HERE, where now are mighty cities,Once the Indians' wigwam stood;Once their council-fires illumined,Far and near, the tangled wood.Here, on many a grass-grown border,Then they met, a happy throng;Rock and hill and valley soundedWith the music of their song.Now they are not,—they have vanished,And a voice doth seem to say,Unto him who waits and listens,"Gone away,—gone away."Yonder in those valleys gatheredMany a sage in days gone by;Thence the wigwam's smoke ascended,Slowly, peacefully, on high.Indian mothers thus their childrenTaught around the birchen fire,—"Look ye up to the great Spirit!To his hunting-grounds aspire."Now those fires are all extinguished;Fire and wigwam, where are they?Hear ye not those voices whispering,"Gone away,—gone away!"Here the Indian girl her tressesBraided with a maiden's pride;Here the lover wooed and won her,On Tri-mountain's grassy side.Here they roamed from rock to river,Mountain peak and hidden cave;Here the light canoe they paddledO'er the undulating wave.All have vanished-lovers, maidens,Meet not on these hills to-day,But unnumbered voices whisper,"Gone away,—gone away!""Gone away!" Yes, where the watersOf the Mississippi roll,And Niagara's ceaseless thundersWith their might subdue the soul,Now the noble Indian standethGazing at the eagle's flight,Conscious that the great good SpiritWill accomplish all things right.Though like forest-leaves they're passing,They who once held boundless sway,And of them 't will soon be written,"Gone away,—gone away!"As they stand upon the mountain,And behold the white man pressOnward, onward, never ceasing,Mighty in his earnestness;As they view his temples rising,And his white sails dot the seas,And his myriad thousands gathering,Hewing down the forest trees;Thus they muse: "Let them press onward,Not far distant is the dayWhen of them a voice shall whisper,'Gone away,—gone away!'"
THOU art ever standing near me,In wakeful hours and dreams;Like an angel-one, attendantOn life and, all its themes;And though I wander from thee,In lands afar away,I dream of thee at night, and wakeTo think of thee by day.In the morning, when the twilight,Like a spirit kind and true,Comes with its gentle influence,It whispereth of you.For I know that thou art present,With love that seems to beA band to bind me willinglyTo heaven and to thee.At noon-day, when the tumult andThe din of life is heard,When in life's battle each heart isWith various passions stirred,I turn me from the blazonry,The fickleness of life,And think of thee in earnest thought,My dearest one-my wife!When the daylight hath departed,And shadows of the nightBring forth the stars, as beacons fairFor angels in their flight,I think of thee as ever mine,Of thee as ever best,And turn my heart unto thine own,To seek its wonted rest.Thus ever thou art round my path,And doubly dear thou artWhen, with my lips pressed to thine own,I feel thy beating heart.And through the many joys and griefs,The lights and shades of life,It will be joy to call thee byThe holy name of "wife!"I love thee for thy gentleness,I love thee for thy truth;I love thee for thy joyousness,Thy buoyancy of youthI love thee for thy soul that soarsAbove earth's sordid pelf;And last, not least, above these all,I love thee for thyself.Now come to me, my dearest,Place thy hand in mine own;Look in mine eyes, and see how deepMy love for thee hath grown;And I will press thee to my heart,Will call thee "my dear wife,"And own that thou art all my joyAnd happiness of life.
CHEER up, cheer up, my own fair one!Let gladness take the place of sorrow;Clouds shall not longer hide the sun,—There is, there is a brighter morrow!'T is coming fast. I see its dawn.See! look you, how it gilds the mountain!We soon shall mark its happy morn,Sending its light o'er stream and fountain.My bird sings with a clearer note;He seems to know our hopes are brighter,And almost tires his little throatTo let us know his heart beats lighter.I wonder if he knows how darkThe clouds were when they gathered o'er us!No matter,—gayly as a larkHe sings that bright paths are before us.So cheer thee up, my brightest, best!For clear's the sky, and fair's the weather.Since hand in hand we've past the test,Hence heart in heart we'll love together.
TRUST thou in God! he'll guide theeWhen arms of flesh shall fail;With every good provide thee,And make his grace prevail.Where danger most is found,There he his power discloseth;And 'neath his arm,Free from all harm,The trusting soul reposeth.Trust thou in God, though sorrowThine earthly hopes destroy;To him belongs the morrow,And he will send thee joy.When sorrows gather near,Then he'll delight to bless thee!When all is joy,Without alloy,Thine earthly friends caress thee.Trust thou in God! he reignethThe Lord of lords on high;His justice he maintainethIn his unclouded sky.To triumph Wrong may seem,The day, yet justice winneth,And from the earthShall songs of mirthRise, when its sway beginneth.When friends grow faint and weary,When thorns are on thy way,When life to thee is dreary,When clouded is thy day,Then put thy trust in God,Hope on, and hoping ever;Give him thy heart,Nor seek to partThe love which none can sever!
THERE'S sorrow in thy heart to-day,There's sadness on thy brow;For she, the loved, hath passed away,And thou art mourning now.The eye that once did sparkle bright,The hand that pressed thine own,No more shall gladden on thy sight,—Thy cherished one hath flown.And thou didst love her well, 't is true;Now thou canst love her more,Since she hath left this world, and you,On angel wings to soarAbove the world, its ceaseless strife,Its turmoil and its care,To enter on eternal life,And reign in glory there.O, let this thought now cheer thy soul,And bid thy tears depart;A few more days their course shall roll,Thou 'lt meet, no more to part.No more upon thine ear shall fall,The saddening word "farewell"No more a parting hour, but allIn perfect union dwell.This world is not the home of man;Death palsies with its gloom,Marks out his life-course but a span,And points him to the tomb;But, thanks to Heaven, 't is but the gateBy which we enter bliss;Since such a life our spirits wait,O, cheer thy soul in this,—And let the sorrow that doth pressThy spirit down to-daySo minister that it may blessThee on thy pilgrim way;And as thy friends shall, one by one,Leave earth above to dwell,Say thou to God, "Thy will be done,Thou doest all things well."
