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The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 2, August, 1862

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Title: The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 2, August, 1862

Author: Various


        
Release date: November 27, 2006 [eBook #19927]

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Janet Blenkinship and the
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONTINENTAL MONTHLY, VOL. 2, NO. 2, AUGUST, 1862 ***




Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Janet Blenkinship and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by Cornell University Digital Collections)







THE

CONTINENTAL MONTHLY:

DEVOTED TO

LITERATURE AND NATIONAL POLICY.

       *       *       *       *       *

VOL. II.--AUGUST, 1862.--No. II.

       *       *       *       *       *

AMONG THE PINES.

[CONCLUDED.]

'My God! drowned herself and her child!' exclaimed the Colonel, with
deep emotion.

'Come, my friend, let us go to them at once,' I said, laying my hand on
his arm, and drawing him unresistingly away.

A pair of mules was speedily harnessed to a large turpentine-wagon, and
the horses we had ridden the day before were soon at the door. When the
Colonel, who had been closeted for a few minutes with Madam P--, came
out of the house, we mounted and rode off with the 'corn-cracker.'

The native's farm was located on the stream which watered my friend's
plantation, and was about ten miles distant. Taking a by-road which led
to it through the woods, we rode rapidly on in advance of the wagon.

'Sort o' likely gal, thet, warn't she?' remarked the turpentine-maker,
after a while.

'Yes, she was,' replied the Colonel, in a half-abstracted manner,
'_very_ likely.'

'Kill harself 'case har man war shot by thet han'som overseer uv yourn?'

'Not altogether for that, I reckon,' replied my host,' I fear the main
reason was her being put at field-work, and abused by the driver.'

'Thet comes uv not lookin' arter things yerself, Cunnel. I 'tend ter my
niggers parsonally, and they keer a durned sight more fur this world
then fur kingdom-cum. Ye cudn't hire 'em ter kill 'emselves fur no
price.'

'Well,' replied the Colonel, in a low tone, 'I _did_ look after her. I
put her at full field-work myself.'

'By--!' cried the native, reining his horse to a dead stop, and speaking
in an excited manner; 'I doan't b'lieve it, 'taint 't all like ye; yer a
d--d seceshener--thet comes uv yer bringin'-up; but ye've a soul
bigger'n a meetin'-house, and ye cudn't hev put thet slim, weakly gal
inter th' woods, no how!'

The Colonel and I instinctively halted our horses, as the 'corn-cracker'
stopped his.

'It is true, Barnes,' said my host, in a low voice, 'I _did_ do it!'

'May God Almighty furgive ye, Cunnel,' said the native, starting his
horse forward, '_I_ wudn't hev dun it fur all yer niggers, by----.'

The Colonel made no reply, and we rode on the rest of the way in
silence.

The corn-cracker's house--a low, unpainted, wooden building--stood near
the little stream, and in the centre of a cleared plot of some ten
acres. This plot was surrounded by a post and rail fence, and in its
front portion was a garden, which grew a sufficient supply of vegetables
to serve a family of twenty persons. In the rear, and at the sides of
the dwelling, were about seven acres, devoted mainly to corn and
potatoes. In one corner of the lot were three tidy-looking negro-houses,
and close beside them I noticed a low shed, near which a large quantity
of the stalks of the tall, white corn, common to that section, was
stacked in the New-England fashion. Browsing on the corn-stalks were
three sleek, well-kept milch-cows and a goat.

About four hundred yards from the farmer's house, and on the bank of the
little run, which there was quite wide and deep, stood a
turpentine-distillery, and around it were scattered a large number of
rosin and turpentine barrels, some filled and some empty. A short
distance higher up, and far enough from the 'still' to be safe in the
event of a fire, was a long, low, wooden shed, covered with rough,
unjointed boards, placed upright, and unbattened. This was the
'spirit-house,' used for the storage of the spirits of turpentine when
barreled for market, and awaiting shipment. In the creek, and filling
nearly one-half of the channel in front of the spirit-shed, was a raft
of pine-timber, on which were laden some two hundred barrels of rosin.
On such rude conveyances the turpentine-maker sent his produce to
Conwayboro. There the timber-raft was sold to my wayside friend, Captain
B--, and its freight shipped on board vessel for New-York.

Two 'prime' negro men, dressed in the usual costume, were 'tending the
still,' and a negro-woman, as stout and strong as the men, and clad in a
short, loose, linsey gown, from beneath which peeped out a pair of
coarse leggins, was adjusting a long wooden trough, which conveyed the
liquid rosin from the 'still' to a deep excavation in the earth, at a
short distance. In the pit was a quantity of rosin sufficient to fill a
thousand barrels.

'Here, Bill,' said Barnes to one of the negro men, as we pulled up at
the distillery, 'put these critters up, and give 'em some oats, and when
they've cooled off a bit, water 'em.'

'Yas, yas, massa,' replied the negro, springing nimbly forward, and
taking the horses by the bridles, 'an' rub 'em down, massa?'

'Yas, rub 'em down right smart,' replied the corn-cracker; then turning
to me, as we dismounted, he said: 'Stranger, thet's th' sort o' niggers
fur ye; all uv mine ar' jess like him, smart and lively as kittens.'

'He does seem to go about his work cheerfully,' I replied.

'Cheerfully! d--d ef he doan't--all on 'em du! They like me better'n
thar own young 'uns, an' it's 'case I use 'em like human bein's;' and he
looked slyly toward the Colonel, who just then was walking silently
away, in the direction of the run, as if in search of the drowned
'chattels.'

'Not thar, Cunnel,' cried the native, 'they're inter th' shed,' and he
started to lead the way to the 'spirit-house.'

'Not now, Barnes,' I said, putting my hand on his arm, 'leave him alone
for a little while. He is feeling badly, and we'd better not disturb
him.'

The native motioned me to a seat on a rosin-barrel, as he replied:

'Wal, he 'pears ter, thet's a fact, and he orter. D--d ef it arn't
wicked to use niggers like cattle, as he do.'

'I don't think he means to ill-treat them; he's a kind-hearted man.'

'Wal, he ar' sort o' so; but he's left ev'ry thing ter thet d--d
overseer uv his'n. I wudn't ha' trusted him to feed my hogs.'

'Hogs!' I exclaimed, laughing; 'I supposed you didn't _feed_ hogs in
these diggings. I supposed you 'let 'em run.''

'_I_ doan't; an' I've got th' tallest porkys 'round har.'

'I've been told that they get a good living in the woods.'

'Wal, p'raps the' du jest make eout ter live thar; but my ole 'oman
likes 'em ter hum. They clean up a place like, eat up all th' leavin's,
an' give th' young nigs suthin' ter du.'

'It seems to me,' I said, resuming the previous thread of the
conversation, 'that overseers are a necessity on a large plantation.'

'Wal, the' ar', an' thet's why thar ortent ter be no big plantations;
God Almighty didn't make human bein's ter be herded togethar in th'
woods. No man orter ter hev more'n twenty on 'em--he can't look arter no
more himself, an' it's agin natur' ter set a feller over 'em what han't
no int'rest in 'cm, an' no feelin' fur 'em, an' who'll drive 'em round
like brutes. I never struck one on 'em in my life, an' my ten du more'n
ony fifteen th' Cunnel's got.'

'I thought they needed occasional correction. How do you manage them
without whipping?'

'Manage them! why, 'cordin' ter scriptur'--do ter 'em as I'd like ter be
dun ter, ef I war a nigger. Every one on 'em knows I'd part with my last
shirt, an' live on taters an' cow-fodder, 'fore I'd sell 'em; an' then I
give 'em Saturdays for 'emselfs; but thet's cute dealin' in me, (tho'
th' pore, simple souls doan't see it,) fur ye knows the' work thet day
fur 'emselfs, an' raise nigh all thar own feed, 'cept th' beef and
whisky, an' it sort o' makes 'em feel like folks, too, more like as ef
the' war _free_--the' work th' better fur it all th' week.'

'Then you think the blacks would work better if free?'

'In _course_ I does--it's agin man's natur' to be a slave. Thet lousy
parson ye herd ter meetin' a Sunday, makes slavery eout a divine
institooshun, but my wife's a Bible 'oman, and she says 'tan't so; an'
I'm d--d ef she arn't right.'

'Is your wife a South-Carolina woman?'

'No, she an' me's from th' old North--old Car'tret, nigh on ter
Newbern--an' we doan't take nat'rally to these fire-eaters.'

'Have you been here long?'

'Wal, nigh on ter six yar. I cum har with nuthin' but a thousan' ter my
back, slapped thet inter fifteen hun'red acres, paid it down, and then
hired ten likely North-Car'lina niggers, hired 'em with th' chance uv
buyin' ef the' liked eout har. Wal, th' nigs all know'd me, and the'
sprung ter it like blazes; so every yar I've managed ter buy two on 'em,
and now I've ten grow'd up, and thar young uns, th' still and all th'
traps paid fur, an' ef this d--d secesh bisness hadn't a come 'long, I'd
hev hed a right smart chance o' doin' well.'

'I'm satisfied secession will ruin the turpentine business; you'll be
shut up here, unable to sell your produce, and it will go to waste.'

'Thet's my 'pinion; but I reckon I kin manage now witheout turpentine.
I've talked it over 'long with my nigs, and we kalkerlate ef these ar
doin's go eny furder, ter tap no more trees, but cl'ar land an' go ter
raisin' craps.'

'What! do you talk politics with your negroes?'

'Nary a politic; but I'm d--d ef th' critters doan't larn 'em sumhow.
The' knows 'bout as much uv what's goin' on as I du; but plantin' arn't
politics, it's bisness, an' they've more int'rest in it nor I hev,
'cause they've sixteen mouths ter feed agin my four.'

'I'm glad, my friend, that you treat them like men; but I have supposed
they were not well enough informed to have intelligent opinions on such
subjects.'

'Informed! wal, I reckon the' is; all uv mine kin read, an' sum on 'em
kin write, too. D'ye see that little nig thar?' pointing to a juvenile,
coal-black darky of about six years, who was standing before the 'still'
fire; 'thet ar little devil kin read an' speak like a parson. He's got
hold, sumhow, uv my little gal's book o' pieces, an' larned a dozen on
'em. I make him cum inter th' house, once in a while uv an evenin', an'
speechify, an' 'twould do yer soul good ter har him, in his shirt-tail,
with a old sheet wound round him fur a toger (I've told him th'
play-actors du it so down ter Charles'on,) an' spoutin' out: 'My name am
Norval; on de Gruntin' hills my fader feed him hogs!' The little coon
never seed a sheep, an' my wife's told him a flock's a herd, an' he
thinks 'hog' _sounds_ better'n 'flock,' so, contra'y ter th' book, he
puts in 'hogs,' and hogs, you knows, hev ter grunt, so he gits 'em on
th' Gruntin' hills;' and here the kind-hearted native burst into a fit
of uproarious laughter, in which, in spite of myself, I had to join.

When the merriment had somewhat subsided, the turpentine-maker called
out to the little darky:

'Come here, Jim.'

The young chattel ran to him with alacrity, and wedging in between his
legs, placed his little black hands in a free-and-easy way on his
master's knees, and looking up trustfully in his face, said:

'Wal, massa?'

'What's yer name?'

'Dandy Jim, massa.'

'Thet arn't all; what's th'rest?'

'Dandy Jim of ole Car'lina.'

'Who made ye?'

'De good God, massa.'

'No, he didn't; God doan't make little nigs. He makes none but white
folks,' said the master, laughing.

'Yas, he'm do; missus say he'm do; dat he make dis nig jess like he done
little Totty.'

'Wal, he did, Jim. I'm d--d ef _He_ didn't, fur nobody else cud make
_ye!_' replied the man, patting the little wooly head with undisguised
affection.

'Now, Jim, say th' creed fur 'de gem-man.''

The young darky then repeated the Apostles' Creed and the Ten
Commandments.

'Is thet all ye knows?'

'No, massa, I knows a heap 'sides dat.'

'Wal, say suthin' more; sum on 'em pieces thet jingle.'

The little fellow then repeated with entire correctness, and with
appropriate gestures and emphasis, though in the genuine darky
dialect--which seems to be inborn with the pure, Southern black--Mrs.
Hemans' poem:

  'The boy stood on the burning deck.'

'Mrs. Hemans draped in black!' I exclaimed, laughing heartily; 'How
would the good lady feel, could she look down from where she is, and
hear a little darky doing up her poetry in that style?'

'D--d ef I doan't b'lieve'twud make her love th' little nig like I do,'
replied the corn-cracker, taking him up on his knee as tenderly as he
would have taken up his own child.

'Tell me, my little man,' I said, 'who taught you all these things?'

'I lamed 'em myseff, sar,' was the prompt reply.

'You learned them yourself! but who taught you to read?'

'I larned 'em myseff, sar!'

'You couldn't have learned _that_ yourself; didn't your 'massa' teach
you?'

'No, sar.'

'Oh! your 'missus' did?'

'No, sar.'

'No, sar!' I repeated; then suspecting the real state of the case, I
looked him sternly in the eye, and said: 'My little man, it's wrong to
tell lies, you must _always_ speak the truth; now, tell me truly, did
not your 'missus' teach you these things?'

'No, sar, I larned 'em myseff.'

'Ye can't cum it, stranger; ye moight roast him over a slow fire, an'
not git nary a thing eout on him but thet,' said the corn-cracker,
leaning forward, and breaking into a boisterous fit of laughter. 'It's
agin th' law, an' I'm d--d ef _I_ teached him. Reckon he _did_ larn
himself!'

'I must know your wife, my friend. She's a good woman.'

'Good! ye kin bet high on thet; she's uv th' stuff th' Lord makes angels
eout on.'

I had no doubt of it, and was about to say so, when the Colonel's
turpentine-wagon drove up, and I remembered I had left him too long
alone.

The coachman was driving, and Jim sat on the wagon beside him.

'Massa K--,' said the latter, getting down and coming to me, 'Whar am
dey?'

'In the spirit-shed.'

He was turning to go there, when I called him back, saying: 'Jim, you
must not see your master now; you'd better keep out of sight for the
present.'

'No, massa; de ma'am say de Cunnel take dis bery hard, and dat I orter
tell him I'se sorry for what I'se done.'

'Well, wait awhile. Let me go in first.'

Accompanied by the corn-cracker, I entered the turpentine-shed. A row of
spirit-barrels were ranged along each of its sides, and two tiers
occupied the centre of the building. On these a number of loose planks
were placed, and on the planks lay the bodies of the metif woman and her
child. The Colonel was seated on a barrel near them, with his head
resting on his hands, and his eyes fixed on the ground. He did not seem
to notice our entrance, and passing him without speaking, I stepped to
the side of the dead.

The woman's dress, the common linsey gown worn by her class, was still
wet, and her short, kinky, brown hair fell in matted folds around her
head. One arm hung loosely by her side; the other was clasped tightly
around her child, which lay as if asleep on her bosom. One of its small
hands clung to its mother's breast, and around its little lips played a
smile. But how shall I describe the pale, sweet beauty of the face of
the drowned girl, as she lay there, her eyes closed, and her lips
parted, as in prayer? Never but once have I seen on human features the
strange radiance that shone upon it, or the mingled expression of hope
and peace and resignation that rested there, and that was in the
long-gone time when, standing by her bedside, I watched the passing away
of one who is now an angel in heaven!

'Come, my dear friend, let us go,' I said, turning and gently taking the
Colonel by the arm, 'the negroes are here, and will take charge of the
dead.'

'No, no!' he replied, rising and looking around as if aroused from a
troubled dream; 'that is for _me_ to do!' Then he added, after a
moment's pause, 'Will you help me to get them into the wagon?'

'Yes, I will, certainly.'

He made one step toward the body of the dead girl, then sinking down
again on the barrel, covered his face with his hands, and cried out: 'My
God! this is terrible! Did you ever see such a look as that? It will
haunt me forever!'

'Come, my friend, rouse yourself--this is weakness; you are tired with
the long ride and excitement of the past few days. Come, go home; I will
look after them.'

'No, no! I must do it. I will be a man again;' and he rose and walked
steadily to the dead bodies. 'Is there any one here to help?' he asked.

Jim was standing in the doorway, and I motioned to him to come forward.
The great tears were streaming down his face, as he stepped timidly
toward his master, and said: 'I'll do dis, massa, don't you trubble
yerself no more.'

'It's good of you, Jim. You'll forgive me for being so cruel to you,
won't you?' said the Colonel, taking the black by the hand.

'Forgib ye, massa! _I_ war all ter blame; but ye'll forgib me,
massa--ye'll forgib me!' cried the black, with strong emotion.

'Yes, yes; but say no more about it. Come, let us get Julie home.'

But the poor girl was already _home_--home where her sufferings and her
sorrows were over, and all her tears were wiped away forever!

We four bore away the mother and the child. A number of blankets were in
the bottom of the wagon, and we laid the bodies carefully upon them.
When all seemed ready, the Colonel, who was still standing by the side
of the dead, turned to my new friend, and said: 'Barnes, will you loan
me a pillow? I will send it back to-night.'

'Sartin, Cunnel,' and the farmer soon brought one from the house.
Lifting tenderly the head of the drowned girl, the Colonel placed it
beneath her, and smoothing back her tangled hair, he gently covered her
face with his handkerchief, as if she could still feel his kindness, or
longer cared for the pity or the love of mortal. Yet, who knows but that
her parted soul, from the high realm to which it had soared, may not
then have looked down, have seen that act, and have forgiven him?

       *       *       *       *       *

In the first moments of grief the sympathy of friends and the words of
consolation bring no relief. How much more harshly do such words grate
on the ear when the soul is bowed down by remorse and unavailing regret!
Then the wounded spirit finds peace nowhere but with God.

I saw that the Colonel would be alone, and turning to him, as he
prepared to follow the strange vehicle which, with its load of death,
was already jolting its way over the rough forest road, I said:

'Will you pardon me, if I remain with your friend here for a while? I
will be at the mansion before dark.'

'Oh! certainly, my friend; come when you feel disposed,' he replied, and
mounting his horse, he was soon out of sight among the trees.

'Now, Barnes,' I said, shaking off the gloomy feelings that had
oppressed me; 'come, I must see that wife of yours, and get a glimpse of
how you live.'

'Sartin, stranger; come in. I'll give ye th' tallest dinner my 'oman can
scare up, an' she's sum pumkins in th' cookin' line;' and he led the way
to the farm-house.

As I turned to follow, I slipped a half-dollar into the hand of the
darky who was holding my horse, and asked him to put her again into the
stable.

'I'll do dat, sar; but I karn't take dis; massa doan't 'low it nohow,'
he replied, tendering me back the money.

'Barnes, your negroes have strange ways; I never met one before who'd
refuse money.'

'Wal, stranger,'tan't hosspetality to take money on yer friends, and
Bill gets all he wants from me.'

I took the silver and gave it to the first darky I met, who happened to
be an old centenarian belonging to the Colonel. As I tossed it to him,
he grinned out: 'Ah! massa, I'll git sum 'backer wid dis; 'pears like I
hadn't nary a chaw in furty yar.' With more than one leg in the grave,
the old negro had not lost his appetite for the weed: in fact, that and
whisky are the only 'luxuries' ever known to the plantation black.

As we went nearer, I took a closer survey of the farm-house. It was, as
I have said, a low, unpainted, wooden building, located in the middle of
a ten-acre lot. It was approached by a straight walk, paved with a
mixture of sand and tar, similar to that which the reader may have seen
in the Champs Elysées. I do not know whether my backwoods friend or the
Parisian pavior was the first inventor of this composition; but I am
satisfied the corn-cracker had not stolen it from the stone-cracker. The
walk was lined with fruit-bearing shrubs, and directly in front of the
house were two small flower-beds.

The dwelling itself, though of a dingy-brown wood-color, was neat and
inviting. It may have been forty feet square on the ground, and was only
a story and a half high; but a projecting roof and a front dormer-window
relieved it from the appearance of disproportion. Its gable ends were
surmounted by two enormous brick chimneys, carried up on the outside, in
the fashion of the South, and its high, broad windows were ornamented
with Venetian blinds. Its front door opened directly into the
'living-room,' and at the threshold we met its mistress. As the image of
that lady has still a warm place in a pleasant corner of my memory, I
will describe her. She was about thirty years of age, and had a fresh,
cheerful face. To say that she was handsome, would not be strictly true;
though she had that pleasant, gentle, kindly expression that sometimes
makes even a homely person seem beautiful. But she was not homely. Her
features were regular, her hair glossy and brown, and her eyes black and
brilliant, and for their color, the mildest and softest I had ever seen.
Her figure was tall, and in its outline somewhat sharp and angular; but
she had an ease and grace about her that made one forget she was not
molded as softly and roundly as others. She seemed just the woman on
whose bosom a tired, worn, over-burdened man might lay his weary head,
and find rest and forgetfulness.

She wore a neat calico dress, fitting closely to the neck, and an apron
of spotless white muslin. A little lace cap perched cosily on the back
of her head, hiding a portion of her wavy, dark hair, and on her feet--a
miracle, reader, in one of her class--were stockings and shoes! Giving
me her hand--which, at the risk of making her husband jealous, I held
for a moment--she said, making a gentle courtesy:

'Ye ar welcome, stranger.'

'I sincerely thank you, madam; I _am_ a stranger in these parts.'

She tendered me a chair; while her husband opened a sideboard, and
brought forth a box of Havanas and a decanter of Scuppernong. As I took
the proffered seat, he offered me the refreshments. I drank the lady's
health in the wine, but declined the cigars. Seeing this, she remarked:

'Yer from th' North, sir, arn't ye?'

