was heavy and decidedly lower; and at Philadelphia, whiskey is steady and stocks firm.  Stocks are firm:  that is a comfort for the English holders, and the confiscating process recommended by the Herald is at least deferred.  But presently comes an announcement which is not quite so cheering:—­“The Saginaw Central Railway Company (let us call it) has postponed its January dividend on account of the disturbed condition of public affairs.”

A la bonne heure.  The bond- and share-holders of the Saginaw must look for loss and depression in times of war.  This is one of war’s dreadful taxes and necessities; and all sorts of innocent people must suffer by the misfortune.  The corn was high at Waterloo when a hundred and fifty thousand men came and trampled it down on a Sabbath morning.  There was no help for that calamity, and the Belgian farmers lost their crops for the year.  Perhaps I am a farmer myself—­an innocent colonus; and instead of being able to get to church with my family, have to see squadrons of French dragoons thundering upon my barley, and squares of English infantry forming and trampling all over my oats. (By the way, in writing of “Panics,” an ingenious writer in the Atlantic Magazine says that the British panics at Waterloo were frequent and notorious.) Well, I am a Belgian peasant, and I see the British running away and the French cutting the fugitives down.  What have I done that these men should be kicking down my peaceful harvest for me, on which I counted to pay my rent, to feed my horses, my household, my children?  It is hard.  But it is the fortune of war.  But suppose the battle over; the Frenchman says, “You scoundrel! why did you not take a part with me? and why did you stand like a double-faced traitor looking on?  I should have won the battle but for you.  And I hereby confiscate the farm you stand on, and you and your family may go to the workhouse.”

The New York press holds this argument over English people in terrorem.  “We Americans may be ever so wrong in the matter in dispute, but if you push us to a war, we will confiscate your English property.”  Very good.  It is peace now.  Confidence of course is restored between us.  Our eighteen hundred peace commissioners have no occasion to open their mouths; and the little question of confiscation is postponed.  Messrs. Battery, Broadway and Co., of New York, have the kindness to sell my Saginaws for what they will fetch.  I shall lose half my loaf very likely; but for the sake of a quiet life, let us give up a certain quantity of farinaceous food; and half a loaf, you know, is better than no bread at all.

THE NOTCH ON THE AXE.—­A STORY A LA MODE.

PART I.

“Every one remembers in the Fourth Book of the immortal poem of your Blind Bard, (to whose sightless orbs no doubt Glorious Shapes were apparent, and Visions Celestial,) how Adam discourses to Eve of the Bright Visitors who hovered round their Eden—­