FROM the earliest ages of society some means have been resorted to whereby to give publicity to business which would otherwise remain in comparative privacy. The earliest of modes adopted was the crying of names in the streets; and before the invention of printing men were employed to traverse the most frequented thoroughfares, to stand in the market-places and other spots of resort, and, with loud voices, proclaim their message to the people. This mode is not altogether out of use at the present time; yet it is not generally considered a desirable one, inasmuch as it does not accomplish its purpose so readily or completely as any one of the numerous other methods resorted to.
Since the invention of printing, handbills, posters, and newspapers, have been the principal channels of communication between the inside of the dealer's shop and the eye of the purchaser, and from that to the inside of his purse. So advantageous have these modes been found, that it is a rare thing to find a single individual who does not, either on a large or small scale, rein the press into the path he travels, and make its labor conducive to the profits of his own.
England and France have taken the lead in this mode of giving publicity to business; but the United States, with its unwillingness to be beat in any way, on any terms, has made such rapid strides of late in this enterprise, that the English lion will be left in the rear, and the French eagle far in the background.
In London many curious devices have been used or proposed. Of these was that of a man who wished to prepare a sort of bomb-shell, to be filled with cards or bills, which, on reaching a certain elevation above the city, would explode, and thus scatter these carrier doves of information in all conceivable directions. In that city, butchers, bakers, and fishmongers, receive quite an income from persons who wish their cards attached to the various commodities in which they deal. Thus, a person receiving a fish, a loaf, or a piece of meat, finds the advertisement of a dealer in silks and satins attached to the tail of the fish; that of an auction sale of domestic flannels wrapped around the loaf; and perhaps flattering notices of a compound for the extermination of rats around the meat.
In the evening, transparencies are carried about the streets, suspended across the public ways or hung upon the walls.
In this country, no person has taken the lead of a famous doctor in the way of advertising. Nearly every paper in the Union was one-fourth filled with ably-written articles in praise of his compound. In fact, he published papers of his own, the articles in which were characterized by the "one idea principle," and that one idea was contained in a bottle of Dr.—'s save all and cure all, "none true but the genuine," "warranted not to burst the bottles or become sour." In addition to these, he issued an almanac-millions of them-bearing glad tidings to the sick and credulous, and sad tidings to the "regulars" in the medical fraternity. These almanacs were distributed everywhere. They came down on the American people like rain-drops. The result was, as we all know, the doctor flourished in a fortune equal to his fame, and disposed of his interest in the business, a few years since, for one hundred thousand dollars.
The amount of capital invested in advertising is very great, some firms expending thousands of dollars monthly in this mode of making known their business. It has been truly said that a card in a newspaper, that costs but a few dollars, is of far more value than costly signs over one's door. The former thousands behold, and are directed to your place of business; the latter very few notice who do not know the fact it makes known before they see it.
Attracted by the good fortune of those who have advertised, nearly every one has adopted the means that led to it; and the advertising system has become universal.
We have been seated in a car, waiting impatiently for the sound of the "last bell," when a person in a brown linen coat entered with an armful of books, and gave to each passenger a copy, without a hint about pay. Thanking him for the gift, and astonished at his generosity, we proceeded to open it, when "Wonderful cures," "Consumption," "Scrofula," "Indigestion," and "Fits," greeted our eyes on every page. Illustrated, too! Here was represented a man apparently dying, and near by a figure that would appear to be a woman were it not for two monstrous wings on its back, throwing obstacles in the way of death in the shape of a two-quart bottle of sarsaparilla syrup. Presumptive man in a brown linen coat, to suppose that we, just on the eve of a pleasure excursion, are troubled with such complaints, and stand in need of such a remedy!
You buy a newspaper, go home, seat yourself, and, in the anticipation of at glorious intellectual feast, open its damp pages, when, lo and behold! a huge show-bill falls from its embrace, and you are informed of the consoling truth that you can have all your teeth drawn for a trifle, and a now set inserted at a low price, by a distinguished dentist from London. The bill is indignantly thrown aside, and you commence reading an article under the caption of "An interesting incident," which, when half finished, you find to refer to a young lady whose complexion was made beautiful by the free use of "Chaulks Poudres," a box of which can be obtained at 96 Azure-street, for 25 cts. After reading another column, headed "An act of mercy," you find at its close a most pathetic appeal to your tender sensibilities in an affectionate request for you to call on Dr. Digg and have your corns extracted without pain. Despairing of finding the "intellectual treat," you lay the paper aside, and resolve upon taking a walk.
Before you are monstrous show-bills, emblazoned with large letters and innumerable exclamation-points. Above you, flaunting flags with flaming notices. Beneath you, marble slabs inscribed with the names of traders and their goods. Around you, boys with their arms full of printed notices, and men encased with boards on which are mammoth posters. Sick of seeing these, you close your eyes; but you don't escape so easily;—a dinner-bell is rung in your ears, and a voice, if not like mighty thunder, at least like an embryo earthquake, proclaims an auction sale, a child lost, or news for the afflicted.
And thus it is, the world is one great Babel. All is business, business, and we ask for "some vast wilderness" in which to lie down and get cool, and keep quiet.
