Chapter V (1)

Hill has opened a wholesale liquor store on his own account! Where did Hill raise the money to start in business--a poor devil who could never get eighteen pence ahead in the world? It does not appear. For one, I will say that Hiram Meeker did not furnish it. _He_ not only belongs to the temperance society, but he believes all traffic in the 'deadly poison' to be a sin. Still where did Hill get the money or the credit to start a wholesale liquor concern? More than this, Hill is doing a pretty large business. Singular to say, he drinks less and swears less than he did. He is more respectable apparently. He has a very fine store in Water street. He does not deal in adulterated liquors. He sells his articles, if the customer desires it, 'in bond;' that is, from under the key of the custom house, which of course insures their purity. By a singular coincidence, Hill's store is adjoining a 'U. S. Bonded Warehouse.' Hill's goods, for convenience' sake, are sent to that particular warehouse--frequently. The liquors are stored in the basement. This basement is not supposed to communicate with the basement of Hill's store. Certainly not. Yet Hill, _solus_, entirely and absolutely _solus_, spends many evenings in the basement of his store. Hill is a large purchaser of pure spirits. Pure spirits are worth thirty-one cents a gallon, and brandy of right brand is worth two or three dollars a gallon. One gallon of pure spirits mixed with two gallons of brandy cannot be detected by ninety-nine persons of a hundred. Some say it is equally difficult to detect a half-and-half mixture. Still Hill sells his brandy in bond. I repeat, Hiram Meeker does _not_ furnish Hill the money. It is true, their intimacy still continues. Further, Hill has good references--none other than H. Bennett & Co. Strange as it may seem, H. Bennett himself has been known to put his name on Hill's paper. Yet I am told he does not even know Hill by sight! Hill is making money, though--is making it fast. Hiram is still in the house of Hendly, Layton & Gibb, but this has not prevented him from making, with permission of the firm, several ventures on his own account. These ventures always turn out well. It was not long since he shipped a schooner load of potatoes to New Orleans on information derived from the master of a vessel which had made a remarkably rapid passage, and who reported to him, and to him only. He more than doubled his money on this venture.

In Dr. Chellis's church, Hiram has made respectable progress. He has permitted himself to break over the strict rule first adopted as to his social life. He goes a little into society--the very best society which that congregation furnishes. Report says he is engaged to Miss Tenant. She is the only child of Amos Tenant, of the firm of Allwise, Tenant & Co. This firm is reputed to be worth over a million of dollars. Miss Tenant--Miss Emma Tenant--is the young lady who, from the first, took such an interest in Hiram at the Sunday school. She is an excellent girl. She is very pretty, too, and, I am sorry to say, she seems to have fallen in love--really and positively in love with Hiram. _He_, the calculating wretch, has canvassed the whole matter, has made careful investigations of the condition of the house of Allwise, Tenant & Co., and has satisfied himself that it is firm as a rock, and that Mr. Tenant is no doubt worth the pretty sum of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, or such a matter.

Emma is an only child!

Oh, Hiram, how dare you utter those vows of love and constancy and everlasting regard and affection, coming, as you do, with your fingers fresh from turning the leaves at the register's office, where, forgetting your dinner, you have spent the entire afternoon in satisfying yourself about the real estate held by 'Amos Tenant?' Had the record under your precious investigation not been satisfactory, you would not have spent five minutes thereafter in the society of Emma Tenant.

Yet your conscience does not reproach you. No, not one bit. Positively you are not aware of anything reprehensible or even indelicate in what you are about. Thinking of the matter, as you carefully scan the books of record, you regard it precisely as you would any other investigation. To you it is essential that the girl you are to marry should have money. If she has, you will love her (for it is your _duty_ to love your wife); if she has not, you cannot love her, and of course (duty again) you cannot wed her.

Poor Emma Tenant! No protecting instinct warns you against the young man who is now making such fervid protestations. You receive all he says as holy truth, sincere, earnest avowal, out of his heart into yours, for time and for eternity!

You, Emma Tenant, are a good girl, innocent and good: why, oh, why does not your nature shrink by this contact?

* * * * *

We forbear to paint the love scene in which Hiram figures. Enough to say that Emma could not and did not disguise the state of her affections. Yes, she confessed it, confessed she had been attracted by Hiram (poor thing) from the day she first saw him enter the Sunday school to take his place as one of its teachers.

How happy she was as she sat trembling with emotion, her hand in Hiram's calculating grasp, while she blushingly made her simple confession.

'But your father,' interposed Hiram, anxiously--'he will never give his consent.'

'And why will he not?' replied Emma. 'I am sure he likes you already, and when he knows'--

She stopped, and blushed deeper than ever.

'When he knows,' said Hiram, taking up the sentence, 'he will hate me: I am sure he will.'

'How can you say so?' replied the confiding girl. 'I am his only child, and he will approve of anything which is for my happiness.'

'But he may not think an engagement with me (you see Hiram was determined on the engagement) will be for your happiness. I am not known here--am not yet in business for myself, although so far as that is concerned'--

'Don't speak so--it pains me; as if I could think of such things _now_,' she whispered, as if really in bodily distress.

