LjL o oo // 
 
University of California Berkeley 
 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 PROFESSOR 
 GEORGE R. STEWART 
 
I 
 
ii4S 
 
 IF HIS 2L J\, E) H 3L 2> HI E A 
 
THE GIFT: 
 
 CHRISTMAS, NEW YEAR, 
 
 AND 
 
 BIRTHDAY PRESENT. 
 
 MDCCCXLV. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 CAREY AND HART. 
 
 1845. 
 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844, 
 J BY CAREY AND HART, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of ihe District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
 C SHERMAN, PRJNTEK. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 A Gleam of Sunshine HENRY w. LONGFELLOW 7 
 
 The Schoolmaster's Progress MRS. KIRKLAND 10 
 
 The Wounded Vulture ANNE c. LYNCH 26 
 
 The Power of an " Injured Look" N. p. WILLIS 28 
 
 Going Home c. p. CRANCH 38 
 
 The Necklace ANNE c. LYNCH 40 
 
 The Purloined Letter EDGAR A. POE 41 
 
 To Columbus Dying w. H. FURNESS 62 
 
 The Moral of Goslyne Greene, or the 
 
 Man that was Born to a Fortune . . . JOSEPH c. NEAL 64 
 
 The Poet's Apology R. w. EMERSON 77 
 
 The Stuy vesant Pear-Tree MRS. ELLET 78 
 
 The Rabbit-Catching 84 
 
 Dirge R. w. EMERSON 94 
 
 The Inn at Cransac w. H. FURNESS 97 
 
 Song of the Angels F. H. HEDGE 130 
 
 Evening Flowers MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY 132 
 
 A Prairie Jumbie CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN 134 
 
 The Night-Blooming Ceres H. T. TUCKERMAN 148 
 
 Peter Petrolius, or the Man that was 
 
 Born in the Crooked Street. . . . . EDMUND c. WATMOUGH 150 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 On a Picture of Harvey Birch ANNE c. LYNCH 167 
 
 The Giant's Coffin, or the Feud of 
 
 Holt and Houston AUTHOR OF "THE YEMASSEE," ETC... 169 
 
 The Roman Girl c. p. CRANCH 212 
 
 Stanzas ERNEST HELFENSTEIN 213 
 
 The Dead Guest 215 
 
 The Hemlock Tree HENRY w. LONGFELLOW 276 
 
 Washington Crossing the Alleghany . . . ANNE c. LYNCH 277 
 
 Leaves from the Diary of a Recluse 279 
 
LIST OF PLATES. 
 
 AGNES W. PAGE J. CHENEY. 
 
 TITLE G. STUART J. CHENEY. 
 
 THE NECKLACE C. R. LESLIE W. HUMPHREYS. 
 
 THE TRAP SPRUNG W. S. MOUNT J. I. PEASE. 
 
 ANNETTE E. MALBONE J. CHENEY. 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HARVEV BIRCH A. B. DURAND J. I. PEASE. 
 
 THE ROMAN GIRL D. HUNTINGTON J.CHENEY. 
 
 WASHINGTON CROSSING THE ALLEGHANY. . D. HUNTINGTON R. W. DODSO.V. 
 
A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 
 
 BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 THIS is the place. Stand still, my steed, 
 
 Let me review the scene, 
 And summon from the shadowy past 
 
 The forms that once have been. 
 
 The past and present reunite, 
 
 Beneath time's flowing tide, 
 Like footprints hidden by a brook, 
 
 But seen on either side. 
 
 Here runs the highway to the town, 
 
 There the green lane descends, 
 Through which I walked to church with thee, 
 
 Oh ! gentlest of my friends ! 
 
 The shadow of the linden trees, 
 
 Lay moving on the grass ; 
 Between them and the moving boughs, 
 
 A shadow, thou didst pass. 
 
 Thy dress was like the lilies, 
 
 And thy heart as pure as they ; 
 One of God's holy angels 
 
 Did walk with me that day. 
 
THE GIFT. 
 
 I saw the branches of the trees 
 
 Bend down thy touch to meet, 
 The clover-blossoms in the grass 
 
 Rise up to kiss thy feet. 
 
 " Sleep, sleep, to-day, tormenting cares, 
 
 Of earth and folly born!" 
 Solemnly sang the village choir 
 
 On that sweet Sabbath morn. 
 
 Through the closed blinds, the golden sun 
 
 Poured in a dusty beam, 
 Like the celestial ladder 
 
 Of the ancient patriarch's dream. 
 
 And ever and anon, the wind, 
 
 Sweet scented with the hay, 
 Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves, 
 
 That on the window lay. 
 
 Long was the good man's sermon, 
 
 But it seemed not so to me, 
 For he spake of Ruth, the beautiful, 
 
 And still I thought of thee. 
 
 Long was the prayer he uttered, 
 
 But it seemed not so to me, 
 For in my heart I prayed with him, 
 
 But still I thought of thee. 
 
 But now, alas, the place seems changed ; 
 
 Thou art no longer here ; 
 Part of the sunshine of the scene 
 
 With thee did disappear. 
 
A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 
 
 Though thoughts, deep rooted in my heart, 
 Like pine trees dark and high, 
 
 Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 
 A low and ceaseless sigh ; 
 
 This memory brightens o'er the past, 
 
 As when the sun, concealed 
 Behind some cloud that near us hangs, 
 
 Shines on a distant field. 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S PROGRESS. 
 
 BY MRS. KIRKLAND. 
 AUTHOR OF " A NEW HOME," ETC. 
 
 MASTER WILLIAM HORNER came to our village to keep school 
 when he was about eighteen years old : tall, lank, straight-sided, 
 and straight-haired, with a mouth of the most puckered and 
 solemn kind. His figure and movements were those of a puppet 
 cut out of shingle and jerked by a string; and his address 
 corresponded very well with his appearance. Never did that 
 prim mouth give way before a laugh. A faint and misty smile 
 was the widest departure from its propriety, and this unaccus- 
 tomed disturbance made wrinkles in the flat skinny cheeks like 
 those in the surface of a lake, after the intrusion of a stone. 
 Master Horner knew well what belonged to the pedagogical 
 character, and that facial solemnity stood high on the list of 
 indispensable qualifications. He had made up his mind before 
 he left his father's house how he would look during the term. 
 He had not planned any smiles (knowing that he must " board 
 round"), and it was not for ordinary occurrences to alter his 
 arrangements ; so that when he was betrayed into a relaxation 
 of the muscles, it was " in such a sort" as if he was putting his 
 bread and butter in jeopardy. 
 
 Truly he had a grave time that first winter. The rod of 
 power was new to him, and he felt it his " duty" to use it 
 more frequently than might have been thought necessary by 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S PROGRESS. 11 
 
 those upon whose sense the privilege had palled. Tears and 
 sulky faces, and impotent fists doubled fiercely when his back 
 was turned, were the rewards of his conscientiousness ; and the 
 boys and girls too-^were glad when working time came round 
 again, and the master went home to help his father on the 
 farm. 
 
 But with the autumn came Master Homer again, dropping 
 among us as quietly as the faded leaves, and awakening at least 
 as much serious reflection. Would he be as self-sacrificing as 
 before, postponing his own ease and comfort to the public good ? 
 or would he have become more sedentary, and less fond of cir- 
 cumambulating the school-room with a switch over his shoulder ? 
 Many were fain to hope he might have learned to smoke during 
 the summer, an accomplishment which would probably have 
 moderated his energy not a little, and disposed him rather to 
 reverie than to action. But here he was, and all the broader- 
 chested and stouter-armed for his labours in the harvest-field. 
 
 Let it not be supposed that Master Homer was of a cruel and 
 ogrish nature a babe-eater a Herod one who delighted in 
 torturing the helpless. Such souls there may be, among those 
 endowed with the awful control of the ferule, but they are rare 
 in the fresh and natural regions we describe. It is, we believe, 
 where young gentlemen are to be crammed for college that the 
 process of hardening heart and skin together goes on most 
 vigorously. Yet among the uneducated there is so high a 
 respect for bodily strength, that it is necessary for the school- 
 master to show, first of all, that he possesses this inamissible 
 requisite for his place. The rest is more readily taken for 
 granted. Brains he may have a strong arm he must have : 
 so he proves the more important claim first. We must there- 
 fore make all due allowance for Master Horner, who could not 
 be expected to overtop his position so far as to discern at once 
 the philosophy of teaching. 
 
 He was sadly brow-beaten during his first term of service by 
 a great broad-shouldered lout of some eighteen years or so, who 
 thought he needed a little more " schooling," but at the same 
 
12 THE GIFT. 
 
 time felt quite competent to direct the manner and measure of 
 his attempts. 
 
 " You'd ought to begin with large-hand, Joshuay," said Master 
 Homer to this youth. 
 
 "What should I want coarse-hand for?" said the disciple, 
 with great contempt ; " coarse-hand won't never do me no good. 
 I want a fine-hand copy." 
 
 The master looked at the infant giant, and did as he wished, 
 but we say not with what secret resolutions. 
 
 At another time, Master Horner, having had a hint from some 
 one more knowing than himself, proposed to his elder scholars 
 to write after dictation, expatiating at the same time quite 
 floridly, (the ideas having been supplied by the knowing friend,) 
 upon the advantages likely to arise from this practice, and 
 saying, among other things, 
 
 " It will help you, when you write letters, to spell the words 
 good." 
 
 "Pooh!" said Joshua, "spellin' ain't nothin' ; let them that 
 finds the mistakes correct 'em. I'm for every one's havin' a 
 way of their own."* 
 
 " How dared you be so saucy to the master ?" asked one of 
 the little boys, after school. 
 
 " Because I could lick him, easy," said the hopeful Joshua, 
 who knew very well why the master did not undertake him on 
 the spot. 
 
 Can we wonder that Master Horner determined to make his 
 empire good as far as it went ? 
 
 A new examination was required on the entrance into a 
 second term, and, with whatever secret trepidation, the master 
 was obliged to submit. Our law prescribes examinations, but 
 forgets to provide for the competency of the examiners ; so that 
 few better farces offer, than the course of question and answer 
 on these occasions. We know not precisely what were Master 
 Homer's trials ; but we have heard of a sharp dispute between 
 
 * Verbatim. 
 
13 
 
 the inspectors whether angel spelt angle or angel. Angle 
 had it, and the school maintained that pronunciation ever after. 
 Master Horner passed, and he was requested to draw up the 
 certificate for the inspectors to sign, as one had left his spec- 
 tacles at home, and the other had a bad cold, so that it was not 
 convenient for either to write more than his name. Master 
 Horner's exhibition of learning on this occasion did not reach 
 us, but we know that it must have been considerable, since he 
 stood the ordeal. 
 
 " What is Orthography ?" said an inspector once, in our 
 presence. 
 
 The candidate writhed a good deal, studied the beams over- 
 head and the chickens out of the window, and then replied, 
 
 " It is so long since I learnt the first part of the spelling-book, 
 that I can't justly answer that question. But if I could just look 
 it over, I guess I could." 
 
 Our schoolmaster entered upon his second term with new 
 courage and invigorated authority. Twice certified, who should 
 dare doubt his competency ? Even Joshua was civil, and lesser 
 louts of course obsequious ; though the girls took more liberties ; 
 for they feel even at that early age, that influence is stronger 
 than strength. 
 
 Could a young schoolmaster think of feruling a girl with her 
 hair in ringlets and a gold ring on her finger 1 Impossible and 
 the immunity extended to all the little sisters and cousins ; and 
 there were enough large girls to protect all the feminine part of 
 the school. With the boys Master Horner still had many a 
 battle, and whether with a view to this, or as an economical 
 riise, he never wore his coat in school, saying it was too warm. 
 Perhaps it was an astute attention to the prejudices of his en> 
 ployers, who love no man that does not earn his living by the 
 sweat of his brow. The shirt-sleeves gave the idea of a manual- 
 labour school in one sense at least. It was evident that the 
 master worked, and that afforded a probability that the scholars 
 worked too. 
 
 Master Horner's success was most triumphant that winter. A 
 
 2* 
 
14 THE GIFT. 
 
 year's growth had improved his outward man exceedingly, filling 
 out the limbs so that they did not remind you so forcibly of a 
 young colt's, and supplying the cheeks with the flesh and blood 
 so necessary when mustaches are not worn. Experience had 
 given him a degree of confidence, and confidence gave him 
 power. In short, people said the master had waked up ; and so 
 he had. He actually set about reading for improvement ; and 
 although at the end of the term he could not quite make out 
 from his historical studies which side Hannibal was on, yet this 
 is readily explained by the fact that he boarded round, and was 
 obliged to read generally by firelight, surrounded by ungoverned 
 children. 
 
 After this, Master Horner made his own bargain. When 
 school-time came round with the following autumn, and the 
 teacher presented himself for a third examination, such a test 
 was pronounced no longer necessary ; and the district consented 
 to engage him at the astounding rate of sixteen dollars a month, 
 with the understanding that he was to have a fixed home, pro- 
 vided he was willing to allow a dollar a week for it. Master 
 Horner bethought him of the successive " killing- times," and 
 consequent dough-nuts of the twenty families in which he had 
 sojourned the years before, and consented to the exaction. 
 
 Behold our friend now as high as district teacher can ever 
 hope to be his scholarship established, his home stationary and 
 not revolving, and the good behaviour of the community insured 
 by the fact that he, being of age, had now a farm to retire upon 
 in case of any disgust. 
 
 Master Horner was now the pre-eminent beau of the neigh- 
 bourhood, spite of the prejudice against learning. He brushed 
 his hair straight up in front, and wore a sky-blue riband for a 
 guard to his silver watch, and walked as if the tall heels of his 
 blunt boots were eggshells and not leather. Yet he was far from 
 neglecting the duties of his place. He was beau only on Sun- 
 days and holidays ; very schoolmaster the rest of the time. 
 
 It was at a " spelling-school" that Master Horner first met the 
 educated eyes of Miss Harriet Bangle, a young lady visiting the 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S PROGRESS. 15 
 
 Engleharts in our neighbourhood. She was from one of the 
 towns in Western New York, and had brought with her a variety 
 of city airs and graces somewhat caricatured, and set off with 
 year-old French fashions much travestied. Whether she had 
 been sent out to the new country to try, somewhat late, a rustic 
 chance for an establishment, or whether her company had been 
 found rather trying at home, we cannot say. The view which 
 she was at some pains to make understood was, that her friends 
 had contrived this method of keeping her out of the way of a 
 desperate lover whose addresses were not acceptable to them. 
 
 If it should seem surprising that so high-bred a visiter should 
 be sojourning in the wild woods, it must be remembered that more 
 than one celebrated Englishman and not a few distinguished 
 Americans have farmer brothers in the western country, no whit 
 less rustic in their exterior and manner of life than the plainest 
 of their neighbours. When these are visited by their refined 
 kinsfolk, we of the woods catch glimpses of the gay world, or 
 think we do. 
 
 " That great medicine hath 
 With its tinct gilded " 
 
 many a vulgarism to the satisfaction of wiser heads than ours. 
 
 Miss Bangle's manner bespoke for her that high consideration 
 which she felt to be her due. Yet she condescended to be 
 amused by the rustics and their awkward attempts at gaiety and 
 elegance ; and, to say truth, few of the village merry-makings 
 escaped her, though she wore always the air of great superiority. 
 
 The spelling-school is one of the ordinary winter amusements 
 in the country. It occurs once in a fortnight, or so, and has 
 power to draw out all the young people for miles round, 
 arrayed in their best clothes and their holiday behaviour. When 
 all is ready, umpires are elected, and after these have taken the 
 distinguished place usually occupied by the teacher, the young 
 people of the school choose the two best scholars to head the 
 opposing classes. These leaders choose their followers from 
 the mass, each calling a name in turn, until all the spellers are 
 
16 THE GIFT. 
 
 ranked on one side or the other, lining the sides of the room, 
 and all standing. The schoolmaster, standing too, takes his 
 spelling-book, and gives a placid yet awe-inspiring look along 
 the ranks, remarking that he intends to be very impartial, and 
 that he shall give out nothing that is not in the spelling-book. 
 For the first half hour or so he chooses common and easy 
 words, that the spirit of the evening may not be damped by 
 the too early thinning of the classes. When a word is missed, 
 the blunderer has to sit down, and be a spectator only for the 
 rest of the evening. At certain intervals, some of the best 
 speakers mount the platform, and " speak a piece," which is 
 generally as declamatory as possible. 
 
 The excitement of this scene is equal to that afforded by any 
 city spectacle whatever ; and towards the close of the evening, 
 when difficult and unusual words are chosen to confound the 
 small number who still keep the floor, it becomes scarcely less 
 than painful. When perhaps only one or two remain to be 
 puzzled, the master, weary at last of his task, though a favourite 
 one, tries by tricks to put down those whom he cannot overcome 
 in fair fight. If among all the curious, useless, unheard-of words 
 which may be picked out of the spelling-book, he cannot find 
 one which the scholars have not noticed, he gets the last head 
 down by some quip or catch. " Bay" will perhaps be the sound ; 
 one scholar spells it " bey," another, " bay," while the master 
 all the time means " ba," which comes within the rule, being in 
 the spelling-book. 
 
 It was on one of these occasions, as we have said, that Miss 
 Bangle, having come to the spelling-school to get materials for a 
 letter to a female friend, first shone upon Mr. Homer. She was 
 excessively amused by his solemn air and puckered mouth, and 
 set him down at once as fair game. Yet she could not help 
 becoming somewhat interested in the spelling-school, and after 
 it was over found she had not stored up half as many of the 
 schoolmaster's points as she intended, for the benefit of her 
 correspondent. 
 
 In the evening's contest a young girl from some few miles' 
 
17 
 
 distance, Ellen Kingsbury, the only child of a substantial 
 farmer, had been the very last to sit down, after a prolonged 
 effort on the part of Mr. Horner to puzzle her, for the credit of 
 his own school. She blushed, and smiled, and blushed again, 
 but spelt on, until Mr. Horner's cheeks were crimson with 
 excitement and some touch of shame that he should be baffled 
 at his own weapons. At length, either by accident or design, 
 Ellen missed a word, and sinking into her seat, was numbered 
 with the slain. 
 
 In the laugh and talk which followed, (for with the conclusion 
 of the spelling, all form of a public assembly vanishes,) our 
 schoolmaster said so many gallant things to his fair enemy, and 
 appeared so much animated by the excitement of the contest, 
 that Miss Bangle began to look upon him with rather more 
 respect, and to feel somewhat indignant that a little rustic like 
 Ellen should absorb the entire attention of the only beau. She 
 put on, therefore, her most gracious aspect, and mingled in the 
 circle ; caused the schoolmaster to be presented to her, and did 
 her best to fascinate him by certain airs and graces which she 
 had found successful elsewhere. What game is too small for 
 the close-woven net of a coquette ? 
 
 Mr. Horner quitted not the fair Ellen until he had handed her 
 into her father's sleigh; and he then wended his way home- 
 wards, never thinking that he ought to have escorted Miss 
 Bangle to her uncle's, though she certainly waited a little while 
 for his return. 
 
 We must not follow into particulars the subsequent intercourse 
 of our schoolmaster with the civilized young lady. All that 
 concerns us is the result of Miss Bangle's benevolent designs 
 upon his heart. She tried most sincerely to find its vulnerable 
 spot, meaning no doubt to put Mr. Horner on his guard for the 
 future ; and she was unfeignedly surprised to discover that her 
 best efforts were of no avail. She concluded he must have 
 taken a counter-poison, and she was not slow in guessing its 
 source. She had observed the peculiar fire which lighted up his 
 eyes in the presence of Ellen Kingsbury, and she bethought her 
 
18 THE GIFT. 
 
 of a plan which would ensure her some amusement at the ex- 
 pense of these impertinent rustics, though in a manner different 
 somewhat from her original more natural idea of simple coquetry. 
 
 A letter was written to Master Homer, purporting to come 
 from Ellen Kingsbury, worded so artfully that the schoolmaster 
 understood at once that it was intended to be a secret communi- 
 cation, though its ostensible object was an inquiry about some 
 ordinary affair. This was laid in Mr. Homer's desk before he 
 came to school, with an intimation that he might leave an 
 answer in a certain spot on the following morning. The bait 
 took at once, for Mr. Horner, honest and true himself, and much 
 smitten with the fair Ellen, was too happy to be circumspect. 
 The answer was duly placed, and as duly carried to Miss Bangle 
 by her accomplice, Joe Englehart, an unlucky pickle who " was 
 always for ill, never for good," and who found no difficulty in 
 obtaining the letter unwatched, since the master was obliged to 
 be in school at nine, and Joe could always linger a few minutes 
 later. This answer being opened and laughed at, Miss Bangle 
 had only to contrive a rejoinder, which being rather more par- 
 ticular in its tone than the original communication, led on yet 
 again the happy schoolmaster, who branched out into sentiment, 
 " taffeta phrases, silken terms precise," talked of hills and dales 
 and rivulets, and the pleasures of friendship, and concluded by 
 entreating a continuance of the correspondence. 
 
 Another letter and another, every one more flattering and 
 encouraging than the last, almost turned the sober head of our 
 poor master, and warmed up his heart so effectually that he 
 could scarcely attend to his business. The spelling-schools were 
 not forgotten, however, and Ellen Kingsbury made one of the 
 merry company; but the latest letter had not forgotten to cau- 
 tion Mr. Horner not to betray the intimacy, so that he was in 
 honour bound to restrict himself to the language of the eyes, 
 hard as it was to forbear the single whisper for which he would 
 have given his very dictionary. So their meeting passed off 
 without the explanation which Miss Bangle began to fear would 
 cut short her benevolent amusement. 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S PROGRESS. 19 
 
 The correspondence was resumed with renewed spirit, and 
 carried on until Miss Bangle, though not over-burdened with 
 sensitiveness, began to be a little alarmed for the consequences 
 of her malicious pleasantry. She perceived that she herself had 
 turned schoolmistress, and that Master Horner, instead of being 
 merely her dupe, had become her pupil too ; for the style of his 
 replies had been constantly improving, and the earnest and 
 manly tone which he assumed promised any thing but the quiet, 
 sheepish pocketing of injury and insult, upon which she had 
 counted. In truth, there was something deeper than vanity in 
 the feelings with which he regarded Ellen Kingsbury. The 
 encouragement which he supposed himself to have received, 
 threw down the barrier which his extreme bashfulness would 
 have interposed between himself and any one who possessed 
 charms enough to attract him ; and we must excuse him if, in 
 such a case, he did not criticise the mode of encouragement, but 
 rather grasped eagerly the proffered good, without a scruple, or 
 one which he would own to himself, as to the propriety with 
 which it was tendered. He was as much in love as a man can 
 be, and the seriousness of real attachment gave both grace and 
 dignity to his once awkward diction. 
 
 The evident determination of Mr. Horner to come to the point 
 of asking papa, brought Miss Bangle to a very awkward pass. 
 She had expected to return home before matters had proceeded 
 so far, but being obliged to remain some time longer, she was 
 equally afraid to go on and to leave off, a denouement being 
 almost certain to ensue in either case. Things stood thus when 
 it was time to prepare for the grand exhibition which was to 
 close the winter's term. 
 
 This is an affair of too much magnitude to be fully described 
 in the small space yet remaining in which to bring out our vera- 
 cious history. It must be " slubber'd o'er in haste," its im- 
 portant preliminaries left to the cold imagination of the reader 
 its fine spirit perhaps evaporating for want of being embodied in 
 words. We can only say that our master, whose school-life was 
 
20 THE GIFT. 
 
 to close with the term, laboured as man never before laboured in 
 such a cause, resolute to trail a cloud of glory after him when 
 he left us. Not a candlestick nor a curtain that was attainable, 
 either by coaxing or bribery, was left in the village ; even the 
 only piano, that frail treasure, was wiled away and placed in 
 one corner of the rickety stage. The most splendid of all the 
 pieces in the " Columbian Orator," the " American Speaker," 
 
 the but we must not enumerate. In a word, the most 
 
 astounding and pathetic specimens of eloquence within ken of 
 either teacher or scholars, had been selected for the occasion ; 
 and several young ladies and gentlemen, whose academical course 
 had been happily concluded at an earlier period, either at our 
 own institution or at some other, had consented to lend them- 
 selves to the parts and their choicest decorations for the proper- 
 ties, of the dramatic portion of the entertainment. 
 
 Among these last was pretty Ellen Kingsbury, who had agreed 
 to personate the Queen of Scots, in the garden scene from 
 Schiller's tragedy of " Mary Stuart ;" and this circumstance ac- 
 cidentally afforded Master Horner the opportunity he had so long 
 desired, of seeing his fascinating correspondent without the pre- 
 sence of peering eyes. A dress-rehearsal occupied the afternoon 
 before the day of days, and the pathetic expostulations of the 
 lovely Mary 
 
 Mine all doth hang my life my destiny 
 Upon my words upon the force of tears ! 
 
 aided by the long veil, and the emotion which sympathy brought 
 into Ellen's countenance, proved too much for the enforced pru- 
 dence of Master Horner. When the rehearsal was over, and 
 the heroes and heroines were to return home, it was found that, 
 by a stroke of witty invention not new in the country, the harness 
 on Mr. Kingsbury's horses had been cut in several places, his 
 whip hidden, his buffalo-skins spread on the ground and the sleigh 
 turned bottom upwards on them. This afforded an excuse for the 
 master's borrowing a horse and sleigh of somebody, and claiming 
 
21 
 
 the privilege of taking Miss Ellen home, while her father re- 
 turned with only Aunt Sally and a great bag of bran from the 
 mill companions about equally interesting. 
 
 Here, then, was the golden opportunity so long wished for ! 
 Here was the power of ascertaining at once what is never quite 
 certain until we have heard it from warm, living lips, whose 
 testimony is strengthened by glances in which the whole soul 
 speaks or seems to speak. The time was short, for the sleigh- 
 ing was but too fine ; and Father Kingsbury, having tied up his 
 harness, and collected his scattered equipment, was driving so 
 close behind that there was no possibility of lingering for a mo- 
 ment. Yet many moments were lost before Mr. Horner, very 
 much in earnest, and all unhackneyed in matters of this sort, 
 could find a word in which to clothe his new-found feelings. 
 The horse seemed to fly the distance was half past and at 
 length, in absolute despair of any thing better, he blurted out at 
 once what he had determined to avoid a direct reference to the 
 correspondence. 
 
 A game at cross-purposes ensued ; exclamations and expla- 
 nations, and denials and apologies filled up the time which was 
 to have made Master Horner so blest. The light from Mr. 
 Kingsbury's windows shone upon the path, and the whole result 
 of this conference so longed for, was a burst of tears from the 
 perplexed and mortified Ellen, who sprang from Mr. Horner's 
 attempts to detain her, rushed into the house without vouchsafing 
 him a word of adieu, and left him standing, no bad personification 
 of Orpheus, after the last hopeless flitting of his Eurydice. 
 
 " Won't you 'light, Master ?" said Mr. Kingsbury. 
 
 "Yes no thank you good evening " stammered poor 
 Master Horner, so stupified that even Aunt Sally called him " a 
 dummy." 
 
 The horse took the sleigh against the fence, going home, and 
 threw out the master, who scarcely recollected the accident ; while 
 to Ellen the issue of this unfortunate drive was a sleepless night 
 and so high a fever in the morning that our village doctor was 
 called to Mr. Kingsbury's before breakfast. 
 
 3 
 
22 THE GIFT. 
 
 Poor Master Horner's distress may hardly be imagined. Dis- 
 appointed, bewildered, cut to the quick, yet as much in love as 
 ever, he could only in bitter silence turn over in his thoughts the 
 issue of his cherished dream ; now persuading himself that Ellen's 
 denial was the effect of a sudden bash fulness, now inveighing 
 against the fickleness of the sex, as all men do when they are 
 angry with any one woman in particular. But his exhibition 
 must go on, in spite of wretchedness ; and he went about me- 
 chanically, talking of curtains and candles, and music, and atti- 
 tudes, and pauses, and emphasis, looking like a somnambulist 
 whose " eyes are open but their sense is shut," and often sur- 
 prising those concerned by the utter unfitness of his answers. 
 
 It was almost evening when Mr. Kingsbury, having discovered, 
 through the intervention of the Doctor and Aunt Sally, the cause 
 of Ellen's distress, made his appearance before the unhappy eyes 
 of Master Horner, angry, solemn and determined ; taking the 
 schoolmaster apart, and requiring an explanation of his treatment 
 of his daughter. In vain did the perplexed lover ask for time to 
 clear himself, declare his respect for Miss Ellen and his willing- 
 ness to give every explanation which she might require : the 
 father was not to be put off; and though excessively reluctant, 
 Mr. Horner had no resource but to show the letters which alone 
 could account for his strange discourse to Ellen. He unlocked his 
 desk, slowly and unwillingly, while the old man's impatience was 
 such that he could scarcely forbear thrusting in his own hand to 
 snatch at the papers which were to explain this vexatious mys- 
 tery. What could equal the utter confusion of Master Horner and 
 the contemptuous anger of the father, when no letters were to be 
 found ! Mr. Kingsbury was too passionate to listen to reason, or 
 to reflect for one moment upon the irreproachable good name of 
 the schoolmaster. He went away in inexorable wrath; threaten- 
 ing every practicable visitation of public and private justice upon 
 the head of the offender, whom he accused of having attempted 
 to trick his daughter into an entanglement which should result 
 in his favour. 
 
 A doleful exhibition was this last one of our thrice-approved 
 
23 
 
 and most worthy teacher ! Stern necessity and the power of 
 habit enabled him to go through with most of his part, but where 
 was the proud fire which had lighted up his eye on similar 
 occasions before 1 He sat as one of three judges before whom 
 the unfortunate Robert Emmet was dragged in, in his shirt- 
 sleeves, by two fierce-looking officials ; but the chief judge 
 looked far more like a criminal than did the proper represent- 
 ative. He ought to have personated Othello, but was obliged 
 to excuse himself from raving for " the handkerchief! the hand- 
 kerchief!" on the rather anomalous plea of a bad cold. " Mary 
 Stuart" being " i' the bond," was anxiously expected by the 
 impatient crowd, and it was with distress amounting to agony, 
 that the master was obliged to announce in person, the necessity 
 of omitting that part of the representation, on account of the 
 illness of one of the young ladies. 
 
 Scarcely had the words been uttered, and the speaker hidden 
 his burning face behind the curtain, when Mr. Kingsbury started 
 up in his place amid the throng, to give a public recital of his 
 grievance no uncommon resort in the new country. He dashed 
 at once to the point ; and before some friends, who saw the utter 
 impropriety of his proceeding, could persuade him to defer his 
 vengeance, he had laid before the assembly some three hundred 
 people, perhaps his own statement of the case. He was got 
 out at last, half coaxed, half hustled ; and the gentle public only 
 half understanding what had been set forth thus unexpectedly, 
 made quite a pretty row of it. Some clamoured loudly for the 
 conclusion of the exercises ; others gave utterance in no parti- 
 cularly choice terms to a variety of opinions as to the school- 
 master's proceedings, varying the note occasionally by shouting, 
 " the letters ! the letters ! why don't you bring out the letters ?" 
 
 At length, by means of much rapping on the desk by the 
 president of the evening, who was fortunately a " popular" cha- 
 racter, order was partially restored ; and the favourite scene 
 from Miss More's dialogue of David and Goliah was announced 
 as the closing piece. The sight of little David in a white tunic 
 edged with red tape, with a calico scrip and a very primitive- 
 looking sling ; and a huge Goliah decorated with a militia belt 
 
24 THE GIFT. 
 
 and sword, and a spear like a weaver's beam indeed, enchained 
 every body's attention. Even the peccant schoolmaster and his 
 pretended letters were forgotten, while the sapient Goliah, every 
 time that he raised the spear, in the energy of his declamation, 
 to thump upon the stage, picked away fragments of the low 
 ceiling, which fell conspicuously on his great shock of black 
 hair. At last, with the crowning threat, up went the spear for 
 an astounding thump, and down came a large piece of the ceiling, 
 and with it a shower of letters. 
 
 The confusion that ensued beggars all description. A general 
 scramble took place, and in another moment twenty pairs of 
 eyes, at least, were feasting on the choice phrases lavished upon 
 Mr. Horner. Miss Bangle had sat through the whole previous 
 scene, trembling for herself, although she had, as she supposed, 
 guarded cunningly against exposure. She had needed no pro- 
 phet to tell her what must be the result of a tete-a-tete between 
 Mr. Horner and Ellen ; and the moment she saw them drive off 
 together, she induced her imp to seize the opportunity of ab- 
 stracting the whole parcel of letters from Mr. Horner's desk ; 
 which he did by means of a sort of skill which comes by nature 
 to such goblins : picking the lock by the aid of a crooked nail, 
 as neatly as if he had been born within the shadow of the 
 Tombs. 
 
 But magicians sometimes suffer severely from the malice with 
 which they have themselves inspired their familiars. Joe Engle- 
 hart having been a convenient tool thus far, thought it quite time 
 to torment Miss Bangle a little ; so, having stolen the letters at 
 her bidding, he hid them on his own account, and no persuasions 
 of hers could induce him to reveal this important secret, which 
 he chose to reserve as a rod in case she refused him some inter- 
 cession with his father, or some other accommodation, rendered 
 necessary by his mischievous habits. 
 
 He had concealed the precious parcel in the unfloored loft 
 above the school-room, a place accessible only by means of a 
 small trap-door without staircase or ladder ; and here he meant 
 to have kept them while it suited his purposes, but for the 
 untimely intrusion of the weaver's beam. 
 
THE SCHOOLMASTER S PROGRESS. 25 
 
 Miss Bangle had sat through all, as we have said, thinking 
 the letters safe, yet vowing vengeance against her confederate 
 for not allowing her to secure them by a satisfactory conflagra- 
 tion, and it was not until she heard her own name whispered 
 through the crowd, that she was awakened to her true situation. 
 The sagacity of the low creatures whom she had despised showed 
 them at once that the letters must be hers, since her character 
 had been pretty shrewdly guessed, and the handwriting wore a 
 more practised air than is usual among females in the country. 
 This was first taken for granted, and then spoken of as an 
 acknowledged fact. 
 
 The assembly moved like the heavings of a troubled sea. 
 Every body felt that this was every body's business. " Put her 
 out !" was heard from more than one rough voice near the door, 
 and this was responded to by loud and angry murmurs from 
 within. 
 
 Mr. Englehart, not waiting to inquire into the merits of the 
 case in this scene of confusion, hastened to get his family out as 
 quietly and as quickly as possible, but groans and hisses followed 
 his niece as she hung half-fainting on his arm, quailing com- 
 pletely beneath the instinctive indignation of the rustic public. 
 As she passed out, a yell resounded among the rude boys about 
 the door, and she was lifted into a sleigh, insensible from terror. 
 She disappeared from that evening, and no one knew the time of 
 her final departure for " the east." 
 
 Mr. Kingsbury, who is a just man when he is not in a pas- 
 sion, made all the reparation in his power for his harsh and 
 ill-considered attack upon the master ; and we believe that 
 functionary did not show any traits of implacability of charac- 
 ter. At least he was seen, not many days after, sitting peace- 
 ably at tea with Mr. Kingsbury, Aunt Sally, and Miss Ellen ; 
 and he has since gone home to build a house upon his farm. 
 And people do say, that after a few months more, Ellen will not 
 need Miss Bangle's intervention if she should see fit to corre- 
 spond with the umquhile schoolmaster. 
 
 3* 
 
THE WOUNDED VULTURE. 
 
 BY ANNE C. LYNCH. 
 
 [This incident is beautifully related in Miss Bremer's Diary.] 
 
 A KINGLY vulture sat alone, 
 
 Lord of the ruin round, 
 Where Egypt's ancient monuments, 
 
 Upon the desert frowned. 
 
 A hunter's eager eye had marked 
 
 The form of that proud bird, 
 And through the voiceless solitude, 
 
 His ringing shot was heard. 
 
 It rent that vulture's plumed breast, 
 
 Aimed with unerring hand, 
 And his life-blood gushed warm and red, 
 
 Upon the yellow sand. 
 
 No struggle marked the deadly wound, 
 
 He gave no piercing cry, 
 But calmly spread his giant wings, 
 
 And sought the upper sky. 
 
 In vain with swift pursuing shot 
 
 The hunter seeks his prey, 
 Circling and circling upward still, 
 
 On his majestic way. 
 
THE WOUNDED VULTURE. 27 
 
 Up to the blue empyrean, 
 
 He wings his steady flight, 
 Till his receding form is lost, 
 
 In the full flood of light. 
 
 Oh, wounded heart ! oh, suffering soul ! 
 
 Sit not with folded wing, 
 Where broken dreams and ruined hopes 
 
 Their mournful shadows fling. 
 
 Outspread thy pinions like that bird, 
 
 Take thou the path sublime, 
 Beyond the flying shafts of Fate, 
 
 Beyond the wounds of Time. 
 
 Mount upward ! brave the clouds and storms 
 
 Above life's desert plain 
 There is a calmer, purer air, 
 
 A heaven thou too may'st gain. 
 
 And as that dim, ascending form 
 
 Was lost in day's broad light, 
 So shall thine earthly sorrows fade. 
 
 Lost in the Infinite. 
 
THE POWER OF AN " INJURED LOOK." 
 
 BY N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I HAD a sort of candle-light acquaintance with Mr. Philip 
 McRueit when we were in college. I mean to say that I had a 
 daylight repugnance to him, and never walked with him, or 
 talked with him, or rode with him, or sat with him ; and, indeed, 
 seldom saw him except as one of a club oyster-party of six. 
 He was a short, sharp, satirical man, (nicknamed " my cruet," 
 by his cronies rather descriptively !) but as plausible and as 
 vindictive as Mephistopheles before and after the ruin of a soul. 
 In some other state of existence I had probably known, and suf- 
 fered by, Phil. McRueit for I knew him like the sleeve of an 
 old coat, the first day I laid eyes on him ; though other people 
 seemed to have no such instinct. Oh, we were not new ac- 
 quaintances from whatever star he had been transported, for 
 his sins, to this planet of dirt. I think he was of the same 
 opinion, himself. He chose between open warfare and concili- 
 ation in the first five minutes after seeing me as a stranger 
 chose the latter. 
 
 Six or seven years after leaving college, I was following my 
 candle up to bed rather musingly, one night at the Astor, and 
 on turning a corner, I was obliged to walk round a short 
 gentleman who stood at the head of the stairs in an attitude of 
 fixed contemplation. As I weathered the top of his hat rather 
 
THE POWER OF AN "INJURED LOOK." 29 
 
 closely, I caught the direction of his eye, and saw that he was 
 regarding, very fixedly, a pair of rather dusty kid slippers, which 
 had been set outside the door, probably for cleaning, by the 
 occupant of the chamber opposite. As the gentleman did not 
 move, I turned on the half landing of the next flight of stairs, 
 and looked back, breaking in, by my sudden pause, upon his fit 
 of abstraction. It was McRueit, and on recognising me, he 
 immediately beckoned me to his side. 
 
 " Does it strike you," said he, " that there is any thing pecu- 
 liar in that pair of shoes ?" 
 
 " No except that they certify to two very small feet on the 
 other side of the door." 
 
 " Not merely small,' my dear fellow ! Do you see where the 
 pressure has been in those slender shoes, how straight the inside 
 line, how arched the instep, how confidingly flat the pressure 
 downward of the little great toe ! It's a woman of sweet and 
 relying character who wore that shoe to-day, and I must know 
 her ! More, sir, I must marry her ! Ah, you laugh but I 
 will ! There's a magnetism in that pair of shoes addressed to 
 me only. Beg your pardon good night I'll go down stairs 
 and find out her name by her number * 74 !' I'll be well 
 acquainted with ' 74' by this time to-morrow !" 
 
 For the unconscious young lady asleep in that room, I lay 
 awake half the night, troubled with foreboding pity. I knew 
 the man so well, I was so certain that he would leave nothing 
 possible undone to carry out this whimsical purpose ! I knew 
 that from that moment was levelled, point-blank, at the lady, 
 whoever she might be, (if single) a battery of devilish and per- 
 tinacious ingenuity, which would carry most any small fort of a 
 heart, most any way barricaded and defended. He was well . 
 off ; he was well-looking enough ; he was deep and crafty. But 
 if he did win her, she was gone ! gone, I knew, from happiness, 
 like a stone from a sling. He was a tyrant subtle in his 
 cruelties to all people dependent on him and her life would be 
 one of refined torture, neglect, betrayal, and tears. 
 
 A fit of intermittent disgust for strangers, to which all persons 
 
30 THE GIFT. 
 
 living in hotels are more or less liable, confined my travels, for 
 some days after this rencontre, to the silence-and-slop thorough- 
 fare of the back stairs, " Coming to my feed" of society one 
 rainy morning, I went into the drawing-room after breakfast, 
 and was not surprised to see McRueit in a posture of absorbed 
 attention beside a lady. His stick stood on the floor, and with 
 his left cheek rested on the gold head, he was gazing into her 
 face, and evidently keeping her perfectly at her ease as to the 
 wants and gaps of conversation, as he knew how to do for he 
 was the readiest man with his brick and mortar whom I ever 
 had encountered. 
 
 "Who is that lady?" I asked of an omni-acquainted old 
 bachelor friend of mine. 
 
 "Miss Jonthee Twitt and what can be the secret of that 
 rather exclusive gentleman's attention to her, I cannot fancy." 
 
 I pulled a newspaper from my pocket, and seating myself in 
 one of the deep windows, commenced rather a compassionate 
 study of Miss Twitt intending fully, if I should find her inte- 
 resting, to save her from the clutches of my detestable classmate. 
 
 She was a slight, hollow-chested, consumptive-looking girl, 
 with a cast of features that any casual observer would be certain 
 to describe as " interesting." With the first two minutes' gaze 
 upon her, my sympathies were active enough for a crusade 
 against a whole army of connubial tyrants. I suddenly paused, 
 however. Something McRueit said made a change in the lady's 
 countenance. She sat just as still ; she did not move her head 
 from its negligent posture ; her eyebrows did not contract ; her 
 lips did not stir; but the dull, sickly-coloured lids descended 
 calmly and fixedly till they hid from sight the upper edges of 
 the pupils ! and by this slight but infallible sign I knew but the 
 story will tell what I knew. Napoleon was nearly, but not quite 
 right, when he said that there was no reliance to be placed on 
 peculiarities of feature or expression. 
 
THE POWER OF AN "INJURED LOOK." 31 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 In August of that same year, I followed the world to Saratoga. 
 In my first reconnoitre of the drawing-room of Congress Hall, I 
 caught the eye of Mr. McRueit, and received from him a cordial 
 salutation. As I put my head right, upon its pivot, after an easy 
 nod to my familiar aversion, my eyes fell upon Miss Jonthee 
 Twitt that was for I had seen, in the newspapers of two 
 months before, that the resolve (born of the dusty slipper outside 
 her door), had been brought about, and she was now on the 
 irrevocable side of a honeymoon sixty days old. 
 
 Her eyelid was down upon ilie pupil motionless, concen- 
 trated, and vigilant as a couched panther and from beneath 
 the hem of her dress curved out the high arched instep of a foot 
 pointed with desperate tension to the carpet ; the little great toe 
 (whose relying pressure on the soiled slipper Mr. McRueit had 
 been captivated by,) now rigid with as strong a purpose as 
 spiritual homoeopathy could concentrate in so small a tenement. 
 I thought I would make Mr. and Mrs. McRueit the subject of 
 quiet study while I remained at Saratoga. 
 
 But I have not mentioned the immediate cause of Mrs. 
 McRueit's resentment. Her bridegroom was walking up and 
 down the room with a certain Mrs. Wanmaker, a widow, who 
 was a better woman than she looked to be, as I chanced to 
 know, but as nobody could know without the intimate acquaint- 
 ance with Mrs. Wanmaker upon which I base this remark. 
 With beauty of the most voluptuous cast, and a passion for 
 admiration which induced her to throw out every possible lure 
 to men any way worth her time as victims, Mrs. Wanmaker's 
 blood was as " cold as the flow of Iser," and her propriety, in 
 fact, wholly impregnable. I had been myself " tried on" by 
 the Widow Wanmaker, and twenty caravan-marches might have 
 been made across the Desert of Sahara, while the conviction I 
 have just stated was " getting through my hair." It was not 
 wonderful, therefore, that both the bride and her (usually) most 
 
32 THE GIFT. 
 
 penetrations bridegroom, had sailed over the widow's shallows, 
 unconscious of soundings. She was a " deep" woman, too but 
 not in the love line. 
 
 I thought McRueit singularly off his guard, if it were only for 
 "appearances." He monopolized the widow effectually, and 
 she thought it worth her while to let the world think him (a 
 bridegroom and a rising young politician,) mad for her, and, 
 truth to say, they carried on the war strenuously. Perfectly 
 certain as I was that " the whirligig of time" would " bring 
 about the revenges" of Mrs. McRueit, I began to feel a mean- 
 time pity for her, and had myself presented duly by McRueit 
 the next morning after breakfast. 
 
 It was a tepid, flaccid, reverie-coloured August morning, and 
 the sole thought of the universe seemed to be to sit down. The 
 devotees to gaiety and mineral water dawdled out to the porti- 
 coes, and some sat on chairs under the trees, and the dandies 
 lay on the grass, and the old ladies on the steps and the settees, 
 and here and there, a man on the balustrade, and, in the large 
 swing, vis-a-vis, sat McRueit and the Widow Wanmaker, chat- 
 ting in an undertone quite inaudible. Mrs. McRueit sat on a 
 bench, with her back against one of the high-shouldered pine 
 trees in the court-yard, and I had called McRueit out of his 
 swing to present me. But he returned immediately to the 
 widow. 
 
 I thought it would be alleviative and good-natured to give 
 Mrs. McRueit an insight to the harmlessness of Mrs. Wan- 
 maker, and I had done so very nearly to my satisfaction, when 
 I discovered that the slighted wife did not care sixpence about 
 the fact, and that, unlike Hamlet, she only knew seems. The 
 more I developed the innocent object of the widow's outlay of 
 smiles and confidentialities, the more Mrs. McRueit placed her- 
 self in a posture to be remarked by the loungers in the court- 
 yard and the dawdlers on the portico, and the more she deepened 
 a certain look you must imagine it for the present, dear reader. 
 It would take a razor's edge of analysis, and a Flemish paint- 
 pot and patience to carve that injured look into language, or 
 
THE POWER OF AN "INJURED LOOK." 33 
 
 paint it truthfully to the eye ! Juries would hang husbands, and 
 recording angels " ruthlessly overcharge," upon the unsupported 
 evidence of such a look. She looked as if her heart must have 
 suffocated with forbearance long before she began to look so. 
 She looked as if she had forgiven and wept, and was ready to 
 forgive and weep again. She looked as if she would give her 
 life if she could conceal " her feelings," and as if she was 
 nerving soul, and heart, and eyelids, and lachrymatory glands 
 all to agony to prevent bursting into tears with her unutter- 
 able anguish ! It was the most unresisting, unresentful, patient, 
 sweet miserableness ! A lamb's willingness to " furnish forth 
 another meal" of chops and sweet-bread, was testy to such meek 
 endurance ! She was evidently a martyr, a victim, a crushed 
 flower, a " poor thing !" But she did, now and then, unseen 
 by any body but me give a glance from that truncated orb of a 
 pupil of hers, over the top of her handkerchief, that, if incar- 
 nated, would have made a hole in the hide of a rhinoceros ! It 
 was triumph, venom, implacability, such as I had never before 
 seen expressed in human glances. 
 
 There are many persons with but one idea, and that a good 
 one. Mrs. McRueit, I presume, was incapable of appreciating 
 my interest in her. At any rate she played the same game 
 with me as with other people, and managed her affairs altogether 
 with perfect unity. It was in vain that I endeavoured to hear 
 from her tongue what I read in the lowering pupil of her eye. 
 She spoke of McRueit with evident reluctance, but always with 
 discretion never blaming him, nor leaving any opening that 
 should betray resentment, or turn the current of sympathy from 
 herself. The result was immediate. The women in the house 
 began to look black upon McRueit. The men "sent him to 
 Coventry" more unwillingly, for he was amusing and popular 
 but " to Coventry" he went ! And at last the Widow Wanmaker 
 became aware that she was wasting her time on a man whose 
 attentions were not wanted elsewhere and she (the unkindest 
 cut of all) found reasons for looking another way when he 
 approached her. He had become aware, during this process, 
 
 4 
 
34 THE GIFT. 
 
 what was " in the wind," but he knew too much to stay in the 
 public eye when it was inflamed. With his brows lowering, 
 and his face gloomy with feelings I could easily interpret, he 
 took the early coach on the third morning after my introduction 
 to Mrs. McRueit, and departed, probably for a discipline trip, 
 to some place where sympathy with his wife would be less 
 dangerous. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 I think, that within the next two or three years, I heard 
 McRueit's name mentioned several times, or saw it in the 
 papers, connected with strong political movements. I had no 
 very definite idea of where he was residing, however. Business 
 called me to a western county, and on the road I fell into the 
 company of a great political schemer and partisan one of those 
 joints, (of the feline political body,) the next remove from the 
 " cat's paw." Finding that I cared not a straw for politics, and 
 that we were going to the same town, he undertook the blandish- 
 ment of an overflow of confidence upon me, probably with the 
 remote possibility that he might have occasion to use me. I 
 gave in to it so far as courteously to receive all his secrets, and 
 we arrived at our destination excellent friends. 
 
 The town was in a ferment with the coming election of a 
 member for the Legislature, and the hotel being very crowded, 
 Mr. Develin (my fellow-traveller) and myself were put into a 
 double-bedded room. Busy with my own affairs, I saw but little 
 of him, and he seemed quite too much occupied for conversation, 
 till the third night after our arrival. Lying in bed with the 
 moonlight streaming into the room, he began to give me some 
 account of the campaign, preparing for, around us, and pre- 
 sently mentioned the name of McRueit, (the name, by the way, 
 that I had seen upon the placards, without caring particularly to 
 inquire whether or not it was " mine ancient" aversion.) 
 
 " They are not aware," said Mr. Develin, after talking on the 
 
THE POWER OF AN "INJURED LOOK." 35 
 
 subject awhile, " that this petty election, is, in fact, the grain of 
 sand that is to turn the Presidential scale. If McRueit should 
 be elected, (as I am sorry to say there seems every chance he 
 will be,) Van Buren's doom is sealed. I have come a little too 
 late here. I should have had time to know something more of 
 this man McRueit " 
 
 " Perhaps I can give you some idea of him," interrupted I, 
 " for he has chanced to be more in my way than I would have 
 bargained for. But what do you wish to know particularly ?" 
 (I spoke, as the reader will see, in the unsuspecting innocence of 
 my heart.) 
 
 " Oh any thing any thing! Tell me all you know of him !" 
 
 Mr. Develin's vividness rather surprised me, for he raised 
 himself on his elbow in bed but I went on and narrated very 
 much what I have put down for the reader in the two preceding 
 chapters. 
 
 " How do you spell Mrs. Wanmaker's name ?" asked my im- 
 bedded vis-a-vis, as I stopped and turned over to go to sleep. 
 
 I spelt it for him. 
 
 He jumped out of bed, dressed himself and left the room. 
 Will the reader permit me to follow him, like Asmodeus, giving 
 with Asmodean brevity the knowledge I afterwards gained of his 
 use of my involuntary revelation. 
 
 Mr. Develin roused the active member of the Van Buren Com- 
 mittee from his slumbers, and in an hour had the printers of their 
 party paper at work upon a placard. A large meeting was to 
 be held the next day in the town hall, during which both candi- 
 dates, it was supposed, would address the people. Ladies were 
 to occupy the galleries. The hour came round. Mrs. McRueit's 
 carriage drove into the village a few minutes before eleven, and 
 as she stopped at a shop for a moment, a letter was handed her 
 by a boy. She sat still and read it. She was alone. Her face 
 turned livid with paleness after its first flush, and forgetting her 
 errand at the shop, she drove on to the town hall. She took her 
 seat in a prominent part of the gallery. The preliminaries were 
 gone through with, and her husband rose to speak. He was a 
 
36 THE GIFT. 
 
 plausible orator, an eloquent man. But there was a sentiment 
 circulating in the audience something whispered from man to 
 man that strangely took off the attention of the audience. He 
 could not, as he had never before found difficulty in doing, keep 
 their eyes upon his lips. JEvery one was gazing on his wife ! 
 And there she sat, with her INJURED LOOK ! pale, sad, appa- 
 rently striving to listen and conceal her mental suffering. It 
 was as convincing to the audience of the truth of the insinuation 
 that was passing from mouth to mouth as convincing as would 
 have been a revelation from heaven. McRueit followed the 
 many upturned eyes at last, and saw that they were bent on his 
 wife, and that once more after years of conciliation, she wore 
 THAT INJURED LOOK ! His heart failed him. He evidently 
 comprehended that the spirit that had driven him from Saratoga, 
 years before popular sympathy with women had overtaken 
 him and was plotting against him once more. His speech began 
 to lose its concentration. He talked wide. The increasing noise 
 overpowered him, and he descended at last from the platform 
 in the midst of a universal hiss. The other candidate rose and 
 spoke ; and at the close of his speech the meeting broke up, and 
 as they dispersed, their eyes were met at every corner with a 
 large placard, in which "injured wife," "unfaithful husband," 
 " Widow W n k r," were the words in prominent capitals. 
 The election came on the next day, and Mr. McRueit being sig- 
 nally defeated, Mr. Van Buren's election to the Presidency (if 
 Mr. Develin knew any thing) was made certain brought about 
 by a woman's INJURED LOOK ! 
 
 My business in the county was the purchase of land, and for 
 a year or two afterwards, I was a great deal there. Feeling 
 that I had unintentionally furnished a weapon to his enemies, I 
 did penance by cultivating McRueit. I went often to his house. 
 He was at first a good deal broken up by the sudden check to his 
 ambition, but he rallied with a change in his character for which 
 I was not prepared. He gave up all antagonism towards his 
 wife. He assumed a new manner to her. She had been skil- 
 fully managed before but he took her now confidingly behind 
 
THE POWER OF AN "INJURED LOOK." 37 
 
 his shield. He felt overmastered by the key she had to popular 
 sympathy, and he determined wisely to make it turn in his 
 favour. By assiduity, by tenderness, childlikeness, he suc- 
 ceeded in completely convincing her that he had but one out-of- 
 doors' wish that of embellishing her existence by his success. 
 The effect on her was marvellous. She recovered her health, 
 gradually changed to a joyous and earnest promoter of her hus- 
 band's interests, and they were soon a marked model in the 
 county for conjugal devotion. The popular impression soon 
 gained ground that Mr. McRueit had been shamefully wronged 
 by the previous prejudice against his character as a husband. 
 The tide that had already turned, soon swelled to a flood, and 
 Mr. McRueit now but Mr. McRueit is too powerful a person in 
 the present Government to follow any farther. Suffice it to say 
 that he might return to Mrs. Wanmaker and his old courses if 
 he liked for his wife's INJURED LOOK is entirely fattened out of 
 possibility by her happiness. She weighs two hundred, and 
 could no more look injured than Sir John Falstaff. 
 
GOING HOME. 
 
 BY C. P. CRANCH. 
 
 GOING home going home ! 
 
 There is music in the word, 
 Such as those who never roam, 
 
 Never yet have heard. 
 I have sung it to my heart, 
 
 Which has sung it back to me, 
 Till my lips must bear their part 
 
 In the harmony, 
 Singing all in one, 
 Going home, going home ! 
 
 Going home from careless looks, 
 
 From eyes that glance and turn away, 
 From lips that speak like formal books, 
 
 Or mean not what they say ; 
 Once more to hear our Christian name, 
 
 Where studied speech is never known ; 
 And make around the twilight flame 
 
 A kingdom of our own, 
 Saying as we sit 
 This is home this is home ! 
 
 Going home from cheerless places, 
 
 By no affections sanctified, 
 To the circle of dear faces, 
 
 Round our own fireside ; 
 
GOING HOME. 39 
 
 To each well-remembered room, 
 
 To all old familiar things, 
 Leaving all that speaks of gloom, 
 Still my spirit sings, 
 And my lips repeat 
 Going home, going home ! 
 
 Are we, are we going home 1 
 
 Or is it but a lovely dream 1 
 Will that time, long looked for, come, 
 
 And bear me on its stream ? 
 Parents, brothers, sisters all, 
 
 Shall we meet as once we met, 
 In the old paternal hall, 
 
 We can ne'er forget, 
 All once more to sing, 
 This is home this is home ! 
 
 Yes, my heart, we're going home 
 
 Home to kindred eyes and voices ,* 
 Pilgrim seeing distant Rome, 
 
 Never so rejoices, 
 As to-morrow thou and I, 
 
 Leaving stranger hearts behind, 
 Homeward with the spring to fly, 
 
 Like the free-born wind, 
 Singing as we fly, 
 Going home going home ! 
 
THE NECKLACE. 
 
 BY ANNE C. LYNCH. 
 
 WHY bends she o'er that glittering toy, 
 With such an earnest gaze, 
 
 As if those flashing jewels cast 
 Love-glances in their rays 1 
 
 By that high thought-enthroned brow 
 
 That deep and soul-lit eye, 
 I know 'tis not the passing dream 
 
 Of woman's vanity. 
 
 I know that in its golden links 
 
 Some talisman is set, 
 And for the heart it rests upon, 
 
 'Tis Love's own amulet. 
 
 Oh may that heart so joyous now, 
 
 No heavier burden bear ; 
 The beauty of that noble brow, 
 
 No deeper shadow wear. 
 
 Alas ! how vain the wish, for souls 
 That wildest rapture know, 
 
 Must vibrate with a keener pang, 
 To every note of woe. 
 
C R Leslie R A 
 
THE PURLOINED LETTER. 
 
 BY EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 AT Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 
 18 , I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a 
 meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in 
 his little back library, or book-closet, au troisiime, No. 33, Rue 
 Dunot, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had 
 maintained a profound silence; while each, to any casual ob- 
 server, might have seemed intently and exclusively occupied 
 with the curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere 
 of the chamber. For myself, however, I was mentally discuss- 
 ing certain topics which had formed matter for conversation 
 between us at an earlier period of the evening ; I mean the affair 
 of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of 
 Marie Roget. I looked upon it, therefore, as something of a 
 coincidence, when the door of our apartment was thrown open 
 
 and admitted our old acquaintance, Monsieur G , the Prefect 
 
 of the Parisian police. 
 
 We gave him a hearty welcome ; for there was nearly half as 
 much of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man, 
 and we had not seen him for several years. We had been 
 sitting in the dark, and Dupin now arose for the purpose of 
 lighting a lamp, but sat down again, without doing so, upon G.'s 
 saying that he had called to consult us, or rather to ask the 
 opinion of my friend, about some official business which had 
 occasioned a great deal of trouble. 
 
42 THE GIFT. 
 
 " If it is any point requiring reflection," observed Dupin, as 
 he forbore to enkindle the wick, " we shall examine it to better 
 purpose in the dark." 
 
 " That is another of your odd notions," said the Prefect, 
 who had a fashion of calling every thing " odd" that was beyond 
 his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of 
 " oddities." 
 
 " Very true," said Dupin, as he supplied his visiter with a 
 pipe, and rolled towards him a very comfortable chair. 
 
 " And what is the difficulty now ?" I asked. " Nothing more 
 in the assassination way, I hope ?" 
 
 " Oh no ; nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is 
 very simple indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it 
 sufficiently well ourselves ; but then I thought Dupin would like 
 to hear the details of it, because it is so excessively odd." 
 
 " Simple and odd," said Dupin. 
 
 " Why, yes ; and not exactly that, either. The fact is, we 
 have all been a good deal puzzled because the affair is so simple, 
 and yet baffles us altogether." 
 
 " Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you 
 at fault," said my friend. 
 
 " What nonsense you do talk !" replied the Prefect, laughing 
 heartily. 
 
 " Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain," said Dupin. 
 
 " Oh, good heavens ! who ever heard of such an idea?" 
 
 " A little too self-evident." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ho ! ho ! ho !" roared out our 
 visiter, profoundly amused, " oh, Dupin, you will be the death of 
 me yet !" 
 
 " And what, after all, is the matter on hand ?" I asked. 
 
 " Why, I will tell you," replied the Prefect, as he gave a long, 
 steady, and contemplative puff, and settled himself in his chair. 
 " I will tell you in a few words ; but, before I begin, let me 
 caution you that this is an affair demanding the greatest secrecy, 
 and that I should most probably lose the position I now hold, 
 were it known that I confided it to any one." 
 
THE PURLOINED LETTER. 43 
 
 " Proceed," said I. 
 
 " Or not," said Dupin. 
 
 " Well, then ; I have received personal information, from a 
 very high quarter, that a certain document of the last importance, 
 has been purloined from the royal apartments. The individual 
 who purloined it is known ; this beyond a doubt ; he was seen 
 to take it. It is known, also, that it still remains in his pos- 
 session." 
 
 " How is this known ?" asked Dupin. 
 
 "It is clearly inferred," replied the Prefect, " from the nature 
 of the document, and from the non-appearance of certain results 
 which would at once arise from its passing out of the robber's 
 possession ; that is to say, from his employing it as he must 
 design in the end to employ it." 
 
 " Be a little more explicit," I said. 
 
 " Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its 
 holder a certain power in a certain quarter where such power is 
 immensely valuable." The Prefect was fond of the cant of 
 diplomacy. 
 
 " Still I do not quite understand," said Dupin. 
 
 " No? Well ; the disclosure of the document to a third person, 
 who shall be nameless, would bring in question the honour of a 
 personage of most exalted station ; and this fact gives the holder 
 of the document an ascendancy over the illustrious personage 
 whose honour and peace are so jeopardized." 
 
 " But this ascendancy," I interposed, " would depend upon 
 the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. 
 Who would dare" 
 
 " The thief," said G, " is the Minister D , who dares 
 
 all things, those unbecoming as well as those becoming a man. 
 The method of the theft was not less ingenious than bold. 
 The document in question-^-a letter, to be frank had been 
 received by the personage robbed while alone in the royal 
 boudoir. During its perusal she was suddenly interrupted by 
 the entrance of the other exalted personage from whom espe- 
 
44 THE GIFT. 
 
 cially it was her wish to conceal it. After a hurried and vain 
 endeavour to thrust it in a drawer, she was forced to place it, 
 open as it was, upon a table. The address, however, was upper- 
 most, and the contents thus unexposed, the letter escaped notice. 
 At this juncture enters the Minister D . His lynx eye imme- 
 diately perceives the paper, recognises the handwriting of the 
 address, observes the confusion of the personage addressed, and 
 fathoms her secret. After some business transactions, hurried 
 through in his ordinary manner, he produces a letter somewhat 
 similar to the one in question, opens it, pretends to read it, and 
 then places it in close juxtaposition to the other. Again he con- 
 verses, for some fifteen minutes, upon the public affairs. At 
 length, in taking leave, he takes also from the table the letter to 
 which he had no claim. Its rightful owner saw, but, of course, 
 dared not call attention to the act, in the presence of the third 
 personage who stood at her elbow. The minister decamped ; 
 leaving his own letter one of no importance upon the table." 
 
 " Here, then," said Dupin to me, " you have precisely what 
 you demand to make the ascendancy complete the robber's 
 knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber." 
 
 " Yes," replied the Prefect ; " and the power thus attained 
 has, for some months past, been wielded, for political purposes, 
 to a very dangerous extent. The personage robbed is more 
 thoroughly convinced, every day, of the necessity of reclaiming 
 her letter. But this, of course, cannot be done openly. In fine, 
 driven to despair, she has committed the matter to me." 
 
 " Than whom," said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of 
 smoke, " no more sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired, 
 or even imagined." 
 
 " You flatter me," replied the Prefect ; " but it is possible that 
 some such opinion may have been entertained." 
 
 " It is clear," said I, " as you observe, that the letter is still in 
 possession of the minister ; since it is this possession, and not 
 any employment, of the letter, which bestows the power. With 
 the employment the power departs." 
 
THE PURLOINED LETTER. 45 
 
 " True," said G ; " and upon this conviction I proceeded. 
 
 My first care was to make thorough search of the minister's 
 hotel ; and here my chief embarrassment lay in the necessity of 
 searching without his knowledge. Beyond all things, I have 
 been warned of the danger which would result from giving him 
 reason to suspect our design." 
 
 " But," said I, " you are quite au fait in these investigations. 
 The Parisian police have done this thing often before." 
 
