"Oh, don't bother! _Little arms_, indeed!--about the size of my leg! I do

wish he'd be quiet. I'm working out a problem."

"A problem! fiddle-de-dee--hush, baby! A magazine article, more

like--_will_ you hush?"

Papa turns away in despair, muttering, with a voice that grows louder and

louder as he warms up--

"Wisdom and wit are bubbles! Atoms and systems into ruin, hurled! And now a

_bubble_ burst! And now a WORLD! I have it, hurrah! _Can't_ you keep that

child still?"

"Man alive, I wish you'd try yourself!"

"Humph! What the plague is he up for at this time o' night, hey?"

"At this time o' night! Why what on earth are you thinking of? It is only a

little after five, my dear."

"Well, and what if it is? Ought to have been a-bed and asleep two hours

ago."

"And so he was, my love; but you can't expect him to sleep _all_ the

time--there! there!"--trotting baby with all her might--"Hush-a-bye-baby on

the tree top--there! there!--papa's gone a-huntin'--"

"My dear!"

"My love!"

"Look at me, will you? How on earth is a fellow to marshal his

thoughts--will you be quiet, sir?--to marshal his thoughts 'the way they

should go'--Mercy on us, he'll split his throat!"

"Or train up a child the way he should go, hey?"

"Thunder and lightning, he'll drive me distracted! I wonder if there is

such a thing as a ditch or a horsepond anywhere in the neighborhood."

"Oh! that reminds me of something, my love. I ought to have mentioned it

before. The cistern's out."

"The cistern's out, hey? Well, what if it is? Are we to have this kicking

and squalling till the cistern's full again, hey?"

"Why what possesses you?"

"Couldn't see the connection, that's all. I ask for a horsepond or a ditch,

and you tell me the cistern's out. If it were full, there might be some

hope for me," looking savagely at the baby, "I suppose it's deep enough."

"For shame!--do hush, baby, will ye? Tuddy, tuddy, how he bawls!"

"Couldn't you tighten the cap-strings a little, my dear?"

"Monster! get away, will you?'

"Or cram your handkerchief down his throat, or your knitting-work, or the

lamp-rug?"

"Ah, well thought of, my dear. Have you seen Mr. Smith?"

"What Smith?"

"George, I believe. The man you buy your oil of, and your groceries.--Hush,

baby! He's been here two or three times after you this week."

"Hang Mr. Smith!"

"With all my heart, my love. But, if the quarter's rent is not paid, you

know, and the grocer's bill, and the baker's, and the butcher's, and if you

don't manage to get the bottling-house fixed up, and some other little

matters attended to, I don't exactly see how the hanging of poor Mr. Smith

would help us."

"Oh hush, will you?"

The young wife turned and kissed the baby, with her large indolent eyes

fixed upon the door somewhat nervously. She had touched the bell more than

once without being seen by her husband.

"Wisdom and wit," continued papa, with a voice like that of a man who has

overslept himself and hopes to make up for lost time by walking very fast,

and talking very little to the purpose--"Wisdom and wit are bubbles"--

The young wife nodded with a sort of a smile, and the baby, rolling over in

her lap, let fly both heels? at the nurse, who had crept in slyly, as if

intent to lug him off to bed without his knowledge. But he was not in a

humor to be trifled with; and so he flopped over on the other side, and,

tumbling head over heels upon the floor, very much at large, lay there

kicking and screaming till he grew black in the face. But the girl

persisted, nevertheless, in lifting him up and lugging him off to the door,

notwithstanding his outcries and the expostulatory looks of both papa and

mamma--her wages were evidently in arrears, a whole quarter, perhaps.

"Wisdom and wit are bubbles," continued papa; "dominion and power, and

beauty and strength"--

"And gingerbread and cheese," added mamma, in reply to something said by

the girl in a sort of stage-whisper.

Whereupon papa, stopping short, and looking at mamma for a few moments,

puzzled and well nigh speechless, gasped out--

"And _gingerbread and cheese!_ Why, what the plague do you mean, Sarah?"

"Nothing else for tea, my love, so Bridget says. Not a pound o' flour in

the house; not so much as a loaf, nor a roll, nor a muffin to be had for

love or money--so Bridget says."

"Nothin' to be had without _money_, ma'am; that's what I said."

"Bridget!"

"_Sir!_"

That "_sir!_"--it was an admission of two quarters in arrear at least.

"Take that child to bed this moment! Begone! I'll bear this no longer."

The girl stared, muttered, grabbed the baby, and flung away with such an

air--three quarters due, if there was a single day!--banged the door to

after her, and bundled off up the front stairs at a hand-gallop, her tread

growing heavier, and her voice louder and louder with every plunge.

"_Sarah!_"

"_Peter!_"

"I wonder you can put up with such insolence. That girl is getting

insufferable."

The poor wife looked up in amazement, but opened not her mouth; and the

husband continued walking the floor with a tread that shook the whole

house, and stopping occasionally, as if to watch the effect, or to see how

much further he might go without injury to his own health.

"How often have I told you, my dear, that if a woman would be respected by

her own servants, she must respect herself, and never allow a word nor a

look of impertinence--_never! never!_--not even a look! Why, Sarah, life

itself would be a burthen to me. Upon my word," growing more and more in

earnest every moment--"Upon my word, I believe I should hang myself! And

how _you_ can bear it--you, with a nature so gentle and so affectionate,

and so--I declare to you"--

"Pray don't speak so loud, my love. The people that are going by the window

stop and look up towards the house. And what will the Peabodys think?"

"What do I care! Let them think what they please. Am I to regulate the

affairs of my household by what a neighbor may happen to think, hey? The

fact is, my dear Sarah--you must excuse me, I don't want to hurt your

feelings--but, the fact is, you ought to have had the child put to bed

three hours ago."

"_Three_ hours ago!"

"Yes, _three_ hours ago; and that would have prevented all this trouble."

Not a word from the young, patient wife; but she turned away hurriedly, and

there was a twinkle, as of a rain-drop, falling through the lamplight.

A dead silence followed. After a few more turns, the husband stopped, and,

with something of self-reproach in his tone, said--

"I take it for granted there is nothing the matter with the boy?"

No answer.

"Have you any idea what made him cry so terribly? Teething, perhaps."

No answer.

"Or the colic. You do not answer me, Sarah. It cannot be that you have

allowed that girl to put him to bed, if there is anything the matter with

him, poor little fellow!"

The young wife looked up, sorrowing and frightened.

"The measles are about, you know, and the scarlet fever, and the

hooping-cough, and the mumps; but, surely, a mother who is with her child

all night long and all day long ought to be able to see the symptoms of any

and every ailment before they would be suspected by another. And if it

should so happen"--

The poor wife could be silent no longer.

"The child is well enough," said she, somewhat stoutly. "He was never

better in his life. But he wanted his papa to take him, and he wouldn't;

and reaching after him he tipped over the lamp, and then--and then"--and

here she jumped up to leave the room; but her husband was too quick for

her.

"That child's temper will be ruined," said papa.

"To be sure it will," said mamma; "and I've always said so."

She couldn't help it; but she was very sorry, and not a little flurried

when her husband, turning short upon her, said--

"I understand you, Sarah. Perhaps he wanted me to take him up to bed?"

No answer.

"I wonder if he expects me to do that for him till he is married? _Little

arms_, indeed!"

No answer.

"Or till he is wanted to do as much for me?"

No answer; not even a smile.

And now the unhappy father, by no means ready to give up, though not at all

satisfied with himself, begins walking the floor anew and muttering to

himself, and looking sideways at his dear patient wife, who has gone back

to the table, and is employed in getting up another large basket of

baby-things, with trembling lips and eyes running over in bashful

thankfulness and silence.

"Well, well, there is no help for it, I dare say. As we brew we must bake.

It would be not merely unreasonable, but silly--foolish--absolutely

foolish--whew!--to ask of a woman, however admirable her disposition may

be, for a--for a straightforward--Why what the plague are you laughing at,

Sarah? What have you got there?"

Without saying a word, mamma pushed over towards him a new French

caricature, just out, representing a man well wrapped up in a great coat

with large capes, and long boots, and carrying an umbrella over his own

head, from which is pouring a puddle of water down the back of a delicate

fashionable woman--his wife, anybody might know--wearing thin slippers and

a very thin muslin dress, and making her way through the gutters on

tip-toe, with the legend, "You are never satisfied!" "_Tu n'est jamais

contente!_"

Instead of gulping down the joke, and laughing heartily--or making believe

laugh, which is the next best thing, in all such cases--papa stood upon his

dignity, and, after an awful pause, went on talking to himself pretty much

as follows:--

"According to Shakspeare--and what higher authority can we

have?--reputation itself is but a _bubble_, blown by the cannon's mouth:

and therefore do I say, and stick to it--hurrah for bubbles!"

The young wife smiled; but her eyes were fixed upon a very small cap, with

a mournful and touching expression, and her delicate fingers were busy upon

its border with that regular, steady, incessant motion which, beginning

soon after marriage, ends only with sickness or death.

"_And_," continued papa--"_and_, if Moore is to be believed, the great

world itself, with all its wonders and its glories--the past, the present,

and the future, is but a '_fleeting show_.'"

The young wife nodded, and fell to dancing the baby's cap on the tips of

her fingers.

"And what are _bubbles_," continued papa, "what are _bubbles_ but a

'fleeting show?'"

The little cap canted over o' one side, and there was a sort of a giggle,

just the least bit in the world, it was _so_ cunning, as papa added, in

unspeakable solemnity--

"And so, too, everything we covet, everything we love, and everything we

revere on earth, are but emptiness and vanity."

Here a nod from the little cap, mounted on the mother's fingers, brought

papa to a full stop--a change of look followed--a downright smile--and then

a much pleasanter sort of speech--and then, as you live, a kiss!

"And what are _bubbles_, I should be glad to know, but emptiness and

vanity?" continues papa.

"By all this, I am to understand that a wife is a bubble--hey?"

"To be sure."

"And the baby?"

"Another."

"And what are husbands?"

"Bubbles of a large growth."

"Agreed!--I have nothing more to say."

"Look about you. Watch the busiest man you know--the wisest, the greatest,

among the renowned, the ambitious, and the mighty of earth, and tell me if

you can see one who does not spend his life blowing bubbles in the

sunshine--through the stump of a tobacco pipe. What living creature did you

ever know--"

"Did you speak to me, my dear?"

"No. Sarah, I was speaking to posterity."

Another nod from the little cap, and papa grows human.

