But we have friends in Matanzas, real born Cubans, who will not suffer

us to remain forever in the Ensor House. They send their _volante_ for

us, one day, and we visit them. Their house, of the inevitable Cuban

pattern, is richly furnished; the marbles of the floor are pure and

smooth, the rug ample and velvety; the wainscoting of the walls, so to

speak, is in handsome tiling,--not in mean, washy painting; the cane

chairs and sofas are fresh and elegant, and there is a fine Erard

piano. The master of the house is confined to his room by illness, but

will be happy to see us. His son and daughters speak English with

fluency. They inform us, that the epidemic colds which prevail in Cuban

winters are always called by the name of some recent untoward

occurrence, and that their father, who suffers from severe influenza,

has got the President's Message. We find Don José in a bedroom darkened

by the necessary closing of the shutters, there being no other way of

excluding the air. The bedsteads are of gilded iron, with luxurious

bedding and spotless mosquito-nettings. His head is tied up with a silk

handkerchief. He rises from his rocking-chair, receives us with great

urbanity, and expresses his appreciation of the American nation and

their country, which he himself has visited. After a short interview we

leave him, but not until he has placed his house and all it contains

_"á la disposicion de Usted."_ We are then shown the pretty bedroom of

the young ladies, whose toilettes are furnished in silver, the bath

lined with tiling, the study, and the dining-room, where luncheon

awaits us. We take leave, with a kind invitation to return and dine the

next day, which, upon mature deliberation, we accept.

The _volante_ comes for us next day, with Roque, brightest of all

living _caleseros_, fixed in his boots and saddle. After a pleasant

drive we attain the house, and are received by its hospitable inmates

as before. The interval before dinner, a tolerably long one, is filled

up by pleasant chitchat, chiefly in English. The lady of the house does

not, however, profess our vernacular, and to her understanding we lay

siege in French, Italian, and laughter-provoking Spanish. Before dining

we pay a second visit to the host, who is still busy digesting the

President's Message. Obviously, the longer he has it under

consideration, the worse he finds it. He has nausea from its bragging,

his head aches with its loudness, and its emptiness fills him with

wind. We are at our wits' end to prescribe for him, and take our leave

with grave commiseration, telling him that we, too, have had it, but

that the symptoms it produces in the North are a reddening in the cheek

and a spasmodic contraction of the right arm. Now comes great dinner

on. A slave announces it, and with as little ceremony as may be we take

our places. And here we must confess that our friend the banker had

rendered us an important service. For he had said,--"Look not upon the

soup when it is hot, neither let any victuals entice thee to more than

a slight and temporary participation; for the dishes at a Cuban dinner

be many, and the guest must taste of all that is presented; wherefore,

if he indulge in one dish to his special delectation, he shall surely

die before the end." And it came to pass that we remembered this, and

walked through the dinner as on egg-shells, gratifying curiosity, on

the one hand, and avoiding satiety, on the other, with the fear of

fulness, as it were, before our eyes. For, oh, my friends! what pang is

comparable to too much dinner, save the distress of being refused by a

young woman, or the comfortless sensation, in times of economy, of

having paid away a five-dollar gold piece in place of a silver quarter

of a dollar?

But you, Reader, would like more circumstantiality in the account of

this dinner, which united many perfections. It was handsome, but not

splendid,--orderly, but, not stately,--succulent, but not unctuous. It

kept the word of promise to the smell and did not break it to the

taste. It was a dinner such as we shall wish only to our best friends,

not to those acquaintances who ask how we do when they meet us, and

wish we were dead before we part. As for particulars, we should be glad

to impart much useful information and many choice receipts; but the

transitory nature of such an entertainment does not allow one to

improve it as one could wish. One feature we remember, which is that

the whole dinner was placed on the table at once, and so you had the

advantage of seeing your work cut out before you. None of that hope

deferred, when, after being worried through a dozen stews and

_entrées_, you are rewarded at last with an infinitesimal fragment of

the _rôti_. Nor, on the other hand, the unwelcome surprise of three

supplementary courses and a dessert, when you have already dined to

repletion, and feel yourself at peace with all the world. Here, all was

fair play; you knew what to expect and what was expected of you. Soup,

of course, came first,--then fish,--then meat stewed with potatoes and

onions,--then other meat with _ochra_ and tomatoes,--then boiled

chicken, which is eaten with a _pilaff_ of rice colored with

saffron,--then delicious sweet potatoes, yams, plantains, and

vegetables of every sort,--then a kind of pepper, brought, we think,

from the East Indies, and intensely tropical in its taste,--then a

splendid roast turkey, and ham strewed with small colored

sugar-plums,--then--well, is not that enough for one person to have

eaten at a stretch, and that person accustomed to a Boston diet? Then

came such a display of sweetmeats as would exercise the mind of a New

England housekeeper beyond all power of repose,--a pudding,--a huge

tart with very thick crust,--cakes of _yuca_,--a dish of cocoanut, made

into a sort of impalpable preserve, with eggs and sugar,--then a course

of fruits,--then coffee, of the finest quality, from the host's own

plantation,--and then we arose and went into the drawing-room, with a

thankful recollection of what we had had, and also a thankful assurance

that we should have no more.

A drive by moonlight was now proposed, to see the streets and the

masks, it being still Carnival. So the _volante_ was summoned, with its

smiling, silent Roque, and the pretty daughter of the house took seat

beside us. The streets around the Plaza proved quite impassable from

the crowd, whose wild movements and wilder voices went nigh to scaring

the well-trained horses. The little lady was accustomed, apparently, to

direct every movement of her charioteer, and her orders were uttered in

a voice high and sweet as a bird-call. "_Dobla al derecho, Roque!

Roque, dobla al derecho_!" Why did not Roque go mad, and

exclaim,--"Yes, Señorita, and to heaven itself, if you bid me so

prettily!" But Roque only doubled as he was bid, and took us hither and

thither, and back to the nest of his lady-bird, where we left her and

the others with grateful regrets, and finally back to the Ensor House,

which on this occasion seemed to us the end of all things.

GAME-CHICKENS--DON RODRIGUEZ--DAY ON THE PLANTATION--DE-PARTURE.

As there are prejudices in Cuba, and elsewhere, touching the

appropriate sphere of woman, Halia was not taken to the cockpit, as she

had demanded and expected,--not to see the chickens fight, but to see

the Spaniards see it.

Forgive her, ye Woman's-Righters, if on this occasion she was weak and

obedient! You would have gone, no doubt,--those of you who have not

husbands; but such as have must know how much easier it is to deal with

the article man in his theoretical than in his real presence. You may

succeed in showing by every convincement, that you are his natural

master and superior, and that there is every reason on earth why you

should command and direct him. "No! ---- ," says the wretch, shaking

his fist, or shrugging his shoulders; and whatever your intimate

convictions may be, the end is, that you do not.

Propitiated by that ready obedience which is safest, dear sisters, in

these contingencies, the proprietor of Halia takes her, one morning, to

see the establishment of a man of fortune in the neighborhood, where

one hundred and forty game-chickens are kept for training and fighting.

These chickens occupy two good-sized rooms, whose walls are entirely

covered with compartments, some two feet square, in each of which

resides a cock, with his little perch and drinking-vessel. They are

kept on allowance of water and of food, lest they should get beyond

fighting-weight. Their voices are uplifted all day long, and on all

moonlight nights. An old woman receives us, and conducts us to the

training-pit, pointing out on the way the heroes of various battles,

and telling us that this cock and the other have won _mucho dinero_,

"much money." Each has also its appointed value;--this cock is worth

forty dollars, this four ounces, this one six ounces,--oh, he is a

splendid fellow! No periodal and sporadic hen-fever prevails here, but

the gallo-mania is the chronic madness of the tropics.

The training-pit is a circular space inclosed with boards, perhaps some

twelve feet in diameter. Here we find the proprietor, Don Manuel

Rodriguez, with a negro assistant, up to the ears in business. Don

Manuel is young, handsome, and vivacious, and with an air of good

family that astonishes us. He receives us with courtesy, finds nothing

unusual in the visit of a lady, but is too much engrossed with his

occupation to accord us more than a passing notice. This is exactly as

we could wish,--it allows us to study the Don, so to speak, _au

naturel_. He is engaged at first in weighing two cocks, with a view to

their subsequent fighting. Having ascertained their precise weight,

which he registers in his pocket-memorandum, he proceeds to bind strips

of linen around their formidable spurs, that in their training they may

not injure each other with them. This being accomplished,--he all the

while delivering himself with great volubility to his black

second,--the two cocks are taken into the arena; one is let loose

there; the negro holds the other, and knocks the free fowl about the

head with it. Sufficient provocation having been given, they are

allowed to go at each other in their own fashion, and their attacks and

breathing-spells are not very unlike a bout of fencing. They flap, fly

at each other, fly over, peck, seize by the neck, let go, rest a

moment, and begin again, getting more and more excited with each round.

The negro separates them, when about to draw blood. And as for Don

Manuel, he goes mad over them, like an Italian _maestro_ over his

favorite pupil. "_Hombre, hombre!_" he cries to the negro, "what a

cock! By Heaven, what a couple! _Ave María santísima!_ did one ever see

such spirit? _Santísima Trinidad!_ is there such fighting in all

Matanzas?" Having got pretty well through with the calendar of the

saints, he takes out his watch;--the fight has lasted long enough. One

of the champions retires to take a little repose; another is brought in

his place; the negro takes him, and boxes him about the ears of the

remaining fowl,--brushing him above his head, and underneath, and on

his back, to accustom him to every method of attack. Don Manuel informs

us that the cock made use of in this way is the father of the other,

and exclaims, with an air of mock compassion, _Pobre padre!_ "Poor

father!" The exercise being concluded, he takes a small feather, and

cleans out therewith the throat of either chicken, which proves to be

full of the sand of the arena, and which he calls _porquería_, "dirt."