 " O yes ; and for this reason I did not despair. The habits of 
 the minister gave me, too, a great advantage. He is frequently 
 absent from home all night. His servants are by no means 
 numerous. They sleep at a distance from their master's apart- 
 ments, and, being chiefly Neapolitans, are readily made drunk. 
 I have keys, as you know, with which I can open any chamber 
 or cabinet in Paris. For three months a night has not passed, 
 during the greater part of which I have not been engaged, per- 
 sonally, in ransacking the D Hotel. My honour is inte- 
 rested, and, to mention a great secret, the reward is enormous. 
 So I did not abandon the search until I had become fully satisfied 
 that the thief is a more astute man than myself. I fancy that I 
 have investigated every nook and corner of the premises in which 
 it is possible that the paper can be concealed." 
 
 " But is it not possible," I suggested, " that although the 
 letter may be in possession of the minister, as it unquestionably 
 is, he may have concealed it elsewhere than upon his own 
 premises ?" 
 
 " This is barely possible," said Dupin. " The present pecu- 
 liar condition of affairs at court, and especially of those intrigues 
 
 in which D is known to be involved, would render the 
 
 instant availability of the document its susceptibility of being 
 produced at a moment's notice a point of nearly equal impor- 
 tance with its possession." 
 
 " Its susceptibility of being produced T' said I. 
 
 " That is to say, of being destroyed" said Dupin. 
 
 "True," I observed; "the paper is clearly then upon the 
 
 5 
 
46 THE GIFT. 
 
 premises. As for its being upon the person of the minister, we 
 may consider that as out of the question." 
 
 " Entirely," said the Prefect. " He has been twice waylaid, 
 as if by footpads, and his person rigorously searched under my 
 own inspection." 
 
 " You might have spared yourself this trouble," said Dupin. 
 
 " D , I presume, is not altogether a fool, and, if not, must 
 
 have anticipated these waylayings, as a matter of course." 
 
 "Not altogether a fool," said G , " but then he's a poet, 
 
 which I take to be only one remove from a fool." 
 
 " True ;" said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from 
 his meerschaum, " although I have been guilty of certain doggrel 
 myself." 
 
 " Suppose you detail," said I, " the particulars of your 
 search." 
 
 " Why the fact is, we took our time, and we searched every 
 where. I have had long experience in these affairs. I took the 
 entire building, room by room ; devoting the nights of a whole 
 week to each. We examined, first, the furniture of each apart- 
 ment. We opened every possible drawer ; and I presume you 
 know that, to a properly trained police agent, such a thing as a 
 secret drawer is impossible. Any man is a dolt who permits a 
 4 secret' drawer to escape him in a search of this kind. The 
 thing is so plain. There is a certain amount of bulk of space 
 to be accounted for in every cabinet. Then we have accurate 
 rules. The fiftieth part of a line could not escape us. After 
 the cabinets we took the chairs. The cushions we probed with 
 the fine long needles you have seen me employ. From the 
 tables we removed the tops." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged 
 piece of furniture, is removed by the person wishing to conceal 
 an article ; then the leg is excavated, the article deposited within 
 the cavity, and the top replaced. The bottoms and tops of bed- 
 posts are employed in the same way." 
 
THE PURLOINED LETTER. 47 
 
 " But could not the cavity be detected by sounding ?" I asked. 
 
 " By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient 
 wadding of cotton be placed around it. Besides, in our case, we 
 were obliged to proceed without noise." 
 
 " But you could not have removed you could not have taken 
 to pieces all articles of furniture in which it would have been 
 possible to make a deposit in the manner you mention. A letter 
 may be compressed into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in 
 shape or bulk from a large knitting-needle, and in this form 
 it might be inserted into the rung of a chair, for example. You 
 did not take to pieces all the chairs ?" 
 
 " Certainly not ; but we did better we examined the rungs of 
 every chair in the hotel, and, indeed, the jointings of every de- 
 scription of furniture, by the aid of a most powerful microscope. 
 Had there been any traces of recent disturbance we should not 
 have failed to detect it instanter. A single grain of gimlet-dust, 
 or saw-dust, for example, would have been as obvious as an 
 apple. Any disorder in the glueing any unusual gaping in the 
 joints would have sufficed to insure detection." 
 
 " Of course you looked to the mirrors, between the boards and 
 the plates, and you probed the beds and the bed-clothes, as well 
 as the curtains and carpets." 
 
 " That of course ; and when we had absolutely completed 
 every particle of the furniture in this way, then we examined the 
 house itself. We divided its entire surface into compartments, 
 which we numbered, so that none might be missed; then we 
 scrutinized each individual square inch throughout the premises, 
 including the two houses immediately adjoining, with the micro- 
 scope, as before." 
 
 " The two houses adjoining !" I exclaimed ; " you must have 
 had a great deal of trouble." 
 
 " We had ; but the reward offered is prodigious." 
 
 " You include the grounds about the houses ?" 
 
 " All the grounds are paved with brick. They gave us com- 
 paratively little trouble. We examined the moss between the 
 bricks, and found it undisturbed." 
 
48 THE GIFT. 
 
 " And the roofs ?" 
 
 " We surveyed every inch of the external surface, and probed 
 carefully beneath every tile." 
 
 " You looked among D 's papers, of course, and into the 
 
 books of the library?" 
 
 " Certainly ; we opened every package and parcel ; we not 
 only opened every book, but we turned over every leaf in each 
 volume, not contenting ourselves with a mere shake, according 
 to the fashion of some of our police officers. We also measured 
 the thickness of every book-cover, with the most accurate ad- 
 measurement, and applied to them the most jealous scrutiny of 
 the microscope. Had any of the bindings been recently meddled 
 with, it would have been utterly impossible that the fact should 
 have escaped observation. Some five or six volumes, just from 
 the hands of the binder, we carefully probed, longitudinally, with 
 the needles." 
 
 " You explored the floors beneath the carpets ?" 
 
 "Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and examined 
 the boards with the microscope." 
 
 " And the paper on the walls ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You looked into the cellars ?" 
 
 " We did ; and, as time and labour were no objects, we dug 
 up every one of them to the depth of four feet." 
 
 " Then," I said, " you have been making a miscalculation, 
 and the letter is not upon the premises, as you suppose." 
 
 " I fear you are right there," said the Prefect. " And now, 
 Dupin, what would you advise me to do ?" 
 
 " To make a thorough re-search of the premises." 
 
 " That is absolutely needless," replied G . " I am not 
 
 more sure that I breathe than I am that the letter is not at the 
 Hotel." 
 
 " I have no better advice to give you," said Dupin. " You 
 have, of course, an accurate description of the letter?" 
 
 " Oh yes !" And here the Prefect, producing a memorandum- 
 book, proceeded to read aloud a minute account of the internal, 
 
THE PURLOINED LETTER. 49 
 
 and especially of the external, appearance of the missing docu- 
 ment. Soon after finishing the perusal of this description, he 
 took his departure, more entirely depressed in spirits than I had 
 ever known the good gentleman before. 
 
 In about a month afterwards he paid us another visit, and 
 found us occupied very nearly as before. He took a pipe and a 
 chair, and entered into some ordinary conversation. At length 
 I said, 
 
 "Well, but G , what of the purloined letter? I presume 
 
 you have at last made up your mind that there is no such thing 
 as overreaching the Minister ?' 
 
 " Confound him, say I yes ; I made the re-examination, how- 
 ever, as Dupin suggested but it was all labour lost, as I knew 
 it would be." 
 
 " How much was the reward offered, did you say ?" asked 
 Dupin. 
 
 " Why, a very great deal a very liberal reward I don't like 
 to say how much, precisely ; but one thing I will say, that I 
 wouldn't mind giving my individual check for fifty thousand 
 francs to any one who could obtain me that letter. The fact is, 
 it is becoming of more and more importance every day ; and the 
 reward has been lately doubled. If it were trebled, however, I 
 could do no more than I have done." 
 
 "Why, yes," said Dupin, drawlingly, between the whiffs of 
 
 his meerschaum, " I really think, G , you have not exerted 
 
 yourself to the utmost in this matter. You might do a little 
 more, I think, eh ?" 
 
 " How ? in what way ?" 
 
 "Why puff, puff you might puff, puff employ counsel 
 in the matter, eh ? puff, puff, puff. Do you remember the story 
 they tell of Abernethy ?" 
 
 " No ; hang Abernethy !" 
 
 " To be sure ! hang him and welcome. But, once upon a 
 time, a certain rich miser conceived the design of spunging upon 
 this Abernethy for a medical opinion. Getting up, for this pur- 
 
 5* 
 
50 THE GIFT. 
 
 pose, an ordinary conversation in a private company, he insinu- 
 ated his case to the physician, as that of an imaginary individual. 
 
 " * We will suppose,' said the miser, ' that his symptoms are 
 such and such ; now, doctor, what would you have directed him 
 to take V 
 
 " ' Take !' said Abernethy, < why, take advice, to be sure.' ' : 
 
 " But," said the Prefect, a little discomposed, " I am perfectly 
 willing to take advice, and to pay for it. I would really give 
 fifty thousand francs, every centime of it, to any one who would 
 aid me in the matter !" 
 
 " In that case," replied Dupin, opening a drawer, and pro- 
 ducing a check-book, " you may as w r ell fill me up a check for 
 the amount mentioned. When you have signed it, I will hand 
 you the letter." 
 
 I was astounded. The Prefect appeared absolutely thunder- 
 stricken. For some minutes he remained speechless and mo- 
 tionless, looking incredulously at my friend with open mouth, 
 and eyes that seemed starting from their sockets ; then, appa- 
 rently recovering himself in some measure, he seized a pen, and 
 after several pauses and vacant stares, finally filled up and 
 signed a check for fifty thousand francs, and handed it across 
 the table to Dupin. The latter examined it carefully and de- 
 posited it in his pocket-book ; then, unlocking an escritoire, took 
 thence a letter and gave it to the Prefect. This functionary 
 grasped it in a perfect agony of joy, opened it with a trembling 
 hand, cast a rapid glance at its contents, and then, scrambling 
 and struggling to the door, .rushed at length unceremoniously 
 from the room and from the house, without having uttered a soli- 
 tary syllable since Dupin had requested him to fill up the check. 
 
 When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations. 
 
 " The Parisian police," he said, " are exceedingly able in 
 their way. They are persevering, ingenious, cunning, and tho- 
 roughly versed in the knowledge which their duties seem chiefly 
 
 to demand. Thus, when G detailed to us his mode of 
 
 searching the premises at the Hotel D , I felt entire confi- 
 
THE PURLOINED LETTER. 51 
 
 dence in his having made a satisfactory investigation so far as 
 his labours extended." 
 
 " So far as his labours extended ?" said I. 
 
 " Yes," said Dupin. " The measures adopted were not only 
 the best of their kind, but carried out to absolute perfection. 
 Had the letter been deposited within the range of their search, 
 these fellows would, beyond a question, have found it." 
 
 I merely laughed but he seemed quite serious in all that he 
 said. 
 
 "The measures, then," he continued, "were good in their 
 kind, and well executed ; their defect lay in their being inappli- 
 cable to the case, and to the man. A certain set of highly inge- 
 nious resources are, with the Prefect, a sort of Procrustean bed, 
 to which he forcibly adapts his designs. But he perpetually 
 errs by being too deep or too shallow, for the matter in hand ; 
 and many a schoolboy is a better reasoner than he. I knew 
 one about eight years of age, whose success at guessing in the 
 game of ' even and odd' attracted universal admiration. This 
 game is simple, and is played with marbles. One player holds 
 in his hand a number of these toys, and demands of another 
 whether that number is even or odd. If the guess is right, the 
 guesser wins one ; if wrong, he loses one. The boy to whom I 
 allude won all the marbles of the school. Of course he had some 
 principle of guessing; and this lay in mere observation and 
 admeasurement of the astuteness of his opponents. For example, 
 an arrant simpleton is his opponent, and, holding up his closed 
 hand, asks, ' are they even or odd ?' Our schoolboy replies, 
 4 odd,' and loses ; but upon the second trial he wins, for he then 
 says to himself, ' the simpleton had them even upon the first 
 trial, and his amount of cunning is just sufficient to make him 
 have them odd upon the second ; I will therefore guess odd ;' 
 he guesses odd, and wins. Now, with a simpleton a degree 
 above the first, he would have reasoned thus : < this fellow finds 
 that in the first instance I guessed odd, and, in the second, he 
 will propose to himself, upon the first impulse, a simple variation 
 from even to odd, as did the first simpleton ; but then a second 
 
52 THE GIFT. 
 
 thought will suggest that this is too simple a variation, and 
 finally he will decide upon putting it even as before. I will 
 therefore guess even ;' he guesses even, and wins. Now this 
 mode of reasoning in the schoolboy, whom his fellows termed 
 'lucky,' what, in its last analysis, is it?" 
 
 " It is merely," I said, " an identification of the reasoner's 
 intellect with that of his opponent." 
 
 " It is," said Dupin ; " and, upon inquiring of the boy by 
 what means he effected the thorough identification in which his 
 success consisted, I received answer as follows : i When I wish 
 to find out how wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked 
 is any one, or what are his thoughts at the moment, I fashion 
 the expression of my face, as accurately as possible, in accord- 
 ance with the expression of his, and then wait to see what 
 thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or heart, as if to match 
 or correspond with the expression.' This response of the school- 
 boy lies at the bottom of all the spurious profundity which has 
 been attributed to Rochefoucault, to La Bougive, to Machiavelli, 
 and to Campanella." 
 
 " And the identification," I said, " of the reasoner's intellect 
 with that of his opponent, depends, if I understand you aright, 
 upon the accuracy with which the opponent's intellect is admea- 
 sured." 
 
 " For its practical value it depends upon this," replied Dupin ; 
 "and the Prefect and his cohort fail so frequently, first, by de- 
 fault of this identification, and, secondly, by ill -admeasurement, 
 or rather through non-admeasurement, of the intellect with 
 which they are engaged. They consider only their own ideas 
 of ingenuity ; and, in searching for any thing hidden, advert 
 only to the modes in which they would have hidden it. They 
 are right in this much that their own ingenuity is a faithful 
 representative of that of the. mass ; but when the cunning of 
 the individual felon is diverse in character from their own, the 
 felon foils them, of course. This always happens when it is 
 above their own, and very usually when it is below. They 
 have no variation of principle in their investigations ; at best, 
 
THE PURLOINED LETTER. 53 
 
 when urged by some unusual emergency by some extraordi- 
 nary reward they extend or exaggerate their old modes of 
 practice, without touching their principles. What, for example, 
 
 in this case of D , has been done to vary the principle of 
 
 action ? What is all this boring, and probing, and sounding, 
 and scrutinizing with the microscope, and dividing the surface 
 of the building into registered square inches what is it all but 
 an exaggeration of the application of the one principle or set of 
 principles of search, which are based upon the one set of notions 
 regarding human ingenuity, to which the Prefect, in the long 
 routine of his duty, has been accustomed 1 Do you not see he 
 has taken it for granted that all men proceed to conceal a letter, 
 not exactly in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg but, at 
 least, in some out-of-the-way hole or corner suggested by the 
 same tenor of thought which would urge a man to secrete a 
 letter in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg ? And do you not 
 see also, that such recherches nooks for concealment are adapted 
 only for ordinary occasions, and would be adopted only by ordi- 
 nary intellects ; for, in all cases of concealment, a disposal of 
 the article concealed a disposal of it in this recherche manner, 
 is, in the very first instance, presumed and presumable ; and 
 thus its discovery depends, not at all upon the acumen, but 
 altogether upon the mere care, patience, and determination of 
 the seekers ; and where the case is of importance or, what 
 amounts to the same thing in the policial eyes, when the reward 
 is of magnitude, the qualities in question have never been known 
 to fail. You will now understand what I meant in suggesting 
 that, had the purloined letter been hidden any where within the 
 limits of the Prefect's examination in other words, had the 
 principle of its concealment been comprehended within the prin- 
 ciples of the Prefect its discovery would have been a matter 
 altogether beyond question. This functionary, however, has 
 been thoroughly mystified ; and the remote source of his defeat 
 lies in the supposition that the Minister is a fool, because he has 
 acquired renown as a poet. All fools are poets ; this the Prefect 
 
54 THE GIFT. 
 
 feels ; and he is merely guilty of a non distributio medii in 
 thence inferring that all poets are fools." 
 
 " But is this really the poet ?" I asked. " There are two 
 brothers, I know ; and both have attained reputation in letters. 
 The Minister I believe has written learnedly on the Differential 
 Calculus. He is a mathematician, and no poet." 
 
 " You are mistaken ; I know him well ; he is both. As 
 poet and mathematician, he would reason well; as poet, pro- 
 foundly; as mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned 
 at all, and thus would have been at the mercy of the Prefect." 
 
 " You surprise me," I said, " by these opinions, which have 
 been contradicted by the voice of the world. You do not mean 
 to set at naught the well-digested idea of centuries. The mathe- 
 matical reason has been long regarded as the reason par excel- 
 lence." 
 
 " ' II y a a parier,' replied Dupin, quoting from Chamfort, 
 
 * que toute idee publique, toute convention recue, est une sot- 
 tise, car elle a convenue au plus grand nombre.' The mathe- 
 maticians, I grant you, have done their best to promulgate the 
 popular error to which you allude, and which is none the less 
 an error for its promulgation as truth. With an art worthy a 
 better cause, for example, they have insinuated the term * ana- 
 lysis' into application to algebra. The French are the origina- 
 tors of this particular deception ; but if a term is of any 
 importance if words derive any value from applicability 
 then ' analysis' conveys ' algebra' about as much as, in Latin, 
 
 * ambitus' 1 implies ' ambition,' ' religic? 4 religion,' or ' homines 
 honestij a set of honourable men." 
 
 " You have a quarrel on hand, I see," said I, " with some of 
 the algebraists of Paris ; but proceed." 
 
 " I dispute the availability, and thus the value, of that reason 
 which is cultivated in any especial form other than the abstractly 
 logical. I dispute, in particular, the reason educed by mathe- 
 matical study. The mathematics are the science of form and 
 quantity; mathematical reasoning is merely logic applied to 
 
THE PURLOINED LETTER. 55 
 
 observation upon form and quantity. The great error lies in 
 supposing that even the truths of what is called pure algebra, 
 are abstract or general truths. And this error is so egregious 
 that I am confounded at the universality with which it has been 
 received. Mathematical axioms are not axioms of general truth. 
 What is true of relation of form and quantity is often grossly 
 false in regard to morals, for example. In this latter science it 
 is very usually untrue that the aggregated parts are equal to the 
 whole. In chemistry also the axiom fails. In the consideration 
 of motive it fails ; for two motives, each of a given value, have 
 not, necessarily, a value when united, equal to the sum of their 
 values apart. There are numerous other mathematical truths 
 which are only truths within the limits of relation. But the 
 mathematician argues, from his finite truths, through habit, as 
 if they were of an absolutely general applicability as the world 
 indeed imagines them to be. Bryant, in his very learned ' My- 
 thology,' mentions an analogous source of error, when he says 
 that ' although the Pagan fables are not believed, yet we forget 
 ourselves continually, and make inferences from them as existing 
 realities.' With the algebraist, however, who are Pagans them- 
 selves, the ' Pagan fables' are believed, and the inferences are 
 made, not so much through lapse of memory, as through an 
 unaccountable addling of the brains. In short, I never yet 
 encountered the mere mathematician who could be trusted out of 
 equal roots, or one who did not clandestinely hold it as a point 
 of his faith that x^+px was absolutely and unconditionally 
 equal to q. Say to one of these gentlemen, by way of experi- 
 ment, if you please, that you believe occasions may occur where 
 z*-\-pz is not altogether equal to q, and, having made him 
 understand what you mean, get out of his reach as speedily as 
 convenient, for, beyond doubt, he will endeavour to knock you 
 down. 
 
 " I mean to say," continued Dupin, while I merely laughed 
 at his last observations, " that if the Minister had been no more 
 than a mathematician, the Prefect would have been under no 
 necessity of giving me this check. Had he been no more than 
 
56 THE GIFT. 
 
 a poet, I think it probable that he would have foiled us all. I knew 
 him, however, as both mathematician and poet, and my measures 
 were adapted to his capacity, with reference to the circumstances 
 by which he was surrounded. I knew him as a courtier, too, 
 and as a bold intriguant. Such a man, I considered, could not 
 fail to be aware of the ordinary policial modes of action. He could 
 not have failed to anticipate and events have proved that he did not 
 fail to anticipate the waylayings to which he was subjected. He 
 must have foreseen, I reflected, the secret investigations of his pre- 
 mises. His frequent absences from home at night, which were 
 hailed by the Prefect as certain aids to his success, I regarded only 
 as ritses, to afford opportunity for thorough search to the police, 
 and thus the sooner to impress them with the conviction to which 
 
 G , in fact, did finally arrive the conviction that the letter 
 
 was not upon the premises. I felt, also, that the whole train of 
 thought, which I was at some pains in detailing to you just now, 
 concerning the invariable principle of policial action in searches 
 for articles concealed I felt that this whole train of thought would 
 necessarily pass through the mind of the Minister. It would 
 imperatively lead him to despise all the ordinary nooks of con- 
 cealment. He could not, I reflected, be so weak as not to see 
 that the most intricate and remote recess of his hotel would be 
 as open as his commonest closets to the eyes, to the probes, to 
 the gimlets, and to the microscopes of the Prefect. I saw, in 
 fine, that he would be driven, as a matter of course, to simpli- 
 city, if not deliberately induced to it as a matter of choice. You 
 will remember, perhaps, how desperately the Prefect laughed 
 when I suggested, upon our first interview, that it was just pos- 
 sible this mystery troubled him so much on account of its being 
 so very self-evident." 
 
 " Yes," said I, " I remember his merriment well. I really 
 thought he would have fallen into convulsions." 
 
 " The material world," continued Dupin, " abounds with very 
 strict analogies to the immaterial ; and thus some colour of 
 truth has been given to the rhetorical dogma, that metaphor, or 
 simile, may be made to strengthen an argument, as well as to 
 
THE PURLOINED LETTER. 57 
 
 embellish a description. The principle of the vis inertia, for 
 example, with the amount of momentum proportionate with it 
 and consequent upon it, seems to be identical in physics and 
 metaphysics. It is not more true in the former, that a large 
 body is with more difficulty set in motion than a smaller one, 
 and that its subsequent impetus is commensurate with this diffi- 
 culty, than it is, in the latter, that intellects of the vaster capa- 
 city, while more forcible, more constant, and more eventful in 
 their movements than those of inferior grade, are yet the less 
 readily moved, and more embarrassed and full of hesitation in 
 the first few steps of their progress. Again : have you ever 
 noticed which of the street signs, over the shop-doors, are the 
 most attractive of attention ?" 
 
 " I have never given the matter a thought," I said. 
 
 " There is a game of puzzles," he resumed, " which is played 
 upon a map. One party playing requires another to find a 
 given word the name of town, river, state, or empire any 
 word, in short, upon the motley and perplexed surface of the 
 chart. A novice in the game generally seeks to embarrass his 
 opponents by giving them the most minutely lettered names ; 
 but the adept selects such words as stretch, in large characters, 
 from one end of the chart to the other. These, like the over- 
 largely lettered signs and placards of the street, escape observa- 
 tion by dint of being excessively obvious ; and here the physical 
 oversight is precisely analogous with the moral inapprehension 
 by which the intellect suffers to pass unnoticed those considera- 
 tions which are too obtrusively and too palpably self-evident. 
 But this is a point, it appears, somewhat above or beneath the 
 understanding of the Prefect. He never once thought it pro- 
 bable, or possible, that the Minister had deposited the letter 
 immediately beneath the nose of the whole world, by way of 
 best preventing any portion of that world from perceiving it. 
 
 " But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing, and 
 discriminating ingenuity of D ; upon the fact that the docu- 
 ment must always have been at liand, if he intended to use it 
 to good purpose ; and upon the decisive evidence, obtained by 
 
 6 
 
58 THE GIFT. 
 
 the Prefect, that it was not hidden within the limits of that digni- 
 tary's ordinary search the more satisfied I became that, to 
 conceal this letter, the Minister had resorted to the comprehensive 
 and sagacious expedient of not attempting to conceal it at all. 
 
 " Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of green 
 spectacles, and called one fine morning, quite by accident, at 
 the ministerial hotel. I found D at home, yawning, loung- 
 ing, and dawdling as usual, and pretending to be in the last 
 extremity of ennui. He is, perhaps, the most really energetic 
 human being now alive but that is only when nobody sees him. 
 
 " To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and 
 lamented the necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I 
 cautiously and thoroughly surveyed the whole apartment, while 
 seemingly intent only upon the conversation of my host. 
 
 " I paid especial attention to a large writing-table near which 
 he sat, and upon which lay confusedly, some miscellaneous 
 letters and other papers, with one or two musical instruments 
 and a few books. Here, however, after a long and very deli- 
 berate scrutiny, I saw nothing to excite particular suspicion. 
 
 " At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell 
 upon a trumpery fillagree card-rack of pasteboard, that hung 
 dangling by a dirty blue riband, from a little brass knob just 
 beneath the middle of the mantel-piece. In this rack, which had 
 three or four compartments, were five or six visiting-cards, and 
 a solitary letter. This last was much soiled and crumpled. It 
 was torn nearly in two, across the middle as if a design, in the 
 first instance, to tear it entirely up as worthless, had been 
 altered, or stayed, in the second. It had a large black seal, 
 bearing the D cipher very conspicuously, and was ad- 
 dressed, in a diminutive female hand, to D , the minister, 
 
 himself. It was thrust carelessly, and even, as it seemed, con- 
 temptuously, into one of the uppermost divisions of the rack. 
 
 " No sooner had I glanced at this letter, than I concluded it 
 to be that of which I was in search. To be sure, it was, to all 
 appearance, radically different from the one of which the Prefect 
 had read us so minute a description. Here the seal was large 
 
THE PURLOINED LETTER. 59 
 
 and black, with the D cipher ; there, it was small and red, 
 
 with the ducal arms of the S family. Here, the address, to 
 
 the minister, was diminutive and feminine ; there, the superscrip- 
 tion, to a certain royal personage, was markedly bold and 
 decided ; the size alone formed a point of correspondence. But, 
 then, the radicalness of these differences, which was excessive ; 
 the dirt, the soiled and torn condition of the paper, so inconsis- 
 tent with the true methodical habits of D , and so suggestive 
 
 of a design to delude the beholder into an idea of the worthless- 
 ness of the document; these things, together with the hyper- 
 obtrusive situation of this document, full in the view of every 
 visiter, and thus exactly in accordance with the conclusions to 
 which I had previously arrived ; these things, I say, were 
 strongly corroborative of suspicion, in one who came with the 
 intention to suspect. 
 
 " I protracted my visit as long as possible, and, while I main- 
 tained a most animated discussion with the minister, upon a topic 
 which I knew well had never failed to interest and excite him, I 
 kept my attention really riveted upon the letter. In this exami- 
 nation, I committed to memory its external appearance and 
 arrangement in the rack ; and also fell, at length, upon a dis- 
 covery which set at rest whatever trivial doubt I might have 
 entertained. In scrutinizing the edges of the paper, I observed 
 them to be more chafed than seemed necessary. They presented 
 the broken appearance which is manifested when a stiff paper, 
 having been once folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in 
 a reversed direction, in the same creases or edges which had 
 formed the original fold. This discovery was sufficient. It was 
 clear to me that the letter had been turned, as a glove, inside 
 out, re-directed, and re-sealed. I bade the minister good morn- 
 ing, and took my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box 
 upon the table. 
 
 "The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we 
 resumed, quite eagerly, the conversation of the preceding day. 
 While thus engaged, however, a loud report, as if of a pistol, 
 was heard immediately beneath the windows of the hotel, and 
 
60 THE GIFT. 
 
 was succeeded by a series of fearful screams, and the shoutings 
 
 of a terrified mob. D rushed to a casement, threw it open, 
 
 and looked out. In the meantime, I stepped to the card-rack, 
 took the letter, put it in my pocket, and replaced it by a fac- 
 simile^ which I had carefully prepared at my lodgings imitating 
 
 the D cipher, very readily, by means of a seal formed of 
 
 bread. 
 
 " The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the 
 frantic behaviour of a man with a musket. He had fired it 
 among a crowd of women and children. It proved, however, to 
 have been without ball, and the fellow was suffered to go his 
 
 way as a lunatic or a drunkard. When he had gone, D 
 
 came from the window, whither I had followed him immediately 
 upon securing the object in view. Soon afterwards I bade him 
 farewell. The pretended lunatic was a man in my own pay." 
 
 " But what purpose had you," I asked, " in replacing the letter 
 by a fac-simile 1 Would it not have been better, at the first 
 visit, to have seized it openly, and departed ?" 
 
 " D ," replied Dupin, " is a desperate man, and a man of 
 
 nerve. His hotel, too, is not without attendants devoted to his 
 interests. Had I made the wild attempt you suggest, I should 
 never have left the ministerial presence alive. The good people 
 of Paris would have heard of me no more. But I had an object 
 apart from these considerations. You know my political pre- 
 possessions. In this matter, I act as a partisan of the lady 
 concerned. For eighteen months the minister has had her in 
 his power. She has now him in hers since, being unaware 
 that the letter is not in his possession, he will proceed with his 
 exactions as if it was. Thus will he inevitably commit himself, 
 at once, to his political destruction. His downfall, too, will not 
 be more precipitate than awkward. It is all very well to talk 
 about the facilis descensus Averni ; but in all kinds of climbing, 
 as Catalini said of singing, it is far more easy to get up than to 
 come down. In the present instance I have no sympathy at 
 least no pity for him who descends. He is that monstrum 
 horrendum, an unprincipled man of genius. 1 confess, however, 
 
THE PURLOINED LETTER. 61 
 
 that I should like very well to know the precise character of his 
 thoughts, when, being defied by her whom the Prefect terms a 
 certain personage,' he is reduced to opening the letter which I 
 left for him in the card-rack." 
 
 " How ? did you put any thing particular in it ?" 
 
 " Why it did not seem altogether right to leave the interior 
 
 blank that would have been insulting. To be sure, D , at 
 
 Vienna once, did me an evil turn, which I told him, quite good- 
 humouredly, that I should remember. So, as I knew he would 
 feel some curiosity in regard to the identity of the person who 
 had outwitted him, I thought it a pity not to give him a clue. 
 He is well acquainted with my MS., and I just copied into the 
 middle of the blank sheet the words 
 
 " ' Un dessein si funeste, 
 
 S'il n'cst digne d'Atree, esl digne de Thyeste.' 
 
 Thev are to be found in Crebillon's * Atree.' " 
 
 6* 
 
TO COLUMBUS DYING. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF OEHLEN8CHLCEGER. 
 
 SOON with thee will all be over, 
 Soon the voyage will be begun, 
 
 That shall bear thee to discover 
 Far away a land unknown. 
 
 Land, that each alone must visit, 
 But no tidings bring to men, 
 
 For no sailor, once departed, 
 Ever hath returned again. 
 
 No carved wood, no broken branches 
 Ever drift from that far wild, 
 
 He who on that ocean launches, 
 Meets no corse of angel-child. 
 
 All is mystery before thee, 
 
 But in peace, and love, and faith, 
 
 And with hope attended, saiPst thou 
 Off upon the ship of Death. 
 
 Undismayed, my noble sailor, 
 
 Spread then, spread thy canvass out, 
 
 Spirit ! on a sea of ether 
 
 Soon shalt thou serenely float. 
 
TO COLUMBUS DYING. 63 
 
 Where the deeps no plummet soundeth, 
 
 Fear no hidden breakers there, 
 And the fanning wings of angels 
 
 Shall thy bark right onward bear. 
 
 Quit now, full of heart and comfort, 
 
 These Azores they are of earth; 
 Where the rosy clouds are parting, 
 
 There the Blessed Isles loom forth. 
 
 Seest thou now thy San Salvador ? 
 
 Him, thy Saviour, thou shalt hail, 
 Where no storms of earth shall reach thee. 
 
 Where thy hope shall no more fail. 
 
THE MORAL OF GOSLYNE GREENE, 
 
 WHO WAS BORN TO A FORTUNE. 
 
 BY JOSEPH C. JS'EAL, 
 AUTHOR OF " CHARCOAL SKETCHES," " IN TOWN AND ABOUT," ETC. 
 
 THAT man is a moral. 
 
 He is historically complete a hero who has achieved his 
 climax and has survived his catastrophe one of those luckless 
 wights who outlive themselves, and tarry on the stage when their 
 drama is over, posthumous to the action of the piece. Nothing 
 can be more poetically ungraceful than to exist too long, and to 
 go slouching down the world on the wrong side of your crisis, 
 like the stupid stalk of an exploded rocket. 
 
 To be a moral 
 
 Morals, in their plurality of number, are entitled to respect ; 
 but make it, gentle reader, ambitious though you chance to be, 
 a matter both of solicitude and solicitation, that you may never, 
 in the singular point of view, obtain the sad pre-eminence of 
 being elevated to the rank of a moral, to be stuck with a pin 
 upon a card in the cabinet of ethical entomology, as a theme for 
 lectures. The moral deducible from one's own experiences is in 
 some sort antagonistical to himself. It rises at the other end of 
 the plank, and soars to importance as a text, just as he declines 
 from the equipoise of a true balance. When, for instance, we 
 are in the mire, our moral is at its superlative height of interest ; 
 and, generally speaking, the individual is capable of affording 
 the most impressive moral when his morals are in their extreme 
 
THE MORAL OF GOSLYNE GREENE. 65 
 
 state of dilapidation. It is too much to ask, even of a philan- 
 thropist, that he should himself be a moral ; but, luckily, there 
 are volunteers enough to supply the demand. As we said before, 
 
 That man is a moral. 
 
 You may see it in the sad dejection of his visage in his pallid 
 cheek and in his vacant aspect. There is also that indescribable 
 air of shabby gentility in his well-worn garments, which belongs 
 almost exclusively to the man who is a moral, had we no mani- 
 festation in his habitual deportment that he has done with ambi- 
 tion and has parted with his hope. He moves, as it were, in 
 solitude, though bustling crowds may throng the street. Amid 
 the din of business or the hum of pleasure, there seems to be a 
 circlet of silence about him ; and people unconsciously feel it 
 as he approaches, that this man is a moral. They have at once 
 an inclination to sympathize with him, they cannot tell why, and 
 yet to avoid him, they know not wherefore. Faces lengthen as 
 he comes, and there is a passing chill in the atmosphere. The 
 very children are disposed to circumnavigate him, by a detour to 
 the right or left, as if they were aware that a lesson, and a 
 lesson somewhat of the hardest, is before them. There is no 
 mistaking the fact. A broken spirit buttons to the chin. Mis- 
 anthropy, even if it is fortunate enough to possess the article, 
 displays no collar to its shirt ; for what cares it for vanity ? 
 And the man who has no expectation to feed his energies, indi- 
 cates forlornness by a gloomy slant of the hat, that he may see 
 and not be seen, knowing that it is by the eyes alone we learn 
 aught of each other, and that if they be shaded from the view, 
 we are isolated and apart. We cannot err. He who loiters in 
 the highways when others hurry by he who reposes in public 
 squares when nothing else is there but a truant dog or two in 
 races through the grass, must be a moral, a completed moral, 
 a deduction and an inference from the aggregate of active hu- 
 manity, to be read and pondered over at the close of the fable. 
 He is something that was something which now only appears 
 to be. 
 
 But why was he why was Goslyne Greene for it is of him 
 
66 THE GIFT. 
 
 we speak why was this man loaded with a moral ? Why is 
 it his hard fate to be a locomotive homily and a perambulating 
 sermon ? For no other reason, than that it was his mishap to 
 begin at the wrong end of existence, and to construct his story 
 downwards. 
 
 Yes, it is indeed a terrible thing we dread to mention it the 
 pen falters as we write the fearful words, and we look round with 
 apprehension lest others may be involved in the same awful con- 
 catenation of circumstances ; but still, cheered by the fact that 
 such shocking calamities do not often happen, and that, on this 
 favoured side of the Atlantic at least, the course of events con- 
 tributes to preserve the human race from being thus oppressed, 
 we summon up courage to announce the fact, that it was the 
 unutterable wo of Goslyne Greene, poor unoffending infant 
 to be born to a fortune ! that it was his disaster to come into 
 the world as heir to cash, to stocks, to bond and mortgage, to 
 real estate to money in hand, to dividends, to interests and to 
 rents. He cried afflicted child when he was thus inauspiciously 
 ushered into life, and for several days, and nights too, if tradition 
 is to be credited, he continued to upraise his tiny and inarticulate 
 voice, as if in remonstrance at the wrong which had been done 
 to him. Nay, he was long a wailing babe, pained in anticipation 
 by his melancholy moral. " Good gracious," exclaimed the 
 nurse, " what ails the boy !" and the choicest drugs that chemic 
 art could offer went soothingly down his vocal throat, but without 
 effecting the pacification of Goslyne Greene. It was not physical, 
 but metaphysical, aid that he needed, and Mrs. Jones was inca- 
 pable of the ministration. 
 
 Unhappy Goslyne Greene ! And yet his mother received 
 visits of congratulation, and people shook his father by the hand. 
 There were rejoicings in the mansion. Matrons and maids strove 
 gleefully to welcome the little stranger, and every one who gazed 
 upon him, endeavoured by the force of imagination, to discover 
 family resemblances in his round undeveloped features, or, at 
 least, beauty in his infantile ugliness. Our Goslyne was a 
 love, a darling the image of its " ma" a counterpart of " pa." 
 
THE MORAL OF GOSLYNE GREENE. 67 
 
 The phrenologists promised genius, and there was reason to 
 apprehend, in short, that Crichton would no longer have a mo- 
 nopoly of being " admirable," and that the river would be set on 
 fire at last, through the gifts of Goslyne Greene. But while, in 
 this respect, he only shared the common lot for we are all 
 prodigies in the cradle still Goslyne had lace upon his cap 
 and velvet to his couch, with splendour all about. Born to 
 a fortune ! Enviable creature ! Why did he thus wrinkle up 
 his pudgy nose and weep with direful squalls ? The more he 
 was kissed, the more he was caressed, the more he was admired 
 and felicitated, the more angrily did he sob and shriek. It may 
 be that his unsophisticated perceptions saw little else than bitter 
 irony in the flattering compliments that were bestowed upon 
 him, and could discover small reason for being glad that another 
 sufferer had been added to the roll, for the benefit mainly of the 
 tailor, the physician, and the undertaker, which, it is to be pre- 
 sumed, is the philosophy of our indignant uproar at the com- 
 mencement of this sublunary career. 
 
 Besides, what had Goslyne done to be thus doomed to a for- 
 tune ? He appeared to have as much intellect as other babes. 
 His voice was as strong his back as straight his legs and arms 
 as capable as theirs, and yet he was to be denied the natural and 
 lawful use of his gifts and faculties. No wonder his cries were 
 unremitting, and that his wrath rose as the state of the case was 
 made obvious by the thronging of his courtiers. 
 
 In truth, Goslyne Greene was himself not at all to blame in 
 the premises. His father had toiled with but a single hope that 
 his son might be born to a fortune, and that hope had been 
 accomplished, as hopes sometimes are, to prove perhaps that the 
 success of our wishes is not always the most desirable thing that 
 could happen to us. " Goslyne will be rich, any how," said the 
 old gentleman in the midst of his labours, as if he found conso- 
 lation in the fact, and as if he had thus secured his son's welfare 
 and happiness beyond the reach of doubt. 
 
 The majority of the world will probably agree in opinion with 
 the elder Mr. Greene ; for it is the popular sentiment that the 
 
68 THE GIFT. 
 
 fact of being rich, and not the process of getting rich, is the 
 happiness. But, in this case, and probably in many others, the 
 reverse was the truth. The father had a pleasant life enough 
 under the influence of an absorbing object, while the son is a 
 man with a moral ; and it may be that people are often overruled 
 in this matter, for the advantage of posterity. Who knows but 
 that the follies and extravagances of those who have either the 
 command of wealth or the prospect of it their speculations and 
 their splendours their "operations" and their magnificence 
 are, after all, but an element in the plan of wisdom, intended at 
 intervals to afford a new impulse by a reduction to the primitive, 
 healthful, and energetic state of having more wants and wishes 
 than we have the means to supply? A dabble in the stocks 
 does not always turn out profitably ; cotton sometimes is heavy 
 on our hands, and real estate will sulkily retrograde, when, by 
 the calculation, it ought to have advanced. But are we sure 
 that such events are a visitation of unmitigated disaster ? May 
 not that dusky spectre, a dun, " hated of gods and men," whose 
 portentous tap causes the heart to quake and the pocket to 
 quiver, have a mission of far greater importance than to make 
 the mere demand for money ? Superficially considered, it was 
 a sad business when morus muUicaulis toppled from its airy 
 height, and brought so many to the earth along with it. To 
 find one's fifty dollar twigs suddenly reduced to the level of 
 sixpenny switches, is by no means a pleasant waking from 
 golden dreams, and to decline from the damask luxury of a 
 chariot to plain pedestrianism, is a sinking in poetry which 
 affects the mind by the force of contrast. People, for the most 
 part, are not pleased with changes of so violent a character, and 
 have a decided aversion to the downward movement, whatever 
 they may have done to render it indispensable. And yet re- 
 verses are often medicinal. There is much of virtue in an alter- 
 ative. The necessity for walking, which is thus imposed, may 
 be the only prescription to bring the mind and body back to their 
 native vigour. Both are liable to be invaded by an apoplectic 
 pursiness, which demands severe training to preserve us from 
 
THE MORAL OF GOSLYNE GREENE. 69 
 
 lethargy, and to afford room for the salutary play of our facul- 
 ties. The spirit, like the corporal fabric in which it is enclosed, 
 is exposed to the danger of growing rotund, asthmatic, indolent, 
 and unwieldy ; and perchance, even as regards those for whom 
 we labour, if our vision were keen enough to embrace the whole 
 scheme of this earthly struggle, we might be induced to look 
 upon a financial catastrophe now and then, as a providential 
 interference, and to rejoice over the enlivening incident of being 
 ruined occasionally, as if it were a capital prize in the lottery of 
 adventure like a shower-bath a sharp shock to the nerves, 
 but, in its reaction, exceedingly tonic and refreshing. 
 
 The elder Mr. Greene, however, was rather of a practical cast 
 than of a meditative nature, content in the outward seeming of 
 things without cracking for the kernel ; and it is not at all likely 
 that he would have credited it, even if you had told him so, that 
 the primitive Goslyne is the safest bird, and that, when it is 
 compelled to nibble over a somewhat arid common for a living, 
 the position is better than if the nutriment were gathered to its 
 neb. Observe, now, when a man's pockets are stimulantly 
 vacant when a new coat is rather an abstract idea than a 
 palpable presence when the pleasure of having a good dinner 
 to-day is enhanced by a small and appetizing degree of doubt as 
 to the nature of the viands which will grace his board to-morrow, 
 what a quick, lively, interesting little creature he becomes. How 
 his manners are improved ; how his temper is ameliorated ; how 
 all sorts of morbidities and misanthropies are shaken to the 
 winds, as too expensive for indulgence, and how evil habit is 
 dispensed with until the purse may admit of such gentlemanlike 
 recreations ; while, on the other hand, who arises willingly from 
 his couch, or has a spontaneous disposition to go to bed at 
 reasonable hours ? Why, what a languid time one would have 
 of it, if it were only requisite to form a wish to insure its grati- 
 fication. Even our planetary duty of revolving upon an axis, 
 and of strolling round the sun, for the sake of varieties of light, 
 and for a patronising encouragement of the little seasons, 
 might come to be neglected from a want of inducement to take 
 
 7 
 
70 THE GIFT. 
 
 the trouble of rolling; and we should lose caste in the solar 
 system by being too indolent to perform our gyrations, or to 
 extend the shadow of eclipse. 
 
 The elder Mr. Greene would have stared at an attempt to 
 demonstrate, that perhaps one's real felicity is to be estimated 
 rather by what one wants than by what one has, and, though 
 realizing the truth in his own person, that the pursuit is often 
 more of a pleasure than the possession, he would have thought 
 it strange enough if he had been told that it is frequently a mis- 
 fortune to be free from care. 
 
 But Goslyne Greene verified a fact, the knowledge of which 
 had been denied to his paternal predecessor. Though sur- 
 rounded by mere conventional thinkers by those who think 
 they think, and labour under the delusion of supposing they 
 have opinions of their own, when they only reflect the image 
 presented to them and who, by dint of reiteration, had worn 
 out Goslyne's original and instinctive aversions to his peculiar 
 position in the world, manifested by juvenile whimpers, which 
 had more of wisdom in them than is often to be found in the 
 gravest nod of a snow-crowned head still Goslyne returned at 
 last, but rather circuitously, it must be confessed, to the primary 
 sentiment, and perfected the moral. In the long interval, how- 
 ever, he was " sophisticate," and, like the mass of mankind, 
 took things for true because every body says so, when perhaps 
 this species of universal concession is rather a suspicious cir- 
 cumstance, and should awaken scrutiny. 
 
 "Born to a fortune" came, therefore, pleasantly enough to 
 the ears of Goslyne Greene: He soon learned to consider him- 
 self as an exempt from the discipline of the drill sergeant. The 
 filings and facings which necessity imposes, were nothing to 
 him. There was no reason why his step should be regulated, 
 or why he should be obliged to march to measure. Goslyne 
 had a gun before he had any conception of the purposes of that 
 complicated contrivance ; Goslyne had a pony, with a " coloured 
 gentleman" appurtenant, to hold him on the saddle. Goslyne 
 had a watch before he knew there was such a thing as time, and 
 
THE MORAL OF GOSLYNE GREENE. 71 
 
 before he had the slightest idea of the trouble he would hereafter 
 have to kill the horological enemy, which was destined to hang 
 so heavy on his hands. Other children must dream of drums 
 and sigh for drums till Christmas; but drums were attainable 
 by Goslyne every day in the year ; and drums, thus reduced to 
 their sheepskin realities the drum in fact, and not the drum of 
 imagination become a weariness. It is not our business to 
 invalidate proverbs, and the birds may have it their own way ; 
 but an anticipated drum is in every respect more fascinating 
 than any quantity of drums in hand, and the philosophy of this 
 has an extended application. Goslyne, however, had no anti- 
 cipations. Almost from the very outset, he was compelled to 
 puzzle himself to imagine new pleasures and to harass his mind 
 to conceive a want. Now there are few distresses more essen- 
 tially distressing than to want a want. Other difficulties may 
 be surmounted ; but when we experience a difficulty because we 
 have not got a difficulty, what is to be done? Goslyne had 
 many fatiguing hunts through the region of his fancy, in the 
 hope that under some unsuspected, untried bush, he might be 
 lucky enough to beat up an unsatisfied desire. How often did 
 he wish that there was something which he had not, that he 
 might enjoy the sport of wishing that he could have it a 
 common amusement enough, but one with which Goslyne was 
 not at all familiar, and it was this very deficiency that goaded 
 him on to his moral. 
 
 From the force of circumstances, Goslyne unavoidably became 
 an indolent boy. People did every thing for him, when it is 
 childhood's happy impulse to do all things, however imperfectly, 
 for itself, and when it joyfully seeks the wisdom of experience, 
 by an endless variety of experiments, triumphing through tears, 
 tumbles, breakages, and damage of all sorts and sizes. But 
 Goslyne was supervised and carefully tended, and, being born 
 to a fortune, the mountain came to the little Mahomet, instead of 
 Mahomet going to the mountain. He rarely, indeed, had the 
 opportunity of improving himself by a fall down stairs on his 
 own special account, and probably never gathered knowledge by 
 
72 THE GIFT. 
 
 an uninterrupted dabble in a tub of water. If he would climb 
 the fence, John lifted him to the top, and if he wanted to make a 
 horse of the poker, an expensive toy was substituted, to the death 
 of all ingenuity and imagination. Goslyne was tamed and tran- 
 quillized at last, into a nice boy, and his mind, like his body, 
 lost relish for adventure. He looked to others for his entertain- 
 ment, and required grimaces to be made at him to create his 
 laughter. John beat the hoop, while Goslyne looked on, and 
 Tom turned heels over head, that Goslyne might enjoy the sport 
 without risking a bruise. It was a business to amuse the child, 
 when that is a business belonging chiefly to the child itself. 
 
 Goslyne had not even elasticity enough left for mischief, it 
 was so tiresome when the edge of its novelty had been somewhat 
 blunted by repetition. What fun is there in the demolition of 
 windows, when one would just as soon pay for the broken glass 
 as not ? Who would fatigue himself to run down all manner of 
 streets, when half a dollar is sure to stop the pursuit ? Why 
 poach for fruit upon forbidden ground, when cash can procure 
 much better fruit, with John to go for it, and with no agitation of 
 trouble and excitement? Goslyne had not discovered that this 
 " trouble" constitutes the poetry of almost every thing within the 
 range of human enjoyment. We are born to trouble, and it is 
 lucky that it is so, or how should we fill up our time ? It might 
 not, perhaps, be difficult to demonstrate that the abrogation of 
 domestic and scholastic " correction," which is yielding to the 
 progress of innovating philanthropy, has made the present gene- 
 ration less jocund than its predecessors. For who can deny 
 that it was an exquisite pleasure to " 'scape whipping," when 
 that description of appeal to the feelings was in fashion ? But 
 the enlivening sensations thus derivable, were not accorded 
 to the wealthy Goslyne Greene, as being an enjoyment suitable 
 only for the plebeian order. No wonder he yawned nobody 
 ever ventured to put him in a rage by thwartings and contradic- 
 tion. How could he do otherwise than stagnate ? 
 
 In the matter of acquirement at school and at college, the 
 achievements of Mr. Greene were just about what would be anti- 
 
THE MORAL OF GOSLYNE GREENE. 73 
 
 cipated from his earlier training, and he arrived at the conclu- 
 sion to have it so, by two converging processes of thought, which 
 were brief and did not impose a heavy tax upon the reasoning 
 powers. 
 
 " Learning things is a trouble," said Goslyne, " and I hate 
 trouble. What's the use of being rich, if we are to have trouble 1" 
 
 This was the first stretch of his intellect, and he reposed upon 
 its laurels for a considerable series of years, when, his faculties 
 being fully matured, he reflected as follows : 
 
 " What do people take trouble for what do they learn things 
 for ? Why, to get a living. But I have got a living already, 
 and more than a living. Then, what's the use ?" 
 
 And Goslyne ceased to think further on the subject, lest he 
 should injure the delicate organization of his brain by the enter- 
 tainment of abstruse propositions. He, therefore, yawned and 
 sauntered through academic groves until he reached the estate of 
 manhood, together with the estate which his father had accumu- 
 lated for him. 
 
 Now came the most arduous part of the effort to live plea- 
 surably without trouble to gather roses without a thorn. Never 
 was humanity more perplexed. The tiresome fiend was close 
 at Goslyne's heels wherever he might be, whether vegetating at 
 home or hurrying in travel. He tried change of place. He 
 tried horses and dogs. Gay companions wearied him. Amuse- 
 ments became insipid. There appeared to be no end to the day, 
 and the night was equally as " tardy gaited." The delights of 
 the table seemed to promise well, and he endeavoured to fill up 
 intervals by Apician indulgences ; but he was too inactive in 
 body to carry on gormandizing to advantage for any length of 
 time; and he found that to vibrate between the cook and the 
 physician, with a preponderating tendency towards the man of 
 medicine, was a species of trouble for which, on the whole, he 
 had very little fancy. Enlistments under the banner of Bacchus 
 proved equally unproductive, and in games of hazard, he suf- 
 fered a certain degree of annoyance when he lost his money, 
 
 7* 
 
74 THE GIFT. 
 
 with no compensating satisfaction when he won the money of 
 other people, as he had always cash enough, and had undergone 
 no such experience in a deficiency thereof to give zest to pecu- 
 niary acquisitions. 
 
 He laboured to persuade himself once upon a time that he had 
 fallen in love, undertaking to be sentimental in " yellow kids" 
 and paying particular attention to costume. The lady's brothers 
 borrowed his money, drank his wine, smoked his segars, rode 
 his horses, broke his carriages, and treated him in every way as 
 " one of the family ;" while the lady herself dragged him from 
 company to company, from concert to theatres, caused him to 
 come for her and to go for her, and danced him through a whole 
 winter ; so that when they were just about to fix the " happy 
 day," the timely thought struck him, in the midst of a yawn of 
 unusual width and weariness, that he did not like the affair 
 altogether, and that he would take no more " trouble" in relation 
 to it. There was much talk about horsewhips, about breaches 
 of promise, express and implied, about the pulling of noses, 
 horizontal and vertical, coupled with hints concerning hair trig- 
 gers and percussion caps. 
 
 " As for assaults and battery, suits at law, and permitting 
 fellows to fire at you as if you were the target in a shooting 
 gallery, it's decidedly too much trouble," yawned Goslyne 
 Greene. " Tell 'em to send in a bill of how much it comes to 
 for letting me off, and I'll pay. It's cheaper than being shot, 
 and not half so much trouble as matrimony seems to be." 
 
 But the star of Goslyne Greene had reached its culminating 
 point, and began to wane. His fortunes had suffered much from 
 his mode of living, and more from an unwillingness to encounter 
 the " trouble" to look after his affairs. Mr. Thimblerig, who 
 had kindly undertaken to manage all investments for him, and to 
 increase his cash by profitable speculation, thought it proper one 
 fine morning to depart for Texas, leaving no particular explana- 
 tory remarks behind him, and, indeed, leaving the remarks to 
 be made by other people, though he left nothing else that was 
 
THE MORAL OF GOSLYlfE GREENE. 75 
 
 portable or convertible, either of his own or belonging to the 
 estate of Goslyne Greene. Goslyne had a suspicion that he 
 ought to feel as a goose is reputed to feel. 
 
 " I always had a suspicion that Thimblerig was a little of a 
 rascal," thought he ; " but then the fellow was so handy and 
 saved such a deal of trouble.-" 
 
 There was something left, to be sure. Thimblerig had not 
 completely swept the board ; but, in such cases, it often happens 
 that it never rains without pouring. A commercial crisis swept 
 over the land. Banks exploded ; speculations vanished into thin 
 air ; money loaned was not worth seeking after. The work 
 begun by his faithless agent was now perfected, and Goslyne 
 Greene was reduced, like mighty Caesar, to the petty measure of 
 his physical dimensions, without circumstance or accompaniment, 
 a simple Goslyne, independent of feathers. 
 
 " I'm afraid there's going to be trouble," said he, as he looked 
 at the collapsed condition of his purse. " But never mind. I 
 can borrow." 
 
 The theory of borrowing, as Goslyne had learned it, by oc- 
 cupying the place of a lender, is essentially different from the 
 practice of borrowing when one tries it on his own account. 
 The world has various aspects, according to the position from 
 which it is viewed, and when an individual " born to a fortune" 
 gets into the reverse attitude, and seeks to do as he has been done 
 by, the difference is striking. Goslyne was surprised to find, 
 when he endeavoured to live upon other people as other people 
 had lived on him, that it was rather a severe and an unpleasant 
 method of operation. 
 
 " Well, if I'd had any idea of this before," said he, when 
 disappointed in an effort to raise five dollars in the way of 
 a friendly loan, " it would have saved a deal of trouble, and a 
 considerable quantity of money." 
 
 But it was rather too late in the day with the unfortunate 
 Goslyne Greene to unlearn every thing and to begin his life 
 anew. He had no qualifications for the task either, even if the 
 inclination had not been lacking, and he discovered painfully 
 
76 THE GIFT. 
 
 enough that being " born to a fortune," where it is much easier 
 to make money, difficult as that process may be, than to keep 
 it when it is made, is not always the greatest kindness that 
 our guardian angel can bestow. Riches with us is a bird of an 
 incredible power of wing, and has qualities of escape and evasion 
 which skill itself is often unavailing to combat. The bird was 
 gone from Goslyne, but having had no training as a fowler, 
 there was no help, and he was obliged to trust his future life to 
 chance. 
 
 He ekes out a precarious existence on the reluctant kindness 
 of former friends, and by appeals to the feelings of his kinsfolk, 
 who, however near in former times, are now disposed to be 
 " distant relations" in regard to him. He is, nevertheless, as 
 averse to trouble as ever when there is a possibility of avoiding 
 it, and rarely removes from hotel or boarding house until the 
 politeness of the landlord induces him to say, that he will forgive 
 arrearage for the sake of hastening Mr. Goslyne Greene's de- 
 parture from the premises. 
 
 " And that is what I call behaving like a gentleman," says 
 Mr. Greene ; " it saves a deal of trouble in the adjustment of 
 accounts, and as I don't understand figures, people are so apt to 
 impose upon me." 
 
 Latterly, however, he begins to think that this mode of settle- 
 ment is too much to the advantage of the opposite party, and 
 that he, being at the trouble of looking out for a new domicile, 
 should have something to boot, in the shape of a small subsidy 
 or an order upon a ready-made clothing establishment, just for 
 the sake of symmetry and to make the matter perfectly square ; 
 and he proposes to carry out the idea when the next occasion 
 offers itself. Whether his conduct in thus obtaining credit is 
 altogether creditable, is left to the reader to decide. It is enough 
 for us to have presented " The moral of Goslyne Greene, who 
 was born to a fortune," that they who are not thus distinguished, 
 may rejoice over their peculiar happiness in being with the ma- 
 jority on this question, and esteem themselves lucky in beginning 
 life at its smaller and lower end. 
 
THE POET'S APOLOGY. 
 
 BY R. W. EMERSON. 
 
 THINK me not unkind and rude, 
 
 That I walk alone in grove and glen ; 
 
 I go to the god of the wood 
 To fetch his word to men. 
 
 Tax not my sloth that I 
 
 Fold my arms beside the brook ; 
 
 Each cloud that floated hi the sky- 
 Writes a letter in my book. 
 
 Chide me not, laborious band, 
 For the idle flowers I brought ; 
 
 Every aster in my hand 
 
 Goes home loaded with a thought. 
 
 There was never mystery 
 But 'tis figured in the flowers, 
 
 Was never secret history 
 
 But birds tell it in the bowers. 
 
 One harvest from thy field 
 
 Homeward brought the oxen strong 
 A second crop thine acres yield, 
 
 Which I gather in a song. 
 
THE STUYVESANT PEAR-TREE. 
 
 BY MRS. ELLET. 
 
 SHADE of Peter Stuyvesant, chivalrous Peter the Headstrong 
 appear ! 
 
 And lo! summoned by Fancy's potent wand, the shadowy 
 semblance rises, wearing his own costume in bright colours from 
 the immortal pencil of Genius. 
 
 I behold a martial figure halting on wooden leg inlaid with 
 silver, his right hand grasping a gold-headed cane, his left 
 resting on the pommel of his sword ; his face rendered formi- 
 dable by a pair of black mustachios, overshadowed by a little 
 fierce cocked hat ; his rattail queue descending to his waist with 
 an air of majesty ; his regimental coat of German blue, with 
 voluminous skirts, displaying its files of brass buttons in una- 
 bated brilliancy ; his brimstone-coloured trunk breeches shining 
 in their original splendour. The form hath a port of command, 
 indicated by the broad shoulders and sturdy athletic make, as of 
 one conscious that his single head sufficed to govern a nation, 
 his single arm to fight his way through all difficulties and dan- 
 gers. It is the port of one born to rule, and possessing decision 
 and energy worthy of his eminent state, with a perseverance that 
 in all cases made up for the want of correctness of judgment. 
 
 This countenance of iron aspect, whose hard-favoured frown 
 struck dismay to the appalled hearts of his foes, this figure of 
 martial excellency are to us as familiar, thanks to the great 
 historian of New York, as the hero's redoubtable deeds. Long 
 
THE STUYVESANT PEAR-TREE. 79 
 
 shall the sturdy Piet, as his honest old Dutch burghers affection- 
 ately called him, live in the recollection of the islanders whose 
 ancestors he ruled. Only those for whom remoteness of time or 
 distance has dimmed the picture, or those who have no inherit- 
 ance in the land that owned his sway, or those unread in the 
 most glowing page of history, have to learn aught concerning 
 this last and most renowned of our ancient Dutch governors. 
 Of him it may truly be said, observes his eminent biographer, 
 that he was never equalled by any successor. Originally sent 
 as the successor to Kieft, by the Dutch West India Company as 
 Director General in 1647, he laid claim to all the lands, rivers, 
 and streams, from Cape Henlopen to Cape Cod. 
 
 It may be asked and posterity will surely ask where are 
 the monuments erected by a grateful people to their far-famed 
 governor? Is he immortalized only in the bright page of 
 Genius? Where are the skyward-pointing columns, speaking 
 to the understanding of the illiterate discoursing with eloquent 
 tongue to the stranger from a foreign shore? Where is the 
 stately pile, to which the proud citizen may point and say " It 
 is consecrate to the memory of the glorious old Dutch governor 
 of the New Netherlands ?" Where are the funeral honours, the 
 pride, pomp, and circumstance, attending a nation's periodical 
 recollection of one of her enshrined heroes ? Where the celebra- 
 tions that perpetuate from year to year, that renew time after 
 time in the hearts of his people's children the fame of Peter 
 Stuy vesant ? 
 
 Yes, he has a monument a noble one ; and his great deeds 
 are annually commemorated. His own works praise him in 
 the gates. At the upper end of the city he loved, stands a 
 solitary and venerable pear-tree. This tree was originally 
 brought from Holland; and the best chroniclers calculate its 
 age, at the present date, to be full two hundred years. It was 
 planted where it now stands by the Dutch governor, Stuyvesant. 
 
 Some slight vestiges of his once extensive farm are still to be 
 traced. It was situated about two miles from the most advanced 
 part of the city, which was at that** time WALL STREET. Here 
 
80 THE GIFT. 
 
 he laid out and arranged, with something of Dutch regularity, 
 his rich and extensive gardens, ornamented with trees brought 
 from various parts of the world. In these favourite grounds he 
 loved to pass his hours of leisure ; perhaps under the shade of 
 those fruit-trees he matured his warlike or statesmanlike projects, 
 or devised the proclamations which were such a terror to his 
 enemies. He was sometimes disturbed, it is true, by domestic 
 invasions and inroads. The boys of the neighbourhood would 
 steal the unripe fruit from the tender boughs of the youthful scions 
 of his watchful care. Year after year the cherry and apple-trees 
 of the redoubted governor, as they grew to maturity, were 
 subjected to this rude havoc ; till in process of time, the more 
 cruel hand of " improvement" levelled them all. It has long 
 since swept away every one of those graceful and stately inhabi- 
 tants of the soil. The same fate has overtaken his splendid 
 collection of pear-trees. But while so many have perished, one 
 has survived ; ONE the lone representative of former luxury 
 and magnificence ; the solitary witness of changing fortune ; the 
 sole and single monument of its once wealthy proprietor. 
 
 This remarkable tree, connected with so many venerable, and, 
 to some, sacred recollections, stands on the Third Avenue, at 
 the corner of Thirteenth Street. It has been long robbed of its 
 garden protection, and the surroundings of companionship. It 
 stands alone on the public highway, exposed, in its helpless old 
 age, to all the dangers that can befall it in the midst of a dense 
 metropolis. Hundreds pass it hourly without notice; or but 
 rarely is it pointed out to the agricultural student, or the curious 
 antiquarian. Its time-honoured associations, its past grandeur, 
 are unheeded by the busy throng. 
 
 But not altogether neglected is the solitary tree, though a stone 
 pavement shuts out the sun from its roots, and though its topmost 
 boughs look abroad on ranges of roofs and chimneys, and domes 
 and spires, instead of the leafy honours of its thousand lordly 
 compeers. A generous and chivalric lover of the venerable past* 
 
 * Dr. Francis of New York. 
 
THE STUYVESANT PEAR-TREE. 81 
 
 has protected its trunk by a fence several feet high, thus securing 
 its bark against destructive boys, and those licensed vagabonds 
 of old Gotham pigs. The pear-tree has found an artist compe- 
 tent to represent it in one of the first geniuses of the country. 
 Its fruit which, year after year, with marvellous fidelity, it 
 yields in abundance, and has never failed to yield from its first 
 bearing up to the present time its fruit, duly prepared, was 
 partaken of by the old society of the Knickerbockers at the last 
 anniversary meeting. Some affirmed it to be presented as a 
 prescription for the health of the members of the society by their 
 learned and distinguished official adviser, Dr. Francis ; but 
 whether thus received or otherwise, all united in bearing testi- 
 mony to the excellent and grateful quality of the fruit. Lastly, 
 the lonely tree is watched over, carefully trimmed when neces- 
 sary, and protected from rude assault by the gentleman residing 
 on the corner of the avenue, Mr. Snyder, himself allied to the 
 old Dutch aristocracy, and imbued with love of antiquarian lore. 
 To him the writer of this sketch is indebted for some of the fruit 
 of the tree, which is sealed up in spirits of wine, and kept as a 
 valuable relic. 
 
