EDITOR'S TABLE.

NOW AND THEN.

John Letcher, the present rebel Governor of Virginia, has lately presented himself in rather a new character by recommending in his message to the legislature of his State, a provision of law to pay for slaves lost by the war. When he was a member of the House of Representatives of the United States, he was altogether incapable of appreciating any public liability to individuals. He was notorious for the sleepless energy and vigilance with which he opposed all private claims without regard to their merits. He seemed to set on the principle that a valid demand against the government could not exist, and that no man who presented one could be honest.

By the rules of the House of Representatives certain days are set apart called 'objection days,' when the private calendar is called over, and all bills not objected to are laid by and passed without debate. Few, indeed, were the bills which, in Mr. Letcher's day, could stand this ordeal. On these days he was in his glory; it was then that by the use of the magic words, 'I object,' he obtained his greatest triumphs.

On one of these occasions, a plain old lady from a distant part of the country, was in the gallery looking down on the proceedings with intense anxiety. She was the unfortunate subject of a revolutionary claim, which had long been pending without result, and by the advice of her friends she had come all the way to Washington to give her personal exertions to its prosecution. By dint of untiring energy she had succeeded in having it passed through the Senate and sent down to the House. It had successfully run the gauntlet of the House committee, and as the calendar was now to be called, the simple-hearted old lady thought she was at the end of her troubles. She watched the proceedings with great interest, but soon began to show signs of apprehension and alarm at the movements of Mr. Letcher. The clerk had been engaged for some time in reading the bills in their order, but not one of them had reached the conclusion of its reading before the fatal words, 'I object,' were heard to issue from the seat occupied by Mr. Letcher. Turning uneasily and hastily to a stranger sitting near, the good old lady with some petulance inquired, 'who is that bald-headed man that objects to all these bills?' 'Bald, madam!' replied the gentleman, 'you're quite mistaken. He's not bald, but his hair hasn't grown any for a great many years.' 'But who is he,' continued the old lady, 'and what makes him object to everybody's bill.' With most provoking deliberation, the gentleman replied to the old lady's impatient queries: 'Madam, that is John Letcher; he is a Virginia gentleman, of one of the very first families.' 'But what makes him object, I want to know that.' 'Madam,' replied the gentleman, 'the peculiarity you mention is connected with a most extraordinary fact in his history; you would indeed be surprised to learn it.' 'Do pray tell me what it is, now won't you, sir?' 'He can't help it, madam; he's obliged to object. It is a necessity imposed upon him from his birth.' 'La, mister, do pray tell me what it is. I'm dying to know.' 'Well, madam, you see now, this is objection day; Mr. Letcher was born on objection day; he objected to being born on that day; but this objection was unanimously overruled, and he became so enraged, that he has objected to everything from that day to this.' Just at this moment, the clerk read in a loud, clear voice: 'Number ——, a bill for the relief of ——.' The old lady turned away from the stranger as she heard her own name called, just in time to see Mr. Letcher rise and utter the inevitable words 'Mr. Chairman, I object.'

The old lady sank back in her seat and covered her face with a red handkerchief. The stranger gentleman leaned over sympathizingly, and said in a low voice, 'Madam, the first time his mother attempted to comb his hair, he objected to having any hair; and now you see the consequence.'

But the old lady was not to be defeated. She called on Mr. Letcher every day, from that time till the next objection day; and when her bill was about to be called, Mr. Letcher took his hat and walked out of the House. The same gentleman happened to be present; he stepped up to the old lady and said: 'Madam, Mr. Letcher is now about to take the only thing he never objected to—he's gone to take a drink.'

The truth is Mr. Letcher objected to seeing the old lady again. She had promised to visit him daily until her bill passed; and the force of this objection overcame the other; and so the bill which had been defeated by an objection, was now passed on account of one.

THE PINE.

The Pine—the Pine—the mighty Pine— The everliving—evergreen; That boldly cleaves the broad sunshine, Towering high with scornful mien; And smileth not in summer's gladness, And sigheth not 'mid winter's sadness; Shedding no tear O'er the dying year, But groweth still bright, And touched by no sorrow, For he feareth no night, And hopeth no morrow. The proud—the cold—the mountain Pine, The tempest driven—tempest torn— That grandly o'er the wildwood line The forest banner long has borne; And he waileth never the waning flower, For he knows no death but the storm-cloud's power. Could he have grief For a passing leaf? So strong in his might, Touched by no sorrow, Fearing no night And hoping no morrow. By the Rappahannock, August 7, 1868.

A DAY AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.