We leave Don Manuel about to employ himself with other cocks, and, as

before, too much absorbed to give our departure much notice. Strange to

say, Hulia is so well satisfied with this rehearsal, that she expresses

no further desire to witness the performance itself. We learn

subsequently that Don Manuel is a man of excellent family and great

wealth, who has lavished several fortunes on his favorite pursuit, and

is hurrying along on the road to ruin as fast as chickens' wings can

carry him. We were very sorry, but couldn't possibly interfere.

Meantime, he appeared excessively jolly.

Our kind friends of the dinner were determined to pay us, in their

persons, all the debts of hospitality the island might be supposed to

contract towards strangers and Americans. Arrangements were accordingly

made for us to pass our last day in Matanzas at a coffee-plantation of

theirs, some four miles distant from town. They would send their

travelling _volante_ for us, they said, which was not so handsome as

the city _volante_, but stronger, as it had need to be, for the roads.

At eleven o'clock, on a very warm morning, this vehicle made its

appearance at the door of the Ensor House, with Roque in the

saddle,--Roque with that mysterious _calesero_ face of his, knowing

everything, but volunteering nothing until the word of command. Don

Antoñito, he tells us, has gone before us on horseback;--we mount the

_volante_, and follow. Roque drives briskly at first, a slight breeze

refreshes us, and we think the road better than is usual. But wait a

bit, and we come to what seems an unworked quarry of coral rock, with

no perceptible way over it, and Roque still goes on, slowly indeed, but

without stop or remark. The strong horses climb the rough and slippery

rocks, dragging the strong _volante_ after them. The _calesero_ picks

his way carefully; the carriage tips, jolts, and tumbles; the centre of

gravity appears to be nowhere. The breeze dies away; the vertical sun

seems to pin us through the head; we get drowsy, and dream of an uneasy

sea of stones, whose harsh waves induce headache, if not seasickness.

We wish for a photograph of the road;--first, to illustrate the

inclusive meaning of the word; second, to serve as a remembrance, to

reconcile us to all future highways.

Why these people are content to work out their road-tax by such sore

travail of mind and body appeareth to us mysterious. The breaking of

stone in state-prison is not harder work than riding over a Cuban road;

yet this extreme of industry is endured by the Cubans from year to

year, and from one human life to another, without complaint or effort.

An hour or more of these and similar reflections brings us to a bit of

smooth road, and then to the gate of the plantation, where a fine

avenue of palms conducts us to the house. Here resides the relative and

partner of our Matanzas friends, a man of intelligent and humane

aspect, who comes to greet us, with his pleasant wife, and a pretty

niece, their constant guest. This lady has made use of her retirement

for the accomplishment of her mind. She has some knowledge of French

and Italian, and, though unwilling to speak English, is able to

translate from that language with entire fluency. The plantation-house

is very pretty, situated just at the end of the palm-avenue, with all

the flowers in sight,--for these are planted between the palms;--it has

a deep piazza in front, and the first door opens into one large room,

with sleeping-apartments on either side. Opposite this door is another,

opening upon the court behind the house, and between the two our chairs

are placed, courting the draught.--_N.B._ In Cuba, no one shuns a

draught; you ride, drive, sit, and sleep in one, and, unless you are a

Cuban, never take cold. The floor of this principal room is merely of

clay, rubbed with a red powder, which, mixed with water, hardens into a

firm, polished surface. The house has but one story; the timbers of the

roof, unwhitened, forming the only ceiling. The furniture consists of

cane easy-chairs, a dining-table, and a pretty hammock, swung across

one end of the room. Here we sit and talk long. Our host has many good

books in French and Spanish,--and in English, Walter Scott's Novels,

which his wife fully appreciates.

A walk is proposed, and we go first to visit _los negros

chiquitos,--Anglicè_, "the small niggers," in their nursery. We find

their cage airy enough; it is a house with a large piazza completely

inclosed in coarse lattice-work, so that the _pequeñuelos_ cannot

tumble out, nor the nurses desert their charge. Our lady friend

produces a key, unlocking a small gate which admits us. We found, as

usual, the girls of eight and upwards tending the babies, and one

elderly woman superintending them. On our arrival, African drums,

formed of logs hollowed out, and covered with skin at the end, were

produced. Two little girls proceeded to belabor these primitive

instruments, and made a sort of rhythmic strumming, which kept time to

a monotonous chant. Two other girls executed a dance to this, which,

for its slowness, might be considered an African minuet. The dancing

children were bright-looking, and not ungraceful. Work stops at noon

for a recess; and the mothers run from the field to visit the

imprisoned babies, whom they carry to their own homes and keep till the

afternoon-hour for work comes round, which it does at two P.M. We went

next to the negro-houses, which are built, as we have described others,

contiguous, in one hollow square. On this plantation the food of the

negroes is cooked for them, and in the middle of the inclosed square

stood the cooking-apparatus, with several large caldrons. Still, we

found little fires in most of the houses, and the inmates employed in

concocting some tidbit or other. A hole in the roof serves for a

chimney, where there is one, but they as often have the fire just

before their door. The slaves on this plantation looked in excellent

condition, and had, on the whole, cheerful countenances. The good

proportion of their increase showed that they were well treated, as on

estates where they are overworked they increase scarcely or not at all.

We found some of the men enjoying a nap between a board and a blanket.

Most of the women seemed busy about their household operations. The

time from twelve to two is given to the negroes, besides an hour or two

after work in the evening, before they are locked up for the night.

This time they improve mostly in planting and watering their little

gardens, which are their only source of revenue. The negroes on this

estate had formed a society amongst themselves for the accumulation of

money; and our friend, the manager of the plantation, told us that they

had on his books two thousand dollars to their credit. One man alone

had amassed six hundred dollars, a very considerable sum, under the

circumstances. We visited also the house of the mayoral, or overseer,

whose good face seemed in keeping with the general humane arrangements

of the place,--as humane, at least, as the system permits. The negroes

all over the island have Sunday for themselves; and on Sunday

afternoons they hold their famous balls, which sometimes last until

four o'clock on Monday morning. Much of the illness among the negroes

is owing to their imprudence on these and like occasions. Pneumonia is

the prevalent disease with them, as with the slaves in our own South;

it is often acute and fatal. Everything in Cuba has such a tendency to

go on horseback, that we could not forbear asking if dead men did, and

were told that it was so,--the dead negroes being temporarily inclosed

in a box, and conveyed to the cemetery on the back of a horse. Our

friend, seeing our astonishment, laughed, and told us that the poor

whites were very glad to borrow the burial-horse and box, to furnish

their own funerals.

Dinner was served at four o'clock, quite informally, in the one

sitting-room of the house. A black girl brushed off the flies with a

paper fly-brush, and another waited on table. The dinner was excellent;

but I have already given so many bills of fare in these letters, that I

will content myself with mentioning the novelty of a Cuban

country-dish, a sort of stew, composed of ham, beef, mutton, potatoes,

sweet potatoes, _yuca_, and yams. This is called _Ayacco_, and is a

characteristic dish, like eel-soup in Hamburg, or salt codfish in

Boston;--as is usual in such cases, it is more relished by the

inhabitants than by their visitors. On the present occasion, however,

it was only one among many good things, which were made better by

pleasant talk, and were succeeded by delicious fruits and coffee. After

dinner we visited the vegetable garden, and the well, where we found

Candido, the rich negro who had saved six hundred dollars, drawing

water with the help of a blind mule. Now the philanthrope of our party

was also a phrenologist, and had conceived a curiosity to inspect the

head of the very superior negro who had made all this money; so, at his

request, Candido was summoned from the well, and ordered to take off

his hat. This being removed disclosed the covering of a cotton

handkerchief, of which he was also obliged to divest himself. Candido

was much too well bred to show any signs of contumacy; but the

expression of his countenance varied, under the observation of the

phrenologist, from wonder to annoyance, and from that to the extreme of

sullen, silent wrath. The reason was obvious,--he supposed himself

brought up with a view to bargain and sale; and when informed that he

had a good head, he looked much inclined to give somebody else a bad

one. He was presently allowed to go back to his work; and our

sympathies went with him, as it would probably take some days to efface

from his mind the painful impression that he was to be sold, the last

calamity that can happen to a negro who is in kind hands. We now

wandered through the long avenues of palm and fruit trees with which

the estate was planted, and saw the stout black wenches at their

out-door occupations, which at this time consisted chiefly in raking

and cleansing the ground about the roots of the trees and flowers.

Their faces brightened as their employers passed, and the smaller

children kissed hands. Returned to the house, we paused awhile to enjoy

the evening red, for the sun was already below the horizon. Then came

the _volante_, and with heartfelt thanks and regrets we suffered it to

take us away.

And who had been the real hero of this day? Who but Roque, fresh from

town, with his experience of Carnival, and his own accounts of the

masked ball, the Paseo, and the Señorita's beaux? All that durst

followed him to the gate, and kissed hands after him. _"Adios, Roque!

Roque, adios!"_ resounded on all sides; and Roque, the mysterious one,

actually smiled in conscious superiority, as he nodded farewell, and

galloped off, dragging us after him.

As we drove back to Matanzas in the moonlight, a sound of horses' feet

made us aware that Don Antoñito, the young friend who had planned and

accompanied our day's excursion, was to be our guard of honor on the

lonely road. A body-servant accompanied him, likewise mounted. Don

Antoñito rode a milk-white Cuban pony, whose gait was soft, swift, and

stealthy as that of a phantom horse. His master might have carried a

brimming glass in either hand, without spilling a drop, or might have

played chess, or written love-letters on his back, so smoothly did he

tread the rough, stony road. All its pits and crags and jags, the pony

made them all a straight line for his rider, whose unstirred figure and

even speech made this quite discernible. For when a friend talks to you

on the trot, much gulping doth impede his conversation,--and there is

even a good deal of wallop in a young lady's gallop. But our friend's

musical Spanish ran on like a brook with no stones in it, that merely

talks to the moonlight for company. And such moonlight as it was that

rained down upon us, except where the palm-trees spread their inverted

parasols, and wouldn't let it! And such a glorification of all trees

and shrubs, including the palm, which we are almost afraid to call

again by name, lest it should grow "stuck up," and imagine there were

no other trees but itself! And such a combination of tropical silence,

warmth, and odor! Even in the night, we did not forget that the

aloe-hedges had red in them, which made all the ways beautiful by day.