In Paris, the people long since adopted a plan which has not yet come in vogue among us. A long story is written; in the course of this story, a dozen or more establishments receive the author's laudations, which are so ingeniously interwoven that the reader is scarcely aware of the design. For instance, Marnetta is going to an evening party. In the morning she goes out, and is met by a sprig of gentility, a young man of fashion, who cannot allow her to omit entering the unrivalled store of Messrs. Veuns, where the most beautiful silks, etc., are to be seen and purchased. Leaving this, she next encounters a young lady acquaintance of prudent and economical habits, by whom, "our heroine" is led into a store where beauty and elegance are combined with durability and a low price. She wishes perfumery; so she hastens to Viot & Sons; for none make so good as they, and the fragrance of their store has been wafted on the winds of all nations.
Thus is the story led on from one step to another, with its interest not in the least abated, to the end. This embraces "puffery," as it is called. And, while on this subject, we may as well bring up the following specimen of this species of advertising. It was written by Peter Seguin, on the occasion of the first appearance in Dublin of the celebrated Mrs. Siddons. It caused much merriment at the time among some, while in others, who could not relish a joke, it excited anger.
"The house was crowded with hundreds more than it could hold, with thousands of admiring spectators that went away without a sight. This extraordinary phenomenon of tragic excellence! this star of Melpomene! this comet of the stage! this sun of the firmament of the Muses! this moon of blank verse! this queen arch-princess of tears! this Donnellan of the poisoned bowl! this empress of the pistol and dagger! this child of Shakspeare! this world of weeping clouds! this Juno of commanding aspects! this Terpsichore of the curtains and scenes! this Proserpine of fire and earthquake! this Katterfelto of wonders! exceeded expectation, went beyond belief, and soared above all the natural powers of description! She was nature itself! she was the most exquisite work of art! She was the very daisy, primrose, tuberose, sweet-brier, furze-blossom, gilliflower, wallflower, cauliflower, aurica and rosemary! In short, she was the bouquet of Parnassus! Where expectation was raised so high, it was thought she would be injured by her appearance; but it was the audience who were injured; several fainted before the curtain drew up! but when she came to the scene of parting with her wedding-ring, all! what a sight was there! The fiddlers in the orchestra, 'albeit unused to the melting mood!' blubbered like hungry children crying for their bread and butter; and when the bell rang for music between the acts, the tears ran from the bassoon player's eyes in such plentiful showers, that they choked the finger-stops, and, making a spout of the instrument, poured in such torrents on the first fiddler's book, that, not seeing the overture was in two sharps, the leader of the band actually played in one flat. But the sobs and sighs of the groaning audience, and the noise of corks drawn from the smelling-bottles, prevented the mistakes between the flats and sharps being discovered. One hundred and nine ladies fainted! forty-six went into fits! and ninety-five had strong hysterics! The world will hardly credit the truth, when they are told that fourteen children, five women, one hundred tailors, and six common-council men, were actually drowned in the inundation of tears that flowed from the galleries, the slips and the boxes, to increase the briny pond in the pit; the water was three feet deep, and the people that were obliged to stand upon the benches were in that position up to their ancles in tears."
There is nothing in the present style of criticism that can exceed the above. The author actually reached the climax, and all attempts to overtop him would be useless.
Of advertisements there have been many worthy of preservation: some on account of the ingenuity displayed in their composition; some in their wit; some for their domesticativeness,—matrimonial offers, for example,—and others for the conceitedness exposed in them, the ignorance of the writers, or the whimsicality of the matter advertised. In 1804 there was advertised in an English paper, as for sale, "The walk of a deceased blind beggar (in a charitable neighborhood), with his dog and staff."
In the St. James Chronicle of 1772 was the following:
"Wanted, fifteen hundred or two thousand pounds, by a person not worth a groat; who, having neither houses, lands, annuities, or public funds, can offer no other security than that of a simple bond, bearing simple interest, and engaging, the repayment of the sum borrowed in five, six, or seven years, as may be, agreed on by the parties," &c.
We do not know whether the advertiser obtained his pounds or not, but such an advertisement, now-a-days, would draw forth a laugh much sooner than the money; or, if "pounds" came, they would, most probably, fall upon the recipient's shoulders, instead of into his pocket.
The Chinese are not behind the age in this business. The following is an instance in proof:
"ACHEU TEA CHINCOEU, Sculptor, respectfully acquaints masters of ships trading from Canton to India that they may be furnished with figure-heads, any size, according to order, at one-fourth of the price charged in Europe. He also recommends, for private venture, the following idols, brass, gold and silver: The hawk of Vishnoo, which has reliefs of his incarnation in a fish, boar, lion, and bull, as worshipped by the pious followers of Zoroaster; two silver marmosets, with gold ear-rings; an aprimanes for Persian worship; a ram, an alligator, a crab, a laughing hyena, with a variety of household idols, on a small scale, calculated for family worship. Eighteen months credit will be given, or a discount of fifteen per cent. for prompt payment, on the sum affixed to each article. Direct, Canton-street, Canton, under the marble Rhinoceros and gilt Hydra."
We subjoin another, in which self-exaltation is pretty well carried out.
"At the shop Tae-shing (prosperous in the extreme)—very good ink; fine! fine! Ancient shop, great-grandfather, grandfather, father and self, make this ink; fine and hard, very hard; picked with care, selected with attention. I sell very good ink; prime cost is very great. This ink is heavy; so is gold. The eye of the dragon glitters and dazzles; so does this ink. No one makes like it. Others who make ink make it for the sake of accumulating base coin, cheat, while I make it only for a name, Plenty of A-kwan-tsaes (gentlemen) know my ink-my family never cheated-they have always borne a good name. I make ink for the 'Son of Heaven,' and all the mandarins in the empire. As the roar of the tiger extends to every place, so does, the fame' of the 'dragon's jewel' (the ink). Come, all A-kwan- tsaes, come to my shop and see the sign Tae-shing at the side of the door. It is Seou-shwuy-street (Small Water-street), outside the south gate."