'Yes, madam, I live in New-York; but I was born in New-England.'

'I reckoned so; I knew ye didn't belong in Car'lina.'

'How did you know that, madam?' I asked, laughing.

'I seed ye doan't smoke 'fore wimmin. But ye mustn't mind me; I sort o'
likes it; it's a great comfut to John, and may be it ar to ye.'

'Well, I do relish a good cigar; but I never smoke before any lady
except my wife, and though she's only 'a little lower than the angels,'
she _does_, once in a while, say it's a shame to make the _house_ smell
like a tobacco-factory.'

Barnes handed me the box again, and I took one. As I was lighting it, he
said:

'Ye've got a good 'oman, hev ye?'

'There's none better; at least, I think so.'

'Wal, I'm 'zactly uv thet 'pinion 'bout mine; I wouldn't trade her fur
all this worle an' th' best half uv t'other.'

'Don't ye talk so, John,' said the lady. Then addressing me, she added:
'It's a good husband thet makes a good wife, sir.'

'Sometimes, madam, but not always, I've known some of the best of wives
who had miserable husbands.'

'An' I'm d--d ef _I_ made my wife th' 'oman she ar',' said the
corn-cracker.

'Hush, John, ye mustn't swar so; ye knows how often ye've said ye
wouldn't.'

'Wal, I du, an' I won't agin, by--.' But Sukey, whar's th' young uns?'

'Out in the lot, I reckon; but ye mustn't holler'm in--they'r all dirt.'

'No matter for that, madam,' I said, 'dirt is healthy for little ones;
rolling in the mud makes them grow.'

'Then ourn orter grow right smart, fur they'r in it allers.'

'How many have you, madam?'

'Two; a little boy, four, and a little gal, six.'

'They're of interesting ages.'

'Yas, the' is int'restin'; ev'ry uns own chil'ren is smart; but the'
does know a heap. John was off ter Charl'ston no great while back, an'
the little boy used ter pray ev'ry mornin' an' ev'nin' fur his fader ter
cum hum. I larned 'em thet jest so soon as the' talked, 'cause thar's no
tellin' how quick the' moight be tooken 'way. Wal, the little feller
prayed ev'ry mornin' an' ev'nin' fur his fader ter cum back, and John
didn't cum; so finarly he got sort o' provoked with th' Lord, an' he
said God war aither deaf an' couldn't har or he war naughty an' wouldn't
tell fader thet little Johnny wanted to seed 'im 'werry mooch,'' and
here the good lady laughed pleasantly, and I joined in most heartily.

Blessed are the children that have such a mother!

Soon the husband returned with the little girl and boy and four young
ebonies, all bare-headed and all dressed alike, in thick trowsers and a
loose linsey shirt. Among them was my new acquaintance, 'Dandy Jim, of
ole Car'lina.'

The little girl came to me, and soon I had two white children on one
knee and two black on the other, with Dandy Jim between my legs, playing
with my watchchain. The family made no distinction between the colors,
and as the children were all equally clean, I did not see why _I_ should
do so.

The lady renewed the conversation by remarking: 'P'raps ye reckon it's
quar, sir, that we 'low ourn to 'sociate 'long with th' black chil'ren;
but we karn't help it. On big plantations, it works sorry bad, fur th'
white young uns larn all manner of evil from the black uns; but I've
laboored ter teach ourn so one won't do no harm ter t'other.'

'I suppose, madam, that is one of the greatest evils of slavery. The low
black poisons the mind of the white child, and the bad influence lasts
through life.'

'Yas, it's so, stranger; an' it's the biggest keer I hev. It often
'pears strange ter me thet our grow'd up men arn't no wuss than the'
is.'

In those few words, that unlettered woman had said what would--if men
were but wise enough to hear and heed the great truth which she
spoke--banish slavery from this continent forever!

After a while, the farmer told the juvenile delineator of Mrs. Hemans
and the other poets to give us a song; and planting himself in the
middle of the floor, the little darky sang 'Dixie' and several other
negro songs, which his master had taught him, but into which he had
introduced some amusing variations of his own. The other children joined
in the choruses; and then Jim danced breakdowns, 'walk-along-Joes,' and
other darky dances, his master accompanying him on a cracked fiddle,
till my sides were sore with laughter, and the hostess begged them to
stop. Finally the clock struck twelve, and the farmer, going to the
door, gave a long, loud blast on a cow's horn. In about five minutes,
one after another of the field hands came in, till the whole ten had
seated themselves on the verandah. Each carried a bowl, a tin-cup, or a
gourd, into which my host--who soon emerged from a back room[1] with a
pail of whisky in his hand--poured a gill of the beverage. This was the
day's allowance, and the farmer, in answer to a question of mine, told
me he thought negroes were healthier and worked better for a small
quantity of alcohol daily. 'The' work hard, and salt feed doan't set 'em
up 'nough,' was his remark.

Meanwhile the hostess busied herself with preparations for dinner, and
it was soon spread on a bright cherry table, covered by a spotless white
cloth. The little darkies had scattered to the several cabins, and we
soon sat down to as good a meal as I ever ate at the South.

We were waited on by a tidy negro woman, neatly clad in a calico gown,
with shoes on her feet, and a flaming red and yellow kerchief on her
head. This last was worn in the form of a turban, and one end escaping
from behind and hanging down her back, it looked for all the world like
a flag hung out from a top turret. Observing it, my host said:

'Aggy--showin' yer colors? Ye'r Union gal--hey?'

'Yas, I is dat, massa; Union ter de back-bone,' responded the negress,
grinning widely.

'All th' Union _ye_ knows on,' replied the master, winking slyly at me,
'is th' union yer goin' ter hitch up 'long with black Cale over ter
Squire Taylor's.'

'No, 'tan't, massa; takes more'n tu ter make de Union.'

'Yas, I knows; it gin'rally takes ten or a dozen: reckon it'll take a
dozen with ye.'

'John, ye mustn't talk so ter th' sarvents; it spiles 'em,' said his
wife.

'No it doan't; do it, Aggy?'

'Lor', missus, I doan't keer what massa say; but I doan't leff no oder
man run on so ter me!'

'No more'n ye doan't, gal! only Cale.'

'Nor him, massa; I makes him stan' 'roun', _I_ reckon.'

'I reckon ye du; ye wudn't be yer massa's gal ef ye didn't.'

When the meal was over, I visited with my host the negro houses. The
hour allowed for dinner[2] was about expiring, and the darkies were
preparing to return to the field. Entering one of the cabins, where were
two stout negro men and a woman, my host said to them, with a perfectly
serious face:

'Har, boys, I've fetched ye a live Yankee ab'lishener; now, luk at 'im
all roun'. Did ye ever see sech a critter?'

'Doan't see nuffin' quar in dat gemman, massa,' replied one of the
blacks. 'Him 'pears like bery nice gemman; doan't 'pear like
ab'lishener;' and he laughed and scraped his head in the manner peculiar
to the negro, as he added: 'Kinder reckon he wudn't be har ef he war one
of _dem_.'

'What der _ye_ knows 'bout th' ab'lisheners? Ye never seed one; what
d'ye 'spose the' luk like?'

'Dey say dey luk likes de bery ole debil, massa; but reckon 'tan't so.'

'Wal, the' doan't; the' luk wuss then thet; they'm bottled up thunder
an' lightnin', an' ef the' cum down har, they'll chaw ye all ter hash.'

'I reckon!' replied the darky, manipulating his wool and distending his
face into a decidedly incredulous grin.

'What do you tell them such things for?' I asked good-humoredly.

'Lor' bless ye, stranger, the' knows th' ab'lisheners ar thar friends,
jest so well as ye du; and so fur as thet goes, d--d ef the' doan't know
I'm one on 'em myseff, fur I tells 'em ef the' want to put the' kin put,
an' I'll throw thar trav'lin 'spenses inter th' bargin. Doan't I tell ye
thet, Lazarus?'

'Yas, massa; but none ob massa's nigs am gwine ter put--lesswise, not so
long as you an' de good missus am 'bove groun'.'

The darky's name struck me as peculiar, and I asked him where he got it.

'_'Tan't_ my name, sar; but you see, sar, w'en massa fuss hire me ob ole
Capt'in ----, up dar ter Newbern-way, I war sort o' sorry like--hadn't
no bery good cloes--an' massa he den call me Lazarus, 'case he say I war
all ober rags and holes, an' it hab sort o' stuck ter me eber sense. I
war a'mighty bad off 'fore dat, but w'en I cum down har I gets inter
Abr'am's buzzum, I does,' and here the darky actually reeled on his seat
with laughter.

'Is this woman your wife?' I asked.

'No, sar; my wife 'longs to Cunnel J----; dat am my new wife--my ole
wife am up dar whar I cum from.'

'What! have you two wives?'

'Yas, massa, I'se two.'

'But that's contrary to Scripture?'

'No, sar; de Cunnel say 'tan't. He say in Scriptur' dey hab a heap ob
'em, and dat niggers kin hab jess so many as dey likes--a hun'red ef dey
want ter.'

'Does the Colonel teach that to his negroes?' I asked, turning to the
native.

'Yas, I reckon he do, an' sits 'em th' 'zample, too,' he replied,
laughing; 'but th' old sinner knows better'n thet; he kin read.'

'Do you find that in the Bible, Lazarus?'

'Yas, massa, whar I reads it. Dat's whar it tell 'bout David and Sol'mon
and all em--dey hab a heap ob wives. A pore ole darky karn't hab nuffin'
'sides dem, an' he _orter_ be 'low'd jess so many as he likes.'

Laughing at the reasoning of the negro, I asked:

'How would _you_ like it, if your wife over at Colonel J----'s had as
many husbands as _she_ liked?'

'Wal, I couldn't fine no fault, massa; an' I s'pose she do, dough I
doan't knows it, 'case I'se dar only Sundays.'

'Have you any children?'

'Yas, sar, Ise free 'longin' ter de Cunnel, an' four or five--I doan't
'zactly know--up ter hum; but _dey'se_ grow'd up.'

'Is your wife up there married again?'

'Yas, massa, she got anoder man jess w'en I cum 'way; har ole massa make
har do it.'

We then left the cabin, and when out of hearing of the blacks, I said to
the corn-cracker: 'That _may be_ Scripture doctrine, but _I_ have not
been taught so.'

'Scriptur' or no Scriptur', stranger, it's d----d heathenism,' replied
the farmer, who, take him all in all, is a superior specimen of the
class of small planters at the South; and yet, seeing polygamy practiced
by his own slaves, he made no effort to prevent it. He told me that if
he should object to his darky cohabiting with the Colonel's negress, it
would be regarded as unneighborly, and secure him the enmity of the
whole district! And still we are told that slavery is a _divine_
institution!

After this, we strolled off into the woods, where the hands were at
work.

They were all stout, healthy, and happy-looking, and in answer to my
comments on their appearance, the native said that the negroes on the
turpentine-farms are always stronger and longer-lived than those on the
rice and cotton-fields. Unless carried off by the fevers incident to the
climate, they generally reach a good old age, while the rice-negro
seldom lives to be over forty, and the cotton-slave very rarely attains
sixty. Cotton-growing, however, my host thought, is not, in itself, much
more unhealthy than turpentine-gathering, though cotton-hands work in
the sun, while the turpentine-slaves labor altogether in the shade.

'But,' he said, 'the' work 'em harder nor we does, an' doan't feed 'em
so well. We give ourn meat and whisky ev'ry day, but them articles is
skarse 'mong th' cotton blacks, an' th' rice niggers never get 'em
excep' ter Christmas-time, an' thet cums but onst a yar.'

'Do you think the white could labor as well as the black, on the rice
and cotton-fields?' I asked.

'Yas, an' better--better any whar; but, in coorse, 'tain't natur' fur
black nor white ter stand long a workin' in th' mud and water up ter
thar knees; sech work would kill off th' very devil arter a while. But
th' white kin stand it longer nor the black, and it's 'cordin' ter
reason that he shud; for, I reckon, stranger, that the spirit and pluck
uv a man hev a durned sight ter du with work. They'll hole a man up when
he's clean down, an' how kin we expec' thet th' pore nig, who's nary a
thing ter work fur, an who's been kept under an' 'bused ever sense Adam
was a young un'--how kin we expec' he'll work like men thet own
'emselfs, an' whose faders hev been free ever sense creation? I reckon
that the parient has a heap ter du with makin' th' chile. He puts the
sperit inter 'im: doan't we see it in hosses an' critters an' sech like?
It mayn't crap eout ter onst, but it's shore ter in th' long run, and
thet's th' way th' black han't no smarter nor he is. He's been a-ground
down an' kept under fur so long thet it'll take more'n 'un gin'ration
ter bring him up. 'Tan't his fault thet he's no more sperit, an' p'raps
'tan't ourn--thet is, them on us as uses 'em right--but it war the fault
uv yer fader an' mine--yer fader stole 'em, and mine bought 'em, an'
the' both made cattle uv 'em.'

'But I had supposed the black was better fitted by nature for hard
labor, in a hot climate, than the white.'

'Wal, he arn't, an' I knows it. Th' d----d parsons an' pol'tishuns say
thet, but 'tan't so. I kin do half agin more work in a day then th' best
nig I've got, an' I've dun it, tu, time an' agin, an' it didn't hurt me
nuther. Ye knows ef a man hev a wife and young 'uns 'pendin' on him, an'
arn't much 'forehanded, he'll work like th' devil. I've dun it, an' ye
hev ef ye war ever put ter it; but th' nigs, why, the' han't got no
wives and young 'uns ter work fur--the law doan't 'low 'em ter have
any--the' han't nary a thing but thar carcasses, an' them's thar
masters'.'

'You say a man works better for being free; then you must think 'twould
be well to free the negroes.'

'In coorse, I does. Jest luk at them nigs o' mine; they're ter all
'tents an' purposes free, 'case I use 'em like men, an' the' knows the'
kin go whenever the' d----d please. See how the' work--why, one on 'em
does half as much agin as ony hard-driv' nigger in creation.'

'What would you do with them, if they were _really_ free?'

'Du with 'em? why, hire 'em, an' make twice as much eout on 'em as I
does now.'

'But I don't think the two races were meant to live together.'

'No more'n the' warn't. But 'tan't thar fault thet they's har. We han't
no right to send 'em off. We orter stand by our'n an' our faders'
doin's. The nig keers more fur his hum, so durned pore as it ar', then
ye or I does fur our'n. I'd pack sech off ter Libraria or th' devil, as
wanted ter go, but I'd hev no 'pulsion 'bout it.'

'Why, my good friend, you're half-brother to Garrison. You don't talk to
your neighbors in this way?'

'Wal, I doan't;' he replied, laughing. 'Ef I dun it, they'd treat me to
a coat uv tar, and ride me out uv th' deestrict raather sudden, I
reckon; but yer a Nuthener, an' the' all take nat'rally ter freedum,
excep' th' d----d doughfaces, an' ye aren't one on 'em, I'll swar.'

'Well, I'm not. Do many of your neighbors think as you do?'

'Reckon not many round har; but up in Cart'ret, whar I cum from, heaps
on 'em do, though the' darn't say so.'

By this time we had reached the still, and directing his attention to
the enormous quantity of rosin that had been run into the pit which I
have spoken of, I asked him why he threw so much valuable material away.

'Wal, 'tan't wuth nothin' har. Thet's th' common, an' it won't bring in
York, now, more'n a dollar forty-five. It costs a dollar an' two bits
ter get it thar an' pay fur sellin on it, an' th' barr'l's wuth the
difference. I doan't ship nuthin wuss no No. 2.'

'What is No. 2?'

He took the head from one of the barrels, and with an adze cut out a
small piece, then handing me the specimen, replied:

'Now hole thet up ter th' sun. Ye'll see though it's yaller, its clean
and clar. Thet's good No. 2, what brings now two dollars an' two bits in
New-York, an' pays me 'bout a dollar a barr'l; it's got eout o' second
yar dip, an' as it comes eout uv th' still, is run through thet ar
strainer,' pointing to a coarse wire-sieve that lay near. 'Th' common
rosum, thet th' still's runnin' on now, is made eout on th' yaller
dip--thet's th' kine o' turpentine thet runs from th' tree arter two
yar's tappin'--we call it yallar dip 'case it's allers dark. We doan't
strain common 'tall, an' it's full uv chips and dirt. It's low now, but
ef it shud ever git up, I'd tap thet ar' heap, barr'l it up, run a
little fresh-stilled inter it, an' 'twould be a'most so good as new.'

'Then it is injured by being in the ground.'

'Not much; it's jest as good fur ev'ry thing but makin' ile, puttin' it
in the 'arth sort o' takes th' sap eout on it, an' th' sap's th' ile.
Natur' sucks thet eout, I s'pose, ter make th' trees grow--I expec' my
bones 'ill fodder 'em one on these days.'

'Rosin is put to very many uses.'

'Yes, but common's used mainly for ile and soap; th' Yankees put it
inter hard yaller soap, 'case it makes it weigh, an' yer folks is up ter
them doin's, and he looked at me and gave a sly laugh. I could not deny
the 'hard' impeachment, and said nothing. Taking a specimen of very
clear light-colored rosin from a shelf in the still-house, I asked him
what that quality was worth.

'Thet ar brought seven dollars for two hundred an' eighty pounds in
York, airly this yar. It's th' very best No. 1; an' it's hard ter make,
'case ef th' still gets overhet it turns it a tinge. Thet sort is run
through two sieves, the coarse 'un, an' thet ar,' pointing to another
wire strainer, the meshes of which were as fine as those of the
flour-sieve used by housewives.

'Do your seven field-hands produce enough 'dip' to keep your still a
running?'

'No, I buys th' rest uv my naboors who han't no stills; an' th' Cunnel's
down on me 'case I pay 'em more'n he will; but I go on Franklin's
princerpel: 'A nimble sixpence's better'n a slow shillin'. A great ole
feller thet, warn't he? I've got his life.'

'And you practice on his precepts; that's the reason you've got on so
well.'

'Yas, thet an' hard knocks. The best o' doctrins arn't wuth a d----n ef
ye doan't work on 'em.'

'That is true.'

We shortly afterward went to the house, and there I passed several hours
in conversation with my new friend and his excellent wife. The lady,
after a while, showed me over the building. It was well-built,
well-arranged, and had many conveniences I did not expect to find in a
backwoods dwelling. She told me its timbers and covering were of
well-seasoned yellow pine--which will last for centuries--and that it
was built by a Yankee carpenter, whom they had ''ported' from
Charleston, paying his fare, and giving him his living and two dollars
and a half a day. It had cost as near as she 'cud reckon, 'bout two
thousan' dollars.'

It was five o'clock, when, shaking them warmly by the hand, I bade my
pleasant friends 'good-by,' and mounting my horse rode off to the
Colonel's.

The family were at supper when I returned to the mansion, and, entering
the room, I took my accustomed place at the table. None present seemed
disposed to conversation. The little that was said was spoken in a low,
subdued tone, and no allusion was made to the startling event of the
day. At last the octoroon woman asked me if I had met Mrs. Barnes at the
farmer's.

'Yes,' I replied, 'and I was greatly pleased with her. She seems one of
those rare women who would lend grace to even the lowest station.'

'She _is_ a rare woman; a true, sincere Christian. Every one loves her;
but few know all her worth; only those do who have gone to her in sorrow
and trial, as----' and her voice trembled, and her eyes moistened----
'as I have.'

And so that poor, outcast, despised, dishonored woman, scorned and cast
off by all the world, had found one sympathizing, pitying friend. Truly,
'He tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.'

When the meal was over, all but Madam P---- retired to the library.
Tommy and I fell to reading, but the Colonel shortly rose and continued
pacing up and down the apartment till the clock sounded eight. The lady
then entered, and said to him:

'The negroes are ready, David; will _you_ go, Mr. K----?'

'I think not, madam,' I replied; 'at least not now.'

I continued reading, for a time, when, tiring of the book, I laid it
down, and followed them to the little burial-ground.

The grave of Sam was open, and the plantation blacks were gathered
around it. In the centre of the group, and at the head of the rude
coffin, the Colonel was seated, and near him the octoroon woman and her
son. The old preacher was speaking.

'My chil'ren,' he said, 'she hab gone ter Him, wid har chile--gone up
dar, whar dey doan't sorrer no more, whar dey doan't weep no more, whar
all tears am wiped from dar eyes foreber. I knows she lay han's on
harseff, and dat, my chil'ren, am whot none ob us shud do, 'case we'm de
Lord's; he put us har, an' he'll take us 'way when we's fru wid our
work, not afore. We hab no right ter gwo afore. Pore Juley did--but
p'raps she cudn't help it. P'raps de great sorrer war so big in har
heart, dat she cudn't fine rest nowhar but in de cole, dark riber.
P'raps she warn't ter blame--p'raps,' and here his eyes filled--'p'raps
ole Pomp war all ter blame, fur I tole har, my chil'ren'--he could say
no more, and sinking down on a rude seat, he covered his face, and
sobbed audibly. Even the Colonel's strong frame heaved with emotion, and
not a dry eye was near. After a time the old man rose again, and with
streaming eyes, and upturned face, continued:

'Dar's One up dar, my chil'ren, dat say: 'Come unter me, all ye dat am
weary an' a heaby laden, an' I will gib you ress.' He, de good Lord, he
say dat; an' p'raps Juley hard him say it, an' dat make har gwo.' Again
his voice failed, and he sank down, weeping and moaning as if his heart
would break.

