to the place of my destination. A blessing rest upon those old-time conveyances, the bare mention of which calls up a thousand recollections of social pleasures, that come thronging and fluttering about the nib of my pen, like moths around a bright light, on a summer evening! But, beautiful creatures! I can only apostrophize you now. Some other time, I will impale you upon the end of my quill, and preserve your slight forms in ink.

The day was remarkably fine; our road lay through the pleasantest parts of pleasant Connecticut, near the picturesque valley of the Housatonic; our cattle were sleek and fine-looking; the driver was civil, and decently dressed; and the coach itself was a miracle. There was not a rent in the curtains, nor a spring out of order. There were but two passengers, beside myself, one of whom was one of those good-natured humorists, who I believe live all their lives in stage-coaches, for I never met with one any where else; and the other was an invalid, with his face tied up so that he could not speak.

Never had a weary traveller a sweeter prospect of enjoying a refreshing nap. We had travelled about a mile, and the easy motion of the coach had just began to put me and my fellow travellers into a pleasant sleep, when a shrill voice, exclaiming, 'Stop! stop!' caused the driver to rein up, which roused me from the delightful state of incipient somnolency into which I was sinking.

It was an elderly lady, with a monstrous band-box, a paper-covered trunk, and a little girl. We were of course debarred the satisfaction of saying a single ill-natured word. The driver dismounted from his box, and having stowed away the lady's baggage, proceeded to assist her to store herself away in the coach.

'Driver,' said the 'lady,' 'do you know Deacon Hitchcock?'

'No, ma'am,' replied the driver, 'I have only driv on this road about a fortnight.'

'I wonder if neither of them gentlemen do n't know him?' she said, putting her head into the coach.

'I do n't,' said the humorist; 'but I know Deacon Hotchkiss, if that will answer your purpose.'

'Do n't neither of them other gentlemen know him?' she inquired.

I shook my head, negatively; for I was afraid to speak, lest I should dispel the charm that sleep had begun to shed over me; and the invalid shook his head, as he was unable to speak.

'Well, then, I do n't know whether to get in or not,' said the lady, 'for I must see Deacon Hitchcock, before I go home. I am a lone widow lady, all the way from the state of New-Hampshire, and the deacon was a very particular friend of my husband's, this little girl's father, who has been dead two long years; and I should like to see him 'mazin'ly.'

'Does he live about here?' asked the driver.

'Well, I do n't know for certain,' said the lady; 'but he lives somewhere in Connecticut. This is the first time I was ever so fur from home; I live in the state of New-Hampshire, and it is dreadful unpleasant; I feel a little dubious about riding all alone in a stage with gentlemen that I never see before in all my life.'

'There is no danger, ma'am,' said the driver; 'the gentlemen won't hurt you.'

'Well prehaps they won't; but it is very unpleasant for a lady to be so fur from home; I live in the state of New-Hampshire; and this little girl's——'

'You had better get in, ma'am,' said the driver, with praiseworthy moderation.

'Well, I do n't know but I may as well,' she replied; and after informing the driver once more that she was from the state of New-Hampshire, and that her husband had been dead two years, she got in, and took her seat.

'I will take your fare, ma'am,' said the driver.

'How much is it, Sir?' asked the lady.

'Four-and-six-pence,' said the driver, 'for yourself and the little girl.'

'Well, that is a monstrous sight of money, for a little girl's passage, like that; her father, my husband, has been dead these two long years, and I was never so fur from home before in all my life. I live in the state of New-Hampshire. It is very unpleasant for a lady; but I dare say neither of them gentlemen would see me imposed upon.'

'I will take your fare, if you please, ma'am,' again said the driver, in a tone bordering somewhat on impatience.

'How much did you say it was?—three-and-sixpence?' asked the lady.

'Four-and-six-pence, if you please, ma'am,' said the driver.

'O, four-and-six-pence!' And after a good deal of fumbling, and shaking of her pockets, she at last produced a half dollar, and a York shilling, and put them into the driver's hand.

'That is not enough, ma'am,' said the driver; 'I want nine-pence more.'

'What!—ain't we in York state?' she asked, eagerly.

'No, ma'am,' replied the driver; 'it is six shillings, York money.'

'Well,' said the lady, 'I used to be quite good at reckoning, when I was to home, in the state of New-Hampshire; I've reckoned up many a fish v'yage; but since I have got so fur from home, I b'lieve I am beginning to lose my mental faculties.'

'I'll take that other nine-pence, if you please, ma'am,' said the driver, in a voice approaching a little nearer to impatience. At last, after making allusion two or three times more to her native state, and her deceased husband, (happy man!) she handed the driver his nine-pence, and we were once more in motion. Although my fellow travellers remained silent all the time she was disputing with the driver, yet they looked as though they were wishing the New-Hampshire lady some of the worst wishes that could be imagined.

'Do you think it's dan-gerous on this road?' began the lady, as soon as the door was closed. 'I am a very lengthy way from home, in the state of New-Hampshire; and if any thing should happen, I do n't know what I should do. I am quite unfamiliar with travelling; and I hope you won't think me obtrusive; I am a widow lady; my husband, this little girl's father, has been dead these two years, come this spring; and I am going with her to the Springs: she has got a dreadful bad complaint in her stomach. Are you going to the Springs, Sir?' she said, addressing herself to the invalid, who shook his head in reply.

'Ah; are you going, Sir?' she said, addressing the humorist.

'No, I am not,' he replied; 'and if I were——' But the contingency was inwardly pronounced.

'Are you?' she asked, turning to me.

'No!'

'Ah, I am very sorry; I should like to put myself under the care of some clever gentleman; it is so awful unpleasant for a lady to be so fur from home, without a protector. I am from the state of New-Hampshire, and this is the first time I ever went a-travelling in my life. Do you know any body in New-Hampshire?'

'No, madam, I do not,' said the humorist, 'and I hope you will excuse me for saying that I never wish to.'

'Well, now, that is very straänge,' continued the gossip; 'I hav' n't met a single soul that I know, since I left home; and I am in a public way, too; I follow school-keepin', mostly, for an occupation; and I am acquainted with all the first people in the state. I have been a school-teacher ever since my husband died, this poor little girl's father, two years ago; and I am very well known in Rocky-bottom, Rockingham county, in the state of New-Hampshire; I know all the first gentlemen in the place. There 's Squire Goodwin, Squire Cushman, Mr. Timothy Havens, Mr. Zaccheus Upham, Doctor David——'

'Heavens and earth!' exclaimed the humorist, 'I can't stand this! Driver! stop, and let me get out!'

The driver reined up, and the humorist took his valise in his hand, and jumped out, followed by the invalid, who set out to walk back to the tavern we had left behind us. I thought the New-Hampshire lady would probably understand the cause of our fellow-traveller's sudden departure, and leave me to the quiet enjoyment of my nap. I never was more mistaken. No sooner was the coach in motion again, than she began to pour out such a running stream of surmises, and questions, about 'them gentlemen that had left us,' mingled with reminiscences of New-Hampshire, and her deceased husband, that I began to wish myself back again on board of a rail-road car. At length, driven to desperation, I was compelled to call out to the driver to stop, and let me get out. The lady was very earnest in her endeavors to persuade me to remain; but I was regardless of her entreaties, although not exactly deaf to them. I took my wallet, determined to wait until the next coach came along. I was some distance from a tavern, but there was a quiet-looking burying-ground, just at the foot of the hill, which to my wearied eyes held out a promise of rest; and as the sun was low, I determined to leap over the picket-fence, and with my wallet for a pillow, take a nap on the dry, warm grass.

It was a calm, secluded spot, surrounded by romantic hills, covered to their summits with beautiful trees. 'Fitting rest,' thought I, 'for pious age and innocent youth!' And such it proved to be. The modest white marble stones with which the ground was studded, were nothing but records of virtues and dates. Here were buried a governor, a chief justice, a lesser judge, deacons, pastors, and minor dignitaries, a good many. But whether man, woman, or child; husband, parent, or son; judge, pastor, or deacon; wife, spinster, or daughter; there was the most astonishing similarity of goodness of character and purity of life. My curiosity was excited, to know where so many excellent people could have lived; for I had but small experience in tomb-stones, and did not know that they always told the same story. But I was too weary to seek for information on the subject; and having found a proper spot, I stretched myself out upon the ground, and immediately fell asleep. Upon this, my wandering spirit took the liberty of stepping out of its tabernacle, and making another tour of the tomb-stones; and I was not a little amused to find they told quite a different story from what they did at first. And yet I was not at all astonished; for it is one of the peculiarities of dreams, that nothing ever surprises, though it be ever so absurd and paradoxical. I saw the self-same white marble tablets, but there was a curious alteration in the inscriptions which they bore. For instance:

Here lies ye mortal remains of
MISS HULDAH HOTCHKISS, SPINSTER,
who departed this life ye 16th of Feby 1763, aged 56 years;
Universally hated by all who knew her;
for she was much given to slander, and had made many hearts to ake by
her evil reports. The young and ye beautiful
were particularly obnoxious to her.
Psalms, chap. xxxiv., verse 13.

The next I read was as follows:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF
DEACON ELIPHALET EATWELL.
Born Novr 16, 1711. died ye 7 day of April, 1792:
He was rich, and he never spared any expense
in the promoting of his own pleasures;
but he was niggardly in ye extreame, when called upon to
contribute to ye comforts of others.
He was a professed follower of CHRIST,
Although he never practised one of ye precepts of Him
whose disciple he professed to be.

Stranger! beware what this tall tomb-stone says!
First ponder well, then go and mend thy ways:
But if 't is well with him, then never fear,
It will be well with thee—that case is clear.'

J. T., Scalpsit.
G. T., Fecit.

Passing on, I came to the following:

This stone is erected
to
Point out the spot where the ashes of a bad man are
deposited.
THE HONE HEZEDIAH HELPHIMSELF, ESQUIRE,
Died on the 21st day of June, in the year of our Lord,
Anno Domini 1801.
He was a Judge of the Supreme Court of this state;
And having gained his office by the basest means, he
employed it in the most corrupt manner.
He has now gone to a place
Where he will receive, what he never dispensed himself,
Justice.
He was 68 years, 4 months, and 28 days old.
He has left behind him a family of children, who will spend
in Dissipation
the wealth which he gained
by Fraud.

It was a relief to read the next; a little brown stone, at the head of a tiny mound of turf, which was bright and green, as though it had been watered with tears:

C. F. B. ÆT. 1 MO. 24 DAYS.

Here my babe lies,
But who cries?
Here my babe sleeps,
But who weeps?
Flowers weep at morn,
Tears drop from the corn,
A mother weeps for her babe to-day,
And a mother's heart will ake alway.
But my babe is blest,
He sleeps on Jesus' breast.

As I raised my eyes from the next stone, which bore a record of crimes perpetrated by a man who had borne the character of an honorable gentleman, while living, I perceived one of those beautiful beings standing by my side, who sometimes visit us in our sleep, but take especial care to shun us in our waking hours.

'Nous avons changé tout cela?' said the beautiful apparition.

'So I perceive,' I replied; 'but I did not know before that ghosts spoke French.'

'It is the universal language,' replied the spirit.

'I know it is,' I replied; 'but I think it would be well for spirits to speak in the vernacular of those to whom their visits are paid.'

'Vous avez raison,' answered the spirit.

'I think the millennium must be at hand,' I said, looking inquiringly into her face; 'and perhaps you have come to announce it. For what man will ever again dare to do evil, with the knowledge that his villanies will be inscribed upon his tomb at his death? I can anticipate a mighty change in the world, from this new fashion in grave-stones.'

Suddenly the beautiful appearance changed into a wild Mephistophilian shape, and uttered such a wild demoniacal 'Ha! ha!' that I started upon my feet, with my heart beating as though it would break through my ribs. It was a lusty young bull, that had obtruded his head through an aperture in the fence, near where I lay, and his loud bellowing had broken in upon my sweet sleep.

Thinking I heard a voice like that which haunted the guilty Macbeth, I hurried out of the grave-yard, and having reached the tavern, I sat down upon the piazza, where I enjoyed what I so much needed, a good nap.

If all the wild flowers of the forest and prairie bore upon their leaves an inscription of their medicinal properties, the pleasure with which we regard them would be more than half destroyed. So, gentle reader, if I were to inscribe at the head of these pages, 'This is a sermon in disguise,' or, 'This essay is good for bad morals,' or, 'This story will be found very effectual in softening a hard heart,' if you read them at all, it would be with far other than pleasurable feelings. I shall leave, therefore, to your own keen perceptions, the task of discovering the hidden qualities of these seemingly light and trivial papers. But be assured, that like those beautiful children of the summer, whose exhalations perfume the air, and whose delicate colors charm the eye, these 'Gimcrackeries' shall contain an essence which shall be for the healing of those who have the ingenuity to extract it.

Gimcrack the Second.

——

BY HARRY FRANCO.

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THE STORY OF POPPY VAN BUSTER,

IN THREE CHAPTERS: BEING THE RELATION OF CIRCUMSTANCES WELL KNOWN TO MANY LIVING AND CREDIBLE PERSONS TO HAVE TAKEN PLACE IN THE PRESENT CENTURY, AND THEREFORE NOT ENTITLED TO THE DISTINCTION OF BEING CALLED A TALE.

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CHAPTER I.

WILL INTRODUCE THE READER TO THE MANSION OF THE VAN BUSTERS, AND ALSO TO THE PRINCIPAL PERSONAGES OF THIS HISTORY.

IT has justly been observed, by a very great philosopher, that 'Time levels all things;' but there is nothing to which the old destroyer pays less respect, than a wooden house. Time, however, is a conservative, compared with those destructive gentlemen who compose the common council of this famous city. No sooner do they take their oaths of office, than they begin to pass laws for the demolition of a thousand or two houses, in different parts of the town, without the smallest regard to the remonstrances of their occupants; and if there should chance to be such a thing as a green hill within their jurisdiction, they proceed to level it without delay. This they facetiously term 'making improvements.' The consequences attendant upon this system of house-demolishing, must, of necessity, in some instances, be picturesque in the highest degree, and in almost all cases, very melancholy. The disastrous consequences of one of these 'improvements' will form the subject of these chapters.

In one of the long, strait avenues which beautify the upper part of this tumultuous metropolis, stretching its flagged walks far beyond the vision of an ordinary eye, stood the wooden mansion of the Van Buster family. It was perched at a fearful height from the surrounding pavement, on ground barely sufficient to bear its weight; and being propped up by numerous slender poles, and long pieces of scantling, it bore no small resemblance to one of those entomological specimens, to which Nature, in her bounty, appears to have given legs sufficient for half its species. But I doubt if the Van Buster house would have kept its airy position with one prop or one inch of ground less; indeed, the only wonder was, how it kept together at all. Time and the elements had done their worst, and reduced it to as ricketty and worthless a condition as the most inveterate lover of ruin could have desired. The little urchins in the neighborhood no longer tried their skill in archery, by shooting at its windows; for there was not a glazed pane left in the whole building, and the quilted petticoats which supplied the place of glass, were not so easily demolished; they were left undisturbed to bleach in the sun and rain. The gable-end which looked into the newly-opened avenue, bore, in curiously shaped iron figures, the date of its birth, '1779;' and no one would have guessed that it had sprang into existence a year later.

On either side, it was flanked by long rows of flat-roofed houses, flaunting in all the pride of red paint, and green Venetian blinds. Every body wondered that such a fashionable street should be disgraced by such an antiquated piece of architecture; for there is nothing so repugnant to fashion as antiquity. The old house hung upon the fair fame of the neighborhood, like the old man of the sea on the shoulders of Sinbad the Sailor. Rents of genteel houses opposite were not more than double what their tenants could afford to pay; and hence landlords were loud in their complaints against the venerable old pile. All the Irish chambermaids in the street used to cross themselves as they passed it of an evening, and the darkies would roll up the whites of their eyes, in evident consternation, as they shuffled past; for some wicked individuals had got up a story that the house was haunted. The report, however, as my enlightened reader will suppose, had no foundation in fact. But it was not surprising that the old house should be regarded with a suspicious eye, by those whose faith was stronger than their philosophy; for the absence of all signs of in-dwelling life gave it a most gloomy and mysterious appearance. It sent a chill to the heart, to hear the shutters creaking on their rusty hinges, when the wind was high; and many a little slumberer has been startled from a pleasant sleep, by the slamming of its doors, on a stormy night. It was true, that sometimes, of a still morning, a light curling smoke might be seen rising out of an aperture in the roof; but

'The smoking chimnies, which should be
The wind-pipes of good hospitalitie,'

were gone; the cheerful peals of women's tongues, the merry sound of children's voices, and the light-hearted, infectious laugh of innocence and youth, were no longer heard within its walls; the beggar no longer rested at the door, and the prowling thief, in his remorseless rounds, passed it wholly by.

The sole occupant of this apparently deserted mansion, was POPPY VAN BUSTER, the principal personage in this history, and the last of his family. Some asserted that he was the first, also; for in this metropolis, where a neighborhood changes its population once in ten years, at least, it could not be expected that any of Poppy's neighbors should remember so far back as when he was born. There seemed to be a sympathy between him and his house; and as no body beside him could have been found hardy enough to sleep under its dilapidated roof, so, it was thought, it would not have kept itself above the head of any one else.

The once numerous family of the Van Busters, owing to non-marriage, and various accidents, had dwindled away, until poor Poppy was left in his old age, without a companion in the world, save an old China parrot, which one of his ancestors had brought over from Holland. All the associates of his younger years had long been swept away by the tide of time. Some had gone to seek their fortunes on the grand canal; some had become great speculators and some great rogues; others had been hung, and some had found their way to the alms-house. Not a solitary companion had Poppy, to return his greeting in the morning, or to bid him good night, when he retired to rest. But his old house was to him father, and mother, and friend; he loved the very cobwebs with which its blackened walls were festooned; and his heart clung to it with greater fondness, as day after day he saw all the old familiar objects in his neighborhood disappear, and something new and strange rise up in their place. Here a green hillock, on whose gentle slope he had many times basked in the warm sun, was levelled, to fill up a pond where he had skated when a boy; and there a long alley of sycamores and weeping willows were succeeded by a stationary army of tall black lamp-posts; and where every thing was once green, and fresh, and pleasant, all was changed to close, confined streets; and green meadows and noble orchards were succeeded by a hard pavement, and little bits of dusty gardens. These changes filled the heart of our hero with grief, and his head with dismay. He would sit and ponder for hours, puzzling his brain with vague surmises about the probable cause of all the strange movements that were going on around him. He had never read a newspaper, or spent an evening in a bar-room, in his life; how then could he know any thing about the great improvements that were going on in the world? The word had not got into general use, when he mixed with his fellow citizens; and steam-engines, and electro-magnetism, to say nothing of phrenology, and clairvoyance, were subjects of which he knew no more than his China parrot.

Indeed, so ignorant was Poppy of the true condition of things, that he honestly thought that the bricks, of which the interminable rows of houses in his neighborhood were built, all came from Holland. Although he was never known to perpetrate a joke but once in his life, and that was when, one April fool's day, he placed a tub of dirty water on top of the barn-door, and then was the first to open it himself, yet he would occasionally indulge in a quizzical smile, when he looked upon the flat-roofed houses all around him, and compared them with the tall gables of his own well-beloved mansion, which were so cool and pleasant in summer, and so well calculated in winter to slide off the snow which was sure to fall upon them; they were exactly adapted to the exigences of the climate, and Poppy thought to himself, 'How powerful is fashion, that, spite of beauty, comfort, and convenience, makes men adopt her models, whether suited to their wants or not!'

Hardly a day passed by, in which Poppy did not receive either an offer from some speculator for his lot, or a threat from the street commissioners, that his house should be pulled down about his ears, if he did not leave it. But temptations and threats were alike unavailing. At one time, the corporation had the appraised value of the land carted up to his door, all in specie; thinking, silly body! that the sight of so much silver would overcome his sturdy Dutch affections. He did not even deign a reply to the insulting act, but continued quietly smoking his pipe, with his eyes resting on his China parrot, all the while the agent of the corporation was remonstrating with him. On one occasion he did, indeed, condescend to make a reply, when he was sorely beset. His honor, the mayor, thinking to awe him into compliance, called on him in person. But this dignified unbending of official greatness failed of its expected effect. His honor found our hero smoking his pipe, as usual, in his little parlor; but not being aware of the quality of his visitor, or probably anticipating the errand on which he had come, Poppy did not even rise to greet him. This want of courtesy the worthy magistrate affected not to notice, but began his remonstrance, in a tone of subdued dignity; for he was a cunning man, and knew that nothing could be gained by violence.

He began by making a few magniloquent and incomprehensible remarks, such as are suitable for great occasions, and having discoursed on the march of mind, the influence of steam, and other matters quite as foreign to the subject in his thoughts, he gradually developed to the unmoveable old man the object of his visit. He even condescended to read, from a yellow sheep-skin volume which he had brought with him, the law which compels a man to yield up his property at the will of the common council, whether he be disposed to do so or not. He then went on to cite innumerable precedents, enough to have terrified the soul of any body but a Dutchman. But the eloquence of the mayor, the law, and the precedents, had no more effect upon Poppy, than they had upon his China parrot; for he had, if possible, a greater contempt for the laws, than he had for improvements. But his honor, like a skilful general, had reserved the force of his fire for a rallying charge. He told Poppy, with great exultation, that the board had passed a resolution to build him a new house, with marble mantels, and folding-doors, exactly like those which surrounded him, if he would quietly consent to vacate his old one. At the bare mention of such an abomination, Poppy threw down his pipe, jumped upon his feet, and swore a terrible oath, all the blood in his body rushing the while into his withered face.

'No!' he exclaimed, 'never! This is my house; it was my father's; it has never deserted me, and I will never leave it! I was born here—I will die here!'

The worthy magistrate was electrified, and finding that Poppy was impervious alike to law and eloquence, he suddenly withdrew, without displaying any of those pleasant and dignified airs with which he had entered; as a company of warriors will march into battle, observing all the rules of the strictest martial etiquette, and making a great flourish of drums and trumpets, but finding it necessary to make a retreat, will scamper off, every man for himself, without paying the smallest respect to army tactics.

At the next meeting of the common council, the mayor sent in a report of his proceedings; whereupon it was resolved, that Poppy Van Buster was a stubborn old Dutchman, and that he and his old house should be forthwith removed, vi et armis.

The work of destruction went daily on, and Poppy disputed every inch of ground, until his house was left standing in the fearful situation in which we have described it. Here the levellers stopped. They had an undefinable dread of going farther. Whether they desisted out of respect to old gentleman's affection, or whether they feared that he would invoke some dreadful calamity on their heads, is not now known. The corporation winked at the neglect of their agents, and consoled themselves with the expectation, that the next September gale would certainly topple down the old house, or that death would shortly overcome the obstinacy of its tenant. But gale succeeded gale, and season followed season; and neither Poppy nor his house gave any signs of immediate dissolution. How long they would have continued in existence, it is impossible to conceive, had not chance, which has brought to a close matters of greater importance than this, when design has failed, at length consigned both house and tenant to their native dust.

——

CHAPTER II.

CONTAINS A HISTORICAL FACT, WHICH THE READER MAY NEVER HAVE ENCOUNTERED BEFORE.

IT so happened that Poppy was one morning inspecting an old chest of drawers, which once belonged to his great aunt, when he found a large roll of faded taffeta, tied up with innumerable pieces of thread, and worsted yarn. An unusual curiosity prompted him to examine its contents. After removing a good many envelopes, all of which were carefully tied up like the outer one, he at last came to a small roll of what appeared to be nothing more than dirty brown paper, but on close examination, it proved to be continental money. He remembered that during his aunt's life time, she was supposed to be immensely rich, but that on her death, the only article of value found among her effects, was an old tortoise-shell snuff-box. 'This then,' thought Poppy, as he unrolled the bundle of continental notes, 'was my aunt's fortune!' And he could not but think, that Providence had thrown in his way this hidden treasure, to reward him for his constancy in clinging to the home of his ancestors. His next thought was how to dispose of such an enormous sum of money; and after reflecting on the subject almost a month, it occurred to him that his cousin Nicholas, who lived in Coenties' slip, was entitled to one half of it; and he determined to make him a visit, and announce his good fortune to him; for Poppy was the soul of honesty, notwithstanding he was such an inveterate enemy to modern improvements. He never wasted a thought on the probability of his finding his cousin, although it was a very long time since he had heard of him; but immediately commenced selecting himself a dress, from the extensive wardrobe of his ancestors, in which to make his visit. It was the old gentleman's wish to avoid observation, for he dreaded the consequences of being seen away from his house, and had a vague idea of the mutabilities of fashion. He therefore very discreetly selected the most modern dress he could find. This consisted of a pair of velvet breeches, with a patch on each knee, but so little faded, that there was considerable room for guessing at their original color, which might have been green. The fashion of the coat was quite indescribable. Its collar was very small, but the tailor, as if conscious of having done a wrong to that part of the garment, had made most exuberant tails, with yawning pockets, of fearful capacity, which told as plainly as pockets could speak, that the date of their construction was anterior to the race of pick-pockets in this thriving city. The crown of his hat was about the shape and size of a great bowl; and the rim being broad, it was buttoned up at the sides, to keep it from slouching. Thus equipped, did the honest old gentleman steal quietly out of his house, one pleasant morning in July, to go in search of his cousin Nicholas, just as the sun was beginning his daily task of heating the tiled roofs and cobble-paved streets of the 'commercial emporium,' as well as every other emporium in the Union. A slight moisture suffused his eyes, as he heard the heavy sound of his footsteps on the hard flagging of the street, for it called to mind the verdant carpeting which once overspread the very place where he was walking. But he drove away all melancholy feelings, by thinking of his aunt's fortune, and imagining the pleasant surprise of his cousin Nicholas, when he should hear of his good luck.

But alas! that we should anticipate pleasures, when even those which are enjoyed pass away before we are scarcely sensible of possessing them! O that men would learn, from the continued decay going on around them, never to fasten their affections upon mere earthly things! Little did Poppy think, when he left his old house that pleasant summer morning, that never again should his head rest beneath its venerable roof. He had advanced but a short distance on his honest errand, when Fortune, who is never asleep when there is mischief to be perpetrated, directed the street inspector to the very spot where our hero was quietly trudging along. That indefatigable officer was taking a short ride, for the benefit of the morning air; and his attention being arrested by a strange-looking figure, he presently discovered it to be none other than Poppy himself; and no sooner did he become satisfied of this fact, than he turned his horse's head, and rode full tilt to the mayor's, to give information that our hero was abroad. The mayor immediately sent notice of the fact to the recorder, and the recorder sent notices to the members of the two boards; and before the good citizens of the commercial metropolis had finished their breakfasts, the common council were assembled in joint ballot, all political differences were forgotten, and as there was no time for any member to make a display of eloquence, by opposing a measure at first, which he intended to support in the end, it was unanimously resolved that they would form a procession, and with the mayor and the recorder at their head, proceed immediately to the house of the Van Busters, and behold its demolition.

The procession was accordingly formed; and there being no time to send off invitations to the strangers of distinction then in the city, they were joined by no one, excepting the chimney-sweeps, and a few runaway boys from the House of Refuge, a part of the community who, as is well known, have a great fondness for all kinds of processions and celebrations, whether civil or military. When they arrived in front of the devoted mansion, the honorable body, nothing daunted by the fiery hot rays which Sol, as if in anger, was pouring down upon them, respectfully uncovered their heads, while the mayor delivered a speech on the novel subjects of the march of mind, anthracite coal, and other matters in fashion at that time. When he closed, the mob gave three cheers, the corporation workmen took their axes from their broad shoulders, and the work of destruction began. In one short hour, the venerable mansion of the Van Busters, once the pride of Manhattan Island, lay a mass of shapeless ruins.

Before the clouds of dust, caused by the overthrow of the worm-eaten house, had settled away, the corporation voted to each of its members a silver medal, in commemoration of the event, settled a pension on the street inspector, and complimented each other on their liberality and energy. They then adjourned to Bellevue, to eat green turtle, and drink champagne, where they spent the remainder of the day in elegant enjoyment.

The curious in such matters may find a full account of the toasts drank on that occasion, with several other interesting particulars, in the evening papers of that day.

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CHAPTER III.

RELATES WHAT BEFEL THE HERO OF THIS STORY, WHILE ON HIS JOURNEY IN SEARCH OF HIS COUSIN NICHOLAS, AND ALSO THE PARTICULARS OF HIS MELANCHOLY END.

POPPY continued to trudge along, after the street inspector had met him; but at one time his forebodings were so gloomy, that he half determined to turn back, and endeavor to get word to his cousin Nicholas, without visiting him in person; something, however, caught his eye at the moment, and he travelled onward, until he found himself surrounded by a great crowd in Broadway, who pressed him so hard, that he thought it would be better for him to wait until evening before he returned, as then, he reasoned, all the people would be at home, smoking their pipes, and he could walk along unmolested. Many and wonderful were the sights which he encountered; and at times, all thoughts of himself and his house were swallowed up in contemplating the curious objects around him. He was stunned by strange noises, and his senses were fairly bewildered by the odd-looking people who were continually passing him. Sometimes a bevy of gay creatures would whisk by him, looking so queer, and yet so beautiful, that Poppy could compare them to nothing but the angel forms that he sometimes fancied he saw in his dreams; but these far outstripped in lightness and gayety any thing he had ever conceived of an aërial being. He looked in vain, on every side, hoping to see something that resembled himself. Once, indeed, he was startled at the sight of a familiar form, but as he looked wistfully toward it, he discovered it was only the reflection of his own person in a long mirror, which stood at a shop door. He began to feel that weary heart-heaviness which many of us have experienced, when we have found ourselves alone in a gay crowd, where there was not one familiar face to greet us with a kindly smile. Ah! who would leave home, where he might live, loving and beloved, to mingle, uncared for, in the gayest circles that ever crowded the halls of a palace!

It was late in the day, before Poppy reached the spot where he supposed the little yellow house of his cousin Nicholas still stood; for he did not believe that one who bore his name could be guilty of either pulling down his house, or of selling it; he would as soon have thought of selling his father's bones. But the house of his cousin was gone, and in its place, a tall brick store, with a foundation of solid granite pillars, lifted its head almost into the clouds. He looked in at one of the doors, and saw a great many finely-dressed young men moving about like bees in a hive, behind long ranges of counters and boxes. A young gentleman, with a tuft of yellowish hair under his chin, and a pen behind his ear, asked him if he wished to purchase a lot of cheap goods for cash. But Poppy made no reply. He sat down on an empty box, at the door, to rest his old limbs, and was almost disposed to curse himself for his folly in leaving his house. But he derived consolation from the prospect of smoking his pipe in quiet, when he should reach home; and as the sun had set, he began his homeward journey. He found the crowd in Broadway even greater than it was in the morning; and his perplexity was greatly increased, for he could not conceive where all the people came from, nor where they were going. The glare of the gas lights astonished him more than any thing that he had encountered. To see a bright flame issuing from a little slender brass tube, exceeded every thing he had ever beheld, or heard tell of. But his head having become a little used to the noise, he did not meet with so much difficulty in groping along, as he did in the morning, although his old legs almost sank under him, they were so weary.

At last, he reached the long avenue, where, he fondly thought, his house was standing to receive him. His heart leaped within him for joy, as he turned out of Broadway, and heard the tread and shuffling of feet die away behind him. How much pleasanter, he thought, as he hurried on, was the solitary but familiar creaking of his old window-shutters, as they turned on their rusty hinges, than the vile Babel-like jargon he had been listening to all day! But when he came to the little eminence on which he had left his house standing, in all the pride of antiquity, and beheld nothing but a heap of rubbish, his heart seemed to wither within him. He leaned against a post for support, and cast his eyes imploringly to heaven. A sickly ray of hope enlivened him; perhaps he had mistaken the street, and it was some other person's, and not his own misfortune, that he was contemplating. He put his hand in his pocket for his handkerchief, to wipe away the moisture from his eyes, but it was gone: it had been spirited away in the crowd through which he had passed. 'Ah!' he exclaimed, 'this all comes of that vile money! I will scatter it to the winds; it shall do no more harm to any body.' He made a motion with his hand to take the odious bundle from his pocket, but the flap of his coat was gone, pocket and all! Again he cast an imploring look to heaven, which seemed to ask if an old man's wrongs should go unavenged. He then groped along over the ruins which lay around him, and having found an old stair-case, he climbed up, and discovered his old three-cornered chair standing unhurt. His foot struck upon something hard; he stooped to pick it up; it was part of his China parrot; and even this frail relic gave him a momentary pleasure.

The moon had just risen, and her bright beams, as they gleamed through the apertures in the wall, appeared to Poppy the spiritualized forms of his ancestors, hovering over him. The wind, as it swept by him, and sighed through the rifted crevices in the walls, seemed to mourn for his loss. He cast his eyes above him, and beheld a beam stretching over his head, as if tendering him its consolatory support. He untied his cravat, threw a hurried, anxious glance over the desolate scene, and the next moment, Misfortune had done her last deed.

In the morning, Poppy was found hanging from the only remaining rafter of his once dearly beloved mansion. Not a passer-by that saw the old man, with his white locks streaming upon the wind, but blessed himself that he had no hand in causing his unhappy end.

H. F.

Gimcrack the Third.

——

BY HARRY FRANCO.

——

STORY OF THE HAUNTED MERCHANT

LORD BYRON made a palpable hit, when he said that truth was stranger than fiction; and the world has acknowledged the correctness of the saying, by an incessant repetition of it, ever since it was uttered. From information in my possession, I have been enabled to make a very nice calculation, by which it appears that the aforesaid truism has been repeated one million, nine hundred and sixty-eight thousand, five hundred and forty-seven times, during the last fifteen years. And this is sufficient to establish the truth of his lordship's proposition. Truth, then, being stranger than fiction, it follows, as a matter of course, that the latter must be more natural than the former; and hence we perceive the reason why romances have always been preferred to histories, by the majority of readers. A fact so evident, I conceive, can require no illustration, and therefore I will not waste the valuable time of my reader, by diving into the depths of forgotten learning, to bring up instances of excellent books which appear to have sunk in the ocean of time, in consequence of the great weight of the mighty truths which they contained; while many contemporary works have floated lightly upon the same ocean, and still continue to dance gaily upon its waves, apparently not possessed of truth enough to sink them in its waters.

I have felt myself called upon to make these apologetic remarks, by way of preface to the fictitious story that I am about to present to the world, because some very learned and grave critics, who spend the greater part of their lives in studying Greek tragedies and German metaphysics, have thought proper, in their pride of wisdom, to speak sneeringly of the unmixed creations of the human brain, and to attempt to stigmatize as unprofitable servants those who labor in the pure regions of romance. But I am desirous that my work should live, and therefore I shall exclude all those weighty truths from it, which would infallibly sink it to the lowest depths of the ocean of oblivion. A vessel freighted with such precious metals as moral reflections and German metaphysics, political essays and Swedenborgian sermons, histories of kings, and chronicles of common councils, state papers, and the lives of eminent statesmen; and other equally valuable matters, could hardly hope to ride out in safety one autumnal gale; and I doubt whether an underwriter could be found, at any insurance board in the world, adventurous enough to take a risk on such a cargo, at ever so high a premium.

To those brave spirits who still refuse to bow the knee to the stern idols of these latter days, and who do not refuse to accompany the spirit of romance in her upward flights, where they inhale the soothing atmosphere of the regions of delight, this tale is offered with affectionate confidence.

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CHAPTER ONE.

WILL INTRODUCE THE PRINCIPAL PERSONAGES OF THIS STORY UNDER CIRCUMSTANCES SOMEWHAT UNFAVORABLE.

TREMLETT AND TUCK was the name of one of the oldest, the richest, and consequently the most respectable, 'firms' in the great city of New-York. And to be entitled to this distinction, in a city where there are so many old, and rich, and respectable firms, argued of necessity a degree of eminence to which but very few firms could ever hope to attain. But mercantile greatness, above all other kinds of greatness, can never be the effect of accident. A general or a commodore may, by a chance shot, over which he had no control, be placed upon the very apex of Fame's pyramid; an author even, may, by the lucky choice of a subject for the exhibition of his talents, immortalize himself, and put money in his purse; but it is only by industry, length of days, self-denial, integrity of conduct, and good luck, that a merchant can become renowned; and even then, his fame must cease when he loses his hold upon life.

Mr. HUBBARD CROCKER TREMLETT and Mr. GRISWOLD BACON TUCK were old men. They had formed their copartnership when they were young, with a determination of doing a safe business, and intending, as soon as they could afford it, each to take a wife; and I presume no young men ever commenced business with any other determination, unless, indeed, they had been so imprudent as to get married first. Messrs. Tremlett and Tuck adhered strictly to their first determination, and consequently became rich and respectable; but neither had ever felt that he could afford to get married; and they found themselves at last with whitened locks, the possessors of an immense fortune, but with solitary firesides, and without a living soul to care a straw for either, unless it were those who hoped every day would be their last; expecting that a slender thread of consanguinity would enable them to seize the wealth which they had no hand in accumulating.

The solitariness of their situation never disturbed the junior partner. He wanted no better company, and no surer friends, than his certificates of deposite, his bank scrip, and his private ledger. Time gave his annual warnings in vain to Mr. Tuck. He thought no more about dying, than he did at twenty. The admonitions of death and eternity he heeded not. He knew that people died, because he had made several bad debts, in consequence of the untimely removal from this world of some of his debtors; his parents had also died, and his brothers and sisters; but he never really thought that HE should die; it was something so foreign to a regular business transaction, that the fact that he MUST die, never once occurred to him. It was true, he had his life insured, as he had his ships; but in so doing, he only acted in conformity to an established rule, never to let a risk remain uncovered. Therefore Mr. Tuck continued to make close bargains, and extend his operations, more in the spirit of a man just entering upon life, than like one just about to leave it.

Mr. Tremlett differed materially from his partner. The consciousness of a life misspent, notwithstanding the wealth he had accumulated, oppressed him sorely at times. He felt the want of a comforter. He could penetrate the sinister motives of those who treated him with deferential respect, and their hollow-hearted and loveless attentions were a thousand times more disagreeable to him than an open and expressed hatred would have been. He had applied himself so closely to his business, that he had indulged no opportunities either for seeing the world, or for extending and increasing his friends and acquaintances; and although his name, and even his hand-writing, was familiarly known at the remote ends of the earth, yet there was not one solitary being to whom he could, in confidence, lay open his heart, or who looked up to him for consolation and support. This was a dismal condition for an old man to find himself in; and sometimes Mr. Tremlett thought that he might have been happier, if he had gained more friends and fewer dollars.

As he was pacing the tagged walk of the Battery, one sultry afternoon in mid-summer, gazing listlessly on the beautiful scene spread out before him, and musing on his peculiar situation, he suddenly felt something dragging at his coat-tail, and turning his head quickly, he perceived a little boy in the act of picking his pocket of a new bandanna. He caught the young thief by the arm; and as the little rascal struggled to escape, he looked up into the old gentleman's face with such a bright and merry countenance, that his captor felt more like clasping him in his arms, than punishing him for his depravity. The rogue was not more than nine years old, and his countenance bespoke any thing but a wicked disposition. He was ragged and bare-footed; but young and poverty-stricken as he appeared, he was already engaged in trade; he had a bundle of penny papers under his arm, and a half-dozen of comic almanacs in his hand. Had he been an older or an ugly brat, it is probable that Mr. Tremlett would have given him a cuff on his ears, and let him go, to practise his thieving propensities upon the coat pockets of other citizens; but his extreme youth, and his childish beauty, made such an impression upon the old merchant's sympathies, that he felt unwilling to release him, until he had done something for his benefit. He therefore dragged the little fellow along, in spite of his kicks and cries, until he came to his own house, which was in the neighborhood, when he gave him in charge of his house-keeper, who washed the young culprit's face, and gave him a monstrous slice of bread and butter, which he had no sooner eaten, than, taking his bundle of penny papers, and his comic almanacs, for a pillow, he stretched himself out upon the rug, and fell asleep. And there we will leave him to enjoy his innocent slumbers, while we make an explanation to the reader, to prevent his falling into an error to which his former readings may have rendered him liable. But as this will be a break in the narrative, let us close this chapter, and for the sake of completeness, begin afresh in the next.

——

CHAPTER TWO.

INCLUDES A 'CURTAILED ABBREVIATION, COMPRESSING MANY PARTICULARS.'

THE ragged little vagabond whom we have left asleep on a rug in Mr. Tremlett's house, with his head resting on a bundle of penny papers, is to be the hero of this history, and the reader will of course prepare himself to feel a very lively interest in his behalf. But our young hero is not a whit better than he appears to be. He is not the son of any body of whom the reader will ever hear, and it will not turn up, in the end, that any of the personages hereinafter to be mentioned, are in the slightest degree related to him; for the truth is, his mother was an Irish chambermaid, who came to an untimely end in consequence of a blow on her temple, which she received from a jealous Milesian at a ball on Saint Patrick's Eve, in Anthony-street; and her little darlint, then but eighteen months old, was removed to an orphan asylum, where he had remained until a few days before the period at which this history begins, when he had contrived to effect an escape into the world, where he had made out to support himself by picking up every thing he could lay his hands upon, and by selling penny papers and comic almanacs at half profits, for a dealer in those useful articles. Whether he would have ended his days on the gallows, or at Sing-Sing, had he not attempted to pick the pocket of the senior partner of the highly respectable firm of Tremlett and Tuck, of course can never be known, as it is a difficult matter to make a guess at the complexion of events which never took place. It will be seen, in the last chapter, the sad-enough end that he did make, and that ought to satisfy the reasonable curiosity of the most inquisitive reader. Life would be a weary load, if we were to be informed beforehand of every thing that would happen to us as we bore it onward; and the reading a story would be the heaviest task a man could impose upon himself, if the catastrophe were revealed to him in the first chapter. I shall not, therefore, in cruel kindness, throw out farther hints about the final winding up of the affairs of our hero, but let the catastrophe of his history gradually develope itself, according to the established rules, both of nature and art.

After Mr. Tremlett had consigned his little captive to the charge of Mrs. Swazey, his house-keeper, he went down to his counting-room to make his arrangements for the next day's payments; a practice that he had never omitted, for more than twenty years. But instead of remaining to chat with his partner and his head book-keeper about the currency, and other kindred matters, for an hour or two, he jumped up as soon as his task was finished, and hurried back to his house. The thought of there being somebody at home that required his attention, gave the old merchant an excitement that he had not known since he was first elected a bank director. When he reached his house, he found the little vagabond sound asleep on the rug, and notwithstanding he had persuaded himself that it was his duty to send the boy out to the House of Correction, when he looked upon the cherub-like face before him, his heart softened, and his resolution faltered; and he almost blushed at the thoughts that obtruded themselves upon his mind. The lad had a beautiful head of glossy hair, which, in spite of the discipline that had shorn it of its full glories, clung in curls to his neck and temples, as if enamoured of his lovely skin; the delicate flow of youthful health overspread his cheeks, and his parted lips displayed a row of teeth unusually white and even, in one so young. Mr. Tremlett sighed as he looked upon the sleeping child; perhaps he was thinking of the time when he himself was as young, as innocent, and as beautiful; or he might have been casting up in his mind how many thousand dollars he would have been willing to have given, if he could but call the urchin his own. He looked around the room to see if he was observed, and then sank upon his knees by the side of the child; but whether it was to put up a prayer in his behalf, or to kiss his ruddy cheek, is not known. A tear glistened in the merchant's eyes; a fountain had been unsealed in his heart; his eyes ran over, and a tear falling upon the face of the boy, awakened him from his sleep; and as he fixed his blue eyes upon the figure by his side, he appeared suddenly struck with awe, for his hitherto smiling features assumed a grave and serious aspect. Mr. Tremlett jumped upon his feet, very hastily, and walking across the room three or four times, he sat down in his arm-chair, and trying to speak as near like a criminal judge as he could, he bade the boy get upon his feet, for he was already sitting upon his haunches, and looking round him with genuine astonishment pictured in his countenance.

'Come here, Sir!' said Mr. Tremlett. The little fellow approached his chair with as much confidence as a child would have gone to a parent.

'What is your name?' continued the merchant.

'John,' replied the boy.

'John what, Sir?'

'John,' again repeated the lad.

'Well, what else beside John?'

'Do n't I tell you it is John?' said the boy, laughing.

'Do n't laugh, you young scoundrel!' said Mr. Tremlett, a little out of patience.

'I can't help laughing, you talk so funny!' said the boy.

'Why, what an impudent little scamp!' exclaimed Mrs. Swazey, who had just come in. 'Do n't you know who you are talking to?'

'No,' was the reply.

'Well, if I ever heard such impudence!' exclaimed Mrs. Swazey.

'Do n't you know what your name is?' asked Mr. Tremlett.

'Do n't I say it's John?' answered the boy.

'Well, then, what is your father's name?'

'I do n't know what you mean!'

'Have you got no father?'

'I do n't know.'

'Have you got no mother?'

The boy shook his head, without making any other reply.

'Who took care of you?'

'The old devil,' replied master John, looking very serious.

'What an awful wretch!' exclaimed Mrs. Swazey, lifting up both her hands.

'Who do you mean by the devil?' inquired the merchant.

'The old woman that used to feed us with mush and molasses,' answered the lad.

'Oh! oh!' exclaimed Mrs. Swazey; 'a greater villain I never see, in all my born days!'

'Where did you live?' asked Mr. Tremlett, smiling at his house-keeper's consternation.

'Out to the 'sylum,' replied John.

'At the asylum!' said Mrs. Swazey; 'I declare, if he has n't called the matron, Mrs. Ellkins—which is my most intimate acquaintance, and the widow of Captain Timothy Ellkins, a highly respectable India ship-master, and a very warm friend of my husband's when he was alive—by that awful name! Take that for your impudence!' said the house-keeper, giving the youngster a cuff on the side of his head, which sent him against Mr. Tremlett's chair.

But master John soon recovered himself, and without the least hesitation, caught hold of Mrs. Swazey's apron, and administered her such a kick, that she fairly screamed with the pain. Mr. Tremlett covered his face with his pocket-handkerchief, and in endeavoring to suppress a hearty laugh, came near strangling. Mrs. Swazey hobbled out of the room, brim full of indignation and mortified vanity; but the lad preserved a wonderful composure of countenance.

Now that spirited feat of our hero's did more toward establishing him in the affectious of Mr. Tremlett, than a whole year of the most servile obedience would have accomplished. The truth was, the house-keeper had held her situation so long, that she exercised an authority over her employer which he found extremely annoying; and yet he did not know how to resist it, he had so gradually yielded to it; and he was gratified to see her so summarily punished for her impertinent interference. As soon as he regained his gravity of countenance, he resumed his examination.

'How came you to be out of the asylum?'

'Because I run'd away,' replied John.

'Ah, you are a very wicked boy,' said Mr. Tremlett. 'Do you not know that I could send you to jail, for attempting to steal my pocket handkerchief?'

'A man told me to,' replied the boy, his eyes filling with tears, as he spoke, with a trembling under lip.

'What man was it?' asked Mr. Tremlett, a little softened in his manner.

'I do n't know,' replied the boy; 'he was a great big man, almost as big as you are; he told me if I would do it, he would give me a penny.'

'Ah, he was a vile rascal,' said Mr. Tremlett; 'but you are a very bad fellow yourself, and I shall be obliged to have you punished, and kept in a place where you will be taken good care of, and instructed to do justly.'

'I can say my prayers now,' replied master John; 'Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done——'

'Stop, stop!—not so fast!' interrupted Mr. Tremlett; 'you must not pray in that manner.'

'Why? Can't God hear me if I pray quick?' said the youngster.

'Yes, of course; He would hear you, though you were only to think your prayers; but I cannot keep the run of you, when you speak so fast.'

'Ah; but I was not praying to you; you are not our Father who art in heaven;' rejoined the lad, looking up seriously into the merchant's face.

'Hush, hush!—you must not say such things,' said Mr. Tremlett, looking very grave.

'Well, shall I say the commandments? I can say all the commandments, and petitions, and 'fectual calling, just as easy as my prayers,' said the youngster, exultingly.

'Not now,' replied Mr. Tremlett, 'not now; I am afraid you are a very bad boy, and I must keep you here to-night, and send you back to the asylum in the morning.'

'Oh no! oh no!' exclaimed the little fellow, in evident alarm; 'let me stay here, in this asylum; I would rather live with you than with the old devil out there.'

'You must not use such words before me, Sir, or I shall pull your ears. Why do you call Mrs. Ellkins the old devil?'

'All the boys called her so,' he replied; 'and shall I tell you what they called the old cook?'

'No, no,' said Mr. Tremlett; 'but tell me where you would sleep to-night, if I should let you go.'

'Up here in a fish-car, in the market,' replied the boy; 'I have got a good bundle of weekly Whigs and Eras for a pillow.'

'Well, well; I am glad weakly whigs can be put to such good use,' said Mr. Tremlett, laughing; and master John laughed too, from sympathy, although he did not exactly understand the brilliant pun of the merchant, who was a rabid politician.

'I like you,' said the boy, leaning familiarly upon Mr. Tremlett's knee, and looking up fondly into his face.

'Why, what do you like me for?' inquired Mr. Tremlett, while a keen thrill of delight made his heart beat quick in his bosom.

Just at that moment, and before the boy could make a reply, a loud knock was heard at the street door, and the servant showed in two gentlemen, who had called upon Mr. Tremlett on business. So he delivered the boy into the hands of Mrs. Swazey, with instructions to have him well taken care of for the night. It was an unnecessary caution to the kind-hearted house-keeper; for, notwithstanding she heaped upon his head an undue amount of wordy severity, as soon as she got our hero under her exclusive jurisdiction, and said she could hardly keep her hands from off him, yet she manifested all a woman's tenderness in providing for his comforts. And before she retired to her chamber, she stole quietly into the room where he was sleeping, and gently drew the coverlid over him, from which he had extricated himself in his sleep. She stood for a moment to look upon his beautiful face, and she would have kissed his rosy lips, had she not been afraid that it would awaken him. And he slept on, unconscious that a gentle being was watching over him, and regarding him with looks of tenderness and pity. And thus we move through the world, all unaware that the good angels of God are watching over us, and shielding us from the thousand evils which continually surround and threaten us. Here endeth the second chapter.

H. F.

Gimcrack the Fourth.

——

BY HARRY FRANCO.

——

TIME'S TRACKS.

GENTLE READER: I would not willingly lead you into error, and therefore I will honestly confess, that the title which I have given to this Gimcrack has no more connexion with its subject than the name of a boy has with his character. But essays must have names, as well as men and towns; and if any of my ingenious readers should feel dissatisfied with the title of this article, he may address me on the subject through the post-office, and when I collect my 'works' for publication in another form, I will adopt any other name that may be suggested to me.

Lord Brougham has very justly defined true greatness to consist of being in advance of one's time; and the poets and philosophers who have found most favor with the world, are those who have been mindful of this plain truth; and taking heed to the injunction of Saint Paul, have left the things that were behind, and have reached forward to those things which are before; while we have lately seen an instance of the ill effects of neglecting this wise course, in the failure of a great poet in a neighboring city, who, in the choice of his subject, went back to the days of the antediluvians. With such a melancholy instance of misapplied genius before my eyes, it would be little less than literary suicide, were I to seek in history for the materials wherewith to season the entremets that I have undertaken to serve up for the guests who sit at OLD KNICK.'S table. I shall therefore make a long arm, and reach forward into the dominions of posterity, and gather up such crumbs as come within the reach of my fingers.

So—what is this? Nothing short of a newspaper. That was a lucky grab. We will now see what our descendants are doing.

That was a long arm that I put forth, beyond dispute. It appears I have reached into that distant period when the friends of human rights have carried their plans beyond the wildest dreams of the present day. Women enjoy the same privileges as men; servants are unknown, and all government at an end; and such is the perfect equality of mankind, that the strong tyrannize over the weak with impunity, since there are no legal restraints to hinder, and the hardest fends off. But still the world is improving, and the inmates of the nursery are contending for their rights. The paper that I have grasped in my hand is the 'MINORS' MIRROR,' and is edited by an association of infants. It differs but little from many of the papers of the present day, except that the paper is of a finer texture, and the typography is greatly superior to any thing seen in this generation. The first article on the outside page is headed 'WALL-STREET,' and is of course devoted to that endless subject, the currency. The next is headed 'TRADE,' and as there appears to be some novelty in the editor's remarks, I will indulge the reader with a quotation:

'Trade, during the past week, has been unusually dull; shop-keepers make great complaints of a falling off in the demand for some articles which are usually, at this season, in request. A dealer in marbles states, that since the annual meeting of the juveniles, his sales have fallen off one third; cocoa-nut cakes, however, are in some request, and we have heard of a sale as high as twelve for a shilling; pea-nut candy is freely offered at a penny, and holders appear extremely desirous of sales; hard boiled eggs remain as they were, but ginger beer is decidedly lively; crullers and dough-nuts are firm at quotations; molasses candy has experienced a still farther decline. The old lady who keeps a stand in Broadway, near what was once Maiden-lane, effected a considerable sale yesterday afternoon of mint-sticks, but the terms have not yet transpired. As the holidays are approaching, we may confidently look for a return of former prices; and as the quarterly allowances to boys under twelve years will then become due, a considerable amount of pennies will be thrown into circulation, which cannot but have a favorable influence on the dealers in tin trumpets, a branch of industry which, we are sorry to learn, is laboring under great depression.'

Next follows a column of miscellaneous items, from which the following are selected:

'ANCIENT SPORTS.—We are always happy to remark any thing like a return to the simple habits and tastes of our ancestors; for although we are strenuous advocates for improvement, it must be allowed that our progenitors excelled in certain acts of bon hommie, of which we are miserably deficient. Considerable excitement was yesterday occasioned, and no small amusement, by a revival of the ancient custom of dancing for eels in Catharine Market. The performers were two black gentlemen, and the prize was a large bunch of splits: the winner's name was Jinquez, a descendant of that famous prince who landed on our shores above two centuries since. After the dance was over, the spectators adjourned to the Spread Eagle Tavern, where they were regaled with oyster-soup, served up in the old style, with pepper-corns and alspice.'

'A deputation of boys waited upon the mayor last evening, to demand satisfaction for an affront put upon a child by the name of Epenetus Eglintoun, by one of the aldermen of the forty-eighth ward. The facts of the case, as we gather from the chairman of the deputation, are these: as Master Epenetus was trundling his hoop down the Eighty-fourth Avenue, in the quiet enjoyment of his rights, he chanced to run butt against the legs of Alderman Sopht Soaph, doing no other damage to the city dignitary, than slightly lacerating one of his rather exuberant calves; and for this trifling offence, he had the unparalleled audacity to pull the boy's ears. As soon as the matter became known, a tremendous excitement was the consequence; a meeting was called, at which the most enthusiastic speeches were made, and several very severe resolutions were passed, without a dissenting voice. A committee was immediately appointed, who waited upon the mayor, and demanded the instant removal of the offender. One of the committee was the alderman's youngest son, who was very loud in his denunciations of his father. We have not yet heard the nature of the mayor's reply, but as soon as it is received, an extra will be issued from this office.'

'HIGHLY INTERESTING.—A very full meeting of young gentlemen under the age of ten years, took place last night in Young Lion's Hall, to receive the report of the committee appointed to inquire into the expediency of abolishing leading-strings from the nursery. The fifth resolution was offered by Washington Adams, and seconded by Jenkins Thomson, in a speech of great power; the thrillingness of the interest excited, was of the most intense kind. The resolution was to this effect:

'RESOLVED, That in the opinion of this meeting, leading-strings are a relic of the barbarous customs of our barbarous ancestors, and that we are bound by every principle of honor and liberty to wage an exterminating war against them, and that we will do so.'

'Thir,' said Mr. Adams, 'Mither Prethident, in rithing to thecund thith motion, I feel my bothom thwelling, with thoze pecooliar emothions which gwate men have all felt on gwate occathions. Thir, when I look abroad into that animated nature tho beautifully desthwibed by the immortal Goldthmith, I look in wain for leading-strings. Which of the animals in all kweation leadth ith young by stwings? Do birds? do fisheth? do therpenth? No, Mither Prethident, no. It ith man alone that pwesumes to lead ith young with stwingth! Thir, thothiety has much to unlearn, ath well ath to learn, before mankind can be resthored to ith owiginal wights. I wepeat onth more, it ith time that thith odioth awithtocwatic obthervance wath abolished.'

'Mr. Adams, after enchaining his auditory for the space of an hour, with the soundest views, expressed in the most thrilling words, sat down amid tremendous cheering. But silence was no sooner restored, than it was immediately broken by a great overgrown man, with a pair of bushy whiskers, and a gruff voice, who had the audacity to address the president in the following manner: 'It strikes me, Mr. President, that the little gentleman who last spoke, is suffering very severely from that juvenile complaint called the lispth.' It is needless to add, that the intruder was answered by the most scornful silence.'

On the last page of the paper, the editor delivers himself of the following curious observations in his notices to correspondents:

'An opinion appears to be current in society, that the publisher of a newspaper is bound to print all the communications that he may receive on any subject, whether the sentiments that they contain be congenial with his own, or not; but such is not the view that we take of the matter. Although we live in an age when a man has a right to do wrong, so free is human will, yet we are not so far advanced in freedom, that a man can be compelled to do wrong to himself, to oblige another. That day may arrive, but it has not yet. We wish that these remarks may be considered by the writers of poetry, of all kinds, as intended expressly for them; and in an especial manner, for the translators of German doggerel. These latter gentlemen seem to think that as the art of printing is of German origin, the whole force of the press should be devoted to villanous translations of incomprehensible verses out of that language. We have now on hand several large baskets, full of Germanic verses, besides an innumerable number of essays on the genius of Goethe. The worst of it is, that these things are written by children, whose time and talents might be devoted to better purposes.