Oh! it was what good Bostonians call "a lovely time"; and it was with a

sigh of fulness that we set down the goblet of enjoyment, drained to

the last drop, and getting, somehow, always sweeter towards the bottom.

For it was set down at the Ensor House, which we are to leave to-night,

half-regretful at not having seen the scorpion by which we always

expected to be bitten; for we had heard such accounts of it, patrolling

the galleries with its venomous tail above its head, that we had

thought a sight might be worth a bite. It was not to be, however. The

luggage is brought; John is gratified with a _peso_; and we take leave

with entire goodwill.

I mention our departure, only because it was Cuban and characteristic.

Returning by boat to Havana, we were obliged to be on board by ten

o'clock that evening, the boat starting at eleven. Of course, the

steamer was nowhere but a mile out in the stream; and a little

cockle-shell of a row-boat was our only means of attaining her. How

different, ye good New Yorkers and Bostonians, from your afternoon walk

on board the "Bay State," with valise and umbrella in hand, and all the

flesh-pots of Egypt in--well, in remembrance! After that degree of

squabbling among the boatmen which serves to relieve the feelings of

that habitually disappointed class of men, we chose our craft, and were

rowed to the steamer, whose sides were steep and high out of water. The

arrangements on board were peculiar. The body of the main deck was

occupied by the _gentlemen's_ cabin, which was large and luxurious. A

tiny after-cabin was fitted up for the ladies. In the region of the

machinery were six horrible staterooms, bare and dirty, the berths

being furnished simply with cane-bottoms, a pillow, and one unclean

sheet. Those who were decoyed into these staterooms endured them with

disgust while the boat was at anchor; but when the paddle-wheels began

to revolve, and dismal din of clang and bang and whirr came down about

their ears, and threatened to unroof the fortress of the brain, why,

then they fled madly, precipitately, leaving their clothes mostly

behind them. But I am anticipating. The passengers arrived and kept

arriving; and we watched, leaning over the side, for Don Antoñito, who

was to accompany our voyage. Each boat had its little light; and to see

them dancing and toppling on the water was like a fairy scene. At last

came our friend; and after a little talk and watching of the stars, we

betook ourselves to rest.

Many of the Dons were by this time undressed, and smoking in their

berths. As there was no access to the ladies' cabin, save through the

larger one, she who went thither awaited a favorable moment and ran,

looking neither to the right hand nor the left. The small space was

tolerably filled by Cuban ladies in full dress.--_Mem_. They always

travel in their best clothes.--The first navigation among them was a

real balloon-voyage, with collisions; but they soon collapsed and went

to bed. All is quiet now; and she of whom we write has thrown herself

upon the first vacant bed, spreading first a clean napkin on the

extremely serviceable pillow. Sleep comes; but what is this that

murders sleep? A diminutive male official going to each berth, and

arousing its fair occupant with "Doña Teresita," or whatever the name

may be, "favor me with the amount of your passage-money." No comment is

necessary; here, no tickets,--here, no stewardess to mediate between

the unseen captain and the unprotected female! The sanctuary of the sex

invaded at midnight, without apology and without rebuke! Think of that,

_those_ passengers who have not paid their fare, and, when invited to

call at the captain's office and settle, do so, and be thankful! The

male passengers underwent a similar visitation. It is the Cuban idea of

a compendious and economic arrangement.

And here ends our account of Matanzas, our journey thither, stay, and

return. Peace rest upon the fair city! May the earthquake and hurricane

spare it! May the hateful Spanish government sit lightly on its strong

shoulders! May the filibusters attack it with kisses, and conquer it

with loving-kindness! So might it be with the whole island-vale!

* * * * *

THE FIRST AND THE LAST.

It was the last December of the eighteenth century. All night a fierce

northeast snow-storm had been hissing and drifting through the frozen

air, pelting angrily at the shuttered and curtained windows of the

rich, and shrieking with scornful laughter as it forced its way through

the ill-fitting casements and loose doors of the poor, clutching at

them with icy fingers as they cowered over their poor fires, and

spreading over the garret-beds in which they sought to hide from him a

premature shroud of cold white snow.

But with morning the storm ceased, and a little before noon the sun,

peering from behind his clouds, seemed to wink with astonishment at

seeing how much had been done in his absence.

Not only the sun, but Mr. Phineas Coffin, guardian of the "town's

poor," in the town of Newport, was astir, and, standing at the door of

the "poor-'us," bent a contemplative eye upon the progress made by two

stout youths who were clearing the snow from the sidewalks and paths

upon his premises.

Mr. Coffin perceived that a trial of skill and speed was going on

between one of his own pioneers and a lad similarly engaged on behalf

of the next estate. About half-way between the rapidly approaching

competitors stood a rough-hewn block of stone, marking the boundaries

of the two estates.

To first reach this, the winning-post, was evidently the emulous desire

of each. As they approached near and nearer, the snow flew from their

shovels with a force and velocity which would certainly have reminded

Mr. Coffin of a steam snow-plough, had he ever seen or heard, of such a

thing, which he most assuredly never had.

Each boy performed prodigies of skill and valor. The "poor-'us" lad

evidently gained, and his patron did not conceal a wide smile of

satisfaction; the rival looked up, saw it, was stung with generous

rage, threw himself with fury upon his shovel, and in three enormous

plunges laid bare his own side of the post, before "poor-'us" had come

within a foot of it.

Then, clapping his numb fingers upon his thighs, the successful

champion uttered a melodious crow, which so disgusted the spectator

that he was about to retire within doors, when his eyes fell upon a

thinly clad, timid-looking woman who was advancing along the newly

opened path, casting deprecating glances at the two boys, who from

peaceful rivalry were now proceeding to open warfare, carried on with

the ammunition so plentifully spread before them.

Nor was the alarm of the poor woman groundless; for, as she advanced

into the battle-field, she found herself saluted upon the breast with

an immense snow-ball, which, being of loose construction, adhered to

the red broadcloth cloak of the pedestrian, forming a conspicuous and

remarkable ornament to that garment.

"Come, stop that, you young limbs, or I'll----," shouted the chivalric

Phineas, hastily gathering, as he spoke, material for a formidable

missile, which, being completed before the sentence, was used by him as

a ready means of rounding his period, being at once more forcible and

easier to come at than the words which most men would have used.

Besides, Nathaniel, the poorhouse lad, turning round at sound of his

master's voice, presented so fair a mark, with his gaping mouth, that,

half involuntarily, the snow-ball left Mr. Coffin's hand, and the next

instant formed the contents of Nathaniel's open mouth, leaving,

however, a liberal surplusage to ornament his cheeks, chin, and nose.

The recipient of this bulletin choked, spluttered, and pawed at his

face after the manner of a cat who has tried to eat a wasp.

His rival did not seek to conceal the expression of his triumph and

derision, the consequence of which was, that, as soon as "poor-'us"

could see, he fell upon his antagonist, and both immediately

disappeared from view in the bosom of an enormous drift.

"Come right along, Mum," called Mr. Coffin to the horror-stricken

woman, who stood contemplating the spot where a convulsive floundering

and heaving beneath the snow showed that the frozen element had not yet

extinguished the fire of passion in the breasts of the buried

heroes,--"come right along, and don't be scaart of them young uns.

They're dreffal rude, I know; but then boys will be boys."

The woman returned no answer to this time-honored defence of youthful

enormities, but, hurrying on, reached the door, saying,--

"How's your health this morning, Mr. Coffin?"

"Waal, Ma'am, I'm pooty middlln' well, thank ye," replied Phineas,

slowly, and with an evident effort at recollection; then suddenly

added, with more vivacity,--

"Why, it's Widder Janes,--a'n't it? Declare to goodness I didn't know

ye, with yer hood over yer face. Walk in, Miss Janes, and see my

woman,--won't ye?"

"Waal, I dunno as I can stop," replied the widow, beginning,

nevertheless, to shake the snow from her scanty skirts, and to stamp

her numb feet, which were protected from the biting cold by a pair of

old yarn socks, drawn over the shoes.

"I was wantin' to see ye, a minit," continued she; "but Miss Coffin

allers keeps cleaned up so slick, I don't hardly darst to come in."

"Oh, waal," replied Phineas, with a chuckle of satisfaction at the

compliment to his wife. "Ye look nice enough for anybody's folks. Come

right in, this way."

"I dunno how 'tis," continued the visitor, as she followed her host

through the long entry, "that Miss Coffin can allers be so forehanded

with her work, an' do sich a master sight on't, too. She don't never

seem to be in the suds, Monday nor no time."

Mr. Coffin had reached the door of the "keeping-room" as the widow

concluded her last remark; but pausing, with his thumb upon the latch,

he turned, and, looking over his shoulder, whispered, with an emphatic

nod,--

"Fact is, Miss Janes, there a'n't sich a great many women jest like

Miss Coffin."

"There a'n't no two ways about that," murmured Miss Janes, assentingly,

as the door was thrown open.

"Walk right in. Here, Marthy, the widder Janes has called to see you

this morning."

A quiet, middle-aged woman turned round from the table, where she was

fitting patches to a pair of pauper trousers. Her face was sweet, her

voice low, and, though she was of middle age, every one agreed that

"Miss Coffin was a real pooty woman, an' a harnsome woman too."