A pause followed, when the Colonel rose, and aided by Jim and two other
blacks, with his own hands nailed down the lid, and lowered the rude
coffin into the ground. Then the earth was thrown upon it, and then the
long, low chant which the negroes raise over the dead, mingling now with
sobs and moans, and breaking into a strange wild wail, went up among the
pines, and floating off on the still night air, echoed through the dark
woods, till it sounded like music from the grave. I have been in the
chamber of the dying; I have seen the young and the beautiful laid away
in the earth; but I never felt the solemn awfulness of death as I did
when, in the stillness and darkness of night, I listened to the wild
grief of that negro group, and saw the bodies of that slave mother and
her child, lowered to their everlasting rest by the side of Sam.

The morning broke bright and mellow with the rays of the winter sun,
which in Carolina lends the warmth of October to the chills of January,
when, with my portmanteau strapped, and my thin overcoat on my arm, I
gave my last 'God bless you' to the octoroon woman, and turned my face
toward home.

Jim shouted, 'All ready,' the driver cracked his whip, and we were on
our way to Georgetown.

The recent rains had hardened the roads, the bridges were repaired, and
we were whirled rapidly forward, and at one o'clock reached Bucksville.
There we met a cordial welcome, and remained to dinner. Our host pressed
us to pass the night at his house, but the Colonel had business with one
of his secession friends residing down the road--my wayside
acquaintance, Colonel A----, and desired to stay over night with him. At
three o'clock, bidding a kindly farewell to Captain B---- and his
excellent family, we were again on our way.

The sun was just sinking among the western pines, when we turned into a
broad avenue, lined with stately old trees, and rode up to the doorway
of the rice-planter. It was a large, square, dingy old house, seated on
a gentle knoll, a short half-mile from the river, along whose banks
stretched the rice-fields. We entered, and were soon welcomed by its
proprietor.

He received my friend warmly, and gave me a courteous greeting,
remarking, when I mentioned that I was homeward bound, that it was wise
to go. 'Things are very unsettled; there's no telling what a day may
bring forth; feeling is running very high, and a Northern man, whatever
his principles, is not safe here. By the way,' he added, 'did you not
meet with some little obstruction at Conwayboro, on your way up?'

'Yes, I did; a person there ordered me back, but when things began to
look serious, Scipio, the negro whom you saw with me, got me out of the
hobble.'

'Didn't he tell the gentleman that you were a particular friend of mine,
and had met me by appointment at Captain B----'s?' he asked, smiling.

'I believe he did, sir; but I assure you, _I_ said nothing of the kind,
and I think the black should not be blamed, under the circumstances.'

'Oh! no; I don't blame him. I think he did a smart thing. He might have
said you were my grandmother, if it would have served you, for that low
fellow is as fractious as the devil, and dead sure on the trigger.'

'You are very good, sir,' I replied; 'how did you hear of it?'

'A day or two afterward, B---- passed here on his way to Georgetown. I
had been riding out, and happened to be at the head of my avenue when
he was going by. He stopped, and asked if I knew you. Not knowing then
the circumstances, I said that I had met you casually at Bucksville, but
had no particular acquaintance with you. He rode on, saying nothing
further. The next morning I had occasion to go to Georgetown, and at Mr.
Fraser's office accidentally heard that Scip--who is well known and
universally liked there--was to have a public whipping that evening.
Something prompted me to inquire into it, and I was told that he had
been charged by B---- with shielding a well-known abolitionist at
Conwayboro--a man who was going through the up-country distributing such
damnable publications as the New-York _Independent_ and _Tribune_. I
knew, of course, it referred to you, and that it wasn't true. I went to
Scip and got the facts, and by stretching the truth a little, finally
got him off. There was a slight discrepancy between my two accounts of
you,' (and here he laughed heartily,) 'and B----, when we were before
the Justice, remarked on it, and came d----d near calling me a liar. It
was lucky he didn't, for if he had he'd gone to h----l before the place
was hot enough for him.'

'I can not tell you, my dear sir, how grateful I am to you for this. It
would have pained me more than I can express, if Scip had suffered for
doing a disinterested kindness to me.'

Early in the morning we were again on our way, and twelve o'clock found
us seated at a dinner of bacon, corn-bread, and waffles, in the 'first
hotel' of Georgetown. The Charleston boat was to leave at three o'clock;
and, as soon as dinner was over, I sallied out to find Scip. After a
half-hour's search I found him on 'Shackelford's wharf,' engaged in
loading a schooner bound for New-York with a cargo of cotton and
turpentine.

He was delighted to see me, and after I told him I was going home, and
might never see him again, I took his hand warmly in mine, and said:

'Scip, I have heard of the disgrace that was near being put upon you on
my account, and I feel deeply the disinterested service you did to me;
now, I _can not_ go away without doing _something_ for you--showing you
in _some_ way that I appreciate and _like_ you.'

'I likes _you_, massa,' he replied, the tears coming to his eyes; 'I tuk
ter you de bery fuss day I seed you, 'case, I s'pose'--and he wrung my
hand till it ached--'you pitied de pore brack man. But you karnt do
nuffin fur _me_, massa; I doan't want nuffin; I doan't want ter leab
har, 'case de Lord dat put me har arn't willin' I shud gwo. But you kin
do suffin, massa, fur de pore brack man, an' dat'll be doin' it fur
_me_, 'case my heart am all in dat. You kin tell dem folks up dar, whar
you lib, massa, dat we'm not like de brutes, as dey tink we is. Dat we's
got souls, an' 'telligence, an' feelin's, an' am men like demselfs. You
kin tell 'em, too, massa--'case you's edication, and kin talk--how de
pore wite man am kep' down har; how he'm ragged, an' starvin', an' ob no
account, 'case de brack man am a slave. How der chil'ren can't get no
schulein', how eben de grow'd-up ones doan't know nuffin--not eben so
much as de pore brack slave, 'case de 'stockracy want dar votes, an
cudn't get 'em ef dey 'low'd 'em larnin'. Ef your folks know'd all de
truf--ef dey know'd how boff de brack an' de pore w'ite man, am on de
groun', an' can't git up, ob demselfs--dey'd do suffin--dey'd break de
Constertution--dey'd do _suffin_ ter help us. I doan't want no one
hurted, I doan't want no one wronged; but jess tink ob it, massa, four
million ob bracks, an' nigh so many pore w'ites, wid de bressed Gospil
shinin' down on 'em, an' dey not knowin' on it. All dem--ebry one ob
'em--made in de image ob de great God, an' dey driven roun' an' 'bused
wuss dan de brutes. You's seed dis, massa, wid your own eyes, an' you
kin tell 'em on it; an' you _will_ tell 'em on it, massa;' and again he
took my hand while the tears rolled down his cheeks; 'an' Scip will
bress you fur it, massa--wid his bery lass breaf he'll bress you; an' de
good Lord will bress you, too, massa; he will foreber bress you, for
he'm on de side ob de pore an' de 'flicted; his own book say dat, an' it
am true, I knows it, fur I feels it _har_;' and he laid his hand on his
heart, and was silent.

I could not speak for a moment. When I mastered my feelings, I said: 'I
_will_ do it Scip; as God gives me strength, I _will_.'

Reader, I am keeping my word.

This is not a work of fiction. It is a record of facts, and therefore
the reader will not expect me to dispose of its various characters on
artistic principles--that is, lay them away in one of those final
receptacles for the creations of the romancer--the grave and matrimony.
Death has been among them, but nearly all are yet doing their work in
this breathing, busy world.

The characters I have introduced are real. They are not drawn with the
pencil of fancy, nor, I trust, colored with the tints of prejudice. The
scenes I have described are true. I have taken some liberties with the
names of persons and places, and, in a few instances, altered dates; but
the events themselves occurred under my own observation. No one
acquainted with the section of country I have described, or familiar
with the characters I have delineated, will question this statement.
Lest some one who has not seen the slave and the poor white man of the
South, as he actually is, should deem my picture overdrawn, I will say
that 'the half has not been told!' If the whole were related--if the
Southern system, in all its naked ugliness, were fully exposed--the
truth would read like fiction, and the baldest relation of fact like the
wildest dream of romance.

       *       *       *       *       *

The overseer was never taken. A letter which I received from Colonel
J----, shortly prior to the stoppage of the mails, informed me that Moye
had succeeded in crossing the mountains into Tennessee, where, in an
interior town, he disposed of the horse, and then made his way by an
inland route to the free States. The horse the Colonel had recovered,
but the overseer he never expected to see. Moye is now, no doubt,
somewhere in the North, and is probably at this present writing a
zealous Union man, of somewhat the same 'stripe' as the conductors of
the New-York _Herald_ and the Boston _Courier_.

I have not heard directly from Scipio, but one day last July, after a
long search, I found on one of the wharves of South street a coasting
captain who knew him well, and who had seen him the month previous at
Georgetown. He was at that time pursuing his usual avocations, and was
as much respected and trusted as when I met him.

A few days after the tidings of the fall of Sumter were received in
New-York, and when I had witnessed the spontaneous and universal
uprising of the North which followed that event, I dispatched letters to
several of my Southern friends, giving them as near as I could an
account of the true state of feeling here, and representing the utter
madness of the course the South was pursuing. One of these letters went
to my Union acquaintance whom I have called, in the preceding pages,
'Andy Jones.'

He promptly replied, and a pretty regular correspondence ensued between
us, which has continued, at intervals, even since the suspension of
intercourse between the North and the South.

Andy has stood firmly and nobly by the old flag. At the risk of every
thing, he has boldly expressed his sentiments every where. With his life
in his hand and--a revolver in each of his breeches-pockets, he walked
the streets of Wilmington when the secession fever was at its hight,
openly proclaiming his undying loyalty to the Union, and 'no man dared
gainsay him.'

But with all his patriotism, Andy keeps a bright eye on the 'main
chance.' Like his brother, the Northern Yankee, whom he somewhat
resembles and greatly admires, he never omits an opportunity of 'turning
an honest penny.' In defiance of custom-house regulations and of our
strict blockade, he has carried on a more or less regular traffic with
New-York and Boston (_via_ Halifax and other neutral ports) ever since
North-Carolina seceded. His turpentine, while it was still his property,
has been sold in the New-York market, under the very eyes of the
government officials, and, honest reader, _I_ have known of it.

By various roundabout means, I have recently received letters from him.
His last, dated in April, and brought to a neutral port by a shipmaster
whom he implicitly trusts, has reached me since the previous chapters
were written. It covers six pages of foolscap, and is written in
defiance of all grammatical and orthographical principles; but as it
conveys important intelligence in regard to some of the persons
mentioned in this narrative, I will transcribe a portion of it.

It gave me the melancholy tidings of the death of Colonel J----. He had
joined the Confederate army, and fell, bravely meeting a charge of the
Massachusetts troops, at Roanoke.

On receiving the news of his friend's death, Andy rode over to the
plantation, and found Madam P---- plunged in the deepest grief. While he
was there, a letter arrived from Charleston, with intelligence of the
dangerous illness of her son. This second blow crushed her. For several
days she was delirious and her life despaired of; but throughout the
whole, the noble corn-cracker, neglecting every thing, remained beside
her.

When she returned to herself, and had in a measure recovered her
strength, she learned that the Colonel had left no will; that she was
still a slave, and soon to be sold, with the rest of the Colonel's
_personal property_, according to law.

This is what Andy writes about the affair. I give the letter as he wrote
it, merely correcting the punctuation and enough of the spelling to make
it intelligible:

'W'en I hard thet th' Cunnel hadent leff no wil, I was hard put what ter
dew; but arter thinkin' on it over a spell, I knowed shede har on it
sumhow; so I 'cluded to tell har miseff. She tuk on d----d hard at fust,
but arter a bit, grew more calm like, and then she sed it war God's wil,
an' she wudent komplane. Ye knows I've got a wife, but w'en the ma'am
sed thet, she luk'd so like an angel, thet d----d eff I cud help puttin'
my arms round har, an' huggin' on har, till she a'moste screeched. Wal,
I toled har I'd stan' by har, eff evrithing went ter h----l, an' I wil,
by----.

'I made up mi minde to onst what ter dew. It war darned harde work tur
bee 'way from hum jess then, but I war in fur it; soe I put ter
Charleston, ter see th' Cunnel's 'oman. Wal, I seed har, an' I toled har
how th' ma'am felte, an' how mutch shede dun at makein' th' Cunnel's
money, (she made nigh th' hul on it, 'case he war alers keerles, an' tuk
no 'count uv things; eff 't'aden't been fur thet, hede made a wil,) an'
I axed har ter see thet the ma'am had free papers ter onst. An' whot der
ye s'poze she sed? Nuthin', by ----, 'cept she dident no nuthin' 'bout
bisniss, an' leff all uv sech things ter har loryer. Wal, then I went
ter him--he ar one on them slick, ily, seceshun houn's who'd sell thar
soles fur a kountterfit dollar--an' he toled me th' 'ministratur hadent
sot yit, an' he cudent dew nuthin' till he hed. Ses I: 'Ye mean th'
'oman's got ter gwo ter th' hi'est bider?' 'Yas,' he sed, 'the Cunnel's
got dets, an' the've got ter bee pade, an' th' persoonal prop'ty muste
bee sold ter dew it.' Then I sed, 'twud bee sum time 'fore thet war dun,
an' the 'oman's 'most ded an uv no use now; 'what'll ye _hire_ har tur
me fur.' He said a hun'red fur sicks months. I planked down the money
ter onst, an' put off.

'I war bilin' over, but it sumhow cum inter my hed thet the Cunnel's
'oman cudn't bee _all_ stun; so I gose thar agin, an' I toled har what
the loryer sed, an' made a reg'lar stump-'peal tew har bettur natur. I
axed har ef she'd leff the 'oman who'd made har husban's fortun', who
war the muther uv his chil'ren, who fur twenty yar hed nussed him in
sickness an' cheered him in healtf, ef shede let _thet 'oman_ bee
auckyund off ter th' hi'est bider. I axed al thet, an' what der ye think
she sed? Why, jest this. '_I_ doan't no nuthin' 'bout it, Mister Jones.
Ye raily must talke ter mi loryer; them matters I leaves 'tirely ter
him.' Then I sed I s'posed the niggers war ter bee advertist. 'O yas!'
she sed, (an' ye see she know'd a d----d site 'bout _thet_,) 'all on
'em muss bee solde, 'case ye knows I never did luv the kuntry; 'sides
_I_ cuden't karry on the plantashun, no how.' Then sed I: 'The Orleans
traders 'ill be thar, an' she wun't sell fur but one use, fur she's
hansum yit; an' ma'am, ye wun't leff a 'oman as white as you is, who fur
twenty yar hes ben a tru an' fatheful _wife_ tar yer own ded husban', (I
shudn't hev put thet in, but d----d ef I cud help it,) ye wun't put
_har_ up on the block, an' hev har struck down ter the hi'est bider, ter
bee made a d----d ---- on?'

'Wal, I s'pose she haden't forgot thet fur more'n twelve yar the Cunnel
hed _luv'd_ t'other 'oman an' onely _liked_ har; fur w'en I sed thet,
har ize snapped like h----l, an' she screetched eout thet she dident
'low no sech wurds in har hous', an' ordurd me ter leave. Mitey sqeemish
thet, warn't it? bein' as shede been fur so mony yar the Cunnel's ----,
an' th' tuther one his raal wife.

'Wal, I _did_ leav'; but I leff a piece of mi mind ahind. I toled har
I'de buy thet ar 'oman ef she cost all I war wuth and I had ter pawne my
sole ter git the money; an' I added, jest by way uv sweet'nin' the pill,
thet I owed all I hed ter har husband, an' dident furget _my_ dets ef
she did _hern_, an' ef his own wife disgraced him, I'd be d----d ef _I_
wud.

'Wal, I've got th' ma'am an' har boy ter hum, an' my 'oman hes tuk ter
har a heep. I doan't no w'en the sale's ter cum off, but ye may bet hi'
on my bein' thar, an' I'll buy har ef I hev ter go my hull pile on har,
an' borrer th' money fur ole Pomp. But _he'll_ go cheap, 'case the
Cunnel's deth nigh dun him up. It clean killed Ante Lucey. She never
held her hed up arter she heerd 'Masser Davy' war ded, fur she sot har
vary life on him. Don't ye feel consarned 'bout the ma'am--I knows ye
sot hi' on har. _I'll buy har_ shore. Thet an' deth ar th' onely things
thet I knows on, in this world, jess now, that ar SARTIN.'

Such is Andy's letter. Misspelled and profane though it be, I would not
alter a word or a syllable of it. It deserves to be written in
characters of gold and hung up in the sky, where it might be read by all
the world. And it _is_ written in the sky--in the great record book--and
it will be read when you and I, reader, meet the assembled universe, to
give account of what _we_ have done and written. God grant that our
record may show some such deed as that!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: The whisky was kept in a back room, above ground, because
the dwelling had no cellar. The fluid was kept safely under lock and
key, and the farmer accounted for that by saying that his negroes would
steal nothing but whisky. Few country houses at the South have a
cellar--that apartment deemed so essential by Northern housekeepers. The
intervening space between the ground and the floor is there left open,
to allow of a free circulation of air.]

[Footnote 2: No regular dinner-hour is allowed the blacks on most
turpentine-plantations. Their food is usually either taken with them to
the woods or carried there by house-servants, at stated times.]




SOUTHERN RIGHTS.


  The right to poison bullets,
  The right to rifle graves,
  To cut our prisoners' gullets,
  Or treat them like our slaves;
  The right to use the savage
  To aid us in our fight,
  To freely scalp and ravage,
  Each is a Southern right.
  Call not these claims Satanic,
  They're far beyond your ken:
  How can a low mechanic
  Know aught of gentlemen?




MACCARONI AND CANVAS.

VI.


ON THE PINCIO.

With that wise foresight, shared by all European rulers, the Roman
Pincio was undoubtedly wedded to its purpose of keeping the idle ones
very busy at the very time of day when revolutionary plots find the best
hearing--before dinner. Whirling around its walks in carriages, or
gently promenading under trees, among rose-bushes, and by fountains,
while a large band of musicians play with spirit fine selections from
the last operas, or favorite airs from old ones; the eye gratified by
the sight of pleasant faces, or dwelling enraptured on the beautiful
landscape spread before it--how can the brain disengage itself to think
of Liberty, won through toil and battle, only to be preserved by
self-denial and moral strength?

But the traveler who travels only to travel, and has the means and
spirit to find pleasure wherever he goes, thinking only of what he sees,
enjoys to its fullest extent the luxurious seat of the hired,
white-damask-lined carriage, drawn by stalwart, heavy-limbed, coal-black
horses, with sweeping tails, the white foam flying from the champed
silver bits, the whole turn-out driven by a handsome, white-gloved,
black-coated Roman. In solemn state and swiftly, he winds up the zig-zag
road leading from the piazza Popolo, (so-called from _popolo_, a
poplar-tree, and not as the English will have it, from _popolo_, the
people,) and at last reaches the summit of Roman ambition--the top of
the Pincian hill. He passes other carriages filled with other strangers
like himself, or with titled and fashionable Romans, and finally, his
carriage drawn up to one side of the broad drive in front of the
semi-circle where the band plays, he descends, to walk around and chat
with the friends he may find there.

Toward sunset the scene is full of animation. The sabres of the cavalry
soldiers, on guard to prevent infraction of rules, gleam brightly; the
old infantry soldiers are darting here and there, chasing away sundry
ownerless dogs, who always make it a point to promenade the Pincio; the
Italian nurses from Albano, or at least dressed in Albanese costume,
shine conspicuous in their crimson-bodiced dresses; Englishmen going
through their constitutional; Frenchmen mourning for the Champs Elysées;
artists in broad-brim hats smoking cigars; Americans observing Italy, so
as to be like Italians; ladies of all nations commanding the attention
of mankind as they sweep along the hard-rolled gravel-walks; smiles,
bows, looks of love, indignation, affection, coquetry; faces reflective
of great deeds and greater dinners ... every face bright in the lambent
amber light that streams from the sun dipping his head preparatory to
putting on his night-cap, and bidding Rome _felicissima notte!_ a most
happy night.

Over the irregular walls of the subdued white and mellow gray houses and
palaces, beyond the Tiber running red in the dying sunlight, over the
round-walled castle of San Angelo, the dome of Saint Peter's rises full
in the midst of the twinkling, hazy, red and golden light. Passing the
stone-pines crowning Monte Mario, there gleam away to the left the far
waters of the sea, over which the purple mist of young night tenderly,
softly falls. Once thoughtfully noted, you will remember this glowing
scene years after sublimer and wilder views are lost to memory or grown
so faint that they are to you but as dull colors seen in dreams of old
age compared to the flashing brightness of those presented to the closed
eyes of youth.

As the sun sets and those in carriages and on foot slowly leave the
hights of the Pincio, and descend once more to the old city, you will
hear, as the evening star shines brighter and brighter, the first
liquid, thrilling notes of the nightingales; then as you lean over the
stone parapet, dreamily looking into the dense foliage of trees and
shrubs beneath you, you will feel the beauty of those lines:

  Seek the nightingale's sequestered tower,
  Who with her love-lorn melody
  So bewitched thee in the vernal hour:
  When she ceased to love, she ceased to be.

It is from the months of May to November, when travelers have left Rome,
and the city is in the hands of the Romans, that your walks on the
Pincio will prove something more than a mere repetition of a stroll in
Baden-Baden, or a revival of ideas common to the Prado or Prater. No
longer the little prettinesses of the Medicean Venus flirt by you in the
nervous silks that flutter along these walks, but something nobly
womanly, of a solid past, slow and stately, moves solemnly, by. We know
the lives of these copies of the Venus of Milos, we know its most
commonplace and vulgar attributes, but we know, too, its strength! The
city of Rome holds in its women the mothers of heroes, when Providence
shall withdraw the black veil now hung over their rude minds, and let in
the light of knowledge. We who laugh at their sad ignorance, think what
we would be without liberty--our minds enslaved, geography tabooed!
Egypt is a paradise compared to Rome.

