“This is being not only honest, Tier,” cried Mulford, heartily, “but

thoughtful. One half that money shall be yours for this act.”

“I thank ’e, sir; but I’ll not touch a cent of it. It came hard, I know,

Mr. Mulford; for my own hands have smarted too much with tar, not to

know that the seaman ‘earns his money like the horse.’”

“Still it would not be ‘spending it like an ass,’ Jack, to give you a

portion of mine. But there will be other opportunities to talk of this.

It is a sign of returning to the concerns of life, Rose, that money

begins to be of interest to us. How little did we think of the

doubloons, or half eagles, a few hours since, when on the wreck?”

“It was wather that we t’ought of then,” put in Biddy. “Goold is good in

a market, or in a town, or to send back to Ireland, to help a body’s

aged fader or mudder in comfort wid; but wather is the blessed thing on

a wrack!”

“The brig is coming quite plainly into view, and you had better give me

the helm, Jack. It is time to bethink us of the manner of approaching

her, and how we are to proceed when alongside.”

This was so obviously true, that every body felt disposed to forget all

other matters, in order to conduct the proceedings of the next twenty

minutes, with the necessary prudence and caution. When Mulford first

took the helm, the brig was just coming clearly into view, though still

looking a little misty and distant. She might then have been half a

league distant, and would not have been visible at all by that light,

but for the circumstance that she had no back-ground to swallow up her

outlines. Drawn against clouds, above which the rays of the moon were

shed, her tracery was to be discerned, however, and, minute by minute,

it was getting to be more and more distinct, until it was now so plainly

to be seen as to admonish the mate of the necessity of preparation in

the manner mentioned.

Tier now communicated to the mate his own proposed manner of proceeding.

The brig tended to the trades, the tides having very little influence on

her, in the bight of the reef where she lay. As the wind stood at about

east south-east, the brig’s stern pointed to about west north-west,

while the boat was coming down the passage from a direction nearly north

from her, having, as a matter of course, the wind just free enough to

lay her course. Jack’s plan was to pass the brig to windward, and having

got well on her bow, to brail the sail, and drift down upon her,

expecting to fall in alongside, abreast of the fore-chains, into which

he had intended to help Biddy, and to ascend himself, when he supposed

that Mulford would again make sail, and carry off his mistress. To this

scheme the mate objected that it was awkward, and a little lubberly. He

substituted one in its place that differed in seamanship, and which was

altogether better. Instead of passing to windward, Mulford suggested the

expediency of approaching to leeward, and of coming alongside under the

open bow-port, letting the sheet fly and brailing the sail, when the

boat should be near enough to carry her to the point of destination

without further assistance from her canvas.

Jack Tier took his officer’s improvement on his own plan in perfect good

part, readily and cheerfully expressing his willingness to aid the

execution of it all that lay in his power. As the boat sailed unusually

well, there was barely time to explain to each individual his or her

part in the approaching critical movements, ere the crisis itself drew

near; then each of the party became silent and anxious, and events were

regarded rather than words.

It is scarcely necessary to say that Mulford sailed a boat well. He held

the sheet in his hand, as the little craft came up under the lee-quarter

of the brig, while Jack stood by the brail. The eyes of the mate glanced

over the hull of the vessel to ascertain, if possible, who might be

stirring; but not a sign of life could he detect on board her. This very

silence made Mulford more distrustful and anxious, for he feared a trap

was set for him. He expected to see the head of one of the blacks at

least peering over the bulwarks, but nothing like a man was visible. It

was too late to pause, however, and the sheet was slowly eased off, Jack

hauling on the brail at the same time; the object being to prevent the

sail’s flapping, and the sound reaching the ears of Spike. As Mulford

used great caution, and had previously schooled Jack on the subject,

this important point was successfully achieved. Then the mate put his

helm down, and the boat shot up under the brig’s lee-bow. Jack was ready

to lay hold of one of the bowsprit-shrouds, and presently the boat was

breasted up under the desired port, and secured in that position.

Mulford quitted the stern-sheets, and cast a look in upon deck. Nothing

was to be seen, though he heard the heavy breathing of the blacks, both

of whom were sound asleep on a sail that they had spread on the

forecastle.

The mate whispered for Biddy to come to the port. This the Irish woman

did at once, having kissed Rose, and taken her leave of her previously.

Tier also came to the port, through which he passed, getting on deck

with a view to assist Biddy, who was awkward, almost as a matter of

course, to pass through the same opening. He had just succeeded, when

the whole party was startled, some of them almost petrified, indeed, by

a hail from the quarter-deck in the well-known, deep tones of Spike.

“For’ard, there?” hailed the captain. Receiving no answer, he

immediately repeated, in a shorter, quicker call, “Forecastle, there?”

“Sir,” answered Jack Tier, who by this time had come to his senses.

“Who has the look-out on that forecastle?”

“I have it, sir—I, Jack Tier. You know, sir, I was to have it from two

’till daylight.”

“Ay, ay, I remember now. How does the brig ride to her anchor?”

“As steady as a church, sir. She has had no more sheer the whole watch

than if she was moored head and stern.”

“Does the wind stand as it did?”

“No change, sir. As dead a trade wind as ever blowed.”

“What hard breathing is that I hear for’ard?”

“’Tis the two niggers, sir. They’ve turned in on deck, and are napping

it off at the rate of six knots. There’s no keepin’ way with a nigger in

snoring.”

“I thought I heard loud whispering, too, but I suppose it was a sort of

half-dream. I’m often in that way now-a-days. Jack!”

“Sir.”

“Go to the scuttle-butt and get me a pot of fresh water—my coppers are

hot with hard thinking.”

Jack did as ordered, and soon stood beneath the coach-house deck with

Spike, who had come out of his state-room, heated and uneasy at he knew

not what. The captain drank a full pint of water at a single draught.

“That’s refreshing,” he said, returning Jack the tin-pot, “and I feel

the cooler for it. How much does it want of daylight, Jack?”

“Two hours, I think, sir. The order was passed to me to have all hands

called as soon as it was broad day.”

“Ay, that is right. We must get our anchor and be off as soon as there

is light to do it in. Doubloons may melt as well as flour, and are best

cared for soon, when cared for at all.”

“I shall see and give the call as soon as it is day. I hope, Capt.

Spike, I can take the liberty of an old shipmate, however, and say one

thing to you, which is this—look out for the Poughkeepsie, which is

very likely to be on your heels when you least expect her.”

“That’s your way of thinking, is it, Jack? Well, I thank you, old one,

for the hint, but have little fear of that craft. We’ve tried our legs

together, and I think the brig has the longest.”

As the captain said this, he gaped like a hound, and went into his

state-room. Jack lingered on the quarter-deck, waiting to hear him

fairly in his berth, when he made a sign to Biddy, who had got as far

aft as the galley, where she was secreted, to pass down into the cabin

as silently as possible. In a minute or two more, he moved forward,

singing in a low, cracked voice, as was often his practice, and slowly

made his way to the forecastle. Mulford was just beginning to think the

fellow had changed his mind, and meant to stick by the brig, when the

little, rotund figure of the assistant-steward was seen passing through

the port, and to drop noiselessly on a thwart. Jack then moved to the

bow, and cast off the painter, the head of the boat slowly falling off

under the pressure of the breeze on that part of her mast and sail which

rose above the hull of the Swash. Almost at the same moment, the mate

let go the stern-fast, and the boat was free.

It required some care to set the sail without the canvas flapping. It

was done, however, before the boat fairly took the breeze, when all was

safe. In half a minute the wind struck the sail, and away the little

craft started, passing swiftly ahead of the brig. Soon as far enough

off, Mulford put up his helm and wore short round, bringing the boat’s

head to the northward, or in its proper direction; after which they flew

along before the wind, which seemed to be increasing in force, with a

velocity that really appeared to defy pursuit. All this time the brig

lay in its silence and solitude, no one stirring on board her, and all,

in fact, Biddy alone excepted, profoundly ignorant of what had just been

passing alongside of her. Ten minutes of running off with a flowing

sheet, caused the Swash to look indistinct and hazy again; in ten

minutes more she was swallowed up, hull, spars, and all, in the gloom of

night.

Mulford and Rose now felt something like that security, without the

sense of which happiness itself is but an uneasy feeling, rendering the

anticipations of evil the more painful by the magnitude of the stake.

There they sat, now, in the stern-sheets by themselves, Jack Tier having

placed himself near the bows of the boat, to look out for rocks, as well

as to trim the craft. It was not long before Rose was leaning on Harry’s

shoulder, and ere an hour was past, she had fallen into a sweet sleep in

that attitude, the young man having carefully covered her person with a

capacious shawl, the same that had been used on the wreck. As for Jack,

he maintained his post in silence, sitting with his arms crossed, and

the hands thrust into the breast of his jacket, sailor fashion, a

picture of nautical vigilance. It was some time after Rose had fallen

asleep, that this singular being spoke for the first time.

“Keep her away a bit, maty,” he said, “keep her away, half a point or

so. She’s been travelin’ like a racer since we left the brig; and

yonder’s the first streak of day.”

“By the time we have been running,” observed Mulford, “I should think we

must be getting near the northern side of the reef.”

“All of that, sir, depend on it. Here’s a rock close aboard on us, to

which we are coming fast—just off here, on our weather bow, that looks

to me like the place where you landed after that swim, and where we had

stowed ourselves when Stephen Spike made us out, and gave chase.”

“It is surprising to me, Jack, that you should have any fancy to stick

by a man of Spike’s character. He is a precious rascal, as we all can

see, now, and you are rather an honest sort of a fellow.”

“Do you love the young woman there, that’s lying in your arms, as it

might be, and whom you say you wish to marry?”

“The question is a queer one, but it is easily answered. More than my

life, Jack.”

“Well, how happens it that _you_ succeed, when the world has so many

other young men who might please her as well as yourself?”

“It may be that no other loves her as well, and she has had the sagacity

to discover it.”

“Quite likely. So it is with me and Stephen Spike. I fancy a man whom

other folk despise and condemn. _Why_ I stand by him is my own secret;

but stand by him I do and will.”

“This is all very strange, after your conduct on the island, and your

conduct to-night. I shall not disturb your secret, however, Jack, but

leave you to enjoy it by yourself. Is this the rock of which you spoke,

that we are now passing?”

“The same; and there is the spot in which we was stowed when they made

us out from the brig; and hereaway, a cable’s length, more or less, the

wreck of that Mexican craft must lie.”

“What is that rising above the water, thereaway, Jack; more on our

weather-beam?”

“I see what you mean, sir; it looks like a spar. By George! there’s two

on ’em; and they _do_ seem to be the schooner’s masts.”

Sure enough! a second look satisfied Mulford that two mast-heads were

out of water, and that within a hundred yards of the place the boat was

running past. Standing on a short distance, or far enough to give

himself room, the mate put his helm down, and tacked the boat. The

flapping of the sail, and the little movement of shifting over the

sheet, awoke Rose, who was immediately apprized of the discovery. As

soon as round, the boat went glancing up to the spars, and presently was

riding by one, Jack Tier having caught hold of a topmast-shroud, when

Mulford let fly his sheet again, and luffed short up to the spot. By

this time the increasing light was sufficiently strong to render objects

distinct, when near by, and no doubt remained any longer in the mind of

Mulford about the two mast-heads being those of the unfortunate Mexican

schooner.

“Well, of all I have ever seen, I’ve never see’d the like of this

afore!” exclaimed Jack. “When we left this here craft, sir, you’ll

remember, she had almost turned turtle, laying over so far as to bring

her upper coamings under water; now she stands right side up, as erect

as if docked! My navigation can’t get along with this, Mr. Mulford, and

it does seem like witchcraft.”

“It is certainly a very singular incident, Jack, and I have been trying

to come at its causes.”

“Have you succeeded, Harry?” asked Rose, by this time wide awake, and

wondering like the others.

“It must have happened in this wise. The wreck was abandoned by us some

little distance out here, to windward. The schooner’s masts, of course,

pointed to leeward, and when she drifted in here, they have first

touched on a shelving rock, and as they have been shoved up, little by

little, they have acted as levers to right the hull, until the cargo has

shifted back into its proper berth, which has suddenly set the vessel up

again.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Jack, “all that might have happened had she been

above water, or any part of her above water; but you’ll remember, maty,

that soon after we left her she went down.”

