"That's more than he'll do to us," answered the mate, "or I don't know

the natur of a greaser. One broadside from our starboard battery would

settle him, and save all future trouble, and make every thing pleasant

and comfortable on all sides."

But Captain Morris would not listen to reason, and so the guns were

secured, and the ports closed, and the little Zanthe went bounding on

her course to Santa Rosara.

She came to anchor in a deep bay which she entered at nightfall, and

almost immediately a shore boat, under the command of Martinez,

boarded the brig. The meeting between the smuggler and his bride was

so affectionate, as to call a tear even into the eye of Mr. Pardon G.

Simpkins. The smuggler laughed loudly when he heard of the

discomfiture of Captain Morena, the discarded suitor of the senorita

Maria.

The next day all hands were employed in landing the remainder of the

cargo, and at night a very worthy and accommodating priest came off

from the shore, and united Martinez and Maria in the bonds of holy

matrimony. The nuptials were celebrated with great rejoicings and

revelry, and the fun was kept up till a late hour of the night, when

the happy couple retired to the cabin.

The first faint streaks of dawn were beginning to appear in the east,

when the ever vigilant ear of the mate, who never took a wink of sleep

while the brig was lying on shore, detected the cautious plunge of

oars, and soon he descried a barge pulling towards the brig.

"Catch a weazle asleep," said the Yankee to himself; "these greasers

don't know as much as a farrer hen." And without arousing the captain,

he quietly mustered the crew, and with as little noise as possible,

the guns were run out upon the starboard side, which the boat was fast

approaching.

A moment after he hailed. No answer was given, but the light of the

lanterns flashed on the arms of a large body of men, and the mate

recognized the figure of the captain of the Vengador in the stern

sheets.

"Sheer off," shouted the mate, "or by the shade of Gin'ral Jackson,

I'll blow you all to Davy Jones."

"Pull for your lives," shouted the voice of Morena; and the boat

bounded towards the brig.

"Fire!" cried the mate.

Crash went the guns! The iron hurtled through the air, and the

splintering of wood, as the metal struck the barge, was distinctly

heard amid the groans and shrieks of the vigilantes.

In one moment it was all over. Morris and Martinez rushed to the deck.

"What's the matter, Pardon?" asked the former.

"Nothin', cap'n--cap'n, nothin'," answered the mate. "Only there aint

quite so many greasers in the world at present, as there was five

minutes since. Morena broke his parole, and tried to board us by

surprise, and I gin' him my starboard battery--that's all."

"Then I'm off for blue water!" cried the captain.

"And I for the mountains!" said Martinez. "The mules are all packed

and the horses saddled. The vigilantes must wear sharp spurs if they

catch us."

It was a hurried parting--that of the smuggler and his bride with the

captain and mate of the Zanthe. But they got safely on shore, and the

whole band effected their escape.

The Zanthe spread her wings, and some days afterwards was crossing the

equator. She was never known again as a free trader. The captain and

mate had both "made their piles," and after arriving at the Atlantic

states retired from sea. Pardon G. Simpkins took up his residence in

Boston, and during the late war with Mexico, was very prominent in his

denunciations of that republic, and very liberal in his donations to

the Massachusetts regiment, to the members of which his parting

admonition was, to "give them greasers fits."

THE STAGE-STRUCK GENTLEMAN.

Few amateurs of the drama have passed through their town lives,

without having been, at some one period of their career, what is

called stage struck, afflicted with a maniacal desire to make a "first

appearance," to be designated in posters as a "YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF

THIS CITY," in connection with one Mr. Shakspeare, the "author of

certain plays." The stage-struck youth is easily recognized by certain

symptoms which manifest themselves at an early stage of the disorder.

He is apt to pass his hand frequently through his "horrent locks," to

frown darkly without any possible reason, and to look daggers at his

landlady when invited to help himself to brown-bread toast. His voice,

in imitation of the "Boy," the "Great American tragedian," alternates

between the deep bass of a veteran porker and the mellifluous tenor of

a "pig's whisper." He is apt to roll his eyes quickly from side to

side, to gasp and heave his chest most unaccountably. He reads nothing

of the papers but the theatrical advertisements and critiques. He has

an acquaintance with two or three fourth-rate stock actors and a scene

shifter, and is consequently "up" in any amount of professional

information and slang, which he retails to every one he meets, without

regard to the taste or time of his auditors. Have you seen the new

drama of the Parricidal Oysterman? If you have, you must agree with

him it is the greatest affair old Pel. has ever brought out; if you

have not, you must submit to his contemptuous pity for your ignorance.

For a person who passes his evenings in the society of books and

friends, or in the country, the stage-struck gentleman has the most

profound contempt. How one can live without nightly inhaling the odor

of gas and orange peel, is to him a mystery inexplicable. He is aided

and abetted in his practices by the sympathy and example of other

stage-struck youths, all "foredoomed their fathers' soul to cross,"

all loathing their daily avocations for the time being, all spending

their earnings, or borrowings, or stealings, on bits of pasteboard

that admit them to their nightly banquet. The stage struck always copy

the traits of the leading actor of the hour, whoever he may be, and

grunt and bluster in imitation of "Ned"--meaning Forrest--or quack and

stutter _a la_ "Bill"--that is, Macready--as the wind of popular favor

veers and changes. It is curious, at a representation of the

"Gladiator," to winnow these young gentlemen from the mass by the lens

of an opera glass. There you may see the knit brows, the high shirt

collars, the folded arms, the pursed-up lips, the hats drawn down over

the eyes, that are the certain indications of the stage-struck

Forrestians.

If, after the performance, fate and a designing oysterman place you in

the next box to three or four of these geniuses, you will, unless very

much of a philosopher, be disgusted, for the time being, with human

nature. Their paltry imitations, their miserable brayings, their

misquotations from Shakspeare, their mendacious accounts of interviews

with the "Boy," will be enough to drive you mad. Some such thing as

the following will occur:--

_Waiter._ Here are your oysters, _gentlemen_; ("a slight shade of

irony in the emphasis.")

_Stage-struck Youth, No. 1_, (in a deep guttural tone.) "Let em come

in--we're armed!"

_Stage-struck Youth, No. 2_, (to waiter.) "Red ruffian, retire!"

_Stage-struck Youth, No. 3_, (to Stage-struck Youth, No. 4.) "How are

you _now_, Dick?"

_Stage-struck Youth, No. 4._ "Richard's himself again!"

_O, Dii immortales!_ can these things be? In other words, _can_ such

_animals_ exist?

It has been calculated by a celebrated mathematician, that out of

every fourteen dozen of these stage-struck young gentlemen, one

actually makes a first appearance. This event causes an enormous

flutter in the circle of aspirants from which the promotion takes

place. As the eventful night approaches, the most active and

enterprising among them besiege the newspapers with elaborate puffs of

their _confrere_, a column long, and are astonished and enraged that

editors exclude them entirely, or exscissorize them to a dozen lines.

Of what importance is the foreign news, in comparison with the first

appearance of Bill Smithy in the arduous character of Hamlet? Has

Colonel Greene no sympathy with struggling genius? Or is it the result

of an infernal plot of the actors to put down competition, and sustain

a professional monopoly?

The stage-struck young gentleman has passed through the fiery ordeal

of "rehearsals," has been duly pushed and shaken into his "suit of

sables," glittering with steel bugles, his hands have been adorned

with black kids, his plumed hat rests upon his brow, his rapier

dangles at his side. The curtain goes up and he is pushed upon the

stage. His first appearance is the signal for a thundering round of

generous applause, in which his faithful fellow-Forrestians are

leading _claquers_. But the audience soon discover that he is a "guy"

escaped from the _surveillance_ an anxious mother. The stage-struck

young gentleman is "goosed." Storms of hisses or bursts of ironical

applause greet every sentence that he utters, and the curtain finally

falls on his disgrace. This generally cures the disease of which we

have been speaking. A night of agony, a week of pain, and the young

gentleman, disenchanted and disenthralled, looks back upon his

temporary mania with feelings of humiliation and surprise, cuts his

aiders and abettors, and betakes himself seriously to the rational

business of life.

But there are some stage-struck gentlemen whom nothing can convince of

their total unfitness for the stage. You may hiss them night after

night, you may present them with bouquets of carrots, and wreaths of

cabbage leaves and onions, and leather medals, and services of tin

plate; and if you find them "insensible to kindness," you may try

brickbats--but in vain. They will cling to the stage for life--living,

or rather starving, as _attaches_ to some theatre, the signal for

disturbance whenever they present themselves; detected by the lynx

eyes of the public, whether disguised as Roman citizens or Neapolitan

brigands, and severely punished for incompetency by heaped-up insult

and abuse. These men live and die miserably; yet, doubtless, their

lives are checkered with rays of hope; they regard themselves as

martyrs, and die with the secret consciousness that they have "acted

well their parts."

THE DIAMOND STAR;

OR,

THE ENGLISHMAN'S ADVENTURE.

A STORY OF VALENCIA.

In a fine summer night in the latter half of the seventeenth century,

(the day and year are immaterial,) Clarence Landon, a handsome and

high-spirited young Englishman, who had been passing some time in the

south of Spain, was standing on the banks of the Guadalquiver, in the

environs of the ancient city of Valencia, watching with anxious eyes

the fading sails of a small felucca, just visible in the golden rays

of the rising moon, as, catching a breath of the freshening western

breeze, they bore the light craft out upon the blue bosom of the

Mediterranean. Though the scene was one of surpassing beauty, though

the air was balmy, and came to his brow laden with the fragrance of

the orange, the myrtle, and the rose, the expression of the young

man's face was melancholy in the extreme.

"Too late!" he muttered to himself; "too late! It is hard, after

having ventured so much for them, that I should have been baffled in

my attempt to escape with them. However, they are safe and happy. If

this breeze holds, they will soon pass Cape St. Martin. Dear Estella,

how I value this pledge of your friendship and gratitude."

And the young man, after raising to his lips a small diamond star,

attached to a golden chain, deposited the trinket in his bosom, and

then, with a parting glance at the distant vessel, turned homewards in

the direction of the city gates.

