Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 5, November 1841
Author: Various
Language: English
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5, NOVEMBER 1841 ***
                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
               Vol. XIX.      November, 1841.      No. 5.


                                Contents

                   Fiction, Literature and Articles

          The Ghost of Chew’s Wall
          The Rowsevillers.—No. II
          The Reefer of ’76
          The Interesting Stranger
          Shakspeare.—No. III
          Wiccónsat
          The Moonlight Flitting
          A Chapter on Autography
          The King’s Bride
          Indian Traditions.—No. II
          Sports and Pastimes.—The Fowling-Piece
          Review of New Books

                       Poetry, Music and Fashion

          The Pet Lamb
          Flight of the Birds
          Il Serenado di Venice
          Ephemera
          With Thee
          Sonnets
          I Never Have Been False to Thee
          Merry England
          Marriage
          Never Shall My Heart Forget Thee!
          Latest Fashions, November 1841

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

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: Eng. by H. S. Sadd, N.Y., _The Pet Lamb_ _Engraved
expressly for Graham’s Magazine_]



[Illustration]

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

          Vol. XIX.    PHILADELPHIA: NOVEMBER, 1841.    No. 5.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             THE PET LAMB.


                        BY ALEXANDER A. IRVINE.


    I saw her in her artlessness
      All innocent and free,
    And playfully a favored lamb
      She fondled on her knee—
    She seemed a vision of a dream,
      A glory passing bright,
    A being clothed in loveliness
      As angels are in light!

    Her tresses sported round about
      Her snowy brow divine,
    As flowers of the daffodil
      Embrace a virgin shrine,—
    Such purity was nestled there,
      A Sybil’s it might be,
    Forever beaming placidly
      As starlight down at sea!

    Her smile it had a witchery
      To mortal ones unknown,
    A language in its mirthfulness
      Beyond a seraph’s tone:
    It was as if the soul had come
      From out its deep recess
    And chose a dwelling in her eyes,
      So pure their loveliness!

    And softly on her pearly cheek
      The dewy lashes lay;
    Her lips were parted temptingly
      To woo the breeze to stay;
    Her snowy neck all droopingly
      Defied the lily’s grace;
    Her dimpled mouth—I dreamt of heav’n
      In gazing on that face!

    She fondled artlessly her pet;
      She raised his tiny feet;
    And toyed the garland on his neck;
      And soothed him, when he bleat,
    So sweetly that I might not hear
      Unmoved that silver tone,
    But longed to leave my hiding place
      And woo her for my own.

    A shot re-echoed through the wood,
      I saw the smoky wreath—
    The lamb was bleeding in her lap
      The glancing ball beneath—
    I sprang and raised the sufferer
      And staunched the ebbing tide,
    And carefully I bound the wound,
      And sat me by her side.

    I quieted her quick alarm,
      I gently soothed her fears,
    And o’er the dying favorite
      We mingled tears with tears:
    I shared her grief, and calmed her woe,
      And blamed the sportsman rude—
    She raised her swimming eyes to mine
      And smiled her gratitude.

    She faintly smiled and dropped her gaze,
      Her passive hand I took,
    No word was spoke, we only heard
      The murmur of the brook;
    Her gaze was on the murdered lamb,
      Her heart was strangely moved—
    She sighed, and oh! the loss she felt,
      The void where once she loved.

    Again I soothed her maiden grief,
      And sighed whene’er she sighed,
    And with such winning sympathy
      Her starting tears I dried,—
    And when she ceased I sighed myself,
      And she besought to know
    All artlessly and innocent
      The secret of my woe.

    I told her it was all herself,
      That I had paused to gaze,
    And that her witching loveliness
      Would sadden all my days;
    And then I sighed, and looked away,
      And told her how I grieved,
    Not for myself, but for the pang
      Her gentle heart received.

    I asked her but to pity me,
      And told my grief to part—
    Her fingers trembled, and I heard
      The beating of her heart,
    And all dissolved in sympathy
      She yielded to my side—
    Was ever virgin love as thine?
      My Rosalie, my bride!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                       THE GHOST OF CHEW’S WALL;


                        A LEGEND OF GERMANTOWN.


                          BY OLIVER OLDFELLOW.


When a man becomes so far lost to a sense of self-importance, as not
only to tell, but actually to _write stories_,—thus recording his
turpitude in black and white—it is not to be presumed that slight
consequences will deter him from his purpose. Indeed, it is rather to be
supposed that he has made up his mind to despise public opinion, and to
brave all indignation. His hand is sure to follow as his pen may lead,
and whatever he may _resolve_, when the story is written, it is, somehow
or other, sure to find its way into print. The best motives of a writer
may therefore be mistaken, or his strongest resolves puffed to the winds
by a single breath, so that it may well be supposed in what a
predicament we were, when we found our best intentions frustrated, and
had to encounter the wrath and tobacco smoke of our German neighbors,
and were obliged to write this apologetic introduction, and all through
a villanous blunder of our greedy devil.

The facts are these. We sat down, a few evenings since, after enjoying a
comfortable cup of pure Java,—which we still continue to enjoy,
notwithstanding the anathemas of a fellow with a villanous name, of
“bran bread” repute,—to commit to paper a few notes of a conversation
which we had with a relative long since. Having unluckily fallen into a
doze, our devil, who had been going about for more than an hour roaring
for copy, took a peep into the sanctum, and, seeing how matters stood,
slipt off the following article, “in the crack o’ a thumb,” by way of
filling up an odd form, which, in an unlucky fit of liberality, we had
resolved to squeeze into the present number. It may well be supposed
that, before we had fairly rubbed our eyes open, the _matter_ was blown
to the world, and a whole avalanche of country cousins, who hail from
Germantown, were down upon us. Of course we said at once that the
article was not ours, as no man can be expected to acknowledge his guilt
until it is proved upon him. This, however, did not satisfy them,
although they professed to have no difficulty in believing it, for they
continued to smoke their pipes with such fury, and swore so stoutly in
real jaw-breaking Dutch—for every mother’s son is German, even to the
cut of his pantaloons—that we were glad to get off upon the condition
of making a handsome apology, which we think we have now fully done.

Among the many delightful villages in Pennsylvania, which owe their
origin to German settlers, and maintain, amid surrounding improvements,
the unchanged marks of ancestry, there is none more prominent than
Germantown. It is but half an hour’s drive from Philadelphia, extending
along the main road for more than two miles, with, for the most part,
old-fashioned stone houses, which date prior to the revolution,
sprinkled plenteously on both sides of the road, forming a village of
most unconscionable length, but—like the pockets of most dandies of the
present day—with no depth or body to support its extensive pretensions.
It is famous in history, as being the ground of a battle during the
struggle for independence, in which victory, though for a time doubtful,
declared for the enemy, in consequence of the incompetency of an
American officer. The present inhabitants are mostly the descendants of
German families—true sprigs of the old branches, imitating most of the
virtues of their forefathers, indulging in no luxuries, pursuing a rigid
economy, and clinging with an unyielding regard to the money bequeathed
them. Nor is this regard in any degree weakened by the devices of those
who have recently settled in the village, and who vainly hope by
improving their houses, fitting up their grounds, and clipping and
beautifying their shrubbery, to induce an imitation of their example.
The old-roof tree stands, as it stood half a century ago, and the very
stones of the building, from between which the mortar has in many cases
long since dropped, grin defiance on the passer by, who dares to harbor
a thought of improvement or repair. The owner is content to _live_ as
his ancestors lived, but would like to _die_ a little richer. The
patrimony, amassed by the hand of unceasing toil, is religiously
bequeathed from sire to son, together with the peculiar habits of
thought and the superstitious sentiments of an age gone by. In many
cases no education has been suffered to weaken or invade, and in others
has been so slight as only to harmonize the mind with the general
character of the place, which at best seems to belong more to a past
generation than to the present. From these causes, things which better
tutored minds scout with scorn, in the one case, are held as true as
matters of religious belief, and in the other are only doubted, not
disbelieved. In fact so thoroughly does superstition, and the gross
follies which an intercourse with the world and education always dispel,
prevail, that many of the inhabitants can tell you to a nicety when
there will be a change of weather, by the belligerent attitude in which
the moon turns up her horns when she grows restive, and that there will
be company when the cat licks her paws, when a fork sticks up in the
floor, or when the old cock brushes up his feathers and crows in the
door-way. There are others who go still deeper into mysteries of this
sort, and can predict to you a birth, a marriage, or a death, by the
kinks in a cow’s tail; but as they are entirely beyond our depth, and
seem to have this knowledge all to themselves, it may be well not to
disturb them in their profound wisdom. Nevertheless, let no young man,
who values the affections of any fair Dutch damsel in Germantown,
venture to present her with a pair of scissors, unless he wishes to
_cut_ the sentimental cord that binds her to him. Thus much we feel in
duty bound to record as a warning to young gentlemen, as many a man has
lost the confidence and affections of his lady love in consequence of
less matters than a pair of scissors.

It might be expected that a village so contiguous to a great city, would
soon lose these distinctive marks of character, and that the
extravagance, follies and vices of the metropolis would be generally
imitated. Not so, however. With very little exception, the place is as
entirely distinct as if it were miles in the interior. The moral mantle
of Germanism seems to hang like a cloud over the place, and, blended
with the superstition of the portion of inhabitants spoken of, there is
a high-toned morality so imbedded in the hearts of the people, that
honesty and a strict regard to truth, next to making money and keeping
it, may be considered the great texts by which they live.

It will easily be understood that among a people thus constituted, a
_ghost_ has but to be _seen_ by one of their number, and his appearance
announced, to be generally dreaded. If he has been _seen_, there is an
end of all doubting, and the only thing thereafter to be done, is to
keep out of his way. There will be no use, in such a case, to multiply
arguments about him, but every man must take care of himself. And, what
may seem a little singular, a good sound-minded, rational apparition
will, in all cases, most delight to visit a people who pay him so much
deference; taking especial care to show himself off frequently, and in
all manner of ways, that there may be no doubt that he does exist in one
shape or another, and having established the matter to his own
satisfaction, that it is better to range the upper world, where he can
be _seen_, than to dwell below in the dark, damp ground of the tomb,
where he cannot be seen, where his very existence may be doubted, and
where, at the best, the quarters are most uncomfortably chilly,—we say
a sane ghost, under such circumstances, would naturally grow
familiar—or rather _attempt_ to—and having sought out and established
himself in comfortable quarters, and having enjoyed an oblivious nap
during the day, would seek to regale himself in the evening, after his
own will and pleasure, by little trips by moonlight, over the fields,
around the old barns, and especially on the tops of the _stone
fences_—if any there be—of the neighborhood. A ghost certainly has the
right, if any _body_ has, of doing pretty much as he pleases, and of
keeping out of the dust and gravel of a country side-walk, and of
cutting up his antics, by way of recreation, on the top of a stone wall.
At least these were the sentiments entertained by the ghost in question,
and he took the liberty—unlike most politicians—of acting them out
without regard to consequences.

One morning, early in November, 18—, the inhabitants of the goodly
village of Germantown were thrown into great consternation and dismay,
by the important intelligence that a ghost had been seen the previous
evening, perched upon Chew’s wall, dressed in white, and rattling a
heavy chain, which some maintained he had been hung in, in consequence
of some great crime. Some said that it was only a log-chain, which he
intended to use, after his own fashion, on the first man he got in his
clutches, while others, with a great show of reason, maintained that the
chain was fastened around _his own ankle_, and that he was no less a
_personage_ than the ghost of the dead soldier who had deserted from the
British during the revolution, and was accidentally shot during the
battle of Germantown, while a prisoner in a baggage-wagon, _as had been
said_, but who, it was very likely, had been murdered during the heat of
the fray, by some enemy in his own ranks—a rival in love, perhaps, or
an heir to some estate, who wished him out of the way. Be all this as it
may, the ghost had been _seen_ upon the wall, and he had a chain about
him in some way, and some unheard of atrocity might confidently be
looked for. The greatest mystery of the affair was that as soon as the
rumor got on the wind, the man who had seen him was no where to be
found, nor could any body tell who he was. Somebody _had_ seen him,
however, and that was enough, and any inhabitant of Germantown would as
soon have doubted the existence of sour-krout—a belief of which
substantial proof was given daily—as to have felt the least incredulity
in regard to the ghost.

Of course all the inhabitants put on the gravest looks possible, and
kept a sharp look-out, but still nearly a week passed and no tidings of
a renewal of the visit of his ghostship occurred. Sunday morning came,
and the matter was duly canvassed before the church door, prior to the
arrival of the minister. A great many solemn shakes of the head and
knowing winks were given on the subject. It was formally resolved that
fires had better be kept burning in all the ovens for a fortnight,
though it was pretty generally agreed that the ghost had been taken
unawares, and that, whatever his business to that place might be, by
keeping off the wall for a week, it was a pretty good sign that he did
not want to show himself, and therefore he would be more cautious in
future.

The ghost, notwithstanding all these sage conclusions, resolved to have
his own way in the matter, and accordingly made his appearance _that
very evening_—not in white, nor in the form of a man, but in _black_,
and running on all fours, like a hyena, on the top of the wall, and even
proceeded so far as to throttle a very inoffensive person, and one who
never could have had any thing to do with the murder—if indeed the
apparition was the ghost of the murdered soldier. The facts of this
encounter are these.

Christopher Burger (such was the name of the person throttled) or
“_Stoffel_ Burger,” as his German friends delighted to dub him in
abbreviation, was a stout, square-built young fellow, of about
twenty-two, who could do his day’s work, and dance the whole night
through in the bargain, without thinking of fatigue. He had fallen in
love, at a quilting party, with Miss Susan Hanz, a blooming Dutch damsel
of seventeen summers; and, like a straight-forward business-like German,
as he was, he resolved to make her his wife. She was, in fact, just the
girl to inspire Christopher with the sentimental. Short, thick, and as
elegantly shaped as a churn, with a full, round, saucy face, lighted up
with a pair of brilliant black eyes, and with a foot, which, if it was
_not_ one of the smallest, could go through “a straight four,” or, for
that matter, if occasion required it, a regular “hoe down,” with a grace
that actually made Christopher’s heart leap, as if it was going to jump
out of his mouth. Nor were these her only claims to regard. The fair
Susan was an only child, and her father had the reputation of possessing
more than one stocking full of _the real currency_, carefully stowed
away in the large walnut chest under the bed. Two or three broad farms
also claimed ’Squire Hanz as owner, and spread themselves out very
temptingly before the eager eyes of “Stoffel.” And then, what a hand at
baking hot cakes!—his mouth actually watered at the thought. Added to
all this, he well knew that if he succeeded in winning the heart of the
fair Susan, no obstacle would be placed in the way of his happiness by
the ’Squire. In this matter the ’Squire was exceedingly liberal; he
imposed but one condition upon his daughter in relation to the man of
her choice, and that was, that “he must be of a good German family.” To
“_Stoffel_” there could be no objection on this score. His very name
carried the recommendation with it. Moreover, the ’Squire had never had
brother or sister, and therefore there were no rascally cousins to be
mining the fortress in his absence. Had there been any, with stout
purses in their fists, the matter would not have been quite so positive;
for, as an _arrangement of convenience_, and to _keep the money_ from
the hands of _grasping strangers_, every man in the village of which we
write made it a point to marry his cousin—_if he could get her_—and,
if the truth must be told, the strong voice of parental command was
seldom wanting to strengthen his suit.

Let it not be supposed, however, that a lady with such substantial
claims had never been besieged with lovers. Such _had been_ the case.
But “Stoffel” having so far outstripped his rivals as to attain the
honor of _smoking a pipe alone_ with the ’Squire a few Sunday evenings
previous to the time of which we write, the business was looked on as
settled, and the whole bevy of Dutch beaux were off in the twinkling of
an eye, like a flock of partridges when they have been shot at.

Christopher, thus having “a fair field and _all_ the favor,” was not the
man to neglect the advantage; so that, on the Sunday night in question,
if an inquisitive eye had been placed at the key-hole of the ’Squire’s
parlor door, he might have been _seen_, or _heard_, actually (we hope
the ladies will skip this passage)—we say he might have been _seen_
kissing Susan _in the dark_. Atrocious as this conduct was, however, on
the part of “Stoffel,” we are bound, in recording a true narrative, to
say that the lady was not to be frightened at trifles; so, instead of
screaming out, and thus rousing the ’Squire and his blunderbuss, she
took the matter coolly, and, resolving not to be outdone in civilities,
gave him as good as he sent, and, throwing her arms around his neck,
_kissed him_!! These, of course, are little attentions, on the part of
lovers, which should not be wantonly, and without purpose, revealed to
“the cold and heartless world,” and we only mention them to show that
Christopher was a fellow with a pretty stout heart, and thus prepare our
readers for the horrible outrage upon a brave man we are about to
record. And considering, too, that all our lady readers have skipped the
last passage, and are waiting breathlessly, we proceed.

It was now past twelve o’clock—we are ashamed to record it—for
Christopher, whatever wrong he committed in _going_ to the ’Squire’s
every Sunday evening, when he _returned_, his conscience, on that score,
was generally clear enough, as it was Sabbath no longer. We say it was
past twelve, and Christopher set out for home. He had feasted on the
best the ’Squire’s cellar afforded, and had made way with more than one
mug of his best cider. The parting scene, on the part of Christopher,
had been unusually tender. He was naturally an ardent lover, and the
cider by no means decreased the strength of his attachment. He had used
every argument to bring Susan to the point of acceptance—still she was
coy. Yet Christopher was a man of discernment, and thought that a lady
who would throw her arms around his neck and kiss him in the dark,
(bless us! what will the ladies say to this?) could have no serious
objection to him at bottom, and so, on the whole, he was in a very
pleasant mood with himself, and with all _mankind_ and _womankind_ in
the bargain, as gentlemen usually are when the lady has been kind, and
the parting kiss has been freely given. He felt unusually _happy_, and
could not restrain the kind feelings which bubbled up to his very lips
and found vent in snatches of songs. He was rapidly approaching the
wall—still he thought nothing of ghosts or hob-goblins, but was
ruminating very intently upon the charms of the _substantial_ little
Dutch beauty, and was going over in his mind, very pleasantly, her
qualifications to make him a happy man. He might be said to be in that
state, when a man is walking yet dreaming. He was picturing a neat stone
house, with every _useful_ article of furniture bought and paid for, and
with a horse and cow that he could call his own. Milk punch, too,
naturally enough popped into his head, and then out again, to make room
for thoughts of hot cakes swimming in butter. His song, however, still
went on, as the music was not so difficult of execution as to require
much thought in its performance—when the conclusion of a stanza seemed
suddenly to have been frozen on his lips, and he started back with the
ejaculation—

“Mine Got! vat ish dat? der spooke—der divel!”

The cause of his alarm the reader will understand, and so did “Stoffel.”
He had heard it rumored that a ghost in white had been seen airing
himself upon Chew’s wall, and he was not the man to scoff at rumor, and,
even if he had been, there was the identical thing before him, slightly
changed in appearance, it is true, not in white, nor sitting erect, but
in black, running along the wall towards him, like a hyena or a bear;
and, sure enough, as if to establish his character beyond the
possibility of a doubt, _rattling his chain_ with a clangor truly
appalling.

In any other situation Christopher, perhaps, would have run, but in the
present instance his limbs refused to do their work, his knees knocked
together, his teeth set to chattering, and he seemed rooted to the spot.
Nor can it be supposed that he was a coward, as we think the contrary
has been clearly demonstrated in his valiant exploits in courting. The
ghost, however, as if to settle the difficulty, to clear all doubt in
the mind of Christopher, and to prevent any more profane exclamations,
coolly descended from the wall, and before he knew where he was, knocked
him down “with one blow of his _tail_,” as was afterwards affirmed.

“So,” said the ghost, “your time has come to die!”

“Mine Got, nay—I be’s—so young—and pin—tink—to git—marry,”
chattered the horror-stricken Dutchman.

“You are going to get married; ha! who do you think will have you?”

“’Squire—Hanz—Sus, me tinks.”

“When you marry her you will be a dead man,” said the ghost in a hollow,
sepulchral voice, “and unless you stay away from ’Squire Hanz’s two
months from this time, remember I have warned you! you are a dead man!
Beware!” and having released his throat from a loving squeeze, vanished,
as Christopher asserted, “in de ground.”

When he arose, his brain whirled, and his memory was confused; the sun
was just peeping over the hills, and a group of astonished neighbours
were around him. Christopher told his story, and related the adventure
exactly as it had occurred, excepting what related to Susan, that he
kept close in his own bosom—why? we cannot say. Some believed him, but
others, of the most knowing, shook their heads—guessed he had drank too
freely of the ’Squire’s cider, and wondered how he knew “the ghost
vanished in the ground when he was lying on his face in the dirt.”

Christopher asserted, and swore Dutch to substantiate it, that he “had
been _choked on the back of his neck_ until he saw stars,” and that
after _that_ the ghost disappeared, and he knew nothing more of the
matter until he found the mob around him.

This was conclusive! And as the contagion spread, it was ascertained
that the ghost had been exceedingly obliging, and had appeared in a
variety of forms and costumes “to suit customers.” A stout troop of good
wives roundly asserted that he had crossed the road in the form of a
white calf, as they were proceeding to meeting, and that when they
screamed out he disappeared. One had seen him in the habit of an old
woman, dangling a great bunch of keys at her girdle, but it was plain he
was no old woman at all from the whisker on one side of his face, which
proved him to be the dead soldier. Moreover, he kept rattling the keys
with tremendous fury, and held up his forefinger significantly; as much
as to say “if you disturb me I’ll knock you down.”

Another averred that as she was walking along, she heard a terrible
flapping of wings, and looking up she saw, what at first appeared to be
a flock of wild-geese, but they quickly changed into boys, and in an
instant all vanished but one, and he was a man with a long white flowing
robe, with which he took good care to cover his head, so that she could
not see whether he had whiskers or no, and therefore could not say
whether it was the dead soldier or not. In short, nearly all the _old_
women had seen him, or had a ghost story to _tell_, which answered the
same purpose, so that the good Dutchmen shook their heads to no purpose,
for the more they shook them the more confused they became.

The consequence was, that after the existence of the ghost was thus
substantiated, he resolved to confirm the testimony by taking up his
quarters for the winter at once. This he did by establishing himself in
a neat two story brick house, which was formerly located at the place
now called “The Seven Oaks.” Thus having made himself perfectly at home,
and we presume feeling himself so, for no body pretended to disturb him
in his selected quarters, he took his recreations in various ways.
Sometimes he would appear with a winding sheet around him, and a flame
of fire coming out of his mouth, then he would walk inhabited like a
bear, or he might be seen in the form of a dragon with a huge tail. To
vary the entertainments, he would appear with horrible horns on his
head, and a tail like a fish, and would go sweeping over the ground as
if he were gliding in water. He appeared, too, at various places, though
his favorite resort was the top of the stone wall, which he would often
bestride, as if it were a full-blooded charger, and would go whistling
down the wind,—stone wall and all. What rendered this last feat the
more surprising was, that when morning came the wall looked as unmoved
as if nothing had happened, but the ghost was nowhere to be found.

It could not be supposed that things should continue in this state
forever. Accordingly a number of the more aged inhabitants having put
their heads together, it was thought advisable to devise some energetic
measures to relieve themselves of his ghostship. Whereupon every man
stuck his pipe in his mouth, and set to smoking and thinking with great
energy and decision. After due reflection, various measures were
proposed, but none so feasible as that proposed by ’Squire Hany, who
having a pipe about a foot longer than any of the others, came to the
sagest conclusion.

His proposal was in substance, that a meeting be called on the next
evening, and that a committee should be appointed to watch the ghost,
and if possible, to shoot through him with silver bullets; when, it was
affirmed, he would dissolve into thin air at once. And lest the ghost
should be aroused to commit some deed of dire interest, as soon as the
news of these hostile proceedings reached his ears, it was thought
advisable that all the inhabitants should close their doors at sundown,
nail horse shoes over them, and, to save candles if not their necks,
they should go to bed at dark.

A large meeting of the indignant inhabitants, in accordance with this
decision, assembled at “The Green Tree,” when, after calling “Stoffel
Burger” to the chair, the following resolutions, which had been drawn up
with great care and precision for the occasion, were unanimously
adopted:—

[1]“_Resolved_, That a committee of eight be appointed _to shoot the
ghost_.”

“_Resolved_, That Stoffel Burger be chairman of the committee to point
him out, so that the silver bullets be not thrown away, and also, to
save powder, that _nobody shall shoot the ghost till they see him_.”

To the first branch of this resolution Stoffel felt inclined to demur,
and said that as he had already been choked by the ghost, he would
rather not get in his clutches again. The meeting, however, had made up
their minds—as most town meetings generally do—before hand, and would
hear of no excuse. It was therefore further

“_Resolved_, That the meeting defray the expenses of the committee,
provided they follow instructions, and that all the inhabitants be
commanded to nail horse shoes over their doors, so that the ghost may be
shot down without mercy.”

We said the resolutions were unanimously adopted, but there was one
young gentleman who, in the outset, stoutly opposed them, but who,
nevertheless, afterwards gave them his hearty support. He was a good
looking fellow, about five feet ten in height, with a piercing black
eye, a most intelligent face, and a whisker trimmed with such exquisite
taste that every girl of the village would take a peep out of the corner
of her eye and admire them while passing. His tongue, too, was as
slippery as an eel, and he could say the softest and most honied words
in a way that actually put the stout Dutch phrases completely out of
tune. Nevertheless, he spoke German like a book, and no man could exceed
him in driving a bargain, so that, having come from a German settlement
in the east, he went by the name of “The Dutch Yankee.” He never
obtruded his advice in any case, and only suggested in this, “whether
these hostile proceedings might not inflame the anger of the ghost, and
lead to hot work.”

The valor of the meeting, however, was too highly inflamed to listen for
a moment to prudential hints, when they had the iron argument of horse
shoes ready in case of danger, so that after selecting the committee and
charging them to “be true to their country in this sudden and trying
emergency, and to meet promptly the next evening and perform their
duty,” the meeting adjourned.

On the following evening the committee accordingly met at “The Green
Tree,” armed to the teeth, each man having, in addition to his musket
charged with the fatal bullet, a long butcher knife to be ready for
extremities. The host of “The Green Tree” was in excellent spirits, and
the committee resolved at once to be so too if it could be done by dint
of good liquor. So in order to be prepared for the fierce encounter, and
to strengthen his nerves, each man knocked off his half-pint at the
outset. And as the generous inhabitants had agreed to pay expenses,
there could be no harm, so thought both the committee and the host, in
drinking another, and as each felt braver the more he drank, the
experiment was repeated in homœopathic doses until the hour of twelve,
when, we will venture to assert, a stouter hearted set of men never set
out on a perilous expedition.

It is strange, however, how soon the cold wind of a winter night will
unstring the nerves and set the teeth to chattering, for no sooner were
the valiant committee within sight of Chew’s wall, and had been a little
chilled through with the night breeze, than each man was seized with a
tremendous shivering of cold, and each feeling weaker than the other, it
was with great difficulty that they could get on, for want of a leader.
It was stoutly maintained that “Stoffel” should go before, as he was
commissioned by the meeting to point out the ghost. To this Stoffel
agreed, but maintained that he could not show him to the committee,
unless they were with him. It was finally settled that no man should
have the _honor of going alone_, but that they should all march up
abreast, and at the signal given fire a platoon into him. So they set up
at once a terrible yelling, in order that the ghost might see that they
were in earnest and prepare for the consequences.

Whether it was that the ghost heartily despised their bullying mode of
procedure, and determined to show that there was no flinching on his
part, by meeting them more than half way, or that the heads of the
committee were rather giddy with having been confined in the close air
of a bar-room for so many hours, and had thus caused them to
miscalculate distances; certain it was, that before they were aware of
their position, Stoffel espied the ghost and pointed him out at not more
than thirty yards distance. Every man instantly cocked his musket, and
affirmed that it was _moving_, and that owing to the dreadful proximity
of the ghost, every thing else was dancing around them. Accordingly they
instantly poured a dreadful volley into the offender and took to their
heels.

Whether the ghost was hit or not, it was clearly ascertained the next
morning that the committee had succeeded in putting two silver balls
into a great, ugly old post, which had long been a serious annoyance,
and had split the rails of a contiguous fence most shockingly. There
were not wanting those who were severe and uncharitable enough to say
that the committee had got a little drunk, and had fired _at_ the post.
This, however, was deemed a gross slander, and it was unanimously agreed
that if the ghost had stood where the post was, he would have had a ball
through him to a certainty.

As for “Stoffel,” having done this daring deed, nobody caught him
passing the wall for some weeks after, and he gave people pretty clearly
to understand that he did not intend to for some weeks to come. What
tended to confirm the inhabitants in the opinion that the vigilant
committee had extirpated the dreaded visitant, and that there was
nothing like silver bullets and horse shoes to quiet ghosts, whether in
doors or out was, he did not appear on the wall—when, unluckily for our
friend “Stoffel” and his milk punch and hot cakes, “The Dutch Yankee,”
who possessed the true blood, succeeded in winning the heart of the fair
Susan, and actually eloped with the bouncing little Dutch beauty, much
to the amazement of the ’Squire, and the horror of the astounded
“Stoffel,” and actually carried the enormity so far, as to write
“Stoffel” an invitation to the “home-bringing,” a month or so afterward;
coupling the request with a promise that the ghost should not be allowed
to disturb him either in passing or repassing Chew’s wall without due
revenge. “Stoffel” did not like the tone of the invitation, or
considered that his valor in courting and shooting ghosts was
established, so he declined.

That the ghost still held his quarters privately somewhere in the
neighborhood, and enjoyed many a pleasant little trip by moonlight for
his own private gratification after that, was not doubted by the good
people of the village, although he only condescended to show himself to
particular favorites, by _occasional glimpses_ when passing the wall.
Lately, however, he has been more chary of his visits, and it is
supposed that the rail road rather interfered with his calculations, and
that the eternal whizzing of steam and the ringing of bells, rendered
his quarters uncomfortable—particularly since his house has rudely been
pulled down over his head, and a new one erected on the same site,
without regard to his convenience.

There were not wanting people who pretended to laugh at the whole affair
after the elopement and marriage of the fair Susan, and it was
maintained that the Yankee was often seen to twist his face and laugh to
himself, when he was ploughing up the old ’Squire’s ground. Yet nobody
in Germantown, _who had heard the clanking of the chain_, ever ventured
to doubt the existence of the ghost, and if any of our readers are
inclined to disbelieve the story, the horse shoes can yet be seen nailed
over some of the doors, and the bullet _holes_ can yet be shown in the
posts by the road side,—some of the inhabitants having dug the bullets
out with the characteristic reflection, “that it was a pity that good
silver should be thrown away, _even after ghosts_.”

                                                                   G.

-----

[1] Note. This, of course, all occurred before the Germantown Telegraph
was started, or we should refer to the files of that valuable paper for
a full report of the proceedings, and thus save ourselves a vast deal of
trouble in copying a vile, old, dusty, Dutch manuscript.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS.


                         BY MRS. E. C. STEDMAN.


    Speed on! speed on, to your Southern home,
    Ye who ’mid the fleecy clouds may roam!
    The hoarse voice of Winter comes fast on the breeze—
    Its roaring is heard in the tops of the trees,
    And swift as your flight, is the march of Time—
    Away, away, to a milder clime!

    Ye’re wearied with seeking in vain for food,
    ’Mid the leafless boughs of your native wood;
    And here will ye carol your songs no more,
    Till the reign of the winter-king is o’er;
    Till Spring, in new beauty, comes dancing on,
    And ascends flower-crowned to her vernal throne.

    But your voices shall gladden the fairy bowers
    Of the genial South, through these winter hours,
    Where your golden wings may unfettered rove
    Through the flowery dell, and the orange grove;
    Or bathe in the spray of those crystal streams,
    Which forever glide free in the sun’s glad beams.

    Then away! ere hastens cold winter’s night;
    He who watcheth the sparrow, directs your flight:
    We envy your freedom, ye songsters fair!
    And fain would fly, too, from this piercing air;
    But the Power divine, which doth bid you roam,
    Binds us, and our joys, to a Northern home.

    But, thanks to that Power! from the frosts of Grief—
    From the Winter that blighteth Affection’s leaf;
    From the chilling blast of Misfortune’s breath,
    The ransomed _spirit_ may flee at death,
    To a clime where perpetual Summer reigns
    O’er the fadeless flowers of celestial plains.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                       THE ROWSEVILLERS.—No. II.


                        THE CAPTAIN’S COURTSHIP.


The cloth had just been removed, at my second dinner with the club, when
the President called on a Mr. Rowley for a story. He tossed off a
tumbler of Port—to clear the cobwebs, as he said, from his throat—and
began.

“You all know I am a lawyer, and that men who would be witty have a way
of quizzing our profession by saying that we cannot tell a story without
dragging in our craft. I have no objection to the notion of these smart
gentlemen, and shall not even trouble myself to refute them, but go on
with my story.

“When I was a student, just after the close of the late war, I used to
pay occasional visits to Mount Holly, which was even then a passable
county town, and remarkable for its pretty girls, its gay winters, and
the quantity of wine drunk by its bar. There wasn’t a lawyer in the
place who couldn’t carry his two bottles, and as for wit, these
barristers were famed for it from Cape May to Hackensack. But it is not
so much with the Mount Holly bar as with Captain Slashbey, one of the
clients of the wittiest member there, that my story has to do.