“Not entirely. The wreck settled in the water no faster after we had

left it, than it had done before. It continued to sink, inch by inch, as

the air escaped, and no faster after it had gone entirely out of sight

than before; not as fast, indeed, as the water became denser the lower

it got. The great argument against my theory, is the fact, that after

the hull got beneath the surface, the wind could not act on it. This is

true in one sense, however, and not in another. The waves, or the

pressure of the water produced by the wind, might act on the hull for

some time after we ceased to see it. But the currents have set the craft

in here, and the hull floating always, very little force would cant the

craft. If the rock were shelving and slippery, I see no great difficulty

in the way; and the barrels may have been so lodged, that a trifle would

set them rolling back again, each one helping to produce a change that

would move another. As for the ballast, that, I am certain, could not

shift, for it was stowed with great care. As the vessel righted, the air

still in her moved, and as soon as the water permitted, it escaped by

the hatches, when the craft went down, as a matter of course. This air

may have aided in bringing the hull upright by its movements in the

water.”

This was the only explanation to which the ingenuity of Mulford could

help him, under the circumstances, and it may have been the right one,

or not. There lay the schooner, however, in some five or six fathoms of

water, with her two top-masts, and lower mast-heads out of the element,

as upright as if docked! It may all have occurred as the mate fancied,

or the unusual incident may have been owing to some of the many

mysterious causes which baffle inquiry, when the agents are necessarily

hidden from examination.

“Spike intends to come and look for this wreck, you tell me, Jack; in

the hope of getting at the doubloons it contains?” said Mulford, when

the boat had lain a minute or two longer, riding by the mast-head.

“Ay, ay; that’s his notion, sir, and he’ll be in a great stew, as soon

as he turns out, which must be about this time, and finds me missing;

for I was to pilot him to the spot.”

“He’ll want no pilot now. It will be scarcely possible to pass any where

near this and not see these spars. But this discovery almost induces me

to change my own plans. What say _you_, Rose? We have now reached the

northern side of the reef, when it is time to haul close by the wind, if

we wish to beat up to Key West. There is a moral certainty, however,

that the sloop-of-war is somewhere in the neighborhood of the Dry

Tortugas, which are much the most easily reached, being to leeward. We

might run down to the light-house by mid-day, while it is doubtful if we

could reach the town until to-morrow morning. I should like exceedingly

to have five minutes conversation with the commander of the

Poughkeepsie.”

“Ay, to let him know where he will be likely to fall in with the Molly

Swash and her traitor master, Stephen Spike,” cried Jack Tier. “Never

mind, maty; let ’em come on; both the Molly and her master have long

legs and clean heels. Stephen Spike will show ’em how to thread the

channels of a reef.”

“It is amazing to me, Jack, that you should stand by your old captain in

feeling, while you are helping to thwart him, all you can, in his

warmest wishes.”

“He’s a willian!” muttered Jack—“a reg’lar willian is Stephen Spike!”

“If a villain, why do you so evidently wish to keep him out of the hands

of the law? Let him be captured and punished, as his crimes require.”

“Men’s willians, all round,” still muttered Jack. “Heark ’e, Mr.

Mulford, I have sailed in the brig longer than you, and know’d her in

her comeliest and best days—when she was young, and blooming, and

lovely to the eye, as the young creature at your side—and it would go

to my heart to have any thing happen to _her_. Then, I’ve know’d Stephen

a long time, too, and old shipmates get a feelin’ for each other, sooner

or later. I tell you now, honestly, Mr. Mulford, Capt. Adam Mull shall

never make a prisoner of Stephen Spike, if I can prevent it.”

The mate laughed at this sally, but Rose appeared anxious to change the

conversation, and she managed to open a discussion on the subject of the

course it might be best to steer. Mulford had several excellent reasons

to urge for wishing to run down to the islets, all of which, with a

single exception, he laid before his betrothed. The concealed reason was

one of the strongest of them all, as usually happens when there is a

reason to conceal, but of that he took care to say nothing. The result

was an acquiescence on the part of Rose, whose consent was yielded more

to the influence of one particular consideration than to all the rest

united. That one was this: Harry had pointed out to her the importance

to himself of his appearing early to denounce the character and

movements of the brig, lest, through his former situation in her, his

own conduct might be seriously called in question.

As soon as the matter was determined, Jack was told to let go his hold,

the sheet was drawn aft, and away sped the boat. No sooner did Mulford

cause the little craft to keep away than it almost flew, as if conscious

it were bound to its proper home, skimming swiftly over the waves, like

a bird returning eagerly to its nest. An hour later the party

breakfasted. While at this meal, Jack Tier pointed out to the mate a

white speck, in the south-eastern board, which he took to be the brig

coming through the passage, on her way to the wreck.

“No matter,” returned the mate. “Though we can see her, she cannot see

us. There is that much advantage in our being small, Rose, if it do

prevent our taking exercise by walking the deck.”

Soon after Mulford made a very distant sail in the north-western board,

which he hoped might turn out to be the Poughkeepsie. It was but another

speck, but its position was somewhat like that in which he had expected

to meet the sloop-of-war. The two vessels were so far apart that one

could not be seen from the other, and there was little hope that the

Poughkeepsie would detect Spike at his toil on the wreck, but the mate

fully expected that the ship would go into the anchorage, among the

islets, in order to ascertain what had become of the schooner. If she

did not go in herself she would be almost certain to send in a boat.

The party from the brigantine had run down before the wind more than two

hours before the light-house began to show itself, just rising out of

the waves. This gave them the advantage of a beacon, Mulford having

steered hitherto altogether by the sun, the direction of the wind, and

the trending of the reef. Now he had his port in sight, it being his

intention to take possession of the dwelling of the light-house keeper,

and to remain in it, until a favorable opportunity occurred to remove

Rose to Key West. The young man had also another important project in

view, which it will be in season to mention as it reaches the moment of

its fulfilment.

The rate of sailing of the light-house boat, running before a brisk

trade wind, could not be much less than nine miles in the hour. About

eleven o’clock, therefore, the lively craft shot through one of the

narrow channels of the islets, and entered the haven. In a few minutes

all three of the adventurers were on the little wharf where the

light-house people were in the habit of landing. Rose proceeded to the

house, while Harry and Jack remained to secure the boat. For the latter

purpose a sort of slip, or little dock, had been made, and when the boat

was hauled into it, it lay so snug that not only was the craft secure

from injury, but it was actually hid from the view of all but those who

stood directly above it.

“This is a snug berth for the boat, Jack,” observed the mate, when he

had hauled it into the place mentioned, “and by unstepping the mast, a

passer by would not suspect such a craft of lying in it. Who knows what

occasion there may be for concealment, and I’ll e’en do that thing?”

To a casual listener, Harry, in unstepping the mast, might have seemed

influenced merely by a motiveless impulse; but, in truth, a latent

suspicion of Jack’s intentions instigated him, and as he laid the mast,

sprit and sail on the thwarts, he determined, in his own mind, to remove

them all to some other place, as soon as an opportunity for doing so

unobserved should occur. He and Jack now followed Rose to the house.

The islets were found deserted and tenantless. Not a human being had

entered the house since Rose left it, the evening she had remained so

long ashore, in company with her aunt and the Señor Montefalderon. This

our heroine knew from the circumstance of finding a slight fastening of

the outer door in the precise situation in which she had left it with

her own hands. At first a feeling of oppression and awe prevailed with

both Harry and Rose, when they recollected the fate of those who had so

lately been tenants of the place, but this gradually wore off, and each

soon got to be more at home. As for Jack, he very coolly rummaged the

lockers, as he called the drawers and closets of the place, and made his

preparations for cooking a very delicious repast, in which _callipash_

and _callipee_ were to be material ingredients. The necessary condiments

were easily enough found in that place, turtle being a common dish

there, and it was not long before steams that might have quickened the

appetite of an alderman filled the kitchen. Rose rummaged, too, and

found a clean table-cloth, plates, glasses, bowls, spoons, and knives;

in a word, all that was necessary to spread a plain but plentiful board.

While all this was doing, Harry took some fishing-tackle, and proceeded

to a favorable spot among the rocks. In twenty minutes he returned with

a fine mess of that most delicious little fish that goes by the very

unpoetical name of “hog-fish,” from the circumstance of its giving a

grunt not unlike that of a living porker, when rudely drawn from its

proper element. Nothing was now wanting to not only a comfortable, but

to what was really a most epicurean meal, and Jack just begged the

lovers to have patience for an hour or so, when he promised them dishes

that even New York could not furnish.

Harry and Rose first retired to pay a little attention to their dress,

and then they joined each other in a walk. The mate had found some

razors, and was clean shaved. He had also sequestered a shirt, and made

some other little additions to his attire, that contributed to give him

the appearance of being, that which he really was, a very gentleman-like

looking young sailor. Rose had felt no necessity for taking liberties

with the effects of others, though a good deal of female attire was

found in the dwelling. As was afterward ascertained, a family ordinarily

dwelt there, but most of it had gone to Key West, on a visit, at the

moment when the man and boy left in charge had fallen into the hands of

the Mexicans, losing their lives in the manner mentioned.

While walking together, Harry opened his mind to Rose, on the subject

which lay nearest to his heart, and which had been at the bottom of this

second visit to the islets of the Dry Tortugas. During the different

visits of Wallace to the brig, the boat’s crew of the Poughkeepsie had

held more or less discourse with the people of the Swash. This usually

happens on such occasions, and although Spike had endeavored to prevent

it, when his brig lay in this bay, he had not been entirely successful.

Such discourse is commonly jocular, and sometimes witty; every speech,

coming from which side it may, ordinarily commencing with “shipmate,”

though the interlocutors never saw each other before that interview. In

one of these visits an allusion was made to cargo, when “the pretty gal

aft” was mentioned as being a part of the cargo of the Swash. In answer

to this remark, the wit of the Poughkeepsie had told the brig’s man,

“you had better send her on board us, _for we carry a chaplain,_ _a

regular built one, that will be a bishop some day or other perhaps_, and

we can get her spliced to one of our young officers.” This remark had

induced the sailor of the Molly to ask if a sloop-of-war really carried

such a piece of marine luxury as a chaplain, and the explanation given

went to say that the clergyman in question did not properly belong to

the Poughkeepsie, but was to be put on board a frigate, as soon as they

fell in with one that he named. Now, all this Mulford overheard, and he

remembered it at a moment when it might be of use. Situated as he and

Rose were, he felt the wisdom and propriety of their being united, and

his present object was to persuade his companion to be of the same way

of thinking. He doubted not that the sloop-of-war would come in, ere

long, perhaps that very day, and he believed it would be an easy matter

to induce her chaplain to perform the ceremony. America is a country in

which every facility exists, with the fewest possible impediments, to

getting married; and, we regret to be compelled to add, to getting

unmarried also. There are no banns, no licences, no consent of parents

even, usually necessary, and persons who are of the age of discretion,

which, as respects females and matrimony, is a very tender age indeed,

may be married, if they see fit, almost without form or ceremony. There

existed, therefore, no legal impediment to the course Mulford desired to

take, and his principal, if not his only difficulty would be with Rose.

Over her scruples he hoped to prevail, and not without reason, as the

case he could and did present, was certainly one of a character that

entitled him to be heard with great attention.

In the first place, Mrs. Budd had approved of the connection, and it was

understood between them, that the young people were to be united at the

first port in which a clergyman of their own persuasion could be found,

and previously to reaching home. This had been the aunt’s own project,

for, weak and silly as she was, the relict had a woman’s sense of the

proprieties. It had occurred to her that it would be more respectable to

make the long journey which lay before them, escorted by a nephew and a

husband, than escorted by even an accepted lover. It is true she had

never anticipated a marriage in a light-house, and under the

circumstances in which Rose was now placed, though it might be more

reputable that her niece should quit the islets as the wife of Harry

than as his betrothed. Then Mulford still apprehended Spike. In that

remote part of the world, almost beyond the confines of society, it was

not easy to foretell what claims he might set up, in the event of his

meeting them there. Armed with the authority of a husband, Mulford could

resist him, in any such case, with far better prospects of success than

if he should appear only in the character of a suitor.

Rose listened to these arguments, ardently and somewhat eloquently put,

as a girl of her years and habits would be apt to listen to a favored

lover. She was much too sincere to deny her own attachment, which the

events of the last few days had increased almost to intenseness, so apt

is our tenderness to augment in behalf of those for whom we feel

solicitude, and her judgment told her that the more sober part of

Harry’s reasoning was entitled to consideration. As his wife, her

situation would certainly be much less equivocal and awkward, than while

she bore a different name, and was admitted to be a single woman, and it

might yet be weeks before the duty she owed her aunt would allow her to

proceed to the north. But, after all, Harry prevailed more through the

influence of his hold on Rose’s affections, as would have been the case

with almost every other woman, than through any force of reasoning. He

truly loved, and that made him eloquent when he spoke of love; sympathy

in all he uttered being his great ally. When summoned to the house, by

the call of Jack, who announced that the turtle-soup was ready, they

returned with the understanding that the chaplain of the Poughkeepsie

should unite them, did the vessel come in, and would the functionary

mentioned consent to perform the ceremony.

