Chapter VIII: Part XI (2)

“The poor people who own these stores will be heavy-hearted enough when they come to learn the reason why we have been put in undisturbed possession of their property,” said Rose. “We must contrive some means of repaying them for such articles as we may use, Harry.”

“That’s easily enough done, Miss Rose. Drop one of the half eagles in a tea-pot, or a mug, and they’ll be certain to fall in with it when they come back. Nothin’ is easier than to pay a body’s debts, when a body has the will and the means. Now, the worst enemy of Stephen Spike must own that his brig never quits port with unsettled bills. Stephen has his faults, like other mortals; but he has his good p’ints, too.”

“Still praising Spike, my good Jack?” cried the mate, a little provoked at this pertinacity in the deputy-steward, in sticking to his ship and his shipmate. “I should have thought that you had sailed with him long enough to have found him out, and to wish never to put your foot in his cabin again.”

“Why, no, mate, a craft is a craft, and a body gets to like even the faults of one in which a body has gone through gales, and squalls, with a whole skin. I like the Swash, and, for sartain things I like her captain.”

“Meaning by that it is your intention to get on board of the one, and to sail with the other, again, as soon as you can.”

“I do, Mr. Mulford, and make no bones in telling on’t. You know that I came here without wishing it.”

“Well, Jack, no one will attempt to control your movements, but you shall be left your own master. I feel it to be a duty, however, as one who may I know more of the law than yourself, as well as more of Stephen Spike, to tell you that he is engaged in a treasonable commerce with the enemy, and that he, and all who voluntarily remain with him, knowing this fact, may be made to swing for it.”

“Then I’ll swing for it,” returned Jack, sullenly.

“There is a little obstinacy in this, my good fellow, and you must be reasoned out of it. I am under infinite obligations to you, Jack, and shall ever be ready to own them. Without you to sail the boat, I might have been left to perish on that rock, for God only knows whether any vessel would have seen me in passing. Most of those who go through that passage keep the western side of the reef aboard, they tell me, on account of there being better water on that side of the channel, and the chance of a man’s being seen on a rock, by ships a league or two off, would be small indeed. Yes, Jack, I owe my life to you, and am proud to own it.”

“You owe it to Miss Rose, maty, who put me up to the enterprise, and who shared it with me.”

“To her I owe more than life,” answered Harry, looking at his beloved as she delighted in being regarded by him, “but even she, with all her wishes to serve me, would have been helpless without your skill in managing a boat. I owe also to your good-nature the happiness of having Rose with me at this moment; for without you she would not have come.”

“I’ll not deny it, maty—take another ladle full of the soup, Miss Rosy, a quart of it wouldn’t hurt an infant—I’ll not deny it, Mr. Mulford—I know by the way you’ve got rid of the first bowl full that _you_ are ready for another, and there it is—I’ll not deny it, and all I can say is that you are heartily welcome to my sarvices.”

“I thank you, Jack; but all this only makes me more desirous of being of use to you, now, when it’s in my power. I wish you to stick by me, and not to return to the Swash. As soon as I get to New York I shall build or buy a ship, and the berth of steward in her shall always be open to you.”

“Thank ’e, maty; thank ’e, with all my heart. It’s something to know that a port is open to leeward, and, though I cannot _now_ accept your offer, the day _may_ come when I shall be glad to do so.”

“If you like living ashore better, our house will always be ready to receive you. I should be glad to leave as handy a little fellow as yourself behind me whenever I went to sea. There are a hundred things in which you might be useful, and fully earn your biscuit, so as to have no qualms about eating the bread of idleness.”

“Thank ’e, thank ’e, maty,” cried Jack, dashing a tear out of his eye with the back of his hand, “thank ’e, sir, from the bottom of my heart. The time _may_ come, but not now. My papers is signed for this v’y’ge. Stephen Spike has a halter round his neck, as you say yourself, and it’s necessary for me to be there to look to ’t. We all have our callin’s and duties, and this is mine. I stick by the Molly and her captain until both are out of this scrape, or both are condemned. I know nothing of treason; but if the law wants another victim, I must take my chance.”

Mulford was surprised at this steadiness of Jack’s, in what he thought a very bad cause, and he was quite as much surprised that Rose did not join him, in his endeavors to persuade the steward not to be so fool-hardy, as to endeavor to go back to the brig. Rose did not, however; sitting silently eating her dinner the whole time, though she occasionally cast glances of interest at both the speakers the while. In this state of things the mate abandoned the attempt, for the moment, intending to return to the subject, after having had a private conference with his betrothed.

Notwithstanding the little drawback just related, that was a happy as well as a delicious repast. The mate did full justice to the soup, and afterward to the fish with the unpoetical name; and Rose ate more than she had done in the last three days. The habits of discipline prevented Jack from taking his seat at table, though pressed by both Rose and Harry to do so, but he helped himself to the contents of a bowl, and did full justice to his own art, on one aside. The little fellow was delighted with the praises that were bestowed on his dishes; and for the moment, the sea, its dangers, its tornadoes, wrecks and races, were all forgotten in the security and pleasures of so savory a repast.

