Chapter I.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XVIII. April, 1841. No. 4.

Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

The Lady Isabel (continued)

Our Bill

Unequally Yoked

Self-Devotion

The Defaulter

The Murders in the Rue Morgue

The Reefer of ’76 (continued)

The Outlaw Lover

The Confessions of a Miser (continued)

Sports and Pastimes

Review of New Books

Poetry, Music and Fashion

The Brilliant Nor-West

A Slighted Woman

A Picture

A Winter Scene

Comparisons

An April Day

Old Memories

Chimes of Antwerp

A Winter Scene

Oh! Gentle Love

Fashions for April 1841

Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Engraved by J. Sartain_

_He Comes_

_Engraved for Graham’s Magazine from the Original Picture by Leutze in the

Possession of John W. Field Esq.^r_]

* * * * *

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XVIII. APRIL, 1841. No. 4.

* * * * *

THE LADY ISABEL.

(Continued from page 99.)

Chapter IV.

_The Disappearance._

There is nothing so dreadful as the heart’s first disappointment. To

love vainly—oh! what is more agonising. We feel as if every one had

turned against us; as if there was nothing left to live for in this

world; as if the springs of life, and the joy of existence had departed

forever from us. The loss of a friend may be compensated for, and the

ruin of our fortunes can be borne without despair; but the hopelessness

of a first love can never be ameliorated by aught on earth. Go where we

will, the blight of the heart will continue with us. _We can never

forget._ Hope will have dried up within us. We feel, like a stranger in

a strange land, as an outcast on the world, beholding feelings in which

we can take no part around us, and reminded daily of our misery by the

happiness of others. Alas! for the one disappointed in a first love.

That night Isabel saw no more of her cousin. But when the whole of the

next day passed, and she still did not meet him, she began to be

alarmed. She feared to ask for him. Her father had been absent all day,

and it was not until night that he returned. When he did, he brought the

intelligence, that, in compliance with an old promise, he had that

morning visited the earl of ——, an influential courtier of the

neighboring county, in order to procure for Lorraine a commission. The

page had, the preceding evening, begged to be allowed to join the army

so eagerly, that having nothing particularly to do, and noticing and

applauding his young cousin’s anxiety to assume arms, he had ridden over

with him to —— castle, and after obtaining the appointment for him,

had left him there, at his urgent request, with his new colonel.

“And I rejoice too at his determination,” continued Lord Deraine,

“although it was somewhat of a sudden. I began almost to think that the

lad was growing too effeminate, with his lute, and other lady pastimes,

and forgetting the name that he bore. But I ween had you beheld his eye

glisten to-day, when he was first addressed by his military title, you

would have said that he was every inch a Lorraine. And God forfend that

it should ever come to disgrace! My mother was a daughter of that

house,” continued the aged nobleman, “and I feel a strange interest in

the boy’s success. Had you seen him to-day you would have said he was a

true descendant of the iron-hearted warrior who led that charge at

Agincourt, which decided the fortune of the day. Were I as I once was, I

would e’en go one campaign with him to learn how they fight in these

degenerate days, and show them the manner in which we cavaliers of

Prince Rupert used to charge the canting round-heads.”

“But pa,” said Isabel, scarcely venturing to speak, “did he leave no

word—no message?”

“Oh! I had almost forgot. He sent a note to you—here it is—about some

hawk, or lute, or his greyhound perhaps—did he bid you farewell, by the

bye?”

Isabel felt her heart beat faster at the enquiry of her parent, but

giving an evasive answer to his question, she took the note, and left

the apartment. Little did Lord Deraine suspect the agony which had

driven his young kinsman from his halls, or dream of the tears that

Isabel shed that night over her ill-fated cousin’s epistle. It ran thus:

Dearest Isabel:—I know not whether to write to you; and yet why

should I not? Are we not cousins—brought up under the same

roof—taught to love each other from childhood—bound to one

another by a thousand ties? Yet we cannot meet again as we have

met! Oh! little did I think twenty-four hours ago that such

agony as I now suffer would so soon be my lot. But I will not

blame you. You never said you loved me—you never smiled on me

except as a cousin. It is only I who am wrong. Could I ever

think that you, the pure, the beautiful, the courted, would look

on a poor page with love? Yet I did: I nursed the delusion long:

and now—oh! God—the dream is forever broken.

Forgive me, dear Isabel—for I will yet once more call you by

that name—forgive me, for I scarce know what I write. I leave

you for years, perhaps forever. I go to seek a name of which you

will not be ashamed, or to die. God bless you, again and again,

and again dearest Isabel! May you be happy. Once more God bless

you!

The tears of the maiden fell thick and fast as she perused this

passionate epistle, and she sighed,

“Poor, poor Lorraine—would we had never met, or that you had never

loved.”

The absence of the page was felt throughout the castle, for all had

loved the generous and high-souled boy. For many a long day the old

servitors loved to recall his boyish deeds, and augur a glorious career

for the young soldier. And often, as Isabel sat in her splendid chamber,

while twilight deepened through the gorgeously curtained windows, her

thoughts would wander away after her absent cousin, and taking the

melancholy hue of the hour, she would indulge in mournful memories of

the past, and sigh that she could make no return to Lorraine except what

was all too cold for him,—her friendship. Even De Courtenay, could he

have read her thoughts at such moments, would have pardoned her that

involuntary pang.

Chapter V.

_The Young Soldier._

It was the eve of a battle. Far along the sides of the hill stretched

the camp of the allies, the long lines of white tents gleaming in the

starlight, and the death-like silence of the sleeping army filling the

mind with an awe, second only to that inspired by the holy silence of

the calm and peaceful stars above. Below was a wide extensive valley,

through which wound a narrow river, while here and there along the plain

were scattered rich farms, and solemn woodlands. On the opposite range

of uplands, the camp of the enemy might be detected by the long-line of

watch-fires glittering on the horizon. Occasionally the neigh of a

steed, or the “all’s well!” of the sentinel, floated past on the night

air. All else was still. A profound calm reigned where to-morrow would

be heard the shouts of thousands, the booming of artillery, and the

clash of meeting squadrons.

It was yet long before day when Lorraine sprang from his couch, and

hastily attiring himself, prepared to join his troop, at the expected

summons. It was to him a day of the most intense interest, for not only

was he then for the first time to behold the conflict of man with man,

but he was to begin that career of arms which he had determined should

give him renown or death.

“Yes!” he exclaimed energetically, “though Isabel may never love me, she

shall hear my name in every mouth, or else be told by some pitying

tongue that I have died in the heart of battle. I feel that within me

which will make or mar me. To-day shall lay the first stone in my

advancement, and men will talk no longer of the idle page, when they

hear of the deeds of the warrior.”

With such emotions stirring in his bosom, Lorraine joined his corps on

the morning of that eventful day; nor did he, for a moment, through the

long hours of that celebrated battle, forget his vow. Wherever the

danger was the most imminent, there the gallant young soldier was to be

found. When the battle was at its fiercest, Lorraine seemed only more

calm and collected; until even hoary veterans were astonished at the

fearless composure of the young officer. Already had he performed deeds

of daring, which had been alone enough to make him the wonder of his

corps, when he was ordered to charge, with his body of dragoons, on a

battalion of the enemy who were about making a movement on the left of

the allies.

Flushed with the confidence thus displayed in his coolness and valor,

Lorraine dashed off to take up his position so as to be able to check

the enemy’s advance at the most favorable moment. Rapid as was his

movement, however, he had been anticipated by the foe, and before he

could reach the threatened position, the detachment of infantry

defending the farm-house had been driven in, half their number made

prisoners, and the rest compelled to fall back in disorder. When

Lorraine approached their post, they were retreating up the hill

immediately in the rear of the farm-house, while a strong body of the

enemy’s infantry was pressing upon them in the rear. A thick wood,

running at right angles with the road taken by the retreating corps,

effectually hid Lorraine’s dragoons from sight, until the very moment

when the enemy’s flank was exposed to his charge. Perceiving his

advantage, the young soldier waved his sword, and turning to his troops,

shouted,

“Charge!” and in an instant, like a whirl-wind they burst upon the

astonished enemy. The shock was irresistible. Taken completely by

surprise, and already disordered by the pursuit, the foe scarcely stood

their ground a moment, but broke in all directions. A scene of wild

consternation ensued. Through and through the tumultuous crowd of

fugitives, dashed the troopers of Lorraine, hewing and treading down

their antagonists at every step. Amid this wild uproar, the young

officer might be detected by his snowy plume and white charger; and

wherever they were seen, there the battle was sure to rage the thickest.

But though broken in nearly every direction, there was still a fragment

of the enemy’s corps, which, rallying around its leader, endeavored for

a while to maintain its ground, and even succeeded in repelling the

attack made upon it by a portion of the late fugitives, who, rallying at

the first appearance of succor, under charge of their commander,

attempted to cut off the retreat of the enemy. At this moment Lorraine

perceived their peril. Quick as lightning he dashed to their aid,

followed by a portion of his gallant band; and arrived at the very

moment when his brother officer, having been struck from his horse, lay

at the mercy of the enemy’s uplifted sword. It was but the work of a

moment to strike up the weapon of the assailant, and with another blow

to sever the arm of the French officer. Lorraine’s troopers at the same

instant, rushing like a thunder-bolt upon the enemy, scattered them down

the hill, and before the young officer could stoop to raise his fellow

soldier, the enemy had vanished from around them.

“To whom am I indebted for this timely aid?” said the wounded man,

endeavoring to rise.

“To a friend—Henry De Lorraine. As I have just joined the army even my

brother officers are unknown to me.”

“But you will not be long unknown to them, for a more gallant charge I

never saw made, and even a De Courtenay may consider it an honor to be

the friend of a Lorraine.”

The young officer felt his heart beat as it had not beat yet through all

that day’s conflict. The lover of his cousin was before him. With that

name rushed a thousand memories upon his mind, and for an instant he

stood silent and spell-bound before De Courtenay. But recalling, with an

effort, his wandering thoughts, he bowed to the speaker’s compliment,

and assisting the wounded officer from the field, recalled his troops,

and prepared to maintain the position he had so gallantly recovered.

Chapter VI.

_Fame: The new friend._

The whole camp was ringing with the deeds of Lorraine. The days of

Roland were revived. Old and young, officers and soldiery conversed only

of the youthful hero who had already won for himself the title of “the

bravest of the brave.” Not only in his first battle, but in every

successive engagement, Lorraine had achieved wonders. He had already

been promoted through several grades; general officers and titled

princes courted his society; and, as if by an enchanter’s wand, in less

than a year from the opening of his career as a soldier, the name of the

unknown page was ringing in every capital of Europe. Oh! how delicious

was it for him to know that Isabel heard of his deeds, and that though

she might not love, she could not pity him. No, he had saved himself

from that. His vow had been fulfilled. He had become renowned.

A strange friendship had sprung up between Lorraine and him whom he had

rescued. The grateful De Courtenay had sought the intimacy of his

preserver in such a way as could not be refused, and though it was, at

first, agony for Lorraine to be the confidant of his rival, yet he could

not avoid it without insulting his new friend, or exposing his own

hopeless love. But the former course he scorned: and to the latter

alternative he could not listen. He was forced, therefore, to endure in

silence that, which, like the vulture of Prometheus, was eating out his

vitals. Daily did De Courtenay pour into his ear his tale of love,

thinking that as the relative of Isabel, Lorraine would sympathise with

his long continued separation, and join in the praises of his mistress;

but little did the generous young nobleman know of the agony he was thus

inflicting upon his new friend.

Meantime the war continued. Siege after siege, and battle after battle

marked the conquering career of the allies, and in every brilliant

action the deeds of the young hero shone forth with unabated lustre. In

the hottest of the conflict, heading the assault or leading a charge,

Lorraine was ever to be found, seeming to bear a charmed life.

Yet the cheek of the young hero grew thinner daily, and amid all his

splendid and rapidly increasing renown, it was plain that his unquiet

spirit was tossing to and fro within him, and wearing out his very

existence. His brow grew darker as if with long years of care; his eye

burned with a deep, restless, almost wild brilliancy; and his port

became prouder and prouder, for he grew more lofty as the struggle with

himself became fiercer. Yes! the contest was still waged against his

unhappy love,—how hopelessly, let others in the same situation tell.

His was not the love of days, or weeks, or months, but of years: his was

not an evanescent feeling of admiration, but the deep, fathomless

passion of one whose whole soul was consumed by his love. How could he

conquer such an emotion? No, he might fly from Isabel, but could he fly

from himself? His love had become a part of his being: it was his

sustenance, his life.

It was after a hard contested battle, in which his corps had

distinguished itself unusually, and he had turned the tide of war on one

wing by his own valor and influence, that his sovereign filled up the

measure of his renown, by reviving in his person, an honor long disused,

and creating him a knight banneret upon the field of conflict.

“Rise, Sir Henry Lorraine,” said the monarch, as, surrounded by a

brilliant cortège, he waved his hand for the kneeling knight to arise,

“you have this day won a name far more imperishable than the title I

have bestowed upon you. Were a tithe of the gentlemen of my realm like

you, England would have a Bayard or a Roland for every knight’s fee.”

Such a compliment, from the lips of a phlegmatic sovereign, placed the

finishing stone on the renown of Lorraine. He was henceforth without a

rival. Courted by the titled; adored by his fellow soldiers; and smiled

on by the young and beautiful; what farther had this world to bestow

upon him? Alas! all these brought him no happiness. To Lorraine they

were but empty shadows, for they could not give him the love of his

cousin.

“Ah! how will Isabel rejoice to hear of this,” said De Courtenay, the

day after the young hero’s knighthood, “you and she were playmates in

childhood, you know, and it will please her all the more that I too love

you. I wonder why she says nothing of you in her letters, but then—.”

De Courtenay paused. Even the happy lover felt that it would not do to

say how wholly a mistress forgets in her missives all but the object of

her adoration.

Lorraine could not reply. His brow throbbed to bursting, and he turned

away. Yet he did not betray himself. Never had De Courtenay suspected

that his friend loved Isabel; and Lorraine vowed in his inmost heart

that he never should.

And thus time rolled on, and day by day, and week by week, and month by

month, the renown of the young soldier increased, while the blight at

his heart grew more venomous and deadly. _He loved in vain._ Often in

the still watches of the night, when the camp lay buried in silence

around him, and the holy stars looked down like guardian angels on the

world below, he would stand for hours, gazing on the hushed landscape

around, and wandering, in thought, back to the time when he stood at the

side of Isabel, and together they gazed up upon the starry sky, or

listened to the low whisper of the night-wind across the firmament,

while their hearts held high communion, as if linked in with each other

by some mysterious sympathy. Alas! those days were gone forever. Alone

Lorraine gazed up at the sky, while Isabel perhaps thought of him no

more.

Chapter VII.

_He Comes._

“Your cousin, young Harry, now Sir Henry Lorraine, knight banneret, is

coming to visit us, Isabel,” said Lord Deraine, one morning, as he

entered the breakfast room, holding an open letter in his hand, “he has

come over with despatches, and says that he shall have a few days of

leisure. Here is his letter. It came by a special courier, to whom I

gave a reply, inviting Lorraine down here at once. So you may expect the

gallant boy to-morrow.”

“But pa, how know you he will come?” said Isabel, with ill-concealed

agitation, for she had not yet forgotten their last parting.

“Come! why where else would he go, but to those who love him like we do?

Ah! I wonder if glory has changed him. By the honor of my house but it

will make me young again to see the gallant lad, who has made the name

of a Lorraine to ring like a watch word through Europe.”

Isabel knew not scarcely how she felt. She dreaded, and yet wished to

meet her cousin. Long did she think over it that night, and wonder if he

had conquered his ill-fated passion. And when at length she fell asleep,

it was after many a prayerful hope that Lorraine might have learned to

look upon her only as a cousin, and have sought among fairer and loftier

ones, to whom he might fearlessly aspire, a being more worthy of his

fortunes.

Why had Lorraine, after tearing himself away from Isabel, determined to

re-visit her? Alas! who can tell the workings of that master passion

LOVE? How often do we resolve to see the face of some dear one no more,

and how often do we return again and again to her presence, hoping even

against hope, until we feel that the cup of bliss is too surely dashed

from our lips forever.

It was a glorious afternoon when he arrived at the gates of the park,

and at every step seeing something to remind him of the past, he

gradually fell into a reverie, from which he was only aroused by coming

in front of the hall, and finding himself welcomed by the noisy

tenantry, as well as by a score of old familiar faces in the shape of

trusty servitors. Their homely but joyous greetings went to Lorraine’s

heart, and almost drew tears from his eyes, when he reflected how

differently he had passed that threshold the last time. His uncle met

him at the hall door, and falling into his arms, blessed him: while

Isabel frankly extending her hand, greeted him as she would have done in

their old and happy hours.

The dinner passed off, Isabel withdrew, and Lorraine was alone with his

uncle.

“How you have altered, Henry,” said the old earl, “you left us a boy,

and now your brow is that of a warrior. Ah! I always knew you would

prove an honor to your house. Another glass of the Burgundy. But now we

are alone, let us hear of your battles and sieges.”

It was almost evening when they rose from the table, and Lorraine

signified his wish to seek the open air. His uncle pleaded his gout, and

the young knight stepped out upon the lawn.

Soon, however, as if led by a mysterious influence, he sought the old

terrace, where he had sat at Isabel’s feet the last day he had spent at

the hall. His cousin was there. For a moment both were embarrassed. A

woman on such occasions, is always the first to speak; and Isabel broke

the spell by an allusion to their early days. Long then they conversed;

for both their hearts were full. But neither spoke of love.

It was a golden evening, the very counterpart to the one he had last

spent there, and when, for a few minutes both paused, it is not

improbable that each reverted to that memorable occasion, and for awhile

they gazed without speaking on the landscape. And mournful were

Lorraine’s thoughts as he gazed. What was honor, or rank, or wealth to

him, since they brought him not Isabel? But was her love then hopelessly

lost to him? Alas! had not De Courtenay assured him of her continued

affection; and would it not be even dishonorable to win that affection

if he could? Yet might there not be hope? Such feelings, whirling

through his mind, almost determined Lorraine, in the excitement of the

moment, to fling himself at Isabel’s feet. Suddenly, however, two

horsemen appeared in the distance, winding up the avenue of the park.

Isabel and himself started simultaneously, and looked at each other.

Could it be that both divined in the foremost of the riders the same

individual?

A moment passed, when their ears were aroused by the rapid clattering of

approaching hoofs, and looking down they beheld a couple of horsemen

spring from their steeds. The eye of one of the riders happened to fall

upon them, and he turned hastily in their direction. Surely it was

not—yes! it was—De Courtenay. He dashed up the terrace with eager

haste, and Isabel, forgetting, in her glad surprise, everything except

that the lover she had not seen for years stood before her, rushed

forward to meet him.

“Edward—Edward!” was all the agitated girl could utter, as she stooped

to her half kneeling lover.

“Isabel—dearest Isabel, we meet at last,” passionately exclaimed De

Courtenay, as he looked up, and clasped her in his arms.

Oh! who can tell the agony of Lorraine during that moment? Was it for

this he had toiled; was it for this he had struggled; was it for this he

had breasted the fierce assault? It was the last drop in his cup of

bitterness. His heart was wrung with unutterable woe. He spoke no word,

he breathed no sigh; but he gazed a moment sadly on the spectacle, and

then noiselessly entered the apartment behind. When the lovers looked

around he was gone.

That night a solitary traveller might be seen on the high road to

London. He had just parted with another, who had pursued him hotly for

several miles, and finally overtaken him. The two were Lorraine and De

Courtenay. The latter, learning every thing from Isabel for the first

time, had set out and overtaken his preserver, with the generous design

to relinquish his mistress to the young knight. But Lorraine would not

listen to him.

“No, no, you tempt me over much,” sadly said Lorraine, “for can you give

me the love of Isabel? God bless you both. As for me, glory henceforth

is my only mistress. Farewell!” and pressing his friend’s hand, he

plunged his rowels into the flanks of his steed, and dashed on.

De Courtenay had followed Lorraine to England unexpectedly within

twenty-four hours of the young knight’s departure, and, having hastily

transacted his business in London, had hurried down to Deraine hall, and

met Lorraine as we have described.

None of his house ever saw Lorraine again. He appeared in a few days in

the camp, but within a week fell in an assault, the only man who had

succeeded in mounting the breach. There he fought unsupported for

several minutes, but finally sank pierced with a hundred wounds.

And long did Isabel and De Courtenay weep for the ill-fated page. And

when the war was over, and they were married, often would they sit on

that old terrace, and feel a melancholy pleasure in talking of Lorraine.

Need we wonder that their eldest boy bore the name of Isabel’s

unfortunate cousin? * * *

* * * * *

THE BRILLIANT NOR-WEST.

BY J. K. MITCHELL.

Let Araby boast of her soft spicy gale,

And Persia her breeze from the rose-scented vale;

Let orange-trees scatter in wildness their balm,

Where sweet summer islands lie fragrant and calm!

Give me the cold blast of my country again,

Careering o’er snow-cover’d mountain and plain,

And coming, though scentless, yet pure, to my breast,

With vigor and health from the cloudless Nor-West.

I languish where suns in the tropic sky glow,

And gem-studded waters on golden sands flow,

Where shrubs blossom-laden, bright birds, and sweet trees,

With odors and music encumber the breeze;

I languish to catch but a breathing of thee,

To hear thy wild winter-notes brilliant and free,

To feel thy cool touch on my heart-strings opprest,

And gather a tone from the bracing Nor-West.

Mists melt at thy coming, clouds flee from thy wrath,

The marsh and its vapors are seal’d on thy path,

For spotless and pure as the snow-covered North,

Their cold icy cradle, thy tempests come forth.

Thy blue robe is borrowed from clearest of skies,

Thy sandals were made where the driven snow lies,

And stars, seldom seen in this low world, are blest

To shine in thy coronet—brilliant Nor-West.

