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From Hunt's Merchant's Magazine, for Dec. I
A Review ©f the Cotton Trade.
The price of Cotton, during the past season,
has been continually upward. About the first
of November it reached the lowest point, and
from that time forward, there has been a unifoim
advance. At first, the rise was siow, with occa
sionally a backward movement; but recently it
has been so rapid, that the rates have already
risen (see table I. at the end of this article) Irom
35 per cent, below, to 35 # ;>er cent, above the av
erage. The causes of this advance are plain
and evident. There is no mystery, no combina
tions ot planters or sellers, no forced or unnatu
ral efforts of speculators, bringing about the re
sults. The pacification of Europe, the revival
of business in France, the fine harvest in Eng
land, the large consumption, the small stocks,
and the discouraging prospects of the new crop,
are all powerful influences, favorable to an ad
vance ; and it is difficult or impossible to name
a single cause in the opposite direction. Os
these influences, most powerful is the promise of
a short crop. After the largest production ever
before known, we see the stocks on hand lower
than they were at the beginning of the year.
(Table II.) With a decrease in the amount pro
duced, below the wants of the manufacturers,
prices necessarily rise above the average, until
the high rate of the raw material lessens the
consumption and brings the demand within the
supply. It is this cause, more than all others
combined, that has brought about the recent ad
vance. The triumph of the Austrians in Lom
bardy, and the Neapolitans in Sicily; the estab
lishment of order in Paris and Vienna ; the cessa
tion of hostilities in Schleswig-Holstein, and in
Hungary, have all produced hut a slight effect ;
while the late frost in April, the heavy rains in
summer, the rust, the worm, and the caterpillar,
in the autumn, have told with great power on the
market. Toe splendid harvest in England has
been next in influence ; Hut next only, after a
great interval. All have, however, combined to
produce the effect, and they have done it fairly,
legitimately, and therefore permanently. In
considering, therefore, the probable supply and
demand for the coining year, we must base our
calculations on high prices. This will increase
the shipments from India, and, by encouraging
late picking, increase the production of the Uni
ted States. It will, at the same time, discour
age consumption, generally, and especially in
England. Already have the spinners at Man
chester commenced working short time, and this
is not to be regarded as a combination to pre
vent the rise in prices, but the necessary conse
quence of a short crop. A diminished supply of
cotton causes an advance in the price, and a di
minished consumption is indispensably necessa
ry to bring up the price of the manufactured ar
tide. In this way, the equilibrium between de
mand and supply is established, and price must
be considered, before either the supply or the de
mand can he properly estimated.
The supply from the United States will this
year be undoubtedly small. But small and great
are comparative words, having no meaning of
themselves. We mean that the crop will fall off
largely from the receipts of the last year. It will
do this at every principal sea-port, and for two
causes. Because the production is less, and
because the large stocks in the hands of the
planters had much to do with the extraordinary
receipts of last season.
The crop of South Carolina and Georgia will
be shortened by the late frost in the spring, by
the excessive rains in June and July, and by the
drought in August. The worm, also, has done
considerable damage in some portions of these
States. The season is very much protracted,
but this was the case last year. The amount
planted is not larger, as a greater breadth of
land was devoted to Wheat than ever was done
before. Near Macon, a considerable force was
turned to the construction of the South Western
Railroad, These causes have none of them
been very fatal, or serious, but they have had
their influence. The effect of all may be esti
mated to produce a falling off of 75,000 bales in
these two States. A like decline, compared
with last year, may be anticipated, on account of
the large supply of old Cotton, which was carri
ed forward to swell the receipts of last season.
The amount received at Charleston and Savan
nah, will thus be reduced from 850,000 bales to
700,000. The extension of railroads further
West will attract to these ports some Cotton,
formerly sent to the Gulf of Mexico, and thus
keep up the receipts higher than they would have
been in former years, when the prospects of the
crop were the same as they now are.
At Apalachicola and Mobile the receipts must
fall off largely. Besides the causes operating in
the Atlantic States, they have had the rust and
the caterpillar in many places. The boll worm
has also been much more destructive than in
Georgia. On the Tornhigbee, the disasters
have been greater than in the worst seasons we
have ever had. Twenty per cent, on the re- I
ceipts of last year may lie deducted for the
amount of the new crop. This may seem small
to those who have heard the reports from the
Western and Southern portion of Alabama and
Georgia. But when the price is as high as it
now is, the planters will keep their hands pick
ing till February. Many a field that would have
been ploughed up or neglected, will now be gone
over a fourth or a firth time. This Cotton will
be poor, but it will swell the receipts as much
as any other.
From New Orleans we have more disastrous
reports than from any other portion of the Cot
ton region. Besides all the injuries before
mentioned they have suffered from the overflow
ings of the Mississippi and the Red River.