“Folk ashore don’t know how sailors sometimes live,” said Jack, holding a large spoon filled with the soup ready to plunge into a tolerably capacious mouth.

“Or how they sometimes starve,” answered Rose. “Remember our own situation, less than forty-eight hours since!”

“All very true, Miss Rose; yet, you see, turtle-soup brings us up, a’ter all. Would you choose a glass of wine, maty?”

“Very much indeed, Jack, after so luscious a soup; but wishing for it will not bring it here.”

“That remains to be seen, sir. I call this a bottle of something that looks wery much like a wine.”

“Claret, as I live! Why, where should light-house keepers get the taste for claret?”

“I’ve thought of that myself, Mr. Mulford, and have supposed that some of Uncle Sam’s officers have brought the liquor to this part of the world. I understand a party on ’em was here surveyin’ all last winter. It seems they come in the cool weather, and get their sights and measure their distances, and go home in the warm weather, and work out their traverses in the shade, as it might be.”

“This seems likely, Jack; but come, whence it may, it is welcome, and we will taste it.”

Mulford then drew the cork of this mild and grateful liquor, and helped his companions and himself. In this age of moral _tours de force_, one scarcely dare say any thing favorable of a liquid that even bears the name of wine, or extol the shape of a bottle. It is truly the era of exaggeration. Nothing is treated in the old-fashioned, natural, common sense way. Virtue is no longer virtue, unless it get upon stilts; and, as for sins being confined to “transgression against the law of God,” audacious would be the wretch who should presume to limit the sway of the societies by any dogma so narrow! A man may be as abstemious as an anchorite and get no credit for it, unless “he sign the pledge;” or, signing the pledge, he may get fuddled in corners, and be cited as a miracle of sobriety. The test of morals is no longer in the abuse of the gifts of Providence, but in their use; prayers are deserting the closet for the corners of streets, and charity (not the giving of alms) has got to be so earnest in the demonstration of its nature, as to be pretty certain to “begin at home,” and to end where it begins. Even the art of mendacity has been aroused by the great progress which is making by all around it, and many manifest the strength of their ambition by telling ten lies where their fathers would have been satisfied with telling only one. This art has made an extraordinary progress within the last quarter of a century, aspiring to an ascendancy that was formerly conceded only to truth, until he who gains his daily bread by it has some such contempt for the sneaking wretch who does business on the small scale, as the slayer of his thousands in the field is known to entertain for him who kills only a single man in the course of a long life.

At the risk of damaging the reputations of our hero and heroine, we shall frankly aver the fact that both Harry and Rose partook of the _vin de Bordeaux_, a very respectable bottle of _Medoc_, by the way, which had been forgotten by Uncle Sam’s people, in the course of the preceding winter, agreeably to Jack Tier’s conjecture. One glass sufficed for Rose, and, contrary as it may be to all modern theory, she was somewhat the better for it; while the mate and Jack Tier quite half emptied the bottle, being none the worse. There they sat, enjoying the security and abundance which had succeeded to their late danger, happy in that security, happy in themselves, and happy in the prospects of a bright future. It was just as practicable for them to remain at the Dry Tortugas, as it was for the family which ordinarily dwelt at the light. The place was amply supplied with every thing that would be necessary for their wants, for months to come, and Harry caused his betrothed to blush, as he whispered to her, should the chaplain arrive, he should delight in passing the honey-moon where they then were.

“I could tend the light,” he added, smiling, “which would be not only an occupation, but a useful occupation; you could read all those books from beginning to end, and Jack could keep us supplied with fish. By the way, master steward, are you in the humor for motion, so soon after your hearty meal?”

“Any thing to be useful,” answered Jack, cheerfully.

“Then do me the favor to go up into the lantern of the light-house, and take a look for the sloop-of-war. If she’s in sight at all, you’ll find her off here to the northward; and while you are aloft you may as well make a sweep of the whole horizon. There hangs the light-house keeper’s glass, which may help your eyes, by stepping into the gallery outside of the lantern.”

Jack willingly complied, taking the glass and proceeding forthwith to the other building. Mulford had two objects in view in giving this commission to the steward. He really wished to ascertain what was the chance of seeing the Poughkeepsie, in the neighborhood of the islets, and felt just that indisposition to move himself, that is apt to come over one who has recently made a very bountiful meal, while he also desired to have another private conversation with Rose.

A good portion of the time that Jack was gone, and he staid quite an hour in the lantern, our lovers conversed as lovers are much inclined to converse; that is to say, of themselves, their feelings, and their prospects. Mulford told Rose of his hopes and fears, while he visited at the house of her aunt, previously to sailing, and the manner in which his suspicions had been first awakened in reference to the intentions of Spike—intentions, so far as they were connected with an admiration of his old commander’s niece, and possibly in connection also with the little fortune she was known to possess, but not in reference to the bold project to which he had, in fact, resorted. No distrust of the scheme finally put in practice had ever crossed the mind of the young mate, until he received the unexpected order, mentioned in our opening chapter, to prepare the brig for the reception of Mrs. Budd and her party. Harry confessed his jealousy of one youth whom he dreaded far more even than he had ever dreaded Spike, and whose apparent favor with Rose, and actual favor with her aunt, had given him many a sleepless night.

