Chapter VI: Front Matter (6)

The Rev. James Laboire was the first pastor of the _Saint-Esprit_, which soon numbered a flourishing congregation. Some of its members would walk from New-Rochelle, on Saturday night, to worship God in this place, and thus spending the holy day, would return home again in the evening, joyfully singing Marot's old French hymns to cheer them by the way. The Staten-Island Huguenots would make the same pious journey in their light skiffs and boats. For some years Mr. Laboire, the pastor, toward his support was 'allowed a yearly sallary of twenty pounds per ann. out of ye Revenue of this Province.' The religious services were here performed in the primitive manner of the French Calvinistic churches; but after the sovereignty of the English was established over the Dutch, the forms of their church worship were gradually introduced, until at length the Huguenot congregation united with the Protestant Episcopal, in this diocese.

In the _Documentary History of New-York_, vol iii. p. 427, may be found an old curious article, entitled, 'A Full and Just Discovery of the weak and slender foundation of a most Pernicious SLANDER, raised against the FRENCH PROTESTANT REFUGEES, inhabiting the Province of New-York, generally, but more particularly affecting Captain BENJAMIN FANUEL, a person of considerable note amongst them. Printed and published by license of his Excellency Edward Viscount Cornbury, Captain-General and Governor-in-Chief of the said Province, in favor of Justice.'

It appears that one Morris Newinhuysen, a mate of a vessel, in 1706, was taken by the French, and a prisoner of war, at New-York, reported that the 'French Protestants' here corresponded with 'the inhabitants of France, tending to the taking and destruction of this city, by Her Majesty's declared enemies.' The New-York Huguenots considered this accusation a 'crime of so high a nature in itself,' and so 'altogether false and untrue,' as to petition Governor Burnet to cause 'the said Morris Newinhuysen, and all others who may appear concerned, to be strictly examined upon the same report, and if found out, be punished according to the nature of the crime.' This petition is dated 'February 10, 1707/8,' and signed by 'Stephen D'Lancey, Elias Nezereau, Abraham Jouneau, Thomas Bayeux, Elias Neau, Paul Deoilet, Augustus Jay, Jean Cazale, Benjamin Fanuel.' These must have been leading Huguenots at the time. To another petition of a similar character, we find the names of Daniel Cromelin, John Auboyneau, Francis Vincent, Alexander Allaire. His Excellency the Governor, ordered the report to be considered, which was done, when his Council reported that there was not 'any ground to suspect Captain Faneuil of holding a correspondence with France.' This was cheering news to the 'French Refugees' in the Province of New-York, as such a slanderous report, to use their own language on the occasion, was 'of pernicious consequence to all the French refugees in general, and disturbs their peace and quiet, and obstructs that affection and familiarity which they had formerly enjoyed with the other inhabitants of this Province, to their just grief and resentment.'

The Rev. Louis Rou was also a pastor of the 'Reformed Protestant French Church in New-York.' As early as the year 1713, among other names in its official records, are found John Barberie, elder, Louis Carré, ancien, Jean Lafont, ancien, André Fuyneau, ancien.' During the year 1724, there was great excitement in the French congregation, caused by a party question. Stephen De Lancey, a wealthy merchant, and patron of the church, with others became dissatisfied with the pastor. He was dismissed for want of zeal, and for innovations which they contended he had introduced into their church discipline; but the minister, with his friends, appealed from this decision to Governor Burnet and his Council, when they sustained him. Indignant memorials were published by both parties, and things went so far, that when De Lancey was elected to the Colonial Assembly, the Governor refused to administer his oath of office, alleging that he was not a subject of the British crown. De Lancey, the Huguenot, contended that he had left France before the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and had received denization in England, under the great seal of James II. He was right, and the Assembly sustained his argument and claims against his Excellency the 'Captain-General and Governor-in-Chief of the Provinces of New-York, New-Jersies, and Territories thereon depending in America.'

For the curious in old families, among the official friends of the French minister, we find James Gou, John Hastier, Elias Pelletreau, Jr., Jean Va Chan, Andrew Foucault, Jacques Bobin, N. Cazalet, Samuel Bourdet, David Le Febrer, Francois Bourdet, Peter Morgat. They testify to Mr. Rou's 'exemplary piety and instruction for upwards of fourteen years,' which 'have rendered him exceedingly estimable to all who knows him, which can't but be acknowledged even by those who are now the occasion of this trouble.' We find a more general list of French families, his friends also, and dated thirty-first December, 1724, and they speak well of him, 'with edification, always leading an exemplary life:' James Bergerron, Francis Bosset, Daniel Girand, Daniel Gailliard, Elias Chardavoine, Paul Pelletreau, James Many, Gamaliel Guyele, Anthony Pintard, Jeremie La Touche, Samuel Bourdet, Jean Bachan, Elie Mainburt, Andrew Richard, James Belleveau, Peter Quintard, John Bosset, James Bobin, Daniel Bossuet, Charles Jardin, Amand Perot, William Huertin, John Vezier, Peter Dennys Doctr, John Many, Peter Tillou, Peter Ebrard, Henry Collier, John David, Noe Cazalet, Gabriel Le Boyteix, Jr., Elias Groséllier, Andrew Girand, Francis Baumier, James Des Brosses, James Renaudet, Lawrence Cornisleau, Daniel Mesnard, John Ganeau, Peter Monget, John Hastier, David Le Telier, Jean Le Chevalier, Philip Gilliot, Abraham Bertrand, Abraham Butler, Daniel Cromelin, John Pintard, Abraham Pontereau, Peter Burton, Stephen Bourdet, Paul Pinaud, Peter Fauconnier. As the same old chronicle says: 'Here followeth the names of the widow women, and others, members of the same church:' Rachel Ebrard, Elizabeth Heurtin, Marie Anne Ablin, Magdalene Fauconnier, Anne Bachan, Mary Perot, Susanne Magle Bosset, Mary Sergeran, Esther Bouniot, Marquise Boyteul, Martha Brown, Renée Mary Rou, Judith Morget, Martha Pentereau, Mary Bargeau, Susanne Boutecon, Susanne Ford, Mary Oaks, Mary Ellison, Martha Perot, Esther Masse, Elizabeth Tillou.

