CHAPTER I.

Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Sankar Viswanathan,

and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

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THE

THREE BRIDES,

LOVE IN A COTTAGE,

AND

OTHER TALES

BY

FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.

BOSTON:

SANBORN, CARTER, BAZIN & CO.,

25 & 29 CORNHILL.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by

F.A. DURIVAGE,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of

Massachusetts.

TO

MY MOTHER,

THE FIRST TO ENCOURAGE MY EFFORTS,

AND THE MOST INDULGENT OF MY CRITICS,

THIS VOLUME

IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

PREFACE.

The volume here submitted to the public is composed of selections from

my contributions to the columns of the American press. The stories and

sketches were written, most of them, in the intervals of relaxation

from more serious labor and the daily business of life; and they would

be suffered to disappear in the Lethe that awaits old magazines and

newspapers, had not their extensive circulation, and the partial

judgment of friends,--for I must not omit the stereotyped plea of

scribblers,--flattered me that their collection in a permanent form

would not prove wholly unacceptable. Some of these articles were

published anonymously, or under the signature of "The Old 'Un," and

have enjoyed the honor of adoption by persons having no claim to their

paternity; and it seems time to call home and assemble these vagabond

children under the paternal wing.

The materials for the tales were gathered from various sources: some

are purely imaginative, some authentic, not a few jotted down from

oral narrative, or derived from the vague remembrance of some old play

or adventure; but the form at least is my own, and that is about all

that a professional story-teller, gleaning his matter at random, can

generally lay claim to.

Some of these sketches were originally published in the Boston "Olive

Branch," and many in Mr. Gleason's popular papers, the "Flag of Our

Union," and the "Pictorial Drawing-Room Companion." Others have

appeared in the "New York Mirror," the "American Monthly Magazine,"

the New York "Spirit of the Times," the "Symbol," and other magazines

and papers.

Should their perusal serve to beguile some hours of weariness and

illness, as their composition has done, I shall feel that my labor has

not been altogether vain; while the moderate success of this venture

will stimulate me to attempt something more worthy the attention of

the public.

FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

THE GOLDSMITH'S DAUGHTER.

PHILETUS POTTS.

THE GONDOLIER.

THE SURRENDER OF CORNWALLIS.

THE THREE BRIDES.

CALIFORNIA SPECULATION.

THE FRENCH GUARDSMAN.

PERSONAL SATISFACTION.

THE CASTLE ON THE RHINE.

LOVE IN A COTTAGE.

THE CAREER OF AN ARTIST.

SOUVENIRS OF A RETIRED OYSTERMAN IN ILL HEALTH.

THE NEW YEAR'S STOCKINGS.

THE OBLIGING YOUNG MAN.

EULALIE LASALLE.

THE OLD CITY PUMP.

THE TWO PORTRAITS.

UNCLE OBED.

THE CASKET OF JEWELS.

ACTING CHARADES.

THE GREEN CHAMBER.

HE WASN'T A HORSE JOCKEY.

FUNERAL SHADOWS.

THE LATE ELIAS MUGGS.

THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.

A KISS ON DEMAND.

THE RIFLE SHOT.

THE WATER CURE.

THE COSSACK.

MARRIED FOR MONEY.

THE EMIGRANT SHIP.

THE LAST OF THE STAGE COACHES.

THE SEXTON OF ST. HUBERT'S.

JACK WITHERS.

THE SILVER HAMMER.

THE CHRIST CHURCH CHIMES.

THE POLISH SLAVE.

OBEYING ORDERS.

THE DEACON'S HORSE.

THE CONTRABANDISTA.

THE STAGE-STRUCK GENTLEMAN.

THE DIAMOND STAR.

THE GAME OF CHANCE.

THE SOLDIER'S SON.

TAKING CHARGE OF A LADY.

THE NEW YEAR'S BELLS.

THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.

THE GOLDSMITH'S DAUGHTER.

A LEGEND OF MADRID.

Many, many years ago, in those "good old times" so much bepraised by

antiquaries and the _laudatores temporis acti_,--the good old times,

that is to say, of the holy office, of those magnificent _autos_ when

the smell of roasted heretics was as sweet a savor in the nostrils of

the faithful, as that of Quakers done remarkably brown was to our

godly Puritan ancestors,--there dwelt in the royal city of Madrid a

wealthy goldsmith by the name of Antonio Perez, whose family--having

lost his wife--consisted of a lovely daughter, named Magdalena, and a

less beautiful but still charming niece, Juanita. The housekeeping and

the care of the girls were committed to a starched old duenna, Donna

Margarita, whose vinegar aspect and sharp tongue might well keep at a

distance the boldest gallants of the court and camp. For the rest,

some half dozen workmen and servitors, and a couple of stout Asturian

serving wenches made up the establishment of the wealthy artisan. As

the chief care of the latter was to accumulate treasure, his family,

while they were denied no comfort, were debarred from luxury, and,

perhaps, fared the better from this very frugality of the master. Yet

in the stable, which occupied a portion of the basement story of his

residence,--the other half being devoted to the _almacen_, or

store,--there were a couple of long-tailed Flemish mares, and a

heavy, lumbering chariot; and in the rear of the house a garden,

enclosed on three sides with a stone wall, and comprising arbors, a

fountain, and a choice variety of fruits and flowers.

One evening, the goldsmith's daughter and her cousin sat in their

apartment, on the second story, peeping out through the closed

"jalousies," or blinds, into the twilight street, haply on the watch

for some gallant cavalier, whose horsemanship and costume they might

admire or criticize. Seeing nothing there, however, to attract their

attention, they turned to each other.

"Juanita," said the goldsmith's daughter, "I believe I have secured an

admirer."

"An admirer!" exclaimed the pretty cousin. "If your father and dame

Margarita didn't keep us cooped here like a pair of pigeons, we should

have, at least, twenty apiece. But what manner of man is this

phoenix of yours? Is he tall? Has he black eyes, or blue? Is he

courtier or soldier?"

"He is tall," replied Magdalena, smiling; "but for his favor, or the

color of his eyes, or quality, I cannot answer. His face and figure

shrouded in a cloak, his _sombrero_ pulled down over his eyes, he

takes up his station against a pillar of the church whenever I go to

San Ildefonso with my duenna, and watches me till mass is ended. I

have caught him following our footsteps. But be he gentle or simple,

fair or dark, I know not."

"A very mysterious character!" cried Juanita, laughing, "like unto the

bravo of some Italian tale. Jesu Maria!" she exclaimed, springing to

the window, "what goodly cavalier rides hither? His mantle is of

three-pile velvet, and he wears golden spurs upon his heels. And with

what a grace he sits and manages his fiery genet! Pray Heaven your

suitor be as goodly a cavalier."

Magdalena gazed forth upon the horseman, and her heart silently

confessed that the praises of her cousin were well bestowed. As the

cavalier approached the goldsmith's house, he checked the impatient

speed of his horse, and gazed upward earnestly at the window where the

young girls sat.

"Magdalena!" cried the mischievous Juanita, "old Margarita is not here

to document us, and I declare your beauty shall have one chance." As

she spoke she threw open the blind, and exposed her lovely and

blushing cousin to the gaze of the cavalier.

Ardently and admiringly he gazed upon her dark and faultless features,

and then raising his plumed hat, bowed to his very saddle bow, and

rode on, but turned, ever and anon, till he was lost in the distance

and gradual darkening of the street.

"Mutual admiration!" cried the gay Juanita, clapping her hands. "Thank

me for the stratagem. Yon cavalier is, without a doubt, the mysterious

admirer of San Ildefonso."

Don Julio Montero--for that was the name of the cavalier--returned

again beneath the casement, and again saw Magdalena. He also made some

purchases of the old goldsmith, and managed to speak a word with his

fair daughter in the shop; and in spite of the duenna, billets were

exchanged between the parties. The very secrecy with which this little

intrigue was managed, the mystery of it, influenced the imagination of

Magdalena and increased the violence of her attachment, and loving

with all the fervor of her meridian nature, she felt that any

disappointment would be her death.

One evening, as her secret suitor was passing along a narrow and

unfrequent street, a light touch was laid upon his shoulder, and

turning, he perceived a tall figure, muffled in a long, dark cloak.

"Senor Montero," said the stranger, "one word with you." And then,

observing that he hesitated, he threw open his cloak, and added, "Nay,

senor, suspect not that my purpose is unfriendly; you see I have no

arms, while you wear both rapier and dagger. I merely wish to say a

few words on a matter of deep import to yourself."

"Your name, senor," replied the other, "methinks should precede any

communication you have to make me, would you secure my confidence."

"My name, senor, I cannot disclose."

"Umph! a somewhat strange adventure!" muttered the young cavalier.

"However, friend, since such you purport to be, say your say, and that

right briefly, for I have affairs of urgency on my hands."

"Briefly, then, senor. You have cast your eyes on the daughter of

Antonio Perez, the rich goldsmith?"

"That is my affair, methinks," replied the cavalier, haughtily. "By

what right do you interfere with it? Are you brother or relative of

the fair Magdalena?"

"Neither, senor; but I take a deep interest in your affairs; and I

warn you, if your heart be not irretrievably involved, to withdraw

from the prosecution of your addresses. To my certain knowledge,

Magdalena is beloved by another."

"What of that, man? A fair field and no favor, is all I ask."

"But what if _she_ loves another?"

"Ha!" exclaimed the cavalier. "Can she be sporting with me?--playing

the coquette? But no! I will not believe it, at least upon the say so

of a stranger. I must have proofs."

"Pray, senor, have you never observed upon the lady's fair arm a

turquoise bracelet?"

"Yea, have I," replied the cavalier; "by the same token that she has

promised it to me as a _gage d'amour_."

"Do you recognize the bracelet?" cried the stranger, holding up, as he

spoke, the ornament in question. "Or, if that convince you not, do you

recognize this tress of raven hair--this bouquet that she wore upon

her bosom yesternight?"

"That I gave her myself!" cried the cavalier. "By Heaven! she has

proved false to me. But I must know," he added, fiercely, "who thou

art ere thou goest hence. I must have thy secret, if I force it from

thee at the dagger's point. Who art thou? speak!"

"Prithee, senor, press me not," said the stranger, drawing his cloak

yet closer about him, and retreating a pace or two.

"Who art thou?" cried the cavalier, menacingly, and striding forward

as the other receded.

"One whose name breathed in thine ear," replied the other, "would

curdle thy young blood with horror."

Julio laughed loud and scornfully.

"Now, by Saint Iago! thou art some juggling knave--some impish

charlatan, who seeks to conceal his imposture in the garb of mystery

and terror. Little knowest thou the mettle of a Castilian heart. Thy

name?"

The stranger stooped forward, and whispered a word or two in the ear

of his companion. The young man recoiled, while his cheek turned from

the glowing tinge of health and indignation to the hue of ashes; and,

as he stood, rooted to the spot in terror and dismay, the stranger

threw the hem of his cloak over his shoulder, and glided away like a

dark shadow.

Julio's heart was so far enlisted in favor of Magdalena, that it cost

him a severe struggle to throw her off as utterly unworthy of his

attachment, but pride came to his rescue, and he performed his task.

He wrote a letter, in which, assigning no cause for the procedure, he

calmly, coldly, contemptuously renounced her hand, and told her that

henceforth, should they meet, it must be as strangers.

This unexpected blow almost paralyzed Magdalena's reason. It was to be

expected of her temperament that her anguish should be in proportion

to her former rapture. At first stunned, she roused to the paroxysm of

wild despair. Henceforth, if she lived, her life, she felt, would be

an utter blank. Passion completely overmastering her reason, she

resolved to destroy herself. This fearful resolution adopted, her

excitement ceased. She became calm--calm as the senseless stone; no

tremors shook her soul, no remorse, no regret.

She was seated alone, one evening, at that very window whence she had

first beheld her false suitor, and bitter memories were crowding on

her brain, when the door of her apartment opened, and closed again

after admitting her old duenna, Margarita. The old woman approached

with a stealthy, cat-like step, and sitting down beside the maiden,

and gazing inquisitively into her dim eyes, said, in a whining voice,

intended to be very winning and persuasive,--

"What ails my pretty pet? Is she unwell?"

"I am not unwell," replied Magdalena, coldly, rousing herself to the

exertion of conversing, with an effort.

"Nay, my darling," said the old woman, in the same whining tone, "I am

sure that something is the matter with you. You look feverish."

"I am well, Margarita; let that suffice."

"And feel no regret for the false suitor, hey?"

Magdalena turned upon her quickly--almost fiercely.

"What do you know of him?"

"All! all!" cried the old woman, while her gray eyes flashed with

exultation.

"Then you know him for a false and perjured villain!" cried the

beautiful Spaniard.

"I know him for an honorable cavalier; true as the steel of his Toledo

blade!" retorted the duenna. "I speak riddles, Magdalena, but I will

explain myself. Do you think I can forget your insults, jeers, and

jokes? Do you think I knew not when you mocked me behind my back, or

sought to trick me before my face? You little knew, when you and your

gay-faced cousin were making merry at my expense, what wrath you were

storing up against the day of evil. But I come of a race that never

forgets or forgives; there is some of the blood of the wild Zingara

coursing in these shrivelled veins--a love of vengeance, that is

dearer than the love of life. I watched your love intrigue from the

very first. I saw that it bade fair to end in happiness. Don Julio was

wealthy and well born, and his intentions were honorable. After

indulging your romantic spirit by a secret wooing, he would have

openly claimed you of your father, and the old man would have been but

too proud to give his consent. Now came the moment for revenge. I

traduced you to your lover, making use of an agent who was wholly

mine. Trifles produce conviction when once the faith of jealous man is

shaken. A few toys--a turquoise bracelet, a lock of hair, a bunch of

faded flowers--sufficed to turn the scale; and now, were an angel of

heaven to pronounce you true, Don Julio would disbelieve the

testimony. Ha, ha! am I not avenged?"

"And was it," said Magdalena, in a low, pathetic voice,--"was it for

a few jests,--a little childish chafing against restraint, that you

wrecked the happiness of a poor young girl,--blighted her hopes, and

broke her heart? Woman--fiend! dare you tell me this?" she cried,

kindling into passion with a sudden transition. "Avaunt! begone! Leave

my sight, you hideous and evil thing! But take with you my bitter

curse--no empty anathema! but one that will cling to you like the

garment of flame that wraps the doomed heretic! Begone! accursed

wretch--hideous in soul as you are abhorrent and repulsive in person."

Cowed, but muttering wrathful words, the stricken wretch hurried out

of the apartment, into which Juanita instantly rushed.

"Magdalena, what means this?" she cried. "I heard you uttering fearful

threats against old Margarita. Calm yourself; you are strangely

excited."

"O Juanita, Juanita!" cried Magdalena, the tears starting from her

eyes, and wringing her fair hands. "If you knew all--if you knew the

wrong that woman has done me; but not now--not now; leave me, good

cousin,--leave me!"

"You are not well, dearest," said Juanita; "take my advice, go to bed

and repose. To-morrow you will be calm, and to-morrow you shall tell

me all."

"To-morrow! to-morrow!" muttered Magdalena. "Well, well; to-morrow you

will find me!"

"Yes; I will waken you, and sit at your bedside, and laugh your griefs

away. Good night, Magdalena!"

"Farewell, dearest!" said the heart-stricken girl; and Juanita left

the chamber.

Before a silver crucifix, Magdalena knelt in prayer.

"Father of mercies, blessed Virgin, absolve me of the sin--if sin it

be to rush unbidden to the presence of my Judge! My burden is too

great to bear!"

She rose from her knees, took from a cupboard a goblet of Venetian

glass, and a flask of Xeres wine. Into the goblet she first dropped

the contents of a paper she took from her bosom, and then filled it to

the brim with wine. She had already stretched forth her hand to the

fatal glass, when she heard her name called by her father.

"He would give me a good-night kiss," said the wretched girl. "I must

receive it with pure lips. I come, dear father,--I come."

Scarcely had she left her chamber when the old duenna again stole into

the room.

"If I could only find one of the gallant's letters," she muttered to

herself, "I could arm her father's mind against her; and then if madam

tried to get me turned away, she would have her labor for her pains.

What have we here? A flask of Xeres, as I live! So ho, senorita! Is

this the source of your inspiration when you berate your betters? I

declare it smells good; the jade is no bad judge of wine!"

As she spoke, the old woman, who had no particular aversion to the

juice of the grape, hurriedly drank off the contents of the goblet,

and immediately filled it up again from the flask.

"There! she'll be no wiser," said she, with a cunning leer. "And now I

must hurry off. I would not have the young baggage find me here for a

month's wages!"

Margarita effected her retreat just in time. Magdalena returned, after

having, as she supposed, seen her poor father for the last time.

Had not despair completely overmastered the reason of the poor girl,

she would have shrunk from the idea of committing suicide. But misery

had completely, though temporarily, wrecked her intellect. She felt no

horror, no remorse at the deed she was about to commit. With a steady

hand she raised the goblet to her lips, and then drank the fatal

draught, as she supposed it, to the last dregs.

"I must sleep now," she said, with a deep sigh. "I shall never wake

again." And throwing herself, dressed as she was, upon her couch, she

soon fell into a deep slumber.

How long her senses were steeped in oblivion, she could not tell. But

she was awakened by shrill screams, and started to her feet in terror.

"Where am I?" she exclaimed. "Are those the cries of the condemned? Am

I indeed in another world?"

"But louder and louder came the shrieks, and now she recognized the

tones as those of the old duenna. Deeply as the woman had wronged her,

Magdalena's feminine nature could not be insensible to her distress.

She sprang down the stairway, and now stood by the bedside of the

duenna, over which Juanita was already bending.

"What _is_ the matter?" she exclaimed.

"The wine! the wine! the flask of Xeres! the Venetian goblet! I am

poisoned!" cried the old woman, as she writhed in agony.

The truth instantly flashed on the preternaturally-sharpened intellect

of Magdalena. Her own immunity from pain confirmed the fatal

supposition.

"Good God!" she cried, in tones of unutterable anguish, "I have killed

her!"

The exclamation caught the keen ear of the malignant hag, suffering as

she was. She raised herself up on her elbow, and pointing with her

skinny finger to the horror-stricken girl, she screamed,--

"Yes, yes; you have murdered me! Send for a leech, a priest, an

officer of justice! Do not let that wretch escape! She gave me a

poisoned draught! she knew it--she confesses it! Ha, ha! I shall not

die unavenged!"

These fearful words caught the ear of Don Antonio, as, having hastily

dressed himself, he rushed into the room. They caught the ear, too, of

a curious servitor, who flew to the alguazil before he summoned priest

and chirurgeon.

In less than an hour afterwards, the old beldam had breathed her last,

but not before she had made her false deposition to the officer of

justice; not before she had learned that a paper containing evidence

of poison had been found in Magdalena's room; not before she had seen

the hapless girl arrested; and then she died with a lie and a smile of

hideous triumph on her lips.

We cannot attempt to describe the anguish of the old goldsmith, and

the despair of Juanita, as they beheld Magdalena torn from their arms

to be carried before a judge for examination, and thence to be cast

into prison. Believing in her innocence, and confident that it would

be established in the eyes of the world, they longed for the dread

ordeal of the trial. The hour came, but only to crush their hearts

within them. The guilt was fixed by circumstantial evidence on the

unfortunate Magdalena. Poor Juanita was forced to testify to the facts

of a quarrel between her cousin and the hapless duenna, and to violent

language used by the former to the latter. A paper which had contained

poison had been found in the apartment of the accused. Her own hasty

confession of guilt, the dying declaration of the victim added

"--confirmation strong

As proofs of Holy Writ."

Magdalena was condemned to die. In that supreme hour, when her

protestations of innocence had proved of no avail, the film fell from

the organs of her mental vision. Knowing herself guilty of

premeditated suicide, she saw in the established charge of murder a

dreadful retribution. To make her peace with Heaven in the solitude of

the prison cell, was now all that she desired. She had proved the

worthlessness of life, and now she prepared herself to die. But her

tortures were not ended. Julio, her lost lover, demanded an interview

with her, and when, after listening to her sad tale, he renewed his

vows of love, and expressed his firm belief in her innocence, earth

once more bloomed attractive to her eyes; life became again dear to

her at the very moment she was condemned to surrender it. Her

execution was fixed for the next day, at the hour of noon. At that

hour, she was to take her last look of her father, her cousin, her

lover--the last look of God's blessed earth.

The morning came. She had passed the night in prayer, and it found her

firm and resigned. In the heart of a true woman there lies a reserve

of courage that shames the prouder boast of man. She may not face

death on the battle-field with the same defying front; but when it

comes in a more appalling form and scene, she shrinks not from the

dread ordeal. When man's foot trembles on the scaffold, woman stands

there serene, unwavering, and self-sustained.

One hour before the appointed time, the door of Magdalena's cell

opened, and a tall figure, wrapped in a dark cloak, with a slouched

hat and sable plume, stood before her. It was the same who had gazed

on her so often in the church of San Ildefonso, the same who had

encountered Julio in the narrow street with proofs of her alleged

falsity.

"Is the hour arrived?" asked Magdalena, calmly.

"Nay," replied the stranger, in a deep tone. "Can you not see the

prison clock through the bars of your cell door? Look; it lacks yet an

hour of noon."

"Then, sir, you come to announce the arrival of the holy father,--of

my friends."

"They will be here anon," said the stranger.

"I do not," said Magdalena, in the same calm tone she had before

employed, "see you now for the first time."

"Beautiful girl!" cried the stranger; "no! I have for months haunted

you like your shadow. Your fair face threw the first gleams of

sunshine into my heart that have visited it from early manhood. I love

you, Magdalena!"

"This is no hour and no place for words like these," replied the

captive, coldly.

"Nay!" cried the stranger, with sudden energy. "Beautiful girl, I come

to save you!"

"To save me!" cried Magdalena, a sudden, wild hope springing in her

breast,"--to save me! It is well done. Believe me, I am innocent. You

have bribed the jailer to open my prison doors; you have contrived

some means of evasion. I know not--I care not what. I shall be freed!

I shall clasp my father's knees once more. I shall go forth into the

blessed air and light of heaven. God bless you, whoever you are, for

your words of hope!"

"You shall go forth, if you will," replied the stranger; "but openly,

in the face and eyes of man. At my word the prison bars will fall, the

keys will turn, the gates will be unbarred. I have a royal pardon!"

"Give it me! give it me!" almost shrieked Magdalena.

"It is bestowed on one condition: that you become my wife."

"That I become your wife!" repeated Magdalena, as if she but half

comprehended the words. "Forsake poor Julio! And yet the bribe, to

escape a death of infamy, to save my father's gray hairs from going

down to a dishonored grave! Speak! who are you, with power to save me

on these terms?"

The stranger tossed aside his sable hat and plume, and dropped his

cloak, and stood before her in a rich dress of black velvet, trimmed

with point lace, a broadsword belted to his waist. He was a man of

middle age, of a fine, athletic figure, and handsome face, but there

was an indescribable expression in his dark eyes, in the stern lines

about his handsome mouth, that affected the gazer with a strange,

shuddering horror.

"Peruse me well, maiden," said the stranger. "I am not deformed. I am

as other men. If there be no glow in my cheek, still the blood that

flows through my veins is healthy and untainted. Moreover, though I be

not noble, my character is stainless. If to be the wife of an honest

man is not too dear a purchase for your life, accept my hand, and you

are saved."

"Who are you?" cried Magdalena, intense curiosity mastering her even

in that moment.

"I am the executioner of Madrid!" replied the stranger.

Magdalena covered her face with her hands, and uttered a low cry of

horror.

"I am the executioner of Madrid!" repeated he. "I have never committed

crime in my life, though my blade has been reddened with the blood of

my fellow-creatures. Yet no man takes my hand,--no man breaks bread or

drinks wine with me. I, the dread minister of justice, a necessity of

society, like the soldier on the rampart, or the priest at the altar,

am a being lonely, abhorred, accursed. Yet I have the feelings, the

passions of other men. But what maiden would listen to the suit of

one like me? What father would give his daughter to my arms? None,

none! And, therefore, the state decrees that when the executioner

would wed, he must take to his arms a woman doomed to death. I loved

you, Magdalena, hopelessly, ere I dreamed the hour would ever arrive

when I might hope to claim you. That hour has now come. I offer you

your life and my hand. You must be my bride, or my victim!"

"Your victim! your victim!" cried Magdalena. "Death a thousand times,

though a thousand times undeserved, rather than your foul embrace!"

"You have chosen. Your blood be on your own head!" cried the

executioner, stamping his foot. "You die unshriven and unblessed!"

"At least, abhorred ruffian," cried Magdalena, "I have some little

time for preparation! The hour has not yet arrived."

"Has it not?" cried the executioner. "Behold yon clock!"

And as her eyes were strained upon the dial, he strode out of the

cell, and seizing the hands, advanced them to the hour of noon. Then,

at a signal from his hand, the prison bell began to toll.

"Mercy; mercy!" cried Magdalena, as he rejoined her. "Slay me not

before my time!"

But the hand of the ruffian already grasped her arm, and he dragged

her forth into the corridor.

At that moment, however, a loud shout arose, and a group of officials,

escorting the goldsmith and Julio, waving a paper in his hand, rushed

breathlessly along the passage.

"Saved, saved!" cried Magdalena. "Hither, hither, father, Julio!"

The executioner had wreathed his hand in her dark, flowing tresses;

already his dreadful weapon was brandished in the air, when it was

crossed by the bright Toledo blade of the young cavalier, and flew

from his grasp, clanging against the prison wall.

"Unhand her, dog!" cried Julio, "or die the death!"

Sullenly the executioner released his hold, and sullenly listened to

the royal pardon.

Magdalena was soon beneath her father's roof,--soon in the arms of her

cousin Juanita. Long did she resist the importunities of Julio; for

though innocent in fact, judicially she stood convicted of a capital

offence. But as time rolled on,--as her innocence became the popular

belief,--she finally relented, accepted his hand, and beneath the

beautiful sky of Italy, forgot, or remembered only as a dream, the

perils and sorrows of her early life.

PHILETUS POTTS.

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.

Philetus Potts is dead. Like Grimes, he was a "good old man!" A true

gentleman of the old school, he clung to many of the fashions of a

by-gone period with a pertinacity, which, to the eyes of the

thoughtless, savored somewhat of the ludicrous. It was only of late

years that he relinquished his three-cornered hat; to breeches,

buckles, and hair powder he adhered to the last. He was also partial

to pigtails, though his earliest was shorn from his head by a

dangerous rival, who cut him out of the good graces of Miss Polly

Martine, a powdered beauty of the past century, by amputating his cue;

while his latest one was sacrificed on the altar of humanity--but

thereby hangs a tale.

If Mr. Potts was behind his age in dress, he was in advance of it in

sentiment. In his breast the milk of human kindness never curdled, and

his intelligent mind was ever actively employed in devising ways and

means to alleviate the sufferings of humanity, and to change the

hearts of evil doers. His comprehensive kindness included the brute

creation as well as mankind, in the circle of his active sympathy.

We remember an instance of his sympathy for animals. We had been

making an excursion into the country. It was high noon of a sultry

summer day; eggs were cooking in the sun, and the mercury in the

thermometer stood at the top of the tube. Passing out of a small

village, we passed a young lady pleasantly and coolly attired in

white, and carrying a sunshade whose grateful shadow melted into the

cool, clear olive of her fine complexion.

Mr. Potts sighed, for she reminded him of Miss Polly Martine at the

same age; and Polly Martine reminded him of parasols by some recondite

association. Mr. Potts remembered the first umbrella that was brought

into Boston. He always carried one that might have been the first, it

was so venerable, yet whole and decent, like an old gentleman in good

preservation. It was a green silk one, with a plain, mahogany handle,

and a ring instead of a ferrule, and very large. Discoursing of

umbrellas, we came upon a cow. Mr. Potts was fond of cows--grateful to

them--always spoke of them with respect. This particular cow inhabited

a small paddock by the roadside, which was enclosed by a Virginia

fence, and contained very little grass, and no provision for shade and

shelter. So the cow stood in the sunshine, with her head resting on

the fence, and her tongue lolling out of her mouth, and her large,

intelligent eyes fixed on the far distance, where a herd of kine were

feasting knee-deep in a field of clover, beside a running brook,

overshadowed by magnificent walnut trees.

"Poor thing!" said Mr. Potts; and he stopped short and looked at the

cow.

The cow looked at Mr. Potts. One had evidently magnetically influenced

the other.

"She is a female, like the lady we encountered," said Mr. Potts,

"but," added he, with a burst of feeling, "she has no parasol!"

The assertion was indisputable. It was a truism, cows are never

provided with parasols,--but then great men are famous for uttering

truisms, and we venerated Mr. Potts for following the example.

"It is now twelve o'clock!" said Mr. Potts, consulting his repeater.

"At half past four, the shadow of the buttonwood will fall into this

poor animal's pasture. Four hours and a half of torture, rendered more

painful by the contemplation of the luxuries of her remote companions!

It is insufferable!"

Then Mr. Potts, with a genial smile on his Pickwickian countenance,

expanded his green silk umbrella, mounted the fence, on which he sat

astride, and patiently held the umbrella over the cow's head for the

space of four and a half mortal hours. The action was sublime. I

regret to add that the animal proved ungrateful, and, when Mr. Potts

closed his umbrella on the shadow of the buttonwood relieving guard,

facilitated his descent from the Virginia fence by an ungraceful

application of her horns to the amplitude of his venerable person.

It was in the summer following, that the incident I am about to relate

occurred. It was fly-time,--I remember it well. We were again walking

together, when we came to a wall-eyed horse, harnessed to a dog's meat

cart, and left standing by his unfeeling master while he indulged in

porter and pipes in a small suburban pothouse, much affected by

Milesians. The horse was much annoyed by flies, and testified his

impatience and suffering by stamping and tossing his head. Mr. Potts

was the first to notice that the poor animal had no tail,--for the two

or three vertebrae attached to the termination of the spine could

hardly be supposed to constitute a tail proper. The discovery filled

him with horror. A horse in fly-time without a tail! The case was

worse than that of the cow.

"And here I am!" exclaimed the great and good man, in a tone of the

bitterest self-reproach, "luxuriating in a pigtail which that poor

creature would be glad of!"

With these words he produced a penknife, and placing it in my hands,

resolutely bade me amputate his cue. I did so with tears in my eyes,

and placed the severed ornament in the hands of my companion. With a

piece of tape he affixed it to the horse's stump, and the gush of

satisfaction he felt at seeing the first fly despatched by the

ingenious but costly substitute for a tail, must have been, I think,

an adequate recompense for the sacrifice.

I think it was in that same summer that Mr. Potts laid before the

Philanthropic and Humane Society, of which he was an honorable and

honorary member, his "plan for the amelioration of the condition of

no-tailed horses in fly-time, by the substitution of feather dusters

for the natural appendage, to which are added some hints on the

grafting of tails with artificial scions, by a retired farrier in ill

health."

During the last year of his life, Mr. Potts offered a prize of five

thousand dollars for the discovery of a harmless and indelible white

paint, to be used in changing the complexion of the colored

population, to place them on an equality with ourselves, or for any

chemical process which would produce the same result.

Mr. Potts proposed to substitute for capital punishment, houses of

seclusion for murderers, where, remote from the world, in rural

retreats, they might converse with nature, and in the cultivation of

the earth, or the pursuit of botany, might become gradually softened

and humanized. At the expiration of a few months' probation, he

proposed to restore them to society.

A criminal is an erring brother. The object of punishment is

reformation, and not vengeance. Hence, Mr. Potts proposed to supply

our prisoners with teachers of languages, arts and sciences, dancing

and gymnastics. Every prison should have, he contended, a billiard

room and bowling saloon, a hairdresser, and a French cook.

Occasionally, accompanied by proper officers, the convicts should be

taken to the Italian Opera, or allowed to dance at Papanti's. The

object would be so to refine their tastes that they should shrink from

theft and murder, simply because they were ungentlemanly. Readmitted

to society, these gentlemen would give tone to the upper classes.

But Mr. Potts has gone in the midst of his schemes of usefulness. The

tailless quadruped, the shedless cow, the unwhitewashed African, the

condemned felon, the unhappy prisoner, actually treated as if he were

no gentleman, in him have lost a friend. When shall we see his like

again? Echo answers, Probably not for a very long period.

THE GONDOLIER.

O, rest thee here, my gondolier,

Rest, rest, while up I go,

To climb yon light balcony's height

While thou keep'st watch below.

Ah! if high Heaven had tongues as well

As starry eyes to see--

O, think what tales 'twould hate to tell

Of wandering youths like me.

MOORE.

The traveller of to-day who visits Venice sees in that once splendid

city nothing but a mass of mouldering palaces, the melancholy remains

of former grandeur and magnificence; but few tokens to remind him that

she was once the queen of the Adriatic, the emporium of Europe. But at

the period of which we write the "sea Cybele" was in the very zenith

of her brilliancy and power.

It was the season of carnival, and nowhere else in Italy were the

holidays celebrated with such zest and magnificence. By night millions

of lamps burned in the palace windows, rivalling the splendors of the

firmament, and reflected in the still waters of the lagoons like

myriads of stars. Night and day music was resounding. There were

regattas, balls, and festas, and the entire population seemed to have

gone mad with gayety, and to have lost all thought of the Council of

Ten, the Bridge of Signs, and the poniards of the bravoes.

On a bright morning of this holiday season, a group of young

gondoliers, attired in their gayest costume, were sitting at the head

of a flight of marble steps that led up from one of the canals,

waiting for their fares. A cavalier and lady, both gayly attired, and

both masked, had just alighted from a gondola and passed the boatman

on their way to some rendezvous.

The gondolier who had conducted them, an old, gray-headed,

hard-looking fellow, had pocketed his fee, nodded his thanks, and

pushed off again from the landing.

"There goes old Beppo," said one of the gondoliers on shore. "He will

make a good day's work of it. I can swear I saw the glitter of gold in

his hand just now."

"Yes, yes!" said another. "Let him alone for making his money. And

what he makes, he keeps. He's a close-fisted old hunks."

"And what is he so scrimping and saving for?" asked a third. "He is

unmarried--he has no children."

"No--but he is to be married," said the first.

"How! the man's past sixty."

"Yes, comrade, but he will not be the first old fellow who has taken a

young wife in his dotage. Have you never heard that he has a young

ward, beautiful as an angel, whom he keeps cooped up as tenderly as a

brooding dove in his tumble-down old house on the Canal Orfano? Nobody

but himself has ever set eyes on her to my knowledge."

"There you're mistaken, Stefano," said a young man, who had not

hitherto spoken. He was a fine, dashing, handsome young fellow of

twenty-six, in a holiday suit of crimson and gold, with a fiery eye,

long, curling locks, and a mustache as black as jet.

"Let's hear what Antonio Giraldo has to say about the matter!" cried

his companions.

"Simply this," said the young man. "I have seen the imprisoned fair

one--the peerless Zanetta--for such is her name. She is lovely as the

day; and for her voice--why--_Corpo di Bacco_! La Gianina, the prima

donna, is a screechowl to _my_ nightingale."

"_Your_ nightingale! Bravo!" cried Stefano, in a tone of mocking

irony. "What can you know about her voice?"

"Simply this, Master Stefano," replied the young gondolier. "When

floating beneath her window in my gondola, I have addressed her in

such rude strains of melody as I best knew how to frame. She has

replied in tones so liquid and pure that the angels might have

listened."

"By Heaven! the fellow's in love!" cried Stefano.

"Long live music and love!" cried Antonio. "What were life worth

without them?"

"You're in excellent spirits!" cried Stefano.

"And why shouldn't a man be, on his wedding day?"

"Mad as a march hare," cried Stefano.

"Mark me," said Antonio. "That girl shall never marry old Beppo--my

word for it. She hates him."

"She'll elope with some noble, then."

"To be cast off to wither when he is tired of her charms? No! the

bridegroom for Zanetta is a gondolier."

"With all my heart," said Stefano. "But come, comrades, it is no use

waiting here. Let us to our gondolas, and row for St. Marks. You'll

come with us, Antonio."

"Not I--my occupation's gone."

"How so?"

"I have sold my gondola."

"Sold your gondola."

"Ay--that was my word."

"But why?"

"I wanted money."

"Your gondola was the means of earning it."

"Very true--but I had occasion for a certain sum at once."

"And why not have recourse to our purses, Antonio? Light as they are,

we would have made it up by contributions among us."

"I doubted not your kindness--but my self-respect would not permit me

to ask your aid. Good by, comrades; we shall meet again to-morrow."

"To-morrow. _Addio_!"

* * * * *

There was a brilliant masquerade that evening at the palazzo of Count

Giulio Colonna. Invitations had been issued to all the world, and all

the world was present. The finest music, the richest wines, the most

splendid decorations were lavished on the occasion. Perhaps, among

that brilliant company, there was more than one plebeian, who, under

cover of the masque, and employing the license common at these

saturnalia, had intruded himself unbidden.

Old Beppo, the gondolier, was in attendance at the vestibule of the

palace, feasting his avaricious eyes on the glimpses of wealth and

luxury he noted within doors, when a gentleman in rich costume, and

wearing a mask, beckoned him to one side, and desired a moment's

interview.

"Do you know me?" was the first question asked by the stranger.

"No, signor," replied the old gondolier.

"Do you know these gentlemen?" asked the mask, slipping a couple of

gold pieces into the miser's hand.

"Perfectly," replied the boatman, grinning. "What are your lordship's

commands?"

"Is your gondola in waiting?"

"Yes, signor. It lies below, moored to the landing."

"'Tis well; hast thou any scruples about aiding in a love intrigue?"

"None in the world, signor."

"Then I'll make a confidant of you."

"I will be all secrecy, signor."

"Briefly then, gondolier," said the mask, "I am in love with a very

charming young person."

"Well."

"Well--and this young person loves me in return."

"Good; and you are going to marry her."

"Not so fast, gondolier. She has an old guardian, who, at the age of

sixty, or more, has been absurd enough--only think of it--to propose

to marry her himself."

"The absurd old fool!" cried Beppo, not without some twinges, for he

thought of his own projects with regard to Zanetta.

"Now, then," said the mask, "I have resolved to run away with her

to-night. I have the opportunity--for she is here in the Palazzo

Colonna. Now will and can you aid me? I will recompense you

liberally."

"Ah! my lord--your lordship has come to the right market," said the

old sinner. "I'm used to affairs of this kind. Has your lordship a

priest engaged?"

"I have not."

"Then I can recommend one. Hard by is a chapel dedicated to Our Lady,

where there is a very worthy man, accustomed to affairs of this kind,

who will tie the knot for a moderate fee, without asking any

impertinent questions."

"His name?"

"Father Dominic."

"Good! he is the man for us--and you are the prince of gondoliers.

Get your gondola ready, and I will rejoin you at the foot of the

stairs with the lady in a moment."

Old Beppo hastened to prepare his gondola, and while so doing,

muttered to himself,--

"Well, well--this is a good night's work. I'm getting old, and I must

soon retire from business. Every stroke of luck like this helps on the

day when I shall call Zanetta mine. So, there's another old fool to be

duped to-night! Serve him right! Why don't he keep his treasure under

lock and key, as I do? But men will never learn wisdom. Here they

come."

The young cavalier reappeared upon the marble steps, leading a lady,

masked and veiled, but whose elastic step and graceful bearing seemed

to designate her as one moving in the highest circles. The young

lovers took their seats in the centre of the light craft, and drew the

curtains round them, while Beppo pushed off, and his vigorous oar soon

sent the shallop dancing over the waters of the lagoon. After a few

moments the motion ceased, and Beppo informed his patron that they had

arrived at their place of destination. After making the boat fast, the

gondolier landed, and entered the small chapel which stood on the

brink of the canal. In a few moments he returned, and informed the

masked cavalier that all was prepared. The gentleman then handed out

the lady, and both entered the chapel, Beppo keeping guard without, to

prevent or give notice of any intrusion.

The marriage ceremony was performed very rapidly by Father Dominic,

for he was just going to bed when the gondola arrived, and was duly

anxious to despatch his business, that he might consign his wearied

limbs to rest.

"Is it all over?" whispered Beppo, in the ear of the cavalier, as he

came out with his lady.

"All right," replied the mask, in the same tone of voice. "But one

thing perplexes me. I have no place that I can call my home, to-night.

The lady will be missed; my palace will be watched--I should incur the

risk of swords crossing and bloodshed, if I sought to take her

thither, to-night."

"If my house were not so very humble," said the gondolier,

hesitatingly.

"The very thing," said the mask, joyfully. "No matter how humble the

roof, provided that it shelter us. To-morrow we can arrange matters

for flight, or for remaining."

"Then get into the gondola, my lord, and I will row you thither in a

few minutes."

The party reembarked, and soon reached the gondolier's residence.

After fastening his craft, he unlocked his door; and striking a light,

conducted his distinguished guests up stairs. As he passed one of the

chamber doors, the old gondolier, addressing the masked lady as he

pointed to it, said,--

"You have made a moonlight flitting, to-night, signora, and I wish you

joy of your escape. But if you had been as safely kept as a precious

charge I have in this room, you would never have stood before the

altar to-night, with your noble bridegroom."

"You forget that 'love laughs at locksmiths,'" said the cavalier.

At the door of their apartments, the old man, before bidding them good

night, pausing, said,--

"Pardon me, signor, but I would fain know the name of the noble

cavalier I have had the honor of serving to-night."

"You shall know to-morrow," replied the mask. "_Buona notte_, Beppo.

Remember it's carnival time."

The next morning Beppo was up betimes, anxious to learn the mystery

connected with the married couple. He was not kept long in suspense.

His patron of the preceding evening soon made his appearance, but

masked as before.

"Beppo!" said the stranger, "you rendered me an inestimable service

last night."

"You rewarded me handsomely, signor, and I shall never regret it."

"Give me your word then, that you will never upbraid me with the

service I imposed on you."

"I give you my word," said the old man, surprised; "but why do you

exact it?"

"Because," said the stranger, raising his mask, "I am no Venetian

noble, but simply Antonio Giraldi, a gondolier like yourself."

"You! Antonio Giraldi! And the lady--?"

"Was your ward, Zanetta. You locked her chamber door, and took the

house key with you--but a ladder of ropes from a lady's balcony is as

good as a staircase; and as I told you last night, 'love laughs at

locksmiths.'"

Of course old Beppo stormed and swore, as irascible old gentlemen are

very apt to do in similar circumstances, but he ended by forgiving the

lovers, as that was the only act in his power. He not only forgave

them, but gave up his gondola to the stronger hands of Antonio, and

settled a handsome portion on Zanetta; nor did he ever regret his

generosity, for they proved grateful and affectionate, and were the

stay and solace of his declining years. Such is the veritable history

of a carnival incident of the olden days of Venice.

THE SURRENDER OF CORNWALLIS.

A MILITARY SKETCH.

It was a great day for Dogtown, being no other than the anniversary of

the annual militia muster; and on this occasion not only the Dogtown

Blues were on parade upon the village green, but the entire regiment

of which they formed a part, commanded by the gallant Colonel

Zephaniah Slorkey, postmaster and variety-store keeper, was to engage

in a sham fight, representing the surrender of Cornwallis. There was

no attempt at historical costume, but it was understood that Slorkey,

with his cowhide boots and rusty plated spurs, his long,

swallow-tailed blue coat, and threadbare chapeau with a cock's tail

feather in it, mounted on his seventy-five dollar piebald mare,

promoted from the plough and "dump cart," was the representative of

General Washington. Major Israel Ryely, his second in command, a

native of the rival village of Hardscrabble, was to figure as Lord

Cornwallis; and the selection was the more appropriate, since the

private relations of these two great men were any thing but amicable,

and they espoused opposite sides in politics. Dr. Galenius Jalap, an

apothecary and surgeon of the regiment, a man with a hatchet face,

hook nose, and thin, weeping whiskers, the color of sugar gingerbread,

undertook the character of La Fayette at very short notice, and a very

dim conception of the character he had.

The entire population of Dogtown and Hardscrabble turned out to

witness the stupendous military operations of the day. On the American

side were the Dogtown Blues, with four companies of ununiformed

militia, armed with rifles, fowling pieces, and rusty muskets, and

typifying the continental army. Their artillery consisted of two light

field pieces, served by a select band of volunteers. These pieces were

posted on an eminence commanding the entire plain. At the foot of this

hill, Colonel Slorkey drew up his troops in line of battle, his left

wing protected by an impassable frog pond, and his right resting on a

large piggery, whose extent prevented the enemy from turning his flank

in that direction.

