gent losses. It is through these channels, that private negotiations can be made, to suit the wants of the parties, and that foreign capital can find sound investment, while at the same time it encourages safe individual enterprises. This plan of investment has not yet been very extensively adopted, as it requires to be fully and generally understood, to be appreciated; but it is destined soon to become an important medium for the introduction of foreign capital. The system, so far as it has been adopted, has worked exceedingly well, and to the entire satisfaction of all parties; and it is not to be doubted that it will rapidly gain a firm hold upon the favor of the foreign capitalist. We can speak with great confidence of the strict integrity, sound judgment, vigilant supervison, and consummate financial skill, with which these trust companies are conducted; and we embrace in these encomiums the following, constituting, we believe, nearly all that have procured charters, and gone into operation; viz: The New-York Life Insurance and Trust Company; the North American Trust and Banking Company; the Farmers' Loan and Trust Company; the United States' Trust and Banking Company; the Morris Canal and Banking Company; the Trust and Banking Company of Buffalo; the American Life Insurance and Trust Company of Baltimore; the Southern Life Insurance and Trust Company, Florida; the Georgia Insurance and Trust Company; and the Ohio Life Insurance and Trust Company.

The prejudice which, for political purposes, was attempted to be created in this country, a short time since, against the introduction of foreign capital, did not take much hold of the public, and may now be said scarcely to subsist at all. Indeed, nothing could be more unwise and unreasonable. We are in possession of countless treasures, locked up from use, and requiring a golden key from the other side of the Atlantic, to unfold them to our view. Shall we, on that account, utterly reject them, or waste our energies in comparatively fruitless attempts to obtain them in a violent and unnatural manner? We have vast plains of inexhaustible fertility; shall we refuse to reduce them to cultivation, by foreign aid, when perhaps one year's crop, exported to the country that furnished it, would repay it as satisfactorily as the transmission of the gold and silver, and leave us the improved fields, to pour their treasures for ever into our laps? Surely not; but let both the old and new world, casting aside distrust and prejudice, improve fully the advantages of their respective positions, and mutually enjoy the benefits of a wise and enlightened policy. Then would Europe no longer be burthened with an overgrown population, destitute of employment; nor America languish for want of capital to develope her resources; then the beggars who solicit one's charity at the corner of every street, in almost all the countries of the old world, would be converted into wholesome and prosperous farmers in the new; then the overgrown capitalist, who racks his brain on 'change, to find any investment for his money, or add one eighth of one per cent. to his interest, would at once double his income, and at the same time contribute much to the cause of philanthropy, and the improvement of the condition of man. Then, in short, should we see, in Europe, the poor amply provided with provisions and employment; the rich finding abundant use for their money; and the middling classes possessing far wider fields for enterprise and business; while in America, the

vast primeval forests would be still more rapidly converted into smiling fields, teeming with yellow harvests; cities would arise with even yet more astonishing celerity, furnished with ample warehouses to garner the precious burden; steam-boats would 'trail their smoky banners' upon every river; and the fire-steed breathe flame from his iron nostril, as, panting yet unwearied, he drags the hurtling train, with its rich freightage, through every valley of our wide and beautiful country; and Commerce, hovering with white wings over the Atlantic, and smiling in triumph at her victory over the demon of war, would bear from shore to shore, in willing arms, the rich and daily augmenting treasures intrusted to her care.

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Is it life, is it life, in the picture I see?

Can the grave yield its victim, the past smile on me?
From caverns of ocean, from shades of the night,
Comes this vision of beauty, this being of light?

Let me gaze, let me gaze on that radiant brow,
On the lips breathing life, on the cheek's mantling glow;
Oh! 'tis youth's purest bloom, it is life's sweetest grace,
"T is the past smiling back from that beautiful face!

Let me gaze, let me gaze! can the picture be true?
Was the eye's lustre thus, and the cheek's this bright hue?
Was it thus in the halls of the mirthful she shone,
Like a star in the firmament, peerless and lone?

Was the hair bound with roses? the eyes flashing light?
Let me gaze, let me gaze on the youthful and bright!
So looked she, so smiled she, in years that are gone;
But we greet not her footsteps, we hear not her tone!

Oh, 't is life! but the friends of her youth are all fled,
In the halls where she shone, the fresh garlands are dead:
And the loving and loved wept her long and in vain ;
By the dim shore they parted, and met not again!