At this period, a Rey. Mr. Moulinars was the assistant minister of Mr. Rou, and united with the party who opposed him, and they also have left records of their views, in which they claim to have paid Mr. Rou in full, and that then the Consistory could dismiss him when they saw fit. 'We are not indebted unto Mr. Rou one farthing for all the time he hath served us,' is their language, and to their official act are the signatures of 'I. I. Moulinars, ministre, John Barheweeld, Louis Carréansien, Abraham Gouneau, ans., Fran. Cazalz, ans., René Het, ans., January twenty-eighth, 1724.' Still the Council decided in favor of Mr. Rou, and were 'of opinion that the said congregation be admonished that every person in it do all in his power to preserve peace and unanimity in their congregation.' That body also advised 'that the ministers of the French congregation who shall officiate next Sunday be ordered to read publicly the said opinion and admonition, immediately after divine service in the forenoon.'

All these efforts did not produce harmony in the French congregation. Moulinars evidently had a restless spirit, and was much opposed to the Church of England, at that time the established religion of the New-York Colony, and respected by many of the Huguenots. Through his efforts, a 'meeting-house' was erected for the French refugees at New-Rochelle, and its members numbered one hundred persons. One old document (May twelfth, 1725) records 'that the said Mr. Moulinars has declared (as can be proved) that he finds our Church (Episcopal) and that of Rome as like one another as two fishes can be ... and one of the chiefest reasons of this violence against Mr. Rou has no other ground than his constant affection to the Church, and the public approbation he has at all times given to its ceremonies and doctrines.' The churchmen also complained that Moulinars caused 'great prejudice in general to the Church of England, and in particular to that of New-Rochelle, where he would come quarterly from New-York, and plead among the people.' New-Rochelle was then a parish, and its rector, of course, considered the French preacher a dissenter. From the parochial account of the former, the town embraced two Quaker families, three Dutch ones, four Lutherans, and several of the French; and the Huguenots settling among them in the year 1726, gathered a congregation of 'about one hundred persons.'

The Rev. Messrs. Daille and Labord appear early to have served the French Protestant Church in New-York; but of the latter we have learned nothing. The former had been pastor awhile to the French Protestants in Boston. About the year 1690, the Dutch Church Consistory employed Mr. Daille to preach to the French in their own language, at New-York, and also to conduct the religious services of the pulpit during a part of the Lord's day.

In 1763, Jean Carll was the pastor of Du Saint-Esprit, for we discover his name, together with Peter Vallade and James Desbrosses, the present elders, Daniel Bounet and Charles Jardine, the present deacons of the French Protestant Church in the city of New-York, to a petition for a charter. Their church property, they state, was purchased agreeable to an act of the Legislature in 1703; 'a decent edifice for the public worship of Almighty God, according to the usage of the French Protestant Churches,' erected; 'and the residue they devoted to the use of the cemetery or church-yard for the interment of their dead.' 'Ever since, they have maintained a succession of ministers there, who have dispensed the ordinances of divine worship in the French tongue.' Besides this property, they received the rents of a house and parcel of ground in the township of Breucklin, on Nassau Island, near the ferry, and the French Church now asked from the legislative authorities a proper charter. With honest pride they boast, in their petition, of the most inviolable fidelity 'to all those indulgent states and powers who protected them from the merciless rage of their Popish persecutors. As your petitioners in particular are the descendants of a people who suffered the greatest hardships and flew from their native country to preserve the purity of the Christian faith and worship.' Eloquent and truthful words. The Huguenots were a great blessing to every land where they settled. The name of their body politic was 'the Ministers, Elders, and Deacons of the Protestant French Church of the City of New-York.'

During the Revolutionary War, New-York became literally a city of prisons. The pews of the North Dutch Church in William street were used for fuel, and eight hundred American prisoners were incarcerated within its old walls, without fuel or bedding, and here many died from cold and starvation. The 'Brick Meeting,' in Beekman street, was also used at first for a prison, and afterward changed into an hospital. The Rose-street Friends' Meeting-house and the Wall-street Presbyterian church became hospitals also, and Du Saint-Esprit was made a dépôt for military stores. The Middle Dutch, the present Post-Office, stripped of its sacred furniture, was the abode of three thousand American prisoners. 'Here,' says John Pintard, himself a most respectable member of the Protestant French Church near by, and an eye-witness of the disgusting sight, 'the prisoners taken on Long Island and at Fort Washington--sick, wounded, and well--were all indiscriminately huddled together by hundreds and thousands, large numbers of whom died by disease, and many were undoubtedly poisoned by their inhuman attendants, for the sake of their watches or silver buckles.' The suffering inmates were afterward transferred to other places of confinement, and the venerable building turned into a riding-school for the British dragoons. Its floor was taken up, the ground covered with tan-bark, and the window-sashes removed for this sacrilegious purpose. The French Huguenot church remained in its original form one hundred and thirty years, until 1834, when it was taken down, the grounds sold, and its dead disinterred and removed to other resting-places. In their native lands, the ashes of the Huguenots would sometimes be dug up, burned, and scattered by persecuting hands to the winds of the heavens; but in ours--Protestant and more favored--their sainted dust, wherever buried, is watched and preserved with pious care and affectionate fidelity. It would be a pleasant but an impossible duty to trace the histories of thousands of our most excellent New-Yorkers, whose pious ancestors worshiped God in the old sanctuary of Du Saint-Esprit, and whose ashes reposed, in Christian hope, alongside of its humble and venerable walls. But records are scarcely to be found. Still we may love their characters and strive to imitate their noble and generous virtues. Hallowed be those precious memories!