On the descent of an opposing eminence, likewise strengthened by two

guns, Major Ryely placed the Hardscrabble Guards, the Sheet Iron

Riflemen, the Mudhollow Invincibles, the Dandelion Fireeaters, and the

Scrufftown Sharpshooters. A thousand bright eyes, from the commanding

eminences, looked down on the serried ranks of bayonets, the

brazen-throated artillery, the panoplied plough horses, the plumed

commanders, the rustling banners, and all the "pomp, pride, and

circumstance of glorious war."

Preliminaries being thus settled, the commanding officers put spurs to

their horses, and met in the centre of the plain, there saluting with

their scythe-blade swords.

"Major Ryely," said the colonel, rising in his stirrups, "the

follerin' are the odder of pufformances: we open with eour

artillery--you reply with yourn. Under kiver of eour guns we advance

to the attack. You do the same to meet us--firin' like smoke. Arter a

sharp scrimmedge you retire--send us a flag of truce with terms--and

finally lay down your arms."

The major bowed till his ostrich feather touched the mane of his

wall-eyed plough horse, then turned bridle, and regained his ranks at

a gait something between a stumble and a rack. The representative of

General Washington rejoined his men at a hard trot, rising two feet

from his saddle at every concussion of his bony steed.

"Fellur sogers!" roared the temporary father of his country; "yonder

stands Cornwallis and his redcoats--only they haint got red coats,

partickerlarly them in blue swaller-tails. We air bound to lick

'em--hurrah for our side! Go inter 'em like a thousand of bricks

fallin' off 'n a slated rufe. The genius of Ammerikin liberty, in the

shape of the carnivorous eagle, soarin' aloft on diluted pillions,

seems to mutter _E Pluribus Unum_--we are one of 'em! Hail Columby

happy land! Sing Yankee Doodle that fine tune--cry havock! and let

looset the dogs of war."

Then commenced the horror of the sham fight. The continental guns

opened in thunder tones. The British artillery hurled back their

terrific echoes. Bang! bang! boom! boom! The canopy of heaven was

stained with the sulphurous smoke. The drummers rattled away on their

sheepskins--the fifers distended their cheeks till they resembled

blown bladders. In the midst of all this noise and tumult, the

undaunted Slorkey, and the indomitable Jalap, rushed to and fro, with

clanking scabbards, and brandished scythe blades, twin thunderbolts of

war.

"Forrard march!" roared Slorkey. With the yell of demons, his fierce

followers advanced to the onset, firing their blank cartridges with

desperate valor.

Equally alert were Major Ryely and his followers.

"Their swords were a thousand, their bosoms were one."

Their faces begrimed with powder, their eyes gleaming with ferocity,

they descended to the plain--an avalanche of heroes. The soul of

Headly would have swelled within him had he seen them.

For more than one hour that deadly consumption of blank cartridges

endured, and then Ryely and his troops retired in good order.

"Boys," said the major, "old Slorkey wants us to gin out--send a flag

of truce--a white pocket handkerchief on a beanpole--and propose to

surrender. But it goes agin my grit for Hardscrabble to cave in to

Dogtown, when we could knock the hindsights off 'em, if we was only a

mind to."

"Hurray for the major!" responded the Hardscrabblers.

"I've got a grudge agin the kurnil," said the major, "and if you'll

stand by me, I'll take it out of 'em. What say?"

"Agreed!" was the spontaneous response.

While Slorkey was waiting for the covenanted flag of truce, he saw the

hated Ryely rise in his stirrups, and heard his stentorian voice roar

out the word, "Charge!"

A deafening shout answered his appeal. In an instant Hardscrabble and

its allies were down on Dogtown and its defenders. The latter stood it

for a moment, but Ryely knocked the colonel off his horse, the surgeon

had his nose pulled, the Dogtown Blues justified their name by their

looks, and, seized with a sudden panic, fled--fled ingloriously from

their native training field. The audacious outrage was

consummated--history was violated--and General Washington was beaten by

Cornwallis.

Dire were the threats against Ryely uttered by the colonel, as he was

carried home on a shutter; nothing short of a court martial was his

slightest menace. But no court martial ever took place. The military

pride and glory of Dogtown were wounded to the quick; the force of

popular opinion compelled Slorkey to resign, and to consummate his

chagrin, his treacherous rival was chosen colonel of the regiment. So

unstable are human honors--so ungrateful are republics.

THE THREE BRIDES.

Towards the close of a chilly afternoon, in the latter part of last

November, I was travelling in New Hampshire on horseback. The road was

solitary and rugged, and wound along through gloomy pine forests and

over abrupt and stony hills. Several circumstances conduced to my

discomfort. I was not sure of my way; I had a hurt in my bridle hand,

and evening was approaching, heralded by an icy rain and a cold,

searching wind. I felt a sinking of spirits which I could not dispel

by rapid riding; for my horse, fatigued by a long day's journey,

refused to answer spur and whip with his usual animation. In an hour

after, I was convinced that I had mistaken my road, and night

surprised me in the forest. I had been in more unpleasant situations;

so I adopted my usual expedient of letting the reins fall upon my

courser's neck. He, however, blundered on, with his nose drooping to

the ground, stumbling every moment, though ordinarily as surefooted as

a roebuck. So we plodded on for a mile, while the landscape grew

darker and darker. At length, finding my horse less intelligent or

more despairing than myself, I resumed the rein, and endeavored to

cheer my brute companion. To tell the truth, I stood in need of

something exhilarating myself. The sombre air of the eternal pines

struck a deathly gloom to my heart, as one by one they seemed to rise

on my path, like threatening genii extending their scathed limbs to

meet me. The rain, fine and cold, bedewed me from head to foot, and I

question if a more miserable pair of animals ever threaded their way

through the mazes of an enchanted forest. I thought of the comfortable

home I had left for my forlorn pleasure excursion, of that cheerful

hearth around which my family were gathered, of wine, music, love, and

the thousand endearments I had left behind, and then I gazed into the

recesses of the shadowy wood that closed about me, almost in despair.

I began to dread the apparition of some giant intruder, and was

seriously meditating the production of a pair of pistols, when my

quick glance caught the glimmer of distant lights, twinkling through

some opening in the trees, and darting a beam of hope upon the

wanderer's soul. My reins were instantly grasped, and my rowels were

struck into the sides of my charger. He snorted, pricked up his ears,

erected his head, and sprang forth in an uncontrollable gallop. Up

hill and down hill I pricked my gallant gray; and when the forest was

past, and his hoofs glinted on the stones of a street leading through

a small village, I felt an animation that I cannot well describe. A

creaking signboard, swinging in the wind on rusty irons, directed me

to the only inn of the village. It was a two-story brick building,

standing a little back from the road. I drew rein at the door, and

dismounted my weary nag. My loud vociferations summoned to my side a

bull dog, cursed with a most unhappy disposition, and a hostler whose

temper was hardly more amiable. He took my horse with an air of surly

indifference, and gruffly directed me to the bar room.

This apartment was tenanted by half a dozen rough farmers, rendered

savage and morose by incessantly imbibing alcohol; and by the

proprietor of the tavern, a bluff man, with a portly paunch, a hard

gray eye, and a stern Caledonian lip. He welcomed me without much

frankness or cordiality, and I sank into a wooden settle, eyed by the

surly guests of mine host, and the subject of sundry muttered remarks.

The group, as it was lighted up by the strong red glare of the fire,

had certainly a bandit appearance, which, however delightful to a

Salvator Rosa, was by no means inviting to a traveller who had sought

the bosom of the hills for pleasure. After making a few remarks, which

elicited only monosyllables in answer, I relapsed into silence; from

which, however, I was soon aroused by the entrance of the surly

hostler, who in no very gracious manner informed me that my horse was

lame, and likely to be sick. This intelligence produced a visit to the

stable, and the conviction that I could not possibly resume my journey

on the ensuing day; which was somewhat disagreeable to a man who had

taken up a decided prejudice against the inn and all its inmates.

Having succeeded in procuring a private room and a fire, I ignited an

execrable cigar, (ah, how unlike thy _principes_, dear S.,) and

endeavored to lose myself in the agreeable occupation of castle

building while supper was preparing. Alas! my fancy came not at my

call. I had lost my power of abstraction--the realities around me were

too engrossing. Ere the dying shriek of a majestic rooster had ceased

to sound in my ear, his remains were served upon my table, together

with a cup or two of very villanous gunpowder tea, and a pitcher of

cider, with coarse bread and butter _ad libitum_. Supper was soon

despatched, and in answer to a bell, lightly touched, a

vinegar-visaged waiting-maid, of the interesting age of forty-five,

entered and removed the scarcely touched viands--the _rudis

indigestaque moles_. I ventured to address her, with a request that I

might be supplied with a few books, to enable me to while away the

evening. I anticipated a literary feast from the readiness with which

she rushed from the room; but she reappeared, bringing only Young's

Night Thoughts, (very greasy,) a volume of tales with the catastrophes

torn out, a set of plays consisting only of first acts, and an odd

number of the Eclectic Magazine. This was sufficiently provoking; but

I read a few pages, and tried a second cigar, and made the tour of the

apartment, examining a family mourning-piece worked in satin, a

genealogical tree done in worsted, and a portrait of the mutton-headed

landlord and his snappish wife. I counted the ticks of the clock for

half an hour, and was finally reduced to the forlorn expedient of

seeing likenesses in the burning embers. When the clock struck nine, I

rang for slippers and a guide to my bed room, and the landlord

appeared, candle in hand, to usher me to my sleeping apartment. As I

followed him up the creaking staircase, and along the dark upper

entry, I could not help regretting that fancy was unable to convert

him into the seneschal of a baronial mansion, and the room to which I

was going a haunted chamber. It seemed as if my surly host had the

power of divining what was passing in my mind, for when he had ushered

me into the room, and placed the candle on the light stand, he said,--

"I hope you'll sleep comfortable, for there ain't many rats here, sir.

And as for the ghost they say frequents this chamber, I believe that's

all in my eye, though, to be sure, the window does look out on the

burial ground."

"Umph! a comfortable prospect."

"Very, sir; you have a fine view of the squire's new tomb and the

poorhouse, with a wing of the jail behind the trees. And I've stuck my

second-best hat in that broken pane of glass, and there's a chest of

drawers to set against the door; so you'll be warm and free from

intrusion. I wish you good night, sir."

All that night I was troubled with strange dreams, peopled by phantoms

from the neighboring churchyard; but a _bona fide_ ghost I cannot say

I saw. In the morning I rose very early, and took a look from the

window, but the prospect was very uninviting. The churchyard was a

bleak, desolate place, overgrown with weeds, and studded with slate

stones, bounded by a ruinous brick wall, and having an entrance

through a dilapidated gateway. One or two melancholy-looking cows were

feeding on the rank herbage that sprang from the unctuous soil,

spurning many a _hic jacet_ with their cloven hoofs. But afar, in the

most distant part of the field, I espied the figure of a man who was

busily occupied in digging a grave. There was something within that

impelled me to stroll forth and accost him. I dressed, descended, and

having ordered breakfast, left the inn, clambered over the ruinous

wall, and stood within the precincts of the burial-place. The spot had

evidently been used for the purposes of sepulture for a number of

years, for the ground rose into numerous hillocks, and I could hardly

walk a step without stumbling upon some grassy mound. Even where the

perishable gravestones had been shattered by the hand of time, the

length of the elevations enabled me to judge of the age of the

deceased. This slight swell rose over the remains of some beloved

child, who had been committed to the dust with only the simple

ceremonies of the Protestant faith, bedewed by the tears of parents,

and blessed by the broken voice of farewell affection. This mound, of

larger dimension, was heaped above the giant frame of manhood. Some

sturdy tiller of the soil, or rough dweller in the forest, perhaps cut

off by a sudden casualty, had been laid here in his last leaden

sleep--no more to start at the rising beam of the sun, no more to rush

to the glorious excitement of the hunt, no more to pant in noonday

toil. Over the whole field of the dead there seemed to brood the

spirit of desolation. Stern heads, rudely chiselled, from the grave

stones, and frightful emblems met the eye at every turn. Here was none

of that simple elegance with which modern taste loves to invest the

memorials of the departed; no graceful acacias, or nodding elms, or

sorrowing willows shed their dews upon the turf--every thing spoke of

the bitterness of parting, of the agony of the last hour, of the

passing away from earth--nothing of the reunion in heaven!

I passed on to where the grave digger was pursuing his occupation. He

answered my morning salutation civilly enough, but continued intent

upon his work. He was a man of about fifty years of age, spare, but

strong, with gray hair, and sunken cheeks, and certain lines about the

mouth which augured a propensity to indulge in dry jest, though the

sternness of his gray eye seemed to contradict the tacit assertion.

"An unpleasant morning, sir, to work in the open air," said I.

"He that regardeth the clouds shall not reap," replied the grave

digger, still plying his spade. "Death stalks abroad fair day and foul

day, and we that follow in his footsteps must prepare for the dead,

rain or shine."

"A melancholy occupation."

"A fit one for a moralist. Some would find a pleasure in it. Deacon

Giles, I am sure, would willingly be in my place now."

"And why so?"

"This grave is for his wife," replied the grave digger, looking up

from his occupation with a dry smile that wrinkled his sallow cheek

and distorted his shrunken lips. Perceiving that his merriment was not

infectious, he resumed his employment, and that so assiduously, that

in a very short time he had hollowed the last resting-place of Deacon

Giles's consort. This done, he ascended from the trench with a

lightness that surprised me, and walking a few paces from the new-made

grave, sat down upon a tombstone, and beckoned me to approach. I did

so.

"Young man," said he, "a sexton and a grave digger, if he is one who

has a zeal for his calling, becomes something of an historian,

amassing many a curious tale and strange legend concerning the people

with whom he has to do, living and dead. For a man with a taste for

his profession cannot provide for the last repose of his fellows

without taking an interest in their story, the manner of their death,

and the concern of the relatives who follow their remains so tearfully

to the grave."

"Then," replied I, taking a seat beside the sexton, "methinks you

could relate some interesting tales."

Again the withering smile that I had before observed passed over the

face of the sexton, as he answered,--

"I am no story teller, sir; I deal in fact, not fiction. Yes, yes, I

could chronicle some strange events. But of all things I know, there

is nothing stranger than the melancholy history of the three brides."

"The three brides?"

"Ay. Do you see three hillocks yonder, side by side? There they sleep,

and will till the last trumpet comes wailing and wailing through the

heart of these lone hills, with a tone so strange and stirring, that

the dead will start from their graves at its first awful note. Then

will come the judgment and the retribution. But to my tale. Look

there, sir; on yonder hill you may observe a little isolated house,

with a straggling fence in front, and a few stunted apple trees on the

ascent behind it. It is sadly out of repair now, and the garden is all

overgrown with weeds and brambles, and the whole place has a desolate

appearance. If the wind were high now, you might hear the old crazy

shutters flapping against the sides, and the wind tearing the gray

shingles off the roof. Many years ago, there lived in that house an

old man and his son, who cultivated the few acres of arable land which

belong to it.

"The father was a self-taught man, deeply versed in the mysteries of

science, and, as he could tell the name of every flower that blossomed

in the wood and grew in the garden, and used to sit up late of nights

at his books, or reading the mystic story of the starry heavens, men

thought he was crazed or bewitched, and avoided him, and even hated

him, as the ignorant ever shun and dread the gifted and enlightened. A

few there were, and among others the minister, and lawyer, and

physician of the place, who showed some willingness to afford him

countenance; but they soon dropped his acquaintance, for they found

the old man somewhat reserved and morose, and, moreover, their vanity

was wounded by discovering the extent of his knowledge. To the

minister he would quote the Fathers and the Scriptures in the original

tongues and showed himself well armed with the weapons of polemical

controversy. He astonished the lawyer by his profound acquaintance

with jurisprudence; and the physician was surprised at the extent of

his medical knowledge. So they all deserted him, and the minister,

from whom the old man differed in some trifling points of doctrine,

spoke very slightingly of him; and by and by all looked upon the

self-educated farmer with eyes of aversion. But he little cared for

that, for he derived his consolation from loftier resources, and in

the untracked paths of science found a pleasure as in the pathless

woods! He instructed his son in all his lore--the languages,

literature, history, philosophy, science, were unfolded, one by one,

to the enthusiastic son of the solitary. Years rolled away, and the

old man died. He died when a storm convulsed the face of nature, when

the wind howled around his shattered dwelling, and the lightning

played above the roof; and though he went to heaven in faith and

purity, the vulgar thought and said that the evil one had claimed his

own in the thunder and commotion of the elements. I cannot paint to

you the grief of the son at his bereavement. He was, for a time, as

one distracted. The minister came and muttered a few cold and hollow

phrases in his ear, and a few neighbors, impelled by curiosity to see

the interior of the old man's dwelling, came to his funeral. With a

proud and lofty look the son stood beside the departed in the midst of

the band of hypocritical mourners, with a pang at his heart, but a

serenity on his brow. He thanked his friends for their kindness,

acknowledged their courtesy, and then strode away from the grave to

bury his grief in the privacy of his deserted dwelling.

"He found, at first, the solitude of the mansion almost insupportable,

and he paced the echoing floors from morning till night, in all the

agony of woe and desolation, vainly imploring Heaven for relief. It

came to him first in the guise of poetic inspiration. He wrote with a

wonderful ease and power. Page after page came from his prolific pen,

almost without an effort; and there was a time when he dreamed (vain

fool!) of immortality. Some of his productions came before the world.

They were praised and circulated, and inquiries were set on foot in

the hope of discovering the author. He, wrapped in the veil of

impenetrable obscurity, listened to the voice of applause, more

delicious because it was obtained by stealth. From the obscurity of

yonder lone mansion, and from this remote region, to send forth lays

which astonished the world, was, indeed, a triumph to the visionary

bard.

"His thirst for fame was gratified, and now he began to yearn for the

companionship of some sweet being of the other sex, to share the

laurels he had won, to whisper consolation in his ear in moments of

despondency, and to supply the void which the death of his old father

had occasioned. He would picture to himself the felicity of a refined

intercourse with a highly intellectual and beautiful woman, and, as he

had chosen for his motto, _What has been done may still be done_, he

did not despair of success. In this village lived three sisters, all

beautiful and all accomplished. Their names were Mary, Adelaide, and

Madeleine. I am far enough past the age of enthusiasm, but never can I

forget the beauty of those young girls. Mary was the youngest, and a

fairer-haired, more laughing damsel never danced upon a green.

Adelaide, who was a few years older, was dark haired and pensive; but

of the three, Madeleine, the eldest, possessed the most fire, spirit,

cultivation, and intellectuality. Their father was a man of taste and

education, and, being somewhat above vulgar prejudices, permitted the

visits of the hero of my story. Still he did not altogether encourage

the affection which he found springing up between Mary and the poet.

When, however, he found that her affections were engaged, he did not

withhold his consent from her marriage, and the recluse bore to his

solitary mansion the young bride of his affections. O sir, the house

assumed a new appearance within and without. Roses bloomed in the

garden, jessamines peeped through its lattices, and the fields about

it smiled with the effects of careful cultivation. Lights were seen in

the little parlor in the evening, and many a time would the passenger

pause by the garden gate to listen to strains of the sweetest music,

breathed by choral voices from the cottage. If the mysterious student

and his wife were neglected by their neighbors, what cared they? Their

endearing and mutual affection made their home a little paradise. But

death came to Eden. Mary fell suddenly sick, and, after a few hours'

illness, died in the arms of her husband and her sister Madeleine.

This was the student's second heavy affliction.

"Days, months, rolled on, and the only solace of the bereaved was to

sit with the sisters of the deceased, and talk of the lost one. To

Adelaide, at length, he offered his widowed heart. She came to his

lone house like the dove, bearing the olive branch of peace and

consolation. Their bridal was not one of revelry and mirth, for a sad

recollection brooded over the hour. Yet they lived happily; the

husband again smiled, and, with a new spring, the roses again

blossomed in their garden. But it seemed as if a fatality pursued this

singular man. When the rose withered and the leaf fell, in the mellow

autumn of the year, Adelaide, too, sickened and died, like her younger

sister, in the arms of her husband and of Madeleine.

"Perhaps you will think it strange, young man, that, after all, the

wretched survivor stood again at the altar. But he was a mysterious

being, whose ways were inscrutable, who, thirsting for domestic bliss,

was doomed ever to seek and never to find it. His third bride was

Madeleine. I well remember her. She was a beauty, in the true sense of

the word. It may seem strange to you to hear the praise of beauty from

such lips as mine; but I cannot help expatiating upon hers. She might

have sat upon a throne, and the most loyal subject, the proudest peer,

would have sworn the blood within her veins had descended from a

hundred kings. She was a proud creature, with a tall, commanding

form, and raven tresses, that floated, dark and cloud-like, over her

shoulders. She was a singularly-gifted woman, and possessed of rare

inspiration. She loved the widower for his power and his fame, and she

wedded him. They were married in that church. It was on a summer

afternoon--I recollect it well. During the ceremony, the blackest

cloud I ever saw overspread the heavens like a pall, and, at the

moment when the _third bride_ pronounced her vow, a clap of thunder

shook the building to the centre. All the females shrieked, but the

bride herself made the response with a steady voice, and her eyes

glittered with wild fire as she gazed upon her bridegroom. He remarked

a kind of incoherence in her expressions as they rode home-ward, which

surprised him at the time. Arrived at his house, she shrunk upon the

threshold: but this was the timidity of a maiden. When they were alone

he clasped her hand--it was as cold as ice! He looked into her face.

"Madeleine," said he, "what means this? your cheeks are as pale as

your wedding gown!" The bride uttered a frantic shriek.

"My wedding gown!" exclaimed she; "no, no--this--this is my sister's

shroud! The hour for confession has arrived. It is God that impels me

to speak. To win you I have lost my soul! Yes--yes--I am a murderess!

She smiled upon me in the joyous affection of her young heart--but I

gave her the fatal drug! Adelaide twined her white arms about my neck,

but I administered the poison! Take me to your arms: I have lost my

soul for you, and mine must you be!"

"She spread her long, white arms, and stood like a maniac before him,"

said the sexton, rising, in the excitement of the moment, and assuming

the attitude he described; "and then," continued he, in a hollow

voice, "at that moment came the thunder and the flash, and the guilty

woman fell dead upon the floor!" The countenance of the narrator

expressed all the horror that he felt.

"And the bridegroom," asked I; "the husband of the destroyer and the

victims--what became of him?"

"_He stands before you_!" was the thrilling answer.

CALIFORNIA SPECULATION.

Mose Jenkins did not take the California fever when it first broke

out; for he was, as he acknowledged himself, "slow-motioned," and his

skull was of such formidable thickness, that it required a good many

months for an idea to penetrate into his brain. In the interim, he

delved and digged away on a corner of his father's farm, having leased

the land of the old gentleman, and purchased his time of the same

respectable individual for the purpose of working it. But to work a

farm where the rocks are so near together, that the sheep's noses have

to be sharpened before they can graze between them, is not a very

profitable business; and Mose, by dint of hard thinking, arrived at

the conclusion that there might possibly be some other occupation less

laborious and quite as lucrative.

"Confound these granite rocks!" he exclaimed, one day, as he was

ploughing, after he had broken his trace chains for a second time;

"they hev another kind er rocks in Calliforny. Jehosaphat! If I was

only _thar_. There a fellur hez to dig; but he gets pretty good

wages--five thousand dollars a month is middlin', not to say fair."

In short, Mose Jenkins made up his mind to go to San Francisco, having

got the wherewithal to carry him in a packet to the land of promise.

Fearful of opposition, he communicated his project neither to the

author of his days, the venerable Zephaniah Jenkins, nor to the

beloved of his heart, Miss Prudence Salter, a cherry-cheeked damsel

in a state of orphanage; but wrote down to a friend in Boston to

secure a passage. He reserved his communications to the very last

moment, when he was all ready for starting. His father gave him his

blessing; Prudence was more difficult to manage.

"It's a breach of promise case," said she, "I don't believe you mean

to marry me arter all."

"Yes, I do, ye silly critter," said Mose. "I'll come and make you Mrs.

Jenkins; but I want to get the rocks first."

"Ain't there rocks enough here?" asked Prudence, simply.

"Pooh! I mean the rocks what folks carries in their pockets, an'

treats every body with--all sollid gold."

"I don't believe half them stories," said Prudence, contemptuously.

"They're as true as gospil," said Mose, "'cause I see it in a paper.

And there's Curnil Hateful Slowboy, that went from here last

year--you'd ort to know him, Prudence, coz he was one of your old

beaux--wall, now, they say he's one of the richest men in Calliforny.

I tell you I'm bound to make my fortin' there."

"And so am I," said Prudence, resolutely.

"You!" exclaimed Mose.

"Yes. I'm bound to go, too; and I'll follow you in the next ship, else

you'll be green enough to marry one of them 'ere Ingine gals."

"Prudence, you're spunk!" exclaimed Mose, in terms of the warmest

admiration. "Good by! And I swow I'll marry you jest as soon as you

set foot in Calliforny."

Not to amplify on details, our adventurer landed there safely, and

was, of course, like all verdant voyagers, much surprised at the

tariff of prices subjected to his notice. The porter who carried his

trunk to the hotel charged him ten dollars; and though that same hotel

was a leaky tent, a plate of tough beef was charged seventy-five

cents, and a watery potato fifty. Business was very dull, too, at the

moment of his arrival; the accounts from the mines were disastrous,

and every thing announced an approaching crisis. Moses confided his

griefs to Colonel Hateful Slowboy, his fellow-townsman, who was really

one of the richest men in California, winding up with lamentations

over the expected arrival of Prudence, whom he had promised to marry.

"What kin I do with a wife," said he, "when I can't support myself,

even?"

"Very true," said the colonel. "Now, if it were me, the case would be

very different."

"Prudence done all the courtin' herself, curnil," said our hero,

sulkily. "I never should have offered if it hadn't been for her. I

kinder like 'er pretty well, though: she's a sort of pretty nice gal."

"Well, Mose," said the colonel, "what do you say to giving up your

claim?"

"Eh?" said Mose, pricking up his ears.

"What'll you take for your right and title--cash down--no questions

asked?"

"Wall, I dunnow," said Mose, opening his jackknife and picking up a

chip. "Prudence is a pretty nice gal, as you said, curnil."

"As _you_ said, Mr. Jenkins."

"Wall, it's all the same. The critter's very fond of me and so be I of

her. I had plaguy hard work, I tell you, to get her consent."

"Come, come," said the colonel, "you want to drive a hard bargain with

me. I'm willing to give you a fair price, say twenty thousand; but I

don't want to be swindled."

"Say twenty-five thousand and take her, curnil."

"No--twenty."

"Cash down?"

"Cash down."

"Done."

"The money's ready whenever Prudence is."

In a few days another ship from Boston came in, and Prudence was among

the first to land. Mose met her with very little ardor, the colonel

remaining in the background. After some little conversation, the young

lady reminded her lover of their agreement.

"I can't do it, Prudence; I've swore off--I've jined the old bachelor

society."

"But you promised me," screamed Prudence.

"Can't help that; you can't get a verdict here for breaches of

promise; there ain't no law here; every body goes on his own

individual hook."

"You cruel monster, why can't you marry me?"

"'Cause."

"'Cause what?"

"'Cause," said Mose, retreating to a safe distance, "_I've traded you

away_!"

Colonel Slowboy was at hand to catch the fair one as she came near

falling. He was her old beau, and he knew the weak points of her

character; moreover he had splendid red whiskers and a million of

money--she married him, partly from ambition and partly from revenge.

The moment they were united, Moses set sail for the United States,

with his twenty thousand dollars, and arrived back safely. When asked

how he had accumulated such a sum in so short a time, he answered,

"trading," and when questioned about the prospects of the El Dorado,

would answer, with a grin, that it was a "great country for women."

And this was the end of his California speculation.

THE FRENCH GUARDSMAN.

With the army of Marshal Saxe, encamped near Fontenoy ready to give

battle to the allies, there were not a few ladies, who, impelled by a

chivalric feeling, or personally interested in the fate of some of the

combatants, had followed the troops to witness the triumph of the

French arms. Their presence was at once the incitement and reward of

valor, for what soldier would not fight with tenfold gallantry when he

knew that his exploits were witnessed by the eyes of her he loved as

wife, mistress, or mother, and whose safety or honor, perhaps,

depended on his prowess?

Among those most distinguished for their beauty was the youthful

Heloise, the lovely daughter of the Baron de Clairville, a French

general officer. The _beaux yeux_ of the demoiselle had enslaved more

than one young officer, but of the host of suitors none could boast

with reason of encouragement, except Henri de Grandville, and Raoul,

Count de St. Prix, both commanding companies in the French Guards.

Both were handsome and accomplished young men, and both had yet their

spurs to win upon the field of battle. They had been fast friends

until the pursuit of the same lady had created a sort of estrangement

between them. Little was known of Henri de Grandville previous to his

reception of his commission in the guards. He had been brought up by

his mother in an old provincial chateau, and though his manners and

education were those of a gentleman, still he seemed but little

acquainted with the world, and above all ignorant of the lighter

accomplishments of the courtier. Perhaps this very simplicity of

manner and frankness of character, contrasting so strangely with the

fashionable affectations of the court, endeared him to his comrades,

and strongly prepossessed Heloise de Clairville in his favor. His

rival was of a different stamp. Raoul de St. Prix was a dashing,

brilliant officer, brave as steel, but fond of dress, reckless,

dissipated, and extravagant. Yet his faults were those of his age, and

belonged to the circumstances by which he was surrounded. The Baron de

Clairville, while he left his daughter free to make her election, yet,

as a plain, blunt soldier, rather than a courtier, secretly inclined

to favor the pretensions of Henri. Still, his treatment of the two

young guardsmen was the same, for they gave equal promise of military

gallantry.

It was on the eve of the battle of Fontenoy that Henri sought an

interview with Heloise, who occupied a gay pavilion near her father's

tent. He found her alone and weeping.

"Mademoiselle," said he, "you are unhappy. Will you permit a friend to

inquire the cause of your sorrow?"

"Can you ask me, Monsieur de Grandville! Of the thousands of brave men

who lie down to-night in peaceful slumber, how many sleep their last

sleep on earth! How many eyes, that will witness to-morrow's sun

arise, will be closed forever before it goes down at evening! O, what

a dreadful business is this trade of war! My poor father, he never

cares for himself, he never asks his men to go where he is unwilling

to lead. I fear for his safety in the deadly conflict of to-morrow."

"If the devotion of one faithful follower can save him, lady,"

answered Henri, "be assured of his safety. I would pour out the blood

in my veins as freely as water to shield the father of Heloise de

Clairville."

"But you--you--Henri--Monsieur de Grandville--you think nothing of

your own life."

"If I fall," answered the young soldier, "my poor mother will weep

bitterly for her only son, though he perish on the field of honor. But

who else will shed a tear for the poor guardsman?"

"Henri!" exclaimed the young girl, reproachfully, and the soft eyes

she raised to his were filled with tears.

"Is it possible?" cried the young soldier. "Can my fate awaken even a

momentary interest in the heart of the loveliest, the gentlest of her

sex? Ah, why do you render life so dear to me at the moment I must

peril it?"

"Believe me," answered Heloise, drying her tears, "that I would not

hold you back, when honor beckons you. It is to such hands as yours

that the honor of the golden lilies is committed. I am the daughter of

a soldier, and though these tears confess my sex, I honor bravery when

it is displayed in a good cause. I honor the soldier as much as I

detest the duellist."

"Then listen to one whose sword was never stained with his brother's

blood. I had thought to go to the field with my secret concealed in my

own breast, but something impels me to speak out. I love you,

Heloise--I have dared to love--to adore you."

The fair girl blushed till her very temples were crimsoned over with

eloquent blood. The young soldier threw himself at her feet, and

taking the fair hand she abandoned to him, covered it with kisses; nor

did he rise till he had received confirmation of his new-born hopes,

and knew that, for good or ill, the heart of Heloise was irrevocably

his. Finally, he was compelled to tear himself away, but he carried

to his tent a feeling of delicious joy which steeled his mind against

all thought of the chances of the morrow.

The moments passed away in delirious revery, but at length he was

interrupted by St. Prix.

The count was in the worst of humors--his brow was dark with passion,

and he threw himself into a seat, and flung his plumed hat on the

table with an energy that betrayed the violence of his emotions.

"What's the matter, Raoul?" asked Henri. "Has Saxe changed his plans?

Do we fall back instead of advancing?"

"No, thank God! there will be plenty of throat-cutting to-morrow, and

the French Guards have the post of honor."

"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Henri, joyfully.

"You seem in excellent spirits to-night, Captain Henri de Grandville."

"I wish I could say as much of you, Captain Raoul de St. Prix."

"Tell me the cause of your felicity."

"Enlighten me respecting your ill humor."

"Willingly, on condition that you will explain your satisfaction."

"Agreed."

"Well, then--you know the marked preference--marked preference, I

say--always shown me by Mademoiselle Heloise de Clairville."

"I will not dispute with you--go on."

"You must have been blinded by absurd hopes not to have noticed it;

every officer in the army looked to me as the _futur_ of the lady.

Well, sir, encouraged and led on by this siren, I made my proposals to

her to-night. _Ventre St. Gris_! I had engaged to settle with my

creditors out of her marriage portion."

"Go on--go on--this is excellent, St. Prix."

"Well, sir, she rejected me--me, the Count de St. Prix. A prior

engagement, forsooth! I wish to Heaven I knew the fellow! Before

sunrise he should have more button holes in his doublet than ever his

tailor made."

"Captain St. Prix," replied Henri, "you have not far to look. In me

behold the fortunate suitor. Come, come; confess that your pride, and

not your heart, was engaged in the affair. The game was fairly played;

the stakes are mine."

"This trifling will not pass muster with me, sir," said the count,

sternly. "Know--if you knew it not before--that Raoul de St. Prix

never fixed his eye on a prize that he did not obtain, or missing it,

failed to punish his successful rival. You are a soldier, and you

understand me, sir," he added, touching his sword knot with his gloved

hand.

"This is midsummer madness, Raoul," answered Henri, with good temper.

"Had I been unsuccessful, painful, fatal as the disappointment would

have been, I should have resigned the lady to you without a struggle."

"That shows the difference between a gentleman and a _parvenu_,"

retorted St. Prix.

"A _parvenu_!" cried De Grandville, starting to his feet.

"Yes. Who knows you? Whence came you? You are an intruder in our

ranks."

"I bear the king's commission."

"Yes, and have not courage enough to sustain it. I have defied you to

your teeth, and you refuse to fight."

"My principles are opposed to duelling. In the words of the lady whose

preference honors me, 'I honor the soldier as much as I detest the

duellist.' Besides, has not the marshal strictly forbidden duels in

the camp? Conscience, reason, authority, every consideration forbids

my acceptance of the challenge."

"Then," said St. Prix, "you shall submit to an indignity that

disgraces a French gentleman forever." And raising his sheathed sword,

he struck De Grandville with the flat of the scabbard.

Henri's sword instantly flashed in the lamplight, and St. Prix drawing

his rapier, they were instantly engaged in deadly combat. Both were

expert swordsmen, and while one fought with the ferocity of hatred and

disappointment, the arm of the other was nerved by a sense of wrong.

The metallic ring of their blades was unintermitted, for neither

paused to take breath, but, with teeth set and eyes glaring, thrust,

parried, advanced, and fell back in the fierce ardor of the combat. At

last, De Grandville, seeing an opportunity, sent his adversary's blade

whirling through the air, and drawing back his weapon, prepared to

thrust it through his breast.

"Strike!" said St. Prix; "you have vanquished me in love and in arms,

and there is nothing left me but to die."

"Die, then, but on the field of battle, brave Raoul," said de

Grandville, "and since I have deprived you of your sword, take mine; I

shall be honored by the exchange."

"Hold!" said a stern voice; and turning, Henri beheld with confusion

the countenance of Marshal Saxe, who, attended by a file of

musketeers, had entered the tent at the close of the duel. "You will

give up your sword to this officer, Captain de Grandville," added he,

pointing to a commissioned officer by whom he was accompanied. "Count

de St. Prix, you will pick up your weapon, also, and surrender it.

Officers who forget themselves so far as to seek each other's lives

upon the eve of battle, with the enemy before them, are unworthy of

command. This is matter for the provost marshal."

And the old soldier seated himself at the table, and eyed the

offenders angrily and sternly.

"May it please your excellency," said St. Prix, "I alone deserve to

suffer. I insulted the gentleman, and forced him to fight."

"Forced him to fight?" said the marshal. "Hadn't he read the orders of

the day?"

"I do not claim your clemency, marshal," said Henri. "I committed this

fault with my eyes open. But a man cannot always command his

passions."

"That's true, my lad. But what were you fighting about?"

"A woman, your excellency," said St. Prix.

"A woman! fools! a woman that's not to be had without fighting for

isn't worth having. Well, well--boys will be boys. I pardon you on two

conditions. In the first place, you must shake hands." Henri and Raoul

advanced and joined their hands. "And in the next place, that you give

a good account of yourselves to-morrow. _Sacre nom de Dieu_! I can ill

spare two lads of spirit from the guards. And now," said the marshal,

rising, after restoring their swords to the officers, "good night,

gentlemen; and plenty of hard knocks to-morrow."

The next day witnessed one of those terrible encounters, whose

sanguinary prints make a more indelible impression on the page of

history than the records of the more generous deeds of peaceful life.

The greatest gallantry was displayed on both sides, and on the part of

the French no officers were more distinguished for their valor than

the two guardsmen whose encounter on the previous evening we have just

related. Raoul de St. Prix, in the early part of the engagement, fell

sword in hand at the head of his company, thus meeting with honor a

fate he had earnestly desired. Henri de Grandville, in the course of

the day, found himself in command of the regiment, every officer of

higher rank having fallen. When the carnage had ceased, he laid a

stand of captured colors at the feet of the commander-in-chief, and

was complimented by Marshal Saxe at the head of the army, receiving

assurance that his gallantry should be at once reported to the king.

Flushed with triumph, the young guardsman flew to the presence of his

mother, to receive her embrace and recount in modest terms the story

of his deeds. She rejoiced in his safety, and sympathized with his

joy. But all at once, as he made her the confident of other hopes, and

enlarged on the prospect of his speedy union with Heloise de

Clairville, her countenance changed, and her eyes became suffused with

tears.

"Dear Henri," said she, "I knew nothing of this. Why did you not

sooner apprise me of this fatal passion?"

"Fatal passion, dear mother! Why do you thus characterize the love I

bear to the purest, the most beautiful of her sex?"

"She is, indeed, all that you paint her, Henri; but you must learn the

hard task of renouncing your hopes. You can never marry her."

"And why so? Do you refuse your consent?"

"Alas! no. But the Baron de Clairville--"

"He regards me with a favorable eye. I have reason to think he knows

of my attachment to his daughter, and approves of it. Even now, his

congratulations had a marked meaning, which could hardly be

ambiguous."

"But a fatal, an insurmountable barrier lies between you and the

object of your hopes."

"Do not keep me in suspense," cried the young soldier, "Explain this

mystery, I implore you."

"Have you fortitude to listen to a dreadful secret, the possession of

which has well nigh destroyed the life of your mother?"

"God will give me strength to bear any stroke," replied Henri. "Thanks

to your instruction and example, I have schooled myself to suffer,

unrepining, whatever Providence, in its infinite wisdom, sees fitting

to inflict. If I have a soul for the dangers of the field, I have

also, I think, the courage to confront those trials that pierce the

heart with keener agonies than any the steel of a foeman can inflict.

Fear not to task me beyond my strength."

"I will be as brief as possible," said the lady. "Your father, Henri,

was of noble birth and possessed of fortune. My own share of the

world's goods was small, and yet it was on this pittance alone that we

were sustained, till the exertions of a generous friend procured you,

under the name of De Grandville, (my maiden name,) a commission in the

guards."

"Then De Grandville was not the name of my father."

"No--he belonged to the noble house of Montmorenci. The early years of

our married life were passed in happiness that I always feared was too

great to be enduring. It was brought to a bitter and miserable end.

Deadly enemies--for the best and noblest have their foes--conspired

against your father, and he was accused--falsely accused, mark me--of

treason to his king and country. I will not tell you by what forgery

and perjury he was made to appear guilty--but he was convicted--and

sentenced--"

"Sentenced!"

"Ay, sentenced, and suffered. He died by the hands of _Monsieur de

Paris_!"

"_Monsieur de Paris_!"

"The executioner!"

Henri uttered a piercing cry, and covered his face with his hands. He

remained a long time in this attitude, his frame convulsed by the

agonies of grief, while his mother watched, with streaming eyes, the

effect of her communication. At length he removed his hands, and

raised his head. His countenance was deadly pale,--the only indication

of the train of emotions which had just convulsed him,--but his look

was firm and high.

"Mother," said he, pressing her hand, "I thank you. It was better to

learn this dreadful secret from your lips than from the words of

another. Henceforth we will live for each other--we shall have a

common sorrow and a common fate. I pray you to excuse me for a few

moments. I will soon rejoin you, but I have first a duty to perform."

The young guardsman passed from his mother's presence to that of the

Baron de Clairville.

"Welcome, welcome! my brave boy," said the old soldier. "You have

fairly won your spurs."

"Sir, you flatter me," replied Henri, gravely.

"Not at all. Saxe himself says that more distinguished gallantry never

fell beneath his notice."

"You think then, baron, I can claim a post of honor and danger in the

next engagement?"

"You can lead the Forlorn Hope if you like."

"Enough, baron. I came to ask your forgiveness."

"My forgiveness!"

"Yes, sir, for having wronged you unconsciously so lately as last

evening."

"Wronged me, and how, strange boy? you talk in riddles."

"Last evening, sir, on the eve of battle, which might well,

considering what followed, have been my last of life, I sought your

daughter. Her manner, some unguarded words she dropped, emboldened me

to declare a secret which I had hitherto kept fast locked in my

breast. I threw myself at her feet, and told her that I loved her."

"And she--"

"Confessed that she loved me in return."

"Henri! my boy--my son--my hero! this news makes me young again! it

gladdens my old heart like the shout of victory upon a stricken field.

Is this your offence? I freely pardon it."

"You know not all, baron. You knew that I was a poor and obscure

soldier of fortune."

"The man who has distinguished himself as you have done this day,

might claim the hand of an emperor's daughter."

"Baron, between me and Heloise there lies a black shadow--a memory--a

horror, which forbids our meeting. The very name I bear does not

belong to me."

"And how may you be named, young man, if not De Grandville?"

"Henri de Montmorenci," replied the young soldier.

"De Montmorenci!" cried the baron. "That is a noble and historic name.

The house of Montmorenci has been well represented in the field."

"_And on the scaffold_!" added Henri, with deep emotion.

"The scaffold!" exclaimed the baron. "Yes, yes; I remember now a

dreadful tragedy. But _he_ suffered unjustly."

"No matter," answered Henri. "The ignominious punishment remains a

stain upon our escutcheon. Men will point to me as the son of a

condemned and executed traitor. Could I forget for a moment the

tragedy which has rendered my poor mother an animated image of death,

the finger of the world would recall my wandering thoughts to the

horrors of the fact. The scaffold, with all its bloody paraphernalia,

would rise up before me."

"Henri, you are too sensitive," said the baron. "The best and bravest

of France (alas for our history!) have closed their lives upon the

scaffold. I believe your father innocent. If it were otherwise, you

have redeemed the honor of your race. You deserve my daughter's

hand--take her and be happy."

"Make her the companion of my agony! Never."

"Come with me," said the baron; "her smiles shall dispel these gloomy

fantasies."

"No, no! urge me not," said the young guardsman. "Let me return to my

poor mother. She has need of all my consolation. I renounce forever my

ill-fated attachment. Heaven, for its own wise purposes, has chosen to

afflict me. Farewell, baron; I thank you for your kindness--your

generous friendship. You and Heloise will soon learn that Henri de

Montmorenci is no more. After the next battle, if you seek me out, you

will find me where the French dead lie thickest on the field."

"Noble-hearted fellow!" cried the baron, when Henri had left him. "He

ought to be a field marshal."

"Marshal Saxe requests your immediate presence, baron," said an

aide-de-camp, presenting himself with a salute.

"Monsieur de Baron," said the commander-in-chief, when De Clairville

had obeyed the summons, "I have chosen you to carry my despatches to

the king; you will find yourself honorably mentioned therein, and I

think the favor of royalty will reward your merit."

The baron bowed low as he received the despatches from the hand of the

marshal, and was soon ready for the journey, first taking a hasty

farewell of his daughter, whom he commended to the care of Madame de

Grandville, (or rather Montmorenci,) during his absence.

