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 BUCKTHORNE AND THE HOPKEI 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER, 
 
 Hh Bly ny 
 
 A f 4099 
 
 yp 
 
 ¥ maleate a ." 
 UNIVERSITY OF IL! INOIS. 
 BY 
 
 GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 
 
 AUTHOR OF “THE SKETCH BOOK,” “BRACEBRIDGE HALL,” “KNICKERBOCKERS NEW 
 YORK,” ETC. 
 
 Jam neither your minotaure, nor your eentaure, nor your satyr nor your hyena, nor your bablon, 
 
 but your meer traveller, believe me. 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 AUTHOR’S REVISED EDITION. 
 
 COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 G. P. PUTNAM, 441 BROADWAY. 
 1864. 
 
ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, by 
 Wasuineton Irvine, 
 in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York. 
 
 JOHN F. TROW, 
 PRINTER, STEREOTYPER, AND ELECTROTYPER, 
 46,48 & 50 Greene Street, 
 New York. 
 
= 
 IS6Y 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 TO THE TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 BucKTHORNE AND TUE SHOPKEEPER’S DAUGHTER, = - DARLEY, . Front. 
 Tur Botp DraGcoon, : A 2 A “ Do. ~ Title: 
 
 VIGNETTES IN THE TEXT. 
 
 PAGE 
 To THe READER, phe eer Cee ee Se ee teen, * “SS OSIERRION, vii 
 View or MAYENCE, . c - : ~ : 2 : Do. A xi 
 Tue LITTLE ANTIQUARY, . - E > . ; - DARLEY, . xii 
 SNUFFERS, . 6 : - - 2 x A . ° - HERRICK, . 88 
 Tue GUILLOTINE, , : : - : ry - )) DARLEY, 56 
 THe GENTLEMAN IN GREEN, . ° 4 - : : - Do. ~ 163 
 ENTANGLEMENT, . Es ; A ; * : « Herrick, - 236 
 THe INN aTTERRACINA, - : ‘ : Pe ar Do. 820 
 MISADVENTURE OF THE Popxins Famity, . . . . DARLEY, : 827 
 Tue Patnrer’s ADVENTURE, . - : 2 A ° - Do. A 338 
 Tnr ENGLIsHMAN’s ADVENTURE, . ‘ P : A 4 Do. : 876 
 Tue Money DicceErs, tl SEP ee cme ot Saar Do. 477 
 
 822749 
 
PART AL 
 
 STRANGE STORIES BY A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN. 
 
 THE GREAT UNKNOWN, . ‘ ‘ : : 
 THE Hunting Dinner, ; ; ; 
 THe ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE, . : ; ‘ 
 Tue ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT, ; : : 
 THE Botp DraGoon, oR THE ADVENTURE OF MY GRANDFATHER, 
 pxTue ADVENTURE OF THE GERMAN STUDENT, . * : 
 Tut ADVENTURE OF THE MysTERIOoUS PICTURE, . ‘ 
 Tue ADVENTURE OF THE MysTERIous STRANGER, ; ; 
 
 Tue Story oF THE YounG ITALIAN, ; . 
 
 PART IT, 
 
 BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 LireraAry LIFF, : : : ‘ , 
 A Lirerary DINNER, ; | / : ‘ 
 Tue CLUB oF QuEER FELLOWS, . - = 
 Tue Poor Devin AvrHor, . ; : ; 
 Notoriety, ; ; ; ‘ : ; 
 A PracticAL PHILOSOPHER, . : : i 
 BuckTHORNE, OR THE YouNG MAN oF GREAT EXPECTATIONS, . 
 GRAVE REFLECTIONS OF A DISAPPOINTED MAN, . : 
 Tue Boosy Squire, , . ; - : 
 
 Tue STROLLING MANAGER, . , 4 ; 
 
 123 
 126 
 131 
 139 
 164 
 167 
 170 
 237 
 244 
 251 
 
6 CONTENTS. 
 
 PART III. 
 THE ITALIAN BANDITTI. 
 
 PAGE 
 THe Inn aT TERRACINA, . , * J 2278 
 THE ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY, : ° 289 
 Tue BEeLaTeD TRAVELLERS, ; ‘ : - 800 
 THE ADVENTURE OF THE Popkus FamI_y, ‘ : 821 
 THE ParnTEr’s ADVENTURE, ; : : . 828 
 THE Story oF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN, ; ' 339 
 THe Story or THE YounG Rosser, : . . 854 
 THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGLISHMAN, . , : 369 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 THE MONEY-DIGGERS, 
 
 He..t-GaTr, . ‘ : : : . 879 
 Kipp THE Pirate, . : , P : 883 
 Tue Devit anp Tom WALKER, . : f . $91 
 Wo.tFerT WEBBER, OR GOLDEN DREAMS, . : _ 410 
 
 Tue ADVENTURE OF THE BLACK FISHERMAN, 5 . 4389 
 
 es 
 
ORTHY anp Dear Reapver!—Hast thou ever 
 \ been waylaid in the midst of a pleasant tour by 
 some treacherous malady : thy heels tripped up, and thou 
 left to count the tedious minutes as they passed, in the 
 solitude of an inn chamber? If thou hast, thou wilt be 
 able to pity me. Behold me, interrupted in the course 
 of my journeying up the fair banks of the Rhine, and 
 laid up by indisposition in this old frontier town of 
 Mentz. I have worn out every source of amusement. 
 I know the sound of every clock that strikes, and bell 
 that rings, in the place. I know to a second when to 
 listen for the first tap of the Prussian drum, as it sum- 
 mons the garrison to parade, or at what hour to expect 
 the distant sound of the Austrian military band. All 
 these have grown wearisome to me; and even the well- 
 known step of my doctor, as he slowly paces the corridor, 
 with healing in the creak of his shoes, no longer affords 
 an agreeable interruption to the monotony of my apart- 
 ment. : 
 
Vili TO THE READER. 
 
 For a time I attempted to heguile the weary hours, 
 by studying German under the tuition of mine host’s 
 pretty little daughter, Katrine; but I soon found even 
 German had not power to charm a languid ear, and that 
 the conjugating of ich Liebe might be powerless, however 
 rosy the lips which uttered it. 
 
 I tried to read, but my mind would not fix itself. I 
 turned over volume after volume, but threw them by 
 with distaste: ‘ Well, then,” said I at length, in de- 
 spair, “if I cannot read a book, I will write one.” 
 Never was there a more lucky idea; it at once gave 
 me occupation and amusement. The writing of a book 
 was considered in old times as an enterprise of toil and 
 difficulty, insomuch that the most trifling lucubration 
 was denominated a “ work,” and the world talked with 
 awe and reverence of “the labors of the learned.” 
 -—These matters are better understood nowadays. 
 
 Thanks to the improvements in all kind of manufac- 
 tures, the art of book-making has been made familiar 
 to the meanest capacity. Everybody is an author. 
 The scribbling of a quarto is the mere pastime of the 
 idle; the young gentleman throws off his brace of duo- 
 decimos in the intervals of the sporting season, and the 
 young lady produces her set of volumes with the same 
 facility that her great-grandmother worked a set of 
 chair-bottoms. 
 
 The idea having struck me, therefore, to write a 
 book, the reader will easily perceive that the execution 
 
TO THE READER. ix 
 
 of it was no difficult matter. Irummaged my portfolio, 
 and cast about, in my recollection, for those floating 
 materials which a man naturally collects in travelling ; 
 and here I have arranged them in this little work. 
 
 As I know this to be a story-telling and a story- 
 reading age, and that the world is fond of being taught 
 by apologue, I have digested the instruction I would 
 convey into a number of tales. They may not possess 
 the power of amusement, which the tales told by many 
 of my contemporaries possess ; but then I value myself 
 on the sound moral which each of them contains. This 
 may not be apparent at first, but the reader will be 
 sure to findit out intheend. lam for curing the world 
 by gentle alteratives, not by violent doses ; indeed, the 
 patient should never be conscious that he is taking a 
 dose. I have learnt this much from experience under 
 the hands of the worthy Hippocrates of Mentz. 
 
 I am not, therefore, for those barefaced tales which 
 carry their moral on the surface, staring one in the face ; 
 they are enough to deter the squeamish reader. On 
 the contrary, I have often hid my moral from sight, and 
 disguised it as much as possible by sweets and spices, 
 so that while the simple reader is listening with open 
 mouth to a ghost or a love story, he may have a bolus 
 of sound morality popped down his throat, and be never 
 the wiser for the fraud. 
 
 As the public is apt to be curious about the sources 
 whence an author draws his stories, doubtless that it 
 
 1* 
 
x - TO THE READER. 
 
 may know how far to put faith in them, I would ob- 
 serve, that the Adventure of the German Student, or 
 rather the latter part of it, is founded on an anecdote 
 related to me as existing somewhere in French; and, 
 indeed, I have been told, since writing it, that an 
 ingenious tale has been founded on it by an English 
 writer ; but I have never met with either the former 
 or the latter in print. Some of the circumstances in the 
 Adventure of the Mysterious Picture, and in the Story of 
 the Young Italian, are vague recollections of anecdotes 
 related to me some years since; but from what source 
 derived, I do not know. The Adventure of the Young 
 Painter among the banditti is taken almost entirely 
 from an authentic narrative in manuscript. 
 
 As to the other tales contained in this work, and 
 indeed to my tales generally, I can make but one ob- 
 servation; I aman old traveller; I have read somewhat, 
 heard and seen more, and dreamt more than all. My 
 brain is filled, therefore, with all kinds of odds and 
 ends. In travelling, these heterogeneous matters have 
 become shaken up in my mind, as the articles are apt 
 to be in an ill-packed travelling trunk ; so that when I 
 attempt to draw forth a fact, I cannot determine whether 
 I have read, heard, or dreamt it; and I am always 
 at a loss to know how much to believe of my own 
 stories. 
 
 These matters being premised, fall to, worthy reader, 
 with good appetite ; and, above all, with good hamor, 
 
TO THE READER. X1 
 
 to what is here set before thee. If the tales I have 
 furnished should prove to be bad, they will at least be 
 found short; so that no one will be wearied long on 
 the same theme. “ Variety is charming,” as some poet 
 observes. 
 
 There is a certain relief in change, even though it be 
 from bad to worse! As I have often found in travel- 
 ling in a stage-coach, that it is often a comfort to shift 
 one’s position, and be bruised in a new place. 
 
 Ever thine, 
 GEOFFREY CRAYON. 
 
 Dated from the HoTEL DE DARMSTADT, 
 ci-devant Hore. DE Paris, 
 MernvTz, otherwise called MAYENCE. / 
 
. 
 ; 
 
PAR DL EFLIRST. 
 
 STRANGE STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN. 
 
 I'll tell you more, there was a fish taken, 
 A monstrous fish, with a sword by’s side, a long sword, 
 A pike in’s neck, and a gun in’s nose, a huge gun, 
 And letters of mart in’s mouth from the Duke of Florence. 
 Cleanthes.—This is a monstrous lie. 
 Tony.— I do confess it. 
 Do you think I'd tell you truths ? 
 Fietouer’s Wife for a Month, 
 
THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 
 
 HE following adventures were related to me by the same 
 nervous gentleman who told me the romantic tale of the 
 Stout Gentleman, published in Bracebridge Hall. It is very 
 singular, that although I expressly stated that story to have 
 been told to me, and described the very person who told it, 
 still it has been received as an adventure that happened to 
 myself. Now I protest I never met with any adventure of 
 the kind. I should not have grieved at this, had it not been 
 intimated by the author of Waverley, in an introduction to 
 his novel of Peveril of the Peak, that he was himself the stout 
 gentleman alluded to. I have ever since been importuned by 
 questions and letters from gentlemen, and particularly from 
 ladies without number, touching what I had seen of the Great 
 Unknown. . 
 
 Now all this is extremely tantalizing. It is like being 
 congratulated on the high prize when one has drawn a blank ; 
 for I have just as great a desire as any one of the public to 
 penetrate the mystery of that very singular personage, whose 
 voice fills every corner of the world, without any one being 
 able to tell whence it comes. 
 
 My friend, the nervous gentleman, also, who is a man of 
 very shy, retired habits, complains that he has been exces- 
 
16 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 sively annoyed in consequence of its getting about in his 
 neighborhood that he is the fortunate personage. Insomuch, 
 that he has become a character of considerable notoriety in 
 two or three country towns, and has been repeatedly teased 
 to exhibit himself at blue-stocking parties, for no other reason 
 than that of being “the gentleman who has had a glimpse of 
 the author of Waverley.” 
 
 Indeed the poor man has grown ten times as nervous as 
 ever since he has discovered, on such good authority, who the 
 stout gentleman was; and will never forgive himself for not 
 having made a more resolute effort to get a full sight of him. 
 He has anxiously endeavored to call up a recollection of what 
 he saw of that portly personage ; and has ever since kept a 
 curious eye on all gentlemen of more than ordinary dimen- 
 sions, whom he has seen getting into stage-coaches. All in 
 vain! The features he had caught a glimpse of seem common 
 to the whole race of stout gentlemen, and the Great Unknown 
 remains as great an unknown as ever. 
 
 Having premised these circumstances, I will now let the 
 nervous gentleman proceed with his stories. 
 
 Ses 
 
THE HUNTING DINNER. 
 
 I WAS once at a hunting-dinner, given by a worthy fox- 
 
 hunting old Baronet, who kept bachelor’s hall in jovial 
 style in an ancient rook-haunted family mansion, in one of the 
 middle counties. He had been a devoted admirer of the fair 
 sex in his younger days; but, having travelled much, studied 
 the sex in various countries with distinguished success, and 
 returned home profoundly instructed, as he supposed, in the 
 ways of woman, and a perfect master of the art of pleasing, 
 had the mortification of being jilted by a little boarding-school 
 girl, who was scarcely versed in the accidence of love. 
 
 The Baronet was completely overcome by such an incred- 
 ible defeat; retired from the world in disgust; put himself 
 under the government of his housekeeper ; and took to fox- 
 hunting like a perfect Nimrod. Whatever poets may say to 
 the contrary, a man will grow out of love as he grows old; 
 and a pack of fox-hounds may chase out of his heart even the 
 memory of a boarding-school goddess. The Baronet was, 
 when I saw him, as merry and mellow an old bachelor as ever 
 followed a hound; and the love he had once felt for one 
 woman had spread itself over the whole sex; so that there 
 was not a pretty face in the whole country round but came in 
 
 \ 
 
 for a share. 
 
18 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 The dinner was prolonged till a late hour; for our host 
 having no ladies in his household to summon us to the draw- 
 ing-room, the bottle maintained its true bachelor sway, unri- 
 valled by its potent enemy, the tea-kettle. The old hall in 
 which we dined echoed to bursts of robustious fox-hunting 
 merriment, that made the ancient antlers shake on the walls. 
 By degrees, however, the wine and the wassail of mine host 
 began to operate upon bodies already a little jaded by the 
 chase. The choice spirits which flashed up at the beginning of 
 the dinner, sparkled fora time, then gradually went out one 
 after another, or only emitted now and then a faint gleam from 
 the socket. Some of the briskest talkers, who had given 
 tongue so bravely at the first burst, fell fast asleep; and 
 none kept on their way but certain of those long-winded 
 prosers, who, like short-legged hounds, worry on unnoticed at 
 the bottom of conversation, but are sure to be in at the 
 death. Even these at length subsided into silence; and 
 scarcely any thing was heard but the nasal communications 
 of two or three veteran masticators, who having been silent 
 while awake, were indemnifying the company in their sleep. 
 
 At length the announcement of tea and coffee in the cedar- 
 parlor roused all hands from this temporary torpor. Every 
 one awoke marvellously renovated, and while sipping the 
 refreshing beverage out of the Baronet’s old-fashioned hered- 
 itary china, began to think of departing for their several 
 homes. But here a sudden difficulty arose. While we had 
 been prolonging our repast, a heavy winter storm had set in, 
 with snow, rain, and sleet, driven by such bitter blasts of 
 wind, that they threatened to penetrate to the very bone. 
 
 “Tt’s all in vain,” said our hospitable host, “ to think of 
 
THE HUNTING DINNER. 19 
 
 putting one’s head out of doors in such weather. So, gentle- 
 men, I hold you my guests for this night at least, and will 
 have your quarters prepared accordingly.” 
 
 The unruly weather, which became more and more tem- 
 pestuous, rendered the hospitable suggestion unanswerable. 
 The only question was, whether such an unexpected accession 
 of company to an already crowded house, would not put the 
 housekeeper to her trumps to accommodate them. 
 
 “ Pshaw,” cried mine host; “did you ever know a bache- 
 lor’s hall that was not elastic, and able to accommodate twice 
 as many asit could hold?” . So, out of a good-humored pique, 
 the housekeeper was summoned to a consultation before us 
 all. The old lady appeared in her gala suit of faded brocade, 
 which rustled with flurry and agitation ; for, in spite of our 
 host’s bravado, she was a little perplexed. But in a bache- 
 lor’s house, and with bachelor guests, these matters are readily 
 managed. There is no lady of the house to stand upon 
 squeamish. points about lodging gentlemen in odd holes and 
 corners, and exposing the shabby parts of the establishment. 
 A bachelor’s housekeeper is used to shifts and emergencies ; 
 so, after much worrying to and fro, and divers consultations 
 about the red-room, and the blue-room, and the chintz-room, 
 and the damask-room, and the little room with the bow- 
 window, the matter was finally arranged. 
 
 Whenall this was done, we were once moresummoned to the 
 standing rural amusement of eating. The time that had been 
 consumed in dozing after dinner, and in the refreshment and 
 consultation of the cedar-parlor, was sufficient, in the opinion 
 of the rosy-faced butler, to engender a reasonable appetite for 
 supper. A slight repast had, therefore, been tricked up from 
 
20 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 the residue of dinner, consisting of a cold sirloin of beef, 
 hashed venison, a devilled leg of a turkey or so, and a few 
 other of those light articles taken by country gentlemen to 
 ensure sound sleep and heavy snoring. 
 
 The nap after dinner had brightened up every one’s wit ; 
 and a great deal of excellent humor was expended upon the 
 perplexities of mine host and his housekeeper, by certain 
 married gentlemen of the company, who considered them- 
 selves privileged in joking with a bachelor’s establishment. 
 From this the banter turned as to what quarters each would 
 find, on being thus suddenly billeted in so antiquated a 
 mansion, . 
 
 “ By my soul,” said an Irish captain of dragoons, one of 
 the most merry and boisterous of the party, “ by my soul, 
 but I should not be surprised if some of those good-looking 
 gentlefolks that hang along the walls should walk about the 
 rooms of this stormy night; or if I should find the ghosts 
 of one of those long-waisted ladies turning into my bed in 
 mistake for her grave in the church-yard.” 
 
 “Do you believe in ghosts, then?” said a thin, hatchet- 
 faced gentleman, with projecting eyes like a lobster. 
 
 I had remarked this last personage during dinner-time for 
 one of those incessant questioners, who have a craving, un- 
 healthy appetite in conversation. He never seemed satisfied 
 with the whole of a story; never laughed when others 
 laughed; but always put the joke to the question. He 
 never could enjoy the kernel of the nut, but pestered himself 
 to get more out of the shell. ‘ Do you believe in ghosts, 
 then ?” said the inquisitive gentleman. 
 
 “Faith, but I do,” replied the jovial Irishman. “I was 
 
THE HUNTING DINNER. a1 
 
 brought up in the fear and belief of them. We had a Ben- 
 shee in our own family, honey.” 
 
 “A Benshee, and what’s that ?” cried the questioner. 
 
 “ Why, an old lady ghost that tends upon your real Mile- 
 sian families, and waits at their window to let them know 
 when some of them are to die.” 
 
 “A mighty pleasant piece of information !” cried an elder- 
 ly gentleman with a knowing look, and with a flexible nose, to 
 which he could give a whimsical twist when he wished to be 
 waggish. 
 
 “By my soul, but I’d have you to know it’s a piece of 
 distinction to be waited on by a Benshee. It’s a proof that 
 one has pure blood in one’s veins. Buti faith, now we are 
 talking of ghosts, there never was a house or a night better 
 fitted than the present for a ghost adventure. Pray, Sir 
 John, haven’t you such a thing as a haunted chamber to put a 
 guest in?” 
 
 “ Perhaps,” said the Baronet, smiling, “I might accom- 
 modate you even on that point.” 
 
 “ Oh, I should like it of all things, my jewel. Some dark 
 oaken room, with ugly wobegone portraits, that stare dismally 
 at one; and about which the housekeeper has a power of 
 delightful stories of love and murder. And then a dim lamp, 
 a table with a rusty sword across it, and a spectre all in white, 
 to draw aside one’s curtains at midnight— ” 
 
 “Tn truth,” said an old gentleman at one end of the table, 
 “you put me in mind of an anecdote—” 
 
 “Oh, a ghost story! a ghost story!” was vociferated 
 round the board, every one edging his chair a little nearer. 
 
 The attention of the whole company was now turned upon 
 
99 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 the speaker. He was an old gentleman, one side of whose 
 face was no match for the other. The eye-lid drooped and 
 hung down like an unhinged window-shutter. Indeed, the 
 whole side of his head was dilapidated, and seemed like the 
 wing of a house shut up and haunted. I'll warrant that side 
 was well stuffed with ghost stories. 
 
 There was a universal demand for the tale. 
 
 “ Nay,” said the old gentleman, “ it’s a mere anecdote, and 
 
 a very common-place one; but such as it is you shall have it. 
 It isa story that I once heard my uncle tell as having happened 
 to himself. He was a man very apt to meet with strange 
 adventures. I have heard him tell of others much more sin- 
 gular.” 
 
 “ What kind of a man was your uncle ?” said the question- 
 ing gentleman. 
 
 “Why, he was rather a dry, shrewd kind of body ; a great 
 traveller, and fond of telling his adventures.” 
 
 “ Pray, how old might he have been when that happened ?” 
 
 “When what happened?” cried the gentleman with the 
 flexible nose, impatiently. “ Egad, you have not given any 
 thing a chance to happen. Come, never mind our uncle’s 
 age; let us have his adventures.” 
 
 The inquisitive gentleman being for the moment silenced, 
 the old gentleman with the haunted head proceeded. 
 
THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 
 
 ANY years since, some time before the French Revolu- 
 tion, my uncle passed several months at Paris. The 
 English and French were on better terms in those days than 
 at present, and mingled cordially in society. The English 
 went abroad to spend money then, and the French were always 
 ready to help them: they go abroad to save money at present, 
 and that they can do without French assistance. Perhaps 
 the travelling English were fewer and choicer than at present, 
 when the whole nation has broke loose and inundated the con- 
 tinent. At any rate, they circulated more readily and cur- 
 rently in foreign society, and my uncle, during his residence 
 in Paris, made many very intimate acquaintances among the 
 French noblesse. 
 
 Some time afterwards, he was making a journey in the 
 winter time in that part of Normandy called the Pays de 
 Caux, when, as evening was closing in, he perceived the turrets 
 of an ancient chateau rising out of the trees of its walled 
 park ; each turret with its high conical roof of gray slate, 
 like a candle with an extinguisher on it. 
 
 “To whom does that chateau belong, friend?” cried my 
 uncle to a meagre but fiery postilion, who, with tremendous 
 
 jack-boots and cocked hat, was floundering on before him. 
 
24 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 “'To Monseigneur the Marquis de »’ said the postil- 
 
 ion, touching his hat, partly out of respect to my uncle, and 
 partly out of reverence to the noble name pronounced, 
 
 My uncle recollected the Marquis for a particular friend 
 in Paris, who had often expressed a wish to seé him at his 
 paternal chateau. My uncle was an old traveller, one who 
 knew well how to turn things to account. He revolved for a 
 few moments in his mind, how agreeable it would be to his 
 friend the Marquis to be surprised in this sociable way by a 
 pop visit; and how much more agreeable to himself to get 
 into snug quarters in a chateau, and have a relish of the Mar- 
 quis’s well-known kitchen, and a smack of his superior Cham- 
 pagne and Burgundy, rather than put up with the miserable 
 lodgment and miserable fare of a provincial inn. In a few 
 minutes, therefore, the meagre postilion was cracking his 
 whip like a very devil, or like a true Frenchman, up the long 
 straight avenue that led to the chateau. 
 
 You have no doubt all seen French chateaus, as every- 
 body travels in France nowadays. This was one of the 
 oldest ; standing naked and alone in the midst of a desert of 
 gravel walks and cold stone terraces; with a cold-looking 
 formal garden, cut into angles and rhomboids; and a cold 
 leafless park, divided geometrically by straight alleys; and 
 two or three cold-looking noseless statues; and fountains 
 spouting cold water enough to make one’s teeth chatter. At 
 least such was the feeling they imparted on the wintry day of 
 my uncle’s visit ; though, in hot summer weather, I’ll warrant 
 there was glare enough to scorch one’s eyes out. 
 
 The smacking of the postilion’s whip, which grew more 
 
 and more intense the nearer they approached, frightened a flight 
 
THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 95 
 
 of pigeons out of a dove-cot, and rooks out of the roofs, and 
 finally a crew of servants out of the chateau, with the Mar- 
 quis at their head. He was enchanted to see my uncle, for 
 his chateau, like the house of our worthy host, had not many 
 more guests at the time than it could accommodate. So he 
 kissed my uncle on each cheek, after the French fashion, and 
 ushered him into the castle. 
 
 The Marquis did the honors of the house with the urbanity 
 of his country. In fact, he was proud of his old family 
 chateau, for part of it was extremely old. There was a tower 
 and chapel which had been built almost before the memory 
 of man; but the rest was more modern, the castle having been 
 nearly demolished during the wars of the league. The Mar- 
 quis dwelt upon this event with great satisfaction, and seemed 
 really to entertain a grateful feeling towards Henry the Fourth, 
 for having thought his paternal mansion worth battering down. 
 He had many stories to tell of the prowess of his ancestors ; 
 and several skull-caps, helmets, and cross-bows, and divers 
 huge boots, and buff jerkins, to show, which had been worn 
 by the leaguers. Above all, there was a two-handed sword, 
 which he could hardly wield, but which he displayed, as a 
 proof that there had been giants in his family. 
 
 In truth, he was but a small descendant from such great 
 warriors. When you looked at their bluff visages and brawny 
 limbs, as depicted in their portraits, and then at the little 
 Marquis, with his spindle shanks, and his sallow lantern visage, 
 flanked with a pair of powdered ear-locks, or atles de pigeon, 
 that seemed ready to fly away with it, you could hardly believe 
 him to be of thé’same race. But when you looked at the eyes 
 
 that sparkled out like a beetle’s from each side of his hooked 
 2. 
 
 ~ 
 
26 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 nose, you saw at once that he inherited all the fiery spirit of 
 his forefathers. In fact, a Frenchman’s spirit never exhales, 
 however his body may dwindle. It rather rarefies, and grows 
 more inflammable, as the earthy particles diminish; and I 
 have seen valor enough in a little fiery-hearted French dwarf 
 to have furnished out a tolerable giant. 
 
 When once the Marquis, as was his wont, put on one of 
 the old helmets stuck up in his hall, though his head no more 
 filled it than a dry pea its peascod, yet his eyes flashed from 
 the bottom of the iron cavern with the brillianey of car- 
 buncles; and when he poised the ponderous two-handed 
 sword of his ancestors, you would have thought you saw the 
 doughty little David wielding the sword of Goliath, which 
 was unto him like a weaver’s beam. 
 
 Tlowever, gentlemen, I am dwelling too long on this de- 
 scription of the Marquis and his chateau, but you must excuse 
 me; he was an old friend of my uncle; and whenever my 
 uncle told the story, he was always fond of talking a great 
 deal about his host.—Poor little Marquis! He was one of 
 that handful of gallant courtiers who made such a devoted 
 but hopeless stand in the cause of their sovereign, in the 
 chateau of the Tuileries, against the irruption of the mob on 
 the sad tenth of August. He displayed the valor of a preux 
 French chevalier to the last; flourishing feebly his little court 
 sword with a ga-ca / in face of a whole legion of sans culottes ; 
 but was pinned to the wall like a butterfly, by the pike of a 
 poissarde, and his heroic soul was borne up to heaven on his 
 atles de pigeon. 
 
 But all this has nothing to do with my story. To the 
 
 point, then. When the hour arrived for retiring for the night, 
 
THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 27 
 
 my uncle was shown to his room in a venerable old tower. 
 It was the oldest part of the chateau, and had in ancient 
 times been tlfe donjon or strong-hold ; of course the chamber 
 was none of the best. ‘The Marquis had put him there, how- 
 ever, because he knew him to be a traveller of taste, and fond 
 of antiquities ; and also because the better apartments were 
 already occupied. Indeed, he perfectly reconciled my uncle to 
 his quarters by mentioning the great personages who had once 
 inhabited them, all of whom were, in some way or other, con- 
 nected with the family. If you would take his word for it, 
 John Baliol, or as he called him, Jean de Bailleul, had died of 
 chagrin in this very chamber, on hearing of the success of his 
 rival, Robert de Bruce, at the battle of Bannockburn. And 
 when he added that the Duke de Guise had slept in it, my 
 uncle was fain to felicitate himself on being honored with such 
 distinguished quarters. 
 
 The night was shrewd and windy, and the chamber none 
 of the warmest. An old long-faced, long-bodied servant, in 
 quaint livery, who attended upon my uncle, threw down an 
 armful of wood beside the fireplace, gave a queer look about 
 the room, and then wished him bon repos with a grimace and 
 a shrug that would have been suspicious from any other than 
 an old French servant. 
 
 The chamber had indeed a wild, crazy look, enough to 
 strike any one who had read romances with apprehension and 
 foreboding. ‘The windows were high and narrow, and had 
 once been loop-holes, but had been rudely enlarged, as well as 
 the extreme thickness of the walls would permit; and the ill- 
 fitted casements rattled to every breeze. You would have 
 
 thought, on a windy night, some of the old leaguers were 
 
28 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 / 
 
 tramping and clanking about the apartment in their huge 
 boots and rattling spurs. A door which stood ajar, and, like 
 a true French door, would stand ajar in spite of every reason 
 and effort to the contrary, opened upon a long dark corridor, 
 that led the Lord knows whither, and seemed just made for 
 ghosts to air themselves in, when they turned out of their 
 graves at midnight. The wind would spring up into a hoarse 
 murmur through this passage, and creak the door to and fro, 
 as if some dubious ghost were balancing in its mind whether 
 to come in or not. In a word, it was precisely the kind of 
 comfortless apartment that a ghost, if ghost there were in the 
 chateau, would single out for its favorite lounge. 
 
 My uncle, however, though a man accustomed to meet 
 with strange adventures, apprehended none at the time. He 
 made several attempts to shut the door, but in vain. Not 
 that he apprehended any thing, for he was too old a traveller 
 to be daunted by a wild-looking apartment ; but the night, as 
 I have said, was cold and gusty, and the wind howled about 
 the old turret pretty much as it does round this old mansion 
 at this moment; and the breeze from the long dark corridor 
 came in as damp and as chilly as if from a dungeon. My 
 uncle, therefore, since he could not close the door, threw a 
 quantity of wood on the fire, which soon sent up a flame in 
 the great wide-mouthed chimney that illumined the whole 
 chamber ; and made the shadow of the tongs on the opposite 
 wall look like a long-legged giant. My uncle now clambered 
 on the top of the halfscore of mattresses which form a 
 French bed, and which stood in a deep recess; then tucking 
 himself snugly in, and burying himself up to the chin in the 
 
 bedclothes, he lay looking at the fire, and listening to the 
 
THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 29 
 
 wind, and thinking how knowingly he had come over his 
 friend the Marquis for a night’s lodging—and so he fell 
 asleep. 
 
 He had not taken above half of his first nap when he was 
 awakened by the clock of the chateau, in the turret over his 
 chamber, which struck midnight. It was just such an old 
 clock as ghosts are fond of. It had a deep, dismal tone, and 
 struck so slowly and tediously that my uncle thought it 
 would never have done. He counted and counted till he was 
 confident he counted thirteen, and then it stopped. 
 
 The fire had burnt low, and the blaze of the last fagot was 
 almost expiring, burning in small blue flames, which now and 
 then lengthened up into little white gleams. My uncle lay 
 with his eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn almost down 
 to his nose. His fancy was already wandering, and began to 
 mingle up the present scene with the crater of Vesuvius, the 
 French Opera, the Coliseum at Rome, Dolly’s chop-house in 
 London, and all the farrago of noted places with which the 
 brain of a traveller is crammed :—in a word, he was just fall- 
 ing asleep. 
 
 Suddenly he was roused by the sound of footsteps, slowly 
 pacing along the corridor. My uncle, as I have often heard 
 him say himself, was a man not easily frightened. So he lay 
 quiet, supposing this some other guest, or some servant on 
 his way to bed. The footsteps, however, approached the 
 door; the door gently opened ;- whether of its own accord, or 
 whether pushed open, my uncle could not distinguish: a 
 ficure all in white glided in. It was a female, tall and 
 stately, and of a commanding air. Her dress was of an 
 
 ancient fashion, ample in volume, and sweeping the floor. 
 
30 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 She walked up to the fireplace, without regarding my uncle, 
 who raised his nightcap with one hand, and stared earnestly 
 at her. She remained for some time standing by the fire, 
 which, flashing up at intervals, cast blue and white gleams of 
 light, that enabled my uncle to remark her appearance mi- 
 nutely. 
 
 Her face was ghastly pale, and perhaps rendered still 
 more so by the bluish light of the fire. It possessed beauty, 
 but its beauty was saddened by care and anxiety. There was 
 the look of one accustomed to trouble, but of one whom 
 trouble could not cast down nor subdue; for there was still 
 the predominating air of proud, unconquerable resolution. 
 Such at least was the opinion formed by my uncle, and he 
 considered himself a great physiognomist. 
 
 The figure remained, as I said, for some time by the fire, 
 putting out first one hand, then the other; then each foot al- 
 ternately, as if warming itself; for your ghosts, if ghost it 
 really was, are apt to be cold. My uncle, furthermore, re- 
 marked that it wore high-heeled shoes, after an ancient 
 fashion, with paste or diarnond buckles, that sparkled as 
 though they were alive. At length the figure turned gently 
 round, casting a glassy look about the apartment, which, as it 
 passed over my uncle, made his blood run cold, and chilled 
 the very marrow in his bones. It then stretched its arms 
 towards heaven, clasped its hands, and wringing them in a 
 supplicating manner, glided slowly out of the room. 
 