"How does thee do, Keziah Janes? I am glad to see thee. Take a seat by

the fire, and warm thee after thy cold walk."

"I can't stop a minit; but it's as cheap settin' as stannin', I do

suppose," replied the widow, with a nervous little laugh, as she seated

herself in the proffered chair upon the clean red hearth, and commenced

her business by saying,--

"I was wantin' to speak with you, Mr. Coffin, about poor Mr.

Widdrinton."

"Widdrinton,--who's he?" inquired Phineas.

"Waal," commenced the widow, settling herself in her chair, and

assuming the air of one who has a story to narrate. "You know I have my

thirds in the house my poor husband left. It wa'n't sold, as it had

ought to ben,--for Samooel (that's _his_ brother) never's ben easy that

I should have the rooms I have; but they're what was set off for me,

an' so he can't help himself; on'y he's allers a-thornin.' when he gits

a chance.

"But that a'n't nyther here nor there. What I was a-comin' to was this.

Ruther better 'n a year ago, a man come to me and wanted to know ef I

used all my rooms. I told him I hadn't no use for the garrit, 'cept to

dry my yarbs in (for I think yarbs are drefful good in case o'

sickness, Miss Coffin,--don't you?) An' then he said he wanted a place

to sleep in, an' his breakfast an' supper, an' wanted to know if I

would take him so.

"Waal, I thought about it a spell, an' I concluded I was too old to

mind the speech o' people, and I hadn't no other objection, so I said

he might come,--an' he did, that very day.

"Waal, at fust he had some kind o' work to do writin', an' he seemed to

git along very comf'table,--at least, fur's I know,--for I was out

tailorin' all day mostly, same as I be now; but last fall the writin'

seemed to gin out all to oncet, an' he begun to kerry off his furnitoor

an' books to sell, an' finally he paid up all he was owin' of me, an'

told me he didn't want no more meals, but would find himself.

"Waal, I told him, that, seein' things wuz as they wuz with him, I

shouldn't take no rent for the garrit, an' I could dry my yarbs there

jest as well as ef he warn't there; an' he looked kind o' red, and held

his head up a minit, an' then he thanked me, an' said, 'God bless you!'

an' said he'd pay me, ef he got any more work.

"Waal, he didn't git no more; an' after the furnitoor an' the books,

his cloze begun to go.

"Then I begun to be afeard he didn't have nothin' to eat, an' oncet in

a while I'd kerry him up a mess o' vittles; but it allers seemed

drefful hard for him to take 'em, an' fin'ly he told me not to do so no

more, an' said suthin' to himself about devourin' widders. So I didn't

darst to go up agin, he looked so kind o' furce an' sharp, till, last

night, I reck'n'd the snow would sift in through the old ruff, an' I

went up to offer him a comf'table for his bed. I knocked; but he didn't

make no answer, so I pushed the door open an' went in. It was a good

while sence I'd seen the inside o' the room,--for when he heerd me

comin' up, he'd open the door a crack an' peek out while he spoke to

me; so when I got inside the room and looked about, I was all took

aback an' gawped round like a fool, an' no wunder nyther; for of all

the good furnitoor and things he'd brought, there wa'n't the fust thing

to be seen, save and 'xcept a kind o' frame covered with cloth stannin'

ag'inst the wall, an' an old straw-bed on the floor, with him on it,

an' a mis'able old comf'table kivered over him."

"And this bitter weather, too! Oh, Keziah, what did thee do?" asked

Mrs. Coffin, in a tearful voice.

"Why, I went up to the bedside, (ef you may call it so,) an' said, sez

I, 'Why, Lor' sakes, Mr. Widdrinton,'----an' then I hild up, for I

ketchcd a sight of his face, an' I thought he wuz gone for sartin. He

wuz as cold an' as white as that 'ere snow, an' it warn't till I'd felt

of his heart an' foun' that it beat a little that I thought of sich a

thing as his comin' to. But as soon as I found he'd got a breath o'

life in him, I didn't waste much time till I'd got him wropped up in a

hot blanket with a jug o' water to his feet, an' some hot tea inside on

him. Then he come to a little, an' said he hadn't eat nor drank for two

days an' nights."

"Oh, Keziah!" sobbed Mrs. Coffin; while her husband, plunging his hands

deep into his breeches-pockets, and elevating his eyebrows till they

were lost in his shaggy hair, exclaimed,--

"Good Je-hosaphat!" which was the nearest approach to an oath in which

he ever indulged.

"An' so," pursued the widow, after enjoying for a moment the

consternation of her audience,--"an' so I thought I had better come an'

see ef he couldn't be took in here; not that I wouldn't do for him, an'

be glad to, fur as I could, but he a'n't in a state to be left alone,

an' you know my trade takes me away consid'able from home,--an' which,

if I don't foller it, why, when I git a little older, I shall have to

come here myself, an' be a burden on your hands an' the town's."

"We would take good care of thee, if thee did come, Keziah," said Mrs.

Coffin, in whom the habitual equanimity of the "Friend" had conquered

the emotion of the woman. "Though I do not deny that it is pleasanter

and better for thee to support thyself, as thee always has done."

"I don't doubt you would be good to me, Miss Coffin, an' thank ye,

Ma'am, kindly for a-sayin' of it; but you know innerpendance is sweet

to all on us."

"Surely, surely, Keziah; and now, Phineas, I suppose thee will see at

once about this poor man, won't thee?"

"Yes, Marthy, yes. I'll go right off and see one of the selectmen; and

I reckon, by the time you git a bed ready for him, we shall be along."

Phineas accordingly bustled out of the room; and Mrs. Janes, after

lingering a few moments, took her leave and returned to her charge,

inwardly congratulating herself on having so new and interesting a

piece of intelligence with which to lighten her next day's "tailoring."

Mrs. Coffin, left alone, stood for a moment considering, and then,

opening a door, called gently,--

"Faith!"

"Yes, mother," replied a voice whose soft tones seemed the echo of her

own. A moment after, a slender, dark-eyed girl, about twenty years of

age, entered the room, and said cheerfully,--

"What is it, mother?"

"I have somewhat to tell thee, Faith."

And the Quakeress repeated, in calm, unemphatic language, the story

narrated by Mrs. Janes.

"The poor man will soon be here, Faith," continued she, "and I wanted

to ask what thee thinks should be done with him. Thee knows there is no

room that can have a fire in it, except the one where Polly and Susan

sleep, and they are both too sick to be moved into the cold"--

"He shall have my room, mother," said Faith, quietly.

"Thy room, child?"

"Yes, mother; and I will sleep here on the couch. I should like it very

much indeed; for you know I never have been able to be quite the

orderly and regular girl you have tried to make me."

"Thee is a good girl," said the mother, quietly.

"Not half so good a girl as I ought to be, with so good a mother,"

replied Faith, throwing her arms about her mother's neck and kissing

her fondly.

The elder woman returned the caress with an involuntary warmth, which,

pure and natural though it might be, was yet at variance with the

strict rule of her sect, which had taught her to avoid everything like

compliment or caress, as savoring of the manners of the "world's

people."

She therefore, after one kiss, gently repelled the girl, saying,--

"Nay, Faith, but it sufficeth. Go, then, if thee will, and make ready

thy chamber for this sick man, while I prepare him some broth."

An hour later, a pung or box-sleigh drew up at the poor-house door,

from which was lifted a long, gaunt figure, carefully enveloped in

blankets and cloaks. As he was taken from the sleigh, he feebly

murmured a few words, to which Phineas Coffin replied kindly,--

"Don't be scart,--it's all safe, and Nathaniel will fetch it right in

after us."

"What! this 'ere?" queried the youth called Nathaniel, while he lifted

from the sleigh, somewhat contemptuously, a long flat something,

carefully enveloped in a cotton case.

"Yes. Fetch it along this way," replied Phineas; and Nathaniel followed

the chair, in which the sick man was carried, into the pretty little

maiden chamber which Faith had so quietly relinquished to one who she

thought needed it more than herself.

Mother and daughter stood ready to receive their new charge, and see

him comfortable in the warm, soft bed which they had prepared for him.

"Thee will soon get rested now, friend, and go to sleep,--won't thee?"

said Mrs. Coffin, in her gentle voice, as she turned down the sheet a

little more evenly.

"Where is it?" panted the exhausted sufferer, trying to look beyond his

kind nurse into the room.

"What does thee mean, friend?"

"It is this thing, mother," said Faith, bringing it forward, and

leaning it against the wall at the foot of the bed. "He brought it with

him," continued she, in a low voice; "and father says, he didn't seem

to care half so much about his own comfort as to have _that_ safe."

"It is my--property,--all I have--left. I won't be--parted from it.

You--sha'n't take it--away," gasped the sick man, in an excited tone.

"Thee shall not be parted from it, friend," said Mrs. Coffin,

soothingly. "Surely we would not deprive thee of what is thine own, and

what thee seems to value so much. Now if thee will try to go to sleep,

I will stay with thee the while, and when thee wakes give thee some

broth to strengthen thee."

"Let--let _her_ stay.--Go away,--the rest of you," whispered the feeble

voice, while the weary eyes rested upon Faith's grave, sweet face.

"Thee means my daughter? Faith, does thee wish to stay? or had thee

rather I should?"

"I will stay, mother, if he wishes it."

"Very well, daughter. When thee is weary, come down, and I, or one of

the women, will take thy place."

Mrs. Coffin left the room, and Faith, her sewing in her hand, was about

seating herself by the fire, when the voice of the stranger summoned

her to the bedside.

Turning, she found his hollow and gleaming eyes fixed sternly upon her,

while a long, lean finger was pointed alternately at her and the frame

leaning against the wall.

"Girl!"

"Can I do something for you?" asked Faith, kindly.

"Don't you look at it--or let any one--else, while I'm--asleep."

"I certainly will not."

"Promise!"

"I do promise."

"Swear!"