Absorbed in his own reflections, he did not notice that his footsteps

were dogged by a tall figure, muffled in a black cloak, which pursued

him in the moonlight, like his shadow, and left him only when he

entered his _posada_.

Landon spent some time in his room in reading and arranging letters

and papers; and when the clock of a neighboring cathedral sounded the

hour of eleven, threw himself upon his bed without undressing, and was

soon asleep. From a disturbed and unrefreshing slumber, crowded with

vexatious visions, he was suddenly and rudely roused by a rough hand

laid upon his shoulder. He started upright in bed, and gazed around

him with astonishment. His chamber was filled by half a dozen

sinister-looking men, robed entirely in black, in whom he recognized,

not without a shudder, the dreaded familiars of the Holy Office, the

officials of the Inquisitorial Tribune. His first impulse was to grope

for his arms; but his sword and pistols had been removed. A rough

voice bade him arise and follow, and he had no choice but to obey the

mandate. Preceded and followed by the familiars, who were all armed,

as he judged by the clash of steel that attended each footstep, though

no weapons were apparent, he descended the staircase, came out upon

the street, and was conducted through many a winding lane and passage

to a low-browed arch, which opened into the basement story of a huge

embattled building, that rose like a fortress before him. The

conductor of the band halted here, and knocking thrice upon an oaken

door, studded with huge iron nails, it was opened silently, and the

party entered a dark, subterranean passage of stone, lighted only by

a smoky cresset lamp swinging in a recess.

After passing through this corridor, Landon was conducted into a huge

vaulted hall, dimly illuminated by the branches of an iron chandelier,

by whose light he discovered in front of him a raised platform, on

which were seated three men, robed in black, while before them, at a

table, sat two others, similarly attired, with writing implements

before them. On the platform was planted a huge banner, the blazon on

the folds of which was a wooden cross, flanked by a branch of olive

and a naked sword, the motto being, "_Exurge, Domine, et judica causam

tuam._" _Rise, Lord, and judge thy cause._ It wanted neither this

formidable standard, nor the implements of torture scattered around,

to convince the young Englishman that he stood in the halls of the

Inquisition.

After being permitted to stand some time before the judges, that his

mind might be impressed with the terrors of the place, the principal

Inquisitor addressed him, demanding his name.

"Clarence Landon," was the reply.

"Your birthplace?"

"London, England."

"Your age?"

"Twenty-five years."

"Occupation?"

"I am a gentleman of fortune, with no pursuit but that of knowledge

and pleasure."

"You are accused," said the judge, "of having aided and abetted a

countryman of yours, named Walter Hamilton, in seducing and carrying

off Estella Martinez, a lady of a noble house, and a sister of St.

Ursula. How say you, guilty or not guilty?"

"I am not guilty--I am not capable of the infamy with which you charge

me."

"He refuses to confess," said the judge, turning to a familiar, the

sworn tormentor. "We must try the question. Sanchez, is the rack

prepared?"

The man addressed was a brawny, muscular ruffian, with a livid and

forbidding countenance, whose dark eyes sparkled with pleasure as he

bowed assent to the interrogation.

"Hold!" cried Landon. "The truth can no longer harm any but myself;

and though you may inflict death upon me, you shall not enjoy the

fiendish satisfaction of mutilating my limbs with your horrid

enginery. I did aid Hamilton, not indeed in ruining an injured maiden,

but in rescuing from the thraldom she abhorred a lovely lady whom

Providence formed to make the happiness of an honorable man. By this

time Estella is a happy bride."

"Her joys will be shortened," said the inquisitor, frowning. "They

cannot long elude the power of Rodrigo d'Almonte, at once judge of the

Holy Office and governor of Valencia."

"Moderate your transports, governor," replied the Englishman, boldly;

"the fugitives are beyond your reach. This very night a swift-winged

felucca bore them away from these accursed shores, to a land of

liberty and happiness."

The brow of Rodrigo grew black as night.

"Insolent!" he answered; "you have outraged and set at naught the

authority of church and state; your life shall pay the forfeit."

"Be it so," replied Landon, folding his arms; "but let me tell you,

that for every drop of blood shed, my country will demand a life. The

cross of St. George protects the meanest subject of the English

crown."

Rodrigo d'Almonte made no reply, but waving his hand, Landon was

removed from the tribunal and thrown into a dungeon on the same floor

with the hall of torture.

* * * * *

Towards the close of a sultry summer day, the narrow streets of

Valencia wore an aspect of unusual activity and life, filled, as they

were, with representatives of every class of citizens. The tide of

human beings seemed to be setting in one direction, towards a plaza,

or square, in the centre. The Alameda was deserted by its fashionable

promenaders; and young and old--all, indeed, who were not

bedridden--were at length congregated in the square. The attraction

was soon explained; for in the centre of the plaza was seen a lofty

platform of wood, on which was erected a stout stake or pillar, to

which was affixed an iron chain and ring. Around this were heaped, to

the height of several feet, huge fagots of dry wood, ready for the

torch. A large body of men-at-arms kept the crowd back from a large

open space around the platform. These preparations were made, so the

popular rumor ran, for the punishment of a young Englishman, who had

aided a Spanish nun in the violation of her vows.

The numerous bells of the city were tolling heavily; and at length,

after the patience of the populace had been nearly exhausted, the head

of a column of men, marching in slow time, was seen to enter upon the

plaza. First came the governor's guard, their steel caps and cuirasses

and halberds polished like silver. After these, walked the officials

of the Inquisition, and some friars of the order of St. Dominic,

surrounding the unfortunate Landon, who wore the _corazo_, or pointed

cap, upon his head, and the _san benito_, a robe painted all over

with flames and devils, typifying the awful fate which awaited him. He

ascended the scaffold with a firm step, while the _cortege_ ranged

themselves around it; and the governor of Valencia, mounted on a

splendid barbed charger, and wearing his inquisitorial robes over his

military uniform, rode into the square, amid the _vivas_ of the crowd

and the presented arms of the troops, and made a sign for the ceremony

to proceed.

As an officer, appointed for the purpose, was about to read the

sentence, a great tumult arose in the square, and attracted the

attention of all the spectators.

"What is the meaning of this, Alvarez?" asked the governor, addressing

one of his lieutenants.

"The people, please your excellency, have got hold of Isaac, the rich

Jew, and insist on his beholding the august spectacle of the _auto da

fe_."

"The unbelieving dog has never liked these brave shows," answered the

governor, with a grim smile, "since his well-beloved brother,

Issachar, expiated his heresy on this spot in the great auto, when we

burned twenty of his tribe before the king. Beshrew my heart! he

abuses my clemency in permitting him to hold house and gold here in

Valencia. He shall behold the execution! Make room there, and drag him

into the heart of the hollow square."

The cruel order was obeyed; and the old Jew, who was a mild and

venerable-looking man, was forced into the centre of the plaza, whence

he could have a full view of the horrid scene about to be enacted.

But the indignities to which he had been subjected aroused a latent

spark of fire even in the soul of the aged Hebrew. He lifted up his

voice and cried aloud:--

"Spaniards! Christians! are ye men, or are ye brutes? Fear ye not the

vengeance of Heaven, when ye enact deeds that would make the savage

blush? Think ye that Heaven will long withhold its vengeance from

atrocities that cry aloud to it night and day--that the innocent blood

ye have spilt will sink, unavenged, into the earth? Fear and tremble,

for the hour of wrath and woe is at hand!"

The energy and eloquence with which he spoke sent a strange thrill of

terror through the crowd. The governor, alone insensible to fear,

shouted from his saddle:--

"Tremble for yourself, Isaac! for, by the rood! if you dare question

the justice of the Holy Office, you shall share the fate of yonder

prisoner."

"I fear not the wrath of man," replied the Jew; "fear you the wrath of

Heaven!"

And at this moment, as if in vindication of his words, a heavy clap of

thunder, that shook the city like the discharge of a park of

artillery, broke upon the ear; and one of those sudden storms, so

common in southerly latitudes, rolled up its dark masses of clouds,

and the light of day was suddenly quenched, as in an eclipse. Vivid

flashes of lightning lit the upturned and terror-stricken faces of the

cowering multitude. At the same time, the wind howled fiercely through

the streets that debouched upon the plaza, and tore the plumage that

waved and tossed upon the helmets of the soldiery.

"Executioner!" roared the governor, whose high, stern tones of

military command were heard above the roar of the sudden tornado, "do

your duty! Set fire to the fagots!"

The order was obeyed; the torch was applied, and already a quivering,

lurid flame shot up at the feet of the luckless Landon, when the storm

burst forth with ungovernable fury. The scaffolding was blown down,

the fragments scattered, and the rain, descending in torrents,

instantly quenched both torch and fagot. The vast crowd was thrown

into utter confusion; the terrified horses of the cavalry plunged

madly among the footmen; hundreds fell and were trampled under foot;

and prayers, shrieks, and imprecations filled the darkened air.

Landon was unhurt amid the wreck of the sacrificial pyre. A ray of

hope shot up in his heart. Scrambling out of the ruins, unobserved and

unpursued, he fled down the nearest lane with the utmost speed.

Anxious to obtain shelter, he, without even a thought, climbed a

garden wall; once within which he was safe, for a moment, from

pursuit. Rushing through a shaded alley of the garden, he found

himself at the door of a large and splendid house. Almost without a

hope of finding it yield, he tried the handle, and the door opened.

Silently and swiftly he ascended a large, stone staircase, and took

refuge in the first apartment which he found before him. A beautiful

young girl, the only occupant of the room, starting at the fearful

apparition of a stranger flying for his life, in the robe of the _san

benito_, fell upon her knees and crossed herself repeatedly, as her

dark eyes were fixed in terror on the intruder.

"Lady!" cried Landon, "for the love of that Being whom we both

worship, though in a different form, take pity on a wretched

fellow-being. Save me! save me!"

"You are accursed and condemned," she answered, rising and recoiling.

"I am! I am!--but you know my offence. If you ever loved yourself, you

know how to pardon it. Think of the horrid fate which awaits me, if

you are pitiless."