Go to the sick man's chamber; low and softFalls on the listening ear a sweet-toned voice;A hand as gentle as the summer breeze,Ever inclined to offices of good,Smooths o'er the sick man's pillow, and then turnsTo trim the midnight lamp, moisten the lips,And, passing over, soothe the fevered brow.Thus charity finds place in woman's heart;And woman kind, and beautiful, and good,Doth thus administer to every want,Nor wearies in her task, but labors on,And finds her joy in that which she imparts.Go to the prisoner's cell; to-morrow's lightShall be the last on earth he e'er shall see.He mutters hate 'gainst all, and threatens illTo every semblance of the human form.Deep in his soul remorse, despair and hate,Dwell unillumined by one ray of light,And sway his spirit as the waves are swayedBy wind and storm. He may have cause to holdHis fellow-men as foes; for, at the firstOf his departure from an upright course,They scorned and shunned and cursed him.They sinn‚d thus, and he, in spite for them,Kept on his sullen way from wrong to wrong.Which is the greatest sinner? He shall sayWho of the hearts of men alone is judge.Now, in his cell condemned, he waits the hour,The last sad hour of mortal life to him.His oaths and blasphemies he sudden stays!He thinks he hears upon his prison doorA gentle tap. O, to his hardened heartThat gentle sound a sweet remembrance bringsOf better days-two-score of years gone by,Days when his mother, rapping softly thus,Called him to morning prayer. Again 't is heard.Is it a dream? Asleep! He cannot sleepWith chains around and shameful death before him!Is it the false allurement of some foeWho would with such enticement draw him forthTo meet destruction ere the appointed time?Softened and calmed, each angry passion lulled,By a soft voice, "Come in," he trembling calls.Slow on its hinges turns the ponderous door,And "Friend," the word that falls from stranger lips.As dew on flowers, as rain on parch‚d ground,So came the word unto the prisoner's ear.He speaks not-moves not. O, his heart is full,Too full for utterance; and, as floods of tearsFlow from his eyes so all unused to weep,He bows down low, e'en at the stranger's feet.He had not known what 't was to have a friend.The word came to him like a voice from heaven,A voice of love to one who'd heard but hate."Friend!" Mysterious word to him who'd known no friend.O, what a power that simple word hath o'er him!As now he holds the stranger's hand in his,And bows his head upon it, he doth seemGentle and kind, and docile as a child.Repentance comes with kindness, goodness rearsIts cross on Calvary's height, inspiring hopeWhich triumphs over evil and its guilt.O, how much changed! and all by simple wordsSpoken in love and kindness from the heart.O, love and kindness! matchless power have yeTo mould the human heart; where'er ye dwellThere is no sorrow, but a living joy.There is no man whom God hath placed on earthThat hath not some humanity within,And is not moved with kindness joined with love.The wildest savage, from whose firelit eyeFlashes the lightning passions of his soul,Who stands, and feeling that he hath been wronged,That he hath trusted and been basely used,And that to him revenge were doubly sweet,Dares all the world to combat and to death,—Even he hath dwelling in his inmost heartA chord that quick will vibrate to kind words.Go unto such with kindness, not with wrath;Let your eye look love, and 't will disarm himOf all the evil passions with which heHath mailed his soul in terrible array.Think not to tame the wild by brutal force.As well attempt to stay devouring flamesBy heaping fagots on the blazing pile.Go, do man good, and the deep-hidden sparkOf true divinity concealed withinWill brighten up, and thou shalt see its glow,And feel its cheering warmth. O, we lose muchBy calling passion's aid to vanquish wrong.We should stand within love's holy temple,And with persuasive kindness call men in,Rather than, leaving it, use other means,Unblest of God, and therefore weak and vain,To force them on before us into bliss.There is a luxury in doing goodWhich none but by experience e'er can know.He's blest who doeth good. Sleep comes to himOn wings of sweetest peace; and angels meetIn joyous convoys ever round his couch;They watch and guard, protect and pray for him.All mothers bend the knee, and children tooClasp their fair hands and raise their undimmed eyes,As if to pierce the shadowy veil that hangsBetween themselves and God-then pray that heWill bless with Heaven's best gifts the friend of man.
PITY her, pity her! Once she was fair,Once breathed she sweetly the innocent's prayer;Parents stood by in pride o'er their daughter;Sin had not tempted, Vice had not caught her;Hoping and trusting, believing all true,Nothing but happiness rose to her view.She, as were spoken words lovers might tell,Listened, confided, consented, and fell!Now she's forsaken; nursing in sorrow,Hate for the night, despair for the morrow!She'd have the world think she's happy and gay,—A butterfly, roving wherever it may;Sipping delight from each rose-bud and flower,The charmed and the charmer of every hour.She will not betray to the world all her grief;She knows it is false, and will give no relief.She knows that its friendship is heartless and cold;That it loves but for gain, and pities for gold;That when in their woe the fallen do cry,It turns, it forsakes, and it leaves them to die!But after the hour of the world's bright show,When hence from her presence flatterers go;When none are near to praise or caress her,No one stands by with fondness to bless her;Alone with her thoughts, in moments like this,She thinks of her days of innocent bliss,And she weeps!-yes, she weeps penitent tearsO'er the shame of a life and the sorrow of years:She turns for a friend; yet, alas! none is there;She sinks, once again, in the deepest despair!Blame her not! O blame not, ye fathers who holdDaughters you value more dearly than gold!But pity, O, pity her! take by the handOne who, though fallen, yet nobly may stand.Turn not away from her plea and her cries;Pity and help, and the fallen may rise!Crush not to earth the reed that is broken,Bind up her wounds-let soft words be spoken;Though she be low, though worldlings reject her,Let not Humanity ever neglect her.
