to a proverb; out Jew-ing the Jew, and shaming the Gentile; displaying the shallowest and most pretentious Pharisaism; forgetting the Beautiful in mere Mammoned ostentation; suffering all possible scoundrelism in the councils of every city; defiling every legislative body with a lobby; knowing and suffering justice to become such a mockery, as it has been and is in this very New-York; tolerating officials who should grace the gallows; smiling tolerantly on open humbug; encouraging journals to become common sewers; making divinities of apes, knaves, and fat-headed Philistines, who had piled together fortunes; elevating any 'popular' demagogue above men gifted with pure genius — all of these, my friends, form a black bead-roll, and for these you must suffer. There must be a thunder-storm to clear the air; thank God, this war is rapidly enough raising your minds to a higher standard, and inspiring you with great and noble ideas. But of the great sin I acquit you; you have not depreciated LABOR, nor cursed the poor. There your hands are the cleanest in the world, and for that I love you. No boy, however wretched or humble, has been without a chance among you to rise as high as the highest. For that, God bless you! In the shallowest, vainest, most would-be-aristocratic society of your cities, there is more tenderness toward misfortune, and less blunt allusion to 'inferiors,' than can be found elsewhere in the world. You don't talk of a canaille or of 'mud-sills,' and it is no flattery to call you both great and good-hearted. For all that, God bless you! You have given the widest scope to new inventions, new projects, new theories, new plans of every sort, size, shape and color, like good, brave, enterprising fellows, as you are; and nobody is regarded by you as less of a gentleman, or F. F., because he has invented an apple-paring machine, or a patent mouse-trap. You have over-reached your brother, and 'done' him very frequently on a trade in a most shameful manner; but you have not outlawed or trampled on him, and slain his soul for very malevolence; on the contrary, you have with the greatest good will set him up again,' and borne it with great philosophy when he treated you in like manner. As you have sinned, so shall you be punished in the storm of wrath now raging around us. And as you have done well, so shall you be rewarded when it passes away.

But woe, woe, woe unto the South in that storm, unless by a miracle they escape its horrors! Suppose them victors over us suppose them masters of Maryland and Washington, and what you will. Will that conciliate into inert submission twenty millions of stubborn Northerners, who have thus far been stimulated more by reverses than by success? Why, our whole industrious lives are but one conquering of adversities, and struggling with difficulties. Life, which flows away as a river in Dream-land with all of you Southrons, is a fight and a wrestle with Fortune for nearly all of us; and when it is not so we make it such. When a Yankee turns boot-black, and gives up forever because he has had a note protested, then and not till then will he give up the idea of warring on you. Woe, woe, woe! Do you not know that the 'fanaticism' of the North is now only just beginning to kindle? Do you know what your own overwhelming enthusiasm is? I will tell you. It is the vindictive hatred of a race inferior in many things, and absurdly vain of its superiority

in a few gifts toward another which is greater in almost every thing which constitutes real superiority in this age. That is your enthusiasm a hatred as malignant as that of a lashed slave. Do you think that your chances will be better when a hatred quite as bitter, and ten times more stubborn, rages all through our twenty millions! But we of the North always hated you.' We did not. When this war broke out there was not one Northern man in a hundred who would not have gladly left you in peace with your slaves, to do what you pleased forever, South of the isothermal line. The present Administration would have only been too glad to let you alone, and have protected you with all its armies. But you would not know the truth, you teased your fancied sore, you fed yourselves fat and foul with lies, you sowed the wind - and you must reap the whirlwind!

The end is not yet. But we are at the beginning thereof. Through fire and smoke, cannon-thunder and the wail of myriads, we see greater convulsions, but still we know what must come, and are conscious of our own strength to take us through. Bear one fact in mind, the whole country has ere this determined that as a preliminary, Slavery in the Border States must be destroyed!

LOVE-S ON G.

TRANSLATED FROM THE TURKISH OF AALI EFFENDI.

BY JOHN P. BROWN.

'Ar! Shah i Shahan,

Ay! Noor i Yezdan,
Tahtindi var al·

Feriman i Shadan.'