This damage has been especially severe on the
Red, where the loss from this cause alone, has
been estimated as high as 100,000 bales. This
is exaggeratad, doubtless, but the injury has been j
very serious. The prevalence of cholera in the
summer, along the Mississippi, by diminishing
the force at work, permitted the grass to grow, I
and thus injured the prospects ol the crop. I
Throughout Louisiana, Mississippi and Arkansas,
the deficiency will be large ; but in Tennessee
and North Alabama it will be slight. A falling j
off of twenty per cent may be anticipated at j
New Orleans; but not more than this, because j
the disasters of last year had already reduced
their receipts ten per cent, below those of the
preceding year.
Texas, North Carolina, and Virginia, will
produce about as much as last year. The in
creased cultivation in Texas will make up for
the ravages of the worm. These estimates
bring up the whole production of the United
States to 2,250,000 bales. (Table III.)
The supply from India is very much dependent
on the price. There has been a report from
Bombay of a failure in the crop, but this has not
been confirmed by subsequent advices. The
discouraging news from the shipments to China 1
will balance the effect of any slight deficiency
in the production. A considerable increase
may be anticipated over the imports of 1849, on
©ceount of the rise in prices; but they will not
much the average of the last seven years. This
baen 508,000 bales, and I would estimate
the imports into England for 1850, at 230,000
bales. (See table IV.)
The receipts from Egypt, Brazil, and the West
Indies, are small, and nearly stationary, The
rise, in prices will probably prevent any falling
off from the receipts of 1849. These will
doubtless reach 220.000 bales, (table V.) and
the same amount may be expected for the next
year.
The summary of these supplies gives a total
0f2,700,000 bales, (table VI.) which is less
than the crop of the United States, for the year
that has just closed. This falling off’ in the sup
ply must cause a decrease in the consumption,
j else all the present stocks would be exhausted—
a result which cannot possibly occur.
This decrease will not take place in the Uni
ted States. It would seem, from the published
; statements, (table VII ) that the wants of our
manufacturers haae declined in the past year.
This is, beyond doubt, only apparent. The ve
ry low price at which cotton was sold at the
close of 1843, induced the manufacturers to lay
iu large stocks, while the advancing rates of
1849 produced an opposite effect. Hence the
I extraordinary increase that appeared to take
place in 1848, and the apparent decrease in
1849. The advance in the consumption of the
United States has been so uniform and unvary
ing, that no fears need be indulged that this in
crease will not continue. We have already be
come the largest consumer of cotton in the world,
and this rank we will continue to hold, without
dispute, hereafter. Our people now manufac
ture more cotton, and purchase more cotton
goods, than are consumed by Great Britain and
all her dependencies, in the four quarters of the
globe, and the next year will wit
ness no change in this matter. High prices of
the raw material have no power to check con
sumption here. Our people are not so poor as
to deny themselves necessary clothing, when
prices rise, and almost all cotton goods are ne
j cessaries, not luxuries, of life. High prices of
cotton, besides, favor our consumption, to some
j extent, by increasing the ability ol the South to
buy, and by keeping down the price of exchange,
| and preventing the exportation of specie. Our
’ consumption for 185) may safely be put at 550,-
000 bales, the average for 1847 and 1848 being
520,000. A decline must take place in Great
Britain. The favorable prospects presented by
a fine harvest, cheap food, and general prosperi
ty, will fail to neutralize the influence of high
prices of the raw material. Peace in India, in
Germany, in Italy, in the whole world, cannot
enable the European laborers to consume their
usual amount of goods, when prices advance be
yond their usual limit. The fund out of which
the great mass purchase their clothing, is limit
ed, and this constant sum will buy a smaller
number of yards, when the cost per yard is in
creased. Willi average rates for cotton the con
! sumption of England would exceed that of any
j former period. Ireland is quiet ; the chartist
agitation has ceased ; food is abundant ; trade
is active ; the currency in fine order ; money at
a low rale of interest; the stocks of goods in the
hands of manufacturers small ; the demand for
labor on railroads, mines, and iron works, good ;
and everywhere the elements of prosperity visi
ble. The foreign market is not less promising
than the home market. From Europe, India,
and America, the demand for English exports is
alike favorable. But in spite of all these con
siderations, the advance in the raw material
must inevitably check the consumption.
‘Phe deliveries to the trade this year have ex
ceeded every former year. The excess over
1845 is slight over last year it is
considerable. The stocks in the hands of man
ufacturers are now small, because they have
been buying for some time, less than they have
consumed. The whole consumption in 1848,
was 1,404.000 bales, and in 1845, it was 1,574,-
000. For the present year, it will probably
reach 1,600.000 bales; but for 1850, it cannot
safely be estimated at higher than 1,450,000.
In France the consumption is now largely in
advance of last year, and up to the Ist of August
it exceeded the amounts of 1845 and 1846.