'But it _must_ be mentioned, and at once; we must tell your parents. It would be highly improper not to do so.'

He meant to make all sure.

'Oh, well, I suppose you are right, but it will make no difference to papa if you had not a penny. I have heard him say so a thousand times.'

'Have you,' replied Hiram, drawing a long breath, 'have you really?'

'Indeed I have. He has always said he would prefer to see me marry a high-minded, honorable young man, of strict integrity, without a cent in the world, to the richest man living, if he were sordid and calculating. Oh, he despises such persons. Now are you satisfied?'

Hiram _was_ satisfied, that is, logically; but somehow he _felt_ a hit, and in spite of himself his countenance was clouded, and he was silent.

'I have said something to wound you. I know I have,' exclaimed Emma.

'To wound me! My angel, my'--etc., etc., etc. (the pen refuses to do its office when I come to record Hiram's love expressions). 'How can you think so at this moment of my greatest rapture, my most complete'--etc., etc., etc. (pen fails again). 'It was my intense joy and satisfaction to learn how noble and disinterested your father is, that rendered me for the moment speechless.'

After considerable discussion, it was arranged that Emma should be the one to communicate to her parents the interesting fact that Hiram sought her hand. On this occasion his courage so far failed him that he preferred not to break the subject himself, although generally so very capable and adroit in personal interviews.

Mr. Tenant, as usual with papas, was a good deal surprised. He had not thought of Emma's marrying--considered her still little else than a school girl, and so on--well--he supposed it must come sooner or later. He knew very little about the young man, but what he did know was certainly in his favor.

To cut the story short, the whole matter was soon pleasantly settled, and Hiram established as the accepted of Miss Tenant.

In a subsequent interview with Mr. Tenant, our hero quite won his heart. That gentleman was an old-fashioned merchant; the senior member of a house known as one of the most honorable in the city. I say senior member, for the 'Allwise' whose name stood first was a son of the original partner through whose capacity mainly it had been built up and made strong. Mr. Tenant, I repeat, was a merchant of the old school, high minded and of strict integrity, not specially remarkable for ability, but possessing good sense and a single mind. The house once on the right track, with its credit and its correspondents established, he had only to keep the wheel revolving in the old routine, and all was well.

Mr. Tenant was quite carried away by Hiram's conversation. The latter was so shrewd and capable, yet so good and honest withal. He first recounted to his prospective father-in-law a little history of his whole life. He portrayed in feeling terms how God had never forsaken, but on the contrary had always sustained and supported him--in his infancy, at school, through various vicissitudes--had conducted him to New York, to Dr. Chellis's church, into his (Mr. Tenant's) family; and now, as a crowning mercy, was about to bestow on him the greatest treasure of the universe to be a partner of his joys and sorrows through life.

Then he discoursed of affairs; of what he hoped with a 'common blessing' to accomplish. He informed Mr. Tenant confidentially that in the approaching month of May he should commence a general shipping and commission business. His plans were matured, and though his capital was small--

'Count on me, young man, count on the house of Allwise, Tenant & Co.,' interrupted the kind-hearted old gentleman. 'I have no boy,' he continued, with tears in his eyes; 'my only one was snatched from me, but now I shall look on you as my son. You will start in May. Good. And what the house can do for you will be done.'

'Then perhaps I may be permitted to refer to you?'

'Permitted? I shall insist on it. What is more, I will see two or three of our friends to make up your references myself. You must begin strong. Where do you keep your account?'

Hiram told him. It was a bank where Mr. Bennett had introduced him.

'That is well enough, but those are dry goods people, not at all in our line. I must introduce you at our bank, or, what is better, I will get Daniel Story to introduce you at his. There you will get a double advantage.'

Need I add that Hiram was in ecstasies? His position would now equal his most brilliant dreams. To be placed at once on an equality with the old South-street houses! To have Daniel Story introduce him to his bank! It was even so. The future son-in-law of Amos Tenant would gain just such an entree to business life.

And profitable use did Hiram Meeker make of these 'privileges.' He no longer thought of depending on H. Bennett & Co. Very quietly he thanked his cousin for his kind offer of assistance by way of reference, etc., but he was of opinion it would be better to have some names in his own line. Then he mentioned who were to be his 'backers,' whereat Mr. Bennett was amazed, yet highly gratified, and, without seeking to inquire further, told Hiram he 'would _do_,' he always said he would, that he must call on him, however, whenever he thought he could give him a lift, and predicted that he would be very _successful_ on his own account. All which Hiram received meekly and mildly, but he said nothing in reply.

It is not my purpose to give in detail the particulars of Hiram's commercial life. Having been sufficiently minute in describing his early business education, the experience he acquired, the habits he formed, the reader can readily understand that his career became from the start a promising one. He was familiar with all the ramifications of commerce. He thoroughly knew the course of trade in New York. He had studied carefully the operation of affairs, from the largest shipping interest to the daily consumption of the most petty retail shop. He had managed to lay up quite a respectable sum of money, and all he now wanted was a good opportunity to launch himself, and it was presented.