The remains of many Huguenots repose among the innumerable dead of old Trinity church-yard, that vast home of the departed; and where can be found their memorials of honor, patriotism, and exalted piety. Here lie the ashes of the Rev. Elias Neau, near its northern porch. He was a man of more than ordinary eminence; his life useful, beneficial, and religious. Mr. Neau was the paternal ancestor of Mrs. Commodore Oliver H. Perry, of Rhode-Island.

Previous to his escape from France, he suffered confinement for several years in the prisons and galleys, and while in his dungeons, learned by heart the liturgy, and became attached to the English Church service. When the Rev. Mr. Vesey was rector of Trinity, Mr. Neau was appointed catechist of that church. For a number of years, he faithfully discharged the duties of this important appointment among the Indians and the slaves, of whom some fifteen hundred were catechumens in the city of New-York. He could only collect them together on Sunday nights, after the last public services; and when properly prepared, would present them to Mr. Vesey, for baptism. Mr. Neau may be said to have founded the Free School of Trinity, an institution so useful and well known among the noble charities of New-York. Its former tablet is still preserved among the mementoes of the olden time. This excellent Huguenot closed his useful life in 1722, resting from his earthly labors alongside of God's holy temple, where he had so long worshiped and' served him.

The Rev. Elias Neau, his wife Susannah, and daughter Judith, left France, for America, with the Huguenots, about 1685. Judith married a Rabineau in New-York, and their only child, Marie, married Daniel Ayrault; their issue was six sons and five daughters; and the second son, Daniel, married Susannah Eargrass, whose children were Daniel and Mary Ayrault. Mary married Benjamin Mason, and their children were two sons and two daughters. The eldest son, Benjamin Mason, M.D., was educated in England, marrying Margaret Champlin, of Newport, R. I., and their issue was three sons and one daughter. This daughter, Elizabeth Champlin Mason, became the wife of the patriotic and brave Captain Oliver Hazard Perry, of the United States Navy. From this last union were four sons and one daughter, Elizabeth Mason Perry. This daughter married the Rev. Francis Vinton; and their children, seven sons and three daughters, make the _eighth_ generation from their venerable, pious Huguenot ancestor; Mr. Vinton himself serving in holy things at the same sacred altar of old Trinity, where the Rev. Elias Neau worshiped, and after a lapse of one hundred and fifty years. How enduring is sacred truth! It will abide forever.

Johannes Delamontagnie was another Huguenot refugee, who reached New-Amsterdam in 1773. Governor Kieft appointed him a member of his council, then the second office in the colonial government. He purchased a farm of two hundred acres at Harlaem, for seven hundred and twenty dollars, naming it' Vriedendel', (Valley of Peace.) The land was situated East of the Eighth Avenue, between Ninety-third street and the Harlem river. His grandson, named Vincent, died in May, 1773, at the very advanced age of one hundred and sixteen years. Numerous descendants are still among us from this early French Protestant emigrant, although some abbreviations have been made in the name.

THE BANE OF OUR COUNTRY.

While sharing the Provost-Marshal's office, in Portsmouth, Virginia, I was struck with the almost utter absence of cultivation of the understanding of the people living there or in the surrounding country, who entered to obtain passes, or for other purposes. Scarce one of them at first appreciated the nature of an oath, which they all shrank from taking, or objected to, when proposed as a condition of obtaining either the passes or the protection they wished. They were not merely illiterate and untaught, but showed also an extremely low grade of reasoning power. There was, indeed, in most cases, but little development even of those lower grades of intellectual ability which are so frequently seen in simply 'illiterate' persons. They hung back from committing themselves, in any way, as friendly to us, though they evidently did not feel that hatred or ill-feeling characteristic of the bolder secessionist. I afterward saw many more of these people, in Norfolk, at our office. With our continued occupancy of the city, and in the absence of any aggressive action by our Government, they presented themselves more frequently. Among them there was occasionally one who avowed himself, without reservation, for the Union. These people are, I am confident, the only ones in the rebellious States who are other than secessionists. Love of the Union--that which the reader identifies with patriotism and nationality--they had not, because this can nowhere be found in the rebellious States, except in isolated instances. That they remained silent and subdued under the progress of the acts of the secessionists, and never raised hand or voice in contradiction to them, proves in this class an absence of that force of character, or of that moral courage or 'energy' which is the distinguishing attribute of our Northern people, even the poorest, and this was also evinced when we first occupied the town. It was not peacefulness of disposition which I remarked, but the lack first, of _decision of character_, and next, of _decision of understanding_ respecting the questions at issue. In conversation they could express only very simple notions, nor could I promptly elicit more from them. Even their feelings lacked the qualities of force and intensity. Yet this class is next to the ruling and leading part of the population, which is composed of planters, cotton, tobacco, and produce factors' families, professional men, and others, who court patronage, including shopkeepers, small manufacturers, and money-lenders, and who support in political affairs _their_ own _clientéle_ of supporters. The latter people constitute the determinedly rebellious. It is the first class only, that we can regard as the sole support to Unionism which there is in the rebellious States; but in them we shall find no moral force or power even when the reign of the leading class shall have ceased. These facts, I am aware, are in striking contrast to the usual estimation of the courage and daring of the people of the South. But the usual estimation is true only of the people who have a concert of interest in slavery, and who, whatever their petty disagreements may be, concur in their politics. Nowhere, therefore, is democracy less actual than in the rebellious States; a ruling and a subservient class exists precisely as in England or Austria. To increase the latter, comprising the people I first described, is by no means to increase the power and extend the domination of the other, but the contrary; and undoubtedly the diminution of their number by the sacrifice of their lives in the rebellion, is considered by the chief managers as desirable, in view of the success of their scheme of polity and government.