“It would be awkward—nay, it would be distressing, Harry, to have him

refuse,” said the blushing Rose, as they walked slowly back to the

house, more desirous to prolong their conversation than to partake of

the bountiful provision of Jack Tier. The latter could not but be

acceptable, nevertheless, to a young man like Mulford, who was in robust

health, and who had fared so badly for the last eight-and-forty hours.

When he sat down to the table, therefore, which was covered by a

snow-white cloth, with smoking and most savory viands on it, it will not

be surprising if we say it was with a pleasure that was derived from one

of the great necessities of our nature.

Sancho calls for benediction “on the man who invented sleep.” It would

have been more just to have asked this boon in behalf of him who

invented eating and turtle-soup. The wearied fall into sleep, as it

might be unwittingly; sometimes against their will, and often against

their interests; while many a man is hungry without possessing the means

of appeasing his appetite. Still more daily feel hunger without

possessing turtle-soup. Certain persons impute this delicious compound

to the genius of some London alderman, but we rather think unjustly.

Aldermanick genius is easily excited and rendered active, no doubt, by

strong appeals on such a theme, but our own experience inclines us to

believe that the tropics usually send their inventions to the less

unfruitful regions of the earth along with their products. We have

little doubt, could the fact be now ascertained, that it would be found

turtle-soup was originally invented by just some such worthy as Jack

Tier, who in filling his coppers to tickle the captain’s appetite, had

used all the condiments within his reach; ventured on a sort of Regent’s

punch; and, as the consequence, had brought forth the dish so often

eulogized, and so well beloved. It is a little extraordinary that in

Paris, the seat of gastronomy, one rarely, if ever, hears of or sees

this dish; while in London it is to be met in almost as great abundance

as in one of our larger commercial towns. But so it is, and we cannot

say we much envy a _cuisine_ its _patés_, and _soufflets_, and its _à

la_ this and _à la_ thats, but which was never redolent with the odors

of turtle-soup.

“Upon my word, Jack, you have made out famously with your dinner, or

supper, which ever you may please to call it,” cried Mulford gaily, as

he took his seat at table, after having furnished Rose with a chair.

“Nothing appears to be wanting; but here is good pilot-bread, potatoes

even, and other little niceties, in addition to the turtle and the fish.

These good people of the light seem to have lived comfortably, at any

rate.”

“Why should they not, maty?” answered Jack, beginning to help himself to

soup. “Living on one of these islets is like living afloat. Every thing

is laid in, as for an outward bound craft; then the reef must always

furnish fish and turtle. I’ve overhauled the lockers pretty thoroughly,

and find a plenty of stores to last _us_ a month. Tea, sugar, coffee,

bread, pickles, potatoes, onions, and all other knick-knacks.”

“The poor people who own these stores will be heavy-hearted enough when

they come to learn the reason why we have been put in undisturbed

possession of their property,” said Rose. “We must contrive some means

of repaying them for such articles as we may use, Harry.”

“That’s easily enough done, Miss Rose. Drop one of the half eagles in a

tea-pot, or a mug, and they’ll be certain to fall in with it when they

come back. Nothin’ is easier than to pay a body’s debts, when a body has

the will and the means. Now, the worst enemy of Stephen Spike must own

that his brig never quits port with unsettled bills. Stephen has his

faults, like other mortals; but he has his good p’ints, too.”

“Still praising Spike, my good Jack?” cried the mate, a little provoked

at this pertinacity in the deputy-steward, in sticking to his ship and

his shipmate. “I should have thought that you had sailed with him long

enough to have found him out, and to wish never to put your foot in his

cabin again.”

“Why, no, mate, a craft is a craft, and a body gets to like even the

faults of one in which a body has gone through gales, and squalls, with

a whole skin. I like the Swash, and, for sartain things I like her

captain.”

“Meaning by that it is your intention to get on board of the one, and to

sail with the other, again, as soon as you can.”

“I do, Mr. Mulford, and make no bones in telling on’t. You know that I

came here without wishing it.”

“Well, Jack, no one will attempt to control your movements, but you

shall be left your own master. I feel it to be a duty, however, as one

who may I know more of the law than yourself, as well as more of Stephen

Spike, to tell you that he is engaged in a treasonable commerce with the

enemy, and that he, and all who voluntarily remain with him, knowing

this fact, may be made to swing for it.”

“Then I’ll swing for it,” returned Jack, sullenly.

“There is a little obstinacy in this, my good fellow, and you must be

reasoned out of it. I am under infinite obligations to you, Jack, and

shall ever be ready to own them. Without you to sail the boat, I might

have been left to perish on that rock, for God only knows whether any

vessel would have seen me in passing. Most of those who go through that

passage keep the western side of the reef aboard, they tell me, on

account of there being better water on that side of the channel, and the

chance of a man’s being seen on a rock, by ships a league or two off,

would be small indeed. Yes, Jack, I owe my life to you, and am proud to

own it.”

“You owe it to Miss Rose, maty, who put me up to the enterprise, and who

shared it with me.”

“To her I owe more than life,” answered Harry, looking at his beloved as

she delighted in being regarded by him, “but even she, with all her

wishes to serve me, would have been helpless without your skill in

managing a boat. I owe also to your good-nature the happiness of having

Rose with me at this moment; for without you she would not have come.”

“I’ll not deny it, maty—take another ladle full of the soup, Miss Rosy,

a quart of it wouldn’t hurt an infant—I’ll not deny it, Mr. Mulford—I

know by the way you’ve got rid of the first bowl full that _you_ are

ready for another, and there it is—I’ll not deny it, and all I can say

is that you are heartily welcome to my sarvices.”

“I thank you, Jack; but all this only makes me more desirous of being of

use to you, now, when it’s in my power. I wish you to stick by me, and

not to return to the Swash. As soon as I get to New York I shall build

or buy a ship, and the berth of steward in her shall always be open to

you.”

“Thank ’e, maty; thank ’e, with all my heart. It’s something to know

that a port is open to leeward, and, though I cannot _now_ accept your

offer, the day _may_ come when I shall be glad to do so.”

“If you like living ashore better, our house will always be ready to

receive you. I should be glad to leave as handy a little fellow as

yourself behind me whenever I went to sea. There are a hundred things in

which you might be useful, and fully earn your biscuit, so as to have no

qualms about eating the bread of idleness.”

“Thank ’e, thank ’e, maty,” cried Jack, dashing a tear out of his eye

with the back of his hand, “thank ’e, sir, from the bottom of my heart.

The time _may_ come, but not now. My papers is signed for this v’y’ge.

Stephen Spike has a halter round his neck, as you say yourself, and it’s

necessary for me to be there to look to ’t. We all have our callin’s and

duties, and this is mine. I stick by the Molly and her captain until

both are out of this scrape, or both are condemned. I know nothing of

treason; but if the law wants another victim, I must take my chance.”

Mulford was surprised at this steadiness of Jack’s, in what he thought a

very bad cause, and he was quite as much surprised that Rose did not

join him, in his endeavors to persuade the steward not to be so

fool-hardy, as to endeavor to go back to the brig. Rose did not,

however; sitting silently eating her dinner the whole time, though she

occasionally cast glances of interest at both the speakers the while. In

this state of things the mate abandoned the attempt, for the moment,

intending to return to the subject, after having had a private

conference with his betrothed.

Notwithstanding the little drawback just related, that was a happy as

well as a delicious repast. The mate did full justice to the soup, and

afterward to the fish with the unpoetical name; and Rose ate more than

she had done in the last three days. The habits of discipline prevented

Jack from taking his seat at table, though pressed by both Rose and

Harry to do so, but he helped himself to the contents of a bowl, and did

full justice to his own art, on one aside. The little fellow was

delighted with the praises that were bestowed on his dishes; and for the

moment, the sea, its dangers, its tornadoes, wrecks and races, were all

forgotten in the security and pleasures of so savory a repast.

“Folk ashore don’t know how sailors sometimes live,” said Jack, holding

a large spoon filled with the soup ready to plunge into a tolerably

capacious mouth.

“Or how they sometimes starve,” answered Rose. “Remember our own

situation, less than forty-eight hours since!”

“All very true, Miss Rose; yet, you see, turtle-soup brings us up, a’ter

all. Would you choose a glass of wine, maty?”

“Very much indeed, Jack, after so luscious a soup; but wishing for it

will not bring it here.”

“That remains to be seen, sir. I call this a bottle of something that

looks wery much like a wine.”

“Claret, as I live! Why, where should light-house keepers get the taste

for claret?”

“I’ve thought of that myself, Mr. Mulford, and have supposed that some

of Uncle Sam’s officers have brought the liquor to this part of the

world. I understand a party on ’em was here surveyin’ all last winter.

It seems they come in the cool weather, and get their sights and measure

their distances, and go home in the warm weather, and work out their

traverses in the shade, as it might be.”

“This seems likely, Jack; but come, whence it may, it is welcome, and we

will taste it.”

Mulford then drew the cork of this mild and grateful liquor, and helped

his companions and himself. In this age of moral _tours de force_, one

scarcely dare say any thing favorable of a liquid that even bears the

name of wine, or extol the shape of a bottle. It is truly the era of

exaggeration. Nothing is treated in the old-fashioned, natural, common

sense way. Virtue is no longer virtue, unless it get upon stilts; and,

as for sins being confined to “transgression against the law of God,”

audacious would be the wretch who should presume to limit the sway of

the societies by any dogma so narrow! A man may be as abstemious as an

anchorite and get no credit for it, unless “he sign the pledge;” or,

signing the pledge, he may get fuddled in corners, and be cited as a

miracle of sobriety. The test of morals is no longer in the abuse of the

gifts of Providence, but in their use; prayers are deserting the closet

for the corners of streets, and charity (not the giving of alms) has got

to be so earnest in the demonstration of its nature, as to be pretty

certain to “begin at home,” and to end where it begins. Even the art of

mendacity has been aroused by the great progress which is making by all

around it, and many manifest the strength of their ambition by telling

ten lies where their fathers would have been satisfied with telling only

one. This art has made an extraordinary progress within the last quarter

of a century, aspiring to an ascendancy that was formerly conceded only

to truth, until he who gains his daily bread by it has some such

contempt for the sneaking wretch who does business on the small scale,

as the slayer of his thousands in the field is known to entertain for

him who kills only a single man in the course of a long life.

At the risk of damaging the reputations of our hero and heroine, we

shall frankly aver the fact that both Harry and Rose partook of the _vin

de Bordeaux_, a very respectable bottle of _Medoc_, by the way, which

had been forgotten by Uncle Sam’s people, in the course of the preceding

winter, agreeably to Jack Tier’s conjecture. One glass sufficed for

Rose, and, contrary as it may be to all modern theory, she was somewhat

the better for it; while the mate and Jack Tier quite half emptied the

bottle, being none the worse. There they sat, enjoying the security and

abundance which had succeeded to their late danger, happy in that

security, happy in themselves, and happy in the prospects of a bright

future. It was just as practicable for them to remain at the Dry

Tortugas, as it was for the family which ordinarily dwelt at the light.

The place was amply supplied with every thing that would be necessary

for their wants, for months to come, and Harry caused his betrothed to

blush, as he whispered to her, should the chaplain arrive, he should

delight in passing the honey-moon where they then were.

“I could tend the light,” he added, smiling, “which would be not only an

occupation, but a useful occupation; you could read all those books from

beginning to end, and Jack could keep us supplied with fish. By the way,

master steward, are you in the humor for motion, so soon after your

hearty meal?”

“Any thing to be useful,” answered Jack, cheerfully.

“Then do me the favor to go up into the lantern of the light-house, and

take a look for the sloop-of-war. If she’s in sight at all, you’ll find

her off here to the northward; and while you are aloft you may as well

make a sweep of the whole horizon. There hangs the light-house keeper’s

glass, which may help your eyes, by stepping into the gallery outside of

the lantern.”

Jack willingly complied, taking the glass and proceeding forthwith to

the other building. Mulford had two objects in view in giving this

commission to the steward. He really wished to ascertain what was the

chance of seeing the Poughkeepsie, in the neighborhood of the islets,

and felt just that indisposition to move himself, that is apt to come

over one who has recently made a very bountiful meal, while he also

desired to have another private conversation with Rose.