"Nay, friend, that would be wrong," replied the girl, unconsciously

adopting the phraseology of the Quakers, while expressing a sentiment

learned from them; for though Faith had been brought up outwardly in

the creed of her father, she had, without being aware of it, adopted

many of the tenets to which her mother held.

"I will promise you very solemnly, however," continued she, "that I

will neither look at yonder thing nor allow any one else to do so; and

you will be wrong to doubt my word."

"I don't.--What is your name?"

"Faith."

"A good omen. Mine is--Ichabod."

"Ichabod Widdrinton?"

"Ichabod. Call me so,--all of you."

"Very well, if it is your name, we will. Now you must go to sleep."

"Sit there,--where I can see you."

Faith complied with this request, although uncertain whether it was not

prompted by a distrust of her promise. The stranger soon slept, and his

young nurse then made a more attentive survey of his features than she

had yet done. He seemed not over forty years of age, and would, in

health, have been considered a handsome man,--although the fine silky

hair, thin beard, sensitive nostril, and delicate mouth could never

have expressed much of strength or resolution.

The traces of disease and starvation were painfully apparent; but it

seemed to the thoughtful Faith that behind these she could perceive in

the sorrowful, downward curve of the lips, in the lines of the hollow,

throbbing temples, in the gloomy light of the dark eyes, symptoms of a

long corroding care, which, though secretly, had done its work of

devastation more surely and more ruthlessly than the more apparent

foes.

"How he must have suffered!" murmured she. It seemed as if the tone of

gentle pity had penetrated the light slumber, and reached the heart of

the sick man,--for, opening his eyes, he smiled upon the girl, a wan,

sad smile, which was at once an assent and a benison.

From that moment, until the welcome end of that sad life, Ichabod would

patiently endure no tendance but Faith's; and she, with the calm and

silent self-abnegation of her order, (for Florence Nightingale is but a

type, and there are those all about us who lack but her opportunities,)

devoted herself to him.

Her mother sometimes remonstrated, and begged her to yield her place in

the sick-chamber to her or to one of the pauper women; but Faith, whose

grave sweetness concealed more determination than a stranger would have

guessed, would simply say,--

"Dear mother, what is a little fatigue to one as well as I am, compared

with the pleasure of making this poor stranger's death-bed happy and

quiet?--which it certainly would not be, if he was crossed in his fancy

for seeing me about him." And the conscientious mind of the mother was

forced to yield assent to this simple logic.

A few weeks thus passed, and then the sick man became a dying man. The

pauper inmates of the house were all willing and anxious to watch

beside him through the long nights, but Ichabod received all their

attentions very ungraciously; nor was it till Faith told him, in her

kind, decided way, that she could not stay with him at night, that he

consented to allow the others to do so.

At last there came the evening when the physician said to Mrs. Coffin,

as he entered the room where she sat with her husband,--

"He won't last till morning,--'tis impossible."

"Then thee had better watch beside him, Phineas. It is not fitting that

Faith should do so."

"Certain. I'll go right up, and send her down," replied Phineas,

readily.

But when the arrangements for the night were made known to Ichabod, he

caught hold of Faith's dress, as she stood at his bedside bidding him

good-night, and gasped out,--

"No, no!--you!--I must have--you!--I shall die--die to-night!--And--and

I want to tell--to tell you something.--Stay,--stay, Faith!--it's the

last--last time, and I--I shall never trouble any one--any more."

"Let me stay, mother; father, do!" pleaded Faith, looking from one to

the other. "I should be very unhappy, always, if I was obliged to deny

him this last request. I shall not be afraid, mother; and Betty can

sleep in the chair by the fire, if you wish it, so as to be at hand, if

"----

"Well, child, if thee feels a call to do so, and it will make thee

unhappy to be denied, I will hold my peace. But thee must certainly

have Betty here, and promise to send her to call me, if Ichabod should

be worse,--won't thee?"

Faith gave the required promise, and in a short time the chamber was

prepared for night. The old woman (whose skill in the last awful rites

which man pays to man caused her always to be selected for such

occasions) slept soundly beside the glowing fire, the dying man dozed

uneasily, and Faith, shading the light from his eyes, opened the

large-print Bible, which her mother, careful both for the well-being of

her daughter's immortal soul and temporal eyesight, had recommended for

her night's perusal.

The hours passed slowly on, unmarked by change, until Faith had counted

three solemn strokes from the old clock in the entry, when the sick man

suddenly awoke.

As Faith came to his bedside, to offer him the draught for which he

always asked on awakening, she was struck with a change in his face.

The eyes were at once calmer and brighter, the look of uneasy pain had

disappeared, and the thin lips wore almost a smile.

"Dear Faith," said he, in a gentle voice, which yet was stronger and

more unbroken than any she had heard from him before, "how good you

have been to me! I am dying; but do not call any one yet. I want to

talk to you a little, first. Put another pillow under my head, and

raise me,--so. Now light your other candle, stir the fire to a brighter

blaze, and then uncover--it."

Faith, pale and quiet, did as she was bid, stirred the fire, till its

ruddy glow brightened every nook of the little white-washed chamber,

and made the old crone beside it wince and mutter in her sleep. Having

shielded her from its fierce light, she then, with trembling fingers,

opened a little penknife which lay upon the table, and cut the twine

with which the cover was sewed at the back. The last stitch severed,

the cloth fell with a solemn rustle at her feet, and disclosed--a

picture.

Faith examined it with much attention and some curiosity. It was the

full-length figure of a man, dressed in rich robes of office, his

powdered hair put back from his forehead, his left hand resting on the

pommel of his sword, and his right clasping a roll of parchment. The

expression of his face was grave, majestic, and noble; and yet between

those handsome features and the attenuated face of the dying pauper

Faith soon perceived one of those resemblances, strong, yet

indefinable, which are so apparent to some persons, so undiscoverable

by others.

"A noble gentleman, Faith,--was he not?" said Ichabod, at length. "And

they say his picture does not do him justice. He was an English

gentleman of property and station,--the heir of a good fortune and

honorable name; but he left all to come here and help found this new

country,--this glorious land of freedom and conscience,--where every

man has perfect liberty--to starve in his own fashion.

"He came and was a great man among them. He built the finest house in

the village of Boston, and then came hither, where they made him

governor and named a bay after him.

"He went home for a visit to England, and there he had this picture

painted by the court-painter of those days, and brought it back with

him as a present to his wife.

"He was father of many children, mostly girls: and finally died in a

very dignified and respectable manner, full of years and honors,--as

they say in storybooks.

"His handsome property, being divided so often, made but rather small

portions for the children, and several of the daughters died unmarried.

"Then the family began to decay, and each succeeding head of the family

found it a harder struggle to keep up the old hospitalities and the

traditional style of living. They died out, too. The lateral branches

of the family-tree never flourished, and one after another came to an

end, till about forty years ago the remnant of the family-blood and the

family-name was centred in two cousins, a young man and a girl. They

met at the funeral of the girl's mother, and found in a short

conversation that they were the sole representatives of the old name,

alive.

"They married, gloomily helping on the fate which awaited them, by

uniting their two threads of life in one, that thus she might sever it

more easily. I was their only child, and they named me Ichabod,--'the

glory has departed.'

"It is a sad proof of how deeply the bitterness of life had entered

their souls, that, even in the supreme moment when they clasped their

first-born in their arms, the name which rose from heart to lip, and

which they bestowed upon him, was in itself a cry of anguish and

despair.

"The husband soon died. Man breaks, woman bends, beneath the crushing

weight of such a life. My mother lived, a dark and silent woman, till

five years ago. Then she died, too, and I inherited my ancestor's

portrait and the curse of the Withringtons.

"I tried to work, to earn my bread, as men all about me were doing. But

no,--the fate was upon me, the curse pursued me. Everything failed

which I attempted. I sunk lower and lower, until the name and the

picture, which had been my pride, became a shame and a reproach to me.

I abandoned the one and concealed the other, resolved to reveal neither

until the moment arrived when death should wipe out the squalor of

life, conquer fate, and expiate the curse.

"Quick, Faith, quick! The hour has come. Take the knife you just

held,--cut the canvas from its frame,--cut it in fragments,--lay it on

the blazing fire. We will perish together,--the First and--the Last."

"Nay, Ichabod, give it to me," said Faith, shrinking from the proposed

holocaust "I will always keep it, and value it."

"Would you see me fall dead at your feet, while attempting to do for

myself what you refuse to do for me?" asked the dying man, with

feverish ardor, and half rising, as if to leave his bed.

"No, no,--I will do it, since it must be so," exclaimed Faith, eagerly.

"Lie down again and watch me."

Ichabod sunk back upon his pillows, and gazed with eyes of fitful light

upon the girl, while she, opening the keen knife, cut slowly and

laboriously round the margin of the stout canvas, which shrieked

beneath the blade, as if the spirit of the effigy which it bore were

resisting the fearful doom which threatened it.

At last the canvas was entirely released, and Faith silently held it up

before the eyes of the dying man, upon whose face had come a dull,

leaden blankness, and whose eyes were painful to watch as they

struggled to pierce the film which was gathering over them.

"Burn," he hoarsely murmured.

With a sigh, Faith cut the picture into strips, and laid them gently,

reverently, upon the coals heaped in the large fireplace.

The greedy flames leaped up to grasp their prey, and Faith turned sick

and faint as she watched them fasten upon that noble face, which seemed

to contract and shrivel in its anguish as they seized upon it.

She gazed a moment, painfully fascinated, then turned toward the

bed,--but as her eyes fell upon Ichabod's face, she started back, and,

rousing the old woman from her slumber, sent to summon her mother.

Mrs. Coffin came immediately,--but when she entered the little chamber,

the last fragment of the canvas was shrivelling in the flames, the last

sigh of the dying man was parting from his white lips.

They had perished together,--the First--and the Last.

THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE.