“I first met the gallant captain on a hunting excursion into the pines.
He was a portly little gentleman, with a rubicund face, a constant flow
of humor, and an opinion of his own good looks rather singular, I must
say, at forty-five. He had very short legs and a very round person, and
altogether reminded you of a fat pigeon walking upright. He had been in
the service during the war, and at the reduction of the army, finding
himself pretty well in debt, and without a _sous_ in his pockets, had
settled at Squankum, a place in the very heart of the cedar swamps. And
very convenient it was for Slashbey, for, like Galway, in Ireland, a
sheriff’s writ hadn’t been seen there in the memory of man. It was once
attempted to execute a capias there, but the forgemen and squatters rose
in a mass, and though the light horse were ordered out, the arrest had
to be given up. Now the captain was a popular man in Squankum, and
therefore was as safe as in a sanctuary. He thirsted now and then, it is
true, for the good things of civilized life afar off, and would often
make a dash into Mount Holly, like a guerilla, taking care, however, to
retreat before his creditors had wind of his approach. But at length he
grew tired of this life,—I’ll thank you for the bottle—and determined
to extricate himself from it by marrying an heiress; for the captain was
a gallant man, you must know, and, like Will Honeycombe, had a high
notion of his own powers.

“There was a merry little vixen at the county town—a gay witty
black-eyed rogue as ever lived—who was, in the captain’s opinion, the
very pattern for a wife. She would have made an anchorite forswear his
creed, and was besides an heiress to a very pretty fortune. Undaunted by
the crowds of suitors for her hand, Slashbey determined to enter the
lists, nothing doubting, on the faith of certain smiles with which she
always welcomed him, that he would carry off the prize. He began his
preparations like a Napoleon. He bought a new pair of buff cassimeres,
endued a shining blue coat with metal buttons, and ordered a wig from
the most fashionable _perruquier_ in Philadelphia, for unluckily the
captain was as bald as a cannon ball. Thus accoutred, he laid regular
siege to his charmer, dancing her and sleighing her whenever he could
venture out of his cedar swamps without being chased by a bailiff. The
heiress smiled on the captain, her suitors cursed the lucky rival, and
Slashbey spent his time betwixt studying his glass and singing ‘none but
the brave deserve the fair.’

“It was just when he thought he was on the point of success that a grand
ball was given at ——, and the captain, determining to carry his
charmer by assault, forgot his usual prudence and escorted the heiress
in his gig. Never did the little fellow look more gallant. I was at the
ball, and faith! could scarcely keep my eyes off him. His wig was curled
irresistibly, his new coat shone with resplendent lustre, his cassimeres
fit him as a mould does a bullet, and he sported his new buff gloves
with more vanity than a rider does his colors at a race. But, alas! his
glory was destined soon to wane. One of his rivals, whose nose the
captain had valorously pulled, determining on revenge, had informed the
sheriff of Slashbey’s whereabouts, and just as he was leading his
charmer triumphantly to the dance, the myrmidons of justice pounced on
him, and after a desperate struggle he was secured, on the charge of an
assault and battery. But this was not the worst. Before the court opened
the next day, a dozen writs in civil suits had been lodged against his
body. The captain was beside himself. He trembled at the _exposé_ of his
affairs—he trembled for his heiress.

“‘We could laugh this battery out of court,’ he said; ‘but what the
devil can I do with these creditors? I’m a ruined man. And to come just
now, the infernal rascals! Oh, Anna Matilda!’ he exclaimed with a
love-lorn look of his crow-feet eyes, ‘it’s all up with you and your
fortune now. What would the fellows of the tenth say if they heard of
it?’

“‘Cheer up,’ said his attorney laughingly; ‘your case will come up among
the first, and we may yet find a way to get you off. It’s all the result
of envy. These young boys can’t endure that Mars and Apollo should meet
together in your person,’ and the barrister winked wickedly to me, as
Slashbey, marshalled by the sheriff, preceded us into the hall of
justice.

“It was with a rueful countenance that he took his seat in the court.
The room was densely filled with the usual motley assemblage at a county
sessions. Loafers half in rags, and shopmen in the latest cut, portly
farmers with huge mud-stained boots, and drovers carrying heavy loaded
whips, here a sober Quaker with a broad-rimmed beaver, and there a gay
young lawyer with more wit than briefs, long men and short men, fat ones
and lean ones, some with merry round faces, and others with countenances
as sour as crab-apples, officers and loungers, attorneys and clients,
filled up every vacant space outside the bar, whiling away the time
until the appearance of the judge, by speculating on the prospects of a
crop, or discussing the points of a case set down for trial at the term.
At length his honor made his appearance, and, bustling and bowing
through the crowd, assumed the bench, wiped the perspiration from his
rubicund face, coughed with judicial gravity, and ordered the crier to
open the court. That high functionary accordingly started to his feet,
and in a nasal twang mumbled over a formula which no one could hear
distinctly, but which appeared to be a recapitulation of the iniquities
of those in authority generally, and of his honor in particular, as it
ended with a hope that God would save the commonwealth and the honorable
court. After the crier sat down, a very lean man, with a very sharp
nose, and a very squeaking voice, called out ‘John Smith,’ whereupon a
little fat man jumped up and said ‘here;’ but the clerk, without seeming
to notice him, went on and called Joseph Thomson, Zerubabel Thomson,
Joab Johnson, and the Lord knows how many more Thomsons and Johnsons,
all of whom severally jumped up and said ‘here.’ Then, the jury being
empannelled, the case came on, and the attorneys got into towering
passions, and seemed as if they could have eaten each other up, while
the jury smiled and nodded, and their foreman—the little fat
man—stroked his chin and looked extremely wise. After this was gone
through with, there was a general buzz through the room, when suddenly
the judge cried ‘order,’ and then the sheriff cried ‘order,’ and the
sleepy constables and tipstaves opened their eyes and echoed ‘order’
more lustily than either; whereupon his honor turned over one or two big
books bound in white calf,—ah! this is prime Port—consulted his notes
for a moment, and then proceeded to sum up the evidence and charge the
jury.

“The next case was that of Slashbey—and the same formality was gone
through with until about half of the jury had been sworn, when the
attorney-general rose to acquaint the court that the panel was exhausted
and that therefore he prayed a _tales_ from the lookers on. These few
and simple words of the attorney-general acted on the spectators like
the upsetting of a crowded bee-hive. Instantly there was a great rush
towards the door. Drovers and farmers, shopmen and gentlemen, staid
Quakers and burly topers, all started in the race at once, tumbling and
scrambling over each other in their haste to reach the entrance, while
the tipstaves shouted ‘order’ until they were hoarse, and the sheriff
and his deputies sprang to the door in order to close it before the
egress of their prey. It was a moment of general confusion, and Slashbey
was forgotten in the _mêlée_. Even the judge had eyes only for the
scrambling fugitives.

“‘Now,’ said I, nudging Slashbey, who sat by me not far from the
casement; ‘now’s your time—clear the window at a leap—my horse
Thunderer is fastened not twenty yards off—ride like the devil, and
don’t draw rein till you get to Squankum.’

“Slashbey understood my plan as readily and rapidly as I had conceived
it, and, just waiting to see that the coast was clear, he placed his
hands on the sill, and, portly as he was, shot through the open window
like a bomb, unseen by all except his honor, who caught sight of the
fugitive’s coat tails as they disappeared outside.

“‘An escape!’ shouted the judge, starting to his feet; ‘sheriff, your
prisoner. The captain’s off.’

“On the instant the talesmen were forgotten, and sheriff, deputies,
tipstaves and freeholders turned around, with open mouths and curious
eyes. It was a minute or more before the matter could be explained, and
by that time I saw that Slashbey had got mounted. I shouted ‘stop thief’
at this, and sprang out of the window, as if in pursuit, followed by the
sheriff and his constables, tumbling helter-skelter over each other
after me. The officers no sooner caught sight of the fugitive than they
roared lustily to stop him, while the sheriff bawled for the ‘_posse
comitatus_’ like a bull of Bashan. It was no time to respect property,
so I followed the example of the officers, and sprang on the first steed
I came across, eager to see the fun.

“The court house stood nearly at the opposite end of the village, from
that out of which led the road to Squankum, and when I mounted my horse,
Slashbey was scouring down the main street some hundred yards ahead.
Before a minute, however, the sheriff and his pack were in full cry at
the fugitive’s heels, while as many of the spectators as could find
horses and vehicles started off, a few to aid the law, but most to enjoy
the sport. And, by my faith! what a sight it was! Foremost in the chase
gallopped the sheriff, his hat off and his queue flying behind, bawling
himself red in the face by cries of ‘stop thief,’ ‘head him off,’
‘maintain the laws,’ amid the laughter of some and the shouts of others
of the crowd. At every few leaps Slashbey would turn his face ruefully
around to see whether his pursuers gained on him or not—reminding one
of Tam O’Shanter, of blissful memory, when he saw the witches yelling
after him. The captain would never have won the prize at Astley’s for
horsemanship, and now, what betwixt his hurry and affright, he rode like
a frightened monkey at a circus. Gilpin did not create more excitement
in his famous race. The shopmen left their counters, the blacksmith
hurried from his forge, the school children followed the pedagogue to
the window, and the very chanticleers, unwilling to let the hubbub go by
without they partook in it, flapped their wings on the garden fences and
crowed lustily. But with your leave, I’ll pause to fill my glass, for a
man telling a story is like a steam-engine—he can’t get on without he
keeps the fire blazing.

“The race was now at its height. The uproar was tremendous. Up flew the
windows, and out popped the heads. The women shrieked, the pigs
squealed, the men laughed, the boys cheered, and a dozen curs hurried
yelping and snapping at Thunderer’s heels, who, alarmed at the hue and
cry around him, pricked up his ears, snorted, and fairly taking the bit
in his teeth, went off at a frantic pace. You would have died with
laughter had you seen Slashbey then. Holding on to the rein with one
hand, he grasped the mane desperately with the other, and, sticking his
feet up to the heels in the stirrup, he leaned forward until he lay
almost prostrate on the horse’s neck, while the tails of his coat flying
up behind disclosed the fair rotundity beneath, over which his shining
new buff cassimeres were stretched as tight as a drum-head. At every
leap he bounced three feet from the saddle. The shouts of the _posse_ in
his rear increased, while the captain’s rueful looks behind became more
frequent. Some cried ‘murder,’ others bawled ‘stop thief.’ The
perspiration poured down the captain’s cheeks. He gasped for breath.
And, to crown all, as he got opposite his charmer’s dwelling, a puff of
wind swept off his wig—for his hat had been left in the court house in
his hurry—and the envied locks sailing away to the rear amid convulsive
shouts of laughter on the part of the crowd, betrayed the bald pate of
Slashbey glistening like burnished silver in the sun.

“‘Go it, fat ’un, and never mind the scratch,’ roared a ragged
spectator, who was fairly dancing with delight.

“‘Hip—ho—heave ahead there,’ shouted another, shieing a missile at the
fugitive.

“‘Whow—whow—whoa,’ halloed others, running out in front of Thunderer
and waving their arms and hats before his eyes, but scampering hither
and thither as soon as the frightened steed drew near.

[Illustration]

“The captain felt his heart sink within him at this accumulation of
disasters, and he could scarcely summon courage to look up, but he made
a desperate effort, and—oh! shades of the gallant tenth—there was his
mistress at the window pointing to his glossy pate, and laughing until
the tears ran out of her eyes.

“The captain felt that his last hope was gone, and in a moment of
despair would have reined in his horse, but Thunderer took the matter in
his own hands and kept on at a thrashing pace, amid the shouts and
pelting of the crowd. He dashed down the cross-street, clattered over
the bridge, and in a few minutes crossed the brow of the neighboring
hill in a cloud of dust. The motley group in pursuit kept on, but when
Thunderer’s mettle was up there wasn’t his match in the whole county, so
that before long, one after another of the _posse_ drew in, leaving only
the sheriff and his deputies in pursuit. These, too, gave out before
they reached the vicinity of the enchanted land, in other words, the
cedar swamps this side of Squankum.

“The joke clove to the captain’s name closer than a brother. The little
vixen of an heiress had all along been coquetting with “the gallant
warrior,” and now she was the loudest among the laughers at her wigless
beau. She filled up Slashbey’s cup of sorrow by marrying, shortly after,
the gallant whose nose the captain had pulled.

“What branch of the service,” asked a spooney lieutenant from the bottom
of the table, after the laughter had somewhat subsided, “did you say
your friend belonged to?”

“I didn’t particularize,” coolly said the narrator, “but I believe it
was the _flying_ artillery.”

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           THE REEFER OF ’76.


              BY THE “AUTHOR OF CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR.”


                             THE SHIPWRECK.

The arrival of our battered fleet in the Texal, was the signal for a
diplomatic war betwixt the ministers of England, Holland and France. The
result of this encounter of wits, was the secret transfer of the
captured ships to the latter power, and an order from the Prince of
Orange to quit his dominions. Accordingly, Paul Jones, having superseded
Landais in command of the Alliance, put to sea on the 27th of December,
1779, and, after running the gauntlet of the channel fleet, and
approaching near enough to the Downs to examine its force, reached the
roads of Groix on the 10th of February, 1780, in safety. As these things
are matters of history, I briefly pass them over, the more readily
because I did not myself accompany the commodore; for having found a
letter from my captain, lying for me at Holland, requiring my return to
Paris, I seized the first opportunity and started for France within a
fortnight after the capture of the Serapis.

Our run through the straits was pleasant, and we had every prospect of a
speedy voyage until our second day out, when the wind freshened into a
gale, and before night it was blowing, as the old tars had it, “great
guns and marlinspikes.” Every thing, however, was made fast and clean,
and toward midnight I sought my hammock, and in a few moments, with a
sailor’s carelessness, had forgotten our danger in sleep. How long I
slept I cannot tell, but I was suddenly aroused from my slumbers by the
heeling of the ship, and as I started up in my berth, I heard the salt
water dashing through the cabin, and roaring in the hold as if the
bulk-heads were giving way. The lights were out, and I could see
nothing, but I knew by the sound that the water was pouring in a
cataract down the companion way, and that all escape therefore by that
path was cut off. Could the ship be sinking?—had she broached
to?—where were the crew? were the questions that rushed through my mind
at that awful moment. I listened a second to hear, if I could, any sign
of my fellow passengers in the cabin; but the place appeared to be
deserted. Knowing that no time was to be lost, I sprang to the window in
the stern, but—Good God! the dead lights were in, and all escape by
that way was closed on me. Louder and louder roared the waters into the
cabin, already they were dashing their cold spray around me, and in a
few seconds they would submerge my berth. Death stared me in the
face—death, too, in its most horrid guise. My brain whirled, my knees
shook, my skin felt cold as the grave, and my usually buoyant heart sank
within me. But these feelings triumphed only for a moment. My native
resolution came speedily to my aid, and I determined to die, since die I
must, like the old philosopher who wrapped his garments around him and
lay down as if to a pleasant sleep. At this instant I suddenly
remembered that the cabin had an outlet overhead, and groping my way
along, half buried in water the while, I caught hold of the frame work
of the binnacle, and dashing the glass out with my hand, raised myself
up, and, the next minute, crawled on deck. For an instant—so terrific
was the violence of the gale which swept past me—I could neither see,
hear, nor stand. The rain and hail beating fiercely against me, pinned
me down to the spot which I had first gained, while the thunder of the
hurricane that went whistling and roaring by, seemed to forebode the
approach of the final day itself. Oceans of water deluged the deck,
hissing past me like the scornful laughter of fiends. At length I
managed to raise my head and cast a glance at the scene around me. The
darkness was almost impenetrable, but sufficient light existed to
convince me that the decks were deserted, and that the ship was lying on
her beam-ends, with cataracts of water rolling momently over her
windward side. Oh! God, what a ruin! Officer and man, passengers and
crew, all, all had been swept away by the devouring surge, and I alone
was left, preserved almost by a miracle. I gazed to leeward, but only a
waste of driving foam met my eye—I looked astern, nothing but the green
monsters of the deep, rolling mountain high, were seen. At this instant
another deluge of foam whistled past, blinding my eyes with spray, and
jerking me with a giant’s power from my hold. Buried in brine, bruised,
despairing, and almost stunned, I thought my hour had come, and
breathing a momentary prayer to heaven for mercy, I resigned myself to
death. Suddenly my hand struck against something, which, with an
instinctive love for life, I grasped. My progress was instantaneously
checked, and, although the resistance almost snapped my arms from their
sockets, I still clung to the object I had caught. When the billow had
whirled past, and the spray had ceased to blind my eyes, I saw that I
had seized one of the posts of the bulwarks. Taking advantage of a
momentary lull, I crept to a place of greater security, and sat down to
ponder over my chances of escape.

All through that awful night I clung to my frail support, expecting
momently to be swept from it into eternity. Language cannot describe my
feelings. No pen can paint the horrors of those long and dreary hours.
The air grew intensely cold: the rain became hail. The sky, if possible,
lowered more gloomily, and the billows rolled higher and higher around
me, while the deep tones of the tempest mingled with the chafing of the
surges, rose up over all like the wild choral symphony which we dream of
as forever rising from the world of ruin and despair. Borne aloft on the
waves, or hurried down into the abyss, drenched, bruised, and
bewildered, I saw no gleam of hope. Beneath me was the boiling
deep—above me the sky seemed settling bodily down. Now the gale
whistled shrilly past, or now wailed moaningly away to leeward. Darkness
and terror were all around me.

At length the morning dawned, but slowly and despairingly. The gale
somewhat subsided, too; but its violence was still terrific. In the
eastern firmament there was a dull, misty light, hanging like a belt
along the seaboard, but the sun itself was completely obscured. By the
faint glimmer thus thrown around the scene, I hoped to distinguish some
approaching sail. It was in vain. Nothing met my vision, save the wild
waste tossing to and fro in agony. Again and again I looked,—but again
and again in vain. At length I caught sight of what would have seemed to
a landsman to be the foam on the crest of a far off wave, but which I
knew to be a sail. How my heart throbbed as I watched the course of the
approaching craft! I soon made her out to be a ship driving before the
gale under a close reefed main-course, and as she approached nearer, I
saw that she was an English man-of-war. Captivity was better than death,
and I did not, therefore, hesitate. I shouted aloud. But I might as well
have lifted up my voice against the thunder. I waved my arm aloft. It
was in vain. I clambered up on the weather-quarter, and once more waving
my arm, shouted with superhuman strength. The head of the frigate came
gallantly around, and with a cry of joy, I saw the man-of-war make
towards me. Big tears of gratitude rushed into my eyes, and my throat
parched with emotion. On came the noble stranger, swinging her tall
masts gracefully, and in a few minutes she was close on to me. I could
see the look-outs gazing towards me. In a little space I should be
rescued. At this moment a billow broke over me again, but, undaunted by
the drenching, when I rose to the surface, I turned gaily in the
direction of the frigate. God of my fathers!—she was not to be seen! I
gazed with a throbbing heart to windward, and there was the man-of-war,
edging away from me as if unconscious of my presence. I gazed
speechlessly on her. The truth broke agonizingly on me. The frigate had
approached the wreck, and not seeing me, had thought all on board lost,
and resumed her course. In vain I shouted, and in vain I waved my arm
frantically on high. I felt from the first there was no hope, and at
length, giving over every effort, I crouched down once more in that
state of complete exhaustion, both mentally and physically, which
ensues, when the excitement of hope is followed by the certainty of
despair.

The day wore on. The tempest slowly abated. Yet no welcome sail met my
vision, unless a few far off crafts which crossed the seaboard, hull
down, and which brought no hope, could be called welcome. As hour after
hour wore away, my hold on life grew weaker and weaker. My physical
powers, I felt, could not much longer endure this exposure to tempest
and cold. Already the blood seemed at a stand in my extremities, and I
fancied I felt the cold chill shuddering up to my heart. A drowsiness
came over me. But rallying myself, I beat my hands and stamped my feet
to invigorate, if possible, the vital current. At length I paused from
pure exhaustion. Still no aid appeared. My spirits at length flagged. I
felt that utter prostration which, by taking away the spring of hope,
deprives us of all motive for exertion, and is the sure forerunner of a
death of despair. I lost all longing for life. The sensation of cold
subsided. I felt no pain. A dreamy bliss crept soothingly over my
soul—the sea, the sky, the air, the wreck swam around before
me—visions such as no mortal eye hath seen or imagined, thronged on my
brain—an exstacy I cannot describe, but which makes my hand even now
tremble with rapture, possessed me,—and then all is blank.

Again, and I dreamed. I seemed to be in the centre of a vast void, a
universe of darkness and obscurity. Yet all was not gloom. For amid the
shadowy firmament appeared a fair bright face beaming upon me like an
angel’s from the clouds—a face whose features were written on my inmost
heart, so soft and seraphic was their expression! I knew it—it was that
of Beatrice. The mild blue eye, the hair of wavy gold, the brow that
rivalled a Madonna’s, and more than all, the smile which now appeared
all glorified, told me that face was hers. And it gazed on me with pity
and love. And then I heard a voice—like and yet unlike hers, for the
tone was that of Beatrice, but even sweeter, and, oh! how heavenly! The
very air seemed music. Was she, indeed, a beatified spirit sent to waft
me onward to a brighter world?

But once more all was dark—a voiceless void! I had but one feeling, and
that was of being. I knew not, heard not, saw not. I could not think.
But my soul was, as it were, agony itself.

At length a light broke in on that void. My brain swam and I faintly
opened my eyes. Was I yet an inhabitant of earth? The bed, the curtains,
the room beyond convinced me at length that I lived. I feebly raised
myself up and gazed around. A footstep approached. Overcome with
faintness I sank down. A hand put aside the curtains, a cry of joy broke
from the intruder, a hot tear-drop fell on my face. I looked up, and
there was Beatrice!

“My own—” I faintly articulated.

“Hush!—not a word yet,” she said archly, placing her fingers to her
lips with a smile.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                       THE INTERESTING STRANGER.


                        OR, DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.


                           BY EMMA C. EMBURY.


On a hot sultry afternoon, in the August of 18—, a tall, pale,
melancholy-looking gentleman alighted from the stage-coach at the door
of the Eagle Tavern, in Buffalo, and, after a few minutes’ conversation
with the bar-keeper, was ushered into a handsome private parlor, while
his baggage was carried to one of the finest bed-rooms in the house.
Perhaps, had the stranger mingled carelessly with the loungers on the
piazza, after his arrival, he would have attracted little more attention
than the companions of his wearisome journey, for, excepting a slight
moustache on his upper lip, there was nothing to distinguish him in
external appearance. But his quiet, grave deportment, and the desire for
seclusion which he exhibited, excited the curiosity of the news-mongers,
and a thousand conjectures concerning him were immediately set afloat.
The stranger, however, seemed little disposed to satisfy the spirit of
inquiry which prevails so extensively in American hotels; for, after
taking possession of his apartments, he appeared no more that evening,
and the waiter, who carried to him his supper, could only say that “he
was a _real_ gentleman, for he had given him a hard dollar—that he wore
a flowered silk dressing-gown and embroidered slippers, and that he was
going to stay in Buffalo a month.” The next morning the interest which
he had excited extended itself to the no less curious gossips of the
gentler sex; and, when the bell rang for dinner, many an eye was turned
to the closed door of Room No. 2, in the hope of seeing its inmate
emerge from his retirement. They were not doomed to disappointment.
After all were seated at table, the stranger glided quietly into the
dining-hall, and took his seat at the foot of the well-filled board,
apparently unconscious of the piercing glances which were directed
towards him. Notwithstanding the profusion of dainties which were
officiously offered him by the waiter, whose heart had been won by the
“hard dollar” on the previous night, he merely tasted a single dish, and
refusing all the luxuries of the dessert, finished his frugal meal with
a bit of dry bread and a glass of iced water. His abstemiousness and
abstraction of manner excited the attention of every one, and when he
silently rose to leave the table, many a glance followed his
slowly-receding form. The ladies had not failed to observe his stately
figure, his fine aquiline nose, the melancholy softness of his dark
eyes, and the beauty of his hands, which were small, white and tapering,
as, according to Napoleon and Byron, all aristocratic hands should be.
They at once decided that he was a person of some distinction; perhaps
an English nobleman incognito, or at least a rich and well-born
Southerner. But a week had elapsed before he chose to give any other
idea of his rank and station than might be derived from the register of
the hotel, where he had inscribed, in a very elegant hand, the name of
“Charles Stuart Montague, New Orleans.” Polite, courteous and
gentlemanly to every one whom he chanced to encounter, particularly to
females, he soon won the suffrages of all by his civilities, while he
excited general sympathy by his uniform sadness of deportment.

Among the inmates of the house was the Hon. Mr. Windlespin, an extensive
land-holder and an ex-member of Congress, who, with his two daughters,
had recently returned from a visit to France, and now occupied
elegantly-furnished apartments in the hotel. The saloon appropriated to
this family was directly opposite to that occupied by Mr. Montague, and
the ladies were dying with curiosity to learn something about their
handsome neighbor. The heat of the weather compelled both to leave open
the doors of their respective apartments, and the many furtive looks
which the two Misses Windlespin cast into the tempting room had enabled
them to catch a glimpse of a richly-enchased writing-case upon the
centre table, and a guitar leaning against the chimney-piece, while they
had several times enjoyed the opportunity of watching the solemn step of
the melancholy stranger, as, attired in the said silk dressing-gown, he
paced the limits of his apartment. They reflected much upon the singular
mystery which seemed to involve him. What could make him so unhappy? He
was evidently rich, handsome, and, as they were willing to believe,
accomplished—for the mournful strains of a flute were sometimes heard
at the dim twilight, and occasionally a few chords on the guitar, struck
as if with a trembling hand, resounded through his lonely room. What
could be the cause of such deep despondency?

But Mr. Montague had not been quite insensible to the vicinity of the
elegant Misses Windlespin. A graceful bow had frequently marked his
consciousness of their presence as he passed the open door of the
parlor; and, more than once, he had paused at the entrance of the
dining-hall, while they swept by to take their places at table,
acknowledging his politeness by a profound courtesy _à la mode de
Paris_. In the course of the changes which daily occur at a public
table, Mr. Montague had gradually moved up, until, as one of the oldest
boarders in the house, he occupied a seat next to the Windlespin family.
A fine opportunity was now offered for those civilities which cost so
little and are often productive of so many pleasant results. By degrees
the abstraction of the melancholy gentleman was beguiled by the charms
of his fair neighbors, and the ladies noticed, with no small degree of
satisfaction, that they could induce him, not only to prolong his stay
at table, but also to exchange his frugal fare for the dainties which
they so much enjoyed. In short, an acquaintance between them had fairly
commenced, and they mutually congratulated each other when the
“_interesting stranger_” actually accepted an invitation to pass an
evening with them.

Miss Grace Windlespin was a sentimentalist, while her sister Catharine
affected vivacity and brilliancy. The elder was all poetry—the younger
all fun and frolic. Grace spoke in a gentle voice, and raised her blue
eyes sweetly and languidly to the face of those whom she addressed;
while Kate (for so, in imitation of Shakspeare’s heroine, she affected
to be styled) turned the full light of her bold laughing glances on
every one worth looking at. The one delighted in the soft pleasures of
sensibility—the other in the ready repartee and saucy jest. In short,
the sisters were alike in nothing except their excessive affectation.
Neither of them exhibited her natural character; all was assumed for
effect, and each had studied the part best suited to her style of
beauty. The slightly-bending figure, pale complexion and long chestnut
ringlets of Grace were admirably suited to her very _poetic_ manner;
while the blonde hair, rosy cheeks and somewhat dumpy person of her
merry sister were equally well suited to the devil-may-care character
which she chose to assume.

Their father was one of those kind of persons who are constantly engaged
in visionary schemes of wealth. Nobody better understood how to puff up
a bubble—nobody was better skilled in “mapping out” landed
estates—nobody possessed in such perfection the gift of
“_fortune-telling_” as the Hon. Mr. Windlespin. Originally a country
shop-keeper in Jersey, his first start in life had been rather an odd
one. Taking advantage of the mania for “real estate speculations,” which
pervaded the whole country, he, in company with several others,
projected a new city, to be located upon their extensive and somewhat
barren farms. Accordingly a large hotel was built, a meeting-house
erected, a school-house raised, and some half dozen dwelling-houses were
ranged along what was meant to be the main street. In an incredibly
short time all was completed, and every thing was ready except the
people who were required to occupy the infant city. These were still to
be found, and the company began to discover that it would be exceedingly
inconvenient to pay “_interest monies_” without some assistance. At this
juncture the genius of Mr. Windlespin devised an expedient for bringing
their new settlement into notice. He advertised in all the papers that a
purse of fifty dollars would be “_danced for_” by twelve _Communipaw
negroes_—the dancers to be selected from as many as chose to try their
skill previous to the grand effort. The scene of these new _Athletæ_ was
to be the extensive plain which fronted the hotel at
“_Scipio-Africanus_”—for such was the sounding title which Mr.
Windlespin, after a careful search into an old copy of Lemprière’s
dictionary, had chosen for the incipient city. The idle, the dissolute,
and the shiftless—the people who are most easily led to change their
habitations, like wandering Arabs, are the very men who were most likely
to be attracted by such a queer and novel amusement. Accordingly Mr.
Windlespin’s plan succeeded admirably. On the day appointed for the
selection of the sable candidates for _saltatory honors_, several
hundred people were assembled in and about the hotel, while a still
greater number of the dark race were gathered to exhibit their skill.
Certain rules were laid down for the governance of the assembly—a place
was cleared for the exhibition—the negroes came forward by tens, and he
who could tire down all his companions was set aside as worthy to
compete for the prize. The first day was consumed in this important
investigation; _thirty_ first-rate professors of the double-shuffle and
heel-and-toe exercise had been chosen, and the following day was to be
devoted to the selection of the appointed _twelve_, from this reduced
number of candidates. The hotel was filled to overflowing—the dwelling
houses were no longer empty shells; but, furnished with camp beds,
offered shelter and repose to the wearied spectators, and even the
meeting-house was appropriated to their accommodation. The second day
was similarly spent, except that the concourse of visiters had
increased, and the excitement of the scene had produced sundry brawls
and broken heads. The third and last day was appropriated to the
performance of the selected twelve, and the final adjudication of the
purse. Never had there been such gyrations, such circumflexions, such
saltations as were then witnessed. Never had a victory been purchased at
such a sudoriferous expense. One after another, the dancers withdrew
exhausted, until only three were left, who seemed to bid defiance to
fatigue. Hour after hour they continued their exertions, until they
seemed to be converted into mere machines, and with staring eyes,
stiffened limbs, and shining faces, appeared like monstrous images,
moved by some mechanical force. At last the spectators became completely
tired with this exhibition of perpetual motion. They insisted that the
prize should be equally divided between the three indefatigable dancers,
and thus the singular entertainment closed.

But Windlespin had not been idle during those three days. His brandy was
very excellent—he made “glorious” rum punch—his cigars were real
“Habanas,” and his customers had fully enjoyed the manifold creature
comforts which he offered them. When they prepared to return home, most
of them carried in their pockets the deed of a building-lot in the town
of Scipio-Africanus, for which they had paid ten per cent. of the
purchase-money, and given a bond and mortgage for the remainder; while a
few, being persuaded that the neighborhood of such a hotel was a most
desirable addition to the comforts of a family, concluded to take
immediate possession of the houses already erected. Thus did the
incipient city receive its earliest inhabitants, and though it has never
yet been obliged to enlarge its borders in consequence of
_over-populousness_, it still drags on a sickly existence, having,
however, exchanged its original euphonious title for the more simple but
no less expressive one of “_Niggertown_.”

Mr. Windlespin’s grand stroke of policy remained yet to be shown. As
treasurer of the company, as well as officiating master of the hotel,
all monies derived from the custom at the bar, as well as from the sale
of building-lots, had passed through his hands. After the affair was
over, he called a meeting of the company, exhibited a statement of
expenses and receipts, and after deducting the former, paid over the
latter to the various members, reserving to himself a handsome
commission for his trouble. He did not think it necessary to inform his
confederates of the fact that every thing had been purchased on credit,
and that, so far from paying the expenses, he had, by using their names,
rendered them liable for the debt which had been incurred, but quietly
pocketing the lion’s share of the spoils, he bade adieu to the limits of
“Niggertown,” in order to try his luck in a new field.

Such was Mr. Windlespin’s first essay in fortune-hunting, and several
affairs of a similar nature had so increased his means, that he found
himself quite a respected resident in one of our northern cities, almost
before he was aware of his elevated position in society. He was finally
chosen a member of congress for the district, and though, owing to some
dubious transaction, his seat was disputed, and he magnanimously
resigned what he knew he could not keep, yet he never relinquished the
prefix of Honorable, to which the choice of his constituents entitled
him. Shortly before the appearance of Mr. Charles Stuart Montague upon
the scene, Mr. Windlespin had taken his daughters to Paris, where they
received the benefit of foreign polish for six weeks, and then returned
as highly accomplished as a modern boarding-school, a journey in a
French diligence and a taste of French cookery could make them. They
meant to marry, and to marry rich, and therefore each had chosen a part
which, while it offered a wide field, was likely, as they supposed, to
occasion no rivalry.

Mr. Windlespin was too wily to be long in doubt as to Mr. Montague’s
circumstances. He managed to discover that he was a widower, sorrowing
over the recent loss of a beloved wife, and that he had come to the
north with the double motive of dissipating his grief, and purchasing a
certain description of merchandise, which he designed to send to the
city of Galveston, where a branch of his widely-extended commercial
house was established. This news was of course communicated to the young
ladies, and while Grace became doubly sentimental, Kate, the amiable
romp, determined to wile him from his vain regrets by the charms of
gayety. Leaving his daughters to pursue their matrimonial plans, Mr.
Windlespin determined to make the most of his present opportunities,
and, if possible, to gain some percentage on account of the interesting
stranger. He accordingly sounded a friend, a careful old Scotchman, who
dealt largely in the kind of goods required by Mr. Montague, and
endeavored to secure a handsome commission from him, in case he brought
him so profitable a customer. But the crafty old fellow was not to be
caught with fair promises; he required proof of Mr. Montague’s ability
to become a cash customer, and accepted an invitation to meet him at Mr.
Windlespin’s apartments. But the scene which met his eyes when he
entered the parlor at early twilight, was not calculated to give him a
very exalted opinion of his anticipated dealer. The elegant Mr.
Montague, attired in pantaloons of spotless white, with gaiters of the
same snowy hue, extending within an inch of the toe of his shining
boot—a blue silk fancy jacket, fastened to his waist by a sash of
crimson net—an embroidered collar, turned back from his throat, and
embroidered ruffles dangling over his delicate hands, seemed to the
rough old borderer like the very personification of effeminacy and
folly. But when he only half rose from his graceful attitude, and
extended the tip of his finger to the visiter, while he directly turned
from him to continue his flirtation with the sisters, Mr. MacDonald lost
all patience with himself for having been foolish enough to expect any
benefit from such a “popinjay.” But even Mr. MacDonald could not read
the character of the “interesting stranger.” Early on the following
morning, he had scarcely reached the counting-room, when he was
surprised by a visit from Mr. Montague, and the old man could scarcely
identify the hero of the past evening’s manœuvres in the keen and
practised man of business who now addressed him.