A good portion of the time that Jack was gone, and he staid quite an

hour in the lantern, our lovers conversed as lovers are much inclined to

converse; that is to say, of themselves, their feelings, and their

prospects. Mulford told Rose of his hopes and fears, while he visited at

the house of her aunt, previously to sailing, and the manner in which

his suspicions had been first awakened in reference to the intentions of

Spike—intentions, so far as they were connected with an admiration of

his old commander’s niece, and possibly in connection also with the

little fortune she was known to possess, but not in reference to the

bold project to which he had, in fact, resorted. No distrust of the

scheme finally put in practice had ever crossed the mind of the young

mate, until he received the unexpected order, mentioned in our opening

chapter, to prepare the brig for the reception of Mrs. Budd and her

party. Harry confessed his jealousy of one youth whom he dreaded far

more even than he had ever dreaded Spike, and whose apparent favor with

Rose, and actual favor with her aunt, had given him many a sleepless

night.

They next conversed of the future, which to them seemed full of flowers.

Various were the projects started, discussed, and dismissed, between

them, the last almost as soon as proposed. On one thing they were of a

mind, as soon as proposed. Harry was to have a ship as quick as one

could be purchased by Rose’s means, and the promised bride laughingly

consented to make one voyage to Europe along with her husband.

“I wonder, dear Rose, my poverty has never presented any difficulties in

the way of our union,” said Harry, sensibly touched with the free way

his betrothed disposed of her own money in his behalf; “but neither you

nor Mrs. Budd has ever seemed to think of the difference there is

between us in this respect.”

“What is the trifle I possess, Harry, set in the balance against your

worth? My aunt, as you say, has thought I might even be the gainer by

the exchange.”

“I am sure I feel a thousand times indebted to Mrs. Budd—”

“_Aunt_ Budd. You must learn to say, ‘_my_ Aunt Budd,’ Mr. Henry

Mulford, if you mean to live in peace with her unworthy niece.”

“_Aunt_ Budd, then,” returned Harry, laughing, for the laugh came easily

that evening; “Aunt Budd, if you wish it, Rose. I can have no objection

to call any relative of yours, uncle or aunt.”

“I think we are intimate enough, now, to ask you a question or two,

Harry, touching my aunt,” continued Rose, looking stealthily over her

shoulder, as if apprehensive of being overheard. “You know how fond she

is of speaking of the sea, and of indulging in nautical phrases?”

“Any one must have observed that, Rose,” answered the young man, gazing

up at the wall, in order not to be compelled to look the beautiful

creature before him in the eyes—“Mrs. Budd has very strong tastes that

way.”

“Now tell me, Harry—that is, answer me frankly—I mean—she is not

_always_ right, is she?”

“Why, no; not absolutely so—that is, not absolutely _always_ so—few

persons are _always_ right, you know.”

Rose remained silent and embarrassed for a moment; after which she

pursued the discourse.

“But aunty does not know as much of the sea and of ships as she thinks

she does?”

“Perhaps not. We all overrate our own acquirements. I dare say that even

I am not as good a seaman as I fancy myself to be.”

“Even Spike admits that you are what he calls ‘a prime seaman.’ But it

is not easy for a woman to get a correct knowledge of the use of all the

strange, and sometimes uncouth, terms that you sailors use.”

“Certainly not; and for that reason I would rather you should never

attempt it, Rose. We rough sons of the ocean would prefer to hear our

wives make divers pretty blunders, rather than to be swaggering about

like so many ‘old salts.’”

“Mr. Mulford! Does Aunt Budd swagger like an old salt?”

“Dearest Rose, I was not thinking of your aunt, but of _you_. Of you, as

you are, feminine, spirited, lovely alike in form and character, and of

you a graduate of the ocean, and full of its language and ideas.”

It was probable Rose was not displeased at this allusion to herself, for

a smile struggled around her pretty mouth, and she did not look at all

angry. After another short pause, she resumed the discourse.

“My aunt did not very clearly comprehend those explanations of yours

about the time of day, and the longitude,” she said, “nor am I quite

certain that I did myself.”

“You understood them far better than Mrs. Budd, Rose. Women are so

little accustomed to _think_ on such subjects at all, that it is not

surprising they sometimes get confused. I do wish, however, that your

aunt could be persuaded to be more cautious in the presence of

strangers, on the subject of terms she does not understand.”

“I feared it might be so, Harry,” answered Rose, in a low voice, as if

unwilling even he should know the full extent of her thoughts on this

subject; “but my aunt’s heart is most excellent, though she may make

mistakes occasionally. I owe her a great deal, if not absolutely my

education, certainly my health and comfort through childhood, and more

prudent, womanly advice than you may suppose, perhaps, since I have left

school. How she became the dupe of Spike, indeed, is to me

unaccountable; for in all that relates to health, she is, in general,

both acute and skillful.”

“Spike is a man of more art than he appears to be to superficial

observers. On my first acquaintance with him, I mistook him for a frank,

fearless, but well-meaning sailor, who loved hazardous voyages and

desperate speculation—a sort of innocent gambler; but I have learned to

know better. His means are pretty much reduced to his brig, and she is

getting old, and can do but little more service. His projects are plain

enough, now. By getting you into his power, he hoped to compel a

marriage, in which case both your fortune and your aunt’s would

contribute to repair his.”

“He might have killed me, but I never would have married him,” rejoined

Rose, firmly. “Is not that Jack coming down the steps of the

light-house?”

“It is. I find that fellow’s attachment to Spike very extraordinary,

Rose. Can you, in any manner, account for it?”

Rose at first seemed disposed to reply. Her lips parted, as if about to

speak, and closed again, as glancing her eyes toward the open door, she

seemed to expect the appearance of the steward’s little, rotund form on

its threshold, which held her tongue-tied. A brief interval elapsed,

however, ere Jack actually arrived, and Rose, perceiving that Harry was

curiously expecting her answer, said hurriedly—“it may be hatred, not

attachment.”

The next instant Jack Tier entered the room. He had been gone rather

more than an hour, not returning until just as the sun was about to set

in a flame of fire.

“Well, Jack, what news from the Poughkeepsie?” demanded the mate. “You

have been gone long enough to make sure of your errand. Is it certain

that we are not to see the man-of-war’s-men to-night?”

“Whatever you see, my advice to you is to keep close, and to be on your

guard,” answered Jack, evasively.

“I have little fear of any of Uncle Sam’s craft. A plain story, and an

honest heart, will make all clear to a well-disposed listener. We have

not been accomplices in Spike’s treasons, and cannot be made to answer

for them.”

“Take my advice, maty, and be in no hurry to hail every vessel you see.

Uncle Sam’s fellows may not always be at hand to help you. Do you not

know that this island will be tabooed to seamen for some time to come?”

“Why so, Jack? The islet has done no harm, though others may have

performed wicked deeds near it.”

“Two of the drowned men lie within a hundred yards of this spot, and

sailors never go near new-made graves, if they can find any other place

to resort to.”

“You deal in enigmas, Jack; and did I not know that you are very

temperate, I might suspect that the time you have been gone has been

passed in the company of a bottle of brandy.”

“That will explain my meaning,” said Jack, laconically, pointing as he

spoke, seemingly at some object that was to be seen without.

The door of the house was wide open, for the admission of air. It faced

the haven of the islets, and just as the mate’s eyes were turned to it,

the end of a flying-jib boom, with the sail down, and fluttering beneath

it, was coming into the view. “The Poughkeepsie!” exclaimed Mulford, in

delight, seeing all his hopes realized, while Rose blushed to the eyes.

A pause succeeded, during which Mulford drew aside, keeping his

betrothed in the back-ground, and as much out of sight as possible. The

vessel was shooting swiftly into view, and presently all there could see

it was the Swash.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

STOCK-JOBBING IN NEW YORK.

BY PETER PENCIL.

“Nothing venture, nothing win.”

There are comparatively few people, even in New York, who know, or have

the most remote idea of, the amount of the daily transactions of various

kinds that take place in Wall street. If the truth could be arrived at,

it would appear, I doubt not, that the operations there, in the course

of a year, exceed, in their aggregate amount, those of all other cities

in the United States combined. This opinion may startle some, but it

will not startle those who are in the practice of visiting that place,

and seeing what is going forward among the countless capitalists,

brokers, merchants, and others, whose vocation draws them to that

vicinity. Nor can one who is a visiter merely, form a conjecture

approximating to the truth, concerning the multiplicity and extent of

Wall street affairs, any more than a man who travels straight through

the middle of a state, can form an idea as to what quantity of corn is

growing upon the whole surface. It would be necessary to penetrate the

hundreds of offices, both great and small, public and private, and to

see all that is done therein, before one could begin, as the boys say,

to estimate the amount of business transacted in that short street, and

its immediate vicinity, in the course of a single day.

The stock operations alone would stagger the credulity even of the

initiated, who should keep an accurate account of the amount changing

hands from day to-day, and sum the whole at the expiration of the year.

Many millions’ worth of this species of property would be found to have

been bought and sold, making some richer and some poorer, and leaving

some, but, doubtless, very few, about the same in purse at the end of

the year, as they were at the beginning.

If a person, standing on the steps of the exchange, were endowed with

the faculty of reading the heart of every man that passed him, what

numbers of agitated bosoms, what hopes, what fears, what emotions of

vexation, sorrow, anger, and despair, would come under review;

particularly after a panic among the speculators, and a consequent fall

of stock!

There are a few fortunate individuals, who owe to Wall street all they

possess—having speculated and staked high under the benign influence of

Fortune, while that goddess was in a kindly humor; but there are

hundreds, nay, thousands, who have seen their wealth melt away there,

like snow in a sunny nook on an April morn. “Make or break—neck or no

joint,” are the mottoes there; for when a man once gets into the spirit

of speculating, as this species of gambling is mildly termed, he is not

apt to back out till he has made a fortune, or lost what he

possessed—won the horse, or lost the saddle.

The reader will see, in the course of this essay, to which of these

categories I belong; for I, too, have been afflicted with the prevailing

mania for stock-jobbing, and have shared in the hopes and fears, joy and

sorrow, which are produced by the uncertainty of such operations, and

the momentous consequences which often follow in their train. It is my

purpose to give a short sketch of my doings in that line of business,

(now so much in vogue,) for the amusement of those who never go into

Wall street, and the benefit of such adventurous spirits as may be

disposed to try their fortune at the same table.

It may not be known to the majority of my readers, that the prices of

stocks, in New York, are very much influenced by the weather; indeed, I

have sometimes thought that their value, as a marketable commodity,

depended more on the state of the atmosphere than on their intrinsic

worth. I have known a snow-storm cause a sudden fall of two to five per

cent.; and an April shower, though it lasted but an hour, more or less,

have the same effect to the extent of one or two per cent. I have myself

suffered in my speculations by a change of weather; and the only

fortunate hit I ever made, I ascribe entirely to the opportune clearing

up of a long storm.

It is really surprising what effect the weather has upon the minds of

stock-operators. Apparently, those enterprising fellows are as

susceptible to the influence of the atmosphere, as poets; though in

every thing else, it must be confessed, they are as different from the

_genus irritabile vatum_, as Horace calls them, as the orange-water on a

lady’s toilet is from the plain, unperfumed Croton in which she laves

her hands. On a bright, sunny day their countenances wear a cheerful

expression, their bosoms throb with joyful expectations of an advance or

fall in prices, as may happen to suit their purpose; and, in a word,

they feel richer and better, and are prepared to renew their operations

with increased spirit. Hence the expression so often seen in the “Money

Articles” of our daily papers, “there was a better feeling at both

boards to-day;” and this stereotyped phrase has become equivalent to the

announcement that the weather has become exceedingly fine.

In cloudy weather, on the contrary, particularly if it rains, their

faces are generally augmented longitudinally to a very considerable

extent; and so true an interpreter is a broker’s face of the state of

the heavens, that one might safely depend on it for information without

looking at the sky. I regard a speculator’s countenance as far more

reliable than a weathercock, because I have known the latter to deceive

me by pointing westward, when, according to the weather, it should have

stood in the opposite stormy quarter. But the face of a stock-operator

of New York was never known to play tricks of this kind, within the

far-reaching memory of that most respectable, and often referred-to

individual, the Oldest Inhabitant. No man ever saw a smile on his phiz,

except when the sun shone.

There are some shrewd men in New York, who perfectly understand these

“skyey influences,” and regulate their speculative movements

accordingly—buying in a storm, especially if it be a long and severe

one, and selling out whenever the succeeding clear weather has produced

a favorable reaction in prices. One rich individual, living up town, the

moment he rises in the morning, opens his window and looks at the vane

on a neighboring steeple—the only part of the church, by the way, he

cares a fig about—and if the wind happen to blow from a rainy point, he

hastens down town, and orders his broker to dive deep into some of the

“fancies.” If, however, the day be clear, he stays at home, his broker

being already instructed to sell out some previous purchase, as soon as

the weather should warrant.