BEYOND the dark, deep grave, whose lowly portalMust yet be passed by every living mortal,
There gleams a light;'T is not of earth. It wavers not; it glowethWith a clear radiance which no changing knoweth,
Constant and bright.We love to gaze at it; we love to cherishThe cheering thought, that, when this earth shall perish,
And naught remainOf all these temples,—things we now inherit,Each unimprisoned, no more fettered spirit
Shall life retain.And ever, through eternity unending,It shall unto that changeless light be tending,
Till perfect dayShall be its great reward; and all of mysteryThat hath made up its earthly life, its history,
Be passed away!O, joyous hour! O, day most good and glorious!When from the earth the ransomed rise victorious,
Its conflict o'er;When joy henceforth each grateful soul engages,Joy unalloyed through never-ending ages,Joy evermore!
THE summer days are coming,The glorious summer hours,When Nature decks her gorgeous robeWith sunbeams and with flowers;And gathers all her choristersIn plumage bright and gay,Till every vale is echoing withTheir joyous roundelay.No more shall frosty winterHold in its cold embraceThe water; but the riverShall join again the race;And down the mountain's valley,And o'er its rocky side,The glistening streams shall rush and leapIn all their bounding pride.There's pleasure in the winter,When o'er the frozen snowWith faithful friend and noble steedRight merrily we go!But give to me the summer,The pleasant summer days,When blooming flowers and sparkling streamsEnliven all our ways.
SANSECRAT is one of that class of persons who think they know everything. If anything occurs, and you seek to inform him, he will interrupt you by saying that he knows it all,—that he was on the spot when the occurrence happened, or that he had met a man who was an eye-witness.
Such a person, though he be the possessor of much assurance, is sadly deficient in manners; and no doubt the super-abundancy of the former is caused by the great lack of the latter.
Such men as he will thrive; there is no mistake about it. This has been called an age of invention and of humbug. Nothing is so popular, or so much sought after, as that which cannot be explained, and around which a mysterious shroud is closely woven.
My friend Arcanus came sweating and puffing into my room. I had just finished my dinner, and was seated leisurely looking over a few pages of manuscript, when he entered.
"News!" said he; and before I could hand him a chair he had told me all about the last battle, and his tongue flew about with so much rapidity, that a conflagration might have been produced by such excessive friction, had not a rap at the door put a clog under the wheels of his talkative locomotive, and stayed its progress, which luckily gave me an opportunity to take his hat and request him to be seated.
The door was opened, and who but Sansecrat stood before me.
"Have you heard the news?" was the first interrogatory of my friend Arcanus, in reply to which Sansecrat said that he knew it all half an hour previous,—was at the railroad station when the express arrived, and was the first man to open the Southern papers.
In vain Arcanus told him that the information came by a private letter. He averred, point blank, that it was no such thing; that he had the papers in his pocket; and was about to exhibit them as proof of what he had said, when he suddenly recollected that he had sold them to an editor for one-and-sixpence.
Notwithstanding the proverb of "Man, know thyself," Sansecrat seems to know everything but himself. Thousands of times has it been said that man can see innumerable faults and foibles in his neighbors, but none in himself. Very true; and man can see his own character, just as he can see his own face in a mirror. His own associates mirror forth his own character; and the faults, be they great or small, that he sees in them, are but the true reflection of his own errors. Yet, blind to this, and fondly imagining that he is the very "pink of excellence," he flatters his own vain feeling with the cherished idea that, while others have faults, he has none, and so slumbers on in the sweet repose of ignorance.
Sansecrat imagines that he knows everything; that to teach him would be like "carrying coals to Newcastle," or sending ship-loads of ice to Greenland, or furnaces to the coast of Africa; yet he is as ignorant as the greatest dunce, who, parrot-like, repeats that he has heard, without having the least understanding of what he says.
Strange as it may seem, it is nevertheless true that Sansecrat will prosper in the world; for, though destitute of those qualifications which render their possessor worthy of success, he has an abundance of brazen-facedness, with which he will work himself into the good opinion of not a few, who look more closely upon exterior appearance than they do upon inward worth, and judge their fellowmen more by the good quality of their cloth than by the good quality of their hearts, and set more value on a shining hat and an unpatched boot than they do on a brilliant intellect and a noble soul.