Oh! 't is life, it is life, in the picture I see,
'Tis the past breathing back in its beauty to me;
But there's grief with that beauty, there's wo with its bloom,
When I gaze on that fair face, and think of her doom!

In the silence of night, from those lips came a moan,
On those bright sunny tresses the salt spray was thrown;
And those deep eyes sought vainly some help to descry,
When the tempest swept past, and the billows dashed high!

Some pearly sea-cave may now pillow her head,
By some nymph of the wave might her dirge have been said,
As the white waters closed o'er the form once so fair,
And the loud wailing winds rose above her wild prayer!

Brooklyn, 1839.

Oh! 't is life, it is life! for the picture smiles yet,
With youth's mocking bloom, but her sun hath long set;
We gaze on her beauty, we wait for her tone,

But the grave keeps its trust, and the sea holds its own!

L. H.



OH, for the good old days of Adam and Eve!' when vagabond idlers were not; or the good old days of the pilgrim fathers of New-England, when they were suitably rewarded! That they could not bide those days, there is extant the following testimony. In the early court records of that portion of the old Bay State called the District of Maine, in the year 1645, we have the following entry of a presentment by a grand jury:

We present Jerry Guttridge for an idle person, and not providing for his family, and for giving reproachful language to Mr. Nat. Frier, when he reproved him for his idleness.


The court, for his offence, adjudges the delinquent to have twenty lashes on his back, and to bring security to the court, to be of better behaviour, in providing for his family.'

The whole history of this affair, thus faintly shadowed forth in these few lines, has recently come to light, and is now for the first time published, for the benefit of the world, as hereafter followeth.

'WHAT shall we have for dinner, Mr. Guttridge ?' said the wife of Jerry Guttridge, in a sad, desponding tone, as her husband came into their log hovel, from a neighboring grog-shop, about twelve o'clock on a hot July day.


'O, pick up something,' said Jerry, and I wish you would be spry and get it ready, for I'm hungry now, and I want to go back to the shop; for Sam Willard and Seth Harmon are coming over, by an' by, to swap horses, and they'll want me to ride 'em. Come, stir round; I can't wait.'

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'We have n't got any thing at all in the house to eat,' said Mrs. Guttridge. What shall I get?'

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'Well, cook something,' said Jerry; no matter what it is.'

But, Mr. Guttridge, we have n't got the least thing in the house to cook.'

Well, well, pick up something,' said Jerry, rather snappishly, 'for I'm in a hurry.'

'I can't make victuals out of nothing,' said the wife; 'if you '11 only bring any thing in the world into the house to cook, I'll cook it. But I tell you, we have n't got a mouthful of meat in the house, nor a mouthful of bread, nor a speck of meal; and the last potatoes we had in the house, we ate for breakfast; and you know we didn't have more than half enough for breakfast, neither.'

'Well, what have you been doing all this forenoon,' said Jerry, 'that you haven't picked up something? Why did n't you go over to Mr. Whitman's, and borrow some meal?'

'Because,' said Mrs. Guttridge, 'we 've borrowed meal there three times, that is n't returned yet; and I was ashamed to go again, till that

was paid. And beside, the baby's cried so, I've had to 'tend him the whole forenoon, and could n't go out.'

'Then you a' n't a-goin' to give us any dinner, are you?' said Jerry, with a reproachful tone and look. I pity the man that has a helpless, shiftless wife; he has a hard row to hoe. What's become of that fish I brought in yesterday?'

Why, Mr. Guttridge,' said his wife, with tears in her eyes,' you and the children ate that fish for your supper last night. I never tasted a morsel of it, and have n't tasted any thing but potatoes these two days; and I'm so faint now, I can hardly stand.'


Always a-grumblin',' said Jerry; 'I can't never come into the house, but what I must hear a fuss about something or other. What's this boy snivelling about?' he continued, turning to little Bobby, his oldest boy, a little ragged, dirty-faced, sickly-looking thing, about six years old; at the same time giving the child a box on the ear, which laid him his length on the floor. Now shet up!' said Jerry,' or I'll learn you to be crying about all day for nothing.'

'The tears rolled afresh down the cheeks of Mrs. Guttridge; she sighed heavily, as she raised the child from the floor, and seated him on a bench, on the opposite side of the room.

'What is Bob crying about?' said Jerry, fretfully.