 Notwithstanding that this venerable tree is stripped of its 
 accessories, few, I apprehend, can contemplate it without in- 
 voluntary awe. It wears the aspect of respectable old age. 
 Tall and majestic in form, and of monarch proportions, its 
 foliage is sparse and thin, like the scattered hairs of an octo- 
 genarian. Time has not bowed its stately head, but has sorely 
 rifled its crown of verdure. The frosts of many winters have 
 nipped its smaller branches, and one by one they have been 
 broken off. In short, the time is evidently approaching when 
 the tree itself, over which two centuries have rolled, which has 
 seen three successive dynasties, and so many passing genera- 
 tions, shall at last fall under the power of the arch-destroyer. 
 
 As we gaze on this hoary representative of a vanished sove- 
 reignty, past scenes rise before us. The green rural beauty of 
 gardens and orchards ; the gradual advance of the spirit of 
 improvement ; the laying out of streets over grounds once sacred 
 
 8 
 
82 THE GIFT. 
 
 to luxurious retirement; the encroachment of the extending 
 city ; the invasion of those quiet scenes by the rude clamour of 
 business ; the destruction of those beautiful and almost classic 
 groves, while we may imagine a spirit-wail sent up at every 
 stroke of the sacrilegious axe ; the final disappearance of every 
 vestige of nature's loveliness, replaced by buildings of human 
 industry ; till at last but a single tree, spared only on account of 
 its accidental position, remains a decaying monument of what 
 has been. What a lesson does it read us of the instability of all 
 earthly things, and especially of human institutions ! 
 
 Recollections almost equally venerable, and even more tender 
 and personal, belong to another pear-tree, rivaling in antiquity 
 that on the Stuyvesant property which was planted in 1660, 
 and still bears fruit, on the farm of J. L. Riker, Esq., at New 
 Town, Long Island. This tree was a shoot from one that had 
 been planted by Geysbert Riker, the original patentee, in 1630. 
 It was put in the ground by his grand-daughter, Mrs. Margaret 
 Duane, when she was nine years old. The estate had descended 
 to her father, Abraham Riker, a man of noble and amiable 
 dispositions, and warmly beloved by a large and happy family 
 circle. He lived nearly a century. About ten years before his 
 death he lost his sight, but still continued to enjoy most cheer- 
 fully the company and conversation of his friends and children. 
 When led by his grandsons about his grounds, and along the 
 pleasant shores of the Bay, he would frequently pause to call up 
 his unforgotten impressions of the romantic beauty of those 
 cherished scenes. Yet never was he heard to murmur that 
 Heaven had deprived him of the most precious of earthly gifts. 
 
 One morning, it appears to have been on a festival day, the 
 aged man requested to be led to the spot where his son was 
 superintending his servants in the preparation of a lamb for 
 dinner, according to the patriarchal custom of that time. He 
 drew near, and passing his hand several times over his eyes, at 
 length observed in Dutch "That is a fine lamb, Andrew." 
 " Do you see, my father?" exclaimed his son, with emotions that 
 
THE STUYVESANT PEAR-TEEE. 83 
 
 may be more easily imagined than described. " I do see it 
 plainly," was the reply ; " as plainly as I ever saw in my life." 
 What an event ! The surprised circle gathered about the vene- 
 rable man, thus wonderfully restored to sight, with rejoicing and 
 thankfulness ; but he, feeble and faint, desired to be conducted 
 to his wonted seat under the shade of the Pear-tree. It stood 
 near the door. He was taken thither ; and leaning against the 
 supporting arm of his son, looking round him with a smile of 
 peaceful joy on the faces of those he loved, his heart filled with 
 gratitude to Heaven for the blessings of a happy life and hope 
 that triumphed over death, this good man, full of years, sank 
 gently into a serene and lasting repose. 
 
THE RABBIT-CATCHING. 
 
 MUCH may often be gathered of the character of a child's 
 mind and temperament by its choice of a pet. Thus the high- 
 spirited boy will choose a dog of the same mettle, while the girl 
 will lose her heart to a cooing dove, or a canary bird. It is not 
 the entirely domestic breed, they that come at your call, and 
 give you no trouble to seek after them, that altogether fascinate 
 their young hearts, like those coyest, wildest, and most timid of 
 God's creatures, whose confidence is never more than half won, 
 and less than half repaid. And in this halfness lies a deep 
 source of interest : pleasure with an afterthought of fear. 
 
 "Familiarity breeds contempt," says an old saw, and this may 
 account for many a cuff and kick received by the sleek tabby 
 cat and snarling cur ; but no familiarity can exist between the 
 fluttering bird, the wild fawn, the squirrel, or shy rabbit, and 
 any of our human species, from three years old and upwards. 
 Nature stands between them and us, with her own laws of 
 etiquette. Doubtless you have walked through the woods of an 
 early summer's morning, when the grass had grown thickly 
 over the pathway, and the foot fell softly on the ground, and 
 you remember how, ever and anon, some nimble squirrel, or 
 rabbit with pricked-up ears, and shy, anxious eyes, would brush 
 past you from his covert of leaves ; or one bolder than the rest, 
 would remain sitting by the road-side, staring at you, with his 
 quick, large eyes, till you had come within arm's length of the 
 rogue, and then, up, bound, and away ! You could almost 
 fancy you heard him laugh at the joke he had played you, as he 
 
fe 
 
 52 . 
 ft 
 
 
THE RABBIT-CATCHING. 85 
 
 burrowed safely in some hollow stump, or behind an old fence. 
 It has always been a whim with us, from childhood, to follow 
 such " small deer" to their snug haunts, and watch the life they 
 lead, and hear what tales they tell their gossips of the ventures 
 they have run, and the fine juicy nuts they have cracked. A 
 fine time they have in the summer, when the leaves are green, 
 and the days warm ; and what a jolly thanksgiving they must 
 keep when the nuts are brown and the wind shakes the old 
 hickory and chestnut trees. What a wealth comes tumbling 
 about their ears in the clear October days. They have the 
 freedom of the forest, and can turn up their noses at game laws. 
 Then in winter they have nothing to do but roll themselves up 
 warmly in their holes, and sleep, sleep sleep, till the warm 
 sun comes again, and wakens them. Your tame breed are a 
 sluggish race beside them awkward and clownish. If you 
 turned one loose among them that had been nibbling cabbage- 
 leaves and grass all his days long, how green they would think 
 him, and what merry antics they would play upon him. Like 
 enough he would wish himself safe home again, in his little pen, 
 peeping out for the food that the toddling child brought him 
 every morning, with its long, bright stare of joy. 
 
 Oh how those days will rush on our hearts again at times : 
 days when we looked lovingly, yet reverently on the rabbit, and 
 the white mouse, and the unfledged bird ; when we peeped with 
 eyes brimful of joy and wonder into our first bird's nest, and 
 saw how smooth and soft it was within, and how white and 
 speckled were the eggs, real eggs, for we had touched them, 
 and they were warm. Many pleasures we may have hereafter, 
 but this one never returns. It is brushed away with the morning 
 dew. 
 
 There must be great pleasure in country sports, to judge by 
 the intense enthusiasm with which they are entered into by mere 
 boys. Some would think it dull to angle all day, or wade up to 
 the knees in water for a dish of sorry fish. But not so they. 
 Izaak Walton has no more faithful disciples. Then a bird's 
 nest must be had at the peril of limb and life. 
 
 8* 
 
86 THE GIFT. 
 
 When we meet with these young enthusiasts in our country 
 rambles, they often recall to us the faces of two boys we once 
 knew, and which are before us even now as vividly as ever. 
 Not a whit behind any of them were they in the " whole-hearted- 
 ness" with which they followed up an object of pursuit. 
 
 Willie, the elder of them, was a bright, sturdy, good-humoured 
 lad, so ruddy-cheeked you would have thought him country-born, 
 yet I doubt whether he had often fairly got out of sight of the 
 brick walls of his native town in his life. His father was not 
 rich, and Willie had had few holidays ; and then, in some way 
 or another, he had conjured up a supreme contempt for country 
 ways and people. He did not know how sweetly the clover 
 fields smell in the spring time, or how pleasant it is to go angling 
 all day along some quiet stream, or in the evening, to drive 
 home the cows with their jingling bells, or to go harvesting, or 
 gunning, or nutting. How should he ? But for all this Willie 
 loved sport as well as other folks, and was fond of skating, 
 flying a kite, or a game of marbles, and had a small turn for 
 carpentering. He always thought of the country as a very dull 
 place, where there were no gay stores, and not a sight to be 
 seen, except a cattle-show. He did not believe country boys 
 knew half as much as city ones. He had met with some and 
 did not like them overmuch. But Willie's father did not think 
 so too. He had been a Yankee boy, and his earliest recollections 
 were about the old homestead with its large barn, and orchard, 
 and duck-pond. True, he had come up to town when a mere 
 stripling, and had toiled early and late at his desk and counter 
 ever since, and had had no time to visit the old place except 
 once, years before, when he and his young wife passed one 
 short week of their honey-moon there, one bright, short, happy 
 week in June. Since then the old pair had died, and Willie's 
 father had grown care-worn, and gray ; but he often wished his 
 boy should have a taste of what had seemed so pleasant to him. 
 At last a chance turned up, far less to Will's satisfaction than 
 his father's. A countryman who dealt with them in butter 
 and eggs, took a liking to the smart lad, and gave him a warm 
 
THE RABBIT-CATCHING. 87 
 
 invitation to a " lift" in his wagon, and a few days' visit to his 
 farm. 
 
 It was accepted ; and Willie packed up his bundle, not for- 
 getting his Sunday coat and cap ; for he had a spice of vanity 
 in him, and the thoughts of the impression he should make upon 
 those country-folks almost reconciled him to the plan. 
 
 It was then the latter end of October, and the weather " frosty, 
 but kindly." Now the farmer had a son of Willie's age, or rather 
 a few months younger, Dick they called him, a keen, sharp- 
 witted urchin, sly and mischievous, but good-hearted at the 
 bottom. This boy eyed the visiter with side-long looks for a 
 while, then edged himself nearer and nearer to him, and at last, 
 half boldly, half bashfully, commenced a conversation with him. 
 First he questioned him as to his skill in gunning and angling, 
 both of which amusements were passions with Dick, not that 
 he knew much of shooting, for he had never owned a gun, but 
 he was saving his money purposely, and had already two silver 
 dollars and some cents. 
 
 Then he was surprised to find how ignorant Willie was of 
 things that were like daily bread to him ; and the country boy 
 laughed outright when he found that he did not know wheat from 
 barley, or an oak from a maple tree. 
 
 Willie felt piqued, but comforted himself with the thought that 
 his turn would come, and looked at the ragged coat and " home- 
 spun" of his companion with a little superciliousness. 
 
 In the morning, when he woke, he was almost bewildered by 
 the many sounds he heard in the yard below. Cocks crowing, 
 and geese cackling, dogs barking and pigs grunting, all mingled 
 together, made him rub his eyes and stare about him. It was 
 only gray morning, but Dick had been up long before, and at 
 work. Willie soon followed him, and found him in the barn. 
 The bright, good-humoured smile with which he met him was 
 contagious for Willie. He smiled back again, and liked his new 
 friend better than before. 
 
 In the afternoon he and Dick went nutting, but more than 
 once his pride was roused when he found how much better the 
 
88 THE GIFT. 
 
 other boy could clear a ditch, leap a fence, or climb a tree, than 
 he could ; and once, when he stuck fast in the branches of a tall 
 old walnut, Willie was fain to call his companion to his assist- 
 ance, notwithstanding something like a broad grin on Dick's 
 honest face. Still they had fun enough shaking down showers 
 of nuts, the last of the season, regaling themselves on some of 
 the largest, and then filling a bag which they had brought with 
 them for the purpose. 
 
 Once, as Willie had mounted on the highest branches of one of 
 the trees, and the sun was shining brightly on the many-coloured 
 autumnal foliage of the woods, and the fresh air was blowing 
 sharply on his face, it struck him whether this was not as plea- 
 sant as his city life, and whether it were so dull after all. But 
 this he kept to himself, and shook all the more lustily on the 
 branches below him. 
 
 And now how confidential he and Dick became ! How they 
 communicated their plans and speculations to one another, and 
 exchanged opinions on every thing that came uppermost. 
 
 There was one thing Dick desired exceedingly, and that was 
 to catch a live rabbit for his sister Fanny. 
 
 Poor little Fanny was a sickly, crippled child, of six or seven 
 years old. From her birth she had never known what health 
 was, and her thin pale face had a hopeless look about it that was 
 sad to see. Fanny was a gentle, grateful child, but as her 
 parents were poor and had to work hard, she was more ne- 
 glected than the children of richer parents generally are. They 
 never taxed her little strength with any thing ; but they had no 
 time to give her the blessing of employments that would have 
 suited her powers. So she went sometimes moaning and limping 
 through the house, or sat watching the flies crawling over the 
 window panes for hours together. 
 
 And it was by no means from want of love that this happened, 
 for very often the mother would leave her washing tub, or her 
 churn, to soothe the child to patience, when she could ill spare 
 the time. The fault lay in her poverty. 
 
 But the bright spot in Fanny's life was her brother Dick. 
 
THE RABBIT-CATCHING. 89 
 
 Dick, who played so many sly jokes on every one else, always 
 spared Poor Fanny, unless it were to amuse her. Her misfor- 
 tune had in some sort sanctified her with him. Whatever he 
 found in his rambles through the woods and fields was always 
 brought home to her. The earliest flowers, and the latest 
 berries. Then he would sing songs, and tell her droll stories, 
 and bear with all her waywardness ; and best of all, as Fanny 
 thought, he would carry her with him on his shoulders when he 
 went fishing, and would place her on some sunny bank, or under 
 a shady tree beside him ; and then how proud and pleased the 
 child was, every time that her brother drew out his line, with a 
 fish hanging at the end of it. Those were pleasant days for 
 Fanny ; the happiest she ever had. But others were very sad 
 when he could not take her with him, and she was listless and 
 lonely all day long. It was then that Fanny longed for some 
 pet, something that should be alive, and would eat out of her 
 hand, and follow after her. There was her doll, to be sure, but 
 she had grown tired of that. And the cat was cross and not to 
 be played with at peril of her claws. So a little rabbit seemed 
 just the thing to suit, and a rabbit Dick was determined she 
 should have. But " first catch your hare," says Mrs. Glasse, 
 and this was the puzzle for Dick. Thus far they had always 
 been too sharp for him. Now he meant to set a trap for them 
 that a neighbour had promised to lend him, and Willie and he 
 were to fix upon some favourable spot for their operations. He 
 knew of a place, about half a mile across the fields, just near the 
 wood, where there were plenty of them. He had been there 
 with his father gunning not long before, and the wild things were 
 scampering about " like mad." So away Willie and he went 
 the very next day to reconnoitre. They took with them a large 
 old wooden trap that the neighbour lent them, and, although they 
 did not find so much game as Dick led his companion to expect, 
 a pair of frightened creatures bounded once across their path, 
 and ran into the thick woods beyond. Willie was for running 
 after them, but Dick knew that a race between them would be 
 no fair one, and held him back. They set their trap very care- 
 
90 THE GIFT. 
 
 fully on the slope of a hill, under a clump of trees, and with 
 hearts full of hope returned home to the farm. Dick was quite 
 elated by the thought that perhaps to-morrow he should be able 
 to bring Fanny home a rabbit at last. He even set to work to 
 make a sort of pen for its accommodation, and form a code of 
 laws for its management. 
 
 The next morning Willie woke as early as Dick to a minute, 
 and both boys dressed themselves quickly, and then sallied out, 
 on tip-toe with expectation. They walked briskly along over 
 the stubble fields, white with frost, till they came to the hill 
 beyond, which was covered with woods, now glowing in all the 
 red and golden glory of October. Then their hearts began to 
 beat quicker, and instinctively they quickened their pace still 
 more. At last they came in sight of the very spot, and then 
 each boy turned a blank look of disappointment on the other. 
 The trap had not been touched. The door was still open and 
 the bait was there. 
 
 Poor Dick ! " Try again," said Willie. " It's only the first 
 day. Maybe they'll come to-morrow." Dick's open face 
 cleared up in a minute or two, and he bent down over the trap 
 to see if all was right. All was right, -just as he had left it 
 the day before. Not a sign of a rabbit any where about. They 
 had not startled one on their way. " I've heard they were cun- 
 ning things," said Dick, as they were returning home. " Do ye 
 think they knew it was a trap ?" Willie didn't know. 
 
 Little Fanny was sitting at the door, watching for her brother 
 to come back with what he had promised her, and, as she saw 
 him return empty-handed, two large tears started to her eyes, 
 but she brushed them away again quickly, for fear he should see 
 them, and she noticed with a sigh that he did not promise to 
 bring her one to-morrow. Poor Fanny had had many such 
 crosses to bear, but had not got used to them. 
 
 The next morning the boys started out again, and reached the 
 place in less time than before. 
 
 Hurra ! the trap was sprung this time, sure enough. How 
 they rushed forward, and their hands almost shook with eager- 
 
THE RABBIT-CATCHING. 91 
 
 ness, as they stooped down to open it slowly and cautiously. 
 But then they started back even more disappointed than before. 
 It was empty quite empty ! Not a trace of any thing having 
 been there, and yet the bait was gone. They saw it must have 
 been taken before the trap was sprung. Willie set to work, and 
 with his carpenter's eye soon discovered that the construction of 
 the trap was by no means good. He proposed to Dick that 
 they should make a better one for themselves. He could handle 
 a saw, plane, and hammer, and he was sure they could manage 
 it. Dick knew a carpenter who was good-humoured, and would 
 lend them his tools for a little while, and perhaps give them the 
 wood, and they would tell Fanny nothing about it, till they had 
 really caught something. It took the boys several days to ac- 
 complish their object. First one attempt failed, and then another. 
 But they did not get disheartened, and the mystery with which 
 the whole affair was carried on, enhanced its interest. 
 
 Sometimes Will wondered how country sports could please 
 him so much, and how dull a game of marbles seemed to him 
 after them. He forgot, too, all the fine stories he had intended 
 to tell his companion of the city and its sights, and the home- 
 spun also was overlooked. 
 
 At last the trap was finished, to the satisfaction of both of 
 them, and they carried it in triumph, that very day, to the place 
 they had chosen before. 
 
 It was set with all care, and then, with hearts as sanguine as 
 ever, they went their way home. 
 
 That night in their dreams they saw nothing but rabbits. 
 They started from under their pillows, or at their feet, here, 
 there, and every where. Now they had them in their hands, 
 and then again they were gone 
 
 In the morning when they woke, they found, to their utter 
 surprise, the whole landscape covered with the first, dazzling, 
 white snow of winter. It almost seemed like magic. Willie, 
 for one, hardly believed his eyes, every thing seemed so changed. 
 Their first thought was that some accident might have befallen 
 their trap. Dick hurried on his ragged coat, and Willie fol- 
 
92 THE GIFT. 
 
 lowed him, scarcely remembering the road, it looked so different 
 from before. The bright autumn leaves were still hanging on 
 the trees, and some were bending and creaking with the weight 
 of the snow. 
 
 The fields looked so white and smooth that it was hard to find 
 the path. The fall had not been heavy, and in wooded places 
 it looked strange to see the red, fallen leaves peeping above their 
 white coverlid. It had stopped snowing now, and the sun was 
 coming out, and the air was still and cold. The boys blew their 
 fingers to keep them warm, and pulled their caps over their ears. 
 A sportsman must have been that way yesterday, for Willie 
 found a rabbit that had been shot lying half covered by the 
 snow, beside a fence. He took it up and carried it along with 
 him. 
 
 The first thing that struck Dick's sharp eyes, and made his 
 heart leap, were the prints of rabbits' feet in the snow. He 
 pointed them out to his companion. They followed them, and 
 they went straight to the trap. It was sprung. For a moment 
 they paused in breathless eagerness, and then Dick hurried for- 
 ward. How their eyes sparkled, and their cheeks glowed as 
 they knelt down both beside it, and opened it cautiously ; and 
 there, cowering in one corner, beheld their little captive, with its 
 soft brown skin, and large, timid eyes. 
 
 We believe, verily, that men do not catch kingdoms with half 
 the real, intense, whole-souled delight that boys catch rabbits. 
 How proudly they carried off the trembling creature, that was 
 placed, for the present, in the safe custody of the large pocket 
 of Willie's overcoat. Little Fanny was seated, as she often was, 
 on the window-seat of the large kitchen, that also served the 
 family for a dining-room. 
 
 But she did not see the boys coming, until they were close 
 beside her. Then Dick took the rabbit and held it up trium- 
 phantly before her. The child bounded to them with a scream 
 of joy, and a face that beamed with pleasure. Dick let her 
 stroke its smooth fur, and pat its head, and look with childish 
 delight, again and again, at its pretty brown eyes and little feet. 
 
THE RABBIT-CATCHING. 93 
 
 Then she saw it safely lodged in its pen, and fed it herself with 
 her whole apron full of cabbage-leaves, and was as happy as a 
 queen the while. It was pleasant to see how a ray of sunshine 
 had animated the child's sick soul. Dick and Willie, too, felt 
 like heroes for the rest of the day, and laid in prospective all 
 manner of traps for all manner of game. Willie must be a 
 man now, and must have laid in wait for many a more impor- 
 tant prize than this, yet we feel sure that his contempt for the 
 country never returned, nor was the episode of the rabbit-catch- 
 ing ever forgotten. Perhaps even, at times, he has lost sight of 
 the busy world around him, and beheld himself once again as 
 the simple, eager boy he then was, and the rustle of the trees, 
 and the murmur of the brook has come back to him, and stirred 
 the depths of his man's heart. 
 
DIRGE. 
 
 BY R. W. EMERSON. 
 
 KNOWS he who tills this lonely field 
 
 To reap its scanty corn, 
 What mystic fruit his acres yield 
 
 At midnight and at morn ? 
 
 In the long sunny afternoon 
 The plain was full of ghosts, 
 
 I wandered up, I wandered down, 
 Beset by pensive hosts. 
 
 The winding Concord gleamed below, 
 
 Pouring as wide a flood 
 As when my brothers, long ago, 
 
 Came with me to the wood. 
 
 But they are gone, the holy ones 
 Who trod with me this lonely vale, 
 
 The strong, star-bright companions 
 Are silent, low, and pale. 
 
 My good, my noble, in their prime, 
 Who made this world the feast it was, 
 
 Who learned with me the lore of time, 
 Who loved this dwelling-place. 
 
DIRGE. 95 
 
 They took this valley for their toy, 
 
 They played with it in every mood, 
 A cell for prayer, a hall for joy, 
 
 They treated Nature as they would. 
 
 They coloured the whole horizon round, 
 Stars flamed and faded as they bade, 
 
 All echoes hearkened for their sound, 
 They made the woodlands glad or mad. 
 
 I touch this flower of silken leaf 
 
 Which once our childhood knew, 
 Its soft leaves wound me with a grief 
 
 Whose balsam never grew. 
 
 Hearken to yon pine warbler, 
 
 Singing aloft in the tree ; 
 Hearest thou, O traveller ! 
 
 What he singeth to me ? 
 
 Not unless God made sharp thine ear 
 
 With sorrow such as mine, 
 Out of that delicate lay couldst thou 
 
 Its heavy tale divine. 
 
 " Go, lonely man," it saith, 
 
 " They loved thee from their birth, 
 Their hands were pure, and pure their faith, 
 
 There are no such hearts on earth. 
 
 " Ye drew one mother's milk, 
 
 One chamber held ye all, 
 A very tender history 
 
 Did in your childhood fall. 
 
96 THE GIFT. 
 
 " Ye cannot unlock your heart, 
 The key is gone with them ; 
 
 The silent organ loudest chaunts 
 The master's requiem." 
 
THE INN AT CRANSAC. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF ZSCHOKKE. 
 BY W. H. FURNESS. 
 
 " WHAT place is that before us ?" said I to the postilion. 
 
 " Cransac, Mr. Captain." 
 
 " Cransac ? Can I get a comfortable lodging over night 
 there?" 
 
 " Right easily. There is an excellent inn. None better far 
 and wide." 
 
 It was a very agreeable piece of information, for I began to 
 feel very tired. It is no trifle to be compelled to rise half-reco- 
 vered from a sick bed, and make a journey of several hundred 
 leagues. My regiment lay at Perpignan, and I had come from 
 Nantes. Something of a journey ! And from Perpignan there 
 awaited me a pretty march at the head of my company through 
 the cursed Catalonia, where already many a brave Frenchman 
 had found his grave. 
 
 We entered a small village prettily situated at the foot of a 
 wooded hill. We stopt before a neat house. Thomas, my ser- 
 vant, sprang down and assisted me out of the carriage. The 
 landlord, a kindly man, conducted me into his parlour, after 
 he had given the necessary directions to his people about my 
 baggage. 
 
 The room, which was large, neat, and cheerful, swarmed with 
 little girls. Some were seated at a table and some under it, 
 while others were gathered at the window, and the smallest were 
 
 9* 
 
98 THE GIFT. 
 
 playing on the floor. A young maiden of about sixteen carried 
 a child of a year old in her arms, and was dancing round with 
 it among the rest. In the corner of the room sate a young man, 
 who, leaning his head on his hand, appeared to be sunk in 
 thought, and to trouble himself very little about the noise of the 
 children, or the grace of the fair dancer. 
 
 " Hush ! hush !" cried the landlord as he entered the room. 
 " Annette, carry this wild troop out of doors ! And, Fanchon, 
 do thou prepare a room for this gentleman, No. 8. He will 
 remain over night." 
 
 In obedience to this command, Annette, a lovely Amorette of 
 about fourteen, led out the swarm of little ones. Fanchon, the 
 dancer, with a slight but graceful bow of welcome to me, danced 
 up to the thoughtful young man, and exclaimed : " Here, Mr. 
 Philosopher, please to be so kind as to amuse my little sister. 
 I hope you will be gallant." With these words she put the child 
 she was carrying into his lap. He did not appear pleased, but 
 he took the child. 
 
 " You are plentifully blessed, Mr. Landlord," said I, and 
 pointed to the playing group of children : " do they all belong 
 to you ?" 
 
 " I should be very well satisfied if they were all mine, just for 
 the curiosity of the thing," said Herr Albret, so the landlord was 
 named : " but only about half of them are mine. The other half 
 are their playmates, who have come to celebrate the birthday of 
 my third child." 
 
 " And how many children have you, Mr. Albret ?" 
 
 " Six girls, no more." 
 
 " Heaven help us ! all girls ? Six girls !" 
 
 " Heaven be praised, you should say, Mr. Captain. A father 
 can desire no better fortune, if the girls are all pretty. For 
 something of their brightness is reflected upon him. All the 
 world caresses him, because all the world loves his pretty 
 maidens. I have some experience of that already, and Fanchon 
 gains much favour for me. When she is gone, folks will bow 
 to me for Annette's sake. And when Annette goes, then Juliette 
 
THE INN AT CRANSAC. 99 
 
 will take her place, and then comes Caton, and then for Celes- 
 tine, and then Lison, and then whoever comes next." 
 
 " Yet confess, Mr. Albret, the prospect is not very agreeable. 
 By and by, they will all have their husbands, and your house 
 will be desolate." 
 
 " I see the case differently. I only put my capital out at 
 interest, when I give away my daughters. Then I shall become 
 a grandpapa, and the young folks will bring their children to 
 me. That's a new pleasure in life." 
 
 "You know how to console yourself, Mr. Albret. But six 
 fine boys, instead of six girls, might well have made you proud ?" 
 
 " Boys ? God forbid ! The wild chaps would have turned my 
 hair gray before this time with their tricks and roguery, while 
 my daughters are making me young again every day. Had I 
 sons, one would dry up as a tradesman, over the multiplication 
 table, another would be crippled for his fatherland, a third killed 
 in the same cause, a fourth would go wandering over land and 
 sea, the fifth would be a good-for-nothing, and the sixth would 
 be more cunning than his father. It would all come to nothing." 
 
 At this moment Fanchon hopped lightly in, and with a gentle 
 bow said to me, " Your room is ready. You can take posses- 
 sion of it." The landlord was called away. I took my hat to 
 seek my room. 
 
 "Permit me," said Fanchon, "let me have the honour of 
 showing you the way." Then with a spring or two she stood 
 before the young man to whom she had entrusted the child : 
 "Mr. Philosopher, you are very naughty to your little lady. 
 See how Lison laughs at you. Come quickly, kiss her hand 
 and beg her pardon." With that she put the little hand of the 
 baby to his lips. The young man smiled gloomily, and scarcely 
 looked up. 
 
 Then she sprang towards me and repeated : " Let me have the 
 honour." So she flew before me up stairs. She opened the 
 door of a neat little room. She had to wait awhile for me. I 
 apologized for the slowness of my movements on account of my 
 late illness. 
 
100 THE GIFT. 
 
 " You will recover entirely with us," said she ; " the baths of 
 Cransac do wonders, you know." 
 
 " I know nothing about them, fair Fanchon. Then you have 
 baths here?" 
 
 " The most celebrated in the world. Folks come hither even 
 from Toulouse and Montpellier. Every one goes away perfectly 
 cured and happy." 
 
 " But who could leave you and be happy, fair Fanchon ?" 
 
 " Let me take care of that when the time comes for folks to 
 go, Mr. Captain. I know how to tease them until they are glad 
 to get rid of me." 
 
 " O, I pray, do me the honour to tease me a little bit." 
 
 " I will see about it ; but now I must go and take the baby 
 from the philosopher down below." 
 
 "Who is the gentleman, may I ask, whom you call your 
 philosopher ?" 
 
 " A very amiable, intelligent, and agreeable young man, who 
 has only one fault, that he can't laugh, seldom speaks, and when 
 he speaks, it is only to express his dissatisfaction. He calls 
 himself Herr Von Ormy, and is a visiter to the baths, and 
 wishes them to the because they smell so of brimstone." 
 
 With these words she courtesied and vanished. 
 
 I confess the maiden was pretty enough to tease any of us. 
 I resolved to remain the next day at Cransac and try the baths. 
 Where could I find better company and entertainment? I 
 needed the recreation. 
 
 The solitude of my chamber grew wearisome. I went down 
 to look at the beautiful butterfly, Fanchon. She fluttered about, 
 God knows whither. I found no company but Herr Von Ormy's, 
 who stood drumming a march on the window-pane. 
 
 I inquired of him concerning the nature of the baths. He 
 replied, " They smell worse than rotten eggs." I remarked that 
 I had not come particularly on account of the water : " So much 
 the better for you." I observed that the country round seemed 
 to be very agreeable. " What if it is ?" said he, " the folks are 
 so much the more disagreeable." " One might, however, endure 
 
THE INN AT CRANSAC. 101 
 
 a Fanchon pretty well," added I. " As well as a hornet that is 
 for ever buzzing about one's head." 
 
 Just then I turned my back upon him and he gave a loud cry. 
 I started. I was about to assist him when I saw Fanchon stand- 
 ing before him in a lovely, menacing posture with a needle in 
 her hand, with which she had just pricked his shoulder, " Don't 
 you know, then, my gentleman, that we hornets know how to 
 sting? That is the lightest of my punishments, beware of the 
 heaviest !" 
 
 " Then you are going to sting his heart ?" said I. 
 
 " O, one can do nothing there with Herr Von Ormy," replied 
 she, and quickly vanished. 
 
 The young man murmured something and left the room. It 
 was a strange sight to me. I had never before seen a young 
 man, who appeared to be possessed of so many advantages, so 
 insensible to the roguery of a pretty girl. 
 
 I cared not to remain alone. I went out to look at the house 
 and its surroundings, and stepped into the garden close by, 
 where Fanchon's younger sister, Annette, was watering the 
 flowers. I watched with pleasure, the activity of the pretty 
 creature. I accounted her father happy. This angel, on the 
 borders of childhood, with all the innocence of that period, and 
 yet already blooming in the opening charms of womanhood, 
 hovering now among the flowers, seemed more bewitchingly 
 ideal than Leonardo da Vinci's Madonna of the Rock. 
 
 " Who comes there ?" she asked without looking round, when 
 she heard my footsteps. 
 
 "A thief!" said I. 
 
 " What is he going to steal ?" she asked with a laugh, but 
 without looking towards me. 
 
 " Annette's prettiest flowers." 
 
 With that she sat down her watering-pot, and came half 
 timidly towards me and said : " I should like to see which they 
 are." 
 
 I cast my eyes round and saw a half-blown moss-rose. " May 
 I break it ?" I asked. 
 
102 THE GIFT. 
 
 " A thief must not ask !" she replied, and handed me a little 
 pair of scissors. 
 
 " I do not steal it for myself!" said I. 
 
 " To whom will you give that little rose ?" she asked. 
 
 " To the prettiest girl in Cransac." 
 
 " Well, sir, that I will permit. But do you know the girls 
 of Cransac already ? You have been here scarcely an hour." 
 
 " I only know the prettiest one." 
 
 " You make me very curious, sir ; pray let me go with you." 
 
 " I pray you now, stand still just a moment !" I replied, and 
 quickly stuck the rose in the riband which confined her rich 
 brown locks. 
 
 " You are mistaken ! you are mistaken ! My sister Fanchon 
 is the prettiest of all." 
 
 " How can you contradict me, lovely Annette ? Are you to 
 be the judge in your own case? If I insist that I hold you to be 
 the prettiest of the pretty in Cransac, what have you to say to 
 that?" 
 
 " Nothing, but that you convince me, that the maiden who is 
 nearest to you is always the prettiest in your eyes." 
 
 So we prattled on. She kept the rose. She led me round 
 among all her flower treasures. We were soon very well ac- 
 quainted, and before the day was over, I was well established in 
 the family. Frau Albret, the mother of the six girls, was an 
 amiable woman, talkative, full of spirits like the rest. Only the 
 surly Ormy kept to his humour amidst all our jests and laughter. 
 
 My one day at Cransac grew into eight days. Every evening 
 I packed up for the following morning, and every morning I 
 unpacked. Fanchon kept her word honestly, and teased me 
 even more than the philosopher, who remained insensible to all 
 her tricks. Never was I teased so sweetly, so painfully. How 
 could I look unmoved upon the lovely, tender, airy Sylphid play- 
 ing her antics around me ? I felt how dangerous she was to my 
 repose, and I armed myself in vain. She herself, scarcely en- 
 tered into her sixteenth year, dreamed of no peril. She played 
 
THE INN AT CRJ^SAC. 103 
 
 with Love's arrows, without dreaming oA their sharpness. To 
 all the magic of maiden loveliness she added the simplicity of a 
 child. If one said any thing to her particularly tender, she 
 turned it instantly into a jest. 
 
 I sometimes thought that some feeling for me was stirring in 
 her heart, when she sat silent, when her look seemed to rest on 
 me with pleasure, and an indefinable, intelligent senile lightened 
 her eyes and seemed to wish to say : " Understate! me, Incredu- 
 lous !" But no. It was only her good nature, i certain warm- 
 heartedness which, through her ignorance of me world, finely 
 accorded with the generosity of her mind. Sne remained ever 
 the same, and evidently felt for me no mote man she felt for all 
 to whom she wished well. Coquettish she was not and had no 
 need to be. For she pleased and won all .hearts, and knew that 
 she pleased. This did not make her vain,/but only inspired her 
 with that thankful friendliness towards /all the world, which 
 children show, with whom e\ *y one loves to play. And the 
 womanly tenderness, the maidenly notfleness which is always 
 found in union with innocence, gave /even to her roguery, a 
 dignity which permitted no one to forget, that he could not in- 
 fringe the bounds of delicacy, without for ever forfeiting her 
 esteem. 
 
 It sometimes seemed as if the young misanthrope, Ormy, had 
 greater influence over her than any ojfher. It must be confessed, 
 he was a man whose exterior was/ very pleasing. Even his 
 moody humour had something attractive in it. While nothing 
 went right with him, his bearing towards all was strictly correct. 
 And although he was continually grumbling, he was thoroughly 
 good-hearted. Once I entered the parlour when Fanchon, while 
 he sat with folded arms, and did not even look at her, was part- 
 ing the hair from his forehead and pretending to smooth the 
 wrinkles out of his brow. I confess, the sight of this intimacy 
 awakened my jealousy. But she was so little serious that, 
 although her parents came in at the same moment with me, she 
 did not alter her position in the least, but went on with the jest, 
 until we all had to laugh. When mention was made of his 
 
104 THE GIFT. 
 
 going, she was so indifferent about it, that in her usual manner, 
 she gave him her advice with a comical gravity : " Go," said 
 she, " with Mr. Captain to Spain. There is the true Paradise of 
 man-haters. They kill one another there whenever they meet ; 
 and there, Mr. Von Ormy, you will be certain to get clear of 
 folks in one way or another." 
 
 Her sister Annette had the same imperturbable joyousness, the 
 same vivacity and grace, only she was more of a child. Conse- 
 quently there was more earnestness in her than in Fanchon. 
 There was a wondrous elevation in this innocence. Her features 
 were more regular. One might say that she was more beautiful 
 than Fanchon; but it was impossible to determine which was 
 the most lovely. 
 
 It delighted me to observe the differences and peculiarities in 
 these two fair creatures. Annette took more to me. The surly 
 moods of Herr Von Ormy did not please her. " It goes against 
 me," said she ; " I love the sky, blue and clear." With childish 
 confidence she communicated to me all her little secrets, sought 
 my advice in whatever she proposed. Even about her dress, 
 and what she should wear, my opinion must be given. 
 
 The child wove her chains around me. Annette knew how 
 to beseech one to her will most movingly. When I had inti- 
 mated my unchangeable determination to leave Cransac at the 
 end of the eight days, I was forced to yield to her, if Ormy, 
 who had resolved to go with me to Perpignan, and who was 
 even more bent upon going than I, would consent to remain a 
 couple of days longer. 
 
 I was surprised when Ormy came and begged that our depar- 
 ture should be delayed some days longer. " Have you let 
 yourself be persuaded by Annette ?" I asked ; " that is what I 
 had not expected of you." 
 
 " Ah !" said he, and he passed his hand over his face as if he 
 would chase away a faint smile that stole upon him : " I could 
 not put off the poor child, when I saw that my refusal brought 
 tears into her eyes. I had to enter into a capitulation with the 
 little witch, and she talked me out of eight days more under the 
 
THE INN AT CRANSAC. 105 
 
 promise that she would not utter a syllable then. And when I 
 yielded at last and how could I help it ? she fell into a rapture 
 of delight, and even gave me a kiss, a right hearty one." 
 
 " Oh !" I exclaimed, " for such a price one would readily sell 
 himself or a fellow-traveller." 
 
 " You may travel, Mr. Captain, if you will, but my promise 
 binds me. It would be very pleasant to accompany you upon 
 your journey to Perpignan." 
 
 I assured him that I was so dependent upon the pleasure of 
 his company, that I should delay my going for a week, and 
 besides, that the rest would be beneficial to my scarcely restored 
 health. 
 
 When I next saw Annette, she hopped and danced with an 
 air of triumph before me. 
 
 "Hurrah!" said she laughing, "one can tame a half-savage, 
 like Mr. Von Ormy, after all !" 
 
 " 1 believe it," said I ; " with such powerful means as you used 
 with him, you might overpower me also. But I envy him less 
 the art with which you brought him to capitulate, than the 
 reward which you afterwards gave him." 
 
 She smiled and remained silent with an air of indescribable 
 sweetness. 
 
 "At least, I may ask," I continued, " without being unreasona- 
 ble for the same sweet reward which he received without asking." 
 
 She looked at me earnestly with a strange, penetrating expres- 
 sion, while a gentle blush overspread her angel face. Suddenly 
 she turned round and danced off, trilling a ballad. The reward 
 I did not receive. Now first I began to suspect that with her, 
 as with her sister Fanchon, I had been playing the good-natured 
 fool. I had taken to myself in part, what was meant only for 
 Ormy. I pretended to be contented. 
 
 The eight days soon passed away. I regretted often after- 
 wards that I had so protracted my stay at Cransac with this 
 captivating family. For ever nearer and closer, had I woven 
 my affections into their hearts. Fanchon's beauty had made 
 
 10 
 
106 THE GIFT. 
 
 too deep an impression on me. I loved the maiden with in- 
 creasing ardour, and was the more unhappy as I was convinced 
 that it was not in the slightest degree returned. She was neither 
 more reserved nor more cordial than on the first day we met. 
 She appeared to have a greater interest in the moody Ormy. 
 But truly Ormy was no older than I, nor I any younger than he. 
 
 Hitherto, I confess, I had trifled with women without under- 
 standing myself. But Fanchon was my first love, and I had 
 need of all my strength to save myself from being ridiculous. 
 At last the hour of departure came ; and I was glad it had 
 come, however painful it might be. 
 
 The parents were as friendly at the parting as at the arrival. 
 Von Ormy was as cold and dry as any one can be, who leaves 
 an inn to continue his journey. Fanchon, who never appeared to 
 me more lovely than at this moment when I was about to leave, 
 showed herself wholly unchanged. They all wished us, with 
 equal kindness, a pleasant journey, accompanying the farewell 
 with some lively sallies, and seeming to make it a point to lessen, 
 as much as possible, the disagreeableness one feels in separating 
 from persons with whom he has spent a number of pleasant days 
 and weeks. 
 
 The little Annette alone showed more emotion. She held my 
 hand long ; then she ran off, and returned again with a fresh- 
 blown moss-rose and put it into my hand, while she showed me 
 a withered one, which I immediately recognised as the one I 
 had given her upon the first day of our acquaintance. She 
 uttered not a word. Her countenance wore an expression of 
 melancholy. When I kissed her hand at parting she fell upon 
 my neck, kissed me, and sobbing violently, hastened away. 
 
 Now for the first time I saw tears in the eyes of Fanchon and 
 her mother. 
 
 We entered our carriage and drove off*. 
 
 We said little for the first hour or two. Herr Von Ormy sate 
 gloomy in one corner of the carriage, and I in the other. This 
 
THE INN AT CKANSAC. 107 
 
 suited me well. I had to do violence to myself in his presence, 
 for I could have wept like a child. Fanchon, with her tearful 
 eyes, flitted ever before me. 
 
 The next day I was somewhat more composed. We passed 
 through Toulouse and the badly built Carcassonne. My com- 
 panion, besides not being talkative, opened his mouth only when 
 he found something to blame. " People exist only to plague one 
 another with their folly and crimes," said he. " In palaces and 
 hovels, it's all the same. I am a torment to others, I suppose ; 
 but I am so, because they are a torment to me." 
 
 " Yet you did not seem to be a torment to the fair Fanchon," 
 replied I, " or were you cruel enough to be unjust to the most 
 harmless creature under heaven ?" 
 
 " I deny it not," he returned. " Children are upon earth, like 
 angels of light in hell. And Fanchon is a true child. I avoided 
 the maiden, because I had never in my life seen a lovelier. I 
 would have remained longer in Cransac, for the retired charac- 
 ter of the place pleased me, as well as the good nature of the 
 people, who at least did not understand how to hide their weak- 
 ness or their knavery ; but I did not remain because Fanchon 
 was there." 
 
 " What a contradiction !" cried I. 
 
 " None at all," answered he ; " the maiden would perhaps 
 have succeeded in robbing me of all the fruits of my hardly- 
 earned knowledge of the world and of myself. She would have 
 made a fool of me or doubled my wretchedness." 
 
 With these words he broke off. I endeavoured in vain to lead 
 him into further conversation about the Albret family, with 
 whom he had been living nearly a quarter of a year. He either 
 did not speak or answered only with a nod of the head or a 
 shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 As he had already said at Cransac, it was his intention to go 
 with me to Perpignan and there leave me. His business I knew 
 not. At the second stage beyond Carcassonne he found hi the 
 inn a map hanging on the wall. He stood before it for some 
 time, rubbed his forehead, then wrote something in his pocket- 
 
108 THE GIFT. 
 
 book and came to me and said : " I had best go to Marseilles, 
 and thence to Italy." 
 
 Notwithstanding, he took his seat again in the carriage. We 
 rode until it was quite dark. The moon shone brightly. It was 
 impressive almost to solemnity, the ride along the mountains, 
 the sharp outlines of whose cliffs were painted on the clear sky. 
 
 Suddenly Mr. Von Ormy, who had appeared to be asleep, 
 turned and looked out to consider the country. 
 
 " What ruin is that there on the mountain ?" cried he to the 
 postilion. 
 
 " Castle Loubre !" answered the man. 
 
 " Right !" said Mr. Von Ormy. " Then that is the road up 
 there from Siegean ?" 
 
 " Of course !" replied the driver. " It is not four weeks ago 
 that on that road, on a moonlight night as bright as this, a coach 
 with travellers was attacked by robbers. My brother-in-law, 
 Matthew, who drove them, was murdered." 
 
 " And we are not far from Belloc ?" added Von Ormy. 
 
 " A short half league," replied the postilion. 
 
 Von Ormy threw himself back again into the corner of the 
 carriage, and uttered not another word. 
 
 I looked with interest upon the dusky giant ruins of the old 
 castle. Touched by the moonlight, they presented in the wild 
 still solitude an appearance almost appalling. I can never look 
 upon such remains without melancholy, for the fortunes, good and 
 ill, which have had their theatre there, the beings that have 
 laughed and wept, that have been born and that have died there, 
 from the first founder of the family to his latest descendant, rise 
 involuntarily before me ; and the great picture of the past blends 
 itself with the present spectacle of ruin and desolation. 
 
 " The castle," said I to the postilion, " does not seem to have 
 been long in this ruined condition." 
 
 " It may be eight or ten years since, for aught I know," he 
 replied, " that it was burnt down, with every thing in it." 
 
 " Horrible !" I exclaimed ; " and how did so great a calamity 
 occur ?" 
 
THE INN AT CRANSAC. 109 
 
 " How ?" answered he ; " why, the people did it in the out- 
 break of the Revolution. The nobility were hated for their 
 tyranny, and their houses were every where stormed and burnt. 
 That castle then belonged to a rich countess, who perished in 
 the fire." 
 
 "It is false !" suddenly exclaimed Mr. Von Ormy at my side. 
 
 " You may say so, sir," rejoined the postilion, " but I have 
 heard the whole story from trustworthy people. And there was 
 a young man who was born in the castle, and whom the old 
 countess did not wish to acknowledge as her son he perished 
 too. Very good people who knew all about it have told me so." 
 
 " They lied !" cried Mr. Von Ormy. 
 
 " I don't care, not I ! if you won't believe me, or if you know 
 better, what do you ask me for ?" murmured the postilion, and 
 turning to his horses, fell to cracking his whip. 
 
 " Then you are acquainted with this matter ?" said I to Von 
 Ormy. 
 
 " Tolerably well," he replied, " for I happen to be the young 
 man who ought to have been burned there, if the fellow's story 
 were true." 
 
 " How ! You the son and descendant of the old occupants of 
 that castle !" exclaimed I in amazement. 
 
 " I am nobody's son !" murmured he. 
 
 " But you said just now that you were " 
 
 " True," he replied, " but there is no contradiction." 
 
 He observed my curiosity to be excited, and proceeded, much 
 to my satisfaction, without waiting to be asked, to relate the 
 following story. 
 
 Until my fifteenth year, I was under the care of the pastor of 
 that village, whose lights we saw about half an hour ago, glim- 
 mering through the darkness, on our right. I had supposed 
 that he was my relation or indeed my father, which he could 
 not have been on account of his priestly office. I was mistaken. 
 I was then informed that I was the child of other people, that I 
 had been brought to the pastor when I was four years old, that 
 
 10* 
 
110 THE GIFT. 
 
 he had regularly received a liberal compensation for the care he 
 took of me, and that he had engaged to bring me up in the best 
 manner possible. 
 
 When I inquired of him about my parents, he was wont to 
 answer: " Child, you ask too much. Your parents have long 
 been dead. I never knew them. You were given up to me. I 
 am paid liberally for your expenses. Hence I suppose that you 
 have property. But how that may be, you will learn when you 
 are older." 
 
 I was warmly attached to the worthy man. My young heart 
 felt the need of a heart to which it might cling. I was afflicted 
 at the thought that I had no parents, not a soul to whom I 
 belonged. I envied the poorest children of the village the kisses 
 and embraces of their mothers. 
 
 The pious old man gave me an excellent education in his way. 
 He instructed me in the languages and sciences. When I was 
 fifteen, he carried me to Montpellier, and a year after to Tou- 
 louse, to complete my education. I never saw him again. He 
 died. Yet I regularly drew a certain sum of money every 
 quarter, from a banker to whom my old friend had directed me. 
 I long supposed that it came from him. But the banker in- 
 formed me that the money came at one time from one large 
 Paris house, and then from another. 
 
 I was happy. Who is not at that age 1 My passions were 
 waking into life. I had a vivid imagination. I was a poet. 
 The world shone around me rose-coloured. I was intoxicated 
 with brilliant illusions. I did not know human nature. I loved 
 every body with the devotion of my whole heart. I had more 
 money than I needed. I delighted in life and in assisting the 
 destitute. I had a friend upon whom I hung with my whole 
 soul, and what was still more, I had the happiness of loving and 
 being beloved. All the joys of life were spread out before me. 
 Truly, I appear to myself now to have been a great fool. 
 
 A few weeks dissipated my heaven, and brought me to my 
 senses. I had entered my nineteenth year. My beloved, whom 
 I no, I did not love, I adored her was of respectable paren- 
 
THE INN AT CHANSAC. Ill 
 
 tage, but lived with her mother, a major's widow, in straitened 
 circumstances. I determined to establish myself, and then to 
 ask her hand, and thus complete my felicity. She and her 
 mother lived, from the time I made her acquaintance, very com- 
 fortably, for, without her knowledge, I devoted to her the larger 
 part of my income. In so doing, I availed myself of the ser- 
 vices of my friend. It was his part to provide methods of con- 
 tributing to the support of herself and her mother, without per- 
 mitting my name to be known in the matter. For I did not 
 seek gratitude, but love. I feared that I should injure the deli- 
 cate relation in which we stood to one another, if I appeared to 
 her in the character of a benefactor. 
 
 In the meanwhile I dreamed not that mother and daughter 
 and bosom friend had conspired to use my money for themselves 
 alone, that he had availed himself of her poverty and my money 
 to gain the affections of the girl, that, while I in all humility 
 revered her innocence and saintliness, she deceived me, and that 
 I, simple fool, was destined to be her husband in case of neces- 
 sity, should the consequences of her shameful intimacy with my 
 friend threaten her with open dishonour. All this I discovered 
 very unexpectedly. I went one morning to carry a birthday 
 present to my beloved. I found her in the arms of my friend. 
 I almost lost my senses. He stood before me speechless with 
 shame. I fled with horror from the place. I was overwhelmed 
 with despair. I fell into a violent fever. Upon my recovery, I 
 learnt from others the history of my betrayal. The traitor and 
 his victim tried to woo me back. I shrunk from them with 
 detestation. From that day the Judas became my deadly enemy. 
 He poured his scorn upon me in public. We fought ; I wounded 
 him in the arm. While his blood was flowing, he swore death 
 and destruction against me. 
 
 About that time, I received a visit which caused me to quit 
 Toulouse. A traveller came to me one day. After I had satis- 
 fied him that I really was the person he sought and to that end 
 I was compelled to go in person to the banker, from whom I had 
 
112 THE GIFT. 
 
 been accustomed to receive my funds, and who could testify to 
 my identity, the stranger gave me his confidence. 
 
 " Mr. Von Ormy," said he, " I am commissioned to deliver to 
 you this sealed packet. You will be so good as to give me a 
 receipt for it." I took the packet, and gave him the acknow- 
 ledgment he desired. He then said, " Mr. Von Ormy, you will 
 do well to betake yourself immediately to the Countess Von 
 Loubre, and demand that your rights as her son be acknow- 
 ledged. The Countess is your mother. The proofs of it, con- 
 sisting in part of letters written by your father recently deceased 
 in Scotland, are in that packet. The matter admits of no ques- 
 tion. The remittances which you have hitherto received now 
 cease. It is for your mother to provide for you in future." 
 Such was the purport of his communication. 
 
 " Where is my mother ? Where shall I find my mother ?" 
 cried I, trembling with surprise and delight. God only knows 
 how it was with me. The stranger informed me that my mother 
 had resided eighteen years past in Paris, and that now for the 
 first time after a long absence, she had gone to the old hereditary 
 castle in Languedoc, and would remain there only a few months. 
 
 In vain did I beset the traveller with questions about my 
 father, my mother, and their connexions. He could tell me 
 nothing. He had known neither of my parents personally. 
 What he had told me, he had been commissioned to tell me, 
 probably by the family of my deceased father. The messenger 
 was not even a Frenchman. He was English. He had fulfilled 
 his errand, and he left me. 
 
 The packet also, which I opened with trembling hands, gave 
 me no information of the connexions of my parents, or of the 
 reason why they had forborne to acknowledge me. I found in 
 the packet written declarations under my father's hand, letters 
 concerning me in the hand of the Countess, a baptismal certifi- 
 cate, and the testimony of my nurse and of a farmer's family to 
 me unknown, who had probably had charge of me before I was 
 delivered into the care of my instructer. I found writings also 
 
THE INN AT CRANSAC. 113 
 
 in the hand of the pastor, and other papers which proved, if not 
 the legitimacy, yet the legality of my birth. 
 
 how gladly did I leave the hated Toulouse ! I had lost a 
 friend, and a lover, but had found a mother. I remembered how 
 in my boyhood I had heard of the Countess at the castle, and 
 how I was told that she was beautiful and unfortunate. I could 
 now surmise that I had been either the cause or the consequence 
 of her misfortunes. 
 
 1 arrived, and went tremblingly to the castle. I desired to 
 be announced to the Countess. On the road I had practised all 
 that I would do and say before I threw myself upon the breast 
 of my mother as a new-found son. I trembled, lest her heart 
 should break with the suddenness of the surprise and the 
 pleasure. 
 
 I was conducted into a parlour. The Countess came, a noble 
 person who inspired me with awe, and still retained so much of 
 the beauty of her youth, that I could hardly believe she was my 
 mother. She was not yet nine-and-thirty years. She looked 
 scarcely thirty. 
 
 I approached her. My heart was rent in twain. I sought to 
 look at her, but my eyes were dimmed with tears. I sought to 
 speak, but my voice failed me. I stammered out my name. I 
 told whence I came. I asked whether she did not mourn a lost 
 son. I fell upon my knee at her feet, and murmured the name 
 of mother. 
 
 She seemed startled, and said, " Young man, compose your- 
 self. What do you desire 1 Whom do you want ? Why do 
 you weep?" 
 
 I repeated to her on my knees my history, and named her 
 mother. 
 
 " Young man," said she with composure, " you mistake. I 
 am indeed the Countess whom you seek ; but I have never been 
 married. I have never had any son, of course I have never lost 
 one. Without doubt some one has been playing unworthily on 
 your credulity, or you are made a tool to injure me. Rise up." 
 
 I stood up, but wholly bewildered by her words. I could 
 
114 THE GIFT. 
 
 hardly recover myself. I looked at her earnestly and with 
 emotion, but in her countenance, nothing of the tender disquiet 
 of a mother's heart was betrayed, of a mother eager to fold in 
 her- arms a long-lost son, but there was the disquiet of despair 
 and of a pride writhing under a deadly wound. She treated me 
 as one who had been sported with, and who was really perhaps 
 half a fool. That wounded me. Yet I thought that I was 
 myself probably to blame for the tone she had assumed ; I had 
 been hasty and confused. I therefore stated my case to her 
 more calmly. I showed her among my papers, her own letters, 
 various certificates, and her own written declaration that when 
 I became of age she would provide for me, and insure me 
 during her life a good portion of her property, that my inheri- 
 tance might not be curtailed by her family. I showed her a paper 
 in her own handwriting, in which she had formally made over, an 
 annuity of 50,000 livres to me and for my use, about ten years 
 before, at the request of my father. Yet I was not mentioned in 
 this paper as her son : that appeared only from her letters and 
 some other accompanying vouchers. Finally, I desired to know 
 her will. 
 
 She was in a state of indescribable distress. " Young man," 
 said she at last, " I have never been married. You will see that 
 I cannot recognise you as my son, cannot expose myself to 
 public scorn and shame. You are in possession of papers which 
 you understand. I must be better convinced of the character 
 of these papers, and of the identity of your person. Leave your 
 papers with me for a short time. I will in the meantime give 
 you lodging in my castle." 
 
 Thus she spake. I now perceived that she could not disown 
 me, and yet was resolved to look upon me as the disgrace of her 
 life, and that she aimed to get in her power the papers which 
 were the only legal proofs of my birth. I thrust the papers in 
 my pocket, expressed my astonishment that no feeling spoke for 
 me in her heart, and declared that I would give up the papers 
 only before a court of justice ; that I gave her a week to decide ; 
 that I would await her decision at the neighbouring town of Sie- 
 
THE INN AT CRANSAC. 115 
 
 gean ; and then would urge my claims legally, if she persisted 
 in sacrificing the feelings of a mother to her family pride. 
 
 She stood stupified. I left her with my heart in a flame. As 
 I went down the castle stairs, I heard her shrieking out various 
 names, and calling to her people : " Seize that man ! don't let 
 him leave the castle ! after him ! quick !" Some of the women 
 looked at me with affright, and called to the porter to bar the 
 door, but I threw the old fellow to the ground, mounted my 
 horse and rode off. 
 
 At a miserable inn at Siegean, I resolved to wait the appointed 
 time. The third night I was awakened by a strange noise. I 
 listened. It was evident that there were persons in the room, 
 probably thieves. A glimmer of light passed over the counter- 
 pane. It came from a dark lantern. I leaped out of bed, seized 
 a small table and brandished it furiously around me in all direc- 
 tions. The lantern, with its bearer, went to the floor. A stifled 
 cry arose. I still struck about, until I became out of breath, and 
 perceived that I was alone. I took up the lantern, and lighted 
 my candle. In the inn all was still. On the floor lay an 
 unknown man. I supposed him dead. I determined to raise 
 an alarm. I dressed myself in all haste. While thus engaged 
 I saw the man stir. He had only been stunned by a heavy 
 blow. I fell upon him and searched him. He had a loaded 
 pistol and a long knife. I bound him hand and foot with the 
 straps of my trunk, that he might not escape. He came wholly 
 to himself, and began to whimper when he saw his situation. 
 With the knife at his breast I forced him to confess what he was 
 after. Not my money, nor my life, but my papers, he had 
 sought to obtain for the Countess. She had hoped to surprise 
 and terrify me in my sleep. 
 
 To spare the Countess, I made no noise. The fellow re- 
 mained my prisoner and hostage. I despatched a note to the 
 Countess, informing her that she must personally appear within 
 four-and-twenty hours in Siegean and release my prisoner, by 
 coming to terms with me. She did not come, but sent a person 
 with full powers. The terms were settled. Before a notary 
 
116 THE GIFT. 
 
 and witnesses I received in due form from her a paper by which 
 I was put in possession of an annuity of 15,000 livres. But all 
 my papers I was to put sealed into the hands of the Countess. 
 
 So we separated. Now was I more lonely than ever in the 
 world. My only friend had deceived me. My love had proved 
 false. My mother had despised and disowned me. This all 
 happened early in the Revolution. I have since been round 
 much in the world, and found iniquity every where. In Paris I 
 barely escaped death. There was the Judas, my former friend 
 of Toulouse, a furious Jacobin, and an accuser of the aristocracy. 
 I took service in the republican ranks, and took part in some 
 engagements. In a battle with our foes, I saw that Judas among 
 them. He recognised me. "Have I found thee at last?" he 
 exclaimed, and rushed upon me. As we fought together, a 
 soldier of my company who had come to my aid, shot him 
 through the heart. There, you have my history. 
 
 While my companion was relating to me his history, we 
 arrived at the posthouse of a small town. We determined, after 
 a few hours' rest, to continue our journey. I had become deeply 
 interested in my unhappy companion. 
 
 The next morning as we sate at breakfast, he suddenly broke 
 out : " I have resolved ; I shall go to Marseilles, and then to 
 Italy. I must leave you." 
 
 I expressed my sorrow at the loss of his company, but did not 
 urge him to accompany me. " Mr. Von Ormy," said I, " through 
 your friendly confidence you have awakened in me the deepest 
 sympathy. I wish it were in my power to show you how highly 
 I esteem you. But alas ! I have nothing to give you but good 
 advice." 
 
 " And what is that?" said he, gloomily. 
 
 " You are unhappy, very unhappy, because with all your 
 excellent qualities you have become very unjust through the 
 unworthiness of persons who deceived you, and who were 
 thrown by chance near you in your youth. But it is a common 
 case , whoever begins with trusting too eagerly and rashly, ends 
 
THE INN AT CRANSAC. 117 
 
 with believing and trusting altogether too little. On account of 
 some worthless persons, one must not despise the whole world. 
 How many a noble heart that would gladly have opened itself to 
 you, have you probably repulsed ! Do not go to Marseilles, or 
 to Italy. You will not recover there. Go to Cransac. You 
 will find your cure in the lovely circle of the Albret family. 
 There they know you. There they have patience with your 
 weaknesses, and honour for your virtues. And you know that 
 family. Tell me, which member of it is of a worse temper 
 than your own ? And if the good people at Cransac resemble 
 yourself, why do you struggle against your conviction, to find 
 them lovely ?" 
 
 All this I said from my heart. He took no offence at my 
 freedom. But murmuring a word or two, he went out to order 
 horses. He accompanied me to my carriage. We embraced 
 like old friends. He seemed to be much moved. I pressed him 
 once more to my breast and whispered to him : " In Cransac is 
 your physician." So we parted. 
 
 Arrived at Perpignan, I learned from the General that my 
 regiment had already six days before set out for Catalonia. At 
 the same time he very agreeably surprised me with a brevet. 
 The Emperor had made me a major. I hastened to my regiment, 
 and entered immediately into active service. 
 
 We fought with the Spaniards a couple of years with various 
 fortune. I will not here enter into any of the particulars of our 
 engagements. They are known, and the deeds of individuals 
 disappear in the mighty mass of events. 
 
 We had a hard service, almost daily marches and skirmishes. 
 Soil and climate were against us. My pleasantest moments 
 were when I could be by myself and dream. And of what did 
 I dream ? Of Cransac and Fanchon. Her image was so con- 
 tinually before me that I amused myself with cutting out her 
 profile in paper, and I always succeeded in hitting it. 
 
 For the rest, I lived in Spain as in garrison, very retired. My 
 comrades called me the misanthrope. Indeed 1 almost fell into 
 the state from which I would so gladly have delivered Herr Von 
 
 11 
 
118 THE GIFT. 
 
 Ormy. But I reached the same condition by a very opposite 
 way. I had become indifferent to society I avoided it, as I 
 could, not because men had deceived me, but because I never 
 hoped to find people so amiable as the Cransac family. Who- 
 ever has become possessed of the rare, cares not for the common. 
 The death of my father, who left me a respectable estate, and 
 the hopelessness of retiring from the service, aggravated my 
 peculiar mood of mind. 
 
 In this uncomfortable state I continued still for two years. 
 This period was rich in events and deeds, which deserve rather 
 to be forgotten than related. A bullet under the walls of Tarra- 
 gona put an end to my military career. Shortly before I had 
 received the riband of the Legion of Honour and the rank of 
 lieutenant-colonel. The walls of Tarragona were stormed. I 
 headed my battalion, and a musket-ball which struck my foot 
 threw me to the ground. I was borne out of the mele. My 
 soldiers loved me. I lost much blood and for a time all con- 
 sciousness. I was carried to Barcelona. It was a question for 
 a while whether my foot should not be amputated. To me it 
 was a matter of indifference. It would not have disturbed me 
 had I been told that I was to die. The thought that I should 
 be compelled all my life to hobble about on crutches had 
 nothing very pleasing in it. 
 