The lady paused and reflected, Landon watching the expression of her

countenance with the most intense anxiety. At length her brow cleared

up; there was an expression of sweetness about her rosy lips that

revived hope in the heart of the fugitive.

"I will save you if I can," she answered.

"Heaven's best blessing on you for the word!" exclaimed the

Englishman.

"But you have come to a dangerous place for shelter and safety," she

continued, sadly. "Do you know whose house this is? It is the dwelling

of my father, Don Rodrigo d'Almonte, the governor of Valencia."

Landon started back in terror, but he instantly recovered from that

feeling.

"You, then," he said, "are Donna Florinda, in praise of whose beauty

and goodness all Valencia is eloquent. I feel that I am safe in your

hands."

"I will never betray you," said the lady. "You are safe here. It is my

bed chamber," she continued, blushing; "but I resign it to you--sure,

from your countenance, that you are a cavalier of honor, who will

never give me cause to repent of the step."

"Be sure of that."

"Swear it," she said, "upon this trinket, which my father took from

your person in the hall of the Inquisition."

Landon took from Florinda's hand the diamond star given him by

Estella, and thus mysteriously restored, and pressed it to his lips.

"By this talisman," he said, "by this token, which I prize so highly,

I pledge myself not to abuse your confidence, but to repay the

priceless service you render me by a life of gratitude."

"You may remain here, then, for the present," said Florinda, "till I

can think what can be done for you."

"If I can only make my way to the house of the English ambassador,"

replied Landon, "I think I can count upon my safety."

Donna Florinda, after lighting a lamp, (for it was now nightfall,)

and setting upon a table some wine and fruit, left the chamber,

locking the door behind her.

Descending to the garden, she went directly to a secluded arbor,

embowered in foliage, at no great distance from the house.

"Cesareo!" she whispered.

A young cavalier, who was concealed in the arbor, instantly advanced,

and clasped her in his arms.

"Dear Florinda," he cried, "I feared that you would disappoint me. But

we have yet some happy moments to pass together."

"Not a moment, Cesareo," replied the lady; "my father will soon

return. I come to beg you to retire instantly, and await another

opportunity of meeting."

"You are anxious to get rid of me!" replied the cavalier.

"Not so; my father will soon return, and he will be sure to inquire

for me directly."

"Well, then," said the lover, "if it must be so, go you to the house,

and leave me the solitary pleasure of watching the window of the room

gladdened by your presence."

"No, no, Cesareo," cried Florinda, in terror, "that must not be."

As she said this, her eyes were instinctively turned to the window of

her room, and Cesareo's followed the same direction. The shadow of

Landon's figure, as it passed between the lamp and the window, was

seen defined distinctly on the curtain.

"By Heaven!" cried Cesareo, "there is a man in your bed chamber!"

"My father!" said Florinda.

"You told me in your last breath that he had not returned. You are

playing me false, Florinda. You have a lover, and a favored one."

"No, no!" cried the agonized girl. "It is nothing, believe me--trust

not appearances. I will explain all."

But at this moment the distant clang of trumpets and kettledrums was

heard, announcing the governor's return.

"I must begone!" cried Florinda; "believe me, I am faithful;" and with

these words she fled into the house.

"The dream is over!" said Cesareo. "But I will have vengeance on my

rival;" and he left the garden, muttering curses, and grasping the

cross hilt of his sword.

Florinda flew to her chamber.

"Fly!" she cried to Landon. "I have sheltered you at the risk of my

reputation--my father is returning, and you must leave this house. A

jealous lover may denounce me, and both of us be ruined forever.

Farewell; climb the wall at the back of the garden, and take refuge in

the next house. I will still watch over you."

Landon obeyed, and made his escape from the governor's garden just as

Don Rodrigo was entering his court yard. He crossed another small

garden, and entered a small house at the extremity, the door of which

was unbarred, and again found refuge in a room on the first floor,

where he concealed himself behind a screen.

He had not been here long before he heard footsteps entering the room,

and the voices of two persons in conversation, one of whom was

evidently a female, and the other an old man.

"Dear father!" said the female, "I am rejoiced to see that you are

returned. You never go forth in this city that you do not leave me

trembling for your safety."

"I have passed through much peril, Miriam," replied the man. "Snares

and violence have beset my path. I went to carry the gold and the

silver I had promised to Jacob, the goldsmith, when, lo! I was beset

by the ungodly rabble."

"Dear father!"

"Yea! and they dragged me to their place of skulls--even to their

accursed Golgotha, where the blood of mine only brother was drunken by

the ravening flames, and where thirty of our brethren perished because

they believed in the God of Abraham, and of Isaac, and of Jacob."

"And did they force you to witness the _auto da fe_?"

"They brought me to the place, Miriam--but there the spirit of

prophecy descended upon me, and I lifted up my voice and denounced

their abominations, even as the prophet of old did the iniquities of

the Egyptian king. And lo! Miriam, there was a miracle wrought. The

voice of Heaven spake in thunder to rebuke their impious

bloodthirstiness. The floodgates of heaven were opened, and the rain

descended in mighty torrents, and quenched the Moloch fires kindled by

the Christians. And a great wind arose, and the scaffold was

destroyed, and the goodly youth that stood thereupon was saved from

the death of fire as the multitude were scattered."

"And lives he, father?"

"I fear not," answered the old man, sadly. "For if he were not crushed

by the falling scaffold, yet verily the cruel swords of the troopers

and the men-at-arms must have sought out his young life."

At this moment, Landon stepped from his concealment.

"No, my friends," said he, "I yet live to thank Heaven for its

providential care. I have even found a friend in the household of my

bitter enemy, for Donna Florinda d'Almonte sheltered me, and commended

me to your roof."

He now had time to scan the persons of his hosts. The elder, Isaac,

the Jew, was, as we described him on his appearance in the plaza, a

man of venerable appearance, with a mild and noble countenance,

wearing the long beard and flowing robes of his race. His daughter,

Miriam, had the commanding beauty, the dark eyes, the flowing hair,

and the bold features of the daughters of Israel. She was richly clad

in robes of silk, and many a jewel of price gleamed in the raven

tresses of her hair.

"Thou art safe beneath this roof," said the Hebrew, "for Donna

Florinda, though the daughter of the man of tiger blood, hath yet

befriended us and ours, and for her sake as well as for thine, thou

art welcome."

Landon thanked his new friends for their hospitable pledges.

"I would fain," said the old Hebrew, "give thee garments more fitting

than the accursed robe that wraps thy youthful limbs. But of a truth I

have none of Spanish fashion, and the Jewish gabardine is almost as

fatal to the wearer as the robe of the _san benito_."

"Here comes Reuben," said Miriam. "Welcome home, dear brother."

A handsome youth of sixteen entered at this moment, and saluted his

father, his sister, and the stranger. He bore a bundle in his arms.

"I was charged," he said, "by the lady Florinda, to bear this packet

to the stranger I should find here. It contains a Spanish dress. She

bid me say," he continued, addressing Landon, "that when you have put

on these habiliments, you can repair with me to the governor's garden

at midnight. The waiting maid and confidant will conduct you through

the house to the street, and once there you can make your way to the

English ambassador's."

After thanking the youthful messenger, Landon was shown to an

apartment, where he was left alone to change his dress. Donna Florinda

had supplied him with a plain but handsome cavalier's suit, including

mantle, hat, and plume, and in addition to these, a good sword. Landon

hailed this latter gift with joy, and buckled the belt with trembling

eagerness. He drew the weapon, and found it to be a Toledo blade of

the best temper. He kissed the sword with ecstasy.

"Welcome!" he cried, "old friend! With you I can cut through odds, and

at least sell my life dearly, if I fall again into the hands of the

Philistines."

Returning to his new friends, he sat down to a hearty meal which they

had prepared for him, and to which he did an Englishman's justice. At

the hour of twelve, his young friend Reuben signified his readiness to

accompany him on his adventure.

"Farewell!" he cried; "I owe you a debt that nothing can repay. But

believe me that your kindness will always dwell in the heart of

Clarence Landon."

Reuben and the Englishman were soon in the governor's garden. It was

pitch dark, and they advanced cautiously, groping their way. All at

once Landon stumbled against some person.

"Is it you, Reuben?" said he, in a low tone.

But he was instantly grasped by the throat. Dealing his unknown

assailant a blow with his clinched hand, which made him release his

hold, the Englishman instantly drew his sword and threw himself on

guard. His steel was crossed by another blade, and a fierce encounter

ensued, the combatants being practised swordsmen, and guided, in the

dark, by what swordsmen term the "perception of the blade." Reuben had

made his escape, and gone to inform his father of this new disaster.

The struggle was brief, for the antagonist of Landon, closing at the

peril of his life, and being a man of herculean strength, wrested the

sword from the Englishman's grasp, and held him at his mercy.

"Now, dog!" whispered the victor, "have you any thing to offer why I

should not take your life as a minion of the tyrant Rodrigo?"

"I scorn to ask my life of an unknown assassin," replied Landon; "but

I am no minion of Rodrigo's, and I was even now seeking to escape his

clutches."

"If there was light here," said the stranger, "I could see whether you

lied, friend, by your looks. You may be palming off a tale upon me.

How did you propose to escape Rodrigo?"

"By making my way through his house," answered Landon.

"A likely tale. How are you to gain access to his house?"

"A waiting maid was to let me in."

"Well, I'll test your veracity. I have your life in my hands. You are

unarmed; I have rapier and dagger. The experiment costs me nothing."

"It would be idle in me to interrogate you," said Landon; "it would be

idle to ask who you are."

"I will answer you frankly," replied the stranger; "I am one of those

freebooters whose fortunes are their swords. If I were in Rodrigo's

power, my life would not be worth five minutes' purchase; and yet I am

seeking him to-night."

"You speak in riddles."

"Perhaps; but be silent now, if you value your life, and follow me."

The stranger, still retaining a firm grasp upon the luckless Landon,

approached a door which led into the governor's house, showing, in

their progress, a perfect acquaintance with the labyrinthian alleys of

the garden. They halted, and a female voice spoke in a whisper,

saying, "Here's the key."