They next conversed of the future, which to them seemed full of flowers. Various were the projects started, discussed, and dismissed, between them, the last almost as soon as proposed. On one thing they were of a mind, as soon as proposed. Harry was to have a ship as quick as one could be purchased by Rose’s means, and the promised bride laughingly consented to make one voyage to Europe along with her husband.

“I wonder, dear Rose, my poverty has never presented any difficulties in the way of our union,” said Harry, sensibly touched with the free way his betrothed disposed of her own money in his behalf; “but neither you nor Mrs. Budd has ever seemed to think of the difference there is between us in this respect.”

“What is the trifle I possess, Harry, set in the balance against your worth? My aunt, as you say, has thought I might even be the gainer by the exchange.”

“I am sure I feel a thousand times indebted to Mrs. Budd—”

“_Aunt_ Budd. You must learn to say, ‘_my_ Aunt Budd,’ Mr. Henry Mulford, if you mean to live in peace with her unworthy niece.”

“_Aunt_ Budd, then,” returned Harry, laughing, for the laugh came easily that evening; “Aunt Budd, if you wish it, Rose. I can have no objection to call any relative of yours, uncle or aunt.”

“I think we are intimate enough, now, to ask you a question or two, Harry, touching my aunt,” continued Rose, looking stealthily over her shoulder, as if apprehensive of being overheard. “You know how fond she is of speaking of the sea, and of indulging in nautical phrases?”

“Any one must have observed that, Rose,” answered the young man, gazing up at the wall, in order not to be compelled to look the beautiful creature before him in the eyes—“Mrs. Budd has very strong tastes that way.”

“Now tell me, Harry—that is, answer me frankly—I mean—she is not _always_ right, is she?”

“Why, no; not absolutely so—that is, not absolutely _always_ so—few persons are _always_ right, you know.”

Rose remained silent and embarrassed for a moment; after which she pursued the discourse.

“But aunty does not know as much of the sea and of ships as she thinks she does?”

“Perhaps not. We all overrate our own acquirements. I dare say that even I am not as good a seaman as I fancy myself to be.”

“Even Spike admits that you are what he calls ‘a prime seaman.’ But it is not easy for a woman to get a correct knowledge of the use of all the strange, and sometimes uncouth, terms that you sailors use.”

“Certainly not; and for that reason I would rather you should never attempt it, Rose. We rough sons of the ocean would prefer to hear our wives make divers pretty blunders, rather than to be swaggering about like so many ‘old salts.’”

“Mr. Mulford! Does Aunt Budd swagger like an old salt?”

“Dearest Rose, I was not thinking of your aunt, but of _you_. Of you, as you are, feminine, spirited, lovely alike in form and character, and of you a graduate of the ocean, and full of its language and ideas.”

It was probable Rose was not displeased at this allusion to herself, for a smile struggled around her pretty mouth, and she did not look at all angry. After another short pause, she resumed the discourse.

“My aunt did not very clearly comprehend those explanations of yours about the time of day, and the longitude,” she said, “nor am I quite certain that I did myself.”

“You understood them far better than Mrs. Budd, Rose. Women are so little accustomed to _think_ on such subjects at all, that it is not surprising they sometimes get confused. I do wish, however, that your aunt could be persuaded to be more cautious in the presence of strangers, on the subject of terms she does not understand.”

“I feared it might be so, Harry,” answered Rose, in a low voice, as if unwilling even he should know the full extent of her thoughts on this subject; “but my aunt’s heart is most excellent, though she may make mistakes occasionally. I owe her a great deal, if not absolutely my education, certainly my health and comfort through childhood, and more prudent, womanly advice than you may suppose, perhaps, since I have left school. How she became the dupe of Spike, indeed, is to me unaccountable; for in all that relates to health, she is, in general, both acute and skillful.”

“Spike is a man of more art than he appears to be to superficial observers. On my first acquaintance with him, I mistook him for a frank, fearless, but well-meaning sailor, who loved hazardous voyages and desperate speculation—a sort of innocent gambler; but I have learned to know better. His means are pretty much reduced to his brig, and she is getting old, and can do but little more service. His projects are plain enough, now. By getting you into his power, he hoped to compel a marriage, in which case both your fortune and your aunt’s would contribute to repair his.”

“He might have killed me, but I never would have married him,” rejoined Rose, firmly. “Is not that Jack coming down the steps of the light-house?”

“It is. I find that fellow’s attachment to Spike very extraordinary, Rose. Can you, in any manner, account for it?”

Rose at first seemed disposed to reply. Her lips parted, as if about to speak, and closed again, as glancing her eyes toward the open door, she seemed to expect the appearance of the steward’s little, rotund form on its threshold, which held her tongue-tied. A brief interval elapsed, however, ere Jack actually arrived, and Rose, perceiving that Harry was curiously expecting her answer, said hurriedly—“it may be hatred, not attachment.”