I am inclined to think Mr. Tenant would have been willing to have taken him into his own firm, had Hiram wished, but he had no such ambition. He desired by himself to lay broad and deep the foundation of a large business, and have it expand and become great in his own hands. He did not believe in partnerships; it is doubtful if he were willing to trust human nature so much as to admit anybody to such a close relation as that of business associate.

In the management of his affairs, Hiram made it a point to acquire the reputation of fair and honorable dealing. His word was his bond. That was his motto; and he carried it out fully and absolutely. Mistakes could always be corrected in his establishment. No matter if the party _were_ legally concluded. He stood by his contracts. A mere verbal say so, though the market rose twenty-five per cent. on his hands the next half hour, could be relied on as much as his indenture under seal. And so he gained a splendid name the very first year of his mercantile career. Yet, I _must_ say it, behind all this fine reputation, this happy speech of men, this common report and general character, sat Hiram alert and calculating, whispering to himself sagaciously: '_Honesty is the best policy_.'

[In affairs, he meant. Had he carried the apophthegm out into every detail of life, through its moral and social phases, it would have required indeed the eye of the Omniscient to have discerned and penetrated his error.]

I come to the close of Hiram's first year of business on his own account. He had suddenly loomed into importance. But never was there an effect more directly traceable to a cause. He did not embark till he was in readiness for the venture, and results came quickly. With change of position he had made corresponding changes in his social life. He left Eastman's, and took pleasant though not expensive quarters in a more fashionable part of the city, not far indeed from Mr. Tenant's house. He visited in company with Emma all her family friends and acquaintances. He made such progress in the church, that the majority of the female teachers in the Sunday school were in favor of electing him superintendent. In short, he was becoming a very popular young man.

As I have said, I come to the close of Hiram's first year. I wish I could stop here. I go on with that reluctance which I invariably feel when recording what must add to the repugnance with which we all regard Hiram's character.

The engagement between Hiram and Miss Tenant had been made public. The time for the marriage was fixed at about the first of July--only six weeks distant. It was a period when Hiram felt he could leave town most conveniently for his wedding trip. The preparations on Emma's part were ample as became her family and social position. She was very happy. She loved this young man, and believed he loved her. Hiram was good natured and agreeable, and did all in his power to exhibit his best qualities. The result was that he was very much liked by both Mr. and Mrs. Tenant, and was already quite domesticated at their house.

During the spring there was a great deal of speculation in certain leading articles of export. The house of Allwise, Tenant & Co., having first class correspondents abroad and enjoying large credit, advanced more liberally than was prudent. It was the younger members who decided to go largely into the enterprise. There came a panic in the market. Several leading houses in London and Liverpool failed, others in New York followed, and among them Allwise, Tenant & Co.

It proved that this firm, though eminently sound and above board, was not as wealthy as was generally supposed. Its high character for integrity and honor, and an existence of near forty years without a reverse gave it great reputation for wealth and stability.

The blow was sudden and effective. The capital of the concern was wiped out of existence, and the individual property of the partners followed in this wake of destruction.

Hiram, like others, had overestimated Mr. Tenant's property. The latter was nevertheless a rich man for those days, and worth over one hundred thousand dollars. By this reverse he was penniless.

Hiram was on 'Change when he first caught the rumor of the catastrophe. His position with regard to the family (for his relations with it were now well understood) made it difficult for him to make many inquiries, but he hastened to his counting room and despatched a messenger to Hill to come to him forthwith. Hill was prompt, and having been carefully charged with his commission, at once started to execute it. He came back duly.

'All gone to----. Not a grease spot left of them.'

'Don't be so gross, Hill. You are constantly shocking me with your idle profanity. Are you sure, though?'

'Yes. More bills back, twice over, than they can pay. A clean sweep, by----.'

'That will do, Hill--that will do; but don't swear so, don't.'

'Now I am here,' continued Hill, 'what about that invoice of brandy to Henshaw? He declares the brandy ain't right. You know you thought'--

'Hill,' interrupted Hiram, 'I can't talk with you now. Leave me alone, and close the door after you.'

Hill went out without saying a word.

If we except a slight paleness which overspread his countenance, Hiram had exhibited no sign of emotion from the moment he heard of Mr. Tenant's failure to the time he disposed so summarily of his satellite Hill. When Hill left, he rose and walked two or three times quickly up and down the room, and then took his seat again. His thoughts ran something in this way: 'I never supposed old Tenant to have any business ability, but I thought the concern so well established it could go alone. So it could if those young fellows had not made asses of themselves. What's to be done? Tenant certainly has a large amount of individual property. It is worth saving. Respectable old name--if he keeps his money. (Hiram smiled grimly.) I will step round at once and offer my services, before other folks begin to tinker with him.'

On my word, reader, during all this time Hiram never once thought of Emma Tenant. She did not for a solitary instant enter in any of the combinations which he was so rapidly forming and reforming. So entirely was he occupied with canvassing the effect of the failure on his personal fortunes and thinking over what was best to be done under the circumstances, that he had no space in his brain, much less in his selfish heart, for the 'object of his affections,' to whom he was to be married in one little month.