The increased stability of Louis
Napoleon’s government, for the last half of the
present year, promises that this excess will be
maintained, and that the close of the year will
witness the largest delive.v of American Cotton
ever made. The whole amount of American
Cotton consumed in France was 351.090 bales,
in 1845, and 277,000 in 1848. For 1849, it
will probably reach 400,000 bales ; and, unless
political troubles, not now foreseen, should in
jure the prospects of trade, the high price of Col.
ton will not bring the demand for 1859 below
350.000 bales.
On other parts of the continent, besides
France, the consumption of Cotton has been
regularly increasing. The average demand, for
the last five years, has been 442.000 bales, and
this period includes the disastrous harvest of
1847, and the revolutionary excitement of 1848
and 1849. The demand for 1859 cannot fall as
low as this average. It will be almost certain
to exceed 450,000 bales, even if the present ad
vance in prices is sustained.
We have thus a total demand (table XII.) of
2.800,000 bales, which exceeds the supply (ta
ble VI.) 100,000 bales. As the stocks were
lower in January last (table XU.) than they had
been for the lat ten years, and as they are now
lower (table II.) than they were a year ago, this
deficiency of the supply must keep up prices
much above the average. They are now 30 or
40 per cent, above, middling fair being quoted
in Charleston (October 11th) at lOj) cents.
This advance must be maintained, unless the
lateness of the frost should carry up the United
States crop above 2,250,000 bales, or unless se
rious political troubles should arise in Europe,
to darken the prospects of business. The day
of prosperity to the planters has at last come.
The promise lor the future is bright. The crop
is not small, though much reduced fjom last
year. It is the increased consumption during
the last year, as much as the short crop, which
has advanced prices. The prospect is, there
fore, that even a large crop from the next plant
ing will bring fair prices, while a failure would
carry up prices to the high range of 1835 and
1836. The present crop, though small, will
bring a much larger amount of money than the
last. The disasters being uniformly distributed,
every part of the country will receive the bene
fit. The planters have deserved this prosperity,
and at last they have received their reward.
Let them continue their endeavors to divert
their labor to other pursuits ; let their extra cap
ital be devoted to the building ot railroads, mills,
and factories, let them extend the cultivation of
sugar, wheat and corn ; let them raise at home
their own pork, mules and horses ; let them en
courage domestic manufactures of all kinds.
And, by thus transferring a portion of their labor
from the production of Cotton, it will be easy to
keep up the price above the lew limits to which
it has (alien, for the last few years.
Table I.—American exports, value, and average
price.
1840 to 1848, exports in pounds 6,050,200,-
000 ; value in the custom house $478,030,000;
§ @ ainr co @® so s i ffinr akoi il □
price in cents 8,0 ; whole crop in pounds 7.451,-
099.000; value of whole crop $592,041,000.
1849, price in cents about 6,0; whole crop in
j pounds 1,140,000,000; value of whole crop
; $68,400,000. Total for ten years, from 1840
; to 1849, inclusive, whole crop in pounds 8 591,-
j 000,000; value of whole crop $660,441,000.
I Average price 7,7 cents ; 35 per cent below is
5 cents, and 35 percent above is 10,4 cents.
Tabic ll.—Per Cent Stocks.
1849. 1848.
United Statns, Sep. 1, 1849, bales 155.000 171,000
Liverpool, sth Oct. 1849, 547,000 533,000
Havre Ist Aug. 1849, 95,000
Total for these three places, 706,000 799,000
Table lll.—,United States Crop.
Receipts. Estimate.
1847. 1848. 1849. 1850.
Texas, 8,000 40,000 39,000 40,000
New Orleans, 706,000 1,191,000 1,094,000 900,000
Mobile, 324,000 436.000 519,000 420,000
Florida, 128,000 154,000 200.000 170,000
Georgia, 243.000 255,000 391,000 525,000
S. Carolina, 350,000 262,000 458,000 375,000
Other places, 20,000 10,000 28,000 20,000
Total, 1,779,000 2,348,000 2,729,000 2,250,000
Table IV.—English Imports from the East Indies.
Years. Bales Imported. Remarks.
1825 to 1833, average 73,000 Declining prices
1833 to 1841, do 110,000 High prices
1841 to 1843, do 265,000 Chinese war
1843 to 1846, do 192,000 Peace and low prices
1846 to 1849, do 208,01J0 Moderate prices
1846, 50.000 Low prices, rep’l duty
1847, 223,000 Advance in prices
1848, 227,IWM 1 WM .Moderate prices
1848, first six months, JO2, UU O Moderate prices
1848, Oct. 6, L'pool, 93.0 U 0 Moderate prices
1849, first six months, 38,000 Very low prices
1849, Oct. 5, L’pool, 69,000 Very low prices
1849, whole year, 150,900 Very low prices,
1850, do do 230,000 High prices
Table V.—Run fish Imports from Hraxil, Egypt, Sfr.
1841, liales 197,000 1848, firsl six months, 5i,000
1845, 201,000 1843, Oct. 6, Liverpool, 93,000
1846, 123,000 18,9, first six months, 135,000
1847, 136,000 1849,0 ct. 5, Liverpool, 180,000
1843, 137,000 1849, whole year, about 220,000
Average, 165,000 1850, whole year, about 220,000
Table Vl. — Supply.