“I never talk on business in the presence of ladies, sir,” said the
elegant gentleman, “and this, I hope, will account for my silence on the
subject last evening; if I am rightly informed, however, you are the
very person to whom I was advised to apply by my friend Mr. Tickler, of
New Orleans.”

“Ah, Mr. Tickler, cashier of the Sugarcane Bank, you mean; an old friend
of mine,” answered Mr. MacDonald, “did he give you letters to me?”

“No, sir,” answered Mr. Montague; “when I left New Orleans, I was not
certain whether I should visit Buffalo, or limit my journey to New York,
and therefore I brought no letters to any one in this city. However, you
probably know your friend’s hand-writing, and, if so, these papers will
answer our purpose better than a mere empty introduction.” With these
words he drew from his pocket-book sundry certificates of deposit in the
Sugarcane Bank, which bore the signature of the cashier.

“That is his hand, sure enough, and a crabbed fist he writes too,” said
Mr. MacDonald, after a close scrutiny of the proffered papers. While
examining the signatures, the careful old man had not forgotten to
glance at the amounts, and he thus learned that the sum of _thirty
thousand dollars_ was at that moment lying in the Sugarcane Bank to the
credit of Mr. Charles Stuart Montague.

“I am desirous of purchasing some twenty or thirty thousand dollars
worth of goods,” said the gentleman, carelessly, “and if I can get them
sufficiently cheap here to pay the cost of transportation to New York, I
would rather buy in Buffalo than hunt among the Pearl street jobbers in
that Babel of a city. I mean to pay cash, and shall ship the goods
immediately to Galveston.”

“What an immense business those southern merchants must do,” mentally
exclaimed Mr. MacDonald; “he speaks of dollars as if they were pebbles.”

Mr. Montague continued: “If you are disposed to let me have the
specified articles at fair prices, with a liberal discount for cash, I
will immediately make arrangements to have them sent on. However,” he
added, noticing the cautious Scotchman’s hesitation, “perhaps you had
better take till to-morrow to think about it, and, in the mean time, I
will look round the market, and may possibly be able to find better
bargains than you can afford me.”

“Hang the fellow’s boldness,” thought Mr. MacDonald; “if he were a rogue
he would not be so indifferent about the matter.” He determined,
however, to consult Mr. Windlespin before he made his decision, and
therefore fixed upon the following day to settle the affair. Mr.
Windlespin took the opportunity offered by Mr. Montague’s daily visit to
his daughters, and in the course of a private interview with the
merchant, entered into a negotiation with him by which he, Mr.
Windlespin, bound himself to take half the risk, on condition of
receiving half the profits of the sales made to Mr. Montague. Mr.
MacDonald preferred this method to the original proposition of a certain
percentage, as it gave him the opportunity of gaining an advantage over
both the parties. Accordingly Mr. Montague was waited upon by Mr.
MacDonald, and a close and hair-splitting negotiation was carried on for
some time, which resulted in the purchase of goods to the value of
twenty thousand dollars, which were to be delivered to Mr. Montague’s
agent in New York free of all expenses. In return, Mr. Montague handed
to Mr. MacDonald certificates of deposit to the amount of twenty-five
thousand dollars, which were easily negotiable in New York at three per
cent. discount; and as some time would be required to complete the
transaction, the stranger agreed to prolong his stay in Buffalo until
the delivery of the goods in New York.

In the meanwhile, the elegant widower was managing equally well in his
love affairs. He listened to Kate’s wild sallies with a languid smile,
and patted her round cheek or clasped her luxuriant waist in a most
brother-like or rather _cousin-like_ fashion. To Grace he was all
courtliness and gentleness; if he took her hand it was with an air of
timid respect, which would have done honour to a “_Paladin
chivalresque_,” and if he ventured to hang over her, as she sat in one
of her sentimental attitudes, it was with a look of tender melancholy
which melted her very heart. Each believed herself the favorite. Kate
could draw him from his trance of grief, and Grace was allowed to
sympathise with him. He talked to one of the gayeties of New Orleans—to
the other, of the domestic happiness he had enjoyed there; and when, at
length, he was induced to exercise his musical talents in their behalf,
he played fandangos on the guitar for the lovely Kate, while he poured
forth the mournful voice of the wailing flute for her sentimental
sister. But, notwithstanding all her exquisite sensibility, Grace
Windlespin beheld with secret satisfaction the returning cheerfulness of
the bereaved widower. He talked less of departed joys, and seemed less
despairing of future peace. The miniature of his lost wife was no longer
pressed to his lips with all the fondness of passionate love whenever
his feelings were overpowered by tender recollections, and, though he
still wore it about his neck, it was suspended upon a _hair chain_, the
gift of the gentle Grace, and _presumed_ to be a tress from her own
chestnut locks, though in reality derived from the store of a
fashionable barber in the neighborhood. His watch-guard was braided by
the hands of the lovely hoyden who had laughingly promised him her
garter for the purpose; and, in short, each had reason to suppose
herself the true magnet of attraction.

But matters were now drawing to a crisis. The goods were now sent on to
New York, and Mr. Montague received tidings that they had been duly
received by his agent. The certificates of deposit were negotiated by
two of the Wall street brokers, and Mr. MacDonald, after paying himself,
handed to the young southerner the balance. It became necessary,
therefore, for Mr. Montague to repair to New York, in order to
superintend the shipment of his merchandise, and he felt himself obliged
to settle his “_affaire du cœur_” before his departure.

    “How happy could I be with either,
       Were t’other dear charmer away,”

sung the “interesting stranger,” as he reflected upon his position
between the rival beauties. But he managed with his usual adroitness.
The gentle Grace contrived to secure an uninterrupted interview with
him, and received a proffer of his heart and hand, both of which gifts
she lovingly accepted, together with a delicate locket, containing some
of her adorer’s raven hair, set in a circlet of aqua-marine
gems—“emblems,” as he said, “of her transparent guilelessness of
character.” A merry game of romps with Kate afforded him a chance of
whispering a declaration in her ear also, and an elegant diamond ring,
“only less brilliant than her own bright eyes”—to use his elegant
phrase—was received by her as a pledge of betrothment to Mr. Charles
Stuart Montague. Having arranged these little matters to his
satisfaction, he departed, leaving his flute, his guitar, and his
writing-case, in charge of the ladies until his return. Meanwhile the
sisters—each imagining she had outwitted the other—kept their own
secret, and patiently awaited the moment when the lover should return to
claim his bride.

Scarcely a month had elapsed, however, when intelligence of a most
startling nature was received. The certificates of deposit, which had
been forwarded by the New York brokers to their agents in New Orleans,
when presented to the bank for payment, were pronounced to be
_forgeries_! An inquiry was immediately instituted respecting Mr.
Charles Stuart Montague, and the result of the investigation was, that
no such person was known to the cashier of the Sugarcane Bank, and that
the signatures to the certificates, though admirably well executed, were
only _excellent imitations_ of the rugged characters in which Mr.
Tickler usually traced his name. But the length of time which was
required to ascertain that fact, had afforded the gentleman full time to
complete his plans. The goods which he had purchased in Buffalo, had
been sold at auction by his confederate, as soon as they reached New
York. Mr. Montague arrived there in time to divide the spoils; and,
instead of shipping the merchandise, they concluded to ship _themselves_
for Texas; while Mr. Windlespin and Mr. MacDonald, who had endorsed the
certificates, were left to reimburse the brokers, and to pocket their
own loss.

The ladies were filled with amazement and grief, and, in the first
overwhelming burst of anguish, revealed to each other the alarming fact
that Mr. Montague was actually _engaged to marry both_! His writing-case
was opened, and found to contain some rose-tinted note paper—a stick of
pink sealing-wax, and an agate seal, with the impressive motto,
“_toujours fidèle_.” But, upon further examination, a private drawer was
discovered, containing the following letters:

    “Dear Jack,

    “Why the deuce don’t you get on faster with your Buffalo scheme?
    It will cost as much as it is worth if you stay much longer. I
    believe you like the trade of gentleman, for whenever you take
    it up you let every thing else hang by the eyelids till you get
    into some scrape which drives you ahead. What do you expect to
    gain by courting those two girls when you can’t marry either of
    them if they were as rich as Jews? For my part I don’t see the
    use of playing the devil when there is nothing to be gained by
    it. By the way, I promised to send the enclosed letter as the
    only means of preventing Mistress Molly from advertising you, as
    she does not know where you are. I hope you will be duly
    grateful to

                                                    “Your friend,
                                                            “T. M.”

The enclosure was still more curious:

    “U are a big Scamp and a Blackhearted villin. If u hav no
    Kumpashum fur me u mite Hav sum for ure own Flesh and
    blude—here I am a Washin and goin out to dase work to Feed ure
    seven starvin childer wile u are a travellin About jist like a
    jintleman—u ought to Bee ashamed so u ought and if u dont cum
    home and luke after us I will Advertis u in all The papers. Any
    Boddy would no u by ure discrepshun u most insinivatin man—oh
    wen I think Of ure butiful Long hare and ure Hansume face I
    culde forgiv u every thing only cum back and i will forgiv u and
    i will werk fur u agin jist Like i alwase did so as to Save ure
    Little wite Hands so no more at present from ure

                                        “afecshunate Mary Mugson.”

About two years after the events just recorded, Miss Grace Windlespin
(who had long since discovered that her aqua-marine locket, like her
sister’s diamond, was as false as the lover’s heart) was led to the
hymeneal altar, as the phrase is, by a very respectable _tailor_; while
Miss Kate had tamed down her wild spirit so far as to marry a country
school-master—an elderly widower, with several children. The truth was
that Mr. Windlespin’s land speculations had ended in total ruin, and the
ladies had no time to pick and choose among their admirers, when they
daily feared the exposure of their actual circumstances. They were
married with great parade, however, and immediately after the ceremony
the happy couples set off on a bridal tour—the two husbands having no
doubt that the father’s wedding gift would pay all such little extra
expenses. Among the places of note which they visited was the famous
Auburn prison. The time chosen was the hour when the inmates are usually
led out to dinner, and the ladies stood quietly regarding the gangs of
men, who, with folded arms and locked step, moved forward, as if with a
single impulse, like some complicated machine. Suddenly Grace uttered a
loud shriek, and threw herself tenderly on her husband’s bosom. One of
the prisoners had dared to look at her as he passed, and, unobserved by
his keeper, had even given her a knowing _wink_. Kate kept her own
counsel about it, and did not appear to notice the insolent look of the
handsome felon; but, notwithstanding his shaven head and prison garb,
she, as well as Grace, had recognised the features of “the interesting
stranger”—the elegant Mr. Charles Stuart Montague—alias—Jack Mugson,
the swindler!

    Brooklyn, L. I.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                         IL SERENADO DI VENICE.


    The sunlight has faded away from the sky,
    Bright day has departed, the night draweth nigh;
    Then come to the lattice, love, hither and see,
    Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.

    The moon is uprising in glorious light,
    Her beams on the waters are trembling and bright;
    Then haste to thy lattice, love, hither and see,
    Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.

    Not a cloud is above, nor a wave here below,
    All is quiet and still, save the river’s soft flow;
    Oh! come to thy lattice, love, hither and see,
    Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.

    Then, away! then, away! let us pass the calm hours,
    With the sweet words of love, and with Fancy’s fair flowers
    Ere the rose-fingered morn shall appear and renew
    The songs of the birds and the pearls of the dew.
                                        Valeria.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          SHAKSPEARE.—No. III.


BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.


                             LADY MACBETH.

Shakspeare should be read at least once a year. This is to the mind what
an excursion in the country is to the body—a strengthening,
health-producing process. Each perusal will not be a repetition of the
preceding. On the contrary, no two perusals will ever be alike. Read him
as _a boy_, you will be dazzled and delighted: read him year by year
after, and you will, with each year, behold beauties, sealed to you
before, from your own comparative narrowness of mind and want of
experience. Each event of your life will render you fitter to study him.
Each new acquaintance you form—each history you read—each science you
study—each country you travel into—each step you advance in life—each
friend you lose by treachery or death, will prepare you still further.
Could you go on adding to your experience much more than has ever
(except in Shakspeare’s own case) been added to that of mortal man, each
new progress would still enlarge your capacity for appreciating him. All
men comprehend him differently. The king reads him as he would listen to
the princely counsels of a royal father. The beggar may find in him
something applicable to himself, and something likely to make him
happier and wiser, which he himself had before never thought of—or of
which he had only formed a vague idea. The statesman—the general—the
prince royal—the husband—the father—the wife—the lover—the
unfortunate—the happy—may all come here, and carry away, from the
boundless reservoir, something apparently intended for themselves. He
seems to have described or alluded _to every thing_. He seems to have
taken in the whole range of human nature.

Poor _old general Montholon_, who was with Napoleon at St. Helena—one
of the most faithful of the friends who have adhered to the fallen
family—is the companion of the Prince Louis Napoleon, in his late
_invasion_ of France. Nearly all were very young men. This white-headed
old soldier appeared among them strangely. Had they succeeded, it was
doubtless their hope to give respectability to their cause by his
presence.

The same thing is proposed in Julius Cæsar, by the conspirators,
respecting Cicero.

    “_Cassius._ But what of Cicero? shall we send him?
      I think he will stand very strong with us.
    _Casca._ Let us not have him out.
    _Cinna._ No, by no means.
    _Metellus._ O, let us have him; for his silver hairs
      Will purchase us a good opinion,
      And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds:
      It shall be said his judgment ruled our hands;
      Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear,
      But all be buried in his gravity.”

I am not going to reprint the beauties of Shakspeare. Instances like the
above—_a case_—an event—a feature of human nature—are so common that
they need not be pointed out. Thousands of years hence, as the
numberless crowd of unexpected events come on, it will be found that
this poet has already described them.

These thoughts occurred to me the other evening after taking up casually
a volume of Macbeth—perhaps one of the most tremendous portraitures of
human nature that ever came from the pen of man. The play opened by
chance to the scene where the remorse-haunted queen walks in her sleep.
Surely no human writer ever set down, in the same number of words, a
more terrific picture. It has upon me almost the effect ascribed to
Medusa’s head. It nearly turns me to stone. We know that but few of the
great Greek tragedies have descended to the modern reader, but neither
in them, nor in any of the ancient or modern writers, is there a scene
more highly conceived, more perfectly executed, or acting with more
power upon the heart and the imagination. I have not read any comments
or commentators, German or English, respecting it, and therefore very
probably may omit some of its peculiarities. I think it _the_ scene of
Macbeth, the climax and moral of the tragedy, and perhaps the finest and
most extraordinary piece of writing in the whole of the author’s works.
No where in the range of literature is there to be seen such a frightful
fragment of human nature. I can never read it without feeling the blood
grow cold in my veins, and receiving a most painful heart-sick
impression of the evils which hang over the mortal state, when not
protected by moral and religious principle; and I can perfectly
understand an anecdote related of Mrs. Siddons, who, on attempting to
study the part alone in her room at night, became so frightened that she
called her maid as a companion. Perhaps the Shaksperian theorist, who
has discovered that the purpose of our poet’s works was to make an
illustration of the truth of Christianity, by putting within every
man’s, every boy’s reach the whole compass of experience to be derived
from a hundred eventful lives, had an eye upon this scene among others.
It certainly has to me a profound metaphysical and religious meaning,
and is best explained by supposing it, like Othello, a gigantic enigma,
of which Christianity is the solution. To represent human nature thus,
without offering any remedial or softening consideration, was not
characteristic of the sweet, gentle and sunshiny imagination of the
poet. His whole works, taken together, do not leave any such shadow on
the imagination. He is no misanthrope—no infidel. He points with his
wand to human nature as she is, unguided, unsustained, unprotected by
the Supreme Power. He draws the blood-stained yet heart-crushed queen,
not to appal us with a danger to which we are subject, but to point out
one which we can avoid.

The scene is very short, and I will give it, that the reader may the
more readily understand me.

                            Act V. Scene I.
         _Enter a Doctor of Physic, and a Waiting Gentlewoman._

    _Doct._ I have two nights watch’d with you, but can perceive no
    truth in your report. When was it she last walk’d?

    _Gent._ Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her
    rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, unlock her
    closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it,
    afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while
    in a most fast sleep.

    _Doct._ A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the
    benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this
    slumbry agitation, besides her walking, and other actual
    performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?

    _Gent._ That, sir, which I will not report after her.

    _Doct._ You may, to me; and ’tis most meet you should.

    _Gent._ Neither to you, nor any one; having no witness to
    confirm my speech.

                 _Enter_ Lady Macbeth, _with a Taper_.

    Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my
    life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.

    _Doct._ How came she by that light?

    _Gent._ Why, it stood by her; she has light by her continually;
    ’tis her command.

    _Doct._ You see, her eyes are open.

    _Gent._ Ay, but their sense is shut.

    _Doct._ What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.

    _Gent._ It is an accustom’d action with her, to seem thus
    washing her hands; I have known her continue in this a quarter
    of an hour.

    _Lady._ Yet here’s a spot.

    _Doct._ Hark, she speaks: I will set down what comes from her,
    to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

    _Lady._ Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One; two; why, then ’tis
    time to do ’t; Hell is murky!—Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and
    afraid? what need we fear who knows it, when none can call our
    power to account?—Yet who would have thought the old man to
    have had so much blood in him?

    _Doct._ Do you mark that?

    _Lady._ The thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? What,
    will these hands ne’er be clean?—No more o’ that, my lord, no
    more o’ that: you mar all with this starting.

    _Doct._ Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.

    _Gent._ She has spoke, what she should not, I am sure of that:
    heaven knows what she has known.

    _Lady._ Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of
    Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh!

    _Doct._ What a sight is there? The heart is sorely charg’d!

    _Gent._ I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the
    dignity of the whole body.

    _Doct._ Well, well, well,—

    _Gent._ Pray God, it be, sir.

    _Doct._ This disease is beyond my practice: Yet I have known
    those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in
    their beds.

    _Lady._ Wash your hands, put on your night-gown; look not so
    pale.—I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out
    of his grave.

    _Doct._ Even so?

    _Lady._ To bed, to bed; there’s knocking at the gate.—Come,
    come, come, come, give me your hand; what’s done cannot be
    undone: To bed, to bed, to bed. (_Exit Lady._

    _Doct._ Will she go now to bed?

    _Gent._ Directly.

       _Doct._ Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds
    Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds
    To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
    More needs she the divine, than the physician.—
    God, God, forgive us all! Look after her;
    Remove from her the means of all annoyance,
    And still keep eyes upon her:—So, good-night:
    My mind she has mated, and amaz’d my sight:
    I think, but dare not speak.

       _Gent._ Good-night, good doctor.     (_Exeunt._

There is not _a single word_ of this scene which can be spared—not one
which is not impregnated with blood and horror. You feel the very
silence of the sick, midnight apartment. Ye see the pale ashy
countenance of the terror-stricken gentlewoman, and sympathize with her
in having her lot cast in such an abode of guilt and danger. You see
that she has called up all her energy and presence of mind, as in a
great crisis, to enable her to conduct herself wisely, and to escape
with safety from this den of royal murderers. You can see her cautious
step—as if she started even at the creaking of her own shoe—the
rustling of her own robe, or the sighing of the wind around the distant
turrets of the castle. You have here a most admirable character, and,
except that she is but so short a time on the stage, almost as worthy
the genius of Mrs. Siddons as that of Lady Macbeth herself. Were I a
young actress, desirous of making my appearance before the public, I
should choose to study thoroughly and represent well this character
first,—a very great effect might be given to it.

The doctor is also done to the life. He is, in all respects, not only
the medical man, but the medical man of coolness and experience. The few
words he utters are full of curiosity, but not of the unbridled horror
of his companion. He has doubtless, before, witnessed scenes enough of
pain and anguish, and he is at first disposed to consider the
gentlewoman as an exaggerator of the mysteries she professes to have
beheld, and to treat the whole thing physically as a disease, till the
truth becomes too apparent, and even his cool mind is convinced.

Lady Macbeth herself is the very _ne plus ultra_ of the tragic. She has
more terror in her step and eye, than a mere mortal ever had before.
Waking remorse would not have been, by any means, so appalling. The fact
of her being asleep is a great accessory. That pale face—those fixed,
staring, dead eyes—the countenance emaciated by disease, and the long
consuming fire of conscience—the step, solemn, slow, measured and
unearthly—and the dark, dim and shifting imagery of the past, which
floats to and fro through her imagination, form altogether a spectacle
shocking and almost insupportable.

Let us take this extraordinary scene to pieces, and examine a little
into its mechanism. One of the wonders of it is that there is no resort
to _style_—no description—no bursts of eloquence—no lava-like
eruption of passions. There are indeed but very few words said at all.
The sick lady has, at first, no terrors for the doctor, and the
gentlewoman has often beheld the same thing before. There is no stage
effect—no management—no melo-dramatic cunning. The doctor even shows
his coolness and incredulity, and makes a careless general remark. The
transcendant genius of the poet felt, intuitively, that the situation of
his characters here was so complete as to absorb the reader, and render
unnecessary any but the simplest language. The whole scene is quiet,
hushed and professional. Even the blank verse of the rest of the tragedy
is laid aside, and the characters speak in common-place perfectly
natural prose. Let us see what this almost supernatural terror consists
in.

The doctor first says, we may suppose with a certain half unintentional
degree of disappointment, that he has been already watching two nights
to see something which the waiting-woman has reported to him respecting
the queen, and yet he has seen nothing.

    “I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth
    in your report.”

A little impatient, a little incredulous, perhaps, he adds:

    “When was it she last walked?”

This is a stroke of nature and probability at the very outset. It takes
from the scene the air of a fiction. It sends the mind of the spectator
back to the two past long nights, when the doctor, tolerably tired out,
has been watching in vain. This is just as things happen in life. We
have to watch and watch for every thing—even for the most true—before
it appears. We feel also, even with the first apparently unimportant
word spoken, a certain tremor at the intimation given of the domestic
gloom which must reign in the royal household—an attack immediately
expected from a powerful and inexorable foe—the queen sick—mysterious
things, we know not what, hinted with pale face and trembling lips—and
the guilty being, who had sold her eternal soul for her present
position,—we see her _in_ that position, all the promised triumphs and
pleasures neutralized by disease and remorse, and she herself _watched_
by her servants, night after night, when she little dreams herself the
subject of such a combined inquisition.

The gentlewoman relates more particularly what she has seen, though with
a guarded care, which not every gentlewoman in real life, under such
exciting circumstances, would have the prudence to observe; but
Shakspeare’s people are not only living but very sensible persons. To
the question:

    “When was it she last walked?”

she replies:

    “Since his majesty went into the field.”

Here at once is another stroke. It tells the _occupation_ of the king;
called to a fearful contest and absorbed in it, the deadly secret is
transpiring unopposed, undreamed of by him, behind his back, in the
centre of his household, and from the lips of the very being who has so
often taunted his weakness, and urged him with haughty scorn onward in
his guilty and blood-tracked career. So little power has man over
destiny! Thus is guilt beset. These are the nameless, unimaginable
dangers it runs, when, bold and self-confident, it thinks itself equal
to a contest with the Deity, who, seated in the clouds, strikes it with
its own arm, and baffles its plans with the toils it has woven for
others.

    “Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise
    from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, unlock her closet,
    take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, afterwards
    seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most
    fast sleep.”

There is nothing more appalling to me than a person walking in his
sleep. It is such an image of death aroused from the grave—such a type
of the spiritual world—such a contrast to the same being when awake,
that I could never look upon my most intimate friend in such a state
without a thrill of fear, as if I were gazing upon his spectre—without
perfectly comprehending Hamlet’s account of his own feelings in looking
upon a ghost.

    ——“and we fools of nature
    So horribly to shake our disposition
    With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls.”

This statement of the waiting-woman, so simple, natural and true, is
enough to arouse in a moment the curiosity of the most indifferent
stranger, and to inspire him with an inexpressible anxiety to know what
it means, and to what it will lead.

The doctor, however, is a man of the world, and is not so easily worked
on. He replies with a mere generality:

    “A great perturbation in nature! to receive at once the benefit
    of sleep and do the effects of watching. In this slumbry
    agitation, besides her walking, and other actual performances,
    what at any time have you heard her say?”

Here there is a peeping out of curiosity on the part of the honest
physician, who is eager to learn all that may be acquired of what has
the appearance of an interesting secret. But his companion does not mean
to go further than prudence and self-security require. She replies at
once in a way which, while it balks curiosity, sharpens its appetite.

    “That, sir, which I will not report after her.”

What would any doctor say in such a case?

    “You may to me; and ’tis most meet you should.”

He is aroused. He wishes—he is determined to know this mystery, and
therefore pleads the privilege and necessity, as well as the prudence of
his profession. “You may tell _any_ thing to _me_. Of course I shall
never reveal. I am the depositary of a thousand family secrets. Besides,
if I am to treat the patient, I _must_ know what is the matter with
her.”

But the waiting-woman is not going to be driven from her determination.
She has obviously received _a deep-seated fright_. Her whole
self-possession is called up for her defence and guidance. She is a
single woman, in a lonely castle, and in a really awful position,
accidentally the holder of a secret involving the reputation, if not the
life and death of those in power, and the fate perhaps of nations. Were
she to hint her suspicion that her royal mistress was a murderess—that
the fierce king, now desperate with the danger impending over his
kingdom, had gained the throne by a foul assassination—how can she be
sure that the doctor will not go to the king and betray her, to
ingratiate himself into the favor of his royal master? Courts are not
the places for too light confidences—particularly of such secrets. In
such case the truth or falsehood of the statement would be little
inquired into, and she would be probably hurled from the battlements or
immured to starve in some dark dungeon. She is—you feel she is, quite
in earnest, and quite right to reply:

    “Neither to _you_ nor _any one_; having no _witness_ to _confirm
    my speech_.”

                 *        *        *        *        *



                               EPHEMERA.


                        BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON.


    Well might weep the sentimental Persian,
      Looking o’er his host of armed men,
    When on Greece he made his wild incursion,
      Whence so few might e’er return again.

    Well might he weep o’er those countless millions,
      Dreaming of the future and the past,
    As he gazed, amid the gold pavilions
      Round his throne, upon that crowd so vast.

    Musing, with subdued and solemn feelings,
      On the awful thoughts that filled his soul—
    One of those most terrible revealings
      That will sometimes o’er the spirit roll.

    Thoughts, that of that multitude before him
      Panting high for fame—athirst to strive—
    Ere old Time had sped a century o’er him,
      Not, perhaps, would one be left alive.

    That those hearts, now bounding in the glory
      Of existence, would be hushed and cold;
    Not their very names preserved in story,
      Nor upon fame’s chronicle enrolled.

    All to earth, their proper home, departed;
      Light heart, strong hand, all gone to kindred clay;
    And, in their vacant room, a new race started,
      Careless of the millions past away.

    Well might weep he—well might we, in weeping,
      Make our offering at sorrow’s call—
    When we ponder how our days are creeping,
      Like the shadow on the wall.

    When we think how soon the sun-beam, setting,
      Will depart, and leave it all in shade—
    And our very friends will be forgetting
      That the daylight o’er it ever played.

    Life, upon a swallow’s wing is flying,
      O’er the earth it sparkles and is gone;
    All our days are but a lengthened dying—
      One dark hour before the eternal dawn.

    Riches, glory, honor, fame, ambition—
      All as swiftly fly, as soon are fled;
    Or, if gathered, mend they our condition?
      What delight can these afford the dead?

    Chase no more the phantom of the dreaming—
      Weary is the hunt, the capture vain;
    When thy arms embrace the golden seeming,
      It will vanish from thy grasp again.

    Trouble not thy heart with anxious carings—
      Thou art but a shadow—so are they;
    Let the things of Heaven deserve thy darings,
      They alone will never pass away.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                               WITH THEE.


                        BY MRS. C. H. W. ESLING.


    With thee, at dewy morn where e’er I wander,
      Are my fond thoughts—still close to thee they cling;
    O’er each departed hour they love to ponder,
      That, pass’d with thee, seem’d like the hours of spring.

    Yes—every vanish’d joy is like a treasure
      Glean’d from the mighty casket of the past,
    Dearer than low-breathed music’s echoed measure,
      When its soft spell around our souls is cast.

    With thee at noon, when summer winds are stealing
      Thro’ the green leaves in harp-tones rich and sweet,
    On the bright sward in lowly homage kneeling,
      With thee my prayers—my prayers of fondness meet.

    What tho’ mine eye thro’ dreary distance faileth
      In its deep search to hail thy welcome form?
    What tho’ my cheek thro’ long, long watching fadeth,
      And my sad heart leaps not so freshly warm?

    Still unto thee no eyes beam brighter lustre,
      No vermeil cheeks thy early love’s outshine;
    Around no heart do richer feelings cluster,
      Than swell in that which is so wholly thine.

    Why do I mourn that mountain billows sever?
      Vain may they strive our spirits to divide,
    For am I not, mine own one, with thee ever?
      E’en as thou art forever at my side.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                               WICCÓNSAT.


                        A LEGEND OF ST. MARY’S.


                         BY MRS. MARY M. FORD.


On the eastern bank of a small river, which enters the Potomac a few
miles above its confluence with the waters of the Chesapeake Bay, are
still to be seen vestiges of the earliest settlement in Maryland; once
the village of Youcómaco, but quietly yielded by the natives to the
white colonists, who there built a town, calling it St. Mary’s.
Subsequent events led to its desertion for a more advantageous location,
and the ravages of time have left little to tell of its former state. It
has faded away, unnoticed and unsung, yet its name is still seen on the
older maps of our country. The river, which once bore the appellation of
St. George’s, is now called St. Mary’s, but whether in memory of the
deserted town, or not, is uncertain.

Ruins are happily so scarce in our young and thriving republic, that the
simple legend which gives a name to my story, may awaken some interest
among those, to whose imaginations the solitary remains of the past seem
to speak in the breathings of the winds that sweep over their ruins. The
circumstances which led to its narration, by one who had heard it in the
mother country, and in whose family its memory had been handed down,
were as follows:—

Many years ago, as the last lingering sunbeams were fading from the sky,
giving place to the mellow twilight; and a ruddy tinge was on the bosom
of the waters, where the little river of St. Mary’s mingled its
tributary stream with the waves of the broad Potomac; a small vessel had
just anchored within the mouth of the former river, on which is
established a port of entry. The craft seemed awaiting the boarding
officer, who, at a point further up the river, was just entering his
boat. He appeared very young, and, from the open gaiety of his fine
countenance, seemed to enjoy corresponding lightness of heart. He raised
a small telescope to his eye, and exclaimed to the two colored men who
were loosening the boat—

“It must be a Yankee schooner; be quick Basil! Luke!”

“Aye, aye, Massa Frank,” replied Luke, “all ready—that’s an eastern
craft, sure.”

The light barge was soon on the waves, and the youth took the helm,
while the strong arm of his companions were engaged with the oars.

The visitors approached the vessel’s side almost unperceived; and when
the young officer ascended to its deck, he found the captain anxiously
absorbed in examining an old map, which was spread out before him. The
expression of his weather-beaten face, as he raised it to return the
salutation of his visitor, showed evident signs of being puzzled.

“Where are you from?” inquired the landsman.

“From Plymouth.”

“What cargo?”

“Why, a good many notions, of which you will know presently.”

“And whither bound?”

“Why that’s what I’m looking for on this old map, for I see nothing like
it on shore; aye, here it is, St. Mary’s, the town of St. Mary’s,
sir.”[2]

“There is no such town in the state, sir,” replied the youth, “this
river and the county bear that name; there is some mistake.”

“Massa captain clear out for de county,” said Basil, grinning.

“De boss lose his reckoning dis time,” rejoined Luke.

“Be more respectful, and return to the boat,” said the young officer,
checking their glee; then turning to the captain, he continued, “This
map is an old one; there was formerly a town named St. Mary on this
river—it was the first settlement in the state, and built in the time
of the Calverts, but it has passed away and been forgotten for a
century.”

The disappointed face of the mariner was not the only one agitated by
the news. The sailors belonging to the vessel had joined the group, and
their rough appearance was strongly contrasted with the tall and elegant
figure of a passenger, who had been drawn by the conversation from the
cabin, and now stood leaning against the companion way.

The young Marylander, who had not before perceived the stranger,
thought, as he returned his salutation, that he had seldom looked on a
countenance so interesting. It was youthful, but there was a shade of
melancholy on the fine features, which, however, served only to confine,
not hide the flashes of an enthusiastic spirit, which glanced from his
full dark eye.

“We are out of soundings, Mr. Egerton,” said the captain, “I might as
well have cleared out for a port in the moon.”

“The fault was mine, sir,” replied the person called Egerton, “and I
regret having thus led you astray;” then, turning to the young American,
he continued, “The disappointment is also great to me, sir, for the
haven we sought was the home of my forefathers. I am a stranger in this
country, having lately arrived from England. On landing at Plymouth I
found this schooner loading for a southern port—and, wishing to visit
Maryland immediately, I induced this worthy but too obliging man to
bring the cargo hither. The silence of history has left the annals of
Maryland so much in the shadow, that a foreigner feels doubtful whether
a literal construction should be put on the desertion of a town,
particularly when your port of entry also bears the name of St. Mary’s.”