"Yes!--what living creature did you ever know who was not more of a

bubble-hunter than he was anything else? We are all schemers--even the

wisest and the best--all visionaries, my dear."

By this time, papa had got mamma upon his knee, and the rest of the

conversation was at least an octave lower.

"Even so, my love. And what, after all, is the looming at sea; the Fata

Morgana in the Straits of Messina, near Reggio; or the Mirage of the

Desert, in Egypt and Persia, but a sample of those glittering

phantasmagoria, which are called _chateaux en Espagne_, or castles in the

air, by the wondrous men who spend their lives in piling them up, story

upon story, turrets, towers, and steeples--domes, and roofs, and pinnacles?

and _therefore_ do I say again, hurrah for bubbles!"

"What say you to the South Sea bubble, my dear?"

"What say I!--just what I say of the Tulip bubble, of the Mississippi

Scheme, of the Merino Sheep enterprise, of the Down-East Timber lands, of

the Morus Multicaulis, of the California fever, and the Cuba hallucination.

They are periodical outbreaks of commercial enterprise, unavoidable in the

very nature of things, and never long, nor safely postponed; growing out of

a plethora--never out of a scarcity--a plethora of wealth and population,

and corresponding, in the regularity of their returns, with the plague and

the cholera."

"And these are what you have called _bubbles_?"

"Precisely."

"And yet, if I understood you aright, when you said, 'I go for

bubbles--hurrah for bubbles'--you meant to speak well of them?"

"To be sure I did--certainly--yes--no--so far as a magazine article goes, I

did."

"But a magazine article, my love--bear with me, I pray you--ought to be

something better than a brilliant paradox, hey?"

"Go on--I like this."

"If you will promise not to be angry."

"I do."

"Well, then--however _telling_ it may be to hurrah for bubbles, and to call

your wife a bubble, and your child another; because the world is all a

'fleeting show,' and bubbles are a 'fleeting show;' or because the

Scriptures tell us that everything here is emptiness and vanity--and

bubbles are emptiness and vanity; I have the whole of your argument, I

believe?--is hardly worthy of a man, who, in writing, would wish to make

his fellow-man better or wiser--"

"Well done the bubble!--I never heard _you_ reason before: keep it up, my

dear."

"You never gave me a chance; and, by the way, there is one bubble you have

entirely overlooked."

"And what is that--marriage?"

"No."

"The buried treasures, and the cross of pure gold, a foot and a half long,

you were talking with that worthy man about, last winter, when I came upon

you by surprise, and found you both sitting together in the dark--and

whispering _so_ mysteriously?"

"Captain Watts, you mean, the lighthouse keeper?"

"Yes. Upon my word, Peter, I began to think you were _up_ for California. I

never knew you so absent in all your life as you were, day after day, for a

long while after that conversation."

"The very thing, my dear!--and as I happen to know most of the parties, and

was in communication for three whole years with the leader of the

enterprise, I do think it would be one of the very best illustrations to be

found, in our day, of that strange, steadfast, unquenchable faith, which

upholds the bubble-hunter through all the sorrows and all the

discouragements of life, happen what may: and you shall have the credit of

suggesting that story. But then, look you, my dear--if I content myself

with telling the simple truth, nobody will believe me."

"Try it."

"I will!--Good night, my dear."

"Don't make a long story of it, I beseech you.--Good night!"

"Hadn't you better leave the little cap with me? It may keep you awake, my

dear."

"Nonsense. Good night!" and papa drops into a chair, makes a pen, and goes

to work as follows:--

Now for it: here goes! In the year 1841, there was a man living at

Portland, Maine, whose life, were it faithfully written out, would be one

of the most amusing, perhaps one of the most instructive, books of our day.

Energetic, hopeful, credulous to a proverb, and yet sagacious enough to

astonish everybody when he prospered, and to set everybody laughing at him

when he did not, he had gone into all sorts of speculation, head over

heels, in the course of a few years, and failed in everything he undertook.

At one time, he was a retail dry-goods dealer, and failed: then a

manufacturer by water power of cheap household furniture, and failed again:

then a large hay-dealer: then a holder of nobody knows how many shares in

the Marr Estate, whereby he managed to feather his nest very handsomely,

they say; then he went into the land business, and bought and sold township

after township, till he was believed to be worth half a million, and used

to give away a tithe of his profits to poor widows, at the rate of ten

thousand dollars a year; offering the cash, but always giving on

interest--simple interest--which was never paid--failed: tried his hand at

working Jewell's Island, in Casco Bay, at one time, for copperas; and at

another, for treasures buried there by Captain Kyd. Let us call him Colonel

Jones, for our present purpose; that being a name he went by, at a pinch,

for a short period.

Well, one day he called upon me--it was in the year 1842, I should

say--and, shutting the door softly, and looking about, as if to make sure

that no listeners were nigh, and speaking in a low voice, he asked if I had

a few minutes to spare.

I bowed.

He then drew his chair up close to mine, so near as to touch, and, looking

me straight in the eyes, asked if I was a believer in animal magnetism;

waiting, open-mouthed, for my answer.

"Certainly," said I.

Whereupon he drew a long breath, and fell to rubbing his hands with great

cheerfulness and pertinacity.

"In clairvoyance, too--_perhaps_?"

"Most assuredly--up to a certain point."

"I knew it! I knew it!" jumping up and preparing to go. "Just what I

wanted--that's enough--I'm satisfied--good-by!"

"Stop a moment, my good fellow. The questions you put are so general that

my answers may mislead you."

He began to grow restless and fidgety.

"Although I am a believer in what _I_ call animal magnetism and

clairvoyance, I would not have you understand that I am a believer in a

hundredth part of the stories told of others. What I see with my own eyes,

and have had a fair opportunity of investigating and verifying, that I

believe. What others tell me, I neither believe nor disbelieve. I wait for

the proof. Suppose you state the case fairly."

"Do you believe that a clairvoyant can see hidden treasure in the earth,

and that it would be safe to rely upon the assurances of such a person made

in the magnetic sleep?"

"No."

"But suppose you had tried her?"

"_Her!_ In what way?"

"By hiding a watch, for example, or a bit of gold, or a silver spoon, where

nobody knew of it but yourself?"

"No; not even then."

"_No!_ And why not, pray?"

"Simply because, judging by the experiments I have been able to make, I do

not see any good reason for believing that, because a subject may tell us

of what we ourselves know, or have heretofore known, which I admit very

common, therefore she can tell me what I do not know and never did know. My

notion is--but I maybe mistaken--that she sees with my eyes, hears with my

ears, and remembers with my memory; and that she can do nothing more than

reflect my mind while we are in communication."

"May be so; but the woman we are dealing with has actually pointed out the

direction, and, at last, by a process of lining peculiar to herself, the

actual position of what I had buried in the earth at a considerable

distance, and without the knowledge or help of any living creature."

"Could she do this _always_ and with _certainty_, and so that a third

person might go to the treasure without help, on hearing her directions?"

"Why no, perhaps not; for that some few mistakes may have occurred, in the

progress of our investigations, I am not disposed to deny."

"Probably. But, after all, were the directions given by her at any time,

under any circumstances, definite and clear enough to justify a man of

plain common sense in risking his reputation or money upon a third party's

finding, without help, what you had concealed?"

Instead of answering my question, the poor fellow grew uneasy, and pale,

and anxious; and, after considering awhile, and getting up and sitting down

perhaps half a dozen times before he could make up his mind what to say, he

told me a story--one of the most improbable I ever heard in my life--the

leading features of which, nevertheless, I know to be true, and will vouch

for as matters of fact.

There had been here, in Portland, for about six months, it appeared, a

strange-looking, mysterious man--I give the facts, without pretending to

give the words--who went by the name of Greenleaf. He was a sailor, and

boarded with a man who kept a sailor boarding-house, and who, I am told, is

still living here, by the name of Mellon. People had taken it into their

heads that the stranger had something upon his mind, as he avoided

conversation, took long walks by himself, and muttered all night long in

his sleep. After a while, it began to be whispered about among the

seafaring people that he was a pirate; and Mellon, his landlord, went so

far as to acknowledge that he had his reasons for thinking so; although

Greenleaf, on finding himself treated, and watched, and questioned more

narrowly than he liked, managed to drop something about having sailed under

the Brazilian flag. And, on being plied with liquor one day, with listeners

about him, he went into some fuller particulars, which set them all agog.

These, reaching the ears of Colonel Jones, led to an interview, from which

he gathered that Greenleaf was one of a large crew commissioned by the

Brazils in 1826; that, after cruising a long while in a latitude swarming

with Spanish vessels of war, they got reduced to twenty-five men, all told.

That one day they fell in with a large, heavily-laden ship, from which they

took about three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, in gold and silver,

and a massive gold cross, nearly two feet long, and weighing from fifteen

to twenty pounds, belonging to a Spanish priest; but what they did with the

crew and the passengers, or with the ship and the priest, did not appear.

That, soon after getting their treasure aboard, they saw a large sail to

windward, which they took to be a Spanish frigate; and, being satisfied

with their booty, they altered their course, and steered for a desolate

island near Guadaloupe, where, after taking out three hundred doubloons

apiece, they landed, with the rest of the treasure packed in gun-cases, and

hooped with iron; dug a hole in the earth and buried it; carefully removing

the turf and replacing it, and carrying off all the dirt, and scattering it

along the shore. That they took the bearings of certain natural objects,

and marked the trees, and agreed among themselves, under oath, not to

disturb the treasure till fifteen years had gone by, when it was to belong

to the survivors. That, having done this, they steered for the Havana, and,

after altering their craft to a fore-and-aft schooner, sold her, and shared

the money. Being flush, and riotous, and quarrelsome, they soon got

a-fighting among themselves; and, within a few months, by the help of the

yellow fever, not less than twenty-three out of the whole twenty-five were

buried, leaving only this Greenleaf and an old man, who went by the name of

Thomas Taylor, and who had not been heard of for many years, and was now

believed to be dead.

A fortune-teller was consulted, and put into a magnetic sleep, and, if the

description they had painted of the man they were after could be depended

on by her, they would find him, under another name, in a national ship on

the East India station.

Here the Colonel began rubbing his hands again.

It appeared, moreover, that Taylor and Greenleaf had met more than once,

and consulted together, and made two or three attempts to charter a vessel;

but, being poor and among strangers, and afraid of trusting to other

people--no matter why--they finally agreed to lie by till they were better

off, and not be seen together till they should be able to undertake the

enterprise without help from anybody.