The stranger grasped it, and dragging Landon into the house, instantly

locked the door behind him. A dark lantern was placed on the floor of

the corridor; the stranger told Landon to take this up, and precede

him up stairs. Landon obeyed, the stranger following close behind, and

giving him whispered directions as to his course.

Having reached a certain door, the stranger took the light and entered

a chamber, followed by the wondering Englishman. The walls of the room

were heavily draped, and upon a huge bed the governor of Valencia was

reclining, buried in a deep slumber.

"He sleeps!" whispered the stranger in the ear of Landon; "he sleeps,

as if he had never shed blood--as if the head of my brother had never

fallen on the block by the hand of his bloody executioner. He will

soon sleep sounder."

"What mean you?" asked Landon.

"Wait and see," was the reply.

The stranger cautiously lifted the light in his left hand, bending

over the sleeper, while with his right he drew a broad, sharp poniard

from his belt, and raised it in the act to strike. But just as it was

descending, Landon caught the assassin's arm, and shouted in his

loudest tones,--

"Don Rodrigo, wake!"

"Baffled!" cried the ruffian, with an oath. "You shall pay with your

life for interfering."

The governor sprang from his bed in time to witness the deadly

struggle between Landon and the midnight assassin. It was short and

decisive, for as the robber was aiming a blow at his antagonist, the

latter changed the direction, and it was buried to the hilt in his

own heart. He fell, and died without a groan. The noise of the

struggle had aroused the household, and the servants came pouring into

the room with lights, accompanied by Donna Florinda, who was agonized

with terror.

"Dear father!" she cried, rushing into the governor's arms, "what does

this mean?"

"It means," replied Don Rodrigo, "that this ruffian, who had sworn to

take my life because I had condemned his brother to death for manifold

misdeeds, has been slain in the attempt by this young man."

"And do you recognize your generous savior?" exclaimed the daughter.

"Behold! it is the young Englishman you condemned to perish at the

stake. O father!" And she explained the manner in which Landon had

been enabled to save the governor's life.

"Young man," said the governor, addressing Landon with deep emotion,

"a mightier Power than the hand of man is visible in this. For the

life you have saved I will repay you in the same manner. I insure you

a full and free pardon, and you shall not have it to say that Don

Rodrigo d'Almonte, bad as he has been represented, was a monster of

ingratitude."

And he kept his word. Landon soon after set sail for England, in

company with the Hebrew family who had sheltered him, and there, in

due time, was united to the lovely Miriam, with whose beauty he had

been impressed on first sight. In England, he rejoined Hamilton and

his Spanish bride, to secure whose happiness he had perilled his own

life; and he always preserved Estella's diamond star as a memorial of

his adventures in Valencia. Soon after his arrival he received a

letter from Donna Florinda, announcing her marriage to Cesareo, whose

jealousy had been so signally excited by Landon's shadow on the

window curtain. When Don Rodrigo died, he was buried with all the

honors due to a soldier, a governor, and an eminent member of that

mild and benevolent institution, the Spanish Inquisition.

THE GAME OF CHANCE.

CHAPTER I.

At nightfall, on an autumnal evening, when the stars were just

beginning to twinkle overhead like diamonds on a canopy of azure, two

young men were standing together, engaged in conversation on the steps

of the Black Eagle, a fashionable hotel in one of the principal

streets of the gay and celebrated city of Vienna. One of them wore the

rich uniform of an Austrian hussar; the other was clad in the civic

costume of a gentleman.

"So, all is completed at the ministry of war, except the signature of

the commission, and the payment of the purchase money?" said the

soldier.

"Exactly so."

"And to-morrow, then," continued the hussar, "I am to congratulate you

on the command of a company, and salute you as Captain Ernest

Walstein."

The last speaker was Captain Christian Steinfort, an officer who had

seen some two years' service.

"Ah! my boy!" continued he, twirling his jet black mustache, "your

uniform will be a passport to the smiles of the fair. But you already

seem to have made your way to the good graces of Madame Von Berlingen,

the rich widow who resides at this hotel."

"Bah! she is forty," answered Ernest, carelessly.

"But in fine preservation, and a beauty for all that," said Captain

Steinfort. "The Baron Von Dangerfeld was desperately in love with her;

but within a few days, the widow seems rather to have cut him. You are

the happy man, after all."

"Undeceive yourself, my dear Christian," said Ernest, blushing; "I

have only flirted with the handsome widow. My hand is already engaged

to a charming girl, Meena Altenburg, the playmate of my infancy,

adopted and brought up by my good father. I am to marry her as soon as

I get my company."

"And what is to support you, Captain Ernest?"

"My pay, of course, and the income of the moderate dowry my father,

who is well enough off for a farmer, proposes to give his favorite.

So, you see my lot in life is settled."

"Precisely so," replied the captain. "But since you are free this

evening, I engage you to pass it with me. Have you got any money about

you?"

"A good deal. Besides the price of my company, which is safely stowed

away in bank notes in this breast pocket, I have a handful of ducats

about me, with which I propose purchasing some trinkets for my bride.

But I have a gold piece or two that I can spare, if----"

"Poh! poh! I'm well enough provided," answered the captain. "You know

this is pay day. Come along."

"But whither?"

"You shall see."

With these words, the captain thrust his arm within that of his

companion, and the pair walked off at a rapid rate. After passing

through several streets, Steinfort halted, and rang at the door of a

stately mansion. It was opened by a servant in handsome livery, and

the young gentlemen entered and went up stairs.

Walstein soon found himself in a scene very different from any of

which he had ever dreamed of in his rustic and simple life upon his

father's farm. Around a large table, covered with cloth, were seated

more than a dozen persons of different ages, all so intent upon what

was going forward, that the captain and his friend took their seats

unnoticed. At the head of the table sat a man in a gray wig, with a

pair of green spectacles upon his nose, before whom lay a pile of

gold, and who was busily engaged in paying and receiving money, and in

giving an impetus to a small ivory ball, which spun at intervals its

appointed course. Walstein soon learned that this was a

_rouge-et-noir_ table. The gentleman in the gray wig was the banker.

"Make your game, gentlemen," said this individual, "while the ball

spins. Your luck's as good as mine. It's all luck, gentlemen, at

rouge-et-noir. Rouge-et-noir, gentlemen, the finest in all the world.

Black wins; it's yours, sir--twenty ducats, and you've doubled it.

Make your game--black or red."

"Try your fortune, Ernest," said the captain. Ernest mechanically put

down a few ducats on the red.

"Red wins," said the banker, in the same monotonous tone. "Make your

game, gentlemen, while the ball rolls."

Why need we follow the fortunes of Ernest on this fatal evening, as he

yielded, step by step, to the seduction to which he was now exposed

for the first time in his life? Long after Steinfort left the gambling

house, he continued to play. His luck turned. He had soon lost all his

winnings, and the money set apart for his bridal presents. Still the

ball rolled, and he continued to stake. He had broken the package of

bank notes, the money he had received from his father for the

purchase of his commission; and though he saw bill after bill swept

away before his eyes, he continued to play, in the desperate hope of

winning back his losses. At length his last ducat was gone. He rose

and left the room, the last words ringing in his ears being,--

"Make your game, gentlemen, while the ball rolls."

Despairing and heart-stricken, the young man sought his hotel and his

chamber. On the staircase he encountered Madame Von Berlingen, but he

saw her not. His eyes were glazed. He did not notice or return her

salutation. He threw himself upon his bed without undressing, and

towards morning fell into an unrefreshing and dream-peopled slumber.

When he arose, late the next day, he looked at himself in the glass,

but scarcely recognized his own face, so changed was he by the mental

agonies he had undergone. When he had paid some little attention to

his toilet, he received a message from Madame Von Berlingen,

requesting the favor of an interview in her apartments. He

mechanically obeyed the summons, though ill fitted to sustain a

conversation with a lady.

The widow requested him to be seated.

"Mr. Walstein," said she, with a smile, "you are growing very

ungallant. I met you last night upon the staircase; but though I spoke

to you, you had not a word or a nod for me."

"Last night, madam," answered the unfortunate young man, "I was beside

myself. O madam, if you knew all!"

"I do know all," replied the lady.

"What! that I had been gambling--that I had thrown away--yes, those

are the words--every ducat of the money my poor father furnished me

with to purchase my commission?"

"Yes, I know all that. But the loss is not irreparable."

"Pardon me, madam. My father, though reputed wealthy, is unable to

furnish me with a similar sum, even if I were base enough to accept it

at his hands."

"But if some friend were to step forward."

"Alas! I know none."

"Mr. Walstein," said the lady, "I am rich. A loan of the requisite

amount would not affect me in the least."

"O madam!" cried the young man, "if you would indeed save me by such

generosity, you would be an angel of mercy."

"What is the amount of your loss?" inquired the lady, calmly, as she

unlocked her desk.

"Three thousand ducats," answered Ernest. "But I can give you no

security for the payment."

"Your note of hand is sufficient," said the lady, handing the young

man a package of notes. "Please to count those, and see if the sum is

correct. Here are writing materials."

Ernest did as he was bid--counted the money, and then sat down at the

desk.

"Write at my dictation," said the lady.

Ernest took up a pen and commenced.

"The date," said the lady.

Ernest wrote it.

"Received of Anna Von Berlingen the sum of three thousand ducats."

Ernest wrote and repeated, "three thousand ducats."

"In consideration whereof, I promise to marry the aforesaid Anna Von

Berlingen."

"To marry you?" exclaimed Ernest.

"Ay--to marry me!" said the lady. "Am I deformed--am I ugly--am I

poor?"

"I cannot do it--you know not the reason that induces me to refuse."

"Then go home to your father and confess your guilt."

Ernest reflected a few moments. He could not go home to his father

with the frightful tale. It was a question between suicide and

marriage--he signed the paper.

"Now then, baron," said the widow to herself, as she carefully secured

the promise, "you cannot say that you broke the heart of Anna by your

cruelty. Take the money, Ernest," she added aloud; "go and purchase

your commission."