"Why, Mr. Guttridge,' said his wife, sinking upon the bench beside her little boy, and wiping his tears with her apron, 'the poor child has been crying for a piece of bread these two hours. He's ate nothin' to-day, but one potato, and I s'pose the poor thing is half starved.'

At this moment their neighbor, Mr. Nat. Frier, a substantial farmer, and a worthy man, made his appearance at the door; and as it was wide open, he walked in, and took a seat. He knew the destitute condition of Guttridge's family, and had often relieved their distresses. His visit at the present time was partly an errand of charity; for, being in want of some extra labor in his haying-field that afternoon, and knowing that Jerry was doing nothing, while his family was starving, he thought he would endeavor to get him to work for him, and pay him in provisions.

Jerry seated himself rather sullenly on a broken-backed chair, the only sound one in the house being occupied by Mr. Frier, toward whom he cast sundry gruff looks and surly glances. The truth was, Jerry had not received the visits of his neighbors, of late years, with a very gracious welcome. He regarded them rather as spies, who came to search out the nakedness of the land, than as neighborly visitors, calling to exchange friendly salutations. He said not a word; and the first address of Mr. Frier was to little Bobby.

'What's the matter with little Bobby?' said he, in a gentle tone; 'come, my little fellow, come here and tell me what's the matter.'

'Go, run, Bobby; go and see Mr. Frier,' said the mother, slightly pushing him forward with her hand.

The boy, with one finger in his mouth, and the tears still rolling over his dirty face, edged along side-ways up to Mr. Frier, who took him in his lap, and asked him again what was the matter.

'I want a piece of bread!' said Bobby.


And wont your mother give you some?' said Mr. Frier, tenderly.

'She ha' n't got none,' replied Bobby, 'nor 'taters too.' Mrs. Guttridge's tears told the rest of the story. The worthy farmer knew they were entirely out of provisions again, and he forebore to ask any farther questions; but told Bobby if he would go over to his house, he would give him something to eat. Then turning to Jerry, said he :


Neighbor Guttridge, I've got four tons of hay down, that needs to go in this afternoon, for it looks as if we should have rain by tomorrow; and I 've come over to see if I can get you to to go and Help me. If you 'll go this afternoon, and assist me to get it in, I'll give you a bushel of meal, or a half bushel of meal and a bushel of potatoes, and two pounds of pork.'

'I can't go,' said Jerry; 'Î've got something else to do.'

'O, well,' said Mr. Frier, if you 've got any thing else to do, that will be more profitable, I'm glad of it, for there 's enough hands that I can get; only I thought you might like to go, bein' you was scant of provisions.'

Do pray go, Mr. Guttridge!' said his wife, with a beseeching look, 'for you are only going over to the shop to ride them horses, and that wont do no good; you'll only spend all the afternoon for nothin', and then we shall have to go to bed without our supper, again. Do pray go, Mr. Guttridge, do!'

'I wish you would hold your everlasting clack!' said Jerry; 'you are always full of complainings. It's got to be a fine time of day, if the women are a-goin' to rule the roast. I shall go over and ride them horses, and it's no business to you nor nobody else; and if you are too lazy to get your own supper, you may go without it; that's all I 've got to say.'

With that he aimed for the door, when Mr. Frier addressed him as follows:

Now I must say, neighbor Guttridge, if you are going to spend the afternoon over to the shop, to ride horses for them jockeys, and leave your family without provisions, when you have a good chance to 'arn enough this afternoon to last them nigh about a week, I must say, neighbor Guttridge, that I think you are not in the way of your duty.'

Upon this, Jerry whirled round, and looked Mr. Frier full in the


face, grinning horribly a ghastly smile,' and said he :


You old, miserable, dirty, meddling vagabond! you are a scoundrel, and a scape-gallows, and an infernal small piece of a man, I think! I've as good a mind to kick you out of doors, as ever I had to eat! Who made you a master over me, to be telling me what's my duty? You better go home, and take care of your own brats, and let your neighbors' alone!'

Mr. Frier sat and looked Jerry calmly in the face, without uttering a syllable; while he, having blown his blast, marched out of doors, and steered directly for the grog-shop, leaving his wife to 'pick up something,' if she could, to keep herself and children from absolute star


Mr. Frier was a benevolent man, and a christian, and in the true spirit of christianity he always sought to relieve distress, wherever he found it. He was endowed, too, with a good share of plain com

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