*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 63706 ***

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
               Vol. XVIII.      April, 1841.      No. 4.


                                Contents

                    Fiction, Literature and Articles

           The Lady Isabel (continued)
           Our Bill
           Unequally Yoked
           Self-Devotion
           The Defaulter
           The Murders in the Rue Morgue
           The Reefer of ’76 (continued)
           The Outlaw Lover
           The Confessions of a Miser (continued)
           Sports and Pastimes
           Review of New Books

                       Poetry, Music and Fashion

           The Brilliant Nor-West
           A Slighted Woman
           A Picture
           A Winter Scene
           Comparisons
           An April Day
           Old Memories
           Chimes of Antwerp
           A Winter Scene
           Oh! Gentle Love
           Fashions for April 1841

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

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: _Engraved by J. Sartain_
_He Comes_

_Engraved for Graham’s Magazine from the Original Picture by Leutze in the
  Possession of John W. Field Esq.^r_]

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

                Vol. XVIII.     APRIL, 1841.     No. 4.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            THE LADY ISABEL.


                       (Continued from page 99.)


                              Chapter IV.

                          _The Disappearance._

There is nothing so dreadful as the heart’s first disappointment. To
love vainly—oh! what is more agonising. We feel as if every one had
turned against us; as if there was nothing left to live for in this
world; as if the springs of life, and the joy of existence had departed
forever from us. The loss of a friend may be compensated for, and the
ruin of our fortunes can be borne without despair; but the hopelessness
of a first love can never be ameliorated by aught on earth. Go where we
will, the blight of the heart will continue with us. _We can never
forget._ Hope will have dried up within us. We feel, like a stranger in
a strange land, as an outcast on the world, beholding feelings in which
we can take no part around us, and reminded daily of our misery by the
happiness of others. Alas! for the one disappointed in a first love.

That night Isabel saw no more of her cousin. But when the whole of the
next day passed, and she still did not meet him, she began to be
alarmed. She feared to ask for him. Her father had been absent all day,
and it was not until night that he returned. When he did, he brought the
intelligence, that, in compliance with an old promise, he had that
morning visited the earl of ——, an influential courtier of the
neighboring county, in order to procure for Lorraine a commission. The
page had, the preceding evening, begged to be allowed to join the army
so eagerly, that having nothing particularly to do, and noticing and
applauding his young cousin’s anxiety to assume arms, he had ridden over
with him to —— castle, and after obtaining the appointment for him,
had left him there, at his urgent request, with his new colonel.

“And I rejoice too at his determination,” continued Lord Deraine,
“although it was somewhat of a sudden. I began almost to think that the
lad was growing too effeminate, with his lute, and other lady pastimes,
and forgetting the name that he bore. But I ween had you beheld his eye
glisten to-day, when he was first addressed by his military title, you
would have said that he was every inch a Lorraine. And God forfend that
it should ever come to disgrace! My mother was a daughter of that
house,” continued the aged nobleman, “and I feel a strange interest in
the boy’s success. Had you seen him to-day you would have said he was a
true descendant of the iron-hearted warrior who led that charge at
Agincourt, which decided the fortune of the day. Were I as I once was, I
would e’en go one campaign with him to learn how they fight in these
degenerate days, and show them the manner in which we cavaliers of
Prince Rupert used to charge the canting round-heads.”

“But pa,” said Isabel, scarcely venturing to speak, “did he leave no
word—no message?”

“Oh! I had almost forgot. He sent a note to you—here it is—about some
hawk, or lute, or his greyhound perhaps—did he bid you farewell, by the
bye?”

Isabel felt her heart beat faster at the enquiry of her parent, but
giving an evasive answer to his question, she took the note, and left
the apartment. Little did Lord Deraine suspect the agony which had
driven his young kinsman from his halls, or dream of the tears that
Isabel shed that night over her ill-fated cousin’s epistle. It ran thus:

    Dearest Isabel:—I know not whether to write to you; and yet why
    should I not? Are we not cousins—brought up under the same
    roof—taught to love each other from childhood—bound to one
    another by a thousand ties? Yet we cannot meet again as we have
    met! Oh! little did I think twenty-four hours ago that such
    agony as I now suffer would so soon be my lot. But I will not
    blame you. You never said you loved me—you never smiled on me
    except as a cousin. It is only I who am wrong. Could I ever
    think that you, the pure, the beautiful, the courted, would look
    on a poor page with love? Yet I did: I nursed the delusion long:
    and now—oh! God—the dream is forever broken.

    Forgive me, dear Isabel—for I will yet once more call you by
    that name—forgive me, for I scarce know what I write. I leave
    you for years, perhaps forever. I go to seek a name of which you
    will not be ashamed, or to die. God bless you, again and again,
    and again dearest Isabel! May you be happy. Once more God bless
    you!

The tears of the maiden fell thick and fast as she perused this
passionate epistle, and she sighed,

“Poor, poor Lorraine—would we had never met, or that you had never
loved.”

The absence of the page was felt throughout the castle, for all had
loved the generous and high-souled boy. For many a long day the old
servitors loved to recall his boyish deeds, and augur a glorious career
for the young soldier. And often, as Isabel sat in her splendid chamber,
while twilight deepened through the gorgeously curtained windows, her
thoughts would wander away after her absent cousin, and taking the
melancholy hue of the hour, she would indulge in mournful memories of
the past, and sigh that she could make no return to Lorraine except what
was all too cold for him,—her friendship. Even De Courtenay, could he
have read her thoughts at such moments, would have pardoned her that
involuntary pang.


                               Chapter V.

                          _The Young Soldier._

It was the eve of a battle. Far along the sides of the hill stretched
the camp of the allies, the long lines of white tents gleaming in the
starlight, and the death-like silence of the sleeping army filling the
mind with an awe, second only to that inspired by the holy silence of
the calm and peaceful stars above. Below was a wide extensive valley,
through which wound a narrow river, while here and there along the plain
were scattered rich farms, and solemn woodlands. On the opposite range
of uplands, the camp of the enemy might be detected by the long-line of
watch-fires glittering on the horizon. Occasionally the neigh of a
steed, or the “all’s well!” of the sentinel, floated past on the night
air. All else was still. A profound calm reigned where to-morrow would
be heard the shouts of thousands, the booming of artillery, and the
clash of meeting squadrons.

It was yet long before day when Lorraine sprang from his couch, and
hastily attiring himself, prepared to join his troop, at the expected
summons. It was to him a day of the most intense interest, for not only
was he then for the first time to behold the conflict of man with man,
but he was to begin that career of arms which he had determined should
give him renown or death.

“Yes!” he exclaimed energetically, “though Isabel may never love me, she
shall hear my name in every mouth, or else be told by some pitying
tongue that I have died in the heart of battle. I feel that within me
which will make or mar me. To-day shall lay the first stone in my
advancement, and men will talk no longer of the idle page, when they
hear of the deeds of the warrior.”

With such emotions stirring in his bosom, Lorraine joined his corps on
the morning of that eventful day; nor did he, for a moment, through the
long hours of that celebrated battle, forget his vow. Wherever the
danger was the most imminent, there the gallant young soldier was to be
found. When the battle was at its fiercest, Lorraine seemed only more
calm and collected; until even hoary veterans were astonished at the
fearless composure of the young officer. Already had he performed deeds
of daring, which had been alone enough to make him the wonder of his
corps, when he was ordered to charge, with his body of dragoons, on a
battalion of the enemy who were about making a movement on the left of
the allies.

Flushed with the confidence thus displayed in his coolness and valor,
Lorraine dashed off to take up his position so as to be able to check
the enemy’s advance at the most favorable moment. Rapid as was his
movement, however, he had been anticipated by the foe, and before he
could reach the threatened position, the detachment of infantry
defending the farm-house had been driven in, half their number made
prisoners, and the rest compelled to fall back in disorder. When
Lorraine approached their post, they were retreating up the hill
immediately in the rear of the farm-house, while a strong body of the
enemy’s infantry was pressing upon them in the rear. A thick wood,
running at right angles with the road taken by the retreating corps,
effectually hid Lorraine’s dragoons from sight, until the very moment
when the enemy’s flank was exposed to his charge. Perceiving his
advantage, the young soldier waved his sword, and turning to his troops,
shouted,

“Charge!” and in an instant, like a whirl-wind they burst upon the
astonished enemy. The shock was irresistible. Taken completely by
surprise, and already disordered by the pursuit, the foe scarcely stood
their ground a moment, but broke in all directions. A scene of wild
consternation ensued. Through and through the tumultuous crowd of
fugitives, dashed the troopers of Lorraine, hewing and treading down
their antagonists at every step. Amid this wild uproar, the young
officer might be detected by his snowy plume and white charger; and
wherever they were seen, there the battle was sure to rage the thickest.
But though broken in nearly every direction, there was still a fragment
of the enemy’s corps, which, rallying around its leader, endeavored for
a while to maintain its ground, and even succeeded in repelling the
attack made upon it by a portion of the late fugitives, who, rallying at
the first appearance of succor, under charge of their commander,
attempted to cut off the retreat of the enemy. At this moment Lorraine
perceived their peril. Quick as lightning he dashed to their aid,
followed by a portion of his gallant band; and arrived at the very
moment when his brother officer, having been struck from his horse, lay
at the mercy of the enemy’s uplifted sword. It was but the work of a
moment to strike up the weapon of the assailant, and with another blow
to sever the arm of the French officer. Lorraine’s troopers at the same
instant, rushing like a thunder-bolt upon the enemy, scattered them down
the hill, and before the young officer could stoop to raise his fellow
soldier, the enemy had vanished from around them.

“To whom am I indebted for this timely aid?” said the wounded man,
endeavoring to rise.

“To a friend—Henry De Lorraine. As I have just joined the army even my
brother officers are unknown to me.”

“But you will not be long unknown to them, for a more gallant charge I
never saw made, and even a De Courtenay may consider it an honor to be
the friend of a Lorraine.”

The young officer felt his heart beat as it had not beat yet through all
that day’s conflict. The lover of his cousin was before him. With that
name rushed a thousand memories upon his mind, and for an instant he
stood silent and spell-bound before De Courtenay. But recalling, with an
effort, his wandering thoughts, he bowed to the speaker’s compliment,
and assisting the wounded officer from the field, recalled his troops,
and prepared to maintain the position he had so gallantly recovered.


                              Chapter VI.

                        _Fame: The new friend._

The whole camp was ringing with the deeds of Lorraine. The days of
Roland were revived. Old and young, officers and soldiery conversed only
of the youthful hero who had already won for himself the title of “the
bravest of the brave.” Not only in his first battle, but in every
successive engagement, Lorraine had achieved wonders. He had already
been promoted through several grades; general officers and titled
princes courted his society; and, as if by an enchanter’s wand, in less
than a year from the opening of his career as a soldier, the name of the
unknown page was ringing in every capital of Europe. Oh! how delicious
was it for him to know that Isabel heard of his deeds, and that though
she might not love, she could not pity him. No, he had saved himself
from that. His vow had been fulfilled. He had become renowned.

A strange friendship had sprung up between Lorraine and him whom he had
rescued. The grateful De Courtenay had sought the intimacy of his
preserver in such a way as could not be refused, and though it was, at
first, agony for Lorraine to be the confidant of his rival, yet he could
not avoid it without insulting his new friend, or exposing his own
hopeless love. But the former course he scorned: and to the latter
alternative he could not listen. He was forced, therefore, to endure in
silence that, which, like the vulture of Prometheus, was eating out his
vitals. Daily did De Courtenay pour into his ear his tale of love,
thinking that as the relative of Isabel, Lorraine would sympathise with
his long continued separation, and join in the praises of his mistress;
but little did the generous young nobleman know of the agony he was thus
inflicting upon his new friend.

Meantime the war continued. Siege after siege, and battle after battle
marked the conquering career of the allies, and in every brilliant
action the deeds of the young hero shone forth with unabated lustre. In
the hottest of the conflict, heading the assault or leading a charge,
Lorraine was ever to be found, seeming to bear a charmed life.

Yet the cheek of the young hero grew thinner daily, and amid all his
splendid and rapidly increasing renown, it was plain that his unquiet
spirit was tossing to and fro within him, and wearing out his very
existence. His brow grew darker as if with long years of care; his eye
burned with a deep, restless, almost wild brilliancy; and his port
became prouder and prouder, for he grew more lofty as the struggle with
himself became fiercer. Yes! the contest was still waged against his
unhappy love,—how hopelessly, let others in the same situation tell.

His was not the love of days, or weeks, or months, but of years: his was
not an evanescent feeling of admiration, but the deep, fathomless
passion of one whose whole soul was consumed by his love. How could he
conquer such an emotion? No, he might fly from Isabel, but could he fly
from himself? His love had become a part of his being: it was his
sustenance, his life.

It was after a hard contested battle, in which his corps had
distinguished itself unusually, and he had turned the tide of war on one
wing by his own valor and influence, that his sovereign filled up the
measure of his renown, by reviving in his person, an honor long disused,
and creating him a knight banneret upon the field of conflict.

“Rise, Sir Henry Lorraine,” said the monarch, as, surrounded by a
brilliant cortège, he waved his hand for the kneeling knight to arise,
“you have this day won a name far more imperishable than the title I
have bestowed upon you. Were a tithe of the gentlemen of my realm like
you, England would have a Bayard or a Roland for every knight’s fee.”

Such a compliment, from the lips of a phlegmatic sovereign, placed the
finishing stone on the renown of Lorraine. He was henceforth without a
rival. Courted by the titled; adored by his fellow soldiers; and smiled
on by the young and beautiful; what farther had this world to bestow
upon him? Alas! all these brought him no happiness. To Lorraine they
were but empty shadows, for they could not give him the love of his
cousin.

“Ah! how will Isabel rejoice to hear of this,” said De Courtenay, the
day after the young hero’s knighthood, “you and she were playmates in
childhood, you know, and it will please her all the more that I too love
you. I wonder why she says nothing of you in her letters, but then—.”
De Courtenay paused. Even the happy lover felt that it would not do to
say how wholly a mistress forgets in her missives all but the object of
her adoration.

Lorraine could not reply. His brow throbbed to bursting, and he turned
away. Yet he did not betray himself. Never had De Courtenay suspected
that his friend loved Isabel; and Lorraine vowed in his inmost heart
that he never should.

And thus time rolled on, and day by day, and week by week, and month by
month, the renown of the young soldier increased, while the blight at
his heart grew more venomous and deadly. _He loved in vain._ Often in
the still watches of the night, when the camp lay buried in silence
around him, and the holy stars looked down like guardian angels on the
world below, he would stand for hours, gazing on the hushed landscape
around, and wandering, in thought, back to the time when he stood at the
side of Isabel, and together they gazed up upon the starry sky, or
listened to the low whisper of the night-wind across the firmament,
while their hearts held high communion, as if linked in with each other
by some mysterious sympathy. Alas! those days were gone forever. Alone
Lorraine gazed up at the sky, while Isabel perhaps thought of him no
more.


                              Chapter VII.

                              _He Comes._

“Your cousin, young Harry, now Sir Henry Lorraine, knight banneret, is
coming to visit us, Isabel,” said Lord Deraine, one morning, as he
entered the breakfast room, holding an open letter in his hand, “he has
come over with despatches, and says that he shall have a few days of
leisure. Here is his letter. It came by a special courier, to whom I
gave a reply, inviting Lorraine down here at once. So you may expect the
gallant boy to-morrow.”

“But pa, how know you he will come?” said Isabel, with ill-concealed
agitation, for she had not yet forgotten their last parting.

“Come! why where else would he go, but to those who love him like we do?
Ah! I wonder if glory has changed him. By the honor of my house but it
will make me young again to see the gallant lad, who has made the name
of a Lorraine to ring like a watch word through Europe.”

Isabel knew not scarcely how she felt. She dreaded, and yet wished to
meet her cousin. Long did she think over it that night, and wonder if he
had conquered his ill-fated passion. And when at length she fell asleep,
it was after many a prayerful hope that Lorraine might have learned to
look upon her only as a cousin, and have sought among fairer and loftier
ones, to whom he might fearlessly aspire, a being more worthy of his
fortunes.

Why had Lorraine, after tearing himself away from Isabel, determined to
re-visit her? Alas! who can tell the workings of that master passion
LOVE? How often do we resolve to see the face of some dear one no more,
and how often do we return again and again to her presence, hoping even
against hope, until we feel that the cup of bliss is too surely dashed
from our lips forever.

It was a glorious afternoon when he arrived at the gates of the park,
and at every step seeing something to remind him of the past, he
gradually fell into a reverie, from which he was only aroused by coming
in front of the hall, and finding himself welcomed by the noisy
tenantry, as well as by a score of old familiar faces in the shape of
trusty servitors. Their homely but joyous greetings went to Lorraine’s
heart, and almost drew tears from his eyes, when he reflected how
differently he had passed that threshold the last time. His uncle met
him at the hall door, and falling into his arms, blessed him: while
Isabel frankly extending her hand, greeted him as she would have done in
their old and happy hours.

The dinner passed off, Isabel withdrew, and Lorraine was alone with his
uncle.

“How you have altered, Henry,” said the old earl, “you left us a boy,
and now your brow is that of a warrior. Ah! I always knew you would
prove an honor to your house. Another glass of the Burgundy. But now we
are alone, let us hear of your battles and sieges.”

It was almost evening when they rose from the table, and Lorraine
signified his wish to seek the open air. His uncle pleaded his gout, and
the young knight stepped out upon the lawn.

Soon, however, as if led by a mysterious influence, he sought the old
terrace, where he had sat at Isabel’s feet the last day he had spent at
the hall. His cousin was there. For a moment both were embarrassed. A
woman on such occasions, is always the first to speak; and Isabel broke
the spell by an allusion to their early days. Long then they conversed;
for both their hearts were full. But neither spoke of love.

It was a golden evening, the very counterpart to the one he had last
spent there, and when, for a few minutes both paused, it is not
improbable that each reverted to that memorable occasion, and for awhile
they gazed without speaking on the landscape. And mournful were
Lorraine’s thoughts as he gazed. What was honor, or rank, or wealth to
him, since they brought him not Isabel? But was her love then hopelessly
lost to him? Alas! had not De Courtenay assured him of her continued
affection; and would it not be even dishonorable to win that affection
if he could? Yet might there not be hope? Such feelings, whirling
through his mind, almost determined Lorraine, in the excitement of the
moment, to fling himself at Isabel’s feet. Suddenly, however, two
horsemen appeared in the distance, winding up the avenue of the park.
Isabel and himself started simultaneously, and looked at each other.
Could it be that both divined in the foremost of the riders the same
individual?

A moment passed, when their ears were aroused by the rapid clattering of
approaching hoofs, and looking down they beheld a couple of horsemen
spring from their steeds. The eye of one of the riders happened to fall
upon them, and he turned hastily in their direction. Surely it was
not—yes! it was—De Courtenay. He dashed up the terrace with eager
haste, and Isabel, forgetting, in her glad surprise, everything except
that the lover she had not seen for years stood before her, rushed
forward to meet him.

“Edward—Edward!” was all the agitated girl could utter, as she stooped
to her half kneeling lover.

“Isabel—dearest Isabel, we meet at last,” passionately exclaimed De
Courtenay, as he looked up, and clasped her in his arms.

Oh! who can tell the agony of Lorraine during that moment? Was it for
this he had toiled; was it for this he had struggled; was it for this he
had breasted the fierce assault? It was the last drop in his cup of
bitterness. His heart was wrung with unutterable woe. He spoke no word,
he breathed no sigh; but he gazed a moment sadly on the spectacle, and
then noiselessly entered the apartment behind. When the lovers looked
around he was gone.

That night a solitary traveller might be seen on the high road to
London. He had just parted with another, who had pursued him hotly for
several miles, and finally overtaken him. The two were Lorraine and De
Courtenay. The latter, learning every thing from Isabel for the first
time, had set out and overtaken his preserver, with the generous design
to relinquish his mistress to the young knight. But Lorraine would not
listen to him.

“No, no, you tempt me over much,” sadly said Lorraine, “for can you give
me the love of Isabel? God bless you both. As for me, glory henceforth
is my only mistress. Farewell!” and pressing his friend’s hand, he
plunged his rowels into the flanks of his steed, and dashed on.

De Courtenay had followed Lorraine to England unexpectedly within
twenty-four hours of the young knight’s departure, and, having hastily
transacted his business in London, had hurried down to Deraine hall, and
met Lorraine as we have described.

None of his house ever saw Lorraine again. He appeared in a few days in
the camp, but within a week fell in an assault, the only man who had
succeeded in mounting the breach. There he fought unsupported for
several minutes, but finally sank pierced with a hundred wounds.

And long did Isabel and De Courtenay weep for the ill-fated page. And
when the war was over, and they were married, often would they sit on
that old terrace, and feel a melancholy pleasure in talking of Lorraine.
Need we wonder that their eldest boy bore the name of Isabel’s
unfortunate cousin?     *   *   *

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        THE BRILLIANT NOR-WEST.


                           BY J. K. MITCHELL.


    Let Araby boast of her soft spicy gale,
    And Persia her breeze from the rose-scented vale;
    Let orange-trees scatter in wildness their balm,
    Where sweet summer islands lie fragrant and calm!
    Give me the cold blast of my country again,
    Careering o’er snow-cover’d mountain and plain,
    And coming, though scentless, yet pure, to my breast,
    With vigor and health from the cloudless Nor-West.

    I languish where suns in the tropic sky glow,
    And gem-studded waters on golden sands flow,
    Where shrubs blossom-laden, bright birds, and sweet trees,
    With odors and music encumber the breeze;
    I languish to catch but a breathing of thee,
    To hear thy wild winter-notes brilliant and free,
    To feel thy cool touch on my heart-strings opprest,
    And gather a tone from the bracing Nor-West.

    Mists melt at thy coming, clouds flee from thy wrath,
    The marsh and its vapors are seal’d on thy path,
    For spotless and pure as the snow-covered North,
    Their cold icy cradle, thy tempests come forth.
    Thy blue robe is borrowed from clearest of skies,
    Thy sandals were made where the driven snow lies,
    And stars, seldom seen in this low world, are blest
    To shine in thy coronet—brilliant Nor-West.

    Health bounds to thy pathway, joy shouts in thy course,
    The virtues of manhood thy breathings enforce;
    The pure, and the fair, and the brave, and the free,
    Are purer, and fairer, and braver, for thee;
    As flames sweeping wildly o’er mountain and heath,
    But burn the more fiercely the colder thy breath,
    So glow, but more brightly for thee, in the breast,
    The virtues of freedom—soul-stirring Nor-West.

    Forever, forever, be thine, purest wind,
    The lakes and the streams of my country to bind;
    And oh, though afar I am fated to roam,
    Still kindle the hearths, and the hearts of my home!
    While blows from the Polar skies holy and pure,
    Thy trumpet of freedom, the land shall endure,
    As snow in thy pathway, and stars on thy crest,
    Unsullied and beautiful—glorious Nor-West.

    Philadelphia, March, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               OUR BILL.


                            BY MRS. LAMBERT.


                        “I am gone sir, and anon
                        I’ll be with you again.”
                                      _Tempest._

Some years since I chanced to stop, during one of my summer rambles, in
a pretty village, picturesquely situated in the county of F——d. I
arrived about sun-set, and the quiet loveliness which appeared every
where around, won me to the spot. A row of neat white houses, with
pretty gardens in front, arose on each side of the way, for the distance
of nearly half a mile. At this point the road branched off in different
directions, and exactly on the centre of division stood the village
church; a plain, unpretending edifice, whose slender spire rose high
above the full tops of venerable elms and dark pendant willows that
surrounded its peaceful walls.

A row of fine trees planted regularly at the road side, gave the
appearance of an avenue to the village street, which viewed from its
entrance, has an uncommonly pleasing effect, the eye ranging through the
grass-bounded road, and the umbrageous arch which overshadows it, till
the consecrated building terminates the vista.

The country immediately adjoining the village is divided into numerous
enclosures, bearing marks of good cultivation; while pretty farm-houses
are scattered in every direction, with woods, streams, rocks and groves,
beautifying the landscape. A chain of hills, which might without the
charge of an extraordinary degree of presumption, aspire to the name of
mountains, bounds the view on the south-east—their undulating outline
beautifully marked against the clear horizon. Through an opening of the
range, a glimpse is caught of the deep blue waters of the sound—a sail
just distinguished—diminished by distance to a mere speck, gives
frequent interest, and adds to the magic of the scene.

Pleasing, however, as was the village, and abounding in objects most
inviting to a lover of simple life, I determined not to make it my place
of abode. Enquiring my way to a farm-house, of which I had some previous
knowledge, I directed my steps thither. It was situated about a mile
from the village, at the foot of a gentle slope, and adjoining a grove
vocal in spring-time with the notes of almost innumerable birds.

The master of it was a plain farmer, but one of Heaven’s nobility, an
honest man. He lived like one of the Patriarchs of old, surrounded by
his descendants to the third generation. His still athletic form was
unbent by age, although his venerable locks were whitened by the snows
of seventy winters.

I was received with all the kindness I could wish. Every thing was done
to make me comfortable, and cause me, as the phrase goes, to feel at
home, and I did so.

The farm-house was a large, old building, abounding in long, low rooms,
the ceilings of which were crossed by heavy beams, a century ago
considered no defect in architectural embellishment—narrow windows,
glazed with exceedingly small panes, carefully leaded—a fire-place
built across one corner of the room, over the mantel-piece of which
appeared a wooden clock, flanked on each side by a china figure,
intending to represent, as I supposed, Flora and Pomona.

The former of these heathen beauties balanced her well-filled basket
with sufficient gravity on a head none of the smallest—but her
companion from the carelessness with which she held her cornucopia,
suffered its treasures to escape with an indifference truly wonderful. A
pair of pink-colored candles, rising from sockets garnished with
curiously cut paper, finished the decorations of the fire-place.

My hostess was a little, fat, short, good-humored woman, and with her
youngest daughter, the only one remaining unmarried, and a
daughter-in-law, whose husband was absent in a distant part of the
country, constituted those members of the family, with whom I had most
frequent and social communication. There were, also, two or three large
dogs, of prepossessing physiognomy, and urbane gentlemanly manners, with
whom I soon found a sort of companionship.

But of all the oddities, animate or inanimate, with which I became
acquainted during my visit to Redbury, I saw none that interested me
more than an urchin who officiated in the family as a sort of boy of all
work.

Short, stout, broad-shouldered as an infant Hercules, with a round,
good-humored face, laughing grey eyes, and elf-locks tanned to a dead
flaxey whiteness, by continual exposure to the sun and wind—“Our Bill,”
for so he was constantly and familiarly denominated, was to be found
every where, and equal to every imposed duty. He chopped wood, made the
fires, fetched water, brought the cows, and helped the maids to milk
them; went of all the errands, and did _all the chores_. When the farmer
came in wearied from the field, “Our Bill” ran to the cellar and drew
for his refreshment a mug of hard cider. If an extra hand was wanted in
hay-time or harvest, it was only to send to the house for “Our Bill.” If
a neighbor was at a loss for a messenger in any emergency—the first
thought was to request of neighbor Dawkins the loan of “Bill.” In short,
he was in demand for every thing, and I began to consider him
ubiquitous.

The readiness with which he complied with every requisition, his
unvarying good-humor and promptness to oblige, soon drew my attention
and gained my approbation.

The first marked kindness which I received from him I well remember. I
was sitting in the apartment allotted to my use, and taking my
breakfast. The morning was dark, and it rained violently. I looked
toward the windows with a sort of hopelessness of feeling, for I
expected that letters were lying in the post-office in the village, from
my friends in the city, and I knew not how to procure them. To be sure I
might send “Our Bill,” but I had not the heart to do so.

While meditating thus, a gentle tap came to my door. I opened it, and
who should appear but “Our Bill.” His garments were soaked and dripping
with rain, which fell in rapid and discolored drops from numerous ragged
points and edges. He held his tattered, crownless hat in one hand, while
he extended to me in the other no less than three letters—three letters
from dear friends in town—how dear, let friendship in absence
determine.

I looked up at the windows involuntarily, as I broke the seal of one
missive.

“Why William, (I never could bear to call him Bill,) you have been to
the post-office—and through all the storm—I hope you did not go
entirely on my account?”

“Yes, but I did though.”

“Why, my lad, I never would have sent you through such a tempest of wind
and rain.”

“I know that. But I heard you say last night that you thought there were
letters for you in the village, so I determined you should have ’em.”

“You are a kind boy, Will. Are you not cold? You had better go quickly
and change your clothes.”

“Change my clothes, oh no—I don’t mind a wet jacket. I’ll make a fire
up for you though, if you please,” and he looked at my vacant hearth.

“Do so,” said I, and while he was engaged I perused my letters. Their
contents were satisfactory and pleasing, and I sat ruminating on the
past, with no painful anticipations about the future, while the boy went
on with his self-imposed employment.

“There,” exclaimed he, as a cheerful crackling flame blazed up the
chimney, “I think you’ll do, now.”

“So do I, Willy, and here is something for your pains.” I handed him a
small silver piece. He took it with a rustic bow, and looked at it with
delight. His face, cheerful before, now grew bright with pleasure. Down
he sat, _sans cérémonie_, upon the hearth, and diving his hand into some
unimaginable recess about his person, brought to light a dingy-looking
rag, which he untied. In it I beheld a few pieces of copper coin. He
added to them the silver which I had given him, retied his little bag,
thanked me again, and was about to leave the room. My voice arrested
him.

“Why, Willy, you are quite rich; what are you going to do with so much
money?”

The boy actually blushed and hung his head.

“I know,” he replied.

“I suppose you do,” said I, “my man, and may I not know too?” He was
silent. “It will go to buy tops and marbles, I suppose,” I added.

“No it won’t,” he answered, with quickness.

“Perhaps you are saving it till you get enough to purchase a new hat, or
a pair of shoes. If so, I think, you are doing very right.”

No answer, and at this moment Mrs. Dawkins calling him, he left the
room.

This economy was a trait I little suspected in my young acquaintance.
Most boys of his age expend the few pence which they casually acquire,
in the purchase of apples, or nuts, or gingerbread, but I never saw “Our
Bill” indulge in any luxuries of this sort. I, therefore, could only
return to my first supposition, that he was hoarding up the means of
buying a Sunday jacket, trowsers, shoes or hat. The chief things that I
disapproved of, about the boy, were the indifference which he evinced as
to his appearance, and his love of mischief. It is true he had not much
time to devote to personal neatness; yet numerous as were his
avocations, there was not a solitary scheme of mischief carried into
effect within a mile of the village, in which Bill did not bear a part.
If mammy Jennings’s orchard was to be thinned of its superfluous number
of golden pippins—or cross-grained old Squire Grummand’s fine walnut
tree laid under contribution—or the Deacon’s melon-patch to be
_examined_ by moonlight, I am sorry to say that “Our Bill” was sure to
be an assistant, if not officiating as president of the board of
directors. In short, he was a mischievous, but good-natured and obliging
boy, that might by a little care exercised by some kind-hearted
individual, be rendered a good and useful member of the community. But
if neglected and suffered to grow up in idleness, or desultory
employment, which is next akin to it, he stood a fair chance of falling
into a career of dissipation, profligacy and vice.

I took an early opportunity of enquiring more particularly about this
boy of Mrs. Dawkins: who gave me the following account. His parents, who
were natives of the village, and poor, had married early in life. They
were industrious—the man particularly so—and they were virtuous and
honest. For some time after their marriage the world went hardly with
them. An increase of family brought an increase of cares and want, with
no additional means wherewith to answer them. James Lee (that was his
name) became dejected—and Nancy unfortunately lost not her cheerfulness
only, but her good temper: and although James worked hard from day to
day, and gave her every penny of his earnings, to lay up or expend in
supplying the wants of the family, as she chose; yet she was still
peevish and dissatisfied. Harassed by his wife’s growing ill-temper, and
threatened by all the evils attendant upon increasing poverty, James
began to seek in company at the village tavern a temporary relief from
care. This only made matters worse; Nancy instead of striving to make
his home pleasant, and soothing his uneasiness, by bidding him hope for
the best, always met him with tears and upbraidings.