The next instant Jack Tier entered the room. He had been gone rather more than an hour, not returning until just as the sun was about to set in a flame of fire.

“Well, Jack, what news from the Poughkeepsie?” demanded the mate. “You have been gone long enough to make sure of your errand. Is it certain that we are not to see the man-of-war’s-men to-night?”

“Whatever you see, my advice to you is to keep close, and to be on your guard,” answered Jack, evasively.

“I have little fear of any of Uncle Sam’s craft. A plain story, and an honest heart, will make all clear to a well-disposed listener. We have not been accomplices in Spike’s treasons, and cannot be made to answer for them.”

“Take my advice, maty, and be in no hurry to hail every vessel you see. Uncle Sam’s fellows may not always be at hand to help you. Do you not know that this island will be tabooed to seamen for some time to come?”

“Why so, Jack? The islet has done no harm, though others may have performed wicked deeds near it.”

“Two of the drowned men lie within a hundred yards of this spot, and sailors never go near new-made graves, if they can find any other place to resort to.”

“You deal in enigmas, Jack; and did I not know that you are very temperate, I might suspect that the time you have been gone has been passed in the company of a bottle of brandy.”

“That will explain my meaning,” said Jack, laconically, pointing as he spoke, seemingly at some object that was to be seen without.

The door of the house was wide open, for the admission of air. It faced the haven of the islets, and just as the mate’s eyes were turned to it, the end of a flying-jib boom, with the sail down, and fluttering beneath it, was coming into the view. “The Poughkeepsie!” exclaimed Mulford, in delight, seeing all his hopes realized, while Rose blushed to the eyes. A pause succeeded, during which Mulford drew aside, keeping his betrothed in the back-ground, and as much out of sight as possible. The vessel was shooting swiftly into view, and presently all there could see it was the Swash.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

STOCK-JOBBING IN NEW YORK.

BY PETER PENCIL.

“Nothing venture, nothing win.”

There are comparatively few people, even in New York, who know, or have the most remote idea of, the amount of the daily transactions of various kinds that take place in Wall street. If the truth could be arrived at, it would appear, I doubt not, that the operations there, in the course of a year, exceed, in their aggregate amount, those of all other cities in the United States combined. This opinion may startle some, but it will not startle those who are in the practice of visiting that place, and seeing what is going forward among the countless capitalists, brokers, merchants, and others, whose vocation draws them to that vicinity. Nor can one who is a visiter merely, form a conjecture approximating to the truth, concerning the multiplicity and extent of Wall street affairs, any more than a man who travels straight through the middle of a state, can form an idea as to what quantity of corn is growing upon the whole surface. It would be necessary to penetrate the hundreds of offices, both great and small, public and private, and to see all that is done therein, before one could begin, as the boys say, to estimate the amount of business transacted in that short street, and its immediate vicinity, in the course of a single day.

The stock operations alone would stagger the credulity even of the initiated, who should keep an accurate account of the amount changing hands from day to-day, and sum the whole at the expiration of the year. Many millions’ worth of this species of property would be found to have been bought and sold, making some richer and some poorer, and leaving some, but, doubtless, very few, about the same in purse at the end of the year, as they were at the beginning.

If a person, standing on the steps of the exchange, were endowed with the faculty of reading the heart of every man that passed him, what numbers of agitated bosoms, what hopes, what fears, what emotions of vexation, sorrow, anger, and despair, would come under review; particularly after a panic among the speculators, and a consequent fall of stock!

There are a few fortunate individuals, who owe to Wall street all they possess—having speculated and staked high under the benign influence of Fortune, while that goddess was in a kindly humor; but there are hundreds, nay, thousands, who have seen their wealth melt away there, like snow in a sunny nook on an April morn. “Make or break—neck or no joint,” are the mottoes there; for when a man once gets into the spirit of speculating, as this species of gambling is mildly termed, he is not apt to back out till he has made a fortune, or lost what he possessed—won the horse, or lost the saddle.

The reader will see, in the course of this essay, to which of these categories I belong; for I, too, have been afflicted with the prevailing mania for stock-jobbing, and have shared in the hopes and fears, joy and sorrow, which are produced by the uncertainty of such operations, and the momentous consequences which often follow in their train. It is my purpose to give a short sketch of my doings in that line of business, (now so much in vogue,) for the amusement of those who never go into Wall street, and the benefit of such adventurous spirits as may be disposed to try their fortune at the same table.

It may not be known to the majority of my readers, that the prices of stocks, in New York, are very much influenced by the weather; indeed, I have sometimes thought that their value, as a marketable commodity, depended more on the state of the atmosphere than on their intrinsic worth. I have known a snow-storm cause a sudden fall of two to five per cent.; and an April shower, though it lasted but an hour, more or less, have the same effect to the extent of one or two per cent. I have myself suffered in my speculations by a change of weather; and the only fortunate hit I ever made, I ascribe entirely to the opportune clearing up of a long storm.