Accordingly, in enforcing their plan of formally identifying the various States with secession--the form being the ordinance of secession--the suffrages and sense of this ruled class were ruthlessly unheeded, and denied validity.

Hence we say that several of the rebel States did not 'secede,' it being true that a majority of the people expressed their aversion to rebellion--this majority being, for the occasion, the ruling one, in virtue of the principle to which _all_ equally deferred. But it is the _will_ of the ruling or aristocratic class in all similar cases, and not the forms of law or principle, which accomplishes such changes, whether according to the forms of law or in disregard of them. _This class are never respecters of principle_, but rule in virtue not of what principles empower them to do, as a majority, but of the power of might and dominant strength. It is obvious that were they to do the former, they would be destitute of any other power than pertained to the whole community, they in part, and others equally. Accordingly, they having, once for all, in their adhesion to the Constitution, and again on its eve, consented to an election, and therefore its issue, when a majority of the entire nation elected a representative of the Chicago declaration, they reverted to their power of might, and rebelled.

It is, therefore, the subversion of an _un_principled (the term is of the strictest accuracy) ruling class, or aristocracy, and the obliteration of their peculiar power, that we have to accomplish. This power consists wholly of certain peculiar interests as masters. To deprive them of these, is the only possible terminus of the question at issue. So plain and palpable is the whole question, that we need hardly say that their whole scheme of government turns upon and clusters about this interest. For the preservation of this interest, which they thought touched by the advances of freedom, they rushed into war, and for the conservation of their power, they base all upon it.

That the general question of property is at all affected by the obliteration of this interest, is an egregious error. The property, the possession of which is valid and inviolable, is the product of human skill, industry, labor, invention, or what not. Nor does it confer political dominance on its possessor. The slaveholders are the only class in the nation whose property interest does so; and reciprocally, the sole object of the maintenance of this interest is the maintenance of this dominant power. Whether it be or be not criminal to possess it, is not the point upon which the demand for the abrogation of this interest turns--at least, there is no legal precedent to so think of it--but it turns upon the fact that it is ruinous to a republican system. Not the whole force of republicanism can at once maintain itself and conserve and cherish _that_; and _if_ it, to a certain extent cherish it, it will do no more than continue the basis of the power of a class, who will use it in the only way it can be used, namely, in contesting whatever interests, principles, or practices are averse to it.

Hence, for more than thirty years not a single widely beneficent measure of legislation has been allowed to pass and become operative by the representatives of this interest. So the South, the seat of this interest, has always been, in its own estimation, 'the South,' despite what we have said of a national Union; rendering it impossible that the republican patriot could _unite_ in one sentiment that which this particular interest _divided_ itself from.

That humanity should dictate the freedom of the slave in the interests of morality, is but natural. With this we have nothing to do; but that the being of an 'aristocracy based on property' should be excluded from the bounds of a republic, is of an importance to it and mankind, not second to religion itself.

THE MOLLY O'MOLLY PAPERS.

VII.

The Chinese thief, they say, greases himself and sticks knives in his queue, so that it is nest to impossible to catch him. Old Time is about as slippery a fellow as a Chinese thief. I don't know that he has a queue, and have fancied that when queues were worn, and Time was in the fashion, some old fogy, too slow to keep up with him, caught him by his queue. Time, who never yet was detained by mortal grasp, pressed on and left it behind. Since then he has cultivated only that _ungraspable_ forelock. Fleet of foot as he is, it is thought that Young America, with his telegraphs, will, in the long run--that is, in the race round the world--come out 'a leetle ahead' of him. Indeed, Young America talks of annihilating Time. But, though he may have 'one foot on land and one on sea,' he has no commission to 'swear that time shall be no more.'

We are a fast people--no mistake. Perhaps a little too fast. Did we only _anticipate_ Time, and pull down only what, with those sure sappers and miners of his, the years, he is certain to overthrow, it would be well enough. But we wish to destroy what he has left untouched, or would remodel it, would modernize it.

The dear old creed of our fathers; _old_ creed, did I say? Ever _new_ creed; for what Time passes by, never grows old. This we would change to suit ourselves, fancying we have outgrown it; or thinking it, like the Spartan iron coin, too cumbersome for general circulation, we would change it for lighter, and as we think, more precious metal. We deem this the age of gold.

There is a great deal said about our progress toward mental and moral perfection. Some seem to think that education is all we need to make us perfect moral beings. 'Ignorance is the cause of all evil;' all things are as they should be; our minds are as the _camera obscura_, a darkened chamber which a few rays enter, and every thing only _appears_ upside down. All we need is more light, to see to set every thing straight. It is true that we see things in an inverted position; but in this prison-house, we shall never have light enough to see them as they are. There is a lens that corrects these false impressions, and the light that enters through it shows us many things upside down that we before saw right side up, and _vice versa_.