'From the above remarks, 'G. B.,' 'Philo Novalis,' 'P. T.,' and a score of others, will learn the reason why their effusions have not been printed in our columns. But to show our willingness to yield to the spirit of the age, we will print one of these communications; and that we may not be accused of partiality, we dip our hand into a basket, and here is the first paper that we caught; but it shall be the last:

TO A BROKEN PIPE.

TRANSLATED OUT OF THE GERMAN OF KRUNTZ, FOR THE MINORS' MIRROR.

——

BY SIMMPEL SIMMPSON.

——

All nature obeys all nature's laws,
Because,
Whatever is perfect, as all must see,
With its own perfections must agree,
'Tis simple as simple rule of three.
Straws
Are borne on the breast of the terrible blast,
Which makes the world stand all aghast,
Which wakes the deep,
From its quiet sleep,
And shivers the towering mast.

Then castles are overthrown,
With churches hoary grown,
And all over the town,
Houses come tumbling down,
The breaking, shaking, dashing, smashing blast
All things to earth will cast;
And all things brittle must be broken
By the tempest's stroken!
And when all things give way,
So must pipe of clay.

Ah! pipe of clay! once through thy slender stem,
Thou fair tobacco-gem!
Did smoke-imbibing scholar placid draw,
As boy sucks cider through an oaten straw,
When stuck within his jaw,
Like transcendental German, or a squaw,
That vegetable essence, blue and thin,
Smelling enough to make old Sathan grin;
Offspring of Time and Earth, light-pinioned daughter,
More palpable than air, but less than water.

But now thy day is done,
Poor blighted, banished, brittle, broken one!
Thy stem cannot be mended,
Thy days are ended,
And he who smoked thee, can, if he is willing,
Purchase a dozen like thee, for a shilling.

Ah! pipe of clay! when I have done my do, and said my say,
Penned my last penning, and my last speech spoken,
I too shall be cast out, contemned and broken;
The fire of life put out, and that this vapor
Life's smoke, the soul, extinguished like a taper;
Oh soul! less palpable than air, th' ideal
Hath nought so slight as thou, nor yet as real:
The smallest mite that microscopic power
E'er gave a being, is a mighty tower,
Oh! reason's wonder, when compared with thee,
And Egypt's pyramid the slightest flower
Blooming and dying all within an hour,
Enduring essence, when compared with thee!'

One department of the 'Minors' Mirror' is devoted to reviews of new books; and, judging from the number under notice, authors must have increased at a fearful rate. Indeed, the editors express an opinion, that were it not contrary to the spirit of the age, they should propose a law making it a capital offence for any publisher to issue a work written by a child under ten years of age. The art of criticism appears to have attained to great perfection with our descendants, as will appear from the following remarks:

'We have this week received sixteen hundred and eighty-five new books, of which:

'Three hundred and ten are theological, and consequently either above or below criticism.

'Ten hundred and ninety are tales and novels, and are all without exception most atrociously vile; but not withstanding their utter want of merit, we should notice them at greater length, did not each one of them contain that immaculate word, GLORIOUS. We have long since given notice, that we will not review a work in which it appears.

'One hundred and forty are historical works, and being as usual full of lies, are not of a character to merit a more particular notice.

'Forty-five are essays on the characters in SHAKSPEARE's plays, and are calculated to excite some astonishment in the minds of readers, as they furnish abundant proof that there are forty-five persons in this enlightened age, incapable of appreciating the great genius of the only dramatic poet that the world has yet known.

'Seventy-five are essays on the genius of GOETHE; but as we are among those who deny that the libidinous old scribbler had any particular genius, it cannot be expected that we should waste our time in noticing the rigmarole of those who maintain a contrary opinion.

'Twenty are on the subject of an International Copy-right. As a celebrated philosopher has predicted that the millennium is near at hand, perhaps there is a possibility of the claims of authors receiving some attention from those who are most indebted to them.

'Three are metaphysical; and all that we have to remark in reference to them, is, that we perceive balderdash has not yet had its day.

'One is on chemical affinities; but as the author has filled the greater part of his book with a preface, in which be traduces a score or two of most excellent names, we shall say nothing more in relation to it.

'One is an essay on architecture, and right welcome would it be, if it contained one new idea, or even one just old one, on the subject of which it professes to treat; but as it does not, we pass it by.

'We have also a monstrous heap of new periodicals at our elbow, but as we do not find any thing in them commendatory of ourselves, we have nothing favorable to say of them.'

Some of the advertisements are very curious. A bookseller in Nassau-street announces a work in press, under the superintendence of the Antiquarian Society, giving a faithful account of the rise and overthrow of the sect of STRIPED PIGS; but by far the largest number of advertisements are of confectionary articles, paper kites, colored marbles, tee-to-tums, and other articles suited to the wants of the readers of the paper.

A premonitory symptom of approaching dinner, warns me to leave posterity to take care of itself. So, gentle reader, let us leave OLD KNICK., and take some refreshments.

H. F.

Gimcrack the Fifth.

——

BY HARRY FRANCO.

——

A RIDE IN AN OMNIBUS.

HOWEVER improbable the assertion may appear to the Broadway belles and the Bowery boys, it is nevertheless unquestionably true, that there are many men and women in the world, who have never travelled in an omnibus. I am aware that the very name of the vehicle seems to imply that they carry all the world; but still it must be regarded as a mere figure of speech, and not taken in its literal sense. In Cockaigne, where the carriage and its name both had their origin, the impropriety of the OMNI has long since been acknowledged, and the citizens of that classic land make use of the BUSS only; and it is a matter of some wonder, that our travelled countrymen have not introduced the improvement here. Taking it for granted, then, that there are, even among the distant readers of the KNICKERBOCKER, some who have never enjoyed the luxury of a ride down Broadway, in one of these convenient vehicles, I design, in this present writing, to narrate, for their especial benefit, some of the pleasures of that delightful manner of travelling.

It was near the close of a warm afternoon in the decline of summer, that I emerged out of one of the elegant streets in the upper part of the city of New-York, and stepped upon the newly-laid flagging of Broadway, just as a long white carriage, drawn by four horses of as many different colors, and with a figure of Minerva painted upon its central pannel, started for a little spot of verdure at the lower end of the city, called, by way of a joke, the 'Bowling Green.' The driver of the vehicle, raising himself in his seat, gave a preliminary flourish with his whip, and looking behind him, caught sight of my weary-looking limbs, and gave me an invitation to ride, by making a peculiar sweep with his uplifted elbow; I answered the invitation by lifting up my fore finger, upon which he checked his horses, and I entered the carriage, and found that it contained no one but an elderly lady, opposite whom I sat down. Our driver was a tall, thin young man, with a whitish hat upon his head, and a cigar in his mouth. His whole dress was in admirable keeping—a perfect study for MOUNT, the genius of Stoney Brook; and there was a reckless glance in his eye, that would have well become the ambitious Phaeton, the day on which he set fire to the world by his careless driving.

We jogged along at an easy rate, passing the white towers of the University on our left, and the square stone tower of the Church of the Messiah on our right; and leaving the beautiful granite church, with a marble altar and a wooden steeple, and numerous other architectural wonders, behind us. But suddenly there came dashing along behind us an opposition line, from the neighborhood of Union Square, as that tasteful oval is called. The carriage was a deep crimson, with a great profusion of gilding; and was drawn by four mettlesome bay horses. The driver was a buckish-looking individual, with a glossy black hat, and a bob-tailed green coat. He also had a newly-lighted cigar in his mouth, and altogether his appearance was saucy in the extreme. He was about to dash past us, without the smallest acknowledgment of our existence, when our driver gave a sudden crack with his whip, and started his cattle into a pretty brisk trot; for drivers of omnibusses, like drivers of quills and bargains, do not like to be distanced in a race with a rival; and therefore it was quite natural that he should make a freer use of his whip than he before had done.

Just at this moment, a couple of young ladies stopped on the crossing, and motioned our driver to stop; but without giving the slightest heed to their wishes, he gave a loose to his reins, and contrived, by a free use of his whip, and an incessant ejaculation of crack phrases, which are presumed to be very gratifying to horses, to keep up the speed of his divers-colored cattle. At the first bound of the omnibus, I found myself plump in the lap of the lady passenger, who seemed disposed to take my sudden intrusion upon her premises as no joke; but scarcely was I seated on my own side again, than another sudden bound sent the lady herself quite as suddenly into my arms. We were now square on the score of visits; so she regained her good humor as soon as circumstances would allow, and said something very 'smart;' but I could not understand a syllable of it.

We dashed along at a fearful rate; and as I saw lamp-posts and granite columns flying past in great confusion, I began to have serious apprehensions that I should never reach Bowling-Green with a whole skin; and as disagreeable thoughts always intrude themselves exactly at the wrong time, my anxiety was increased by remembering that I had neglected to renew the policy on my life, by paying the annual premium.

'Alas! alas! my poor boy!' I exclaimed, 'who will provide for you and my dear Mary, when I am gone!'

But thoughts like these could not occupy my mind long; for our situation was momently becoming intensely exciting.

'A stern chase is a long chase,' is an old saying with sailors; and I see no reason why it should not come to be a proverb among omnibus drivers. Our present case certainly afforded a very pretty illustration of its truth. We were decidedly inferior to our consort in point of metal; but having the lead, we continued to keep it without very great difficulty. On which ever side he might endeavor to pass, our driver would very adroitly prevent him, by heading his horses directly across his path. Fortunately, there is a city ordinance against driving omnibusses on the side-walk, or we might have been compelled to submit to a defeat. Every now and then the heads of the 'leaders' of the opposition would intrude themselves into the door of our omnibus, and giving a disdainful toss, would half cover us with foam. Then the lady would shriek, the horses would snort, the drivers would swear, crack would go their whips, crash would go something, and away we would fly again. Rows of brick houses rushed past, as though they were reeled off; Saint Thomas' church, with his two gray towers, and his shingle roof, walked by like a 'sober second thought;' and Niblo's Garden, with its gingerbread grottoes, and dirty finery, rushed away like a feverish dream. I forgot all my fears, now, and thought only of victory. Indeed, I should have valued a broken arm no more than the paring of a finger-nail. I was afraid of nothing but defeat. In the height of my anxiety, I put my head out of the window, and shouted to the driver to crack on; and the lady, who had turned pale with fright when we first set out, was now flushed with excitement, and she clapped her hands together in high glee, every time we got an advantage over our pursuer. Suddenly I heard a crash and a shout, and turning my head, I saw two well-dressed gentlemen sprawling in the middle of the street, and a pair of grays flying away with a half-demolished dearborn-wagon. Men, I thought, had no business to venture themselves in Broadway in such slight things; and probably so thought our driver, for he never turned his head to see what damage he had done, but continued to urge on his horses at the top of their speed.

That brick-and-wood monster, the Lyceum, was out of sight behind us, and still we dashed on, a full omnibus-length ahead of our chase. Grand-street was gained, and for a moment the pinions of Victory fluttered, as if she were hesitating upon whose head to alight. It was but a short space of time, but it was long enough for a doubt. Charles the Twelfth at Bender, or Wellington at Waterloo, may have experienced something like the peculiar sensations that we did at this moment. The new church, close by, rising like a monstrous heap of snow from the dingy pavement, looked as though it was blanched with apprehension. But doubt was soon removed; and away we dashed again, the driver of the opposition gnashing his teeth with rage at having lost an opportunity of distancing us.

Thinking with Doctor Johnson, that when a historian fails to make record of a generous action that may have been performed by one of his characters, that the world is defrauded of its rightful fare, I will relate the cause of our almost defeat at the corner of Grand-street. A near-sighted old market woman was crossing the street with a basket of Newtown pippins on her brawny arm, when an overgrown porker, whose speed had been quickened by a crack from our driver's whip, ran full bolt between her legs, laid her sprawling upon her back, and sent her basket of pippins flying to the four corners of the two streets. Whether it was that our driver remembered that he had an old mother at home, or that some other kindly feeling influenced him, I know not; but, in the most humane manner, he turned his horses' heads a little one side, just sufficient to graze the prostrate lady's petticoat, thus giving his rival a decided advantage; as he might, by driving directly over her, have distanced us by at least half the length of the omnibus. I do not remember to have seen any public acknowledgment of this noble act of generosity; but I trust that those public-spirited individuals who get up 'benefits' for meritorious dancing-masters, and other public benefactors, will not allow this gallant omnibus-driver to go unrewarded. Perhaps a complimentary omnibus-benefit-ride, from the Battery to Seventeenth-street, would be as suitable a way as could be suggested, to testify the public respect, and aid the chivalrous beneficiary.

If my feelings were excited before, they reached their calenture now. The humanity of our driver had enlisted my sympathies strongly in his behalf, while the ferocious looks and profane expressions of the opposition, caused me to exult in his defeat. Away we flew like lightning, and gained the next corner without doing any other damage than overturning the oyster-stand of a one-legged old sailor, who appeared to regard his loss of a few oysters, and a bottle of red peppers, with a degree of chagrin which I thought was greatly disproportioned to the occasion. At last, we reached Canal-street, where we had a passing glance of the romantic hills of Weehawken, and a gorgeous pile of snowy clouds rising above the green fields of New-Jersey, and just tinged with the beautiful hues of the descending sun. I looked upon the bright vision as an omen of success; and something was wanting to sustain our spirits, for the space on which we had now entered being wider than any that we had passed before, afforded a better chance for our pursuer to avail himself of his superior bottom; but the greater number of pedestrians that we here encountered, in a great measure neutralized the advantage.

The blackened walls of the Church of the Ascension, the aspiring liberty-pole of the Conservatives, and the dépôt of the hygeian college, all might have attracted my attention at any other time; but now, they were unheeded. Our passage across this area was extremely critical; for notwithstanding our driver did all that could be done with his whip and his tongue, our rival gained upon us at every step; and just as we had abandoned all hope, one of Kip and Brown's blood-red omnibuses, with a full load, came dashing up Broadway, and saved me from defeat, by running so close to the opposition, as to nearly upset him. But all three omnibusses meeting at the same moment, together with a charcoal wagon, two butchers' carts, a buggy, and two private carriages with out-riders, caused considerable scampering among the foot passengers. A terribly shrill cry suddenly pierced our ears.

'O! heavens!' exclaimed my companion, 'what can it be!'

'It is nothing but a child,' I replied, as I saw a young lady haul something white from under the wheels of a butcher's cart, and press it to her bosom. But a second look enabled me to say, 'It is only a Spanish poodle,' just in time to save the lady from fainting, which she had made preparation to do, by taking her pocket handkerchief and smelling-bottle out of her pocket.

As we were fast approaching the end of our journey, the efforts of the rivals increased in vigor. They hallooed, they swore, they cursed, they stamped; they whipped their horses, and then brandished their whips at each other; and if we did not increase, we certainly did not diminish our speed; while the interest, if possible, grew more exciting every moment. But soon a new difficulty arose. The lady wanted to alight at Lispenard-street, but the driver was proof against the admonitions of the check-string. The lady had no wish to travel so far out of her way as Bowling Green, but the driver was too intent on the race to allow a passenger to alight, and thereby give his antagonist an opportunity of beating him. And I must confess that I was highly delighted with his spirit; and forgetting, for the moment, that I was a member of a temperance society, I determined to treat him to a julep, so soon as we should reach the end of our journey. The lady continued to tug away at the check-string, but the only reply our gallant driver made was, 'No you don't!'—and by putting the end of his thumb to his nose, and gently fanning the air with his extended fingers; and then seizing his whip again, he made it crack over the ears of his smoking leaders. The lady at last threw herself back in despair, as we rattled past the little dusty hole called, in derision, Contoit's Garden, and the great lumbering, greenish-brown pile of bricks opposite, called, by way of an experiment in bombast, the 'Carlton House.'

And here we came well nigh being overturned, and dashed against the curb-stone, in consequence of our driver suffering his attention to be arrested by two flamingly-dressed young ladies, who winked at him as they turned down into Leonard-street. Here we caught a glimpse of several objects, each of which would require a separate essay, if noticed properly: the Egyptian prison, the Church du St. Esprit, the new library, and the ruined theatre; and the next moment, we were opposite the noble hospital, happily built of good substantial stone, before stuccoed walls and Grecian porticoes were in fashion, standing in the midst of venerable trees, with green creepers almost covering its sober front, and a neatly-trimmed lawn stretching between it and the street—as bright as the greenest park in old England—to gladden the eyes of the passers-by. A monstrous heap of rubbish in the middle of the street once more endangered our lives and limbs, and arrested the headway of our chase, who was fast gaining upon us. Our driver gave a yell of delight and on we sped; but my sympathies were somewhat excited, by observing that the wheels of our omnibus threw a complete shower of black mud upon the crimson mantilla of a very pretty woman, who had incautiously ventured too near the curb-stone, at the corner of Duane-street; and a little farther on, I perceived, on looking back, that the opposition had overturned two porters, who were very carefully conveying a large mirror on a hand-barrow across the street. Fortunately, neither of them was killed, although the mirror was smashed into a greater number of pieces than it would have been easy to enumerate. And then we passed Clover's—where Linen's beautiful portraits of Clay and Webster may be seen—in fine style, leaving our pursuer well behind us. Of course, we were soon dashing past Washington Hall; and at another time I should have regretted passing it in such haste, for it presents a thousand times the finest façade of any building in Broadway, from Battery Place to Union Square; and as there is a prospect of its being speedily demolished, I love to look at it. Let me entreat the architect of the contemplated theatre, whoever he may be, so to arrange his plan, as to leave the present front entire.

And now we were careering it over the wooden pavements. What a relief to our limbs, after rumbling a mile or two over dislocating cobbles! And here are all the gayeties of the Park. The old Bridewell is gone, and the pride of our noble city stands revealed in all her beauty; and beautiful she is, in spite of the wooden abortion which has been stuck upon her roof.

Chance now, as in many a renowned contest, must determine the victory, for the crowd of carriages thickens fast. It is an easy matter to overturn an old apple-woman, or even a dandy phaeton; but a loaded dray presents an obstacle, that, like the will of the people, must be respected. And here, too, are numerous pyramids of bricks, which care no more for an omnibus than do the pyramids of the desert for old Time, who has whetted his scythe upon them for a longer period than men know of.

If oaths and curses could avail any thing, we should have been distanced long since. The opposition has exhausted the swearer's vocabulary a dozen times; but our gallant driver spurs on his cattle with a good-natured hullaballoo, which contrasts favorably with the savage ferocity of his rival. We catch a glimpse of time-honored Columbia College, and its noble elms, and we are again on the cobbles. Goodness, what a change! It is like laying down Tom Moore, and taking up doctor M'Henry!

Crash! smash! The drivers swear, the horses plunge, the lady screams; but there is no great damage, only one corner of the omnibus torn off. Away we go, without heeding it. Here is our triumph! All the world is looking at us. What a moment! We are almost a length ahead of the opposition! Twenty dandies, with cigars in their mouths, and small tufts of hair on their upper lips, are gazing at us from the steps of the Astor House. A whole drove of little folks, who have been treated to a sight of the wonders in Scudder's Museum, clap their little hands with delight, as we rush past. All the coachmen on the Park stand mount their boxes to look at us; and a mettlesome gray horse, with a militia officer on his back, takes fright, and scampers down Barclay-street, in fine style. Away we fly, past St. Paul's Church, with our pursuer hard upon our heels, splashing and dashing, slam-bang, and mingling with dirt-carts, oyster-carts, and milk-wagons, until we get inextricably interlocked with a whole caravan of brokers' and bankers' clerks, fleeing from Wall-street in every possible description of vehicles. The horses blow hard, and throw off steam like a locomotive. Our driver waxes moderate in the use of his whip and his oaths. The excitement is fast cooling; and after repeated struggles to get clear, we at last have the mortification of seeing the opposition drive past us, and we reach Bowling Green just two minutes after him.

After all, what is the use of striving to out-race our fellows in this world? If we win, our spirits have all evaporated in the contest; and if we lose, we have nothing but mortification for our exertions. With such reflections, I stepped out of the omnibus, and left my fair fellow traveller disputing with the driver about her fare; for she very justly refused to pay for her ride down, unless he would agree to take her back to the place of her destination, free of charge.

Gimcrack the Sixth.

——

BY HARRY FRANCO.

——

SIASCONSET: HOW IT AROSE, AND WHAT IT IS.

THERE are numerous lovely spots on this earth, which occupy a large space in many hearts, although they make but an indifferent appearance on the map of the great world; and there are many names of places that would be looked for in vain in the chart of any country, which nevertheless makes a conspicuous figure in the world of letters. The name which graces the head of this paper belongs to that class which lives only in the hearts of a few; but it shall be no fault of mine, if it is not found hereafter on the printed page, by the side of others better known to Fame, but not more entitled to regard and remembrance.

Dear Siasconset! what a happy lot were mine, could I cause thy name to live in the memories of those who treasure up in their hearts images of the bright and beautiful, the lovely and the good, the great and the noble! Year has followed year, like the constantly returning waves that beat upon thy pebbly shore; the light laughter of youth has grown faint and tremulous in age, and at last silent in death; the slight herbage that fringes thy slighter soil, has sprung up and decayed for succeeding seasons, since that mid-week of creation, when God bade the earth bear fruit; and still the world knows not of thy existence. But it shall be so no longer. That distant orb which had been beaming in its sphere since that glorious morning when the stars sang together for joy, never attracted the gaze of mankind, until the keen-sighted Herschel took note of its existence, and giving it the name of his sovereign, pointed it out to the wondering eyes of the world. So, SIASCONSET! let me direct the admiration of mankind to thy quiet hamlet, where it stands frowned upon, but guarded, by Sancoty and Tom Nevers, the Gog and Magog of the Ocean.

It is now one hundred and eighty years, since a kind-hearted and generous man was compelled to flee from his new home, to escape a fine and flagellation, for having been guilty of giving shelter to four Quaker way-farers during a thunder storm. The name of this man was Thomas Macy, and the place from which he fled was Salisbury, in Massachusetts, where he had acquired a title to a tract of land comprising one thousand acres, had built himself a house, and stocked a farm. This being at that period of the world's existence which we of the present generation look back upon with veneration, and call the 'good old times;' and the whole land being under the immediate control of those conscientious gentlemen, the Pilgrim Fathers; and it being about the time when England's sublimest bard poured forth that noble strain:

'Avenge, O Lord! thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold,
Even those who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones;
Forget not; in thy book record their groans.'

it may be considered a strange matter, that a man should be scourged and fined for giving a shelter beneath his roof to a weary traveller; but such is the fact. In those primitive days, a good Christian was hardly accounted comme il faut, unless he had either worried a witch, or given a quietus to a Quaker; and Thomas Macy having done neither, he was naturally looked upon with suspicion by his neighbors, notwithstanding he had lived among them twenty years, without giving any cause of offence, but that related above; after which, however, either remorse of conscience, or the persecution of his pious rulers, drove him from his home and possessions. Being first arraigned for his offence, however, he put in the following plea in extenuation, the original of which is still in existence:

'This is to entreat the honored court not to be offended because of my non-appearance. It is not from my slighting the authority of the honored court, nor fear to answer the case; but have been for some weeks past very ill, and am so at present; and notwithstanding my illness, yet I, desirous to appear, have done my utmost endeavors to hire a horse, but cannot procure one at present. I, being at present destitute, have endeavored to purchase one, but cannot at present attain it; but I shall relate the truth of the case, as my answer would be to the honored court; and more cannot be proved, nor so much. On a rainy morning, there came to my house Edward Wharton and three men more: the said Wharton spoke to me, saying that they were travelling eastward, and desired me to direct them in the way to Hampton; and never saw any of the men afore, except Wharton, neither did I inquire their names, or what they were; but by their carriage, I thought they might be Quakers, and said I so; and therefore desired them to pass on in their way; saying to them, I might possibly give offence in entertaining them; and soon as the violence of the rain ceased, (for it rained hard,) they went away, and I never saw them since. The time that they staid in the house was about three quarters of an hour; they spoke not many words, in the time, neither was I at leisure to talk with them; for I came home wet to the skin, immediately afore they came to the house, and I found my wife sick in bed. If this satisfy not the honored court, I shall submit to their sentence. I have not willingly offended. I am ready to serve and obey you in the Lord. Thomas Macy.'

'27 of 8th mo., '59.'

But this did not satisfy the 'honored court;' and therefore he was forced to flee; and two of the men who had caused him to offend, by seeking a shelter beneath his roof, viz: William Robinson, merchant of London, and Marmaduke Stephenson, of Yorkshire, England, were hanged in Boston the same year, for being Quakers.

It is not to be wondered at that Thomas Macy was suspicious of the whole race of white folks, as well he might be; and he determined to remove himself and family as far from their influence as he could. He put his wife and little ones, together with such of his effects as he could carry upon his shoulders, into an open boat, and having persuaded a neighbor to accompany him, he launched his frail vessel, and set sail in quest of a place where Christian men had not intruded themselves. He coasted along the barren shore of Cape Cod, past the Elizabeth Islands, and Martha's Vineyard, so called from its abounding in herrings, until he reached a little heap of arid sand, just lifting itself above the surface of the waters, and surrounded on every side by dangerous shoals and sand-bars, as if nature, in her kindness, had determined that no rash individual should set foot upon a spot that she was evidently ashamed of. But these things, which might have daunted a fainter hearted man than Thomas Macy, were only inducements to him to set up his Ebenezer in this place. For he doubtless thought that in this spot he and his descendants would be free from intrusion, to the end of time; unless some guilty, outlawed wretch like himself, who had given shelter to the houseless and oppressed, should seek its desert shore for an asylum, when pursued by the conscientious and over pious. This little heap of sand has since been called Nantucket, and from this true-hearted and brave man sprang up just such a race of men and women as one might suppose such a stock capable of producing; kind-hearted, generous, careful, brave and enterprising, but withal greatly inclined to peace; thrifty and prudent, and at the same time hospitable to a proverb.

Thomas Macy afterward returned to Salisbury, and brought back with him to Nantucket several families, among whom were the ancestor of Admiral Sir Isaac Coffin, and the maternal ancestor of Doctor Franklin. They found the island peopled with savages, who suffered the new comers to take up their abode there without molesting them; and the white intruders in return treated the hospitable natives with uniform kindness and gentleness; a mode of proceeding which was found much more efficacious in exterminating them, than hunting them with blood-hounds, or shooting them with patent rifles. They were literally killed with kindness. If this method of exterminating natives was but known and practised in the everglades of Florida, a very large sum of money might be annually saved by our government. But let me not wander from my subject.

Psychological peculiarities are more enduring than physiological. The lineaments of an entire race may change, while their moral features remain unaltered. Whether the descendants of Thomas Macy bear any resemblance in their outward seeming to their progenitor, cannot now be known; but certain it is, the leading points in their characters are singularly like to his. Driven by a barren soil and an isolated situation to draw their subsistence from the ocean, they became early accustomed to its perils, and to love its dangers; and leaving the smaller of the finny tribe to the less adventurous spirits of Cape Cod and Cape Ann, they grappled with the huge leviathan of the deep, and have ever since made the capture of him the leading pursuit of their lives; and now, in whatever part of the globe, how remote soever it may be from their island home, no sooner does the black-coated monster of the deep thrust his head above its surface, than one of the descendants of Thomas Macy stands ready in the bow of his fragile skiff, with harpoon in hand to fasten upon his prey. Such was the commencement of Nantucket; and more than half a century ago, colonies from that little spot had settled down in Dunkerque in France, Milford Haven in Wales, Halifax in Nova Scotia, New-Bedford in Massachusetts, and Hudson in our own state, for the purpose of carrying on the business of catching whales; and by their descendants it is continued to this day. The immediate descendants of the first settlers of Nantucket not only supplied this continent with oil before the revolution, but they exported large quantities to England and France. In the latter country, they were the first to introduce it into use, being obliged to create a demand, in order to meet it. It is related, in an authentic history, that some persons standing on a high hill on the island, watching the whales spouting and sporting with each other, one said: 'There,' pointing to the sea, 'is a green pasture, where our children's grand-children will go for bread.' The prophecy has been literally fulfilled.

Although all men are gregarious, and above all, civilized men, yet in proportion as they become civilized, they strive to appear other than what they are, by affecting to live apart from their own species. It is to this feeling that country-seats and watering-places owe their existence. And although men pretend to wish to be very exclusive in their retreats from what they call the bustle of the great world, yet they are very certain to go, on such occasions, where there is the greatest probability of finding the greatest crowd; so impossible is it for men to sin against their own natures. The simple inhabitants of Nantucket, although differing essentially from the rest of mankind in many particulars, partook of this common foible with the rest. As they grew rich and refined, they felt the want of a summer retreat; and in process of time, there were clustered together, on the eastern end of the island, sixty or seventy little houses, standing on the edge of a high cliff, with the waves of the Atlantic constantly dashing against its base.

This was SIASCONSET. But how unlike all other summer retreats and watering-places! It rises in the midst of ocean, with neither a green tree nor a towering rock to divide the attention, or to entice the eye from contemplating the grandeur of the wild waste of waters spread out around it. The hoarse roar of the breakers continually dashing against the shore, makes a nobler symphony than was ever heard within the walls of a cathedral, and awakening within the soul a vague feeling of sublimity, rebukes and puts to fight all mean and trivial thoughts. One of those wooden gimcracks, with its Grecian porticoes and Venetian blinds, that disfigure all other places of summer resort in the twenty-four states, would look like an impertinence here; and luckily no enterprising individual has yet seen proper to build such an incubus upon the fair fame of Siasconset. The little houses that are ranged along the cliff, with a green avenue running between them, are the most modest and unpretending edifices that civilized men ever reared for their accommodation. And here may be seen and felt all those gentle graces which adorn and distinguish cultivated minds, without any of those external affectations and incumbrances, which accompany them in other places. Pride and luxury are exotics, that cannot take root where there is so little of the blandishments of Nature, or the achievements of art, to distract the mind from the contemplation of its Maker. And here, by common consent, men and women throw aside all useless restraints and cold formalities, and intermingle with each other like brethren appointed to one common lot, and who are joint heirs to one heritage. Fashion here loses her sway, and even women cease to acknowledge her as their sovereign. That foul demon, the SPIRIT OF PARTY, has never yet shed his baneful influences over Siasconset, and strait-coated Sectarianism has never approached within sound of its breakers. The tinkling of a piano has never been heard within its borders, and the hissing of steam has never marred the hoarse melody of its waters. But the hilarious music of happy hearts is often heard there, and the gentle whispers of heart-subduing voices. And too often the thrilling cry of drowning wretches has been borne on the midnight blast; for many noble ships have been wrecked upon its rips, without one soul being left to tell the story of their disaster. And the shore has not unfrequently been lined with costly goods, and lifeless bodies, while the vessel that once bore them has been entirely beaten to pieces and swallowed up in a night. And once the waters around were crimsoned with human blood, and the echoes of the solitary cliffs were awakened by sounds never heard there before; the clashing of swords, the reports of cannon, and the fierce cry of men engaged in mortal combat. It was near the close of the last war, when the privateer Neufchàtel, lying within a very short distance of the shore, was attacked by the boats of the Endymion frigate. Of one hundred and forty men, including the first lieutenant of the ship, that manned the barges, only fourteen returned alive.

But the chief glory of Siasconset, and what serves to embalm it in the memories of all those who visit it, is neither its solitary grandeur, its unique customs, nor the charms of its society, but its fish. To appreciate them, they must be eaten. To describe an elegant woman, a beautiful picture, or a fine landscape, would be an easy task; but to give a correct idea of a 'soused chowder,' would baffle the readiest pen, or the warmest imagination. No doubt many lovers of good things would think it a lucky chance if they could sip a cup of young hyson with the moon's first cousin, his highness of china; or sup with an unbreeched Gaucho, in the Banda Oriental, off a Pampa bull roasted whole, and undivested of his hide and horns; or breakfast at Mackinac on a lake trout, which they had watched dying and broiling upon the hot embers in an Indian wigwam; or to dine at the Rocher de Cancale, on turbot à la créme; or they may have feasted in imagination with Didius Julianus, or with Varius Heliogabalus on shrimps and sausages, cooked according to the receipt of the latter emperor; or have partaken of one of the men-fed fish from the pond of Vedius Pollio, at a déjeunner à la fourchette; or have eaten cow-heel in their dreams with Glaucus Lorrensis; I am persuaded that no one who has ever eaten fried tongues and 'sounds' at Siasconset, can ever long for any other dish, unless it be a codfish chowder, served up at the same place. Indeed, if one were called upon to decide between the two dishes, he would be placed in a most puzzling predicament; it would be like asking a mother which of her children she would be willing to give up. They pretend to make chowder in other parts of the Bay State; and I have tasted a villanous compound, even on the sea-coast of New Hampshire and Maine, that was dignified by the name; but it was an insult to the noblest of the finny tribe to serve one of them up in such style. Every body has read, or heard, of the tragic end of the illustrious Vatel, who ran himself through the body with his sword, because the sea-fish that he expected to serve up for the dinner of his royal master did not arrive in season. And doubtless many thoughtless people have looked upon the too sensitive cook as a fool, or at best as having fallen a sacrifice to a false principle of honor. But I could never look upon the martyrdom of the unfortunate Frenchman in such a light. Taking it for granted that the fish he expected was a cod, and that the dish he intended to make of it was chowder, I do not see that any other method of expressing his chagrin could have been adequate to the occasion. He certainly did right to fall upon his sword. But how melancholy to reflect, that while the heroic artist was breathing his last breath, whole cart loads of marée were arriving from every sea-port in France, whence he had ordered it for fear of disappointment. His feelings were no doubt well understood and appreciated by his royal master; for Madame Sévigné, in her letter to Madame Grignan, says he was much praised, and his courage was lauded as well as blamed.

There are other kinds of fish, beside cod, caught at Siasconset; but the sojourners at that fascinating spot, like the emperor Geta, have their fish served up in alphabetical order; and it so happens that they never get beyond the third letter. It would literally be descending too far, to go below c. The chromatic scale of their culinary conceptions cannot go beyond cod. But the charmed circle of their appetite is by no means a narrow one. First comes chowder, then fried tongues and sounds, then fried cheeks, next corned cod, then boiled sounds, and lastly dried cod. Who would ever wish to leave such a round of enjoyment! What were the lampreys of Julius Cæsar, compared with the cod-fish of Siasconset!

These delightful fish are taken with hook and line in boats, peculiarly constructed for riding on the breakers, about a mile from the shore. It requires great skill and address to land the boats safely on the beach; and it frequently happens that they are swamped in the attempt, and the fruits of a day's labor and peril are lost. But so accustomed are the fishermen to diving in the surf, that it rarely happens that one of them is drowned. In landing, as soon as the boat touches the shore, the crew leap out, and catching her by the gunwales, drag her up high and dry out of the reach of the returning breaker. The fish are immediately thrown out upon the beach, when some bare-footed urchin, or bare-armed damsel, without question or hindrance, claps an eye and a hand upon the largest and finest looking one of the fare, and darts up the steep bank with surprising alacrity. The fish is cleaned and thrust into the pot which has been hanging over the fire, with its pork and onions all in readiness, in an incredible short space of time; and if you are a looker-on, you begin to feel longings within you that would be wholly insupportable, were it not for the prospect of their speedy gratification. The keen bracing air; the pure limpid water; the exercise upon the beach; the simple joyousness of all around you; all tend to whet up the appetite to such a degree, that you feel that the coarsest food would be eaten with the liveliest zest imaginable; but when the additional stimulus of the aroma arising from a pot of chowder is given, your appetite becomes a phrenzy, and you seize a spoon and abandon your self to the gratification of your desires, with a recklessness and utter regardlessness of the whole world, and every thing it contains, except the tureen before you, which you can never feel at any other place, nor upon any other occasion. When you leave Siasconset, it is with regret: it becomes petrified in your memory; and although you may have travelled the world over, you never forget that you have been there; and when you are asked whether you have or not, you promptly reply, 'yes,' and add that you mean to go there again.

THE DAY-DREAM OF A GROCER.

——

BY HARRY FRANCO.

——

A-BUBBLE, a-bubble, a-bubble, rubble, rubble, rubble, ubble, ubble, ubble, ble, ble, and a half, and a half, and a half, alf, alf, alf, f—f--f-f, and a half; did you say a half?—will you say a half? I mean to give you the wines, gentlemen; I mean to do it; I will give you the wines; a half it is; thank you, Isaac; I must have my commissions, gentlemen; I must have 'em: thank you, Isaac—jolly old soul! Isaac bids twelve; a-rubble, a-rubble, a-rubble, and a half; go it strong, Isaac! go it strong, I say; and a half, and a half, and a half, alf, af, af, af, f—f--f-f; wo n't you give any more?—wo n't you? nor you? Then I must give it to Isaac at twelve and a half; put it down to Isaac at twelve and a half.'

These were the identical words that came rattling from the throat of the rich and portly Walter Windmill, Esquire, the auctioneer. Every body is a squire in these days, but above every body else rich auctioneers. Mr. Windmill was a Falstaff in his profession; he had enormous jowls, the most comical crispy hair conceivable, and a pair of the funniest hazle eyes that ever an auctioneer was blessed with; but they were entirely useless to him without the aid of a pair of gold-mounted spectacles, and even with this aid the owner of them could not distinguish a hawk from a hand-saw at any respectable distance. The occasion on which the emphatic words above recorded were uttered was a sale of wines, by catalogue and sample; and the gentleman whose name was repeated with such unction by Mr. Windmill was ISAAC DEMIJOHN, Esquire, a rich old grocer of Coenties Slip, who had breathed the atmosphere of that favored spot ever since he came into this breathing world. Isaac was very rich, rich enough, every body thought but himself, and he enjoyed all the honors that belong to that happy condition. Nobody, at least no poor body, ever had the audacity to call in question the correctness of his opinion. All his sayings had an orphic tendency; and his jokes were always sure to command an explosion of mirth. This is one of the choicest blessings that wealth can bestow; to know that your wit will be appreciated by discerning listeners, and that should you chance, through forgetfulness, to tell a funny story a second or third time, your auditor will kindly receive it as though he had never heard it before. Isaac's sons were the greatest rakes about town, and gave unquestionable evidence of ending their lives in an alms-house: his daughters too, having been stinted in their education, because their father was determined upon dying a rich man, were idle, extravagant, and silly, and much sought after too. If one had a desire to be completely wretched, he could not attain his object more surely than by taking one of the Misses Demijohn to wife; and yet many young gentlemen whose sole pursuit was happiness, paid them the most assiduous attentions, with the hope of winning their favor. Such are some of the blessings attached to riches.

Isaac was a first-rate judge of liquors. You would have thought he held the destiny of all the states and territories in his hand, if you could have seen with what profound deliberation he drew his proof-glass from the bung-hole of a brandy-pipe and applied it to his plethoric lips; and then with what a solemn shake of his head he intimated a forthcoming veto on the quality of the liquor. You would have sworn that nothing short of a constitutional scruple or a Virginia abstraction could induce such a mighty caution. But Isaac never troubled his head with such unprofitable articles as abstract ideas: the main question with him was which of two brands would bear the most mixing; whether 'Pellevoisin' or 'A. Seignette' would take the greatest quantity of pure spirits without losing its flavor. This was an important point to decide; and the deliberation with which Isaac considered the subject was undoubted proof of his sincerity. He had scruples, beyond a question, conscientious scruples too; for Isaac was a communicant in a fashionable Dutch church, and he had frequently been called upon to hand round the plate for missionary purposes. As the flavor of good wine will remain in the cask long after its contents have been emptied, so will an odor of sanctity hang about a man engaged in such pious pursuits, even when employed about mere worldly matters. And no one who saw Isaac deliberating over a pipe of brandy or a hogshead of molasses, and knew what a lively interest he took in the welfare of the heathen, could doubt that he had the good of souls at heart.

The day on which we introduced him to the notice of the reader he had been engaged in tasting, smelling, and comparing an unusually long catalogue of choice wines; and he no sooner seated himself on one of the wooden benches in Mr. Windmill's auction-room, than a heavy drowsiness came over him, which he tried in vain to shake off. Let him change his position as he might, or open his eyes ever so wide, he could not resist the disposition to slumber which overpowered him. Sleep seemed to rain its influence upon him; and in spite of his anxiety to bid, he was forced to yield to its resistless but gentle power, and be borne off to the Land of Nod like a manacled slave. There he sat with his catalogue and pencil in hand, his back against the wall, and his head kept upright by his fat double chin, unable to move or speak a word. His spirit had passed away from the spot in which his body was located, and while all around were conscious of his corporeal presence, he was not himself conscious of any thing that was passing near him. In all save appearance he was like a skeleton at an Egyptian feast. He had purposely placed himself in a corner where no one but the auctioneer could see his motions; for he knew that when younger grocers saw him bid upon a particular lot, they would try to out-bid him, to show their superior judgment to the rest of the world. And there he sat, every now and then nodding at the auctioneer, whose imperfect vision did not allow him to discover that Isaac was stuck fast in an apoplectic slumber; so he took all his nods for bids, and knocked down to him some terrible hard bargains, that would have ruined the credit of a younger grocer.

Who would have guessed that the soul which inhabited that happy-looking corporation was then undergoing a probationary residence with the troubled spirits in Tophet? So little of an index to the mind are the outward developements of the person. Although Isaac was asleep in the auction-room, he was wide awake in another place. Though he was deaf to the winning voice of Mr. Windmill, he could not shut the ears of his soul to a terrible voice that none heard but himself.

Lord! what an uncomfortable position a man is in when left alone tête-à-tête with his conscience! But if it is terrible in a day-dream, with the blessed light of day shining full upon you, and many voices chattering around you, what must it be when one is lying with the cold earth upon his breast, and dismal night-winds howling around his solitary biding-place! It is too fearful for thought; and so it appeared to Isaac Demijohn, Esq., while like a guilty coward he tried to shun his accuser, but dared not offer a word in his own defence. Rich as he was, Mr. Demijohn would have given all he was worth if some kind hand had but touched him and delivered him from his troublesome condition. But no one discovered that he was asleep, or a dozen hands would instantly have been raised for his rescue; and the auctioneer rattled away with his lubble, a-lubble, a-lubble, a-lubble, and a half, and a half, and a half, af, af, af, as other men in other places will rattle away at their various employments, wholly regardless and careless of the sufferings and griefs of those around them.

But what could possibly disturb so respectable a person as Isaac Demijohn, Esq.? He occupied a very elevated position in society; he was a bank director, and a subscriber to all the charitable enterprises of the day; he was looked up to by his neighbors, and when men spoke of him in the street he was said to be 'as good as old wheat.' Yet in spite of all these things Isaac would have sold himself for a sixpence. A monstrous weight was lying upon his breast, compared with which one of the granite pillars of the new Exchange were a feather; and yet, oppressive though it was, it was only a false weight; and the spirits that so troubled him were pure spirits; yes pure spirits, that he had mixed with brandy. Where was the harm in that? He could always aver with exact truth to his customers that he sold nothing but a pure article. Then there were tares springing up all around him, choking his path whithersoever he turned, and entangling his feet; but these were false tares. How horribly he was beset by these things, which, though they took no fixed shape, were so palpable and unquestionable that he knew them at a glance; and furthermore, he knew them to be his own. It never once occurred to him to shift them off upon some body else.

After a while these passed away, and then a poor wretch came along with suffering in his looks, and Isaac trembled at his cruel glances. It was an unfortunate neighbor, from whom he had taken usury many years before, and who had been in his grave a long time. What a malicious creature he must be to bear malice so long! Close upon his heels came a maddened multitude of wo-stricken beings, every one of whom gave him a reproachful look, which seemed to say, 'But for you we had been happy and blessed; it was you who sold us rum; it was you who wasted our bodies and drugged our souls with sin and misery!' Isaac, it should be known, had begun trade as a retailer. Lord! how they grinned and chattered!—how they gnashed their teeth upon him! What a dismal howling they set up, and how they glared upon him with their red and swollen eyes! The sweat started in big drops upon his forehead and rolled down his unconscious cheeks, which looked as red and as jolly as though their proprietor were reclining upon a Sybarite's bed of roses. As this miserable multitude gradually melted away into the dim space whence they emerged, there came others, mute but mournful beings, whose down-cast eyes and sad features were a thousand times more harrowing to him than the noise of the excited and chattering creatures who had just left him. These were unfortunates who had appealed to him for help in their adversity, and whom he had refused with hard words and abuse; widows, orphans, and cripples; the most feeble of all feeble folk, whose very helplessness gave them now the power of giants over him. 'O, if they were only to come to me again!' thought Isaac; 'I would give them my last penny. Would n't I shell out to them? I would give my coach-horses for the use of these lame people, and my idle and profligate sons should labor for those wretched women.' But they glided silently away, seeming to say, 'It is too late; we are very happy now.'

And then Isaac was left all alone to his thoughts. How dreadfully dark it was! How vast the empty space in which he hung! How dreadful to be deserted, even by his tormenting persecutors, and left all alone to the reproaches of his conscience! He tried to call for help, but in vain. His voice was choked. Why did not the heathen for whom he had given so much money come to his assistance? Why did not the reverend doctor under whose preaching he had slept so many Sundays come and speak a consolatory word in his ear? This was more terrible than all, to be left alone in that black abyss of nothingness. He could not endure it; and yet he did. 'O!' he said, 'is this the end of all my speculating? Is it for this that I have toiled night and day through a long life, and denied myself all the bright and pleasant things that I saw around me?—the cheap luxury of doing good, and all? Did I wrong those poor people only that my sons should squander my earnings upon wantons and profligates, and that I might myself be wretched at last? How exact I would be in my weights and measures, if it were to do over again! How contentedly I would live upon a mere crust and a cup of water rather than wrong a human being out of a penny! And how devout I would be in my religious duties! Instead of going to church in a coach, I would walk, that my coachman might enjoy the blessed privileges of the Sabbath as well as myself; and I would take the lowest seat, and give to the poor all that the velvet cushions and gaudy furniture of my pew have cost!'

But now a cool breeze swept across his face, and he began to breathe easier. The terrible load upon his chest grew lighter; and although he heard strange noises ringing in his ear, they did not appeal with such terrifying distinctness to his fears. 'After all,' thought Isaac, 'I have only followed the example that was set me. I have been quite as good as my neighbor. I must provide for my family. I pay my debts, and others must do the same, or take the consequences. I do not see why I should be bound to provide for all the poor devils in the world. Let them take care of themselves, as I do. And as for walking to church, when I can afford to ride, that's a doctrine that I won't subscribe to.' Thus he began to comfort himself, as his breathing grew freer; and instead of his short struggling respiration he fairly snored aloud; and as he drew a good long breath from the depths of his capacious chest, all the vile phantoms that had been harrowing his soul took flight. It was a short respite, however; for the next moment he felt a shock that sent the blood in a tumultuous current from his head into the extremities of his body. Now he thought his time was indeed come, and that the Enemy of Mankind had him fast in his clutches.

'Hallo! Isaac!' said Mr. Windmill, as he struck the grocer upon his back; 'what! asleep?'

'Save me! save me!' exclaimed Mr. Demijohn, starting upon his feet.

'Ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho!' roared a multitude of voices.

'Where am I!—what have I been doing!' exclaimed the amazed grocer. 'Has the sale commenced? Has lot forty-one been sold?'

'Lot forty-one been sold?' repeated the auctioneer; 'bless my precious picture!—what a question that is for you to ask! Why you bought it yourself, and two thirds of the catalogue beside.'

'I?—I bid two thirds of the catalogue? Sir, I have not bid at all!' said Isaac.

And here, as the novel writers have it, an eclaircissement took place, but not a settlement; for Isaac refused to take the wines that had been knocked down to him, and Mr. Windmill forthwith commenced a suit against him, which having been instituted only four years has not yet been brought to a close; consequently we cannot at this time lay the result before the reader. But as far as Mr. Demijohn himself is concerned it is a matter of small moment how the affair may terminate, as that respectable gentleman took his departure very suddenly from this wicked world a few months after the events recorded in this essay occurred; and the anxious reader may find his many virtues recorded on a very tall marble pillar erected in the Honey-Suckle Cemetery, on the banks of the Hudson, a few miles from the City Hall.

THE TWO PLEDGES: THE KEPT AND THE BROKEN.

IN the green, sunny, and secluded little town of New-Diep lived TEUNIS VAN DEUZER. Of course he was born there, because all its inhabitants were born within its borders; a peculiarity which probably belongs to no other town on the continent of the new world. TEUNIS was educated in the family of a professional house-carpenter, and it is believed that he perfected himself in his master's calling; but whether by intuition or precept is not precisely known, although it could not have been by either example or practice, since there has been no house built in the town during the last century. He grew up to the respectable age of thirty without any thing remarkable having occurred to him, which in the life of a hero is sufficiently remarkable in itself, to render him a remarkable person. It is not, however, for this reason that we have introduced him to the reader. It so happened that the dwelling-house of TEUNIS'S 'boss' was in the immediate neighborhood of the Black Horse Tavern, a venerable house of entertainment, which bore the same appellation many years before the revolutionary war, and during that glorious period had afforded shelter and refreshment to many a valorous lover of freedom, whose deeds and names are now covered with the dust of oblivion. This venerable house had a southern front, which looked directly upon the hills of Neversink; and it was shaded by a comfortable-looking verandah which was always kept as white as snow, and in the heats of summer had a peculiarly inviting aspect to those who were fond of reclining in the shade and sipping cooling drinks. It will not appear very surprising then that it was a favorite resort of TEUNIS, and that he there acquired a fondness for drink which, so far from its being diminished by the return of winter, seemed rather to be increased; and when the snow-white verandah of the 'Black Horse' no longer tempted him to lounge upon its benches, for the very reason of its literal snow-whiteness, a close box-stove in the bar-room within was quite as potent in drawing him to its genial warmth, where he found hot drinks quite as soothing to his palate as a horn of whisky with a lump of ice in it had been in the summer season. In process of time TEUNIS became a 'regular soaker,' and his person manifested all the outward peculiarities which are common to that condition. He was the by-word and reproach of the whole county, and nothing but his good-nature saved him from being 'turned out of society;' for men, and women too, will forgive almost any vice if it is redeemed, or accompanied by amiability, as they will not tolerate ill-nature if it be accompanied with the most exalted virtues. But the love of liquor had not obliterated all the loveable qualities of TEUNIS. No! abandoned, hardened, deadened, and lost as he appeared to the voice of friendship and reproof, he yet retained enough of the dignity of his nature to love his own species, and he manifested this by falling in love, in the most desperate and determined manner, with one of his neighbors' daughters, Miss ANGELINE DUSENBURY. Upon being made acquainted with his passion, the young lady, and the young lady's father and mother, brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, cousins and second-cousins, all protested against it, and declared that it must not be thought of; that ANGELINE could do better and ought to do better, and that TEUNIS was a most outrageous and presuming person to dare to fall in love with her in that manner. So the young lady refused him, and her friends refused him, and even the doctor and the dominie both shook their heads, and said it would never answer; and TEUNIS professed to have found a very good reason for drowning his sorrows in the bottle, which he strove to do incessantly.

Now it happened that about this time, the great temperance movement, which had been destroying distilleries and reforming drunkards for more than ten years, extended its influence even unto New-Diep, and made the very demijohns in the venerable 'Black Horse' look blue. Among the very first converts who signed the tee-total pledge was the father of ANGELINE DUSENBURY, who, in the paroxysms of his awakened philanthropy, sought out TEUNIS VAN DEUZER, and tried to rouse him to a sense of his degradation, and convince him of the loveliness of temperance and the charms of cold water. But TEUNIS was deaf to persuasion, and dead to argument; until at last the new apostle of temperance worked his zeal in the great cause up to such an exalted pitch, that he promised if TEUNIS would sign the tee-total pledge, and keep sober for twelve months, he should at the expiration of that time be endowed with the hand of ANGELINE, with all her personal charms and worldly goods. Although TEUNIS was at the time, in figurative language, 'half shot,' he was instantly seized with a desire to join the cold-water army; and without giving his Corypheus time to repent of his proposition, he put his name to the pledge, and from that moment began to 'brush up.' We must leave the imagination of our readers to conceive the astonishment of the ancient and orderly inhabitants of New-Diep, when they perceived the change which had come over TEUNIS, and hasten on to more important particulars.

Just six months after this event, a grand temperance meeting was held in the County Hall; and to give brilliancy to the occasion, and insure a full attendance, TEUNIS had been prevailed upon to stand up in the meeting and relate his experiences. Fortified by thoughts of ANGELINE, as an ancient knight in his struggles with a dragon overcame the power of his scaly enemy by repeating the name of his mistress, TEUNIS overcame his dread of public opinion, and delivered himself of his experiences, to the infinite delight of a numerous auditory, and the hopeful conversion of two youthful citizens, who could boast, if they were boastfully given, of being the descendants of an African prince. But what were trophies like these to the longing heart of TEUNIS? He looked around that vast hall, and scanned the faces of the listening crowd, dimly illuminated as they were by a dearth of tallow-candles which threw out more grease than light; but he nowhere perceived the ruddy face of her for whose sake he displayed himself; and he hastened from the hall and ran with rapid steps to the house of her father. There he beheld an unusual glare of lights in the spare-room. What could it mean? Was she sick? No; people do not illuminate their spare-rooms for sickness. All anxious to learn, he listened beneath the window. Amazement! He heard the voice of the dominie speaking in solemn tones; and, too impatient to listen, he burst open the door, and beheld a sight which he will probably never forget.

In the middle of the spare-room stood ANGELINE, dressed all in white muslin, and looking lovelier than ever she looked before, in the very act of promising to love, honor, and obey a brown-faced, black-haired young man of six feet and some odd inches, whom TEUNIS immediately recognized as her second cousin, PETER VAN DEUZER, who owned a farm in the west-quarter. The whole affair was too palpable to require an explanation; so none was either asked or made; and TEUNIS rushed into the street, partly resolved to break his neck, and partly resolved to break his pledge. Like a sensible man, he did neither; but like a very insensible man, he went to law, and sued the father of ANGELINE for a breach of promise. How the suit will terminate, can be a matter of small moment to the public, since every-body knows that in contested cases both sides suffer, let the jury decide as they may. But to the friends of temperance it may be a consoling fact to know, that TEUNIS continues true to his pledge, although there have not been wanting croakers who have predicted that he will break it.

INTERNATIONAL COPY-RIGHT.

CRISPIN, who stole leather to make shoes for the poor, was none the less a thief, says Wolfgang Menzel, in an article on literary piracy. But Menzel is a German, and it would be alike absurd and unsafe for an eminently practical people, like ourselves, to be governed in regard to our national policy by an eminently philosophical people like the Germans. We are by no means certain that Crispin is not a fellow to be copied: before we pronounce judgment upon him, we must know whether he stole from his own countrymen, or from foreigners. There is a vast difference; a difference as great as the countries may be apart. Nothing can be more evident than the proposition that a nation cannot exist by domestic thievery, for I cannot steal from my neighbor unless my neighbor steal from abroad. Therefore, in considering a theft, nationally, it is of the first importance to know who it is that has been robbed. Like many other acute critics, Menzel has furnished a very potent argument to refute his own doctrines, by reasoning a little too close: the parallel between the shoe-maker who steals his leather for the benefit of the people, and the printer or book-publisher who pirates the contents of a book, is a peculiarly unhappy one for the cause he advocates. Nothing can be more evident, no principle is more strongly interwoven in our policy as a nation, than that of encouraging domestic manufactures. It is very plain that if the material for our books cost us nothing, we can manufacture them more cheaply than a rival nation that is compelled to pay their authors for producing them; it is also equally evident that they can therefore be afforded at a cheaper rate to the people, and that the quantity sold will be in proportion to the lowness of the price, and that the intelligence of the people will be in proportion to the number of books that are read: if, in addition to the contents of our books, we could pirate the leather, paper, types, and ink of which they are composed, we should be the most enlightened and independent people in the world, if we are not so already.

The trade of authorship has always entailed on its professors poverty and disease. The sedentary habits which it induces must of necessity undermine health: the abstraction from the every-day affairs of life, requisite to its successful prosecution, almost always causes insanity, or at least mania; and it is not clear that monomania is not an essential feature of authorship: in fact, the history of authorship is but a record of wretchedness. No other profession has furnished an exclusive chapter of calamities. We never hear of the calamities of merchants, of brick-layers, or cultivators. If then we can save our countrymen from the exercise of a calling so manifestly injurious to their happiness and welfare, by availing ourselves of the labors of foreigners, to whom we owe neither protection nor fealty, what man who wishes well to his country will have the temerity to oppose a practice so conducive to our national prosperity? We have declared ourselves a free and independent people; but could it be said that we were either free or independent, if we were restrained, by self-imposed laws, from making free with the labors of a rival nation, separated from us by an ocean of three thousand miles? or independent, if we were dependent upon ourselves for our intellectual pabulum?

The only independent nation of modern times was the Algerines, now unhappily extinct. They were a model people! They were free and independent, in the most liberal and extended sense. They were dependent upon themselves for nothing which they could take from other nations, and so fully did they carry out their principle of national independence, that they looked to a foreign power to furnish them with their governors. No native of the soil was ever harassed by the cares of government. All their rulers were imported from abroad.