It is really surprising what effect the weather has upon the minds of stock-operators. Apparently, those enterprising fellows are as susceptible to the influence of the atmosphere, as poets; though in every thing else, it must be confessed, they are as different from the _genus irritabile vatum_, as Horace calls them, as the orange-water on a lady’s toilet is from the plain, unperfumed Croton in which she laves her hands. On a bright, sunny day their countenances wear a cheerful expression, their bosoms throb with joyful expectations of an advance or fall in prices, as may happen to suit their purpose; and, in a word, they feel richer and better, and are prepared to renew their operations with increased spirit. Hence the expression so often seen in the “Money Articles” of our daily papers, “there was a better feeling at both boards to-day;” and this stereotyped phrase has become equivalent to the announcement that the weather has become exceedingly fine.

In cloudy weather, on the contrary, particularly if it rains, their faces are generally augmented longitudinally to a very considerable extent; and so true an interpreter is a broker’s face of the state of the heavens, that one might safely depend on it for information without looking at the sky. I regard a speculator’s countenance as far more reliable than a weathercock, because I have known the latter to deceive me by pointing westward, when, according to the weather, it should have stood in the opposite stormy quarter. But the face of a stock-operator of New York was never known to play tricks of this kind, within the far-reaching memory of that most respectable, and often referred-to individual, the Oldest Inhabitant. No man ever saw a smile on his phiz, except when the sun shone.

There are some shrewd men in New York, who perfectly understand these “skyey influences,” and regulate their speculative movements accordingly—buying in a storm, especially if it be a long and severe one, and selling out whenever the succeeding clear weather has produced a favorable reaction in prices. One rich individual, living up town, the moment he rises in the morning, opens his window and looks at the vane on a neighboring steeple—the only part of the church, by the way, he cares a fig about—and if the wind happen to blow from a rainy point, he hastens down town, and orders his broker to dive deep into some of the “fancies.” If, however, the day be clear, he stays at home, his broker being already instructed to sell out some previous purchase, as soon as the weather should warrant.

But the weather, though a most powerful agent in the fluctuation of prices, is by no means the only cause of those great and sudden changes in the marketable value of “securities,” which take money from one pocket, and put it into another. An apprehension, well or ill founded, (it is the same thing in effect,) of an increased demand for money; a paragraph in a newspaper, announcing, mysteriously, that some sort of news, concerning nobody knows what, may be expected in a few days; wars, and rumors of wars; and reports about different matters, however trifling and uninteresting to the majority of the people; all these are sufficient to dash a broker’s spirits; and produce a panic in the market.

Stepping into the great room of the exchange one day, to see the doings at the public board of brokers, I, like the rest of the crowd that stood looking on, became interested in their proceedings, and was soon seized with a desire to try my luck in speculation. I had previously heard of this man and that, having realized their thousands in as many weeks; and as stocks were advancing, and likely, for aught that appeared, to have an “upward tendency” for some time to come, I saw no good reason why I, too, might not increase my little capital in the same rapid manner. “The prospect before us is cheering,” said I to myself, “the boundary question, thanks to the great Daniel, is settled; money is plentiful, and as cheap as dirt; and, in all human probability, Harry Clay, or somebody equally worthy, will be our next president. It follows, therefore, as a necessary consequence, that good dividend-paying stocks must advance.”

Now this seemed well reasoned, to say the least, and the conclusion a just one; but, alas! for human foresight! the good stocks, in which alone I ventured at first, like a balking horse, stood still, or if they moved at all, refused to budge an inch in the right direction. The _bad_ stocks, those not intrinsically worth a fig, were those which I should have purchased. _They_ went up like a rocket; but mine, from the moment that I bought it, seemed to have suddenly acquired one of the properties of lead, for it would go down, in spite of every effort made to keep it up—and the papers called it _heavy_. Heavy enough I found it, heaven knows! But I am anticipating, and running ahead of my story.

When I entered the exchange, I was the possessor of fifteen hundred dollars—the savings of many years of industry; but I was tired of work, and longed to make a fortune rather by the exercise of intellect, than by the labor of my hands. It promised me a fortune in a hundredth part of the time that it would take me to accumulate one in any other way; and then it was so fine, I thought, to be considered a heavy dealer in stocks, and to be regarded as a great, bold operator, and a capitalist. How could I, with such lofty ideas in my head, and with such a consciousness of possessing superior tact and talent, go back quietly to _work_! Pah! the very thought of such a thing sickened me.

I caught the eye of a broker with whom I was acquainted, and, having beckoned him to me, requested him to buy ten thousand dollars worth of Ohio sixes, at the market price, which happened, I remember, (and I shall never forget it the longest day I live,) to be one hundred and four. The day was pleasant, the room light, and well filled with cheerful spectators; the brokers were in good spirits, and disposed to go deep in their favorite game, and, to use a common expression, the steam was up to the highest point at both boards, and in the street.