But the weather, though a most powerful agent in the fluctuation of

prices, is by no means the only cause of those great and sudden changes

in the marketable value of “securities,” which take money from one

pocket, and put it into another. An apprehension, well or ill founded,

(it is the same thing in effect,) of an increased demand for money; a

paragraph in a newspaper, announcing, mysteriously, that some sort of

news, concerning nobody knows what, may be expected in a few days; wars,

and rumors of wars; and reports about different matters, however

trifling and uninteresting to the majority of the people; all these are

sufficient to dash a broker’s spirits; and produce a panic in the

market.

Stepping into the great room of the exchange one day, to see the doings

at the public board of brokers, I, like the rest of the crowd that stood

looking on, became interested in their proceedings, and was soon seized

with a desire to try my luck in speculation. I had previously heard of

this man and that, having realized their thousands in as many weeks; and

as stocks were advancing, and likely, for aught that appeared, to have

an “upward tendency” for some time to come, I saw no good reason why I,

too, might not increase my little capital in the same rapid manner. “The

prospect before us is cheering,” said I to myself, “the boundary

question, thanks to the great Daniel, is settled; money is plentiful,

and as cheap as dirt; and, in all human probability, Harry Clay, or

somebody equally worthy, will be our next president. It follows,

therefore, as a necessary consequence, that good dividend-paying stocks

must advance.”

Now this seemed well reasoned, to say the least, and the conclusion a

just one; but, alas! for human foresight! the good stocks, in which

alone I ventured at first, like a balking horse, stood still, or if they

moved at all, refused to budge an inch in the right direction. The _bad_

stocks, those not intrinsically worth a fig, were those which I should

have purchased. _They_ went up like a rocket; but mine, from the moment

that I bought it, seemed to have suddenly acquired one of the properties

of lead, for it would go down, in spite of every effort made to keep it

up—and the papers called it _heavy_. Heavy enough I found it, heaven

knows! But I am anticipating, and running ahead of my story.

When I entered the exchange, I was the possessor of fifteen hundred

dollars—the savings of many years of industry; but I was tired of work,

and longed to make a fortune rather by the exercise of intellect, than

by the labor of my hands. It promised me a fortune in a hundredth part

of the time that it would take me to accumulate one in any other way;

and then it was so fine, I thought, to be considered a heavy dealer in

stocks, and to be regarded as a great, bold operator, and a capitalist.

How could I, with such lofty ideas in my head, and with such a

consciousness of possessing superior tact and talent, go back quietly to

_work_! Pah! the very thought of such a thing sickened me.

I caught the eye of a broker with whom I was acquainted, and, having

beckoned him to me, requested him to buy ten thousand dollars worth of

Ohio sixes, at the market price, which happened, I remember, (and I

shall never forget it the longest day I live,) to be one hundred and

four. The day was pleasant, the room light, and well filled with

cheerful spectators; the brokers were in good spirits, and disposed to

go deep in their favorite game, and, to use a common expression, the

steam was up to the highest point at both boards, and in the street.

Methinks I hear some one ask how so much stock was paid for by a man

worth but fifteen hundred dollars, all told. Innocent one! I will tell

thee. I borrowed the money, or about ninety per cent. of it at least,

for a few days, and gave the stock itself as security. How simple! did I

hear thee say? Truly the process was exceedingly simple; natheless I

advise thee not to follow my example.

I considered myself uncommonly lucky in thus securing what I wanted at

so low a price, as I then regarded it; for the broker assured me, and

such seemed to be the prevailing opinion among the knowing ones, that

the stock I bought would rise six per cent. at least within two or three

months. _I_ expected, so sanguine is my temperament, to sell at that

advance in less than a fortnight; and already considered myself as six

hundred dollars richer than I was before. “A nice little sum that,”

thought I, “for a beginning, and will furnish the out-goings for a

month, next summer, at Saratoga, and the disbursements of a trip to

Niagara, returning by way of Montreal, Quebec, and Lake George.”

There is a proverb about counting the young of barn-yard fowls, before

the tender chickens are fairly out of their shells; which proverb

admonishes us never to make such a reckoning till the hatching is

completed, lest we should be disappointed as to the number. Experience

has taught me that this proverb, with some slight verbal alterations,

would apply equally well to the expected profits from speculation in

stocks. One should never count his gains, nor appropriate them to any

specific purpose, until they be realized.

In a day or two I found, much to my chagrin, that the stock I had so

fortunately purchased, instead of being on the high road to one hundred

and ten, began to grow tired of advancing, as though it were leg-weary,

and turning suddenly about, took, like a school-boy coming home, “cross

lots” the shortest possible way back to its old position on the wrong

side of par. I ascribe this sudden change to two causes; first, _I_ was

the owner of some of the stock, which reason was enough of itself to

knock down that or any other security; as I never in my life touched any

thing of the kind that did not immediately become “heavy,” and of less

value than it was before. Tom Moore complained most beautifully of

similar ill-luck, and said, in his own inimitable way,

“I never nursed a dear gazelle,

To glad me with its soft black eye,

But when it came to know me well,

And love me, it was sure to die.”

And I can and do say with more truth, (for Tom evidently fibbed, or

rather made Hinda do so,) and with equally good rhymes, that

I never bought a single mill

Of stock, in that vile street named Wall,

That rose a peg, or e’en stood still;

Dod rot it!—_it was sure to fall._

Secondly, a paragraph appeared in the Herald, saying something about

England and war; and this circumstance, combined with the fact of my

being a holder, was too much for Ohio sixes, and down they went. Nothing

short of a miracle could have sustained them under such a pressure. But

this was not all; for, in the incipient stage of the panic which

followed, the wind suddenly veered round to north-east, and a storm came

on to increase the difficulty. Such a scene as ensued has rarely been

witnessed since Wall street became a theatre for speculation. Faces

became elongated many hundred feet in the aggregate; eyes opened to

their widest capacity, and seemed to be looking wildly about for that

greatest of bug-bears, the British; and every speculator’s heart, like

Macbeth’s, did

————“Knock at the ribs,

Against the use of nature,”

as though some terrible calamity, involving the annihilation of every

thing in the shape of stocks and money, were impending.

If some giant from another globe had come upon the earth, and suddenly

knocked the foundation stones from under that noble structure, the

merchants’ exchange, the crash would hardly have been greater or more

alarming than that which took place, on the day in question, among the

stocks. I stood silently by, and saw my property vanish, as it were,

before my eyes; but I will not attempt to describe my feelings, for I am

sure that I should not be able to convey an idea of them to the reader’s

mind. Suffice it to say that I was hurt—cut to the very soul.

“Farewell, Niagara, Quebec, and Montreal,” thought I; “if I can keep out

of the almshouse, the way things are going, I shall be remarkably

lucky.”

After consulting with my friend, the broker, who, to do him justice, it

must be confessed, gave me the best advice that his fears permitted, I

concluded to sell out my stock at ninety-eight, while it was on the

descent, and buy again the moment it should reach the lowest point,

which the broker and I thought would be about ninety. Then, if our

expectations should be realized, and the stock again reach what I had

before given, namely, one hundred and four, it is clear that I should,

beside recovering my loss, make eight per cent. profit.

Here was a most glorious opportunity for a speculation—one of those

that occur about twice in a century. It was a happy thought in me to

sell even at a great loss, with a view of repurchasing on better terms;

and I could not help regarding it as a singularly bold move—one

indicating great genius, and just such a one as Napoleon himself, under

similar circumstances, might have conceived and made. I became elated at

the prospect, and bade my friend sell out with all possible expedition.

He did so at ninety-eight, being a loss to me of six per cent., or six

hundred dollars—a pretty fair clip from the back of my little capital

of fifteen hundred.

I should have been exceedingly annoyed by this docking of my fortune,

had not the certainty which I felt of making good the deficiency,

encouraged me; and but for the most perfect confidence I entertained in

the success of my next adventure, I should, in all human probability,

have retired from Wall street with much the same feeling that a fox has

when he sneaks off to his hole, after parting with his tail in a trap.

But what short-sighted mortals we are, and how the blindfolded goddess

loves to sport with human calculations!

————Heu, Fortuna, quis est crudelior in nos

Te Deus?—ut semper gaudes illudere rebus

Humanis!

exclaimed Horace; and depend upon it, if stocks were the subject of

traffic in Rome, he had just been nicked when he wrote that passage.

Most courteous reader, I was doomed to suffer another grievous

disappointment; stocks took a different turn from what I had expected.

The storm cleared away, and the panic abated. The sun again shone out

bright, and smiles reappeared on the brokers’ faces. Prices had reached

their lowest point, precisely at the moment that I sold out mine, and

instead of going down to ninety, as they would have done had I continued

to hold, they “rallied,” as the saying is, and rose to par. I looked and

felt _blue_, and counted over my money again and again; I ciphered and

calculated for half a morning, in endeavoring to make my loss less than

it was. It was of no use, however, for the result of my counting and my

ciphering were precisely the same, showing a deficiency of six hundred

dollars and the brokerage. “O, if I could but get back my stock,”

thought I, “I would hold it till doomsday, before I would again sell it

for a less sum than it cost me.” That was an idle thought, for the money

having been borrowed, I had not the power to do as I wished.

Well, I found that complaining would do no good, and it was plain that I

could not recover my losses by sitting down and doing nothing; beside,

it was very unlike a bold operator—a Napoleon of the exchange—to be

disheartened by the first reverse or two; so I determined, as there was

now a strong probability of an immediate advance of prices, to get back

my Ohio stock at par. I was too late in deciding by a day, and was

obliged to give one per cent. premium. That trifling difference,

however, I did not regard; for what was one per cent., more or less, to

a man who was sure of making ten of them?

I now felt certain that I had hit the nail on the head. “_Rem tetigi

acu_,” said I; and what made me more confident of success was the fact,

that the newspapers, disagreeing upon almost every other subject, were

agreed upon one point, namely, that, in consequence of the “better

feeling” that prevailed, stocks would certainly rise. I believed them,

having naturally a strong inclination to credit what I see in print.

A good feeling unquestionably did exist at the time I bought, and the

prices of stocks were likewise very good; but, as usual, when the time

came in which I was compelled to sell, a very different feeling seemed

to be rife, and symptoms of another panic began to make their appearance

simultaneously with the approach of a storm. On the day I sold out,

everything was at sixes and sevens; the rain came down in floods, the

wind blew, and the whole army of brokers, like a flock of sheep that had

lost their shepherd, were again in the greatest alarm and confusion. My

poor stock, like the parting spirit of Napoleon, went off in a

whirlwind, at ninety-eight; and I went home that day mad, and drenched

with rain, (having mislaid my umbrella,) and a loser of three hundred

dollars more. I felt exceedingly bad—I was disgusted.

The prospect of my going to Niagara was now unpromising; and I prudently

resolved to postpone the visit for another year at least. Such a thing

was not again to be thought of, till, in gambler’s phrase, I should be

on velvet, that is, have some winnings over and above my capital; but so

far from being on velvet, I was on the sharpest kind of paving-stones,

nay, figuratively speaking, I was on spikes. I was now reduced to the

point of struggling, not for victory, but for safety; and I was like a

general who, having abandoned all hopes of conquest, would be too happy

to save his own bacon, and get safe home. My discouragement, however,

was of short duration, and with my reviving spirits, I resumed the

hazardous business.

I made several other operations in what are technically called the

“fancies”—stocks that pay no dividends, and the value of which is

rather imaginary or fanciful, (whence their name, probably,) than real.

I had enough of good stocks—they had well-nigh ruined me; and I

resolved to try my luck among those that are good for nothing, except to

be bought and sold. Ill-fortune still pursued me. What with stormy

weather, increased demand for money, paragraphs containing bad news from

Washington, and flying reports of some diabolical measure contemplated

by England, all my adventures turned out unfavorably, and I was reduced

in pocket to a very low ebb. My little capital was on its last legs.

One day, almost in despair, I took up a newspaper, (it was the Journal

of Commerce,) and my eye alighted on a remark of the editor’s to the

effect that a stock-speculator should be in no hurry either to buy or

sell; but, waiting coolly and patiently for opportunities, with his feet

elevated upon a stove, he should always buy when stocks are low, and

sell out when they are high. I was struck with amazement at the wisdom

displayed in this advice, and wondered why so obviously correct a course

had not occurred to me in my deep cogitations upon this subject. It was

perfectly plain—a child might see it—that if this recommendation were

strictly followed, success would crown my efforts; and I forthwith

determined to commence another career on this excellent and safe

principle. Failure was impossible. “Buy when they are low,” I repeated,

“and sell when they are high. How wonderful, yet, at the same time, how

simple!” I had all along been pursuing the wrong track. My practice had

been, whatever my intentions were, to buy when they were high, and sell

when they were low; and this had been the result of a want of patience,

and of too much precipitancy in my purchases and sales. I was now in

possession of a grand secret, and that secret was to WAIT, BUY LOW AND

SELL HIGH.