O QUEEN of all Sovereigns!
O Light of all Lands!
Ascend thy proud throne,

Make known thy commands:
All the world will obey thee,
Let it know but thy will;

Thy subjects adore thee,
As bound by a spell:
Like an artist-drawn spirit,
Like a star from the sky,
'Tis thy beauty enchants them,
As the moon from on high.
The tongue speaks thy praises,
Hearts echo the sound,

Both are pierced by thy beauty,
Yet are proud of the wound.
As the rose-garden gladdens
The sad lover of Art,
So thy presence, O fair one!
Gives Spring to each heart.

Constantinople, April 10th, 1861.

THREE NIGHTS IN A HAUNTED HOUSE.

BY J. WARREN NEW COMB, JR.

I Do not pretend to give, in my rendering of the following strange story, either the manner or the language in which my friend related it as we sat through the long night, he speaking and I listening. I cannot reproduce his manner. I have forgotten his words. I tell the tale in the first person, because that form of narrative gives more effect to its horrible features, and the horror that is in it constitutes, to my mind, its chief value and interest. As for its truth, I can only vouch for my friend's ordinary and usual accuracy of statement. Here is his story:

Several years since, just after Death had been fearfully busy in our family, sundering tie after tie, and leaving this world almost too dismal for existence, my only remaining sister and I resolved to leave New-York for a time, and to seek in the far country that peace of which familiar sights and sounds deprived us. We sought neither fashionable watering-place nor crowded mountaintops, but rather some secluded village, where there were none to know or disturb us, and where we might possibly gather our shattered lives together again and prepare for the work of the world that still lay in the long track of the lifepilgrimage before us.

With this intent I went to Vermont, and pursuing my search with little other purpose than a vague longing for retirement, selected as our abiding-place a small village, hemmed in by mountains, and silent, save what babble was made by a stream that ran darkly and furiously down between rocky borders. On every hand, beyond the narrow valley, a giant growth of pines frowned upon the place, and above the pines there stood up against the sky rugged and gray rocks, around which in times of tempest the lightnings seemed to play as by right. It was a dreary place, that seemed to have been overlooked and forgotten by the great world without.

'This,' I said, 'is the place we seek. In its strange apathy and silence we will sleep away the sorrow that possesses us!' The very air and spirit of the spot were akin to my feelings and my grief.

I learned that there was a house to let a short distance from the long street that formed the village. This house had been some time without a tenant, and was to be had at a low rent. Finding the agent for the property, I learned that the owner resided in a distant State, and that the building, though somewhat out of repair, could readily be put in a habitable condition. With the agent I walked up the avenue leading to the mansion, to ascertain by personal examination whether his tale were all exaggeration. I found a high, square, red brick building of two and a half stories, standing in the midst of a waste of overgrown, neglected lawn and garden, with a few shambling out-houses in the

rear.

The fences had fallen to decay; there were no blinds to the tall and nar

row windows; no cornice to relieve the bare and blank aspect of the walls. The chimneys stood up stiff and straight, with no warmth of homely smoke rising from their black throats; all was desolate, dreary and uninviting. Still, the house had an air of faded respectability, and seemed to wear even its threadbare decay with a certain pride. It was like some men we see — - poor fellows in mouldy and ragged clothing who have seen better days.' 'It cost more to build it,' the agent said, 'than any two houses in town.'

'It is just the place,' I thought; 'my soul is in unison with its desolation and decay.' As we stood gazing up at its exterior, a solitary crow flapped slowly overhead, and turning its eyes down upon us, gave one cracked and doleful croak, and then passed on.

We entered the building, and passed through it from cellar to garret. It had once been a fine house. The rooms were high, the hall broad, the stairs of easy ascent. In the kitchen was a wide and deep fire-place, in which hung an old-fashioned iron crane.' The last occupants had left behind them a broad, high-backed settle, upon which doubtless, in years gone by, there had been no little tender love-making. The hearth-stone was a large slab of white marble. I noticed it particularly on account of an unsightly crack across its centre.