"But," said Greenleaf. "I am tired of waiting. He may be dead for all I

know He was an old man. At any rate, he is beyond my reach, out of hail;

and so, d'ye see, if you'll rig us out a small schooner, of not more than

seventy-five or eighty tons, I will go with you, and ask for no wages; and

here's the landlord'll go, too, on the same lay; and, if you'll give me a

third of what we find, I'll answer for Taylor, dead or alive, and you shall

be welcome to the rest, and may do what you like with it."

"Would they consent to go _unarmed_?"

"Yes."

And all these facts being communicated to some of our people, and agreed

to, a small schooner was chartered--the Napoleon, of ninety tons; Captain

John Sawyer was put in master, and Watts, who had followed the sea forty

years, and is now the keeper of Portland light, supercargo.

Not less than five, and it may be six, different voyages followed, one

after the other, as fast as a vessel could be engaged and a crew got

together; and, though nothing was "_realized_" but vexation,

disappointment, and self-reproach, till the parties who had ventured upon

the undertaking were almost ashamed to show their faces, there is not one

of the whole to this hour, I verily believe, who does not stick to the

faith and swear _it_ was no _bubble_; and they are men of character and

experience--men of business habits, cool and cautious in their

calculations, and by no means given to chasing will-o'-the-wisps anywhere.

And now let me give the particulars that have since come to my knowledge,

on the authority of those who were actually parties in the strange

enterprise from first to last.

Before they sailed on their first voyage, they consulted a fortune teller

by the name of Tarbox, who, without knowing their purpose, and while in a

magnetic sleep, described the place, and the marks, and the treasure, even

to the cross of gold, just as they had been described by Greenleaf himself.

But she chilled their very blood at the time by whispering that, within two

or three weeks at furthest, there would be a death among their number.

Greenleaf made very light of the prediction at first, but grew serious,

and, after a few days, gloomy, and refused to go. At last, however, he

consented, and they had a very pleasant run to the edge of the Gulf Stream,

latitude 38° and longitude 67°, when--but I must give this part of the

story in the very language of Watts himself, a man still living, and worthy

of entire confidence.

"We had been talking together pleasantly enough, and he seemed rather

_chippur_. Only the night before, he had given me all the marks and

bearings, and everything but the _distance_. He had never trusted anybody

else in the same way, he said, but had rather taken a liking to me, and he

kept back that one thing only that he might be safe, happen what must on

the voyage. Well, we had been talking pleasantly together--it was about

nine A.M., and the sea was running pretty high, and I had just turned to go

aft, when something made me look round again, and I saw the poor fellow

pitching head foremost over the side. He touched the water eight or ten

feet from the vessel, but came up handsomely and struck out. He was a

capital swimmer, and not at all frightened, so far as I could judge; for,

if you'll believe me, squire, he never opened his mouth, but swum head and

shoulders out of the water. At first, I thought he had jumped overboard;

but afterwards, I made up my mind that he was knocked over by the leach of

the foresail. I got hold of the gaff-topsail yard and run it under his

arms, and threw a rope over him, and sung out 'Hold on, Greenleaf! hold on,

and we'll save you yet.' But he took no notice of me, and steered right

away from the vessel. I then called to Captain Sawyer that we would lower

the boat, and asked him to jump in with me. There was a heavy sea on, and

we let go the boat, and she filled; she _riz_ once or twice, and then the

stem and stern were ripped out, and the body went adrift; and when I looked

again, there was nothing to be seen of poor Greenleaf. We ran for

Guadaloupe and sold our cargo, and then for St. Thuras's, and then for the

island where the money was buried. I offered to go ashore with Mellon, the

Dutchman, though Captain Sawyer tried to discourage me."

"Well, you went ashore?"

"I did."

"And satisfied yourself?"

"I did."

"But how?"

"I found the marks and the trees, and a well sunk in the sand with a barrel

in it; and I came to a place where the turf had settled, and a--and a--and,

from what I saw, I believe the money was there just as much as I believe

that I am talking with you now."

"You do!--then why the plague didn't you bring it home with you?"

"I'll tell you, squire. Fact is, we all agreed to go shears when the voyage

was made up. Greenleaf was to have a third, the Dutchman a third, and

Williams and M'Lellan a third, to be divided between Mr. C--Colonel Jones,

I should say--Captain Sawyer, and myself. But, the moment Greenleaf was out

of the way, the Dutchman grew sulky, and insisted on having his

part--making two-thirds; and finally swore he would have it, or _die_. This

we thought rather unreasonable; and, as I had the chart with me, and all

the marks, while the Dutchman had nothing to help him in the search, I

determined to lose myself on the island, feel round the shore a little, for

my own satisfaction, and then steal off quietly, and try another voyage,

with fewer partners. You understand, hey?"

"Well, my good friend, I don't ask you _how_ you satisfied yourself; but I

may as well acknowledge that I have understood from another owner--Colonel

Jones himself--that you carried probes and other mining tools with you,

such as you had been using on Jewell's Island for a long while; and that in

pricking, where you found the turf a little sunk, you touched something

about the size of a small tea-chest, and square, three feet below the

surface?"

To this Watts made no answer.

"And here ended the first voyage, hey?"

"Yes."

"How many were made in all?"

"I made three trips, and Captain M'Lellan two--and it runs in my head there

was another, but I am not sure. I returned from my third voyage on the 18th

day of July, 1842, in the Grampus, a little schooner of about seventy-five

tons."

"Perhaps you would have no objection to tell me something about the other

voyages?"

"Well, squire, to tell you the truth, we didn't land at all on the second

voyage. July 14th, we'd fell to leeward, and was beating up. I had been all

night on the look-out--I was master that trip--and we had got far enough to

bear up and run down under the lee of the island. We saw huts there, and

twenty or thirty people, and we didn't much like their behavior. When they

saw us, they ran down to the landing and took two boats and launched 'em. I

offered to go ashore, if anybody would go with me. John Mac, he first

agreed to it, but all the others refused; and then he said he would go if

the others would. And then we steered for Portland Harbor."

"Well, and the third voyage?"

"That we made in the Grampus. Captain Josh Safford and Captain Bill

Drinkwater went with us. We found two Spaniards upon the island. Their

boats had gone to Porto Rico after provisions, they said. So Captain

Safford, he gave them two muskets, with powder and ball, and they went off

hunting goats. After this, I didn't consider myself justified in going

ashore; and Captain Drinkwater complained a good deal of the liberty

Safford took in supplying strangers with firearms. They might pop a fellow

off at any time, you know, and nobody thereabouts would a ben the wiser."

"And here endeth the third voyage, hey?"

"Jess so."

"Do you happen to know anything about the other two?"

"Yes--for though I didn't go in the vessel, I knew pretty much all that

happened. You see, Colonel Jones he went to work with the fortin-teller

again; and he jest puts her to sleep, and tries her out and out, on

Jewell's Island, where she found a skeleton fixed between two trees, and

the walls of a hut, all grown over with large trees, and all the things

he'd buried there; and then too, while we was at sea, she told him what we

were doing, day by day, and they logged it all down: and when we got back

and compared notes, we found it all true. Ah! he was a sharp one, I tell

you! At last, he got her upon the track of Taylor. She found him in the

East Indies, under another name, and shipped aboard one of our national

ships. And so, what does he do but go to work and petition the Navy

Department for Taylor's discharge, upon the ground that a grand estate had

been left him--or, that he had large expectations, I forget which. He was

very shy at first, and wouldn't acknowledge that he had ever gone by the

name of Thomas Taylor. I dare say he had his reasons. But, after hunting

him through hospitals, and navy yards, and sailor boarding-houses, and from

ship to ship, the colonel he cornered him, and got him to say he would go

with them. He told exactly the same story that Greenleaf did: I was taken

sick, and couldn't go, and---stop--I'm before my story, I believe--they

made their voyage without him. They landed, dug trenches, and blistered

their hands, and spent over two days in the search, while the schooner lay

off and on, waiting for them: but they found nothing. After they got back,

however, the colonel he had a meeting with the owners, and satisfied them

all, in some way--I never knew how--that they had just reversed the

bearings, and hadn't been near the place. How he knew, I can't say, for he

had never been there, to my knowledge, and I happen to know that they must

have been pretty near the spot, for they found a sort of a hillock that I

remembered, and they told me all about the bearings, and they agreed with

my chart."

"Well!--"

"Well, the next time they went, they took Taylor with them, and everything

went on smoothly enough till one day, when the voyage was almost up, Taylor

he said to Pearce--'Pearce,' said he, 'to-morrow, at this time, I shall be

a rich man; and now,' says he, 'Mr. Pearce,' says he, 'I must have my

letters.' Upon this, up steps John Mac, and says he, 'Taylor,' says he,

'when you want any letters, you'll have to come to me for them; and I shall

have to put you upon allowance.' And then Taylor--he was an old

man-o'-warsman, you see, and he couldn't get along without his grog--he

jest ups and says--'that's enough, capt'n. You may haul aft the sheet, tack

ship, and go home. I shall tell you nothing more. As soon as the money is

safe--I see how 'tis--old Taylor'll have to go overboard.' And he stuck to

what he said, though he went ashore with them, just to show them that he

knew every point of the compass--for he told them where they would find a

couple of holes in the ledge--and they found them there, just as he said;

and the first thing they saw, there was Taylor away up on the top of a high

mountain, smoking a pipe. He had always told them he knew how to get up

there; but they never believed him, because they had all tried and couldn't

fetch it."

"And he stuck to it, hey, and never told them anything more?"

"Jess so."

"And what became of Taylor? Is he living?"

"No; he died in the hospital at Bath not more than five years ago."

"And you still think the money was there?"

"Think!--I am sure of it."

"Do you believe it is there now?"

"Do I!--Certainly I do!"

Whereupon, all I have to say is--_Hurrah for bubbles!_

* * * * *

SONNET.--QUEEN OF SCOTS.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

Within a castle's battlemented walls,

In crimsoned dungeon lay fair Scotia's queen:

Like drooping sorrow seemed she oft to lean

Her weary head. Pale, weeping memory recalls

The beaming joys of her life's early day,

Forever fled. Her spirit, palled with gloom,

Anticipates sweet rest but in the tomb--

White wingéd Faith, her guardian one, alway

There hovering nigh. 'Tis morn; dreams she no more;

On Fotheringay's black scaffold now she stands,

Clasping her cherished croslet in her hands,

Anon to die. Her fate the loves deplore;

The angel-loves, eke, waft her soul to heaven;

Her faults, her follies, to her faith forgiven.