Methinks I hear some one ask how so much stock was paid for by a man worth but fifteen hundred dollars, all told. Innocent one! I will tell thee. I borrowed the money, or about ninety per cent. of it at least, for a few days, and gave the stock itself as security. How simple! did I hear thee say? Truly the process was exceedingly simple; natheless I advise thee not to follow my example.

I considered myself uncommonly lucky in thus securing what I wanted at so low a price, as I then regarded it; for the broker assured me, and such seemed to be the prevailing opinion among the knowing ones, that the stock I bought would rise six per cent. at least within two or three months. _I_ expected, so sanguine is my temperament, to sell at that advance in less than a fortnight; and already considered myself as six hundred dollars richer than I was before. “A nice little sum that,” thought I, “for a beginning, and will furnish the out-goings for a month, next summer, at Saratoga, and the disbursements of a trip to Niagara, returning by way of Montreal, Quebec, and Lake George.”

There is a proverb about counting the young of barn-yard fowls, before the tender chickens are fairly out of their shells; which proverb admonishes us never to make such a reckoning till the hatching is completed, lest we should be disappointed as to the number. Experience has taught me that this proverb, with some slight verbal alterations, would apply equally well to the expected profits from speculation in stocks. One should never count his gains, nor appropriate them to any specific purpose, until they be realized.

In a day or two I found, much to my chagrin, that the stock I had so fortunately purchased, instead of being on the high road to one hundred and ten, began to grow tired of advancing, as though it were leg-weary, and turning suddenly about, took, like a school-boy coming home, “cross lots” the shortest possible way back to its old position on the wrong side of par. I ascribe this sudden change to two causes; first, _I_ was the owner of some of the stock, which reason was enough of itself to knock down that or any other security; as I never in my life touched any thing of the kind that did not immediately become “heavy,” and of less value than it was before. Tom Moore complained most beautifully of similar ill-luck, and said, in his own inimitable way,

“I never nursed a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die.”

And I can and do say with more truth, (for Tom evidently fibbed, or rather made Hinda do so,) and with equally good rhymes, that

I never bought a single mill
Of stock, in that vile street named Wall,
That rose a peg, or e’en stood still;
Dod rot it!—_it was sure to fall._

Secondly, a paragraph appeared in the Herald, saying something about England and war; and this circumstance, combined with the fact of my being a holder, was too much for Ohio sixes, and down they went. Nothing short of a miracle could have sustained them under such a pressure. But this was not all; for, in the incipient stage of the panic which followed, the wind suddenly veered round to north-east, and a storm came on to increase the difficulty. Such a scene as ensued has rarely been witnessed since Wall street became a theatre for speculation. Faces became elongated many hundred feet in the aggregate; eyes opened to their widest capacity, and seemed to be looking wildly about for that greatest of bug-bears, the British; and every speculator’s heart, like Macbeth’s, did

————“Knock at the ribs,
Against the use of nature,”

as though some terrible calamity, involving the annihilation of every thing in the shape of stocks and money, were impending.

If some giant from another globe had come upon the earth, and suddenly knocked the foundation stones from under that noble structure, the merchants’ exchange, the crash would hardly have been greater or more alarming than that which took place, on the day in question, among the stocks. I stood silently by, and saw my property vanish, as it were, before my eyes; but I will not attempt to describe my feelings, for I am sure that I should not be able to convey an idea of them to the reader’s mind. Suffice it to say that I was hurt—cut to the very soul. “Farewell, Niagara, Quebec, and Montreal,” thought I; “if I can keep out of the almshouse, the way things are going, I shall be remarkably lucky.”

After consulting with my friend, the broker, who, to do him justice, it must be confessed, gave me the best advice that his fears permitted, I concluded to sell out my stock at ninety-eight, while it was on the descent, and buy again the moment it should reach the lowest point, which the broker and I thought would be about ninety. Then, if our expectations should be realized, and the stock again reach what I had before given, namely, one hundred and four, it is clear that I should, beside recovering my loss, make eight per cent. profit.

Here was a most glorious opportunity for a speculation—one of those that occur about twice in a century. It was a happy thought in me to sell even at a great loss, with a view of repurchasing on better terms; and I could not help regarding it as a singularly bold move—one indicating great genius, and just such a one as Napoleon himself, under similar circumstances, might have conceived and made. I became elated at the prospect, and bade my friend sell out with all possible expedition. He did so at ninety-eight, being a loss to me of six per cent., or six hundred dollars—a pretty fair clip from the back of my little capital of fifteen hundred.

I should have been exceedingly annoyed by this docking of my fortune, had not the certainty which I felt of making good the deficiency, encouraged me; and but for the most perfect confidence I entertained in the success of my next adventure, I should, in all human probability, have retired from Wall street with much the same feeling that a fox has when he sneaks off to his hole, after parting with his tail in a trap.

But what short-sighted mortals we are, and how the blindfolded goddess loves to sport with human calculations!