In five days thereafter, he reported himself to the marshal, and was

then at liberty to attend to his private concerns. He found Heloise in

the company of Henri and his mother, and the gloom depicted on their

countenances presented a singular contrast to the radiant joy that

sparkled in the eyes and smiled on the lips of the genial and

warm-hearted old soldier. He kissed his daughter, saluted Madame de

Grandville, and then, shaking the young guardsman warmly by the hand,

exclaimed,--

"Good news, Henri; I bring you a budget of them. The king has heard of

your gallantry, and inquired into your story."

"Heaven bless him!" exclaimed the mother.

"The memory of your father," continued the baron, "has been vindicated

by a parliamentry decree affirming his innocence. His forfeited

estates are restored to his family; and I bring you, under the king's

seal, your commission as full colonel in the French Guards, and

letters patent of nobility, _Count_ Henri de Montmorenci!"

Henri and his mother were nearly overwhelmed by this good news; while

Heloise clung to her father's arm for support.

"No fainting, girl," said the happy baron. "That will never do for a

soldier's wife. Here, take her, count, make her happy--and let us hear

no more of your volunteering on Forlorn Hopes--at least, during the

honeymoon."

We need not add that the baron's injunctions were implicitly obeyed.

PERSONAL SATISFACTION.

Mrs. Tubbs had been a very fine woman--she was still good looking at

the period of which we write, but then--

"Fanny was younger once than she is now,

And prettier of course."

She had been married some years. Tubbs was a gentleman farmer, and

lived out in Roxbury, when land was cheaper there than it is now, and

a man of moderate means could own a few acres within three miles of

Boston State House. On retiring from the wholesale West India goods

business, he had purchased a little estate in the vicinity of the

Norfolk House, and raised vegetables and other "notions" with the

usual success attendant upon the agricultural experiments of gentlemen

amateurs; that is, his potatoes cost him about half a dollar a peck,

and his quinces ninepence apiece. He had a greenhouse one quarter of a

mile long, and kept a fire in it all the year round, at the suggestion

of a rascally gardener, whose brother kept a wood and coal yard. We

could tell some droll stories about Tubbs's gardening, if they were to

the purpose. We will mention, however, that when he went into the

vegetable business he was innocent as a lamb, and verdant as one of

his own green peapods, and of course he made some curious mistakes. He

was not aware that the infant bean, like the pious AEneas, was "in the

habit of carrying its father on its back," and so thinking that nature

had made a mistake, he reversed the order of the young sprouts, and

reinterred the aged beans. This was one of his many blunders. However,

we have nothing to do with his gardening. We have said he was innocent

as a lamb, but he was by no means so pacific; on the contrary, his

temper was as inflammable as gun cotton--the slightest spark would set

it in a blaze.

To return to Mrs. Tubbs, whom we have most ungallantly left in the

lurch since the first paragraph. She had been into Boston one day,

shopping, and returned home in the omnibus. She sat between two young

men. The one on her right was modest and well-behaved, while the other

was entirely the reverse. He might have been drinking--he might have

been partially insane--these are charitable suppositions; but at all

events, he had the impertinence to address Mrs. Tubbs in a low tone,

audible only to herself. He muttered some compliment to her

appearance--talked a little nonsense--inoffensive in itself, but

intolerable as coming from a stranger. Mrs. Tubbs made no reply, but

she was glad to spring from the conveyance when the driver pulled up

at the Norfolk House. To her great joy she espied the faithful Tubbs,

attired in a _blouse_, and wheeling a barrow full of gravel down

Bartlett Street, with all the dignity of a gentleman farmer, conscious

of being a useful, if not an ornamental, member of society. She

accosted him with,--

"Tubbs, love, I've got something to tell you."

Tubbs relinquished the handles of the barrow, and sat down in the

gravel.

"Mr. Tubbs!" screamed the lady, "you've got your best pantaloons on."

"Never mind, my dear; out with your story, for I'm busy."

"Mr. Tubbs! I've been insulted!"

Mr. Tubbs's head instantly became as red as one of his own blood

beets.

"Who is the miscreant?" he yelled, jumping up.

"A young man who sat next to me in the omnibus."

"Describe him!"

"Dark hair and eyes, with a black stock, light waistcoat, dark-colored

coat and pantaloons--"

"Which way did he go?" interrupted Mr. Tubbs.

"Into the hourly office."

"'Tis well! Mrs. T., I'll have his heart's blood!"

"Now, T., be calm!" interposed his better half.

"Mrs. T., I will be calm," was the dignified reply, "calm as the

surface of Mount AEtna, on the eve of an eruption. Farewell, love, for

a moment. Have an eye to the wheelbarrow while I have a settlement

with this scoundrel!"

With these words, Tubbs marched up the hill. He entered the hourly

office, and looked round him. His first glance lighted on a young man

who answered the description given by Mrs. Tubbs; but he wished to

make assurance doubly sure, and so he accosted him politely,--

"Fine growing weather, sir."

"Yes, sir," replied the stranger.

"Peas are doing finely," said Mr. Tubbs.

"Indeed!"

"If the weather holds, we can plant corn next week."

"Indeed!"

"Pray, sir," continued Tubbs, "did you come out in the last coach?"

"I did, sir."

"Was there a lady in the coach?"

"There was, sir. I recollect a lady sat next to me."

"_You scoundrel! what did you mean by insulting my wife_?"

This question was followed by a blow, which sent the young gentleman

sprawling on the floor. Tubbs stood him up, and knocked him down again

and again, like a man practising on a single pin in a bowling alley.

The sufferer showed some fight, but Tubbs's blood was up, and he

hammered down all opposition. The drivers looked on in admiration to

see "Old Tubbs vollop the chap as had insulted his wife," and so he

had it all his own way. He dragged the offender out of the office, and

finished him off on the sidewalk. He was engaged in this laudable

occupation, when his better half, tired of mounting guard over the

wheelbarrow, appeared upon the field.

"Mr. Tubbs!" she screamed.

"Wait a minute, my dear. I've only done one side of his head."

"But, Mr. Tubbs! _That wasn't the man_!"

Tubbs suspended operations, and stood fixed in horror. The remains of

the injured individual were taken into the hourly office. Then came

remorse and apologies unaccepted and unacceptable--a lawyer's

letter--an action for assault and battery, and heavy damages. The real

offender had escaped, and was never heard of; the victim was the

well-behaved young gentleman, who had sat on Mrs. Tubbs's right. Her

description, which had answered for both, had occasioned the dilemma,

which, while it proved an expensive lesson to Mr. Tubbs, was also an

effectual one, and saved him from many a rash and hasty action, and

induced him ever afterwards to adopt Colonel Crockett's golden maxim,

"_Be always sure you're right, then go ahead_."

THE CASTLE ON THE RHINE.

In one of those old feudal castles, which, perched, like eagle nests,

upon the picturesque hills that overhang

"The wide and winding Rhine,"

and with their crumbling and ivy-grown towers, arrest the eyes of the

delighted traveller, as he views them from the deck of the gliding

steamer, there dwelt, some years ago, the Baron Von Rosenburg and his

lady Mathilde. The baron was a very proud man, and continually

boasting of his descent from a "long and noble line of martial

ancestors," gentlemen who were wont, in the "good old times," to wear

steel on head, back, and breast, and each of whom supported a score of

retainers in his feudal castle. Where the money comes from to support

a princely housekeeping, when the head of the family has no property

or employment, is sometimes a mystery nowadays; but no such doubt

attached to the resources of the baron's ancestors. These gentlemen,

when short of provisions, would sally forth at the head of their

followers, and capture the first drove of cattle they encountered,

without stopping to inquire into the ownership. Sometimes they made

excursions on the river, and levied contributions on the little barks

of traders who often carried valuable cargoes from one Rhine town to

another.

But the privileges of the robber knights and bandit nobles were sadly

shorn by the progressive spirit of modern civilization. With a total

disregard of the immunities of chivalry, modern legislators declared

that it was as great a crime for a baron to seize on a herd of cattle

as for a peasant to steal a sheep. Hence the great families along the

Rhine went into decay. The castles were dismantled, many noble names

died out, very few remained, the representatives of the ancestral

glory of olden times.

Among them was the baron. He had been a soldier and a courtier in his

youth, had spent some time abroad, and was about forty when he married

a lady of the same age, and settled down in the old family castle of

Rosenberg. Here he lorded it over the surrounding valley, the simple

inhabitants of which, though exempt from all feudal obligations, yet

in some sort regarded themselves as vassals of the baron. They made

him presents of fish, accompanied him to the chase, and lent him a

willing hand, whenever he required assistance at the castle.

The baron, though he had the wherewithal to live comfortably enough,

was yet a poor representative of the race he sprang from. His army

consisted of a few farm servants, his cavalry of a ploughboy on a

cart-horse, and his navy of a fishing boat. But, on the whole, he was

happy. He passed his days either in trimming his vines or hunting, and

his evenings in poring over mildewed parchments or books of heraldry,

hunting up long pedigrees, and puffing a monstrous meerschaum till the

atmosphere was as dense as the interior of a smokehouse. The lady

Mathilde embroidered from morning till night.

They had, however, a common source of grief. Fate had not blessed them

with children. The lady yearned for the companionship of a daughter;

the baron mourned at the prospect of the extinction of his name for

want of a male heir.

It was while pondering on this subject one day, as they were strolling

out together, that the baron and his lady came upon the cottage of an

old soldier named Karl Mueller, who cultivated a little vineyard not

far from the castle.

The old man was seated on a bench before his door, smoking, and so

deeply plunged in revery, that he was not aware of the approach of

visitors till the baron touched him on the shoulder.

"In a brown study, Karl?" said the baron.

"I have enough to think about," returned the soldier "I'm getting old,

and one thing troubles me."

"What's that, my good fellow?"

"Why, you see, baron, I'm not alone here."

"Not alone?"

"No, sir--I--have--I have a little child here."

"I never knew you were married, Karl."

"Nor was I, your honor. For I always thought an infantry soldier ought

to be in marching order, and never have more baggage than he could

carry in his knapsack. No, no; the child is none of mine."

"But it is related to you," said the baroness.

"It is my grandchild, madam," replied the soldier, fixing his eyes on

the lady; "and the child of as brave a man as ever faced the fire of

the enemy. He might have been a field marshal, for the matter of that.

I saw him at Oberstadt when the hussars went down to charge the

enemy's light cavalry. Faith, madam, they made daylight shine through

their ranks. Their curved sabres cut them up as the sickle does the

corn. I saw him, the girl's father, madam, go into that affair with

the hussars; but he came not out safe. It was pitiful to see his

uniform all dabbled with blood, as he lay on the ground, and to see

his pale lips quivering, as he prayed for water. I gave him the last

drop in my canteen, and I swore I'd protect the child. But I fear I'm

getting too old for the task."

The baroness, whose eyes were filled with tears, turned to her

husband, and asked,--

"Shall we not give a shelter to the child of a brave man?"

The baron nodded, and the proposal was accepted by Karl, who retired

into his cottage, and immediately reappeared, bringing forth a

beautiful girl of ten, with fair hair and blue eyes, and a form of

graceful symmetry.

"A girl! nonsense!" said the baron, in a tone of disappointment. But

the baroness folded the child in her arms with rapture. The child

responded to the caresses of the lady with equal ardor.

So the little Adelaide was soon domesticated in the castle which her

frolic spirit filled with gayety. The baroness renewed her youth in

gazing upon hers, and the baron never scolded her, even when she took

his pipe out of his mouth, or rummaged among his parchments.

As she grew up to womanhood, she became more serious and thoughtful.

She was anxious to learn every thing touching her father, but on this

subject the baroness could give her no information; and Karl, her

grandfather, seemed equally averse to speaking of it. When hard

pressed, he promised to speak out at some future time.

One day she was summoned in great haste to the cottage of old Karl.

The old man had suddenly been taken ill, and required the presence of

his granddaughter. It was evident, at a glance, that he was on his

death bed.

"Adelaide," said he, "forgive me, before I die, that I may depart in

peace."

"Forgive you, dear grandfather! am I not deeply indebted to you?"

"I should have reposed more confidence in you; I should have spoken to

you about your parents."

"My father?" asked Adelaide.

"Was a brave and good man. But of your mother--your good mother--she

was--"

Here a spasm interrupted his utterance, and he lay back on his pillow

gasping for breath. After a brief space he seemed to revive again, and

made strong efforts to express himself, but his breath failed him. He

motioned to Adelaide to fetch him writing materials, and while she

held a sheet of paper on a book before him, he essayed with feeble

fingers to trace a sentence with a pen. But the rapid approach of

death foiled all his endeavors to communicate a secret that evidently

lay close to his heart; and while the young girl bent over him in an

agony of grief, he gently sighed away his last. The baron and baroness

found their _protegee_, an hour afterwards, still sorrowing by the

bedside of her early friend and protector. With gentle violence they

removed her from the chamber of death, and took her home to the

castle, where they gave directions to the proper persons to take

charge of the old soldier's remains, and inter them with that decent

respect which was due to his character and station. Among his effects

was found a will, in which he made Adelaide his heiress, bequeathing

to her his little landed estate, and a small sum in gold, the produce

of his toil and frugality. This event cast a gloom over the spirits of

the young maiden, from which, however, her religious persuasions, the

attention of her friends, and the elasticity of her youth, eventually

relieved her.

The old castle on the Rhine was gay once more, when Rudolph Ernstein,

a nephew of the baron, a gay young captain of hussars, whose

gallantry and beauty had given him reputation at Vienna, came to pay a

long visit to his uncle. He was a high-spirited and accomplished young

man, had served with distinction, was a devoted admirer of the ladies,

and one of those military Adonises who are born to conquest. He was

charmed to find domesticated beneath the old roof tree so fair and

lovable a girl as Adelaide, and of course did his best to render his

society agreeable to her. He sang to her songs of his own writing, to

airs of his own composition, accompanied on his guitar; he told her

tales of strange lands that he had visited, of cavalry skirmishes in

which he had participated, sketched her favorite scenes in pencil, and

offered to teach her the newest dances in vogue at Vienna. He was a

dangerous companion to a young girl whose imagination needed but a

spark to kindle it, and for a time she indulged in the wild hope that

she had made a conquest of Rudolph. But then her reason told her, that

even if he loved her, it would be impossible for a young man of family

to offer his hand to an almost portionless girl, about whose origin a

veil of mystery seemed wrapped. The names of her parents, even, had

never been disclosed to her, by the lips of probably the only man who

knew her history, and those lips were now cold and mute in death.

Hence the little gleam of sunshine which had for a moment penetrated

her heart was speedily quenched in a deeper darkness than that which

reigned in it before, and she could not help viewing the visit of

Rudolph as an ominous event.

One morning, she was witness to a scene which dashed out the last

faint glimmering of hope. They were all seated at a huge oaken table,

from which the servants had just removed the apparatus of the morning

meal.

"Rudolph," said the baron, after lighting his pipe,--an operation of

great solemnity and deliberation, and taking a few whiffs to make sure

that its contents were duly ignited,--"Rudolph, do you know why I sent

for you to Rosenburg?"

"Why, sir," replied the hussar, "I suppose it was because you really

have a sort of regard for an idle, good-for-nothing fellow, whose

redeeming quality is an attachment to a very kind old uncle, and whose

nonsense and good spirits are perhaps a partial compensation for the

trouble he gives every body in this tumble-down old castle."

"Tumble-down old castle!" exclaimed the baron, in high dudgeon, the

latter part of the soldier's speech cancelling the former; "why, you

jackanapes, it will stand for centuries. It resisted the cannon of

Napoleon, and it bids defiance to the battering of time. Yes, sir,

Rosenburg will stand long after your great-great-grandchildren are

superannuated."

"I am not likely to be blessed in the way you hint at, uncle," said

the soldier, carelessly. "I am likely, for aught I see, to die a

bachelor."

"Nonsense!" said the baron. "What's to become of your family name? Do

you think I will allow it to die out, like the Pumpernickels, the

Snaphausens, and the Ollenstoffenburgers? No, boy. I sent for you to

tell you that I have contracted for your hand with my friend the Baron

Von Steinberg."

"Really, sir, you dispose of me in a very cavalier way."

"That's because you're too careless or lazy to look out for yourself,"

retorted the baron. "But then you can have no possible objection to

the present match. The fair Julia is just twenty--eyes, you dog--lips,

you rascal--a shape, you blockhead, to bewitch an anchorite. And then

she has the gelt--the money, my boy."

"A commodity of which I happen to be minus," said the soldier.

"Arn't you my heir?" asked the baron.

"You are very kind," said the hussar, with a slight sigh.

He glanced at Adelaide, but he read no sentiment on her calm and

pensive countenance.

"She's as cold as a glacier on the Donderberg!" he muttered to

himself.

"Well, sir--you haven't given me an answer," said the baron,

impatiently.

"My dear uncle," said the soldier, jumping up, and snatching his

fowling-piece, "it's a glorious morning for sport; and I'm much

mistaken if I don't add a half dozen brace of birds to your bill of

fare to-day."

"But the fair Julia Von Steinberg?" said the baron.

"O! I forgot," said Rudolph. "I'm entirely in your hands. Do with me

as you please. My profession, you know, has given me habits of

obedience. I suppose I must sacrifice myself. Good morning."

And away he went to enjoy his sport upon the mountains.

"Young, lovely, and rich!" said poor Adelaide, with a sigh, when she

had regained her room. "If this be true, she is indeed worthy of

Ernstein. He will love her--they will be happy--and I--I can but wish

them joy, and die."

There was great preparation in the castle Von Rosenburg, that day

week, for the reception of the prospective bride. Every thing was

cleaned and furbished up, from battlement to dungeon keep. An old flag

with the family arms was hoisted from the rampart, and the butler, who

had served in the wars of the Alliance, mounted an old swivel on the

ramparts with the intention of firing it off, on the approach of the

old family carriage of the Von Steinbergs, Captain Rudolph Von

Ernstein, in his splendid hussar uniform, looked the beau ideal of a

soldier lover. Even the baron was rejuvenated by a court suit that had

not seen the light since the nuptials of Maria Louisa and the Emperor

Napoleon.

At last the carriage appeared. The villagers and hangers on of the

establishment hurrahed in the court yard as it drew up, the old butler

applied the match to the priming of the swivel and was prostrated by

the discharge, while the baron came near tumbling over his sword in

his eagerness to welcome his old friend and his old friend's daughter.

The Baron Von Steinberg alighted and bowed his thanks; while Captain

Rudolph handed out the lovely Julia. As her light foot touched the

pavement, Adelaide advanced to offer a bouquet; at one glance she

appreciated the exquisite beauty of her rival, and dropping the

flowers, retired to an obscure corner of the court yard to conceal her

anguish and despair.

The festive train swept into the castle. All was gayety and uproar

within doors. The baron could scarce contain the transports of his

joy; and Von Steinberg was equally excited. The excitement, however,

seemed to be too much for the fair Julia, whose cheek was paler than

the satin robe she wore, while Rudolph, perhaps from sympathy, was

uneasy and agitated.

At last the bell of the castle was rung for dinner, and the party

proceeded to the great hall. But Adelaide did not make her appearance.

Search was made for her; she was not in her apartment. An angry flush

overspread the brow of old Rosenburg at this announcement, and after

some minutes passed in waiting for her appearance, he ordered dinner

to be served without her. The repast was not a very gay one,

notwithstanding the efforts of the master of the house to make it so.

Night had long fallen, and Adelaide did not reappear. The family, from

being vexed, now became alarmed, and it was determined to go in search

of her. Rudolph and the baron went forth with two servants and torches

to scour the woods, after vainly searching through the castle. One of

the men went on in advance. He had been gone but a short time when he

came back speechless with grief and amazement. Rudolph and his uncle

pushed forward through the thickets, and on the banks of a small

stream, dammed up to form a lake, they found the bonnet and shawl of

the missing girl.

"Good God!" exclaimed Rudolph, "she has destroyed herself. I have

noticed a strange wildness in her appearance for several days past; in

a fit of mental aberration she has wandered away, and here found her

death."

A piercing scream was heard at this moment. The baroness, who had

followed them, had recognized the garments of Adelaide.

"My child! my child!" she shrieked, "my own! my beautiful! she is no

more."

"This is worse and worse," said the baron, wringing his hands. "This

will make us all mad."

But at this moment a boat was seen approaching. It was the miller, who

brought with him the body of Adelaide, dripping as it had been drawn

from the water. He laid her fair form upon the bank. The baroness, who

could not be restrained, threw herself beside her, and kissed her pale

lips. Rudolph, too, seized the cold hands.

"She lives!" he exclaimed. "She is not lost to us!"

"Rudolph--dear Rudolph!" murmured the poor girl.

"My child! my child! she lives!" cried the baroness.

And it was indeed so. She had thrown herself into the water, indeed,

but the miller, who happened to be at hand, had flown to her rescue,

and she was now, by the united efforts of her friends, restored to

consciousness.

"Dear, dear Adelaide!" cried the baroness; "your life repays me now

for all my sufferings. Yes, dearest, you are my own, my only child.

Yes, baron," she added, noticing the incredulous expression of her

husband--"the supposed death of a daughter has wrung from a mother's

heart the despairing cry that betrayed her secret. In former days, I

married, secretly, Colonel Schonfeldt, a brave soldier of the emperor,

against whom my parents cherished a deadly enmity. He fell upon the

field of battle, and this poor girl, the fruit of our love, was

committed to the hands of strangers, till such time as I could take

her to my heart. I avow it without shame, nor can you, baron, whose

noble qualities won my heart, reproach me with the love I bear this

dear girl."

"She is my child now," said the baron, "as well as yours. Let us take

her back to the castle; she is a precious charge."

"I will see to her," said Rudolph, "and it shall not be my fault if

she ever have another protector."

So the party regained the castle, where Von Steinberg and Julia were

anxiously awaiting their return.

When Adelaide had been carefully attended to, Rudolph sought his uncle

and guests in the great hall.

"Miss Julia Von Steinberg," said the soldier, "since confessions are

the order of the night, I must place mine on record. I met you to-day

in obedience to orders, believing my heart was my own. The event of

to-night has told me too truly that I had unconsciously lost it. But I

am a man of honor, and if you will accept my hand without my heart,

it is yours."

"Captain Ernstein," replied the beauty, "I thank you for your frank

confession. I cannot possibly accept your hand without your heart.

Nay--do not frown, father--I have a secret for your ear, and if you do

not wish to wreck your daughter's happiness, you will urge me no

further."

Von Steinberg frowned, and pshawed, and pished, and then, clearing his

voice, addressed the baron.

"Come, Von Rosenberg," said he, "confess that we have been acting like

a couple of old fools, in trying our hand at match making--it is a

business for the young people themselves, and not for old soldiers

like us. Say, shall we reduce the mutineers to obedience, or shall we

let them have it their own way?"

"Circumstances alter cases," answered the baron. "When I proposed for

Julia's hand, I didn't know my wife had a daughter to marry. And if

that were not the case, I am inclined to think the secret alluded to

by the young lady, would prove an insuperable obstacle to the

ratification of our treaty."

This secret was no other than a love affair between the fair Julia and

a certain count who had waltzed with her at the baths of Baden-Baden,

the preceding summer. We are glad to say that the flirtation thus

happily commenced ended in matrimony. As for Rudolph, he was shortly

after united to the fair Adelaide, on which occasion the baron gave

such a rouse as the old towers of Von Rosenberg had not known since

the rollicking days of its first feudal masters. It was illuminated at

every window and loophole, so that the waters of the Rhine rolled

beneath it a sea of fire, or as if their channels were overflowed

with generous Asmanshausen; and the old butler discharged his swivel

so many times that he had to be taken down from the battlements and

drenched with Rhenish to preserve his life.

Thus ended all that is worthy commemorating in the modern history of

the Castle on the Rhine.

LOVE IN A COTTAGE.

"Tell me, Charley, who is that fascinating creature in blue that

waltzes so divinely?" asked young Frank Belmont of his friend Charles

Hastings, as they stood "playing wallflower" for the moment, at a

military ball.

"Julia Heathcote," answered Charles, with a half sigh, "an old flame

of mine. I proposed, but she refused me."

"On what ground?"

"Simply because I had a comfortable income. Her head is full of

romantic notions, and she dreams of nothing but love in a cottage. She

contends that poverty is essential to happiness--and money its bane."

"Have you given up all hopes of her?"

"Entirely; in fact, I'm engaged."

"Then you have no objections to my addressing this dear, romantic

angel?"

"None whatever. But I see my _fiancee_--excuse me--I must walk through

the next quadrille with her."

Frank Belmont was a stranger in Boston--a New Yorker--immensely rich

and fashionable, but his reputation had not preceded him, and Charley

Hastings was the only man who knew him in New England. He procured an

introduction to the beauty from one of the managers, and soon danced

and talked himself into her good graces. In fact, it was a clear case

of love at first sight on both sides.

The enamoured pair were sitting apart, enjoying a most delightful

_tete-a-tete_. Suddenly Belmont heaved a deep sigh.

"Why do you sigh, Mr. Belmont?" asked the fair Julia, somewhat pleased

with this proof of sensibility. "Is not this a gay scene?"

"Alas! yes," replied Belmont, gloomily; "but fate does not permit me

to mingle habitually in scenes like this. They only make my ordinary

life doubly gloomy--and even here I deem to see the shadow of a fiend

waving me away. What right have I to be here?"

"What fiend do you allude to?" asked Miss Heathcote, with increasing

interest.

"A fiend hardly presentable in good society," replied Belmont,

bitterly. "One could tolerate a Mephistophiles--a dignified fiend,

with his pockets full of money--but my tormentor, if personified,

would appear with seedy boots and a shocking bad hat."

"How absurd!"

"It is too true," sighed Belmont, "and the name of this fiend is

_Poverty_!"

"Are you poor?"

"Yes, madam. I am poor, and when I would fain render myself agreeable

in the eyes of beauty--in the eyes of one I could love, this fiend

whispers me, 'Beware! you have nothing to offer her but love in a

cottage.'"

"Mr. Belmont," said Julia, with sparkling eyes, and a voice of unusual

animation, "although there are sordid souls in this world, who only

judge of the merits of an individual by his pecuniary possessions, I

am not one of that number. I respect poverty; there is something

highly poetical about it, and I imagine that happiness is oftener

found in the humble cottage than beneath the palace roof."

Belmont appeared enchanted with this encouraging avowal. The next

day, after cautioning his friend Charley to say nothing of his actual

circumstances, he called on the widow Heathcote and her fair daughter

in the character of the "poor gentleman." The widow had very different

notions from her romantic offspring, and when Belmont candidly

confessed his poverty on soliciting permission to address Julia, he

was very politely requested to change the subject, and never mention

it again.

The result of all this manoeuvring was an elopement; the belle of

the ball jumping out of a chamber window on a shed, and coming down a

flight of steps to reach her lover, for the sake of being romantic,

when she might just as well have walked out of the front door.

The happy couple passed a day in New York city, and then Frank took

his beloved to his "cottage."

An Irish hack conveyed them to a miserable shanty in the environs of

New York, where they alighted, and Frank, escorting the bride into the

apartment which served for parlor, kitchen, and drawing room, and was

neither papered nor carpeted, introduced her to his mother, much in

the way Claude Melnotte presents Pauline. The old woman, who was

peeling potatoes, hastily wiped her hands and face with a greasy

apron, and saluted her "darter," as she called her, on both cheeks.

"Can it be possible," thought Julia, "that this vulgar creature is my

Belmont's mother?"

"Frank!" screamed the old woman, "you'd better go right up stairs and

take off them clothes--for the boy's been sent arter 'em more'n fifty

times. Frank borried them clothes, ma'am," she added to Julia, by way

of explanation, "to look smart when he went down east."

The bridegroom retired on this hint, and soon reappeared in a pair of

faded nankeen pantaloons, reaching to about the calf of the leg, a

very shabby black coat, out at the elbows, a ragged black vest, and,

instead of his varnished leather boots, a pair of immense cowhide

brogans.

"Now," said he, sitting quietly down by the cooking stove, "I begin to

feel at home. Ah! this is delightful, isn't it, dearest?" and he

warbled,--

"Though never so humble, there's no place like home."

Julia's heart swelled so that she could not utter a word.

"Dearest," said Frank, "I think you told me you had no objection to

smoking?"

"None in the least," said the bride; "I rather like the flavor of a

cigar."

"O, a cigar!" replied Belmont; "that would never do for a poor man."

And O, horror! he produced an old clay pipe, and filling it from a

little newspaper parcel of tobacco, began to smoke with a keen relish.

"Dinner! dinner!" he exclaimed at length; "ah! thank you, mother; I'm

as hungry as a bear. Codfish and potatoes, Julia--not very tempting

fare--but what of that? our aliment is love!"

"Yes, and by way of treat," added the old woman, "I've been and gone

and bought a whole pint of Albany ale, and three cream cakes, from the

candy shop next block."

Poor Julia pleaded indisposition, and could not eat a mouthful. Before

Belmont, however, the codfish and potatoes, and the ale, and cream

cakes disappeared with a very unromantic and unlover-like velocity. At

the close of the meal, a thundering double knock was heard at the

door.

"Come in!" cried Belmont.

A low-browed man, in a green waistcoat, entered.

"Now, Misther Belmont," he exclaimed, in a strong Hibernian accent,

"are ye ready to go to work? By the powers! if I don't see ye sailed

to-morrow on the shopboard, I'll discharge ye without a character--and

ye shall starve on the top of that."

"To-morrow morning, Mr. Maloney," replied Belmont, meekly, "I'll be at

my post."

"And it'll be mighty healthy for you to do that same," replied the man

as he retired.

"Belmont, speak--tell me," gasped Julia, "who is that man--that

loafer?"

"He is my employer," answered Belmont, smiling.

"And his profession?"

"He is a tailor."

"And you?"

"Am a journeyman tailor, at your service--a laborious and thankless

calling it ever was to me--but now, dearest, as I drive the hissing

goose across the smoking seam, I shall think of my own angel and my

dear cottage, and be happy."

That night Julia retired weeping to her room in the attic.

"That 'ere counterpin, darter," said the old woman, "I worked with

these here old hands. Ain't it putty? I hope you'll sleep well here.

There's a broken pane of glass, but I've put one of Frank's old hats

in it, and I don't think you'll feel the draught. There used to be a

good many rats here, but I don't think they'll trouble you now, for

Frank's been a pizinin' of 'em."

Left alone, Julia threw herself into a chair, and burst into a flood

of tears. Even Belmont had ceased to be attractive in her eyes--the

stern privations that surrounded her banished all thoughts of love.

The realities of life had cured her in one day of all her Quixotic

notions.

"Well, Julia, how do you like poverty and love in a cottage?" asked

Belmont, entering in his bridal dress.

"Not so well, sir, as you seem to like that borrowed suit," answered

the bride, reddening with vexation.

"Very well; you shall suffer it no longer. My carriage awaits your

orders at the door."

"Your carriage, indeed!"

"Yes, dearest, it waits but for you, to bear us to Belmont Hall, my

lovely villa on the Hudson."

"And your mother?"

"I have no mother, alas! The old woman down stairs is an old servant

of the family."

"Then you've been deceiving me, Frank--how wicked!"

"It was all done with a good motive. You were not born to endure a

life of privation, but to shine the ornament of an elegant and refined

circle. I hope you will not love me the less when you learn that I am

worth nearly half a million--that's the melancholy fact, and I can't

help it."

"O Frank!" cried the beautiful girl, and hid her face in his bosom.

She presided with grace at the elegant festivities of Belmont Hall,

and seemed to support her husband's wealth and luxurious style of

living with the greatest fortitude and resignation, never complaining

of her comforts, nor murmuring a wish for living in a cottage.

THE CAREER OF AN ARTIST.

I woke up one morning and found myself

famous.--BYRON.

Julian Montfort was a farmer's boy; bred up to the plough handle and

cart tail. His father and mother were plain, honest people, of

hard-working habits and limited ideas, and without the slightest dash

of romance in their temperaments. Their house, their lands were

unprepossessing in appearance. The soil was impoverished by long and

illiberal culture; and old Montfort had a true old-fashioned prejudice

against trees. Instead of smiling hedgerows, with here and there a

weeping elm or plumy evergreen to cast their graceful shadows upon the

pasture land, his acres were enclosed with harsh stone walls, or an

unpicturesque Virginia fence with its zigzag of rude rails. The farmer

had an equal prejudice against books, "book larnin', and book-larned

men." Of course, with these ideas, Julian's education was limited to a

few quarters' schooling under an old pedagogue, whose native language

was Dutch, and who never took very kindly to the English tongue.

Besides, teaching was only an episode with him; for his vocation was

that of a clergyman, and he held forth on Sundays in alternate Dutch

and English to his little congregation--as is still the custom in many

of the small agricultural parishes in New York State, where the scene

of our veritable story lies.

Our hero, young Julian, early began to show a restiveness under the

training he received, which sadly perplexed his plain matter-of-fact

father. The latter could not conceive why the boy should sometimes

leave his plough in the furrow, and sit upon a hillock, gazing

curiously and admiringly upon a simple wild flower. He knew not why

the youth should stand with his eyes fixed upon the western sky when

it was pavilioned with crimson, and gold, and purple; or later yet,

when, one by one, the stars came timidly forth and took their places

in the darkening heaven. He shook his head at these manifestations,

and confidently informed his help-mate that he feared the boy was "not

right"--significantly touching, as he spoke, that portion of his

anatomy where he fondly imagined a vast quantity of brain of very

superior quality was safely stowed away, guarded by a sufficient

quantity of skull to protect it against any accident. Neither he nor

the good wife imagined, for a moment, that Julian was a genius, and

that his talent, circumscribed by circumstances, was struggling for an

outlet for its development.

At last the divine spark within him was kindled into flame. An

itinerant portrait painter came round, with his tools of trade, and

did the dominie in brown and red, and the squire's daughter in

vermilion and flake white, and set the whole village agog with his

marvellous achievements. Julian cultivated his acquaintance, received

some secret instructions in the A B C of art, and bargained for some

drawing and painting materials. His aspirations had at length found an

object. Long and painfully he labored in secret; but his advances were

rapid, for he took nature as a model. At last he ventured to display

his latest achievement--a small portrait of his father. It was first

shown to his mother, and filled her with astonishment and delight. It

is the privilege of woman, however circumstanced, to appreciate and

applaud true genius. Of course, Moliere's housekeeper occurs to the

reader as an illustration. The picture was next shown to the old man.

He gazed at it with a sort of silent horror, puffing the smoke from

his pipe in short, spasmodic jerks, and slowly shaking his head before

he spoke.

"Do you know it, father?" asked the young artist.

"Know it!" exclaimed the old man. "Yes--yes--I see myself there like I

was lookin' into a glass. There's my nose, and eyes, and mouth, and

hair; yes, and there's my pipe. It ain't right--it can't be

right--it's witchcraft. Satan must ha' helped you, boy--you couldn't

never ha' done it without the aid of the evil one."

This was a sad damper. But just then the dominie luckily happened in

to take a pipe with his parishioner. He pronounced the work excellent,

and satisfied his old friend's doubts as to the honesty of the

transaction. Julian blessed the old man in his heart for the comfort

he afforded.

And now the fame of the young painter flew through the village. The

tavern keeper ordered a head of General Washington for his sign board,

the old one--originally a portrait of the Duke of Cambridge with the

court dress painted out--not satisfying some of his critical

customers. And for the blacksmith, Montfort painted a rampant black

horse, prevented from falling backward by a solid tail. The stable

keeper also gave him orders for sundry coats of arms to be depicted on

wagon panels and sleigh dashers, so that the incipient artist had

plenty of orders and not a little cash.

But he soon grew tired of this local reputation. He panted for the

association of kindred spirits; for the impulse and example to be

found in some great centre of civilization; for refinement, fame--all

that is dear to an ardent imagination. And so, one morning, he

announced his intention of seeking his fortune in the city of New

York.

His mother was sad, but did not oppose his wishes; his father shook

his head, as he always did when any thing was proposed--no matter

what. The old gentleman seemed to derive great pleasure from shaking

his head, and no one interfered with so harmless an amusement.

"Goin' to York, hey?" said he, emitting sundry puffs of smoke. "The

Yorkers are a curious set of people, boy. I read into a paper once't

about how they car' on--droppin' pocket books, and sellin' brass

watches for gold, and knockin' people down and stompin' onto 'em."

"But the dominie thinks I might make money there," said the young man.

"O, then you'd better go. The dominie's got a longer head than you or

I, boy," said the old man.

"Yes, father," said the youth, kindling with animation. "In New York I

am sure to win fame and fortune. I shall come back, then, and buy you

a better farm, and hire hands for you, so that you won't be obliged to

work so hard--and you can set out trees."

"Hain't no opinion of trees," said the old man, shaking his head.

"Well, well, father, you shall have money, and do what you like with

it; for my part I shall be content with fame."

"Fame! what is that?" said the old man, laying down his pipe in

bewilderment.

"Fame! Do you ask what fame is?" exclaimed the romantic boy. But he

paused, convinced in a moment of the perfect futility of attempting to

convey an idea of the unsubstantial phantom to the old man's

intellect. Perhaps the old farmer was the better philosopher of the

two.

But Julian gained his point, and departed for the great city--the goal

of so many struggles, the grave of so many hopes. He was at first

dazzled by the splendors of the artificial life, into the heart of

which he plunged; and then, with a homesick feeling, he sighed for

that verdurous luxury of nature he had left. He missed the trees--for

he thought the shabby and rusty foliage of the Battery and Park hardly

worthy of that name. But, in time to save him from utter

disappointment and heart sickness, there opened on his vision the

glorious dawning of the world of art. He passed from gallery to

gallery, and from studio to studio, drinking in the beauties that

unfolded before him with the eyes of his body and his soul. He was

enraptured, dazzled, enchanted. Then he settled down to work in his

humble room, economizing the scanty funds he had brought with him to

the city. Like many young aspirants, he grasped, at first, at the most

difficult subjects. He constantly groped for a high ideal. He would

fly before he had learned to walk. With an imperfect knowledge of

architecture and anatomy, and a limited stock of information, he would

paint history--mythology. He sought to illustrate poetry, and dared

attempt scenes from the Bible, Shakspeare, and Milton. He failed,

though there were glimpses of grandeur and glory in his faulty

attempts.

Then he turned back, with a sickening feeling, to the elements of art,

distasteful as he found them. It was hard to pore over rectangles and

curves, bones and muscles, angles and measurements, after sporting

with irregular forms and fascinating colors. He tried portraiture, but

he had no feeling for the business. He could not transfigure the dull

and commonplace heads he was to copy. He had not the nice tact that

makes beauty of ugliness without the loss of identity. He could not

ennoble vulgarians. The sordid man bore the stamp of baseness on his

canvas. His pictures were too true; and truth is death to the portrait

painter.

He began to grow morbid in his feelings, and was fast verging to a

misanthrope. His clothes grew shabby, and looked shabbier for his

careless way of wearing them. He was often cold and hungry. There were

times when he viewed with envy and hate the evidences of prosperity he

saw about him. He railed against those pursuits of life which made men

rich and prosperous. He began to think with the French demagogue, that

"property was a theft," and to regard with great favor the socialistic

doctrines then coming into vogue. The American social system he

pronounced corrupt and rotten, and deserving to be uprooted and

subverted. And this was the rustic boy, who, a few months before, had

left his home so full of hope, and generous feeling, and high

aspiration.

There were times when he yearned for the humble scenes of his boyhood.

But he was too proud to throw up his pencils and palette, and go back

to the old farm house; and so he found a vent for his home feeling in

painting some of the scenes of his earliest life--the rustic dances,

the huskings, the haymakings, and junketings with which he was so

familiar.

One of these pictures--a rustic dance was the subject--he sent to a

gilder's to be framed. He had consecrated three dollars to this

purpose, and went one day to see how his commission had been executed.

He found the picture framer, who was also a picture dealer, in his

shirt sleeves, talking with a middle-aged gentleman, who was praising

his performance.

"Really a very clever thing," said the gentleman, scanning the

painting through his gold-bowed eye glasses.

"The composition, coloring, and light and shade, are admirable; but

the life, animation, and naturalness of the figures make its great

charm. Ah, why don't our artists study to produce life as it exists

around them, and as they themselves know it and feel it, instead of

giving us the gods and goddesses of a defunct and false religion, and

scenes three thousand miles and years away?"

"Mr. Greville," said the picture framer, "allow me to make you

acquainted with the artist, Mr. Montfort; he's a next-door neighbor of

yours--lives at No ----, Broadway."

"Mr. Montfort," said the gentleman, warmly shaking the hand the artist

shyly extended, "you found me admiring your work. And I'm sure I did

not know I had so talented a neighbor. I shall be glad to be better

acquainted with you. I presume your picture is for sale."

"Not so, sir," replied the artist, coldly. "It is a reminiscence of

earlier and happier days. It was painted for my own satisfaction, and

I shall keep it as long as I have a place to hang it in. It is a

common mistake, sir, with our patrons, to suppose they can buy our

souls as well as our labor."

Mr. Greville's cheek flushed; but as he glanced at the shabby exterior

and wan face of the artist, his color faded, and he answered gently--

"Believe me, Mr. Montfort, I am not one of the persons you

describe--if, indeed, they exist elsewhere but in your imagination. I

should be the last person to fail in sympathy for the high-toned

feelings of an artist; for in early life I was thought to manifest a

talent for art--and, indeed, I had a strong desire to follow the

vocation."

"And you abandoned it--you turned a deaf ear to the divine

inspiration--you preferred wealth to glory--to be one of the vulgar

many rather than to belong to the choice few. I congratulate you, Mr.

Greville, on your taste."

"You judge me harshly, Mr. Montfort," replied the gentleman,

pleasantly. "I am hardly required to justify my choice of calling to a

perfect stranger; and yet your very frankness induces me to say a word

or two of the motives which impelled me. My parents were poor. An

artist's life seemed to hold no immediate prospects of competence.

They to whom I owed my being might die of want before I had

established a reputation. I had an opportunity to enter commercial

life advantageously. I prospered. I have lived to see the declining

days of my parents cheered by every comfort, and to rear a family in

comfort and opulence. One of my boys promises to make a good artist.

Fortunately, I can bestow on him the means of following the bent of

his inclination. Instead of being an indifferent painter myself, I am

an extensive purchaser of works of art, so that my conscience acquits

me of any very great wrong in the course I adopted."

Montfort was silent; he was worsted in the argument.

"Mr. Montfort," pursued the gentleman, after a pause, "my evenings are

always at my disposal, and I like to surround myself with men of

talent. I have already a large circle of acquaintances among artists,

musicians, and literary men, and once a week they meet at my house; I

shall be very happy to see you among us. To-night is my evening of

reception--will you join us?"

Proud and shy as he was, Montfort could not help accepting an

invitation so frankly and pleasantly tendered. He promised to come.

"One favor more," said Mr. Greville. "You won't sell that picture.

Will you lend it to me for a day or two?"

"I cannot refuse you, of course, Mr. Greville."

"If you have the slightest objection, say so frankly," said the

kind-hearted merchant.

"I have not the slightest objection, Mr. Greville. It is entirely at

your disposal."

Mr. Greville was profuse in his thanks.

"Shall I send it to your house?" said the picture framer.

"No, Mr. Tennant," replied the merchant. "It is too valuable to be

trusted out of my hands. I am personally responsible, and I fear that

I am not rich enough to remunerate the artist, if any harm happens to

it."

With these words, bowing to the artist, Mr. Greville took the picture

carefully under his arm, and left the shop, Montfort soon following.

"Well, I declare," said the picture framer, when he was left alone,

"artists is queer animils, and no mistake. Neglect 'em, and it makes

'em as mad as a short-horned bull in fly time; coax 'em and pat 'em,

and they lets fly their heels in your face. Seems to me, if I was an

artist, I shouldn't be particular about being a hog, too. There ain't

no sense in it. Now, it beats my notion all to pieces to see how Mr.

Greville could talk so pleasantly and gentlemanly to that dratted

Montfort, and he flyin' into his face all the time like a tarrier dog.

I'd a punched his head for him, I would--if they'd had me up afore the

Sessions for saltin' and batterin'. Consequently it's better to be a

pictur' framer than a pictur' painter. Cause why?--a pictur' framer is

a gentleman, and a pictur' painter is a hog."

There was a good deal of truth in what Mr. Tennant said, mixed up with

a good deal of uncharitableness. But what did he know of the _genus

irritabile vatum_?