The advantages of foreign travel to an intelligent American are to teach
him ... the disadvantages of living any where save in America. And
though the artistic eye dwells with such loving repose on the soothing
colors of Italy, and particularly on the subdued white and gray tones of
Roman ruins and palaces, walls and houses, yet the owner of that
artistic eye should restrain his wrath at the fiery red bricks of our
own cities, for let him reflect that this color goads him on, as it doth
a bull, to make valorous efforts--to do something!

Looking down from the stone balustrade of the Pincio on the piazza
Popolo, we note two churches, one on either side of the Corso; their
architecture is neither more nor less hideous than nine tenths of the
other three hundred and odd churches of Rome; the same heavy,
half-cooked look about doors and windows, suggesting cocked-hats of the
largest size on the heads of dwarfs of no size at all; the same heavy
scroll-work, reminding one of the work of a playful giant of a
green-grocer who has made a bouquet of sausages and cabbages, egg-plants
and legs of mutton, and exhibits it to a thick-headed public as a--work
of art. O Roman _Plebs!_ lay this nattering unction to your soul--we did
not do that!

The history of all nations seem to indicate successive ages of grub and
butterfly-life; certainly Rome has been a grub long enough. Let us hope
the sun of Victor Emmanuel, the King of Gallant Men, will hasten the
time when the Romans shall wing their way to the light of Liberty. These
mockeries of architecture shall then stand as warning fingers to the
Romans of the sad days that were; the days when mind and body were
enslaved, and the grinning monkey held the dove tight-clutched in his
brutal grasp. Through sword and fire public taste must pass before it is
purified: the mountain-stream, dashing along with bounding steps, is
clear and sparkling, but in the long stretch of level pastureland or
prairie it is still and--dirty.

It may be well to descend and wander through those close and narrow
streets where the waste-water of old Roman aqueducts makes green and
damp the foundation stories of gloomy houses, and where the
carefully-nurtured traveler sees sights of smoked interiors, dirt and
rubbish in the streets, that terrify him; but let him remember that in
the worst of these kennels the inhabitants have never forgotten that
they had a Past, and the 'I am a Roman Citizen!' still rings in their
ears, eats into their hearts, and is at their tongue's end. Monsieur
About was in Rome when Caper was there; he saw these Romans through
Napoleonic spectacles: while one foot was trying to stamp on Antonelli
gently, the other was daintily ascending the shining steps leading to
the temple of Gallic fame. He is impressed with the idea that the Romans
are hangers-on of hangers-on to patricians, from which we are to infer,
if the patricians are ever hung, there will be a heavy weight to their
feet!

Rocjean, one afternoon, after a walk on the Pincio, was returning to his
studio, when, as he descended to the Via Babuino, he met a Roman artist
named Attonito, who cultivated the English.

'Ow arr you toe-day, my dear?' he asked Rocjean.

'Quite well, except a slight attack of bad English, from which I hope to
recover in a few minutes.'

'Pray tell unto me th-hat weech is bad Englis.'

'Haven't you been on the Pincio?'

'Yas, I tak' consteetutionails up there avery afternoons; it is a
costume Englis' th-hat I vary moche cotton to.'...

'W-hat! Cotton to? Why, that is a clear Americanism; where did you pick
it up?'

'Meester Caper of Noo-York, he told unto me it am more elegant as to
say, I love, or I affection. Bote, 'ave you saw that bu-tee-fool
creechure with 'air of flags?'...

'What!'

''Air of flags; 'ow you name eet? _Capellatura di lino?_'

'Oh! you mean tow-head?'

'Toe! no, no! I mean _lino_.'

'Ah! yes, flaxen hair.'

'_Benissimo!_ Vary well, flagson 'air and blue eyze. Shhe was in
carri-adge with Lady Blumpudy. I go avery afternoons to inspect her as
she takes the airs on the Pincio, Eet would gife me great pleasures to
ally myself to her in marriage compact, bote I do not know eef she has a
fortune. Do you know any theengs?'

'Yes, a great many; one of which is that it is my dinner-time, and as I
turn down the Condotti--good afternoon.'

'Goo-ood by, my dear,' answered Attonito, as he slowly wandered up the
Piazza di Spagna.

Another example of the beneficial effects of the Pincio on the
_bourgeoise_, thought Rocjean. When will the alarm-bell in the clock of
Roman time ring out its awaking peal?


ROME BY NIGHT.

If one would realize the romantic side of Rome in all its stately
grandeur, and receive a solemn and ineffaceable impression of its
beauty, by all means let him, like Quevedo's hero, sleep 'a-daytime' and
do his sight-seeing by moonlight or star-light; for, save in some few
favored quarters, its inspection by gaslight would be difficult.
Remember, too, that all that is grandly beautiful of Rome, the traveler
has seen before he reaches the Imperial City--with the eyes of
understanding, with the eyes of others--in books.

Nothing but a heap of old stones, bricks, and mortar is there here for
the illiterate tourist--he can have six times as jolly a time in Paris
for half the money that he pays 'in that old hole where a fellow named
Culius Jæsar used to live.'

As if the night were not sufficiently dark in this city, there are
always those who stand ready with the paint-brush of fancy to make it
even of a darker hue; whisperings among the travelers in hotels of
certain Jim Joneses or Bill Smiths who have been robbed. Yes, sir, early
in the evening, right there in the Corso: grabbed his watch and chain,
struck him on the head. You know he was a powerfully built man; but they
came behind him, and if he hadn't have done so and so, the rascally
Italians would have killed him, and so forth.

'Re-al-ly; well, you won't catch me out at nights!'

There rises up, as I write, the figure of a slim young man, of the
day-time negro-minstrel style of beauty, who once dwelt three weeks in
Rome. I know that he was profound in knowledge of trick and vice, and
that he had an impediment in his speech--he could never speak the
truth. He told a fearful tale of a midnight robbery in the Piazza di
Spagna--himself the victim. It was well told, and I ought to know, for I
read it years before in a romance, only the scene was, in type, laid in
Venice. According to this negro-minstrel style of youth, he had been
seized from behind, held, robbed of watch and elegant gold chain, red
coral shirt-studs, onyx sleeve-buttons, and a porte-monnaie containing
fifty scudi, etc., etc. He was the theatrical hero of the hotel for two
days, and the recipient of many drinks. Time, the cater of things, never
digested this falsehood, and months after the youth had left, I learned
that he had lost all his jewelry and money at--twenty-deck poker.

A few nights after Caper was domiciled in the Via Babuino, Rocjean
called on him, and as he entered his room, carefully extinguished a
taper, and was putting it in his pocket, when Caper asked him what that
was for?

'That! it's a _cerina_. Have you been two weeks in Rome, and not found
out that? Why, how did you get up-stairs at night?'

'There was a lamp in the entry.'

'None there to-night, so I had to light this. It's only a long piece of
wick, dipped in wax; you see you can roll it up in a ball, and carry it
in your pocket, so! Without this and a box of matches, you can never
hope to be a good Roman. You must have seen that where the houses have
any front-doors, three quarters of them are open all night long; for, as
on every floor of a house, there live different families, they find it
saves trouble--trouble is money in Rome--to leave the door unclosed.
These dark entries, for they are seldom lighted, offer a grand chance
for intrigues, and when you have lived here as long as I have, you will
find out that they--improve the chances. A _cerina_, in addition to
keeping you from breaking your neck, by tumbling down stone stairs,
gives light to avoid the stray dogs that sleep around loose, and to see
if there is any enemy around who wants to give you a few inches of cold
steel. You may laugh at robbers here; but you may cry for mercy in vain
to a Roman who seeks _vendetta_--revenge, you know. Bad way to use
foreign words; but we all do it here. Speak an Italianized English after
a time, the effect of had examples. But come, if you want to see Rome by
moonlight, it's time we were off.'

As they reached the street, Caper asked Rocjean where he could buy the
_cerina_.

'At any _dragheria_' said the latter.

'Good, there is a druggist's store up the street--Borioni's.'

'A _dragheria_ means a grocery-store in Rome. If you want molasses,
however, you must go to the _farmacia_ for it, [that is the Roman for
druggist's shop,] and you will buy it by the ounce.'

'Live and learn,' said Caper, as they entered the grocery and bought the
_cerina_-price, one baioccho a yard.

'And now let us walk out to Saint Peter's, and see the church by
moonlight.'

'The want of sidewalks in this city,' remarked Rocjean, 'compelling the
Romans to walk over cobble-stones, undoubtedly is the cause of the large
feet of the women, added to their dislike of being in pain from tight
shoes or boots. For genuine martyrdom from tight shoes, French, Spanish,
and Americans--but chiefly Cubans--next to Chinese women, are ahead of
the world.'

'But apart from the fact that they do walk on the narrow sidewalks in
the Corso, I have noticed that in the side-streets, even where there is
a foot-walk, nobody takes advantage of it at night.'

'For a good reason, as we shall probably see,' said Rocjean,' before we
reach the bridge of San Angelo. But keep close to me in the middle of
the street.'

The moonlight shone brightly down the narrow street they were then
walking through, which, but for this, the occasional dim light of an
oil-lamp hung in front of a shrine, the light from a wine or grocery
shop, and the ruddy blaze of a charcoal-fire, where chestnuts were
roasting for sale, would have been dark indeed. The ground-floor of
very few Roman houses is ever occupied as a dwelling-place; it is given
up to shops, stables, etc., the families residing, according to their
wealth, on the lowest up to the highest stories; the light purses going
up and the heavy ones sinking. They had walked nearly to the end of this
street, when, happening to look up at the fourth story of a house, he
saw something white being reversed in the moonlight, and the next
instant a long stream of water, reminding him of the horse-tail fall in
Switzerland, came splashing down where a sidewalk should have been.

'What do you think of the middle of the street now?' asked Rocjean.

'Let's stick to it, even if we stick in it. I'm going to buy an
umbrella, _and spread it too_, when I go out of nights, after this.'

They reached the bridge of San Angelo, and studied for a short time the
fine effect of the moonlight shining on the turbid, slow-flowing Tiber,
and lighting up the heavy pile of the castle of San Angelo. Then they
reached the Piazza of Saint Peter's, and here the scene was imperial.
Out and in through the semi-circular arcade of massive pillars the
moonlight stole to sleep upon the soft-toned, gray old pavement, or was
thrown in dancing, sparkling light from the two noble jets of water
tossed in the clear night-air by the splashing fountains. In all its
gigantic proportions rose up, up into the clear blue of the spangled
sky, the grand thought of Michael Angelo--the dome of Saint Peter's.

Returning from Saint Peter's, Rocjean proposed to walk through the
Trastevere, the other side of the Tiber, and to cross over the river by
the ponte Rótto or broken bridge. They found the street along the river
very quiet; here and there a light showed, as on the other side, a
wine-shop or coffee-room; but the houses had few lights in them, and
spite of the moonlight, the streets looked gloomy and desolate.

'They seem to keep dark this side of the river,' said Caper.

'Yes,' answered Rocjean, 'and live light. They go to bed for the most
part early, and rise early; they economize fifty-one weeks in a year, in
order to live like lords for the fifty-second--that is Carnival-week.
Then you shall see these queenly Trasteverine in all their bravery,
thronging the Corso. But here is a clean-looking wine-shop, let us go in
and have a foglietta.'

They found the shop full of thirsty Romans--it is safe to say
that--although the number of small flasks showed they could not indulge
their taste so deeply as they wished to. The centre of the listening
group of Romans, was a bright-eyed, black, curly-haired man, who was
reciting, with loud emphasis:

  THE LIFE AND DEATH

  OF THE PERFIDIOUS ASSASSIN,

  ARRIGO GARBETINGO OF TRENTO,

  Who slew nine hundred and sixty-four grown
  persons and six children.

He had already got through his birth and wicked childhood, and had
arrived at that impressive part where he commences his career of brigand
at large, accompanied by a 'bool-dog':

  'He had a bull-dog of the English breed, oh!
  More savage than all others that we've seen, oh!
  Close at his side it always walked, indeed, oh!
  And never barked! but then his bite was keen, oh!
  When on some poor man straight he sprung, take heed, oh!
  His soul from body quickly fled, I ween, oh!
  Because with cruel, gnashing teeth he tore, oh!
  Him all to pieces, in a manner sore, oh!'

The reciter here stopped to drink another tumbler of wine, upon which
Caper and Rocjean, having finished their pint, paid their scot and
departed.

'Was that an improvisatore?' asked Caper.

'He might pass for such with a stranger of inflammable imagination, who
didn't know the language,' answered Rocjean. 'He is, in fact, a
reciter, and you can buy the poh, poh-em he was reciting at any of the
country fairs, of the man who sells rosaries and crucifixes. It is one
of the cent-songs of the Papal States, published _con licenza_, with
license; and a more cruel, disgusting, filthy, and demoralizing tendency
than it must have on the people can not well be imagined; and there are
hundreds of worse.'

While Rocjean was talking they had crossed the ponte Rótto, and as he
finished his sentence they stood in front of the ruined house of--Cola
di Rienzil, 'Redeemer of dark centuries of shame--the hope of Italy,
Rienzi, last of Romans!'

'Well,' said Rocjean, as he halted in front of the ruined house, and
looked carefully at the ornamented stones still left, 'when Saint
Peter's church shall be a circus, this house shall be a shrine.'

'That being the state of the case,' spoke Caper, 'let us walk up to the
Trevi fountain and see the effect by moonlight of its flashing waters,
and inhale the flavor of fried fish from the adjacent stands.'

They stood in front of the wild waters dashing, sparkling over the grand
mass of tumbled rocks reared behind the wall of a large palace. Neptune,
car, horses, tritons, all, stone as they were, seemed leaping into life
in the glittering rays of the moonlight, and the rush and splash of the
waters in the great basin below the street, contrasted with the silence
of the city, left a deep impression of largeness and force on the minds
of the two artists.

'Let us go down and drink the water, for he who drinks of it shall
return again to Rome!'

'With all my heart,' said Caper; 'for if the legend has one word of
truth in it, Garibaldi will be back again some _bello giorno_----'

'_Bello giorno_ means fine day; _giorno di bello_ means a day for war: I
drink to both!' spoke Rocjean, dipping water up in his hand.

They returned to the street, and were walking toward the Piazza di
Spagna, when they overtook two well-dressed men evidently none the
better for too much wine. As they passed them, one of the men said to
the other:

'J-im! I don't see but what we-we-'ll have to r-r-roost out-tall night.
I don't know 'ny 'talian, _you_ don't know 'ny 'talian, we-we-'re
nonpl'sh'd, I'm th-think'ng.'

'Ary borry boutére spikinglish?' said the other one to the two artists,
as they were walking on.

'Yes,' said Caper, 'four of 'em. If you've lost your way we'll set you
right. Where's your hotel?'

''Tel? Why, 'Tel Europe p'aza Spanya. Are you English?'

'No, sir! I'm an American born, bred and--buttered,' said Caper.

'B-bullyf'ryou! We'resame spishies--allrite--d-driv'on!'

'Look here,' said the one of the two men who was least tipsy, 'if this
tother g-gen'leman and I could stick our heads into c-cold water we'd
come out tall right.'

'It's only a block or two back to the Trevi fountain,' answered Caper,
'and if your friend will go with you, you'll find water enough there.'

They went back to the fountain, and descending the steps with some
difficulty, the two men soon had their heads pretty well cooled off, and
came up with cleared intellects and improved pronunciation. In the
course of conversation it appeared that the two travelers, for such they
were, after rather too much wine at dinner in their hotel, had been
invited to the German Club, where Rhine wine, etc., had finished them
off: attempting to return to their hotel alone, they had lost their way.
As the four walked along, it came out that one of them owned a painting
by Rocjean, and when he discovered that one of his guides was no other
than that Americanized Frenchman, the whole party at once fraternized,
and disregarding any more moonlight effects, walked at once to Caper's
rooms, where over cigars and a bottle of Copalti's wine they signed,
sealed, and delivered a compact to have a good time generally for the
week the two travelers intended devoting to Rome. The moral of which is
... that you make more friends than meet enemies--walking round Rome by
night.


THE MYSTERIOUS IN ART.

They were in the presence of a man with flowing hair, flowing beard, and
flowing language, in a studio, all light from which was excluded by
heavy curtains, except enough to display an easel on which was placed a
painting, a background of dark blue where were many apparently spider
and crow-tracks.

'Those who in the profundity of their darkness incline to the belief
that the vitality of art, butterfly-like, has fled from this sunny
world, have made the biggest kind of a mistake,' said Mr. Artaxerxes
Phlamm, the Mystic Artist, to Caper. The hit was evidently intended for
Rocjean, but that descendant of the Gauls, for some reason, did not
smite back again; he contented himself with the remark:

'Art is long.'

'Yes, sir,' continued Mr. Phlamm, 'not only it has length, but breadth,
breadth, broadness--it extends from--yes--from--pole to pole.'

'Like a clothes-line,' said Caper.

'Ah!' continued Phlamm, with a pickled smile, 'Fancy, ever Fancy, but it
is Imagination that, as it were, brings man to a level with his destiny
and elevates him to the Olympium hights of the True, and all that rises
much above the meedyochre. But I must not forget that this is your first
visit to me studeeyoh. The painting on the easel is a view of Venice on
the Grand Canal.'

'But,' said Rocjean, 'I do not see the canal.'

'When you are gazing at the stars do you see your boots?' asked Phlamm.

'I always do,' spoke Caper quickly, 'always gaze at 'em at night--smoke
a cigar--put my feet higher than my head--sit in a chair--stars
reflected in boots--big thing!'

'You are full of life and spirits, Caper,' continued Phlamm, 'full of
'em; but Rocjean is more serious, more imbued with his nobil calling. My
illustration, as he understands, would convey the idea that such a thing
as foreground in a painting is false; it's a sham, it's a delusion, and
all that. It may do for pre-Raffleites, but for a man who looks Naychure
in the face, he sees her operating diversely, and he works according. I
repeat it again, when I was on the Grand Canal in Venice, I didn't see
the Grand Canal.'

'Neither did I,' spoke Caper, 'we're just alike; I kept my head all the
time out of the gondola-window looking for pretty girls--and I saw
them!'

'May I ask why you dead-color your canvas blue, and then make your
drawing in black outline?' asked Rocjean.

'What is the color of the sky? Is it not blue? Is not blue a cold color;
is it not the negative to the warmth, the balance to the scales, the one
thing needed on which to rear the glorious fabric that Naychure reveals
to the undimmed vision of man? I know your answer, and I refute it. I
have studied Art from its roots, and now I'm in the branches, and I
grasp the fruit. My manner is peculiar--I have no patent for it--I ask
for none. The illimitable passes the legitimate, and the sw-word is
carried by the hero--for me the bruzh, the paint-bruzh. You see that
painting before you--it is my child--I lavish on it my intentions--I am
going to work three years on that picture!'

'I bet you a new hat you sell it, and a dozen more, and send 'em off
before six months. You're all the rage now since you sold old Goldburg a
picture,' quoth Caper.

'I don't bet, I am opposed to betting. But look that picture of mine in
the face, in the face! Here is a finished painting, The Lake of Zurich;
see those clouds floating mistily away into the far distance--there's
atmosphere for you--there's air! You can't cut those clouds into slices
of cheese as you can them of that humbug of a Cloud Lowrain. Cloud
Lowrain! he's a purty painter! Naychure is my teacher. I go out
mornings and hear the jackdaws chatter, and see trees and all that;
sometimes I walk around in a garden for ten minutes and commune with
Naychure--that's the way to do it. Look at clouds before you paint
'em--I know it's hard when the sun's in your eyes, but do it--I've spent
a week at a time out-doors, like Wordsworth and the great, the grand,
the colossial Ruzking.'

'I like that water,' said Rocjean, alluding to that of the painting.

'Water is my peculiar study; I am now engaged experimenting on it--see
there!' Here Phlamm pointed to a basin.

'Been washing your hands?' asked Caper.

'Scientifically experimenting, not manually. Water is
soup-or-fish-all--earth is not soup-or-fish-all.'

'Our dinners are, during Lent,' quoth Caper, 'unless we're heretics.'

'I don't understand your frivolity--what do you mean?'

'Didn't you say, 'Soup or all fish?''

'Pshaw! You will never make an artist--never, never--_you_ are too, too
superficiall, too much of the earth, dirty.'

'Oh! now I understand,' answered Caper; 'give it to me, I deserve it.'

'I was studying water, its shadows and its superficiality, in that
basin,' continued Phlamm, 'and I study the ocean there, and have
devolved great principles from it. What makes my pictures sought for by
the high and the low, wealthy? What? It's the Truth in 'em, the Mystery,
the Naychure. The old masters were humbugs, they weren't mysterious,
they had no inner sight into the workings of Naychure. Who'd buy one of
their pictures when he might have a Turner for the same price? Nobody.'

'Wouldn't he?' asked Caper. 'Try him with a Raphael, just a small one.'

'Raphael? You mean Raffaele. Ah! he _was_ a painter, he wasn't one of
the old masters, however, he was a middle-age master. What sweetness,
what a kind of--sweetness generally; what a blending of the prayerful
infant with the enthusiastic beauty; the--the polished chastity of his
Mad-donas; the folds of his drapery, and--the drapery of his folds.
Truly enchanting, and so very uncommonly gentlemanly in his colors.'

'The Chesterfield of oil-colors?' suggested Rocjean. 'But _à propos_ of
Nature, you never paint a picture directly from her, do you?'

