Dedicated to the Union Army and Navy.
The day our nation's life began,
Dawned on the sovereignty of man,
His charter then our Fathers signed,
Proclaiming Freedom for mankind.
May Heaven still guard her glorious sway,
Till time with endless years grows gray.
Flag of our Union! float unfurled,
Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.
Americans, your mighty name,
With glory floods the peaks of fame;
Ye whom our Washington has led,
Men who with Warren nobly bled,
Who never quailed on land or sea,
Your watchword, Death or Liberty!
Flag of our Union! float unfurled,
Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.
It was the Union made us free,
Its loss, man's second fall would be.
States linked in kindred glory save,
Till the last despot finds a grave;
And angels hasten here to see
Man break his chains, the whole earth free!
Flag of our Union! float unfurled,
Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.
Ye struggling brothers o'er the sea,
Who spurn the chain of tyranny,
Like brave Columbus westward steer,
Our stars of hope will guide you here,
Where States still rising bless our land,
And freedom strengthens labor's hand.
Flag of our Union! float unfurled,
Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.
Ye toiling millions, free and brave,
Whose shores two mighty oceans lave:
Your cultured fields, your marts of trade,
Keels by the hand of genius laid,
The shuttle's hum, the anvil's ring
Echo your voice that God is King.
Flag of our Union! float unfurled,
Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.
Hail! Union Army, true and brave,
And dauntless Navy on the wave.
Holy the cause where Freedom leads,
Sacred the field where patriot bleeds;
Victory shall crown your spotless fame,
Nations and ages bless your name.
Flag of our Union! float unfurled,
Thy stars shall light a ransomed world.
A FANCY SKETCH.
I am a banker, and I need hardly say I am in comfortable circumstances. Some of my friends, of whom I have a good many, are pleased to call me rich, and I shall not take it upon myself to dispute their word. Until I was twenty-five, I travelled, waltzed, and saw the best foreign society; from twenty-five to thirty I devoted myself to literature and the art of dining; I am now entered upon the serious business of life, which consists in increasing one's estate. At forty I shall marry, and as this epoch is nine years distant, I trust none of the fair readers of this journal will trouble themselves to address me notes which I really cannot answer, and which it would give me pain to throw in the fire.
Some persons think it beneath a gentleman to write for the magazines or papers. This is a low and vulgar idea. The great wits of the world have found their best friends in the journals; there were some who never learned to write,—who ever hears of them now? I write anonymously of course, and I amuse myself by listening to the remarks that society makes upon my productions. Society talks about them a great deal, and I divide attention with the last novelist, whether an unknown young lady of the South, or a drumhead writer of romances. People say, 'That was a brilliant article of so and so's in the last ——, wasn't it?' You will often hear this remark. I am that gentleman—I wrote that article—it was brilliant, and, though I say it, I am capable of producing others fully equal to it.
Many persons imagine that business disqualifies from the exercise of the imagination. This is a mistake. Alexander was a business man of the highest order; so was Cæsar; so was Bonaparte; so was Burr; so am I. To be sure, none of these distinguished characters wrote poetry; but I take it, poetry is a low species of writing, quite inferior to prose, and unworthy one's attention. Look at the splendid qualities of these great men, particularly in the line in which the imaginative faculties tend. See how they fascinated the ladies, who it is well known adore a fine imagination. How well they talked love, the noblest of all subjects—for a man's idle hours. Then observe the schemes they projected. Conquests, consolidations, empires, dominion, and to include my own project, a bullion bank with a ten-acre vault. It appears that a lack of capital was at the bottom of all their plans. Alexander confessed that he was bankrupt for lack of more worlds, and is reputed to have shed tears over his failure, which might have been expected from a modern dry-goods jobber, but not from Alexander. Cæsar and Bonaparte failed for the want of men: they do not seem to have been aware of the existence of Rhode Island. I think Burr failed for the lack of impudence—he had more than all the rest of the world together, but he needed much more than that to push his projects ahead of his times. As for myself, when I have doubled my capital, I shall found my bullion bank in the face of all opposition. The ten-acre lot at the corner of Broadway and Wall street is already selected and paid for, and I shall excavate as soon as the present crop is off.
There is no question that the occupation of banking conduces to literary pursuits. When I take interest out of my fellow beings, I naturally take interest in them, and so fall to writing about them. I have in my portfolio sketches of all the leading merchants of the age, romantically wrought, and full of details of their private lives, hopes, fears, and pleasures. These men that go up town every day have had, and still have, little fanciful excursions that are quite amusing when an observer of my talent notes them down. I know all about old Boscobello, the Spanish merchant, of the house of Boscobello, Bolaso & Co. My romance of his life from twenty to forty fills three volumes, and is as exciting as the diaries of those amusing French people whom Bossuet preached to with such small effect. Boscobello has sobered since forty, and begs for loans as an old business man ought to. I think he sees the error of his ways, and is anxious to repair his fortunes to the old point, but it is easier to spend a million than to make it. My cashier reports his account overdrawn the other day, and not made good till late next afternoon. This is a sign of failing circumstances, and must be attended to.
When Boscobello comes in about half past two of an afternoon for the usual loan of a hundred dollars to enable him to go on, I amuse myself by talking to him while I look over his securities. He has two or three loans to pay up before three o'clock, in different parts of the town, and we cannot blame him for being in a hurry, but this is no concern of mine. If he will get into a tight place, one may surely take one's time at helping him out: and really it does require some little time to investigate the class of securities he brings, and which are astonishingly varied. For instance, he brought me to-day as collateral to an accommodation, a deed to a South Brooklyn block, title clouded; a Mackerelville second mortgage; ten shares of coal-oil stock; an undivided quarter right in a guano island, and the note of a President of the Unterrified Insurance Company. 'How much was the cartage, Bos?' said I, for you see my great mind descends to the smallest particulars, and I was benevolent enough to wish to deduct his expenses from the bonus I was about to charge him for the loan. 'Never mind the cartage,' said he, 'that's a very strong list, and will command the money any day in Wall street, but I have a particular reason for getting it of you.' 'The particular reason being,' said I, 'that you can't get it anywhere else. Jennings,' I continued to my cashier, 'give Mr. Boscobello ninety-five dollars Norfolk or Richmond due-bills, and take his check payable in current funds next Saturday for a hundred.'
Poor old Boscobello! A man at forty ought not to look old, but Bos had often seen the sun rise before he went to bed, and he had been gay, so all my aunts said. Some stories Bos has told me himself, o' nights at my house, after having in vain endeavored to induce me to take shares in the guano island, or 'go into' South Brooklyn water lots. 'I'm too old for that sort of a thing, Bos,' I say; 'it's quite natural for you to ask me, and I don't blame you for trying it on, but you must find some younger man. Tell me about that little affair with the mysterious Cuban lady; when you only weighed a hundred and forty pounds, and never went out without a thousand dollars in your pocket—in the blooming days of youth, Bos, when you went plucking purple pansies along the shore.'