In the drawing-room of an elegant mansion in a fashionable quarter of the city of New York, toward the close of April, a social party were assembled, distributed mostly in small conversational groups. The head of the establishment, a pompous, well-to-do merchant, stout, short, and baldheaded, and evidently well satisfied with himself and his position in society, was vehemently expressing his opinions upon the affairs of the nation to an attentive audience of two or three elderly business men, with a ponderous earnestness that proved him, in his own estimation, as much au fait in political affairs as in the routine of his counting-room. An individual of middle age, a man of the world, apparently, who was seated at a side-table, carelessly glancing over a book of engravings, was the only one who occasionally exasperated the pompous gentleman with contradictions or ill-timed interruptions.

“The government must be sustained,” said the stout gentleman, “and we, the merchants of the North, will do it. It is money, sir, money,” he continued, unconsciously rattling the coin in his breeches pocket, “that settles every question at the present day, and our money will bring these beggarly rebels to their senses. They can’t do without us, sir. They would be ruined in six months, if shut out from commercial intercourse with the North.”

“How long before you would be ruined by the operations of the same cause?” inquired the individual at the side-table.

“Sir, we of the North hold the wealth of the country in our pockets. They can’t fight against our money they can’t do it, sir.”

“Your ancestors fought against money, and fought passably well.”

“Yes, sir, for the great principles of human liberty.”

“Which these rebels believe they are fighting for. You have need of all your money to keep a respectable army in the field. These Southerners may have to fight in rags, as insurgents generally do: witness the struggle of your Revolution; but until you lay waste their corn-fields and drive off their cattle, they will have full stomachs, and that, after all, is the first consideration.”

“You are an alien, sir, a foreigner; you know nothing of our great institutions; you know nothing of the wealth of the North, and the spirit of the people.”

“I see a great deal of bunting in the streets, and hear any quantity of declamation at your popular gatherings. But as I journeyed northward from New Orleans, I saw the same in the South perhaps more of it.”

“And could not distinguish between the frenzy of treason and the enthusiasm of patriotism?”

“Not at all; except that treason seemed more earnest and unanimous.”

“You have seen with the eyes of an Englishman of one hostile to our institutions.”

“Oh, no; as a man of the world, a traveller, without prejudice or passion, receiving impressions and noting them. I like your country; I like your people. I have observed foibles in the North and in the South, but there is an under-current of strong feeling and good sense which I have noted and admired. I think your quarrel is one of foibles one conceived in the spirit of petulance, and about to be prosecuted in the spirit of exaltation. I believe the professed mutual hatred of the sections to be superficial, and that it could be cancelled. It is fostered by the bitterness of fanatics, assisted by a very natural disinclination on the part of the masses to yield a disputed point. If hostilities should cease to-morrow, you would be better friends than ever.”

“But the principle, sir! The right of the thing, and the wrong of the thing! Can we parley with traitors? Can we negotiate with armed rebellion? Is it not our paramount duty to set at rest forever the doctrine of secession?”

“As a matter of policy, perhaps. But as a right, I doubt it. Your government I look upon as a mere agency appointed by contracting parties to transact certain affairs for their convenience. Should one or more of those contracting parties, sovereignties in themselves, hold it to their interest to transact their business without the assistance of an agent, I cannot perceive that the right can be denied by any provision of the contract. In your case, the employers have dismissed their agent, who seeks to reinstate the office by force of arms. As justly might my lawyer, when I no longer need his services, attempt to coerce me into a continuance of business relations, by invading my residence with a loaded pistol. The States, without extinguishing their sovereignty, created the Federal Government; it is the child of State legislation, and now the child seeks to chastise and control the parent. The General Government can possess no inherent or self-created function; its power, its very existence, were granted for certain uses. As regards your State’s connection with that Government, no other State has the right to interfere; but as for another State’s connection with it, the power that made it can unmake.”

“So you would have the government quietly acquiesce in the robbery of public property, the occupation of Federal strongholds and the seizure of ships and revenues in which they have but a share?”

“If, by the necessity of the case, the seceded States hold in their possession more than their share of public property, a division should be made by arbitration, as in other cases where a distribution of common property is required. It may have been a wrong and an insult to bombard Fort Sumter and haul down the Federal flag, but that does not establish a right on the part of the Federal Government to coerce the wrong-doing States into a union with the others. And that, I take it, is the avowed purpose of your administration.”

“Yes, and that purpose will be fulfilled. We have the money to do it, and we will do it, sir.”

A tall, thin gentleman, with a white cravat and a bilious complexion, approached the party from a different part of the room.

“It can’t be done with money, Mr. Pursely,” said the new comer, “Unless the great, the divine principle of universal human liberty is invoked. An offended but merciful Providence has given the people this chance for redemption, in the opportunity to strike the shackle from the slave. I hold the war a blessing to the nation and to humanity, in that it will cleanse the land from its curse of slavery. It is an invitation from God to wipe away the record of our past tardiness and tolerance, by striking at the great sin with fire and sword. The blood of millions is nothing the woe, the lamentation, the ruin of the land is nothing the overthrow of the Union itself is nothing, if we can but win God’s smile by setting a brand in the hand of the bondman to scourge his master. But assuredly unless we arouse the slave to seize the torch and the dagger, and avenge the wrongs of his race, Providence will frown upon our efforts, and our arms will not prevail.”