Well, I did wait, and that most patiently, for a fall of stocks—and a

fall at length occurred, a greater one than had been known for a long

time, and prices were depressed below what they had been in several

months. “Now,” thought I, “is the time to take down my feet from the

stove, and walk into the fancies;” whereupon I went into Wall street,

and borrowed a considerable sum for a fortnight, pledging the stock as

security, according to the _modus operandi_ well understood in that

region. Every thing promised well; and I felt encouraged, deeming it

next to impossible that fortune should always fight against me. I bought

the stock very low, comparatively, and went home to replace my feet upon

the stove, and await patiently another rise.

No rise, however, occurred within the fortnight that I was able to hold

my new acquisition. Prices moved, it is true, but they moved the wrong

way for me; they “advanced backward.” I thought when I purchased, that

they were low enough in all conscience; but it appears there were lower

depths still to which they were destined to attain. _I did not wait long

enough._ The principle on which I had acted was a good one—the fault

was in me.

A man falling from the roof of a house, would not reach the ground more

quickly than my stock tumbled to a point five per cent. below what I had

given. A new element had arisen to produce this sudden, unlooked for,

and extraordinary change. The Texas question came upon the brokers like

a thunderbolt, knocking every thing into a cocked-hat; and the upshot

was, that I sold my stock at a loss which swept away the remainder of my

capital, and left me as penniless as a street-beggar.

This was the last of my operations; and thus the savings of several

years disappeared like dew on a summer’s morning. Nor is that the worst

feature of this unfortunate business; for the excitement of speculation,

the handling of large sums of money, the high-wrought expectation of

realising large profits in a short time, have totally unfitted me for

the labors by which I accumulated what money I have lost. How can I go

to work again on a mere salary, two-thirds of which I must spend in

support of my family, the remainder being a petty sum only, which any

lucky broker would make on a clear morning at a single throw? I am ready

to die through pure vexation; but I’ll not leave the ground yet. I know

a friend who will lend me five hundred dollars, and by hypothecating the

stock I shall buy, I can borrow of Jack Little five thousand. Yes, I

must have one more chance—_one_ more—and then, if fortune favors me,

as she always does the brave, (so the Latin grammar declares,) I shall

soon be on my feet again; but if she should continue to frown, and

disappoint my hopes, I will abandon speculation forever—perhaps.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Salvator Rosa, pinx. A.L. Dick, sc.

JACOB’S DREAM. GEN. XXVIII, _10, 11, 12_.]

* * * * *

JACOB’S DREAM.

WITH AN ENGRAVING.

The Patriarch slept—and dreaming there appeared,

In the deep watches of the silent night,

A ladder, high from earth to heaven upreared,

Steadfast and firm, to his astonished sight:

And seraph angels thronged that thoroughfare,

Descending from the glorious realms above,

And thence returning, their bright robes to wear

In the pure presence of the God of love.

The Patriarch listened—and his Maker’s voice

Broke with soft music on his raptured ear.

Quelling his fears and bidding him rejoice

In the abundance of a Father’s care.

Wide as the earth shall Israel’s power extend,

Countless as ocean’s sands his issue be,

While all the nations to his rule shall bend,

And in his seed a rich salvation see.

The Patriarch from his wondrous dream awoke,

And knew that the Almighty Lord was there—

And where the Maker to the creature spoke,

Built him an altar sanctified with prayer.

So, when the Lord with tender care imparts

Unnumbered blessings to us, let us raise,

Like Israel’s Patriarch, in believing hearts,

Altars of love and thankfulness and praise.

* * * * *

LOLAH LALANDE.

A PACKAGE FROM MY OLD WRITING-DESK.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

She can show art rules to astonish her.

How like the nimble winds, which play upon

The tender grass, yet press it not, or fly

Over the crystal face of smoothest streams,

Leaving no curl behind them.

She makes

Motion the god of every excellence,

And what the muses would with study find,

She teaches in her dancing——

To me

It must suffice only to say, ’tis she.

Beaumont & Fletcher.

“Here I am again, dear Miss Enna,” said my darling, pretty friend, Kate

Wilson, to me the other morning.

I have already introduced Kate to you, dear reader; and if you had

looked into the deep wells of her beaming, bright eye as often as I

have, and heard the rich, gushing music of her laugh, you would hail her

approach, even though she did plunge unceremoniously into your

_sanctum_, and interrupt you in your studies, or your deep divings into

your imagination for something particularly clever, out of which to form

a “readable story” for “Mr. Graham’s next Monthly.”

I felt a little annoyed, I must admit, on the morning in question, for I

was very earnestly engaged—not in writing, dear reader; oh, no! I

spared you that one morning—but in looking over an old writing-desk,

that I had not opened for years. It was one that belonged to my mother;

and one part I had devoted to her treasured gifts, in the other, for it

is a large, capacious, old-fashioned affair, not at all like the little

rosewood, mother-of-pearl inlaid thing which has usurped its place on my

writing-table; in the other part I have stored gifts, letters, and

remembrances of my school-girl days; and this part I was exploring as

Kate entered. I had just been sighing over a package, containing

letters, a bracelet of hair, and a faded bunch of flowers—mementoes of

a dear friend, long since laid in the cold grave, and was almost weeping

over remembrances of the past. To me that is the only sad thing in

growing old. If those we love could only live to cheer and comfort us,

old age would have no terrors. A single woman feels this particularly;

for if a woman marries, she forms new connections, and looks forward to

a new life, and new interests, in the future of her children; but “we

poor old maids” are oftentimes very lonely.

Brothers and sisters, and dear friends, will marry; and however pretty,

fascinating, and agreeable a woman may have been, there comes a time

when the little decided opinions and caprices that were deemed so pretty

and cunning at eighteen, are pronounced by the saucy new-comers on

life’s stage, “prim, old-maidish whimsicalities;” and even the fathers

and mothers, who had formerly considered this same dear, single friend,

the realization of womanly perfection when she was the belle of their

young days, they also are often found, coinciding with their children in

these saucy opinions. Now, members of my dear sisterhood, let me give

you a little advice. True, I am but a new comer amongst you. I know I

have not yet seen fifty summers—I only own to thirty-five, and scarcely

to that, excepting when in company with those well “_booked-up_” on the

subject of my age—I have no gray hairs or wrinkles, and yet I have

experience; and my single-blessedness bids fair to be a happy state.

Seek companions amongst the young. I do not mean for you to affect

juvenile manners. Oh, heaven forbid! a _youthful_ old-maid is, in truth,

ridiculous. But mingle with the young; sympathize with them; cultivate

their friendship and love; make your presence a sunshine to them; be to

them a friend, a confidant, and an adviser. Keep your feelings, your

heart, your spirit young—your mind, by pleasant, but regular study, in

a healthful state; in this way you will secure happiness. Then, to

escape ridicule—ah! that is the hardest task of all—admit your age; it

is the only safe way, believe me. Walk up to the cannon’s mouth boldly.

Show them you do not care any thing about it, and the saucy opinions and

laughs of these young ones will be averted; and depend upon it they will

flutter around you, love you, and almost imagine you still retain the

youthful charms and agreeability with which your cotemporaries so kindly

invested you. I have found this plan successful, and have surrounded

myself with a troop of young things. With one who is a fanatic, a pretty

devotee to the divine study of sweet sounds, I practice music; and

instead of falling back upon the “music of my day,” I find beauties in

the music of her day. Mozart, Hayden, and Beethoven, Steibell, Clementi,

and Dessek, are now banished from my music-stand, and only cheer my

solitary hours, to make way for Bellini, Donizetti, and Auber, Thalberg,

Herz, and Litz. With another, a gentle, little, imaginative creature,

whose transparent cheek, and brilliant eye, warns us she is not long to

dwell with us, I read old poets. But of all my youthful friends, there

is not one among them who loves me better, or who is more companionable

to me, than dear Kate Wilson. I have known her from her babyhood. I knew

her mother before Kate was born; true, I was a tiny girl when Kate’s

mother was married. She is a beautiful, rich belle, “petted, fêted,

courted, and caressed;” and yet she daily comes to her “dear Miss Enna,”

as she calls me, as she did in her little girl days, and cheers many an

hour that would otherwise be lonely. I find myself forgetting, when with

her, as she so flatteringly does, that I am no longer young; and I very

much fear Kate makes me a little too youthful in dress; but the darling,

bewitching creature, has such a saucy, decided way with her, that I

always yield to her wishes.

“What are you at?” she asked, as she closed the door; “looking over an

old writing-desk, as I live. What piles of letters and old things—that

is, indeed, delightful. Stores of love-letters, I’ll wager a bright,

golden guinea. Come, let me help you toss it over, and tell me the

love-history of each discarded one.”

Saucy girl! her mind seems only filled with lovers. But she would have

her way, and the whole day passed in this occupation. She boldly untied

each package, and resolutely determined I should tell her the little

history appended to each in my memory. The one I held in my hand when

she entered, was first taken up; and we both shed tears over the sad

story it recalled of friendship, love, and a broken-heart. It is too sad

a tale for me to relate to you now, dear reader, for I am not in the

tearful mood. Some gloomy, “_gray_” day, as Kate says, I will again

recall it, and see if you will sympathize with the past as did dear Kate

Wilson. I have digressed so much already, that I will take up one of the

smallest packages now, and relate to you the history of my school-girl

friend, Lolah Lalande, as she was called then. Her name is now more

famous; but I will keep that a secret until I arrive at the end of my

story. It was a small packet, containing only a few French letters, a

tress of long, glossy black hair, and a crayon sketch of a childish

figure in Spanish costume, and in one of the attitudes of a Spanish

national dance. It had a beautiful, girlish face, clear, dark

eyes—long, sweeping hair—arched, delicately formed brows—and rich,

full lips. That face has turned the head of a monarch, it is said—but I

will not anticipate.

“Tell me this, dear Miss Enna,” said Kate, as she looked at the contents

of the package. “It could not have been a friendship of long

standing—so little remains of it; therefore you will only have a tiny,

little story for me, and I will not teaze you again until—to-morrow, or

the next _gray_, rainy day.”

Kate listened with affectionate interest; and I’ll never forgive you,

reader, if you are not as indulgent as Kate. But I will seek your favor

in the words of Spenser:

“Goe, little worke! thyself present,

As child whose parent is unkent,

To him that is the President

Of Noblenesse and Chivalrie;

And when thou art past jeopardie,

Come tell me what was said of mee,

And I will send more after thee.”

Surely, now, if I say to you such delicate words as these, which Spenser

gave to that “noble and virtuous gentleman, most worthy of all titles,

both of learning and chivalry, Master Philip Sidney,” you cannot but

listen complacently.

* * * * *

When about twelve or thirteen years of age, I was placed at the

fashionable establishment of Madame Lalande, to perfect my French

pronunciation. Being a shy child, I drew away from the different cliques

of the school, during my play hours, and gave myself up to sad

recollections of home and my darling little brothers and sisters. The

girls laughed at me, and called me “a mope,” which served only to

increase my shyness. The Madame was exceedingly kind to me; but I only

saw her in the evening, when we all assembled in the large drawing-rooms

to dance, promenade, and converse sociably together under her

superintendence. A few evenings after my arrival, while I was studiously

endeavoring to make my _petite_ figure still smaller, by hiding behind a

harp-case which stood in a corner of the back drawing-room, to my

exquisite terror, I saw the Madame approach me, holding by the hand a

beautiful child, apparently about my own age.

“Mademoiselle Duval,” she said, “you must join in the dancing. You and

my niece, Lolah, are about the same size; you will make good partners

for each other. Lola, _ma chère_, I depend upon you to entertain our new

pupil.”

The little girl approached me kindly, and taking my trembling hand,

said,

“Will you not dance with me?”

I did not dare to refuse, but accompanied her to a quadrille,

(cotillions, we called them in those days,) just forming near us,

feeling as awkward and shy as a home-girl might be expected to feel,

thrown, for the first time, in a crowd of nearly a hundred girls. The

first figures of the quadrille I danced awkwardly enough, giving my

little partner good reason to think I did not know my right hand from my

left; but I soon forgot my _mauvaise honte_, in the pleasant chatting of

the little Lolah, who told me of all the little enjoyments she had. Her

“_chère tante_,” as she called Madame Lalande, had taken her the night

before to an Opera, for the first time in her life; and, of course, her

little head was filled with recollections of it. She described, with

French volubility, and in a most graphic manner, the story of the Opera,

the different _scènas_, and the dresses. I was so new to all such

things, that I suppose she could not have found a more agreeable

listener in the whole school; and we were mutually pleased with each

other. We danced every quadrille together; and she most patronizingly

waltzed with me in a corner of the drawing-room, until I could summon

sufficient courage to venture in the large circle in the centre of the

rooms. At ten o’clock we bade good night to each other, she promising,

as her cherry lips kissed affectionately my mouth and cheeks, that she

would persuade _chère tante_ to take me some night with them to the

Opera—a promise which she kept.