 My uncle lay for some time meditating on this visitation, 
 for (as he remarked when he told me the story) though a 
 man of firmness, he was also a man of reflection, and did not 
 
 reject a thing because it was out of the regular course of 
 
THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 31 
 
 events. However, being, as I have before said, a great trav- 
 eller, and accustomed to strange adventures, he drew his 
 nightcap resolutely over his eyes, turned his back to the door, 
 hoisted the bedclothes high over his shoulders, and gradually 
 fell asleep. 
 
 How long he slept he could not say, when he was awak- 
 ened by the voice of some one at his bedside. He turned 
 round, and beheld the old French servant, with his ear-locks 
 in tight buckles on each side of a long lantern face, on which 
 habit had deeply wrinkled an everlasting smile. He made a 
 thousand grimaces, and asked a thousand pardons for disturb- 
 ing Monsieur, but the morning was considerably advanced. 
 While my uncle was dressing, he called vaguely to mind the 
 visitor of the preceding night. He asked the ancient domes- 
 tic what lady was in the habit of rambling about this part of 
 the chateau at night. The old valet shrugged his shoulders 
 as high as his head, laid one hand on his bosom, threw open 
 the other with every finger extended, made a most whimsical 
 grimace which he meant to be complimentary, and replied, 
 that it was not for him to know any thing of les bonnes 
 Jortunes of Monsieur, 
 
 My uncle saw there was nothing satisfactory to be learned 
 in this quarter.—After breakfast, he was walking with the 
 Marquis through the modern apartments of the chateau, slid- 
 ing over the well-waxed floors of silken saloons, amidst fur- 
 niture rich in gilding and brocade, until they came to a long 
 picture gallery, containing many portraits, some in oil and 
 some in chalks. 
 
 Here was an ample field for the eloquence of his host, 
 
 who had all the pride of a nobleman of the ancien régime. 
 
32 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 There was not a grand name in Normandy, and hardly one in 
 France, which was not, in some way or other, connected with 
 his house. My uncle stood listening with inward impatience, 
 resting sometimes on one leg, sometimes on the other, as the 
 little Marquis descanted, with his usual fire and vivacity, on 
 the achievements of his ancestors, whose portraits hung along 
 the wall; from the martial deeds of the stern warriors in 
 steel, to the gallantries and intrigues of the blue-eyed gentle- 
 men, with fair smiling faces, powdered ear-locks, laced ruffles, 
 and pink and blue silk coats and breeches ;—not forgetting 
 the conquests of the lovely shepherdesses, with hooped petti- 
 coats and waists, no thicker than an hour-glass, who appeared 
 ruling over their sheep and their swains, with dainty crooks 
 decorated with fluttering ribbons. 
 
 In the midst of his friend’s discourse, my uncle was 
 startled on beholding a full-length portrait, the very counter- 
 part of his visitor of the preceding night. 
 
 “ Methinks,” said he, pointing to it, “I have seen the orig- 
 inal of this portrait.” 
 
 “ Pardonnez moi,” replied the Marquis politely, “that can 
 hardly be, as the lady has been dead more than a hundred 
 years. That was the beautiful Duchess de Longueville, who 
 figured during the minority of Louis the Fourteenth.” 
 
 “ And was there any thing remarkable in her history?” 
 
 Never was question more unlucky. The little Marquis 
 immediately threw himself into the attitude of a man about 
 to tell a long story. In fact, my uncle had pulled upon him- 
 self the whole history of the civil war of the Fronde, in which 
 the beautiful Duchess had played so distinguished a part. 
 Turenne, Coligni, Mazarin, were called up from their graves 
 
THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 33 
 
 to grace his narration; nor were the affairs of the Barrica- 
 does, nor the chivalry of the Port Cocheres forgotten. My 
 uncle began to wish himself a thousand leagues off from the 
 Marquis and his merciless memory, when suddenly the little 
 man’s recollections took a more interesting turn. He was 
 relating the imprisonment of the Duke de Longueville with 
 the Princes Condé and Conti in the chateau of Vincennes, and 
 the ineffectual efforts of the Duchess to rouse the sturdy Nor- 
 mans to their rescue. He had come to that part where she 
 was invested by the royal forces in the Castle of Dieppe. 
 
 “The spirit of the Duchess,” proceeded the Marquis, 
 “rose from her trials. It was astonishing to see so delicate 
 and beautiful a being buffet so resolutely with hardships. 
 She determined on a desperate means of escape. You may 
 have seen the chateau in which she was mewed up ; an old 
 ragged wart of an edifice, standing on the knuckle of a hill, 
 just above the rusty little town of Dieppe. One dark unruly 
 night she issued secretly out of a small postern gate of the 
 castle, which the enemy had neglected to guard. The postern 
 gate is there to this very day ; opening upon a narrow bridge 
 over a deep fosse between the castle and the brow of the hill. 
 She was followed by her female attendants, a few domestics, 
 and some gallant cavaliers, who still remained faithful to her 
 fortunes. Her object was to gain a small port about two 
 leagues distant, where she had privately provided a vessel for 
 her escape in case of emergency. 
 
 “The little band of fugitives were obliged to perform the 
 distance on foot. When they arrived at the port the wind 
 was high and stormy, the tide contrary, the vessel anchored 
 
 far off in the road, and no means of getting on board but by 
 
 9% 
 
34+ TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 a fishing shallop which lay tossing like a cockle-shell on the 
 edge of the surf. The Duchess determined to risk the at- 
 tempt. The seamen endeavored to dissuade her, but the 
 imminence of her danger on shore, and the magnanimity of her 
 spirit, urged her on. She had to be borne to the shallop in 
 the arms of a mariner. Such was the violence of the wind 
 and waves that he faltered, lost his foothold, and let his 
 precious burden fall into the sea. 7 
 
 “The Duchess was nearly drowned, but partly through 
 her own struggles, partly by the exertions of the seamen, she 
 got to land. As soon as she had a little recovered strength, 
 she insisted on renewing the attempt. The storm, however, 
 had by this time become so violent as to set all efforts at 
 defiance. ‘To delay, was to be discovered and taken prisoner. 
 As the only resource left, she procured horses, mounted with 
 her female attendants, en croupe, behind the gallant gentlemen 
 who accompanied her, and scoured the country to seek some 
 temporary asylum. 
 
 “While the Duchess,” continued the Marquis, laying his 
 fore-finger on my uncle’s breast to arouse his flagging atten- 
 tion,—* while the Duchess, poor lady, was wandering amid 
 the tempest in this disconsolate manner, she arrived at this 
 chateau. Her approach caused some uneasiness; for the 
 clattering of a troop of horse at dead of night up the avenue 
 of a lonely chateau, in those unsettled times, and in a troubled 
 part of the country, was enough to occasion alarm. 
 
 “A tall, broad-shouldered chasseur, armed to the teeth, 
 galloped ahead, and announced the name of the visitor. All 
 uneasiness was dispelled. The household turned out with 
 
 flambeaux to receive her, and never did torches gleam on a 
 
THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 35 
 
 more weather-beaten, travel-stained band than came tramping 
 into the court. Such pale, care-worn faces, such bedraggled 
 dresses, as the poor Duchess and her females presented, each 
 seated behind her cavalier: while the half-drenched, half 
 drowsy pages and attendants seemed ready to fall from their 
 horses with sleep and fatigue. 
 
 “The Duchess was received with a hearty welcome by 
 my ancestor. She was ushered into the hall of the chateau, 
 and the fires soon crackled and blazed, to cheer herself and 
 her train; and every spit and stew-pan was put in requisition 
 to prepare ample refreshment for the way farers. 
 
 “She had a right to our hospitalities,” continued the Mar- 
 quis, drawing himself up with a slight degree of statcliness, 
 “for she was related to our family. Tl tell you how it was. 
 Her father, Henry de Bourbon, Prince of Condé——~—” 
 
 ‘“‘ But, did the Duchess pass the night in the chateau?” 
 said my uncle rather abruptly, terrified at the idea of getting 
 involved in one of the Marquis’s genealogical discussions. 
 
 “ Oh, as to the Duchess, she was put into the very apart- 
 ment you occupied last night, which at that time was a kind 
 of state apartment. Her followers were quartered in the 
 chambers opening upon the neighboring corridor, and her 
 favorite page slept in an adjoining closet. Up and down the 
 corridor walked the great chasseur who had announced her 
 arrival, and who acted as a kind of sentinel or guard. He 
 was a dark, stern, powerful-looking fellow; and as the light 
 of a lamp in the eorridor fell upon his deeply-marked face and 
 sinewy form, he seemed capable of defending the castle with 
 his single arm. 
 
 “It was a rough, rude night; about this time of the year 
 
86 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 —apropos !—now I think of it, last night was the anniversary 
 of her visit. I may well remember the precise date, for it 
 was a night not to be forgotten by our house. There is a 
 singular tradition concerning it in our family.” Here the 
 Marquis hesitated, and a cloud seemed to gather about his 
 bushy eyebrows. “There is a tradition—that a strange oc- 
 currence took place that night.—A strange, mysterious, inex- 
 
 ’ Here he checked himself, and paused. 
 
 plicable occurrence—’ 
 “ Did it relate to that lady ?” inquired my uncle eagerly. 
 “Tt was past the hour of midnight,” resumed the Mar- 
 
 quis,—“ when the whole chateau 3 
 
 Here he paused 
 again. My uncle made a movement of anxious curiosity. 
 
 “ Excuse me,” said the Marquis, a slight blush streaking 
 his sallow visage. “There are some circumstances connected 
 with our family history which I do not like to relate. That 
 was a rude period. A time of great crimes among great 
 men: for you know high blood, when it runs wrong, will not 
 run tamely, like blood of the canatlle-—poor lady !—But I 
 have a little family pride, that—excuse me—we will change 
 the subject, if you please—” 
 
 My uncle’s curiosity was piqued. The pompous and 
 magnificent introduction had led him to expect something 
 wonderful in the story to which it served as a kind of avenue. 
 He had no idea of being cheated out of it by a sudden fit of 
 unreasonable squeamishness. Besides, being a traveller in 
 quest of information, he considered it his duty to inquire into 
 every thing. 
 
 The Marquis, however, evaded every question.—“ Well,” 
 said my uncle, a little petulantly, “ whatever you may think 
 
 of it, I saw that lady last night.” 
 
THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 37 
 
 The Marquis stepped back and gazed at him with surprise. 
 
 “She paid me a visit in my bed-chamber.” 
 
 The Marquis pulled out his snuff-box with a shrug and a 
 smile; taking this no doubt for an awkward piece of English 
 pleasantry, which politeness required him to be charmed 
 with. 
 
 My uncle went on gravely, however, and related the 
 whole circumstance. The Marquis heard him through with 
 profound attention, holding his snuff-box unopened in his 
 hand. When the story was finished, he tapped on the lid 
 of his box deliberately, took a long, sonorous pinch of 
 snuff 
 
 “Bah!” said the Marquis, and walked towards the other 
 end of the gallery. 
 
 Here the narrator paused. The company waited for 
 some time for him to resume his narration ; but he continued 
 silent. 
 
 “Well,” said the inquisitive gentleman—“ and what did 
 your uncle say then?” 
 
 “ Nothing,” replied the other. 
 
 * And what did the Marquis say farther ?” 
 
 “ Nothing.” 
 
 “ And is that all?” 
 
 “That is all,” said the narrator, filling a glass of wine. 
 
 “T surmise,” said the shrewd old gentleman with the 
 waggish nose,—“ I surmise the ghost must have been the old 
 housekeeper, walking her rounds to see that all was right.” 
 
 “Bah!” said the narrator. “My uncle was too much 
 accustomed to strange sights not to know a ghost from a 
 
 housekeeper.” 
 9 * 
 
38 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 There was a murmur round the table, half of merriment, 
 half of disappointment. I was inclined to think the old gen- 
 tleman had really an afterpart of his story in reserve; but he 
 sipped his wine and said nothing more; and there was an oad 
 expression about his dilapidated countenance which left me in 
 doubt whether he were in drollery or earnest. 
 
 “Egad,” said the knowing gentleman, with the flexible 
 nose, “this story of your uncle puts me in mind of one that 
 used to be told of an aunt of mine, by the mother’s side; 
 though I don’t know that it will bear a comparison, as the 
 good lady was not so prone to meet with strange adventures. 
 
 But any rate you shall have it.” 
 
 a | 
 
THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. 
 
 M* aunt was a lady of large frame, strong mind, and great 
 
 resolution: she was what might be termed a very manly 
 woman. My uncle was a thin, puny little man, very meek 
 and acquiescent, and no match for my aunt. It was observed 
 that he dwindled and dwindled gradually away, from the day 
 of his marriage. His wife’s powerful mind was too much for 
 him ; it wore him out. My aunt, however, took all possible 
 care of him; had half the doctors in town to prescribe for 
 him; made him take all their prescriptions, and dosed him 
 with physic enough to cure a whole hospital. All was in 
 vain. My uncle grew worse and worse the more dosing and 
 nursing he underwent, until in the end he added another to 
 the long list of matrimonial victims who have been killed with 
 kindness. 
 
 “ And was it his ghost that appeared to her?” asked the 
 inquisitive gentleman, who had questioned the former story- 
 teller. 
 
 “You shall hear,” replied the narrator. My aunt took on 
 mightily for the death of her poor dear husband. Perhaps 
 she felt some compunction at having given him so much 
 physic, and nursed him into the grave. At any rate, she did 
 all that a widow could do to honor his memory. She spared 
 
40 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 no expense in either the quantity or quality of her mourning 
 weeds ; wore a miniature of him about her neck as large as a 
 little sun-dial, and had a full-length portrait of him always 
 hanging in her bed-chamber. All the world extolled her con- 
 duct to the skies; and it was determined that a woman who 
 behaved so well to the memory of one husband deserved soon 
 to get another. 
 
 It was not long after this that she went to take up her 
 residence in an old country-seat in Derbyshire, which had long 
 been in the care of merely a steward and housekeeper. She 
 took most of her servants with her, intending to make it her 
 principal abode. The house stood in a lonely, wild part of 
 the country, among the gray Derbyshire hills, with a mur- 
 derer hanging in chains on a bleak height in full view. 
 
 The servants from town were half frightened out of their 
 wits at the idea of living in such a dismal, pagan-looking 
 place ; especially when they got together in the servants’ hall 
 in the evening, and compared notes on all the hobgoblin 
 stories picked up in the course of the day. They were afraid 
 to venture alone about the gloomy, black-looking chambers. 
 My lady’s maid, who was troubled with nerves, declared 
 she could never sleep alone in such a “ gashly rummaging old 
 building ;” and the footman, who was a kind-hearted young 
 fellow, did all in his power to cheer her up. 
 
 My aunt was struck with the lonely appearance of the 
 house. Before going to bed, therefore, she examined well 
 the fastnesses of the doors and windows; locked up the plate 
 with her own hands, and carried the keys, together with a 
 little box of money and jewels, to her own room; for she was 
 
 a notable woman, and always saw to all things herself. Hav- 
 
THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. 41 
 
 ing put the keys under her pillow, and dismissed her maid, 
 she sat by her toilet arranging her hair; for being, in spite 
 of her grief for my uncle, rather a buxom widow, she was 
 somewhat particular about her person. She sat for a little 
 while looking at her face in the glass, first on one side, then 
 on the other, as ladies are apt to do when they would ascer- 
 tain whether they have been in good looks; for a roistering 
 country squire of the neighborhood, with whom she had flirted 
 when a girl, had called that day to welcome her to the coun- 
 try. 
 
 All of a sudden she thought she heard something move be- 
 hind her. She looked hastily round, but there was nothing 
 to be seen. Nothing but the grimly painted portrait of her 
 poor dear man, hanging against the wall. 
 
 She gave a heavy sigh to his memory, as she was accus- 
 tomed to do whenever she spoke of him in company, and then 
 went on adjusting her night-dress, and thinking of the squire. 
 Her sigh was re-echoed, or answered by a long-drawn breath. 
 She looked round again, but no one was to be seen. She as- 
 cribed these sounds to the wind oozing through the rat-holes 
 of the old mansion, and proceeded leisurely to put her hair in 
 papers, when, all at once, she thought she perceived one of 
 the eyes of the portrait move. . 
 
 “The back of her head being towards it!” said the story- 
 teller with the ruined head,—“ good !” 
 
 “Yes, sir!” replied dryly the narrator, “her back being 
 towards the portrait, but her eyes fixed on its reflection in the 
 glass.” Well, as I was saying, she perceived one of the eyes 
 of the portrait move. So strange a circumstance, as you may 
 well suppose, gave her a sudden shock. To assure herself of 
 
 i) 
 
42 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 the fact, she put one hand to her forehead as if rubbing it; 
 peeped through her fingers, and moved the candle with the 
 other hand. The light of the taper gleamed on the eye, and 
 was reflected from it. She was sure it moved. Nay, more, 
 it seemed to give her a wink, as she had sometimes known 
 her husband to do when living! It struck a momentary 
 chill to her heart; for she was a lone woman, and felt herself 
 fearfully situated. 7 
 
 The chill was but transient. My aunt, who was almost 
 as resolute a personage as your uncle, sir, (turning to the old 
 story-teller,) became instantly calm and collected. She went 
 on adjusting her dress. She even hummed an air, and did not 
 make even~a single false note. She casually overturned a 
 dressing-box; took a candle and picked up the articles one 
 by one from the floor ; pursued a rolling pincushion that was 
 making the best of its way under the bed; then opened the 
 door ; looked for an instant into the corridor, as if in doubt 
 whether to go; and then walked quietly out. 
 
 She hastened down stairs, ordered the servants to arm 
 themselves with the weapons first at hand, placed herself at 
 their head, and returned almost immediately. 
 
 Her hastily-levied army presented a formidable force. 
 The steward had a rusty blunderbuss, the coachman a loaded 
 whip, the footman a pair of horse-pistols, the cook a huge 
 chopping-knife, and the butler a bottle in each hand. My 
 aunt led the van with a red-hot poker, and in my opinion, she 
 was the most formidable of the party. The waiting-maid, 
 who dreaded to stay alone in the servants’ hall, brought up 
 the rear, smelling to a broken bottle of volatile salts, and 
 expressing her terror of the ghostesses. “Ghosts!” said my 
 aunt, resolutely. “T’ll singe their whiskers for them !” 
 
THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. 43 
 
 They entered the chamber. All was still and undisturbed 
 as when she had left it. ‘They approached the portrait of my 
 uncle. 
 
 “ Pull down that picture!” cried my aunt. A heavy 
 groan, and a sound like the chattering of teeth, issued from 
 the portrait. The servants shrunk back; the maid uttered a 
 faint shriek, and clung to the footman for support. 
 
 “Instantly !” added my aunt, with a stamp of the foot. 
 
 The picture was pulled down, and from a recess behind it, 
 in which had formerly stood a clock, they hauled forth a 
 round-shouldered, black-bearded varlet, with a knife as long as 
 my arm, but trembling all over like an aspen-leaf. 
 
 “ Well, and who was he? No ghost, I suppose,” said the 
 inquisitive gentleman. 
 
 “A Knight of the Post,” replied the narrator, “who had 
 been smitten with the worth of the wealthy widow; or rather 
 a marauding Tarquin, who had stolen into her chamber to 
 violate her purse, and rifle her strong box, when all the house 
 should be asleep. In plain terms,” continued he, “ the vaga- 
 bond was a loose idle fellow of the neighborhood, who had 
 once been a servant in the house, and had been employed to 
 assist in arranging it for the reception of its mistress. He 
 confessed that he had contrived this hiding-place for his nefari- 
 ous purpose, and had borrowed an eye from the portrait by 
 way of a reconnoitring-hole.” 
 
 “ And what did they do with him ?—did they hang him ?” 
 resumed the questioner. 
 
 “Hang him !—how could they?” exclaimed a beetle- 
 browed barrister, with a hawk’s nose. “ The offence was not 
 capital. No robbery, no assault had been committed. No 
 forcible entry or breaking into the premises—” 
 
44 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 “ My aunt,” said the narrator, “was a woman of spirit, 
 and apt take the law in her own hands. She had her own 
 notions of cleanliness also. She ordered the fellow to be 
 drawn through the horse-pond, to cleanse away all offences, 
 and then to be well rubbed down with an oaken towel.” 
 
 “ And what became of him afterwards?” said the inquisi- 
 tive gentleman. 
 
 “TI do not exactly know. I believe he was sent on a voy- 
 age of improvement to Botany Bay.” 
 
 “And your aunt,” said the inquisitive gentleman; “T’ll 
 warrant she took care to make her maid sleep in the room 
 with her after that.” 
 
 “ No, sir, she did better; she gave her hand shortly after 
 to the roistering squire; for she used to observe, that it was 
 a dismal thing for a woman to sleep alone in the country.” 
 
 “She was right,” observed the inquisitive gentleman, nod- 
 ding sagaciously ; “but I am sorry they did not hang that 
 fellow.” 
 
 It was agreed on all hands that the last narrator had 
 brought his tale to the most satisfactory conclusion, though a 
 country clergyman present regretted that the uncle and aunt, 
 who figured in the different stories, had not been married to- 
 gether ; they certainly would have been well matched. 
 
 “ But I don’t see, after all,” said the inquisitive gentleman, 
 “that there was any ghost in this last story.” 
 
 “Oh! Ifit’s ghosts you want, honey,” cried the Irish Cap: 
 tain of Dragoons, “if it’s ghosts you want, you shall have a 
 whole regiment of them. And since these gentlemen have 
 given the adventures of their uncles and aunts, faith, and Pll 
 even give you a chapter out of my own family history.” 
 
THE BOLD DRAGOON; 
 
 OR THE 
 
 ADVENTURE OF MY GRANDFATHER. 
 
 Y grandfather was a bold dragoon, for it’s a profession, 
 d’ye see, that has run in the family. All my forefathers 
 have been dragoons, and died on the field of honor, except 
 myself, and I hope my posterity may be able to say the 
 same; however, I don’t mean to be vainglorious. Well, my 
 grandfather, as I said, was a bold dragoon, and had served in 
 the Low Countries. In fact, he was one of that very army, 
 which, according to my uncle Toby, swore so terribly in 
 Flanders. He could swear a good stick himself; and more- 
 over was the very man that introduced the doctrine Corporal 
 Trim mentions of radical heat and radical moisture; or, in 
 other words, the mode of keeping out the damps of ditch- 
 water by burnt brandy. Be that as it may, it’s nothing to 
 the purport of my story. I only tell it to show you that my 
 grandfather was a man not easily to be humbugged. He had 
 seen service, or, according to his own phrase, he had seen the 
 devil—and that’s saying every thing. 
 
 Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was on his way to Eng- 
 land, for which he intended to embark from Ostend—bad luck 
 to the place! for one where I was kept by storms and _head- 
 winds for three long days, and the devil of a jolly companion 
 or pretty girl to comfort me. Well, as I was saying, my 
 
46 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 grandfather was on his way to England, or rather to Ostend 
 —no matter which, it’s all the same. So one evening, towards 
 nightfall, he rode jollily into Bruges.—Very like you all know 
 Bruges, gentlemen ; a queer old-fashioned Flemish town, once, 
 they say, a great place for trade and money-making in old 
 times, when the Mynheers were in their glory ; but almost as 
 large and as empty as an Irishman’s pocket at the present 
 day.—Well, gentlemen, it was at the time of the annual fair. 
 All Bruges was crowded; and the canals swarmed with 
 Dutch boats, and the streets swarmed with Dutch merchants ; 
 and there was hardly any getting along for goods, wares, and 
 merchandises, and peasants in big breeches, and women in 
 half a score of petticoats. 
 
 My grandfather rode jollily along, in his easy, slashing 
 way, for he was a saucy, sunshiny fellow—staring about him 
 at the motley crowd, and the old houses with gable ends to 
 the street, and storks’ nests in the chimneys; winking at the 
 yafrows who showed their faces at the windows, and joking 
 the women right and left in the street ; all of whom laughed, 
 and took it in amazing good part; for though he did not know 
 a word of the language, yet he had always a knack of making 
 himself understood among the women. 
 
 Well, gentlemen, it being the time of the annual fair, all 
 the town was crowded, every inn and tavern full, and my 
 grandfather applied in vain from one to the other for admit- 
 tance. At length he rode up to an old rickety inn, that looked 
 ready to fall to pieces, and which all the rats would have run 
 away from, if they could have found room in any other house 
 to put their heads. It was just such a queer building as you 
 see in Dutch pictures, with a tall roof that reached up into 
 
THE BOLD DRAGOON. 47 
 
 the clouds, and as many garrets, one over the other, as the 
 seven heavens of Mahomet. Nothing had saved it from tum- 
 bling down but a stork’s nest on the chimney, which always 
 brings good luck to a house in the Low Countries ; and at the 
 very time of my grandfather’s arrival, there were two of 
 these long-legged birds of grace standing like ghosts on the 
 chimney-top. Faith, but they’ve kept the house on its legs toe 
 this very day, for you may see it any time you pass through 
 Bruges, as it stands there yet, only it is turned into a brewery 
 of strong Flemish beer,—at least it was so when I came that 
 way after the battle of Waterloo. 
 
 My grandfather eyed the house curiously as he approached. 
 It might not have altogether struck his fancy, had he not seen 
 
 in large letters over the door, 
 
 HEER VERKOOPT MAN GOEDEN DRANK. 
 
 My grandfather had learnt enough of the language to know 
 that the sign promised good liquor. “ This is the house for 
 me,” said he, stopping short before the door. 
 
 The sudden appearance of a dashing dragoon was an event 
 in an old inn frequented only by the peaceful sons of traffie. 
 A rich burgher of Antwerp, a stately ample man in a broad 
 Flemish hat, and who was the great man and great patron 
 of the establishment, sat smoking a clean long pipe on one 
 side of the door; a fat little distiller of Geneva, from 
 Schiedam, sat smoking on the other; and the bottle-nosed 
 host stood in the door, and the comely hostess, in crimped 
 _cap, beside him; and the hostess’s daughter, a plump Flanders 
 lass, with long gold pendants in her ears, was at a side win- 
 
 dow. 
 
48 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 “Humph!” said the rich burgher of Antwerp, with a 
 sulky glance at the stranger. 
 
 “ De duyvel!” said the fat little distiller of Schiedam. 
 
 The landlord saw, with the quick glance of a publican, that 
 the new gucst was not at all to the taste of the old ones; and, 
 to tell the truth, he did not like my grandfather’s saucy eye. 
 He shook his head. “ Nota garret in the house but was full.” 
 
 “ Not a garret!” echoed the landlady. 
 
 “ Not a garret!” echoed the daughter. 
 
 The burgher of Antwerp, and the little distiller of Schie- 
 dam, continued to smoke their pipes sullenly, eyeing the enemy 
 askance from under their broad hats, but said nothing. 
 
 My grandfather was not a man to be browbeaten. He 
 threw the reins on his horse’s neck, cocked his head on one 
 side, stuck one arm akimbo,—‘ Faith and troth!” said he, 
 “ but Pll sleep in this house this very night.”—As he said this 
 he gave a slap on his thigh, by way of emphasis—the slap 
 went to the landlady’s heart. 
 
 He followed up the vow by jumping off his horse, and 
 making his way past the staring Mynheers into the public 
 room.—May be you’ve been in the bar-room of an old Flem- 
 ish inn—faith, but a handsome chamber it was as you’d wish 
 to see; with a brick floor, and a great fireplace, with the 
 whole Bible history in glazed tiles; and then the mantel- 
 piece, pitching itself head foremost out of the wall, with a 
 whole regiment of cracked teapots and earthen jugs paraded 
 on it; not to mention half a dozen great Delft platters, hung 
 about the room by way of pictures; and the little bar in one 
 corner, and the bouncing bar-maid inside of it, with a red 
 calico cap, and yellow ear-drops. 
 
 = 
 
‘THE BOLD DRAGOON. 49 
 
 My grandfather snapped his fingers over his head, as he 
 cast an eye round the room— Faith, this is the very house 
 I’ve been looking after,” said he. 
 
 There was some further show of resistance on the part of 
 the garrison; but my grandfather was an old soldier, and an 
 Irishman to boot, and not easily repulsed, especially after he 
 had got into the fortress. So he blarneyed the landlord, 
 kissed the landlord’s wife, tickled the landlord’s daughter, 
 chucked the bar-maid under the chin; and it was agreed on 
 all hands that it would be a thousand pities, and a burning 
 shame into the bargain, to turn such a bold dragoon into the 
 streets. So they laid their heads together, that is to say, my 
 grandfather and the landlady, and it was at length agreed to 
 accommodate him with an old chamber, that had been for some 
 time shut up. 
 
 “Some say it’s haunted,” whispered the landlord’s daugh- 
 ter; “but you are a bold dragoon, and I dare say don’t fear 
 ghosts.” 
 
 “The devil a bit!” said my grandfather, pinching her 
 plump cheek. “But if I should be troubled by ghosts, Pve 
 been to the Red Sea in my time, and have a pleasant way of 
 laying them, my darling.” 
 
 And then he whispered something to the girl which made 
 her laugh, and give him a good-humored box on the ear. In 
 short, there was nobody knew better how to make his way 
 among the petticoats than my grandfather. 
 
 In a little while, as was his usual way, he took complete 
 possession of the house, swaggering all over it; into the stable 
 to look after his horse, into the kitchen to look after his sup- 
 per. He had something to say or do with every one; smoked 
 
 3 
 
50 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 with the Dutchmen, drank with the Germans, slapped the 
 landlord on the shoulder, romped with his daughter and the 
 bar-maid :—never, since the days of Alley Croaker, had such 
 a rattling blade been seen. The landlord stared at him with 
 astonishment; the landlord’s daughter hung her head and 
 giggled whenever he came near; and as he swaggered along 
 the corridor, with his sword trailing by his side, the maids 
 looked after him, and whispered to one another, “ What a 
 proper man!” 
 
 At supper, my grandfather took command of the table- 
 d’héte as though he had been at home; helped everybody, 
 not forgetting himself; talked with every one, whether he 
 understood their language or not; and made his way into the 
 intimacy of the rich burgher of Antwerp, who had never been 
 known to be sociable with any one during his life. In fact, 
 he revolutionized the whole establishment, and gave it such a 
 rouse, that the very house reeled with it. He outsat every 
 one at table, excepting the little fat distiller of Schiedam, who 
 sat soaking a long time before he broke forth; but when he 
 did, he was a very devil incarnate. He took a violent affection 
 for my grandfather; so they sat drinking and smoking, and 
 telling stories, and singing Dutch and Irish songs, without 
 understanding a word each other said, until the little Hollander 
 was fairly swamped with his own gin and water, and carried 
 off to bed, whooping and hickuping, and trolling the burden 
 of a Low Dutch love-song. 
 
 Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was shown to his quar- 
 ters up a large staircase, composed of loads of hewn timber ; 
 and through long rigmarole passages, hung with blackened 
 paintings of fish, and fruit, and game, and country frolics, and 
 
THE BOLD DRAGOON. 51 
 
 huge kitchens, and portly burgomasters, such as you see 
 about old-fashioned Flemish inns, till at length he arrived at 
 his room. 
 
 An old-times chamber it was, sure enough, and crowded 
 with all kinds of trumpery. It looked like an infirmary for 
 decayed and superannuated furniture, where every thing 
 diseased or disabled was sent to nurse or to be forgotten. Or 
 rather it might be taken for a general congress of old legiti- 
 mate movables, where every kind and country had a repre- 
 sentative. No two chairs were alike. Such high backs and 
 low backs, and leather bottoms, and worsted bottoms, and 
 straw bottoms, and ne bottoms; and cracked marble tables 
 with curiously carved legs, holding balls in their claws, as 
 though they were going to play at nine-pins. 
 
 My grandfather made a bow to the motley assemblage as 
 he entered, and, having undressed himself, placed his light in 
 the fireplace, asking pardon of the tongs, which seemed to be 
 making love to the shovel in the chimney-corner, and whisper- 
 ing soft nonsense in its ear. 
 
 The rest of the guests were by this time sound asleep, for 
 your Mynheers are huge sleepers. The housemaids, one by 
 one, crept up yawning to their attics; and not a female head 
 in the inn was laid on a pillow that night without dreaming 
 of the bold dragoon. 
 
 My grandfather, for his part, got into bed, and drew over 
 him one of those great bags of down, under which they 
 smother a man in the Low Countries; and there he lay, 
 melting between two feather beds, like an anchovy sandwich 
 between two slices of toast and butter. He was a warm 
 
 complexioned man, and this smothering played the very deuce 
 
52 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 with him. So, sure enough, in a little time it seemed as if a 
 legion of imps were twitching at him, and all the blood in his 
 veins was in a fever heat. 
 
 He lay still, however, until all the house was quiet, except- 
 ing the snoring of the Mynheers from the different chambers ; 
 who answered one another in all kinds of tones and cadences, 
 like so many bull-frogs in a swamp. The quieter the house 
 became, the more unquiet became my grandfather. He 
 waxed warmer and warmer, until at length the bed became 
 too hot to hold him. 
 
 “ May be the maid had warmed it too much?” said the 
 curious gentleman, inquiringly. 
 
 “TY rather think the contrary,” replied the Irishman. 
 “ But, be that as it may, it grew too hot for my grandfather.” 
 
 “ Faith, there’s no standing this any longer,” says he. So 
 he jumped out of bed and went strolling about the house. 
 
 “What for ?” said the inquisitive gentleman. 
 
 “ Why to cool himself, to be sure—or perhaps to find a 
 more comfortable bed—or perhaps—But no matter what he 
 went for—he never mentioned—and there’s no use in taking 
 up our time in conjecturing.” 
 
 Well, my grandfather had been for some time absent from 
 his room, and was returning, perfectly cool, when just as he 
 reached the door, he heard a strange noise within. He paused 
 and listened. It seemed as if some one were trying to hum 
 a tune in defiance of the asthma. He recollected the report 
 of the room being haunted ; but he was no believer in ghosts, 
 so he pushed the door gently open and peeped in. 
 
 Egad, gentlemen, there was a gambol carrying on within 
 
 enough to have astonished St. Anthony himself. By the light 
 
THE BOLD DRAGOON. 53 
 
 of the fire he saw a pale weazen-faced fellow, in a long flannel 
 gown and a tall white night-cap with a tassel to it, who sat by 
 the fire with a bellows under his arm by way of bagpipe, from 
 which he forced the asthmatical music that had bothered my 
 grandfather. As he played, too, he kept twitching about with 
 a thousand queer contortions, nodding his head, and bobbing 
 about his tasselled night-cap. 
 