I CANNOT brook the proud. I cannot loveThe selfish man; he seems to have no heart;And why he lives and moves upon this earthWhich God has made so fair, I cannot tell.He has no soul but that within his purse,And all his hopes are centred on its fate;That lost, and all is lost.I knew a manWho had abundant riches. He was proud,—Too oft the effect of riches when abused,—His step was haughty, and his eye glanced atThe honest poor as base intruders onThe earth he trod and fondly called his own;Unwelcome guests at Nature's banqueting.Years passed away,—that youth became a man;His beetled brow, his sullen countenance,His eye that looked a fiery command,Betrayed that his ambition was to rule.He smiled not, save in scorn on humble men,Whom he would have bow down and worship him.Thus with his strength his pride did grow, untilHe did become aristocrat indeed.The humble beggar, whose loose rags scarce gaveProtection to him from the cold north wind,He scarce would look upon, and vainly said,As in his hand he held the ready coin,"No mortal need be poor,—'t is his own faultIf such he be;—if he court poverty,Let all its miseries be his to bear."'T is many years since he the proud spake thus,And men and things have greatly changed since then.No more in wealth he rolls,—men's fortunes change.I met a lonely hearse, slowly it passedToward the church-yard. 'T was unattendedSave by one old man, and he the sexton.With spade beneath his arm he trudged along,Whistling a homely tune, and stopping not.He seemed to be in haste, for now and thenHe'd urge to quicker pace his walking beast,With the rough handle of his rusty spade.Him I approached, and eagerly inquiredWhose body thus was borne so rudely toIts final resting-place, the deep, dark grave."His name was Albro," was the prompt reply."Too proud to beg, we found him starved to death,In a lone garret, which the rats and miceSeemed greatly loth to have him occupy.An' I, poor Billy Matterson, whom onceHe deemed too poor and low to look upon,Am come to bury him."The sexton smiled,—Then raised his rusty spade, cheered up his nag,Whistled as he was wont, and jogged along.Oft I have seen the poor man raise his handTo wipe the eye when good men meet the grave,—But Billy Matterson, he turned and smiled.The truth flashed in an instant on my mind,Though sad, yet deep, unchanging truth to me.'T was he, thus borne, who, in his younger days,Blest with abundance, used it not aright.He, who blamed the poor because they were such;Behold his end!-too proud to beg, he died.A sad example, teaching all to shunThe rock on which he shipwrecked,—warning take,That they too fall not as he rashly fell.
WORDS, words! O give me these,Words befitting what I feel,That I may on every breezeWaft to those whose riven steelFetters souls and shackles handsBorn to be as free as air,Yet crushed and cramped by Slavery's bands,—Words that have an influence there.Words, words! give me to writeSuch as touch the inner heart;Not mere flitting forms of light,That please the ear and then depart;But burning words, that reach the soul,That bring the shreds of error out,That with resistless power do roll,And put the hosts of Wrong to rout.Let others tune their lyres, and singIllusive dreams of fancied joy;But, my own harp,—its every stringShall find in Truth enough employ.It shall not breathe of Freedom here,While millions clank the galling chain;Or e'en one slave doth bow in fear,Within our country's broad domain.Go where the slave-gang trembling stands,Herded with every stable stock,—Woman with fetters on her hands,And infants on the auction-block!See, as she bends, how flow her tears!Hark! hear her broken, trembling sighs;Then hear the oaths, the threats, the jeers,Of men who lash her as she cries!O, men! who have the power to weaveIn poesy's web deep, searching thought,Be truth thy aim; henceforward leaveThe lyre too much with fancy fraught!Come up, and let the words you writeBe those which every chain would break,And every sentence you inditeBe pledged to Truth for Freedom's sake.
OUR home shall beA cot on the mountain side,Where the bright waters glide,Sparkling and free;Terrace and window o'erWoodbine shall graceful soar;Roses shall round the doorBlossom for thee.There shall be joyWith no care to molest,—Quiet, serene and blest;And our employWork each other's pleasure;Boundless be the treasure;Without weight or measure,Free from alloy.Our home shall beWhere the first ray of lightOver the mountain height,Stream, rock and tree,Joy to our cot shall bring,While brake and bower shall ringWith notes the birds shall sing,Loved one, for thee.
SPECULATION is business in a high fever. Its termination is generally very decided, whether favorable or otherwise, and the effect of that termination upon the individual most intimately connected with it in most cases unhealthy.
It was a truth long before the wise man wrote it, that making haste to be rich is an evil; and it always will be a truth that the natural, unforced course of human events is the only sure, the only rational one.
The desire to be rich, to be pointed out as wealthy, is a very foolish one, unless it be coupled with a desire to do good. This is somewhat paradoxical; for the gratification of the last most certainly repels that of the first, inasmuch as he who distributes his gains cannot accumulate to any great extent.
Wealth is looked at from the wrong stand-point. It is too often considered the end, instead of the means to an end; and there never was a greater delusion in the human mind than that of supposing that riches confer happiness. In ninety-nine cases out of every hundred the opposite is the result. Care often bears heavily on the rich man's brow, and the insatiate spirit asks again and again for more, and will not be silenced. And this feeling will predominate in the human mind until man becomes better acquainted with his own true nature, and inclines to minister to higher and more ennobling aspirations.
In one of the most populous cities of the Union there resided, a few years since, a person in moderate circumstances, by the name of Robert Short. Bob, as he Was usually called, was a shoemaker. With a steady run of custom, together with prudence and economy combined, he was enabled to support his family in an easy and by no means unenviable style. He did not covet the favors and caresses of the world. He looked upon all,—the rich, the poor, the prince, the beggar,—alike, as his brethren. He believed that all stood upon one platform, all were bound to the same haven, and that all should be equally interested in each other's welfare. With this belief, and with rules of a similar character, guided by which he pursued his course of life, it was not to be wondered at that he could boast of many friends, and not strange that many should seek his acquaintance. There is a desire planted in the hearts of honest men to associate with those who, ambitious enough to sustain a good character, are not so puffed up with pride, or so elevated in their own estimation, as to despise the company of what are termed "the common people." It was pleasant, of a winter's evening, to enter the humble domicile of Mr. Short, and while the howling storm raged fiercely without, and the elements seemed at war, to see the contentment and peace that prevailed within. Bob, seated at his bench, might be seen busily employed, and, as the storm increased, would seem to apply himself more diligently to his task. Six or perhaps eight of his neighbors might also be seen gathered around, seated upon that article most convenient,—whether a stool or a pile of leather, it mattered not,—relating some tale of the Revolution, or listening to some romantic story from the lips of the respected Mr. Short. 'T was upon such an evening, and at such a place, that our story commences. Squire Smith, Ned Green, and a jovial sort of a fellow by the name of Sandy, were seated around the red-hot cylinder. Squire Smith was what some would term a "man of consequence,"-at least, he thought so. Be it known that this squire was by no means a daily visitor at the work-shop of our hero. He came in occasionally, and endeavored to impress upon his mind that which he had settled in his own, namely, that he, Robert Short, might be a great man.
