THE LAST DITCH.

Where in the Southron's FatherlandIs that last ditch—his final stand?Is't where the James goes rolling byUsed-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 FatherlandIs that 'last ditch,' his final stand?Is't where the Mississippi runsHis mighty course for many suns,To where New-Orleans fills the flat?[Ben Butler's taken charge ofthat]'Tis ours—to the Gulf of Mexico,So that can't be the ditch, you know.Where in the Southron's FatherlandIsthat last ditch—his final stand?Is it about Fort Donelson,Where Floyd 'skedaddled,'minusgun,Packed up his traps and stole awayBy 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 FatherlandIs that last ditch—his final stand?Is it at Nashville, Tennessee,Once more a city of the free,Where Isham Harris and his toolsThieved 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 FatherlandIs that last ditch—his final stand?Is't at Montgomery, where in MayHell'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 fatherlandIs that last ditch—his final stand?Is it at Charleston? Time shall proveHow 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 FatherlandIs 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 belowAnd further off its waters flow.Where in the Southron's FatherlandIs 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 findA ditch exactly to your mind.Ay, there in truth. God! can it beThat 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! why,'tis the soul of peace;Of all the virtues, the nearest kin to heaven.It makes men act like gods. The Best of MenThat e'er wore earth about him was a Sufferer,A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit,The first true Gentleman that ever breathed.

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 slaveproperty 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 wemusttravel, 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. TheConstitution—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 ofthe Union?

If this war has demonstrated any thing, it has been, firstly, the fact that the Southshallstay 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 wholeprogressof the age, inspiring twenty millions, can no longer be cuffed and scouted in the Senate and snubbed in thesalonor public meeting by the private interests of half a million of the most illiberal and ignorant conservatives in existence. Henceforth the North mustrule. '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, andwith 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.

Wemay 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 whichwilldisappear whether we legislate for or against it. Itisdisappearing 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 perfectlyfreecontinent, may see in the future such a picture of national greatness as the world never before realized.EveryState 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 ofunitedfreemen.

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 elsethan 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 beno 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!

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 outlivedsoulsof 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 Crœsus 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 knownto 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 themorus multicaulismania.)

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 (ifit 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 tomake, 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 showyand 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 Crœsus. 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, andall 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 fiftyyears 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 grewennuyéed, 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 forcedthe 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.'

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 givinganyname to the succeeding lucubrations was merely to obtain a starting-point; it being conceded that the commencement of atasof 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 eitherhilariterorceleriter, 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 agood 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 beingwell 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 arareexception?'

'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 Spanishlas 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 thoughtsto 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 theoffering. 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.

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