Evening came; and after many misgivings, Montfort, in an eclectic

costume, selected from his whole wardrobe, at a late hour, ventured

to emerge from his humble domicile, and present himself at the

rosewood portal of his aristocratic neighbor. He soon found himself in

the dazzling drawing room, bewildered by the lights, and the splendor

of the decoration and the furniture. Mr. Greville saw his

embarrassment, and hastened to dispel it. He shook him warmly by the

hand, and presented him to his lady and daughter, and then to a crowd

of guests. A distinguished artist begged the honor of an introduction

to him, and he soon found himself among people who understood him, and

with whom he could converse at his ease. Though he was lionized, he

was lionized by people who understood the sensitiveness of artistic

natures. They flattered delicately and tastefully. Their incense

excited, but did not intoxicate or suffocate. In one of the drawing

rooms the gratified artist beheld his picture placed in an admirable

light, the cynosure of all eyes, and the theme of all lips.

"I am certainly very much indebted to you for placing it so

advantageously," said the artist to his host. "It owes at least half

its success to the arrangement of the light."

"Do you hear that, Caroline?" asked Mr. Greville, turning to his

beautiful daughter, who stood smiling beside him.

"I was afraid I had made some mistake in the arrangement," said the

beautiful girl, blushing with pleasure.

Montfort attempted a complimentary remark, but his tongue failed him.

He would have given worlds for the self-possession of some of the

_nonchalant_ dandies he saw hovering around the peerless beauty. He

was forced to content himself with awkwardly bowing his thanks.

In the latter part of the evening, one of the rooms was cleared for a

dance. Montfort was solicited to join in a quadrille, and a beautiful

partner was even presented to his notice; but he wanted confidence

and knowledge, and he had no faith in the integrity of the gaiter

shoes he had vamped up for the occasion, so that he was forced to

decline. This incident revived some of his morbid feelings that had

begun to slumber, and he caught himself muttering something about the

"frivolities of fashion."

He thought to make his exit unnoticed; but Mr. Greville detected him,

and urged him to repeat his visit.

The next day, during his reception hours, several visitors called--an

unheard-of thing. They glanced indifferently at his mythological

daubs, but were enthusiastic in their praises of his rustic subjects.

The day following, more visitors came. He was offered and accepted

four hundred dollars for one of his cabinet pictures. In a word,

orders flowed in upon him; he could hardly paint fast enough to supply

the demand. He became rather fastidious in his dress--patronized the

first tailors and boot makers, cultivated the graces, and took lessons

in the waltz and polka. At Mr. Greville's, and some of the other

houses he visited, he was remarked as being somewhat of a dandy. And

this was Montfort the misanthrope--Montfort the socialist--Montfort

the agrarian.

An important episode in his career was an order to paint the portrait

of Miss Caroline Greville. He had already had three or four sittings,

and the picture was approaching completion; then the work suddenly

ceased. Day after day the artist pleaded engagements. At the same time

he discontinued his visits at the house.

Mr. Greville, somewhat offended, called on Montfort for an

explanation. He found his daughter's picture covered by a curtain.

"My dear sir," said he, "how does it happen that you can't go on with

that picture? My wife is very anxious about it."

"I can never finish it," said the artist sadly.

"How so, my young friend?"

"Mr. Greville, I will be frank with you. I love your daughter; I, a

poor artist, have dared to lift my eyes to the child of the opulent

merchant. I have never in look or word, though, led her to divine my

feelings--the secret is in my own keeping. But I cannot see her day

after day--I cannot scan her beautiful and innocent features, or

listen to the brilliant flow of her conversation, without agony. This

has compelled me, sir, to suspend my work."

"Mr. Julian Montfort," said the merchant, "you seem bent--excuse

me--on making yourself miserable. You are no longer a poor artist; you

have a fortune in your pencil. Your profession is now a surer thing

than mine. There is no gentleman in the city who ought not to be proud

of your alliance; and if you can make yourself acceptable to my

daughter, why, take her and be happy."

How Julian sped in his wooing may be inferred from the fact that, at a

certain wedding ceremony in Grace Church, he performed the important

part of bridegroom to the bride of Miss Caroline Greville; and after

the usual quantity of hand shakings, and tears, and kisses, and all

the usual efforts to make a wedding resemble a funeral as much as

possible, Mr. and Mrs. Montfort took passage in one of the Havre

steamers for an extensive tour upon the European continent.

When they returned, Mr. Montfort's reputation rose higher than ever,

of course, and he made money with marvellous rapidity. He is now as

well known in Wall Street as in his studio, has a town and country

house, is a strong conservative in politics, and talks very learnedly

about the moneyed interest. He has made some efforts to transplant

his good old father and mother to New York; but they prefer residing

at his villa, and taking care of his Durham cattle and Suffolk pigs,

and seeing that his "Cochin Chinas" and "Brahma Pootras" do not

trample down the children when they go out to feed the poultry of a

summer morning.

SOUVENIRS OF A RETIRED OYSTERMAN IN ILL HEALTH.

Samivel, my boy, always stick to the shop; and if ever you become a

_millionhair_, like me, never be seduced by any womankind into

enterin' fash'nable society, and moving among the circles of _bong

tong_. (I have been obligated to study French without a master; 'cause

the Upper Ten always talks in bad French, and so a word or two will

slip in onawares, even ven talking to a friend--just as a bad oyster

will sometimes make its way into a good stew, spite of the best

artist.)

I envies you, Samivel. You don't know what a treat it is to me to be

admitted confidentially behind the counter, and to find myself

surrounded once more by these here congenial bivalves. I can't escape

from old associations. Oysters stare me in the face wherever I go.

They're fash'nable, Samivel, and it's about the only think in fash'n

as I reg'larly likes.

The other day we gave a _derjerner_, (that's French for brekfax,

Samivel,) which took place about dinner time, and consisted of several

distinguished pussons of the city, and three or four Hungry'uns as

came over in the last steamer--reg'lar rang-a-tangs, vith these 'ere

yaller anchovies growin' onto their upper lips. The old ooman, or

madame, as she calls herself, was on hand to receive--but I was out of

the way. She was mightily flustered, for she know'd I could talk a

little Dutch, and she wanted me for to interpret with the Hungry'uns.

So she speaks up werry sharp, (the old ooman can speak werry sharp by

times,) and says to my youngest, a boy,--

"Where on airth _can_ your father be?"

"O, daddy's in the sink room," says the young 'un, "a openin'

eyesters."

The whole _derjerner_ bust into a hoss larff--for these Upper Ten

folks, Samivel,--betwixt you and me and the pump, my boy,--ain't got

no more manners than hogs. The child was voted an _ongfong

terriblee_--but it wor a fack. I had went down into the sink room, as

a mere looker-on in Veneer, and I seen one of my _employees_ a making

such botchwork of openin', hagglin' up his hands, and misusin' the

oysters, than I off coat, tucked up sleeves, and went to work, and

rolled 'em off amazin'--I tell you. The past rushed back on me--the

familiar feel of the knife almost banished my dyspepsy--I lived--I

breathed--I vas a oysterman again. Did I ever show you them lines I

wrote into my darter's album? No. Vell, then, 'ere goes:--

TO AN UNOPENED OYSTER.

Thou liest fair within thy shell;

Thy charms no mortal eye can see;

And so, as Lamprey[A] says, of old

Was Wenus lodged--the fairest she.

But beauties such as yourn and hern

Were never born unseen to waste;

Like her, you're bound to come to light,

To gratify refinement's taste.

The fairest of the female race

To Ilium vent vith Priam's boy;

So the best oysters that I see

Are sent by railroad off to Troy.

Sleep on--sleep on--nor dream of woe

Until the horrid deed be done--

Then out and die, like Simile,[B]

In thy first glance upon the sun.

[Footnote A: Probably Lempriere.]

[Footnote B: Semele (?)]

Well, and 'ows bizness, Samivel? You've got a good stand, and you're

bound to succeed. But beware of the Cracker-Fiend. I'll tell you about

him.

There vas a chap as used to _patronize_ me that vas one of the

hungriest customers you ever did see. He was werry shabbily dressed,

and he looked for all the world like the picturs I've seen of

Shakspeare's "lean and hungry Cashier."

He used to come in, give his order, (generally a stew,) and then go

and set down in a box and drop the curting. It allers looks suspicious

for a customer to drop his curting _afore_ you bring him the

oysters--_arterwards_ it's all perfectly proper, in course. Afore the

stew was ready, he would call out--

"Waiter! crackers!"

The boy would hand him a basket; but when his stew was set before him,

there warn't no crackers in _his_ box.

So ve put him on a allowance of a dozen crackers, which is werry

liberal, considerin' as pickles and pepper-sarce is throw'd in gratis.

But he used to step out quietly and snake baskets of crackers outen

other boxes, so's the other customers, as alvays conducted themselves

like perfick gen'lemen, vas all the time a singing out, "Waiter! plate

of crackers."

Then we kept a boy a-watching of him, so's to keep him in his box

till he'd eat his oysters, and then you had to keep a werry sharp eye

on him ven he was paying, and you vas a-makin' change, els't you'd hev

all the crackers took off the counter.

One day arter he vas gone, ve found all the crackers missin' from one

side of the room. Of course, ve suspected he done it, but how he done

it vas as much a puzzle as the Spinks.

Next day, arter ve got him into his box, ve vatched and listened. Ve

heard a queer kind of sound, like a man trying to play the jewsharp

vith his boots; and, sir, ve detected the cracker-fiend a climbin'

over the partitions into the neighborin' boxes, and a collarin' all

the crackers he could come acrost.

Perhaps you think I vent into him like a knife into a Prince's Bay.

But I didn't do no such think. I treated him werry perlite, and gin

him two dollars, a keg of crackers, and a jar of pickled oysters, on

condition he'd go and patronize some other establishment. Keep an eye

open for him, Samivel.

Be generous, Samivel, but don't carry generosity to XS, for an

antidote I'm about to relate, out of my pusnol experience, illustrates

the evil effex of excessive philanthrophy.

A little gal used to come into my shop to buy oysters. I seen she was

some kind of a foreigner, so I set her down for Dutch--as them vas the

only foreigners I vas acquainted vith at the time. I artervards

discovered she was French. She was werry thin, and as pale as a

soft-shelled clam; there was a dark blue color under her eyes, like

these here muscle shells. At first, she used to buy ninepence worth of

oysters. Arter a while it came down to fourpence; and one day she

only vanted two cents vorth. I asked her who they vas for, and she

said,--

"For my grandfather; he is very sick, sare."

I followed her, and found out where her grandfather lived. So one

night I opened four gallons of prime New Yorkers, put 'em in a kettle,

took a lot of crackers and soft bread, and started for the

Frenchman's. The little gal came to the door, and showed me up stairs.

The poor old customer was all alone, in bed, and yaller as a blanket.

He start up ven he see us, and exclaimed,--

_"Ah! mon Dieu! Antoinette, priez le gentilhomme de 'asseoir."_

The leetle gal offered me a stool, but I didn't set down.

"Mounseer," said I, in some French manufactured for the occasion, "I

havey broughtee you sommey oysteries," and I showed him the kittle,

with the kiver off.

I thought his eyes kind of vatered at the sight, but he sighed, and

turnin' to the leetle gal, said,--

_"Antoinette, dites a Monsieur, que je n'ai plus d'argent--pas un

sou."_

I guessed it was something about money, so afore the leetle gal could

translate it, I sang out,--

"I don't want no money, Mounseer; these here are free gratis, for

nothin' at all. I always treats my customers once in a while."

That was a lie, Samivel--but never mind, I gin him a dozen, and the

old fellur seemed to like 'em fust rate. Then I offered him some more,

but he hung back. However I made him swallow 'em, and offered some to

the leetle gal.

"After grandpapa," said she.

So I offered him some more.

"No more, I zank you; I 'ave eat too moosh."

I know'd he was only sogerin' out of delixy. So I says as perlite as

possible,--

"None of that, old fellur--catch hold. I fetched 'em for you, and I'm

bound to see you eat 'em."

"Sare, you are _too_ kind," said he; and he vent to vork again. Arter

a spell, he stopped.

"Don't like 'em--hey?" says I, pretendin' to be mad.

"I sall prove ze contraire," said he, in a kind of die-away manner,

and he went into 'em agin.

Presently, he gin over, and fell back on his piller murmurin'--

"Sare, you are too good."

I gin the balance to the leetle gal, and told her to come round in the

mornin', and I'd fill her kittle for her, adding that her grandfather

would be all straight in the mornin'.

Samivel! he _vas_ all straight in the morning, but just as stiff as a

cold poker. The last two or three dozen finished him; his digestion

wasn't strong enough for 'em, and he know'd it, but he eat himself to

death out of politeness. The French are certingly the perlitest people

on the face of the yairth.

Howsever, I see him buried decently, and I adopted the leetle gal. She

was well brung up and educated, and she larned my darters French--the

real Simon Pure--for she was a Canadian, and her grandfather came from

Gascony. But his fate vos a orful lesson. Benevolence, like an

oyster-roast, is good for nothink if it's over done. And now, Samivel,

my boy, _a-jew_, for I have a _sworray_ this evenin', and receive half

Beacon Street. _A-jew._

THE NEW YEAR'S STOCKINGS.

"Never crosses his t's, nor dots his i's, and his n's and v's and r's

are all alike!" said, almost despairingly, Mr. Simon Quillpen, the

painstaking clerk of old Lawyer Latitat, as he sat late at night, on

the last day of the year, digging away at the copy of a legal document

his liberal patron and employer had placed in his hands in the early

part of the evening. "Thank Heaven!" he added, laying down his pen,

and consulting a huge silver bull's eye which he pulled from a

threadbare fob, "I shall soon get through this job, and then, hey for

roast potatoes and the charming society of Mrs. Q.!" And with this

consolatory reflection, he resumed his work with redoubled energy.

Mr. Quillpen was a little man; not so very little as to pass for a

phenomenon, but certainly too small to be noticed by a recruiting

grenadier sergeant. His nose was quite sharp and gave his mild, thin

countenance, particularly as he carried his head a little on one side,

a very bird-like air. He trod, too, gingerly and lightly, very like a

sparrow or a tomtit; and, to complete the analogy, his head being

almost always surmounted by a pen, he had a sort of crested,

blue-jayish aspect, that was rather comical. Quillpen had a very

little wife and three very little children, Bob, Chiffy, and the baby;

the last the ultimate specimen of the _diminuendo_. It was well for

them that they were so small, for Quillpen obtained his _starvelihood_

by driving the quill for Mr. Latitat at four hundred dollars a year,

to which Mrs. Quillpen added, from time to time, certain little sums

derived from making shirts and overalls at the rate of about ten cents

the million stitches.

Whether Mr. Latitat was able to pay more was a question that never

entered the minute brain of Simon Quillpen; for he had so humble an

opinion of his own merits, and was always so contented and cheerful,

that he regarded his salary as enormous, and was wont playfully to

sign little confidential notes Croesus Quillpen and Girard Quillpen,

and on rare convivial occasions would sometimes style himself Baron

Rothschild. But this last title was very rarely indulged in, because

it once sent his particular crony, a chuckle-headed clerk in the

post-office, into a cachinnatory fit which was "rayther in the

apoplectic line."

"To return to our muttons." Simon dug away at his copying with an

occasional reverential glance at a certain low oaken door, opening

into the _penetralia_ of this abode of law and righteousness, behind

which oaken door, at that very moment, sat Mr. Lucius Latitat, either

deeply engaged in the solution of some vast legal problem, or

calculating the interest on an outstanding note, or consulting with

chuckling delight a list of mortgages to be foreclosed.

Well--Quillpen finished his document, wiped his pen on a thick velvet

butterfly, laid it in the rack above the ink, pushed back his chair

from the table, withdrew the cambric sleeve from his right arm, and

smoothed down his wristbands, having first put on his India rubber

overshoes. The fact is, he was very anxious to get home, and he could

not go without first seeing Mr. Latitat. The idea of knocking at Mr.

Latitat's door on business of his own never once occurred to him. He

would do that for a client, but not for himself. So he ventured on a

series of low coughs, and finding no notice was taken of them, he

dropped the poker into the coalhod, the most daring act he had ever

perpetrated. The slight noise thus produced crashed on his guilty ears

like thunder, or rather with the roar of a universal earthquake.

Slight, however, as it was, it brought out Mr. Latitat from his

interior.

"What the deuse are you making such a racket for?" he exclaimed in

tones that thrilled to the heart of his employee; then, without

waiting for an answer, he slightly glanced at the table, and asked,

"Have you got through that job?"

"Yes'm--I mean, yes'r" replied the quivering Simon.

"Well, then, you can go. I'm going myself. You blow out the lights and

lock the room. And mind and be here early to-morrow morning. Nothing

like beginning the New Year well. Good night."

"Mr. Latitat, sir!" cried Quillpen, with desperate resolution, as he

saw the great man about to disappear--"please, sir--could you let me

have a little money to-night?"

"Why! what do you want of money?" retorted the lawyer. "O! I 'spose

you have a host of unpaid bills."

"No, sir; no, sir; that's not it," Simon hastened to say. "I hain't

got narry bill standing. I pay as I go. Cash takes the lot!"

"None of your coarse, vulgar slang to me!" said Latitat. "Reserve it

for your loose companions. If not to pay bills, what for?"

"Please, sir,--we, that is Mrs. Q. and myself, want to put something

in the children's stockings, sir."

"Then put the children's legs in 'em!" said the lawyer with a grin. "I

make no payments to be used for any such ridiculous purposes. Good

night. Yet stay--take this letter--there's money in it--a large

amount--put it in the post-office with your own hands as you go

home."

"And you can't let me have a trifle?" gasped Simon.

"Not a cent!" snarled the lawyer; and he slammed the door behind him,

and went heavily down the stairs.

"I wonder how it feels to punch a man's head," said Simon, as he stood

rooted to the spot where Mr. Latitat left him. "It's illegal--it's

actionable--there are fines and penalties provided by the statute: but it

seems as if there were cases that might justify the operation--morally. But

then, again--what good would it do to punch his head? Punching his head

wouldn't get me money--and if I was to try it, on finding that the licks

didn't bring out the cash, I might be tempted to help myself to the cash,

and that would be highway robbery; and when the punchee ventured to suggest

that, the puncher might be tempted to silence him. O Lord! that's the way

these murders in the first degree happen; and I think that I was almost on

the point of taking the first step. I really think I look a little like

Babe the pirate," added the poor man, glancing at his mild but disturbed

features in the glass; "or like Captain Kidd, or leastways like Country

McClusky--a regular bruiser!"

Sitting down before the grate, and stirring it feebly with the poker,

he tried to devise some feasible plan for supplying the vacuum in his

treasury. He might borrow, but then all his friends were very poor,

and particularly hard up--at this particular season of the year. The

bull's eye watch might have been "spouted," if he had foreseen this

contingency; but every avuncular relative was now at this hour of the

night snug abed to a dead certainty. Purchasing on credit was not to

be thought of, and the only toy shop which kept open late enough for

his purchases, was kept by a man to whom he was totally unknown. Time

galloped on, meanwhile, and the half-hour struck.

"I'll slip that letter in the post-office, and then go home," said

Simon sorrowfully, rising as he spoke, and grasping his inseparable

umbrella.

"Hallo! shipmate! where-away?" cried a hoarse voice. And Mr. Quillpen

became aware of the presence of an "ancient mariner," enveloped in a

very rough dreadnought, and finished off with a large amount of

whiskers and tarpaulin.

"I was going home, sir," replied Simon, with the deferential air of a

very little to a very big man.

"Ay--going to clap on hatches and deadlights. Well, tell me one

thing--where-away may one find one Mr. Latitat--a shore-going cove, a

regular land-shark, d'ye see?"

"This is Mr. Latitat's office, sir," said Simon.

"Ay--and is he within hail?"

"No, sir, he has gone home."

"Slipped his cable--hey? just my luck! Well, one might snooze

comfortably on this here table--mightn't he? You can clear out, and

I'll take care of the shop till morning."

"That would be perfectly inadmissible, sir," said Simon, "the idea of

a stranger's sleeping here!"

"A stranger!" cried the sailor. "Why, shipmate, do you happen to know

who I am? Look at me! Don't you find somewhat of a family likeness to

Lucius in my old weather-beaten mug? Why, man-alive, I'm his

brother,--his own blood brother! You must a heard him speak of me.

Been cruising round the world in chase of Fortune, but could never

overhaul her. Been sick, shipwrecked, and now come back as poor as I

went. But Lucius has got enough for both of us. How glad he'll be to

see me to-morrow, hey, old Ink-and-tape?"

Simon had his doubts about that matter, but told the sailor to come in

the morning, and see.

"That I will," said the tar, "and start him up with a rousing Happy

New Year! But I say, shipmate, I don't want to sleep in the

watch-house. Have you never a shilling about your trousers?"

Simon answered that he hadn't a cent.

"Why, don't that brother of mine give you good wages?"

"Enormous!" said Simon.

"What becomes of it all?"

"I spend it all--I'm very extravagant," said Simon, shaking his head.

"And then, I'm sorry to say, your brother isn't always punctual in his

payments. To-night, for instance, I couldn't get a cent from him."

"Then I tell you what I'd do, shipmate," said the sailor,

confidentially. "I'd overhaul some of his letters. Steam will loosen a

wafer, and a hot knife-blade, wax. I'd overhaul his money-letters and

pay myself. Ha! ha! do you take? Now, that letter you've got in your

fin, my boy, looks woundy like a dokiment chock full of shinplasters.

What do you say to making prize of 'em? wouldn't it be a jolly go?"

"Stand off!" said Simon, assuming a heavy round ruler and a commanding

attitude. "Don't you come anigh me, or there'll be a case of

justifiable homicide here. How dare you counsel me to commit a robbery

on your own brother? I wonder you ain't ashamed to look me in the

face."

"A chap as has cruised as many years as I have in the low latitudes

ain't afraid to look any body in the face," answered the "ancient

mariner," grimly. "I made you a fair offer, shipmate, and you

rejected it like a long-shore jackass as you are. Good night to ye."

Much to his relief, the sailor took himself off, and Simon, after

locking and double locking his door, went to the post-office and

deposited the letter with which he had been intrusted. As he lived a

great way up on the Neck, he did not reach home until after all the

clocks of the city had struck twelve, so that he was able to surprise

his little wife, who was sitting up for him, with a "Happy New Year!"

He cast a rueful eye at the line of stockings hung along the

mantel-piece in the sitting room, and then sorrowfully announced to

his wife his failure to obtain money of Mr. Latitat.

"There'll be nothing for the stockings, Meg," said he, "unless what

the poor children put in ours."

"I am very sorry," said his wife, who bore the announcement much

better than he anticipated; "but we'll have a happy New Year for all

that."

Simon's roasted potatoes were completely charred, he had been detained

so late; but there was a little meal in the centre of each, and

charcoal is not at all unhealthy. He went to bed, and in spite of his

cares, slept the sleep of the just.

A confused babbling awoke him at daylight. Master Bobby was standing

on his stomach, Miss Chiffy was seated nearly on his head, and baby

was crowing in its cradle. Happy New Years and kisses were exchanged.

"O, dear papa and mamma!" cried Bobby, "what a beautiful horse I found

in my stocking!"

"And what a beautiful wax doll, with eyes that move, in mine," said

Chiffy,--"and such a splendid rattle and coral in baby's. Now, pray go

down and see what there is in yours."

"This is some of your work, little woman," whispered Simon to his

wife. But the little woman denied it emphatically. Much mystified, he

hurried down to the breakfast room. The children had made the usual

offering of very hard and highly-colored sugar plums; but in each of

the two large stockings, stowed away at the bottom, was a roll of bank

notes, five hundred dollars in each.

"Somebody wants to ruin us!" cried Simon, bursting into tears. "This

is stolen money, and they want to lay it on to us."

"All I know about it," said Mrs. Quillpen, "is, that last night, just

before you came home, a sailor man came here with all these things,

and said they were for us, and made me promise to put them in the

stockings, as he directed, and say nothing about his visit to you."

"A sailor!" cried Simon--"I have it! I think I know who it is. Good

by--I'll be back to breakfast directly."

Simon ran to the office, and found, as he anticipated, Mr. Latitat

there before him.

"A happy New Year to you, sir," said he. "Have you seen your brother?"

"I have not," replied Mr. Latitat.

Simon then told him all that happened on the preceding night; the

apparition of the sailor,--the temptation,--the money found in the

stockings, in proof of which he showed the thousand dollars, and

stating his fears that they had been stolen, offered to deposit the

sum in his employer's hands.

"Keep 'em, shipmate; they were meant for you!" exclaimed Mr. Latitat,

suddenly and queerly, assuming the very voice and look of the nautical

brother of the preceding evening.

While Simon stared his eyes out of his head, Mr. Latitat informed him

that he had no brother--that he had disguised himself for the purpose

of putting his clerk's long-tried fidelity to a final test, and, that

sustained triumphantly, had rewarded him in the manner we have seen.

He told how, disgusted in early life by the treachery and ingratitude

of friends and relations who had combined to ruin him, he had become a

misanthrope and miser; how the spectacle of Simon's disinterested

fidelity, rigid sense of honor, self-denial and cheerfulness, had won

back his better nature; and he wound off, as he shook Quillpen warmly

by the hand, by announcing that he had raised his salary to twelve

hundred dollars per annum.

The good news almost killed Simon. "Please your honor," said he,

endeavoring to frame an appropriate reply,--"no--that ain't it--please

your excellency--you've gone and done it--you've gone and done it! I

was Baron Rothschild before, and now--no--I can't tell what I am--it

isn't in no biographical dictionary, and I don't believe it's in the

'Wealth of Nations!'"

"Well, never mind," said Latitat, laughing, "go home and tell Mrs. Q.

the office won't be open till to-morrow, and that I shall depend on

dining with you all to-day."

THE OBLIGING YOUNG MAN.

"Cars ready for Boston and way stations!" shouted the conductor of a

railroad train, as the steamhorse, harnessed for his twenty mile trip,

stood chafing, snorting, and coughing, throwing up angry puffs of

mingled gray and dingy vapor from his sturdy lungs. "Cars ready for

Boston and way stations!"

"O, yes!" replied a brisk young man, with a bright eye, peculiar

smirk, spotted neckcloth, and gray gaiters with pearl buttons. "Cars

ready for Boston and way stations. All aboard. Now's your time--quick,

or you'll lose 'em. Now then, ma'am."

"But, sir," remonstrated the old lady he addressed, and whom he was

urging at the steps of a first class car.

"O, never mind!" replied the brisk young man. "Know what you're going

to say--too much trouble--none whatever, I assure you. Perfect

stranger, true--but scriptural injunction, do as you'd be done by. In

with you--ding! ding!--there's the bell--off we go."

And so in fact they did go off at forty miles an hour.

"But, sir," said the old lady, trembling violently.

"I see," interrupted the OBLIGING YOUNG MAN; "want a

seat--here it is--a great bargain--cars full--quick, or you'll lose

it."

"But, sir," said the old lady, with nervous trepidation, "I--I--wasn't

going to Boston."

"The deuce you weren't. Well, well, well, why couldn't you say so?

Hullo! Conductor! Stop the cars!"

"Can't do it," replied the conductor. "This train don't stop short of

Woburn watering station."

"Woburn watering station!" whimpered the old woman, wringing her

hands. "O, what shall I do?"

"Sit still; take it easy--no use crying for spilt milk; what can't be

cured must be endured. I'll look out sharp; you might have saved

yourself all this trouble."

Away went the cars, racketting and oscillating, while the obliging

young man was looking round for another recipient of his good

services.

"Ha!" he muttered to himself. "There's a poor young fellow quite

alone. Lovesick, perhaps; pale cheek--sunken eye--never told his love;

but let--Shakspeare--I'm his man! Must look out for the old woman.

Here we are, ma'am, fifteen miles to Lowell--out with you--look out

for the cars on the back track. Good by--pleasant trip!"

Ding dong, went the bell again.

"Hullo! here's her bundle! Catch, there--heads! All right--get on,

driver!"

And having tossed a bundle after the old woman, he resumed his seat.

"Confound it!" roared a fat man in a blue spencer. "You're treading on

my corns."

"Beg pardon," said the obliging young man. "Bad things,

corns,--'trifling sum of misery new added to the foot of your

account;' old author--name forgotten. Never mind--drive on!"

"But where's my bundle?" asked the fat man. "Conductor! Where's my

bundle? Brown paper--red string. Saw it here a moment since."

The conductor knew nothing about it. The obliging young man did. It

was the same he had thrown out after the old woman.

"You'll find it some where," he said, with a consolatory wink. "Can't

lose a brown paper bundle. I've tried--often--always turned up; little

boy sure to bring it. 'Here's your bundle, sir; ninepence, please.'

All right--go ahead!"

Here the obliging young man took his seat beside the pale-faced youth.

"Ill health, sir?"

"No, sir," replied the pale-faced youth, fidgeting.

"Mental malady--eh?"

The young man sighed.

"See it all. Don't say a word, man! Cupid, heart from heart, forced to

part. Flinty-hearted father?"

"No, sir."

"Flinty-hearted mother?"

"No, sir."

"Flinty-hearted aunt?"

The lovesick young man sighed, and nodded assent.

"Tell me the story. I'm a stranger--but my heart is here, sir."

Whereupon the obliging young man referred to a watch pocket in his

plaid vest, and nodded with a great deal of intelligence. "Tell me

all--like to serve my fellows--no other occupation; out with it, as

the doctor said to the little boy that swallowed his sister's

necklace."

The lovesick youth informed the obliging young man that he loved and

was beloved by a young lady of Boston, whose aunt, acting as her

guardian, opposed his suit. He was going to Boston to put a plan of

elopement into operation. He had prepared two letters, one to the aunt

renouncing his hopes, to throw her off her guard; the other to the

young lady, appointing a meeting at the Providence cars. The

difficulty was to get the letters delivered. This the obliging young

man readily undertook to do in person. Both the aunt and niece bore

the same name--Emeline Brown; but the aunt's letter was sealed with

black, the niece's with red wax. The letters were delivered with many

injunctions to the obliging young man, and the two new-made friends

parted on the arrival of the cars in Boston.

The Providence cars were just getting ready to start, when, amid all

the bustle and confusion, a pale-faced young man "might have been

seen," as Mr. James, the novelist, says, nervously pacing to and fro,

and occasionally darting into Pleasant Street, and scrutinizing every

approaching passenger and vehicle. At last, when there was but a

single moment to spare, a hack drove up furiously, and a veiled lady

hastily descended, and gave her hand to her expectant admirer.

"Quick, Emeline, or we shall lose the train!"

The enamoured couple were soon seated beside each other, and whirling

away to Providence. The lady said little, but sat with downcast head

and veiled face, apparently overwhelmed with confusion at the step she

had taken. But it was enough for young Dovekin to know she was beside

him, and he poured forth an unbroken stream of delicious nonsense,

till the train arrived at its destination.

In the station house the lady lifted her veil. Horror and confusion!

It was the aunt! The obliging young man had delivered the wrong

letter.

"Yes, sir," said Miss Brown, "I am the person whom you qualified, in

your letter intended for my niece, as a 'hateful hag, in whose eyes

you were throwing dust'. What do you say to that, sir?"

"Say!" replied the disconsolate Dovekin. "It's no use to say any

thing; for it is my settled purpose to spring over the parapet of the

railroad bridge and seek oblivion in a watery grave. But first, if I

could find that obliging young man, I'd be the death of him."

"No you wouldn't," said the voice of that interesting individual, as

he made his appearance with a lady on his arm. "Here she is--take

her--be happy. After I'd given the notes, mind misgave me--went back

to the house--found the aunt gone--niece in tears--followed

after--same train--last car--here she is!"

"I hope this will be a lesson," said Dovekin.

"So it is. Henceforth, I shall mind my own business; for every thing

I've undertaken lately, on other folks' account, has gone amiss. Come,

aunty, give your blessing--let 'em go. Train ready--I'm off--best of

wishes--good by. Cars ready for Boston and way stations!--all aboard."

The aunt gave her blessing; and this was the last that any of the

party saw of the _Obliging Young Man_.

EULALIE LASALLE.

A STORY OF THE REIGN OF TERROR.

O, what was love made for if 'twas not for this,

The same amidst sorrow, and transport, and bliss?

MOORE.

The fanaticism of the French revolutionists had reached its height;

the excitable population, intoxicated with power, and maddened by the

vague dread of the retribution of despair, goaded on by profligate,

ferocious, or insane leaders, was plunging into the most revolting and

sanguinary excesses. The son of St. Louis had ascended to heaven, the

beautiful and unfortunate Marie Antoinette had laid her head upon the

block, the baby heir of the throne of the Capets was languishing in

the hands of his keepers, and the Girondists, the true friends of

republican liberty, were silenced by exile or the scaffold. In short,

the Reign of Terror, the memorable sway of Robespierre, hung like a

funeral pall upon the land which was fast becoming a vast cemetery.

The provincial towns, faithful echoes of the central capital, were

repeating the theme of horror with a thousand variations. Each

considerable city had its guillotine, and where that instrument of

punishment was wanting, the fusillade or the mitraille supplied its

place.

At this crisis, Eugene Beauvallon, a young merchant of Toulouse,

presented himself one morning in the drawing room of Mademoiselle

Eulalie Lasalle, an orphan girl of great beauty and accomplishment, to

whom he had long been betrothed, and whom he would ere this have

married but for the political troubles of the period. Eulalie was a

graceful creature, slenderly and symmetrically formed, with soft blue

eyes, and an exceedingly gentle expression, which was indicative of

her character. She seemed too fair and fragile to buffet with the

storms of life, and ill fitted to endure its troubles, created to be

the idol of a drawing room, the fairy queen of a boudoir.

Eugene was a handsome, manly fellow, of great energy and character.

The revolution surprised him in the act of making a fortune; the

whirlwind had stripped him of most of his property, but had yet left

him liberty and life. He had contrived to avoid rendering himself

obnoxious to the sansculottes without securing their confidence. The

tri-colored cockade which he wore in his hat shielded him from the

fatal epithet of aristocrat--a certain passport to the guillotine.

Beauvallon then seated himself beside Eulalie, who was struck with the

radiant expression of his countenance, and begged to know the reason

of his joyous excitement.

"I have good news to tell you," he said, gayly; "but we are not

alone," he added, stopping short, as his eyes rested on the sinister

face of an old woman, humbly attired, who was busily engaged in

knitting, not far from the lovers.

"O, don't mind poor old Mannette," said Eulalie. "The poor old

creature is past hearing thunder. It is a woman, Eugene, I rescued

from absolute starvation, and she is so grateful, and seems so

desirous of doing something to render herself useful, that I am

mortified almost at her sense of the obligation."

"I hope she has not supplanted your pretty _femme de chambre_, Julie,

of whom you threatened to be jealous. My admiration, I hope, has not

cost the girl her place."

"O, dear, no! I couldn't part with Julie!" replied Eulalie, laughing

gayly. "But come, you must not tantalize me--what has occurred to make

you so gay, at a time when every true Frenchman wears a face of

mourning?"

"The Marquis de Montmorenci is at liberty."

"At liberty? How happened it that the Revolutionary Tribunal acquitted

him?"

"Acquitted him! Eulalie, does the tiger that has once tasted the blood

of his prey permit him to escape? Is Robespierre more lenient than the

beast of prey? No, Eulalie, he escaped by the aid of a true friend. He

fled from Paris, reached Toulouse, and found shelter under my roof!"

The cheek of Eulalie turned ashy pale. "Under your roof!" she

faltered. "Do you know the penalty of sheltering a fugitive from

justice?"

"It is death upon the scaffold," answered the young merchant, calmly.

"But better that a thousand times than the sin of ingratitude; the sin

of turning a deaf ear to the claims of humanity."

"My own noble Eugene!" exclaimed the young girl, enthusiastically,

pressing her lover's hand. "Every day increases my love, my respect

for you, and my sense of my own unworthiness. But you will never have

to blush for the inferiority of your wife."

"What do you mean, dearest?" inquired Eugene, with alarm.

"This is no time for marriage," said Eulalie, sadly. "Images of death

and violence meet our eyes whichever way they turn. We were born,

Eugene, in melancholy times, and our loves are misplaced. We shall

meet hereafter; on this earth, I fear, our destinies will never be

united."

"Prophetess of evil!" said Beauvallon, gayly. "Your rosy lips belie

your gloomy augury. No, Eulalie, this dark cloud cannot forever

overshadow the land--even now I think I can see glimpses of the blue

sky. _Le bon temps viendra_,--the good time is coming,--and then,

Eulalie, be sure that I will claim your promised hand."

The conversation of the lovers had been so animated and interesting

that they did not notice the moment when old Mannette had glided like

a spectre from the apartment.

Beauvallon lingered a while,--"parting is such sweet sorrow,"--and

finally reluctantly tore himself from the presence of Eulalie,

promising to see her again on the ensuing day, and let her know

whatever had transpired in the interim.

As he approached the street in which his store and house were

situated, he heard the confused murmur of a multitude, and soon

perceived, on turning the corner, that a very large crowd was

collected outside his door. There were men and women--many of the

former armed with pikes and sabres--the latter, the refuse of the

populace, who appeared like birds of evil omen at every scene of

violence and tumult.

A hundred voices called out his name as he approached, and menacing

gestures were addressed to him by the multitude.

"Citizens," said the merchant, "what is the meaning of all this?"

"You shall know, traitor," shrieked a palsied hag of eighty, whose

lurid eyes had already gloated on every public execution that had

taken place in Toulouse. "Here is Citizen Dumart of the revolutionary

committee--ah, _he_ is a true friend of the people--he is no

aristocrat in disguise! _Vive le Citoyen Dumart!_"

"Long live Citizen Dumart! Down with the aristocrats!" shouted a

hundred voices.

The Citizen Dumart was a sallow-faced man, dressed in rusty black,

wearing an enormous tri-colored cockade in his three-cornered hat,

with a sash of the same color girt around his waist. His bloodshot

eyes expressed a mixture of cowardice with ferocity. He was flanked by

a couple of pikemen as hideous as the Afrites of Eastern romance.

"Citizen Beauvallon," said he, in a voice whose tremor betrayed his

native timidity, "I arrest you in the name of the revolutionary

committee of Toulouse. Citizen Beauvallon, it is useless to resist the

authority of the representatives of the people; if you have any

concealed weapons about you, I advise you to surrender them. You see I

stand here protected by the arms of the people."

"I have no weapons," replied Beauvallon. "I have no sinister designs.

I know not why I am arrested. Acquaint me with the charge, and

confront me with my accusers."

"Seize upon the prisoner!" cried Dumart to his satellites. And he

breathed freer when he saw the merchant in the gripe of two muscular

ruffians, whose iron hands compressed his wrists as if they were

manacles.

"Away with him!" screamed the hag who had spoken before. "Away with

him to the revolutionary committee! Down with the aristocrats!"

Followed by the imprecations of the crowd, Beauvallon was conducted to

the town house, and in a very few moments was placed at the bar of the

revolutionary committee--a body invested with the power of life and

death. On his way thither he had found means to speak a word to an

acquaintance in the crowd, and to beg him to inform Eulalie of what

had happened.

So soon as he had heard the accusation read, and knew that he was

charged with the crime of aiding the Marquis de Montmorenci, a

fugitive from justice, he felt that his situation was indeed critical;

but mingled with his astonishment and dread was a curiosity to learn

whence his denunciation could have proceeded--who could have lodged

the information against him. He was not long kept in suspense, for the

witness brought on the stand to confront him was no other than

Mannette, the supposed deaf servant of Eulalie Lasalle, who had

overheard his confession of the morning, and hastened to denounce him.

Though his sentence was not immediately pronounced, and the decision

of his case was deferred till the next day, Beauvallon felt that his

doom was sealed.

He was conveyed to a house in the vicinity of the town hall for

confinement, as the prisons were all overstocked. His jailer was a man

whom the merchant had formerly befriended, and whose heart was not

inaccessible to emotions of pity, though he was above bribery, and

evidently determined to execute his duty to the letter.

"I have a favor to ask of you, my friend," said the prisoner, slipping

a golden louis into his hand.

"If it is one that I can grant without violating my duty," replied the

jailer, returning the money to Beauvallon, "I will do so for the sake

of old times, but not for gold."

Beauvallon explained that he wished to send a note to Mlle. Lasalle,

requesting her to visit him in prison--an interview which would

probably be their last, and the jailer undertook readily to see the

missive delivered, and to permit the visit. The note having been

despatched, Beauvallon sat down to wait for the arrival of his

mistress.

The sad hours passed away,--but though he learned from the jailer that

his errand had been performed, no Eulalie made her appearance.

"She forsakes me!" he muttered bitterly. "The wounded deer is

abandoned by the herd, and an unfortunate man is shunned by his

fellows. Well, the dream was pleasant while it lasted--the regret of

awakening can scarce be tedious--a few hours, and all the incidents of

this transitory life will be forgotten. But Eulalie--whom I loved

better than my life itself--it is hard to die without one word from

thee."

When on the following day Beauvallon was again taken before the

revolutionary committee, he looked anxiously around the court room to

see if he could discover the face of Eulalie among the spectators,

many of whom were women. But he was disappointed. Her absence

convinced him that she had abandoned him, and wholly absorbed by this

reflection, he paid no attention to the formula of his trial. He was

condemned to death, the sentence to be executed on the following day.

"Mr. President," said he, rising, "I thank you, and I have merely one

favor to ask. Anticipate the time of punishment--let it be to-day

instead of to-morrow--let me go hence to the scaffold."

"Your request is reasonable," replied the president, in a bland voice,

"and if circumstances permitted, it would afford me the greatest

pleasure to grant it. But the guillotine requires repair, and will not

be in a condition to perform its functions until to-morrow, at which

time, Citizen Beauvallon, at the hour of ten, A.M., you will have

ceased to exist. Good night, and pleasant dreams!"

This sally was received with roars of applause, and the unhappy

prisoner was reconducted to the place of confinement.

That night was a sleepless one. Beauvallon's arrest, his speedy trial

and condemnation, the desertion of Eulalie, had followed each other

with such stunning rapidity, that, until now, he had hardly time to

reflect upon the dismal chain of circumstances--now they pressed upon

his attention, and crowded his mind to overflowing. At midnight, as he

lay tossing on his bed, upon which he had thrown himself without

undressing, he thought he heard a confused noise in the apartment of

the next house adjoining his. The noise increased. He placed his hand

upon the wall, and felt it jar under successive shocks. Suddenly a

current of air blew in upon him, and at the same time a faint ray of

light streamed through an opening in the partition.

"Courage!" said a soft voice. "The opening enlarges. Now, Julie!"

Julie! Beauvallon was sure he heard the name, and yet uncertain

whether or not he was dreaming.

"Julie!" he exclaimed, cautiously.

"Yes, monsieur--it is Julie--sure enough," answered a pleasant voice.

"Then you, at least, have not forgotten me."

"No one who has once known you can ever forget you. Courage! you will

soon be free. Aid us if you can."

"Then you are not alone?"

"Have patience, and you will see."

His own exertions, added to those of his friends without, soon enabled

the prisoner to force his way into the next house; but there

disappointment awaited him. Two soldiers in the uniform of the

_gensdarmerie_ stood before him.

"_On ne passe par ici_,--you can't pass here,"--said one.

"What cruel mockery is this?" cried Beauvallon. "Is it not enough that

I am condemned to death, but you must subject me to an atrocious

pleasantry? This is refinement of cruelty."

"It seems that our disguise is perfect, Julie," said the soldier who

had not yet spoken. "Eugene does not know his best friends."

In an instant the speaker was folded in the arms of Beauvallon. It was

Eulalie herself, as bewitchingly beautiful in her uniform as in the

habiliments of her sex. She hurriedly explained that the moment she

heard of Eugene's arrest, she prepared to meet the worst contingency.

She had already converted her money into cash. Learning the place of

his imprisonment, she had hired, through the agency of another person,

the adjoining house, which happened to be unoccupied. The task of

making an aperture in the partition was an easy one--the difficulty of

passing through the city was greater. The idea of military disguises

then occurred. Julie and herself had already equipped themselves, and

they were provided with a uniform for Beauvallon.

Secured by this costume, the three fugitives ventured forth. In the

great square of the city, workmen were busily employed in repairing

the hideous engine of death, and Beauvallon passed, not without a

shudder, beneath the very shadow of the guillotine, to which he had

been doomed.

Seated on the cold ground, beneath the fatal apparatus, was an old

woman muttering to herself.

"Good evening, citizens," said she. "We shall have a fine day for the

show to-morrow. Look how the bonny stars are winking and blinking on

the gay knife blade they've been sharpening. It will be darker and

redder when the clock strikes ten again. Down with the aristocrats!"