“Well,” interrupted the captain, smiling, “don’t feel uneasy about me,
for the cargo is of that accommodating nature which will suit another
town as well.”

The customary business was soon despatched, and the officer was leaving
the vessel, but his eye lingered on the interesting stranger. There was
something in his appearance that won his heart, and, after a moment’s
hesitation he thus spoke.

“This seems to have been your place of destination, Mr. Egerton. Will
you excuse the blunt freedom of an American, if I ask you to accompany
me to the shore? My uncle’s dwelling is in sight. I act as his deputy in
official business, but with much more pleasure I use another privilege,
and tender you the hospitalities of his roof. Although the town, the
principal object of your visit, is no more, yet if you can content
yourself a few days with us, you can explore the ruins. Oakford is the
name of my uncle. I bear the same, with the simple addition of Frank.”

The stranger caught his offered hand.

“I feel grateful for your kindness,—the ruins! did you say? It would
indeed be a gratification to view them—I will, with pleasure, avail
myself of your polite invitation; the ruins! are they extensive?”

“Oh, no,” replied young Oakford, smiling, “there are but few relics left
by time and weather—some remains of walls and foundations—but the most
interesting are the ruins of an ancient church—among whose dilapidated
pews a respectable audience of weeds have accumulated.”

“Weeds, growing in the holy temple of my fathers! what a sublime yet sad
subject for reflection! I must see them!”

The young American again smiled at his companion’s enthusiasm; and, as
the shadows of evening were fast closing around them, he hurried his new
friend in his preparations to leave the vessel. The good-natured captain
declined an invitation to accompany them, as he had made arrangements to
continue his voyage farther—and, cordially shaking the hand of his
departing passenger, refused to receive any extra compensation for the
trouble occasioned. The rough, but kind-hearted sailors also refused,
but the generous feelings of the young man were not to be checked thus,
and he forced into their unwilling hands the expression of his thanks,
as he took a kind leave of them.

Darkness had veiled the landscape when the boat reached the shore, and
the warm-hearted Marylander, drawing the arm of the young stranger
within his, hurried him up the long avenue leading to the mansion,
assuring him that his uncle would be as much gratified as himself by
this acquisition to their society. “So, feel perfectly at ease, for we
southerners use very little ceremony.”

The event proved it so, for Col. Oakford, a fine looking man, just past
the meridian of life, received him with that easy politeness and frank
cordiality of manner which relieved him from all embarrassment. He soon
discovered that his guest possessed high literary attainments—and,
enjoying those advantages himself, the conversation became interesting,
and they parted at the hour of rest, mutually pleased with each other.

The next morning arose in clouds and rain. “No _ruins_ to-day,” said the
young Briton, as they met in the breakfast room. But, although the
weather prevented any outward excursion, a well filled library offered a
pleasing substitute.

Young hearts soon assimilate, and friendships in early life are quickly
formed—hence, when the sun at last broke through the clouds, on the
evening of the third day, the two youths felt on terms of intimacy and
attachment. On the fourth morning, the lively Frank aroused his friend
before sunrise, to view, what he imagined must be to him, a novel and
imposing sight. They descended to the open piazza, and young Egerton
looked around in vain to discover the woods, the hill, the river; all
was enveloped in a thick fog, and had the appearance of a surrounding
lake. At this moment the sun rose, and the vapor broke on the bosom of
the stream.

“See,” said Frank, “the river is throwing off his night robes—observe
how gracefully he rolls and folds them.”

Huge white sheets of vapor were indeed majestically receding down the
current; others floated like snow wreaths on the hills of the opposite
shore—the green sides of which, were at intervals visible through the
breaking mist, and seemed struggling beneath its might. In gradual
succession the forests and dwellings of men appeared, and in a few
minutes this atmospheric envelope was lost in the increasing warmth of
the sun’s beams.

“How singular and beautiful,” said the stranger. “Is it often thus?”

“Very frequently; at some seasons each morning renews the scene; but you
are not very robust, and must be content to view it seldom, for this
recreation is far from healthy. The poets of your native isle may sing
of ‘walks at early dawn, through dewy meads,’ but such strolls would
make a short life here.”

On entering the parlor they met the Colonel.

“What think you of the night bath which these lowlands take?” said he,
smiling.

“That the morning effect is beautiful,” replied Egerton, “but the whole
must be injurious to health.”

“You are right, it is ever so to strangers, but we, who are sons of the
mist, fear no harm from our native atmosphere. Yet do not think this
characteristic of our general climate. On the contrary, the northern
states, with their rock-bound sea coasts, have a clear bracing
atmosphere; the middle states, also, with their varied surface of
mountain and valley, and most parts of the southern, are equally
healthy. Our own upper counties, and the neighboring inlands, or forest
places, as we term them, are not sickly. It is only where the land is
low, and as bountifully supplied with bays, inlets and streams as here,
that this effect takes place; but see, ‘aunt Nora’ waits with the
breakfast.”

The aged colored housekeeper, called by this familiar appellation, had
been the faithful nurse of the Colonel’s infancy, and, in return, was
treated by him with great kindness. She was busied at a little table, in
a corner of the room, from which she despatched, by the younger hands of
her grandson, Luke, to a larger table in the centre of the apartment,
the fine coffee, and more solid comforts of a Maryland breakfast, of
which the young friends hastily partook, and then made arrangements for
their visit to the _ruins_.

The boat was soon in readiness, and they set out, accompanied by Basil
and Luke. As the light bark glided along the shore, Frank pointed out
several places endeared by the recollections of his childhood. Through
an opening in the trees peeped the unobtrusive walls dedicated to
country learning, with its play ground, so often the scene of his boyish
gambols, and its clear spring under the shade of a sycamore near the
river, where a solitary cow was now stooping to drink.

“See, Frank,” cried his friend, “she is profaning your Helicon fount!”

“Nay, let her drink, Egerton,” he replied, “for, as she is not likely to
draw more romantic inspiration than _I_ did from its waters, the spring
will lose none of its power from her draught.”

“But you have gained what is worth more, sentiments pure and
disinterested, with a mind happy and free. ’Tis true, you seldom make
reminiscences—but, if you were like me, an orphan, and a native of a
clime where, at every step, you meet some relic of the past, you would
feel differently. Your country has but a short path to retrace, and is
too young to boast of olden days.”

“And yet,” replied Frank, archly smiling, “there were times to which we
might refer, as equal to any that shed glory on ancient chivalry.”

“Granted, and the treasure they left you may well render you careless of
other relics.”

“Many thanks for your liberality, my dear friend,” said Frank, “and now
for the _ruins_.” As he spoke, the direction of the boat was changed,
and they swiftly crossed the river. Egerton sprang first on land, and
was soon deeply engaged in examination, but found Frank’s words too
true. Time and weather had indeed been ruthless ravagers; besides, it
appeared that many materials had been removed, perhaps to repair the
cottages of the neighboring poor. But some remains of what seemed to
have been the walls of a large store house, part of an embankment where
once had stood a fort, pits filled with rubbish, which had been cellars,
and crumbled walls, with here and there a fallen chimney, gave
melancholy testimony to the change. Nor had the church met a better
fate. The broken in roof still clung to the shattered wall on one side
only, and hung like a dark banner, half suspended over the desolation
below; the decayed floor had descended into the mournful cemetery
beneath, leaving some of the baseless seats clinging to the side wall.
Weeds, too, were there, whose flowers seemed to bloom in mockery. In the
sad home of the buried dead all was confusion, broken tombs, and heaps
of rubbish. The young Briton sat down on a fragment of the ruined wall,
and Frank shared in the melancholy of his friend, as they viewed the
desolate scene. Egerton at length broke silence. “You have, no doubt,
wondered at the deep interest I feel with regard to these ruins. Many
circumstances have led to it, particularly a little tale related to me
by a maiden aunt, to which I listened with great delight in childhood;
and when, in after years, I was deprived of my beloved parents, I would
sometimes beguile my sorrows by a recurrence to its sad remembrance.
Thus it became more interesting to me, and I soon felt a desire to visit
the location of scenes so connected with my family, and with the fate of
an Indian chief of the Youcómaco tribe, called Wiccónsat, the principal
subject of the legend. If it will give you any pleasure, I will relate
it while we rest on these sad ruins.”

“Really, my dear friend,” replied Frank, “I feel almost as sentimental
as yourself.”

“Then I will take advantage of your serious mood and commence my simple
tale.”

“Among the early settlers at St. Mary’s, were the parents of Rosalie
Egerton. She was an only daughter and beautiful. An accomplished mother
had taught her many things of which few other females of the colony
could boast. She accompanied her harp with the songs of distant lands,
and with her needle embroidered scenes from the old world. Yet she loved
to wander amidst the wild grandeur of her native forests, accompanied
only by her little brother, for the neighboring Indians were harmless
and friendly.

“Wiccónsat was the son of an aged chief of the Youcómacoes. He was tall
and elegantly formed, and straight as an arrow from his quiver. Mild and
contemplative, he became a favorite among the settlers, from whom he
learned not only to read and write, but many of their useful arts. But
he had listened to the breathings of Rosalie’s harp, as he lingered near
her dwelling, and had gazed after her fair form, as she wandered in the
forest, until the Indian’s life had lost all charms for him. The smile
of happy youth had fled, and when he sought his father’s wigwam, his eye
was sad and restless. The old chief saw with sorrow the change.

“‘A spell hath come o’er thee, Wiccónsat,’ he kindly said; ‘my son is no
longer the same. When in childhood I first saw thy little hands bend the
bow, I fondly thought thou would’st rival the hunting fame of thy
father, and, when age had weakened my strength, should danger threaten
our tribe, thou would’st head the chiefs in combat. The locks of
Orrouiska are now gray, and his hand feeble. The supplies of his wigwam
are scanty, for his son lingers among the better habitations of
strangers. But I know thy secret. Thy hopeless love is placed on the
fairest of the white fawns, one as far above thy reach as was the
rainbow of yesterday. For though the son of a once powerful chief, the
poorest of the pale faces would reject thy alliance. Then arouse thee,
Wiccónsat, and despise their pride. The Great Spirit made us all equal,
and the brightest of our Indian maidens would be proud of thy love. If
thou dost prefer the plough of the white man to the bow of the hunter,
’tis well, but turn the furrow in thy own fields.’

“The youth answered not, but with a deep sigh, taking his quiver full of
arrows, went out to the chase. He wandered on through the forest,
forgetful of his first intention, until he found himself near the
river’s bank, and by the dwelling of Rosalie, and soon beheld the
maiden, with her little brother, in a small boat, which they had
contrived to move out a few yards into the deep water. As she arose to
reach some blossoms from the overhanging trees, her balance was lost,
and she fell into the stream. In a moment the young Indian had plunged
in to her relief, and bore her in safety to the bank. The cries of her
brother had alarmed the family, who hurried to the river, and Wiccónsat,
yielding his lovely burthen to her parents’ arms, hastened to escape
from their grateful acknowledgments, to enjoy in solitude the delightful
feelings that crowded his heart. It seemed a new era in his existence,
and fairy dreams floated in his imagination. With buoyant and unwearied
footsteps he pursued the chase, and returned to his father’s cabin
loaded with the choicest game, the reward of his toil.

“‘Come, dear Oskwena,’ said he to his young sister, who ran to welcome
him, ‘prepare a feast for our father, while I dress these skins, to make
a softer couch for his aged limbs.’

“‘Gladly, brother,’ she replied, ‘but hast thou brought me any beads or
ornaments from the colony?’

“‘No, thou art too good and comely to need these trifles. Thy lover will
prize thee more without them.’

“‘Thou art mistaken, brother, for Potawissa loves to see my dark hair
braided with beads, and their bright strings encircling my neck. Thy
talk will do for the white fawns, with their cheeks like the wild rose
and foreheads like the mountain snow; but the darker hue of Indian maids
wants other ornaments.’

“‘Thou hast well described the white fawns, sister,’ answered the young
chief, ‘and shalt indeed have a gay necklace; but thou hast never heard
the song of her who is brightest among them. Why the blest sounds on the
air, which are said to call our fathers to the spirit-land on high, are
not sweeter.’

“‘Hush, hush,’ cried Oskwena, ‘how canst thou talk thus? I would not
hear her strain, for it hath sadly altered thee.’

“The bright visions of Wiccónsat were soon dispelled, for, with the next
vessel from England, arrived a young relative of Rosalie’s family, who
brought news of their having succeeded to an estate in their native
country, to take possession of which they now made preparations to leave
America. The charms of the maiden made an immediate impression on the
heart of the young and accomplished Briton. His amiable qualities soon
won her love, and, with the approval of her parents, it was arranged
that their marriage should take place on their arrival in England.

“The sad intelligence soon reached Wiccónsat, to whom the grateful
family had shown many marks of attachment, little suspecting the sorrows
they were preparing for the youthful chief. They knew not the secret
homage of his heart, for its trembling hopes had never been breathed to
the beautiful object of his love. In the innocence of grateful
friendship, she presented him with an embroidered belt worked by her own
hands, and assured him that she would never forget her generous
preserver.—But when the day of their departure had arrived, and
sorrowful friends crowded the vessel’s deck to take their last farewell,
Wiccónsat was not there. Rosalie and her parents shed tears of regret,
as the sails were spreading to waft them from their happy American home,
and as their eyes sought its peaceful roof, they discovered near it, on
a point of the river’s shore, the solitary figure of the young chief. It
was at this spot he had rescued the maiden from a watery grave. She
eagerly waved her white handkerchief in token of farewell, and the next
moment saw the belt she had given him, floating on the air in a
returning adieu. In a few minutes the vessel parted from the shore.

“Many years after this, an interesting youth, accompanied by his tutor,
arrived at St. Mary’s, from England. I know not in what state they found
the town, but the youth’s first inquiries were for an Indian chief,
called Wiccónsat, who had in early years saved the life of his mother.
He was shown a lonely wigwam, on a point near the river. James Egerton,
for it was my great grandfather, took an early opportunity of visiting
it, but first inquired into the present character of its inmate. ‘He is
mild and peaceful,’ said his informant, ‘and is sometimes called the
Indian Hermit, for he seldom appears abroad except when hunting or
fishing. He has lived thus for many years, is always melancholy, and
dislikes the visits of the curious: ’Tis thought some misfortune in his
youth has led him to prefer solitude.’—Thus informed, the young James
proceeded to the river’s side. From description, he knew where had stood
the home of his mother’s children, but sighed to perceive it in ruins,
and leaning on a fragment of the broken wall, plucked a leaf from the
vine that still clung to it, then, with lingering footsteps, sought the
point. Seated on a rustic bench at the door of the cabin was a figure
which he knew must be the chief, for he raised his tall, majestic form,
and advanced to meet him, but paused suddenly, and gazed earnestly and
inquiringly on his face.

“The youth felt abashed, but with some effort addressed him: ‘Excuse
this intrusion, good chief; I am the son of her, whose life you once
saved.’

“The recluse caught his offered hand.

“‘And art thou indeed her child? oh! yes, that eye, that smile had awoke
my memory before you spoke. Welcome art thou to the desolate Wiccónsat.’
After some conversation, the youth drew from his bosom two small books,
richly bound, and presented them as tokens of remembrance from his
mother. The chief pressed them to his lips. ‘These will beguile many
lonely hours, but, oh! hadst thou but brought me one lock of her hair.
It was the colour of thine,’ he added, as he passed his hand over the
rich brown curls of the son of Rosalie. ‘Alas! good chief,’ he replied,
‘sorrow, rather than time, has robbed those locks of their beauty. Death
has bereaved my beloved mother of her parents and of several children. I
alone survive.’ ‘And can sorrow reach one so good? Then why should I
repine?—From this point, dear boy, I saw thy mother and her parents
depart, and here I raised my lonely habitation. For years, I indulged
the vain hope of their return, and whenever I saw a large vessel enter
the river, I silently mingled with the crowd on the shore. But wearied
hope has long since fled, memory alone remains.’

“‘And yet you may again behold my parents, for it is their intention to
visit Maryland in a short time.’ Surprise and joy beamed in the
countenance of the Indian, and from that hour he continued cheerful, but
his greatest present enjoyment arose from the frequent visits of his
young friend, to whom he daily became more attached. ’Tis true, the
tutor of James disapproved of his spending so much time with one whom he
considered an untutored savage, but the warm-hearted boy knew his Indian
favorite to be possessed of pure and lofty principles, with noble and
generous feelings.

“Wiccónsat now mingled once more with the white inhabitants, and pointed
out to the inquiring youth whatever was interesting. The remains of the
Indian village were still visible, and the few chiefs that visited the
town still fondly called it Youcómico. But their tribe had removed to a
greater distance, and there was now little communication between them
and the colonists.

“Several months elapsed and the time drew near when the young Briton
expected once more to embrace his parents. They had informed him, by
letter, of their intention to embark on board the Huntress, which would
sail in two weeks, and nearly a month had passed since the reception of
this letter. It was probable then, that they were near the American
coast.”

Here the narrator paused.

“Why do you not proceed?” asked Frank.

“Because I think it will be better to finish the story as we return. It
grows late, and I wish to gather some little remembrance.”

From various parts of the ruins he now selected something to carry with
him, and was loading Basil and Luke with similar trophies, who appeared
to place little value on them, as they dropped some at every step. At
length they returned to the boat, in which they deposited the cumbrous
relics, and left the shore. But a new object excited the curiosity of
Egerton, and, with a look of entreaty, he turned to his friend.

“You have been very patient and kind, dear Frank, and now we are in the
boat, let us go a little further up the river! That point above must be
the spot on which stood the wigwam of Wiccónsat.”

“You will find it a difficult matter to prove that,” returned Frank,
“however, we will go.”

“It’s a good place for fishing,” said Basil, “and we have a line.”

The first object that struck their view on landing at the point, was a
collection of half decayed boards.

“See here! conviction strong!” cried the delighted Egerton.

“Nonsense,” said Frank, “they are the remains of some old fishing hut or
flat boat. Indian wigwams are not made of boards.”

“How incredulous you are,” returned his friend. “Surely the melancholy
chief had been long enough among white men to adopt their materials.”

“Very well, shall we load the boat with them as relics?”

“You are jesting; but I should really like to rebuild it, if we had
time. Where are Basil and Luke?”

“More profitably employed—fishing; but we will return in a day or two,
and try whether a wigwam can be made of it.” The young Briton had seated
himself on one of the boards, and seemed lost in contemplation, while
Frank quietly withdrew to see the luck of the fishers—who, in the
meantime, had not forgotten the two youths, but, in their simple phrase,
were discussing the point at issue:

“Why, Old Nora could tell him plenty about the Ingens,” said Basil, “for
her grandmother told her, and she saw a power of ’em in her time—but he
only seems to care about one—and I can’t say I ever heard Nora go over
such a strange name as that.”

“They were smart, them chiefs, in their time,” observed Luke, “for they
say our folks learned to make the canoes from ’em, and I’d put ’em
against any boat that swims.”

“But they won’t hold much of a crew, Luke, let alone passengers, and as
there’s four of us, and a heavy load of Massa Egerton’s nelics, as he
calls them; besides, it’s lucky we’ve got something bigger to float home
in.”

Their angling had not been very successful in the short time they had
engaged in it, and at Frank’s request, the boat was again put in
readiness for their departure.

Once more on the water, Frank reminded his friend of the promised
conclusion of his story.

“I thought you had forgotten it,” replied Egerton, smiling, “but I will
with pleasure gratify you. I believe we left my ancestor expecting the
early arrival of his parents at St. Mary’s, and I will now proceed to
give you the other portion of the legend.

“One evening, after his usual visit to the wigwam, James was slowly
returning to his lodgings. Lost in thought, he did not at first perceive
that heavy clouds were gathering in the sky, but the sudden darkness
made him quicken his pace.

“‘You are late this evening, Master James,’ said his tutor, as he met
him at the door, ‘you waste a great deal of time with that wild Indian,
and I am glad your parents are coming to take charge of you.’ ‘I am glad
too,’ thought his pupil, but he did not say so, and soon after retired
to rest.

“The sleep of innocent youth is ever sound, and a severe storm which
arose had been raging some time before it broke his deep slumber.

“He started from his pillow, and his first thoughts were fears for his
parents’ safety. The wind roared fearfully, and the rain beat in
torrents against his chamber window. He looked out on the thick darkness
that obscured every object, and his heart sunk within him at the dreary
view. Overcome with the distress of his feelings, he leaned against the
casement, and gave vent to the friendly tears that often relieve the
sadness of boyhood. Suddenly a faint and distant flash of light broke
through the gloom. It was gone, but a sound followed which, even amid
the howling of the storm, could not be mistaken. It struck on the ear of
the weeping boy, with startling certainty.

“‘It is, oh! yes, it is a signal gun of distress, oh! my mother! my
father!’ and sinking on his knees, he breathed an agonized prayer for
their safety, then starting to his feet, he hastily threw on his
clothes, and hurried down stairs without knowing his object. The house
stood near the river, and on opening the door he saw some person moving
along the bank. He approached; it was the chief. ‘Is it you, Wiccónsat?
oh! what a night!’ The Indian pressed his hand in gloomy silence, and
stood in a listening attitude, with his face turned towards that part of
the horizon from whence the flash had appeared. Another gleamed across
the dismal night, and the sullen peal that followed, fell, like the bolt
of death, on their hearts.

“‘It is a call for aid,’ exclaimed the chief, ‘and perhaps thy mother’s
life is in danger.’ ‘And my father’s too,’ added the shuddering boy.
‘Alas! Wiccónsat, what can we do?’ ‘I follow that light,’ he answered,
as the flash of another minute gun shone.

“‘Oh! take me then with you, good chief, leave me not here in suspense!’

“‘Alas! my boy, this stormy night ill suits thy tender frame. Wait thou
till morning breaks, then thou canst follow with some of the townsmen.
The light seems near the mouth of the Potomac.’

“‘Who speaks below,’ said the tutor’s voice from the window; ‘surely,
Master James, you are not out on such a night?’ ‘Indeed I am,’ replied
the youth, ‘there is a vessel in distress, it may be the Huntress, in
which my parents are expected; surely I cannot sleep now.’

“‘Well, well, if that’s the case, it’s bad enough, but I think it’s not
probable; however, I’ll be down directly.’ By this time several of the
neighbours had joined them, and they determined to proceed in the
supposed direction of the vessel. By the first dawn of light they found
themselves on the shore of the Potomac river, near its entrance into the
Chesapeake Bay. The rain had ceased, and daylight, as it broke from the
clouded east, shewed to their anxious gaze, a dismasted vessel, which
appeared in a wrecked and sinking state. Two boats, crowded with the
crew and passengers, were seen contending with the raging waves,
endeavouring to reach the land. Some water casks which had been washed
on shore, were eagerly examined by the distressed James, to discover the
name of the vessel. It met his eye, and with a cry of terror he threw
himself into the arms of the Indian.

“‘It is the Huntress! oh! Wiccónsat! my parents will be lost!’

“‘Hast thou no confidence in the Great Being thy mother worships?’ he
softly said, as he pressed him to his breast, but his eye was fairly
fixed on one of the boats, in which he thought he could distinguish the
garments of a female. The foaming waters seemed to threaten instant
destruction to the frail barques, as they tost from wave to wave,
sometimes half hid in the surf that broke over them. At this moment a
mingled cry reached the shore, and but one boat was seen, the other was
’whelmed beneath the waters. Wiccónsat broke from the clinging arms of
the youth, and plunged into the waves. For some time he was lost to
their view, but his strong and sinewy arms forced a passage to the scene
of distress, and in a short time he was seen returning, supporting, with
one arm, the form of a female. The young James, who had been forcibly
withheld from following, now rushed to meet him, and Rosalie (for it was
she) opened her eyes to be clasped to the bosom of her son. She lived,
she breathed, and the first word that trembled on her lips was the name
of her husband. Scarcely had she spoken, ere the generous chief had
again thrown himself into the waves. But his strength was exhausted by
previous exertion, and when, with difficulty, he had nearly reached the
overturned boat to which the husband of Rosalie, with others, now clung,
a floating piece of the ship’s mast struck him on the temple. In the
mean time, the other boat had safely landed its crew, and was despatched
to the aid of the sufferers, who were all, with the exception of two,
saved.

“Rosalie had been conveyed to the nearest house, and restoratives were
applied, which soon brought her to a state of recollection. She
recognized with joy, the form of her husband, as he knelt by the side of
her couch, and pressed, with a mother’s fondness, the hand of her
affectionate son. But her eyes wandered around the room as if in search
of another object. ‘It was a dream then,’ she murmured, ‘it was not his,
but thy dear arm that drew thy mother from the waves.’

“‘Alas! no, it was he, the generous and the good,’ replied her son.

“‘Wiccónsat! brave chief! but why those looks of anguish; is this, my
son, a time for sorrow, when Heaven has been so kind? And my preserver,
where lingers he?’

“‘Where his bright virtues will be best rewarded,’ replied her husband,
solemnly.

“‘What mean you? Surely he is safe.’

“‘He perished in an attempt to save my life.’ She heard no more, for she
had fainted in the arms of her son, and it was long ere she revived, to
mingle with theirs her tears of unavailing regret.

“In the afternoon the body of the generous Indian was washed on shore.
With every mark of respect it was conveyed to the town, and preparations
made for its interment on the following day at the point, in a spot once
pointed out, by the chief, to young Egerton. The grief of this
affectionate boy burst without restraint, as he leaned over the body of
his departed friend, and his tears flowed afresh, when he was shown a
folded paper, which had been found in his bosom. It was wet through, and
contained the faded belt, the treasured gift of Rosalie.

“Intelligence of the sad event was conveyed to the sister of the chief,
and the next day, accompanied by her husband and sons, and several
warriors of the Youcómaco tribe, Oskwena arrived, just as the funeral
procession was moving to the grave. Time had altered this once beautiful
daughter of the forest; there was a mildness in her look of grief, as
she left the canoe, and led by her two sons, approached the open grave,
where, seating herself by its side, she silently awaited the mournful
train that bore her brother to his last home. She uttered a faint cry as
her eye rested on the coffin, and her whole frame shook with agitation,
when it was lowered from her sight.

“The chiefs arranged themselves in gloomy silence around the grave of
him, who, in early youth, had been the boast of their tribe, and heard,
rather than listened, to the funeral service. It was scarcely ended,
when the hitherto restrained grief of Oskwena burst forth. She tore from
her dishevelled locks the rude ornaments of her tribe, scattering them
on the ground, but a necklace of beads she retained in her hand, and
wept bitterly as she looked on it.

“‘It was thy gift, Wiccónsat,’ said the mourner, ‘thy face glowed with
youth and hope on the happy day thou gavest it. Our aged father blessed
his children, for he had not then passed to the spirit-land above. The
beads are bright yet, but thou art faded and gone. I can gaze on them no
more, they shall be hid with thee,’ and she dropped them into the grave.
The spectators looked on her with pity and disturbed her not, as in a
low voice she chaunted a wild funeral melody. When she ceased, several
young maidens of St. Mary’s, arrayed in white, approached, and scattered
flowers around the grave. The oldest son of Oskwena stood, with his
father, among the chiefs. To him the beauty of the white maidens was
new, for he had never before been allowed to visit the town.

“‘Who are they?’ he asked, eagerly leaning forward, but then the stern
Potawissa drew him back, as he replied in a low voice, ‘It matters not,
it is enough that they cannot be aught to thee. Look not on their fatal
beauty, but let that lonely grave warn thee of danger. It was hopeless
love for a pale face like theirs, that induced thy mother’s brother to
forsake the tribe that idolized him; to lead a life of solitude, and at
last to perish for her sake. And now he sleeps not with the bones of his
fathers, and the talk of the white man is heard by his grave, instead of
the bold death song of our chiefs. Nay, thou art gazing still; turn from
them boy,’ and suddenly drawing him round, he held him firmly until the
fair group had retired. A faint shriek from Oskwena drew his attention.
He saw the attendants were filling up the grave, and hastened to remove
her sinking form. In a few minutes the crowd had dispersed, the chiefs
again entered their boats, and young Egerton, with his father, alone
remained on the silent shore.

“The family remained but a short time in Maryland, for the health of
Rosalie had sustained a shock from which it never recovered. She faded
before the agonized view of her husband and son, and died shortly after
their return to England. As one of their descendants, I have long wished
to visit the scene of their sorrows, and in doing so, I have formed a
friendship which, believe me, dear Frank, will always be cherished in my
heart. The kind hospitality of your good uncle made me forget I was a
stranger, and though we must part in a few days, time or distance will
never erase the remembrance of my American friends.”

-----

[2] A fact.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                SONNETS.


                           BY HENRY B. HIRST.


                  GERTRUDE.

    There is a sweet expression in thy face,
      My gentle one! leading the thoughts away
      From earthliness, and this vile orb of clay,—
    Bidding my spirit in its yearnings trace
    Something immortal in the beauties there!
      I do not worship loveliness—but look
      On woman’s face, as on a speaking book,
    Where God hath stamped his image clear and fair!
    And thine is one so radiant of him,
      So calm and pure, one cannot fail to see
      Such purity of soul portrayed in thee,
    That other faces by thy side grow dim,
      And, bowing down unto thy brighter worth,
      I deem thee one too fair and chaste for earth!

                  IANTHE.

    High thoughts are chiseled on that lofty brow!
      Proud consciousness of virtue in thy smile!
      Thy cheeks, the blush of, speaks thee free from guile;
    Thine eyes have in their spiritual flow,
    A dignity and grandeur, and a glow
      Which lift the gazer’s spirit up on high,
      As soars the eagle to the sun-lit sky!
    Thou art a thing to worship! and I throw
    My soaring spirit conquered at thy feet,—
      But not to beauty, tho’ ’tis unsurpassed,
      But to the wealth of intellect ’tis cast;
    Deeming the earth beneath the proudest seat,
    Where I would sit, and on perfection gaze,
    Sunning my soul beneath thine eyes’ soft rays!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                        THE MOONLIGHT FLITTING;


                            OR, THE MISTAKE.


                        BY ELIZA VAN HORN ELLIS.


                               CHAPTER I.

The moon shone serenely clear over hill and dale, her silver rays
playing on the dull gray earth with sportive fancy, while not a zephyr
seemed upon the wing, and all nature slumbered in the stillness of a
warm summer evening, when, from one of the neat white cottages of the
village of ——, issued two figures, completely enveloped in cloaks,
notwithstanding the thermometer stood at nearly ninety. Not a word was
spoken, but with stealthy steps they chased their shadows along the
silent streets for a good half mile; although twice or thrice one of the
figures paused and heaved convulsively, whether from lack of breath or
agitation seemed doubtful. At length they stopped before a cottage,
whose proximity to the church bespoke the _parsonage_; a light twinkled
through the casement; the muffled fugitives rapt gently at the door; it
was opened, and they entered.

The old moss-grown church clock had just proclaimed, in solemn tones,
the hour of nine, on the next morning, when two ladies, whose looks
bespoke them far upon the road of _time_—clad in black silk bonnets and
mitts—came slowly down the streets, shaded by the spreading elms. These
good gossips appeared deeply engaged in conversation, looking so
intently into each other’s face, that sundry fowls, young pigs, and
small dogs miraculously escaped a sudden and violent death.

“Can you believe it yet, Mrs. Potts?” cried the lesser of the two
ladies; “such a reflection upon our quiet village—good gracious and
powers! preserve us from such assurance.” Thus saying, she rolled up the
balls of her eyes, and clasped her hands together with pious fervor.

“Not only that, my dear Miss Clapper, but such an example to the
daughters of the place!” and Mrs. Potts sighed, as she thought of her
six damsels, who still remained in single blessedness, notwithstanding
the many little innocent manœuvres to which mammas will sometimes have
recourse.

“Yes, indeed, it behoves you, Mrs. Potts, to keep a sharp look-out. Will
you visit her—the good-for-naught?”

“W-e-ll, what do you think about it? If _we_ cut her all the village
will. What say you?”

“To be sure, to be sure, that’s true; her place in society depends upon
_us_, my dear. She gives such pleasant parties, such excellent soft
waffles, and then one meets sometimes such agreeable people from the
city there, which gives the girls a chance, you know, (winking
knowingly,) that it would be a pity to throw her off.”

“I agree with you, my dear Miss Clapper—and—after all, she’s honestly
married, although she stole away, like a thief in the night.”

“Suppose we just stop and ask Katy a few questions. May be they wish to
keep it a secret. Here we are by the house—shall we stop?”

“I have no objections, my dear; but you’ll get nothing out of that piece
of sour-crout.”

“I’ll pump her; leave me alone for _that_.”

Accordingly the two loving, neighborly gossips rapt at the door of the
white cottage from whence had stolen forth the fugitives the night
previous.

The loud knock announced the aristocracy of the village; the door
opened, and the sharp bluish features of Katy filled up the aperture.
Her small _gravy_ eyes blinked for a moment when she beheld the
visitors; the next Katy stood the personification of gravity.

“Well, Katy,” cried Miss Clapper, in her most dulcet tones, “how _do_
you do this fine morn? all well, I hope,” making an effort to open wider
the door.

“Why, yes, Miss; a very fine morning, and we are all well, thanks be to
goodness,” answered Katy, holding the door still closer, and protruding
her nose still farther, so that the sudden slam of the door would have
deprived that venerable spinster of that most conspicuous of all
features, a _red nose_. “Sorry I can’t ask you both in—but nobody’s
home.”

“Ah! so, then, it’s true, what we heard this morning,” said Mrs. Potts.

“Can’t say, indeed, Marm, as I don’t know what you might have heard.”

“Oh! only that your mistress ran off last night and was married, and
went away this morning in the village hack,” almost screamed Miss
Clapper.

“And so my mistress _is_ married, and I know some that would like to be
in her shoes, if they could but get the chance.”

“Well, well, Katy, no offence is meant,” cried Mrs. Potts; “when will
the bride be home?”