'Never! Does a great historical painter use the model? No, sir; he draws
on his imagination for his figures. He scorns to copy from a model. I
convey the impression of mystery that Naychure gives me; I am no servile
copyist. And I claim to leave an impression on the minds of the
beholders of my works. Why, even Caper, I believe, can see what I wish
to tell, and read my poems on canvas. Tell me, Caper, what idea does
even that rough sketch of Venice awake in your imaginative faculties,
and all that?'

Caper's face wore a deeply thoughtful look, as he answered: 'I do see
it; I do claim to read the lesson you would teach----'

'Speak it out,' interrupted Phlamm, 'I knew you would feel the deep,
mysterious sentiment as is in it.'

'Spider-tracks and crows' feet on the blue mud of a big marsh,' spoke
Caper resolutely.

'Pshaw!' exclaimed Phlamm impetuously; 'you have no Faith, and without
that, all Art is a sealed thing. Goldburg, to whom I lately sold a
painting, had faith; he saw the grand idea which I explained to him in
that picture; he knew that the Earl of Bigbarns had purchased a work of
mine, and he said to me: 'The opinion of such a man is an opinion as
should be a valuable opinion to a business man, and govern the
sentiments of those who worship Art.' Other artists see Naychure, but
_how_ do they see her? I answer, blindly! They don't feel her here!'
(Phlamm struck his waistcoat in fearful proximity to a pocket in it, and
altogether too low for his heart.)

'Nay-chure,' said Caper to Rocjean, as they left this studio of the
mysterious one, 'ruined a good Barnum to make a poor Phlamm, when she
made him.'


A BATH-HUNT.

It is a mournful sight to see a city of one hundred and eighty thousand
five hundred and thirty-nine inhabitants, including one thousand three
hundred and thirty-one priests, two thousand four hundred and four
monks, and eight hundred and fifty-four Jews, Turks, and heretics, as
the census had it, attacked with hydrophobia. But it is so. A
preternatural dread of water rages among all the inhabitants of Rome,
from the untitled down to the titled.

'Madame,' said Rocjean to a distinguished female model, 'I assure you
that, in the sixth century, [or as Sir Gardiner Wilkinson has it, in the
five hundred,] there were nine thousand and twenty-five baths in this
city.'

'Those must have been good times,' replied she, 'for the washerwomen,
_seguro!_ There are a good many clothes of the _forestieri_ [strangers]
washed here now; but not so many different places to wash them in.'

'I mean places to bathe one's self all over in.'

'_Mai!_ Never, never!' exclaimed the woman with horror; 'never! 'twould
give them the fever, kill them dead!'

Mr. Van Brick, of New-York, arriving in Rome early in the morning,
demanded of the porter at the hotel where he could find a _bagno_, or
place where he could get a bath. He was directed to go down the Babuino,
and at such a number he would find the establishment. Forgetting the
number before he was three steps from the hotel, he inquired of a man
who was driving a she-jackass to be milked, where the bath was. As he
spoke very little Italian, he had to make up by signs what he wanted in
words. The man, probably believing he wanted a church, and that his
motions signified being sprinkled with water, pointed to the Greek
church, and Van Brick, thinking it was a solemn-looking old _bagno_,
strode in, to his astonishment finding out as soon as he entered that he
was by no means in the right place. As he turned to go out, he saw an
amiable-looking young man, with a black cocked hat in his hand, and a
black serge shirt on that came down to his heels, and had a waist-band
drawing it in over his hips. He asked the young man, as well as he could
in Italian, where there was a _bagno_.

'The signore is English?' asked the youth in the black shirt.

'I want a bath,' said Van Brick, 'which way?'

'Have patience, signore. There are a great many English in Rome.'

'Farewell!' quoth Van Brick, turning on his heel, reflecting: 'That
youth talks too much; he does it to conceal his ignorance; he don't know
what a bath is.' Coming out of the church, he met a good-natured looking
Roman girl, without any bonnet, as usual, going along with a bottle of
wine and a loaf of bread.

'Can you tell me where the bath is?'

'_Chi lo sa_, signore.'

This CHI LO SA, or, 'who knows?' of the Romans, is a shaft that would
kill Paul Pry. It nearly throws an inquisitive man into convulsions. He
meets it at every turn. The simplest question is knocked to pieces by
it. So common is it for a Roman of the true _plebs_ breed to give you
this for an answer to almost every question, that Rocjean once won a hat
from Caper in this wise: they stood one evening in front of a grocer's
store, down by the Pantheon; it was brilliantly illuminated with
hundreds of candles, displaying piles of hams, cheese, butter, eggs,
etc., etc. Chandeliers constructed of egg-shells, where candles shone
brightly, particularly struck Caper.

'You see,' said Rocjean, 'as anyone else can see, that those chandeliers
are made of egg-shells. Now, I will bet you a hat that I will ask four
men, one after another, who may come to look in this window, what those
chandeliers are made of, and three at least, if not all four of them,
will answer, 'Who knows?' (_Chi lo sa._)

'Done!' said Caper.

Rocjean asked four men, one after another. All four answered; 'Who
knows?'

But to continue the bath-hunt: Van Brick was thrown over by the girl's
answer, and next asked an old woman, who was standing at the door of a
house, buying broccoli from a man with a hand-cart.

'Can _you_ tell me where the bath is?'

'The bath?'

'Yes, the bath.'

'Is it where they boil water for the English?'

'That must be the shop,' quoth Brick.

'That's the place,' pointing with her finger to a house on the opposite
side of the way.

Van Brick crossed over, and after five minutes' hunt over the whole
house, was coming down disheartened, when he saw a pretty girl, about
eighteen years old, standing by the doorway.

'Can you tell me where the bath is?'

'_Seguro!_ I attend to them. You can't have a warm bath for two or three
hours yet, for there is no fire; but you can have a cold one.'

'Well, let me have it as quickly as possible.'

'Yes, sir. We have no soap for sale, but you can get it two doors off.'

Van Brick went out, and after a time returned with a cake of soap.

'Signore,' said the girl, when he went back, 'the water is all running
out of the hole in the bottom of the tub, and I can't stop it.'

'H'm! Show me the tub; I am a splendid mechanic.'

The hole being stopped, the tub was rapidly filling with water. Van
Brick, in anticipation, was enjoying his bath; when in rushed the
attendant.

'Signore, you will have to wait a few minutes--until I wash some
towels.'

Van Brick was in extremis. Taking a gold scudo, one of those dear little
one-dollar pieces the Romans call _far-fálle_ (butterflies) from his
pocket, he thus addressed her:

'Maiden, rush round the corner and buy me a yard of any thing that will
dry me; I don't care what it is, except salt fish.'

'Oh! but these English are bursting with money,' thought the girl, and
thus thinking, she made great haste, only stopping to tell three or four
friends about the crazy man that was round at her place, who didn't want
salt fish to make him dry.

'Behold me back again!' said the girl, 'I flew.'

'Yes,' said Van Brick, 'and so did time; and he got ahead of you about
half an hour. Give me the towels.'

'Si, signore, behold them! See how fine they are! What an elegant fringe
on them; and only twenty-five baiocchi a piece, fringe and all
included.'

Van Brick, at last left in peace, plunged into the bath.

When he came out, he found he had half a scudo to pay for the water,
half a scudo for towels, quarter of a scudo for soap, and another
quarter scudo for a _buono mano_ to the bath-girl. Total, one dollar and
a half.

'Now,' soliloquized Van Brick, as he dressed himself, 'I have an
arithmetical question to solve. If a Roman, by hard scratching, can earn
twenty cents a day, and it costs him twenty-five cents for board and
lodging, how long will it be before he saves up a dollar and a half to
take a bath? But that intelligent maiden will tell me, I know.' He asked
her.

'Signore, the Romans never bathe.'

'You mean the Catholic Romans, for the Pagan Romans didn't do any thing
else.'

'They're all burning up in the _inferno, Seguro_!' said the maiden.

'But they had fifteen aqueducts to keep them cool when they were alive,'
spoke Van Brick.

'_Chi lo sa_. We have three aqueducts, we Romans, and we have more
water, yes, more water than we can--drink.'

'Yes, while there's wine about. _Adio, bella ninfa!_'




GLANCES FROM THE SENATE-GALLERY.

II.


We considered, in the last number of THE CONTINENTAL, some of
the leading orators and statesmen who, in the last Congress, represented
the States now in rebellion against the Constitution. It can not be
denied that, by their secession from the floor of the Senate, that body,
which undoubtedly exhibits the best specimens of American eloquence, was
deprived of several of its fairest ornaments; but we believe that a
consideration of those Senators who remained faithful to the interests
of their country, will discover the fact that in them was displayed at
least equally conspicuous merit in oratory and legislation. A distinct
contrast was discernible between Northern and Southern eloquence; the
latter being of an impulsive and passionate character, unadorned
generally by the graces which mental culture lends to that art, (which
might be inferred from their well-known temperament,) while the former
appears to be more deliberate and thoughtful, indicating by its elegance
and harmony the refining and systematizing influence of education, and
partaking of the natural phlegm peculiar to inhabitants in colder
regions. While Southern eloquence seemed to endeavor to elicit feeling
and passion, Northern orators looked for their success rather to the
conviction of the understanding than to the indulgence of the weaker
elements of human nature. By pleasing and subtle sophistries, by
enthusiastic ebullitions of resentment and indignation, or by the more
amiable contrivances of patriotic and virtuous sentiment, Benjamin and
Davis sought, if they could not convince legislators, at least to
attract to their peculiar doctrines the impulsive and credulous masses
among their own people. On the contrary, it was apparent that Northern
statesmen, confident in the exercise of intellectual resources, relied
on the intelligence and reason of their auditors and constituents, and
seldom resorted to that species of oratory which was employed by their
adversaries, and which may be called in a manner strategetic, when
logical accuracy was likely to meet with more satisfactory and more
permanent success. Before we proceed to notice the eminent Senators from
the North, we propose to dwell briefly upon several who, though
representing slave States, were, in the last Congress at least, loyal to
the Government; several of whom, however, are now engaged in treason,
while others remain true to their allegiance.

The person who, both from the position he held in the Senate and from
his imposing personal appearance, first attracted the attention of the
visitor, was the Vice-President, Breckinridge, of Kentucky. His later
treachery has made him justly the object of bitter popular odium,
inasmuch as his delinquency was aggravated by his former professions of
loyalty. It was hoped by many who had witnessed his early elevation to
the highest dignities, his undoubted ability both as an orator and as an
administrative officer, and his apparently manly and ingenuous bearing,
that talents which promised to be of so great service to his country
would, in the approaching struggle, be exerted in behalf of its entirety
and honor. Southern 'chivalry' in him was exhibited in a nobler and more
amiable light than in his more petulant and less generous colleagues. A
certain graceful dignity was united with the most attractive felicity of
manner, and one could not help regarding him, when viewed in private
society, as a perfect model of a gentleman. His courtesy and delicacy
were exhibited to all alike, and strangers could not help admiring one
who had at so early an age been raised to so giddy a hight, and yet who
had retained such condescension of manner and such continual good-nature
to every body who approached him. His personal appearance, as we have
already said, was highly imposing; in which was combined a manliness of
demeanor and a strikingly handsome countenance and figure. His peculiar
fitness as a presiding officer made him popular in that capacity.
Seldom, indeed, has a Vice-President occupied the chair with such
perfect ease and such stately dignity. His oratory was worthy of a
Senator, elevated, earnest, and partaking less of passion and rancor
than other Southern speakers; but it rather lacked the substance and
solidity which a maturer stage of life would undoubtedly have given to
it. He seemed to be a fair representative of the Kentucky aristocracy,
possessing a delicate sense of honor, a bold spirit, though hardly
enthusiasm of soul. Evidently absorbed in a selfish ambition for power,
this fault is in some degree palliated by the circumstance of the early
age at which he was promoted to the public counsels. That this passion,
unduly encouraged, has led him into a deplorable and fatal mistake, is
now evident; and from what we have recently heard of him, we doubt not
that a similar conviction has made him wretched and desperate.

The father of the Senate, Mr. Crittenden, so well known during the last
weeks of his term as the would-be pacificator, by compromise, of the
impending rupture, was the last of the generation of statesmen of whom
Webster and Clay were the leading cotemporaries. His long service in the
national legislature procured him on all occasions a respectful and
attentive hearing, and were it not for this circumstance, the earnest
impressiveness of his declamation, at times relieved by sparks of
old-fashioned wit, would have attracted the notice of his auditors. He
was singular in his personal appearance, and a peculiarly fierce
expression of face frequently gave an erroneous idea of his character,
which was, making allowance for age and a life of turmoil, affable and
good-natured. He always reminded us of the portraits of Lord Chancellor
Thurlow, whose bushy eyebrows and stern countenance used to terrify
young barristers in Westminster eighty years ago. Rather negligent in
his dress, and far from elegant in manner, he would hardly be noticed at
first as one of the leading members of the body. As a lawyer, he has
been acute and learned; as a statesman, generally able, though hardly
profound; as an orator, not graceful, but forcible and earnest. His
patriotism was, no doubt, zealous and entirely disinterested; but
certainly ill-directed, and not adapted in the application it made of
principles to the exigencies of the times. Representing the most
respected and most prosperous of slave States, and being considered in a
manner as the statesman upon whose shoulders had fallen the mantle of
the illustrious Clay, his influence was considerable, both with
adherents and antagonists.

With sincere satisfaction, we turn to contemplate the character of a
true-hearted and undaunted Southern patriot, Andrew Johnson, of
Tennessee. Coming as he did from a section in which secessionism
predominates, and representing a mercurial and sensitive people, he
stood out fearlessly and zealously in behalf of the maintenance of the
Union at all hazards. He is an admirable example of the self-made man,
having received no education in his youth, and owing to the application
of maturer years the historical and political information he now
possesses. Born and bred among the lower classes of society, and
engaging in an occupation suited to his humble sphere, by perseverance
and patience and a very superior natural ability, he has won a deserved
place in the United States Senate. He is universally considered as one
of the leading intellects in that body, and by his speeches during the
last Congress, in which his enthusiasm as a patriot lent brilliancy and
energy to his naturally forcible declamation, he attracted to himself
the confidence and affection both of his auditors and of the country.
His personal appearance is rather ordinary, not at all imposing, and yet
his countenance indicates a sound judgment and a pure heart. His whole
manner is open and frank, his bearing that of a gentleman by nature, and
socially he is universally liked. His oratory is also of an ingenuous
character, calculated to impress one at once with his thorough honesty
and humanity. Sometimes he rose to admirable passages of virtuous
indignation and scathing rebuke, as he warmed with the subject of
Southern delusion, actuated by unprincipled leaders, and few of the
Senators who sat on the Democratic side escaped from his truly
formidable denunciation. Lane, of Oregon, a compound of conceit,
ridiculous ignorance, and servility to Southern masters, was totally
annihilated by the sturdy Tennesseean, for his imbecile attempts to
excuse his pusillanimous submission to his chivalrous dictators. So
successful was he in conjecturing and exposing the designs of the
malcontent Senators, that the boldest of them feared to meet him in
forensic discussion, and recoiled from the honesty and acuteness of one
who knew them and did not hesitate to hold them up to ignominy. Through
all the dangers which have beset the neighborhood from which he came, he
has stood firm in the assertion of patriotic principles; nor to save his
own household from disaster, has he yielded a jot to the demands of
traitor tyrants. At present, he is provisional Governor of Tennessee,
and is doing good service in bringing that once-honored State back to
the folds of the Union. Of few public men can we say, what may be
confidently said of him, that he has shown himself ready to sacrifice
every private interest to subserve the interests of his country, and has
given us a certain and practical example of a heroism unknown before the
present crisis to Americans, except in the colored narratives of
history.

Senator Green, of Missouri, was justly regarded as one of the clearest
thinkers and speakers in the Upper House. Irregularity of life had
somewhat blunted what must once have been a very superior mind. His
statesmanship was of a high order; his oratory ingenuous, generally
courteous and conciliatory, and always entertaining, from its lucidness
and keenness. He was decidedly popular in social circles, genial and
good-natured, and full of animal spirits. His excesses, indeed, rather
tended to make him the more companionable, though they undoubtedly
undermined an uncommonly fine intellect; and certainly nothing can be
more sickening than to see one so highly endowed, and who might command
the applause of listening senates, gradually sinking below the level of
manhood by habitual indulgences. In personal appearance, he was rather
awkward, of an ungainly figure, his countenance not highly intelligent,
but cheerful and rather pleasing. After the ostracism of the great
bulwark of Democracy, Douglas, from the councils of his party, Senator
Green became the leader of that side of the house, assuming the place on
the Committee on Territories made vacant by the Illinois statesman. As a
manager of party tactics, and as a bold, shrewd, and energetic leader,
few could equal and none surpass him. His rise to so high a
consideration among his political friends was rapid, but proved, in the
event, well deserved.

We have occupied more space than we had intended, in considering the
Senators from the slave States, and will now attempt to speak of some of
the more prominent Northern statesmen, in this paper, and perhaps
continue their consideration more at length in a future number.

The present Secretary of State was long regarded as the leading
Free-Soil Senator, and after the present Republican party came into
existence, he naturally assumed a prominent position among its
advocates. In caution, in profound foresight, in coolness and affability
of temper, and in perspicuity and logical shrewdness of oratory, he has
been without a superior since the death of Webster. He somewhat
resembles Earl Russell in the prudence and care with which he treats
political questions, and the vigilance with which he notices every
symptom of popular tendencies and popular desires. His circumspection is
constant, and the imperturbability of his character enables him to be
ever on his guard, and protects him from the enunciation of an unpopular
idea. Never permitting himself to be annoyed at ever so bitter a taunt,
perfectly self-possessed, and always mindful of the courtesy due to his
colleagues, and the respect due to the most dignified body in the
nation, he has generally succeeded in completely disarming his less
prudent antagonists. In general debate, his coolness and mental balance
enabled him to cope with the most formidable opponents, and although at
times the overwhelming eloquence of Douglas got the better of the more
philosophic orator, such an occurrence was rare, and a triumph was
gained over him only by the greatest exertions of the greatest orators.
His labored speeches, as will be testified to by all who have perused
them, are rich in profound thought, a clear discernment and
comprehension of events, causes, and results, and occasionally in
passages of stately and brilliant eloquence. Graceful rhetoric and
shrewd logic appear to be ever at his command, as he has occasion, in
the course of argument, to resort to one or the other, to illustrate or
to enforce his reasoning. In person, Mr. Seward is of about medium
hight, rather stooping, with reddish-gray hair, an aquiline nose, and
dull, sleepy, blue eyes. His countenance is hardly intellectual, and no
one would suppose, on seeing him for the first time, that he was a man
of conspicuous ability. He is affable to every one, and enters freely
into conversation with all who call upon him; nevertheless, he is
extremely guarded at all times in expressing his opinions, and will
never betray himself into an unguarded sentiment. His manner of speaking
is extremely easy, and occasionally dull; and when in the Senate, he
used to take his position by leaning against the pillar behind his seat,
twirling in one hand his spectacles, while with the other he enforced,
by slight gestures, the more striking passages of his speech. His
delivery was far from animated, and his intonation was rather
conversational than declamatory. He has a quiet dignity at all times,
which is yet consistent with a polite and amiable demeanor; and while
the former inspires the respect, the latter elicits the esteem of all
who approach him.

The present Vice-President was, during the last Congress, Senator from
Maine. He was long known as an able Democratic politician, and in 1856
was elected Governor of Maine by the Republicans, in a hotly-contested
election. He is remarkable rather for a sound judgment and practical
good sense than as an orator or in the higher arts of statesmanship. He
was always listened to with attention, because all looked upon him as
well informed in the everyday duties of the Senate, and as one whose
opinion was formed from accurate observation and a clear head. He is in
no sense an orator, his delivery not being pleasant or his sentiments
couched in graceful or forcible language. He is of a dark complexion,
rather tall, with jet-black hair, a little bald, and would not be
selected as one of the leading men in the Senate from his personal
appearance. As a presiding officer, he ranks well, being apparently
posted on parliamentary law and impartial in his decisions, although he
has not the dignity and grace which lent _éclat_ to Mr. Breckinridge's
performance of the office.

Senator Fessenden, of Maine, is considered one of the first statesmen
now prominent before the country; and the ability he has exhibited, not
only in the practical details of his position but in the wider range of
comprehensive statesmanship, entitles him to a place superior to most
and equal to any of his contemporaries. Since the retirement of Senator
Hunter from the Finance Committee, (which may be considered as the most
important in the Senate,) Mr. Fessenden has executed the duties of its
chairmanship with an accuracy and vigilance which has elicited the
praise of all sides of the house. His superiority as a financier is
marked; but not more marked than his high capacity for comprehending and
elucidating the great national issues, which swallow up all minor ones
in the magnitude of their importance and the intensity of their
interest. For maturity of judgment, deliberateness of thought and
manner, fearlessness of speech, a presence of mind never lost, and
bitterness of invective, no one ranks above him in the Chamber. His
oratory is of that substantial and yet spirited character which at once
convinces and interests and engages the attention of the mind, without
wearying it by unrelieved exertion. Always the master of every topic on
which he attempts to enlighten, he is neither foiled by the sophistries
nor embarrassed by the bravadoes of his opponents. His eloquence is not
demonstrative, but calm, dignified, and earnest, apparently confident in
the correctness of his views, and yet cautious to avoid giving offense
to others. He is always listened to with the utmost respect, and his
opinions are of much weight among his political friends. His appearance
is dignified and highly intellectual; his forehead being broad and
indicative of great ability, and his general manner being in harmony
with the prominence and responsibility of his office. Never resorting,
in default of argument, to the petty malice of personal abuse, his
course has been liberal, consistent, and uniformly courteous. In private
life, he retains the dignity which appears to be natural to him; but is
yet affable and sociable, attracting one alike by the rich products of
thought and the courtesy of his manner.