Thus matters went on for some time, when one day as Mrs. Lee was about
heating her oven for a baking of bread, she found that there was no oven
wood cut. Her husband always prepared the wood for her in the nicest
manner; but he had somehow or other forgotten to do so at this time.
Instead of going quietly out to him where he sat at work in the little
shop, opposite their house, (he was a shoemaker by trade) she began by
angrily accusing him of negligence, and want of consideration for her
comfort—with sundry reflections on the manner in which he had too
frequently passed his hours of late, to the great detriment of both
purse and credit. He heard all she had to say with exemplary patience;
and when she had finished arose from his bench, and walked to the door.

“Are you going to get the oven-wood?” she asked.

“Yes, Anne,” he replied meekly, and walked away.

Mrs. Lee returned to her kitchen, and remained waiting for the wood till
a good hour had elapsed. Out of all patience, she at last sent her
daughter, a fine, stout lass, of ten years, to hurry her father, bidding
her tell him her bread would be entirely ruined by waiting so long.

The girl went, but searched for her father in vain, returning to the
house only to give an account of her ill success. The displeasure of her
mother was again excited, and she sallied forth herself, fully
determined on giving James a piece of her mind. But James was no where
to be seen. The wood lay uncut. His shop was still open—the tools which
he had been recently employing, lay on a bench beside that on which he
had been sitting. In short, every thing remained just as he had left it
one short hour before; but from that time to this, a period of seven
years, James Lee has never been heard of.

“This is a surprising story,” said I, when the good dame had concluded,
“what do people suppose became of Lee?”

“There’s no telling,” answered Mrs. Dawkins, “some say one thing and
some another. Whether he left the country—or whether he made away with
himself, there’s nobody knows—for my own part I think he was harassed
out of his life by the odd temper of his good woman—but there’s no
knowing—well, this here boy, that you’ve been asking about is her son.
She has but two children left—Nancy, who is about seventeen, and ‘Our
Bill.’ My husband took the boy, to keep him out of evil courses, and if
he behaves himself, Mr. Dawkins will do well by him.”

“That is certainly very kind of your husband, and I hope the lad will
reward him by industry and good conduct.”

“I hope so, too,” replied my hostess, “but Bill is rather too much
inclined to mischief—yet he is a good boy, too, in many respects, and
is very fond of his mother, whom he goes to see regularly.”

“What are her means of support?” I asked.

“Well—she has to work hard enough since the loss of her husband; and
many a time I have seen her standing in the doorway, looking over at the
little shop in which he used to sit at work, with her eyes brimful of
tears. Ah, I guess it goes to her heart to think how roughly she used to
speak to poor James. She takes in spinning and plain work, and sometimes
goes out a nursing; and her daughter does a little at millinery, for she
has a pretty taste about such matters; and so they make out a living.”

“Is the daughter industrious?” I asked.

“As industrious a girl as you would wish to see, and as handsome. She
has a lover too; indeed a couple of them; but there her mother and she
are at odds; for the one that Nancy likes is not favored by Mrs. Lee.”

“That is unfortunate; and what kind of a person is the young man
preferred by Nancy?”

“Why, he is a likely lad—the blacksmith of our village. He has not much
before hand to be sure, but is honest, good, and true.”

“And the other?”

“Oh, he is better off—quite rich. Keeps a store in the village, and
makes a great dash. But for my own part I think Nancy’s choice is the
best; for Josiah Goodwin is steady as a clock, while folks do say, that
young Sturges, the shop-keeper, likes a small spree now and then.”

“If that is the case,” said I, “it is to be hoped that Nancy will remain
firm in her determination to have nothing to do with him.”

“She has a sad time of it at any rate,” replied my informant. “Her
mother keeps her close at home, and has ordered her never to see or
speak to young Goodwin; who is so troubled about it, that he has closed
his shop and left the village.”

“Really,” said I, “I am sorry for this poor girl, and I should like to
pay a visit to Mrs. Lee.”

“That you may do this evening, if you please,” said Mrs. Dawkins, “my
daughter is going to her house to carry some work.”

The circumstances of Mrs. Lee’s case as respected her husband, greatly
interested me; my curiosity was awakened, and I agreed to accompany
Lizzy Dawkins. At the hour appointed we set out together. After a
pleasant walk through winding roads, and shady lanes, we arrived at the
cottage of Mrs. Lee.

It was an humble abode, unmarked by any exterior improvement. One large
sycamore grew in front, and threw a portion of its branches across the
moss-grown roof. A rustic bench was placed at the foot of the tree. This
had been done by James, in the earlier days of wedded love.

The door of the house stood partly open, and Lizzy, taking the privilege
of an old acquaintance, entered without knocking. I followed. We walked
into the kitchen, which large, clean and comfortable, served as a
reception room. I must acknowledge that my first glance was directed
toward the oven.

Nancy greeted us with a kindly welcome; but the first object that drew
my attention was “Our Bill,” standing by the side of his mother, and
emptying the contents of his dingy-looking purse into her lap. In seeing
us enter he started, and looked as much confused as if he had been
caught in some act of delinquency. A look from me gave him courage. I
saw at once for what purpose the money had been saved, and from that
moment determined that while I lived Bill should never want a friend.

After Lizzy had delivered the work which she had brought for her
neighbor, the conversation fell upon different matters. Nancy, however,
bore but a small part therein; she seemed absent and sad. A young female
friend of hers came in, and she made an effort to appear more cheerful.

It was now the season when whortleberries were in their prime; and Bill
was exceedingly anxious that a party should be formed for gathering them
in the neighboring wood. Nancy’s young friend joined warmly in the
project. Lizzy Dawkins was pleased with the arrangement. I agreed to
make one of the number. Nancy evinced small interest in the matter,
though she agreed to go with us if her mother was willing: and as the
good dame was relieved from her apprehensions on the score of Goodwin,
since she had learned that he had left the village, she gave her assent.
The following day was fixed upon for our little excursion; and as the
weather proved fine, we accordingly went.

The wood was not far distant from the house of Mrs. Lee. It was wild,
shady, and beautiful: the resort of the squirrel and the rabbit—gay
with innumerable wild-flowers, and vocal with the sweet music of its
feathered denizens. Numerous openings amid the thickets disclosed
irregular knolls, covered with the shrubby bushes which now hung full of
the purple berry of which we came in search, and whose abundance in many
past years had given to this rural spot the name of Whortleberry, or in
village nomenclature, Huckle-berry wood. We soon met with two or three
other parties on the same errand with ourselves: some acquaintances of
Lizzy and Nancy were among them: we united our forces, filled our
baskets with berries, and chatted and laughed the hours away.

It was about noon, when, tired and rather hungry, we concluded to seek
for a shady spot where we might rest, and partake of the refreshment
with which we had taken the precaution to provide ourselves. Bill, who
had acted the part of master of the ceremonies during the whole of the
day, now preceded us, boasting aloud of his superior skill in
discovering a cool and pleasant spot for the purpose we desired. After a
few turns among the bushes and underwood, we suddenly emerged upon the
borders of a broad and rapid brook, which was murmuring its way most
delightfully among the reeds and wild-flowers that graced its margin.
And here we were at a stand. To arrive at the spot designated by our
young conductor, and represented by him as the best in the wood, it was
necessary that we should cross the stream; but how to do so was the
question. Bill suggested the placing a few large stones in the bed of
the river, by means of which we might easily step across. This was
accordingly done; and Bill, taking his sister by the hand, preceded the
rest of the party, who paused while they marked the progress of the
adventurers across their unsteady footway. As soon as they touched the
opposite margin, a loud shout from Bill electrified us. “A rattle-snake!
a rattle-snake! run—run for your lives!” and forgetful of the courage
which I had hitherto seen him assume on almost every occasion, Bill
dragged his terrified sister up the rough bank, and disappeared with her
in the thick groves beyond.

The cry had affrighted all. Each one ran in a different direction from
his fellow, and each thought the rattle-snake close at his heels. The
panic could scarcely have been greater had a boa-constrictor appeared
wreathing its voluminous folds among the branches of the beech, walnut,
and oak, that rustled above our heads. It was sorrowful to see the
labors of the morning scattered in a moment, for many of the well-filled
baskets, overturned by their respective owners in the precipitation of
their flight, poured their purple treasure among moss, lichens, and
fern-blossoms.

Meanwhile, I looked in vain for the reptile which had caused this alarm,
and finding myself left entirely alone, I concluded to follow the
footsteps of the valorous William and his gentle sister. Crossing the
stream, and clambering the bank on the opposite side, I found myself in
a charming grove of tall young trees of rapid growth.

All was still, save the whistle of the robin, or the solitary call of
the cat-bird. I wandered along, almost forgetful of the cause which
brought me hither, when at the entrance of a thicket of young hazels,
seated at the end of a fallen tree, and leisurely employed in stripping
the bark from a sapling branch, which he seemed desirous of forming into
something resembling a walking stick, I discovered “Our Bill.”

Surprised at the quiet in which I beheld him, contrasted as it was with
his late trepidation and alarm, I immediately accosted him with
enquiries after his sister.

“She isn’t far, I guess.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Yes.”

“I wish to see her.”

“Well—stop a bit.”

“I want to know if she is not hurt?”

“Hurt?—what should hurt her?”

“The snake, perhaps.”

The boy grinned archly.

“Bill,” said I, “what has become of that snake, think you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Do you think there really was any there?”

“I’m sartain I cannot tell.”

“Well,” said I, advancing, “I shall continue my search till I find
Nancy.”

The boy started up, and putting his fingers to his mouth, blew a shrill
whistle. I looked at him, in order to discover, if I could, the end and
aim of this new fantasy. A rustle among the bushes at a little distance
was heard. I turned my eyes in the direction of the sound. There was
Nancy, and by her side, one of his arms encircling her waist, stood as
fine and good-looking a country youth as one would wish to see.

They were about parting,—a few more last words—a kiss and then
farewell. Nancy came tripping toward the spot where she had left her
brother, but on seeing me stopped and looked confused. I hastened to
re-assure her; and quickly retracing our steps to the brook-side as a
sort of rendezvous, we soon were joined by our companions. So much for
the strategy of “Our Bill.”

Gathering up our fruit as well as we were able, we pursued our way
through the mazes of “Huckle-berry” wood. Bill who had been for some
time in advance of our party, now came running toward us announcing our
near approach to the house of Betty Nares the fortune-teller. “The
fortune-teller—the fortune-teller” was echoed from lip to lip. And,
“who will have their fortune told?” was asked of each, by the other.

And now we came in sight of Betty’s dwelling. A lowly roof it literally
was; for a person would scarcely be able to stand upright except in the
midst of the only apartment which it contained, so lowly and sloping was
the roof,—so covered with moss and lichens, that it resembled a green
hillock surrounded by trees. The interior was such as might have been
expected from its outward appearance. An earthen floor; a stool with
three legs; an empty barrel, the elastic end of which answered the
purposes of a table; a glazed earthen pipkin; a bowl or two; a wooden
platter and spoon, completed the number and variety of Betty’s furniture
and culinary utensils. A bundle of something indescribable—rolled up in
one corner, was supposed to be the couch on which this modern sybil
reposed her wearied limbs. A heap of stones formed the fire-place—and
an aperture in the roof answered the purpose of a chimney in so far as a
portion of the smoke occasionally made its escape thereat.

We found the mistress of this inviting retreat seated beside a few dying
embers, over which she extended her withered hand, seeking to animate
their torpidity by artificial heat. On seeing us she rose, and presented
to our view a veritable hag-like face and form. Her garments were
tattered, her shoes decayed, and her grey locks imperfectly covered by a
dilapidated bonnet. She saluted us in a shrill voice, and, in no very
gentle terms, demanded to know our business.

As this was a question we were not altogether prepared to answer, each
looked at his neighbor, desirous that he or she should expound. Betty,
finding us silent, and growing rather impatient, commenced an
objurgation in a high key, accompanied by a few ominous flourishes with
a stunted broom which she snatched from a corner near her fire-place. At
this moment Bill stepped up to her, and in a low voice made some
communication which had the effect of mollifying her at once.

“Do you wish to have your fortunes told, gentlemen and ladies?” said
she, addressing us with an attempt at looking gracious. One of the
village girls presented her a small piece of money, while Betty, from
some private nook, brought out a terribly soiled pack of cards, the
corners worn by constant attrition, and the edges blackened by frequent
devotion to the service of the curious in the prescient art.

It was amusing to see the interest displayed. The cards were cut and
divided. Attention became fixed. The fair enquirer into the mysteries of
the future, placed before this modern oracle, looked pale and red by
turns. And now we were informed of a strange man who would soon arrive
and bring good news to a certain family not many miles off. And of a
dark-haired woman who was a friend, and of a light-haired woman who was
an enemy, to the young enquirer. How a journey would be made to a
distant land, and how somebody of fair complexion and immense wealth was
to come over the water and offer himself a candidate for her fair hand.
There were letters to be expected without number, and presents to be
sent without name. At each separate piece of intelligence sly looks were
exchanged among the circle; meaning smiles, and conscious glances. “How
wonderfully true!” “Surprising!” “How she could have known such or such
a circumstance, it was hard to tell, but so it was. She seemed to know
every thing.”

Nancy Lee could not be prevailed upon to enquire into the circumstances
of her future lot, and by such neglect considerably displeased Betty;
and to pacify her, Bill invited her to his mother’s house the following
evening. To which arrangement she at last graciously consented.

We all returned home cheerful and happy; well pleased with our day’s
excursion.

The following evening I walked out to see Mrs. Lee, curious I must own,
to learn the proceedings of Betty Nares in persuading Nancy to have her
fortune told.

I found Mrs. Lee as usual in her neat kitchen. She was sitting quietly
there, for the business of the day was finished, and that of the
evening, which consisted generally of knitting or spinning, was not yet
begun. Nancy was sitting on a low stool by the side of her mother, and I
thought she looked as if she had been weeping. The milk pans had been
placed away, filled with their simple treasure. The chairs stood aside,
the hearth was swept up, and all things looked the very abode of quiet.

The last beams of the setting sun shone through the open door, and threw
a soft purple tint across the humble apartment, which was reflected by a
row of brightly burnished tin pans—proofs of the industry and neatness
of Nancy—which decorated the opposite wall—and—just as the last tints
faded away, a cricket from some crevice in the rural hearth-stone
commenced tuning his “tiny reed.”—It was the hour of peace.

Mrs. Lee began to wonder why her son had not returned. He had been
absent she said, for two hours in “Huckle-berry” wood. She wished with
all her heart that the season of gathering berries was over. She dreaded
every day when farmer Dawkins would get out of patience with his idling,
and send him home.

While she was speaking the window became darkened by some opaque body,
and on looking up we recognised the head of Betty Nares. Directly the
fortune-teller entered, and took a seat near the fire-place.

And now Bill came in. “Well,” he exclaimed on seeing Betty, “I’m glad
you are here. Now mother do just let her tell Nancy’s fortune. She told
a power of things to Lucy Harroby and Kitty Dixon, and all of ’em came
true—now do, mother.”

“Don’t be a simpleton, Bill. I have no faith in such stuff.”

I looked at Nancy—she smiled faintly but said nothing.

“You don’t believe me,” said the sybil—“you won’t believe me I suppose,
if I tell you that you yourself are soon to be married?” I must confess
that I thought this a bold and daring assertion of Betty, and calculated
to strike at the root of all her hopes of success: as Mrs. Lee was known
to be scrupulously correct and reserved in her deportment, most
particularly since the mysterious departure of her husband. As I
expected, Betty received a look of disdain.

“You need not look so scornful, Mrs. Lee,” said Betty, “what I tell you
is true, and you can’t get aside of it. And I’ll tell you more. The man
you want your daughter to marry, is going to meet with a great deal of
trouble in his worldly matters,—and the one you don’t wish her to have
is likely to be a rich man—and more—the day you give your consent that
Nancy shall marry Goodwin, a stranger from across the water will come
here, and give her a dowry that shall set them both well a going in the
world.”

Mrs. Lee in great displeasure asked Betty if she really supposed “that
she had lost her senses, that she should for one minute be induced to
credit such idle trash.” Betty however, kept her ground, and repeated
her opinions with a tenacity that surprised me. Bill still continued to
entreat. Nancy hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears. Mrs. Lee
scolded, and Betty solemnly shaking her head, declared she “had her
knowledge from one who would not lie.”

Feeling my presence, in the existing circumstances, rather an
incumbrance, I rose to take leave. This I did, just as Bill was blowing
a coal in order to light a candle, and Betty was beginning to shuffle
her cards.

Some particular business of my own, prevented me for a few days from
inquiring into the civil and domestic relations of the House of Lee. I
saw however, that my friend Bill was still in action. Indeed he seemed
more busy than ever. How the boy sustained such a constant course of
riding and running, of chopping and lugging, of cattle-driving and
hog-feeding, with numerous other et ceteras, all generally
terminating—of late—in an excursion to “Huckle-berry” wood, I could
scarcely imagine.

Wishing one morning to speak to my hostess, I went to the kitchen;
secure of finding her there,—that being the seat of empire, with a good
New-England house-wife. For once, however, I was disappointed; but there
sat Bill. Returned from some nameless excursion, he was eating a late
breakfast. It was rather picturesque. His naked feet, stained by the
soil through which he had lately plodded, were raised upon the cross
piece of his chair—his knees appearing through two very unnecessary
apertures in his nether garment—his ragged hat lying on the floor at
his feet, and two large house-dogs seated on the ground—one on each
side, watching with eager interest each morsel that he conveyed to his
lips.

I have said that I was somewhat anxious on the score of Bill’s health;
but when I saw the devotion with which he applied himself to his hashed
pork and potatoes, and the complacency with which from time to time he
eyed a smoking dish of pumpkin-pudding which stood close at his elbow,
waiting his acceptance, I comforted myself with the belief that the
means and appliances with which he strengthened his inward man, would
abundantly enable him to sustain the labors which heaven had allotted to
his share.

We had long been the best of friends, and perfectly understood each
other. He looked up at me with his laughing grey eyes.

“Our Nance is going to be married.”

“You don’t say so—Bill, are you in earnest?”

Bill nodded, for by this time his mouth was again full, and he could not
speak. He took a draught of cider from the great brown jug on the table.
“Yes, it’s true enough.”

“And to whom is she to be married?”

“Siah Goodwin.”

“Bless me, what could have brought about such a change?”

“Anan?”

“How has it all happened, Bill?”

“Why Betty Nares told Mother it _was to be_; so how could she hinder
it?”

“Ah, very true. Well, when is the wedding to take place?”

“To-morrow evening—won’t you come?”

“Certainly.”

“Do,—we shall have a main sight of pumpkin pies; mother says it will be
like a training day.”

Was it possible that the artful and ignorant Betty had succeeded in
imposing upon the plain good sense of Mrs. Lee? I was sure there must be
more in it than at first sight appeared. However, I determined to be at
the wedding. On enquiry, I found that the Dawkinses were invited, and
also that they were as much surprised at the turn affairs had taken as
myself.

The next evening we all repaired to the house of Mrs. Lee. On entering
her little parlor, we found a few of the neighbors assembled. Nancy sat
near a window, and beside her one whom I supposed to be the bridegroom.
I thought that I recognised in him the same young man whom I had seen
with her in Huckle-berry wood. My doubts, if I had any remaining, would
soon have been dissipated by her brother, who walking up to me, and
looking expressively in my face, and putting two of his fingers to his
mouth, produced in a subdued tone a sound resembling the hissing of a
snake. The whole truth flashed upon me at once.

The exterior of Bill himself was greatly improved, dressed as he was for
the occasion, in a good suit of home-spun cloth, his feet covered with a
decent pair of leather shoes, and his flaxen hair combed smoothly over
his forehead, cut short and even all round, with the exception of two
pendant locks, left as a partial covering to his ears.

Every thing was now in readiness, and we waited only for the clergyman
who had been sent for to perform the marriage ceremony.

A knock came to the door. Bill flew to open it.—“Here he is.” “That’s
he”—was whispered around—“No, not yet.”—

A fidgetty restlessness took possession of the party. Steps were heard
outside. The door again opened, and Bill appeared preceding a stranger.
He was dressed like a plain countryman, of good-looking face and
appearance, and he bore in his arms a rather unusual burthen, supposing
him to be a traveller. He advanced into the middle of the room. Mrs. Lee
rose from her seat and stared at him wildly. The stranger extended his
hand to her smiling. “Nancy,” said he, “_I’ve brought in the
oven-wood_.”

The poor woman gave one shriek and fell on the floor. Down went the wood
on the hearth, and the stranger flew to her assistance. Slowly she
regained her senses, and when she did so, she threw herself in the arms
of the new comer and wept aloud. We all crowded around, eager for an
explanation. It was soon given. James Lee, distressed by poverty, and
worn by the fretful temper of his wife, had, on the memorable morning of
his disappearance—on the impulse of the moment, resolved to quit his
home and seek his fortune in a foreign clime. For this act, his only
apology was the bitterness of despair. He sought the nearest port, and
embarked as a common sailor on board a vessel about sailing to the
West-Indies. Changing his name that he might not be traced, he made
himself useful, and became a favorite with his captain: was generally
esteemed, and by degrees enabled to traffic a little on his own account.
He had made many voyages and been unusually successful. He had acquired
a snug competence with which he now returned, for the purpose of
enjoying it in the bosom of his family. As he approached his home, the
recollection of the manner in which he had left it suddenly occurred to
him, and when Bill opened the door, the thought struck him that he would
go to the wood-pile, fill his arms with wood, and thus bring to his
wife’s mind, for the joke’s sake, the remembrance of their parting
scene, seven years before.

When he had concluded, and we had offered our congratulations on this
happy event, a shrill voice was heard to exclaim,

“Didn’t I tell you so—didn’t I say you were going to be married, Miss
Lee—hasn’t everything I said come to pass—didn’t I tell you?”—

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Lee, smiling, “you told me, as you tell others of
things to happen which you take good care to find out before-hand.”
Betty looked rather blank when she found that no credit was allowed her
for her skill in prescience, more especially as “Our Bill” in the pride
and fullness of his heart unfolded the secret of his numerous
expeditions to the wood. Here at Goodwin’s farm which was in the
immediate neighborhood, Lee had remained for a few days till the
harmless plot which he laid in conjunction with the young man was ripe
for development, and his wife had given her consent to his daughter’s
marriage with “Siah.” It is scarcely necessary to say that Bill had met
and recognised his father—been made privy to his and Goodwin’s scheme,
and in short, been active agent in the whole affair.

Several years have passed since that period. William Lee has grown to
man’s estate. He is married and has a snug little home of his own. He is
a carpenter by trade, and fills a respectable station in the community
of which he is a member.

For my own part, I love to think over the past, for many a pleasing idea
is connected with the reminiscences of “Huckle-berry” wood, and “Our
Bill.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           A SLIGHTED WOMAN.


                  BY THE AUTHOR OF “HOWARD PINCKNEY.”


    And Helen, not neglectful she
    Of her proud sex’s dignity,
    If, in the mazes of the dance,
      Perchance she met her loved of all,
    You’d think that nothing met her glance
      Between her and the wall,
    Her eye around is thrown so free,
    Her laugh rings out so merrily:
    How soon a slighted woman learns
      To hide that pang, however deep,
    Though in her tortured heart it burns,
      Her bosom-thoughts seem all asleep:
    You’d think that peace was resting there,
      With her light shawl upon her breast,
    That exercise and healthy air,
    And day-dreams that be wondrous fair,
    With hopes that sweetest fruitage bear
      Had caused the slight unrest:
    Know you that her young heart bleeds—
      That in this laughing mood.
    The Pelican of Passion feeds
      Her ever hungry brood—
    The two extremes approach we know
    And therefore often laughs our woe;
    Hers tells, that laugh which rung so loud,
    Of withered hopes within their shroud.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            UNEQUALLY YOKED.


                          BY REV. J. KENNADAY.


“Why don’t you hurry, woman? Sure it is no wonder that the child sleeps
in your arms. And yourself will be asleep next, if you walk at this
creeping rate.”

“Be patient, William. You know that the mountain is steep; the child is
heavy; and it’s but little strength I have, any way.”

This was part of a dialogue I chanced to hear, while passing the
parties, who were clambering up one of the most rugged roads in the
Catskill mountains; a road so steep indeed, that my horse puffed at
every step, and the saddle creaked beneath me as I grasped the pummel.

The man was some twelve or fifteen feet in advance of the woman, and at
the sound of my horse’s feet, paused till I passed, when he turned the
hasty glance of his eye from me, in a heavy frown upon her whom he
upbraided. A light breath of wind touching the hood, together with the
effort of the woman to step aside from the road till I passed, laid open
the face of the sleeping child, and gave evidence, in the fullness of
its face, of the weight of its frame, and of health, derived almost at
the expense of the one upon whose bosom it reposed.

Possessing an enormous and hardy frame, the man trode the mountain path
almost with the step of an elephant, and appeared to require nothing but
a palanquin upon his huge shoulders to enable him to carry both the
mother and the babe. The woman was of small and delicate form. Her face
was round and very fair, over which was cast the mildness of a bright
but modest eye. Although her age was about thirty, she appeared at least
fifteen years younger than her husband.

A bend in the road, and the rapid walk of my horse, soon led me so far
in advance, that I ceased farther to hear a dialogue which, as far as it
was heard, intimated the unfeeling character of the one, and satisfied
me that the other had ample opportunity to manifest her piety in the
perfect working of her patience.

In the progress of another mile of the ascending road, I came to a pass,
where, in a close of about half an acre of level land, there stood a
little hut, immediately on the side of the road. The building was formed
of large unhewn logs, interlaid with clay. The door, swinging upon
hinges made of the soles of worn-out shoes, being partially open,
disclosed the scanty and mutilated furniture within. There was only one
window, consisting of a slender sash, designed for four small panes of
glass, but in which only two remained.

Notwithstanding the poverty indicated in the appearance of every thing
presented to my view, there was a general neatness with which I was
forcibly struck. A thrifty honey-suckle climbed up the little hut, and
the garden was much enlivened by a variety of lovely flowers. I know not
how correct the criterion may be found by others, but my observations
have long since confirmed me in the accuracy of the inference that,
however humble or elegant a country dwelling-house may be, wherever
there is a choice collection of flowers in the garden, there is usually
taste and cleanliness within the dwelling. The approach of a little boy
and girl to the door of this humble hut, with coarse but well mended
apparel, and the sedate and polite manner in which they expressed their
obeisance as I passed, satisfied me that the mistress of this cot
possessed feelings worthy of a better home. The manners of the children
were the more perceptible, as they could not have been acquired at
school, in as much as in this section of the mountains, schools are
seldom heard of. I knew of but one school-house within a distance of
three miles from these children, and that was open only during three
months of the year, and when those who attended must wade through
highland snows.

Another mile brought me to my place of destination, the glass-works,
consisting of a low, spacious, sombre frame building, standing in a
field, every where studded with the most formidable stumps of the
hemlock, a tree the most common in these mountains, and the most
majestic in its growth. With a trunk measuring from five to eight feet
in diameter, and rising more than a hundred feet high, this tree seems
the fitting plumage of the mountain it adorns. Scattered at various
distances from the glass factory were a few buildings, which, from their
dilapidated appearance, evidenced that their inmates would never suffer
persecution for belonging to a suspected aristocracy. Perhaps, however,
I ought to except one building which stood in palace-like contrast with
the rest, and adjoined the “factory-store.” This was the mansion of my
friend, Dr. ——, physician, agent of the glass-works, justice of the
peace, keeper of the store, and frequently member of the Legislature.

Here, with as much authority as is sometimes possessed by a continental
prince, the Doctor resided, enjoying the character of a “people’s-man.”
Strange as it might appear, yet it is certain that the glass-blowers and
wood choppers seldom remove from under his “agency,” without having a
balance against them on the Doctor’s book, either for rent, medical
attendance, justice, groceries or gin. He, it is true, got rich, yet no
one ventured to question his integrity, or to doubt his protection of
the poor.

It was not until the following day that I was able to gratify my
curiosity by going into the factory. The blower, at the furnace nearest
to which I stood, soon gave his instrument to another, and kindly
tendered his services to accompany me through the works, and to give me
the information respecting the process of glass-blowing, of which I was
in quest. We had passed only one or two men before I perceived, at one
of the furnaces, the man whom I passed in ascending the mountain.

“Who is that man?” said I, to my guide.

“That is Bill Hunter,” said he, “and a great bear he is.”

“Then you know him well?”

“I’ faith I do,” said the man, whose broad dialect had shown before this
that he was an Englishman. “I have known him this many a year. A fine
woman is she, his wife, but a dog’s life it is, she has with him.”

“He drinks, I suspect.”

“Yes, he does; but he’s a bad man when sober; and it was a dark day for
her when she left her father’s house for such a dolt as Hunter.”

“Then you know something of their history, I presume. Did you know her
father?”

“What, John Shaw of Spittlefields! indeed I knew him well, and it’s all
good I know of him. Sure, a better man there never lived.”

“My curiosity is quite awake my friend,” said I, “and you will greatly
gratify me by giving me a little of their history.”

“Oh! but it is a sorry history for her, poor woman,” said he. “Do you
see, then, her father was a wealthy manufacturer, and much thought on.
When Margaret was about fourteen years of age, he took this same Hunter
into his factory and store to be a kind of porter or runner. For the
purpose of aiding in family errands, he boarded in Mr. Shaw’s house. At
the end of a year, the father discovered that Margaret treated Hunter’s
addresses with favor, and in disgust and chagrin dismissed him from his
employ; not because he was poor, but that he was so _ould_. We, who knew
him, thought it was strange that the poor wench could think any thing of
such a surly, selfish fellow. But then he was good-looking, and as
slender as ye. It was not long before the whole town was in a stir, when
it was said that Shaw’s Margaret had gone to the States with Hunter.
Sure enough, it was true; for it was found out that under pretended
names they had sailed from Liverpool for Philadelphia. The vessel,
however, went into Wilmington, in the state of Delaware, where they were
married and went into the country, and found employment in a factory. He
was ever a low fellow and a fool, was Mr. Shaw, for admitting him under
his roof. About three years since, he came to this place poor enough.
For Margaret’s sake, poor girl, whom I knew when the whole town was
proud of her, I gave him an insight into this business. He scratches a
scanty living, having five children, and lives in the hut that you
passed down the mountain a piece. He is but a brute to her, who shares a
hard life on it, poor thing; and must ever repent leaving a father’s
house for one so unworthy of her.”

With this simple narrative I was much interested, and not the less so
because it was to me an additional evidence of what I had often thought
to be the case, that in the humbler walks of life, and in some of the
scenes, of poverty and suffering, there are those often who spend years
of pain in weeping over the inadvertence of the hour in which their
affections were misplaced.

    March, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               A PICTURE.


                         BY MRS. M. S. B. DANA.


    And strangers gazed and wondered at the sight.
    Round that lone being glowed a hallowed light;
    Upon her pale, thin face a heaven-born smile
    Played like a sunbeam on some lonely isle.
    Yet plaintive were her tones in speech or song,
    Like the low moaning winds the trees among,
    And you could see her tender heart was riven,
    And all the love she had, she gave to Heaven,
    Oft, when the god of day had sunk to rest,
    And sunlight lingered in the rosy west,
    Still would she wander forth, with noiseless tread,
    And, by a secret influence spirit-led,
    Seek the same spot to which her steps would stray
    With those she loved—but now, oh! where are they?

    March, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             SELF-DEVOTION.


                        A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.


                         BY MRS. E. C. EMBURY.


          “Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise,
            And what they do or suffer men record;
          But the long sacrifice of woman’s days
            Passes without a thought—without a word;
          And many a holy struggle for the sake
            Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfilled—
          For which the anxious mind must watch and wake,
            And the strong feelings of the heart be stilled,—
          Goes by unheeded as the summer wind,
            And leaves no memory and no trace behind!”
                                               _Mrs. Norton._

“Do you believe, cousin Grace, that the world is as disinterested as it
was in the days of the ‘_preux chevaliers, sans peur et sans
reproche_?’”

“I do, Frank; and even though you quote the great Edmund Burke, you will
not convince me that the days of chivalry are gone! The days of
knight-errantry are passed away, and well is it for society that they
are so, but there is as much of the true chivalric spirit now existing
as was to be found in the time of Richard of the Lion Heart.”

“Do you really believe this, Grace?”

“Let me retaliate by another question, cousin Frank; do you believe that
all the knights and squires of olden time were inspired purely by a
noble desire to win fame and redress wrongs? Did not avarice, ambition,
selfish gratification, and love of wild excitement mingle their elements
then, even as they do now, in the mass of human feeling?”