 My grandfather thought this very odd and mighty pre- 
 sumptuous, and was about to demand what business he had to 
 play his wind instrument in another gentleman’s quarters, 
 when a new cause of astonishment met his eye. From the 
 opposite side of the room a long-backed, bandy-legged chair 
 covered with leather, and studded all over in a coxcombical 
 fashion with little brass nails, got suddenly into motion, thrnst 
 out first a claw-foot, then a crooked .rm, and at length, mak- 
 ing a leg, slided gracefully up to an easy chair of tarnished 
 brocade, with a hole in its bottom, and led it gallantly out in 
 a ghostly minuet about the floor. 
 
 The musician now played fiercer and fiercer, and bobbed 
 his head and his night-cap about like mad. By degrees the 
 dancing mania seemed to seize upon all the other pieces of 
 furniture. The antique, long-bodied chairs paired off in 
 couples and led down a country dance; a three-legged stool 
 danced a hornpipe, though horribly puzzled by its super- 
 numerary limb; while the amorous tongs seized the shovel 
 round the waist, and whirled it about the room in a German 
 waltz. In short, all the movables got in motion: pirouctting 
 hands across, right and left, like so many devils; all except a 
 great clothes-press, which kept courtesying and courtesying in 
 
 a corner, like a dowager, in exquisite time to the music; being 
 
54 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 rather too corpulent to dance, or, perhaps at a loss for a 
 partner. 
 
 My grandfather concluded the latter to be the reason; so 
 being, like a true Irishman, devoted to the sex, and at all 
 times ready for a frolic, he bounced into the room, called to 
 the musician to strike up Paddy O’Rafferty, capered up to the 
 clothes-press, and seized upon the two handles to lead her 
 
 out: when—whirr ! the whole revel was at an end. The 
 
 chairs, tables, tongs and shovel, slunk in an instant as quietly 
 into their places as if nothing had happened, and the musician 
 vanished up the chimney, leaving the bellows behind him in 
 his hurry. My grandfather found himself seated in the middle 
 of the floor with the clothes-press sprawling before him, and 
 the two handles jerked off, and in his hands. 
 
 “Then, after ail, this "vas a mere dream !”’ said the inquis- 
 itive gentleman. 
 
 “The divil a bit of a dream!” replied the Irishman. 
 “There never was a truer fact in this world. Faith, I should 
 have liked to see any man tell my grandfather it was a 
 dream.” 
 
 Well, gentlemen, as the clothes-press was a mighty heavy 
 body, and my grandfather likewise, particularly in rear, you 
 may easily suppose that two such heavy bodies coming to the 
 ground would make a bit of a noise. Faith, the old mansion 
 shook as though it had mistaken it for an earthquake. The 
 whole garrison was alarmed. The landlord, who slept below, 
 hurried up with a candle to inquire the cause, but with all his 
 haste his daughter had arrived at the scene of uproar before 
 him. The landlord was followed by the landlady, who was 
 followed by the bouncing bar-maid, who was followed by the 
 
THE BOLD DRAGOON. 55 
 
 simpering chambermaids, all holding together, as well as they 
 could, such garments as they first laid hands on; but all ina 
 terrible hurry to see what the deuce was to pay in the chamber 
 of the bold dragoon. 
 
 My grandfather related the marvellous scene he had wit- 
 nessed, and the broken handles of the prostrate clothes-press 
 bore testimony to the fact. There was no contesting such 
 evidence ; particularly with a lad of my grandfather’s com- 
 plexion, who seemed able to make good every word either 
 with sword or shillelah. So the landlord scratched his head 
 and looked silly, as he was apt to do when puzzled. The 
 landlady scratched—no, she did not scratch her head, but she 
 knit her brow, and did not seem half pleased with the expla- 
 nation. But the landlady’s daughter corroborated it by 
 recollecting that the last person who had dwelt in that cham- 
 ber was a famous juggler who died of St. Vitus’s dance, and 
 had no doubt infected all the furniture. 
 
 This set all things to rights, particularly when the chamber- 
 maids declared that they had all witnessed strange carryings 
 on in that room; and as they declared this “upon their 
 honors,” there could not remain a doubt upon the subject. 
 
 “ And did your grandfather go to bed again in that room ?” 
 said the inquisitive gentleman. 
 
 “ That’s more than I can tell. Where he passed the rest of 
 the night was a secret he never disclosed. In fact, though he 
 had seen much service, he was but indifferently acquainted 
 with geography, and apt to make blunders in his travels about 
 inns at night, which it would have puzzled him sadly to account 
 
 for in the morning.” 
 
56 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 “ ‘Was he ever apt to walk in his sleep?” said the knowing 
 old gentleman. 
 
 “ Never that I heard of.” 
 
 There was a little pause after this rigmarole Irish romance, 
 when the old gentleman with the haunted head observed, that 
 the stories hitherto related had rather a burlesque tendency. 
 “T recollect an adventure, however,” added he, “ which I heard 
 of during a residence at Paris, for the truth of which I can 
 undertake to vouch, and which is of a very grave and singular 
 
 nature.” 
 
ADVENTURE OF THE GERMAN STUDENT. 
 
 N a stormy night, in the tempestuous times of the French 
 revolution, a young German was returning to his lodg- 
 ings, at a late hour, across the old part of Paris. The lightning 
 gleamed, and the loud claps of thunder rattled through the 
 lofty narrow streets—but I should first tell you something 
 about this young German. 
 
 Gottfried Wolfgang was a young man of good family. He 
 had studied for some time at Gottingen, but being of a vision- 
 ary and enthusiastic character, he had wandered into those 
 wild and speculative doctrines which have so often bewildered 
 German students. His secluded life, his intense application, 
 and the singular nature of his studies, had an effect on both 
 mind and body. His health was impaired; his imagination 
 diseased. He had been indulging in fanciful speculations on 
 spiritual essences, until, like Swedenborg, he had an ideal 
 world of his own around him. He took up a notion, I do not 
 know from what cause, that there was an evil “influence hang- 
 ing over him; an evil genius or spirit seeking to ensnare him 
 and ensure his perdition. Such an idea working on his melan- 
 choly temperament, produced the most gloomy effects. He 
 became haggard and desponding. His friends discovered the 
 mental malady preying upon him, and determined that the 
 
 # 
 
58 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 best cure was a change of scene; he was sent, therefore, to 
 finish his studies amidst the splendors and gayeties of Paris. 
 
 Wolfgang arrived at Paris at the breaking out of the revo- 
 lution. The popular delirium at first caught his enthusiastic 
 mind, and he was captivated by the political and philosophical 
 theories of the day: but the scenes of blood which followed 
 shocked his sensitive nature, disgusted him with society and 
 the world, and made him more than ever a recluse. He shut 
 himself up in a solitary apartment in the Pays Latin, the 
 quarter of students. There, in a gloomy street not far from 
 the monastic walls of the Sorbonne, he pursued his favorite 
 speculations. Sometimes he spent hours together in the great 
 libraries of Paris, those catacombs of departed authors, rum- 
 maging among their hoards of dusty and obsolete works in 
 quest of food for his unhealthy appetite. He was, in a man- 
 ner, a literary ghoul, feeding in the charnel-house of decayed 
 literature. 
 
 Wolfgang, though solitary and recluse, was of an ardent 
 temperament, but for a time it operated merely upon his 
 imagination. He was too shy and ignorant of the world to 
 make any advances to the fair, but he was a passionate admirer 
 of female beauty, and in his lonely chamber would often lose 
 himself in reveries on forms and faces which he had seen, and 
 his fancy would deck out images of loveliness far surpassing 
 the reality. 
 
 While his mind was in this excited and sublimated state, a 
 dream produced an extraordinary effect upon him. It was of 
 a female face of transcendent beauty. So strong was the 
 impression made, that he dreamt of it again and again. It 
 
 haunted his thoughts by day, his slumbers by night; in fine, 
 
THE GERMAN STUDENT. 59 
 
 he became passionately enamoured of this shadow of a dream. 
 This lasted so long that it became one of those fixed ideas 
 which haunt the minds of melancholy men, and are at times 
 mistaken for madness. 
 
 Such was Gottfried Wolfgang, and suck his situation at 
 the time I mentioned. He was returning home late one 
 stormy night, through some of the old and gloomy streets of 
 the Marais, the ancient part of Paris. The loud claps of 
 thunder rattled among the high houses of the narrow streets. 
 He came to the Place de Gréve, the square where public ex- 
 ecutions are performed. The lightning quivered about the 
 pinnacles of the ancient Hétel de Ville, and shed flickering 
 gleams over the open space in front. As Wolfgang was 
 crossing the square, he shrank back with horror at finding him- 
 self close by the guillotine. It was the height of the reign of 
 terror, when this dreadful instrument of death stood ever 
 ready, and its scaffold was continually running with the blood 
 of the virtuous and the brave. It had that very day been 
 actively employed in the work of carnage, and there it stood 
 in grim array, amidst a silent and sleeping city, waiting for 
 fresh victims. 
 
 Wolfgang’s heart sickened within him, and he was turning 
 shuddering from the horrible engine, when he beheld a shadowy 
 form, cowering as it were at the foot of the steps which led up 
 to the scaffold. A succession of vivid flashes of lightning re- 
 vealed it more distinctly. It was a female figure, dressed in 
 black. She was seated on one of the lower steps of the scaf- 
 fold, leaning forward, her face hid in her lap; and her long 
 dishevelled tresses hanging to the ground, streaming with the 
 rain which fell in torrents. Wolfgang paused. There was 
 
60 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 something awful in this solitary monument of woe. The 
 female had the appearance of being above the common order. 
 He knew the times to be full of vicissitude, and that many a 
 fair head, which had once been’ pillowed on down, now wan- 
 dered houseless. Perhaps this was some poor mourner whom 
 the dreadful axe had rendered desolate, and who sat here 
 heart-broken on the strand of existence, from which all that 
 was dear to her had been launched into eternity. 
 
 He approached, and addressed her in the accents of sym- 
 pathy. She raised her head and gazed wildly at him. What 
 was his astonishment at beholding, by the bright glare of the - 
 lightning, the very face which had haunted him in his dreams. 
 It was pale and disconsolate, but ravishingly beautiful. 
 
 Trembling with violent and conflicting emotions, Wolfgang 
 again accosted her. He spoke something of her being exposed 
 at such an hour of the night, and to the fury of such a storm, 
 and offered to conduct her to her friends. She-pointed to the 
 guillotine with a gesture of dreadful signification. 
 
 “| have no friend on earth!” said she. 
 
 “ But you have a home,” said Wolfgang. 
 
 “ Yes—in the grave!” 
 
 The heart of the student melted at the words. 
 
 “ If a stranger dare make an offer,” said he, “ without dan- 
 ger of being misunderstood, I would offer my humble dwelling 
 as a shelter; myself as a devoted friend. I am friendless 
 myself in Paris, and a stranger in the land; but if my life 
 could be of service, it is at your disposal, and should be sacri- 
 ficed before harm or indignity should come to you.” 
 
 There was an honest earnestness in the young man’s 
 
 manner that had its effect. His foreign accent, too, was in 
 
THE GERMAN STUDENT. 61 
 
 his favor; it showed him not to be a hackneyed inhabitant of 
 Paris. Indeed, there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm that 
 is not to be doubted. The homeless stranger confided herself 
 implicitly to the protection of the student. 
 
 He supported her faltering steps across the Pont Neuf, and 
 by the place where the statue of Henry the Fourth had been 
 overthrown by the populace. The storm had abated, and the 
 thunder rumbled at a distance. All Paris was quiet; that 
 great volcano of human passion slumbered for a while, to 
 gather fresh strength for the next day’s eruption. The student 
 conducted his charge through the ancient streets of the Pays 
 Latin, and by the dusky walls of the Sorbonne, to the great 
 dingy hotel which he inhabited. The old portress who ad- 
 mitted them stared with surprise at the unusual sight of the 
 melancholy Wolfgang with a female companion. 
 
 On entering his apartment, the student, for the first time, 
 blushed at the scantiness and indifference of his dwelling. 
 
 He had but one chamber—an old-fashioned saloon—heavily 
 
 carved, and fantastically furnished with the remains of former 
 magnificence, for it was one of those hotels in the quarter of 
 the Luxembourg palace, which had once belonged to nobility. 
 It was lumbered with books and papers, and all the usual 
 apparatus of a student, and his bed stood in a recess at one 
 end. 
 
 When lights were brought, and Wolfgang had a better 
 opportunity of contemplating the stranger, he was more than 
 ever intoxicated by her beauty. Her face was pale, but of a 
 dazzling fairness, set off by a profusion of raven hair that hung 
 clustering about it. Her eyes were large and brilliant, with a 
 
 singular expression approaching almost to wildness. As far 
 * 
 
62 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 as her black dress permitted her shape to be seen, it was of 
 perfect symmetry. Her whole appearance was highly striking, 
 though she was dressed in the simplest style. The only thing 
 approaching to an ornament which she wore, was a broad black 
 band round her neck, clasped by diamonds. 
 
 The perplexity now commenced with the student how to 
 dispose of the helpless being thus thrown upon his protection. 
 He thought of abandoning his chamber to her, and seeking 
 shelter for himself elsewhere. Still he was so fascinated by 
 her charms, there seemed to be such a spell upon his thoughts 
 and senses, that he could not tear himself from her presence. 
 Her manner, too, was singular and unaccountable. She spoke 
 no more of the guillotine. Her grief had abated. The atten- 
 tions of the student had first won her confidence, and then, 
 apparently, her heart. She was evidently an enthusiast like 
 himself, and enthusiasts soon understand each other. 
 
 In the infatuation of the moment, Wolfgang avowed his 
 passion for her. He told her the story of his mysterious 
 dream, and how she had possessed his heart before he had 
 even seen her. She was strangely affected by his recital, and 
 acknowledged to have felt an impulse towards him equally 
 unaccountable. It was the time for wild theory and wild 
 actions. Old prejudices and superstitions were done away ; 
 every thing was under the sway of the “ Goddess of Reason.” 
 Among other rubbish of the old times, the forms and cere- 
 monies of marriage began to be considered superfluous bonds 
 for honorable minds. Social compacts were the vogue. 
 Wolfgang was too much of a theorist not to be tainted by the 
 liberal doctrines of the day. 
 
 “Why should we separate?” said he: “ our hearts are 
 
THE GERMAN STUDENT. 63 
 
 united ; in the eye of reason and honor we areas one. What 
 need is there of sordid forms to bind high souls together ? ” 
 
 The stranger listened with emotion: she had evidently 
 received illumination at the same school. 
 
 “You have no home nor family,” continued he; “let me 
 be every thing to you, or rather let us be every thing to one 
 another. If form is necessary, form shall be observed—there 
 is my hand. I pledge myself to you for ever.” 
 
 “For ever?” said the stranger, solemnly. 
 
 “Tor ever!” repeated Wolfgang. 
 
 The stranger clasped the hand extended to her: “ then I 
 am yours,’ murmured sue, and sank upon his bosom. 
 
 The next morning the student left his bride sleeping, and 
 sallied forth at an early hour to seek more spacious apartments 
 suitable to the change in his situation. When he returned, 
 he found the stranger lying with her head hanging over the 
 bed, and one arm thrown over it. He spoke to her, but re- 
 ceived no reply. Headvanced to awaken her from her uneasy 
 posture. On taking her hand, it was cold—there was no pul- 
 sation—her face was pallid and ghastly.—In a word she was 
 a corpse. 
 
 Horrified and frantic, he alarmed the house. A scene of 
 confusion ensued. The police was summoned. As the officer 
 of police entered the room, he started back on beholding the 
 corpse. 
 
 “ Great heaven!” cried he, “how did this woman come 
 here:?” 
 
 “Do you know any thing about her?” said Wolfgang, 
 cagerly. 
 
64 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 “Do 1?” exclaimed the officer: “she was guillotined 
 yesterday.” 
 
 He stepped forward; undid the black collar round the 
 neck of the corpse, and the head rolled on the floor ! 
 
 The student burst into a frenzy. “The fiend! the fiend 
 has gained possession of me!” shrieked he: “I am lost for 
 ever.” 
 
 They tried to soothe him, but in vain. He was possessed 
 with the frightful belief that an evil spirit had reanimated the 
 dead body to ensnare him. He went distracted, and died in 
 a mad-house. 
 
 Here the old gentleman with the haunted head finished his 
 narrative. 
 
 “ And is this really a fact?” said the inquisitive gentle- 
 man. 
 
 “ A fact not to be doubted,” replied the other. “I had it 
 from the best authority. The student told it me himself. I 
 saw him in a mad-house in Paris.” 
 
ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 
 
 S one story of the kind produces another, and as all the 
 company seemed fully engrossed with the subject, and 
 disposed to bring their relatives and ancestors upon the scene, 
 there is no knowing how many more strange adventures we 
 might have heard, had not a corpulent old fox-hunter, who 
 had slept soundly through the whole, now suddenly awakened, 
 with a loud and long-drawn yawn. The sound broke the 
 charm: the ghosts took to flight, as though it had been cock- 
 crowing, and there was a universal move for bed. 
 
 « And now for the haunted chamber,” said the Irish Cap- 
 tain, taking his candle. 
 
 « Ay, who’s to be the hero of the night ?” said the gentle- 
 man with the ruined head. 
 
 “That we shall see in the morning,” said the old gentle- 
 man with the nose: “ whoever looks pale and grizzly will 
 have seen the ghost.” 
 
 “Well, gentlemen,” said the Baronet, “there’s many a true 
 thing said in jest—in fact, one of you will sleep in the room 
 to-night———” 
 
 “ What—a haunted room ?—a haunted room ?—I claim 
 the adventure—and I—and I—and I,” said a dozen guests, 
 talking and laughing at the same time. 
 
66 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 ** No, no,” said mine host, “ there is a secret about one of 
 my rooms on which I feel disposed to try an experi- 
 ment: so, gentlemen, none of you shall know who has 
 the haunted chamber until circumstances reveal it. I will 
 not even know it myself, but will leave it to chance and 
 the allotment of the housekeeper. At the same time, if it 
 will be any satisfaction to you, I will observe, for the honor 
 of my paternal mansion, that there’s scarcely a chamber in it 
 but is well worthy of being haunted.” 
 
 We now separated for the night, and each went to his al- 
 lotted room. Mine was in one wing of the building, and I 
 could not but smile at its resemblance in style to those event- 
 ful apartments described in the tales of the supper-table. It 
 was spacious and gloomy, decorated with lampblack portraits ; 
 a bed of ancient damask, with a tester sufficiently lofty to grace 
 a couch of state, and a number of massive pieces of old-fash- 
 ioned furniture. I drew a great claw-footed arm-chair before 
 the wide fireplace; stirred up the fire; sat looking into it, 
 and musing upon the odd stories I had heard, until, partly 
 overcome by the fatigue of the day’s hunting, and partly 
 by the wine and wassail of mine host, I fell asleep in my 
 chair. 
 
 The uneasines of my position made my slumber troubled, 
 and laid me at the mercy of all kinds of wild and fearful 
 dreams. Now it was that my perfidious dinner and supper 
 rose in rebellion against my peace. I was hag-ridden by a 
 fat saddle of mutton ; a plum-pudding weighed like lead upon 
 my conscience; the merry-thought of a capon filled me with 
 horrible suggestions; and a devilled leg of a turkey stalked 
 in all kinds of diabolical shapes through my imagination. In 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 67 
 
 short, I had a violent fit of the nightmare. Some strange in. 
 definite evil seemed hanging over me which | could not avert; 
 something terrible and loathsome oppressed me which I could 
 not shake off. I was conscious of being asleep, and strove to 
 rouse myself, but every effort redoubled the evil; until gasp- 
 ing, struggling, almost strangling, I suddenly sprang bolt 
 upright in my chair, and awoke. 
 
 The light on the mantel-piece had burnt low, and the wick 
 was divided; there was a great winding-sheet made by the 
 dripping wax on the side towards me. The disordered taper 
 emitted a broad flaring flame, and threw a strong light on a 
 painting over the fireplace which I had not hitherto observed. 
 It consisted merely of a head, or rather a face, staring full 
 upon me, with an expression that was startling. It was with- 
 out a frame, and at the first glance I could hardly persuade 
 myself that it was not a real face thrusting itself out of the 
 dark oaken panel. I sat in my chair gazing at it, and the 
 more I gazed, the more it disquieted me. I had never before 
 been affected in the same way by any painting. The emo- 
 tions it caused were strange and indefinite. They were some- 
 thing like what I have heard ascribed to the eyes of the 
 basilisk, or like that mysterious influence in reptiles termed 
 fascination. I passed my hand over my eyes several times, 
 as if seeking instinctively to brush away the illusion—in vain. 
 They instantly reverted to the picture, and its chilling, creep- 
 ing influence over my flesh and blood was redoubled. I 
 looked round the room on other pictures, either to divert my 
 attention, or to see whether the same effect would be produced 
 by them. Some of them were grim enough to produce the 
 
 effect, if the mere grimness of the painting produced it.—No 
 
68 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 such thing—-my eye passed over them all with perfect indif 
 ference, but the moment it reverted to this visage over the 
 fireplace, it was as if an electric shock darted through me. 
 The other pictures were dim and faded, but this one protruded 
 from a plain background in the strongest relief, and with 
 wonderful truth of coloring. The expression was that of 
 agony—the agony of intense bodily pain; but a menace 
 scowled upon the brow, and a few sprinklings of blood added 
 to its ghastliness. Yet it was not all these characteristics ; it 
 was some horror of the mind, some inscrutable antipathy 
 awakened by this picture, which harrowed up my feelings. 
 
 I tried to persuade myself that this was chimerical, that 
 my brain was confused by the fumes of mine host’s good 
 cheer, and in some measure by the odd stories about paint- 
 ings which had been told at supper. I determined to shake 
 off these vapors of the mind; rose from my chair; walked 
 about the room; snapped my fingers; rallied myself; laughed 
 aloud.—It was a forced laugh, and the echo of it in the old 
 chamber jarred upon my ear.—I walked to the window, and 
 tried to discern the landscape through the glass. It was pitch 
 darkness, and a howling storm without; and as I heard the 
 wind moan among the trees, I caught a reflection of this 
 accursed visage in the pane of glass, as though it were staring 
 through the window at me. Even the reflection of it was 
 thrilling. 
 
 How was this vile nervous fit, for such I now persuaded 
 myself it was, to be conquered? I| determined to force my- 
 self not to look at the painting, but to undress quickly and 
 get into bed.—I began to undress, but in spite of every effort 
 I could not keep myself from stealing a glance every now and 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 69 
 
 then at the picture; and a glance was sufficient to distress 
 me. Even when my back was turned to it, the idea of this 
 strange face behind me, peeping over my shoulder, was in- 
 supportable. I threw off my clothes and hurried into bed, 
 but still this visage gazed upon me. I had a full view of it in 
 my bed, and for some time could not take my eyes from it. 
 I had grown nervous to a dismal degree. I put out the light, 
 and tried to force myself to sleep—all in vain. ‘The fire 
 gleaming up a little threw an uncertain light about the room, 
 leaving, however, the region of the picture in deep shadow. 
 What, thought IJ, if this be the chamber about which mine 
 host spoke as having a mystery reigning over it? I had 
 taken his words merely as spoken in jest; might they have a 
 real import? I looked around. The faintly lighted apartment 
 had all the qualifications requisite for a haunted chamber. It 
 began in my infected imagination to assume strange appear- 
 ances—the old portraits turned paler and paler, and blacker 
 and blacker ; the streaks of light and shadow thrown among 
 the quaint articles of furniture gave them more singular 
 shapes and characters.—There was a huge dark clothes-press 
 of antique form, gorgeous in brass and lustrous with wax, 
 that began to grow oppressive to me. 
 
 “ Am I then,” thought I, “indeed the hero of the haunted 
 room? Is there really a spell laid upon me, or is this all 
 some contrivance of mine host to raise a laugh at my 
 expense?” The idea of being hag-ridden by my own fancy 
 all night, and then bantered on my haggard looks the next 
 day, was intolerable ; but the very idea was sufficient to pro- 
 duce the effect, and to render me still more nervous.— 
 
 “ Pish,” said I, “it can be no such thing. How could my 
 
70 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 worthy host imagine that J, or any man, would be so worried 
 by a mere picture? It is my own diseased imagination that 
 torments me.” 
 
 I turned in bed, and shifted from side to side to try to fall 
 asleep ; but all in vain; when one cannot get asleep by lying 
 quiet, it is‘seldom that tossing about will effect the purpose. 
 The fire gradually went out, and left the room in darkness. 
 Still I had the idea of that inexplicable countenance gazing 
 and keeping watch upon me through the gloom—nay, what 
 was worse, the very darkness seemed to magnify its terrors. 
 It was like having an unseen enemy hanging about one in the 
 night. Instead of having one picture now to worry me, I had 
 a hundred. I fancied it in every direction—“ There it is,” 
 thought J, “and there! and there! with its horrible and mys- 
 terious expression still gazing and gazing on me! No—if I 
 must suffer the strange and dismal influence, it were better 
 face a single foe than thus be haunted by a thousand images 
 of it.” 
 
 Whoever has been in a state of nervous agitation, must 
 know that the longer it continues the more uncontrollable it 
 grows. ‘The very air of the chamber seemed at length in- 
 fected by the baleful presence of this picture. I fancied it 
 hovering over me. I almost felt the fearful visage from the 
 wall approaching my face—it seemed breathing upon me. 
 “This is not to be borne,” said I, at length, springing out of 
 bed: “I can stand this no longer—I shall only tumble and 
 toss about here all night ; make a very spectre of myself, and 
 become the hero of the haunted chamber in good earnest. 
 Whatever be the ill consequences, [ll quit this cursed room 
 
 and seek a night’s rest elsewhere—they can but laugh at me, 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. vi 
 
 at all events, and they’ll be sure to have the laugh upon me if 
 I pass a sleepless night, and show them a haggard and wobe- 
 gone visage in the morning.” 
 
 All this was half-muttered to myself as I hastily slipped 
 on my clothes, which having done, I groped my way out of 
 the room and down stairs to the drawing-room. Here, after 
 tumbling over two or three pieces of furniture, I made out to 
 reach a sofa, and stretching myself upon it, determined to 
 bivouac there for the night. The moment I found myself out 
 of the neighborhood of that strange picture, it seemed as if 
 the charm were broken. All its influence was at an end. I 
 felt assured that it was confined to its own dreary chamber, 
 for I had, with a sort of instinctive caution, turned the key 
 when I closed the door. I soon calmed down, therefore, into 
 a state of tranquillity ; from that into a drowsiness, and final- 
 ly, into a deep sleep; out of which I did not awake until the 
 housemaid, with her besom and her matin song, came to put 
 the room in order. She stared at finding me stretched upon 
 the sofa, but I presume circumstances of the kind were not 
 uncommon after hunting-dinners in her master’s bachelor 
 establishment, for she went on with her song and her work, 
 and took no further heed of me. 
 
 I had an unconquerable repugnance to return to my 
 chamber ; so I found my way to the butler’s quarters, made 
 my toilet in the best way circumstances would permit, and 
 was among the first to appear at the breakfast-table. Our 
 breakfast was a substantial fox-hunter’s repast, and the com- 
 pany generally assembled at it. When ample justice had 
 been done to the tea, coffee, cold meats, and humming ale, for 
 
 all these were furnished in abundance, according to the tastes 
 
72 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 of the different guests, the conversation began to break out 
 with all the liveliness and freshness of morning mirth. 
 
 “ But who is the hero of the haunted chamber—who has 
 seen the ghost last night?” said the inquisitive gentleman, 
 rolling his lobster eyes about the table. 
 
 The question set every tongue in motion; a vast deal of 
 bantering, criticizing of countenances, of mutual accusation 
 and retort took place. Some had drunk deep, and some were 
 unshaven, so that there were suspicious faces enough in the 
 assembly. I alone could not enter with ease and vivacity 
 into the joke—I felt tongue-tied, embarrassed. A recollection 
 of what I had seen and felt the preceding night still haunted 
 my mind, It seemed as if the mysterious picture still held a 
 thrall upon me. I thought also that our host’s eye was 
 turned on me with an air of curiosity. In short, I was con- 
 scious that I was the hero of the night, and felt as if every 
 one might read it in my looks. The joke, however, passed 
 over, and no suspicion seemed to attach to me. I was just 
 congratulating myself on my escape, when a servant came in 
 saying, that the gentleman who had slept on the sofa in the 
 drawing-room had left his watch under one of the pillows. 
 My repeater was in his hand. 
 
 “ What!” said the inquisitive gentleman, “ did any gentle- 
 man sleep on the sofa?” 
 
 ‘Soho! soho! a hare 
 
 a hare!” cried the old gentleman 
 with the flexible nose. 
 
 I could not avoid acknowledging the watch, and was rising 
 in great confusion, when a boisterous old squire who sat 
 beside me: exclaimed, slapping me on the shoulder, “ ’Sblood, 
 
 lad, thou art the man as has seen the ghost ! ” 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 73 
 
 The attention of the company was immediately turned on 
 me: if my face had been pale the moment before, it now 
 glowed almost to burning. I tried to laugh, but could only 
 make a grimace, and found the muscles of my face twitching 
 at sixes and sevens, and totally out of all control. 
 
 It takes but little to raise a laugh among a set of fox- 
 hunters ; there was a world of merriment and joking on the 
 subject, and as I never relished a joke overmuch when it was 
 at my own expense, I began to feel a little nettled. I tried 
 to look cool and calm, and to restrain my pique; but the 
 coolness and calmness of a man in a passion are confounded 
 treacherous. 
 
 “Gentlemen,” said I, with a slight cocking of the chin and 
 a bad attempt at a smile, “this is all very pleasant—ha! ha! 
 —very pleasant—but I’d have you know, I am as little super- 
 stitious as any of you—ha! ha!—and as to any thing like 
 timidity—-you may smile, gentlemen, but I trust there’s no 
 one here means to insinuate, that—as to a room’s being 
 haunted—I repeat, gentlemen, (growing a little warm at 
 seeing a cursed grin breaking out around me,) as to a room’s 
 being haunted, I have as little faith in such silly stories as any 
 one. But, since you put the matter home to me, I will say 
 that I have met with something in my room strange and in- 
 explicable to me. (A shout of laughter.) Gentlemen, I am 
 serious ; I know well what I am saying; I am calm, gentle- 
 men, (striking my fist upon the table,) by Heaven, I am 
 calm. Iam neither trifling, nor do I wish to be trifled with. 
 (The laughter of the company suppressed, and with ludicrous 
 attempts at gravity.) There is a picture in the room in 
 
 4 
 
74 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 which I was put last night, that has had an effect upon me the 
 most singular and incomprehensible.” 
 
 “A picture?” said the old gentleman with the haunted 
 head, “A picture!” cried the narrator with the nose, “ A 
 picture! a picture!” echoed several voices. Here there was 
 an ungovernable peal of laughter. I could not contain my- 
 self. I started up from my seat; looked round on the com- 
 pany with fiery indignation; thrust both of my hands into 
 my pockets, and strode up to one of the windows as though I 
 would have walked through it. I stopped short, looked out 
 upon the landscape without distinguishing a feature of it, and 
 felt my gorge rising almost to suffocation. 
 
 Mine host saw it was time to interfere. He had main- 
 tained an air of gravity through the whole of the scene; 
 
 nd now stepped forth, as if to shelter me from the over- 
 whelming merriment of my companions. 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” said he, “I dislike to spoil sport, but you 
 have had your laugh, and the joke of the haunted chamber 
 has been enjoyed. 1 must now take the part of my guest. I 
 must not only vindicate him from your pleasantries, but I 
 must reconcile him to himself, for I suspect he is a little out 
 of humor with his own feelings; and, above all, I must crave 
 his pardon for having made him the subject of a kind of ex- 
 periment. Yes, gentlemen, there is something strange and 
 peculiar in the chamber to which our friend was shown last 
 night ; there is a picture in my house, which possesses a sin- 
 gular and mysterious influence, and with which there is con- 
 nected a very curious story. It is a picture to which I attach 
 a value from a variety of circumstances; and though I have 
 
 often been tempted to destroy it, from the odd and uncom- 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 5 
 
 fortable sensations which it produces in every one that beholds 
 it, yet I have never been able to prevail upon myself to make 
 the sacrifice. It is a picture I never like to look upon myself, 
 and which is held in awe by all my servants. I have there- 
 fore banished it to a room but rarely used, and should have 
 had it covered last night, had not the nature of our conversa- 
 tion, and the whimsical talk about a haunted chamber, 
 tempted me to let it remain, by way of experiment, to see 
 whether a stranger, totally unacquainted with its story, would 
 be affected by it.” 
 
 The words of the Baronet had turned every thought into a 
 different channel. All were anxious to hear the story of the 
 mysterious picture; and, for myself, so strangely were my 
 feelings interested, that I forgot to feel piqued at the experi- 
 ment my host had made upon my nerves, and joined eagerly 
 in the general entreaty. As the morning was stormy, and 
 denied all egress, my host was glad of any means of enter- 
 taining his company; so, drawing his arm-chair towards the 
 
 fire he began.— 
 
ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS 
 STRANGER. 
 
 ANY years since, when I was a young man, and had just 
 At” left Oxford, I was sent on the grand tour to finish my 
 education. I believed my parents had tried in vain to inocu- 
 late me with wisdom; so they sent me to mingle with society, 
 in hopes that I might take it the natural way. Such, at least, 
 appears the reason for which nine-tenths of our youngsters 
 are sent abroad. In the course of my tour I remained some 
 time at Venice. The romantic character of that place delight- 
 ed me; I was very much amused by the air of adventure and 
 intrigue prevalent in this region of masks and gondolas ; and 
 I was exceedingly smitten by a pair of languishing black eyes, 
 that played upon my heart from under an Italian mantle; so 
 I persuaded myself that I was lingering at Venice to study 
 men and manners; at least I persuaded my friends so, and 
 that answered all my purposes. 
 