From that night I no longer felt lonely in the school—Lolah was my

companion. Though a year or so my junior, she was quite as far advanced

in mind; and we were thrown a great deal together in our studies, and

with the easy confidence of childhood, we became bosom friends. Lolah

was a great favorite in the school. The elder girls courted her for her

influence with the Madame and the governesses, and the younger ones

gathered around her because she was always merry, kind, and generous.

She was a darling little creature—exceedingly pretty. She had full,

large, dark eyes, an oval face, with a rich brunette complexion, and

glossy hair, black as night. Her figure was slight, but perfectly

formed; and she was the most graceful child I ever saw. The little queen

of the Viennoise corps, darling little Fanny Prager, always reminds me

of Lolah. She is not so pretty, but her graceful movements, her evident

superiority over the rest of the _troupe_, her commanding little step,

her apparent freedom from vanity, and her cleverness in forming the

different tableaux and groups, bring Lolah to my mind; and while looking

at her, I find myself loving the child as I used to love Lolah Lalande

in my school days.

With the dancing-master Lolah was an especial favorite. She early gave

evidence of a decided partiality for dancing; and Madame Lalande availed

herself of every opportunity that offered to improve the child in her

favorite accomplishment. Polkas, Redowas, and Mazurkas, were not known

in those days; but the dancing-master, in those times, grew eloquent

over Gavottes, Shawl Dances, and the expressive and graceful Spanish

Waltzes. With delighted earnestness would Lolah go through her different

dances; and Monsieur Neillet would almost expire with ecstacy. The

Monsieur had been educated in the Parisian school, a pupil of _La

Conservatoire_, and had even danced in a _ballet_ before the august

Emperor and Empress. With eager eloquence he would dilate upon Lolah’s

wonderful gift to the Madame, and with great concern and grief, lament

that she could not become a professional _danseuse_. Then he would give

most tempting accounts of the immense sums of money made by the great

_danseuses_ of Europe.

“I trust, Monsieur,” the Madame would always reply, “I trust that my

dear Lolah will never be forced to support herself by such a dangerous

and exposed profession. While I live, she will be always sure of a home;

and I earnestly pray I may have strength to collect for her before I

die, a competency sufficient to place her above want.”

Lolah was called the niece of Madame Lalande, and went by her name. She

loved the Madame passionately, who treated her with the greatest

indulgence—indulgence that was never abused by Lolah, however, for she

was an excellent, obedient child. Soon after my arrival, I noticed

mysterious allusions made by some of the elder girls, when speaking of

Lolah, which led me to question the relationship which Lolah bore to

Madame Lalande. The curiosity excited in me was at last gratified by

Lolah herself, who, after I had been some months at the school, told me

that Madame Lalande had owned to her that she was not in truth her

niece; that she was an orphan, whose parents had come from Ireland,

before her birth, to settle in America; they had been in very humble

circumstances. The mother of Lolah had been employed by Madame Lalande

as a seamstress, and the Madame became very much interested in her. When

Lolah was an infant, both parents were seized with an epidemic, and died

within a few hours of each other. Madame Lalande promised them on their

deathbeds she would adopt the infant Lolah, and take care of her so long

as she lived. The Madame intended at first to bring up the child in a

plain manner, and when old enough, have her taught some trade, by which

she might support herself, and be independent; but Lolah proved so

intelligent and beautiful, that she resolved to educate her well, and do

her best by her, looking upon her as her own child.

“How can I ever repay _ma chère tante_ for her kindness!” would the

warm-hearted girl exclaim over and again, her fine, dark eyes dilating

with emotion, and filling with tears, when with girlish frankness she

would allude to the story of her birth.

When I had been about two years with Madame Lalande, she resolved, very

much against the wishes of her friends, to remove to Paris. She had

always pined for her home during the ten or twelve years she had resided

in America. She had been fortunate, and laid up some little money, with

which she fancied she could establish a large school at “home,” and

realize larger profits. Her health was but indifferent. She was, in

fact, suffering from _maladie du pays_; and she gave up the fine school

she had been so lucky in establishing in America, to grasp at an

uncertainty in her own beloved Paris. Her friends reasoned, but in vain;

she said the letters she received from her friends in Paris, assured her

that her circumstances would be infinitely improved by a removal there.

Lolah and I parted with many tears and promises for the future. The long

tress of her beautiful hair, and the crayon sketch which had been made

of her by her drawing-master, were her little gifts to me—gifts which I

have treasured carefully. After their arrival in Paris, she wrote to me,

and a few letters passed between us; but only a few. I never received

but two or three from Lolah, and then the correspondence on her side

ceased. I continued writing for a year or more, but at last gave it up;

and year after year passed without bringing any information to me of

her. I remember well what sad tears I shed over that little packet, when

I first put it away in my desk; for a year or more I could not bear to

open it, so miserable did the little drawing and lock of hair make me

feel. Some clever German writer says, “Children live in a world of

imagination and feeling;” thus I at last soothed my aching heart by

imaginings of the future, and dreaming happy day-visions of a _reunion_

with my darling Lolah.

A year or two since, my father’s health grew delicate, and his

physicians thought a sea voyage would prove beneficial. A visit to

Europe was recommended, and I, of course, accompanied him. We spent some

time abroad, traveling over those parts of the Continent most

interesting to him, from early intellectual pursuits and associations.

While we were at Munich, the Bavarian capital, we heard that the famous

dancer, Lola Montes, was there, creating a great excitement. The strange

stories we had heard of this remarkable woman, made us feel desirous to

see her; and, accordingly, one evening we went to the theatre to gratify

our curiosity. I could scarcely refrain from a loud exclamation when

this _danseuse_ appeared upon the stage. She was dressed in Spanish

costume, as she was about to execute a favorite Spanish dance. A rich

costly veil floated around her head, and her long, glossy hair hung in

heavy, dark braids, looped, and bound with glittering gems. It was Lolah

Lalande. Love could not be deceived; and tears sprung to my eyes as I

recalled our girlish friendship. Had she been in any other dress, I

might have failed to trace the resemblance so quickly; but I had so

often seen her in that Spanish costume—it was similar to the crayon

sketch—it was the dress she most affected at the dancing parties at

school, because the Spanish waltzes were her favorite dances when a

child; and she always danced them dressed in the beautiful, becoming

national costume. How anxiously I noted every movement, traced every

feature—it was Lolah herself I felt convinced, although changed. A

_fierté_ cold expression overspread her face, and her brilliant eyes

flashed a little disdainfully at times, as she seemed to command and

exact applause as a right. There was no glittering, set, stage-smile

upon her face, but a cold, haughty recognition was all that she gave to

any mark of approbation from the audience. Her style of dancing was

different from any I had ever seen on the stage. I had admired the

childish beauty of Carlotta Grisi’s dancing; the voluptuous Cerito’s;

the fascinating, refined Ellsler’s, and the dignified, intellectual

Taglioni’s; but Montes’—no, Lolah Lalande’s—seemed to me—it might

have been from childish association—more entrancing than any other,

although those who were with me, and who were, undoubtedly, good judges,

better than I, condemned her style; but when woman’s heart begins to

act, good-by to her judgment. Lolah had grown tall; and though still

exquisitely graceful, as in childhood, she seemed remarkably strong and

commanding. Other dancers, I thought, might be compared to a Hebe or a

Venus, but Lolah seemed a Juno and Pallas united; and I quoted to my

clever critic friends the lines with which I have headed this sketch,—

“She can show art rules to astonish her.

And what the muses would with study find,

She teaches in her dancing.”

I only saw her that night. The next day we left Munich, and I never saw

her again. From a gentleman I met afterward in Paris, and who had known

Montes from the time of her first appearance in public, I learned that

extreme poverty had driven her to the stage. She had not been educated

for it as a profession; and the touching account he gave me of her

trials, united with my own knowledge of Lolah Lalande’s history,

convinced me that Lolah Lalande and Lolah Montes were, as I had

imagined, one and the same person.

Soon after their arrival in Paris, Madame Lalande discovered that her

move had been an injudicious one. Success did not attend her as she

expected; the _château d’Espagne_ she had created was never realized;

and she found herself, although in her “home,” the residence of her

childhood, among strangers; old associates were dead, or had formed new

connections. Day by day passed, and the little capital she had collected

in America, and which was to establish the grand school in Paris for

_les jeunes demoiselles_ of the nobility, gradually melted away; and she

at last resolved to bid an eternal farewell to Paris, and return, though

with mortified feelings, to the school in America she had with such

blind willfulness given up. But just as she had come to this conclusion,

and Lolah was gladly making preparations for their return, sickness,

caused by extreme chagrin and disappointment, attacked _chère tante_.

This sickness was lingering, and at last, bitter, actual poverty stared

them in the face.

“What am I to do?” exclaimed poor Lolah, one day, as she turned from the

apothecary’s door, to whom she had just paid her last coin for medicine

for _chère tante_. Gay equipages dashed past her; and the busy, bustling

crowd moved by, unheeding the misery of that pale, friendless girl. “God

help me,” she murmured, in a thick, hoarse voice. Sorrow and want had

dried up her tears—the real poor seldom weep. She turned to seek her

wretched home, which, miserable as it was, she knew not how long it

might remain to them. Faint and exhausted with hunger and anxiety, she

could scarcely drag her little feet along the _pavé_. Regardless of her

movements, she stumbled over a stone; a kind person passing, caught her

as she fell, and upon lifting her eyes to thank him, she recognized

Monsieur Neillet.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Lolah! can this be you?” he exclaimed. “I have been

seeking in vain for Madame Lalande’s residence ever since I reached

Paris;” and then followed a host of questions and explanations.

The Monsieur had come over to Paris for new dances. A rival had appeared

in the city, where he had so long been the favorite teacher; and the

Americans were raving for new figures. His gavottes and shawl dances

were voted obsolete, and out of date; and he had been dethroned by the

children of his former pupils, to make way for the new teacher, who came

over fresh from Paris with gallopes and figures of the newest fashion.

He could scarcely realize it until he found his hours unoccupied, his

school-list, that had formerly been filled to overflowing, without a

single name; then, with laudable courage and energy, he resolved to take

the little independence he had collected, return to _chère Paris_—but

not as a sober Englishman or Scotchman would have done, live quietly on

it for the rest of his days—oh, no! he pined for revenge. What was life

to a Frenchman without a triumph? “Inglorious ease” he scorned. No! he,

too, would learn new dances; he would return to the scene of his former

power, but late discomfiture, and hurl the presumptuous usurper from his

throne. He, too, would flourish in gallopes and new figures.

The sight of Lolah suffering from poverty and trouble, touched his warm

heart, but gave a new impulse to his thoughts. Monsieur Neillet was kind

and generous; but, like all Frenchmen, ambitious and enthusiastic. He

aided the poor Madame, relieved their distresses, and asked but one

return—to bring his pet pupil out upon the stage. She consented.

Poverty and necessity had humbled Madame Lalande’s pride—and Lolah

became a public _danseuse_.

Success attended her; and Monsieur Neillet had the satisfaction of

seeing his little Mademoiselle Lolah ride in the grand carriage, and

receive the intoxicating plaudits he had wished for her, when in Madame

Lalande’s school, in America, she had executed _à ravir_ his favorite

gavottes and Spanish waltzes.

I never saw Lolah again. I struggled with my feelings in exercising this

self-denial; but I knew we had both altered, and I felt that I had

rather retain the recollection of our girlish, loving intercourse

undimmed. She was a public _danseuse_, rich, courted, and, the world

said, free in her morals—I, a plain, unknown woman, with tastes,

associations, and opinions widely differing from hers. Better to retain

the bright recollection of the past, and the uncertain knowledge of the

present, than to risk coldness, or even a realization of what I

feared—that Lolah Montes, the woman, was not the innocent, pure,

guileless Lolah Lalande of school memory. Many may censure, and call

this the cold reasoning of a woman bound down by conventional

prejudices; but how else is a woman to be governed, if she wishes to

secure, not her own happiness, but the happiness of those around her;

and living in a conventional world, she be not directed and ruled by

this same reasoning, which is called cold and cramping? The gentle

graces of charity and indulgence to the frailties of others, are

beautiful, and should be peculiar qualities of the feminine character;

but they may be extended too far, and instead of giving a helping hand

to suffering, oppressed virtue, encourage evil.