WHAT HE SAID, WHAT HE HEARD, AND WHAT HE SAW.

You will know, perhaps, in the course of half an hour's reading, what

has been haunting my hours of sleep and waking for months. I cannot

tell, of course, whether you are a nervous person or not. If, however,

you are such a person,--if it is late at night,--if all the rest of the

household have gone off to bed,--if the wind is shaking your windows as

if a human hand were rattling the sashes,--if your candle or lamp is

low and will soon burn out,--let me advise you to read the "Critical

Notices" or some other paper contained in this number, if you have not

already devoured them all, and leave this to be read by daylight, with

cheerful voices round, and people near by who would hear you, if you

slid from your chair and came down in a lump on the floor.

I do not say that your heart will beat as mine did, I am willing to

confess, when I entered the dim chamber. Did I not tell you that I was

sensitive and imaginative, and that I had lain awake with thinking what

were the strange movements and sounds which I heard late at night in my

little neighbor's apartment? It had come to that pass that I was truly

unable to separate what I had really heard from what I had dreamed in

these nightmares to which I have been subject, as before mentioned. So,

when I walked into the room, and Bridget, turning back, closed the door

and left me alone with its tenant, I do believe you could have grated a

nutmeg on my skin, such a "goose-flesh" shiver ran over it. It was not

fear, but what I call nervousness,--unreasoning, but irresistible; as

when, for instance, one looking at the sun going down says, "I will

count fifty before it disappears"; and as he goes on and it becomes

doubtful whether he will reach the number, he gets strangely flurried,

and his imagination pictures life and death and heaven and hell as the

issues depending on the completion or non-completion of the fifty he is

counting. Extreme curiosity will excite some people as much as fear, or

what resembles fear, acts on some other less impressible natures.

I may find myself in the midst of strange facts in this little

conjurer's room. Or, again, there may be nothing in this poor invalid's

chamber but some old furniture, such as they say came over in the

Mayflower. All this is just what I mean to find out while I am looking

at the Little Gentleman, who has suddenly become my patient. The

simplest things turn out to be unfathomable mysteries; the most

mysterious appearances prove to be the most commonplace objects in

disguise.

I wonder whether the boys that live in Roxbury and Dorchester are ever

moved to tears or filled with silent awe as they look upon the rocks

and fragments of "puddingstone" abounding in those localities. I have

my suspicions that those boys "heave a stone" or "fire a brick-bat,"

composed of the conglomerate just mentioned, without any more tearful

or philosophical contemplations than boys of less favored regions

expend on the same performance. Yet a lump of puddingstone is a thing

to look at, to think about, to study over, to dream upon, to go crazy

with, to beat one's brains out against. Look at that pebble in it. From

what cliff was it broken? On what beach rolled by the waves of what

ocean? How and _when_ imbedded in soft ooze, which itself became stone,

and by-and-by was lifted into bald summits and steep cliffs, such as

you may see on Meetinghouse-Hill any day,--yes, and mark the scratches

on their faces left when, the boulder-carrying glaciers planed the

surface of the continent with such rough tools that the storms have not

worn the marks out of it with all the polishing of ever so many

thousand years?

Or as you pass a roadside ditch or pool in spring-time, take from it

any bit of stick or straw which has lain undisturbed for a time. Some

little worm-shaped masses of clear jelly containing specks are fastened

to the stick: eggs of a small snail-like shell-fish. One of these

specks magnified proves to be a crystalline sphere with an opaque mass

in its centre. And while you are looking, the opaque mass begins to

stir, and by-and-by slowly to turn upon its axis like a forming

planet,--life beginning in the microcosm, as in the great worlds of the

firmament, with the revolution that turns the surface in ceaseless

round to the source of life and light.

A pebble and the spawn of a mollusk! Before you have solved their

mysteries, this earth where you first saw them may be a vitrified slag,

or a vapor diffused through the planetary spaces. Mysteries are common

enough, at any rate, whatever the boys in Roxbury and Dorchester think

of "brickbats" and the spawn of creatures that live in roadside

puddles.

But then a great many seeming mysteries are relatively perfectly plain,

when we can get at them so as to turn them over. How many ghosts that

"thick men's blood with cold" prove to be shirts hung out to dry! How

many mermaids have been made out of seals! How many times have

horse-mackerels been taken for the sea-serpent!

----Let me take the whole matter coolly, while I see what is the matter

with the patient. That is what I say to myself, as I draw a chair to

the bedside.--The bed is an old-fashioned, dark mahogany four-poster.

It was never that which made the noise of something moving. It is too

heavy to be pushed about the room.--The Little Gentleman was sitting,

bolstered up by pillows, with his hands clasped and their united palms

resting on the back of the head,--one of the three or four positions

specially affected by persons whose breathing is difficult from disease

of the heart or other causes.

Sit down, Sir,--he said,--sit down! I have come to the hill Difficulty,

Sir, and am fighting my way up. His speech was laborious and

interrupted.

Don't talk,--I said,--except to answer my questions.--And I proceeded

to "prospect" for the marks of some local mischief, which you know is

at the bottom of all these attacks, though we do not always find it. I

suppose I go to work pretty much like other professional folks of my

temperament. Thus:--

Wrist, if you please.--I was on his right side, but he presented his

left wrist, crossing it over the other.--I begin to count, holding

watch in left hand. One, two, three, four,----What a handsome

hand!--wonder if that splendid stone is a carbuncle.--One, two, three,

four, five, six, seven,----Can't see much, it is so dark, except one

white object.--One, two, three, four,----Hang it! eighty or ninety in

the minute, I guess.--Tongue, if you please.--Tongue is put out. Forget

to look at it, or, rather, to take any particular notice of it;--but

what _is_ that white object, with the long arm stretching up as if

pointing to the sky, just as Vesalius and Spigelius and those old

fellows used to put their skeletons? I don't think anything of such

objects, you know; but what should _he_ have it in his chamber for?--As

I had found his pulse irregular and intermittent, I took out a

stethoscope, which is a pocket-spyglass for looking into men's chests

with your ears, and laid it over the place where the heart beats. I

missed the usual beat of the organ.--How is this?--I said,--where is

your heart gone to?--He took the stethoscope and shifted it across to

the right side; there was a displacement of the organ.--I am

ill-packed,--he said;--there was no room for my heart in its place as

it is with other men.--God help him!

It is hard to draw the line between scientific curiosity and the desire

for the patient's sake to learn all the details of his condition. I

must look at this patient's chest, and thump it and listen to it. For

this is a case of _ectopia cordis_, my boy,--displacement of the heart;

and it isn't every day you get a chance to overhaul such an interesting

malformation. And so I managed to do my duty and satisfy my curiosity

at the same time. The torso was slight and deformed; the right arm

attenuated,--the left full, round, and of perfect symmetry. It had run

away with the life of the other limbs,--a common trick enough of

Nature's, as I told you before. If you see a man with legs withered

from childhood, keep out of the way of his arms, if you have a quarrel

with him. He has the strength of four limbs in two; and if he strikes

you, it is an arm-blow _plus_ a kick administered from the shoulder

instead of the haunch, where it should have started from.

Still examining him as a patient, I kept my eyes about me to search all

parts of the chamber, and went on with the double process, as

before.--Heart hits as hard as a fist,--_bellows-sound over mitral

valves_ (professional terms you need not attend to).--What the deuce is

that long case for? Got his witch grandmother mummied in it? And three

big mahogany presses,--hey?--A diabolical suspicion came over me which

I had had once before,--that he might be one of our modern

_alchemists_,--you understand,--make gold, you know, or _what looks

like it_, sometimes with the head of a king or queen or of Liberty to

embellish one side of the piece.--Don't I remember hearing him shut a

door and lock it once? What do you think was kept under that lock?

Let's have another look at his hand, to see if there are any calluses.

One can tell a man's business, if it is a handicraft, very often by

just taking a look at his open hand.--Ah! Four calluses at the end of

the fingers of the right hand. None on those of the left. Ah, ha! What

do those mean?

All this seems longer in the telling, of course, than it was in fact.

While I was making these observations of the objects around me, I was

also forming my opinion as to the kind of case with which I had to

deal.

There are three wicks, you know, to the lamp of a man's life: brain,

blood, and breath. Press the brain a little, its light goes out,

followed by both the others. Stop the heart a minute, and out go all

three of the wicks. Choke the air out of the lungs, and presently the

fluid ceases to supply the other centres of flame, and all is soon

stagnation, cold, and darkness. The "tripod of life" a French

physiologist called these three organs. It is all clear enough which

leg of the tripod is going to break down here. I could tell you exactly

what the difficulty is;--which would be as intelligible and amusing as

a watchmaker's description of a diseased timekeeper to a ploughman. It

is enough to say, that I found just what I expected to, and that I

think this attack is only the prelude of more serious consequences,

--which expression means you very well know what.

And now the secrets of this life hanging on a thread must surely come

out. If I have made a mystery where there was none, my suspicions will

be shamed, as they have often been before. If there is anything

strange, my visits will clear it up.

I sat an hour or two by the side of the Little Gentleman's bed, after

giving him some henbane to quiet his brain, and some foxglove, which an

imaginative French professor has called the "Opium of the Heart." Under

their influence he gradually fell into an uneasy, half-waking slumber,

the body fighting hard for every breath, and the mind wandering off in

strange fancies and old recollections, which escaped from his lips in

broken sentences.

----The last of 'em,--he said,--the last of 'em all,--thank God! And

the grave he lies in will look just as well as if he had been straight.

Dig it deep, old Martin, dig it deep,--and let it be as long as other

folks' graves. And mind you get the sods flat, old man,--flat as ever a

straight-backed young fellow was laid under. And then, with a good tall

slab at the head, and a footstone six foot away from it, it'll look

just as if there was a man underneath.