 I was a little prone to be struck by peculiarities in charac- 
 ter and conduct, and my imagination was so full of romantic 
 associations with Italy that I was always on the look-out for 
 adventure. Every thing chimed in with such a humor in this 
 old mermaid of a city. My suite of apartments were in a 
 proud, melancholy palace on the grand canal, formerly the 
 residence of a magnifico, and sumptuous with the traces of 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 17 
 
 decayed grandeur. My gondolier was one of the shrewdest 
 of his class, active, merry, intelligent, and, like his brethren, 
 secret as the grave; that is to say, secret to all the world ex- 
 cept his master. I had not had him a week before he put me 
 behind all the curtains in Venice. I liked the silence and 
 mystery of the place, and when I sometimes saw from my 
 window a black gondola gliding mysteriously along in the 
 dusk of the evening, with nothing visible but its little glim- 
 mering lantern, I would jump into my own zendeletta, and 
 give a signal for pursuit— But I am running away from my 
 subject with the recollection of youthful follies,’ said the 
 Baronet, checking himself. “ Let us come to the point.” 
 Among my familiar resorts was a cassino under the ar- 
 cades on one side of the grand square of St. Mark. Here I 
 used frequently to lounge and take my ice, on those warm 
 summer nights, when in Italy everybody lives abroad until 
 morning. I was seated here one evening, when a group of 
 Italians took their seat at a table on the opposite side of the 
 saloon. Their conversation was gay and animated, and car- 
 ried on with Italian vivacity and gesticulation. I remarked 
 among them one young man, however, who appeared to take 
 no share, and find no enjoyment in the conversation, though 
 he seemed to force himself to attend to it. He was tall and 
 slender, and of extremely prepossessing appearance. His 
 features were fine, though emaciated. He had a profusion of 
 black glossy hair, that curled lightly about his head, and con- 
 trasted with the extreme paleness of his countenance. His 
 brow was haggard; deep furrows seemed to have becn 
 ploughed into his visage by care, not by age, for he was evi- 
 dently in the prime of youth. His eye was full of expression 
 
%8 TALES OF A. TRAVELLER. 
 
 and fire, but wild and unsteady. He seemed to be tormented 
 by some strange fancy or apprehension. In spite of every 
 effort to fix his attention on the conversation of his com- 
 panions, I noticed that every now and then he would turn his 
 head slowly round, give a glance over his shoulder, and 
 then withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if something painful 
 met his eye. This was repeated at intervals of about a 
 minute, and he appeared hardly to have recovered from one 
 shock, before I saw him slowly preparing to encounter an- 
 other. 
 
 After sitting some time in the cassino, the party paid for 
 the refreshment they had taken, and departed. The young 
 man was the last to leave the saloon, and I remarked him 
 glancing behind him in the same way, just as he passed out of 
 the door. I could not resist the impulse to rise and follow 
 him; for I was at an age when a romantic feeling of curiosity is 
 easily awakened. The party walked slowly down the arcades, 
 talking and laughing as they went. They crossed the Piazet- 
 ta, but paused in the middle of it to enjoy the scene. It was 
 one of those moonlight nights, so brilliant and clear in the 
 pure atmosphere of Italy. The moonbeams streamed on the 
 tall tower of St. Mark, and lighted up the magnificent front 
 and swelling domes of the cathedral. The party expressed 
 their delight in animated terms. I kept my eye upon the 
 young man. He alone seemed abstracted and self-occupied. 
 I noticed the same singular and, as it were, furtive glance over 
 the shoulder, which had attracted my attention in the cassino. 
 The party moved on, and I followed; they passed along the 
 walk called the Broglio, turned the corner of the Ducal Palace, 
 and getting into the gondola, glided swiftly away. 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. "9 
 
 The countenance and conduct of this young man dwelt upon 
 my mind, and interested me exceedingly. I met him a day or 
 two afterwards in a gallery of paintings. He was evidently a 
 connoisseur, for he always singled out the most masterly pro- 
 ductions, and a few remarks drawn from him by his compan- 
 ions showed an intimate acquaintance with the art. His own 
 taste, however, ran on singular extremes. On Salvator Rosa, 
 in his most savage and solitary scenes ; on Raphael, Titian, and. 
 Correggio, in their softest delineations of female beauty ; ‘on 
 these he would occasionally gaze with transient enthusiasm. 
 But this seemed only a momentary forgetfulness. Still would 
 recur that cautious glance behind, and always quickly with- 
 drawn, as though something terrible met his view. 
 
 I encountered him frequently afterwards at the theatre, at 
 balls, at concerts ; at promenades in the gardens of San Geor- 
 gia; at the grotesque exhibitions in the square of St. Mark ; 
 among the throng of merchants on the exchange by the Rialto. 
 He seemed, in fact, to seek crowds; to hunt after bustle and 
 amusement; yet never to take any interest in either the busi- 
 ness or the gayety of the scene. Ever an air of painful 
 thought, of wretched abstraction; and ever that strange and 
 recurring movement of glancing fearfully over the shoulder. 
 I did not know at first but this might be caused by apprehen- 
 sion of arrest; or, perhaps, from dread of assassination. But 
 if so, why should he go thus continually abroad ; why expose 
 himself at all times and in all places ? 
 
 I became anxious to know this stranger. I was drawn to 
 him. by that romantic sympathy which sometimes draws 
 young men towards each other. His melancholy threw a 
 charm about him, no doubt: heightened by the touching ex- 
 
80 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 pression of his countenance, and the manly graces of his per- 
 son; for manly beauty has its effect even upon men. I had an 
 Englishman’s habitual diffidence and awkwardness to contend 
 with; but from frequently meeting him in the cassinos, I 
 gradually edged myself into his acquaintance. I had no re- 
 serve on his part to contend with. He seemed, on the con- 
 trary, to court society ; and, in fact, to seek any thing rather 
 than be alone. 
 
 When he found that I really took an interest in him, he 
 threw himself entirely on my friendship. He clung to me 
 like a drowning man. He would walk with me for hours up 
 and down the place of St. Mark—or would sit, until night 
 was far advanced, in my apartments. He took rooms under 
 the same roof with me; and his constant request was that I 
 would permit him, when it did not incommode me, to sit by 
 me in my saloon. It was not that he seemed to take a par- 
 ticular delight in my conversation, but rather that he craved 
 the vicinity of a human being ; and, above all, of a being that 
 sympathized with him. “I have often heard,” said he, “ of the 
 sincerity of Englishmen—thank God I have one at length for 
 a friend !” 
 
 Yet he never seemed disposed to avail himself of my sym- 
 pathy other than by mere companionship. He never sought 
 to unbosom himself to me: there appeared to be a settled 
 corroding anguish in his bosom that neither could be soothed 
 “by silence nor by speaking.” 
 
 A devouring melancholy preyed upon his heart, and seem- 
 ed to be drying up the very blood in his veins. It was not a 
 soft melancholy, the disease of the affections, but a parching, 
 withering agony. I could see at times that his mouth was 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 81 
 
 dry and feverish ; he panted rather than breathed ; his eyes 
 were bloodshot; his cheeks pale and livid; with now and 
 then faint streaks of red athwart them, baleful gleams of the 
 fire that was consuming his heart. As my arm was within 
 his, I felt him press it at times with a convulsive motion to 
 his side; his hands would clinch themselves involuntarily, 
 and a kind of shudder would run through his frame. . 
 
 I reasoned with him about his melancholy, sought to draw 
 from him the cause; he shrunk from all confiding: “ Do not 
 seek to know it,” said he, “ you could not relieve it if you 
 knew it; you would not even seek to relieve it. On the con- 
 trary, I should lose your sympathy, and that,” said he, press- 
 ing my hand convulsively, “that I feel has become too dear 
 to me to risk.” 
 
 I endeavored to awaken hope within him. He was young; 
 life had a thousand pleasures in store for him; there was a 
 healthy reaction in the youthful heart; it medicines all its 
 own wounds—“ Come, come,” said I, “there is no grief so 
 great that youth cannot outgrow it.”—“ No! no!” said he, 
 “clinching his teeth, and striking repeatedly, with the energy 
 of despair, on his bosom—“it*is here! here! deep-rooted ; 
 draining my heart’s blood. It grows and grows, while my 
 heart withers and withers. I have a dreadful monitor that 
 
 and 
 
 gives me no repose—that follows me step by step 
 will follow me step by step, until it pushes me into my 
 grave!” 
 
 As he said this he involuntarily gave one of those fearful 
 glances over his shoulder, and shrunk back with more than 
 usual horror. I could not resist the temptation to allude to 
 
 this movement, which I supposed to be some mere malady of 
 
 4* 
 
82 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 the nerves. The moment I mentioned it, his face became 
 crimsoned and convulsed; he grasped me by both hands— 
 
 “For God’s sake,” exclaimed he, with a piercing voice, 
 “never allude to that again—Let us avoid this subject, my 
 friend ; you cannot relieve me, indeed you cannot relieve me, 
 but you may add to the torments I suffer.—At some future 
 day you shall know all.” 
 
 I never resumed the subject ; for however much my curi- 
 osity might be roused, I felt too true a compassion for his 
 sufferings to increase them by my intrusion. I sought various 
 ways to divert his mind, and to arouse him from the constant 
 meditations in which he was plunged. He saw my efforts, 
 and seconded them as far as in his power, for there was 
 nothing moody or wayward in his nature. On the contrary, 
 there was something frank, generous, unassuming, in his whole 
 deportment. All the sentiments he uttered were noble and 
 lofty. He claimed no indulgence, asked no toleration, but 
 seemed content to carry his load of misery in silence, and 
 only sought to carry it by my side. There was a mute be- 
 seeching manner about him, as if he craved companionship as 
 a charitable boon ; and a tacit thankfulness in his looks, as if 
 he felt grateful to me for not repulsing him. 
 
 I felt this melancholy to be infectious. It stole over my . 
 spirits; interfered with all my gay pursuits, and gradually 
 saddened my life; yet I could not prevail upon myself to 
 shake off a being who seemed to hang upon me for support. 
 In truth, the generous traits of character which beamed 
 through all his gloom penetrated to my heart. His bounty 
 was lavish and open-handed ; his charity melting and ‘sponta- 
 
 ucous ; not confined to mere donations, which humiliate as 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 83 
 
 much as they relieve. The tone of his voice, the beam of his 
 eye, enhanced every gift and surprised the poor supplant 
 with that rarest and sweetest of charities, the charity not 
 merely of the hand, but of the heart. Indeed his liberality 
 seemed to have something in it of self-abasement and expi- 
 ation. He, in a manner, humbled himself before the mendi- 
 cant. “ What right have I to ease and affluence ”—would he 
 murmur to himself—“ when innocence wanders in misery and 
 rags 2?” 
 
 The carnival time arrived. I hoped the gay scenes then 
 
 presented might have some cheering effect. I mingled with 
 him in the motley throng that crowded the place of St. Mark. 
 We frequented operas, masquerades, balls—all in vain. The 
 evil kept growing on him. He became more and more haggard 
 and agitated. Often, after we have returned from one of these 
 ‘scenes of revelry, I have entered his room and found him 
 lying on his face on the sofa; his hands clinched in his fine 
 hair, and his whole countenance bearing traces of the convul- 
 sions of his mind. 
 
 The carnival passed away ; the time of Lent succeeded ; 
 passion week arrived ; we attended one evening a solemn ser- 
 vice in one of the churches, in the course of which a grand 
 piece of vocal and instrumental music was performed, relating 
 to the death of our Saviour. 
 
 [ had remarked that he was always powerfully affected by 
 music ; on this occasion he was so in an extraordinary degree, 
 As the pealing notes swelled through the lofty aisles, he 
 seemed to kindle with fervor; his eyes rolled upwards, until 
 nothing but the whites were visible; his hands were clasped 
 
 together, until the fingers were deeply imprinted in the flesh, 
 
84 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 When the music expressed the dying agony, his face gradually 
 sank upon his knees; and at the touching words resounding 
 through the church, “ Jesu mori,” sobs burst from him uncon- 
 trolled—I had never seen him weep before. His had always 
 been agony rather than sorrow. I augured well from the cir- 
 cumstance, and let him weep on uninterrupted. When the 
 service was ended, we left the church. He hung on my arm 
 as we walked homewards with something of a softer and more 
 subdued manner, instead of that nervous agitation I had been 
 accustomed to witness. He alluded to the service we had 
 heard. ‘ Music,” said he, “is indeed the voice of, heaven ; 
 never before have I felt more impressed by the story of the 
 atonement of our Saviour.—Yes, my friend,” said he, clasping 
 his hands with a kind of transport, “I know that my Re- 
 deemer liveth!” 
 
 We parted for the night. His room was not far from 
 mine, and I heard him for some time busied in it. I fell 
 asleep, but was awakened before daylight. The young man 
 stood by my bedside, dressed for travelling. He held a sealed 
 packet and a large parcel in his hand, which he laid on the table. 
 
 “ Farewell, my friend,” said he, “I am about to set forth 
 on a long journey ; but, before I go, I leave with you these 
 remembrances. In this packet you will find the particulars 
 of my story.—When you read them I shall be far away; do 
 not remember me with aversion.—You have been indeed a 
 friend to me.—You have poured oil into a broken heart, but 
 you could not heal it.—Farewell! let me kiss your hand—I 
 am unworthy to embrace you.” He sank on his knees— 
 seized my hand in despite of my efforts to the contrary, and 
 
 covered it with kisses. I was so surprised by all the scene, 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 85 
 
 that I had not been able to say a word.—“ But we shall meet 
 again,” said I hastily, as I saw him hurrying towards the door. 
 “ Neyer, never, in this world!” said he solemnly.—He sprang 
 once more to my bedside—seized my hand, pressed it to his 
 heart and to his lips, and rushed out of the room. 
 
 Here the Baronet paused. He seemed lost in thought, 
 and sat looking upon the floor, and drumming with his fingers 
 on the arm of his chair. 
 
 “And did this mysterious personage return?” said the 
 inquisitive gentleman. 
 
 “ Never!” replied the Baronet, with a pensive shake of 
 the head— I never saw him again.” 
 
 “ And pray what has all this to do witlr the picture?” in- 
 quired the old gentleman with the nose. . 
 
 “True,” said the questioner—“ is it the portrait of that 
 erack-brained Italian ?” 
 
 “No,” said the Baronet, dryly, not half liking the appella- 
 tion given to his hero—* but this picture was enclosed in the 
 parcel he left with me. The sealed packet contained its ex- 
 planation. There was a request on the outside -that I would 
 not open it until six months had elapsed. I kept my promise 
 in spite of my curiosity. I have a translation of it by me, and 
 had meant to read it, by way of accounting for the mystery 
 of the chamber ; but I fear I have already detained the com- 
 pany too long.” 
 
 Here there was a general wish expressed to have the 
 manuscript read, particularly on the part of the inquisitive 
 gentleman ; so the worthy Baronet drew out a fairly-written 
 manuscript, and, wiping his spectacles, read aloud the follow. 
 
 ing story.— | 
 4* 
 
THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 
 
 WAS born at Naples. My parents, though of noble rank, 
 
 were limited in fortune, or rather, my father was ostenta- 
 tious beyond his means, and expended so much on his palace, 
 his equipage, and his retinue, that he was continually straitened 
 in his pecuniary circumstances. I was a younger son, and 
 looked upon with indifference by my father, who, from a 
 principle of family pride, wished to leave all his property to 
 my elder brother. I showed, when quite a child, an extreme 
 sensibility. Every thing affected me violently. While yet 
 an infant in my mother’s arms, and before I had learned to 
 talk, I could be wrought upon to a wonderful degree of anguish 
 or delight by the power of music. As I grew older, my feel- 
 ings remained equally acute, and I was easily transported into 
 paroxysms of pleasure or rage. It was the amusement of my 
 relations and of the domestics to play upon this irritable 
 temperament. I was moved to tears, tickled to laughter, 
 provoked to fury, for the entertainment of company, who were 
 amused by such a tempest of mighty passion in a pigmy frame 
 —they little thought, or perhaps little heeded the dangerous 
 sensibilities they were fostering. I thus became a little crea- 
 
 ture of passion before reason was developed. In a short time 
 
THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 87 
 
 I grew too old to be a plaything, and then I became a torment. 
 The tricks and passions I had been teased into became irksome, 
 and I was disliked by my teachers for the very lessons they 
 had taught me. My mother died; and my power asa spoiled 
 child was at an end. There was no longer any necessity to 
 humor or tolerate me, for there was nothing to be gained by 
 it, as I was no favorite of my father. I therefore experienced 
 the fate of a spoiled child in such a situation, and was neg- 
 lected, or noticed only to be crossed and contradicted. Such 
 was the early treatment of a heart, which, if I can judge of it 
 at all, was naturally disposed to the extremes of tenderness 
 and affection. 
 
 My father, as I have already said, never liked me—in fact, 
 he never understood me; he looked upon me as wilful and 
 wayward, as deficient in natural affection.—It was the stateli- 
 ness of his own manner, the loftiness and grandeur of his own 
 look, which had repelled me from hisarms. L[always pictured 
 him to myself as I-had seen him, clad in his senatorial robes, 
 rustling with pomp and pride. The magnificence of his per- 
 son daunted my young imagination. I could never approach 
 him with the confiding affection of a child. 
 
 My father’s feelings were wrapt up in my elder brother. 
 He was to be the inheritor of the family title and the family 
 dignity, and every thing was sacrificed to him—TI, as well as 
 every thing else. It was determined to devote me to the 
 church, that so my humors and myself might be removed out 
 of the way, either of tasking my father’s time and trouble, or 
 interfering with the interests of my brother. At an early age, 
 therefore, before my mind had dawned upon the world and 
 
 its delights, or known any thing of it beyond the precincts of 
 
88 TALES OF A TRAVELLER: 
 
 my father’s palace, I was sent to a convent, the superior of 
 which was my uncle, and was confided entirely to his care. 
 
 My uncle was a man totally estranged from the world: 
 he had never relished, for he had never tasted its pleasures ; 
 and he regarded rigid self-denial as the great basis of Christian 
 virtue. Heconsidered every one’s temperament like his own ; 
 or at least he made them conform to it. His character and 
 habits had an influence over the fraternity of which he was 
 superior—a more gloomy, saturnine set of beings were never 
 assembled together. The convent, too, was calculated to 
 awaken sad. and solitary thoughts. It was situated in a 
 gloomy gorge of those mountains away south of Vesuvius. 
 All distant views were shut out by sterile volcanic heights. 
 A mountain-stream raved beneath its walls, and eagles 
 screamed about its turrets. 
 
 I had been sent to this place at so tender an age as soon 
 to lose all distinct recollection of the scenes I had left behind. 
 As my mind expanded, therefore, it formed its idea of the 
 world from the convent and its vicinity, and a dreary world 
 it appeared to me. An early tinge of melancholy was thus 
 infused into my character; and the dismal stories of the 
 monks, about devils and evil spirits, with which they affrighted 
 my young imagination, gave me a tendency to superstition 
 which I could never effectually shake off. They took the same 
 delight to work upon my ardent feelings, that had been so 
 mischievously executed by my father’s household. I can 
 recollect the horrors with which they fed my heated faney 
 during an eruption of Vesuvius. We were distant from that 
 volcano, with mountains between us ; but its convulsive throes 
 
 shook the solid foundations of nature. Earthquakes threatened 
 
THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 89 
 
 to topple down our convent towers. A lurid, baleful light 
 hung in the heavens at night, and showers of ashes, borne by 
 the wind, fell in our narrow valley. The monks talked of the 
 earth being honey-combed beneath us; of streams of molten 
 lava raging through its veins ; of caverns of sulphurous flames 
 roaring in the centre, the abodes of demons and the damned ; 
 of fiery gulfs ready to yawn beneath our feet. All these tales 
 were told to the doleful accompaniment of the mountain’s 
 thunders, whose low bellowing made the walls of our convent 
 vibrate. 
 
 One of the monks had been a painter, but had retired from 
 the world, and embraced this dismal life in expiation of some 
 crime. He was a melancholy man, who pursued his art in 
 the solitude of his cell, but made it a source of penance to 
 him. His employment was to portray, either on canvas or 
 in waxen models, the human face and human form, in the 
 agonies of death, and in all the stages of dissolution and decay. 
 The fearful mysteries of the charnel-house were unfolded in 
 his labors ; the loathsome banquet of the beetle and the worm. 
 I turn with shuddering even from the recollection of his works, 
 yet, at the time, my strong but ill-directed imagination seized 
 with ardor upon his instructions in his art. Any thing was 
 a variety from the dry studies and monotonous duties of the 
 cloister. In a little while I became expert with my pencil, 
 and my gloomy productions were thought worthy of decorating 
 some of the altars of the chapel. | 
 
 In this dismal way was a creature of feeling and fancy 
 brought up. Every thing genial and amiable in my nature 
 was repressed, and nothing brought out but what was un- 
 
 profitable and ungracious. I was ardent inmy temperament ; 
 
90 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 quick, mercurial, impetuous, formed to be a creature all love 
 and adoration ; but a leaden hand was laid on all my finer 
 qualities. I was taught nothing but fear and hatred. I hated 
 my uncle. I hated the monks. I hated the convent in which 
 I was immured. I hated the world; and I almost hated my 
 self for being, as J supposed, so hating and hateful an ani- 
 mal. 
 
 When I had nearly attained the age of sixteen, I was 
 suffered, on one occasion, to accompany one of the brethren 
 on a mission to a distant part of the country. We soon left 
 behind us the gloomy valley in which I had been pent up for 
 so many years, and after a short journey among the moun- 
 tains, emerged upon the voluptuous landscape that spreads itself 
 about the Bay of Naples. Heavens! how transported was I, 
 when I stretched my gaze over a vast reach of delicious sunny 
 country, gay with groves and vineyards: with Vesuvius 
 rearing its forked summit to my right; the blue Mediter- 
 ranean to my left, with its enchanting coast, studded with 
 shining towns and sumptuous villas; and Naples, my native 
 Naples, gleaming far, far in the distance. 
 
 Good God! was this the lovely world from which I had 
 been excluded! I had reached that age when the sensibilities 
 are in all their bloom and freshness. Mine had been checked 
 and chilled. They now burst forth with the suddenness of a 
 retarded spring-time. My heart, hitherto unnaturally shrunk 
 up, expanded into a riot of vague but delicious emotions. 
 The beauty of nature intoxicated—bewildered me. The song 
 of the peasants ; their cheerful looks; their happy avocations; 
 the picturesque gayety of their dresses; their rustic music; 
 
 their dances; all broke upon me like witchcraft. My soul 
 
THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 91 
 
 responded to the music, my heart danced in my bosom. All 
 the men appeared amiable, all the women lovely. 
 
 I returned to the convent, that is to say, my body re- 
 turned, but my heart and soul never entered there again. I[ 
 could not forget this glimpse of a beautiful and a happy world 
 —a world so suited to my natural character. I had felt so 
 happy while in it; so different a being from what I felt myself 
 when in the convent—that tomb of the living. I contrasted 
 the countenances of the beings I had seen, full of fire and fresh- 
 ness and enjoyment, with the pallid, leaden, lack-lustre visages 
 of the monks: the dance with the droning chant of the chapel. 
 I had before found the exercises of the cloister wearisome, 
 they now became intolerable. The dull round of duties wore 
 away my spirit; my nerves became irritated by the fretful 
 tinkling of the convent-bell, evermore dinging among the 
 mountain echoes, evermore calling me from my repose at 
 night, my pencil by day, to attend to some tedious and me- 
 chanical ceremony of devotion. 
 
 I was not of a nature to meditate long without putting my 
 thoughts into action. My spirit had been suddenly aroused, 
 and was now all awake within me. I watched an opportunity, 
 fled from the convent, and made my way on foot to Naples. 
 As I entered its gay and crowded streets, and beheld the vari- 
 ety and stir of life around me, the luxury of palaces, the © 
 splendor of equipages, and the pantomimic animation of the 
 motley populace, I seemed as if awakened to a world of en- 
 chantment, and solemnly vowed that nothing should force me 
 back to the monotony of the cloister. 
 
 [had to inquire my way to my father’s palace, for I had 
 been so young on leaving it that I knew not its situation. I 
 
92 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 found some difficulty in getting admitted to my father’s pres- 
 ence; for the domestics scarcely knew that there was such a 
 being as myself in existence, and my monastic dress did not 
 operate in my favor. Even my father entertained no recol- 
 lection of my person. I told him my name, threw myself at 
 his feet, implored his forgiveness, and entreated that I might 
 not be sent back to the convent. 
 
 He received me with the condescension of a patron, rather 
 than the fondness of a parent; listened patiently, but coldly, 
 to my tale of monastic grievances and disgusts, and promised 
 to think what else could be done for me. This coldness 
 blighted and drove back all the frank affection of my nature, 
 that was ready to spring forth at the least warmth of parental 
 kindness. All my early feelings towards my father revived. 
 I again looked up to him as the stately magnificent being that 
 had daunted my childish imagination, and felt as if I had no 
 pretensions to his sympathies. My brother engrossed all his 
 care and love; he inherited his nature, and carried himself 
 towards me with a protecting rather than a fraternal air. It 
 wounded my pride, which was great. I could brook conde- 
 scension from my father, for I looked up to him with awe, as 
 a superior being; but I could not brook patronage from a 
 brother, who I felt was intellectually my inferior. The ser- 
 vants perceived that I was an unwelcome intruder in the 
 paternal mansion, and, menial-like, they treated me with neg- 
 lect. Thus baffled at every point, my affections outraged 
 wherever they would attach themselves, I became sullen, 
 silent, and desponding. My feelings, driven back upon my- 
 self, entered and preyed upon my own heart. I remained for 
 
 some days an unwelcome guest rather than a restored son in 
 
THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 93 
 
 my father’s house. I was doomed never to be properly 
 known there. [I was made, by wrong treatment, strange 
 even to myself, and they judged of me from my strangeness. 
 
 I was startled one day at the sight of one of the monks of 
 my convent gliding out of my father’s room. He saw me, 
 but pretended not to notice me, and this very hypocrisy made 
 me suspect something. I had become sore and susceptible 
 in my feelings, every thing inflicted a wound on them. In 
 this state of mind, I was treated with marked disrespect by a 
 pampered minion, the favorite servant of my father. All the 
 pride and passion of my nature rose in an instant, and I struck 
 him to the earth. My father was passing by; he stopped not 
 to inquire the reason, nor indeed could he read the long 
 course of mental sufferings which were the real cause. He 
 rebuked me with anger and scorn ; summoning all the haughti- 
 ness of his nature and grandeur of his look to give weight to 
 the contumely with which he treated me. I felt that I had 
 not deserved it. I felt that I was not appreciated. I felt that 
 I had that within me which merited better treatment. My 
 heart swelled against a father’s injustice. I broke through my 
 habitual awe of him—TI replied to him with impatience. My 
 hot spirit flushed in my cheek and kindled in my eye; but 
 my sensitive heart swelled as quickly, and before I had half 
 vented my passion, I felt it suffocated and quenched in my 
 tears. My father was astonished and incensed at this turning 
 of the worm, and ordered me to my chamber. I retired in 
 silence, choking with contending emotions. 
 
 I had not been long there when I overheard voices in 
 an adjoining apartment. It was a consultation between my 
 
 father and the monk, about the means of getting me back 
 
94. TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 quietly to the convent. My resolution was taken. I had no 
 longer ahome nora father. That very night I left the paternal 
 roof. I got on board a vessel about making sail from the 
 harbor, and abandoned myself to the wide world. No matter 
 to what port she steered; any part of so beautiful a world 
 was better than my convent. No matter where I was cast by 
 fortune ; any place would be more a home to me than the 
 home I had left behind. The vessel was bound to Genoa, 
 We arrived there after a voyage of a few days. 
 
 As I entered the harbor between the moles which embrace 
 it, and beheld the amphitheatre of palaces, and churches, and 
 splendid gardens, rising one above another, | felt at once 
 its title to the appellation of Genoa the Superb. I landed on 
 _ the mole an utter stranger, without knowing what to do, or 
 whither to direct my steps. No matter: I was released from 
 the thraldom of the convent and the humiliations of home. 
 When I traversed the Strada Balbi and the Strada Nuova, 
 those streets of palaces, and gazed at the wonders of architec- 
 ture around me; when I wandered at close of day amid a 
 gay throng of the brilliant and the beautiful, through the green 
 alleys of the Aqua Verde, or among the colonnades and ter- 
 races of the magnificent Doria gardens; I thought it impos- 
 sible to be ever otherwise than happy in Genoa. A few days 
 sufficed to show me my mistake. My scanty purse was ex- 
 hausted, and for the first time in my life I experienced the 
 sordid distress of penury. I had never known the want of 
 money, and had never adverted to the possibility of such an 
 evil. I was ignorant of the world and all its ways; and when 
 first the idea of destitution came over my mind, its effect was 
 withering. I was wandering penniless through the streets 
 
THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 95 
 
 which no longer delighted my eyes, when chance led my steps 
 into the magnificent church of the Annunciata. 
 
 A celebrated painter of the day was at that moment super- 
 intending the placing of one of his pictures over an altar. 
 The proficiency which I had acquired in his art during my 
 residence in the convent, had made me an enthusiastic amateur. 
 I was struck, at the first glance, with the painting. It was the 
 face of a Madonna. So innocent, so lovely, such a divine 
 expression of maternal tenderness! I lost, for the moment, all 
 recollection of myself in the enthusiasm of my art. I clasped 
 my hands together, and uttered an ejaculation of delight. 
 The painter perceived my emotion, He was flattered and 
 gratified by it. My air and manner pleased him, and he 
 accosted me. I felt too much the want of friendship to repel 
 the advances of a stranger; and there was something in this 
 one so benevolent and winning, that in a moment he gained 
 my confidence. 
 
 I told him my story and my situation, concealing only my 
 name and rank. He appeared strongly interested by my 
 recital, invited me to his house, and from that time I became 
 his favorite pupil. Ie thought he perceived in me: extra- 
 ordinary talents for the art, and his encomiums awakened all 
 my ardor. What a blissful period of my existence was it 
 that I passed beneath his roof! Another being seemed created 
 within me; or rather, all that was amiable and excellent was 
 drawn out. I was as recluse as ever I had been at the convent, 
 but how different was my seclusion? My time was spent in 
 storing my mind with lofty and poetical ideas ; in meditating 
 on all that was striking and noble in history and fiction ; in 
 studying and tracing all that was sublime and beautiful in 
 
96 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 nature. I was always a visionary, imaginative being, but 
 now my reveries and imaginings all elevated me to rapture. 
 I looked up to my master as to a benevolent genius that had 
 opened to me a region of enchantment. He was not a native 
 of Genoa, but had been drawn thither by the solicitations of 
 several of the nobility, and had resided there but a few years, 
 for the completion of certain works. His health was delicate, 
 and he had to confide much of the filling up of his designs to 
 the pencils of his scholars. He considered me as particularly 
 happy in delineating the human countenance ; in seizing upon 
 characteristic though fleeting expressions, and fixing them 
 powerfully upon my canvas. I was employed continually, 
 therefore, in sketching faces, and often, when some particular 
 grace or beauty of expression was wanted in a cuuntenance, 
 it was intrusted to my pencil. My benefactor was fond of 
 bringing me forward ; and partly, perhaps, through my actual 
 skill, and partly through his partial praises, I began to be 
 noted for the expressions of my countenances. 
 
 Among the various works which he had undertaken, was 
 an historical piece for one of the palaces of Genoa, in which 
 were to be introduced the likenesses of several of the family. 
 Among these was one intrusted to my pencil. It was that_ 
 of a young girl, as yet in a convent for her education. She 
 came out for the purpose of sitting for the picture. I first 
 saw her in an apartment of one of the sumptuous palaces of 
 Genoa. She stood before a casement that looked out upon 
 the bay ; a stream of vernal sunshine fell upon her, and shed 
 a kind of glory round her, as it lit up the rich crimson cham- 
 ber. She was but sixteen years of age—and oh, how lovely! 
 The scene broke upon me like a mere vision of spring and 
 
THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 97 
 
 youth and beauty. I could have fallen down and worshipped 
 her. She was like one of those fictions of poets and painters, 
 when they would express the deau ideal that haunts their minds 
 with shapes of indescribable perfection. I was permitted to 
 watch her countenance in various positions, and I fondly pro- 
 tracted the study that was undoing me. The more I gazed on 
 her, the more I became enamoured; there was something 
 almost painful in my intense admiration. I was but nineteen 
 years of age, shy, diffident, and inexperienced. I was treated 
 with attention by her mother; for my youth and my enthusiasm 
 in my art had won favor for me; and I am inclined to think 
 something in my air and manner inspired interest and respect. 
 Still the kindness with which I was treated could not dispel 
 the embarrassment into which my own imagination threw me 
 when in presence of this lovely being. It elevated her into 
 something almost more than mortal. She seemed too exqui- 
 site for earthly use ; too delicate and exalted for human attain- 
 ment. As I sat tracing her charms on my canvas, with my 
 eyes occasionally riveted on her features, I drank in delicious 
 poison that made me giddy. My heart alternately gushed 
 with tenderness, and ached with despair. Now I became 
 more than ever sensible of the violent fires that had lain dor- 
 mant at the bottom of my soul. You who were born in a 
 more temperate climate, and under a cooler sky, have little 
 idea of the violence of passion in our southern bosoms. 
 
 A few days finished my task. Bianca returned to her 
 convent, but her image remained indelibly impressed upon 
 my heart. It dwelt in my imagination; it became my per- 
 vading idea of beauty. It had an effect even upon my pencil. 
 
 I became noted for my felicity in depicting female loveliness : 
 5 
 
98 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 it was but because I multiplied the image of Bianca. 1 
 soothed and yet fed my fancy by introducing her in all the 
 productions of my master. I have stood, with delight, in one 
 of the chapels of the Annunciata, and heard the crowd extol 
 the seraphic beauty of a saint which I had painted. I have 
 seen them bow down in adoration before the painting; they 
 were bowing before the loveliness of Bianca. 
 
 I existed in this kind of dream, I might almost say deliri- 
 
 um, for upwards of a year. Such is the tenacity of my 
 
 imagination, that the image formed in it continued in all its - . 
 
 power and freshness. Indeed, I was a solitary, meditative 
 being, much given to reverie, and apt to foster ideas which 
 had once taken strong possession of me. I was roused from 
 this fond, melancholy, delicious dream by the death of my 
 worthy benefactor. I cannot describe the pangs his death 
 occasioned me. It left me alone, and almost broken-hearted. 
 He bequeathed to me his little property, which, from the 
 liberality of his disposition, and his expensive style of living, 
 was indeed but small; and he most particularly recommended 
 me, in dying, to the protection of a nobleman who had been 
 his patron. 
 
 The latter was a man who passed for munificent. He was 
 a lover and an encourager of the arts, and evidently wished to 
 be thought so. He fancied he saw in me indications of 
 future excellence ; my pencil had already attracted attention ; 
 he took me at once under his protection. Seeing that I was 
 overwhelmed with grief, and incapable of exerting myself in 
 the mansion of my late benefactor, he invited me to sojourn 
 for a time at a villa which he possessed on the border of the 
 
 sea, in the picturesque neighborhood of Sestri di Ponente. 
 
THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 99 
 
 I found at the villa the count’s only son, Filippo. He 
 was nearly of my age; prepossessing in his appearance, and 
 fascinating in his manners, he attached himself to me, and 
 seemed to court my good opinion. I thought there was 
 something of profession in his kindness, and of caprice in his 
 disposition ; but I had nothing else near me to attach myself 
 to, and my heart felt the need of something to repose upon. 
 His education had been neglected ; he looked upon me as his 
 superior in mental powers and acquirements, and _ tacitly 
 acknowledged my superiority. I felt that I was his equal in 
 birth, and that gave independence to my manners, which had 
 its effect. The caprice and tyranny I saw sometimes exercised 
 on others, over whom he had power, were never manifested 
 towards me. We became intimate friends and frequent com- 
 panions. Still I loved to be alone, and to indulge in the reve- 
 ries of my own imagination among the scenery by which I 
 was surrounded. ‘The villa commanded a wide view of the 
 Mediterranean, and of the picturesque Ligurian coast. It 
 stood alone in the midst of ornamented grounds, finely 
 decorated with statues and fountains, and laid out in groves 
 and alleys and shady lawns. Every thing was assembled 
 here that could gratify the taste, or agreeably occupy the 
 mind. Soothed by the tranquillity of this elegant retreat, 
 the turbulence of my feelings gradually subsided, and blend- 
 ing with the romantic spell which still reigned over my 
 imagination, produced a soft, voluptuous melancholy. 
 
 I had not been long under the roof of the count, when our 
 solitude was enlivened by another inhabitant. It was a 
 daughter of a relative of the count, who had lately died in re- 
 
 duced circumstances, bequeathing this only child to his pro- 
 
100 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 tection. I had heard much of her beauty from Filippo, but 
 my fancy had become so engrossed by one idea of beauty, as 
 not to admit of any other. We were in the central saloon of 
 the villa when she arrived. She was still in mourning, and 
 approached, leaning on the count’s arm. As they ascended 
 the marble portico, I was struck by the elegance of her figure 
 and movement, by the grace with which the mezzaro, the 
 bewitching vail of Genoa, was folded about her slender 
 form. They entered. Heavens! what was my surprise 
 when I beheld Bianca before me! It was herself; pale with 
 grief, but still more matured in loveliness than when I had 
 last beheld her. The time that had elapsed had developed 
 the graces of her person, and the sorrow she had under- 
 gone had diffused over her countenance an irresistible ten- 
 derness. 
 
 She blushed and trembled at seeing me, and tears rushed 
 into her eyes, for she remembered in whose company she had 
 been accustomed to behold me. For my part, I cannot ex- 
 press what were my emotions. By degrees I overcame the 
 extreme shyness that had formerly paralyzed me in her 
 presence. We were drawn together by sympathy of situa- 
 tion. We had each lost our best friend in the world; we 
 were each, in some measure, thrown upon the kindness of 
 others. When I came to know her intellectually, all my 
 ideal picturings of her were confirmed. Her newness to the 
 world, her delightful susceptibility to every thing beautiful 
 and agreeable in nature, reminded me of my own emotions 
 when first I escaped from the convent. Her rectitude of 
 thinking delighted my judgment ; the sweetness of her nature 
 
 wrapped itself round my heart; and then her young, and 
 
THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 101 
 
 tender, and budding loveliness, sent a delicious madness to 
 my brain. 
 
 I gazed upon her with a kind of idolatry, as something 
 more than mortal; and I felt humiliated at the idea of my 
 comparative unworthiness. Yet she was mortal; and one 
 of mortality’s most susceptible and loving compounds ;—for 
 she loved me! 
 
 How first I discovered the transporting truth I cannot 
 recollect. I believe it stole upon me by degrees as a wonder 
 past hope or belief. We were both at sucha tender and loving 
 age; in constant intercourse with each other; mingling in the 
 same elegant pursuits ;—for music, poetry, and painting, 
 were our mutual delights; and we were almost separated 
 from society among lovely and romantic scenery. Is it 
 strange that two young hearts, thus brought together, should 
 readily twine round each other ? 
 
 Oh, gods! what a dream—a transient dream of unalloyed 
 delight, then passed over my soul! Then it was that the 
 world around me was indeed a paradise; for 1 had woman 
 —lovely, delicious woman, to share it with me! How often 
 have I rambled along the picturesque shores of Sestri, or 
 climbed its wild mountains, with the coast gemmed with 
 villas, and the blue sea far below me, and the slender Faro 
 of Genoa on its romantic promontory in the distance; and 
 as I sustained the faltering steps of Bianca, have thought 
 there could no unhappiness enter into so beautiful a 
 world! How often have we listened together to the night 
 ingale, as it poured forth its rich notes among the moonlight 
 bowers of the garden, and have wondered that poets could 
 
 ever have fancied any thing melancholy in its song! Why, 
 
102 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 oh why is this budding season of life and tenderness so 
 transient! why is this rosy cloud of love, that sheds such a 
 glow over the morning of our days, so prone to brew up into 
 the whirlwind and the storm! 
 
 I was the first to awaken from this blissful delirium of 
 the affections. I had gained Bianca’s heart, what was I to do 
 with it? I had no wealth nor prospect to entitle me to her 
 hand; was I to take advantage of her ignorance of the 
 world, of her confiding affection, and draw her down to my 
 own poverty? Was this requiting the hospitality of the 
 count ? was this requiting the love of Bianca ? 
 
 Now first I began to feel that even successful love may 
 have its bitterness. A corroding care gathered about my 
 heart. I moved about the palace like a guilty being. I felt 
 as if I had abused its hospitality, as if I were a thief within 
 its walls. I could no longer look with unembarrassed mien 
 in the countenance of the count. I accused myself of perfidy 
 to him, and I thought he read it in my looks, and began to 
 distrust and despise me. His manner had always been os- 
 tentatious and condescending; it now appeared cold and 
 haughty. Filippo, too, became reserved and distant; or at 
 least I suspected him to be so. Heavens! was this the mere 
 coinage of my brain? Was I to become suspicious of all 
 the world? a poor, surmising wretch; watching looks 
 and gestures; and torturing myself with misconstructions ? 
 Or, if true, was I to remain beneath a roof where I was 
 merely tolerated, and linger there on sufferance? “ This is 
 not to be endured!” exclaimed I: “I will tear myself 
 from this state of self-abasement—I will break through this 
 
THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 103 
 
 fascination, and fly—Fly !—Whither ? from the world? for 
 where is the world when I leave Bianca behind me?” 
 
 My spirit was naturally proud, and swelled within me at 
 the idea of being looked upon with contumely. Many times 
 I was on the point of declaring my family and rank, and as- 
 serting my equality in the presence of Bianca, when I thought 
 her relations assumed an air of superiority. But the feeling 
 was transient. I considered myself discarded and condemned 
 by my family; and had solemnly vowed never to own rela- 
 tionship to them until they themselves should claim it. 
 
 The struggle of my mind preyed upon my happiness and 
 my health. It seemed as if the uncertainty of being loved 
 would be less intolerable than thus to be assured of it, and 
 yet not dare to enjoy the conviction: I was no longer the 
 enraptured admirer of Bianca; I no longer hung in 
 ecstasy on the tones of her voice, nor drank in with insatiate 
 gaze the beauty of her countenance. Her very smiles ceased 
 to delight me, for I felt culpable in having won them. 
 
 She could not but be sensible of the change in me, and 
 inquired the cause with her usual frankness and simplicity. I 
 could not evade the inquiry, for my heart was full to aching. 
 I told her all the conflict of my soul; my devouring passion, 
 my bitter selftupbraiding. “ Yes,” said I, “1 am unworthy 
 of you. I am an offeast from my family—a wanderer—a 
 nameless, homeless wanderer—with nothing but poverty for 
 my portion; and yet I have dared to love you—have dared 
 to aspire to your love.” 
 
 My agitation moved her to tears, but she saw nothing in 
 my situation so hopeless as I had depicted it. Brought up 
 
 in a convent, she knew nothing of the world—its wants—its 
 
104 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 cares: and indeed what woman is a worldly casuist in the 
 matters of the heart? Nay, more, she kindled into sweet 
 enthusiasm when she spoke of my fortunes and myself. We 
 had dwelt together on the works of the famous masters. I 
 related to her their histories; the high reputation, the in- 
 fluence, the magnificence to which they had attained. The 
 companions of princes, the favorites of kings, the pride and 
 boast of nations. All this she applied to me. Her love saw 
 nothing in all their great productions that I was not able to 
 achieve ; and when I beheld the lovely creature glow with 
 fervor, and her whole countenance radiant with visions of my 
 glory, I was snatched up for the moment into the heaven of 
 her own imagination. 
 
 Iam dwelling too long upon this part of my story; yet 
 I cannot help lingering over a period of my life on which, 
 with all its cares and conflicts, I Jook back with fondness, for 
 as yet my soul was unstained by a crime. Ido not know 
 what might have been the result of this struggle between 
 pride, delicacy, and passion, had I not read in a Neapolitan 
 gazette, an account of the sudden death of my brother. It 
 was accompanied by an earnest inquiry for intelligence con- 
 cerning me, anda prayer, should this meet my eye, that I 
 would hasten to Naples to comfort an infirm and afflicted 
 father. : 
 
 I was naturally of an affectionate disposition, but my 
 brother had never been as a brother to me. I had long con- 
 sidered myself as disconnected from him, and his death caused 
 me but little emotion. The thoughts of my father, infirm 
 and suffering, touched me, however, to the quick ; and when I 
 
 thought of him, that lofty magnificent being, now bowed 
 
THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 105 
 
 down and desolate, and suing to me for comfort, all my re- 
 sentment for past neglect was subdued, and a glow of filial 
 affection was awakened within me. 
 
 The predominant feeling, however, that overpowered all 
 others, was transport at the sudden change in my whole 
 fortunes. A home, a name, rank, wealth, awaited me; and 
 love painted a still more rapturous prospect in the distance. 
 I hastened to Bianca, and threw myself at her feet. “Oh, 
 Bianca!” exclaimed I, “at length I can claim you for my 
 own. I am no longer a nameless adventurer, a neglected, 
 rejected outcast. Look—read—behold the tidings that re- 
 store me to my name and to myself!” 
 
 I will not dwell on the scene that ensued. Bianca re- 
 joiced in the reverse of my situation, because she saw it 
 lightened my heart of a load of care; for her own part, she 
 had loved me for myself, and had never doubted that my 
 own merits would command both fame and fortune. 
 
 I now felt all my native pride buoyant within me. Ino 
 longer walked with my eyes bent to the dust; hope elevated 
 them to the skies—my soul was lit up with fresh fires, and 
 beamed from my countenance. 
 
 I wished to impart the change in my circumstances to the 
 count; to let him know who and what I was—and to make 
 formal proposals for the hand of Bianca; but he was absent 
 on a distant estate. I opened my whole soul to Filippo. 
 Now first I told him of my passion, of the doubts and fears 
 that had distracted me, and of the tidings that had suddenly 
 dispelled them. He overwhelmed me with congratulations, 
 and with the warmest expressions of sympathy; I embraced 
 
 him in the fulness of my heart ;—I felt compunctious for 
 
106 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 having suspected him of coldness, and asked his forgiveness 
 for ever having doubted his friendship. 
 
 Nothing is so warm and enthusiastic as a sudden expan- 
 sion of the heart between young men. Filippo entered into 
 our concerns with the most eager interest. He was our 
 confidant and counsellor. It was determined that I should 
 hasten at once to Naples, to re-establish myself in my father’s 
 affections, and my paternal home; and the moment the 
 reconciliation was effected, and my father’s consent insured, 
 I should return and demand Bianca of the count. Filippo 
 engaged to secure his father’s acquiescence ; indeed he under- 
 took to watch over our interest, and to be the channel 
 through which we might correspond. 
 
 My parting with Bianca was tender—delicious—agoniz- 
 ing. it was in a little pavilion of the garden which had been 
 one of our favorite resorts. How often and often did I return 
 to have one more adieu, to have her look once more on me in 
 speechless emotion; to enjoy once more the rapturous sight 
 of those tears streaming down her lovely cheeks; to seize 
 once more on that delicate hand, the frankly accorded pledge 
 of love, and cover it with tears and kisses? Heavens! there 
 is a delight even in the parting agony of two lovers, worth a 
 thousand tame pleasures of the world. I have her at this 
 moment before my eyes, at the window of the pavilion, put- 
 ting aside the vines which clustered about the casement, her 
 form beaming forth in virgin light, her countenance all tears 
 and smiles, sending’a thousand and a thousand adieus after 
 me, as hesitating, in a delirium of fondness and agitation, I 
 faltered my way down the avenue. 
 
 As the bark bore me out of the harbor of Genoa, how 
 
THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 107 
 
 eagerly my eye stretched along the coast of Sestri till it dis- 
 covered the villa gleaming from among the trees at the foot 
 of the mountain. As long as day lasted I gazed and gazed 
 upon it, till it lessened and lessened to a mere white speck in 
 the distance ; and still my intense and fixed gaze discerned it, 
 when all other objects of the coast had blended into indistinct 
 confusion, or were lost.in the evening gloom. 
 
 On arriving at Naples, I hastened to my paternal home. 
 My heart yearned for the long-withheld blessing of a father’s 
 love. As I entered the proud portal of the ancestral palace, 
 my emotions were so great, that I could not speak. No one 
 knew me, the servants gazed at me with curiosity and sur- 
 prise. A few years of intellectual elevation and develop- 
 ment had made a prodigious change in the poor fugitive 
 stripling from the convent. Still, that no one should know 
 me in my rightful home was overpowering. I felt like the 
 prodigal son returned. I was a stranger in the house of my 
 father. I burst into tears and wept aloud. When I made 
 myself known, however, all was changed. I, who had once 
 been almost repulsed from its walls, and forced to fly as an 
 exile, was welcomed back with acclamation, with servility. 
 One of the servants hastened to prepare my father for my 
 reception ; my eagerness to receive the paternal embrace was 
 so great that [ could not await his return, but hurried after 
 him. What a spectacle met my eyes as I entered the 
 chamber! My father, whom I had left in the pride of 
 vigorous age, whose noble and majestic bearing had so awed 
 my young imagination, was bowed down and withered into 
 decrepitude. A paralysis had ravaged his stately form, and 
 
 left it a shaking ruin. He sat propped up ‘in his chair, with 
 
108 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 pale, relaxed visage, and glassy wandering eye. His intel- 
 lects had evidently shared in the ravages of his frame. The 
 servant was endeavoring to make him comprehend that a 
 visitor was at hand. I tottered up to him, and sank at his 
 feet. All his past coldness and neglect were forgotten in his 
 present sufferings. I remembered only that he was my 
 parent, and that I had deserted him. I clasped his knee: 
 my voice was almost filled with convulsive sobs. “ Pardon 
 —pardon! oh! my father!” was all that I could utter. 
 His apprehension seemed slowly to return to him. He gazed 
 at me for some moments with a vague, inquiring look; a 
 convulsive tremor quivered about his lips; he feebly ex- 
 tended a shaking hand; laid it upon my head, and burst into 
 an infantine flow of tears. 
 
 From that moment he would scarcely spare me from his 
 sight. I appeared the only object that his heart responded to 
 in the world; all else was as a blank to him. He had almost 
 lost the power of speech, and the reasoning faculty seemed at 
 an end. He was mute and passive, excepting that fits of child- 
 like weeping would sometimes come over him without any 
 immediate cause. IfI left the room at any time, his eye was 
 incessantly fixed on the door till my return, and on my en- 
 trance there was another gush of tears. 
 
 To talk with him of all my concerns, in this ruined state 
 of mind, would have been worse than useless; to have left 
 him for ever so short a time would have been cruel, un- 
 natural. Here then was a new trial for my affections. I 
 wrote to Bianca an account of my return, and of my actual 
 _ situation, painting in colors vivid, for they were true, the 
 
 torments I suffered at our being thus separated; for the 
 
THE YOUNG ITATTAN. 109 
 
 youthful lover every day of absence is an age of love lost. I 
 inclosed the letter in one to Filippo, who was the channel of 
 our correspondence. I received a reply from him full of 
 friendship and sympathy ; from Bianca, full of assurances of 
 affection and constancy. Week after week, month after 
 month elapsed, without making any change in my circum- 
 stances. The vital flame which had seemed nearly extinct 
 when first I met my father, kept fluttering on without any 
 apparent diminution. I watched him constantly, faithfully, I 
 had almost said patiently. I knew that his death alone would 
 set me free—yet I never at any moment wished it. I felt 
 too glad to be able to make any atonement for past 
 disobedience ; and denied, as I had been, all endearments of 
 relationship in my early days, my heart yearned towards 
 a father, who in his age and helplessness had thrown himself 
 entirely on me for comfort. 
 
 My passion for Bianca gained daily more force from ab- 
 sence: by constant meditation it wore itself a deeper and 
 deeper channel. I made no new friends nor acquaintances ; 
 sought none of the pleasures of Naples, which my rank and 
 fortune threw open to me. Mine was a heart that confined 
 itself to few objects, but dwelt upon them with the intenser 
 passion. To sit by my father, administer to his wants, and to 
 meditate on Bianca in the silence of his chamber, was my con- 
 stant habit. Sometimes I amused myself with my pencil, in 
 portraying the image ever present to my imagination. I trans 
 ferred to canvas every look and smile of hers that dwelt in 
 my heart. I showed them to my father, in hopes of awaken- 
 ing an interest in his bosom for the mere shadow of my love ; 
 
 but he was too far sunk in intellect to take any notice of 
 5* 
 
110 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 them. When I received a letter from Bianca, it was a new 
 source of solitary luxury. Jer letters, it is true, were less 
 and less frequent, but they were always full of assurances of 
 unabated affection. They breathed not the frank and inno- 
 cent warmth with which she expressed herself in conversation, 
 but I accounted for it from the embarrassment which inex- 
 perienced minds have often to express themselves upon paper. 
 Filippo assured me of her unaltered constancy. They both 
 lamented, in the strongest terms, our continued separation, 
 though they did justice to the filial piety that kept me by my 
 father’s side. 
 
 Nearly two years elapsed in this protracted exile. To 
 me they were so many ages. Ardent and impetuous by 
 nature, I scarcely know how I should have supported so long 
 an absence, had I not felt assured that the faith of Bianca was 
 equal to my own. At length my father died. Life went 
 from him almost imperceptibly. I hung over him in mute 
 affliction, and watched the expiring spasms of nature. His 
 last faltering accents whispered repeatedly a blessing on me. 
 Alas! how has it been fulfilled ! 
 
 When I had paid due honors to his remains, and Jaid them 
 in the tomb of our ancestors, I arranged briefly my affairs, 
 put them in a posture to be easily at my command from a 
 distance, and embarked once more with a bounding heart for 
 Genoa. 
 
 Our voyage was propitious, and oh! what was my rap- 
 ture, when first, in the dawn of morning, I saw the shadowy 
 summits of the Apennines rising almost like clouds above 
 the horizon! The sweet breath of summer just moved us 
 
 over the long wavering billows that were rolling us on 
 
THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 111 
 
 towards Genoa. By degrees the coast of Sestri rose like a 
 creation of enchantment from the silver bosom of the deep. 
 I beheld the line of villages and palaces studding its borders, 
 My eye reverted to a well-known point, and at length, from 
 the confusion of distant objects, it singled out the villa which 
 contained Bianca, It was a mere speck in the landscape, but 
 glimmering from afar, the polar star of my heart. 
 
 Again I gazed at it for a livelong summer’s day, but oh! 
 how different the emotions between departure and return. It 
 now kept growing and growing, instead of lessening and 
 lessening on my sight. My heart seemed to dilate with it. I 
 looked at it through a telescope. I gradually defined one 
 feature after another. The balconies of the central saloon 
 where first I met Bianca beneath its roof; the terrace where 
 we so often had passed the delightful summer evenings ; the 
 awning which shaded her chamber window ; I almost fancied 
 I saw her form beneath it. Could she but know her lover 
 was in the bark whose white sail now gleamed on the sunny 
 bosom of the sea! My fond impatience increased as we 
 neared the coast; the ship seemed to lag lazily over the 
 billows ; I could almost have sprang into the sea, and swam 
 to the desired shore. 
 
 The shadows of evening gradually shrouded the scene ; 
 but the moon arose in all her fulness and beauty, and shed 
 the tender light so dear to lovers, over the romantic coast of 
 Sestri. My soul was bathed in unutterable tenderness. I 
 anticipated the heavenly evenings I should pass in once more 
 wandering with Bianca by the light of that blessed moon. 
 
 It was late at night before we entered the harbor. As 
 
 early next morning as I could get released from the for- 
 
112 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 malities of landing, I threw myself on horseback, and hastened 
 to the villa. As I galloped round the rocky promontory on 
 which stands the Faro, and saw the coast of Sestri, opening 
 upon me, a thousand anxieties and doubts suddenly sprang 
 up in my bosom. There is something fearful in returning to 
 those we love, while yet uncertain what ills or changes ab- 
 sence may have effected. The turbulence of my agitation 
 shook my very frame. I spurred my horse to redoubled 
 speed; he was covered with foam when we both arrived 
 panting at the gateway that opened to the grounds around the 
 villa. I left my horse at a cottage, and walked through the 
 grounds, that I might regain tranquillity for the approaching 
 interview. I chid myself for having suffered mere doubts 
 and surmises thus suddenly to overcome me; but I was always 
 prone to be carried away by gusts of the feelings. 
 
 On entering the garden, every thing bore the same look 
 as when I had left it; and this unchanged aspect of things 
 reassured me. ‘There were the alleys in which I had so often 
 walked with Bianca, as we listened to the song of the night- 
 ingale ; the same shades under which we had so often sat 
 during the noontide heat. There were the same flowers of 
 which she was fond; and which appeared still to be under 
 the ministry of her hand. Every thing looked and breathed 
 of Bianca; hope and joy flushed in my bosom at every step. 
 I passed a little arbor, in which we had often sat and read 
 together—a book and glove lay on the bench—It was Bianca’s 
 glove; it was a volume of the Metastasio I had given her. 
 The glove lay in my favorite passage. I clasped them to my 
 heart with rapture. “ All is safe!” exclaimed 1; “she loves 
 
 me, she is still my own!” 
 
_ THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 113 
 
 I bounded lightly along the avenue, down which I had 
 faltered so slowly at my departure. 1 beheld her favorite 
 pavilion, which had witnessed our parting scene. The 
 window was open, with the same vine clambering about it, 
 precisely as when she waved and wept me an adieu. O how 
 transporting was the contrast in my situation! As I passed 
 near the pavilion, I heard the tones of a female voice: they 
 thrilled through me with an appeal to my heart not to be 
 mistaken. Before I could think, I felt they were Bianca’s. 
 For an instant I paused, overpowered with agitation. I 
 feared to break so suddenly upon her. I softly ascended 
 the steps of the pavilion. The door was open. I saw Bianca 
 seated at a table; her back was towards me, she was war- 
 bling a soft melancholy air, and was occupied in drawing. A 
 glance sufficed to show me that she was copying one of my 
 own paintings. I gazed on her for a moment in a delicious 
 tumult of emotions. She paused in her singing: a heavy 
 sigh, almost a sob followed. I could no longer contain my- 
 self. “ Bianca!” exclaimed J, in a_half-smothered voice. 
 She started at the sound, brushed back the ringlets that hung 
 clustering about her face, darted a glance at me, uttered a 
 piercing shriek, and would have fallen to the earth, had I not 
 caught her in my arms. 
 
 ‘‘ Bianca! my own Bianca!” exclaimed I, folding her to 
 my bosom, my voice stifled in sobs of convulsive joy. She 
 lay in my arms without sense or motion. Alarmed at the 
 effects of my precipitation, I scarce knew what to do. I tried 
 by a thousand endearing words to call her back to conscious- 
 ness. She slowly recovered, and half opened her eyes, 
 
 “ Where am I?” murmured she faintly. ‘ Here!” exclaimed 
 
114 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 I, pressing her to my bosom, “ here—close to the heart that 
 adores you—in the arms of your faithful Ottavio!” “Oh 
 no! no! no!” shrieked she, starting into sudden life and 
 terror—“ away ! away! leave me! leave me!” 
 
 She tore herself from my arms; rushed to a corner of the 
 saloon, and covered her face with her hands, as if the very 
 sight of me were baleful. I was thunderstruck. I could 
 not believe my senses. I followed her, trembling; con- 
 founded. I endeavored to take her hand; but she shrunk 
 from my very touch with horror. 
 
 “Good heavens, Bianca!” exclaimed IJ, “what is the 
 meaning of this? Is this my reception after so long an 
 absence? Is this the love you professed for me?” 
 
 At the mention of love, a shuddering ran through her. She 
 turned to me a face wild with anguish: “ No more of that— 
 no more of that!” gasped she: “talk not to me of love—I 
 
 —I 
 
 am married !” 
 
 I reeled as if I had received a mortal blow—a sickness 
 struck to my very heart. I caught at a window-frame for 
 support. For a moment or two every thing was chaos 
 around me. When I recovered, I beheld Bianca lying on a 
 sofa, her face buried in the pillow, and sobbing convulsively. 
 Indignation for her fickleness for a moment overpowered 
 every other feeling. 
 
 “ Faithless—perjured !” cried I, striding across the room, 
 But another glance at that beautiful being in distress checked 
 all my wrath. Anger could not dwell together with her idea 
 in my soul, 
 
 “Oh! Bianca,” exclaimed I, in anguish “could I have 
 
THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 115 
 
 dreamt of this? Could I have suspected you would have 
 been false to me?” 
 
 She raised her face all streaming with tears, all disordered 
 with emotion, and gave me one appealing look. “ False to 
 you ?—They told me you were dead !” 
 
 “What,” said I, “in spite of our constant corre- 
 spondence ?” 
 
 She gazed wildly at me: “Correspondence? what corre- 
 spondence !” 
 
 “Have you not repeatedly received and replied to my 
 letters?” 
 
 She clasped her hands with solemnity and fervor. “As 
 I hope for merey—never ! ” 
 
 A horrible surmise shot through my brain. ‘ Who told 
 you I was dead ?” 
 
 “It was reported that the ship in which you embarked 
 for Naples perished at sea.” 
 
 * But who told you the report ?” 
 
 She paused for an instant, and trembled :—“ Filippo!” 
 
 “ May the God of heaven curse him!” cried I, extending 
 my clinched fists aloft. 
 
 “ Oh do not curse him, do not curse him!” exclaimed she, 
 “he is—he is—my husband !” 
 
 This was all that was wanting to unfold the perfidy 
 that had been practised upon me. My blood boiled like 
 liquid fire in my veins. I gasped with rage too great for 
 utterance—I remained for a time bewildered by the whirl of 
 horrible thoughts that rushed through my mind. The poor 
 victim of deception before me thought it was with her I was: 
 
 incensed, She faintly murmured forth her exculpation. I 
 
116 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 will not dwell upon it. I saw in it more than she meant to 
 reveal. I saw with a glance how both of us had been 
 betrayed. 
 
 “Tis well,” muttered I to myself in smothered accents of 
 concentrated fury. “ He shall render an account of all this.” 
 
 Bianca overheard me. New terror flashed in her coun- 
 tenance. “For mercy’s sake, do not meet him !—say 
 nothing of what has passed—for my sake say nothing to him 
 —TI only shall be the sufferer!” 
 
 A new suspicion darted across my mind.—* What!” 
 exclaimed I, “do you then fear him? is he unkind to 
 you? Tell me,” reiterated I, grasping her hand, and looking 
 her eagerly in the face, “tell me—dares he to use you 
 harshly ?” 
 
 “No! no! no!” cried she, faltering and embarrassed— 
 but the glance at her face had told me volumes. I saw in 
 her pallid and wasted features, in the prompt terror and 
 subdued agony of her eye, a whole history of a mind broken 
 down by tyranny. Great God! and was this beauteous 
 flower snatched from me to be thus trampled upon? The 
 idea roused me to madness, I clinched my teeth and hands ; 
 I foamed at the mouth; every passion seemed to have re- 
 solved itself into the fury that like a lava boiled within my 
 heart. Bianca shrunk from me in speechless affright. As I 
 strode by the window, my eye darted down the alley. Fatal 
 moment! I beheld Filippo at a distance! my brain was in 
 delirium—lI sprang from the pavilion, and was before him 
 with the quickness of lightning. He saw me as I came rush- 
 ‘ing upon him—he turned pale, looked wildly to right and 
 left, as if he would have fled, and trembling, drew his sword. 
 
THE YOUNG ITALIAN. Tit 
 
 “ Wretch!” cried I, “ well may you draw your weapon !” 
 
 I spoke not another word—I snatched forth a stiletto, put 
 by the sword which trembled in his hand, and buried my 
 poniard in his bosom. He fell with the blow, but my rage 
 was unsated. I sprang upon him with the blood-thirsting 
 feeling of a tiger; redoubled my blows; mangled him in 
 my frenzy, grasped him by the throat, until, with reiterated 
 wounds and strangling convulsions, he expired in my grasp. 
 I remained glaring on the countenance, horrible in death, that 
 seemed to stare back with its protruded eyes upon me. 
 Piercing shrieks roused me from my delirium. I looked 
 round and beheld Bianca flying distractedly towards us. 
 My brain whirled—I waited not to meet her; but fled from 
 the scene of horror. I fled forth from the garden like another 
 Cain,—a hell within my bosom, and a curse upon my head. 
 I fled without knowing whither, almost without knowing why. 
 My only idea was to get farther and farther from the horrors 
 I had left behind; as if I could throw space between myself 
 and my conscience. I fled to the Apennines, and wandered 
 for days and days among their savage heights. How I ex- 
 isted, I cannot tell—what rocks and precipices I braved, and 
 how I braved them, I know not. I kept on and on, trying 
 to out-travel the curse that clung to me. Alas! the 
 shrieks of Bianca rung forever in my ears. The horrible 
 countenance of my victim was forever before my eyes. The 
 blood of Filippo cried to me from the ground. Rocks, trees, 
 and torrents, all resounded with my crime. Then it was I 
 felt how much more insupportable is the anguish of remorse 
 than every other mental pang. Oh! could I but have cast off 
 this crime that festered in my heart—could I but have 
 
118 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 regained the innocence that reigned in my breast as I entered 
 the garden at Sestri—could I have but restored my victim 
 to life, I felt as if I could look on with transport, even 
 though Bianca were in his arms. 
 
 By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse settled into a 
 permanent malady of the mind—into one of the most horrible 
 ‘that ever poor wretch was cursed with. Wherever I went, 
 the countenance of him I had slain appeared to follow me. 
 Whenever I turned my head, I beheld it behind me, hideous 
 with the contortions of the dying moment. I have tried in 
 every way to escape from this horrible phantom, but in vain. 
 I know not whether it be an illusion of the mind, the conse- 
 quence of my dismal education at the convent, or whether.a 
 phantom really sent by Heaven to punish me, but there it 
 ever is—at all times—in all places. Nor has time nor habit 
 had any effect in familiarizing me with its terrors. I have 
 travelled from place to place—plunged into amusements— 
 tried dissipation and distraction of every kind—all—all in 
 vain. I once had recourse to my pencil, as a desperate ex- 
 periment. I painted an exact resemblance of this phantom 
 face. I placed it before me, in hopes that by constantly con- 
 templating the copy, I might diminish the effect of the origi- 
 nal. But I only doubled instead of diminishing the misery. 
 Such is the curse that has clung to my footsteps—that has 
 made my life a burden, but the thought of death terrible. 
 God knows what I have suffered—what days and days, and 
 nights and nights of sleepless torment—what a never-dying 
 worm has preyed upon my heart—what an unquenchable fire 
 has burned within my brain! He knows the wrongs that 
 
 wrought upon my poor weak nature; that converted the ten- 
 
THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 119 
 
 derest of affections into the deadliest of fury. He knows 
 best whether a frail erring creature has expiated by long- 
 enduring torture and measureless remorse the crime of a 
 moment of madness. Often, often have I prostrated myself 
 in the dust, and implored that he would give me a sign of his 
 
 forgiveness, and let me die 
 
 Thus far had I written some time since. I had meant to 
 leave this record of misery and crime with you, to be réad 
 when I should be no more. 
 
 My prayer to Heaven has at length been heard. You 
 were witness to my emotions last evening at the church, 
 when the vaulted temple resounded with the words of atone- 
 ment and redemption. I heard a voice speaking to me from 
 the midst of the music; I heard it rising above the pealing of 
 the organ and the voices of the choir—it spoke to me in tones 
 of celestial melody—it promised mercy and forgiveness, but 
 demanded from me full expiation. I go to make it. To- 
 morrow I shall be on my way to Genoa, to surrender myself 
 to justice. You who have pitied my sufferings, who have 
 poured the balm of sympathy into my wounds, do not shrink 
 from my memory with abhorrence now that you know my 
 story. Recollect, that when you read of my crime J shall 
 
 have atoned for it with my blood! 
 
 When the Baronet had finished, there was a universal de- 
 sire expressed to see the painting of this frightful visage. 
 After much entreaty the Baronet consented, on condition that 
 
120 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 they should only visit it one by one. He called his house- 
 keeper, and gave her charge to conduct the gentlemen, singly, 
 to the chamber. They all returned varying in their stories. 
 Some affected in one way, some in another; some more, some 
 less; but all agreeing that there was a certain something 
 about the painting that had a very odd effect upon the 
 feelings. 
 
 I stood in a deep bow-window with the Baronet, and could 
 not help expressing my wonder. “ After all,” said I, “ there 
 are certain mysteries in our nature, certain inscrutable im- 
 pulses and influences, which warrant one in being superstitious. 
 Who can account for so many persons of different characters 
 being thus strangely affected by a mere painting ?” 
 
 “ And especially when not one of them has seen it ?” said 
 the Baronet, with a smile. 
 
 “ How!” exclaimed I, “not seen it ?” 
 
 “ Not one of them!” replied he, laying his finger on his 
 lips, in sign of secrecy. “I saw that some of them were in a 
 bantering vein, and did not choose that the memento of the 
 poor Italian should be made a jest of. SoI gave the house- 
 keeper a hint to show them all to a different chamber !” 
 
 Thus end the stories of the Nervous Gentleman. 
 
PART SECOND. 
 
 BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
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LITERARY LIFE. 
 
