schools of morality; and the teachings of the bivouac do not improve, although they are apt to supersede earlier impressions. Lessons learned by the watch-fire and in the smoke of battle, amidst the dead and dying, over the ashes of villages and the sack of cities, are sorry remembrances to bring back to the domestic fireside, or to walk with one when bells are knolling to church. The harmony of nature loses its charm on senses which have been accustomed to the drum-beat and the movement of battalions. It is dull work to go back to the shop, with the din of arms still vibrating on the ear, or to keep patiently to the allotted hours of labor when the imagination is dwelling

"hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly breach." The Latin poet says, that the descent to the infernal regions is easy, but that it is rather troublesome to mount up again. It is an innocent, though not perhaps a profitable amusement, to play soldiers, and wears a certain dignity even when the musicians outnumber the rank and file, steel coming out second best in the competition with brass, as "the pomp and circumstance of war" move through admiring crowds, punctually at the hour of "high change." But woe to the country where this, instead of being an occasional recreation, becomes the main object of life, engrossing the thoughts and capabilities of its people, and making every occupation subservient to the "bravo's trade." Should the days ever come upon us, which may God in his mercy forbid, when the bustle of trade, and the uproar of the factory, and the clang of anvil and workbench, shall give place to the discordant notes which tell. of preparation for deeds of blood, the true glory will have vanished. Night will be settling upon New England when a martial spirit shall forget our sources of power, and turn us from the calling of our fathers. Better seek distinction in the struggle where the brawny arm works out the sugges tions of the head, and spreads comfort and luxury over all

the land; better cover the sea with ships laden with the products of a superabundant industry; better look on fields where the well-turned furrows tell that the plough, and not the cannon, has done its work. Monuments of mechanical invention are more glorious than the spoils of war; the enterprise of commerce brings back the blessings of friends, instead of the curses of conquered foes; waving corn is more beautiful than charging squadrons, and the golden harvest more useful than ground covered with dead men; diplomas are not less honorable than epaulets, and premiums are certainly as substantial as brevets. The ardent patriot, who feels the necessity of periodically rekindling the martial flame of this people, need not be alarmed lest it should be smothered if left untouched. There is more danger in fanning than in heaping ashes upon it. The same energy which is now devoted to the arts of peace, would be terrible if concentrated in one hostile united purpose. The men are here, whose ancestors struck hard blows at Marston Moor and Naseby, scattering, with headlong onset, the chivalry of England, and building up a State with sword and bible. The stuff which led the fathers is in the sons, though better circumstances give it a different direction, and they know little of its character who trifle with it.

The mission of New England is not with "stricken fields" and "garments rolled in blood." She has higher and nobler duties, and her destiny is to build up and sustain, not to pull down and destroy. Her pride is in rearing her hardy children on the soil from which their iron will and iron hands wring not only competency but abundance; in converting every stream into a mill course, and filling her valleys with the monuments of enterprise and industry; in courting competition and giving public evidence of perfection in the mechanic arts; in providing homes for the destitute and afflicted; in maintaining

free schools, which with open doors call equally to all, and offer to the children of the poorest immigrant the means of becoming useful and honored citizens; in tolerating all creeds, and sowing broadcast on her hills, temples every sect, all dedicated to the Prince of Peace. These are the glories of New England, on which her prosperity is founded, and which, while they endure, will perpetuate her fame forever.

of

The stranger who comes among us, whether from the Old World, or from those portions of our own, which, though our country, are almost as far removed, wonders at the magic which has, within the short space of one man's life, transformed the forest into populous abodes of refinement and intelligence. Our brother of more genial climes looks at the institutions sustained by voluntary labor, and returns to his own home with kindly feeling and dawning thoughts, from the example which may yet have an illustrious fulfilment. The foreign traveller finds a new creation as he looks on the results of education and well-directed enterprise, and the problem of self-government is solved amidst the evidences of an advanced civilization. The enlightened Briton, standing on the mighty shaft which commemorates a day memorable to humanity, as he views the well tilled-farms, verdant in the distance, and his retreating eye rests on the cheerful villages stretching around him, and then falling on the fair city at his feet, with its harbor white with departing or returning canvas, and hears murmuring up to him the pleasing hum of busy, peaceful men, sees, in the mass of granite which upholds him, not the record of one bloody morning,- a mere memorial that at its base brave men met death, but a landmark in the pilgrimage of time, from which to date the existence of a happy people. He feels that he gazes on the handicraft of his own kindred blood, and, reverting to the eventful conflict, he reverently thanks God for that day's work.

We live in a country where it is very uncomfortable to do nothing. Loafing is at a discount, and is the most wearisome of occupations. Carlyle says that "ease is for no man," and if ease means idleness, he must have been thinking of us. In the cities of Europe there is a class which passes through life without doing anything useful. Time has sanctioned the profession, and it consists of sufficient numbers to keep one another in countenance. But here the attempt is a desperate one, and of such exceedingly doubtful estimation that the most inveterate lounger feels it necessary to incur the expense of a gilt sign, to indicate that he has a place of business. It is in vain that he goes round, seeking for sympathy. He feels that he is in every body's way, and is like the truant boy in the story, who invited every animal he met to play with him, but as all were too busy to attend to him, he finally concluded that he had better go to school.

With us, men generally die with their harness on, and leave off work only when they leave off life. Many a man, who has earned an honorable discharge, and should have the freedom of those hospitable asylums which insure against fire, water, and ennui, and keep open doors where worn-out veterans can "fight their battles o'er again," yet disdains the side scenes, and will not quit the stage till the curtain falls. Most men when entering on the active pursuits of life, look forward to the time when they shall cease to labor, and retreating to some fairy spot, where the world dies away and paradise begins, may

"Husband out life's taper at the close,

And keep the flame from wasting by repose."

But the time for such retirement recedes with advancing years; habit reconciles the mill horse to his eternal round, and it may not be safe to change either the spot or the pace. It is hard to leave the old accustomed place of hopes and fears, successes and reverses, exultation and

depression; to give up the excitement and importance of business life, and settle down a forgotten nobody, never again destined to come before the public until a line or two appears in the obituary notices, under the head of "another old citizen gone." To one of limited tastes and few resources beyond an accustomed track, it is a wise conclusion to travel on the old road, unto the last stopping place. There is often injustice in attributing this course to an exorbitant love for accumulation. There is, to be sure, a class on which such a supposition is not wasted, and which does toil on with no other motive than to add something more to wealth, of which it neither understands the use nor value. There are hard, exacting men, whose only utility in the world is in creating a disgust which deters others from following their example; men who have but one standard of judgment, and who classify their fellow creatures according to the value of their notes and their credit at Bank; who acknowledge no worth but the worth of dollars, and put a value on property and its possessor which entitles the latter to an adoration not inferior to that once paid to the golden calf. These harpies of society, who fatten on the misfortunes and necessities of others, biding their time and hoarding up their power, to be carefully doled out at the highest rate, look impatiently for that periodical visitation, a "stringent money market," and when the panic-stirring guest, like Medusa's head, has turned Bank Directors into stones, they smell "the battle afar off," and in these times of trouble, prowl about the streets, like Shylocks, with knife and scales, seeking their pounds of flesh. A man of this class looks on the making of money as the chief end of life. His thoughts, and conversation, and dreams, are eternally on money, and he likes it so well, that he not only gets all he can, but keeps all he gets, and leaves others to pay what he owes to the community, which protects him, and his ill