Health bounds to thy pathway, joy shouts in thy course,

The virtues of manhood thy breathings enforce;

The pure, and the fair, and the brave, and the free,

Are purer, and fairer, and braver, for thee;

As flames sweeping wildly o’er mountain and heath,

But burn the more fiercely the colder thy breath,

So glow, but more brightly for thee, in the breast,

The virtues of freedom—soul-stirring Nor-West.

Forever, forever, be thine, purest wind,

The lakes and the streams of my country to bind;

And oh, though afar I am fated to roam,

Still kindle the hearths, and the hearts of my home!

While blows from the Polar skies holy and pure,

Thy trumpet of freedom, the land shall endure,

As snow in thy pathway, and stars on thy crest,

Unsullied and beautiful—glorious Nor-West.

Philadelphia, March, 1841.

* * * * *

OUR BILL.

BY MRS. LAMBERT.

“I am gone sir, and anon

I’ll be with you again.”

_Tempest._

Some years since I chanced to stop, during one of my summer rambles, in

a pretty village, picturesquely situated in the county of F——d. I

arrived about sun-set, and the quiet loveliness which appeared every

where around, won me to the spot. A row of neat white houses, with

pretty gardens in front, arose on each side of the way, for the distance

of nearly half a mile. At this point the road branched off in different

directions, and exactly on the centre of division stood the village

church; a plain, unpretending edifice, whose slender spire rose high

above the full tops of venerable elms and dark pendant willows that

surrounded its peaceful walls.

A row of fine trees planted regularly at the road side, gave the

appearance of an avenue to the village street, which viewed from its

entrance, has an uncommonly pleasing effect, the eye ranging through the

grass-bounded road, and the umbrageous arch which overshadows it, till

the consecrated building terminates the vista.

The country immediately adjoining the village is divided into numerous

enclosures, bearing marks of good cultivation; while pretty farm-houses

are scattered in every direction, with woods, streams, rocks and groves,

beautifying the landscape. A chain of hills, which might without the

charge of an extraordinary degree of presumption, aspire to the name of

mountains, bounds the view on the south-east—their undulating outline

beautifully marked against the clear horizon. Through an opening of the

range, a glimpse is caught of the deep blue waters of the sound—a sail

just distinguished—diminished by distance to a mere speck, gives

frequent interest, and adds to the magic of the scene.

Pleasing, however, as was the village, and abounding in objects most

inviting to a lover of simple life, I determined not to make it my place

of abode. Enquiring my way to a farm-house, of which I had some previous

knowledge, I directed my steps thither. It was situated about a mile

from the village, at the foot of a gentle slope, and adjoining a grove

vocal in spring-time with the notes of almost innumerable birds.

The master of it was a plain farmer, but one of Heaven’s nobility, an

honest man. He lived like one of the Patriarchs of old, surrounded by

his descendants to the third generation. His still athletic form was

unbent by age, although his venerable locks were whitened by the snows

of seventy winters.

I was received with all the kindness I could wish. Every thing was done

to make me comfortable, and cause me, as the phrase goes, to feel at

home, and I did so.

The farm-house was a large, old building, abounding in long, low rooms,

the ceilings of which were crossed by heavy beams, a century ago

considered no defect in architectural embellishment—narrow windows,

glazed with exceedingly small panes, carefully leaded—a fire-place

built across one corner of the room, over the mantel-piece of which

appeared a wooden clock, flanked on each side by a china figure,

intending to represent, as I supposed, Flora and Pomona.

The former of these heathen beauties balanced her well-filled basket

with sufficient gravity on a head none of the smallest—but her

companion from the carelessness with which she held her cornucopia,

suffered its treasures to escape with an indifference truly wonderful. A

pair of pink-colored candles, rising from sockets garnished with

curiously cut paper, finished the decorations of the fire-place.

My hostess was a little, fat, short, good-humored woman, and with her

youngest daughter, the only one remaining unmarried, and a

daughter-in-law, whose husband was absent in a distant part of the

country, constituted those members of the family, with whom I had most

frequent and social communication. There were, also, two or three large

dogs, of prepossessing physiognomy, and urbane gentlemanly manners, with

whom I soon found a sort of companionship.

But of all the oddities, animate or inanimate, with which I became

acquainted during my visit to Redbury, I saw none that interested me

more than an urchin who officiated in the family as a sort of boy of all

work.

Short, stout, broad-shouldered as an infant Hercules, with a round,

good-humored face, laughing grey eyes, and elf-locks tanned to a dead

flaxey whiteness, by continual exposure to the sun and wind—“Our Bill,”

for so he was constantly and familiarly denominated, was to be found

every where, and equal to every imposed duty. He chopped wood, made the

fires, fetched water, brought the cows, and helped the maids to milk

them; went of all the errands, and did _all the chores_. When the farmer

came in wearied from the field, “Our Bill” ran to the cellar and drew

for his refreshment a mug of hard cider. If an extra hand was wanted in

hay-time or harvest, it was only to send to the house for “Our Bill.” If

a neighbor was at a loss for a messenger in any emergency—the first

thought was to request of neighbor Dawkins the loan of “Bill.” In short,

he was in demand for every thing, and I began to consider him

ubiquitous.

The readiness with which he complied with every requisition, his

unvarying good-humor and promptness to oblige, soon drew my attention

and gained my approbation.

The first marked kindness which I received from him I well remember. I

was sitting in the apartment allotted to my use, and taking my

breakfast. The morning was dark, and it rained violently. I looked

toward the windows with a sort of hopelessness of feeling, for I

expected that letters were lying in the post-office in the village, from

my friends in the city, and I knew not how to procure them. To be sure I

might send “Our Bill,” but I had not the heart to do so.

While meditating thus, a gentle tap came to my door. I opened it, and

who should appear but “Our Bill.” His garments were soaked and dripping

with rain, which fell in rapid and discolored drops from numerous ragged

points and edges. He held his tattered, crownless hat in one hand, while

he extended to me in the other no less than three letters—three letters

from dear friends in town—how dear, let friendship in absence

determine.

I looked up at the windows involuntarily, as I broke the seal of one

missive.

“Why William, (I never could bear to call him Bill,) you have been to

the post-office—and through all the storm—I hope you did not go

entirely on my account?”

“Yes, but I did though.”

“Why, my lad, I never would have sent you through such a tempest of wind

and rain.”

“I know that. But I heard you say last night that you thought there were

letters for you in the village, so I determined you should have ’em.”

“You are a kind boy, Will. Are you not cold? You had better go quickly

and change your clothes.”

“Change my clothes, oh no—I don’t mind a wet jacket. I’ll make a fire

up for you though, if you please,” and he looked at my vacant hearth.

“Do so,” said I, and while he was engaged I perused my letters. Their

contents were satisfactory and pleasing, and I sat ruminating on the

past, with no painful anticipations about the future, while the boy went

on with his self-imposed employment.

“There,” exclaimed he, as a cheerful crackling flame blazed up the

chimney, “I think you’ll do, now.”

“So do I, Willy, and here is something for your pains.” I handed him a

small silver piece. He took it with a rustic bow, and looked at it with

delight. His face, cheerful before, now grew bright with pleasure. Down

he sat, _sans cérémonie_, upon the hearth, and diving his hand into some

unimaginable recess about his person, brought to light a dingy-looking

rag, which he untied. In it I beheld a few pieces of copper coin. He

added to them the silver which I had given him, retied his little bag,

thanked me again, and was about to leave the room. My voice arrested

him.

“Why, Willy, you are quite rich; what are you going to do with so much

money?”

The boy actually blushed and hung his head.

“I know,” he replied.

“I suppose you do,” said I, “my man, and may I not know too?” He was

silent. “It will go to buy tops and marbles, I suppose,” I added.

“No it won’t,” he answered, with quickness.

“Perhaps you are saving it till you get enough to purchase a new hat, or

a pair of shoes. If so, I think, you are doing very right.”

No answer, and at this moment Mrs. Dawkins calling him, he left the

room.

This economy was a trait I little suspected in my young acquaintance.

Most boys of his age expend the few pence which they casually acquire,

in the purchase of apples, or nuts, or gingerbread, but I never saw “Our

Bill” indulge in any luxuries of this sort. I, therefore, could only

return to my first supposition, that he was hoarding up the means of

buying a Sunday jacket, trowsers, shoes or hat. The chief things that I

disapproved of, about the boy, were the indifference which he evinced as

to his appearance, and his love of mischief. It is true he had not much

time to devote to personal neatness; yet numerous as were his

avocations, there was not a solitary scheme of mischief carried into

effect within a mile of the village, in which Bill did not bear a part.

If mammy Jennings’s orchard was to be thinned of its superfluous number

of golden pippins—or cross-grained old Squire Grummand’s fine walnut

tree laid under contribution—or the Deacon’s melon-patch to be

_examined_ by moonlight, I am sorry to say that “Our Bill” was sure to

be an assistant, if not officiating as president of the board of

directors. In short, he was a mischievous, but good-natured and obliging

boy, that might by a little care exercised by some kind-hearted

individual, be rendered a good and useful member of the community. But

if neglected and suffered to grow up in idleness, or desultory

employment, which is next akin to it, he stood a fair chance of falling

into a career of dissipation, profligacy and vice.

I took an early opportunity of enquiring more particularly about this

boy of Mrs. Dawkins: who gave me the following account. His parents, who

were natives of the village, and poor, had married early in life. They

were industrious—the man particularly so—and they were virtuous and

honest. For some time after their marriage the world went hardly with

them. An increase of family brought an increase of cares and want, with

no additional means wherewith to answer them. James Lee (that was his

name) became dejected—and Nancy unfortunately lost not her cheerfulness

only, but her good temper: and although James worked hard from day to

day, and gave her every penny of his earnings, to lay up or expend in

supplying the wants of the family, as she chose; yet she was still

peevish and dissatisfied. Harassed by his wife’s growing ill-temper, and

threatened by all the evils attendant upon increasing poverty, James

began to seek in company at the village tavern a temporary relief from

care. This only made matters worse; Nancy instead of striving to make

his home pleasant, and soothing his uneasiness, by bidding him hope for

the best, always met him with tears and upbraidings.

Thus matters went on for some time, when one day as Mrs. Lee was about

heating her oven for a baking of bread, she found that there was no oven

wood cut. Her husband always prepared the wood for her in the nicest

manner; but he had somehow or other forgotten to do so at this time.

Instead of going quietly out to him where he sat at work in the little

shop, opposite their house, (he was a shoemaker by trade) she began by

angrily accusing him of negligence, and want of consideration for her

comfort—with sundry reflections on the manner in which he had too

frequently passed his hours of late, to the great detriment of both

purse and credit. He heard all she had to say with exemplary patience;

and when she had finished arose from his bench, and walked to the door.

“Are you going to get the oven-wood?” she asked.

“Yes, Anne,” he replied meekly, and walked away.

Mrs. Lee returned to her kitchen, and remained waiting for the wood till

a good hour had elapsed. Out of all patience, she at last sent her

daughter, a fine, stout lass, of ten years, to hurry her father, bidding

her tell him her bread would be entirely ruined by waiting so long.

The girl went, but searched for her father in vain, returning to the

house only to give an account of her ill success. The displeasure of her

mother was again excited, and she sallied forth herself, fully

determined on giving James a piece of her mind. But James was no where

to be seen. The wood lay uncut. His shop was still open—the tools which

he had been recently employing, lay on a bench beside that on which he

had been sitting. In short, every thing remained just as he had left it

one short hour before; but from that time to this, a period of seven

years, James Lee has never been heard of.

“This is a surprising story,” said I, when the good dame had concluded,

“what do people suppose became of Lee?”

“There’s no telling,” answered Mrs. Dawkins, “some say one thing and

some another. Whether he left the country—or whether he made away with

himself, there’s nobody knows—for my own part I think he was harassed

out of his life by the odd temper of his good woman—but there’s no

knowing—well, this here boy, that you’ve been asking about is her son.

She has but two children left—Nancy, who is about seventeen, and ‘Our

Bill.’ My husband took the boy, to keep him out of evil courses, and if

he behaves himself, Mr. Dawkins will do well by him.”

“That is certainly very kind of your husband, and I hope the lad will

reward him by industry and good conduct.”

“I hope so, too,” replied my hostess, “but Bill is rather too much

inclined to mischief—yet he is a good boy, too, in many respects, and

is very fond of his mother, whom he goes to see regularly.”

“What are her means of support?” I asked.

“Well—she has to work hard enough since the loss of her husband; and

many a time I have seen her standing in the doorway, looking over at the

little shop in which he used to sit at work, with her eyes brimful of

tears. Ah, I guess it goes to her heart to think how roughly she used to

speak to poor James. She takes in spinning and plain work, and sometimes

goes out a nursing; and her daughter does a little at millinery, for she

has a pretty taste about such matters; and so they make out a living.”

“Is the daughter industrious?” I asked.

“As industrious a girl as you would wish to see, and as handsome. She

has a lover too; indeed a couple of them; but there her mother and she

are at odds; for the one that Nancy likes is not favored by Mrs. Lee.”

“That is unfortunate; and what kind of a person is the young man

preferred by Nancy?”

“Why, he is a likely lad—the blacksmith of our village. He has not much

before hand to be sure, but is honest, good, and true.”

“And the other?”

“Oh, he is better off—quite rich. Keeps a store in the village, and

makes a great dash. But for my own part I think Nancy’s choice is the

best; for Josiah Goodwin is steady as a clock, while folks do say, that

young Sturges, the shop-keeper, likes a small spree now and then.”

“If that is the case,” said I, “it is to be hoped that Nancy will remain

firm in her determination to have nothing to do with him.”

“She has a sad time of it at any rate,” replied my informant. “Her

mother keeps her close at home, and has ordered her never to see or

speak to young Goodwin; who is so troubled about it, that he has closed

his shop and left the village.”

“Really,” said I, “I am sorry for this poor girl, and I should like to

pay a visit to Mrs. Lee.”

“That you may do this evening, if you please,” said Mrs. Dawkins, “my

daughter is going to her house to carry some work.”

The circumstances of Mrs. Lee’s case as respected her husband, greatly

interested me; my curiosity was awakened, and I agreed to accompany

Lizzy Dawkins. At the hour appointed we set out together. After a

pleasant walk through winding roads, and shady lanes, we arrived at the

cottage of Mrs. Lee.

It was an humble abode, unmarked by any exterior improvement. One large

sycamore grew in front, and threw a portion of its branches across the

moss-grown roof. A rustic bench was placed at the foot of the tree. This

had been done by James, in the earlier days of wedded love.

The door of the house stood partly open, and Lizzy, taking the privilege

of an old acquaintance, entered without knocking. I followed. We walked

into the kitchen, which large, clean and comfortable, served as a

reception room. I must acknowledge that my first glance was directed

toward the oven.

Nancy greeted us with a kindly welcome; but the first object that drew

my attention was “Our Bill,” standing by the side of his mother, and

emptying the contents of his dingy-looking purse into her lap. In seeing

us enter he started, and looked as much confused as if he had been

caught in some act of delinquency. A look from me gave him courage. I

saw at once for what purpose the money had been saved, and from that

moment determined that while I lived Bill should never want a friend.

After Lizzy had delivered the work which she had brought for her

neighbor, the conversation fell upon different matters. Nancy, however,

bore but a small part therein; she seemed absent and sad. A young female

friend of hers came in, and she made an effort to appear more cheerful.

It was now the season when whortleberries were in their prime; and Bill

was exceedingly anxious that a party should be formed for gathering them

in the neighboring wood. Nancy’s young friend joined warmly in the

project. Lizzy Dawkins was pleased with the arrangement. I agreed to

make one of the number. Nancy evinced small interest in the matter,

though she agreed to go with us if her mother was willing: and as the

good dame was relieved from her apprehensions on the score of Goodwin,

since she had learned that he had left the village, she gave her assent.

The following day was fixed upon for our little excursion; and as the

weather proved fine, we accordingly went.

The wood was not far distant from the house of Mrs. Lee. It was wild,

shady, and beautiful: the resort of the squirrel and the rabbit—gay

with innumerable wild-flowers, and vocal with the sweet music of its

feathered denizens. Numerous openings amid the thickets disclosed

irregular knolls, covered with the shrubby bushes which now hung full of

the purple berry of which we came in search, and whose abundance in many

past years had given to this rural spot the name of Whortleberry, or in

village nomenclature, Huckle-berry wood. We soon met with two or three

other parties on the same errand with ourselves: some acquaintances of

Lizzy and Nancy were among them: we united our forces, filled our

baskets with berries, and chatted and laughed the hours away.

It was about noon, when, tired and rather hungry, we concluded to seek

for a shady spot where we might rest, and partake of the refreshment

with which we had taken the precaution to provide ourselves. Bill, who

had acted the part of master of the ceremonies during the whole of the

day, now preceded us, boasting aloud of his superior skill in

discovering a cool and pleasant spot for the purpose we desired. After a

few turns among the bushes and underwood, we suddenly emerged upon the

borders of a broad and rapid brook, which was murmuring its way most

delightfully among the reeds and wild-flowers that graced its margin.

And here we were at a stand. To arrive at the spot designated by our

young conductor, and represented by him as the best in the wood, it was

necessary that we should cross the stream; but how to do so was the

question. Bill suggested the placing a few large stones in the bed of

the river, by means of which we might easily step across. This was

accordingly done; and Bill, taking his sister by the hand, preceded the

rest of the party, who paused while they marked the progress of the

adventurers across their unsteady footway. As soon as they touched the

opposite margin, a loud shout from Bill electrified us. “A rattle-snake!

a rattle-snake! run—run for your lives!” and forgetful of the courage

which I had hitherto seen him assume on almost every occasion, Bill

dragged his terrified sister up the rough bank, and disappeared with her

in the thick groves beyond.

The cry had affrighted all. Each one ran in a different direction from

his fellow, and each thought the rattle-snake close at his heels. The

panic could scarcely have been greater had a boa-constrictor appeared

wreathing its voluminous folds among the branches of the beech, walnut,

and oak, that rustled above our heads. It was sorrowful to see the

labors of the morning scattered in a moment, for many of the well-filled

baskets, overturned by their respective owners in the precipitation of

their flight, poured their purple treasure among moss, lichens, and

fern-blossoms.

Meanwhile, I looked in vain for the reptile which had caused this alarm,

and finding myself left entirely alone, I concluded to follow the

footsteps of the valorous William and his gentle sister. Crossing the

stream, and clambering the bank on the opposite side, I found myself in

a charming grove of tall young trees of rapid growth.

All was still, save the whistle of the robin, or the solitary call of

the cat-bird. I wandered along, almost forgetful of the cause which

brought me hither, when at the entrance of a thicket of young hazels,

seated at the end of a fallen tree, and leisurely employed in stripping

the bark from a sapling branch, which he seemed desirous of forming into

something resembling a walking stick, I discovered “Our Bill.”

Surprised at the quiet in which I beheld him, contrasted as it was with

his late trepidation and alarm, I immediately accosted him with

enquiries after his sister.

“She isn’t far, I guess.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Yes.”

“I wish to see her.”

“Well—stop a bit.”

“I want to know if she is not hurt?”

“Hurt?—what should hurt her?”

“The snake, perhaps.”

The boy grinned archly.

“Bill,” said I, “what has become of that snake, think you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Do you think there really was any there?”

“I’m sartain I cannot tell.”

“Well,” said I, advancing, “I shall continue my search till I find

Nancy.”

The boy started up, and putting his fingers to his mouth, blew a shrill

whistle. I looked at him, in order to discover, if I could, the end and

aim of this new fantasy. A rustle among the bushes at a little distance

was heard. I turned my eyes in the direction of the sound. There was

Nancy, and by her side, one of his arms encircling her waist, stood as

fine and good-looking a country youth as one would wish to see.

They were about parting,—a few more last words—a kiss and then

farewell. Nancy came tripping toward the spot where she had left her

brother, but on seeing me stopped and looked confused. I hastened to

re-assure her; and quickly retracing our steps to the brook-side as a

sort of rendezvous, we soon were joined by our companions. So much for

the strategy of “Our Bill.”

Gathering up our fruit as well as we were able, we pursued our way

through the mazes of “Huckle-berry” wood. Bill who had been for some

time in advance of our party, now came running toward us announcing our

near approach to the house of Betty Nares the fortune-teller. “The

fortune-teller—the fortune-teller” was echoed from lip to lip. And,

“who will have their fortune told?” was asked of each, by the other.

And now we came in sight of Betty’s dwelling. A lowly roof it literally

was; for a person would scarcely be able to stand upright except in the

midst of the only apartment which it contained, so lowly and sloping was

the roof,—so covered with moss and lichens, that it resembled a green

hillock surrounded by trees. The interior was such as might have been

expected from its outward appearance. An earthen floor; a stool with

three legs; an empty barrel, the elastic end of which answered the

purposes of a table; a glazed earthen pipkin; a bowl or two; a wooden

platter and spoon, completed the number and variety of Betty’s furniture

and culinary utensils. A bundle of something indescribable—rolled up in

one corner, was supposed to be the couch on which this modern sybil

reposed her wearied limbs. A heap of stones formed the fire-place—and

an aperture in the roof answered the purpose of a chimney in so far as a

portion of the smoke occasionally made its escape thereat.

We found the mistress of this inviting retreat seated beside a few dying

embers, over which she extended her withered hand, seeking to animate

their torpidity by artificial heat. On seeing us she rose, and presented

to our view a veritable hag-like face and form. Her garments were

tattered, her shoes decayed, and her grey locks imperfectly covered by a

dilapidated bonnet. She saluted us in a shrill voice, and, in no very

gentle terms, demanded to know our business.

As this was a question we were not altogether prepared to answer, each

looked at his neighbor, desirous that he or she should expound. Betty,

finding us silent, and growing rather impatient, commenced an

objurgation in a high key, accompanied by a few ominous flourishes with

a stunted broom which she snatched from a corner near her fire-place. At

this moment Bill stepped up to her, and in a low voice made some

communication which had the effect of mollifying her at once.