"I tell you what," said he, with an air of importance, "I tell you what, it is against all reason, it is contrary to common sense and everything else, that you remain any longer riveted down to this old bench. It will be your ruin; 'pend upon it, it will be your ruin."
"How so?" eagerly inquired Mr. Short.
"Why," replied the squire, "it's no use for me to go into particulars. But why do you not associate with more respectable and fashionable company?"
"Is not the present company respectable?" resumed Mr. Short; "and as for the fashion, I follow my own."
Squire Smith did not reply to this inquiry, but stood shaking his head, and appeared at a loss for words with which to answer.
"Perhaps your ideas of respectability," continued the squire, "are not in accordance with mine."
"Ay, ay; true, true," interrupted Sandy, with a shrug of the shoulder.
Mr. Smith continued his remarks, appearing not to notice the interruption. "Perhaps," said he, "one may be as honest as the days are long; but, sir, he is far from being respectable, in my humble opinion, if he is not genteel,—and certainly if he is not fashionably dressed he is not. He does not think enough of himself; that's it, my dear Mr. Short, he does not think enough of himself."
"But he is honest," replied Mr. Short. "Supposing he does not dress so fashionably as you would wish, would you condemn him for the cut of his coat, or the quality of his cloth? Perhaps his means are not very extensive, and will not admit of a very expensive outlay, merely for show. It is much better, my dear sir, to be clothed in rags and out of debt, than to be attired in the most costly apparel, and that not paid for. Sir, to hold up your head and say you owe no man, is to be free, free in the truest sense of the word."
"Ah, I must be on the move," interrupted the squire, at the same time looking at his "gold lever." And off he started.
Squire Smith had said enough for that night; to have said more would have injured his plan. Mr. Green and Sandy shook hands with their friend Robert, and, it being late, they bade him "good-by," and parted. Our hero was now left alone. Snuffing the candle, that had well-nigh burnt to the socket, he placed more fuel upon the fire, and, resting his hands upon his knees and his head upon his hands, he began to think over the sayings of his friend the squire.
Robert Short saw nothing of the squire for many days after the event just described transpired. One day, as he began his work, the door was suddenly thrown open, and the long absent but not forgotten squire rushed in, shouting "Speculation! speculation!" Mr. Short threw aside his last, and listened with feelings of astonishment to the eloquent words that fell from the lips of his unexpected visitor. "Gull, the broker," continued the squire, "has just offered me a great bargain. I have come to make a proposition which is, that you and I accept his offer, and make our fortunes."
"Fortunes!" exclaimed the son of Crispin; "speculate in what?"
"In eastern land," was the reply.
Bob Short's countenance assumed a desponding appearance; he had heard of many losses caused by venturing in these speculations, and had some doubts as to his success, should he accept. Then, again, he had heard of those who had been fortunate, and he inquired the conditions of sale.
"Why," replied Mr. Smith, Esq., "old Varnum Gull has three thousand acres of good land, upon which are, as he assures me, some beautiful watering places. It is worth five dollars an acre; he offers it to me for one, and a grand chance it is; the terms are cash."
"Are you certain as to the quality of the land?" inquired Mr. Short.
"Perfectly certain," was the reply. "I would not advise you wrong for the world; but I now think it best to form a sort of co-partnership, and purchase the land. There is no doubt but that we can dispose of it at a great advantage. Will you not agree to my proposals, and accept?"
"I will," answered Mr. Short. "But how can I obtain fifteen hundred dollars? I have but a snug thousand."
"O, don't trouble yourself about that," replied the delighted squire. "I will loan you the balance at once. You can return it at some convenient time. What say you will you accompany me to the broker's, and inform him of the agreement?"
Mr. Short, after a moment's delay, arose, and, laying aside his leather apron, took the squire by the arm, and both sallied forth in search of the office of Varnum Gull. After wending their way through short streets and long lanes, narrow avenues and wide alleys, they came to a small gate, upon which was fastened a small tin sign with the following inscription: "V. Gull, broker, up the yard, round the corner, up two pair of stairs." The squire and Mr. Short followed the directions laid down, and, having gone up the yard and turned round the corner, they found themselves at the foot of the stairs. They stood for a moment silent, and were about to ascend, when a voice from above attracted their attention.
"'Ollo, Squire, 'ere's the box; walk right up 'ere; only look out, there's an 'ole in the stairs."
Our hero looked above, and perceived a man with green spectacles drawing his head in.
"We will go up," said the squire, "and look out for the hole; but, as the stairway is rather dark, we shall not see much; therefore we shall be obliged to feel our way."
They ascended, and escaped without injury. A little short man met them at the door, holding in his hand a paper bearing some resemblance to a map.
"Really, Mr. Smith, I feared you would lose that 'ere bargain I expatiated on. I 'ave received many good offers, but 'ave reserved it for you. Your friend, ha?" he continued, at the same time striking Mr. Short in no gentle manner upon the shoulder.
"Not friend Hay, but friend Short," replied the squire.
"Hall the same, only an error in the spelling," resumed the broker. "Good-morning, Mr. Short; s'pose you 'ave become 'quainted with the rare chance I've offered, an't ye? and wish to accept it, don't ye? and can pay for it, can't ye? Such an opportunity is seldom met with, by which to make one's fortune."