It was one of those hot days in summer, when life is rather emotional than operative, and will lies locked in the ecstasy of sense. For a week the heat had been incessant, and now at early morning the thermometer stood at 96 in the shade. We were a party of loungers thrown together by chance, in a small town of western Maryland, united in nothing but a desire to escape the heat. The town lay in a little basin scooped out among circling mountains, which were veiled in almost perpetual vapors;—but this morning the vapors had parted, wreathing the mountains in light, delicately tinted circles, and disclosing a clear, glowing sky. To the east rose Table Rock, a black, frowning bowlder, resting, a mile and a half up the mountain, on a base so narrow, it seemed a breeze would rock it into perilous motion; while to the southwest, lay Fairmount, serene, stately, sloping upward with a symmetry which architecture might vainly emulate. We determined upon an excursion to the latter, and mounted our horses for the six-and-a-half miles ride. The road was macadamized, and worn so firm and level, it reminded me, constantly, of the stone walks in a granite quarry. Among our party was a young man just returned from Europe surfeited with scenery and sight-seeing, but for the rest, we were commonplace Americans, eager to see everything, and ready to go into ecstasies over everything which we saw. It was in early July, and the foliage had not yet wilted from its moist, bright greenness; the atmosphere was a wave of light, and the earth seemed no longer dust, dross, and atoms of decay, but surcharged and palpitating with sunshine. A dead calm pervaded the air, not a leaf fluttered, not a blade bent; nature was in a trance of heat and light. As we ascended the mountains, we were sensible of a slight motion in the vapors, and a cool murmur in the trees; it was the first breath of the mountain air, swelling as we advanced to a spicy, exhilarating breeze. The sea air is certainly more bracing, but I never experienced anything so soothing, as that wind wafted from cool mountain recesses. We left our horses at the inn, and proceeded on foot to the summit. We were on one of the peaks of the Alleghanies, looking down into a valley, which, below, had appeared enclosed by mountains, but now disclosed a broad opening to the south, while eastward ran the Blue Ridge, so wrapped and sublimated by azure mists, that it seemed a line of cloud mountains projected against the dazzling sky. As far as the eye could reach, the valley was a Paradise, so soft and delicate in its exuberant verdure, that the eye pained by the splendor of sky and air, was soothed without any cessation of delight; through its midst ran the Potomac, always limpid, but under this burning sun of a silvery brightness, shaded and mellowed by the foliage around. The wind, which we found so grateful, had increased steadily till it blew in strong gusts—a dense cloud spread over the west—while in the east, the sky faded to a chalky whiteness, low thunders muttered in the mountains, and faint shudders crept through the leaves; a line of fire curled up over the cloud, and in an instant, so vivid and swift were the electric bursts, the air seemed sheeted in flames. In a long residence on both lake and sea shore I remember no transition so startling, as this from a loveliness which was beatific to a tempest which was appalling. But the storm was as brief as its coming had been sudden, and, as the sun shone out over the dripping foliage, each leaf and blade reflected bright colors through its prismatic drops, the distant trees gleaming like sea spray in the light. As we looked through purple vapors, floating from the purple heights of shadowy mountains, the window seemed mirroring the sensuous splendors of an Italian landscape. In descending to the valley, we took a winding road which led farther up toward the heart of the range. Here were gorges opening up through the mountains, which baffle all description, and before which Art must despair. Such grouping! such luxury! so blended and irradiated with gossamer mists, it seemed easy to fancy, that in their depths lay hidden the happy fields of Pan. It is in these mists which harmonize contrasts, in these tremulous motions which conceal angles and abruptness, that nature defies art; the subtlest art may suggest, but cannot reproduce them. As we stopped, for a moment, at the foot of the mountain, and looked up through the fragrant air to the sunset sky, and forward into the valley, mantling with slumbrous shade, our young friend from Europe exclaimed, 'I have seen to-day, what I had never expected to see in America,—mountains as picturesque as those of Wales, and a sky mellow and brilliant as that of Italy.' For me, I could not help but feel that in American scenery lies the hope of American artists, and that the artist to whom Rome is denied, may receive even fuller inspiration from the sea and skies and heights of his native land! This was in 1859. There was then no token or presage of that other July day, when, under the very shadow of these mountains, an army thrilled with heroic impulse; when men, whose whole lives had been ignoble, redeemed them by the most sublime daring; and those whose lives held every promise yielded them with the most patriotic devotion; and through long sultry hours, men cheerfully endured the tortures of thirst, of wounds, and of lonely death agonies, sustained by a prescience of victory. Thus was the scene, which nature had made enchanting, rendered historic and immortal.

A. J. S.

ARE YOU FOR THE COUNTRY?

Then draw and strike In nature's right, And Freedom's might, To break the night Of Slavery's blight, And make our country free! Strike home the blow, And bravely show The traitor foe His blood shall flow Beneath the glow Of Freedom's victory. Let traitors feel The Northern steel; Nor backward wheel Till they shall kneel, And Yankee heel Shall rest on Tyranny. Then on, ye brave! Your banner wave O'er head of slave, And ope the grave For rebel knave;— Bring Peace and Unity.