————Heu, Fortuna, quis est crudelior in nos
Te Deus?—ut semper gaudes illudere rebus
Humanis!

exclaimed Horace; and depend upon it, if stocks were the subject of traffic in Rome, he had just been nicked when he wrote that passage. Most courteous reader, I was doomed to suffer another grievous disappointment; stocks took a different turn from what I had expected. The storm cleared away, and the panic abated. The sun again shone out bright, and smiles reappeared on the brokers’ faces. Prices had reached their lowest point, precisely at the moment that I sold out mine, and instead of going down to ninety, as they would have done had I continued to hold, they “rallied,” as the saying is, and rose to par. I looked and felt _blue_, and counted over my money again and again; I ciphered and calculated for half a morning, in endeavoring to make my loss less than it was. It was of no use, however, for the result of my counting and my ciphering were precisely the same, showing a deficiency of six hundred dollars and the brokerage. “O, if I could but get back my stock,” thought I, “I would hold it till doomsday, before I would again sell it for a less sum than it cost me.” That was an idle thought, for the money having been borrowed, I had not the power to do as I wished.

Well, I found that complaining would do no good, and it was plain that I could not recover my losses by sitting down and doing nothing; beside, it was very unlike a bold operator—a Napoleon of the exchange—to be disheartened by the first reverse or two; so I determined, as there was now a strong probability of an immediate advance of prices, to get back my Ohio stock at par. I was too late in deciding by a day, and was obliged to give one per cent. premium. That trifling difference, however, I did not regard; for what was one per cent., more or less, to a man who was sure of making ten of them?

I now felt certain that I had hit the nail on the head. “_Rem tetigi acu_,” said I; and what made me more confident of success was the fact, that the newspapers, disagreeing upon almost every other subject, were agreed upon one point, namely, that, in consequence of the “better feeling” that prevailed, stocks would certainly rise. I believed them, having naturally a strong inclination to credit what I see in print.

A good feeling unquestionably did exist at the time I bought, and the prices of stocks were likewise very good; but, as usual, when the time came in which I was compelled to sell, a very different feeling seemed to be rife, and symptoms of another panic began to make their appearance simultaneously with the approach of a storm. On the day I sold out, everything was at sixes and sevens; the rain came down in floods, the wind blew, and the whole army of brokers, like a flock of sheep that had lost their shepherd, were again in the greatest alarm and confusion. My poor stock, like the parting spirit of Napoleon, went off in a whirlwind, at ninety-eight; and I went home that day mad, and drenched with rain, (having mislaid my umbrella,) and a loser of three hundred dollars more. I felt exceedingly bad—I was disgusted.

The prospect of my going to Niagara was now unpromising; and I prudently resolved to postpone the visit for another year at least. Such a thing was not again to be thought of, till, in gambler’s phrase, I should be on velvet, that is, have some winnings over and above my capital; but so far from being on velvet, I was on the sharpest kind of paving-stones, nay, figuratively speaking, I was on spikes. I was now reduced to the point of struggling, not for victory, but for safety; and I was like a general who, having abandoned all hopes of conquest, would be too happy to save his own bacon, and get safe home. My discouragement, however, was of short duration, and with my reviving spirits, I resumed the hazardous business.

I made several other operations in what are technically called the “fancies”—stocks that pay no dividends, and the value of which is rather imaginary or fanciful, (whence their name, probably,) than real. I had enough of good stocks—they had well-nigh ruined me; and I resolved to try my luck among those that are good for nothing, except to be bought and sold. Ill-fortune still pursued me. What with stormy weather, increased demand for money, paragraphs containing bad news from Washington, and flying reports of some diabolical measure contemplated by England, all my adventures turned out unfavorably, and I was reduced in pocket to a very low ebb. My little capital was on its last legs.

One day, almost in despair, I took up a newspaper, (it was the Journal of Commerce,) and my eye alighted on a remark of the editor’s to the effect that a stock-speculator should be in no hurry either to buy or sell; but, waiting coolly and patiently for opportunities, with his feet elevated upon a stove, he should always buy when stocks are low, and sell out when they are high. I was struck with amazement at the wisdom displayed in this advice, and wondered why so obviously correct a course had not occurred to me in my deep cogitations upon this subject. It was perfectly plain—a child might see it—that if this recommendation were strictly followed, success would crown my efforts; and I forthwith determined to commence another career on this excellent and safe principle. Failure was impossible. “Buy when they are low,” I repeated, “and sell when they are high. How wonderful, yet, at the same time, how simple!” I had all along been pursuing the wrong track. My practice had been, whatever my intentions were, to buy when they were high, and sell when they were low; and this had been the result of a want of patience, and of too much precipitancy in my purchases and sales. I was now in possession of a grand secret, and that secret was to WAIT, BUY LOW AND SELL HIGH.

Well, I did wait, and that most patiently, for a fall of stocks—and a fall at length occurred, a greater one than had been known for a long time, and prices were depressed below what they had been in several months. “Now,” thought I, “is the time to take down my feet from the stove, and walk into the fancies;” whereupon I went into Wall street, and borrowed a considerable sum for a fortnight, pledging the stock as security, according to the _modus operandi_ well understood in that region. Every thing promised well; and I felt encouraged, deeming it next to impossible that fortune should always fight against me. I bought the stock very low, comparatively, and went home to replace my feet upon the stove, and await patiently another rise.