 My case took a turn. A young surgeon took a great interest 
 in me, and boldly withstood his superiors, who decided that my 
 foot ought to be cut off. The young man knew more than his 
 elders, which is not uncommon. The doctors quarrelled long. 
 The chief physician insisted that I must lose my foot or my life. 
 It was inevitable. The young surgeon maintained that both 
 could be saved, only the wounded limb would be stiff, and I 
 should be rendered unfit for military service. They left the 
 matter at last to me. I resolved to put myself into the hands 
 of the young man. And I resolved wisely. I preserved both 
 foot and life. 
 
 The cure was tedious. I obtained an honourable dismission, 
 with a year's pay. They dragged me from Barcelona to the 
 
THE INN AT CKANSAC. 119 
 
 baths, from the baths to Figueras and Perpignan. By help of 
 a cane I could again walk about without pain or limping. My 
 foot was only very weak. But even this weakness soon va- 
 nished, leaving only a slight stiffness. 
 
 I was advised to continue the use of the mineral baths. I 
 determined to go home and take possession of my paternal 
 estate. But as my property, under the charge of a relative, 
 was well taken care of, I thought, not without a beating of the 
 heart, of the baths at Cransac. Ah ! I had thought of them 
 only too often ! Yet I hesitated not a little about going there. 
 Fanchon was without doubt married by this time. In four or 
 five years much must have changed in the family of Albret. 
 And even if Fanchon were still free, what had I to expect 1 I 
 had loved her, but she had never loved me. She might not be 
 alive. My heart fluttered at the thought. Better for me, that I 
 remain in my ignorance. I was now as happy and harmless as 
 any one could well be with a stiff foot. 
 
 No passion disturbed me. The storm of the first love had 
 passed by. I was independent, and the world was open be- 
 fore me. 
 
 I fought long with myself, and at last determined to go whither 
 my understanding forbade and my heart drew me to Cransac. 
 
 In a comfortable carriage, which I fortunately purchased at 
 Perpignan, I set out, accompanied by my trusty Thomas. 
 
 When, after some days, I saw lying before me in the distance 
 the little spot which had so often occupied my thoughts, a strange 
 anxiety seized me. I wished that I was going elsewhere, and 
 almost gave command to the postilion to turn about. I had a 
 foreboding that it was not wise in me to go to Cransac that 
 misfortune awaited me there. I sought in vain to subdue this 
 superstitious fear. I rode into the village and stopped with a 
 beating heart before the only too well-known inn. 
 
 It was a lovely Sunday morning. The whole family were at 
 
 church, except . She came towards me as I entered the 
 
 house. Whose heart could help beating 1 It was Fanchon. It 
 was not Fanchon, but Fanchon, transfigured, deified. I had 
 
120 THE GIFT. 
 
 always thought of her as the lovely girl of scarce sixteen ; 
 but what a change had four years made ! It was the maiden, in 
 the full bloom of beauty, of tenderness, of dignity I cannot 
 describe the impression which the vision made on me. With a 
 silent bow I continued standing speechless before her. She wel- 
 comed me in her friendly way, with that smile of hers so pecu- 
 liarly bewitching. 
 
 " Good heavens ! how beautiful you have grown !" said I at 
 last ; " but you do not recognise me." 
 
 She did not indeed recognise me so speedily as I recognised 
 her. Her blush, the joyful sparkling of her eyes betrayed her 
 recognition of me. " Do you hold us then for folks of so short 
 a memory ?" said she ; " it was only yesterday evening that we 
 were talking of you. We thought you must be lost and dead, at 
 least for us. What miracle brings you hither ?" 
 
 " How can you ask 1" said I, and pressed her hand to my 
 lips. " What miracle could it be, but the most beautiful of all 
 miracles under heaven, but yourself? You might, had I fallen in 
 Spain, have called my spirit back again to the world." 
 
 " Could I have had the power to do that," said she with a 
 roguish smile, " I should have taken good care not to call you 
 out of the fires of purgatory, until they had purified you of all 
 delight in flattery, and you had learned to speak the truth." 
 
 " Ah," cried I, as I entered the parlour, where every thing 
 presented itself in its old familiar aspect, " let me consider Spain 
 as purgatory, and let me here find the heaven which I have 
 found nowhere else since I left you." 
 
 " You belong then to the fallen angels, who lost heaven 
 through ambition ?" she replied. " Who will answer for you 
 that you will not rebel and want to turn this dull heaven into a 
 Spanish hell ?" ' 
 
 " For that I can give no other security than that of the fair 
 queen of heaven herself. If she will only look graciously upon 
 me, I will be her most faithful subject." 
 
 She shook her finger at me, and said, " You have indeed still 
 much of the fallen angel in you, and return more wicked than 
 you left us." 
 
THE INN AT CRANSAC. 121 
 
 "Then reform me by your grace. My return betrays my 
 aspirations after something better. If you do not drive me from 
 this heaven, I will never leave it again. Will you expel me ?" 
 
 She blushed, and could not answer. 
 
 But immediately she resumed her lively humour, and replied, 
 " Accordingly as you behave. We will see. But I am afraid 
 you have not learnt much good among the fair Spaniards." 
 
 As we were thus talking, the door opened. Herr Albret, with 
 his wife, and some of his little daughters, all little Amorettes, 
 entered the room. Mr. Albret and his wife embraced me, and I 
 them, with cordiality and with emotion. And then I had to tell 
 them how I had come, and how it had gone with me since we 
 parted. They all stood around me with countenances sparkling 
 with joy. I saw how welcome I was to the good people. The 
 little ones, timidly at first, came nearer to me ; but I looked in 
 vain for the lovely Annette among them. I dared not ask after 
 her. I feared some painful answer. I feared lest the tender 
 angel, too beautiful, too good for this world, had flown to 
 another. I looked round often still. 
 
 " You seek, Colonel" said Mr. Albret. 
 
 " I do not see " said I, and paused. 
 
 " You are right !" cried Mrs. Albret. " Run, Juliette, and tell 
 Fanchon she must come immediately, that the friend is with us 
 whom we were speaking of yesterday." Juliette hopped away. 
 " How delighted Fanchon will be !" added Mrs. Albret. 
 
 I heard these words with inexpressible embarrassment. Then 
 it must have been Annette, whom I had mistaken for Fanchon. 
 But I should have remembered that Annette at the end of four 
 years was no longer fourteen, but eighteen. I know not how I 
 bore the surprise. But the family appeared to remark it. I 
 cast my eyes sideways at her whom I had mistaken for Fan- 
 chon. It was indeed Annette herself; but she was so serious, 
 and had become so pale, that I was alarmed. 
 
 " Are you not well ?" said I, and approached her. She passed 
 her hand over her face and forced a smile. The mother's atten- 
 tion was awakened, and she insisted that her daughter should go 
 
 11* 
 
122 THE GIFT. 
 
 out into the air. " You have startled the maiden," said Mr. 
 Albret, " by the suddenness of your appearance. Perhaps it 
 will be the same with Fanchon. Let some one go to her house 
 and prepare her." 
 
 " How ! is Fanchon married ?" cried I. 
 
 " And has no one told you that she has been married some 
 years now to Herr Von Ormy ?" 
 
 " What ! the misanthrope ?" 
 
 "The very same!" answered Mr. Albret. "But she has 
 changed the strange fellow wonderfully. He is quite another 
 man. He resides here in Cransac, has bought himself the most 
 beautiful country-seat we have in the place. He has settled 
 down among us; for I cannot let my girls leave me. That 
 they all know." 
 
 " Herr Albret," said I to him, softly, and led him to the 
 window, "just a word! Is there not, perhaps, yet another 
 pretty house to be bought in Cransac ?" 
 
 He burst out a-laughing at this question, looked at me for a 
 moment, and at last said : " Somebody was saying a few days 
 ago that the new house with the large garden, which you passed 
 just before you came to the turnpike, is to be sold. They say, 
 too, it is cheap. But ask Annette. She knows better than I." 
 
 While I was renewing, or rather forming, an acquaintance 
 with the little girls, who had all grown and changed in my 
 absence, my misanthropic Ormy appeared, with a beautiful 
 young woman leaning on his arm, and she led a lovely little 
 fellow of a year and a half old. It was now first I recognised 
 her it was Fanchon. 
 
 We greeted one another with the heartiness of old and inti- 
 mate friends. 
 
 " I am a great debtor to you," said Von Ormy to me. " I 
 hope you will grant me the pleasure of showing my gratitude by 
 allowing me to entertain you at my house. I have happily 
 followed the good advice you gave me at parting. Do you not 
 remember that you recommended that, instead of going to Italy, 
 I should come to Cransac ? Here, you said, I should find my 
 
THE INN AT CRANSAC. 123 
 
 medicine. I went to Italy, but did not find it there. In Florence 
 your words recurred to me. I came to Cransac and found the 
 medicine and got well, and it was not at all hard to take." With 
 these words he kissed the blushing cheeks of his lovely wife. 
 
 " Do not believe him !" cried Fanchon. " He still makes wry 
 faces sometimes, and complains that the medicine is bitter." 
 
 It was a happy time. Ormy invited me to dine with him. 
 The whole family were accustomed to dine with him every 
 Sunday. He informed me that he had made his peace with his 
 mother, and that she resided with him. During the Revolution 
 she had lost the greater part of her property. That had moved 
 him, just after his marriage, and indeed at Fanchon's request, to 
 write to his mother and offer her a home. I became acquainted 
 with her. She was a woman of great intelligence, who showed 
 evidence of having been much in the world, and who had through 
 many and great trials attained to a certain tenderness, a patient 
 devotion, a religious way of life, that rendered her the more 
 captivating to all who approached her. 
 
 At dinner there arose a friendly quarrel about me among 
 these dear good people. Ormy and Fanchon desired that so 
 long as I remained in Cransac, I should make my home with 
 them. But Mr. and Mrs. Albret insisted with much eloquence 
 upon their superior claims. Even Juliette, Caton, and Celestina, 
 the younger daughters, mingled their lively voices in the strife. 
 One only, one whose voice I most wished to hear, and who 
 would easily have decided me, Annette only was silent. I 
 looked inquiringly towards her, as if I would know her wishes. 
 But she appeared so indifferent about it, that I was hurt. She 
 amused herself at the controversy, as if she were a mere listener, 
 and had no interest in it. And when her sister called to her 
 to come to her help and speak in behalf of her house, Annette 
 answered smilingly, " O thou meek Fanchon, how canst thou 
 doubt of thy triumph ? When didst thou ever have to owe thy 
 victory to thy sister's aid ?" But however smilingly she uttered 
 these words, there still appeared, if I did not deceive myself, a 
 
124 THE GIFT. 
 
 little bitterness, no, not bitterness, but a little pain expressed 
 in the curl of her beautiful lips, which I could not but interpret 
 to my advantage. 
 
 I foresaw that the decision of this difficult matter would in the 
 end be referred to me. So I begged that I might be permitted to 
 run in and out from one house to the other, as much as my lame 
 foot would allow, declaring that for me some hundred steps made 
 no distance between me and the dear friends whom, even in 
 Catalonia, I had always been near in spirit. 
 
 Of this declaration they intimated some doubt. And then they 
 began to reproach me for never having sent them a single line 
 over the Pyrenees for four long years. All uttered their re- 
 proaches, excepting Annette. She rather took my part, but 
 somewhat maliciously. " For this very reason," said she, " be- 
 cause the Colonel was always with us in spirit, he did not 
 write; one does not write to those from whom one is not 
 separated." 
 
 But this vindication was not satisfactory. I thought imme- 
 diately of the profiles which I had been accustomed to cut out 
 in Spain, and I told how I had passed my pleasantest leisure 
 hours, in trying to make the family present to my eye. In this 
 case I allowed myself in a little fib, and said to Annette, in order 
 to punish her for her malice, that of all my profiles, I was most 
 successful in hers. I pledged myself on the spot to cut her 
 profile without looking at her. They took me at my word. 
 Scissors and paper were brought. I counted upon Annette's 
 resemblance to Fanchon. I went to the window. In a few 
 moments the work was done, for I had had a good deal of 
 practice in it. I handed Annette's profile to the beautiful girl 
 herself. 
 
 She looked at it awhile, shook her pretty head, and said, 
 "That is Fanchon!" The profile went round from hand to 
 hand, and every one said, " That is Fanchon !" I became 
 embarrassed. Fanchon nodded to me, and said, " That is I !" 
 Ormy shook his finger at me and said, " I account myself lucky 
 that I did not come too late." Mrs. Albret made the matter 
 
AH" KIBE EH. 
 
THE INN AT CRANSAC. 125 
 
 worse when she meant to make it better. " There is a good 
 deal in it," said she, " that looks, to my eye, like Annette. 
 Only when the Colonel left us, she was a child of fourteen. 
 The profile looks more like her as she is now at her present 
 age. She did not use to wear her hair so. It was more Fan- 
 chon's way." 
 
 " That decides it !" cried every one ; " certain proof that he 
 thought only of Fanchon." 
 
 " No," I replied, " it proves only that the pictures of both, so 
 like each other in their features, blended into one in my memory. 
 And were I to open my trunk, I might show you the rose which 
 I carried away as my only jewel from Cransac, and which Miss 
 Annette gave me." 
 
 Annette blushed deeply. She threw a despairing glance 
 toward me. " And we have yours still," said Mrs. Albret, " in a 
 frame under glass, and encircled with beautiful embroidery." 
 
 I was delighted now that every one sought to give me proof of 
 their steady friendship and remembrance. I was thus relieved 
 from my embarrassment. 
 
 Annette I had at first admired simply as a model of childish 
 beauty ; but Fanchon I had loved, Fanchon I had thought of, 
 and it was Fanchon whom I had come again to seek. In the 
 moment of my arrival, I saw only Fanchon in Annette, only she 
 appeared to me more lovely than I had ever seen her before. I 
 loved her from that moment with a holier passion. But a strange 
 change came over me when I became aware of my mistake, and 
 convinced myself that Annette was the object of my regard. I 
 was in the most painful bewilderment until I saw the real Fan- 
 chon again. But so soon as she appeared at the side of her 
 husband, all within me was changed. Every feeling in me 
 spoke only for Annette. Fanchon was still young, still beau- 
 tiful, still lovely, but by the side of Annette she no longer 
 appeared to be Fanchon. The magic was dissolved. Fanchon 
 still was to me a dear friend, but I could not understand how I 
 had idolized her. And had she still been unmarried, I should 
 have loved only Annette, not Fanchon. At my first visit to 
 
126 THE GIFT. 
 
 Cransac, I had entertained for Annette a sentiment, which I 
 could neither avow nor make clear to myself. I loved Fanchon 
 as a fair maiden, Annette as a heavenly picture, not created for 
 this world ; as a being of a higher order, whom one could scarcely 
 approach with mortal passion. 
 
 Fanchon was very happy with her husband. He enjoyed 
 heaven with her. The country-seat where they resided was 
 delightfully situated, in the midst of well-laid-out grounds. Von 
 Ormy had beautified the place still more. 
 
 I was there almost every day, and used to walk in the shady 
 parts of the garden when I came from the bath. I envied Ormy's 
 good fortune when I saw him and his young wife walking arm- 
 in-arm through the shrubbery, or sitting together under the 
 trees. Then I thought, but with sinking hopes, how happy I 
 should be to wander with the lovely Annette at my side. Annette 
 loved me not. Four weeks had I been in Cransac, and her 
 manner towards me underwent no change. I remained four 
 weeks longer, and found not a moment to see her alone. Three 
 months passed away, and I stood, still apart from her, chained 
 as it were by some invisible power. 
 
 Precisely in the same relation in which I had stood to Fanchon 
 four years before, did I now stand to her sister. As the former 
 turned every serious word into jest, the latter did likewise, and 
 made every attempt on my part to a greater intimacy fruitless, 
 without appearing to intend it. As Fanchon, through her but- 
 terfly vivacity, had succeeded in always seeming not to hear or 
 understand what she did not wish to hear or understand, so in 
 like manner Annette effected the same thing far more easily 
 through the freedom of a truly childlike innocence and a certain 
 dignity which, manifest in every thing she did, exerted an irre- 
 sistible influence upon every one who approached her. So great 
 was her power over me, that so soon as I was near her I could 
 not help being in the same mood in which she appeared herself. 
 At the side of this quiet, gentle and holy angel, I became 
 ashamed of my passion as an unholy thing. 
 
 The more violently was my heart torn with the inward struggle. 
 
THE INN AT CRANSAC. 127 
 
 As the autumn approached I gave up all my hopes, and thought 
 only of escaping greater suffering by flight. The peace of my 
 mind was lost. 
 
 I gave out that the urgent request of my relatives called me 
 to my paternal estate, and I made preparations for my departure. 
 They mourned at the prospect of losing me, and Annette with 
 the rest. They insisted upon my promising to spend some time 
 with them the next spring at the latest, but Annette did not join 
 in the invitation. I was doubtful whether she loved me or really 
 wished to get rid of me. 
 
 One morning I was walking with her and Fanchon through 
 Von Ormy's garden. I paused before a rose-bush and said jest- 
 ingly to Annette : " When I left Cransac before, you gave me a 
 rose to take with me. But now I shall receive none. The 
 queen of flowers has vanished. Like all our joys, she withers 
 and leaves only thorns behind." 
 
 Annette blushed, looked somewhat embarrassed, but recovered 
 herself immediately, and replied with that sweet smile of hers, 
 " It is my sister's turn this time." Fanchon was about to speak, 
 when a servant came and called her away. Annette showed an 
 inclination to follow her sister, but Fanchon went away saying, 
 " I will be back in a moment. In the meanwhile do you settle 
 this matter." 
 
 " So I must go this time without any memento of you !" said I. 
 
 " Do you need any ?" she asked. 
 
 " I need nothing to remind me of you alas ! every thing will 
 remind me that I am far from Annette ! but yet something from 
 your own hand would bring you more vividly before me. It 
 would give me some consolation." 
 
 With a roguish smile she looked at me and said : " Annette, 
 who gave you the rose, was not so present to you in Spain as 
 Fanchon, who gave you none. I would, therefore, change places 
 with Fanchon. You see I am selfish " 
 
 " And a little unjust and cruel at the same time. You know 
 it, you feel it, and yet you persist in being so. I could wish 
 
128 THE GIFT. 
 
 that I had not come again to Cransac, for it will be my misfor- 
 tune, perhaps for ever. I shall never see Cransac again." 
 
 " You frighten me, my dear Colonel. For what do you 
 blame me ?" 
 
 " That you drive me from the place, which is the dearest spot 
 to me in the world." 
 
 " Mercy ! what a fancy ! I drive you away ? Heaven is my 
 witness. Our whole family grieves, and I no less than the rest, 
 that you must leave us." 
 
 " And yet it is for you to say whether I shall remain. Not 
 for Fanchon, not for your whole family, only for you would I 
 remain : a word from you decides me. You know it. I breathe 
 only for you ; I love only you. The world holds nothing dearer 
 tome. Shall I stay?" 
 
 Annette cast a 1 own her eyes and walked on. 
 
 " Shall I stay ?" I asked again more urgently, and took her 
 hand. 
 
 She fixed her eyes upon me with a touching earnestness and 
 said: "Colonel, do not deceive me, do not deceive yourself. 
 Why should you ? Confess to me frankly : when you were in 
 Spain, you forgot Annette and thought only of Fanchon." 
 
 " No, I thought of Annette and did not forget Fanchon. An- 
 nette's rose has still remained my most precious treasure, and 
 it shall lie with me in my coffin." 
 
 " When you came hither from Spain, did you not take me 
 for Fanchon ? Be honest with me." 
 
 " Yes, dear Annette, I did take you for Fanchon, but I found 
 you more beautiful than Fanchon, more charming, more cap- 
 tivating than Fanchon. I felt myself justified in having four 
 years ago given the rose to you instead of your sister. Ah, 
 Annette, I regarded you not as an earthborn maiden, but as an 
 angel not belonging to this world. Believe me, and at least 
 pity my fate, that it separates me now from you, as I can be 
 nothing nothing in your eyes." 
 
 "Who says that?" she asked, and turned to me with eyes 
 filled with tears. 
 
THE INN AT CRANSAC. 129 
 
 I was in an ecstasy at this question, which seemed to come 
 from the very depths of her soul at these tears. " O An- 
 nette, shall I stay ?" 
 
 " Do you ask that again, when I have been so weak as to 
 betray myself to you ?" said she and fell weeping into my arms. 
 
 We were locked in a silent embrace, when the arms of 
 another suddenly clasped us round. Fanchon had crept softly 
 behind us, thrown her arms around us, and then she kissed first 
 her sister, then me. " I hope, Annette," said she, " that thou 
 wilt not be angry with me if I give now at last the sister-kiss to 
 thy bashful shepherd." 
 
 So there was of course an end to all thoughts of going away. 
 Fanchon's raillery helped us to recover ourselves. We went 
 into the house to Mr. Von Ormy. " Now I live a whole life !" 
 said he, an exclamation for which Fanchon instantly gave him a 
 severe lecture. While they were quarrelling, I left them for a 
 moment, and flew to the proprietor of that pretty house with the 
 garden which Herr Albret had mentioned. I had already visited 
 it several times ; and I should have bought it earlier, had I had 
 Annette's consent. The purchase was now soon decided and the 
 papers prepared. I came back. 
 
 Annette extended her hand to me and expressed her wonder 
 at my sudden and somewhat long absence : " Where have you 
 been ?" 
 
 " I have been," whispered I in her ear, " to purchase a pretty 
 house and a garden full of most beautiful roses. From this day 
 it belongs to you." 
 
 She blushed with joy and cried : " Just think, he has bought 
 us that beautiful house !" 
 
 We went in merry procession to Herr Albret. I told him and 
 his wife of my purchase. He looked somewhat sharply at An- 
 nette. She flew into his arms, and then sunk with inexpressible 
 happiness on her mother's bosom. 
 
 From that day I date my heaven-days upon earth. Annette is 
 my wife. The Inn at Cransac made Von Ormy's happiness 
 and mine. It can make the happiness of four more. 
 
 12 
 
SONG OF THE ANGELS. 
 PROM GOETHE'S " FAUST." 
 
 BY F. H. HEDGE. 
 RAPHAEL. 
 
 THE Sun in wonted wise is sounding 
 
 With brother spheres a rival song, 
 And, on his destined circuit bounding, 
 
 With thunder-step he speeds along. 
 The sight gives angels strength, though greater 
 
 Than angels' utmost thought sublime ; 
 And all thy wondrous works, Creator ! 
 
 Still bloom as in Creation's prime. 
 
 GABRIEL. 
 
 And fleetly, thought surpassing, fleetly 
 
 The earth's green pomp is spinning round ; 
 There Paradise alternates sweetly 
 
 With Night terrific and profound. 
 Here foams the sea, with broad wave beating 
 
 Against the deep cliff's rocky base ; 
 And rock and sea away are fleeting 
 
 In never-ending spheral chase. 
 
SOXGOFTHEAXGELS. 131 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 And storms, with rival fury heaving, 
 
 From land to sea, from sea to land, 
 Still, as they rave, a chain are weaving 
 
 Of linked efficacy grand. 
 There burning Desolation blazes, 
 
 Precursor of the Thunder's way, 
 But, Lord ! thy servants own with praises 
 
 The gentle movement of thy day. 
 
 THE THREE TOGETHER. 
 
 The sight gives angels strength, though greater 
 Than angels' utmost thought sublime ; 
 
 And all thy wondrous works, Creator ! 
 Still bloom as in Creation's prime. 
 
EVENING FLOWERS. 
 
 BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 WHEN shuts the rose at eventide, 
 
 The lily folds its bell, 
 And wildings on the mountain side, 
 
 Sleep in their hermit cell, 
 
 Then sweetly, 'neath the twilight gray, 
 
 Or where the taper stands, 
 Or by the quiet fireside's ray, 
 
 The heart its bloom expands. 
 
 The influence of its favouring hour 
 
 The watchful lover knows, 
 And marks its soft, mimosa-leaves, 
 
 Their modest charms disclose. 
 
 The husband, by its fragrance cheered, 
 
 Unlocks the cares of day, 
 Which 'neath the warm, confiding smile, 
 
 Like shadows flit away. 
 
 The fond, exulting parent culls 
 
 Its blossoms, rich and red, 
 And twines a garland bright with hope, 
 
 For each young slumberer's head. 
 
EVENING FLOWERS. 133 
 
 While they who best its root protect, 
 
 With thrilling breast shall prove, 
 How the sweet charities of home 
 
 Fit for a heaven of love. 
 
 But when this heart-flower droops its head, 
 
 And wearied mortals ask 
 That deep repose which nightly fits 
 
 For morn's returning task, 
 
 Up springs another at its side, 
 
 With calm and lowly eye, 
 A seraph-planted seed, that holds 
 
 Communion with the sky, 
 
 The soul that flower ! Its breath is prayer ; 
 
 And fresh its balm-drops flow, 
 To cleanse the ills that stained the day, 
 
 And heal the pang of woe, 
 
 While gently o'er its closing sigh, 
 
 With holy vision, bends 
 That angel-guarded sleep, which God 
 
 To his beloved sends. 
 
 12* 
 
A PRAIRIE JUMBIE. 
 
 BY CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. 
 
 JUMBIE ! That word puzzles you, reader. You think it's 
 Indian for a prairie-dog or some other animal peculiar to those 
 grassy wilds ; or, if not that, it must be border slang for a 
 bivouac, or a breakdown, or a feat or adventure of some kind 
 that, happening only to the rovers of the prairie, requires some 
 outre and new-fangled phrase to characterize it ! My dear sir, 
 you were never more mistaken in your life ; a jumbie is nothing 
 of the kind. Nor are jumbies in any way necessarily connected 
 with prairies. The word sounds oddly to your ears, and your 
 matter-of-fact Anglo-Saxon mind may be startled at the idea it 
 is intended to represent. Yet if you have one particle of ima- 
 gination drawn from Norman or Danish origin I care not how 
 many thousand years ago, if you have the least droplet of 
 Scandinavian blood to vivify the Anglo-Saxon canal-current in 
 your veins, you will acknowledge at once the excellence of the 
 word and the image-fact of which it is the symbol. Nay, more, 
 after being convinced that you have more than once in your life 
 encountered a jumbie, and that jumbies do, moreover, abound in 
 every scene and condition of civilized life ; you will have a 
 half-mortified, half-compassionating feeling, both for the people 
 among whom you live, and the poverty-stricken, unimaginative, 
 unphilosophical language that you speak, both of which are 
 content to flourish in blind conceit of their scope of thought and 
 
A PRAIRIE JUMBIE. 135 
 
 power of expression, though this all-important word and the idea 
 it represents, are alike unknown among them ! 
 
 But you grow impatient. I must elucidate a little, or you will 
 jump at once to the conclusion of this paper without giving me a 
 fair reading. Yet, remember, if I reveal to you here the ex- 
 ternal characteristics of a jumbie, it is on the implied condition 
 that you read fairly through the singular illustration of its 
 spiritual mystery which suggested this sketch. 
 
 Did you ever have a doggrel couplet fasten so perversely upon 
 your memory that it kept gnawing there for days together ? 
 
 Did you ever have a Jim Crow bar of music rattling in your 
 ear, like a pebble in a calibash, so incessantly, that the remem- 
 bered strains of Maiibran or Pedrotti seemed banished thence 
 for ever, to give full scope to the solo of this jingling intruder ? 
 
 Did you never while writing cast your eye up accidentally 
 upon some trivial object, either in your room, or seen through 
 the window, to which your gaze still recurred involuntarily, till 
 it began to blend its material form with other images passing 
 through your fancy, and ultimately became a source of fretful 
 annoyance 1 
 
 Did you never while duck-shooting, in some long interval of 
 a flight of fowl, have the monotonous bobbing up and down of 
 your wooden decoy upon the waves afflict you with a sort of 
 sea-sickness, yet be unable, without leaving the spot, to keep 
 your eyes long away from it ? 
 
 Did you ever but once getting out of doors the instances of 
 eye or ear being thus afflicted crowd innumerably upon me a 
 tree toad, when the senses fairly ache in hours of still watching 
 for deer, a single groaning bough when sleeping in the deep and 
 quiet woods, a half-submerged lotus-leaf that flaps its speckled 
 edges ever and anon upon the ripple where twice already you 
 have thrown your fly for a breaking trout, and which still again 
 you must try ; these, reader, all of these, these and the whole 
 family of such * annoyances of fancy,' as they might be 
 called, in a loose attempt to define them, these are all veritable 
 jumbies f 
 
136 THE GIFT. 
 
 But 'tis very arbitrary, say you, to fix such an outlandish 
 epithet upon those well-known mental phenomena. 
 
 Excuse me : the epithet, as you disdainfully call it, is a real 
 word a word some thousands of years old, probably. It ex- 
 presses, too, a distinct idea ; it has a definite meaning ; and 
 thus fulfilling a clear mission of thought, it is, to my mind, 
 uncouth as it seems, far more respectable than your general- 
 izing phrase of * mental phenomenon.' At all events, the 
 manner in which I first became acquainted with the full dignity 
 of the term can never be effaced from my memory. 
 
 Many years since I found myself, one dismal autumn day, on 
 the edge of one of the largest prairies of our Northwest Territory, 
 debating with a fellow-traveller the expediency of attempting 
 to cross it so late in the season. The objections were threefold. 
 In the first place, the prairie had been lately burned, and it 
 would be necessary to carry all our provender with us. In the 
 next, the season was so late that there was danger of snow, and 
 there being no islands of timber to shelter us, no means of guid- 
 ance save a compass, in case of a storm of any violence, we 
 should almost inevitably lose our way, and starve, or perish 
 from exposure to the elements. The third objection was the 
 condition of my own health for, though my spirits were tole- 
 rably good, my strength had been lately much prostrated by an 
 attack of ague, in which my nervous system suffered not a little. 
 Indeed, my acquaintance with the gentleman who was now my 
 companion, commenced in the kind offices I received from him 
 in permitting his black West India servant to devote his whole 
 care to me, at the miserable cabin where his master had lighted 
 upon me, soon after I was overtaken with indisposition. 
 
 The stranger had started originally to make a tour of the 
 prairies, and as crossing the one before us would, by bringing 
 him to a trading post and navigable water, thus complete his 
 intended circuit of the western frontier, it will seem perfectly 
 natural that I would not permit considerations for my comfort to 
 induce him to take ' the back track' and retrace the scenes he 
 had already visited. He had waited for me when unfit for 
 
A PRAIRIE JUMBIE. 137 
 
 travel ; he was still unwilling to leave me, and I was deter- 
 mined he should make his sweep round to the settlements by the 
 course he had originally laid out for himself. In a word, we 
 started from Fidler's Grove, the station' where my friend, as I 
 may venture to call him, had exhausted the single source of amuse- 
 ment it offered, by shooting some hundreds of prairie chickens 
 from the leafless trees with the settler's rifle, whose use he had ap- 
 propriated to himself during the tedious days that I was confined 
 to the cabin. We started on a bright, clear November morning, 
 my friend and myself lightly mounted on the long-limbed horses 
 of the country, and his negro man, fitted with one tough Indian 
 pony for himself, and leading another as a sumpter-horse with 
 our luggage. 
 
 Within an hour we had lost sight of the nearest spurs of 
 woodland. But though nothing save the sky and the monoto- 
 nous plain before us was visible, we were still, speaking in 
 reference to its size, on the edge of this immense prairie. The 
 sky, too, as is common after a bright morning in November, 
 was overcast and dismal-looking, threatening no immediate 
 storm, but ungenial and forbidding, a fitting dome for the black 
 and cindery waste beneath it. 
 
 My friend, who was even of more mercurial temperament than 
 myself, became soon silent, as if oppressed by the scene ; and 
 instead of continuing to ride abreast with me, gradually pushed 
 his horse a little in advance. As he carried the compass there 
 could be no inconvenience in this, and I found a resource mean- 
 while in conversing with his simple-minded black servant about 
 the many grotesque and amusing superstitions of the Caribbee 
 Islands, of which he was a native. Then after a time, when upon 
 referring to my watch I found that I had passed a full hour in 
 the same unsocial mood as my friend, I thought it well to 
 remind him that we would have a still more monotonous day 
 to-morrow. For he already knew that, while it would take three 
 days to cross the prairie, a certain hollow, spring, and thicket, to 
 which we could look forward as a bourne, offering some variety 
 to the fortunes of to-day's travel, would be wholly wanting on 
 
138 THE GIFT. 
 
 the second day, when we must 'camp down' upon the level 
 plain. While speaking thus, being still in the rear of my friend, 
 his horse, as he turned around to reply, put one of his fore feet 
 in a gopher-hole, and was thrown upon his knees with a violence 
 which dislodged his rider without injuring him, laming the brute 
 at the same time, not seriously, but enough to make him unplea- 
 sant riding. 
 
 This incident compelled us to stop and make a new arrange- 
 ment ; my friend taking the sumpter-pony and transferring the 
 luggage to the lame horse. While the negro attended to this we 
 both dismounted. The opportunity seemed a favourable one for 
 refreshment. My companion, after swallowing a glass of old 
 Santa Cruce, which he carried already mixed with water, an- 
 nounced himself decidedly hungry. The cold ham and buffalo- 
 tongue must be got at. To do this conveniently the horses must 
 be tethered. It would not be safe to trust the negro with holding 
 all four of them while we were dining. To tether the horses the 
 stakes we had brought with us must be driven, a mallet, which 
 had been provided in the entire absence of all stones upon the 
 prairie, being used for that purpose. All this takes time. And 
 time is nowhere more valuable than in the middle of a burned 
 prairie, which it would be wise, in spite of the tendency of all 
 things to the centre, to get away from as quickly as possible. But 
 the sun has come out, the day is closing beautifully, there will be 
 a moon to-night, and my West India friend derides my anxiety 
 to repack our necessaries and get under way as quickly as pos- 
 sible upon the barren sea of cinders that stretches before us. 
 
 I can recall nothing more beautiful than the sunset of that day, 
 more singularly grand more excitingly spectacular, more like 
 a vision of rare things in some other planet. Sunset at sea seems 
 to mingle the waters with the sky by the reflected glow sunset 
 among mountains also shares its glory with the earth as the golden 
 beams revel around their summits, and linger as if they had no 
 right to rob them of light even at the last. But sunset upon 
 a burned and blackened prairie, is a creation of the skies only. 
 Earth seems to have no share in it. There is no fusing of tints 
 
A PRAIRIE JUMBIE. 139 
 
 and colours, no rose-hued paths leading from one to the other. 
 No tissue of rays inwoven so closely with things of touch around 
 that fancy glides at once from earth to heaven. You stand on 
 the bare black ground, a lonely helpless man, and look as it 
 were right into a paradise, without for an instant forgetting that 
 you are outside of it. You thrill with awe you do not melt 
 with admiration. In a word, you see two clear and distinct 
 creations before you, and the naked reality of the one seems to 
 stun conviction into you of the vivid actuality of the other. 
 
 But now these splendours, so rich, warm, and magnificent, are 
 passing away. The moon has come out. She is near the 
 zenith. The clouds which gave such gorgeous effect to the 
 crimson rays that but now laced them, have sunk below the 
 horizon. Yet prodigal in grandeur, profuse in beauty as was 
 the scene but now, there is even a mightier loveliness, a more 
 complete, intense and concentrated lavishment of the beautiful, 
 a more majestic oneness of sentiment in that clear, calm, radiant 
 dome, whose pearly rim rests upon the black prairie like infini- 
 tude in repose. My ideas of physical grandeur have hitherto 
 been all drawn from ' cloud-capped mountains,' but surely 
 never did I see the earth wear such an aspect of dignity as in 
 this apparent meek yet firm upholding of that magnificent vault. 
 
 We had ridden long in silence a silence that was at first 
 broken only by whispers and why ? I care not who laughs at 
 the extravagance of the fancy but, though neither of us cared 
 to define the feeling at the time, I have no question that both my 
 friend and myself unconsciously deemed ourselves gliding over 
 the floor of some vast and solemn temple. 
 
 I remember well it was the negro who first spoke, and his 
 tone of voice was suppressed as if in awe ; while it was in an 
 actual whisper, my friend referred to me in replying to his 
 remark. Yet the conversation had nothing to do, either with 
 the grandeur of the scene or the emotions it inspired. The 
 lame horse it seems showed signs of weariness, and the black 
 called our attention to the fact that we ought before that time 
 
140 THE GIFT. 
 
 to have reached the hollow, where we expected to pass the night. 
 It was certainly so. The night was wearing on, yet the shrub- 
 bery indicating a marshy swale in the prairie was nowhere 
 visible. The fickle November wind began now to rise, and the 
 clouds which rose like apparitions from the black prairie horizon 
 might soon climb upwards and obscure the moon. Decision is 
 all important at such a moment. Nothing could be bleaker than 
 the spot where we had halted. But the horses must be fed and 
 cared for ; they had drank from a rain-water pool within the last 
 hour ; we must abandon our search for the spring to-night, and 
 use whatever light was left to secure them properly. 
 
 I slept well that night, as, wet or dry, I always sleep in the 
 open air, whatever may be the consequences of the exposure 
 afterwards : a hint that may be of service to the faculty when 
 want of sleep is the prominent evil with a patient. 
 
 " Well, Frank," said his master to the negro as he jerked him 
 to his feet at daybreak, " 'tis full as well that we didn't find 
 that spring last night, for it will be just the place to breakfast at." 
 
 " Better not look for him, massa ; dat spring jumbie prairie 
 jumbie jumbie all around us." 
 
 My friend laughed, and I scarcely noticed the remark in the 
 hurried preparations for starting which followed. We rode on 
 for hours discovering not the slightest indication of the spring 
 and thicket, but encountering every few miles one of the shallow 
 rain-water pools which from time to time had broken the perfect 
 monotony of our yesterday's travel I should not say ' broken 
 the monotony,' for they were so unmarked by any shape or 
 expression, and were all so perfectly alike, that they seemed 
 rather to impress one more strongly with the unvarying same- 
 ness of the scene. Near one of these limpid shallows, that like 
 all of them seemed scarcely a hand's-breadth in depth, I sug- 
 gested, as the sun was now several hours high, that we should 
 halt for breakfast. 
 
 " Well, Frank," said I to the negro, who eat a little apart from 
 us, while we helped ourselves to the fare that was spread out 
 
A PRAIRIE JUMBIE. 141 
 
 upon a bison-skin used by way of table-cloth " well, Frank, 
 don't you think this pool will answer as well as the spring would, 
 to wash your dishes in ?" 
 
 " Pool jumbie jis as spring jumbie prairie all jumbie 
 nebber get away from him." 
 
 I was about to ask an explanation of the word " Pray you, 
 pardon me," cried my friend, laying his hand upon my arm 
 " Frank, how the deuce do you make out the spring to be a 
 jumbie ?" 
 
 " Cause Frank tink tink of him all day long tink ob him, 
 nebber find him but still can't help tink ob him. What dat 
 but jumbie spirit trouble Frank so, massa ?" 
 
 " But this puddle of water," laughed my friend, " you find 
 plenty like it, how is that a jumbie too ?" 
 
 " No find but one puddle from de fust. He be same old 
 puddle. Come, come, again. Tire nigger wid looking at him, 
 yet he can't help look for some difference dro' he know always 
 turn out de same. What dat but jumbie spirit ?" 
 
 " And the prairie," cried I, almost screaming with laughter at 
 the grotesque whimsicality of the superstition, then perfectly new 
 to me " The prairie, Frank, what do you make of that ?" 
 
 " He be all jumbie de biggest jumbie of de world always 
 de same, and you nebber, nebber get rid of him." 
 
 Then the poor fellow actually burst into tears, and began to 
 wring his hands most piteously " Oh massa, massa, what will 
 become ob de massa and his poor Frank ! De little jumbie spirit 
 always bad enough when he get hold of folks but here we be 
 on de back ob great big jumbie, who keeps sliding from under us 
 all de while we tink ourselves moving, keeping us jes in de 
 same, same spot, for ebber, for ebber. Oh de poor nigger will 
 nebber see de trees, nor de hills, nor de running water of Gorra 
 Mighty's yarth. Nebber see any ting but dis black jumbie- 
 back, nebber, nebber more." 
 
 I looked at the face of my friend, and I confess there was a 
 blankness of expression which struck me as arguing some 
 
 13 
 
142 THE GIFT. 
 
 emotion other than concern and sympathy for the agitation of his 
 poor ignorant bondman. Could it be that some pagan foster-nurse 
 among those of the same complexion as Frank, had so imbued 
 him in childhood with the same superstitious feelings, that they 
 now were re-awakened unpleasantly by the earnest and most 
 painful exhibition of fanciful suffering in the other ] Surely I 
 myself could not be affected, save with mirth, by such absurd 
 credulity. 
 
 I declare I was not so sure of this when several hours' subse- 
 quent travel brought us to a pool which so exactly resembled 
 that seen in the morning, that I could not for the life of me help 
 adding a whistle of wonderment to the woful chorus of ejacula- 
 tions into which poor Frank broke at the sight of it. Every 
 landmark around us if I may use that word where landmarks 
 there were none every feature of the landscape if the phrase 
 be admissible where the painter's art were a nullity all, all 
 around us was one dull, dead, unbroken monotony an intermi- 
 nable dark level an eye-wearying waste marked only, but not 
 relieved, by that circular limpid shallow, reflecting an ashen sky ; 
 and sky, earth, and pool, all equally motionless, without the 
 faintest shadow or one variety of tint, save the leaden hues of 
 the same sombre colour. 
 
 We talked but little during that day. About sunset a breeze, 
 which crept over the waste in little whirlwinds, enlivened us 
 somewhat, but I cannot remember that one jest was successful 
 enough to raise a smile from either of us. But indeed neither 
 my friend nor myself could restrain our risibles, had we cared to, 
 at one remark of Frank's when we came to camp down for the 
 night. The poor fellow had just lighted a spirit-lamp to make 
 coffee for us, when a blast of wind which suddenly swept the 
 prairie, extinguished the flame. 
 
 " What do you sit so stupidly there for, Frank? why don't 
 you light another match ?" said his master. 
 
 " No use yet no use jes now, please, massa. Nigger wait 
 till we hab done slipping." 
 
A PRAIRIE JUMBIE. 143 
 
 " Slipping! why what do you mean now, Frank?" 
 
 " Gorra, massa, what make dat great wind but de jumbie-back 
 slipping from under us to put white folks and nigger jes where 
 we started in de mornin' what but dat make de wind to blow 
 lamp out ?" 
 
 The merriment called out by this whimsical idea of the sable 
 physiologist, was not a bad preparation for cheerful rest. But 
 our anxiety took a new turn in the morning, upon discovering 
 that our horse-feed would not hold out for more than another 
 day. It is true that we had not originally expected it to last 
 longer. But, though steadily following the guidance of the 
 compass, and therefore confident that our course must have been 
 laid truly, yet the single fact of having, in our first day's travel, 
 missed that spring the one only landmark of our journey 
 annoyed us not a little, as the incident became coloured by the 
 scene and circumstances around us ; viewed sometimes, perhaps, 
 unconsciously to ourselves, through the wild superstition of the 
 negro. 
 
 The day proved not only mild for the season, but even 
 oppressively warm, and about noontide the lame horse gave out 
 completely. We removed his load, took off the halter, and left 
 the poor brute to his fate, upon that dreary heath, which the next 
 year's summer would alone freshen with a blade of herbage. 
 He followed us for awhile, and we hoped might be yet able to 
 keep us in view ; but pain or a feebleness of disposition which 
 from the first had marked his temper, made him stop short at 
 last. I turned once or twice in the saddle to look for him 
 afterwards, but he always stood planted in the same spot, fixed 
 there beneath that glaring noonday sun as immovably as the 
 ^nome upon a dial. 
 
 I could not help expressing my surprise that Frank, who, with 
 a benevolence common to the negro character, had shown much 
 concern for the horse when he was first hurt, should betray no 
 feeling at this painful abandonment of the poor animal. 
 
 " Why Frank be sorry ?" said he in reply ; " when de jumbie- 
 
144 THE GIFT. 
 
 back slip at night, him as well as oder hoss all come back to de 
 same place, 'cept lame hoss too be turned into jumbie-spirit, and 
 den me see him ebery day, same, same hoss, see him standing 
 den jes as now, and alway see him de same hour." 
 
 We now rode forward rapidly ; our horses' feet had become 
 used to the soil, and, notwithstanding the heat of the * Indian 
 summer' weather, had accomplished a very long stage, a full 
 day's journey in fact, while the sun was still several hours high. 
 We ought, we surely ought to be near our destination. I con- 
 fessed this to my friend, and I am not ashamed to say, that as I 
 did so, and at the same time acknowledged that my prairie 
 experience was utterly at fault in discovering any signs of 
 thicket, grove or timber-land in the distance, I began to share 
 more or less the superstitious terrors which did unquestionably 
 blanch his cheek. The reader, wholly inexperienced, perhaps, 
 in life in the wilderness, smiles at the weakness. Yet the famous 
 Colonel Crockett, as gallant a bush-ranger as perished among 
 the hardy Texans who fought and fell at the Alamo, has left it 
 upon record, that a man, when first lost in the forest, will almost 
 persuade himself that the sun rises and sets in a different quarter 
 of the heavens than is his wont ! and on a prairie when lost 
 on a prairie with no one object to fix and determine the use 
 of the external senses, the bewilderment of imagination is far 
 more startling the vagaries of reason far more eccentric. The 
 lost wanderer is left wholly to his imagination, and he can 
 reason only upon the possibilities which it suggests. For three 
 days I had gazed only upon limitless monotony ; for three days 
 I had heard no sound save those that came from our little caval- 
 cade yes ! I forgot ; on the first morning, and soon after we 
 got out of sight of the timber-land, a solitary raven rose scream- 
 ing from the carcass of a roasted wolf, who had probably pe- 
 rished while trying to escape the prairie fire a month earlier. 
 But this recollection only served to remind me that if we were 
 again approaching the forest, more of these birds ought to be 
 visible ; for the carrion wolves and deer upon which they feed 
 
A PRAIRIE JUMBIE. 145 
 
 are most often smothered by the smoke of a burning prairie, 
 on the verge of the timber-swamps, to which they are flying for 
 refuge. 
 
 " Upon my soul, this is an ugly business," said my friend, 
 after a few moments' painful musing. " Can you see nothing 
 no one sign in the air or on the earth nothing to form a 
 conjecture how we may be situated ?" 
 
 " From the earth, most assuredly nothing ; you know as well 
 as I do that there are no running streams on these upland 
 prairies to guide conjecture in any way and as for the air, 
 the sun, as you have seen, goes down very differently over a 
 prairie from what he does elsewhere ; but that Indian summer 
 mist which is now gathering about him makes it impossible to 
 detect any of the peculiarities which mark his setting over a 
 broken country." 
 
 " Good God ! what will become of us ? what shall we do ? 
 what can you think of? what suggestion have you 1 For me, 
 my brain is dizzy with looking ceaselessly upon this changeless 
 monotony suggesting ever the one same idea of poor Frank's 
 jumbie." 
 
 We had halted apparently still in the centre of the boundless 
 plain looking forward, there was nothing to reach looking 
 back, there were no vestiges of our having accomplished any 
 thing! "Still," I thought, "while there is nothing here to 
 guide one, there is also nothing to mislead. If our course was 
 laid prpperly in the first instance, we may still clear the waste ; 
 if that course was laid wrongly, it is yet in the present extre- 
 mity most wise to pursue it we must go on on and our only 
 hope is in the ability still to keep this straightforward direction." 
 
 I explained this to my friend much in the same language I 
 have used here. He simply nodded significantly, and pressed 
 forward in silence. The whole proposition was so plain to him 
 that it needed no further demonstration. A drizzling rain which 
 soon after set in did not prevent us from keeping the saddle, 
 until the vapour became so thick that we could not see twenty 
 
 13* 
 
146 THE GIFT. 
 
 yards in advance ; when, it being also now near night, we were 
 compelled to encamp. 
 
 Wet, weary, and dispirited, I can conceive few things more 
 disheartening than our present plight. My friend, who was of 
 a fine game spirit, attempted to jest both about our present dis- 
 comforts and the almost appalling prospects of the morrow. 
 But the terror of poor Frank, who besought him not to speak 
 with such levity of * Massa Jumbie,' soon made him desist ; 
 a deep sigh that came from the breast of his master, as he 
 turned away from his supper without touching it, betrayed to 
 me the pardonable affectation of the gallant fellow. My poor 
 friend, I believe slept little that night, and his nerves must 
 have been much shaken by watching for him to exhibit the 
 spectacle I witnessed in the morning. The sudden cries of 
 Frank had made me start from my sleep ; I looked up my 
 friend had raised himself on one hand, and with pallid fea- 
 tures and eyes almost starting from their sockets, was gazing 
 before him. 
 
 " Oh, massa, massa I told um so here we be oh Gorra 
 Mighty hab marcy on us here we be slipped back, slipped 
 clean, clean back to jes where we started from we and de hoss 
 yes, de lame hoss an all and all got to do de same over 
 again ebery day ebery day till kingdom come." 
 
 I looked, and true enough, we were almost under the shadow 
 of a tall wood exactly like that we had left four mornings before. 
 Nay, more, the lame horse stood there on its verge as if he 
 had slipped back as Frank had prophesied. 
 
 " It is a jumbie, by heaven !" burst at last from the lips of 
 my West India friend. Never shall I forget the expression of 
 honest awe, of desperate conviction, upon his features as he 
 uttered the words ; and should his eye chance to fall upon these 
 pages, I know that he will forgive this allusion to its ludicrous 
 effect upon me, with the same frank generosity that he did the 
 uncontrollable merriment with which I made the woods ring on 
 the instant. 
 
A PRAIRIE JUMBIE. 147 
 
 The reader has, I know, already solved the mystery, and 
 discovered that we had unconsciously gained the woodlands 
 under cover of the mist of the preceding evening that we had, 
 in a word, attained the farther bourne of the prairie, in the very 
 hour we nearly despaired of ever reaching it. It was not, how- 
 ever, till we had mounted, penetrated some hundred yards into 
 the forest, and saw the smoke of a settler's cabin curling up 
 among the trees, that poor bewildered Frank could be persuaded 
 he was yet fairly off the jumbie-back. 
 
THE NIGHT-BLOOMING CERES. 
 
 BY H. T. TUCKERMAN. 
 
 How coyly thou the golden hours dost number ! 
 
 Not all their splendour can thy love beguile; 
 Vainly the morning zephyrs fan thy slumber, 
 
 And noon's rich glory woos thee for a smile. 
 
 For thou dost blossom when cool shadows hover, 
 And dews are falling through the dusky air ; 
 
 When with new fervour dreams the happy lover, 
 And winds grow solemn with the voice of prayer. 
 
 While all around thee earth's bright things are sleeping, 
 Gay lilies fade and droops the crimson rose, 
 
 Fresh is the vigil thou alone art keeping, 
 
 And sweet the charms thy virgin leaves disclose. 
 
 Thus in the soul is deep love ever hidden, 
 
 Thus noble minds will fondly shun the throng, 
 
 And at their chosen time, start forth unbidden, 
 With peerless valour or undying song. 
 
 Thus the true heart its mystic leaves concealing, 
 Folds them serenely from the world's broad glare 
 
 Its treasured bliss and inmost grief revealing 
 To the calm starlight and the dewy air. 
 
THE NIGHT-BLOOMING CERES. 149 
 
 Blest is thy lesson, vestal of the flowers, 
 Not in the sunshine is our whole delight ; 
 
 Some joys bloom only in life's pensive hours, 
 And pour their fragrance on the breeze of night. 
 
PETER PETROLIUS, 
 
 OR THE MAN THAT WAS BORN IN THE CROOKED STREET. 
 BY EDMUND C. WATMOUGH. 
 
 THERE are so many approved methods of commencing a story 
 that an unpractised writer is doubtful which to follow. If, in 
 the present instance there is any deviation from the established 
 and well-trodden path, it must be attributed more to the uncon- 
 trollable and wandering disposition of the author, rather than 
 any premeditated intention upon his part to swerve from esta- 
 blished rules. 
 
 It is questionable, after all, if that primitive and familiar 
 preface, * once upon a time there lived,' is not the legitimate 
 and truly classic commencement of every narrative, and that all 
 other modes are but the vain affectations of the practised writer. 
 That simple and natural beginning brings one right up to the 
 work facts plainly expressed, and with the fewest possible 
 words. No stretching out an elastic idea to the full extent of its 
 adhesive qualities, and then manipulating and patting up the 
 crumbs and fragments into prettily rounded periods, until the 
 original idea, if one ever existed, is lost, like the cloth coat of a 
 courtier, in the profusion of gaudy tin foil and brocade. How- 
 ever, as more depends upon the quantity than quality of the 
 matter, the original simplicity of such an opening might be 
 objectionable. 
 
PETER PETROLIUS. 151 
 
 One or two original ideas being considered a vast outlay, the 
 writer would be compelled to use up his slender materials 
 without those charming amplifications by which a poverty of 
 thought is disguised under a redundancy of words. 
 
 A process which may be compared to the art used by the 
 Parisian cook of the Spanish king in the wars of the Peninsula, 
 to serve his master with a royal feast when a famine prevailed. 
 The seasonings and sauces effectually disguised the material, 
 and many .who tasted with the impression that they were par- 
 taking of wholesome food, were not a little disgusted when they 
 discovered that beneath all the flummery reposed the remains of 
 a donkey. 
 
 The desultory reader is too often served up with literary 
 feasts from the like materials, but in nine cases out of ten either 
 the food is perfectly congenial with his own habits of mind 
 and body, or the fashionable reputation of the cook silences all 
 inquiry. 
 
 The taste of the day is decidedly melo-dramatic, which in 
 fact is nothing more than a prevailing appetite for feasts like the 
 one described, and the adornments and seasonings are deemed 
 to be ' graphic' accomplishments, in the modern acceptation of 
 the word. If the candidate for popular favour be not a * truly 
 graphic writer,' no matter how pure his language, original, 
 entertaining, and instructive his thoughts, he fails to attract 
 attention, or what, perhaps, is to him of more importance, his 
 works will not sell. 
 
 It is curious, therefore, to observe the various shifts and 
 devices assumed by these caterers to a morbid appetite for the 
 melo-dramatic and to the uninitiated, a passing notice may 
 not only be instructive but amusing : with a determination, how- 
 ever, upon our own part, to pursue a course in accordance with 
 the humble character of the story, and the simplicity of its 
 moral. 
 
 It is generally deemed of great importance to introduce the 
 hero or heroine under the most favourable circumstances. With 
 
152 THE GIFT. 
 
 the conviction that first impressions go a great way, thereby 
 establishing an interest in their favour, which will tempt the 
 reader to follow their fortunes through a world of nonsense until 
 the final consummation of the story by the usual climax, death 
 or matrimony. 
 
 A landscape view, for instance, with a combination of the 
 grand and picturesque heightened by the glowing tints of a 
 rising or a setting sun, the latter to be preferred, as early rising 
 has not connected with it any very agreeable associations, there 
 always being at those chilly hours a natural craving for break- 
 fast, and it has long since been established amongst all story- 
 tellers and novelists that there is no sentiment in hot coffee, 
 rolls, eggs, and butter. 
 
 Having finished off this description, with a due proportion of 
 purple mountains and dark ravines, and a quantum sufficit of 
 rocks, piled up into all sorts of grotesque shapes, the ' naked 
 majesty' of those natural beauties must be enveloped in a veil, 
 usually * flung over the landscape,' through which ' the last 
 beams of the setting sun, struggle faintly,' and as that ' lumi- 
 nary' retires to rest, he tips a wink to the sad scene, as much 
 as to say, " keep up your spirits ; I'll be with you to-morrow 
 punctually, and no mistake." 
 
 The hero is then tableau'd in the most effective manner, and 
 in the description of his person, more especially that portion 
 which generally flourishes between the shirt collar and hat-band, 
 commonly called ' the human face divine,' the prominent fea- 
 tures are * chiselled' out. His forehead expansive as a parade 
 ground for legions of thought to drill and exercise. The hair of 
 his head curls naturally, so does his upper lip, and often as 
 vehemently as the little dog's tail, which destroyed the utility of 
 his hind legs. 
 
 With such materials he goes smoothly on through an octavo 
 of enthusimusey, and wins a world of applause for himself as a 
 ' graphic writer,' and no small profit by the sale of his work. 
 But, as our hero is a very commonplace character, with neither 
 
PETER PETROLIUS. 153 
 
 castles nor chateaux to figure in, a republican and citizen of a 
 land so new that ghosts and such like interesting people, have 
 not yet deemed us worthy of a visit, we shall be content to com- 
 mence our story in a plain way, without any of the clap-traps 
 so often and successfully resorted to. 
 
 Peter Petrolius was the hopeful son and heir of a very re- 
 spectable old lady who flourished for many years in Dock Street, 
 Philadelphia, the only crooked one there, and which certain 
 Gothamites, much to the astonishment of the loving brothers 
 thereof, affirm to be the prettiest part of the whole place. 
 
 This estimable woman had supplied several generations with 
 molasses candy and other savoury matters, and would still have 
 continued to dispense those sweet favours, but remorseless death 
 laid his cold hand upon her, and she obeyed the summons with 
 quiet resignation, leaving our hero the undisputed heir to all her 
 estate, real, personal, and mixed. The first was represented by a 
 one-story wooden tenement, then fast crumbling into decay. The 
 second, those well-known habiliments, a cap and gown, familiar 
 to every schoolboy; and the third, the remnant of the last 
 boiling of that compound by which she had acquired so much 
 reputation and a comfortable subsistence during her widowhood. 
 
 We forbear recording the particulars of our hero's early life, 
 from the time his first obstreperous cry was heard in Dock Street, 
 till he arrived at years of manhood, though no doubt they had a 
 great influence upon his character and subsequent fortunes. 
 
 The habits of the boys of that day differed materially from 
 those of the present generation. Then, it was never considered 
 particularly infamous to play marbles with a sweep, nor to 
 4 shinny on your own side,' the better part of a summer's day, 
 in that open lot, on the boundaries of which flourished both the 
 cow and the horse-market ; and not unworthy of the ambitious 
 youth even to ride a ' scrub race' on that ancient and fashionable 
 course, between Walnut and Spruce Streets, and the Potter's 
 Field on one side, with its thousands of queer gravestones and 
 green hillocks the deep meandering creek and mysterious brick 
 
 14 
 
154 THE GIFT. 
 
 enclosure in the centre, with its broken-down gates, and the 
 ancient weeping willow; and on the other, the long, narrow, 
 open lot with smoother surface, the general play-ground. If 
 the affectionate mother of our hero could now revisit that place 
 as was her daily custom in pursuit of her darling Pete the old 
 lady would be puzzled to identify the spot so well known to every 
 one some * thirty years syne.' The creek, with its high crum- 
 bling banks, through which occasionally protruded the end of a 
 coffin, is now a graveled walk shaded by tall forest trees. The 
 tombstones, that looked like spectres in the moonlight the 
 gigantic willow within that mysterious enclosure upon the hill, 
 the tall and ancient poplars, that stood like sentinels round that 
 populous city of the dead, are all gone, and have given place to 
 Washington Square, with its verdant plats and groves and broad 
 promenades. The reader will perceive from this brief notice of 
 bygone scenes, and the habits of the youth of that day, that 
 Peter's ambition was not directed to literary pursuits : though 
 the renowned Talbot Hamilton was assiduous in his amiable 
 endeavours to cultivate the hidden inspirations of his scholars 
 by a liberal and energetic application of the rattan' to a very 
 tender and susceptible part of the body, which he deemed the 
 medium of all intelligence, and through which he endeavoured 
 to infuse the elementary principles of every science. Peter 
 received from this benevolent gentleman an uncommon share of 
 his attention in that respect, but it appeared to have no other 
 effect than to elicit from our hero sounds more remarkable for 
 strength than harmony. 
 
 So much for our hero's parentage, juvenility, and birth-place ; 
 in which the reader may possibly discover some connexion with 
 his subsequent career, something sinuous and crooked like Dock 
 Street, and a good deal at variance with the straightforward 
 habits of the citizens of that rectangular rectilineous city of 
 brotherly love. 
 
 The proceeds of his estate, both ' real, personal, and mixed? 
 were soon dissipated : the last he liberally shared with several 
 of his favourite companions. He was now thrown upon his own 
 
PETER PETROLIUS. 155 
 
 resources for a livelihood. It became apparent from some never- 
 failing symptoms, that the time for exertion had arrived : an 
 uncomfortable sensation in the epigastric region, occasioned by a 
 vacuum abhorrent to nature, and most particularly to Peter, to 
 whom the former had bestowed an appetite of no ordinary power. 
 His hat had long since departed from its original shape, the 
 crown moving upon a hinge, the lid flapping gracefully upon his 
 shoulders and a very equivocal pair of pantaloons, imposed 
 upon him the necessity for immediate action, and if an important 
 incident had not opportunely occurred, it is not impossible, that 
 our hero might have retired from this world and its vanities into 
 the peaceful cloisters of Moyamensing. 
 
 A distant relation of his mother's, who for many years had 
 lived in apparent poverty in one of the populous alleys of 
 Southwark, died possessed of large sums of money, which were 
 found secreted in his humble dwelling. Peter became the right- 
 ful heir to all this treasure, and no sooner was he perfectly 
 satisfied of the truth of this unlooked-for good fortune, than a 
 decided change took place, both in his conduct and appearance. 
 
 He was now considered a respectable man, who had a stake in 
 society, but what to Peter was of equal importance, one for his 
 dinner. Men now respectfully touched their hats to Mr. Petrolius, 
 to whom but a few weeks before they would not have tossed a 
 copper. He was spoken of as a ' clever fellow ;' it was of little 
 importance to the world how he had acquired wealth, whether by 
 accident or by meritorious exertion. He was rich, which em- 
 braced every virtue, and Peter began to think that the motto of 
 his native State might have been abbreviated to that simple and 
 expressive monosyllable, l cash? for with it he found himself 
 instantly possessed of l virtue, liberty, and independence.' 
 
 We shall here pass over a period of Peter's life, and resume 
 it again when marked by another sensible change in his fortunes 
 and character. 
 
 He had during that period, however, moved in what he consi- 
 dered a fashionable circle, and affected the airs of a distingue of 
 
156 THE GIFT. 
 
 the first water, wore a large ring upon a very apoplectic finger, 
 upon which was engraved his family crest, for Peter had disco- 
 vered that he was the last representative upon earth of a noble 
 race, and as his good mother, during her lifetime, enjoyed the 
 title of * the Queen of Candy,' her hopeful progeny was, in truth, 
 better entitled to this little heraldic display than many other 
 good citizens of this republic affected with the same amiable 
 weakness, though there were people malicious enough to insinu- 
 ate that two mint-sticks ' rampant' upon a field of gingerbread 
 * slantant' would be more appropriate than the helmet and dag- 
 ger. His apartments were adorned with the portraits of one or 
 two ancient ladies and gentlemen of the past century, purchased 
 at auction. Also, some antiquated chairs, with high backs and 
 bandy legs, culled out of the same asylum for decayed furniture, 
 which Peter was in the habit of remarking ' were cherished as 
 memorials of his ancestors.' His poor mother, could she have 
 peeped into the parlour of Peter, would no doubt be more asto- 
 nished than flattered at the brocaded representatives of herself 
 and spouse, whose untimely demise was attributable to a cold 
 caught during the shad season. It was always a consolation to 
 the relict of that worthy man, that though he was cut off in the 
 very flower of life and utility, yet his struggle was neither a 
 tedious, expensive, nor a painful one, and with many a sigh, she 
 expressed her meek submission to the decrees of Providence. 
 " It is all right," she would say, " for if he had lived till water- 
 melon time, he would have sunk under the oyster season," for 
 such was the good man's admiration of those bivalves, that 
 nothing could restrain him from the incessant proclamation of 
 their silent virtues through the streets, from sunrise till long 
 after midnight, though she privately confessed to some of her 
 acquaintances, that the encomiums generally bestowed by her 
 spouse upon the c lovely' objects of his solicitude were not very 
 complimentary to herself. 
 
 Peter, however, had buried all these reminiscences with his 
 mother, and from the constant habit of deceiving others, had 
 
PETER PETROLIUS. 157 
 
 worked himself into a belief that he really was what he pre- 
 tended to be, and that the old gentleman of Pewter-Platter 
 Alley, the vender of old iron scraps and other rarities, the 
 wooden tenement of his mother, and the peripatetic proclama- 
 tions of his revered father of piscatorial renown, were dreams, 
 nothing more. And when these unpleasant fancies peeped into 
 the cells of his imagination, he slammed to the doors of thought 
 against the unwelcome intruders, and in the glass found more 
 pleasing reflections, in the contemplation of the ' imperial' upon 
 his chin, and the ' moustache' upon his lip. 
 