1849. 1850.
Crop of the United Slates, bales 2,729,000 2,250,000
English import from East Indies, 151,000 230,000
Do do all other places, 220,000 220,000
Total, 3,100,000 2,700,000
Table Vll. — American Co?:sumy lion.
American Average for Increase
Years. consumption. three years. percent.
1844, bales 347,000 321,000 5,2
1845, 839,000 354,000 10,3
1846, 423,000 386,000 9,0
1847, 428,000 413,000 7.0
184, 623,000 458,000 10,9
1349, 518,000 490,000 7,0
Table Xl.—Consumption on the Continent.
A meric an
exp’ts ottiit’g Stocks
i English France mid on the Apparent
Yenrs. exp’ts. G. Britain. Dec.3l. cous’tion.
1844, bales, 135 000 144.000 120,000
1845, 121.000 285,000 90,000 43(4,000
1846, 191,000 205,000 39,000 450,000
1847, 208,000 169,000 76,000 340,000
1843, 190,000 255,000 60,000 461,000
184S, Oct. 6, 115,000
1849, Oct. 5, 170,000
1849, about 240,000 322,000 100,000 522,666
Table Xll. — Demand.
1849. 1850.
Consumption of the U. States, 515,000 550,000
Do. Great Britain, 1,600,000 1 450,000
Do. In France of U. S. cotton, 400,000 350,000
Eng. and Aiuer. exports to other
countries, 562,000 450,000
Total, 3,080,000 2,800,000
Table Xlll. — Stocks.
Great Rest of
Dec. 13, L'pool. Britain. France. Continent. Total.
1814, 741,000 903,000 78,000 129,000 1,101,000
1845, 885,000 1,060,000 69,000 90.000 1,219,000
1346, 439,000 549,000 30.000 39,000 618,000
1847, 364.000 452,000 63,000 76,000 591,000
1848, 393,000 496,000 29,000 60,000 579,000
Recipe for Washing.—To one pint of soft
soap, add two tablespnonfuls of spirits ofturpen.
line. If the soap is thin, it may be mixed cold.
But ifthe soap is thick, it must be warmed
wnile stirring it together. The above quantity
of soap is sufficient to do a common washing.
Half a pint of the soap is to be put into as
much warm water as will cover the clothes to
be washed, ns warm as washing suds in the
ordinary wav of washing. Let them then
stand thirty minutes, then wring them out, and
put them immediately into cold, clean water
—rinse well, put them then into boiling suds
—to this suds add one-half pint of the above
compound—let them boil fifteen or twenty
minutes—take them through the sudsing wa
ter and through rinsing water, and whiter and
cleaner clothing cannot be had. The arrange,
ment saves completely all rubbing, which is
the laborious part oflhe operation in washing
clothes. —Prairie Farmer.
How a Man Feels when he’s Hung.—
Hanging, though a death which has prevailed
more than any single mode of execution, is a
death from which the imagination revolts. This
is a vulgar error. Louis, the eminent French
professor, seeing that the Paris criminals were
some instants in dying, while those at Lyons
hung a lifeless mass the moment the rope was
strained by their weight, learned from the exe.
cutioner the trick of the trade, which spared his
victims a struggle. In flinging them from the
ladder, he steadied with one hand the head, and
with the other imparted to the body a rotary
movement, which gave the neck a wrench. The
veritable Jack Ketch, of the reign of James 11,
who has transmitted his name to all inheritors of
his office, was said by his wife to alone know
how to make a culprit “die sweetly though
bis assistants could get through the business tol
erably well too, An immense number of per
sons, recovered from insensibility, have recorded
their sensations, and agree that an easier end j
could not be desired. An acquaintance of Lord
Bacon, who meant to hang himself, was cut:
down iu the last extremity, and declared that he
felt no pain, his only sensation was that he saw
fire before his eyes, which changed first to black,
and then sky-blue, affording a source of pleasure, i
Moritagnac, hanged in France during, the reli
gious wars, and rescued at the intercession of i
lurenne, complained that having lost all pain j
on the instant, he had been taken from a light of i
which the charm defied all description. Another, !
who escaped by the breaking of the cord, said
that after a second suffering, a fire appeared, and
across it a most beautiful avenue of trees. Hen
ry IV ot France sent his physician to question
him, and when a pardon was talked of. the man
answered coldly that it was not worth the asking.
The uniformity of the descriptions render it use
iess to multiply instances. They fill pages of
every book of medical jurisprudence. All agree
that the uneasiness is quite momentary, that
pleasurable sensation immediately succeeds, col
ors of various hue start up before the sight, and
these having been gazed on for a trivial space,
the rest is oblivion.