* * * * *

THE PIONEER MOTHERS OF THE WEST.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

MARY BLEDSOE.

The history of the early settlers of the West, a large portion of which has

never been recorded in any published work, is full of personal adventure.

No power of imagination could create materials more replete with romantic

interest than their simple experience afforded. The early training of those

hardy pioneers in their frontier life; the daring with Which they

penetrated the wilderness, plunging into trackless forests, and

encountering the savage tribes whose hunting-grounds they had invaded; and

the sturdy perseverance with which they overcame all difficulties, compel

our wondering admiration. But far less attention has been given to their

exploits and sufferings than they deserve, because the accounts we have

received are too vague and general; the picture is not brought near us, nor

exhibited With life-like proportions and coloring; and our sympathy is

denied to what we are unable to appreciate. It will, I am sure, be

rendering a service to those interested in our American story to collect

such traditionary information as can be fully relied upon, and thus show

something of the daily life of those heroic adventurers.

The kindness of a descendant of one of those noble patriots who, after

having won distinction in the struggle for Independence, sought new homes

in the free and growing West,[1] enables me to present some brief notice of

one family associated with the early history of Tennessee. The name of

Bledsoe is distinguished among the pioneers of the Cumberland Valley. The

brothers of this name--Englishmen by birth--were living in 1769 upon the

extreme border of civilization, near Fort Chipel, a military post in Wyth

County, Virginia. It was not long before they removed further into the

wild, being probably the earliest pioneers in the valley of the Holston, in

what is now called Sullivan County, Tennessee, a portion of country at that

time supposed to be within the limits of Virginia. The Bledsoes, with the

Shelbys, settled themselves about twelve miles above the Island Flats. The

beauty of that mountainous region attracted others, who impelled by the

same spirit of adventure, and pride in being the first to explore the

wilderness, came to join them in establishing the colony. They cheerfully

ventured their property and lives, enduring the severest privations in

taking possession of their new homes, influenced by the love of

independence, equality, and religious freedom. The most dearly-prized

rights of man had been threatened in the oppressive system adopted by Great

Britain towards her colonies; her agents and the colonial magistrates

manifested all the insolence of authority; and individuals who had suffered

from their aggressions bethought themselves of a country beyond the

mountains, in the midst of primeval forests, where no laws existed save the

law of Nature--no magistrate except those selected by themselves; where

full liberty of conscience, of speech, and of action prevailed. Yet, almost

in the first year of their settlement, they formed a written code of

regulations by which they agreed to be governed; each man signing his name

thereto. The pioneer settlements of the Holston and Watanga, formed by

parties of emigrants from neighboring provinces, traveling together through

the wilderness, were not, in their constitution, unlike those of New Haven

and Hartford; but among them was no godly Hooker, no learned and

heavenly-minded Haynes. As from the first, however, they were exposed to

the continual depredations and assaults of their savage neighbors, who

looked with jealous eyes upon the approach of the white men, and waged a

war of extermination against them, it was perhaps well that there were

among them few men of letters. The rifle and the axe, their only weapons of

civilization, suited better the perils they encountered from the fierce and

marauding Shawnees, Chickamangas, Creeks, and Cherokees, than would the

brotherly address of William Penn, or the pious discourses of Roger

Williams.

During the first year, not more than fifty families had crossed the

mountains; but others came with each revolving season to reinforce the

little settlement, until its population swelled to hundreds; increasing to

thousands within ten or fifteen years, notwithstanding the frequent and

terrible inroads upon their numbers of the Indian rifle and tomahawk. The

dwelling-houses were forts, picketed, and flanked by block-houses, and the

inhabitants, for mutual aid and protection, took up their residence in

groups around different stations, within a short distance of one another.

Not long after the Bledsoes established themselves upon the banks of the

Holston, Colonel Anthony Bledsoe, who was an excellent surveyor, was

appointed clerk to the commissioners who ran the line dividing Virginia and

North Carolina. Bledsoe had, before this, ascertained that Sullivan County

was comprised within the boundaries of the latter province. In June, 1776,

he was chosen by the inhabitants of the county to the command of the

militia. The office imposed on him the dangerous duty of repelling the

savages and defending the frontier. He had often to call out the militia

and lead them to meet their Indian assailants, whom they would pursue to

their villages through the recesses of the forest. The battle of Long

Island, fought a few miles below his station, near the Island Flats, was

one of the earliest and hardest fought battles known in the traditionary

history of Tennessee. In June, 1776, more than seven hundred Indian

warriors advanced upon the settlements on the Holston, with the avowed

object of exterminating the white race through all their borders. Colonel

Bledsoe, at the head of the militia, marched to meet them, and in the

conflict which ensued was completely victorious; the Indians being routed,

and leaving forty dead upon the field. This disastrous defeat for a time

held them in check: but the spirit of savage hostility was invincible, and

in the years following there was a constant succession of Indian troubles,

in which Colonel Bledsoe was conspicuous for his bravery and services.

In 1779, Sullivan County having been recognized as a part of North

Carolina, Governor Caswell appointed Anthony Bledsoe colonel, and Isaac

Shelby lieutenant-colonel, of its military company. About the beginning of

July of the following year, General Charles McDowell, who commanded a

district east of the mountains, sent to Bledsoe a dispatch, giving him an

account of the condition of the country. The surrender of Charleston had

brought the State of South Carolina under British power; the people had

been summoned to return to their allegiance, and resistance was ventured

only by a few resolute spirits, determined to brave death rather than

submit to the invader. The Whigs had fled into North Carolina, whence they

returned as soon as they were able to oppose the enemy. Colonels Tarleton

and Ferguson had advanced towards North Carolina at the head of their

soldiery; and McDowell ordered Colonel Bledsoe to rally the militia of his

county, and come forward in readiness to assist in repelling the invader's

approach. Similar dispatches were sent to Colonel Sevier and to other

officers, and the patriots were not slow in obeying the summons.

While the British Colonel Ferguson, under the orders of Cornwallis, was

sweeping the country near the frontier, gathering the loyalists under his

standard and driving back the Whigs, against whom fortune seemed to have

decided, a resolute band was assembled for their succor far up among the

mountains. From a population of five or six thousand, not more than twelve

hundred of them fighting men, a body of near five hundred mountaineers,

armed with rifles and clad in leathern hunting-shirts, was gathered. The

anger of these sons of liberty had been stirred up by an insolent message

received from Colonel Ferguson, that, "if they did not instantly lay down

their arms, he would come over the mountains and whip their republicanism

out of them;" and they were eager for an opportunity of showing what regard

they paid to his threats.

At this juncture, Colonel Isaac Shelby returned from Kentucky, where he had

been surveying land for the great company of land speculators headed by

Henderson, Hart, and others. The young officer was betrothed to Miss Susan

Hart, a belle celebrated among the western settlements at that period, and

it was shrewdly suspected that his sudden return from the wilds of Kentucky

was to be attributed to the attractions of that young lady; notwithstanding

that due credit is given to the patriot, in recent biographical sketches,

for an ardent wish to aid his countrymen in their struggle for liberty by

his active services at the scene of conflict. On his arrival at Bledsoe's,

it was a matter of choice with the colonel whether he should himself go

forth and march at the head of the advancing army of volunteers, or yield

the command to Shelby. It was necessary for one to remain behind, for the

danger to the defenceless inhabitants of the country was even greater from

the Indians than the British; and it was obvious that the ruthless savage

would take immediate advantage of the departure of a large body of fighting

men, to fall upon the enfeebled frontier. Shelby, on his part, insisted

that it was the duty of Colonel Bledsoe, whose family, relatives, and

defenceless neighbors looked to him for protection, to stay with the troops

at home for the purpose of repelling the expected Indian assault. For

himself, he urged, he had no family to guard, or who might mourn his loss,

and it was better that he should advance with the troops to join McDowell.

No one could tell where might be the post of danger and honor, at home or

on the other side of the mountain. The arguments he used no doubt

corresponded with his friend's own convictions, his sense of duty to his

family, and of true regard to the welfare of his country; and the

deliberation resulted in his relinquishment of the command to his junior

officer. It was thus that the conscientious, though not ambitious, patriot

lost the honor of commanding in one of the most distinguished actions of

the Revolutionary War.

Colonel Shelby took the command of those gallant mountaineers who

encountered the forces of Ferguson at King's Mountain on the 7th October,

1780. Three days after that splendid victory, Colonel Bledsoe received from

him an official dispatch giving an account of the battle. The daughter of

Colonel Bledsoe well remembers having heard this dispatch read by her

father, though it has probably long since shared the fate of other valuable

family papers.

When the hero of King's Mountain, wearing the victor's wreath, returned to

his friends, he found that his betrothed had departed with her father for

Kentucky, leaving for him no request to follow. Sarah, the above-mentioned

daughter of Colonel Bledsoe, often rallied the young officer, who spent

considerable time at her father's, upon this cruel desertion. He would

reply by expressing much indignation at the treatment he had received at

the hands of the fair coquette, and protesting that he would not follow her

to Kentucky, nor ask her of her father; he would wait for little Sarah

Bledsoe, a far prettier bird, he would aver, than the one that had flown

away. The maiden, then some twelve or thirteen years of age, would

laughingly return his bantering by saying he "had better wait, indeed, and

see if he could win Miss Bledsoe who could not win Miss Hart." The arch

damsel was not wholly in jest, for a youthful kinsman of the colonel--David

Shelby, a lad of seventeen or eighteen, who had fought by his side at

King's Mountain--had already gained her youthful affections. She remained

true to this early love, though her lover was only a private soldier. And

it may be well to record that, the gallant colonel who thus threatened

infidelity to his, did actually, notwithstanding his protestations, go to

Kentucky the following year, and was married to Miss Susan Hart, who made

him a faithful and excellent wife.

During the whole of the trying period that intervened between the first

settlement of east Tennessee and the close of the Revolutionary struggle,

Colonel Bledsoe, with his brother and kinsmen, was almost incessantly

engaged in the strife with their Indian foes, as well as in the laborious

enterprise of subduing the forest, and converting the tangled wilds into

the husbandman's fields of plenty. In these varied scenes of trouble and

trial, of toil and danger, the men were aided and encouraged by the women.