A man! Who said he was a man? No more men of that pattern to bear _his_

name!--Used to be a good-looking set enough.--Where's all the manhood

and womanhood gone to since his great-grand-father was the strongest

man that sailed out of the town of Boston, and poor Leah there the

handsomest woman in Essex, if she was a witch?

----Give me some light,--he said,--more light,--I want to see the

picture.

He had started either from a dream or a wandering reverie. I was not

unwilling to have more light in the apartment, and presently had

lighted an astral lamp that stood on a table.--He pointed to a portrait

hanging against the wall.--Look at her,--he said,--look, at her!

Wasn't that a pretty neck to slip a hangman's noose over?

The portrait was of a young woman, something more than twenty years

old, perhaps. There were few pictures of any merit painted in New

England before the time of Smibert, and I am at a loss to know what

artist--could have taken this half-length, which was evidently from

life. It was somewhat stiff and flat, but the grace of the figure and

the sweetness of the expression reminded me of the angels of the early

Florentine painters. She must have been of some consideration, for she

was dressed in paduasoy and lace with hanging sleeves, and the old

carved frame showed how the picture had been prized by its former

owners. A proud eye she had, with all her sweetness.--I think it was

that which hanged her, as his strong arm hanged Minister George

Burroughs;--but it may have been a little mole on one cheek, which the

artist had just hinted as a beauty rather than a deformity. You know, I

suppose, that nursling imps addict themselves, after the fashion of

young opossums, to these little excrescences. "Witch-marks" were good

evidence that a young woman was one of the Devil's wet-nurses;--I

should like to have seen you make fun of them in those days!--Then she

had a brooch in her bodice, that might have been taken for some

devilish amulet or other; and she wore a ring upon one of her fingers,

with a red stone in it, that flamed as if the painter had dipped his

pencil in fire;--who knows but that it was given her by a midnight

suitor fresh from that fierce element, and licensed for a season to

leave his couch of flame to tempt the unsanctified hearts of earthly

maidens and brand their cheeks with the print of his scorching kisses?

She and I,--he said, as he looked steadfastly at the canvas,--she and I

are the last of 'em.--She will stay, and I shall go. They never painted

me,--except when the boys used to make pictures of me with chalk on the

board-fences. They said the doctors would want my skeleton when I was

dead.--You are my friend, if you are a doctor,--a'n't you?

I just gave him my hand. I had not the heart to speak. I want to lie

still,--he said,--after I am put to bed upon the hill yonder. Can't you

have a great stone laid over me, as they did over the first settlers in

the old burying-ground at Dorchester, so as to keep the wolves from

digging them up? I never slept easy over the sod;--I should like to lie

quiet under it. And besides,--he said, in a kind of scared whisper,--I

don't want to have my bones stared at, as my body has been. I don't

doubt I was a _remarkable case_; but, for God's sake, oh, for God's

sake, don't let 'em make a show of the cage I have been shut up in and

looked through the bars of for so many years!

I have heard it said that the art of healing makes men hardhearted and

indifferent to human suffering. I am willing to own that there is often

a professional hardness in surgeons, just as there is in

theologians,--only much less in degree than in these last. It does not

commonly improve the sympathies of a man to be in the habit of

thrusting knives into his fellow-creatures and burning them with

red-hot irons, any more than it improves them to hold the

blinding-white cautery of Gehenna by its cool handle and score and

crisp young souls with it until they are scorched into the belief of

--Transubstantiation or the Immaculate Conception. And, to say the

plain truth, I think there are a good many coarse people in both

callings. A delicate nature will not commonly choose a pursuit which

implies the habitual infliction of suffering, so readily as some

gentler office. Yet, while I am writing this paragraph, there passes by

my window, on his daily errand of duty, not seeing me, though I catch a

glimpse of his manly features through the oval glass of his chaise, as

he rides by, a surgeon of skill and standing, so friendly, so modest,

so tender-hearted in all his ways, that, if he had not approved himself

at once adroit and firm, one would have said he was of too kindly a

mould to be the minister of pain, even if it were saving pain. You

may be sure that some men, even among those who have chosen the task of

pruning their fellow-creatures, grow more and more thoughtful and truly

compassionate in the midst of their cruel experience. They become less

nervous, but more sympathetic. They have a truer sensibility for

others' pain, the more they study pain and disease in the light of

science. I have said this without claiming any special growth in

humanity for myself, though I do hope I grow tenderer in my feelings as

I grow older. At any rate, this was not a time in which professional

habits could keep down certain instincts of older date than these.

This poor little man's appeal to my humanity against the supposed

rapacity of Science, which he feared would have her "specimen," if his

ghost should walk restlessly a thousand years, waiting for his bones to

be laid in the dust, touched my heart. But I felt bound to speak

cheerily.--We won't die yet awhile, if we can help it,--I said,--and

I trust we can help it. But don't be afraid; if I live longest, I will

see that your resting-place is kept sacred till the dandelions and

buttercups blow over you. He seemed to have got his wits together by

this time, and to have a vague consciousness that he might have been

saying more than he meant for anybody's ears.--I have been talking a

little wild, Sir, eh?--he said.--There is a great buzzing in my head

with those drops of yours, and I doubt If my tongue has not been a

little looser than I would have it, Sir. But I don't much want to live.

Sir; that's the truth of the matter; and it does rather please me to

think that fifty years from now nobody will know that the place where I

lie doesn't hold as stout and straight a man as the best of 'em that

stretch out as if they were proud of the room they take. You may get me

well, if you can, Sir, if you think it worth while to try; but I tell

you there has been no time for this many a year when the smell of fresh

earth was not sweeter to me than all the flowers that grow out of it.

There's no anodyne like your good clean gravel, Sir. But if you can

keep me about awhile, and it amuses you to try, you may show your skill

upon me, if you like. There is a pleasure or two that I love the

daylight for, and I think the night is not far off, at best.--I believe

I shall sleep now; you may leave me, and come, if you like, in the

morning. Before I passed out, I took one more glance round the

apartment. The beautiful face of the portrait looked at me, as

portraits often do, with a frightful kind of intelligence in its eyes.

The drapery fluttered on the still outstretched arm of the tall object

near the window;--a crack of this was open, no doubt, and some breath

of wind stirred the hanging folds. In my excited state, I seemed to see

something ominous in that arm pointing to the heavens. I thought of the

figures in the Dance of Death at Basle, and that other on the panels of

the covered Bridge at Lucerne; and it seemed to me that the grim mask

who mingles with every crowd and glides over every threshold was

pointing the sick man to his far home, and would soon stretch out his

bony hand and lead him or drag him on the unmeasured journey towards

it. The fancy had possession of me, and I shivered again as when I

first entered the chamber. The picture and the shrouded shape; I saw

only these two objects. They were enough. The house was deadly still,

and the night-wind, blowing through an open window, struck me as from a

field of ice, at the moment I passed into the creaking corridor. As I

turned into the common passage, a white figure, holding a lamp, stood

full before me. I thought at first it was one of those images made to

stand in niches and hold a light in their hands. But the illusion was

momentary, and my eyes speedily recovered from the shock of the bright

flame and snowy drapery to see that the figure was a breathing one. It

was Iris, in one of her statue-trances. She had come down, whether

sleeping or waking, I knew not at first, led by an instinct that told

her she was wanted,--or, possibly, having overheard and interpreted the

sound of our movements,--or, it may be, having learned from the servant

that there was trouble which might ask for a woman's hand. I sometimes

think women have a sixth sense, which tells them that others, whom they

cannot see or hear, are in suffering. How surely we find them at the

bedside of the dying! How strongly does Nature plead for them, that we

should draw our first breath in their arms, as we sigh away our last

upon their faithful breasts!

With white, bare feet, her hair loosely knotted, dressed as the

starlight knew her, and the morning when she rose from slumber, save

that she had twisted a scarf round her long dress, she stood still as a

stone before me, holding in one hand a lighted coil of wax-taper, and

in the other a silver goblet. I held my own lamp close to her, as if

she had been a figure of marble, and she did not stir. There was no

breach of propriety then, to scare the Poor Relation with and breed

scandal out of. She had been "warned in a dream," doubtless suggested

by her waking knowledge and the sounds which had reached her exalted

sense. There was nothing more natural than that she should have risen

and girdled her waist, and lighted her taper, and found the silver

goblet with "_Ex dono pupillorum_" on it, from which she had taken her

milk and possets through all her childish years, and so gone blindly

out to find her place at the bedside,--a Sister of Charity without the

cap and rosary; nay, unknowing whither her feet were leading her, and

with wide, blank eyes seeing nothing but the vision that beckoned her

along.--Well, I must wake her from her slumber or trance. I called her

name, but she did not heed my voice.

The Devil put it into my head that I would kiss one handsome young girl

before I died, and now was my chance. She never would know it, and I

should carry the remembrance of it with me into the grave, and a rose

perhaps grow out of my dust, as out of Lord Lovel's, in memory of that

immortal moment! Would it wake her from her trance? and would she see

me in the flush of my stolen triumph, and hate and despise me ever

after? Or should I carry off my trophy undetected, and always from that

time say to myself, when I looked upon her in the glory of youth and

the splendor of beauty, "My lips have touched those roses and made

their sweetness mine forever"? You think my cheek was flushed, perhaps,

and my eyes were glittering with this midnight flash of opportunity. On

the contrary, I believe I was pale, very pale, and I know that I

trembled. Ah, it is the pale passions that are the fiercest,--it is the

violence of the chill that gives the measure of the fever! The

fighting-boy of our school always turned white when he went out to a

pitched battle with the bully of some neighboring village; but we knew

what his bloodless cheeks meant,--the blood was all in his stout

heart,--he was a slight boy, and there was not enough to redden his

face and fill his heart both at once.