No rise, however, occurred within the fortnight that I was able to hold my new acquisition. Prices moved, it is true, but they moved the wrong way for me; they “advanced backward.” I thought when I purchased, that they were low enough in all conscience; but it appears there were lower depths still to which they were destined to attain. _I did not wait long enough._ The principle on which I had acted was a good one—the fault was in me.

A man falling from the roof of a house, would not reach the ground more quickly than my stock tumbled to a point five per cent. below what I had given. A new element had arisen to produce this sudden, unlooked for, and extraordinary change. The Texas question came upon the brokers like a thunderbolt, knocking every thing into a cocked-hat; and the upshot was, that I sold my stock at a loss which swept away the remainder of my capital, and left me as penniless as a street-beggar.

This was the last of my operations; and thus the savings of several years disappeared like dew on a summer’s morning. Nor is that the worst feature of this unfortunate business; for the excitement of speculation, the handling of large sums of money, the high-wrought expectation of realising large profits in a short time, have totally unfitted me for the labors by which I accumulated what money I have lost. How can I go to work again on a mere salary, two-thirds of which I must spend in support of my family, the remainder being a petty sum only, which any lucky broker would make on a clear morning at a single throw? I am ready to die through pure vexation; but I’ll not leave the ground yet. I know a friend who will lend me five hundred dollars, and by hypothecating the stock I shall buy, I can borrow of Jack Little five thousand. Yes, I must have one more chance—_one_ more—and then, if fortune favors me, as she always does the brave, (so the Latin grammar declares,) I shall soon be on my feet again; but if she should continue to frown, and disappoint my hopes, I will abandon speculation forever—perhaps.

* * * * *

JACOB’S DREAM. GEN. XXVIII, _10, 11, 12_.]

* * * * *

JACOB’S DREAM.

WITH AN ENGRAVING.

The Patriarch slept—and dreaming there appeared,
In the deep watches of the silent night,
A ladder, high from earth to heaven upreared,
Steadfast and firm, to his astonished sight:
And seraph angels thronged that thoroughfare,
Descending from the glorious realms above,
And thence returning, their bright robes to wear
In the pure presence of the God of love.

The Patriarch listened—and his Maker’s voice
Broke with soft music on his raptured ear.
Quelling his fears and bidding him rejoice
In the abundance of a Father’s care.
Wide as the earth shall Israel’s power extend,
Countless as ocean’s sands his issue be,
While all the nations to his rule shall bend,
And in his seed a rich salvation see.

The Patriarch from his wondrous dream awoke,
And knew that the Almighty Lord was there—
And where the Maker to the creature spoke,
Built him an altar sanctified with prayer.
So, when the Lord with tender care imparts
Unnumbered blessings to us, let us raise,
Like Israel’s Patriarch, in believing hearts,
Altars of love and thankfulness and praise.

* * * * *

LOLAH LALANDE.

A PACKAGE FROM MY OLD WRITING-DESK.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

She can show art rules to astonish her.
How like the nimble winds, which play upon
The tender grass, yet press it not, or fly
Over the crystal face of smoothest streams,
Leaving no curl behind them.
She makes
Motion the god of every excellence,
And what the muses would with study find,
She teaches in her dancing——
To me
It must suffice only to say, ’tis she.
Beaumont & Fletcher.

“Here I am again, dear Miss Enna,” said my darling, pretty friend, Kate Wilson, to me the other morning.

I have already introduced Kate to you, dear reader; and if you had looked into the deep wells of her beaming, bright eye as often as I have, and heard the rich, gushing music of her laugh, you would hail her approach, even though she did plunge unceremoniously into your _sanctum_, and interrupt you in your studies, or your deep divings into your imagination for something particularly clever, out of which to form a “readable story” for “Mr. Graham’s next Monthly.”

I felt a little annoyed, I must admit, on the morning in question, for I was very earnestly engaged—not in writing, dear reader; oh, no! I spared you that one morning—but in looking over an old writing-desk, that I had not opened for years. It was one that belonged to my mother; and one part I had devoted to her treasured gifts, in the other, for it is a large, capacious, old-fashioned affair, not at all like the little rosewood, mother-of-pearl inlaid thing which has usurped its place on my writing-table; in the other part I have stored gifts, letters, and remembrances of my school-girl days; and this part I was exploring as Kate entered. I had just been sighing over a package, containing letters, a bracelet of hair, and a faded bunch of flowers—mementoes of a dear friend, long since laid in the cold grave, and was almost weeping over remembrances of the past. To me that is the only sad thing in growing old. If those we love could only live to cheer and comfort us, old age would have no terrors. A single woman feels this particularly; for if a woman marries, she forms new connections, and looks forward to a new life, and new interests, in the future of her children; but “we poor old maids” are oftentimes very lonely.