Intoxicated with conceit, we fancy that we have but to eat of the tree of knowledge to become gods. Some go so far as to say that we are even now a part of divinity. 'The universe--it is God;' therefore we, as a part of the universe, are a part of God. The universe God? If it is a part of God, (which it is not,) it is so small a fraction that in all mathematical calculations, it would be called nothing. Were all the minds in the universe mingled into one, that one would be but as a drop to the ocean that girdles Infinity--God.

You will think me too earnest. The O'Mollys were ever an earnest race and an orthodox race. With what earnestness did they, in the good old times, from those peculiarly Irish goblets, that wouldn't stand, drink Irish whisky, till they partook of the nature of the goblets and came to the floor with them--the goblets with a crash, but the O'Mollys got up as sound as a bell, and next morning were ready to attend mass, into which they entered with as much earnestness as into their revelry. No people equal the Irish in earnestness in _spiritual_ matters. It is perhaps not for a female O'Molly to record these roysterings; but I am the last of my race, I only am left to chronicle the glorious doings of my ancestors. Then, too, on our escutcheon is one of these same goblets. The origin of this escutcheon it has been a family task to trace, with but little success, however, till the present generation, I had a cousin who inherited all the family pride. He became a martyr to his devotion to the 'time-honored custom;' for alas! good old Irish whisky is as certainly among the 'things that were,' as are the Irish kings. Some have shrewdly thought that it was the only real Irish king. Well, then, it is owing to this cousin's loyalty to the usurper, or rather pretender, that I am the family chronicler. He was wonderfully ingenious; could from the slightest hint guess at the whole story; he was equal to those naturalists who from one bone can make out the animal. With the remains of an old family tradition for his clue, he traced the origin of the escutcheon. It was on this wise. One of the Irish kings, traveling incog., stopped at the castle of an O'Molly, who, though he knew not the rank of his guest, entertained him with the utmost hospitality. Freely the goblet circulated, and as they two only drank from it, it was soon broken. The king, next morning, revealed his rank to his host, and dubbed him _Knight of the Goblet_; hence the goblet on the shield, an emblem of hospitality. And never has there been a stain on the escutcheon of the O'Mollys.

I said they were an orthodox race. Perhaps they were too bigoted in their adherence to the old customs and the old faith. But there is too much latitudinarianism in this nineteenth century. Too many think it matters but little what a man's belief is, if he is only sincere in it; as if the consequences of any thing could be averted by not believing in it. The hands of your clock may be so turned around that they will point to the wrong figures; does that change the time? Or, what amounts to the same thing, it may be so ill-regulated, the machinery may be so out of gear, that you are deceived. But morning, noon, and night do not regulate their face by your clock. There is a dial that unerringly marks 'the stately stoppings' of the sun of suns--let us regulate our belief by it.

Truth is not like the clouds that, it is said, take the form of the country over which they pass. It does not change to suit your condition or mind, and we can not change it, neither can we dilute it. What is not truth is falsehood, and this, as the acid dissolved the pearl which Cleopatra dropped into it, will dissolve truth and convert it into its own nature.

How little we prize truth, even if we do not thus attempt to dissolve it. It lies in our heart unheeded. We are almost as unconscious of it as the oyster is of the pearl within his shell.

A friend of mine, having a daughter 'to finish,' looked over advertisement after advertisement, till finally her eye lighted on the circular of Mrs. Smith's Female Seminary, situated in the quiet and salubrious village of----, within a few minutes' walk of three or four places of worship.... Great care taken of the health, manners, and morals of the pupils.... Exercise insisted on.... Those whose parents may wish it, allowed the use of a quiet saddle-horse.... The pupils under the immediate supervision of the principal.... They have all the comforts of Home, etc., etc. All this, in addition to a thorough course of instruction in every thing ever heard of, not forgetting the Use of the Globes.... Music on the piano and guitar; there are six pianos in the institution.... Drawing, Monochromatic, Grecian, Oriental, etc., etc. Painting in oils and water-colors.... Embroidery, ten different kinds.... Terms, $--per annum. Then follows an imposing list of references, Reverends, Esquires, and Honorables.

My friend, taken with this, decided that her daughter, Bessie, should go to Mrs. Smith's seminary. Accordingly, a short time before the commencement of the next term, she accompanied her there; was so pleased with Mrs. Smith's bland politeness toward herself, and her affectionate, almost matronly manner toward her daughter, that she came away relieved of all anxiety on Bessie's account.

I hope I am not 'violating the sanctity of private correspondence,' in giving the following letter from Bessie:

'MY DEAR MOLLY: I received yours last evening, and hasten
to reply, though, to answer your numerous questions will take me
till after prayers. I shall consequently, as I am not the _model_
pupil, get an absence-mark. You inquire as to the advancement I am
making in my studies. One thing is certain, I shall not come home
the _encyclopedia_ mother expects. I'll not say that this
'flourishing institution' is a humbug; but will say that facts and
the circular do not exactly tally. A few of the facts I will give,
and you can judge for yourself.