 Day after day passed away in the profitable amusements of a 
 young man without any business ; frequenting of taverns and 
 theatres, in winter, strutting about the streets with both hands 
 thrust into the pockets of a bag-coat, and in summer, whirling 
 over a dusty road in one of those vehicles wherein the driver 
 appears to have the axles run through his hips, at the tail of a 
 fast trotting horse dashing along at the rate of two minutes 
 forty-five seconds per mile, to that rural retreat for gentlemen of 
 his caste, where innocence flourishes under the sign of the Lamb. 
 Our hero, as the reader will perceive from his education, was 
 not likely to surprise the world with any evidence of literary 
 genius. Yet at heart he was a good fellow, and frank and candid 
 in the expression of his sentiments, the latter quality, perhaps, 
 he inherited from his mother, and though on the road to ruin, 
 the inevitable consequence of a career of daily folly incident to 
 his pursuits, he maintained some respect for the opinion of the 
 world, and at times meditated a reform. These wholesome 
 meditations were interrupted by an incident as eventful in his 
 life and as influential upon his fortunes, as the sudden acqui- 
 sition of his wealth. 
 
 Most of his property had been invested in bank stock : the 
 sudden prostration and ruin of the one in which his fortunes 
 were invested, utterly impoverished Peter, and upon waking up 
 after a debauch in which he had faithfully followed the classic 
 precept, * six cups to Moevia, to Justina seven,' he found him- 
 self a bankrupt in fortune and character. No one could be 
 
 14* 
 
158 THE GIFT. 
 
 worse prepared for such an emergency than our estimable 
 youth. He that cannot bear prosperity like a man, in adversity 
 is sure to act the part of a coward. In vain did he struggle to 
 keep up appearances. There was no incident in his life of 
 brief prosperity to mitigate his follies, and they who pay no 
 respect to position unless founded upon the solid basis of meri- 
 torious actions, were alike regardless of his fate with those who 
 had bowed to his money. With the former he could claim 
 neither fellowship nor sympathy, by the latter he was avoided 
 and despised as destitute of that quality which alone gave him 
 consequence, and with whom poverty is esteemed a crime. 
 Instead of manfully putting his shoulder to the wheel, he 
 meditated in gloomy despondency over his change of fortunes, 
 seeking by mean subterfuge to maintain those luxuries which 
 had impaired his health and weakened his energies. Toy after 
 toy was parted with, and the proceeds of his fast trotting horse 
 were melting away at a rate almost equal to the speed of that 
 renowned animal. It were vain to pursue our hero step by step 
 as he descended from his high estate to that neutral ground 
 between a decayed gentleman and a decided loafer. At last 
 his necessities became so great, and the demands of some of his 
 creditors so imperious, that it was absolutely necessary to crave 
 a temporary assistance from some of those numerous friends who 
 so often had partaken of his profusion and hospitality. And 
 here Peter soon found the truth of the Spanish proverb, ' Del 
 peso perdito se sciente el valor? * If you would know the value 
 of a dollar, try to borrow one.' To all whom he applied he 
 was refused assistance ; some had just parted with the very last 
 cent many, very many, had a note to pay on that very day, 
 some felt deep mortification that they had just invested all their 
 spare cash ; if known but an hour sooner, he could have had it 
 with pleasure. Others lectured him upon his past career, and 
 tendered, with great liberality, any quantity of wholesome advice. 
 In despair, he shrunk away to his silent chamber, to meditate 
 over his fortunes and curse the selfish cold-heartedness of the 
 crowd he had mingled with. 
 
PETER PETROLIUS. 159 
 
 He felt that he was slowly sinking into the condition of one 
 Jacob Spunk, * a youth to fortune and to fame unknown,' but 
 whose habits and character were perfectly congenial with every 
 thing that was disreputable, one of those mysterious personages 
 who manage to exist and occasionally to indulge in extrava- 
 gances, without any ostensible means of gaining an honest sub- 
 sistence. He even meditated a consultation with that estimable 
 citizen, with a hope of gleaning from him a little learning upon 
 the abstruse science of bettering a hopeless condition, and at the 
 very moment he was about to depart in pursuit of that Sybarite, 
 he was not a little astonished and pleased to observe him briskly 
 passing before the window, through which he was now gazing 
 with lack-lustre eye. 
 
 " Our Jake," for such was the amiable title this distinguished 
 gentleman had acquired, was, to the astonishment of Peter, 
 dressed off in garments of fine cloth. The threadbare coat 
 with whitened elbows, and glazed pantaloons tightly strapped 
 down to a cracked and well-worn boot, no longer distinguished 
 him as a ' seedy' gentleman of equivocal fortunes. There was 
 a swaggering sort of a ' clear out of my way,' which indicated 
 the man of means and as if to remove all possibility of doubt 
 upon that important particular, a tinkling sound was heard from 
 the recesses of one of his pockets into which this worthy had 
 thrust a hand, and where his fingers were playing an accom- 
 paniment upon certain pieces of silver, in perfect harmony with 
 his contented air, and to the astonishment and envy of many to 
 whom the sound was more familiar than the touch. At first, 
 this phantom, for he doubted the reality, perfectly paralysed the 
 sense of Peter, but when assured that his eyes were * not made 
 the fools o' the other senses or else worth all the rest' he 
 hastened to greet his old acquaintance, and to express his sur- 
 prise and pleasure at the wonderful transformation. 
 
 " Well," said our hero, after making a careful and minute 
 survey of the person of Mr. Spunk, which scrutiny that gentle- 
 man * stood up to' with wonderful composure, continuing to 
 draw from the deep recesses of his habiliments those tinkling 
 
160 THE GIFT. 
 
 tones before spoken of, whistling the while a stave or two from 
 that favourite song which so graphically describes a moonlight, 
 and the repose of a popular animal upon a rail " Well, Jake, 
 how are you ?" again ejaculated our hero, extending his hand at 
 the same time ; he of the music ceased those performances, and 
 then taking off his hat, commenced polishing that article by 
 slowly and skilfully drawing an extended silk handkerchief over 
 its surface, at the same time relieving the mind of the interrogator 
 from all uneasiness as to the perfect salubrity of his own body 
 with a reciprocation of the civility by an inquiry after the health 
 of Peter. These little preliminaries being terminated, much to 
 the satisfaction of both parties, and a pause succeeding, Spunk 
 resumed the jingling of l the hard stufF as he called it, and 
 was about to execute a stave of his favourite air with variations, 
 when he was interrupted with another question from Mr. Petro- 
 lius to the effect, " if any distant relation of the Spunk family 
 had lately paid a debt to nature, (the only one they ever did pay) 
 by which he had become unexpectedly the heir to a long hidden 
 treasure ?" To this direct appeal for a solution of the mysterious 
 transformation which appeared to overwhelm Mr. Petrolius, the 
 ci-devant loafer made no other reply than repeated shakes of his 
 head in time with the tune which he still whistled forth with 
 peculiar taste and execution, regarding our hero the while 
 with a steady and serious gaze, as if to say, ' you're wide 
 of the mark, try it again.' " Well, then," said Peter, impa- 
 tiently, " how is it ? where did you get it ? how was it done ?" 
 Whereupon Mr. Spunk applied his left thumb to the tip of his 
 nose, which feature having a natural tendency to turn up, by the 
 compression became more than commonly exalted: holding it 
 there for a moment he gyrated his fingers about in a very pleas- 
 ing and imposing manner, intimating thereby plainly and intel- 
 ligibly to the keen perception of his companion, that it was not 
 only a secret, but a dreadful one, intended to be locked up in his 
 own breast, which he was pleased to remark was a perfect 
 asbestos fire-proof chest for such matters. However, whether 
 from ancient friendship, or from motives of pride, or from some 
 
PETER PETROLIUS. 161 
 
 other principle which it may not be worth the reader's while 
 to fathom, he relented, and frankly declared that he had the 
 honour to hold an office under the Government of the United 
 States. 
 
 " Hold a what ?" said Peter. 
 
 " An office." 
 
 " And pray, may I be so bold as to inquire how much does the 
 United States of America pay you annually for your services?" 
 
 " Oh, how much ? not much considering my merits, about a 
 thousand a-year. But I tell you, sir, I worked hard for it. Day 
 and night for a year did I shout, and bawl, and fight, and drink. 
 Oh, but I worked hard for it." And that worthy gentleman gazed 
 at the gutter with an air of abstraction, and shook his head mourn- 
 fully. " Why, sir," suddenly starling from his reverie he seized 
 hold of one of the buttons of Peter's coat, and very impressively 
 said : " Why, sir, I lived upon crackers and brandy and smoked 
 sausages and sheep'a tongues for the last six months I worked 
 hard for it." Upon this theme Mr. Spunk was particularly 
 eloquent, and in a short time had entirely emptied his chest of 
 all the secret history of his brilliant political career, and how he 
 had ultimately been rewarded for his meritorious services by the 
 gift from the President of a comfortable office, which in a mo- 
 ment had worked that pleasing transformation so astonishing to 
 his friend. They parted with a determination to renew their 
 former intimacy, the one to the perquisites of his office, the other 
 to meditate upon the best mode of bettering a hopeless condition, 
 without fulfilling that decree of Providence, which imposes upon 
 all labour, and the sweat of the brow.' Peter Petrolius carefully 
 compared his own history and abilities with those of Jacob 
 Spunk, and in his own estimation, nothing of self-esteem was 
 lost by the comparison. In several of the political requisites he 
 thought he might excel his rival ; forced, however, to concede to 
 that exemplary youth a decided superiority in those particular 
 accomplishments, wherein eating and drinking were the most 
 prominent. He was confirmed in his determination to follow the 
 example of Jake, when he reflected that the labour, which was 
 
162 THE GIFT. 
 
 perhaps exaggerated by that meritorious individual, after all, was 
 but a variation of the life of a man with no honest mode of mak- 
 ing a livelihood. 
 
 It would be instructive and amusing to pursue our hero, step 
 by step, through the various gradations of his first introduction 
 to popular notice till his final establishment in the favour of his 
 political party. It will be sufficient to say that Peter's patriotism 
 was of the most exalted kind, founded upon his own sincere 
 declarations of perfect disinterestedness and devotion to the public 
 good. He presented the pleasing picture of a man without suffi- 
 cient resolution to conquer his own evil passions and wicked 
 propensities, drafting them daily for the benefit of mankind, 
 every sentence overflowing with sentiments of virtue and pa- 
 triotism. 
 
 Days, weeks, nay months slipped away in this dissolute and 
 unprofitable career, and after an intensely exciting canvass, in 
 which oceans of brandy were drank by both parties, our hero, 
 with some hundred compatriots of his caste and calibre, had 
 the peculiar satisfaction, one cold drizzling day, to give nine 
 cheers for the triumph of their candidate, and then stagger home 
 to an uncomfortable abode, if they had any, made more soli- 
 tary and desolate by previous habits of rowdyism and intem- 
 perance. 
 
 Now, the straightforward course of Mr. Petrolius was to 
 apply his energies to some business or trade, by which, aided by 
 industry and perseverance, he might not only have secured to 
 himself some reputation but perhaps a competency for life, but 
 i he always chose the crooked path, in character with the street 
 which had the honour of being his birth-place. 
 
 A vast deal of precious time had been wasted ; neither his 
 health, reputation, or circumstances had been improved, and he 
 discovered after some painful glances at the past, and some mis- 
 givings of the future, that he was precisely where he started, 
 with the prospect of another conflict in which he would be 
 opposed by some of those very friends with whom he had 
 been linked in the struggle. But it was now too late to recede ; 
 
PETER PETROHUS. 163 
 
 the many opportunities offered at different times had been ne- 
 glected ; he had chosen what he had thought to be a flowery path, 
 but, alas ! he soon perceived to his sorrow, that it was choked 
 with weeds and thorns and a thousand unforeseen obstacles. 
 After procuring testimonials of the most irresistible kind as to his 
 political worth, he departed for the seat of government with 
 these credentials, under the impression that his presence would 
 elicit a reward commensurate with his fame and services. 
 
 Peter found upon his arrival at that famous city of distances, 
 that his pilgrimage was not so promising as anticipated, and 
 that he was but one of some thousands of applicants for the 
 same kind of favours. 
 
 A direct appeal to the chief magistrate would be met by a 
 polite denial, or else an evasive answer couched in the most 
 courteous terms. It was therefore necessary to be fortified with 
 an introduction from some one known to the ruling powers as 
 influential. Now Spunk's wife's uncle was brother to a post- 
 master, to whom a member of Congress was deeply indebted, 
 and an intimation from that gentleman that the Spunk family 
 required an appointment for a worthy distant relative, was imme- 
 diately attended to; and Jake promptly walked into a comfortable 
 place, without the necessity of any testimonials as to character 
 and capacity, which it would have bothered that worthy man to 
 procure. But our hero had no friend at court, nothing but his 
 credentials, signed by some hundreds of people as insignificant 
 as himself, or by a few well-known politicians, who affixed their 
 names to any memorial, happy at the opportunity it afforded 
 them of publishing by that means their own importance. 
 
 He wandered over that cold and uncomfortable pile of stone 
 and mortar, the Capitol ; at one time listening to long harangues 
 in the House about questions in which he could have no possible 
 interest, the completion of a harbour at Green Bay, a thousand 
 miles from any place, or a post-route upon the Arkansas, varied 
 by an occasional roll-call, in which some hundreds of names 
 were repeated by the clerk in a stentorian voice and with 
 amazing volubility then wandering round the rotunda, either 
 
164 THE GIFT. 
 
 gazing at the pictures, or listening to the music of the man seated 
 upon a chair near the eastern door, who warbled all day a tune 
 which captivated the country people with its pleasing echoes. 
 
 Or from the galleries of the Senate chamber he counted the 
 bald heads of those dignitaries of the nation, whose wisdom 
 appeared to confound the spectators with admiration. From 
 the library, through whirling clouds of dust, he had a perspective 
 view of the executive mansion, commonly called the White 
 House, in which resided so comfortably the individual for whom 
 he had been hurraing for a twelvemonth, and from whom he 
 now felt himself almost as far removed as when he ' shinnied 
 on his own side' in the Potter's Field of Philadelphia. 
 
 Day after day passed trudging his dusty way between the 
 Capitol and the White House, or standing for hours in the ante- 
 chamber of a great man, to take his turn in the crowd of 
 hungry expectants. And when at last admitted, precluded from 
 urging his suit, by the presence of some fifty people from all 
 parts of the world, bowing and scraping and shaking of hands, 
 in the most cordial and satisfactory manner. 
 
 At last, through the interference of a member, he obtained a 
 private interview with the great man, who inquired most parti- 
 cularly after Peter's health and that of all his family, to whom 
 he was well known, much to the astonishment of our hero, 
 whose last relative on earth was represented by that worthy 
 lady whose demise we have before recorded. 
 
 The propitious moment having arrived, Mr. Petrolius very 
 respectfully urged his suit, and eloquently stated the several 
 services he had rendered the country during a very ' arduous 
 campaign.' 
 
 No sooner was the real object of Peter's visit made known, 
 than the distinguished object of his past solicitude became cold 
 and serious ; our hero saw the change as it passed over his fea- 
 tures, * like a summer's cloud,' and felt a corresponding damp 
 upon his own spirits. He was quickly relieved, however, from 
 this painful uncertainty by the agreeable information that there 
 was no vacancy at present, but that so soon as one occurred he 
 
PETER PETROLIUS. 165 
 
 should be remembered, and with another cordial shake of the 
 hand, that distinguished man begged Peter to remember him to 
 all his friends. He departed under this comfortable assurance, 
 which made his prospects particularly pleasant when he re- 
 flected that few die, and none resign.' 
 
 With * melancholy steps and slow' he crossed over that cold 
 vestibule, casting a parting glance at the porter who bowed 
 him out so unceremoniously, and such was the desperation of 
 feelings and disappointment, and though at first aspiring to a 
 place of some responsibility and profit, he even envied that 
 worthy man the station he enjoyed, though it appeared to be no 
 sinecure. He saw, however, nothing apoplectic in that gentle- 
 man's appearance, nothing that could warrant the possibility of 
 an immediate public bereavement in that department, and with a 
 sigh, acknowledged that, even should there occur such a provi- 
 dential interference in his behalf, some weeks would transpire 
 before the opportunity might occur to prefer his claim for the 
 station. 
 
 And this is the brief history of nine cases out often, or rather 
 ninety-nine out of a hundred, who seek for office as a means of 
 subsistence. A miserable dependence at best, with the liability, 
 when obtained, of being cast adrift upon the world to make room 
 for one whose merits rested upon the same honourable foun- 
 dations. 
 
 Accidentally meeting with a schoolfellow from whom he had 
 been separated for many years, and who expressed some interest 
 in his behalf from some ancient associations in which the rattan 
 of Talbot Hamilton had a part, they both having largely parti- 
 cipated in the inflictions of that well-remembered instrument, 
 Peter unburthened his heart to his associate, and with unfeigned 
 sorrow declared his past follies and his determination to pursue a 
 course the very opposite of the past in every particular. His 
 companion, so far from rejecting his friendship or rebuking him 
 with unkind words, promised him every aid within his humble 
 power. With neither friends, nor money, nor influence, by sheer 
 industry and perseverance, he had worked his way through 
 
 15 
 
166 THE GIFT. 
 
 every difficulty, and earned a handsome fortune, and in the 
 domestic circle of this worthy young man, Peter beheld every 
 comfort and happiness which honourable exertion and a con- 
 tented mind invariably brings with it. 
 
 It is with pleasure we record that, cheered by the example of 
 his patron, he conquered, by degrees, the habits of idleness 
 which had almost become a part of his nature, and though 
 painfully irksome at first, it soon became a source of pleasure, 
 and every day he learned the truth of that best of precepts from 
 a father to his son, 
 
 " Look thou character, 
 This above all, To thine own self be true; 
 And it must follow, as the night the day, 
 Thou canst not then be false to any man." 
 
ON A PICTURE OF HARVEY BIRCH. 
 
 BY ANNE C. LYNCH. 
 
 I KNOW not if thy noble worth 
 My country's annals claim, 
 
 For in her brief, bright history, 
 I have not read thy name. 
 
 I know not if thou e'er didst live, 
 
 Save in the vivid thought 
 Of him who chronicled thy life, 
 
 With silent suffering fraught. 
 
 Yet in thy history I see 
 
 Full many a great soul's lot, 
 
 Who joins that martyr-army's ranks, 
 That the world knoweth not. 
 
 Who cannot weep " melodious tears" 
 
 For fame or sympathy, 
 But who in silence bear their doom, 
 
 To suffer and to die. 
 
 For whom no poet's harp is struck, 
 No laurel wreath is twined ; 
 
 Who pass unheard, unknown away, 
 And leave no trace behind. 
 
168 THE GIFT. 
 
 Who but for their unwavering trust 
 In Justice, Truth, and God, 
 
 Would faint upon their weary way, 
 And perish by the road. 
 
 Truth, Justice, God ! Oh, mighty faith 
 To bear us up unharmed ! 
 
 The gates of hell may not prevail 
 Against a soul so armed. 
 
THE GIANT'S COFFIN, 
 
 OR THE FEUD OF HOLT AND HOUSTON. 
 
 A TALE OF REEDY RIVER. 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " THE YEMASSEE," ETC. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN 1766, the beautiful district of Greenville, in South Carolina, 
 which is said to have had its name in consequence of the 
 verdant aspect which it bore in European eyes, received its 
 first white settlers from Virginia and Pennsylvania. Among 
 these early colonists were the families of Holt and Houston, 
 represented by two fearless borderers, famous in their day as 
 Indian hunters ; men ready with the tomahawk and rifle, but 
 not less distinguished, perhaps, for the great attachment which 
 existed between them. Long intercourse in trying periods the 
 habit of referring to each other in moments of peril constant 
 adventures in company not to speak of similar tastes and 
 sympathies in numerous other respects, had created between 
 them a degree of affection, which it would be difficult, perhaps, 
 to find among persons of more mild and gentle habits. Each 
 had his family his wife and little ones and, traversing the 
 mountain paths which lie between Virginia and the Carolinas, 
 they came in safety to the more southern of the last named 
 colonies. Charmed with the appearance of the country, they 
 squatted down upon the borders of Reedy River, not very far 
 from the spot now occupied by the pleasant town of Greenville. 
 
 15* 
 
170 THE GIFT. 
 
 Family division, for the present, there was none. Congeniality 
 of tastes, the isolation of their abodes, the necessity of concen- 
 tration against the neighbouring Indian nation of Cherokees, 
 kept them together ; and continuing the life of the hunter, rather 
 than that of the farmer, John Holt and Arthur Houston pursued 
 the track of bear, deer, and turkey, as before, with a keenness 
 of zest which, possibly, derived its impulse quite as much from 
 attachment to one another, as from any great fondness for the 
 pursuit itself. 
 
 Meanwhile, their families, taking fast hold upon the soil, 
 began to flourish together after a fashion of their own. Flourish 
 they did, for the boys thrived, and the girls grew apace. But 
 tradition has preserved some qualifying circumstances in this 
 history, by which it would seem that their prosperity was not 
 entirely without alloy. The sympathies between Mesdames 
 Holt and Houston were not, it appears, quite so warm and 
 active as those which distinguished the intercourse of their 
 respective husbands. Civil enough to one another in the pre- 
 sence of the latter, they were not unfrequently at * dagger- 
 draw' in their absence. The husbands were not altogether 
 ignorant of this condition of things at home, but they had their 
 remedy ; and there is little doubt that, like some other famous 
 sportsmen of my acquaintance, they became happy hunters only 
 when there was no longer any hope that they could become 
 happy husbands. Now, as quarrels most commonly owe their 
 spirit and excellence to the presence of spectators, we may 
 assume that some portion of the virulence of our two wives 
 underwent diminution from the absence of those before whom 
 it might hope to display itself with appropriate eloquence ; and 
 the wrath of the dames, only exhibited before their respective 
 children, was very apt to exhale in clouds, and slight flashes, 
 and an under-current of distant thunder. Unhappily, however, 
 the evil had consequences of which the weak mothers little 
 thought, and the feud was entailed to the children, who, instead 
 of assimilating, with childish propensities, in childish sports, 
 took up the cudgels of their parents, and under fewer of the 
 
THE GIANT'S COFFIN. 171 
 
 restraints, arising from prudence, and the recognition of mutual 
 necessities, by which the dames were kept from extreme issues, 
 they played the aforesaid cudgels about their mutual heads, with 
 a degree of earnestness that very frequently rendered necessary 
 the interposition of their superiors. 
 
 The miserable evil of this family feud fell most heavily upon 
 the natures of the two eldest boys, one a Holt, the other a 
 Houston, spoiling their childish tempers, impressing their souls 
 with fearful passions, and embittering their whole intercourse. 
 
 At this period young Houston has reached the age of fourteen, 
 and Holt of twelve years of age. The former was a tall, slen- 
 der, and very handsome youth ; the latter was short, thickset, 
 and of rather plain, unpromising appearance. But he was 
 modest, gentle, and subdued in temper, and rather retiring and 
 shy. The former, on the contrary, was bold, vain, and vio- 
 lent the petted boy of his mother, insolent in his demands, 
 reckless in his resentments a fellow of unbending will, and of 
 unmeasured impulses. He had already gone forth as a hunter 
 with his father ; he had proved his strength and courage ; and 
 he longed for an opportunity to exercise his youthful muscle 
 upon his young companion, with whom, hitherto, he himself 
 could not say how or why his collisions had fallen short of the 
 extremities of personal violence. For such an encounter the 
 soul of young Houston yearned ; he knew that Holt was not 
 wanting in strength he had felt that in their plays together ; 
 but he did not doubt that his own strength, regularly put forth, 
 was superior. 
 
 One day the boys had gone down together to the banks of 
 Reedy River to bathe. There they met a deformed boy of the 
 neighbourhood, whose name was Acker. In addition to his 
 deformity, the boy was slightly epileptic, and such was his 
 nervous sensibility, that merely to point a finger at him in 
 mischief was apt to produce in him the most painful sensations. 
 Sometimes, indeed, the pranks of his playmates, carried too far, 
 had thrown him into convulsions. This unhappy lad had but 
 just recovered from a sickness produced by some such prac- 
 
172 THE GIFT. 
 
 tices, and this fact was well known to the boys. Disregarding 
 it, however, John Houston proceeded to amuse himself with the 
 poor boy. Holt, however, interposed, and remonstrated with his 
 companion, but without effect. Houston persisted until, fairly 
 tired of the sport, he left the diseased boy in a dreadful condi- 
 tion of mental excitement and bodily exhaustion. This done, he 
 proceeded to bathe. 
 
 Meanwhile, with that sort of cunning and vindictiveness which 
 often distinguishes the impaired intellect of persons subject to 
 such infirmities, the epileptic boy watched his opportunity, and 
 stole down, unobserved, to the river's edge, among the rocks, 
 where the boys had placed their clothes. There he remained in 
 waiting, and when John Houston appeared to dress himself, and 
 was stooping down for his garments, the epileptic threw himself 
 violently upon him, bore him to the ground, and, grasping a 
 heavy rock, would have beaten out the brains of the offending 
 lad, but for the timely assistance of Arthur Holt, who drew off 
 the assailant, deprived him of his weapon, and gave his comrade 
 a chance to recover, and place himself in a condition to defend 
 himself. 
 
 But Acker, the epileptic boy, was no longer in a condition to 
 justify the hostility of any enemy. His fit of frenzy had been 
 succeeded by one of weeping, and, prostrate upon the ground, 
 he lay convulsed under most violent nervous agitation. While 
 he remained in this state, John Houston, who had now par- 
 tially dressed himself, furious with rage, at the indignity he had 
 suffered, and the danger he had escaped, prepared to revenge 
 himself upon him for this last offence ; and, but for Arthur Holt, 
 would, no doubt, have subjected the miserable victim to a severe 
 beating. But the manly nature of Arthur resented and resisted 
 this brutality. He stood between the victim and his persecutor. 
 
 " You shall not beat him, John it was your own fault. You 
 begun it." 
 
 " I will beat you then," was the reply. 
 
 " No ! you shall not beat me, either." 
 
 Ha ! Take that !" 
 
173 
 
 The blow followed on the instant. A first blow, and in the 
 eye, too, is very apt to conclude an ordinary battle. But this 
 was to be no ordinary battle. Our young hero was stunned by 
 the blow; the fire flashed from the injured eye; but the 
 unfairness of the proceeding awakened a courage which had its 
 best sources in the moral nature of the boy ; and, though thus 
 taken at advantage, he closed in with his assailant, and, in this 
 manner, lessened the odds at which he otherwise must have 
 fought with one so much taller and longer in the arms, than 
 himself. In the fling that followed, John Houston was on his 
 back. His conqueror suffered him to rise. 
 
 " Let us fight no more, John," he said on relaxing his hold ; 
 " I don't want to fight with you." 
 
 The answer, on the part of the other, was a renewal of the 
 assault. Again was he thrown, and this time with a consi- 
 derable increase of severity. He rose with pain. He felt his 
 hurts. The place of battle was stony ground. Fragments of 
 rock were at hand. Indignant and mortified at the result of the 
 second struggle aiming only at vengeance the furious boy 
 snatched up one of these fragments, and once more rushed upon 
 his companion. But this time he was restrained by a third 
 party no less than his own father who, unobserved, had 
 emerged from the neighbouring thicket, and, unseen by the 
 combatants, had witnessed the whole proceeding. The honour- 
 able nature of the old hunter recoiled at the conduct of his son. 
 He suddenly took the lad by the collar, wrested the stone from 
 him, and laying a heavy hickory rod some half dozen times 
 over his shoulder, with no moderate emphasis, sent him home, 
 burning with shame, and breathing nothing but revenge. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 In the space of five years after this event, the two fathers 
 yielded their scalps to the Cherokees, and upon the young men, 
 now stretching to manhood, devolved the task of providing for 
 
174 THE GIFT. 
 
 their families. The patriarchal sway was at an end, and, with 
 it, all those restraining influences by which the external show of 
 peace had been kept up. It was to be a household in common 
 no longer. But a short time had elapsed, when a domestic 
 storm of peculiar violence determined the dames to separate for 
 ever ; and, while the family of Holt, under the management of 
 young Arthur, remained at the old settlement near Reedy River, 
 the Houstons proceeded to Pan's Mountain, some seven miles 
 off, in the neighbourhood of which may be found, at this day, 
 some traces of their rude retreat. The settlement at Reedy 
 River, meanwhile, had undergone increase. New families had 
 arrived, and the first foundations were probably then laid of the 
 flourishing village which now borders the same lovely stream. 
 The sons grew up, but not after the fashion of their fathers. In 
 one respect only did John Houston resemble his parent he was 
 a hunter. Arthur Holt, on the other hand, settled down into a 
 methodical, hard-working farmer, who, clinging to his family 
 fireside, made it cheerful, and diffused the happiest influences 
 around it. He grew up strong rather than handsome, good 
 rather than conspicuous; and, under his persevering industry 
 and steady habits, his mother's family, now his own, reached a 
 condition of comfort before unknown. The family of young 
 Houston, by which we mean his mother, sister, and a younger 
 brother, did not flourish in like degree. Yet Houston had 
 already acquired great reputation as a hunter. In the woods he 
 seemed literally to follow in his father's footsteps. He had his 
 accomplishments, too. He was certainly the handsomest youth 
 in all the settlements ; of a bold carriage, lofty port, free, open, 
 expressive countenance, tall of person and graceful of movement. 
 It was some qualification of these advantages that the morale 
 of John Houston was already something more than questionable 
 in the public opinion of the settlement. His tastes were vicious, 
 his indulgences in strong drink had more than once subjected 
 him to humiliating exposures, but as yet they had produced 
 caution rather than dislike among his associates. Among the 
 women, however, they were not suspected to exist, or if known 
 
175 
 
 or suspected, weighed very little against the graces of a fine 
 person, a dashing, easy carriage, and a free ' gift of the gab,' 
 which left him quite as unrivalled among the debaters as he was 
 among the dancers. 
 
 Among the families settled down upon Reedy River, was that 
 of Marcus Hey wood, a Virginia cavalier, a fine hearty gentle- 
 man of the old school, polished and precise, who had seen better 
 days, and was disposed very much to insist upon them. He 
 brought with him into the little colony a degree of taste and 
 refinement, of which, before his coming, the happy little neigh- 
 bourhood knew nothing ; but, unhappily for all parties, he sur- 
 vived too short a time after his arrival, to affect very favourably, 
 or very materially, the sentiments and manners of those about 
 him. He left his widow, a lady of fifty, and an only daughter 
 of sixteen, to lament his loss. Mrs. Heywood was a good 
 woman, an excellent housewife, a kind matron, and all that is 
 exemplary at her time of life ; but Leda Heywood, her daughter, 
 was a paragon ; in such high terms is she described by still- 
 worshiping tradition, and the story that comes down to us, 
 seems, in some respects, to justify the warmth of its eulogium. 
 At the period of her father's death, Leda was only sixteen ; but 
 she was tall, well-grown, and thoughtful beyond her years. 
 The trying times in which she lived frequent travel the ne- 
 cessity of vigilance the duties which naturally fall upon the 
 young in new countries conspired to bring out her character, 
 and to hurry to maturity an intellect originally prompt and 
 precocious. Necessity had prompted thought into exercise, and 
 she had become acute, observant, subdued in bearing, modest 
 in reply, gentle, full of womanly solicitude, yet so calm in her 
 deportment that, to the superficial observer, she wore an aspect, 
 quite false to the fact, of great coldness and insensibility. 
 Her tastes were excellent; she sang very sweetly and when 
 you add to the account of her merits, that she was really very 
 lovely, a fair, blue-eyed graceful creature, you need not won- 
 der that one day she became a heroine! A heroine! poor 
 
176 THE GIFT. 
 
 Leda ! Bitterly, indeed, must she have wept in after times, the 
 evil fortune that doomed her to be a heroine ! 
 
 But Leda was a belle before she became a heroine. This 
 was, perhaps, the more unfortunate destiny of the two. She 
 was the belle of Reedy River, called by hunter, and shepherd, 
 and farmer, ' the blue-eyed girl of Reedy River,' to whom all 
 paid an involuntary tribute, to whom all came as suitors, and, 
 with the rest, who but our two acquaintances, John Houston 
 and Arthur Holt. At first they themselves knew not that 
 they were rivals, but the secret was one of that sort which 
 very soon contrived to reveal itself. It was then that the ancient 
 hate of John Houston revived, in all its fury. If Arthur Holt 
 was not conscious of the same feelings exactly, he was yet con- 
 scious of an increased dislike of his old companion. With that 
 forbearance which, whether the fruit of prudence or timidity, 
 Arthur Holt had always been careful to maintain in his inter- 
 course with his former associate, he now studiously kept aloof 
 from him as much as possible. Not that this reserve and cau- 
 tion manifested itself in any unmanly weakness. On the con- 
 trary, no one could have appeared more composed when they 
 met than Arthur Holt. It is true that, in the actual presence of 
 Leda Hey wood, he was rather more embarrassed than his rival. 
 The reader will not need to be reminded that we have already 
 described him as being naturally shy. This bashfulness showed 
 badly in contrast with the deportment of John Houston. If the 
 difference between the manner of the two young men, in ap- 
 proaching their mistress, was perceptible to herself and others, 
 it was little likely to escape the eyes of one who, like John 
 Houston, was rendered equally watchful both by hate and 
 jealousy. But, unconscious of any bashfulness himself, he 
 could not conceive the influence of this weakness in another. 
 He committed the grievous error of ascribing the disquiet and 
 nervous timidity of Arthur Holt to a very different origin; and 
 fondly fancied that it arose from a secret dread which the young 
 man felt of his rival. We shall not say what degree of influence 
 
THE GIANT'S COFFIN. 177 
 
 this notion might have had, in determining his own future con- 
 duct towards his rival. 
 
 Some months had passed away since the death of Colonel 
 Heywood, in this manner, and the crowd of suitors had gra- 
 dually given way to the two to whom our own attention has 
 been more particularly turned. Events, meanwhile, had been 
 verging towards a very natural crisis ; and the whisper, on all 
 hands, determined that Leda Heywood was certainly engaged, 
 and to John Houston. This whisper, as a matter of course, 
 soon reached the ears of the man whom it was most likely to 
 annoy. 
 
 Arthur Holt could not be said to hope, for, in truth, Leda 
 Heywood had given him but little encouragement, still he was 
 not willing to yield in despair, for, so far as he himself had 
 observed, she had never given any encouragement to his rival. 
 At all events there was a way of settling the matter, which the 
 stout-hearted fellow determined to take at the earliest moment. 
 He resolved to propose to Leda, a measure which he would 
 sooner have adopted, but for a delicate scruple arising from the 
 fact that he had made himself particularly useful to her mother, 
 who, in her widowhood, and in straitened circumstances, was 
 very glad to receive the help and friendly offices of the young 
 farmer. These scruples yielded, however, to the strength of his 
 feelings ; and one evening he had already half finished his toilet 
 with more than usual care, in order to the business of a formal 
 declaration, when, to his own surprise and that of his family, 
 John Houston abruptly entered the humble homestead. It was 
 the first visit which he had paid since the separation of the two 
 families, and Arthur saw at a glance that it had its particular 
 object. After a few moments, in which the usual civilities were 
 exchanged, John Houston, rising as he spoke, said abruptly to 
 Arthur 
 
 " You seem about to go out, and perhaps we may be walking 
 in the same direction. If so, I can say what I have to say, 
 while we're on the road together." 
 
 " I am about to go to see Widow Heywood." 
 
 16 
 
178 THE GIFT. 
 
 " Very good ! our road lies the same way." 
 
 The tones of Houston were more than usually abrupt as he 
 spoke, and there was a stern contracting of the brow, and a 
 fierce flashing of the eye, while he looked upon the person he 
 addressed, which did not escape the observation of Arthur, and 
 excited the apprehensions of his mother. On some pretence, 
 she drew her son into her chamber ere he went forth, and in 
 few, but earnest words, insisted that John Houston meant harm. 
 
 " If you will go with him, Arthur, take this pistol of your 
 father's in your bosom, and keep a sharp look-out upon him. 
 Man never meant evil if John Houston does not mean it now." 
 
 We pass over her farther remonstrances. They made little 
 impression upon Arthur, but, to quiet her, he put the weapon 
 into his bosom half ashamed as he did so of a concession 
 that seemed to look like cpwardice. 
 
 The two young men set out together, and the eyes of the 
 anxious mother followed them as long as they were in sight. 
 They took the common path, which led them down to the river, 
 just below the falls. When they had reached the opposite shore, 
 and before they had ascended the rocks by which it is lined, 
 John Houston, who had led, turned suddenly upon his companion, 
 and thus addressed him : 
 
 "Arthur Holt, you may wonder at my coming to see you 
 to-day, for I very well know that there is no love lost between us. 
 You like me as little as I like you. Nay, for that matter, I don't 
 care how soon you hear it from my lips, 1 hate you, and I 
 shall always hate you ! We were enemies while we were boys, 
 we are enemies now that we are men ; and I suppose we shall 
 be enemies as long as we live. Whether we are to fight upon 
 it, is for you to say." 
 
 Here he paused and looked eagerly into the eyes of his com- 
 panion. The latter regarded him steadily, but returned no 
 answer. He evidently seemed to await some farther explana- 
 tion of the purpose of one who had opened his business with an 
 avowal so startling and ungracious. After a brief pause, Houston 
 proceeded : 
 
179 
 
 " The talk is that you're a-courting Leda Hey wood that you 
 mean to offer yourself to her and when I see how finely you've 
 rigged yourself out for it to-night, I'm half inclined to believe 
 you're foolish enough to be thinking of it. Arthur Holt, this 
 must not be ! You must have nothing to do with Leda Hey wood." 
 
 He paused again his eyes keenly searching those of his 
 rival. The latter still met his glance with a quiet sort of deter- 
 mination, which betrayed nothing of the effect which the words 
 of the other might have produced upon his mind. Houston was 
 annoyed. Impatiently, again, he spoke, as follows : 
 
 " You hear me, you hear what I say ?" 
 
 " Yes, I hear you, John Houston." 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 " Well ! you want my answer, I suppose 1 You shall have 
 it ! This it is. If you are a madman or a fool, that' is no 
 reason why I should not do as I please !" 
 
 The other was about to interrupt him, but Holt persisted : 
 
 " Let me finish, John Houston. I heard you patiently now, 
 hear me ! I am no fighting man, and as heaven is above us, I 
 have no wish to quarrel ; but I am ready to fight whenever I 
 can't do better. As for being bullied by you, that is out of the 
 question. I am not afraid of you, and never was, as you should 
 have known before this, and as you may know whenever the 
 notion suits you to try. I am now, this very moment, going to 
 see Leda Hey wood, and I mean to ask her hand." 
 
 " That you shall never do !" exclaimed the other, whose pas- 
 sions had been with difficulty kept down so long " That, by the 
 Eternal ! you shall never do !" and as he spoke, drawing a 
 knife from his belt, he rushed upon Arthur Holt, with a prompt- 
 ness and fury that left the latter in no doubt of the bloody and 
 desperate purposes of his foe. But the coolness of the young 
 farmer was his safeguard in part, and to the weapon, so thought- 
 fully furnished him by his mother, he was indebted for the rest. 
 He had kept a wary watch upon the movements of Houston's 
 eye, and read in its glance the bloody purpose of his soul, the 
 moment ere he struck. Retreating on one side, he was ready, 
 
180 THE GIFT. 
 
 when the latter turned a second time upon him, with his pre- 
 sented pistol. 
 
 " It is well for both of us, perhaps," said he, quietly, as he 
 cocked and held up the weapon to the face of the approaching 
 Houston, " that this pistol was put into my hands by one who 
 knew you better than I did ; or you might this moment have my 
 blood upon your soul. Let us now part, John Houston. If you 
 are bent to go from this to Widow Heywood's, the path is open 
 to you, go ! I will return home, and seek some other time, 
 when there's no chance of our meeting ; for I neither wish to 
 kill you nor to be killed by you. Which will you do go for- 
 ward or return ? Take your choice I yield the path to you." 
 
 The fury of the baffled assassin may be imagined. It is not easy 
 to describe it. But he was in no condition of mind to visit Leda 
 Hey wood, and, after exhausting himself in ineffectual threaten- 
 ings, he dashed once more across the foaming torrents of Reedy 
 River, leaving Arthur Holt free to pursue his way to the cot- 
 tage of his mistress. This he did, with a composure which the 
 whole exciting scene through which he had passed, had entirely 
 failed to disturb. Indeed, the events of this interview appeared 
 to have the effect, only, of strengthening the resolve of the young 
 farmer, for, to confess a truth, the good fellow was somewhat 
 encouraged by certain expressions which had dropped from 
 Houston, in his fury, to hope for a favourable answer to his 
 suit. We may as well say, in this place, that the frenzy of the 
 latter had been provoked by similar stories reaching his ears to 
 those which had troubled Arthur. 
 
 When they separated, and Arthur Holt went forward to the 
 cottage of Widow Hey wood, it was with a new and most delight- 
 ful hope awakened in his bosom. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 But he was doomed to disappointment. He was rejected, 
 tenderly, but firmly. Leda Heywood was not for him ; and 
 
THE GIANT'S COFFIN. 181 
 
 resigning himself to the denial, with the instincts of a man, by 
 nature strong, and inured by trial to disappointments, Arthur Holt 
 retired from the field of Love, to cultivate more certain fruits 
 in those of Ceres and Pomona. Had the mind of the young 
 farmer been morbidly affected, his mortification would have been 
 heightened by subsequent events. Three days afterwards, Leda 
 Heywood accepted the hand of his enemy, John Houston ! Phi- 
 losophers will continue to seek in vain for the cause of that 
 strange perversity, by which the tastes, even of the finest women, 
 are sometimes found to be governed. There is a mystery here 
 beyond all solution. The tastes and sympathies of Leda Hey- 
 wood and John Houston did not run together; there was, in 
 reality, no common ground, whether of the affections or of 
 taste upon which they could meet. But he sought, and wooed, 
 and won her ; they were married ; and, to all but Arthur Holt, 
 the wonder was at an end after the customary limits of the ninth 
 day. The wonder, in this case, will be lessened to the reader if 
 two or three things were remembered. Leda Heywood was 
 very young, and John Houston very handsome. Of the wild 
 passions of the latter she knew little or nothing. She found 
 him popular the favourite of the damsels around her. 
 
 But we must not digress in speculations of this nature. The 
 parties were married, and the honeymoon, in all countries and 
 climates, is proverbially rose-coloured. The only awkward thing 
 is, that, in all countries, it is but a monthly moon. 
 
 The wedding took place. The honeymoon arose, but set 
 somewhat earlier than usual. With the attainment of his object, 
 the passion of John Houston very soon subsided, and we shall 
 make a long story conveniently short by saying in this place, 
 that it was not many weeks before Leda Heywood (or as we 
 must now call her,) Leda Houston, began to weep over the ill- 
 judged precipitation with which she had joined herself to a man 
 whose violent temper made no allowances for the feelings, the 
 sensibilities, and tastes of others. No longer restrained by the 
 dread of losing his object, his brutalities shocked her delicacy, 
 
 16* 
 
182 THE GIFT. 
 
 while his fierce passions awoke her fears. She soon found 
 herself neglected and abused, and learned to loathe the con- 
 nexion she had formed, and to weep bitter tears in secret. To 
 all this evil may be added the pressure of poverty, which now 
 began to be more seriously felt than ever. The hunter life, 
 always uncertain, was still more so, in the case of one like John 
 Houston, continually led into indulgences which unfitted him, 
 sometimes for days together, to go into the woods. Carousing 
 at the tavern with some congenial natures, he suffered himself to 
 be little disturbed by home cares ; and the privations to which 
 his wife had been subjected even before her marriage, were now 
 considerably increased. It will be remembered that the Widow 
 Heywood was indebted (perhaps even more than she then knew) 
 to the generous care of Arthur Holt. Her resources from this 
 quarter were necessarily withdrawn on the marriage of her 
 daughter with Houston, not so much through any diminution of 
 the young farmer's sympathy for the objects of his bounty, as 
 from a desire to withdraw from any connexion or communion, 
 direct or indirect, with the family of his bitterest foe. Knowing 
 the fierce, unreasoning nature of Houston, he was unwilling to 
 expose to his violence the innocent victims of his ill habits a 
 consequence which he very well knew would follow the dis- 
 covery of any services secretly rendered them by Holt. But 
 these scruples were soon compelled to give way to a sense of 
 superior duty. It soon came to his knowledge that the unhappy 
 women mother and daughter were frequently without food. 
 John Houston, abandoned to vicious habits and associates, had 
 almost entirely left his family to provide for themselves. He 
 was sometimes absent for weeks would return home, as it 
 appeared, for no purpose but to vent upon his wife and mother- 
 in-law the caprices of his ill-ordered moods, and then depart, 
 leaving them hopeless of his help. In this condition, the young 
 farmer came again to their rescue. The larder was provided 
 regularly and bountifully. But Leda knew not at first whence 
 this kindly aid came. She might have suspected nay, did 
 
THE GIANT'S COFFIN. 183 
 
 suspect but Arthur Holt proceeded so cautiously, that his 
 supplies came to the house with the privity of Widow Heywood 
 only. 
 
 To add to Leda's sorrows, two events now occurred within a 
 few months of each other, and both, in less than sixteen months 
 after her marriage, which were calculated to increase her bur- 
 then, and to lessen, in some respect, her sources of consolation : 
 the birth of a son and the death of her mother. These events 
 drew to her the assistance of neighbours, but the most substan- 
 tial help came from Arthur Holt. It was now scarcely possible 
 to conceal from Leda, as he had hitherto done, his own direct 
 agency in the support of her family. She was compelled to 
 know it, and, which was still more mortifying to her spirit 
 conscious as she was of the past she was compelled to receive 
 it. Her husband's course was not materially improved by events 
 which had so greatly increased the claims and the necessities of 
 his wife. The child, for a time, appealed to his pride. It was 
 a fine boy, who was supposed and said to resemble himself. 
 This pleased him for a while, but did not long restrain him from 
 indulgences, which, grateful to him from the first, had now 
 acquired over him all the force of habit. He soon disappeared 
 from his home, and again, for long and weary periods, left the 
 poor Leda to all the cares and solitude, without the freedom, of 
 widowhood. 
 
 But a circumstance was about to occur, which suddenly drew 
 his attention to his home. Whether it was that some meddle- 
 some neighbour informed him of the assistance which his wife 
 derived from Arthur Holt, or that he himself had suddenly 
 awakened to the inquiry as to the source of her supplies, we 
 cannot say; but certain it is that the suspicions of his evil 
 nature were aroused ; and he who would not abandon his low 
 and worthless associates for the sake of duty and love, was 
 now prompted to do so by his hate. He returned secretly to the 
 neighbourhood of his home, and put himself in a place of con- 
 cealment. 
 
 The cottage of the Widow Heywood stood within three quar- 
 
184 THE GIFT. 
 
 ters of a mile of Reedy River, on the opposite side of which 
 stood the farm of Arthur Holt. This space the young farmer 
 was accustomed nightly to cross, bearing with him the com- 
 modity, whether of flour, honey, milk, meat, or corn, which his 
 benevolence prompted him to place on the threshold of his sad 
 and suffering neighbour. There was a little grove of chestnuts 
 and other forest trees, that stood about two hundred yards from 
 Leda's cottage. A part of this grove belonged to their dwelling ; 
 the rest was unenclosed. Through this grove ran one of the 
 lines of fence which determined the domain of the cottage. On 
 both sides of this fence, in the very centre of this thicket, there 
 were steps, gradually rising from within and without, to its top, 
 a mode of constructing a passage frequent in the country, 
 which, having all the facilities of a gateway, was yet more per- 
 manent, and without its disadvantages. To this point came 
 Arthur Holt nightly. On these steps he laid his tribute, whether 
 of charity or a still lingering love, or both, and retiring to the 
 thicket he waited, sometimes for more than an hour, until he 
 caught a glimpse of the figure of Leda, descending through the 
 grove, and possessing herself of the supply. This done, and 
 she departed ; the young farmer, sighing deeply, would turn 
 away unseen, unsuspected, perhaps, and regain his own cottage. 
 
 On these occasions the two never met. The Widow Hey- 
 wood, on her deathbed, had confided to her daughter the secret 
 of her own interviews with Arthur, and he, to spare himself as 
 well as Leda, the pain of meeting, had appointed his own and 
 her hour of coming differently. Whether she, at any time, 
 suspected his propinquity, cannot be conjectured. That she 
 was touched to the heart by his devotion, cannot be well ques- 
 tioned. 
 
 For five weary nights, did the malignant and suspicious eyes 
 of John Houston, from a contiguous thicket, watch these pro- 
 ceedings, with feelings of equal hate and mortification. Filled 
 with the most foul and loathsome anticipations burning to find 
 victims to detect, expose, destroy he beheld only a spectacle 
 which increased his mortification. He beheld innocence superior 
 
185 
 
 to misfortune love that did not take advantage of its power 
 a benevolence that rebuked his own worthlessness and hardness 
 of heart a purity on the part of both the objects of his jealousy, 
 'which mocked his comprehension, as it was so entirely above 
 any capacity of his own, whether of mind or heart, to appre- 
 ciate. 
 
 It was now the fifth night of his watch. He began to despair 
 of his object. He had seen nothing to give the least confir- 
 mation to his suspicions. His wife had appeared only as she 
 was, as pure as an angel ; his ancient enemy not less so. He 
 was furious that he could find no good cause of fury, and weary 
 of a watch which was so much at variance with his habits. He 
 determined that night to end it. With the night, and at the 
 usual hour, came the unfailing Arthur. He placed his bowl of 
 milk upon the steps, his sack of meal, a small vessel of butter, 
 and a neat little basket of apples. For a moment he lingered by 
 the fence, then slipping back, adroitly ensconced himself in a 
 neighbouring thicket, from whence he could see every move- 
 ment of the fair sufferer by whom they were withdrawn. This 
 last movement of the young farmer had not been unseen by the 
 guilty husband. Indeed, it was this part of the proceeding 
 which, more than any thing beside, had forced upon him the 
 conviction that the parties did not meet. She came, and she, 
 too, lingered by the steps, before she proceeded to remove the 
 provisions. Deep was the sigh that escaped her deeper than 
 usual were her emotions. She sank upon one of the steps she 
 clasped her hands convulsively her lips moved she was evi- 
 dently breathing a spontaneous prayer to heaven, at the close of 
 which she wept bitterly, the deep sobs seeming to burst from 
 a heart that felt itself relieved by this mournful power of ex- 
 pression. 
 
 Was it the echo of her own sighs her sobs that came to 
 her from the thicket ? She started, and with wild eye gazing 
 around her, proceeded with all haste to gather up her little stores. 
 But in this she was prevented. The answering sigh, the sob, 
 coming from the lips of his hated rival and ancient enemy, had 
 
186 THE GIFT. 
 
 gone, hissingly, as it were, into the very brain of John Houston. 
 He darted from his place of concealment, dashed the provisions 
 from the hands of his wife, and with a single blow, smote 
 her to the earth, while he cried out to Holt in the opposite 
 thicket, some incoherent language of insults and opprobrium. 
 The movement of the latter was quite as prompt, though not in 
 season to prevent the unmanly blow. He sprang forward, and 
 grasping the offender about the body, lifted him with powerful 
 effort from the earth, upon which he was about to hurl him again 
 with all the fury of indignant manhood ; when Leda leapt to her 
 feet, and interposed. At the sound of her voice, the very tones 
 of which declared her wish, Arthur released his enemy, but with 
 no easy effort. The latter, regaining his feet, and recovering in 
 some degree his composure, turned to his wife and commanded 
 her absence. 
 
 " I cannot go I will not while there is a prospect of blood- 
 shed," was her firm reply. 
 
 " What ! you would see it, would you ? Doubtless, the sight of 
 my blood would delight your eyes ! But hope not for it ! Arthur 
 Holt, are you for ever to cross my path, and with impunity ? 
 Shall there never be a settlement between us ? Is the day of 
 reckoning never to come ? Speak ! Shall we fight it out here, 
 in the presence of this woman, or go elsewhere, where there will 
 be no tell-tale witnesses ? Will you follow me ?" 
 
 " Go not, follow him not, Arthur Holt. Go to your home ! 
 I thank you, I bless you, for what you have done for me and 
 mine ; for the mother who looks on us from heaven, for the 
 child that still looks to me on earth. May God bless you for 
 your charity and goodness ! Go now, Arthur Holt go to your 
 own home and look not again upon mine. Once more, God's 
 blessings be upon you ! May you never want them." 
 
 There was a warmth, an earnestness, almost a violence in the 
 tone and manner of this adjuration, so new to the usually meek 
 and calm deportment of his wife, that seemed, on a sudden, to con- 
 found the brutal husband. He turned on her a vacant look of asto- 
 nishment. He was very far from looking for such boldness such 
 
137 
 
 audacity in that quarter. But his forbearance was not of long 
 duration, and he was already beginning a fierce and almost 
 frenzied repetition of his blasphemies, when the subdued, but 
 firm answer of Arthur Holt again diverted his attention. The 
 good sense of the young farmer made him at once sensible of 
 the danger to the unhappy woman of using any language calcu- 
 lated to provoke the always too prompt brutality of the husband, 
 and stifling his own indignation with all his strength, he calmly 
 promised compliance with her requisitions. 
 
 " There are many reasons," he added, " why there should be 
 no strife between John Houston and myself; we were boys 
 together, our fathers loved one another; we have slept in the 
 same bed." 
 
 " That shall not be your excuse, Arthur Holt," exclaimed the 
 other interrupting him ; " you shall not escape me by any such 
 pretences. My father's name shall not shelter your cowardice." 
 
 " Cowardice !" 
 
 " Ay, cowardice ! cowardice ! What are you but an unmanly 
 coward !" 
 
 There was a deep, quiet struggle, in the breast of Arthur, to 
 keep down the rising devil in his mood ; but he succeeded, and 
 turning away, he contented himself with saying simply : 
 
 " You know that I am no coward, John Houston nobody 
 better than yourself. You will take good heed how you ap- 
 proach such cowardice as mine." 
 
 " Do you dare me !" 
 
 " Yes !" 
 
 " No ! no !" cried the wife, again flinging herself between them. 
 " Away, Arthur Holt, why will you remain when you see what 
 I am doomed to suffer." 
 
 " I go, Leda, but I dread to leave you in such hands. God 
 have you in his holy keeping !" 
 
188 THE GIFT. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 We pass over a period of eighteen months. In this time John 
 Houston had sold out the little cottage near Reedy River, and 
 had removed his wife to the residence of his mother near Pan's 
 Mountain. Why he had not adopted this measure on the demise 
 of Widow Heywood is matter of conjecture only. His own mother 
 was now dead, and it was the opinion of those around, that it 
 was only after this latter event that he could venture upon a step 
 which might seem to divide the sceptre of household authority 
 a point about which despotical old ladies are apt to be very 
 jealous. His household was as badly provided for as ever, but 
 some good angel, whose presence might have been suspected, 
 still watched over the wants of the suffering wife, and the hollow 
 of an ancient chestnut now received the stores which we have 
 formerly seen placed upon the rude blocks near the thicket fence 
 in Greenville. Whether John Houston still suspected the inter- 
 ference of his hated playmate we cannot say. The prudent 
 caution of the latter availed so that they did not often meet, and 
 never under circumstances which could justify a quarrel. But 
 events were ripening which were to bring them unavoidably into 
 collision. We are now in the midst of the year 1776. The 
 strife had already begun, of Whig and Tory, in the upper part 
 of South Carolina. It happened some time in 1774 that the after- 
 wards notorious Moses Kirkland stopped one night at the dwelling 
 of John Houston. This man was already busy in stirring up 
 disaffection to the popular party of the State. He was a man of 
 loose, vicious habits, and irregular propensities. He and John 
 Houston were kindred spirits ; and the hunter was soon enlisted 
 under his banners. He was out with Kirkland in the campaign 
 of 1775, when the Tories were dispersed and put down by the 
 decisive measures of General Williamson and William Henry 
 Drayton. It so happened that Arthur Holt made his appearance 
 
189 
 
 in the field, also for the first time, in the army of Williamson. 
 The two knew that they were now opponents as they had long 
 been enemies. But they did not meet. The designs of Kirkland 
 were baffled, his troops dispersed, and the country settled down 
 into a condition of seeming quiet. But it was a seeming quiet 
 only. The old wounds mortified, and when, in 1780, the me- 
 tropolis of the State fell into the arms of the British, yielding to 
 captivity nearly the whole of its military power, the Tories re- 
 sumed their arms and impulses with a fury which long forbear- 
 ance had heightened into perfect madness. Upon the long and 
 melancholy history of that savage warfare which followed, we 
 need not dwell. The story is already sufficiently well known. 
 It is enough to say that John Houston distinguished himself by 
 his cruelties. Arthur Holt threw by the plough, and was one 
 of Butler's men for a season. With the decline of British power 
 in the lower, the ascendancy in the upper country finally passed 
 over to the Whigs. Both parties were now broken up into little 
 squads of from ten to fifty persons ; the Tories, the better to 
 avoid pursuit, the Whigs, the better to compass them in all their 
 hiding-places. 
 
 It was a cold and cheerless evening in the month of Novem- 
 ber that Arthur Holt, armed to the teeth, stopped for the night, 
 with a party of eleven men, at a cottage about fourteen miles 
 from his own dwelling on the banks of Reedy River. 
 
 An hour had not well elapsed, before Arthur Holt found some 
 one jerking at his shoulder. He opened his eyes and recognised 
 the epileptic of whom mention was made in the early part of 
 our narrative. Acker was still an epileptic, and still, to all ap- 
 pearance, a boy ; he was small, decrepit, pale, and still liable 
 to the shocking disease, the effects of which were apparent 
 equally in his withered face and shrivelled person. But he was 
 not without intelligence, and his memory was singularly tena- 
 cious of benefits and injuries. Eagerly challenging the attention 
 of Arthur Holt, he proceeded to tell him, that John Houston had 
 only two hours before been seen with a party of seven, on his 
 way to the farm at Pan's Mountain, where, at that very moment, 
 
 17 
 
190 THE GIFT. 
 
 he might in all probability be found. By this time the troopers, 
 accustomed to sudden rousings, were awake and in possession of 
 the intelligence. It was greedily listened to by all but Arthur 
 Holt. John Houston was particularly odious in his own neigh- 
 bourhood. Several of the inhabitants had fallen victims to his 
 brutality and hate. To take him, living or dead, to feed the 
 vengeance for which they thirsted, was at once the passion of 
 the party. It was with some surprise that they found their leader 
 apathetic and disposed to fling doubt upon the information. 
 
 " I know not how you could have seen John Houston, Peter 
 Acker, with seven men, when we left him behind us, going 
 below, and crossing at Daniel's Ford on the Ennoree, only two 
 days ago." 
 
 " 'Twas him I seed, Captain, and no other. Don't you think 
 I knows John Houston ? Oughtn't I to know him 1 Wasn't it he 
 that used to beat me, and duck me in the water? I knows him. 
 'Twas John Houston, I tell you, and no other person." 
 
 "You are mistaken, Peter, you must be mistaken. No 
 horse could have brought him from the Ennoree so soon." 
 
 " He's on his own horse, the great bay. 'Tis John Houston, 
 and you must catch him and hang him." 
 
 One of the party, a spirited young man, named Fletchall, 
 now said : 
 
 " Whether it's Houston and his men or not, Captain Holt, 
 we should see who the fellows are. Acker ought to know 
 Houston, and though we heard of him on the Ennoree, we may 
 have heard wrong. It's my notion that Acker is right ; and 
 every man of Reedy River, that claims to be a man, ought to 
 see to it." 
 
 There was a sting in this speech that made it tell. They did 
 not understand the delicacy of their Captain's situation, nor could 
 he explain it. He could only sigh and submit. Buckling on his 
 armour, he obeyed the necessity, and his eager troop was soon in 
 motion for the cottage of Houston at Pan's Mountain. There, two 
 hours before, John Houston had arrived. He had separated from 
 his companions. It was not affection for his wife that brought 
 
THE GIANT'S COFFIN. 191 
 
 Houston to his home. On the contrary, his salutation was 
 that of scorn and suspicion. He seemed to have returned, 
 brooding on some dark imagination or project. When his wife 
 brought his child, and put him on his knees, saying with a 
 mournful look of reproach, " You do not even ask for your 
 son !" the reply, betraying the foulest of fancies " How know 
 I that he is !" showed too plainly the character of the demon 
 that was struggling in his soul. The miserable woman shrunk 
 back in horror, while his eyes, lightened by a cold malignant 
 smile, pursued her as if in mockery. When she placed before 
 him a little bread and meat, he repulsed it, exclaiming : " Would 
 you have me fed by your Arthur?" And when she meekly 
 replied by an assurance that the food did not come from 
 him, his answer, " Ay, but I am not so sure of the sauce !" 
 indicated a doubt so horrible, that the poor woman rushed from 
 the apartment with every feeling and fibre of her frame con- 
 vulsed. Without a purpose, except to escape from suspicions by 
 which she was tortured, she had turned the corner of the enclo- 
 sure, hurrying, it would seem, to a little thicket, where her sor- 
 rows would be unseen, when she suddenly encountered Arthur 
 Holt, with a cocked pistol in his grasp. The troopers had 
 dismounted and left their horses in the woods. They were 
 approaching the house cautiously, on foot, and from different 
 quarters. The object was to effect a surprise of the Tory ; 
 since, armed and desperate, any other more open mode of 
 approach might, even if successful, endanger valuable life. The 
 plan had been devised by Arthur. He had taken to himself that 
 route which brought him first to the cottage. His object was 
 explained in the few first words with Leda Houston. 
 
 " Arthur Holt ! you here !" was her exclamation, as she 
 started at his approach. 
 
 " Ay ; and your husband is here !" 
 
 " No, no !" was the prompt reply. 
 
 " Nay, deny not ! I would save him away ! let him fly at 
 once. We shall soon be upon him !" 
 
 A mute but expressive look of gratitude rewarded him, while, 
 
192 THE GIFT. 
 
 forgetting the recent indignities to which she had been subjected, 
 Leda hurried back to the cottage and put Houston in possession 
 of the facts. He started to his feet, put the child from his knee, 
 though still keeping his hand upon its shoulder, and glaring upon 
 her with eyes of equal jealousy and rage, he exclaimed 
 
 " Woman ! you have brought my enemy upon me !" 
 
 To this charge the high-souled woman made no answer, but 
 her form became more erect, and her cheek grew paler, while 
 her exquisitely chiselled lips were compressed with the effort to 
 keep down her stifling indignation. She approached him as if 
 to relieve him of the child ; but he repulsed her, and grasping 
 the little fellow firmly in his hands, with no tenderness of hold, * 
 he lifted him to his shoulder, exclaiming 
 
 " No ! he shares my danger ! he goes with me. He is at 
 least your child he shall protect me from your " 
 
 The sentence was left unfinished as he darted through the 
 door ! With a mother's scream she bounded after him, as he 
 took his way to the edge of the little coppice in \vhich his horse 
 was fastened. The agony of a mother's soul lent wings to her 
 feet. She reached him ere he could undo the fastenings of his 
 horse, and, seizing him by his arm, arrested his progress. 
 
 " What !" he exclaimed ; " you would seize you would de- 
 liver me !" 
 
 " My child ! my child !" was her only answer, as she clung 
 to his arm, and endeavoured to tear the infant from his grasp. 
 
 " He goes with me ! He shall protect me from the shot !" 
 
 " You will not, cannot risk his precious life." 
 
 " Do I not risk mine ?" 
 
 " My son your son !" 
 
 "Were I sure of that!" 
 
 " God of heaven ! help me ! Save him ! save him !" 
 