In respect of mere corporeal rulers, we are as yet far behind the Algerines, but virtually we are in advance of them as respects our governing power. No one will deny that to rule the mind is far better, more honorable, more arduous, and more important, than to rule the body. Our mental rulers are all foreigners; the majority of them pensioners of a government that advocates and inculcates principles directly opposed to those that we profess. They rule us by means of the books that we cunningly pirate from them, and thereby save ourselves a very great amount of trouble and expense. It is true that some of our people are mad enough to attempt to divide this ruling power with these foreigners, by publishing books themselves; but their efforts only prove the correctness of our assertion; for in order to smuggle their works into notice, they are compelled to make them so nearly like those that are printed, that they could not be distinguished from them, were it not for their title-pages. Evidences of these truths abound, on all sides, as well in the Church as the State. Some of our young preachers have improved their opportunities of studying foreign books to that degree, that they have boldly confessed that the great reformation was not only unjustifiable, but a real detriment to the cause of humanity. Others have professed a faith in the fine old conservative doctrine of the divine right of kings; and one young presbyter that we know, has quitted his country, and now officiates as a chaplain in the dominions of her most gracious majesty, Victoria the First. Other blessings equal to these are continually manifested by our rulers and legislators, who give abundant evidence that they have profited by the continual influx of foreign mind. One great statesman, of the Virginia school of politics, a great patriot and a great orator also, profited to such an extent by his foreign books, that he could not even read a work that had been re-printed in this country. But we would not be thought to advocate so sublime and patriotic an extension of the great principle of pirating as this, because it would deprive our artisans and tradesmen of a very profitable business. Perhaps the most remarkable and beneficial effect of our independence of ourselves, is manifested by the clergy, who depend almost entirely upon England for their theology, and thereby become so thoroughly imbued with an independent spirit, that when they happen to be troubled with a thoracic disorder, or any other disease, immediately leave their flocks to the care of the great Head of the Church, and hurry off to Europe to consult foreign physicians, and inhale a mouthful of foreign air.

But the real benefits of the present system of pirating English books, consist in the employment given to capital and labor. Our paper-mills, type-founders, printers, binders, and book-sellers, are kept in constant employment by the intellect of Great Britain. The brain of Walter Scott alone gave employment to a greater number of mechanics and tradesmen than that of any American since the revolution, with the exception of Fulton. It must be borne in mind that the imagination of a foreign author creates for us a source of employment, which but for him would not exist; beside furnishing for us a never-failing source of recreation and profitable enjoyment. Were it not for Scott and Bulwer, Boz and James, we should have no novels to read; were it not for Tom Moore, we should have no songs to sing; and but for foreign composers, we should have no music. Since the successful experiment of ocean navigation, we have become more and more independent of ourselves; and we now have the gratification of seeing London newspapers hawked about our streets, to the very manifest falling off in the manufacture of the home article. If we still remain true to ourselves, and resolutely shut our ears to the complaints of these interested and mercenary writers, both at home and abroad, the time will soon come when our people will be saved entirely from all literary drudgery, and even our newspapers be re-publications of London Times' and Chronicles, as some of our Magazines already are of London and Edinburgh and Dublin monthlies.

How absurd, how impudent, how mercenary and grovelling, it is in these British authors to require of us to pass a law that will deprive ourselves of such great advantages, merely to put a few dollars in their pockets, and encourage a set of men among us to supplant them, and so inculcate a spirit of base and servile self-dependence among our people! The great object of an author should be fame. No true genius will exert himself for filthy lucre.

It must be infinitely more grateful to a high nature to be read by thousands, than to be paid by hundreds; and therefore we benefit these foreigners in spite of themselves, by re-printing their works at a cheap rate, thereby greatly enlarging the circle of their readers, and adding to their reputation. It is very true that the British Parliament has passed a law giving to American authors the privilege of copyright as soon as a reciprocal law shall be passed by us; but are we to be dictated to by the British Parliament? Are we to be reminded of our duty by foreigners, who thus make a show of their magnanimity, only to entice us to follow their example? Shall we become mere copyists of another nation? Forbid it Justice! forbid it Independence!

If we concede to the foreign author a right of property in the productions of his brain, which after all is merely the distillation of other people's ideas expressed in some other way before him, or at best the promptings of Nature, which are the common property of mankind, like air and sun-shine, we shall next be called upon to recognize the inherent and indestructible right of an author to his works, for all time.

When a citizen purchases of government a quarter section of land in one of the territories, and pays for it at the rate of a dollar and a quarter the acre, it becomes his own property, and the whole nation would rise up like one man to defend him in the undisturbed possession of it to the end of time. But if this same citizen should devote the flower of his manhood, the vigor of his intellect, and even the land itself which he may have purchased of his country, in the production of a book for the benefit of humanity, he would have no right to the possession of his work but for a very limited number of years; and although he would be protected in the possession of his land, or the products of it, from foreign aggression, we would not allow him any protection in the enjoyment of the product of his brain, even though a foreign nation should civilly agree to respect our law for that purpose if we should think proper to pass one.

The reasons for these distinctions in regard to different kinds of property are so very clear and conclusive, so exceedingly simple and obvious, that we do not choose to insult the understanding of our readers by repeating them. Some of the advocates of an international copy-right have urged in its favor that a measure so just could not be otherwise than politic, and that it would be safe to adopt one, without any regard to expediency, but relying solely upon truth and justness. But such a principle as this is directly at variance with the genius of our constitution and laws; and were it adopted in one case would be urged as a precedent in another, and an entire overthrow of our system of government would be the consequence. Were so mischievous a principle as this once adopted by our legislators as their rule of action, what would become of those noble specimens of eloquence with which we are favored every session of Congress, when members who are perfectly agreed as to the justness of a measure, dispute for weeks and months in regard to its expediency or profit? What would become of our army and navy, and our corps of diplomatists? What would become of many of the peculiar institutions of the North and of the South? In short, how would our representatives contrive to lengthen out a session, or even make a speech for Bunkum, to be read by their constituents?

The subject widens as we write; absurdities throng around our quill, striving to get down to the nib of our pen; and the very fulness of the argument chokes our utterance; we grow fustigatory and impatient to lay about us; but we must conclude in the words with which an ingenious cotemporary a few months since began an essay upon the same subject, namely: 'Copy-right is a humbug.'

FULGURA FRANGO.

A VERITABLE SEA STORY.

——

BY HARRY FRANCO.

——

'The sea, the sea, the o—pen sea, the blue, the fresh;' but here we halt;
Mr. CORNWALL knew very little about the sea, or he would have written SALT.
'The whales they whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;'
Worse and worse; more blunders than words, and such a jumble!
Whales spout, but never whistle; dolphins' backs are silver; and porpoises never roll, but tumble.
'It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies,
And like a cradled creature lies,' and squalls,
He should have added; but to avoid brawls
With the poet's friends I'll quote no more; but entre nous,
Those who write correctly about the sea are exceeding few.
Young DANA with us, and MARRYAT over the water,*
Are all the writers that I know of, who appear to have brought a
Discerning eye to bear on that peculiar state of existence,
An ocean life, which looks so romantic at a distance.
To succeed where every body else fails, would be an uncommon glory,
While to fail would be no disgrace; so I am resolved to try my hand upon a sea-story.
In naming sea-authors, I omitted COOPER, CHAMIER, SUE, and many others,
Because they appear to have gone to sea without asking leave of their mothers:
For those good ladies never could have consented that their boys should dwell on
An element that Nature never fitted them to excel on.
Their descriptions are so fine, and their tars so exceedingly flowery,
They appear to have gathered their ideas from some naval spectacle at the 'Bowery;'
And in fact I have serious doubts whether either of them ever saw blue water,
Or ever had the felicity of saluting the 'gunner's daughter.'

[*I HAVE unintentionally omitted to name FALCONER, who deserves the highest honors among nautical writers.]

It was on board of the packet ——, from feelings deferential
To private griefs, I omit all facts that are non-essential:
To Havre we were bound, and passengers there were four of us,
Three men and a lady—not an individual more of us.
The month was July, the weather warm and hazy,
The sea smooth as glass, the winds asleep or lazy.
Dull times of course, for the sea, though favorable to the mind's expansion,
Yet keeps the body confined to a very few feet of stanchion.
Our employments were nought save eating, drinking and sleeping,
Excepting the lady, who a diary was keeping.
She was a very pleasant person though fat, and a long way past forty,
Which will of course prevent any body from thinking any thing naughty.
A very pleasant person, but such an enormous feeder,
That our captain began to fear she might prove a famine-breeder;
A sort of female Falstaff, fond of jokes and gay society,
Cards, claret, eau-de-vie, and a great hater of sobriety.
Her favorite game at cards she acknowledged was ecarté,
But like Mrs. Baule, she loved whist, and we soon made up a party.
We played from morn till night, and then from night till morning,
Although the captain, who was pious, continually gave us warning
That time so badly spent would lead to some disaster;
At which Madame G—— would laugh, and only deal the faster.
Breakfast was served at eight, and as soon as it was ended
Round flew the cards; and the game was not suspended
Until seven-bells struck, when we stopped a while for lunch,
To allow Madame time to imbibe her allowance of punch;
This done, at work we went, with heated blood and flushed faces,
Talking of kings, queens, knaves, tricks, clubs and aces.
At six bells (three P. M.,) we threw down our cards and went to dinner,
Where Madame never missed her appetite, whether she had been a loser or a winner;
Then up from the almonds and raisins, and down again to the queens and aces,
We had only to remove from one end of the table to the other to resume our places;
Another pause at six, P. M., for in spite of all our speeches,
Madame's partner would lay down his cards for the sake of pouchong and brandy peaches;
Being French and polite, of course, she only said 'Eh bien!' but no doubt thought him a lubber,
For a cup of washy tea to break in upon her rubber.
At four bells (ten P. M.,) up from the cards and down again at the table,
To drink champagne and eat cold chicken as long as we were able:
With very slight variations this was the daily life we led,
Breakfast, whist; lunch, whist; dinner, whist; supper, whist; and then to bed.
The sea, for aught we know, was like that which Coleridge's mariners sailed on;
We never looked at it, nor the sky, nor the stars; and our captain railed on,
But still we played, until one day there was a sudden dismemberment of our party:
We had dined on soup à la tortu, (made of pig's feet,) of which Madame ate uncommonly hearty;
And had just resumed our game; it was her cut, but she made no motion;
'Cut, Madame,' said I; 'Good Heavens!' exclaimed her partner, 'I've a notion
That she has cut for good; quick! help her! she's falling!'
And the next moment on the floor of the cabin she lay sprawling.
Poor Madame! It was in vain that we tried hartshorne, bathing and bleeding;
Her spirit took its flight, tired to death of her high feeding:
For spirits are best content with steady habits and spare diet,
And will remain much longer in a tabernacle where they can enjoy repose and quiet
Than in a body that is continually uneasy with stuffing,
And goes about like an overloaded porter, sweating and puffing.

The next morning at four-bells, the sun was just uprisen,
Glowing with very joy to leave his watery prison;
The bright cerulean waves with golden scales were crested,
Forming the fairest scene on which my eyes had ever rested;
The wind was s. s. w., and when they let go the main-top bowline
To square the after yards, our good ship stopped her rolling.
Madame lay on the quarter-deck sewed up in part of an old spanker,
And for this glorious sight of the ocean we had solely to thank her,
For to have kept her lying in the cabin would have caused some of us to feel qualmish,
And she could not have been kept on deck, as the weather was growing warmish;
Therefore it had been resolved in a kind of council, on the captain's motion,
At sunrise to commit the old lady to the ocean.
She was placed upon a plank, resting upon the taffrail, (the stern railing,)
One end of which was secured by a bight of the trysail brailing.
The captain read the prayers, somewhat curtailed, but a just proportion,
The plank was raised, 'Amen!' the corpse dropped into the ocean.
Down in its deep mysterious caves she sunk to sleep with fishes,
While a few bubbles rose from her and burst as if in mockery of human wishes.
'Up with your helm; brace round; haul out your bowlines;
Clear up the deck; keep her full; coil down your tow-lines!
The ship was on her course, and not a word said to remind us
Of the melancholy fact that we had left one of our number behind us.
'Shocking affair!' I remarked to Madame's partner, who looked solemn as a mummy,
'O! horrid!' said he; 'I shall now be compelled to play with a Dummy!'

PETER FUNK'S REVENGE.

——

BY HARRY FRANCO.

——

WALKING down Broadway a few mornings since, I discovered a man stationed opposite a store which had a small red flag hanging at the door, with a large muslin banner, impended from a tall staff, which he held, on which was inscribed this strange device: 'BEWARE OF MOCK AUCTIONS!' Upon inquiry, I learned that this was intended as a caution to Peter Funk, and a warning to strangers not to part with their money without getting its full value in return. Upon farther inquiry, I learned that this ingenious and benevolent enterprise had been suggested by His Honor the Mayor, who in many other ways has entitled himself to the gratitude of our citizens.

I had often heard of Peter Funk, but had never seen the gentleman, and having a curiosity that way, determined to make the acquaintance of so noted a person. I accordingly entered the store, and saw a person dressed in very good style, with a satin scarf and gold chain, standing behind a counter, with a small hammer in his hand. He was a young man, with an air of the most entire self-satisfaction, and nothing seemed to give him any uneasiness excepting the 'Beware!' on the side-walk, which not only kept bidders from entering the store, but caused a crowd of gaping idlers and ragged news-boys to collect around his door. He had watches, chains and other trinkets, which he seemed anxious to sell to the highest bidder, but nobody would bid.

In one of the pauses of his continuous and commingled exhortations to the crowd 'to walk in and secure a great bargain,' I asked him if he was a regularly-licensed auctioneer, and was told that he was, and that furthermore, he had always conducted his business in the most honorable manner, and could produce first-rate recommendations from his last employer. This might be true or it might not, but Mr. Funk impressed me with the idea that he was an ill-used gentleman. If Mr. Funk enjoyed any immunities to commit crime, like Mr. Nobody, and other personages who are often spoken of but never seen, it would be very just in our civic Aristides to warn the public against his malpractices. But Mr. Funk assured me that he was amenable to the laws, like any other merchant, and that he would n't grumble at paying the penalty of any crime of which he might be convicted; and he thought it a little peculiar, to say the least of it, that he should be selected out from among the fraternity of tradesmen, to be victimized. 'However,' said Mr. Funk, thrusting his hammer into his coat-pocket, 'walk into my back office, Mister, and if I don't make your hair stand on eend I'm a demijohn, and no mistake!'

This was making rather free with a stranger; but there was some thing in the gentleman's manner which interested me, and I followed him, through a small door in the partition, into his den, which was ornamented by an engraving of a lady in a satin gown, that, viewed at a certain distance, looked like a white horse rearing on his hind legs. There were two or three choice works of art beside, including a French snuff-box with a highly objectionable picture in the inside of the cover, indicative of Mr. Funk's taste in such matters. Having lighted a cigar and offered me one, which he assured me was a 'splendid regalia, and no mistake,' he seated himself in his arm-chair and unfolded the following stupendous plan for revenging his own wrongs, and at the same time doing a good turn to his fellow citizens.

'My legal adviser,' said Mr. Funk, 'tells me I can recover immense damages from the mayor, for injury to my business, by his bewaring strangers from my store; but,' continued Mr. Funk, as he knocked the ashes from the end of his cigar with his jewelled little finger, in a manner which Prince Albert might be proud of, 'I have thought of a plan which knocks that into all sorts of cocked hats. But wait a bit; there's a countryman.'

The countryman only put one foot into the store and immediately withdrew it; so Mr. Funk at once resumed his seat and his cigar, and went on:

'Here's my progammy,' said Mr. Funk; 'I am getting up some 'Bewares' myself, and a most immense sensation I'll produce with them, I assure you. First, I will have a large banner carried by a Kentucky giant opposite the City Hall, with this inscription in bloody red letters: 'BEWARE OF LAWYERS!'

'Opposite Trinity church, at the head of Wall-street, I will station another, to be carried by a lame individual, with this inscription in gilt letters: 'BEWARE OF FANCY STOCKS!' At the corner of Park-Place and Broadway I'll have a flashy gentleman carrying a black-and-white banner with this motto: 'BEWARE OF BLACKLEGS!' Then I'll have a flying regiment of boys with pink silk flags bearing this inscription: 'LADIES, BEWARE OF FRENCH MILLINERY AND FANCY GOODS!' and these shall run up and down Broadway every day between twelve and two, and whenever they see a carriage full of ladies, they shall keep flapping the flags in their faces.

'Another banner shall be stationed opposite the hotels and coffee-houses, with this inscription in blue capitals: 'BEWARE OF COCKTAILS AND BRANDY SMASHERS!'

'Opposite the publishers' shops I will have a young woman in a night-cap, holding a banner with these words in gamboge: 'TO READERS: BEWARE OF TRASH!' '

I confessed to Mr. Funk that I was struck with the novelty of his plan, and hoped he would not lay himself open to a prosecution for libel; and I cautioned him to be very careful not to insinuate anything against our 'free institutions.'

'Perhaps you mean the House of Detention?' said Mr. Funk, inquiringly. I then explained to him what I did mean, and to my great surprise found that his mind had been so much affected by the well-meant expedient of the civic authorities for driving customers away from his store, that he could not comprehend my meaning at all; and instead of expressing any reverence for our institutions, he pronounced an opinion which I should be very sorry to repeat, even at second hand. Mr. Funk then told me that he had given an order for no less than five hundred standards, to be emblazoned with these remarkable words, 'BEWARE OF HUMBUGS!' But my respect for authority and learning will not admit of my naming the places where these banners were to be displayed. The invention of Mr. Funk could only be equalled by his malignity. What could have been conceived more maliciously inappropriate, than to station a pumpkin-headed effigy, in a black coat, bearing one of these standards painted in harlequin letters, before the residence of Professor ——? Or to put a man of straw, with a similar standard painted in green capitals, before the office of Dr. ——?

'It was at least prudent in you, Mr. Funk,' I said, 'not to station any of your 'bewares' before the doors of our city presses: the gentlemen who conduct them, you are aware, cannot be abused with impunity.'

'Poh! poh!' replied this unprincipled person; 'see here.' And so saying, he unrolled a paper which lay before him, upon which was emblazoned in miniature a dozen or two of banners, to be paraded before the doors of some of our most highly-esteemed friends. My blood curdled at the sight, or at least it would have done so, if any thing could have caused such a phenomenon. Here was a banner for the 'Virtuous Vigil,' inscribed with these words: 'BEWARE OF VENALITY!' The 'Morning Glory' was honored with this wholly unmeaning affiche, 'BEWARE OF BLUSTERERS!' while the 'Evening Vesper' was destined to be signalized with this detestable insinuation: 'BEWARE OF SOFT CRABS!' than which nothing could be more vile, its conductors being universally known as two of the hardest customers about town. The 'Weekly Wonder' had this entirely unmeaning standard assigned to it, which was to be borne by a gentleman in a clean shirt, with an inflated bladder in one pocket and an empty bottle the other, the letters in deep blue: 'BEWARE OF FALSE WITNESSES!'

This was too bad. I could listen to Mr. Funk no longer, without losing my self-respect. I therefore rose and spoke to him as mildly as my feelings would allow, as follows:

'I perceive, Sir, that you richly merit the character which you bear in this community. I did believe that you were an injured individual, but the mayor knew you better than I did, when he sent a cohort of paupers into Broadway, with banners to 'beware' simple-minded people from your door. It will be a lesson to me in future to mistrust my own judgment when it comes in conflict with the decisions of those having authority. Let me say to you, beware! Beware how you cast suspicion against respectable citizens who are engaged in advancing their own interests; seek some honest employment, and when the authorities endeavor to undermine your business and drive customers from your shop, remember that they do it for the public good, and do not seek revenge by depriving honest men of their means of growing rich.'

Contrary to my expectation, this speech, instead of an apology only drew a laugh from Mr. Funk, who lighted another cigar, and exclaimed:

'Go it while you're young!'

'I have no disposition to be too harsh toward you,' I said, 'and therefore I will commend you for not uttering a 'beware' derogatory to the clergy, who are generally made a butt of by men like yourself.'

'Wait a bit,' said Mr. Funk, leaping from his chair. 'I suppose there can be no harm in quoting Scripture?'

'Of course not,' I said.

'Well, then, what do you think of this, for the Gothic churches?' and he unrolled a large black banner, inscribed with white letters:

'BEWARE OF WOLVES IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING!'

PLAYING ON ONE STRING.

MUSICAL critics affect a contempt for artists who court popular applause, in imitation of Paganini, by playing on one string. But all great men have been one-string performers; and it was by this method alone that the great maëstro gained his fame and fortune. In no other manner can the world be prevailed upon to shell-out its praises and pennies. The keen-eyed world is very justly suspicious of the prodigy who beats a drum with his elbows while his hands are engaged with a pair of cymbals, and his lips discoursing with a pandean pipe. Too many cooks are not more certain to spoil the broth than too many broths to spoil the cook. The admirable Crichton has had the reputation of being a many-stringed performer, but as he left no evidence of his greatness behind him, we have always suspected him of being little better than an admirable humbug. The world has yet to see the genius who excels in two things. The division of labor began in the beginning: Tubal Cain was a worker in brass, but his brother was a musician. They perceived in those early days that life was short, though it was something longer than at present, a few hundred years or so; and discovered the necessity of every man confining himself to one business. They saw that dates and figs never grew on the same tree, and wisely inferred that the human plant was intended to bear but one kind of fruit. One of the surest indications of a small genius is an aptness for every thing. Jacks-of-all-trades are proverbially good at none. People who are every thing in 'one revolving moon,' remain nothings all their lives.

There is a division of genius as of labor. The faits accompli of the moral world form a piece of mosaic, but the faits of which it is composed are jewels by themselves, not worthless bits of color which are only valuable when set. Unless a character will shine by itself it is not worth setting in the great mosaic work of history. There are no vari-colored jewels. The diamond, the ruby, the emerald, each has a hue of its own. But stones of lesser value are parti-colored. There are some seeming exceptions to this rule; Michel Angelo, Da Vinci, Goëthe, Sheridan and Scott. But these are only seeming exceptions; they were emphatically one-string performers. Leonardo Da Vinci came the nearest to a many-string player of any man in history. But in spite of his music and mathematics, the world knows him only as the painter of the Last Supper and of the Logos. Michel Angelo was nothing as an artist (do n't be alarmed!) in the sense in which Titian and Phidias were artists. He had tremendous thoughts, and he employed the plastic arts to give them expression, as Dante would have done if he had not been gifted with the greater faculty of language. A sentence of Dante or Milton will produce as stupendous an image as Saint Peters. They worked in words, but Michel worked in stone and plaster. The two capacities of expression have never yet been greatly held by the same individual. Moore said of Sheridan, 'He touched every string of the lyre and was master of all,' or something to that effect. But he was master of none, and only clever on one. It is not easy to say from which he drew the loudest sound. The mocking-bird can imitate the notes of all other fowls, but he has no music of his own; his genius lies in mimicry, not in music. The great Newton said there was no such thing as genius; labor did all. But he was careful to attempt nothing for which his genius did not qualify him. He discovered the centre of gravity with ease, but he might have labored his life-time without discovering the centre of wit, which his contemporary Swift did without labor. Those philosophers who believe in Newton's saying, should attempt to play like De Meyer or plead like Webster. Probably they will say they could if they should try; as the clown said he did n't know whether he could play on the violin as he had never tried.

There is no universality of genius; all men have an appointed use, and the great cause of distress in the world arises from men not being put to their proper employment. Social laws make mongrels of men. If every one had his appointed place, life would be like a 'roundelay that's sweetly played in tune.' Two of a trade would then always agree, and we should have one proverb less. Men exactly adapted to their employments are now so rare that when one is found he is reckoned a prodigy. It requires a bouleversement to produce a batch of heroes, because when society is shaken up men naturally fall into their right places. The three great revolutions brought out Cromwell, WASHINGTON and Napoleon. But for the shaking up in France, what a host of immortals would have remained in the obscurity of coopers' shops and cafés, and instead of having statues erected in their honor, would have been buried without the compliment of a head-stone! The chance of a man being born into the situation which he is best qualified to fill is one to a million. Genius sometimes breaks his shackles, but it is melancholy to think of the mute Miltons of whom we have never heard. Poverty is not the only bar to distinction; on the contrary, men of rank generally rise from the ranks. The poor are without restraint; they may rise if they can; but the rich have generally the dead weight of a pre-determined occupation tied to their heels. It is often a misfortune to be born in what are called fortunate circumstances. The road to ruin generally lies through the demesnes of a rich father. If there have been Giffords confined in a stall, there have also been cobblers cribbed in colleges. Many an inglorious wearer of a crown might have been respected as the wearer of an apron. Louis XVI. would have made an excellent pastry cook, and George the Fourth, instead of being despised as a king, might have won universal respect as a barber. President—but 't is too soon to talk of presidents. We are surprised at seeing a man do a variety of things, but we are not instructed. Versatility is but a synonyme for mediocrity. One art is enough for one life. By doing one thing with constancy and affection we inevitably do it well, provided it be the one thing which we most desire to do. Men are slaves who labor in an ungenial sphere, though they eat their own wages, but Plautus was a freeman when he wrote comedies, though his master took his hire. Authors are sometimes admonished, particularly in this country, where men are pretty certain to starve by authorship, to secure some certain means of subsistence before venturing in their 'dreadful trade.' But why authors should be advised in this way more than other men is not easily discovered. Those who embark in literature with such precautions, will be very certain of needing some other reward than their authorship will bring them. A physician who should think of securing an income by preaching, that he might the more safely practice in his profession, would be about as likely to meet with success as an author who should commence business as a jobber to enable him to compose a history or a poem. Let the jobber stick to his merchandise and the author to his books; they will both do better for being kept apart. The majority of mankind have healthy bodies and sound minds, and are supposed to be capable of any thing. They stay where they are put, and only aim to make themselves comfortable; if they are behind a counter it is well; if in the pulpit or at the bar, it is all the same. They die and make no sign, and leave the world as they found it. They are not performers on one string, nor indeed, performers at all. What do they perform? They are the people, not individuals. Sometimes half a dozen of them are swallowed up under one short name, as Brown and Co.; three or four of the same family are often deemed of so little consequence as individuals that they designate themselves simply Jones Brothers, or Smith and Sons; or collateral branches of the same family my be included under the firm of Cripps and Nephews. Then we encounter a string of them who wish to preserve their individuality and tie their names together after this fashion: Wilkins, Tomkins and Watkins. But what Wilkins? what Tomkins and Watkins? Nobody can tell. Again we meet with a near approach to an individual. Two men find it convenient to make a union of forces, but one of them wishes to preserve his identity, so he calls himself P. Q. Davis and Winkle. In a little time and even P. Q. Davis will be lost in the mass, and there will be nothing left of him but his virtues which will be heard of for the first time by the stone cutter.

Shakspeare was a player on one string; ah! and what a performer! Dryden, like Sheridan, touched every string of the lyre, and was hardly master of one. He wrote forty odd plays, not one of which is either acted or played at this day. The late Stuart Newton used to tell an amusing story about one of his pupils whose father had an ambition that he should become an artist. The boy had worked dismally enough for a week with his chalk, when the painter found him in tears; on being asked the cause of his grief, the victim of misdirected ambition replied, 'I do n't want to be a hartist; I wants to be a butcher!' Fortunately for this young hopeful he had fallen into merciful hands; and now, instead of being a miserable spoiler of canvass, he may be a happy retailer of joints in Clare market. He may be an alderman; an honor which no artist has ever attained to, though many butchers have; it being an universal rule in municipal affairs, that the lowest employments produce the best legislators and magistrates.

Men fritter away their lives with us in attempting to do every thing, and therefore we have produced fewer great men in proportion to our population than any other civilized people. The majority of our prominent politicians come from the slave states; they nearly monopolize the highest national offices, and that part of the country has become a nursery for statesmen, because it is there alone that they make a profession of politics. They have nothing else to do, or nothing that they choose to do; and at the North we become more familiar with the names of Southern representatives from their continual repetition in the newspapers, than we ever do with our own, who rarely go to Washington a second time. At the North men are elected representatives by accident; at the South it is different; there they play on one string and find their account in it. Nobody can afford to twang on one chord, or blow one note long, here. The lawyer is writing sermons, the divine is preaching politics, the merchant is delivering lectures, the artist has turned philosopher, the mechanic is talking about agriculture, the jobber speculating in real estate, and the farmer dabbling in stocks instead of improving his stock. Every body must become acquainted with every other body's business. This all happens from people engaging in business with their hands alone, as some people marry and then try for a divorce, and not with their hearts.

Hazlitt wrote an essay on the ignorance of the learned, which sounds paradoxical. But the learned always must be ignorant on subjects which they do not perfectly understand. It is the smatterer only who knows a little of every thing—is well instructed in nothing. Nobody need be ashamed of his ignorance; in truth, ignorance is highly creditable, provided always that one knows something thoroughly. But it is the prevailing fashion in society for every body to resemble a 'Conversations Lexicon,' one of those pestiferous inventions for promoting shallowness among mankind, and be always ready to go off like a revolving rifle.

Men who take their degrees at colleges are often reproached by your many-string performers with knowing nothing but book-learning, which is generally true enough; but then what they do know they know well, and so they contrive to gather a good many of the honors which the world bestows upon its favorites.

There seems to be a fear among us that something or other in the great plan of our economy will be neglected; and men are continually busying themselves about other people's affairs, to the manifest disadvantage of their own. But it is very certain that among our twenty millions there are people enough to attend to every department, and the true way to discharge one's public duty is to see that one thing is well done. The banker may confine himself to his desk in perfect security that the butcher and baker will furnish his food if they are only let alone; the artist may stick to his studio and the cobbler to his last without any fears for the future; the farmer and the tailor will see that there is no lack of food and raiment. The greatest famine ever known in France was when the National Convention undertook to supply the people with bread; and they have just abandoned the corn laws in England because they found that taking such especial care to supply the people with food had brought them to a state of starvation. Take no heed of what others are doing, but be sure to do something yourself; then you may grow like the lilies of the valley, and be as well cared for.

I knew a merchant a few years since who was in continual tribulation about public affairs, who used to spend a good many hours in writing essays, which he would sign 'Humanitas,' or 'Philo'-something, and send to a morning paper, which had the cruel courtesy to print them. Public affairs continued as usual, but his private affairs soon got into a dreadful condition, and he failed, and began to talk about his misfortunes. But his great misfortune was attempting to play on more than one string.

It is really refreshing to mix with very humble people who earn their living by practising one art exclusively; what they know they know so purely, and can communicate their knowledge so clearly. Crispin, who sticks to his last, is an admirable critic compared with some multifarious geniuses who stick at nothing. A statesman of some note, who has filled an important diplomatic office, in his outset in life kept a small school in a rural district in Pennsylvania, where he fell in love with a daughter of the village barber, and proposed to marry her. The girl's mother flared up at the proposal, and flatly refused her consent. Her friends thinking that the school master's occupation, which has never been held in very high esteem in the Key-stone State, was the cause of her opposition, remonstrated with her and said, 'Who knows but the schoolmaster will be a merchant one of these days?' 'Oh, it is n't that,' replied the worthy lady; 'I could get over his profession, but he is such a fool!' And a fool he was to her, and by continuing to be a fool he got to be an ambassador.

Macaulay says, that to become a great poet you must first become a little child; which is contrary to the popular opinion, it being thought requisite even for a very small poet to be a monster of erudition. But the critic is right; only he might have said, that to be great in any thing you must be a little child, single-minded and pure-hearted; or in other words, a performer on one string. Poets in the 'cotton trade and sugar line' are very doubtful hybrids; their credit is as bad on 'change as on Parnassus.

There are many striking instances on record of success achieved by one-string players of very feeble powers. We read not long since, in the obital corner of a newspaper, the account of a person's decease who was spoken of as 'an eminent and well-known theatrical wig maker.' There are few persons who could have looked for fame while making theatrical wigs. But here was a gentleman who, by constancy and 'strict attention to business,' had become 'eminent and well-known.' Perhaps he had made investments in stocks, and owned a crimson pew in some fashionable Gothic church. Arkwright, again, not finding his tonsorial duties to his mind, very properly left off making wigs and took to making machinery; and by sticking to that business, gained a fortune and a title, and a place among the immortals.

Perhaps the most remarkable instance of success crowning the efforts of a very humble pursuit was that of Boswell, who immortalized himself as a toady. He confined his whole soul to one string, and never forgot himself for the space of half a second. He stuck to his one string with a devotedness worthy—we were going to say of a better object—but it was well enough; by sticking to it he made it an object to him. Macaulay, who said so sensible a thing just now about poets, wrote an ill-natured review-article to prove him a fool for his pains. But Boswell knew perfectly well what he was doing, and he defended his foolishness with the eloquence of a man 'terribly in earnest,' as they say. Mr. Macaulay certainly forgot this passage in the Hebridean tour, when he wrote his searching review of Mr. Croker:

'My fellow traveller and I, (Johnson,) talked of going to Sweden,' says Boswell; 'and while we were settling our plan I expressed a pleasure in the prospect of seeing the king. Johnson said: 'I doubt, Sir, if he would speak to us.' (Mark the modesty of Ursus Major, who never thought of the king, because he was a king himself and not a toady.) Col. Macleod said: 'I am sure Mr. Boswell would speak to him.' (Of course he would; 't was his business.) 'Here let me add,' continues the immortal toady, 'a short defence of that propensity (toadying) in my disposition to which this gentleman alluded. It has procured me much happiness. I hope it does not deserve so hard a name as forwardness or impudence. If I know myself, it is nothing more than an eagerness to share the society of men distinguished either by their rank or their talents, and a diligence to attain what I desire. If a man is praised for seeking knowledge, though mountains and seas are in his way, may he not be pardoned whose ardor in the pursuit of the same object leads him to encounter difficulties as great?' Of course he may be pardoned and praised too. This passage lets a flood of light upon the mysterious meanness of Boswell's character. He was a toady upon heroic principles. He played on his one string with a prophetic eye to the renown of his performance.

'Act well your part' is superfluous advice; you will be sure to act your part well if it is your part. All the danger lies in attempting to act a part which belongs to another.

HARRY FRANCO.

Asmodeus; or, the Iniquities of New York.

PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.

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A work entitled "Asmodeus, or Legends of New York," having made its appearance a few weeks since, which caused no small excitement in our quiet city, and the author of that work having promised a sequel—which to this time has not appeared—therefore the present publishers having been offered the MS. of this work, thought from the character of the same, it would in one sense carry out the original design of the author of "Asmodeus." It will not be necessary for the publishers to make a comparison between the two, as it regards literary points of view—all we have to say is that the "Iniquities of New York" is written by an author of acknowledged talent. In regard to the merits of the work as a true vehicle of the "Iniquities" of our great city, the reader has only to read this work and he will see that the author of "Asmodeus," or "Mysteries and Miseries of New York" knew but little of what he professed to write a great deal about.

PREFACE.

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This work is no creation of the fancy—though in the form of fiction, its scenes, variations and plots are all drawn from real life, and are depicted in colors of truth.

If the reader should deem any of the disclosures improper or indelicate, let him remember that it is impossible to reveal the condition of the unfortunate women of a great city like New York, without the use of language and the exhibition of scenes that, employed for any other purpose, might be liable to censure. Besides it is to be observed that the boldest language in the book is drawn from the celebrated report of the Magdalen Society, and that it is here given to aid in the great purpose of this work—that is, the alleviation of the miseries, the wants and the woes of the unfortunate. Who will not at once, after reading this work, come out and assist us in putting down the thousand ways whereby houses of ill-fame are kept supplied with "fresh hands?" We say, who will not? It will doubtless be those who own and rent the "dens of infamy," those who in their every day life are considered good, moral, upright men, their pockets always open—i. e. when any influential reporter is present that it may be heralded forth to the world.

INIQUITIES OF NEW YORK.

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CHAPTER I.

THE MAGDALENS OF NEW YORK.

TO portray the condition of society in New York, requires a free and fearless pen. The woes and wailings, the iniquities and infamy of women, form the theme of this chapter, and to hold them up before the eyes of the public, demands an exposition that, though it may shock the sensitive, will nevertheless command the attention and approval of the wise and good.

The wrongs and degradation of woman betrayed and lost—this is the argument of our song! Woman, with all thy beauty and tenderness and love—when fallen from the heaven in which thou wast ordained to move—how like the spirits of evil dost thou become! Lucifer, hurled from his seat at the right hand of Jehovah to the bottomless deep of the damned, and with maddened hate wreaking out his wrath against all that is good, is a type of woman fallen from the heavenly throne of virtue to the deep abyss of that shameless and most dreadful of all the traffics of sin.

The fifteen or twenty thousand of unfortunates of the City of New York—women lost to virtue and forsaken by friends—who can depict their lamentable condition in colors of truth, without opening a sealed book of mystery, misery and wo?

We must not approach this subject with any feeling of mawkish delicacy—truth, the most alarming and sorrowful must be told without fear of uttering what a squeamish fastidiousness might deem indelicate, or of making exposures that may shock the nerves of the sensitive.

We shall not enter alone on this dangerous volcano, belching forth its eruptions over the bright fields of innocence and youth and beauty, and making desolate the homes and hearts of unnumbered sufferers.

To this great task we shall summon the aid and counsel of the wise and good, and accordingly open with the celebrated, the rare, and now suppressed

REPORT OF ARTHUR TAPPAN,

ON THE MAGDALENS OF NEW YORK.

This report was made eighteen years ago, and depicts a most depraved and horrible state of society.

It estimates the number of women in this city, that make prostitution their trade, at Ten Thousand. By the natural laws of the increase of vice, which more than keeps pace with the augmentation of the population, this amount, which was then deemed too small, must now be swelled to the frightful number of TWENTY THOUSAND WOMEN in the City of New York who drive that most dreadful of all trades—the traffic of their virtue for gold!

The following statement is authentic. It was made by men distinguished for their piety, and learning, and who made a thorough investigation the basis of their report. It is the

"First Annual Report of the Executive Committee of the New York Magdalen Society. Instituted January 1st, 1830."

Of this Society, the distinguished philanthropist, Arthur Tappan, was President. Its members were composed of the pious and good, both men and women. Its object was to save the rising generation from ruin, and to rescue the victims of man's pleasure from their degradation.

For this purpose they had established a "Probationary House," which was an

"Asylum for Females who have deviated from the path of virtue, and who are desirous of being restored to good habits."

But let us turn to the report, which exhibits the condition and miseries of this class of unfortunates with a freedom and boldness that we should not venture to employ.

After giving a brief outline of the history of their institution, the report proceeds to speak thus boldly of the main subject:

"The extent of prostitution in this city, as shown by facts already developed during our labors, and the alarming increase of the unhappy victims of seduction among us, of which we have attained the most demonstrative evidence, so far exceed all our own previous calculations, that we are prepared to anticipate skepticism and incredulity in others. Indeed, enough is in our possession to cause a thrill of horror to be felt by every virtuous man and woman in the community, such as was never produced by any expose of vice which has ever met the public eye. Did not prudence and delicacy forbid the disgusting detail of what has been brought to our knowledge thus early in the history of this Society, every parent would tremble for the safety of his sons as well as his daughters, and we could a tale disclose which would cause the blood to 'chill within the veins, and each particular hair to stand erect, like quills upon the fretted porcupine.' But we shall forbear, and only set forth those general facts which plead for the necessity of extensive and efficient efforts, in behalf of those unhappy females, for whose reformation and salvation the New York Magdalen Society is engaged.

"First, then, we would present the fact, that we have satisfactorily ascertained that the number of females in this city, who abandon themselves to prostitution, is not less than TEN THOUSAND!! The data on which this estimate is founded are, first, the opinion of the Alderman, whose experience and observation for several years past, as Commissioner at Bellevue, enabled him to judge very accurately, and from whom we learned in the commencement of our labors, what we then thought improbable, that there were 'ten thousand harlots in this city.' But although we then judged that the number was overrated, we are driven to the painful admission, that his estimate was just, from our own observation in the partial census we have attempted.

"We have the names, street, and number of the houses of ill-fame in this city, notoriously inhabited by abandoned women; and also the houses of assignation, where daily and nightly the pollution of girls and women of all ages and colors, married and single, is habitually committed. Many of these sinks of iniquity are in respectable neighborhoods, disguised under the mask of boarding houses, dressmakers, milliners, stores and shops of various kinds. Some of them are large and elegant houses, provided with costly furniture, and have brass and silver plates on the doors, on which are engraved the real or fictitious names of the occupants.

"These haunts of iniquity have been discovered partly by the aid of the police officers, partly by the girls and women who have been rescued from pollution by the Asylum, and partly by the vigilance of persons, male and female, employed by the Society. By these means we have arrived at very many of the secrets of these nests of abomination, the number of lewd women who reside or resort to each, the arts and intrigues by which the victims of seduction are procured, as well as the names of scores of the men and boys who are the seducers of the innocent, or the companions of the polluted. Hence our opportunity of judging of the extent of prostitution in the city, is now by no means limited, and we are satisfied we do not exaggerate when we repeat, that there are now ten thousand girls and women, in the City of New-York, who live by public and promiscuous prostitution. Besides these, we have the clearest evidence that there are hundreds of private harlots and kept misses, many of whom keep up a show of industry as domestics, nurses, &c., in the most respectable families, and throng the houses of assignation every night. Although we have no means of ascertaining the number of these, yet enough has been learned from the facts already developed to convince us that the aggregate of these is alarmingly great, perhaps little behind the proportion of the City of London, whose police reports assert, on the authority of accurate researches, that the number of private prostitutes in that city is fully equal to the number of public harlots. This is a most appalling picture of moral degradation, and we forbear to dwell upon so painful and mortifying conclusions as those to which this view of the subject would impel us. We cannot forget, however, that the Rev. Mr. Stafford, formerly employed as a missionary among the depraved population of our city, published his conviction, after careful investigation of this subject, that there were fifteen thousand abandoned females in this city, and our population, permanent and transient, was then one-third less than it is now.

"As, however, we would not add one shade to the dark picture of our city's pollution, we shall assume it as a fact, that there are ten thousand only of these lewd women in New York, and we do so because we had rather underrate the aggregate than augment it. Among these there are girls of fourteen, thirteen, and even twelve years of age in incredible numbers, such as the House of Refuge has rescued, although that spacious institution would not hold all such, could they be sent there. Some of these, it is revolting to human nature to relate, are devoted to prostitution thus early in life by their own mothers, either in their own houses kept as brothels, or placed, by these unnatural monsters in female form, in the houses kept by others.

"Besides these, many of them are the daughters of the wealthy, respectable and pious citizens of our own and other States, seduced from their homes by the villains who infest the community, preying upon female innocence, and succeeding in their diabolical purpose, either by promises of marriage; or, after deceiving them into a brothel, by the commission of rape; often first depriving the victims of their lust, of their reason, by stupefying drugs kept in these dens of iniquity for the purpose. Individual cases of each of these descriptions are known to the Society, in which the unhappy girl has been kept imprisoned for weeks, until all hope of escape from infamy was lost, and she at last gave herself up to intemperance and crime.

"Among these are very many daughters of poor parents, and especially widowed mothers, whose necessities compelled them to seek employment as domestics. For such, especially the young and inexperienced, the keepers of these brothels are eagerly seeking in the character of procuresses, and soon after hiring them as servants, they are sent into a room with some man, or rather monster in human shape, and compelled to submit to his vile purpose, for which the procuress is liberally paid. The poor girl now finds herself ruined, and is presently seduced to consent to a life of infamy, by the promise of plenty of money, fine clothes, &c., and all is lost. Numbers of these cases have already come under our observation, in which women were thus the active agents in effecting the ruin of the young and unwary of their own sex; and then the children die from neglect or cruelly, or are perhaps sent to the Alms House, while the mothers give themselves up to guilt and infamy.

"But we will not affect to conceal that hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, are the daughters of the ignorant, depraved and vicious part of our population, trained up without culture of any kind, amid the contagion of evil example, and enter upon a life of prostitution for the gratification of their unbridled passions, and become harlots altogether by choice. These have a short career, generally dying of the effects of intemperance and pollution soon after entering upon this road to ruin.

"Without attempting to protract these loathsome details, or offering comment which we deem unnecessary, we would here present the result of our observation, in reference to the effects of this course of life upon the wretched females themselves. Soon after they begin their vicious indulgence; in a drunken frolic, at the dance house, or in the street, they become involved in riotous conduct, are arrested and sent to the watch house, whence they are committed to the Penitentiary for sixty days. This penance is most generally unproductive, for on their discharge they are eagerly sought for by the former companions of their guilt, and return to their crimes. Soon they are overtaken by that disease, the judicial visitation of heaven for the sin of uncleanness, and are presently found in the Alms House Hospital, where for weeks together the deaths among them are said to average one every day. Indeed, it is evident in this city, as elsewhere long since shown, that among those who commence a life of prostitution early, from three to five years is the average period of their existence, for intemperance and pollution rapidly hurry them into the grave, a signal proof of the declaration, that 'the wicked shall not outlive half their days.'

"Now in the view of these melancholy truths, as painful to relate as they are to hear, and presenting a portrait of moral death, amid the blaze of Gospel light with which our city is favored; is there not enough to awaken compassion and zeal in the heart of every individual who fears God and loves his neighbor? compassion to snatch the wretched victims of vice from the sorrows they are preparing for themselves? and zeal, to step as it were, between the living and the dead, to stay the plague which assails the very vitals of society?

"It is scarcely necessary to declare, so well known is the fact, that in this vast city, multitudes of young creatures are continually deluded, inveigled, enticed or surprised into the path of ruin by means of the vilest artifices, of whom it may be truly said, in the language of Dr. Johnson, that their wretched condition is 'as much their misfortune as their fault.' It is a lamentable fact that men are the original cause of the evil complained of; yet it is but too true that women take their revenge a hundred fold. Seductions of females among us are often attended with peculiar aggravations, and the abandoned of both sexes reciprocally the tempters of the virtuous. But it is clearly ascertained that bad women multiply the seduction of heedless youth more rapidly than bad men seduce modest women. A few of these courtesans suffice to corrupt whole cities, and there can be no doubt that some insinuating prostitutes have initiated more young men into these destructive ways, than the most abandoned rakes have debauched virgins during their whole lives.

"We have ascertained that the mischiefs of this enormous evil are greatly aggravated by the persons who keep the brothels and houses of assignation in this city, many of whom live by the prostitution of others under their roof, accumulate large property as the wages of their iniquity, and yet boast of their own personal integrity and place their children out of the reach, as they think, of this pestiferous example.

The price of boarding, paid by the abandoned women in this city to those who accommodate them, varies from three to fifteen dollars a Week, according to the style of their accommodations, but is generally five or six dollars per week for white women.

"The following is an attempt at estimating the probable expense, or aggregate amount of the annual cost of the 10,000 harlots in this city:

For | boarding | 1st | class, | suppose | 250, at | $15 | per | week, | $ 3,750
" | " | 2d | " | " | 750, at | 10 | " | " | 7,500
" | " | 3d | " | " | 2,000, at | 7 | " | " | 14,000
" | " | 4th | " | " | 2,000, at | 3 | " | " | 6,000
| ————
Expense of boarding paid by the whole per week, | $31,250

"Which multiplied by the number of weeks in the year make the annual amount of nearly three millions of dollars!! being paid for the boarding alone of the unhappy daughters of infamy in a single year.

"Now if we add to this the probable expense of clothes, theatre tickets, coach hire, wines, and spirituous liquors, and other expenses incidental to their mode of life, which as we learn from the best evidence far exceeds the amount paid weekly for board, We think it a moderate estimate, when we express our conviction that six millions of dollars is annually expended in this city by prostitutes, all of which besides what many of them accumulate in the banks and other property, is paid to them by the guilty companions of their iniquity.

"What an awful waste of property, apart from any higher consideration, and what proportion of this immense annual amount is honestly acquired by those who thus expend it, who can say? or rather what proportion is robbed from parents, masters, and guardians by the young men, clerks, apprentices, &c. who infest these sinks of abomination, who can estimate? More than half is doubtless paid them by silly and inexperienced youth who have no means of supporting their extravagance, but by embezzling or stealing the property of others, and who are made the easy dupes of the arts of these infatuating furies, whose syren song lulls conscience to sleep, and thus prepares for any and every crime.

"We have ascertained from various sources that each female of this class is visited on the average by three men or boys daily, and that each of these spend at least fifty cents for liquors, porter, &c. besides the sum paid to the companions of their guilt, and the infamous myrmidons who procure and keep them. This will show that of the ten million times these women are visited by men for the purposes of prostitution in the course of a year, five millions of dollars are expended in addition to the items included in the above estimate.

"From the reformed women in the several Asylums, it is ascertained that it is no uncommon thing for them to receive from ten to twenty dollars of a night, and frequently from Saturday night to Monday morning they will receive fifteen to twenty-five men, and obtain as their reward from thirty to fifty dollars. These items will go far to sustain the justness of our former calculations, and are intended to afford some idea of the stupendous expenses of this one single vice, the cause of so much pauperism and crime; filling our alms-houses, hospitals, prisons and penitentiaries, and destroying our race.

"But what is all this waste of wealth compared with the ruin of the generation of young men, and the destruction of female purity? It is insignificant when compared to the overthrow of the peace of families, the premature dissolution of broken hearted parents, the wretchedness and disgrace of community. But all this is as the dust in the balance, when weighed beside the loss of hundreds of thousands of immortal souls. All else is worse than worthless when viewed in the light of the eternal world, for 'her house is the way to death, and her path lays hold on hell.'

"In a former part of this report we have hinted at the cruelty with which very many of these guilty and unfortunate girls are treated by those in whose houses they are kept in a state worse than Algerine slavery. In many of the houses some broken down rake is kept by the women who board the girls, in the double capacity of pimp and bully, or house dog. When any benevolent person visits the house for the purpose of persuading the females to leave their sinful courses, this vagabond interferes and either compels the visitor to leave the house, or forcibly conveys the girls into another apartment. If a girl shows a desire to reform, drugs are given her in her drink to stupefy her senses, and she is often cruelly beaten by this monster in the form of a man.

"Another means practiced by these wretches who keep many of these houses of ill-fame, to retain the girls whose ruin their arts have accomplished, is to own the clothes they wear, and when one wishes to go, she has no clothes; and even when they have clothes of their own, their mistresses will often forcibly detain them under the pretext of debt, numerous instances of which have come to our knowledge. When, as is often the case, the clothes worn by the girls belong to the keeper of the house, the wages of their iniquity is also withheld from them, they receiving only their board, and the liquor which is freely given to make them contented with their cruel bondage.

"Many of these houses are provided throughout with hired furniture, and often of an elegant kind. We have the names and residence of men in this city who follow this low business, hiring out furniture by the week at extravagant prices to such houses.

"Another fact as sustained by abundant proof in our possession, and one in which every class of the community is interested is, that there are hundreds if not thousands of female domestics in this city, who serve in respectable families, who visit the houses of assignation at convenient intervals, sometimes nightly, and by returning in tolerable season, escape detection by a lie in their mouths, and mingle with the daughters, in the families where they live, passing for virtuous women. One of these who has forsaken her evil ways, states that she met one man every Tuesday night, and another every Friday night, for months together without missing a single night, and without ever incurring suspicion.

"It would be impossible however to compress within any reasonable limits the multiplied mischiefs, and disgusting details of this single iniquity as known to us, by reason of our brief connection with the Magdalen Society. Enough we think has been presented to awaken the feelings of every parent in this community.

"Out of a number of interesting cases, we select the following, suppressing the real names for obvious reasons:

"A—— B——, æt 21, daughter of respectable and pious parents in a neighboring city, at a very early age was seduced from her home under the promise of marriage by a young man who took her by sea to a southern port, where he kept her for a time and then left her in a brothel in a strange city. She now gave herself up to a life of prostitution, and went from one city to another until she came to New York, where she has been the last two years. Her drunkenness and crime have taken her more than once to the penitentiary, and she had well nigh ruined her health. Last winter she was turned out of the brothel in which she lived in consequence of a quarrel with the woman who occupied it, and with whom she boarded. She had been sick for some weeks, disabled from pursuing her guilty means of livelihood, her clothes had found their way to the pawn-brokers, or been exchanged for ardent spirits, and at midnight she was turned into the street without any other garment than a ragged calico frock, filthy beyond description, without bonnet or shoes, in one of the coldest nights of the last winter. She wandered through the street, drunk from the excesses of the previous night, and was found in the morning about day light, standing in an alley near the 'Five Points' and brought, shivering with cold, to the Probationary House. Her face and limbs were bloated by intemperance, and the effects of the frost seemed to have stupefied her reason, and well nigh destroyed her life. By the most careful nursing and medical attention she was restored, in a few days, to tolerable health, but the effects of the frost on her feet continued for months. From the first she exhibited the liveliest gratitude for her deliverance, and manifested a disposition to render cheerful obedience to all the rules of the house. Soon she became interested in the religious services of the house, and was taken to the Asylum, and shortly after gave satisfactory evidence of a change of heart. Ever since she has adorned her profession, and formed habits of cleanliness and industry."

——

Here is a picture of the life and condition of the lost and unfortunate women of New York. It exhibits a degree of degradation, of misery and of wo unspeakable.

This report, made nearly eighteen years ago, even then in the opinion of the best informed, underrated the number of these unfortunate women. Since that period the population of the city and its suburbs has nearly doubled itself; and as vice outstrips population, we may reasonably infer that full Twenty Thousand Prostitutes, both public and private, are now plying their lamentable trade in the city of New York.

————

CHAPTER II.

THE MODEL ARTISTE.

LOITER with me, reader, some afternoon on the Battery. There you will behold many beautiful, but frail women.

It was in the month of May, just before the sun was sinking to his golden bed. I was seated with a companion on the Battery, near the entrance to Castle Garden.

Soon there passed a lady of beautiful form and most lovely countenance, yet seemingly saddened by some secret sorrow. Her slender form and damask cheek told too plainly that the blossoms of her life were withering, and that she was in the incipient stages of consumption. But this disease, though it had dimmed the healthful and lively expression of her features, yet had rendered them even more lovely and interesting to behold.

My companion spoke, and asked: "Can you tell who that girl is?"

"No; I never saw her before," replied I.

"I can tell you who she is—she is a model artiste. Sit still a moment, and I will speak to her."

My companion was gone for a moment, and, after having spoken with the lady, returned.

"There is something very interesting in the history of that girl," said he, resuming his seat by my side.

"I should like to hear it, and would like to know, too, what effect her taking the part of a model artiste has had upon her morals. Has she fallen? or what is her character?"

"She has fallen, but it was not the exhibition of herself as a model artiste that ruined her."

"The wily arts of some seducer, I suppose?"

"It was not the wily arts of any seducer."

"Her own wanton disposition, then, led her astray?"

"No, it was not that, either."

"How, then, did she fall from the high estate of virtue?"

"Well, I am going to see her this evening, and you may, if you please, go along, and perhaps she may tell the story of her wrongs from her own lips."

"I should like to go, and, if possible, draw from her the facts of her own history."

——

Evening came, and we set out to call on the model artiste. We found her in a small house in Twelfth-streel, boarding with a widow lady.

As we entered, she was introduced to me as Miss Jane Morrison. She had a small room on the second floor, plainly, but comfortably furnished.

We found her reading the Bible, and her eyes somewhat swollen and red, as though she had just recovered from a fit of tears. Her countenance was intelligent, and rendered more lovely by a tinge of melancholy sadness, that was rendered more apparent by the cheerful smile she strove to wear.

"You have not come to arrest me, I hope?" were the first words she spoke.

"Surely not," said my companion; "you would not deem me so base as thus to betray you."

"No, I hope not. With all my sin, I have never yet been to prison. That would crush me at once. All I desire is to be permitted to live and die in peace."

"Fear nothing from us," I said; "we are your friends, and have come to see if we can do you any good."

These remarks seemed to compose her mind; and after some further conversation, we at last succeeded in inducing her to reveal to us the history of her life.

She was born, she said, in Orange county, New York, and at the age of twelve, lost her mother. Within a year or two afterward she came under the care of a step-mother. The result was what might be anticipated. She was aggrieved, or fancied herself aggrieved, and left her home at the age of seventeen.

She came to the City of New York, and resided for some time with a female cousin who was married to a man in moderate circumstances. Here she acquired the art and mystery of dress-making, and was accustomed to "work out in families," by which means she obtained a respectable living.

"My ruin," she said, "was wrought by a man of high standing in society. He resides within sight of Union Square, and he was then, and still is, a member of Calvary Church."

We pressed her to reveal his name, but she refused.

"Nothing would induce me to disclose his name. O, I have loved that man!" said she, wringing her hands in grief. "He is married, and I would not expose him for the world."

"How did you form your acquaintance with this man?" I inquired.

"It was at the model artistes," she answered, blushingly.

"How happened it that you joined the company?"

"My health had failed me, and the physicians told me I must abandon the needle or die. By the advice of some friends, I went to a water-cure establishment, and remained until I had spent all my money. I had not sufficiently recovered to be able to resume my occupation with the needle; and being without money and a home, I went to my cousin's, and remained for a short time. While there, I perceived that I was not welcome—and indeed they had not the means to accommodate me. Still, in order to help all I could, I did what sewing I was able, which was fast bringing back my malady—a pain in the side—in an aggravated form. What could I then do?"

"Why did you not apply to your friends for assistance?"

"I had depended on my cousin until she was almost ready to turn me out of doors!"

"Had you not other friends who would have extended to you some aid?"

"The poor, you know, have no friends. There were some ladies for whom I had worked that had been friendly to me, and I applied to them, but without success, except in one instance, and that was the wife of Mr. P——, the one of whom I have spoken as the cause of my fall. But I should not say he was the cause."

"Who, then, was the cause?"

"It was want—it was my dependent, desolate, suffering condition that was the cause of my departure from the path of right. Some assistance I received from Mrs. P——, but I could not long depend on her. One day, when strolling through the streets, scarcely knowing whither I was going, and absorbed in thinking over my destitute, and, as it seemed to me, hopeless condition, I met a young lady, an acquaintance of mine, dressed in silk, with a gay hat and an elegant shawl, and seeming to be very happy.

" 'Why do you look so sad?' said she.

" 'I cannot help it,' replied I.

" 'I know what is the matter,' said she, 'you are killing yourself with the needle; and because you are unable to work, you are suffering with want. Cheer up, I'll tell you how you can get some money.'

