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VERY one knows that when a man's head is set, it is very difficult to turn it-that when an idea or opinion has once possessed a brain, it is not easy to dislodge it, even if it is a poor tenant who never pays.

"What has that to do with peartrees?"

Everything, Rowley, everything-for that is the introduction. Now, see how ingeniously I shall spin from it.

Many people hold, that pear-trees are to be desired because they bear pears, and that pears are to be valued for the palate, because they are rich, juicy, and delicious-for so they certainly are. That is the notion which has possessed some brains, and I cannot deny that it is plausible; yet it is mainly a mistaken one-a narrow and carnal view.

"But," said my familiar, "when the Professor brings me down one Duchess,' and two Flemish Beauties' (I am speaking of pears), and my lips kiss their cheeks, and their juices flow along my tongue, to gladden the sense, then I hold to that view, and I bless God———"

Now wait, Rowley, wait, I said; for I was afraid he would say something foolish. So he sat in my porch, and, with his cigar (which I condemn mildly), disputed the fragrance of the honeysuckles, and listened to the wisdom of age.

Whoever, I continued, whoever prizes simply his existence-who thinks highly of his presence, values his deportment, and is content with "being"in other words, whoever believes life is an end rather than a means, and, therefore, is content to be, rather than to do -he may think himself happy; but he is mistaken. You shake your head, Rowley; but it is so.

So it is with pears-they, too, are a means, not an end.

Whoever, having grown a fine pear, is elated, and lays much stress upon the tempting fruit, is in danger of sorrow and disappointment-he may be laying up for himself a future grief. Yet I must allow, that, if the fruit had been nipt by an untimely boy, or arrested by a summer blight, before its juicy flesh had been ripened to perfection, my own sense of propriety would have been shocked; for all things work towards completeness, and thus minister to

our satisfaction. Satisfaction, my dear friend-not happiness-is the end and aim of a true existence. Consider what it is which satisfies, when we look upon a daisy or violet blooming in the shelter of a rugged rock; upon the cedar, the oak, or the beech, spreading its broad branches over the shadowy plain; upon the field of grain, waving in the light of the golden sun; upon the succulent asparagus, pushing through the dark, damp earth--these all come to the fullness of perfection, and we are satisfied with them, for they are complete. It is so with the wood-duck, diving and sporting in the still waters of an inland lake; with the robin, that sings out his soul to his mate brooding on the skyblue eggs; with the slow and stalwart ox, who drags the plow along the fertile furrow; with the hound who courses the wily fox, and with the fox who outwits the chasing hound-these all satisfy us, for they are complete; they do well what they are made to do. Is it not so with men, my friend? We find no fault with a man, or a woman, who does a thing well--but are satisfied; and he who makes a perfect pair of shoes, does as complete a thing as he who sits well on a king's throne, or decides justly on a judge's bench.

It is the same in art: for the completeness of Menét's Rag-picker (two inches high), or his Cat suckling her Kittens (done in clay), is equal in perfection to the Dying Gladiator, or Angelo's Moses, done in marble. In literature, also, we find this so, and we are satisfied with Burns's verses to a Mouse, with Leigh Hunt's Abou-benAdhem, with Lowell's

"John P.,

Robinson, he"

because they are, in themselves, as perfect and complete as is a Hamlet, or a House of Seven Gables. It is, therefore, desirable that men and women should do that well which they can do, and find out as soon as possible what they can do best, and not waste too much time in tears or complaints, because they cannot do something else. The man who raises good potatoes, is eminently worthy, as is he who makes good verses, busts, or coaches, and either of them may be a complete man

(and so great), and satisfactory to himself and to his fellow-men. It is not the thing done, but the spirit of the man who does it, that God loves.

Now it will be clear, therefore, that, to the pear-tree, it is necessary to bear pears, for that is its vocation, its purpose. It was for that, that the brown seed was dropped into the earth; that when the warm, bursting spring came, it sent down its delicate root, and pushed up its tender top, and unfolded its leaves, and stretched forth its branches, and, when the time came, elaborated its juices into buds enfolding blossoms fragrant promises of future fruit.

It is right, therefore, for the peartree to bear pears.

But, for a man, his duty is to furnish the tree with every possible facility and convenience, necessary for it to perfect its purpose; for the tree cannot do this for itself. He is to see that there is good soil, and that it is in good heart (not made over rich), and well dug and broken, so that the rays of the fructifying sun can enter it, and the gentle dews sink into it; then he is to plant the tree in it. And let him do that well-for trees are grateful; they like not to have their roots crowded into a small hole dug in a hard soil--no wellbred pear-tree will submit to such indignity, and many will die if so treatedbut rather into the mellow earth; spread out the roots, and press among them the genial mould, so that they kiss one another; and plant not too deep, but so as to cover, with an inch of earth, the neck whence the roots branch; then sustain the stem with a slender stake, and the first work is done. Whoever has done this, will value the warm April sunshine and the soft April showers, and he will watch in the last of the month, till he shall see the unfolding buds; and then the expanding leaves, and the lusty shoots, wagging in the wind, will give him hope. In another year, he will wait for blossoms, and, when they come, he will be thankful. He will see to it that no marauding caterpillars fatten there, that no curculio whets his tooth in that first fruit; for he will walk in his garden in the fresh morning, in the shimmering noon-tide. and at the shady evening, and will feel that he has something to live for. He will be the providence of his pear-tree, and a worthy