How would _she_ feel? How would the blow affect her? What could he do to reassure her? How could he best comfort her? What fond promises and loving protestations could he offer that now more than ever he desired to make her happy?

Nothing of this, nothing of this occupied him as he sat in his private office, rapidly surveying the situation.

Poor Emma!

Carrying out his decision, Hiram took his way to the establishment of Allwise, Tenant & Co.

He was immediately admitted to Mr. Tenant's private room. That gentleman sat there alone, with his eyes fixed on a long list which his bookkeeper had just furnished him. He looked somewhat disturbed and solicitous, but presented nevertheless a manly and by no means dejected mien.

'Ah, my dear boy, I knew there was no need of sending for you. I _knew_ you would be here. God bless you. Sit down, sit down. I want to use your ready wit just now for a few minutes. Thank God, I have your clear head and honest heart to turn to.'

All this time Mr. Tenant was pressing Hiram's hand, which lay impassively in his. The honest man was too much carried away by his own feelings to notice the other's lack of sympathetic pity.

'Why, my dear sir,' said Hiram, at length, 'did you not give me some hint of this? We might have'--

'I had no idea of it myself till the mails were delivered this morning. Phillipson & Braines's stoppage has destroyed us. Such a strong house as we thought it to be! When they suspended, it discredited us with our other friends, for everybody knew our relations with them, so that they would neither accept our bills nor protect us in any way. We are struck down without warning.'

'No hope of reconstruction?' asked Hiram.

'None.'

'You wanted me just now, I think you said.'

'Yes. There are one or two matters which I am inclined to think should be treated as confidential. Certain collections, and so forth. We have already discussed it somewhat. You shall examine and give me your opinion.'

'Had you not better first make some arrangements to protect your individual property?'

'What?'

Hiram repeated the question, and in a more definite shape.

He was astounded when the honorable old merchant told him that he should make no reservations--that his property, all of it, belonged to his creditors, and to his creditors it should go.

Even in this juncture Mr. Tenant was so taken up with his own position that he failed to discover Hiram's real object. He actually turned consoler.

'Courage, my boy,' he exclaimed. 'My wife has a little sum of her own, about twelve thousand dollars, enough to keep us old folks from starving; and as soon as you are married, we will club together, and live as happy as ever--hey?'

'I hope, after all, matters are not as bad as you suppose,' said Hiram, wishing to make some response, but determining not to commit himself.

'Oh, but they are,' said Mr. Tenant. 'We must not deceive ourselves. However, let that pass. Now tell me what you think about these collections?'

Hiram forced himself to listen patiently to Mr. Tenant's statement, for he had not yet decided on the course he was presently to pursue. So he talked over the question, pro and con, managing to fully agree with the views of Mr. Tenant in every particular.

'I knew you would think as I do about this,' exclaimed the latter, joyfully. 'It does you credit, Hiram. It shows your honorable sense. How could I take that money and put it into the general indebtedness? How could I? Well, well, I have already employed too much of your time. We shall do nothing to-day but examine into matters. You will be up this evening?'

'Certainly.'

'Good-by till then, my dear boy.

Emma must spare you to me for once. To-night we will have our various statements ready, and I shall want your help to look them over.'

'The old fool,' muttered Hiram, as he left the place. 'The old jackass. I won't give it up yet, though. I will try his wife. I will try Emma. No, I won't give it up yet. I will go there this evening, and see what can be done. But if I find that--'

The rest of the sentence was inaudible.

HOW MR. LINCOLN BECAME AN ABOLITIONIST.

Perhaps, Messrs. Editors, you may recall
A story you published some time in the fall,--
I think 'twas October--your files will declare,--
Bearing the title of 'Tom Johnson's Bear.'

* * * * *

Well, the story since that time has grown somewhat bigger,
And has something to say about holding the 'nigger;'
And something, likewise, about letting him go,
The which I've no purpose at present to show:
To wit, how a woodman, a kind-hearted neighbor,
Returning at night from his rail-splitting labor,
Found poor Mistress Johnson forlorn and distressed,
In that perilous posture still holding the beast;
And how she besought the kind gentleman's help,
And how he'd have nothing to do with the whelp;
And how he and Johnson soon got by the ears,
And fought on the question of 'freedom for bears;'
And how, _inter alia_, the beast got away
And took himself off in the midst of the fray;
And how Tommy Johnson at last came to grief:
All which I omit, as I wish to be brief.
The story's too lengthy--it must not be sent all
To cumber your pages, my dear CONTINENTAL.
At present my purpose, my object, my mission is
To show how the woodman became 'Abolitionist.'
Introductions, you know, like 'original sin,'
Hang on, while you long for some sign of repentance
In shape of the last and the welcomest sentence,
So, in short, I'll cut short, draw a line, and begin.

* * * * *

The woodman one night was aroused by a clatter,
Each one in the house crying, 'Ho! what's the matter?'
All jumped out of bed and ran hither and thither,
Scarce knowing amid their alarm why or whither;
But soon it was found 'mid the tumult and din
That burglars were making attempts to break in.
And now there arose o'er the turmoil and noise
The woodman's loud summons addressed to 'the boys.'
'The boys' quickly came, and on looking around,
At one of the windows a ladder was found,
And on it a burglar, who, plying his trade,
A burglarious opening already had made.