Same years ago, Gen. Alexander Smyth of Virgin
ia, in the course of a two days’ speech before the
committee of the whole, was called to order by Ar
thur Livermore of N. H. for irrelevancy. “Mr. Chair
man,” said Smyth, “I am not speaking for the mem
ber from New Hampshire, but for posterity.” “The
gentleman,” rejoined Livermore, “is in a fair way be
fore he finishes to have his audience before him.”
The Test of Friendship.
A SHORT AND TRUE STORY.
“The hand that wiped away ie tear of want,
j The heart that melted at another’s woe
Were his, and b'essings followed him.”
David Wentworth had the kindest of hearts,
i There was neither mete nor bound to his benev.
olence, except inability. And happy were any
! man who had a tithe of the prayers that were
! offered up for the welfare of my friend, by the un
fortunate and wretched whom his hand had re
lieved.
I speak of my prayers—for it was the only re
ward he obtained ; 1 mean here—but 1 forgot.
David was paying attention to an excellent
young lady of his native city. She was wealthy,
beautiful and accomplished, and consequently
had many suitors. Among them were richer,
and nobler (in extraction I mean) and hand
somer men than David Wentworth, but n’im
porte, there was a kind of frank-hearledness
about my friend, that could not fail to carry him
somewhere near the heart of his mistress, even if
an emperor had been his rival.
‘i'he young !adv hit upon a project to put the
! character ol her lovers to a test. She had found
a poor widow with a family in distress, in one of
her benevolent excursions, and the idea occur
red to her that it would be a good opportunity to
ascertain the stuff her lovers’ hearts were made
j of. Letters were forthwith indited, setting forth
j the good woman’s tale, and forwarded to the dis-
I ferent gentlemen in the widow’s name, request
ing an answer and assistance.
The firsfreply was a lecture on idleness and
begging, and concluded with the information that
the writer was not accustomed to give to those he
did not know. This was from s>lo,ooo a year.
The second advised her to apply to some ol the
benevolent societies whose business it was to re
lieve those who were truly in want. This was
from one who had a great reputation for benev
olence—who had taken a leading part in seVe.r
al charitable associations, and whose, pharisaicai
liberality had been blazoned in the Gazette.—
The lady thought that interested as he was in
the success of these institutions, he displayed a
very commendable reluctance about taking the
business out of their hands. A third from a
good hearted and generous kind of fellow, en
closed her a five dollar bill with his compliments.
Several took no notice of the good woman’s pe
tition. Hut there was another answer which
the lady read with far different feelings. It was
trom David—from SSOO a year—and I need not
say, like himself, kind and consoling. It spoke
of the writer’s means, the rule he had adopted,
unless persuaded of the object, and concluded
by requesting an interview. “If,” said he, “I
find myself otherwise unable to afford the as
sistance you require, I trust I may be of service
in interesting others in your behalf.”
Nor was this mere profession. For it was but
a few weeks before the widow found herself
comfortably located, and engaged in a thriving
little business, commenced by the recommenda
tion, and carried on by the aid of my friend.—
And all this was done in genuine, scripture style.
There was no sounding of trumpets —and the
right hand knew not the doings of the left. But
his lady love was a silent observer of his con
duct, and he received many a kind glance from
that quarter, of which he never suspected the
cause. She began to think that the homage of
a spirit like his was not a thing to be despised ;
and she felt something very much like a palpita
tion of the heart as she questioned herselt re
specting his intentions.
Such was the train of thought which was one
evening, as is often the case, interrupted by a
call from the person who bad been its cause.—
Hour after hour passed by that night, and stiff
and still David lingered. He could not tear
himself away. “She was a most fascinating
creature,” thought he. “and good as she is beauti
ful. Can she ever be mine ‘/” and a cloud came
over his features and he sat for a moment in si
lence.
“This suspense must be ended,” he at length
thought. He started as the clock told eleven.
“You will certainly think me insufferably te
dious,” said he, with a faint smile, “but I have
been so pleasantly engaged as to take no note of ;
time. And the sin of this trespass upon the rules
of good breeding must lie at your door. Beside,
I have lengthened this visit,” he continued after
a pause, “under the apprehension that it has
been the happiest, it might also be the last, it
might ever be my good fortune to enjoy with
MissH.
She looked at him with some surprise.
“Nay,” said lie, “the matter rests with your
self. Will you forgive my presumption 7 I
know that others, perhaps more worthy of you,
at least nobler and wealthier, and higher in the. j
world’s esteem, are striving for the honor ofyour
hand. And yet I cannot restrain myself from
making an avowal which, though it may be futile,
it is but a deserved tribute to your worth.” And
he popped the question.
The lady did not swoon nor turn pale. But
a flush of gratification passed over her lace, and
lighted her eye fora moment.
She frankly gave him her hand and looked up
archly in his face. “The friend of the fatherless
and widow,” said she, (David blushed,) -‘cannot
tail to make a constant lover and husband.”
Marseilles Hymn—The Song and the
Singer.