"Well," replied Mr. Short, improving the time Mr. Gull stopped to breathe, "well, I had some idea of so doing." "Hidea!" quickly responded the broker; "why will you 'esitate? read that!" and he handed a paper to Mr. Short which paper he kept for reference, and pointed out to him an article which read as follows:
"It is astonishing what enormous profits are at present realized by traders in Eastern Land. One of our neighbors purchased a thousand acres, at one dollar and twenty-five cents per acre, of Gull, our enterprising broker, and sold it yesterday for the round sum of three thousand dollars, receiving thereby the enormous profit of nineteen hundred and seventy-five dollars. He was a poor man, but by this lucky movement has become rich."
As soon as our hero had read this cheering intelligence, he became elated with the prospect, and soon came to a final agreement with the squire to accept the offer. Papers were drawn up, signed by each, and a check given to the broker, for which was returned a deed for the land. They then left the office, Mr. Gull politely bidding them good-by, with a caution to look out for the "'ole." They did look out for the hole, but it might have been that the cunning broker referred to a hole of more consequence than that in the stairs. The squire on that day invited Mr. Short to his house to dine. This, however, he did not accept, but returned to his shop. One week had passed away, during which time the squire was often at the shop of Bob Short, but no customer had yet applied for the land. It was near dusk on the eighth day succeeding the purchase, as they were talking over the best way by which to dispose of it, when a short man entered, wrapped up in a large cloak, and a large bushy fur cap upon his head.
"I understand," said he, "you have a few acres of land you wish to dispose of."
"Exactly so," answered the squire.
"And how much do you charge per acre?" inquired the stranger.
"That depends upon the number you wish. Do you wish to purchase all?"
"That depends upon the price charged," was the reply.
"If you wish all," continued Mr. Smith, "we will sell for four dollars an acre. That is dog cheap, and a great sacrifice."
"Well," resumed the stranger, "I will take it on conditions; namely, I will pay you your price, and if the land answers my purpose I will keep it,—if not, you will return me the amount of money I pay."
"That is rather a hard bargain. I know it to be good land," answered the squire.
"Then," continued the stranger, "if you know it to be good, certainly there can be no danger in disposing of it on the conditions I have named."
After a few moments' conversation with Mr. Short, they agreed to sell to the stranger. Papers were immediately drawn up and signed by Messrs. Smith and Short, agreeing to return the money provided the land did not give satisfaction. The sum of twelve thousand dollars was paid in cash to the signers, and the papers given into the hands of the purchaser, who then left. Robert Short on that night did really feel rich. This was six thousand dollars apiece; after Mr. Short had paid the fifteen hundred borrowed, he had forty-five hundred left. Both were equally certain that the land would give entire satisfaction, and acted according to this belief. With a light heart he went home, and communicated the joyful intelligence to his wife, who had from the first been opposed to the trade. He did not, however, inform her of the terms on which he had sold. In a few days he had disposed of his shop and tools to one of his former workmen. Many were surprised when the sign of "Robert Short" was taken from its long resting-place over the door. Mr. Short now began to think the house in which he had for many years resided was not quite good enough, and therefore engaged a larger and more expensive one. He ordered new furniture, purchased a carriage and horses, and had his new house fitted out under the direction of his friend, the squire. He rented a large store; bought large quantities of shoes and leather, partly on credit. His business at first prospered, but in a short time became quite dull; his former customers left, and all business seemed at a stand-still. In the mean time, the broker had left town, having sold out his office to a young man. Matters stood thus, when, early in the morning on a pleasant day in June, as the squire and Mr. Short were seated in the counting-room of the latter, a man dressed in a light summer dress entered.
"Good-morning," said the visitor. "Business is quite lively, I suppose?"
"O, it's moderate, nothing extra," replied Mr. Short; "won't you be seated?"
The stranger seated himself.
"Mr. Robert Short is your name, is it not?" he inquired.
"It is, sir."
"Did I not make a bargain with you about some eastern land, a few months since?"
"Yes, some person did;" and Mr. Short immediately recognized him as the purchaser. The new comer then took from his pocket the paper of agreement, and presented it for the inspection of the two gentlemen.
"Are you not satisfied with your bargain?" inquired Mr. Smith.
"Not exactly," replied the stranger, laughing.
"Why, what fault is there in it?"
"Well," replied the stranger, "I suppose a report of my examination will be acceptable."
"Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Short.
"Then I can give it in a few words. It is a good watering place, being WHOLLY COVERED WITH WATER; and is of no value unless it could be drained, and that, I think, is impossible."
The squire was astonished; Mr. Short knew not what to
"What is the name of the water bought for land?" inquired SquireSmith.
"The location of it is in a large pond of water, twelve miles in length, and about six in width, and is known in those parts by the name of the 'Big Pond.' But," continued the stranger, "I must be gone; please return me my money, according to agreement."
After some talk, the stranger agreed to call the next day. The next day came, and with it came the stranger. Mr. Short had tried in vain to obtain the requisite sum, and was obliged to request him to call the next day. He came the next day, and the next, and the next, but received no money; and he was at length obliged to attach the property of the squire, as also that of Mr. Short. His other creditors also came in with their bills. All the stock of Mr. Short was sold at auction, and he was a poor man. He obtained a small house, that would not compare with the one he had lived in in former years. He had no money of his own, and was still deeply in debt. He was obliged to work at such jobs as came along, but at length obtained steady employment. The squire, who was the prime cause of all his trouble, sailed for a foreign port, leaving all his bills unpaid, In a short time Mr. Short obtained a sufficient sum to buy back his old shop, in which to this day he has steadily worked, with a vivid remembrance of the consequence of speculation.