The late difficulties in those territories may make it necessary for the Democratic party to take stronger grounds upon this question. Lawlessness and outrage should not be tolerated on the one hand, nor on the other should privileges and advantages be given by Congress. What may be the result, it is impossible to tell, but wherever, in a fair contest, the majority shall be found, in that finality every good citizen ought to agree. It seems as if we had fallen upon evil days, and conservative statesmen of tact and experience will be needed, to pilot the good ship of State through the straits of slavery, and over the rocks of fanaticism. Perhaps it should not be a man with the imbittered feelings of either extreme of the Union, but from the more calm and temperate middle; weighing in equal scales the North and the South, the East and the West, and steering by the pole-star of the Constitution.

From the complexion of the Northern delegation to the next Congress we dare not hope for a change of policy; nay, we almost despair of even temperate counsels. We must hope that the few Democrats who may be heard in the turmoil, will continue to be strict constructionists, and confine their opponents within the limits of the letter and spirit of the Constitution. In every place let us, of the Democratic party, rally in support of our principles, welcoming all those who from love of country, offer aid. The sober second thought of the people will come; and when it does, as always before, it will be with us.

There has been legislation enough. If Congress can in the territories regulate slavery, a peculiar local institution, then can it also go in and regulate the pecular institution of the Mormons of the Territory of Utah, to wit, polygamy. Now we opine that no man believes that Congress has any right to interfere with the wives and babies of Brigham Young, or any of his people. In every aspect, it is ten-fold worse than African slavery; and yet, by what right shall Congress abolish Mormon polygamy? This, more than slavery, is a local, a domestic, a peculiar institution; and where, in the great charter of our liberties, shall we find the authority to extirpate the evil? It is more unchristian, more immoral and damning, more degrading and beastly, more destructive both to soul and body, but where is the legislative panacea for purification? From the valley of Utah rises a more disgusting stench than from all the slave-wrought fields of the South.

Go preach to the degraded Mormon, ye whose bowels yearn for your "fellow-creatures;" cleanse him from his pol

lution, teach him the truth that shall make him free-raise him from the condition of a slave-slave did we say? ay, brute. Let your sympathies go out for him and leave the negro of the South in the hands of a master whose interest it is to clothe, feed, and protect him. It is false philanthropy which steals him away from his master, and turns him loose on the world. Look at the sink-holes of our Northern cities! How disgusting in its riot and corruption, intemperance, profanity, and all uncleanness. You see nothing of this in the slave population of the South. It is immeasurably in advance of the North in its treatment of the negro. So will it be ever.

TO MY SEGAR.

THOU fragrant leaf! since to thy witching smoke,
Thy soothing power, thy care-beguiling spell,
In peevish mood I bade a long farewell,
How I regret the hasty words I spoke !
Whenever Passion in her weary cell,

Fierce as a goaded lioness, awoke,

And from her cage in bitter transports broke,
What charm the indignant spirit then could quell?
Thou, and dear opium, and a woman's voice-

All amulets to soothe the troublous soul.
But though the three may equally console,
To make our sorrows smile, our griefs rejoice,
To my segar I give my own free choice:

There lurks no poison in its fragrant roll!

HUMAN NATURE IN CHUNKS.

CHUNK No. 13.-BIOGRAPHIES; OR, "OUR JEMMIE."

WERE I sure that James Boswell would write my life, I do not know whether I would not anticipate the measure by taking his.-DR. JOHNSON.

AUTO-BIOGRAPHIES multiply; latent genius finds a highway to the credulities of the people, there to sport awhile its ephemeral wings, ere it sleeps among the relics of the forgotten. Clio blushes at the intrusions; the future will forget the present, so pregnant with silly farragos of disgusting egotism and pompous inanities. Chevalier Barnum has immortalized himself and Woolly Horse on the same biographical tablet, and ere long the illustrious showman must join the sepulchral quiet of his own Joice Heath. Some future sculptor may carve from the Parian concrete a befitting monument to his greatness, a memorial representing perhaps a Shanghai or a convocation of "Diapers and Dimples" in squalling conclave. The gay chevalier Wykoff has transformed love's stratagems into poetic prose, transmuting coups d'amour and gallant sorties into a biography. The Diogenes of the press has "spit on the Baltimore Platform" and given the world the key to the treasury of his life. The High-Priest at the temple of Janus has installed himself "in calf" on the book-shelves of the world. Hasten, ye gray goose-quills, set to work the intellectual mill, and fulfill your duty; tarry not for corrections, your errors will be forgiven, for immortality desires one more volume in the scarecrow library.