 But there was no time for parley. A pistol-shot was fired 
 from the opposite quarter of the house, whether by accident, or 
 for the purpose of alarm, is not known, but it prompted the 
 instant movement of the ruffian, who, in order to extricate him- 
 self from the grasp of his wife, smote her to the earth, and in 
 
193 
 
 the midst of the child's screams, hurried forward with his prize. 
 To reach the coppice, to draw forth and mount his horse, was 
 the work of an instant only. The life of the hunter and the 
 partisan had made him expert enough in such performances. 
 Mounted on a splendid bay, of the largest size and greatest 
 speed, he lingered but a moment in sight, the child conspicu- 
 ously elevated in his grasp, its head raised above his left 
 shoulder, while one of its little arms might be seen stretching 
 towards his mother, now rising. At this instant Arthur Holt 
 made his appearance. From the wood, where he had remained 
 as long as he might, he had beheld the brutal action of his 
 enemy. It was the second time that he had witnessed such a 
 deed, and his hand now convulsively grasped and cocked his 
 pistol, as he rushed forward to revenge it. But the unhappy 
 woman rose in time to prevent him. Her extended arms were 
 thrown across his path. He raised the deadly weapon above 
 them. 
 
 "Would you shoot! oh, my God! would you shoot! Do 
 you not see my child ! my child !" 
 
 The action of Arthur was suspended at the mother's words ; 
 and, lifting the child aloft with a powerful arm, as if in tri- 
 umph and defiance, the brutal father, putting spurs to his horse, 
 went off at full speed. A single bound enabled the noble animal 
 to clear the enclosure, and, appearing but a single moment upon 
 the hillside, the mother had one more glimpse of her child, 
 whose screams, in another moment, were drowned in the clatter 
 of the horse's feet. She sunk to the ground at the foot of Arthur, 
 as his comrades leapt over the surrounding fence. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Pursuit under present circumstances was pretty much out of 
 the question yet Arthur Holt determined upon it. John Hous- 
 ton was mounted upon one of the most famous horses of the 
 country. He had enjoyed a rest of a couple of hours before the 
 
 17* 
 
194 THE GIFT. 
 
 troopers came upon him. The steeds of the latter, at all times 
 inferior, were jaded with the day's journey. Any attempt at 
 direct pursuit would, therefore, in all probability, only end in 
 driving the Tory out of the neighbourhood, thus increasing the 
 chances of his final escape. This was by no means the object 
 of the party, and when Arthur ordered the pursuit, some of his 
 men remonstrated by showing, or endeavouring to show, that 
 such must be the effect of it. Arthur Holt, however, had his 
 own objects. But his commands were resisted by no less a 
 person than Leda herself. 
 
 " Do not pursue, Arthur, for my sake, do not pursue. My 
 child ! he will slay my child if you press him hard. He is 
 desperate. You know him not. Press him not, for my sake, 
 for the child's sake, but let him go free." 
 
 The entreaty, urged strenuously and with all those tears and 
 prayers which can only flow from a mother's heart, was effec- 
 tual at least to prevent that direct pursuit which Arthur had 
 meditated. But though his companions favoured the prayers of 
 the wife and mother, they were very far from being disposed to 
 let the Tory go free. On the contrary, when, a little after, they 
 drew aside to the copse for the purpose of farther consultation, 
 Arthur Holt found, to his chagrin, that his course with regard 
 to Houston was certainly suspected. His comrades assumed a 
 decision in the matter which seemed to take the business out of 
 his hands. Young Fletchall did not scruple to say, that he was 
 not satisfied with the spirit which Arthur had shown in the pur- 
 suit ; and the hints conveyed by more than one, in the course of 
 the discussion, were of such a nature, that the mortified Arthur 
 threw up his command ; a proceeding which seemed to occasion 
 no regret or dissatisfaction. Fletchall was immediately invested 
 with it, and proceeded to exercise it with a degree of acuteness 
 and vigour which soon satisfied the party of his peculiar fitness 
 for its duties. His plan was simple but comprehensive. He 
 said: "We cannot press the pursuit, or we drive him off; but 
 we can so fix it as to keep him where he is. If we do not press 
 him, he will keep in the woods, near abouts, till he can find some 
 
195 
 
 chance of getting the child to the mother again. There's no 
 doubt an understanding between them. She knows where to 
 find him in the woods, or he'll come back at night to the farm. 
 We must put somebody to watch over all her movements. Who 
 will that be?" 
 
 The question was answered by the epileptic, Acker, who, 
 unasked, had hung upon the skirts of the party. 
 
 " I will watch her !" 
 
 You !" 
 
 " Yes ! I'm as good a one as you can get." 
 
 " Very well ! but suppose you have one of your fits, Acker !" 
 
 " I won't have one now for two weeks. My time's over for 
 this month." 
 
 " Well, in two weeks, I trust, his time will be over, too. We 
 will get some twenty more fellows and make a ring round him. 
 That's my plan. Don't press, for I wouldn't have him hurt the 
 child ; but mark him when he aims to pass the ring." 
 
 The plan thus agreed on, with numerous details which need 
 not be given here, was immediately entered upon by all parties. 
 Arthur Holt alone took no share in the adventure. The design 
 was resolved upon even without his privity, though the general 
 object could not be concealed from his knowledge. On throw- 
 ing up his commission he had withdrawn from his comrades, 
 under a show of mortification, which was regarded as suffi- 
 ciently natural by those around him to justify such a course. 
 He returned to his farm on Reedy River, but he was no indif- 
 ferent or inactive spectator of events. 
 
 Meanwhile, John Houston had found a temporary retreat some 
 six miles distant from the dwelling of his wife. It was a spot 
 seemingly impervious, in the density of its woods, to the steps of 
 man. A small natural cavity in a hillside had been artificially 
 deepened, in all probability, by the bear, who had left it as a 
 heritage to the hunter to whom he had yielded up his ears. 
 The retreat was known to the hunter only. He had added, 
 from time to time, certain little improvements of his own. Cells 
 were opened on one side, and then the other. These were 
 
196 THE GIFT. 
 
 strewn with dried leaves and rushes, and at the remote inner 
 extremity, a fourth hollow had been prepared so as to admit of 
 fire, the smoke finding its way through a small and simple 
 opening at the top. All around this rude retreat the woods were 
 dense, the hunter being at particular pains to preserve it as a 
 place of secrecy and concealment. Its approach was circuitous, 
 and the very entrance upon it one of those happy discoveries, by 
 which nature is made to accomplish the subtlest purposes of art. 
 Two gigantic shafts, shooting out from the same root, had run 
 up in diverging but parallel lines, leaving between them an 
 opening through which, at a moderate bound, a steed might 
 make his way. On each side of this mighty tree the herbage 
 crowded closely ; the tree itself seemed to close the passage, and 
 behind it care was taken, by freely scattering brush and leaves, 
 to remove any traces of horse or human footsteps. In this place 
 John Houston found refuge. To this place, in the dead of night, 
 the unhappy Leda found her way. How she knew of the spot 
 may be conjectured only. But, prompted by a mother's love 
 and a mother's fears, she did not shrink from the task of 
 exploring the dreary forest alone. Here she found her mise- 
 rable husband, and was once more permitted to clasp her infant 
 to her bosom. The little fellow slept soundly upon the rushes, 
 in one of the recesses of the cave. The father sat at the 
 entrance, keeping watch over him. His stern eye looked upon 
 the embrace of mother and child with a keen and painful 
 interest ; and when the child, awakened out of sleep, shrieking 
 with joy, clung to the neck of the mother, sobbing her name 
 with a convulsive delight, he turned from the spectacle with a 
 single sentence, muttered through his closed teeth, by which we 
 may see what his meditations had been " Had the brat but 
 called me father!" The words were unheard by the mother, 
 too full of joy to be conscious of any thing but her child and her 
 child's recovery. When, however, before the dawn of day, she 
 proposed to leave him and take the child with her, she was con- 
 founded to meet with denial. 
 
 " No !" said the brutal father. " He remains with me. If he 
 
197 
 
 is my child, he shall remain as my security and yours. Hear 
 me, woman ! Your ruffians have not pursued me ; your Arthur 
 Holt knows better than to press upon me ; but I know their 
 aims. They have covered the outlets. They would make my 
 captivity secure. I wish but three days ; in that time, Cun- 
 ningham will give them employment, and I shall walk over 
 them as I please. But, during that time, I shall want food for 
 myself and horse perhaps you will think there is some neces- 
 sity for bringing food to the child. I do not object to that. 
 Bring it then yourself, nightly, and remember, the first show of 
 treachery seals his fate !" 
 
 He pointed to the child as he spoke. 
 
 " Great God !" she exclaimed. " Are you a man, John 
 Houston ! Will you keep the infant from me !" 
 
 " Ay ! you should thank heaven that I do not keep you 
 from him also. But away ! Bring the provisions ! Be faithful, 
 and you shall have the child. But, remember ! if I am en- 
 trapped, he dies !" 
 
 We pass over the horror of the mother. At the dawn of day, 
 as she was hurrying, but not unseen, along the banks of Reedy 
 River, she was encountered by Arthur Holt. 
 
 " I went to your house at midnight, Leda, to put you on your 
 guard," was the salutation of the farmer. " I know where you 
 have been, and can guess what duty is before you. I must also 
 tell you its danger." 
 
 He proceeded to explain to her the watch that was put upon 
 her movements, and the cordon militaire by which her husband 
 was surrounded. 
 
 " What am I to do !" was her exclamation, as, wringing her 
 hands, the tears for the first time flowed freely from her eyes. 
 
 " I will tell you ! Go not back to your cottage, till you can 
 procure the child. Go now to the stone heap on the river bank 
 below, which they call the * Giant's Coffin.' There, in an hour 
 from now, I will bring you a basket of provisions. The place 
 is very secret, and before it is found out that you go there, you 
 will have got the child. Nightly I will fill the basket in the 
 
198 THE GIFT. 
 
 same place, which, at the dawn, you can procure. Go now, 
 before we are seen, and God be with you !" 
 
 They separated the young farmer for his home, and Leda 
 for the gloomy vault which popular tradition had dignified with 
 the title of the Giant's Coffin.' This was an Indian giant, by 
 the way, whose exploits, in the erection of Table Mountain, for 
 gymnastic purposes, would put to shame the inferior feats of the 
 devil, under direction of Merlin or Michael Scott. But we have 
 no space in this chapter for such descriptions. Enough if we 
 give some idea of the sort of coffin and the place of burial which 
 the giant selected for himself, when he could play his mountain 
 pranks no longer. The coffin was a vaulted chamber of stone, 
 lying at the river's edge, and liable to be overflowed in seasons 
 of freshet. It took its name from its shape. Its area was an 
 oblong square, something more than twelve feet in length, and 
 something less than five in breadth. Its depth at the upper end 
 was about six feet, but it sloped gradually down, until, at the 
 bottom, the ends lay almost even with the surrounding rocks. 
 The inner sides were tolerably smooth and upright the outer 
 presented the appearance of huge boulders, in no way differing 
 from the ordinary shape and externals of such detached masses. 
 The separate parts had evidently, at one period, been united. 
 Some convulsion of nature had fractured the mass, and left the 
 parts in a position so relative, that tradition might well be per- 
 mitted to assume the labours of art in an achievement which was 
 really that of nature alone. To complete the fancied resem- 
 blance of this chamber to a coffin, it had a lid ; a thin layer of 
 stone, detached from the rest, which, as the earth around it had 
 been loosened and washed away by the rains, had gradually 
 slid down from the heights above, and now in part rested upon 
 the upper end of the vault. The boys at play, uniting their 
 strength, had succeeded in forcing it down a foot or more, so 
 that it now covered, securely, from the weather, some four or 
 five feet of the ' Giant's Coffin.' It was at this natural chamber 
 that Arthur Holt had counselled Leda Houston to remain, until 
 he could bring the promised supply of provisions. This he did, 
 
199 
 
 punctually, at the time appointed, and continued to do until it 
 ceased to be necessary ; to this spot did the wretched wife and 
 mother repair before dawn of every morning, bearing her burden 
 with all the uncomplaining meekness of a broken heart. We 
 must suppose, in the meantime, that the cordon has been drawn 
 around the tract of country in which it was known that Houston 
 harboured. The news was spread, at the same time, that an 
 attack might be expected from Bloody Bill Cunningham, or 
 some of his men ; and the consequence was, that the country 
 was every where in arms, and vigilant. A feeling of pity for 
 Leda Houston, who was generally beloved, alone prevented the 
 more daring young men from pressing upon the fugitive, hunt- 
 ing him, dog and fire, and bringing the adventure to a fierce 
 and final issue. Meanwhile, the epileptic, Acker, was active 
 in the business which he had undertaken. He was partially 
 successful but of his proceedings we must speak at another 
 moment. 
 
 The situation of Leda Houston was in no ways improved by 
 the diligence, the patience, the devotion which she displayed in 
 her servitude. She did not seem to make any progress in sub- 
 duing the inexorable nature of her husband. She was permitted 
 to be with and to feed her child ; to clasp him to her bosom 
 when she slept, and to watch over his sleep with that mixed 
 feeling of hope and fear, which none but a mother knows. But 
 these were all her privileges. The brutal father, still insinuating 
 base and unworthy suspicions, declared that the child should 
 remain, a pledge of her fidelity, and a partial guarantee for his 
 own safety. 
 
 Four days had now elapsed in this manner. On the morning 
 of the fifth, at a somewhat later hour than usual, she re-appeared 
 with her basket, and having set down her stores, proceeded to 
 tell her husband of the arrival of a certain squad of troopers, 
 * Butler's men,' known for the fierce hostility with which they 
 hunted the men of ' Cunningham.' The tidings gave him some 
 concern. He saw in it the signs of a dogged determination 
 of the neighbourhood to secure him at all hazards ; since, from 
 
200 THE GIFT. 
 
 what he knew of the present condition of the war, these men 
 could be required in that quarter only for some such purpose. 
 They were wanted elsewhere. " Did you see them ?" was the 
 question, which she answered in the negative. " Who told 
 you then of their arrival T' She was silent ! Her counte- 
 nance underwent a change. " Woman ! you have spoken with 
 Holt ! These are his provisions !" With a blow of his foot he 
 struck the basket from her hand, and, in his fury, trampled 
 upon the scattered stores. It was with difficulty that the un- 
 happy woman gathered up enough to pacify the hunger of the 
 child. That day was passed in sullen and ferocious silence on 
 his part on hers in mute caresses of her boy. His darker 
 suspicions were in full force, and darker thoughts came with 
 them. " Could I but know !" he muttered. " The child has 
 my mouth and nose ; but the forehead, the hair, the eyes, are 
 his!" Convulsed with terrible fancies, the miserable man hur- 
 ried to the entrance of the cavern, and throwing himself upon 
 the earth, leaned back, and looked up through the leafy openings 
 at the bits of sky that were suffered to appear above. In this 
 gloomy mood and posture, hours passed by as moments. It was 
 midnight. A change of weather was at hand. The stars were 
 hidden the sky overcast with clouds, while the winds, seeming 
 to subside, were moaning through the woods as one in a deep 
 and painful sleep. The sound, the scene, were congenial with 
 the outlaw's soul. It was full of angry elements that only 
 waited the signal to break forth in storm. Suddenly, he was 
 roused from his meditations by the cessation of all sounds from 
 within the cave. The mother slept there, she had been playing 
 with the child, and he upon her bosom. Nature, in her case, 
 had sunk, in spite of sorrow, under fatigue. And she slept 
 deeply, her slumbers broken only by a plaintive moaning of 
 those griefs that would not sleep. With a strange curiosity 
 Houston seated himself quietly beside the pair, while his eyes 
 keenly perused the calm and innocent features of the child. 
 Long was the study, and productive of conflicting emotions. It 
 was interrupted with a start, and his eyes involuntarily turned, 
 
THE GIANT'S COFFIN. 201 
 
 with even a less satisfied expression, upon the features of his 
 wife. 
 
 But it was not to watch or to enjoy the beauty which he 
 beheld, that John Houston now bent his dark brows over the 
 sleeping countenance of his wife. The expression in his looks 
 was that of a wild and fearful curiosity suddenly aroused. She 
 had spoken in her sleep. She had uttered a word a name 
 which, of all others, was most likely, from any lips, to awaken 
 his most angry emotions, from her lips, most terrible. The 
 name was that of Arthur Holt, and she still murmured. The 
 ears of the suspicious husband were placed close to her lips, 
 that none of the fine sounds might escape them. He heard 
 enough to open to him a vista, at the extremity of which his 
 diseased imagination saw the worst shapes of hate and jealousy. 
 With the pressing thought in her memory of the tasks before 
 her, she spoke of the little basket the bread the bottle of milk, 
 the slender slices of ham or venison which she had been 
 accustomed to receive and bring. Then came the two words, 
 1 Giant's Coffin,' and the quick fancy of the outlaw, stimulated 
 by hate and other passions, immediately reached, at a bound, 
 the whole narrative of her dependence upon Holt and her meet- 
 ings with him at the Giant's Coffin !' 
 
 A dark smile passed over his countenance. It was the smile 
 of a demon, who is at length, after long baffling, in possession of 
 his prey. Leda slept on soundly slept for nature had at 
 length coerced the debtor, and compelled her rights and the 
 hour was approaching when it was usual for her to set out on 
 her nightly progress. The resolution came, quick as lightning, 
 to the mind of the ruffian. He rose stealthily from the rushes, 
 drew his pistols from his belt, silently examined the flints, and 
 looking at the knife in his bosom, stole forth from the cavern. 
 With a spirit exulting with the demoniac hope of assuring him- 
 self of a secret long suspected, and of realizing a vengeance 
 long delayed ; and familiar, night and day, with every step in 
 his progress, he hurried directly across the country to the banks 
 of Reedy River. The night by this time, had become tempestu- 
 
 18 
 
202 THE GIFT. 
 
 ous. Big drops of rain had already began to fall ; but these 
 caused no delay to the hardy outlaw. He reached the river, 
 and, moving now with cautious steps from rock to rock, he 
 approached the Giant's Coffin' with the manner of one who 
 expects to find a victim and an enemy. One hand grasped a 
 pistol, the other a knife ! and stealing onward with the pace of 
 the Indian, he hung over the sides of the ' Coffin,' and peered 
 into its dark chamber with his keenest eyes. It was untenanted. 
 " I am too soon," he muttered. " Well ! I can wait !" And 
 where better to await the victim where more secure from detec- 
 tion than in the vault which lay before him ! one half covered 
 from the weather and shut in from all inspection, that alone 
 excepted, for which he had come prepared. The keen gusts of 
 wind which now came across the stream laden with rain, was an 
 additional motive to this movement. He obeyed the suggestion, 
 passed into the mouth of the * Coffin ;' and crouching from sight, 
 in a sitting posture, in the upper or covered part of the chamber, 
 he sat with the anxiety of a passion which did not, however, 
 impair its patience, awaiting for his foe. 
 
 He had not reached this position unseen or unaccompanied. 
 We have already intimated that Acker, the epileptic, had made 
 some progress in his discoveries. With the singular cunning, 
 and the wonderful acuteness which distinguish some of the 
 faculties, where others are impaired in the same individual, he 
 had contrived, unseen and unsuspected, to track Leda Houston 
 to the place of her husband's concealment. He had discovered 
 the periods of her incoming and departure, and, taking his rest 
 at all other periods, he was always prepared to renew his surveil- 
 lance at those moments when the wife was to go forth. He had 
 barely resumed his watch, on the night in question, when he 
 was surprised to see Houston himself and not his wife emerging 
 from the cave. He followed cautiously his footsteps. Light of 
 foot, and keeping at convenient distance, his espionage was 
 further assisted by the wind, which, coming in their faces, 
 effectually kept all sounds of pursuit from the ears of the outlaw. 
 His progress was not so easy when the latter emerged from the 
 
THE GIANT'S COFFIN. 203 
 
 woods, and stood upon the banks of the river. His approach 
 now required more caution ; but, stealing on from shrub to shrub, 
 and rock to rock, Acker at length stood or rather crouched 
 upon the brink of the river also, and at but small distance from 
 the other. But of this distance he had ceased to be conscious. 
 He was better informed, however, when, a moment after, he 
 heard a dull, clattering, but low sound, which he rightly conjec- 
 tured to have been caused by some pressure upon the lower lid 
 of the Coffin, which being somewhat pendulous, was apt to 
 vibrate slightly, in spite of its great length and weight, under 
 any pressure from above. This sound apprised Acker of the 
 exact whereabouts of the outlaw, and his keen eyes at length 
 detected the dim outline of the latter's form, as he stood upon 
 the lid of the Coffin, the moment before he disappeared within its 
 recesses. Encouraged to advance, by the disappearance of the 
 other, the Epileptic did so with extreme caution. He was 
 favoured by the hoarse tumbling of the water as it poured its 
 way among the rocks, and by the increasing discords of the 
 wind and rain, which now came down in heavy showers. As 
 he crawled from rock to rock, with the stealthy movement of a 
 cat along some precipitous ledge, shrinking and shivering beneath 
 the storm, his own desire for shelter led him suddenly to the 
 natural conclusion that Houston had found his within the vault. 
 The ideas of Acker came to him slowly ; but, gradually, as he 
 continued to approach, he remembered the clattering of the Coffin- 
 lid, he remembered how, in his more youthful days, the boys, 
 with joint strength, had forced it to its present place, and he 
 conceived the sudden purpose of making the Coffin of the Giant, 
 that also of he deadly enemy whose boyish persecutions he had 
 neither forgot nor forgiven. To effect his present object, which, 
 suddenly conceived, became for the time an absorbing thirst, a 
 positive frenzy, in his breast, he concentrated all his faculties, ' 
 whether of mind or of body, upon his task. His pace was 
 deliberate, and so stealthy, that he reached the upper end of 
 the Coffin, laid himself down beside it, and, applying his ear to 
 one of the crevices, distinctly heard the suppressed breathings of 
 
204 THE GIFT. 
 
 the man within. Crawling back, he laid his hands lightly and 
 with the greatest care upon the upper and heavier end of the 
 stone. His simple touch, so nicely did it seem to be balanced, 
 caused its vibration ; and with the first consciousness of its 
 movement, Houston, whom we must suppose to have been lying 
 down, raising his pistol with one hand, laid the other on one of 
 the sides of the vault, with the view, as it was thought, to lift 
 himself from his recumbent position. He did so just as the 
 huge plate of stone was set in motion, and the member was 
 caught and closely wedged between the mass and the side of the 
 Coffin upon which it rested. A slight cry broke from the outlaw. 
 The fingers were crushed, the hand effectually secured. But 
 for this, so slow was the progress of the stone, that it would 
 have been very easy for Houston to have scrambled out before 
 the vault was entirely closed in. Slowly, but certainly, the lid 
 went down. Ignorant of the occasion of the outlaw's groans, 
 the Epileptic answered them with a chuckle, which, had the 
 former been conscious, would have taught him his enemy. But 
 he had fainted. The excruciating agony of his hurt had been 
 too much for his strength. Acker finished his work without 
 interruption ; then piling upon the plate a mountain of smaller 
 stones, he dashed away in the direction of Holt's cottage. Here 
 he encountered the young farmer, busy, as was usual about that 
 hour, in making up his little basket of provisions. A few words 
 from the Epileptic sufficed to inform him that they were no 
 longer necessary that Houston was gone fled utterly escaped, 
 and now in all probability, beyond pursuit. Such was the tale 
 he told. He had his policy in it. The characteristic malignant 
 cunning which had prompted him to the fearful revenge which 
 he had taken upon his enemy, was studious now to prevent it 
 from being defeated. To have told the truth, would have been 
 to open the Giant's Coffin,' to undo all that had been done, 
 and once more let free the hated tyrant upon whose head he had 
 visited the meditated retribution of more than twenty years. 
 Acker well knew the generous nature of the young farmer, and 
 did not doubt that, if he declared the facts, Arthur would have 
 
205 
 
 proceeded at once to the rescue of the common enemy. He 
 suppressed all show of exultation, made a plausible story it 
 matters not of what sort by which t^ account for the flight of 
 Houston ; and the consequence was, that, instead of proceeding 
 as before to the ' Giant's Coffin,' Arthur Holt now prepared to 
 set out for the * Hunter's Cave.' But the day had broke in 
 tempest. A fearful storm was raging. The windows of heaven 
 were opened, the rain came down in torrents, and the wind went 
 forth with equal violence, as if from the whole four quarters of 
 the earth. The young farmer got out his little wagon, and 
 jumping in, Acker prepared to guide him to the place of retreat. 
 
 " The river is rising fast, Peter," was the remark of Arthur 
 as he caught a glimpse of the swollen stream as it foamed along 
 its way. 
 
 " Yes !" said the ether, with a sort of hiccough, by which he 
 suppressed emotions which he did not venture to declare : " Yes ! 
 I reckon 'twon't be many hours 'fore it fills the ' Coffin.' " 
 
 " If it keeps on at this rate," returned the other, " one hour 
 will be enough to do that." 
 
 " Only one, you think ?" 
 
 Yes ! one will do !" 
 
 Another hiccough of the Epileptic appropriately finished the 
 dialogue. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Leda awakened from her deep sleep to find herself alone with 
 the child. She was startled and alarmed at the absence of her 
 husband ; but as the child was left the great, and we may add, 
 the only, object for which she could have borne so much, she 
 was satisfied. On assuring herself of the departure of Houston 
 from the cave, she would unhesitatingly have taken hers, also 
 but the storm was now raging without, and, persuaded that her 
 husband had taken advantage of its violence to cross the barriers, 
 she gathered up the fragments of the last night's supper, and 
 
 18* 
 
206 THE GIFT. 
 
 was busy in giving her boy his little breakfast, when roused by 
 the voice of Arthur Holt. The story of the Epileptic was soon 
 told as he had related it to Arthur. In this story, as there was 
 nothing improbable, both parties put implicit faith ; and, cloaking 
 mother and child as well as he might, the young farmer bore 
 them through the close thicket to the place, some three hundred 
 yards without, where, on account of the denseness of the wood, 
 he had been compelled to leave the wagon. The horse of 
 Houston, the * Big Bay,' was next brought forth, but as Acker 
 could neither be persuaded to mount, or take him in charge, he 
 was restored to the covert until a better opportunity for removing 
 him. To the surprise of the young farmer, the Epileptic was 
 equally firm in refusing to go with him in the wagon. " I don't 
 mind the rain," said he, " it can't hurt me." " He will get his 
 death," said Leda. " Not he," replied Arthur, as Acker scam- 
 pered through the woods ; " the water always helps him in his 
 fits." While the wagon took one course, he took another. 
 Little did they suspect his route. A terrible feeling carried him 
 to Reedy River to a pitiless watch above that natural tomb in 
 which he had buried his living victim. 
 
 Meanwhile,- what of Houston ? When he recovered his con- 
 sciousness, the vault had been closed upon him ; the flat mass, 
 once set in motion, had slid down the smooth edges of the 
 upright sides with uninterrupted progress, and now lay above 
 him, shutting out light almost equally with hope. But a faint 
 glimmering reached the interior of the cell, from a crevice on 
 one side, where, in consequence of some inequality of the edges, 
 the lid had not settled fairly down upon it. It was the side 
 opposite to that in which his fingers had been crushed, and 
 where the stone still maintained its hold upon the mutilated 
 member. He heard the whistling of the wind, the hoarse rush 
 of the waters, and the heavy fall of the rain without, and a shud- 
 dering sense of his true situation rushed instantly upon his soul. 
 For a moment he sank back, appalled, oppressed; but the 
 numbing pain of his injured hand and wrist, up to his elbow, 
 recalled him to the necessity of effort. Houston was a man of 
 
207 
 
 strong will and great energies. Though at the first moment of 
 consciousness oppressed and overcome, the outlaw soon reco- 
 vered himself. It was necessary that he should do something 
 for his extrication. The light shut out, if not entirely the air, 
 is one of those fearful facts to rouse a man in his situation and 
 of his character, to all his energies. But the very first move- 
 ment was one to awaken him still more sensibly to his dangers. 
 Having arisen to grasp the sides of the vault, which, in the place 
 where he had laid his hand was fully five feet high, his position 
 when fixed there, was that of a man partially suspended in the 
 air. His right hand could barely touch the floor of the chamber. 
 His left was utterly useless. In his position he could not even 
 exert the strength which he possessed ; and, after an ineffectual 
 effort, he sank back again in momentary consternation. The 
 horror of that moment passed in thought, the despair which it 
 occasioned was the parent of new strength. He came to a 
 terrible decision. To avail himself of his right hand, it was 
 necessary that he should extricate the other. He had already 
 tried to do so, by a vain effort at lifting the massive lid of his 
 coffin. The heavy plate no longer vibrated upon a pivot. It 
 had sunk into a natural position, which each upright evenly 
 maintained. The hand was already lost to him. He resolved 
 that it should not render the other useless. With a firmness 
 which might well excite admiration, he drew the couteau de 
 chasse from his bosom, and deliberately smote off the mutilated 
 fingers at the joints ; dividing the crushed parts bone and tendon, 
 from the uninjured, falling heavily back upon the stone floor 
 the moment the hand was freed. But this time he had not 
 fainted, though the operation tended to restore the hand, which 
 had been deadened by the pressure and pain of its position, to 
 something like sensibility. But such pain was now but slightly 
 felt; and, wrapping the hand up in his handkerchief, he prepared 
 with due courage for the difficult task before him. But the very 
 first effort almost convinced him of its hopelessness. In vain 
 did he apply the strength of his muscular arm, the force of his 
 broad shoulders, his sinewy and well-supported frame. Forced 
 
208 THE GIFT. 
 
 to crouch in his narrow limits, it was not possible for him to 
 apply, to advantage, the strength which he really possessed; 
 and, from the extreme shallowness of his cell in the lower 
 extremity, he was unable to address his efforts to that part 
 where the stone was thinnest. At the upper part, where he 
 could labour, the mass was greatly thicker than the rest ; and 
 it was the weight of this mass, rather than the strength of 
 Acker, the momentum once given it from above, that carried 
 the plate along to the foot of the plane. His exertions were 
 increased as his strength diminished the cold sweat poured 
 from his brow, and toiling against conviction in the face of 
 his increasing terrors, he at length sunk back in exhaustion. 
 From time to time, at brief intervals, he renewed his toils, each 
 time with new hope, each time with a new scheme for more 
 successful exertion. But the result was, on each occasion, the 
 same ; and, yielding to despair, he threw himself upon the bottom 
 of his cell, and called death to his relief. 
 
 While thus prostrate, with his face pressed upon the chilling 
 pavement, he suddenly starts, almost to his feet, and a new terror 
 seizes upon his soul. He is made conscious of a new and 
 pressing danger. It is the billows of the river the torrents 
 swollen above their bounds that beat against the walls of his 
 dungeon ? Is it the advancing waters that catch his eye glim- 
 mering faint at his feet, as they penetrate the lower crevice of 
 the cell ? A terrible shudder shook his frame ! He cannot 
 doubt this new danger, and he who, a moment before, called 
 upon death to relieve him from his terrors, now shouts, under 
 worse terrors, at the prospect of his near approach in an unex- 
 pected shape. It is necessary that he should employ all his 
 strength that he should make other and more desperate efforts. 
 He rises, almost erect. He applies both arms the maimed as 
 well as the sound, almost unconscious of the difference, to the 
 lid of his tomb. "Buried alive!" he cries aloud "Buried 
 alive !" and at each cry, his sinewy arms shoot up his broad 
 shoulders are raised : his utmost powers, concentrated upon the 
 one point, in the last effort of despair, must surely be successful. 
 
THE GIANT'S COFFIN. 209 
 
 His voice shouts with his straining sinews. He feels the mass 
 above him yielding. Once more and once again, and still he 
 is encouraged. The lid vibrates he could not be deceived, 
 but oh ! how slightly. Another trial he moves it as before, 
 but as his strength fails, his efforts relax, and it sinks down 
 heavily in its place. Breathless, he crouches in his cell. He 
 listens! Is it a footstep? It is a movement! the stones 
 fall about the roof of his narrow dwelling. A human agency 
 is above. " Hurrah !" he cries " Hurrah ! Throw off the 
 stone crush it break it ! There is no time to be lost !" 
 For a moment he fancies that the movement above is one in- 
 tended for his relief. But what mean these rolling stones ! A 
 new apprehension possesses him in the very moment of his 
 greatest hope. He rises. Once more he extends his arms, he 
 applies his shoulders ; but he labours now in vain. His strength 
 was not less his efforts not more diminished in this than in 
 his former endeavours. He cannot doubt the terrible truth ! 
 New stones have been piled above his head. He is doomed ! 
 His utmost powers fail to move the mass from its place. His 
 human enemy is unrelenting. He cries to him in a voice of 
 equal inquiry and anguish. 
 
 " Who is there 1 what enemy ? who ? Speak to me ! who is 
 above me? Who?" 
 
 Can it be? He is answered by a chuckle, a fell, fiendish 
 laugh the most terrible sort of answer. Can it be that a 
 mortal would so laugh at such a moment ? He tries to recall 
 those to whom he has given most occasion for vindictiveness and 
 hate. He names * Arthur Holt !' He is again answered by a 
 chuckle, and now he knows his enemy. 
 
 " God of heaven !" he exclaims, in the bitter anguish of his 
 discovery, " and can it be that I am doomed to perish by this 
 most miserable of all my foes ?" 
 
 Once more he rushes against the mass above him, but this 
 time with his head alone. He sinks down stunned upon the 
 floor, and is aroused by the water around him. Inch by inch 
 
210 THE GIFT. 
 
 it rises. He knows the character of the stream. It will be 
 above him, unless relieved, in less than an hour. The proud 
 and reckless outlaw is humbled. He condescends to entreat 
 the wretched creature to whom he owes his situation. He im- 
 plores forgiveness he promises reward. He begs he threatens 
 he execrates. He is answered by a chuckle as before ; the 
 Epileptic sits upon his coffin-lid, and the doomed man can hear 
 his heels without, as they beat time with the winds and waters, 
 against the sides of his tomb. Meanwhile, the water presses in 
 upon him he feels its advance around him it is now about his 
 knees in another moment it is every where. It has gradually 
 ascended the plane it now spreads over the entire floor of his 
 dungeon. He grasps his pistols, which he had laid down beside 
 him, and applies their muzzles to his head. He is too late. 
 They are covered with water, and refuse fire. His knife is 
 no longer to be found. It had dropped from his right hand 
 when he smote off the fingers of the left, and had probably 
 rolled down the plane to the bottom, where, covered with water, 
 it is impossible to recover it. Hope within, and hope from 
 without, have failed him equally ; and, except in prayer, there 
 is no refuge from the pang of death. But prayer is not easy to 
 him who has never believed in the efficacy of its virtues. How 
 can he pray to be forgiven, who has never been taught to for- 
 give. He tries to pray ! The Epileptic without, as he stoops 
 his ear, can catch the fragmentary plea, the spasmodic adjura- 
 tion, the gasping, convulsive utterance, from a throat around 
 which the waters are already wreathing with close and unre- 
 laxing grasp. Suddenly the voice ceases there is a hoarse 
 murmur the struggle of the strong man among the waters, 
 which press through the crevices between the lid and the sides 
 of the dungeon. As the convulsion ceases, the Epileptic starts to 
 his feet, with a terror which he had not felt before ; and, looking 
 wildly behind him as he ran, bounded up the sides of the neigh- 
 bouring hills. 
 
 Thus ends our legend of the * Giant's Coffin.' Tradition does 
 
THE GIANT'S COFFIN. 211 
 
 not tell us of the farther fortunes of Leda Houston. Some pages 
 of the chronicle have dropped. It is very certain, however, that 
 Arthur Holt, like Benedick, lived to be a married man, and died 
 the father of several children the descendants of some of whom 
 still live in the same region. Of the ' Coffin' itself, some frag- 
 ments, and, it is thought, one of the sides, may be shown, but it 
 was ' blown up' by the very freshet which we have described, 
 and the body of Houston drifted down to the opposite shore. It 
 was not till long after that Acker confessed the share which he 
 had in the manner of his death and burial. 
 
THE ROMAN GIRL. 
 
 BY C. P. CRANCH. 
 
 DARK-EYED maid of glorious Italy, 
 Nurtured in the sunny land of arts, 
 
 Light of summer thou hast shed on me, 
 But hast stolen away my heart of hearts. 
 
 Joy unlocked for thou didst ray around thee 
 Dreams and hopes unbidden found a tongue ; 
 
 Brighter than the warm skies that surround thee, 
 Fonder than thy native bards e'er sung, 
 
 By yon ancient fountain, where I met thee, 
 All at once my whole heart to thee went ; 
 
 How, alas ! ah, how shall I forget thee ? 
 How take back the heart I only lent ? 
 
 Slowly now, yet ah ! too swift, thou bearest 
 On thy head thy water-vase away, 
 
 Turnest. not to look on me, nor carest 
 Though thou takest all the light of day. 
 
 Slower yet, and yet for love too swift, 
 
 Like my own hope thy radiant form departs ; 
 
 Summer light thou takest 'twas thy gift 
 Give, ah ! give me back my heart of hearts ! 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 BY ERNEST HELFENSTE1N. 
 
 1 There is a natural body, and there is a spiritual body." 
 
 ST. PAUL. 
 
 I ASK not, love, in what bright sphere 
 
 The disembodied meet, 
 If, fashioned as we see them here, 
 
 Eyes, lips, or hands, shall greet. 
 I ask not if in yonder skies 
 
 Shall beam, as even now, 
 The tenderness of those dear eyes, 
 
 The beauty of that brow. 
 
 I ask not what the name will be, 
 
 Sweet, tender, soul -expressed, 
 Thy lips shall utter unto me, 
 
 While leaning on my breast ; 
 Nor whether we shall study there 
 
 New words our hearts to teach, 
 For love, meseems, hath even here 
 
 But little need of speech. 
 
 I hold communion still with thee, 
 
 Though severed and apart 
 Thought, feeling, now are prompt and free 
 
 To find the kindred heart ; 
 19 
 
214 THE GIFT. 
 
 And it must be when souls are freed 
 
 From all material bar, 
 That love will give them angel speed 
 
 To mingle from afar. 
 
 And souls conjoined like ours, my love, 
 
 Can no disunion know 
 The bliss below, the bliss above, 
 
 In one full stream must flow. 
 The inner life, where love doth dwell, 
 
 Knows neither time nor space ; 
 I who have learned that soul so well, 
 
 Shall know its angel face. 
 
 Our love hath been no common love, 
 
 With hopeful smiles and tears 
 Our faith is faith to meet above, 
 
 Our trust the trust of years. 
 Thus have we struggled for the good, 
 
 Thus kept our spirits pure ; 
 Believing, in our darkest mood, 
 
 That love must still endure. 
 
 I know not, love, where heaven may be, 
 
 With us 'tis now begun ; 
 I learn celestial good from thee, 
 
 On earth our souls are one ; 
 And being one in this dim way, 
 
 Where faith so oft hath striven, 
 When love no more shall weep and pray, 
 
 We must be one in heaven. 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 
 
 TRANSLATED PROM THE GERMAN. 
 THE THTJSNELDA.* 
 
 ONE of my friends, by the name of Waldrich, had left the high 
 school hardly two years, and was pursuing the business of an 
 unpaid court-assessor or the like, in a provincial capital, when 
 the trumpet of the holy war sounded. The deliverance of Ger- 
 many from the yoke of the French conqueror was the great 
 object. A pious zeal animated the whole nation. Thousands 
 of young men flocked to the standard, for the honour of Ger- 
 many, and with the hope of introducing a higher life into the 
 land of Hermann. My friend Waldrich, shared largely in this 
 pious zeal and bright hope. In fine, he took leave of his court- 
 president, and exchanged the pen for the sword. 
 
 As he was a minor, without parents, and travelling money is 
 always acceptable, he wrote to his guardian for permission to 
 join the patriot-expedition, and begged for a hundred dollars to 
 defray his expenses. His guardian, Mr. Banks a rich manu- 
 facturer in the city, or rather, market town, of Herbesheim, in 
 whose house Waldrich had lived as a boy, until he went to the 
 high school, was a very eccentric old gentleman. 
 
 He sent his ward a letter, containing fifteen gold louis d'ors, 
 and which ran as follows : 
 
 * Thusnelda, the spouse of the old German hero, Hermann. 
 
216 THE GIFT. 
 
 " My friend, when you are a year older you may dispose of 
 yourself and your little property as you please. Until then pray 
 postpone your enterprise for your Fatherland, and mind your 
 business, that you may get office and bread, for you will need 
 them much. I know what I owe to my duty and to my de- 
 ceased friend, your father. In short, quit this nonsense and be 
 sober. I will not send you a kreuzer. 
 
 " Your obedient servant, &c." 
 
 To this letter the fifteen gold louis d'ors presented an odd, 
 though by no means a disagreeable, contradiction ; a contradic- 
 tion which Waldrich would not easily have reconciled, had not 
 his eye been caught by the paper in which the gold had been 
 wrapt. He picked it up, and read written upon it the following : 
 " Do not be disheartened. Go for the sacred cause of our poor 
 German land, and God protect you ! This from your former 
 playmate, Frederika." This Frederika was no other than the 
 young daughter of Mr. Banks. Heaven knows how she had 
 contrived to slip the money into her father's sealed letter. 
 Waldrich was greatly encouraged, delighted more at the heroic 
 heart of the German maiden than with the gold, which Fre- 
 derika had probably spared from her pocket-money. He wrote 
 upon the spot to a friend at Herbesheim, enclosing a few thankful 
 lines to the little maiden, (forgetting, by the way, that in four 
 years she might have grown somewhat,) and calling her his 
 German Thusnelda. He then started for the Rhine and the 
 army. 
 
 THE INCOGNITO. 
 
 I need not here relate the heroic deeds of Waldrich. Enough 
 that he had part in the great struggle. Napoleon was fortu- 
 nately dethroned and sent to Elba. Waldrich chose to remain 
 in the army as a first lieutenant. It was more agreeable to him 
 than the desk of a dusty law-office. 
 
 He had been engaged in several battles and skirmishes, and 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 217 
 
 was so fortunate as to escape without a wound. He hoped, as 
 one of the defenders of his country, to obtain some civil office. 
 He was highly esteemed for his intelligence and many good quali- 
 ties, but the office did not come. There were too many relatives 
 of privy councillors, &c., to provide for. His condition, there- 
 fore, underwent no change. He remained a lieutenant. He 
 spent his time in garrison, composing poetry on guard, and 
 making philosophical reflections on parade. Unexpectedly his 
 company received orders to go into garrison at Herbesheim. 
 
 As the captain, a rich baron, was absent on furlough, Wal- 
 drich returned to his native place as commanding officer. How 
 did the sight of the two old church-spires and of the well-known 
 gray town-gate touch his heart ! The drums ceased before the 
 town-hall. Two councillors appeared with the quarter billets. 
 To the commandant was assigned the most respectable house in 
 the place, Mr. Banks's. The company parted from one another 
 well pleased, for it was just upon the dinner hour, and the 
 worthy citizens, informed of the quartering in season, had made 
 due preparations. Waldrich, who had known the two officials 
 in his boyhood, perceived that he was not recognised, for they 
 treated him with great respect, and although he declined it, 
 accompanied him to the house of the manufacturer. Mr. Banks 
 received him in the same way, and politely showed him into a 
 handsome room. As soon as he had changed his dress he was 
 summoned to dinner. He found there besides Mr. and Mrs. 
 Banks, and some old clerks whom he recognised, a young lady 
 whom he did not know. They spoke of the weather, and of the 
 regret of the whole town at the removal of the former garrison, 
 with whom they had been greatly pleased. 
 
 " I hope," said Waldrich, " you will be equally pleased with 
 us. Let us only feel ourselves at home among you." 
 
 In order to be at home, the commandant, who wondered that 
 his old playfellow, to whom he was still in debt for the fifteen 
 louis d'ors, did not make her appearance, asked his hostess if 
 she had any children. " A daughter," replied Mrs. Banks, and 
 
 19* 
 
218 THE GIFT. 
 
 pointed to the young lady, who modestly cast down her eyes on 
 her plate. 
 
 Waldrich turned towards her with a look of amazement 
 hardly polite. What a superior creature had his little play- 
 fellow become ! So he thought, but he uttered not a word as 
 he gazed at the modest girl. He made some slight remark to 
 her parents, as well as his extreme embarrassment would allow, 
 and was greatly relieved when the old gentleman called to him, 
 " Take some sauce to your dry plate there, Mr. Commandant." 
 
 Mrs. Banks mentioned a son who had died early, and of 
 whom she still spoke with a true mother's heart. " Hush, 
 mamma !" cried the father, " who knows but that he might have 
 turned out just such a windbag as George." 
 
 It was now Wald rich's turn to cast down his eyes, for by 
 this same windbag George was meant no other than his own 
 humble self. 
 
 " But how do you know, papa, that George really was such 
 a windbag as you represent ?" said Frederika. 
 
 This question warmed the heart of the Commandant more than 
 the glass of old Burgundy which he took to hide his confusion. 
 It showed some trace of the old friendship. Such a kind ques- 
 tion, from such sweet lips, and put in such a gentle voice, might 
 well seem a drop of honey to sweeten the bitter pill which Mr. 
 Banks proceeded to administer. 
 
 For, in order to justify his opinion, the old gentleman turned 
 to his guest as umpire, and went on to relate Waldrich's history 
 from his cradle to the expedition for the Fatherland, and ended 
 with saying, " Had the fellow not become a soldier, he might 
 now have been settled somewhere as law-councillor or the like, 
 earning his living." 
 
 " I only know," replied the daughter, " that he went with a 
 good heart for the holy cause." 
 
 " Don't talk to me of holy causes," cried Mr. Banks. " Where 
 is the holy cause now, I ask 1 The French are driven away, 
 very true. But the holy kingdom is, nevertheless, going to the 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 219 
 
 deuce. The cursed English creep in every where with their 
 wares, and we holy Germans will come to be a parcel of holy 
 beggars. The government knows nothing and cares nothing 
 about trade. The world is just where it was before, and rather 
 worse. I tell thee, Freddy, hush ! Thou dost not understand 
 these things." 
 
 Waldrich perceived that Mr. Banks was still the same lively, 
 irritable old man, with whom, however, it was impossible to get 
 angry. As now a decision was to be pronounced, the Comman- 
 dant was so prudent and polite as to concede the father to be 
 right as to the result of the holy cause, while, not to condemn 
 himself utterly, he agreed with the daughter as to the good heart 
 with which George had gone to the wars. 
 
 " See, now," cried the old man, " Mr. Commandant is more 
 cunning than Master Paris with the three silly ladies at Troy. 
 He cuts the apple in two, and gives us each a bit. It's all very 
 well." 
 
 " No, Mr. Banks, your George erred, if he erred, like some 
 thousands of Germans, and, for example, like myself. Our 
 armies, you know, were annihilated, and the people were forced 
 to rise in their own behalf. It was no time to hesitate. Life 
 and every thing was to be risked for the throne. But our wisest 
 statesmen are no conjurers. They cannot instantly put things 
 to rights again. I, for one, do not regret what I have done." 
 
 " With all respect," said Mr. Banks, bowing, " with all re- 
 spect, Mr. Commandant, you are an exception. But still it 
 seems to me rather droll that we citizens, merchants, and so on, 
 must give our money for twenty years to support in peace an 
 army of some thousands of idle defenders of the throne, and 
 clothe them in silk and velvet and gold, and then in the twenty- 
 first year, when these same defenders are all cut in pieces, 
 must ourselves rise and bring the wheel back again into the 
 track." 
 
 By such conversation, an intimacy was speedily established. 
 To the Commandant, his incognito was at times very agreeable, 
 yet he wished to put an end to it. 
 
220 THE GIFT. 
 
 And it was ended sooner than he thought. Mrs. Banks, a 
 quiet woman, who said little, but thought much, had, at table, as 
 soon as she heard Waldrich's voice, recalled his boyish features 
 and recognised him. His confusion when the windbag George 
 was mentioned, confirmed her suspicions. She said not a word. 
 It was her way. No lady had so little of the feminine art of 
 carrying the thoughts on the tongue. She let things take their 
 course, listened, and drew her own conclusions. Hence, unob- 
 served, she could conduct all affairs without many words ; even 
 her choleric husband, least inclined to obey her, did, in fact, 
 obey her the most. That Waldrich did not discover himself 
 seemed to her suspicious. She wished silently to find out his 
 reasons. 
 
 Waldrich had, in fact, no reasons, but sought only an occasion 
 to surprise the family. When called to tea, he found no one in 
 the room but Frederika. He approached her. " Lady," said he, 
 " I have to thank you for your kindness to my friend Waldrich." 
 
 " You know him, then, Mr. Commandant ?" 
 
 " He thought of you often, but not oftener than you deserve." 
 
 " He was brought up here. He is a little ungrateful, for 
 never, since he left us, has he made us a visit. Does he behave 
 well ? Is he esteemed ?" 
 
 " There is nothing against him. No one has so much reason 
 to complain of him as you, lady." 
 
 " Then he must be a good man, for I have nothing against 
 him." 
 
 " But he is certainly I know it your debtor." 
 
 " He owes me nothing." 
 
 "But he used to speak of some money which he received." 
 
 " But I gave it to him, I did not lend it." 
 
 " Is he then less your debtor, Thusnelda ?" 
 
 At this word, Frederika turned full upon the Commandant. 
 A light broke upon her. She blushed at the recognition. 
 
 " It is not possible !" she cried with joy. 
 
 " Yes, dear Frederika, if I may still call you so ah ! the 
 sweet thou I may no longer use the debtor, the sinner, stands 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 221 
 
 before you. Forgive him. Had he sooner known what he now 
 knows, he would have come a thousand times to Herbesheim." 
 
 He took her hand and kissed it. 
 
 At this moment Mrs. Banks entered. Frederika hastened 
 toward her. " Do you know, mamma, who this is ?" 
 
 The face of Mrs. Banks was suffused with a slight blush, as 
 she said with a smile, " George Waldrich." 
 
 " How, mamma, you knew it and never told us !" said Frede- 
 rika, who could not recover from her surprise, as she compared 
 the stout soldier in his uniform with the schoolboy of former 
 days. " Yes, truly," she added, " it is he ! Where were my 
 eyes?" 
 
 Waldrich kissed the hand of his worthy foster-mother, and 
 begged her forgiveness for never having visited her since he 
 came of age. He insisted that it really was not ingratitude, still 
 less was it indifference ; in fact, he could not tell what had kept 
 him away. 
 
 "About the same reason," Mrs. Banks gently said, "which 
 keeps the spirits of the departed from wishing to return to the 
 caterpillar state of poor mortality. Here you were an orphan, 
 a stranger. We could not make you forget that. You were 
 a boy, often faulty. There was nothing to draw you back to a 
 place which had been to you a school rather than a home. As 
 soon as you were free, a man, you felt yourself happier any 
 where than here." 
 
 Waldrich's eyes filled with tears. "Ah, you are still the 
 same dear wise mother as ever ! You are right. But now 
 Herbesheim is indeed a home to me. Had I only come sooner ! 
 Give me again my place in your heart." 
 
 Mrs. Banks had no time to reply, as Mr. Banks entered and 
 proceeded directly to the tea-table. When Frederika told him 
 who his guest was, he started and immediately extended his 
 hand to the Commandant, and said, " Heartily welcome, Mr. 
 Waldrich. You were but a pigmy, and you have grown out of 
 my recollection. That riband there in the button -hole what 
 does that signify ?" 
 
222 THE GIFT. 
 
 " That I, with my company, took a redoubt, and kept it 
 against three or four assaults." 
 
 " How many men did it cost ?" 
 
 " Twelve dead, and seventeen wounded." 
 
 " Nine and twenty souls then for the eighth of an ell of silk 
 riband ! Cursed dear goods, those which the prince sells 
 might be got in any shop for a couple of kreuzers. Let us be 
 seated. Frederika, help us ; got much booty, eh ? How stand 
 the finances ?" 
 
 Waldrich laughingly shrugged his shoulders : " We did not 
 take arms for booty, but for our Fatherland." 
 
 " Excellent ! I like such sentiments. Stick to that, since 
 your pockets are empty." 
 
 THE DEAD GUEST. 
 
 As soon as it was known who the Commandant was, all his 
 old acquaintances gathered round him. And in all companies 
 he was the best companion, spirited, witty, a pleasant narrator, 
 played on the piano and flute, danced divinely, and the ladies 
 admitted that he was handsome and very dangerous. However, 
 just at this time no lady in Herbesheim, whether pretty or other- 
 wise, aimed either to be conquered or to make conquests. On 
 the contrary, every one guarded her heart with unusual care. 
 The cause of this reserve no one could guess, who did not live 
 in Herbesheim, or who was unacquainted with the manuscript 
 chronicles of the town, and when known it was as hard to be 
 believed as it was true. 
 
 In this year occurred the centennial festival or fast of the 
 so-called Dead Guest a very dangerous person, especially to 
 all engaged ladies. No one knew the exact history of this 
 Guest. But the story went that there was a ghost, who once in 
 every hundred years came to the town of Herbesheim, dwelt 
 there through the Advent season, making court to all about to be 
 brides, and ending with wringing their necks and turning their 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 223 
 
 heads round on their shoulders. In the morning they were 
 found dead in bed, with their faces turned to their backs. What 
 distinguished this ghost from all his tribe was, that he did not 
 come in the lawful hour for ghosts, at night, but in clear day- 
 light, in the form of a real man, and went about fashionably 
 dressed like a true son of earth. The Guest was to have plenty 
 of money, and, what was worst, if he could find no bride of 
 another, he took the form of a lover, merely to be able, when 
 with his flatteries he had turned the heads of the maidens a little, 
 to turn them entirely round at night. No one knew whence the 
 legend arose. In the parish register, one might read the names 
 of three maidens, who had died at Advent time in the year 17 . 
 In the margin, as a gloss, appeared these words : " With their 
 faces turned to their backs as a hundred years ago ; God have 
 mercy on their souls." Although this comment was no proof of 
 the truth of the legend, yet it showed that the story was more 
 than a hundred years old ; and that something of the same sort 
 must have happened two hundred years before, because the 
 church books intimated as much. The old registers were, un- 
 fortunately, lost in a fire in the Spanish war of the succession. 
 
 But, however this may be, the legend was known to all. 
 Every one pronounced it a ridiculous nursery tale, and yet 
 every one was looking forward, I may say, with anxious cu- 
 riosity, to the next Advent, in order to learn what the legend 
 meant. For even the wisest thought that there are many things 
 in heaven and earth not dreamed of in our philosophy. 
 
 The most incredulous were the young gentlemen, who made 
 themselves right merry on the occasion. The ladies affected to 
 be unconcerned, but it was in great part affectation. In secret 
 they said : " You young gentlemen may well laugh, for it is not 
 your heads and necks that are in danger." 
 
 No one remarked the effect of this superstition more than the 
 old parson, for there was a great hurry to have all love affairs 
 settled before the first Advent, and where there *was no hope of a 
 speedy wedding some love affairs had been broken off. 
 
224 THE GIFT. 
 
 One may now understand what the fair Herbesheimers thought 
 when they found our friend so captivating. They were alarmed 
 at the literal interpretation of the legend and at the approaching 
 visit of the Dead Guest. We must therefore pardon the somewhat 
 strange secret oath which they took, not to fall in love before or 
 during Advent, and if an angel came from heaven, to look upon 
 him with no more kindness than upon any Christian man. 
 
 I do not know whether the fair Frederika Banks joined with 
 the Advent nuns of Herbesheim in this oath. But so much is 
 certain, that she looked upon Waldrich with no more favour than 
 any other, for she was gracious to all. 
 
 The Commandant passed at the Bankses' a true Paradise 
 summer. His old boyish relations were renewed. He called 
 Mr. and Mrs. Banks father and mother. He commanded, not 
 only his company, but also in the house, had a word in all 
 affairs, and helped to decide all disputes. Also between him and 
 Frederika the familiar tone of their childish days was without 
 design resumed. Sometimes, as formerly, they quarrelled ; and 
 with the polite you, there escaped occasionally a thou, not only 
 the thou of affection, but also the peevish thou of petulance. 
 
 The ladies in the place made their remarks upon Waldrich's 
 situation in the family. For the ladies of Herbesheim shared in 
 the common belief, that a young man of eight-and-twenty and a 
 girl of twenty could not possibly live four weeks under the same 
 roof without having the heartbeat when they met. But the fair 
 Herbesheimers were nearly convinced that here was an exception 
 to the rule, for no look, no gesture, no peculiar tone of the voice, 
 betrayed any thing but the simple affection belonging to the age 
 of little boys and girls. 
 
 The sharp eye of Mrs. Banks would soonest have detected the 
 mischief women have a peculiar sense therefor but she dis- 
 covered nothing and kept quiet. Mr. Banks never dreamed of 
 such possibilities. He had never in his whole life had any idea 
 of what the world calls love, and would just as soon have feared 
 that his daughter would go crazy as that she should fall in love 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 225 
 
 with a young man for his own sake. He knew that Mrs. Banks 
 had been engaged to him before she had ever seen his face. 
 And he had engaged himself, so soon as he knew that his in- 
 tended was a brave maiden, and would bring him 830,000 and 
 the prospect of more by inheritance. 
 
 This mode of proceeding in marriage matters, which his expe- 
 rience justified, for he was one of the happiest of husbands, 
 seemed to him most reasonable. Hitherto Mrs. Banks and 
 Frederika had found no special reason to object to his views. 
 But Frederika was now twenty. The old man bethought him- 
 self that he received his wife when she was even ycunger. He 
 began to think seriously of having his daughter married. Mrs. 
 Banks agreed with him here, too, and Frederika had nothing to 
 object. A young lady of twenty ! how pleasantly the words 
 sound there is something tender in them. A young maiden of 
 twenty ! one can scarcely say it, without asking, * How long 
 will she remain young?' Mr. Banks felt this, and made his 
 preparations accordingly. 
 
 THE BIRTHDAY. 
 
 It was the custom in Mr. Banks's house to celebrate family 
 festivals. On these occasions the book-keeper, the foreman, 
 and the cashier of the factory were added to the family, and 
 their birthdays were likewise observed. It is no wonder then 
 that the birthday of our lieutenant should be commemorated. 
 
 On such a day no one was allowed, such was the rule, to give 
 even so much as an ill-natured look to the individual whose 
 birthday it happened to be, or to refuse him any fair request. 
 Every one was to make him a present, great or small. On this 
 day, the dinner was more costly and was served on silver. The 
 silver candlesticks were in use, and the person honoured took 
 the usual place of the head of the family. The gifts and tokens 
 were presented before dinner. The health of the distinguished 
 
 20 
 
226 THE GIFT. 
 
 one was drunk with full glasses, and after the table was removed 
 he received from every one of the company an embrace and a 
 kiss. 
 
 On Waldrich's birthday every thing went on in its usual regu- 
 lar way. When he entered the dining-room, the company were 
 all assembled. Mr. Banks advanced towards him with good 
 wishes and handed him something wrapt up in silk paper. It 
 was a handsome draft payable at sight. Mrs. Banks followed. 
 She brought him a complete captain's uniform. Then came 
 Frederika with a silver plate, upon which lay half a dozen fine 
 cravats made by her own hands. Upon these lay a letter with 
 the great seal of his regiment, and directed to Captain George 
 Waldrich. The lieutenant started as he broke the seal and saw 
 a captain's commission. He was to remain captain, and his 
 predecessor was advanced to the dignity of major. 
 
 " But, my honourable Mr. Captain," said Frederika, with her 
 sweet smile, " don't be angry with me. The letter came a week 
 ago during your absence, and I kept it for to-day. I am punished 
 enough by my anxiety lest you should hear of the appointment 
 in some other way." 
 
 Waldrich was not in the humour to be angry. In his confu- 
 sion he hardly had a word to say to the others who gave him 
 their good wishes and tokens. 
 
 " But the best of it is," cried Father Banks, " they let the 
 Captain remain here. I too suffered a sort of agony lest George 
 should be ordered away. But come, Mr. Book-keeper, into the 
 cellar, march ! I say, to No. 9, to the old Neckar." The book- 
 keeper obeyed. 
 
 It was very apparent how fond Mr. Banks was of his former 
 ward, sputtering out, in the fulness of his joy, many droll sal- 
 lies. 
 
 " Now, my dear little Captain," cried the merry old man, " I 
 thought, God knows, that the draft I gave you there would serve 
 for a travelling penny. But I'm vexed that I was so stingy. 
 Ought to have given you something better. Remember the rule. 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 227 
 
 You can ask any favour. I must not refuse it. So out with it. 
 Ask what you will, you shall have it, even though it should be 
 my new peruke or the like." 
 
 The Captain's eyes were wet. " I have nothing more to ask." 
 
 " Come, quick, bethink yourself ! The chance will not come 
 again for a year," cried the old gentleman. 
 
 " Then, permit me, dear father, to give you a hearty, thankful 
 kiss." 
 
 " With a right good will, then, boy of my heart ! that thou 
 shalt have readily !" exclaimed Mr. Banks. Both sprang from 
 their seats, fell upon one another's necks, and then parted with 
 moved hearts. Their emotions extended to all present. That 
 Mr. Banks had given the thou to the Captain was noteworthy. 
 
 But Mr. Banks was the first to recover his composure. 
 " Enough of this nonsense !" said he ; " let us talk of some- 
 thing rational." He raised his glass and commanded all to fill : 
 " Where there's a man, there should be a woman. Where 
 there's a captain there should be a lady-captain. So here's long 
 life to her ! May she bloom and grow green and the like." 
 
 " May she be pious, good, and domestic !" said Mrs. Banks as 
 she lifted her glass. 
 
 " Mother, like you? answered the Captain. 
 
 " And the loveliest in the world !" said Frederika, chiming in. 
 
 " Lady, like you? added he thankfully. 
 
 Frederika shook her head at him, and smiling half angrily, 
 half archly, shook her finger at him also : " We must allow the 
 birthday prince in many things to-day, which at another time 
 would not be allowed to pass without punishment." 
 
 The book-keeper and company made their own innocent re- 
 marks upon these significant indications. First, the bold offer 
 which Mr. Banks had made to the Captain to ask what he would, 
 which offer Waldrich had so stupidly failed to understand ; then 
 the health drank to the future lady-captain. Truly the favourite 
 of fortune must be blind not to see what Father Banks would 
 evidently be at. 
 
 " I really believe," whispered the foreman to the cashier as 
 
228 THE GIFT. 
 
 they rose from the table, " the affair is settled. What do you 
 think ? There's a match." 
 
 " It troubles me," whispered the cashier in reply, " the Dead 
 Guest I can think of nothing else." 
 
 The ceremony of the birthday kiss commenced. Waldrich 
 received from all an embrace and a kiss. He approached Fre- 
 derika. With easy politeness they were about to exchange the 
 required kiss. But just as they gave it, they looked with a sudden 
 earnestness into one another's eyes, as if they would fathom 
 each other's hearts. Once more their lips neared, and the kiss 
 was repeated, as if the first went for nothing. I do not know 
 whether any one observed it, but I do know that Mamma Banks 
 cast her eye down upon the diamond ring on her finger ; and 
 Waldrich let himself be kissed by the cashier, &c., and one 
 kiss from each sufficed. Indeed he seemed as if his broad chest 
 was somewhat too narrow for his heart. And Frederika retired 
 to a window. Yet all this was soon over. Two carriages stood 
 at the door, and the party closed the day with a drive into the 
 country. 
 
 ANOTHER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 The next day the old order of things was resumed. The 
 new Captain had various affairs to attend to that made an ab- 
 sence of some weeks necessary. He left the house of the 
 Bankses, as if it had been his father's. Waldrich and Frede- 
 rika bade each other goodbye as they were wont to do when 
 she went to a party or he to the parade. Only she reminded him 
 that he must not forget her birthday, the tenth of November. 
 The family regretted that they must lose him for a while. 
 " Yet," said the old gentleman, " let not a hair turn gray upon 
 it, sooner or later we must all go into another garrison above 
 there." 
 
 Frederika's birthday was of course observed with the cus- 
 tomary solemnities. Waldrich brought her from the Residence a 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 229 
 
 new harp of exquisite workmanship, and some choice music. A 
 broad rose-coloured riband fluttered over the bright strings. 
 
 Father Banks was in a high state of felicity. He went up 
 and down the dining-room, rubbing his hands and laughing to 
 himself, until Mrs. Banks, who followed him with wondering 
 eyes, could not help whispering softly to the Captain: "You 
 may rely upon it, papa has got some pretty surprise for us." 
 The shrewd matron was not mistaken. 
 
 After the accustomed congratulations the company took their 
 places at the table. When Frederika removed her napkin from 
 her plate, she found underneath, a costly pearl necklace, a 
 splendid diamond ring, and a letter. The maiden, in joyful sur- 
 prise, took up the beautiful ornaments and examined them with 
 evident pleasure. Pearls and ring went round the table that all 
 might admire them. And Frederika opened the letter and read 
 it. Her face betrayed the greatest surprise. Mr. Banks swam 
 in delight. The mother with anxious curiosity studied the 
 lengthened features of her daughter. 
 