“Do you wish to have your fortunes told, gentlemen and ladies?” said

she, addressing us with an attempt at looking gracious. One of the

village girls presented her a small piece of money, while Betty, from

some private nook, brought out a terribly soiled pack of cards, the

corners worn by constant attrition, and the edges blackened by frequent

devotion to the service of the curious in the prescient art.

It was amusing to see the interest displayed. The cards were cut and

divided. Attention became fixed. The fair enquirer into the mysteries of

the future, placed before this modern oracle, looked pale and red by

turns. And now we were informed of a strange man who would soon arrive

and bring good news to a certain family not many miles off. And of a

dark-haired woman who was a friend, and of a light-haired woman who was

an enemy, to the young enquirer. How a journey would be made to a

distant land, and how somebody of fair complexion and immense wealth was

to come over the water and offer himself a candidate for her fair hand.

There were letters to be expected without number, and presents to be

sent without name. At each separate piece of intelligence sly looks were

exchanged among the circle; meaning smiles, and conscious glances. “How

wonderfully true!” “Surprising!” “How she could have known such or such

a circumstance, it was hard to tell, but so it was. She seemed to know

every thing.”

Nancy Lee could not be prevailed upon to enquire into the circumstances

of her future lot, and by such neglect considerably displeased Betty;

and to pacify her, Bill invited her to his mother’s house the following

evening. To which arrangement she at last graciously consented.

We all returned home cheerful and happy; well pleased with our day’s

excursion.

The following evening I walked out to see Mrs. Lee, curious I must own,

to learn the proceedings of Betty Nares in persuading Nancy to have her

fortune told.

I found Mrs. Lee as usual in her neat kitchen. She was sitting quietly

there, for the business of the day was finished, and that of the

evening, which consisted generally of knitting or spinning, was not yet

begun. Nancy was sitting on a low stool by the side of her mother, and I

thought she looked as if she had been weeping. The milk pans had been

placed away, filled with their simple treasure. The chairs stood aside,

the hearth was swept up, and all things looked the very abode of quiet.

The last beams of the setting sun shone through the open door, and threw

a soft purple tint across the humble apartment, which was reflected by a

row of brightly burnished tin pans—proofs of the industry and neatness

of Nancy—which decorated the opposite wall—and—just as the last tints

faded away, a cricket from some crevice in the rural hearth-stone

commenced tuning his “tiny reed.”—It was the hour of peace.

Mrs. Lee began to wonder why her son had not returned. He had been

absent she said, for two hours in “Huckle-berry” wood. She wished with

all her heart that the season of gathering berries was over. She dreaded

every day when farmer Dawkins would get out of patience with his idling,

and send him home.

While she was speaking the window became darkened by some opaque body,

and on looking up we recognised the head of Betty Nares. Directly the

fortune-teller entered, and took a seat near the fire-place.

And now Bill came in. “Well,” he exclaimed on seeing Betty, “I’m glad

you are here. Now mother do just let her tell Nancy’s fortune. She told

a power of things to Lucy Harroby and Kitty Dixon, and all of ’em came

true—now do, mother.”

“Don’t be a simpleton, Bill. I have no faith in such stuff.”

I looked at Nancy—she smiled faintly but said nothing.

“You don’t believe me,” said the sybil—“you won’t believe me I suppose,

if I tell you that you yourself are soon to be married?” I must confess

that I thought this a bold and daring assertion of Betty, and calculated

to strike at the root of all her hopes of success: as Mrs. Lee was known

to be scrupulously correct and reserved in her deportment, most

particularly since the mysterious departure of her husband. As I

expected, Betty received a look of disdain.

“You need not look so scornful, Mrs. Lee,” said Betty, “what I tell you

is true, and you can’t get aside of it. And I’ll tell you more. The man

you want your daughter to marry, is going to meet with a great deal of

trouble in his worldly matters,—and the one you don’t wish her to have

is likely to be a rich man—and more—the day you give your consent that

Nancy shall marry Goodwin, a stranger from across the water will come

here, and give her a dowry that shall set them both well a going in the

world.”

Mrs. Lee in great displeasure asked Betty if she really supposed “that

she had lost her senses, that she should for one minute be induced to

credit such idle trash.” Betty however, kept her ground, and repeated

her opinions with a tenacity that surprised me. Bill still continued to

entreat. Nancy hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears. Mrs. Lee

scolded, and Betty solemnly shaking her head, declared she “had her

knowledge from one who would not lie.”

Feeling my presence, in the existing circumstances, rather an

incumbrance, I rose to take leave. This I did, just as Bill was blowing

a coal in order to light a candle, and Betty was beginning to shuffle

her cards.

Some particular business of my own, prevented me for a few days from

inquiring into the civil and domestic relations of the House of Lee. I

saw however, that my friend Bill was still in action. Indeed he seemed

more busy than ever. How the boy sustained such a constant course of

riding and running, of chopping and lugging, of cattle-driving and

hog-feeding, with numerous other et ceteras, all generally

terminating—of late—in an excursion to “Huckle-berry” wood, I could

scarcely imagine.

Wishing one morning to speak to my hostess, I went to the kitchen;

secure of finding her there,—that being the seat of empire, with a good

New-England house-wife. For once, however, I was disappointed; but there

sat Bill. Returned from some nameless excursion, he was eating a late

breakfast. It was rather picturesque. His naked feet, stained by the

soil through which he had lately plodded, were raised upon the cross

piece of his chair—his knees appearing through two very unnecessary

apertures in his nether garment—his ragged hat lying on the floor at

his feet, and two large house-dogs seated on the ground—one on each

side, watching with eager interest each morsel that he conveyed to his

lips.

I have said that I was somewhat anxious on the score of Bill’s health;

but when I saw the devotion with which he applied himself to his hashed

pork and potatoes, and the complacency with which from time to time he

eyed a smoking dish of pumpkin-pudding which stood close at his elbow,

waiting his acceptance, I comforted myself with the belief that the

means and appliances with which he strengthened his inward man, would

abundantly enable him to sustain the labors which heaven had allotted to

his share.

We had long been the best of friends, and perfectly understood each

other. He looked up at me with his laughing grey eyes.

“Our Nance is going to be married.”

“You don’t say so—Bill, are you in earnest?”

Bill nodded, for by this time his mouth was again full, and he could not

speak. He took a draught of cider from the great brown jug on the table.

“Yes, it’s true enough.”

“And to whom is she to be married?”

“Siah Goodwin.”

“Bless me, what could have brought about such a change?”

“Anan?”

“How has it all happened, Bill?”

“Why Betty Nares told Mother it _was to be_; so how could she hinder

it?”

“Ah, very true. Well, when is the wedding to take place?”

“To-morrow evening—won’t you come?”

“Certainly.”

“Do,—we shall have a main sight of pumpkin pies; mother says it will be

like a training day.”

Was it possible that the artful and ignorant Betty had succeeded in

imposing upon the plain good sense of Mrs. Lee? I was sure there must be

more in it than at first sight appeared. However, I determined to be at

the wedding. On enquiry, I found that the Dawkinses were invited, and

also that they were as much surprised at the turn affairs had taken as

myself.

The next evening we all repaired to the house of Mrs. Lee. On entering

her little parlor, we found a few of the neighbors assembled. Nancy sat

near a window, and beside her one whom I supposed to be the bridegroom.

I thought that I recognised in him the same young man whom I had seen

with her in Huckle-berry wood. My doubts, if I had any remaining, would

soon have been dissipated by her brother, who walking up to me, and

looking expressively in my face, and putting two of his fingers to his

mouth, produced in a subdued tone a sound resembling the hissing of a

snake. The whole truth flashed upon me at once.

The exterior of Bill himself was greatly improved, dressed as he was for

the occasion, in a good suit of home-spun cloth, his feet covered with a

decent pair of leather shoes, and his flaxen hair combed smoothly over

his forehead, cut short and even all round, with the exception of two

pendant locks, left as a partial covering to his ears.

Every thing was now in readiness, and we waited only for the clergyman

who had been sent for to perform the marriage ceremony.

A knock came to the door. Bill flew to open it.—“Here he is.” “That’s

he”—was whispered around—“No, not yet.”—

A fidgetty restlessness took possession of the party. Steps were heard

outside. The door again opened, and Bill appeared preceding a stranger.

He was dressed like a plain countryman, of good-looking face and

appearance, and he bore in his arms a rather unusual burthen, supposing

him to be a traveller. He advanced into the middle of the room. Mrs. Lee

rose from her seat and stared at him wildly. The stranger extended his

hand to her smiling. “Nancy,” said he, “_I’ve brought in the

oven-wood_.”

The poor woman gave one shriek and fell on the floor. Down went the wood

on the hearth, and the stranger flew to her assistance. Slowly she

regained her senses, and when she did so, she threw herself in the arms

of the new comer and wept aloud. We all crowded around, eager for an

explanation. It was soon given. James Lee, distressed by poverty, and

worn by the fretful temper of his wife, had, on the memorable morning of

his disappearance—on the impulse of the moment, resolved to quit his

home and seek his fortune in a foreign clime. For this act, his only

apology was the bitterness of despair. He sought the nearest port, and

embarked as a common sailor on board a vessel about sailing to the

West-Indies. Changing his name that he might not be traced, he made

himself useful, and became a favorite with his captain: was generally

esteemed, and by degrees enabled to traffic a little on his own account.

He had made many voyages and been unusually successful. He had acquired

a snug competence with which he now returned, for the purpose of

enjoying it in the bosom of his family. As he approached his home, the

recollection of the manner in which he had left it suddenly occurred to

him, and when Bill opened the door, the thought struck him that he would

go to the wood-pile, fill his arms with wood, and thus bring to his

wife’s mind, for the joke’s sake, the remembrance of their parting

scene, seven years before.

When he had concluded, and we had offered our congratulations on this

happy event, a shrill voice was heard to exclaim,

“Didn’t I tell you so—didn’t I say you were going to be married, Miss

Lee—hasn’t everything I said come to pass—didn’t I tell you?”—

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Lee, smiling, “you told me, as you tell others of

things to happen which you take good care to find out before-hand.”

Betty looked rather blank when she found that no credit was allowed her

for her skill in prescience, more especially as “Our Bill” in the pride

and fullness of his heart unfolded the secret of his numerous

expeditions to the wood. Here at Goodwin’s farm which was in the

immediate neighborhood, Lee had remained for a few days till the

harmless plot which he laid in conjunction with the young man was ripe

for development, and his wife had given her consent to his daughter’s

marriage with “Siah.” It is scarcely necessary to say that Bill had met

and recognised his father—been made privy to his and Goodwin’s scheme,

and in short, been active agent in the whole affair.

Several years have passed since that period. William Lee has grown to

man’s estate. He is married and has a snug little home of his own. He is

a carpenter by trade, and fills a respectable station in the community

of which he is a member.

For my own part, I love to think over the past, for many a pleasing idea

is connected with the reminiscences of “Huckle-berry” wood, and “Our

Bill.”

* * * * *

A SLIGHTED WOMAN.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “HOWARD PINCKNEY.”

And Helen, not neglectful she

Of her proud sex’s dignity,

If, in the mazes of the dance,

Perchance she met her loved of all,

You’d think that nothing met her glance

Between her and the wall,

Her eye around is thrown so free,

Her laugh rings out so merrily:

How soon a slighted woman learns

To hide that pang, however deep,

Though in her tortured heart it burns,

Her bosom-thoughts seem all asleep:

You’d think that peace was resting there,

With her light shawl upon her breast,

That exercise and healthy air,

And day-dreams that be wondrous fair,

With hopes that sweetest fruitage bear

Had caused the slight unrest:

Know you that her young heart bleeds—

That in this laughing mood.

The Pelican of Passion feeds

Her ever hungry brood—

The two extremes approach we know

And therefore often laughs our woe;

Hers tells, that laugh which rung so loud,

Of withered hopes within their shroud.

* * * * *

UNEQUALLY YOKED.

BY REV. J. KENNADAY.

“Why don’t you hurry, woman? Sure it is no wonder that the child sleeps

in your arms. And yourself will be asleep next, if you walk at this

creeping rate.”

“Be patient, William. You know that the mountain is steep; the child is

heavy; and it’s but little strength I have, any way.”

This was part of a dialogue I chanced to hear, while passing the

parties, who were clambering up one of the most rugged roads in the

Catskill mountains; a road so steep indeed, that my horse puffed at

every step, and the saddle creaked beneath me as I grasped the pummel.

The man was some twelve or fifteen feet in advance of the woman, and at

the sound of my horse’s feet, paused till I passed, when he turned the

hasty glance of his eye from me, in a heavy frown upon her whom he

upbraided. A light breath of wind touching the hood, together with the

effort of the woman to step aside from the road till I passed, laid open

the face of the sleeping child, and gave evidence, in the fullness of

its face, of the weight of its frame, and of health, derived almost at

the expense of the one upon whose bosom it reposed.

Possessing an enormous and hardy frame, the man trode the mountain path

almost with the step of an elephant, and appeared to require nothing but

a palanquin upon his huge shoulders to enable him to carry both the

mother and the babe. The woman was of small and delicate form. Her face

was round and very fair, over which was cast the mildness of a bright

but modest eye. Although her age was about thirty, she appeared at least

fifteen years younger than her husband.

A bend in the road, and the rapid walk of my horse, soon led me so far

in advance, that I ceased farther to hear a dialogue which, as far as it

was heard, intimated the unfeeling character of the one, and satisfied

me that the other had ample opportunity to manifest her piety in the

perfect working of her patience.

In the progress of another mile of the ascending road, I came to a pass,

where, in a close of about half an acre of level land, there stood a

little hut, immediately on the side of the road. The building was formed

of large unhewn logs, interlaid with clay. The door, swinging upon

hinges made of the soles of worn-out shoes, being partially open,

disclosed the scanty and mutilated furniture within. There was only one

window, consisting of a slender sash, designed for four small panes of

glass, but in which only two remained.

Notwithstanding the poverty indicated in the appearance of every thing

presented to my view, there was a general neatness with which I was

forcibly struck. A thrifty honey-suckle climbed up the little hut, and

the garden was much enlivened by a variety of lovely flowers. I know not

how correct the criterion may be found by others, but my observations

have long since confirmed me in the accuracy of the inference that,

however humble or elegant a country dwelling-house may be, wherever

there is a choice collection of flowers in the garden, there is usually

taste and cleanliness within the dwelling. The approach of a little boy

and girl to the door of this humble hut, with coarse but well mended

apparel, and the sedate and polite manner in which they expressed their

obeisance as I passed, satisfied me that the mistress of this cot

possessed feelings worthy of a better home. The manners of the children

were the more perceptible, as they could not have been acquired at

school, in as much as in this section of the mountains, schools are

seldom heard of. I knew of but one school-house within a distance of

three miles from these children, and that was open only during three

months of the year, and when those who attended must wade through

highland snows.

Another mile brought me to my place of destination, the glass-works,

consisting of a low, spacious, sombre frame building, standing in a

field, every where studded with the most formidable stumps of the

hemlock, a tree the most common in these mountains, and the most

majestic in its growth. With a trunk measuring from five to eight feet

in diameter, and rising more than a hundred feet high, this tree seems

the fitting plumage of the mountain it adorns. Scattered at various

distances from the glass factory were a few buildings, which, from their

dilapidated appearance, evidenced that their inmates would never suffer

persecution for belonging to a suspected aristocracy. Perhaps, however,

I ought to except one building which stood in palace-like contrast with

the rest, and adjoined the “factory-store.” This was the mansion of my

friend, Dr. ——, physician, agent of the glass-works, justice of the

peace, keeper of the store, and frequently member of the Legislature.

Here, with as much authority as is sometimes possessed by a continental

prince, the Doctor resided, enjoying the character of a “people’s-man.”

Strange as it might appear, yet it is certain that the glass-blowers and

wood choppers seldom remove from under his “agency,” without having a

balance against them on the Doctor’s book, either for rent, medical

attendance, justice, groceries or gin. He, it is true, got rich, yet no

one ventured to question his integrity, or to doubt his protection of

the poor.

It was not until the following day that I was able to gratify my

curiosity by going into the factory. The blower, at the furnace nearest

to which I stood, soon gave his instrument to another, and kindly

tendered his services to accompany me through the works, and to give me

the information respecting the process of glass-blowing, of which I was

in quest. We had passed only one or two men before I perceived, at one

of the furnaces, the man whom I passed in ascending the mountain.

“Who is that man?” said I, to my guide.

“That is Bill Hunter,” said he, “and a great bear he is.”

“Then you know him well?”

“I’ faith I do,” said the man, whose broad dialect had shown before this

that he was an Englishman. “I have known him this many a year. A fine

woman is she, his wife, but a dog’s life it is, she has with him.”

“He drinks, I suspect.”

“Yes, he does; but he’s a bad man when sober; and it was a dark day for

her when she left her father’s house for such a dolt as Hunter.”

“Then you know something of their history, I presume. Did you know her

father?”

“What, John Shaw of Spittlefields! indeed I knew him well, and it’s all

good I know of him. Sure, a better man there never lived.”

“My curiosity is quite awake my friend,” said I, “and you will greatly

gratify me by giving me a little of their history.”

“Oh! but it is a sorry history for her, poor woman,” said he. “Do you

see, then, her father was a wealthy manufacturer, and much thought on.

When Margaret was about fourteen years of age, he took this same Hunter

into his factory and store to be a kind of porter or runner. For the

purpose of aiding in family errands, he boarded in Mr. Shaw’s house. At

the end of a year, the father discovered that Margaret treated Hunter’s

addresses with favor, and in disgust and chagrin dismissed him from his

employ; not because he was poor, but that he was so _ould_. We, who knew

him, thought it was strange that the poor wench could think any thing of

such a surly, selfish fellow. But then he was good-looking, and as

slender as ye. It was not long before the whole town was in a stir, when

it was said that Shaw’s Margaret had gone to the States with Hunter.

Sure enough, it was true; for it was found out that under pretended

names they had sailed from Liverpool for Philadelphia. The vessel,

however, went into Wilmington, in the state of Delaware, where they were

married and went into the country, and found employment in a factory. He

was ever a low fellow and a fool, was Mr. Shaw, for admitting him under

his roof. About three years since, he came to this place poor enough.

For Margaret’s sake, poor girl, whom I knew when the whole town was

proud of her, I gave him an insight into this business. He scratches a

scanty living, having five children, and lives in the hut that you

passed down the mountain a piece. He is but a brute to her, who shares a

hard life on it, poor thing; and must ever repent leaving a father’s

house for one so unworthy of her.”

With this simple narrative I was much interested, and not the less so

because it was to me an additional evidence of what I had often thought

to be the case, that in the humbler walks of life, and in some of the

scenes, of poverty and suffering, there are those often who spend years

of pain in weeping over the inadvertence of the hour in which their

affections were misplaced.

March, 1841.

* * * * *

A PICTURE.

BY MRS. M. S. B. DANA.

And strangers gazed and wondered at the sight.

Round that lone being glowed a hallowed light;

Upon her pale, thin face a heaven-born smile

Played like a sunbeam on some lonely isle.

Yet plaintive were her tones in speech or song,

Like the low moaning winds the trees among,

And you could see her tender heart was riven,

And all the love she had, she gave to Heaven,

Oft, when the god of day had sunk to rest,

And sunlight lingered in the rosy west,

Still would she wander forth, with noiseless tread,

And, by a secret influence spirit-led,

Seek the same spot to which her steps would stray

With those she loved—but now, oh! where are they?

March, 1841.

* * * * *

SELF-DEVOTION.

A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.

BY MRS. E. C. EMBURY.

“Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise,

And what they do or suffer men record;

But the long sacrifice of woman’s days

Passes without a thought—without a word;

And many a holy struggle for the sake

Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfilled—

For which the anxious mind must watch and wake,

And the strong feelings of the heart be stilled,—

Goes by unheeded as the summer wind,

And leaves no memory and no trace behind!”

_Mrs. Norton._

“Do you believe, cousin Grace, that the world is as disinterested as it

was in the days of the ‘_preux chevaliers, sans peur et sans

reproche_?’”

“I do, Frank; and even though you quote the great Edmund Burke, you will

not convince me that the days of chivalry are gone! The days of

knight-errantry are passed away, and well is it for society that they

are so, but there is as much of the true chivalric spirit now existing

as was to be found in the time of Richard of the Lion Heart.”

“Do you really believe this, Grace?”

“Let me retaliate by another question, cousin Frank; do you believe that

all the knights and squires of olden time were inspired purely by a

noble desire to win fame and redress wrongs? Did not avarice, ambition,

selfish gratification, and love of wild excitement mingle their elements

then, even as they do now, in the mass of human feeling?”

“Undoubtedly the grosser passions were often commingled with the better

qualities of man’s nature; selfishness existed, but was not then so

widely diffused.”

“There we differ, Frank; the selfishness of modern times certainly shows

itself in less fearful shapes.”

“Because society has been compelled to make laws to protect itself

against those who would sacrifice all things to their own will; ‘might

no longer makes right,’ and therefore the selfishness of human nature is

shown less in high-handed spoliations than in secret machinations.”

“Well, Frank, that there is enough, aye, and to spare of selfishness on

earth I do not mean to dispute; but I still adhere to my first assertion

that there is no lack of the true chivalric spirit.”

“And pray how does it exhibit its qualities in this very dull and

prosaic world?”

“Disinterestedness, self-devotion, purity of intention, integrity of

principle, delicacy of sentiment, a high-toned sense of honor, and

indomitable courage—these are the essential qualities of a chivalric

character; and surely, Frank, there is no want of arenas in which to

exercise these virtues.”

“You will find few knights ready to enter the lists if such are the

requisites, cousin Grace.”

“I hope you are mistaken in your estimate of men, Frank; I have a better

opinion of your sex than to adopt your ideas. But if it be as you say,

if selfishness be so active a principle among _men_, then have the

virtues taken up their abode in the hearts of _women_.”

“Do they possess the chivalric spirit, Grace?—courage and all?”

“You need not laugh, I can prove what I say.”

“No, no, Grace, I am willing to allow your sex all superiority in

goodness and purity of feeling, but the virtues of women are of a

passive nature,—they have fortitude to suffer, patience to endure, but

rarely energy to act. Men _make_ sacrifices—women _suffer_ them.”

