The Atlantic.-The Atlantic is still the great historic sea. Even in its sunken wrecks might be read the record of modern nations. Who shall say that the Pacific will not yet become the great historic sea of the future,—the vast amphitheatre around which shall sit in majesty and power the two Americas, Asia, Africa, and the chief colonies of Europe? God forbid that the waters of our national life should ever settle to the dead level of a waveless calm! It would be the stagnation of death, the ocean grave of individual liberty.

Modern Haste.-The greater part of our modern literature bears evident marks of the haste which characterizes all the movements of this age; but in reading these older authors we are impressed with the idea that they enjoyed the most comfortable leisure. Many books we can read in a railroad-car, and feel a harmony between the rushing of the train and the haste of the author; but to enjoy the older authors we need the quiet of a winter evening,-an easy-chair before a cheerful fire, and all the equanimity of spirits we can command. Then the genial good-nature, the rich fulness, the persuasive eloquence of those old masters will fall upon us like the warm, glad sunshine, and afford those hours of calm contemplation in which the spirit may expand with generous growth and gain deep and comprehensive views. The pages of friendly old Goldsmith come to us like a golden autumn day, when every object which meets the eye bears all the impress of the completed year and the beauties of an autumnal forest.

Williams Quarterly, March, 1856.

PARADISE PLANTATION.

L. S. HOUGHTON.

[Louise Seymour Houghton, to whose able pen several very lively and interesting descriptions of life in Florida are due, has here given us a highly-humorous account of the toils and troubles of the agriculturist in the "Land of Flowers." The party here described went to Florida for their health, and, fancying that this desirable requisite could be best found outside of hotels, and that health of body might be associated with health of purse, they purchased a tract of land, fitted up a humble mansion, and went into amateur agriculture, with the results below related.]

No one could deny that the house was pretty, and comfortable too, when at last the carpenter and painter had done their work, and the curtains and the easy-chairs and the book-shelves had taken their places, and the great fire of pine logs was lighted, and the mocking-bird's song streamed in with the sunlight through the open door and between the fluttering leaves of the ivy screen at the window. The piano was always open in the evenings, with Merry or the Pessimist strumming on the keys or trying some of the lovely new songs; and Hope would be busy at her table with farm-books and accounts; and the Invalid in his easy-chair would be listening to the music and falling off to sleep and rousing himself with a little clucking snore to pile more lightwood on the fire; and the mockingbird in his covered cage would wake too and join lustily in the song, till Merry smothered him up in thicker coverings.

The first duty was evident. "Give it a name, I beg," Merry had said the very first evening in the new home; and the house immediately went into committee of the

whole to decide upon one. Hope proposed Paradise Plantation; Merry suggested Fortune Grove; the Pessimist hinted that Folly Farm would be appropriate, but this proposition was ignominiously rejected; and the Invalid gave the casting vote for Hope's selection.

The hour for work having now arrived, the man was not slow in presenting himself. "I met an old fellow who used to be a sort of overseer on this very plantation," the Invalid said. "He says he has an excellent horse; and you will need one, Hope. I told him to come and see you."

"Which? the man or the horse?" asked Merry, in a low voice.

"Both, apparently," answered the Pessimist, in the same. tone, "for here they come."

"Ole man Spafford," as he announced himself, was a darky of ancient and venerable mien, tall, gaunt, and weather-beaten. His steed was taller, gaunter, and apparently twice as old,-an interesting study for the osteologist, if there be any such scientific person.

"He splendid saddle-hoss, missis," said the old man: "good wuk-hoss, too; bery fine hoss."

"It seems to me he's rather thin," said Hope, doubtfully.

"Dat kase we didn't make no corn dis year, de old woman an' me, we was bof so bad wid de misery in the leaders" (rheumatism in the legs). "But Sancho won't stay pore ef you buys corn enough, missus. He powerful good hoss to eat."

Further conversation revealed the fact that old man Spafford was "de chief man ob de chu'ch."

"What! a minister?" asked the Invalid.

'No, sah, not azatly de preacher, sah, but I'se de nex' t'ing to dat."

"What may your office be, then, uncle?" asked the Pessimist.

"I'se de section, sah," answered the old man, solemnly, making a low bow.

"The sexton! So you ring the bell, do you?"

"Not azatly de bell, sah,-we ain't got no bell,—but I bangs on de buzz-saw, sah."

"What does he mean?" asked Merry.

The Pessimist shrugged his shoulders without answering, but the "section" hastened to explain: "You see, missy, when dey pass roun' de hat to buy a bell dey didn't lift nigh enough; so dey jis' bought a buzz-saw and hung it up in de chu'ch-house; and I bangs on de buzz-saw, missy."

The chief man of the church was found, upon closer acquaintance, to be the subject of a profound conviction that he was the individual predestinated to superintend our farming interests. He was so well persuaded of this high calling that none of us dreamed of questioning it, and he was forthwith installed in the coveted office. At his suggestion, another man, Dryden by name, was engaged to assist old man Spafford and take care of Sancho, and a boy, called Solomon, to wait upon Dryden and do chores. A few day-laborers were also temporarily hired, the season being so far advanced and work pressing. The carpenters were recalled, for there was a barn to build, and hencoops and a pig-sty, not to speak of a fence. Hope and Merry flitted hither and thither armed with all sorts of impossible implements, which some one was sure to want by the time they had worked five minutes with them. As for the Pessimist, he confined himself to setting out orangetrees, the only legitimate business, he contended, on the place. This work, however, he performed vicariously, standing by and smoking while a negro set out the trees.

"My duties appear to be limited to paying the bills," remarked the Invalid; "and I seem to be the only member of the family who cannot let out the job."

"I thought the farm was to be self-supporting," said the Pessimist.

"Well, so it is. Wait till the crops are raised," retorted Merry.

"Henderson says," observed Hope, meditatively, "that there are six hundred dollars net profits to be obtained from one acre of cabbages."

"Why don't you plant cabbages, then? In this sevenacre lot, for instance?"

"Oh, that would be too many. Besides, I have planted all I could get. It is too late to sow the seed, but old man Spafford had some beautiful plants he let me have. He charged an extra price because they were so choice, but I was glad to get the best: it is cheapest in the end. I got five thousand of them."

"What sort are they?" asked the Invalid.

"I don't know precisely. Spafford says he done lost the paper, and he didn't rightly understand the name nohow, 'long o' not being able to read; but they were a drefful choice kind."

"who

"Oh, bother the name!" said the Pessimist: cares what it is? A cabbage is a cabbage, I presume. But what have you in this seven-acre lot?"

"Those are peas. Dryden says that in North Carolina they realize four hundred dollars an acre from them-when they don't freeze."

The planting being now fairly over, we began to look about us for other amusement.

"Better not ride old Sancho," remarked old man Spafford one day, as he observed the Pessimist putting a saddle on the ancient quadruped.