“Undoubtedly the grosser passions were often commingled with the better
qualities of man’s nature; selfishness existed, but was not then so
widely diffused.”

“There we differ, Frank; the selfishness of modern times certainly shows
itself in less fearful shapes.”

“Because society has been compelled to make laws to protect itself
against those who would sacrifice all things to their own will; ‘might
no longer makes right,’ and therefore the selfishness of human nature is
shown less in high-handed spoliations than in secret machinations.”

“Well, Frank, that there is enough, aye, and to spare of selfishness on
earth I do not mean to dispute; but I still adhere to my first assertion
that there is no lack of the true chivalric spirit.”

“And pray how does it exhibit its qualities in this very dull and
prosaic world?”

“Disinterestedness, self-devotion, purity of intention, integrity of
principle, delicacy of sentiment, a high-toned sense of honor, and
indomitable courage—these are the essential qualities of a chivalric
character; and surely, Frank, there is no want of arenas in which to
exercise these virtues.”

“You will find few knights ready to enter the lists if such are the
requisites, cousin Grace.”

“I hope you are mistaken in your estimate of men, Frank; I have a better
opinion of your sex than to adopt your ideas. But if it be as you say,
if selfishness be so active a principle among _men_, then have the
virtues taken up their abode in the hearts of _women_.”

“Do they possess the chivalric spirit, Grace?—courage and all?”

“You need not laugh, I can prove what I say.”

“No, no, Grace, I am willing to allow your sex all superiority in
goodness and purity of feeling, but the virtues of women are of a
passive nature,—they have fortitude to suffer, patience to endure, but
rarely energy to act. Men _make_ sacrifices—women _suffer_ them.”

“How little you know of the sex when you make such an assertion, Frank.
A woman’s sacrifices are of daily and hourly occurrence; she lives but
to minister to others, and to forget herself. If her courage is of a
more passive nature it is because her sphere of action is very properly
limited. She is not called to stem the tide of battle, or to face death
in warrior’s array; but is it nothing to look calmly upon the king of
terrors in the chamber of pestilence—to wait for his fatal blow, with
placid fortitude, when assailed by sudden peril—to gaze, unmoved, upon
the weltering wave—or to perish with unquailing courage amid flames and
tortures? Yet all this has been done by women. Awaken but a woman’s
feelings, arouse the hidden strength of her affections, and earth holds
not a peril which she will not brave.”

“You are eloquent, cousin Grace, but you scarcely make out your own
case; according to your own evidence woman must have a personal motive
for action; her strength of character must be called forth by some
individual affection, or to use a less gentle term, by some selfish
impulse.”

“According to your way of viewing character, then, Frank, the noblest
impulses of our nature arise from selfishness.”

“I should like to hear you draw a parallel between the sexes, cousin
Grace; you seem to be so impartial—to concede so much goodness to
_man’s_ fallen nature, while you exalt so highly the weaker sex, that I
am a little curious to know how you would distinguish them.”

“You would probably only dispute my positions, and make a jest of my
distinctions, Frank.”

“I will promise to do neither, Grace.”

“Well, then listen to the opinions of one who is content with the
dispensations of Providence, and who believes that the finger of God
himself has marked out the line which separates the impulses, the
habits, the character of the two sexes:—Man has _vigor_—woman
_refinement_: man has the _reasoning_ faculty best developed—woman the
_perceptive_: man has the power of _abstraction_—woman _rarely_
possesses it: man is the creature of _calculation_—woman of _impulse_:
man is capable of deep research, he proceeds slowly and cautiously,
measuring every distance, and counting every step of his progress—woman
bounds along with rapid foot, observing the most prominent objects in
her path, and from them forms conclusions often erroneous, but always
ingenious. The intellectual faculty in man is usually concentrated—in
woman it is diffused: men of genius commonly devote themselves to some
one favorite pursuit—women of genius are remarkable for their
versatility. Man has the more correct _judgment_—woman the more correct
_feelings_. He has a _knowledge_ of right which he often forgets—she a
_consciousness_ of it which never forsakes her, even in the midst of
crime: man possesses the stronger _passions_—woman the stronger
_affections_: man has _boldness_—woman _fortitude_: man can perform
heroic deeds—woman can endure the extreme of suffering: man has the
more _physical_ daring—woman the more _moral_ courage: man controls
others by the _force_ of his character—woman influences by the
_gentleness_ of hers. In a word, my dear Frank, the relative position of
the sexes is fixed beyond all change; their respective duties are well
defined. Man has been given the weapons of moral and mental _warfare_,
that he may go out into the world, and do battle with and for his
fellows—while on woman is bestowed that skill in moral and mental
_culture_ which enables her to improve the field of duty at home.”

“Very clearly defined, cousin Grace; so then you do not agree in opinion
with those who are for enlarging the boundaries of woman’s domain, and
would fain make her a gladiator in the arena, instead of a spectator in
the amphitheatre of action.”

“That women have some wrongs to be redressed is an undoubted fact, but I
am no friend to this new warfare for the ‘_rights of women_;’ let the
sex only do their duty at home to parents, brothers, husbands, or
friends, and they will have little cause to repine that the forum, the
pulpit, or the poll is closed against them. But I have not forgotten
your innuendoes respecting the selfishness of women, Frank, and I should
like to tell you a story which will convince you of how much
self-devotion a woman may be capable, even when the strongest passions
of her nature are to be subdued.

“Fanny Wilbank was one of those patient, long suffering creatures, who
seem sent into the world to fulfil the command, ‘_Bear ye one another’s
burdens_,’ for from her very childhood she had borne the burdens of the
whole family. Her father, one of those good-hearted, thoughtless
prodigals, who, in their readiness to help other people, are apt to
forget their own interests, had been all his life unfortunate. Nothing
seemed to succeed in his hands—the most promising business was sure to
fail if he undertook it, and as his family increased his means
diminished, until they were reduced to the utmost straits to preserve
that respectability of station in which they were born and bred. Fanny
was the eldest of the family, and of course upon her devolved the duty
of assisting her sickly mother in the care of the children, and the
management of their household. Here was a wide field for the exercise of
self-denial and patience. A weary lot is that of hopeless poverty, when
it relies on charity alone for food and warmth and raiment; but wearier
still is the lot of those, who, amid privation and want, still struggle
to keep themselves from the deep abyss of beggary, and strive with
decent pride still to retain their foothold in a world which too often
confounds misfortune with disgrace. It was amid cares, and troubles, and
anxieties of every kind that Fanny Wilbank grew up to womanhood. To say
that she was beautiful would convey but little idea of the gentleness,
the delicacy, the loveliness of her countenance. I might describe her
soft black eyes, her full bright lips, the jetty blackness of her
luxuriant tresses, the grace of her slender form, and the elastic spring
of her bounding step, but it would need the painter’s art to image the
tender sweetness of her expression. Her face was such as one might fancy
for a Madonna—pale, pensive and full of high-souled thought; but Fanny
knew little of her beauty and cared less. Had she possessed the talisman
of wealth she might have been the artist’s model and the poet’s theme;
but the spell of beauty alone is powerless to unlock the treasures of
earth, and Fanny was too poor to behold her own charms in the magic
mirror of flattery. Indeed she never seemed to think of herself; she
managed for every body, ministered to the comfort of every body, and
took her share of enjoyment in beholding the gratification of others.
But it must not be supposed that her beauty and goodness were unknown
and unappreciated. Several unexceptionable offers of marriage were made
to her—offers, which if accepted, would have placed her far beyond the
reach of want and labor—but Fanny was not to be influenced by sordid
motives in so momentous a matter, and resisting all the temptations of a
life of ease, still preserved her quiet cheerfulness to illumine the
home of her childhood.

“Her hour of severer trial, however, came at last. Among the few
companions of her childhood was a youth of humble fortunes but of noble
character, whose name I shall conceal under that of William Grey. Their
regard for each other had grown up so gradually in their hearts,
probably neither was aware of its strength, until the time when William
was to go out into the world and strive amid his fellows to earn his
bread by the sweat of his brow. The grief which each felt at this
separation, revealed the nature of their feelings, and Fanny wondered at
herself when she found how closely her love for a stranger had entwined
itself with the affections which she had hitherto devoted to the claims
of kindred. But they plighted faith to each other, and looking forward
to a future of mutual love and quiet happiness, William obeyed the call
of duty, while the gentle Fanny continued to pursue her routine of heavy
cares with a cheerful and hopeful spirit.

“After an absence of two years, William full of eager anticipation
returned to claim the fulfilment of her pledge, and to bear her to a
humble home in another part of the country. Fanny’s heart misgave her
sadly, when she looked on her pale mother and thought of the burden
which would fall upon her when she was gone. She half repented of her
promise to William, dearly as she loved him, for she had so long been
accustomed to think of the comfort of others, in preference to her own,
that self gratification seemed to her almost a sin. But her scruples
were soon put to rest, for her parents, unwilling to make any sacrifices
on their part for their self-denying child, positively refused to listen
to her lover’s suit. Nay, they even accused Fanny of selfishness, and
made out a charge of black ingratitude against her, for wishing to leave
them. With the usual impatience of man’s temper, William was deeply
incensed at such treatment, and endeavored to persuade Fanny to a
clandestine marriage. Her answer to his proposal was one which might be
remembered with profit by those who rush heedlessly to the altar, even
when their path lies over the crushed hearts of those who watched their
helpless infancy.

“‘How could I hope to perform my duties to you, William,’ said she, ‘if
I came to you with the curse of a broken commandment clinging to me?
Think you a disobedient child could prove a good wife? No, dearly as you
now love me, you would be the first to doubt me, were I to give you such
a proof of my selfish disregard to the ties of blood. We are both young
yet, let us then wait until the future shall bring us better prospects.’

“‘God knows, Fanny, I would serve for you even as Jacob did for Rachel,
could I but hope to see you my own, but I know not how time is to remove
the obstacles which divide us,’ was his reply.

“‘Oh, Mary will soon be old enough to fill my place, and then I can be
spared from home,’ said she.

“‘Alas if I am to wait till your place can be supplied by another, I
shall but live on hope to die in despair,’ said William despondingly;
‘no one can ever be the same, thoughtful, patient, affectionate,
ministering angel that you have been to all around you.’ And thus they
again parted, but which think you suffered most keenly from this
disappointment? Was it he whose love was but the episode in the striving
tale of life—who listened to the voice of affection, but as soft music
played between the acts of the great tragi-comedy of existence? No! the
shaft of pain sunk deepest in the heart of her who remained in the
seclusion of home, shut up within the narrow circle of duties which
daily, hourly reminded her of the almost hopeless nature of her
feelings.

“Time sped on and brought its usual changes. The boys grew old enough to
be provided with situations beyond the parental roof, and Fanny began to
look forward once more to a union with her lover. But in the midst of
her brightening hopes, her mother died, leaving to Fanny as her last
bequest, the charge of watching over the youth of her only sister. This
sacred duty was one which Fanny might easily have fulfilled without the
sacrifice of a single desire of her own heart, had not Mary’s failing
health rendered it a task of unceasing anxiety. An accident received in
infancy had slowly and insidiously undermined the once vigorous
constitution of the child, and soon after the mother was laid within the
tomb, an incurable disease of the spine confined Mary entirely to her
bed. It was then, with a heart bleeding over the severed ties of
kindred, that Fanny first taught herself to reflect upon the necessity
of a final sacrifice of her hopes of happiness. Her father was fast
sinking under the infirmities of age, and Mary was now helplessly
dependent on her for every comfort; how then could she indulge the vain
dream of being able to study her own welfare. There was a bitter
struggle in the heart of the poor girl ere she could bring herself to
write a letter of renunciation to William. But she swerved not her duty,
however severe might be its requisitions, and while the tears fell like
rain over the thoughts of her blighted hopes, not one drop was allowed
to blister the page which bore him her final farewell. But Fanny was
sadly mistaken when she fancied that the severest part of the conflict
was past. The letter only served to bring William in person to combat
the resolution she had formed, and she was now to endure the redoubled
anguish of beholding her lover’s sorrow. But in vain he sought to alter
her decision. She knew that instead of being a help-meet, she could now
be only a hindrance to one who was obliged to labor for his daily bread,
and her unselfish love taught her that it was for her

    ‘Alone to suffer and alone to strive.’

“‘My fate is fixed, William,’ said the hopeless girl; ‘I cannot perform
the duties of a poor man’s wife, without neglecting my afflicted sister;
her sufferings would mar your daily comfort, and her necessities demand
my undivided attention. God knows how tenderly I have loved you, and how
gratefully I feel your faithfulness, in thus abiding constant through
years of absence and disappointment, but that must be at an end now,
William;—our long engagement must be forgotten,—you are free—and may
heaven grant you a happier destiny than to be linked with one who seems
born only for sorrow.’

“Poor Fanny! how bitterly she wept as she uttered these words of
self-immolation! But she knew she was right, and even William, when the
first burst of grief had subsided, and he was able to reflect calmly
upon all the circumstances, acknowledged within himself, that Fanny had
judged wisely for both. He could appreciate the honest pride which
forbade her to fill a husband’s home with her own helpless relatives,
and he could well understand the disinterested affection which taught
her to make her own heart the victim rather than heap heavier burdens
upon one with whom the world had already dealt hardly. Again they
parted, but no hope of reunion now cheered their last
farewell;—henceforth they were to meet as friends, but never more to
exchange the sweet tones of lovers’ vows. How much less heroism is
required to perform noble deeds in the sight, and beneath the applause
of thousands, than thus to sacrifice love, and hope, and happiness, in
silence and secrecy on the altar of duty! Yet the warrior receives his
meed of glory, while the woman who calmly surrenders the ‘life of life’
without the stimulus of fame or the hope of guerdon;—she who patiently
lives on, ‘in helpless, hopeless, brokenness of heart,’ ministering
meekly to others, while a wasting grief is eating into her very
soul—goes down to the grave unnoticed and unknown—perhaps regarded as
a cold and eccentric being by those who cannot fathom the pure depths of
such a mind.

Fanny’s cheek grew pale and hollow, but she gave no other evidence of
secret sorrow, for she well knew that Mary’s keen eye would watch for
traces of her heart’s struggle, and she would not pain her suffering
sister by a knowledge of the bitter price at which her comfort had been
purchased. At length she heard of William’s marriage, and this severed
the last frail link that bound their hearts together. From that time his
name was never mentioned, and resolutely forbidding her thoughts to
dwell upon the past, Fanny Wilbank compelled herself to cheerfulness.
But a shadow had gone over her bright face, and her voice learned a new
tone of melancholy pathos—_she spoke like one who often weeps_.

“The death of her father soon after left her alone with her helpless
sister, and having a small apartment, Fanny now commenced the task of
obtaining a livelihood for both by the labors of her needle. The
constant attention which Mary required, rendered this very difficult,
for many an hour which should have been employed in earning their daily
bread, was spent in soothing the pangs of the afflicted invalid. It was
at that period that I first met with this heroine of humble life, for
what I have hitherto been telling you I learned long afterward. My
mother had occasion to employ a sempstress, and Fanny Wilbank having
been recommended to her, I was sent to make some enquiry of her previous
to giving her the work. I was a giddy school-girl at the time, but I
shall never forget the impression made upon me by the neatness of the
apartment, the snowy whiteness of the bed-linen, and above all, by the
extreme beauty of both the females. Mary’s disease did not in the least
impair the bloom of her lovely countenance, and as she sat propped up in
bed by pillows, she looked in far better health than her pale sister.
But I soon found that her face was the only part of her frame which had
escaped the distorting touch of pain, for her body was shrunken to the
size of that of a child, and her limbs were sadly mis-shapen. My
business with them was soon settled, but the interest which they had
awakened in my bosom did not so quickly subside. My mother became one of
their warmest patrons, and having heard their history from one of their
early friends, I need scarcely add that we felt increased respect and
regard for the self-devoted Fanny Wilbank.”

“And did she meet with no reward for all her virtues, cousin Grace?”

“Alas! Frank, it is only in novels I fear, that we find virtue always
rewarded and vice signally punished. Such things are rarely recompensed
on earth, it is only in Heaven that we are told ‘all tears shall be
wiped away.’ But I have not yet finished my story. Medical skill was
procured for Mary, which, though it could not cure a disease ingrafted
in her whole system, yet afforded some alleviation of her severest
sufferings. Constant employment was also secured to Fanny, so that as
far as pecuniary matters went, their condition was much improved; but no
human hand could bring back health to the one, or restore the blighted
blossoms of hope in the bosom of the other.

“Some few years later I married, and accompanied my husband to Europe,
and my parents having about the same time removed to the south, I lost
sight of Fanny Wilbank. When, however, after some years absence I
returned to my native city, one of my first wishes was to learn
something of her present condition. But the friends who had promised to
employ her, had neglected to do so until it was too late; all trace of
her had vanished, and I was left to conjecture her fate. I was one day
passing a handsome house in —— street, when I heard a voice from an
upper window exclaim ‘Mrs. ——! I am sure it is Mrs. ——!’ I looked up
in surprise and beheld Fanny Wilbank. The next moment the hall door
opened, and Fanny hurrying down the steps, grasped my hand with the
warmth of earnest affection. I followed her into a neatly furnished
room, and mechanically seating myself, wondered what it all meant. Fanny
divined my thoughts, for she smiled, blushed, and seemed about to tell
me some news, when a little chubby boy, of some three summers, twaddled
into the room and saluted her by the appellation of ‘mother.’ This
solved the whole mystery.

“‘Come into the next room, where you will find Mary,’ said Fanny, ‘and I
will tell you all about it. For you really did not know that I was
married?’

“‘No indeed,’ was my reply, ‘pray how long have you been a wife?’

“‘Almost a year.’

“‘Almost a year?’ I exclaimed in stupid wonder! ‘and that child?’

“‘Is my husband’s youngest boy.’

“‘Then you married to take care of another’s children.’

“‘Yes, I could not refuse him,—fortune had prospered him, so that he
could afford to take care of poor Mary, and I consented, though I was
almost ashamed to become a bride at my age.’

“‘At your age! why you look younger and prettier than ever, Fanny, in
that tasteful little cap.’

“‘Do not laugh at me, dear Mrs. ——, I know it was foolish to marry for
love at forty-five, but William was so lonely, and his poor children
were so desolate.’

“‘Then it was William Grey you married?’

“‘To be sure;—_did you think it could be any one else?_’

“‘Ah!’ said Mary smiling, ‘William would not have won her even now, if
it had not been for his motherless children. Fanny has been so long
accustomed to sacrifice her own inclinations, that she cannot be
persuaded to any self-indulgence unless some duty be closely connected
with it.’

“Fanny Wilbank still lives; the beauty of her noble countenance has
faded beneath the touch of time, and many a thread of silver is mingled
with her dark locks, yet is she the centre of a circle of loving and
beloved friends, still the same, patient, tender, self-forgetting being,
that she was in the day of her early adversity.”

“So she was at last rewarded, cousin Grace, notwithstanding your
assertion to the contrary.”

“And do you deem her after fortunes a fitting recompense for the trials
of her youth, Frank? The bloom of youth, the freshness of feeling, the
glow of hope, the buoyancy of health,—all things that give a charm to
life, faded one by one from her view, even as the stars vanish in the
slowly-gathering tempest cloud,—patience, long suffering, meekness, and
resignation had taken the place of bright anticipation in her bereaved
heart,—time had laid his cold touch upon her fair brow, aye, and upon
her warm heart too, and then, at the last she was _rewarded_—how?—why
forsooth, by wedding the object of her early love, after her life had
‘fallen into the sear and yellow leaf,’—and thus obtaining the enviable
privilege of educating the children of her predecessor.”

“What became of poor Mary, cousin?”

“Do you not remember, Frank, the sick lady on whose bed you loved to
clamber, when you were a merry little urchin, who used to cover your
balls so neatly, and paint so many pretty devices for your kites?”

“To be sure I do;—I remember too how bitterly I cried when they told me
she was dead, and I saw them bring in the small coffin for her shrunken
form. You don’t mean to say that was Mary Wilbank?”

“It was, cousin Frank, and in the story of Fanny Wilbank, I have been
relating to you the early life of one whom you have ever loved with
filial tenderness—I mean your excellent step-mother.”

“She is the only mother I have ever known, cousin Grace, and you can
tell me nothing good of her which I cannot readily believe; so if you
take her for an example, I have no more to say against the existence of
disinterestedness in this selfish world. It is only a pity there are so
few like her.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            A WINTER SCENE.


                       BY E. CLEMENTINE STEDMAN.


    Unclouded the sun from his glittering throne
    Looked radiantly down where the tempest had gone!
    For in darkness it came with the tokens of wrath,
    But fled at the dawn on its ice-covered path.
    And straight in the sunbeams the forest displayed
    A host in the armor of battle arrayed;
    There the “helmet of brass,” and the shield glistened clear,
    And the bright flashing steel of the sword and the spear.
    The garden, where Flora in summer is green,
    At the glance of the sun was all dazzling with sheen;
    And never a princess outvied, with her gems,
    The jewels that hung there on numberless stems!
    The lawn trees which stand in the glory alone,
    Each sparkled with diamonds, like kings, on a throne,
    And ne’er when o’erspread with their green foliage shade,
    Were they in such beauty or splendor arrayed!

    And silver and gold, as in Solomon’s reign,
    Were plenty as stones by the wayside again,
    And bright did the spire and the roof with them glow,
    While diadems shone on the tall mountain brow.
    I gazed on the scene with unearthly delight,
    And thought, while its radiance enraptured my sight.
    Of that city, which one did in visions behold,
    Whose gates were of pearl, and its streets paved with gold.
    Again I looked forth, while the sunlight yet shone,
    But the scene of enchantment I sought for was gone!
    The sun, which had gilded each shrub with its ray,
    Was melting the landscape of glory away!
    Thus my hopes have dissolved, which once glistened so bright
    In the sun of youth’s morn, to my fanciful sight;
    Their brilliancy passed off in tears,—oh! how soon!
    As the sleet-jewels melt in the sunbeams of noon.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             THE DEFAULTER.


                           BY JOHN T. MAULL.


                Ou trouverez vous un homme sans défauts?
                                            _Télémaque._

In the beautiful season of youth, when life is just budding forth in all
the dewy freshness of ardent hope; when the heart is buoyant, and the
energies alive, and panting after objects around which to shed the
virtuous influence of their association, oh! then it is that we feel,
like the harp that is delicately attuned, the full force of every
impression:—of what moment, therefore, are those early connections and
restraints which are voluntarily assumed to fit us for our companionship
with the world, or in other words to form the character by which we are
to be known and appreciated among our fellow men; but that character
when formed, like the vestal fire of the ancients, demands the constant
vigilance of our noblest faculties to keep alive and perpetuate.

George Morris was in his twenty-fourth year, when partly by the
intercession of rich relatives, and in a great measure by the possession
of personal endowments of no ordinary kind, he was called upon to assume
an office of public trust. I knew him well. Gay without frivolity—proud
in the consciousness of correct principle, and gifted with enviable
powers of pleasing, his career, indeed, seemed to offer the rich
rewards, if not of honorable fame, at least of high respectability. He
loved, and after a short courtship, was wedded. Never were two hearts
more willingly allied. The whole ardor of his soul was devoted to the
fair being whom he had chosen for his own, and in the retirement of his
home did he acknowledge his earthly happiness. Did reflection dwell on
the noise and bustle of the world without, it was only to assure him of
the comforts of his peaceful fire-side. Thus did time glide on with
silken wing, dispensing the calm and rational pleasures of domestic
life, which Morris of all others was so formed to appreciate. He began
his career, which it was foretold would be so honorable to him, in the
capacity of one of the chief officers of an institution of public
monetary trust. Here, with principles of integrity, deep rooted as the
rock, he persevered in industrious habits, and by continued vigilance
deservedly won the esteem of the community. His probity had been tested,
and the man of business implicitly confided in him. Society courted him.
Living in a populous city, as years progressed, he occupied an advanced
position among his fellow men—honorable alike to himself and to a
growing family: no cares had with him an abiding place, for his
children, whom he dearly loved, were gladdening the father’s heart, and
yielding him bright hopes for the future. All was happiness—all love
and tranquillity. Who then would venture to disturb this domestic Eden?
What baneful influence could bring desolation here? Who could wring the
tear of anguish from that young and doating mother—or the helping cry
from that unprotected child—who convert, as with magic wand, the happy
homestead into the refuge of want and affliction? The husband! the
father himself! Mystery of mysteries! yet did Morris work to himself
this very ruin. Lured by the expensive fashions of the day, the splendid
equipage, and the gay coterie of wealth, and desirous to equal, if not
eclipse the brilliance which he saw in the circles wherein he was called
to move, he had given the rein to his appetite and ambition, until he
was forced to do an act—an act from which he once would have shrunk
aghast, with horror and dismay. He defrauded, and was detected—he fled:
but could he avoid himself? Could he escape the guilty conscience—the
bitter remorse? It was in vain. Go where he would, fancy would revert to
that blighted, ruined home; and the thought of that one withering
act—it was insupportable—it was madness. His reputation was
irrecoverably gone, and he roamed abroad far from his native land—a
wandering outcast. Of what avail were now to him the common blessings of
nature? the light to him was as the darkness—the very air was heavy,
and laden as with the vapors of a dungeon—the world itself was one vast
prison-house. Did he sleep—frightful phantoms would haunt his couch,
and drive away repose; supplicating hands of beggared orphans and
stricken widows would rise in airy forms, while strange, unearthly
voices would cry aloud, and pierce the air in wail and lamentation, then
die away as if in mock and derision.

Afar from country, relatives and friends, lived the Defaulter. Bitter
was the cup which that man drained to the very dregs. Providence had set
its sure seal of condemnation on his destiny, and although the laws of
man were impotent, the great law of the Omniscient failed not. There was
no retreat from that _presence_, which hath so solemnly declared “thou
shalt not steal.”

At length news was brought to him from afar—it told him that the wife
of his bosom was dead—his children dependant upon the charity of
strangers. It was upon the receipt of this intelligence that I met
Morris, who was dwelling in a retired part of one of the chief cities
upon the Continent. I dared not think upon what might be the probable
result of my interview. Conflicting emotions were agitating my breast,
but I had fully resolved on the meeting, and on my arrival accordingly,
sought out his residence. It was about eight o’clock, of a summer’s
night, that, in an abstracted mood, I sauntered leisurely toward the
house. Having presented myself, I was admitted to a small chamber,
neatly furnished, where I found him alone. I knew not how to begin, how
to address myself to my early friend—so altered. He was lying on a
couch, evidently in the last stage of a fever. You felt at once he was a
dying man. His presence bewildered me; the hollow and glassy eye riveted
my gaze, until recollecting myself, in a subdued tone I spoke of the
country I had left—my object in travelling—my desire to obtain tidings
of himself; and then ventured to recall his memory to the many happy
days we had spent in each other’s society.

“Gone, gone!” said he, groaning aloud, and seeming to awaken from a
listless reverie. In a moment he continued. “Will not one human creature
compassionate George Morris?—a stranger in a strange land! My Julia—my
wife—the mother of my little ones, they tell me is dead; and I, who
loved her so, poor thing, they say was her destroyer. Oh, God! have
mercy on thy creature, I feel thy indignation, and am smitten in the
dust. Come death, come the grave—welcome your embraces! But I
cannot—cannot endure the iron that is now thrusting itself in my soul.”

There is something grand and terrible in the moral subjugation of man.

“L——,” he faintly articulated, after a pause, during which he
wept—yes, wept for the first and _last_ time, “I feel that I am
dying—thank God! for his mercy; forgive, my friend, the weakness of
these tears—they are of contrition—of—of penitence.”

Exhausted by this effort, he sank into my arms.

“L——,” continued he, reviving, and raising his voice—“do you not see
her—there L——, there she is, she’s beckoning to me—she looks the
same as on that bridal night—she smiles, too, upon me—and look, L——,
look, she forgives me—I come! we were sundered once, but now they
cannot disunite us.”

A struggle ensued, but it was short; a moment more, and he was _dead_.

The flickering flame of the taper had gone out; the moonlight rested
upon the pale features of the corpse; and the soul of the Defaulter had
sped to its eternal reckoning.

    March, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              COMPARISONS.


                        BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON.


    A leaf upon the stream,
      When the brook is rushing by
    In its glorious summer dream,—
      Such am I.—

    A feather in the air,
      When the autumn breeze is high,
    Driven here and driven there,—
      Such am I.—

    A wild flower in the glade,
      Where the quiet Zephyrs sigh,
    Most happy in the shade.—
      Such am I.—

    As the aspen among trees,
      Where the sleeping waters lie,
    Stirred by every passing breeze,—
      Such am I.—

    But the leaf will find a shore,
      The feather cease to fly,
    And both be seen no more,—
      So will I.—

    The flower soon will fade,
      And the aspen’s leaves be dry,
    Both forgotten in the glade,—
      So am I.—

    March, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                     THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE.


                            BY EDGAR A. POE.


It is not improbable that a few farther steps in phrenological science
will lead to a belief in the existence, if not to the actual discovery
and location of an organ of _analysis_. If this power (which may be
described, although not defined, as the capacity for resolving thought
into its elements) be not, in fact, an essential portion of what late
philosophers term ideality, then there are indeed many, good reasons for
supposing it a primitive faculty. That it may be a constituent of
ideality is here suggested in opposition to the vulgar dictum (founded,
however, upon the assumptions of grave authority,) that the calculating
and discriminating powers (causality and comparison) are at variance
with the imaginative—that the three, in short, can hardly coexist. But,
although thus opposed to received opinion, the idea will not appear
ill-founded when we observe that the processes of invention or creation
are strictly akin with the processes of resolution—the former being
nearly, if not absolutely, the latter conversed.

It cannot be doubted that the mental features discoursed of as the
analytical are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We
appreciate them only in their effects. We know of them, among other
things, that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately
possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man exults
in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his
muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which
_disentangles_. He derives pleasure from even the most trivial
occupations bringing his talent into play. He is fond of enigmas, of
conundrums, of hieroglyphics—exhibiting in his solutions of each and
all a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension
preternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and essence
of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition.

The faculty in question is possibly much invigorated by mathematical
study, and especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and
merely on account of its retrogade operations, has been called, as if
_par excellence_, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to
analyse. A chess-player, for example, does the one without effort at the
other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental
character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise,
but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very
much at random—I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the
higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more
usefully taxed by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the
elaborate frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have
different and bizarre motions, with various and variable values, that
which is only complex is mistaken (a not unusual error) for that which
is profound. The _attention_ is here called powerfully into play. If it
flag for an instant, an oversight is committed, resulting in injury or
defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold but involute, the
chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten
it is the more concentrative rather than the more acute player who
conquers. In draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are unique and
have but little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are
diminished, and the mere attention being left comparatively unemployed,
what advantages are obtained by either party are obtained by superior
acumen. To be less abstract. Let us suppose a game of draughts, where
the pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no oversight
is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory can be decided
(the players being at all equal) only by some recherché movement, the
result of some strong exertion of the intellect. Deprived of ordinary
resources, the analyst throws himself into the spirit of his opponent,
identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a
glance, the sole methods (sometimes indeed absurdly simple ones) by
which he may seduce into miscalculation or hurry into error.

Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what are termed the
calculating powers; and men of the highest order of intellect have been
known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while eschewing
chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is nothing of a similar nature so
greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. The best chess-player in
Christendom _may_ be little more than the best player of chess—but
proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all those more
important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When I say
proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a
comprehension of all the sources (whatever be their character) from
which legitimate advantage may be derived. These are not only manifold
but multiform, and lie frequently among recesses of thought altogether
inaccessible to the ordinary understanding. To observe attentively is to
remember distinctly; and so far the concentrative chess-player will do
very well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the
mere mechanism of the game) are sufficiently and generally
comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and to proceed by “the
book,” are points commonly regarded as the sum total of good playing.
But it is in matters beyond the limits of mere rule where the skill of
the analyst is evinced. He makes, in silence, a host of observations and
inferences. So perhaps do his companions; and the difference in the
extent of the information obtained lies not so much in the falsity of
the inference as in the quality of the observation. The necessary
knowledge is that of _what_ to observe. Our player confines himself not
at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he reject deductions
from things external to the game. He examines the countenance of his
partner, comparing it carefully with that of each of his opponents. He
considers the mode of assorting the cards in each hand; often counting
trump by trump, and honor by honor, through the glances bestowed by
their holders upon each. He notes every variation of face as the play
progresses, gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the
expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph or of chagrin. From the
manner of gathering up a trick he judges whether the person taking it
can make another in the suit. He recognises what is played through feint
by the air with which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or
inadvertent word; the accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the
accompanying anxiety or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the
counting of the tricks, with the order of their arrangement;
embarrassment, hesitation, eagerness or trepidation—all afford to his
apparently intuitive perception indications of the true state of
affairs. The first two or three rounds having been played, he is in full
possession of the contents of each hand, and thenceforward puts down his
cards with as absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of the
party had turned outward the faces of their own.