Mary Bledsoe, the colonel's wife, was a woman of remarkable energy, and

noted for her independence both of thought and action. She never hesitated

to expose herself to danger whenever she thought it her duty to brave it;

and when Indian hostilities were most fierce, when their homes were

frequently invaded by the murderous savage, and females struck down by the

tomahawk or carried into captivity, she was foremost in urging her husband

and friends to go forth and meet the foe, instead of striving to detain

them for the protection of her own household. During this time of peril and

watchfulness little attention could have been given to books, even had the

pioneers possessed them; but the Bible, the Confession of Faith, and a few

such works as Baxter's Call, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, etc., were

generally to be found in the library of every resident on the frontier.

About the close of the year 1779, Colonel Bledsoe and his brothers, with a

few friends, crossed the Cumberland Mountains, descended into the valley of

Cumberland River, and explored the beautiful region on its banks. Delighted

with its shady woods, its herds of buffaloes, its rich and genial soil, and

its salubrious climate, their report on their return induced many of the

inhabitants of East Tennessee to resolve on seeking a new home in the

Cumberland Valley. The Bledsoes did not remove their families thither until

three years afterwards; but the idea of settling the valley originated with

them; they were the first to explore it, and it was in consequence of their

report and advice that the expedition was fitted out, under the direction

of Captain (afterwards General) Robertson and Colonel John Donaldson, to

establish the earliest colony in that part of the country. The account of

this expedition, and the planting of the settlement, is contained in the

memoir of "Sarah Buchanan," vol. iii. of "Women of the American

Revolution."

The daughter of Colonel Bledsoe, from whose recollection Mr. Haynes has

obtained most of the incidents recorded in these sketches, has in her

possession letters that passed between her father and General Robertson, in

which repeated allusions are made to the fact that to his suggestions and

counsel was owing the first thought of emigration to the Cumberland Valley.

In 1784, Anthony Bledsoe removed with his family to the new settlement of

which he had thus been one of the founders. His brother, Colonel Isaac

Bledsoe, had gone the year before. They took up their residence in what is

now Sumner County, and established a fort or station at "Bledsoe's

Lick"--now known as the Castalian Springs. The families being thus united,

and the eldest daughter of Anthony married to David Shelby, the station

became a rallying-point for an extensive district surrounding it. The

Bledsoes were used to fighting with the Indians; they were men of

well-known energy and courage, and their fort was the place to which the

settlers looked for protection--the colonels being the acknowledged leaders

of the pioneers in their neighborhood, and the terror, far and near, of the

savage marauders. Anthony was also a member of the North Carolina

Legislature from Sumner County.

From 1780 to 1794, or 1795, a continual warfare was kept up by the Creeks

and Cherokees against the inhabitants of the valley. The history of this

time would be a fearful record of scenes of bloody strife and atrocious

barbarity. Several hundred persons fell victims to the ruthless foe, who

spared neither age nor sex, and many women and children were carried far

from their friends into hopeless captivity. The settlers were frequently

robbed and their negro slaves taken away; in the course of a few years two

thousand horses were stolen; their cattle and hogs were destroyed, their

houses and barns burned, and their plantations laid waste. In consequence

of these incursions, many of the inhabitants gathered together at the

stations on the frontier, and established themselves under military rule

for the protection of the interior settlements. During this desperate

period, the pursuits of the farmer could not be abandoned; lands were to be

surveyed and marked, and fields cleared and cultivated, by men who could

not venture beyond their own doors without arms in their hands. The labors

of those active and vigilant leaders, the Bledsoes, in supporting and

defending the colony, were indefatigable. Nor was the heroic matron--the

subject of this notice--less active in her appropriate sphere of action.

Her family consisted of seven daughters and five sons, the eldest of whom,

Sarah Shelby, was not more than eighteen when she came to Sumner. Mrs.

Bledsoe was almost the only instructor of these children, the family being

left to her sole charge while her husband was engaged in his toilsome

duties, or harassed with the cares incident to an uninterrupted border

warfare.

Too soon was this devoted wife and mother called upon to suffer a far

deeper calamity than any she had yet experienced. On the night of the 20th

July, 1788, the family were alarmed by hearing the horses and cattle

running tumultuously around the station, as if suddenly frightened. Colonel

Anthony Bledsoe, who was then at home, rose and went to the gate of the

fort. As he opened it, he was shot down; the same ball killing an Irish

servant, named Campbell, who had been long devotedly attached to him. The

colonel did not expire immediately, but was carried back into the station,

while preparations were made for defence. Aware of the near approach of

death, Bledsoe's anxiety was to provide for the comfort of his family. He

had surveyed large tracts of land, and had secured grants for several

thousand acres, which constituted nearly his whole property. The law of

North Carolina at that time gave all the lands to the sons, to the

exclusion of the daughters. In consequence, should the colonel die without

a will, his seven young daughters would be left destitute. In this hour of

bitter trial, Mrs. Bledsoe's thoughts were not alone of her own sufferings,

and the deadly peril that hung over them, but of the provision necessary

for the helpless ones dependent on her care. She suggested to her wounded

husband that a will should be immediately drawn up. It was done; and a

portion of land was assigned to each of the seven daughters, who thus in

after life had reason to remember with gratitude the presence of mind and

affectionate care of their mother.

Her sufferings from Indian hostility were not terminated by this

overwhelming stroke. A brief list of those who fell victims, among her

family and kinsmen, may afford some idea of the trials she endured, and of

the strength of character which enabled her to bear up, and to support

others, under such terrible experiences. In January, 1793, her son Anthony,

then seventeen years of age, while passing near the present site of

Nashville, was shot through the body, and severely wounded, by a party of

Indians in ambush. He was pursued to the gates of a neighboring fort. Not a

month afterwards, her eldest son, Thomas, was also desperately wounded by

the savages, and escaped with difficulty from their hands. Early in the

following April, he was shot dead near his mother's house, and scalped by

the murderous Indians. On the same day, Colonel Isaac Bledsoe was killed

and scalped by a party of about twenty Creek Indians, who beset him in the

field, and cut off his retreat to his station, near at hand.

In April, 1794, Anthony, the son of Mrs. Bledsoe, and his cousin of the

same name, were shot by a party of Indians, near the house of General

Smith, on Drake Creek, ten miles from Gallatin. The lads were going to

school, and were then on their way to visit Mrs. Sarah Shelby, the sister

of Anthony, who lived on Station Camp Creek.

Some time afterwards, Mrs. Bledsoe herself was on the road from Bledsoe's

Lick to the above-mentioned station, where the court of Sumner county was

at that time held. Her object was to attend to some business connected with

the estate of her late husband. She was escorted on her way by the

celebrated Thomas S. Spencer, and Robert Jones. The party were waylaid and

fired upon by a large body of Indians. Jones was severely wounded, and

turning, rode rapidly back for about two miles; after which, he fell dead

from his horse. The savages advanced boldly upon the others, intending to

take them prisoners.

It was not consistent with Spencer's chivalrous character to attempt to

save himself by leaving his companion to the mercy of the foe. Bidding her

retreat as fast as possible, and encouraging her to keep her seat firmly,

he protected her by following more slowly in her rear, with his trusty

rifle in his hand. When the Indians in pursuit came too near, he would

raise his weapon, as if to fire; and, as he was known to be an excellent

marksman, the savages were not willing to encounter him, but hastened to

the shelter of trees, while he continued his retreat. In this manner he

kept them at bay for some miles, not firing a single shot--for he knew that

his threatening had more effect--until Mrs. Bledsoe reached a station. Her

life and his own were, on this occasion, saved by his prudence and presence

of mind; for both would have been lost had he yielded to the temptation to

fire.

This Spencer--for his gallantry and reckless daring, named "the Chevalier

Bayard of Cumberland Valley"--was famed for his encounters with the

Indians, by whom he had often been shot at, and wounded on more than one

occasion. His proportions and strength were those of a giant, and the

wonder-loving people were accustomed to tell marvelous stories concerning

him. It was said that, at one time, being unarmed when attacked by the

Indians, he reached into a tree, and, wrenching off a huge bough by main

force, drove back his assailants with it. He lived for some years alone in

Cumberland Valley--it is said, from 1776 to 1779--before a single white man

had taken up his abode there; his dwelling being a large hollow tree, the

roots of which still remain near Bledsoe's Lick. For one year--the

tradition is--a man by the name of Holiday shared his retreat; but the

hollow being not sufficiently spacious to accommodate two lodgers, they

were under the necessity of separating, and Holiday departed to seek a home

in the valley of the Kentucky River. But one difficulty arose; those

dwellers in the primeval forest had but one knife between them! What, was

to be done? for a knife was an article of indispensable necessity: it

belonged to Spencer, and it would have been madness in the owner of such an

article to part with it. He resolved to accompany Holiday part of the way

on his journey, and went as far as Big Barren River. When about to turn

back, Spencer's heart relented: he broke the blade of his knife in two,

gave half to his friend, and with a light heart returned to his hollow

tree. Not long after his gallant rescue of Mrs. Bledsoe, he was killed by a

party of Indians, on the road from Nashville to Knoxville. For nearly

twenty years he had been exposed to every variety of danger, and escaped

them all; but his hour came at last; and the dust of the hermit and

renowned warrior of Cumberland Valley now reposes on "Spencer's Hill," near

the Crab Orchard, on the road between Nashville and Knoxville.

Bereaved of her husband, sons, and brother-in-law by the murderous savages,

Mrs. Bledsoe was obliged alone to undertake, not only the charge of her

husband's estate, but the care of the children, and their education and

settlement in life. These duties were discharged with unwavering energy and

Christian patience. Her religion had taught her fortitude under her

unexampled distresses; and through all this trying period of her life, she

exhibited a decision and firmness of character which bespoke no ordinary

powers of intellect. Her mind, indeed, was of masculine strength, and she

was remarkable for independence of thought and opinion. In person, she was

attractive, being neither tall nor large, until advanced in life. Her hair

was brown, her eyes gray and her complexion fair. Her useful life was

closed in the autumn of 1808. The record of her worth, and of what she did

and suffered, is an humble one, and may win little attention from the

careless many, who regard not the memory of our "pilgrim mothers:" but the

recollection of her gentle virtues has not yet faded from the hearts of her

descendants; and those to whom they tell the story of her life will

acknowledge her the worthy companion of those noble men to whom belongs the

praise of having originated a new colony and built up a goodly state in the

bosom of the forest. Their patriotic labors, their struggles with the

surrounding savages, their efforts in the maintenance of the community they

had founded--sealed, as they finally were, with their own blood, and the

blood of their sons and relatives--will never be forgotten while the

apprehension of what is noble, generous, and good survives in the hearts of

their countrymen.