BY PERCY B. ST. JOHN.
It was during the early days of the great. Rev
olution of 1789. in the year 1792. when a young !
officer in delicate health took up his quarters in j
the city of Marseilles for the six months of his ,
leave of absence. It seemed a strange retire- !
ment for a young man, for in the town lit- knew j
no one, and in the depth of winter Marseilles i
was no tempting residence. The officer lived
in a garret looking out upon the street, which had
for its sole furniture a harpsichord, a bed. a table, |
and a chair. Little but paper ever entered that ■
apartment, where food and fuel both were scarce; j
and yet the young man generally remained in
doors all day assiduously writing, or rather dot- j
ting something upon paper, an occupation he al-1
ternated with music.
Thus passed many months. The young man
grew thinner and paler, and his leave of absence i
appeared likely to bring no convalescence. But i
he was handsome and interesting, despite his sal- 1
low hue. Long hair, full beaming eyes that j
spoke of intelligence, and even genius, frankness
of manner, all prepossessed in his favor, and ma
ny a smile and look of kindliness came to him
from beautiful eyes that he noticed not, nor cared
to notice. In fact, he rarely went out but at
night, and then to walk down by the booming
sea, which made a kind of music he seemed to
love. Sometimes, it is true, he would hang about
the theatre door when operas were about to be j
played, and look with longing eye within ; but he
never entered—either his purse or his inclination
failed him. But he always examined with care
the name of the piece and its author, and then
walked away to the seashore to muse and medi- j
tale. )
Shortly after his arrival in Marseilles he visit
ed one after another, all tho music sellers and
publishers in the town with a bendle of manu
scripts iu his hand ; but his reception was appa
rently not very favorable, for he left them all
with a frowning air, and still with his bundle ol
manuscripts. Some had detained him a long
time, as if estimating the value of the goods he
offered for sale ; but these were no more tempt
ed than the others to try the saleable character
l of the commodity. The house he lodged in had
attached to it a large garden. By permission
of the landlord, the young man often selected ii
for his evening walks, and, despite the cold,
would sometimes sit and muse in a rude and la
ded bower under a wall at one end of the gables.
Here he would occasionally even sing, in a low
tone, some of his own compositions. It happen
i ed once or twice that when he did so, a female
| head protruded from a window above him, seem
ing to listen. The young man at length noticed
| this.
“Pardon, lady,” said he one evening, “per*
| haps 1 disturb you ?”
j “Not at ail,” she replied ;“I am fond of music
—very fond—and the airs you hum are new to
me. Pray, if not a rude question, whose are
they ?”
“C'doyenne ,” he answered diffidently, “they
are my own.”
i “Indeed!” cried the lady with animation;
| “and you have never published them ?”
i “1 shall never try — again” he murmured, ut
tering the last word in a low and despairing tone,
j which, however, reached the ears of the young
! woman.
i “Good night, citoyen ,” said she, and she clos
jed her window. The composer sighed, rose and
went out to take his usual walk by the sea-beach;
there before the grandeur and sublimity of the
ocean, and amid the murmur of its bellowing
waxes, to forget the cares of the world, his pov
erty, and his crushed visions of glory and renown
—tiie day-dream of all superior minds—a dream
far ottener a punishment than a reward ; lor of
those who sigh tor fame, tew indeed are success
ful.
Scarcely had he left the house, than a lady,
habited in cloak and hood, entered it; and after
a somewhat lengthened conference with his con
cierge, ascended to his room and remained there
| about ail hour. At the end of that time she
| vanished. It was midnight when the composer
| returned. He enterred with difficulty, the (Jibe
rus of the lodge being asleep, and ascended lo
his wretched room. He had left it littered and
dirty, without light, fire or tood. Ts his surprise
a cheerful blaze sent its rays beneath the door.
He opened it, not without alarm, and found his
apartment neatly ordered, a fire burning, a lamp,
and on the table supper. The young man
frowned, and looked sternly at the scene.
“Who dares thus insult my poverty ? Is it not
enough that 1 am starving with cold and hunger
—that lam rejected by the world as a useless
and wretched thing, incapable of wielding eith
er sword or pen, but 1 must be insulted In chari
ty ? Fire, light and food, all sent to me by one
who knows my necessity. And yet uho knows ?
Perhaps my mother may have discovered my re
treat. Who else could have acted thus ! My
mother, I bless thee both for the action and for
respecting my concealment !” And the invalid
officer sat down to the first hearty meal he had
eaten for weeks. He had left, his home because
his friends wholly disapproved of making music
a profession, and wished him lo employ his
leave of absence in learning another occupation.
His mother so pressed him, that he saw no re
course but a soldier’s last chance—a retreat.
For two months no trace ofthe fugitive had been
seen, two months spent in vain efforts to make
his chosen career support him ; and now, doubt
less, bis mother had found him out, and had ta
ken this delicate way of respecting his secret
and punishing his pride.