A tall man in military undress replied with considerable emphasis:

“Then your black-coated gentry must fight their own battle. The people will not arm if abolition is to be the watchword. I for one will not strike a blow if it be not understood that the institutions of the South shall be respected.”

“The government must be sustained, that is the point,” cried Mr. Pursely. “It matters little what becomes of the negro, but the government must be sustained. Otherwise, what security will there be for property, and what will become of trade?”

“Who thinks of trade or property at such a crisis?” interrupted an enthusiast, in figured trowsers and a gay cravat. “Our beloved Union must and shall be preserved. The fabric that our fathers reared for us must not be allowed to crumble. We will prop it with our mangled bodies,” and he brushed a speck of dust from the fine broadcloth of his sleeve.

“The insult to our flag must be wiped out,” said the military gentleman. “The honor of the glorious stripes and stars must be vindicated to the world.”

“Let us chastise these boasting Southrons,” said another, “and prove our supremacy in arms, and I shall be satisfied.”

“But above all,” insisted a third, “we must check the sneers and exultation of European powers, and show them that we have not forgotten the art of war since the days of 1776 and 1812.”

“I should like to know what you are going to fight about,” said the Englishman, quietly; “for there appears to be much diversity of opinion. However, if you are determined to cut each others’ throats, perhaps one pretext is as good as another, and a dozen better than only one.”

In the quiet recess of a window, shadowed by the crimson curtains, sat a fair young girl, and a man, young and handsome, but upon whose countenance the traces of dissipation and of passion were deeply marked. Miranda Ayleff was a Virginian, the cousin and quondam playmate of Oriana Weems, like her an orphan, and a ward of Beverly. Her companion was Philip Searle. She had known him in Richmond, and had become much attached to him, but his habits and character were such, that her friends, and Beverly chiefly, had earnestly discouraged their intimacy. Philip left for the North, and Miranda, who at the date of our story was the guest of Mrs. Pursely, her relative, met him in New York, after a separation of two years. Philip, who, in spite of his evil ways, was singularly handsome and agreeable in manners, found little difficulty in fanning the old flame, and, upon the plea of old acquaintance, became a frequent visitor upon Miranda at Mr. Pursely’s mansion, where we now find them, earnestly conversing, but in low tones, in the little solitude of the great bay window.

“You reproach me with vices which your unkindness has helped to stain me with. Driven from your presence, whom alone I cared to live for, what marvel if I sought oblivion in the wine-cup and the dice-box? Give me one chance, Miranda, to redeem myself. Let me call you wife, and you will become my guardian angel, and save me from myself.”

“You know that I love you, Philip,” she replied, “and willingly would I share your destiny, hoping to win you from evil. Go with me to Richmond. We will speak with Beverly, who is kind and truly loves me. We will convince him of your good purposes, and will win his consent to our union.”

“No, Miranda; Beverly and your friends in Richmond will never believe me worthy of you. Besides, it would be dangerous for me to visit Richmond. I have identified myself with the Northern cause, and although, for your sake, I might refrain from bearing arms against Virginia, yet I have little sympathy with any there, where I have been branded as a drunkard and a gambler.”

“Yet, Philip, is it not the land of your birth the home of your boyhood?”

“The land of my shame and humiliation. No Miranda, I will not return to Virginia. And if you love me, you will not return. What are these senseless quarrels to us? We can be happy in each other’s love, and forget that madmen are at war around us. Why will you not trust me, Miranda why do you thus withhold from me my only hope of redemption from the terrible vice that is killing me? I put my destiny, my very life in your keeping, and you hesitate to accept the trust that alone can save me. Oh, Miranda! you do not love me.”

“Philip, I cannot renounce my friends, my dear country, the home of my childhood.”

“Then look you what will be my fate: I will join the armies of the North, and fling away my life in battle against my native soil. Ruin and death cannot come too soon when you forsake me.”

Miranda remained silent, but, through the gloom of the recess, he could see the glistening of a tear upon her cheek.

The hall-bell rang, and the servant brought in a card for Miss Ayleff. Following it, Arthur Wayne was ushered into the room.

She rose to receive him, somewhat surprised at a visit from a stranger.

“I have brought these letters for you from my good friend Beverly Weems,” said Arthur. “At his request, I have ventured to call in person, most happy, if you will forgive the presumption, in the opportunity.”

She gave her hand, and welcomed him gracefully and warmly, and, having introduced Mr. Searle, excused herself while she glanced at the contents of Beverly’s letter. While thus employed, Arthur marked her changing color; and then, lifting his eyes lest his scrutiny might be rude, observed Philip’s dark eye fixed upon her with a suspicious and searching expression. Then Philip looked up, and their glances met the calm blue eye and the flashing black but for an instant, but long enough to confirm the instinctive feeling that there was no sympathy between their hearts.

A half-hour’s general conversation ensued, but Philip appeared restless and uneasy, and rose to take his leave. She followed him to the parlor door.

“Come to me to-morrow,” she said, as she gave her hand, “and we will talk again.”

A smile of triumph rested upon his pale lips for a second; but he pressed her hand, and, murmuring an affectionate farewell, withdrew.

Arthur remained a few moments, but observing that Miranda was pensive and absent, he bade her good evening, accepting her urgent invitation to call at an early period.