“How little you know of the sex when you make such an assertion, Frank.

A woman’s sacrifices are of daily and hourly occurrence; she lives but

to minister to others, and to forget herself. If her courage is of a

more passive nature it is because her sphere of action is very properly

limited. She is not called to stem the tide of battle, or to face death

in warrior’s array; but is it nothing to look calmly upon the king of

terrors in the chamber of pestilence—to wait for his fatal blow, with

placid fortitude, when assailed by sudden peril—to gaze, unmoved, upon

the weltering wave—or to perish with unquailing courage amid flames and

tortures? Yet all this has been done by women. Awaken but a woman’s

feelings, arouse the hidden strength of her affections, and earth holds

not a peril which she will not brave.”

“You are eloquent, cousin Grace, but you scarcely make out your own

case; according to your own evidence woman must have a personal motive

for action; her strength of character must be called forth by some

individual affection, or to use a less gentle term, by some selfish

impulse.”

“According to your way of viewing character, then, Frank, the noblest

impulses of our nature arise from selfishness.”

“I should like to hear you draw a parallel between the sexes, cousin

Grace; you seem to be so impartial—to concede so much goodness to

_man’s_ fallen nature, while you exalt so highly the weaker sex, that I

am a little curious to know how you would distinguish them.”

“You would probably only dispute my positions, and make a jest of my

distinctions, Frank.”

“I will promise to do neither, Grace.”

“Well, then listen to the opinions of one who is content with the

dispensations of Providence, and who believes that the finger of God

himself has marked out the line which separates the impulses, the

habits, the character of the two sexes:—Man has _vigor_—woman

_refinement_: man has the _reasoning_ faculty best developed—woman the

_perceptive_: man has the power of _abstraction_—woman _rarely_

possesses it: man is the creature of _calculation_—woman of _impulse_:

man is capable of deep research, he proceeds slowly and cautiously,

measuring every distance, and counting every step of his progress—woman

bounds along with rapid foot, observing the most prominent objects in

her path, and from them forms conclusions often erroneous, but always

ingenious. The intellectual faculty in man is usually concentrated—in

woman it is diffused: men of genius commonly devote themselves to some

one favorite pursuit—women of genius are remarkable for their

versatility. Man has the more correct _judgment_—woman the more correct

_feelings_. He has a _knowledge_ of right which he often forgets—she a

_consciousness_ of it which never forsakes her, even in the midst of

crime: man possesses the stronger _passions_—woman the stronger

_affections_: man has _boldness_—woman _fortitude_: man can perform

heroic deeds—woman can endure the extreme of suffering: man has the

more _physical_ daring—woman the more _moral_ courage: man controls

others by the _force_ of his character—woman influences by the

_gentleness_ of hers. In a word, my dear Frank, the relative position of

the sexes is fixed beyond all change; their respective duties are well

defined. Man has been given the weapons of moral and mental _warfare_,

that he may go out into the world, and do battle with and for his

fellows—while on woman is bestowed that skill in moral and mental

_culture_ which enables her to improve the field of duty at home.”

“Very clearly defined, cousin Grace; so then you do not agree in opinion

with those who are for enlarging the boundaries of woman’s domain, and

would fain make her a gladiator in the arena, instead of a spectator in

the amphitheatre of action.”

“That women have some wrongs to be redressed is an undoubted fact, but I

am no friend to this new warfare for the ‘_rights of women_;’ let the

sex only do their duty at home to parents, brothers, husbands, or

friends, and they will have little cause to repine that the forum, the

pulpit, or the poll is closed against them. But I have not forgotten

your innuendoes respecting the selfishness of women, Frank, and I should

like to tell you a story which will convince you of how much

self-devotion a woman may be capable, even when the strongest passions

of her nature are to be subdued.

“Fanny Wilbank was one of those patient, long suffering creatures, who

seem sent into the world to fulfil the command, ‘_Bear ye one another’s

burdens_,’ for from her very childhood she had borne the burdens of the

whole family. Her father, one of those good-hearted, thoughtless

prodigals, who, in their readiness to help other people, are apt to

forget their own interests, had been all his life unfortunate. Nothing

seemed to succeed in his hands—the most promising business was sure to

fail if he undertook it, and as his family increased his means

diminished, until they were reduced to the utmost straits to preserve

that respectability of station in which they were born and bred. Fanny

was the eldest of the family, and of course upon her devolved the duty

of assisting her sickly mother in the care of the children, and the

management of their household. Here was a wide field for the exercise of

self-denial and patience. A weary lot is that of hopeless poverty, when

it relies on charity alone for food and warmth and raiment; but wearier

still is the lot of those, who, amid privation and want, still struggle

to keep themselves from the deep abyss of beggary, and strive with

decent pride still to retain their foothold in a world which too often

confounds misfortune with disgrace. It was amid cares, and troubles, and

anxieties of every kind that Fanny Wilbank grew up to womanhood. To say

that she was beautiful would convey but little idea of the gentleness,

the delicacy, the loveliness of her countenance. I might describe her

soft black eyes, her full bright lips, the jetty blackness of her

luxuriant tresses, the grace of her slender form, and the elastic spring

of her bounding step, but it would need the painter’s art to image the

tender sweetness of her expression. Her face was such as one might fancy

for a Madonna—pale, pensive and full of high-souled thought; but Fanny

knew little of her beauty and cared less. Had she possessed the talisman

of wealth she might have been the artist’s model and the poet’s theme;

but the spell of beauty alone is powerless to unlock the treasures of

earth, and Fanny was too poor to behold her own charms in the magic

mirror of flattery. Indeed she never seemed to think of herself; she

managed for every body, ministered to the comfort of every body, and

took her share of enjoyment in beholding the gratification of others.

But it must not be supposed that her beauty and goodness were unknown

and unappreciated. Several unexceptionable offers of marriage were made

to her—offers, which if accepted, would have placed her far beyond the

reach of want and labor—but Fanny was not to be influenced by sordid

motives in so momentous a matter, and resisting all the temptations of a

life of ease, still preserved her quiet cheerfulness to illumine the

home of her childhood.

“Her hour of severer trial, however, came at last. Among the few

companions of her childhood was a youth of humble fortunes but of noble

character, whose name I shall conceal under that of William Grey. Their

regard for each other had grown up so gradually in their hearts,

probably neither was aware of its strength, until the time when William

was to go out into the world and strive amid his fellows to earn his

bread by the sweat of his brow. The grief which each felt at this

separation, revealed the nature of their feelings, and Fanny wondered at

herself when she found how closely her love for a stranger had entwined

itself with the affections which she had hitherto devoted to the claims

of kindred. But they plighted faith to each other, and looking forward

to a future of mutual love and quiet happiness, William obeyed the call

of duty, while the gentle Fanny continued to pursue her routine of heavy

cares with a cheerful and hopeful spirit.

“After an absence of two years, William full of eager anticipation

returned to claim the fulfilment of her pledge, and to bear her to a

humble home in another part of the country. Fanny’s heart misgave her

sadly, when she looked on her pale mother and thought of the burden

which would fall upon her when she was gone. She half repented of her

promise to William, dearly as she loved him, for she had so long been

accustomed to think of the comfort of others, in preference to her own,

that self gratification seemed to her almost a sin. But her scruples

were soon put to rest, for her parents, unwilling to make any sacrifices

on their part for their self-denying child, positively refused to listen

to her lover’s suit. Nay, they even accused Fanny of selfishness, and

made out a charge of black ingratitude against her, for wishing to leave

them. With the usual impatience of man’s temper, William was deeply

incensed at such treatment, and endeavored to persuade Fanny to a

clandestine marriage. Her answer to his proposal was one which might be

remembered with profit by those who rush heedlessly to the altar, even

when their path lies over the crushed hearts of those who watched their

helpless infancy.

“‘How could I hope to perform my duties to you, William,’ said she, ‘if

I came to you with the curse of a broken commandment clinging to me?

Think you a disobedient child could prove a good wife? No, dearly as you

now love me, you would be the first to doubt me, were I to give you such

a proof of my selfish disregard to the ties of blood. We are both young

yet, let us then wait until the future shall bring us better prospects.’

“‘God knows, Fanny, I would serve for you even as Jacob did for Rachel,

could I but hope to see you my own, but I know not how time is to remove

the obstacles which divide us,’ was his reply.

“‘Oh, Mary will soon be old enough to fill my place, and then I can be

spared from home,’ said she.

“‘Alas if I am to wait till your place can be supplied by another, I

shall but live on hope to die in despair,’ said William despondingly;

‘no one can ever be the same, thoughtful, patient, affectionate,

ministering angel that you have been to all around you.’ And thus they

again parted, but which think you suffered most keenly from this

disappointment? Was it he whose love was but the episode in the striving

tale of life—who listened to the voice of affection, but as soft music

played between the acts of the great tragi-comedy of existence? No! the

shaft of pain sunk deepest in the heart of her who remained in the

seclusion of home, shut up within the narrow circle of duties which

daily, hourly reminded her of the almost hopeless nature of her

feelings.

“Time sped on and brought its usual changes. The boys grew old enough to

be provided with situations beyond the parental roof, and Fanny began to

look forward once more to a union with her lover. But in the midst of

her brightening hopes, her mother died, leaving to Fanny as her last

bequest, the charge of watching over the youth of her only sister. This

sacred duty was one which Fanny might easily have fulfilled without the

sacrifice of a single desire of her own heart, had not Mary’s failing

health rendered it a task of unceasing anxiety. An accident received in

infancy had slowly and insidiously undermined the once vigorous

constitution of the child, and soon after the mother was laid within the

tomb, an incurable disease of the spine confined Mary entirely to her

bed. It was then, with a heart bleeding over the severed ties of

kindred, that Fanny first taught herself to reflect upon the necessity

of a final sacrifice of her hopes of happiness. Her father was fast

sinking under the infirmities of age, and Mary was now helplessly

dependent on her for every comfort; how then could she indulge the vain

dream of being able to study her own welfare. There was a bitter

struggle in the heart of the poor girl ere she could bring herself to

write a letter of renunciation to William. But she swerved not her duty,

however severe might be its requisitions, and while the tears fell like

rain over the thoughts of her blighted hopes, not one drop was allowed

to blister the page which bore him her final farewell. But Fanny was

sadly mistaken when she fancied that the severest part of the conflict

was past. The letter only served to bring William in person to combat

the resolution she had formed, and she was now to endure the redoubled

anguish of beholding her lover’s sorrow. But in vain he sought to alter

her decision. She knew that instead of being a help-meet, she could now

be only a hindrance to one who was obliged to labor for his daily bread,

and her unselfish love taught her that it was for her

‘Alone to suffer and alone to strive.’

“‘My fate is fixed, William,’ said the hopeless girl; ‘I cannot perform

the duties of a poor man’s wife, without neglecting my afflicted sister;

her sufferings would mar your daily comfort, and her necessities demand

my undivided attention. God knows how tenderly I have loved you, and how

gratefully I feel your faithfulness, in thus abiding constant through

years of absence and disappointment, but that must be at an end now,

William;—our long engagement must be forgotten,—you are free—and may

heaven grant you a happier destiny than to be linked with one who seems

born only for sorrow.’

“Poor Fanny! how bitterly she wept as she uttered these words of

self-immolation! But she knew she was right, and even William, when the

first burst of grief had subsided, and he was able to reflect calmly

upon all the circumstances, acknowledged within himself, that Fanny had

judged wisely for both. He could appreciate the honest pride which

forbade her to fill a husband’s home with her own helpless relatives,

and he could well understand the disinterested affection which taught

her to make her own heart the victim rather than heap heavier burdens

upon one with whom the world had already dealt hardly. Again they

parted, but no hope of reunion now cheered their last

farewell;—henceforth they were to meet as friends, but never more to

exchange the sweet tones of lovers’ vows. How much less heroism is

required to perform noble deeds in the sight, and beneath the applause

of thousands, than thus to sacrifice love, and hope, and happiness, in

silence and secrecy on the altar of duty! Yet the warrior receives his

meed of glory, while the woman who calmly surrenders the ‘life of life’

without the stimulus of fame or the hope of guerdon;—she who patiently

lives on, ‘in helpless, hopeless, brokenness of heart,’ ministering

meekly to others, while a wasting grief is eating into her very

soul—goes down to the grave unnoticed and unknown—perhaps regarded as

a cold and eccentric being by those who cannot fathom the pure depths of

such a mind.

Fanny’s cheek grew pale and hollow, but she gave no other evidence of

secret sorrow, for she well knew that Mary’s keen eye would watch for

traces of her heart’s struggle, and she would not pain her suffering

sister by a knowledge of the bitter price at which her comfort had been

purchased. At length she heard of William’s marriage, and this severed

the last frail link that bound their hearts together. From that time his

name was never mentioned, and resolutely forbidding her thoughts to

dwell upon the past, Fanny Wilbank compelled herself to cheerfulness.

But a shadow had gone over her bright face, and her voice learned a new

tone of melancholy pathos—_she spoke like one who often weeps_.

“The death of her father soon after left her alone with her helpless

sister, and having a small apartment, Fanny now commenced the task of

obtaining a livelihood for both by the labors of her needle. The

constant attention which Mary required, rendered this very difficult,

for many an hour which should have been employed in earning their daily

bread, was spent in soothing the pangs of the afflicted invalid. It was

at that period that I first met with this heroine of humble life, for

what I have hitherto been telling you I learned long afterward. My

mother had occasion to employ a sempstress, and Fanny Wilbank having

been recommended to her, I was sent to make some enquiry of her previous

to giving her the work. I was a giddy school-girl at the time, but I

shall never forget the impression made upon me by the neatness of the

apartment, the snowy whiteness of the bed-linen, and above all, by the

extreme beauty of both the females. Mary’s disease did not in the least

impair the bloom of her lovely countenance, and as she sat propped up in

bed by pillows, she looked in far better health than her pale sister.

But I soon found that her face was the only part of her frame which had

escaped the distorting touch of pain, for her body was shrunken to the

size of that of a child, and her limbs were sadly mis-shapen. My

business with them was soon settled, but the interest which they had

awakened in my bosom did not so quickly subside. My mother became one of

their warmest patrons, and having heard their history from one of their

early friends, I need scarcely add that we felt increased respect and

regard for the self-devoted Fanny Wilbank.”

“And did she meet with no reward for all her virtues, cousin Grace?”

“Alas! Frank, it is only in novels I fear, that we find virtue always

rewarded and vice signally punished. Such things are rarely recompensed

on earth, it is only in Heaven that we are told ‘all tears shall be

wiped away.’ But I have not yet finished my story. Medical skill was

procured for Mary, which, though it could not cure a disease ingrafted

in her whole system, yet afforded some alleviation of her severest

sufferings. Constant employment was also secured to Fanny, so that as

far as pecuniary matters went, their condition was much improved; but no

human hand could bring back health to the one, or restore the blighted

blossoms of hope in the bosom of the other.

“Some few years later I married, and accompanied my husband to Europe,

and my parents having about the same time removed to the south, I lost

sight of Fanny Wilbank. When, however, after some years absence I

returned to my native city, one of my first wishes was to learn

something of her present condition. But the friends who had promised to

employ her, had neglected to do so until it was too late; all trace of

her had vanished, and I was left to conjecture her fate. I was one day

passing a handsome house in —— street, when I heard a voice from an

upper window exclaim ‘Mrs. ——! I am sure it is Mrs. ——!’ I looked up

in surprise and beheld Fanny Wilbank. The next moment the hall door

opened, and Fanny hurrying down the steps, grasped my hand with the

warmth of earnest affection. I followed her into a neatly furnished

room, and mechanically seating myself, wondered what it all meant. Fanny

divined my thoughts, for she smiled, blushed, and seemed about to tell

me some news, when a little chubby boy, of some three summers, twaddled

into the room and saluted her by the appellation of ‘mother.’ This

solved the whole mystery.

“‘Come into the next room, where you will find Mary,’ said Fanny, ‘and I

will tell you all about it. For you really did not know that I was

married?’

“‘No indeed,’ was my reply, ‘pray how long have you been a wife?’

“‘Almost a year.’

“‘Almost a year?’ I exclaimed in stupid wonder! ‘and that child?’

“‘Is my husband’s youngest boy.’

“‘Then you married to take care of another’s children.’

“‘Yes, I could not refuse him,—fortune had prospered him, so that he

could afford to take care of poor Mary, and I consented, though I was

almost ashamed to become a bride at my age.’

“‘At your age! why you look younger and prettier than ever, Fanny, in

that tasteful little cap.’

“‘Do not laugh at me, dear Mrs. ——, I know it was foolish to marry for

love at forty-five, but William was so lonely, and his poor children

were so desolate.’

“‘Then it was William Grey you married?’

“‘To be sure;—_did you think it could be any one else?_’

“‘Ah!’ said Mary smiling, ‘William would not have won her even now, if

it had not been for his motherless children. Fanny has been so long

accustomed to sacrifice her own inclinations, that she cannot be

persuaded to any self-indulgence unless some duty be closely connected

with it.’

“Fanny Wilbank still lives; the beauty of her noble countenance has

faded beneath the touch of time, and many a thread of silver is mingled

with her dark locks, yet is she the centre of a circle of loving and

beloved friends, still the same, patient, tender, self-forgetting being,

that she was in the day of her early adversity.”

“So she was at last rewarded, cousin Grace, notwithstanding your

assertion to the contrary.”

“And do you deem her after fortunes a fitting recompense for the trials

of her youth, Frank? The bloom of youth, the freshness of feeling, the

glow of hope, the buoyancy of health,—all things that give a charm to

life, faded one by one from her view, even as the stars vanish in the

slowly-gathering tempest cloud,—patience, long suffering, meekness, and

resignation had taken the place of bright anticipation in her bereaved

heart,—time had laid his cold touch upon her fair brow, aye, and upon

her warm heart too, and then, at the last she was _rewarded_—how?—why

forsooth, by wedding the object of her early love, after her life had

‘fallen into the sear and yellow leaf,’—and thus obtaining the enviable

privilege of educating the children of her predecessor.”

“What became of poor Mary, cousin?”

“Do you not remember, Frank, the sick lady on whose bed you loved to

clamber, when you were a merry little urchin, who used to cover your

balls so neatly, and paint so many pretty devices for your kites?”

“To be sure I do;—I remember too how bitterly I cried when they told me

she was dead, and I saw them bring in the small coffin for her shrunken

form. You don’t mean to say that was Mary Wilbank?”

“It was, cousin Frank, and in the story of Fanny Wilbank, I have been

relating to you the early life of one whom you have ever loved with

filial tenderness—I mean your excellent step-mother.”

“She is the only mother I have ever known, cousin Grace, and you can

tell me nothing good of her which I cannot readily believe; so if you

take her for an example, I have no more to say against the existence of

disinterestedness in this selfish world. It is only a pity there are so

few like her.”

* * * * *

A WINTER SCENE.

BY E. CLEMENTINE STEDMAN.

Unclouded the sun from his glittering throne

Looked radiantly down where the tempest had gone!

For in darkness it came with the tokens of wrath,

But fled at the dawn on its ice-covered path.

And straight in the sunbeams the forest displayed

A host in the armor of battle arrayed;

There the “helmet of brass,” and the shield glistened clear,

And the bright flashing steel of the sword and the spear.

The garden, where Flora in summer is green,

At the glance of the sun was all dazzling with sheen;

And never a princess outvied, with her gems,

The jewels that hung there on numberless stems!

The lawn trees which stand in the glory alone,

Each sparkled with diamonds, like kings, on a throne,

And ne’er when o’erspread with their green foliage shade,

Were they in such beauty or splendor arrayed!

And silver and gold, as in Solomon’s reign,

Were plenty as stones by the wayside again,

And bright did the spire and the roof with them glow,

While diadems shone on the tall mountain brow.

I gazed on the scene with unearthly delight,

And thought, while its radiance enraptured my sight.

Of that city, which one did in visions behold,

Whose gates were of pearl, and its streets paved with gold.

Again I looked forth, while the sunlight yet shone,

But the scene of enchantment I sought for was gone!

The sun, which had gilded each shrub with its ray,

Was melting the landscape of glory away!

Thus my hopes have dissolved, which once glistened so bright

In the sun of youth’s morn, to my fanciful sight;

Their brilliancy passed off in tears,—oh! how soon!

As the sleet-jewels melt in the sunbeams of noon.

* * * * *

THE DEFAULTER.

BY JOHN T. MAULL.

Ou trouverez vous un homme sans défauts?

_Télémaque._

In the beautiful season of youth, when life is just budding forth in all

the dewy freshness of ardent hope; when the heart is buoyant, and the

energies alive, and panting after objects around which to shed the

virtuous influence of their association, oh! then it is that we feel,

like the harp that is delicately attuned, the full force of every

impression:—of what moment, therefore, are those early connections and

restraints which are voluntarily assumed to fit us for our companionship

with the world, or in other words to form the character by which we are

to be known and appreciated among our fellow men; but that character

when formed, like the vestal fire of the ancients, demands the constant

vigilance of our noblest faculties to keep alive and perpetuate.

George Morris was in his twenty-fourth year, when partly by the

intercession of rich relatives, and in a great measure by the possession

of personal endowments of no ordinary kind, he was called upon to assume

an office of public trust. I knew him well. Gay without frivolity—proud

in the consciousness of correct principle, and gifted with enviable

powers of pleasing, his career, indeed, seemed to offer the rich

rewards, if not of honorable fame, at least of high respectability. He

loved, and after a short courtship, was wedded. Never were two hearts

more willingly allied. The whole ardor of his soul was devoted to the

fair being whom he had chosen for his own, and in the retirement of his

home did he acknowledge his earthly happiness. Did reflection dwell on

the noise and bustle of the world without, it was only to assure him of

the comforts of his peaceful fire-side. Thus did time glide on with

silken wing, dispensing the calm and rational pleasures of domestic

life, which Morris of all others was so formed to appreciate. He began

his career, which it was foretold would be so honorable to him, in the

capacity of one of the chief officers of an institution of public

monetary trust. Here, with principles of integrity, deep rooted as the

rock, he persevered in industrious habits, and by continued vigilance

deservedly won the esteem of the community. His probity had been tested,

and the man of business implicitly confided in him. Society courted him.

