Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

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

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

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

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

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

After these dispositions and directions, the testator proceeds:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He also states his motives, as follows:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HELTER-SKELTER PAPERS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

'But you digress,' some impatient reader suggests.

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

SKETCHES OF THE ORIENT.

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

This is peculiarly verified in the 'Orient,' the most ancient of climes and lands. Through the mist of so many centuries, so many thousands of years, the 'far East' has followed the 'even tenor of its way' through revolutions and systems; its usages have been consecrated by time, and the parent has handed down to his son the usages which were more nearly allied to the natural state of man than those of the more famed and progressing 'West.' The animal has had more sway than the intellectual part of his nature, and what the curious traveler most admires is the still primitive condition of the latter. Violence there reigns superior to reason, and if changes be made, the former consults but little the latter in the measures which it adopts for the prosecution of its plans. There is seldom any appeal made by the reformer to the understandings of the people to be reformed; they must blindly adopt the innovations offered, and this without the means of contrasting what they are thus compelled to receive at the hand of the bestower with what they forsake. Tossed in the billows of doubt, they are exposed to the rocks of misconception, and are too often wrecked through the total absence of any chart to guide them in their new voyage of life. The transitory step is always a dangerous one to a people who have not entire confidence in their leader, for his plans may inspire neither conviction nor approval, and if they fail, leave his followers exposed to all the fury of storms without any haven in which to seek a refuge.

Sultan Mahmoud, believing that European civilization was superior to that of the East, imagined that he adopted it, when he only assumed its exterior, the costume of Frankistan. How little did he know of the defects to which this simplest part of it led. Luckily, he adopted only the habiliments of the male sex, leaving those of the female unchanged. The flowing robes, full of ease and comfort; the turban, soft to the head, and giving it protection from the colds of winter and the heats of summer; the commodious shoe, which leaves the feet uncrumpled and free from the results of the tighter and closer ones of the West, were laid aside for the dress of Europe. The only part of the garb which we use, that he did not assume and compel his people to accept, was the unseemly and uncomfortable hat, and this he would also have taken, had religion not interposed to prevent it. Of all parts of the Christian's costume, the hat is the most calculated to inspire disgust in the sight of the native of the Orient, and if ever he adopts it, it is because it is supposed to cover him with protection against the injustice of his own rulers, and not from any preference or even choice. It is always an object of ridicule, and serves to point many a remark of derision and contempt against the wearer. On the other hand, what is more noble and dignified than the turban, with its snowy white folds, or its varied hues of green or red? Just as the external appearance of the colored man, and the knowledge of his total deprivation of civil abilities perpetuates the existing prejudice against him, so does the dress of the Frank clothe him with all that is distasteful and revolting in the eyes of the native of the East, with his prejudices dating back to the earlier days of the prophets. To pass over the external appearances of the reformed Eastern, let us examine the results of the civilization of Europe with which his costume has clothed him. Tight clothes have unfitted him for the broad and soft luxury of the sofa, and many persons resume the flowing robe and full trowsers within doors, so as to be able to enjoy the comforts which they lost with them. For the same reason, they must sit at a high table, on a high chair. The sleeve of the tight coat scarcely permits of being rolled up, so that the man of the East can return to his primitive use of his fingers in place of the fork, and for this he rejects the coat for the flowing pelisse, or he goes to his meal in his shirt-sleeves. It is amusing to see the _homme de bureau_, or the humble clerk, endeavoring to sit on his sofa cross-legged, with his writing paraphernalia before him as formerly, or to examine the broad chair which he has had to invent, so as to suit himself to his new transitory state. It may even be doubted whether he has gained any thing by the change, as a _cavalier_, for the full trowsers were far more comfortable than the present tight pantaloons, and any one who has seen the Bedouin horsemen, with their commodious saddles and flowing robes, must have given them his entire approbation in point of contrasted beauty.