Beside the kitchen, there were, on the lower floor, a large dining-room, two parlors with folding-doors, and a room opening into both kitchen and hall, in the rear of the dining-room, which, though small, would accommodate my desk, a study-table, and the few books I should bring with me. This room opened into the hall directly at the foot of the broad stair-way.

Through the centre of the house, from front to rear, ran the hall, and the solid stair-case, with a heavy mahogany balustrade, rose evenly and gently to the second story. The rooms on the second floor corresponded in size and position to those below, and there was over all a large and lofty garret, lighted by half-windows. One portion of this space was partitioned off, and it struck me that my guide slightly shuddered as he turned the key in the lock to the chamber thus formed. Indeed he had made a feeble attempt to ignore its existence, but I insisted upon seeing the entire house. There was nothing remarkable about the room, excepting a portrait in oil of a thin, dark-featured old man, that hung upon the wall. It was poorly done, and yet it had a certain life about it difficult to describe. You have met just such old men in the streets hundreds of times, I dare say, and passed them with an involuntary feeling of dislike and dread; some faces, after many years, gather so much of the Satanic in their expression.

'Who was that?' I asked.

'An old man who lived here years ago,' the agent said.

'Was he not insane?'

'I believe so,' the man said shortly, and then he rather hastily closed the door, and we descended to the ground floor.

The house was damp and mouldy from long disease. Dust was piled every where, and there was a silence not known to human habitations. We seemed, indeed, to be the only living things that had disturbed this deathly silence for long years. Even the spiders had died from want of prey, and their forsaken

webs fluttered tenantless in the corners, or hung from the ceilings in dingy and useless festoons.

Before we parted, I had hired this dismal house for a year. Several weeks were occupied in getting it into a habitable state, a feat finally accomplished by the agent, aided by half the old women in the village. Then we brought up such furniture as we needed for the kitchen, dining-room and study, and for three bed-rooms on the second floor, our maid-servant positively refusing to sleep in that lonesome garret.'

I consider it somewhat remarkable, that in all the time from my hiring the place to our finally moving into it, no one in the village had even so much as hinted that it was haunted, or given us a single clue to the awful mystery that hung around it. Some knowledge they had, I know, of the terrible tragedy long ago enacted there, although they were not acquainted with its entirety as I so fearfully became.

Do you believe in clairvoyance? in spiritualism? or in the power of the soul during sleep to receive intelligence denied to it while awake? Can you tell what sleep is; what dreams are, or in how much a life separate from the body is permitted to the soul, under certain circumstances, before death? Or how far disembodied spirits have the power to haunt old scenes and reproduce old actions, so that living men, influenced by the dead, shall say: 'The place is haunted'? The speculation is extensive, never-ending. Every man has read and heard of ghosts, witches and hobgoblins. Listen and you shall hear what befell me, living, breathing, sober and sceptical.

We entered our new home on a cold and gloomy Friday in November. The rain fell in torrents from the leaden clouds, and the wind soughed and moaned through the dreary pine forest. Naught was to be seen from the windows but dark mountains and dull sky, and within was little to cheer us by its contrast. Fires had been lighted in all the rooms. On the kitchen-hearth a great pile of logs roared defiance to the blast, and yet there was a certain cheerlessness and chilliness about the place that no artificial warmth seemed able to dispel. My sister Alice trembled and shivered as we entered, and when we sat together after tea, soberly discussing our simple plans for the year's life before us, she pressed close to my side, glancing timidly now and again about the room.

After she had placed a lamp upon my study-table and kindly taken down one or two old favorites from the book-case for my possible necessities, she turned to kiss me 'good night,' and placing a hand upon my shoulder, said in a low and fearful voice: 'Henry, what if the place is haunted!'

I had not thought of that before. What if it were? Well, we had no reason to fear the power of evil; of all others, my sister had least cause, and so I told her as cheerfully as I could. But still, after she was gone, the thought clung to me: 'What if the house were haunted!'

I banished the thought, and taking up a book, was soon lost in the quiet past. Thus I read until the kitchen clock had struck eleven, when I closed the volume, and passing up the stairs to my bed-room, was soon asleep.

It was singular that in my dream I should know that old man so well: a