I shall always remember S. G. P., who

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at last found peace among his peartrees-a Salem and repose. He was early driven forth, Ishmael-like, into the wilderness, as other men are, and was in danger of perishing for, was it not necessary, indispensable, to have much wealth, to be a merchant prince, and send forth ventures in ships? To other men, older men, it seemed so, and his. rapid energies grappled with these weapons with which to fight the world; for other men and merchant princes were struggling to get what all could not have, and there were many obstacles to be overcome, and much competition. For years he worked like a lion, and knew no rest; he visited many lands and braved many seas, and for what? That he might secure, in his own hand, a larger share of the world's wealth, and so be pointed at as the man who owned much gold. But ships were lost, and fires ravaged, and agents were dishonest, that they, too, might have wealth; and the end saw S. G. P. a ruined man. When he was too old to reform his life, so as to work and not waste his energies, he remembered his father's garden and his pear-trees, and there he went, with a small income, to pass the evening of his days; and there he did pass it, in company with his two good daughters, and in communion with his "Louise Bonnes" and "St. Michels."

To me it was a satisfaction to enjoy his satisfaction; for he was in harmony with his pear-trees, and they, knowing what he wanted, and knowing that he was right, tried to do as he wished, and grew well-as espaliers, pyramids, dwarfs, balloons, or standards. They resisted blights and frosts, blossomed timely, set well, and bore their fruits. It was a delight to see little fellows of three feet high, bearing up bravely their load of half a dozen Duchesses or Wurtemburgs, while stately standards stood and ripened their bushels of Urbanistes and Boscs through all the long

summer suns.

It seemed to me that they leaned to the old man as he walked among them, trimming a little here, praising there— and I do not doubt they had as much satisfaction in him, as he had in them; for he fully appreciated their virtues.

Do not think the old man did this because he wanted pears. He could have bought one for a sixpence any day, and have sat down in the shade and swallowed it would that have sufficed? I

trow not. No; he raised pears, as I said, because the trees must bear them, and it was his pleasure to give them every opportunity, which having done, the trees produced abundantly; and then the pears were eaten, because they had been created, not vice versa. many think it is a small thing to grow a good pear-tree, but it is one thing well done; and I know richer men than S. G. P., who, so far as I am aware, have never been accused of doing even one.


The Dutch doctor, Van Mons, was a creator of pears; and in his hand nature became a prolific inventor. It was his habit to sow the seed, to select from the young those which promised well, to graft them at once into bearing trees whose juices were rich, where they would make blossoms and fruit within three years from sowing the seed; for it is a curious fact, that the juices of the tree which really produce the fruit, have almost no influence upon the little graft upon which the fruit grows. From the fruits so produced, many good pears were given to the world by Dr. Van Mons.

Now the doctor did this, not because he wanted pears, but because he wished nature to do all she could do, and he found a satisfaction in helping her towards completeness.

One crowning use of pear-trees and pears is, that they furnish topics for talk, and are, in my opinion, fully equal to a "Bourbon," had we one amongst us. I have known many virtuous men who grew pear-trees (I am proud to say it), and I never knew one who enjoyed scandal or backbit his intimate friends the reason is plain-he had something better to talk about, in capacity quite infinite; for are there not Beurres by the score? But no pursuit is perfectly safe from misfortunes, and pear-growing is not quite secure. Judge Buel once had a package of valuable pear-grafts sent to him from Paris, every one of which was choice and was

labeled; but, sad to say, rats had eaten or damp had rotted the strings which bound them, and Beurrés were mixed confusedly with Bergamots. To my friend, J. T., the judge gave some of these grafts, and J. T. took them, as a man might a young elephant or a fine horse, not counting the cost. He grafted them into his trees, and in due time they bore delicious pears-but"What were they?"

No mortal man could tell their names, and many of them were new to us. From that day J. T.'s peace of mind was gone, and, it seemed, hopelessly gone; for no nomenclature could be certainly right. It was well for Judge Buel that he was snatched away before these grafts bore fruit, and, perhaps, J. T. was happier in soon following him.

I alone remained, and, in the language of Mr. Samuel Weller, I may say:

"I eats my melting pears vithout any names, and gets along werry well, indeed."

I would have my money-making friends, and my political friends, and my verse-making friends, and my women-friends, consider of this thing, and then plant pear-trees, and grow pears, that so it may be well with them. And I would have those wise men who know what a little care and kind treatment will do with a pear-tree, and how it comes to strength, and beauty, and fruitfulness, when external circumstances are made favorable by them, I would have them consider what grand results might come from a little of such judicious care and attention, if applied by them to a poor boy or girl now and then, or to a man or woman struggling, in an uncultivated soil, with crowded roots, and bruised top. I would have them remember that the most capable and wonderful of all God's creations is MAN; and then I would have them not only cultivate pear-trees, but also cultivate men.