“She bade me tell you, Marm, and Miss Clapper, (and she wants you to
tell the village) that on Thursday evening the doors will be thrown open
and the candles lighted, and you will see _her_ and _plenty_ of wedding
cake and good wine.” Thus saying, she gently closed the door.

“So! it’s no secret after all,” cried Mrs. Potts; “Katy made no bones at
confession.”

“No! the old she devil! how I hate that creature—she always _Miss-es_
one so—never calls me any thing but _Miss_!—_Miss!_—She shan’t read
it on my tomb-stone, if I can help it,” muttered _Miss_ Clapper.

Faithfully did these village circulars perform their agreeable task.
Before the sun sank to rest, every individual, from the lady of the
member of the legislature to the shoe-black in the inn, had heard the
news, and had formed dreams of the coming event. The bride and
bride-cake—beaux and belles, had been reviewed in the mind’s eye o’er
and o’er again.


                              CHAPTER II.

When a young man, Mr. Hopkins arrived upon the spot where now stands the
village of ——, with his bundle upon his stick, his sole fortune. He
became what may be termed a squatter. It was then a dreary waste of
girdled trees, and patches covered with black stumps. But his untiring
perseverance and systematic industry were rewarded in time by beholding,
from his cottage door, the fields of waving corn and the golden wheat,
where once lurked the savage and prowled the ravenous beast.

In course of time, the place became settled; the present village sprang
into existence; Mr. Hopkins “grew with its growth, and strengthened with
its strength;” in short, Mr. Hopkins became a rich man, and consequently
a man of consequence.

Mrs. Hopkins (poor good soul) died ere she could enjoy the wealth that
her patient labors had assisted her husband in accumulating. She left
one daughter, christened Dinah, and two sons. Upon the death of the “old
man,” the sons moved to a strange land, (that is, about a hundred miles
from their native vale.) Miss Dinah, or rather Diana, as she chose to be
called, after the immortal Die Vernon, remained upon the “old place,” to
uphold, as she properly said, the dignity of the Hopkinses.

Thus years wore away. Miss Die became the tyrant of fashion in her own
village. She read Shakspeare, doated on Byron, and was subdued by Sir
Walter Scott’s works. She languished and quoted poetry for nearly forty
years. In youth, she scorned the rustic beaux that kneeled at her
shrine; and, as years sped onward, none “bowed nor told their tale of
love,” until, at length, Miss Die began seriously to think of a visit to
her brothers, when the kind _fates_ brought Mr. Micalf to the village,
and there left him to the mercy of Cupid.

The _major_ (as he was familiarly called) was rather short of stature,
with an alderman’s corpulency,—famous for his good-nature, intolerable
indolence, and devotion to whiskey-punch and the noxious weed. Being
asthmatic, he seldom had recourse to any exertion—a long walk would
cause him to puff and blow at least for a minute, ere he could catch
breath to utter a word. Still Mr. Micalf found breath enough to become a
successful wooer—and Miss Die persuaded her swain to elope with her by
moonlight, as she could never survive the stare of the plebeians by the
light of “gaudy day.”

It ever remained a doubt in the village, what was the exact age of the
major. Many were of an opinion that sixty winters had frosted his brow.
Others again asserted that he did not number, by a score, as many years
as his bride. These latter, however, were the ladies.

Thursday arrived—and, after a weary watching from many a beaming eye,
the sun at length disappeared behind the distant mountains, and twilight
gently threw over the glowing sky its mantle of sombre gray. Lights
flitted to and fro through the houses; an unusual bustle hummed through
the quiet streets; the horses, disturbed after a day of labor, to be
brought forth and harnessed to whatever vehicle their masters could
boast of possessing, hung down their weary heads, with slow and measured
steps patiently submitting to the yoke of bondage.

The sudden glare of lights, that streamed through the casements of the
white cottage over the gravel walks, announced that preparations had
ceased, and that visitors were momentarily expected.

There was the bride, her tall gaunt figure arrayed in white, flitting
from room to room, not knowing where to station herself to make the best
impression, and inwardly chafing at the perfume of tobacco that met her
olfactory nerves, and the loss of her reticule, wherein were the keys of
sundry closets and so forth, when the door opened and Mr., Mrs., and the
four Misses Potts, with Miss Clapper, beheld the bride upon knees and
hands, looking under an immense old-fashioned settee for her lost
treasure.

Mrs. Micalf looked up, sprang to her feet, uttered a faint scream, and
for a moment hid her face—then yielded her cheek to the salutations of
the six ladies, and with much coyness permitted Mr. Potts to touch the
tip of her ear.

“Well, I declare, I think you served us a pretty trick, Mrs. Micalf—a
lady of your years to make a moonlight flitting—oh, fie!” cried Miss
Clapper, in a querulous voice.

“Oh, spare me, dear friends; I feel the full force of the imprudence of
the step. But be this my excuse, ‘I’ve scanned the actions of his daily
life,’ and flatter myself I have secured happiness.”

“And Mr. Micalf to steal away so—he who hates walking so. Why, I
thought it would almost have killed him to walk so far.”

“You are right, old lady,” cried the groom, who had entered unperceived,
and slapping Miss Clapper upon the shoulder; “I can’t believe it yet; I
haven’t drawn a long breath since—wheugh!—But Die would not be married
any other way, though I told her we were making a couple of old fools of
ourselves—wheugh—u—u—Never mind, Die, don’t be cast down at being
called old—we all know you were young once! ha, ha! wheugh—u! Come,
Potts, let’s go and drink good luck to midnight walks.”

“Mr. Micalf is so boisterous when he is in good spirits, and he does so
love to plague me!” cried the bride, the quivering of her nostrils and
upper lip expressing the workings of the inward passions.

Knock succeeded knock, and the influx of visitors, with the oft-repeated
“wish you joy, wish you joy,” soon restored harmony to the spirits of
the bride, who was in extacies at the crowd that had gathered around
her. She quoted poetry, right and left; forgot, for the moment, that
tobacco and punch existed; and some assert that even the major was
forgotten! That was but scandal, however. Nevertheless, the major
enjoyed seven pipes and five tumblers of punch, without once hearing the
sound of Die’s voice; a luxury which, in the warmth of his feelings he
solemnly whispered to Potts, had not been permitted him since his
moonlight trip.

The hours sped onward—the merry laugh that rang so loud and clear from
the midst of a group of young folks who were playing “hunt the slipper,”
“my lady’s toilette,” &c. caused the heads of the matrons to turn from
each other in high displeasure at the interruption of some tale of
scandal!

The happiest moments, still the fleetest!—the hour arrived—the guests
departed, and the mistress of the _fairy_ scene began to wonder what had
become of her lord. Looking through the empty rooms, peering in every
corner by the aid of a feeble night-lamp, and almost suffocated with the
vapor of candle-snuff, she was startled by the sonorous notes from her
husband’s nasal organ. “I do believe the ass has gone to bed,” she
mentally ejaculated. Rushing into her room, she beheld the head of the
major, with his blue and white night-cap snugly resting upon her fine
linen _day_ pillow-cases. Jerking the pillows from under the offending
head, she screamed:

“Major! why, Micalf, you are sleeping upon my beautiful cases with real
thread-lace borders!”

“Bless me, what is the matter? Is the house on fire? O Lord, I smell
smoke—fire!—fire!”

“Do be quiet now, and don’t make a fool of yourself; it’s only the
pillow I wanted.”

“Oh, Die! is that you? You have frightened the very life out of me. Give
me something to put under my head; my neck is almost broke.”

“There, my dear, is the night pillow. Now, never presume to go to bed
again, until the cover is turned down and the day cases removed,
and—bless me, how you have tossed the bed! Why, major, major, are you
asleep already?”

“What is it, for heaven’s sake? Am I never to know what rest is again?”

“But, my dear—major, I say, shall I tuck you up snugly?”

“No! the devil! I don’t want to be reminded of my coffin every night by
being tucked up,” and away went the clothes from the foot and side. “Oh,
how I wish——” groaned the major, as Mrs. Micalf again patiently
smoothed them down. The wish died upon his tongue, but it was embodied
in his dreams:—Once more he was the quiet possessor of the snug little
room, and no less snug little bed, at the “Full Moon,” the atmosphere
dense with tobacco-smoke and the vapor of whiskey-punch regaling his
nose—when the shrill, sharp voice of his help-meet, at dawn of day,
dispelled the illusion, and, with the sun, he arose with the comfortable
thought that he was not the only being that had sold peace and happiness
for _gold_. And, ere the honey-moon had expired, Mr. and Mrs. Micalf
began to perceive that they had made a great mistake in their moonlight
flitting.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                    I NEVER HAVE BEEN FALSE TO THEE.


                              A NEW SONG.


                          BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.


    I never have been false to thee!
      The heart I gave thee still is thine;
    Though thou hast been untrue to me,
      And I no more may call thee mine!
    I’ve loved, as woman ever loves,
      With constant soul in good or ill:—
    Thou’st proved, as man too often proves,
      A rover—but I love thee still!

    Yet think not that my spirit stoops
      To bind thee captive in my train!—
    Love’s not a flower, at sunset droops,
      But smiles when comes her god again!
    Thy words, which fall unheeded now,
      Could once my heart-strings madly thrill!
    Love’s golden chain and burning vow
      Are broken—but I love thee still!

    Once what a heaven of bliss was ours,
      When love dispelled the clouds of care,
    And time went by with birds and flowers,
      While song and incense filled the air!—
    The past is mine—the present thine—
      Should thoughts of me thy future fill,
    Think what a destiny is mine,
      To lose—but love thee, false one, still!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                        A CHAPTER ON AUTOGRAPHY.


                                   BY


[Illustration: signature of Edgar A. Poe]

Under this head, some years ago, there appeared, in the Southern
Literary Messenger, an article which attracted very general attention,
not less from the nature of its subject than from the peculiar manner in
which it was handled. The editor introduces his readers to a certain Mr.
Joseph Miller, who, it is hinted, is not merely a descendant of the
illustrious Joe, of Jest-Book notoriety, but that identical individual
in proper person. Upon this point, however, an air of uncertainty is
thrown by means of an equivoque, maintained throughout the paper, in
respect to Mr. Miller’s middle name. This equivoque is put into the
mouth of Mr. M. himself. He gives his name, in the first instance, as
Joseph A. Miller; but, in the course of conversation, shifts it to
Joseph B., then to Joseph C., and so on through the whole alphabet,
until he concludes by desiring a copy of the Magazine to be sent to his
address as Joseph Z. Miller, Esquire.

The object of his visit to the editor is to place in his hands the
autographs of certain distinguished American _literati_. To these
persons he had written rigmarole letters on various topics, and in all
cases had been successful in eliciting a reply. The replies only (which
it is scarcely necessary to say are all fictitious) are given in the
Magazine, with a genuine autograph fac-simile appended, and are either
burlesques of the supposed writer’s usual style, or rendered otherwise
absurd by reference to the nonsensical questions imagined to have been
propounded by Mr. Miller. The autographs thus given are twenty-six in
all—corresponding to the twenty-six variations in the initial letter of
the hoaxer’s middle name.

With the public this article took amazingly well, and many of our
principal papers were at the expense of re-printing it with the wood-cut
autographs. Even those whose names had been introduced, and whose style
had been burlesqued, took the joke, generally speaking, in good part.
Some of them were at a loss what to make of the matter. Dr. W. E.
Channing, of Boston, was at some trouble, it is said, in calling to mind
whether he had or had not actually written to some Mr. Joseph Miller the
letter attributed to him in the article. This letter was nothing more
than what follows:—

                                                       Boston, ——.

    Dear Sir,

    No such person as Philip Philpot has ever been in my employ as a
    coachman, or otherwise. The name is an odd one, and not likely
    to be forgotten. The man must have reference to some other
    Doctor Channing. It would be as well to question him closely.

                                             Respectfully yours,
                                                   W. E. CHANNING.
     To Joseph X. Miller, Esq.

The precise and brief sententiousness of the divine is here, it will be
seen, very truly adopted, or “hit off.”

In one instance only was the _jeu-d’esprit_ taken in serious dudgeon.
Colonel Stone and the Messenger had not been upon the best of terms.
Some one of the Colonel’s little brochures had been severely treated by
that journal, which declared that the work would have been far more
properly published among the quack advertisements in a spare corner of
the Commercial. The colonel had retaliated by wholesale vituperation of
the Messenger. This being the state of affairs, it was not to be
wondered at that the following epistle was not quietly received on the
part of him to whom it was attributed:—

                                                     New York, ——.

    Dear Sir,

    I am exceedingly and excessively sorry that it is out of my
    power to comply with your rational and reasonable request. The
    subject you mention is one with which I am utterly unacquainted.
    Moreover it is one about which I know very little.

                                                   Respectfully,
                                                      W. L. STONE.
     Joseph V. Miller, Esq.

These tautologies and anti-climaces were too much for the colonel, and
we are ashamed to say that he committed himself by publishing in the
Commercial an indignant denial of ever having indited such an epistle.

The principal feature of this autograph article, although perhaps the
least interesting, was that of the editorial comment upon the supposed
MSS., regarding them as indicative of character. In these comments the
design was never more than semi-serious. At times, too, the writer was
evidently led into error or injustice through the desire of being
pungent—not unfrequently sacrificing truth for the sake of a _bon-mot_.
In this manner qualities were often attributed to individuals, which
were not so much indicated by their hand-writing, as suggested by the
spleen of the commentator. But that a strong analogy _does_ generally
and naturally exist between every man’s chirography and character, will
be denied by none but the unreflecting. It is not our purpose, however,
to enter into the _philosophy_ of this subject, either in this portion
of the present paper, or in the abstract. What we may have to say will
be introduced elsewhere, and in connection with particular MSS. The
practical application of the theory will thus go hand in hand with the
theory itself.

Our design is three-fold:—In the first place, seriously to illustrate
our position that the mental features are indicated (with certain
exceptions) by the hand-writing; secondly, to indulge in a little
literary gossip; and, thirdly, to furnish our readers with a more
accurate and at the same time a more general collection of the
autographs of our _literati_ than is to be found elsewhere. Of the first
portion of this design we have already spoken. The second speaks for
itself. Of the third it is only necessary to say that we are confident
of its interest for all lovers of literature. Next to the person of a
distinguished man-of-letters, we desire to see his portrait—next to his
portrait, his autograph. In the latter, especially, there is something
which seems to bring him before us in his true idiosyncrasy—in his
character of _scribe_. The feeling which prompts to the collection of
autographs is a natural and rational one. But complete, or even
extensive collections, are beyond the reach of those who themselves do
not dabble in the waters of literature. The writer of this article has
had opportunities, in this way, enjoyed by few. The MSS. now lying
before him are a motley mass indeed. Here are letters, or other
compositions, from every individual in America who has the slightest
pretension to literary celebrity. From these we propose to select the
most eminent names—as to give _all_ would be a work of supererogation.
Unquestionably, among those whose claims we are forced to postpone, are
several whose high _merit_ might justly demand a different treatment;
but the rule applicable in a case like this seems to be that of
celebrity, rather than that of true worth. It will be understood that,
in the necessity of selection which circumstances impose upon us, we
confine ourselves _to the most noted among the living literati of the
country_. The article above alluded to, embraced, as we have already
stated, only twenty-six names, and was not occupied _exclusively_ either
with living persons, or, properly speaking, with literary ones. In fact
the whole paper seemed to acknowledge no law beyond that of whim. Our
present essay will be found to include _one hundred autographs_. We have
thought it unnecessary to preserve any particular order in their
arrangement.

[Illustration: signature of Chas (Charles) Anthon]

Professor Charles Anthon, of Columbia College, New York, is well known
as the most erudite of our classical scholars; and, although still a
young man, there are few, if any, even in Europe, who surpass him in his
peculiar path of knowledge. In England his supremacy has been tacitly
acknowledged by the immediate re-publication of his editions of Cæsar,
Sallust, and Cicero, with other works, and their adoption as text-books
at Oxford and Cambridge. His amplification of Lemprière did him high
honor, but, of late, has been entirely superseded by a Classical
Dictionary of his own—a work most remarkable for the extent and
comprehensiveness of its details, as well as for its historical,
chronological, mythological, and philological _accuracy_. It has at once
completely overshadowed every thing of its kind. It follows, as a matter
of course, that Mr. Anthon has many little enemies, among the inditers
of merely big books. He has not been unassailed, yet has assuredly
remained uninjured in the estimation of all those whose opinion he would
be likely to value. We do not mean to say that he is altogether without
faults, but a certain antique Johnsonism of style is perhaps one of his
worst. He was mainly instrumental (with Professor Henry and Dr. Hawks)
in setting on foot the New York Review, a journal of which he is the
most efficient literary support, and whose most erudite papers have
always been furnished by his pen.

The chirography of Professor Anthon is the most regularly beautiful of
any in our collection. We see the most scrupulous precision, finish, and
neatness about every portion of it—in the formation of individual
letters, as well as in the _tout-ensemble_. The perfect symmetry of the
MS. gives it, to a casual glance, the appearance of Italic print. The
lines are quite straight, and at exactly equal distances, yet are
written without black rules, or other artificial aid. There is not the
slightest superfluity, in the way of flourish or otherwise, with the
exception of the twirl in the C of the signature. Yet the whole is
rather neat and graceful than forcible. Of four letters now lying before
us, one is written on pink, one on a faint blue, one on green, and one
on yellow paper—all of the finest quality. The seal is of green wax,
with an impression of the head of Cæsar.

It is in the chirography of such men as Professor Anthon that we look
with certainty for indication of character. The life of a scholar is
mostly undisturbed by those adventitious events which distort the
natural disposition of the man of the world, preventing his real nature
from manifesting itself in his MS. The lawyer, who, pressed for time, is
often forced to embody a world of heterogeneous memoranda, on scraps of
paper, with the stumps of all varieties of pen, will soon find the fair
characters of his boyhood degenerate into hieroglyphics which would
puzzle Doctor Wallis or Champollion; and from chirography so disturbed
it is nearly impossible to decide any thing. In a similar manner, men
who pass through many striking vicissitudes of life, acquire in each
change of circumstance a temporary inflection of the hand-writing; the
whole resulting, after many years, in an unformed or variable MS.,
scarcely to be recognised by themselves from one day to the other. In
the case of literary men generally, we may expect some decisive token of
the mental influence upon the MS., and in the instance of the classical
devotee we may look with _especial_ certainty for such token. We see,
accordingly, in Professor Anthon’s autography, each and all of the known
idiosyncrasies of his taste and intellect. We recognise at once the
scrupulous precision and finish of his scholarship and of his style—the
love of elegance which prompts him to surround himself, in his private
study, with gems of sculptural art, and beautifully bound volumes, all
arranged with elaborate attention to form, and in the very pedantry of
neatness. We perceive, too, the disdain of superfluous embellishment
which distinguishes his compilations, and which gives to their exterior
appearance so marked an air of Quakerism. We must not forget to observe
that the “want of force” is a want as perceptible in the whole character
of the man, as in that of the MS.

[Illustration: signature of Washington Irving]

The MS. of Mr. Irving has little about it indicative of his genius.
Certainly, no one could suspect from it any nice _finish_ in the
writer’s compositions; nor is this nice finish to be found. The letters
now before us vary remarkably in appearance; and those of late date are
not nearly so well written as the more antique. Mr. Irving has travelled
much, has seen many vicissitudes, and has been so thoroughly satiated
with fame as to grow slovenly in the performance of his literary tasks.
This slovenliness has affected his hand-writing. But even from his
earlier MSS. there is little to be gleaned, except the ideas of
simplicity and precision. It must be admitted, however, that this fact,
in itself, is characteristic of the literary manner, which, however
excellent, has no prominent or very remarkable features.

[Illustration: signature of Park Benjamin]

For the last six or seven years, few men have occupied a more desirable
position among us than Mr. Benjamin. As the editor of the American
Monthly Magazine, of the New Yorker, and more lately of the Signal, and
New World, he has exerted an influence scarcely second to that of any
editor in the country. This influence Mr. B. owes to no single cause,
but to his combined ability, activity, causticity, fearlessness, and
independence. We use the latter term, however, with some mental
reservation. The editor of the World is independent so far as the word
implies unshaken resolution to follow the bent of one’s own will, let
the consequences be what they may. He is no respecter of persons, and
his vituperation as often assails the powerful as the powerless—indeed
the latter fall rarely under his censure. But we cannot call his
independence, at all times, that of principle. We can never be sure that
he will defend a cause merely because it is the cause of truth—or even
because he regards it as such. He is too frequently biassed by personal
feelings—feelings now of friendship, and again of vindictiveness. He is
a warm friend, and a bitter, but not implacable enemy. His judgment in
literary matters should not be questioned, but there is some difficulty
in getting at his real opinion. As a prose writer, his style is lucid,
terse, and pungent. He is often witty, often cuttingly sarcastic, but
seldom humorous. He frequently injures the force of his fiercest attacks
by an indulgence in merely vituperative epithets. As a poet, he is
entitled to far higher consideration than that in which he is ordinarily
held. He is skilful and passionate, as well as imaginative. His sonnets
have not been surpassed. In short, it is as a poet that his better
genius is evinced—it is in poetry that his noble spirit breaks forth,
showing what the man is, and what, but for unhappy circumstances, he
would invariably appear.

Mr. Benjamin’s MS. is not very dissimilar to Mr. Irving’s, and, like
his, it has no doubt been greatly modified by the excitements of life,
and by the necessity of writing much and hastily; so that we can
predicate but little respecting it. It speaks of his exquisite
sensibility and passion. These betray themselves in the nervous
variation of the MS. as the subject is diversified. When the theme is an
ordinary one, the writing is legible and has force; but when it verges
upon any thing which may be supposed to excite, we see the characters
falter as they proceed. In the MSS. of some of his best poems this
peculiarity is very remarkable. The signature conveys the idea of his
_usual_ chirography.

[Illustration: signature of John P. Kennedy]

Mr. Kennedy is well known as the author of “Swallow Barn,” “Horse-Shoe
Robinson,” and “Rob of the Bowl,” three works whose features are
strongly and decidedly marked. These features are boldness and force of
thought, (disdaining ordinary embellishment, and depending for its
effect upon masses rather than upon details) with a predominant _sense
of the picturesque_ pervading and giving color to the whole. His
“Swallow Barn,” in especial (and it is by the first effort of an author
that we form the truest idea of his mental bias), is but a rich
succession of picturesque still-life pieces. Mr. Kennedy is well to do
in the world, and has always taken the world easily. We may therefore
expect to find in his chirography, if ever in any, a full indication of
the chief feature of his literary style—especially as this chief
feature is so remarkably prominent. A glance at his signature will
convince any one that the indication is to be found. A painter called
upon to designate the main peculiarity of this MS. would speak at once
of the _picturesque_. This character is given it by the absence of
hair-strokes, and by the abrupt termination of every letter without
tapering; also in great measure by varying the size and slope of the
letters. Great uniformity is preserved in the whole air of the MS., with
great variety in the constituent parts. Every character has the
clearness, boldness and precision of a wood-cut. The long letters do not
rise or fall in an undue degree above the others. Upon the whole, this
is a hand which pleases us much, although its _bizarrerie_ is rather too
piquant for the general taste. Should its writer devote himself more
exclusively to light letters, we predict his future eminence. The paper
on which our epistles are written is very fine, clear, and _white_, with
gilt edges. The seal is neat, and just sufficient wax has been used for
the impression. All this betokens a love of the elegant without
effeminacy.

[Illustration: signature of G: Mellen]

The hand-writing of Grenville Mellen is somewhat peculiar, and partakes
largely of the character of his signature as seen above. The whole is
highly indicative of the poet’s flighty, hyper-fanciful character, with
his unsettled and often erroneous ideas of the beautiful. His straining
after effect is well paralleled in the formation of the preposterous G
in the signature, with the two dots by its side. Mr. Mellen has genius
unquestionably, but there is something in his temperament which obscures
it.[3]

-----

[3] Since this article was prepared for the press, we have been grieved
to hear of the death of Mr. Mellen.

[Illustration: signature of J K Paulding]

No correct notion of Mr. Paulding’s literary peculiarities can be
obtained from an inspection of his MS., which, no doubt, has been
strongly modified by adventitious circumstances. His small _a_s, _t_s,
and _c_s are all alike, and the style of the characters generally is
French, although the entire MS. has much the appearance of Greek text.
The paper which he ordinarily uses is of a very fine glossy texture, and
of a blue tint, with gilt edges. His signature is a good specimen of his
general hand.

[Illustration: signature of L. H. Sigourney]

Mrs. Sigourney seems to take much pains with her MSS. Apparently she
employs _black lines_. Every _t_ is crossed, and every _i_ dotted, with
precision, while the punctuation is faultless. Yet the whole has nothing
of effeminacy or formality. The individual characters are large, well
and freely formed, and preserve a perfect uniformity throughout.
Something in her hand-writing puts us in mind of Mr. Paulding’s. In both
MSS. perfect regularity exists, and in both the style is _formed_ or
_decided_. Both are beautiful; yet Mrs. Sigourney’s is the most legible,
and Mr. Paulding’s nearly the most illegible in the world. From that of
Mrs. S. we might easily form a true estimate of her compositions.
Freedom, dignity, precision, and grace, without originality, may be
properly attributed to her. She has fine taste, without genius. Her
paper is usually good—the seal small, of green and gold wax, and
without impression.

[Illustration: signature of Robert Walsh]

Mr. Walsh’s MS. is peculiar, from its large, sprawling and irregular
appearance—rather rotund than angular. It always seems to have been
hurriedly written. The _t_s are crossed with a sweeping scratch of the
pen, which gives to his epistles a somewhat droll appearance. A
_dictatorial_ air pervades the whole. His paper is of ordinary quality.
His seal is commonly of brown wax mingled with gold, and bears a Latin
motto, of which only the words _trans_ and _mortuus_ are legible.

Mr. Walsh cannot be denied talent; but his reputation, which has been
bolstered into being by a _clique_, is not a thing to live. A blustering
self-conceit betrays itself in his chirography, which upon the whole, is
not very dissimilar to that of Mr. E. Everett, of whom we shall speak
hereafter.

[Illustration: signature of J H Ingraham]

Mr. Ingraham, or Ingrahame, (for he writes his name sometimes with, and
sometimes without the _e_,) is one of our most _popular_ novelists, if
not one of our best. He appeals always to the taste of the
ultra-romanticists, (as a matter, we believe, rather of pecuniary policy
than of choice) and thus is obnoxious to the charge of a certain
cut-and-thrust, blue-fire, melodramaticism. Still, he is capable of
better things. His chirography is very unequal; at times, sufficiently
clear and flowing, at others, shockingly scratchy and uncouth. From it
nothing whatever can be predicated, except an uneasy vacillation of
temper and of purpose.

[Illustration: signature of W C Bryant]

Mr. Bryant’s MS. puts us entirely at fault. It is one of the most
common-place clerk’s hands which we ever encountered, and has no
character about it beyond that of the day-book and ledger. He writes, in
short, what mercantile men and professional pen-men call a fair hand,
but what artists would term an abominable one. Among its regular up and
down strokes, waving lines and hair-lines, systematic taperings and
flourishes, we look in vain for the force, polish, and decision of the
poet. The _picturesque_, to be sure, is equally deficient in his
chirography and in his poetical productions.

[Illustration: signature of Fitz-Greene Halleck]

Mr. Halleck’s hand is strikingly indicative of his genius. We see in it
some force, more grace, and little of the picturesque. There is a great
deal of freedom about it, and his MSS. seem to be written _currente
calamo_, but without hurry. His flourishes, which are not many, look as
if thoughtfully planned, and deliberately, yet firmly executed. His
paper is very good, and of a blueish tint—his seal of red wax.

[Illustration: signature of N. P. Willis.]

Mr. Willis, when writing carefully, would write a hand nearly resembling
that of Mr. Halleck; although no similarity is perceptible in the
signatures. His usual chirography is dashing, free, and not ungraceful,
but is sadly deficient in force and picturesqueness.

It has been the fate of this gentleman to be alternately condemned _ad
infinitum_, and lauded _ad nauseam_—a fact which speaks much in his
praise. We know of no American writer who has evinced greater
versatility of talent; that is to say, of high talent, often amounting
to genius; and we know of none who has more narrowly missed placing
himself at the head of our letters.

The paper of Mr. Willis’ epistles is always fine, and glossy. At
present, he employs a somewhat large seal, with a dove, or
carrier-pigeon, at the top, the word “Glenmary” at bottom, and the
initials “N. P. W.” in the middle.

[Illustration: signature of Rufus Dawes]

Mr. Dawes has been long known as a poet; but his claims are scarcely yet
settled—his friends giving him rank with Bryant and Halleck, while his
opponents treat his pretensions with contempt. The truth is, that the
author of “Geraldine” and “Athenia of Damascus” has written occasional
verses very well—so well, that some of his minor pieces may be
considered equal to any of the minor pieces of either of the two
gentlemen above-mentioned. His longer poems, however, will not bear
examination. “Athenia of Damascus” is pompous nonsense, and “Geraldine”
a most ridiculous imitation of Don Juan, in which the beauties of the
original have been as sedulously avoided, as the blemishes have been
blunderingly culled. In style, he is, perhaps, the most inflated,
involved, and falsely-figurative, of any of our more noted poets. This
defect, of course, is only fully appreciable in what are termed his
“sustained efforts,” and thus his shorter pieces are often exceedingly
good. His apparent erudition is mere verbiage, and, were it real, would
be lamentably out of place where we see it. He seems to have been
infected with a blind admiration of Coleridge—especially of his
mysticism and cant.

[Illustration: signature of Henry W. Longfellow]

H. W. Longfellow, (Professor of Moral Philosophy at Harvard,) is
entitled to the first place among the poets of America—certainly to the
first place among those who have put themselves prominently forth as
poets. His good qualities are all of the highest order, while his sins
are chiefly those of affectation and imitation—an imitation sometimes
verging upon downright theft.

His MS. is remarkably good, and is fairly exemplified in the signature.
We see here plain indications of the force, vigor, and glowing richness
of his literary style; the deliberate and steady _finish_ of his
compositions. The man who writes thus may not accomplish much, but what
he does, will always be thoroughly done. The main beauty, or at least
one great beauty of his poetry, is that of _proportion_; another, is a
freedom from extraneous embellishment. He oftener runs into affectation
through his endeavors at simplicity, than through any other cause. Now
this rigid simplicity and proportion are easily perceptible in the MS.,
which, altogether, is a very excellent one.

[Illustration: signature of J. Pierpont]

The Rev. J. Pierpont, who, of late, has attracted so much of the public
attention, is one of the most accomplished poets in America. His “Airs
of Palestine” is distinguished by the sweetness and vigor of its
versification, and by the grace of its sentiments. Some of his shorter
pieces are exceedingly terse and forcible, and none of our readers can
have forgotten his Lines on Napoleon. His rhythm is at least equal in
strength and modulation to that of any poet in America. Here he
resembles Milman and Croly.

His chirography, nevertheless, indicates nothing beyond the
common-place. It is an ordinary clerk’s hand—one which is met with more
frequently than any other. It is decidedly _formed_; and we have no
doubt that he _never_ writes otherwise than thus. The MS. of his
school-days has probably been persisted in to the last. If so, the fact
is in full consonance with the steady precision of his style. The
flourish at the end of the signature is but a part of the writer’s
general enthusiasm.

[Illustration: signature of W. Gilmore Simms]

Mr. Simms is the author of “Martin Faber,” “Atalantis,” “Guy Rivers,”
“The Partisan,” “Mellichampe,” “The Yemassee,” “The Damsel of Darien,”
“The Black Riders of the Congaree,” and one or two other productions,
among which we must not forget to mention several fine poems. As a poet,
indeed, we like him far better than as a novelist. His qualities in this
latter respect _resemble_ those of Mr. Kennedy, although he equals him
in no particular, except in his appreciation of the graceful. In his
sense of beauty he is Mr. K.’s superior, but falls behind him in force,
and the other attributes of the author of Swallow Barn. These
differences and resemblances are well shown in the MSS. That of Mr. S.
has more slope, and more uniformity in detail, with less in the
mass—while it has also less of the picturesque, although still much.
The middle name is Gilm_o_re; in the cut it looks like Gilm_e_re.

[Illustration: signature of O. A. Brownson]

The Rev. Orestes A. Brownson is chiefly known to the literary world as
the editor of the “Boston Quarterly Review,” a work to which he
contributes, each quarter, at least two-thirds of the matter. He has
published little in book form—his principal works being “Charles
Elwood,” and “New Views.” Of these, the former production is, in many
respects, one of the highest merit. In logical accuracy, in
comprehensiveness of thought, and in the evident frankness and desire
for truth in which it is composed, we know of few theological treatises
which can be compared with it. Its conclusion, however, bears about it a
species of hesitation and inconsequence, which betray the fact that the
writer has not altogether succeeded in convincing himself of those
important truths which he is so anxious to impress upon his readers. We
must bear in mind, however, that this is the fault of Mr. Brownson’s
subject, and not of Mr. Brownson. However well a man may reason on the
great topics of God and immortality, he will be forced to admit tacitly
in the end, that God and immortality are things to be felt, rather than
demonstrated.

On subjects less indefinite, Mr. B. reasons with the calm and convincing
force of a Combe. He is, in every respect, an extraordinary man, and
with the more extensive resources which would have been afforded him by
early education, could not have failed to bring about important results.

His MS. indicates, in the most striking manner, the unpretending
simplicity, directness, and especially, the _indefatigability_ of his
mental character. His signature is more _petite_ than his general
chirography.

[Illustration: signature of B. Tucker]

Judge Beverly Tucker, of the College of William and Mary, Virginia, is
the author of one of the best novels ever published in America—“George
Balcombe”—although, for some reason, the book was never a popular
favorite. It was, perhaps, somewhat too didactic for the general taste.