 MONG other subjects of a traveller’s curiosity, I had at 
 one time a great craving after anecdotes of literary life ; 
 and being at London, one of the most noted places for the 
 production of books, I was excessively anxious to know some- 
 thing of the animals which produced them. Chance fortu- 
 nately threw me in the way of a literary man by the name of 
 Buckthorne, an eccentric personage, who had lived much in 
 the metropolis, and could give me the natural history of 
 every odd animal to be met with in that wilderness of men. 
 He readily imparted to me some useful hints upon the sub- 
 ject of my inquiry. 
 
 “ The literary world,” said he, “is made up of little con- 
 federacies, each looking upon its own members as the lights 
 of the universe ; and considering all others as mere transient 
 meteors, doomed soon to fall and be forgotten, while its own 
 luminaries are to shine steadily on to immortality.” 
 
 “And pray,” said I, “how is a man to get a peep into 
 those confederacies you speak of? I presume an intercourse 
 with authors is a kind of intellectual exchange, where one 
 must bring his commodities to barter, and always give a guid 
 pro quo.” 
 
 “ Pooh, pooh! how you mistake,” said Buckthorne, smil- 
 
 ing; “ you must never think to become popular among wits 
 
124 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 by shining. They go into society to shine themselves, not to 
 admire the brilliancy of others. I once thought as you do, 
 and never went into literary society without studying my 
 part beforehand; the consequence was, that I soon got the 
 name of an intolerable proser, and should in a little while 
 have been completely excommunicated, had I not changed my 
 plan of operations. No, sir, no character succeeds so well 
 among wits as that of a good listener; or if ever you are 
 eloquent, let it be when téte-a-téte with an author, and then 
 in praise of his own works, or, what is nearly as acceptable, 
 in disparagement of the works of his contemporaries. If ever 
 he speaks favorably of the productions of a particular friend, 
 dissent boldly from him ; pronounce his friend to be a block- 
 head ; never fear his being vexed; much as people speak of 
 the irritability of authors, I never found one to take offence at 
 such contradictions. No, no, sir, authors are particularly 
 candid in admitting the faults of their friends. 
 
 “ Indeed, I would advise you to be exceedingly sparing of 
 remarks on all modern works, except to make sarcastic ob- 
 servations on the most distinguished writers of the day.” 
 
 “ Faith,” said I, “Tl praise none that have not been dead 
 for at least half a century.” 
 
 “ Even then,” observed Mr. Buckthorne, “I would advise 
 you to be rather cautious ; for you must know that many old 
 writers have been enlisted under the banners of different 
 sects, and their merits have become as completely topics of 
 party discussion as the merits of living statesmen and politi- 
 cians. Nay, there have been whole periods of literature ab- 
 solutely taboo’d, to use a South Sea phrase. It is, for 
 
 example, as much as a man’s critical reputation is worth in 
 
LITERARY LIFE. 125 
 
 some circles, to say a word in praise of any of the writers of 
 the reign of Charles the Second, or even of Queen Anne, they 
 being all declared Frenchmen in disguise.” 
 
 “ And pray,” said I, “ when am I then to know that I am 
 on safe grounds, being totally unacquainted with the literary 
 land-marks, and the boundary line of fashionable taste.” 
 
 “Oh!” replied he, “there is fortunately one tract of 
 literature which forms a kind of neutral ground, on which all 
 the literary meet amicably, and run riot in the excess of their 
 good humor; and this is in the reigns of Elizabeth and 
 James. Here you may praise away at random. Here it is 
 ‘cut and cone again;’ and the more obscure the author, 
 and the more quaint and crabbed his style, the more your ad- 
 miration will smack of the real relish of the connoisseur ; 
 whose taste, like that of an epicure, is always for game that 
 has an antiquated flavor. i 
 
 “But,” continued he, “as you seem anxious to know 
 something of literary society, I will take an opportunity to 
 introduce you to some coterie, where the talents of the day 
 are assembled. I cannot promise you, however, that they 
 will all be of the first order. Somehow or other, our great 
 geniuses are not gregarious ; they do not go in flocks, but fly 
 singly in general society. They prefer mingling like com- 
 ‘mon men with the multitude, and are apt to carry nothing of 
 the author about them but the reputation. It is only the in- | 
 ferior orders that herd together, acquire strength and impor- 
 tance by their confederacies, and bear all the distinctive 
 
 characteristics of their species.” 
 
A LITERARY DINNER. 
 
 FEW days after this conversation with Mr. Buckthorne, 
 
 he called upon me, and took me with him to a regular 
 literary dinner. It was given by a great bookseller, or rather 
 a company of booksellers, whose firm surpassed in length 
 that of Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego. 
 
 I was surprised to find between twenty and thirty guests 
 assembled, most of whom I had never seen before. Mr. 
 Buckthorne explained this to me, by informing me that this 
 was a business dinner, or kind of field-day, which the house 
 gave about twice a year to its authors. It is true they did 
 occasionally give snug dinners to three or four literary men 
 at a time; but then these were generally select authors 
 favorites of the public, such as had arrived at their sixth or 
 seventh editions. ‘There are,” said he, “ certain geograph- 
 ical boundaries in the land of literature, and you may judge 
 tolerably well of an author’s popularity by the wine his 
 bookseller gives him. An author crosses the port line about 
 the third edition, and gets into claret; and when he has 
 reached the sixth or seventh, he may revel in champagne and 
 burgundy.” 
 
 “ And pray,” said I, “how far may these gentlemen have 
 
A LITERARY DINNER. 127 
 
 reached that I see around me; are any of these claret 
 drinkers ?” 
 
 “ Not exactly, not exactly. You find at these great 
 dinners the common steady run of authors, one or two 
 edition men; or if any others are invited, they are aware 
 that it is a kind of republican meeting—You understand me 
 —a meeting of the republic of letters; and that they must 
 expect nothing but plain substantial fare.” 
 
 These hints enabled me to comprehend more fully the ar- 
 rangement of the table. The two ends were occupied by two 
 partners of the house; and the host seemed to have adopted 
 Addison’s idea as to the literary precedence of his guests. A 
 popular poet had the post of honor ; opposite to whom was a 
 hot-pressed traveller in quarto with plates. A grave-looking 
 antiquarian, who had produced several solid works, that were 
 much quoted and little read, was treated with great respect, 
 and seated next to a neat dressy gentleman in black, who had 
 written a thin, genteel, hot-pressed octavo on political econ- 
 omy, that was getting into fashion. Several three-volumed 
 duodecimo men, of fair currency, were placed about the 
 centre of the table; while the lower end was taken up with 
 small poets, translators, and authors who had not as yet risen 
 into much notoriety. 
 
 The conversation during dinner was by fits and starts ; 
 breaking out here and there in various parts of the table in 
 small flashes, and ending in smoke. The poet, who had the 
 confidence of a man on good terms with the world, and inde- 
 pendent of his bookseller, was very gay and brilliant, and 
 said many clever things which set the partner next him in a 
 roar, and delighted all the company. The other partner, 
 
128 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 however, maintained his sedateness, and kept carving on, with 
 
 the air of a thorough man of business, intent upon the oceupa- | 
 tion of the moment. His gravity was explained to me by 
 
 my friend Buckthorne. He informed me that the concerns of 
 the house were admirably distributed among the partners. 
 
 “Thus, for instance,” said he, “the grave gentleman is the 
 
 carving partner, who attends to the joints; and the other is 
 
 the laughing partner, who attends to the jokes.” 
 
 The general conversation was chiefly carried on at the 
 upper end of the table, as the authors there seemd to possess 
 the greatest courage of the tongue. As to the crew at the 
 lower end, if they did not make much figure in talking, they 
 did in eating. Never was there a more determined, invet- 
 erate, thoroughly sustained attack on the trencher than by 
 this phalanx of masticators. When the cloth was removed, 
 and the wine began to circulate, they grew very merry and 
 jocose among themselves. Their jokes, however, if by chance 
 any of them reached the upper end of the table, seldom pro- 
 duced much effect. Even the laughing partner did not think 
 it necessary to honor them with a smile; which my neighbor 
 Buckthorne accounted for, by informing me that there was a 
 certain degree of popularity to be obtained before a book- 
 seller could afford to laugh at an author’s jokes. 
 
 Among this crew of questionable gentlemen thus seated 
 below the salt, my eye singled out one in particular. He 
 was rather shabbily dressed ; though he had evidently made 
 the most of a rusty black coat, and wore his shirt-frill plaited 
 and puffed out voluminously at the bosom. His face was 
 dusky, but florid, perhaps a little too florid, particularly 
 about the nose; though the rosy hue gave the greater lustre 
 
A LITERARY DINNER. 129 
 
 to a twinkling black eye. He had a little the look of a boon 
 companion, with that dash of the poor devil in it which gives 
 an inexpressibly mellow tone to a man’s humor. I had 
 seldom seen a face of richer promise ; but never was promise 
 so ill kept. He said nothing, ate and drank with the keen 
 appetite of a garreteer, and scarcely stopped to laugh, even at 
 the good jokes from the upper end of the table. I inquired 
 who he was. Buckthorne looked at him attentively: “Gad,” 
 said he, “I have seen that face before, but where I cannot 
 recollect. He cannot be an author of any note. I suppose 
 some writer of sermons, or grinder of foreign travels.” 
 
 After dinner we retired to another room to take tea and 
 coffee, where we were reinforced by a cloud of inferior guests, 
 —authors of small volumes in boards, and pamphlets stitched 
 in blue paper. These had not as yet arrived to the impor- 
 tance of a dinner invitation, but were invited occasionally to 
 pass the evening in a friendly way. They were very respect- 
 ful to the partners, and, indeed, seemed to stand a little in 
 awe of them; but they paid devoted court to the lady of the 
 house, and were extravagantly fond of the children. Some 
 few, who did not feel confidence enough to make such ad- 
 vances, stood shyly off in corners, talking to one another ; or 
 turned over the portfolios of prints which they had not seen 
 above five thousand times, or moused over the music on the 
 forte-piano. 
 
 The poet and the thin octavo gentleman were the persons 
 most current and at their ease in the drawing-room ; being 
 men evidently of circulation in the West End. They got on 
 each side of the lady of the house, and paid her a thousand 
 compliments and civilities, at some of which I thought she 
 
130 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 would have expired with delight. Every thing they said and 
 did had the odor of fashionable life. I looked round in vain 
 for the poor devil author in the rusty black coat; he had 
 disappeared immediately after leaving the table, having a 
 dread, no doubt, of the glaring light of a drawing-room. 
 Finding nothing further to interest my attention, I took my 
 departure soon after coffee had been served, leaving the poet, 
 and the thin, genteel, hot-pressed octavo gentleman, masters 
 of the field. 
 
THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 
 
 THINK it was the very next evening that, in coming out 
 
 of Covent Garden Theatre with my eccentric friend Buck- 
 thorne, he proposed to give me another peep at life and 
 character. Finding me willing for any research of the kind, 
 he took me through a variety of the narrow courts and lanes 
 about Covent Garden, until we stopped before a tavern, from 
 which we heard the bursts of merriment of a jovial party. 
 There would be a loud peal of laughter, then an interval, then 
 another peal, as if a prime wag were telling a story. After a 
 little while there was a song, and at the close of each stanza a 
 hearty roar, and a vehement thumping on the table. 
 
 ? 
 
 “This is the place,’ whispered Buckthorne ; “it is the 
 club of queer fellows, a great resort of the small wits, third- 
 rate actors, and newspaper critics of the theatres. Any one 
 can go in on paying a sixpence at the bar for the use of the 
 club.” 
 
 We entered, therefore, without ceremony, and took our 
 seats at a lone table, in a dusky corner of the room. ‘The 
 club was assembled round a table, on which stood beverages 
 of various kinds, according to the tastes of the individuals. 
 The members were a set of queer fellows indeed; but what 
 
 was my surprise on recognizing, in the prime wit of the 
 
132 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 meeting, the poor devil author whom I had remarked at the 
 booksellers’ dinner for his promising face and his complete 
 taciturnity. Matters, however, were entirely changed with 
 him. ‘There he was a mere cipher; here he was lord of the 
 ascendant, the choice spirit, the dominant genius. He sat at 
 the head of the table with his hat on, and an eye beaming 
 even more luminously than his nose. He had a quip and a 
 fillip for every one, and a good thing on every occasion. 
 Nothing could be said or done without eliciting a spark from 
 him: and I solemnly declare I have heard much worse wit 
 even from noblemen. Tis jokes, it must be confessed, were 
 rather wet, but they suited the circle over which he presided. 
 The company were in that maudlin mood, when a little wit 
 goes a great way. Every time he opened his lips there was 
 sure to be a roar; and even sometimes before he had time to 
 speak. 
 
 We were fortunate enough to enter in time for a glee 
 composed by him expressly for the club, and which he sung 
 with two boon companions, who would have been worthy 
 subjects for Hogarth’s pencil. As they were each provided 
 with a written copy, | was enabled to procure the reading 
 of it. 
 
 Merrily, merrily push round the glass, 
 And merrily troll the glee, 
 
 For he who won’t drink till he wink, is an ass, 
 So, neighbor, I drink to thee. - 
 
 Merrily, merrily fuddle thy nose, 
 Until it right rosy shall be; 
 
 For a jolly red nose, I speak under the rose, 
 Is a sign of good company. 
 
THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 138 
 
 We waited until the party broke up, and no one but the 
 wit remained. He sat at the table with his legs stretched 
 under it, and wide apart; his hands in his breeches pockets ; 
 his head drooped upon his breast ; and gazing with lacklustre 
 countenance on an empty tankard. His gayety was gone, his 
 fire completely quenched. 
 
 My companion approached, and startled him from his fit 
 of brown study, introducing himself on the strength of their 
 having dined together at the booksellers’. 
 
 “ By the way,” said he, “ it seems to me I have seen you 
 before; your face is surely that of an old acquaintance, 
 though for the life of me I cannot tell where I have known 
 you.” 
 
 “ Very likely,” replied he, with a smile; “many of my 
 old friends have forgotten me. Though, to tell the truth, my 
 memory in this instance is as bad as your own. If, however, 
 it will assist your recollection in any way, my name is 
 Thomas Dribble, at your service.” 
 
 “ What! Tom Dribble, who was at old Birchell’s school 
 in Warwickshire ? ” 
 
 “ The same,” 
 
 said the other, coolly. 
 
 “Why, then, we are old schoolmates, though it’s no 
 wonder you don’t recollect me. Iwas your junior by several 
 years ; don’t you recollect little Jack Buckthorne ?” 
 
 Here there ensued a scene of school-fellow recognition, 
 and a world of talk about old school times and school pranks. 
 Mr. Dribble ended by observing, with a heavy sigh, “ that 
 times were sadly changed since those days.” 
 
 “Faith, Mr. Dribble,” said I, “ you seem quite a different 
 
 man here from what you were at dinner. I had no idea that 
 6* 
 
134 - . TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 you had so much stuff in you. There you were all silence, 
 but here you absolutely keep the table in a roar.” 
 
 “ Ah! my dear sir,” replied he, with a shake of the head, 
 and a shrug of the shoulder, “I am a mere glow-worm. | 
 never shine by daylight. Besides, it’s a hard thing for a 
 poor devil of an author to shine at the table of a rich book- 
 seller. Who do you think would laugh at any thing I could 
 say, when I had some of the current wits of the day about 
 me? But here, though a poor devil, 1 am among still poorer 
 devils than myself; men who look up to me as a man of 
 letters, and a belle-esprit, and all my jokes pass as sterling 
 gold from the mint.” 
 
 “You surely do yourself injustice, sir,” said I; “I have 
 certainly heard more good things from you this evening, than 
 from any of those beaux-esprits by whom you appear to have 
 been so daunted.” 
 
 “ Ah, sir! but they have luck on their side: they are in 
 the fashion—there’s nothing like being in fashion. A man 
 that has once got his character up for a wit is always sure of 
 a laugh, say what he may. He may utter as much nonsense 
 as he pleases, and all will pass current. No one stops to 
 question the coin of a rich man; but a poor devil cannot pass 
 off either a joke or a guinea, without its being examined on 
 both sides, Wit and coin are always doubted with a thread. 
 bare coat. 
 
 “or my part,’ continued he, giving his hat a twitch a 
 little more on one side,—“ for my part, I hate your fine 
 dinners; there’s nothing, sir, like the freedom of a chop-house. 
 Pd rather, any time, have my steak and tankard among my 
 own set, than drink claret and eat venison with your cursed 
 
THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 135 
 
 civil, elegant company, who never laugh at a good joke from 
 a poor devil for fear of its being vulgar. A good joke grows 
 in a wet soil; it flourishes in low places, but withers on your 
 d—d high, dry grounds. I once kept high company, sir, 
 until I nearly ruined myself; I grew so dull, and vapid, and 
 genteel. Nothing saved me but being arrested by my land- 
 lady, and thrown into prison; where a course of catch-clubs, 
 eightpenny ale, and poor devil company, manured my mind, 
 and brought it back to itself again.” 
 
 As it was now growing late, we parted for the evening, 
 though I felt anxious to know more of this practical philoso- 
 pher. I was glad, therefore, when Buckthorne proposed to 
 have another meeting, to talk over old school times, and 
 inquired his schoolmate’s address. The latter seemed at first 
 a little shy of naming his lodgings; but suddenly, assuming 
 
 ” exclaimed he 
 
 an air of hardihood—* Green-arbor court, sir, 
 —“ Number—in Green-arbor court. You must know the 
 place. Classic ground, sir, classic ground! It was there 
 Goldsmith wrote his Vicar of Wakefield—I always like to 
 live in literary haunts.” 
 
 I was amused with this whimsical apology for shabby 
 quarters. On our way homeward, Buckthorne assured me 
 that this Dribble had been the prime wit and great wag of 
 the school in their boyish days, and one of those unlucky 
 urchins denominated bright geniuses. As he perceived me 
 curious respecting his old schoolmate, he promised to take 
 me with him in his proposed visit to Green-arbor court. 
 
 A few mornings afterward he called upon me, and we set 
 forth on our expedition. He led me through a variety of sin- 
 
 gular alleys, and courts, and blind passages ; for he appeared 
 
136 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 to be perfectly versed in all the intricate geography of the 
 metropolis. At length we came out upon F[leet-market, and 
 traversing it, turned up a narrow street to the bottom of a 
 long steep flight of stone steps, called Break-neck-stairs. 
 These, he told me, led up to Green-arbor court, and that 
 down them poor Goldsmith might many a time have risked 
 his neck. When we entered the court, I could not but smile 
 to think in what out-of-the-way corners genius produces her 
 bantlings! And the muses, those capricious dames, who, 
 forsooth, so often refuse to visit palaces, and deny a single 
 smile to votaries in splendid studies, and- gilded drawing- 
 rooms,—what holes and burrows will they frequent to lavish 
 their favors on some ragged disciple ! | 
 
 This Green-arbor court I found to be a small square, 
 surrounded by tall and miserable houses, the very intestines 
 of which seemed turned inside out, to judge from the old 
 garments and frippery fluttering from every window. It 
 appeared to be a region of washerwomen, and lines were 
 stretched about the little square, on which clothes were 
 dangling to dry. 
 
 Just as we entered the square, a scuffle took place 
 between two viragos about a disputed right to a wash-tub, 
 and immediately the whole community was in a hubbub. 
 Heads in mob-caps popped out of every window, and such a 
 clamor of tongues ensued, that I was fain to stop my ears. 
 Every amazon took part with one or other of the disputants, 
 and brandished her arms, dripping with soap-suds, and fired 
 away from her window as from the embrazure of a fortress ; 
 while the swarms of children nestled and cradled in every 
 
THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 137 
 
 procreant chamber of this hive, waking with the noise, set up 
 their shrill pipes to swell the general concert. 
 
 Poor Goldsmith! what a time he must have had of it, 
 with his quiet disposition and nervous habits, penned up in 
 this den of noise and vulgarity! How strange, that while 
 every sight and sound was sufficient to embitter the heart, 
 and fill it with misanthropy, his pen should be dropping the 
 honey of Hybla! Yet it is more than probable that he drew 
 many of his inimitable pictures of low life from the scenes 
 which surrounded him in this abode. The circumstance of 
 Mrs. Tibbs being obliged to wash her husband’s two shirts in 
 a neighbor’s house, who refused to lend her wash-tub, may ° 
 have been no sport of fancy, but a fact passing under his own 
 eye. His landlady may have sat for the picture, and Beau 
 Tibbs’ scanty wardrobe have been a fac-simile of his own. 
 
 It was with some difficulty that we found our way to 
 Dribble’s lodgings. They were up two pair of stairs, in a 
 room that looked upon the court, and when we entered, he 
 was seated on the edge of his bed, writing at a broken table. 
 He received us, however, with a free, open, poor-devil air, 
 that was irresistible. It is true he did at first appear slightly 
 confused; buttoned up his waistcoat a little higher, and 
 tucked in a stray frill of linen. But he recollected himself in 
 an instant; gave a half swagger, half leer, as he stepped forth 
 to receive us; drew a three-legged stool for Mr. Buckthorne ; 
 pointed me to a lumbering old damask chair, that looked like 
 a dethroned monarch in exile; and bade us welcome to his 
 garret. 
 
 We soon got engaged in conversation. -Buckthorne and 
 
138 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 he had much to say about early school scenes; and as 
 nothing opens a man’s heart more than recollections of the 
 kind, we soon drew from him a brief outline of his literary 
 
 career, 
 
THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 
 
 BEGAN life unluckily by being the wag and _ bright 
 
 fellow at school; and I had the further misfortune of be- 
 coming the great genius of my native village. My father 
 was a country attorney, and intended I should succeed him in 
 business ; but I had too much genius to study, and he was 
 too fond of my genius to force it into the traces; so I fell 
 into bad company, and took to bad habits. Do not mistake 
 me. I mean that I fell into the company of village literati, 
 and village blues, and took to writing village poetry. 
 
 It was quite the fashion in the village to be literary. 
 There was a little knot of choice spirits of us, who assembled 
 frequently together, formed ourselves into a Literary, Scien- 
 tific, and Philosophical Society, and fancied ourselves the 
 most learned Philos in existence. Every one had a great 
 character assigned him, suggested by some casual habit or 
 affectation. One heavy fellow drank an enormous quantity 
 of tea, rolled in his arm-chair, talked sententiously, pro- 
 nounced dogmatically, and was considered a second Dr. 
 Johnson; another, who happened to be a curate, uttered 
 coarse jokes, wrote doggerel rhymes, and was the Swift of 
 
 our association. Thus we had also our Popes, and Gold- 
 
140 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 smiths, and Addisons; and a blue-stocking lady, whose draw, 
 ing-room we frequented, who corresponded about nothing 
 with all the world, and wrote letters with the stiffness and 
 formality of a printed book, was cried up as another Mrs. 
 Montagu. Iwas, by common consent, the juvenile prodigy, 
 the poetical youth, the great genius, the pride and hope of the 
 village, through whom it was to become one day as cele- 
 brated as Stratford on Avon. 
 
 My father died, and left me his blessing and his business. 
 His blessing brought no money into my pocket; and as to 
 his business, it soon deserted me; for I was busy writing 
 poetry, and could not attend to law, and my clients, though 
 they had great respect for my talents, had no faith in a poet- 
 ical attorney. 
 
 I lost my business, therefore, spent my money, and fin- 
 ished my poem. It was the Pleasures of Melancholy, and 
 was cried up to the skies by the whole circle. The Pleasures 
 of Imagination, the Pleasures of Hope, and the Pleasures of 
 Memory, though each had placed its author in the first rank 
 of poets, were blank prose in comparison. Our Mrs. Mon- 
 tagu would cry over it from beginning to end. It was 
 pronounced by all the members of the Literary, Scientific, 
 and Philosophical Society, the greatest poem of the age, and 
 all anticipated the noise it would make in the great world. 
 There was not a doubt but the London booksellers would be 
 mad after it, and the only fear of my friends was, that I 
 would make a sacrifice by selling it too cheap. Every time 
 they talked the matter over, they increased the price. They 
 reckoned up the great sums given for the poems of certain 
 
 popular writers, and determined that mine was worth more 
 
THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 141 
 
 than all put together, and ought to be paid for accordingly. 
 For my part, 1 was modest in my expectations, and deter- 
 mined that I would be satisfied with a thousand guineas. So 
 ] put my poem in my pocket, and set off for London. 
 
 My journey was joyous. My heart was light as my 
 purse, and my head full of anticipations of fame and fortune. 
 With what swelling pride did I cast my eyes upon old 
 London from the heights of Highgate! I was like a general, 
 looking down upon a place he expects to conquer. The great 
 metropolis lay stretched before me, buried under a home- 
 made cloud of murky smoke, that wrapped it from the 
 brightness of a sunny day, and formed for it a kind of 
 artificial bad weather. At the outskirts of the city, away to 
 the west, the smoke gradually decreased until all was clear 
 and sunny, and the view stretched uninterrupted to the blue 
 line of the Kentish hills. 
 
 My eye turned fondly to where the mighty cupola of St. 
 Paul’s swelled dimly through this misty chaos, and I pictured 
 to myself the solemn realm of learning that lies about its 
 base. How soon should the Pleasures of Melancholy throw 
 this world of booksellers and printers into a bustle of bus- 
 iness and delight! How soon should I hear my name 
 _ repeated by printers’ devils throughout Paternoster-row, and 
 Angel-court, and Ave-Maria-lane, until Amen-corner should 
 echo back the sound! 
 
 Arrived in town, I repaired at once to the most fashion- 
 able publisher. Every new author patronizes him of course. 
 In fact, it had been determined in the village circle that he 
 should be the fortunate man. I cannot tell you how vain- 
 gloriously I walked the streets. My head was in the clouds. 
 
142 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 I felt the airs of heaven playing about it, and fancied it 
 already encircled by a halo of literary glory. As I passed 
 by the windows of book-shops, I anticipated the time when 
 my work would be shining among the hot-pressed wonders of 
 the day ; and my face, scratched on copper, or cut on wood, 
 figuring in fellowship with those of Scott, and Byron, and 
 Moore. 
 
 When I applied at the publisher’s house, there was some- 
 thing in the loftiness of my air, and the dinginess of my 
 dress, that struck the clerks with reverence. They doubtless 
 took me for some person of consequence ; probably a digger 
 of Greek roots, or a penetrater of pyramids. A proud man 
 in a dirty shirt is always an imposing character in the world 
 of letters; one must feel intellectually secure before he can 
 venture to dress shabbily; none but a great genius, or a 
 great scholar, dares to be dirty ; so I was ushered at once to 
 the sanctum sanctorum of this high priest of Minerva. 
 
 The publishing of books is a very different affair nowa- 
 days from what it was in the time of Bernard Lintot. I 
 found the publisher a fashionably-dressed man, in an elegant 
 drawing-room, furnished with sofas, and portraits of cele- 
 brated authors, and cases of splendidly-bound books. He 
 was writing letters at an elegant table. This was transacting 
 business in style. The place seemed suited to the magnifi- 
 cent publications that issued from it. I rejoiced at the choice 
 I had made of a publisher, for I always liked to encourage men 
 of taste and spirit. 
 
 I stepped up to the table with the lofty poetical port I 
 had been accustomed to maintain in our village circle ; 
 
 though I threw in it something of a patronizing air, such -as 
 
THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 143 
 
 one feels when about to make a man’s fortune. The pub- 
 lisher paused with his pen in hand, and seemed waiting in 
 mute suspense to know what was to be announced by so sin- 
 gular an apparition. 
 
 I put him at his ease in a moment, for I felt that I had 
 but to come, see, and conquer. I made known my name, 
 and the name of my poem; produced my precious roll of 
 blotted manuscript ; laid it on the table with an emphasis ; 
 and told him at once, to save time, and come directly to the 
 point, the price was one thousand guineas. 
 
 I had given him no time to speak, nor did he seem so in- 
 clined. He continued looking at me for a moment with an 
 air of whimsical perplexity ; scanned me from head to foot ; 
 looked down at the manuscript, then up again at me, then 
 pointed to a chair; and whistling softly to himself, went on 
 writing his letter. 
 
 I sat for some time waiting his reply, supposing he was 
 making up his mind; but he only paused occasionally to 
 take afresh dip of ink, to stroke his chin, or the tip of his 
 nose, and then resumed his writing. It was evident his mind 
 was intently occupied upon some other subject ; but I had no 
 idea that any other subject could be attended to, and my 
 poem lie unnoticed on the table. I had supposed that every 
 thing would make way for the Pleasures of Melancholy. 
 
 My gorge at length rose within me. I took up my manu- 
 script, thrust it into my pocket, and walked out of the room ; 
 making some noise as I went out, to let my departure be 
 heard. The publisher, however, was too much buried in 
 minor concerns to notice it. I was suffered to walk down 
 stairs without being called back. I sallied forth into the 
 
144 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 street, but no clerk was sent after me; nor did the publisher 
 call after me from the drawing-room window. I have been 
 told since, that he considered me either a madman or a fool. 
 I leave you to judge how much he was in the wrong in his 
 opinion. 
 
 When I turned the corner my crest fell. I cooled down 
 in my pride and my expectations, and reduced my terms with 
 the next bookseller to whom I applied. I had no better 
 success ; nor with a third, nor with a fourth. I then desired 
 the booksellers to make an offer themselves ; but the deuce 
 an offer would they make. They ‘told me poetry was a 
 mere drug; everybody wrote poetry ; the market was over- 
 stocked with it. And then they said, the title of my poem 
 was not taking; that pleasures of all kinds were worn thread- 
 bare, nothing but horrors did nowadays, and even those were 
 almost worn out. Tales of Pirates, Robbers, and bloody 
 Turks, might answer tolerably well; but then they must 
 come from some established well-known name, or the publie 
 would not look at them. 
 
 At last I offered to leave my poem with a bookseller to 
 read it, and judge for himself. “ Why, really, my dear Mr. 
 ——a—a—lI forget your name,” said he, casting his eye at 
 my rusty coat and shabby gaiters, “really, sir, we are so 
 pressed with business just now, and have so many manu- 
 scripts on hand to read, that we have not time to look at 
 any new productions; but if you can call again in a week 
 or two, or say the middle of next month, we may be able 
 to look over your writings, and give you an answer. Don’t 
 forget, the month after next; good morning sir; happy to 
 see you any time you are passing this way.” So saying, he 
 
THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 145 
 
 bowed me out in the civilest way imaginable. In short, sir, 
 instead of an eager competition to secure my poem, I could 
 not even ect it read! In the mean time I was harassed by 
 letters from my friends, wanting to know when the work 
 was to appear; who was to be my publisher ; and above all 
 things, warning me not to let it go too cheap. 
 
 There was but one alternative left. I determined to 
 publish the poem myself; and to have my triumph over the 
 booksellers when it should become the fashion of the day. I 
 accordingly published the Pleasures of Melancholy, and 
 ruined myself. Excepting the copies sent to the reviews, 
 and to my friends in the country, not one, I believe, ever left 
 the bookseller’s warehouse. The printer’s bill drained my 
 purse, and the only notice that was taken of my work, was 
 contained in the advertisements paid for by myself. 
 
 I could have borne all this, and have attributed it, as 
 usual, to the mismanagement of the publisher, or the want 
 of taste in the public; and could have made the usual appeal 
 to posterity ; but my village friends would not let me resi 
 in quiet. They were picturing me to themselves feasting 
 with the great, communing with the literary, and in the high 
 career of fortune and renown. Every little while, some one 
 would call on me with a letter of introduction from the village 
 circle, recommending him to my attentions, and requesting 
 that I would make him known in society ; with a hint, that 
 an introduction to a celebrated literary nobleman would be 
 extremely agreeable. I determined, therefore, to change my 
 lodgings, drop my correspondence, and disappear altogether 
 from the view of my village admirers. Besides, I was anx 
 
 ious to make one more poetic attempt. I was by no means 
 
146 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 disheartened by the failure of my first. My poem was evident- 
 ly too didactic. The public was wise enough. It no longer 
 read for instruction. “They want horrors, do they ?” said 
 I: “Tfaith! then they shall have enough of them.” So I 
 looked out for some quiet, retired place, where I might be 
 out of the reach of my friends, and have leisure to cook up 
 some delectable dish of poetical “ hell-broth.” 
 
 I had some difficulty in finding a place to my mind, when 
 chance threw me in the way of Canonbury Castle. It is an 
 ancient brick tower, hard by “ merry Islington;” the re- 
 mains of a hunting-seat of Queen Elizabeth, where she took 
 the pleasure of the country when the neighborhood was all 
 woodland. What gave it particular interest in my eyes 
 was the circumstance that it had been the residence of a 
 poet. 
 
 It was here Goldsmith resided when he wrote his 
 Deserted Village. I was shown the very apartment. It 
 was a relic of the original style of the castle, with panelled 
 wainscots and Gothic windows. I was pleased with its air 
 of antiquity, and with its having been the residence of poor 
 Goldy. 
 
 “ Goldsmith was a pretty poet,” said I to myself, “a very 
 pretty poet, though rather of the old school. He did not 
 think and feel so strongly as is the fashion nowadays; but 
 had he lived in these times of hot hearts and hot heads, he 
 would no doubt have written quite differently.” 
 
 In a few days I was quietly established in my new quar- 
 ters; my books all arranged; my writing-desk placed by a 
 window looking out into the fields; and I felt as snug as 
 Robinson Crusoe, when he had finished his bower. | For 
 
THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 147 
 
 several days I enjoyed all the novelty of the change and the 
 charms which grace new lodgings, before one has found out 
 their defects. I rambled about the fields where I fancied 
 Goldsmith had rambled. I explored merry Islington; ate 
 my solitary dinner at the Black Bull, which, according to 
 tradition, was a country-seat of Sir Walter Raleigh; and 
 would sit and sip my wine, and muse on old times, in a 
 quaint old room, where many a council had been held. 
 
 All this did very well for a few days. I was stimulated 
 by novelty; inspired by the associations awakened in my 
 mind by these curious haunts; and began to think I felt the 
 spirit of composition stirring within me. But Sunday came, 
 and with it the whole city world, swarming about Canon- 
 bury Castle. I could not open my window but I was stunned 
 with shouts and noises from the cricket-ground; the late 
 quiet road beneath my window was alive with the tread of 
 feet and clack of tongues; and, to complete my misery, | 
 found that my quiet retreat was absolutely a ‘“ show-house,” 
 the tower and its contents being shown to strangers at six- 
 pence a head. 
 