[1] Milton A. Haynes, Esq., of Tennessee, has furnished me with this and

other accounts.

* * * * *

MORE GOSSIP ABOUT CHILDREN,

IN A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR.

BY LOUIS GAYLORD CLARK.

MY DEAR GODEY:--

I have not finished my gossip about children. I have a good deal yet to say

touching their sensibilities, their nice discriminating sense, and the

treatment which they too frequently receive from those who, although older

than themselves, are in very many things not half so wise.

If you will take up Southey's Autobiography, written by himself (and his

son), and recently published by my friends, the brothers Harper, you will

find in the portion of Southey's early history, as recorded by himself,

many striking examples of the keen susceptibility of childhood to outward

and inward impressions, and of the deep feeling which underlies the

apparently unthoughtful career of a young boy. It is a delightful opening

of his whole heart to his reader. One sees with him the smallest object of

nature about the home of his childhood; and it is impossible not to enter

into all his feelings of little joys and poignant sorrows. I am not without

the hope, therefore, that, in the few records which I am about to give you;

partly of personal experience and partly of personal observation, I shall

be able to enlist the attention of your readers; for, after all, each one

of us, friend Godey, in our own more mature joys and sorrows, is but an

epitome, so to speak, the great mass, who alike rejoice and grieve us.

I do not wish to exhibit anything like a spirit of egotism, and I assure

you that I write with a gratified feeling that is a very wide remove from

that selfish sentiment, when I tell you that I have received from very many

parents, in different parts of the country, letters containing their "warm

and grateful thanks" for the endeavor which I made, in a recent number of

your magazine, to _create more confidence in childhood and youth_; to

awaken, along with a "sense of _duty_"--that too frequent excuse for

domestic tyranny--a feeling of generous forbearance for the trivial, venial

faults of those whose hearts are just and tender, and whom "kindness wins

when cruelty would repel." You must let me go on in my own way, and I will

try to illustrate the truth and justice of my position.

I must go back to my very earliest schooldays. I doubt if I was more than

five years old, a little boy in the country, when I was sent, with my

twin-brother, to a summer "district school." It was kept by a

"school-ma'am," a pleasant young woman of some twenty years of age. She was

positively my _first love_. I am afraid I was an awkward scholar at first;

but the enticing manner in which Mary ---- (I grieve that only the faint

_sound_ of her unsyllabled name comes to me now from "the dark backward and

abysm of Time") coaxed me through the alphabet and the words of one

syllable; encouraged me to encounter those of two (the first of which I

remember to this day, whenever the baker's bill for my children's daily

bread is presented for audit); stimulated me to attack those of three;

until, at the last, I was enabled to surmount that tallest of orthoëpical

combinations, "_Mi-chi-li-mack-i-nack_", without a particle of fear; the

enticing manner, I say, in which Mary ---- accomplished all this, won my

heart. She would stoop over and kiss me, on my low seat, when I was

successful, and very pleasant were her "good words" to my ear. Bless your

heart! I remember at this moment the feeling of her soft brown curls upon

my cheek; and I would give almost anything now to see the first

"certificate" of good conduct which I brought home, in her handwriting, to

my mother, and which was kept for years among fans, bits of dried

orange-peel, and sprigs of withered "caraway," in a corner of the

bureau-"draw." All this came very vividly to me some time ago, when my own

little boy brought home _his_ first "school-ticket." He is not called,

however--and I rejoice that he is not--to remember dear companions, who

"bewept to the grave did go, with true-love showers."

"Oh, my mother! oh, my childhood!

Oh, my brother, now no more!

Oh, the years that push me onward,

Farther from that distant shore!"

But I am led away. I wanted merely to say that this "school-ma'am," from

the simple _love_ of her children, her little scholars, knew how to teach

and how to _rule_ them. I hope that not a few "school-ma'ams" will peruse

this hastily-prepared gossip; and if they do, I trust they will remember,

in the treatment of their little charges, that "the heart _must_ leap

kindly back to kindness." Why, my dear sir, I used to wait, in the summer

afternoons, until all the little pupils had gone on before, so that I could

place in the soft white hand of my school-mistress as confiding a little

hand as any in which she may afterwards have placed her own, "in the full

trust of love." I hope she found a husband good and true, and that she was

blessed with what she loved, "wisely" and _not_ "too well," children.

Now that I am on the subject of children at school, I wish to pursue the

theme at a little greater length, and give you an incident or two in my

farther experience.

It was not long after finishing our summer course with "school-ma'am" Mary

----, that we were transferred to a "man-school," kept in the district. And

here I must go back, for just one moment, to say that, among the

pleasantest things that I remember of that period, was the calling upon us

in the morning, by the neighbors' children--and especially two little

girls, new-comers from the "Black River country," then a vague terra

incognita to us, yet only some thirty miles away--to accompany us to the

school through the winter snow. How well I remember their knitted

red-and-white woolen hoods, and the red-and-white complexions beaming with

youth and high health beneath them! I think of Motherwell's going to school

with his "dear Jenny Morrison," so touchingly described in his beautiful

poem of that name, every time these scenes arise before me.

Well, at this "man-school" I first learned the lesson which I am about to

illustrate. It is a lesson for parents, a lesson for instructors, and, I

think, a lesson for children also. I remember names _here_, for one was

almost burned into my brain for years afterwards.

There was something very imposing about "opening the school" on the first

day of the winter session. The trustees of the same were present; a

hard-headed old farmer, who sent long piles of "cord wood," beach, maple,

bass-wood, and birch, out of his "own _pocket_," he used to say--and he

might, with equal propriety, have said, "out of his own _head_," for surely

_there_ was no lack of "timber;" Deacon C----, an educated Puritan, who

could spell, read, write, "punctify," and--"knew grammar," as he himself

expressed it; a thin-faced doctor, whose horse was snorting at the door,

and who sat, on that occasion, with his saddle-bags crossed on his knee,

being in something of a hurry, expecting, I believe, an "addition" in the

neighborhood, to the subject of my present gossip--at all events, I well

remember peeping under the wrinkled leather-flaps of the "bags" and seeing

a wooden cartridge-box, with holes for the death-dealing vials; and last,

but not least, the town blacksmith, who was, in fact, worth all the other

trustees put together, being a man of sound common sense, with something

more than a sprinkling of useful education. Under the auspices of these

trustees, this "man-school" was thus opened for the winter. "Now look you

what befell."

For the first four or five days, our schoolmaster was quite amiable--or so

at least he seemed. His "rules," and they were arbitrary enough, were given

out on the second day; five scholars were "admonished" on the third; on the

fourth, about a dozen were "warned," as the pedagogue termed it; and on the

fifth, there was set up in the corner of an open closet, in plain sight of

all the school, a bundle containing about a dozen birch switches, each some

six feet long, and rendered lithe and tough by being tempered in the hot

embers of the fire. These were to be the "ministers of justice;" and the

portents of this "dreadful note of preparation" were amply fulfilled.

I had just begun to learn to write. My copy-book had four pages of

"straight marks," so called, I suppose, because they are always crooked. I

had also gone through "the hooks," up and down; but my hand was cramped;

and I fear that my first "word-copy" was not as good as it ought to have

been; but I "run out my tongue and tried" hard; and it makes me laugh, even

now, to remember how I used to look along the line of "writing-scholars" on

my bench, and see the rows of lolling tongues and moving heads over the

long desk, mastering the first difficulties of chirography; some licking

off "blots" of ink from their copy-books, others drawing in or dropping

slowly out of the mouth, at each upward or downward "stroke" of the pen.

One morning, "the master" came behind me and overlooked my writing--

"Louis," said he, "if I see any more such writing as that, you'll repent

it! I've _talked_ to you long enough."

I replied that he had never, to my recollection, blamed me for writing

badly but once; nor _had_ he.

"Don't dare to contradict _me_, sir, but remember!" was his only reply.

From this moment, I could scarcely hold my pen aright, much less "write

right." The master had a cat-like, stealthy tread, and I seemed all the

while to feel him behind me; and while I was fearing this, and had reached

the end of a line, there fell across my right hand a diagonal blow, from

the fierce whip which was the tyrant's constant companion, that in a moment

rose to a red and blue welt as large as my little finger, entirely across

my hand. The pain was excruciating. I can recall the feeling as vividly,

while I am tracing these lines, as I did the moment after the cruel blow

was inflicted.

From that time forward I could not write at all; nor should I have pursued

that branch of school-education at all that winter but that "the master's"

cruelty soon led to his dismissal in deep disgrace. His floggings were

almost incessant. His system was the "reign of terror," instead of that

which "works by _love_ and purifies the heart." His crowning act was

feruling a little boy, as ingenuous and innocent-hearted a child as ever

breathed, on the tops of his finger-nails--a refinement of cruelty beyond

all previous example. The little fellow's nails turned black and soon came

off, and the "master" was turned away. I am not sorry to add that he was

subsequently cowhided, while lying in a snow-bank, into which he had been

"knocked" by an elder brother of the lad whom he had so cruelly treated,

until he cried lustily for quarter, which was not _too_ speedily granted.

But I come now to my illustration of the "law of kindness," in its effect

upon myself. The successor to the pedagogue whom we have dismissed was a

native of Connecticut. He was well educated, had a pleasant manner, and a

smile of remarkable sweetness. I never saw him angry for a moment. On the

first day he opened, he said to the assembled school that he wanted each

scholar to consider him as _a friend_; that he desired nothing but their

good; and that it was for the interest of _each one_ of them that _all_

should be careful to observe the few and simple rules which he should lay

down for the government of the school. These he proclaimed; and, with one

or two trivial exceptions, there was no infraction of them during the three

winters in which he taught in our district.

Under his instruction, I was induced to resume my "experiences" in writing.

I remember his coming to look over my shoulder to examine the first page of

my copy-book: "Very well written," said he; "only _keep on_ in that way,

and you cannot fail to succeed." These encouraging words went straight to

my heart. They were words of kindness, and their fruition was

instantaneous. When the next two pages of my copy-book were accomplished,

he came again to report upon my progress: "That is _well_ done, Louis,

quite _well_. You will soon require very little instruction from _me_. I am

afraid you'll soon become to excel your teacher."

Gentle-hearted, sympathetic O---- M----! would that your "law of kindness"

could be written upon the heart of every parent, and every guardian and

instructor of the young throughout our great and happy country!