The fugitives needed no more to quicken their steps. They reached the

frontiers in safety, and beyond the Rhine, in the hospitable land of

Germany, the lovers were united; nor did they return to France till

the star of Robespierre had set in blood, and the master mind of

Napoleon had placed its impress on the destinies of France.

THE OLD CITY PUMP.

Many evenings since, we were passing up State Street late at night.

State Street at midnight is a very different affair from State Street

at high noon. The shadows of the tall buildings fall on a deserted

thoroughfare; save where, here and there, a spectral bank watchman

keeps ward over the granite sepulchres of golden eagles, and the

flimsier representatives of wealth. The bulls and bears have retired

to their dens, and East India merchants are invisible. Newsboys are

nowhere, and every sound has died away. There stands the Old State

House, peculiar and picturesque, rising with a look of other days, a

relic of past time, against the deep blue sky, or webbing the full

moon with the delicate tracery of its slender spars and signal

halliards. And there stands--no! there stood the old Town Pump. But it

is no more--_Ilium fuit_ was written on its forehead--it has been

reformed out of office, its occupation has gone, its handle has been

amputated, its body has been dissected, and there is nothing of it

left.

Yet on the evening to which we alluded in the beginning, the old pump

was there, and crossing over from the Merchants Bank, we leaned

against its handle, as one leans against the arm of an old friend, in

a musing, idle mood. Presently we heard a gurgling sound and confused

murmurs issuing from its lips--"like airy tongues that syllable men's

names." Anon these murmurs shaped themselves into distinct

articulations, and as we listened, wonderingly, the old pump spoke:--

"Past twelve o'clock, and a moonlight night. All well, as I'm a pump.

Nobody breaking into banks, and nobody kicking up rows--watchmen fast

asleep, and every body quiet. But I can't sleep. No! the city

government has murdered sleep! There's something heavy on my buckets,

and I fear me, I'm a gone sucker! They thought I couldn't find out

what they were up to--the municipal government--but I'm a deep one,

and I know every thing that's going for'ard. What a jolly go, to be

sure! They told me Mayor Bigelow hated proscription--but I knew it was

gammon! He must follow the fashion, and Cochituate is all the go.

There ain't no pumps now--it's all fountain! Pump water is full of

animalculae, and straddle bugs don't exist in pond water--of course

not. Nobody ever see young pollywogs and snapping turtles floating

down stream in fly-time. Certainly not! I'm getting old--of course I

am; that's the talk! I've been in office too long. Well, well, I know

I'm rather asthmatic and phthisicky--but nobody ever knowed me to

suck, even in the driest time. These living waters have welled up even

from the time when the salt sea was divided from the land, and the

rocks were cloven by the hand of Omnipotence, and the sweet spring

came bursting upward from the fragrant earth, and light and flowers

came together to welcome the birthday of the glad and glorious gift.

Here, many a century back, the giant mastodon trod the earth into deep

hollows, as he moved upon his sounding path. Then came another time.

In the hollow of the three hills, the Indian raised his bark wigwam,

and the smoke of his council fire curled up like a mist-wreath in the

forest. Here the red man filled the wild gourd cup when he returned

weary from the chase or the skirmish. And here, too, the Indian

maiden smoothed her dark locks, and her lustrous, laughing eyes gazed

upon the image of her own dusky beauty, mirrored on the surface of the

wave. By and by the red man ceased to drink of my unfailing rill.

Beings with pale faces came to me to quench their thirst; bearded lips

were moistened with my diamond drops; and I looked up upon iron

corselet and steel hauberk, and faces harder than either. But the old

Puritans gave me form and substance--a 'local habitation and a name.'

The spirit of the fountain was wedded to its present tabernacle. The

dwellings of men sprang up around me in the place of the departing

forest. I gave them all a cheerful welcome. If the colonists worked

hard, I worked harder yet. I filled their pails and cups, and revived

their failing hearts, and cheered their unremitting labors. They

called me their friend. The pretty girls smiled upon me, as, under

pretence of levying contributions on my treasures, they chatted with

young men who gathered at my side. Then came a sterner period. I heard

no more love tales--no more idle gossip. Men stood here, and spoke of

deep wrong, of tyranny, of trampled rights, of resistance, of liberty!

That was a word I had not heard since the red man drank of my

unfettered tide. One night, there was a great gathering here. There

were men and boys, a multitude. There was much angry talk and much

confusion. Then I heard the roll of the drum and the regular tramp of

an armed force. A band of British soldiers, all resplendent with

scarlet, and gold, and burnished muskets that glittered in the

moonbeams, were formed into line at the command of an officer, and

confronted the dark array of citizens. Then came an angry

discussion--orders on the part of the commander for the multitude to

disperse, which were unheeded or disobeyed. Then that line of

glittering tubes was levelled. I heard the fatal word "fire!" the

flame leaped from the muzzles of the muskets, and the volley crashed

and echoed in the street. Blood flowed upon the pavement--the blood of

citizens mingled with my waters, and I was the witness of a fearful

tragedy. In after times, I heard it named the Boston Massacre. Since

then, I have seen hours of sunshine and triumph, of fun and frolic, of

anger and rejoicing. My waters have laved the dust that it might not

soil the uniform of Washington as he rode past on his snow-white

charger, amid the acclamations of the multitude. I have seen Hull and

his tars pass up the street, bearing the stripes and stars in triumph

from the war of the ocean. I have heard long-winded orators spout over

my head in emulation of my craft, "in one weak, washy, everlasting

flood." I have seen many a military, many a civic pageant. The last I

witnessed was, as Dick Swiveller remarks, a 'stifler.' It was that

confounded Water Celebration. Republics _is_ ungrateful. I was

forgotten on that occasion. Nobody drank at the old city pump. People

sat on my head and stood on my nose, just as if I had no feelings. I

heard a young lady in the gallery overhead say, 'Well, that horrid old

pump will soon be out of the way now.' And a city father answered her,

'Of course.' It was a workin' then--treason and fate, and all them

things. I knew they were going to 'put me out of my misery,' as the

saying goes. I'm getting superannuated--I heard 'em say so. Sometimes

an office boy tastes a drop, and then turns up his nose,--as if it

wasn't pug enough before,--and says, 'What horrid stuff! the

Cochituate for my money!' General Washington's canteen was filled

here--and he said, 'Delicious!' when he raised it to his lips. But he

was no judge, of course not. Time was when I wasn't slow but I'm not

fast enough for this generation. When folks write letters with

lightning, and sail ships with tea-kettles, pumps can't come it over

'em. Well, well, I'll hold out to the last--I'll make 'em carry me off

and bury me decently at the city's expense, and perhaps some kind old

friend will write my epitaph."

The old pump was mute--the speech was ended--its "song had died into

an echo." We passed on mournful and thoughtful. Republics are

ungrateful--old friends are forgotten with a change of fashion, and

there is a period to the greatness of town pumps as well as the glory

of individuals.

THE TWO PORTRAITS.

"Beautiful! beautiful!" exclaimed Ernest Lavalle, as, throwing himself

back in his chair, he contemplated, with eyes half shut, a lovely

countenance that smiled on him from a canvas, to which he had just

added a few hesitating touches. It was but a sketch--little more than

outline and dead coloring, and a misty haze seemed spread over the

face, so that it looked vision-like and intangible. The young

painter's exclamation was not addressed to his workmanship--he was not

even looking at that faint image; but, through its medium, was gazing

on lineaments as rare and fascinating as ever floated through a poet's

or an artist's dream. Deep, lustrous blue eyes, in whose depth

sincerity and feeling lay crystallized; features as regular as those

of a Grecian statue; a lip melting, ripe, and dewy, half concealing,

half revealing, a line of pearls; soft brown hair, descending in waves

upon a neck and shoulders of satin surface and Parian firmness. Such

were some of the external traits of loveliness belonging to

"A creature not too bright and good

For human nature's daily food,"

who had completely actualized the ideal of the young Parisian artist,

into whose studio we have introduced our readers. The fair original,

whose portrait is before us, was Rose d'Amour, a beautiful actress of

one of the metropolitan theatres, who had just made her debut with

distinguished success. There was quite a romance in her history. Of

unknown parents, she had commenced her career--like the celebrated

Rachel--as a street singer, and was looking forward to no more

brilliant future, when her beauty, genius, and purity of character

attracted the attention of a distinguished newspaper editor, by whose

benevolent generosity she was enabled to prepare herself for the

stage, by two or three years of assiduous study. The success of his

protegee more than repaid the kind patron for his exertions and

expenditure.

A word of Ernest Lavalle, and it shall suffice. He was the son of a

humble vine dresser in one of the agricultural departments of France.

His talent for drawing, early manifested, attracted the notice of his

parish priest, whose earnest representations induced his father to

send the boy to Paris, and give him the advantages afforded by the

capital for students of art. In the great city, Ernest allowed none of

the attractions, by which he was surrounded, to divert him from the

assiduous pursuit of his beloved art. His mornings were passed in the

gallery of the Louvre, his afternoons in private study, and his

evenings at the academy, where he drew from casts and the living

model. The only relaxation he permitted himself, was an occasional

excursion in the picturesque environs of the French capital; and he

always took his sketch book with him, thus making even his pleasure

subservient to his studies. Two prizes obtained, for a drawing and a

picture, secured for him the patronage of the academy, at whose

expense he was sent to Italy, to pursue his studies in the famous

galleries of Rome and Florence. He returned with a mind imbued with

the beauty and majesty of the works of those great masters, whose

glory will outlive the canvas and marble which achieved it,

determined to win for himself a niche in the temple of Fame, or perish

in his laborious efforts to obtain it. At this time he was in his

twenty-second year. A vigorous constitution was his heritage; and his

rounded cheek glowed with the warm color of health. His strictly

classical features were enhanced by the luxuriance of his hair, which

he wore flowing in its native curls, while his full beard and mustache

relieved his face from the charge of effeminacy.

Ernest was yet engaged in the contemplation of the unfinished work--or

rather in dreaming of the bright original--when a light tap was heard

at his door. He opened it eagerly, and his poor studio was suddenly

illuminated, as it were, by the radiant apparition of Rose d'Amour.

She was dressed with a charming simplicity, which well became a sylph

like form, that required no adventitious aid from art.

"Good morning, Monsieur Lavalle!" said the beautiful actress,

cheerfully, as she dropped gracefully into the _fauteuil_ prepared for

her reception. "You find me in the best possible humor to-day, thanks

to this bright morning sun, and to the success of last night. _Mon

Dieu!_ so many bouquets! you can't think! Really, the life of an

_artiste_ begins to be amusing. Don't you find it so, as a painter?"

"I confess to you, mademoiselle, I have my moments of despondency."

"With your fine talent! Think better of yourself. I hope, at least,

that I have not been so unlucky as to surprise you in one of those

inopportune moments."

"Ah, mademoiselle," said the painter, "if it were so, one of your

smiles would dispel the cloud in a moment."

"Really!" replied the actress, gayly. "Are you quite sure there is no

flattery in the remark? I am aware that flattery is an essential part

of an artist's profession."

"Not of a true artist's," replied Ernest. "The aim and end of all art

is truth; and he who forgets it is untrue to his high mission."

"True," said the lady. "Well, then, _faites votre possible_--as

Napoleon said to his friend David--for I am anxious that this portrait

shall be a _chef-d'oeuvre_. I design it for a present."

"With such a subject before me," replied the painter "I could not

labor more conscientiously, if the picture were designed for myself."

The sitting passed away rapidly, for the artist; and he was surprised

when the lady, after consulting her watch, rose hastily, and

exclaimed, "That odious rehearsal! I must leave you--but you ought to

be satisfied, for I have given you two hours of my valuable time.

Adieu, then, until to-morrow."

With a smile that seemed natural to her, the beautiful girl vanished,

taking with her half the sunshine of the room.

The painter continued his labor of love. Indeed, so absorbed was he in

his employment, that he did not notice the entrance of a visitor,

until he felt a light tap on his shoulder, accompanied by the words,--

"Bravo, _mon cher_! You are getting on famously. That is Rose

herself--as radiant as she appears on the stage, when the focus of a

_lorgnette_ has excluded all the stupid and _ennuyantes_ figures that

surround her."

The speaker was Sir Frederic Stanley, an English baronet, now some

months in Paris, where he had plunged into all the gayeties of the

season. He was a handsome man, of middle age, whose features bore the

impress of dissipation.

"You know the original, then?" asked the painter, somewhat coldly.

"Know her! My dear fellow, I don't know any body else, as the Yankees

say. Why, I have the entry of the _Gaite_, and pass all my evenings

behind the scenes. I flatter myself--but no matter. I have taken a

fancy to that picture: what do you say to a hundred louis for it?"

"It is not for me to dispose of it."

"You have succeeded so well, you wish to keep it for yourself--eh?

Double the price, and let me have it!"

"Impossible, Sir Frederic. It is painted for Mlle. d'Amour herself,

and she designs it for a present."

"Say no more," said the baronet, with a self-satisfied smile. "I think

I could name the happy individual."

Ernest would not gratify his visitor by a question, and the latter,

finding the artist reserved and _distrait_, suddenly recollected the

races at Chantilly, and took his leave.

"Can it be possible," thought the painter, "that Rose has suffered her

affections to repose on that conceited, purse-proud, elderly

Englishman? O, woman! woman! how readily you barter the wealth of your

heart for a handful of gold!"

Another tap at the door--another visitor! Really, Lavalle must be

getting famous! This time it is a lady--a lady of surpassing

loveliness--one of those well-preserved Englishwomen, who, at forty,

are as attractive as at twenty. This lady was tall and stately, with

elegant manners, and perhaps a thought of sadness in her expression.

She gazed long and earnestly upon the portrait of Rose d'Amour.

"It is a beautiful face!" she said, at length. "And one that

indicates, I should think, goodness of heart."

"She is an angel!" said the painter.

"You speak warmly, sir," said the lady, with a sad smile.

Ernest blushed, for he feared that he had betrayed his secret. The

lady did not appear to notice his embarrassment, and passed to the

occasion of her visit, which was to engage the young artist to paint

her portrait--a task which he readily undertook, for he was pleased

with, and interested in, his fair patroness. The picture was

immediately commenced, and an hour fixed for a second sitting, on the

next day. It was on that occasion that the fair unknown encountered

the actress, and they retired in company.

The two portraits were finished at the same time, and reflected the

greatest credit upon the artist. They were varnished, framed, and paid

for, but the painter had received no orders for their final

disposition, when, one morning, he was waited on by the two ladies,

who informed him that they should call upon him the following day,

when the two portraits would be presented, in his study, to the

persons for whom they were designed. The artist was enjoined to place

them on two separate easels,--that of the actress to stand nearest the

door of the studio, and both to be concealed by a curtain until the

ladies should give the signal for their exposure. The portrait of the

English lady, we will here remark, had, by her request, been hitherto

seen only by the artist. There was a mystery in this arrangement,

which piqued, excessively, the curiosity of the painter, and he was

anxious to witness the _denouement_.

The next day, at eleven o'clock, every thing was in readiness, and the

painter awaited the solution of the mystery.

The first person who presented himself was Sir Frederic Stanley. He

was very radiant.

"Congratulate me, _mon cher_," said he. "Read that."

Ernest took an open note from his hand, and read as follows:--

"Be at the studio of Ernest Lavalle, to-morrow, at eleven.

You will there receive a present, which, if there be any

truth in man's vows, will certainly delight you.

"Rose."

The astonishment and disappointment of Ernest was at its height, when

his door opened, and the actress entered, followed by a female,

closely veiled.

"You are true to your appointment, Sir Frederic," said the actress,

gayly, "and your punctuality shall be rewarded."

She advanced to the farther easel, and, lifting the curtain, disclosed

the features of the English lady.

"This is for you!" she said, laughing.

"My wife! by all that's wonderful!" exclaimed the baronet.

"Accompanied by the original!" said Lady Stanley, as she unveiled and

advanced. "Sir Frederic! Sir Frederic! when you were amusing yourself,

by paying unmeaning attentions to this young lady, I am afraid you

forgot to tell her that you had a wife in England."

"I thought it unnecessary," stammered the baronet.

"How could you disturb the peace of mind of a young girl, when you

knew you could not requite her affection?" continued Lady Stanley.

"It was only a flirtation, to pass the time," said Sir Frederic; "but

I acknowledge it was culpable. My dear Emeline, I thank you for your

present. I shall ever cherish it as my dearest possession--next to

yourself."

"For you, sir," said the beautiful actress, turning to Ernest, "I

cannot think of depriving you of your best effort. Take the portrait.

I wish the subject were worthier." And she withdrew the curtain from

her picture.

"I am ungrateful," said Ernest, in a low and tremulous tone. "Much as

I prize the picture, I can never be happy without the original."

"Is it so?" replied the actress, in the same low tone of emotion;

then, placing her hand timidly in his, she added, "The original is

yours!"

UNCLE OBED.

A FULL LENGTH PORTRAIT IN PEN AND INK.

Uncle Obed--we omit his family name for various reasons--lived away

down east, in a small but flourishing village, where he occupied a

snug house, and what with a little farming, a little fishing, a little

hunting, and a little trading, contrived, not only to make both ends

meet at the expiration of each year, but accumulated quite a little

property.

In personal appearance he was small, but muscular and wiry. He was far

from handsome; a pug nose, set between a pair of gooseberry eyes, a

long, straight mouth, a head of hair in which sandy red and iron gray

were mixed together, did not give him a very fascinating aspect. He

rarely smiled, but when he did, his smile was expressive of the

deepest cunning.

Uncle Obed had one grievous fault--an unhappy propensity for acquiring

the property of others--"a natural proclivity," as General Pillow

says, to stealing. The Spartans thought there was no harm in

stealing--in fact that it was rather meritorious than otherwise,

providing that it was never found out; and both in theory and

practice, Uncle Obed was a thorough Spartan. A few of his exploits in

this way will serve to show his extraordinary 'cuteness.

A neighbor of his had a black heifer with a white face, which

occasionally made irruptions into Uncle Obed's pasturage. One evening,

Obed made a seizure of her, and tied her up in his barn. He then went

to the owner of the animal.

"Mr. Stagg," said he, "there's been a cantankerous heifer a breaking

into my lot, and I've been a lookin' for her, and I've cotched her at

last."

"Well," said the unconscious Mr. Stagg, "I 'spose you're going to

drive her to the pound."

"No, I ain't," answered Uncle Obed, with the smile we have alluded to,

"I know a trick worth two of that. I'm going to kill her; and if you

won't say nothing to nobody, but'll come up to-night and help me, you

shall hev the horns and hide for your trouble."

"Done," said Mr. Stagg. "I'll come."

In the mean time, Uncle Obed took a pot of black paint, and covered

the white face of the heifer, so as to prevent recognition. The

neighbor came up at night, and helped despatch his own "critter,"

receiving the horns and hide for his pay, and laughing with Obed to

think how cleverly the owner had been "done."

The next day he missed his heifer, and called on Obed to ask if he had

seen her.

"I hain't seen her to-day," replied Uncle Obed, "but if you'll go to

the tannery, where you sold that hide, and 'll just take the trouble

to overhaul it, Mr. Stagg, prehaps you'll find out where your heifer

is."

_Pre_haps he did.

On another occasion Uncle Obed appropriated--we scorn to charge him

with stealing--a cow which had had the misfortune to lose her tail.

Stepping into a tannery, he cut off a tail, and sewed it on to the

fragment which yet decorated the hind quarters of the stolen animal.

He then drove her along towards the next market, and having to cross a

ferry, had just got on board the boat with his booty, when down came

the owner of the missing cow, "bloody with spurring, fiery red with

haste," and took passage on the same boat.

He eyed his cow very sharply, while Uncle Obed stood quietly by,

watching the result of the investigation.

"That's a pretty good cow, ain't it?" said Uncle Obed.

"Yes," replied the owner, "and if her tail was cut off, I could swear

it was mine."

Uncle Obed quietly took his knife out of his pocket, and cutting the

tail short off _above_ where the false one was joined on, threw it

into the river.

"Now, neighbor," said he, triumphantly, "can you swear that's your

cow?"

"Of course not," said the owner. "But they look very much alike."

After stealing something or other, we forget what, Uncle Obed was

observed, and the sheriff was sent in pursuit of him, in hot haste,

mounted on a fine and very fast horse. After a hard run, Uncle Obed

halted at the edge of a rough piece of ground, pulled off his coat,

and pulled down about a rod of stone wall, then quietly went to work

building it up again, as if that was his regular occupation.

Presently the sheriff came riding up on the spur, and reining in,

asked Obed if he had seen a fellow running for his life.

"Yes," said Obed, "I see him jest now streakin' it like a quarter hoss

in _that_ direction," pointing off. "But he was pretty nigh blown, and

I 'xpect you can catch him in about two minnits."

"Well, just hold my horse," said the sheriff, "and I'll overhaul him."

The sheriff scrambled over the stones and through the bushes in the

direction indicated, and the moment he was out of sight, Uncle Obed

jumped on the horse and rode off at the top of his speed. He rode his

prize to a town a good ways off, and sold the horse for a hundred and

fifty dollars.

For some similar exploit, he was arrested and committed to jail in

Essex county, to await his trial. But the prison being then in a

process of repair, Uncle Obed, with other victims of the law, was

incarcerated in the fort in Salem harbor. He made his escape, however,

by crawling through the sewer, as Jack Sheppard did from Newgate

prison. The sentinel on duty saw a mass of seaweed floating on the

surface of the water. Now, this was nothing extraordinary, but it

_was_ extraordinary for seaweed to float _against_ the tide. Uncle

Obed's head was in that floating mass. He was hailed and ordered to

swim back. He made no answer. A volley of musketry was discharged at

him, but no boat being very handy, he got off and made his escape,

very much after the manner of Rob Roy at the ford of Avondow.

Uncle Obed had a famous black Newfoundland dog, worth from sixty to

eighty dollars. When hard up, he used to take the dog about fifty or a

hundred miles from home, where he was unknown, and sell him. No matter

what the distance was, the dog always came back to his old master, who

realized several hundred dollars by the repeated sales of him.

Such were a few of the exploits of this departed worthy, actually

vouched for by contemporaries. His passion for stealing was

undoubtedly a monomania, for he was known in many cases to make

voluntary restitution of articles that he had purloined, and his

circumstances did not allow him the plea of necessity which palliates

the errors of desperately poor rogues in every eye except that of the

law.

THE CASKET OF JEWELS.

Mr. Luke Brandon was a Wall Street broker, of moderate business

capacity, little education, and of plain manners, partaking of the

rustic simplicity of his original employment--he was, in early life, a

farmer in one of the western counties of New York. With less talent

and more cunning, he might have become a very rich man, at short

notice; but being brought up in an old-fashioned school of morality,

he could never learn to dignify swindling by the epithet of smartness,

nor consider overreaching his neighbor a "fair business transaction."

Hence he plodded along the even tenor of his way, contented with

moderate profits, and satisfied with the prospect of becoming

independent by slow degrees.

But in an evil hour, during a fortnight's relaxation at the Catskill

Mountain House, this steady and respectable gentleman, at the mature

age of thirty-five, quite an old bachelor indeed, fell desperately in

love with a dashing girl of twenty, the orphan daughter of a bankrupt

ship chandler. Miss Maria Manners was highly educated; that is, she

could write short notes on perfumed billet paper, without making any

orthographical or grammatical mistakes, had taken three quarters'

lessons of a French barber, could work worsted lapdogs and embroider

slippers, danced like a sylph, and played on the piano indifferently

well. She had visited the Catskills on a matrimonial speculation, and

made a dead set at poor Brandon. Of course with his experience in the

ways of women, he fell a ready dupe to the fascinating wiles of Miss

Manners. She kept him in an agony of suspense for a week, during every

evening of which she waltzed with a young lieutenant of dragoons, who

was playing billiards and drinking champagne on a sick leave, until

she could hear from a fabulous guardian at Philadelphia, and obtain

his consent to a sacrifice of her brilliant prospects--nothing a year

and a very suspicious account at a fashionable milliner's.

Mr. Brandon went down to the city, purchased a snug house, furnished

it modestly, gave a liberal order on his tailor, and one memorable

morning, might have been seen looking very uncomfortable, in a white

satin stock and kids, beside a lady elegantly dressed in satin and

blonde lace, while a portly clergyman pronounced his sentence in the

shape of a marriage benediction.

There was a snug wedding breakfast in the new house, at which were

present several eminent apple speculators from Fulton market, two or

three bank clerks, and a reporter for a weekly newspaper, who consumed

a ruinous amount of sandwiches and bottled ale.

Before the honeymoon was over, the bride began to display some of the

less amiable features of her character. She sneered at the situation

and simplicity of the establishment, and protested she was

unaccustomed to that sort of style. She was perfectly sincere in this,

for the defunct ship chandler had lived in a basement and two attic

chambers.

By dint of repeated persecutions, she induced her husband to move into

a larger house; and finally, after the expiration of many years, we

find them established in the upper part of the city, in a splendid

mansion, looking out upon a fashionable square, with a little marble

boy in front sitting on a brick, and spouting a stream of Croton

through a clam shell.

One morning, Mr. Brandon came home about eleven o'clock. On entering

his front door, he beheld, lounging on a sofa, with the _Courrier des

Etats Unis_ in his hand, Claude, the handsome French page of Mrs. B.

"Where is Mrs. B.?" asked the elderly broker.

"Madame is in her boudoir," replied the page; "but," he added, seeing

his master move in that direction, "I do not know whether she is

visible."

"That I will ascertain myself, young gentleman," replied the broker,

with a slight shade of irony in his tone. "But tell me, is there any

one with her?"

"Only M. Auguste Charmant," said the page.

"That confounded Frenchman!" muttered the plebeian broker. "My Yankee

house is turned topsyturvy by these foreigners. There's a French cook,

and a French chambermaid, and the friend of the family is a Frenchman.

I don't know what I'm eating, and I hardly understand a word that's

said at my table. Sometimes, by way of change, they talk Italian

instead of French. One might as well associate with a stack of

monkeys. Out of the way, jackanapes."

"Monsieur," said the page, with true Gallic dignity, "I was about to

proceed to announce monsieur."

"Monsieur can announce himself," replied Brandon, with the grin of a

hyena; and proceeding up stairs, he entered the boudoir without

knocking.

Mrs. Brandon was lounging on a _fauteuil_, in an elegant morning

toilet--literally plunged and embowered in costly Brussels lace. Her

delicate, bejewelled fingers were playing with the petals of an

exquisite bouquet. Thanks to a good constitution, a life of ease, an

accomplished milliner and an incomparable dentist, the fair Maria,

though the mother of a marriageable girl, was still a lovely and

fascinating woman, and Brandon, as he gazed on her superb figure,

almost forgave her absurd ambition and her ruinous extravagance.

Still, when he glanced at his own anxious, emaciated, and careworn

features, in the splendid Versailles mirror that hung opposite, his

transitory pleasure gave way to stern and bitter feelings. He merely

nodded to his wife, and bowed coldly to her companion, a young man

attired in the height of fashion, with dark eyes and hair, and the

most superb mustache imaginable.

"Ah! my dear Meestare Brandon," said the dandy, "give me your hand. I

congratulate you on such a _bonne fortune_--such good luck as has

befallen you."

"Explain yourself, sir," said the broker.

"_Avec plaisir._ I have secured for you a box at the opera for the

whole season--and for only five hundred dollars."

The broker whistled.

"Really nothing," said Mrs. Brandon; "only think--the best troupe we

have yet had--a new _prima donna_ and a new _basso_."

"Fiddlestick!" said the matter-of-fact husband. "What does it amount

to?"

"Brandon," said the lady with a true maternal dignity, "reflect upon

the importance of the opera to the education of your daughter."

"Nonsense!" said the broker, angrily. "My daughter Julia would please

me much better if she cultivated a little common sense, and adopted

the plain, republican manners fitted to the eventualities of her

future life, instead of aping foreign fashions, and doing her best to

denationalize her character."

Monsieur Auguste Charmant shrugged his shoulders, Mrs. Brandon clasped

her hands, and the former, rising said,--

"_Au revoir_, madame, _au plaisir_, Monsieur Brandon. I will bid you

good morning, and leave you to the pleasures of a conjugal

_tete-a-tete_."

Mr. Brandon rose and paced the room to and fro for several minutes

after the departure of the Frenchman, narrowly eyed by Mrs. Brandon,

who was anticipating a "scene," and preparing to meet it. In these

contests the victory generally rested with the lady. The broker

finally opened the door, and finding the page with ear glued against

the keyhole, quietly took that young gentleman by the lobe of his left

ear, and leading him to the head of the staircase, advised him, as a

friend, to descend it as speedily as possible, before his gravitation

was assisted by the application of an extraneous power. This

accomplished, he returned to the boudoir, and locking the door, sat

down beside his wife. The latter playfully tapped his cheek with her

bouquet, but the broker took no notice of the coquettish action, and

gloomily contemplating his gaiters, as if afraid to trust his eyes

with the siren glances of his partner, commenced:--

"Mrs. B., I want to have some serious talk with you."

"You never have any other kind of small talk," retorted the lady. "You

have a rare gift at sermonizing."

Mr. Brandon passed over the sneer, and continued:--

"You alluded just now to Julia; it is of her I wish to speak. Let me

remind you of her future prospects, and ask you whether it be not time

to change your system of educating her, and prepare her for a change

of life. You will remember then, that, two years ago, with the

consent of all parties, she was engaged to Arthur Merton, a very

promising young dry goods merchant of Boston."

"Only a retail merchant," said Mrs. Brandon.

"A promising young merchant, the son of my old friend Jasper Merton.

It was agreed between us that I should bestow ten thousand dollars on

my daughter, and Merton an equal sum upon his son. In case of the

failure of either party to fulfil the engagement, the father of the

party was to forfeit to the aggrieved person the sum of ten thousand

dollars. This very week, I expect my old friend and his son to ratify

the contract. You know with what difficulty, owing to the enormous

expenses of our mode of life, I have laid aside the stipulated sum;

for in your hands, the hands of the mother of my child, I have lodged

this sacred deposit."

"Very true," said the lady, "and it is now in my secretary, under lock

and key. But what an odious arrangement! How the contract and the

forfeit smell of the shop!"

"Don't despise the smell of the shop, Maria," said the broker, smiling

gravely, "it is the smell of the shop that perfumes the boudoir."

"And then Arthur Merton is such a shocking person," continued the

lady; "really, no manners."

"To my mind, Maria," said the broker, "his manners, plain, open, and

frank, are infinitely superior to those of the French butterfly who is

always fluttering at your elbow."

"And if he is always fluttering at my elbow," retorted the lady, "it

is because you are always away."

"That is because I always have business," said the broker. "If we

lived in less style, I should have more leisure. Ah! Maria! Maria! I

fear that we are driving on too recklessly; the day of reckoning will

come--we seem to be sailing prosperously now, but a shipwreck may

terminate the voyage."

"Not while I have the helm," said the lady. "Listen to me, Brandon.

You know little of the philosophy of life. To command success, we must

seem to have obtained it. To be rich, we must seem so. You have done

well to follow my advice in one particular. You have taken a very

prominent part in the present presidential canvass. There cannot fail

to be a change of administration, and while you have been making

yourself conspicuous in public, I have been electioneering for you in

private. I have been feasting and petting the men who hold the winning

cards in their hands. It is not for mere ostentation that I have

invited to my _soirees_, the Hon. Mr. A., and Judge B., and Counsellor

C."

"I don't see what you're driving at," said the broker.

"O, of course not. But when you find yourself a _millionnaire_, and

all by the scheming of your wife, perhaps, B., you'd think there was

some wisdom in what you are pleased to call my fashionable follies.

But to make the matter plain--a change of administration occurs--you

are the confidential friend of the secretary of the treasury--your

talents as a financier are duly recognized--you have the management of

the most important loans and contracts--you have four years, perhaps

eight, to flourish in, and your fortune is made."

"Ah!" said the broker, doubtfully.

"If such success attends you, and there can be no doubt of it, how

painful would be your reflections, if you thought that you had

sacrificed your daughter's future in an alliance with a petty trader.

I have arranged a brighter destiny for her--a marriage with a foreign

nobleman."

"I'd rather see her the wife of a Yankee peddler."

"Out upon you!" cried the lady. "I tell you, your opposition will have

little weight, Mr. B. Come to my _soiree_ this evening, and I will

present you to Count Alfred de Roseville, an exile from France for

political offences--only think, B., he was the intimate friend of

Henry V."

"And who vouches for this paragon?"

"Our friend, Auguste."

"_Your_ friend, Auguste, you mean."

"I mean M. Charmant, the friend of the family."

"And what does Julia think of this Phoenix?"

"She adores him."

"Alas! how her gentleness of nature must have been perverted! Well,

well, Maria, in spite of myself, I cannot resolve to humble your

pride, or thwart your schemes. I believe you love me and your

daughter. Yet you are playing a desperate game--remember, our all is

staked upon the issue."

"And I'll await the hazard of the die," replied Mrs. B., as she kissed

her husband fondly, and dismissed him with a wave of the hand.

When Brandon came down into the hall, he was thunder-struck at meeting

there three persons, whose appearance, after what had just passed up

stairs in the boudoir, might well be considered inopportune. The first

was uncle Richard Watkins, a relative of Mr. Brandon's, who resided in

the country, and had become immensely rich by land speculations, and

the others were Mr. Merton and his son. A pile of baggage announced

that they were not mere callers.

"Give us your hand, Luke," said uncle Richard, extending his enormous

brown palm, "you ain't glad to see me, nor nothin', be you? Brought my

trunk, valise, carpet bag, and hatbox, and cal'late to spend six

weeks here. How's the old woman and the gal--pretty smart? Well,

that's hearty."

The broker shook the old man by the hand, and then turned to welcome

with the best grace he could his friend Merton, and his proposed

son-in-law.

"You know what _we've_ come for," said the elder Merton, with a sly

wink.

"Pray walk into the drawing room," said the broker, and 'on hospitable

thoughts intent,' he threw wide the door, and the party entered.

Ah! unlucky Brandon! why didst thou not summon the French page to

announce thy guests? Thou hadst then been spared a scene that might

have figured in a comedy, and came near furnishing material for a

tragedy.

An elegant young man was kneeling at the feet of an elegant young

lady. The former was Count Alfred de Roseville, the latter Miss Julia

Brandon. The count started to his feet, the young lady blushed and

shrieked. The count was the first to recover his voice and

self-possession. Rushing to the broker, he exclaimed in broken

English,--

"O, my dear monsieur, how I moost glad to see you--your daughter--Mees

Julie--she 'ave say--yais--yais--yais--to my ardent love suit--and now

I have the honneur to salute her respectable papa."

"O, father," said the terrified girl, "it was with mother's knowledge

and consent."

Brandon could not speak a word.

"This lady, sir," said Merton, fiercely, advancing to the count, "is

my affianced bride."

"Your bride--eh?" cried the count, "when she has just come to

say--yais--to my ardent love suit!"

"What does the gal say? what does the gal say?" asked uncle Richard,

interposing.

"Speak, Julia," said her father, sternly, "and weigh well your words.

I will not force you to fulfil a contract against your will--the

penalty and contingency of such a refusal have been provided for--but

pause before you reject the son of my old friend for a foreigner--a

man with whom you can have had but a few days' acquaintance."

Julia averted her eyes, and blushed scarlet, but placed her hand in

that of the count just as her mother entered the apartment.

"Enough," said young Merton, "I am satisfied. Come, father, let us

retire--our presence here is only a burden. O, Julia!" he added, in a

tone of deep feeling, "little did I expect this at your hands. I have

looked forward to this meeting with the fondest hope. It is

past--farewell--may you be happy."

"I shall be very happy to see you again--nevair!" said the count.

"O, as to that," said young Merton, approaching him, and addressing

him in a low tone, "I think _you_, at least, have not seen the last of

me, monsieur. At any rate, you shall hear from me soon."

"I 'ave not nozzin to do nor not to say viz _canaille_," said the

count.

"Then, perhaps, it will be more agreeable to you, sir, to be

horsewhipped in Broadway," said Merton.

"Me! horsevhip! me! the friend of Henri V.! horreur!" cried the count.

"Very good, monsieur, I have presented the alternative. Where may you

be found?"

"_Hotel de Ville_--City Hotel."

"_Au plaisir_, then _Count_ Alfred de Roseville," said Merton,

glancing at the card the Frenchman handed him. "Come, father."

"Mr. Brandon, I shall wait on you at your counting room in the course

of the forenoon," said Mr. Merton, senior; "we have an account to

settle together."

And the father and son bowed themselves out of the room. Julia was so

much agitated at the events which had just transpired, that she was

compelled to retire to her room. Uncle Richard and Mr. and Mrs.

Brandon remained upon the field of battle.

"Well, Maria," said the broker, "the first act of the comedy has been

played, in which you have assigned me a very insignificant and

low-comedy part, but I don't think either of us has made a very

distinguished figure in it. I hope the last act will redeem the

first."

The lady reddened, but made no reply.

"Let us foot up the column to see what amount is to be carried

forward," continued the broker. "Here's an old friendship dissolved--a

worthy young man broken hearted--a suspicious suitor introduced into

my family, and ten thousand dollars to be paid on demand. A very

pretty morning's work."

"It will come out right," said Mrs. Brandon.

"As the boy remarked when he was gored by the cow's horn," observed

uncle Richard, philosophically, as he extended his length upon an

ottoman, including his boots in the enjoyment of the comfort of cut

velvet.

"I leave uncle Richard to your care, madam," said the broker, "while I

go down in town to ascertain the value of my new son-in-law's paper

upon 'change."

* * * * *

On an evening not long after the above scenes, the broker's house was

brilliantly lighted up from basement to attic. Through the open hall

door, at the head of the flight of marble steps, servants in livery

were seen receiving the shawls and hats of the guests, as carriage

after carriage deposited its brilliant contents at the house of the

financier. Mingled with the black coats of the gentlemen, and the

gossamer attire of the ladies, were seen the brilliant uniforms of

officers of the army and navy. The crowd poured into the magnificent

ball room, where, flanked by her husband, and by the indefatigable

Monsieur Charmant, the lovely hostess received her guests with an

elegance of manner truly aristocratic. The delicious waltzes of

Strauss, performed by a German band, floated through the magnificent

rooms. Glistening chandeliers poured down a flood of soft light on the

fair faces and the polished ivory shoulders of the ladies. It was a

scene of enchantment, and Mrs. Brandon revelled in the splendor that

surrounded her and the incense that was offered. She was pleased at

the distinguished appearance of her husband, pleased to see her

daughter hanging on the arm of the French count, pleased at every

thing but one. One object alone, like the black mask at the bridal of

Hernani, marred the festivity, and created a discord in the midst of

the harmony--that was uncle Richard, walking up and down the ball room

in a meal-colored coat and cowhide boots.

Various efforts were made to get possession of uncle Richard and lead

him away into captivity. A whist table was suggested in an anteroom,

an Havana was proposed in the library, but he "didn't want to play

cards, and had just quit smoking," and so he paraded his coat and

boots before the company, the "observed of all observers."

Mrs. B. made the best of it, whispering confidentially that he was a

distant connection, immensely rich, partially insane, but perfectly

harmless. O, how dazzling was Mrs. Brandon that evening, in the

beauty of her person and of her attire! She wore diamonds that were

valued at ten thousand dollars.

In the midst of the brilliant festivities, Mr. Brandon was suddenly

summoned from the ball room. He presently returned, looking very pale,

and beckoned his wife, who followed him into the library. Mr. Merton,

senior, was there, with a very stern expression on his countenance.

"What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Brandon.

"The matter," said her husband, "is simply this--Mr. Merton leaves

town to-night for Philadelphia, on special business, and having

occasion for a large sum of money, requires the immediate payment of

the ten thousand dollars which are due him for our violation of the

marriage contract."

"Yes, madam," said Mr. Merton, "and I called on your husband for it,

and he referred me to you as having the deposit in your possession."

"Wouldn't to-morrow do as well?" asked the lady anxiously.

"No, madam, my necessity is urgent."

"Go, Maria," said the broker, "and bring the money instantly. A debt

like this admits of no postponement."

"Alas! alas!" stammered the poor woman, "I have not this money by me.

Surely, Mr. Brandon, you must be able to command it."

"Not one dollar, madam," said the broker. "I would have spared you

this explanation to-night, but you have brought it on yourself. This

is our last night of factitious splendor--my affairs are in

inextricable confusion--losses have this day come to light which

complete my ruin--and to-morrow the world will know me as a bankrupt."

Mrs. Brandon wrung her hands and sobbed bitterly.

"But that is a grief for to-morrow," said the broker, sternly. "There

is music and dancing, champagne and flowers, in the next room--enough

glory for to-night. But this business of Mr. Merton's requires instant

attention. What have you done with the ten thousand dollars? Have you

dared to squander it?"

"No, no," said Mrs. Brandon earnestly. "I am not so bad as that. I

deposited it with Sandford, the jeweller, of whom I hired the casket

of jewels to deck myself to-night."

"Mr. Merton," said the broker, calmly, "I shall have to trouble your

patience a little while longer. I will write instantly to Mr.

Sandford, late as it is, and bid him bring the money here at once."

After despatching the note, Brandon and his wife returned to the ball

room. O, how insipid to the lady's ear seemed now the babble of her

guests! The flowers had lost their perfume--the music its divine

influence. Yet, with the serpent of remorse and anguish gnawing at her

heart, she was forced to smile and seem happy and at ease. A half hour

passed in this way seemed an age of torture; and when the messenger

despatched by her husband had returned and summoned them again to the

library, it gave her inexpressible relief.

"O, Mr. Sandford!" she exclaimed to the jeweller, who was now added to

the party, "how happy I am to see you! There is your casket--and here

are your diamonds!" and she tore the jewels from her neck, ears, and

wrists, and offered them to the jeweller.

"Madam," said the jeweller, gravely, after having examined the gems,

"these are not the articles I furnished you. I lent you a set of

diamonds--these are paste!"

"What is the meaning of this?" asked the broker sternly.

"I know not. I cannot explain. O, Luke! Luke! I am innocent!" and Mrs.

Brandon sunk fainting into a chair.

When she had recovered her senses, Mr. Brandon asked,--

"Did you make this arrangement in person?"

"No," she replied; "it was through the mediation of Mr. Charmant."

"Let's send for him," said Merton.

"Stay," said the broker; "an idea has occurred to me. I have observed

at times that this Monsieur Charmant had a good deal to say to your

French page, my good lady."

"It was he that recommended Claude," said Mrs. Brandon.

"Then we will have Claude before us," said the broker.

Claude soon made his appearance.

"Claude," said Mrs. Brandon, "do you know any thing about this casket

of jewels?"

The boy changed color, but shook his head.

"Now, my Christian friend," said the broker, "you need not tell us

what you know about the jewels, if you are unwilling; but in case of

your refusal, I shall send for a police officer, who will,

undoubtedly, drum the whole affair out of you."

The threat had the desired effect. The boy confessed that Charmant and

De Roseville were impostors--that they were not even Frenchmen, but a

brace of London thieves, who had picked up a knowledge of French

during a professional tour on the continent, and who had emigrated to

America for the purpose of introducing their art among our

unsophisticated countrymen. Charmant had been a jeweller, and this

enabled him to counterfeit the gems obtained of Mr. Sandford, which he

purposed disposing of at the first favorable opportunity. The boy

believed that Charmant had them about him at that moment. In England,

Charmant was known as French Jack, and Roseville as Rusty Joe.

"Go back to the ball room," said Mr. Merton to Brandon, "and take your

wife with you. Mr. Sandford, you stay by the boy. I'll go for an

officer."

Brandon and his lady returned to the ball room, the latter somewhat

relieved, but mortified at the deceptions which had been practised on

her.

In a few minutes a burly member of the police, with a very thick

stick, and a very red handkerchief knotted round his neck, made his

appearance, to the astonishment and consternation of the guests, amid

whom the host and hostess alone testified no excitement or alarm.

"Sarvant, ladies and gentlemen, sarvant," said the legal functionary,

scraping his right boot, and plucking desperately at the brim of his

hat. "Don't let me interrupt yer innercent amusement--sorry to

intrude, as the bull said when he rushed into the china shop--but

business before pleasure--now then, my hearty! how are you?"

The last words were accompanied by a vigorous blow on the shoulder of

M. Auguste Charmant, who was at that moment paying his attentions to a

belle from Union Square.

"_Monsieur me parle-t-il_?" exclaimed the dandy, with well-feigned

astonishment.