The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity; for
while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often
utterly incapable of analysis. I have spoken of this latter faculty as
that of resolving thought into its elements, and it is only necessary to
glance upon this idea to perceive the necessity of the distinction just
mentioned. The constructive or combining power, by which ingenuity is
usually manifested, and to which the phrenologists (I believe
erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a primitive
faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose intellect bordered
otherwise upon idiocy as to have attracted general observation among
writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the analytic ability there
exists a difference far greater indeed than that between the fancy and
the imagination, but of a character very strictly analogous. It will be
found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the _truly_
imaginative never otherwise than profoundly analytic.

The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the
light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced.

Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18—, I
there contracted an intimacy with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This
young gentleman was of an excellent, indeed of an illustrious family,
but, by a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty
that the quondam energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he
ceased to bestir himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of
his fortunes. By courtesy of his creditors there still remained in his
possession a small remnant of his patrimony; and upon the income arising
from this he managed, by means of a vigorous economy, to procure the
necessaries of life, without troubling himself about its superfluities.
Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are easily
obtained.

Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre, where
the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare and very
remarkable volume brought us into closer communion. We saw each other
again and again. I was deeply interested in the little family history
which he detailed to me with all the candor which a Frenchman indulges
only when self is his theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast extent
of his reading—and above all I felt my soul enkindled within me by the
wild fervor, and what I could only term the vivid freshness, of his
imagination. Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the
society of such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and this
feeling I frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged that we
should live together during my stay in the city; and, as my worldly
circumstances were somewhat less embarrassed than his own, I was
permitted to be at the expense of renting, and furnishing in a style
which suited the rather fantastic gloom of our common temper, a
time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long deserted through superstitions
into which we did not inquire, and tottering to its fall in a retired
and desolate portion of the Faubourg St. Germain.

Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we
should have been regarded as madmen—although, perhaps, as madmen of a
harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We admitted no visiters
whomsoever. Indeed the locality of our retirement had been carefully
kept a secret from my own former associates; and it had been many years
since Dupin had ceased to know or be known in Paris. We existed within
ourselves alone.

It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?) to
be enamored of the Night for her own sake; and into this _bizarrerie_,
as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild
whims with an utter _abandon_. The sable divinity would not herself
dwell with us always, but we could counterfeit her presence. At the
first dawn of the morning we closed all the massy shutters of our old
building, lighting a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw
out only the ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we
then busied our souls in dreams—reading, writing, or conversing, until
warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we sallied
forth into the streets, arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day, or
roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights
and shadows of the populous city, that infinity of mental excitement
which quiet observation would afford.

At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from his
rich ideality I had been prepared to expect) a peculiar analytic ability
in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an eager delight in its exercise, if
not exactly in its display; and did not hesitate to confess the pleasure
thus derived. He boasted to me, with a low chuckling laugh, that most
men, in respect to himself, wore windows in their bosoms, and was wont
to follow up such assertions by direct and very startling proofs of his
intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments was frigid and
abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while his voice, usually a
rich tenor, rose into a treble which would have sounded petulantly but
for the deliberateness and entire distinctness of the enunciation.
Observing him in these moods I often dwelt meditatively upon the old
philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a
double Dupin—the creative and the resolvent.

Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am detailing
any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have described in the
Frenchman was but the result of an excited, or perhaps of a diseased
intelligence. But of the character of his remarks at the periods in
question an example will best convey the idea.

We were strolling one night down a long dirty street, in the vicinity of
the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied with thought, neither
of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at least. All at once
Dupin broke forth with these words—

“He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would do better for the
_Théâtre des Variétés_.”

“There can be no doubt of that,” I replied unwittingly, and not at first
observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary
manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my meditations. In an
instant afterward I recollected myself, and my astonishment was
profound.

“Dupin,” said I, gravely, “this is beyond my comprehension. I do not
hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses. How
was it possible you should know I was thinking of ——?” Here I paused,
to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought.

——“of Chantilly,” said he, “why do you pause? You were remarking to
yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy.”

This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections.
Chantilly was a quondam cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming
stage-mad, had attempted the role of Xerxes, in Crebillon’s tragedy so
called, and been notoriously pasquinaded for his pains.

“Tell me, for God’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method—if method there
be—by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this matter.” In
fact I was even more startled than I would have been willing to express.

“It was the fruiterer,” replied my friend, “who brought you to the
conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for
Xerxes _et id genus omne_.”

“The fruiterer!—you astonish me—I know no fruiterer whomsoever.”

“The man who ran up against you as we entered the street—it may have
been fifteen minutes ago.”

I now remembered that in fact a fruiterer, carrying upon his head a
large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we
passed from the Rue C—— into the thoroughfare where we now stood; but
what this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand.

There was not a particle of _charlatânerie_ about Dupin. “I will
explain,” he said, “and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will
first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in which I
spoke to you until that of the rencontre with the fruiterer in question.
The larger links of the chain run thus—Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichol,
Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruiterer.”

There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives,
amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions
of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full of
interest; and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the
apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the
starting-point and the goal. What then, must have been my amazement when
I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I could
not help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth. He continued—

“We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before
leaving the Rue C——. This was the last subject we discussed. As we
crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon his
head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile of paving-stones
collected at a spot where the causeway is undergoing repair. You stepped
upon one of the loose fragments, slipped, slightly strained your ankle,
appeared vexed or sulky, muttered a few words, turned to look at the
pile, and then proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to
what you did—but observation has become with me of late a species of
necessity.

“You kept your eyes upon the ground—glancing with a petulant expression
at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I saw you were still
thinking of the stones) until we reached the little alley called
Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of experiment, with the
overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your countenance brightened up,
and, perceiving your lips move, I could not doubt that you murmured to
yourself the word ‘stereotomic.’ You continued the same inaudible
murmur, with a knit brow, as is the custom of a man tasking his memory,
until I considered that you sought the Greek derivation of the word
‘stereotomy.’ I knew that you could not find this without being brought
to think of atomics, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and as, when
we discussed this subject not very long ago, I mentioned to you how
singularly, yet with how little notice, the vague guesses of that noble
Greek had met with confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony, I felt
that you could not avoid casting your eyes upward to the great nebula in
Orion, and I certainly expected that you would do so. You did look up;
and I now was assured that I had correctly followed your steps. But in
that bitter _tirade_ upon Chantilly, which appeared in yesterday’s
‘_Musée_,’ the satirist, making some disgraceful allusions to the
cobbler’s change of name upon assuming the buskin, quoted a very
peculiar Latin line upon whose meaning we have often conversed. I mean
the line

    _Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum._

I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written
Urion; and from certain pungencies connected with this explanation I was
aware that you could not have forgotten it. It was clear, therefore,
that you would not fail to combine the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly.
That you did combine them I saw by the character of the smile which
passed over your lips. You thought of the poor cobbler’s immolation. So
far, you had been stooping in your gait—but now I saw you draw yourself
up to your full height. I was then sure that you reflected upon the
diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your
meditations to remark that as in fact he _was_ a very little
fellow—that Chantilly—he would do better at the _Théâtre des
Variétés_.”

Not long after this we were looking over an evening edition of “Le
Tribunal,” when the following paragraphs arrested our attention.

    “Extraordinary Murders.—This morning, about three o’clock, the
    inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by
    a succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the
    fourth story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the
    sole occupancy of one Madame L’Espanaye, and her daughter,
    Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye. After some delay, occasioned by
    a fruitless attempt to procure admission in the usual manner,
    the gateway was broken in with a crowbar, and eight or ten of
    the neighbors entered, accompanied by two _gendarmes_. By this
    time the cries had ceased; but as the party rushed up the first
    flight of stairs, two or more rough voices in angry contention
    were distinguished, and seemed to proceed from the upper part of
    the house. As the second landing was reached, these sounds,
    also, had ceased, and every thing remained perfectly quiet. The
    party spread themselves, and hurried from room to room. Upon
    arriving at a large back chamber in the fourth story, (the door
    of which, being found locked, with the key inside, was forced
    open) a spectacle presented itself which struck every one
    present not less with horror than with astonishment.

    The apartment was in the wildest disorder—the furniture broken
    and thrown about in all directions. There was only one bedstead;
    and from this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the
    middle of the floor. On a chair lay a razor, besmeared with
    blood. On the hearth were two or three long and thick tresses of
    grey human hair, also dabbled in blood, and seeming to have been
    pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were found four
    Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver spoons,
    three smaller of _metal d’Alger_, and two bags, containing
    nearly four thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a _bureau_,
    which stood in one corner, were open, and had been, apparently,
    rifled, although many articles still remained in them. A small
    iron safe was discovered under the _bed_ (not under the
    bedstead.) It was open, with the key still in the door. It had
    no contents beyond a few old letters, and other papers of little
    consequence.

    Of Madame L’Espanaye no traces were here seen; but, an unusual
    quantity of soot being observed in the fire-place, a search was
    made in the chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the
    daughter, head downward, was dragged therefrom; it having been
    thus forced up the narrow aperture for a considerable distance.
    The body was quite warm. Upon examining it many excoriations
    were perceived, no doubt occasioned by the violence with which
    it had been thrust up and disengaged. Upon the face were many
    severe scratches, and upon the throat dark bruises, and deep
    indentations of finger nails, as if the deceased had been
    throttled to death.

    After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house,
    without farther discovery, the party made its way into a small
    paved yard in the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of
    the old lady, with her throat so entirely cut that, upon an
    attempt to raise her, the head fell off, and rolled to some
    distance. The body, as well as the head, was fearfully
    mutilated—the former so much so as scarcely to retain any
    semblance of humanity.

    To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the
    slightest clew.”

The next day’s paper had these additional particulars.

    “_The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue._ Many individuals have been
    examined in relation to this most extraordinary and frightful
    affair.” [The word ‘_affaire_’ has not yet, in France, that
    levity of import which it conveys with us,] “but nothing
    whatever has transpired to throw light upon it. We give below
    all the material testimony elicited.”

    _Pauline Dubourg_, laundress, deposes that she has known both
    the deceased for three years, having washed for them during that
    period. The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms—very
    affectionate toward each other. They were excellent pay. Could
    not speak in regard to their mode or means of living. Believed
    that Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was reputed to have
    money put by. Never met any persons in the house when she called
    for the clothes or took them home. Was sure that they had no
    servant in employ. There appeared to be no furniture in any part
    of the building except in the fourth story.

    _Pierre Moreau_, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the
    habit of selling small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame
    L’Espanaye for nearly four years. Was born in the neighborhood,
    and has always resided there. The deceased and her daughter had
    occupied the house in which the corpses were found for more than
    six years. It was formerly occupied by a jeweller, who under-let
    the upper rooms to various persons. The house was the property
    of Madame L. She became dissatisfied with the abuse of the
    premises by her tenant, and moved into them herself, refusing to
    let any portion. The old lady was childish. Witness had seen the
    daughter some five or six times during the six years. The two
    lived an exceedingly retired life—were reputed to have money.
    Had heard it said among the neighbors that Madame L. told
    fortunes—did not believe it. Had never seen any person enter
    the door except the old lady and her daughter, a porter once or
    twice, and a physician some eight or ten times.

    Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect.
    No one was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known
    whether there were any living connexions of Madame L. and her
    daughter. The shutters of the front windows were seldom opened.
    Those in the rear were always closed, with the exception of the
    large back room, fourth story. The house was a good house—not
    very old.

    _Isidore Musèt_, gendarme, deposes that he was called to the
    house about three o’clock in the morning, and found some twenty
    or thirty persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain
    admittance. Forced it open, at length with a bayonet—not with a
    crowbar. Had but little difficulty in getting it open, on
    account of its being a double or folding gate, and bolted
    neither at bottom nor top. The shrieks were continued until the
    gate was forced—and then suddenly ceased. They seemed to be
    screams of some person (or persons) in great agony—were loud
    and drawn out, not short and quick. Witness led the way up
    stairs. Upon reaching the first landing heard two voices in loud
    and angry contention—the one a gruff voice, the other much
    shriller—a very strange voice. Could distinguish some words of
    the former, which was that of a Frenchman. Was positive that it
    was not a woman’s voice. Could distinguish the words ‘_sacré_’
    and ‘_diable_.’ The shrill voice was that of a foreigner. Could
    not be sure whether it was the voice of a man or of a woman.
    Could not make out what was said, but believed the language to
    be Spanish. The state of the room and of the bodies was
    described by this witness as we described them yesterday.

    _Henri Duval_, a neighbor, and by trade a silver-smith, deposes
    that he was one of the party who first entered the house.
    Corroborates the testimony of Musèt in general. As soon as they
    forced an entrance, they reclosed the door to keep out the
    crowd, which collected very fast, notwithstanding the lateness
    of the hour. The shrill voice, this witness thinks, was that of
    an Italian. Was certain it was not French. Could not be sure
    that it was a man’s voice. It might have been a woman’s. Was not
    acquainted with the Italian language. Could not distinguish the
    words, but was convinced by the intonation that the speaker was
    an Italian. Knew Madame L. and her daughter. Had conversed with
    both frequently. Was sure that the shrill voice was not that of
    either of the deceased.

    —— _Odenheimer_, restaurateur. This witness volunteered his
    testimony. Not speaking French was examined through an
    interpreter. Is a native of Amsterdam. Was passing the house at
    the time of the shrieks. They lasted for several
    minutes—probably ten. They were long and loud—very awful and
    distressing. Was one of those who entered the building.
    Corroborated the previous evidence in every respect but one. Was
    sure that the shrill voice was that of a man—of a Frenchman.
    Could not distinguish the words uttered. They were loud and
    quick—unequal—sometimes quick, sometimes deliberate—spoken
    apparently in fear as well as in anger. The voice was harsh—not
    so much shrill as harsh. Could not call it a shrill voice. The
    gruff voice said repeatedly ‘_sacré_,’ ‘_diable_,’ and once
    ‘_mon dieu_.’

    _Jules Mignaud_, Banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue
    Deloraine. Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L’Espanaye had some
    property. Had opened an account with his banking house in the
    spring of the year —— (eight years previously.) Made frequent
    deposites in small sums. Had checked for nothing until the third
    day before her death, when she took out in person the sum of
    4000 francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk sent home
    with the money.

    _Adolphe Le Bon_, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the
    day in question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L’Espanaye to
    her residence with the 4000 francs, put up in two bags. Upon the
    door being opened Mademoiselle L. appeared and took from his
    hands one of the bags, while the old lady relieved him of the
    other. He then bowed and departed. Did not see any person in the
    street at the time. It is a bye street—very lonely.

    _William Bird_, tailor, deposes that he was one of the party who
    entered the house. Is an Englishman. Has lived in Paris two
    years. Was one of the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the
    voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman.
    Could make out several words, but cannot now remember all. Heard
    distinctly ‘_sacré_’ and ‘_mon dieu_.’ There was a sound at the
    moment as if of several persons struggling—a scraping and
    scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very loud—louder than the
    gruff one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman.
    Appeared to be that of a German. Might have been a woman’s
    voice. Does not understand German.

    Four of the above-named witnesses, being recalled, deposed that
    the door of the chamber in which was found the body of
    Mademoiselle L. was locked on the inside when the party reached
    it. Every thing was perfectly silent—no groans or noises of any
    kind. Upon forcing the door no person was seen. The windows both
    of the back and front room were down and firmly fastened from
    within. A door between the two rooms was closed, but not locked.
    The door leading from the front room into the passage was locked
    with the key on the inside. A small room in the front of the
    house, on the fourth story, at the head of the passage, was
    open, the door being ajar. This room was crowded with old beds,
    boxes, and so forth. These were carefully removed and searched.
    There was not an inch of any portion of the house which was not
    carefully searched. Sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys.
    The house was a four story one, with garrets, (_mansardes_). A
    trap door on the roof was nailed down very securely—did not
    appear to have been opened for years. The time elapsing between
    the hearing of the voices in contention and the breaking open of
    the room door was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made
    it as short as three minutes—some as long as five. The door was
    opened with difficulty.

    _Alfonzo Garcio_, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue
    Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered
    the house. Did not proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was
    apprehensive of the consequences of agitation. Heard the voices
    in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could
    not distinguish what was said. The shrill voice was that of an
    Englishman—is sure of this. Does not understand the English
    language, but judges by the intonation.

    _Alberto Montani_, confectioner, deposes that he was among the
    first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in question. The
    gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Distinguished several
    words. The speaker appeared to be expostulating. Could not make
    out the words of the shrill voice. Spoke quick and unevenly.
    Thinks it the voice of a Russian. Corroborates the general
    testimony. Is an Italian. Never conversed with a native of
    Russia.

    Several witnesses recalled, here testified that the chimneys of
    all the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the
    passage of a human being. By ‘sweeps’ were meant cylindrical
    sweeping-brushes, such as are employed by those who clean
    chimneys. These brushes were passed up and down every flue in
    the house. There is no back passage by which any one could have
    descended while the party proceeded up stairs. The body of
    Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that
    it could not be got down until four or five of the party united
    their strength.

    _Paul Dumas_, physician, deposes that he was called to view the
    bodies about day-break. They were both then lying on the sacking
    of the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found.
    The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated.
    The fact that it had been thrust up the chimney would
    sufficiently account for these appearances. The throat was
    greatly chafed. There were several deep scratches just below the
    chin, together with a series of livid spots which were evidently
    the impression of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored,
    and the eye-balls protruded. The tongue had been partially
    bitten through. A large bruise was discovered upon the pit of
    the stomach, produced apparently by the pressure of a knee. In
    the opinion of M. Dumas, Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been
    throttled to death by some person or persons unknown. The corpse
    of the mother was horribly mutilated. All the bones of the right
    leg and arm were more or less shattered. The left tibia much
    splintered, as well as all the ribs of the left side. Whole body
    dreadfully bruised and discolored. It was not possible to say
    how the injuries had been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a
    broad bar of iron, a chair, any large heavy and obtuse weapon,
    would have produced such results, if wielded by the hands of a
    very powerful man. No woman could have inflicted the blows with
    any weapon. The head of the deceased, when seen by witness, was
    entirely separated from the body, and was also greatly
    shattered. The throat had evidently been cut with some very
    sharp instrument—probably with a razor.

    _Alexandre Etienne_, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view
    the bodies. Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions, of M.
    Dumas.

    Nothing farther of importance was elicited, although several
    other persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so
    perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in
    Paris—if indeed a murder has been committed at all. The police
    are entirely at fault—an unusual occurrence in affairs of this
    nature. There is not, however, the shadow of a clew apparent.”

The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest excitement
still continued in the Quartier St. Roch—that the premises in question
had been carefully re-searched, and fresh examinations of witnesses
instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, however, mentioned that
Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested and imprisoned—although nothing
appeared to criminate him, beyond the facts already detailed.

Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this affair—at
least so I judged from his manner, for he made no comments whatever. It
was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned, that he
asked me my opinion respecting it.

I could merely agree with all Paris in considering it an insoluble
mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible to trace the
murderer.

“We must not judge of the means,” said Dupin, “by this shell of an
examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for acumen, are
cunning, but no more. There is no method in their proceedings, beyond
the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of measures; but not
unfrequently these are so illy adapted to the objects proposed, as to
put us in mind of Monsieur Jourdain’s calling for his
_robe-de-chambre—pour mieux entendre la musique_. The results attained
by them are not unfrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are
brought about by simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are
unavailing their schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser,
and a persevering man. But, without educated thought, he erred
continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He impaired his
vision by holding the object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or
two points with unusual clearness, but in so doing he necessarily lost
sight of the matter, as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too
profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact as regards the more
important knowledge I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The
depth lies in the valleys where we seek her and not upon the mountain
tops where she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are
well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To look at a
star by glances—to view it in a side-long way by turning toward it the
exterior portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble impressions
of light than the interior) is to behold the star distinctly—is to have
the best appreciation of its lustre—a lustre which grows dim just in
proportion as we turn our vision _fully_ upon it. A greater number of
rays actually fall upon the eye in the latter case, but in the former
there is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue
profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought—and it is possible to make
even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny too
sustained, too concentrated, and too direct.

“As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for
ourselves, before we make up an opinion respecting them. An inquiry will
afford us amusement,” [I thought this an odd term, so applied, but said
nothing] “and, besides, Le Bon once rendered me a service for which I am
not ungrateful. We will go and see the premises with our own eyes. I
know G——, the _Préfet de Police_, and shall have no difficulty in
obtaining the necessary permission.”

This permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue
Morgue. This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene
between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was late in the
afternoon when we reached it, for this quarter is at a great distance
from that in which we resided. The house we readily found; for there
were still many persons gazing up at the closed shutters, with an
objectless curiosity, from the opposite side of the way. It was an
ordinary Parisian house, with a gateway, on one side of which was a
glazed watch-box, with a sliding panel in the window, indicating a _loge
de concierge_. Before going in we walked up the street, turned down an
alley, and then, again turning, passed in the rear of the
building—Dupin, meanwhile, examining the whole neighborhood, as well as
the house, with a minuteness of attention for which I could see no
possible object.

Retracing our steps we came again to the front of the dwelling, rang,
and having shown our credentials, were admitted by the agents in charge.
We went up stairs—into the chamber where the body of Mademoiselle
L’Espanaye had been found, and where both the deceased still lay. The
disorders of the room had as usual been suffered to exist. I saw nothing
beyond what had been stated in the “Tribunal.” Dupin scrutinized every
thing, not excepting the bodies of the victims. We then went into the
other rooms, and into the yard; a gendarme accompanying us throughout.
Our examination occupied us until dark, when we took our departure. On
our way home my companion stepped in for a moment at the office of one
of the daily papers.

I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that—_Je les
menagais_:—for this phrase there is no English equivalent. It was his
humor now to decline all conversation on the subject of the murder,
until after we had taken a bottle of wine together about noon the next
day. He then asked me, suddenly, if I had observed any thing _peculiar_
at the scene of the atrocity.

There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word “peculiar,”
which caused me to shudder, without knowing why.

“No, nothing _peculiar_,” I said, “nothing more, at least, than we both
saw stated in the paper.”

“Le Tribunal,” he replied, “has not entered, I fear, into the unusual
horror of the thing. But we will not revert to the idle opinions of this
print. It appears to me that this mystery is considered insoluble, for
the very reason which should cause it to be regarded as easy of
solution—I mean for the _outré_ character of its features. The police
are confounded by the seeming absence of motive—not for the murder
itself—but for the atrocity of the murder. They are puzzled by the
seeming impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in contention,
with the facts that no one was discovered up stairs but the assassinated
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without
the notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the
corpse thrust with the head downward up the chimney; the frightful
mutilation of the body of the old lady; these considerations, with those
just mentioned, and others which I need not mention, have sufficed to
paralyze the powers, by putting completely at fault the boasted acumen,
of the government agents. They have fallen into the gross but common
error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by these
deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels its way, if
at all, in its search after the true. In investigations such as we are
now pursuing, it should not be so much asked ‘what has occurred,’ as
‘what has occurred which has never occurred before.’ In fact, the
facility with which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of
this mystery, is in exact ratio with its apparent insolubility in the
eyes of the police.”

I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment. He continued.

“I am now awaiting,” continued he, looking toward the door of our
apartment—“I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not the
perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some measure
implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of the crimes
committed it is probable that he is innocent. I hope that I am right in
this supposition; for upon it I build my expectation of reading the
entire riddle. I look for the man here—in this room—every moment. It
is true that he may not arrive; but the probability is that he will.
Should he come, it will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols;
and we both know how to use them when occasion demands their use.”

I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing what I
heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a soliloquy. I have
already spoken of his abstract manner at such times. His discourse was
addressed to myself; but his voice, although by no means loud, had that
intonation which is commonly employed in speaking to some one at a great
distance. His eyes, vacant in expression, regarded only the wall.

“That the voices heard in contention,” he said, “by the party upon the
stairs, were not the voices of the women themselves, was fully proved by
the evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon the question whether
the old lady could have first destroyed the daughter, and afterward have
committed suicide. I speak of this point chiefly for the sake of method;
for the strength of Madame L’Espanaye would have been utterly unequal to
the task of thrusting her daughter’s corpse up the chimney as it was
found; and the nature of the wounds upon her own person entirely
preclude the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been committed
by some third party; and the voices of this third party were those heard
in contention. Let me now advert—not to the whole testimony respecting
these voices—but to what was peculiar in that testimony. Did you
observe anything peculiar about it?”

I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the gruff
voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much disagreement in regard
to the shrill, or as one individual termed it, the harsh voice.

“That was the evidence itself,” said Dupin, “but it was not the
peculiarity of the evidence. You have observed nothing distinctive.
Re-employing my own words, I may say that you have pointed out no
prominence above the plane of the ordinary, by which reason may feel her
way. Yet there _was_ something to be pointed out. The witnesses, as you
remark, agreed about the gruff voice; they were here unanimous. But in
regard to the shrill voice the peculiarity is—not that they
disagreed—but that, while an Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, a
Hollander, and a Frenchman attempted to describe it, each one spoke of
it as that _of a foreigner_. Each is sure that it was not the voice of
one of his own countrymen. Each likens it—not to the voice of an
individual of any nation with whose language he is conversant—but the
converse. The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and ‘might
have distinguished some words _had he been acquainted with the
Spanish_.’ The Dutchman maintains it to have been that of a Frenchman;
but we find it stated that ‘_not understanding French this witness was
examined through an interpreter_.’ The Englishman thinks it the voice of
a German, and ‘_does not understand German_.’ The Spaniard ‘is sure’
that it is that of an Englishman, but ‘judges by the intonation’
altogether, ‘_as he has no knowledge of the English_.’ The Italian
believes it the voice of a Russian, but ‘_has never conversed with a
native of Russia_.’ A second Frenchman differs, moreover, with the
first, and is positive that the voice is that of an Italian; but, _not
being cognizant of that tongue_, is like the Spaniard, ‘convinced by the
intonation.’ Now, how strangely unusual must that voice have really
been, about which such testimony as this _could_ have been elicited!—in
whose _tones_, even, denizens of the five great divisions of Europe
could recognise nothing familiar! You will say that it might have been
the voice of an Asiatic—of an African. Neither Asiatics nor Africans
abound in Paris; but, without denying the inference, I will just now
merely call your attention to three points which have relation to this
topic. The voice is termed by one witness ‘harsh rather than shrill.’ It
is represented by two others to have been ‘quick and _unequal_.’ No
words—no sounds resembling words—were by any witness mentioned as
distinguishable.

“I know not,” continued Dupin, “what impression I may have made, so far,
upon your own understanding; but I do not hesitate to say that
legitimate deductions even from this portion of the testimony—the
portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices—are in themselves
sufficient to engender a suspicion which should bias, or give direction
to all farther progress in the investigation of the mystery. I said
‘legitimate deductions;’ but my meaning is not thus fully expressed. I
designed to imply that the deductions were the _sole_ proper ones, and
that the suspicion arose _inevitably_ from them as the single result.
What the suspicion is, however, I will not say just yet. I merely wish
you to bear in mind that with myself it was sufficiently forcible to
give a definite form—a certain tendency—to my inquiries in the
chamber.

“Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to that chamber. What shall
we first seek here? The means of egress employed by the murderers. It is
not too much to say that we neither of us believe in præternatural
events. Madame and Mademoiselle L’Espanaye were not destroyed by
spirits. The doers of the dark deed were material, and escaped
materially. Then how? Fortunately, there is but one mode of reasoning
upon the point, and that mode _must_ lead us to a definite decision. Let
us examine, each by each, the possible means of egress. It is clear that
the assassins were in the room where Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was found,
or at least in the room adjoining, when the party ascended the stairs.
It is then only from these two apartments that we have to seek for
issues. The police have laid bare the floors, the ceilings, and the
masonry of the walls, in every direction. No _secret_ issues could have
escaped their vigilance. But, not trusting to their eyes, I examined
with my own. There were, then, _no_ secret issues. Both doors leading
from the rooms into the passage were securely locked, with the keys
inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These, although of ordinary width
for some eight or ten feet above the hearths, will not admit, throughout
their extent, the body of a large cat. The impossibility of egress by
means already stated being thus absolute, we are reduced to the windows.
Through those of the front room no one could have escaped without notice
from the crowd in the street. The murderers _must_ have passed, then,
through those of the back room. Now, brought to this conclusion in so
unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our part, as reasoners, to
reject it on account of apparent impossibilities. It is only left for us
to prove that these ‘impossibilities’ are not such.

“There are two windows in the chamber. One of them is unobstructed by
furniture, and is wholly visible. The lower portion of the other is
hidden from view by the head of the unwieldy bedstead which is thrust
close up against it. The former was found securely fastened from within.
It resisted the utmost force of those who endeavored to raise it. A
large gimlet-hole had been pierced in its frame to the left, and a very
stout nail was found fitted therein nearly to the head. Upon examining
the other window a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; and a
vigorous attempt to raise this sash failed also. The police were now
entirely satisfied that egress had not been in these directions. And,
_therefore_, it was thought a matter of supererogation to withdraw the
nails and open the windows.

“My own examination was somewhat more particular, and was so for the
reason I have just given—because here it was, I knew, that all apparent
impossibilities _must_ be proved to be not such in reality.

“I proceeded to think thus—_a posteriori_. The murderers _did_ escape
from one of these windows. This being so, they could not have
re-fastened the sashes from the inside as they were found
fastened,—(the consideration which put a stop, through its obviousness,
to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter). Yet the sashes _were_
fastened. They _must_, then, have the power of fastening themselves.
There was no escape from this conclusion. I stepped to the unobstructed
casement, withdrew the nail with some difficulty, and attempted to raise
the sash. It resisted all my efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed
spring must, I now knew, exist; and this corroboration of my idea
convinced me that my premises, at least, were correct, however
mysterious still appeared the circumstances attending the nails. A
careful search soon brought to light the hidden spring. I pressed it,
and, satisfied with the discovery, forbore to upraise the sash.

“I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively. A person passing
out through this window might have reclosed it, and the spring would
have caught—but the nail could not have been replaced. The conclusion
was plain, and again narrowed in the field of my investigations. The
assassins _must_ have escaped through the other window. Supposing, then,
the springs upon each sash to be the same, as was probable, there _must_
be found a difference between the nails, or at least between the modes
of their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked
over the head-board minutely at the second casement. Passing my hand
down behind the board I readily discovered and pressed the spring, which
was, as I had supposed, identical in character with its neighbor. I now
looked at the nail. It was as stout as the other, and apparently fitted
in the same manner—driven in nearly up to the head.

“You will say that I was puzzled; but if you think so you must have
misunderstood the nature of the inductions. To use a sporting phrase, I
had not been once ‘at fault.’ The scent had never for an instant been
lost. There was no flaw in any link of the chain. I had traced the
secret to its ultimate result—and that result was _the nail_. It had, I
say, in every respect, the appearance of its fellow in the other window;
but this fact was an absolute nullity (conclusive as it might seem to
be) when compared with the consideration that here, at this point,
terminated the clew. ‘There _must_ be something wrong,’ I said, ‘about
the nail.’ I touched it; and the head, with about the eighth of an inch
of the shank, came off in my fingers. The rest of the shank was in the
gimlet-hole, where it had been broken off. The fracture was an old one
(for its edges were incrusted with rust) and had apparently been
accomplished by the blow of a hammer, which had partially imbedded in
the top of the bottom sash, the head portion of the nail. I now
carefully replaced this head portion in the indentation whence I had
taken it, and the resemblance to a perfect nail was complete. I gently
raised the sash for a few inches; the head went up with it, remaining
firm in its bed, I closed the window, and the semblance of the whole
nail was again perfect.