Perhaps it is making a good deal of a slight matter, to tell the

internal conflicts in the heart of a quiet person something more than

juvenile and something less than senile, as to whether he should be

guilty of an impropriety, and, if he were, whether he would get caught

in his indiscretion. And yet the memory of the kiss that Margaret of

Scotland gave to Alain Chartier has lasted four hundred years, and put

it into the head of many an ill-favored poet, whether Victoria or

Eugénie would do as much by him, if she happened to pass him when he

was asleep. And have we ever forgotten that the fresh cheek of the

young John Milton tingled under the lips of some high-born Italian

beauty, who, I believe, did not think to leave her card by the side of

the slumbering youth, but has bequeathed the memory of her pretty deed

to all coming time? The sound of a kiss is not so loud as that of a

cannon, but its echo lasts a deal longer.

There is one disadvantage which the man of philosophical habits of mind

suffers, as compared with the man of action. While he is taking an

enlarged and rational view of the matter before him, he lets his chance

slip through his fingers. Iris woke up, of her own accord, before I had

made up my mind what I was going to do about it.

When I remember how charmingly she looked, I don't blame myself at all

for being tempted; but if I had been fool enough to yield to the

impulse, I should certainly have been ashamed to tell of it. She did

not know what to make of it, finding herself there alone, in such

guise, and me staring at her. She looked down at her white robe and

bare feet, and colored,--then at the goblet she held in her hand,--then

at the taper; and at last her thoughts seemed to clear up.

I know it all,--she said.--He is going to die, and I must go and sit by

him. Nobody will care for him as I shall, and I have nobody else to

care for.

I assured her that nothing was needed for him that night but rest, and

persuaded her that the excitement of her presence could only do harm.

Let him sleep, and he would very probably awake better in the morning.

There was nothing to be said, for I spoke with authority; and the young

girl glided away with noiseless step and sought her own chamber.

The tremor passed away from my limbs, and the blood began to burn in my

cheeks. The beautiful image which had so bewitched me faded gradually

from my imagination, and I returned to the still perplexing mysteries

of my little neighbor's chamber. All was still there now. No plaintive

sounds, no monotonous murmurs, no shutting of windows and doors at

strange hours, as if something or somebody were coming in or going out,

or there was something to be hidden in those dark mahogany presses. Is

there an inner apartment that I have not seen? The way in which the

house is built might admit of it. As I thought it over, I at once

imagined a Bluebeard's chamber. Suppose, for instance, that the narrow

bookshelves to the right are really only a masked door, such as we

remember leading to the private study of one of our most distinguished

townsmen, who loved to steal away from his stately library to that

little silent cell. If this were lighted from above, a person or

persons might pass their days there without attracting attention from

the household, and wander where they pleased at night,--to Copp's-Hill

burial-ground, if they liked,--I said to myself, laughing, and pulling

the bed-clothes over my head. There is no logic in superstitious

fancies any more than in dreams. A she-ghost wouldn't want an inner

chamber to herself. A live woman, with a valuable soprano voice,

wouldn't start off at night to sprain her ankles over the old graves of

the North-End cemetery.

It is all very easy for you, middle-aged reader, sitting over this page

in the broad daylight, to call me by all manner of asinine and anserine

unchristian names, because I had these fancies running through my head.

I don't care much for your abuse. The question is not, what it is

reasonable for a man to think about, but what he actually does think

about, in the dark, and when he is alone, and his whole body seems but

one great nerve of hearing, and he sees the phosphorescent flashes of

his own eyeballs as they turn suddenly in the direction of the last

strange noise,--what he actually does think about, as he lies and

recalls all the wild stories his head is full of, his fancy hinting the

most alarming conjectures to account for the simplest facts about him,

his common-sense laughing them to scorn the next minute, but his mind

still returning to them, under one shape or another, until he gets very

nervous and foolish, and remembers how pleasant it used to be to have

his mother come and tuck him up and go and sit within call, so that she

could hear him at any minute, if he got very much scared and wanted

her. Old babies that we are!

Daylight will clear up all that lamplight has left doubtful. I longed

for the morning to come, for I was more curious than ever. So, between

my fancies and anticipations, I had but a poor night of it, and came

down tired to the breakfast-table. My visit was not to be made until

after this morning hour;--there was nothing urgent, so the servant was

ordered to tell me.

It was the first breakfast at which the high chair at the side of Iris

had been unoccupied.--You might jest as well take away that

chair,--said our landlady,--he'll never want it again. He acts like a

man that's struck with death, 'n' I don't believe he'll ever come out

of his chamber till he's laid out and brought down a corpse.--These

good women do put things so plainly! There were two or three words in

her short remark that always sober people, and suggest silence or brief

moral reflections.

----Life is dreadful uncerting,--said the Poor Relation,--and pulled in

her social tentacles to concentrate her thoughts on this fact of human

history.

----If there was anything a fellah could do,--said the young man John,

so called,--a fellah'd like the chance o' helpin' a little cripple like

that. He looks as if he couldn't turn over any handier than a turtle

that's laid on his back; and I guess there a'n't many people that know

how to lift better than I do. Ask him if he don't want any watchers. I

don't mind settin' up any more 'n' a cat-owl. I was up all night twice

last month.

[My private opinion is, that there was no small amount of punch

absorbed on those two occasions, which I think I heard of at the

time;--but the offer is a kind one, and it isn't fair to question how

he would like sitting up without the punch and the company and the

songs and smoking. He means what he says, and it would be a more

considerable achievement for him to sit quietly all night by a sick man

than for a good many other people. I tell you this odd thing: there are

a good many persons, who, through the habit of making other folks

uncomfortable, by finding fault with all their cheerful enjoyments, at

last get up a kind of hostility to comfort in general, even in their

own persons. The correlative to loving our neighbors as ourselves is

hating ourselves as we hate our neighbors. Look at old misers; first

they starve their dependants, and then themselves. So I think it more

for a lively young fellow to be ready to play nurse than for one of

those useful but forlorn martyrs who have taken a spite against

themselves and love to gratify it by fasting and watching.]

----The time came at last for me to make my visit. I found Iris sitting

by the Little Gentleman's pillow. To my disappointment, the room was

darkened. He did not like the light, and would have the shutters kept

nearly closed. It was good enough for me;--what business had I to be

indulging my curiosity, when I had nothing to do but to exercise such

skill as I possessed for the benefit of my patient? There was not much

to be said or done in such a case; but I spoke as encouragingly as I

could, as I think we are always bound to do. He did not seem to pay any

very anxious attention, but the poor girl listened as if her own life

and more than her own life were depending on the words I uttered. She

followed me out of the room, when I had got through my visit.

How long?--she said.

Uncertain. Anytime; to-day,--next week,--next month,--I answered.--One

of those cases where the issue is not doubtful, but may be sudden or

slow.

The women of the house were kind, as women always are in trouble. But

Iris pretended that nobody could spare the time as well as she, and

kept her place, hour after hour, until the landlady insisted that she'd

be killin' herself; if she begun at that rate, and haf to give up, if

she didn't want to be clean beat out in less than a week.

At the table we were graver than common. The high chair was set back

against the wall, and a gap left between that of the young girl and her

nearest neighbor's on the right. But the nest morning, to our great

surprise, that good-looking young Marylander had very quietly moved his

own chair to the vacant place. I thought he was creeping down that way,

but I was not prepared for a leap spanning such a tremendous

parenthesis of boarders as this change of position included. There was

no denying that the youth and maiden were a handsome pair, as they sat

side by side. But whatever the young girl may have thought of her new

neighbor, she never seemed for a moment to forget the poor little

friend who had been taken from her side. There are women, and even

girls, with whom it is of no use to talk. One might as well reason with

a bee as to the form of his cell, or with an oriole as to the

construction of his swinging nest, as try to stir these creatures from

their own way of doing their own work. It was not a question with Iris,

whether she was entitled by any special relation or by the fitness of

things to play the part of a nurse. She was a wilful creature that must

have her way in this matter. And it so proved that it called for much

patience and long endurance to carry through the duties, say rather the

kind offices, the painful pleasures, that she had chosen as her share

in the household where accident had thrown her. She had that genius of

ministration which is the special province of certain women, marked

even among their helpful sisters by a soft, low voice, a quiet

footfall, a light hand, a cheering smile, and a ready self-surrender to

the objects of their care, which such trifles as their own food, sleep,

or habits of any kind never presume to interfere with.

Day after day, and too often through the long watches of the night, she

kept her place by the pillow.--That girl will kill herself over me,

Sir,--said the poor Little Gentleman to me, one day,--she will kill

herself, Sir, if you don't call in all the resources of your art to get

me off as soon as may be. I shall wear her out, Sir, with sitting in

this close chamber and watching when she ought to be sleeping, if you

leave me to the care of Nature without dosing me.

This was rather queer pleasantly, under the circumstances. But there

are certain persons whose existence is so out of parallel with the

larger laws in the midst of which it is moving, that life becomes to

them as death and death as life.--How am I getting along?--he said,

another morning. He lifted his shrivelled hand, with the death's-head

ring on it, and looked at it with a sad sort of complacency. By this

one movement, which I have seen repeatedly of late, I know that his

thoughts have gone before to another condition, and that he is, as it

were, looking back on the infirmities of the body as accidents of the

past. For, when he was well, one might see him often looking at the

handsome hand with the flaming jewel on one of its fingers. The single

well-shaped limb was the source of that pleasure which in some form or

other Nature almost always grants to her least richly endowed children.

Handsome hair, eyes, complexion, feature, form, hand, foot, pleasant

voice, strength, grace, agility, intelligence,--how few there are that

have not just enough of one at least of these gifts to show them that

the good Mother, busy with her millions of children, has not quite

forgotten them! But now he was thinking of that other state, where,

free from all mortal impediments, the memory of his sorrowful burden

should be only as that of the case he has shed to the insect whose

"deep-damasked wings" beat off the golden dust of the lily-anthers, as

he flutters in the ecstasy of his new life over their full-blown summer

glories.