"O, nix the lingo, French Jack," said the officer, "or leastways

patter Romany so's a cove can understand you. Fork over them are

dimonds--or else it will go harder with you. The boy's peached, and

the game's up--you were spotted long ago."

With a smothered curse, French Jack dived his hand into his vest

pocket and produced the stolen jewels. While this was enacting, the

count had been quietly stealing to the door, but the vigilant officer

had an eye upon his movements, and a hand upon his shoulder before he

could escape.

"Now I've got the pair of you," said the worthy man, chuckling

apoplectically in the folds of his red handkerchief. "Now, don't ride

rusty, Joe--for there's a small few of us outside with amazin' thick

sticks, that might fall on your head and hurt you, if so be you

happened to be rambustical."

"Curse the luck!" muttered the thief, as with his companion he marched

off.

It may well be imagined that the scene dispersed the party in a hurry.

They took French leave, like birds scattered by a sudden storm. Julia

was carried to bed in hysterics, accompanied by her mother. Merton and

the jeweller had disappeared, the three rogues had been taken into

custody, and only Brandon and uncle Richard

----"trod alone

The banquet hall deserted."

"Well, uncle," said the broker, bitterly, "the game's up. I have been

ruined, stock and fluke, by letting my wife have her own way, and

to-morrow I shall be a bankrupt."

"No you won't," said uncle Richard.

"Yes I shall," said the broker, angrily. "And Julia, abandoned by her

lover, will be broken hearted."

"No she won't," said uncle Richard.

"Who's to prevent it?" asked the broker.

"Uncle Richard," replied that personage. "What's the use of a friend,

unless he's a friend in need. I've got plenty of money, and neither

chick nor child in the world. I'll meet your liabilities with cash.

Young Merton loves Julia in spite of her temporary alienation--he will

gladly take her back. The rogues will get their deserts. Your wife,

sick and ashamed of her fashionable follies, will gladly gin' up this

house and the servants. You'll buy a little country seat on the

Hudson, and I'll come and live with you."

As every thing turned out exactly as uncle Richard promised and

predicted, we have no occasion to enlarge on the fortunate subsiding

of this "sea of troubles."

ACTING CHARADES.

But, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not

written down, yet forget not that I am an

ass.--SHAKSPEARE, _Much Ado about Nothing._

Many of our readers have doubtless witnessed, or perchance

participated in, the amusement of acting charades--a divertisement

much in vogue in social circles, and if cleverly done, productive of

much mirth. To the uninitiated, a brief description of an acted

charade may not be unacceptable. A word of two or more syllables is

selected, each part of which must make sense by itself--as, for

instance, the word inspector, which would be decomposed, thus; _inn

spectre_. The company of performers would then extemporize a scene at

a public house, leaving the spectators to guess at the first syllable,

_inn_. The second scene would represent the terror occasioned by the

apparition of a phantom, and give the second part of the word spectre.

The third scene would represent the whole word, and would perhaps be a

brigade inspector reviewing his troops, giving occasion for the humors

of a Yankee militia training. Much ingenuity is required in the

selection of a word, and in carrying out the representation, with

appropriate dialogue, &c.

Acting charades generally turns a house topsy turvy; wardrobes and

garrets are ransacked for costumes and properties; hats, canes,

umbrellas, and firearms are mustered, and old dresses that haven't

seen the light for forty years are rummaged out as disguises for the

actors in these extempore theatricals.

In a certain circle in this city there was a knot of clever young

people, of both sexes, strongly addicted to acting charades, and very

happy in their execution. But they were unfortunately afflicted by an

interloper,

"Whose head

Was not of brains particularly full,"

one of those geniuses who have a fatal facility for making blunders.

Yet, with a pleasing unconsciousness of his deficiencies, he was

always volunteering his services, and always expected, in this matter

of acting charades, to be intrusted with the leading parts.

One evening the usual coterie was assembled, charades were proposed,

as usual, and the little knot of performers retired to the back

drawing room, dropping the curtain behind them, and prepared for their

performance, congratulating themselves that Mr. Blinks, the name of

the marplot, was not on hand to spoil their sport. They selected the

word _catastrophe_, and the curtain went up.

A very pretty and lively young lady, who had been abroad, gave a very

happy imitation of the almost inimitable Jenny Vertpre, in the French

vaudeville of the "Cat metamorphosed to a Woman," in that scene where

she betrays her original nature. She purred, she frolicked, she

pounced on an imaginary mouse, caught it, tossed it up in the air, and

went through all the manoeuvres of a veritable grimalkin. When the

curtain fell, amidst roars of laughter and applause, the first

syllable--cat--was whispered from mouth to mouth, among the audience.

At this moment the hated Blinks arrived in the green-room.

"What are you up to? Acting charades--eh? By Jove! I'm just in time.

You must give me a part--can't get along without me. What's the word?"

"No matter," said the young lady who had played the cat, with a wicked

smile of intelligence. "Prompter, ring the curtain up. All you've got

to do, Mr. Blinks, is to walk across the stage."

"But where's my dress?"

"What you have on. Appear in your own character."

The curtain went up, and Blinks stalked across with his accustomed air

of intolerable stupidity. Amidst smothered laughter, the audience

guessed the second syllable of the charade--_ass_.

The curtain went up for the third time. A group of Indian chiefs were

located in a wigwam. A young brave entered, distinguished by the eagle

plume and wampum belt, the bow and hatchet, and threw down at the feet

of the eldest warrior a bundle of the scalps he had brought back from

battle. A hum of approbation rose from the assembly. The curtain fell.

The word _trophy_ had been thus indicated. The whole word was then

represented by an appropriate scene from the close of a popular

tragedy, and the spectators, cheering the performance, called out

_catastrophe_ to the actors.

"Well, they made out to guess it," said Blinks, when the curtain had

fallen, for the last time. "But now it's all over, you made one

confounded blunder."

"What was that?" asked the wicked young lady.

"You didn't act the second syllable."

"No?"

"No! indeed!" said Blinks, with a look of intense cunning. "You had

_cat_ and _trophy_--but where was the _ass_?"

"O, indeed!" said the young lady.

"You see, ladies and gentleman," said Blinks, enjoying his triumph,

"you can't get along without me. If I'd been here in the beginning,

you'd have had the ass."

"We certainly should," said the young lady, winking to her companions,

who could hardly suppress their laughter.

"And I move we repeat this charade to-morrow night," said Blinks--"and

mind, I'm the ass."

"Of course."

"I'll get a costume and disguise myself."

"Disguise yourself!" echoed his tormentor--"for Heaven's sake, don't

do that--they'd never guess it."

The next night the charade was ass-ass-in, and Blinks went on for the

first two syllables. He was perfectly at home--"Richard himself

again!" and the wicked young lady, in complimenting his performance,

declared it was "_perfectly natural_."

THE GREEN CHAMBER.

In my younger days, "ghost stories" were the most popular narratives

extant, and the lady or gentleman who could recite the most thrilling

adventure, involving a genuine spiritual visitant, was sure to be the

lion or lioness of the evening party he enlivened (?) with the dismal

details. The elder auditors never seemed particularly horrified or

terror-stricken, however much gratified they were, but the younger

members would drink in every word, "supping full of horrors." After

listening to one of these authentic narratives, we used to be very

reluctant to retire to our dormitories, and never ventured to get into

bed till we had examined suspicious-looking closets, old wardrobes,

and, indeed, every nook and corner that might be supposed to harbor a

ghost or a ghoul.

Fortunately for the rising generation, these tales have gone out of

fashion, and though some attempts to revive the taste have been

made--as in the "Night Side of Nature"--such efforts have proved

deplorable failures. The young people of to-day make light of ghosts.

The spectres in the incantation scene of "Der Freyschutz" are received

with roars of laughter, and even the statue in Don Giovanni seems

"jolly," notwithstanding the illusive music of Mozart. We were about

to remark that the age had outgrown superstition, but we remembered

the Rochester knockings, and concluded to be modestly silent.

One evening, many years since--it was a blustering December

evening--the wind howling as it dashed the old buttonwood limbs in its

fury against the parlor windows of the country house where a few of us

were assembled to pass the winter holidays, we gathered before a

roaring fire of walnut and oak, which made every thing within doors as

cheery and comfortable as all without was desolate and dreary. The

window shutters were left unfastened, that the bright lamplight and

ruddy firelight might stream afar upon the wintry waste, and perhaps

guide some benighted wayfarer to a hospitable shelter.

We shall not attempt to describe the group, as any such portrait

painting would not be germane to the matter more immediately in hand.

Suffice it to say, that one of the youngsters begged aunt Deborah, the

matron of the mansion, to tell us a ghost story,--"a real ghost story,

aunt Deborah,"--for in those days we were terribly afraid of

counterfeits, and hated to hear a narrative where the ghost turned out

in the end to be no ghost after all, but a mere compound of flesh and

blood like ourselves.

Aunt Deborah smiled at our earnestness, and tantalized our impatience

by some of those little arts with which the practised story-teller

enhances the value and interest of her narrative. She tapped her

silver snuffbox, opened it deliberately, took a very delicate pinch of

the Lundy Foot, shut the box, replaced it in her pocket, folded her

hands before her, looked round a minute on the expectant group, and

then began.

I shall despair of imparting to this cold pen-and-ink record of her

story the inimitable conversational grace with which she embellished

it. It made an indelible impression on my memory, and if I have never

before repeated it, it was from a lurking fear that--though the old

lady assured us it was "not to be found in any book or newspaper"--it

might have found its way into print. However, as twenty years have

elapsed, and I have never yet met with it in type, I will venture to

give the outlines of the narrative.

Major Rupert Stanley, a "bold dragoon" in the service of his majesty

George III., found himself, one dark and blustering night in autumn,

riding towards London on the old York road. He had supped with a

friend who lived at a village some distance off the road, and he was

unfamiliar with the country. Though not raining, the air was damp, and

the heavy, surcharged clouds threatened every moment to pour down

their contents. But the major, though a young man, was an old

campaigner; and with a warm cloak wrapped about him, and a good horse

under him, would have cared very little for storm and darkness, had he

felt sure of a good bed for himself, and comfortable quarters for his

horse, when he had ridden far enough for the strength of his faithful

animal. A good horseman cares as much for the comfort of his steed as

for his own ease. To add to the discomfort of the evening, there was

some chance of meeting highwaymen; but Major Stanley felt no

uneasiness on that score, as, just before leaving his friend's house,

he had examined his holster pistols, and freshly primed them. A brush

with a highwayman would enhance the romance of a night journey.

So he jogged along; but mile after mile was passed, and no twinkling

light in the distance gave notice of the appearance of the wished-for

inn. The major's horse began to give unmistakable evidence of

distress--stumbling once or twice, and recovering himself with

difficulty. At last, a dim light suddenly appeared at a turn of the

road. The horse pricked up his ears, and trotted forward with spirit,

soon halting beside a one-story cottage. The major was disappointed,

but he rode up to the door and rapped loudly with the but of his

riding whip. The summons brought a sleepy cotter to the door.

"My good friend," said the major, "can you tell me how far it is to

the next inn?"

"Eh! it be about zeven mile, zur," was the answer, in the broad

Yorkshire dialect of the district.

"Seven miles!" exclaimed the major, in a tone of deep disappointment,

"and my horse is already blown! My good fellow, can't you put my horse

somewhere, and give me a bed? I will pay you liberally for your

trouble."

"Eh! goodness zakes!" said the rustic. "I be nought but a ditcher!

There be noa plaze to put the nag in, and there be only one room and

one bed in the cot."

"What _shall_ I do?" cried the major, at his wits' end.

"I'll tell 'ee, zur," said the rustic, scratching his head violently,

as if to extract his ideas by the roots. "There be a voine large house

on the road, about a moile vurther on. It's noa an inn, but the

colonel zees company vor the vun o' the thing--'cause he loikes to zee

company about 'un. You must 'a heard ov him--Colonel Rogers--a' used

to be a soger once."

"Say no more," cried the major. "I _have_ heard of this hospitable

gentleman; and his having been in the army gives me a sure claim to

his attention. Here's a crown for your information, my good friend.

Come, Marlborough!"

Touching his steed with the spur, the major rode off, feeling an

exhilaration of spirits which soon communicated itself to the horse. A

sharp trot of a few minutes brought him to a large mansion, which

stood unfenced, like a huge caravansery, by the roadside. He made for

the front door and, without dismounting, plied the large brass knocker

till a servant in livery made his appearance.

"Is your master up?" asked the major.

"I am the occupant of this house," said a venerable gentleman, making

his appearance at the hall door.

"I am a benighted traveller, sir," said the major, touching his hat,

"and come to claim your well-known hospitality. Can you give me a bed

for the night? I am afraid my four-footed companion is hardly able to

carry me to the next inn."

"I cannot promise you a bed, sir," said the host, "for I have but one

spare bed in the house."

"And that----" said the major.

"Happens to be in a room that does not enjoy a very pleasing

reputation. In short, sir, one room of my house is haunted; and that

is the only one, unfortunately, that I can place at your disposal

to-night."

"My dear sir," said the major, springing from his horse, and tossing

the bridle to the servant, "you enchant me beyond expression! A

haunted chamber! The very thing--and I, who have never seen a ghost!

What luck!"

The host shook his head gravely.

"I never knew a man," he said, "to pass a night in that chamber

without regretting it."

Major Stanley laughed as he took his pistols from the holster pipes.

"With these friends of mine," he said, "I fear neither ghost nor

demon."

Colonel Rogers showed his guest into a comfortable parlor, where a

seacoal fire was burning cheerfully in a grate, and refreshments most

welcome to a weary traveller stood upon a table.

"Mine host" was an old campaigner, and had seen much service during

the war of the American revolution, and he was full of interesting

anecdotes and descriptions of adventures. But while Major Stanley was

apparently listening attentively to the narrative of his hospitable

entertainer, throwing in the appropriate ejaculations of surprise and

pleasure at the proper intervals, his whole attention was in reality

absorbed by a charming girl of twenty, the daughter of the colonel,

who graced the table with her presence. Never, he thought, had he seen

so beautiful, so modest, and so ladylike a creature; and she, in turn,

seemed very favorably impressed with the manly beauty and frank

manners of their military guest.

At length she retired. The colonel, who was a three-bottle man, and

had found a listener to his heart, was somewhat inclined to prolong

the session into the small hours of the morning, but finding that his

guest was much fatigued, and even beginning to nod in the midst of his

choicest story, he felt compelled to ask him if he would not like to

retire. Major Stanley replied promptly in the affirmative, and the old

gentleman, taking up a silver candlestick, ceremoniously marshalled

his guest to a large, old-fashioned room, the walls of which being

papered with green, gave it its appellation of the "Green Chamber." A

comfortable bed invited to repose; a cheerful fire was blazing on the

hearth, and every thing was cosy and quiet. The major looked round him

with a smile of satisfaction.

"I am deeply indebted to you, colonel," said he, "for affording me

such comfortable quarters. I shall sleep like a top."

"I am afraid not," answered the colonel, shaking his head gravely. "I

never knew a guest of mine to pass a quiet night in the Green

Chamber."

"I shall prove an exception," said the major, smiling. "But I must

make one remark," he added, seriously. "It is ill sporting with the

feelings of a soldier; and should any of your servants attempt to play

tricks upon me, they will have occasion to repent it." And he laid

his heavy pistol on the lightstand by his bedside.

"My servants, Major Stanley," said the old gentleman, with an air of

offended dignity, "are too well drilled to dare attempt any tricks

upon my guests. Good night, major."

"Good night, colonel."

The door closed. Major Stanley locked it. Having done so, he took a

survey of the apartment. Besides the door opening into the entry,

there was another leading to some other room. There was no lock upon

this second door, but a heavy table, placed across, completely

barricaded it.

"I am safe," thought the major, "unless there is a storming party of

ghosts to attack me in my fastness. I think I shall sleep well."

He threw himself into an arm chair before the fire, and watching the

glowing embers, amused himself with building castles in the air, and

musing on the attractions of the fair Julia, his host's daughter. He

was far enough from thinking of spectral visitants, when a very slight

noise struck on his ear. Glancing in the direction of the inner door,

he thought he saw the heavy table glide backwards from its place.

Quick as thought, he caught up a pistol, and challenged the intruder.

There was no reply--but the door continued to open, and the table to

slide back. At last there glided into the room a tall, graceful

figure, robed in white. At the first glance, the blood curdled in the

major's veins; at the second, he recognized the daughter of his host.

Her eyes were wide open, and she advanced with an assured step, but it

was very evident she was asleep. Here was the mystery of the Green

Chamber solved at once. The young girl walked to the fireplace and

seated herself in the arm chair from which the soldier had just

risen. His first impulse was to vacate the room, and go directly and

alarm the colonel. But, in the first place, he knew not what apartment

his host occupied, and in the second, curiosity prompted him to watch

the _denouement_ of this singular scene. Julia raised her left hand,

and gazing on a beautiful ring that adorned one of her white and taper

fingers, pressed it repeatedly to her lips. She then sank into an

attitude of repose, her arms drooping listlessly by her sides.

The major approached her, and stole the ring from her finger. His

action disturbed, but did not awaken her. She seemed to miss the ring,

however, and, after groping hopelessly for it, rose and glided through

the doorway as silently as she had entered. She had no sooner retired

than the major replaced the table, and drawing a heavy clothes press

against it, effectually guarded himself against a second intrusion.

This done, he threw himself upon the bed, and slept soundly till a

late hour of the morning. When he awoke, he sprang out of bed, and ran

to the window. Every trace of the storm had passed away, and an

unclouded sun was shining on the radiant landscape. After performing

the duties of his toilet, he was summoned to breakfast, where he met

the colonel and his daughter.

"Well, major, and how did you pass the night?" asked the colonel,

anxiously.

"Famously," replied Stanley. "I slept like a top, as I told you I

should."

"Then, thank Heaven, the spell is broken at last," said the colonel,

"and the White Phantom has ceased to haunt the Green Chamber."

"By no means," said the major, smiling; "the White Phantom paid me a

visit last night, and left me a token of the honor."

"A token!" exclaimed the father and daughter in a breath.

"Yes, my friends, and here it is." And the major handed the ring to

the old gentleman.

"What's the meaning of this, Julia?" exclaimed the colonel. "This ring

I gave you last week!"

Julia uttered a faint cry, and turned deadly pale.

"The mystery is easily explained," said the major. "The young lady is

a sleep-walker. She came into my room before I had retired, utterly

unconscious of her actions. I took the ring from her hand, that I

might be able to convince you and her of the reality of what I had

witnessed."

The major's business was not pressing, and he readily yielded to the

colonel's urgent request to pass a few days with him. Their mutual

liking increased upon better acquaintance, and in a few weeks the

White Phantom's ring, inscribed with the names of Rupert Stanley and

Julia Rogers, served as the sacred symbol of their union for life.

HE WASN'T A HORSE JOCKEY.

It was at the close of a fine, autumnal afternoon, that a

simple-looking traveller, attired in a homespun suit of gray, and

wearing a broad-brimmed, Quaker-looking hat, drove up to the door of

the Spread Eagle Tavern, in the town of B----, State of Maine, kept by

Major E. Spike, and ordered refreshments for himself and horse. There

was nothing particular about the traveller, except his air of

simplicity; but his horse was a character. The animal was at least

thirty years of age, and was as gaunt as Rosinante, and would have

been a dear bargain at fifteen dollars. The traveller acknowledged

that he had been taken in somewhat when he bought the animal, for he

"wasn't a horse jockey," and "did'nt know much about critters!"

However, he added, "that if he had good luck in his trip down east,

[he was agent for a Hartford Life Assurance Company,] he meant to pick

up something handsome in the way of horse flesh to take home with

him." After communicating his name and business, and sundry other

particulars, with a frankness which, while it satisfied the curiosity,

excited the contempt of Major Spike, the stranger, whom we shall call

Zebulon Smith, departed.

He had a business call to make on the widow Stebbins, who lived about

three miles off, in a very old, unfinished, shingled house, of immense

extent, in the centre of an unfenced lot, the chief products of which

were rocks, brambles, and barberry bushes.

"Keep much stock, Miss Stebbins?" said he, as, having transacted his

business, he prepared to resume his journey.

"Why, no," said she; "I'm a lone woman, and hain't got no help; so I

keep only a cow and that 'ere colt. I wish I could sell him, for I

ain't got nobody to break him in properly."

Zebulon looked at the colt. He was a limpsey, long-legged, shaggy

animal, with a ewe-neck, drooping head, and little, undecided tail,

completely knotted up with burs; but then he was only five years old.

"Heow'll yeou trade, Miss Stebbins?" asked the agent. "I've a mind to

take the critter, if you'll trade even, though I don't know the pints

of a horse. I ain't a horse jockey. Heowever, you're a lone woman, and

I want to oblige you. You hain't got nobody to break the colt for you,

and here's my hoss would suit you to a T. He's a nice family hoss."

"Heow old is he?" asked Mrs. Stebbins.

"He's _risin'_ six years," said Zebulon, and so he was.

"He looks pretty well along," said the widow. "How much boot will you

give me?"

"Boot!" exclaimed Zebulon. "O, if you talk about boot, I'm off. I

ain't no horse jockey, but I know I'm flingin' my hoss--good old

hoss--away by tradin' even. But generosity and consideration for

widders--specially good-lookin' ones--was allers a failin' in my

family."

"I don't know as I had orter," said the widow, thoughtfully; "if Mr.

Stebbins was alive, you wouldn't get the colt so cheap, for he sot

every thing by him. He's sot his pedigree down in the births, deaths,

and marriages, in our family Bible. He allers said, poor man, he was

goin' to make a great hoss."

"That 'ere was an optical delusion," said the agent; "he warn't never

a goin' to make a great hoss, and he won't never be a great hoss. I

know so much, if I ain't a horse jockey. Come, now, what say? Shall I

ungear, and leave my critter, or put on the string and be a

travellin'?"

"You may have the colt," said the widow, bursting into tears, and

retiring, unable to witness the consummation of the sacrifice.

"Come, young Burtail," said Zebulon, addressing the colt. "It's time

you was sot to work. I don't know whether you ever had a collar over

your darned ewe-neck or not. I don't see how any thing short of a

crooked-neck squash could fit it; but I'll try mine on." And with

these words he harnessed up the colt, and leaving his old "hoss" with

the widow, drove on his way rejoicing.

About fifteen miles farther east, he stopped and put up at a tavern,

where he made an arrangement to leave the colt for a week, hiring the

landlord's horse to pursue his journey. He gave directions to have the

colt fed high in the interim, to have his tail nicked and put in

pulleys, his head checked up, and his coat carefully shaved according

to the new practice. A very astute hostler promised that every thing

should be done according to his directions, and to his perfect

satisfaction.

Accordingly, in a week's time, when Zebulon came back, he hardly knew

his bargain. The colt was fat as a hog. His sides shone like silver;

his mane was neatly trimmed; his tail was crimped, and rose and fell

in a graceful curve; and he carried his head as proudly as an Arabian.

With the metamorphosed animal in the fills, the agent drove back to

the Spread Eagle, and put up for the night. In the morning, he ordered

his team, and paid his bill. Major Spike, who was great on horses,

standing at the front door, was struck with the appearance of his

guest's "cattle."

"Been buying a new hoss?" said the major.

"Yes; I thought I'd try one, though I ain't a horse jockey," answered

the agent, making an excuse to examine the buckles of his harness.

"Don't want to sell him, do you?" said the major.

"Why, no, major, I reckon not. I expect he'll suit me fust rate. I'm

doin' pooty well, now, and can afford to hev' somethin' nice. I

calklate to keep him."

"I don't like his color," said the major.

"Well, I do," said Zebulon, getting into his wagon. "Good mornin',

major."

"Hold on," said the major. "I've got a hoss I want to show you. Jake,

bring out the bay, and let Mr. Smith have a squint at him."

The hostler brought out a square-built, chunky, bay horse, in fine

condition, and looking like a capital roadster.

"What do you think of _that_ hoss, Mr. Smith?" asked the major,

triumphantly.

"Pretty fair hoss," said the agent. "But I tell you I'm no judge of

horses; I ain't a horse jockey."

"Well, now, I tell you what," said the major; "I'm a darned fool for

doin' of it; but when I take a fancy, I don't mind expense to gratify

it. I'm willing to swap hosses even with you."

"Even!" screamed the agent. "Now, major, that's a good one. I ain't a

horse jockey. I don't know the value of the critters; but I ain't

altogether a reg'lar, soft-headed, know-nothin' fool; and if I had a

mind to part with this 'ere splendiferous animal, I should want boot."

"You're a hard one," said the major; "but as fur as twenty

dollars----"

"Twenty dollars! get out," said the agent, indignantly. "G'lang, Bob!"

and he actually started his team.

"Hold on!" roared the major. "What do you want?"

"Say forty, and I'll do it--no, I won't," said the agent.

"You said you would. It's a bargain. You said forty, didn't he, Jake?"

The hostler could not deny it.

"Well, you're the hardest customer _I_ ever see!" muttered the agent,

as he got out of the wagon. "This is the wust mornin's work I ever

did. Let me have your old bay, and be a travellin'. You'd hev' a

fellur's eye teeth afore he knowed it, ef you wanted 'em."

The major chuckled as he counted out forty dollars and handed them to

the agent. He eagerly assisted the hostler to ungear the coveted

horse; and when the bay was harnessed up, did not urge the agent to

stop, and the latter drove off, looking as melancholy as if he had

buried all his relations.

The major drove out with his new purchase that very day; but his

performance did not equal his expectations. However, as an experienced

horse jockey, he knew that great allowances are to be made for a green

horse, and he promised to train him up to "2.50," at the least. But

before one week had passed over his head, his expectations were all

dashed. There was no "go" in the animal. His nose dropped to the

ground, his tail slunk, and his toes dug into the gravel as if he was

boring for water. The major had to confess that he had been completely

taken in.

"That infernal rascal!" said he; "I wish I could catch him here

again."

"You ain't very likely to," remarked Jake, the hostler, dryly.

"Why so? Do you know any thing about him? Did you ever see him

before?"

"Ever see him! why, he came from the same place that I did."

"Where's that?"

"Meredith Bridge."

"Meredith Bridge!" exclaimed the landlord. "And he said he wasn't a

horse jockey. O, what an ass I was."

"Very true," said the hostler.

"Any how, you never saw the horse before?" said the landlord.

"Never see the horse before!" exclaimed Jake. "Why, Lord bless you, I

know'd him soonsever I sot eyes on him. He's Miss Stebbins's colt."

"And you never told me of this, you scoundrel!"

"I want a goin' to spile a trade," said the hostler. "And then I've

heard you say so often that nobody could take you in on a hoss, that I

thought it warnt no use."

"The cussed swindler!" said the major. "After havin' shaved every body

he came across, he went and shaved a hoss, and put him off on

me--_me_, the greatest hossman in the State of Maine. The next chap

from Meredith Bridge that comes into these diggins, I'll get a fight

out of and lick him, jest as sure as my name's Elnathan Spike!"

FUNERAL SHADOWS.

A MYSTERY.

The wind was howling and moaning through the almost deserted streets

of Boston, on a chilly evening of September, as a young man of medium

height and slight figure drew a faded and threadbare black cloak

around him, pulled his fur cap down on his forehead to shelter his

eyes from the cutting wind, and strode down Washington Street in a

northerly direction, with a rapid and impatient step. Arrived at the

door of a house of moderate pretensions, he entered hastily. We shall

follow him to the third story, enter with him a large and wholly dark

apartment, and watch him while he kindles a fire on the ample hearth

stone. A pale-blue flame flickers hesitatingly among the wood, and

conjures up from the walls around strange shapes and countenances

bathed in the indistinct and lurid light. And now the flame grows

brighter, and the heavy furniture in the apartment flings strange

shadows, horizontal, diagonal, and perpendicular; and the pictures on

the wall (for we are in a painter's studio) looked quite as vague and

vapory as the projected shadows. It is not difficult to imagine some

of these faces endowed with vitality, and so wild and startling are

many of them that the wavering shadows seem to belong to them, and to

be their strangely-animated limbs.

The painter lit a lamp, and then a huge meerschaum filled with

fragrant tobacco, his nightly solace and daily inspiration. While the

smoke wreaths slowly ascended to the ceiling, he wove his Gothic

fancies, and saw, in the blue clouds that hovered over him, embryo

designs and groups that he afterwards transferred to canvas.

Malise Grey was an artist of great but peculiar talent--a fine

draughtsman, an admirable colorist, but his imagination was of a

Gothic cast, and he delighted in strange, fantastical, and

supernatural subjects. He had travelled much in Germany, and his mind

was imbued with the superstitions and legends of that storied land.

These he loved to illustrate with his pencil, and his walls were

covered with German scenes and subjects, from the "Witches' Sabbath"

to the "Castled Crag of Drachenfels." Portraits he painted from

necessity, not choice; but he was too true an artist for the million.

The sleek hypocrite wore not on his canvas the deceptive look of

holiness that bore him on through life to wealth and honor, but the

crafty, sensual smile, the libertine eye, and lips that indicated the

secret phases of his character. Imbecile beauty saw her index in the

painted mirror. Folly stood convicted by the pencil. It was frequently

remarked, that you might learn more of a man from a glance at his

portrait than from months' companionship with the original. Malise

Grey was not popular--but he lived for his art, and bread and water

satisfied his earthly cravings.

The meerschaum fairly smoked out, the artist drew from a dusty pile of

canvases one on which he had painted a family group. It was a fancy

piece. An old man lay upon his death bed, over which bent a weeping

wife and a sorrowing and lovely child. The face of the latter was one

of unearthly beauty, and Raphael or Titian might not have disdained

the painting of those glistening blue eyes, and the falling sunbeams

of that golden hair. The painter had poured out his soul upon that

angelic countenance and perfect figure.

"It is my ideal," said the artist, "and, by the mystic whisper of the

heart, by the bright teaching of the star that rules my destiny, by

the forbidden lore of which I have drank deeply, I know that the ideal

of each mind is the reflex of the actual, and with the true artist

fancy is existence!"

The meerschaum was again filled, and Malise Grey contemplated his

picture. The smoke wreaths rolled around it, but it shone out luminous

and starlike. Its harmony was like the silent melody of the spheres,

and its musical radiance dispelled the remembrance of all his

sufferings, and lulled him like the melody of falling waters. When, at

length, he drew his poor couch from its recess, and threw himself upon

it, he left the picture full in sight, and continued to watch it by

the fading firelight till its last luminous point disappeared with the

blaze, and slumber closed his lids to make its memory brighter.

The next morning was clear and sparkling; the first rays of the sun

were like fiery rubies on the walls of the studio.

The painter sprang to his feet. "The dream!" he cried. "My heart did

not deceive me. The spirits are at work for its accomplishment."

He went forth to take his daily walk. There were times when an

appalling dread of insanity smote his heart, and once the expression

of a friend at the recital of one of his wildest fantasies led him

into a train of reflection and self-examination which shook his very

soul. For a time he forsook his studio, and went abroad into the gay

world and formed fashionable acquaintances; but he went back to his

lonely room and his hermit life at the expiration of a few weeks,

convinced that the madness of art was preferable to the madness of

society. And it was a painful thing for him to go abroad, for no one

sympathized with him. His mind dwelt either on the shadowy past, or

the yet more shadowy future. He held no communion with the present.

So, on the occasion we have referred to, after a hurried walk, he

returned to his room, the door of which he had left unlocked. A veiled

lady sat before his easel. She rose upon his entrance. His heart beat

high with anticipations. The lady thus addressed him:--

"Malise Grey, we have known each other in the land of dreams!" and

removing her veil, she pointed with her left hand to the picture,

while she extended her right to the painter. The ideal and the actual

stood before him. A strange light gleamed upon the painter's mind, and

he spoke as if prompted by some unseen power.

"Esther Vaughan, by this token do I know you." He took her hand, and

added, "By the mystic spell that drew us to each other, I conjure you

here to plight your troth to me for weal and woe."

"My father died shortly after that picture was painted," replied the

maiden, "and my mother--my poor mother--soon followed him. The spirit

summons commanded me to seek you out. I have obeyed."

* * * * *

A strange marriage was solemnized in the Old King's Chapel. The bride

wore no rose or orange flower in her braided hair, and a long, black

veil enveloped her from head to foot. In fact, her entire raiment, and

that of the bridegroom, was of the same ghastly hue; and the ceremony

was performed beneath the light of torches, which threw their funeral

glare upon the mortuary tablets and reliefs that decorate the interior

of the sacred edifice. As the newly-married pair were about to step

into the carriage at the door, a thin figure in black approached the

bride, and laid its hand upon her arm. The countenance was not

visible. The bride uttered a sharp cry of pain and terror, and the

figure instantly stepped back.

"Hold up your torch, there, sexton," cried the painter; "some one has

insulted the bride."

A tall figure was seen stealing away through the tombstones in the

churchyard, to which he had probably gained access through a breach in

the wall, at that time wholly ruinous.

It is not our intention to describe the happiness of Malise Grey and

his strangely-found and strangely-wedded bride. Enough to say, it was

like all the circumstances that composed his existence--dream-like and

strange. So vivid were his dreams and reveries, that he often wondered

whether they were not the actual, and his marriage life the imaginary,

part of his existence. He could not give himself up to enjoyment; and

sometimes, when his young wife would have lavished on him the wealth

of her innocent caresses, he turned from her moodily, and muttered,

"What have I to do with a spirit bride? When the sun rises, these

shadows will disperse."

Esther Grey had often solicited her husband to paint her portrait,

since the likeness in the family picture showed her under the

influence of grief. She wished a record of her happiness. Grey set

about complying with her request. He assumed the task in a moment of

inspired and fresh feeling, and went to work with heart and soul. His

sketch was instantaneously executed, and then

"His touches they flew like leaves in a storm;

And the pure pearly white, and the carnation warm,

Contending in harmony, glowed."

Suddenly he threw down his pencil, and paced the apartment to and fro

with rapid strides. "The doomed look!" he muttered, "the doomed look!

Esther, I can paint no more to-day."

But the morrow found him early at his task. A few hours' work

completed a portrait which, for fidelity of likeness, harmony of

accessories, and felicity of coloring, was almost unsurpassable. Yet

the painter refused to have it framed, and concealed it from view

behind a curtain in his studio.

A day or two afterwards, a stranger called upon the artist. He was a

tall, thin man, attired in a threadbare suit of black bombazine. He

was frightfully pale. His jaws were prominent, and the sallow,

shrunken skin clung close to every muscle of his countenance. His

dark, sunken, and glossy eyes had an unearthly expression, and his air

was melancholy in the extreme. A nameless chill came over the painter

as he surveyed the aspect of his unknown visitor. The stranger coldly

surveyed the productions of the artist, and honored them with a few

brief comments. At length he paused before the veiled picture, and

said, "This picture of your wife belongs to me."

The painter was so strong a believer in the supernatural, had been

subject to so many inexplicable influences, that he felt no surprise

at the stranger's naming the subject of the veiled picture without

uncovering it. But he repeated, sternly, "Belongs to you? What mean

you by that remark?"

"I mean it is, or will be mine, by purchase."

"Not so."

"Then you will not sell it?"

"I will not part with it at any price."

The stranger smiled, but not sneeringly or sarcastically The

expression of his countenance was mournful in the extreme, and

likewise unpleasant, because the parting of his shrivelled lips

displayed his large, yellow teeth in unpleasant relief. He opened the

door, but paused upon the threshold.

"You will not part with it?"

"Once more, no!" replied the painter.

"No matter; the original will soon be mine."

The door closed rapidly behind his noiseless steps. A vague terror

shot through the soul of the artist.

When Esther Vaughan came to the dwelling of the painter, she was

radiant with a health which had triumphed over sorrow and long

watching, but the seeds of disease now fastened upon her frame, and

she sunk under its influence, growing daily feebler. The almost

distracted husband employed the best physicians in the city, and under

their efforts Esther, for a while, seemed to revive. One day, in

solemn conclave, they decided that the patient would live, and

announced the intelligence to the poor painter, as he sat in his

lonely studio, with much pomposity and emphasis. At the time of this

announcement, the painter was standing opposite the open door through

which the physicians had just entered. At the moment when a smile of

gratified love was lighting up his intelligent countenance, his eyes,

looking beyond the group of visitors, caught in the corridor those of

the strange bidder for the veiled picture. The unknown shook his head

slowly and mournfully, then turned and retired.

"Stop him, gentlemen," cried the painter, bursting through the group

of leeches; "he is a deadly enemy!"

The physicians looked at each other, smiled darkly, and shook their

heads.

"Poor Grey!" said an old doctor.

"Mad?" asked the youngest of the group.

"The cell, the chain, and scourge would be a wholesome prescription,"

said the first speaker.

Such were the tender mercies of science to madness in the eighteenth

century.

* * * * *

It was a hushed midsummer night. The hum of busy footsteps had long

since died away, and the twinkling lights had faded, one by one, from

the huge bulk of the metropolis. To the lonely night watcher, there

was enough of light in the mild effulgence of the moon to distinguish

whether the pale invalid woke or slumbered; whether the repose of the

dead was inviolate, or invaded by noisome things that move abroad only

in darkness. And midway between life and death, so motionless that you

would say she belonged to the dark realm of the latter, so lovely that

the former still seemed to claim her own, lay the earth-born love of

the painter, with her ethereal essence yet hovering near the beloved

of her soul. The painter sat by the bedside, with her thin, pale hand

clasped in his. He had listened to her last accents; he had heard her

call him, in the fervor of her affection, "her beautiful, her own;"

and he knew that, ere the unseen clock had recorded the death of

another hour, the feeble pulse that fluttered beneath his fingers

would have ceased to beat. Yet, with all this, his eyes were tearless,

and his heart less heavy than in those dark dreams which had

foreshadowed this event. In weal or woe, his prophetic dreams seemed

even more impressive than the realities which followed them.

It appeared as if there were a magnetic influence in the touch of the

dying hand; that the soul of Esther, bathed in the dawning light of

the better world, had communicated a portion of its brightness to his

own. So the hours wore on; the feeble pulse yet beat, but fainter and

fainter. At last, through the open window which commanded a view of

the east, the brightening streaks of dawn appeared; in the leaves of a

solitary tree, that stood amid a wilderness of brick hard by, was

heard the faint, tremulous twitter of a bird waiting but a ruddier ray

to launch forth upon his dewy pinions. A smile, like a ray of light,

dawned upon the countenance of Esther. She pointed to a shadowy alcove

in the chamber, and the painter's eye, following the indication,

detected the figure of his mysterious and prophetic visitor. But the

countenance of the unknown was milder, softer; a veil of brightness

had fallen upon the more repulsive lineaments, and when the broad

daylight beamed into the apartment, his image melted into the ray,

like a rain-drop into a sunny sea. A thrill ran through the painter's

frame; he gazed upon the face of Esther; it was that of death.

* * * * *

An unfinished painting rests upon an easel; it is a glimpse of

paradise. In the centre is a focus of almost intolerable splendor, the

luminous veil of the Inconceivable and Infinite; while towards it, as

if drawn by a vortex of glory, yet held in suspense when too near,

hovers a cloud of radiant forms and faces, their souls, pure and

beatified, beaming from their countenances, all full of adoration,

intelligence, and bliss. The painter sat before it, giving the last

touches with a feeble yet graceful hand. A light seemed to stream upon

him from the picture, and lit up his pale, inspired countenance.

The door opened, yet the painter turned not from his task; he heard no

footstep, yet he knew that the messenger--no longer feared, but hoped

for--was standing at his side.

"One touch more," he said, softly. "Thus 'tis done, and bravely done!"

He turned--the mysterious messenger was truly there. But as the

painter gazed, the herald's form was transfigured; his poor garments

had given place to shining raiments; his countenance beamed glory and

goodness; effulgent wings expanded their snowy plumage from his

glorious shoulders, and on his forehead shone a star like that of

morning. He touched the mortal hand that throbbed to meet his clasp;

the last film fell from the painter's eye, and he saw, with ecstasy,

no horrid phantom, but AZRAEL, the Angel of Death, great,

beautiful, and good.

THE LATE ELIAS MUGGS,

CAPTAIN IN THE M. V. M.

Elias Muggs is no more! Hepzibah Muggs is a widow; a stranger has

purchased the stock of West India goods, and the Bluetown Fusileers

are commanded by the first lieutenant. These are sad changes.

It is not a little remarkable that though Captain Elias Muggs was not

born in the same year as the Duke of Wellington, (though, by the way,

every body else seems to have been,) yet he died about the same time.

There was a striking similarity between their characters and

positions. The Iron Duke was commander-in-chief of the allied forces

at the battle of Waterloo, and Elias Muggs was commander of the

Bluetown Fusileers. If Elias Muggs had been born on the other side of

the water, he probably would have been the Duke of Wellington; and if

the Duke of Wellington had been born here, he would probably have been

Elias Muggs. This proposition may appear a metaphysical subtlety to

obtuse minds, but to ours it seems as clear as mud.

When such a man dies, he must not be permitted to depart

"Without the meed of one melodious tear."

His loss is a national loss. Nature seems to have intended him for

President of the United States, but "left him two drinks behind;"

whence we may conclude that Nature is a humbug, a conclusion

practically arrived at by most artists, living and dead.

Elias Muggs, from his tenderest years, was devoted to groceries and

glory. His venerable schoolmistress, who has outlived her illustrious

pupil, and is now supported by the town whose founders were formed by

her care, and who laid the foundation of our hero's greatness by the

powerful application of birch at the seat of learning, assured us, in

a recent interview, that the military propensities of Muggs were

developed at an early age. She observed that it was impossible to fix

his attention on the classic page of Noah Webster when the Bluetown

Fusileers were passing the school house with drum and fife, and that

the motive of his first experiment at "hooking jack" was a desire to

attend a country muster in the neighboring town. She added, that she

distinctly remembered having confiscated a box of tin soldiers with

which he was amusing himself, and that he threatened to "punch her

eye" if she did not release the unconscious prisoners of war on

_parole_. These are very important facts.

We are unable to state the precise age at which Elias entered the

service--but the town clerk of Bluetown places it at twenty-one. He

went through the different grades with great rapidity, and was finally

chosen captain in a warmly-contested election. There is no question

that he would have been elected unanimously, without difficulty, had

there not existed a great doubt in the _corps_ (Captain Muggs, by the

way, always pronounced this word, and spelled it, _corpse_) of his

ability to "treat;" whereas his adversary was distinguished for

possessing a "pocket full of rocks," and a willingness "to treat every

body." The success of our hero, under the circumstances, was purely

owing to military merit. The moment he was chosen, he took the field

at the head of his command. Admiring Bluetown gazed approvingly upon

his swallow-tailed coat, his tall plume, his shining battle blade, his

plated scabbard, worsted sash, and low-heeled, cowhide boots. The

fair, who are ever ready to award their smiles to chivalry, were

unanimous in their approval, and Deacon Dogget's daughter was heard to

murmur, "O, what a pooty soger 'lias makes!" "Upon this hint he spake"

a few days afterwards, and in due time they were married. But enough

of that--our essay treats of war, not love.

In his "first field," Captain Muggs displayed his extraordinary

knowledge of tactics. He it was who first discovered the method of

"dressing" a line, by backing it up against a curbstone. He also

divested military science of many pedantic terms, which tend only to

confuse the young conscript, and dampen the military ardor of the

patriot soldier. He substituted the brief and soldierly words of

command, "haw!" "gee!" and "whoa!" for "left," "right," and "halt."

His spirited "let her rip!" was an infinite improvement on the "fire"

of the Steuben manual. The object of the commander is to make himself

understood readily by his men, and in this Captain Muggs was perfectly

successful.

The greatest commanders have been famous for their terse eloquence.

Napoleon said to his troops in Egypt, "Soldiers, from the summit of

these pyramids twenty centuries look down on you this day." Scott, in

Mexico, said to Smith's brigade, "Brave rifles, you have been baptized

in fire, and have come out steel." And Muggs, at Bluetown, after the

last manoeuvre, said, "Feller sogers, that 'ere was prime--and now

less adjourn to the tavern and likker up at my expense." It is

questionable whether any speech of Napoleon or Scott ever excited more

enthusiasm.

The company adjourned to the tavern, and after plentifully refreshing

with long nines, pigtail, New England, and crackers, departed with

three cheers for the "cap'n." We would fain draw a veil over what

followed. But a strict regard for truth compels us to "speak right out

in meetin'." All great men have their weaknesses. Caesar was not

immaculate. Alexander the Great died of _mania a potu_. There was no

Maine liquor law at the time of which we speak. There was not even a

temperance society in all Bluetown.