“The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The assassins had escaped
through the window which looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own accord
upon their exit (or perhaps purposely closed by them) it had become
fastened by the spring; and it was the retention of this spring which
had been mistaken by the police for that of the nail—farther inquiry
being thus considered unnecessary.

“The next question is that of the mode of descent. Upon this point I had
been satisfied in my walk with you around the building. About five feet
and a half from the casement in question there ran a lightning-rod. From
this rod it would have been impossible for any one to reach the window
itself, to say nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the
shutters of the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by
Parisian carpenters _ferrades_—a kind rarely employed at the present
day, but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bourdeaux.
They are in the form of an ordinary door, (a single, not a folding door)
except that the lower half is latticed or worked in open trellis—thus
affording an excellent hold for the hands. In the present instance these
shutters are fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw them from
the rear of the house, they were both about half open—that is to say
they stood off at right angles from the wall. It is probable that the
police, as well as myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if
so, in looking at these _ferrades_ in the line of their breadth, (as
they must have done) they did not perceive this great breadth itself,
or, at all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact,
having once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been made in
this quarter, they would naturally bestow here a very cursory
examination. It was clear to me, however, that the shutter belonging to
the window at the head of the bed would, if swung fully back to the
wall, reach to within two feet of the lightning-rod. It was also evident
that, by exertion of a very unusual degree of activity and courage, an
entrance into the window, from the rod, might have been thus effected.
By reaching to the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose the
shutter open to its whole extent) a robber might have taken a firm grasp
upon the trellis-work. Letting go, then, his hold upon the rod, placing
his feet firmly against the wall, and springing boldly from it, he might
have swung the shutter so as to close it, and, if we imagine the window
open at the time, might even have swung himself into the room.

“I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a _very_
unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so hazardous and
so difficult a feat. It is my design to show you, first, that the thing
might possibly have been accomplished:—but, secondly and _chiefly_, I
wish to impress upon your understanding the _very extraordinary_—the
almost præternatural character of that agility which could have
accomplished it.

“You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that ‘to make
out my case,’ I should rather undervalue, than insist upon a full
estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may be the
practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My ultimate object
is only the truth. My immediate purpose is to lead you to place in
juxtaposition, that _very unusual_ activity of which I have just spoken,
with that _very peculiar_ shrill (or harsh) and _unequal_ voice, about
whose nationality no two persons could be found to agree, and in whose
utterance no syllabification could be detected.”

At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning of
Dupin flitted over my mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of
comprehension, without power to comprehend—as men, at times, find
themselves upon the brink of remembrance, without being able, in the
end, to remember. My friend went on with his discourse.

“You will see,” he said, “that I have shifted the question from the mode
of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to convey the idea that
both were effected in the same manner, at the same point. Let us now
revert in fancy to the interior of the room. Let us survey the
appearances here. The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been
rifled, although many articles of apparel still remained within them.
The conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere guess—a very silly one—and
no more. How are we to know that the articles found in the drawers were
not all these drawers had originally contained? Madame L’Espanaye and
her daughter lived an exceedingly retired life—saw no company—seldom
went out—had little use for numerous changes of habiliment. Those found
were at least of as good quality as any likely to be possessed by these
ladies. If a thief had taken any, why did he not take the best—why did
he not take all? In a word why did he abandon four thousand francs in
gold to encumber himself with a bundle of linen? The gold _was_
abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the
banker, was discovered, in bags, upon the floor. I wish you, therefore,
to discard from your thoughts the blundering idea of _motive_ engendered
in the brains of the police, by that portion of the evidence which
speaks of money delivered at the door of the house. Coincidences ten
times as remarkable as this (the delivery of the money, and murder
committed within three days upon the party receiving it,) happen to each
and all of us every hour of our lives, without attracting even a
momentary notice. Coincidences in general are great stumbling-blocks in
the way of that class of thinkers who have been educated to know
nothing, and care less, of the theory of probabilities—that theory to
which the most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the
most glorious of illustration. In the present instance, had the gold
been gone, the fact of its delivery three days before would have formed
something more than a coincidence. It would have been corroborative of
this idea of motive. But, under the real circumstances of the case, if
we are to suppose gold the motive of this outrage, we must also imagine
the perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his gold
and his motive together.

“Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn your
attention—that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and that startling
absence of motive in a murder so singularly atrocious as this—let us
glance at the butchery itself. Here is a woman strangled to death by
manual strength, and thrust up a chimney, head downward. Ordinary
assassins employ no such modes of murder as this. Least of all, do they
thus dispose of the murdered. In the manner of thrusting the corpse up
the chimney, you will admit that there was something _excessively
outré_—something altogether irreconcilable with our common notions of
human action, even when we suppose the actors the most depraved of men.
Think, too, what must have been the degree of that strength which could
have thrust the body _up_ such an aperture so forcibly that the united
vigor of several persons was found barely sufficient to drag it _down_!
Turn now to other indications of the employment of a vigor most
marvellous. On the hearth were thick tresses, very thick tresses—of
gray human hair. These had been _torn out by the roots_. You are aware
of the great force necessary in tearing thus from the head even twenty
or thirty hairs together. You saw the locks in question as well as
myself. Their roots (a hideous sight!) were clotted with fragments of
the flesh of the scalp—sure token of the prodigious power which had
been exerted in uprooting perhaps a million of hairs at a time. The
throat of the old lady was not merely cut, but the head absolutely
severed from the body. The instrument was a mere razor. Here again we
have evidence of that vastness of strength upon which I would fix your
attention. I wish you also to look, and to look steadily, at the
_brutal_ ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises upon the body of Madame
L’Espanaye I do not speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy coadjutor,
Monsieur Etienne, have pronounced that they were inflicted by some
obtuse instrument; and so far these gentlemen are very correct. The
obtuse instrument was clearly the stone pavement in the yard, upon which
the victim had fallen from the window which looked in upon the bed. This
idea, however simple it may now seem, escaped the police for the same
reason that the breadth of the shutters escaped them—because, by the
affair of the nails, their perceptions had been hermetically sealed
against the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at all.

“If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly reflected
upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far as to combine
the ideas of a strength superhuman, an agility astounding, a ferocity
brutal, a butchery without motive, a _grotesquerie_ in horror absolutely
alien from humanity, and a voice foreign in tone to the ears of men of
many nations, and devoid of all distinct or intelligible
syllabification. What result, then, has ensued? What impression have I
made upon your fancy?”

I shuddered as Dupin asked me the question. “A madman,” I said, “has
done this deed—some raving maniac, escaped from a neighboring _Maison
de Santé_.”

“In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is not irrelevant. But the
voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never found to
tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs. Madmen are of some
nation, and their language, however incoherent in its words, has always
the coherence of syllabification. Besides, the hair of a madman is not
such hair as I now hold in my hand. I disentangled this little tuft from
among the tresses remaining upon the head of Madame L’Espanaye. Tell me
what you can make of it.”

“Good God,” I said, completely unnerved, “this hair is most
unusual—this is no _human_ hair.”

“I have not asserted that it was,” said he, “but before we decide upon
this point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch which I have here
traced upon this paper. It is a fac-simile drawing of what has been
described in one portion of the testimony as ‘dark bruises, and deep
indentations of finger nails,’ upon the throat of Mademoiselle
L’Espanaye, and in another, (by Messrs. Dumas and Etienne,) as ‘a series
of livid spots, evidently the impression of fingers.’

“You will perceive,” continued my friend, spreading out the paper upon
the table before us, “you will perceive that this drawing gives the idea
of a firm and fixed hold. There is no _slipping_ apparent. Each finger
has retained—possibly until the death of the victim—the fearful grasp
by which it originally imbedded itself. Attempt now to place all your
fingers, at one and the same time, in the impressions as you see them.”

I made the attempt in vain.

“We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial,” he said. “The
paper is spread out upon a plane surface; but the human throat is
cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the circumference of which is
about that of the throat. Wrap the drawing around it, and try the
experiment again.”

I did so; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before. “This,”
I said, “is the mark of no human hand.”

“Assuredly it is not,” replied Dupin; “read now this passage from
Cuvier.”

It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of the
large fulvous Ourang-Outang of the East Indian Islands. The gigantic
stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild ferocity, and
the imitative propensities of these mammalia are sufficiently well known
to all. I understood the full horrors of the murder at once.

“The description of the digits,” said I, as I made an end of reading,
“is in exact accordance with this drawing. I see that no animal but an
Ourang-Outang, of the species here mentioned, could have impressed the
indentations as you have traced them. This tuft of yellow hair is
identical in character with that of the beast of Cuvier. But I cannot
possibly comprehend the particulars of this frightful mystery. Besides,
there were two voices heard in contention, and one of them was
unquestionably the voice of a Frenchman.”

“True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost
unanimously, by the evidence, to this voice,—the expression, ‘_mon
Dieu!_’ This, under the circumstances, has been justly characterized by
one of the witnesses (Montani, the confectioner,) as an expression of
remonstrance or expostulation. Upon these two words, therefore, I have
mainly built my hopes of a full solution of the riddle. A Frenchman was
cognizant of the murder. It is possible—indeed it is far more than
probable—that he was innocent of all participation in the bloody
transactions which took place. The Ourang-Outang may have escaped from
him. He may have traced it to this chamber; but, under the agitating
circumstances which ensued, he could never have re-captured it. It is
still at large. I will not pursue these guesses—for I have no right to
call them more than guesses—since the shades of reflection upon which
they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth to be appreciable by my
own intellect, and since I could not pretend to make them intelligible
to the understanding of another than myself. We will call them guesses
then, and speak of them as such. If the Frenchman in question be indeed,
as I suppose, innocent of this atrocity, this advertisement, which I
left last night, upon our return home, at the office of ‘Le Monde,’ (a
paper devoted to the shipping interest, and much sought for by sailors,)
will bring him to our residence.”

He handed me a paper, and I read thus:—

    Caught—_In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the —
    inst._, (the morning of the murder,) _a very large,
    tawny-colored Ourang-Outang of the Bornese species. The owner,
    (who is ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to a Maltese
    vessel,) may have the animal again, upon identifying it
    satisfactorily, and paying a few charges arising from its
    capture and keeping. Call at No. —, Rue ——, Faubourg St.
    Germain—au troisième._

“How was it possible,” I asked, “that you should know the man to be a
sailor, and belonging to a Maltese vessel?”

“I do _not_ know it,” said Dupin. “I am not _sure_ of it. Here, however,
is a small piece of ribbon, which has evidently, from its form, and from
its greasy appearance, been used in tying the hair in one of those long
_queues_ of which sailors are so fond. Moreover, this knot is one which
few besides sailors can tie, and is peculiar to the Maltese. I picked
the ribbon up at the foot of the lightning-rod. It could not have
belonged to either of the deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong in my
induction from this ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor belonging to
a Maltese vessel, still I can have done no harm in stating what I did in
the advertisement. If I am in error he will merely suppose that I have
been misled by some circumstance into which he will not take the trouble
to inquire. But if I am right—a great point is gained. Cognizant of the
murder, although not guilty, the Frenchman will naturally hesitate about
replying to the advertisement—about demanding the Ourang-Outang. He
will reason thus:—‘I am innocent; I am poor; my Ourang-Outang is of
great value—to one in my circumstances a fortune of itself—why should
I lose it through idle apprehensions of danger? Here it is within my
grasp. It was found in the Bois de Boulogne—at a vast distance from the
scene of that butchery. How can it ever be suspected that a brute beast
should have done the deed? The police are at fault—they have failed to
procure the slightest clew. Should they even trace the animal, it would
be impossible to prove me cognizant of the murder, or to implicate me in
guilt on account of that cognizance. Above all, _I am known_. The
advertiser designates me as the possessor of the beast. I am not sure to
what limit his knowledge may extend. Should I avoid claiming a property
of so great a value, which it is known that I possess, I will render the
animal at least, liable to suspicion. It is not my policy to attract
attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer the
advertisement—get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it close until this
matter has blown over.’”

At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.

“Be ready,” said Dupin, “with your pistols, but neither show them nor
use them until at a signal from myself.”

The front door of the house had been left open, and the visiter had
entered without ringing or rapping, and advanced several steps upon the
staircase. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we heard him
descending. Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when we again heard
him coming up. He did not turn back a second time, but stepped up
quickly, and rapped at the door of our chamber.

“Come in,” said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone.

The visiter entered. He was a sailor, evidently—a tall, stout, and
muscular-looking man, with a certain dare-devil expression of
countenance, not altogether unprepossessing. His face, greatly sunburnt,
was more than half hidden by a world of whisker and _mustachio_. He had
with him a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise unarmed. He
bowed awkwardly, and bade us “good evening,” in French accents, which,
although somewhat Neufchatel-ish, were still sufficiently indicative of
a Parisian origin.

“Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin, “I suppose you have called about the
Ourang-Outang. Upon my word, I almost envy you the possession of him; a
remarkably fine, and no doubt a very valuable animal. How old do you
suppose him to be?”

The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of some
intolerable burden, and then replied, in an assured tone,—

“I have no way of telling—but he can’t be more than four or five years
old. Have you got him here?”

“Oh no—we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a livery
stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the morning. Of
course you are prepared to identify the property?”

“To be sure I am, sir.”

“I shall be sorry to part with him,” said Dupin.

“I don’t mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing, sir,”
said the man. “Couldn’t expect it. Am very willing to pay a reward for
the finding of the animal—that is to say, any reward in reason.”

“Well,” replied my friend, “that is all very fair, to be sure. Let me
think!—what reward ought I to have? Oh! I will tell you. My reward
shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your power about
that affair of the murder in the Rue Morgue.”

Dupin said these last words in a very low tone, and very quietly. Just
as quietly, too, he walked towards the door, locked it, and put the key
in his pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom and placed it,
without the least flurry, upon the table.

The sailor’s face flushed up with an ungovernable tide of crimson. He
started to his feet and grasped his cudgel; but the next moment he fell
back into his seat trembling convulsively, and with the countenance of
death itself. He spoke not a single word. I pitied him from the bottom
of my heart.

“My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “you are alarming yourself
unnecessarily—you are indeed. We mean you no harm whatever. I pledge
you the honor of a gentleman, and of a Frenchman, that we intend you no
injury. I perfectly well know that you are innocent of the atrocities in
the Rue Morgue. It will not do, however, to deny that you are in some
measure implicated in them. From what I have already said, you must know
that I have had means of information about this matter—means of which
you could never have dreamed. Now the thing stands thus. You have done
nothing which you could have avoided—nothing certainly which renders
you culpable. You were not even guilty of robbery, when you might have
robbed with impunity. You have nothing to conceal. You have no reason
for concealment. On the other hand, you are bound by every principle of
honor to confess all that you know. An innocent man is now imprisoned,
charged with that crime of which you can point out the perpetrator.”

The sailor had recovered his presence of mind in a great measure, while
Dupin uttered these words; but his original boldness of bearing was all
gone.

“So help me God,” said he, after a brief pause, “I _will_ tell you all
that I know about this affair;—but I do not expect you to believe one
half that I say—I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still, I _am_
innocent, and I will make a clean breast if I die for it.”

I do not propose to follow the man in the circumstantial narrative which
he now detailed. What he stated was, in substance, this. He had lately
made a voyage to the Indian Archipelago. A party, of which he formed
one, landed at Borneo, and passed into the interior on an excursion of
pleasure. Himself and a companion had captured the Ourang-Outang. This
companion dying, the animal fell into his own exclusive possession.
After great trouble, occasioned by the intractable ferocity of his
captive during the home voyage, he at length succeeded in lodging it
safely at his own residence in Paris, where, not to attract towards
himself the unpleasant curiosity of his neighbors, he kept it carefully
secluded, until such time as it should recover from a wound in the foot,
received from a splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell
it.

Returning home from some sailors’ frolic on the night, or rather in the
morning of the murder, he found his prisoner occupying his own bed-room,
into which he had broken from a closet adjoining, where he had been, as
it was thought, securely confined. The beast, razor in hand, and fully
lathered, was sitting before a looking-glass, attempting the operation
of shaving, in which he had no doubt previously watched his master
through the key-hole of the closet. Terrified at the sight of so
dangerous a weapon in the possession of an animal so ferocious, and so
well able to use it, the man, for some moments, was at a loss what to
do. He had been accustomed, however, to quiet the creature, even in its
fiercest moods, by the use of a strong wagoner’s whip, and to this he
now resorted. Upon sight of it, the Ourang-Outang sprang at once through
the door of the chamber, down the stairs, and thence, through a window,
unfortunately open, into the street.

The Frenchman followed in despair—the ape, razor still in hand,
occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at his pursuer, until
the latter had nearly come up with him. He then again made off. In this
manner the chase continued for a long time. The streets were profoundly
quiet, as it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. In passing down an
alley in the rear of the Rue Morgue, the fugitive’s attention was
arrested by a light (the only one apparent except those of the
town-lamps) gleaming from the open window of Madame L’Espanaye’s
chamber, in the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the building, he
perceived the lightning-rod, clambered up with inconceivable agility,
grasped the shutter, which was thrown fully back against the wall, and,
by its means swung himself directly upon the head-board of the bed. The
whole feat did not occupy a minute. The shutter was kicked open again by
the Ourang-Outang as he entered the room.

The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced and perplexed. He had
strong hopes of now recapturing the ape, as it could scarcely escape
from the trap into which it had ventured, except by the rod, where it
might be intercepted as it came down. On the other hand, there was much
cause for anxiety as to what the brute might do in the house. This
latter reflection urged the man still to follow the fugitive. A
lightning rod is ascended without difficulty, especially by a sailor;
but, when he had arrived as high as the window, which lay far to his
left, his career was stopped; the most that he could accomplish was to
reach over so as to obtain a glimpse of the interior of the room. At
this glimpse he nearly fell from his hold through excess of horror. Now
it was that those hideous shrieks arose upon the night, which had
startled from slumber the inmates of the Rue Morgue. Madame L’Espanaye
and her daughter, habited in their night clothes, had apparently been
occupied in arranging some papers in the iron chest already mentioned,
which had been wheeled into the middle of the room. It was open, and its
contents lay beside it on the floor. Their backs must have been towards
the window; and, by the time elapsing between the screams and the
ingress of the ape, it seems probable that he was not immediately
perceived. The flapping-to of the shutter they would naturally have
attributed to the wind.

As the sailor looked in, the gigantic beast had seized Madame L’Espanaye
by the hair, (which was loose, as she had been combing it,) and was
flourishing the razor about her face, in imitation of the motions of a
barber. The daughter lay prostrate and motionless; she had swooned. The
screams and struggles of the old lady (during which the hair was torn
from her head) had the effect of changing the probably pacific purposes
of the Ourang-Outang into those of ungovernable wrath. With one
determined sweep of his muscular arm he nearly severed her head from her
body. The sight of blood inflamed his anger into phrenzy. Gnashing his
teeth, and flashing fire from his eyes, he flew upon the body of the
girl, and imbedded his fearful talons in her throat, retaining his grasp
until she expired. His wandering and wild glances fell at this moment
upon the head of the bed, over which those of his master, glazed in
horror, were just discernible. The fury of the beast, who no doubt bore
still in mind the dreaded whip, was instantly converted into dread.
Conscious of having deserved punishment, he seemed desirous to conceal
his bloody deeds, and skipped about the chamber in an apparent agony of
nervous agitation, throwing down and breaking the furniture as he moved,
and dragging the bed from the bedstead. In conclusion, he seized first
the corpse of the daughter, and thrust it up the chimney, as it was
found; then that of the old lady, with which he rushed to the window,
precipitating it immediately therefrom.

As the ape approached him with his mutilated burden, the sailor shrunk
aghast to the rod, and rather gliding than clambering down it, hurried
at once home—dreading the consequences of the butchery, and gladly
abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude about the fate of the
Ourang-Outang. The words heard by the party upon the staircase were the
Frenchman’s exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the
fiendish jabberings of the brute.

I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have escaped
from the chamber, by the rod, just before the breaking of the door. He
must have closed the window as he passed through it. He was subsequently
caught by the owner himself, who obtained for him a very large sum at
the _Jardin des Plantes_. Le Bon was instantly released upon our
narration of the circumstances (with some comments from Dupin) at the
_bureau_ of the _Préfet de police_. This functionary, however well
disposed to my friend, could not altogether conceal his chagrin at the
turn which affairs had taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or
two, in regard to the propriety of every person minding his own
business.

“Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to reply.
“Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience. I am satisfied with
having defeated him in his own castle. In truth, he is too cunning to be
acute. There is no _stamen_ in his wisdom. It is all head and no
body—like the pictures of the goddess Laverna—or at least all head and
shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good fellow, after all. I like
him especially for one master stroke of cant, by which he has attained
that reputation for ingenuity which he possesses. I mean the way he has
‘_de nier ce qui est, et d’expliquer ce qui n’est pas_.’”

    Philadelphia, March, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             AN APRIL DAY.


    The spring has come, the low south wind
      Is breathing sweet,—
    The showers are patt’ring in the wood,
      Like fairy feet.

    Hark! in yon silent grove a bird
      Pours out its lay,—
    Such strains, I ween, have not been heard
      For many a day.

    The feath’ry clouds scud o’er the sky,
      The sun between,—
    A thousand rain-drops glisten bright,
      Upon the green.

    And such is life—an April morn,
      A changing sky,—
    To mingled joy and grief we’re born,
      And born to die.
                              A. A. I.

    Philadelphia, March, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          TO THE ÆOLIAN HARP.


    Say magic strain—from whence thy wild note straying?
      Comes it in sadness, or in raptured glee?
    Art thou a thing of earth, that sweetly playing,
      Blends in each fitful blast, so tenderly?

    Or, art thou from the star-gem’d vault of Heav’n,
      Perchance the music of some distant sphere,
    That faintly echoes on the gales of even,
      To claim from earth—grief’s solitary tear?

    Art thou the revelling of some fairy sprite,
      Tripping the dewy world fantastically,
    To keep its tryst beneath the clear moonlight,
      Awak’ning tones of deepest minstrelsy?

    Or, art thou, breathing from a holier clime,
      A voice, that calleth tremulously low;
    To lure the enraptured soul to things divine,
      Far from deluding joys it meets below?

    Thou com’st with inspiration ’mid thy sighing,
      A melody, unearthly and unknown;
    A mingled strain, that on the night-breeze dying,
      Wakens the heart-strings to thy thrilling tone.

    Recalling wanderings of the spirit-past,
      The wayward visions of our fleeting youth;
    The ling’ring day-dreams that in mem’ry last,
      Untouch’d by Time’s realities of truth.

    Again we roam where forest-shadows blending,
      Ring with the gladness of our playful hours,
    Along the murm’ring stream once more we’re wending,
      Lured by the sunny mead, soft winds, and flowers—

    Or, oft renew the link that death hath broken,
      The cherish’d dead—again recall to view;
    Hear ’mid thy varied tones, the fond words spoken,
      That erst from sorrow’s fount deep anguish drew.

    And fairest visions float through Fancy’s fane,
      Caught from the soul’s illuminated shrine;
    Elysian forms, that purer realms retain,
      Thoughts of the blest, ethereal, and divine.

    Earth too is mingling with her mortal hours,
      The touching softness of her gentle things;
    And Love—deep-gushing Love—with winged powers,
      Chimes with the ecstacy each wild note brings.

    Hast thou not sounds to rouse the soul to madness,
      To flattering joys—emotions long enshrined;
    Deep silent melodies of youthful gladness,
      That spring unbidden to the raptur’d mind?

    This, then thou art—the power of plaintive measure,
      To call forth passion by the wind-swept wire;
    To mingle Hope, with memory’s sad pleasure,
      This is thy power—Oh! sweet Æolian lyre.
                                          A. F. H.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE REEFER OF ’76.


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


                             THE MESS-ROOM.

It is scarcely necessary to detail the occurrences of that celebrated
cruize. Success appeared to follow us wherever we went. After our escape
from the man-of-war,—which we subsequently learned to be the Solebay,
mounting twenty-eight guns—we ran farther eastward, and soon fell in
with several prizes. One morning, however, our look-out detected a
strange frigate hovering upon the sea-board, nor was it long before we
discovered her to be an enemy. We made her out, by the aid of our
glasses, to be a light frigate, pierced for sixteen guns on a side.
Every rag that would draw was instantly set. With equal alacrity the
stranger followed our example, and a running fight was commenced, which
lasted nearly the whole day; for our daring leader, finding that we
could easily outsail the enemy, kept just out of range of her guns, so
that, although she maintained a constant fire, every shot fell short.
Toward night-fall, however, we gave full rein to our gallant craft, and,
to the astonishment and chagrin of the Englishman, left him hull down in
a few hours.

After hauling aboard our tacks, we ran up toward Canseau, and for some
time inflicted serious damage upon the enemy’s fishermen, around the
coast of Nova Scotia. Having finally captured no less than sixteen sail,
some of them very valuable, we left the scene of our late exploits, and
swept down the coast toward Montauk.

It was a cloudless afternoon when we made Block Island, and, as the sun
set behind its solitary outline, tinting the sky with a thousand varied
dyes, and prolonging the shadow of the coast along the deep, we beheld a
small schooner, close-hauled, opening around the northern extremity of
the island. In less than a half hour she was close to windward of us. As
it was the first friendly craft we had seen for weeks, we were all
naturally anxious to learn the state of affairs on land. Paul Jones
himself leaped into the rigging and hailed,

“Ahoy! what craft is that?”

“The Mary Ann of Newport,” answered a nasal voice from the low deck of
the stranger, “what vessel air you?”

“The Providence continental sloop—come to under our lee and send a boat
aboard.”

“Ay, ay, sir!” answered the same voice, but in an altered tone, and with
the ready alacrity of a true seaman, “round her to, boys; but may be,”
continued he, again addressing us, “you hain’t heerd the news yet. I
calculate it’ll make the British think we Yankees ain’t to be made
slaves of arter all—_independence is declared_.”

“What!—the Congress declared itself independent of Great Britain?”
asked Paul Jones, quickly.

“Yes! by —,” but the half muttered oath of the seaman died away in a
prolonged whistle, as he remembered how unbecoming an oath would be from
a deacon of the church. For an instant there was a profound silence,
while we gazed into each other’s faces, with mingled wonder, delight,
and pride. The news was not wholly unhoped for, though we had scarcely
ventured to expect it. A topman was the first to speak. Forgetting every
thing in his enthusiasm, he shouted,

“Three cheers, my boys, for freedom,—huzza!”

And, suiting the action to the word, he broke into a thundering shout,
which, taken up by our own crew, was answered back by that of the
schooner, until the very heavens seemed to echo the sound. It was a
stirring moment. A universal transport appeared to have seized upon our
gallant fellows; they threw up their hats, they shook each other’s
hands, they laughed, they swore, and the more volatile even danced;
while Paul Jones himself, with a flushed cheek and kindling eye, timed
the huzzas of his patriotic crew.

Before twenty-four hours we were at anchor in Newport, and almost the
first craft that I beheld in the harbor, was the saucy little Fire-Fly.
The welcome I received from my shipmates I will not attempt to describe.
Over our cold junk and Jamaica, I listened to the narrative of their
adventures since our parting, and rehearsed in return my own. My arrival
was opportune, for the schooner expected to sail in less than a week,
and had I been delayed many days longer, I might have found it
impossible to have rejoined her during the war. The little time that we
remained in port after my arrival, was spent in a constant round of
amusements, such only as a set of gay reckless reefers know how to
indulge in. Many a gay song was trolled, and many a mirthful tale
related by lips that have long since been stilled in death.

But what of Beatrice? Had she forgotten me? No—the dear creature had
availed herself of one of the rare opportunities which then presented
themselves occasionally of communicating with the north, to answer a
long epistle I had transmitted to her, by a chance vessel, we met a few
days after leaving Charleston. Oh! with what simple, yet nervous
eloquence did she assure me of her unabated love, and how sweetly did
she chide me for the doubts I had—sinner that I was—whispered
respecting it. I kissed the dear missive again and again; I read it over
and over a thousand times; I treasured it the more because I knew not
when the chances of war would suffer me to hear from her again. I feared
not now the influence of her uncle: I felt in my inmost soul that
Beatrice was too pure, too self-devoted in her love ever to sacrifice it
for lucre. And as I felt this it flashed across me that perhaps she
might have heard of my being lost overboard from the merchantman; and
who knew but that even now she might be mourning me as dead? Happily a
brig was now in port about to sail for Charleston. I seized the
opportunity, and wrote to inform Beatrice of my safety.

In a few days our outfit was completed, and bidding adieu to my friends
on board the Providence, we set sail from Newport. The day was bright
and glorious, and the sunbeams danced merrily upon the waves. A light
breeze murmured through the rigging; the gay song of the sailors from
the merchantmen in port floated softly past; and the scream of the
sea-birds broke shrilly over us, high in the clear blue sky.

As the day advanced, however, a thin, gauze-like vapor gradually spread
over the horizon, deepening before four bells in the afternoon watch to
an impervious canopy of black, which stretching from pole to pole,
obscured the whole firmament, and threw a premature and sickly gloom
over the deep beneath. The wind, too, began to rise, blowing in
irregular puffs, and whitening the surface of the sea in patches over
the whole of its wide extent; while occasionally a low, half-smothered
murmur, as if arising out of the very heart of the ocean, betokened that
the elements of the storm were at work far down in their wild recesses.
As the day advanced the sky became even more ominous, until long before
night-fall its weird-like grandeur excelled any thing I had ever beheld.
By this time, too, the wind had increased almost into a hurricane, and
with every thing trimmed down, we were cleaving through the fast
whitening billows with an exhilarating velocity that only a sailor can
appreciate. The rain meanwhile was falling fast. As night came on the
watch was set, and most of us went below, so that all off duty were soon
congregated in our mess-room.

“A wild night,” said the last comer, as he shook the wet from his shaggy
jacket, “and I see you’re determined to make the most of it, my
boys—push us the Jamaica, Parker, and don’t forget the junk in passing.
Here’s to the thirteen united colonies, hurrah!”

“Hurrah! hurrah! hip—hip—hurrah!” rung around the crowded room, as we
drank off our bumpers.

“Can’t you give us a toast, O’Shaughnessy?” sung out Westbrook.

“Shure and what shall it be?” said he, with humorous simplicity. A
general roar of laughter followed.

“Any thing, my hearty,” said Westbrook, cramming a piece of junk into
his mouth as he spoke.

“Arrah thin, and ye’ll not refuse to dhrink the memory of our gallant
comrade,” said he, looking hard at me, “present this blessed minit, who
fought, bled, and died at Fort Moultrie—Misther Parker, I mane, boys.”

The explosions of laughter which followed this speech, like successive
peals of thunder, were enough to lift the deck of the schooner off
bodily from overhead. But the most laughable part of all was the
amazement of poor O’Shaughnessy, who, unable to understand this new
burst of merriment, looked from one to another, in humorous perplexity.
As soon, however, as the company could compose itself, the toast was
drunk amid a whirlwind of huzzas. I rose to return thanks.

“Hear him—hear him,” roared a dozen voices. I began.

“Honored as I am, gentlemen, by this token of—of,” but here I was
interrupted by the entrance of the purser, who, poking his head through
the narrow doorway, said,

“Gentlemen, the captain must be informed of this riot if it continues.”

The purser was a stiff, starch, precise old scoundrel, with a squint in
his eye, a nasal twang, and an itching after money beyond even that of
Shylock. To make a dollar he would descend to the meanest shifts. But
this would not have irritated the mess so much, even though he had at
one time or another fleeced every member of it, had it not been his
constant practice to inform on such of the tricks inseparable to a set
of youngsters as came under his notice. He was, in short, a skulking
spy. Added to this he was continually affecting a strictness of morals
which was more than suspected to be hypocritical.

“And who made you keeper of the skipper’s conscience?—eh! old
plunderer,” said Westbrook, as he shied a biscuit at the purser’s head.

“Really, gentlemen, really—I—I must—”

“Come in, or you’ll catch cold in the draught,” sung out our reckless
comrade, “your teeth chatter so now you can’t talk. Haul him in there,
O’Shaughnessy.”