I have often wondered why it is that parents and guardians do not more

frequently and more cordially _reciprocate the confidence of children_. How

hard it is to convince a child that his father or mother can do wrong! Our

little people are always our sturdiest defenders. They are loyal to the

maxim that "the king can do no wrong;" and all the monarchs they know are

their parents. I heard the other day, from the lips of a distinguished

physician, formerly of New York, but now living in elegant retirement in a

beautiful country town of Long Island, a touching illustration of the truth

of this, with which I shall close this already too protracted article.

"I have had," said the doctor, "a good deal of experience, in the long

practice of my profession in the city, that is more remarkable than

anything recorded in the 'Diary of a London Physician.' It would be

impossible for me to detail to you the hundredth part of the interesting

and exciting things which I saw and heard. That which affected me most, of

late years, was the case of a boy, not, I think, over twelve years of age.

I first saw him in the hospital, whither, being poor and without parents,

he had been brought to die.

"He was the most beautiful boy I ever beheld. He had that peculiar cast of

countenance and complexion which we notice in those who are afflicted with

frequent hemorrhage of the lungs. He was _very_ beautiful! His brow was

broad, fair, and intellectual; his eyes had the deep _interior_ blue of the

sky itself; his complexion was like the lily, tinted, just below the

cheek-bone, with a hectic flush--

'As on consumption's waning cheek,

Mid ruin blooms the rose;'

and his hair, which was soft as floss silk, hung in luxuriant curls about

his face. But oh, what an expression of deep melancholy his countenance

wore! so remarkable that I felt certain that the fear of death had nothing

to do with it. And I was right. Young as he was, he did not wish to live.

He repeatedly said that death was what he most desired; and it was truly

dreadful to hear one so young and so beautiful talk like this. 'Oh!' he

would say, 'let me die! let me die! Don't _try_ to save me; I _want_ to

die!' Nevertheless, he was most affectionate, and was extremely grateful

for everything that I could do for his relief. I soon won his heart; but

perceived, with pain, that his disease of body was nothing to his 'sickness

of the soul,' which I could not heal. He leaned upon my bosom and wept,

while at the same time he prayed for death. I have never seen one of his

years who courted it so sincerely. I tried in every way to elicit from him

what it was that rendered him so unhappy; but his lips were sealed, and he

was like one who tried to turn his face from something which oppressed his

spirit.

"It subsequently appeared that the father of this child was hanged for

murder in B---- County, about two years before. It was the most

cold-blooded homicide that had ever been known in that section of the

country. The excitement raged high; and I recollect that the stake and the

gallows vied with each other for the victim. The mob labored hard to get

the man out of the jail, that they might wreak summary vengeance upon him

by hanging him to the nearest tree. Nevertheless, law triumphed, and he was

hanged. Justice held up her equal scales with satisfaction, and there was

much trumpeting forth of this consummation, in which even the women,

merciful, tender-hearted women, seemed to take delight.

"Perceiving the boy's life to be waning, I endeavored one day to turn his

mind to religious subjects, apprehending no difficulty in one so young; but

he always evaded the topic. I asked him if he had said his prayers. He

replied--

"'_Once_, always--_now_, never.'

"This answer surprised me very much; and I endeavored gently to impress him

with the fact that a more devout frame of mind would be becoming in him,

and with the great necessity of his being prepared to die; but he remained

silent.

"A few days afterwards, I asked him whether he would not permit me to send

for the Rev. Dr. B----, a most kind man in sickness, who would be of the

utmost service to him in his present situation. He declined firmly and

positively. _Then_ I determined to solve this mystery, and to understand

this strange phase of character in a mere child. 'My dear boy,' said I, 'I

implore you not to act in this manner. What can so have disturbed your

young mind? You certainly believe there is a God, to whom you owe a debt of

gratitude?'

"His eye kindled, and to my surprise, I might almost say horror, I heard

from his young lips--

"'No, I don't _believe_ that there is a God!'

"Yes, that little boy, young as he was, was an atheist; and he even

reasoned in a logical manner for a mere child like him.

"'I cannot believe there is a God,' said he; 'for if there were a God, he

must be merciful and just; and he never, _never_, NEVER could have

permitted _my father_, who was innocent, to be hanged! Oh, my father! my

father!' he exclaimed, passionately, burying his face in the pillow, and

sobbing as if his heart would break.

"I was overcome by my own emotion; but all that I could say would not

change his determination; he would have no minister of God beside him--no

prayers by his bedside. I was unable, with all my endeavors, to apply any

balm to his wounded heart.

"A few days after this, I called, as usual, in the morning, and at once saw

very clearly that the little boy must soon depart.

"'Willie,' said I, 'I have got good news for you to-day. Do you think that

you can bear to hear it?' for I really was at a loss how to break to him

what I had to communicate.

"He assented, and listened with the deepest attention. I then informed him,

as I best could, that, from circumstances which had recently come to light,

it had been rendered certain that his father was entirely innocent of the

crime for which he had suffered an ignominious death.

"I never shall forget the frenzy of emotion which he exhibited at this

announcement. He uttered one scream--the blood rushed from his mouth--he

leaned forward upon my bosom--and died!"

* * * *

I leave this, friend Godey, with your readers. I had much more to say; and,

perhaps, should it be desirable, I may hereafter give you one more chapter

upon children.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE STARS.

E PLURIBUS UNUM--"_Many in One_."

A NATIONAL SONG.

BY THOMAS S. DONOHO.

"E PLURIBUS UNUM!" The world, with delight,

Looks up to the starry blue banner of night,

In its many-blent glory rejoicing to see

AMERICA'S motto--the pride of the Free!

"E PLURIBUS UNUM!" Our standard for ever!

Woe, woe to the heart that would dare to dissever!

Shine, Liberty's Stars! your dominion increase--

A guide in the battle, a blessing in peace!

"E PLURIBUS UNUM!" And thus be, at last,

From land unto land our broad banner cast,

Till its Stars, like the stars of the sky, be unfurled,

In beauty and glory, embracing the world!

* * * * *

DEVELOUR.

A SEQUEL TO "THE NIEBELUNGEN."

BY PROFESSOR CHARLES E. BLUMENTHAL.

CHAPTER I.

The twenty-second of February, 1848, found Paris in a condition which only

a Napoleon or a Washington could have controlled. The people felt and acted

like a lion conscious that his fetters are corroded, yet still some what

awed by the remembrance of the power which they once exercised over him.

Poverty and want, licentious habits and irreligious feeling, had

contributed to bring about a ferocious discontent, which needed only the

insidious and inflammatory articles spread broadcast over the land by

designing men to fan into an insurrection.

Louis Philippe and his advisers exemplified the proverb _Quem Deus vuls

perdere, prius dementas_, determined upon closing one of the best

safety-valves of public discontent. The Reform Banquet had been prohibited,

and _apparently_ well-planned military preparations had been made to meet

any possible hostile demonstrations, and to quench them at the outset.

Troops paraded through the city in every direction, and every prominent

place was occupied by squadrons of cavalry or squads of infantry.

Nevertheless, soon after breakfast the people collected at various points,

at first in small numbers; but gradually these swelled in size in

proportion as they advanced to what appeared the centre to which all were

attracted, the _Place de la Concorde_. Shouts, laughter, and merriment were

heard from all quarters of the crowd, and the moving masses appeared more

like a body of people going to some holiday amusement, than conspirators

bent upon the overthrow of a government.

Just as a detached body of these was passing through the Rue de Burgoigne,

a gentleman stepped out of one of the houses in that narrow street, and,

partly led by curiosity and partly by his zeal for the popular cause,

joined their ranks and advanced with them as far as the _Palais du Corps

Legislatif_, where they were met by a troop of dragoons, who endeavored to

disperse the crowd. Angry words were exchanged, and a few sabre blows fell

among the crowd. One of the troopers, who seemed determined to check the

advancing column, rode up to one who appeared to be a leader, and, raising

his sword, exclaimed, "Back, or I'll cleave your skull!" But the youthful

and athletic champion folded his arms, and, without the slightest

discomposure, replied, "Coward! strike an unarmed man;--prove your

courage!" The dragoon, without a reply, wheeled his horse, and rode to

another part of the square. Just at that moment, another insolent trooper

pressed his horse against the gentleman who had joined the crowd in the Rue

de Burgoigne. The latter lifted his cane, and was about to chastise the

soldier's insolence, when a man in a blouse and a slouched hat resembling

the Mexican _sombrero_, arrested his arm, and whispered to him, "Do not

strike! you are not in America: France is not as yet the place to resent

the insolence of a soldier." Irritated at this unexpected interference, the

gentleman endeavored to free his arm from the vice-like grasp of the

new-comer, while he exclaimed, "Unhand me, sir! A free American is

everywhere a freeman; and these soldiers shall not prevent me from

proceeding and aiding the cause of an oppressed people." "Say rather a

hungry people," replied the other; and then added with a smile, and in good

English, "Has the quiet student of the Juniata been so soon transformed

into a fierce revolutionary partisan? What would Captain Sanker say if he

could see you thus turned into a hot-headed insurgent?"

"I have heard that voice before," replied the stranger. "Who are you, that

you are so familiar with me and my friends?"

"One who will guide and advise you in the storm that is now brewing, which

will soon overwhelm this goodly Nineveh, and in its course shake a throne

to its foundation. But this is no place for explanations. Come--and on our

way I will tell you who I am, and why I have mingled with this people, that

know hardly, as yet, what they are about to do."

While saying this, he drew his companion into the Rue St. Dominique, and

disentangled him thus from the crowd, which, now no longer opposed by the

dragoons, moved onward towards the _Pont de la Concorde_. After they had

crossed the Rue de Bac, they found the streets almost deserted, and then

the man with the slouched hat turned to his companion and said--

"Has Mr. Filmot already forgotten the pic-nic on the banks of the Juniata,

and the stranger guest whom he was good enough to invite to his house?"

Mr. Filmot, for it was he whom we found just now about to take an active

part in the insurrection of the Parisian people, examined the features of

his interlocutor closely and rather distrustfully, and finally

exclaimed--"It cannot be that I see M. Develour in Paris and in this

strange disguise? for only yesterday I received a letter from Mr. Karsh, in

which he informs me that his friend is even now a sojourner at the court of

the Emperor of Austria."

"That letter was dated more than a month ago," replied Mr. Develour. "I

left the Prater city in the beginning of last month, and, it appears, have

arrived just in time to prevent Mr. Filmot from committing a very imprudent

act, which, by the way, you will recollect, was predicted to you in the

magic mirror. Had you asked my advice before you left your native land to

pursue your studies in the modern Nineveh, I would have counseled you to

wait for a more propitious season. But, as soon as I heard of your presence

in the city, I determined to watch over you and to warn you, if your

enthusiasm should lead you to take too active a part in the deadly strife

that awaits us here."