'To begin with the supervision of the bland, portly principal. She
enters the school-room makes a few criticisms, asks a blessing at
the table; occasionally a misdemeanor is reported to her, when the
offender is cited to the august presence, and duly reprimanded, not
according to the quality of the offense, but, in an inverse
proportion, to the _quality_ of the offender. Her teachers do the
mental drudgery of the institution. Their life is about as varied
and pleasant as that of a churn-dog; that is, if the dog were kept
churning all day. The balancing of accounts with them, and the
making out of the bills for the patrons, are certainly 'under the
immediate supervision of the principal.' These bills, which fond
parents suppose amount to $--, have a rat-like appendage (excuse
the expression) of 'incidentals,' that wasn't drawn into the
_modest_ 'terms' of the circular. I nearly forgot her Friday
afternoon lectures, for which she sometimes substitutes _Hannah
More_, and the _Young Ladies' Own Book_. These lectures are as
commonplace as expatiations on the importance of cultivating the
mind and heart, interspersed with 'hence the necessity,' and
'highly essential,' can mate them. Last Friday, as she was
enlarging on the advantage of having had our birth in an
enlightened, Christian land, Jenny Dean wrote on a slip of paper,
and poked it over to me,'not _have_ our _berth_ in a Christian
land.' Mrs. Smith saw her, confiscated the paper, and gave her a
severe reprimand, for evincing such a disposition to trifle with
serious things. Jenny was right; if ours is a Christian berth,
commend me to heathendom. Mrs. Smith neglected to mention in her
circular the instruction in _entomology_ her pupils receive;
probably because they are, as 'the Autocrat' says every traveler
is, _self-taught_. I wish she would omit a few lessons in the 'Use
of the Globes,' and teach the servants the use of hot water,
corrosive sublimate, and roach-poison.

'I begin to understand why it is called a _finishing_ school. Don't
tell mother, or she will have me put in quarantine when I return.
But, really, I'm getting quite thin; the demand made on my system
being greater than the supply of 'plain wholesome food.' Now, I'm
not going to complain of this 'plain wholesome,' though the butter
is sometimes strong, the lamb (?) ditto, (see circular in regard to
home comforts.) But I wish you would suggest to mother the
propriety of sending me another box; the last we finished in short
metre. You know this is a _finishing_ school. Only one of the girls
of our hall is too mean to _treat_, and she gets _lots of things_
from home. Yesterday, she brought a beautiful basket of apples to
my room, just to show me how nice they _looked_. I suggested that
'the proof of the pudding was in the _eating_.' She was too obtuse
to take the hint. It is almost sacrilege to talk so about her; she
is Mrs. Smith's _model_ pupil, which, as I before informed you,
your humble servant is not. Jenny Dean and I are always getting
into trouble. Somehow, we've got a bad name, and our _slightest_
misdemeanor is noticed, so we think that we 'might as well be
killed for a sheep as a lamb:' in other words, if the camel's back
must be broken, it may as well be by a hundred-pound weight as a
feather.

'We have an Italian music-teacher, chiefly noticeable for his
length of limb, an exiled nobleman, of course. I hinted to Jenny a
doubt as to his nobility. She said, if he didn't belong to 'the
Brahmin caste,' he did to the _Bramah cast_, and that was the next
thing to it. He has become violently attached to the assistant
music-teacher, who is very thin. Now, he has been teaching us to
screech 'For Bonnie Annie Laurie.' Jenny persists in calling it,
For bony Annie Laurie. The gravity with which he each time corrects
her is amusing. Signor _executes_ to the admiration of patrons,
etc.; though music on those horrid pianos is rather like music on
the rack. Of the six inventoried, (see circular,) two are in the
garret, superannuated; two more ought to be; as for the remaining
two, on one of them your friend Bessie practices, and it is too
great a trial to her nerves to speak of them. You say that you have
music in your souls that I must learn to express for you; that you
can't turn a tune to save your life; that the attempt is like the
attempt to make a curve of straight lines, (you see how I remember
all you write or say.) If you were here, you would wish all the
melody of the institution _voiceless_, and that it wouldn't ooze
out at the finger-ends.

'As for drawing, (see circular,) this department, to save expense,
Mrs. Smith's _accomplished_ daughter has. She teaches crayoning and
pencilling--a few learn to daub in water-colors--but this she
rather discourages, as colored crayoning is much easier and quite
as _showy_--this is the word for everything here. Miss Smith also
teaches French--_Anglicized_. It is hardly worth while to mention
'the solids,' as these are shoved into a corner to give place to
the accomplishments.... As for the exercise--we do, two or three
times a week, file down the street, then file back again--are thus
exhibited to the admiring gaze of the Esquires, Reverends, and
Honorables, (see circular.) The 'quiet saddle-horse' (see circular)
is a 'poetic fiction,' a 'pious fraud'--as much a myth as Pegasus
himself. Though there is a tradition in the school that, a short
time after the founding of the establishment, the late lamented
husband of Mrs. Smith, who was fond of equestrian exercise, kept a
horse--which a parlor-boarder, niece of Mrs. Smith, was allowed to
ride--hence the provision in the circular. One part of it is
correct--he doubtless is now a _very_ quiet saddle-horse--that is,
if he had not the tenacity of life of the _lamb_ that, judging from
the savory odor, we are to have for dinner, ('what's in a name?')
Perhaps the 'late lamented' was as fond of his nag as was the man
who entertained his guests with his horse in the form of soup.
Jenny Dean says that is what she calls true _horse-pitality_.

'There goes the bell. Don't forget the box. Mrs. Smith--unlike many
principals--approves of them--the reason you can guess--the _fact_
please mention to mother. In haste,

BESSIE.'

It seems hardly consistent with my regard for the 'dear reader,' to add any thing by way of remark on this true school-girl letter. But it is so suggestive. How many circulars do tally with facts? Even in those of the best schools, that need none of this clap-trap, there is a little humbug. But this is rather the fault of the patrons; like Bessie's mother, they will hardly look at a plain advertisement. The truth is, we love to be humbugged. Among the 'wants of the age' may be classed _humbug_.