Ernest obeyed. His dreams of yesterday morning had all been dissipated

by his own act; he felt a degraded and broken-spirited criminal. He

had sold himself for gold.

CHAPTER II.

"Here comes Captain Ernest!" cried a youthful voice. And a beautiful,

blue-eyed girl of nineteen stood at the garden gate of a pretty farm

house, watching the approach of a horseman, who, gayly attired in a

hussar uniform, was galloping up the road. At her shout of delight, a

sturdy old gray-haired man came forth and stood beside her.

"Captain Ernest!" he repeated. "That sounds well. When I was of his

age, I only carried a musket in the ranks. I never dreamed then that a

son of mine could ever aspire to the epaulet."

Ernest, waving his hand to Meena Altenburg and his father, rode past

them to the stable, where he left his horse. He then rushed into the

farm house where his father met him.

"What is the meaning of this, boy?" he said. "How wild and haggard you

look! And you have avoided Meena--and this, too, upon your wedding

day."

"My wedding day--O Heavens! I shall die," said the young man, sinking

into a seat.

As soon as he could collect himself, he told his father that he could

not marry Meena, and the reason--he had pledged himself to another.

The old man, who was the soul of honor, burst forth in violent

imprecations, and drove him from his presence. As he left the house,

the unfortunate young man encountered a person whom he at once

recognized as the Baron Von Dangerfeld, the reputed suitor of Madame

Von Berlingen.

"I have been looking for you, Captain Walstein," said the baron,

sternly.

"And you have found me," answered the young man, shortly.

"Yes--and I thank Heaven you wear that uniform. It entitles you to

meet a German noble, and answer for your conduct."

"I am answerable for my conduct to no living man," retorted Ernest.

"You wear a sword."

"Yes."

"Very well--if you refuse to give satisfaction for the injury you have

done me, in robbing me of my mistress, I will proclaim you a coward in

the presence of the regiment upon parade."

"O, make yourself easy on that score, baron," answered Ernest. "Life

is of too little worth for me to think of shielding it. If you will

step with me into the shadow of yonder grove, we can soon regulate our

accounts."

The two men walked silently to the appointed spot, and without any

preliminary, drew their swords and engaged in combat. The struggle was

not of long duration, for Ernest wounded his adversary in the sword

arm, and disarmed him.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked.

"I must be so for the present," replied the baron, sullenly. "When I

recover, you shall hear from me again."

"As you please," said Ernest, coldly. "In the mean time, suffer me to

bind up your arm."

The young man bandaged the wound of his adversary, and as he faltered

from the loss of blood, led him towards the farm house. As they

approached it, two ladies advanced to meet them--one of them was

Meena, the other Madame Von Berlingen.

"Dangerfeld wounded!" cried the latter, bursting into tears--"O, I

have been the cause of this: forgive me--forgive me, Dangerfeld, or

you will kill me."

"You forget, madame, that you belong to another."

"I am yours only--I can never love another. Nor does the person you

allude to," added the lady, turning to Ernest, "cherish any attachment

to me."

"My only feeling for you, madame," said Ernest, with meaning, "would

be gratitude, were a certain paper destroyed."

"What is the meaning of all this?" asked the father of Ernest, coming

forward.

"It means," said Ernest, tearing to atoms the promissory note he

received from the widow's hands, "that I had very ugly dreams last

night--I dreamed that I played at rouge-et-noir, and lost all the

money you gave me to purchase my commission with, and then that I made

up the loss by promising----"

"Hush!" said the widow, laying her finger on her lips.

"Then it was all a dream," said the old man.

"Look at my uniform," replied the captain.

"And what did you mean in the story you told me just now?" asked the

old man.

"Forget it, father," said Ernest. "Dear Meena, look up, my love. It is

our wedding day; and if you do but smile, I'm the happiest dog that

wears a sabre and a doliman."

That very day two weddings were celebrated in the farm house, those of

Captain Ernest Walstein with the Fraulein Meena Altenburg, and Baron

Von Dangerfeld with the yet beautiful and wealthy widow. The captain

never tried his luck again at any GAME OF CHANCE.

THE SOLDIER'S SON.

Many, many years ago, at the close of a sultry summer's day, a man of

middle age was slowly toiling up a hill in the environs of the

pleasant village of Aumont, a small town in the south of France. The

wayfarer was clad in the habiliments of a private of the infantry of

the line; that is to say, he wore a long-skirted, blue coat, faced

with red, much soiled and stained; kerseymere breeches that were once

white, met at the knee by tattered gaiters of black cloth, an old

battered chapeau, and a haversack, which he carried slung over his

right shoulder, on a sheathed sabre. From time to time, he paused and

wiped the heavy drops of perspiration that gathered constantly upon

his forehead.

"Courage, Francois, courage," said the soldier to himself; "a few

paces more, and you will reach home. Ah, this is sufficiently

fatiguing, but nothing to the sands of Egypt. May Heaven preserve my

eyesight long enough to see my home--my wife--my brave boy Victor,

once more! Grant me but that, kind Heaven, and I think I will repine

at nothing that may happen further."

It will be seen from the above, that Francois Bertrand belonged to the

army which had recently covered itself with glory in the Egyptian

campaign, under the command of General Bonaparte, a name already

famous in military annals. He had fought like a hero in the battle of

the Pyramids, when the squares of the French infantry repulsed the

brilliant cavalry of Murad Bey, and destroyed the flower of the

Mamelukes by the deadly fire of their musketry. Wounded in that

memorable battle, he was afterwards attacked by the ophthalmia of the

country; but his eyesight, though impaired, was not yet utterly

destroyed. Honorably discharged, he had just arrived at Marseilles,

from Egypt, and was now on his way home, eager to be folded in the

arms of his beloved wife and his young son. So the soldier toiled

bravely up the hill, for he knew that the white walls of his cottage

and the foliage of his little vineyard would be visible in the valley

commanded by the summit.

At length he reached the brow of the hill, and gazed eagerly in the

direction of his humble home; but O, agony, it was gone! In its place,

a heap of blackened ruins lay smouldering in the sunlight that seemed

to mock its desolation. Fatigue--weakness--were instantly forgotten,

and the soldier rushed down the brow of the hill to the scene of the

disaster. At the gate of his vineyard, he was met by little Victor, a

boy of ten.

"A soldier!" cried the boy, who did not recognize his father. "O sir,

you come back from the wars, don't you? Perhaps you can tell me

something about my poor papa?"

"Victor, my boy, my dear boy! don't you know me?" cried the poor

soldier; and he strained his son convulsively in his arms.

"O, I know you now, my dear, dear papa," said the boy, sobbing. "I

knew you by the voice--but how changed you are! Why, your mustaches

are turned gray."

"Victor, Victor, where is your mother?" gasped the soldier.

"Poor mamma!" said the boy.

"Speak--I charge you, boy."

"She is dead."

"Dead!" Francois fell to the ground as if a bullet had passed through

his brain. When he recovered his senses, he saw Victor kneeling beside

him, and bathing his head with cold water, which he had brought in his

hat from a neighboring spring. In a few words, the child told him

their cottage had taken fire in the night, and been burned to the

ground, and his mother had perished in the flames.

A kind cottager soon made his appearance, and conducted the

unfortunate father and son to his humble cabin. Here they passed the

night and one or two days following. During that time, Francois

Bertrand neither ate nor slept, but wept over his misfortune with an

agony that refused all consolation. On the third day only he regained

his composure; but it was only to be conscious of a new and

overwhelming misfortune. His eyesight was gone. The agony of mind he

had suffered, and the tears he had shed, had completed the ravages of

his disorder.

"Where are you, Victor?" said the soldier.

"Here, by your side, father; don't you see me?"

"Alas! no, my boy. I can see nothing. Give me your little hand. Your

poor father is blind."

The agonizing sobs of the boy told him how keenly he appreciated his

father's misfortune.

"Dry your eyes, Victor;" said the soldier. "Remember the instructions

of your poor mother, how she taught you to submit with resignation to

all the sufferings that Providence sees fit to inflict upon us in this

world of sorrow. Henceforth you must see for both of us; you will be

my eyes, my boy."

"Yes, father; and I will work for you and support you."

"You are too young and delicate, Victor. We must beg our bread."

"_Beg_, father?"

"Yes, you shall guide my footsteps. There are good people in the world

who will pity my infirmities and your youth. When they see my ragged

uniform, they will say, 'There is one of the braves who upheld the

honor of France upon the burning sands of Egypt,' and they will not

fail to drop a few sous into the old soldier's hat. Come, Victor, we

must march. We have been too long a burden on our poor neighbor.

_Courage, mon enfant, le bon temps viendra._"

And so the boy and his father set forth upon their wanderings. Neither

asked alms; but when seated by the roadside, under the shadow of an

overhanging tree, the passer-by would halt, and bestow a small sum

upon the worn and blind soldier. Victor was devoted to his father, and

Heaven smiled upon his filial affection. Though denied the society and

sports so dear to his youth, he was always cheerful and happy in the

accomplishment of his task. Often did his innocent gayety beguile his

father into a temporary forgetfulness of his sufferings. Then he would

place his hand upon the boy's head, and stroking his soft, curling

locks, smile sweetly as his sightless eyes were turned towards him,

and commence some stirring narrative of military adventure.

In this way, days, weeks, months, and even years rolled by. They were

every where well received and kindly treated; and all their physical

wants were supplied. But the old soldier often sighed to think of the

burden his misfortunes imposed upon his boy, and of his wearing out

his young life without congenial companionship, without instruction,

without a future beyond the life of a mendicant. He often prayed in

secret that death might liberate, his little guide from his voluntary

service.

One day, Francois was seated alone on a stone by the roadside, Victor

having gone to the neighboring village on an errand, when he suddenly

heard a carriage stop beside him. The occupant, a man of middle age,

alighted, and approached the soldier.

"Your name," said the stranger, "is, I think, Francois Bertrand."

"The same."

"A soldier of the army of Egypt?"

"Yes."

"And that pretty boy who guides you is your son?"

"He is--Heaven bless him!"