 There was a perpetual tramping up stairs-of citizens and 
 their families, to look about the country from the top of the 
 tower, and to take a peep at the city through the telescope, 
 to try if they could discern their own chimneys. And then, 
 in the midst of a vein of thought, or a moment of inspiration, 
 I was interrupted, and all my ideas put to flight, by my in- 
 tolerable landlady’s tapping at the door, and asking me if I 
 would “just please to let a lady and gentleman come in, to 
 take a look at Mr. Goldsmith’s room.” If you know any 
 thing of what an author’s study is, and what an author is 
 
148 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 himself, you must know that there was no standing this. I 
 put positive interdict on my room’s being exhibited; but 
 then it was shown when I was absent, and my papers put 
 in confusion ; and, on returning home one day, I absolutely 
 found a cursed tradesman and his daughters gaping over my 
 manuscripts, and my landlady in a panic at my appearance. 
 I tried to make out a little longer, by taking the key in my 
 pocket; but it would not do. I overheard mine hostess one 
 day telling some of her customers on the stairs, that the 
 room was occupied by an author, who was always in a tan- 
 trum if interrupted; and I immediately perceived, by a 
 slight noise at the door, that they were peeping at me 
 through the key-hole. By the head of Apollo, but this 
 was quite too much! With all my eagerness for fame, and 
 my ambition of the stare of the million, I had no idea of 
 being exhibited by retail, at sixpence a head, and _ that 
 through a key-hole. So I bid adieu to Canonbury Castle, 
 merry Islington, and the haunts of poor Goldsmith, without 
 having advanced a single line in my labors. 
 
 My next quarters were at a small, whitewashed cottage, 
 which stands not far from Hampstead, just on the brow of a 
 hill; looking over Chalk Farm and Camden Town, remark- 
 able for the rival houses of Mother Red Cap and Mother 
 Black Cap ; and so across Crackskull Common to the distant 
 city. 
 
 The cottage was in nowise remarkable in itself; but I re- 
 garded it with reverence, for it had been the asylum of a 
 persecuted author. Hither poor Steele had retreated, and 
 laid perdu, when persecuted by creditors and bailiffs—those 
 immemorial plagues of authors and free-spirited gentlemen ; 
 
THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 149 
 
 and here he had written many numbers of the Spectator. It 
 was hence, too, that he had despatched those little notes to 
 his lady, so full of affection and whimsicality, in which the 
 fond husband, the careless gentleman, and the shifting spend- 
 thrift, were so oddly blended. I thought, as I first eyed the 
 window of his apartment, that I could sit within it and write 
 volumes. 
 
 No such thing! It was haymaking season, and, as ill 
 luck would have it, immediately opposite the cottage was a 
 little ale-house, with the sign of the Load of Hay. Whether 
 it was there in Steele’s time, I cannot say; but it set all 
 attempts at conception or inspiration at defiance. It was the 
 resort of all the Irish haymakers who mow the broad fields 
 in the neighborhood; and of drovers and teamsters who 
 travel that road. Here they would gather in the endless 
 summer twilight, or by the light of the harvest moon, and 
 sit around a table at the door; and tipple, and laugh, and 
 quarrel, and fight, and sing drowsy songs, and dawdle away 
 the hours, until the deep solemn notes of St. Paul’s clock 
 would warn the varlets home. 
 
 In the daytime I was less able to write. It was broad 
 summer. The haymakers were at work in the fields, and 
 the perfume of the new-mown hay brought with it the recol- 
 lection of my native fields. So instead of remaining in my 
 room to write, I went wandering about Primrose Hill, and 
 Hampstead Heights, and Shepherd’s Fields, and all those 
 Arcadian scenes so celebrated by London bards. I cannot 
 tell you how many delicious hours I have passed, lying on the 
 cocks of the new-mown hay, on the pleasant slopes of some 
 
 of those hills, inhaling the fragrance of the fields, while the 
 
150 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 summer-fly buzzed about me, or the grasshopper leaped into 
 my bosom ; and how I have gazed with half-shut eye upon the 
 smoky mass of London, and listened to the distant sound of 
 its population, and pitied the poor sons of earth, toiling in its 
 bowels, like Gnomes in the “ dark gold mines,” 
 
 People may say what they please about cockney pas- 
 torals, but, after all, there is a vast deal of rural beauty 
 about the western vicinity of London; and any one that has 
 looked down upon the valley of the West End, with its soft 
 bosom of green pasturage lying open to the south, and dotted 
 with cattle; the steeple of Hampstead rising among rich 
 groves on the brow of the hill; and the learned height of 
 Harrow in the distance; will confess that never has he seen 
 amore absolutely rural landscape in the vicinity of a great 
 metropolis. 
 
 Still, however, I found myself not a whit the better off for 
 my frequent change of lodgings; and I began to discover, 
 that in literature, as in trade, the old proverb holds good, “a 
 rolling stone gathers no moss.” 
 
 The tranquil beauty of the country played the very 
 vengeance with me. I could not mount my fancy into the 
 termagant vein. I could not conceive, amidst the smiling 
 landscape, a scene of blood and murder; and. the smug citi- 
 zens in breeches and gaiters put all ideas of heroes and 
 bandits out of my brain. I could think of nothing but dulcet 
 subjects, “the Pleasures of Spring ”—“ the Pleasures of 
 Solitude ”—“ the Pleasures of Tranquillity ”—‘ the Pleasures 
 of Sentiment ”—nothing but pleasures; and I had the pain- 
 ful experience of “the Pleasures of Melancholy ” too strongly 
 
 in my recollection to be beguiled by them. 
 
THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 151 
 
 Chance at length befriended me. I had frequently, in my 
 ramblings, loitered about Hampstead Hill, which is a kind 
 of Parnassus of the metropolis. At such times I occasionally 
 took my dinner at Jack Straw’s Castle. It is a country inn 
 so named; the very spot where that notorious rebel and his 
 followers held their council of war. It is a favorite resort of 
 citizens when rurally inclined, as it commands fine fresh air, 
 and a good view of the city. I sat one day in the public 
 room of this inn, ruminating over a beefsteak and a pint of 
 porter, when my imagination kindled up with ancient and 
 heroic images. I had long wanted a theme and a hero; both 
 suddenly broke upon my mind. I determined to write a 
 poem on the history of Jack Straw. I was so full of the sub- 
 ject, that I was fearful of being anticipated. I wondered that 
 none of the poets of the day in their search after ruffian 
 heroes, had never thought of Jack Straw. I went to work 
 pell-mell, blotted several sheets of paper with choice floating 
 thoughts, and battles, and descriptions, to be ready at a 
 moment’s warning. Ina few days’ time 1 sketched out the 
 skeleton of my poem, and nothing was wanting but to give it 
 flesh and blood. I used to take my manuscript, and stroll 
 about Caen-wood, and read aloud; and would dine at the 
 Castle, by way of keeping up the vein of thought. 
 
 I was there one day, at rather a late hour, in the public 
 room. There was no other company but one man, who sat 
 enjoying his pint of porter at the window, and noticing the 
 passers by. He was dressed in a green shooting-coat. His 
 countenance was strongly marked: he had a hooked nose; 
 a romantic eye, excepting that it had something of a squint ; 
 and altogether, as I thought, a poetical style of head. I was 
 
152 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 quite taken with the man, for you must know I am a little 
 of a physiognomist; I set him down at once for either a 
 poet or a philosopher. 
 
 As I like to make new acquaintances, considering every 
 man a volume of human nature, I soon fell into conversa- 
 tion with the stranger, who, I was pleased to find, was by no 
 means difficult of access. After I had dined, I joined him at 
 the window, and we became so sociable that I proposed a 
 bottle of wine together, to which he most cheerfully assented. 
 
 I was too full of my poem to keep long quiet on the sub- 
 ject, and began to talk about the origin of the tavern, and 
 the history of Jack Straw. I found my new acquaintance to 
 be perfectly at home on the topic, and to jump exactly with 
 my humor in every respect. I became elevated by the wine 
 and the conversation. In the fulness of an author’s feelings, 
 I told him of my projected poem, and repeated some passa- 
 ges, and he was in raptures. He was evidently of a strong 
 poetical turn, 
 
 “Sir,” said he, filling my glass at the same time, “ our 
 poets don’t look at home. I don’t see why we need go out 
 of old England for robbers and rebels to write about. I 
 like your Jack Straw, sir,—he’s a home-made hero. I like 
 him, sir—I like him exceedingly. He’s English to the back- 
 bone—damme—Give me honest old England after all! 
 Them’s my sentiments, sir.” 
 
 “YT honor your sentiment,” cried I, zealously; “it is 
 exactly my own. An English ruffan is as good a ruffian for 
 poetry as any in Italy, or Germany, or the Archipelago ; but 
 it is hard to make our poets think so.” 
 
 “More shame for them!” replied the man in green. 
 
THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 154 
 
 “ What a plague would they have? What have we to do 
 with their Archipelagos of Italy and Germany? Haven't 
 we heaths and commons and highways on our own little 
 island—ay, and stout fellows to pad the hoof over them too ? 
 Stick to home, I say,—them’s my sentiments.—Come, sir, 
 my service to you—lI agree with you perfectly.” 
 
 “Poets, in old times, had right notions on this sub- 
 “ject,” continued I; “ witness the fine old ballads about Robin 
 Hood, Allan a’ Dale, and other stanch blades of yore.” 
 
 “Right, sir, right,” interrupted he; “ Robin Hood! he 
 was the lad to cry stand! to a man, and never to flinch.” 
 
 “ Ah, sir,” said I, “they had famous bands of robbers in 
 the good old times; those were glorious poetical days. The 
 merry crew of Sherwood Forest, who led such a roving 
 picturesque life, ‘under the greenwood tree.’ I have often 
 wished to visit their haunts, and tread the scenes of the 
 exploits of Friar Tuck, and Clymm of the Clough, and Sir 
 William of Cloudeslie.” 
 
 “Nay, sir,” said the gentleman in green, “ we have had 
 several very pretty gangs since that day. Those gallant dogs 
 that kept about the great heaths in the neighborhood of London, 
 about Bagshot, and Hounslow, and Blackheath, for instance. 
 Come, sir, my service to you. You don’t drink.” 
 
 “T suppose,” cried I, emptying my glass, “1 suppose you 
 have heard of the famous Turpin, who was born in this very 
 village of Hampstead, and who used to lurk with his gang in 
 Epping Forest about a hundred years since ?” 
 
 “Have 12” cried he, “to be sure I have! A hearty 
 old blade that. Sound as pitch.. Old Turpentine! as we 
 used to call him. A famous fine fellow, sir.” 
 
154 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 “Well, sir,” continued J, “I have visited Waltham Abbey 
 and Chingford Church merely from the stories I heard when 
 a boy of his exploits there, and I have searched Epping 
 Forest for the cavern where he used to conceal himself, You 
 must know,” added J, “ that Iam a sort of amateur of high- 
 waymen. They were dashing, daring fellows: the best apol- 
 ogies that we had for the knights-errant of yore. Ah, sir! 
 the country has been sinking gradually into tameness and 
 commonplace. We are losing the old English spirit. The 
 bold knights of the Post have all dwindled down into lurking 
 footpads, and sneaking pickpockets; there’s no such thing as 
 a dashing, gentleman-like robbery committed nowadays on 
 the King’s highway : a man may roll from one end of Eng- 
 land to the other in a drowsy coach, or jingling post-chaise, 
 without any other adventure than that of being occasionally 
 overturned, sleeping in damp sheets, or having an ill-cooked 
 dinner. We hear no more of public coaches being stopped 
 and robbed by a well-mounted gang of resolute fellows, with 
 pistols in their hands, and crapes over their faces. What 
 a pretty poetical incident was it, for example, in do- 
 mestic life, for a family carriage, on its way to a country 
 seat, to be attacked about dark; the old gentleman eased of 
 his purse and watch, the ladies of their necklaces and ear-rings, 
 by a politely-spoken highwayman on a blood mare, who 
 afterwards leaped the hedge and galloped across the country, 
 to the admiration of Miss Caroline, the daughter, who would 
 write a long and romantic account of the adventure to her 
 friend, Miss Juliana, in town. Ah, sir! we meet with noth- 
 ing of such incidents nowadays.” 
 
 “That, sir,” said my companion, taking advantage of a 
 
THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 155 
 
 pause, when I stopped to recover breath, and to take a glass 
 of wine which he had just poured out, “that, sir, craving 
 your pardon, is not owing to any want of old English pluck. 
 It is the effect of this cursed system of banking. People do 
 not travel with bags of gold as they did formerly. They 
 have post notes, and drafts on bankers. To rob a coach is 
 like catching a crow, where you have nothing but carrion flesh 
 and feathers for your pains. But a coach in old times, sir, 
 was as rich as a Spanish galleon. It turned out the yellow 
 boys bravely. And a private carriage was a cool hundred or 
 two at least.” 
 
 I cannot express how much I was delighted with the 
 sallies of my new acquaintance. He told me that he often 
 frequented the Castle, and would be glad to know more of 
 me; and I proposed myself many a pleasant afternoon with 
 him, when I should read him my poem as it proceeded, and 
 benefit by his remarks; for it was evident he had the true 
 poetical feeling. 
 
 “ Come, sir,” said he, pushing the bottle: “ Damme, I 
 like you! youre a man after my own heart. I’m cursed 
 slow in making new acquaintances. One must be on the 
 reserve, you know. But when I meet with a man of your 
 kidney, damme, my heart jumps at once to him. Them’s 
 my sentiments, sir. Come, sir, here’s Jack Straw’s health! I 
 presume one can drink it nowadays without treason !” 
 
 “With all my heart,” said I gayly, “and Dick Turpin’s 
 into the bargain!” 
 
 “ Ah, sir,” said the man in green, “those are the kind of 
 
 men for poetry. The Newgate Calendar, sir! the Newgate 
 
156 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 Calendar is your only reading! There’s the place to look 
 for bold deeds and dashing fellows.” 
 
 We were so much pleased with each other that we sat 
 until a late hour. I insisted on paying the bill, for both my 
 purse and my heart were full, and I agreed that he should 
 pay the score at our next meeting. As the coaches had all 
 gone that run between Hampstead and London, we had to 
 return on foot. He was so delighted with the idea of my 
 poem, that he could talk of nothing else. He made me 
 repeat such passages as I could remember ; and thouglf I did 
 it in a very mangled manner, having a wretched memory, 
 yet he was in raptures. 
 
 Every now and then he would break out with some scrap 
 which he would misquote most terribly, would rub his hands 
 and exclaim, “ By Jupiter, that’s fine, that’s noble! Damme, 
 sir, if I can conceive how you hit upon such ideas!” 
 
 I must confess I did not always relish his misquotations, 
 which sometimes made absolute nonsense of the passages ; 
 but what author stands upon trifles when he is praised ? 
 
 Never had I spent a more delightful evening. I did not — 
 perceive how the time flew. I could not bear to separate, 
 but continued walking on, arm in arm, with him, past my 
 lodgings, through Camden Town, and across Crackskull Com- 
 mon, talking the whole way about my poem. 
 
 When we were half way across the common, he inter- 
 rupted me in the midst of a quotation, by telling me that this 
 had been a famous place for footpads, and was still occasion- 
 ally infested by them; and that a man had recently been 
 shot there in attempting to defend himself.—* The more fool 
 
 he!” cried 1; “a man is an idiot to risk life, or even limb, to 
 
THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 157 
 
 save a paltry purse of money. It’s quite a different case 
 from that of a duel, where one’s honor is concerned. For my ~ 
 part,” added J, “I should never think of making resistance 
 against one of those desperadoes.” 
 
 “Say you so?” cried my friend in green, turning suddenly 
 upon me, and putting a pistol to my breast; “ why, then, 
 have at you, my lad !—come—disburse ! empty! unsack !” 
 
 In a word, I found that the muse had played me another 
 of her tricks, and had betrayed me into the hands of a foot- 
 pad. There was no time to parley; he made me turn my 
 pockets inside out; and hearing the sound of distant foot- 
 steps, he made one fell swoop upon purse, watch, and all; 
 gave me a thwack on my unlucky pate that Jaid me sprawl- 
 ing on the ground, and scampered away with his booty. 
 
 I saw no more of my friend in green until a year or two 
 afterwards ; when I caught sight of his poetical countenance 
 among a crew of scapegraces heavily ironed, who were on the 
 way for transportation. He recognized me at once, tipped 
 me an impudent wink, and asked me how I came on with the 
 history of Jack Straw’s Castle. 
 
 The catastrophe at Crackskull Common put an end to my 
 summer’s campaign. I was cured of my poetical enthusiasm 
 for rebels, robbers, and highwaymen. Iwas put out of con- 
 ceit of my subject, and, what was worse, I was lightened of 
 my purse, in which was almost every farthing I had in the 
 world. So I abandoned Sir Richard Steele’s cottage in de- 
 spair, and crept into less celebrated, though no less poetical 
 and airy lodgings in a garret in town. 
 
 I now determined to cultivate the society of the literary, 
 
 and to enroll myself in the fraternity of authorship. It is by 
 7% 
 
158 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 the constant collision of mind, thought I, that authors strike 
 out the sparks of genius, and kindle up with glorious concep- 
 tions. Poetry is evidently a contagious complaint. I will 
 keep company with poets; who knows but I may catch it as 
 others have done? 
 
 I found no difficulty in making a circle of literary ac- 
 quaintances, not having the sin of success lying at my door : 
 indeed the failure of my poem was a kind of recommendation 
 to their favor. It is true my new friends were not of the 
 most brilliant names in literature; but then if you would 
 take their words for it, they were like the prophets of old, 
 men of whom the world was not worthy ; and who were to 
 live in future ages, when the ephemeral favorites of the day 
 should be forgotten. 
 
 I soon discovered, however, that the more I mingled in 
 literary society, the less I felt capable of writing; that poetry 
 was not so catching as | imagined; and that in familiar life 
 there was often nothing less poetical than a poet. Besides, I 
 wanted the esprit du corps to turn these literary fellowships to 
 any account. I could not bring myself to enlist in any par- 
 ticular sect. I saw something to like in them all, but found 
 that would never do, for that the tacit condition on which a 
 man enters into one of these sects is, that he abuses all 
 the rest. 
 
 I perceived that there were little knots of authors who 
 lived with, and for, and by one another. They considered 
 themselves the salt of the earth. They fostered and kept up 
 a conventional vein of thinking and talking, and joking on all 
 subjects; and they cried each other up to the skies. Each 
 
 sect had its particular creed; and set up certain authors as 
 
THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 159 
 
 divinities, and fell down and worshipped them; and consid- 
 ered every one who did not worship them, or who wor- 
 _ shipped any other, as a heretic, and an infidel. 
 
 In quoting the writers of the day, I generally found them 
 extolling names of which I had scarcely heard, and talking 
 slightingly of others who were the favorites of the public. If 
 I mentioned any recent work from the pen of a first-rate 
 author, they had not read it; they had not time to read all 
 that was spawned from the press; he wrote too much to 
 write well ;—and then they would break out into raptures 
 about some Mr. Timson, or Tomson, or Jackson, whose 
 works were neglected at the present day, but who was to be 
 the wonder and delight of posterity! Alas! what heavy 
 debts is this neglectful world daily accumulating on the 
 shoulders of poor posterity ! 
 
 But, above all, it was edifying to hear with what con- 
 tempt they would talk of the great. Ye gods! how immeas- 
 urably the great are despised by the small fry of literature ! 
 It is true, an exception was now and then made of some 
 nobleman, with whom, perhaps, they had casually shaken 
 hands at an election, or hob or nobbed ata public dinner, 
 and was pronounced a “ devilish good fellow,” and “no 
 humbug ;” but, in general, it was enough for a man to have 
 a title, to be the object of their sovereign disdain: you have 
 no idea how poetically and philosophically they would talk of 
 nobility. . 
 
 For my part this affected me but little; for though I had 
 no bitterness against the great, and did not think the worse 
 of a man for having innocently been born to a title, yet J] did 
 not feel myself at present called upon to resent the indignities 
 
160 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 poured upon them by the little. But the hostility to the 
 great writers of the day went sore against the grain with me. 
 I could not enter into such feuds, nor participate in such 
 animosities. I had not become author sufficiently to hate 
 other authors. I could still find pleasure in the novelties of 
 the press, and could find it in my heart to praise a contem- 
 porary, even though he were successful. Indeed I was mis- 
 cellaneous in my taste, and could not confine it to any age or 
 growth of writers. I could turn with delight from the glow- 
 ing pages of Byron to the cool and polished raillery of Pope ; 
 and after wandering among the sacred groves of Paradise 
 Lost, 1 could give myself up to voluptuous abandonment in 
 the enchanted bowers of Lalla Rookh. 
 
 “JT would have my authors,” said I, “as various as my 
 wines, and, in relishing the strong and the racy, would never 
 decry the sparkling and exhilarating. Port and Sherry are 
 excellent stand-bys, and so is Madeira; but Claret and Bur- 
 gundy may be drunk now and then without disparagement to 
 one’s palate, and Champagne is a beverage by no means to be 
 despised.” 
 
 Such was the tirade I uttered one day when a little 
 flushed with ale at a literary club. I uttered it too, with 
 something of a flourish, for I thought my simile a clever one. 
 Unluckily, my auditors were men who drank beer and hated 
 Pope; so my figure about wines went for nothing, and my 
 critical toleration was looked upon as downright heterodoxy. 
 In a word, I soon became like a freethinker in religion, an 
 outlaw from every sect, and fair game for all. Such are the 
 melancholy consequences of not hating in literature. 
 
 I see you are growing weary, so I will be brief with the 
 
THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 161 
 
 residue of my literary career. I will not detain you with a 
 detail of my various attempts to get astride of Pegasus; of 
 the poems IJ have written which were never printed, the plays 
 I have presented which were never performed, and the tracts 
 I have published which were never purchased. It seemed as 
 if booksellers, managers, and the very public, had entered 
 into a conspiracy to starve me. Still I could not prevail 
 upon myself to give up the trial, nor abandon those dreams 
 of renown in which I had indulged. How should I be able to 
 look the literary circle of my native village in the face, if I 
 were so completely to falsify their predictions? For some 
 time longer, therefore, I continued to write for fame, and was, 
 of course, the most miserable dog in existence, besides being 
 in continual risk of starvation. I accumulated loads of lit- 
 erary treasure on my shelves—loads which were to be 
 treasures to posterity ; but, alas! they put not a penny into 
 my purse. What was all this wealth to my present neces- 
 sities? I could not patch my elbows with an ode; nor 
 satisfy my hunger with blank verse. “Shall a man fill his 
 belly with the east wind?” says the proverb. He may as 
 well do so as with poetry. 
 
 I have many a time strolled sorrowfully along, with a sad 
 heart and an empty stomach, about five o’clock, and looked 
 wistfully down the areas in the west end of the town, and 
 seen through the kitchen windows the fires gleaming, and the 
 joints of meat turning on the spits and dripping with gravy, 
 and the cook-maids beating up puddings, or trussing turkeys, 
 and felt for the moment that if I could but have the run of 
 one of those kitchens, Apollo and the Muses might have the 
 hungry heights of Parnassus for me. Oh, sir! talk of medi- 
 
162 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 tations among the tombs—they are nothing so melancholy as 
 the meditations of a poor devil without penny in pouch, along 
 a line of kitchen-windows towards dinner-time. 
 
 At length, when almost reduced to famine and despair, the 
 idea all at once entered my head, that perhaps I was not so 
 clever a fellow as the village and myself had supposed. It 
 was the salvation of me. The moment the idea popped into 
 my brain it brought conviction and comfort with it. I awoke 
 as from a dream—I gave up immortal fame to those who 
 could live on air; took to writing for mere bread; and have 
 ever since had a very tolerable life of it. There is no man of 
 letters so much at his ease, sir, as he who has no character to 
 gain or lose. I had to train myself to it a little, and to elip 
 my wings short at first, or they would have carried me up 
 into poetry in spite of myself. So I determined to begin by 
 the opposite extreme, and abandoning the higher regions of 
 the craft, I came plump down to the lowest, and turned 
 creeper. 
 
 “Creeper! and pray what is that?” said I. 
 
 “ Oh, sir, I see you are ignorant of the language of the 
 craft ; a creeper is one who furnishes the newspapers with 
 paragraphs at so much a line; and who goes about in quest 
 of misfortunes ; attends the Bow Street Office; the Courts of 
 Justice, and every other den of mischief and iniquity. We 
 are paid at the rate of a penny a line, and as we can sell the 
 same paragraph to almost every paper, we sometimes pick 
 up avery decent day’s work. Now and then the Muse is 
 unkind, or the day uncommonly quiet, and then we rather 
 starve ; and sometimes the unconscionable editors will clip our 
 paragraphs when they are a little too rhetorical, and snip off 
 
THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 163 
 
 two-pence or three-pence at a go. I have many a time had 
 my pot of porter snipped off my dinner in this way, and have 
 had to dine with dry lips. However, I cannot complain. I 
 rose gradually in the lower ranks of the craft, and am now, I 
 think, in the most comfortable region of literature.” 
 
 “ And pray,” said I, “ what may you be at present ?” 
 
 “At present,” said he, “I am a regular job writer, and 
 turn my hand to any thing. I work up the writings of 
 others at so much a sheet; turn off translations; write 
 second-rate articles to fill up reviews and magazines; com- 
 pile travels and voyages, and furnish theatrical criticisins for 
 the newspapers. All this authorship, you perceive, is anony- 
 mous; it gives me no reputation except among the trade; 
 where I am considered an author of all work, and um always 
 sure of employ. That’s the only reputation I want. I sleep 
 soundly, without dread of duns or critics, and leave immor- 
 tal fame to those that choose to fret and fight about it. Take 
 my word for it, the only happy author in this world is he 
 
 ? 
 
 who is below the care of reputation.’ 
 
NiO ORE Diya 
 
 HEN we had emerged from the literary nest of honest 
 
 Dribble, and had passed safely through the dangers of 
 Break-neck-stairs, and the labyrinths of Fleet-market, Buck- 
 thorne indulged in many comments upon the peep into lite- 
 rary life which he had furnished me. 
 
 I expressed my surprise at finding it so different a world 
 from what I had imagined. “It is always so,” said he, “ with 
 strangers. ‘The land of literature is a fairy land to those who 
 view it at a distance, but, like all other landscapes, the charm 
 fades on a nearer approach, and the thorns and briers become 
 visible. The republic of letters is the most factious and dis- 
 cordant of all republics, ancient or modern.” 
 
 “Yet,” said I, smiling, “ you would not have me take 
 honest Dribble’s experience as a view of the land. He is but 
 a mousing owl; a mere groundling. We should have quite 
 a different strain from one of those fortunate authors whom 
 we see sporting about the empyreal heights of fashion, like 
 swallows in the blue sky of a summer’s day.” 
 
 “Perhaps we might,” replied he, “but I doubt it. 1 
 doubt whether if any one, even of the most successful, were 
 to tell his actual feelings, you would not find the truth of 
 friend Dribble’s philosophy with respect to reputation. One 
 you would find carrying a gay face to the world, while some 
 
NOTORIETY. 165 
 
 vulture critic was preying upon his very liver. Another, 
 who was simple enough to mistake fashion for fame, you 
 would find watching countenances, and cultivating invitations, 
 more ambitious to figure in the beaw monde than the world of 
 letters, and apt to be rendered wretched by the neglect of an 
 illiterate peer, or a dissipated duchess. Those who were ris- 
 ing to fame, you would find tormented with anxiety to get 
 higher; and those who had gained the summit, in constant 
 apprehension of a decline. 
 
 “ Even those who are indifferent to the buzz of notoriety, 
 and the farce of fashion, are not much better off, being inces- 
 santly harassed by intrusions on their leisure, and interrup- 
 tions of their pursuits; for, whatever may be his feelings, 
 when once an author is launched into notoriety, he must go 
 the rounds until the idle curiosity of the day is satisfied, and 
 he is thrown aside to make way for some new caprice. Upon 
 the whole, I do not know but he is most fortunate who 
 engages in the whirl through ambition, however tormenting ; 
 as it is doubly irksome to be obliged to join in the game 
 without being interested in the stake. 
 
 “ There is a constant demand in the fashionable world for 
 novelty ; every nine days must have its wonder, no matter 
 of what kind. At one time it is an author; at another a 
 fire-eater ; at another a composer, an Indian juggler, or an 
 Indian chief; a man froin the North Pole or the Pyramids ; 
 each figures through his brief term of notoriety, and then 
 makes way for the succeeding wonder. You must know that 
 we have oddity fanciers among our ladies of rank, who collect 
 about them all kinds of remarkable beings ; fiddlers, states- 
 
 men, singers, warriors, artists, philosophers, actors, and poets ; 
 
166 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 every kind of personage, in short, who is noted for something 
 peculiar ; so that their routs are like fancy balls, where every 
 one comes ‘ in character.’ 
 
 “T have had infinite amusement at these parties in notic- 
 ing how industriously every one was playing a part, and 
 acting out of his natural line. There is not a more complete 
 game at cross purposes than the intercourse of the literary 
 and the great. The fine gentleman is always anxious to be 
 thought a wit, and the wit a fine gentleman. 
 
 “| have noticed a lord endeavoring to look wise and talk 
 learnedly with a man of letters, who was aiming at a fashion- 
 able air, and the tone of a man who had lived about town. 
 The peer quoted a score or two of learned authors, with 
 whom he would fain be thought intimate, while the author 
 talked of Sir John this, and Sir Harry that, and extolled the 
 Burgundy he had drunk at Lord Such-a-one’s. Each seemed 
 to forget that he could only be interesting to the other in his 
 proper character. Had the peer been merely a man of erudi- 
 tion, the author would never have listened to his prosing; and 
 had the author known all the nobility in the Court Calendar, 
 it would have given him no interest in the eyes of the peer. 
 
 “Jn the same way I have seen a fine lady, remarkable for 
 beauty, weary a philosopher with flimsy metaphysics, while 
 the philosopher put on an awkward air of gallantry, played 
 with her fan, and prattled about the Opera. Ihave heard a 
 sentimental poet talk very stupidly with a statesman about 
 the national debt: and on joining a knot of scientific old gen- 
 tlemen conversing in a corner, expecting to hear the discus- 
 sion of some valuable discovery, I found they were only 
 
 amusing themselves with a fat story.” 
 
Pero AOLicoAaAr PHITOSOPHER. 
 
 HE anecdotes I had heard of Buckthorne’s early school- 
 mate, together with a variety of pecularities which I had 
 remarked in himself, gave me a strong curiosity to know 
 something of his own history. Iam a traveller of the good 
 old school, and am fond of the custom laid down in books, 
 according to which, whenever travellers met, they sat down 
 forthwith, and gave a history of themselves and their adven- 
 tures. This Buckthorne, too, was a man much to my taste ; 
 he had seen the world, and mingled with society, yet retained 
 the strong eccentricities of a man who had lived much alone. 
 There was a careless dash of good humor about him, which 
 pleased me exceedingly ; and at times an odd tinge of melan- 
 choly mingled with his humor, and gave it an additional zest. 
 He was apt to run into long speculations upon society and 
 manners, and to indulge in whimsical views of human nature ; 
 yet there was nothing ill-tempered in his satire. It ran more 
 upon the follies than the vices of mankind; and even the 
 follies of his fellow-man were treated with the leniency of one 
 who felt himself to be but frail. He had evidently been a 
 little chilled and buffeted by fortune, without being soured 
 thereby : as some fruits become mellower and more generous 
 
 in their flavor from having been bruised and frost-bitten. 
 
168 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 I have always had a great relish for the conversation of 
 practical philosophers of this stamp, who have profited by the 
 “ sweet uses” of adversity without imbibing its bitterness ; 
 who have learnt to estimate the world rightly, yet good- 
 humoredly ; and who, while they perceive the truth of the 
 
 saying, that “all is vanity,” 
 
 are yet able to do so without 
 vexation of spirit. 
 
 Such a man was Buckthorne. In general a laughing phi- 
 losopher ; and if at any time a shade of sadness stole across 
 his brow, it was but transient; like a summer cloud, which 
 soon goes by, and freshens and revives the fields over which 
 it passes. 
 
 I was walking with him one day in Kensington Gardens 
 —for he was a knowing epicure in all the cheap pleasures and . 
 rural haunts within reach of the metropolis. It was a de- 
 lightful warm morning in spring; and he was in the happy 
 mood of a pastoral citizen, when just turned loose into grass 
 and sunshine. He had been watching a lark which, rising 
 from a bed of daisies and yellow-cups, had sung his way up 
 to a bright snowy cloud floating in the deep blue sky. 
 
 ‘Of all birds,” said he, “I should like to be a lark. He 
 revels in the brightest time of the day, in the happiest season 
 of the year, among fresh meadows and opening flowers; and 
 when he has sated himself with the sweetness of earth, he 
 wings his flight up to. heaven as if he would Grink in the 
 melody of the morning stars. Hark to that note! How it 
 comes thrilling down upon the ear! What a stream of 
 music, note falling over note in delicious cadence! Who 
 would trouble his head about operas and concerts when he 
 could walk in the fields and hear such music for nothing ? 
 
A PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHER. 169 
 
 These are the enjoyments which set riches at scorn, and make 
 
 even a poor man independent : 
 
 ‘I care not, Fortune, what you do deny: 
 You cannot rob me of free nature’s grace ; 
 
 You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 
 Through which Aurora shows her bright’ning face; 
 You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
 
 The woods and lawns by living streams at eve ' 
 
 “Sir, there are homilies in nature’s works worth all the 
 wisdom of the schools, if we could but read them rightly, and 
 one of the pleasantest lessons I ever received in time of 
 trouble, was from hearing the notes of the lark.” 
 
 I profited by this communicative vein to intimate to 
 Buckthorne a wish to know something of the events of his 
 life, which I fancied must have been an eventful one. 
 
 He smiled when I expressed my desire. “I have no 
 great story,” said he, “to relate. A mere tissue of errors 
 and follies. But, such as it is, you shall have one epoch of 
 it, by which you may judge of the rest.” And so, without 
 any further prelude, he gave me the following anecdotes of 
 his early adventures, 
 
BUC RE Oday ie 
 
 OR, THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS. 
 
 WAS born to very little property, but to great expecta- 
 
 tions—which is, perhaps, one of the most unlucky fortunes 
 aman can be born to. My father was a country gentleman, 
 the last of a very ancient and honorable, but decayed family, 
 and resided in an old hunting-lodge in Warwickshire. He 
 was a keen sportsman, and lived to the extent of his moderate 
 income, so that I had little to expect from that quarter; but 
 then I had a rich uncle by the mother’s side, a penurious, 
 accumulating curmudgeon, who it was confidently expected 
 would make me his heir, because he was an old bachelor, 
 because I was named after him, and because he hated all the 
 world except myself. 
 