Now the woodman, though making this nocturnal sortie
All armed and equipped, at the rate of 'two-forty,'
Called a halt, and proposed, before firing a gun,
To question with care what had better be done.
Forthwith he assembled a council of war,
To gravely consider how fast and how far
In a case of this kind it was lawful to go.
Some said, 'Smash the ladder,' but others said, 'No,
There were many objections to that, and the chief
Was the constitutional rights of the thief;
That the ladder was property all men agreed,
And as such was protected, secured, guaranteed;
And if 'twas destroyed, our greatest of laws
Could not be upheld and maintained 'as it was.''
But others replied, 'That ladder's the chief
Supporter, as all men may see, of the thief;
Let's aim at the ladder, and if it should fall,
Let the burglar fall with it, or hang by the wall
As well as he can; and by the same token,
Whose fault will it be if his neck should be broken?'
To which it was answered, 'That ladder may be
The chattel of some honest man, d'ye see.'
'Well, then, we will pay for't.' 'No, never!' says V.,
'To be taxed for that ladder I'll never agree;
You have brought on this fuss,' said V., mad and still madder;
'You always intended to break the man's ladder;
You have been for a long time the people deceiving
With false and pretended objections to thieving;
You never desired to have robbing abolished;
You only have sought to have ladders demolished.'

'Pray, hold!' said another, 'perhaps while we're trifling
About this old ladder, the thief will be rifling
The house of its contents, or, venturing further,
May set it on fire--the children may murder.'
'Can't help it,' says V.; 'though he murder to-day,
Who knows but to-morrow the murderer may
Repent and reform; then who shall restore
The ladder all perfect and sound as before?
But whether or no, I can never consent
That the thief and the ladder should make a descent,
Which haply might hurt a burglarious brother,
Or totally wreck and demolish the other.'

The woodman bade 'Silence!' He cried out, 'Ho! list!'
Then called on the burglar his work to desist,
And made proclamation throughout all the town
That if in a specified time he came down
And gave a firm pledge of obeying the laws,
He might keep his old ladder all safe 'as it was;'
But if he pursued his felonious intent
Beyond the time given, he'd cause to be sent
'Mid the conflict of arms and the cannon's loud thunder,
A missile to knock his old ladder from under.
Then pausing to see the effect of his speech,
He saw nought but the thief still at work at the breach;
And, being opposed to thieves visiting attics,
Combined with those vile anti-ladder fanatics,
And sent a projectile which left the thief where
Thieves and traitors should all be, suspended in air,
Except that he lacked what was due to his calling,
A hempen attachment to keep him from falling.

Then burglars, and thieves, and traitors, and all
Their friends sympathetic forthwith 'gan to bawl,
'We're ruined! we're ruined! To what a condition
The country is brought by this man's abolition!'
And echo replied: 'Oh! dreadful condition!
Abolition--bolition--bolition--abolition!'

COST OF A TRIP TO EUROPE, AND HOW TO GO CHEAPLY.

The question is often asked of those who have been to Europe: 'What does it cost?' 'For how little can one travel abroad?' etc. For it is within the hopes of many to go at one time or another; and many would indulge the anticipation more freely, if they 'could see their way,' as the Yorkshire man wanted to do when he thought of getting married. I propose to throw some little light on this oft-repeated question.

The expense of a journey depends greatly on the manner in which it is made. People who go to Europe, frequently imagine that they must go in a certain degree of style; they must expend something by way of showing that they are somebody in their own country! To carry out this idea, they go, on first landing, to expensive hotels; they carry considerable luggage, travel in first-class carriages, and incur various other expenses, to show John Bull and the continentals that they belong to the superior class at home. These people pay largely for their whistle, or trumpet. They will tell you you cannot go to Europe for less than three or five thousand dollars apiece. They fancy they have made a good impression on the Europeans; whereas the Europeans never noticed their vain little attempts at showing off. Nobody cared what they paid or gave away; and the very courier who flattered, or the servants who fawned on them for their money, laughed at them behind their backs. There is another class, more quiet and moderate, who want to be economical, but do not know how to be. They will tell you a short trip can be taken for a thousand or fifteen hundred dollars. They go by the guide books, and those are based always on 'first-class prices and a liberal expenditure.' There are no guide books for those who would _study_ economy; who would submit to some privations for the sake of seeing foreign lands and acquiring the desirable knowledge which can only be gained by personal observation. For such, a guide book is very much needed. They constitute a large class of persons. They have an ardent desire to visit the Old World and places of renown--they would go in crowds, but for fear of the expense, and the assurances of their friends that it will cost so much. When we assure them that a trip to England and Scotland, and a tour through France, Germany, Prussia, Holland, Switzerland, and part of Italy, covering four or five months, may be made, has been made, for four hundred dollars, including first-class steamship passages going and returning, they may be encouraged to think of starting as soon as gold is at par.