"Amen! But has it never occurred to you, my friend, that you are doing

him great injustice in keeping him by you at an age when he ought to

be getting an education to enable him to push his way in the world?"

"Alas! sir, I have often thought of it. But what could supply his

place? and then, who would befriend and educate him?"

"His place might be supplied by a dog--and for his protector, I,

myself, who have no son, should be glad to adopt and educate him."

His son's place supplied by a dog! The thought was agony. And to part

with Victor! The idea was as cruel as death itself. The old soldier

was silent.

"You are silent, my friend. Has my offer offended you?"

"No sir--no. But you will pardon a father's feelings."

"I respect them--and I do not wish to hurry you. Take a day to think

of my proposition, and to inform yourself respecting my character and

position. I am a merchant. My name is Eugene Marmont, and I reside at

No. 17 Rue St. Honore, Paris. I will meet you at this spot to-morrow

at the same hour, and shall then expect an answer. _Au revoir._" He

placed a golden louis in the hand of the soldier, and departed.

A little reflection convinced Bertrand that it was his duty to accept

the merchant's offer. But cruel as was the task of reconciling himself

to parting with his son, that of inducing Victor to acquiesce in the

arrangement was yet more difficult. It required the exercise of

authority to sever the ties that bound the son to the father. But it

was done--Victor resigned his task to a little dog that was procured

by the merchant, and after an agonizing farewell was whirled away in

Marmont's carriage.

Years passed on. Victor outstripped all his companions at school, and

stood at the head of the military academy; for he was striving to win

a name and fortune for his father. The good Marmont, from time to

time, endeavored to obtain tidings of the soldier; but the latter had

purposely changed his usual route, and, satisfied that his son was in

good hands, felt a sort of pride in not intruding his poverty and

misfortunes on the notice of Victor's new companions. The boy,

himself, was much distressed at not seeing or hearing from his father;

but he kept struggling on, saying to himself, "_Courage, Victor--le

bon temps viendra_--the good time will come."

On the death of Marmont, he entered the army as a sub-lieutenant, and

fought his way up to a captaincy under the eye of the emperor. At the

close of a brilliant campaign he was invited to pass a few weeks at

the chateau of a general officer named Duvivier, a few leagues from

Paris. The company there was brilliant, composed of all that was most

beautiful, talented, and distinguished in the circle in which the

general moved. But the "star of that goodly company" was Julie

Duvivier, the youthful and accomplished daughter of the general. Many

distinguished suitors contended for the honor of her hand; but the

moment Victor appeared, they felt they had a formidable rival. The

belle of the chateau could not help showing her decided preference for

him, though, with a modesty and delicacy natural to his position, he

refrained from making any decided advances.

One night, however, transported beyond himself by passion, he betrayed

the secret of his heart to Julie, as he led her to her seat after an

intoxicating waltz. The reception of his almost involuntary avowal was

such as to convince him that his affection was returned. But he felt

that he had done wrong--and a high sense of honor induced the young

soldier immediately to seek the general, and make him a party to his

wishes.

He found him alone in the embrasure of a window that opened on the

garden of the chateau.

"General," said he, with military frankness, "I love your daughter."

The general started, and cast a glance of displeasure on the young

man.

"I know you but slightly, Captain Bertrand," he answered, "but you are

aware that the man who marries my daughter must be able to give her

her true position in society. Show me the proofs of your nobility and

wealth, and I will entertain your proposition."

"Alas!" answered the young soldier in a faltering voice, "I feel that

I have erred--pity me--forgive me--I was led astray by a passion too

strong to be controlled. I have no name--and my fortune is my sword."

The general bowed coldly, and the young soldier passed out into the

garden. It was a brilliant moonlight evening. Every object was defined

as clearly as if illuminated by the sun's rays. Removing his chapeau,

that the night air might cool his fevered brow, he was about to take

his favorite seat beside the fountain where he had passed many hours

in weaving bright visions of the future, when he perceived that it was

already occupied. An old man in a faded military uniform sat there,

with a little dog lying at his feet. One glance was sufficient--the

next instant Victor folded his father in his arms.

"Father!" "My boy!" The words were interrupted by convulsive sobs.

After the first passionate greeting was over, the old man passed his

hand over his son's dress, and a smile of joy was revealed by the

bright moonbeams.

"A soldier! I thought I heard the clatter of your sabre," said the old

man. "Where did you get these epaulets?"

"At Austerlitz, father--they were given me by the emperor."

"Long live the emperor!" said the old man. "He never forgets his

children."

"No, father. For when he gave me my commission, he said, thoughtfully,

'Bertrand! your name is familiar.' 'Yes, sire--my father served under

the tricolor.' 'I remember--he was one of my old Egyptians.' And

then--father--then he gave me the cross of the legion--and told me,

when I found you, to affix it to your breast in his name."

"It is almost too much!" sighed the old soldier, as the young officer

produced the cross and attached it to his father's breast.

"And now," said the young man, "give me your hand as of old, dear

father, and let me lead you."

"Whither?"

"Into the saloon of the chateau, to present you to General Duvivier

and his guests."

"What! in my rags! before all that grand company?"

"Why not, father? The ragged uniform of a brave soldier who bears the

cross of honor on his breast is the proudest decoration in the world.

Come, father."

Leading his blind father, young Bertrand reentered the saloon he had

so lately left, and went directly to the general, who was standing,

surrounded by his glittering staff.

"General," said he, "_here_ is my title of nobility--my father is all

the wealth I possess in the world."

Tears started to the general's eyes, and he shook the old soldier

warmly by the hand. Then beckoning to Julie, he led her to Victor, and

placed her trembling hand in his.

"Let this dear girl," said he, "make amends for my coldness a moment

since. A son so noble hearted is worthy of all happiness."

In a word, Captain, afterwards Colonel, Bertrand married the general's

daughter, and the happiness of their fireside was completed by the

constant presence of the good old soldier, to whose self-denial Victor

owed his honors and domestic bliss.

TAKING CHARGE OF A LADY.

The steamer Ben Franklin--it was many years ago, reader--was just on

the point of leaving her dock at Providence, when a slender, pale

young man, with sandy whiskers and green eyes, who had just safely

stowed away his valise, honorably paid his fare, and purchased a

supper ticket, and now stood on the upper deck, leaning on his blue

cotton umbrella in a mild attitude of contemplation, was accosted by a

benevolent-looking old gentleman, in gold-bowed spectacles, upon whose

left arm hung a feminine, in a bright mazarine blue broadcloth

travelling habit, with a gold watch at her waist, and a green veil

over her face, with the (to a timid young man) startling question

of,--

"Pray, sir, will you be so kind as to take charge of a lady?"

The slender young man with the blue cotton umbrella blushed up to the

roots of his sandy hair, but he bowed deeply and affirmatively.

"We were disappointed in not meeting a friend, sir," continued the

benevolent-looking old gentleman, "and so I had to trust to chance for

finding an escort to Fanny. Only as far as New York, sir; my daughter

will give you very little trouble. She's a strong-minded, independent

woman, sir, and abundantly able to take care of herself; but I don't

like the idea of ladies travelling alone. If the boat sinks, sir,

she's abundantly able to swim ashore. Good by, Fanny."

"Father," said the lady in the blue habit, in a deep and mellow

baritone,--rather a queer voice for a woman, though,--"a parting

salute!" She threw back her veil, displaying a pair of piercing black

eyes, kissed the paternal cheek, veiled the black eyes a moment with a

lace-bordered handkerchief, as her sire descended the gang plank,--his

exit being deprived of dignity by the sudden withdrawal of the

board,--and then placed her arm within that of the sandy-haired young

gentleman, and began walking him up and down the promenade deck.

"Isn't this delightful?" said she. "O, what can exceed the pleasure of

travelling, when one has a sympathizing friend as a companion!" And

she rather pressed the arm of her companion. She was strong-handed as

well as strong-minded.

Mr. Brown, for that was the name of the timid young gentleman with the

sandy hair and the blue cotton umbrella, was not particularly

susceptible, for he had already lost his heart to a sandy-haired young

lady, who resided in New York; and, besides, he didn't like

strong-minded women; so he asked, very unromantically, but sensibly,

if the happy parent of the lady in the blue habit had purchased her a

ticket.

"I believe--I am certain that he did not," was the reply. "Father is

so forgetful!"

"I'll do it myself then, ma'am--if you'll excuse me a moment. What

name?"

"Brown," said the lady.

"My own name!" cried the young man.

"Is it possible?" cried the blue beauty. "What a coincidence! How

striking! charming!"

She made no offer of money, and Brown invested his own funds in a

passage and supper ticket.

"You dear creature!" cried the lady, when he handed them to her, "you

are very attentive. But there was no necessity for this supper ticket.

I am the least eater in the world."

She said nothing about the cost of the tickets; and how could Brown

broach the subject?

"There's that bell, at last!" she cried, when the supper bell rang;

"do let's hurry down, Brown, for people are so rude and eager on board

steamboats, that unless you move quick you lose your chance."

Brown was hurried along by his fair friend, and she struggled through

the crowd till she headed the column and got an excellent seat at the

table. Our sandy-haired friend had exalted opinions of the delicacy of

female appetites; he had never helped ladies at a ball, or seen them

in a pantry at luncheon time, and fancied they fed as lightly as

canary birds. He was rather glad to hear Fanny make that remark about

the supper ticket on the promenade deck. But now he found she could

eat. The cold drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead as he

watched the evidences of her voracity. She was helped four times, by

the captain, to beefsteak--no miniature slices either, but huge, broad

cubes of solid flesh. A dish of oysters attracted her eye, and she

gobbled them up every one. Toast and hot bread disappeared before her

ravenous appetite. Sponge and pound cake were despatched with fearful

celerity. She took up the attention of one particular nigger, and he

looked weary and collapsed when the supper was finished.

Yet, after all this, Fanny paraded the deck, and had the heart to talk

about the "orbs of heaven," and Shelley, and Byron, and Tennyson, and

Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Fanny Ellsler, and Schiller. Brown was very

glad when she retired to the lady's cabin.