I have read of a painter with disproportionately short legs, who, in all his pictures of human figures--from Moses down to the Mayor, done in heroic style--substituted his own legs. Your thorough utilitarian, deficient in imagination, his idea of mental symmetry being his own mental proportions, thinks no mind well balanced that has not a similar deficiency. He is a believer in nothing but the real and the useful--all else is stuff and nonsense; to him a mountain is a high elevation of land; a plain, a level tract; a forest, so much timber in a green state; a cloud, a collection of vapor. He sees in every thing just what there is in it and nothing more. Why does any one see more? It has been a puzzle to me, the undefinable longing I have sometimes felt in looking at a beautiful scene; a feeling akin to this, though lower, is that awakened by the fragrance of some flowers--it is so unsatisfactory, you wish to _taste_ them. These somethings bring up a shadow of 'shadowy recollections,' an echo of an echo of a past so indistinct, so dimly distant, that it seems to have been a part of another life.

It may be that all earthly things are but types of spiritual things in a future spiritual existence--hence the yearning; or they may be expressions of spiritual things in a past spiritual existence--hence the 'shadowy recollections.' One thing is certain: all beauty and grandeur are faint expressions of the ideas of the All-Father; therefore, O utilitarian! you do wrong to ask of them: 'What use?' Better cultivate a taste for them, and with this taste an earnest desire to look into that Mind and read there thoughts of which Mont Blanc and the exquisite flowers are but feeble utterances.

How the Great Teacher has lavished on us illustrations of his goodness, as if he would in some way make it plain to all, '_what use_.' There _must_ be a use in every thing he creates. Every dew-drop that the meanest weed has wooed and won from the atmosphere, is as tenderly cared for by him, as the stream is that supplies your mill-pond; every briny tear on the infant's cheek, as the ocean that bears on its bosom your merchant-vessels. What use? Have not some things been made useless--in your sense of the term--that they might be preserved from destruction? The gorgeous-plumed birds, and brightly-enameled fish of the tropics, are unfit for food--so, to your mind, of no use. I wonder if this holds good in cannibal countries; if so, it would be no protection to poor Molly O'Molly if she were there.

I, too, am a believer in the real and the useful; but to me, the sphere of both is almost infinite. Are not the feelings awakened on viewing a beautiful sunset, as real as your satisfaction after eating roast-beef? Though I acknowledge that no one can thoroughly enjoy the one, who feels the need of the other; if then weighed in the scale, the sunset would 'kick the beam.' All things 'by season seasoned are to their right praise and true perfection.' It would, for instance, be rather out of place to talk of the beauty of the stars to the houseless wanderer, for whom there were no 'cheerful lights of home;' to expatiate on the loveliness of the moon to him who must spend the chill night with no other covering than her 'silver mantle.'... Moonlight and memory are associated together in my mind--reflections of a set sun, wrapping in their calm, beautiful light, all things, even the graves of those we love.... I have thought that the murmur of the brook was the _voice of Silence_. Moonlight expresses to the eye--_silence_.... 'All this unreal?' I beg your pardon; I claim for my feelings the same reality that you claim for yours. Is only what is gross real? Is not the sky as real as the mountain that pierces it? Is there more reality in the chink of the dollar than in 'the music of the spheres'? This first is, I acknowledge, to me a pleasant sound, though only 'heard at rarest intervals.'... Yet I am rather inclined to believe in the reality of the music of the spheres; it is too ethereal, too spiritual a music for the ear to _sense_ it; the food and drink of the gods, ambrosia and nectar, even were we to swallow them, could our mortal palates taste them? Even thus may we drink in the music of the spheres, and, strange as it may seem, the more _ear_ we have, the less likely we will be to hear it.

But--_not_ 'in this connection,' in no connection--the utilitarian also thoroughly despises cobweb theories, as he terms them. The world owes its greatest achievements to theories--cobwebs they may be. In caves have been found books of stone, whose nucleus was but cobweb; along these webs the calcareous solution ran, and hardened into stone. A cobweb theory has been the thread, on which, drop by drop, as it were, experiments have run and hardened into a possibility on which might be hung a _steam-boat_.

There goes the night-train. Every morning as the engine with its train passes, the dark smoke rushing out of the chimney is touched by the rays of the rising sun and made glorious. I doubt not my enjoyment in looking at it is as real as that of the heaviest stockholder. Here I 'pitch my foot against'--as Paley says in his famous watch-argument--_a quotation_.

'Life is transfigured in the soft and tender
Light of love, as a volume dense
Of rolling smoke becomes a wreathed splendor
In the setting sun.'

But this warm subject of love I avoid as the whale avoids the warm water of the Gulf Stream. So I will wheel about--first, one more digression: This love, like the Gulf Stream, softens many a climate naturally as cold as that of Labrador. I just throw out this hint for the sentimental reader to enlarge upon.

That quotation from Alexander Smith reminds me of one other thing, for which your utilitarian has a sovereign contempt--that is _poetry_. What is poetry? Every thing that stirs the soul to its depths, or but crisps the surface, is poetry--every truth does this, therefore every truth is poetry. Mind, I don't say _conversely_, etc. There--that word 'conversely,' suggests to you that now you have me; there is mathematical truth, you say; you might as well attempt to raise a tree from cube-root as to attempt to make poetry sprout from mathematics.... Is there no poetry in the marked path of the vessel on the trackless ocean--no poetry in the magnificent sweep of suns and worlds through space--in the eccentric orbit of the faithful comet--faithful, for from the most distant errands he passes right by earth, and even Venus, lingers not a moment, but hastens back to his lord--is there no poetry in the icing over of the brook, (if you think not, read Lowell's _Sir Launfel_,) each icy crystal being an exact geometrical figure? When 'God geometrizes,' he also poetizes.