" 'I should like to get some money, but I would not do anything out of the way,' said I, suspecting that Emma (for that was her name,) had dressed herself in that style by means of the wages of sin.

" 'I can tell you, Jane, how you can do it in a respectable way. You do not think I would throw myself away for money, do you?'

" 'O, no, I do not think you would; but I do not know how I could earn anything and be respectable.'

" 'Do it as I do.'

" 'How is that?'

" 'By the model artistes.'

" 'Do you think that I would exhibit myself in that manner before an audience of men?'

" 'To be sure you would. There is no harm in it. Some of the most respectable ladies in the city are in our company. I once felt as you do, but I have got over it now. Come along with me; our manager wants to engage just such a person as you. You have a beautiful form, you will take well, and can get a high salary. Come along; let us go to Taylor's and get some oysters, and then go with me to Pinteux's to the rehearsal. Come along.'

"With these words, and especially the invitation to take some oysters, I was induced to accompany her to Taylor's saloon, and from thence to Pinteux's.

"At Pinteux's I witnessed the rehearsal, at which I experienced a shock to my feelings; yet, being on the brink of starvation, I yielded to the entreaties of my companion and to the solicitations of the manager, and made an engagement at fifteen dollars per week, with a promise of an increase to twenty dollars. Perhaps I should not even then have accepted this offer, had not the manager, perceiving my destitute condition, presented me with five dollars in advance.

"I now left with Emma, and took board at the same house with her. On the following day, I attended with her again, to take part myself, for the first time, in the rehearsal.

"My feelings soon became inured to the exhibition, and I was able to go through my part in a manner that gave satisfaction. But the only gratifying circumstance connected with the engagement, was the income it afforded, which gave to me a comfortable support and an honorable independence.

"But on a sudden this bright vision passed away. From the height of my prosperity, I was plunged at once into the deepest abyss of misery.

"You perhaps may remember that Sunday night when the police made a descent on the Pinteux company. I was then hurried off, shivering in the cold, to prison.

"O! the horror—the indescribable anguish of that dreadful night! I can never recall its scenes without shuddering! I was frantic. I was in prison, and for what? Not for theft or murder. That I could have endured, for they dethrone not woman's virtue.

"But I was imprisoned, degraded for indecency, for a crime of all others the most humiliating and painful to woman. I was in despair, too, at the loss of my living and of all my hopes.

"In this desperate and distressing situation, a hand of kindness was extended to me. Was it not natural that I should seize on it?"

"Did some friend, then, come to your aid?" asked I.

"While drowned in tears and absorbed in anguish at the prospect before me, a gentleman appeared and spoke gently to me. I looked up and beheld Mr. P——, the husband of the lady for whom I had formerly worked, and who had befriended me when I was in want.

"In the morning, Mr. P—— came again, and procuring my discharge, took me under his charge. My living was gone, and he supported me. I could not starve, and consequently I yielded, and—was—lost—lost for ever!" And uttering these words, she burst into a violent paroxysm of tears.

From the friend that accompanied me, I learned that this girl had, after a short time, been abandoned by the pious gentleman who had taken her under his Christian protection, and had been compelled to make another engagement in the company of model artistes, at Pinteux's.

My friend informed me that she was the chief attraction of the company. Her form was one of perfect symmetry, and faultless proportions, and the Grecian outline of her features were cast in an expression of angelic mildness and love. Added to this, her graceful and natural attitudes made her one of the most beautiful sights to behold. She was the favorite of the company, and was always received with loud applause.

Those who witnessed her personation of the Greek Slave, have avowed that her figure and her graceful ease surpassed that of the creation of the genius of Powers. Also, her representation of Venus coming from the bath, and other characters, were distinguished by the modesty and grace of her demeanor and attitudes, which, together with the beauty of her form and features, rendered the exhibition one that might enrapture the artist and pure minded lover of nature.

Nevertheless, such exhibitions are notoriously of an immoral tendency, and cannot be too strongly condemned.

This poor girl, after having been thus abandoned, again sought employment, and appeared at Pinteux's, Palmo's, and at the Temple of the Muses, until these exhibitions were broken up by the authorities, when she soon became reduced to the destitute condition in which we found her in the house in Twelfth-street.

At the time we visited her, she had become indebted for board and was penniless. To add to her misery, she was now fast fading away before the burning influence of a quick consumption.

After having afforded her the means of temporary relief, we departed, promising to call again.

——

A week or two afterward, with my friend, I visited for the last time this poor, unfortunate girl.

She was now fast sinking into the grave. Her cheeks were flushed with the hectic hue of death, and formed a beautiful contrast with the pale wanness of her interesting countenance, whose expression seemed to grow more lovely as she approached the confines of another world.

We found her sitting in an arm-chair, and, as on the former occasion, with the Bible in her hands, endeavoring to draw from that sacred book the consolations there held out to the forlorn and the forsaken.

Pearly tear-drops trickled down her sunken cheeks, as she greeted us with a pleasant smile that seemed like a gleam of sunlight breaking through the misty rain-drops of a gentle shower.

Poor girl! Doomed early in life to trials too severe for her tender years, she had fallen into the deep abyss of wo, and at a time when she had once hoped to enter on all the duties and enjoyments of which the young heart is susceptible, without reputation, without friends, without home, she was sinking silently to the dust, unloved, unwept, and unremembered. Often she recalled the fond caresses and the tender love of her mother. Now, in her last dying moments, that mother was gone, never more to return! O! were she now present, with what an aching heart and tearful eyes would she press this forlorn child to her bosom, and watch over her until the last flickering light of life had died out! A father she had, but no father's care was now extended over her. Brothers she had, but they were not with her. Her sister, too, whom, to have seen in her own condition, would have broken her heart—she, too, was away and unknowing of her fate. Unpitied and alone, with no sympathizing companions save her own unstayed tears, she was leaving the busy crowds of the world, to enter on the untried and unknown future. Her hopes, once high as heaven, were now sunk in the deepest abyss of despair! Her heart, formed for all the affections and endearments of life, was now just as its capabilities were developed, was about to cease to beat for ever!

Alas! how inscrutable are the ways of Providence! How often are the guileless led into sin! How often the beautiful and the good doomed to the pangs of misery and the melancholy fate of an early grave!

But let us not murmur! Rather bow with submission to the decrees of an All-Wise Providence.

——

After a few moments conversation with Miss Morrison, relative to her health and condition, she became calm, for she had at first been much affected on our entering the room.

I having referred to her situation, she replied:

"I know I must soon die! The green fields and the warbling brooks that I loved when a child, I shall never see again. Home, father, brother and sister, I have seen them for the last time, and now I am to die alone and among strangers." With these words, she fell to violent weeping.

Again she became calm, and requested an account of her conduct to be sent to her father, with the reasons that induced her to join the company of the model artistes.

"I wish," said she, "my father to know the true reasons that induced me to join the company."

"Does he already know that you have been a member of the company?" inquired I.

"Yes, he has heard, and not knowing the cause of it, was very angry with me; and that is the reason I could not return to my home when this last illness came upon me."

"But did you not explain the circumstances?"

"No; I never wrote to him after I knew he had found it out, and was offended at me for it."

"Had you told him all the circumstances, he would have forgiven you."

"Perhaps he might; but he is a stern man, and I was from that time afraid to write. But I now wish him to know that it was want which brought me to it—the cause that drove me to it." And as she said these words, her tears broke forth afresh.

Soon after this we left, promising to call again on the morrow, but that morrow she never lived to see.

When we called again, the lady with whom she had boarded met us at the door, and said:

"Poor girl, she's gone now; I was sorry for her, she seemed to be so good and to suffer so much in her mind."

"But she died sooner than you anticipated?" inquired we.

"Yes, poor thing; she took on greatly after you left, saying she wished she could go home. She said her father would forgive her, and she wanted to write to him to come after her."

"That is what we intended to do; we were about to write to her father, that he might reach here before she died."

"She got her paper and was sitting down to write, when her feelings overcame her, and she fell to crying most bitterly. This started the blood from her lungs, and she then soon fell away," said the old lady, wiping a tear from her eye.

She resumed again, saying:

"The girl seemed to think every thing of her father, for she talked of him as long as life lasted."

"How long did she live?"

"But about two hours after the bleeding commenced; and the last thing she said was, 'O, my father, I have offended thee! My mother, I am going to meet you! May the Lord have mercy on my soul!' And with these words, her speech was gone."

Such was the career and unfortunate termination of the life of a beautiful, intelligent, and interesting young girl, who had left a pleasant and comfortable home in the country, for the dangers and temptations of a city life.

When will girls, who have good homes in the country, learn to be content, and to shun the devouring maelstroms of a corrupt and corrupting city?

————

CHAPTER III.

THE THREE SISTERS—AS MODEL ARTISTES.

IN the Police court appears a group of interesting females—three of them young and beautiful—the elder a round, plump, good-looking widow of forty, and the mother of the other three.

She is a magnificent looking woman, tall, stately, of full, round proportions, almost giant-like in dimensions. Her complexion is florid, her hair of a bright glossy brown, and her eyes full and languishing, indicating a sensual and voluptuous disposition.

The nature of the business that brought her thither is explained by the affidavit in which she had sworn,

"That her three daughters, Isabella ——, Louisa ——, and Elizabeth ——, conducted themselves in a disorderly manner, and will not obey the instructions or authority of their parent, but against deponent's consent and orders, exhibited themselves in an unbecoming manner and against public decency and good morals, by appearing before the public in an undress, as Model Artistes, much to their disgrace, and as deponent fears, leading to their ruin. Deponent further says that she has seen her daughters, named aforesaid, appear at a public exhibition held at Palmo's Theatre, in Chambers-street, in the manner as set forth aforesaid. Deponent therefore prays that her daughters named aforesaid, may be arrested and dealt with as the law directs in such cases made and provided."

Isabella, the eldest of the truant daughters, was about twenty-one years of age, of medium stature, but graceful form, and an expressive countenance, indicative of deep passion.

Louisa, the second sister, was eighteen, taller, of a more beautiful form, and of a blonde complexion, lively and expressive features, distinguished by great beauty. She was a most beautiful model.

Elizabeth, the youngest, and yet the tallest and most beautiful of the three, was less than sixteen. Her form was faultless—of a full voluptuous bust—tall, yet not thin, but of a full and gracefully turned contour—in stature resembling Powers' Greek Slave, but in development more like the celebrated Venus de Medicis. Her Grecian features seemed lit with the Promethean fire of genius, and wore an expression of divine loveliness.

Pauline Bonaparte, the sister of Napoleon, renowned as the most beautiful woman of her age, and whom the great Canova obtained to appear in his studio as a model, was not more beautiful than the youngest of these sisters.

The proportions of Elizabeth, embodied in marble, stand as a more fitting emblem of female beauty than the Greek Slave of Powers.

Such were the three model artistes, and here they were before the tribunal of justice, with their mother as their accuser.

The examination proceeded, and the following developments were made, which exhibit a most startling condition in the morals of the society of this Babylon of the New World.

One morning last winter the manager of Palmo's was visited by a large, noble-looking woman, dressed in plain style, who was the mother of these three daughters.

"I have come," said she, "in answer to the advertisement I saw in the 'Sun,' for girls, who it is said can have light employment and good wages."

"Take a seat," replied the manager.

"What is the nature of the employment?" asked the lady, taking a chair.

"It is to appear in our company," said the manager with a bland smile.

"Your company; that is, the model artistes, I suppose," said the lady not the least abashed.

"Yes," replied the manager, "we have a fine company, and are all very respectable ladies too."

"I fear it will not be a proper place for young ladies."

"Fear nothing on that score. The young ladies of my establishment are all well protected."

"There are some ladies of my acquaintance that wished me to call and inquire into the nature of the employment, and what the pay would be."

"Well, it depends on the young ladies. If they are well adapted for the performance, they shall have good salaries—from nine to fifteen dollars a week."

"They are, I believe, very beautiful girls."

"Will you not come and bring the young ladies with you and witness the performances?"

This was agreed to, and the buxom widow departed.

——

The widow returned to her home.

"What news, mother?" inquired all the daughters at once, as she entered the house.

"O! good news! It is the model artistes. He will give from nine to fifteen dollars a week, and has invited us to come and see the performance."

"I should not like to go and sit among all the men and look on. Are there any ladies in the audience?" asked Isabella.

"I do not know; but he will give us a private box, where we can see and not be seen."

"O, that is good. I should like to go," said one of the younger girls.

The mother and her three daughters repaired to Palmo's and were provided with a private box. They witnessed the exhibition and were satisfied they should be willing to appear in it.

Before the performance was closed, the manager entered the box, and inquired:

"How do you like the performance, ladies?"

"We are satisfied with it," replied the lady, at the same time saying: "these are the young ladies who wish to engage in the company."

The manager, after viewing them with delight for a few moments, asked:

"Do they wish to make the engagement themselves?"

"Yes, they are willing."

"Do they reside in the city?"

"Yes."

"In what street?"

"In Suffolk-street."

"Have they parents?"

"They have a mother."

"And you are the mother? There is a family likeness," said the manager, having eagerly eyed them for a moment.

"I confess I am the mother," replied she.

The party now retired to the manager's room, and a bargain was agreed on, by which the daughters were to have nine dollars per week, after they should have properly qualified themselves by repeated rehearsals.

The girls regularly appeared with the mother at the rehearsals, and at length made their debut before the public.

At first their embarrassment was so great that it was with difficulty they could preserve their attitude; but they soon gained steady nerves, and went through their parts with much eclat. The younger in particular, was greatly admired, and became famous among the bloods for her magnificent form and graceful attitudes.

Had this been all of the model artistes, perhaps it had been well for them; but other trials and temptations awaited these doomed victims.

The nature of these temptations may be gathered from the following scene, which took place one evening at the close of the performance:

"I say, Bob, where did you get that Venus coming from the bath?" eagerly asked a young man dressed in the very height of fashion, as he entered the private room of the manager at the fall of the curtain one evening.

"She is a New York gal, and I have got in the company her two sisters also, who are almost equally beautiful," replied the manager, who seemed to be on familiar terms with the visitor, whose name was Frank Colton.

"But you must introduce me to her at once," said Frank, impatiently.

"Ah! no; I can't do that. I have promised that pleasure to another. But I can introduce you to her sister next older. She is a perfect beauty."

Soon another gentleman entered.

It was the one who was to be introduced to the youngest sister. He was also a young man dressed in rich and fashionable style.

These two gentlemen were introduced to the two youngest sisters, and accompanied by the manager and the elder sister, sat down to an oyster-supper, at which they all freely partook of champagne.

In the meantime, the mother, who generally accompanied her daughters, was this evening persuaded to go home alone and leave the young ladies under the protection of the manager, who promised to see them safely home.

The sisters had seen little of the world, and at home had suffered at times much for want of the comforts of life, and had, too, become partly alienated in their affections toward their mother in consequence of her tyrannical and sometimes cruel treatment, arising from her bad temper, and occasional immoderate use of strong drink. They therefore naturally felt pleased with the attentions paid them, and were easily led on from step to step to the abyss of ruin.

The school of the model artistes was a most corrupt one; destroying all of purity and virtue that came in contact with it.

Though most of those forming the company of exhibitors had previously become so hardened in iniquity as to receive no additional injury from its contaminating influences, yet many others who possessed both virtue and beauty, were induced by suffering and want to enter the vortex of this devouring maelstrom, and once within its influence, they were drawn by giddy whirls to the bottom of perdition.

Thanks to an enlightened and respectable portion of the community, they have been put down, never, we trust, to re-appear again.

The person who introduced this corrupting exhibition into the United States, is a person by the name of Collyer, an Englishman, who has hitherto led an itinerant life, in the character first of a pretended phrenologist, and afterward of a mesmeriser, in which last character he at one time became quite notorious in Boston.

One word as to the character of the audiences.

The spectators were many of them lecherous old and dissipated young men. Many visited a night or two out of curiosity, and among these were a large number of strangers from other parts of the country.

The result of the examination before the police may be briefly stated.

It appears that the manager and the mother had fallen into some disagreement; the latter alledging that her daughters were subjected to improper influences; and the former charging that the mother was intemperate and troublesome, and therefore he had been obliged to eject her from the theatre.

Hence the complaint by the mother.

The daughters, who had become corrupted and attached to the new scenes and excitements in this path of life, sided with the manager, and desired to remain in the company. Denying that they were under any improper influence, they were allowed to depart, while the manager was released on nominal bail.

————

CHAPTER IV.

THE COUNTERFEITERS.

AT midnight, wander through this city.

Look upon the countless houses and reflect what is going on within.

Yonder is the peaceful sleep of innocence, and beneath that other roof skulks the guilty murderer, trembling at his own shadow.

Here we behold the wearied and sated with luxury, and there poverty in its squalor and rags lies down on a bed of straw, gnawed by the anguish of hunger and exhaustion.

Pause now in front of that respectable looking house. In the rear is a building, beneath whose roof and within its bolted doors are seven men in their shirt-sleeves, all hard at work.

They are counterfeiting the notes of one of our banks, and the silver coin of our country.

Silver, and other metals, and engravings on steel, piles of notes, and base coin, fill the safe.

Along the narrow alley is heard a step approaching the house in the rear.

"Down with your hammer, and not a word from one of you," murmured the man on guard, in trembling tones.

"Hush, now: some one is coming. Hustle those notes into the safe. Put every thing into the safe and lower it into the vault. Spring for your lives!" uttered a low voice within.

"Whitney, who can it be? There are more than one of them. It must be a band of police!" exclaimed the guard in terror.

"Hush all your fears," said the low voice which was that of Whitney, who seemed to be the leader of the gang. "No man shall be admitted, and whoever attempts to force his way shall receive a silent slung-shot or a pistol-ball."

"Haulsey!" again exclaimed the guard in fear, "blow out that light in an instant, for there stands several persons in the street looking up the alley."

"See that the doors are all fastened, and let every man arm himself, for if any attempt should be made, blood will be spilled," said Whitney, in a low but firm tone.

"They are all bolted. But, look! For God's sake, keep still. Do you hear that voice?"

"Yes," said Whitney; "and from this window I will answer if any of them speak."

"What are you at work for at this late hour of the night?" asked a voice from without, in a bold tone.

"Whitney, tell him you are laboring for your bread—tell him quick," uttered the guard in almost breathless suspense.

"I am, sir," answered Whitney, "hard at work in making packing-boxes for a merchant in Cedar-street, if you must know what is none of your business."

"But why do you work so late?"

"Because the boxes must be done to-morrow morning."

"But we have our doubts as to your occupation. We must therefore enter and satisfy ourselves of this."

"We grant no admission, and especially at this late hour."

"Men, try that door and see if an entrance can be effected," said the leader of the band outside.

"The door seems strongly barred and locked," answered one of the men who with two or three others had tried it.

"Why do you wish to break in upon my premises? I have told you my business, and at this time of night I cannot admit any one. Is not that enough?"

"No; we have our doubts, and if you resist our demands, we shall be strengthened in our suspicions."

"If you persist in your attempts to enter, I shall blow your brains out," exclaimed Whitney, brandishing a revolver in his hand. "At my call, I have men who will come to my assistance, and we shall be more than a match for you."

"Ah! you rascal, you have deceived me then; you are not making packing boxes; you are doing that for which you should be arrested."

"Whitney! Whitney! let us first get the safe and all things secure in the vault," said one of the men within, in a low voice, touching Whitney on the shoulder.

"Yes; do it, while I talk to them outside. Be quick, and fear not," returned Whitney, with a sullen grin.

"Shall we light a lamp?" asked the younger of the seven.

"Yes! There is nothing to fear, boys. They are now moving off," said Whitney, shutting the chamber window.

"Oh, d—n the luck," exclaimed Whitney. "Boys, we must conceal the notes on our persons, and secure the silver."

"What do you mean to do?" asked one of the men.

"We must be off to other quarters. We are suspected, and we must move at once."

"Move from Mercer-street or you are lost!"

"My God! did you hear that voice? Is it a ghost, or a voice from the other world? Do you hear it, boys?"

"Yes; but where did it come from? What means it?"

"Move from Mercer-street or you are lost!"

"My God! that voice again! Can it be a ghost! Men, what do you think?" exclaimed Whitney, with some anxiety.

"It must be some one behind the brick walls. At any rate, we must move, and no mistake."

"I'll speak to it. What voice is that?"

"There comes no answer! But let us listen for a few minutes."

"It is no voice; it must have been but imagination," said Whitney, the leader of the gang.

"Let us then proceed to business," said several voices, in a whisper.

"Shall we go up to Albany, and there carry on our business, or where shall we go?" asked one of the company.

"No, not to Albany, for it is too near those high walls at Auburn," answered another.

"Then let us go to Greenport; that is a retired spot where we can operate without disturbance."

"No, that won't do—it is too far down the island; for, after all, New York must be the place for head-quarters."

"That is according to my mind. But what do you say, Whitney, in regard to this?"

"I will tell you, men. My life has been passed amid such scenes, and this does not alarm me. Our business is now flourishing, and to keep it so, New York is the place for head-quarters."

"But do you know of a good place?"

"I have my eye, this very minute, on a house where, in times past, the business of counterfeiting was carried on for years, without exciting the least suspicion;"

"And you say it was never found out?"

"Never has it been suspected. It is in a good location."

"Where is it—in Broadway?"

"No! not in that thoroughfare, but I know I could obtain one or more rooms in it this very night. I could get the cellar where I know there are secret vaults the police would never detect."

"Good! Is that really so? Then that is the place: let us have it."

"Secret vaults are there, did you say?"

"Go ask that one who has had his respite from the gallows some half-a-dozen times," said Whitney.

"Whom do you mean? Leman?"

"No; but one with whom I have had much intercourse, and one who was brought up among the first in the city, and who used to say his catechism when a boy as well as I did."

"Whom, then, can it be?"

"It is Babe the pirate, yonder. Poor fellow! he has had affliction and misery enough in his day."

"But where is the place you spoke of?" asked one of the company. "If we were in Philadelphia or Baltimore, I would know where to go to, but I don't know this New York as well."

Whitney now rose from his chair, and turning his long black hair from his narrow forehead, called in his men to listen, when he was interrupted by the guard, who exclaimed:

"We had better remain quiet for a few minutes!"

"Why so?" asked one of the men, "is the police gang returning?" At the same time, he and Whitney advanced toward the window to look out.

"No," answered the guard, "but some one seems to be watching the building!"

Whitney soon returned, and gave his men assurance of no cause for alarm. He then arranged his plans and gave directions for the removal from this building.

"Having now arranged all things, shall I go this moment and engage the place I have in view?" asked their leader.

"Yes," was the reply of all.

"I will soon depart, and take Hooper with me, and in one hour we will return to you again," said Whitney, as he departed with his chosen companions, each of whom was armed with pistols and dirks.

"Stop, stop, a moment!" said one of them, "will you tell us where this house is?"

"There is time enough for all that yet, and on our return you shall know," said Whitney.

"But I have good reason for asking."

"What is your reason?"

"If you are bound to a place that you know is safe—one to which we can go at any time, hadn't you better take the keys of the safe with you, and deposite them in the cellar?"

"That's a good idea, Whitney," said Hooper, "for there is no telling what a day may bring forth. What say you?"

"It is a lucky thought," replied the leader, as he took the keys and placed them in a belt he wore about his waist.

They departed, and were soon in Broadway.

Down that thoroughfare they walk, arm in arm, to Canal-street, in which they enter the house they designed to occupy.

It was occupied by a congenial spirit, who was still up, and with whom they soon concluded a bargain. Here they remained till the dawn of day, when they returned to their old haunt in Mercer-street.

Thus they evaded the "vigilance of the police." For though the police had kept watch of the house, and saw these two men come out, yet they had been unable to track them to the house in Canal-street.

The policemen thought that if nothing was removed during that night, no attempt at removal would be made until the next night, when it was resolved to make a descent on the premises with a strong force.

In this they were disappointed; for Whitney and his companions returning at daylight, every thing was in half an hour made ready for removal.

The police, apprehending no occurrence of this kind during the day, had left only one man to watch the premises.

Him Whitney easily managed to bribe, and soon a vehicle belonging to the band took every thing off in a couple of boxes, while the company, one by one, made their escape, without exciting any suspicion.

The next night they were at work again in their new quarters, where they remained for a long time, unsuspected and unmolested.

————

CHAPTER V.

THE BETRAYER AND THE BETRAYED.

LET the reader now, in imagination, enter a well furnished room in Canal-street, near Thompson. Let it be in the month of March, on a clear cold day, and at the hour of eleven at night.

For at that time and place, a middle aged man, an actor on the stage of one of the New York theatres, entered this room, where a very young woman was then sitting in a pensive and melancholy mood.

Her appearance was that of a delicate well-bred woman. Her condition, too, was one that, if unmarried, was sufficient to give cause for the grief and despair depicted on her countenance. She was soon to become a mother!

She was dressed in a modest and very pretty style, and seemed to be about eighteen.

The gentleman, or the stage actor, was dressed in a rich and fashionable style, with gold watch and chain.

"George! George! can it be that you have at last come to see me before I die? O! I am glad you have come; I wanted to see you once more before I leave the world!" said the poor girl, bursting into a flood of tears.

"Fanny!" said he, "be of good cheer and fear not. I will never desert you. In me behold your friend!"

"Can I then believe in you? O! tell me and it will relieve me!" said Fanny.

"As true as there is a God in Heaven! I mean what I say. You can trust me to the end."

"Thanks, George! my mind is easier. But had you not come this day, I should have put an end to my sufferings before another sun had arisen."

"I will stand by you and see that you have every thing you want; that you are properly provided for and have suitable attendants."

Soon after, George departed, promising to return again at three o'clock in the afternoon.

While this poor girl is left alone reflecting on the contrast between the innocent pleasures of her early years, and the agonizing sufferings of her present condition, we will for a few moments revert to her history.

She was a native of one of the interior towns of this State, and had been brought up in comfortable circumstances. Her father was a merchant, but having become involved in his affairs, his mind became so deranged that it had been found necessary to take him to a lunatic asylum. Having partially recovered, he was restored to his family, but soon afterward, in a moment of derangement, he put an end to his life by his own hands.

Soon after this circumstance, which threw the family into sorrow and want, Fanny was visited by a female cousin from the city, who determined her fate.

The cousin painted in the most glowing colors the charms and pleasures of a city life, and finally succeeded in persuading Fanny that a good deal of money was to be made by working in artificial flowers, and that she might thus live independent, dress in good style, and enjoy the many pleasures a city life affords.

Influenced by these representations, she came to the city and procured work in a shop in William-street with her cousin.

The current of her life here ran smoothly until, through the introduction of her cousin, she became acquainted with the actor, who was familiarly called by her George.

One day, while at work, her cousin inquiringly remarked: "You have never been to the theatre, have you, Fanny?" "No; and I do not care to go," replied she.

"O! you would be delighted. You had better go with me to-night. I am going to have a beautiful gentleman for a beau, and we shall have a private box."

"I have never been to a theatre, and I don't think I should like to go. The theatre is not a good place."

"That is one of your country notions. I never saw any thing bad in the theatre. You had better go along to-night. It is the Bowery, and the play is to be the Wizard of the Wave. Come, you go—we are to have a private box, and we'll have a nice time."

Partly by these representations, and partly impelled by curiosity to see a theatre for the first time, Fanny was induced to accompany her cousin.

The person who attended them was an attaché of the theatre, and had often accompanied her thither, and generally provided them with a private box.

In this private box George had become acquainted with, and had often visited this young girl, and when the latter mentioned that she had a beautiful cousin by the name of Fanny in the city, it had been arranged that some evening she should bring her to the theatre.

George, when he had concluded his part on the stage, was to come to the private box and there be introduced to Fanny.

The plan succeeded as had been arranged.

Fanny went to the theatre, became acquainted with George, and often repeated her visits.

She soon became attached to him, and under a promise of marriage, was finally induced to leave her shop and take apartments in Canal-street, where she was living when first introduced to the reader.

At three o'clock, George returned, and found Fanny on the sofa, in tears, as usual.

"Well, Fanny, I have returned, as you requested," said he, on entering the room.

"Yes, and I am glad to see you. Among all your vows and promises, there is one I have held as sacred; and when I think of it, my brain seems on fire!"

"What is it?"

"What is it! You surely need not ask. You know the solemn vow you made—you know the sacred promise under which I was induced to leave my employment, and take up my abode with you in these apartments!"

"I suppose I know what you mean."

"Yes, you know! You have not forgotten your promise to marry me!"

Here both parties sat for some moments in silent meditation, when she resumed:

"George, my mind borders on frenzy, when I think of the home in the country, of the friends I there had, and the society I there enjoyed—when I think of those happy days of innocence, and contrast them with the guilt, the agony, the despair of my present condition. O! these agonizing thoughts will drive me mad!"

"Calm yourself, Fanny," said George, very coolly. "I will see that you are provided for."

"Provided for! That is nothing to the disgrace that will befall me, when my situation shall become known to my friends, unless you fulfil your vow to make me your wife!"

"Stay! stay your feelings! Fanny, be not desponding! Look on the bright side!"

"There is no bright side; except you marry me, my prospects are blighted for ever."

"I will cling to you, and see you through all your troubles."

"You can do nothing for me unless you make me your wife. That, and that alone, will repair all my wrongs and make me happy once more."

"You may pass through the whole and your friends know nothing of it."

"But I shall know it! Yes! and my friends will know it too. But I will never survive my shame. I will blot out my disgrace with blood!"

"Calm yourself, Fanny. I can arrange the whole matter so that you will be comfortable."

"Comfortable! what was I when you first knew me? Was I not comfortable then? O! when at home in years gone by I was happy! I had all I could wish. I was innocent and had what I shall never know again—peace of mind. O! my mother, how she would feel if she knew this! It would drive her to madness, as my father was driven by other woes. O! that I should live to be a curse to her!" and with these words the poor broken-hearted girl fell to violent weeping.

At length she resumed her calmness, when George interrupted the silence by saying:

"You must control your feelings, and listen to some plan by which we may avoid exposure, and relieve you from your difficulties."

"There are but two modes of relief—one is marriage, and the other death! I see the alternative—nothing is left for me but the latter!"

"Be not so desperate! There is hope for you. You can be relieved and become happy again."

"Never! never! What hope is there left for me? Do you intend to keep your word, and marry me?"

"I know a trusty female physician, who will do for you all you can desire."

"What do you mean?" said Fanny, starting with indignant surprise.

"I mean to place you in the charge of one who will relieve you from all your difficulties."

"Do you mean the infernal Restell?" asked the girl with trembling indignation.

"I do!" said George, with unfeeling firmness.

"Good heavens! No. When I wish to rush unprepared and rashly into the presence of my Maker, this right hand has strength and courage to do the dreadful deed. I wish no infamous Restell to dispatch me through the lingering tortures of her diabolical art. I have the nerve and the heart to do the deed at once."

"You are laboring under a delusion. I cannot reason with you," replied George.

"There is no reason in me 'twixt marriage and death. I demand of you, then, which is my fate!"

"I cannot talk with you until you become calm."

"You have left me trembling on a thread over the abyss of ruin, and now all you can say is to ask me to be 'calm!' " said the girl, with a scornful tone, rising from the sofa and walking up and down the room under deep excitement.

After a few moments silence, she turned toward her betrayer and said:

"Under a solemn vow of marriage, you led me hither, and have plunged me deep into misery. I demand of you now, will you fulfil your promise?"

"To-morrow I will call and see you again."

"No more evasion; I demand an answer this instant. Yes or no."

"I cannot now answer you. I will call again to-morrow, and then we will settle the question."

"To-morrow is in another world! Thither I will seek it! Another to-morrow in this world I shall never know!"

George now abruptly took his departure, when Fanny threw herself on the sofa and gave way to violent tears, which continued until interrupted by a visit from her cousin, who, herself hardened in guilt, had seen little of Fanny since the departure of the latter from the work-shop.

Now, having heard of Fanny's situation, she came to visit her, and being affected by her sad condition, so far relented of the part she had taken in the affair, as to take an interest in Fanny's welfare, and to make to her an important disclosure.

She told Fanny that George was a married man, and that he lived at No. — Bayard-street.

At this announcement Fanny swooned, but soon recovered.

"I advise you," said the cousin, "to go to his house this very night and make him do something for you. You will find him in at seven o'clock."

"I will go," said Fanny calmly, "but it is little that I shall want him to do for me; what I want done I can do for myself."

"If you will go I will accompany you."

"Thanks to you, I will go alone, or you may go with me to the door, but alone I will enter."

With a sadness too deep for tears, and with a despair beyond the power of utterance, Fanny carefully arranged her toilet, wrote a short letter to her mother, and telling her cousin to take charge of her things if she should not return, took her departure for Bayard-street.

She entered the house alone, saw the wife of him she had called George, and was satisfied of the reality of the deception that had been practiced on her.

She then turned aside and took a deep dose of poison she had previously procured for the purpose, and fell on the sofa in a spasmodic burst of tears.

When George came in, she rose and cursed him with the frenzy of a fiend. She was already a maniac. As she was storming with rage at her betrayer, an irruption of blood burst from her mouth, and she fell back a corpse.

A coroner's inquest, and an exposure in the newspapers, was the finale of this sad tragedy.

————

CHAPTER VI.

MOSE IN A MUSS.

"HURRA, b'hoys!—look ahead! Now for a muss! Sam, and all the rest o' yon, be on hand. Don't you see that 'ere short-masted craft dere—de sloop a-coming into that dock—there by Peck Slip?" said the genuine and original Mose, to a small band of his comrades off duty and ready for anything.

"Vell, Mose, I does see it—but vot ov it? Is there any chance for some lamming to be done?" said Sam, who was a sort of lieutenant colonel or adjutant general acting under Mose.

"Nothing shorter, d—n your eyes! Don't you all see there's a chance for the benefit of Kipp and Brown—a roaring speculation for all of us?"

"D—n me now, if I can see far enough to see through your speculation out of that craft. How is it wid you, Charley? Does you see it wid de guzzling eye-glass?" asked Sam, with a triumphant chuckle.

"No," muttered Charley, with a shake of the head.

"Don't you see that 'ere tall, lean, long-shanked, sober-looking chap, with a light green cap on his phrenology-box? He's standing by the anchor."

"Veil, Mose, I does see a chap yonder, side of dat blubberly long-head nigger. He's that feller wid his hands in his short breeches pocket," said Sam, with a grin.

"B'hoys, he's the chap for the benefit! See him now he's ashore," said Mose, with a shout of triumph.

"Now for the speculation! What is it?"

"Well, I'll tell yer, b'hoys," said Mose, with his finger to his nose; "if yer'll back me up well, I'll agree to have a V out of his pocket in double quick time, If I don't, then never call me Mose agin."

"Well, I'm ready to raise the wind, Mose. You're a good lead—you open rich, so d—n me if I doesn't go into it for the spoils," said Sam, giving Mose a strong slap on the shoulder.

"Here's what opens rich as a box of dry goods," responded Charley, as he clapped his hands together and strode off several paces.

"Now, croneys, hear to me. You see that green 'un, six feet in his shoes, squaring off for those lobsters in that old woman's stand? Say nothing now. I'm into him about a half of ten feet," said Mose, with a shout.

"Half of ten dollars you mean, instead of half of ten feet. I'm right, ain't I?" asked Sam, with a knowing wink.

"I'll gub up that—you're right," answered Mose.

"Don't forget that you must trust old Divine Providence of yours," said Charley.

"Here then, b'hoys, I goes in as a swift witness—if Divine Providence permits. I always gets my share—so here's what's ready," ejaculated Sam, with a chuckling tone of joy.

By this time the sloop had made fast to the dock, and the Yankee, leaping from the deck, had hastily run up to an old woman's stand, and fallen to devouring the lobsters and other eatables with a keen appetite.

"Now, Sam, let the feller get through eating, and return to his sloop, and then, Sam, I'll take you with me, and we'll board her without ceremony; and Charley, you'll stay here till I send for you," said Mose, with the air and tone of a general commander.

Reaching the sloop, they found the Yankee, who had returned from the stand, near the mast, down upon his knees, greedily devouring some raw clams, which he had just procured on shore.

"My God! can it be? My friend, stop eating!—you are in a h—ll of a stew!—in a most dangerous pickle!" exclaimed Mose, in a tone of alarm.

"Pickle! about what? and who are you?" asked the Yankee, as he continued eating.

"Stop! hold! and save yourself from destruction! Hold, or you're a gone coon!"

"You don't think I was brought up in the woods to be scared by the owls, du you?" drawled the Yankee, with apparent unconcern, as he continued his eating.

"Let him alone—let him die in his own way! He seems to be a nice piece of dry goods, but it's a pity he should spile just now," said Sam.

"What du you mean now? Du just tell!" said the Yankee, beginning to feel some alarm, and wiping his greasy chops on his sleeve.

"Ah," said Sam, shaking his head, with a long sigh; "ah, I'm sorry for you, but you're a dying man—that's a fact!"

"He ain't nothing else," said Mose.

"But why?—what du you mean?—me a dying man! Why? Du tell now!" exclaimed the Yankee, getting more alarmed, as he sprung to his feet.

"Feel of his pulse, Sam, right off quick!" muttered Mose, when Sam instantly obeyed, while the Yankee stood trembling, white as a ghost.

"Ah, it's a hard case!" said Sam, in a low, solemn tone, and still holding on to the pulse.

"What is the matter now?—du tell!" exclaimed the Yankee, now almost frightened out of his wits.

"Do you know you've been eatin' pisen clams?" asked Mose.

"Pisen clams! O, Lord! send for a doctor! Must I die!—can't you save me? O, am I lost? Pisen clams! O, I am gone!—can't you save me?" uttered the Yankee, pacing up and down the deck in a paroxysm of terror.

"Confess your sins," said Mose, "and die like a decent man."

"O, must I die! I have wronged no one—I hain't injured any man. I never stole any thing, except water-melons—and I did steal a sheep once, but nobody ever knew it! O, dear, shall I die!" exclaimed the Yankee, so overcome with fear as unconsciously to turn the scene into a farce.

"Let's lam him—he's a sheep-stealer!" said Mose, laying his hand roughly on the Yankee's forehead.

"Lam him!" echoed Sam. "He'd steal the pennies from a dead man's eyes!"

"O, I'm faint!—I feel that I am going!—I'm dying!—send for a doctor!" continually exclaimed the poor panic-stricken Yankee.

"Shall I send for a doctor?" asked Mose, with an affectation of pity.

"Yes, send; for I shall die if you don't, of this pisen clam in my stomach! O, it is eating me up alive!—send for the doctor!"

Sam was instantly dispatched for a doctor, while Mose undertook to comfort the Yankee.

"Why don't the doctor come!—I feel faint!—O, my stomach is on fire!—I am pisened!"

"Sam won't spare shoe-leather in going up there. I'm sure the doctor will soon be here."

Soon Sam came blustering along, and bringing with him Charley, who was to enact the character of the doctor.

"Hoo! where's the patient?" asked Charley, blowing and puffing as though he was almost out of breath.

"Here he is. This way, doctor—this way, doctor—he's most gone!" said Mose, giving Charley a sly wink of the eye.

"Stand back, gentlemen, and give the patient a chance to breathe, while I examine into the case," said Charley, with a high tone of authority.

"Stand back!" said Mose, pushing back the small group of persons that had gathered about the scene.

"My friend, what's the matter?" inquired Charley, in an anxious tone.

"O, I'm dying!—I'm pisened! Doctor, shall I die?" was the reply of the poor frightened Yankee, who was sitting on the deck with his hands across his stomach, and actually suffering real pain, as was natural after having over-eaten of lobsters and clams.

"Doctor, what do you think of his case?" asked Mose, in a doleful tone.

Charley, feeling the pulse of the Yankee, shook his head, but made no other reply.

"Give us the verdict, any how!" exclaimed Mose, impatiently.

"It's a doubtful case," said Charley, in a very solemn tone.

"Then is it fixed, doctor, that I can get well? Can't you save me, doctor?"

"I'll try; but you must keep quiet, and do as I tell you."

"Well, I will, doctor," said the Yankee, submissively.

"Bring me quick some warm water," called Charley.

The warm water was instantly brought, and its emetic effects soon relieved the trembling Yankee of the contents of his overloaded stomach, and removed the pain he had experienced.

"How do you feel now?" asked Charley, after the water had produced its full effect and the Yankee seemed entirely relieved from his pain.

"I feel first rate, doctor. Ain't I cured? I guess all that tarnation pisen is gone—ain't it, doctor?"

"Yes, you are entirely cured; all the pisen is out of you. But if I hadn't come, you'd a been cold afore this time."

"So I should, doctor. I guess you've saved me! Well, what's to pay for this job? I 'spose you'll want a five?"

"Your life's worth more than that. I can't save a man in such a case for less than ten."

"Well, here's your cash."

"And now you must pay me and Sam who went for the doctor." interposed Mose.

This the Yankee paid also, when Mose and his companions moved off, and wended their way to a grog-shop in Roosevelt-street, where they divided the spoils. Mose taking ten dollars, and giving the five to be divided between his followers and dependents, Sam and Charley.

————

CHAPTER VII.

THE OLD BREWERY.

IN the heart of that centre of all that is degraded, infamous and wretched—The Five Points—stands the "Old Brewery," whose name indicates the use to which it was formerly applied. It is now an old and rotten structure, into which are crowded about a hundred of the most miserable and wretched creatures.

This building is entered by a narrow avenue, known as "Murderer's Alley," and stands on a sunken spot, surrounded on every side by shabby and dilapidated tenements, to which the pure air of heaven seldom or never finds its way. The little open space about the building, and the narrow alley leading to it, are filthy in the extreme, while the noxious effluvia naturally arising from the place, is sufficient to render it remarkable that human beings can exist for any considerable length of time within reach of such health-destroying influences.

Under the guide and protection of a police officer, we entered this abode of misery.

The first group we met was that of a mother and three children, a boy and two girls. The mother, half covered with filthy rags, bowed as we approached, while the starving and emaciated young ones looked up with a sorrowful appeal that must have melted a heart of ice. Tears the mother and her children would have wept, at the sight of any one seemingly capable of affording them aid, had not their eyes been wept dry.

"Mother, have they brought us something to eat?" asked one of the little girls in piteous tones, as she threw her feeble and uncleansed arms around her mother's neck.

"My child, I do not know," answered the despairing mother.

"My dear woman," said the friend who accompanied me, "what brought you to this distressed condition?"

"It would be a long and sad story to tell," she replied sorrowfully.

"How do you live here? what do you have for food?"

"We have had no food for two days, except what we have gnawed from those old bones in the corner yonder."

"How long have you been in this place?"

"Since February last—some three months."

"Have you no friends?"

"I had a husband, and a brother and a sister; but they are all dead now."

"Then you have had no food these two days except those bones?"

"No; and the children, poor creatures, gnaw them all the time, as they are most starved and have nothing else to eat."

"One of them is chewing something now—what is it?"

"It is shoe-leather. They want something in their mouths to chew."

The scene having become now too painful any longer to endure, we brought forward the basket of cold victuals—consisting chiefly of meat and bread—which we had brought for the occasion.

On seeing this, the children sprang forward with greedy looks, when the mother seemed overcome, and would have wept had she any tears to weep.

Before their immediate wants were gratified, we were surrounded at the door by a group of famishing mortals, old men and women and children, begging for a morsel of food.

The room we first entered was a small damp apartment on the first floor, and occupied solely by this widow and her three children. The floor was covered with a thick damp coating of earth or filth, and the walls were besmeared with almost every thing repulsive, while the nauseous vapors and stench of the confined and poisonous atmosphere would seem sufficient to destroy the vigor and health of the most active and robust frames.

And such is a fair picture of the apartments throughout this noisome den, into which are crowded so many wretched and half famished sufferers.

While our companion was distributing food to the crowd about the door, we gave a few moments more attention to the poor woman who had first attracted our attention.

She stated that she had been in good circumstances, but her husband, through intemperance, had brought his family to want, and himself to an untimely grave, leaving her and three helpless children without any means of support. She had procured work and kept from starvation, until now her health was broken, and she had been obliged to take an apartment in this old den of misery, as she could here pay her rent for a week or a few days only in advance, and it had taken all the money she could obtain to pay her rent, small as it was, being but fifty cents a week.

The appearance of the woman confirmed her statement, for she seemed to have had a good education.

"I care not for myself," she said, "it is for my children that I feel. I know that I am broken down, and it matters not now how soon I am consigned to the grave. I was well brought up, and I feel it now the more bitterly, to see my children thus reared in ignorance and degradation. They are bright children, and if they could only have good homes and education, I would be willing to leave this world, where nothing is left for me but suffering and sorrow."

"But have you no friends to look after you?" inquired we.

"When did you ever know the wretched to have any friends? I have had those whom the world calls friends, and they are now well off; but I would not have them know my situation."

"Your health is poor—is it not?"

"I am not able to go out to obtain work, nor could I do anything if I had work to do. The last money I had was obtained by pawning the last piece of clothing I had left, and I am too proud to beg or to go to the alms-house."

We promised to call and see her again, and afterward had the satisfaction of obtaining relief for her wants, through the Association for the Relief of the Destitute, by which, and also by the aid of some of her former friends, whose attention we had called to her condition, she was removed to a comfortable dwelling, and her children placed in situations where they earned their own living.

We entered next a larger room, occupied by several families. We first saw an old man sitting on a stool, rubbing his hands, his chin in active motion, and his emaciated form trembling like the last leaf in autumn.

At the sight of us, he lifted himself with difficulty on his bare feet, and half covered with rags, came forward with a blessing, and with tears in his eyes, begged for food.

At the same instant, the glaring eyes, the sunken features, and wan, starving countenances of women and children, gathered around our basket, crying most piteously for something to eat. Not one but was clad in rags, and seemed the very personification of wretchedness and misery.

We distributed a small quantity of food among them and went on our way, but several followed us, crying for more, which we were compelled to refuse, in order to save something if possible for all of the more needy whom we might meet.

Another old man we found, who was but a mere skeleton. We gave him some bread, which he swallowed with great greediness, and then thanked us with a smile, saying he had not had a morsel of food for nearly two days.

In one of the rooms sat a poor woman clothed in filthy rags, who was unable to walk. We found her weeping.

"Why do you weep?" asked my friend. "Are you ill?"

"Look yonder!" said she. "There is my daughter, and you will not wonder why I weep!"

We looked as she pointed with her finger, and we beheld, partly concealed behind an old barrel in the hall, a young girl, of not more than twenty, apparently in a frenzied state, lying on the floor, and sucking the blood from her own arm, which she had bitten.

"Stop, my child!" said we, "why do you suck the blood from your own arm?"

"There is no other food for me!" cried she, in the most frantic agony.

"Here is food for you," said we, offering her bread and meat, which she devoured most ravenously. She thanked us, and then we went on.

Such are the scenes which are to be met with daily in the "Old Brewery."

Yet, is it not strange that in a city abounding in wealth—where thousands live in luxuries they do not want and cannot enjoy, and are puzzled to devise means to get rid of their money, that such misery and wretchedness should be suffered to exist?

Instead of throwing away hundreds on some useless toy not cared for, or some pernicious indulgence, why is it that the rich will not spare a few dollars to relieve the sufferings of the destitute and the dying?

This is the great question society has been asking for the past five thousand years, and it now seems as far off from a solution as ever.

It is, nevertheless, a melancholy fact, that man cares not for his brother man, and the contrast in the condition of the rich and the poor in our large cities exhibits the selfishness and depravity of the human heart, in a light that is melancholy and lamentable to behold.

————

CHAPTER VIII.

A WIFE WITH TWO HUSBANDS; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

"BY heavens! what a beautiful creature!" exclaimed Charles C——p, a clerk with Charles O'Conner, as a young and beautiful woman left the office, after having been in consultation with the distinguished bachelor counsellor.

"O! she's angelic! she's divine!" replied George, a fellow clerk. "I wonder who she is. Egad, if she couldn't melt O'Conner's stoical indifference, it must be something colder than ice!"

"She had such a sweet countenance—such an intelligent expression! She is indeed divine! George, I'm in love with that woman. I will, I must have her. Ask O'Conner who she is, won't you?"

"No; I'll leave that to you. Perhaps he might tell me to mind my business."

"Egad, I'll find out!" exclaimed Charles, jumping from his chair in great excitement.

The mystery, was, however, soon explained, when papers were handed to the clerks to copy, touching the application for divorce in the case of Mary C——k vs. James C——k.

"Ho! ho! Charley! Here the mystery is solved! This beautiful creature is a married woman," said George.

"A married woman? It can't be!"

"Yes, she's married; but never mind that, here's her affidavit for a divorce, and it reads rich."

"A divorce? She shall have it, and that's not all, I'll help her to another husband instanter. Has she any children?"

"One little girl."

"It does not seem possible; I should not take her to be over sixteen or seventeen."

The truth was, Mrs. C——k was scarcely eighteen, though she had been married more than two years.

She was the daughter of a wealthy butcher, residing in the upper part of the Bowery. While a school girl, she had attracted the attention of a dashing looking young man, with whom she had fallen in love.

Of his situation she and her parents knew but little, though her father had become satisfied he was a gambler. He claimed to be in possession of a considerable fortune, and he found little difficulty in persuading the young lady to believe whatever he might desire.

The result of the affair was this: he was forbidden to enter the house—the young lady protested and was imprisoned in her chamber. Nevertheless she found means of communicating with her lover, and he contrived means for her escape.

A ladder was provided. At midnight she opens her window, descends the ladder; a carriage is waiting; she enters, and in the arms of a lover is borne to the house of a friend, where they are married.

Afterward a reconciliation with her parents is effected, and she returns home with her husband to reside.

The illusion did not last long. Soon she discovered that her husband was a professional gambler, and that instead of a fortune, he had only the uncertain returns of the gaming-house to depend on. Hence he was sometimes profuse and prodigal, and at other times entirely destitute.

After the lapse of more than two years, Mrs. C——k applied, through Mr. O'Conner, for a divorce, which, after a short delay, she obtained without opposition.

During the proceedings in this case, Charles C——p, one of Mr. O'Conner's clerks, became desperately enamored of the fair applicant, and before unloosing herself from the first tie, she had already consented to bind herself by a second one.

Mrs. C——k was a woman of rare beauty. Tall and graceful in her form, she would have formed a perfect model for an artist. But her chief attraction lay in her countenance. Her face was symmetrically beautiful, and cast in the expression of the most divine loveliness. She was a woman that would cause a stranger, in her presence, involuntarily to pause and admire—even to love her—for the sweetness and loveliness of her disposition, as expressed through a countenance of unsurpassed beauty, was perfectly captivating.

Mr. C——p had then fallen in love with her at first sight, and was resolved she should become his own.

Being of an agreeable person, with a fluent and ready wit, he found no difficulty in obtaining entrance to the temple of her affections, where he paid the most devout worship.

Having been unfortunate in her first marriage, she had repined over her miserable condition, and had sighed to partake of the domestic bliss which her more fortunate acquaintances seemed to enjoy.

When, therefore, Mr. C——p paid his addresses to her, she thought now an opportunity was afforded her of entering anew the marriage state, and enjoying those blessings of peace and love which she had so long sighed after in vain.

Mrs. C——k, as was stated, obtained her divorce; but she was compelled to give up her only child, a beautiful girl. The sacrifice was great, but she thought amid new ties and new scenes, she should become reconciled to the absence of her daughter, and, if not forgetting her, at least cease to dwell upon her with regret.

In a few short months, Mrs. C——k had become Mrs. C——p, and was settled with her husband in his native village in the interior of the State.

There her time for a short period passed pleasantly away, but soon she found that living the life of a village lawyer's wife would not satisfy her.

She had spirit and ambition that could find no sphere for action in the circle in which she moved. Gay and fond of society, she now pined under the monotony of a sedate country life, and longed for the exciting scenes of city life, of which she had in the years of her girlhood tasted sufficiently to acquire a fondness for, and from which she had been cut off before her desires had been subdued to moderation, by a reasonable and proper indulgence in the amusements of society.

She therefore felt like a young girl, snatched prematurely from a scene of pleasure, and though still in sight of the object of her desire, yet withheld from all participation therein.

No wonder, then, that the youthful Mrs. C——p sighed in secret for scenes she felt she was destined never to behold. Still, like a good wife, she strove to hide her feelings and wear a cheerful countenance on all occasions.

Her beauty, her youth, her wit, her keen susceptibilities for social enjoyments—all these she beheld withering in the desert sun of her isolation, and not a sympathising breeze passed by to receive the perfume of her gentle but unuttered repinings.

It would have been some relief to her desolate heart, had there been young buds of promise shooting from the parent stem. But to her the rich gift of children was now denied, and the more her thoughts wandered back to the darling child she had left behind and given up as she believed for ever, the more the love of her absent child became the absorbing passion of her soul.

After having lived this quiet life for four years, she at length, after much persuasion, obtained the consent of her husband to visit her friends in New York.

A mother she had not had since a child, but her father was still living, and married a second time. Brothers she had in the city, to whom she was tenderly attached, and there dwelt her twin sister—her other self, whom she loved as she loved her own soul. But, above all, there, too, was her child, whom she had not now seen for four years, and whom she felt that she now loved more than she loved her own life. The preparation is made—the journey undertaken; she is with her husband once more in her father's house. Her child—where was that? It was at a boarding-school in Bond, street, under the protection of its father, and was now a beautiful young girl about six years old. Hither she ran the first day without the knowledge of her husband, obtained admittance, and beheld once more the object of her tenderest love. Almost frenzied with excitement, she strained her daughter to her bosom, and parted from her again with tears, as though her heart would break.

Daily she was permitted to visit the child, but while at her father's house she was in a melancholy mood, and most of the time wandering alone in the garden.

One day, when visiting her child, she was struck by surprise at the entrance of her former husband, the father of her daughter—Mr. C——k.

"I am most glad to see you!" he exclaimed. "You are the only woman I ever did or ever shall love!"

"This, sir, is strange. What means it? I was told that no one, and especially you, should intrude on me in these visits to my child," said the woman, indignantly.

"Pardon me. I did not wish to intrude on these your sacred interviews with our child; but the memory of the happy days I have known in your society, and the love that still clings to my heart, have impelled me to break in upon this scene, and, even at the risk of incurring your anger, to speak once more to the only woman I ever loved."

"You know my situation and the impropriety of this proceeding. You or I must immediately depart."

"Be not so rash. You respected and reciprocated my passion in former days—why so rudely rebuff it now?"

"You know my altered situation, and what my present position requires."

"Love knows no law but its own will, and it will have its way."

"Sir, I must leave!" And with these words, she started to leave the room, when he interrupted her, by saying:

"Do you want your child?"

"My child? It is all I want!"

"You can have her."

"O, my child! my child!" she exclaimed, embracing her daughter with tears of joy.

"But there is one condition on which alone you can ever possess her again."

"What is the condition—name it?"

"You must do justice to me!"

"Justice to you! When did I ever do you injustice?"

"You separated from me—abandoned me for another!"

"I was divided from you according to law, and was afterward married to a man whom I never saw until after I had applied for my bill. Do you call this abandoning you for another? Did I not have cause for the course I pursued?"

"I will not speak of that now. You did not hear what I had to say in my own defense. But you were instigated to the course you pursued by your friends."

"Consider I had cause. Your unfaithfulness and the profession you pursued—were they not a sufficient cause?"

"We'll not speak of that now. Had you heard me at the time, I could have explained every thing to your satisfaction."

"If I've wronged you, it's too late now to repair that wrong."

"But you have never heard me. How know you but you would have been satisfied had you heard me? Listen to me now, and then judge."

"If it be in my power to repair any wrong I may have done, I will cheerfully do it. But now I must be gone."

"Another time, and you will hear me?"

"Another time!' said she, leaving the room, and returning directly to her father's house.

————

CHAPTER IX.

THE WOMAN WITH TWO HUSBANDS, CONCLUDED.

MRS. C——p, on returning home, passed the remainder of the day in profound melancholy. Her thoughts were upon her daughter, and now a hope had been held out to her, yet burdened with a condition that seemed impossible for her to fulfil.

But she could not forget her daughter. The gleam of hope that had once shot across her mind, still faintly glimmered in the distance. At one moment, she resolved to make the sacrifice, whatever it might be, in order to possess the dearest object of her love. At another, this seemed impracticable, and she was then plunged into the deepest despair.

Now reminiscences of her first love arose in her heart, and the reflection that she might have done injustice to him whom she once tenderly cherished, preyed upon her. She then at length resolved that if he should present himself before her on the following day on her visit to her child, she would hear him, and at all hazards would recover possession of her daughter.

The morrow came, and at her usual hour repaired to the school. Here, as was anticipated, she met her former husband.

He told her his story, and his words fell on listening and sympathizing ears. He admitted his guilt, but related palliating circumstances that if known at the time, would have induced her to forgive him.

As to his profession of gambling, he had only temporarily pursued it from necessity, and then only after his marriage, and for the sake of procuring a respectable and genteel living for her.

Born to wealth, and educated in luxury, he had in a dissipated mood provoked his father to abandon him; and the gaming table, which had subsequently afforded him occasional relief, he had, after his marriage, been compelled to make his constant resort as a sole dependence for himself and family.

But he had long since reformed, and had been reconciled to his father, whose recent death had now left him in possession of a large fortune.

He contended that her divorce and subsequent marriage were both invalid, and he was not served with a legal notice in the case of her proceedings against him, and that he might now lawfully claim her as his wife.

He professed the same ardent attachment to her as ever, and conjured her for her own and his future peace and happiness to abandon the man to whom she was not legally married, and to return to the only one whom she had ever truly loved, and with whom alone she could live happily.

He painted in vivid colors the enjoyments and pleasures which his wealth and a city life would procure, and the true bliss she would find in the society of her child, and a husband she loved, and with opportunities of daily intercourse with her twin-sister and other friends.