Next morning the young man awoke with an
appetite unknown to him of late. The generous
food of the previous night had restored his sys
tem, and brought him to a natural state. Luck
ily, sufficient wine and bread remained to satis
fy his craving, and then he sat down to think.
All his efforts to get his music sung or played,
or published, had been vain. Singers knew
not. Publishers declared him unknown, and the
public seemed doomed never to hear him, be
cause they never had heard him ; a logical con
sequence very injurious to young beginners in
literature, poetry, music, and all the liberal arts.
But he was determined to have one more trial.
Having eaten, he dressed and went out in the di
lection of the shop ol the ciioycn Dupont, a
worthy and excellent man. who in his day, had
published more music, bad and good, than a mu
sician would have played iu a lifetime.
“\ ou have something new then, cilnyen ?”
said Dupont, after the usual preliminaries, and
after apologising to a lady within his office for
leaving her awhile. “As my time is precious,
pray play it at once, and sing if you will.” The
young man sat himself at the harpsicord which
adorned tlie shop, and began at once the “Song
of the Army of the Rhine.” The music publish
er listened with the knowing air of one who is
not to be deceived, and shook his head as the
composer ended.
“Rough, crude, blit clever. Young man, you
will, 1 doubt not, do something one ol these days;
but al present, I am sorry to say, your effort wants
finish, polish, . ‘ The singer rose, and
bowing, left the simp, despair at his heart. He
had not a sou in the world ; his rent was in ar
rear ; he knew not how to dine that evening,
unless, indeed, his mother came again to his aid
—an aid he was very unwilling to receive. Ilis
soul repunged from it, for he had parted from her
in anger. His mother was a royalist, he was a
republican, and she had said hitter things to him
at parting. But most of all the composer felt one
thing; the world would never lie able to judge
him, never be able to decide if he had or had not
merit ; and this was the bitterest grief of all.
This day was spent in moody thought. The
evening came, and no_ sign again of his secret
triend, whether mother or unknown sympathis
er. Towards night the pangs of hunger became |
intolerable, and after numerous parleys with him- j
self the young man ascended to his room with a
heavy parcel. His eye was wild, his cheek
pale, his whole mien unearthly. As he passed
the door of his lodge the concierge gave him a
ticket for the opera, signed Dupont, who was co
manager of the theatre.
“Go thyself,” said the composer in a low hus
ky voice, and he went up stairs.
Having gained the room, the unhappy and
misguided young man sat silent and motionless
for some hours, until at length, hunger, despair i
and his dreamy visions had driven every calm
and good thought from his head, and then he
dared quietly to carry out his dreadful and des
perate intent. He closed carefully the window,
stuffed his mattress up the chimney, and with pa
per stopped every aperture where air could enter.
Then he drew forth from his parcel, charcoal
and a burner, lit it. Thus had this wretched
man determined to end his sufferings. He had
made one last effort, and now in that solitary,
dismal, garret, he laid him down to die ; and pov.
erty and misery, genius and death, were hud
dled close together.
Meanwhile, amid a blaze of light, the even
ing’s amusements had begun at the theatre. A
new opera from Paris was to be played, and the
prima donna was the young, lovely, and wor
shipped Claudine, the Jenny Lind of that time
and place. The house was crowded, and the
first aet succeeded beyond all expectation, the
audience were in ecslacy.
•‘She is a jewel !” said M. Dupont, who, from
a private box, admired the great suppoiter of his
theatre. A roar of applause from the pit delight
ed at this instant the good man’s ears. Clau
dine, called before the edrtain, was bowing to
the audience. But what is this ? Instead of g*-
ing off, she has just signed to the orchestra to
play. She is about lo show her gratitude to the
; audience in verse. M. Dupont rubs his hands,
i and repeats twice between his teeth, “She is a
! jewel !” But with ease and rapidity the band
| has commenced playing an unknown air, and
J the next moment M. Dupont is standing up with
! a strange wild look. still was eve
j ry breath; the audience loeK at each other;
not a word ofcommuiiicutinrittakes place; men
Ishuddei, or rather tremble. xvfßt emotion. But
the first stanza is ended :*\inaTlben a frantic
j shout, a starting of all a wild shriek
! of delight, a ciy of a thousand voiers thundering
the chorus, shows how the song has electrified
them.
M. Dupont frowned, for the air and the song
were not new to him ; it was the ‘Song of the
Army of the Rhino’ he had refused that morning f
But Claudine proceeds : again the audience is
j hushed into death like silence ; and the musi
’ cians, roused to an unusual degree of enthusi
asm, played admirably, and Claudine still sing
ing w.tli all the purity, feeling, and energy of her
admirable voice, plunged her eyes into every
I corner of the house—iu vain. At each couplet
the enthusiasm of the people became greater,
| the anxiety of the singer more intense. At
length she concluded, and never did applause
more hearty, more tremendous, more uproari
ous, greet the voice of a public songstress. The
excitable population of Marseilles seemed mad.