Benjamin F. Wade, Senator from Ohio, is a noble specimen of a self-made
statesman. He migrated, at a very early age, from New-England to his
present residence, being entirely without means and devoid of every
thing except his own invincible spirit, with which to secure a
livelihood. The qualities which made him successful sooner than his most
sanguine expectations taught him to hope for, appear in all their
maturity in the character of the Senator. A perseverance the most
constant, a firmness approaching to stubbornness, a courage which never
feared man, and a power of application wonderful in a mind disciplined
only by rude nature, are the component elements which have promoted him
to and maintain him with conspicuous honor in the Senate of the United
States. His honest and intrepid advocacy of principle has won him an
enviable position in his party, and no one possesses the entire
confidence of the country to a greater degree than he. He was
particularly prominent in the last Congress for the bluntness and
severity with which he handled the Southern Senators, and the little
hesitation with which he exposed their delinquencies in the strongest
light. His harangues were full of impulsive, strong, and fearless
invective, and he never stopped to consider the delicacy of chivalrous
sensitiveness, when treason and conspiracy were to be exposed. Probably
no man was more feared by the other side of the Chamber, for he could
neither be cowed by threats nor restrained within the limits of
punctilious courtesy. He dealt with them in the plainest language, and
combined with powerful effect argument, sarcasm, and eloquent
denunciation. Strong sense is a leading feature of his character, and a
practical wisdom which renders him eminently capable in the discharge of
details. In private life, he is genial and always good-natured, ready
for a joke at all times, and enjoys his leisure hours with a zest which
is quickened by previous earnest toil. Although as bitter and
unconciliatory as any of his colleagues in his treatment of the Southern
statesmen on the floor of the Senate, he always manifested the utmost
good temper toward them in social intercourse, and was frequently seen,
after a sharp and irritating episode in debate, laughing and talking
with Green or Benjamin in the most cheerful manner imaginable.

We hope to present more sketches of Northern Senators in a future
number.




THE LAST DITCH.

  Where in the Southron's Fatherland
  Is that last ditch--his final stand?
  Is't where the James goes rolling by
  Used-up plantations worn and dry,
  Where planters lash and negroes breed,
  And folks on oyster memories feed?
  Oh! no, oh! no, oh! no, no, no!
  To find it you must further go.

  Where in the Southron's Fatherland
  Is that 'last ditch,' his final stand?
  Is't where the Mississippi runs
  His mighty course for many suns,
  To where New-Orleans fills the flat?
  [Ben Butler's taken charge of _that_]
  'Tis ours--to the Gulf of Mexico,
  So that can't be the ditch, you know.

  Where in the Southron's Fatherland
  _Is_ that last ditch--his final stand?
  Is it about Fort Donelson,
  Where Floyd 'skedaddled,' _minus_ gun,
  Packed up his traps and stole away
  By night--as he had done by day?
  Oh! no, oh! no, oh! no, no, no!
  To find it you must further go.

  Where in the Southron's Fatherland
  Is that last ditch--his final stand?
  Is it at Nashville, Tennessee,
  Once more a city of the free,
  Where Isham Harris and his tools
  Thieved just two millions from the schools?
  Oh! no, oh! no, oh! no, no, no!
  To find it you must further go.

  Where in the Southron's Fatherland
  Is that last ditch--his final stand?
  Is't at Montgomery, where in May
  Hell's blackest tricks were put in play,
  Where right and might were overruled,
  And people into treason fooled?
  Oh! no, oh! no, oh! no, no, no!
  To find it you must further go.

  Where in the Southron's fatherland
  Is that last ditch--his final stand?
  Is it at Charleston? Time shall prove
  How much that precious nest we love,
  When, crushed to dust and damned to shame,
  We give the place another name.
  Yet 'tis not there, I tell you, no!
  Much further off its waters flow.

  Where in the Southron's Fatherland
  Is that last ditch--his final stand?
  Is it at Natchez, high or low,
  Or Newbern, where the pine-trees grow?
  Is it where ladies 'dip' and snuff,
  And white men feed on dirt enough?
  Not there, not there; far down below
  And further off its waters flow.

  Where in the Southron's Fatherland
  Is that last ditch--his final stand?
  Knowest thou a stream folks call the Styx,
  Round a plantation of Old Nick's,
  In which, as Beauregard once swore,
  His horse should drink when all is o'er?
  There, there, my Southern friend, you'll find
  A ditch exactly to your mind.

  Ay, there in truth. God! can it be
  That falsehood, sin and tyranny,
  Though eighteen hundred years be past,
  Still roar and revel wild and fast?
  Well, let them rave; thou knowest the way--
  'Tis darkest ere the dawn of day,
  And well we know, whate'er befall,
  Where runs the ditch to hide them all!




PATIENCE.

  Patience! why,'tis the soul of peace;
  Of all the virtues, the nearest kin to heaven.
  It makes men act like gods. The Best of Men
  That e'er wore earth about him was a Sufferer,
  A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit,
  The first true Gentleman that ever breathed.




REWARDING THE ARMY.


It is a brave thing that we can truly say, after more than a year of
fierce hostilities, the war in which this country is engaged goes on
with undiminished--nay, with increasing Northern spirit. The enemy has
been obliged to resort to forced conscription, and to declare every man
within its limits a soldier, while we have not as yet had recourse to
drafting; nor, as the late sudden call showed, nearly exhausted our
volunteers. A thousand, and even fifteen hundred dollars have been
offered in Virginia newspapers for a substitute, and yet behind this
there has followed an Executive order for enrolling every man in the
army whether he have purchased a substitute or not. 'Our flag floats
over Nashville and Natchez, over Memphis and New-Orleans, over Norfolk
and Pensacola, over Yorktown and Newbern.' We have girded them in on the
Mississippi, on the Atlantic, and on the Gulf. We know that they are
destitute of almost every thing save mere food and arms, and that every
month sinks them deeper and deeper in destitution and misery. The war is
on their own soil, and their own armies are a scourge and a curse to
their own estates. Every where the plantation and the farm are made
desolate--every where the direst distress is taking the place of
comfort. And all this they brought on themselves by the most determined
will. They believed that Northern men were all cowards and
half-traitors--their allies and friends among us promised them easy
victories and certain independence--they thought that the greed of money
was stronger among us than the sense of dignity and honor--and now they
are reaping their reward.

Yet despite the bitter need into which they have brought themselves, it
does not seem that those of the South who are in earnest have lost any
of their desperation, or gained a better opinion of their foes. Their
journals still trumpet the loudest lies and the mass still believe that
sooner or later their shattered bark will outride the battle and the
storm, and float safely into the broad sea of independence. Would that
they could see the North as it is, in all its comparative prosperity,
with millions still left to volunteer, and with thousands of foreigners
eagerly seeking for places in the fray. We have found it necessary to
instruct our ministers and consuls abroad that we can not accept for the
present any more of the many military officers of different nations who
desire to fight for the stars and stripes. We have money in abundance,
and there is no flinching at taxation--indeed, the great source of
apprehension at present is an excess of 'flush times' such as is too apt
to bring on a reaction. When the war broke out we had, indeed, divided
counsels. The old Southern Democrats whined and yelped, and attempted
'peace-parties' and the like; but they have vanished, and traitors now
confine themselves to less offensive measures, while their ranks have
been woefully thinned. We may have disasters; nay, we can hardly hope to
escape them. But in the present state of the war we may fairly boast of
having the upper-hand. And the Northern tenacity which did not yield
when misfortune lowered around, will not be likely to loose its hold now
that it has learned to measure its might, man for man, with the arrogant
enemy.

Under the wise and judicious policy inaugurated by President Lincoln, we
see Slavery, the great cause of this trouble, in a fair way to disappear
in a manner which can give offence to no one. His 'remuneration
message'--the shrewdest document which ever emanated from an American
Executive--shows itself, as events proceed, to be a master-stroke of
genius. The longer the cotton States prolong their resistance, the more
precarious does slave property become, and the more inclined are the
men of the tobacco States to sell their human chattels. Already in
Kentucky, Tennessee, Maryland, and Delaware, people are longing to
'realize' something on what bids fair to become altogether intangible
amid the turns and tides of skirmishes and battles. Meanwhile with every
day's delay Emancipation, as a predetermined necessity, gains ground
among the people, and very rapidly indeed in the army. It was the lowest
and most tyrannical form of an aristocracy--that of slaveholding
planterdom--which caused and is still causing all this trouble, and it
is beginning to work its way into the minds of the multitude that it is
hardly worth while to risk every thing, and see the real criminals
reïnstated after all in their privileges and possessions, when the one
can only serve to continue the old sore, while the other might be better
employed in free labor. And better employed, we may add, in rewarding
those noble men whose lives were risked in defense of our liberties.

This consideration brings us to the very important question: How shall
we reward our army, and what should be its future mission in the
reconstruction which every freeman will be called to aid?

There is no use in disguising facts, shirking inevitable issues, or
trying to cheat either destiny or honest labor. We have got this
question of rewarding our soldiers with the property of rebels, before
us, and must meet it squarely. The pro-slavery Democratic press may
oppose it, as they have been doing, with all the malignity which their
treasonable friendship for the South may inspire; but we have an
inevitable road before us over which we _must_ travel, and it would be
well to consider it betimes, that we may tread it fairly and smoothly,
and not be dragged along shrieking, by a pitiless destiny.

There are two good reasons why we should begin to consider betimes, the
expediency of rewarding our army with Southern lands. The one is the
necessity of a future Northern policy; the other the claim of the army
to such reward.

If when this war is concluded, our Government is to have a policy or a
principle, it should manifestly be that of reïnstating itself in power,
in consolidating that power, and in acting as a powerful unity,
according to the letter and the spirit of the Constitution. The
CONSTITUTION--bear that word well in mind--the Constitution
which suffers no State to usurp a single power belonging to the General
Government, and which was expressly framed for the purpose of making all
its freemen the citizens of one great nation. Let the reader consult the
Constitution, study its unmistakable plan of national integrity and of
state subordination, and then reflect whether, according to its spirit,
any and every mere state privilege which may be claimed should not yield
to the paramount claim of _the Union_?

If this war has demonstrated any thing, it has been, firstly, the fact
that the South SHALL stay in the Union, and secondly, the folly
of permitting the old Southern system to control us in politics, in
social life, and in every thing. We have had enough of it. Manufactures,
free labor, science, schools, the press, learning, new ideas, social
reforms, the whole _progress_ of the age, inspiring twenty millions, can
no longer be cuffed and scouted in the Senate and snubbed in the _salon_
or public meeting by the private interests of half a million of the most
illiberal and ignorant conservatives in existence. Henceforth the North
must _rule_. 'Must' is a hard nut, but Southern teeth must crack it,
whether they will or no. We may shuffle and quibble, but to this it must
come. Every day of the war renders it more certain. The farm must
encroach on the plantation, the rural nobility give place to the higher
nobility of intelligence; social culture based on mudsills must make way
for the mudsills themselves--for lo! the sills which they buried are not
dead timber, neither do they sleep or rot--they were fresh saplings,
and with the reviving breath of spring and at the gleam of the sun of
freedom, they will shoot up into brave, strong life.

Let them talk, dispute, hem and haw, that will--we can not set aside the
great fact that in future our Government will be united in its policy,
great in its strength, and no longer impeded by the selfish arrogance of
a petty planterdom. Labor and capital are bursting their bonds--the
Middle Class of North-America which Southerners and Englishmen equally
revile, is becoming all-powerful and seeks to substitute business
common-sense for the aristocratic policy which has hitherto guided us.
It is no longer a question of radicalism, of poor against rich, of
lazzaroni and royalists, but of a new element--that of labor and of
intellect combined--the guiding-spirit of the North. And the question
is, how to best aid this element in its progress?

The army of the United States at the present day contains within itself
the best part of such free labor and intellect as is needed to reform
the South. That dashing and daring energy which gladly enters on new
fields, and loves bold enterprises, has streamed by scores of thousands
from the farm and factory toward the camp and the battle-field. There it
is doing brave service for God and for freedom. Every day sees martyrs
for the holy cause drawn from the ranks of these good and noble
volunteers. They die noble--ay, holy deaths, and as they die new
aspirants for honor step forward to fill their places. When the war
shall be over, it is to the army that we should look to revive the
wasted South, to farm its exhausted plantations and employ its blacks.
Is there no significance in the numerous anecdotes which reach us of
Northern intellect already displaying itself in a thousand forms of
restless activity? The newspaper before us states that General Shepley,
in New-Orleans, has threatened that if the bakers of his conquered city
do not supply bread more cheaply he will remodel their whole business
and employ bakers from the army. 'Bakers from the army!' Ay, smiths,
engineers, editors, and every thing else are there, amply capable of
reörganizing the whole South--of tilling its fields to greater
advantage, of developing its neglected resources, of making the old,
desolate, lazy, dissolute Southland hum with enterprise. Let them do it.

_We_ may as well do it betimes with a good grace, for it is very
doubtful if those who venture to oppose the settlement of our soldiers
in the South, will not stir up such a storm of trouble as this country
never saw. An army of half a million after a year or two years of
battle-life, will not calmly return to its wonted avocations,
notwithstanding all that has been said to that effect. A warrant for
Western lands, which will possibly bring a hundred dollars, will seem
but a small matter to men who have seen unlimited paths to competence in
the rich fields of the South. They will not comprehend why the enemy
should be allowed to retain his possessions while they themselves have
been thrown out of employment. There is to be some end to this
protecting the rights and property of rebels. And it is very certain
that a vast number of those who were non-combatants will perfectly agree
with them.

It is pleasant to see the process of reconstruction going on so well in
New-Orleans under the bayonets of our troops. But neither in New-Orleans
nor elsewhere has it any vitality save under Northern direction, aided
by Northern industry. The hatred of the South for the old Union is
insane, terrible, and ineradicable. The real secessionists will never
come back, they will never be conciliated. They will oppose Union,
oppose free labor, hinder our every effort to benefit them, and be our
deadly foes to the last. We might as well abandon now and forever any
hope of reconstruction to be founded on reformed secessionists. A large
party there is--and it will, if properly protected, become much
larger--who will join the Union for the sake of preserving their
property. _But this party will not be increased a single man by our
neglecting to punish those who have been active rebels_, while on the
other hand it will dwindle to nothing if left exposed to temptation and
enmity. We must proceed with the utmost energy, and our only hope is in
a complete reörganization of the South, by infusing into it Northern
blood, life, ideas, education, and industry. And the only effective
means of doing this will be to settle our army in the South. The task
before us is a tremendous one, but so is the war, and we must not flinch
from it.

We have come to an era of great ideas and great deeds, such as rarely
overtake nations in history, and which when they do, either crush them
to the dust or elevate them to the topmost pinnacle of glory. Petty
expediency, timid measures, small politics, will no longer help this
country. There is a great cause of evil in America--slavery--which is
destined to disappear, and which _will_ disappear whether we legislate
for or against it. It _is_ disappearing now under the influences of the
war. Beyond it lies the equally great evil of Southern hatred, inertia,
laziness, ignorance, and depravity. We must learn to live in the great
ideas of making all this disappear before superior intelligence,
industry, and humanity. The great principles of free labor, scientific
reforms and culture, the enlargement of capital, the feeding and
teaching the poor, should become as a deep-seated religion in our
hearts, and we should live and labor to promote this great and holy
faith which is in reality the practical side of Christianity--that great
shield of the poor. To extend these doctrines over the whole continent
is a noble mission, and one not to be balked or hindered by foolish
scruples or weak pity for a pitiless foe.

He who can raise his mind to the contemplation of the government of
North-America, ruling over a perfectly _free_ continent, may see in the
future such a picture of national greatness as the world never before
realized. _Every_ State attracting the eager labor of millions of
emigrants--for there will be no cause in future for the foreigner to
carefully shun the slave hive--the native American directing as ever the
enterprises--one grand government spreading from ocean to ocean--the
whole growing every year more and more united through the constant
increase of industrial interests and mutual needs--this is indeed a
future to look forward to. And it is no idle dream. It will be something
to be an American when we count one hundred millions of _united_
freemen.

The first step in this advance lies right before us. It will be in
'Northing' the South and in completely sweeping away, by means of free
labor and free schools every trace of the foul old negro-owning
arrogance. And to do this we must begin by finding or making a way to
induce a large portion of the army to remain in the South and reform it.
It is a grand scheme, but we live in the day of great deeds, and should
not flinch from them.

It is, however, tolerably clear to him who looks to the future, that
whether we boldly embrace this scheme or not, it will force itself upon
us or else entail some great disaster. It is more to our interest to
reward the army with Southern land-grants than it is even for theirs to
accept them. The longer we bolster up in its possessions an insolent
enemy, so much the longer shall we have to support an army and pay
taxes. The sooner we weaken the enemy by introducing industrial rivals
into his country, the better it will be for us.

If it be difficult to settle our army all over the South, let there be
at least a vigorous beginning made in Texas, and other States. With
Texas thoroughly colonized from the North and from Europe, sedition
would be under constant check, and its boasted cotton supremacy
completely held in by an unlimited rival supply of free-labor cotton.
Every Southern port should be held and governed as New-Orleans is now
being treated. In due time there would spring up a new generation of
Southrons who would think of us as something else than cowardly,
vulgar, stingy serfs, and learn that social merit is conferred not by
being born on this or that piece of 'sacred' dirt, but by full
development and exercise of the talents with which God has gifted us.

But to do all this there must be _no flinching_. This is not the time to
prate of the 'unrepresented rights' of traitors, or wince at the
prospect of reducing to poverty the men who have labored for years to
reduce us to utter ruin!




JOHN McDONOGH THE MILLIONAIRE.


In the year 1850, and for nearly forty years previous, there could be
seen almost every day in the streets of New-Orleans, a very peculiar and
remarkable looking old gentleman. Tall and straight as a pillar, with
stern, determined features, lit up by eyes of uncommon, almost unnatural
brilliancy, with his hair combed back and gathered in a sort of queue,
and dressed in the fashion of half a century ago, to wit, an old blue
coat, with high collar, well-brushed and patched but somewhat 'seedy'
pantaloons, of like date and texture, hat somewhat more modern, but
bearing unmistakable proof of long service and exposure to sun and rain;
old round-toed shoes, the top-leathers of which had survived more soles
than the wearer had outlived _souls_ of his early friends and
companions; a scant white vest, ruffled shirt, and voluminous white
cravat, completed the costume of this singular gentleman, who, with his
ancient blue silk umbrella under his arm, and his fierce eye fixed on
some imaginary goal ahead, made his way through the struggling crowds
which poured along the streets of New-Orleans.

The last time this strange and spectral figure was seen making its
accustomed rounds was on the twenty-sixth of October, 1850. On that day,
a very remarkable event occurred, which attracted the notice of
passers-by and was even snatched up as an item by the ever-vigilant
reporters of the daily press; this consisted simply in a notable
variation from the routine and habits of the old gentleman in the
long-tailed blue. He was seen to stop on Canal street, to hesitate for a
few moments, and then deliberately enter an omnibus bound for the lower
part of the city. Such an occurrence created quite a sensation among
street-corner gossippers. There must really be some new and pressing
emergency, which could produce this departure from the custom and
invariable habits of forty years; so said every one who knew the old
gentleman. The omnibus stopped at the court-house; the subject of these
observations and his blue umbrella emerged from it, and both soon
disappeared in the corridor leading to the so-called halls of justice.

That was the last that was ever seen of the strange old gentleman on the
streets of New-Orleans. The evening journals of the next day contained
the following obituary:

     'Died this morning, the twenty-seventh of October, 1850, at
     McDonoghville, opposite the city of New-Orleans, after a short
     illness, John McDonogh, a native of Baltimore, but for forty years
     a resident of Louisiana.'

And the strange old man, who could not ride a few squares in the omnibus
without attracting the attention of every body and exciting public
curiosity to such a degree, was the millionaire, the Croesus of the
South, the largest land-owner in the United States. He had reached the
advanced age of seventy, and his remarkable vigor and health had never
given way under the pressure of the severest and most incessant labor.
Generation upon generation had lapsed into the grave under his eye. A
few, a very few shriveled old men were known to him as cotemporaries.
Suddenly, while pursuing so eagerly his imaginary goal, he was seized
with faintness on the street. Other men would have taken a cab, and
ridden home, or at least to a physician's; but when did John McDonogh
turn aside from business to relieve any weakness or want? He had an
important document to file in court. It must be done that day. He is too
weak to walk. There is the omnibus; the fare is only a dime; but that
dime is so much taken from the poor, for John McDonogh is only an agent
for the poor, so appointed and called of God. Such were the reflections
that passed through his mind before he could be induced to perpetrate
this serious violation of the settled rules of a life, this single blot
and stain on a career of unbroken self-abnegation. With a sigh, he took
his seat in the omnibus.

It was his last ride.

In a cold, desolate, dreary, brick building, constituting almost the
only visible sign of the existence of the town of McDonoghville, situate
on the right bank of the Mississippi, opposite to the centre of
New-Orleans, and in a large room, the furniture of which was
old-fashioned, worn, and time-stained, there lay on a small hard
mattress the gaunt figure of the millionaire, tortured with pain and
fast sinking under the ravages of that terrible disease, the Asiatic
cholera. The only beings near were negroes; no white persons were ever
allowed to spend the night under that roof. Those negroes were the rich
man's slaves in law, but companions and friends in fact. His immense
business, his vast estates were administered through them. Even his
documents were copied by them. They were true to him in his moment of
distress and sickness. All that their limited knowledge of medicine
could suggest was done for his relief. At last, in disregard of his
command, a physician was brought from the city, who pronounced his
condition a very critical one. The doctor's first demand was for brandy.