Captain Muggs was in the green and salad days of youth. He was flushed

with military success, young, ardent, and imprudent.

He retired to a private room with the commissioned officers of his

"corps," and left a liberal order at the bar. Healths were drank,

songs sung, patriotic and otherwise, more otherwise than patriotic,

and the "fast and furious" fun was driven into the small hours of the

morning. When the bill was presented, Captain Muggs was without funds;

and his gallant subordinates, on the bare suggestion of a loan,

incontinently vanished. Captain Muggs intimated something about

credit. The landlord shook his head. Captain Muggs was grieved, and

the landlord consulted the flytraps on the ceiling, still extending

his open hand, with the palm upwards, in the direction of the officer.

Finding the publican obdurate, the captain proposed to leave his

uniform and equipments in pawn, and the offer was accepted.

And here let us pause to contemplate the moral greatness of this act.

Those insignia of rank were as dear to Muggs as the apple of his eye.

They were to him what the sceptre and crown were to Napoleon. It was

like tugging at his heartstrings to unfasten the belt and sash, and

lay the sword upon the table. Marsyas suffered not more when Apollo

removed his skin than Muggs did when the landlord stripped off his

coat and epaulets. When the hat and plume were laid upon the altar of

offended Mammon, Muggs uttered a deep groan, and departed in his shirt

sleeves. If we were a great historical painter, we should prefer this

subject to that of Washington resigning his commission as

commander-in-chief of the revolutionary army.

The same integrity distinguished Captain Muggs throughout his life.

When, some years afterwards, he received a letter from a lawyer,

stating that, in case he did not immediately satisfy a certain claim

of five years' standing, legal measures would be adopted to enforce

payment, he remitted the sum in question without a murmur.

Personal courage is not deemed indispensable to great commanders.

Marlborough is said to have trembled on the battle field. It is the

part of the officer to command--of the men to execute. But Muggs was

as valiant as he was wise. On a field day, when a certain turbulent

apple woman persisted in encroaching on the lines, Captain Muggs

charged her in person, unsupported by his troops, upset her apple

stall, and expelled her from the lines. Such achievements are of rare

occurrence.

On every parade day, Muggs was "thar." In every sham fight he was

first and foremost. He was always loudest in proclaiming the "dooty of

the milingtary to support the civil power." Yet in the great riot

caused by the illegal impounding of Steve Gubbins's bull, when

Bluetown was divided against itself, her constabulary force and

"specials" ignominiously beaten and routed, Captain Muggs, with an

heroic deafness to the call of glory and the selectmen, from a

reluctance to shed the blood of his fellow-citizens, refused to call

out his company, and concealed himself in a hayloft till the affray

was over, the pound completely demolished, and the bull rescued from

the minions of the law.

The loss of such a man is irreparable. What a president he would have

made! Magnanimity, self-denial, punctuality, eloquence, popularity,

military glory--why, he had all the elements of success. But our

heroes are fast passing away. Muggs is gone, and we must make up our

minds to be governed by mere statesmen!

THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.

It was a fine night in the autumn of the year 1805, and the stars

shone as brilliantly over the gay city of Paris as if they had burned

in an Italian heaven. The cumbrous mass of the palace of the

Tuileries, instead of lying like a dark leviathan in the shadows of

the night, blazed with light in all its many-windowed length; for the

soldier emperor, the idol of his subjects, that night gave a grand

ball and reception to the world. Troops in full uniform were under

arms, and the great lamps of the court yard gazed brightly on the

channelled bayonets and polished musket barrels of the sentinels.

Carriage after carriage drew up at the great portal, and emitted

beautiful ladies, brilliantly attired, and marshals and staff officers

blazing with embroidery; for Napoleon, simple and unostentatious in

his own person, well knew the importance of surrounding himself with a

brilliant court; and the people, even the rude and ragged denizens of

the Faubourgs St. Antoine and St. Marceau, as they hung upon the iron

railing and scanned the splendid dresses of the guests as they

alighted from their carriages, were well pleased to see that a throne

created by themselves could vie in splendor with the old hereditary

seats of loyalty that existed in spite of the execrations of the

million. They marked with pleasure the arms of some of the ancient

Bourbon nobility on the panels of some of the glittering equipages,

for all the aristocracy of France had not joined the banners of her

adversaries.

Within the walls of the palace, in the reception room, the scene was

yet more dazzling. The draperies of the throne, at the foot of which

stood Josephine, more impressive from her native and winning

loveliness than the splendor of the priceless diamonds that decked her

brow and neck, and the emperor in the simple attire of a gentleman,

with no distinctive ornament save the grand cross of the Legion of

Honor: the draperies of the throne, we say, no longer presented the

golden lilies of the Bourbon, but the golden bees of Napoleon--symbols

of the industry and perseverance which had raised him to his rank. The

eye, as it roamed around the brilliant circle, encountered few of

those vapid faces which make the staple of the surroundings of an

hereditary throne. Every epaulet that sparkled there graced the

shoulder of a man who had won his grade by exposure, gallantry, and

intellect. There was the scarred veteran of the Sambre and the Meuse,

heroes who had crossed "that terrible bridge of Lodi" in the path of

the French tricolor and the face of the withering fire of Austrian

batteries--dim eyes that had been blighted by the burning sands of

Egypt, warriors who had braved the perils of the Alps, and the dangers

of the plains of Lombardy.

Somewhat apart from the brilliant circle, in the embrasure of one of

the deep and lofty windows, stood a young officer, in conversation

with a beautiful young woman. The latter was attired in white satin,

and the rich lace veil that half hid the orange flower in her hair,

and descended gracefully over her faultless shoulders, proclaimed her

to be a bride. And the young soldier, her companion? The radiant pride

and joy that beamed from his fine dark eye, the animation of his

manner, and the tenderness of his tone, as he addressed the lady,

emphatically proclaimed the bridegroom. Such, indeed, were the

relations of Colonel Lioncourt and Leonide Lasalle, who had that day

only lost her maiden appellation at the altar of Notre Dame.

So absorbed was the young colonel in the conversation, that it was

only after he had been twice addressed that he turned and noticed the

proximity of a third person.

"Sorry to interrupt you, colonel," said the new comer, a young man

with dark lowering brows, deep-set eyes, and a sinister expression,

heightened by a sabre cut that traversed his left cheek diagonally,

"but his majesty desires to speak to you."

"_Au revoir_, Leonide," said the young colonel to his bride; "I will

join you again in a few moments. The emperor is laconic enough in his

communications. Meanwhile, I leave you to the care of my friend."

The emperor was already impatient, and the moment the colonel appeared

he grasped his arm familiarly, and led him aside, while the immediate

group of courtiers fell back respectfully, and out of earshot.

"Colonel," said Napoleon, "I have news--great news. The enemies of

France will not give us a moment's repose. It is no longer England

alone that threatens us. I could have crushed England, had she met me

single handed. In a month my eagles would have lighted on the tower of

London. Russia, Austria, and Sweden have joined her. Our frontier is

threatened by half a million men. Lioncourt, you are brave and trusty,

and I will tell you what I dare communicate to few. My movements must

be as secret as the grave. Paris must not suspect them. What do you

think I propose doing?"

"To strengthen the frontier by concentrating your troops on different

points, sire."

Napoleon smiled.

"No, Lioncourt; we will beard the lion in his den. I have broken up

the camp at Boulogne. I will rush at once into the heart of Germany. I

will separate the enemy's columns from each other. The first division

that marches against me shall be outflanked, attacked in the rear, and

cut to pieces. One after another they shall fall before me. In three

months I shall triumph over the coalition. I shall dictate terms of

peace from the field of battle. Lioncourt, they are short sighted.

They know nothing of me yet. They fancy that my heart is engaged in

these frivolous pomps and gayeties with which I amuse the people--that

I have become enervated by 'Capuan delights.' But you know me better.

You know that my throne is the back of my war horse--that the sword is

my sceptre, cannon my diplomatists. I wished for peace--they have

elected war; on their heads be the guilt and the bloodshed."

He paused, out of breath with the rapidity of his utterance. Colonel

Lioncourt waited respectfully till he should recommence.

"Colonel," he said, at last, in a tone of sadness, a melancholy shade

passing over his fine features, "they have described me as a

sanguinary monster. History will do me justice. History will attest

that I never drew the sword without just cause--that I returned it to

its scabbard on the earliest opportunity. Not on my soul the guilt of

slaughtered thousands, of villages burned, of peasants driven from

their homes, of fields ravaged, of women widowed, and children

orphaned. My whole soul yearns for peace. I would build my true

greatness on the promulgation of just laws, the culture of religion

and intellect, the triumphs of agriculture, and the arts of peace. But

I must obey my destiny. Europe must be ploughed by the sword. The

struggle is between civilization and barbarism, freedom and despotism,

the Frank and the Cossack. But I prate too long. Colonel, I sent for

you to pronounce a hard sentence. Your regiment of hussars is already

under arms. You must march to-night--instantly."

"Sire," said Lioncourt, with a sigh. "This news will kill my poor

wife."

"Josephine shall console her," said the emperor. "I would have

informed you earlier, but St. Eustache, your lieutenant colonel, whom

I now see talking with madame, advised me not to do so."

"I thank him," muttered Lioncourt bitterly.

"You have no time to lose. I counsel you to leave the presence

quietly. Let your wife learn that you have marched by a letter. Better

that than the agony of parting. I know something of human, and

particularly feminine, nature. Adieu, colonel. Courage and good

fortune."

And so saying, the emperor glided easily back to the circle he had

left. Lioncourt's brain reeled under the blow he had received. He

gazed upon his wife as she stood radiant, beautiful, and unsuspicious,

under a glittering chandelier, with the same feelings with which a man

takes his last look of the shore as he sinks forever in the

treacherous wave. In another moment he was gone. The sentries

presented arms as he passed out of the palace. His orderly was in the

court yard holding his charger by the bridle. The colonel threw

himself into the saddle, and was soon at the head of the regiment. The

trumpets and kettledrums were mute--for such were the general orders

and the regiment rode out of the city in silence, broken only by the

heavy tramping of the horses' hoofs, and the clanking of scabbards

rebounding from their flanks. As they passed out of one of the gates,

the lieutenant colonel, St. Eustache, joined the column at a gallop,

and reported to his commander.

St. Eustache had been a lover of Leonide Lasalle, had proposed for her

hand, and been rejected. Still, he had not utterly ceased to love her,

but his desire of possession was now mingled with a thirst of

vengeance. He both hated and loved the beautiful Leonide, while he

regarded his fortunate rival and commanding officer with feelings of

unmitigated hatred. Yet he had art enough to conceal his guilty

feelings and guilty projects. While he rode beside the colonel, his

thoughts ran somewhat in this vein:--

"Well, at least I have succeeded in marring their joy. Lioncourt's

triumph over me was short lived. He may never see his bride again. He

is venturesome and rash. We have sharp work before us, or I'm very

much mistaken, and Colonel Eugene Lioncourt may figure in the list of

killed in the first general engagement. Then I renew my suit, and if

Leonide again reject me, there's no virtue in determination."

While the colonel's regiment was slowly pursuing its way, the

festivities at the Tuileries were drawing to a close. Madame Lioncourt

wondered very much at the absence of her husband, and still more so

when the guests began to depart, and he did not reappear to escort her

to her carriage. It was then that the empress honored her with an

interview, and, with tears in her beautiful eyes, informed her of her

husband's march in obedience to orders. The poor lady bore bravely up

against the effect of this intelligence so long as she was in the

presence of the emperor and empress; but when alone in her carriage,

on her way to her now solitary home, she burst into a flood of tears,

and it seemed as if her very heart were breaking. The next morning

brought a short but kind note from her husband. It was overflowing

with affection and full of hope. The campaign, conducted by Napoleon's

genius, he thought, could not fail to be brief, and he should return

with new laurels, to lay them at the feet of his lovely bride. This

little note was treasured up by Leonide as if it had been the relic of

a saint, and its words of love and promise cheered her day after day

in the absence of her husband.

At last, news came to the capital from the seat of war. The battle of

Austerlitz had been fought and won. The cannon thundered from the

Invalides, Paris blazed with illuminations, and the steeples reeled

with the crashing peals of the joy bells. No particulars came at

first; many had been killed and wounded; but the French eagles were

victorious, and this was all the people at first cared for.

Lioncourt's regiment had covered itself with glory, but no special

mention was made of him in the first despatches.

At last, one morning, a visitor was announced to Madame Lioncourt, and

she hastily descended to her salon to receive him. St. Eustache

advanced to meet her. She eagerly scanned his countenance as he held

out his hand. It was grave and sombre. A second glance showed her a

black crape sword knot on the hilt of his sabre. She fainted and sank

upon the floor before St. Eustache could catch her in his arms. He

summoned her maid, and the latter, with the assistance of another

servant, bore her mistress from the apartment.

St. Eustache paced the room to and fro, occasionally raising his eyes

to contemplate the rich gilded ceiling, the paintings and statuettes,

which adorned the _salon_.

"Some style here!" he muttered. "And they say she has this in her own

right. Lioncourt left her some funds, I fancy. Young, beautiful, rich;

by Jove, she is a prize."

His meditations were interrupted by the return of Madame Lioncourt,

who motioned her visitor to be seated, and sank into a _fauteuil_

herself. She was pale as marble, and her eyes were red with recent

tears, but her voice was calm and firm as she said,--

"I need hardly ask you, sir, if my poor husband has fallen. I could

read ill news in your countenance as soon as you appeared. Were you

near him when he fell?"

"I was beside him, madame. We were charging the flying Russians. Our

horses, maddened with excitement, had carried us far in advance of our

column, when suddenly we were surrounded by a group of horsemen, who

took courage and rallied for a moment. Lioncourt was carrying death in

every blow he dealt, when a Russian cavalry officer, discharging his

pistol at point blank distance, shot him dead from the saddle. I saw

no more, for I was myself wounded and swept away in the torrent of the

fight. But he is dead. Even if that pistol shot had not slain him, the

hoofs of his own troopers, as they rushed madly forward in pursuit of

the enemy, would have trampled every spark of life out of his bosom."

Leonide wrung her hands.

"But you, at least, recovered his--his remains?"

"Pardon, madame. I instituted a search for our colonel's body where he

fell. But the spot had already been visited by marauders. All the

insignia of rank had disappeared; and in the mangled heap of stripped

and mutilated corpses, it was impossible to distinguish friend from

foe."

The widowed bride groaned deeply as she covered her face with her

handkerchief and rocked to and fro on her seat.

"Madame," said St. Eustache, "I will no longer intrude upon your

grief. When time has somewhat assuaged the poignancy of your

affliction, I will again call on you to tender my respectful

sympathies."

Time wore on, and with it brought those alleviations it affords to

even the keenest sorrow. The assiduity of friends compelled Madame

Lioncourt to lay aside her widow's weeds, and reappear in the great

world of fashion. There, whatever may have been her secret sorrow, she

learned to wear the mask of a smiling exterior, and even to appear

gayest among the gay, as if she sought forgetfulness in the wildest

excitement and most frivolous amusement.

During all this time, St. Eustache, who had got a military appointment

at Paris, was ever at her side. It was impossible for her to avoid

him. He escorted her to her carriage when she left a ball room; he was

the first to claim her hand when she entered. He was so respectful, so

sad, so humble, that it was impossible to take offence at his

assiduities, and she even began to like him in spite of former

prejudices. Though it was evident that the freedom of her hand had

renewed his former hopes, still no words of his ever betrayed their

revival; only sometimes a suppressed sigh, the trembling of his hand

as it touched hers, gave evidence that could not be mistaken.

Affairs were in this condition, when a brother of Leonide, Alfred

Lasalle, a young advocate from the provinces, came to establish

himself in Paris. He at once became the protector and guardian of his

sister, and, as such, conceived the same violent dislike to St.

Eustache that Leonide had formerly entertained towards him. St.

Eustache, after many fruitless attempts to conciliate the brother,

gave it up in despair. Still, whenever Alfred's affairs called him

away, he supplied his place with the young widow.

At this time, play sometimes ran very high in the salons of the

capital; and Leonide rose from the _ecarte_ table one night, indebted

to St. Eustache in the sum of a thousand crowns.

"Call on me to-morrow," said Leonide, with a flushed face, "and I will

repay you."

St. Eustache was pretty well acquainted with the affairs of the young

widow. He knew that she had been living on her capital for some time,

and that she had reached the limit of her resources. He knew that it

was utterly impossible for her to raise a thousand crowns in

twenty-four hours. She must, therefore, he thought, cancel her debt by

her hand. This was the alternative to which he had been manoeuvring

to bring her; therefore he entered her salon the next day with the air

of a victor. He was no longer covetous of wealth; he had prospered in

his own speculations, and was immensely rich; the hand of Leonide,

even without her heart, was now all he sought.

Madame Lioncourt received him with the easy assurance of a woman of

the world. He, on his part, advanced with the grace of a French

courtier.

"You came to remind me, sir," said the lady, "that I was unfortunate

at play last night."

"No, madame," said St. Eustache, "it is yourself who reminds me of it.

Pardon me, I am somewhat acquainted with your circumstances. I know

that you are no longer as rich as you are beautiful----"

"Sir!"

"Pardon the allusion, madam; I did not intend to insult you, but only

to suggest that the payment of money was not the only method of

cancelling a debt."

"I do not understand you, sir."

"Leonide, it is time that you did understand me!" cried St. Eustache,

impetuously. "It is time that I should throw off the mask and assert

my claim to your hand. I loved you once--I love you still. You are now

in my power. You cannot pay me the money you owe me; but you can make

me happy. Your hand----"

"Colonel St. Eustache," said the lady, coldly, as she rose and handed

him a pocket book, "be good enough to count those notes."

St. Eustache ran over them hastily.

"A thousand crowns, madame," he said.

"Then the debt is cancelled. Never renew the proposal of this morning.

Good day, sir."

With a haughty inclination of the head, she swept out of the room.

"Never renew the proposal of this morning!" said St. Eustache to

himself. "A thousand furies! It shall be renewed to-night. She will be

at the masquerade at the opera house. I have bribed her chambermaid,

and know her dress. She shall hear me plead my suit. I have dared too

much, perilled too much, to give her up so easily."

* * * * *

Amidst the gay crowd at the opera house was a light figure in a pink

domino, attended by one in black. Not to make a mystery of these

characters, they were Madame Lioncourt and her brother.

"Dear Alfred," said the lady, "I am afraid you impoverished yourself

to aid me in extricating myself from the toils of my persevering

suitor."

"Say nothing of it, Leonide," replied Alfred. "Your liberty is cheaply

purchased by the sacrifice."

"Lady, one word with you," said a low voice at her side.

She turned, and beheld a pilgrim with scrip, staff, and cross, and

closely masked.

"Twenty, if you will, reverend sir," she replied gayly. "But methinks

this is a strange scene for one of your solemn vocation."

"The true man," replied the mask, "finds something to interest him in

every scene of life. Wherever men and women assemble in crowds, there

is always an opportunity for counsel and consolation. The pious

pilgrim should console the sad; and are not the saddest hearts found

in the gayest throngs?"

"True, true," replied Leonide, with a deep sigh.

"But you, at least, are happy, lady," said the pilgrim.

"Happy! Could you see my face, you would see a mask more impenetrable

than this velvet one I wear. It is all smiles," she whispered. "But,"

she added, laying her hand on her bosom,--

"'I have a silent sorrow here,

A grief I'll ne'er impart;

It heaves no sigh, it sheds no tear,

But it consumes my heart.'"

"Can it be possible!" cried the pilgrim. "You have the reputation of

being one of the gayest of the Parisian ladies."

"Then you know me not."

"I know you by name, Madame Lioncourt."

"Then you should know that name represents a noble and gallant

heart--the life of my own widowed bosom. You should know that

Lioncourt, the bravest of the brave, the truest of the true, lies in

a nameless grave at Austerlitz, the very spot unknown."

"I too was at Austerlitz," said the pilgrim, in a deep voice.

"You were at Austerlitz!"

"Yes, madame, in the--hussars."

"It was my husband's regiment."

"Yes, madame. I was for a long time supposed to be dead. My comrades

saw me fall, and I was reported for dead. Faith, I came near dying.

But I fell into the hands of some good people, though they were

Austrians, and they took good care of me, and cured my wounds; and

here I am at last."

"Ah! why," exclaimed Madame Lioncourt, "may this not have been the

fate of your colonel? Why may not he too have survived the carnage,

and been preserved in the same manner? His body was never recognized."

"Very possibly Lioncourt may still be living."

"Yet St. Eustache told me he was dead."

"He is a false traitor!" cried the pilgrim. "Leonide!" cried he, with

thrilling emphasis, "you have borne bad news; can you bear good?"

"God will give me strength to bear good tidings," cried the lady.

"Then arm yourself with all your energy," said the stranger.

"Lioncourt lives."

"Lives!" said Leonide, faintly, grasping the arm of the stranger to

support herself from falling.

"Courage, madame; I tell you the truth. He lives."

"Then take me to him. The crisis is past. I can bear to meet him;

nothing but delay will kill me now!" cried the lady, hurriedly.

"He stands beside you!" said the stranger.

A long, deep sigh, and Leonide lay in the arms of the pilgrim, who was

still masked. But she recovered herself with superhuman energy, and

said,--

"Come, come, I must see you. I must kneel at your feet. I must clasp

your hands; my joy--my love--my life!"

"Room, room, there!" cried a seneschal. "The emperor!"

"Dearest Leonide," whispered a voice in her ear, "I resolved to see

you again to-night, in spite of your prohibition to renew my suit."

"Then wait here beside me; do not leave me," answered the lady, as she

recognized St. Eustache.

"That will I not, dearest," was the fervent reply.

Napoleon, with Josephine leaning on his arm, advanced through the

broad space cleared by the attendants, and when he had taken up a

position in the centre of the hall, near Lioncourt and his bride, St.

Eustache and Lasalle, gave the signal for the company to unmask. As

they obeyed, and every face was uncovered, his quick glance caught the

pale and handsome features of the young cavalry colonel.

"What!" he exclaimed, impetuously. "Can the grave give up its dead? Do

our eyes deceive us? Is this indeed Lioncourt, whom we left dead upon

the field of Austerlitz? Advance, man, and satisfy our doubts."

Lioncourt advanced, and the emperor laid his hand upon his arm.

"You are pale as a ghost, man; but still you're flesh and blood. Give

an account of yourself. Speak quickly; don't you see these ladies are

dying of curiosity? and, faith, so I am too," he added, smiling.

"Sire," said the colonel, "you will, perhaps, remember ordering my

regiment in pursuit of the flying Russians?"

"Perfectly well; and they performed the service gallantly. Their rear

was cut to pieces."

"St. Eustache and I rode side by side," pursued the colonel.

"Here is St. Eustache," cried the emperor, beckoning the officer to

advance.

"My dear colonel!" cried St. Eustache, embracing his old commander.

"Go on, colonel," cried the emperor, stamping his foot impatiently.

"We hung upon the flying rear of the enemy, sabring every man we

overtook. Faith, I hardly know what happened afterwards," said the

colonel, pausing.

"Take up the thread of the story, St. Eustache," said the emperor;

"don't let it break off here."

"Well, sire," said St. Eustache, drawing, a long breath, "as the

colonel and I were charging side by side, cutting right and left,

separated from our men by the superior speed of our horses, a Russian

officer wheeled and shot the colonel from his saddle."

"That was how it happened, Lioncourt," said the emperor. "Now go on.

Afterwards----"

"When I came to my senses, sire," resumed Lioncourt, gloomily, "I

found myself in the hands of some Austrian peasants. I had been

plundered of my epaulets and uniform, and they took me for a common

soldier. But they carried me to their cottage, and dressed my wound,

and eventually I got well."

"But where were you wounded, colonel?" asked the emperor.

"A pistol ball had entered behind my left shoulder, and came out by my

collar bone."

"_Behind_ your left shoulder!" cried Napoleon. "And yet you were

facing the enemy. How was that?"

"Because," said the colonel, sternly, "a Frenchman, a soldier, an

officer, a disappointed rival, took that opportunity of assassinating

me, and shot me with his own hostler pistol."

"His name!" shouted the emperor, quivering with passion, "his name; do

you know him?"

"Well.--It was Lieutenant Colonel St. Eustache!"

All eyes were turned on St. Eustache. His knees knocked together, his

eyes were fixed, cold drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. But

in all that circle of indignant eyes, the detected criminal saw only

the eagle orbs of the emperor, that pierced to his very soul.

"Is this charge true?" asked Napoleon, quickly, quivering with one of

his tremendous tornadoes of passion.

St. Eustache could not answer; but he nodded his head.

"Your sword!" cried the emperor.

Mechanically the criminal drew his sabre; he had thrown off his

domino, and now stood revealed in the uniform he disgraced, and

offered the hilt to the emperor. Napoleon clutched it, and snapped the

blade under foot. Then, tearing off his epaulets, he threw them on the

floor, stamped on them, and beckoning to an officer who stood by,

gasped out,--

"A guard, a guard!"

In a few minutes the tramp of armed men was heard in the saloon, and

the wretched culprit was removed.

"_General_ Lioncourt," said the emperor to his recovered officer,

"your new commission shall be made out to-morrow. In the mean while

the lovely Leonide shall teach you to forget your trials."

The assemblage broke up. Lioncourt, his wife, and her faithful brother

retired to their now happy home.

The next day was fixed for the trial of the guilty St. Eustache before

a court martial--a mere formal preliminary to his execution, for he

had confessed his crime; but it appeared that during the preceding

night he had managed to escape.

Flying from justice, the wretched criminal reached one of the bridges

that span the Seine. Climbing to the parapet, he gazed down into the

dark and turbid flood, now black as midnight, that rolled beneath the

yawning arch. There was no star in the sky, and here and there only a

dim light twinkled, reflected in the muddy wave. Daylight was

beginning to streak the east with sickly rays. Soon the great city

would be astir. Soon hoarse voices would be clamoring for the traitor,

the assassin, the dastard, who, in the hour of victory, had raised his

hand against a brother Frenchman. Soon, if he lingered, his ears would

be doomed to hear the death penalty--soon the muskets, whose fire he

had so often commanded, would be levelled against his breast. All was

lost,--all for which he had schemed and sinned,--the applause of his

countrymen, the favor of his emperor, the love of Leonide. At least,

he would disappoint Paris of a spectacle. He would die by his own act.

A sudden spring, a heavy plunge, a few bubbles breaking on the black

surface, and the wretched criminal was no more!

Days afterwards, a couple of soldiers, lounging into La Morgue, the

dismal receptacle where bodies are exposed for identification,

recognized in a pallid and bloated corpse the remains of the late

lieutenant colonel of the ----th hussars.

Lioncourt learned his fate, but it threw no shadow over his bright and

cloudless happiness.

A KISS ON DEMAND.

It was a very peculiar sound, something like the popping of a

champagne cork, something like the report of a small pocket pistol,

but exactly like nothing but itself. It was a kiss.

A kiss implies two parties--unless it be one of those symbolical

kisses produced by one pair of lips, and wafted through the air in

token of affection or admiration. But this particular kiss was

genuine. The parties in the case were Mrs. Phebe Mayflower, the

newly-married wife of honest Tom Mayflower, gardener to Mr. Augustus

Scatterly, and that young gentleman himself. Augustus was a

good-hearted, rattle-brained spendthrift, who had employed the two or

three years which had elapsed since his majority in "making ducks and

drakes" of the pretty little fortune left him by his defunct sire.

There was nothing very bad about him, excepting his prodigal habits,

and by these he was himself the severest sufferer. Tom, his gardener,

had been married a few weeks, and Gus, who had failed to be at the

wedding, and missed the opportunity of "saluting the bride," took it

into his head that it was both proper and polite that he should do so

on the first occasion of his meeting her subsequently to that

interesting ceremony. Mrs. Mayflower, the other party interested in

the case, differed from him in opinion, and the young landlord kissed

her in spite of herself. But she was not without a champion, for at

the precise moment when Scatterly placed his audacious lips in contact

with the blooming cheek of Mrs. M., Tom entered the garden and beheld

the outrage.

"What are you doing of, Mr. Scatterly?" he roared.

"O, nothing, Tom, but asserting my rights! I was only saluting the

bride."

"Against my will, Tommy," said the poor bride, blushing like a peony,

and wiping the offended cheek with her checked apron.

"And I'll make you pay dear for it, if there's law in the land," said

Tom.

"Poh, poh! don't make a fool of yourself," said Scatterly.

"I don't mean to," answered the gardener, dryly.

"You're not seriously offended at the innocent liberty I took?"

"Yes I be," said Tom.

"Well, if you view it in that light," answered Scatterly, "I shall

feel bound to make you reparation. You shall have a kiss from my

bride, when I'm married."

"That you never will be."

"I must confess," said Scatterly, laughing, "the prospect of repayment

seems rather distant. But who knows what will happen? I may not die a

bachelor, after all. And if I marry--I repeat it, my dear fellow--you

shall have a kiss from my wife."

"No he shan't," said Phebe. "He shall kiss nobody but me."

"Yes he shall," said Scatterly. "Have you got pen, ink, and paper,

Tom?"

"To be sure," answered the gardener. "Here they be, all handy."

Scatterly sat down and wrote as follows:--

"THE WILLOWS, August --, 18--.

"Value received, I promise to pay Thomas Mayflower or order,

one kiss on demand.

"AUGUSTUS SCATTERLY."

"There you have a legal document," said the young man, as he handed

the paper to the grinning gardener. "And now, good folks, good by."

"Mistakes will happen in the best regulated families," and so it

chanced that, in the autumn of the same year, our bachelor met at the

Springs a charming belle of Baltimore, to whom he lost his heart

incontinently. His person and address were attractive, and though his

prodigality had impaired his fortune, still a rich old maiden aunt,

who doted on him, Miss Persimmon Verjuice, promised to do the handsome

thing by him on condition of his marrying and settling quietly to the

management of his estate. So, under these circumstances, he proposed,

was accepted, and married, and brought home his beautiful young bride

to reside with Miss Verjuice at the Willows.

In the early days of the honeymoon, one fine morning, when Mr. and

Mrs. Scatterly and the maiden aunt were walking together in the

garden, Tom Mayflower, dressed in his best, made his appearance,

wearing a smile of most peculiar meaning.

"Julia," said Augustus, carelessly, to his young bride, "this is my

gardener, come to pay his respects to you--honest Tom Mayflower, a

very worthy fellow, I assure you."

Mrs. Scatterly nodded condescendingly to the gardener who gazed upon

her with the open eyes of admiration. She spoke a few words to him,

inquired about his wife, his flowers, &c., and then turned away with

the aunt, as if to terminate the interview.

But Tom could not take his eyes off her, and he stood, gaping and

admiring, and every now and then passing the back of his hand across

his lips.

"What do you think of my choice, Tom?" asked Scatterly,

confidentially.

"O, splendiferous!" said the gardener.

"Roses and lilies in her cheeks--eh?" said Scatterly.

"Her lips are as red as carnations, and her eyes as blue as

larkspurs," said the gardener.

"I'm glad you like your new mistress; now go to work, Tom."

"I beg pardon, Mr. Scatterly; but I called to see you on business."

"Well--out with it."

"Do you remember any thing about saluting the bride?"

"I remember I paid the customary homage to Mrs. Mayflower."

"Well, don't you remember what you promised in case of your marriage?"

"No!"

Tom produced the promissory note with a grin of triumph. "It's my turn

now, Mr. Scatterly."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean to kiss Mrs. Scatterly."

"Go to the deuse, you rascal!"

"O, what is the matter?" exclaimed both the ladies, startled by

Scatterly's exclamation, and turning back to learn the cause.

"This fellow has preferred a demand against me," said Scatterly.

"A legal demand," said the gardener, sturdily; "and here's the

dokiment."

"Give it to me," said the old maid aunt. Tom handed her the paper with

an air of triumph.

"Am I right?" said he.

"Perfectly, young man," replied Miss Verjuice; "only, when my nephew

married, I assumed all his debts; and I am now ready myself to pay

your claim."

"Fairly trapped, by Jupiter!" exclaimed Scatterly, in an ecstasy of

delight.

"Stop, stop!" cried the unhappy gardener, recoiling from the withered

face, bearded lip, and sharp nose of the ancient spinster; "I

relinquish my claim--I'll write a receipt in full."

"No, sir," said Scatterly; "you pressed me for payment this

moment--and you shall take your pay, or I discharge you from my

employ."

"I am ready," said the spinster, meekly.

Tom shuddered--crawled up to the old lady--shut his eyes--made up a

horrible face, and kissed her, while Mr. and Mrs. S. stood by,

convulsed with laughter.

Five minutes afterwards, Tom entered the gardener's lodge, pale, weak,

and trembling, and sank into a chair.

"Give me a glass of water, Phebe!" he gasped.

"Dear, what has happened?" asked the little woman.

"Happened! why that cussed Miss Verjuice is paying Mr. Scatterly's

debts."

"Well?"

"Well, I presented my promissory note--he handed it to

her--and--and--O murder!--_I've been kissing the old woman!_"

Phebe threw her arms about his neck, and pressed her lips to his, and

Thomas Mayflower then and there solemnly promised that he would

nevermore have any thing to do with KISSES ON DEMAND!

THE RIFLE SHOT.

A MADMAN'S CONFESSION.

It is midnight. The stealthy step of the restless maniac is no longer

heard in the long, cheerless corridors; the ravings of the incurable

cannot penetrate the deep walls of the cells in which their despair is

immured; even the guardians of the establishment are asleep. Without,

what silence! The branches of the immemorial trees hang pendulous and

motionless; the last railway train, with its monster eyes of light,

has thundered by. The neighboring city seems like one vast mausoleum,

over which the silent stars are keeping watch and ward, and weeping

silvery dew like angels' tears. Only crime and despair are sleepless.

To my task. They allow me a lamp. They are not afraid that the

_madman_ will fire his living tomb and perish in the ruins. Wise men

of science! Cunning readers of the human heart, your decrees are

infallible. I am mad. But perhaps some eager individual whose eyes

shall rest upon these pages will pronounce a different sentence;

perhaps he may know how to distinguish _crime_ from _madness_.

A vision of my youth comes over me--a happy boyhood--a tree-embowered

home, babbling brooks, fertile lawns--a father's blessing--a mother's

kiss that was both joy and blessing--a brother's brave and tender

friendship--and first love, that dearest, sweetest, holiest charm of

all. O God! that those things were and are not! It is agony to recall

them.

Pass, too, the brief Elysian period of wedded love. Julia sleeps well

in her woodland grave. I was false to her memory.

If my boyhood were happy, my manhood was a melancholy one. A morbid

temperament, fostered by indulgence, dropped poison even in the cup of

bliss. I loved and I hated with intensity.

To my widowed home came, after the death of my wife, my fair cousin

Amy, and my young brother Norman. Both were orphans like myself. Amy

was a glorious young creature--my antithesis in every respect. She was

light hearted, I was melancholy; she was beautiful, I ill favored; she

was young, I past the middle age of life, arrived at that period when

philosophers falsely tell us that the pulses beat moderately, the

blood flows temperately, and the heart is tranquil. Fools! the fierce

passions of the soul belong not to the period of youth or early

manhood. But let my story illustrate my position.

Amy filled my lonely home with mirth and music. She rose with the

lark, and carolled as wildly and gayly the livelong day, till, like a

child tired of play, she sank from very exhaustion on her pure and

peaceful couch. Norman was her playmate. In early manhood he retained

the buoyant and elastic spirit of his youth. His was one of those

natures which never grow old. Have you ever noticed one of those aged

men, whose fresh cheeks and bright eyes, and ardent sympathy with all

that is youthful and animated, belie the chronicle of Time? Such might

have been the age of Norman, had not----But I am anticipating.

Between my cold and exhausted nature and Amy's warm, fresh heart, you

might have supposed that there could have been no union. Yet she

loved me warmly and well--loved me as a friend and father. I returned

her pure and innocent affection with a fierce passion. I longed to

possess her. The memory of her I had loved and lost was but as the

breath on the surface of a steel mirror, which heat displaces and

obliterates.

I was not long in perceiving the exact state of her feelings towards

me, and with that knowledge came the instantaneous conviction of her

fondness for my brother, so well calculated to inspire a young girl's

love. I watched them with the keen and angry eyes of jealousy. I

followed them in their walks; I played the eavesdropper, and caught up

the words of their innocent conversation, endeavoring to turn them to

their disadvantage. By degrees I came to hate Norman; and what equals

in intensity a brother's hate? It surpasses the hate of woman.

In the insanity of my passion--then I was insane indeed--I sought to

rival my brother in all those things in which he was my superior. He

was fond of field sports, and a master of all athletic exercises; he

was fond of bringing home the trophies of his manly skill and

displaying them in the eyes of his mistress. He could bring down the

hawk from the clouds, or arrest the career of the deer in full spring.

I practised shooting, and failed miserably. His good-natured smile at

my maladroitness I treasured up as a deadly wrong. While he rode

fearlessly, I trembled at the thought of a leap. He danced gracefully

and lightly; my awkward attempts at waltzing made both Amy and her

lover smile.

But in mental accomplishments I was the superior of Norman; and in my

capacity of teacher both to Amy and my brother, I had ample

opportunity of displaying the powers of my mind.

Amy was gifted with quick intelligence; Norman was a dull scholar.

What pleasure I took in humbling him in the eyes of his mistress! what

asperity and scorn I threw into my pedantic rebukes! Norman was

astonished and wounded at my manner. As he was in a good degree

dependent on me, as he owed to me his nurture, sustenance, and

training, I took full advantage of our relative position. With

well-feigned earnestness and sorrow, I exaggerated my pecuniary

embarrassments, and pointed out to him the necessity of his providing

for himself, suggesting, with tears in my eyes, that he must adopt

some servile trade or calling, as his melancholy deficiencies

precluded the possibility of his success in any other line.

Norman had little care for money. Before the fatal advent of Amy, I

had supplied him freely with the means of gratifying his tastes; but

when I found that he expended his allowance in presents for his fair

cousin, on the plea of hard necessity I restricted his supplies, and

finally limited him to a pittance, which only a feeble regard for the

memory of our indulgent mother forced me to grant.

One day--I remember it well--he came to me with joy depicted in his

countenance, and displayed a recent purchase, the fruits of his forced

economy. It was a fine rifle; and he urged me and Amy to come and see

him make a trial of the weapon. I rebuked him for his extravagance

with a sharpness which brought tears into his eyes--but I consented to

witness the trial. His first shot centered the target. He loaded

again, and handed the weapon to me. My bullet was nowhere to be found.

Norman's second shot lapped his first. Mine was again wide of the

mark. Norman laughed thoughtlessly. Amy looked grave, for with a

woman's quickness she had guessed at the truth of my feelings. I cut

the scene short by summoning both to their studies. That morning

Norman, whose thoughts were with his rifle, blundered sadly in his

mathematics, and I rebuked him with more than my usual asperity.

Be it understood that my character stood high with the world. I was

not undistinguished in public life, and had the rare good fortune to

conciliate both parties. I was a working man in many charitable and

philanthropic societies. I was a member of a church, and looked up to

as a model of piety. As a husband and brother, I was held up as an

example. I had so large a capital of character, I could deal in crime

to an unlimited amount.

Some days after the occurrence just related, I was alone with my

brother in the library.

"Come, Norman," said I, "leave those stupid books. Study is a poor

business for a young free heart like yours. Leave books for old age

and the rheumatism."

Norman sprang up joyously. "With all my heart, brother; I'm with you

for a gallop or a ramble."

"I'm but a poor horseman, and an indifferent walker," I answered.

"What do you say to a little rifle practice? I should like to try to

mend my luck."

Norman's rifle was in his hand in a moment, and whistling his favorite

spaniel, he sallied forth with me into the bright, sunshiny autumnal

day. We hied to a hollow in the woods where he had set up a target. He

made the first shot--a splendid one--and then reloaded the rifle.

"Take care," said he, "how you handle the trigger; you know the lock

is an easy one--I am going to have it altered." And he went forward to

set the target firmer in the ground, as his shot had shaken it.

He was twenty paces off--his back turned towards me. I lifted the

rifle, and covered him with both sights. It was the work of a moment.

My hand touched the trigger. A sharp report followed--the puff of

blue smoke swirled upward--and my brother fell headlong to the ground.

The bullet had gone crashing through his skull. He never moved.

A revulsion of feeling instantly followed. All the love of former

years--all the tender passages of our boyhood--rushed through my brain

in an instant. I flew to him and raised him from the earth. At sight

of his pale face, beautiful in death, of his long bright locks dabbled

in warm blood, I shrieked in despair. A mother bewailing her first

born could not have felt her loss more keenly, or mourned it more

wildly. Two or three woodmen rushed to the spot. They saw, as they

supposed, the story at a glance. One of those accidents so common to

the careless use of firearms--and I was proverbially unacquainted with

their use--had produced the catastrophe. We were borne home, for I had

fainted, and was as cold and lifeless as my victim. What passed during

a day or two I scarcely remember. Something of strange people in the

house--of disconnected words of sympathy--of a coffin--a funeral--a

pilgrimage to the woodland cemetery, where my parents and my wife

slept--are all the memory records of those days.

Then I resumed the full possession of my senses. Amy's pale face and

shadowy form were all that were left of _her_--my brother's seat at

the table and the fireside were empty. But his clothes, his picture,

his riding cap and spurs, a thousand trifles scattered round, called

up his dread image every day to the fratricide. His dog left the house

every morning, and came not back till evening. One day he was found

dead in the graveyard where his master had been laid.

Amy clung to me with despairing love. She _would_ talk of the lost

one. She _would_ find every day in me some resemblance to him.

Perhaps she would even have wedded in me the memory of the departed.

But that thought was too horrible. I loved her no longer.

Friends came to condole with me. Every word of sympathy was a barbed

arrow. I could bear it no longer. Conscience stung me not to madness,

but confession. I repelled sympathy--I solicited denunciation. I told

them I was my brother's murderer. I forced my confession on every one

who would hear it. Then it became rumored about that my "fine mind,"

so they phrased it, had given way beneath the weight of sorrow. I was

regarded with fear. A physician of my acquaintance made me a friendly

visit, and shook his head when he heard my story. One day this

gentleman invited me to ride in his carriage. He left me here. Society

believes me mad--that I am not, is to me a miracle.

O ye wise ones of the earth,--legislators of the land,--would ye

avenge the blood that has been spilt by violence on the ruthless

murderer, would ye inflict punishment upon him, spare and slay him

not. Take down the gallows, and in its place erect your prisons doubly

strong, for there, within their ever-during walls of granite, lies the

hell of the villain who has robbed his brother of his life.

THE WATER CURE.

Since the introduction of the limpid waters of Lake Cochituate into

the goodly city of Boston, the water commissioners have had their

hands full of business, for the various accidents incidental to the

commencement of the service, the bursting of pipes, the demands for

payments of damages, applications for accommodations, &c., have

rendered the offices no sinecures.

The other day, a poorly but decently-dressed Irish woman entered the

office of the commissioners on Washington Street, and walked up to the

head clerk.

"Well, my good woman, what do you want?"

"I want to see the dochthor."

"The doctor! what doctor?"

"How should I know his name, and me niver seeing him?"

"This is the water commissioner's office, my good woman."

"Ah! and sure I've hard of the wonderful cures you've made. If my poor

Teddy had been alive at this moment, he wouldn't have been dead the

day."

"O, you want the water brought into your house."

"Sure and I'd like that same."

"Well, where do you live?"

"Broad Strate--near Purchase Strate--it's a small cellar I have to

myself. I used to take boarders; but it's poorly I am, and I can't

work as I used to, dochthor."

"Well, haven't you got any water?"

"Divil a bit. I have to take my pail and go to Bread Strate for it."

"And the water doesn't come into your cellar?"

"Sure it comes into me cellar sometimes--but it's as salt as brine;

it's the say water. I've tried to drink it, but it made me sick. O,

I'm bad, dochthor, dear; if you think the water'll cure me, tell me

where I can get it."

"You've got the pipes down your way?"

"I've got the pipes, dochthor, dear--but sorrow a bit of tibaccy. Do

you think smoking is good for the rheumatiz?"

"There's some mistake here," said the clerk; "what's that you've got

in your hand?"

"They tould me to bring this bit ov pasteboord here, sure."

The clerk took it. It was a dispensary ticket. He explained the

mistake, and told the applicant where she should go to obtain medicine

and advice.

"No, dochthor, dear--it's no mistake--it's the water cure I'm after.