The morning he rose late, purposely to avoid her till the boat touched

the wharf. He engaged a carriage and hunted up the lady's baggage;

fortunately there was not much of it. This done, he escorted her on

shore, and handed her into the coach.

"Now, then," said the one-eyed driver,--he had recently lost his eye

in a fight, on the first night of his return from Blackwell's

Island,--"where away? Oyster House, Merrikin, or Globe?"

"Where are you going, madam?" asked Brown.

"Where are _you_ going?" asked the lady.

"To the American, ma'am."

"What a coincidence!" exclaimed the lady, rolling up her black eyes.

"American House, driver."

"All right--in with you!" cried the one-eyed man, as he pitched Brown

headlong into the coach, slammed the rickety door on him, sprang to

his box, and lashed his sorry steeds into a gallop. In due time they

arrived, and a room was engaged for the lady, and one for her

cavalier.

Brown went up town as soon as he had dressed, to see his sweetheart,

taking particular care to say nothing of his namesake, the fair Fanny.

The next day he was promenading Broadway with Miss S., when he was

confronted, opposite St. Paul's, by a furious man, with black

whiskers, who halted directly in his path.

"Do you call yourself Brown?" asked the furious man, furiously.

"That's my name, sir," said the sandy-haired young gentleman, meekly.

"It's _my_ name, sir," shouted the furious man. "John Brown. Now you

know who I am. Do you know Mrs. Brown?"

"I don't know," stammered the unfortunate young man with sandy hair.

"Who did you come from Providence with? answer me that!" roared the

furious man, getting as black as his whiskers with apoplectic rage.

"I--I took charge of a lady, certainly," stammered the guiltless but

confounded young man.

"You took charge of Mrs. Brown, sir--Fanny Sophonisba Brown, sir, who

has left my bed and board without provocation, sir,--_vide_ the

Providence papers, sir,--left me, sir, because I didn't approve of her

strong-minded goings on, sir, her woman's-rights meetings, sir, and

her nigger colonizations, sir, and her--but that's enough, sir."

Here Miss Sumker, who was a mild, freckled-faced girl, dropped the arm

of her companion, and meekly sat down on a doorstep, and covered her

face with a handkerchief.

"Mr. Brown, sir!" cried our poor young friend, finally plucking up a

spirit.

"Go it, lemons!" shouted a listening drayman, as he hung over the

scene from one of his cart stakes.

"Captain Brown," suggested the furious man, with smothered rage.

"Well then, _Captain_ Brown," said Brown, 2d., spitefully, "the lady

you allude to is a total stranger to me. She was put under my care by

a benevolent-looking old gentleman, with gold-bowed spectacles, and

she has already cost me ten dollars, money advanced on her account."

"All persons are forbidden to trust the same, as I will pay no debts

of her contracting," said the furious man, with gleams of unmitigated

ferocity and savage exultation.

"Then I'm done brown, that's all," said the young man, gloomily. "As

for Mrs. Fanny Sophonisba Brown, I never want to see her face again.

She is at the American House, and you can recover her by proving

property and paying charges. And, for my part, I hope I may be kicked

to death by grasshoppers if ever I take charge of a lady again."

This was the largest speech, probably, that the sandy-haired young man

had ever made in his life. It was a regular "stunner," though. It

convinced Miss Sumker, who had for a moment thought of withdrawing the

light of her freckles from him forever, and who now hastened to

replace her arm in his; and it convinced Captain Brown, who became

suddenly as mild as moonbeams, shook his new acquaintance by the hand,

and declared him a "fine young fellow."

But the drayman was disgusted at the affair ending without a fight,

and expressed his feelings, as he laid the lash across his horse, by

the single exclamation, "Pickles!" thereby insinuating that the

nauseous sweetness of the reconciliation required a strong dash of

acidity to neutralize its flavor.

The captain regained his strong-minded wife, and our sandy-haired

friend went home with Miss Sumker, metamorphosed into Mrs. Brown,

having "taken charge" of her for life.

THE NEW YEAR'S BELLS.

How the wind blew on the evening of the 31st December, in the

year--but no matter for the date. It came roaring from the north,

fraught with the icy chillness of those hyperborean regions that are

lost to the sunlight for six months, the realm of ice-ribbed caverns,

and snow mountains heaped up above the horizon in the cold and

cheerless sky. On it came, that northern blast, howling and tearing,

and menacing with destruction every obstacle that crossed its path. It

dashed right through a gorge in the mountains, and twisted the arms of

the rock-rooted hemlock and the giant oak, as if they were the twigs

of saplings. Then it swept over the wild, waste meadows, rattling the

frozen sedge, and whirling into eddies the few dry leaves that

remained upon the surface of the earth. Next it invaded the principal

street of the quaint old village, and played the mischief with the

tall elms and the venerable buttonwoods that stood on either side like

sentinels guarding the highway. How the old gilt lion that swung from

the sign post of the tavern, hanging like a malefactor in irons, was

shaken and disturbed! Backwards and forwards the animal was tossed,

like a bark upon the ocean. Now he seemed as if about to turn a

somerset and circumnavigate the beam from which he hung, creaking and

groaning dismally all the while, like an unhappy soul in purgatory.

The loose shutters of the upper story of the tavern chattered like

the teeth of a witch-ridden old crone. But cheerful fires of hickory

and maple were burning within doors; a merry group was gathered in the

old oak parlor, and little recked the guests of the elemental war

without. In fact, they knew nothing of it, till the driver of the

village stage coach, making his appearance with a few flakes of snow

on his snuff-colored surtout, announced, as he expanded his broad

hands to the genial blaze, that it was a "wild night out of doors."

But on--on sped the wild wind, driving the snow flakes before it as a

victorious army sweeps away the routed skirmishers and outposts of the

enemy. Away went the night wind on its wild errand, reaching at last a

solitary cottage on the outskirts of the village. Here it revelled in

unwonted fury, ripping up the loose shingles from the moss-grown

rooftree, and forcing an entrance through many a yawning crevice.

The scene within the cottage presented a strange and painful contrast

to the interior of most of the comfortable houses in the flourishing

village through which we have been hurrying on the wings of the cold

north wind. The room was scantily furnished. There were two or three

very old-fashioned, rickety, straw-bottomed chairs, an oaken stool or

two, and a pine table. The hour hand of a wooden clock on the mantel

piece pointed to eleven. A fire of chips and brushwood was smouldering

on the hearth. In one corner of the room, near the fireplace, on a

heap of straw, covered with a blanket, two little boys lay sleeping in

each other's arms. Crouched near the table, her features dimly lighted

by a tallow candle, sat a woman advanced in life, clad in faded but

cleanly garments, whose hollow cheeks and sunken eye told a painful

tale of sorrow and destitution. Those sad eyes were fixed anxiously

and imploringly upon the stern, grim face of a hard-featured old man,

who, with hat pulled over his shaggy gray eyebrows, was standing,

resting on a stout staff, in the centre of the floor.

"So, you haven't got any money for me," said the old man, in the

harshest of all possible voices.

"Alas! no, Mr. Wurm--if I had I should have brought it to you long

ago," answered the poor woman. "I had raked and scraped a little

together--but the sickness of these poor children--poor William's

orphans--swept it all away--I haven't got a cent."

"So much the worse for you, Mrs. Redman," answered the old man,

harshly. "I've been easy with you--I've waited and waited--trusting

your promises. I can't wait any longer. I want the money."

"You want the money! Is it possible? Report speaks you rich."

"It's false--false!" said the old man, bitterly. "I'm poor--I'm

pinched. Ask the townspeople how I live. Do I look like a rich man?

No, no! I tell you I want my dues--and I will have 'em."

"I can't pay you," said the woman, sadly.

"Then you must abide the consequences!"

"What consequences?"

"I've got an execution--that's all," said the hardhearted landlord.

"An execution! what's that?"

"A warrant to take all your goods."

"My goods!" said the poor woman, looking round her with a melancholy

smile. "Why I have nothing but what few things you see in this room.

You surely wouldn't take those."

"I'll take all I can get."

"And leave me here with the bare walls."

"No, no! you walk out of this to-morrow."

"In the depth of winter! You cannot be so hardhearted."

"We shall see that."

"I care not for myself; but what is to become of these poor children?"

"Send 'em to work in the factory."

"But they are just recovering from sickness; they are too young to

work. O, where, where can we go?"

"To the poorhouse," said the landlord, fiercely.

The poor woman rose, and approaching the landlord's feet, fell upon

her knees, clasped her hands, and looked upward in his stern and

unrelenting face.

"Israel Wurm," she said, "has your heart grown as hard as the nether

millstone? Have you forgotten the days of old lang syne? O, remember

that we were once prosperous and happy; remember that misfortune and

not sin has reduced me and mine to the deplorable state in which you

find us. Remember that my husband was your early friend--your

schoolfellow--your playmate. Remember that when he was rich and you

poor, he gave you from his plenty--freely--bountifully--not gave with

the expectation of a return; his gifts were bounties, not loans."

"Therefore I owed him nothing," said the obdurate miser, turning away.

"You shall hear me out," said the woman, starting to her feet. "I ask

for a further delay; I ask you to stay the hard hand of the law. You

profess to be a Christian; I demand justice and mercy in the name of

those sleeping innocents, my poor grandchildren, whose father is in

heaven. You _shall_ be merciful."

"Heyday!" exclaimed the miser; "this is fine talk, upon my word. You

_demand_ justice, do you? Well, you shall have it. The law is on my

side, and I will carry it out to the letter."

"Then," said the outraged woman, stretching forth her trembling hand,

"the curse of the widow and the orphan shall be upon you. Sleeping or

waking, it shall haunt you; and on your miserable death bed, when the

ugly shapes that throng about the pillow of the dying sinner shall

close around you, our malediction shall weigh like lead upon you, and

your palsied lips shall fail to articulate the impotent prayer for

that mercy to yourself which you denied to others. And now begone.

This house is mine to-night, at least. Afflict it no longer with your

presence. Go forth into the night; it is not darker than your

benighted soul, nor is the north wind one half so pitiless as you."