He has written a great deal, also, for the “Southern Literary Messenger”
at different times; and, at one period, acted in part, if not
altogether, as editor of that Magazine, which is indebted to him for
some very racy articles, in the way of criticism especially. He is apt,
however, to be led away by personal feelings, and is more given to
vituperation for the mere sake of _point_ or pungency, than is
altogether consonant with his character as judge. Some five years ago
there appeared in the “Messenger,” under the editorial head, an article
on the subject of the “Pickwick Papers” and some other productions of
Mr. Dickens. This article, which abounded in well-written but
extravagant denunciation of everything composed by the author of “The
Curiosity Shop,” and which prophesied his immediate downfall, we have
reason to believe was from the pen of Judge Beverly Tucker. We take this
opportunity of mentioning the subject, because the odium of the paper in
question fell altogether upon our shoulders, and it is a burthen we are
not disposed and never intended to bear. The review appeared in March,
we think, and we had retired from the Messenger in the January
preceding. About eighteen months previously, and when Mr. Dickens was
scarcely known to the public at all, except as the author of some brief
tales and essays, the writer of this article took occasion to predict,
in the Messenger, and in the most emphatic manner, that high and just
distinction which the author in question has attained. Judge Tucker’s
MS. is diminutive, but neat and legible, and has much force and
precision, with little of the picturesque. The care which he bestows
upon his literary compositions makes itself manifest also in his
chirography. The signature is more florid than general hand.

[Illustration: signature of John Sanderson]

Mr. Sanderson, Professor of the Greek and Latin languages in the High
School of Philadelphia, is well known as the author of a series of
letters, entitled “The American in Paris.” These are distinguished by
ease and vivacity of style, with occasional profundity of observation,
and, above all, by the frequency of their illustrative anecdotes, and
figures. In all these particulars, Professor Sanderson is the precise
counterpart of Judge Beverly Tucker, author of “George Balcombe.” The
MSS. of the two gentlemen are nearly identical. Both are neat, clear and
legible. Mr. Sanderson’s is somewhat the more crowded.

[Illustration: signature of H. F. Gould.]

About Miss Gould’s MS. there is great neatness, picturesqueness, and
finish, without over-effeminacy. The literary style of one who writes
thus will always be remarkable for sententiousness and epigrammatism;
and these are the leading features of Miss Gould’s poetry.

[Illustration: signature of C. S. Henry]

Prof. Henry, of Bristol College, is chiefly known by his contributions
to our Quarterlies, and as one of the originators of the New-York
Review, in conjunction with Dr. Hawks and Professor Anthon. His
chirography is now neat and picturesque, (much resembling that of Judge
Tucker,) and now excessively scratchy, _clerky_, and slovenly—so that
it is nearly impossible to say anything respecting it, except that it
indicates a vacillating disposition, with unsettled ideas of the
beautiful. None of his epistles, in regard to their chirography, end as
well as they begin. This trait denotes _fatigability_. His signature,
which is bold and decided, conveys not the faintest idea of the general
MS.

[Illustration: signature of Emma C. Embury]

Mrs. Embury is chiefly known by her contributions to the Periodicals of
the country. She is one of the most nervous of our female writers, and
is not destitute of originality—that rarest of all qualities in a
woman, and especially in an American woman.

Her MS. evinces a strong disposition to fly off at a tangent from the
old formulæ of the Boarding Academies. Both in it, and in her literary
style, it would be well that she should no longer hesitate to discard
the absurdities of mere fashion.

[Illustration: signature of Wm. Landor.]

Mr. Landor acquired much reputation as the author of “Stanley,” a work
which was warmly commended by the press throughout the country. He has
also written many excellent papers for the Magazines. His chirography is
usually _petite_, without hair-lines, close, and somewhat stiff. Many
words are carefully erased. His epistles have always a rigorous
formality about them. The whole is strongly indicative of his literary
qualities. He is an elaborately careful, stiff, and pedantic writer,
with much affectation and great talent. Should he devote himself
ultimately to letters, he cannot fail of high success.

[Illustration: signature of Eliza Leslie]

Miss Leslie is celebrated for the homely naturalness of her stories and
for the broad satire of her comic style. She has written much for the
Magazines. Her chirography is distinguished for neatness and finish,
without over-effeminacy. It is rotund, and somewhat diminutive; the
letters being separate, and the words always finished with an inward
twirl. She is never particular about the quality of her paper or the
other externals of epistolary correspondence. From her MSS. in general,
we might suppose her solicitous rather about the effect of her
compositions as a whole, than about the polishing of the constituent
parts. There is much of the picturesque both in her chirography and in
her literary style.

[Illustration: signature of Joseph C. Neal]

Mr. Neal has acquired a very extensive reputation through his “Charcoal
Sketches,” a series of papers originally written for the “Saturday
News,” of this city, and afterwards published in book form, with
illustrations by Johnston. The whole design of the “Charcoal Sketches”
may be stated as the depicting of the wharf and street _loafer_; but
this design has been executed altogether in caricature. The extreme of
burlesque runs throughout the work, which is, also, chargeable with a
tedious repetition of slang and incident. The loafer always declaims the
same nonsense, in the same style, gets drunk in the same way, and is
taken to the watch-house after the same fashion. Reading one chapter of
the book, we read all. Any single description would have been an
original idea well executed, but the dose is repeated _ad nauseam_, and
betrays a woful poverty of invention. The manner in which Mr. Neal’s
book was belauded by his personal friends of the Philadelphia press,
speaks little for their independence, or less for their taste. To dub
the author of these “Charcoal Sketches” (which are really very excellent
police-reports) with the title of “the American Boz,” is either
outrageous nonsense, or malevolent irony.

In other respects, Mr. N. has evinced talents which cannot be
questioned. He has conducted the “Pennsylvanian” with credit, and, as a
political writer, he stands deservedly high. His MS. is simple and
legible, with much space between the words. It has force, but little
grace. Altogether, his chirography is good; but as he belongs to the
editorial corps, it would not be just to suppose that any deductions, in
respect to character, could be gleaned from it. His signature conveys
the general MS. with accuracy.

[Illustration: signature of Seba Smith]

Mr. Seba Smith has become somewhat widely celebrated as the author, in
part, of the “Letters of Major Jack Downing.” These were very clever
productions; coarse, but full of fun, wit, sarcasm and sense. Their
manner rendered them exceedingly popular, until their success tempted
into the field a host of brainless imitators. Mr. S. is also the author
of several poems; among others, of “Powhatan, a Metrical Romance,” which
we do not very particularly admire. His MS. is legible, and has much
simplicity about it. At times it vacillates, and appears unformed. Upon
the whole, it is much such a MS. as David Crockett wrote, and precisely
such a one as we might imagine would be written by a _veritable_ Jack
Downing; by Jack Downing himself, had this creature of Mr. Smith’s fancy
been endowed with a real entity. The fact is, that “The Major” is not
_all_ a creation; at least one half of his character actually exists in
the bosom of his originator. It was the Jack Downing half that composed
“Powhatan.”

[Illustration: signature of Jos. Hopkinson]

Judge Hopkinson’s hand is forcible, neat, legible, and devoid of
superfluity. The characters have much slope, and whole words are
frequently run together. The lines are at equal distances, and a broad
margin is at the left of the page, as is the case with the MSS. of Judge
Marshall, and other jurists. The whole is too uniform to be picturesque.
The writing is always as good at the conclusion, as at the commencement
of the epistles—a rare quality in MSS., evincing _indefatigability_ in
the writer.

[Illustration: signature of Alexander Slidell]

Lieutenant Slidell, some years ago, took the additional name of
Mackenzie. His reputation, at one period, was extravagantly high—a
circumstance owing, in some measure, to the _esprit de corps_ of the
navy, of which he is a member, and to his private influence, through his
family, with the Review-cliques. Yet his fame was not altogether
undeserved; although it cannot be denied that his first book, “A Year in
Spain,” was in some danger of being overlooked by his countrymen, until
a benignant star directed the attention of the London bookseller,
Murray, to its merits. Cockney octavos prevailed; and the clever young
writer who was cut dead in his Yankee habiliments, met with bows
innumerable in the gala dress of an English _imprimatur_. The work now
ran through several editions, and prepared the public for the kind
reception of “The American in England,” which exalted his reputation to
its highest pinnacle. Both these books abound in racy description; but
are chiefly remarkable for their gross deficiencies in grammatical
construction.

Lieut. Slidell’s MS. is peculiarly neat and even—quite legible, but
altogether too petite and effeminate. Few tokens of his literary
character are to be found, beyond the _petiteness_, which is exactly
analogous with the minute detail of his descriptions.

[Illustration: signature of Francis Lieber]

Francis Lieber is Professor of History and Political Economy in the
College of South Carolina, and has published many works distinguished by
acumen and erudition. Among these we may notice a “Journal of a
Residence in Greece,” written at the instigation of the historian
Niebuhr; “The Stranger in America,” a piquant book abounding in various
information relative to the United States; a treatise on “Education;”
“Reminiscences of an intercourse with Niebuhr;” and an “Essay on
International Copy-Right”—this last a valuable work.

Professor Lieber’s personal character is that of the frankest and most
unpretending _bonhommie_, while his erudition is rather massive than
minute. We may therefore expect his MS. to differ widely from that of
his brother scholar, Professor Anthon; and so in truth it does. His
chirography is careless, heavy, black, and forcible, without the
slightest attempt at ornament—very similar, upon the whole to the
well-known chirography of Chief Justice Marshall. His letters have the
peculiarity of a wide margin left at the top of each page.

[Illustration: signature of Sarah J. Hale]

Mrs. Hale is well known for her masculine style of thought. This is
clearly expressed in her chirography, which is far larger, heavier, and
altogether bolder than that of her sex generally. It resembles in a
great degree that of Professor Lieber, and is not easily deciphered.

[Illustration: signature of Edward Everett]

Mr. Everett’s MS. is a noble one. It has about it an air of deliberate
precision emblematic of the statesman, and a mingled grace and solidity
betokening the scholar. Nothing can be more legible, and nothing need be
more uniform. The man who writes thus will never grossly err in
judgment, or otherwise; but we may also venture to say that he will
never attain the loftiest pinnacle of renown. The letters before us have
a seal of red wax, with an oval device bearing the initials E. E. and
surrounded with a scroll, inscribed with some Latin words which are
illegible.

[Illustration: signature of Robert M. Bird]

Dr. Bird is well known as the author of “The Gladiator,” “Calavar,” “The
Infidel,” “Nick of the Woods,” and some other works—Calavar being, we
think, by far the best of them, and beyond doubt one of the best of
American novels.

His chirography resembles that of Mr. Benjamin very closely; the chief
difference being in a curl of the final letters in Dr. B.’s. The
characters, too, have the air of not being able to keep pace with the
thought, and an uneasy want of finish seems to have been the
consequence. A vivid imagination might easily be deduced from such a MS.

[Illustration: signature of John Neal]

Mr. John Neal’s MS. is exceedingly illegible and careless. Many of his
epistles are perfect enigmas, and we doubt whether he could read them
himself in half an hour after they are penned. Sometimes four or five
words are run together. Any one, from Mr. Neal’s penmanship, might
suppose his mind to be what it really is—excessively flighty and
irregular, but active and energetic.

[Illustration: signature of C M Sedgwick]

The penmanship of Miss Sedgwick is excellent. The characters are well
sized, distinct, elegantly but not ostentatiously formed, and with
perfect freedom of manner, are still sufficiently feminine. The
hair-strokes differ little from the downward ones, and the MSS. have
thus a uniformity they might not otherwise have. The paper she generally
uses is good, blue, and machine-ruled. Miss Sedgwick’s hand-writing
points unequivocally to the traits of her literary style—which are
strong common sense, and a masculine disdain of mere ornament. The
signature conveys the general chirography.

[Illustration: signature of J. Fenimore Cooper]

Mr. Cooper’s MS. is very bad—_unformed_, with little of distinctive
character about it, and varying greatly in different epistles. In most
of those before us a steel pen has been employed, the lines are crooked,
and the whole chirography has a constrained and school-boyish air. The
paper is fine, and of a bluish tint. A wafer is always used. Without
appearing ill-natured, we could scarcely draw any inferences from such a
MS. Mr. Cooper has seen many vicissitudes, and it is probable that he
has not always written thus. Whatever are his faults, his genius cannot
be doubted.

[Illustration: signature of J. L. Hawks]

Dr. Hawks is one of the originators of the “New York Review,” to which
journal he has furnished many articles. He is also known as the author
of the “History of the Episcopal Church of Virginia,” and one or two
minor works. He now edits the “Church Record.” His style, both as a
writer and as a preacher, is characterized rather by a perfect _fluency_
than by any more lofty quality, and this trait is strikingly indicated
in his chirography, of which the signature is a fair specimen.

[Illustration: signature of Henry W^{m} Herbert]

This gentleman is the author of “Cromwell,” “The Brothers,” “Ringwood
the Rover,” and some other minor productions. He at one time edited the
“American Monthly Magazine,” in connection with Mr. Hoffman. In his
compositions for the Magazines, Mr. Herbert is in the habit of doing
both them and himself gross injustice, by neglect and hurry. His longer
works evince much ability, although he is rarely entitled to be called
original. His MS. is exceedingly neat, clear, and forcible; the
signature affording a just idea of it. It resembles that of Mr. Kennedy
very nearly; but has more slope and uniformity, with, of course, less
spirit, and less of the picturesque. He who writes as Mr. Herbert, will
be found always to depend chiefly upon his merits of _style_ for a
literary reputation, and will not be unapt to fall into a pompous
grandiloquence. The author of “Cromwell” is sometimes wofully turgid.

[Illustration: signature of C. H. Waterman]

Mrs. Esling, formerly Miss Waterman, has attracted much attention, of
late years, by the tenderness and melody of her short poems. She
deserves _nearly_ all the commendation which she has received. Her MS.
would generally be considered beautiful; but formed, like that of most
of her sex, upon a regular school-model, it is, of course, not in the
slightest degree indicative of character.

[Illustration: signature of E. F. Ellet]

Mrs. E. F. Ellet has published one or two books, exclusively of a volume
of poems, but is chiefly known to the literary world by her numerous
contributions to the Magazines. As a translator from the Italian, she
has acquired an enviable reputation. Her hand, of which the signature
above scarcely conveys a full idea, is clear, neat, forcible and
legible; just such a hand as one would desire for copying MSS. of
importance. We have observed that the writers of such epistles as those
before us, are often known as translators, but seldom evince high
originality or very eminent talent of any kind.

[Illustration: signature of M M Noah]

Judge Noah has written several plays which took very well in their time,
and also several essays and other works, giving evidence of no ordinary
learning and penetration on certain topics—chiefly connected with
Israelitish history. He is better known, however, from the wit and
universal _bonhommie_ of his editorial paragraphs. His peculiar traits
of character may be traced in his writing, which has about it a free,
rolling, and open air. His lines are never straight, and the letters
taper too much to please the eye of an artist, and have now and then a
twirl, like the tail of a pig, which gives to the whole MS. an
indescribably quizzical appearance, and one altogether in consonance
with the general notion respecting the quondam Major, and present Judge,
than whom no man has more friends or fewer enemies.

[Illustration: signature of J. G. Palfrey]

Professor Palfrey is known to the public principally through his
editorship of the “North American Review.” He has a reputation for
scholarship; and many of the articles which are attributed to his pen
evince that this reputation is well based, so far as the common notion
of scholarship extends. For the rest, he seems to dwell altogether
within the narrow world of his _own_ conceptions; imprisoning them by
the very barrier which he has erected against the conceptions of others.

His MS. shows a total deficiency in the sense of the beautiful. It has
great pretension—great straining after effect; but is altogether one of
the most miserable MSS. in the world—forceless, graceless, tawdry,
vacillating and unpicturesque. The signature conveys but a faint idea of
its extravagance. However much we may admire the mere _knowledge_ of the
man who writes thus, it will not do to place any dependence upon his
wisdom or upon his taste.

This article will be concluded in our next number, and will embrace the
autograph of every writer of note in America.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           THE KING’S BRIDE.


                             BY J. H. DANA.


There is no scenery in England more beautiful than that to be found in
portions of the New Forest. Huge gray old oaks, gnarled, and twisted,
and aspiring to heaven; deep glens, overshadowed by canopies of leaves,
through which the light but faintly struggles; vast arcades, stretching
far away in the distance, and buried in religious gloom; wild wood
roads, that wind hither and thither among the giant trees in fanciful
contortions; and open, sunny glades, intersected by sparkling
streamlets, waving with verdant grass, and now and then disclosing a
fairy cottage nestled in the edge of the forest, are to this day, the
characteristics of this favorite hunting ground of the conqueror and his
immediate successors. There is a solitude about this old labyrinthine
chace, which is perfectly bewitching. You may travel for miles, in the
more secluded parts of the forest, without meeting a human being, or
seeing the smoke of a single cottage curling among the foliage; but on
every hand you will behold trees growing in the wildest luxuriance, and
tread on a sward as soft and thick as the richest velvet. You will, for
a space, hear nothing but the sound of a nut rattling to the ground, or
the song of some wood bird down in a brake; and then you will rouse the
deer from their retreat, a rustle will be heard down in the
under-growth, and you will catch a sight of the noble herd, perchance,
as they go trotting away into the darker recesses of the forest.

Such is the New Forest now, and such it was eight centuries ago, on a
bright sunny morning, towards the end of summer. The hour was still
early, for the dew yet sparkled in the grass, or pattered down from the
foliage as the wind stirred among the forest branches. The scene was one
of the loveliest the chace afforded—a bright glade embosomed in the
most silent depths of the forest. The whole of this open space was
carpeted with the thickest and greenest grass, varying in hue, at every
breath of the balmy wind over the undulated surface. On one side, the
glade was bounded by a gentle elevation, covered with stately oaks,
whose giant branches, spreading out far and wide, buried their trunks in
the obscurity of a constant twilight—and on the other three sides the
ground either extended itself in a plain, or sloped so gently off, that
the descent was nearly imperceptible. Thousands of wild flowers spangled
the surface of the glade, some flaunting proudly on the air, and some
modestly hiding under the long grass, yet all sending forth the most
delicious perfume—while innumerable birds, of every variety of plumage,
hopped from twig to twig, or skimmed across the glade, filling the air
with untold harmonies,—and high in the heaven, a solitary lark,
lingering there long after his fellows had departed, poured forth his
lay with such sweet, such liquid harmony, that a stranger, unaccustomed
to his song, and unable to distinguish his tiny form far up in the sunny
ether, might well have fancied those unrivalled notes the breathings of
an unseen cherubim.

Such was the scene on which there now gazed two beings, both beautiful,
but one surpassingly so. The elder of the two might have been one and
thirty, and both his face and figure were moulded in the noblest style
of manly beauty. His broad brow, chiselled features, and commanding
port, bespoke him one born to rule, although the simple and somewhat
mean garb he wore argued that he was not rich in this world’s goods. The
attire of his companion was richer, but less gay, and she wore the veil
of a novice. Her face, however, made up in loveliness for whatever
absence of ornament there was in her dress, and indeed she might well
have challenged the world to produce her rival. The fair delicate skin
through which the blue veins could be seen meandering, the snowy brow
that seemed made for the temple of the loveliest and purest thoughts,
the golden hair that lay in wreathes upon the forehead, and the blue eye
whose azure depths seemed to conceal mysteries as pure and rapturing as
those of heaven, made up a countenance of overpowering beauty, even
without that expression, so high and seraphic, which beamed with her
every word, and threw over each lineament of her face a loveliness
almost divine. Her figure was like that of a sylph, yet full and rounded
in every limb; and beneath her dress peeped forth one of the most
delicate feet that ever trod green sward. She was perhaps eighteen,
though she might have been younger. She sat now on a low bank, at the
very edge of the forest, while her companion reclined at her feet,
holding one of her tiny hands in his broad palm, and gazing up into her
eyes with a look of the deepest, yet most respectful passion. Nor were
the maiden’s orbs averted from his gaze, for ever and anon she would
twine her fingers playfully yet half sadly in his locks, and return his
look with all a woman’s tenderness.

“Yes, sweet one,” said the hunter, as if continuing a conversation, “I
have sometimes, during our separation for the last six long months,
almost desponded, especially when I heard how urgent my brother was that
you should wed his favorite Warren, and when I reflected that your aunt,
the good abbess Christiana, was so hostile to my suit. But I did you
injustice, dear one, and thus,” and he kissed the hands of his companion
again and again, “I sue for pardon. God only knows,” he added in a
sadder tone, “whether I shall ever have my rights. They sneer at me now
as a landless prince, and that purse-proud Surrey hath no better name
for me than Deer’s-foot, because I am not always able to follow the hunt
with a steed. But so long as thou art true to me, sweet Maud, all these
will be as nothing; and the time may come when we shall yet be happy.”

“Fear not, Beauclerk,” said the princess—for it was Matilda of Scotland
who spoke, and he whom she addressed was the younger son of the
conqueror, the penniless dependent of him whom men called the Red King,
“fear not—all, as you say, will be well. I feel it, I know it. Do you
believe in presentiments, dear Henry?” and pushing aside her lover’s
thick locks, she held her hand on his forehead, and looked with her
sunny orbs full into his eyes, as if she would playfully read his very
soul.

“Presentiments trouble me not much, despite what the books say thereof,”
answered the frank hunter, “I trust rather to my sword and my good right
arm, though forsooth, they availed me little when I was cooped up in St.
Michael’s Mount by my two kingly and loving brothers. Aye! presentiments
and prophesies, and such things, trouble me but little, or I would e’en
have consolation now, in all my troubles, in calling to mind the words
of my father—the saints assoilzie his memory!—since dying, he said,
‘that I should be inheritor of all his honors, and should excel both
Robert and William in riches and power.’ By St. George, the riches had
best come soon, for I gave my last mark away this morning. No, kind
Maud, I place little faith in presentiments. But you sigh. If it pains
you that I credit them not, why, then I am the most devout believer in
all England,” and again he pressed that fair hand to his lips, “why do
you ask the question?”

“Because,” said the princess, blushing at his eagerness, “I have had a
presentiment that we should yet be happy, and that full soon. I know not
how it is to happen; but of this I am assured, we shall live for
brighter days. The abbess threatens me with the veil if I do not wed
Surrey, and even now forces me, in her presence, to wear a tissue of
horse-hair; but though I can as yet see no escape from the alternative,
I am not the less certain that it will never be mine to choose. So now,
despond no more, dear Beauclerk.”

“Thanks, thanks, for your cheering homily,” said the young prince
laughing, for her sanguine words had affected him with an unusual
gaiety. “I can hunt now with some spirit. Little does Surrey think,
while he is getting ready for the chase and perhaps sneering at me as a
laggard for not being up to set out with the rest, that I have stolen
out into the forest to meet her for whom he would give the whole of his
broad lands.”

What answer the princess might have made to this somewhat vain-glorious
speech, we know not, but at this instant a party appeared on the scene
in the guise of a knight, somewhat advanced in years, and as he
approached hastily, he said:

“You must forgive me, my dear lady, if I urge you to take horse. The
abbess knows your journey will have consumed but a day, and that you
should have reached Wilton last night, and I shall have a hard task to
excuse your protracted stay without betraying you. The men-at-arms are
drawn up but a little space off, and, though they are all my servitors,
it is best that they should know nothing to reveal. The prince here will
understand me.”

“Assuredly, Sir John; and if he they call Beauclerk ever attains power,
he will not forget those who befriended the landless prince. I will
bring up Maud in an instant.”

The knight bowed, and retreated into the wood. A few parting words were
exchanged betwixt the lovers, a few tears were shed by Maud, which were
kissed off by the prince, and then, with one long, last embrace, they
tore themselves asunder, and in a few minutes the princess had rejoined
her train. Prince Henry stood looking vacantly in the direction where
she had disappeared, until the sound of her beast’s tramp had died in
the distance, when, slowly mounting his steed, who had awaited its
master in a neighboring copse, he entered one of the forest roads, and
proceeded leisurely onwards. He had journeyed thus about half an hour
when he heard a hunting horn sound close by him, and directly he beheld
approaching the gallant array of his brother.

“Ha! my good cousin Deer’s-foot, well met,” said the Earl of Surrey; “we
have been looking for you. I told your friend here, who swore you were
yet abed, that we should meet you afoot in the forest before the day was
over—and thereon we have laid a wager. I trow we have neither won. It
would be but fair to give you the bet, would it not?” said the gay Earl
with a half concealed sneer, as he glanced from his own rich suit to the
prince’s garb.

“You may both want yet, fair sirs, all you can spare,” answered the
prince; “but let us see who will be first in at the death. You were
always apt at that, my lord,” and he turned to the royal treasurer.

“Ay, and shall maintain my reputation, your highness,” said Breteuil,
recollecting he addressed almost a beggar; “and, if I may judge by your
steed, even against yourself.”

“We shall see—we shall see,” said the prince. “I lay you a new steed,
my lord, I distance you to-day.”

“Done,” said the treasurer, laughing; “you have thrown away your horse.
But here is the king, and lo!” and as he spoke the horn announced that a
stag had been roused, “the game is afoot.”

At the word the eager sportsmen gave spur to their steeds, and the
cavalcade swept gaily off in the chase.

Never had a more gallant array than that which now followed the royal
stag, woke up the echoes of the forest. Knights and squires, priests and
pages, warriors and ecclesiastics, princes of the blood royal and high
officers of state, pressed forward in the chase, now scouring along the
level plain, now dashing away through the arcades of the forest, and now
plunging recklessly through brake and dell, as the hounds dogged the
flight of the noble animal into his once secure retreat. Yet it was well
worthy of note how compactly the hunters kept around the king, none
venturing to outstrip him, and only a few of the oldest maintaining an
even rein with him.

Often during the chase the prince and Breteuil passed and repassed each
other, and at every recognition Henry would gaily remind the treasurer
of his wager. At length, however, the pursuit became more hot, the king
gave rein to his steed and pressed on, and in passing some broken ground
the royal party became separated, and those who were younger or better
mounted than the rest swept on ahead. Among these was Prince Henry, who,
though his steed was none of the best, kept up a not ignoble pace, until
at length his arbalast caught against a tree, and he was nearly thrown
from his horse. He checked his steed at once, and recovered his
cross-bow, but the string was broken, rendering the weapon useless.

“Ha! My gallant prince,” said the treasurer, as he swept by; “you can
scarcely hit your game now, even if you keep on. I trow your steed is
mine.”

“A malison on the string,” said the prince bitterly; “there is nothing
left for me except to sneak back to Winchester. But, no! I bethink me
now there is a forester’s hut somewhere nigh here. Ah! yonder is its
smoke curling over the tree-tops. I will hie me there, and get a new
string. If the stag turns at the dell below, he will head up this way,
and I may yet win my wager, for, the saints know, I can ill afford to
lose my only steed.”

With these words the prince again gave spurs to his horse, and was soon
before the forester’s hut.

“Ho! there, within,” he exclaimed; “a string for the prince. Marry, old
mistress, have they never a keeper here better than you?”

These words were addressed to an old woman who met him at the threshold
of the hut as he dismounted, and who appeared to be the only human being
inhabiting the cabin. And she was one who might well occasion the
prince’s exclamation of surprise. Her skin was like that of a corpse;
her eyes were sunk deep into her head; her hair was grizzled and gray;
her long bony fingers might have been those of a skeleton, and when she
spoke, her hollow sepulchral tones made even the courageous prince
shudder. She seemed to pay no regard to her visitor’s inquiry for a
string, but fastening her basilisk-like eyes upon him, she said or
rather chaunted, in Norman French, a rude lay, of which the following
verses are a translation:

    “Hasty news to thee I bring,
    Henry, thou art now a king;
    Mark the words, and heed them well,
    Which to thee in sooth I tell,
    And recall them in the hour
    Of thy royal state and power.”

For the space of almost a minute after she had ceased, the prince gazed
speechlessly on this novel being, awed alike by her strange demeanor,
and her sepulchral eye. Nor were the words she chaunted without effect
on her hearer. It was a superstitious age, and though few men of his day
were less influenced by the supernatural than Henry, there was something
in the sybil’s look which chilled his heart with a strange feeling, half
fear, half awe. He had not recovered from his surprise, when a horseman
rushed wildly up to the hut, and the prince had scarcely recognized one
of his warmest friends, Beaumont, when that gentleman breathlessly
exclaimed:

“The king is slain!—Tyrell’s arrow glanced from a bow and struck your
royal brother to his heart!”

The words of Beaumont acted on the prince like the charm which
dissipates a spell. He started, as if aroused from some strange dream,
looked a moment in wild surprise at his companion, and gradually
comprehending the strange and sudden transition in his fortunes, he
sprung with a bound into his saddle, and plunging his rowels up to the
heel in his horse’s side, exclaimed:

“Then this is no place for me—follow to Winchester, Beaumont,—and now
for a crown and Maud!”

The next instant his horse’s hoofs were thundering across the stones, as
he galloped furiously to the capital.

History relates how he reached Winchester, with his steed bathed in
foam, and, without slackening his pace, dashed up to the door of the
royal treasury, a few minutes in advance of Breteuil. History also tells
how the energy of the young prince broke through the meshes of the wily
traitor, and secured for Beauclerk the crown; but it does not add that,
after the unwilling treasurer had surrendered the keys of the regalia,
his new master said, half laughingly and half ironically, to the haughty
peer who had so often neglected him when only a prince—

“Ah, my lord! did I not say I would win the race? I trow your steed is
mine!”

The discomfited Breteuil bit his lip and was silent, but that night his
best charger was sent to the royal stables; while the rest of the
hunters, who were now fast pouring in from the chase, with the populace
which at the first news of the Red King’s death had begun to shout “King
Henry,” gathered around their young monarch and filled the air with
their acclamations.

“Maud is right,” said the king to himself, as he beheld the enthusiasm
displayed by his people, “to say nothing of the old sybil. Ah! what will
my sweet one think when she hears this?”

Three months later and all the chivalry of the realm was gathered in the
church at Westminster, while the populace without thronged every avenue
to that princely cathedral. Never indeed had a prouder assemblage met at
any royal ceremonial. The church blazed with jewels. Nobles in their
robes of state; bishops and archbishops with mitre and crozier;
countesses whose beauty out-dazzled their diamonds; knights and squires
and pages of every rank; burghers with their chains of gold; men-at-arms
encased in steel; halberdiers and archers; yeomen with quarter staffs,
and foresters with arbalasts; men of every situation of life, and bright
ladies, whose loveliness was beyond compare, were gathered in the
gorgeously ornamented church, amid the waving of banners, the sound of
music, the rustling of costly robes, and the smoke of ascending incense,
to gaze on the marriage of their monarch to his fair and blushing bride.
And there she stood before the altar in all her virgin beauty, her fair
blue eyes suffused with tears of joy; while her manly lover stood at her
side, the proudest cavalier in all that bright array. And when the
archbishop ascended the pulpit, and demanded if any one there objected
to the union, the whole audience shouted aloud “that the matter was
rightly settled;” then again pealed forth the anthem, and again the
incense rose in clouds to the fretted roof. The music ceased, the words
were said, the crown was placed on the brow of the princess, and the
hunter of the forest, amid the acclamations of his people, pressed to
his heart the King’s Bride.

“Do you believe in presentiments now?” said the young queen, half
laughing, to her royal husband when they reached the palace.

“I am a convert to your faith whatever it may be, sweet one. Nay! you
shall preach no sermon over my retraction, for thus I forbid the
homily,” and the king drew the blushing Maud towards him and fondly
kissed her.

Many an iron monarch has, since then, sat on the English throne, and
many a fair princess has been led by her lover to the altar, but never
has a happier or more beautiful pair wore the regal crown in the realm
of our ancestors.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             MERRY ENGLAND.


                            BY J. R. LOWELL.


    Hurrah for merry England,
      Queen of the land and sea,
    The champion of truth and right,
      The bulwark of the free!
    Hurrah for merry England!
      Upon thy seagirt isle
    Thou sittest, clothed in righteousness,
      Secure of Heaven’s smile!

    When ruled the fairhaired Saxon,
      Yes, thou wert merry then;
    And, as they girt their bucklers on,
      Thy meanest serfs were men;
    And merry was the castle-hall
      With jest and song and tale,
    When bearded lips with mead were white
      And rang the loud Washael!

    And, when grim Denmark’s black-browed prows
      Tore through thine Emerald sea,
    And many a wild blue eye was turned
      In savage lust on thee,—
    When, in the greenest of thy vales,
      The gusts of summer air
    Blew out in long and shaggy locks
      The sea-king’s yellow hair,—

    Yet Alfred was in England,
      And merry yet again
    Thy white-armèd Saxon maidens were
      When, on the drunken Dane,
    The sudden thunders of thy war
      With arrowy hail did pour,
    And grim jaws dropt that quivered yet
      With savage hymns to Thor.

    Thy merry brow was fair and free,
      Thine eye gleamed like a lance,
    When thy good ash and yew did crush
      The gilded knights of France;
    When Paris shook within her walls
      And trembled as she saw
    Her snow-white lilies trampled down
      Beneath thy lion’s paw.

    Queen Bess’s days were merry days,
      Renowned in song and tale,
    Stout days that saw the last brown bead
      Of many a tun of ale;
    Queen Bess’s days were golden days
      And thou full proudly then
    Did’st suckle at thy healthy breasts
      The best of Englishmen.

    Thou hast been merry, England,
      But art thou merry now,
    With sweat of agonizing years
     Upon thy harlot brow,
    Grimed with the smoke of furnaces
      That forge with damned art
    The bars of darkness that shut in
      The poor man’s starving heart?

    Oh free and Christian England!
      The Hindu wife no more
    Shall burn herself in that broad realm
      Saint George’s cross waves o’er;
    Thou art the champion of the right,
      The friend of the opprest,
    And none but freemen now shall tread
      Thine Indies of the West.

    But thou canst ship thy poison,
      Wrung from lean Hindu slaves,
    To fill all China with dead souls
      That rot in living graves;
    And, that thy faith may not be seen
      Barren of goodly works,
    At Saint Jean D’Acre thou sent’st up
      To Heaven three thousand Turks.