Then if we can't say conversely all poetry is truth, yet poetry gives to every thing she touches with her magic wand, the charm of reality. Are not Ariel, Puck, Oberon, real characters, though but 'beings of the mind'? Shylock and Lady Macbeth are to me as real as John Wesley and Hannah More, and far more real than the dimly defined heroes of Plutarch, except those that Shakspeare has thrilled with his own life-blood--his very ghosts have an awful individuality--they are enough to make you believe in ghosts. But hark! what was that--pshaw! it is only a screech-owl on the maple near my window--Keats' 'owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold,' I should think this was, from his shivering notes. Listen again! how old is the dead Time, whose age the distant town-clock is tolling? I don't care to count--to tell the truth, that owl makes me nervous--and if it is 'the witching time of night,' I don't care to know it--so good-night.

In haste, MOLLY O'MOLLY.

WOUNDED

Up the quiet street in the early Sunday morning, came with slow
steps and silently, two wounded soldiers:
One with shattered arm and a cruel sabre-cut on his forehead;
One with amputated leg, hobbled slowly along on crutches.

In the thunder-storm and sharp crash of terrible battle, 'mid blood,
carnage, and death,
Comrades in arms, they fell side by side; one of them senseless, the
other feeling his life-blood flowing away...
Faintness came over him, breathing the sulphurous smoke, with the
tornado of battle stunning his brain--
Faintness--forgetfulness. A vision of childhood, of the sweet
Heaven-time of life, came to him...
He hoped it was death, coming as no king of terrors, but as a
beautiful flower-crowned child,
Bidding a hero welcome to the great halls of the laurel-wreathed
dead--those who died for their country.

From this dream of the Future came sharp awaking to life; rattling
away in the ambulance...
Crashing pains shooting wildly from leg to brains--the heart now and
then grasped with steel fingers and squeezed...
The knife and the tourniquet, the rapid surgical operation: the
poor, pale fellow maimed for life.

At home in a hospital kindly nursed and tended, hearing for the
first time in life the name of God--not taken in vain: seeing the
good DEEDS of true woman...
Knowing that should he die he would ask no gentler sounds to cheer
him on his road to the Hereafter, than the prayer he once heard
read by The Lady in Gray to a dying soldier in the same
hospital:... thus passed he back again to life.
Now convalescent he walks in the fresh morning up the quiet street,
under the leafy shadow of lindens... he and his comrade in battle.

In the faces of both you may see that they know how earnest is
life...
The Angel of Death on the battle-field raised the veil of the
Future: transient the glimpse, but they will never forget it...
The Angel of Mercy here in the hospital bound up their wounds,
cheering their hearts with kind looks and well-spoken words of
true sympathy...
Solemnly earnest and beautiful is Life to these two wounded soldiers.

The lame one is weary, and halts by the steps of a handsome house;
his comrade with one arm helps him sit down there, on the lowest
step, leaning against the white marble balustrade.
Through lace and silk curtains, from drawing-room window, looks down the
street a beautiful woman, waiting impatiently carriage, coachman, and
footman, to carry her grandly to church.
Up comes the carriage; wide open the doors of the house: Madame
descends...
How is this?... She stops by the two wounded soldiers.

I have two sons in the army, she thought; what if they were weary and
wounded like these?
Then she speaks to the comrades in battle, and learning where they were
going, insisted on their taking her carriage. She will have no refusal:
and now John the footman, inwardly groaning, assists the lame man to
enter, then the other one takes a seat...
Off they whirl to their hospital-home, with a blessing upon the fair lady
who dared follow the teachings of ONE whom that morning she worshiped
with words ... and with deeds.

Open your hands--and your hearts--ye who stand afar off from the battle!
Lo! the wounded and dying are here at your doors.
Slumber no more; but awake, AWAKE TO THEIR CRIES!

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ASTOR AND THE CAPITALISTS OF NEW-YORK.

The accumulation of wealth has always been a chief proclivity of our race. The earliest of all books (Job) mentions it with sharp reproof, as though even then it had become a theme with the moralist. In olden time, wealth was even more unreliable than at the present day, especially as the mere possession of gold was enough to endanger one's life. The modern capitalist avoids this by devolving the custody of his cash on some bank and holding its stock instead of a hoard of ingots. The science of wealth now takes a more philosophic turn, and may be summed up in one word, _debt_. To be rich is simply to have brought the community in debt to yourself; and the greater it is, the greater, of course, your riches. To be poor is simply to reverse this condition, and to be in debt to others. The richest of all mankind may not have on hand, in specie, at any one time, more than the amount of a single day's income, and may be only able to show for his entire capital sundry pieces of paper, representing value. This is a vast improvement upon antiquity, since then wealth was identified with the holding of bullion, for whose protection an especial deity was invented. By a strange coïcidence, while Pluto was god of the lower regions, a slight change of the name represented his moneyed colleague, and Plutus presided over money. This connection is with sober wit hit off by Milton, who sets the fallen angels at once to work digging gold.

'Soon had his crew
Opened into the hills a spacious wound
And digged out ribs of gold. Let none admire
That riches grow in hell: that soil may best
Deserve the precious bane.'

The term 'almighty dollar' is stereotyped in modern slang, and yet the idea could not but have existed under other words in the days of those flush individuals, Midas and Croesus. The first of these moneyed gentlemen found gold too plenty for comfort, while the latter, by his unfortunate end, proved that even at that early time riches had learned to fly away. Gold entered very largely into the politics of antiquity, and by this means Crassus got a partnership in the grand triumvirate of which Mark Antony and Octavius formed the more active parties. Poor Crassus found, however, that to be a sleeping partner in a concern was quite a dangerous position.