With a bitter curse upon his lips, but trembling and dismayed in spite

of himself, Israel Wurm left the presence of the indignant victim of

his cruelty, and turned his footsteps in the direction of his home.

His _home_! It scarcely deserved the name. There was no fire there to

thaw his chilled and trembling frame--no light to gleam athwart the

darkness, and send forth its pilgrim rays to meet him and guide his

footsteps to his threshold. No wife, no children, waited eagerly his

return. It was the miser's home--dark, desolate, stern, and repulsive.

Its deep cellars, its thick walls held hidden stores of gold, and

notes, and bonds, but there were garnered up no treasures of the

heart.

The miser's path lay through the churchyard, a desolate place enough

even in the gay noon of a midsummer day, now doubly repulsive in the

wild midnight of midwinter. The wall was ruinous. The black iron

gateway frowned, naked and ominous. The field of death was crowded

with headstones of slate, and innumerable mounds marked the

resting-place of many generations. The snow was now gathering fast

over the dreary and desolate abode, as the miser stumbled along the

beaten pathway, bending against the blast and drift. A strange

numbness and drowsiness crept over him. He no longer felt the cold; an

uncontrollable desire of slumber possessed him. He sat down upon a

flat tombstone, and soon lost all consciousness of his actual

situation.

Suddenly he saw before him the well-known figure of the old sexton of

the village, busily occupied in digging a grave. The winter had passed

away; it was now midsummer. The birds were singing in the trees, and

from the far green meadows sounded the low of cattle, and the tinkling

of sheep bells. Even the graveyard looked no longer desolate, for on

many of the little hillocks bright flowers were springing into bloom

and verdure, attesting the affection that outlived death, and

decorating with living bloom the precincts of decay.

"My friend, for whom are you digging that grave?" asked Israel.

The sexton looked up from his work, but did not seem to recognize the

spokesman.

"For a man that died last night; he is to be buried to-day."

"Methinks this haste is somewhat indecorous," said Israel Wurm.

"O, for the matter of that," said the sexton, "the sooner this

fellow's out of the way the better. There's nobody to mourn for him."

"Is he a pauper, then?"

"O no! he was immensely rich."

"And had he no relations--no friends?"

"For relations, he had a nephew, who inherits all his property. The

young dog will make the money fly, I tell you. As for friends, he had

none. The poor dreaded him--the good despised him; for he was a

hardhearted, selfish, griping man. In a word, he was a MISER," said the

sexton.

"A miser," faltered the trembling dreamer; "what was his name?"

"Israel Wurm," replied the sexton.

Graveyard and sexton faded away; in their place arose a splendid grove

of trees--a clearing--a village school house. Two boys were sauntering

along the roadside, engaged in serious, childish talk. One was fair,

with golden locks; the other dark-haired and grave of aspect. Israel

started, for in the latter he recognized himself--a boy of fifty years

ago.

"Israel," said the golden-haired boy, "it's 'lection day to-morrow;

we'll hire Browning's horse and chaise, and go to Boston, and have a

grand time on the Common, seeing all the shows."

"You forget, Mark," said the dark-haired boy, sadly, "that I have no

money."

"What of that?" replied the other; "I have a pocket full; and what's

mine is yours, you know. Come, cheer up, you'll one day he as rich as

I am; and then it will be your turn to treat, you know. I can afford

to be generous, and so would you be, if you had the means."

Then the shadow passed from the face of the dark-haired boy, and a

smile lighted up his countenance, and the two schoolfellows passed on

their way together.

Grove and school house passed away, melting into another scene like

one of the dissolving views. Israel stood before a huge illuminated

screen, in the midst of a gaping company of sight seers. He could see

nothing but a confused mass of heads, vaguely lighted by the rays

from that vast screen. It was some kind of an exhibition.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said a strange voice issuing from the

darkness, "we shall show you the wonders of the oxy-hydrogen

microscope; natural objects magnified five thousand times. Look and

behold the proboscis of the common house fly."

Israel gazed with the rest, and soon a huge object, resembling the

trunk of a monster elephant, appeared on the illuminated disk. It

passed away.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said the voice, "look well to the

illuminated screen. What do you see now?"

"Nothing!" was the universal and indignant answer.

"I thought so," replied the voice. "Yet you have before you a miser's

soul magnified five thousand times; a million such would not produce

an image on the screen."

The illuminated disk grew dark and disappeared; then a lurid light

seemed to fill all space; and soon huge billows of flames rolled

upward, and writhed and twisted together like a myriad of gigantic

serpents. Shrieks and howls of anguish issued from the fiery mass, but

above all was heard the startling clangor of a bell.

"Halloo! who's this?" cried a voice that evidently issued from a set

of powerful human lungs. The miser felt himself roughly shaken by the

shoulder, and awoke.

"What's the noise?--fire?" he asked; for the bell he had heard in his

dream now jarred upon his waking senses.

"Fire! no!" said the man who had awakened him--the butcher of the

village. "It's the boys ringing in the new year. By the way, I wish

you a happy new year, Mr. Wurm."

"A happy new year, Mr. Wurm," said the schoolmaster for he, too, was

present.

"A happy new year," said Farmer Harrowby.

"And a happy new year" chorused a dozen other voices. It was great fun

wishing a miser a happy new year.

"Thank you, neighbors; I wish you a thousand," replied Israel,

cheerfully.

"How came you asleep there?" asked Farmer Harrowby. "Why, you might

have perished in the drift."

"I was overcome by drowsiness," answered Israel. "I was very cold; I'd

been to make a call on Widow Redman, and the poor soul was out of

wood. By the way, farmer, the first thing after sunrise, I want you to

be sure to gear up your ox team, and take a cord of your best hickory

and pitch pine to the widow."

"And who'll pay me?" asked the farmer, doubtfully.

"I will, to be sure," answered Israel. "Have not I got money enough?

Here--hold your hand;" and he put a handful of silver in the farmer's

honest palm. "And you, Mr. Wilkins," he added, addressing the butcher,

"take her the best turkey you've got, and half a pig, with my

compliments, and a happy new year to her."

"And how about that execution?" asked the constable, who was round

with the rest, 'seeing the old year out and the new year in.'

"Confound the execution! Don't let me hear another word about it,"

said Israel, magnanimously. "And now, neighbors," he added, "I owe you

something for your good wishes; come along with me to the Golden Lion,

and I'll give you the best supper the tavern affords. Hurrah! New year

don't come but once in a twelvemonth."

We will be bound that a merrier party never left a churchyard, even

after a funeral, nor a merrier set ever sat down to a festal board,

than that which gathered to greet the hospitality of Israel Wurm. In

the course of the evening, an old Scotch gardener gave it as his

opinion that the "miser was _fey_." (When a man suddenly changes his

character, as when a spendthrift becomes saving, or a niggard

generous, the Scotch say that he is _fey_, and consider the change a

forerunner of sudden death.)

"No, my friends," said Israel, overhearing the remark, "I am not

_fey_; and I mean to live a long while, Heaven willing, for I have

just learned that the true secret of enjoying life is to do good to

others. I had a dream to-night which has, I trust, made me a wiser and

better man. The miser lies buried in yonder churchyard; Israel Wurm, a

new man, has risen in his place; and as far as my means go, I intend

that this shall be a happy new year to every one of my acquaintances."

Israel was as good as his word, and never relapsed into his old

habits. The widow and the orphan children were provided for by his

bounty; he gave liberally to every object of charity. Hospitals,

schools, and colleges were the recipients of his bounty; and when he

died, in the fulness of years, the blessings of old and young followed

him to his last resting-place in the old churchyard where he had

dreamed the mysterious dream, and been awakened to a better life by

the pealing of the NEW YEAR'S BELLS.

THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.

"O, this is beautiful--beautiful indeed!" cried a young and silvery

voice, musical as fairy bells heard at midnight. "How white this snowy

drapery hangs upon the roofs of these bright palaces!" and the

speaker, a gay boy, danced trippingly along, following in the

footsteps of an old, gray-bearded man who was tottering before him.

The old man turned. "You call that snowy drapery beautiful?" said he.

"Yes--it is like the raiment of a bride," said the boy.

"To me it seems a shroud thrown over the grave of buried hopes,"

answered the old man.

"But what are these joy bells ringing for?" said the boy.

"For a death and for a birth!" replied the old man.

"You speak riddles."

"I speak truth. The same sounds have a different import to different

ears. To mine there is a death knell in these tremulous vibrations of

the air."

"You are very old, father--and age has cankered you."

"A twelvemonth since, young child of Time," replied the old man, "I

was like you."

"A twelvemonth! Your back is bent, your locks are silvery, your voice

is tremulous. How is this?"

"Wrinkles and gray hairs are the work of sorrows, not of years. Eyes

that are weary of the sight of suffering grow dim apace."

"But hark!" said the youth. "Hear you not that music--the peals of

laughter that come from yonder illuminated house? It is a wedding

festival."

"Yes," replied the old man, sadly. "A twelvemonth since, I heard the

same sounds in the same house. There was music and feasting--it was,

as now, a wedding festival. Where is the bride? Go to yonder

churchyard. You will find her name inscribed on a simple stone. If you

pass out of the city to the north, you will see some huge buildings of

brick, towering upon an eminence. If you linger by the garden wall you

will hear shrieks and curses, the howls of despair, the ravings of

hopeless lunacy. The husband is there--the victim of his own evil

passions--a raving maniac."

"Away with these croaking reminiscences!" cried the younger voice.

"Let the music peal--let the dance go on. The wine is red within the

cup."

"Yes--and the deadly serpent lurks below."

"Then the world is all desolate!" cried the New Year.

"No! there are green spots in the desert!" said the Old Year; "but

beware of deeming it all fairyland! But a little while and you will

follow me. But the end is not here--after Time, Eternity! There

suffering and sin are unknown. There each departed spirit, after

making the circuit of its appointed sphere, shall rise to a higher and

a higher, while boundless love and wisdom illuminate all, radiating

from a centre whose brightness no human senses can conceive."

The old man was gone. The joyous bells had rung his requiem. The young

heir was enthroned--and with mingled hope and foreboding commenced the

reign of 1853.