    Fling high your greasy caps in air,
      Slaves of the forge and loom,
    If on the soil ye’re pent and starved
      Yet underneath there’s room;
    Fling high your caps, for, God be praised,
      Your epitaph shall be,
    “Who sets his foot on English soil
      Thenceforward he is free!”

    Shout too for merry England
      Ye factory-children thin,
    Upon whose little hearts the sun
      Hath never once looked in;
    For, when your hollow eyes shall close
      The poor-house hell to balk,
    (Thank God for liberty of speech)
      The parliament will talk.

    Thank God, lean sons of Erin,
      Who reverence the Pope
    In England consciences are free
      And ye are free—to hope;
    And if the Church of England priest
      Distrain—why, what of that?
    Their consciences are freer still
      Who wear the shovel-hat.

    The poet loves the silent past,
      And, in his fruitful rhyme,
    He sets the fairest flowers o’er
      The grave of buried time;
    But, from the graves of thy dark years,
      The night-shade’s ugly blue
    And spotted henbane shall grow up
      To poison Heaven’s dew.

    Woe to thee, fallen England,
      Who hast betrayed the word,
    And knelt before a Church when thou
      Shouldst kneel before the Lord!
    And, for that scarlet woman
      Who sits in places high,
    There cometh vengeance swift to quench
      The lewdness in her eye.

    Woe to thee, fallen England,
      Who, in thy night-mare sleep,
    O’er a volcano’s heart dost toss
      Whence sudden wrath shall leap
    Of that forgotten Titan
      Who now is trodden down
    That one weak Guelphic girl may wear
      Her plaything of a crown!

    That Titan’s heart is heaving now,
      And, with its huge uprise,
    On their sand basements lean and crack
      The old moss-covered lies;
    For freedom through long centuries
      Lives in eternal youth,
    And nothing can for ever part
      The human soul and truth.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                               MARRIAGE.


                            BY RUFUS DAWES.


    The inmost region of the mind, where dwells
    The essences of unborn thought,—those _ends_
    In which Effects, through Causes, dwell in power,
    Opened. ’Twas in vision, and I saw
    A palace of vast size—such as the eye,
    The natural eye of man, never beheld.
    Its massy walls of unhewn agate towered,
    Girt by a colonnade of crysolite;
    And there were ninety columns of huge bulk,
    Sustaining an entablature of gold,
    Diamond and ruby, glittering like the sun.

    The windows were each one a double plate
    Of spacious crystal, sliding from the touch
    Each side in golden frames. The portico
    Hung o’er a flight of alabaster steps,
    Extending to a lawn of delicate moss,
    Where browsed a flock of innocent, white lambs,
    That little children garlanded with flowers.
    Around the palace, orchard-trees were seen,
    Laden with fruit celestial, that hung down
    Like gems among the gold and silver leaves.
    Majestic vines, heavy with clustering grapes,
    In large festoons swung gorgeously between
    The opulent boughs that dropped with nectarines.

    ’Twas on a mountain’s summit, high and broad,
    Commanding a magnificent expanse,
    Where Art, in its essential excellence,
    Glowed in potential forms, where Nature, too,
    Un-ultimated in terrestrial things,
    Bloomed in angelic beauty. To the east
    A river, brinked luxuriantly with flowers,
    Lapsed silently. The deep-enameled dome,
    Whose measureless horizon knew no bounds,
    Was draped with clouds that broke celestial rays,
    Shining down shadowless. Turning, I saw
    A pair of Consorts, whose exalted home
    Was in this paradise. No forms of earth,
    No mortal lineaments—no reach of thought
    Poetic, when imagination wings
    Homeward to Heaven, could in the least compare
    With their angelic radiance;—they were
    Beauty itself in form,—two, and yet one,—
    One angel male and female—a true Man.
    He was her Understanding, she his Will;
    Thence, but one mind in heavenly marriage formed.
    Her love was cradled in his thought, that loved
    Her love and nursed it—as the tender drops
    Clasp the warm sunbeams, while the smile of Heaven
    Breaks in the rainbow. Such is genuine love.
    He in his form more radiantly shone
    Than that sublime achievement of fine art,
    That shows the power of luminous Truth to kill
    Sinuous Error;—she, than Guido’s gem
    More beautiful, more human, and more true.

    I saw, and lo! two dromedaries, each
    Bearing a golden basket, one of bread,
    The other of ripe fruit; they came and knelt.
    Each took and gave the other,—he the bread,
    She the ripe fruit. The dromedaries then
    Rose and departed. I beheld them kneeling
    Beside the river, and when they had drunk
    I saw them rise again and kiss each other,
    And then depart. I looked again, and lo!
    The consorts had withdrawn. They were the first
    Of the new birth of Marriage here on earth—
    A promise for the future, when a Time,
    And Times, and half a Time shall be fulfilled.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                       INDIAN TRADITIONS.—No. II.


                              FORT POINT.


                            BY D. M. ELWOOD.


                 “His spirit wraps the misty mountain,
                 His memory sparkles o’er the fountain;
                 The meanest rill—the mightiest river—
                 Rolls mingling with his name forever.”


The beautiful towns and villages of Connecticut, bordering on Long
Island sound, are not surpassed in quiet loveliness by any others in New
England. The loveliest, perhaps, of them all, is Norwalk, situated in
the western part of the State, on a river of the same name, which flows
sweetly along through the centre of the town. The title, we confess, is
neither euphonious nor romantic: but we would not have it changed even
for the sweetest word that ever passed human lips. It was given it by
the Aborigines on the day when the territory was first purchased from
them, and refers, if we mistake not, to its extent northward from the
sound, called by the Indians the _North walk_. It is, indeed, one of the
most lovely spots in Nature. Its quiet harbor is studded with verdant
islands of every size and form, while across the green waters Long
Island is seen, its dim outline scarcely distinguishable from the blue
expanse beyond. The sound through its whole length is spotted with
sheets of snowy canvass spread to catch the breeze, and anon the
majestic steamer, like some huge leviathan, comes laboring on her way,
proudly dashing aside the foaming waters from her prow, and leaving far
behind a whitened, widening track. But when the Storm King is abroad,
the crested waves pursue each other in continual chase, and the long,
swelling billows break upon the shore, sending forth their rich music in
the deep organ tones of nature.

On the eastern side of the river, and directly opposite the present
steamboat landing, is a large circular mound, some twenty feet high, and
covering a surface of about an acre. It is perfectly level on the top,
and bordered with large, tall cedars. It is now commonly known by the
inhabitants in the vicinity as Old Fort Point.

There is a tradition respecting the object and the erection of this
mound, which I have with difficulty procured, and which maybe
interesting to many who have visited the place, if not to strangers. For
its truth, in all particulars, I will not vouch, but give it
substantially as it has come down to us.

About two centuries ago, there lived, on the level country about what is
now Fort Point, but what was then called Naumkeag, one of those large
tribes of native Indians, which, at the time when this land was first
visited by Europeans, were scattered over the country from the shores of
the Atlantic to the great valley of the west. The Indians had not then
been degraded by their intercourse with the whites. The peculiarities of
their nature had not been modified by the influence of civilization.
Their tastes had not been pampered, nor their appetites excited by the
fatal “fire water” introduced by their destroyers, nor their bodily
strength wasted by diseases, loathsome and deadly, and till then unknown
among them.

From the feathered flocks of the forest and the finny tribes of the sea,
they derived an ample subsistence; the shores, too, abounded in shell
fish, and the forests with game, so that want and famine were never
dreamt of by the happy and proud inhabitants of Naumkeag.

Many years before the time of this sketch a large colony separated from
the principal tribe and moved northward, settling themselves in the
mountainous regions of Massachusetts. This colony embraced about a
quarter of the whole tribe at Naumkeag—and being composed mostly of
young men and their wives, they soon became nearly as powerful as the
people whom they had left.

Although many miles lay between them, these two tribes long kept up a
friendly intercourse with each other, and forgot not that they had
sprung from the same common stock. Miles were passed over almost as
easily by those hardy foresters as they are by us at the present day,
even with the help of iron roads and steam carriages. Great power of
endurance was natural to their constitution, and especially was the
fatigue of a long and rapid journey borne without inconvenience.

There was one of the Wannamoisetts, as those who had removed from
Naumeag now called themselves, who was more frequent by far in his
visits to the sea shore than any other of his tribe. Every second moon
found him treading the forest with his face toward the south. His
journey usually occupied from two to three days. Occasionally he
remained at Naumkeag for a week at a time, though for the most part, his
visits were less protracted.

Mononchee had of course some object or incentive for being thus frequent
and regular in his attendance at the home of his ancestors. His very
distant relationship to the tribe would hardly demand such an excess of
filial affection. The truth was, there was a magnet of attraction in the
person of a young maiden of Naumkeag, the sister-in-law of the chief,
Wappaconet; and a powerful magnet it was too,—for there was not another
in the whole village that possessed a brighter eye or a more perfect
form. Her step almost realized the description of the poet,

            “————and fell,
    Trembling and soft, like moon-light on the earth.”

Noalwa was not insensible to the attentions of her constant swain; on
the contrary, his wooings were quite successful. His bravery and his
manly strength—his tall and well formed person, and flashing eye, were
well calculated to win the admiration, and, in due course, the
affections of the gentle being upon whom his own desires centered; and
the many soft things that he whispered in her ear, (for even an Indian
_in love_ can utter the sweetest phrases with a honied mouth,) found a
deep lodgment in her heart. And it was noticed that when the period of
his visits was near at hand, her step was still lighter than usual, and
her eye danced with a new, but soft fire, though at such times she spoke
less, and seemed thoughtful but not sad.

One evening—it was in the beginning of June, that season so favorable
to young lovers—Mononchee surprised Noalwa sitting under a large tree
close upon the shore. The hour and the place seemed as if under the
influence of enchantment. The scene was like a fairy land. The broad
sound was spread out before her, upon whose surface the clear moon shed
her softened rays, which, as from a mirror, were reflected back on every
side, giving to all things around an unnatural and unearthly brightness.
There seemed a spell upon the air. It stirred not—but hung over the
earth and the sea as if to heal every imperfection on the face of nature
by its bland and genial influence.

Noalwa had not been long there. An unwelcome intruder had invaded the
hour which she had set apart for solitude and for communion in spirit
and in fancy with her absent but adored lover. The intruder had hardly
left her sight ere he was banished from her thoughts, and as it was
about a week earlier than the customary time of Mononchee’s coming, she
was thinking how long the days would be till she saw him, when she felt
a warm kiss upon her cheek. She screamed not—spoke not—for a
deep-seated feeling at her heart told her that those were no forbidden
lips that could kindle such raptures in her soul.

She gazed up at the face and form that was bending over her with all the
fondness of a first love, and the young Indian placed himself by her
side and gently drew her to his bosom. Then followed a conversation in
low, deep, earnest tones, that both came from, and reached the heart.

“The Wannamoisett is good—very good, to come so soon and gladden the
heart of Noalwa,” murmured the girl as he pressed her to his breast.

“Who would not come early and often if Noalwa loved him?” replied he.
“Her beauty is brighter than the sun! Her eye is clearer and softer than
the moon which leaves a broad trail of light upon the water. She sings
more sweetly than the Tichanet,[4] and when she laughs the whole air is
full of pleasant sounds.”

“Did the Wannamoisett see any of my people as he came hither?” asked
she.

“None—for I came down by the shore. Ah! yes, I did see one—Annawon,
the Namasket.”

Noalwa hung her head.

“Where did Mononchee meet him?” said she.

“I saw him here!” vehemently replied the warrior, “here—standing on
this very spot. I saw his hand grasp yours; nay, kneeling at your feet.
I saw his eager look whilst you poured into his ear words which should
have been kept for Mononchee!”

“Be it so then,” cried the maiden, her lips quivering with insulted
pride, and her heart torn with the agony which the unjust but perhaps
reasonable suspicion of her lover caused, “be it so! for I told him to
go—ere he told me a tale of love—to his tent and behold the wasted
form and the sunken eye of Tituba, his wife, once loved and
cherished—now neglected. I told him that I could never be his, and that
any one who suspected Noalwa would so dishonor herself as to break her
faith with another, could not be worthy of her love. Mononchee suspects
her, and to him let her words be applied.”

“But why suffer the Namasket to hold your hand? Why play with the
serpent just ready to strike deep his fangs?”

“Mononchee is a keen-eyed warrior,” said the maid in irony, “he saw the
hawk, but not the wren that drove _him from her nest_. He saw Annawon at
the feet and holding the hand of Noalwa, but did not observe with what
scorn she looked upon him—did not mark how she spurned and drove him
from her.”

“I was deceived,” answered the repentant lover; “Noalwa has a pure
heart, and never again will I distrust her. Seest thou that moon hanging
yonder over the clear water? When it is again round and full, as it is
to-night, Mononchee will come to take Noalwa for his wife. Will she be
ready to go with him then to dwell where the hills are high and the deer
are plenty?”

“I am yours—yours only,” and her blushing face was hid in his bosom.

After sitting for about an hour, the young man arose. “I must return,”
said he, “to my people. Remember the full moon, Noalwa,” and he strode
rapidly away.

A few days after the above occurrence the Namaskets were invited by the
Wannamoisetts to partake of a grand feast of deer and bears’ flesh at
their village in the mountains. Accordingly a large party of the active
men of the tribe started one morning, and the evening of the next day
found them with their friends at Cohammock. The Wannamoisetts had made
their preparations on a grand, and, for them, magnificent scale. Piles
of plump deer and still richer bears’ meat lay around, while kettles of
dried sweet corn and beans, of the last year’s growth, were already
simmering over the small fires, that the hard kernels might become well
softened and ready for use on the morrow.

With the gray dawn of morning, all was bustle and activity in the
village of Cohammock. The Indian matrons were early bestirring
themselves that nothing might be left undone to mar the festivities of
the occasion. Innumerable fires were kindled—the wooden spit and the
seething pot, the two indispensable and almost the only culinary
implements in use among them, were put in requisition. Whilst the
preparations were going slowly on, the men of the tribe as well as their
guests were idling listlessly about, their appetites every moment
rendered sharper by the odor of the smoking viands that were soon to
form their savory meal.

And truly the banquet was not unworthy the occasion. Just as the sun had
reached the “middle point in the heavens,” piles upon piles of boiled
and roasted flesh were spread under the shade of the tall sycamores that
grew undisturbed in all parts of the village. A large bowl of the finest
_succotash_ was placed before each guest, and if the quantity eaten be
the standard of quality, never was there served up a better dinner than
was that day disposed of in the rude village of Cohammock.

At length the repast was finished. Both guests and entertainers, with a
prudence truly commendable, ate as if expecting a famine for a month, at
least, to come, and nothing remained but to indulge in that supreme of
Indian luxuries, tobacco. Pipes were brought, but alas! there was not a
particle of the weed to be found. Some miscreant, a fair representative
of that variety of our race at the present day—ever ready to engender
strife, had stolen and destroyed all that was to be found in the
village.

This was a deficiency that could be supplied by no other article.
Venison or succotash or any other part of the edible entertainment could
have been dispensed with, but the burning propensities of an Indian must
be indulged. The Wannamoisetts were as much mortified as their guests
were offended at this unfortunate occurrence, but it was with difficulty
the Namaskets could be persuaded that it was not an intentional insult;
so jealous were the natives of their own honor! Contrary to their
previous intention, they left their kinsmen in the early part of the
same afternoon, not caring to remain till morning with those who had, in
their view, been so parsimonious in their hospitality.

Let us return again to the sea shore at Naumkeag. A month after the
feast of Cohammock, a party of the Wannamoisett warriors were present at
a grand collation, prepared by Wappacowat, the Namasket chief. Much were
they gratified by this expression of his friendship, for they had always
regretted the affair at their own village, and feared that an open
rupture would be the consequence. They dreaded this, still cherishing
some little spark of fraternal affection for those whom they had
unmeaningly offended.

During the banquet, so busily were the Wannamoisetts engaged in
despatching the shell and other fish which their friends had made ready,
that they did not observe that Wappacowat and his followers partook but
sparingly, so that by the time they had eaten almost to suffocation, and
were illy prepared for the least exertion, the Namaskets had taken only
what was just sufficient to stimulate them for any enterprise.

At length Wappacowat gave the signal to his followers to bring the
calumet, and as he did so, a close observer might have discovered a
gleam of gratified animosity shoot across his iron features and glisten
in his snaky eye. Quickly moved his warriors, and the devoted guests
half stupified by the vast quantities of food they had taken, saw the
pipes well filled with the luxurious plant, but did not discover the
tomahawk and the knife which they had concealed under their deer skin
robes. They sat not smoking long, for suddenly the Namaskets rose and
each one buried his tomahawk into the brain of the Wannamoisett next
him. All—all were slain. So well had the treacherous, fratricidal plan
been matured, that not a single one was left to carry to the desolate
village of Cohammock the tale of blood and guilt. Ah! yes, there was
one—Mononchee—the betrothed of Noalwa, who having neglected the feast
that he might spend the time apart with the fair one, came into the
village just as the last reeking scalp had been torn from the cloven
skull. Looking an instant on the appalling spectacle, he uttered a
furious yell and sprang like a deer towards the river. A dozen tomahawks
flew after him, and as many dark warriors started in pursuit, but in
vain, for with a few powerful strokes the brave youth gained the
opposite bank, and bounding into the woods, effected his escape.

They were buried on the spot where they fell. Perhaps no shade of
remorse passed over the minds of the murderers, but they could not leave
the victims there for their flesh to rot and their bones to whiten in
the sun. They were buried several feet below the surface, and the gloomy
shades of night fell thick around before the last mangled body was
hidden from the sight. And as the rising wind swept through the
thick-topped pines and tall buttonwoods around, it wailed and sighed
mournfully, as if singing a melancholy dirge over the graves of the
gallant dead. And by the midnight hour it blew in hoarse and awful
tones, and the death shouts and groans of the dead were heard
commingling with the blast; and when the night was darkest, and all save
the growling of the wind and these unnatural noises, was still, a lurid
flame sprang up from the centre of the spot where the feast had been,
and cast a sickening light on all things, and the earth opened around,
and the bodies of the Wannamoisett warriors, bloody and mangled as they
were, arose and danced around it, singing their war songs in unearthly
tones, together with their wild requiem for the dead. Ghastly and
horrible they looked, and as they danced, the blood flowed from their
opening wounds, till it reached the strange fire, which instantly shot
up in one lurid column of flame till it attained the blackened clouds,
when it disappeared as suddenly as it had burst forth; the spectral
revellers sank back again into their fresh graves, and all was dark and
silent as before.

But when the morning broke the Namaskets beheld a spectacle scarcely
less hideous than that of the preceding night. Their victims had been
buried, as their custom was, in a sitting posture, and during the night
they had all risen, so that their heads were fully visible above the
surface of the ground. The bloody mark of the tomahawk was still there,
and every scalp was torn off—and the eyeballs, projecting far from the
sockets, were fixed and glassy, but of a burning red,—glowing like
living fire. And from them rays of dingy red streamed all over the
village,—and wherever one of the murderers went, those rays followed
him, and pierced him, and seemed as if they were burning out his heart.

Reckless with fear and rage the murderers tore the bodies up from the
ground and dug the graves still deeper and again they placed them in.
But at midnight the red flame burst forth and the tempest howled
fearfully. The phantom forms sprung up as before, and this time their
flesh, from their shoulders downward, dropped off and was consumed by
the fire, and a dense smoke arose, and a red cloud slowly gathered in
the air, and hovered round and hung over the spot like a minister of
vengeance. And in the morning their gory heads and glaring eyes had
again struggled up above the surface. And when the fratricides saw them,
a deadly terror crept over them and the demon of remorse began to prey
upon their souls.

On the third night the scene was changed. The moon did not set at her
accustomed hour, but hung just above the horizon, red as a sea of blood.
And in the midst of the fire that shot forth from the earth at midnight,
a form was seen like that of Wappacowat, the chief. But the ghostly
images were there again, and they gathered round the form in the centre,
and with their skeleton fingers tore off its flesh as fast as it was
seared in the fire, and ground it in their teeth with ravenous appetite.
When in the morning the dismayed villagers sought their chief they found
him not, but tied to a stake where the midnight revel had been held was
a skeleton, the bones all picked clean except the head, which had been
cloven with a tomahawk, and from it the scalp was also torn, and in its
features, distorted as if they had stiffened under the keenest tortures,
they recognized the countenance of their king.

Dismay sat upon every guilty face, and a sullen gloom enshrouded every
heart. The tribe finding it useless to bury deeper the bodies of their
slain kinsmen now began to build over them—but every night one of their
number disappeared, and in the morning his fleshless bones were found
tied to the fatal stake; and still the heads rose, but every day there
was one less than before. Then the dreadful truth flashed upon them that
one of their own number must die in that fearful manner, for every one
of the Wannamoisetts they had slain. As the number of their dead
increased, which it did by one for every midnight hour, so did the
number of spectre heads diminish. One murdered spirit was every night
appeased, and appeared no more.

Still they kept on building that huge pile, and the dreadful occupation
to which they clung as affording the only ray of hope that they might be
delivered before their turn should come round, so wrought upon the
guilty ones that they soon became almost as ghostly as the phantoms of
the night which tortured them. But they faltered not in their task.
Every day the heads were covered and every morning they were found in
sight. And on the seventieth morning that mound was far higher than it
now stands. There was then but one head remaining, for just seventy of
the Wannamoisetts had been slain and just seventy were the murderers. At
midnight of that day the strange revel was, for the last time, visible,
for when the skeleton of Mononton, the last and most bloody of the
fratricides was found, the last head had disappeared forever.

The remainder of the tribe left soon after in search of a more
auspicious residence. Since the treacherous act of their brethren,
famine had weakened them and the terrible plague laid many of their
forest children low. But wherever they wandered, the curse of the Great
Spirit followed them, and they dwindled away until finally there was no
place left for them on the earth.

One fair evening in the next summer, two forms sat upon the very mound
which forms the principal subject of this tale. One was a female of
fairy proportions, and she looked abroad over the landscape with the eye
of one to whom its beauties were familiar. Her companion’s face was
buried in his hands, and his whole frame shook as if the recollection of
some terrible scene were passing over his memory. And as the eye of
Noalwa rested on him she, too, divining his thoughts, shuddered, saying,

“Mononchee! let us go hence, never again to return! I cannot bear to
look upon these scenes where my people lived and where yours so sadly
perished. These trees that we have planted around the mound which covers
them will bear witness that their memory is still dear to us. Let us go,
Mononchee!”

They went to dwell with those that were left of his people. Many and
bright were their days. Plenty surrounded them. The tribe grew again and
Mononchee became their chief. The trees which he planted around “Fort
Point” sprang forth and flourished luxuriantly, and the large junipers
that still remain are doubtless descended from that parent stock. But
scarcely any other green thing will grow there; it seems a devoted
place. Devoted let it be; sacred forever to the shades of those who are
sleeping in its bosom.

-----

[4] A wild forest bird.

    Unionville, Mass.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                   NEVER SHALL MY HEART FORGET THEE!


                             BALLAD—SUNG BY
                             MR. SINCLAIR,
                              COMPOSED BY
                           GEORGE O. FARMER.

          _Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_.


[Illustration: musical score]

    Never shall my heart forget thee,
    Come what may of joy or ill;
    Love, the hour when first I met thee,
    Lives in mem’ry still.
    Beauty’s hallowed light was o’er thee!

[Illustration: musical score]

    Music’s spell was on thy tongue,
    Oh, to see was to adore thee,
    Maid of Avinlonge,
    Oh! to see was to adore thee,
    Maid of Avinlonge.

    Maid, the shades of night are falling,
      The blest hour of love draws nigh;
    Like the voice of beauty calling,
      Floats the bird-song by.
    Tho’ our fond hearts fate should sever,
      Darkly doomed to pine alone;
    Still as first they loved, forever
      Should our souls love on.

    Though from dreams of hope awaking.
      I can scorn Fate’s ire to me,
    Smile, tho’ my own heart be breaking,
      If Fate wounds not thee!
    Never shall my lips deceive thee,
      My devotion ne’er decline,
    Dearest, until life shall leave me,
      My whole heart is thine.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                Sports and Pastimes.—THE FOWLING-PIECE.


    THE LOCK—THE PERCUSSION SYSTEM—TRIGGERS—WADDING—AMMUNITION, ETC.

The flint and steel lock, like the matchlock, has had its day; and the
one is as likely as the other to supersede the detonator. There were
some sportsmen who long retained the flint in preference to the
copper-cap. Their partiality for the old system arose from their
inability to depart from the manner of taking aim to which they had been
accustomed—they fired too forward! It was said, too, that a barrel
fired by a detonating lock, did not throw shot so efficiently as the
other. That objection is now obviated by making barrels perfectly
cylindrical throughout the whole length of the tube. We prefer the
copper-cap lock for its simplicity, to any other system of firing by
percussion.

A bad lock, in these _march-of-improvement_ days, is rarely fixed to a
gun. Since the use of detonators has become general, the quality of the
lock is not of so much consequence to the sportsman as it was
previously. The quickness of firing with the old flint and steel locks
depended so much on the workmanship of the lock, that a
properly-tempered and well-filed one was invaluable. The introduction of
detonators has by no means improved the quality of the workmanship of
the lock—it has rather deteriorated it. The fact is, the master
gunmakers, finding the lock not so much looked at as formerly, are
become indifferent to obtaining the assistance, or unwilling to incur
the expense of first-rate workmen. The hardening and filing of a lock in
an artist-like manner, requires no common skill. The best locks ever
turned out were those made on the flint and steel principle, at the time
when detonators first came into vogue; the smartness with which the
percussion locks fired, obliged the makers of the flint and steel locks
to bestow double diligence and labor on their work, conscious that a
rival was in the field with whom it required no ordinary pains to
compete. Flint locks, whether as applied to the fowling-piece or the
musket, will soon be forgotten, or remembered only to give a romantic
interest to some tale of other times, as the arbalast and long-bow serve
only to remind us of our Norman and Saxon ancestors! It requires some
mechanical knowledge and some experience, to decide on the merit of a
lock. The vulgar method of trying one is this:—The operator draws back
the hammer with his thumb, not touching the trigger with his finger, and
if the works in the interior catch and snap smartly at the half-way, and
when the hammer is drawn back, he may rely on the main-spring being
sufficiently strong and free to fire the caps: then, with his thumb
still on the hammer, he draws the trigger and lets the hammer glide
slowly down upon the pivot. With a little practice he will be able, in
some degree, to discriminate between a good lock and a bad one. To prove
the difference in quality, he should take up a well-finished lock; that
is, one of hard material, well filed, and having springs of a suitable
and corresponding strength, and compare it with an inferior lock; by a
nice touch he will perceive the difference: the hammer of the former
slides backwards and forwards with a smooth, even force; whilst that of
the latter runs rough and gritty, as if clogged with sand. If this
somewhat uncertain mode of trial serve no other purpose, it will enable
the shooter, when he takes up a gun that has been used since being
cleaned, to discover whether the lock is sufficiently free from rust and
dirt as to be fit for the day’s service; for most assuredly, if the lock
be clogged, when thus worked backwards and forwards, it will not snap,
or in sporting phrase _talk_; and in that case it would be unsafe to use
it. A detonating lock that will bear this trial, and will invariably
fire the cap, may be pronounced quite good enough for any sporting
purpose.

The triggers should be what are technically termed _box-triggers_, and
should be taken from the stock and cleaned at least once during the
season, and oftener if very much exposed to dust, rain, or a damp
atmosphere. They should be adjusted with scrupulous nicety, so as to
require only a slight touch to draw them: they should not, indeed, fire
as easily as the hair-triggers of duelling pistols, but should be fixed
so firmly as that the sportsman should not be liable to discharge his
piece, while bringing it up to his shoulder cocked, with his finger upon
one of the triggers. The triggers may sometimes be regulated by filing,
hardening, or softening the scear spring, or filing the wedge-like part
of the scear which falls into the notches of the tumbler: and sometimes
it is necessary to file that part of the trigger which comes in contact
with the scear, but this operation requires to be carefully performed. A
valuable lock should not be placed in the hands of an unskilful workman
for the apparently trifling purpose of regulating the triggers, nor yet
for any other purpose.

The wadding we should recommend is that made of felt, and anointed with
some chemical preparation. We are not sure that this is the very best
description of wadding, but we know of none better. New waddings are
constantly invented. The metallic wadding, concave wadding, punched
cards, or punched hat wadding, are any of them good, as regards
shooting. The chief reason why we bestow a preference on the anointed
wadding is, because the barrel is kept less foul, and may be fired so
many times oftener without requiring cleaning, than when any other
description of wadding with which we are acquainted is used. We are not
partial to a tight wadding, but it should fit so that when the barrel is
clean and smooth within, the charge will not stir. There is little fear
of the charge stirring after a barrel has been fired a few times, as the
place where the leading or foulness accumulates in greatest quantity is
just above where the charge of shot lies.

Considerable improvement has been made in copper-caps since they were
first introduced. The composition in all of them is now good; that which
possesses the anti-corrosive principle is perhaps best. There is much
difference in the copper of which they are made, but that is of little
consequence when good locks with concave or well shielded hammers are
used, otherwise those made of bad copper are said to be dangerous. We
never heard of an accident from them. The shooter should be particular
in procuring copper-caps of a proper size; for if they do not fit the
pivots, considerable inconvenience will be experienced. When too small,
they will not explode; and when too large, the cap on the second pivot
is apt to fly off when the first barrel is fired. The shooter will find
it convenient to carry a quantity of caps loose in his waistcoat pocket,
with a reserve in a box (a metal box water-tight is best) to have
recourse to should those in his pocket become wet. He should take care
that there be nothing in his pocket to choke the caps; and by way of
precaution, he should, before putting a cap on the pivot, see that there
be no dirt in the cap, and that it be perfect.

The best powder does not soil the gun so much as inferior powder. After
using good powder, a redness will be observed round the orifice of the
pivot. After using coarse powder, a white or black appearance will
present itself. The purer the powder is, the oftener may a barrel be
fired without requiring to be cleaned.

When the measure on the flask is regulated as it ought to be, it will
hold the requisite charge for a clean barrel on a warm dry day. It
behoves the shooter, then, when the atmosphere is moist and the wind
boisterous, to increase the charge of powder in each barrel in a
trifling degree. However stormy the day may be, the shooter may prevent
the particles of powder from being blown away while he is charging; but
he cannot prevent them adhering to the damp leaded interior of the
barrels. Indeed, if the barrels be damp, as they cannot fail to be if
the air be so, and there be no wind at all, they cannot be held quite
perpendicular, so that the whole charge of powder shall find its way to
the breech. One-fifth of the charge will sometimes adhere. Doubtless,
when tight wadding is used, the whole, or nearly the whole, of the
charge finds its way to the bottom: but in what state? A portion of it
is wet!—and the result is, that, when the piece is discharged, only
four-fifths ignite!

The fowling-piece should be put by clean, oiled, and the barrels corked
or stopped, and with the hammers upon the pivots. It should be kept in a
cloth or woolen case, in a dry room, and, when not in constant use,
occasionally rubbed with linen dipped in olive oil. The inside of the
barrel should be frequently oiled, the oil being immediately wiped out
with a dry cloth wrapped round the cleaning rod. Neat’s-foot oil is best
for the lock, and linseed oil is recommended for the stocks, but it is
so offensive that we prefer olive oil.

Large-grained powder is generally stronger than small-grained. It is
well to be cautious that the grain is not so large as not to fill the
nipple freely, or misfires will be the consequence. Powder which suits
one gun may not suit another; the larger the bore of the gun, the larger
should be the grain of the powder. An instrument for trying the strength
of powder should not be trusted to: the best trial is with the gun in
which the powder is intended to be used, and there can be no better
target for trying the comparative strength of different powders, than an
unbound book fixed firmly against something solid.

The heavier and harder the metal of which shot is made the better.[5]

-----

[5] As shot is numbered differently by different manufacturers, we give
the number to the ounce of the sizes to which we have referred:

                             A. A.  about    40
                             A.       —      50
                             B. B.    —      60
                             B.       —      75
                             1.       —      80
                             2.       —     110
                             3.       —     130
                             4.       —     180
                             5.       —     220
                             6.       —     270
                             7.       —     350
                             8.       —     600
                             9.       —    1000
                             10.      —    1700


                      CHARGING THE FOWLING-PIECE.

It is not usual to charge the gun until arriving at the shooting ground.
When there, however advisable on the score of caution it may be,
flashing off a quantity of powder to clear out, dry, and warm the gun
before loading, has certainly a cockney appearance; the more
sportsman-like practice is,—the party having reliance on the person who
cleans his gun,—merely to permit the ramrod to fall lightly to the
bottom of each barrel. The barrels are then held as perpendicularly as
possible while the powder is poured in, so that nearly the whole charge
may reach home, and not adhere in its descent. The barrel is then tapped
with the ramrod, or the gun slightly shook against the foot, that powder
may find its way into the pivots,—that is the more necessary when
coarse-grained powder is used. A wadding is then gently pressed down.
The shot is next poured in, and a slight shake of the gun in an upward
direction causes it to lie evenly;—a wadding is pressed upon it. The
shooter next removes the remains of the caps, and looks whether the
powder has found its way to the orifice of the pivots, and if it has, he
places fresh caps on; if powder is not visible at the orifice of the
pivots, he removes any obstacle with a pricker, and contrives to push
down a few grains of powder. It is very material to attend to this
point, to prevent miss-fires.


                          THE WIRE-CARTRIDGE.