 Frederika remained silent for a while, and at last laid the letter 
 down. 
 
 " Let the letter go round too," cried the enraptured father. 
 
 Embarrassed and silent, she handed the letter to her mother. 
 
 " Now, my darling," cried the old man, " has the surprise 
 taken thy breath away? Does not papa know how to do things?" 
 
 " Who is Mr. Von Hahn ?" asked Frederika with a confused 
 look. 
 
 " Who should he be but the son of my old friend, the cele- 
 brated banker. The old man has had better success than I. 
 He has retired and his son takes the whole business, and thou 
 shalt be chick to the young bird." 
 
 Mrs. Banks shook her head in silent disapproval and handed 
 the letter to the Commandant. It ran thus : 
 
 " On your birthday, lovely lady, a stranger intrudes upon you, 
 alas ! only in spirit. The physician has forbidden me to travel 
 in this bad weather. Could I only fly to Herbesheim and there 
 
 20* 
 
230 THE GIFT. 
 
 plead for your hand and complete the connexion which our good 
 fathers have agreed upon ! Adored lady ! with the first mild 
 weather, although still an invalid, I shall hasten to you. I sue 
 for your hand, but not, I well know, for your heart. That can 
 only give itself. But let me at least cherish the hope of being 
 able to deserve it. Permit me to subscribe myself in love and 
 homage your devoted 
 
 " EDW. VON HAHN." 
 
 The Commandant gazed at the letter. He looked not like a 
 reader but rather a dreamer. In the meantime Mr. Banks was 
 waiting impatiently for Frederika to throw off her maidenlike 
 affectation and confess at once how happy she was. 
 
 " But, papa, how can I do that 1 I have never seen Mr. Von 
 Hahn." 
 
 " Little fool ! I understand you. But I can set thy heart at 
 rest on that point. He is a fine, slender, tall youth, a right deli- 
 cate milkface, somewhat weakly from growing too fast." 
 
 " When have you seen him, papa ?" 
 
 " When I was last at the Residence, let's see, some ten or 
 twelve years ago, when I brought thee that pretty doll, almost 
 as big as thou. The young Hahn can scarcely be much over 
 twenty. Thou must see him." 
 
 " But, papa, I wish I had seen him before receiving this letter." 
 
 " It's a stupid chance that he could not come himself, as we 
 old folks had planned it. When I was engaged to mamma, I 
 came myself. Mamma, what sayest thou ? The secret almost 
 burnt my heart out would have told thee at once, but I know 
 you women. The secret would have been out, and so we should 
 have lost this pretty surprise." 
 
 Mrs. Banks replied somewhat seriously : " Thou hast done 
 well, papa, not to draw me into the plan. The thing is done. 
 Heaven bless it." 
 
 " But consider, mamma, the choice, I say. We manufacturers, 
 mamma, with all our trumpery, are nothing but trumpery. But a 
 banker is every thing. Old Von Hahn has only to nod his head 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 231 
 
 and wink, and all is instantly in motion. The English, with the 
 devil to help them, can't get round such a man." 
 
 " I consider the choice very good," said Mrs. Banks very 
 seriously, and cast down her eyes. 
 
 Frederika looked anxiously at her mother and sighed : " And 
 thou, too, mamma ?" 
 
 " Thunder, Captain ! haven't you read the letter enough ? Your 
 dinner is getting cold," cried Mr. Banks. 
 
 Waldrich roused himself, cast one more look at the letter, 
 threw it hastily from him, and applied himself to his plate. 
 
 Mr. Banks was vexed that Frederika did not get more cheerful. 
 He went on, trying to jest, but no one fell into his humour. 
 
 At last, with some vexation, he said to Frederika, " Tell me, 
 now, Freddy, have I hit it or have I not 1 Just tell papa. But 
 thou wilt pipe another song, my bird, when young Hahn comes." 
 
 " That may be, dear papa," replied Frederika. " How could I 
 doubt thy kind intentions ? Let this declaration suffice thee." 
 
 " Thanks for that, my pet ; so must a reasonable maiden think. 
 Fill your glasses. Long life to the bride, and the bridegroom 
 too ! A right handsome man. Only once see him. I warrant 
 thee thou wilt fall on thy father's neck and thank him." 
 
 "It is possible, papa, but until I have seen him, I pray thee, 
 and thou knowest the law of the birthday, I pray thee, not 
 another word about him, until I have seen the stranger." 
 
 Mr. Banks knit his brows, and said at last, " With permission, 
 lady daughter, that's a silly request. However, it shall pass." 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Banks, " no reproaches for Frederika. 
 Thou must remember it is her birthday. No one must vex her." 
 
 "Right, mamma !" replied the old man, "he will be here soon. 
 The moon soon changes and then the weather will clear up." 
 
 With this the conversation took another turn, and in a little 
 while flowed on with its former liveliness. Something rather 
 frosty hung about the Captain. Frederika cast a searching look 
 at him now and then. And when by chance their eyes met, it 
 seemed as if their hearts were asking secret questions of one 
 another. The others chatted on, and papa got to be as funny 
 
232 THE GIFT. 
 
 as ever. When the moment came for the usual kiss to be given, 
 Waldrich and Frederika happened to be standing face to face 
 before Father Banks. 
 
 " Hark'ee, Freddy," said the mischievous old man, " just 
 imagine our George to be a certain somebody, whom I must not 
 name just imagine it, and then the kiss will be no ordinary one. 
 Try it, little simpleton !" 
 
 Waldrich and Frederika stood before each other ; eye lost in 
 eye, they drew nearer for the kiss. The old man sprang aside 
 with a comic motion to see it. It was given. Waldrich grew 
 pale and Frederika's eyes were dim. Yet once again their lips 
 joined. And then they seemed anxious to retreat. But once 
 more their lips hastily united. Then, weeping aloud, Frederika 
 turned aside, and Waldrich went towards the window. 
 
 The old man looked right and left, and stood like one petrified. 
 " The deuce take it ! What ails the child ?" cried he. 
 
 Mrs. Banks silently cast her eyes down upon her diamond 
 ring. She saw what was the matter and said, " Papa, spare the 
 maiden now. Let her have her cry out." 
 
 " But but " sputtered Mr. Banks, and ran to Frederika, 
 " What's the matter ? Why dost thou weep ?" 
 
 She replied that she did not herself know. 
 
 " Ah, that's all make-believe," exclaimed he ; " something has 
 happened to thee. Art thou vexed ? Has mamma " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Or the Captain, has he said any thing ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Thunder, is it I then ? What ! Is it I ?" 
 
 Mrs. Banks took his hand and drew him away, saying, " Papa, 
 thou hast forgotten thy word. She is hurt. Thou hast forgotten 
 her request and again " 
 
 " Reminded her of a certain somebody ! Right I ought not 
 to have done it. It shall not happen again, Freddy." 
 
 Frederika recovered her composure, and after a while the 
 evening passed off pleasantly. 
 
 Mr. Banks kept his word. Not a syllable was breathed of a 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 233 
 
 certain somebody. Regularly, morning, noon, and evening, Mr. 
 Banks went to the barometer, and shook it to make the quick- 
 silver rise and so indicate good weather for sick people to travel. 
 Frederika also, when nobody was nigh, shook it also to make it 
 fall. 
 
 " The weather is evidently clearing up," said Mr. Banks one 
 day when he was alone in the parlour with his wife, " the clouds 
 are beginning to break. I guess he is on his way." 
 
 " God forbid ! papa. For my part I think it advisable that 
 you should write to Mr. Von Hahn, not to come before Christ- 
 mas. And although I have no faith in the silly story, one cannot 
 help feeling serious." 
 
 " Fie, fie, mamma ! thinking of the Dead Guest ! nonsense ! 
 for shame !" 
 
 " I grant you, dear husband, it is foolish yet if any thing 
 should happen to our child yes, the bare thought of it and 
 although I do not believe in ghosts, and Frederika laughs at them, 
 yet neither of us would like to go through the churchyard at 
 midnight. Put off the formal betrothal until after the fatal time. 
 After Advent the young folks will have time enough. Why 
 hasten it just now ? What harm is there in a little delay ?" 
 
 " For shame ! mamma. I will not listen to such nonsense. 
 For the very reason the rabble have their foolish fancies about the 
 Dead Guest, Freddy shall be a bride. One must set an example. 
 It is a duty. When folks see that we don't care for the Dead 
 Guest, that we betroth Frederika, and that her neck is not wrung, 
 then the neck of this silly superstition will be wrung for ever." 
 
 "But suppose, papa, your child is dear to you, suppose 
 now remember, a hundred years ago, according to the register, 
 something unfortunate did happen, and if now " 
 
 " Hush ! you do not mean to say that Frederika's face is to be 
 turned to her back ! I've no patience with the nonsense." 
 
 "But consider, if Mr. Von Hahn should come at this evil 
 hour in this bad weather, sick as he is, the weather and bad 
 roads might increase his illness. Suppose, then, we had a sick, 
 
234 THE GIFT. 
 
 perhaps a dead guest, and then by your self-will you will help to 
 confirm the superstition. Do weigh the matter well." 
 
 Mr. Banks paused a moment, and then grumbled out, " Mamma, 
 I do not understand how you are always hitting upon chances 
 which would otherwise enter no mortal brain. You are all 
 possessed with this fable of the Advent day. You are, you and 
 Freddy, and even the Captain and all. But you shall not have 
 your way." 
 
 " If we are so weak, which I doubt, it is the duty of a prudent 
 housefather to give some quarter to a weakness which hurts 
 nobody." 
 
 " All folly hurts. Therefore, no quarter ; war, open war ! 
 This story about the Dead Guest is an invention of the devil. 
 Things shall remain as they were. I am immoveable !" So 
 said Mr. Banks and ran out of the room. 
 
 Matters, however, did not remain with him quite as they were. 
 This conversation left a thorn in his heart. He began to think 
 that it would be better for the peace of the family that the 
 betrothal should be put off till after Christmas. He loved his 
 daughter tenderly, and the tenderness of his love made him 
 timid. The nearer the Advent approached, the more uneasy he 
 became. He secretly wished that his future son-in-law would 
 stay away a little while. He was quite alarmed when the wea- 
 ther completely cleared up and gave promise of a beautiful 
 Indian summer. He went now just as frequently as before to 
 the barometer and shook it to make it fall. He observed with 
 astonishment that with the good weather mamma and Frederika 
 recovered their good spirits, and the Commandant too. But Mr. 
 Banks could not find his. 
 
 GOOD WEATHER. 
 
 Mrs. Banks saw that Frederika had many objections to the 
 rich banker, and that the Commandant had obtained greater 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 235 
 
 command over that little heart than he should. Not to favour 
 the Captain, dear as he was to her, but to prevent overhaste and 
 any mischief that might arise, Mrs. Banks laboured to delay the 
 betrothal. She wished the young people to become acquainted, 
 and Frederika to be familiarized to her destiny. Besides she 
 wished to learn whether Mr. Von Hahn really deserved the 
 heart of Frederika. The anxious mother had never breathed 
 a word of objection to her husband's choice. She knew Mr. 
 Banks. Contradiction would only have made him obstinate. 
 She had, therefore, so managed their late conversation as to 
 plant a thorn in his mind, and was rejoiced when she saw that 
 it had had its effect. She wrote on Frederika's birthday to a 
 friend at the Residence for information about Mr. Von Hahn. 
 The answer arrived the very day when the fair weather so 
 alarmed Mr. Banks. Mr. Von Hahn was described as an excel- 
 lent young man, universally esteemed, and pitied on account of 
 his delicate health and his father's arbitrary disposition. The 
 father, feeling the infirmities of his age, had retired, leaving his 
 business to his son. This good news made pleasant weather for 
 Mrs. Banks. 
 
 Another circumstance brought good weather for Frederika 
 and the Commandant on the same day. Waldrich had gone to 
 Frederika's chamber upon an errand for Mrs. Banks. The 
 maiden sate at the window, with her head leaning on the new 
 harp. 
 
 " My lady, mamma wishes to know if you will be pleased to 
 ride with us this fine morning?" 
 
 Frederika made no reply, but only turned her face a little 
 farther away from him. 
 
 " Is your highness angry ?" asked Waldrich, supposing she 
 was in a jest. " Did I not at breakfast drink another cup of 
 coffee at your command? Have I not come punctually to 
 dinner from parade ?" 
 
 There came no answer. He stood silent a moment, then 
 went towards the door, but turned again and said impatiently, 
 " Come, Freddy, the weather is lovely." 
 
236 THE GIFT. 
 
 Thereupon sounded forth a sullen, No. He was alarmed at 
 the tone. It was evident she was in tears. " What is the 
 matter ?" said he, anxiously, and took the hand upon which her 
 head rested, and forced her to look up. 
 
 "Does mamma wish us to go and meet him? Is he coming 
 to-day? Has she said any thing?" asked Frederika hastily, 
 wiping her eyes. 
 
 Waldrich's countenance grew dark. Half angrily he ex- 
 claimed, " Oh, Frederika, it is not kind in you to ask such 
 questions. Do you think I would ask you to ride if I dreamt 
 of such a thing ? God grant he may not come till I am off." 
 
 "How! off?" 
 
 " To another garrison. I have written to the general, begging 
 to be transferred, but as yet there is no answer." 
 
 Frederika looked at him vexedly, as she rose and said, 
 " George, that was very silly in you." 
 
 " I cannot, I will not, I must not stay." 
 
 " Waldrich, are you in earnest ? You will make me angry 
 with you as long as I live." 
 
 " And you will kill me if you force me to be your wedding 
 guest." 
 
 "You shall never be invited to my wedding. But who has 
 told you that I have given my consent ?" 
 
 " You dare not refuse it." 
 
 " And yet I cannot give it !" sobbed the maiden, hiding her 
 face. Waldrich was unmanned. It was the first time they had 
 touched upon the subject. At the last birthday they had dis- 
 covered how ardently they loved. Since those three trea- 
 cherous birthday kisses they had looked upon each other with 
 new eyes. 
 
 After a while Waldrich said in a true-hearted tone, " Frede- 
 rika, may we still be to one another what we have been ?" 
 
 " Waldrich, can we be to each other any thing else than we 
 have been ?" 
 
 " Can we ? Can I ? Impossible ! Ah, 1 knew not how 
 happy I was ! Now that I lose thee, I am lost." 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 237 
 
 " Lost ! George, say not that, make me not wretched. It is 
 a hateful word ! Say it not again." 
 
 " But when he comes ?" 
 
 " Then God will care for us. There, take my hand, George. 
 Ten thousand times would I rather betroth myself to the Dead 
 Guest. But say not a word to papa or mamma. I will speak to 
 them when the time comes. Take my hand upon this promise, 
 and for my sake be quiet." 
 
 He took her hand and covered it with kisses. " And are you 
 not happy now ?" she asked. 
 
 " Ah, never so happy as at this moment !" cried he. 
 
 " Away then," said Frederika, " mamma waits. Away ! I 
 will make my toilette, and go with you." 
 
 He went like one intoxicated, and informed Mrs. Banks that 
 Frederika was coming. Unconsciously Frederika sank upon a 
 seat, and, lost in a dream of happiness, forgot the ride. Mrs. 
 Banks came herself at last for her daughter, and found her, her 
 head with its golden ringlets sunk upon her breast, her hands 
 folded on her lap. 
 
 " Art thou thinking or praying ?" asked mamma. 
 
 " I have been with God." 
 
 " And is it well with thee ?" 
 
 " As with an angel of God." 
 
 " Really, my love, thou hast been weeping." 
 
 " Yes, I have wept, but I am happy now, mamma. Let us go." 
 
 She took her bonnet, and the broad rose-coloured riband, 
 which Waldrich had tied to her harp, she put round her waist. 
 Mrs. Banks said nothing, but she determined never again to 
 send the Captain upon errands to Frederika. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE DEAD GUEST. 
 
 On the following evening was assembled at Mr. Banks's the 
 first winter party of the season, so they called certain sociable 
 gatherings they were accustomed to hold at the several houses 
 
 21 
 
238 THE GIFT. 
 
 of the good people of Herbesheim. This evening neither music 
 nor play was to be thought of. As it was within three days of 
 the first Advent, the Dead Guest furnished the chief topic. The 
 young ladies turned up their pretty noses incredulously. Many 
 a one blessed her stars that she had no lover, though at any 
 other time she would hardly have disdained one. In many a 
 one the poor little heart beat sorrowfully when a certain some- 
 body was thought of, to whom the poor heart belonged. The 
 old ladies shook their heads. The young gentlemen were all 
 unbelievers. On the whole there was much raillery and laughter. 
 
 " But," cried Mr. Banks, with droll anger, " what sort of 
 amusement is this ? Wherever I turn, Dead Guest, Dead Guest ! 
 Is this entertainment for my living guests 1 Away with it all ! 
 No more whispering, no corner-gossiping." 
 
 " I should really like to know," said a young councillor, 
 " how the story ever arose. It is as meagre as a skeleton. It 
 will not serve even for a romance or a ballad." 
 
 " So far from that," cried Waldrich, " the legend, as it was 
 formerly known, and as I had it from an old huntsman in my 
 childhood, is too long and tedious for these times." 
 
 " How ! do you know the story ?" eagerly asked several. 
 
 " I have only an imperfect recollection of it," returned Waldrich. 
 
 " Oh, you must tell it to us," cried the young ladies, and 
 crowded round him. " Pray, do tell it." 
 
 No excuse availed. They moved their chairs into a circle. 
 Willingly or unwillingly, Waldrich had to relate the legend. In 
 order to make it interesting, he embellished the story as he could 
 upon the spur of the moment. 
 
 It is now, (he began,) full two hundred years since the 
 Thirty Years' War broke out, when the Elector Frederick placed 
 upon his head the crown of Bohemia. But the Emperor and 
 the Elector of Bavaria, at the head of Catholic Germany, took 
 arms, and the Elector Frederick lost the battle and the crown. 
 All the Catholic cities rejoiced in the downfall of the poor Fre- 
 derick, who had kept the crown only a few months, and was, on 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 239 
 
 this account, named the Winter-king. It is known that he 
 escaped in disguise with a few attendants. That was known 
 also to our good ancestors in Herbesheim, two hundred years 
 ago. They gossiped as eagerly about politics as we, their worthy 
 grandchildren, do now. 
 
 Three beautiful damsels sate one day talking of the Winter- 
 king. They were all three right good friends, and all three had 
 a lover, that is, each one for herself, or they would not have 
 been good friends. One was named Veronica, another Fran- 
 ciska, and the third Jacobea. 
 
 " They ought not to allow the king of the heretics to escape," 
 said Veronica ; " as long as he lives the monster of Lutheranism 
 will not cease to spit forth destruction." 
 
 " Aye," cried Franciska, " and whoever kills the Winter-king 
 may look for a great reward from the Elector of Bavaria and 
 the Pope, aye, indeed, and from heaven itself." 
 
 " Would," joined in Jacobea, " that he might come this way ! 
 He must die by the hand of my lover. My lover would at least 
 receive a countship for his reward." 
 
 " It is doubtful," said Veronica, " if thy lover will ever make 
 thee a countess. Were I only to wink, my lover would take 
 his sword and strike the Winter-king to the ground. And so 
 the countship would be carried off from under thy nose." 
 
 " Make yourselves not too sure," said Franciska, " my bache- 
 lor is the bravest of all. And were I to bid him, he would go 
 and cut down the Grand Turk on his throne. So do not please 
 yourselves too much with the countship." 
 
 While the maidens thus disputed, there arose a great clatter 
 in the street of horses passing swiftly by. Instantly all three 
 flew to the window. But it was terrible weather. The rain 
 poured in torrents. The wind roared and dashed the rain in 
 floods against the windows. 
 
 " God be merciful !" cried Jacobea ; " whoever rides now, 
 surely rides not for pleasure." 
 
 " Some sore need drives him," said Veronica. 
 
240 THE GIFT. 
 
 " Or an evil conscience," added Franciska. 
 
 Opposite, at the sign of the Dragon, thirteen horsemen alighted. 
 Twelve stood by their horses ; the thirteenth, clad in white, went 
 into the inn. The horses were led into the stall, the knights into 
 the house. 
 
 " If that were only the Winter-king !" cried the three damsels, 
 as they turned from the window and gazed at one another. 
 There was a noise on the stairs ; and lo ! the three lovers 
 entered. " Know ye not," cried one, " that the Winter-king is 
 within our walls ?" 
 
 " There would be a capture !" cried the second. 
 
 " There is fear in the face of him of the white cloak," cried 
 the third. 
 
 A shudder of joy came over the maidens, and each turned to 
 her lover. 
 
 Then Veronica said to hers, " If my lover allows the Winter- 
 king to go alive from the city, I would rather be the Winter- 
 king's mistress than my lover's wedded wife. So help me God 
 and his saints !" 
 
 Franciska said to hers, " If my lover lets the king survive 
 this night, I would sooner kiss death than my lover. So help 
 me God and his saints !" 
 
 " The key of my bridal chamber is for ever lost, if my be- 
 loved does not in the morning bring me his sword purple red 
 with the blood of the Winter-king," said Jacobea. 
 
 The three lovers were terrified, but they soon took heart and 
 promised that the Winter-king should never again see the light. 
 They took leave of their mistresses, who sate together and 
 chatted of the eternal renown of their lovers, and of the count- 
 ship, and how they would divide it among them. The three 
 young men went to the sign of the Dragon. 
 
 Before the break of day, twelve of the stranger guests rode 
 hastily away through the storm and rain. The thirteenth lay 
 dead in his bed, swimming in blood. He had three death- 
 wounds. No one could tell who he was. The host declared it 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 241 
 
 was not the king ; and he was right, for the Winter-king, as is 
 well known, escaped to Holland. The Dead Guest was buried 
 the same day, but not in consecrated ground, but as a suspected 
 heretic, in the potter's field, without candle or book. 
 
 Anxiously, in the meanwhile, awaited the three damsels the 
 arrival of their lovers, but they came not. They sent for them 
 into all the streets, but no one had seen them since midnight. 
 No one could tell whither they had gone. Then the poor 
 maidens grieved bitterly and wept bitterly, day and night, and 
 repented them sore of the wicked command which they had 
 given to men so good and true. But the lovely Jacobea sor- 
 rowed most, for she had been the first to propose the dangerous 
 deed. 
 
 Two days had passed, and the third was well-nigh ended. 
 There was a knocking at Jacobea's door. A strange gentleman 
 entered and asked after the weeping maiden. The stranger 
 presented her a letter which he had promised to deliver. O how 
 Jacobea trembled for joy ! The dear letter was from her lover. 
 But it was almost dark. The mother brought a light to read 
 the letter, and better to see the stranger. He was a man under 
 thirty years of age, tall, slender, dressed wholly in black, with 
 the large hat of those days covered with black feathers, and a 
 black doublet, black breeches, and large boots. His sword- 
 handle was inlaid with precious stones. Sparkling jewels glit- 
 tered on his fingers. Yet his countenance was noble, but, not- 
 withstanding the brightness of his eyes, very pale, and his black 
 dress made him look paler. He seated himself, and the father 
 read the letter. It ran thus : " We have struck the wrong one. 
 Therefore, sweetheart, farewell. I will go to the wars in Bo- 
 hemia, and seek me a bride who will require no such bloody 
 service. I send thee back thy ring." The ring fell out of the 
 letter. 
 
 When Jacobea heard this, she well-nigh fainted. The father 
 and mother consoled her, and the stranger said many gracious 
 things. " Had I known that the knave had made me the bearer 
 
 21* 
 
242 THE GIFT. 
 
 of such tidings, as true as I am the Count of Graves, he should 
 have felt the edge of my sword. Dry your beautiful eyes, fair 
 maiden." 
 
 But Jacobea could not cease weeping. The Count at last 
 departed, and begged permission to return the next day. He 
 kept his word, and as he was alone with Jacobea, he said, " You 
 owe me at least a smile, for I have not slept the whole night for 
 thinking of your beauty." 
 
 " How can I smile ?" said Jacobea ; " hath not the faithless 
 one sent me back the ring ?" 
 
 The Count took the ring and threw it out of the window. 
 " Away with it !" he cried ; " how gladly would I supply its 
 place with a more beautiful one !" and he laid the most beautiful 
 of his rings before her on the table. Jacobea blushed, and 
 pushed the ring away. " Be not so cruel," said the Count, " for 
 my heart and my countship lie at your feet." 
 
 Jacobea feigned to reject him, yet they talked on, and the 
 Count spoke very bewitchingly. His countenance was deadly 
 pale, yet when he spoke so gracefully, it was easy to forget his 
 paleness ; and Jacobea ceased weeping. 
 
 The presence of the rich gentleman in Herbesheim was soon 
 known, for he had many attendants, and was lavish in expense. 
 When Veronica and Franciska heard of all these things, they 
 hastened to their friend, and asked whether the noble Count 
 knew any thing of the two other lovers, and begged her to 
 inquire of him. 
 
 Jacobea did so, and he said he would visit the injured ladies, 
 and she thanked him heartily. She began to treat him more 
 kindly, for she said to herself, " I have only to stretch out my 
 hand and take the countship, without having to share it with the 
 two others." And she showed the ring the Count had left on 
 the table to her parents, and told them of his proposal and of 
 his riches. The parents could hardly believe it. But when 
 the Count came and begged their permission to present their 
 daughter with a trifle for a Sunday ornament, and drew out 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 243 
 
 a diamond cross, with a sevenfold string of pearls, then they 
 believed, and said, " This son-in-law will please us right well." 
 
 The Count came often and made them all beautiful presents. 
 Jacobea exulted in the prospect of being Countess of Graves, and 
 yielded to the passion of her new lover. 
 
 But the Count was an ill bird. When he came to see Vero- 
 nica, he found her more beautiful than Jacobea, and when he 
 saw the fair-haired Franciska, the others seemed almost homely. 
 And he repeated almost the same story to each about her lover, 
 giving them back their rings, and telling them that their lovers 
 bade him tell the damsels that they must find lovers whose 
 fingers these rings fitted better than theirs. 
 
 With Veronica the Count swore the ring fitted him exactly, 
 but Franciska's ring, he assured her, seemed as if it was made 
 for him. And he played his part right cunningly with all three. 
 To all he offered his heart and countship, and all soon became 
 accustomed to his pale countenance. 
 
 But the three friends made a secret to one another of their 
 intimacy with the Count. They ceased to visit, and all fell in 
 love with the Count, who soon proposed a formal betrothal to 
 each, and a change of rings in the presence of their parents, and 
 after this a still hour at night, when they might settle all about 
 their marriage. And all three acceded, and sealed their consent 
 each with a kiss. And each said, " Dear Count, why are you 
 so pale ? Lay aside your black dress ; it makes you still 
 paler." And he said, " I wear black to fulfil a vow. On the 
 wedding-day, I will appear in red and white, like your cheeks, 
 best beloved." Then the Count was betrothed to each in the 
 same day ; and at night, he stole to the chamber of each. As 
 the maidens slept long the next morning, their parents went to 
 awaken them. There lay all three, ice cold, with their necks 
 wrung, and their faces turned to their backs. 
 
 The death-cry from the three homes sounded through the 
 streets. The people assembled in affright, and, as suspicion fell 
 upon the Count, gathered round the sign of the Dragon. There 
 the host complained that his guest had vanished. All the bag- 
 
244 THE GIFT. 
 
 gage had disappeared, and no one knew how. The horses were 
 gone, too, and none of the watchmen had seen or heard them 
 depart. Then every one crossed himself as he passed the houses 
 of the three unhappy brides. And all were appalled when they 
 learned that all the Count's rich presents had vanished too. 
 
 Only a few persons in black mantles followed the corpses of 
 the three maidens out of the gate. And when the coffins were 
 set down in the churchyard of St. Sebaldus, and the service was 
 about to be read, a tall man was seen to leave the procession, 
 and it was seen, with wonder, that although he had before been 
 clad in black, he gradually became wholly white, and three red 
 spots appeared on his doublet, and the blood trickled down over 
 his dress. He disappeared in the potter's field. 
 
 " Jesu Maria !" cried the host of the Dragon, " that is the 
 Dead Guest, whom we buried twenty -one days ago." Horror 
 seized all in the churchyard, and all ran away in fear. A 
 fearful storm of snow and rain arose. Three days and nights 
 the coffins remained unburied. 
 
 When the magistrates at last ordered them to be deposited in 
 the earth, and large sums of money were offered to strong men 
 to perform this office, the coffins were found to be as light as if 
 they were empty. One had the courage to go for a hammer, 
 and another called a clergyman. The coffins were opened and 
 found entirely empty, without pillow or shroud. The empty 
 coffins were buried. 
 
 Here Waldrich ended. There was a pin-drop silence. The 
 candles burnt dimly. The men sate and stood looking very 
 seriously. The young ladies had crowded themselves together 
 in couples, and the elderly ladies listened, with folded hands and 
 long faces, long after Waldrich had ceased speaking. 
 
 " For mercy's sake, snuff the candles !" cried Mr. Banks, 
 " and do talk. This devil's nonsense might well create a panic." 
 
 To this speech every one responded. They ran to the can- 
 dles. They moved in their seats. They rallied one another 
 upon the fear which they saw in others, but no one would con- 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 245 
 
 fess to. They pronounced the story the silliest that a nurse's 
 brain ever hatched. 
 
 But as soon as the Commandant had rested, the company 
 insisted upon having the story of the second appearance of the 
 Dead Guest, and drew themselves into a semicircle, without 
 waiting for Waldrich's consent. There was a new silence. 
 
 The present Becker estate, outside of the city, once belonged, 
 (so Waldrich began,) to the noble family Von Rosen, but they 
 have not occupied it for a hundred years. The last Baron who 
 occupied it was a great spendthrift. He came here only occa- 
 sionally from Vienna or Paris, for the sake of economy. But 
 his residence here was only a continuation of his dissipation. 
 The estate was then highly cultivated. The last time the Baron 
 came to the castle, was at an unusual season, late in autumn, 
 and with a large company, of fifteen or twenty young noblemen. 
 His daughter was then betrothed to the Viscount de Vivienne, a 
 rich young Frenchman. 
 
 The pleasures of the table, of hunting, and of gambling for 
 immense sums, and the acting of little French dramas, filled up 
 the time. The master of ceremonies in all these sports was one 
 Count Altenburg, a young free liver from the lower Rhine. He 
 was a professed gamester, and knew all the fashions and prac- 
 tices of all the courts of that day. Nothing could equal his 
 ingenuity in devising amusements. The Baron Von Rosen had 
 only just made his acquaintance, and had brought him with him 
 as a great treasure, partly because Altenburg was not always 
 fortunate at play, and the Baron hoped through him to repair 
 his fortunes. 
 
 It was this young rake who suggested the idea, as winter 
 approached, of a masked ball, to which every one should bring 
 a lady from the neighbourhood, selected for her beauty, with- 
 out regard to birth. There was a great dearth of ladies at 
 the castle. " Why should we always consult the genealogical 
 tree ?" said Altenburg ; " beauty is on a level with queens." 
 All murmured applause, although the ladies turned up their noses 
 
246 THE GIFT. 
 
 a little. The milliners and tailors in this little city were set in 
 motion, to furnish suitable dresses. Altenburg sought out the 
 best tailor and the prettiest maiden in Herbesheim. He found 
 both under the same roof. Master Vogel was the best tailor, 
 and his daughter, Henrietta, enraptured the Count with her 
 charms. 
 
 The Count was for ever at Master Vogel's, overseeing the 
 work, and watching Henrietta especially. He would have her 
 make the female dresses which he ordered, and he said they 
 must be fitted to her own shape, as the noble lady he was to 
 take to the ball was exactly of her size. In paying Master 
 Vogel he was very liberal, and his presents alone amounted to 
 the price of the work. He said flattering things to the daughter, 
 and at last made love to her. Henrietta would not indeed listen 
 to him, for she was an honourable maiden, and, besides, was 
 engaged to an apprentice of her father's, still she could not find 
 it in her heart to be angry at the sweet words of so gracious a 
 gentleman. 
 
 A few days before the ball the dresses were all finished 
 Altenburg came to Master Vogel, with an air of great vexation, 
 and requested to speak with him alone. 
 
 " Master," said he, " I am in trouble. You can help me out ; 
 and I will reward you generously." 
 
 " I am your highness's most humble servant," replied the 
 tailor, with a low bow and a smile. 
 
 " Just think, Master Vogel," said Altenburg, " my partner is 
 sick and cannot go to the ball. What shall I do? I could 
 easily find another; but then will the dress fit? You see, Master 
 Vogel, I must beg you for your daughter. The dress fits her, 
 you know. You must beg her to favour me." 
 
 The tailor was quite overcome. He had not dreamed of such 
 an honour. He could not utter a word. 
 
 " Henrietta shall never repent it," added the Count. " The 
 dress shall be hers, and I will provide any thing else that may 
 be necessary." 
 
 " Your highness is too kind," cried Master Vogel. " I must 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 247 
 
 tell your highness, the maiden dances beautifully. You should 
 have seen her at the wedding of my neighbour, the tin-founder. 
 Say no more. Remain here. I will send her to your highness." 
 
 " But, Master Vogel," rejoined the Count, " perhaps Henri- 
 etta's bachelor will be jealous. You must speak a good word 
 to him." 
 
 " Oh !" cried Master Vogel, " the clown shall be quiet." 
 
 Master Vogel left the room, and Henrietta entered, blushing. 
 The Count covered her hand with kisses. She blushed again. 
 Having told her his wishes, he whispered she would be the 
 belle of the evening, and presented her with a pair of splendid 
 ear-rings. 
 
 This was almost too much for a weak, vain maiden. And 
 when she accepted his invitation, he clasped her in his arms and 
 said, " Henrietta, why should I conceal it. Thee alone did I 
 ever think of for my partner. Ah! Henrietta! 1 would choose 
 thee for something more. Thou art not so beautiful merely to 
 be the wife of a boor. Dost thou wilt thou understand me ?" 
 
 She made no answer, but drew herself from his arms. Both 
 went into the shop. Altenburg whispered to her father, " She is 
 content. Take this to defray all expenses." And he pressed 
 into the old man's hand a purse of gold, and departed. 
 
 But now arose a stormy scene in the house of the tailor, for 
 Christian, the apprentice, when he found what was going on, 
 was well-nigh crazy. His rage endured all day. Henrietta 
 had a sleepless night. But she could not help thinking that 
 Christian was wanting in love for her when he grudged her so 
 great a pleasure. 
 
 The next day Christian did not rave quite so furiously, but he 
 kept saying in a menacing tone, " You will not go to the ball !" 
 to which Henrietta replied, " I shall go though !" Whereupon the 
 father would add, " She shall go in spite of thee." Dancing 
 shoes, silk stockings, &c., were purchased. 
 
 But when the ball-day came, Christian tied up his bundle, and 
 came in all ready for travelling, and said: " Since you go, I will 
 go also, and we are now parted for ever." Henrietta grew pale. 
 
248 THE GIFT. 
 
 The old man cried, " Off with thee, when thou will'st. Hen- 
 rietta can get a husband any day better ten times than thou." 
 But Henrietta wept. Then came a servant of Count Altenburg 
 with a box in the name of his master. There was a costly veil, 
 and an elegant necklace and diamond rings. And Henrietta 
 struggled between vanity and love. Christian threw down the 
 ring he had received from her, and departed to return no more. 
 
 Henrietta sobbed aloud and wished to call him back, but her 
 father consoled her. Evening came. Engrossed with her orna- 
 ments she soon forgot her departed lover. A carriage rolled to 
 the door. Altenburg came, and they rode away. 
 
 The ball was brilliant. Altenburg and Henrietta appeared in 
 black, in old German costume. They attracted all eyes. 
 
 " The black mask is the Count," said Viscount de Vivienne to 
 his lady; " why does he put on a mask? He cannot shorten his 
 tall figure. To make himself known, this knight of the rueful 
 countenance needs no more than his favourite colour, black. 
 But who is his partner ? She has a beautiful figure and dances 
 splendidly." 
 
 " I warrant," said the Baroness, " only some common thing 
 from the city." 
 
 The ball continued far into the night. When the masks were 
 removed, the Viscount could not cease to gaze at the lovely Hen- 
 rietta. He sate by her at supper, and Altenburg by the Baro- 
 ness. The two gentlemen appeared to change places. 
 
 " As true as I live," said Vivienne to the Count, " I'll rob you 
 of your partner, even if you should become my deadly enemy." 
 
 " I have my revenge at hand," replied Altenburg. 
 
 The Viscount, whom the new passion and the old wine made 
 lively, said, without thinking that the Baroness was near, " A 
 dozen of my baronesses for the single Venus in the old German 
 costume." And thus he went on notwithstanding all the hints 
 and winks of the Count. At last the latter bade him cease his 
 insults to the Baroness, who left them in anger. It soon came to 
 a dispute. The Viscount became more and more violent, and at 
 last called the Count a rake. 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 249 
 
 " Viscount !" cried Altenburg, " rake ! I ! Who says that ?" 
 
 " Your own leaden face," scornfully laughed the Viscount. 
 
 " If you are not a coward," returned the other, " you will 
 give me satisfaction. You are a sot." 
 
 At this moment, the Baron Von Rosen, who had met his 
 daughter in tears, and learned the cause, came up, and taking 
 Vivienne aside, " You have insulted rny daughter," said he ; "I 
 demand instant satisfaction." They left the saloon. The Count 
 followed them. " Permit me, Sir Baron," said he, " to revenge 
 the honour of the Baroness and my own." The Viscount cried 
 in a rage, " Now then, ashen-face, draw !" But the contest had 
 lasted only a minute or two, when the Viscount's sword was 
 struck from his hand. 
 
 " Wretch !" cried the Count, " thy life is in my power. But 
 go, and never show thyself here again." And with this he 
 struck the Viscount with the flat of his sword, and with a giant's 
 strength, threw him out of the door. 
 
 However deeply wounded the Baroness was by the rudeness 
 of the Viscount, she had not really loved him, and the Count 
 suddenly became very agreeable to her, and with his flatteries 
 and protestations of love soon had her in his snares. 
 
 Henrietta in the meanwhile was intoxicated with delight. She 
 saw herself the object of universal admiration. When, towards 
 morning, the Count carried her home and invited her to the next 
 ball, her delight was without bounds. " Ah ! Henrietta !" he 
 sighed, "as Countess of Altenburg, thy whole life should be such 
 a ball-day !" 
 
 The next day he did not fail to inquire after the health of his 
 two partners. He continued his addresses to both. The fathers 
 were equally deluded by him. Without the knowledge of the 
 other, each sanctioned the consent already obtained of the vain 
 maidens. Ay, and what was worse, the remorseless seducer 
 had played the same game at the house of a civilian, whose 
 daughter he had ensnared. The betrothal of all three was 
 formally solemnized. 
 
 On the evening of the day when this took place there was a 
 
 22 
 
250 THE GIFT. 
 
 ball at the castle, to which Altenburg obtained permission to 
 bring Henrietta. It was a fearful day in nature. There was a 
 raging storm of snow and hail, and thunder and lightning. The 
 tiles rattled on the roofs. But in the ball-room there shone 
 from a hundred tapers a clear bright day, and all was joy and 
 revelry. Towards morning the young Baroness left the com- 
 pany. The Count followed her to her chamber. When he 
 returned the ball was breaking up. Altenburg accompanied 
 Henrietta home. 
 
 The next morning a horrible rumour ran through the town. 
 The daughter of a civilian had been found dead in her bed with 
 her neck wrung. Physicians and police officers hurried to the 
 place. Many then recollected what had happened a hundred 
 years before. A deadly fear fell upon every family. 
 
 The report reached Master Vogel, and he thought of Henrietta 
 with secret terror. As he thought of the Count, of his paleness, 
 his black dress, answering to the description of the Dead Guest, 
 his very hair stood on end. He went to the closet for a glass of 
 Madeira, and lo ! the wine, a present from the Count, had va- 
 nished. He grew sick at heart. Alone and softly he crept up 
 to Henrietta's chamber. He opened the door. He approached 
 the bed, but had not courage to look at it, and when at last he 
 glanced towards it, a cloud came before his eyes there she lay, 
 her beautiful face turned to her back. Struck dumb, he stood 
 there. Without knowing what he did he restored the pale head 
 of the corpse to its natural position, and hastened away for a 
 physician. The physician came and looked at the beautiful 
 body and shook his head. Master Vogel wailed so loudly that 
 the neighbours rushed terrified into his house. 
 
 While all were talking of the fate of the two maidens, there 
 arose a new report of the sudden death of the young Baroness. 
 But the particulars could not be learned. Every one surmised 
 the truth, and believed that the Baron spared no gold to purchase 
 silence. 
 
 On one and the same day the three funerals took place. They 
 entered the churchyard at the same time. Then one of the 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 251 
 
 mourners, veiled in black, stepped aside just as the service began, 
 and he had gone but a few paces when he assumed a different 
 appearance, and was arrayed in a strange white antique dress, 
 with a white feather in his hat, and three dark red spots were 
 seen upon his breast, evidently drops of blood. He turned 
 towards the potter's field, and was seen no more. The coffin- 
 bearers, as they lifted the coffins, found them as light as if 
 they were empty. Full of terror, they threw them into the 
 graves, and hastily threw the earth over them. All fled with 
 fear, and a fierce storm howled after them. 
 
 MUTUAL DECLARATIONS. 
 
 Here Waldrich ended. His listeners were less affected than 
 by the first story. Still the second part of the legend occa- 
 sioned much discussion. Foremost among the unbelievers was 
 Mr. Banks, whose wit, however, had very little effect. For he 
 was generally known as a sort of free-thinker. Whatever was 
 thought of Waldrich's narrations, they spread the next day 
 through the whole town. At any other time they would have 
 made hardly any impression; but at this juncture even the 
 most incredulous were curious to know what was the simple 
 truth about the Dead Guest. 
 
 Waldrich himself had no idea of the circulation which his 
 stories obtained. For he had to leave Herbesheim almost im- 
 mediately for a few weeks. This he would gladly have de- 
 clined doing, not only on account of the bad weather, but also 
 for Frederika's sake, or rather for his own. He did not doubt 
 her constancy. Still he was harassed by the thought of a thou- 
 sand possibilities. He poured out all his apprehensions to Fre- 
 derika the evening before his departure. She retired early under 
 the plea of headache. He was to depart in the night. He did 
 violence to his feelings, and tried in the presence of Mr. Banks to 
 appear cheerful. Mrs. Banks saw the struggle ; and when, the 
 morning after his departure, she approached Frederika's bed and 
 
252 THE GIFT. 
 
 asked, how she had slept, she perceived that the poor child's eyes 
 were red with weeping. 
 
 " My child," said Mrs. Banks, " why do you hide your suffer- 
 ing from your mother ? Do I love you less than formerly, or 
 do you love me less since Waldrich is your love ? Why do you 
 blush ? There is nothing sinful in your love, but that you do 
 not confide in me that I must condemn." 
 
 Frederika extended her arms, and weeping, drew her mother 
 to her heart : " Yes, I do love him. You know it. I have been 
 wrong in being silent towards my good mother, but I did not 
 wish her to suffer sooner than was necessary. That she must do 
 when my father learns that I would rather die than give my 
 hand to the husband of his choosing." 
 
 " My child, I have not come to reproach you. I forgive your 
 distrust of the mother's heart which has never been shut against 
 you. I have long suspected how things stood. Yet be com- 
 posed. Hope ! Pray ! He is worthy of you, although he has 
 not, and is not, what thy father desires. I will tell your father 
 how you two stand." 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, not yet, not just yet." 
 
 " Yes, Frederika, now. It would have been better earlier. I 
 must tell him, for I am his wife. I dare not, I will not keep any 
 thing from him. Have no secret from your future husband." 
 
 " But what shall I do ?" said Frederika. 
 
 " Do you not know ? Turn in still prayer to God. That will 
 compose and sanctify you, and then you will do no wrong. 
 And if you do right, all things will come right." 
 
 With this, Mrs. Banks departed to join her husband at break- 
 fast. 
 
 " What is the matter with the child ?" asked he. 
 
 " From a too great love for her parents, she wants confidence 
 in you and me." 
 
 "Stuff! Mamma, you have something in the background. 
 Yesterday the headache, and to-day no confidence." 
 
 " She is afraid she will vex you. Therefore she is ill. She 
 is afraid you will force her to accept Mr. Von Hahn," 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 253 
 
 " She has never seen him." 
 
 " She would rather not see him: the truth is, she and Waldrich 
 are interested in one another." 
 
 " The deuce they are !" cried Mr. Banks ; " what then ?" 
 
 " Why, you must be cautious. There must be no haste. It 
 is possible, if Frederika knows that Mr. Von Hahn will not be 
 forced upon her, she may by and by find him agreeable ; and 
 the Captain may be ordered to another garrison." 
 
 " Right ! I'll write to his General. Frederika wants to be lady- 
 captain, does she ? I'll write by the next post." 
 
 Mrs. Banks had now paved the way. Mr. Banks stormed a 
 little, but confessed that it would not do to build a dam against 
 the stream, or to be arbitrary in such affairs. 
 
 " By all that's good ! it's a bad mishap !" said he ; and he said 
 the same when he talked with Frederika herself. " Consider," 
 said he, " you must not throw yourself away like a little goose. 
 You may love one another for all I care only you must not 
 think of marriage. I'll have nothing of that. No haste. Get 
 acquainted with Von Hahn. I will not force thee to have him, 
 but take care and don't force me." 
 
 Thus, through the wise guidance of Mrs. Banks, the peace of 
 the family was preserved, and a threatening storm turned into a 
 still, rainy day. Frederika looked forward with hope ; and so 
 did Mr. Banks, while he planned a letter to the General. Mrs. 
 Banks desired only the happiness of all parties. 
 
 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 " Ah, poor Waldrich !" said Frederika on Sunday, when she 
 had returned from church with her mother, and was seated at 
 the window, looking out upon the solitary street, on which the 
 rain fell heavily, " I hope he is not now on his way." 
 
 " A soldier should be able to bear every thing," said Mrs. 
 Banks. 
 
 " But just look out, mamma ; see how the storm rages." 
 22* 
 
254 THE GIFT. 
 
 Mrs. Banks laughed, for a thought struck her which she hesi- 
 tated to express. At last she said, " Frederika, do you not know 
 to-day is the first Sunday of Advent, just the time for the Dead 
 Guest ! The Wild Prince always announces himself with a 
 storm." 
 
 " I wager, mamma, our Herbesheim folks are dreadfully 
 anxious." 
 
 At this moment, Mr. Banks entered with a loud, yet strange 
 laugh, strange, because it was hard to say whether it was natu- 
 ral or forced. 
 
 "Stuff! stuff!" he cried; "do go into the kitchen, mamma, 
 and put the girls in order, or we shall lose our dinner." 
 
 " What is the matter ?" asked Mrs. Banks. 
 
 " Why, don't you know ? The whole town's in a fluster. 
 The Dead Guest is come, they say, the fools ! wouldn't listen 
 to the nonsense just come by the kitchen door the maids were 
 making a dreadful clatter just popped my head in and the sim- 
 pletons screamed at the sight of my wig, and ran off, thinking I 
 was the Dead Guest ! Kitty let the eggs fall, and even poor old 
 Molly cut her fingers in her fright." 
 
 Frederika laughed outright. 
 
 " Put things in order," continued Mr. Banks, " or the first 
 trick of the Dead Guest will be to spoil our dinner." 
 
 Frederika ran laughing into the kitchen, while she said, " It 
 shall not be quite so bad as that !" 
 
 " See now," said Mr. Banks, " the fine effects of superstition. 
 So it is. Superstition above and below. First Advent, stormy 
 weather look ye ! the fools creep into corners and even cross 
 themselves, and imagine the Dead Guest makes it rain and what 
 not." 
 
 Mrs. Banks smiled gently and said, " Don't be so angry, papa; 
 the thing is not worth it." 
 
 " Not worth it ? ah, you too are infected with the old mouldy 
 faith ; but don't plead for superstition. I'll leave ten thousand 
 guilders when I die, to pay a teacher to instruct people in com- 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 255 
 
 " But but, papa, why worry yourself so ?" 
 
 " A plague on all superstition ! That's the way the English 
 get the advantage of us. The more stupid the people, the easier 
 they trample on them." 
 
 While Mr. Banks thus continued to thunder forth, walking up 
 and down the room, and from time to time pausing midway, the 
 book-keeper stept softly in. 
 
 " It is all true, Mr. Banks." 
 
 " What is true ?" 
 
 " He has really arrived. He lodges at the Black Cross." 
 
 " Who lodges at the Black Cross ?" 
 
 " The Dead Guest." 
 
 " What nonsense! do you, a sensible man, believe every thing 
 the old women tell you 7" 
 
 " But my eyes are not old women. I went out of curiosity to 
 the Black Cross. The court-clerk was, so to say, my companion. 
 And there he sat." 
 
 "Who? what?" 
 
 " I knew him at once. And the landlord knew him too, for 
 as we came out, he turned to the clerk, made great eyes, drew 
 down his mouth, threw up his eyebrows, as much as to say, 
 4 There he sits, it bodes no good.' " 
 
 " Fal-de-lal !" 
 
 " The collector has betaken himself to the police lieutenant." 
 
 " The collector is a fool ! ought to be ashamed of himself." 
 
 " May be so. But if it is not the Dead Guest it is his twin 
 brother. A pale face from head to foot black as a crow six 
 feet high gold chain over his breast brilliant rings splendid 
 equipage, and comes on the first Advent, and in a terrible storm." 
 
 Mr. Banks stared at the book-keeper with an expression in 
 which unbelief struggled with surprise. He remained for some 
 time silent. At last he passed his hand over his face and said, 
 " Nothing but chance, a strange coincidence that's all very 
 queer only a chance." 
 
 Here the conversation ceased. Mr. Banks would listen to 
 nothing more. 
 
256 THE GIFT. 
 
 THE APPARITION. 
 
 The Dead Guest was now the universal topic. In the evening 
 some friends met at the burgomaster's. Thither the ladies went 
 immediately after the afternoon service. Mr. Banks promised to 
 follow them as soon as it was dark. 
 
 In accordance with his promise, he was just about to dismiss 
 one of his workmen who had come to speak with him, and take 
 his way to the burgomaster's, when he was startled by a piercing 
 female shriek. " Just go, Paul, and see what's the matter," said 
 Mr. Banks to the workman. 
 
 The workman went, but instantly returned in great fright, 
 gasping out the words, " Somebody wants to see you." 
 
 " Let him come in," said Mr. Banks impatiently. Paul 
 opened the door and a stranger entered, a tall man, in black, 
 with a pleasing countenance, but very pale. His paleness was 
 rendered deathlike by a black neckcloth. His neat dress, his 
 rich rings, showed him to be of noble rank. 
 
 Mr. Banks stared in utter amazement, not wholly unmingled 
 with fear. Here was the Dead Guest from top to toe. But he 
 collected himself as well as he could, and with a bow to the 
 stranger somewhat stiffened by fear, said to Paul, " Paul, stay a 
 little, I have something to say to you." 
 
 " I am happy, Mr. Banks, to make your acquaintance," said 
 the stranger mildly and slowly ; " I would have waited on you in 
 the morning, but I found I needed rest." 
 
 " Highly honoured, highly honoured," stammered Mr. Banks, 
 but " A horror came over him. He moved a chair towards 
 the stranger, and wished him a hundred miles off. 
 
 The stranger bowed and took the offered seat : " You can 
 guess who I am ?" 
 
 Mr. Banks felt every hair rising under his peruke. " I have 
 not the honour to know you," said he with a trembling voice. 
 
 " I am Hahn, the son of your old friend," said the guest ; and 
 his voice sounded hollow, and his smile went with a chill to the 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 257 
 
 old man's heart. The stranger handed him a letter. It con- 
 tained only a few lines of introduction. The handwriting looked 
 like the old banker's, yet there was something odd about it. 
 
 Mr. Banks read it over and over just to gain time. His mind 
 was in utter confusion. In spite of his terror, he was reluctant 
 to believe that this was the notorious Dead Guest, and yet he 
 could not believe that the son of his friend resembled so exactly 
 that frightful personage. He could not think that imagination 
 was playing him a trick. He suddenly sprang up and with a 
 confused apology ran into an adjoining room for his spectacles, 
 merely to gain time. At the same moment Paul caught fast 
 hold of the handle of the door near which he was standing, and 
 as the Dead Guest slowly turned round his pale face upon him, 
 Paul sprang out in a twinkling and did not return till he heard 
 Mr. Banks come back. 
 
 Mr. Banks did, indeed, in his haste, come to a conclusion, and 
 a desperate conclusion it was. Pitiably in doubt which guest he 
 had here, he determined, at least, not to deliver up the poor Fre- 
 derika to so suspicious a person. With a shrug of the shoulders 
 and a beating of the heart he said : " Harkye, my worthy sir, 
 I have the highest respect for you, but matters have taken a 
 strange turn. Had you only come sooner ! There's a love- 
 affair, an engagement, or what not, between my daughter and 
 the Commandant here knew nothing of it till a few days ago. 
 The Captain is my foster-son. Will ye, nill ye, had to say yes. 
 I meant to write and inform your father of this counter-game. 
 What will my old friend think ?" 
 
 Here Mr. Banks's voice failed him in perfect horror ; for, con- 
 trary to all expectation, his guest not only listened with compo- 
 sure, but his features, before sad, absolutely brightened up at the 
 words, ' love-affair,' ' engagement,' as much as to say that the 
 maiden, being engaged, was the very thing for him. Neither 
 did it escape Mr. Banks, that the pale face, as if fearful of be- 
 traying itself, sought to recover its former quiet expression. 
 
 " Do not be disquieted," said Mr. Von Hahn, " on my father's 
 account or my own." 
 
258 THE GIFT. 
 
 Mr. Banks thought to himself, * I see through you,' and be- 
 came still more resolved to keep his Frederika away from this 
 horrible seducer. 
 
 " You will permit me," said Mr. Von Hahn, " to wait upon 
 Miss Banks ?" 
 
 " But, you" 
 
 " It will never do to come to Herbesheim and not see the lady 
 who was intended for me." 
 
 " Certainly, but, you see " 
 
 " I must envy the Commandant " 
 
 " You are very kind." 
 
 " May I beg for an introduction to the lady ?" 
 
 " Sorry, very sorry she has gone out " 
 
 " I did not mean this evening. I feel myself too much fa- 
 tigued." 
 
 Mr. Banks bowed. 
 
 " Will you be so kind as to permit me to see the young lady 
 by herself tete-a-tete ? I have something to communicate " 
 
 Mr. Banks thought again : ' There we have it. There he goes 
 straight to his object.' He cleared his throat. The stranger 
 waited for him to speak. " I hope," continued Von Hahn, " by 
 what I have to say to her to inspire her with respect for my 
 intentions, to set her at ease and secure her esteem." 
 
 Mr. Banks ransacked his brain for some ' if,' or l but,' to ward 
 off this amorous tete-a-tete. He spoke, but what he said was 
 confused, from his anxiety not to seem wanting in politeness. 
 The Dead Guest did not, or would not, understand him, but still 
 urged his request. Only the more painful became the situation 
 of Mr. Banks, who now saw his fair daughter ensnared by 
 hellish arts, and with her neck wrung. 
 
 It had become quite dark, and as the Guest gave no sign of 
 going, Mr. Banks started up, and with a profusion of regrets 
 excused himself on the score of petty engagements. He thus 
 forced his guest away, who took his leave somewhat gloomily. 
 
 Mr. Banks hastened off to the burgomaster's, where he was 
 remarkably silent. There was nothing talked of but the Dead 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 259 
 
 Guest. All that was said agreed only too well with what Mr. 
 Banks had seen. As soon as he returned home with his wife 
 and daughter, he told them all about the Dead Guest. At first 
 the ladies were amazed, or rather terrified. But they smiled 
 when they heard the name of the visiter. And they laughed 
 outright when they heard that papa himself had announced 
 Frederika as the betrothed of the Commandant. 
 
 " O papa, sweet papa !" cried Frederika, falling upon his 
 neck ; " pray keep to that." 
 
 " The deuce take it !" cried the old man, " I shall have to 
 keep to it." 
 
 " But suppose, dearest papa, it should turn out to be Mr. Von 
 Hahn?" 
 
 " Do you think I have no eyes ? It is not he. It's a spectre. 
 How could young Hahn come upon the devil's chance of dis- 
 guising himself as the Dead Guest, of whom he probably never 
 heard in his life ?" 
 
 . The ladies knew not what to make of it, but they could not 
 doubt the identity of Mr. Von Hahn. Their obstinate incre- 
 dulity only made Mr. Banks still more angry. 
 
 " And so it must be," cried he in a tone of vexation and dis- 
 may, " he has bewitched you both ! I am no superstitious old 
 woman. But what I have seen, I have seen. It's a hellish 
 spectre, and has made me almost crazy. I am of a mind to 
 lock you both up in the cellar, to keep you oit of the way of 
 this devil's ghost !" 
 
 " Precious papa !" cried Frederika, " thou shalt have thy way. 
 Be the Dead Guest Mr. Von Hahn or not, I promise thee 
 solemnly I will never love him. But give me your father's 
 word that you will never separate me from George, whoever 
 comes to woo me." 
 
 " I'd rather give thee to the poorest beggar in the streets, let 
 him only be a living man, than to a ghost, a Satan !" 
 
 Frederika slept that night encompassed by bright dreams. 
 Mr. Banks slept not at all. The pale black figure flitted con- 
 
260 THE GIFT. 
 
 tinually before him. Frederika was full of gratitude to the 
 ghostly unknown, for having turned her father so suddenly 
 round, and made him the fast friend of Waldrich. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Banks betook himself to the burgo- 
 master, to beg him to use all his authority to get the stranger out 
 of the town. He related to that officer all that had taken place. 
 
 The burgomaster smiled and shook his head, and knew not 
 what to make of this sudden superstition of the otherwise incre- 
 dulous Mr. Banks. He promised to inquire into the matter, for 
 the whole town was disturbed by this sudden apparition. 
 
 As Mr, Banks after some hours returned home, he happened 
 upon reaching his house, to glance in at one of the windows. 
 He dared not believe his eyes. There sate the abominable Dead 
 Guest in close conversation with Frederika, who smiled very 
 kindly, and even made no opposition when the wretch seized 
 her hand and raised it to his lips ! Every thing swam before 
 the old man. His first impulse was to rush in and break up 
 this tender interview, but his fears restrained him, and he has- 
 tened, deadly pale, to the chamber of his wife, who was alarmed 
 at his looks. Upon learning the cause of his agitation, she 
 assured him that the supposed ghost was indeed the expected 
 lover, a modest young man, with whom she and Frederika had 
 been talking some time. 
 
 " Modest enough, no doubt, with thee, mamma, at thy years ; 
 but go see how far he has got with Frederika. They are kissing 
 each other !" 
 
 " Impossible, papa !" 
 
 " There, now, don't give the lie to my eyes. She is lost ! 
 You are bewitched, or you would never have left them alone." 
 
 " Dear husband, he asked leave to explain himself to Freddy 
 alone. Away with these foolish fancies ! How can you be so 
 befooled and become so superstitious ?" 
 
 " Befooled ! superstitious ! only prudent on my guard. I 
 won't be cheated. The maiden is too dear. I command you to 
 break off with this Mr. Von Hahn, as you call him." 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 261 
 
 " But what will his father say ?" 
 
 " No matter what his father says, he has not death or the 
 devil for a son ! Go, I beg thee, send the fellow away." 
 
 Mrs. Banks was embarrassed. " Dear husband," said she, 
 " think what you are doing from a foolish fancy. If you insist 
 upon it, I will obey ; but Frederika and I have invited him to 
 dinner." 
 
 " It's enough to give one an apoplexy ! To dinner, indeed ! 
 I'll not have him here." 
 
 At this moment Frederika entered, looking very happy. 
 " Where is Mr. Von Hahn ?" asked her mother with a dis- 
 turbed air. 
 
 " He has just gone for a moment, but he'll soon be back. He 
 is a delightful man." 
 
 " There, there !" cried Mr. Banks, " in a quarter of an hour 
 see how he has bewitched her ! A delightful man ! What ! do 
 you love Waldrich ? O that he were here ! But away ! I'll not 
 have that fellow here. Tell him any thing that I am sick, 
 that we are very sorry can't see him." 
 
 " But listen to me," said Frederika in alarm ; " you shall hear 
 all, papa. He is a most excellent man, you " 
 
 " Hush !" cried Mr. Banks, " I won't hear a word. I've 
 heard too much. Listen to me, child : I cannot, I will not, have 
 any thing to do with this fellow. If you will induce this excel- 
 lent man to quit Herbesheim for ever, I give you my word you 
 shall keep George, even though the real son of my friend were 
 to come. I promise you to write to his father and break off the 
 connexion at once. Now tell me, will you induce him to pack 
 up and be off?" 
 
 "Agreed!" cried Frederika, "for, you see, he will go, only let. 
 me speak with him a few moments privately." 
 
 " There it is again ! No, I say, away ! write to him but he 
 shall not come to dinner." 
 
 No expostulation availed ; so Frederika wrote to the banker, 
 apologized for being compelled, by her father's illness, to recall 
 
 23 
 
262 THE GIFT. 
 
 the invitation to dinner, and begged him, by his regard for her, 
 to leave the town, as the peace of the family hung upon his 
 departure. She promised to write him soon and tell him the 
 reasons of this ungracious but pressing request. 
 
 A servant carried Frederika's note to the inn. The knave 
 went with all speed, as he hoped to catch a sight, at a safe dis- 
 tance, of the much talked of Dead Guest. But when he opened 
 the door of the banker's room, to which he had been shown, he 
 started with affright when he saw the black pale gentleman, and 
 heard him ask in a hollow voice, " What do you want ?" The 
 figure seemed to him blacker, paler, taller, than he had thought. 
 
 "Save your honour!" stammered the terrified fellow; "I 
 want nothing of your honour, but of Mr. Von Hahn." 
 
 " I am Mr. Von Hahn." 
 
 " You !" said the poor man, while he felt as if his trembling 
 legs were glued to the floor ; " for God's sake, let me go !" 
 
 " I don't keep you. Who sent you ?" 
 
 " Miss Banks." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "This letter you should " But without waiting to finish the 
 sentence, as the banker stept towards him, the terrified man 
 threw down the letter and was off. 
 
 Mr. Von Hahn muttered, " Are the people here all mad ?" 
 read the note, knit his brows, and went whistling up and down 
 the room. 
 
 There was a timid knock at the door, and the landlord en- 
 tered, cap in hand, with many bows. 
 
 "You come at the right time, Mr. Landlord. Is dinner 
 ready?" said the black gentleman. 
 
 " Our fare will hardly suit your honour." 
 
 " It is well cooked ; that's enough. I never eat much." 
 
 " The fare is better at the Golden Angel." 
 
 " I don't care for the Angel. I shall stay at the Cross. You 
 are the most modest host I ever saw. Let me have dinner." 
 
 The landlord played with his cap, and seemed to have some- 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 263 
 
 thing on his mind. The black gentleman did not remark it at 
 first, but walked up and down, lost in thought. As often as he 
 approached the host, the latter instantly shrunk away from him. 
 
 " Do you want any thing, Mr. Landlord ?" inquired the 
 banker, at last. 
 
 " I hope your honour will not take it ill of me " 
 
 " Not in the least. Out with it ! Come !" And with this the 
 Dead Guest extended his arm to give the landlord a friendly 
 clap on the shoulder. But mine host, not understanding the 
 movement, fancied the worst, and thought of nothing but that 
 the Guest was going to try upon his neck and head the trick 
 which he had played upon the poor maidens. Thus menaced, 
 the man ducked down almost to the floor, and with one leap was 
 out of the door in a flash. 
 
 Vexatious as this conduct was, Mr. Von Hahn could not help 
 laughing. He had observed the same fear of him in all quarters. 
 " Do they hold me," thought he, " for a second Dr. Faust ?" 
 
 Again some one knocked. The door opened a little way, and 
 a military head, with a Roman nose and tremendous whiskers, 
 was poked in, with the question, "Am I right? Is it Mr. Von 
 Hahn ?" 
 
 " It is." 
 
 A stout man in police livery stepped forward. " Mr. Burgo- 
 master requests your honour to come to him instantly." 
 
 " Instantly ! That sounds somewhat magisterially. Where 
 does he live?" 
 
 " At the end of the street, sir, in the house with a balcony. I 
 will attend you." 
 