Sure it's the blissid wather that saves us. There was Pat Murphy that

brak his leg when he fell with a hod of bricks aff the ladder in Say

Strate, and they put a bit of wet rag round it, and the next wake he

was dancing a jig to the chune of Paddy Rafferty, at the ball given by

the Social Burial Society. And there was my sister Molly's old man,

Phelim, that was took bad wid the fever--and he drank walth of

whiskey, but it never did him a bit of good--but when he lift off the

whiskey, and drank nothin' but wather, he came round in a wake. O,

dochthor, let me have the blissid water."

"You must see your landlord about that."

"You wouldn't sind me to him, dochthor."

"I'm no doctor, good woman," said the clerk, now thoroughly annoyed,

"and you've come to the wrong shop, as I told you."

"How do you use the water?" inquired the woman.

"Why, you turn the cock and let it on--in this way," said the clerk,

letting a little Cochituate into a basin. "There, go along now, and go

to the doctor's, as I have directed you."

"Sorrow a dochthor I go to but the water dochthor, this blissid day,"

said the woman, and she left the office.

She repaired to her cellar in no enviable frame of mind. She was sick

and discouraged, and labored under the impression that she had been to

the right place, but they had imposed upon her, from an unwillingness

to aid her. In the mean while, however, during her absence, a service

pipe had been admitted into her premises by the landlord, though she

was not aware of the fact. She became acquainted with it soon enough,

however. The next morning, about four o'clock, as she lay on the

floor, bemoaning her hard fate and the neglect of the "dochthor," she

heard a rushing noise. The water pipe had burst, and a stream, like a

fountain, was now steadily falling into the cellar.

"Bless their hearts!" exclaimed the old woman, "they haven't forgotten

the poor. The dochthor's sent the water at last--and I must lie still

and take it."

The first shock of the invading flood was a severe one.

"Millia murther!" she exclaimed, "how could it is! Dochthor, dear,

couldn't ye have let me had it a thrifle warmer?"

The water continued to pour in, and she was thoroughly soaked. Under

the belief that the doctor must be somewhere about, superintending the

operation, but keeping himself out of sight from motives of delicacy,

she continued to address him.

"There! dochthor, dear. Blessings on ye! That'll do for this time.

It's could I am! Stop it, dochthor! I've had enough! It's too good for

the likes of me. I fale betther, dochthor; I won't throuble ye more,

dochthor; many thanks to ye, dochthor! do ye hear? It's drowning I

am!"

By this time she had risen, and was standing ankle deep in water. As

the element was still rising, and the "dochthor" failed to make his

appearance, the poor woman climbed upon a stool, which was soon

insulated by the tide. From this she managed to escape in a large

bread trough, and ferried herself over to a shelf, where she lay in

comparative safety, watching the rising of the waters.

What would have been her fate, if she had remained alone, it is

impossible to say. After some time the noise of waters alarmed the

neighbors; they came to see what was the matter, and finally succeeded

in rescuing the tenant of the cellar from the threatened deluge. She

was comfortably cared for by a fellow-countrywoman, and a regular

dispensary physician sent for. Wonderful to relate, the shock of the

cold bath had accomplished one of those accidental cures, of which

many are recorded in the history of rheumatic disorders; and in a few

days, the sufferer was on her legs again. Furthermore, her sickness

had proved the means of interesting several benevolent individuals in

her fate, and by their assistance she was established in a little

shop, where she is making an honest penny, and laying by something

against a rainy day. This she all attributes to the "blissid wather,"

and, in her veneration for the element, has totally abjured whiskey,

and signed the pledge, an act which gives assurance of her future

fortune.

THE COSSACK.

CHAPTER I.

I'd give

The Ukraine back again to live

It o'er once more, and be a page,

The happy page, who was the lord

Of one soft heart and his own sword.

MAZEPPA.

Count Willnitz was striding to and fro in the old hall of his

ancestral castle, in the heart of Lithuania. Through the high and

narrow Gothic windows the light fell dimly into the cold apartment,

just glancing on the massive pillars, and bringing into faint relief

the dusty banners and old trophies of arms that hung along the walls,

for the wintry day was near its close. The count was a dark-browed,

stern-featured man. His cold, gray eyes were sunken in their orbits;

and deep lines were drawn about his mouth, as if some secret grief

were gnawing at his vitals. And, indeed, good cause existed for his

sorrow; for, but a few days previously, he had lost his wife. They had

buried the countess at midnight, as was the custom of the family, in

the old, ancestral vault of the castle. Vassal and serf had waved

their torches over the black throat of the grave, and the wail of

women had gone up through the rocky arches. Still the count had been

seen to shed no tear. An old warrior, schooled in the stern academy

of military life, he had early learned to conquer his emotions;

indeed, there were those who said that nature, in moulding his

aristocratic form, had forgotten to provide it with a heart; and this

legend found facile credence with the cowering serfs who owned his

sway, and the ill-paid soldiers who followed his banner. The last male

descendant of a long and noble line, he was ill able to maintain the

splendor of his family name; for his dominions had been "curtailed of

their fair proportion," and his finances were in a disordered state.

As, like Hardicanute in the old ballad,

"Stately strode he east the wa',

And stately strode he west,"

there entered a figure almost as grim and stern as himself. This was

an old woman who now filled the office of housekeeper, having

succeeded to full sway on the death of the countess, the young

daughter of the count being unable or unwilling to assume any care in

the household.

"Well, dame," said the count, pausing in his walk, and confronting the

old woman, "how goes it with you, and how with Alvina? Still sorrowing

over her mother's death?"

"The tears of a maiden are like the dews in the morning, count,"

replied the old woman. "The first sunbeam dries them up."

"And what ray of joy can penetrate the dismal hole?" asked the count.

"Do you remember the golden bracelet you gave your lady daughter on

her wedding day?" inquired the old woman, fixing her keen, gray eye on

her master's face as she spoke.

"Ay, well," replied the count; "golden gifts are not so easily

obtained, of late, that I should forget their bestowal But what of the

bawble?"

"I saw it in the hands of the page Alexis, when he thought himself

unobserved."

"How!" cried the count, his cheek first reddening, and then becoming

deadly pale with anger; "is the blood of the gitano asserting its

claim? Has he begun to pilfer? The dog shall hang from the highest

battlement of the castle!"

"May it not have been a free gift, sir count?" suggested the hideous

hag.

"A free gift! What mean you? A love token? Ha! dare you insinuate? And

yet her blood is----"

"Hush! walls have sometimes ears," said the old woman, looking

cautiously around. "The gypsy child you picked up in the forest is now

almost a man; your daughter is a woman. The page is beautiful; they

have been thrown much together. Alvina is lonely, romantic----"

"Enough, enough!" said the count, stamping his foot. "I will watch

him. If your suspicions be correct----" He paused, and added between

his clinched teeth, "I shall know how to punish the daring of the dog.

Away!"

The old woman hobbled away, rubbing her skinny hands together, and

chuckling at the prospect of having her hatred of the young countess

and the page, both of whom had excited her malevolence, speedily

gratified.

Count Willnitz was on the eve of a journey to Paris with his daughter.

They were to start in a day or two. This circumstance brought on the

adventure we shall speedily relate.

Between Alexis, the beautiful page whom the late countess had found

and fancied among a wandering Bohemian horde, and the high-born

daughter of the feudal house, an attachment had sprung up, nurtured

by the isolation in which they lived, and the romantic character and

youth of the parties. About to be separated from his mistress for a

long time, the page had implored her to grant him an interview, and

the lovers met in an apartment joining the suite of rooms appropriated

to the countess, and where they were little likely to be intruded

upon. In the innocence of their hearts, they had not dreamed that

their looks and movements had been watched, and they gave themselves

up to the happiness of unrestrained converse. But at the moment when

the joy of Alexis seemed purest and brightest, the gathering thunder

cloud was overhanging him. At the moment when, sealing his pledge of

eternal fidelity and memory in absence, he tremblingly printed a first

and holy kiss upon the blushing cheek of Alvina, an iron hand was laid

upon his shoulder, and, torn ruthlessly from the spot, he was dashed

against the wall, while a terrible voice exclaimed,--

"Dog, you shall reckon with me for this!"

Alvina threw herself at her father's feet.

"Pardon--pardon for Alexis, father! I alone am to blame."

"Rise! rise!" thundered the count. "Art thou not sufficiently

humiliated? Dare to breathe a word in his favor, and it shall go hard

with thy minion. Punishment thou canst not avert; say but a word, and

that punishment becomes death; for he is mine, soul and body, to have

and to hold, to head or to hang--my vassal, my slave! What ho, there!"

As he stamped his foot, a throng of attendants poured into the room.

"Search me that fellow!" cried the count, pointing with his finger to

Alexis.

A dozen officers' hands examined the person of Alexis, one of them,

more eager than the rest, discovered a golden bracelet, and brought it

to the count.

"Ha!" cried the count, as he gazed upon the trinket; "truly do I

recognize this bawble. Speak, dog! when got'st thou this?"

Alvina was about to speak, and acknowledge that she had bestowed it;

but before she could utter a syllable, the page exclaimed,--

"I confess all--I stole it."

"Enough!" cried the count. "Daughter, retire to your apartment."

"Father!" cried the wretched girl, wringing her hands.

"Silence, countess!" cried the count, with terrific emphasis.

"Remember that I wield the power of life and _death_!"

Casting one look of mute agony at the undaunted page, the hapless lady

retired from the room.

"Zabitzki," said the count, addressing the foremost of his attendants,

"take me this thieving dog into the court yard, and lay fifty stripes

upon his back. Then bear him to the dungeon in the eastern turret that

overlooks the moat; there keep him till you learn my further

pleasure."

The page was brave as steel. His cheek did not blanch, nor did his

heart quail, as he heard the dreadful sentence. His lips uttered no

unmanly entreaty for forgiveness; but, folding his arms, and drawing

up his elegant figure to its full height, he fixed his eagle eye upon

the count, with a glance full of bitter hatred and mortal defiance.

And afterwards, when submitting to the ignominious punishment, with

his flesh lacerated by the scourge, no groan escaped his lips that

might reach the listening ear of Alvina. He bore it all with Spartan

firmness.

Midnight had struck when the young countess, shrouded in a cloak, and

bearing a key which she had purchased by its weight in gold, ascended

to the eastern turret, resolved to liberate the prisoner. The door

swung heavily back on its rusted hinges as she cautiously entered the

dungeon. Drawing back the slide from a lantern she carried in her left

hand, she threw its blaze before her, calling out at the same time,

"Alexis!"

No voice responded.

"They have murdered him!" she murmured, as she rushed forward and

glanced wildly around her.

The cell was empty. She sprang to the grated window. The bars had been

sawn through and wrenched apart, with the exception of one, from which

dangled a rope made of fragments of linen and blanket twisted and

knotted together. Had Alexis escaped, or perished in the attempt? The

moat was deep and broad; but the page was a good swimmer and a good

climber, and his heart was above all proof. There was little doubt in

the mind of his mistress that fortune had favored him. Sinking on her

knees, she gave utterance to a fervent thanksgiving to the almighty

Power which had protected the hapless boy, and then retired to her

couch to weep in secret. The next day the castle rang with the escape

of Alexis. Messengers were sent out in pursuit of him in every

direction; but a fall of snow in the latter part of the night

prevented the possibility of tracking him, and even the dogs that the

count put upon the scent were completely baffled. The next day the

count and his daughter started on their journey.

CHAPTER II.

For time at last sets all things even;

And if we do but watch the hour,

There never yet was human power

Which could evade, if unforgiven,

The patient search and vigil long

Of him who treasures up a wrong.

BYRON.

Years had passed away. The storm of war had rolled over the country,

and the white eagle of Poland had ceased to wave over an independent

land. Count Willnitz and his daughter had returned to the old castle;

the former stern and harsh as ever, the latter completely in the power

of an inexorable master. She had received no tidings of Alexis, and

had given him up as lost to her forever. Her father, straightened in

his circumstances and menaced with ruin, had secured relief and safety

by pledging his daughter's hand to a wealthy nobleman, Count Radetsky,

who was now in the castle awaiting the fulfilment of the bargain.

"Go, my child," said the count, with more gentleness than he usually

manifested in his manner. "You must prepare yourself for the altar."

"Father," said the young girl, earnestly, "does he know that I love

him not?"

"I have told him all, Alvina."

"And yet he is willing to wed me!" She raised her eyes to heaven,

rose, and slowly retired to her room.

Louisa, the old woman presented in the first scene of our tale, decked

the unfortunate girl in her bridal robes, and went with her to the

chapel, where her father and Radetsky awaited her. An old priest

mumbled over the ceremony, and joined the hands of the bride and

bridegroom. The witnesses were few--only the vassals of the count; and

no attempt at festivity preceded or followed the dismal ceremony.

Alvina retired to her chamber when it was over, promising to join her

bridegroom at the table in a few moments. The housekeeper accompanied

her.

"I give you joy, Countess Radetsky," said the old woman.

"I sorely need it," was the bitter answer. "I have sacrificed myself

to the duty I owe my sole surviving parent."

The old woman rubbed her hands and chuckled as she noted the tone of

anguish in which these words were uttered.

"I can now speak out," she said. "After long years of silence, the

seal is removed from my lips. I can now repay your childish scorn, and

bitter jests, by a bitterer jest than any you have yet dreamed of.

Countess Radetsky----"

"Spare me that name," said the countess.

"Nay, sweet, it is one you will bear through life," said the hag, "and

you had better accustom yourself early to its sound. Know, then, my

sweet lady, that the count, my master, had no claims on your

obedience."

"How?"

"He is a childless man. He found you an abandoned orphan. Struck with

your beauty, he brought you to his lady, and, though they loved you

not, they adopted you, with a view to making your charms useful to

them when you should have grown up. The count has amply paid himself

to-day for all the expense and trouble you have put him to. He has

sold you to an eager suitor for a good round price. Ha, ha!"

"And you knew this, and never told me!" cried the hapless girl.

"I was bound by an oath not to reveal the secret till you were

married. And I did not love you enough to perjure myself."

"Wretch--miserable wretch!" cried Alvina. "Alas! to what a fate have I

been doomed! Ah! why did they not let me rather perish than rear me to

this doom? My heart is given to Alexis--my hand to Radetsky!"

"Go down, sweet, to your bridegroom," said the old woman, who was

totally deaf to her complaints, "or he will seek you here."

Alvina descended to the banquet hall, uncertain what course to pursue.

Escape appeared impossible, and what little she knew of Radetsky

convinced her that he was as pitiless and base as her reputed father.

She sank into a seat, pale, inanimate, and despairing.

At that moment, ere any one present could say a word, a man, white

with terror, rushed into the hall, and stammered out,--

"My lord count!"

"What is it, fellow? Speak!"

"The Cossacks!" cried the man. And his information was confirmed by a

loud hurrah, or rather yell, that rose without.

"Raise the drawbridge!" cried the count. "Curses on it!" he added, "I

had forgotten that drawbridge and portcullis, every means of defence,

were gone long ago."

"The Cossacks are in the court yard!" cried a second servant, rushing

in.

"A thousand curses on the dogs!" cried Radetsky, drawing his sword.

"Count, look to your child; I will to the court yard with your

fellows, to do what we may."

By this time the court yard of the castle was filled with uproar and

turmoil. The clashing of swords was mingled with pistol shots and

groans, the shouts of triumph and the shrieks of despair. Alvina, left

alone by her father and Radetsky, trembled not at the prospect of

approaching death; she felt only joy at her deliverance from the arms

of a hated bridegroom. But when the crackling of flames was heard,

when a lurid light streamed up against the window, when wreaths of

smoke began to pour in from the corridors, the instinct of

self-preservation awakened in her breast, and almost unconsciously she

shrieked aloud for help.

Her appeal was answered unexpectedly. A tall, plumed figure dashed

into the room; a vigorous arm was thrown around her waist, and she was

lifted from her feet. Her unknown preserver, unimpeded by her light

weight, passed into the corridor with a fleet step. The grand

staircase was already on fire, but, drawing his furred cloak closely

around her, the stranger dashed through the flames, and bore her out

into the court yard. Almost before she knew it, she was sitting behind

him on a fiery steed. The rider gave the animal the spur, and he

dashed through the gate, followed by a hundred wild Cossacks, shouting

and yelling in the frenzy of their triumph.

Gratitude for an escape from a dreadful death was now banished from

Alvina's mind by the fear of a worse fate at the hands of these wild

men.

"You have saved my life," she said to her unknown companion; "do not

make that life a curse. Take pity on an unfortunate and sorely

persecuted girl. I have no ransom to pay you; but free me, and you

will earn my daily prayers and blessings."

"Fear nothing," answered a deep and manly voice. "No harm is intended

thee; no harm shall befall thee. I swear it on the word of a Cossack

chieftain."

Alvina was tranquillized at once by the evident sincerity of the

assurance.

"You are alone now in the world," pursued the stranger "I strove to

save your bridegroom, but he fell before I reached him."

"I loved him not," answered Alvina, coldly; "I mourn him not."

"You may hate me for the deed," said the stranger, "and I would fain

escape that woe; but here I vouch it in the face of heaven, Count

Willnitz fell by my hand. My sabre clove him to the teeth. Years had

passed, but I could not forget that he once laid the bloody scourge

upon my back."

"Alexis!" cried Alvina, now recognizing her preserver.

"Yes, dear but unfortunate girl," cried the Cossack leader, turning

and gazing on the young girl, "I feel that thou art lost to me

forever. I have slain thy father. Love for thee should have stayed my

hand; but I had sworn an oath of vengeance, and I kept my vow."

"Alexis," whispered Alvina, "he was not my father. He was my bitterest

enemy. Nor am I nobly born. Like you, I am an orphan."

"Say you so?" shouted the Cossack. "Then thou art mine--mine and

forever--joy of my youth--blessing of my manhood!"

"Yes, thine--thine only."

"But bethink thee, sweetest," said the Cossack; "I lead a strange wild

life."

"I will share it with thee," said Alvina, firmly.

"My companions are rude men."

"I shall see only thee."

"My home is the saddle, my palace the wide steppe."

"With thee, Alexis, I could be happy any where."

"Then be it so," said the Cossack, joyously. "What ho!" he shouted, at

the top of his ringing, trumpet-like voice. "Comrades, behold your

hetman's bride!"

From mouth to mouth the words of the Cossack chieftain were repeated,

and oft as they were uttered wild shouts of joy rose from the bearded

warriors; for they had loved the gallant Alexis from the moment when,

a wayworn, famished, and bleeding fugitive, he came among them. They

galloped round and round the hetman and his fair companion in dizzying

circles, like the whirling leaves of autumn, firing their pistols,

brandishing their lances and sabres, and making the welkin ring with

their terrific shouts. Alvina clung, terrified, to the waist of her

lover, and he finally silenced the noisy demonstrations by a wave of

his hand. Then, under his leadership, and in more regular order, the

formidable band of horsemen pursued their march to those distant

solitudes where happiness awaited their chieftain and his bride.

MARRIED FOR MONEY.

"Jack Cleveland!" exclaimed a fast young man in a drab driving coat

with innumerable capes, (it was twenty years ago, reader, in the palmy

days of Tom and Jerry and tandem teams,) as he encountered an equally

fast young man in Cornhill; "what's the matter with you?"

"It's all over, Frank; I've gone and done it."

"Gone and done what, you spooney?"

"Proposed."

"Proposed what?--a match at billiards, a trot on the milldam, or a

main of cocks?"

"Pooh!--something more serious," said Cleveland, gravely; "I've

offered myself."

"Offered yourself? To whom?"

"Widow--Waffles--shy name--never mind--soon changed--one hundred and

fifty thousand--cool, eh?--age forty--good looks--married for

money--sheriff would have it--no friends--pockets to let--pays my

debts--sets me up--house in Beacon Street--carriage--can't help it."

"You're a candidate for Bedlam," said Frank; "I've a great mind to

order you a strait jacket."

"Be my bridesman--see me off--eh?" asked Cleveland.

"Yes, yes, of course--it will be great fun."

And so it was. Jack Cleveland was united to the widow Waffles in Trinity

Church, and a smashing wedding it was. The party that followed it was, to

use Cleveland's own expressions, "a crusher--all Boston invited--all Africa

waiting--wax lights--champagne--music--ices--pretty girls--a bang-up

execution."

During the honeymoon Jack Cleveland was all attention to his bride,

(_il faut soigner les anciennes_,) but he promised to indemnify

himself by taking full and complete liberty so soon as that

interesting period of time had been brought to a close. Besides, his

chains sat lightly at first; for the widow was one of those splendid

Lady Blessington kind of women, who at forty have just arrived at the

imperial maturity of their charms, and she was deeply enamoured of the

young gentleman whom she had chosen for her second partner in the

matrimonial speculation. Moreover, she paid the debts of the fast

young man with an exemplary cheerfulness. The only drawback to this

gush of felicity was that her property was "tied up;" not a cent could

Cleveland handle except by permission of his lady. Then she kept him

as close to her apron strings as she did her Blenheim spaniel; she

required him to obey her call as promptly as her coachman. Galling to

his pride though it was, he was even forced to go a shopping with her;

and the elegant Cleveland, who once thought it degrading to carry an

umbrella, might be seen loaded with bandboxes, or nonchalantly lilting

bundles of cashmere shawls. The only difference between Mrs.

Cleveland's husband and her footman was that he received wages; but

then the footman could leave when he chose, and there the parallel

ended. Jack's habits had to submit to a rigid and inexorable

censorship. "Those odious cigars" were prohibited, and then "his list

of friends" was challenged. Frank Aikin, the bridesman, was tolerated

the longest of all, and then he was "bluffed off" by Mrs. Cleveland,

who determined to make her husband a domestic man. It was the old

story of Hercules and Omphale modernized to suit the times.

Jack began to think the happiest day of his life had made him the most

miserable dog alive, and, like Sir Peter Teazle, "had lost all comfort

in the world before his friends had done wishing him joy." But his

debts were paid--that was a great consolation. Several streets in

Boston, which were blocked up by creditors, as those of London were to

the respected Mr. Richard Swiveller, were now opened by the magic wand

of matrimony. He could exhibit his "Hyperion curls" in Washington

Street, without any fear of a gentle "reminder" in the shape of a tap

upon the shoulder.

One morning, however, a lady was ushered up into the splendid drawing

room in Beacon Street, being announced as Madame St. Germain. She was

a showy French woman, about the same age as Mrs. Cleveland, and the

latter waited with some curiosity to learn the object of her visit.

"You are Mrs. Cleveland, I believe," said the French woman.

Mrs. Cleveland bowed in her stateliest manner.

"You have undertaken, I learn, to pay the debts of Monsieur Cleveland,

contracted before your marriage."

Mrs. Cleveland bowed again.

"I hold a note of his drawn in my favor for a thousand dollars,

payable at sight, with interest, dated two years back."

"What was it given for?" asked Mrs. Cleveland, with some asperity.

"Pardon me, madam--I cannot state that without the permission of your

husband."

Mrs. Cleveland applied her hand vigorously to a bell-pull

communicating with her husband's dressing room.

He made his presence in a splendid _robe de chambre_ and a Turkish cap

with a gold tassel.

"This woman," said his better half, "says you owe her a thousand

dollars."

"Monsieur cannot deny it," said the French woman, fixing her keen

black eyes on the thunder-struck Cleveland.

"It's all right--pay her up!" said Mr. Cleveland.

"Not till I know what the debt was incurred for."

"I can't tell you," said Mr. Cleveland.

"I insist," said Mrs. Cleveland, stamping her foot.

"Then I won't tell--if you die!" said the rebellious Cleveland.

"I shall trouble you, ma'am, to leave my house," said the irritated

mistress of the mansion. "Not one farthing on that note do you get out

of me."

"Then I shall be under the unpleasant necessity of taking legal

measures to obtain the debt," said the French woman, rising. "Mr.

Cleveland, I wish you very much happiness with your amiable lady."

There was a storm--a regular equinoctial gale--after the departure of

Madame St. Germain. Mrs. Cleveland was very provoking, and Mr.

Cleveland indulged in epithets unbecoming a scholar and a gentleman.

That night the "happy couple" luxuriated in separate apartments. The

next day came a lawyer's letter, then a civil process, and finally Mr.

John Cleveland was marched off to Leverett Street jail, where, after

giving due notice to his creditor and obtaining bail, he was allowed

the benefit of the "limits," with the privilege of "swearing out," at

the expiration of thirty days.

Jack engaged lodging at a little tavern, on the limits, where he found

Frank Aikin, who had run through _his_ "pile," and a few kindred

spirits of the fast young men school enacting the part of "gentlemen

in difficulties." Cigars, champagne, and cards were ordered, and Jack

became a fast young man once more. Towards the small hours of the

morning, he forgot having married a widow, and thinking himself a

bachelor, he proposed the health of a certain Miss Julia Vining, which

was drank with three times three. The next morning, he sat down to a

capital breakfast, with more fast young men, and for a whole week he

enjoyed himself _en garcon_, without once thinking of the forsaken

Dido in Beacon Street.

One day, however, when he had exhausted his cash and credit, and a

racking headache induced him to regret the speed of his late life, a

carriage rattled up to the door of the tavern, his own door was

shortly after thrown open, and a lady flung herself into his arms.

Mrs. Cleveland looked really fascinating.

"Come home, my dear Jack," said she, bursting into tears; "I've been

so lonely without you."

"Not so fast, Mrs. Cleveland," said the young gentleman, as he

perceived his power. "I'm very happy where I am. I can't go back

except on certain conditions."

"Name them, dearest."

"I'm to smoke as many cigars as I please."

"Granted."

"Not to carry any more bandboxes or tomcats."

"Granted."

"To give a dinner party to the 'boys' once in a while."

"Granted--granted. And I've paid your note, and opened a cash account

for you at the bank."

"You are an angel," said Cleveland; "and now it's all over--that note

was given Madame St. Germain for tuition of a young girl, Miss Julia

Vining, whom I educated with the romantic notion of making her my

wife, when she should arrive at a suitable age, at which period she

ran off with a one-eyed French fiddler, and is now taking in sewing at

191st Street, New York."

The happy pair went home in their carriage, and we never heard of any

differences between them. Mrs. Cleveland wears very well, and Mr.

Cleveland is now an alderman, remarkable chiefly for the ponderosity

of his person, and the heaviness of his municipal harangues. "Sich is

life."

THE EMIGRANT SHIP.

On a summer's day, some years ago, business brought me to one of the

wharves of this city, at the moment when a ship from Liverpool had

just arrived, with some two hundred and fifty emigrants, men, women,

and children, chiefly Irish. Much as I had heard and read of the

condition of many of the poor passengers, I never fully realized their

distresses until I personally witnessed them.

Under the most favorable circumstances, the removal of families from

the land of their birth is attended by many painful incidents. About

to embark upon a long and perilous voyage, to seek the untried

hospitalities of a stranger soil, the old landmarks and associations

which the heartstrings grasp with a cruel tenacity are viewed through

the mist of tears and agony.

The old church--the weather-worn homestead--the ancient school house,

the familiar play ground, and more sadly dear than all, the green

graveyard, offer a mute appeal "more eloquent than words." But when to

these afflictions of the heart are added the pangs of physical

suffering and privation; when emigrants, in embarking, embark their

all in the expenses of the voyage, and have no hope, even for

existence, but in a happy combination of possible chances; when near

and dear ones must be left behind, certainly to suffer, and probably

to die,--the pangs of separation embrace all that can be conceived of

agony and distress.

The emigrant ship whose arrival we witnessed had been seventy odd days

from port to port. Her passengers were of the poorest class. Their

means had been nearly exhausted in going from Dublin to Liverpool, and

in endeavors to obtain work in the latter city, previous to bidding a

reluctant but eternal farewell to the old country. They came on board

worn out--wan--the very life of many dependent on a speedy passage

over the Atlantic. In this they were disappointed. The ship had

encountered a succession of terrific gales; it had leaked badly, and

they had been confined, a great part of the voyage, to their narrow

quarters between decks, herded together in a noisome and pestilential

atmosphere, littered with damp straw, and full of filth.

What marvel that disease and death invaded their ranks? One after

another, many died and were launched into the deep sea. The ship

entered Fayal to refit, and there that clime of endless summer proved

to the emigrants more fatal than the blast of the upas-poisoned valley

of Java. The delicious oranges, and the mild Pico wine, used liberally

by the passengers, sowed the seeds of death yet more freely among

their ranks. On the passage from Fayal, the mortality was dreadful,

but at length, decimated and diseased, the band of emigrants arrived

at Boston.

It was a summer's day--but no cheering ray of light fell upon the

spires of the city. The sky was dark and gloomy; the bay spread out

before the eye like a huge sheet of lead, and the clouds swept low and

heavily over the hills and house tops.

After the vessel was moored, all the passengers who were capable of

moving, or of being moved, came up or were brought up on deck. We

scanned their wan and haggard features with curiosity and pity.

Here was the wreck of an athletic man. His eyes, deep-sunken in their

orbits, were nearly as glassy as those of a corpse; his poor attire

hung loosely on his square shoulders. His matted beard rendered his

sickly, greenish countenance yet more wan and livid. He crawled about

the deck _alone_--his wife and five children, they for whom he had

lived and struggled, for whose sake he was making a last desperate

exertion, had all been taken from him on the voyage. We addressed him

some questions touching his family.

"They are all gone," said he, "the wife and the childer. The last

one--the babby--died this mornin'--she lies below. They're best off

where they are."

In another place sat a shivering, ragged man, the picture of despair.

A few of his countrymen, who had gathered round him, offered him some

food. He might have taken it eagerly some days before. _Now_ he gazed

on vacancy, without noticing their efforts to induce him to take some

nourishment. Still they persevered, and one held a cooling glass of

lemonade to his parched lips.

Seated on the after hatchway was a little boy who had that morning

lost both his parents. He shed no tear. Familiarity with misery had

deprived him of that sad consolation.

We passed on to a group of Irishmen gathered round an old gray-haired

man lying at length upon the forward deck. One of them was kneeling

beside him.

"Father, father!" said he, earnestly, "rouse up, for the love of

Heaven. See here--I've brought ye some porridge--tak a sup ov it--it

will give ye heart and life."

"Sorrow a bit of life's left in the old man any how. Lave him alone,

Jamie."

"Lift him ashore," said the mate--"he wants air."

The dying man was carefully lifted on the wharf, and laid down upon a

plank. His features changed rapidly during the transit. His head now

fell back--the pallid hue of death invaded his lips--his lower jaw

relaxed--the staring eyeballs had no speculation in them--a slight

shudder convulsed his frame. The son kneeled beside him; closed his

eyes--it was all over. And there, in the open air, with no covering to

shield his reverend locks from the falling rain, passed away the soul

of the old man from its earthly tabernacle.

The hospital cart arrived. Busy agents lifted into it, with

professional _sang froid_, crippled age and tottering childhood. But

all the spectators of this harrowing scene testified, by their

expressions, sympathy and sorrow, one low-browed ruffian alone

excepted.

"Serves 'em right ----d ----n 'em!" said he, savagely. "Why don't they

stay at home in their own country, and not come here to take the bread

out of honest people's mouths?"

Honest, quotha? If ever "flat burglary" and "treason dire" were

written on a man's face, it stood out in staring capitals upon that

Cain-like brow.

But there were lights as well as shadows to the picture. Out of that

grim den of death, out of that floating lazar house, there came a few

blooming maidens and stalwart youths, like fair flowers springing from

the rankness of a charnel. Their sorrows were but for the misfortunes

of others; and even these were a while forgotten in the joy of meeting

near and dear relatives, and old friends upon the shore of the

promised land. They went their way rejoicing, and with them passed the

solitary ray of sunshine that streamed athwart the dark horrors of the

emigrant ship, like the wandering pencil of light that sometimes

visits the condemned cell of a prison.

THE LAST OF THE STAGE COACHES.

A FRAGMENT OF A CLUB-ROOM CONVERSATION.

"Did you ever," said the one-eyed gentleman, fixing his single sound

optic upon us with an intensity which made it glow like one of the

coals in the grate before us, "did you ever hear how I met with this

misfortune?"

"What misfortune, sir?"

"The misfortune which made a Cyclops of me--the loss of my left eye."

"Never, sir. Pray how was it?"

"Put out by the cinder of a locomotive," growled the one-eyed

gentleman, seizing the poker and stirring up the fire viciously. "Bad

things these railroads, sir," he added, when he had demolished a huge

fragment of sea coal. "Only last week--little boy playing on bank in

his father's garden--little dog ran on the track--boy went down to

call him off--express train came along--forty-five miles an hour and

no stoppages--ran over boy and dog--agonized parents sought for the

remains--nothing found except one shoe, the buckle of his hatband, and

brass collar of the dog."

"Extraordinary!"

"No, sir; not extraordinary," said the one-eyed gentleman. "I maintain

it's a common occurrence. Sir, I keep a railroad journal at home, as

large as a family Bible. It is filled with brief accounts--_brief_,

mind you--of railroad accidents. Next year I shall have to buy another

book."

"Then you are a decided enemy of railroads?"

"Decided!" said the one-eyed gentleman. "Their prevalence and extent

is a proof that the age is lapsing into barbarism. Ah! you remember

the stage coaches?"

"Certainly."

"Well, sir," said the one-eyed gentleman, warmly, "travelling was

travelling in those days; sir, it was a pleasure. The coaches were fast

enough for any reasonable man; ten miles an hour, including stoppages.

Ah!" he added, smacking his lips, "what a fine thing it was to start on

a journey of a glorious October morning, when every thing looked bright

and smiling! You mounted to the box or the roof, well wrapped up in your

greatcoat and shawl, with your trunk safely strapped upon the rack

behind. The driver was a man of substance--solid, of a gravity tempered

with humor, a giant in a brown box-coat, with gray hat and mittens. How

he handled the ribbons and took his cattle through Elm Street! How the

long bridges rumbled and thundered as we bowled along away, away into

the country! The country! it _was_ the country then; inhabited by

country people, not peopled with a mixed society of farmers and cits,

six o' one and half a dozen of t'other. How nicely we glided along!

There were birds, in those days, singing by the roadside; now the

confounded locomotives have scared them all off. By and by we came to a

tavern. Out rushed a troop of hostlers and keepers skilled in horse

flesh. The cattle were just allowed to wet their lips, water was dashed

on their legs and feet, and then, after the parcels and papers had been

tossed off, away we went again. Five miles farther on, we pulled up to

change. The fresh team was led out, bright, shining, and glittering, in

tip-top condition. The driver descended to stretch his legs and

personally superintend the putting to of the fresh horses. When he

mounted the box again, his experienced eye glanced rapidly at the team,

and then, with an 'all right--let 'em go!' we were on the road once

more."

The one-eyed gentleman paused, after this flow of eloquence, and gazed

pensively into the midst of the glowing coals. After a few moments'

silence, he resumed:--

"Rather a singular occurrence happened to me last year on the 14th of

October, about half past twelve, P.M. I am thus particular about

dates, because this event is one that forms an era in my life. I had

been driving across the country in my gig, to visit a friend who had

recently moved upon a farm. The localities were new to me, and the

roads blind. Guideboards were few, and human beings fewer. In short, I

got astray, and hadn't the remotest conception of what part of the

country I was in. It was a cold, cloudy day, with a sort of drizzling

Scotch mist that wet one to the bone. I plodded along in hopes of soon

reaching some tavern, where I could bait my horse and get some dinner

for myself. All at once, at a turn of the road, just after having

crossed the Concord River, I perceived a stage coach coming towards

me. I had heard no noise of wheels or horses' feet; but there it was.

The road was narrow, and the coachman pulled up to let me work my way

past. The vehicle was a queer old affair, that looked as if it had

been dug out of some antediluvian stable yard. The curtains were brown

with age and dust, and riddled with holes; the body was bare and

worm-eaten, and the springs perfectly green with mould. The horses

were thin and lank, and the harness in as sorry a condition as the

coach. The driver's clothes, which were very old fashioned, hung about

him in loose folds, and he gazed upon me with a strange, stony stare

that was absolutely appalling; yet his lips unclosed as I worked past

him, and he exclaimed in a harsh, croaking voice, 'One eye!' Thereupon

two or three queer people poked their heads out of the coach window.

There was one old woman with false teeth, in an unpleasant state of

decay, and a voice like a parrot. 'One eye!' she shrieked, as she

gazed on me with an eye as stony as the coachman. A pale, simpering

miss smirked in my face, and cried, 'One eye!' and a military

gentleman, with a ghastly frown, hissed forth the same words. I should

have scrutinized the queer coach and the queer people closer, had not

my horse--my good, old, quiet, steady horse--seized the bit in his

mouth and started off at a dead run. I tried to saw him up, but it was

no use; he ran for a couple of miles, and did not slacken till he had

brought me to the door of an old, decayed tavern, where I resigned him

to the charge of a lame hostler, and made my way into the house in

search of the landlord. I found him at last--a poor, poverty-pinched

man, who had been ruined by the railroad. He complained bitterly of

the hard times. 'But,' said I, 'you must have some custom; the stage

coaches----' 'Bless your soul,' replied he, 'there hasn't been a coach

on this road for fifteen years.' 'What do you, mean?' said I; 'I met a

coach and passengers two miles back, near the river.' The landlord

turned pale. 'What day is this?' he asked. 'The 14th of October.' 'The

14th of October!' cried the landlord; 'I remember that date well. That

day, fifteen years since, was the last trip of the old mail coach. It

left here, with Bill Snaffle, the driver, and three insides, a

military man, an old woman, and a young lady. They were never heard of

after they left here. Their trail was followed as far as the bridge.

It is supposed that the horses got frightened at something, and backed

off into the Concord River. But I have heard,' added the landlord, in

a hollow whisper, 'that on this anniversary the ghost of that coach

and company may be seen upon the turnpike. More, I will tell you, in

confidence, that I have seen them myself.' After this I was convinced

that I had been favored--if favor it may be called--with a spiritual

visitation."

The one-eyed gentleman looked me full in the face, as if to say, "What

do you think of it?" It was useless to argue with him; so I only shook

my head. He nodded his in a very mysterious manner, and fell to poking

the fire with redoubled activity; and I bade him good night, and left

him to pursue his occupation.

THE SEXTON OF ST. HUBERT'S.

A STORY OF OLD ENGLAND.

CHAPTER I.

THE QUEEN OF THE MAY.

In a remote region in the northern part of England, the people still

cherish an attachment to old usages and sports, and hold the

observance of Christmas, May-day, and other time-honored festivals, a

sacred obligation. One village, in particular, is famous for its

May-day sports, which, as the curate is a little withered antiquary,

are conducted with great ceremony and fidelity to old authorities. The

May-pole is brought home, garlanded, and decked with ribbons, to the

sound of pipe and tabor, surrounded by a laughing throng of sturdy

yeomen and buxom maidens. It is erected on the great green, in the

centre of the village, to the universal delight of old and young, and

the dancing commences round it with high glee. The scene presented is

like that described by Goldsmith,--

"Where all the village train, from labor free,

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;

While many a pastime circled in the shade,

The young contending as the old surveyed;

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round."

It was a delightful spring, that of 17--, and a softer sky never

before smiled upon the village-green of Redwood, upon the 1st of May;

and among the merry damsels dancing round the May-pole, no heart was

happier, and no step was lighter, than that of Margaret Ellis, who,

for the first time, joined in the sports of the day. She was a child

of May, and this was the sixteenth anniversary of her birthday. A gay

brunette, her sparkling eyes had all the fire and the mirth of the

sunny and passionate south, while no lighter or more delicate foot

than hers could have been found upon the merry green. A rich bloom

mantled on her cheek, her lips were fresh and red, and her regular

teeth, displayed as she panted in the dance, were white as unsullied

snow. A tight little bodice, and a milk-white frock, set off the

charms of her person in the best manner. Then there was an air of

gayety and innocence about her which delighted every good-natured

observer; and all the villagers allowed that Margaret Ellis deserved

the tiara of flowers that crowned her Queen of the May. She blushed at

the tokens of good will and approbation, as she placed her hand in

that of a young and rustic stranger, who led her off triumphantly at

the head of the dancers. The youth was fair-haired, ruddy, athletic,

and active; and those who saw them in the dance could not help

acknowledging that they were a lovely pair.

There was one who regarded them with eyes of jealous displeasure. This

was a man of forty, of a handsome face and figure, but swarthy,

dark-haired, and melancholy. He bent over the seat upon which old

Farmer Ellis and his dame were seated, and whispered, "Do you know the

young man who is dancing with your daughter?"

"Ah! he be a right good young mon, I warrant me," said the dame. "He

do come fra the next county. William Evans, he calls himself."

"He calls himself!--umph!" muttered the person who had first spoken.

"But what do others call him? Who knows any thing about him? Who can

vouch for his character? I would not suffer a daughter of mine to be

gadding about, and dancing with a stranger."

"Whoy, for the matter o' that," said Farmer Ellis, "you were nought

but a stranger yourself, when you first did come to see us, Maister

Pembroke. We didn't know you were the sexton of St. Hubert's. And yet

you turned out a right good friend to me, mon; for when ye first knew

me, things were deadly cross wi' me. What wi' the rot among my sheep,

and the murrain among my cattle, I were all but ruined. Short crops

and a hard landlord are bitter bad things. But you were the salvation

of me, and I'll work my fingers to the bone, but what you shall have

your own again, John Pembroke."

"There is one way in which you can liquidate your debt."

"Name it, Maister Pembroke," said the farmer, eagerly.

"No matter," muttered the sexton, and a hollow sigh escaped his lips.

"I had an idea, but it is gone. Touching the stranger, in whom you

both repose such confidence. In what manner does he earn his daily

bread?"

"Whoy," said the farmer, "in the way that Adam did, mon. He do say he

is a gardener."

"A likely tale!" ejaculated the sexton. "Look at his hands. Why, his

fingers are delicate and white. Your gardener has horny fingers, and a

palm of iron."

"Dang it! so they be!" cried Ellis. "Well, I never noticed that afore.

Whoy, dame, he may be an impostor And though he be so cruel koind,

and deadly fond of the girl, now, he may forsake--may----"

"Look at, them, now," said the sexton of St. Hubert's. "See how he

grasps her hand; and how, as he whispers his soft, insinuating

flattery in her ear, she blushes and smiles upon him. Damnation!"

"Whoy, John!" exclaimed Dame Ellis; "what would the rector say to hear

thee? Thou art surely distraught."

And now, as Margaret, flushed and panting with exercise, was suffering

her partner to lead her towards her seat, her father beckoned her to

approach.

"Come hither, girl," said he. The smiling maiden obeyed. "Margaret,"

said the old man, "thou knowest I love thee. I ha' always been cruel

koind to thee, and so has thy mother, girl. If any harm was to happen

to thee, I should take it desperately to heart. I should, indeed. It

would kill thy father, Margaret. Now, William Evans may be a good

young man, and he may not; but we must beware of strangers. Wait till

we have tried him a bit. Many a handsome nag turns out a vicious one.

So it be my pleasure, and the dame's, that thou dost not dance any

more to-day wi' William Evans; and even if he speaks to thee, be a

little offish loike to him."

The poor girl sighed. "I hope, sir," said she, glancing at the sexton,

"that no person possessed of an unhappy and suspicious temper has been

prejudicing you against poor William. I hope Mr. Pembroke----"

"Hush, girl--hush!" cried Ellis. "Doant thee say a word against that

man. But for him we mought all ha' been beggars. Do as I bid thee,

girl, and doan't thee ask no questions; for you know I've got no head

to argury."

Margaret slowly sank into a seat. The sexton leaned over her, and

addressed to her some commonplace remarks, to all of which she

returned answer in monosyllables. When the music recommenced a lively

air, William advanced, and solicited her hand for the next dance. Poor

Margaret bent her eyes upon the ground, and falteringly refused.

Thinking he could not have heard her rightly, Evans again asked the

question, and received, a second time, the same answer. For a moment

his countenance expressed astonishment; the next there was a look of

grief, and then his lip curled, and drawing himself up proudly, he

stalked away. He was followed by the sexton of St. Hubert's, who

overtook him, and laid his hand upon his shoulder. William turned

fiercely, and endeavored to shake off the grasp.

"Young man," said the sexton, "you are discovered!"

"Discovered!" exclaimed William. "What do you mean?"

"You understand me," said the sexton; "your manners, your language,

your figure, contradict the story you have fabricated. Margaret shall

never be your victim. With her your boasted arts are valueless!"

"If you were a gentleman----" said William.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the sexton of St. Hubert's. "Is this the resentment

of a rustic? Go, young man; you have exposed yourself."

"Remove your hand!" said the young man; "and think it unusual

forbearance on my part, that I do not chastise you as you deserve. We

shall meet again, and with a sterner greeting." So they parted.