The wire-cartridge was invented, in 1828, by Mr. Jenour. It consists of
a cylindrical case or network of wire, the meshes of which are somewhat
more than an eighth of an inch square; at the lower end the wire
partially closes; the wire case is then enveloped in fine paper, and at
the upper end a cork wadding, cut so as to fit the gauge of the gun, is
affixed, the case is then filled with shot and bone dust. The first
cartridges made, though ingenious in construction, were defective in
operation. It was a matter of no ordinary difficulty to fabricate them
in such a manner that the shot should leave the case at the precise
distance required. This at first could not be done so that they might be
trusted in every instance; every alternate cartridge might fire well,
but the rest would fire irregularly, being liable to ball,—that is, the
shot would not leave the case until fifty or sixty yards from the gun,
and such cartridges were, of course, not only useless but dangerous.
They have been from time to time improved, and almost every difficulty
has been overcome. The sporting cartridges now made never ball, they act
with a considerable degree of precision and certainty, and that they may
be safely trusted may be inferred from the fact that they are often
preferred by persons engaged in pigeon matches. Various materials were
used experimentally to fill up the interstices between the pellets, but
nothing seems to answer so well as the material now used. Another
difficulty in their construction presented itself. It was requisite to
accommodate them to the various methods of boring used by different
gunmakers, and the unequal length of barrels, the object in view being
to produce a cartridge that would suit all barrels of the same gauge,
and this has been in a great measure, if not wholly, accomplished. The
liability to ball, notwithstanding various improvements made in them,
was not effectually obviated for many years, during which they were
tried, and in many instances prematurely condemned, either from real
defects, or from the parties not knowing how to use them. They were not
brought to perfection until the year 1837.

The wire-cartridges possess two principal advantages over loose shot;
they are propelled with greater velocity, and thrown more evenly. A
loose charge is always thrown in patches; the shots of a cartridge, as
seen on a target, are comparatively equi-distant from each other.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _Guy Fawkes; or The Gunpowder Treason. An Historical Romance.
    By_ William Harrison Ainsworth, _Author of “The Tower of
    London,” “Jack Sheppard,” &c. Philadelphia. Lea and Blanchard._

What Mr. William Harrison Ainsworth had been doing before he wrote
“Rookwood” is uncertain; but it seems to us that he made his literary
_début_ with that work. It was generally commended; but we found no
opportunity of perusing it. “Crichton” followed, and this we read; for
our curiosity was much excited in regard to it by certain discrepancies
of critical opinion. In one or two instances it was unequivocally
condemned as “flat, stale and unprofitable,” although, to be sure, the
critics, in these one or two instances, were men of little note. The
more prevalent idea appeared to be that the book was a miracle of wit
and wisdom, and that Ainsworth who wrote “Crichton,” was in fact
Crichton _redivivus_. We have now before us a number of a Philadelphia
Magazine for the month of April, 1840, in which the learned editor thus
speaks of the work in question—“Mr. Ainsworth is a powerful writer; his
‘Crichton’ _stands at the head of the long list of English
novels—unapproachable and alone_. . . . This great glory is fairly Mr.
Ainsworth’s due, and in our humble opinion, _the fact is
incontrovertible_.” Upon a perusal of the novel so belauded, we found it
a somewhat ingenious admixture of pedantry, bombast, and rigmarole. No
man ever read “Crichton” through twice. From beginning to end it is one
continued abortive effort at effect. The writer keeps us in a perpetual
state of preparation for something magnificent; but the something
magnificent never arrives. He is always saying to the reader, directly
or indirectly, “_now_, in a _very_ brief time, you shall see what you
shall see!” The reader turns over the page in expectation, and meets
with nothing beyond the same everlasting assurance:—another page and
the same result—another and still the same—and so on to the end of the
performance. One cannot help fancying the novelist in some perplexing
dream—one of those frequently recurring visions, half night-mare half
asphyxia, in which the sufferer, although making the most strenuous
efforts to _run_, finds a walk or a crawl the _ne plus ultra_ of his
success in locomotion.

The plot is monstrously improbable, and yet not so much improbable as
inconsequential. A German critic would say that the whole is excessively
_ill-motivert_. No one action follows necessarily upon any one other.
There is, at all times, the greatest parade of _measures_, but measures
that have no comprehensible result. The author works busily for a
chapter or two with a view of bringing matters in train for a certain
end; and then suffers this end to be either omitted—unaccomplished—or
brought to pass by accidental and irrelevant circumstances. The reader
of taste very soon perceives this defect in the conduct of the story,
and, ceasing to feel any interest in marches and countermarches that
promise no furtherance of any object, abandons himself to the
investigation of the page only which is immediately before him.
Despairing of all amusement from the _construction_ of the book, he
falls back upon its immediate descriptions. But, alas, what is there
here to excite any emotion in the bosom of a well-read man, beyond that
of contempt? If an occasional interest is aroused, he feels it due, not
to the novelist, but to the historical reminiscences which even that
novelist’s inanity cannot render altogether insipid. The turgid
pretension of the style annoys, and the elaborately-interwoven pedantry
irritates, insults, and disgusts. He must be blind, indeed, who cannot
understand the great pains taken by Mr. Ainsworth to interlard the book
in question with second-hand hits of classical and miscellaneous
erudition; and he must be equally blind who cannot perceive that _this_
is the chicanery which has so impressed the judgment, and dazzled the
imagination of such critics as he of the aforesaid Magazine. We know
nothing at all of Mr. Ainsworth’s scholarship. There are some very
equivocal blunders in “Crichton,” to be sure; but _Ainsworth_ is a
classical name, and we must make _very_ great allowances for the usual
errors of press. We say, however, that, from all that appears in the
novel in question, he may be as really ignorant as a bear. True
erudition—by which term we here mean only to imply much diversified
reading—is certainly discoverable—is positively indicated only in its
ultimate and total _results_. We have observed elsewhere, that the mere
grouping together of fine things from the greatest multiplicity of the
rarest works, or even the apparently natural inweaving into any
composition of the sentiments and manner of these works, is an
attainment within the reach of every moderately-informed, ingenious, and
not indolent man, having access to any ordinary collection of good
books. Of all vanities the vanity of the unlettered pedant is the most
sickening, and the most transparent.

Mr. Ainsworth having thus earned for himself the kind of renown which
“Crichton” could establish with the rabble, made his next appearance
before that rabble with “Jack Sheppard.” Seeing what we have just seen,
we should by no means think it wonderful that this romance threw into
the greatest astonishment the little critics who so belauded the one
preceding. They could not understand it at all. They would not believe
that the same author had written both. Thus they condemned it in loud
terms. The Magazine before alluded to, styles it, in round terms, “the
most corrupt, flat, and vulgar fabrication in the English language . . .
a disgrace to the literature of the day.” Corrupt and vulgar it
undoubtedly is, but it is by no means so _flat_ (if we understand the
critic’s idea of the term) as the “Crichton” to which it is considered
so terribly inferior. By “_flat_” we presume “uninteresting” is
intended. To us, at least, no novel was less _interesting_ than
“Crichton,” and the only interest which it _could_ have had for any
reader must have arisen from admiration excited by the apparently
miraculous _learning_ of the plagiarist, and from the air of owlish
profundity which he contrives to throw over the work. The interest, if
any, must have had regard to the author and not to his book. Viewed as a
work of art, and without reference to any supposed moral or immoral
tendencies, (things with which the critic has nothing to do) “Jack
Sheppard” is by no means the _very_ wretched composition which some
gentlemen would have us believe. Its condemnation has been brought about
by the revulsion consequent upon the exaggerated estimate of “Crichton.”
It is altogether a much better book than “Crichton.” Although its
incidents are improbable—(the frequent miraculous escapes of the hero,
for instance, without competent means) still they are not, as in
“Crichton,” at the same time inconsequential. Admitting the facts, these
facts hang together sufficiently well. Nor is there any bombast of
style; this negative merit, to be sure, being no merit of the author’s,
but an enforced one resulting from the subject. The chief defect of the
work is a radical one, the nature and effect of which we were at some
pains to point out in a late notice of Captain Marryatt’s “Poacher.” The
story being, no doubt, written to order, for Magazine purposes, and in a
violent hurry, has been scrambled through by means of _incident_ solely.
It is totally wanting in the _autorial comment_. The writer never pauses
to speak, in his own person, of what is going on. It is possible to have
too much of this comment; but it is far easier to have too little. The
most tedious books, _ceteris paribus_, are those which have none at all.
“Sir Charles Grandison,” “Clarissa Harlowe,” and the “Ernest Maltravers”
of Bulwer embody instances of its superabundance. The genius of the
author of “Pelham” is in nothing more evident than in the interest which
he has infused into some of his late works _in spite_ of their
ultra-didacticism. The “Poacher” just mentioned, and “The Arabian
Nights” are examples of deficiency in the commenting principle, and are
both intolerably tedious _in spite_ of their rich variety of incident.
The _juste milieu_ was never more admirably attained than in De Foe’s
“Robinson Crusoe” and in the “Caleb Williams” of Godwin. This latter
work, from the character of its incidents, affords a fine opportunity of
contrast with “Jack Sheppard.” In both novels the hero escapes
repeatedly from prison. In the work of Ainsworth the escapes are merely
narrated. In that of Godwin they are _discussed_. With the latter we
become at once absorbed in those details which so manifestly absorb his
own soul. We read with the most breathless attention. We close the book
with a real regret. The former puts us out of all patience. His marvels
have a nakedness which repels. Nothing he relates seems either probable
or possible, or of the slightest interest, whether the one or the other.
His hero impresses us as a mere chimæra with whom we have no earthly
concern, and when he makes his final escape and comes to the gallows, we
would feel a very sensible relief, but for the impracticability of
hanging up Mr. Ainsworth in his stead. But if “Jack Sheppard” is a
miserably inartistical book, still it is by no means so utterly
contemptible and silly as the tawdry stuff which has been pronounced
“_the best of English novels, standing at the head of the long list
unapproachable and alone!_”

Of “The Tower of London” we have read only some detached
passages—enough to assure us, however, that the “_work_,” like Yankee
razors, has been manufactured merely “to sell.” “Guy Fawkes,” the book
now lying before us, and the last completed production of its author, is
positively beneath criticism and beneath contempt. The design of Mr.
Ainsworth has been to fill, for a certain sum of money, a stipulated
number of pages. There existed a necessity of _engaging_ the readers
whom especially he now addresses—that is to say the lowest order of the
lettered mob—a necessity of enticing them into the commencement of a
perusal. For this end the title “Guy Fawkes or The Gunpowder Plot” was
all sufficient, at least within the regions of Cockaigne. As for
fulfilling any reasonable expectations, derived either from the _ad
captandum_ title, or from his own notoriety (we dare not say reputation)
as a novelist—as for exerting himself for the permanent or continuous
amusement of the poor flies whom he had inveigled into his trap—all
this, with him, has been a consideration of no moment. He had a _task_
to perform, and not a duty. What were his readers to Mr.
Ainsworth?—“What Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?” The result of such a
state of affairs is self-evident. With his _best_ exertions, in his
earliest efforts, with all the goadings of a sickening vanity which
stood him well instead of nobler ambition—with all this, he _could_
do—he _has done_—but little; and without them he has now accomplished
exactly nothing at all. If ever, indeed, a novel were _less_ than
nothing, then that novel is “Guy Fawkes.” To say a word about it in the
way of serious criticism, would be to prove ourselves as great a
blockhead as its author. _Macte virtute_, my dear sir—proceed and
flourish. In the meantime we bid you a final farewell. Your next volume,
which will have some such appellation as “The Ghost of Cock-Lane,” we
shall take the liberty of throwing unopened out of the window. Our pigs
are not all of the description called learned, but they will have more
leisure for its examination than we.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Gift: A Christmas and New-Year’s Present for 1842. Carey
    and Hart: Philadelphia._

This volume of “The Gift” is superior to any yet published. Mrs. Embury
has an entertaining story, and Miss Leslie’s account of a “Family that
Didn’t take Boarders” is also quite amusing. Mr. Simms has a well
narrated tale—Mr. Seba Smith has another—Professor Frost another—Mrs.
Ellet, also, and the author of “A New Home.” We ourselves have one which
is not ended so well as it might be—a good subject spoiled by hurry in
the handling. The poetry, in general, is insipid. Mrs. Sigourney has not
done herself justice. Lieut. G. W. Patten, U. S. A. has three effusions,
neither of which do credit to the Annual. This gentleman, who writes
frequently, and should therefore write well, is singularly remiss in his
metaphors, and often grievously deficient in his grammar. What does he
mean, at page 309, by

    As sleep the brave so thou _should_ sleep (?)

or, at page 165, by

    The storm is on the sea—I hear its _wings_
    In _thunder fretting_ o’er the lifted wave (?)

This is surely a most singular instance of metaphor run mad! Here are
three conflicting images at one time in the brain of the poet. By the
word “wings” the reader is made to understand the prosopopeia of the
storm as a _bird_; by “thunder” (a _natural_ accompaniment of tempests)
he is brought back to the impersonified storm; by “fretting” he is left
in no doubt that the writer’s ideas are running upon a _horse_—and all
this in the compass of one line and a half!

The “Stanzas” by Park Benjamin have a rich simplicity which of all
literary qualities is the most difficult of attainment, and of all
merits the most uncertain of appreciation; but we are sorry to say that
they are the _only_ good verses in the volume.

The engravings are very fine. We will speak of them briefly one by one.

The “Country Girl,” by Cheney from Sully, is a _truthful_ picture. The
design is perfect. The only fault of the execution lies in the undue
breadth of the face; this defect would be remedied by deepening the
shade beneath the left ear. The work of the engraver is well done.

“Vignette Head,” by Cheney from Sully—one of the latter’s favorite
heads—the face that of a pouting hoyden. The hair is beautifully
_massed_. The _vignetting_ is carried too low as regards the bosom, from
which half an inch should be taken off at bottom, or otherwise some
lines of shading introduced to relieve it of its blank appearance. The
arm is execrable—the hand worse—both are too massive and sinewy.

“Dulcinea,” by Cheney from Leslie. No fault can be found with this
picture, which is admirable in every respect. The right arm, in
especial, is exquisitely rounded and foreshortened.

“The Tough Story” by J. J. Pease, from W. S. Mount. Mr. Mount’s merits
are those of acute observation and fidelity. These merits, although not
of the highest order, have the advantage of being universally
appreciable. This is an advantage which he secures—_clinches_—by
dealing only in homely subjects. If he has ideality (a question which as
yet we have had no means of deciding) and would employ his peculiar
talents upon loftier themes, he might attain a very desirable eminence
indeed.

Nothing could be more true to nature than the picture before us; but the
painter has sacrificed to this truth (at some points) artistical effects
of superior value. What can be more displeasing, for example, than the
unrelieved nakedness of the wall in the back ground, or the situation of
the group precisely in the centre of the design, or, especially, than
the tall regular stove pipe, running up parallel with the back of the
standing figure, and dividing the apartment exactly in two?

“The Gipsy,” by Cheney from Sully, is altogether out of drawing as
regards the face, which is, again, too broad to the left. This is a very
usual error in side faces. The fingers are badly engraved, particularly
those of the right hand, which look as if covered with a net or pic-nic
glove. The foliage in this picture is not very well executed.

“The Sled” by W. E. Tucker, from Chapman, is a most effective design,
evincing the well-educated artist. The idea of rapid motion is skilfully
embodied in the countenance of the boy, in the peculiar falling curve of
the hill, and exquisitely _corroborated_ in the whirl of the clouds.
This is the true artistical keeping. The limbs of the boy are too small
for his head and body, and the left hand appears to have been cut from a
turnip. This latter defect is chargeable to the engraver.

“The Raffle” by A. Lawson from Mount. This is another of Mr. Mount’s
idiosyncrasies, and is absolute perfection _in its way_. The defects of
the work (considered as a mere picture) which we pointed out in the
“Tough Story,” are not observable here. The grouping of the figures and
the arrangement of the design generally, are as admirable as the varied
expression of the Yankee faces. The light, however, is too equally
disposed about the room, and, in especial, upon the three middle
personages. It is difficult, moreover, to imagine these three persons so
illumined, and the back of the foreground figure at the same time so
fully in shade. These are petty objections—but it is right they should
be made.

“Portia,” by Forrest from Sully, is an engraving in which the mere
mechanism is excellent; and, in fact, the work is, upon the whole,
highly creditable to Mr. Forrest. The hands, however, are badly done;
the left especially. Some knowledge of drawing is absolutely essential
in one who copies. This knowledge cannot be supplied by even Chinese
fidelity in depicting dot for dot and line for line. The picture,
altogether, we prefer to any in the book. Were we in the habit of
purchasing paintings this “Portia” by Sully is the only one here which
we would purchase.

The paper of “The Gift” for 1842 does not seem to us sufficiently good.
The binding is certainly magnificent, but would have been vastly
improved by the use of a thicker board.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Amenities of Literature, consisting of Sketches and Characters
    of English Literature. By_ J. D’Israeli, _D.C.L. F. S. A. 2
    vols. I. & H. G. Langley: New York._

The reputation of the elder D’Israeli as scholar and philosopher is at
least as well founded as that of any man of his age. He has given to the
world a series of _peculiar_ books—books in which the richest variety
of _recherché_ detail and anecdote about literary affairs, is made
subservient to the most comprehensive survey and analysis of letters
themselves, considered in respect to their important spiritual uses. He
is the only _savant_ upon record who has busied himself, without
pedantry, among the _minutiæ_ of classical lore. His works will last as
long as the language in which they are written. The “Curiosities of
Literature,” the “Literary Character,” the “Miscellanies of Literature,”
the “Calamities of Authors,” and all but the present “Amenities of
Literature” are, however, but incidental labors arising from a more
extensive design—a “History of English Literature”—of which he thus
speaks. “It was my intention not to furnish an arid narrative of books
and of authors, but, following the steps of the human mind through the
wide track of time, to trace from their beginnings the progress and the
decline of public opinions, and to illustrate, as the objects presented
themselves, the great incidents in our national annals.” In this
magnificent project the philosopher was arrested by blindness. The
“Amenities of Literature” is a portion and in fact the beginning of the
great scheme which can now never be completed. We need say no more to
recommend it to the reader. The two volumes before us are issued in the
customary careful and tasteful style of the Langleys.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Critical and Miscellaneous Writings of Sir Edward Lytton
    Bulwer, author of “Pelham,” &c. 2 vols. Lea and Blanchard:
    Philadelphia._

We have read these volumes with the highest pleasure. They embrace all
of the known minor writings of Bulwer, with the exception of his shorter
fictions; and we recognize in the collection several very excellent
articles which had arrested our attention and excited our curiosity
while their authorship was undivulged.

Mr. Bulwer is _never_ lucid, and seldom profound. His intellect seems to
be rather well balanced than lofty—rather comprehensive than
penetrative. His taste is exquisite. His style, in its involution and
obscurity, partakes of the involution of his thoughts. Apart from his
mere intellect, however,—or rather as a portion of that intellect—we
recognize in his every written word the keenest appreciation of the
right, the beautiful, and the true. Thus he is a man worthy of all
reverence, and we do not hesitate to say that we look upon the charges
of immoral tendency which have been so pertinaciously adduced against
his fictions, as absurdly _little_ and untenable, in the mass.

The volumes now before us are plain evidence of the noble spirit which
has constantly actuated him. The papers here published were written at
various epochs of his life. We look through them in vain for anything
false, as a whole, or unchivalrous, or impure, or weak, or tasteless, or
ignoble. Were we addicted _jurare in verba magistri_, there lives no man
upon whose faith we would more confidently rely than upon that of
Bulwer—no man whose opinion upon any point involving a question of
truth, or justice, or taste, we would be more willing to adopt
unexamined.

We have been especially pleased with an article (in the volumes now
before us) entitled “Literature Considered as a Profession,” and with
another “Upon the Spirit of True Criticism.” Some remarks in the latter
paper are quite as applicable to our own country as to Great Britain.

    “‘To say this is good and that is bad,’ says La Bruyère, ‘is not
    morality.’ Very true, neither is it criticism. There is no
    criticism in this country—considering that word as the name of
    a science. A book comes out—it is capital, says one—it is
    detestable, says another. Its characters are unnatural—its
    characters are nature itself. On both sides there is
    affirmation, on neither proof. In fact no science requires such
    elaborate study as criticism. It is the most analytical of our
    mental operations—to pause—to examine—to say _why_ that
    passage is a sin against nature, or that plot a violation of
    art—to bring deep knowledge of life in all its guises—of the
    heart in all its mysteries to bear upon a sentence of approval
    or disapprobation—to have cultivated the feeling of beauty
    until its sense of harmony has grown as fine as the ear of a
    musician—equally sensitive to discord—or alive to new
    combinations:—these are no light qualities, and these are not
    qualities, it may be answered, to be lightly lavished away.
    Every new book, it may be said, does not deserve that we should
    so honor it. We need not invoke the Past, and summon all Nature
    to hear us praise a butterfly, or crush a bug. We may on slight
    works arrogate the censor—yes, but we must first have been
    chosen the censor, by the acumen we have testified on great
    ones. Now, when an author who has risen into eminence, who
    begins to produce an effect upon his age, whose faults it
    becomes necessary to indicate as a warning, whose beauties we
    should illustrate as an example—when such a man produces a new
    work, what is the cant cry of the critics? ‘The peculiar merits
    and failings of Mr. So and So are too well known for us at this
    time of day to repeat them. The present work has all the
    characteristics of the last—if it does not increase, it will
    not diminish the well-earned reputation of the author.’ Then
    come the extracts, and a word or two at the end as precise and
    lucid as those at the beginning, and——there’s THE CRITICISM!

    “For my part, I please myself sometimes with drawing the ideal
    picture of a good critic, as Bolingbroke drew that of a patriot
    king. What a crowd of accomplishments, not easily seen by the
    superficial, belong to that character! Literature and morality
    are so entwined that you rarely find the real critic unless he
    is also the moralist. The union is almost necessary. In
    Quinctilian how beautifully the deduction closes the dogma! and
    even in Johnson the habit of moralizing gives dignity to his
    criticisms. In both sciences the study of mankind, of the
    metaphysical nature within us, alone insures a sound judgment:
    in both, without a delicate yet profound perception of the
    harmonious, the beautiful, the august, no commanding excellency
    is obtained. The goodness of a man and the goodness of a book
    are not such different qualities as people suppose. A person,
    however, _may_ be, though he is not often, a good moralist
    without being a good man: to preach and practice are faculties
    not inseparable. But I doubt if a man can be a great critic who
    has not, at least, the elementary qualities of a good man. I
    consider that he must keep the intellectual sight clear from
    envy, and malice, and personal dislikes. He must examine the
    work above and remote from all the petty considerations that
    attach to the man. He must be on the alert for genius, ready to
    encourage even a rival to himself. Where this largeness of mind
    is not visible, there is always something petty and crippled in
    the mind of the professional critic. He may make one great
    criticism, but he cannot criticise with greatness habitually.
    Perhaps he reviews some dead author—for the dead interfere not
    with the living; or he wastes a world of generosity, like
    Southey, in praising some rhymester of the pantry, who is little
    enough while he attracts honor to the praiser to plunge into
    forgetfulness the praise. The good critic—that rare ideal, must
    have in him courage to blame boldly, magnanimity to eschew envy,
    benevolence to search for obscure merit. He must have genius to
    appreciate, and learning to compare: he must have an eye for
    beauty, an ear for music, a heart for feeling, a mind for
    reason. ‘We are conscious of excellency,’ says some author, ‘in
    proportion to the excellence within ourselves.’”

We wish also to call attention to a very excellent article on the
subject of “International Copyright.” The only paper in the collection
which we could have wished omitted is one entitled “A Letter to the
Quarterly Review,”—an attempt at vindictive retaliation upon Lockhart.
We admire this gentleman quite as little as Mr. Bulwer can possibly do,
but we grieve to see an attack which has neither vigor nor wit, and
which proves nothing beyond the writer’s wrath and utter incapacity for
satire.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Pic Nic Papers. By various Hands. Edited by_ Charles
    Dickens, Esq. _author of “The Pickwick Papers,” &c. 2 vols. Lea
    and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

The “Introduction” to this work gives us its history. “The premature
death of a young publisher (Mr. Macrone) inspired some of those who had
known him personally, or had been connected with him in business, with
an earnest desire to render some assistance to his widow and orphans.
They produced among themselves this work.” In the English edition there
were three volumes; the third consisting of the “Charcoal Sketches” of
Mr. Joseph C. Neal, of Philadelphia. This edition we have not seen; but
have been astonished to hear that the London publisher has been so
discourteous as to print Mr. Neal’s compositions, and the engravings
which accompanied them, without the _name_ of the writer, or any farther
acknowledgment than a few words speaking of the whole as “from an
American source.” Comment upon such meanness seems altogether a work of
supererogation; but, in truth, we are in the habit of setting our
brethren across the water very bad examples in matters of a somewhat
similar kind. That Mr. Dickens had any thing to do with the wrong now
perpetrated, we will not, however, believe for a moment.

The contributors to the two volumes reprinted in Philadelphia are among
the most celebrated _literati_ of England. We have, for example,
articles from Dickens, from Leigh Ritchie, Allan Cunningham, Thomas
Moore, W. H. Ainsworth, G. P. R. James, Agnes Strickland and several
others. It might be supposed, of course, that the collection would be
one of high interest: but we are forced to say that it _is not_. In a
case like this, authors (who for the most part are unburthened with
pecuniary means) are called upon to furnish _gratuitous_ papers. It is
not surprising that, under such circumstances, they content themselves
with bestowing whatever MS. they may have at hand, of least value.
Scraps from memorandum-books; effusions of early years kept only as
mementos and never destined for publication; fragments of tales or
essays definitely abandoned by the author, who has become dissatisfied
with his subject or the mode in which it was progressing—matters such
as these form invariably the staple of compilations such as this. There
is, moreover, another important consideration—one involving a very
remarkable truth. The _refuse_ labor of a man of genius is usually
inferior, and greatly so, to that of the man of common-place
talent:—very much as the dregs of the _Côtes du Rhone_ are more viscid
than those of Sherry or _De Grâve_. It is only necessary to suggest this
idea to have it at once fully appreciated and understood. The man of
talent pursues “the even tenor of his way.” He is at all times
_himself_. With the all-prevalent law of action and reaction he has
nothing to do. Never excited into wild enthusiasm, he never experiences
its consequent and inevitable depression. Never boldly soaring, he never
sadly sinks. To write well, the man of genius must write in obedience to
his impulses. When forced to disobey them—when constrained, by the
fetters of a methodical duty, to compose at _all_ hours—it is but a
portion of his nature—it is but a condition of his intellect—that he
should occasionally grovel in platitudes of the most pitiable
description. And this fact will go farther than any one hitherto
adduced, to explain the character of a fatality which has so constantly
attended genius as to have become a sure index of its existence:—we
mean the fatality of alternate high eulogium and virulent invective. Few
men are conversant with the _whole_ works of an author. Now, in the case
of two critics of equal ability, it may happen (and we know it _does_
frequently so happen) that the opinion of one may be based solely upon
the author’s best efforts, while that of the other is deduced from some
mere task-work labored out in hours of the most utter inappetency and
exhaustion. The dissent of the latter (a dissent just if we regard only
the means of judgment) will, of course, be extravagant in denunciation,
precisely in the ratio of his astonishment and indignation at what he
supposes the corrupt panegyric of the former.

Therefore, it should not be a matter for surprise that these “Pic Nic
Papers” are very great trash, although written by very clever men. Their
general merit, in our opinion, is below that of the mere _make-weight_
of our commonest newspapers and magazines. One or two of the articles
are not _very_ bad:—Leigh Ritchie’s “Marcus Bell,” for example; a tale
entitled “Aunt Honor;” and “The Lamplighter’s Story,” by Mr. Dickens.
This last, however, is only tolerable through the manner in which it is
told. There is not a single paper of _real_ value; and more consummate
nonsense than the greater portion of the collection we never encountered
in any respectable-looking book.

We cannot conclude our notice without a protest against the title-page.
To call this paltry publication the “Pic Nic Papers,” and affirm it to
be _edited_ by Mr. Dickens—thus inducing ideas of the popular Pickwick,
is a piece of chicanery which not even the end in view can sanction. No
body of men are justified in making capital of the public’s gullibility
for purposes of charity, public or private—for any purposes under the
sun. We do not hesitate to state the present case _plainly_. The title
affixed to this work has been designedly so affixed, that purchasers,
hastily glancing at it, may suppose it a book upon the same plan as the
“Pickwick Papers,” and _written_, as they were, by Mr. Dickens. No one
who reflects an instant can suppose the intention to have been anything
else. Now what is this but the worst species of _forgery_?

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _History of the War in the Peninsula, and in the South of
    France, from the year 1807 to the year 1814. By_ W. F. Napier,
    C. B., Colonel, _&c. From the Fourth Edition. Complete in Four
    Volumes. With Numerous Engravings. Carey and Hart:
    Philadelphia._

Colonel Napier’s “History of the Peninsula War” is a work whose general
features are sufficiently well understood. In the thoroughness of its
survey and in the minute and exact particularity of its details, if not
in more important and comprehensive regards, it is equalled certainly by
no other book on the subject discussed, and perhaps by few histories of
any kind. The author’s extensive political acquaintance with the events
agitating all Europe at the period investigated, and especially the part
he bore in some of these events, with his obvious enthusiasm for
military affairs, rendered him as fitting for the task which he has
undertaken as any individual of his age. It may be said, indeed, and not
altogether paradoxically, that he was somewhat _too_ well qualified for
this task. The agitating incidents _quorum pars magna fuit_ have so
forcibly impressed his imagination as to mislead his understanding in
respect to the _relative_ importance of these incidents. He discourses
of the “Peninsular Campaign” (pretty much, by the way, as all Englishmen
discourse of it) as if _it alone_ were the proper subject of all human
deliberation. No one will be willing to deny the interest which
appertains to it, nor the magnitude of the results to which it led. We
mean to say, however, that, except to Colonel Napier and the Duke of
Wellington, it is not the only important topic in the universe.

Hitherto the American reader of history has been able to procure this
work only from our public libraries, and the enterprize of Messieurs
Carey and Hart in placing it within reach, is worthy of all
commendation. They must have been at unusual expense in this
undertaking. The volumes are thick octavos, and are illustrated by no
less than fifty-five lithographed plans, (which, by the way, are not
very well executed.) At the same time these publishers can scarcely
expect remuneration from a very extensive sale. By public institutions
and military men the work will be valued and purchased. But beyond
these, with few exceptions, the public will content itself with the
means already in its power of referring to the history in our libraries.
The gentlemen in question are, of course, the best judges of their own
affairs; but it does seem to us that they have erred in permitting the
_foreign_ value and reputation of the work to influence them in making
an American reprint.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Ten Thousand a Year. By the Author of The Diary of a London
    Physician. Carey and Hart: Philadelphia._

There are several circumstances connected with this book which render it
an important topic for the critic. We mean its unusual length—the
previous reputation of its author—the peculiarity of its subject—the
apparent under-current of _design_ which has been attributed to it—the
wide difference of opinion existing in regard to its merit—and,
especially, the fact of its being, if not precisely the first, yet
certainly the chief of the class of _periodical_ novels—the peculiar
advantages and disadvantages of which it will afford a good opportunity
for discussing. We much regret, therefore, that we have left ourselves
no room, in the present number of the Magazine, for an extended analysis
of the work. This we may possibly undertake in December; contenting
ourselves, in the meantime, with a few observations at random.

It appears to us that a main source of the interest which this book
possesses for the mass, is to be referred to the _pecuniary_ nature of
its theme. From beginning to end it is an affair of pounds, shillings,
and pence—a topic which comes home at least _as_ immediately to the
bosoms and business of mankind, as any which could be selected. The same
_character_ in the choice of subject was displayed by Doctor Warren in
his “Passages from the Diary of a London Physician.” The _bodily health_
is a point of absolutely universal interest, and was made the basis of
all the excitement in that very popular but shamefully ill-written
publication.

“Ten Thousand a Year” is also “shamefully ill-written.” Its mere English
is disgraceful to an L.L.D.—would be disgraceful to the simplest tyro
in rhetoric. At every page we meet with sentences thus involved—“In
order, however, to do this effectually I must go back to an earlier
period in history than has yet been called to his attention. If it
[_what?—attention?—history?_] shall have been unfortunate enough to
attract the hasty eye of the superficial and impatient novel-reader, I
make no doubt that by such a one certain portions of what has gone
before, and which [_which what?_] could not fail of attracting the
attention of long-headed people as being not thrown in for nothing (and
therefore to be borne in mind with a view to subsequent explanation)
have been entirely overlooked or forgotten.” The book is full too of the
grossest misusages of language—the most offensive vulgarities of speech
and violations of grammar. The whole _tone_ is in the last degree
mawkish and inflated. What can be more ridiculous that the frequent
apostrophising after this fashion—“My glorious Kate, how my heart goes
forth towards you! And thou, her brother! who art of kindred spirit, who
art supported by philosophy and exalted by religion, so that thy
constancy cannot be shaken or overthrown by the black and ominous swell
of trouble which is increasing around thee—I know that thou wilt
outlive the storm—and yet it rocks thee! What indeed is to become of
you all? Whither will you go? And your suffering mother, should she
survive so long, is her precious form to be borne away from Yatton?” &c.
&c.

There is no attempt at plot—but some of the incidents are wofully ill
adapted and improbable. The moralising, throughout, is tedious in the
extreme. Two-thirds of the whole novel might have been omitted with
advantage. The character of Aubrey is a ridiculous piece of overdone
sentimentality—and in character generally the writer fails. One of the
worst features of the whole is the transparent puerile attempt to throw
ridicule upon the ministerial party by dubbing them with silly names,
supposed to be indicative of peculiarities of person or character. While
the oppositionists, for example, rejoice in the euphonious appellations
of Aubrey, Delamere, and the like, their foes are called Quirk, Gammon,
Snap, Bloodsuck, Rotgut, Silly-Punctilio, and other more stupid and
beastly indecencies.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: _Latest Fashions, November 1841. For Graham’s Magazine._]

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and
typesetting errors have been corrected without note.

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 5, November 1841_, George R.
Graham, Editor]



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