“After all,” said my father, one moonlight evening, as we sat on the

deck of the vessel, “Homeward Bound,” watching the silver flood of light

streaming down upon the billows, and discussing this same subject,

“after all, Enna, she may not be Lolah Lalande, it may only be a woman’s

fancy and imaginings.”

I did not reply; but the recollection of that lovely form, rich, dark,

soul-subduing eyes, and flowing hair, with the delicate brow, and full,

red, laughing lips, came before me strangely blended with the cold,

_fierté_ expression of the tall, beautiful _danseuse_ I looked at in

Munich with tearful eyes. . . .

“I’d have seen her,” said Kate, when I concluded; “I would at least have

satisfied myself.”

“So would I, dear Kate,” I replied, “at your age; but when you are

older, you will argue differently. A recollection of pleasure is better

than a reality of pain.”

* * * * *

[Illustration: Painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds Engraved by H. S.

Wagner

THE FIRST LOSS.

Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine]

* * * * *

THE FIRST LOSS.

WITH AN ENGRAVING.

’Tis her first loss, and tear-drops fall

Upon her cherished friend,

Whose voice once echoed to her call—

Whose wants she loved to tend.

’Tis her first grief. Alas! that life

Full many a care will bring,

With keener pang and sharper strife,

That gentle heart to wring.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_History of the Conquest of Peru. With a Preliminary View of the

Civilization of the Incas. By William H. Prescott. New York:

Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 8vo._

It would be impossible in the narrow limits of our magazine to do

justice to a work of such labor and ability as this. Mr. Prescott has

displayed the same qualities of mind, and the same energy of character,

in his History of Peru as of Mexico. Nothing relating to the subject in

a printed or manuscript form seems to have escaped his diligent

researches, and the facts of his narrative are thus placed on a

foundation of authorities which cannot be disputed. Men who investigate

with such minute care as Mr. Prescott are not generally those who can

compose readable histories. They are commonly but compilers of materials

for the use of abler writers. But our countryman is an artist as well as

antiquary. He spares no labor, it is true, in collecting his materials,

and might claim, if he chose, the highest rank among the disciples of

Dr. Dryasdust; but such would be but a small object for his ambition.

His glory as a historian comes from his power to collect truth from a

mass of perhaps conflicting testimony; to perceive character so

accurately as to see just that point in the mind of a contemporary

chronicler, where his individual bias casts ominous conjecture on his

testimony; to imbue his mind with the very spirit of the age he has

chosen for his subject; to look at events from the same position

occupied by the actors in them, and thus enable the reader to pass

beyond actions to motives; and, above all, to represent the period of

time he has selected for his theme in the clearest light, giving to

persons and events their natural prominence, and avoiding all

interference with their just relations.

The reader of Mr. Prescott’s histories is almost made for the time a

contemporary of Ferdinand, Cortez and Pizarro; a contemporary who sees

clearly the passions and bigotries which warp their moral judgments, and

while uninfluenced himself by the prejudices which blind them, blends

charity with justice in deciding upon their actions. There is a

healthiness in Mr. Prescott’s intellect which places all objects in

“daylight.” They are not discolored in passing through his mind.

His style of composition, a style so flexible as to yield readily to all

the changes of his narrative, a style which ever fascinates and never

wearies, has drawn forth numberless panegyrics. We think the style of

his present book even more pleasant than that of his others. There is

hardly a passage, hardly a sentence, of fine writing—of writing, not

for the sake of the thought but of the rhetoric—in the whole work. This

wise abstinence in one who has such a wide command of the resources of

language, and who could, if he pleased, pile up pages of rhetorical

sublimities to catch the untrained eye, is a great merit, and is so felt

by the reader, when at the end of the book he notices its unity of

effect upon his mind.

The subject of Mr. Prescott’s present history may not seem, at first, so

good as that of the Conquest of Mexico. It would be difficult to say

which work was filled with the most wonderful events. Both are laden

with examples of courage, constancy, and endurance, which appear beyond

the powers of humanity. Both represent men undaunted not merely in

battle with vastly superior forces, but bearing up against the yet

fiercer assaults of fatigue, pestilence and famine. In all the hardier

qualities of mind and body the Spaniards who conquered Peru do not yield

to the followers of Cortez, and in avarice, treachery, and cruelty, in

all those qualities which characterize freebooters and pirates, they

fairly exceed all other men. Mr. Prescott has done them ample justice,

and brought out in bold relief their characters and exploits. His

delineations of Pizarro and his brothers are masterly, and his whole

view of the country before and after the conquest is marked by uncommon

comprehension, and the most extensive erudition. The preliminary essay,

on the civilization of the Incas, is of very great value. In clearness

of exposition it is almost unmatched. Altogether, the book must add even

to Mr. Prescott’s reputation, in all those qualities of mind and style

for which he is distinguished.

* * * * *

_Modern Painters. By a Graduate of Oxford. First American from

the Third London Edition. Revised by the Author. New York: Wiley

& Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

It is rare that we see so eloquent and vigorous a production as this,

announcing high principles of art with such unhesitating confidence, and

supporting them with so much splendor of style and fertility of

illustration. The freshness and animation of the author’s mind are

displayed on every page, lending life to the discussion of the most

abstract questions of taste, and prompting continually the heartiest

bursts of eloquence. The work has caused a sensation among the artists

and amateurs of England, and has been made the subject of much

discussion in the reviews and magazines. Its general tone is manly and

independent, sliding, often, it must be allowed, into a kind of

dictatorial dogmatism, but still giving evidence of a firm grasp of the

subject, and of a capacity to support all its positions by argument and

illustration. Apart from the leading object of the book, there are many

sentences which bring out important truths in a strong light, and

numerous passages of beauty and power to stir and elevate the reader’s

mind. Here is a great truth finely expressed: “We must be cautious not

to lose sight of the real use of what has been left us by antiquity, nor

to take that as a _model_ for perfection which is, in many cases, only a

_guide_ to it. The picture which is looked to for an _interpretation_ of

nature is invaluable, but the picture which is taken as a _substitute_

for nature, had better be burned; and the young artist, while he should

shrink with horror from the iconoclast who would tear from him every

landmark and light which has been bequeathed him by the ancients, and

leave him in a liberated childhood, may be equally certain of being

betrayed by those who would give him the power and knowledge of past

time, and then fetter his strength from all advance, and bend his eyes

backward on a beaten path—who would thrust canvas between him and the

sky, and tradition between him and God.”

We cordially advise our readers to peruse this book. They may find much

in it to which they cannot assent, but it will be sure to rouse and

refresh their minds.

* * * * *

_Conversations in Rome. Between an Artist, a Catholic, and a

Critic. By William Ellery Channing. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1

vol. 12mo._

Mr. Channing is a gentleman engaged in the occupation of acting out

himself. The present elegant little volume is a record of himself as

influenced by Italy. Though cast in the form of conversations, one mind

is discernible in all that is said. The author gives his personal

impressions of all he sees, and judges every thing from the manner it

affects him. From his positive manner of utterance, one would conclude

he saw no distinction between his impressions of things and the truth of

things: a distinction which his readers will often be compelled to make.

Painting, sculpture, poetry, manners, religion, government, all are

disposed of in short-hand judgments. It is really edifying to find knots

which centuries of philosophers have been unable to untie, so

unceremoniously cut by Mr. Channing. This decisive way of settling

debated questions lends much raciness to the volume, and many of the

observations are acute and well put: others are sheer presumption and

impertinence. Mr. Channing is really a man possessing genius, and it is

often provoking to see his seeming anxiety to pass with others as a

coxcomb. Both in the present volume and in his poems there is often

displayed a fineness of faculty, which, under careful training, would

give him a prominent rank among American writers. At present he is only

“recognized” by a clique. Within that magic circle he passes for little

less than a prophet; out of it he is simply a transcendental target for

descendental jests. If he ever works his way out of his present

environment of egoism, and discerns the path which leads to other minds,

his real merit will be acknowledged. Our readers will find much in his

present volume which will well repay its perusal.

* * * * *

_Life and Religious Opinions and Experiences of Madame de la

Mothe Guyon, together with some Account of the Personal History

and Religious Opinions of Fenelon. By Thomas C. Upham. New York:

Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo._

Professor Upham has performed a service to literature as well as

theology by his present work. It is an account of a remarkable woman,

carefully following the statements contained in her own autobiography,

and written in a style of sweet serenity, in which the very spirit of

Madame Guyon seems mirrored. No one can read the book without having his

knowledge of the higher and subtler phenomena of the mind extended. It

exhibits a human soul in that state of religious exaltation, where every

thing is viewed in its relation to God, and all the evils of life taken

as proofs of God’s love. The delineation is not ideal but actual. Every

step in the upward progress of her soul is minutely marked, and the

whole phenomena of her consciousness laid open to inspection. The value

of the book is enhanced by the clear revelation of an order of feelings

and thoughts, which are too commonly overlooked in treatises on

metaphysics and theology. Goethe must have studied the character of

Madame Guyon very attentively, before he ventured upon the delineation

of the devotee in Wilhelm Meister.

* * * * *

_The Autobiography of Goethe. Edited by Parke Godwin. Parts III.

and IV. New York: Wiley & Putnam._

The present volume completes this most valuable work, now for the first

time “done” into good English. No better period for the successful

publication of the book could have been selected. The character and

writings of Goethe are now continually made the subjects of eager praise

or fierce invective, even among classes of readers whose curiosity

rarely extends beyond the last novel. Much both of the praise and blame

squandered upon the great German is directed against a mere man of

straw, bearing little resemblance to the real object. Few of the

vehement writers and talkers about Goethe have taken upon themselves the

task of reading and investigation. His autobiography presents the man

and his mind as they appeared to his own consciousness, and certainly

constitutes one of the most remarkable biographies in literature. It is

Goethe’s portrait drawn by himself, and done with matchless skill. It is

worthy of the most profound study. We should pity the person who could

carefully meditate it without having his knowledge of human nature

increased. That vast mind here discourses of itself with the simplicity

of a child.

* * * * *

_Morceaux Choisis des Auteurs Modernes. By F. M. Rowon. Revised,

Corrected and Enlarged by J. L. Jewett. New York: D. Appleton &

Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

Such a volume as this has long been needed in our schools and academies.

Most of the selections from French authors studied by new beginners, are

made from writers of the old school. But within the last twenty or

thirty years there has occurred a kind of idiomatic revolution in the

language, of which the pieces in the present work are an

exemplification. The volume contains selections from Balzac, Dumas,

Victor Hugo, Jules Janin, Lamartine, Sue, Guizot, Michelet, Thiers,

Thierry, Sismondi, Tocqueville, Villemain, and other celebrated French

prose writers of the present day, with translations of difficult phrases

at the bottom of each page. It will be found a most valuable and

interesting French reader.

* * * * *

_1776, or the War of Independence._

A beautiful volume bearing this title has been laid upon our table by

the publisher, Mr. Walker, of New York. The work was prepared by Mr.

Benson J. Lossing, and dedicated by him to the youth of our country,

“upon whom will soon devolve the faithful guardianship of our goodly

heritage.” A cursory glance at its contents impresses us very favorably,

as it appears to contain a compendious and well written account of the

original history of the American colonies, the causes which induced

their determination to separate themselves from a connection with the

British government, and the difficulties and dangers through which this

design was carried into effect, and a free republic established.

The publisher says he “always believed that a book in one volume, well

written, and embracing a faithful chronicle of events which accomplished

the laying of the foundation stone of this great republic, would be

invaluable to the present and all future generations.” The belief was a

just one, and the work before us seems well calculated to suit the

purpose for which it was designed. Its typographical execution is

excellent, and its pages are graced by seventy-eight beautiful

illustrations.

* * * * *

_Philosophy in Sport Made Science in Earnest. From the Sixth

London Edition. Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is a little work which greatly pleases us. It is, as the author

terms it, an attempt to illustrate the first principles of natural

philosophy by the aid of the popular toys and sports of youth, and he

has succeeded admirably in his design. The book may be commended, with

great propriety, to the attention of those who have the training and

culture of the minds of youth, as it conveys a vast fund of highly

important and useful information in a very attractive and interesting

form.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and

punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have

been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may

be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for

preparation of the eBook.

page 117, ladies; but too poor men ==> ladies; but two poor men

page 119, _elité_, the young, the ==> _élite_, the young, the

page 134, with the sail lose, ==> with the sail loose,

page 141, to help to soup. ==> to help himself to soup.

page 151, banished my music-stand, ==> banished from my music-stand,

page 154, executed _a ràvir_ his favorite ==> executed _à ravir_ his

favorite

[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXXI, No. 3, September 1847]