Living in a populous city, as years progressed, he occupied an advanced

position among his fellow men—honorable alike to himself and to a

growing family: no cares had with him an abiding place, for his

children, whom he dearly loved, were gladdening the father’s heart, and

yielding him bright hopes for the future. All was happiness—all love

and tranquillity. Who then would venture to disturb this domestic Eden?

What baneful influence could bring desolation here? Who could wring the

tear of anguish from that young and doating mother—or the helping cry

from that unprotected child—who convert, as with magic wand, the happy

homestead into the refuge of want and affliction? The husband! the

father himself! Mystery of mysteries! yet did Morris work to himself

this very ruin. Lured by the expensive fashions of the day, the splendid

equipage, and the gay coterie of wealth, and desirous to equal, if not

eclipse the brilliance which he saw in the circles wherein he was called

to move, he had given the rein to his appetite and ambition, until he

was forced to do an act—an act from which he once would have shrunk

aghast, with horror and dismay. He defrauded, and was detected—he fled:

but could he avoid himself? Could he escape the guilty conscience—the

bitter remorse? It was in vain. Go where he would, fancy would revert to

that blighted, ruined home; and the thought of that one withering

act—it was insupportable—it was madness. His reputation was

irrecoverably gone, and he roamed abroad far from his native land—a

wandering outcast. Of what avail were now to him the common blessings of

nature? the light to him was as the darkness—the very air was heavy,

and laden as with the vapors of a dungeon—the world itself was one vast

prison-house. Did he sleep—frightful phantoms would haunt his couch,

and drive away repose; supplicating hands of beggared orphans and

stricken widows would rise in airy forms, while strange, unearthly

voices would cry aloud, and pierce the air in wail and lamentation, then

die away as if in mock and derision.

Afar from country, relatives and friends, lived the Defaulter. Bitter

was the cup which that man drained to the very dregs. Providence had set

its sure seal of condemnation on his destiny, and although the laws of

man were impotent, the great law of the Omniscient failed not. There was

no retreat from that _presence_, which hath so solemnly declared “thou

shalt not steal.”

At length news was brought to him from afar—it told him that the wife

of his bosom was dead—his children dependant upon the charity of

strangers. It was upon the receipt of this intelligence that I met

Morris, who was dwelling in a retired part of one of the chief cities

upon the Continent. I dared not think upon what might be the probable

result of my interview. Conflicting emotions were agitating my breast,

but I had fully resolved on the meeting, and on my arrival accordingly,

sought out his residence. It was about eight o’clock, of a summer’s

night, that, in an abstracted mood, I sauntered leisurely toward the

house. Having presented myself, I was admitted to a small chamber,

neatly furnished, where I found him alone. I knew not how to begin, how

to address myself to my early friend—so altered. He was lying on a

couch, evidently in the last stage of a fever. You felt at once he was a

dying man. His presence bewildered me; the hollow and glassy eye riveted

my gaze, until recollecting myself, in a subdued tone I spoke of the

country I had left—my object in travelling—my desire to obtain tidings

of himself; and then ventured to recall his memory to the many happy

days we had spent in each other’s society.

“Gone, gone!” said he, groaning aloud, and seeming to awaken from a

listless reverie. In a moment he continued. “Will not one human creature

compassionate George Morris?—a stranger in a strange land! My Julia—my

wife—the mother of my little ones, they tell me is dead; and I, who

loved her so, poor thing, they say was her destroyer. Oh, God! have

mercy on thy creature, I feel thy indignation, and am smitten in the

dust. Come death, come the grave—welcome your embraces! But I

cannot—cannot endure the iron that is now thrusting itself in my soul.”

There is something grand and terrible in the moral subjugation of man.

“L——,” he faintly articulated, after a pause, during which he

wept—yes, wept for the first and _last_ time, “I feel that I am

dying—thank God! for his mercy; forgive, my friend, the weakness of

these tears—they are of contrition—of—of penitence.”

Exhausted by this effort, he sank into my arms.

“L——,” continued he, reviving, and raising his voice—“do you not see

her—there L——, there she is, she’s beckoning to me—she looks the

same as on that bridal night—she smiles, too, upon me—and look, L——,

look, she forgives me—I come! we were sundered once, but now they

cannot disunite us.”

A struggle ensued, but it was short; a moment more, and he was _dead_.

The flickering flame of the taper had gone out; the moonlight rested

upon the pale features of the corpse; and the soul of the Defaulter had

sped to its eternal reckoning.

March, 1841.

* * * * *

COMPARISONS.

BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON.

A leaf upon the stream,

When the brook is rushing by

In its glorious summer dream,—

Such am I.—

A feather in the air,

When the autumn breeze is high,

Driven here and driven there,—

Such am I.—

A wild flower in the glade,

Where the quiet Zephyrs sigh,

Most happy in the shade.—

Such am I.—

As the aspen among trees,

Where the sleeping waters lie,

Stirred by every passing breeze,—

Such am I.—

But the leaf will find a shore,

The feather cease to fly,

And both be seen no more,—

So will I.—

The flower soon will fade,

And the aspen’s leaves be dry,

Both forgotten in the glade,—

So am I.—

March, 1841.

* * * * *

THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

It is not improbable that a few farther steps in phrenological science

will lead to a belief in the existence, if not to the actual discovery

and location of an organ of _analysis_. If this power (which may be

described, although not defined, as the capacity for resolving thought

into its elements) be not, in fact, an essential portion of what late

philosophers term ideality, then there are indeed many, good reasons for

supposing it a primitive faculty. That it may be a constituent of

ideality is here suggested in opposition to the vulgar dictum (founded,

however, upon the assumptions of grave authority,) that the calculating

and discriminating powers (causality and comparison) are at variance

with the imaginative—that the three, in short, can hardly coexist. But,

although thus opposed to received opinion, the idea will not appear

ill-founded when we observe that the processes of invention or creation

are strictly akin with the processes of resolution—the former being

nearly, if not absolutely, the latter conversed.

It cannot be doubted that the mental features discoursed of as the

analytical are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We

appreciate them only in their effects. We know of them, among other

things, that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately

possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man exults

in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his

muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which

_disentangles_. He derives pleasure from even the most trivial

occupations bringing his talent into play. He is fond of enigmas, of

conundrums, of hieroglyphics—exhibiting in his solutions of each and

all a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension

preternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and essence

of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition.

The faculty in question is possibly much invigorated by mathematical

study, and especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and

merely on account of its retrogade operations, has been called, as if

_par excellence_, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to

analyse. A chess-player, for example, does the one without effort at the

other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental

character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise,

but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very

much at random—I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the

higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more

usefully taxed by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the

elaborate frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have

different and bizarre motions, with various and variable values, that

which is only complex is mistaken (a not unusual error) for that which

is profound. The _attention_ is here called powerfully into play. If it

flag for an instant, an oversight is committed, resulting in injury or

defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold but involute, the

chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten

it is the more concentrative rather than the more acute player who

conquers. In draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are unique and

have but little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are

diminished, and the mere attention being left comparatively unemployed,

what advantages are obtained by either party are obtained by superior

acumen. To be less abstract. Let us suppose a game of draughts, where

the pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no oversight

is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory can be decided

(the players being at all equal) only by some recherché movement, the

result of some strong exertion of the intellect. Deprived of ordinary

resources, the analyst throws himself into the spirit of his opponent,

identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a

glance, the sole methods (sometimes indeed absurdly simple ones) by

which he may seduce into miscalculation or hurry into error.

Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what are termed the

calculating powers; and men of the highest order of intellect have been

known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while eschewing

chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is nothing of a similar nature so

greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. The best chess-player in

Christendom _may_ be little more than the best player of chess—but

proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all those more

important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When I say

proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a

comprehension of all the sources (whatever be their character) from

which legitimate advantage may be derived. These are not only manifold

but multiform, and lie frequently among recesses of thought altogether

inaccessible to the ordinary understanding. To observe attentively is to

remember distinctly; and so far the concentrative chess-player will do

very well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the

mere mechanism of the game) are sufficiently and generally

comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and to proceed by “the

book,” are points commonly regarded as the sum total of good playing.

But it is in matters beyond the limits of mere rule where the skill of

the analyst is evinced. He makes, in silence, a host of observations and

inferences. So perhaps do his companions; and the difference in the

extent of the information obtained lies not so much in the falsity of

the inference as in the quality of the observation. The necessary

knowledge is that of _what_ to observe. Our player confines himself not

at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he reject deductions

from things external to the game. He examines the countenance of his

partner, comparing it carefully with that of each of his opponents. He

considers the mode of assorting the cards in each hand; often counting

trump by trump, and honor by honor, through the glances bestowed by

their holders upon each. He notes every variation of face as the play

progresses, gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the

expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph or of chagrin. From the

manner of gathering up a trick he judges whether the person taking it

can make another in the suit. He recognises what is played through feint

by the air with which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or

inadvertent word; the accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the

accompanying anxiety or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the

counting of the tricks, with the order of their arrangement;

embarrassment, hesitation, eagerness or trepidation—all afford to his

apparently intuitive perception indications of the true state of

affairs. The first two or three rounds having been played, he is in full

possession of the contents of each hand, and thenceforward puts down his

cards with as absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of the

party had turned outward the faces of their own.

The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity; for

while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often

utterly incapable of analysis. I have spoken of this latter faculty as

that of resolving thought into its elements, and it is only necessary to

glance upon this idea to perceive the necessity of the distinction just

mentioned. The constructive or combining power, by which ingenuity is

usually manifested, and to which the phrenologists (I believe

erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a primitive

faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose intellect bordered

otherwise upon idiocy as to have attracted general observation among

writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the analytic ability there

exists a difference far greater indeed than that between the fancy and

the imagination, but of a character very strictly analogous. It will be

found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the _truly_

imaginative never otherwise than profoundly analytic.

The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the

light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced.

Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18—, I

there contracted an intimacy with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This

young gentleman was of an excellent, indeed of an illustrious family,

but, by a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty

that the quondam energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he

ceased to bestir himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of

his fortunes. By courtesy of his creditors there still remained in his

possession a small remnant of his patrimony; and upon the income arising

from this he managed, by means of a vigorous economy, to procure the

necessaries of life, without troubling himself about its superfluities.

Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are easily

obtained.

Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre, where

the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare and very

remarkable volume brought us into closer communion. We saw each other

again and again. I was deeply interested in the little family history

which he detailed to me with all the candor which a Frenchman indulges

only when self is his theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast extent

of his reading—and above all I felt my soul enkindled within me by the

wild fervor, and what I could only term the vivid freshness, of his

imagination. Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the

society of such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and this

feeling I frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged that we

should live together during my stay in the city; and, as my worldly

circumstances were somewhat less embarrassed than his own, I was

permitted to be at the expense of renting, and furnishing in a style

which suited the rather fantastic gloom of our common temper, a

time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long deserted through superstitions

into which we did not inquire, and tottering to its fall in a retired

and desolate portion of the Faubourg St. Germain.

Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we

should have been regarded as madmen—although, perhaps, as madmen of a

harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We admitted no visiters

whomsoever. Indeed the locality of our retirement had been carefully

kept a secret from my own former associates; and it had been many years

since Dupin had ceased to know or be known in Paris. We existed within

ourselves alone.

It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?) to

be enamored of the Night for her own sake; and into this _bizarrerie_,

as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild

whims with an utter _abandon_. The sable divinity would not herself

dwell with us always, but we could counterfeit her presence. At the

first dawn of the morning we closed all the massy shutters of our old

building, lighting a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw

out only the ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we

then busied our souls in dreams—reading, writing, or conversing, until

warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we sallied

forth into the streets, arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day, or

roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights

and shadows of the populous city, that infinity of mental excitement

which quiet observation would afford.

At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from his

rich ideality I had been prepared to expect) a peculiar analytic ability

in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an eager delight in its exercise, if

not exactly in its display; and did not hesitate to confess the pleasure

thus derived. He boasted to me, with a low chuckling laugh, that most

men, in respect to himself, wore windows in their bosoms, and was wont

to follow up such assertions by direct and very startling proofs of his

intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments was frigid and

abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while his voice, usually a

rich tenor, rose into a treble which would have sounded petulantly but

for the deliberateness and entire distinctness of the enunciation.

Observing him in these moods I often dwelt meditatively upon the old

philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a

double Dupin—the creative and the resolvent.

Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am detailing

any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have described in the

Frenchman was but the result of an excited, or perhaps of a diseased

intelligence. But of the character of his remarks at the periods in

question an example will best convey the idea.

We were strolling one night down a long dirty street, in the vicinity of

the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied with thought, neither

of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at least. All at once

Dupin broke forth with these words—

“He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would do better for the

_Théâtre des Variétés_.”

“There can be no doubt of that,” I replied unwittingly, and not at first

observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary

manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my meditations. In an

instant afterward I recollected myself, and my astonishment was

profound.

“Dupin,” said I, gravely, “this is beyond my comprehension. I do not

hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses. How

was it possible you should know I was thinking of ——?” Here I paused,

to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought.

——“of Chantilly,” said he, “why do you pause? You were remarking to

yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy.”

This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections.

Chantilly was a quondam cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming

stage-mad, had attempted the role of Xerxes, in Crebillon’s tragedy so

called, and been notoriously pasquinaded for his pains.

“Tell me, for God’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method—if method there

be—by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this matter.” In

fact I was even more startled than I would have been willing to express.

“It was the fruiterer,” replied my friend, “who brought you to the

conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for

Xerxes _et id genus omne_.”

“The fruiterer!—you astonish me—I know no fruiterer whomsoever.”

“The man who ran up against you as we entered the street—it may have

been fifteen minutes ago.”

I now remembered that in fact a fruiterer, carrying upon his head a

large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we

passed from the Rue C—— into the thoroughfare where we now stood; but

what this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand.

There was not a particle of _charlatânerie_ about Dupin. “I will

explain,” he said, “and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will

first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in which I

spoke to you until that of the rencontre with the fruiterer in question.

The larger links of the chain run thus—Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichol,

Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruiterer.”

There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives,

amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions

of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full of

interest; and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the

apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the

starting-point and the goal. What then, must have been my amazement when

I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I could

not help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth. He continued—

“We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before

leaving the Rue C——. This was the last subject we discussed. As we

crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon his

head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile of paving-stones

collected at a spot where the causeway is undergoing repair. You stepped

upon one of the loose fragments, slipped, slightly strained your ankle,

appeared vexed or sulky, muttered a few words, turned to look at the

pile, and then proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to

what you did—but observation has become with me of late a species of

necessity.

“You kept your eyes upon the ground—glancing with a petulant expression

at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I saw you were still

thinking of the stones) until we reached the little alley called

Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of experiment, with the

overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your countenance brightened up,

and, perceiving your lips move, I could not doubt that you murmured to

yourself the word ‘stereotomic.’ You continued the same inaudible

murmur, with a knit brow, as is the custom of a man tasking his memory,

until I considered that you sought the Greek derivation of the word

‘stereotomy.’ I knew that you could not find this without being brought

to think of atomics, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and as, when

we discussed this subject not very long ago, I mentioned to you how

singularly, yet with how little notice, the vague guesses of that noble

Greek had met with confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony, I felt

that you could not avoid casting your eyes upward to the great nebula in

Orion, and I certainly expected that you would do so. You did look up;

and I now was assured that I had correctly followed your steps. But in

that bitter _tirade_ upon Chantilly, which appeared in yesterday’s

‘_Musée_,’ the satirist, making some disgraceful allusions to the

cobbler’s change of name upon assuming the buskin, quoted a very

peculiar Latin line upon whose meaning we have often conversed. I mean

the line

_Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum._

I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written

Urion; and from certain pungencies connected with this explanation I was

aware that you could not have forgotten it. It was clear, therefore,

that you would not fail to combine the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly.

That you did combine them I saw by the character of the smile which

passed over your lips. You thought of the poor cobbler’s immolation. So

far, you had been stooping in your gait—but now I saw you draw yourself

up to your full height. I was then sure that you reflected upon the

diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your

meditations to remark that as in fact he _was_ a very little

fellow—that Chantilly—he would do better at the _Théâtre des

Variétés_.”

Not long after this we were looking over an evening edition of “Le

Tribunal,” when the following paragraphs arrested our attention.

“Extraordinary Murders.—This morning, about three o’clock, the

inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by

a succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the

fourth story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the

sole occupancy of one Madame L’Espanaye, and her daughter,

Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye. After some delay, occasioned by

a fruitless attempt to procure admission in the usual manner,

the gateway was broken in with a crowbar, and eight or ten of

the neighbors entered, accompanied by two _gendarmes_. By this

time the cries had ceased; but as the party rushed up the first

flight of stairs, two or more rough voices in angry contention

were distinguished, and seemed to proceed from the upper part of

the house. As the second landing was reached, these sounds,

also, had ceased, and every thing remained perfectly quiet. The

party spread themselves, and hurried from room to room. Upon

arriving at a large back chamber in the fourth story, (the door

of which, being found locked, with the key inside, was forced

open) a spectacle presented itself which struck every one

present not less with horror than with astonishment.

The apartment was in the wildest disorder—the furniture broken

and thrown about in all directions. There was only one bedstead;

and from this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the

middle of the floor. On a chair lay a razor, besmeared with

blood. On the hearth were two or three long and thick tresses of

grey human hair, also dabbled in blood, and seeming to have been

pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were found four

Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver spoons,

three smaller of _metal d’Alger_, and two bags, containing

nearly four thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a _bureau_,

which stood in one corner, were open, and had been, apparently,

rifled, although many articles still remained in them. A small

iron safe was discovered under the _bed_ (not under the

bedstead.) It was open, with the key still in the door. It had

no contents beyond a few old letters, and other papers of little

consequence.

Of Madame L’Espanaye no traces were here seen; but, an unusual

quantity of soot being observed in the fire-place, a search was

made in the chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the

daughter, head downward, was dragged therefrom; it having been

thus forced up the narrow aperture for a considerable distance.

The body was quite warm. Upon examining it many excoriations

were perceived, no doubt occasioned by the violence with which

it had been thrust up and disengaged. Upon the face were many

severe scratches, and upon the throat dark bruises, and deep

indentations of finger nails, as if the deceased had been

throttled to death.

After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house,

without farther discovery, the party made its way into a small

paved yard in the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of

the old lady, with her throat so entirely cut that, upon an

attempt to raise her, the head fell off, and rolled to some

distance. The body, as well as the head, was fearfully

mutilated—the former so much so as scarcely to retain any

semblance of humanity.

To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the

slightest clew.”

The next day’s paper had these additional particulars.

“_The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue._ Many individuals have been

examined in relation to this most extraordinary and frightful

affair.” [The word ‘_affaire_’ has not yet, in France, that

levity of import which it conveys with us,] “but nothing

whatever has transpired to throw light upon it. We give below

all the material testimony elicited.”

_Pauline Dubourg_, laundress, deposes that she has known both

the deceased for three years, having washed for them during that

period. The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms—very

affectionate toward each other. They were excellent pay. Could

not speak in regard to their mode or means of living. Believed

that Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was reputed to have

money put by. Never met any persons in the house when she called

for the clothes or took them home. Was sure that they had no

servant in employ. There appeared to be no furniture in any part

of the building except in the fourth story.

_Pierre Moreau_, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the

habit of selling small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame

L’Espanaye for nearly four years. Was born in the neighborhood,

and has always resided there. The deceased and her daughter had

occupied the house in which the corpses were found for more than

six years. It was formerly occupied by a jeweller, who under-let

the upper rooms to various persons. The house was the property

of Madame L. She became dissatisfied with the abuse of the

premises by her tenant, and moved into them herself, refusing to

let any portion. The old lady was childish. Witness had seen the

daughter some five or six times during the six years. The two

lived an exceedingly retired life—were reputed to have money.

Had heard it said among the neighbors that Madame L. told

fortunes—did not believe it. Had never seen any person enter

the door except the old lady and her daughter, a porter once or

twice, and a physician some eight or ten times.

Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect.

No one was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known

whether there were any living connexions of Madame L. and her

daughter. The shutters of the front windows were seldom opened.

Those in the rear were always closed, with the exception of the

large back room, fourth story. The house was a good house—not

very old.

_Isidore Musèt_, gendarme, deposes that he was called to the

house about three o’clock in the morning, and found some twenty

or thirty persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain

admittance. Forced it open, at length with a bayonet—not with a

crowbar. Had but little difficulty in getting it open, on

account of its being a double or folding gate, and bolted

neither at bottom nor top. The shrieks were continued until the

gate was forced—and then suddenly ceased. They seemed to be

screams of some person (or persons) in great agony—were loud

and drawn out, not short and quick. Witness led the way up

stairs. Upon reaching the first landing heard two voices in loud

and angry contention—the one a gruff voice, the other much

shriller—a very strange voice. Could distinguish some words of

the former, which was that of a Frenchman. Was positive that it

was not a woman’s voice. Could distinguish the words ‘_sacré_’

and ‘_diable_.’ The shrill voice was that of a foreigner. Could

not be sure whether it was the voice of a man or of a woman.

Could not make out what was said, but believed the language to

be Spanish. The state of the room and of the bodies was

described by this witness as we described them yesterday.

_Henri Duval_, a neighbor, and by trade a silver-smith, deposes

that he was one of the party who first entered the house.

Corroborates the testimony of Musèt in general. As soon as they

forced an entrance, they reclosed the door to keep out the

crowd, which collected very fast, notwithstanding the lateness

of the hour. The shrill voice, this witness thinks, was that of

an Italian. Was certain it was not French. Could not be sure

that it was a man’s voice. It might have been a woman’s. Was not

acquainted with the Italian language. Could not distinguish the

words, but was convinced by the intonation that the speaker was

an Italian. Knew Madame L. and her daughter. Had conversed with

both frequently. Was sure that the shrill voice was not that of

either of the deceased.