'Massa, there an't bin no brandy in this house for twenty years,' was
the reply of an old, gray-headed domestic.

A servant was dispatched to the nearest grocery; but it proved to be too
late. The dying man perceived his condition, and requested that his
lawyer should be sent for. In an hour that gentleman arrived. He was
just in time.

'Roselins,' he said, addressing one of the most eminent of the lawyers
of the New-Orleans bar, as he held his hand, 'You see I am going; you
see I am not afraid to die. Take care of the estate; 'tis not mine,'tis
God's and the poor's.' And thus, without a struggle, the soul of John
McDonogh passed to its Maker.

His death was truly a desolate one. No devoted relatives or friends
gathered around his couch to cheer his last moments with those tender
tokens of love and sorrow which so sweeten the otherwise bitter cup of
death. No soft hand of woman smoothed his pillow or relieved the agony
of pain and suffering by the timely opiate or emollient. No weeping
little ones were there to cheer his heart with the assurance that on
their dear pledges of affection his name and virtues will live after
him. His lawyer, physician, and his servants were the only witnesses to
the mortal agony of one who could have commanded troops of devoted
friends, and who possessed the qualities which might have adorned the
domestic and social circle.

So departed this life the rich and eccentric possessor of acres
sufficient to have made a duchy or a kingdom, and of money adequate to
the maintenance of the dignity and power of such a position.

But if his death and funeral were attended by so few witnesses, an
occasion quickly followed which was honored by the presence of a large,
eager, curious crowd. It was when his will was probated and read in
court. Intense was the curiosity of the public to know what disposition
the eccentric old man had made of his enormous property. This feeling
was soon gratified. The will was produced. It was a curious document,
written on stout foolscap by the testator himself, in a remarkably neat,
clear hand, with the lines as close as type, and his autograph signed to
every page. Being an holographic will, under the law of Louisiana it
required no witness. Ever since 1838, this will had lain among certain
old papers of the deceased; and yet, during all this time, it had been
'the thought by day and dream by night' of the devoted old millionaire.
In its preparation, he had consulted the most eminent lawyers and
studied the most approved law-books bearing on his grand scheme. Truly,
a curious, bold, and gigantic scheme it was. But let us to the will. In
a slow, solemn and impressive tone, the judge proceeded to read to an
eager and interested multitude this remarkable testament.

After setting forth, in the usual form, his nativity, his present
residence, his belief in God and in the uncertainty of life, and that he
has no heirs living in the ascending or descending line, and directing
an inventory of his property to be taken immediately after his death, he
proceeds to bequeath to the children of his sister, a widow lady in
Baltimore, a ten-acre lot in Baltimore, the usufruct to remain in the
widow, with six thousand dollars in cash. He then emancipates his old
servants, ten in number, whom he designates. The rest of his slaves he
provides shall be sent to Liberia. Certain of them are to be sent after
serving those who shall succeed to his estate for fifteen years. The
slaves to be sent to Liberia are to be supplied with plows, hoes,
spades, axes, clothing, garden-seeds, etc.; also with letters of
recommendation to the colonists, and with a copy for each of the volume
of the Holy Gospel of the Old and New Testament, as the most precious of
all the gifts we have it in our power to give or they to receive. The
will then proceeds to provide:

     'And for the more general diffusion of knowledge and consequent
     well-being of mankind, convinced as I am that I can make no
     disposition of those worldly goods which the Most High has been
     pleased so bountifully to place under my stewardship, that will be
     so pleasing to him as that by means of which the poor will be
     instructed in wisdom and led into the path of virtue and holiness.'

He gives all the residue of his estate to the corporations of
New-Orleans and Baltimore, in equal proportions of one half to each, for
the several intents and purposes set forth, and especially for the
establishment of Free Schools for all classes and castes of color,
wherein they shall all be instructed in the knowledge of the Lord and in
reading, writing, arithmetic, history, geography, etc., provided that
the Bible shall be used as one of the class-books, and singing taught as
an art.

And now comes the ingenious scheme which had engaged the constant
thought and study of the testator for forty years, by which the grand
passion of his soul for accumulation might survive the dissolution of
his mortal frame and still direct and control the acquisitions of his
life. Of his real estate, no part is ever to be sold; but it is all to
be let out on leases, never to exceed twenty-five years, to be improved
by the tenants or lessees. At the expiration of those leases, the
property is to revert, free of cost, to his estate, to be thereafter
rented out by the month or year. All his personal property is to be sold
and converted into real estate, the aggregate of which is styled his
general estate, which is 'to constitute' a permanent fund on interest,
as it were, namely, a real estate, affording rents, no part of which
fund (of the principal) shall ever be touched, divided, sold, or
alienated, but shall forever remain together as one 'estate.'

The net amount of rents to be divided equally between the two cities, to
be applied as follows:

1. An annuity for forty years of one eighth part, or twelve and a half
per cent of the net yearly revenue of rents of the whole of the estate,
to the American Colonization Society, provided the sum does not exceed
twenty-five thousand dollars a year.

2. For an asylum for the poor of both sexes, of all ages and castes of
color, where they may be sheltered, clothed, fed, and taken care of,
made useful according to their respective degrees of health, strength,
and capacity, and mendicity thereby be banished from the streets of the
cities, he gives one eighth, or twelve and a half per cent of the net
revenue of rents, until the sum shall reach six hundred thousand
dollars, when it shall cease. This legacy is to be received by
commissioners appointed by the corporations, who, as they receive, shall
invest the amount in bank stocks or other good securities, on landed
estate on interest, so as to augment the amount thereof by the
accumulation of interest to the largest possible amount up to the time
when the last of the annuity shall be received, when the commissioners
shall proceed to take such part of said sum, not to exceed one third of
the whole of principal and interest, and invest in the purchase of real
estate and buildings, furniture, etc., essential for the asylum; the
residue to be invested in real estate, which is never to be sold, but
always rented out for the support of the asylum. The locality and
character of the buildings are particularly described. It is recommended
that the persons who shall reside in this asylum be employed in the
cultivation of the mulberry-trees, (this was during the _morus
multicaulis_ mania.)

3. For the Orphan Boys' Asylum in New-Orleans--an existing
institution--one eighth, or twelve and a half per cent of the net yearly
revenue of rents. This annuity is to be set aside and deposited in some
bank-paying interest, until it reaches four hundred thousand dollars,
when it shall cease. This fund as it accumulates is to be invested in
real estate, which is never to be sold, but rented out, and the rents
devoted to the charity.

4. For a School-Farm in the city of Baltimore, on an extensive scale,
for the destitute and the poorest of the poor of the city of Baltimore,
Maryland; secondly, of every town and village of said State; and
thirdly, of all the great maritime cities of the United States, of all
classes and castes of color, from four years to sixteen, where they
shall be sheltered, lodged, clothed, fed, instructed in the Christian
religion, and a plain education given them, and taught husbandry
practically, as well as the science of agriculture, providing that the
Bible shall be read and singing taught, especially 'divine psalmody,'
one eighth part, or twelve and a half per cent of the whole revenue of
the general estate, to be paid until it shall amount to three millions
of dollars, when it shall cease. This sum, too, as it accrues, is to be
invested in real estate, until the whole amount of three millions is
received. One sixth of the rents from this investment is to be applied
to the purchase of the School-Farm, the other five sixths to be invested
in lots in Baltimore, which shall be leased out and the rents applied to
the support of the farm.

The modes in which these various institutions are to be governed and
directed are then set forth in tedious detail, interlarded with many
rather trite and moralizing reflections on the importance of having the
young reared up in habits of virtue and industry. A complex system of
government is arranged, and great care taken that the funds thus
bequeathed to charitable institutions shall never be controlled by the
corporations of the two cities. It is also provided, that

     'No compromise shall ever take place between the Mayor, Aldermen,
     and inhabitants of the city of Baltimore, in Maryland, and the
     Mayor, Aldermen, and inhabitants of the city of New-Orleans, nor
     shall any agreements be made between these two cities contrary to
     the directions of the will. If such compromise or agreement be
     made, these legacies shall be void, and the States of Maryland and
     Louisiana shall receive the general estate half and half, for the
     purpose of educating the poor of said States, and in case of any
     lapse of the legacies to the cities, the States shall inherit the
     general estate.'

After these dispositions and directions, the testator proceeds:

     'Now, with the view of setting forth and explaining more fully and
     particularly (if it is possible) my desires and intentions as
     expressed in the foregoing dispositions of this my last will and
     testament, in relation to my general estate, I will add, that the
     first, principal, and chief object I have at heart, (the object
     which has actuated and filled my soul from early boyhood with a
     desire to acquire fortune,) is the education of the poor (without
     the cost of a cent to them) in the cities of New-Orleans and
     Baltimore, and their respective suburbs, in such a manner that
     every poor child and youth of every color in those places may
     receive a common English education, (_based, however, be it
     particularly understood, on a moral and religious one_, that is,
     the pupils shall on particular days he instructed in morality and
     religion, and school shall be opened and closed daily with prayer.)
     And in time, when the general estate will yield the necessary
     funds, (for in time its revenue will be very large,) over and above
     what will be necessary to the education of the poor of those two
     cities and their respective suburbs, it is my desire and request
     that the blessings of education may be extended to the poor
     throughout every town, village, and hamlet in the respective States
     of Louisiana and Maryland, and was it possible, through the whole
     of the United States of America.'

After paying off all the annuities, which the testator thinks will be
completed in forty years, the net annual revenue of rents of the general
estate is to be equally divided, one half to each, between the said two
cities of Baltimore and New-Orleans, for the purpose of educating the
poor.

The testator then proceeds to inculcate a better feeling between the
poor, and rich, declaring that the latter are 'reservoirs in which the
Most High makes to flow the rich streams of his beneficence, to be laid
up and husbanded for his all-wise and all-seeing purposes, and for
seasons of distress and affliction to the poor. Instead, then, of
looking on them as their greatest enemies, they should, on the contrary,
consider them as they really are, their best friends. This is the
position of all rich men, whose hearts occupy the right place in their
bosoms, stand toward the poor.'

Then follows a remarkable and consoling confession of the superior
happiness of the poor man:

     'Besides, let the poorer classes of the world be consoled, assured
     that the labor-loving, frugal, industrious, and virtuous among them
     possess joys and happiness in this life which the rich know not and
     can not appreciate; so well convinced am I (after a long life and
     intercourse with my fellow-men of all classes) of the truth 'that
     the happiness of this life is altogether on the side of the
     virtuous and industrious poor,' that had I children, (which I have
     not,)' [how lively and sagacious the apprehension of the old
     millionaire lest some putative offspring might come forward to
     disturb his darling bequests!] 'and a fortune to leave behind me at
     death, I would bequeath, after a virtuous education, (to effect
     which nothing should be spared,) a very small amount to each,
     merely sufficient to excite them to habits of industry and
     frugality, and no more. As the poor man's friend, then, I recommend
     to him to honor and respect the virtuous rich, and to lay these
     observations to their heart and to store them up in their mind. And
     to the rich, I would say, (if they own feelings, and worthy of
     their regard,) 'Give them an occasional reflection.' Hoping
     thereby, that the world may advance in happiness, in virtue, and
     holiness.'

Lastly, the old man grows tender, sentimental, and poetic, He who for
forty years had never been seen or known to manifest a single emotion of
gentleness, of tender feeling or sentiment, of love of children, of
nature, or any domestic affection, in his last will desires to be held
in loving remembrance by the fresh young souls for whose benefit he
declares he has led his long career of toil, of self-sacrifice, and
devotion, to gain. The association of sweet flowers, sprinkled over a
green grave by the hands of innocent children, with the life and
character of one of the most intense, hard and severe devotees to Mammon
that ever lived, is a strange and incongruous one, but it was a picture
which appears to have been very distinctly sketched on the imagination
of John McBonogh, as will appear from the following clauses in his will:

     'I request my executors (hereinafter named) to see that my funeral
     is plain, made without parade, and with the least possible
     expenses. And (I was near forgetting that) I have still one small
     request to make, one little favor still to ask, and it shall be
     the last: It is, that it may be permitted annually to the children
     of the free schools (situate the nearest to the place of my
     interment) to plant and water a few flowers around my grave. This
     little act will have a double tendency: it will open their young
     and susceptible hearts to gratitude and love to their divine
     Creator for having raised up (as the humble instrument of his
     bounty to them) a poor, frail worm of earth like me, and teach them
     at the same time, what they are, whither they came, and whence they
     must return.'

Such was John McDonogh's grand theory of philanthropy, which he had
devoted so many years of sacrifice, study, and labor, to mature and
prepare.

Accompanying the will, and inclosed in the same box, were certain
memoranda of instructions to his executors, who were distinguished
citizens of Baltimore and New-Orleans, including Henry Clay, of
Kentucky, and K. R. Gurley, of Washington City, These directions to his
executors are very minute and specific. Certain observations in this
document are worthy of being copied, as characteristic. His reasons for
preferring to invest in land are thus stated:

     'For the base of a permanent revenue, (to stand through all time,
     with, the blessing of the Most High,) I have preferred the earth,
     'a part of the solid globe.' One thing is certain, it will not take
     wings and fly away, as silver and gold, government and bank-stocks
     often do. It is the only thing in this world of ours which
     approaches to any thing like permanency; or in which at least there
     is less mutation than in things of man's invention. The little
     riches of this world, therefore, which the Most High has placed in
     my hands, and over which he has been pleased to place and make me
     his steward, I have invested therein, that it may yield (its
     fruits) an annual revenue to the purpose I have destined it
     forever.'

He also states his motives, as follows:

     'My soul has all my life burned with an ardent desire to do
     good--much good, great good--to my fellow-man, as it was chiefly by
     that means, and through that channel, that I could bend, greatly
     bend to the honor and glory of my Lord and Master,--which was my
     soul's first, great, chief object and interest.'

He says, however, he has much to complain of the world, and gives
instances of its injustice, especially in suits, where his just claims
were ignored because he was rich:

     'They said of me: 'He is rich, old, without wife or child; let us
     take from him, then, what he has.' Infatuated men! they knew not
     that it was an attempt to take from themselves, for I was laboring,
     and had labored all my life, not for myself, but for them and their
     children. Their attempts, however, made me not to swerve either to
     the right hand or to the left, although to see and feel so sorely
     their injustice and ingratitude made me often lament the frailty,
     the perversity, and sinfulness of our fallen nature. I persevered
     in an onward course, determined, as the steward and servant of my
     Master, to do them good whether they would have it or not. And I
     have so strove, so labored, to the last. The result is in the hands
     of Him who fixes and determines all results; he will do therewith
     as seemeth good unto himself.'

Who was John McDonogh, the maker of the foregoing will, and contriver of
such a grand scheme of charity? The answer to this inquiry will be the
most interesting part of this narrative. John McDonogh was born in
Baltimore, Maryland, in 1779. The only incidents of his youth that are
known are, that he was a clerk in a mercantile store in an inland town
of Maryland; that he was noted then for eccentricities, and for an
excess of imagination, which led to the apprehension that he was not
entirely of sound mind. Still his energy and intelligence secured him
employment and the confidence of his employers. About the year 1800 he
was sent out to New-Orleans by a house in Baltimore, with a letter of
credit and considerable resources. He engaged largely in business, but
soon renounced his agency, and starting on his own account, became a
leading and prosperous merchant. In a few years he accumulated a large
fortune--say at least three hundred thousand dollars--then a vast amount
in the colony. He was one of the nabobs of the city. His style of living
and habits conformed to his position and resources. His mansion was one
of the most showy and luxurious in the city. He kept his carriages and
horses, his cellar of costly wines, and entertained on a scale of great
extravagance and sumptuousness. He was, in fact, the centre of fashion,
frivolity, sociability, and even of the fashionable dissipations of the
day. His person, which even in extreme old age was remarkable for
dignity, erectness, and courtliness, at the period we write of, was
conspicuous for all the graces of manhood. Indeed, he was styled the
handsomest man in the colony. That such a young man should attract the
favorable notice of ambitious Creole beauties who then composed the only
female society in New-Orleans, of managing mothers, desirous of
providing for their daughters, or of fathers, who, in addition to the
latter motive, might also desire to secure a connection which might
promote their own business prospects, was quite natural. The handsome
American merchant, with his still handsomer fortune, was, therefore,
much courted. Though always gay, gallant, and polite, Mr. McDonogh
proved for some time invulnerable to even the charms of Creole beauty.
At last there were indications that a young Orleanoise of fortune equal
to his own, and of personal charms that were the theme of general praise
and admiration, had captured the obdurate Croesus. This young damsel
was then emerging into sweet sixteen. She was the toast and heiress of
the city. Her name and family were among the oldest in the French and
Spanish colonies. Her father was the venerable Senor Don Pedro
Almonastre, an old official under the Spanish government, who, by
prudent investments, accumulated a large property in the very centre of
New-Orleans. He it was who donated the ground on which the Cathedral of
St. Louis now stands. It is for the rest of his soul that mass is
offered up and the bells are tolled every Sunday afternoon in this
venerable temple.

The daughter and only child of Almonastre--her maiden name we
forget--was born in the Colony, of a French Creole mother. She had
attained the age of sixteen about the year 1811. It was then that Mr.
McDonogh's propositions for an alliance were favorably considered, and
all the arrangements were made for the betrothal of the parties.
Suddenly, however, a new actor appeared on the stage, who overturned
this well-arranged scheme. There resided in the city a grim, austere,
and wealthy man, who had served in the French and Spanish armies, who
was noted no less for his ferocity and pride--which had been displayed
in several sanguinary duels--than for his wealth. He had an only son, a
handsome, graceful, and fascinating young man, who, at the suggestion of
his father, and perhaps at the prompting of his own heart, stepped
forward to lay his claims at the feet of the lovely heiress of
Almonastre. Fortunately for the cause of humanity, as will appear
hereafter, though unfortunately for the American merchant, the young
Frenchman supplanted him in the regard of the fair Creole.

The alliance of two such wealthy families as the Pontalbas and
Almonastres, was a great event in the city, and it was duly celebrated
by many brilliant festivities, at the close of which the happy couple
departed for Paris, accompanied by the father of the young man.
Purchasing a splendid hotel in the Faubourg St. Germain, the Pontalbas
gave themselves up to all the fashionable dissipations of that gay city.
The younger Pontalba was appointed by Napoleon one of his pages, with
the title of Count. Leaving them to continue their gay life, we return
to New-Orleans.

The day after the marriage of Miss Almonastre to young Pontalba, there
stepped into the office of an old auctioneer on St. Louis street, no
less an individual than the rich and elegant American merchant, John
McDonogh, Esq.

'Sir,' remarked the merchant to the auctioneer, at the same time handing
him a voluminous roll of paper, 'there is the inventory of my furniture,
carriages, horses, liquors, stores, plate, and all that pertains to my
establishment in Chartres street I desire you to sell them all for cash,
immediately. Accordingly in three days the extensive establishment of
Mr. McDonogh was all converted into money, to the great surprise and
deep regret of his many friends and guests. With the proceeds he
purchased a small, lonely house, on the opposite bank of the river,
where, with scarcely furniture enough to satisfy the most ordinary use
and demands of humble life, he immured himself in perfect seclusion.
From that period until his death--forty long years--he ceased to have
any connection or association with the world except in the course of
business. He would neither dispense hospitality himself nor share that
of others. Purchasing all the land around him, he placed himself beyond
the curiosity and annoyance of near neighbors. His negro servants alone
were permitted to reside in his house, and they were the depositories of
the secrets of his household, and acted as his clerks and agents in all
his transactions with the outside world.

Whilst thus socially secluded and morose, Mr. McDonogh continued to
prosecute his acquisition of property with augmented vigor and ardor. It
was about this time his passion for accumulating vast acres of waste and
suburban land began to manifest itself. All his views regarded the
distant future. The present value and productiveness of land were but
little regarded by him. His only recreation and pleasure were in
estimating the value of his swamp and waste land fifty, a hundred, and
even a thousand years to come. This passion at last gained such an
ascendency over him that he seemed to court and luxuriate in waste and
desolation. He would buy cultivated places and allow them to go to ruin.
He would build on his lots in the city miserable shanties and rookeries,
which would taint the neighborhood and enable him to buy out his
neighbors at low rates. One of his favorite plans of operation was to
purchase the back-lands of plantations on the river, the value of which
would be increased enormously by the improvements in front of them. So
he eagerly pounced upon all the lands in the neighborhood of the towns
and villages in the State. One of the most brilliant of his feats in
this sphere was the completion of his lines of circumvallation around
the city of New-Orleans. For many years he pursued this object with the
greatest ardor and intensity. Commencing at the upper end of the city,
he stole gradually around through the swamps, purchasing large belts of
land, until at last, a few years before his death, meeting one of his
old friends in the street, he slapped him on the shoulder, and with his
face full of enthusiasm and joy,--exclaimed: 'Congratulate me, my
friend; I have achieved the greatest victory of my life. I have drawn my
lines around the city, and now entirely embrace it in my arms--all for
the glory of God and the good of my race.'