 " That is not necessary, my good friend." 
 
 " Mr. Burgomaster has so ordered." 
 
 " And you obey implicitly. You have been a soldier, eh ?" 
 
 " In the third regiment of hussars." 
 
 " In what battle did you get that pretty scar on your fore- 
 head?" 
 
 " Hem ! worthy sir, in a skirmish with a comrade about a 
 pretty maiden." 
 
264 THE GIFT. 
 
 " Ah ! then your wife does not like to look at that scar, unless, 
 indeed, she were that pretty maiden." 
 
 " I have no wife." 
 
 " A sweetheart, then ? Now tell me, wouldn't she be vexed 
 if she knew all?" 
 
 The Whiskerando knit his brows. The questioner was amused 
 to read in the face of the hero a sort of confirmation of his con- 
 jecture, and he continued: "But never fear. That very scar 
 proves to your deary how much you would venture for a single 
 glance of her black eyes." 
 
 The police officer changed colour, and his eyes grew big. 
 " Your honour," stammered he, " do you know the maiden 
 already?" 
 
 " And why shouldn't I ? Isn't she the prettiest girl in the 
 whole place?" replied Mr. Von Hahn, smiling, tickled at the 
 idea of finding out the love-affairs of the police officer, to whom 
 the roguish smile of the pale countenance seemed absolutely 
 demoniacal. 
 
 " Does your honour know her already ? How is it possible ? 
 You came only yesterday. I have kept watch before the milli- 
 ner's, and when I was not there, another took my place. You 
 did not get into the house by any visible means." 
 
 " My good friend, it is easy to get acquainted with a pretty 
 girl, and houses have back doors." 
 
 The Blackbeard stood dismayed, for he remembered now that 
 there was a back door. His alarm made Mr. Von Hahn only 
 the more malicious, and he set himself to make the policeman a 
 little jealous. 
 
 " Then she's a little shy, eh ! in spite of all your tenderness ? 
 I thought so ! That scar !" 
 
 " Oh no, worthy sir, not the scar ! but excuse me you, you 
 yourself " 
 
 " How ! I ? Don't dream of me. Fie, you are jealous ! But 
 let us make a bargain. Understand me " 
 
 " I understand you only too well but nothing of that. God 
 have mercy on me !" 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 265 
 
 " Do you introduce me to the fair milliner, and I will recon- 
 cile her to your scar." 
 
 A shudder came over the policeman. And then with a stiff 
 official air, he requested Mr. Von Hahn's attendance at the 
 burgomaster's. 
 
 " I will go, but I excuse your company." 
 
 " But I am ordered to attend you." 
 
 " And I order otherwise. So go and tell Mr. Burgomaster. 
 If you make the least demur, look out for your sweetheart." 
 
 " Sir, for God's sake !" cried the worthy officer, in the greatest 
 alarm, " I obey but, for heaven's sake, let the innocent crea- 
 ture live !" 
 
 " Do you suppose I am going to eat her up out of pure love ?" 
 
 " Your word of honour, worthy sir, that you will spare the 
 poor child, and then I will do as you bid, even if you should ask 
 my life." 
 
 " Be quiet, I give you my word to spare her. But what are 
 you afraid of? Who has any designs against her?" 
 
 " You have given your word. It is enough. What pleasure 
 could it give you to wring the neck of poor Kitty? I go. You 
 may go alone. Even the devil must keep his word." 
 
 With this the poor fellow vanished. He heard the Dead Guest 
 laugh after him. It went to his very soul. It was the laugh of 
 Satan. He hastened to the burgomaster, and related, to the 
 astonishment of the same, all that had taken place. 
 
 THE EXAMINATION. 
 
 Laughing to himself at the agony of the policeman, whose 
 jealousy he fancied he had excited, Mr. Von Hahn took his hat 
 and cane, and went to the burgomaster's. He soon perceived, 
 as he went, that he was in a small town, where a stranger was 
 gaped at like a wild animal ; and one might wear out a dozen 
 hats a year in returning salutations. Right and left the way 
 was opened for "him with precipitate politeness and low bows. 
 
 23* 
 
266 THE GIFT. 
 
 No king could receive profoimder homage. At a little distance 
 from the house of the burgomaster, he came upon a public foun- 
 tain, around which stood gossiping a number of women with tubs 
 and buckets. Some were scraping fish, some washing salad, 
 while others were placing their vessels under the mouths of the 
 fountain. To be certain of the burgomaster's residence, Mr. 
 Von Hahn stepped aside to inquire of this busy group, who, 
 engrossed with their chat, had not observed him. But when he 
 spoke and they turned to look at him mercy ! what a shriek ! 
 what a panic ! how they scattered ! One let her fish drop, 
 another flung her salad into the dirt, a third let her full bucket 
 fall from her head, and all ran off pale and breathless. But one 
 old woman, whose feet were no longer nimble, backed up against 
 one of the pillars that supported the roof over the fountain, as if 
 she would push it over, crossing herself again and again with 
 her skinny hand, her mouth wide open, her eyes fastened upon 
 him in utter despair, and every hair rising on her head. So has 
 the reader seen a cat stand before a barking dog, with back 
 raised, hair erect, mouth open, and following with her eyes 
 every motion of her noisy assailant. Vexed at the silly folly of 
 the people, Mr. Von Hahn turned away and went directly to the 
 house with the balcony. The burgomaster received him very 
 politely, and conducted him into his room. 
 
 " You have sent for me," said Mr. Von Hahn, " and indeed I 
 come very willingly, for I hope you will solve the riddle for me. 
 I have been in your city only since yesterday, and have already 
 met with more adventures than in all my life before." 
 
 '* I can readily believe it," said the burgomaster, smiling ; " I 
 have heard something of it. You are Mr. Von Hahn from the 
 Residence, and have come because Miss Banks " 
 
 " Just so." And the young banker drew some papers from 
 his pocket. The burgomaster just glanced over these vouchers 
 of his identity, and returned them with expressions of entire 
 satisfaction. " I have now made you acquainted, Mr. Burgo- 
 master, with every thing you wished to know. Pray give me 
 some information about your strange town. You certainly do 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 267 
 
 not lie so remote but that strangers sometimes come hither : how 
 comes it that the people here treat me " 
 
 " I know what you would say, Mr. Von Hahn. You shall 
 know all, if you will have the goodness to answer me a few 
 questions." 
 
 " I am at your service." 
 
 " Count my questions as among the strange things of Herbes- 
 heim. Do you commonly wear black ?" 
 
 " I am in mourning for an aunt." 
 
 " Have you ever been here before ?" 
 
 Never." 
 
 " Have you not had acquaintance with some persons of this 
 town, or read or heard something of its traditions or legends 1" 
 
 " I knew nothing of this place but that Mr. Banks resided 
 here, and that Miss Banks was a very lovely young lady ; a 
 piece of information which I am now happy to confirm." 
 
 " Have you never read or heard the story of the Dead Guest?" 
 
 " I repeat it, I am as ignorant of your town as of the history 
 of Siam." 
 
 " It happens, Mr. Von Hahn, that your adventures among us 
 accord exactly with a popular tradition of ours." 
 
 " What have I to do with your traditions, pray ?" 
 
 The burgomaster smiled and replied, " They take you for the 
 Dead Guest, a ghost of our legends, and, however ridiculous the 
 fancy may be, I cannot (pardon my frankness) conceal my 
 wonder at the close resemblance between you and the hero of 
 one of our tales of terror. Presuming that you are not playing 
 a joke upon us, and that you are ignorant of the story of the 
 Dead Guest, I will tell it to you as I have heard it." 
 
 As Mr. Von Hahn showed the greatest curiosity, the burgo- 
 master proceeded to relate the story. 
 
 " Now I understand it !" said Mr. Von Hahn with a laugh ; 
 " the fair ladies of Herbesheim are in fear for their necks." 
 
 *' Jesting aside, Mr. Von Hahn, I am still somewhat puzzled. 
 I believe in the oddest tricks of Chance ; and yet the wild god 
 
268 THE GIFT. 
 
 plays so strange a game here, that I cannot help suspecting you 
 a little." 
 
 " Mr. Burgomaster, you do not really suppose that I am the 
 ghost?" 
 
 " Not exactly, but you may have heard of our legend, and 
 availed yourself of your figure, to amuse yourself with our 
 terrors. Why, for instance, did you choose the first Advent 
 Sunday for your arrival, and even the very moment when the 
 storm was at the worst ?" 
 
 " It is remarkable, this coincidence. It surprises myself. But 
 I can assure you, I know so little of the calendar that I did not 
 know till now that this is the first of Advent. And I declare I 
 did not order the rain, for it is very disagreeable to me." 
 
 " But, Mr. Von Hahn, explain the grip you made this morning 
 at the neck of mine host, if you did not know any thing of the 
 Dead Guest." 
 
 " Aha !" said Mr. Von Hahn, laughing aloud, " that's the 
 reason the poor fellow ducked so I only meant to clap him on 
 the shoulder, but the movement was suspicious, I confess." 
 
 " Once more, Mr. Von Hahn, do you know the young woman 
 Weasel?" 
 
 " Many weasels I know, but no young woman of that beau- 
 tiful name." 
 
 " Yet they say that you know her, and even went to see her 
 by the back door." 
 
 " The back door ! The young woman Weasel ! Oh ! I see, 
 the goddess of your policeman. Now I understand his en- 
 treaties." 
 
 " Yet once more, Mr. Von Hahn, you see I know all your 
 steps. So far all is explained but how came you, in a few 
 moments, so well acquainted with Miss Banks that you I don't 
 know how to express it." 
 
 The blush which this query caused did not escape the sharp 
 eyes of the burgomaster. " I crave your pardon," said he, 
 " but the Dead Guest is famous for his powers of fascination, 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 269 
 
 powers, which I can easily believe you to possess, without sup- 
 posing you the ghost." 
 
 Mr. Von Hahn paused and then said : " Mr. Burgomaster, I 
 shall soon be as afraid of you, as you people are of my black 
 dress. I was with Miss Banks only a short time. Either your 
 walls have told you tales, in which case you know all, or not. 
 At all events, it becomes me to let the curtain hang, unless Miss 
 Banks chooses to raise it herself." The burgomaster intimated 
 that he would not press the point, and then turned the conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Do you remain long with us, Mr. Von Hahn ?" 
 
 " I go to-morrow. My business is ended, and truly it is not 
 very agreeable to play the scarecrow." 
 
 The burgomaster was relieved by this declaration, and Mr. 
 Von Hahn soon took his leave. 
 
 After all the affair seemed very strange. For the combination 
 of circumstances that seemed to stamp Mr. Von Hahn as the 
 Dead Guest was quite too extraordinary for the usual course of 
 things. Still less was there reason to doubt the word of the 
 stranger. When his visiter left him, the burgomaster turned to 
 the window to watch the effect which the appearance of Mr. 
 Von Hahn would have in the street. But to his astonishment, 
 the gentleman did not appear. The burgomaster waited, a 
 quarter of an hour, and still he waited in vain. He then rung 
 the bell. A servant came, but declared that he had been at 
 the door a full hour, and no person in black had passed out. 
 The servant was dismissed. " There's something very much 
 like a ghost here !" murmured the burgomaster, and turned again 
 to the window. In a few moments the servant returned and said 
 that the chambermaid, all in a tremble, reported that the Dead 
 Guest was with Miss, the burgomaster's daughter; that the young 
 lady seemed well acquainted with him, and he had given her a 
 splendid pair of bracelets, and whispered something which the 
 chambermaid could not hear. The burgomaster laughed at first, 
 but all inclination to laugh vanished when he heard of the brace- 
 lets and the whispering. " Bracelets ! Whispering with my Min- 
 
270 THE GIFT. 
 
 chen ! How came he to know her ? Jesu Maria !" So he said 
 to himself, and was on the point of running in and taking his 
 daughter and the stranger by surprise ; but he became ashamed 
 of his budding superstition, and put the rein upon his anxiety. 
 But the suspense became intolerable. He went to his daughter 
 and found her seated at the window admiring the bracelets. 
 " What have you there, Minchen ?" asked he with a faltering 
 voice. 
 
 " A present from Mr. Von Hahn for Frederika Banks," said 
 the young lady very calmly ; " he leaves to-morrow, and has 
 his reasons for not going again to Mr. Banks's. I am to give 
 her these." 
 
 " And where did you get acquainted with him ?" 
 
 " I was introduced to him this morning by Freddy. I was 
 terribly frightened when I first saw him, the real, living, Dead 
 Guest ! But he is a very good man. I met him here again just 
 as he left you, and he gave me this commission." 
 
 Minchen stated all this very simply, and it appeared very 
 natural to the burgomaster. The police officer was directed to 
 be on the watch the next morning, and ascertain whether the 
 stranger really took his departure. 
 
 The burgomaster, although a man without superstition, had 
 rather a wakeful night. He ran through the whole legend, and 
 compared it with the hour of Mr. Von Hahn's arrival, his figure, 
 his paleness, his black garb, his slippery presents, his quick 
 intimacy with engaged young ladies, for Minchen was about to 
 be betrothed; and the young woman, Weasel, had actually 
 confessed to the policeman that the Black Guest had been in her 
 shop, though she stoutly denied his having come by the back 
 door. On the whole, Mr. Burgomaster had a very uncom- 
 fortable night of it. 
 
 Before the policeman reached the Black Cross the next morn- 
 ing, he heard on the way that the Dead Guest and his servant 
 had disappeared, bag and baggage, no one knew how. This 
 news the host confirmed. He led the officer into the room 
 which the pretended Mr. Von Hahn had occupied. There all 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 271 
 
 was in order. The beds stood untumbled. Nothing was left 
 behind, except on the table lay the full amount due in hard 
 dollars. 
 
 " Take the devil's money, who will !" said the host, " no 
 blessing goes with it. I'll give it to the poor," and he handed it 
 to the policeman for the hospital. 
 
 The rumour of the sudden disappearance of the Dead Guest 
 spread through the whole town. It came to Mr. and Mrs. Banks 
 before they had left their beds. 
 
 " Wonderful !" said Mr. Banks, " now then, what do you say 
 to that ? I am glad he is gone. I tell you, that never was the 
 son of my old friend. But who would have believed such non- 
 sense, if he had not been an eye-witness !" 
 
 Mrs. Banks smiled, but knew not what to say. She was con- 
 vinced there must be some explanation. 
 
 Suddenly Mr. Banks showed signs of extreme terror, and 
 became so pale that Mrs. Banks grew alarmed. At last he 
 exclaimed, with a faltering voice, " Mamma, as one thing is 
 true, so may the rest be." 
 
 " What now, for heaven's sake?" 
 
 " Do you believe Frederika is still asleep ? Have you heard 
 the slightest noise, even a footstep, in her room ?" 
 
 " Speak out, papa, do you really suppose that the child is " 
 
 " If one part is true, so may the rest be ; but it would be too 
 horrible, mamma ! I dare not go and see." 
 
 " See what ? Is it possible you believe she is " 
 
 " Yes, I do believe her neck is wrung !" cried the old man, 
 springing out of the room, full of terrible imaginings. Mrs. 
 Banks tripped after him. He laid his trembling hand on the 
 handle of Frederika's door. He opened it softly, scarcely able 
 to breathe, and when no voice spoke, he did not venture to 
 glance even at the bed. " Do you look, mamma !" said he, in 
 the most pitiable distress. 
 
 " She sleeps sweetly," said Mrs. Banks. 
 
 He looked towards the bed. There lay his fair daughter, 
 
272 THE GIFT. 
 
 her lovely face in all the serenity of the morning slumber, in its 
 right place. 
 
 "But is she alive I" asked Mr. Banks; for the gentle rise 
 and fall of her bosom seemed to him an optical delusion. He 
 touched her warm hand and was relieved, but still more when 
 she opened her eyes, and her first look was a gentle and won- 
 dering smile. Mamma explained to her the visit, and all were 
 set at ease. 
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 But the peace of the family was complete when, at supper, on 
 the evening of the same day, a carriage came rapidly down the 
 street. Frederika listened and then sprang up, exclaiming, 
 " George !" It was he. All rushed to meet him. Never before 
 had Mr. Banks welcomed him so heartily. A thousand questions 
 were asked and answered and asked again. " And just think," 
 cried Mr. Banks, "just think, my dear fellow, my precious Cap- 
 tain, we have had that devil's knave, the Dead Guest, here alive 
 in Herbesheim, here in this house ! What do you say to that ? 
 In less than four-and-twenty hours he had fished out his three 
 brides, Freddy, and the burgomaster's Minchen, and the young 
 Mistress Weasel. We have been terribly frightened." 
 
 The Captain laughed and said, " But I have dined with him 
 to-day at the post-house. You mean Mr. Von Hahn of course ?" 
 
 Mr. Banks smiled, but with an air of vexation. " Mr. Von 
 Hahn here, and Mr. Von Hahn there ! I don't care what you call 
 him, but it was the Dead Guest, and he shall not have Freddy, 
 even if he is Mr. Von Hahn. If he is the son of my old friend, 
 so much the worse, for he looks exactly as you described the 
 Dead Guest." 
 
 " Ah !" cried the Captain, " in that he is entirely innocent. 
 When, on that evening, I had to relate the old legend of the 
 Dead Guest, in the haste of the occasion I could think of no 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 273 
 
 original for my picture but Mr. Von Hahn. He happened to 
 occur to me, because he was just then particularly disagreeable 
 to me. When I was on my way to Herbesheim with my com- 
 pany this summer, I met at an ordinary with a very tall pale 
 man in black, who I was told was Mr. Von Hahn, the son of the 
 great banker. He then awakened in me very little interest, 
 except for the singularity of his appearance. That I could not 
 forget, and it came up vividly before me, when he ceased to be 
 uninteresting, because permit me to say it because I knew 
 that he was intended for our Frederika." 
 
 " Thunder !" cried Mr. Banks, laughing out and clapping his 
 hand to his forehead, " the fancy sketch of a rival ! Nothing 
 more ! Why didn't I guess, as soon as I saw him, that the 
 roguish Captain probably knew Von Hahn, and carved the Dead 
 Guest out of him ? But, Mr. Commandant, you'll have to pay 
 for it. How the young Hahn will curse and swear at being 
 treated so ! He'll call me an old Hans Kaspar, and what not." 
 
 " No such thing, papa !" cried Waldrich ; " on the contrary, 
 he is quite happy at the turn things have taken, and sends his 
 respects to all of you. He and I are right good friends, for we 
 have confided to one another all our secrets. When we first 
 met .together to-day at dinner as strangers, we were dull and 
 silent. He did not know me. I knew him and supposed he 
 was on his way hither. Accidentally I heard him say that he 
 had come from Herbesheim, and then I grew curious to know 
 more. When he found out who I was, * Aha !' he cried, extend- 
 ing his hand, ' my lucky rival, for whose luck, however, I am 
 very thankful.' Frankness became the order of the day. Only 
 think, papa, he asserted that Frederika herself told him that she 
 and I were engaged, and that he had kissed her hand and assured 
 her that his affections were engaged too to a young lady, of 
 whom his father disapproved on account of her poverty, and 
 that he had come to Herbesheim only in blind obedience to his 
 father's will, and with the hope of breaking off the affair some 
 way or other. He praised the constancy of his beloved, and is 
 resolved to marry her by and by." 
 
 24 
 
274 THE GIFT. 
 
 " What !" cried Mr. Banks, " and you, Freddy, knew all this 
 from himself? Why didn't you tell me something about it ?" 
 
 Frederika kissed her father's hand and said: "Dear father, do 
 not reproach your Frederika. Don't you recollect when I came 
 so happy from my interview with Mr. Von Hahn and I wanted 
 to tell you every thing, how angry you got, and how you forbade 
 me to utter a word, and promised if I would obey you that Mr. 
 Von Hahn should be exchanged for Waldrich 1 Don't you re- 
 member it ?" 
 
 " Indeed ! did I do all that ? O this beautiful filial obedience ! 
 there's nothing like it, when one expects to get something by it !" 
 
 " Ought I not then to have obeyed you ? Did you not threaten 
 to lock dear mamma and me in the cellar if" 
 
 " Hold your tongue, you little blab ! But why could you not 
 have told Mr. Von Hahn all about the foolish stories here 1 At 
 least you ought to have given him a respectable reason for the 
 manner in which we treated him." 
 
 " I did give him a very good reason, papa. I told him I was 
 engaged, and it appeared that he was too. What better reason 
 could be found ? We invited him to dinner, you know, but " 
 
 " Hush ! My dear Commandant, he was not angry, then ? 
 But doesn't he think us all a parcel of ninnies ?" 
 
 " Something very like it," replied Waldrich. " The conduct 
 of the people annoyed him till he found out the cause. And 
 then it amused him mightily, and he resolved to carry out the 
 joke." 
 
 "And you, you alone, Mr. Commandant," cried Frederika, 
 " with your wicked story, you must answer for it all ! Who in 
 the world knew how the Dead Guest looked till you told us at 
 the party ? The next day the boys were talking about it in the 
 streets." 
 
 " But I confessed my sins to Mr. Von Hahn," said Waldrich, 
 " as soon as I could get my breath for laughing. That I should 
 have happened to light upon his figure when I described the 
 Dead Guest, was quite pardonable. But I no more thought of 
 the effect it would produce than of the skies falling. Mr. Von 
 
THE DEAD GUEST. 275 
 
 Hahn laughed as heartily as I, and told me how he had come off 
 privately to worry the enlightened Herbesheimers." 
 
 Father Banks, although a good deal amused, appeared to be 
 in conflict with himself. Vexation and pleasure were curiously 
 mingled in his countenance. " Let us have done," said he at 
 last, " with all this nonsense. Even the bravest, who has heard 
 dozens of balls whistle by his ears, has his running-away 
 moments, the purest bride of heaven in a cloister is sometimes 
 no better than a daughter of Eve, and the wisest man under the 
 moon has his times when Tom Fool is wiser than he." 
 
 " Do let us talk of something else then," said Frederika. 
 " Papa, do you begin." 
 
 " Apropos, my dear Commandant," cried Mr. Banks, " do 
 you know I have sold you ? To get clear of the Dead Guest, I 
 have sold you to Freddy there. Don't be angry. As your 
 former guardian, I thought I might take something upon myself. 
 There, Freddy, take him and be happy together." 
 
 Both sprang up and fell upon his neck. 
 
 " But stop !" cried he. " Waldrich, away with your uniform, 
 for Freddy must live with us. I have given you to her, not her 
 to you." 
 
 " I will ask my dismissal to-morrow, papa." 
 
 " Children !" said Father Banks, while he gave way to his 
 emotion amidst their embraces, " your joy somewhat chokes me 
 or the like. Mamma, bring the wine !" 
 
THE HEMLOCK TREE. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN. 
 BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 O HEMLOCK tree ! O hemlock tree ! how faithful are thy branches ! 
 
 Green not alone in summer time, 
 
 But in the winter's frost and rime ! 
 O hemlock tree ! O hemlock tree ! how faithful are thy branches ! 
 
 O maiden fair ! O maiden fair ! how faithless is thy bosom ! 
 
 To love me in prosperity, 
 
 And leave me in adversity. 
 O maiden fair ! O maiden fair ! how faithless is thy bosom. 
 
 The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example ! 
 So long as summer laughs, she sings, 
 But in the autumn spreads her wings. 
 
 The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example ! 
 
 The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy 
 
 falsehood ! 
 
 It flows so long as falls the rain, 
 In drought its springs soon dry again. 
 
 The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy 
 falsehood. 
 
WASHINGTON CROSSING THE ALLEGHANY. 
 
 BY ANNE C. LYNCH. 
 
 MORE proudly on thy winding course, 
 
 Dark Alleghany, flow ! 
 The noblest burden thou could'st bear 
 
 Is on thy waters now. 
 
 But calm be every turbid wave, 
 And hushed be wind and storm, 
 
 There lies a nation's destiny 
 Within that gallant form. 
 
 A spirit that shall stem a tide 
 More deep and dark than thine ; 
 
 That on a night of war shall bid 
 The star of victory shine. 
 
 A spirit that through coming time 
 Shall bear a hallowed name ; 
 
 The glory of old conquerors 
 Shall pale before his fame. 
 
 And young ambition on his course 
 
 Shall turn its eagle eye, 
 And men invoke his sainted shade 
 
 In threat'ning anarchy. 
 
 24* 
 
278 THE GIFT. 
 
 No baleful meteor shall he be, 
 To dazzle from afar, 
 
 But in the firmament of fame, 
 A fixed, a polar star. 
 
LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF A RECLUSE. 
 
 Jan. 1st, 183-. To-day it occurred to me that I would keep 
 a journal. The reason I have not done so before is, because I 
 have thought that, where no events transpired, as here, and 
 where one's mind dwelt so uniformly as mine has done on a 
 few general conclusions that have given me the darkest views of 
 life, a journal would be a most monotonous document. What 
 can have led me into such clouds of dark thoughts? I shall never 
 forget with what contempt I turned away from B., who told me 
 I should outgrow melancholy. But lately his words have often 
 occurred to me, and I am half inclined to believe that melancholy 
 is but another name for ill health and want of air and exercise. 
 Ennobling thought, that all these immortal longings, these aspi- 
 rations that neither earth nor heaven can satisfy, ' this perpetual 
 moaning of the soul for sympathy, like the sea-shell for the 
 waters that should fill it,' that these should be the results of a 
 fit of indigestion ! No, it cannot be so. It is the struggle of the 
 soul when she feels for the first time her fetters, as she wakes 
 from the unconsciousness of childhood, bewildered with the 
 mystery around her; aspiring, doubting, despairing, she at 
 last falls, overcome with her own violence, and when she rises 
 from the shock it is with the subdued serenity of middle age. 
 
 I am often inclined to laugh at the inverted notions of things 
 I used to have, but before a smile is formed tears get the start of 
 it. " Reverence, oh young, the delusions of thy youth," says 
 "Schiller. It is traitorous to our own hearts, when we alone have 
 
280 THE GIFT. 
 
 witnessed their agonies and known their indefinable desires, thus 
 to turn the world's evidence, and join in the smile at their vain 
 aspirations and fruitless struggles, and betray their weaknesses. 
 No, my poor heart ! never again will I jest with thy delusions or 
 the tears it has cost thee to part with them. Little indeed hast 
 thou found of sympathy or love in the world, and now that thou 
 wouldst cast away the mantle of the Ideal as unfit for the blasts 
 and frosts thou must encounter, and wouldst gird on thy shrink- 
 ing form the protecting armour of Philosophy, though thou 
 totterest with its weight, I would not bereave thee of thy last 
 stronghold, the sympathy of thyself. 
 
 2d. I quite like journalizing. It will be company for me, and 
 this is what I most need. To be thus " the cannibal of one's own 
 thoughts" is horrible. To move among our fellow-beings wrapt 
 in ourselves, invisible, scanning the actions, compassing the petty 
 motives, too often detecting other qualities than virtue, this drives 
 us back upon ourselves, and teaches that 
 
 " There is no bond that mocks at Fate 
 Like man's with his own heart." 
 
 Moore says, in his Life of Sheridan, that the knowledge we 
 acquire in maturity and from inclination, in contradistinction to 
 that received through the medium of the birch, has about it a 
 freshness the latter can never possess. This is my daily expe- 
 rience. Knowledge breaks upon me now like light upon the 
 restored vision of the blind. I thank Fortune that I was such a 
 paragon of idleness in my childhood. I am far from being free 
 from it yet, however, though it is quite time. Twenty years of 
 a life is sufficient for hibernation. 
 
 I am really pleased with this new acquaintance, myself. She 
 is more companionable than I thought she would be, after being 
 neglected for a lifetime. Not that I have had no thoughts, but 
 they were shadowy from not being expressed in language. 
 Why then have I never written before ? I believe it is because 
 life has seemed of too little importance to record even a feeling 
 
DIARY OF A RECLUSE. 281 
 
 of its weariness. But that state has passed away. There is 
 sublimity to me now in existence alone. To know that I am a 
 part of this infinite, mysterious creation, a conscious atom, 
 capable of beholding the beauty and immensity of the universe, 
 this is indeed worth a life of suffering. 
 
 '3d. It was my intention in commencing this journal to ex- 
 press some of the thoughts that have agitated me for the last two 
 or three years. I have never given them utterance before 
 not because my heart was not aching to do so, but because I 
 have never met those who cared what I thought, or who would 
 understand me, perhaps, if 1 told them. Goethe says somewhere 
 that he was possessed of a surplus of sentiment, and, as he could 
 do nothing else until he had disposed of that, he wrote Werter. 
 And I have an accumulation of egotism that I must throw off 
 here, or I shall not be able to proceed. The action of mind is 
 always interesting to me, particularly when it is under the influ- 
 ence of strong emotions. 
 
 Until I was seventeen I was a mere child in thought and 
 action. I think it was studying Natural Philosophy, (albeit I 
 studied sparingly,) that first gave an impulse to my latent facul- 
 ties. That was the ' deep-felt ray' that loosened the avalanche 
 of thought, which, rushing with rapidity and violence through 
 my devoted head, left despair and desolation in its track, and 
 stopped not in its mad career till it reached the very outposts of 
 the universe, till it had boldly questioned time and eternity of 
 their secrets, and nature of her Author. Then my mind, (to 
 drop the avalanche,) stood still, overwhelmed with doubt and 
 confusion : it had flown beyond its natural atmosphere, and 
 could not breathe the rarefied ether that surrounded it ; like the 
 meteoric stones that by some strange convulsion are elevated 
 almost without the sphere of the earth's attraction, but yet 
 revolve with it until some other change once more precipitates 
 them into its bosom, here have I been these three years in this 
 unenviable state of betweenity, till now, suddenly and by some 
 unknown cause, I find myself once more on a mental terra 
 
282 THE GIFT. 
 
 firma, and on the whole, if no wiser, I think rather better, for the 
 jaunt. In this state of feeling of which I have been speaking, 
 but for a few ties, life would have been an intolerable burden. 
 As it was, I often deliberated on the question of throwing it off. 
 To me, 
 
 " Love, fame, ambition, avarice, were the same ; 
 Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst, 
 For all were meteors of a different name, 
 And death the sable smoke where vanished the flame." 
 
 To trace the cause of this state of mind, it would seem to have 
 arisen from the intellect's being suddenly excited to action, and 
 then continuing to act without any regulator to its motion, so that 
 it was tossed about like a boat without rudder or ballast on a 
 stormy ocean. If I had then formed the habits of industry I now 
 have, or had become more interested in study and society, I might 
 have been spared much suffering. It is keeping aloof from the 
 bustle and conflict of life, and looking at it through the cold 
 medium of reason, that makes us chilled and indifferent, as often 
 in a ball-room, I have been an uninterested observer, till I 
 became at last an excited actor. He is wrong, then, who calls 
 this indifference to life, and the consequent misery, in one who 
 idealizes rather than acts, the effect of an over- wrought imagi- 
 nation. It is no fancy, it is indeed the truth. All is vanity. 
 But he errs, I admit, who dwells morbidly on it. There is 
 somewhere in Bulwer's * Asmodeus at Large,' the story of a 
 youth who, thirsting for forbidden knowledge, would 
 
 " Lift the painted veil that men call life." 
 
 To escape from the horrible sights that his newly acquired 
 power reveals to him, he flies to his mistress, but as he ap- 
 proaches her he discovers ' no whole but a million of lives loath- 
 some and awful.' It had such an effect on me when I read it, 
 that I cannot think of it now without a shudder. 
 
 The external world is beautiful. Turn which way we will, to 
 
DIARY OF A RECLUSE. 283 
 
 the heavens, the sea, the earth, we are * dazzled and drunk with 
 beauty ;' to the graceful forms of animals, and our wonder is 
 lost in admiration ; to our own species, to the soul-lit eye, the 
 blushing cheek, and the intellectual brow, and our delight is 
 deepened into love. Life itself is a pleasure the power of 
 motion in the invisible supporting air, and the thousand exqui- 
 site sensations we are so delicately constituted as to receive 
 every moment, are in themselves sufficient to make existence 
 almost rapturous ; but wo to him who would penetrate those 
 regions of darkness and doubt that lie beyond the natural boun- 
 daries of his mental vision. He is like that lover who, not 
 satisfied that the cheek of his mistress blushes for him, would 
 decompose it to its frightful elements, till, horror-stricken, he 
 turns from the hideous sight. I have not then been acting or 
 thinking falsely, but only foolishly. Henceforth, since there is a 
 bright side to human life, let me keep my eyes steadily fixed on 
 that, and, if possible, be blind to all else. With this page let 
 there be an end to all horrors. 
 
 5th. Just finished Latrobe's Travels in North America. He 
 says, " No man can pass over it, from east to west, from north 
 to south, without bringing away the impression, that if on any 
 part of his earthly creation the finger of God has drawn charac- 
 ters that would seem to indicate the seat of empire, surely it is 
 there." The desire to travel has been a passion with me for 
 years. If the body is always confined, the mind must remain 
 so in some degree, despite reading and thinking. It convinces 
 us that we are not indeed the centre of the world, and that the 
 sun shines on other lands and other races. Once, my ideas of 
 the delights of travelling were more highly wrought, as my 
 knowledge was more limited, but knowing the facts instead of 
 the poetry has not diminished the desire. 
 
 It has always seemed to me that our country presented a 
 noble field for a national poet. The elements of poetry are 
 here, and want but the master hand to combine them. These 
 elements are, its immense extent, its varieties of climate and 
 
284 THE GIFT. 
 
 scenery, its noble rivers, its boundless prairies, its primeval 
 forests, its aborigines, the sudden dawning of the continent like a 
 radiant vision on the eyes of the Old World, and lastly, its pre- 
 sent government and the glorious revolution that established it. 
 
 7th. Just read the Court and Camp of Bonaparte, and I half 
 regret it, for the writer with his faint praise has succeeded in 
 belittling Napoleon, in my eyes at least, much more effectually 
 than Scott, whose prejudice is so apparent, that one sees at once 
 that for him nothing good could come out of France. This other 
 writer, instead of dazzling us with glimpses of his comet-like 
 career, gives us petty details that destroy the whole effect. The 
 reading of it is like going behind the curtains at one of those 
 dioramas, which are very beautiful if seen in the proper distance 
 and light. 
 
 " Of all that flattered, followed, sought, and sued," how few 
 adhered to the Emperor in his fall ! What a bitter disappoint- 
 ment to a young and generous nature to find that the world is 
 indeed made of such materials. I used to have a sort of poetic 
 creed that it was selfish, cold, and ungrateful, but at the same 
 time there was a latent hope that it might be poetry after all. It 
 remained for experience, corroborated by history, to demonstrate 
 its sad reality. 
 
 8th. To-day I read a book of travels, a poor thing enough, 
 but interesting to me, as it describes 
 
 " The scenes my earliest dreams have dwelt upon." 
 
 Can it be that my presentiments will never be realized, and that 
 I shall die without seeing those lands, when I have envied even 
 the waves that kiss their sunny shores 1 
 
 The author seems to belong to that class of persons who are 
 neither poets nor men of common sense. Poets often lack 
 common sense, or rather, see every thing through a poetic 
 haze, and nothing with vulgar eyes. For instance, Lamartine, 
 
DIARY OF A RECLUSE. 285 
 
 in his Pilgrimage to the Holy Land, while our own countryman 
 was disputing with his guide about the bucksheesh, belabouring 
 his donkey, or amusing himself with his servant Paul's persona- 
 tion of the disciple at Jerusalem, he was weeping in holy rap- 
 tures, prostrated before the sacred relics. Lamartine was a poet 
 without common sense Stephens a man of common sense, with- 
 out a spark of poetry. Both are delightful in this case ; but I 
 like best those characters which unite these qualities, and where 
 they are united the best poets are produced that is, poets who 
 delight all and Goethe says " The poet deserves not the name 
 when he only speaks out those few feelings that are his as an 
 individual. Only when he can appropriate and tell the story of 
 the world is he a poet." None but the most poetical minds read 
 Shelley, while the most ordinary appreciate Byron. But I am 
 getting into difficulty, for I really think Shelley the greater poet 
 of the two so I must think it over again. 
 
 To-day I have been so lonely ! This loneliness I generally 
 contrive to keep at bay by intense occupation of some kind yet 
 there are times when this fails, and books offer no consolation 
 when I want a living, breathing, sympathizing friend. But 
 Mashallah ! as the Turks say, I am fast reading " Constanti- 
 nople and its Environs." As long as I do not travel, I have a 
 strong desire ungratified, and this has something to do in pro- 
 ducing happiness, I think. It has always seemed to me that 
 perfect happiness and perfect misery were nearly allied, because 
 both states are hopeless. I remember reading a story of two 
 lovers who died of being perfectly happy and paradoxical as 
 it seems, I fully believe such a thing might happen. 
 
 12th. The last volume of Smollett's continuation of Hume I 
 finished last night. Thank heaven, it is read through. It ap- 
 pears to me that Hume is overrated. Though his history is 
 good as a reference, and it may be a duty to read it, it is hardly 
 a pleasure. He could not easily be more uninteresting. 
 
 I4.th. Read Burr's Memoirs. I recollect a little incident Mr. 
 
 25 
 
286 THE GIFT. 
 
 T told me of him. At some place where he visited there 
 
 was a pretty child, of which he was very fond and often brought 
 it presents. Caressing it one day the child playfully put her 
 
 hand in Burr's pocket. Mr. T said he should never forget 
 
 the look of scorn with which he cast the little girl from him he 
 never spoke to her again. Whatever may have been his faults, 
 it is melancholy to see an old man like him walking among his 
 fellow-men scorning and scorned. I have a fellow-feeling with 
 misanthropes ; that is, I can understand how a noble nature 
 should turn from the mass of its fellow-creatures too often with 
 pity or contempt, it should be pity, pity for their selfishness and 
 petty malice their stupidity, living in such a world of wonders, 
 where every pebble and every blade of grass is a miracle and a 
 mystery, yet living and dying with scarcely a thought above 
 the sod that at length covers their dust. Yet, were we made to 
 soar ? May not genius be a disease ? Oh dear ! it is dull talking 
 to one's self one wants contradiction sometimes. 
 
 2Qth. Since I wrote here last, I have stood by the dying bed 
 
 and followed to her narrow home my friend C . Oh heaven ! 
 
 what a scene ! to see the dread conqueror clasp in his embrace 
 the form we have often caressed, and the cold damp earth heaped 
 over the bosom that cherished high aspirations and warm affec- 
 tions ! To-night I have been to the grave. One week since I 
 spoke to her, I held her hand, I kissed the cheek that daylight 
 may never more look upon. 
 
 " Answer me, burning stars of night, 
 Where is the spirit gone ?" 
 
 How strange, that though I have often thought of death, and 
 even meditated hastening it, I never till now knew the weight of 
 mortality ! Hereafter, let me live with the last hour before me. 
 I have not loved my friends enough, I have been exacting of 
 their love, and avaricious of my own. How mad, how insen- 
 sible I have been ! I see myself in a new light, an intellectual 
 and moral being, by a mysterious destiny brought into existence, 
 
DIARY OF A RECLUSE. 287 
 
 borne irresistibly along towards a gulf, which I cannot fathom, 
 and over whose depths hang clouds dark and impenetrable. 
 Every moment hurries me along, and yet I ask not, I think not, 
 I know not, to what. 
 
 21 st. l The moon is beaming silver bright,' the stars are 
 looking down with a melancholy gaze ; I have looked on them 
 a moment since : they are the very same that inspired the fan- 
 tasies of Plato and Pythagoras. There they shine with their 
 pale, sad light, and Plato and Pythagoras are gone, and gene- 
 rations have vanished like the waves that have broken on 
 the sea-shore. Myriads of eyes have looked on them, myriads 
 of beings like myself have ' lived, loved, and died,' yet they 
 are not changed. I look upon them to-night a few more 
 years and I shall see them not, but still they will shine on. 
 What is humanity amidst such a universe, and what am 1 1 The 
 very trees under my window have lived longer than I can live, 
 my life, the very breath of heaven can destroy it. Races and 
 generations are nothing; the mighty machine rolls on and 
 sweeps them away. Father of light and life ! thou alone 
 knowest the conflicting thoughts that agitate my soul ; give me 
 a right spirit, and guide me in the way of truth ; thou only 
 canst know my desire for it. Make me submissive to thy de- 
 crees, and prepare me for whatever fate awaits me hereafter. 
 
 23d. This has been a wretched day to me. I have had 
 another of those paroxysms of tears that I vainly thought had 
 ceased for ever. I thought their fountains were dry. Struggle 
 on, brave spirit! thou dost buffet the billows right bravely. 
 Storms of wild thoughts have rushed over thee ; thou hast fed 
 on the gall and wormwood of existence ; * thou hast made idols 
 and hast found them clay ;' thou hast looked over the broad 
 universe for one spot where thou mightest repose, but in vain 
 all is inhospitable, dark, and forbidding back thou comest to 
 thyself, weary, but finding no rest, yet thou dost struggle on ; 
 courage, good heart ! thy pilgrimage shall soon be over, and 
 
288 THE GIFT. 
 
 though no beam of brightness breaks through the gloom of the fu- 
 ture, yet on the mercy of thy Creator thou mayest calmly repose. 
 
 This has been a day of continued occupation, and all 
 the thinking that I have done has been to wonder that I could 
 possibly feel so wretchedly as I did yesterday. My occupation 
 has been nothing less than overturning the garret and restoring 
 it to order ! As garrets and poets are often connected, perhaps 
 there is something inspiring in the air of one. I feel so well I 
 am ashamed. I have no more sympathy with what is written 
 on my last page than a child. I have but one feeling, that of 
 perfect health, with the liveliness that always gives me. There 
 is an animal for you ! I wonder how every one can look so 
 doleful and mope about so, and yesterday I was on the bed 
 crying my eyes out half the day, in the most hopeless melan- 
 choly and despair. All this for breathing the air of the garret ! 
 But I shall have another day of rapture to-morrow, gathering 
 paper, rags, emptying old bandboxes, and packing bundles. 
 After that I suppose I shall sink again to the level of the second 
 story and the companionship of musty books. 
 
 28th. Finished Guizot's History of Civilization in Europe, a 
 clear and concise view of its progress, speaking of which he 
 says, " Thus man advances in the execution of a plan which he 
 has not conceived, of which he is not aware, and comprehends 
 by its results alone. Conceive a great machine, the design of 
 which is centered in a single individual, though its various parts 
 are entrusted to different workmen, strangers, and separated 
 from each other; none of these understand the work as a 
 whole, which he concurs in producing : and thus by the hand of 
 man are the designs of Providence wrought out in the govern- 
 ment of the world." Thus it has often appeared to me that we 
 are the instruments of some great and unknown end. But I 
 forbear to speculate. 
 
 I have been quite ill to-day from a blow received on my head 
 yesterday on being unceremoniously thrown out of a sleigh and 
 
DIARY OF A RECLUSE. 289 
 
 dashed against a fence, and but for my quilted bonnet, that 
 honoured member (my head) would have lost all sensibility to 
 pains and aches. As I was riding home I amused myself with 
 thinking how little force was wanting to have quieted me for 
 ever. Then I should have been unconscious. There would 
 have been the same bustle, the preparing of coffin and shroud 
 that there was here a few days since ; they would have buried 
 me, canvassed my merits and failings, wept a little, and there it 
 would have ended. In the hearts of a few the shock would be 
 great and lasting ; but I have been so long separated from all I 
 love that even were I to die, I should be scarcely a loss to them. 
 Oh this waste of the affections ! this hoarding of them up as the 
 miser does his treasures, till they rot and rust ! it is death it is 
 worse than death ! To live in such a desert as this I must be 
 made of ' sterner stuff than many. I do not forget my books ; 
 they indeed are all my consolation ; but they are like the sun in 
 this wintry day it shines, it lights up the earth with a thousand 
 beautiful hues, but it is distant, it is cold. It warms not, though 
 it gives us light. How often my heart aches for a kind word, an 
 approving smile, from some one who loves me. But, perhaps, 
 this is weakness. 
 
 Feb. 1st. Read Mary of Burgundy. The Lord of Hannut 
 says, " Hidden within the bosom of this mortal clay is some fine 
 essence, participating in the affections of the earthly thing it 
 inhabits, but thirsting for knowledge beyond this world, and 
 yearning for joys more pure and love more imperishable than 
 the joy and love of this world can ever be." 
 
 I regret that I do not write here every day. When I think of 
 all the thoughts that have passed over my mind like shadows 
 across a mirror, and left as little trace, it is always with a feeling 
 of regret, and yet why should that be cause for regret more than 
 that the beautiful clouds will disappear, and the flowers and 
 leaves 1 A beautiful thought is not more beautiful than a flower, 
 yet we see myriads of them die without leaving a trace of their 
 
 25* 
 
290 THE GIFT. 
 
 existence, and never sigh for them, why should we for lost 
 thoughts ? 
 
 3d. I determined to write a page here, good or bad, every 
 night, but last night I had no fire, and to-night I have no ideas. 
 
 I said to B to-day in my letter, that some years ago 
 
 my imagination took the reins of my mind, and drove off 
 after* the manner of Phaeton, leaving the other faculties to 
 come up at their lagging pace. Thinking of it again, I am 
 sure it is so. 
 
 Poor C , how soon I have forgotten her ! I have often 
 
 asked myself if I were willing to be as lightly thought of. I 
 answer, yes. While I live I am avaricious of every breath of 
 affection and love my friends can bestow, but after I have ceased 
 to be conscious in the oblivion of the grave, or have passed into 
 a higher and holier state, why should I demand the tears and 
 vain regrets of those who loved me here ? If there were still 
 enjoyments in the world, why should I have their thoughts 
 coffined with me ? 
 
 But would I be forgotten ? Oh no ! I would have my memory 
 recalled like a strain of remembered music, like a pleasant land- 
 scape or a sunset, causing no sorrow when they disappear. 
 
 Hitherto I have always been unable to comprehend the desire 
 expressed so often and by so many, for posthumous fame ; but 
 to-day as I sat reading, the idea of my thoughts living in the 
 minds of thousands when I existed no longer came across me 
 with an emotion of sublimity I have rarely felt. This power to 
 reach down, if I may say so, and connect one's self with the 
 remotest posterity, is indeed a glorious immortality. 
 
 I am quite horrified to think how little I improve the time. 
 Strange, that when these few flitting years are all that we pos- 
 sess, we squander them in such idle pursuits, with a world of 
 science, art, and beauty before us to be explored ! Would I 
 could always remember that the moments are flying like arrows, 
 and worlds cannot redeem one of them that he is unworthy of 
 
DIARY OF A RECLUSE. 291 
 
 life who has lived and made the world no better, and set fainting 
 virtue no bright example. 
 
 6th. I often find that when I begin to express my thoughts 
 they are quite new to me, or, before they are clothed in lan- 
 guage, I cannot distinguish them. I suppose it is because I have 
 never written them (before now) and for the last year or two 
 have not spoken them at all. My mind will collect materials, 
 but it shrinks from the labour of putting them together it will 
 form the cocoons, but it does not like to spin and weave them 
 into fabrics. 
 
 Read Attila. I like the character of Ildica. After the scenes 
 of terror she passed through, the voice of her lover had no music 
 for her, and she retired to the solitude of a convent, though no 
 obstacle prevented her union. I can conceive it. When the 
 events of our lives call out an unnatural energy, the moment we 
 become conscious of a superhuman power to meet and battle 
 with our fate, that moment life assumes a new aspect. Gifted 
 with a strange power, breathing in a rarer spirit, we are forced 
 against our wills above the passions and feelings whose slaves 
 we once were, and doomed from our elevation to behold them 
 diminish in magnitude and lustre. Alas for that elevation ! 
 Alas for that human heart ! 
 
 It is dreadful to think how I have wasted all my life. The 
 next three months I mean to improve vigorously. The mind is 
 acted on by laws like matter, and the more resistance we over- 
 come the more we have the power of overcoming. If I were to 
 measure the momentum of my mind, however, by the force re- 
 quired to put it in motion, it would be tremendous. It is idle to 
 regret the past ; the future I can control. But am I quite sure of 
 that ? How do I know that we are not made for a certain des- 
 tiny, as a watch to strike so often 1 How this question of destiny 
 haunts me ! It is better to act than to speculate, however. I 
 laugh outright often at the stupid wonder that overcomes me 
 when I begin to think but I oftener cry. 
 
 Commenced the History of Rome. What a divine power is 
 
292 THE GIFT. 
 
 this of acquiring knowledge! Though I often ask myself, 
 " What from this barren being do we reap ?" surely it is not 
 so barren. 
 
 We should be thankful for the boon of existence, had we but 
 this one faculty of acquiring knowledge, that is, as I happen to 
 feel just now. Add to this the countless pleasures of eye and 
 ear of the affections and the senses and who shall say he is 
 miserable ? What a beautiful bond of union is mind ! How it 
 carries us back and unites us with the great spirits of the past ! 
 Ages have trodden down their graves, worms have eaten their 
 very dust ; yet their thoughts live. Ethereal and imperishable, 
 they float down the awful current of time while empires and men 
 are swallowed in its mysterious depths. And I, but a bubble on 
 this mighty ocean, I can comprehend these thoughts, can sym- 
 pathize and unite my own with them, can make them a part of 
 me, and feel that they at least will be immortal. 
 
 8th. I have always delighted in that story of Bulwer's in the 
 ' Pilgrims of the Rhine,' called the * Life of Dreams,' where a 
 young German student succeeds in continuing a dream night 
 after night, till at length it becomes the reality, and real life the 
 dreaming state. Why, since the beings of the actual world are 
 such, should we not betroth to ourselves the beings of the mind 1 
 Speak to them, they answer in our own tongue ; love them, and 
 the glowing page tells us eloquently that they would have loved 
 us. Is love a dream or a reality? Once I believed in love, 
 how devoutly ! But was not this love of the imagination ? I 
 think it was. Yet it is the highest feeling of which our nature 
 is capable. I say it is the love of the imagination, yet I know 
 not that. We call it so, perhaps, because lovers are not often 
 under its influence for a long time. They seem to discover that 
 they have loved an ideal instead of a reality, and then they 
 graduate their love accordingly. This every day's experience 
 proves, but it does not, after all, disprove the existence of love. 
 How much I have dreamed of love when I was younger and 
 more poetical than I am now ! I have looked on the dew-drops 
 
DIARY OF A RECLUSE. 293 
 
 and seen them by some strange sympathy draw nearer and 
 nearer, and mingle into one; I have seen floating blocks of 
 inanimate matter, without any apparent cause, advance till they 
 united ; I have heard the strings of a guitar, when you spoke 
 on the key to which it was attuned, thrill back a corresponding 
 tone ; I have watched the electric cloud whirling through space, 
 stormy and dark, giving no brightness and uttering no voice till 
 it met its sister cloud ; and I turned in bitterness of soul to ask 
 myself if amid all these sympathies of nature the human heart 
 only was doomed to wander on in its pilgrimage, desolate and 
 alone. And is it indeed so? Are all these aspirations and 
 desires to be mocked by the seeming of love, as the mirage of 
 the desert mocks the thirsty traveller with green spots and 
 flowing streams ? I have struggled against this conviction, but 
 I feel that this love is too elevated for humanity. We may 
 desire, but we cannot attain it. Earliest, brightest, and last of 
 my delusions, I resign thee. I turn from thee as from a guiding 
 star: pale, steady, and bright, thou hast beamed on my dark 
 horizon, and now thou settest for ever. As the idolater, knowing 
 not the true God, lavishes his adoration on some object of his 
 own creation, and invests it with the attributes of the Deity, 
 Spirit of Love ! even so have I worshipped thee. I have wor- 
 shipped thee, and thou art but a phantom of my own mind. I 
 renounce my idolatry. Sweet, radiant dream ! throwing over 
 life an ideal drapery, thou comest no more to me ; the touch of 
 reason has broken the spell that bound thee to me, and now thou 
 departest for ever. 
 
 March 9th. I am delighted with Gibbon. Though I have 
 such a grand plan marked out for study, I cannot follow it up 
 with half the perseverance I wish. Can I not throw off this 
 torpor by exertion, as travellers keep awake in frozen regions, 
 where to sleep is not to wake again? In this case sleep is 
 death also. For what is it to live without the exercise of our 
 powers, like toads that lie buried for years in rocks ? I choose to 
 
294 THE GIFT. 
 
 come out, if it is only like the toad, to hop round a little, and 
 take the air. 
 
 Spring has come again with her warm south winds, her 
 loosened waters, and melting snows. What a perpetual miracle 
 is this change of seasons ! How they roll on and bear me with 
 them ! For some weeks I have not thought of death. Would it 
 not be well to set apart a few minutes every day to reflect on it. 
 
 llth. With such a delightful course of study before me how 
 can I weary as I do ? It must be that I have no natural fond- 
 ness for it, but have been driven to it by circumstances. I have 
 long known that I must not place my hopes of happiness in 
 others. Death follows in the rear of the unfaithful and snatches 
 up the few that remain to us. And how melancholy a thing is 
 this change ! There has been a friend that we loved, with 
 whose heart our own accorded, and like well-tuned instruments 
 they gave not a discordant note. We part years intervene 
 we meet again, but oh ! with what sinking of heart, to find that 
 we are strangers ! Different scenes and thoughts have turned 
 the currents that ran so smoothly together, and they mingle 
 no longer. That is a bitter and melancholy hour, more bitter 
 and melancholy than death itself, for if death takes those we 
 love, their memory remains fresh and beautiful, and on that we 
 can repose. But the estranged, the cold, the changed ! it were 
 well if we could blot out their memory. As I was saying, then, 
 our friends die and change, we ourselves grow old, and as the 
 vigour of our youth decays, and the flowers of our spring wither, 
 some objects must supply their place ; and where shall we find 
 them if not in our own minds'? and what shall these objects be if 
 not the cultivation of taste and the acquisition of knowledge? 
 These make us independent of time and place. Like the camel 
 in the parched desert, we bear within us the fountain to supply 
 the wants of our solitary pilgrimage. Thus refreshed and in- 
 vigorated, we patiently travel on, while those around us languish 
 beneath the storm, or die of the feverish thirst. One might ask, 
 
DIARY OF A RECLUSE. 295 
 
 " Will not this course make you selfish, by putting you above 
 the necessity of sympathy ?" No, not more than is necessary. 
 Why, when we find nothing to lean upon, should we not support 
 ourselves? I have been too dependent. Like the harp that 
 responds to every breeze, so has my inmost soul vibrated to 
 every adverse breath of unkindness, injustice, and change. Is 
 it not time then that the instrument were new-strung, and the 
 chords made of sterner stuff? Since the midsummer of my life 
 is departing, let it bear with it like the summer of earth its 
 perishing flowers. Bright, beautiful aspirations of my youth! 
 yearnings for that love a God only can satisfy, for that sym- 
 pathy that earth will never give ! * radiant and white-robed 
 dreams !' ye leave me now for ever. Go with the youth that 
 cherished you and the tears that flowed at your coming. 
 
 I2tk. I find myself even now with all my improvements 
 often debating whether this mortal coil is in truth a desirable 
 appendage. A sudden weariness of life comes over me and, 
 
 " I could lie down like a tired child, 
 And weep away a life of care." 
 
 But I know this is wrong. I know that it is better to live. We 
 are endowed with beautiful sympathies and divine faculties : we 
 can love and pity ; we can think and imagine, and paint those 
 imaginings in words and colours ; we can perceive the harmony 
 and beauty of the world about us : and is not this worth living 
 for ? And on the arch that history builds over the gulf of the past, 
 we can wander back to remote antiquity, and trace the nations 
 of our kind while they sleep under the weight of centuries. 
 ' What are our wars and sufferance ?' What if the world is 
 unkind, our friends indifferent, and our affections water but the 
 desert? Nature is true. In the calmness of the sunshine, the 
 terror of the storm, in the beauty of the insect and the flower, in 
 the mysteries of the stars, and in the action of her unchanging 
 laws, does she not alike reveal herself beautiful to our gaze and 
 worthy of our contemplation ? Then come those * beings of the 
 
296 THE GIFT. 
 
 mind' that people the visions of the poet, and minister to those 
 finer wants of our nature that reality overlooks. Then there is 
 the power of doing good to those around us. With such objects 
 before you will you call life a burden, when a few brief years 
 at most will deprive you of it ? Let me then turn aside this 
 morbid sensibility, and pass at once from the dreaming and 
 sentimental girl to the active, resolute, and high-souled woman, 
 chastened and subdued by thought and adversity. 
 
 To-day I finished the reign of Diocletian. Is it not strange 
 that history presents but two instances, that I recollect, of men 
 wearied with the glitter of a throne, voluntarily descending from 
 their elevation ! When Maximian remonstrated, Diocletian re- 
 plied, "You would not wonder if you could see my cabbages 
 grow." 
 
 Is it not a proof that we are low in the scale of being, this fact 
 that any thing like greatness of mind, nobility, or generosity, 
 strikes us as something so strange? The world gazes in as 
 much astonishment to see a man perform a really generous 
 action, as if he had suddenly mounted in the air on wings. It 
 must be a low state of existence when the beautiful, the holy, 
 and the elevated, excite such emotions of novelty, rather than 
 that which is base, cowardly, and low. The latter surround us 
 like the air we breathe. Show us the contrary, and we wonder 
 and praise ; praise a good action ! praise virtue ! praise a 
 man because he has done just as he should do ! 
 
 13th. A lost day. 
 
 I4:th. Almost as bad. I fail to keep constantly before my 
 mind the idea of the shortness of life, and the certainty that I 
 must die. How every disappointment and petty vexation is 
 swallowed up in that awful truth ! What a panacea for all ills ! 
 How cheerful, how happy I am after thinking of it ! It gives 
 my thoughts a freedom they never had before, and my mind a 
 calm and delightful elevation. I say it does this when I think 
 of it, and I was just wondering why it is so little in my thoughts. 
 
DIARY OF A RECLUSE. 297 
 
 Perhaps the reason is that it is unnatural to one of my years and 
 temperament. Hitherto I have rebelled, now I submit. Since 
 life was so fair I was disappointed that it was not paradise. I 
 have overlooked the actual good, and clamoured for the ima- 
 ginary. 
 
 15th. Despite philosophy and every thing else, there have 
 been two or three hours to-day when life was almost insup- 
 portable. Suddenly the fit passed off, and left me as light- 
 hearted as it found me. How many thousand times has this 
 sickness come over me, and I have wept till my tears were 
 exhausted ! It is a strange state this abandonment of despair ! 
 Friends, foes, art, nature, the beautiful, the deformed, all dis- 
 appear in the blackness that enshrouds me. Indifference to life, 
 death, heaven, and hell takes the place of my warm affections 
 and lively perceptions. Formerly I felt this often, but of late 
 more rarely. As I have said before, it is not imagination but 
 truth that produces this effect, and the error is in allowing our- 
 selves to think upon that which maddens and overwhelms us. 
 As in crossing some awful precipice the only safety is in fixing 
 your eyes on some distant and motionless object, neglecting 
 which, you are precipitated into the abyss, so in passing 
 through life if the soul is diverted from heaven and repulsed 
 from earth, concentrated in herself, and intent on her slender 
 foothold, she reels with fearful giddiness, and, perhaps, in mad- 
 ness plunges into the gulf of the unknown future. 
 
 Another week is gone irrevocably ! how strange that it should 
 startle us no more ! Silently and steadily the days glide along, 
 stealing from us our youth, digging our graves, and hastening 
 our footsteps towards them, and we, fools that we are, heed 
 not the swift- winged messengers. Ye fleeting hours, particles 
 of this existence that is wasting so rapidly away ! shall I 
 permit you to depart with no record that you have passed over a 
 being like myself, when like the south wind that sweeps over 
 the flowers, your wings should be laden 1 
 
 26 
 
298 THE GIFT. 
 
 16th. To-day I have read over some old letters, 
 " Relics of love and life's enchanted spring," 
 
 and thought of my old friends, the dead and the changed, for 
 change or death has them nearly all. I held in my hand words 
 traced on the most perishable material, yet even they had satis- 
 fied the hearts that dictated, the hands that transcribed them. I 
 read over the gushing and glowing thoughts of those who are 
 now as changed and cold to me as I to them, but whom I once 
 met delighted and delighting. Bitter, melancholy truth, that 
 neither love nor friendship endures ! Time sweeps over and 
 buries all, as the clouds of sand sweep over the plains of Egypt, 
 burying her magnificent monuments, and gradually entombing 
 the pyramids themselves. As the excavator among these relics 
 removes the sand and soil, and stands in the presence of the 
 past, so I have to-day communed with these spectres of love and 
 friendship. 
 
 I wish to write here every day, for I think when I have 
 nothing to say, it is evidence that the day has been wasted, and 
 who is so rich that he can afford to lose a day ? 
 
 To-day I have painted. What delightful arts are painting and 
 poetry ! with the one we can delineate the forms and with the 
 other the emotions of beauty. 
 
 17 'th. I have just been reading two or three of Hazlitt's 
 Essays, where he expresses my feelings almost in my own 
 words. How delightful thus to meet with a soul that responds 
 to mine, though thousands of miles intervene between the coun- 
 tries of our birth, and beyond rises the impassable barrier of the 
 grave. 
 
 As I was walking along on the shore to-day, I found myself 
 musing on a notorious instance of unkindness, and asking 
 myself, " What have you to expect from such a world ?" which 
 I think was a very silly question. Of course I have nothing to 
 
DIARY OF A RECLUSE. 299 
 
 expect. And do I ask a reward for whatever good I might 
 chance to do, in the shape of kindness or gratitude? Are my 
 virtues to be sold even at such prices? Then are they paltry 
 indeed. No, I have nothing to sell. Whatever good I can do 
 should be done freely, without hope of reward. If I would live 
 aright, self-sacrifice is the first lesson I must learn. What a 
 low motive for being good, the hope of a reward ! And even 
 if it were not a low motive it would be a very useless one, 
 inasmuch as the reward is seldom forthcoming. The greatest 
 benefactor of the race, men crucified. Let me endeavour to 
 imitate his divine humility and love, and his utter abnegation of 
 self. 
 
 I continue to read Gibbon. When I think of those massacres 
 of thousands, each one of whom was a creature like myself, and 
 follow the gradual but irresistible march of ages as they move 
 on, bearing down empires, and trampling on humanity as on 
 dust, how do I shrink into nothingness! Often after reading 
 history a mental giddiness comes over me, and the world and 
 the things in it seem gliding like a moving panorama before me, 
 as, after sailing a long time, when we stop, the room takes the 
 motion of the boat. 
 
 25th. This is our first spring day. How delightful it has 
 been ! and yet there is always something melancholy in this 
 season to me, ' the saddest of the year.' I just now returned 
 from an hour's sitting on the rock by the shore, watching the 
 sunset; surely none could be more lovely Italian or any other. 
 I leaned my head back and half closed my eyes; the clouds 
 seemed like islands in some land of enchantment, (islands in 
 land,) and while I sat watching, one after another faded, till at 
 last ' they were gone and all was gray.' B 's idea of per- 
 fect happiness is floating on a cloud with the one we love. 
 Dreamy enough, yet I could not give a better definition of 
 happiness. There must be moments in love that would atone 
 
300 THE GIFT. 
 
 for a life of misery. That first consciousness of its presence 
 when 
 
 " We feel that we adore, 
 
 To such refined excess, 
 
 That though the heart would break with more, 
 It could not live with less." 
 
 To feel this, must be to feel the concentrated poetry of exis- 
 tence. In the desert of life, love is the oasis that we pine to 
 reach that reaching, we weep to part from, and to which we 
 still turn back with longing, lingering look. 
 
 As the time approaches for me to leave this place, I grow so 
 impatient that it seems to me the next fortnight will never pass. 
 How two years of solitude and study have changed me ! How 
 gay I was once ! How subdued and sedate I am now ! Those 
 that have known me before, will scarcely recognise me now. 
 In thinking over the list of my early friends, how many have 
 
 gone to their last repose ! Only a few weeks since, H , 
 
 among others. She was my earliest friend. How many giddy 
 hours I have frolicked away with her ! yet the last time we met 
 how cold was our meeting, how tearless our parting ! We had 
 grown strangers. 
 
 To-morrow I shall leave this " abomination of desolation" for 
 ever. It will cost me some pain to do so, notwithstanding it has 
 scarcely afforded me a happy moment for the last two years 
 that I have vegetated here. Perhaps I shall be like the old 
 prisoner released from the Bastille, who came back and begged 
 to die there. 
 
 This is the last page of my journal. I close this and my 
 exile together. 
 
 THE END.