—— _Odenheimer_, restaurateur. This witness volunteered his

testimony. Not speaking French was examined through an

interpreter. Is a native of Amsterdam. Was passing the house at

the time of the shrieks. They lasted for several

minutes—probably ten. They were long and loud—very awful and

distressing. Was one of those who entered the building.

Corroborated the previous evidence in every respect but one. Was

sure that the shrill voice was that of a man—of a Frenchman.

Could not distinguish the words uttered. They were loud and

quick—unequal—sometimes quick, sometimes deliberate—spoken

apparently in fear as well as in anger. The voice was harsh—not

so much shrill as harsh. Could not call it a shrill voice. The

gruff voice said repeatedly ‘_sacré_,’ ‘_diable_,’ and once

‘_mon dieu_.’

_Jules Mignaud_, Banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue

Deloraine. Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L’Espanaye had some

property. Had opened an account with his banking house in the

spring of the year —— (eight years previously.) Made frequent

deposites in small sums. Had checked for nothing until the third

day before her death, when she took out in person the sum of

4000 francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk sent home

with the money.

_Adolphe Le Bon_, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the

day in question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L’Espanaye to

her residence with the 4000 francs, put up in two bags. Upon the

door being opened Mademoiselle L. appeared and took from his

hands one of the bags, while the old lady relieved him of the

other. He then bowed and departed. Did not see any person in the

street at the time. It is a bye street—very lonely.

_William Bird_, tailor, deposes that he was one of the party who

entered the house. Is an Englishman. Has lived in Paris two

years. Was one of the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the

voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman.

Could make out several words, but cannot now remember all. Heard

distinctly ‘_sacré_’ and ‘_mon dieu_.’ There was a sound at the

moment as if of several persons struggling—a scraping and

scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very loud—louder than the

gruff one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman.

Appeared to be that of a German. Might have been a woman’s

voice. Does not understand German.

Four of the above-named witnesses, being recalled, deposed that

the door of the chamber in which was found the body of

Mademoiselle L. was locked on the inside when the party reached

it. Every thing was perfectly silent—no groans or noises of any

kind. Upon forcing the door no person was seen. The windows both

of the back and front room were down and firmly fastened from

within. A door between the two rooms was closed, but not locked.

The door leading from the front room into the passage was locked

with the key on the inside. A small room in the front of the

house, on the fourth story, at the head of the passage, was

open, the door being ajar. This room was crowded with old beds,

boxes, and so forth. These were carefully removed and searched.

There was not an inch of any portion of the house which was not

carefully searched. Sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys.

The house was a four story one, with garrets, (_mansardes_). A

trap door on the roof was nailed down very securely—did not

appear to have been opened for years. The time elapsing between

the hearing of the voices in contention and the breaking open of

the room door was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made

it as short as three minutes—some as long as five. The door was

opened with difficulty.

_Alfonzo Garcio_, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue

Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered

the house. Did not proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was

apprehensive of the consequences of agitation. Heard the voices

in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could

not distinguish what was said. The shrill voice was that of an

Englishman—is sure of this. Does not understand the English

language, but judges by the intonation.

_Alberto Montani_, confectioner, deposes that he was among the

first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in question. The

gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Distinguished several

words. The speaker appeared to be expostulating. Could not make

out the words of the shrill voice. Spoke quick and unevenly.

Thinks it the voice of a Russian. Corroborates the general

testimony. Is an Italian. Never conversed with a native of

Russia.

Several witnesses recalled, here testified that the chimneys of

all the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the

passage of a human being. By ‘sweeps’ were meant cylindrical

sweeping-brushes, such as are employed by those who clean

chimneys. These brushes were passed up and down every flue in

the house. There is no back passage by which any one could have

descended while the party proceeded up stairs. The body of

Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that

it could not be got down until four or five of the party united

their strength.

_Paul Dumas_, physician, deposes that he was called to view the

bodies about day-break. They were both then lying on the sacking

of the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found.

The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated.

The fact that it had been thrust up the chimney would

sufficiently account for these appearances. The throat was

greatly chafed. There were several deep scratches just below the

chin, together with a series of livid spots which were evidently

the impression of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored,

and the eye-balls protruded. The tongue had been partially

bitten through. A large bruise was discovered upon the pit of

the stomach, produced apparently by the pressure of a knee. In

the opinion of M. Dumas, Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been

throttled to death by some person or persons unknown. The corpse

of the mother was horribly mutilated. All the bones of the right

leg and arm were more or less shattered. The left tibia much

splintered, as well as all the ribs of the left side. Whole body

dreadfully bruised and discolored. It was not possible to say

how the injuries had been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a

broad bar of iron, a chair, any large heavy and obtuse weapon,

would have produced such results, if wielded by the hands of a

very powerful man. No woman could have inflicted the blows with

any weapon. The head of the deceased, when seen by witness, was

entirely separated from the body, and was also greatly

shattered. The throat had evidently been cut with some very

sharp instrument—probably with a razor.

_Alexandre Etienne_, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view

the bodies. Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions, of M.

Dumas.

Nothing farther of importance was elicited, although several

other persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so

perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in

Paris—if indeed a murder has been committed at all. The police

are entirely at fault—an unusual occurrence in affairs of this

nature. There is not, however, the shadow of a clew apparent.”

The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest excitement

still continued in the Quartier St. Roch—that the premises in question

had been carefully re-searched, and fresh examinations of witnesses

instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, however, mentioned that

Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested and imprisoned—although nothing

appeared to criminate him, beyond the facts already detailed.

Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this affair—at

least so I judged from his manner, for he made no comments whatever. It

was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned, that he

asked me my opinion respecting it.

I could merely agree with all Paris in considering it an insoluble

mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible to trace the

murderer.

“We must not judge of the means,” said Dupin, “by this shell of an

examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for acumen, are

cunning, but no more. There is no method in their proceedings, beyond

the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of measures; but not

unfrequently these are so illy adapted to the objects proposed, as to

put us in mind of Monsieur Jourdain’s calling for his

_robe-de-chambre—pour mieux entendre la musique_. The results attained

by them are not unfrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are

brought about by simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are

unavailing their schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser,

and a persevering man. But, without educated thought, he erred

continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He impaired his

vision by holding the object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or

two points with unusual clearness, but in so doing he necessarily lost

sight of the matter, as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too

profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact as regards the more

important knowledge I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The

depth lies in the valleys where we seek her and not upon the mountain

tops where she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are

well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To look at a

star by glances—to view it in a side-long way by turning toward it the

exterior portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble impressions

of light than the interior) is to behold the star distinctly—is to have

the best appreciation of its lustre—a lustre which grows dim just in

proportion as we turn our vision _fully_ upon it. A greater number of

rays actually fall upon the eye in the latter case, but in the former

there is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue

profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought—and it is possible to make

even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny too

sustained, too concentrated, and too direct.

“As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for

ourselves, before we make up an opinion respecting them. An inquiry will

afford us amusement,” [I thought this an odd term, so applied, but said

nothing] “and, besides, Le Bon once rendered me a service for which I am

not ungrateful. We will go and see the premises with our own eyes. I

know G——, the _Préfet de Police_, and shall have no difficulty in

obtaining the necessary permission.”

This permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue

Morgue. This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene

between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was late in the

afternoon when we reached it, for this quarter is at a great distance

from that in which we resided. The house we readily found; for there

were still many persons gazing up at the closed shutters, with an

objectless curiosity, from the opposite side of the way. It was an

ordinary Parisian house, with a gateway, on one side of which was a

glazed watch-box, with a sliding panel in the window, indicating a _loge

de concierge_. Before going in we walked up the street, turned down an

alley, and then, again turning, passed in the rear of the

building—Dupin, meanwhile, examining the whole neighborhood, as well as

the house, with a minuteness of attention for which I could see no

possible object.

Retracing our steps we came again to the front of the dwelling, rang,

and having shown our credentials, were admitted by the agents in charge.

We went up stairs—into the chamber where the body of Mademoiselle

L’Espanaye had been found, and where both the deceased still lay. The

disorders of the room had as usual been suffered to exist. I saw nothing

beyond what had been stated in the “Tribunal.” Dupin scrutinized every

thing, not excepting the bodies of the victims. We then went into the

other rooms, and into the yard; a gendarme accompanying us throughout.

Our examination occupied us until dark, when we took our departure. On

our way home my companion stepped in for a moment at the office of one

of the daily papers.

I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that—_Je les

menagais_:—for this phrase there is no English equivalent. It was his

humor now to decline all conversation on the subject of the murder,

until after we had taken a bottle of wine together about noon the next

day. He then asked me, suddenly, if I had observed any thing _peculiar_

at the scene of the atrocity.

There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word “peculiar,”

which caused me to shudder, without knowing why.

“No, nothing _peculiar_,” I said, “nothing more, at least, than we both

saw stated in the paper.”

“Le Tribunal,” he replied, “has not entered, I fear, into the unusual

horror of the thing. But we will not revert to the idle opinions of this

print. It appears to me that this mystery is considered insoluble, for

the very reason which should cause it to be regarded as easy of

solution—I mean for the _outré_ character of its features. The police

are confounded by the seeming absence of motive—not for the murder

itself—but for the atrocity of the murder. They are puzzled by the

seeming impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in contention,

with the facts that no one was discovered up stairs but the assassinated

Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without

the notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the

corpse thrust with the head downward up the chimney; the frightful

mutilation of the body of the old lady; these considerations, with those

just mentioned, and others which I need not mention, have sufficed to

paralyze the powers, by putting completely at fault the boasted acumen,

of the government agents. They have fallen into the gross but common

error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by these

deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels its way, if

at all, in its search after the true. In investigations such as we are

now pursuing, it should not be so much asked ‘what has occurred,’ as

‘what has occurred which has never occurred before.’ In fact, the

facility with which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of

this mystery, is in exact ratio with its apparent insolubility in the

eyes of the police.”

I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment. He continued.

“I am now awaiting,” continued he, looking toward the door of our

apartment—“I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not the

perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some measure

implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of the crimes

committed it is probable that he is innocent. I hope that I am right in

this supposition; for upon it I build my expectation of reading the

entire riddle. I look for the man here—in this room—every moment. It

is true that he may not arrive; but the probability is that he will.

Should he come, it will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols;

and we both know how to use them when occasion demands their use.”

I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing what I

heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a soliloquy. I have

already spoken of his abstract manner at such times. His discourse was

addressed to myself; but his voice, although by no means loud, had that

intonation which is commonly employed in speaking to some one at a great

distance. His eyes, vacant in expression, regarded only the wall.

“That the voices heard in contention,” he said, “by the party upon the

stairs, were not the voices of the women themselves, was fully proved by

the evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon the question whether

the old lady could have first destroyed the daughter, and afterward have

committed suicide. I speak of this point chiefly for the sake of method;

for the strength of Madame L’Espanaye would have been utterly unequal to

the task of thrusting her daughter’s corpse up the chimney as it was

found; and the nature of the wounds upon her own person entirely

preclude the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been committed

by some third party; and the voices of this third party were those heard

in contention. Let me now advert—not to the whole testimony respecting

these voices—but to what was peculiar in that testimony. Did you

observe anything peculiar about it?”

I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the gruff

voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much disagreement in regard

to the shrill, or as one individual termed it, the harsh voice.

“That was the evidence itself,” said Dupin, “but it was not the

peculiarity of the evidence. You have observed nothing distinctive.

Re-employing my own words, I may say that you have pointed out no

prominence above the plane of the ordinary, by which reason may feel her

way. Yet there _was_ something to be pointed out. The witnesses, as you

remark, agreed about the gruff voice; they were here unanimous. But in

regard to the shrill voice the peculiarity is—not that they

disagreed—but that, while an Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, a

Hollander, and a Frenchman attempted to describe it, each one spoke of

it as that _of a foreigner_. Each is sure that it was not the voice of

one of his own countrymen. Each likens it—not to the voice of an

individual of any nation with whose language he is conversant—but the

converse. The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and ‘might

have distinguished some words _had he been acquainted with the

Spanish_.’ The Dutchman maintains it to have been that of a Frenchman;

but we find it stated that ‘_not understanding French this witness was

examined through an interpreter_.’ The Englishman thinks it the voice of

a German, and ‘_does not understand German_.’ The Spaniard ‘is sure’

that it is that of an Englishman, but ‘judges by the intonation’

altogether, ‘_as he has no knowledge of the English_.’ The Italian

believes it the voice of a Russian, but ‘_has never conversed with a

native of Russia_.’ A second Frenchman differs, moreover, with the

first, and is positive that the voice is that of an Italian; but, _not

being cognizant of that tongue_, is like the Spaniard, ‘convinced by the

intonation.’ Now, how strangely unusual must that voice have really

been, about which such testimony as this _could_ have been elicited!—in

whose _tones_, even, denizens of the five great divisions of Europe

could recognise nothing familiar! You will say that it might have been

the voice of an Asiatic—of an African. Neither Asiatics nor Africans

abound in Paris; but, without denying the inference, I will just now

merely call your attention to three points which have relation to this

topic. The voice is termed by one witness ‘harsh rather than shrill.’ It

is represented by two others to have been ‘quick and _unequal_.’ No

words—no sounds resembling words—were by any witness mentioned as

distinguishable.

“I know not,” continued Dupin, “what impression I may have made, so far,

upon your own understanding; but I do not hesitate to say that

legitimate deductions even from this portion of the testimony—the

portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices—are in themselves

sufficient to engender a suspicion which should bias, or give direction

to all farther progress in the investigation of the mystery. I said

‘legitimate deductions;’ but my meaning is not thus fully expressed. I

designed to imply that the deductions were the _sole_ proper ones, and

that the suspicion arose _inevitably_ from them as the single result.

What the suspicion is, however, I will not say just yet. I merely wish

you to bear in mind that with myself it was sufficiently forcible to

give a definite form—a certain tendency—to my inquiries in the

chamber.

“Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to that chamber. What shall

we first seek here? The means of egress employed by the murderers. It is

not too much to say that we neither of us believe in præternatural

events. Madame and Mademoiselle L’Espanaye were not destroyed by

spirits. The doers of the dark deed were material, and escaped

materially. Then how? Fortunately, there is but one mode of reasoning

upon the point, and that mode _must_ lead us to a definite decision. Let

us examine, each by each, the possible means of egress. It is clear that

the assassins were in the room where Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was found,

or at least in the room adjoining, when the party ascended the stairs.

It is then only from these two apartments that we have to seek for

issues. The police have laid bare the floors, the ceilings, and the

masonry of the walls, in every direction. No _secret_ issues could have

escaped their vigilance. But, not trusting to their eyes, I examined

with my own. There were, then, _no_ secret issues. Both doors leading

from the rooms into the passage were securely locked, with the keys

inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These, although of ordinary width

for some eight or ten feet above the hearths, will not admit, throughout

their extent, the body of a large cat. The impossibility of egress by

means already stated being thus absolute, we are reduced to the windows.

Through those of the front room no one could have escaped without notice

from the crowd in the street. The murderers _must_ have passed, then,

through those of the back room. Now, brought to this conclusion in so

unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our part, as reasoners, to

reject it on account of apparent impossibilities. It is only left for us

to prove that these ‘impossibilities’ are not such.

“There are two windows in the chamber. One of them is unobstructed by

furniture, and is wholly visible. The lower portion of the other is

hidden from view by the head of the unwieldy bedstead which is thrust

close up against it. The former was found securely fastened from within.

It resisted the utmost force of those who endeavored to raise it. A

large gimlet-hole had been pierced in its frame to the left, and a very

stout nail was found fitted therein nearly to the head. Upon examining

the other window a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; and a

vigorous attempt to raise this sash failed also. The police were now

entirely satisfied that egress had not been in these directions. And,

_therefore_, it was thought a matter of supererogation to withdraw the

nails and open the windows.

“My own examination was somewhat more particular, and was so for the

reason I have just given—because here it was, I knew, that all apparent

impossibilities _must_ be proved to be not such in reality.

“I proceeded to think thus—_a posteriori_. The murderers _did_ escape

from one of these windows. This being so, they could not have

re-fastened the sashes from the inside as they were found

fastened,—(the consideration which put a stop, through its obviousness,

to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter). Yet the sashes _were_

fastened. They _must_, then, have the power of fastening themselves.

There was no escape from this conclusion. I stepped to the unobstructed

casement, withdrew the nail with some difficulty, and attempted to raise

the sash. It resisted all my efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed

spring must, I now knew, exist; and this corroboration of my idea

convinced me that my premises, at least, were correct, however

mysterious still appeared the circumstances attending the nails. A

careful search soon brought to light the hidden spring. I pressed it,

and, satisfied with the discovery, forbore to upraise the sash.

“I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively. A person passing

out through this window might have reclosed it, and the spring would

have caught—but the nail could not have been replaced. The conclusion

was plain, and again narrowed in the field of my investigations. The

assassins _must_ have escaped through the other window. Supposing, then,

the springs upon each sash to be the same, as was probable, there _must_

be found a difference between the nails, or at least between the modes

of their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked

over the head-board minutely at the second casement. Passing my hand

down behind the board I readily discovered and pressed the spring, which

was, as I had supposed, identical in character with its neighbor. I now

looked at the nail. It was as stout as the other, and apparently fitted

in the same manner—driven in nearly up to the head.

“You will say that I was puzzled; but if you think so you must have

misunderstood the nature of the inductions. To use a sporting phrase, I

had not been once ‘at fault.’ The scent had never for an instant been

lost. There was no flaw in any link of the chain. I had traced the

secret to its ultimate result—and that result was _the nail_. It had, I

say, in every respect, the appearance of its fellow in the other window;

but this fact was an absolute nullity (conclusive as it might seem to

be) when compared with the consideration that here, at this point,

terminated the clew. ‘There _must_ be something wrong,’ I said, ‘about

the nail.’ I touched it; and the head, with about the eighth of an inch

of the shank, came off in my fingers. The rest of the shank was in the

gimlet-hole, where it had been broken off. The fracture was an old one

(for its edges were incrusted with rust) and had apparently been

accomplished by the blow of a hammer, which had partially imbedded in

the top of the bottom sash, the head portion of the nail. I now

carefully replaced this head portion in the indentation whence I had

taken it, and the resemblance to a perfect nail was complete. I gently

raised the sash for a few inches; the head went up with it, remaining

firm in its bed, I closed the window, and the semblance of the whole

nail was again perfect.

“The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The assassins had escaped

through the window which looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own accord

upon their exit (or perhaps purposely closed by them) it had become

fastened by the spring; and it was the retention of this spring which

had been mistaken by the police for that of the nail—farther inquiry

being thus considered unnecessary.

“The next question is that of the mode of descent. Upon this point I had

been satisfied in my walk with you around the building. About five feet

and a half from the casement in question there ran a lightning-rod. From

this rod it would have been impossible for any one to reach the window

itself, to say nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the

shutters of the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by

Parisian carpenters _ferrades_—a kind rarely employed at the present

day, but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bourdeaux.

They are in the form of an ordinary door, (a single, not a folding door)

except that the lower half is latticed or worked in open trellis—thus

affording an excellent hold for the hands. In the present instance these

shutters are fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw them from

the rear of the house, they were both about half open—that is to say

they stood off at right angles from the wall. It is probable that the

police, as well as myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if

so, in looking at these _ferrades_ in the line of their breadth, (as

they must have done) they did not perceive this great breadth itself,

or, at all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact,

having once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been made in

this quarter, they would naturally bestow here a very cursory

examination. It was clear to me, however, that the shutter belonging to

the window at the head of the bed would, if swung fully back to the

wall, reach to within two feet of the lightning-rod. It was also evident

that, by exertion of a very unusual degree of activity and courage, an

entrance into the window, from the rod, might have been thus effected.

By reaching to the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose the

shutter open to its whole extent) a robber might have taken a firm grasp

upon the trellis-work. Letting go, then, his hold upon the rod, placing

his feet firmly against the wall, and springing boldly from it, he might

have swung the shutter so as to close it, and, if we imagine the window

open at the time, might even have swung himself into the room.

“I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a _very_

unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so hazardous and

so difficult a feat. It is my design to show you, first, that the thing

might possibly have been accomplished:—but, secondly and _chiefly_, I

wish to impress upon your understanding the _very extraordinary_—the

almost præternatural character of that agility which could have

accomplished it.

“You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that ‘to make

out my case,’ I should rather undervalue, than insist upon a full

estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may be the

practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My ultimate object

is only the truth. My immediate purpose is to lead you to place in

juxtaposition, that _very unusual_ activity of which I have just spoken,

with that _very peculiar_ shrill (or harsh) and _unequal_ voice, about

whose nationality no two persons could be found to agree, and in whose

utterance no syllabification could be detected.”

At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning of

Dupin flitted over my mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of

comprehension, without power to comprehend—as men, at times, find

themselves upon the brink of remembrance, without being able, in the

end, to remember. My friend went on with his discourse.

“You will see,” he said, “that I have shifted the question from the mode

of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to convey the idea that

both were effected in the same manner, at the same point. Let us now

revert in fancy to the interior of the room. Let us survey the

appearances here. The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been

rifled, although many articles of apparel still remained within them.

The conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere guess—a very silly one—and

no more. How are we to know that the articles found in the drawers were

not all these drawers had originally contained? Madame L’Espanaye and

her daughter lived an exceedingly retired life—saw no company—seldom

went out—had little use for numerous changes of habiliment. Those found

were at least of as good quality as any likely to be possessed by these

ladies. If a thief had taken any, why did he not take the best—why did

he not take all? In a word why did he abandon four thousand francs in

gold to encumber himself with a bundle of linen? The gold _was_

abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the

banker, was discovered, in bags, upon the floor. I wish you, therefore,

to discard from your thoughts the blundering idea of _motive_ engendered

in the brains of the police, by that portion of the evidence which

speaks of money delivered at the door of the house. Coincidences ten

times as remarkable as this (the delivery of the money, and murder

committed within three days upon the party receiving it,) happen to each

and all of us every hour of our lives, without attracting even a

momentary notice. Coincidences in general are great stumbling-blocks in

the way of that class of thinkers who have been educated to know

nothing, and care less, of the theory of probabilities—that theory to

which the most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the

most glorious of illustration. In the present instance, had the gold

been gone, the fact of its delivery three days before would have formed

something more than a coincidence. It would have been corroborative of

this idea of motive. But, under the real circumstances of the case, if

we are to suppose gold the motive of this outrage, we must also imagine

the perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his gold

and his motive together.

“Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn your

attention—that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and that startling

absence of motive in a murder so singularly atrocious as this—let us

glance at the butchery itself. Here is a woman strangled to death by

manual strength, and thrust up a chimney, head downward. Ordinary

assassins employ no such modes of murder as this. Least of all, do they

thus dispose of the murdered. In the manner of thrusting the corpse up

the chimney, you will admit that there was something _excessively

outré_—something altogether irreconcilable with our common notions of

human action, even when we suppose the actors the most depraved of men.

Think, too, what must have been the degree of that strength which could

have thrust the body _up_ such an aperture so forcibly that the united

vigor of several persons was found barely sufficient to drag it _down_!

Turn now to other indications of the employment of a vigor most

marvellous. On the hearth were thick tresses, very thick tresses—of

gray human hair. These had been _torn out by the roots_. You are aware

of the great force necessary in tearing thus from the head even twenty

or thirty hairs together. You saw the locks in question as well as

myself. Their roots (a hideous sight!) were clotted with fragments of

the flesh of the scalp—sure token of the prodigious power which had

been exerted in uprooting perhaps a million of hairs at a time. The

throat of the old lady was not merely cut, but the head absolutely

severed from the body. The instrument was a mere razor. Here again we

have evidence of that vastness of strength upon which I would fix your

attention. I wish you also to look, and to look steadily, at the

_brutal_ ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises upon the body of Madame

L’Espanaye I do not speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy coadjutor,

Monsieur Etienne, have pronounced that they were inflicted by some

obtuse instrument; and so far these gentlemen are very correct. The

obtuse instrument was clearly the stone pavement in the yard, upon which

the victim had fallen from the window which looked in upon the bed. This

idea, however simple it may now seem, escaped the police for the same

reason that the breadth of the shutters escaped them—because, by the

affair of the nails, their perceptions had been hermetically sealed

against the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at all.

“If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly reflected

upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far as to combine

the ideas of a strength superhuman, an agility astounding, a ferocity

brutal, a butchery without motive, a _grotesquerie_ in horror absolutely

alien from humanity, and a voice foreign in tone to the ears of men of

many nations, and devoid of all distinct or intelligible

syllabification. What result, then, has ensued? What impression have I

made upon your fancy?”

I shuddered as Dupin asked me the question. “A madman,” I said, “has

done this deed—some raving maniac, escaped from a neighboring _Maison

de Santé_.”

“In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is not irrelevant. But the

voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never found to

tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs. Madmen are of some

nation, and their language, however incoherent in its words, has always

the coherence of syllabification. Besides, the hair of a madman is not

such hair as I now hold in my hand. I disentangled this little tuft from

among the tresses remaining upon the head of Madame L’Espanaye. Tell me

what you can make of it.”

“Good God,” I said, completely unnerved, “this hair is most

unusual—this is no _human_ hair.”

“I have not asserted that it was,” said he, “but before we decide upon

this point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch which I have here

traced upon this paper. It is a fac-simile drawing of what has been

described in one portion of the testimony as ‘dark bruises, and deep

indentations of finger nails,’ upon the throat of Mademoiselle

L’Espanaye, and in another, (by Messrs. Dumas and Etienne,) as ‘a series

of livid spots, evidently the impression of fingers.’

“You will perceive,” continued my friend, spreading out the paper upon

the table before us, “you will perceive that this drawing gives the idea

of a firm and fixed hold. There is no _slipping_ apparent. Each finger

has retained—possibly until the death of the victim—the fearful grasp

by which it originally imbedded itself. Attempt now to place all your

fingers, at one and the same time, in the impressions as you see them.”

I made the attempt in vain.

“We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial,” he said. “The

paper is spread out upon a plane surface; but the human throat is

cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the circumference of which is

about that of the throat. Wrap the drawing around it, and try the

experiment again.”

I did so; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before. “This,”

I said, “is the mark of no human hand.”

“Assuredly it is not,” replied Dupin; “read now this passage from

Cuvier.”

It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of the

large fulvous Ourang-Outang of the East Indian Islands. The gigantic

stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild ferocity, and

the imitative propensities of these mammalia are sufficiently well known

to all. I understood the full horrors of the murder at once.

“The description of the digits,” said I, as I made an end of reading,

“is in exact accordance with this drawing. I see that no animal but an

Ourang-Outang, of the species here mentioned, could have impressed the

indentations as you have traced them. This tuft of yellow hair is

identical in character with that of the beast of Cuvier. But I cannot

possibly comprehend the particulars of this frightful mystery. Besides,

there were two voices heard in contention, and one of them was

unquestionably the voice of a Frenchman.”

“True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost

unanimously, by the evidence, to this voice,—the expression, ‘_mon

Dieu!_’ This, under the circumstances, has been justly characterized by

one of the witnesses (Montani, the confectioner,) as an expression of

remonstrance or expostulation. Upon these two words, therefore, I have

mainly built my hopes of a full solution of the riddle. A Frenchman was

cognizant of the murder. It is possible—indeed it is far more than

probable—that he was innocent of all participation in the bloody

transactions which took place. The Ourang-Outang may have escaped from

him. He may have traced it to this chamber; but, under the agitating

circumstances which ensued, he could never have re-captured it. It is

still at large. I will not pursue these guesses—for I have no right to

call them more than guesses—since the shades of reflection upon which

they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth to be appreciable by my

own intellect, and since I could not pretend to make them intelligible

to the understanding of another than myself. We will call them guesses

then, and speak of them as such. If the Frenchman in question be indeed,

as I suppose, innocent of this atrocity, this advertisement, which I

left last night, upon our return home, at the office of ‘Le Monde,’ (a

paper devoted to the shipping interest, and much sought for by sailors,)

will bring him to our residence.”

He handed me a paper, and I read thus:—

Caught—_In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the —

inst._, (the morning of the murder,) _a very large,

tawny-colored Ourang-Outang of the Bornese species. The owner,

(who is ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to a Maltese

vessel,) may have the animal again, upon identifying it

satisfactorily, and paying a few charges arising from its

capture and keeping. Call at No. —, Rue ——, Faubourg St.

Germain—au troisième._

“How was it possible,” I asked, “that you should know the man to be a

sailor, and belonging to a Maltese vessel?”

“I do _not_ know it,” said Dupin. “I am not _sure_ of it. Here, however,

is a small piece of ribbon, which has evidently, from its form, and from

its greasy appearance, been used in tying the hair in one of those long

_queues_ of which sailors are so fond. Moreover, this knot is one which

few besides sailors can tie, and is peculiar to the Maltese. I picked

the ribbon up at the foot of the lightning-rod. It could not have

belonged to either of the deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong in my

induction from this ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor belonging to

a Maltese vessel, still I can have done no harm in stating what I did in

the advertisement. If I am in error he will merely suppose that I have

been misled by some circumstance into which he will not take the trouble

to inquire. But if I am right—a great point is gained. Cognizant of the

murder, although not guilty, the Frenchman will naturally hesitate about

replying to the advertisement—about demanding the Ourang-Outang. He

will reason thus:—‘I am innocent; I am poor; my Ourang-Outang is of

great value—to one in my circumstances a fortune of itself—why should

I lose it through idle apprehensions of danger? Here it is within my

grasp. It was found in the Bois de Boulogne—at a vast distance from the

scene of that butchery. How can it ever be suspected that a brute beast

should have done the deed? The police are at fault—they have failed to

procure the slightest clew. Should they even trace the animal, it would

be impossible to prove me cognizant of the murder, or to implicate me in

guilt on account of that cognizance. Above all, _I am known_. The

advertiser designates me as the possessor of the beast. I am not sure to

what limit his knowledge may extend. Should I avoid claiming a property

of so great a value, which it is known that I possess, I will render the

animal at least, liable to suspicion. It is not my policy to attract

attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer the

advertisement—get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it close until this

matter has blown over.’”

At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.

“Be ready,” said Dupin, “with your pistols, but neither show them nor

use them until at a signal from myself.”

The front door of the house had been left open, and the visiter had

entered without ringing or rapping, and advanced several steps upon the

staircase. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we heard him

descending. Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when we again heard

him coming up. He did not turn back a second time, but stepped up

quickly, and rapped at the door of our chamber.

“Come in,” said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone.

The visiter entered. He was a sailor, evidently—a tall, stout, and

muscular-looking man, with a certain dare-devil expression of

countenance, not altogether unprepossessing. His face, greatly sunburnt,

was more than half hidden by a world of whisker and _mustachio_. He had

with him a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise unarmed. He

bowed awkwardly, and bade us “good evening,” in French accents, which,

although somewhat Neufchatel-ish, were still sufficiently indicative of

a Parisian origin.

“Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin, “I suppose you have called about the

Ourang-Outang. Upon my word, I almost envy you the possession of him; a

remarkably fine, and no doubt a very valuable animal. How old do you

suppose him to be?”

The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of some

intolerable burden, and then replied, in an assured tone,—

“I have no way of telling—but he can’t be more than four or five years

old. Have you got him here?”

“Oh no—we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a livery

stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the morning. Of

course you are prepared to identify the property?”

“To be sure I am, sir.”

“I shall be sorry to part with him,” said Dupin.

“I don’t mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing, sir,”

said the man. “Couldn’t expect it. Am very willing to pay a reward for

the finding of the animal—that is to say, any reward in reason.”

“Well,” replied my friend, “that is all very fair, to be sure. Let me

think!—what reward ought I to have? Oh! I will tell you. My reward

shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your power about

that affair of the murder in the Rue Morgue.”

Dupin said these last words in a very low tone, and very quietly. Just

as quietly, too, he walked towards the door, locked it, and put the key

in his pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom and placed it,

without the least flurry, upon the table.

The sailor’s face flushed up with an ungovernable tide of crimson. He

started to his feet and grasped his cudgel; but the next moment he fell

back into his seat trembling convulsively, and with the countenance of

death itself. He spoke not a single word. I pitied him from the bottom

of my heart.

“My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “you are alarming yourself

unnecessarily—you are indeed. We mean you no harm whatever. I pledge

you the honor of a gentleman, and of a Frenchman, that we intend you no

injury. I perfectly well know that you are innocent of the atrocities in

the Rue Morgue. It will not do, however, to deny that you are in some

measure implicated in them. From what I have already said, you must know

that I have had means of information about this matter—means of which

you could never have dreamed. Now the thing stands thus. You have done

nothing which you could have avoided—nothing certainly which renders

you culpable. You were not even guilty of robbery, when you might have

robbed with impunity. You have nothing to conceal. You have no reason

for concealment. On the other hand, you are bound by every principle of

honor to confess all that you know. An innocent man is now imprisoned,

charged with that crime of which you can point out the perpetrator.”

The sailor had recovered his presence of mind in a great measure, while

Dupin uttered these words; but his original boldness of bearing was all

gone.

“So help me God,” said he, after a brief pause, “I _will_ tell you all

that I know about this affair;—but I do not expect you to believe one

half that I say—I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still, I _am_

innocent, and I will make a clean breast if I die for it.”

I do not propose to follow the man in the circumstantial narrative which

he now detailed. What he stated was, in substance, this. He had lately

made a voyage to the Indian Archipelago. A party, of which he formed

one, landed at Borneo, and passed into the interior on an excursion of

pleasure. Himself and a companion had captured the Ourang-Outang. This

companion dying, the animal fell into his own exclusive possession.

After great trouble, occasioned by the intractable ferocity of his

captive during the home voyage, he at length succeeded in lodging it

safely at his own residence in Paris, where, not to attract towards

himself the unpleasant curiosity of his neighbors, he kept it carefully

secluded, until such time as it should recover from a wound in the foot,

received from a splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell

it.

Returning home from some sailors’ frolic on the night, or rather in the

morning of the murder, he found his prisoner occupying his own bed-room,

into which he had broken from a closet adjoining, where he had been, as

it was thought, securely confined. The beast, razor in hand, and fully

lathered, was sitting before a looking-glass, attempting the operation

of shaving, in which he had no doubt previously watched his master

through the key-hole of the closet. Terrified at the sight of so

dangerous a weapon in the possession of an animal so ferocious, and so

well able to use it, the man, for some moments, was at a loss what to

do. He had been accustomed, however, to quiet the creature, even in its

fiercest moods, by the use of a strong wagoner’s whip, and to this he

now resorted. Upon sight of it, the Ourang-Outang sprang at once through

the door of the chamber, down the stairs, and thence, through a window,

unfortunately open, into the street.

The Frenchman followed in despair—the ape, razor still in hand,

occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at his pursuer, until

the latter had nearly come up with him. He then again made off. In this

manner the chase continued for a long time. The streets were profoundly

quiet, as it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. In passing down an

alley in the rear of the Rue Morgue, the fugitive’s attention was

arrested by a light (the only one apparent except those of the

town-lamps) gleaming from the open window of Madame L’Espanaye’s

chamber, in the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the building, he

perceived the lightning-rod, clambered up with inconceivable agility,

grasped the shutter, which was thrown fully back against the wall, and,

by its means swung himself directly upon the head-board of the bed. The

whole feat did not occupy a minute. The shutter was kicked open again by

the Ourang-Outang as he entered the room.

The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced and perplexed. He had

strong hopes of now recapturing the ape, as it could scarcely escape

from the trap into which it had ventured, except by the rod, where it

might be intercepted as it came down. On the other hand, there was much

cause for anxiety as to what the brute might do in the house. This

latter reflection urged the man still to follow the fugitive. A

lightning rod is ascended without difficulty, especially by a sailor;

but, when he had arrived as high as the window, which lay far to his

left, his career was stopped; the most that he could accomplish was to

reach over so as to obtain a glimpse of the interior of the room. At

this glimpse he nearly fell from his hold through excess of horror. Now

it was that those hideous shrieks arose upon the night, which had

startled from slumber the inmates of the Rue Morgue. Madame L’Espanaye

and her daughter, habited in their night clothes, had apparently been

occupied in arranging some papers in the iron chest already mentioned,

which had been wheeled into the middle of the room. It was open, and its

contents lay beside it on the floor. Their backs must have been towards

the window; and, by the time elapsing between the screams and the

ingress of the ape, it seems probable that he was not immediately

perceived. The flapping-to of the shutter they would naturally have

attributed to the wind.

As the sailor looked in, the gigantic beast had seized Madame L’Espanaye

by the hair, (which was loose, as she had been combing it,) and was

flourishing the razor about her face, in imitation of the motions of a

barber. The daughter lay prostrate and motionless; she had swooned. The

screams and struggles of the old lady (during which the hair was torn

from her head) had the effect of changing the probably pacific purposes

of the Ourang-Outang into those of ungovernable wrath. With one

determined sweep of his muscular arm he nearly severed her head from her

body. The sight of blood inflamed his anger into phrenzy. Gnashing his

teeth, and flashing fire from his eyes, he flew upon the body of the

girl, and imbedded his fearful talons in her throat, retaining his grasp

until she expired. His wandering and wild glances fell at this moment

upon the head of the bed, over which those of his master, glazed in

horror, were just discernible. The fury of the beast, who no doubt bore

still in mind the dreaded whip, was instantly converted into dread.

Conscious of having deserved punishment, he seemed desirous to conceal

his bloody deeds, and skipped about the chamber in an apparent agony of

nervous agitation, throwing down and breaking the furniture as he moved,

and dragging the bed from the bedstead. In conclusion, he seized first

the corpse of the daughter, and thrust it up the chimney, as it was

found; then that of the old lady, with which he rushed to the window,

precipitating it immediately therefrom.

As the ape approached him with his mutilated burden, the sailor shrunk

aghast to the rod, and rather gliding than clambering down it, hurried

at once home—dreading the consequences of the butchery, and gladly

abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude about the fate of the

Ourang-Outang. The words heard by the party upon the staircase were the

Frenchman’s exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the

fiendish jabberings of the brute.

I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have escaped

from the chamber, by the rod, just before the breaking of the door. He

must have closed the window as he passed through it. He was subsequently

caught by the owner himself, who obtained for him a very large sum at

the _Jardin des Plantes_. Le Bon was instantly released upon our

narration of the circumstances (with some comments from Dupin) at the

_bureau_ of the _Préfet de police_. This functionary, however well

disposed to my friend, could not altogether conceal his chagrin at the

turn which affairs had taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or

two, in regard to the propriety of every person minding his own

business.

“Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to reply.

“Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience. I am satisfied with

having defeated him in his own castle. In truth, he is too cunning to be

acute. There is no _stamen_ in his wisdom. It is all head and no

body—like the pictures of the goddess Laverna—or at least all head and

shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good fellow, after all. I like

him especially for one master stroke of cant, by which he has attained

that reputation for ingenuity which he possesses. I mean the way he has

‘_de nier ce qui est, et d’expliquer ce qui n’est pas_.’”

Philadelphia, March, 1841.

* * * * *

AN APRIL DAY.

The spring has come, the low south wind

Is breathing sweet,—

The showers are patt’ring in the wood,

Like fairy feet.

Hark! in yon silent grove a bird

Pours out its lay,—

Such strains, I ween, have not been heard

For many a day.

The feath’ry clouds scud o’er the sky,

The sun between,—

A thousand rain-drops glisten bright,

Upon the green.

And such is life—an April morn,

A changing sky,—

To mingled joy and grief we’re born,

And born to die.

A. A. I.

Philadelphia, March, 1841.

* * * * *

TO THE ÆOLIAN HARP.

Say magic strain—from whence thy wild note straying?

Comes it in sadness, or in raptured glee?

Art thou a thing of earth, that sweetly playing,

Blends in each fitful blast, so tenderly?

Or, art thou from the star-gem’d vault of Heav’n,

Perchance the music of some distant sphere,

That faintly echoes on the gales of even,

To claim from earth—grief’s solitary tear?

Art thou the revelling of some fairy sprite,

Tripping the dewy world fantastically,

To keep its tryst beneath the clear moonlight,

Awak’ning tones of deepest minstrelsy?

Or, art thou, breathing from a holier clime,

A voice, that calleth tremulously low;

To lure the enraptured soul to things divine,

Far from deluding joys it meets below?

Thou com’st with inspiration ’mid thy sighing,

A melody, unearthly and unknown;

A mingled strain, that on the night-breeze dying,

Wakens the heart-strings to thy thrilling tone.

Recalling wanderings of the spirit-past,

The wayward visions of our fleeting youth;

The ling’ring day-dreams that in mem’ry last,

Untouch’d by Time’s realities of truth.

Again we roam where forest-shadows blending,

Ring with the gladness of our playful hours,

Along the murm’ring stream once more we’re wending,

Lured by the sunny mead, soft winds, and flowers—

Or, oft renew the link that death hath broken,

The cherish’d dead—again recall to view;

Hear ’mid thy varied tones, the fond words spoken,

That erst from sorrow’s fount deep anguish drew.

And fairest visions float through Fancy’s fane,

Caught from the soul’s illuminated shrine;

Elysian forms, that purer realms retain,

Thoughts of the blest, ethereal, and divine.

Earth too is mingling with her mortal hours,

The touching softness of her gentle things;

And Love—deep-gushing Love—with winged powers,

Chimes with the ecstacy each wild note brings.

Hast thou not sounds to rouse the soul to madness,

To flattering joys—emotions long enshrined;

Deep silent melodies of youthful gladness,

That spring unbidden to the raptur’d mind?

This, then thou art—the power of plaintive measure,

To call forth passion by the wind-swept wire;

To mingle Hope, with memory’s sad pleasure,

This is thy power—Oh! sweet Æolian lyre.

A. F. H.

* * * * *

THE REEFER OF ’76.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR.”

THE MESS-ROOM.

It is scarcely necessary to detail the occurrences of that celebrated

cruize. Success appeared to follow us wherever we went. After our escape

from the man-of-war,—which we subsequently learned to be the Solebay,

mounting twenty-eight guns—we ran farther eastward, and soon fell in

with several prizes. One morning, however, our look-out detected a

strange frigate hovering upon the sea-board, nor was it long before we

discovered her to be an enemy. We made her out, by the aid of our

glasses, to be a light frigate, pierced for sixteen guns on a side.

Every rag that would draw was instantly set. With equal alacrity the

stranger followed our example, and a running fight was commenced, which

lasted nearly the whole day; for our daring leader, finding that we

could easily outsail the enemy, kept just out of range of her guns, so

that, although she maintained a constant fire, every shot fell short.

Toward night-fall, however, we gave full rein to our gallant craft, and,

to the astonishment and chagrin of the Englishman, left him hull down in

a few hours.

After hauling aboard our tacks, we ran up toward Canseau, and for some

time inflicted serious damage upon the enemy’s fishermen, around the

coast of Nova Scotia. Having finally captured no less than sixteen sail,

some of them very valuable, we left the scene of our late exploits, and

swept down the coast toward Montauk.

It was a cloudless afternoon when we made Block Island, and, as the sun

set behind its solitary outline, tinting the sky with a thousand varied

dyes, and prolonging the shadow of the coast along the deep, we beheld a

small schooner, close-hauled, opening around the northern extremity of

the island. In less than a half hour she was close to windward of us. As

it was the first friendly craft we had seen for weeks, we were all

naturally anxious to learn the state of affairs on land. Paul Jones

himself leaped into the rigging and hailed,

“Ahoy! what craft is that?”

“The Mary Ann of Newport,” answered a nasal voice from the low deck of

the stranger, “what vessel air you?”