Quick as the word the unlucky interloper was dragged in, the door shut,
and he stood turning from one to another of our group in speechless
amazement. We were all ready for any mischief. The rattling of the
cordage overhead, the thunder of the surge, and the deafening whistle of
the hurricane we knew would drown all the uproar we might occasion, and
afford us impunity for any offence. Besides it was no part of his duty
to be intruding on our mess, and threatening us with punishment. We had
a long account to settle with our extortioner.

“Hope you find yourself at home—take a sociable glass, that’s a good
fellow—glad to see you amongst us,” sung out as many voices as biscuit
after biscuit was sent at the purser’s head, while Westbrook mixing a
stiff tumbler of salt and water proffered it to our victim to drink.

“Spu—spu—gentlemen, spu, I promise you—the utmost penalty of—of the
regulations—you shall be mast-headed—disrated—you shall, so help me
God.”

“A penalty! a penalty! the worthy man is profane: how shall we punish
such immorality?”

“Cob him,” said one.

“Keel-haul him,” said another.

“Make him receipt for his bill,” roared a third.

“Give him the salt and water,” chimed in Westbrook, and the salt and
water it was agreed should be the penalty. Three stout reefers held the
loathing victim fast, while Westbrook proceeded to administer the
draught.

“Gentlemen—I—I—protest—a—gainst—you shall suffer for this—you
shall—”

“Aisy, you spalpeen you, aisy,” said O’Shaughnessy, giving the purser a
shake.

“Mr. Westbrook, I warn you—I warn you,” said the purser raising his
voice.

But our comrade was not to be intimidated. Taking the glass in one hand,
he placed himself at a proper distance in front of the struggling man,
and gravely commenced haranguing him on the enormity of his offence.

“It pains me, indeed, Mr. Sower,” and here Westbrook laid his hand upon
his heart, “to hear a man of your character use such language as you
have been convicted of, especially in the presence of these misguided
young reprobates,” here there was a general laugh, “example, example, my
dear sir, is every thing. But the deed is done: the penalty alone
remains to be paid. With a heart torn with the most poignant anguish I
proceed to execute your sentence.”

“Mr. Westbrook, again I warn you—spe—e—u—uh.”

But in vain the purser kicked, and struggled, and spluttered. The mess
was too much for him. One seized him by the nose, a second forced open
his mouth, and Westbrook, with inimitable gravity, apologising for, and
bemoaning his melancholy duty,—as he called it—in the same breath,
poured the nauseating draught down the victim’s throat, amid roars of
laughter.

“D——n, I’ll make you pay for this—I will—I will,” roared the purser,
almost choked with rage.

“Open the door and let him run,” laughed Westbrook.

The mandate was obeyed, and with one bound the purser sprang out of the
mess-room, while his merry persecutors, holding their sides, laughed
until the tears ran out of their eyes.

“A song—give us a song, Westbrook!” shouted the one at the foot of the
table, as soon as the merriment, ceasing for a while, but renewed again
and again, had finally died away.

“What shall it be?” said our jovial messmate, “ah! our own mess-room
song, Parker hasn’t heard it yet—shove us the jug, for I’m confoundedly
dry.”

Having taken a long draught, Westbrook hemmed twice, and sang in a fine
manly tenor, the following stanzas:

        “Oh! what is so gay as a reefer’s life!
          With his junk and Jamaica by him,
        He cares not a fig for the morning’s strife.
          He seeks but the foe to defy him;
        He fights for his honor and country’s laws,
          He fights for the mother that bore him,—
        And the hireling slave of a tyrant’s cause
          Will quail, like a coward, before him.

        “The deep may unfetter its surges dread,
          The heavens their thunders awaken,
        The tempest howl as it sweeps overhead,—
          He smiles at all danger unshaken;
        With an unblenched eye, and a daring form
          He fearlessly gazes before him,
        Though he fall in battle, or sink in the storm,
          His country, he knows, will weep o’er him.

        “In her sun-lit vallies are daughters fair
          To greet us from battle returning,
        With their song and smile to banish each care
          By the hearth-fire cheerily burning.
        Oh! who would not fight for beings like these,
          For mothers, for grandsires hoary?
        Like a besom we’ll sweep the foe from the seas,
          Or die, in the strife, full of glory.”

“Bravo! three times three!” and the triple sound rolled stunningly from
our throats.

“Hark! wasn’t that the boatswain’s whistle?” said I, and for a moment we
paused in our applause to listen. But the tumult of the storm drowned
everything in its fierce uproar.

“Again, boys—hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” and the cheers were renewed with
redoubled vigor.

“Gentlemen, all hands on deck,” said the quarter-master, opening the
door at this moment.

“Ay! ay! sir,” was the simultaneous response of every member of the
mess, and in less than a minute our late noisy apartment was as quiet as
the tomb, and we had each taken his post on deck. Such is discipline.

The spectacle that met our vision as we reached the deck, drove at once,
all the excitement of our potations off; and we were as calm and
collected in a second after leaving the gang-way, as if we had kept
above during the whole evening. Never can I forget that moment. The rain
was pouring down in torrents, not perpendicularly, however, but
slant-wise, as it was driven before the hurricane. Now it beat fiercely
into our faces, and now was whirled hither and thither in wild
commotion. Around, all was dark as pitch. We could not see a dozen
fathoms in any direction, except where the white crests of the surges
flashed through the gloom. These could, however, be detected close under
our lee glancing through the darkness, while the dull continued roar in
that quarter, betokened our immediate vicinity to breakers. They were in
fact, close aboard. Had they not been detected the instant they were, we
should have run on to them the next minute, and perished to a soul.
Happily we had just room to wear. This had been done before we were
summoned on deck. We had now close-hauled every thing, and were
endeavoring, as our only hope, to claw off the shore.

The next fifteen minutes were spent in that agonising suspense, for more
terrible than death itself, which men experience when the king of terror
smiles grimly in their faces, and yet witholds the blow. As we gazed
out, through the driving rain, upon the dimly seen breakers on our
starboard beam, and heard their wild monotonous roar as of hounds
yelling for their prey, a sense of inexpressible awe stole upon our
minds, which, though totally devoid of fear, was yet appalling. Who knew
but that, before another hour, aye! before a quarter of that time, our
mangled bodies might be floating at the mercy of the surge? Every moment
deepened our anxiety, for though our little craft breasted the waves
with gallant determination, sending the spray as high as her mast head
at every plunge, yet there was no perceptible increase in our distance
from the shore. Fierce, and fiercer, meanwhile, grew the tempest. The
surge roared under our lee; the wind howled by like the wailings of the
damned; and the occasional lightnings, which now began to illuminate the
scene, lit up the whole firmament a moment with their ghastly glare, and
then left it shrouded in darkness deeper than that of the day of doom.
At intervals the thunder bellowed overhead or went crackling in
prolonged echoes down the sky. The schooner groaned and quivered in
every timber. Now we rose to the heavens; now wallowed in the abyss. The
men, grasping each a rope, looked ominously at the scene around, or cast
hurried glances aloft as if fearful that our masts would not stand the
strain.

“Hark!” said Westbrook, who stood beside me, “was not that a gun?—there
again?”

As he spoke the sullen roar of a cannon boomed across the deep, and for
several successive minutes, in the intervals of the thunder, followed
the same awful sound. We looked at each other.

“They are signals of distress,” I ejaculated, “God have mercy on the
sufferers! for man can afford them no help.”

I had scarcely ceased speaking when a succession of rapid, vivid flashes
of lightning, illumined the stormy prospect for several minutes, as with
the light of day; and for the first time we caught a glimpse of the
rocky coast, on our lee, against which the surge was breaking in a
hurricane of foam. But fearful as was the spectacle of our own danger,
it was surpassed by the sight which met our eager gaze. About a cable’s
length ahead, and a few points on our lee bow, was a tall and gallant
bark, dismantled and broached to, upon a reef of jagged rocks, now
buried in foam. Her weather quarter lay high upon the ledge, and was
crowded with unfortunate human beings, men, women and children, over
whom the surges broke momentarily in cataracts. I hear now their wild
despairing cries, although years have passed since then. I see their
outstretched hands as they call on heaven for mercy. I feel again the
cold chill, freezing up my very blood, which then rushed across my
heart, as I thought of their inevitable doom, and knew not but that in a
few moments I should share its bitterness with them. I was startled by a
deep voice at my side. It was that of an old warrant officer. The tears
were streaming down his weather-beaten cheeks, and his tones were husky
and full of emotion as he said,

“It’s a sad spectacle that for a father, Mr. Parker.”

“It is, Hawser—but why do you shed tears?—cheer up, man—it’s not all
over with us yet,” said I.

“Ah! sir, it’s not fear that makes me so, but I was thinking what my
little ones, and their poor mother would do for bread to eat, should I
be taken away from them. You are not a father, Mr. Parker.”

“God forgive me, Hawser, for my suspicion. I honor your emotions,” said
I, pressing his horny hand, and turning away to conceal my own feelings.
But as I did so, I felt something hot fall upon my finger. It was the
old man’s tear.

“We must give her another reef, I fear,” said the captain, as he saw how
fearfully the vessel strained, “no, no,” he added, as he glanced again
at the rocky coast, “it will never do. Keep her to it,” he thundered,
raising his voice, “keep her to it, quarter-master.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

We were now almost abreast of the ill-fated wreck. Driving rapidly
along, the dark waters sinking in foam beneath our lee as we breasted
the opposing surge, our fate promised soon to be the same with that of
the wretches on the reef. The crisis was at hand. We were in dangerous
proximity to the dismantled ship; and the least falling off would roll
us in upon her. It was even doubtful whether we could weather the reef,
should we still hold our own. At this moment a ray of hope appeared. We
perceived that the shore shelved in just beyond the wreck, and that, if
we could escape the ledge, our safety would be ensured. The captain took
in at a glance this new situation of affairs, which, by holding out
hope, redoubled every motive to action.

“How bears she?” he anxiously inquired.

The man answered promptly.

“Hard up—press her down more,” he shouted, and then muttered, between
his teeth “or we are lost.”

“She is almost shaking.”

“How does she bear?”

“A point more in the wind’s eye.”

“Harder yet, harder.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“How now?”

“Another point, sir.”

The crisis had now come. Bending almost to the horizon, under the
enormous press of her canvass, the schooner groaned and struggled
against the seas, and for one moment of intense agony, during which we
held our breaths painfully, and even forgot the cries of the sufferers
upon our lee, we thought that all was over; but, although the schooner
staggered under the successive shocks, she did not yield, and as the
last billow sank away, whitening beneath her lee, and we rose gallantly
upon its crest, the rocky reef shot away astern, and we were safe. As
the wreck vanished in the gloom behind, the cries of her despairing
passengers came mingled with the roar of the tempest, in awful
distinctness, to our ears.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE OUTLAW LOVER.


                             BY J. H. DANA.


                               Chapter I.

          _Com._ And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady?
                                                     _Comus._

It was a summer afternoon, and the sunlight, glimmering through the
branches of the old oak trees, fell with a rich glow upon the green
sward beneath, lighting up the dark vistas of the forest, and disclosing
long avenues of stately trees, through which the deer trotted in the
distance, presenting altogether a picture of woodland scenery such as
the eye rarely beholds, when two females might have been seen sauntering
idly along, listening to the gay echoes of their own voices as they
conversed in those light-hearted tones, which only youth and innocence
employ. The foremost of the two, by the stateliness of her mien, and the
richness of her dress, appeared to be of higher rank than her companion;
and as she turned occasionally to converse with her attendant, she
disclosed one of the most beautiful countenances that poet ever dreamed
of, or painter pictured. A noble contour; a snowy forehead; a finely
chiselled mouth; and a pair of dark lustrous eyes that shone like a
cloudless night into the gazer’s soul, made up a face of surpassing
loveliness. And as she conversed, each successive thought would flash up
into her countenance, making it, as it were, the mirror of the pure soul
beneath, and giving it an expression, such as the pen would find it
impossible to describe.

“Ruth! Ruth!” said this fair vision, suddenly pausing, “hear you
nothing—surely that was the cry of dogs—can we have wandered so far
from the lodge?”

The color faded from the attendant’s cheek as her mistress ceased
speaking, and the deep bay of approaching hounds floated down the
avenues of the forest.

“Let us fly—fly, dear lady,” said the terrified girl, “or the stag will
be upon us.”

The words had scarcely left her mouth before a crashing was heard in a
neighboring thicket, and before the females could move more than a few
steps from their position, a huge antlered stag, dripping with blood and
foam, burst out of the copse, and made toward them. The attendant
shrieked, and clasping her mistress’ robe, stood unable to move. Had the
maiden been equally paralysed, their destruction would have been
unavoidable. But in that moment of peril, though the cheek of the lady
Margaret became a trifle paler than usual, her presence of mind did not
desert her. Seizing her attendant’s arm energetically, she dragged her
toward a huge oak behind them, whose giant trunk would afford a
momentary barrier against the infuriated animal. Had the lady Margaret
been alone and unencumbered, she would have succeeded in her endeavor,
but her nearly senseless companion so retarded her progress that the
stag had almost overtaken them while yet several paces from the tree.
Another instant and their fate would be sealed. But at that crisis she
heard a whizzing by her ear, and an arrow, sped by an unseen hand,
pierced the heart of the stag, who leaping madly forward with a last
effort, fell dead at her feet. At the same moment a light and active
form, arrayed in a dress of Lincoln green, sprang out from a neighboring
copse, and lifting his cap to the ladies, begged to enquire after their
affright, in a tone so courtly for one of his apparent station, that
Margaret involuntarily looked closer at the stranger.

He was apparently about twenty-five years of age, with an open and
generous countenance, enlivened by one of those merry blue eyes which
were characteristic in those days, of the pure Saxon blood of their
possessor. A jaunty cap, with a long white feather drooping over it, was
set upon the stranger’s head; while a green coat, made somewhat after
the fashion of a hunting frock of the present day, and crossed by a wide
belt from which depended a bugle, set off his graceful form. Altogether
the intruder was as gallant a looking forester as ever trod the
greensward.

“The hounds are in full cry,” continued the stranger, without shrinking
at the scrutiny of the lady, “and will soon be upon us. Will you suffer
me to be your protector from this scene?”

The lady Margaret bowed, and pointing to her attendant, who had now
fainted, thanked their preserver for his offer, and signified her
willingness to accept it. The youth made no answer, but seizing the
prostrate maiden in his arms, he pointed to the copse from which he had
emerged, and hastily followed Margaret into it. The branches, where they
passed in their retreat, had scarcely ceased vibrating, when the hounds
dashed into the space they had left, and in a moment after a gay train
of hunters followed with horn and halloo.

Meantime the young stranger, bearing the form of Ruth in his arms,
hastily traversed the forest, by paths that others could scarcely have
detected, until he reached the margin of an open glade, at whose
extremity stood a low-roofed lodge, such as was then used for the
residence of a keeper of the forest. Here the stranger hesitated a
moment, but finally perceiving that no one was in sight, he pressed
across the glade, and only paused when he had deposited his now reviving
burden on a cot in the lodge. The next moment he turned to depart.

“May—may we know to whom we are indebted for this timely aid?” faltered
the lady Margaret, crimsoning as she spoke, with an agitation of manner
unusual to the high-bred heiress.

The youth hesitated a moment, looked wistfully at the maiden, and seemed
on the point of answering, when footsteps were heard approaching.
Hastily bowing to Margaret, he ejaculated,

“We may meet again, farewell!” and vanished from the portal. His form
disappeared in the forest as the keeper entered and saluted the lady
Margaret and his daughter.


                              Chapter II.

                    _Cel._ Soft! comes he not here?
                                  _As You Like It._

The Earl of Mountfort’s only daughter, the lady Margaret, was at once an
heiress and a beauty. Early deprived of a mother’s care; buried in the
seclusion of her father’s various castles; and knowing nothing of the
great world without, she had attained the age of eighteen, without
suffering any diminution of that enthusiasm which is so beautiful in
early youth, but which a few year’s collision with mankind wears off.

From her earliest childhood Ruth Herewood, the forester’s daughter, had
been her bosom companion; for in that day, when young females of noble
rank could rarely associate together, their handmaidens were often their
sole confidants. Ruth, moreover, was a foster sister to the lady
Margaret, and the tie, therefore, which bound them together was one not
lightly thought of, nor easily severed. It was no unusual thing for the
young heiress, at least once a year, to spend a fortnight or even more
at the lodge of Mr. Herewood, who held the office of a keeper in one of
the king’s forests. At such times she was unattended, except by a few
faithful servants. It was during one of these visits that her life had
been preserved in the manner we have related. With these explanations
let us return to our story.

A significant sign from her mistress put Ruth upon her guard, and as the
stranger had disappeared before her father’s entrance, Mr. Herewood
remained in ignorance of the danger from which the females had escaped.
The motives which prompted Margaret to this concealment we shall not
attempt to divine. Perhaps it was only a passing whim; but if so it was
changed into a settled resolution, when, on the following morning Ruth’s
father acquainted them with the fact that a stag had been found shot in
the forest by the royal hunting party, and that so daring a breach of
the forest laws would assuredly be punished with the utmost penalty that
rigorous code afforded. Alarmed and perplexed, Margaret determined to
conceal all knowledge of the stranger, lest, by her means, he might be
detected; for she feared that her rescuer was one of those outlaws who
were known to infest the forest, and that though he might find immunity
for that particular offence, he could not escape being convicted of
others as heinous.

Yet Margaret could not forget her preserver. In her waking or sleeping
dreams his manly form was ever before her, looking as it did when he
sprang from the copse to her rescue; and as often as the vision recurred
to her memory she owned to herself that she had never seen anyone of
such rare manly beauty. She strolled oftener than ever into the forest,
and Ruth noticed—for are not all women quick to notice such
things?—that whenever her theme of conversation was their unknown
preserver, her mistress listened to her with more than common interest.

Several days had now elapsed since their escape from the stag, when, one
afternoon, Margaret and Ruth, found themselves in that portion of the
forest where their fright had occurred. As it was some distance from the
lodge, they felt fatigued by their walk, and sitting down on a shady
knoll, naturally fell into a conversation on the stranger who had so
opportunely come to their aid. But a few minutes had thus passed when a
light step was heard approaching, and as the females hastily arose, the
stranger stood before them.

“Be not alarmed, fair lady,” said he, lifting his cap, and addressing
Margaret, “I said when we parted the other day that we might meet again.
I redeem my word. But if my presence affrights you I retire.”

The maiden blushed deeply at this address, so unlike that of one in the
speaker’s sphere of life. Her bosom was agitated, meanwhile, with
contending emotions, which produced a momentary embarrassment and
confusion in her countenance, only serving to heighten her beauty in the
stranger’s eyes. At length she spoke.

“But, sir stranger, do you not run a risk by this? Believe me I would
not have you come to ill, but I know that danger besets your footsteps.
Then,” she added, more earnestly than the next moment she thought
maidenly, “fly from the forest.”

The stranger smiled as he answered.

“You think that the outlaw’s life is hazardous; but I have only to sound
this,” and he lightly touched his bugle, “and a score of stout arms are
around me.”

There was something so fascinating in the stranger’s manner that,
despite her better judgment, Margaret felt chained to the spot. Nor did
Ruth show any greater disposition to depart. Before five minutes had
elapsed, Margaret found herself conversing with the gallant outlaw as
freely as if she had known him for months. If, for a moment, she would
think such conduct improper, the next reflection would be had he not
saved her life? Besides was not Ruth at hand? Is it a wonder, therefore,
that the grateful girl suffered the stranger to linger by her side for
nearly an hour, or that after they had parted, she thought of him
oftener than she would have been willing a week before to admit she
could ever think of any one except her father? Is it a wonder that she
often strolled into the forest with Ruth, and that she never returned
without having seen the outlaw? In a word is it any wonder that she
loved?


                              Chapter III.

                  Never met, or never parted,
                  They had ne’er been broken-hearted.
                                             _Burns._

There is nothing in this care-worn world so sweet and innocent as a
young girl’s first love. Then—when the heart is fresh, when every
thought is pure, when the poetry of life has not yet been crushed out of
the soul, when as we are nearer to our childhood we are nearer to
heaven—then it is that we love with an intensity such as we never love
with again. And thus Margaret loved. She knew it not until it was
impossible for her to drive away her passion. It had crept on her,
slowly but surely, and oh! how sweetly, until it became a part of her
being, and the day in which she did not see her lover, passed tediously
and mournfully to her.

Yet though loving as few love, even in the fervor of a first passion,
Margaret was still ignorant of her lover’s name. Often would she be
tortured by fears lest he might have already forfeited his life in the
career of an outlaw, but as often would she quiet her alarm by
reflecting how impossible that a mere freebooter should be so courteous
and even refined. In all this there was a mystery which did but feed the
love of her highly imaginative mind, and though, day after day, would
she resolve to question her lover so closely respecting himself that he
could not evade her inquiries, yet, day after day, would she be diverted
from, and forget it.

Nearly three weeks had now elapsed, and the period limited for her stay
at the lodge had passed, when a messenger arrived from her father, to
conduct her to one of his castles in the vicinity of London. Who can
tell her feelings at receiving this summons?—a summons which would tear
her from her lover, perhaps forever. But it opened to her more fully
than ever the state of her heart, convinced her of her imprudence in
suffering herself to love an unknown stranger, and determined her to
learn that very day from her lover’s lips his name and station in life.
Ah! pitiable indeed were her feelings as she reflected on her folly. But
a flood of tears afforded her partial relief, and calling for Ruth to
accompany her she set forth into the forest.

What a glorious old place was that royal hunting ground. For miles
before you stretched a succession of hills and dales, covered with
venerable and gigantic trees, or spreading out into rich meadows; while
herds of deer might be seen trotting far off through the vistas of the
forest, and here and there a cottage peeping out from beneath the
verdant foliage. In some places the dark overshadowing trees completely
obscured the light of day, and in others, the sunbeams struggling
between the leaves gilded the greensward beneath. Such was the scene
through which Margaret took her way, until she reached the open glade,
where, of late, she had met her lover. Scarcely had she emerged from the
surrounding woods before he sprang to her side, and in a moment she was
in his arms.

“We meet again, dearest,” said he, kissing the fair cheek that blushed
crimson at his caress.

“And I fear, for the last time,” said Margaret, “my father has sent for
me, and to-morrow I leave this place. Oh! when,” and she looked into his
eyes with all a woman’s tenderness, “shall we meet again?”

“Going!—and so soon!” muttered her lover, abstractedly, “why dearest,
why did you not tell me of this before?”

“It was but this morning that I heard of it. Alas! that we should part
so soon.”

“But how know you, sweet one, that we must part?” said her lover half
smilingly. It recalled to Margaret’s mind her determination to learn her
lover’s history.

“Why,” said she, “are you not a mere,” and her voice faltered, “a mere
soldier of fortune, perhaps—,” and again she faltered and looked down,
“an outlaw? Can you follow me? Oh! would you could,” and the unhappy
maiden burst into tears.

“And why not, dear Margaret? Have not good men and true, at times, been
driven to the greenwood for a temporary livelihood. Know you not how the
good Earl of Huntingdon long kept wassail under the trees of old
Sherwood with his ‘merrie men?’”

“Oh! then say you are like him—say you are not an outlaw! Did you but
know how my heart reproves me for all this—how I weep to think that my
father will never forgive me—and how my only consolation is in your
love—did you know all this, you would keep me in suspense no longer!”

Her lover was deeply moved by her passionate entreaties, and pressing
her to his bosom, kissed the tears from her cheek, and soothed her
agitation by those words of kind endearment which are so eloquent when
coming from one we love. He seemed too about to speak; but if so, he was
prevented by a sudden baying of hounds, mingled with loud and
approaching shouts, and directly a couple of dogs, followed by three
keepers dashed out of the neighboring copse. Margaret, terrified and
agitated, hastily followed whither her lover pointed, and retreated into
the shadow of a cluster of oaks, followed by Ruth. She had scarcely done
so unperceived, when the keepers rushed upon her lover, shouting,

“Down with him—the outlaw—down with him.”

Frightened almost out of consciousness, she could only see that her
lover attempted what resistance he could, and that after a short but
fierce contest he was overpowered, almost unarmed as he was, and borne
to the ground. With all a woman’s devotion she rushed forward to his
protection. But she had scarcely made a step, before she staggered and
fainted. Ruth, too, was so alarmed as to be of little service; yet
while, with trembling hands, she assisted to recover her mistress, so
fearful was she of being discovered, that she would scarcely suffer
herself to breathe.

“Oh! Ruth,” were the first audible words of her mistress “what have they
done with him? Are they gone? Why did you not try to save him?”

“Alas! dear lady, it would have been in vain,” said Ruth, mingling her
tears with those of her mistress, “what could I, or both of us have
done, for one who had broken the forest laws?”


                              Chapter IV.

                        I’ll call thee, Hamlet.
                                  _Shakspeare._

Hurried away early on the ensuing morning, Margaret had no opportunity
of learning the fate of her lover. She only knew that all delusion was
at an end, and that—alas! for her future happiness—she had bestowed
her affections on an outlaw, one who might soon suffer the penalty of
his transgressions.

On her arrival at Mountfort castle, she learned that her father had
determined to celebrate the approaching anniversary of her birth, by a
tournament to be given to all comers at his castle. The preparation for
this festivity, though it partially diverted her mind, could not drive
away her melancholy. Often would she steal away with Ruth, to find a
mournful pleasure in conversing of the happy days they had spent at her
father’s lodge. Such conversations would generally end in a flood of
tears, in which the tender-hearted hand-maiden would share. Yet never,
not even for one moment, did Margaret suffer herself to dream of again
meeting her lover, for well she knew that such a thing would call down
upon her the eternal displeasure of her parent. Let it be recollected
that in that age the distinctions of rank were almost as impassable as
the grave. Nevertheless, the worm had fastened itself upon her heart,
and like thousands before and since, the heiress found how fearful it
was to love without hope.

Meantime the preparations for the tournament proceeded, and on the
morning of the expected day, crowds thronged to the plain in front of
the castle, on which the lists had been erected. The unrivalled beauty
of the heiress in whose honor the festivities were to be given, had
drawn together the chivalry of the realm, and a series of courses was
expected to be run such as had not been heard of for years. But
especially every tongue was loud in the praise of the young Earl of
Hastings, who, had just returned from the Holy land, where he had been
since boyhood, with the reputation of the best lance of the army. There
were many, however, of the competitors who sneered at his pretensions,
and promised themselves to unhorse him at the first shock.

“Margaret,” said her father, on the morning of the tournament, “you will
see lord Hastings in the lists to-day, and I wish you to mark him well,
for having heard of you by report, he has solicited your hand. Such an
alliance would raise higher than ever our noble house. I did not
hesitate. But now never blush, sweet one,—you maidens are ever
thus,—what! in tears. Go to your bower, child, and get ready for the
pageant. Many a proud dame will envy your lot to-day.”

Little did the inflexible, though affectionate father know of the agony
he was inflicting on that young heart. Margaret saw that her doom was
sealed, and she knew her parent too well even to expostulate, She went
to her chamber, but it was to weep. All hope was over. She had nourished
the romantic idea of continuing faithful to her unhappy lover by
refusing every alliance, never dreaming that her father would interfere.
Short-sighted girl! Already had he chosen for her, and she knew that the
decrees of fate were less inflexible than her parent.

At length, however, she aroused herself and proceeded to the lists, in
all the pomp of the heiress of her father’s vast possessions. How few
knew the heavy heart which throbbed in agony beneath that jewelled
boddice. The lists were gorgeously fitted up. A gallery in their centre,
opposite to where the shock of the combatants would take place was
appropriated to Margaret, who was to preside as queen of the
festivities. Around were her father’s countless guests, numbering half
the nobility of the realm, their wives and daughters flashing with
jewels, and all envying the fortunate being, who, at that moment, would
willingly have exchanged her rank and splendor for the peasant’s garb,
if it came attended by happiness.

The tournament began. Several courses had been run with various success,
when a herald rode into the lists and proclaimed that three courses yet
remained, all of which Sir Robert De Laney, a renowned knight, would
engage in with any three combatants, until overpowered or victorious.
Several knights instantly presented themselves. The lot fell upon three,
the Earl of Warren, Sir Edward Sidney, and lord Hastings. At once the
challenger presented himself for the first antagonist. But the skill of
his opponent was in vain. Lord Warren was hurled bleeding to the ground.

The Earl of Hastings now rode into the lists, and at his appearance a
buzz of admiration ran around the spectators. His mien, his
horsemanship, his comparative youth, and the renown he had brought with
him from the east, enlisted the popular wish in his favor. Nor did he
disappoint it. At the first shock he splintered his lance against his
antagonist’s front, while De Laney’s shaft just grazed by him. The older
knight reeled in the saddle, and scarcely saved himself from falling. A
shout of general applause rewarded the young Earl’s skill.

But there yet remained an equally renowned competitor with whom to
contend. By the laws of the tournament, Sir Edward Sidney had a right to
contest with the conqueror for the honors of the day, a privilege of
which he instantly signified his intention of availing himself. With
equal readiness the young Earl prepared for the contest. The combatants
took their places, and after a breathless hush of an instant the signal
was given, and they vanished from their stations. The shock of their
meeting was like that of an earthquake. The knight directing his lance
full at his adversary’s breast, aimed to bear him by main force to the
ground, but at the very instant of meeting, the young Earl bent in the
saddle to evade the blow, and altering the direction of his own lance as
he did so, he bore it full upon the breast of his antagonist, striking
him with such force as to hurl him from the saddle like a stone from a
sling. The discomfited knight fell heavily to the earth, and was borne
off by his squires; while the victor swept onward amid the acclamations
of the spectators. The heralds now proclaimed lord Hastings the
conqueror of the day, and led him toward the lady Margaret to receive
the prize.

Who can tell her feelings as she beheld the gallant train approaching?
She saw before her, her destined lover, and however she might have
admired his gallant exploits had her heart been disengaged, could
she—loving another as she did—look upon him with aught but aversion?
But though her emotion nearly overpowered her, she composed herself
sufficiently to go through with her approaching duty. As the victor
knelt at her feet, what sudden feeling was it which shot through her
bosom? Why did her cheek crimson, her breath come quick, her heart
flutter wildly? And why, as the helmet was removed from lord Hastings,
did she drop the crown with which she was to reward him, and with a half
suppressed scream, faint away? Why! but that in the victor of the
tourney she recognised her own outlaw lover.

The joy of the reviving maiden when she found her preserver bending over
her, and conjuring her to speak to him once more and forgive his
stratagem, we shall not attempt to describe. Suffice it to say that the
day of the tourney which opened as the darkest, set as the brightest, in
her life.

The young Earl happening to see his mistress accidentally had imbibed
the romantic idea of wooing her as an unknown and untitled stranger. For
this purpose he had secretly followed her down to the lodge, and attired
in an outlaw’s dress, had hovered around her path, waiting for a fitting
opportunity to introduce himself. The manner in which he was at length
favored by circumstances, as well as his subsequent success in his suit,
the reader has seen. But his pretended character was not without its
evils. He was seen, suspected, and captured by the forest keepers in the
way we have described. He only escaped by revealing his rank. After his
recovery from the wound he had received on that occasion, he had arrived
at lord Mountfort’s castle, determining to contest the prize in the
approaching tourney, and then reveal himself to his mistress.

It was but a few weeks after the fête, when the young Earl of Hastings
led to the altar the fair daughter of the house of Mountfort, who never
forgot, in her titled husband, the unknown OUTLAW LOVER.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             OLD MEMORIES.


                        BY MRS. C. H. W. ESLING.


    How swiftly do old memories float about our riper hours!
    They’re like the fragrant breath that fills the vase of perish’d
      flowers;
    They bear an unextinguish’d ray, a light that never dies,
    A borrow’d radiance gilding earth with lustre from the skies.

    The joys that gather round us now, with all their rainbow beams,
    Are bright, but evanescent, as the shadows in our dreams;
    They pass before us like the leaves swept by the autumn’s blast,
    Alas! too fragile for the earth—too beautiful to last.

    We see the human flowers cut down, the kindred ones of home,
    Whose garden was the loving heart, where storm clouds seldom come,
    Making within that temple fair, a wilderness of woes,
    A desert drear of that which once could “blossom as the Rose.”

    We see the clasping chains unloose, and sever link by link,
    Till hope turns shudderingly away, from sorrow’s fearful brink,
    The band of sweet relationship, of close unwoven ties,
    Is broken here—to reunite forever in the skies.