What a world! Every one striving to merit an edition, pay or no pay to the printer; every one striving for one line-one immortal line on the monumentum ære perennius-striving to leave a fadeless autograph on the imperishable pillar of fame. Poets, novelists, biographers, are literary butterflies in the great whirlwind of life. But not so with "Our Jemmie," who is a silent actor in this great life-drama, but the companion of modesty and the guardian of confidence. Silent to the world, yet to the tender beautiful-an object of kindly homage; poetic, yet only breathing the incense of song around the shrine of a worthy group; charitable, generous,

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yet as silent in his gifts as the benedictions of twilight, when its golden arms are uplifted o'er a beautiful world. Although our Jemmie has climbed the Nevadas, waltzed 'neath the purple wings of an Italian eve, gathered icy pearls from the Alpine crown, sat within the golden halls of the Aztec, gathered flowery trophies from the bosom of the tropics, told tales of love to queens of western wilds, sang songs of heart and home to sunny isles, yet, on their mother-ocean's breast, silently he tells his tales of romance and reality to his brotherhood of friends. Quietude he craves rather than the homage of a world; his hours are passed alone rather than in seeking the congratulations of flattery. But a modern youth is fed high notions from his mother's breast. A name, my child, a name. Ere the "teens" are gone, our youth have swallowed Blackstone-charmed earth, sea, and sky with strains Æolian. Ere precocity can stand without the aid of motherly apronstrings, she has to incur all the responsibilities of foreign travel. Fame, fame! Letter-writers-our beardless youths think an LL.B. lies behind our correspondent," and thus incited proceed to see awful things, visit great countries, talk abominably large adjectives over infinitely small affairs, have the indescribable emotion of standing where somebody else once did, of flirting with an "unfortunate” Parisian miss on the banks of the Seine, of eating within sight of a Duchess, and drinking from the same glass used by Princes and servants. Eternal Rome is daily hashed in our morning papers; the "immaculate conception" is conceived on foolscap; his holiness, the most Christian Pius IX., is daily run through the press; Mount Vesuvius belches forth in our evening editions; London is sent through by our own correspondent; Sevastopol is bombarded under a postscript; Mount Tony is laid on the Editor's table, and Mormonism in the hands of "the devil." Niagara is jeweled in brilliant adjectives, and we hear daily thunders from "our Ajax." Albany is received in an "extra,” and Hartford has been put down among the foreign arrivals in the "black mail," under the mysterious characters, "K. N." No one, in this age of dear flour and high rents, can afford to be a nobody. Be somebody-biographically, poetically, or historically. A biography of the Mermaid would sell. A poem on baby conclaves, with a chorus of crowing Chitagongs would prove financially remunerative. A history of a kiss, and its probable effect on the Simian cerebellum, would have a large run. Balaam's early and final career, illustrated, would be hastily devoured, and yet a field for all. To be great it must be new, direct from the wardrobe of the brain. Prayers must be new inspirations; hymns must be set to double semiquavers and consecrated by the brazen arms of the organ, ere it unlocks heaven's gates for the blessing. Our clergymen (I speak reverently) must have a prophetic view from Horeb, or behold the pillar of salt through orthodox spectacles, else fame persists in denying them an exalted position above occasional Christians and every-day sinners. Divinity (modern) must be tinctured with foreignism ere it can worthily express Apostolic aphorisms to Know-Nothing congregations. Kid gloves are

inspired, patent leather is sanctified, and gilt edges are alone worthy of a sanctimonious thumbing. We must be immortal medically, legally, canonically, or in some popular way. This age of biographies and baby-shows will occupy an important page in the history of the universe. The recording angels are already wearied.

But our Jemmie cares for none of these things; calm as sunset, he prefers some sylvan nook and the sweet tones of true friendship to the hoarse resounding voice of fame. But glory must have her followers, her courtiers. Poets, the beggar angels in our dreary pilgrimage, wade through a sea of sonnets and doggerel for one smile from the deceptive guardian of fame; but alas! poor fellows, find their names only enrolled on the tablet of the brokenhearted. The "fast boy," that bleeds profusely from the effects of some pugilistic encounter, is sure to find his face in our shop-windows in unblushing lithograph. The lass, that loses her virtue and her reputation, dies immortal within yellow covers. The youth that, to avoid family jars, drives after the honey-moon in the chariot of elopement, finds himself hurried through a hundred pages of a monthly. The Reverends, that have been so fortunate as to work themselves into double-twisted oddities, find their biographies under the title of eccentric sinners. M.D.'s will find their cathartic fame immortalized in the history of ghosts. The history and life of the legal fraternity collectively was written a thousand years ago in that little but expressive word, wOE. Editors will find "Old Scissors" their immortal eulogist. Fops, with their scrape-lipped and pipe-legged concealments, though not generally regarded as a species of humanity, will probably be included in a new Zoological History. The pretty clerks will see all of their existence in a looking-glass. The belles, now attired in gingerbread silks, and who flirt with a something (indescribable) hitched on to the bump of philoprogenitiveness, will be the servant-girls of the hereafter. Patent-medicine men will be bottled for the grand museum, to be erected when Millerism is fully verified. As all the politicians will never die, fame will, beyond doubt, notice them under the title of "pipe-layers." Death, the devil, and the critics will leisurely concoct their own biographies in Pandemonium.

Push on for fame; tread down thy brother-man, heed not his holy prayers, mock his struggles as he climbs the high ascent, bend the bow of shame, and hurl thy arrows into his heart. He is but mortal. Assist to encircle his brow with the thorny chaplet; send envy's damning hordes to gnaw upon his heart; reward rumor for her galling deeds with a kiss; bind chains of falsehood round his brow, and fame may yet be thine. But our Jemmie seeks not to win a name but by the counsels of the better world, by being an every-day Christian-an every-day gentleman. Our Jemmie prefers the wooing winds, the holy prayers of twilight, the odor-songs from Flora's orchestra, to the flattery of a dying world. The purling rivulet, the woodland song, the cascade's harp are his, not fame's. A goodly heart, a bosom free from hate or ill, a friendly smile, are his. Biographies moulder like the