“The Providence continental sloop—come to under our lee and send a boat

aboard.”

“Ay, ay, sir!” answered the same voice, but in an altered tone, and with

the ready alacrity of a true seaman, “round her to, boys; but may be,”

continued he, again addressing us, “you hain’t heerd the news yet. I

calculate it’ll make the British think we Yankees ain’t to be made

slaves of arter all—_independence is declared_.”

“What!—the Congress declared itself independent of Great Britain?”

asked Paul Jones, quickly.

“Yes! by —,” but the half muttered oath of the seaman died away in a

prolonged whistle, as he remembered how unbecoming an oath would be from

a deacon of the church. For an instant there was a profound silence,

while we gazed into each other’s faces, with mingled wonder, delight,

and pride. The news was not wholly unhoped for, though we had scarcely

ventured to expect it. A topman was the first to speak. Forgetting every

thing in his enthusiasm, he shouted,

“Three cheers, my boys, for freedom,—huzza!”

And, suiting the action to the word, he broke into a thundering shout,

which, taken up by our own crew, was answered back by that of the

schooner, until the very heavens seemed to echo the sound. It was a

stirring moment. A universal transport appeared to have seized upon our

gallant fellows; they threw up their hats, they shook each other’s

hands, they laughed, they swore, and the more volatile even danced;

while Paul Jones himself, with a flushed cheek and kindling eye, timed

the huzzas of his patriotic crew.

Before twenty-four hours we were at anchor in Newport, and almost the

first craft that I beheld in the harbor, was the saucy little Fire-Fly.

The welcome I received from my shipmates I will not attempt to describe.

Over our cold junk and Jamaica, I listened to the narrative of their

adventures since our parting, and rehearsed in return my own. My arrival

was opportune, for the schooner expected to sail in less than a week,

and had I been delayed many days longer, I might have found it

impossible to have rejoined her during the war. The little time that we

remained in port after my arrival, was spent in a constant round of

amusements, such only as a set of gay reckless reefers know how to

indulge in. Many a gay song was trolled, and many a mirthful tale

related by lips that have long since been stilled in death.

But what of Beatrice? Had she forgotten me? No—the dear creature had

availed herself of one of the rare opportunities which then presented

themselves occasionally of communicating with the north, to answer a

long epistle I had transmitted to her, by a chance vessel, we met a few

days after leaving Charleston. Oh! with what simple, yet nervous

eloquence did she assure me of her unabated love, and how sweetly did

she chide me for the doubts I had—sinner that I was—whispered

respecting it. I kissed the dear missive again and again; I read it over

and over a thousand times; I treasured it the more because I knew not

when the chances of war would suffer me to hear from her again. I feared

not now the influence of her uncle: I felt in my inmost soul that

Beatrice was too pure, too self-devoted in her love ever to sacrifice it

for lucre. And as I felt this it flashed across me that perhaps she

might have heard of my being lost overboard from the merchantman; and

who knew but that even now she might be mourning me as dead? Happily a

brig was now in port about to sail for Charleston. I seized the

opportunity, and wrote to inform Beatrice of my safety.

In a few days our outfit was completed, and bidding adieu to my friends

on board the Providence, we set sail from Newport. The day was bright

and glorious, and the sunbeams danced merrily upon the waves. A light

breeze murmured through the rigging; the gay song of the sailors from

the merchantmen in port floated softly past; and the scream of the

sea-birds broke shrilly over us, high in the clear blue sky.

As the day advanced, however, a thin, gauze-like vapor gradually spread

over the horizon, deepening before four bells in the afternoon watch to

an impervious canopy of black, which stretching from pole to pole,

obscured the whole firmament, and threw a premature and sickly gloom

over the deep beneath. The wind, too, began to rise, blowing in

irregular puffs, and whitening the surface of the sea in patches over

the whole of its wide extent; while occasionally a low, half-smothered

murmur, as if arising out of the very heart of the ocean, betokened that

the elements of the storm were at work far down in their wild recesses.

As the day advanced the sky became even more ominous, until long before

night-fall its weird-like grandeur excelled any thing I had ever beheld.

By this time, too, the wind had increased almost into a hurricane, and

with every thing trimmed down, we were cleaving through the fast

whitening billows with an exhilarating velocity that only a sailor can

appreciate. The rain meanwhile was falling fast. As night came on the

watch was set, and most of us went below, so that all off duty were soon

congregated in our mess-room.

“A wild night,” said the last comer, as he shook the wet from his shaggy

jacket, “and I see you’re determined to make the most of it, my

boys—push us the Jamaica, Parker, and don’t forget the junk in passing.

Here’s to the thirteen united colonies, hurrah!”

“Hurrah! hurrah! hip—hip—hurrah!” rung around the crowded room, as we

drank off our bumpers.

“Can’t you give us a toast, O’Shaughnessy?” sung out Westbrook.

“Shure and what shall it be?” said he, with humorous simplicity. A

general roar of laughter followed.

“Any thing, my hearty,” said Westbrook, cramming a piece of junk into

his mouth as he spoke.

“Arrah thin, and ye’ll not refuse to dhrink the memory of our gallant

comrade,” said he, looking hard at me, “present this blessed minit, who

fought, bled, and died at Fort Moultrie—Misther Parker, I mane, boys.”

The explosions of laughter which followed this speech, like successive

peals of thunder, were enough to lift the deck of the schooner off

bodily from overhead. But the most laughable part of all was the

amazement of poor O’Shaughnessy, who, unable to understand this new

burst of merriment, looked from one to another, in humorous perplexity.

As soon, however, as the company could compose itself, the toast was

drunk amid a whirlwind of huzzas. I rose to return thanks.

“Hear him—hear him,” roared a dozen voices. I began.

“Honored as I am, gentlemen, by this token of—of,” but here I was

interrupted by the entrance of the purser, who, poking his head through

the narrow doorway, said,

“Gentlemen, the captain must be informed of this riot if it continues.”

The purser was a stiff, starch, precise old scoundrel, with a squint in

his eye, a nasal twang, and an itching after money beyond even that of

Shylock. To make a dollar he would descend to the meanest shifts. But

this would not have irritated the mess so much, even though he had at

one time or another fleeced every member of it, had it not been his

constant practice to inform on such of the tricks inseparable to a set

of youngsters as came under his notice. He was, in short, a skulking

spy. Added to this he was continually affecting a strictness of morals

which was more than suspected to be hypocritical.

“And who made you keeper of the skipper’s conscience?—eh! old

plunderer,” said Westbrook, as he shied a biscuit at the purser’s head.

“Really, gentlemen, really—I—I must—”

“Come in, or you’ll catch cold in the draught,” sung out our reckless

comrade, “your teeth chatter so now you can’t talk. Haul him in there,

O’Shaughnessy.”

Quick as the word the unlucky interloper was dragged in, the door shut,

and he stood turning from one to another of our group in speechless

amazement. We were all ready for any mischief. The rattling of the

cordage overhead, the thunder of the surge, and the deafening whistle of

the hurricane we knew would drown all the uproar we might occasion, and

afford us impunity for any offence. Besides it was no part of his duty

to be intruding on our mess, and threatening us with punishment. We had

a long account to settle with our extortioner.

“Hope you find yourself at home—take a sociable glass, that’s a good

fellow—glad to see you amongst us,” sung out as many voices as biscuit

after biscuit was sent at the purser’s head, while Westbrook mixing a

stiff tumbler of salt and water proffered it to our victim to drink.

“Spu—spu—gentlemen, spu, I promise you—the utmost penalty of—of the

regulations—you shall be mast-headed—disrated—you shall, so help me

God.”

“A penalty! a penalty! the worthy man is profane: how shall we punish

such immorality?”

“Cob him,” said one.

“Keel-haul him,” said another.

“Make him receipt for his bill,” roared a third.

“Give him the salt and water,” chimed in Westbrook, and the salt and

water it was agreed should be the penalty. Three stout reefers held the

loathing victim fast, while Westbrook proceeded to administer the

draught.

“Gentlemen—I—I—protest—a—gainst—you shall suffer for this—you

shall—”

“Aisy, you spalpeen you, aisy,” said O’Shaughnessy, giving the purser a

shake.

“Mr. Westbrook, I warn you—I warn you,” said the purser raising his

voice.

But our comrade was not to be intimidated. Taking the glass in one hand,

he placed himself at a proper distance in front of the struggling man,

and gravely commenced haranguing him on the enormity of his offence.

“It pains me, indeed, Mr. Sower,” and here Westbrook laid his hand upon

his heart, “to hear a man of your character use such language as you

have been convicted of, especially in the presence of these misguided

young reprobates,” here there was a general laugh, “example, example, my

dear sir, is every thing. But the deed is done: the penalty alone

remains to be paid. With a heart torn with the most poignant anguish I

proceed to execute your sentence.”

“Mr. Westbrook, again I warn you—spe—e—u—uh.”

But in vain the purser kicked, and struggled, and spluttered. The mess

was too much for him. One seized him by the nose, a second forced open

his mouth, and Westbrook, with inimitable gravity, apologising for, and

bemoaning his melancholy duty,—as he called it—in the same breath,

poured the nauseating draught down the victim’s throat, amid roars of

laughter.

“D——n, I’ll make you pay for this—I will—I will,” roared the purser,

almost choked with rage.

“Open the door and let him run,” laughed Westbrook.

The mandate was obeyed, and with one bound the purser sprang out of the

mess-room, while his merry persecutors, holding their sides, laughed

until the tears ran out of their eyes.

“A song—give us a song, Westbrook!” shouted the one at the foot of the

table, as soon as the merriment, ceasing for a while, but renewed again

and again, had finally died away.

“What shall it be?” said our jovial messmate, “ah! our own mess-room

song, Parker hasn’t heard it yet—shove us the jug, for I’m confoundedly

dry.”

Having taken a long draught, Westbrook hemmed twice, and sang in a fine

manly tenor, the following stanzas:

“Oh! what is so gay as a reefer’s life!

With his junk and Jamaica by him,

He cares not a fig for the morning’s strife.

He seeks but the foe to defy him;

He fights for his honor and country’s laws,

He fights for the mother that bore him,—

And the hireling slave of a tyrant’s cause

Will quail, like a coward, before him.

“The deep may unfetter its surges dread,

The heavens their thunders awaken,

The tempest howl as it sweeps overhead,—

He smiles at all danger unshaken;

With an unblenched eye, and a daring form

He fearlessly gazes before him,

Though he fall in battle, or sink in the storm,

His country, he knows, will weep o’er him.

“In her sun-lit vallies are daughters fair

To greet us from battle returning,

With their song and smile to banish each care

By the hearth-fire cheerily burning.

Oh! who would not fight for beings like these,

For mothers, for grandsires hoary?

Like a besom we’ll sweep the foe from the seas,

Or die, in the strife, full of glory.”

“Bravo! three times three!” and the triple sound rolled stunningly from

our throats.

“Hark! wasn’t that the boatswain’s whistle?” said I, and for a moment we

paused in our applause to listen. But the tumult of the storm drowned

everything in its fierce uproar.

“Again, boys—hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” and the cheers were renewed with

redoubled vigor.

“Gentlemen, all hands on deck,” said the quarter-master, opening the

door at this moment.

“Ay! ay! sir,” was the simultaneous response of every member of the

mess, and in less than a minute our late noisy apartment was as quiet as

the tomb, and we had each taken his post on deck. Such is discipline.

The spectacle that met our vision as we reached the deck, drove at once,

all the excitement of our potations off; and we were as calm and

collected in a second after leaving the gang-way, as if we had kept

above during the whole evening. Never can I forget that moment. The rain

was pouring down in torrents, not perpendicularly, however, but

slant-wise, as it was driven before the hurricane. Now it beat fiercely

into our faces, and now was whirled hither and thither in wild

commotion. Around, all was dark as pitch. We could not see a dozen

fathoms in any direction, except where the white crests of the surges

flashed through the gloom. These could, however, be detected close under

our lee glancing through the darkness, while the dull continued roar in

that quarter, betokened our immediate vicinity to breakers. They were in

fact, close aboard. Had they not been detected the instant they were, we

should have run on to them the next minute, and perished to a soul.

Happily we had just room to wear. This had been done before we were

summoned on deck. We had now close-hauled every thing, and were

endeavoring, as our only hope, to claw off the shore.

The next fifteen minutes were spent in that agonising suspense, for more

terrible than death itself, which men experience when the king of terror

smiles grimly in their faces, and yet witholds the blow. As we gazed

out, through the driving rain, upon the dimly seen breakers on our

starboard beam, and heard their wild monotonous roar as of hounds

yelling for their prey, a sense of inexpressible awe stole upon our

minds, which, though totally devoid of fear, was yet appalling. Who knew

but that, before another hour, aye! before a quarter of that time, our

mangled bodies might be floating at the mercy of the surge? Every moment

deepened our anxiety, for though our little craft breasted the waves

with gallant determination, sending the spray as high as her mast head

at every plunge, yet there was no perceptible increase in our distance

from the shore. Fierce, and fiercer, meanwhile, grew the tempest. The

surge roared under our lee; the wind howled by like the wailings of the

damned; and the occasional lightnings, which now began to illuminate the

scene, lit up the whole firmament a moment with their ghastly glare, and

then left it shrouded in darkness deeper than that of the day of doom.

At intervals the thunder bellowed overhead or went crackling in

prolonged echoes down the sky. The schooner groaned and quivered in

every timber. Now we rose to the heavens; now wallowed in the abyss. The

men, grasping each a rope, looked ominously at the scene around, or cast

hurried glances aloft as if fearful that our masts would not stand the

strain.

“Hark!” said Westbrook, who stood beside me, “was not that a gun?—there

again?”

As he spoke the sullen roar of a cannon boomed across the deep, and for

several successive minutes, in the intervals of the thunder, followed

the same awful sound. We looked at each other.

“They are signals of distress,” I ejaculated, “God have mercy on the

sufferers! for man can afford them no help.”

I had scarcely ceased speaking when a succession of rapid, vivid flashes

of lightning, illumined the stormy prospect for several minutes, as with

the light of day; and for the first time we caught a glimpse of the

rocky coast, on our lee, against which the surge was breaking in a

hurricane of foam. But fearful as was the spectacle of our own danger,

it was surpassed by the sight which met our eager gaze. About a cable’s

length ahead, and a few points on our lee bow, was a tall and gallant

bark, dismantled and broached to, upon a reef of jagged rocks, now

buried in foam. Her weather quarter lay high upon the ledge, and was

crowded with unfortunate human beings, men, women and children, over

whom the surges broke momentarily in cataracts. I hear now their wild

despairing cries, although years have passed since then. I see their

outstretched hands as they call on heaven for mercy. I feel again the

cold chill, freezing up my very blood, which then rushed across my

heart, as I thought of their inevitable doom, and knew not but that in a

few moments I should share its bitterness with them. I was startled by a

deep voice at my side. It was that of an old warrant officer. The tears

were streaming down his weather-beaten cheeks, and his tones were husky

and full of emotion as he said,

“It’s a sad spectacle that for a father, Mr. Parker.”

“It is, Hawser—but why do you shed tears?—cheer up, man—it’s not all

over with us yet,” said I.

“Ah! sir, it’s not fear that makes me so, but I was thinking what my

little ones, and their poor mother would do for bread to eat, should I

be taken away from them. You are not a father, Mr. Parker.”

“God forgive me, Hawser, for my suspicion. I honor your emotions,” said

I, pressing his horny hand, and turning away to conceal my own feelings.

But as I did so, I felt something hot fall upon my finger. It was the

old man’s tear.

“We must give her another reef, I fear,” said the captain, as he saw how

fearfully the vessel strained, “no, no,” he added, as he glanced again

at the rocky coast, “it will never do. Keep her to it,” he thundered,

raising his voice, “keep her to it, quarter-master.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

We were now almost abreast of the ill-fated wreck. Driving rapidly

along, the dark waters sinking in foam beneath our lee as we breasted

the opposing surge, our fate promised soon to be the same with that of

the wretches on the reef. The crisis was at hand. We were in dangerous

proximity to the dismantled ship; and the least falling off would roll

us in upon her. It was even doubtful whether we could weather the reef,

should we still hold our own. At this moment a ray of hope appeared. We

perceived that the shore shelved in just beyond the wreck, and that, if

we could escape the ledge, our safety would be ensured. The captain took

in at a glance this new situation of affairs, which, by holding out

hope, redoubled every motive to action.

“How bears she?” he anxiously inquired.

The man answered promptly.

“Hard up—press her down more,” he shouted, and then muttered, between

his teeth “or we are lost.”

“She is almost shaking.”

“How does she bear?”

“A point more in the wind’s eye.”

“Harder yet, harder.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“How now?”

“Another point, sir.”

The crisis had now come. Bending almost to the horizon, under the

enormous press of her canvass, the schooner groaned and struggled

against the seas, and for one moment of intense agony, during which we

held our breaths painfully, and even forgot the cries of the sufferers

upon our lee, we thought that all was over; but, although the schooner

staggered under the successive shocks, she did not yield, and as the

last billow sank away, whitening beneath her lee, and we rose gallantly

upon its crest, the rocky reef shot away astern, and we were safe. As

the wreck vanished in the gloom behind, the cries of her despairing

passengers came mingled with the roar of the tempest, in awful

distinctness, to our ears.

* * * * *

THE OUTLAW LOVER.

BY J. H. DANA.

Chapter I.

_Com._ And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady?

_Comus._

It was a summer afternoon, and the sunlight, glimmering through the

branches of the old oak trees, fell with a rich glow upon the green

sward beneath, lighting up the dark vistas of the forest, and disclosing

long avenues of stately trees, through which the deer trotted in the

distance, presenting altogether a picture of woodland scenery such as

the eye rarely beholds, when two females might have been seen sauntering

idly along, listening to the gay echoes of their own voices as they

conversed in those light-hearted tones, which only youth and innocence

employ. The foremost of the two, by the stateliness of her mien, and the

richness of her dress, appeared to be of higher rank than her companion;

and as she turned occasionally to converse with her attendant, she

disclosed one of the most beautiful countenances that poet ever dreamed

of, or painter pictured. A noble contour; a snowy forehead; a finely

chiselled mouth; and a pair of dark lustrous eyes that shone like a

cloudless night into the gazer’s soul, made up a face of surpassing

loveliness. And as she conversed, each successive thought would flash up

into her countenance, making it, as it were, the mirror of the pure soul

beneath, and giving it an expression, such as the pen would find it

impossible to describe.

“Ruth! Ruth!” said this fair vision, suddenly pausing, “hear you

nothing—surely that was the cry of dogs—can we have wandered so far

from the lodge?”

The color faded from the attendant’s cheek as her mistress ceased

speaking, and the deep bay of approaching hounds floated down the

avenues of the forest.

“Let us fly—fly, dear lady,” said the terrified girl, “or the stag will

be upon us.”

The words had scarcely left her mouth before a crashing was heard in a

neighboring thicket, and before the females could move more than a few

steps from their position, a huge antlered stag, dripping with blood and

foam, burst out of the copse, and made toward them. The attendant

shrieked, and clasping her mistress’ robe, stood unable to move. Had the

maiden been equally paralysed, their destruction would have been

unavoidable. But in that moment of peril, though the cheek of the lady

Margaret became a trifle paler than usual, her presence of mind did not

desert her. Seizing her attendant’s arm energetically, she dragged her

toward a huge oak behind them, whose giant trunk would afford a

momentary barrier against the infuriated animal. Had the lady Margaret

been alone and unencumbered, she would have succeeded in her endeavor,

but her nearly senseless companion so retarded her progress that the

stag had almost overtaken them while yet several paces from the tree.

Another instant and their fate would be sealed. But at that crisis she

heard a whizzing by her ear, and an arrow, sped by an unseen hand,

pierced the heart of the stag, who leaping madly forward with a last

effort, fell dead at her feet. At the same moment a light and active

form, arrayed in a dress of Lincoln green, sprang out from a neighboring

copse, and lifting his cap to the ladies, begged to enquire after their

affright, in a tone so courtly for one of his apparent station, that

Margaret involuntarily looked closer at the stranger.

He was apparently about twenty-five years of age, with an open and

generous countenance, enlivened by one of those merry blue eyes which

were characteristic in those days, of the pure Saxon blood of their

possessor. A jaunty cap, with a long white feather drooping over it, was

set upon the stranger’s head; while a green coat, made somewhat after

the fashion of a hunting frock of the present day, and crossed by a wide

belt from which depended a bugle, set off his graceful form. Altogether

the intruder was as gallant a looking forester as ever trod the

greensward.

“The hounds are in full cry,” continued the stranger, without shrinking

at the scrutiny of the lady, “and will soon be upon us. Will you suffer

me to be your protector from this scene?”

The lady Margaret bowed, and pointing to her attendant, who had now

fainted, thanked their preserver for his offer, and signified her

willingness to accept it. The youth made no answer, but seizing the

prostrate maiden in his arms, he pointed to the copse from which he had

emerged, and hastily followed Margaret into it. The branches, where they

passed in their retreat, had scarcely ceased vibrating, when the hounds

dashed into the space they had left, and in a moment after a gay train

of hunters followed with horn and halloo.

Meantime the young stranger, bearing the form of Ruth in his arms,

hastily traversed the forest, by paths that others could scarcely have

detected, until he reached the margin of an open glade, at whose

extremity stood a low-roofed lodge, such as was then used for the

residence of a keeper of the forest. Here the stranger hesitated a

moment, but finally perceiving that no one was in sight, he pressed

across the glade, and only paused when he had deposited his now reviving

burden on a cot in the lodge. The next moment he turned to depart.

“May—may we know to whom we are indebted for this timely aid?” faltered

the lady Margaret, crimsoning as she spoke, with an agitation of manner

unusual to the high-bred heiress.

The youth hesitated a moment, looked wistfully at the maiden, and seemed

on the point of answering, when footsteps were heard approaching.

Hastily bowing to Margaret, he ejaculated,

“We may meet again, farewell!” and vanished from the portal. His form

disappeared in the forest as the keeper entered and saluted the lady

Margaret and his daughter.