GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XIX. November, 1841. No. 5.

Contents

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

Eng. by H. S. Sadd, N.Y.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

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

THE PET LAMB.

———

BY ALEXANDER A. IRVINE.

———

I saw her in her artlessness

All innocent and free,

And playfully a favored lamb

She fondled on her knee—

She seemed a vision of a dream,

A glory passing bright,

A being clothed in loveliness

As angels are in light!

Her tresses sported round about

Her snowy brow divine,

As flowers of the daffodil

Embrace a virgin shrine,—

Such purity was nestled there,

A Sybil’s it might be,

Forever beaming placidly

As starlight down at sea!

Her smile it had a witchery

To mortal ones unknown,

A language in its mirthfulness

Beyond a seraph’s tone:

It was as if the soul had come

From out its deep recess

And chose a dwelling in her eyes,

So pure their loveliness!

And softly on her pearly cheek

The dewy lashes lay;

Her lips were parted temptingly

To woo the breeze to stay;

Her snowy neck all droopingly

Defied the lily’s grace;

Her dimpled mouth—I dreamt of heav’n

In gazing on that face!

She fondled artlessly her pet;

She raised his tiny feet;

And toyed the garland on his neck;

And soothed him, when he bleat,

So sweetly that I might not hear

Unmoved that silver tone,

But longed to leave my hiding place

And woo her for my own.

A shot re-echoed through the wood,

I saw the smoky wreath—

The lamb was bleeding in her lap

The glancing ball beneath—

I sprang and raised the sufferer

And staunched the ebbing tide,

And carefully I bound the wound,

And sat me by her side.

I quieted her quick alarm,

I gently soothed her fears,

And o’er the dying favorite

We mingled tears with tears:

I shared her grief, and calmed her woe,

And blamed the sportsman rude—

She raised her swimming eyes to mine

And smiled her gratitude.

She faintly smiled and dropped her gaze,

Her passive hand I took,

No word was spoke, we only heard

The murmur of the brook;

Her gaze was on the murdered lamb,

Her heart was strangely moved—

She sighed, and oh! the loss she felt,

The void where once she loved.

Again I soothed her maiden grief,

And sighed whene’er she sighed,

And with such winning sympathy

Her starting tears I dried,—

And when she ceased I sighed myself,

And she besought to know

All artlessly and innocent

The secret of my woe.

I told her it was all herself,

That I had paused to gaze,

And that her witching loveliness

Would sadden all my days;

And then I sighed, and looked away,

And told her how I grieved,

Not for myself, but for the pang

Her gentle heart received.

I asked her but to pity me,

And told my grief to part—

Her fingers trembled, and I heard

The beating of her heart,

And all dissolved in sympathy

She yielded to my side—

Was ever virgin love as thine?

My Rosalie, my bride!

THE GHOST OF CHEW’S WALL;

A LEGEND OF GERMANTOWN.

———

BY OLIVER OLDFELLOW.

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ ’Squire—Hanz—Sus, me tinks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[^[1]]“Resolved, That a committee of eight be appointed to shoot the ghost.”

“Resolved, That Stoffel Burger be chairman of the committee to point him out, so that the silver bullets be not thrown away, and also, to save powder, that nobody shall shoot the ghost till they see him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

G.

FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS.

———

BY MRS. E. C. STEDMAN.

———

Speed on! speed on, to your Southern home,

Ye who ’mid the fleecy clouds may roam!

The hoarse voice of Winter comes fast on the breeze—

Its roaring is heard in the tops of the trees,

And swift as your flight, is the march of Time—

Away, away, to a milder clime!

Ye’re wearied with seeking in vain for food,

’Mid the leafless boughs of your native wood;

And here will ye carol your songs no more,

Till the reign of the winter-king is o’er;

Till Spring, in new beauty, comes dancing on,

And ascends flower-crowned to her vernal throne.

But your voices shall gladden the fairy bowers

Of the genial South, through these winter hours,

Where your golden wings may unfettered rove

Through the flowery dell, and the orange grove;

Or bathe in the spray of those crystal streams,

Which forever glide free in the sun’s glad beams.

Then away! ere hastens cold winter’s night;

He who watcheth the sparrow, directs your flight:

We envy your freedom, ye songsters fair!

And fain would fly, too, from this piercing air;

But the Power divine, which doth bid you roam,

Binds us, and our joys, to a Northern home.

But, thanks to that Power! from the frosts of Grief—

From the Winter that blighteth Affection’s leaf;

From the chilling blast of Misfortune’s breath,

The ransomed spirit may flee at death,

To a clime where perpetual Summer reigns

O’er the fadeless flowers of celestial plains.

THE ROWSEVILLERS.—No. II.

THE CAPTAIN’S COURTSHIP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE REEFER OF ’76.

———

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

———

THE SHIPWRECK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My own—” I faintly articulated.

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

THE INTERESTING STRANGER.

OR, DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

———

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How happy could I be with either,

Were t’other dear charmer away,”

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

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

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

“Dear Jack,

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

“Your friend,

“T. M.”

The enclosure was still more curious:

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

“afecshunate Mary Mugson.”

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

Brooklyn, L. I.

IL SERENADO DI VENICE.

The sunlight has faded away from the sky,

Bright day has departed, the night draweth nigh;

Then come to the lattice, love, hither and see,

Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.

The moon is uprising in glorious light,

Her beams on the waters are trembling and bright;

Then haste to thy lattice, love, hither and see,

Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.

Not a cloud is above, nor a wave here below,

All is quiet and still, save the river’s soft flow;

Oh! come to thy lattice, love, hither and see,

Where waits the gondola, swift-gliding and free.

Then, away! then, away! let us pass the calm hours,

With the sweet words of love, and with Fancy’s fair flowers

Ere the rose-fingered morn shall appear and renew

The songs of the birds and the pearls of the dew.

Valeria.

SHAKSPEARE.—No. III.

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

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