    But memory with her guardian care, hath linger’d o’er each scene,
    To paint them on the heart again when long years intervene.
    When life’s bright summer days have gone, and all their beauty fled,
    It brings us back the halcyon hours, that perish’d with the dead.

    Oh! soft as music’s dying fall, from some loved voice’s tone,
    Thine influence, mild and gentle power, across my mind is thrown;
    Upon the harp strings of my heart, thine angel spirits play,
    While fond old memories light its gloom, with many a moonlit ray.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                      THE CONFESSIONS OF A MISER.


                           BY J. ROSS BROWNE.


                       (Continued from Page 104.)


                               Part III.

“That man,” says Theophrastus, “is justly called a lover of filthy
lucre, to whom the relish and value of a gain are enhanced by the
baseness of the means that have been employed in its acquisition.” I had
failed in my designs; but my brutal triumph over the cause of this
failure was almost equal in effect to success. I did not relent; I felt
no remorse; I would have acted the same part again: parental affection
was irrevocably dead. I enjoyed a kind of secret satisfaction at the
awful result of my violence. A long and lingering illness, augmented by
the horrors of our parting interview, had brought Valeria to the verge
of the grave. She had given birth to a son. Poverty had sternly asserted
its supremacy over the happiness of the young couple. Though since the
rupture between us had taken place, I had never visited or enquired
about her, there were many interlopers sufficiently officious to convey
to me news of her approaching dissolution. These hints I would have
disregarded, but for the sinister reports which from this time forth
were so liberally circulated to my disadvantage. A note hastily placed
in my hands one evening by a muffled figure, in whom, notwithstanding
the attempted disguise, I fancied I recognised the manly form and
contour of Da Vinci, confirmed me in my determination to witness the
results of my violence. It was traced in a tremulous hand, and read as
follows:—

    “Father!—for Christian meekness and humanity, still compel me
    to call you by the endearing name—will you not soften your
    heart toward one, who, by all the laws of nature and of man,
    should be its solace and its idol; and whose last wish is that
    death should separate us in amity and mutual affection? Will you
    not, now at least, when she, who was once the delight of your
    old age, and the comforter of your bereaved heart, is on the bed
    of death,—will you not hearken to her dying wish, and grant the
    boon she so eagerly desires? O, have some mercy, my father—my
    benefactor! Hasten to the death-bed of your wretched—wretched
    daughter! May God forgive you, is the prayer of your erring

                                                        “Valeria.”

Two motives induced me to comply with the request contained in this
note. First, I was anxious to avoid the contumely of those who watched
my actions; and secondly, I felt a fiendish desire to behold the
consummation of my revenge. Throwing a hasty disguise over my person I
sallied out, and rapidly pushed my way through the thoroughfares of
Venice, to a remote part of the city called _Francesco della Vigna_.
Here, in an obscure lane, and surrounded by filth and poverty, I traced
my way to the wretched tenement of Da Vinci and Valeria. A kind of
involuntary sickness came over me as I ascended the stairs leading to
the miserable loft in which they lodged. It proceeded not from remorse;
it was not prompted by humanity; it was instinct conquering nature. With
some hesitation I entered the apartment of the dying woman. A spectacle,
which to any one but myself, would have appeared heart-rending, caused
me to shudder for the immensity of my guilt.

The haggard and wasted form of Valeria was stretched on the bare floor.
Her half-famished infant lay upon her breast. She breathed with
difficulty. Her eyes were sunken, her complexion pallid and unearthly.
Her features betrayed evidences of the most intense agony, both mental
and physical.

But the most shocking part of the scene was the ghastly semblance of Da
Vinci, as he sat by the bed-side of his dying wife. His hands were
crossed—his knees drawn together; his elbows rested on a broken table;
his hair fell in long and matted locks from his head; his skin was ashy
and squalid; and in place of the manly beauty which every lineament of
his countenance had once betrayed, his features were now haggard and
care-worn, and his once mellow and intellectual eye, was fixed with an
unmeaning stare on the wretch before him. Three days had scarcely
elapsed since I had recognised him in the strength and beauty of
manhood, but, oh, how changed! how fallen! how wretched!

On drawing near this afflicted group, I was startled and alarmed at the
change that came over the countenance of Da Vinci. At first the bereaved
man fixed upon me a stupid and sullen gaze; but on recognising the
author of his misery, his eyes flashed with maniacal ferocity; his lips
became pale and compressed; the large veins on his temples swelled, and
throbbed violently; and he exhibited the most alarming symptoms of
madness. I endeavored to draw back; but I was too late. His deadly
purpose was fixed. With a wild, shrieking laugh he sprang upon me. In an
instant his nails were buried in my neck. I struggled with desperate
energy. Incontinence and debauchery had sapped my vital principle, and
age had laid his searing hand on my frame; but I contended for life, and
I was powerful. On the other hand, Da Vinci, nerved by the delirium
which had taken possession of him, was irresistible.

“Fiend!” he shouted—“die!—die!—die!”

“You will murder me!” I groaned, already suffocating under his vice-like
grasp, “have mercy, for God’s sake!”

“You showed _her_ none!” he answered hoarsely.

“I repent—I shall make amends.”

“Too late—she is dying.”

“Oh, God, stop!—you strangle me! I am not fit to die.”

“So much the better. Die—villain, die!” and with a desperate exertion
he bore me to the floor. I essayed in vain to release myself from his
deadly grasp. A moment more, and death would have rescued me; but the
Almighty ordained that I should live to reap the fruits of my crimes.
Involuntarily, as the agonies of dissolution came upon me, my hand
sought one of those small daggers, with which an Italian is never
unprovided. I drew it from my bosom. I raised it to strike. Da Vinci saw
his danger; but he was too late. With irresistible strength I plunged it
in his side. He uttered no groan; he rolled from my person a dead man. I
stooped over the bleeding corpse in mute horror. The eyes were fixed
upon me with a glassy gaze. It was a fearful spectacle—one which was
well calculated to strike awe into the bosom of a murderer.

I turned a searching eye toward the prostrate form of my daughter. It
was inanimate. No sign of life or recognition illumined her ghastly
countenance. She had evidently swooned. As if in mockery of the dreadful
tragedy which had just transpired, the infant boy slumbered peacefully
by her side. The reproach was more than I could bear. Guilt—guilt was
whispered in my ear by a thousand voices. I rushed from the
blood-stained spot. I hurried to my desolate home. Here new miseries
awaited me, I bolted the doors; but they afforded me no security. I
drank deeply—but inebriation came not. I endeavored to sleep; but my
horrors were increased. This fearful state drove me to desperation. I
tried to pray: the Almighty heard me not. My heart was too black—too
guilty. Night had come. My sufferings were too intense for human
endurance. The lonely and ruinous garret in which I lay, augmented the
dreadful vividness with which I created the most revolting phantasmas in
every recess and corner; and the hollow moaning of the wind against the
roof filled my soul with ominous and harrowing sensations. A strange—an
indefinable desire to return to the scene of death, took possession of
my mind. It became too absorbing—too interminable to be resisted. The
moon had by this time ascended her throne in all her queenliness and
majesty. I rushed rapidly through the empty streets to the quay for the
night-gondoliers; and aided by the moonlight, soon succeeded in reaching
_San Francesco della Vigna_. Hastily dismissing the gondolier, I won my
way to the abode of the dead. An ominous silence reigned around it. I
shuddered—I turned pale; but I did not hesitate. Up the tottering
stairs I rushed; the door of the death-room was open; and my eyes at
once fell upon a picture which is indelibly engraved on my memory.

Valeria had, on recovering her senses, crept to the body of her husband.
She held the slumbering babe in one arm, while with the other she raised
the head of the dead man and reclined it on her bosom. She knew he was
dead—that he would never wake again; she saw the life-blood oozing from
his heart; but her devotion was superior to the evidence of her senses;
her constancy to the sword of death. She chafed his temples; she fondly
smoothed his hair; she kissed again and again his icy lips; and she
fervently prayed for the salvation of the dead. A pale, unearthly glow
was thrown over the group by occasional glances of the moon-beams; and
everything conspired to strike me with awe and remorse. But I was not
susceptible of the better feelings of humanity. I possessed no refined
sensibility. Whatever I felt was common to the lowest of God’s creation.

“Why,” I cried in a hollow voice, “why must this be? Why must my peace
be blasted by such scenes as these? I murdered him—is it not enough
that he should die? I seek nothing from him after death. Why—why do you
persecute me, Omnipotent God!”

“See!” shrieked a piercing voice, “see what you have done!”

For a moment I could not answer. The anguish of the accuser deprived me
of speech. But at length I stammered out,

“I did but defend my life.”

“You drove him mad.”

“He ruined, deceived, beggared me.”

“It is a calumny!” said Valeria, with flashing eyes, seeming for an
instant to forget her grief in indignation at the charge, “he honored
you!”

“I forgive him.”

“He is dead.”

I was silent. The last words were said in a voice of such exquisite
anguish that they went to my heart—stony as it was. If ever a pang of
remorse vibrated in my soul it was then. Valeria regarded me with an
expression more of sorrow than of anger. She clasped the infant to her
arms as if it were now her only solace; and burst into a flood of tears.

“Father,” she murmured, when her agitation had in some measure subsided;
“the hand of death is upon me. God in his infinite goodness has given
you the means of atonement for your crimes. A few hours and I shall be
no more. Take my child—you are rich—rich in worldly things—take him,
and have him brought up as he should be. I rely on you—I beseech you—I
command you! You cannot be so utterly callous to humanity, as to refuse;
let him not die in this miserable place. O, be kind to him—be more
merciful to him than you were to my poor, dead husband!”

Exhausted and heart-broken, the young mother sank upon the corpse of the
murdered man. Her eyes grew dim; her breathing became short and violent;
her hands and lips seemed bloodless; and after a few spasms she lay
still. I approached her. I placed my hand upon her heart. Already her
skin was cold and clammy. The sufferer was dead!

A chill crept over me as I stooped to examine the corpse. It seemed as
if the ghastly expression of the countenance was but the effect of some
horrible incubus—so vivid—so real—so revolting was it to the
observer. Fearfully did the presentiment of future retribution come upon
me at that moment. I was no longer the proud politician, concerting
magnificent schemes; I had nothing left of the bold and desperate
gambler; the greatness of purpose and energy of execution which had
hitherto marked my career, were at an end. I was now, what my crimes had
made me—an abject, guilty wretch. I shuddered to think of my awful
destination; I felt how terrible would be the punishment I so richly
merited; but remorse—penitence—sorrow—entered not my obdurate heart.

Necessity compelled me to comply with the dying request of Valeria. I
was aware that my conduct had excited much suspicion. It therefore
became my policy to avoid public attention; and I took the earliest
opportunity to have the unfortunate objects of my malevolence interred,
and the infant orphan confided to the care of a nurse. No suspicion was
excited at first; but strange things soon began to be whispered by the
individuals who occupied the lower part of the tenement in which the
tragedy had been enacted. The storm gradually gathered its forces for a
general explosion. Rumors, so liberally circulated at my expense,
reached the ears of the official authorities under the Doge. Manini was
not predisposed to turn a deaf ear to anything pertaining to my
downfall. His suspicions relative to my integrity had long been
confirmed. Enemies and interlopers were not wanted to construe every
thing into its most criminal aspect. The result was such as might be
expected. I was arrested by the city functionaries, on a charge of
murder. Universal horror was expressed when my crimes were made known.
It was evident that I had nothing to expect from public sympathy.—How
many are there who profess benevolence and charity, ever ready to
persecute the unfortunate with the most unmitigated severity! I
experienced the full effects of this human failing. My trial was long
and doubtful. Everything in the shape of evidence, however trivial or
absurd, was adduced in order to convict me. But nothing of a positive
nature could be brought up against me. It was true I had treated my
daughter with severity and inhumanity; but I could not be found guilty
on so general a charge. It was also true that a noise had been heard in
the apartment of Da Vinci a few hours before his corpse had been
discovered by the lower tenants of the house; but I was not seen. The
whole affair then though well understood, was in the eye of the law,
uncertain and inconclusive. Public opinion in a case like mine was not
regarded as having any weight. I was dismissed. My persecutions,
however, did not end so soon. A few devoted minions of the Doge, glad to
have an opportunity of satisfying their resentment for my former conduct
toward them, followed me unceasingly, and spared no pains to ensure my
self-conviction.

But I baffled them. My life, however, became one of extreme misery and
watchfulness. I feared to sleep lest I should be robbed or assassinated.
I dreaded a sight of the human countenance; for in every man I fancied I
recognised an enemy. Neither could I hide myself in solitude—my guilt
was too fearful—too relentless. I dared not walk in the public
thoroughfares; for the utmost detestation was pictured in every face;
and my ears were assailed with reproaches and contumely. I could not
roam the most obscure parts of the city, without being dogged and
persecuted by the blood-hounds of Manini. It was a miserable situation.
Health—comfort—happiness, were gone forever. Not even the common
enjoyments of life fell to my lot. I could not sleep—I knew no pleasure
in drink—I was too decrepid and impotent to enjoy artificial
stimulants: what then must have been the depth of my misery? It was too
great to be borne. I resolved to leave the theatre of my misfortunes;
and to bury myself in the busy haunts of the great English metropolis.
In the costume and character of a Jew, I embarked for the city of my
destination. Arrived there, I set up a small establishment as a usurer.
My thirst for accumulation was not satisfied by my crimes; nor did my
honesty profit by inaction. The great object was, however, in some
measure effected. I enjoyed as the guilty may enjoy the security of my
secluded situation. I passed many years in a state of negative
happiness. My internal miseries lost none of their poignancy; but they
caused me no physical inconvenience. I was free from immediate
conviction; and had every prospect of continuing unmolested. Time
soothed my terrors, though I still looked forward with fear and anxiety
to the day, when something worse might turn up, than mere imaginary
fears.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Age and imbecility have come upon me. I have spun out nearly the remains
of my guilty existence, in security and prosperity. I have acquired
riches; but have never enjoyed them. I have sinned and suffered; but my
crimes are not atoned for. A day will come when the fearful debt must be
paid. I await it with calmness. I repent of nothing that I have done. I
ask forgiveness neither of God nor of man. Let the full measure of His
retribution be my eternal ruin. I am content to die as I have
lived—fearless—guilty—unrelenting.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Here ends the Autobiography of this false and evil man. It is a
highly-colored, but we trust, not an extravagant picture of the effects
of avarice. The moral remains to be told. If, in the sequel or fourth
part, we can show that sooner or later retribution will fall upon the
guilty; we may say of our hero what Scott quotes of Charles the
Twelfth:—

        “He left the name at which the world grew pale,
        To point a moral, and adorn a tale.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           CHIMES OF ANTWERP.


    One, two, and three, with measured stroke and numbers on they go,
    For Ghentish Charles ’twas thus they woke, for blood-stained Alva so,
    And still from out their airy cage of wreathed and trelliced stone,
    They tell us of our pilgrimage another hour has flown.

    They float above the Plâce de Mer, and o’er thy roofs and towers,
    Fair Antwerp, with thy solemn air and antique Flemish bowers;
    And sweet and stately is the sound, and melancholy too,
    As it should be where Memory the fabler dwells with you.

    One, two, and three, with measured strokes and numbers they awake!
    ’Twas thus on Rubens’ ear at eve their sounds were wont to break;
    And still o’er his best monument, with monumental tone,
    They tell us of our pilgrimage another hour has flown.
                                                J. H.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            A WINTER SCENE.


                         BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON.


    Oh how magnificent. How beautiful
    The old grey wood appears. Each sturdy tree
    Crown’d with a glorious diamond diadem
    Of wreathen plumes and garlands. Every bush
    And slender sapling, bending with the weight
    Of its bright ornaments, seems to the view
    Like youthful genius shrinking and o’erwhelm’d
    With the chill weight of the cold world’s applause.
    The sun is rising now, and every spray,
    And feathery evergreen, grows radiant
    With more than earthly glory. One might deem
    Each twig a chain of gold profusely set
    With ruby, emerald, and amethyst,
    Sapphire and living diamond, splendid all
    And dazzling past description. Yet there lives
    No balm, no melody of loving birds
    Amongst the icy branches; grandeur reigns
    And frigid beauty, without life or joy.
    No gentle breezes woo the branches now,
    To bend and kiss their sweetly sighing lips,
    And fling a cloud of incense, and bright flow’rs
    Upon their lingering pinions. No young fruits
    Lie in their curtain’d cradles, rocking soft
    To the glad lullaby which smiling Hope
    Sings round the fragrant clusters. No young birds
    Lie chirping in their nests amongst green leaves.
    No passing streamlet lingers in the bow’rs,
    Forgetting, for a while, its morning hymn,
    To touch the rich lip of the fragile flower
    That lives upon its love one summer day,
    Then lays the dying head so gently down
    Upon its bosom, while the trembling depth
    Reflects with sympathy the blighted gem,
    And murmurs promise of another life,
    And blest re-union at return of spring.
    No young fawns gambol through the silent wood,
    In the delight of life’s first consciousness
    Of freedom, strength, and beauty. No fair child
    Crushes the sweet buds with its little feet,
    While bounding after the bright butterfly
    Which floats upon its rich, brocaded wing
    In graceful carelessness from bloom to bloom.
    No merry laughter, no light-hearted lay,
    No lover’s whisper floats among the bowers;
    But all is icy beauty, cold and still,
    Radiant and passionless, and void of bliss;
    A glory that will quickly melt away
    And leave no trace behind.
                        And such I deem
    Is life within a nunnery; pure and bright
    With heaven’s reflected glory; but all cold
    And destitute of the fond sympathies
    That are at once the bliss, the ornament,
    And agony of life.

    Liberty, Pa. March, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            OH! GENTLE LOVE.


                                SUNG BY
                              MR. WILSON,
                      IN AUBER’S OPERA OF LESTOQ,
                              ARRANGED BY
                               T. COOKE.
       Geo. W. Hewitt & Co. No. 184 Chesnut Street, Philadelphia.

[Illustration: musical score]

    Oh gentle love, thy spirit o’er us beaming,

[Illustration: musical score]

      Doth thro’ the soul its tenderness diffuse,
    E’en as the glow, from morning’s sun light streaming,
      Smiles o’er the earth, and tempereth its hues
    Oh! gentle love, thy spirit o’er us beaming,

[Illustration: musical score]

      Doth thro’ the soul its tenderness diffuse,
    A magic all have felt and feel, how e’er they struggle to conceal
      A magic all have felt and feel, how e’er they struggle to conceal,
    Or as the dew upon the flowrets sleeping,
      Over the leaves a distillation rains,
    Which tho’ the day dissolve its pearly weeping,
      Still in their heart reviving them remains.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          SPORTS AND PASTIMES.


                          PARTRIDGE SHOOTING.

                               Concluded.

Unless there be continual rain, or it be the depth of winter, birds will
visit their basking place some time in the course of the day, whether
the sun shine or not. The basking place is generally, but not
invariably, on the sunny side of the hedge. Birds may be most easily
approached in fine weather. All kinds of birds lie better in small
enclosures than in large ones, that is, when the cover in each is alike.
It need scarcely be added, that the more bushy the brambles, or the
higher the grass the more closely will lie the game.

A person who knows how to walk up to a bird will obtain more shots than
one who does not, especially in windy weather. Birds will not only allow
the shooter to approach nearer to them when he faces the wind, but they
present on rising, a fairer mark.

When the legs of a bird fired at fall, it is almost a certain proof that
it is struck in a vital part. A bird so struck should be narrowly
watched, when, in most instances, it will be seen, after flying about a
hundred yards if a grouse, or fifty yards if a partridge, to tower or
spire in the air, and fall down dead. When only one leg falls, the bird
should be watched, but in the latter case, it generally happens that the
leg or thigh only has been struck. Any bird that flinches, on being
fired at, or whose feathers are in the least disordered, should be
marked down, and followed. Grouse more frequently fly away wounded than
partridges. Grouse are often recovered several hundred yards from the
gun.

Until November or December, young grouse, black-game, partridges, and
pheasants, may be distinguished from old ones by the lower beak not
being strong enough to bear the weight of their bodies. The lower beak
of an old partridge is strong enough to sustain the weight of a brace of
birds; but a young bird cannot be raised by the lower beak without the
lower beak bending under the weight.

The number of birds in a covey varies much, perhaps the average may be
from ten to fifteen. In some years, when the coveys are larger after a
fine hatching season, it is not uncommon to see upward of twenty birds
in a covey; and sometimes after a wet season, ten birds may be deemed a
fair covey. Birds are most numerous after a dry summer. When there are
thunder-storms about midsummer, great numbers of young birds are
drowned. The young birds have many enemies besides the elements, such as
cats, young dogs, hawks, foxes, and vermin of different descriptions.
When the eggs are taken, or the young birds destroyed soon after leaving
the shell, there will be a second hatch. Sportsmen often meet with
second hatches in September, when the old birds rise screaming, and
generally alight within fifty yards, as if to induce the young birds to
follow. In that case the fair sportsman will not fire at the old birds,
but will call in his dogs and leave the ground. At such times he should
look well after the young dogs, as, when they see the birds running,
they are apt to snatch up such of them as cannot get out of the way. The
very young birds are called cheepers, from their uttering a scream as
they rise. Full grown birds never scream as they rise, except when the
young ones are helpless, nor do young birds after they are large enough
for the table.

There are shooters who acquire an unsportsman-like habit of firing at a
covey immediately as it rises, before the birds are fairly on the wing,
and, thus without aiming at any individual bird, bring down two or
three. And sometimes they will make a foul shot by flanking a covey; the
birds being on the wing, come upon them suddenly, and make a
simultaneous wheel; they take them on the turn, when, for a moment—and
but for a moment—half the covey are in a line, and floor them rank and
file. These are tricks allied to poaching, and almost as reprehensible
as shooting at birds on the ground, which is nothing less than high
treason.

The cock partridge is distinguished from the hen by the brown feathers
which form a crescent, or horse-shoe, as it is sometimes called, on the
breast.

The pointer is decidedly the best dog for partridge shooting.

The dog should fall when the gun is fired, and remain down until he is
told to seek, when he should point the dead bird. A pointer that drops
to shot, becomes an excellent retriever.

The dog should be taught to obey the eye and the hand, rather than the
voice. A dog that will do so is invaluable, in open grounds, when birds
are wild.

Whenever speaking to a dog, whether encouragingly or reprovingly, the
sportsman should endeavor to look what he means, and the dog will
understand him. The dog will understand the look, if he does not the
words. The sportsman should never, with a smile on his countenance,
punish a dog; nor commend him when he has done well, but with an
apparent hearty good will: the dog will then take an interest in obeying
him.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _“Night and Morning.” A Novel. By the author of Pelham, Rienzi,
    Eugene Aram, &c. 2 vols. Re-published by Harper & Brothers, New
    York._

The Right Hon. Charles Leopold Beaufort, of Beaufort Court, England, a
proud and misanthropical old bachelor, with a rental of twenty thousand
pounds, has two nephews, Philip and Robert Beaufort. The former, who is
the elder of the two, and heir-apparent to the uncle’s estate, is
thoughtless and generous, with unsteady principles. The latter is a
crafty man-of-the-world, whose only honesty consists in appearing
honest—a scrupulous decorist. Philip, in love with Catharine Morton,
the daughter of a tradesman, and in fear of his aristocratic uncle’s
displeasure, is married clandestinely, in a remote village of Wales, by
a quondam college friend, to whom he had presented a living—the Rev.
Caleb Price. The better to keep the secret, a very old Welshman, certain
soon to die, and William Smith, Philip’s servant, are the sole witnesses
of the ceremony. This performed, Smith is hired to bury himself in
Australia until called for, while the deaf man dies as expected. Some
time having elapsed, Philip, dreading accident to the register, writes
to Caleb for an attested copy of the record. Caleb is too ill to make
it, but employs a neighboring curate, Morgan Jones, to make and attest
it, and despatches it, just before dying, to Philip, who, fearing his
wife’s impatience of the concealment required, deposites the document,
without her knowledge, in a secret drawer of a bureau. The register
itself is afterwards accidentally destroyed. Catharine has soon two
children—first Philip, the hero of the novel, and then Sydney. For
their sakes she bravely endures the stigma upon her character. She
continues to live openly with her husband as his mistress, bearing her
maiden name of Morton; and the uncle, whose nerves would have been
shocked at a mis-alliance, and who would have disinherited its
perpetrator, winks at what he considers the venial vice. The old
gentleman lives on for sixteen years, and yet no disclosure is made. At
last he dies, bequeathing his property to his eldest nephew, as was
anticipated. The latter prepares forthwith to own Catharine as his wife;
relates to his brother the facts of the clandestine marriage; speaks of
the secreted document, without designating the place of deposit; is
disbelieved by that person entirely; mounts his horse to make
arrangements for a second wedding, and for proving the first; is thrown,
breaks his neck, and expires without uttering a word. Catharine,
ignorant of the secret drawer (although aware that a record had been
secreted), failing to find William Smith, and trusting her cause to an
unskilful lawyer, is unable to prove her marriage, but in the effort to
do so makes an enemy of Robert Beaufort, who takes possession of the
estate as heir at law. Thus the strict precautions taken by the father
to preserve his secret during the uncle’s life, frustrate the wife in
her attempts to develop it after his death, and the sons are still
considered illegitimate. This is the pivot of the story. Its incidents
are made up of the struggles of the young men with their fate, but
chiefly of the endeavors of the elder, Philip, to demonstrate the
marriage and redeem the good name of his mother. This he finally
accomplishes, (after her death, and after a host of vicissitudes
experienced in his own person) by the accidental return of William
Smith, and by the discovery of an additional witness in Morgan Jones,
who made the extract from the register, and to whom the rightful heir is
guided by this long-sought document itself, obtained from the hands of
Robert Beaufort, (who had found it in the bureau,) through the
instrumentality of one Fanny, the heroine, and in the end the wife of
the hero.

We do not give this as the plot of “Night and Morning,” but as the
ground-work of the plot; which latter, woven from the incidents above
mentioned, is in itself exceedingly complex. The ground-work, as will be
seen, is of no very original character—it is even absurdly
common-place. We are not asserting too much when we say that every
second novel since the flood has turned upon some series of hopeless
efforts, either to establish legitimacy, or to prove a will, or to get
possession of a great sum of money most unjustly withheld, or to find
out a ragamuffin of a father, who had been much better left unfound.
But, saying nothing of the basis upon which this story has been erected,
the story itself is, in many respects, worthy its contriver.

The word “plot,” as commonly accepted, conveys but an indefinite
meaning. Most persons think of it as of simple _complexity_; and into
this error even so fine a critic as Augustus William Schlegel has
obviously fallen, when he confounds its idea with that of the mere
_intrigue_ in which the Spanish dramas of Cervantes and Calderon abound.
But the greatest involution of incident will not result in plot; which,
properly defined, is _that in which no part can be displaced without
ruin to the whole_. It may be described as a building so dependently
constructed, that to change the position of a single brick is to
overthrow the entire fabric. In this definition and description, we of
course refer only to that infinite perfection which the true artist
bears ever in mind—that unattainable goal to which his eyes are always
directed, but of the possibility of attaining which he still endeavors,
if wise, to cheat himself into the belief. The reading world, however,
is satisfied with a less rigid construction of the term. It is content
to think that plot a good one, in which none of the _leading_ incidents
can be _removed_ without _detriment_ to the mass. Here indeed is a
material difference; and in this view of the case the plot of “Night and
Morning” is decidedly excellent. Speaking comparatively, and in regard
to stories similarly composed, it is one of the best. This the author
has evidently designed to make it. For this purpose he has taxed his
powers to the utmost. Every page bears marks of excessive elaboration,
all tending to one point—a perfect adaptation of the very numerous
atoms of a very unusually involute story. The better to attain his
object he has resorted to the expedient of writing his book backwards.
This is a simple thing in itself, but may not be generally understood.
An example will best convey the idea. Drawing near the _dénouement_ of
his tale, our novelist had proceeded so far as to render it necessary
that means should be devised for the discovery of the missing marriage
record. This record is in the old bureau—this bureau is at Fernside,
originally the seat of Philip’s father, but now in possession of one
Lord Lilburne, a member of Robert Beaufort’s family. Two things now
strike the writer—first, that the retrieval of the hero’s fortune
should be brought about by no less a personage than the heroine—by some
lady who should in the end be his bride—and, secondly, that this lady
must procure access to Fernside. Up to this period in the narrative, it
had been the design to make Camilla Beaufort, Philip’s cousin, the
heroine; but in such case, the cousin and Lord Lilburne being friends,
the document must have been obtained by fair means; whereas foul means
are the most dramatic. There would have been no _difficulties_ to
overcome in introducing Camilla into the house in question. She would
have merely rung the bell and walked in. Moreover, in getting the paper,
she would have had no chance of getting up a scene. This lady is
therefore dropped as the heroine; Mr. Bulwer retraces his steps, creates
Fanny, brings Philip to love her, and employs Lilburne, (a courtly
villain, invented for all the _high_ dirty work, as De Burgh Smith for
all the _low_ dirty work of the story,) employs Lilburne to abduct her
to Fernside, where the capture of the document is at length (more
dramatically than naturally) contrived. In short, these latter incidents
were emendations, and their really episodical character is easily traced
by the critic. What appears first in the published book, was last in the
original MS. Many of the most striking portions of the novel were
_interleaved_ in the same manner—thus giving to after-thought that air
of premeditation which is so pleasing. Effect seems to follow cause in
the most natural and in the most provident manner, but, in the true
construction, the cause (and here we commit no bull) is absolutely
brought about by the effect. The many brief, and seemingly insulated
chapters met with in the course of the narrative, are the interposed
after-thoughts in question.

So careful has been our author in this working-up of his story—in this
nice dovetailing of its constituent parts—that it is difficult to
detect a blemish in any portion. What he has intended to do he has done
well; and his main intention, as we have before hinted, was _perfection
of plot_. A few defects, indeed, we note; and note them chiefly to show
the skill with which that narrative is wrought, where such blemishes are
the sole ones.

In the first place, there are some descriptive passages such as the love
adventures of Caleb Price, the account of Gawtrey’s early life, prefaced
by that of his grandfather, and the dinner-scene at Love’s, which
scarcely come within the category of matters tending to develop the main
events. These things, in short, might have been omitted with advantage
(because without detriment) to the whole.

At page 254, vol. 2, we perceive the first indications of slovenliness,
(arising no doubt from the writer’s anxiety to conclude his task) in an
incident utterly without aim, and composed at random. We mean the
relapse of Philip into a second illness when nursed by Fanny through the
first, at the house of old Gawtrey.

At page 21, vol. 1, we are told that Caleb Price, having received from
his friend Beaufort a certain letter (whose contents would have been
important in the subsequent attempts to establish Catharine’s claim)
held it over the flame of the candle, and that “as the paper dropped on
the carpetless floor, Mr. Jones prudently set thereon the broad sole of
his boot, and the maid servant brushed it into the grate.”

“Ah, trample it out; hurry it among the ashes. The last as the rest,”
said Caleb, hoarsely. “Friendship, fortune, hope, love, life—a little
flame—and then—and then—”

“_Don’t be uneasy—it’s quite out_,” said Mr. Jones.

Now this is related with much emphasis; and, upon reading it, we
resolved to hold in memory that this important paper, although torn, was
still unburned, and that its fragments had been thrown into a vacant
grate. In fact, it was the design of the novelist to re-produce these
fragments in the _dénouement_—a design which he has forgotten to carry
out.

We have defined the word “plot,” in a definition of our own to be sure,
but in one which we do not the less consider substantially correct; and
we have said that it has been a main point with Mr. Bulwer in this his
last novel, “Night and Morning,” to work up his plot as near perfection
as possible. We have asserted, too, that his design is well
accomplished; but we do not the less assert that it has been conceived
and executed in error.