"You certainly do not think that a revolution is contemplated?" inquired

Mr. Filmot.

"Come and see," replied Develour, while he continued his walk down the Rue

St. Dominique. They then passed through the Rue St. Marguerite, and entered

the Rue de Boucheries. About half way down the street they stopped before a

mean-looking house. Develour rapped twice in quick succession at the door,

and then, after a short interval, once more, and louder than before,

immediately after the third rap, the door was partially and cautiously

opened, and some one asked, in an under tone, "What do you want?"

"To see the man of the red mountain," replied Develour, in the same tone.

"What is your business?"

"To guide the boat."

"Where do you come from?"

"From the rough sea."

"And where do you wish to go to now?"

"To the still waters."

After this strange examination, the door was fully opened, and the

doorkeeper said, "You may enter." But when he saw Filmot about to accompany

Develour, he stopped him, and inquired by what right he expected to gain

admission.

"By my invitation and introduction," said Develour, before Filmot had time

to speak.

"That may not be," replied the doorkeeper. "No one has a right to introduce

another, except those who have the word of the day."

"I have the word," said Develour; and then he whispered to him, "Not

Martin, but Albert." After that he continued aloud, "Now go and announce

me; we will wait here in the vestibule."

As soon as the doorkeeper, after carefully locking the door, had withdrawn

into the interior of the house, Develour turned to his companion and asked

him, "Have you ever come across an account of the Red Man, whom many

believe to have exercised a great influence over the mind of Napoleon?"

"I have read some curious statements concerning an individual designated by

that name; but have always considered them the inventions of an exuberant

imagination," replied Filmot.

"You will soon have an opportunity to form a more correct opinion. I hope

to have the pleasure, in a few minutes, to introduce you to him. As for his

claims to--"

Before Develour had time to finish the sentence, a side door opened close

by him, and a black boy, dressed in oriental costume, entered and bowed,

with his hands crossed over his breast, and then said to Develour, in

broken French, "The master told me to bid you welcome, and to conduct you

into the parlor, where he will join you in a few minutes."

* * * *

CHAPTER II.

Develour and Filmot followed their guide into a room fitted up in Eastern

style. Divans made of cushions piled one upon another were placed all

around the room, with small carpets spread before them. Light stands of

beautiful arabesque work were tastefully distributed in various places, and

in the centre played a small fountain fed by aromatic water. The lower part

of the room contained a recess, the interior of which was concealed by a

semi-transparent screen, which permitted the visitors to see that it was

lit up by a flame proceeding from an urn. Heavy rich silk curtains, hung

before the windows, excluded the glare of the sun, and were so arranged

that the light in the room resembled that given by the moon when at its

full. The atmosphere of the apartment was heavy with the perfumes of exotic

plants and costly essences. The Moor requested them to be seated, and,

again crossing his arms over his breast, he bowed and left the room.

As soon as the door had closed behind him, Develour said to Filmot: "It is

reported that the Red Man appeared four times to Napoleon, and each time,

in order to expostulate with him about the course he was pursuing; that,

during each visit, he advised him what to do, and accompanied his advice

with the promise of success, in case he would follow his counsel; and a

threat of defeat if he persisted in disregarding it. The last visit which

he paid to the Emperor was shortly before the battle of Waterloo. Montholon

was in the antechamber, when the man with the red cloak entered his

master's apartment. After renewed expostulations, he urged the Emperor to

make an overture to the allied powers, and to promise that he would confine

his claims to France, and pledge himself not to attempt conquest beyond the

Rhine. When Napoleon, though half awed, rejected this advice with some

irritation, his visitor rose, and solemnly predicted to him a signal defeat

in the next great battle he would be compelled to fight; and, after that,

an expulsion from his empire; and then left the room as abruptly as he had

entered it.

"As soon as Napoleon had recovered from his surprise at the bold language

and the sudden departure of his strange monitor, he hastened into the

antechamber to call him back. But no one but Montholon was in the room,

who, when questioned by the Emperor concerning the man who just left the

cabinet, replied that, during the last half hour, no human being had passed

through the antechamber, to seek ingress or egress. The sentinels on the

staircases and at the gates were then examined, but they all declared that

they had not seen any stranger pass their respective posts. Perplexed at

this fruitless endeavor to recall the Red Man, Napoleon returned to his

cabinet mystified and gloomy, disturbed by his self appointed monitor, and

his predictions. Shortly afterwards, he fought the battle of Waterloo, and

saw the prophecy fulfilled. He could never afterwards wholly divest himself

of the belief that the Man in Red, as he was called by the officers, was an

incarnation of his evil genius."

Before Develour had ceased speaking, a door opened in the the lower part of

the room, and an old man advanced, with a slow but firm step, towards the

two friends. The new-comer appeared to be a man of more than threescore

years and ten, though not a falter in his step, not the slightest curvature

of his lofty figure, evinced the approach of old age. He was a little above

the middle height, lofty in his carriage, and dignified in all his

movements. A high forehead gave an intellectual cast to a countenance

habitually calm and commanding, and to which long flowing silver locks

imparted the look of a patriarch ruler. He was dressed in a velvet

morning-gown, which was confined around his waist by a broad belt of satin,

upon which several formulas in Arabic were worked with silver thread; and

on his feet he had slippers covered with letters similar to those on his

belt. As soon as Develour became aware of his presence, he advanced to meet

him, and said a few words in Arabic; then, introducing his friend, he

continued, in English--"M. Delevert, permit me to make you acquainted with

Mr. Filmot. Nothing but a desire to afford him the pleasure of knowing you,

the friend and admirer of his countrymen and their institutions, could have

induced me to absent myself from my post this morning."

"You are welcome, Mr. Filmot," said M. Delevour, "even at a time when our

good city affords us little opportunity to make it a welcome place to a

stranger."

"On the contrary," replied Filmot, "to an American and a true lover of

liberty, it seems to hold out a very interesting spectacle, if what I have

seen and heard to-day is a fair indication of what is to come."

"Ah," said M. Delevert, with a sad smile, "I fear that the philanthropic

part of your expectations will be doomed to disappointment. But a fearful

lesson will again be read to the oppressors of the people; a lesson which

would have been more effectual if taught a year hence, but which

circumstances prevent us to delay longer. In a few minutes, messengers will

arrive from all parts of the city to report progress and the probable

result. You will thus have an opportunity, if not otherwise engaged, to

gain correct information of the insurrection in all quarters."

"Will you be displeased with me, my friend," said Develour, "if I tell you

that not only of M. Delevert, but also of the Red Man have I spoken to Mr.

Filmot; and I have even promised him that he shall hear from that

mysterious being a detail of one of his visits to the emperors?"

"And can M. Develour think still of these things?" replied the old man,

smiling good-humoredly. "How can they interest your friend Mr. Filmot--a

citizen of a country where everything is worked for in a plain

matter-of-fact way? What interest can _he_ feel in the various means that

were employed in an endeavor to make the military genius of the great

warrior an instrument to bring about a permanent amelioration in the

condition of the people?"

"The very mystery in which the whole seems enveloped," said Filmot, "would,

in itself, be enough to interest me in it; particularly so now, when I have

reason to believe myself in the presence of the chief actor--of him whom

hitherto I have always regarded as the creation of an excited imagination."

"And why a creature of the imagination?" inquired M. Delevert. "Is it

because I had it in my power to appear before the Emperor and to leave him

unseen by other eyes? Or is it because of the truth of my predictions?

Neither was impossible; neither required means beyond those which the

scientific student of the book of nature, when properly instructed, can

obtain. I resorted once even to a use of the utmost powers of nature, as

far as they are known to me, in order to entice him, by a palpable proof of

my ability to aid him, to promise that he would become an instrument in the

hands of those who sought to usher in the dawn of a happier age, the age of

true liberty, true equality; an age in which every man and _woman_ would be

able to feel, through the advantages of education and equal political and

moral rights, unhampered by false prejudices, that all human beings were

created free and equal. It was on the night before the battle of

Austerlitz, when he, as was his frequent custom, visited the outpost,

wrapped in his plain gray coat. At the hour of midnight, I presented myself

before him, and offered to show him the plans of the enemy for the

following day, on condition that he would not endeavor to meddle with

anything he should see, except so far as necessary to obtain the promised

information. He knew something of my ability to fulfil what I promised, and

therefore did not doubt me, but gave his imperial word to fulfil his part

of the compact. I then led him a few paces beyond the camp, and bade him be

seated on a large stone, a fragment of an old heathen altar-stone. He had

hardly taken his seat before a phantom-like being, in the garb of an

officer in the Austrian army, was seen kneeling before him with a portfolio

in his hand. Napoleon opened it, and found there all the information he

desired. He complied strictly with his promise, and returned the portfolio

as soon as he had taken his notes, and the officer disappeared like a vapor

of the night. I then turned to the surprised monarch, and offered to repeat

this specimen of my skill before every subsequent battle, if he would

moderate his ambition and be content to be the first among his equals, the

father of a wide-spread patriarchal family. But he angrily refused to

listen to such a proposal, and, having somewhat recovered from his

surprise, called for his guards to seize me. Fool! He stood upon a spot

where I could have killed him without the danger of its ever becoming known

to any one. While he turned to look for his myrmidons, the ground opened

beneath my feet, and I disappeared before he had time to see by what means

I escaped.

"Twice have I thus visited Alexander of Russia, but with like results. Fate

has decreed it otherwise. Freedom cannot come to mankind from a throne.

But, from what my friend Develour has told you already, you may be

astonished that we should have engaged, and still engage, in fruitless

efforts, when we have gained from nature powers by which the sage is able

to glance at the decrees. Alas! this earthly frame loads us with physical

clogs that weigh us down, and throw frequently a film before the eyes which

make even the clearest dim and short-sighted."'

Here they were interrupted by a few raps at the inner door, which M.

Delevert seemed to count with great attention; and then rising from his

seat, he continued, without any change in the tone of his voice--

"The reporters are coming in. If you will accompany me to my

reception-room, you will have an opportunity, shared by no other foreigner,

to become acquainted with the mainsprings of this revolution; for such I am

determined it shall become. Alas! would that it were of a nature to be the

last one! But their haste prevents that altogether. Come, they are waiting

for me."

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

THE MOURNER'S LAMENT.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.