COME, push on, the world keeps moving—

Press to your place in its restless throng;
Life is action, grieving or loving

Only wastes time, so move along:

"Change makes change," say earth and ocean-
Daybreak, sunset,-flux and tide;
The law of being is ceaseless motion,
Struggle you must or be thrust aside.

Cloistered in yon antique case,

Row on row, the volumes see!
They who list may run the race;
Leave me my books and let me be.

Shut your book-shelves' rusty jaws,
This is no age of cowls and frocks-
Flatter opinion into applause,

And mouse to fame through the ballot-box:
Narrow, the disk of the student's light-

Ample and broad, the bounds of state;

You-when pay and honors invite

Are a fool to be wise, when you might be great.

Radiant lights, through ages gone
Shining ever steadily,

Still your splendors lure me on!
Leave me my books and let me be.

Golden the text of notes and scrip,

Tinsel and stuff your prose and verse;
Who, in this "progress age," would grip
The impotent pen, if he could the purse?

Wealth is the modern, true sublime,

Press to the goal by toil or luck,
Rapid the wheel in the mint of time—
Every minute is silver-struck!

Ah, my stilly, stilly pages,
Dearer, dearer yet to me
Seems your hoarded ore of ages!
Leave me my books and let me be.

Dreamer! rhapsodist! ope thine eyes!
Time and occasion wait for none;
What though competitors gripe the prize?
Palms worth winning may still be won.

Action! action! oust you must,

Or ousted by others expect to be:

Men by attrition are fashioned, just

As pebbles are ground in the stormy sea.

In yon silent shrine of thought
Lies a wondrous history;

All the toiling world hath wrought—
Leave me my books and let me be.

Stubborn idolater! wealth and fame
Powerless arguments seem to you;
Scrawl, then, in century-dust, "a name!"
Starve, with the starveling dreaming crew;
Die, and lie with your noble dead,

Who win futurity's plaudit note,

To rise, like the drowned, from the river's bed-
But deaf to the cannon that bids them float.


survive that dignified and brilliant society; and nowhere in the country is evident more of the exclusiveness of a proud lineage than among its descendants. All the famous names associated with great landed estates in New York, with colonial distinction and revolutionary statesmanship, are identified with that old city.

THE SCULPTOR OF ALBANY. "Memoirs of an American Lady" have preserved a charming memorial of olden times in. Albany. The tone of manners, and the simplicity of life she describes, have the pure and cheerful spirit of the domestic and rural scenes delineated in the Vicar of Wakefield. Equality seems to have existed with the most genuine self-respect; Addison and Milton were the literary oracles; hospitality was too instinctive and habitual to rank as a virtue; abundant game and fruits, and universal thrift, with comfortable domiciles and ample domains, equalized the gifts of fortune; an honest chivalry of sentiment, choice though limited reading, the right kind of family pride, and no casual interest in the songs and sermons of the day, gave a refinement to minds and manners thus developed in a secluded region, where truth and individuality of character were fostered by the fireside and around the porch; the fairest scenes of nature appealed to the imagination; the most candid social intercourse elicited the affections; and even negro slavery became contented domestic servitude, patriarchal in its household comfort and loyalty. As the capital of the state, Albany, at a later period, gathered a select and honored circle of eminent lawyers, statesmen, and divines; and boasted more aristocratic families than any town of its size in the Union. The eloquence and acumen exhibited in the courts, the wit of the banquets, the intelligent conversation, and the deference to mental superiority, are traditional features of those times. Arguments are yet cited by venerable barristers, memorable sayings, original characters, the zest of a new Waverley novel, and the discussion incident to a fresh Bonaparte victory, live in the reminiscences of a few who

A few superior professional men, and, in the winter, some eminent officials, still give a certain intellectual life to the place. The Rev. Dr. Sprague, with his urbane and reminiscent conversation, and most interesting collection of autographs, may charm away an evening, spared from parochial duties and the labor he so constantly bestows on a large biographical work, devoted to the American clergy of past generations; and at the state Library may be found, ever at his post, the guardian of its treasury of wisdom, the Flemish limner, in verse, of native scenery-Alfred B. Street. To the visitor of the present day, Albany, however, with these exceptions, offers little to distinguish it from other flourishing inland cities, save an influential political journalist, and some notable wire-pullers in the arcana of faction. With difficulty one finds a Dutch house, with quaint gables and broad stoop. A few old-fashioned mansions, however, with spacious front inclosure, where umbrageous shrubs and fine elms remind us of the rural aspect of the ancient settlement, and some lingering customs and celebrated names, are eloquent of the past.

But the bustle of a mart, and the confusion of a railway dépôt, are more obvious to the passing traveler. It was, therefore, with little anticipation of so delightful a surprise, that I strolled forth to beguile two hours of a summer afternoon at Albany, while awaiting the

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