The interest of plot, referring, as it does, to cultivated thought in
the reader, and appealing to considerations analogous with those which
are the essence of sculptural taste, is by no means a popular interest;
although it has the peculiarity of being appreciated in its atoms by
all, while in its totality of beauty it is comprehended but by the few.
The pleasure which the many derive from it is disjointed, ineffective,
and evanescent; and even in the case of the critical reader it is a
pleasure which may be purchased too dearly. A good tale maybe written
without it. Some of the finest fictions in the world have neglected it
altogether. We see nothing of it in Gil Blas, in the Pilgrim’s Progress,
or in Robinson Crusoe. Thus it is not an essential in story-telling at
all; although, well-managed, within proper limits, it is a thing to be
desired. At best it is but a secondary and rigidly artistical merit, for
which no merit of a higher class—no merit founded in nature—should be
sacrificed. But in the book before us _much_ is sacrificed for its sake,
and every thing is rendered subservient to its purposes. So excessive
is, here, the involution of circumstances, that it has been found
impossible to dwell for more than a brief period upon any particular
one. The writer seems in a perpetual flurry to accomplish what, in
autorical parlance, is called “bringing up one’s time.” He flounders in
the vain attempt to keep all his multitudinous incidents at one and the
same moment before the eye. His ability has been sadly taxed in the
effort—but more sadly the time and temper of the reader. No sooner do
we begin to take some slight degree of interest in some
cursorily-sketched event, than we are hurried off to some other, for
which a new feeling is to be built up, only to be tumbled down,
forthwith, as before. And thus, since there is no sufficiently
continuous scene in the whole novel, it results that there is not a
strongly effective one. Time not being given us in which to become
absorbed, we are only permitted to admire, while we are not the less
chilled, tantalised, wearied, and displeased. Nature, with natural
interest, has been given up a bond-maiden to an elaborate, but still to
a misconceived, perverted, and most unsatisfactory Art.

Very little reflection might have sufficed to convince Mr. Bulwer that
narratives, even one fourth so long as the one now lying upon our table,
are _essentially_ inadapted to that nice and complex adjustment of
incident at which he has made this desperate attempt. In the wire-drawn
romances which have been so long fashionable, (God only knows how or
why) the pleasure we derive (if any) is a composite one, and made up of
the respective sums of the various pleasurable sentiments experienced in
perusal. Without excessive and fatiguing exertion, inconsistent with
legitimate interest, the mind cannot comprehend at one time, and in one
survey, the numerous individual items which go to establish the whole.
Thus the high ideal sense of the _unique_ is sure to be wanting:—for,
however absolute in itself be the unity of the novel, it must inevitably
fail of appreciation. We speak now of that species of unity which is
alone worth the attention of the critic—the unity or totality _of
effect_.

But we could never bring ourselves to attach any idea of merit to mere
_length_ in the abstract. A long story does not appear to us necessarily
twice as good as one only half so long. The ordinary talk about
“continuous and sustained effort” is pure twaddle and nothing more.
Perseverance is one thing and genius is another—whatever Buffon or
Hogarth may assert to the contrary—and notwithstanding that, in many
passages of the dogmatical literature of old Rome, such phrases as
“_diligentia maxima_,” “_diligentia mirabilis_,” can be construed only
as “great talent” or “wonderful ability.” Now if the author of “Ernest
Maltravers,” implicitly following authority like _les moutons de
Panurge, will_ persist in writing long romances because long romances
have been written before—if, in short, he cannot be satisfied with the
brief tale (a species of composition which admits of the highest
development of artistical power in alliance with the wildest vigor of
imagination)—he must then content himself, perforce, with a more simply
and more rigidly narrative form.

And here, could he see these comments upon a work which, (estimating it,
as is the wont of all artists of his calibre, by the labor which it has
cost him,) he considers his _chef d’œuvre_, he would assure us, with a
smile, that it is precisely because the book is _not_ narrative, and
_is_ dramatic, that he holds it in so lofty an esteem. Now in regard to
its being dramatic, we should reply that, so far as the radical and
ineradicable _deficiencies_ of the drama go—it is. This continual and
vexatious shifting of scene, with a view of bringing up events to the
time being, originated at a period when books were not; and in fact, had
the drama not preceded books, it might never have succeeded them—we
might, and probably should, never have had a drama at all. By the
frequent “bringing up” of his events the dramatist strove to supply, as
well as he could, the want of the combining, arranging, and especially
of the _commenting_ power, now in possession of the narrative author. No
doubt it was a deep but vague sense of this want which brought into
birth the Greek chorus—a thing altogether apart from the drama
itself—_never_ upon the stage—and representing, or personifying, the
expression of the sympathy of the audience in the matters transacted.

In brief, while the drama of colloquy, vivacious and breathing of life,
is well adopted into narration, the drama of action and passion will
always prove, when employed beyond due limits, a source of embarrassment
to the narrator, and it can afford him, at best, nothing which he does
not already possess in full force. We have spoken upon this head much at
length; for we remember that, in some preface to one of his previous
novels, (some preface in which he endeavored to pre-reason and pre-coax
us into admiration of what was to follow—a bad practice,) Mr. Bulwer
was at great pains to insist upon the peculiar merits of what he even
then termed the dramatic conduct of his story. The simple truth was
that, then as now, he had merely concentrated into his book all the
_necessary evils_ of the stage.

Giving up his attention to the one point upon which we have commented,
our novelist has failed to do himself justice in others. The
overstrained effort at perfection of plot has seduced him into absurd
sacrifices of verisimilitude, as regards the connexion of his _dramatis
personæ_ each with each, and each with the main events. However
incidental be the appearance of any personage upon the stage, this
personage is sure to be linked in, will I nill I, with the matters in
hand. Philip, on the stage-coach, for example, converses with but one
individual, William Gawtrey; yet this man’s fate (not subsequently but
previously) is interwoven into that of Philip himself, through the
latter’s relationship to Lilburne. The hero goes to his mother’s grave,
and there comes in contact with this Gawtrey’s father. He meets Fanny,
and Fanny happens to be also involved in his _destiny_ (a pet word,
conveying a pet idea of the author’s) through _her_ relationship to
Lilburne. The witness in the case of his mother’s marriage is missing,
and this individual turns up at last in the brother of that very Charles
De Burgh Smith with whom so perfectly accidental an intimacy has already
been established. The wronged heir proceeds at random to look for a
lawyer, and stumbles at once upon the precise one who had figured before
in the story, and who knows all about previous investigations. Setting
out in search of Liancourt, the first person he sees is that gentleman
himself. Entering a horse-bazaar in a remote portion of the country, the
steed up for sale at the exact moment of his entrance is recognised as
the pet of his better days. Now our quarrel with these coincidences is
not that they sometimes, but that they everlastingly occur, and that
nothing occurs besides. We find no fault with Philip for chancing, at
the identically proper moment, upon the identical men, women, and horses
necessary for his own ends and the ends of the story—but we do think it
excessively hard that he should _never happen upon anything else_.

In delineation of character, our artist has done little worth notice.
His highest merit in this respect is, with a solitary exception, the
negative one of not having subjected himself to dispraise. Catharine and
Camilla are—pretty well in their way. Philip is very much like all
other heroes—perhaps a little more stiff, a little more obstinate, and
a little more desperately unlucky than the generality of his class.
Sydney is drawn with truth. Plaskwith, Plimmins, and the Mortons, just
sufficiently caricatured, are very good outline copies from the shaded
originals of Dickens. Of Gawtrey—father and son,—of De Burgh Smith, of
Robert Beaufort and of Lilburne, what is it possible to say, except that
they belong to that extensive firm of Gawtrey, Smith, Beaufort, Lilburne
and company, which has figured in every novel since the days of Charles
Grandison, and which is doomed to the same eternal configuration till
romance-writing shall be no more?

For Fanny the author distinctly avows a partiality; and he does not err
in his preference. We have observed, in some previous review, that
_original_ characters, so called, can only be critically praised as
such, either when presenting qualities known in real life, but never
before depicted (a combination nearly impossible) or when presenting
qualities which, although unknown, or even known to be hypothetical, are
so skilfully adapted to the circumstances around them, that our sense of
fitness is not offended, and we find ourselves seeking a reason why
those things _might not have been_ which we are still satisfied _are
not_. Fanny appertains to this latter class of originality—which in
itself belongs to the loftier regions of _the Ideal_. Her first
movements in the story, before her conception (which we have already
characterized as an after-thought) had assumed distinct shape in the
brain of the author, are altogether ineffective and frivolous. They
consist of the unmeaning affectation and rhodomontade with which it is
customary to invest the lunatic in common-place fiction. But the
subsequent effects of love upon her mental development are finely
imagined and richly painted; and, although reason teaches us their
impossibility, yet it is sufficient for the purposes of the artist that
fancy delights in believing them possible.

Mr. Bulwer has been often and justly charged with defects of _style_;
but the charges have been sadly deficient in specification, and for the
most part have confounded the idea of mere language with that of style
itself, although the former is no more the latter, than an oak is a
forest, or than a word is a thought. Without pausing to define what a
little reflection will enable any reader to define for himself, we may
say that the chief constituent of a good style (a constituent which, in
the case of Washington Irving, has been mistaken for the thing
constituted) is what artists have agreed to denominate _tone_. The
writer who, varying this as occasion may require, well adapts it to the
fluctuations of his narrative, accomplishes an important object in
style. Mr. Bulwer’s tone is always correct; and so great is the virtue
of this quality that he can scarcely be termed, upon the whole, a bad
stylist.

His mere English is grossly defective—turgid, involved, and
ungrammatical. There is scarcely a page of “Night and Morning” upon
which a school-boy could not detect at least half a dozen instances of
faulty construction. Sentences such as this are continually
occurring—“And at last silenced, if not convinced, his eyes closed, and
the tears yet wet upon their lashes, fell asleep.” Here, strictly
speaking, it is the eyes which “fell asleep,” and which were “silent if
not convinced.” The pronoun, “he,” is wanting for the verb “fell.” The
whole would read better thus—“And at last, silent, if not convinced, he
closed his eyes, and fell asleep with the tears yet on the lashes.” It
will be seen that, besides other modifications, we have changed “upon”
into “on,” and omitted “wet” as superfluous when applied to tear; who
ever heard of a dry one? The sentence in question, which occurs at page
83, vol. 1, was the first which arrested our attention on opening the
book at random; but its errors are sufficiently illustrative of the
_character_ of those faults of phraseology in which the work abounds,
and which have arisen, not so much through carelessness, as from a
peculiar bias in the mind of the writer, leading him, per force, into
_involution_, whether here in style, or elsewhere in plot. The beauty of
simplicity is not that which can be appreciated by Mr. Bulwer; and
whatever may be the true merits of his intelligence, the merit of
luminous and precise thought is evidently not one of the number.

At page 194, vol. 1, we have this—“I am not what you seem to
suppose—exactly a swindler, certainly not a robber.” Here, to make
himself intelligible, the speaker should have repeated the words “I am
not,” before “exactly.” As it stands, the sentence does not imply that
“I am not exactly a swindler, &c.” but (if anything) that the person
addressed, imagined me to be certainly not a robber but exactly a
swindler—an implication which it was not intended to convey. Such
awkwardness in a practised writer would be inconceivable, did we not
refer in memory to that moral bias of which we have just spoken. Our
readers will of course examine the English of “Night and Morning” for
themselves. From the evidence of one or two sentences we cannot expect
them to form a judgment in the premises. Dreading indeed the suspicion
of unfairness, we had pencilled item after item for comment—but we have
abandoned the task in despair. It would be an endless labor to proceed
with examples. In fact it is folly to particularize where the blunders
would be the rule, and the grammar the exception.

Sir Lytton has one desperate mannerism of which we would be glad to see
him well rid—a fashion of beginning short sentences, after very long
ones, with the phrase “So there,” or something equivalent, and this too,
when there is no sequence in the matter to warrant the use of the word
“So.” Thus, at page 136, vol. I,—“So there they sat on the cold stone,
these two orphans;” at page 179,—“So there by the calm banks of the
placid lake, the youngest born of Catharine passed his tranquil
days,”—and just below, on the same page,—“So thus was he severed from
both his protectors, Arthur and Philip;” and at page 241, vol. II,—“So
there sat the old man,” &c. &c.—and in innumerable other instances
throughout the work.

Among the _niäiseries_ of his style we may mention the coxcombical use
of little French sentences, without the shadow of an excuse for their
employment. At page 22, vol. 2, in the scene at the counterfeiter’s
cellar, what can be more nonsensical than Gawtrey’s “_C’est juste; buvez
donc, cher ami_,”—“_C’est juste; buvez donc, vieux rénard_,”—and “_Ce
n’est pas vrai; buvez donc Monsieur Favart?_” Why should these
platitudes be alone given in French, when it is obvious that the entire
conversation was carried on in that tongue? And, again, when, at page
49, Fanny exclaims—“_Méchant_, every one dies to Fanny!”—why could not
this heroine have as well confined herself to one language? At page 38,
the climax of absurdity, in this respect, is fairly capped; and it is
difficult to keep one’s countenance, when we read of a Parisian cobbler
breathing his last in a garret, and screaming out “_Je m’étouffe_—Air!”

Whenever a startling incident is recorded, our novelist seems to make it
a point of conscience that somebody should “fall insensible.” Thus at
page 172, vol. 1,—“‘My brother, my brother, they have taken thee from
me,’ cried Philip, and he fell insensible,”—and at page 38, vol. 2, “‘I
was unkind to him at the last,’ and with these words she fell upon the
corpse insensible,” &c. &c. There is a great deal too much of this. An
occasional swoon is a thing of no consequence, but “even Stamboul must
have an end,” and Mr. Bulwer should make an end of his syncopes.

Again. That gentlemen and ladies, when called upon to give alms, or to
defray some trifling incidental expense, are in the invariable habit of
giving the whole contents of their purses without examination, and,
moreover, of “throwing” the purse into the bargain, is an idea most
erroneously entertained. At page 55, vol. 1, we are told that Philip,
“as he spoke, _slid_ his purse into the woman’s hand.” At page 110, “a
hint for money restored Beaufort to his recollection, and he _flung_ his
purse into the nearest hand outstretched to receive it.” At page 87,
“Lilburne _tossed_ his purse into the hands of his valet, whose face
seems to lose its anxious embarrassment at the touch of the gold.” It is
true that the “anxious embarrassment” of any valet out of a novel, would
have been rather increased than diminished by having a purse of gold
tossed at his head—but what we wish our readers to observe, is that
magnificent contempt of filthy lucre with which the characters of Sir
Edward Lytton Bulwer “fling,” “slide,” “toss,” and tumble whole purses
of money about!

But the predominant and most important failing of the author of
“Devereux,” in point of style, is an absolute mania for
metaphor—metaphor always running into allegory. Pure allegory is at all
times an abomination—a remnant of antique barbarism—appealing only to
our faculties of comparison, without even a remote interest for our
reason, or for our fancy. Metaphor, its softened image, has indisputable
force when sparingly and skilfully employed. Vigorous writers use it
rarely indeed. Mr. Bulwer is all metaphor or all allegory—mixed
metaphor and unsustained allegory—and nothing if neither. He cannot
express a dozen consecutive sentences in an honest and manly manner. He
is the king-coxcomb of figures-of-speech. His rage for personification
is really ludicrous. The simplest noun becomes animate in his hands.
Never, by any accident, does he write even so ordinary a word as time,
or temper, or talent, without the capital T. Seldom, indeed, is he
content with the dignity and mysticism thus imposed;—for the most part
it is Time, Temper and Talent. Nor does the common-place character of
anything which he wishes to personify exclude it from the prosopopeia.
At page 256, volume 1, we have some profound rigmarole, seriously urged,
about piemen crying “all hot! all hot!” “in the ear of Infant and Ragged
Hunger,” thus written; and, at page 207, there is something positively
transcendental all about LAW—a very little thing in itself, in some
cases—but which Mr. Bulwer, in his book, has thought proper to make
quite as big as we have printed it above. Who cannot fancy him, in the
former instance, saying to himself, as he gnaws the top of his quill,
“that is a fine thought!” and exclaiming in the latter, as he puts his
finger to the side of his nose, “ah, how _very_ fine an idea that is!”

This absurdity, indeed, is chiefly observable in those philosophical
discussions with which he is in the wicked habit of interspersing his
fictions, and springs only from a rabid anxiety to look wise—to appear
profound—even when wisdom is quite out of place, and profundity the
quintessence of folly. A “still small voice” has whispered in his ear
that, as to the real matter of fact, _he is shallow_—a whisper which he
does not intend to believe, and which, by dint of loud talking in
parables, he hopes to prevent from reaching the ears of the public. Now,
in truth, the public, great-gander as it is, is content to swallow his
romance without much examination, but cannot help turning up its nose at
his logic.

“The men of sense,” says Helvetius, “those idols of the unthinking, are
very inferior to the men of passions. It is the strong passions which,
rescuing us from Sloth, can alone impart to us that continuous and
earnest attention necessary to great intellectual
efforts”—Understanding the word “efforts” in its legitimate force, and
not confounding it altogether with achievements, we may well apply to
Mr. Bulwer the philosopher’s remark, thence deducing the secret of his
success as a novelist. He is emphatically the man “of passions.” With an
intellect rather well balanced than lofty, he has not full claim to the
title of a man of genius. Urged by the burning desire of doing much, he
has certainly done something. Elaborate even to fault, he will never
write a bad book, and has once or twice been upon the point of
concocting a good one. It is the custom to call him a fine writer, but
in doing so we should judge him less by an artistical standard of
excellence, than by comparison with the drivellers who surround him. To
Scott he is altogether inferior, except in that mock and tawdry
philosophy which the Caledonian had the discretion to avoid, and the
courage to contemn. In pathos, humour, and verisimilitude he is unequal
to Dickens; surpassing him only in general knowledge, and in the
sentiment of Art. Of James he is more than the equal at all points.
While he could never fall as low as D’Israeli has occasionally fallen,
neither himself, nor any of those whom we have mentioned, have ever
risen nearly so high as that very gifted and very extraordinary man.

In regard to “Night and Morning” we cannot agree with that critical
opinion which considers it the best novel of its author. It is only not
his worst. It is not as good as Eugene Aram, nor as Rienzi—and is not
at all comparable with Ernest Maltravers. Upon the whole it is a good
book. Its merits beyond doubt overbalance its defects, and if we have
not dwelt upon the former with as much unction as upon the latter, it is
because the Bulwerian beauties are precisely of that secondary character
which never fails of the fullest public appreciation.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _“Sketches of Conspicuous Living Characters of France.”
    Translated by R. M. Walsh. Lea and Blanchard._

The public are much indebted to Mr. Walsh for this book, which is one of
unusual interest and value. It is a translation from the French, of
fifteen biographical and critical sketches, written, and originally
published in weekly numbers at Paris, by some one who styles himself
“_un homme de rien_”—the better to conceal the fact, perhaps, that he
is really un _homme de beaucoup_. Whatever, unhappily, may be the case
with ourselves, or in England, it is clear that in the capital of
France, at least,—that hot-bed of journalism, and Paradise of
journalists—nobody has any right to call himself “nobody,” while
wielding so vigorous and vivacious a pen as the author of these
articles.

We are told in the Preface to the present translation that they met with
the greatest success, upon their first appearance, and were considered
by the Parisians as perfectly authentic in their statement of facts, and
“as impartial in their appreciation of the different personages sketched
as could be desired.” “As impartial, &c.” means, we presume, entirely
so; for in matters of this kind an absolute impartiality, of course, is
all, but still the least “that could be desired.”

Mr. Walsh farther assures us that Châteaubriand wrote the author a
letter “of a highly complimentary tenor” which was published, but of
which the translator, “unfortunately, does not happen to have a copy in
his possession.” A more unfortunate circumstance is that Mr. W. should
have thought it necessary to bolster a book which needs no bolstering,
by the authority of any name, however great; and the most unfortunate
thing of all, so far as regards the weight of the authority, is that
Châteaubriand himself is belauded _ad nauseam_ in those very pages to
the inditer of which he sent that letter of the “complimentary tenor.”
When any body shall puff _us_, as this Mr. Nobody has bepuffed the
author of _The Martyrs_, we will send them a letter “of a complimentary
tenor” too. We do not mean to decry the general merit of the book, or
the candor of him who composed it. We wish merely to observe that
Châteaubriand, under the circumstances, cannot be received as evidence
of the one, nor his biography as instance of the other.

These sketches of men now playing important parts in the great drama of
French affairs would be interesting, if only from their subjects. We
have here biographies, (sufficiently full) of Thiers, Châteaubriand,
Laffitte, Guizot, Lamartine, Soult, Berryer, De La Mennais, Hugo, Dupin,
Béranger, Odillon Barrot, Arago, George Sand, and the Duke De Broglie.
We are most pleased with those of Thiers, Hugo, Sand, Arago, and
Béranger.

Among many good stories of Thiers, this is told. A prize had been
offered by the Academy of Aix for the best eulogium on Vauvenargues.
Thiers, then quite a boy, sent a M. S. It was deemed excellent; but the
author being suspected, and no other candidate deserving the palm, the
committee, rather than award it to a Jacobin, postponed their decision
for a year. At the expiration of this time our youth’s article again
made its appearance, but, meanwhile, a production had arrived from Paris
which was thought far better. The judges were rejoiced. They were no
longer under the cruel necessity of giving the first honor to a
Jacobin—but felt bound to present him with the second. The name of the
Parisian victor was unsealed. It was that of Thiers—Monsieur Tonson
come again. He had been at great pains to mystify the committee; (other
committees of the same kind more frequently reverse affairs and mystify
the public) the M. S. had been copied in a strange hand, and been sent
from Aix to Paris and from Paris to Aix. Thus our little friend obtained
both the main prize and the _accessit_.

An anecdote somewhat similar is related of Victor Hugo. In 1817, the
Academy offered a premium for the best poem on the advantages of study.
Hugo entered the lists. His piece was considered worthiest, but was
rejected because a falsehood was supposed to be implied in the
concluding lines, which ran thus:—

        Moi qui, toujours fuyant les cités et les cours,
        De trois lustres à peine ai vu finir le cours.

The Academy would not believe that any one under twenty-five years of
age had written so fine a poem, and, supposing a mystification designed,
thought to punish the author by refusing him the prize. Informed of the
facts, Hugo hastened to show the certificate of his birth to the
reporter, M. Raynouard; but it was too late—the premium had been
awarded.

Of Laffitte many remarkable incidents are narrated evincing the noble
liberality of his disposition.

In the notice of Berryer it is said that, a letter being addressed by
the Duchess of Berry to the legitimists of Paris, to inform them of her
arrival, it was accompanied by a long note in cypher, the key of which
she had forgotten to give. “The penetrating mind of Berryer,” says our
biographer, “soon discovered it. It was this phrase substituted for the
twenty-four letters of the alphabet—_Le gouvernement provisoire_.”

All this is very well as an anecdote; but we cannot understand the
extraordinary penetration required in the matter. The phrase “_Le
gouvernement provisoire_” is French, and the note in cypher was
addressed to Frenchmen. The difficulty of decyphering may well be
supposed much greater had the key been in a foreign tongue; yet any one
who will take the trouble may address us a note, in the same manner as
here proposed, and the key-phrase may be either in French, Italian,
Spanish, German, Latin or Greek, (or in any of the dialects of these
languages), and we pledge ourselves for the solution of the riddle. The
experiment may afford our readers some amusement—let them try it.

But we are rambling from our theme. The genius of Arago is finely
painted, and the character of his quackery put in a true light. The
straight-forward, plainly-written critical comments upon this
philosopher, as well as upon George Sand, and that absurd
antithesis-hunter, Victor Hugo, please us far more than that mere cant
and rhapsody in which the biographer involves himself when speaking of
Châteaubriand and Lamartine. We have observed that all great authors who
fall occasionally into the sins of ranting and raving, meet with critics
who think the only way to elucidate, is to out-rant and out-rave them. A
beautiful confusion of thought of course ensues, which it is truly
refreshing to contemplate.

The account of George Sand (Madame Dudevant) is full of piquancy and
spirit. The writer, by dint of a little chicanery, obtained access, it
seems, to her boudoir, with an opportunity of sketching her in
dishabille. He found her in a gentleman’s frock coat, smoking a cigar.

Speaking of the equivocal costume affected by this lady, Mr. Walsh, in a
foot-note, comments upon a nice distinction made once by a soldier on
duty at the Chamber of Deputies. Madame D., habited in male attire, was
making her way into the gallery, when the man, presenting his musket
before her, cried out “_Monsieur_, les _dames_ ne passent pas par ici!”

But we regret that our space will not allow us to cull even a few of the
good things with which the book abounds. The whole volume is exceedingly
_piquant_, and replete with that racy wit which is so peculiarly French
as to make us believe it a consequence of the _tournure_ of the language
itself. But if a Frenchman is invariably witty, he is not the less
everlastingly bombastic; and these memoirs are decidedly French. What
can we do but smile when we hear any one talk about Châteaubriand’s
_Essay upon English Poetry_, with his _Translation of Milton_! as a task
which he alone was qualified to execute!—or when we read page after
page in which Lamartine is discoursed of as “a noble child, with flaxen
locks,” “disporting upon the banks of the Seine,” “picking up Grecian
lyres dropped by the mild Chenier,” “enriching them with Christian
chords,” and “ravishing the world with new melodies!” What can we do but
laugh outright at such phrases as the “sympathetic swan-like cries,” and
the “singular lyric precocity of the crystal soul”—of such an ass as
the author of Bug-Jargal?

So far as mere translation goes, the volume now before us is, in some
respects, not very well done. Too little care has been taken in
rendering the French idioms by English equivalents; and, because a
French writer, through the impulses of his vivacity, cannot avoid
telling, in the present tense, a story of the past, it does not follow
that such a misusage of language is consonant with the graver genius of
the Saxon. Mr. Walsh is always too literal, although sufficiently
correct. He should not employ, however, even in translation, such queer
words as “to legitimate,” meaning “to legitimatize,” or “to fulmine,”
meaning “to fulminate.”

At page 211, the force of the compound “_l’homme-calembourg_” is not
conveyed by the words “_the_ punster,” even when we italicize _the_.
_The walking-pun_, perhaps, is an analogous phrase which might be more
properly employed.

There is some odd mistake at page 274, where the translator speaks of
measuring the diameter of the earth by measuring its _rays_. We presume
the word in the original is _rayons_; if so we can only translate it by
the Latin _radii_. No doubt a radius, literally, is a ray; but science
has its own terms, and _will_ employ them. We should like to see either
Mr. Walsh or Monsieur Arago (or both together) trying to measure a _ray_
of the earth.

The mechanical execution of the book is good, saving a thousand
outrageous typographical blunders, and _that_ lithograph of Thiers. We
have no doubt in the world that this gentleman (who ran away during the
three days and hid himself in the woods of Montmorency), is a somewhat
dirty, insignificant little fellow, and so be it; but we will never be
brought to believe that any individual in Christendom ever did or could
look half as saucy, or as greasy, as does “Monsieur Mirabeau-mouche” in
that picture.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _“Heads of the People: or Portraits of the English.” Drawn by
    Kenny Meadows. With Original Essays by Distinguished Writers.
    Carey & Hart._

The design of this book is among the number of those which are
_obviously_ good—and the book itself is, upon the whole, an amusing
one. It might have been better, no doubt. With designs by Cruikshanks,
and letter-press by _the best_ of the English literati, how glorious a
work might have been concocted “upon this hint!” Not that some of the
names here found are _not_ among the best—but we should have had the
_Dii majorum gentium_ exclusively—one paper from each. These papers,
too, should have been written with some uniformity of manner, or of
plan, and have confined themselves to racy and truthful delineation of
that character which is _peculiarly_ British, while the engravings
should have been careful embodiments of the text. As it is, the
publication has something of a hap-hazard, and, if the truth must be
told, of a catchpenny air, which makes very much against it,
notwithstanding the exceeding merit of several of the essays, and of
three or four of the designs. The preface seems to have been written by
some one who had a proper sense of what the volume _should be_, but
affords no indication of what it really _is_.

There are twenty-six “Heads” in all. Some of them are pure caricatures
without merit—“The Creditor,” for example, and “The Debtor,”
(injudiciously placed as frontispieces), The “Diner-Out,” The
“Sentimental Singer,” “The Man of Many Goes” and “The Printer’s Devil.”
Others are equally caricatures, but of so vivid and truth-preserving an
exaggeration, that we admire without scruple:—we allude to “The Lion of
the Party,” “The Waiter,” “The Linen-Draper’s Assistant” and “The
Stock-Broker.” Some are full of natural truth—for instance “The Young
Lord,” “The Dress-Maker,” “The Young Squire,” “The Basket Woman,”
“Captain Rook” and “Mr. Pigeon.” “The Last Go” is the best thing in the
volume—combining the extreme of the ludicrous with absolute fidelity.
“The Fashionable Authoress,” “The Cockney” and “The Family Governess”
are tame and unmeaning. The rest have no particular merit or demerit.
About the whole there is a great deal of bad drawing, which we know not
whether to attribute to the designer or engraver.

The same variety of value is observable in the text. In general the
articles are not very creditable; although one or two are of surpassing
excellence. The longest called “Tavern Heads” (illustrated by seven or
eight sketches) is a rambling, disjointed narrative in imitation of
Dickens, and written probably by the author of a clever production
entitled “Pickwick Abroad,” never yet republished, we believe, in this
country. The paper called “Captain Rook and Mr. Pigeon,” and
superscribed with the name of William Thackeray, is one of the finest
specimens of easily-mingled humor and wit we have ever had the pleasure
of perusing.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _“The Flying Dutchman.” By the author of Gentleman Jack. 2 vols.
    Carey & Hart._

The legend of the Flying Dutchman has long since been worn out, and its
attempted resuscitation by this author has, as he should have known,
proved an entire failure. Indeed we have rarely read a less creditable
novel than this. The characters are strange; the incidents unnatural;
and the descriptions of the mighty deep surpassed by nine out of ten of
our ordinary sea-writers. The tyranny which formerly existed, and indeed
still exists in a measure, in the British navy is, however, sketched
with a bold pencil; but with this single redeeming trait, the public,
much less the critics, will scarcely be satisfied. The desertion of
Ramsay on the Island; his miraculous meeting with the very one he wished
to meet, Angela; the whole farcical story, of the deception practised in
the appearance of the Flying Dutchman’s frigate; the singular
preservation of Capt. Livingston from drowning, when cast overboard
unseen at night; and the clap-trap of the trial scene, when the
aforesaid captain and the corporal appear so unexpectedly, furnish a
series of improbabilities only to be endured by a novel-reader of
sufficient voracity to gorge, shark-like, any and everything, no matter
what.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _“Patchwork.” By Capt. Basil Hall. 2 vols. Lea & Blanchard._

Captain Hall is one of the most agreeable of writers. We like him for
the same reason that we like a good drawing-room conversationist—there
is such a pleasure in listening to his elegant nothings. Not that the
captain is unable to be profound. He has, on the contrary, some
reputation for science. But in his hands even the most trifling personal
adventures become interesting from the very piquancy with which they are
told.

The present work is made up of a series of desultory sketches of
travels, in every quarter of the globe, and extending through a period
of nearly thirty years. You almost forget yourself as you read, and
fancy that you are listening to an oral narrative from Capt. Hall in
person. In the most charming manner possible you are transported from
the glaciers of the Alps to the waters of the Pacific, and then whisked
back again to old Europe, and hurried to Vesuvius, Malta, and Etna in
pleasing succession. The descriptions of these various places, mingled
with scientific observations, and narratives of personal adventures,
form altogether one of the pleasantest books for after-dinner perusal,
especially on a sunny April day, when, reposed at length upon a sofa,
beside an open casement, with the birds carolling without, and the balmy
spring breathing across us, we forget, for a while, the dull business of
life.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _“Georgia Illustrated.” W. & W. C. Richards, Penfield, Ga._

This is a praiseworthy work, and reflects high credit on all concerned
in it. The views are selected with taste, and give us a high opinion of
the scenery of Georgia. They are accompanied by a letter-press
description, from the pen of the editor, W. C. Richards. The engravings
are executed in excellent style by Messrs. Rawdon, Wright, Hatch and
Smillie. Such works cannot be too extensively patronised. They encourage
the arts; foster a love for the beautiful; and acquaint the public with
some of the loveliest gems of our native scenery. Was it not a disgrace
to our country that both “Hinton’s Topography” and the still later
“American Scenery,” emanated wholly from England—the capital embarked,
the sketchers and engravers employed, and even the place of publication
being English?

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: FASHIONS FOR APRIL 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. A cover was
created for this ebook and is placed in the public domain.

[The end of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 4, April 1841_, George
R. Graham, Editor]





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 4,
April 1841, by Various

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