A gentleman who has established hotels in England and Scotland, and published a Guide through London, says no traveller need pay at a hotel more than eighteen pence (thirty-seven cents of our money) a day for his room. To this is usually added from eighteen to twenty-five cents for attendance; gas being two cents extra per night. In London, however, such moderate hotels are usually in the business part of the town. In the desirable portions for a sojourn, private board and lodging can be had from a guinea to a pound and a half a week; or two furnished rooms may be taken at four or five dollars or more per week. This includes the service of cooking and serving meals; the tenant furnishing the marketing, which costs from two dollars to two dollars and a half a week for each person. This is the cheapest way of living for a party. Such rooms may be found by looking in newspaper advertisements. Agents make them cost more. It will be easy, by making a few inquiries, to hear of a dozen such places; and as people do not move so often in London as here, the knowledge may be available for a year or two.

In Edinburgh, Glasgow, and other cities, the cheap hotels are found in the very best localities. They usually advertise in Bradshaw's 'Monthly Guide,' and in the newspapers. They have clean beds and nice rooms almost universally. If the traveller desires strictly to economize, he need not pay for meals in the hotel, where 'a plain breakfast' (tea and bread and butter) will cost twenty-five cents, and dinner fifty cents; he can, if he choose, go to one of the numerous restaurants in the vicinity, and dine comfortably for twelve cents: other meals in proportion. These places are numerous and good in the cities of Great Britain. On the Continent, the prices at restaurants are higher, for strangers at least; a marked distinction being made between them and the inhabitants of the country. '_I forestieri tutti pagano_' (foreigners all pay), said a Venetian sexton; and that is the rule for universal practice throughout Europe. An order for roast beef at a restaurant will not cover, as it does here and in England, potatoes and bread; they are charged for extra; from three to five cents for a roll; six or eight for potatoes. Ice is too expensive a luxury everywhere across the seas to be thought of by the tourist limited in means. But if restaurants are dear, the markets are cheap in Europe; and the people of the country usually carry provisions with them. You may see ladies provided each with a small basket, from which are produced in the cars a bottle of _vin ordinaire_ and water, rolls of bread, and slices of ham or tongue. These furnish the simple but wholesome repast. Cream cheeses, delicious in quality, are to be procured in France and Italy, with cooked mutton chops, parts of roast fowl, sausage of fresh chicken and tongue, pork and mutton pies, etc., all obtainable fresh at provision stores. A bunch of grapes that will cost a franc (twenty cents) at the railway-station refreshment room, may be had in the market for one or two cents; and other articles in proportion. The custom of the people, and the abundant provision of such things, will suggest to the economical traveller a method of saving largely in his daily expenses. Those who like tea--which they cannot get well made on the Continent--had better take a spirit lamp and apparatus for making it in their rooms. But little trouble is involved in thus providing for one's wants; the most is in making tea or coffee. Those in the habit of so living will save the expensive hotel meals. In hotels, where there is a _table d'hóte_, dinner costs from three and a half francs (seventy cents) to five (a dollar). The breakfast consists merely of bread and _café au lait_, unless extras are ordered, and those are liberally charged for. Nowhere are travellers expected to pay for meals at hotels unless they choose to take them. _Se non mangiate, non pagate_. ('If you eat nothing, you pay nothing.')

The prudent tourist will always bargain for the prices of rooms. In the first-class hotels on the Continent there are usually to be had upper rooms at thirty or forty cents a day. In second-class hotels in France and Italy a room may be obtained for twenty cents, the charge for service being ten cents extra. Candles are always charged for separately; in cheap rooms, ten cents; in higher priced, a franc each per night; the waiter being careful to remove the partially burned one. The best plan is to carry wax candles in one's basket. Soap is never provided, and is an expensive article when called for.

In Germany and Holland the price of a room per day is a florin or guilder--about forty-three cents. Living generally is higher than in Italy, but cooked provisions are abundant and excellent. Throughout Europe, you may be sure of clean beds and tables, no matter how uninviting the premises appear.

One half the cost of travel, and one's temper besides, may be saved by going in third-class carriages. On the Continent the second-class ones are as luxurious as the first, and are preferred by tourists generally. But, except in having no cushions, the third class will prove comfortable enough; the chance for seeing the country is rather better. Here the people of the country are met--chiefly the poorer class--very decent in appearance, however, and invariably respectful and kind in their manners. A large number of monks and nuns will be found here, also well-dressed ladies, who feel more protected than in the superior class of carriages. In the latter, indeed, one is exposed to various annoyances escaped in third-class carriages. The tourists, who abound, are often insolent and encroaching. A burly Englishman or stolid German will not hesitate to turn a timid lady out of her seat; and if ladies have no gentlemen with them, they may be insulted by rude staring or scornful looks from women provided with escorts or a little more finely dressed. All these causes of disturbance are escaped among the third class, where the utmost deference is always shown to strangers.