These words produced a deep impression on the susceptible mind of this young and sorrow-stricken woman. She thought of the dismal, tedious hours she would be doomed to pass in solitude, or what is worse, in the midst of uncongenial society, and that too, with a husband whom she now looked on with aversion; and then after having renewed her attachment to her daughter, to be separated for ever—the thought was agonizing, and she had not the strength to endure it.

If she yielded she would have her daughter again—she would be surrounded by the charms and excitements of a life of pleasure and enjoyment, and would also exchange the society of a man whom she never loved, for one whom she had always regarded with fondness, and from whom she separated only under the momentary passion of resentment for her neglected and injured beauty.

These considerations agitated her bosom with tumultuous emotions, and convulsed with tears, she said:

"I yield on one condition."

"What is it? Name it," he returned with eager impatience.

"It is this, I must see my elder brother and my sister, and if they consent, I consent."

"Be it so; I will abide their decision. To-morrow let us meet again that I may know my fate."

"To-morrow we will meet again."

On this the parties separated, when Mrs. C——p immediately repaired to her twin-sister, who was married and in good circumstances, residing in the upper part of the city.

To her she told the whole story of her sufferings, and readily obtained her consent to abandon the last husband, and by all means to recover the child. The brother was called and his consent was also obtained.

The next day, Mrs. C——p and her first husband again met and arranged their plans, which were to be put immediately into execution.

Evening came, and in her father's house Mrs. C——p was quite cheerful.

Her husband, who observed this change in her feelings, was himself also in the best spirits, and previous to his going out to spend the evening, had bestowed on her the tenderest caresses. Ah! little did he know that he was looking on that lovely countenance for the last time; little did he know that he was pressing those lips to his own for the last time.

Soon after he had gone, a carriage drove up near the residence of Mrs. C——p's father, the door was thrown open, but no one egressed. It had not long been waiting when Mrs. C——p, throwing on her bonnet, slid unperceived out of her father's house, and entered this carriage, which then drove off.

She was not missed until about ten o'clock, when her husband returned. Search was instantly made, messengers were dispatched to the school, to her brother's, and to her sister's, but no tidings of her. could be obtained. Mr. C——p became alarmed lest some accident had befallen her, and was pacing up and down the hall in great agitation, when a ring was heard at the door bell. He opened the door in great haste, hoping to meet his missing wife, but great was his disappointment on receiving from a boy the following note:

MY ONCE DEAR HUSBAND:

The change which has come over my feelings renders it impossible for me any longer to live with you. This will explain the cause of my departure. I am now gone where you can never see me more. I trust that you may bear the misfortune as becomes a man, and that you will hereafter have no cause to regret the step I have taken. You have lost one who can no longer love you, but who now by this act gives you an opportunity to become happy with another. My best wishes for your prosperity and happiness go with you.

Farewell, MARY C——p.

On reading this, the afflicted man fainted, but on reviving, recovered a manly composure, and bore the mortification and regret he must naturally have felt with a composed and resigned mind. Her parents, who were taken by surprise at this singular conduct, were indignant at their daughter, and made every effort to find out her place of concealment, in order if possible to restore her to her husband, with whom they sincerely sympathized.

He, on the contrary, desired no effort should be made to restore her to him, as he was resolved to return immediately home, send back the furniture and clothes belonging to her, and never think of her more.

With this resolution he returned home, and as he had promised, restored to his late wife all that had belonged to her.

Mrs. C——p had, on the night of her elopement, entered the carriage in waiting for her, where she was received in the arms of Mr. C——k, her first husband, and was conveyed immediately to her brother's house, where with her daughter, she remained concealed from her parents and friends for some weeks.

Afterward she had a house of her own, furnished in elegant style, with horses and carriages at her command, and soon she became involved in a whirl of dissipation and amusement.

Her first husband was restored to her love, and they seem to pass their time as happily as when first married. She takes the name of her first husband, and few knew any thing of her previous adventures.

But among all her friends and acquaintances she is beloved for her beauty, her agreeable manners, her lively and entertaining wit, and also for her numerous virtues, which shine conspicuous through the tenor of her life.

————

CHAPTER X.

SCENES AND ACTIONS IN THE SOCIETY OF MORAL REFORM.

A TALL, young and beautiful woman, known by the cognomen of Mrs. (we will not give her real name, but call it) Shampill, was a leading actor in the Moral Reform movements of this city.

Her history may be thus briefly summed up: She and two sisters were early left orphans, and dependent on their own exertions for bread—she learned the trade of milliner. The eldest was soon married, and after having borne two children, was left a widow. The next younger sister died about the same time. Thus the widow and the youngest sister—the latter but eighteen—found themselves alone in the world.

They took a house together, and let rooms to lodgers, but it was not long before the busy tongue of scandal had filled the air with rumors, false or true. The youngest, to counteract the effect of these tales, consented to marry a miserable old invalid, who belonged to a family of some distinction, but whose fortune was now reduced to a few hundred dollars.

With this small sum a larger house was taken, and furnished in good style, and the name of Dr. Shampill put on the door, as the old man had been a doctor, though without practice. In this new establishment they lived; but what they gained in money they lost in reputation.

The house was made the scene of gayety and dissipation. Frequently they gave supper parties. On such occasions, at about nine o'clock, a party of young gentlemen and young ladies would be gathered, and love and song, and mirth and pleasure, would go round till past the keystone hour of the night.

To speak of the character of the ladies assembled, or to describe more particularly the scenes enacted on these occasions, is foreign to the purposes of this work. It is sufficient to say that Mrs. Dr. Shampill became an object of much admiration within a certain circle of young men, and frequently rode out, or walked with some of the dashing young men that frequented her house, while, in her own house, she was conspicuous in the merry-making parties, which boded no good to her fame.

Days passed on, and Mrs. Dr. Shampill and her sister quarreled, and separated. The former took a new house, letting the rooms to lodgers, joined the church and entered the business of moral reform.

Another actor in these scenes was also the wife of a doctor. She was the victim of a mother's folly.

In a town in the northern part of this State she was born and educated. Her mother, who became romantically attached to a female-friend, had at a boarding school joined in a mutual vow that their future children should be united in matrimony. It so happened that this mother married rich, and her friend comparatively poor, and the only son of the latter was ten years older than the only daughter of the former.

This mother, when her daughter was but fifteen, was brought upon her death bed, during the absence of her husband at the South. At this solemn juncture, her female friend came forward and insisted on the marriage of their children, lest, after her death, it might be prevented. She wished, at all events, to secure a rich bride for her son.

The marriage ceremony was privately performed, and, as previously agreed upon, the parties immediately separated, not to re-unite or make their marriage known to friends or the public for two years.

Mr. B——t, which was the name of the bridegroom, returned to his studies in the medical college, and Mrs. B——t, after her mother's death, was sent to a boarding-school.

After the stipulated lapse of time, the victims of this foolish marriage returned to their native place, and were publicly married over again. Of course it took but a short time for them to discover that they were mutually unfitted for each other's society, and that a mutual aversion existed between them.

Mrs. B——t was but seventeen, beautiful, accomplished, and fond of gayety. The susceptibilities of her private nature, and the inclinations of her mind, easily lead her from her plodding, ungainly and phlegmatic husband into censurable flirtations with the gay and designing admirers in whose society she found more congenial sympathies.

Disgraced at home, her father denounced and cast her off, when she and her husband came to the City of New York to seek their fortunes. After various struggles and trials, through which he was supported by his wife, he at length commenced business as a homœopathic physician.

Mrs. Dr. B——t, who had hitherto spent several weeks, or months, every winter at the South, in the company of an uncle or a cousin, and who had flirted herself out of all respectable society at Saratoga Springs, and had, in one instance, been requested to leave the United States Hotel—now settled down in her own house in this city, and had things in her own way.

If the doctor's business was not very lucrative at first, the house nevertheless thrived—furniture, and dress, and gay company, and money, were not wanting to make time pass pleasantly away.

Mrs. Dr. B——t now became a leader in the moral reform movement.

Another conspicuous actor was an old deformed woman, a widow, who had been a milliner all her days, and having in her old age joined the church, set up for the character of a benevolent woman.

She united herself with every religious or charitable society, where she could get admitted, and finding her former occupation was looked on as rather vulgar by the professors of religion and charity, contrived, by the aid of a poor music-teacher and an old piano, to set up the double business of a select boarding-school and a boarding-house for a "few families" or "single gentlemen."

If she would every week have a day or two to herself, when she would lie in her dining-room stretched on a settee in a state of stupor, which the uncharitable called drunkenness, it was not her fault, but that of her ill-health, which required the free use of brandy, as prescribed by her physician, who was, and is, a well-known temperance lecturer.

If her boarders would frequently refuse to eat what was set before them, it was not her fault, for she always bought the cheapest the market afforded.

If the daughter would charge the mother with lying and drunkenness, it was not the fault of the parent, for she had often told the child not to do so, as it would be a scandal to her who belonged to so many religious and temperance societies, and who stood so high in the church.

Mrs. Cain, for that was the pious old lady's name, had often been charged with not paying any of her servants, but this charge was false, for she did at least pay one as follows:

A meeting of one of the charitable associations to which she belonged met at her house to distribute clothing to the poor.

"I have sent," said Mrs. Cain, "for a very poor widow woman, with small children, to come and get some clothing to-day."

"Let her be brought in," said the Presidentess.

Mrs. Cain went out and soon returned with her own servant, whom she had instructed to play her part.

The servant received the clothing, and Mrs. Cain afterward charged twice its value in payment of her wages.

Such were three of the most conspicuous actors in the Moral Reform Society of the City of New York.

Let us attend an informal meeting of these immaculate moral reformers.

It is called at Sister Cain's. A few only are notified to attend. The business is looking after suspected delinquents, either the husbands or lovers of the female moral reformers.

The presidentess, a busy old maid, and the treasurer, a simple-minded and pious matron, whose husband never troubled himself about her affairs, were present. Mrs. Dr. Shampill, Mrs. Dr. B——t, and Mrs. Milliner, school-mistress, boarding-house-keeper-Cain, together with a couple of young married ladies, formed the remainder of the members of the meeting, with two exceptions—these were the clairvoyant operator, styled Dr. Ashwood, and his subject, Eliza.

The members present were believers in the occult science and mysteries of clairvoyance. The disbelievers were not notified to attend.

The presidentess called the meeting to order.

Prayer by Sister Cain.

Next came the order of the day.

Sister Cain rose and said that "Mrs. Wood was present, and though she had not yet been married one year, she was thrown into the greatest distress of mind at the recent neglect of her husband, and his absence from home to a very late hour at night. I move that the clairvoyant be put upon him, that we may find him out and reform him."

"I second the motion," says Mrs. Dr. B——t.

"The vote is unanimous," announced the presidentess.

The operator puts his subject in motion.

"There he goes!" exclaims the clairvoyant, Eliza. "There he goes—see—trace him into that elegant house near the Parade Ground. It is ten o'clock."

"Who lives there?" asked the operator.

Mrs. Dr. Shampill turns pale, moves in her seat, and puts her handkerchief to her mouth.

"It is a doctor," answers Eliza. "See, he approaches that beautiful woman. She smiles—the gentleman smiles."

"Well, what else do you see?"

"He sits down by her side."

"Well, what else?"

"A little rosy-cheeked boy with arrows hovers over them, and in a few minutes they are enveloped in a misty shower of gold."

"Well, what else?"

"All looks bright and luminous; but I can see nothing more."

"Who is this lady?"

"The doctor's wife."

"What is her name?"

"You will see the name on the door-plate. It begins with S."

"This is a dubious case," said Mrs. Cain.

All eyes were now turned to Mrs. Dr. Shampill, for all could have no doubt that it was her that was meant.

"Please ask the clairvoyant what night this was?" said Mrs. Dr. Shampill, in a bold tone.

"What night was this?"

"It was last Friday night."

"Do you not remember," asked Mrs. Dr. Shampill, turning toward the treasurer, "that on last Saturday morning I handed you a donation from a friend, of a two dollar and a half gold piece?"

"Yes, I do," replied the treasurer.

"Now I can tell you how it was," explained Mrs. Dr. Shampill. "The doctor was standing at the door and saw Mr. Wood passing, and he called him in. I philopœned Mr. Wood, and he gave a small donation to the society, which money I handed the next morning to the treasurer, and this is the golden shower Eliza saw."

"This explanation seems entirely satisfactory," said Mrs. Dr. B——t.

"I think so too," said the treasurer.

Mrs. Wood expressed herself satisfied with the explanation; when the examination proceeded in regard to a young man, a clerk in Broad-street, whose conduct Mrs. Dr. B——t wished scrutinized, as she pretended, for the sake of a cousin of hers, a young lady to whom the young gentleman in question was engaged to be married.

The real truth was, this young gentleman was a fond and too familiar friend of Mrs. Dr. B——t, and she had lately suspected him of certain vagaries which did not over-please her.

The examination proceeded, but nothing definite was elicited, save a visit or two to some young ladies, whom, perhaps, he ought not to have visited.

The other young married lady had her husband's conduct put under the clairvoyant sight, but nothing of moment was elicited, save that he was fond of calling on Mrs. Dr. B——t, and had been seen riding out with Mrs. Dr. Shampill. But these circumstances were satisfactorily explained.

The clairvoyants were dismissed with a fee of fifteen dollars, five of which went privately in the pocket of Sister Cain, who had procured for him the job of regularly attending these meetings.

At the regular meetings of the society, the treasurer accounted for these expenses under the head of miscellanies, and would never give any more particular account of the money. To replenish the treasury, the country auxiliary societies were loudly called on to aid in the cause of female virtue, and the rich and benevolent in the city were frequently importuned to contribute.

The meeting broke up.

Mrs. Dr. B——t met her friend in the evening, and charged him with what had been revealed by the clairvoyant.

Mrs. Dr. Shampill returned home and took off her plain black dress in which she always appeared at the society, at church and on other similar occasions.

She now arrayed herself in gay and dashing colors and bedecked with jewelry. Her husband, as he was styled, was in the basement, where he was usually kept, when a well-dressed young gentleman called.

A short time afterward, Mrs. Dr. Shampill and Mr. Wood were seen riding out on the Bloomingdale Road, and seemingly in the highest glee.

Thus goes the world, and of such stuff are made half the pretended reformers of the world.

————

CHAPTER XI.

A SCENE IN DUANE-STREET.

WE here present another chapter of the Iniquities of New York, in which is pictured forth a deplorable state of morals.

The scenes here depicted—unfortunately of too common occurrence—confirm the statements of some of the most experienced police officers, who affirm that two-thirds of the support given to the houses of ill-fame, in this city, comes from married men.

Some of the parties involved in the following occurrence occupy distinguished positions in society, and the degradation to which they have stooped, only renders the more conspicuous and more dangerous the flagrant vices to which they have been addicted.

The pen of the moralist and the tongue of the reformer are called on for a more bold and active exercise of their benevolence in the work of wiping out from the face of society the foul stains of licentiousness and debauchery.

As the Spartans exhibited drunken helots before their children, to incite in their minds an abhorrence of the drunkenness, so we here present to the world the following picture of sin and depravity, copied from the columns of the Police Gazette, in order that this rock of temptation and death may be shunned:

A rich and racy scene occurred at the Court of Special Sessions on Friday last. On that occasion, a pretty and fashionably attired young girl, named Caroline M——, was placed on trial, charged with having violently assaulted Mrs. Jane W——, keeper of a house of prostitution, No. — Duane-street.

Mrs. W——, who presents an antiquated appearance of forty odd years gathering, appeared in court, most flauntingly attired in silks and furbelows, while the early hour at which she had risen, caused such haste in her toilet, as to leave the recent traces of paint and powder streaming down her face, like a muddy brook rushing through a chalk pit. She was attended by several of her "boarders," while, on the other hand, the fair prisoner was escorted into court by a crowd of tawdry-dressed associates, intermingled with her "talented and ingenious" attorney at law.

Jane W—— being examined, testified that the prisoner was a boarder in her establishment for the last three months. On the morning of the 12th of July, about half-past 10 o'clock, her attention was attracted by the servant girl Maria, who complained that Caroline was making a muss on the table cloth, by spilling the coffee and breaking the cups and saucers. Witness went down stairs for the purpose of expostulation with her, when the latter insisted on having hot coffee for breakfast, as she paid seven dollars a week for her board. The servant told her that if she would come to breakfast early, instead of walking down stairs at half past ten, she could get her coffee always hot. Witness endeavored to remove Caroline from the room, when she smashed cups, saucers, china, glass, ornaments, and every thing else she could lay her hands on, and on witness attempting to prevent her, she flew at her like a tigress—tore her clothes, grappled her by the throat and would have choked her to death, but for the interference of Dr. Fall, who came to her rescue.

Counsel for defense.—What sort of house do you keep, and where do you keep it?

Witness. I keep a boarding house at — Duane-street.

Counsel. Are they all girl boarders?

Witness. Well, I guess so.

Counsel. Do you know Mr. J. A——?

Witness. Yes, very well.

Counsel. Does he or Dr. Fall board there? (Laughter.)

Witness. No, sir, they don't.

Counsel. Did you or either of those gentlemen shake this prisoner before she attacked you?

Witness. No, sir, they didn't do no such thing.

Counsel. What does this girl pay for her board per week?

Witness. $7 per week.

Counsel. Besides bed money? (Laughter.)

Witness, (with much impertinent indignation.) Bed money! What's bed money, sir? I don't know what you mean, sir! Bed money! I never receive bed money, sir. (Great laughter among the audience, and the police and Prince John Davis' finger to his nose.)

Joe A—— was here called as a witness in behalf of Mrs. W——, but he did not answer.

Dr. Adolph Fall was next called to the stand, amid a fluttering excitement from the audience, who appeared to expect some rich developments from the professional attendant of a house so well known for disease and for every creeping thing.

The doctor stated that, at about half-past ten o'clock, on the morning in question, while he was attending a patient in the house opposite that kept by Mrs. W——, a girl called to him from the attic window, and said that Caroline was murdering Miss Jane, down stairs, and begged him to come over right away and separate them, as she had her down on the floor belting her among the broken crockery; that he ran directly across into the basement, and found Caroline bearing Miss Jane with one hand and choking her with the other; that he attempted to part them, but had much difficulty before he succeeded, and afterward had to send for a policeman to take Caroline away to the Tombs.

Cross-examined by defense. What is your business, sir, and where do you reside?

Witness. I am a physician, and my residence is at — Warren-street.

Q. Do you often visit this house, doctor?

A, (much excited.) I have a right to attend the house as often as I please, professionally, sir; I have answered the question, and I don't wish to be asked any impertinent questions beyond it.

Q. Many of the inmates of the house are continually diseased, are they not, doctor, and this makes it necessary for you to call often, I suppose?

A. They're like other girls, I suppose—sick and well, as circumstances happen. (Laughter.)

Q. You appear to know them all well, doctor, you speak and nod to them familiarly, as I saw just now.

A. No, sir, I don't know them more than other persons whose business brings them there professionally. (Much smirking among the policemen present at the latitude of the word "professionally.")

Q. Your professional license gives you great latitude, doesn't it, doctor, in all matters appertaining to female diseases? (Laughter.)

A. Of course it does—it's my business.

Q. Have you ever seen a model artiste at Mrs. W——'s for medical inspection? (Roars of Laughter.)

A. I shall answer no question not relative to the case. (More roars.)

Q. Well, doctor, answer me this. Did you ever see any thing at Mrs. W——'s that looked like a live corpse? (Shouts of laughter, with cries of order, order.)

A. I appeal to the court for protection—I sha'n't answer such questions. (More snorting.)

Q. Doctor, never mind about that answer. But did you ever see Joe A—— at the house of Mrs. W——?

The doctor objected to answering the question and it was ruled out by the court.

Q. While you were attempting to separate the parties in the basement, didn't you bite one of Miss Caroline's fingers so severely that the blood ran down on your breast and spotted your shirt bosom?

A. No, sir. I did not—my linen was soiled, but it was caused by my nose bleeding, and not by biting her finger.

Q. What caused your nose to bleed, doctor? (Laughter.)

A. I don't know, except it was the excitement of the affray between the women.

Q. What's the best cure for nose bleed, doctor? (Great laughter.)

A. I'm not here to answer this question, sir. (Great laughter, during which some one was heard to say in sotto voce, "put ice in your breeches.")

The policeman who arrested Miss Caroline was then called and testified that she was very violent and mighty stormy when he entered the basement.

Recorder. Well, Caroline, what have you got to say about this business?

Caroline. It's all a piece of spite against me, because I threatened to expose her carryings on with her lovers; they and she irritated me to it. I had to go to the Battery that morning to meet a gentleman, and as I didn't get to bed till late, for we sometimes don't go at all if there's no company, and hardly ever, till 4 o'clock, I didn't get back in time for breakfast; I went into the kitchen and the girl said there was nothing but cold coffee, and I don't like cold coffee, and she gave me some sauce, and I threw the coffee on the table. At this the girl went up stairs, and down came Miss Jane, like a raving fury, and commenced calling me all sorts of names, such as your honors would blush to hear, and I called her names back, so I did. She then clinched me and I clinched her, and instantly one of her lovers, Dr. Adolph Fall, who stands over there, rushed in and took her part and endeavored to choke me off. He shoved me against the wall, and I pushed my hand out against his face, so as to prevent him, when he clinched one of my fingers with his teeth and bit it to the bone, so that the blood run all over the bosom of his shirt.

Recorder. Is Dr. Fall often there?

A. Oh yes, bless you; he and Joe A—— are always there. (Great laughter.) A—— was there that morning, and he hid himself in a clothes press up stairs. (Roars.)

Q. Is Mr. A—— a doctor, too? (Laughter.)

A. O no, Lord bless you—he's a music man in Broadway, somewhere—(roars again)—but they're both lovers of hers; she sometimes has both of them in the house at once; one in the basement and the other in her room up stairs. (Snorting laughter. Prince John, with one hand in his pocket, moving for the door.)

Q. Do they board there?

A. Not regularly, or to pay for it, but they dine very often with the girls, for they do anything that Miss Jane tells them to do. (Great laughter.) A—— takes breakfast very often in the morning, and Dr. Fall comes in the evening—the doctor made her a present of a kissing chair, (roars) a few days since, and she wants to have me punished because I laughed and talked about it—I couldn't help it, I'll assure you I couldn't, to think of her kissing, as she is old enough to be my mother. (Roars of laughter.)

Q. Caroline, I'm afraid you've got a bad temper, and if we let you go you'll assail her again in the house.

A, (Witness crying.) I'm as quiet and as good natured as any girl is, and how can I do anything to her when Dr. Fall and Joe A—— are always in the house? If the court will let me go this time, I'll never go near her place again, I'll assure you, as soon as I get my clothes away from there.

Recorder. The court have consulted about your case, and under the circumstances we shall order you to be confined in the city prison ten days, in hopes you may conclude to quit this course of life and enter some Magdalen asylum for penitence and reformation.

Caroline then left the court, attended by her escort to the prison entrance.

————

CHAPTER XII.

SCENES IN A BOARDING HOUSE, IN WHICH A BEAUTIFUL BUT MYSTERIOUS YOUNG WIDOW FIGURES.

THERE are certain phases in the boarding-house life in this city that are rich in scenes of gaiety, love and depravity. The quantity of wickedness cloaked in some instances under the name of boarding-house, would, if exposed, appear to most people frightful.

The following scenes are taken from real life, and are illustrative of a great deal of similar life every day occurring in various parts of the city.

Mrs. Smith has a large house elegantly furnished in Houston-street, and her rooms filled with boarders.

In describing the group, conspicuous among them appears a decayed, or decaying doctor, a widower, who lives on his money, and liberally enjoys the best of liquors. He occupies the back-parlor, which seemed to be the head-quarters of the landlady also, and if rumor did not belie her, she was, in the poetic language of Burns,

"The lass that made the bed to him."

Among the other boarders were a merchant, two clerks, a young doctor, who could not pay his board bill, and two young men with plenty of money and up to any thing.

The landlady was a buxom widow of forty, full of life, gaiety, romance, and of the utmost liberality in speech and manners. She was blessed with two daughters, fifteen and seventeen years of age, who were chips of the old block, and the youngest one, all block.

It happened one day that Mr. Curry, a Wall-street broker, an old familiar acquaintance of Mrs. Smith, called to obtain board for Mrs. B——n, a young widow, then boarding in his family.

Mrs. Smith knowing the piety and excellent character of the broker's wife, and consequently feeling assured that from the circumstance of the widow's residing in such a family, she must be quite orthodox in all the proprieties of life, accordingly took her in.

A few days after, a young gentleman who represented himself as a merchant from the South, came with his most beautiful wife and took board.

One day, after a frolicsome evening in the parlor, when the rest of the company had retired, the landlady, Mrs. Smith, called a dashing young man—Mr. Jones—one of her boarders, to her, and in low confidential tone, said:

"There is to be a private fancy dress ball at a friend's of mine, in a few days; would you like to attend?"

"With all my heart, nothing will please me more."

"Mind you now, this is all to be kept a secret, and there will be some pretty girls there, and you can fall in love with them as much as you please."

"That's capital! Just what I like!"

"You must keep it all a secret."

"To be sure I will."

"I'll explain to you confidentially all about it. I have a friend residing in Liberty-street."

"O, yes! I know her! It was the lady you introduced to me at the dinner-table the other day. Mrs. Elwood—is not that the lady?"

"Yes; it is she."

"I thought so," replied Jones, touching his thumb to the nasal extremity, and gyrating his digitals in a very significant manner.

"Did you ever know her before?"

"No; but I have known her since, and know who it was that went to Boston with her, whom she pretended was her husband. The day I saw her at your table she slyly invited me to call on her, and I have been several times to see her."

"Well, since you know something about her, I'll tell you all I know of her. I have been acquainted with her since she was married a dozen years ago to a very nice young man. He took it into his head one day to get jealous of a young lawyer, and perhaps he had cause. At any rate, he got up one morning, took his trunk and clothes and went off, leaving her with the furniture. She then lived with the lawyer, who now oftentimes passes as her husband, though in her house she styles herself as a widow. You know she lets out rooms to single gentlemen."

"I know she is regarded a very respectable and nice lady by her lodgers and by the neighbors."

"Well, as to the ball. She is in the practice of giving some very private and select balls."

"Who will be there?"

"I can't tell you, for it is a rule that none shall know each other. You will be introduced to the company, but by some fictitious name, and if you ever see any of the party hereafter in any other place, you are not to know them."

"What sort of company is it?"

"All very respectable. Every lady present will be of the highest respectability."

"Are you going?" asked Jones.

"To be sure I am." answered Mrs. Smith, in a bold tone.

"Are there any others going whom I know?"

"Yes; and though it is against the rules to tell, yet I'll tell you. The young widow is going, and Mrs. Parrot, and Mrs. Clark. Mrs. Parrot, you know, is the young lady that has just come here."

"Yes, I know her. Her pretended husband is a notorious gambler, and she is his paramour. They have just come from New Orleans to spend the summer at the North."

"Well, I knew something about that—you'll keep it secret. She is a beautiful lady and knows how to behave with propriety."

"Who is Mrs. Clark?"

"The lady I introduced you to the other day. She is rich, and has got a very nice young man for a husband, but as she has all the money, he has to do just as she tells him. He can't buy a suit of clothes without her permission. But he'll never know of her going to this ball."

"Who is this young widow, now with you?" asked Jones.

"I don't know. Mr. Curry, and an old friend, brought her here. She says he is her trustee, and has the management of her funds. She was in his family a short time, but Mrs. Curry cleared her out. and he brought her here. Mrs. Curry, I have heard, is a very unhappy woman."

After this conversation, the parties retired—the one to ponder on schemes for new intrigues, and the other, young Jones, to dream of the fancy ball.

————

CHAPTER XIII.

THE FANCY BALL.

THE scene is now in Mrs. Elwood's house in Liberty-street.

She had taken advantage of a temporary absence of her lodgers to give a fancy ball, which not only brought her friends together for the enjoyment of rare sport, but also served to replenish her purse—for the tickets of admission were five dollars for a gentleman and lady.

The rules required that all should meet and part as strangers, and not recognise each other afterward, should they happen to meet, except by mutual consent.

While together, the utmost freedom of social intercourse was to be permitted, and all were to consider themselves at liberty to chat and flirt to their heart's content.

There were present on this evening about twenty persons, among whom were several beautiful ladies; but the belle of the room was the young and mysterious widow, Mrs. B——n.

She had a tall queenly form, graceful carriage, and a most lovely and expressive countenance, black eyes, dark hair, and an arm like Pico's.

She was dressed in the character of the "Indian Queen," which was at that time the rage at the Olympic, and which gave her an excellent opportunity to display to the greatest advantage the peerless beauty of her form; her principal dress being a species of frock coat, which, for a gentleman, would have been of good length. Her arms were bare, and like polished marble. Her dress displayed an ivory neck, and gave indications of a bust, which, when moved by the deep heavings of passion, might call forth sighs from the bosom of an anchorite.

She, together with Mrs. Smith, who was not in costume, came with Mr. Jones.

It would be superfluous to describe the dress of the others. Though all were not in costume, yet all were dressed in the gayest style, and had come to indulge in the freest mirth, and to abandon themselves to the pleasures and excitements of the moment.

The first of the evening passed off with the greatest hilarity. The music was fine and the dance went briskly.

The widow was the great point of attraction, but her society was chiefly monopolized by her attendant, young Jones, who had begun to be separately in love with her. Some heart-burnings and jealousies arose, but soon they were drowned in the waves of mirth, and the dance, and music and wine.

The supper-hour came, when the party sat down to a munificently spread table, loaded with the choicest viands, and sparkling with wines.

Young Jones was seated between Mrs. Smith and the widow, the latter of whom absorbed all of his attention. They supped and drank deep of the wine, and after having removed from table, retired by themselves, leaving others to renew the dance, in which but few now participated.

Young Jones, when alone with the widow, strove with all his art to draw from her a confession of her career, but in vain. He could learn from her only that she had been married, and was now a widow. He, however, confessed his love in no moderate terms, and vowed he would cling to her till death.

The artful widow professed to reciprocate a degree of love, and afterward turned the passion of her admirer to great advantage to herself, in the shape of costly and valuable presents.

On returning to the dance, young Jones took Mrs. Elwood for a partner, and became so much interested in her witty and intelligent conversation, as almost to forget the star that had hitherto twinkled in the firmament of his thoughts.

From this agreeable lady he learned much of the world, and was made acquainted with the position and character of many of the actors in the scene before them.

"Tell me, I beg of you, who is that lively, enchanting girl, in the character of a Swiss peasant?"

"You know it is against the rules to tell what we know of each other; yet, as this lady has desired an introduction to you, and as she does not now profess to much secresy, I will tell you who she is.

"She is a native of Halifax, where her father was a physician, but dying, and leaving his family unable to support themselves in the style in which they were accustomed to live, the sons entering into business, the mother and an only daughter came to this city, where the latter teaching at first in a school at Bloomingdale, at length set up for herself. Soon after her mother dying, and she herself marrying a Southern gentleman, went to the South to reside.

"For two summers he left her alone, and came to New York, to amuse himself without her.

"Suspecting all was not right, she resolved to accompany him this season; and they came on together in May, and put up at the Astor House. Here she soon discovered that her husband was a gambler, and that other objects drew off his attention from her, leaving her at times several days together without coming near her. Being thus alone, she called on a former female friend, who is also a good friend of mine. She was introduced to me. I found her a woman of spirit, and sense; and knowing that she had herself alone to depend on, determined on an independent course of action. She still remains at the Astor House, where her husband occasionally visits her, and pays her board; but, as to her conduct, he knows nothing of that."

"Who is that gentleman with her?"

"He is the Secretary of the French Legation, and is a great admirer of this deserted woman, who possesses much wit and intelligence."

It was near morning before the party broke up, when young Jones accompanied his two partners home, and retired to rest—but not to sleep, for he lay in a waking and bewildered dream of the new and exciting scenes he had witnessed and participated in.

Soon Mrs. Smith became quite jealous of the widow, and a quarrel ensued, which ended by an accusation against her by the widow, who alledged that the former had stolen a sum of money from her trunk.

Officers were sent for, and a search made throughout the whole house, and to which all the boarders were obliged to submit.

During this pell-mell, it leaked out, through the tongue of the widow, that Parrot was a gambler, and his pretended wife no wife at all. Strange hints were also thrown out regarding Mrs. Elwood, who, as a frequent visitor, was known to all the boarders.

The consequence was, several of the more respectable boarders packed up their things to depart, when the Parrots and the widow received their walking-ticket.

The widow and young Jones, on this affray, took a tour to Boston, while Mrs. Smith soon afterward filled her house with a new set of boarders, and all things went on as smooth and as jolly as though nothing of an unpleasant nature had ever occurred.

Young Jones has since got married, but not to the widow, who is now boarding at a very respectable boarding-house not far from Union Square, and who, if she sees this, will recognize some scenes in which she has borne a part, but who has sense enough to keep to her own counsel.

————

CHAPTER XIV.

A WORD ABOUT GAMBLERS.

THERE are in this city some half a score or more of tip-top gambling concerns, furnished in the most elegant style, and which offer to their guests most magnificent suppers.

There has been recently opened an establishment to which but few can gain admittance. It is furnished in the most elegant style, surpassing any establishment of the kind ever known in this country. All its furniture was imported from Paris, for its mirrors and rich paintings dazzle the sight, and the foot rests upon the softest carpets of Turkey. But of this we say no more at present.

Besides this there are more than a hundred shops of a lower grade, where the business is carried on upon a gradually reduced scale, until you reach the Five Points, where in some damp cellar or rotten garret you behold a group of ebony-faces grinning around a pine table, and lighted by a tallow candle stuck in a glass bottle.

But it is the medium or better grade of gamblers that do the most mischief, and decoy the greatest number of victims into their snares.

To recruit the victims of their diabolical trade, the gamblers of this city have a regular system of police established upon all new-comers to the city, whose business it is to watch the arrivals at the hotels and ascertain who among them are likely subjects to be operated upon. The spies employed in this business are often men of considerable address, and make a flashy genteel appearance, very impressive and taking with greenhorns. The principal means of leading strangers into the trap are an introduction to the innumerable houses of ill-fame, the inmates of all of which are connected with one or the other of the gambling-houses.

The decoy knows how to make himself agreeable to the stranger—points out the various curiosities of the city, supplies him with information respecting the various localities—tells him where the Post Office, the Exchange, the Custom House, &c., &c., can be found—and makes himself useful in a variety of ways. At evening they adjourn to the bar—fortify themselves with a julep—and by the time it is scientifically imbibed, Mr. Greenhorn is ripe for anything.

A walk is proposed; and in the course of a lounge in the Battery or a saunter up Broadway the city gentleman meets a female acquaintance, splendidly dressed and uncommonly sociable and condescending. Mr. Greenhorn is at once introduced, and the lady politely invites both gentlemen to call round in the course of the evening and see her. The countryman is delighted with such an unusual exhibition of hospitality, and begins to think New York is a leetle the cutest place anywhere this side of sundown.

Once fairly in the harlot's den, and his fate is sealed. Bewildered with the strangeness of all he sees and hears, overcome by flattery and attentions, he does not refuse a glass of champagne, which is drugged with a small quantity of morphine, just enough to inspire self-confidence and audacity; and the spy finds no difficulty in leading a willing victim to the gambling-house, where he is scientifically plucked, and left to make his way to his hotel, a ruined, miserable man.

Going still another step downward in our researches, we come upon the penny poker dens of the thieves and negroes of the Five Points and other similar localities. These are indescribably filthy and abominable holes, into which a man with healthy lungs might penetrate with about as much safety as he would go down a well with an air-damp at the bottom.

Here the various grades of small thieves and pickpockets may be seen, huddled together over a dark table, shuffling a pack of greasy and worn-out cards, drinking villainous brandy and fire-new whiskey—swearing, quarrelling, fighting, and making the reeking air thick with blasphemy. In these dens men and women are indiscriminately mingled—and such men! but more especially, such women!

The enemy of mankind could not possibly desire more fitting and accomplished instruments to perform all his dirtiest jobs upon earth. Here the striking characteristics of gambling-houses, groggery and brothel are brought in the strongest relief. Whoever glances at one of these places, has indelibly stamped upon his brain a picture of human degradation which the most vivid imagination would attempt in vain to conceive.

In going about the city, in preparing to discharge a task such as we have undertaken, and exploring the mysteries of these veritable internal regions, one no longer wonders at the amount and frequency of crime. He only is astonished that it is not an hundred times as great.

We have hinted that the gambling-houses of all grades were well-known to the police, and we now repeat that there is not an officer or policeman in the city who doesn't know one or more of these places, and has not in his possession positive evidence of their true character. "Well then, why are they not suppressed and their keepers punished according to law?"

If we could answer that question so that the people could see it exactly as it is, we could revolutionize society and reform the world. We may say, in general terms, that all these establishments contain or control votes—the whole end, aim and means of office-holders and politicians. There is, doubtless, an immense amount of private bribery of officers by the keepers of these and other unlawful establishments. But the great thing is votes.

So long as the party in power can maintain the ascendency by winking at a hundred and fifty notorious gambling-houses, keeping dark about fifteen hundred public brothels, and licensing two thousand superfluous groggeries, so long we shall look in vain for any thorough, radical and all-embracing system of municipal reform, commended for the benefit of the people and carried out in complete good faith and honor.

But we repeat, the gambling-shops will never be suppressed while the authorities themselves are involved in this disgraceful calling. There is scarcely a Common Council in which there is not a professed gambler in one or both boards. One of the aldermen from one of the first five wards was with his paramour notoriously known as the keeper of a famous infamous house.

While such a state of things continue, it is in vain to hope for any attempt at vigilance or faithfulness in the execution of the laws.

It is well known that the gamblers confine their operations not to cards or dice, but that politics is one of the means of gambling. Indeed it has been said that the gamblers control our elections, and that no persons are so well informed of the state of parties and of the means predicting or rather of predetermining future elections.

The gamblers have large bets at stake on all important elections, particularly the Presidential election, and to facilitate their operations have a complete and efficient organization extending to every State, by which they are not only able to exercise a great influence on the votes of the people, but also to obtain exclusive information of the political partialities of the people, and of the probable, if not certain result of the elections in every part of the country.

To this scheme of political gambling many a victim has fallen. It is not by bets among themselves that the gamblers carry on this game, it is by drawing the ardent and inexperienced young politicians into their snares that they flourish.

Their instruments by which they operate are conspicuous betting politicians, who are furnished with means by gamblers to bring the young and inconsiderate into their traps.

What effect the new law will have on this system of political gambling remains to be seen. We trust it will be beneficial, but the facility with which it may be evaded, or the impunity with which it may in most cases probably be violated, will perhaps render it partially ineffectual.

Short works from Putnam's Monthly

UNCLE TOMITUDES.

HERE is a miracle! or something, at least, that has not happened before, and consequently, for which the world was not prepared; for the belief of King Solomon still prevails, that nothing will be which has not already been, and every new thing is incredible until it has been duplicated. Uncle Tom, therefore, is a miracle, his advent had not been foreseen nor foretold, and nobody believes in him now that he has come, and made good his claim to be considered somebody. But, Uncle Tom's superiors were not believed in at first, and he can well afford to bide his time.

Never since books were first printed has the success of Uncle Tom been equalled; the history of literature contains nothing parallel to it, nor approaching it; it is, in fact, the first real success in book-making, for all other successes in literature were failures when compared with the success of Uncle Tom. And it is worth remembering that this first success in a field which all the mighty men of the earth have labored in, was accomplished by an American woman. Who reads an American book, did you inquire, Mr. Smith? Why, your comfortable presence should have been preserved in the world a year or two longer, that you might have asked, as you would have done, "who does not?"

There have been a good many books which were considered popular on their first appearance, which were widely read and more widely talked about. But, what were they all, compared with Uncle Tom, whose honest countenance now overshadows the reading world, like the dark cloud with a silver lining. Don Quixote was a popular book on its first coming out, and so was Gil Blas, and Richardson's Pamela, and Fielding's Tom Jones, and Hannah More's Cœlebs, and Gibbon's Decline and Fall; and so were the Vicar of Wakefield, and Rasselas, and the Tale of a Tub, and Evelina, the Lady of the Lake, Waverley, the Sorrows of Werter, Childe Harold, the Spy, Pelham, Vivian Grey, Pickwick, the Mysteries of Paris, and Macaulay's History. These are among the most famous books that rose suddenly in popular esteem on their first appearance, but the united sale of the whole of them, within the first nine months of their publication, would not equal the sale of Uncle Tom in the same time.

But this success does not, by any means, argue that Uncle Tom is superior to all other books; but it is an unmistakable indication that it is a live book, and that it will continue to live when many other books which have been pronounced immortal, shall be dead and buried in an oblivion, from which there is no resurrection.

Uncle Tom is not only a miracle of itself, but it announces the commencement of a miraculous Era in the literary world. A dozen years ago, Uncle Tom would have been a comparative failure—there might not have been more than a million copies sold in the first year of its publication. Such a phenomenon as its present popularity could have happened only in the present wondrous age. It required all the aid of our new machinery to produce the phenomenon; our steam-presses, steam-ships, steam-carriages, iron roads, electric telegraphs, and universal peace among the reading nations of the earth. But beyond all, it required the readers to consume the books, and these have never before been so numerous; the next year, they will be more numerous still, and Uncle Tom may be eclipsed by the shadow of a new comer in the reading world. It is not Uncle Tom alone who has made the way for himself; the road to popularity has been preparing for him, ever since the birth of Cadmus; he has only proclaimed the fact that the great avenues of literature are all open, wide, and well paved, and free to all who have the strength to travel in them. Hereafter, the book which does not circulate to the extent of a million of copies, will be regarded as a failure. What the first edition of a popular novel will be by-and-by, when the telegraphic wires will be printing it simultaneously, in New-York, St. Petersburgh, San Francisco, Pekin and the intermediate cities, it is not easy to estimate. Then, when an international copyright shall secure the whole world to the popular author, for his market, authorship, we imagine, will be a rather more lucrative employment than it happens to be at present. The possibility of such a time does not appear half so improbable now, as the actualities of Uncle Tom would have sounded in the earlier days of the Edinburgh Review.

It is but nine months since this Iliad of the blacks, as an English reviewer calls Uncle Tom, made its appearance among books, and already its sale has exceeded a million of copies; author and publisher have made fortunes out of it, and Mrs. Stowe, who was before unknown, is as familiar a name in all parts of the civilized world as that of Homer or Shakspeare. Nearly two hundred thousand copies of the first edition of the work have been sold in the United States, and the publishers say they are unable to meet the growing demand. The book was published on the 20th of last March, and on the 1st of December there had been sold one hundred and twenty thousand sets of the edition in two volumes, fifty thousand copies of the cheaper edition in one, and three thousand copies of the costly illustrated edition. The publishers have kept four steam-presses running, night and day, Sundays only excepted, and at double the ordinary speed, being equal to sixteen presses worked ten hours a day at the usual speed. They keep two hundred hands constantly employed in binding Uncle Tom, and he has consumed five thousand reams of white paper, weighing seventy-five tons. They have paid to the author twenty thousand three hundred dollars as her share of the profits on the actual cash sales of the first nine months. But it is in England where Uncle Tom has made his deepest mark. Such has been the sensation produced by the book there, and so numerous have been the editions published, that it is extremely difficult to collect the statistics of its circulation with a tolerable degree of exactness. But we know of twenty rival editions in England and Scotland, and that millions of copies have been produced. Bentley has placed it among his standard novels. Routledge issues a handsome edition of it with a preface by the Earl of Carlisle; and this virtuous nobleman, with the blood of all the Howards in his veins, sees nothing out of the way in venting his indignation against American Slavery, in the preface of a book which is stolen from its author and published without her consent. Bentley also tacks on an "indignant preface" to his edition, but it is stated that he gives a per centage on the sale to the author, which gives him a right to be indignant, if he chooses. But the Earl of Carlisle and Routledge might have reserved their indignation against slavery, it strikes us, until they had taken to honest courses themselves. Another publisher in London issues an edition and proposes to share profits with the author, while a penny subscription has been got up as a testimonial to her from all the readers of the work in Great Britain and Ireland. We have seen it stated that there were thirty different editions published in London, within six months of the publication of the work here, and one firm keeps four hundred men employed in printing and binding it. There have been popular editions published also, in Edinburgh and in Glasgow; and it has been dramatized and produced on the boards of nearly every theatre in the Kingdom. Uncle Tom was played in six different theatres in London at the same time. An illustrated edition is now publishing in London by a bookseller named Cassell, the illustrations being furnished by the famous and inimitable George Cruikshank. The same publisher has issued an Uncle Tom Almanac, with designs by some of the most eminent artists of London. The whole Beecher family, of which Mrs. Stowe is a member, have been glorified in the English periodicals, and are exciting as much attention just now, as the Napoleonic family, to which they bear great resemblance; one being a family of Kings and Queens, and the other of preachers and authors—sovereigns in the intellectual world.

Uncle Tom was not long in making his way across the British Channel, and four rival editions are claiming the attention of the Parisians, one under the title of le Père Tom, and another of la Case de l'Oncle Tom. But the fresh racy descriptions of the author, lose their vigor and force when rendered into French, though the interest of the narrative remains. The book reads better in German than in French, and makes a deeper impression on the Teuton than upon the Gallic mind.

The Allgemein Zeitung, of Augsburg, says of it in the course of a long review:

"We confess that in the whole modern romance literature of Germany, England and France, we know of no novel to be called equal to this. In comparison with this glowing eloquence, that never fails of its purpose, this wonderful truth to nature, the largeness of these ideas, and the artistic faultlessness of the machinery in this book, George Sand, with her Spiridion and Claudie, appears to us untrue and artificial; Dickens, with his but too faithful pictures from the popular life of London, petty; Bulwer, hectic and self-conscious. It is like a sign of warning from the New World to the Old. In recent times a great deal has been said about an intervention of the youthful American Republic in the affairs of Europe. In literature, the symptoms of such an intellectual intervention are already perceptible."

This is rather stronger praise, than any of the French critics have bestowed upon Uncle Tom, one of whom thinks it inferior to Hildreth's Archy Moore. But Mrs. Stowe's epic is more read in Paris, just now, than any other book, and it is said to have a greater success than any similar production since the publication of Paul and Virginia.

Uncle Tom has found its way into Italy, where there are more American travellers than American books. Our chargé, at Sardinia, reports that it is making its mark there, as in other parts of Europe, in a manner that astonishes the people. Two editions in Italian have been published in Turin, and one of the daily papers was publishing it as a feuilleton, after the manner of the Paris press.

What progress Uncle Tom has made in the other northern nations of Europe, in Russia, Sweden, Denmark, Poland and Lapland, we have not been informed; but it is undoubtedly drawing its tears from the eyes of the hyperboreans, as well as from the inhabitants of the mild south. India and Mexico, and South America, have yet to be Uncle Tomitized, for we have not heard of any editions of Mrs. Stowe's great romance among the descendants of the Aztecs, the Gauchos, or the Brazilians. It must spread over the whole earth, like the cholera, only reversing its origin and the order of its progress. One of our newspaper critics compares the Uncle Tomific, which the reading world is now suffering from, to the yellow fever, which does not strike us as a very apt comparison, because the yellow fever is confined wholly to tropical climes, while Uncle Tom, like the cholera, knows no distinction of climate or race. He is bound to go; and future generations of Terra-del Fuegians and Esquimaux, will be making Christmas presents at this season of the year, of Uncle Tom's Cabin in holiday bindings.

Not the least remarkable among the phenomena that have attended the publication of Uncle Tom has been the numerous works written expressly to counteract the impressions which the book was supposed likely to make. This is something entirely new in literature. It is one of the most striking testimonials to the intrinsic merit of the work that it should be thought necessary to neutralize its influence by issuing other romances to prove that Uncle Tom is a fiction. Nothing of the kind was ever before deemed necessary. When Mrs. Radcliffe was bewitching the novel-reading world with her stories of haunted Castles there were no romances written to prove that ruined Castles were not haunted. But Uncle Tom had scarcely seen the light when dozens of steel pens were set at work to prove him an impostor, and his author an ignoramus. Some dozens of these anti-Uncle Tom romances have been published and many more of them remain in obscure manuscript. We have had the pleasure of looking over a score or two, which were seeking a publisher, and nearly all of them were written by women, upon the principle of similia similibus. The writer of one of these unpublished anti-Tom novels had made a calculation, the innocent ingenuity of which tickled our very midriff. She had ascertained that one hundred and fifty thousand copies of Uncle Tom's Cabin had been sold, and she calculated that every reader of that romance would be anxious to hear the other side of the story of domestic slavery, and her romance being the silver lining of the Southern institution, she came to a publisher with a modest proposal based upon a certain sale of one hundred and fifty thousand copies of her work. But this good lady had not made a greater mistake than the majority of our reviewers who have assumed that the "golden joys" of Mrs. Stowe's authorship were all owing to her having sung of Africa. Most unaccountably they imagine that it is the subject, and not the manner of its treatment, that has fascinated the reading public. But a more effete subject, one of which the public were more heartily wearied, which was more unwelcome to ears polite than that of slavery, it would not have been easy to select. Whoever touched it was sure of that cruelest of all martyrdoms: contemptuous neglect. The martyr age of anti-slavery, as Harriet Martineau called it, had passed away, and the more fatal age of indifference and contempt had succeeded. The public had been inundated and surfeited with anti-slavery sentiment in all possible forms, from the fierce denunciations of the Pilsbury Garrison school, down to the mild objurgations of Lucretia Mott. Every possible form of literary composition and pictorial embellishment had been devoted to the subject, and no one either needed, or desired, any further enlightenment about it, when Uncle Tom's Cabin was announced to the world of novel readers. The chances were a thousand to one against the success of the book. And yet it has succeeded beyond all other books that were ever written. And the cause is obvious; but, because it was obvious and lay upon the surface, it has been overlooked, there being an opinion among most men that truth must lie a long way out of reach.

"When I am reading a book," says Dean Swift, in his Thoughts on Various Subjects, "whether wise or silly, it seems to me to be alive and talking to me." This is the secret of the success of Uncle Tom's Cabin; it is a live book, and it talks to its readers as if it were alive. It first awakens their attention, arrests their thoughts, touches their sympathies, rouses their curiosity, and creates such an interest in the story it is telling, that they cannot let it drop until the whole story is told. And this is done, not because it is a tale of slavery, but in spite of it. If it were the story of a Russian Serf, an evicted Milesian, a Manchester weaver, or an Italian State prisoner, the result would be the same. It is the consummate art of the story teller that has given popularity to Uncle Tom's Cabin, and nothing else. The anti-slavery sentiment obtruded by the author in her own person, upon the notice of the reader, must be felt by every one, to be the great blemish of the book; and it is one of the proofs of its great merits as a romance, that it has succeeded in spite of this defect. If Mrs. Stowe would permit some judicious friend to run his pen through these excrescences, and to obliterate a flippant attempt at Picwickian humor, here and there, Uncle Tom's Cabin would be a nearly perfect work of art, and would deserve to be placed by the side of the greatest romances the world has known. It has often been spoken of by critics as deficient in artistic ability, but it is to its masterly construction, or artistic quality, that it is indebted for its popularity. The over-plus of popularity given to the work by its anti-slavery sentiment is not much greater than the loss of readers from the same source; but the evangelical sentiment of the book, the conversions to holiness through the influence of Uncle Tom's preaching, which the London Times cavilled at, is a greater cause of its popularity with the religious classes, we imagine, than the anti-slavery sentiment which it contains. For the religious sentiment of Uncle Tom is in strict accordance with the theology of nine-tenths of the Christian world. In all the great requisites of a romance it is decidedly superior to any other production of an American pen.

There are not, in Uncle Tom's Cabin, any of the delicacies of language which impart so great a charm to the writings of Irving and Hawthorne, nor any descriptions of scenery such as abound in the romances of Cooper, nor any thing like the bewildering sensuousness of Typee Melville; but there are broader, deeper, higher and holier sympathies than can be found in our other romances; finer delineations of character, a wider scope of observation, a more purely American spirit, and a more vigorous narrative faculty. We can name no novel, after Tom Jones, that is superior to Uncle Tom in constructive ability. The interest of the narrative begins in the first page and is continued with consummate skill to the last. In this respect Thackeray is the first of cotemporary English novelists, and Bulwer deserves the next mention. But the commencement of all of Thackeray's stories is dull and uninviting, while Bulwer, who opens briskly, and excites the attention of the reader in the beginning, flags and grows dull at the close. Mrs. Stowe, like Fielding, seizes upon the attention at the outset, and never lets it go for a moment until the end. It matters not by what means this is done, it is the chief object aimed at by the romancer, and the greatest artist is he who does it in the most effectual manner; if the writer of fiction fails in this point, he fails altogether. And the same may be said of every other writer; the mind must first be amused before it can be instructed.

In no other American book that we have read, are there so many well-delineated American characters; the greater part of them are wholly new in fiction. The mischievous little imp Topsy, is a sort of infantine Caliban, and all the other darkies are delineated with wonderful skill and freedom; and each page of the book is like a cartoon of charcoal sketches. It has been objected to Uncle Tom, that all the whites are impossibly wicked, and all the blacks are impossibly good. But nothing could be further from the truth than such an assertion; the most amiable of the characters are some of the slave owners, while the most degraded and vile are, of course, the slaves. There is no partisanship apparent in the narrative proper, and if the author did not, occasionally, address the reader in her own person, greatly to her own prejudice, we should hardly suspect her of anti-slavery leanings.

An ingenious writer in the Literary World has done Mrs. Stowe the favor to point out an instance of undeniable, but, we presume, unconscious plagiarism, on her part, for which she should feel herself under great obligations to him. He proves pretty clearly, that the weakest part of Uncle Tom has been borrowed from Mrs. Sherwood. Little Eva is, unquestionably, nothing more than an adaptation of the Little Henry of the English lady; and, for our own part, we think it very creditable to Mrs. Stowe that such is the case. The little Nells, little Pauls, little Henrys, and little Evas, are a class of people for which we care but little. Dickens has much to answer for in popularizing the brood of little impossibilities, who are as destitute of the true qualities of childhood as the crying babies which are hung up in the windows of toy-shops. One Topsy is worth a dozen little Evas. But it is a proof of the genius of the author, that every character she introduces into her story is invested with such a distinct individuality that we remember it as a new acquaintance, and feel a strong interest in its fate.

We have heard of almost innumerable instances of the power of Uncle Tom, but one of the finest compliments that has been ever paid to its fascinations was from a Southern Senator and a slave-holder. Somebody had persuaded him to read the book, and, on being asked what he thought of it, he merely replied that he should be very sorry for his wife to read it. A friend of ours was sleeping one night in a strange house, and being annoyed by hearing somebody in the adjoining chamber alternately groaning and laughing, he knocked upon the wall and said, "Hallo, there! What's the matter? Are you sick, or reading Uncle Tom's Cabin?" The stranger replied that he was reading Uncle Tom.

Apart from all considerations of the subject, or motive, of Uncle Tom's Cabin, the great success of the book shows what may be accomplished by American authors who exercise their genius upon American subjects. Imitations of foreign and classical literature, though equal to the originals, will not command success. The American author or artist who is ambitious of success must confine himself to the illustration of American subjects. Cooper made his first essay upon foreign ground and failed. He then came back to America, with no better talent than he carried abroad, and succeeded, having first secured a reputation by the use of a home subject, and then succeeded with foreign materials. But Irving always wrote as an American even when his theme was foreign. There is yet remaining an uncultivated but rich field for American genius. Our first novel of society has yet to be written. We are daily looking for the appearance of our native novelist who shall take his place by the side of Irving, of Cooper, of Melville, and Hawthorne, and Mrs. Stowe. Like the sister of Fatima, we can see a cloud in the distance, but we cannot make out the form of the approaching genius. There are steam-presses and paper-mills now erecting to welcome him. Our aborigines, and sailors, and transcendentalists, and heroes, and slaves, have all had their Iliad, but our men and women of society are yet looking for their Fielding, their Bulwer, or their Thackeray.

Some of the foreign correspondents of our daily papers, in commenting on the popularity of Uncle Tom in Europe, account for it by saying that the English are glad of an opportunity to circulate a book which shows up our country to disadvantage. But we do not perceive the force of this argument. We do not think that any degree of hatred to our institutions could induce the people of Great Britain to read a dull book. Besides, there have been dozens of books published about slavery, which throw Uncle Tom’s Cabin completely in the shade in their pictures of our domestic institutions. In fact, Mrs. Stowe’s book gives a much more agreeable picture of Southern slavery than any of the works we have seen which profess to give the right side of the tapestry. A desire to degrade America surely cannot be the reason why the representation of dramatic scenes in Uncle Tom have proved so attractive in our own theatres. For our part, we think that the actual effect of Mrs. Stowe’s romance will be to create a much more indulgent and forgiving spirit towards the people of the South than has prevailed in England heretofore. Our last presidential election certainly did not afford any reason to believe that the minds of our countrymen had been at all influenced by Mrs. Stowe’s enchantments.

ELEGANT TOM DILLAR.

CHAPTER I.