When silence xvas restored, Claudine spoko
—“Citoyens and citoyennes !” she exclaimed,
“this song is both written and composed by a
young and unkuoxvn man, xvho has in vain
j sought to put his compositions before the public.
Every body has refused them. For myself, I
thought this ‘he greatest musical effort of mod
’ ern times ; and as such I practiced it to-day ;
j and, unknown to manager or author, I and the
! band prepared this surprise. But the author is
: not here. Poor and despairing, he is at home
j lamenting his unappreciated efforts! Let us
awake him ; let him learn that the generous
people of Marseilles can understand and feel
great music. Come, let all xvho have hearts fol
low me, and chaunt the mighty song as we go.”
And Claudine, stepping across the orchestra,
landed in the pit, and, bareheaded, light dressed
as she xvas, rushed toxvards the door, followed by
ex’ery spectator and by the musicians, xvho, how
ever, put on their hats, and even threw a cloak
and cap on the excited and generous songstress.
Meanwhile the composer’s dreadful resolve
xvas being carried out. The horrid fumes of tho
charcoal filled the room; soon they began to
consume and exhaust the pure air, and the
wretched youth felt all the pangs of coming
death. Hunger, exhaustion and despair, kin
dled a kind of madness in his brain ; xvild shapes
glanced around him ; his many songs seemed
sung altogether by coarse, husky voices, that
made their sound a punishment; and then the
blasted atmosphere oppressing his chest, dark
ened his vision, his room seemed tenanted by
myriads ot infernal and deformed beings.
Then again he closed his eyes, and soft mem
ory stealing in upon hitn, slioxved him happy
visions of his youth, of his mother, of love, and
hope, and joy; of green fields, and the murmur
ing brooks xvhich had first revealed melody unto
his soul ; and the young man thought that death
must be come, and that he must be on the thres
hold of another world.
But an axvful shout, a tremendous clamor,
burst on his ear: a thousand x’oices roar be
neath his window. The young man starts from
his dream—xvhat is that he hears /
“Aiix urines! citoyens,
Fonnez vos bataillons,” etc.
“What is this ?” he cries. “My song of the
Rhine!”
He listens. A beautiful and clear x’oice is
singing ; it is still his song, and then the terri
bie chorus is taken up by the people ; and tho
poor composer’s first xvish is gained ; he feels
that he is famous.
But he is dying, chunked, stifled with char
coal. He lies senseless, tainting on his bed ;
but hope and joy give him strength. He rises,
falls rather than darts across the room, his
sxvord in hand. One blow shivers the panes of
his windows to atoms ; the broken glass lets in
the cool breeze and the splendid song. Both
give life to the young man ; and when Clau
dine entered the room the Composer xvas able
to stand. In ten minutes he had supped in tho
porter’s lodge, dressed, and coine out, to he
borne in triumph back to the theatre, xvhero that
night he heard, amid renewed applause, his glo
rious song sung betxveen every act. and each
time gaining renewed laurels.
Ten days later, Rouget do L’lsle xvas marri
ed to Ciaudine, the prima donna of Marseilles ;
and the young composer, in gratitude to her and
her countrymen, changed the name of his song,
and called it by the name it is still known bv—■
“7'/ie Marseillaise .”
Abuse of Magnesia. —People should he very
careful in i lie use of Magnesia. It is a very danger
ous substance to use, and there are too many, we be
lieve, xvho use it for the stomach for “heartburn,’”
who do not know the dangers attending its employ
ment for that purpose. The use of it has been tho
cause of many eases of “stone,” an I it has been dis
covered that the terrible disease in Switzerland call
ed Goitre, is due to the action of Magnesian Salts on
the system ot the inhabitants—the Salts being found
in solution with the waters of the Swiss valleys.
O” A woman xvho passes through life xvjthout
marrying, is like a fair mansion left by the builder
unfinished The half that is completed runs to de
cay from neglect,, or becomes at best but a sorry
tenement, xvauting the addition of that which makes
the whole useful. Your old maid is only the moiety
of a woman—a sort of garnish for a dish, or a pro
logue to a play—a bow, without the fiddler.
O"“lloxv late is it, Bill ?”
“Look at the ‘boss’ and see if he’s drunk yet; if
he isn’t, it can’t be much after eleven.’
“Does he keep such good tin e ?”
“Splendid ! they regulate the town clock by his
nose.”
Touching Expression.—A certain lady had two
children, girls, both young and nearly of the same
age. But, the older one, by some xvhim or accident,
possessed all the mother’s affections; there was none
for the younger—nothing but harshness. \ ery late
ly the mother fell sick, and was confined to her bed.
While lying there, she heard gentle steps, approach
ing it, “Is °thal vou, my child ?” said the sick xvo
man. “No, mamma,” naively and softly said the re
sumed one, “it is me.” Most parents and all moth
ers will understand this simple answer.