In Great Britain, where Mrs. Grundy reigns with absolute sway, there is a prejudice against the inferior classes of railway carriages, partially overcome among the middle people of late, as far as the _second_ class is concerned; they dare not go in the third. But strangers may be more independent, and may do as they please without reproach. There is nothing to choose in the way of comfortable accommodation between the second and third-class carriages in England; the latter are called 'parliamentary,' on account of the governmental regulation compelling the companies to run them, and fixing the fare at one penny (two cents) a mile. Smoking is not permitted at all in England; on the Continent it is customary, even in first-class carriages and in diligences. When travelling in the diligence or stage coach, secure, if possible, the _coupé_ or highest priced places. The front windows command a better view than the side ones of the interior; and where a better view can be had, it is worth paying for. On the Mediterranean steamers take first-class places; the best are bad enough to be intolerable. The second cabins of the steamers crossing the British Channel are pretty good for a short voyage.

A copy which I am permitted to make from the diary of one who travelled with some ladies last summer, from Paris to Florence in Italy and back, gives the entire cost of the trip--occupying a month--at $106.13. This estimate includes hotel fares, fees, carriage hire, etc., as well as travelling expenses. A copy from the note book of a party who travelled over England and to Edinburgh and Glasgow--spending over two months--gives the sum total of that as $119.42. This includes fares to and from Paris ($5 second class), and board in Paris as well as in Great Britain. We may therefore put down the cost of a trip to Europe as follows:

Passage (first class) on steamship
of New York, Philadelphia
and Liverpool line, from
New York to London $80 00

Returning in same line (fifteen
guineas) 79 00

Travelling and board in Great
Britain and Paris 119 42

Tour on the Continent 106 13

Allow for stewards' fees, cabs,
omnibuses, and a few expenses
not noted 15 45

Total cost of European trip, $400 00

Fees to guides, sextons, etc., on the Continent, seldom exceed a franc (twenty cents) each; half that, or a franc for a party, will often suffice. If a church is open for service, nothing is to be paid. Gifts to guides in England average sixpence or an English shilling. The custom of giving money to servants in private houses where one is entertained as a guest, is burdensome and unjust.

In Paris, board and lodging can be had at excellent houses, filled with fashionable guests, for a dollar a day, exclusive of a franc a week each to the maid and waiter. Arthur's celebrated family hotel, 9 Rue Castiglione, afforded accommodation to a party of three at this rate, with a suite of rooms in the Rue St. Honoré, breakfast to order in the private parlor, the constant attendance of a servant, and dinner at the hotel _table d'hôte_. The party found their own candles. A party thus can be as well accommodated as in one of the chief hotels. A single gentleman, who cares less for the elegancies of life, can have a furnished room for seven dollars a month with attendance, or a room at a cheap hotel for a dollar a week, without meals.

It must be understood that the estimate of $400 for the cost of a tour abroad does not include the price of exchange at the present time, or any exchange. It is simply the amount paid out in our own currency. The purchases made by a tourist of clothing, curiosities, etc., are of course extra. The amount will provide for a tour extending to between four and five months. Three or four weeks are allowed for in London, and two or three weeks in Paris. If the tour be extended and more time be consumed, the additional expense may easily be calculated. Bradshaw's 'Continental Guide' will give the exact cost and distance on the railways; and for hotel expenses, lunches, and fees, a dollar a day will provide the economical traveller. He will need no courier, nor, if he knows the language (French will do, but it is better also to understand Italian and German), a _valet de place_. Both are better dispensed with.

One word as to luggage. Let no traveller encumber himself or herself with a trunk on the Continent. A valise or a carpet bag that can be carried in the hand, will hold enough. Four or five changes of linen, and one dress, besides the travelling costume, are all sufficient. Washing can be done in a few hours anywhere. A lady had better wear a dress of strong dark stuff, and have a black silk for a change. She will need no more, even if months are spent abroad. Even in England a trunk is a nuisance; for luggage cannot be checked, and continual care is necessary. In some remote stations even labels cannot be had, and porters are scarce. I have known passengers, when no porters came to take their trunks to the van, compelled to thrust them into the carriage at the last moment. The better plan is to have only what can be carried under your own eye.

TOUCHING THE SOUL.

Reader, did it ever strike you that there are many theories touching this soul of ours which are generally accepted as truths, without any thought whatever on the subject; so universally accepted, indeed, that it is considered a waste of time to think upon them at all; but which, upon a thorough investigation, might possibly lose some of their old-time infallibility, and the consideration of which might well repay the trouble, by opening a field of thought at once interesting and instructive?

Such there are, and in this province alone are we of this day and generation entirely controlled by the opinions of those over whose dust centuries have rolled. We may speculate freely upon religion, and, while all must acknowledge that true religion is not progressive, new schemes of salvation spring almost daily into life from the brains of heretical thinkers, in their bold presumption stamping with error the simple faith of the primitive Christians. We may peer into the arcana of science and boldly question the theories of the learned of all ages. We may exhaust our mental powers upon points of political economy and the science of government; and even the domain of ethics may be fearlessly invaded and crowded with doubt. But into the unpretending pathway that leads to the secret nooks of the soul, to the foundations of all spiritual excellence, few feet may stray, and even those only to follow the beaten track worn by the feet of those olden thinkers whose very names have long since passed into oblivion, lest by their deviations they should outrage some of those universal prejudices, whose only claim to consideration is their traditionary origin.