TO speak of Tom Dillar in any other way than by his pseudonym of Elegant, would be like speaking of Harold Harefoot, Edwin the Fair, the Black Prince, or Louis the Debonnaire, without their distinguishing adjectives. Tom Dillar was known to his acquaintances only as Elegant Tom, and he was well entitled to the epithet, for he was elegant in looks, manners, and style. He was one of those happy persons who seem to have come into the world for the sole purpose of eating the sunny side of ripe peaches. There were no deficiencies in Elegant Tom Dillar, and if one could have the ordering of his own antecedents, they could not be superior to Tom's. On the side of his father, he was connected with the best English families in the State; and, by the mother's side, he could boast of the purest Dutch descent. He inherited a large fortune from his father, and, what was much better, a healthy constitution and a handsome person. Being independent in his circumstances, he was not educated for a profession; but, being apt to learn, he was taught a good many accomplishments that are not generally bestowed upon American youths. He could dance much better than most professors of that elegant art, and in music he was something more than a proficient upon the guitar, the piano, and the violin. Then he had a fine voice, a delicious tenor, and those who had the good fortune to hear him sing used to boast of it, as though a piece of rare luck had befallen them. Tom was good-natured too, and as amiable as though it were necessary for him to conciliate the world, that his presence might not be considered an intrusion. But, of all men, he was least likely to be considered de trop in the world.

He went abroad, and came back as amiable and unpretending as he went, but with more accomplishments than he carried away. He was invited every where, and he might have married any girl he chose to honor in that manner; but, as often happens in such cases, he seemed never to have been touched in his heart by any of the beautiful creatures who surrounded him. There was Fanny Ormolu, the only daughter of the great auctioneer, who, they used to say, was dying for him; and it was said that her father was so fearful of the effects of Tom's indifference on his daughter's health, that he was guilty of the indelicacy of offering to settle a hundred thousand dollars on him if he would marry her. But Tom had never known what it was to want money, and, like an honorable, high-minded fellow as he was, refused to sell himself, even at so high a figure, and to so beautiful a purchaser.

They say that old Ormolu was so exasperated and indignant at Tom's refusal, that he swore he would have satisfaction for the insult; and he was as good as his word. He did not challenge Tom, nor, indeed, permit him to know that he entertained any ill-will against him; for, if he had, he probably would not have been able to accomplish his purpose. Ormolu was a commercial gentleman, and his manner of getting satisfaction was a purely business transaction: in fact the old fellow did not understand any thing else. He set himself deliberately to work to ruin Tom by getting away all his money. As this would have been the severest punishment that could have been inflicted upon himself, he naturally and very sensibly, imagined that he could inflict no greater wrong upon another than by making him a bankrupt.

Now, Tom was not a spendthrift, nor a gambler; but then he was the merest child in business matters, and had no idea about money transactions beyond drawing his dividends every six months, and contriving to make his income just meet his expenditure. Tom had often wished that his income was larger, for he had long been ambitious of owning a yacht, but was unable to indulge in that costly enjoyment; so, when his young friend, Pete Van Slicer, of the firm of Van Slicer, Son & Co., the great stockbrokers, of Wall-street, one day said to him, as if by accident, "Tom, how would you like to enter into a little speculation, by which you might make a hundred thousand dollars or so?" Tom opened his eyes, and eagerly replied he would like nothing better.

Pete then carelessly remarked, that Bob So-and-so had made nearly double that sum a few days before, by a corner in Harlem, and that he could put Tom in the way of making at least that amount by a speculation in Pottawattamy Coal Stock. Tom, not being familiar with stock operations, asked how it could be done; whereupon Pete explained to him that certain parties having sold long in the stock were going to get up a corner, which would compel the shorts to buy in, and that the stock would then begin to rise, and there was no knowing where it would stop. What Pete proposed that Tom should do was, to buy in while it was down, and when the rise should reach its height to sell out, and pocket the profits.

"Can I rely on the rise taking place?" asked Tom, who had not a very clear notion of the nature of the transaction.

"Trust to me," replied Pete, with a knowing wink, which seemed to Tom so full of sagacity, that he concluded to trust to him, and accordingly gave an order to the firm of Van Slicer, Son & Co., to purchase, for his account, about ten times as many shares of the Pottawattamy Coal Stock as he had the means to pay for, Pete undertaking to carry the stock, as he called it, for thirty days, in which time the rise was sure to occur.

Having made this little business arrangement with his Wall-street friend, Tom jumped into one of the Dry Dock stages, to go up to the ship-yards and make inquiries about the cost of a yacht; and that night he dreamed of winning the Queen's cup at the Cowes regatta, and of lying at anchor in the harbor of Newport, and other pleasant things connected with the manly sport of yachting.

Tom did not know that his friend, Pete Van Slicer, was paying attention to Fanny Ormolu; and, even if he had, he could never have imagined that old Ormolu was making use of the young stockbroker to ruin his friend. But such was the fact. The next day Elegant Tom Dillar created a good deal of surprise among the motley throng of Jews and "lame ducks" that hover round the doors of the Stock Board in the third story of the Merchants' Exchange; and when a playful Hebrew knocked Tom's hat over his eyes, as he stood anxiously waiting to hear what Pottawattamy sold at, he was so engrossed in his new speculation, that he never thought of resenting the affront. Pottawattamy went up one per cent. that day, but the next it went down ten, and the next ten more, and Tom received a brief note from Van Slicer, Son & Co., informing him that he was their debtor for losses on Pottawattamy Coal Stock, in a sum that considerably exceeded his entire fortune.

A man who has never felt the actual cautery of poverty, cannot have a very clear idea of what that word really means, and Tom did not, therefore, feel half so badly as he ought to have done, when he had to confess to himself that he was a bankrupt.

There is nothing to be gained by going into the distressing particulars of Tom's settlement with his brokers, and therefore I will merely remark, that on the very day upon which all his available property passed out of his own hands into those of Van Slicer, Son & Co., the junior member of that eminent firm was united in the holy bonds of matrimony, as the papers say, to Fanny Ormolu, only daughter and so forth, of Jefferson Ormolu, Esq., our enterprising and esteemed fellow-citizen, of the eminent firm of Ormolu, Bronze & Co.

——

CHAPTER II.

The ruin of Thomas Dillar, Esq., was complete. Wall-street never witnessed a more decided cleaning out than in the case of my elegant friend. It was so smoothly and rapidly done, that he was like the man who didn't know he was decapitated until he attempted to nod his head—so sharply, so adroitly, and so quickly, had the blow been dealt. But it does not take long for a person to find out that he is poor, and Elegant Tom Dillar immediately began to have a "realizing sense" of the true state of his case. He had nothing in the world left but his watch, and a few articles of jewelry, by which he could raise money enough to discharge the few debts he owed, and which were demanded with a rude pertinacity that he had never known before. He had to abandon the hotel in Broadway at which he had been living, and take cheap lodgings in Beekman-street; and, instead of having more invitations to dine than he could accept, he suddenly found himself without any invitation at all; as to evening parties, although he had made up his mind not to go to any more, he had the mortification of being cut by all his old friends, and soon ceased to expect any attentions from them. Heretofore Tom had skimmed the cream of human existence; he had visited only in the best circles, eaten the best dinners, drank the best wines, read the most amusing books, worn the best clothes, and had known nothing of the infelicities of human existence, except by hearsay. But now his turn had come to feed on husks, and taste of hyssop.

What Tom had suffered, or how he had struggled, none knew but himself, for he was too proud to complain, and, to all appearances, he was as light-hearted and cheerful as ever he had been in his most prosperous days. But, as the writer of these lines was one evening hurrying down Broadway, to escape from the clouds of blinding dust which a cold, northwest wind was driving along that crowded avenue, he was suddenly arrested, near the comer of Canal-street, by a tap on the shoulder. Turning round, he saw Elegant Tom Dillar, with his coat buttoned closely up to his throat, and looking uncomfortably sharp, serious, and, to make use of a vulgar figure of speech, seedy.

"How are you?" said Tom, in his usual elegant manner; but, without waiting for a reply, he continued, "you needn't ask me how I am, for I can discern by your looks that you see how I am. I am hungry."

Elegant Tom Dillar hungry!

I was too much shocked by this humiliating confession from a man whom I had known and envied in his happier days, to disguise my feelings. But I put my hand in my pocket to feel for my purse.

"Thank you," said Tom, "it is very generous in you to anticipate my request. It is but a trifle that I need; and I will repay you soon."

I offered him the contents of my purse; but he would not take more than half a dollar. "At least," said I, "allow me to treat you to a supper, since you say you are hungry?"

"I will agree to that," he replied, "upon the condition that you favor me with your company, and allow me to call for what I want."

Of course, I could not refuse his proposition, and, knowing what his former habits had been, I supposed he would go into some of the splendid restaurants on Broadway, and call for such a supper as he had once been accustomed to indulge in. But, on the contrary, he led me into one of the cross streets, and I followed him down into a very humble underground "Saloon," where he ordered a supper of cold meat and bread, and I could not prevail upon him to indulge in any thing more.

"You know something of my history," said Tom, "how I once lived, and how I lost my property; but how I have lived since, you do not know, and I shall not distress you by telling. Look," said he, and he unbuttoned his threadbare coat, when I saw that he had on neither vest nor shirt. "I am actually reduced to this extreme," said he, and his voice quivered as he spoke, "by trying to live honestly. Up to this very hour, until I met you, I have not stooped to beg; but now I was driven to it. I had nothing left by which I could raise a shilling, and I had not tasted food to-day."

"Good Heavens!" said I, "can this be true? What, Elegant Tom Dillar, with all his accomplishments, his rich acquaintances, his knowledge of the world, and in a city like this, where employment is so readily obtained, reduced to starvation! It cannot be true."

"But it is true," said Tom, "impossible as it may seem to you, and all because I was not brought up to a regular profession. My accomplishments were not of a kind to bring me money in an honorable way, and I made up my mind that if I could not live honorably, I would prefer not to live at all. I could easily have sold myself to unworthy or disreputable employments, or my former friends would probably have been glad to have had me sing for them, and have rewarded me by permitting me to live on their bounty, but I could not submit to such a position as that. I could never be a jack-pudding of society; and I would not disgrace my father's name by a dishonorable occupation."

As Tom spoke these words, he looked more elegant in his shabby suit than ever he had done in his happier days; and, in spite of his poverty, I could not but still admire his manly spirit and self-reliance. I actually felt poor beside him.

"But," said I, "why will you not allow me to lend you a larger sum than you have taken? You shall be heartily welcome to more."

"Because," replied Tom, "it is all I need. I think I have found a placer, and after this, I shall be rich again."

I wished his expectations might be realized, and, shaking his hand, I gave him my card, and begged he would send to me, if he should need any further assistance.

——

CHAPTER III.

It was about three months after I parted from Tom in the cheap restaurant, that, as I entered the vestibule of the Astor House, I met him coming out of that hotel. I started back with amazement as I saw him, for Tom was now dressed with greater splendor than I had ever before seen him; not obtrusively made up, but with an air of studied elegance that was new to him. Certainly he never looked better, nor better deserved to be called Elegant Tom Dillar. He appeared a little embarrassed when he first caught my eye, but his old manner soon returned. "I owe you a trifle, I think," said he; "let me pay it." And he pulled out a silk purse which seemed to be full of gold and silver, and reached me a half-dollar.

"That is the principal," said he; "now do me the favor to accept this for interest;" and he took a handsome seal ring from his finger, which he put upon mine. As our initials were the same, I do not know whether he had had it cut for me or not; but, seeing my cipher on the agate, I fancied he had, and did not refuse it. I keep it among my most precious mementoes of past friendships, for Tom Dillar is one of those persons whose acquaintance I regard as a feather in my cap.

——

CHAPTER IV.

The reappearance of Elegant Tom Dillar in what is called society, was a topic of universal conversation in fashionable circles, and once more invitations began to pour in upon him, so that he might, if he had had the capacity, have eaten three dinners daily at the very best houses in town, and have danced in the most brilliant company that New-York could afford, nearly every night. But a great change was perceptible in Tom's manner. He was the same Elegant Tom Dillar he had ever been; faultless in his manner, refined in his conversation, incredible in dress, and handsomer, if possible, than before his retirement. "But he is so subdued in his style," was the remark of every body. He never danced, and when he was pressed to sing, he always evaded the request by pleading a slight hoarseness. There used to be a slight dash of frivolity in Tom's conversation and conduct, and he would abandon himself to all kinds of merriment; but now he was rather grave, quiet, and dignified, and several ambitious young men made most melancholy attempts to form themselves upon his style. Another of his changes was, that he wore his hair cut very short, and his fine classical head was improved by it. In fact, Tom's new style was infinitely more interesting, becoming, and distingué than his old. Certain pious ladies got their heads together, and, after discussing the matter, came to the conclusion that Tom Dillar was preparing himself for the ministry. This suspicion even gave a new interest to him, and he became more than ever an object of observation. But this theory was soon exploded; for, if Tom were engaged in so pious an occupation, under whose auspices was he studying? On hearing the report, Tom smiled sarcastically, and raised his eyebrows as people do when they are both surprised and amused, but did not deny it. But, if he was not studying for the ministry, what was he doing, and how did he live? Where did he get his money? for it was known that Tom paid as he went, and not a soul of his acquaintance could accuse him of borrowing.

These questions began to grow extremely interesting and puzzling, for the manner in which Tom had been cleaned out by his speculation in Pottawattamy Coal Stock, by his friend, Pete Van Slicer, was as notorious as his subsequent poverty, and retirement from the world. All sorts of expedients were resorted to for the purpose of discovering the secret of Tom's income; but the mystery baffled the keenest investigation, and the consequence was, that the wildest conceivable stories were told about him, and he was regarded with looks of suspicion, and treated with cold disdain by certain ladies who had marriageable daughters.

The excitement at last reached its calenture when it was discovered that Julia Laurens, daughter of the celebrated and wealthy physician of that name, and granddaughter of old Ormolu the auctioneer, one of the most beautiful and fascinating girls in society, had actually fallen in love with Tom, and that he had been forbidden her father's house because he refused to tell how he gained his income.

The report of this interesting circumstance invested the mystery of Tom's prosperity with a romantic interest, and the excitement became absolutely furious. It was impossible to enter a house without hearing the subject discussed, and even merchants talked about it on 'Change. The different theories which were broached were highly instructive, inasmuch as they revealed the many different methods by which a man may contrive to live without labor; but it so happened, that not one of them came within a thousand miles of the truth. Tom had, in fact, discovered a placer, as he termed it, which he alone knew how to work; and most discreetly did he keep his secret, until, in a luckless moment, the merest accident revealed it.

The women, poor simple-minded creatures, knowing but little of the world, had their own innocent surmises about Tom, the most plausible of which was, that he had entered into a league with the ——; some other ladies, who had a less practical acquaintance with human possibilities, believed that he got his money by writing poems for the magazines; while others said that he gambled. But Tom's regular habits and his placidity of temper were adverse to the last supposition. The men, of course, gave shrewder guesses; and one party maintained, with some plausibility, that Tom Dillar was employed as a Russian spy. The difficulty in this case was, that he never received any foreign letters, was notoriously ignorant of political movements, and never mingled in any society where he would be likely to pick up any information that would interest the Emperor of Russia. Another party maintained that he speculated in stocks; but that theory was easily knocked in the head: Tom had not been in Wall-street since his speculation in the Pottawattamy Coal Stock. Some ill-natured people hinted that he was employed in circulating counterfeit money; but he was closely watched, and was never known to pass off a bad bill. He was accused of picking pockets, of buying lottery tickets, and other disreputable practices; but the strict integrity of Tom's conduct, and his perfect frankness on all subjects concerning himself, except that impenetrable mystery of the source of his income, put every ungenerous suspicion to rest. He was watched when he went from a party, or the opera, and was always found to go directly to his lodgings, and there, too, would he be found in the morning. Julia Laurens's father had employed a police officer to dodge Tom's footsteps, and discover what his haunts were; but the man could learn nothing more than was already known. There was one rather striking peculiarity, however, about Tom's movements, which might lead to the discovery of the mystery. Nobody had seen him, except on Sunday nights, between the hours of seven and ten. Every place of amusement in the city was ransacked in vain, during these hours, but no sign of Tom Dillar could any where be found, and he continued to be a subject of talk in society, where he was still well received in spite of all the evil things that were surmised about him.

Julia Laurens was a spirited girl, and she loved Tom the better, perhaps, because he was the object of so much unjust suspicion; and her father, the doctor, was charmed by Tom's intelligence, his gentlemanly manners, his fine taste, and his amiability; and most happy would he have been to acknowledge him as his son-in-law, but for the mysterious silence which he observed in respect to his income. But, as Tom was resolute in his silence, the father of Julia was inexorable, and there was nothing left for them but a clandestine marriage. The lady hinted at her willingness, but Tom told her, dearly as he loved her, he would not be guilty of a dishonorable act to obtain her. He would wait a little longer, and perhaps her father would relent.

To fully appreciate Tom's noble conduct, it should be known that Julia, in addition to her expectations from her father's property, which was already large, and rapidly increasing, had property of her own, valued at fifty thousand dollars, which had been bequeathed her by an aunt. All this Tom might have had, and the woman he loved besides, but for his high-minded sense of honor.

——

CHAPTER V.

Doctor Laurens, Julia's father, was a most passionate lover of music, and you were always sure of seeing him in his box at the opera, in his bright-buttoned coat, with lorgnette in hand, listening to the prima donna as though she were a patient, and he anticipated a fee at the close of the performance. He was so catholic in his tastes that he could enjoy one kind of music as well as another, and, when there was no opera, and his patients would permit it, he would go to hear the Ethiopian Minstrels, and sit through the entire performance. In fact, the banjo was one of the Doctor's weaknesses, and there were some people, who were uncharitable enough to say that negro minstrelsy was much better adapted to his musical taste, than the Italian opera. But that was mere scandal, of course, for the Doctor had been in Europe, and had brought back with him, like many other gentlemen who go abroad, a taste for music and the fine arts, which he did not carry with him.

There was one member of the Ethiopian band, where the Doctor was in the habit of going, who had completely fascinated him, which was not much to be wondered at, for he had fascinated every body else who heard him; and when he appeared, there was sure to be an overflowing house. The name of this incomparable singer was Higgins, and his talents, as a banjo player, as a dancer, and a personator of the negro character, particularly as the negro dandy, were equal to his splendid abilities as a singer. The Doctor never failed to drop into the Ethiopian opera, as it was called, whenever this public favorite appeared, which was nearly every night, and seeing his name up on the bills for a benefit, the Doctor resolved to go. On reaching the hall he found the house so crowded, that he could not even get his nose inside, but the door-keeper recognized him, and wishing to gratify so distinguished a patron of the establishment, offered to show him round by a private entrance, so that he would be near the stage, and might retire at his leisure.

The Doctor was delighted, and put something handsome into the hand of the door-keeper, as an acknowledgment for the favor. He got a comfortable seat near the stage, and waited with impatience for the appearance of the incomparable Higgins. The sham darkey was in splendid voice, and filled the audience with ecstatic pleasure by his happy imitations of Dandy Jim. But his most brilliant performance was in the plantation break-down, in which he ravished the spectator by his unparalleled heeling and toeing. In the midst of the performance, when the frenzy of the spectators was at its height, a boy in the gallery threw a piece of orange-peel on the stage, and Higgins, by an unlucky step put his foot upon it, and fell with a tremendous crash. The audience at first thought it a part of the dance, and applauded tremendously, but it was soon discovered that the poor man had met with a serious accident. He was taken up by his companions and borne off the stage; directly after, the leader of the band came on, and asked if there was a surgeon in the house, as Mr. Higgins was badly hurt by his fall. Doctor Laurens was but too happy to have an opportunity of rendering any professional assistance to so distinguished an artist as Higgins; so he stepped promptly forward and offered his services. The artist had struck his head, but was only stunned. The Doctor, however, did as all doctors do on such occasions, whipped out his lancet and bled the patient, while one of his companions, with a bowl of water and a sponge wiped the burnt cork from the face of the unconscious minstrel.

Higgins presently opened his eyes, and stared wildly about him, while the Doctor shrieked out,

"Good gracious, it is Elegant Tom Dillar!"

Tom was bewildered by the sudden change of the scene, and faint and sick from the loss of the blood which Doctor Laurens had been letting out of his veins; but, bewildered and weak as he was, the sound of the Doctor's voice, and the sight of his astonished countenance, brought Tom to his senses. He knew at once that his secret was discovered, and comprehended in a moment the consequences that must follow its revelation to society.

"Doctor," said he, faintly, "it is no use to dissemble further. You know my secret; let me request you to keep it to yourself."

"O! my dear fellow," said the Doctor, "you are perfectly safe in my hands; don't be uneasy. For the credit of my own family, at least, I shall not be likely to proclaim to society that a gentleman who has visited at my house, is a member of a troupe of Ethiopian minstrels. I wish you a good evening, sir."

It very oddly happened that, before midnight, all the members of the Manhattan Club, to which the Doctor belonged, knew that Elegant Tom Dillar had retrieved his fortunes by joining the Ethiopian minstrels, and the news was spread all through society before the next day at noon.

Tom received a package early in the morning from Julia, inclosing all the billets-doux and trinkets he had sent her, and requesting a return of all she had ever sent him. The note was as devoid of feeling or sentiment as a lawyer's dunning letter; and Tom wrote one in reply, which was quite as cold and business-like.

"Well," said I to Tom, on meeting him a few days after his accident, which would very likely have proved fatal to him but for his woolly wig; "Do you intend to give up society or the minstrels?"

"Society!" exclaimed Elegant Tom Dillar, with a sarcastic curve of his finely chiselled lip; "Society be ——."

I will not repeat the very coarse expression he used; for, since his new associations, he had grown rather rude and low in his language.

"What should an honest man care for society?" said he. "When I was an idler, living on the property which my father's industry had procured me, society petted me and cherished me. When I lost my property, society turned a cold shoulder to me, but petted the villain who had robbed me of it. When by an honest exercise of the only accomplishments I had been taught, I was enabled to appear like a gentleman, society again received me with open arms, although it imagined I was a gambler or a pickpocket; but, when it was found that my money was honestly obtained—that I wronged no one, nor owed any one—society rejects me again, and the girl who was willing to marry me as a swindler, turns her back upon me as an honest man."

I am afraid that Tom was misanthropical; for, as he soon after became possessed of a considerable fortune by the death of a relative, he quitted the minstrels and went to Paris, where, I have heard, he still lives in great splendor, and is famous for his dinners, to which none of his countrymen are ever invited.

MISS BREMER'S HOMES OF THE NEW WORLD.

COLERIDGE was hardly correct in supposing that we Americans are more nervous about the impression we make upon the English, than upon the travellers who visit us from other countries. The curiosity to know what Miss Bremer would say about us was never more intense since European notorieties first began to publish their opinions of what they saw and heard on our side of the Atlantic. The little, sentimental, "potato-nosed" Swedish lady, had captivated our entire reading population, which includes nearly our whole people, by her quaint and romantic pictures of society in her native hyperborean home, and it was very natural that those who had tried to dazzle her by their attentions should wish to know how they had succeeded. The little lady has not left us in the dark, or doubt on the subject. No one can complain of a want of frankness and transparent thinking on her part. To make use of a Westernism, she records her impressions "with a perfect looseness;" and apparently with a most amiable unconsciousness that there is any thing at all improper in her doing so. She is, in fact, the enfant terrible of travellers in the United States; and her sayings are all the more valuable and entertaining from their innocent freshness. They were made on the spot, and have none of the dubious indistinctness and hesitancy of second thoughts or remembered impressions. When she slept in a cold bedroom she notes it on the spot, if she was bored by a formal dinner down goes the fact, with the names of those who bored her, while they vainly imagined they were giving her an entertainment. We have no fault to find with her on this account. It is very well for people to see themselves as others see them. The motive of the borer might plead in extenuation of the offence, in some minds; but Miss Bremer only knew that she was bored, and didn't regard the homage to herself, which it implied, as a sufficient offset. She was a Sybarite in pursuit of comfort, and rebelled against being killed with kindness. Her aim was enjoyment and not sacrifice. And who shall condemn her for it? Must one be grateful for an unsought dinner that inflicts dyspepsia? The people who entertained Miss Bremer appear to have been like the good woman who thought too much couldn't be done for her minister, when she sweetened his tea with molasses.

Our countrymen have a theory of their own about foreign authors, which, we imagine, does not prevail in any other part of the world. They imagine that the great aim of all authors is personal attentions, and not profit to themselves; hence they receive the most liberal attentions when they land among us, and are paid for the delight and the instruction which their works have afforded us, not in coin but in compliments. If we read the works of a foreign author, though he never receives a penny from us in return, we have established a claim upon him, which we would abuse him for resisting, for his autograph, at least; and a few hours of his time if we can get it. Many distinguished authors have visited us, whose works we have enjoyed scot-free; but never yet has there been a movement towards offering a recompense for the benefits they have conferred upon us, excepting in the shape of attentions, which, in nine cases out of ten, have been annoying impertinences. And we hold up our hands in horror at the ingratitude of these people in publishing their candid opinions about us when they return to their homes. For our own part, we must say that we have been struck by the moderation and forbearance of the whole of them; but especially so in the instances of Marryatt and Dickens, who have been so bemauled for their ingratitude. If they saw the worst side of our national character, we have only ourselves to blame for exhibiting it to them. In the case of Miss Bremer, there was the double desire to see a literary lioness, and an amiable anxiety to render her visit pleasing to herself; and, since she had shown herself so skilful an artist in painting the Bears and Generalins of her own country, who could tell but she would do the same by the bears and bores of the New World, it would be worth while to see one's self mirrored in her quaint pages. Well, we are all there, and at once begin to find fault with the artist; which strikes us as being most absurdly captious. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to keep out of Miss Bremer's book; but we would rush in. She misspells our names, misquotes the titles of our books, and makes an astonishing jumble of our political distinctions and geographical lines. Something of this is owing, of course, to the unfamiliarity of her translator with the persons mentioned and the scenes described, and then it is not to be supposed that the authoress herself was very particular in making her notes; for, whether it were Brown or Smith about whom she was writing, it would be all one to her friends in Stockholm, to whom her letters were addressed. It is neither a subject of wonder, nor of much consequence, when Mr. Wise figures in her pages as Mr. Weise, Professor Hackley, as "the respectable Mr. Hackett," when Senator Seward becomes a native of Boston, and Colonel Benton is transfigured into a Davy Crockett. There are a good many people alluded to by their initials only, who might better have been designated by the letter X as representing an unknown person. But, in nearly every case, Miss Bremer's initial personages are readily enough recognized by the circumstances narrated in connection with them, and our Bully Bottoms are continually proclaiming themselves from under the asses' heads which this Swedish Titania places upon their shoulders. The "good Marcuses," the "good Rebeccas," and the "Doctor O.'s," are well enough known to the readers of Miss Bremer. One of her novels is called the "H. Family," so it appears to be a favorite mode with her of designating people. No one has a right to be disappointed in Miss Bremer's New Homes; it is written in the vein of her other works, gossippy, tender, quaint, personal, and affectionate. But, if she were to revisit the United States, we fear there would be a wide difference between her second reception and her first, and even "the good Marcus," we doubt, would not be so attentive as he was before, and "Mrs. L.," whose romantic marriage Miss Bremer hints at, but, with singular forbearance, hesitates to reveal, might not be so anxious to entertain her at her "Villa on the Hudson." It was Miss Bremer's mission to note the oddities and peculiarities of individuals; it was her doing such things that first endeared her to us, and made us so anxious to see the little lady who had given us such amusing portraits of her own neighbors and country people. What else could she do when she visited us? She came for no other purpose. Such, too, was the case with Dickens and Marryatt. We had enjoyed their grotesque pictures of English society, and threw ourselves in their way that they might make pictures of us, and then quarrelled with them for doing it. It would have been just as reasonable to find fault with Sir Charles Lyell, for exposing our geological formations, as to complain of these authors for exercising their talent in describing the different strata of our national character. It was their vocation to do so, and all we had to do was to "grin and bear it." Our wincing only confirmed the truth of their portraiture. It is not agreeable to one's feelings to be a subject of ridicule, but, if we will invite a caricaturist into our houses we must expect to be caricatured. The little Swedish novelist had come over to the New World with no very clear ideas of what she was to see beyond the Mississippi and Niagara Falls, and was at once stunned, confused, bewildered, and overpowered by the profuse attentions of flocks of admiring strangers who came to invite her to their houses, to shake her feeble little hand, to beg her autograph, to ask what kind of a passage she had, how she liked the country, or to gaze at her in open-mouthed wonder. Was it any wonder that she exclaimed, soon after landing on our shores, when she heard a tap at her door. "O! I wish I was a little dog that I could creep under the table and hide myself." She stopped to rest one night, at a town in the western part of the State, when it was immediately noised about that she was there, and all the people crowded to the hotel to catch a sight of her, to shake her hand, and put the eternal questions of what kind of a passage she had, and how she liked the country. One of the dignitaries of the town introduced himself to the gentleman who was travelling with her, and begged to be introduced to Miss Bremer. The request was complied with, and then the gentleman stepped to the door, beckoned in the crowd of citizens waiting in the bar-room, and introduced the whole of them, one by one. Miss Bremer makes no mention of this circumstance in her letters, probably because such annoyances had become so common that she thought it hardly worth her while to keep repeating them. Yet, notwithstanding these things, she every now and then breaks out with an exclamation, "They are a beautiful people!" Her account of her first dinner party in New-York is both graphic and entertaining, and we hope it will have its effect on dinner-givers. The hospitable family who entertained her on this occasion must read the account of the impression which their sumptuous festival left on her mind with very peculiar feelings. She was not surprised, as she says, to learn that Irving was in the habit of sleeping at great dinners.

"Is there in this world anything more wearisome, more dismal, more intolerable, more indigestible, more stupefying, more unbearable, any thing more calculated to kill both soul and body, than a great dinner at New-York? For my part, I do not believe there is. People sit down to the table at half-past five or six o'clock; they are sitting at table at nine o'clock, sitting and being served with the one course after another, with the one indigestible dish after another, eating and being silent. I have never heard such a silence as at these great dinners. In order not to go to sleep, I am obliged to eat, to eat without being hungry, and dishes, too, which do not agree with me. And all the while I feel such an emotion of impatience and wrath at this mode of wasting time and God's good gifts, and that in so stupidly wearisome a manner, that I am just ready to fling dish and plate on the floor, and repay hospitality by a sermon of rebuke, if I only had courage enough. But I am silent, and suffer, and grumble, and scold in silence. Not quite beautiful this; but I cannot help it! I was yesterday at one of these great dinners—a horrible feast! Two elderly gentlemen, lawyers, sat opposite me, sat and dozed while they opened their mouths to put in the delicacies which were offered to them. At our peasant-weddings, where people also sit three hours at table, there are, nevertheless, talk and toasts, and gifts for the bride and bridegroom, and fiddlers to play in every dish; but here one has nothing but the meat. And the dinners in Denmark! I cannot but think of them, with their few but excellent dishes, and animated, cheerful guests, who merely were sometimes too loud in their zeal for talking, and making themselves heard; the wit, the joke, the stories, the toasts, the conversations, the merry, free, lively laisser alter, which distinguishes Danish social life; in truth, it was Champagne—Champagne for soul and body at the entertainments there!—the last at which I was present in Europe before I came hither. But these entertainments here! they are destined to hell, as Heiberg says, in 'A Soul after Death,' and they are called 'the tiresome.' And they ought to be introduced into the Litany. On this occasion, however, Fortune was kind to me, and placed by my side the interesting clergyman, Dr. Hawks, who during dinner explained to me, with his beautiful voice, and in his lucid and excellent manner, his ideas regarding the remains in Central America, and his hypothesis of the union of the two continents of America and Asia in a very remote age. It was interesting to hear him, and interesting would it be to me to see and hear more of this man, whose character and manner attract me. He is also among those who have invited me to his house and home, but whose invitation I am obliged to decline, and in this case I feel that it is a renunciation and loss.

"As he led me from the dinner-table, I proposed to him to preach against such dinners. But he shook his head, and said, with a smile, 'Not against dinners, Miss Bremer!' "

This is really and truly a terrific picture of social discomfort. Here are worthy people putting themselves to great expense and trouble for the sake of inflicting misery on those to whom they have only the kindest intentions. The "two elderly gentlemen—lawyers," were doubtless invited as an especial compliment to the distinguished foreigner, they were men of great legal attainments, of high social position, and great wealth; doubtless they were the Conversation Kenges of their neighborhood, and felt that they were overpowering the little authoress by their immense dignity, and she, all the while, was making invidious comparisons between them and the peasants of her own country, and thinking of the pleasant feasts she had been at in Denmark.

To one who delighted in being alone, who loved even the darkness of the night, because it left her imagination free—these formal parties, where the crowds were great, the faces strange, and the manners stiff, the wearisomeness must have been woful.

"In my early youth, when we were many in family, and it was difficult to be alone, I used sometimes to go and lock myself in that dark little room at Aersta, where mamma keeps her keys, merely that I might feel myself alone, because as soon as I was quite alone in that pitch darkness, I experienced an extraordinary sensation—a sensation as if I had wings, and was lifted up by them out of my own being, and that was an unspeakable enjoyment to me. That half-spiritual, half-bodily feeling is inexplicable to me; but it always returns when I am quite alone and altogether un-disturbed by agitating thoughts, as is the case at this time. I experience a secret, wonderful joy as I stand thus alone among strangers, in the midst of the world's sea, and feel myself to be free and light as a bird upon the bough."

But she was happy at the Downings, at Rose Cottage, with Marcus and Rebecca; at Elmwood, with the Lowells; and found contentment and quiet at Concord, with Emerson, who seems to have worn a most sphinx-like aspect in her eyes. Her attempts to find a lodge in some vast wilderness, where she could be alone with her thoughts, had a very comical result, which she narrates with great glee and simplicity. On her return to the North, after her visit to Cuba and the slave States of the South, she went alone to Harper's Ferry, in the hope of escaping the wearisome persecutions of attentive admirers, and there she found an admirer of a different kind from any she had encountered before.

"One evening, when somewhat late, I was returning home over the hills, I saw, sitting on a stile which I had to pass, a man in a blue artisan blouse, with his brow resting on his hand, in which he held a pocket handkerchief. As I came nearer, he removed his hand and looked at me, and I saw an Irish nose in a good lively countenance, which seemed to be that of a man about thirty years of age.

" 'It's very warm!' said he, speaking English.

" 'Yes,' said I, passing, 'and you have worked hard, have you not?'

" 'Yes, my hands are quite spoiled!' and with that he exhibited a pair of coarse, black hands.

"I asked a little about his circumstances. He was an Irishman, named Jim, and had come hither to seek for work, which he had found at the manufactory, and by which he could earn twenty dollars a month. But still, he said, he loved the Old Country best, and he meant to return to it as soon as he could get together a thousand dollars.

"I inquired if he were married.

"No; he had thought it best to remain unmarried. And then he inquired if I were married.

"I replied no; and added that, like him, I thought it best to remain unmarried, after which I bade him a friendly good-bye.

"But he rose up, and, following me, said to me—

" 'And you are wandering about here so alone, Miss! Don't you think it is wearisome to go wandering about by yourself?'

" 'No, Jim,' said I, 'I like to go by myself.'

" 'Oh, but you would feel yourself so much better off,' said he; 'you would find yourself so much happier, if you had a young man to go about with you, and take care of you?'

" 'But I find myself very well off as I am, Jim,' said I.

" 'Oh, but you'd find yourself much, much better off, if you had a young man, I assure you—a young man who was fond of you, and would go with you every where. It makes the greatest difference in the world to a lady, I do assure you!'

" 'But, Jim, I am an old lady now, and a young man would not trouble himself about me.'

"'You are not too old to be married, Miss,' said he; 'and then you are good looking, Miss; you are very good looking, Ma'am! and a nice young man would be very glad to have you, to go about every where with you.'

" 'But, Jim, perhaps he would not like to go where I should like to go, and then how should we get on together?'

" 'Oh, yes, he would like, Ma'am, I assure you he would like it! And perhaps you have a thousand dollars on which you would maintain him, Ma'am.'

" 'But, Jim, I should not like to have a husband who would merely have me for the sake of my dollars.'

" 'You're right there, Miss, very right. But you would be so very much happier with a nice young man who would take care of you,' &c.

" 'Look here, Jim,' said I, finally; 'up there, above the clouds, is a great big Gentleman who takes care of me, and if I have him, there is no need of any one else.'

"The thought struck my warm-hearted Irishman, who exclaimed—

" 'There you are right, Miss! Yes, He is the husband, after all! And if you have Him, you need not be afraid of any thing?'

" 'Nor am I afraid, Jim. But now,' said I, 'go ahead, for the path is too narrow for two.'

"And we separated. What now do you think of your proposed brother-in-law?"

Miss Bremer is an annexationist, as, we think, all right-judging people are, who look at the subject uninfluenced by partisan prejudices. She remained long enough in Cuba, and saw enough of our own "South," to see that annexation would be a blessing to both parties. She says:

"My secret wish and hope is, that Cuba may one day, by peaceful means, belong to the United States. When the United States shall comprehend within themselves the regions of the tropics, and shall thence extend their realm of States, then first will it become the universal realm which it ought to be. And Cuba in the hands of the Anglo-Americans would soon discontinue the slave-trade; the Gospel would be preached to the slaves; the fortress walls of the bohea would be converted into pretty American slave-villages; and perhaps the noble-minded laws of Cuba respecting the slave might be incorporated into the legislative code of the Union, when Cuba itself became a part of the Union."

All European travellers in the United States, while they have expressed their admiration of the beauty of our women, have been equally decided in reproaching us with the ugliness of our men. But Miss Bremer was struck by the handsome appearance of the male part of our population. Some of us are Apollos, some giants, and all are "handsome." "Women," as old Peachum says, may be "desperate bad judges in these cases;" but a compliment of this kind from a lady is certainly of sufficient weight to balance the opinions of a dozen Englishmen, who are interested parties. What gives the greater value to Miss Bremer's opinions in this respect is the evident gusto with which she describes the good-looking men she came in contact with. Speaking of the slaves in the slave market at New Orleans, she remarks: "I observed among the men some really athletic figures, with good countenances and remarkably good foreheads; there was one negro in particular—his price was two thousand dollars—to whom I took a great fancy." She describes one of the slave dealers as "a man of unusual size, and singularly handsome. His figure was Herculean, and he had the features of a Jupiter." This is not the kind of image which English artists make when they attempt to depict a Yankee slave trader; but Miss Bremer, who has a passion for portraits, makes her drawings from the life school.

Many querulous remarks have been made by our contemporaries of the Press, about the imprudences of Miss Bremer, in her revelations of domestic society, but her amiability and overflowing love for every body with whom she came in contact, should be considered as a sufficient apology for her unreserve. As to the other complaint that she elevates into importance personages whom we had never before heard of, and makes heroes and heroines of quiet people who had never been suspected of heroic qualities by their acquaintances, it does not strike us as a very serious offence; if she sees a park in a little inclosure of two or three city lots, shadowed by one or two ailanthus trees, it does not follow that her other descriptions were all in her eye, for she seems to have been fully impressed by the grandeur of our river scenery, and she has given some very graphic sketches of the rural districts, both of the East and the West. It is inevitable that travellers should make mistakes in their description of foreign countries; but, when, as in the case of Miss Bremer, they are all in favor of the country visited, the people whom she describes should be the last to complain. We do not believe that her book will have a tendency to make us less respected in Europe, that it will cause

Americans to be received with diminished consideration abroad, or that it will cause a single Scandinavian to change his purpose of emigrating with his family and household gods to the wilderness of the New World. From various little asides in her letters we are led to believe that Miss Bremer is not indifferent to the pleasures of the table, and she seems to have been most favorably impressed with the American ménage, except in the case of the hot breakfasts in winter, which appeared to her as contrasting too violently with the cold bedrooms. But the only purely American dish which she speaks of with enthusiasm is gumbo, a delicacy that can be eaten in perfection only in New Orleans. Of this delicious production of the creole cuisine of Louisiana, she says: "Gumbo is the crown of all the savory and remarkable soups in the world—a regular elixir of life of the substantial kind. He who has once eaten gumbo may look down disdainfully upon the most genuine turtle soup."

We fully "indorse" the eulogium of Miss Bremer on the gumbo of New Orleans. Nearly every thing American with which she becomes acquainted receives as warm and genial an approbation, and we would recommend all American readers of her book to bear in mind the generous sentiment of Sir Lucius O'Trigger. "When affection guides the pen he must be a brute who would find fault with the style."

LITERARY PIRACY.

Letters on International Copy-right. By H. C. CAREY, author of "Principles of Political Economy," &c. Philadelphia: A. Hart. 1853.

WE have at last a formal, if not formidable treatise on anti-copy-right, by a writer who treats the subject in a candid and gentlemanly manner, and who, though he argues scientifically in favor of robbery, does it on philosophical principles, and in a benevolent spirit, and not in that sordid tone which has distinguished all the arguments that we have hitherto heard from the opponents of international copy-right. The difference between Mr. Carey and the other gentlemen whose cause he espouses is, that while they seem to have been influenced by no better motive than that of personal aggrandizement, he is apparently a disinterested believer in the benevolence and justice of the measure which he advocates. He is, therefore, all the more dangerous, as an opponent, and the more entitled to consideration. Mr. Carey is a retired publisher, and the author of some remarkable essays on political economy; he is the antagonist of the Ricardo school of political philosophers, an advocate of high protective duties, and a fluent and forcible writer. We are very glad to meet him as an antagonist on the subject of copy-right, for he can make the most of his subject, and we are quite sure that no other writer will present it in a stronger light, or more happily illustrate his theory by the extent and variety of the facts which he has brought to bear upon the question. His pamphlet appears at a most opportune moment, too, when the subject of international copy-right has assumed an importance which it has never had before, from the circumstance of the administration having declared itself in favor of a total abolition of the small duty now imposed on printed books. Mr. Carey could hardly have had such an event in his mind, or the anticipation of it, and its too probable influence upon the interests of our native literature, or he would never have raised his voice, we imagine, on the side of the anti-copy-right advocates. The great bugbear in the eyes of Mr. Carey is centralization, and the fatal facility which a reduction of duties on printed books, even with the counteracting effect which an international copy-right law would exert, in making London the metropolis of the United States, must be plain enough to so shrewd a thinker as Mr. Carey. He endeavors to prove, and we think successfully, that the union of Scotland and Ireland with England has destroyed the national literature of those two countries, and transferred the producing power in literature which once manifested itself so strongly in Dublin and Edinburgh, to London.

"Seventy years after the date of the Union, Edinburgh was still a great literary capital, and could then offer to the world the names of numerous men, of whose reputation any country of the world might have been proud: Burns and McPherson; Robertson and Hume; Blair and Kames; Reid, Smith, and Stewart; Monboddo, Playfair, and Boswell; and numerous others, whose reputation has survived to the present day. Thirty-five years later, its press furnished the world with the works of Jeffrey and Brougham; Stewart, Brown, and Chalmers; Scott, Wilson, and Joanna Baillie; and with those of many others whose reputation was less widely spread, among whom were Galt, Hogg, Lockhart, and Miss Ferrier, the authoress of Marriage. The Edinburgh Review and Blackwood's Magazine then, to a great extent, represented Scottish men and Scottish modes of thought. Looking now on the same field of action, it is difficult, from this distance, to discover more than two Scottish authors, Alison and Sir William Hamilton, the latter all 'the more conspicuous and remarkable, as he now,' says the North British Review (Feb. 1853), 'stands so nearly alone in the ebb of literary activity in Scotland, which has been so apparent during this generation.' McCulloch and Macaulay were both, I believe, born in Scotland, but in all else they are English. Glasgow has recently presented the world with a new poet, in the person of Alexander Smith, but, unlike Ramsay and Burns, there is nothing Scottish about him beyond his place of birth. 'It is not,' says one of his reviewers, 'Scottish scenery, Scottish history, Scottish character, and Scottish social humor, that he represents or depicts. Nor is there,' it continues, 'any trace in him of that feeling of intense nationality so common in Scottish writers. London,' as it adds, 'a green lane in Kent, an English forest, an English manor-house, there are the scenes where the real business of the drama is transacted.'*

[*North British Review, Aug. 1853.]

"The Edinburgh Review has become to all intents and purposes an English journal, and Blackwood has lost all those characteristics by which it was in former times distinguished from the magazines published south of the Tweed.

"Seeing these facts, we can scarcely fail to agree with the review already quoted, in the admission that there are 'probably fewer leading individual thinkers and literary guides in Scotland at present, than at any other period of its history since the early part of the last century,' since the day when Scotland itself lost its individuality. The same journal informs us that 'there is now scarcely an instance of a Scotchman holding a learned position in any other country,' and farther says, that 'the small number of names of literary Scotchmen known throughout Europe for eminence in literature and science is of itself sufficient to show to how great an extent the present race of Scotchmen have lost the position which their ancestors held in the world of letters."*............

[*North British Review, May, 1853.]

"The London Leader tells its readers that "England is a power made up of conquests over nationalities;' and it is right. The nationality of Scotland has disappeared; and, however much it may annoy our Scottish friends† to have the energetic Celt sunk in the 'slow and unimpressible' Saxon, such is the tendency of English centralization, every where destructive of that national feeling which is essential to progress in civilization.

[†See Blackwood's Magazine, Sept. 1853, art. "Scotland since the Union."]

"If we look to Ireland, we find a similar state of things. Seventy years since, that country was able to insist upon and to establish its claim for an independent government, and, by aid of the measures then adopted, was rapidly advancing. From that period to the close of the century, the demand for books for Ireland was so great as to warrant the re-publication of a large portion of those produced in England. The kingdom of Ireland of that day gave to the world such men as Burke and Grattan, Moore and Edgeworth, Curran, Sheridan, and Wellington. Centralization, however, demanded that Ireland should become a province of England, and from that time famines and pestilences have been of frequent occurrence, and the whole population is now being expelled to make room for the 'slow and unimpressible' Saxon race. Under these circumstances, it is matter of small surprise that Ireland not only produces no books, but that she furnishes no market for those produced by others. Half a century of international copy-right has almost annihilated both the producers and the consumers of books.

"Passing towards England, we may for a moment look to Wales, and then, if we desire to find the effects of centralization and its consequent absenteeism, in neglected schools, ignorant teachers, decaying and decayed churches, and drunken clergymen with immoral flocks, our object will be accomplished by studying the pages of the Edinburgh Review.‡ In such a state of things as is there described there can be little tendency to the development of intellect, and little of either ability or inclination to reward the authors of books. In my next, I will look to England herself."

[‡April, 1853, art. "The Church in the Mountains."]

Precisely such an effect as has been produced in Dublin and Edinburgh Mr. Carey predicts for this country, in the event of the passage of an international copy-right law which shall give to Englishmen the right to control their publications in this country; an opinion in which we wholly differ from him; but his argument becomes fearfully powerful, and the state of things he anticipates, an absolute certainty in the absence of all duties and all copy-right. Nothing can save the literary interests of this country, and all the national interests connected with them, from utter destruction, but the passage of an international copy-right law, if the duties are to be abolished on foreign books, and there seems but little doubt that such will be the case. We may then give ourselves up as literary dependents, and fall into the ranks with Edinburgh and Dublin, and acknowledge Paternoster Row to be our common intellectual centre. England now furnishes the greater part of our mental food, and it will then furnish the whole, excepting such as can be gathered from the daily newspaper.

But Mr. Carey is so entirely mastered by his idea of centralization, and sees so clearly the whole world whirling in a maelstrom with London for its centre, that he can hardly see in any of the movements of social policy any thing else. This idea neutralizes itself by making itself self-destructive, not only does it swallow up all its surroundings, but it swallows itself. Mr. Carey proves that centralization is as destructive to its own centre as to the objects within its influence.

"Centralization enables Mr. Dickens to obtain vast sums by advertising the works of the poor authors by whom he is surrounded, most of whom are not only badly paid, but insolently treated, while even of those whose names and whose works are well known abroad many gladly become recipients of the public charity. In the zenith of her reputation, Lady Charlotte Bury received, as I am informed, but £200 ($960) for the absolute copy-right of works that sold for $7 50. Lady Blessington, celebrated as she was, had but from three to four hundred pounds; and neither Marryat nor Bulwer ever received, as I believe, the selling price of a thousand copies of their books as compensation for the copy-right.§ Such being the facts in regard to well-known authors, some idea may be formed in relation to the compensation of those who are obscure. The whole tendency of the 'cheap labor' system, so generally approved by English writers, is to destroy the value of literary labor by increasing the number of persons who must look to the pen for the means of support, and by diminishing the market for its products. What has been the effect of the system will now be shown by placing before you a list of the names of all the existing British authors whose reputation can be regarded as of any wide extent, as follows:—

Tennyson, | Thackeray, | Grote, | McCulloch,
Carlyle, | Bulwer, | Macaulay, | Hamilton,
Dickens, | Alison, | J. S. Mill, | Farraday.

[§This I had from Capt. Marryat himself.]

"This list is very small as compared with that presented in the same field five-and-thirty years since, and its difference in weight is still greater in number. Scott, the novelist and poet, may certainly be regarded as the counterpoise of much more than any one of the writers of fiction in this list. Byron, Moore, Rogers, and Campbell enjoyed a degree of reputation far exceeding that of Tennyson. Wellington, the historian of his own campaigns, would much outweigh any of the historians. Malthus and Ricardo were founders of a school that has greatly influenced the policy of the world, whereas McCulloch and Mill are but disciples in that school. Dalton, Davy, and Wollaston will probably occupy a larger space in the history of science than Sir Michael Farraday, large even as may be that assigned to him.

"Extraordinary as is the existence of such a state of things in a country claiming so much to abound in wealth, it is yet more extraordinary that we look around in vain to see who are to replace even these when age or death shall withdraw them from the literary world. Of all here named, Mr. Thackeray is the only one that has risen to reputation in the last ten years, and he is no longer young; and even he seeks abroad that reward for his efforts which is denied to him by the 'cheap labor' system at home. Of the others, nearly, if not quite all, have been for thirty years before the world, and, in the natural course of things, some of them must disappear from the stage of authorship, if not of life. If we seek their successors among the writers for the weekly or monthly journals, we shall certainly fail to find them. Looking to the Reviews, we find ourselves forced to agree with the English journalist who informs his readers that 'it is said, and with apparent justice, that the quarterlies are not as good as they were.' From year to year they have less the appearance of being the production of men who looked to any thing beyond mere pecuniary compensation for their labor. In reading them, we find ourselves compelled to agree with the reviewer, who regrets to see that the centralization which is hastening the decline of the Scottish universities is tending to cause the mind of the whole youth of Scotland to be

" 'Cast in the mould of English universities, institutions which, from their very completeness, exercise on second-rate minds an influence unfavorable to originality and power of thought.'—North British Review, May 1853.

"Their pupils are, as he says, 'struck with one mental die,' than which nothing can be less favorable to literary or scientific development."

Like most men who ride a hobby Mr. Carey makes his nag centralization carry too heavy a load, and it breaks down under the weight of argument he imposes upon it. Where there is free intercourse between nations, centralization becomes a necessity, and, not only a necessity, but a blessing; there is but one way to prevent it, and that is by non-intercourse. The centralizing influences of England, which are felt so balefully all over India, have not yet been perceived by the Japanese; but the time is near at hand when they too will begin to understand that they are in the circle of a maelstrom of which Jeddo is not the centre. It remains for us United Statesers to determine whether this great absorbing centre shall be on this side of the Atlantic or the other, whether it shall be London, Paris, New-York, St. Louis or San Francisco. At present it is divided between London and Paris. London is the intellectual and financial centre, and Paris is the centre of art and fashion. There is no reason why New-York, or some other American city, should not become the great centre of finance, fashion, literature and art, but a good many why it should. And, in fact, such a destiny can only be delayed, and not prevented by unwise legislation. The superiority of mind over matter will hardly be questioned, and wherever the mind of the world centres itself, there all the material interests are sure to follow. We have, thus far, in spite of our splendid opportunities, prevented the United States from becoming the intellectual centre of the universe, by perversely violating the great law of national and individual prosperity, which gives to every producer the right to control the productions of his own labor. We deny to the foreigner the right of property on our own soil, in his intellectual productions, whereby we inflict as great an injury on our own literary producers, as we should upon our manufacturers of calicoes, if we permitted an indiscriminate robbery of foreign manufactured goods of the same kind. The cases are precisely analogous. But, hitherto the full effects of this evil have not been felt, because the duty on foreign books has, to a certain extent, though a very limited one, acted as a protection to the native literary producer. But this small protection is now about to be destroyed, and the ruin of the literary interests of the nation must inevitably follow unless we have the counteracting effects of copy-right to foreigners.

Mr. Carey very consistently attacks the principle of copy-right in all its bearings: he not only argues against international copy-right, but all copy-right; and if some of his arguments are not very forcible, we are bound to concede to them the merit of great originality. We must also give him the praise of discarding that mean and despicable argument against copy-right, which many of its opponents have so industriously exploited, that acting justly would prove too costly. These sentiments are most creditable to Mr. Carey, although we regret to notice that he insensibly falls into the line of argument which he denounces in another part of his book.

"Evil may not be done that good may come of it, nor may we steal an author's brains that our people may he cheaply taught. To admit that the end justifies the means, would be to adopt the line of argument so often used by English speakers, in and out of Parliament, when they defend the poisoning of the Chinese people by means of opium introduced in defiance of their government, because it furnishes revenue to India; or that which teaches that Canada should be retained as a British colony, because of the facility it affords for the violation of our laws; or that which would have us regard smugglers, in general, as the great reformers of the age. We stand in need of no such morality as this. We can afford to pay for what we want; but, even were it otherwise, our motto here, and every where, should be the old French one: "Fais ce que doy, advienne que pourra"—Act justly, and leave the result to Providence. Before acting, however, we should determine on which side justice lies. Unless I am greatly in error, it is not on the side of international copy-right."

Mr. Carey states his argument against copy-right after the following fashion, which is not original with him, except in the manner of expressing it.

"For what then is copy-right given? For the clothing in which the body is produced to the world. Examine Mr. Macaulay's History of England, and you will find that the body is composed of what is common property. Not only have the facts been recorded by others, but the ideas, too, are derived from the works of men who have labored for the world without receiving, and frequently without the expectation of receiving, any pecuniary compensation for their labors. Mr. Macaulay has read much and carefully, and he has thus been enabled to acquire great skill in arranging and clothing his facts; but the readers of his books will find in them no contribution to positive knowledge. The works of men who make contributions of that kind are necessarily controversial and distasteful to the reader; for which reason they find few readers, and never pay their authors. Turn, now, to our own authors, Prescott and Bancroft, who have furnished us with historical works of so great excellence, and you will find a state of things precisely similar. They have taken a large quantity of materials out of the common stock, in which you, and I, and all of us have an interest; and those materials they have so reclothed as to render them attractive of purchasers; but this is all they have done. Look to Mr. Webster's works, and you will find it the same. He was a great reader. He studied the Constitution carefully, with a view to understand what were the views of its authors, and those views he reproduced in a different and more attractive clothing, and there his work ended. He never pretended, as I think, to furnish the world with any new ideas; and, if he had done so, he could have claimed no property in them. Few now read the heavy volumes containing the speeches of Fox and Pitt. They did nothing but reproduce ideas that were common property, in such clothing as answered the purposes of the moment. Sir Robert Peel did the same. The world would now be just as wise had he never lived, for he made no contribution to the general stock of knowledge. The great work of Chancellor Kent is, to use the words of Judge Story, but a new combination and arrangement of old materials, in which the skill and judgment of the author in the selection and exposition, and accurate use of the materials, constitute the basis of his reputation, as well as of his copy-right. The world at large is the owner of all the facts that have been collected, and of all the ideas that have been deduced from them, and its right in them is precisely the same that the planter has in the bale of cotton that has been raised on his plantation; and the course of proceeding of both has, thus far, been precisely similar; whence I am induced to infer that, in both cases, right has been done. When the planter hands his cotton to the spinner and the weaver, he does not say, 'Take this and convert it into cloth, and keep the cloth;' but he does say, 'Spin and weave this cotton, and for so doing you shall have such interest in the cloth as will give you a fair compensation for your labor and skill, but, when that shall have been paid, the cloth will be mine.' This latter is precisely what society, the owner of facts and ideas, says to the author: 'Take these raw materials that have been collected, put them together, and clothe them after your own fashion, and for a given time we will agree that nobody else shall present them in the same dress. During that time you may exhibit them for your own profit, but at the end of that period the clothing will become common property, as the body now is. It is to the contributions of your predecessors to our common stock that you are indebted for the power to make your book, and we require you, in your turn, to contribute towards the augmentation of the stock that is to be used by your successors.' This is justice, and to grant more than this would be injustice.

"Let us turn now, for a moment, to the producers of works of fiction. Sir Walter Scott had carefully studied Scottish and border history, and thus had filled his mind with facts preserved, and ideas produced by others, which he reproduced in a different form. He made no contribution to knowledge. So, too, with our own very successful Washington Irving. He drew largely upon the common stock of ideas, and dressed them up in a new, and what has proved to be a most attractive form. So, again, with Mr. Dickens. Read his Bleak House, and you will find that he has been a most careful observer of men and things, and has thereby been enabled to collect a great number of facts that he has dressed up in different forms, but that is all he has done. He is in the condition of a man who had entered a large garden, and collected a variety of the most beautiful flowers growing therein, of which he had made a fine bouquet. The owner of the garden would naturally say to him: 'The flowers are mine, but the arrangement is yours. You cannot keep the bouquet, but you may smell it or show it for your own profit, for an hour or two, but then it must come to me. If you prefer it, I am willing to pay you for your services, giving you a fair compensation for your time and taste.' This is exactly what society says to Mr. Dickens, who makes such beautiful literary bouquets. What is right in the individual, cannot be wrong in the mass of individuals of which society is composed. Nevertheless, the author objects to this, insisting that he is owner of the bouquet itself, although he has paid no wages to the man who raised the flowers. Were he asked to do so, he would, as I will show in another letter, regard it as leading to great injustice."