During all this eager pursuit of acres there was never any manifestation
of selfishness or of the ordinary repulsive characteristics of grasping
avarice. It is true, he was exacting, punctual, and opinionated. He
pursued his own course in all matters, but there was no misanthropy or
harshness in his manner or deportment. He rarely gave for charitable or
other purposes, for the reason that he would never sell any property he
acquired, because he said it was not his; that he was only the steward
or agent of God for certain great designs. His agency, however, did not
include a power to sell. Hence he could not be induced by any offer or
consideration to alienate any property he had once acquired. Abstemious
to a fault, withholding himself from all the enjoyments and associations
of the world, he devoted his time to the care of his large estate, to
the suits in which such acquisitions constantly involved him, working
for seventeen hours out of the twenty-four, the greater part of which
labor consisted in writing the necessary documents relating to his
titles, in corresponding with his lawyers and overseers. For the fifty
years of his residence in New-Orleans, he never left the State, and
rarely, if ever, passed beyond the limits of the corporation. It was
well known that he was entirely wrapped up in some grand scheme of
charity, the nature of which, however, was only known to a few lawyers,
with whom he consulted in regard to the legality of his proposed
dispositions, though none of them knew the mode and form in which those
dispositions were to be made.

McDonogh's scheme was certainly a grand one. In the execution of it, a
man of his character and mind might well feel and display the
extraordinary zeal and enthusiasm that gave to his appearance, habits,
and conduct the characteristics of a monomaniac. Without ever once
turning aside for pleasure, ambition, curiosity, affection, or enmity,
he steadily pursued his great design, until death released him from the
severe servitude to which he had bound himself. But, save in this entire
self-abnegation and social exclusion, Mr. McDonogh had none of the
habits of the miser. He was not a usurer, a money-lender, or a
speculator. He did not extort his riches from the distresses and
weaknesses of his fellow-men. He acquired by legitimate purchase, by
entries on public lands. He dealt altogether in land. Stocks,
merchandise, and other personal securities were eschewed by him. The
wonder is, how, with a comparatively small revenue, his property not
being productive, and his favorite policy being to render his lands wild
and unsuited for cultivation, he was able to go on every year expanding
the area of his vast possessions. Such enormous accumulations are not
surprising under the operation of compound interest on sums of money
loaned; but when effected by purchases of unproductive lands, they
constitute a puzzle which the most intimate of Mr. McDonogh's friends
have found it difficult to unravel.

So much for the labor and practice of realities of the life of the
millionaire. We must not conclude our sketch without rounding off the
romance of that life which is the starting-point in the strange career
pursued by him for forty years, with such ascetic severity and
undeviating fidelity. What became of the betrothed of the gay and
wealthy young American, from whom he had experienced the shock and
disappointment that threw so much gloom over and produced such a
thorough change in his future life? She had left with her gallant young
husband, in bright hopes of a brilliant future. For some years their
life in Paris was one of gayety, pleasure, and joyfulness. In the course
of a few years, the dissipations of Paris began to pall upon the taste
of the young couple. With unbounded wealth and means of enjoyment, they
grew _ennuyéed_, discontented, and finally contentious. Jealousy, like a
serpent, stole into their household, and involved the mind of the
husband in her snaky embrace. Rumors reached his ear which nourished
this passion, until it exploded in a violent and irreconcilable quarrel.
One of the chief instigators of the young Count, in this quarrel with
his high-spirited wife, was his own father, who, in the retirement of a
chateau near Paris, grew daily more morose and misanthropic. He had
heard that his son had been dishonored, and his rage and bitterness were
unbounded. The son abandoned his wife's hotel, and repaired to his
father's chateau, where the two lived in seclusion and gloom. After they
had been separated for some time, the Countess was either enticed by
lures thrown out by the elder Pontalba, or of her own accord resorted to
the chateau, for the purpose of consulting the Count relative to certain
dispositions of their joint property, or certain arrangements for the
education of their children, of whom there were three. The son was not
at home; but the father, receiving her in the hall, invited her into his
study. In a few moments afterward, the servants in the chateau were
aroused by the report of a pistol, followed by the scream of a woman,
and by another report; then all was silent. Rushing toward the study of
Mr. Pontalba, they forced the door open--it had been locked on the
inside--and there a terrible spectacle was presented. The Countess lay
on the floor, bathed in blood, which gushed in torrents from a large
wound in her breast, whilst her dress was burning from the nearness of
the shot by which the wound had evidently been inflicted. But a still
ghastlier object lay near. It was the body of the elder Pontalba, her
husband's father, who had blown off the top of his skull with a large
dragoon's pistol, which he still grasped in his hand. Though insensible,
it was discovered that the Countess was not quite dead. A surgeon was
soon obtained, and on examination it was discovered that though her
wound was a terrible one--three buck-shot and one large bullet having
entered her breast--yet there was some hope for her. After incredible
suffering and long confinement, she recovered; though to the day of her
death she will feel the effects of the terrible wound, to which was
added the mutilation of her hand, which caught the bullet.

The causes and circumstances of that tragedy were never unveiled to the
world. Nor is there any great desire to penetrate the mystery. The
Countess got well, and continued her fashionable life, appropriating a
large portion of her great rental in New-Orleans to the purchase of
property and the improvement of her elegant hotel in Paris. The
Revolution of 1830 found the Countess a fierce Bourboniste, and produced
such apprehension of confiscation, and danger to her life and liberty,
that she concluded to return to New-Orleans. Here she found that her
property had greatly augmented in value, and after a short sojourn in
her native city, discovering that Louis Philippe's dynasty was an
unproscriptive one, she returned to Paris, where she resided until the
Revolution of 1848 again filled her with alarm for her large
possessions. Beside, she was well known to be a conspicuous Legitimiste
of the party of Henry V. Again she returned to New-Orleans, full of
horror of Red Republicanism and Socialism, and with disgust for the
fickleness of the French.

Directing her attention, with characteristic energy and ardor, to the
improvement of her property which incloses Jackson Square, the principal
public place in New-Orleans, she built some forty elegant houses, and
then assuming the government of the municipality, she succeeded in
inducing the authorities to cut down the old trees on the square, and to
have it laid off in the parterre style. The 'Woodman spare that tree'
sentiment strongly opposed this reform; but it was vain to resist the
Countess. The trees obstructed the view of her fine rows of houses, and
down they must come, and down they did come, very much to the
improvement of the city, and to the full justification of the taste and
good sense of the Countess.

After thus improving her property, and augmenting her resources, the
Countess thought she might trust herself again in Paris, though a
parvenu filled the throne which, in her view, was justly the property of
the elder branch of the Bourbons.

But before she left, an incident occurred which must close this
desultory sketch. It happened one day, while the Countess was in a
notary's office, for the purpose of signing some deeds, that a tall,
grave, and eccentric-looking old gentleman entered, and seeing the
notary engaged, took his seat to wait his turn. After completing her
signature of the deeds, the Countess, raising her eyes from the
parchment, perceived that she was the object of close and keen
observation of the eccentric old gentleman with the very brilliant and
piercing eyes. A single glance served to bring that face and form
distinctly back to her memory. Rushing up to the old gentleman, she
threw her arms around his neck, in an affectionate embrace, exclaiming:

'Oh! Mr. McDonogh, is it you? I have not forgotten you during our long
separation.' And after a pause, her emotions checking her utterance, she
continued: 'We were once betrothed; it would have been better for both
if we had married. Is it too late to repair that fatal error?'

For the first time for forty years, the old man was deeply affected by a
tender and human feeling. The ancient love was aroused from the deep
recess of his heart, where it had kin dormant and forgotten, and for a
moment triumphed over the passion which had been growing and expanding
for the half of his lifetime, until it had gained the entire mastery of
his soul. Greatly moved by this penitence of his once-loved betrothed,
Mr. McDonogh begged to be permitted to consult his better judgment, and
tearing himself from the bewitchments of the Countess, he repaired
instantly to the office of his lawyer. Walking in with the appearance of
great excitement, he paced the office of the lawyer in an anxious and
excited manner for some time, to the profound astonishment of his
ancient counselor. At last the cause of this emotion was explained,
when, turning to his lawyer, Mr. McDonogh confessed that he was under a
great excitement, produced by meeting his old love, the Countess. 'And
what would you think now, R----, if I were to marry her?'

'I should think,' replied the unsentimental counselor, 'that you had
become crazy.'

'Ah?' replied the millionaire interrogatively, and then pausing
thoughtfully, he continued: 'And you would think right--you would think
right; so let us to business.'




HELTER-SKELTER PAPERS.


In choosing a caption for the heterogeneous collection of reflections
that are likely to be the result of the 'present writing,' the
superscriber makes no apology for his title not being also a topic to
any further extent than its consideration in this paragraph. The object
held in view in giving _any_ name to the succeeding lucubrations was
merely to obtain a starting-point; it being conceded that the
commencement of a _tas_ of papers need have no greater influence on
their course than the point of departure of a railroad-train exercises
on its terminus and intermediate stopping-places. To resort then to my
heading or its derivations for any indication of my purpose in what may
follow, would be futile, and I am free to disclaim any premeditate
purpose of governing my pen by either _hilariter_ or _celeriter_, save
as accident may determine. This, at least, gives hope of variety in the
consequences of my present step; but whether spiciness will also ensue,
will depend entirely on the humor of the writer and the complaisance of
the reader hereof. So with no further introduction, the following
children of my moods are presented for the kind consideration of those
under whose eyes they may fall.


--HAS A MAN A RIGHT TO USE AN OLD PUN IN MAKING A NEW JOKE?
This was a question which arose in the Quidnuncs coterie the other
evening, after Muggins had sent in the following, for the comic column
of a weekly paper, the editor of which had returned it gratefully but
firmly, on the score of superannuation: 'If Truth lie at the bottom of a
well, why should we be surprised that so many kick the bucket before
they are able to reach it?'

Slight sympathy was expressed for Muggins, but in my opinion that was
owing rather to the depravity evinced in the particular attempt than to
any condemnation of his conduct in making an old joke answer the purpose
of a new one. I confess that I don't see why a good pun should be
thrown aside after it has served as the soul of a single sentence. I am
a supporter of the doctrine of Transmigration of Puns. For a true pun
always has a humorous idea behind the verbal quip that is its prominent
characteristic. And though the verbal quip may be 'old as the hills,'
the joke may present a face fresh as that of a young maiden and bear a
meaning merry as her eyes. Thus an adept in this art once renovated two
veritable antiques:

'I tell thee, Binks, that the proposition is incontrovertible; any thing
that is worth doing is worth being _well done_.'

'Well, then, brother Noggs, what hast thou to say to a beef-steak? Does
not thy rule fail thee there?'

'Truly it doth, Binks; but thou wilt grant me that thine is a _rare_
exception?'

'That will I, right readily.' And both laughed heartily, and went their
ways.


--'SIR, YOU ARE TREADING ON MY FAVORITE CORN,' was the mild
protest of one in a crowd against the act of a neighbor who had
encroached on his pedal extremities, by attempting to violate the
philosophical axiom that two bodies can not occupy the same space
simultaneously. The remark raised a laugh; yet it involved a great
truth. Each of us has at least one pet infirmity, which we nurse as
earnestly, with a view to its becoming chronic, (perhaps unwittingly,)
as we strive earnestly to eradicate other morbid troubles. And the
position is true regarding moral as well as physical invalids. Who has
not often been doubly irritated by the removal of his source of
irritation? Thus Paterfamilias Bloggs, having been 'riled' by the
overcrowding of the omnibus in which he proceeds homeward, makes up his
mind that if Materfamilias B. has not provided fish-balls for supper, he
will 'raise a row.' And he so gloats in expectancy over the imaginary
denunciation that he will inflict on that long-suffering female, that he
is quite disappointed, on entering his basement, to discover at a glance
that a dish of beautifully-browned fish-balls decks the evening table.
So Bloggs' wrath is smothered, and smoulders for the rest of the
evening, finding insufficient vent in boxed ears for the children, and
short, crisp replies to civil questions from the older members of the
family. Thus you see that removing a cause does not always do away with
a consequence.



--WHO EVER GAVE A SATISFACTORY EXCUSE FOR AN INOPPORTUNE LAUGH?
Certainly, no child transgressing in this particular ever failed to
receive less than ten-fold its due of punishment therefor, as many grown
persons will join me in testifying. Especially is this true in instances
of church cachinnation. I solemnly aver that I have felt a stronger
tendency to hearty laughter in a church than I ever experienced in a
theatre, and yet I could not and can not give any satisfactory reason
for the inclination. I wanted to laugh for the child's reason,
'Because.'

Not many months since, in a land thousands of miles hence, I was
stretched upon a bed of sickness. In pursuance of the humane duties of
his calling, the minister of the Episcopal Church called upon me, and
after a short conversation, proposed addressing the throne of grace.
This he did in a few eloquent extemporaneous phrases, closing with the
Lord's prayer. Now, from the outset, I felt an uncontrollable
inclination to laugh; but for a time succeeded in restraining it. But
when, in close succession upon the minister's words, there arose from
the next room (separated from us by a thin board partition) a sepulchral
echo in the voice of my room-mate, a grim and swarthy miner, who
probably had not heard the prayer since he repeated it after his mother
at her knee, and from the still potent though long dormant force of
habit, now joined in its utterance, the incongruity of my surroundings
overcame me, and I electrified the worthy priest by bursting into a
guffaw. Looking back on the scene, I can see far more pathos than humor
in it; but at the time, the scene was to me irresistibly ludicrous. And
oh! the paltry excuse that I raked up. 'Nervousness,' I think. No
matter, I had 'spoiled the whole party and broke up the ball!' 'Tis
always the way.

       *       *       *       *       *

--SOMEBODY HAS SAID THAT TO BE A SUCCESSFUL AUTHOR, IT IS ONLY
NECESSARY TO FEEL WHAT YOU WRITE. This I deny, for many reasons
which I might but will not cite, contenting myself with saying that to
write what one feels, though much more gratifying and in a moral sense
far more commendable than to conceal or falsify sentiments, is
dangerous, and has been known to cause a writer to feel not only more
than he wrote or could write, but more than he had any expectation or
desire of feeling in such connection. Thus, whenever under an assumed
but transparent title, I introduce my friend Scroggs into a little
sketch of my production, I never express in that performance my actual
estimate of Scroggs, physically or mentally. Nor in my glowing
description of the incidents of a trip to Catskill Mountain House, do I
confine myself to the expression of what I felt in viewing the many and
varied scenes of rural beauty that presented themselves during the
progress of that undertaking. Do you suppose that I would run the risk
of conveying to Claribella, who was my only companion in that
expedition, that I never was more bored in my life, and that my
conversation was the result of operating with a constantly working
though invisible pump at the well of common-places and platitudes, which
a gentleman accumulates for such emergencies in the course of his social
experience? Heaven preserve my hair, should I venture on such a step.

'But you digress,' some impatient reader suggests.

Digress! That is an impossibility in an article without a topic. But
even if I plead guilty, my impatient critic; did you ever take a walk in
the country, and if so, did you choose those broad roads that lead to
churches and the village stores and the 'Academy,' or did you plunge, by
some little modest path, into the recesses of a grove, careless whither
your steps carried you, so content you were to yield to the enchanting
guidance of accident? And what though, in following your bent, you were
compelled to climb an occasional fence or cross a chance puddle, the
satisfaction of coming suddenly upon some pleasant view, or unexpectedly
entering an apparently previously unexplored nook, more than atoned for
such trifling annoyances. Without digression in some degree, neither
spoken nor written language can be made entertaining to the person
addressed. Who is more discursive than the Autocrat, the Czar of
table-talkers; and whose productions are more charming or wiser? We do
not do our everyday thinking in strictly logical or consistent forms. It
is sufficient to introduce hypotheses, premises, or syllogisms, when
there are ends to be attained by such a course. Impulse is far more
attractive than prim consistency in the character of those we love; and
if this be true as to pet persons, why not in our favorite writings? So
the most charming women I have met would be styled in Spanish _las
inconsecuentes_. Therefore, when amusement is the aim of writing, let
digression have full swing.


--I ENVY A GOOD TALKER. There is no class of persons so
generally underrated and vilified, yet this would be a dull world
without them. And the faculty is not to be acquired. Really good talkers
are born, not made. (And some, I hear a skeptic say, are not to be borne
in certain contingencies.) Talk is like a river; it rushes onward, by
expression of ideas, _making room for thoughts_ to follow, and the dull
elf, whose mouth is a mill-dam, finds his fancies and thoughts
accumulate on his brain, till that organ is dull and sodden as is his
facial aspect. Why is it that some can only be fluent from the point of
a pen, while others can only address their fellows effectively by word
of mouth? Of course there are conversational monsters as well as other
violations of nature's creative processes. And the more thought that
talk holds in solution, the more grateful the offering. But I have
often listened attentively and pleasurably to an hour's flow from the
lips of a pretty, graceful woman, or an interesting child, just saying
enough myself to prove that sleep had not seized me. And at the
subsidence of the tide, I could not for the life of me recall a single
idea to which verbal embodiment had been given. Perhaps I had been
carried away by the music of tone, or the charming, ever-changing curves
of the opening and closing lips, or the dimples in the cheeks, as they
budded, blossomed, and faded in the light of the now laughing, now
languishing eyes, that never lost their hold of mine, yet never bore
mine down by that most intolerable of all social manifestations--a
stare.

       *       *       *       *       *

--I have a friend, who declares that he has LOST A SMILE. Not
one from his sweetheart, for that would be either recoverable or
replaceable with another. The smile he mourns is--his own. To speak
plainly, he has lost, through neuralgia, the control over the risible
muscles of his face, and they not only refuse to obey him in his desire
and design to beam upon all peaceful comers, but occasionally put in
motion another set of facial strings, which give him a depressed and
lachrymose air when he would fain appear most jubilant. He says he never
till now knew how much of his facial aspect was artificial. His present
condition is only relieved when he is under the control of some powerful
emotion. _Then_ he can laugh as heartily and present the appearance of
so doing as fully as ever. It is only the conventional smile, the bland,
self-possessed smile of society, that is utterly gone from him. I
elicited the confession by entering his room noiselessly one day, and
detecting him in the act of making the gloomiest grimaces at a small
boarding-house mirror on the wall. He was much confused, and at first
denied any such employment; but ultimately admitted that he had been
practicing facial gymnastics for the purpose of simulating the smile he
had lost. Perhaps some of our fashionable dentists may be able to aid
him by a suggestion. They certainly have more smiles at their command
than any class of men that have come under my observation. How singular
that the most ferocious quadrupeds and the blandest of men should evince
their most contrasted characteristics--fierceness and amenity--by
showing their teeth.

I sometimes think those are blessed who are endowed with a coarse
organization. Sensitive people are chronic martyrs. Their nerves are so
many toes, that their neighbors and friends are perpetually treading on.
Not only are the pangs of such more acute, but the occasions of injury
are infinitely multiplied by super-susceptibility. Talk of the happy
hours of childhood! Ask nine persons out of ten, who are of susceptible
organization, at what period in life their sufferings were most intense
and unremitting, and if they be gifted with good memories, their reply
will be, 'before adolescence.'[3] For susceptibility of nerve implies
also high mental capability, acute intelligence, vivid imagination, all
of which go to intensify sensation, and thus to aggravate the mischief.
And our sympathy is due to one who by one of those strange
contradictions in human nature finds herself, a highly nervous creature,
the victim of an affection for one of the coarser organizations to which
I have alluded. I say victim, for such attachments seldom result
happily. The effect produced, in the first instance, by the magnetism of
a strong over a weak nature gradually dies away. With it die the
brilliant colors in which the beloved has been invested by the belover,
and life is thenceforward only lit up by the lamps that heaven sets in
the eyes of the little children that sometimes cheer the darkness of
these ill-assorted unions.

       *       *       *       *       *


--'SIR WE ARE TOO POOR TO BE ECONOMICAL.' These were the words
which I once heard a woman use to a rich relative of her husband, who
had followed up his refusal of assistance by allusions to many little
short-comings which he had noted in the domestic details of the family.
The phrase seems to involve a contradiction; but a little consideration
will show even the most superficial thinker that it expresses a truth.
Great is the power of ready money. Ready money can save by wholesale
purchases. Ready money can save by choice of place of purchase. Ready
money can save by choice of proper time for purchase. Ready money can
save by discount obtained under threat of discontinuance of trade; a
threat futile in the mouths of the poor. Ready money can save in
furniture and wearing apparel, by being able to provide the best in
fabric and construction, and therefore the most lasting. But it is
needless to extend the catalogue of ready money's powers. None know them
better than those who seldom are able to obtain their aid.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: Quevedo has broadly satirized his faith in 'Childhood's
happy hour'. In his _Visions of Hell_, where Satan, wearied by the
continual grumbling of the condemned, requests them to leave, go back to
life, be born again, and live it all over. On due reflection, they
conclude that rather than suffer the whippings, schoolings, and
scoldings incident to boy and girlhood, they--would prefer to stay where
they were.--NOTE BY EDITOR.]




SKETCHES OF THE ORIENT.


The world is undergoing a wonderful change. Even within the memory of
some twenty-five years, what events have occurred to verify the remark.
Civilization changes all the preconceived perfections of the past, and
introduces new scenes of life; it reforms without injuring, and leaves
us undecided as to the value of the progress made. New customs and new
habits leave man where he was; his nature is still the same, and perhaps
he has only engrafted on a faulty structure what neither embellishes nor
improves, and shows how slow is the progress of the human mind toward
this goal for which it has, since the commencement of time, been bent.

This is peculiarly verified in the 'Orient,' the most ancient of climes
and lands. Through the mist of so many centuries, so many thousands of
years, the 'far East' has followed the 'even tenor of its way' through
revolutions and systems; its usages have been consecrated by time, and
the parent has handed down to his son the usages which were more nearly
allied to the natural state of man tha

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