And this path is but little trodden in our day, for two reasons; first, because, to the careless eye, it possesses few attractions, and its claims are lost in those of a more exciting and more eminently practical course of thought; secondly, because it seems to have been so thoroughly explored that we have only to read the writings of those who have gone before, and listen to traditionary speculations, to learn all that can be known about that which is our very existence, and, indeed, the only _true_ existence.

Two great mistakes. The dying philosopher, one of the wisest the world has ever known, declared that all the knowledge he had gained was but as a grain of sand upon the seashore. So all that is known to-day about the soul is but a drop in the ocean of that great revealing which shall one day dawn upon man's spiritual existence. There is an infinite field yet unexplored--a very _terra incognita_ to even those who pride themselves upon being learned in the mysteries of the soul. And to him who ventures upon this seemingly lowly path, so far from proving unattractive, it becomes a very Eden of thought. Unlooked-for beauties spring to light on every side; the very essence of music and poesy float around him as he advances; while above, around, and through all, sounds the magnificent diapason of everlasting truth.

True, there may be little of practical benefit--as the world defines practicality--in searching out the causes of the myriad emotions that sweep with lightning rapidity across the soul, now raising us to the summit of bliss, now plunging us into the depths of despair--little of practical benefit in endeavoring to analyze the soul itself into its constituent elements, and to bring ourselves face to face with our better, nobler selves, and with the Mighty Power which created us and all things. But there is, in this inner life, a pleasure higher and more lasting than those evanescent ones which the world can afford, and which elevates and purifies as they do not. And aside from mere pleasure, there is in such a study a practicability--taking the word in a broader and nobler sense--which puts to the blush man's busy schemes for wealth and honor. The beauties and sublimity of nature may indeed fill us with awe at the omnipotence of the mighty Architect, and with love and gratitude for His goodness, but it is only in the presence of the soul--His greatest work--that we realize the awful power of the Creator; it is only when threading the secret avenues of our own intellectual and spiritual being that we are brought into actual communion with God, and bow in adoration before Him who 'doeth all things well.' Therefore, I maintain that he whose meditations run most in this channel is not only the happiest, but the purest man; that his views of life are the broadest and noblest; that he it is who is most open to the appeal of suffering or of sorrow; who is most ready to sacrifice self and work for the good of his fellow beings, and to discharge faithfully his duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call him.

But I am digressing into a prosy essay, which I did not intend, and neglecting that which I did intend, namely, to jot down a few theories which have crept into the brain of one not much given to musing.

For even I--a poor 'marching sub'--sitting here by a cheery coal grate, and watching the white smoke as it curls lazily up from the bowl of my meerschaum, have theories touching the soul--theories born in the glowing coals and mounting in the curling smoke wreaths, but, unlike them, growing more and more voluminous as they ascend, till I am like to be lost in the ocean of speculations which my own musings have summoned up.

I heard, to-night, a strain of weird, unearthly music, sweet and sad beyond expression, but distant and fleeting. Yet long after it had ceased, the chord that it awakened in my heart continued to vibrate as with the echo of the strain which had departed. An unutterable, indescribable longing filled my soul--a vague yearning for something, I knew not what. My whole spiritual being seemed exalted to the clouds, yet restrained by some galling chain from the heaven it sought to enter. And then I asked myself, What is the secret of this mysterious power of music; where shall we look for the cause of those undefinable yet overwhelming emotions which it never fails to excite? A hopeless question it seemed, one which the philosophers of all ages have failed to solve, perhaps because they have not troubled themselves to inquire very seriously about it; and again, perhaps it has baffled them as it has me, and tens of thousands of others of the humbler portion of humanity. And so I fell to dreaming after this wise:

The soul of man is created perfect, so far as regards the presence of every faculty necessary for its development, for its happiness, or misery, in this world or the next. Circumstances may alter it in degree, but in its constituent elements never. The same yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow, at the moment of its creation and a thousand ages to come. Not even its passage from the body into its future and eternal home can endow it with a single new faculty, or eradicate one of the old. Yet each one of these faculties, capabilities, or sensibilities, is capable of development to an infinite degree. And in this development lies the soul's progress to perfection; it is to go on, through all the ages of its eternal existence, constantly approaching the divine, yet never reaching the goal, like that space between two parallel lines, which mathematicians bisect to infinity. Certain of these faculties, of the very existence of which even the soul itself is unconscious, are those whose province lies purely in the world beyond, to which we all are tending. Never exerted in this life, with which they have nothing to do, through all the earthly existence they sleep quietly in their hidden cells; but when once the silver cord is loosed, and the freed spirit mounts into its native atmosphere, then these dormant powers and susceptibilities are awakened from their slumbers, and take the lead in the march of development, outstripping all others in the race, and soon becoming the ruling powers of the soul. These are they which shall listen to the music of heaven--these are the spiritual senses which shall hear and see and taste and feel those ineffable glories, of which our earthly pilgrimage has no appreciation, and which, if presented to us in the body, we could not perceive, nor, perceiving, comprehend. These are they which shall worship and adore, comprehending the glory of Omnipotence, and drinking in and pouring out the full stream of divine and never-failing love and gratitude.