The error of Mr. Carey is in supposing that the copy-right is granted for the ideas and facts contained in a book, instead of the "clothing," as he calls it, in which they are embodied. No book contains any thing essential to the welfare of mankind, which any man may not use for his own benefit. Any body may collate every essential fact contained in "Bancroft's History" or "Kent's Commentaries," make a book of them, using his own style of expression, and obtain a copy-right for them. The author of a book enjoys no monopoly, such as the owner of a field of wheat does; every body may use it, profit by it, improve upon it, and reproduce it in another shape in spite of him. But the owner of the wheat retains for ever and to all time, absolute control and monopoly over his property. Mr. Carey says that the authors of books do nothing more than make use of ideas which are the common property of mankind, and therefore they are not entitled to ownership in the form in which they present them to the world. But, it is the form only which they claim the right of property in, and, unless that right be granted to them, the ideas themselves, and the facts of history will never be collected together in a manner available to the world. If you kill the goose, it will lay no more golden eggs; and, if you take from the author the means of living by his labor, his labor must cease, and the tribe of authors must become extinct.

Another of Mr. Carey's arguments against the right of an author to his own productions is, we believe, original with himself; at least we have never seen it urged in the copy-right controversy. Because Leibnitz, Descartes, Newton, Humboldt, and Bowditch were not enriched by their beneficent scientific labors, he would deny the right of such triflers as Irving, Dickens, Scott, and Cooper to the remuneration for their writings which the world has been so happy to make them in return for the pleasure which they have afforded. Mr. Carey insists that the agriculturist shall not be paid for his pears and pomegranates, because another agriculturist has failed to make a fortune out of a potato-field. The force of this reasoning we have not been able to appreciate. But, Mr. Carey shall himself state his own case:

"The whole tendency of the existing system is to give the largest reward to those whose labors are lightest, and the smallest to those whose labors are most severe; and every extension of it must necessarily look in that direction. The Mysteries of Paris were a fortune to Eugene Sue, and Uncle Tom's Cabin has been one to Mrs. Stowe. Byron had 2,000 guineas for a volume of Childe Harold, and Moore 3,000 for his Lalla Bookh; and yet a single year should have more than sufficed for the production of any one of them. Under a system of international copy-right, Dumas, already so largely paid, would be protected, whereas Thierry, who sacrificed his sight to the gratification of his thirst for knowledge, would not. Humboldt, the philosopher par excellence of the age, would not, because he furnishes his readers with things, and not with words alone. Of the books that record his observations on this continent, but a part has, I believe, been translated into English, and of these but a small portion has been published in this country, although to be had without claim for copy-right. In England their sale has been small, and can have done little more than pay the cost of translation and publication. Had it been required to pay for the privilege of translation, but a small part of even those which have been translated would probably have ever seen the light in any but the language of the author. This great man inherited a handsome property, which he devoted to the advancement of science, and what has been his pecuniary reward may be seen in the following statement, derived from an address recently delivered in New-York:—

" 'There are now living in Europe two very distinguished men, barons, both very eminent in their line, both known to the whole civilized world; one is Baron Rothschild, and the other Baron Humboldt; one distinguished for the accumulation of wealth, the other for the accumulation of knowledge. What are the possessions of the philosopher? Why, sir, I heard a gentleman whom I have seen here this afternoon, say that, on a recent visit to Europe, he paid his respects to that distinguished philosopher, and was admitted to an audience. He found him, at the age of 84 years, fresh and vigorous, in a small room, nicely sanded, with a large deal table uncovered in the midst of that room, containing his books and waiting apparatus. Adjoining this, was a small bed-room, in which he slept. Here this eminent philosopher received a visitor from the United States. He conversed with him; he spoke of his works. 'My works,' said he, 'you will find in the adjoining library, but I am too poor to own a copy of them. I have not the means to buy a full copy of my own works.'

"After having furnished to the gentlemen who produce books more of the material of which books are composed than has ever been furnished by any other man, this illustrious man finds himself, at the close of life, altogether dependent on the bounty of the Prussian government, which allows him, as I heard, less than five hundred dollars a year. In what manner, now, would Humboldt be benefited by international copy-right? I know of none; but it is very plain to see that Dumas, Victor Hugo, and George Sand, might derive from it a large revenue. In confirmation of this view, I would ask you to review the names of the persons who urge most anxiously the change of system that is now proposed, and see if you can find in it the name of a single man who has done any thing to extend the domain of knowledge. I think you will not. Next look, and see if you do not find in it the names of those who furnish the world with new forms of old ideas, and are largely paid for so doing. The most active advocate of international copy-right is Mr. Dickens, who is said to realize $50,000 per annum for the sale of works whose composition is little more than amusement for his leisure hours. In this country, the only attempt that has yet been made to restrict the right of translation is in a suit now before the courts, for compensation for the privilege of converting into German a work that has yielded the largest compensation that the world has yet known for the same quantity of literary labor.

"We are constantly told that regard to the interests of science requires that we should protect and enlarge the rights of authors; but does science make any such claim for herself? I doubt it. Men who make additions to science know well that they have, and can have, no rights whatever. Cuvier died very poor, and all the copy-right that could have been given to him or Humboldt would not have enriched either of them. Laplace knew well that his great work could yield him nothing. Our own Bowditch translated it as a labor of love, and left by his will the means required for its publication. The gentlemen who advocate the interests of science are literary men, who use the facts and ideas furnished by scientific men, paying nothing for their use. Now, literature is a most honorable profession, and the gentlemen engaged in it are entitled not only to the respect and consideration of their fellow-men, but also to the protection of the law; but in granting it, the legislator is bound to recollect, that justice to the men who furnish the raw materials of the books, and justice to the community that owns those raw materials, require that protection shall not, either in point of space or time, be greater than is required for giving the producer of books a full and fair compensation for his labor."

We may as well remark, en passant, that the absurd story about Humboldt is all trash; his works intended for popular reading have been very popular, and he has reaped great profits from them, and he is about the most independent author in existence, so far as his pecuniary circumstances are concerned.

The argument of Mr. Carey against international copy-right is not very clearly stated, but the fear of centralization is the pervading thought in his mind while discussing the subject. He contends that:

"England is fast becoming one great shop, and traders have, in general, neither time nor disposition to cultivate literature. The little proprietors disappear, and the day laborers who succeed them can neither educate their children nor purchase books. The great proprietor is an absentee, and he has little time for either literature or science. From year to year the population of the kingdom becomes more and more divided into two great classes; the very poor, with whom food and raiment require all the proceeds of labor, and the very rich who prosper by the cheap labor system, and therefore eschew the study of principles. With the one class, books are an unattainable luxury, while with the other the absence of leisure prevents the growth of desire to purchase them. The sale is, therefore, small; and hence it is that authors are badly paid. In strong contrast with the limited sale of English books at home, is the great extent of sale here, as shown in the following facts: Of the octavo edition of the Modern British Essayists, there have been sold in five years no less than 80,000 volumes. Of Macaulay's Miscellanies, 3 vols. 12mo., the sale has amounted to 60,000 volumes. Of Miss Aguilar's writings, the sale, in two years, has been 100,000 volumes. Of Murray's Encyclopedia of Geography, more than 50,000 volumes have been sold, and of McCulloch's Commercial Dictionary, 10,000 volumes. Of Alexander Smith's Poems, the sale, in a few months, has reached 10,000 copies. The sales of Mr. Thackeray's works has been quadruple that of England, and that of the works of Mr. Dickens counts almost by millions of volumes. Of Bleak House, in all its various forms—in newspapers, magazines, and volumes—it has already amounted to several hundred thousands of copies. Of Bulwer's last novel, since it was completed, the sale has, I am told, exceeded 35,000. Of Thiers's French Revolution and Consulate, there have been sold 32,000, and of Montagu's edition of Lord Bacon's works 4,000 copies.

"If the sales of books were as great in England as they are here, English authors would be abundantly paid. In reply it will be said their works are cheap here because we pay no copy-right. For the payment of the authors, however, a very small sum would be required, if the whole people of England could afford, as they should be able to do, to purchase books. A contribution of a shilling per head would give, as has been shown, a sum of almost eight millions of dollars, sufficient to pay to fifteen hundred salaries nearly equal to those of our secretaries of State. Centralization, however, destroys the market for books, and the sale is, therefore, small; and the few successful writers owe their fortunes to the collection of large contributions made among a small number of readers; while the mass of authors live on, as did poor Tom Hood, from day to day, with scarcely a hope of improvement in their condition."

And, therefore, because England does not sufficiently reward her authors, and because we read their books more than their own countrymen do, are we absolved from all necessity of paying them for the use of their property. This is the extent of Mr. Carey's argument, so far as we have been able to master it.

We regret very much that he leaves the Prince of Denmark out of his play of Hamlet; for, after all, the main question is untouched in his letters, and that aspect of the subject which bears the most important feature for us, he does not present to us. What is the legitimate effect of the competition now waged between our own authors, and the unpaid authors of Europe? If the "cheap labor" of England has such a deadly influence upon our manufacturing prosperity as Mr. Carey contends, what must be the effects of the unpaid labor with which our literary men are brought in direct competition? They are well known; and Mr. Carey himself exhibits them in a very startling manner in the statistics he furnishes of the republication in this country of foreign books, all of which might as well have been produced here. But, the great evil of our being dependent, and mental vassals of England, is not so much that it transfers the labor market from this country to Europe, and confers the reputation upon foreigners which our own people might enjoy; but it places the whole mind of the nation at the mercy of foreigners, and permeates the mental constitution of our people, with thoughts, sentiments, ideas, and aspirations foreign to our true interests and detrimental to the growth and expansion of American ideas and democratic sympathies. No better argument could be brought forward to sustain the claims of international copy-right than the formidable display which Mr. Carey makes of the statistics of original publications in this country, intended by him to serve as a proof that no protection is needed by our authors.

"Every body must learn to read and write, and every body must therefore have books; and to this universality of demand it is due that the sale of those required for early education is so immense. Of the works of Peter Parley it counts by millions; but if we take his three historical books (price 75 cents each) alone, we find that it amounts to between half a million and a million of volumes. Of Goodrich's United States it has been a quarter of a million. Of Morse's Geography and Atlas (50 cents) the sale is said to be no less than 70,000 per annum. Of Abbot's histories, the sale is said to have already been more than 400,000, while of Emerson's Arithmetic and Reader it counts almost by millions. Of Mitchell's several geographies it is 400,000 a year.

"In other branches of education the same state of things is seen to exist. Of the Boston Academy's Collection of Sacred Music, the sale has exceeded 600,000, and the aggregate sale of five books by the same author has probably exceeded a million, and the price of these is a dollar per volume.

"All these make, of course, demand for books, and hence it is that the sale of Anthon's series of classics (averaging $1) amounts, as I am told, to certainly not less than 50,000 volumes per annum, while of the Classical Dictionary of the same author ($4) not less than 30,000 have been sold. Of Liddell and Scott's Greek Lexicon ($5,) edited by Prof. Drisler, the sale has been not less than 25,000, and probably much larger. Of Webster's 4to. Dictionary ($6) it has been, I am assured, 60,000, and perhaps even 80,000; and of the royal 8vo. one ($3 50), 250,000. Of Bolmar's French school books not less than 150,000 volumes have been sold. The number of books used in the higher schools—text-books in philosophy, chemistry, and other branches of science, is exceedingly great, and it would be easy to produce numbers of which the sale is from five to ten thousand per annum; but to do so would occupy too much space, and I must content myself with the few facts already given in regard to this department of literature." . .

"Of all American authors, those of school-books excepted, there is no one of whose books so many have been circulated as those of Mr. Irving. Prior to the publication of the edition recently issued by Mr. Putnam, the sale had amounted to some hundreds of thousands; and yet of that edition, selling at $1 25 per volume, it has already amounted to 144,000 vols. Of Uncle Tom, the sale has amounted to 295,000 copies, partly in one, and partly in two volumes, and the total number of volumes amounts probably to about 450,000.

| Price per vol. | Volumes.
Of the two works of Miss Warner, Queechy, and the Wide, Wide World, the price and sale have been | $ 88 | 104,000
Fern Leaves, by Fanny Fern, in six months | 1 25 | 45,000
Reveries of a Bachelor, and other books, by Ik Marvel | 1 25 | 70,000
Alderbrook, by Fanny Forester, 3 vols. | 50 | 33,000
Northup's Twelve Years a Slave | 1 00 | 20,000
Novels of Mrs. Hentz, in three years | 63 | 93,000
Major Jones's Courtship and Travels | 50 | 31,000
Salad for the Solitary, by a new author, in five months | 1 25 | 5,000
Headley's Napoleon and his Marshals, Washington and his Generals, and other works | 1 25 | 200,000
Stephens's Travels in Egypt and Greece | 87 | 80,000
Stephens's Travels in Yucatan and Central America | 2 50 | 60,000
Kendall's Expedition to Santa Fe | 1 25 | 40,000
Lynch's Expedition to the Dead Sea, 8vo. | 3 00 | 15,000
Ditto Ditto 12mo. | 1 25 | 8,000
Western Scenes | 2 50 | 14,000
Young's Science of Government | 1 00 | 12,000
Seward's Life of John Quincy Adams | 1 00 | 30,000
Frost's Pictorial History of the World, 3 vols. | 2 50 | 60,000
Sparks's American Biography, 25 vols. | 75 | 100,000
Encyclopædia Americana, 14 vols. | 2 00 | 280,000
Griswold's Poets and Prose Writers of America, 3 vols. | 3 00 | 21,000
Barnes' notes on the Gospels, Epistles, &c., 11 vols. | 75 | 300,000
Aiken's Christian Minstrel, in two years | 62 | 40,000
Alexander on the Psalms, 3 vols. | 1 17 | 10,000
Buist's Flower Garden Directory | 1 25 | 10,000
Cole on Fruit Trees | 50 | 18,000
" Diseases of Domestic Animals | 50 | 34,000
Downing's Fruits and Fruit Trees | 1 50 | 15,000
" Rural Essays | 8 50 | 8,000
" Landscape Gardening | 3 50 | 9,000
" Cottage Residences | 2 00 | 6,250
" Country Homes | 4 00 | 3,500
Mahan's Civil Engineering | 8 00 | 7,500
Leslie's Cookery and Receipt-books | 1 00 | 96,000
Guyot's Lectures on Earth and Man | 1 00 | 6,000
Wood and Bache's Medical Dispensatory | 5 00 | 60,000
Dunglison's Medical writings, in all 10 vols. | 2 50 | 50,000
Pancoast's Surgery, 4to. | 10 00 | 4,000
Rayer, Ricord, and Moreau's Surgical Works (translations) | 15 00 | 5,500
Webster's Works, 6 vols. | 2 00 | 46,800
Kent's Commentaries, 4 vols. | 3 38 | 84,000

"Next to Chancellor Kent's work comes Greenleaf on Evidence, 3 vols., $16 50; the sale of which has been exceedingly great, but what has been its extent, I cannot say.

"Of Blatchford's General Statutes of New-York, a local work, price $4 50, the sale has been 3,000; equal to almost 30,000 of a similar Work for the United Kingdom.

"How great is the sale of Judge Story's books can be judged only from the fact that the copy-right now yields, and for years past has yielded, more than $8,000 per annum. Of the sale of Mr. Prescott's works little is certainly known, but it cannot, I understand, have been less than 160,000 volumes. That of Mr. Bancroft's History has already risen, certainly, to 30,000 copies, and I am told it is considerably more; and yet even that is a sale, for such a work, entirely unprecedented.

"Of the works of Hawthorne, Longfellow, Bryant, Willis, Curtis, Sedgwick, and numerous others, the sale is exceedingly great; but, as not even an approximation to the true amount can be offered, I must leave it to you to judge of it by comparison with those of less popular authors above enumerated. In several of these cases, beautifully illustrated editions have been published, of which large numbers have been sold. Of Mr. Longfellow's volume there have been no less than ten editions. These various facts will probably suffice to satisfy you that this country presents a market for books of almost every description unparalleled in the world."

If such a gratifying array of facts can be made under the present system, what might we not expect, if our native authors were not brought into direct competition with the pirated works of foreigners, and the mental demands of our people were answered by our own writers!

To what cause must we attribute the startling facts, that, in this country, where the taste for music is universal, where there are more pianofortes manufactured than in any other part of the world, and where musical artists receive the highest rewards, we cannot boast of one musical composer of eminence? that where, next to France, we most liberally support theatrical establishments, we cannot boast of one dramatic author? that where we pay more than any other people for artistic finery, we can boast of no ornamental artists, and import nearly every thing that ministers to our love of art? To what cause must we, or can we, attribute these anomalous facts but to the want of a law which shall secure to the composer, the ornamentalist, and the dramatist a right of property in the products of genius and industry? English manufacturers had the shrewdness to see that while they enjoyed the privilege of robbing French artists of their designs, they could never have a class of designers of their own, and that the French manufacturers would always excel them in the novelty and elegance of their ornamental goods. The English government, therefore, gave a copy-right to French artists in their designs for calico patterns, and all other ornamental work, and immediately there was a perceptible improvement in British ornamental manufactures; under the healthful influence of their registry law, their manufacturing interests have continued to improve, and their ornamental artists to increase. Under the operation of the law which prevented an American citizen from owning a foreign built vessel, the art of ship building has flourished among us until we now stand at the head of all the world in that great branch of manufacturing industry. John Ruskin, who is good authority on such a subject, pronounces a ship the most beautiful and noblest of all the works of man's ingenuity; and, if we can excel all the world in the greatest of all the arts, what is to prevent our attaining to equal excellence in the lesser arts of composing operas, writing dramas, and designing calico patterns and paper hangings? If we can build our own ships, why cannot we write our own books? There is no other reason, than the absence of an international copy-right to protect our intellectual labors from the destructive competition of—not cheap labor, but pirated manufactures.

When we commenced writing this article we had only the newspaper reports of the measure proposed by the administration in relation to the duty on books; we find, since, that it is proposed to admit free of duty only editions printed previous to 1830, which, of course, would not have the disastrous effects we have anticipated from an entire reduction of all duties on books and periodicals. It is proper to add, too, that Mr. Carey's Letters are addressed to Senator Cooper of Pennsylvania, in opposition to the international copy-right treaty with Great Britain, which was sent to the Senate by President Fillmore.

PLACES OF PUBLIC AMUSEMENT.

THEATRES AND CONCERT ROOMS.

IF labor for labor's sake is against nature, as Locke says, amusement for amusement's sake is equally unnatural. Amusement that has to be sought becomes labor, while labor becomes an amusement when properly directed. A Down East captain said to his crew, "Come, men, knock off work and go to piling staves." We seek amusement in a similar manner, by change of occupation, and, in dancing all night for pleasure, we work much harder than we have done during the day at our regular business. Amusements are as often called recreations, which is, perhaps, a better term: and the great point to be determined is what kind of amusement will yield the greatest amount of enjoyment, or recreation, affording the overtaxed mind and body opportunity to recover their elasticity after having been subjected to too tight a strain. A moment's thought bestowed upon this subject will at once tend to the conclusion that amusements must be as varied as the employments of the people to be amused. Our friend Snip, the tailor, whose employment confines him six days out of seven to his shop-board, as well as Cocker, the book-keeper, can conceive of no more delightful recreation than a target excursion or a party to the Fishing Banks; while Sam.

Jones, the fisherman, and Bob Brown, the omnibus driver, imagine that the highest heaven of enjoyment might be found in the galley of a theatre, where the air would be hot, and the shifting scenes as unlike as possible to any thing they had ever seen from a smack's deck or the top of an omnibus. The amusements of a people, therefore, while they must be congenial to their habits, must also be antagonistical to their employments; farmers' boys would never go into the fields for recreation, nor students to a lecture room; and hence the impossibility of transplanting national pastimes, or even of reviving them when they have fallen into disuse. If people are let alone, they will find amusements best adapted to their necessities, and therefore any legal restraints placed upon the natural tendency of a people in seeking for recreations must be productive of mischief.

Bull-baitings, and cock-fightings, and the sports of the turf, are revolting to certain classes of people, but they are essential means of recreation to certain other classes, who, when deprived of such legitimate amusements will seek the gratification of their instincts in a more objectionable manner. Instead of boisterous enjoyments in the fields, they will create riots, mobs, and rows in the streets. On board of men of war it is the custom to pipe all hands to mischief, occasionally, when the crew have been a long time on shipboard, that the necessity for abandonment and fun may be spent in harmless excitement. But for such safety valves, the irritation of constant restraint would lead to insubordination and mutiny. Commanders of fleets and armies make timely arrangements for the recreation of the men under them, and it would be wise in our municipal governors if they would do the same. In most of the despotic countries of Europe, the monarch finds it to his interest to provide means of recreation to the people free of cost, and these are generally on a scale of inverse liberality to the illiberality of the government. In no other part of the world are the amusements of the people more generously attended to than in France, while in no other does the individual enjoy so little of his individuality.

In this happy country of ours, where all the natural instincts are allowed their utmost expansion, it is very remarkable that the amusements of the people are the only affairs that are hampered by statutory restrictions. One may follow any business he likes, embrace any religion, join any party, or engage in any enterprise; but the law fixes the boundary of his amusements and forbids his recreating himself in certain ways. In the State of Connecticut, the law prohibits all amusements and recreations of a theatrical or dramatic nature; Shakespeare may be read in the parlor, or from the pulpit; but to present Shakespeare's plays in the way they were intended by their author to be represented, is unlawful and would subject those guilty of so wrong an act to fine and imprisonment. Horse jockeying is an indigenous trade in Connecticut, but riding horses for the amusement of others is there an interdicted employment. In the State of Massachusetts, the laws are less rigorous, and Shakespeare's plays may be represented according to their author's intentions, by the payment of a fee and under a special license, on any night of the week but Saturday and Sunday. On those two evenings Shakespeare is interdicted as an amusement in the good Old Bay State. In this city, a man may establish a dozen whisky distilleries, or manufacture firearms, or quack medicines with perfect freedom, without fee or license; but no one can establish a place for theatrical amusements without a special license and paying for the privilege. Every theatre, and opera house, and circus in New-York has to pay a yearly fee which is appropriated to the use of some public charity. The theatre is one of the greatest anomalies of modern civilization. It has been an established institution in all civilized countries, in the face of an opposition lasting through 500 years, and it still stands. Next to the sports of the chase it is the oldest of all human recreations, and claims for its votaries the loftiest geniuses that have blessed mankind. The instincts of the people demand its pleasures, and it will find a footing wherever it is not excluded by law. The taste for the stage is not merely a love of tinsel and inexplicable dumb show—it is the universal desire to see the bright side of the world, and to travel out of ourselves into the airy regions of poetry and romance.

The persecution it has met, has been deserved, where it fell upon the immoralities unhappily united with it: but the undiscriminating hostility to all dramatic representations of human life, as something iniquitous per se, is a mere folly, inexcusable were it not for something worthy in the feeling from which it sprung. Had the stage been rescued to the purposes of virtue, instead of having suffered outlawry among the good, a powerful instrument would have been saved to the better side. Not only for the purposes of amusement, but of mental culture, dramatic show is a natural and efficient means. Regardless or thoughtless of this, good men have let it decline to base uses and then blamed the evil which in some measure at least, they might have prevented. Were every delicious taste or art abandoned on the same ground as the drama, our life would be bereft of the benefit and solace of the whole of them. There are great difficulties, no doubt, in giving to the stage a high and pure character—but are they insuperable? Is there any reason why this as well as any other natural taste may not be purged and made a "minister of grace?" If there be, still let us discriminate between the thing itself and our own weakness.

It is a strange circumstance that while music, painting, poetry, elocution, and dancing, are not only considered as harmless, but as elevating and beneficial arts, in themselves, yet, when they are all combined in the production of a drama they are regarded as fit only to be anathematized. The church, too, combines in its ceremonials all these arts but the last, and, in all Catholic countries eclipses the feeble attempts of the stage, in their combination to dazzle the senses and thrill the imagination. Of course there can be no comparison between the theatre and the

Church, because it is the province of the one to amuse, and the other to instruct the believer in the solemn mysteries of eternal salvation. The stage, too, professes to be moral, and the punishment of vice is the inevitable end of all dramas. There is no such lusus as an immoral drama. It is the delight of the coarsest natures to see poetical justice dealt out to the wicked, and the sufferings of the virtuous form the great staple of all tragedies. There is nothing that so certainly commands the tears of an audience, as the undeserved calamities of the innocent. One of our theatres has been reaping a harvest of nightly benefits by exhibiting the untimely death of a little girl, and the hardships of a virtuous slave. The public go to the National Theatre, in one of the dirtiest streets of the city, where they sit in not over-clean boxes, amid faded finery, and tarnished gilding, to weep over Little Eva and Uncle Tom. It takes us back to the days Æschylus, and convinces us that the love of the drama is as strong as it ever was, and that it must remain for ever while men have hearts capable of being moved by human suffering. The descent from Prometheus to Uncle Tom, dramatically considered, is not a very violent one, nor so long as some may imagine.

It is the fashion with a certain class to speak of the theatre as having outlived its time, and being no longer necessary to the people; but a reference to the history of the stage, and an investigation into the condition of our theatres would prove that the theatre, as we observed just now, was never before in so thriving a condition as at present. Players are no longer vagabonds by act of parliament, nor are they exposed to any legal indignities here on the ground of their profession. An actor may now be buried in consecrated ground in France, but this privilege was denied his poor corpse in the days of Molière. Some of our actors are men of large fortune, and our actresses make themselves independent and retire to private life while they are yet young; and our managers become millionaires, and men of social standing. It is said that the stage pays well as a profession to those who are tolerably well qualified for it, and men of capital are not averse to investing their money in theatrical property. There are many pains-taking, well-intentioned men who have gone upon the stage, as coolly and deliberately as other men have gone to the bar or the pulpit, as a business pursuit, and have maintained themselves and families respectably by enacting the parts of "heavy fathers," and filling the posts of "utility men." It must be a sorry business, to be sure, but hardly worse than being a drudge in any other profession. The vagabondage of the theatrical profession, which is generally supposed to be the necessary condition of all its members, is rather imaginary than real. Actors are, generally, when off the stage, the most matter of fact and serious people to be seen; many of them have other callings, they engage in trade, or manufacturing, and perform the parts of good citizens with as much success as those of the stage villains and heroes whom they personate for a living. It was lately revealed to the public that Salvi, the fascinating tenor of the Italian Opera, when not employed before the foot lights in fancy costume, was superintending his large soap-boiling and tallow candle establishment on Staten Island—a revelation, that may hereafter mar the effect of his spirto gentil in the ears of the listeners who have so often been charmed by his tender voice. But it is not every actor who has the good fortune to be connected with so substantial a business as that of Salvi's; the actual life of too many presents a melancholy contrast to the stage splendors with which they are associated in the minds of the public, who imagine it is all fun and hilarity behind the scenes.

Mrs. Mowatt, in her autobiography, gives some instructive, glimpses of the private life of the heroes of the stage, and bears her testimony to the general good character of the greater part of the members of the profession which she joined as a means of honorable independence. Even in the profession of the ballet dancer, which is looked upon as the lowest and most degraded of the whole class of industrials who draw their support from the theatre, she says "there is nothing necessarily demoralizing and degrading," and she gives a slight sketch, but perfect as far as it goes, of a poor ballet girl, who displayed such a heroic spirit in the discharge of her humble duties, that her history should be sufficient to ennoble her despised occupation. Mrs. Mowatt states that she knew this real heroine of the stage, and had the opportunity of watching her conduct for several years.

"She had been educated as a dancer from infancy. She had been on the stage all her life; had literally grown up behind the scenes of a theatre. Her parents were respectable, though it is difficult to define their position in the social scale. At the time I knew her, her mother was paralytic and bedridden. The father was enfeebled by age, and could only earn a pittance by copying law papers. Georgina, the ballet girl, their only child, by her energetic exertions, supplied the whole wants of the family. And what were those exertions? The mind of the most imaginative reader could hardly picture what I know to be a reality. Georgina's parents kept no servant; she discharged the entire duties of the household—cooking, washing, sewing, every thing. From daylight to midnight not a moment of her time was unemployed. She must be at rehearsal every morning at ten o'clock, and she had two miles and a half to walk to the theatre. Before that hour she had the morning meal of her parents to prepare, her marketing to accomplish, her household arrangements for the day to make; if early in the week, her washing; if in the middle of the week, her ironing; if at the close, her sewing; for she made all her own and her mother's dresses. At what hour in the morning must she have risen?

"Her ten o'clock rehearsal lasted from two to four hours—more frequently the latter. But watch her in the theatre, and you never found her hands idle. When she is not on the stage, you were sure of discovering her in some quiet corner—knitting lace, cutting grate aprons out of tissue paper, making artificial flowers, or embroidering articles of fancy work, by the sale of which she added to her narrow means. From rehearsal she hastened home to prepare the midday meal of her parents and attend to her mother's wants. After dinner she received a class of children, to whom she taught dancing for a trifling sum. If she had half an hour to spare, she assisted her father in copying law papers. Then tea must be prepared, and her mother arranged comfortably for the night. Her long walk to the theatre must be accomplished at least half an hour before the curtain rose—barely time to make her toilet. If she was belated by her home avocations, she was compelled to run the whole distance. I have known this to occur. Not to be ready for the stage would have subjected her to a forfeit. Between the acts, or when she was not on the stage, there she sat again, in her snug corner of the greenroom, dressed as a fairy, or a maid of honor, or a peasant, or a page, with a bit of work in her hands, only laying down the needle, which her fingers actually made fly, when she was summoned by the call boy, or required to change her costume by the necessities of the play. Sometimes she was at liberty at ten o'clock, but oftener not until half-past eleven, and then there was the long walk home before her. Her mother generally awoke at the hour when Georgina was expected, and a fresh round of filial duties were to be performed. Had not the wearied limbs which that poor ballet girl laid upon her couch earned their sweet repose? Are there many whose refreshment is so deserved—whose rising up and lying down are rounded by a circle so holy?

"No one ever heard her murmur. Her fragile form spoke of strength overtasked; it was more careworn than her face. That had always a look of busy serenity off the stage, a softly-animated expression when occupied before the audience in the duties of her profession. She had a ready smile when addressed—a meek reply when rudely chided by the churlish ballet master or despotic stage manager. Many a time I have seen the tears dropping upon her work; but if they were noticed, she would brush them away, and say she was a fool and cried for nothing. Her devotion to her parents was the strongest impulse of her nature. In her early youth she had been engaged to a young man, a musician, belonging to the orchestra. They had been betrothed for several years. Some fairer face, though he could scarcely have found a sweeter, had rendered him faithless. She bore her deep sorrow with that lovely submission which elevates and purifies the spirit, but gave her heart away no more. The breath of slander had never shadowed her name. Younger and gayer girls in the theatre used to designate her as the 'old maid,' but this was the hardest word that any one ever applied to Georgina. Was not such a heart as hers what Elizabeth Barrett Browning has described as

'A fair, still house, well kept,
Which humble thoughts had swept,
And holy prayers made clean?'

"Her answer to a sympathizing 'How weary you must be at night!' was, 'Yes; but I am so thankful that I have health to get through so much. What would become of my poor mother or of my father, if I fell ill?'

"How many are there who can render up such an account of their stewardship as this poor girl may give in the hereafter? How many can say with her that life has been

'One perpetual growth
Of heavenward enterprise?'

"And this flower blossomed within the walls of a theatre—was the indigenous growth of that theatre—a wallflower, if you like—but still sending up the rich fragrance of gratitude to Him by whose hand it was fashioned. To the eyes of the Pharisee, who denounces all dramatic representations, while with self-applauding righteousness he boldly approaches the throne of mercy, this 'ballet girl,' like the poor publican, stood 'afar off.' To the eyes of the great judge, which stood the nearer?"

The theatrical business in New-York has, until within a short time, been almost entirely in the hands of Englishmen, and even the majority of the players are still foreigners, and it is doubtless owing in a great degree to this fact, that the stage has continued to lag in the rear of all other institutions on this side of the Atlantic; it has not appealed to the sympathies and tastes of the people; the actors have been aliens, and the pieces they performed have all been foreign; to go inside of our theatres was like stepping out of New-York into London, where the scene of nearly all the comedies presented is laid. English lords and ladies, English squires, clodhoppers, and Cockneys; English rogues, English heroes, and English humors form the staple of nearly all the plays put upon our stage. The actors and actresses speak with a foreign accent, and all their allusions and asides are foreign. The only places of amusement where the entertainments are indigenous are the African Opera Houses, where native American vocalists, with blackened faces, sing national songs, and utter none but native witticisms. These native theatricals, which resemble the national plays of Italy and Spain, more than the performances of the regular theatres, are among the best frequented and most profitable places of amusement in New-York. While every attempt to establish an Italian Opera here, though originating with the wealthiest and best educated classes, has resulted in bankruptcy, the Ethiopian Opera has flourished like a green bay tree, and some of the conductors of these establishments have become millionaires. It was recently proved that one of the "Bone soloists" attached to a company of Ethiopian minstrels, had spent twenty-seven thousand dollars of his income within two years. It is surprising that the managers of our theatres do not take a hint from the success of the Ethiopian Opera, and adapt their performances to the public tastes and sympathies. The manager of the National Theatre, one of the least attractive of all the places of public amusement, has made a fortune by putting Mrs. Stowe's Uncle Tom upon his stage. Uncle Tom, as a drama, has hardly any merit, it is rudely constructed, without any splendors of scenery and costume, or the fascinations of music; the dialogue is religious, and the Bible furnishes its chief illustrations; but it is American in tone, all the allusions have a local significance, and the sympathies of the people are directly appealed to. The result is an unheard-of success, such as has never before been accorded to any theatrical performance in the New World. The manager of the National Theatre is himself an American, and nearly all his corps of actors are also natives, and though he only aims at the tastes of the lowest classes of the people, yet his theatre has been daily and nightly filled with the elite of our society, who are willing to endure all the inconveniences which a visit to the place imposes for the sake of enjoying an emotion, such as neither the preaching of their clergy, nor the singing of Italian artists could create. A slight reaction of popular favor towards the theatre has been caused by the presence of Mr. Bourcicault among us, the author of

London Assurance. To witness the first representation of a new comedy by a popular English dramatist has attracted a class of people to the theatre who have not been in the habit of frequenting it.

But Mr. Bourcicault's comedies are not calculated to revive an interest in the stage; they are artificial in their construction, their characters are mere conventionalities of the stage, the dialogue lacks sincerity and wit, and the entire tone and sentiment of his plays are foreign to us. He nowhere gives that touch of nature which makes the whole world kin, but compels us all the while to feel that we are assisting at an alien performance. There is one point, however, he may claim the credit of having established; he has greatly improved the upholstery of the stage, and, by the introduction of "real furniture" transformed the before bare-looking scenes of interiors into something which bears a recognizable resemblance to a modern drawing-room. Mr. Bourcicault is the most successful of the present class of English dramatists; but, the regular drama died with Sheridan; since the School for Scandal was produced, there has been no play written in England which stands the remotest chance of being known by name half a century hence. The regular drama is as foreign now to the wants of the theatre, as the Greek tragedy, or the mediaeval mysteries. The theatre survives for other purposes than the representation of the drama; its presentations are merely sensuous, and not intellectual; Shakespeare is only endured for the sake of the star actor who impersonates the one character suited to his physical powers. The pieces which attract audiences and fill the treasury are as un-Shakespearian as possible. Tableaux, burlesques, thrilling melo-dramas, ballets, spectacles, horses, dwarfs, giants, rope-dancers, any thing that is monstrous and wonderful, form now the great attractions of the theatres, and any thing is considered as "legitimate" by the public, which affords amusement, and as proper, by the manager, which fills his house.

The lecture-room has now become a kind of compromise between the theatre and the Church, it is a neutral ground, upon which all parties and conditions may, and do meet, and the peripatetic star lecturer occupies nearly the same position which Roscius did in the early days of the stage. The greatest achievements in poetry are the plays which were never intended for print; and. doubtless, the best additions to our literature will be the lectures which were only written to amuse an audience, and not intended for publication in another form.

There are innumerable places of recreation in such cities as New-York, which are not properly entitled to be classed under the head of places of public amusement, which we are considering now. The theatre has always been, and still is, the principal place of public amusement, and, though its character has greatly changed, and its frequenters are no longer of the class who once gave it its chief support, it occupies too prominent a place in the social organization of our great towns to be overlooked by professed moralists and religious teachers. Its existence, and the fact of its being frequented by immense numbers of people whose morals need looking after, should be sufficiently strong reasons for the clergy, and all others who are by virtue of their office public teachers, to exert themselves to render it as little harmful as possible. To stand outside and denounce the theatre without knowing any thing of its interior, is not the true way to improve it. The representation of moral, and even religious plays has been found not only very effective upon the audiences who attend upon them, but profitable to the manager who brings them out.

As religious novels form a very considerable part of the popular books of the day, we see no reason why religious dramas should not also form an important part of theatrical entertainments. The fact that such a drama as Uncle Tom's Cabin can be represented two hundred nights in succession, at one of the lowest theatres in New-York, converting the place into a kind of conventicle, and banishing from it the degraded class, whose presence has been one of the strongest objections to the theatre which has been made by moralists, is sufficient to show that religious plays, like religious novels, may be pressed into the service of education with powerful effect. It is stated by Mrs. Mowatt, in her autobiography, from which we have already quoted, that in the catalogue of English dramatic authors there are the names of two hundred clergymen. But we imagine that none of these have written any religious plays. There are six regular theatres in New-York, which are open nearly every night in the year, excepting Sundays, for dramatic representations, and the public that sit night after night with a fortitude and good nature to us incredible, to see the School for Scandal and the Lady of Lyons would be but too happy to vary their amusements by a religious drama, if it were only new and intelligible. The chief of our city theatres, which claims to be the Metropolitan, since the destruction of the Old Park, is the Broadway. It is a very large house, capable of seating some 4300 persons. It was built by Col. Alvah Mann, a great circus proprietor, who ruined himself by the speculation, and is now the property of Mr. Raymond, another millionaire of the ring. Broadway is a "star house," and depends more upon the attraction of a single eminent performer than upon the general character of its performances, or its stock company; and it is at one time a ballet, another a tragedian, again an opera, then a spectacle, that forms its attractions. Forrest has here appeared one hundred nights in succession; here too Lola Montez made her debut in America, and any wandering monstrosity is seized upon by the manager to secure an audience. The regular drama, excepting with the attraction of a star, is found to be a regular bore to the public, and a regular loss to the house. The manager of the Broadway, E. A. Marshall, Esq., is neither an actor nor a dramatist, but simply a man of business; and, besides the Broadway Theatre, he is also proprietor of the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, and of the theatres in Baltimore and Washington. Neither the exterior nor interior of this house is at all creditable to the city; it has a shabby and temporary look externally, and the ornamentation of the auditorium is both mean and tawdry. No class of people seem to frequent it for recreation but only to gratify an excited curiosity.

The "Bowery," which is the oldest of all the theatres in New-York, is about the same dimensions as the Broadway, but has a stage of much greater depth, and better adapted to spectacle. It is frequented chiefly by the residents of the eastern side of the city, and its pit is generally filled with boisterous representatives of the first families in the city—that is, the first in the ascending scale. The performances at the Bowery are, of course, adapted to the tastes of its audiences, who have a keen relish for patriotic devotion, terrific combats, and thrilling effects, and are never so jubilant as when suffering virtue triumphs over the machinations of persecuting villainy. It was for such audiences as these, with a slight infusion of better natures, that Shakespeare wrote his dramas, and for whose amusement he was willing to personate the humblest of his creations. The present edifice is the fourth that has been erected on the same ground, since the first one was erected in the year 1826, the others having been destroyed by fire. The late proprietor of the Bowery Theatre amassed a fortune here, and left the establishment to his heirs, to whom it now belongs. It is understood to be a very profitable concern, as it has been from its first erection. It was in the Bowery Theatre where Madame Hutin, the first opera dancer seen on this side of the Atlantic made her debut, and where the first ballet was performed, one of the troupe being the then unknown Celeste. It was here, too, that Malibran made her first appearance on the stage after her unfortunate marriage, and filled the house with the beauty, fashion, and intellect of the city. Such audiences have never since graced its pit and galleries. It was on the stage of the Bowery that Forrest achieved his greatest triumphs, and laid the foundation of his fame. But it is long since stars of such magnitude have shed their sweet influences on Bowery audiences.

Niblo's is not, strictly, a theatre, but a show house, open to any body that may choose to hire it. It is one night a circus, another an Italian Opera House; then a dramatic temple, and then a lecture room. It is called a "garden," but it is one of the roomiest, best constructed, and most convenient of all the places of amusement in the city, and is unexceptionable in its character. Its interior decorations are very inferior to the other theatres, but it has the great advantage of being clean and well ventilated. The entrance to it, through the Metropolitan Hotel, is extremely elegant and capacious. Under the same roof, within the walls of the same hotel is Niblo's Saloon, a splendid room used for concerts and balls. The whole ground now covered by the Metropolitan Hotel was once Niblo's Garden, and the theatre was merely an appendage to it to draw custom to the refreshment tables.

There are two theatres in New-York, and but two which are devoted exclusively to the performance of the regular drama; these are Burton's in Chambers-street, and Wallack's in Broadway. Burton's Theatre was, originally, a bath-house, and was afterwards turned into an Italian Opera House, in the management of which a good deal of money was lost, and Palmo, the proprietor ruined. Burton then took possession of it, and made a fortune. It was the first instance in which a theatre in this city had fallen into the hands of a manager of scholarly attainments and artistic instincts, and the result of his management shows what may be effected by talent turned in the right direction. Mr. Burton has not only enriched himself, but has done the public a service by affording them a place of harmless and elevating amusement. One of the first pieces that he put upon his stage was Milton's Comus, which gave the public assurance that the new manager was a person of education and refinement; and the uniform good judgment shown by him in the pieces he has selected, and the superior manner in which they have been costumed, have made his theatre a superior place of intellectual entertainment for people of educated tastes. Mr. Burton is one of the best low comedians on the stage, and is, himself, one of the strongest attractions of his theatre. But, like a true artist, he never hesitates to take a subordinate part, when it is necessary to give completeness and effect to a performance. He has a devoted attachment to his art, and goes through with his nightly performances, sometimes appearing in three different pieces, with a degree of vigor, and careful attention to all the minute accessories of his part, which we could only look for in an enthusiastic acolyte in the temple of art. Mr. Burton is an Englishman; but, unlike most of his countrymen, he left his native country behind him, when he crossed the Atlantic, and became thoroughly American in his feelings. He was bred to the profession of a printer, and, after his arrival in this country engaged in several literary enterprises. He established the Gentleman's Magazine, now called "Graham's."

Wallack's Lyceum, in Broadway, is an exceedingly elegant little house, the style of the interior decoration is in excellent taste, and the effect of a full house is light, cheerful, exhilarating, and brilliant. James Wallack, the manager and proprietor, is the head of a large family remarkable for the possession of theatrical talent. He was a celebrated actor in London more than thirty years ago, and is still one of the best players in his line,—the genteel heroes of melo-drama,—on the stage. But he rarely makes his appearance before the foot lights. Wallack's Lyceum is Burton's without Burton. Great attention is always paid to the production of pieces at this brilliant little house, and the costumes and scenery form an important part of the attraction. English comedy and domestic dramas form the chief attractions at Wallack's, and the house is generally full. The utmost order and decorum are maintained, both at this house and Burton's, and every thing offensive to the most delicate taste carefully excluded from the stage.

The National Theatre in Chatham-street has long been the resort of newsboys and apprentices, and the style of performances has been very similar to those of the "Bowery;" but, in a happy moment, the manager, a good natured native whom they call Captain Purdy, put Uncle Tom's Cabin upon his stage and at once raised his fortune and changed the character of his house. As it has played this piece twice a day for nearly six months, and is now the family resort of serious family parties, it would be rather hazardous to predict what its future course may be; the old Chatham Theatre was converted into a chapel, and Captain Purdy's is half way towards the same destiny.

Attached to Barnum's Museum there is a large, well arranged, and showily decorated theatre for dramatic representations, where domestic dramas of a moral character are performed, and a version of Uncle Tom adapted to Southern tastes has been a long time running. The "St. Charles," is a small theatre in the Bowery which was built for an actor named Chanfrau, who was the creator of the universally recognized character of Mose, the type of the New-York gamin.

The Italian Opera House in Astor Place has been adapted to the uses of the Mercantile Library Association; and the new opera house in Irving-place, which bids fair to be one of the most magnificent structures devoted to music in the world, is not yet sufficiently built to be described; but we shall describe it hereafter.

Since we commenced writing this article the most beautiful and spacious place of popular recreation in New-York has been swept out of existence by one of those sudden and disastrous conflagrations which have earned for New-York the appellation of the City of Fires. Metropolitan Hall, which was unrivalled for its extent and splendor by any concert room in the world, together with the superb marble-fronted hotel in which it was inclosed, with all their wealth of embellishment and taste, the embodied forms of labor, genius, and skill were suddenly whiffed out of existence on the morning of the 8th of January. The engravings which we have the good fortune to possess of these superb structures are all that now remain, but the memories of those ornaments of our city.

Castle Garden, the unique, remains, where opera, music, and the drama are presented by turns. It is a hall of unequalled advantages for public exhibitions, which was originally a fort, but has long been appropriated to the refining arts of peace.

The Ethiopian minstrels have become established entertainments of the public, and among them are three permanent companies in Broadway; the Buckleys, Christy's, and Wood's, where the banjo is the first fiddle, and the loves of Dinah and Sambo form the burthen of the performances.

The Italian Opera, too, is now an established institution in the New World, but it leads a vagabondish kind of a life at present, and has no permanent house of its own, although one is erecting for it.

We are neither wealthy enough nor sufficiently educated in music to monopolize an Italian troupe at present, but are compelled to share this luxury in common with our neighbors of Boston, Philadelphia, Havana, Mexico, Valparaiso, and Lima. The Italian Opera is the highest order of theatrical entertainment, and demands a class of educated and wealthy people for its proper support more numerous than we have yet been able to boast of. There are never more than half a dozen good singers before the public at a time, and in competing for their services, we have to contend with, not the people of other cities, but with their monarchs, the Emperor Nicholases and Emperor Napoleons, who never hesitate to spend the money of their subjects to purchase pleasures for themselves.

The circus is still the most popular of public amusements, and it is conducted on a magnificent scale as a regular business speculation by enterprising citizens. The most famous riders now in Europe are graduates of the American ring. The Hippodrome, in the Fifth Avenue, was an attempt to transplant Franconi's from Paris. But the Hippodrome was too exotic to thrive in our climate, and, after a season of doubtful success, it has closed probably for ever.

THE CRUISE OF THE STEAM YACHT NORTH STAR.

The Cruise of the Steam Yacht North Star; a Narrative of the Excursion of Mr. Vanderbilt's Party to England, Russia, Denmark, France, Spain, Italy, Malta, Turkey, Madeira, etc. By the REV. JOHN OVERTON CHOULES, D. D., Author of the "History of Missions," "Young Americans Abroad," etc. Boston, Gould & Lincoln, 1854.

NEVER, since the day when Noah took his sons and his sons' wives on board the Ark, has there been so large a family party afloat as that which embarked with the patriarch Vanderbilt, on his pleasure trip to Europe. It was altogether a most memorable and remarkable excursion, and better worth being commemorated than many voyages of greater pretensions. When the North Star appeared in the British waters, the London journals while chronicling the event and expressing their admiration of the yacht, and the splendid liberality of its patriarchal owner, consoled themselves with the reflection that there were plenty of self-made millionaires on the London Exchange, who were rich enough in pocket, but too poor in spirit, to indulge in such ostentatious pleasures.

The London News said. "Those who ought to be the Vanderbilts of England, would shrink from employing their wealth in the magnificent manner adopted by their American friend. They would dread the effect of making any unusual display which would surely subject them to the reproach of being millionaires and parvenues." Poor creatures! Our Cosmo Vanderbilts are rather proud of being parvenues and the creators of their own fortunes, and would rather than not be accounted millionaires. "Here is the great difference between the two countries," continues the News. "In England a man is too apt to be ashamed of having made his own fortune, unless he has done so in one of the few roads which the aristocracy condescend to travel by—the bar, the church, or the army."

Think of getting rich by the church! That which should disgrace a Christian is, it appears, one of the three paths to honor in England. God be praised that we were born on this side of the Atlantic! "And if he is vulgar enough not to feel ashamed of himself," continues the candid News, "his wife and children make amends by sedulously avoiding every thing which can put other people in mind of their origin. It was thought something superhumanly heroic in Sir Robert Peel to confess he was the son of a cotton spinner, though every body knew it." Well then might John Bull open wide his eyes at the apparition of the North Star steaming into Southampton water!

The North Star was a steamship of the first class, which was built expressly for her owner to make a pleasure voyage to Europe in, and, of course, combined all the requisites to insure comfort and safety which money could procure. She left New-York last May, having on board Commodore Vanderbilt, his wife and eighteen of his sons and sons-in-law and daughters and daughters-in-law; in addition there were Doctor Linsly, the family physician, and his wife, and the Rev. John Overton Choules, D. D. and his wife.

A happier party, or one better satisfied with their prospects, according to Dr. Choules, never crossed the Atlantic.

Hiss went the steam, round went the wheels,
Were never folk so glad.

Doctor Choules was to officiate as chaplain and historiographer of the excursion and, if ever we go a yachting to Europe, most fortunate shall we esteem ourselves if we can engage so jovial and sunny-minded a D. D. to act in a similar capacity. We fear there are but few such chaplains, and we know that there have never been many such good-natured chroniclers of voyages. If there were any disagreeables attending the excursion, our author, for one, did not see them. He saw nothing but a nimbus of lambent glory surrounding the ship in which he sailed, and encircling every object that he encountered. His glasses were tinged with rose-color, all odors were agreeable that saluted his wide nostrils, and none but the sweetest and genteelest sounds ever reached his ears. His presence must have been perpetual sunshine in the saloons, and on the deck of the North Star. He heard, we have not a doubt,

"——a mermaid on a dolphin's back,
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,
That the rude sea grew civil at her song."

For he naively remarks at the close of his volume that, although one of the passengers "reckoned up sixteen days of bad weather," "he did not remember one he should call a regular storm." So uniform is the chaplain's amiable temper, and so resolutely was he bent on looking only upon the silver linings of black clouds, that he has even a good word for the Emperor Nicholas, an unhappy man, whom all the rest of the world unites in execrating. Dr. Choules says, he has "heard anecdotes in plenty respecting the Czar, and all of them reflect great honor upon the qualities of his head and heart," and he left Russia "with exalted opinions of the wisdom and patriotism of the Emperor."

The incipient state of great events is always a subject of interest to the world, and Dr. Choules records the time and the place when Mr. Vanderbilt first revealed to him the project of his pleasure voyage, and made its future historian acquainted with the happiness which was in store for him.

"Early in the spring of the present year," says our author, "the attention of the country was directed to an item in the daily papers of New York, containing information that Mr. Vanderbilt was constructing a steam-ship of large dimensions, which he intended as a yacht for the accommodation of his family and some invited friends in a voyage to the principal sea-ports in Europe. The announcement of this project excited a deep interest in the public mind, and the excursion became a prominent subject of conversation.

"Mr. Vanderbilt was known to his countrymen as a thoroughly practical man, whose energy and perseverance, combined with strong intellect and high commercial integrity, had given him immense wealth; all his undertakings had been crowned with signal success, and his great enterprise in opening a communication with the Pacific by the Nicaragua route had made him a reputation in Europe; and a general expectation existed that he would carry out his plan in a manner that would redound to the honor of the country. Various opinions were entertained as to his ultimate designs. Many imagined that Mr. Vanderbilt proposed to effect some great mercantile operation,—he was to sell his ship to this monarch, or that government,—or, he was to take contracts for the supply of war steamers; all sorts of speculations were entertained by that generally misinformed character,—the public. In February I was sitting with Mr. Vanderbilt in his library, when he gave me the first information I had received of his intentions, and he kindly invited me and my wife to accompany him to Europe in the month of May. The ship was then on the stocks, but he named the very day on which he should sail, and gave me the details of his proposed route, and from which few deviations were afterwards made. Mr. V. expressly informed me that his sole object was to gratify his family and afford himself an opportunity to see the coast of Europe, which he could do in no other way; and he observed that, after more than thirty years' devotion to business, in all which period he had known no rest from labor, he felt that he had a right to a complete holiday."

The style of Doctor Choules is equal to his subject, being free, flowing, and easy, and though here and there a sentence occurs to which a severe or pedantic critic might object, it is very readable, amiable and pleasant. It would be impossible for the most ill-natured of the whole tribe of critics not to relent and grow tenderly good-humored while accompanying the pleasant author on his rose-tinted excursion. There is one sentence in the preface of the Doctor's book which, we must confess, rather startled us before we got entirely through with it. "This world is full of beauty," says Doctor Choules, "and it teems with wonders; and I never see a fresh portion of God's earth, but I feel some respect for the old gentleman's opinion,"—the remainder of the sentence leaves us room to imagine what the good Doctor means, but as the oddness of its phrasing did not at the first glance permit us to discover it. we were rather startled until we did—"who, on going from Maine to Albany for the first time that he had left his native State, declared, on his return, that the world was more extensive than he had supposed."

It will be perceived that the two D.'s which the reverend historian wears at the end of his name are no hindrance to his enjoyment of a small joke. There are several like it in the volume.

It was a remarkably fine moonlight night as the North Star steamed past "one of the sweetest islands of the world," where the venerable mother of Mr. Vanderbilt resided, in whose honor "rockets were let off and a gun fired;" and when the pilot left the yacht outside Sandy Hook, he was presented with a "purse of gold, which was intended to show that no blame was attached to him by Mr. Vanderbilt," for an accident which had delayed the steamer the day before. "Soon after leaving Sandy Hook," says Dr. Choules, "Mr. Vanderbilt requested me to conduct family worship on board the ship throughout the voyage, and to appoint such an hour as I thought most suitable. It was accordingly agreed that prayers should be attended every evening at nine o'clock, and that grace should be said at all the meals on board ship." The voyage commenced most auspiciously, and Dr. Choules remarks, on the very first day out, "it seemed a happiness to exist," and, as he immediately after says, "our table was equal to that of any hotel in America, and the desserts rivalled in richness any thing that I have witnessed in the Astor, Metropolitan and St. Nicholas;" we have no doubt that the seeming was a reality. Not only were the desserts rich, but the music was delightful. "One gentleman of the party possessed a fine taste in Italian music—the ladies were always in voice—the sailors, too, were decidedly fond of negro melody. One of them who answered to the euphonious name of Pogee, was thought to be quite equal to the Christy Minstrels." The first sermon preached by the Doctor, he informs us, was on the 22d of May, "the text selected for the occasion, Proverbs xvi. 32; 'He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.' The singing was fine, and the accompaniment of the piano very acceptable." Doctor Choules had a very natural admiration for his generous patron. "Often," says he, "did I wish that more than the members of our privileged company could have seen him day by day kind and attentive to his officers, polite and liberal to his guests. Mr. Vanderbilt I had long known to be possessed of great qualities, a mighty grasp of intellect, and capabilities of the highest order. Yet till I entered upon this voyage I did not adequately appreciate his knowledge of men, his fine tact, his intuitive perception of the fitting, and his dignified self-control; and I felt glad that such a man, self-made as he is, should be seen by the accidental sons of nobility and fortune in the Old World."

The amenities and splendors of the voyage across the Atlantic came to an end on the 1st of June, and, quite as a matter of course. "it was one of England's most joyous, brilliant mornings," when the doctor and his companions woke up in Southampton water, "and gazed out upon as richly cultivated a landscape as the southern coast of England can present." Here the party "found several fine hotels;" but we are sorry to learn that one, called the New York Hotel, which had the star-spangled banner displayed, did not favorably impress "some of our gentlemen who repaired to it for a lunch." This was about the only unfavorable impression which seems to have been made upon the party during this brilliant excursion, but the Doctor adds that "Radley's Hotel near the railroad, and, I think, the Dolphin, are well-kept houses." The unfavorable impression caused by the unfortunate lunch which had a star-spangled banner to recommend it, probably soon wore off, for the Doctor immediately grows amiable again. But a poor lunch was not a thing to be passed over by so exemplary a chaplain, and so veracious a historian. It was one of the few dark spots in the bright picture he has given us of this memorable excursion. Every thing is beautiful, fine, glorious and charming, excepting that unfortunate lunch. They see some soldiers, and the Doctor remarks "they looked like fine fellows." He calls upon the Rev. Thomas Adkins in Southampton, whom he had known many years ago. "I told the ladies," says the Doctor, "that Mr. Adkins used to be regarded as one of the noblest looking men in England—and our ladies thought him one of the most splendid men they had ever seen." The next day they were off for London, and in Winchester "partook of the hospitalities of Mr. Alderman Andrews, whose name is so endeared to Americans." The Doctor was anxious to "get in" at his "old favorite house, the Golden-Cross, nearly opposite to Northumberland House, but Mr. Gardiner was unable to take even half our number." How natural that he should desire to get in at the Golden-Cross, so fitting an emblem of that cross which he bore about. The Doctor informs us with much satisfaction that the house where they at last "found good accommodations," was the St. James' Hotel, in Germyn-street. "Two or three noblemen reside in this hotel, and one, Lord Blayney, has made it his city residence for many years." The day of their arrival in London happened to be a "drawing-room." "Every street was thronged with carriages (we imagine this is not to be taken literally) waiting for their turn to take up the company at the palace. The coachmen and footmen all had immense bouquets in their bosoms, and the splendid liveries, and powdered heads, and white wigs of the drivers were novelties to most of the North Star party." The Doctor was anxious to know "what would be the first object of curiosity to the ladies, and was not a little surprised to find that the Thames Tunnel was voted for as the primary visit." Doctor Choules is a great lover of rural scenery, and, while the other members of the party were seeing the lions in London he took a run down to his native Bristol to refresh himself with views of the scenery of the Avon. In the ecstasy of again beholding the scenes of his boyhood he exclaims, "I really believe that either from the impressions which I received in childhood in this glorious region, or from some peculiar organization (we rather imagine it is the organization), I have felt so much delight in rambling abroad among scenes of beauty, sublimity, and historical interest. O, the happy hours of my boyhood that I have passed in this village, on the Avon's banks! And, what tea-drinkings have I had in these cottages, and in the arbors which surround them!" The child is father to the man beyond a cavil. Returned to London, the excursionists went to hear "the Hon. and Rev. Baptist Noel, brother to the Earl of Gainsborough," preach. The Rev. gentleman "has a fine figure," and, "we were much gratified with the prayer offered." The next day "Mr. Peabody proffered Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt and ladies the use of his boxes that evening at the Opera, and as long as they remained in town." Whether Doctor Choules visited the opera or not we are not informed, but we are sorry to learn from "a notice of the opera furnished by one of the gentlemen of the party who was present," that the splendor of the scene was not quite up to their expectations. Like the lunch at Southampton the opera was a failure. "It was the height of the season; a large and fashionable assemblage filled the house; England's favorite Queen Victoria and Prince Albert were there; and many of the fairest and noblest of the land, yet we were disappointed. The spectacle was not so gorgeous and brilliant as we had expected on a court night,—neither in the first coup d'œil, the beauty of the ladies, nor the elegance of the toilet." This is not Dr. Choules; he would not have been disappointed, neither in the first, nor the second coup d'œil. "The Queen" we are informed, by this disappointed gentleman, "wore a rich white dress, exceedingly decolté, covered with point lace, and an ornament of great value,—a magnificent pearl—on the stomacher. Prince Albert is a tall, stout-looking man, light-haired, and partially bald. His appearance was any thing but aristocratic, notwithstanding he exhibited a large star on his left breast, and a wide crimson silk ribbon over a white waist-coat. We searched scrutinizingly among the noble circles to discover something in form or feature marking the stamp of hereditary nobility; but in vain." "Four of the party dined with Mr. Peabody at Richmond to meet Senator Douglas. The dinner was an elegant repast." In the evening they went to a levee at Mr. Ingersoll's, our Minister, where "the display of diamonds was very brilliant." On the 8th of June they attended a soiree at the Lord Mayor's; "the Lord Mayor was the Right Honorable Thomas Challis, a wealthy merchant in Hides." Diamonds and dinners did not absorb all the attention of our chronicler, he "was especially delighted with the glorious collection of old books at Mr. Toovey's, 42 Picadilly. On one occasion he met with three distinguished bibliopolists at this shop—Lord Hastings, Sir David Dundas, and Mr. Henry Foss."

The party were greatly favored atmospherically during their stay in London. The Doctor sagaciously remarks, that "the state of the weather is in England a never failing subject of conversation among her population. This arises from its frequent changes. During our visit in London of ten or twelve days, we had no reason to complain, it was charming." We are informed that "the ladies experienced much enjoyment in a visit to Madame Tussaud's great museum of notables in wax." On their return to Southampton the party had the gratification of hearing a sermon from the Rev. Alexander Maclaren, a Scotch Baptist, and "we all felt the force of the preacher's subject;—The Dignity of Man. But when he described man's apostacy and ruin, no one could fail to experience the emotions of Isaiah, who exclaimed, 'I abhor myself in dust and ashes.'

But the Doctor soon recovered from his state of self-abhorrence, for, on the next page he is again on the best of terms with himself, and goes off in a most glowing and appetizing account of the great banquet given by the Mayor and merchants of Southampton to the owner of the North Star.

"On our arrival at Southampton, we found the streets placarded with notices of a public entertainment at the Victoria Rooms; and a very superbly-engraved card, in gilt letters, with a fine likeness of the North Star in the centre, surrounded by gilt flags and the arms of Southampton, was addressed to each member of the party. As a memorial of the voyage, I annex the card of invitation which I received on the occasion:

THE MAYOR,
MERCHANTS AND TRADERS AT SOUTHAMPTON,
Request the pleasure of the Rev. Dr. and Mrs.
CHOULES' company at a DEJEUNER, on MONDAY,
13 June, 1S53, at the Royal Victoria
Assembly Rooms, in honor
of the visit of
COMMODORE VANDERBILT,
In his splendid Steam Yacht North Star.

At 3 o'clock.

"Monday, the 13th of June, was a most delightful day; and when we came on deck we found the flags of the shipping in dock all gayly waving to the breeze, and noticed banners from the hotels and public buildings, while the church-bells were ringing merry peals of cheer and gladness. Every thing denoted mirth and holiday, and our feelings were somewhat peculiar when we felt that all this was a matter in which we were personally concerned, and was intended for the honor of our ship, her owner, and our country."

The account of the festivities at this place occupies some forty pages of the Doctor's book. From Southampton they go to Copenhagen, Cronstadt and St. Petersburgh, and even in the cold Baltic Sea there is sunshiny splendor to greet the North Star. At Southampton, at Bristol, at London, and at Rome, it was the loveliest spot, but in Peterhoff, says good Dr. Choules, the trees, the flowers, the greensward, &c. "transcend all that I have known of the beauty of country life in any part of the world." At the hotel, "the provisions were excellent, and, as we found every where in Russia, entirely in the style of the French cuisine." Going to St. Petersburgh they went to the Hotel des Princes, but it was too full to receive so large a company, and they were treated to a splendid lunch,—"the waiters spread a table and placed on it bread, butter, anchovies, caviare, claret, sherry, brandy, ice and cakes in variety. This excellent lunch was very seasonable, as it was now twelve o'clock, and the day intensely hot." On calling for the bill the host refused to accept of any pay! The Doctor was ravished, charmed, enchanted, by the splendors of the imperial residences, and particularly by the wonders of the hermitage of Catharine the Second. "The room containing the diamonds and regalia excited the interest of all in our party; and on no consideration would we have been deprived of the pleasure of seeing this unrivalled collection of treasures. Rubies, diamonds, emeralds and pearls—why, the room was full of them. The imperial crown pleased us better than any diadem I have seen in the regalia of other kingdoms."—O! prophet Isaiah! The Doctor is refreshed by the recollection that this was the palace of "the Great Catharine," who certainly was great in a way immortalized by Lord Byron—and in presence of its three thousand pictures, says, "I confess that the Dutch school is my passion!" Pictures of game, and fruits and flowers are more to the taste of the chaplain of the North Star, than saints, Magdalens and Ecce Homos; the picture which seems to have interested him most was "the Interior of a Stable," by Wouvermans. His rapid enumeration of the riches of the Imperial palaces, the gold, silver and diamonds in the churches is really dazzling, and they seem to have made an indelible impression upon his imagination. In describing the Isaac Church, he says: "No man can fail to be impressed with this wonderful pile. The exquisite proportions of this church seem to diminish its apparent size. I have only to say that here are monoliths, of Finland marble, sixty feet high, forming peristyles of unsurpassed beauty; and, in the interior are columns of malachite fifty feet high, which adorn the altars. Malachite, lapis-lazuli, porphyry and gold, all seem to vie with each other for pre-eminence in this glorious pile."

Dr. Choules is not one of those ascetics who refuse to do in Rome what the Romans do. "On the Sabbath which we spent in St. Petersburgh, we found a wedding feast celebrated at our hotel; and, in going to our dining-room at supper time, the waiters took us through the room where the festivities were going on. Excellent music and spirited dancing seemed to have put the party into high spirits." Lunches appear to make an indelible impression upon his mind. "At Mr. Wilkins' hospitable abode Captain Eldridge, his lady, and a few of us, partook of an elegant lunch which we shall often think of with pleasure. Such sweetmeats I never tasted," &c. But, what were the lunches, the churches, the diamonds, the pictures, the sweetmeats, the caviare, the brandy, the claret and the cakes of St. Petersburgh, without the good genius who presides over all—the Czar? Not seeing him was omitting the Prince of Denmark from the tragedy of Hamlet. "Our great regret at leaving Russia," says Dr. Choules, "is not having seen the great, and, I believe, good man, the emperor, who has done so much to elevate the condition of the masses in his extensive dominions, and to improve the entire country. I leave Russia with exalted opinions of the wisdom and patriotism of the emperor, and doubt not that, if his life be spared, Russia will continue to advance in all that makes a country great and powerful and happy. I have heard anecdotes in plenty respecting the Czar, and all of them reflect great honor upon the qualities of his head and heart; but I do not feel that I am at liberty to state them in this public manner, as they were related to me in the social circle, by men who are favorably situated to know their truth. Some of our party saw the emperor at the church of the palace, at Peterhoff; but I spent that Sabbath in the city. Had we remained a day or two longer, we should have seen the emperor on board; but his time and thoughts had all been engrossed with the pressing affairs of the great vexed question between Russia and Turkey."

The good chaplain cannot write long at a time without introducing something good to eat or drink, and occasionally creature comforts come in very whimsical juxtaposition with passages of sentiment or piety. The yacht had reached Copenhagen when they were called upon to part with one of their members. The event is thus touchingly mentioned: "Here we parted from our young friend Allen, who was to proceed from this city, by way of Kiel and Hamburgh, to Leipsic, and resume his studies. We found a fine supply of strawberries," &c. &c. From Copenhagen the yacht went to Havre, and the excursionists spent three delightful weeks in Paris; from Havre to the Mediterranean, and they entered the "charming bay of Malaga on Sunday, July 3lst." They were put in quarantine; but what of that? "with such a sky, such a temperature, and such a prospect," says the Doctor, "I never could be better off. And there came a boat full of good things, vegetables of all sorts, but, best of all, of grapes; the grapes of Frontenac, Muscat, and Sweetwater." The good things were none the less welcome for being brought off on Sunday.

We should be most happy to transfer to our pages some of the purple tints of Malaga with which the chronicler of the cruise of the North Star has illuminated his narrative; but we have already dipped more freely into his volume than we intended doing. From Malaga they pursue their course to Leghorn, passing Gorgona, "so famous for its anchovies;" at Leghorn they find "an excellent table," and go to the Opera. "The Sabbath-day, Aug. 7, was a delightful day. At our breakfast we had a fine supply of figs and peaches." In Leghorn the Doctor had the pleasure of preaching the gospel.

"It is pleasant to know that pure evangelical truth is here proclaimed, even amid the black darkness of Popery; and I was glad of an opportunity to preach the gospel in Italy, and there to join in prayer with God's people, that He would soon overturn the Man of Sin, who, impiously placing himself in the seat of the Almighty, lays claim to infallibility. But God declares that he will not give his glory to another; and Popery, by this fatal assumption of a divine attribute, has tied around her neck the apocalyptic millstone, which is at last to sink her to the bottomless abyss. Mr. Henderson is a Scotch gentleman, who has long resided here; he is an eminent merchant and banker, and has a mercantile house in Liverpool and Canada. He sent the first export of marble to New York, and a small quantity over-stocked the market."

From Leghorn the party visited Florence, where the Patriarch of the excursion sat to Powers for his bust, and Mrs. Vanderbilt to our countryman Hart. Naples, Valetta and Constantinople were next visited, but the excursionists were denied a sight of Rome, much to the regret of Dr. Choules and the ladies' maids. On their return to Gibraltar they had delightful picnics in the cork woods, and rambles and scrambles about the rock; and, says our chaplain—

"On Thursday evening, Mr. Clark, Major Labau and I, accepted an invitation to dine with the officers of the 44th at their quarters upon the Rock. At six o'clock we repaired to the Club-house, where we were to meet our kind friends, who would take charge of us. At sundown we had the pleasure to listen to the noble band which plays every evening in the square, and never did music sound more sweetly than that calm night. Having ordered our boatmen to meet us at the Ragged Staff, as the town gates would be closed on our return, we at a little past seven got into the carriage and ascended the rock, which is a slow process, but every winding turn showing us new beauties, and at eight we reached the comfortable quarters of the regimental mess. A more superb look-out was never seen than this building affords.

"The accommodations are very fine, and all that gentlemen can desire. At a little past eight we were summoned to the dining-room, and a more magnificent one is not easily found. It was a company night, of which there are two every week. There were twenty-two or twenty-four officers at table, all in uniform. The table was loaded with massive plate, belonging to the regiment, which is distinguished for the elegance of its equipage.

"Our dinner was one of the best I ever met out of Paris; indeed, it was thoroughly Parisian, as the arrangements of the mess are under the supervision of an artist from the French capital. The epergnes were very large, and bear the name of the regiment; and the immense candelabra and other adornments rendered it a brilliant scene.

"I am quite sure that the kind speeches of the generous, high-minded officers of the 44th, and their friends of other regiments, will long he remembered by each of their American guests. I shall never hear the Rock of Gibraltar spoken of without thinking of the 44th regiment, and our friends Brown, Higgins, Deering, Thornhill, and others whose faces I can recall much easier than their names."

From Gibraltar the yacht proceeded to Funchal, Madeira, and here they encountered a most remarkable man in the person of a publican.

"We all dined on shore, at Mr. Tates' hotel, and found an admirable table, with the best of attention.

"Mr. Tates was formerly a sergeant in the British army, and resides here on account of his health, which is much improved by the climate. On conversing with our host, I was surprised to find him possessed of so much intelligence; and, in reply to my inquiries on many subjects, I at once discovered that he was a man of considerable reading. Mr. Tates invited me into his study, and I was conducted into a very charming retreat, where I met with a far finer library of the best books than can usually be met with in a clergyman's study in New England. The cast of the proprietor's mind was evidently in favor of theology and metaphysics, and not often do I fall in with a better collection of the best authors. Mr. Tates is a hard student, a close thinker; and, although at least fifty, he is diligently employed in the acquisition of the Latin language. I was delighted with my visit to this charming study, which commands a view of the ocean and the unrivalled beauty of the island mountain range."

On Friday, the 23d of September, the yacht re-entered the bay of New York, and we fully coincide in the opinion expressed by the reverend chronicler of this remarkable and happy excursion, that "such a cruise was never attempted before;" but, if Dr. Choules' good-natured and lively volume should be extensively read, we have no doubt that some other of our generous millionaires will be tempted to emulate the splendid liberality of the fortunate owner of the North Star; but we can hardly hope ever again to read such a volume as his chaplain has presented us.

A YANKEE DIOGENES.

Walden; or, Life in the Woods. By HENRY D. THOREAU. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1854.

THE New England character is essentially anti-Diogenic; the Yankee is too shrewd not to comprehend the advantages of living in what we call the world; there are no bargains to be made in the desert, nobody to be taken advantage of in the woods, while the dwellers in tubs and shanties have slender opportunities of bettering their condition by barter. When the New Englander leaves his home, it is not for the pleasure of living by himself; if he is migratory in his habits, it is not from his fondness for solitude, nor from any impatience he feels at living in a crowd. Where there are most men, there is, generally, most money, and there is where the strongest attractions exist for the genuine New Englander. A Yankee Diogenes is a lusus, and we feel a peculiar interest in reading the account which an oddity of that kind gives of himself. The name of Thoreau has not a New England sound; but we believe that the author of Walden is a genuine New Englander, and of New England antecedents and education. Although he plainly gives the reasons for publishing his book, at the outset, he does not clearly state the causes that led him to live the life of a hermit on the shore of Walden Pond. But we infer from his volume that his aim was the very remarkable one of trying to be something, while he lived upon nothing; in opposition to the general rule of striving to live upon something, while doing nothing. Mr. Thoreau probably tried the experiment long enough to test its success, and then fell back again into his normal condition. But he does not tell us that such was the case. He was happy enough to get back among the good people of Concord, we have no doubt; for although he paints his shanty-life in rose-colored tints, we do not believe he liked it, else why not stick to it? We have a mistrust of the sincerity of the St. Simon Stylites', and suspect that they come down from their pillars in the night-time, when nobody is looking at them. Diogenes placed his tub where Alexander would be sure of seeing it, and Mr. Thoreau ingenuously confesses that he occasionally went out to dine, and when the society of woodchucks and chipping-squirrels were insufficient for his amusement, he liked to go into Concord and listen to the village gossips in the stores and taverns. Mr. Thoreau informs us that he lived alone in the woods, by the shore of Walden Pond, in a shanty built by his own hands, a mile from any neighbor, two years and a half. What he did there besides writing the book before us, cultivating beans, sounding Walden Pond, reading Homer, baking johnny-cakes, studying Brahminical theology, listening to chipping-squirrels, receiving visits, and having high imaginations, we do not know. He gives us the results of his bean cultivation with great particularity, and the cost of his shanty; but the actual results of his two years and a half of hermit life he does not give. But there have been a good many lives spent and a good deal of noise made about them, too, from the sum total of whose results not half so much good could be extracted as may be found in this little volume. Many a man will find pleasure in reading it, and many a one, we hope, will be profited by its counsels. A tour in Europe would have cost a good deal more, and not have produced half as much. As a matter of curiosity, to show how cheaply a gentleman of refined tastes, lofty aspirations and cultivated intellect may live, even in these days of high prices, we copy Mr. Thoreau's account of his first year's operations; he did better, he informs us, the second year. The entire cost of his house, which answered all his purposes, and was as comfortable and showy as he desired, was $28 12½. But one cannot live on a house unless he rents it to somebody else, even though he be a philosopher and a believer in Vishnu. Mr. Thoreau felt the need of a little ready money, one of the most convenient things in the world to have by one, even before his house was finished.

"Wishing to earn ten or twelve dollars by some agreeable and honest method," he observes, "I planted about two acres and a half of light and sandy soil, chiefly with beans, but also a small part with potatoes and corn, peas and turnips." As he was a squatter, he paid nothing for rent, and as he was making no calculation for future crops, he expended nothing for manure, so that the results of his farming will not be highly instructive to young agriculturists, nor be likely to be held up as excitements to farming pursuits by agricultural periodicals. He says:

"My farm outgoes for the first season were, for implements, seed, work, &c., $14 72½. The seed corn was given me. This never costs anything to speak of, unless you plant more than enough. I got twelve bushels of beans, and eighteen bushels of potatoes, besides some peas and sweet corn. The yellow corn and turnips were too late to come to anything. My whole income from the farm was

| $23 44
Deducting the outgoes, | 14 72½
| ———
There are left, | $8 71½

besides produce consumed and on hand at the time this estimate was made of the value of $4 50,—the amount on hand much more than balancing a little grass which I did not raise. All things considered, that is, considering the importance of a man's soul and of to-day, notwithstanding the short time occupied by my experiment, nay, partly even because of its transient character, I believe that that was doing better than any farmer in Concord did that year."

We will not extract the other items which Mr. Thoreau favors us with in the accounts of his ménage; according to his figures it cost him twenty-seven cents a week to live, clothes included; and for this sum he lived healthily and happily, received a good many distinguished visitors, who, to humor his style, used to leave their names on a leaf or a chip, when they did not happen to find him at home. But, it strikes us that all the knowledge which the "Hermit of Walden" gained by his singular experiment in living might have been done just as well, and as satisfactorily, without any experiment at all. We know what it costs to feed prisoners, paupers and soldiers; we know what the cheapest and most nutritious food costs, and how little it requires to keep up the bodily health of a full-grown man. A very simple calculation will enable any one to satisfy himself in regard to such points, and those who wish to live upon twenty-seven cents a week, may indulge in that pleasure. The great Abernethy's prescription for the attainment of perfect bodily health was, "live on sixpence a day and earn it." But that would be Sybaritic indulgence compared with Mr. Thoreau's experience, whose daily expenditure hardly amounted to a quarter of that sum. And he lived happily, too, though it don't exactly speak volumes in favor of his system to announce that he only continued his economical mode of life two years. If it was "the thing," why did he not continue it? But, if he did not always live like a hermit, squatting on other people's property, and depending upon chance perch and pickerel for his dinner, he lived long enough by his own labor, and carried his system of economy to such a degree of perfection, that he tells us:

"More than five years I maintained myself thus solely by the labor of my hands, and I found that by working about six weeks in a year, I could meet all the expenses of living. The whole of my winters, as well as most of my summers, I had free and clear for study. I have thoroughly tried school-keeping, and found that my expenses were in proportion, or rather out of proportion, to my income, for I was obliged to dress and train, not to say think and believe, accordingly, and I lost my time into the bargain. As I did not teach for the good of my fellow-men, but simply for a livelihood, this was a failure. I have tried trade; but I found that it would take ten years to get under way in that, and that then I should probably be on my way to the devil. I was actually afraid that I might by that time be doing what is called a good business. When formerly I was looking about to see what I could do for a living, some sad experience in conforming to the wishes of friends being fresh in my mind to tax my ingenuity, I thought often and seriously of picking huckleberries; that surely I could do, and its small profits might suffice,—for my greatest skill has been to want but little,—so little capital it required, so little distraction from my wonted moods, I foolishly thought. While my acquaintances went unhesitatingly into trade or the professions, I contemplated this occupation as most like theirs; ranging the hills all summer to pick the berries which came in my way, and thereafter carelessly dispose of them; so, to keep the flocks of Admetus. I also dreamed that I might gather the wild herbs, or carry evergreens to such villagers as loved to be reminded of the woods, even to the city, by hay-cart loads. But I have since learned that trade curses everything it handles; and though you trade in messages from heaven, the whole curse of trade attaches to the business.

"As I preferred some things to others, and especially valued my freedom, as I could fare hard and yet succeed well, I did not wish to spend my time in earning rich carpets or other fine furniture, or delicate cookery, or a house in the Grecian or Gothic style just yet. If there be any to whom it is no interruption to acquire these things, and who know how to use them when acquired, I relinquish to them the pursuit. Some are "industrious," and appear to love labor for its own sake, or perhaps because it keeps them out of worse mischief; to such I have at present nothing to say. Those who would not know what to do with more leisure than they now enjoy, I might advise to work twice as hard as they do,—work till they pay for themselves, and get their free papers. For myself, I found that the occupation of a day-laborer was the most independent of any, especially as it required only thirty or forty days in a year to support one. The laborer's day ends with the going down of the sun, and he is then free to devote himself to his chosen pursuit, independent of his labor; but his employer, who speculates from month to month, has no respite from one end of the year to the other.

"In short, I am convinced, both by faith and experience, that to maintain one's self on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if we will live simply and wisely; as the pursuits of the simpler nations are still the sports of the more artificial. It is not necessary that a man should earn his living by the sweat of his brow, unless he sweats easier than I do."

There is nothing of the mean or sordid in the economy of Mr. Thoreau, though to some his simplicity and abstemiousness may appear trivial and affected; he does not live cheaply for the sake of saving, nor idly to avoid labor; but, that he may live independently and enjoy his great thoughts; that he may read the Hindoo scriptures and commune with the visible forms of nature. We must do him the credit to admit that there is no mock sentiment, nor simulation of piety or philanthropy in his volume. He is not much of a cynic, and though we have called him a Yankee Diogenes, the only personage to whom he bears a decided resemblance is that good humored creation of Dickens, Mark Tapley, whose delight was in being jolly under difficulties. The following passage might have been written by Mr. Tapley if that person had ever turned author, for the sake of testing the provocatives to jollity, which may be found in the literary profession:

"Sometimes, when I compare myself with other men, it seems as if I were more favored by the gods than they, beyond any deserts that I am conscious of; as if I had a warrant and a surety at their hands which my fellows have not, and especially guided and guarded. I do not flatter myself, but if it be possible they flatter me. I have never felt lonesome, or in the least oppressed by a sense of solitude, but once, and that was a few weeks after I came to the woods, when, for an hour, I doubted if the near neighborhood of man was not essential to a serene and healthy life. To be alone was something unpleasant. But I was at the same time conscious of a slight insanity in my mood, and seemed to foresee my recovery. In the midst of a gentle rain, while these thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, in the very pattering of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house, an infinite and unaccountable friendlyness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since. Every little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathy and befriended me. I was so distinctly made aware of the presence of something kindred to me, even in scenes which we are accustomed to call wild and dreary, and also that the nearest in blood to me and humanest was not a person nor a villager, that I thought no place could ever be strange to me again.

'Mourning untimely consumes the sad;
Few are their days in the land of the living,
Beautiful daughter of Toscar.'

"Some of my pleasantest hours were during the long rain storms in the spring or fall, which confined me to the house for the afternoon as well as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless roar and pelting; when an early twilight ushered in a long evening in which many thoughts had time to take root and unfold themselves. In those driving northeast rains which tried the village houses so, when the maids stood ready with mop and pail in front entries to keep the deluge out, I sat behind the door in my little house, which was all entry, and thoroughly enjoyed its protection. In one heavy thunder shower, the lightning struck a large pitch-pine across the pond, making a very conspicuous and perfectly regular spiral groove from top to bottom, an inch or more deep, and four or five inches wide, as you would groove a walking-stick. I passed it again the other day, and was struck with awe on looking up and beholding that mark, now more distinct than ever, where a terrific and resistless bolt came down out of the harmless sky eight years ago. Men frequently say to me, 'I should think you would feel lonesome down there, and want to be nearer folks, rainy and snowy days, and nights especially.' I am tempted to reply to such,—This whole earth which we inhabit is but a point in space. How far apart, think you, dwell the two most distant inhabitants of yonder star, the breadth of whose disc cannot be appreciated by our instruments? Why should I feel lonely? Is not our planet in the Milky Way? This which you put seems to me not to be the most important question. What sort of space is that which separates a man from his fellows and makes him solitary? I have found that no exertion of the legs can bring two minds much nearer to one another. What do we want most to dwell near to? Not to many men surely, the depot, the post-office, the bar-room, the meeting-house, the school-house, the grocery, Beacon Hill, or the Five Points, where men most congregate, but to the perennial source of our life, whence in all our experience we have found that to issue, as the willow stands near the water and sends out its roots in that direction. This will vary with different natures, but this is the place where a wise man will dig his cellar. * * I one evening overtook one of my townsmen, who has accumulated what is called 'a handsome property,'—though I never got a fair view of it,—on the Walden road, driving a pair of cattle to market, who inquired of me how I could bring my mind to give up so many of the comforts of life. I answered that I was very sure I liked it passably well; I was not joking. And so I went home to my bed, and left him to pick his way through the darkness and the mud to Brighton,—or Bright-town,—which place he would reach some time in the morning."

There is a true vagabondish disposition manifested now and then by Mr. Thoreau, which, we imagine, was more powerful in leading him to his eremite way of life, than his love of eastern poetry, and his fondness for observing the ways of snakes and shiners. If there had been a camp of gipsies in the neighborhood of Concord, he would have become a king among them, like Lavengro. It breaks out here with unmistakable distinctness:

"As I came home through the woods with my string of fish, trailing my pole, it being now quite dark, I caught a glimpse of a woodchuck stealing across my path, and felt a strange thrill of savage delight, and was strongly tempted to seize and devour him raw; not that I was hungry then, except for that wildness which he represented. Once or twice, however, while I lived at the pond, I found myself ranging the woods, like a half-starved hound, with a strange abandonment, seeking some kind of venison which I might devour, and no morsel could have been too savage for me. The wildest scenes had become unaccountably familiar. I found in myself, and still find, an instinct toward a higher, or, as it is named, spiritual life, as do most men, and another toward a primitive, rank, and savage one, and I reverence them both. I love the wild not less than the good. The wildness and adventure that are in fishing still recommend it to me. I like sometimes to take rank hold on life and spend my day more as the animals do. Perhaps I have owed to this employment and to hunting, when quite young, my closest acquaintance with Nature. They early introduce us to and detain us in scenery with which otherwise, at that age, we should have little acquaintance. Fishermen, hunters, woodchoppers, and others, spending their lives in the fields and woods, in a peculiar sense a part of Nature themselves, are often in a more favorable mood for observing her in the intervals of their pursuits, than philosophers or poets even, who approach her with expectation. She is not afraid to exhibit herself to them. The traveller on the prairie is naturally a hunter, on the head waters of the Missouri and Columbia a trapper, and at the Falls of St. Mary a fisherman. He who is only a traveller learns things at second-hand and by the halves, and is poor authority. We are most interested when science reports what those men already know practically or instinctively, for that alone is a true humanity, or account of human experience.

"They mistake who assert that the Yankee has few amusements, because he has not so many public holidays, and men and boys do not play so many games as they do in England, for here the more primitive but solitary amusements of hunting, fishing and the like, have not yet given place to the former. Almost every New England boy among my contemporaries shouldered a fowling-piece between the ages of ten and fourteen; and his hunting and fishing grounds were not limited like the preserves of an English nobleman, but were more boundless even than those of a savage. No wonder, then, that he did not oftener stay to play on the common. But already a change is taking place, owing, not to an increased humanity, but to an increased scarcity of game, for perhaps the hunter is the greatest friend to the animals hunted, not excepting the Humane Society."

There is much excellent good sense delivered in a very comprehensive and by no means unpleasant style in Mr. Thoreau's book, and let people think as they may of the wisdom or propriety of living after his fashion, denying oneself all the luxuries which the earth can afford, for the sake of leading a life of lawless vagabondage, and freedom from starched collars, there are but few readers who will fail to find profit and refreshment in his pages. Perhaps some practical people will think that a philosopher like Mr. Thoreau might have done the world a better service by purchasing a piece of land, and showing how much it might be made to produce, instead of squatting on another man's premises, and proving how little will suffice to keep body and soul together. But we must allow philosophers, and all other men, to fulfil their missions in their own way. If Mr. Thoreau had been a practical farmer, we should not have been favored with his volume; his corn and cabbage would have done but little towards profiting us, and we might never have been the better for his labors. As it is, we see how much more valuable to mankind is our philosophical vagabond than a hundred sturdy agriculturists; any plodder may raise beans, but it is only one in a million who can write a readable volume. With the following extract from his volume, and heartily recommending him to the class of readers who exact thoughts as well as words from an author, we must take leave, for the present, of the philosopher of Walden Pond.

"Most men appear never to have considered what a house is, and are actually, though needlessly poor all their lives, because they think that they must have such an one as their neighbors have. As if one were to wear any sort of coat which the tailor might cut out for him; or, gradually leaving off palmleaf hat or cap of woodchuck skin, complain of hard times because he could not afford to buy him a crown! It is possible to invent a house still more convenient and luxurious than we have, which yet all would admit that man could not afford to pay for. Shall we always study to obtain more of these things, and not sometimes to be content with less? Shall the respectable citizen thus gravely teach by precept and example, the necessity of the young man's providing a certain number of superfluous glowshoes, and umbrellas, and empty guest chambers for empty guests, before he dies? Why should not our furniture be as simple as the Arab's or the Indian's? When I think of the benefactors of the race, whom we have apotheosized as messengers from heaven, bearers of divine gifts to man, I do not see in my mind any retinue at their heels, any carload of fashionable furniture. Or what if I were to allow—would it not be singular allowance?—that our furniture should be more complex than the Arab's, in proportion as we are morally and intellectually his superiors! At present our houses are cluttered and defiled with it, and a good housewife would sweep out the greater part into the dust-hole, and not leave her morning's work undone. Morning work! By the blushes of Aurora, and the music of Memnon, what should be a man's morning work in this world? I had three pieces of limestone on my desk, but I was terrified to find that they required to be dusted daily, when the furniture of my mind was all undusted still, and I threw them out of the window in disgust. How, then, could I have a furnished house? I would rather sit in the open air, for no dust gathers on the grass, unless where man has broken ground.

"It is the luxurious and dissipated who set the fashions which the herd so diligently follow. The traveller who stops at the best houses, so called, soon discovers this, for the publicans presume him to be a Sardanapalus, and if he resigned himself to their tender mercies he would soon be completely emasculated. I think that in the railroad car we are inclined to spend more on luxury than on safety and convenience, and it threatens, without attaining these, to become no better than a modern drawing-room, with its divans, and ottomans, and sunshades, and a hundred other oriental things, which we are taking west with us, invented for the ladies of harem and the effeminate natives of the Celestial Empire, which Jonathan should be ashamed to know the names of. I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion. I would rather ride on earth in an ox-cart with a free circulation, than go to heaven in the fancy car of an excursion train, and breathe a malaria all the way."

THE OLD AND THE NEW.

A RETROSPECT AND A PROSPECT.

IN his notes to the republication of that tremendous screed which, Mr. Carlyle calls "Shooting Niagara—and After," the troubled author declares his opinion that, "in fifty years hence, all serious souls will have quitted literature, and that for any noble man, or useful person, it will be a credit rather to declare, 'I never tried literature; believe me, I have never written any thing.' "

Mr. Carlyle may be endowed with the gift of prophecy; but, for our own part, we incline to the belief that fifty years hence will be very much like fifty years since, as far as literature is concerned, and that serious souls and noble men, as well as noble women, will be quite as ambitious of being known as the authors of something clever, as they ever were. It is just fourteen years since we had the honor to assist in getting out the first number of PUTNAM'S MONTHLY; and, so far from feeling at all ashamed of it, we confess to a feeling of pride, rather, in the part we took in it, and, on the whole, derive considerable satisfaction in remembering the cosy little dinner in a certain cosy house in Sixteenth-street, at which the plan of the work was discussed and the adventure determined upon. As this is only a gossippy little prelude, and not a grave essay, it will not be considered improper, we trust, if we mention, confidentially to the reader, that the little party consisted of Mrs. Caroline M. Kirkland, Mr. George Sumner, Mr. Parke Godwin, Mr. George W. Curtis, Mr. and Mrs. Putnam, and the present writer. It was but fifteen years ago, and of that little party two are already gone. The rest remain to assist in the revival of the work which was then so pleasantly and so auspiciously begun.

Fourteen years ago, the first number of PUTNAM'S MONTHLY was launched upon the troubled waters of this wayward world, as an experiment in literary navigation. Many predicted that it could not keep afloat, who yet hoped that it might, and did what they could to falsify their own predictions. But those who commenced it, and were responsible for its success, had no misgivings; and the result justified their faith and rewarded their efforts. The MONTHLY was in every respect not only a success, but a distinguished success. It earned not only a decided reputation for itself, but for many youthful adventurers in literature, hitherto unknown, who contributed to its pages. The chief doubt in the minds of many was, whether the country could furnish the requisite number of writers to sustain an original magazine of the better class; but the experiment proved that there was plenty of latent talent which only required an opportunity for its development. The second question was, whether a public existed capable of appreciating and able to support a publication such as it was the aim of the projectors to furnish. These were strange doubts in a country that had produced writers like Irving and Cooper, and where every laborer was a reader. But the first number dispelled all doubts, and thenceforth all went well.

"But the work stopped," remarks some sagacious friend.

True enough. It did stop, but it did not die. Ships sometimes drop anchor and furl their sails, and then spread their canvas again and make prosperous voyages, as if nothing had happened; while other ships founder at sea and pass out of men's memories. But the MONTHLY was so strong and healthful in its constitution, so distinct in its individuality, and so much a necessity, that it could not well come to grief. Through certain misadventures, which need not be particularly noted here, the work stopped for a while, but anxious inquiries have constantly been heard as to when it would reappear; for no one seemed willing to believe that it had stopped for good. It was a strange thing, that the metropolis of the continent, the centre towards which the wealth, the intellect, the enterprise, the refinement, and the adventures of the New World all tend, should not be able to support its one original, first-class magazine; and many have been the demands why this should be so.

When the old "PUTNAM" furled its sails for a season, the Atlantic Monthly was launched, and "took the flood" of public favor, sailing out upon the broad ocean, where it still floats prosperous. We have always and naturally been proud of that fellow-voyager, in whose build and trim we fondly recognize so much that is most familiar to us; and as "PUTNAM" again shakes out its sails, and heads for the open sea, it signals its consort "Good-morrow," and runs up its streamer with its old motto, "Excelsior."

One of the sincere friends and counsellors who most earnestly hoped for the success of the MONTHLY, and yet, with characteristic frankness, expressed his fears that its projectors were too sanguine in their expectations, was Washington Irving. The mention of this honored name sadly reminds us of other friends who were eager to help, by their counsel or contributions, in giving stability to the work, who are no longer here to aid or encourage us. As we glance over the names of the contributors to the earlier numbers of the MONTHLY, the black dashes which indicate the departures of those who helped us once, but can help us never more, are startling from their frequency. First on the list we find the name of William North, who wrote "The Living Corpse," in the first number. He was a young Englishman of good family, who had then but recently arrived in New York; a wild, impulsive creature, frank, generous, impatient of restraint, full of brilliant projects, hating routine, and bent on reforming mankind on the instant. He had published a periodical in London called "North's Magazine," and commenced various literary enterprises after his arrival in this country. But, after a brief career, he died by his own hand, and now lies in Greenwood Cemetery. Fitz-James O'Brien contributed "Our Young Authors" to the first number of the MONTHLY, and afterwards became better known by many brilliant contributions in prose and verse to various periodicals. He was a young Irishman, who landed in New York in the same week with William North. He was a man of remarkable gifts and of very comely presence, brave, generous, and impulsive. At the outbreak of the war he volunteered in defence of the Union, and, while serving on the staff of General Lander, in Western Virginia, was mortally wounded in an encounter in which he displayed great gallantry. His death, which did not occur until after he had undergone the amputation of his right arm, was remarkable for the heroic cheerfulness he displayed in his sufferings. The Rev. Dr. Francis L. Hawks, who wrote the article in the first number of the MONTHLY on "The Late John L. Stephens," and some others, died in the Autumn of 1866. Henry D. Thoreau, better known now than then, contributed "An Excursion to Canada," and was the author of several articles in subsequent numbers. He died in 1862. "Virginia in a Novel Form," a serial commenced in the first number, was the production of Mrs. Hicks, of Richmond; but whether she be living or dead, is more than we know. If still living, as we trust she is, the very novel form which Virginia has since assumed, might furnish a fresh theme for her very clever pen. The Rev. Dr. Bethune, who died in Florence, April 27, 1862, contributed the charming story of "Uncle Bernard," which appeared in the sixth number. This story had a very remarkable adventure. It was appropriated by a London magazine, without any hint being given of its origin, and republished here as original by one of our own magazines, without any suspicion of its American authorship; thus furnishing a very striking instance of the dangers encountered by literary pilferers in the absence of an international copyright-law. The Rev. Dr. Baird, who contributed an article on "Russia," which appeared in one of the early numbers, and which attracted great attention at the time by the accuracy with which the events of the war in the Crimea were predicted, died March 15, 1863. The Rev. J. H. Hanson (author of the article in the second number, the title of which, "Have we a Bourbon among us?" has passed into a proverb), as well as the subject of his ingenious essays, the supposed Bourbon, are both among the dead. William S. Thayer, one of the most promising and versatile of our younger brood of journalists, who contributed to the first volume a review of "Lowell's Poems," in conjunction with his friend and classmate, William Howland, died in Alexandria, Egypt, where he was United States Consul, about 1864.

Our necrological record is painfully long. It shows how many eminent names were on the list of our contributors, and how great a variety of talent is necessary to sustain the interest of a monthly magazine. In addition to those we have named, we can but briefly mention the names of others who well deserve a special commemoration; and chief among them is Caroline M. Kirkland, the vivacious, vigorous, genial, sensible, and erudite teacher and writer, who died as truly in the cause of the Union, as any of the heroes who gave their lives for their country on the battle-field; Richard Hildreth, the historian, who died a year ago in Italy, whither he had gone as Consul to Trieste; Henry W. Herbert, better known, perhaps, to American readers, as Frank Forrester, grandson of the Earl of Pembroke, who, like William North, died by his own hand; Prof. Charles W. Hackley, of Columbia College; Maj. E. B. Hunt, of the United States Army; Lieut. Bleecker, of the United States Navy; Dr. J. R. Orton, poet and novelist; Thomas Francis Meagher, who died Governor of Montana; C. M. Webber; Calvin W. Philleo, author of "Stage-Coach Stories;" and Maria Lowell, whose death was so tenderly commemorated by Longfellow, in the exquisite poem entitled "The Two Angels."

There are others, who have strangely disappeared from the world of letters, after letting their light shine for a brief while in the pages of the MONTHLY, who, we trust, are still among the living. What has become of "Jack Lantern" and his "railroad speculations?" Has he abandoned literature altogether for the law? The author of that sparkling essay on the "Pacific Railroad," which appeared in the ninth and eleventh numbers, has no right to wrap such talents as he possesses in a legal napkin. And what has become of Dick Tinto, and the author of "What is the Use?" Has Jervis McEntee, who once gave us such beautiful little landscapes in verse, entirely abandoned the pen for the pencil? And where, let us ask, is Herman Melville? Has that copious and imaginative author, who contributed so many brilliant articles to the MONTHLY, let fall his pen just where its use might have been so remunerative to himself, and so satisfactory to the public?

It is no small satisfaction to us to remember, that the MONTHLY first tempted several neophytes in literature to come out before the public, who have remained out to their own credit as well as to the public's satisfaction and profit. Among them were William Swinton, the accomplished historian of the Army of the Potomac, whose "Rambles among Verbs and Adjectives," which appeared in the twenty-third and twenty-fourth numbers, were written while he was a teacher in a school in North Carolina, and which he had to quit between two days to avoid the inevitable consequences of being suspected of abolitionism. Then there was Fred. B. Perkins, sufficiently well known now as a magazinist, whose "Connecticut Georgics" appeared in the sixteenth, and "Conversations with Miss Chester" in the twenty-sixth number. And Frederick S. Cozzens, the genial author of the "Sparrowgrass Papers," which were commenced in the twenty-fourth number.

Some remarkable volumes have been made up, too, from the early numbers of the Monthly, among which were "Shakespeare's Scholar," by Richard Grant White; Calvert's "Early Years in Europe;" Mackie's "Cosas de Espagna;" Mr. Curtis' "Potiphar Papers" and "Prue and I;" "Political Essays," by Parke Godwin; "The Sparrowgrass Papers," by F. S. Cozzens;

"Washington," by Mrs. C. M. Kirkland; "Fireside Travels," by J. R. Lowell; "Twice Married," by C. W. Philleo; "Israel Potter," by Herman Melville; "The Lost Prince," by Hanson; "Cape Cod," by H. D. Thoreau; "Leaves from the Book of Nature," by Professor Schele de Vere; "The Criterion," by H. T. Tuckerman, and "Wensley," by that accomplished scholar and powerful writer, Edmund Quincy; besides the series of railroad volumes known as "Maga Stories," "Maga Social Papers," &c.

Can it with any justice be said, that a magazine which accomplished thus much was not a success? And, if such a success could be achieved fourteen years ago, is it at all unreasonable to anticipate less under the more favorable conditions which invite a similar enterprise now? Past experience has taught us many useful lessons, which we hope to turn to our advantage. We know exactly what the public need in a magazine, and we hope to be able to furnish it. Popular taste has not much changed. Fourteen years ago it was considered an act of hari-kari for a popular periodical to express a political opinion, particularly if it was adverse to the "peculiar institution" of the South. But we ventured upon it without any harm coming of it, and we shall probably try it again. Certainly, we have no desire to publish a magazine for readers who are too feeble to endure a candid discussion, now-and-then, of political subjects. Stories are the life of a magazine, we are aware. One serial novel used to be considered sufficient for an English magazine; but so great is the general craving for stories, that no magazine ventures now to have less than two. Mrs. Todgers confessed, that the greatest difficulty in a commercial boarding-house, was to furnish a sufficiency of gravy for her guests. Stories are the gravy of a magazine, and this essential element to success shall not be wanting. American readers are accustomed almost entirely to foreign works of fiction; but we shall publish none but stories of native production. It is not possible that such devourers of stories should be incapable of producing the article so essential to their happiness. We have entire faith in our ability to bring out the required supply of American novels and romances. Like the gold in the gulches of the Rocky Mountains, they are only waiting for a little adventurous prospecting to bring them to light.

Once more, then, PUTNAM'S MAGAZINE takes its position in the literary firmament, with more "star-dust" in the atmosphere than there was at its first appearance, and with more luminaries to diminish its light, perhaps, by their superior brilliance.

Many excellent friends, who have favored us by their sage advice, have strangely insisted that it will be useless to expect good contributions without good pay; as though a publisher or an editor were likely to have missed this special lesson in his dealings with authors. But there are two sides to this interesting question of pay. In order that a publisher should pay, he must himself be paid. One veteran author, by way of enforcing his views on this subject, demanded a retaining fee of five hundred dollars as an earnest of future payments, for whatever he might furnish. Experience has taught us, that in magazine-writing the best-paid authors are by no means necessarily the best. The young, fresh, vigorous, and original writers, who are yet unknown to fame, and whose names have no commercial value, are the least expensive and the most beneficial contributors to a magazine. We do not intend to delude the public by paying for the use of a name. We shall publish no articles except for their intrinsic merit, and shall always prefer a new writer to an old one. None know better than our own authors what discouraging disadvantages the publisher of an original American magazine must contend against, in being obliged to compete with the unpaid British productions which are reproduced here almost simultaneously with their publication on the other side of the Atlantic. And while this unequal contest between the publisher who filches his matter, and the one who pays for it, almost prohibits the possibility of profit to the latter, the American author gauges his demand for compensation by the standard of his English brother. But we are touching, perhaps, on private rights by these allusions. The commercial value of any article depends upon what it will bring in the open market, and by that test we must be governed in the question of pay.

Something more we might add; but we cheerfully subside—to the reader's gratification, no doubt, as well as our own—to give place to the following note from our former coadjutor, GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.

MR. CURTIS' LETTER.

MY DEAR BRIGGS:—One bright day long and long ago,—it seems to me now that it must have been soon after the war of 1812, but, upon reflection, I discover that it was in 1852—I was dining with Mr. Harry Franco at Windust's, in Park Row. As we ate our simple repast and spoke of many things, Mr. Franco asked me what I thought of the prospect of a new and wholly American magazine; and immediately proceeded to set forth its possible character and brilliant promise so fully and conclusively, that I knew he was prophesying, and that, before many months, a phœnix would appear. That was my earliest knowledge of PUTNAM'S MONTHLY.

In the following Autumn, there was a little dinner at Mr. Publisher Putnam's cosy Sixteenth-street house, and the details of the enterprise were discussed at length. Mrs. Kirkland was there, and was, as usual, one of the most delightful of companions. When something was said of "pure literature" and "the classics," her genial face beamed with suppressed fun, as she said:

"Oh! the classics? They are in great repute at Washington. When I was there, last winter, a member of Congress sat beside me at dinner, and as he had been told that I was a littery woman, he evidently resolved to make the most of his opportunities; so, after a little while, he said to me:

" 'There's going to be a lecter to-morrow night.'

" 'Ah!' said I. 'Who is to lecture?'

" 'I disremember his name, but his subject,' said my neighbor slowly, to make sure, 'is The Age of Pericles'—pronouncing the last syllable as in the word miracles.

"My neighbor looked at me, as if he had not finished his remark, and repeated the words contemplatively, 'The Age of Pericles.' Then, with a kind of appealing expression, he suddenly asked me:

" 'What are Pericles?'—as if he supposed them to be a kind of shell-fish."

Of course, it had been long decided that the experiment of the magazine should be tried. It is safe to suppose, when advice is asked, that a resolution has been taken. When I arose from table at Windust's, on that long-vanished June afternoon, I was as sure that there would be a magazine as if Mr. Franco had told me that it was all in type; and now, after the other dinner in Sixteenth-street—for it is a beautiful provision of nature, that literary enterprises of great pith and moment should be matured under the benign influences of good eating and drinking—I found myself consulting, in a bare room in a deserted house in Park Place, where nobody could find us out, with Mr. Publisher Putnam, Mr. Harry Franco, editor-in-chief, and Mr. Parke Godwin, associate editor, upon the first number of PUTNAM'S MONTHLY.

We were an amiable triumvirate; and, although I say it, we put a great deal of conscience into our work. Our council-chamber was a third-story front room in a doomed house near to Mr. Putnam's headquarters, which were then in Park Place. I say doomed house; for, although a comfortable and staunch building, it was a dwelling-house, and as fashion had at last flown even from Park Place—the spot below Bleecker-street where it lingered longest—the house was patiently waiting to be demolished, and make way for a "store." Every day we met and looked over manuscripts. How many there were! And how good! And what piles of poetry! The country seemed to be an enormous nest of nightingales; or, perhaps, mocking-birds—certainly cat-birds. I can see now the philosophic Godwin tenderly opening a trembling sheet, traced with that feminine chirography so familiar to the editorial eye, and in a hopeful voice beginning to read. After a very few lines a voice is heard—methinks from Franco's chair: "Yes, yes; guess that's enough;"—Walter di Montreal, thy hour has come, and the familiar chirography flutters into the basket.

I suppose, my dear Briggs, you have long ago forgotten how many excellent suggestions Mr. Franco made. His nimble wit, his experience, his instinct of the popular taste, oiled all the dry and doubtful spots upon the ways, so that, when the stays were knocked away, the good ship of our hopes and fears slid smoothly out, and was at once launched in deep water. The Rev. Mr. Hanson brought his story about the Rev. Eleazar Williams, as the lost Bourbon. Mr. Franco instantly suggested the proper title, which has passed into current use, "Have we a Bourbon among us?" One day, after the first number was made up, Mr. Franco said, in his crisp way, "There must be an article upon the present state of parties, in the next number." Thereupon, Godwin, who was our statesman and political thinker, dropped his modest eyes; but Mr. Franco added, "I don't mean political parties; I mean Brown's." Alas! it was in that manner that "our best society" was described. The lovely maidens, whose exquisite draperies floated off Lyons looms; the polished youth, who encircled them in the modest waltz of the German, what time they placed bottles of champagne upon the floor beside their chairs for refreshment—these were described as "Brown's society." The result of Mr. Franco's hint was Mrs. Potiphar's first appearance. When she came out, it seems that somebody spoke of her, and of the person who had written about her, to Mr. Brown. "I don't know him," said Mr. Brown; and there was an end of that fine fellow.

The paper upon the Bourbon excited a curious interest. The subject was discussed every where, and, in very many minds, the question soon became, "Haven't we a Bourbon among us?" One morning a message was sent up to the editorial rooms from headquarters, that the Bourbon was then and there visible in the flesh. Down we went, and found a tall, large-framed man, erect and portly, of a deep-bronze hue, and of a bland expression. His hands were soft, like a Prince's or an Indian's. The head was round, and receded from the forehead. The face was very full, and was certainly very like the face of the Bourbon kings upon the Louis d'ors of France. If he were not the Seventeenth Louis, there was no apparent reason why he should not be. He was quite as royal a looking gentleman as any king of his time; as mild of mien as his reputed father; and he undoubtedly led a much better life at Green Bay than his illustrious predecessor, the grand monarch, or his kinsman the Regent at Versailles. The reverend Prince died in 1858, and opinions still differ whether he were a full-blooded Prince royal or a half-breed Indian.

In one of the earlier numbers of PUTNAM'S MONTHLY—that for July, 1853—there is a letter "Number One" of Parepidemus. It is very short, only three pages, and the really attentive and perceptive reader must have felt that it was by none of the familiar writers of the magazine, and was both in a different vein and a different spirit from the usual magazine literature. The last sentence was suggestive of a foreign authorship: "Let me sign myself, my dear sir (as we are all 'strangers and pilgrims,' so myself in an especial sense), your obliged and faithful Parepidemus." The letter is a mere fragment, a brief expression of a divine doubt, a simple and sincere questioning of the nature and result of intellectual and moral effort and expression. One little characteristic sentence will reveal the writer to those who know him, or who knew his works. He is speaking of something more than mere self-relief in the work of the great artist, the high, inspired purpose, which may be detected in St. Peter's or in the Tempest, and then adds: "Imperfect, no doubt, both this and that is: short of the better thing to come—the thing that is. Yet not impotent, not wholly unavailing."

Parepidemus was Arthur Hugh Clough, the young English scholar and poet, whom Matthew Arnold mourns as sincerely as Milton mourned Lycidas, and whom the whole younger generation of thoughtful, cultivated Englishmen remember with affectionate regret, and deplore as a man whose remarkable powers should have made him a leader of the best. He was born in England, and was early brought to this country; then returned, and was one of the beloved scholars of Dr. Arnold at Rugby, with Tom Hughes, Dean Stanley, Palgrave, and others; and went from Rugby up to Oxford, and, as his companions all fondly believed, to still higher and higher influence and honors. His powers were indisputable, his attainments remarkable, and his character most lovely. But a conscience subtly sensitive, a mind too exquisitely balanced, held him in the incessant unrest of the deepest moral and intellectual inquiry. He had the ambition which is part of the dowry of genius. He knew, and valued, and desired the prizes in the career for which he was fitted. But something restrained his hand: "Ought I to take the crown?" he asked, as if unworthy, as if his title were not perfect, as if the very desire were a deceit; and while he asked, the crown grew shadowy and faded away. One little poem, printed originally in the very thin volume of his verses, which every owner dearly prizes, I will transcribe here, as singularly expressive of him:

"I have seen higher, holier things than these,
And therefore must to these refuse my heart;
Yet I am panting for a little ease;
I'll take, and so depart.

Ah, hold? The heart is prone to fall away,
Her high and cherished visions to forget,
And, if thou takest, how wilt thou repay
So vast, so dread a debt?

How will the heart, which now thou trustest, then
Corrupt, yet in corruption mindful yet,
Turn with sharp stings upon itself! Again
Bethink thee of the debt!

—Hast thou seen higher, holier things than these,
And therefore must to these thy heart refuse?
With the true best, alack! how ill agrees
The best that thou wouldst choose!

The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above;
Do thou, as best thou may'st, thy duty do;
Amid the things allowed thee, live and love;
Some day thou shalt it view."

Clough came to this country in 1852, with the intention of taking pupils in the higher studies, and lived at Cambridge. He was greatly beloved by those who knew best the rare qualities of his genius, and his friendships were with the best men and women. There was an attractive blending of scholarly shyness, melancholy, and geniality in the impression he made; and he had the fullest sympathy with the freedom and the promise of American life. But his sad self was relentless. He could not escape the old wonder and questioning. What he wrote in poetry and prose had a strain of sincere, child-like pathos, wholly unsurpassed in contemporary literature. And it characterizes all his writings. It is not a pathos of sighs and sobs, and elegiac weeping and wailing, but a melancholy like that of the Autumn in Nature, a primeval sadness. It was while he was in Cambridge that he wrote the two letters of Parepidemus, the second of which appeared in the August number of 1853. But he soon went back to England; was appointed to a position in the education department of the Privy Council; married; worked hard, and in 1859 finished a translation of Plutarch. In 1861 he was obliged to relinquish work; went to Greece and Constantinople; returned, and wandered about Europe, reaching Florence in the Autumn. There he died on the 13th of November, 1861, and there he lies buried under the beautiful cypresses of the Protestant cemetery. Since his death, many of his letters and his manuscript poems have been privately printed in England, and an edition of the poems that he had already printed was published soon after his death. Clough's particular friend in this country was Charles Eliot Norton, of Cambridge, who edited a beautiful edition of his poems, which was published by Ticknor & Fields, in 1862. Mr. Norton prefaced them with a tender and modest memoir, and from that and an article by him in the North American Review for October, 1867, upon the privately printed volume, a very accurate impression of the rare and lovely genius of Clough may be obtained. His name is not yet very familiar in English literature, but it yearly becomes more so. His life seemed, of course, to many, a failure; but the union of real sincerity with real power never fails, however tardy be its recognition. It is refreshing to think of the antique nobility of soul, the true simplicity, the unshrinking devotion to the most celestial ideal, the patience, humility, and unselfishness of this thoroughly trained scholar and this true poet. A photograph of Clough hangs in Norton's study. It is a broad, balanced, serene, massive head, full of sweetness and wisdom, and of the child-like simplicity of modest genius. If I think of the pleasant and various society of our contributors, those who are living still, and those who are dead, there is no figure more significant and impressive, however modest and shadowy, and unknown to his companions, than that of Clough.

I suppose that Mr. Franco and Godwin, and the poor fellow who was snuffed out by Mr. Brown's brief remark, might fill many pages with their recollections of the pleasant cradle-and-crib days of the young "PUTNAM." Those three were the MONTHLY nurses. They saw that infant phenomenon safely through his prodigious childhood, and how rapidly he obtained his growth!

There are books in good standing, every where, which I can never see but with the feeling of the pedagogue towards his pupils, who have become illustrious. "My boys, sir; my boys!" he remarks with complacency, as the famous poets, or travellers, or novelists pass by. "Our books, sir; our books!" say the old triumvirate of "PUTNAM," as they hear the praises of the works, the manuscripts of which they luckily did not reject. Reject? I should say not. "I knew ye, Hal!" Their shrewd wits detected the signs at once, and saluted the genius unaided. And what editor ever does "reject" a manuscript? "Ladies, or fair ladies, I would wish you, or, I would request you, or, I would entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble," but to understand that when your manuscript returns, it is not because of any judgment upon its merits. Heaven forefend! It is only that, although nothing could be more, etc., etc., yet it is not exactly suitable to the pages of this magazine, and is, therefore, respectfully returned, or declined, with thanks. It is merely that this is a red rose—and very beautiful it is!—where a white lily was wanted. The enclosed pearl is returned with the most sincere thanks, because it was an opal which was needed to complete the necklace.

This, as we know, was the spirit of the original triumvirate of PUTNAM'S MONTHLY; and this, we are very sure (are we not?), will be the spirit of its more modern management. More modern? We, then, are ancient! Among the fresh voices which now swell the blithe choir of our literature, we are as those who have come down from a former generation! How this latest-born into the Monthly world springs and sparkles! Ah! Mr. Franco, if it is not our child, let us submit, and believe it to be our grandchild. I seem to recognize our family likeness. Methinks I detect the air of the "PUTNAM" of long ago. May Heaven bless you, young stranger! May you live long and happily! Forgive an old-fashioned benediction, but may you be a better man than your father!

So prays, dear Briggs, your affectionate grandf——,
I mean, faithful friend,
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.