 He was, in fact, an inveterate hater, a miser even in mis- 
 anthropy, and hoarded up a grudge as he did aguinea. Thus, 
 though my mother was an only sister, he had never forgiven 
 her marriage with my father, against whom he had a cold, 
 still, immovable pique, which had lain at the bottom of his 
 heart, like a stone in a well, ever since they had been school- 
 boys together. My mother, however, considered me as the 
 intermediate being that was to bring every thing again into 
 
 harmony, for she looked upon me as a prodigy—God bless 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 171 
 
 her! my heart overflows whenever I recall her tenderness. 
 She was the most excellent, the most indulgent of mothers. 
 I was her only child: it was a pity she had no more, for she 
 had fondness of heart enough to have spoiled a dozen! 
 
 I was sent at an early age to a public school, sorely 
 against my mother’s wishes; but my father insisted that it 
 was the only way to make boys hardy. The school was 
 kept by a conscientious prig of the ancient system, who did 
 his duty by the boys intrusted to his care: that is to say, we 
 were flogged soundly when we did not get our lessons. We 
 were put in classes, and thus flogged on in droves along the 
 highway of knowledge, in much the same manner as cattle are 
 driven to market; where those that are heavy in gait, or 
 short in leg, have to suffer for the superior alertness or longer 
 limbs of their companions. 
 
 For my part, I confess it with shame, I was an incor- 
 rigible laggard. I have always had the poetical feeling, that 
 is to say, I] have always been an idle fellow, and prone to 
 play the vagabond. I used to get away from my books and 
 school whenever I could, and ramble about the fields. I 
 was surrounded by seductions for such a temperament. The 
 school-house was an old-fashioned whitewashed mansion, of 
 wood and plaster, standing on the skirts of a beautiful 
 village: close by it was the venerable church, with a. tall 
 Gothic spire; before it spread a lovely green valley, with a 
 little stream glistening along through willow groves; while a 
 line of blue hills bounding the landscape gave rise to many a 
 summer-day-dream as to the fairy land that lay beyond. 
 
 In spite of all the scourgings I suffered at that school to 
 
 make-me.love my book, I cannot but. look back. upon the 
 
172 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 place with fondness. Indeed, I considered this frequent 
 flagellation as the common lot of humanity, and the regular 
 mode in which scholars were made. 
 
 My kind mother used to lament over my details of the 
 sore trials I underwent in the cause of learning; but my 
 father turned a deaf ear to her expostulations. He had been 
 flogged through school himself, and he swore there was no 
 other way of making a man of parts; though, let me speak 
 it with all due reverence, my father was but an indifferent 
 illustration of his theory, for he was considered a grievous 
 blockhead. 
 
 My poetical temperament evinced itself at a very early 
 period. The village church was attended every Sunday by a 
 neighboring squire, the lord of the manor, whose park 
 stretched quite to the village, and whose spacious country- 
 seat seemed to take the church under its protection. Indeed, 
 you would have thought the church had been consecrated to 
 him instead of to the Deity. The parish clerk bowed low 
 before him, and the vergers humbled themselves unto the dust 
 in his presence. He always entered a little late, and with 
 some stir; striking his cane emphatically on the ground, 
 swaying his hat in his hand, and looking loftily to the right 
 and left as he walked slowly up the aisle; and the parson, 
 who always ate his Sunday dinner with him, never com- 
 menced service until he appeared. He sat with his family 
 in a large pew, gorgeously lined, humbling himself devoutly 
 on velvet cushions, and reading lessons of meekness and 
 lowliness of spirit out of splendid gold and morocco prayer- 
 books. Whenever the parson spoke of the difficulty of a rich 
 
 man’s entering the kingdom of heaven, the eyes of the congre- 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 15 
 
 gation would turn towards the “ grand pew,” and I thought 
 the squire seemed pleased with the application. 
 
 The pomp of this pew, and the aristocratical air of the 
 family struck my imagination wonderfully ; and I fell des- 
 perately in love with a little daughter of the squire’s, about 
 twelve years of age. This freak of fancy made me more 
 truant from my studies than ever. I used to stroll about 
 the squire’s park, and lurk near the house, to catch glimpses 
 of this damsel at the windows, or playing about the lawn, or 
 walking out with her governess. 
 
 I had not enterprise nor impudence enough to venture from 
 my concealment. Indeed I felt like an arrant poacher, until 
 I read one or two of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, when I pictured 
 myself as some sylvan deity, and she a coy wood-nymph of 
 whom I was in pursuit. There is something extremely deli- 
 cious in these early awakenings of the tender passion. I can 
 feel even at this moment the throbbing in my boyish bosom, 
 whenever by chance I caught a glimpse of her white frock 
 fluttering among the shrubbery. I carried about in my 
 bosom a volume of Waller, which I had purloined from my 
 mother’s library; and I applied to my little fair one all the 
 compliments lavished upon Sacharissa. 
 
 At length I danced with her at a school ball. I was so 
 awkward a booby, that I dared scarcely speak to her; I was 
 filled with awe and embarrassment in her presence; but I was 
 so inspired, that my poetical temperament for the first time 
 broke out in verse, and I fabricated some glowing rhymes, 
 in which I berhymed the little lady under the favorite name 
 of Sacharissa. I slipped the verses, trembling and blushing, 
 into her hand the next Sunday as she came out of church. 
 
174 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 The little prude handed them to her mamma; the mamma 
 handed them tothe squire; the squire, who had no soul for po- 
 etry, sent them in dudgeon to the schoolmaster ; and the school- 
 master, with a barbarity worthy of the dark ages, gave me a 
 sound and peculiarly humiliating flogging for thus trespassing 
 upon Parnassus. This was asad outset for a votary of the muse ; 
 it ought to have cured me of my passion for poetry ; but it 
 only confirmed it, for I felt the spirit of a martyr rising with- 
 in me. What was as well, perhaps, it cured me of my 
 passion for the young lady; for I felt so indignant at the 
 ignominious horsing I had incurred in celebrating her charms, 
 that I could not hold up my head in church. Fortunately 
 for my wounded sensibility, the Midsummer holidays came 
 on, and I returned home. My mother, as usual, inquired 
 into all my school concerns, my little pleasures, and cares, 
 and sorrows; for boyhood has its share of the one as well as 
 of the other. I told her all, and she was indignant at the treat- 
 ment I had experienced. She fired up at the arrogance of 
 the squire, and the prudery of the daughter; and as to the 
 schoolmaster, she wondered where was the use of having 
 schoolmasters, and why boys could not remain at home, 
 and be educated by tutors, under the eye of their mothers. 
 She asked to see the verses I had written, and she was 
 delighted with them; for, to confess the truth, she had a 
 pretty taste for poetry. She even showed them to the 
 parson’s wife, who protested they were charming; and the 
 parson’s three daughters insisted on each haying a copy of 
 them. 
 
 All this was exceedingly balsamic, and I was still more 
 consoled and encouraged when the young ladies, who were 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 175 
 
 the bluestockings of the neighborhood, and had read Dr. 
 Johnson’s ‘Lives quite through, assured my mother that great 
 geniuses never studied, but were always idle; upon which I 
 began to surmise that I was myself something out of the 
 common run. My father, however, was of a very different 
 opinion, for when my mother, in the pride of her heart, 
 showed him my copy of verses, he threw them out of the 
 window, asking her “ if she meant to make a ballad-monger 
 of the boy?” But he was a careless, common-thinking man, 
 and I cannot say that I ever loved him much; my mother 
 absorbed all my filial affection. 
 
 I used occasionally, on holidays, to be sent on short 
 visits to the. uncle who was to make me his heir; they 
 thought it would keep me in his mind, and render him fond 
 of me. He was a withered, anxious-looking old fellow, and 
 lived in a desolate old country-seat, which he suffered to go 
 to ruin from absolute niggardliness. He kept but one man- 
 servant, who had lived, or rather starved with him for years. 
 No woman was allowed to sleep in the house. A daughter 
 of the old servant lived by the gate, in what had been a por- 
 ter’s lodge, and was permitted to come into the house about 
 an hour each day, to make the beds, and cook a morsel of 
 provisions. The park that surrounded the house was all run 
 wild: the trees were grown out of shape; the fish-ponds 
 stagnant ; the urns and statues fallen from their pedestals, and 
 buried among the rank grass. The hares and pheasants were 
 so little molested, except by poachers, that they bred in 
 great abundance, and sported about the rough lawns and 
 weedy avenues. To guard the premises, and frighten off 
 robbers, of whom he was somewhat apprehensive, and 
 
176 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 visitors, of whom he was in almost equal awe, my uncle kept 
 two or three bloodhounds, who were always prowling round 
 the house, and were the dread of the neighboring peasantry. 
 They were gaunt and half starved, seemed ready to devour 
 one from mere hunger, and were an effectual check on any 
 stranger’s approach to this wizard castle. 
 
 Such was my uncle’s house, which I used to visit now and 
 then during the holidays. I was, as I before said, the old 
 man’s favorite; that is to say, he did not hate me so much 
 as he did the rest of the world. I had been apprised of his 
 character, and cautioned to cultivate his good will; but I was 
 too young and careless to be a courtier, and, indeed, have 
 never been sufficiently studious of my interests to let them 
 govern my feelings. However, we jogged on very well 
 together, and as my visits cost him almost nothing they did 
 not seem to be very unwelcome. I brought with me my 
 fishing-rod, and half supplied the table from the fish-ponds. 
 
 Our meals were solitary and unsocial. My uncle rarely 
 spoke; he pointed to whatever he wanted, and the servant 
 perfectly understood him. Indeed, his man John, or Iron 
 John, as he was called in the neighborhood, was a counter- 
 part of his master. He was a tall, bony old fellow, with a 
 dry wig, that seemed made of cow’s tail, and a face as 
 tough as though it had been made of cow’s hide. He was 
 generally clad in a long, patched livery coat, taken out of the 
 wardrobe of the house, and which bagged loosely about him, 
 having evidently belonged to some corpulent predecessor, in 
 the more plenteous days of the mansion. From long habits 
 of taciturnity the hinges of his jaws seemed to have grown 
 absolutely rusty, and it cost him as much effort to set them 
 
BUCKTHORNE. Die 
 
 ajar, and to let out a tolerable sentence, as it would have done 
 to set open the iron gates of the park, and let out the old 
 family carriage, that was dropping to pieces in the coach- 
 house. 
 
 I cannot say, however, but that I was for some time 
 amused with my uncle’s peculiarities. Even the very deso- 
 lateness of the establishment had something in it that hit my 
 fancy. When the weather was fine, I used to amuse myself 
 in a solitary way, by rambling about the park, and coursing 
 like a colt across its lawns. The hares and pheasants seemed 
 to stare with surprise to see a human being walking these 
 forbidden grounds by daylight. Sometimes I amused myself 
 by jerking stones, or shooting at birds with a bow and arrows, 
 for to have used a gun would have been treason. Now and 
 then my path was crossed by a little red-headed, ragged-tailed 
 urchin, the son of the woman at the lodge, who ran wild 
 about the premises. I tried to draw him into familiarity, and 
 to make a companion of him, but he seemed to have imbibed 
 the strange unsociable character of every thing around him, 
 and always kept aloof; so I considered him as another Orson, 
 and amused myself with shooting at him with my bow and 
 arrows, and he would hold up his breeches with one hand, 
 and scamper away like a deer. 
 
 There was something in all this loneliness and wildness 
 strangely pleasing to me. The great stables, empty and 
 weather-broken, with the names of favorite horses over the 
 vacant stalls; the windows bricked and boarded up; the 
 broken roofs, garrisoned by rooks and jackdaws, all had a 
 singularly forlorn appearance. One would have concluded 
 
 the house to be totally uninhabited, were it not for the little 
 Q% 
 
178 TALES OFA’ TRAVELLER. 
 
 thread of blue smoke which now and then curled up, like a 
 corkscrew, from the centre of one of the wide chimneys where 
 my uncle’s starveling meal was cooking. 
 
 My uncle’s room was in a remote corner of the building, 
 strongly secured, and generally locked. I was never ad- 
 mitted into this strong-hold, where the old man would remain 
 for the greater part of the time, drawn up, like a veteran 
 spider, in the citadel of his web. The rest of the mansion, 
 however, was open to me, and I wandered about it uncon- 
 strained. The damp and rain which beat in through the 
 broken windows, crumbled the paper from the walls, 
 mouldered the pictures, and gradually destroyed the furniture. 
 I loved to roam about the wide waste chambers in bad 
 weather, and listen to the howling of the wind, and the bang- 
 ing about of the doors and window-shutters. I pleased my- 
 self with the idea how completely, when I came to the estate, 
 I would renovate all things, and make the old building ring 
 with merriment, till it was astonished at its own jocundity. 
 
 The chamber which I occupied on these visits, had been 
 my mother’s when a girl. There was still the toilet-table 
 of her own adorning, the landscapes of her own drawing. 
 She had never seen it since her marriage, but would often ask 
 me, if every thing was still the same. All was just the 
 same, for I loved that chamber on her account, and had taken 
 pains to put every thing in order, and to mend all the flaws 
 in the windows with my own hands. I anticipated the time 
 when I should once more welcome her to the house of her 
 fathers, and restore her to this little nestling place of her 
 childhood. 
 
 _. At length my evil genius, or what, perhaps, is the same 
 
“‘BUCKTHORNE. ~ 179 
 
 thing, the Muse, inspired me with the notion of rhyming 
 again. My uncle, who never went to church, used on 
 Sundays to read chapters out of the Bible; and Iron John, 
 the woman from the lodge, and myself, were his congrega- 
 tion. It seemed to be all one to him what he read, so long 
 as it was something from the Bible. Sometimes, therefore, 
 it would be the Song of Solomon, and this withered anatomy 
 would read about being “ stayed with flagons, and comforted 
 
 > Sometimes he would 
 
 with apples, for he was sick of love.’ 
 hobble, with spectacles on nose, through whole chapters of 
 hard Hebrew names in Deuteronomy, at which the poor 
 woman would sigh and groan, as if wonderfully moved. His 
 favorite book, however, was “'The Pilgrim’s Progress ;” and 
 when he came to that part which treats of Doubting Castle 
 and Giant Despair, I thought invariably of him and his deso- 
 late old country-seat. So much did the idea amuse me, that 
 I took to scribbling about it under the trees in the park ; and 
 in a few days had made some progress in a poem, in which I 
 had given a description of the place, under the name of 
 Doubting Castle, and personified my uncle as Giant Despair. 
 
 [ lost my poem somewhere about the house, and I soon 
 suspected that my uncle had found it, as he harshly intimated 
 to me that I could return home, and that I need not come and 
 see him again till he should send for me. 
 
 Just about this time my mother died. I cannot dwell 
 upon the circumstance. My heart, careless and wayward as 
 it is, gushes with the recollection. Her death was an event 
 that perhaps gave a turn to all my after fortunes. With her 
 died all that made home attractive. I had no longer any- 
 
 body whom I was ambitious to please, or fearful to offend. 
 
180 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 My father was a good kind of man in his way, but he had 
 bad maxims in education, and we differed in material points. 
 It makes a vast difference in opinion about the utility of the 
 rod, which end happens to fall to one’s share. I never could 
 be brought into my father’s way of thinking on the subject. 
 
 I now, therefore, began to grow very impatient of re- 
 maining at school, to be flogged for things that I did not like. 
 I longed for variety, especially now that I had not my 
 uncle’s house to resort to, by way of diversifying the dulness 
 of school, with the dreariness of his country-seat. 
 
 I was now almost seventeen, tall for my age, and full of 
 idle fancies. I had a roving, inextinguishable desire to see 
 different kinds of life, and different orders of society; and 
 this vagrant humor had been fostered in me by Tom Dribble, 
 the prime wag and great genius of the school, who had all the 
 rambling propensities of a poet. 
 
 I used to sit at my desk in the school, on a fine summer’s 
 day, and instead of studying the book which lay open before 
 me, my eye was gazing through the windows on the green 
 fields and blue hills. How I envied the happy groups on the 
 tops of stage-coaches, chatting, and joking, and laughing, as 
 they were whirled by the school-house on their way to the 
 metropolis. Even the wagoners, trudging along beside their 
 ponderous teams, and traversing the kingdom from one end 
 to the other, were objects of envy to me: I fancied to myself 
 what adventures they must experience, and what odd scenes 
 of life they must witness. All this was, doubtless, the 
 poetical temperament working within me, and tempting me 
 forth into a world of its own creation, which I mistook for the 
 world of real life. 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 181 
 
 While my mother lived, this strong propensity to rove 
 was counteracted by the stronger attractions of home, and by 
 the powerful ties of affection which drew me to her side ;_ but 
 now that she was gone, the attraction had ceased; the ties 
 were severed. I had no longer an anchorage-ground for my 
 heart, but was at the mercy of every vagrant impulse. 
 Nothing but the narrow allowance on which my father kept 
 me, and the consequent penury of my purse, prevented me 
 from mounting to the top of a stage-coach, and launching my- 
 self adrift on the great ocean of life. 
 
 Just about this time the village was agitated for a day 
 or two, by the passing through of several caravans, contain- 
 ing wild beasts, and other spectacles, for a great fair annually 
 held at a neighboring town. 
 
 I had never seen a fair of any consequence, and my 
 curiosity was powerfully awakened by this bustle of prepara- 
 tion. I gazed with respect and wonder at the vagrant per- 
 sonages who accompanied these caravans. I loitered about 
 the village inn, listening with curiosity and delight to the 
 slang talk and cant jokes of the showmen and their followers ; 
 and I felt an eager desire to witness this fair, which my 
 fancy decked out as something wonderfully fine. 
 
 A holiday afternoon presented, when I could be absent 
 from noon until evening. A wagon was going from the 
 village to the fair; I could not resist the temptation, nor the 
 eloquence of Tom Dribble, who was a truant to the very 
 heart’s core. We hired seats, and set off full of boyish ex- 
 pectation. I promised myself that I would but take a peep at 
 the land of promise, and hasten back again before my absence 
 
 should be noticed. 
 R* 
 
182 TALES -OF -A TRAVELLER. 
 
 Heavens! how happy I was on arriving at the fair! 
 How I was enchanted with the world of fun and pageantry 
 around me! The humors of Punch, the feats of the equestri- 
 ans, the magical tricks of the conjurors! But what principally 
 caught my attention was an itinerant theatre, where a tragedy, 
 pantomime, and farce, were all acted in the course of half an 
 hour; and more of the dramatis persone murdered, than at 
 either Drury Lane or Covent Garden in the course of a 
 whole evening. I have since seen many a play performed 
 by the best actors in the world, but never have I derived 
 half the delight from any that I did from this first repre- 
 sentation. 
 
 There was a ferocious tyrant in a skullcap like an inverted 
 porringer, and a dress of red baize, magnificently embroid- 
 ered with gilt leather; with his face so bewhiskered, and his 
 eyebrows so knit and expanded with burnt cork, that he 
 made my heart quake within me, as he stamped about the 
 little stage. I was enraptured too with the surpassing beauty 
 of a distressed damsel in faded pink silk, and dirty white 
 muslin, whom he held in cruel captivity by way of gaining 
 her affections, and who wept, and wrung her hands, and 
 flourished a ragged white handkerchief, from the top of an 
 impregnable tower of the size of a bandbox. 
 
 Even after I had come out from the play, I could not tear 
 myself from the vicinity of the theatre, but lingered, gazing 
 and wondering, and laughing at the dramatis persone as they 
 performed their antics, or danced upon a stage in front of the 
 booth, to decoy a new set of spectators. 
 
 I was so bewildered by the scene, and so lost in the crowd 
 
 of sensations that kept swarming upon me, that I was like one 
 
“°° BUCKTHORNE.-- - 183 
 
 entranced. I lost my companion, Tom Dribble, in a tumult 
 and scuffle that took place near one of the shows; but I was 
 too much occupied in mind to think long about him. I 
 strolled about until dark, when the fair was lighted up, and a 
 new scene of magic opened upon me. The illumination of 
 the tents and booths, the brilliant effect of the stages deco- 
 rated with lamps, with dramatic groups flaunting about them 
 in gaudy dresses, contrasted splendidly with the surrounding 
 darkness ; while the uproar of drums, trumpets, fiddles, haut- 
 boys, and cymbals, mingled with the harangues of the show- 
 men, the squeaking of Punch, and the shouts and laughter of 
 the crowd, all united to complete my giddy distraction. 
 
 Time flew without my perceiving it. When I came to 
 myself and thought of the school, I hastened.to return. I in- 
 quired for the wagon in which I had come: it had been gone 
 for hours! I asked the time: it was almost midnight! A 
 sudden quaking seized me. How was I to get back to school ? 
 I was too weary to make the journey on foot, and I knew not 
 where.to apply for a conveyance. Even if I should find one, 
 could I venture to disturb the school-house long after midnight 
 —to arouse that sleeping lion the usher in the very midst of 
 his night’s rest ?—the idea was too dreadful for a delinquent 
 schoolboy. All the horrors of return rushed upon me. My 
 absence must long before this have been remarked ;—and ab- 
 sent for a whole night !—a deed of darkness not easily to be 
 expiated. The rod of the pedagogue budded forth into ten- 
 fold terrors before my affrighted fancy. I pictured to myself 
 punishment and humiliation in every variety of form, and my 
 heart sickened at the picture. Alas! how often are the petty 
 
184 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 ills of boyhood as painful to our tender natures, as are the 
 sterner evils of manhood to our robuster minds. 
 
 I wandered about among the booths, and I might have de- 
 rived a lesson from my actual feelings, how much the charms 
 of this world depend upon ourselves ; for I no longer saw any 
 thing gay or delightful in the revelry around me. At length 
 I lay down, wearied and perplexed, behind one of the large 
 tents, and, covering myself with the margin of the tent cloth, 
 to keep off the night chill, I soon fell asleep. 
 
 I had not slept long, when 1 was awakened by the noise 
 of merriment within an adjoining booth. It was the itinerant 
 theatre, rudely constructed of boards and canvas. I peeped 
 through an aperture, and saw the whole dramatis persone, 
 tragedy, comedy, and pantomime, all refreshing themselves 
 after the final dismissal of their auditors. They were merry 
 and gamesome, and made the flimsy theatre ring with their 
 laughter. I was astonished to see the tragedy tyrant in red 
 baize and fierce whiskers, who had made my heart quake as 
 he strutted about the boards, now transformed into a fat, 
 good-humored fellow ; the beaming porringer laid aside from 
 his brow, and his jolly face washed from all the terrors of 
 burnt cork. I was delighted, too, to see the distressed dam- 
 sel, in faded silk and dirty muslin, who had trembled under 
 his tyranny, and afflicted me so much by her sorrows, now 
 seated familiarly on his knee, and quaffing from the same tan- 
 kard. Harlequin lay asleep on one of the benches ; and monks, 
 satyrs, and vestal virgins, were grouped together, laughing 
 outrageously at a broad story told by an unhappy count, who 
 had been barbarously murdered in the tragedy. 
 
 This was indeed, novelty to me. It was a peep into 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 185 
 
 another planet. I gazed and listened with intense curiosity 
 and enjoyment. They had a thousand odd stories and jokes 
 about the events of the day, and burlesque descriptions and 
 mimickings of the spectators who had been admiring them. 
 Their conversation was full of allusions to their adventures at 
 different places where they had exhibited ; the characters they 
 had met with in different villages ; and the ludicrous difficul- 
 ties in which they had occasionally been involved. All past 
 cares and troubles were now turned, by these thoughtless 
 beings, into matters of merriment, and made to contribute 
 to the gayety of the moment. They had been moving from 
 fair to fair about the kingdom, and were the next morning to 
 set out on their way to London. My resolution was taken. 
 I stole from my nest, and crept through a hedge into a neigh- 
 boring field, where I went to work to make a taterdemalion 
 of myself. I tore my clothes; soiled them with dirt; be- 
 grimed my face and hands, and crawling near one of the 
 booths, purloined an old hat, and left my new one in its 
 place. It was an honest theft, and I hope may not hereafter 
 rise up in judgment against me. 
 
 I now ventured to the scene of merry-making, and pre- 
 senting myself before the dramatic corps, offered myself as a 
 volunteer. I felt terribly agitated and abashed, for never be- 
 fore “ stood I in such a presence.” I had addressed myself to 
 the manager of the company. He was a fat man, dressed in 
 dirty white, with a red sash fringed with tinsel swathed round 
 his body; his face was smeared with paint, and a majestic 
 plume towered from an old spangled black bonnet. He was 
 the Jupiter Tonans of this Olympus, and was surrounded by 
 the inferior gods and goddesses of his court. He sat on the 
 
186 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 end of a bench, by a table, with one arm akimbo, and the 
 other extended to the handle of a tankard, which he had slowly 
 set down from his lips, as he surveyed me from head. to foot. 
 It was a moment of awful scrutiny ; and I fancied the groups 
 around all watching as in silent suspense, and waiting for the 
 imperial nod. 
 
 He questioned me as to who I was; what were my quali- 
 fications ; and what terms I expected. I passed myself off 
 for a discharged servant from a gentleman’s family ; and as, 
 happily, one does not require a special recommendation to get 
 admitted into bad company, the questions on that head were 
 easily satisfied. As to my accomplishments, I could spout a 
 little poetry, and knew several scenes of plays, which I had 
 That was 
 enough. No further questions were asked me as to accom- 
 
 learnt at school exhibitions, I could dance 
 
 plishments; it was the very thing they wanted; and as I 
 asked no wages but merely meat and drink, and safe conduct 
 about the world, a bargain was struck in a moment. 
 
 Behold me, therefore, transformed in a sudden from a gen- 
 tleman student to a dancing buffoon; for such, in fact, was 
 the character in which I made my debut. I was one of those 
 who formed the groups in the dramas, and was principally 
 employed on the stage in front of the booth to attract com: 
 pany. I was equipped as a satyr, ina dress of drab frieze that 
 fitted to my shape, with a great laughing mask, ornamented 
 with huge ears and short horns. 1 was pleased with the dis- 
 guise, because it kept me from the danger of being discovered, 
 whilst we were in that part of the country; and as I had 
 
 merely to dance and make antics, the character was favorable 
 
BUCKTHORNE. ) 187 
 
 to a debutant—being almost on a par with Simon Smug’s 
 part of the lion, which required nothing but roaring. 
 
 I cannot tell you how happy I was at this sudden change 
 in my situation. I felt no degradation, for I had seen too 
 little of society to be thoughtful about the difference of rank ; 
 and a boy of sixteen is seldom aristocratical. I had given up 
 no friend, for there seemed to be no one in the world that 
 eared for me now that my poor mother was dead; I had 
 given up no pleasure, for my pleasure was to ramble about 
 and indulge the flow of a poetical imagination, and I now en- 
 joyed it in perfection. There is no life so truly poetical as 
 that of a dancing buffoon. 
 
 It may be said that all this argued grovelling inclinations. 
 I do not think so. Not that I mean to vindicate myself in 
 any great degree: I know too well what a whimsical com- 
 pound lam. But in this instance I was seduced by no love 
 of low company, nor disposition to indulge in low vices. I 
 have always despised the brutally vulgar, and had a disgust 
 at vice, whether in high or low life. I was governed merely 
 by a sudden and thoughtless impulse. I had no idea of re- 
 sorting to this profession as a mode of life, or of attaching 
 myself to these people, as my future class of society. I 
 thought merely of a temporary gratification to my curiosity, 
 and an indulgence of my humors. I had already a strong 
 relish for the peculiarities of character and the varieties of 
 situation, and I have always been fond of the comedy of life, 
 and desirous of seeing it through all its shifting scenes. . 
 
 In mingling, therefore, among mountebanks and buffoons, 
 I was protected by the very vivacity of imagination which 
 
 had led me among them; I moved about, enveloped, as it 
 
188 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 were, in a protecting delusion, which my fancy spread around 
 me. I assimilated to these people only as they struck me 
 poetically ; their whimsical ways and a certain picturesque- 
 ness in their mode of life entertained me; but I was neither 
 amused nor corrupted by their vices. In short, I mingled 
 among them, as Prince Hal did among his graceless asso- 
 ciates, merely to gratify my humor. 
 
 I did not investigate my motives in this manner, at the 
 ' time, for I was too careless and thoughtless to reason about 
 the matter; but I do so now, when I look back with trem- 
 bling to think of the ordeal to which I unthinkingly exposed 
 myself, and the manner in which I passed through it. Noth- 
 ing, I am convinced; but the poetical temperament, that 
 hurried me into the scrape, brought me out of it without my 
 becoming an arrant vagabond. 
 
 Full of the enjoyment of the moment, giddy with the 
 wildness of animal spirits, so rapturous in a boy, I capered, I 
 danced, I played a thousand fantastic tricks about the stage, 
 in the villages in which we exhibited; and I was universally 
 pronounced the most agreeable monster that had ever been 
 seen in those parts. My disappearance from school had 
 awakened my father’s anxiety ; for I one day heard a descrip- 
 tion of myself cried before the very booth in which I was 
 . exhibiting, with the offer of a reward for any intelligence of 
 me. I had no great scruple about letting my father suffer a 
 little uneasiness on my account; it would punish him for 
 past indifference, and would make him value me the more 
 when he found me again. 
 
 I have wondered that some of my comrades did not recog- 
 
 nize me in the stray sheep that was cried; but they were all; 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 189 
 
 no doubt, occupied by their own concerns. They were all 
 laboring seriously in their antic vocation; for folly was a 
 mere trade with most of them, and they often grinned and 
 capered with heavy hearts. | With me, on the contrary, it 
 was all real. I acted con amore, and rattled and laughed from 
 the irrepressible gayety of my spirits. It is true that, now 
 and then, I started and looked grave on receiving a sudden 
 thwack from the wooden sword of Harlequin in the course of 
 my gambols, as it brought to mind the birch of my school- 
 master. But I soon got accustomed to it, and bore all the 
 cuffing, and kicking, and tumbling about, which form the 
 practical wit of your itinerant pantomime, with a good hu- 
 mor that made me a prodigious favorite. 
 
 The country campaign of the troop was soon at an end, 
 and we set off for the metropolis, to perform at the fairs 
 which are held in its vicinity. The greater part of our 
 theatrical property was sent on direct, to be in a state 
 of preparation for the opening of the fairs; while a detach- 
 ment of the company travelled slowly on, foraging among the 
 villages. I was amused with the desultory, hap-hazard kind 
 of life we led; here to-day and gone to-morrow. Sometimes 
 revelling in ale-houses, sometimes feasting under hedges in 
 the green fields. When audiences were crowded, and busi- 
 ness profitable, we fared well; and when otherwise, we fared 
 scantily, consoled ourselves, and made up with anticipations 
 of the next day’s success. 
 
 At length the increasing frequency of coaches hurrying past 
 us, covered with passengers; the increasing number of car- 
 riages, carts, wagons, gigs, droves of cattle and flocks of sheep, 
 all thronging the road, the snug country boxes with trim 
 
190 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 flower-gardens, twelve feet square, and their trees twelve feet 
 high, all powdered with dust, and the innumerable seminaries 
 for young ladies and gentlemen situated along the road for 
 the benefit of country air and rural retirement; all these in- 
 signia announced that the mighty London was at hand. The 
 hurry, and the crowd, and the bustle, and the noise, and the 
 dust, increased as we proceeded, until I saw the great cloud 
 of smoke hanging in the air, like a canopy of state, over this 
 queen of cities. 
 
 In this way, then, did I enter the metropolis, a strolling 
 vagabond, on the top of a caravan, with a crew of vagabonds 
 about me ; but I was as happy as a prince; for, like Prince 
 Hal, I felt myself superior to my situation, and knew that I 
 could at any time cast it off, and emerge into my proper 
 sphere. 
 
 How my eyes sparkled as we passed Hyde Park Corner, 
 and I saw splendid equipages rolling by; with powdered 
 footmen behind, in rich liveries, with fine nosegays, and gold- 
 headed canes; and with lovely women within, so sumptuously 
 dressed, and so surpassingly fair! I was always extremely 
 sensible to female beauty, and here I saw it in all its powers 
 of fascination: for whatever may be said of “ beauty un- 
 adorned,” there is something almost awful in female loveliness 
 decked out in jewelled state. The swanlike neck encircled 
 with diamonds ; the raven locks clustered with pearls; the 
 ruby glowing on the snowy bosom, are objects which I could 
 never contemplate without emotion; and a dazzling white 
 arm clasped with bracelets, and taper, transparent fingers, 
 laden with sparkling rings, are to me irresistible. 
 
 My very eyes-ached as I gazed at the high and courtly 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 191 
 
 beauty before me. It surpassed all that my imagination had 
 conceived of the sex. I shrank, for a moment, into shame at 
 the company in which I was placed, and repined at the vast 
 distance that seemed to intervene between me and these mag- 
 nificent beings. 
 
 I forbear to give a detail of the happy life I led about the 
 skirts of the metropolis, playing at the various fairs held there 
 during the latter part of spring, and the beginning of summer. 
 This continued change from place to place, and scene to scene, 
 fed my imagination with novelties, and kept my spirits in a 
 perpetual state of excitement. As I was tall of my age, I 
 aspired, at one time, to play heroes in tragedy; but, after 
 two or three trials, I was pronounced by the manager totally 
 unfit for the line; and our first tragic actress, who was a 
 large woman, and held a small hero in abhorrence, confirmed 
 his decision. 
 
 The fact is, I had attempted to give point to language 
 which had no point, and nature to scenes which had no nature. 
 They said I did not fill out my characters; and they were 
 right. ‘The characters had all been prepared for a different 
 sort of man. Our tragedy hero was a round, robustious 
 fellow, with an amazing voice ; who stamped and slapped his 
 breast until his wig shook again; and who roared and bel- 
 lowed out his bombast until every phrase swelled upon the 
 ear like the sound of a kettle-drum. I might as well have 
 attempted to fill out his clothes as his characters. When we 
 had a dialogue together, I was nothing before him, with my 
 slender voice and discriminating manner. I might as well 
 have attempted to parry a cudgel with a small-sword. If he 
 
 found me in any way gaining ground upon him, he would take 
 
192 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 refuge in his mighty voice, and throw his tones like peals of 
 thunder at me, until they were drowned in the still louder 
 thunders of applause from the audience. 
 
 To tell the truth, I suspect that I was not shown fair play, 
 and that there was management at the bottom; for without 
 vanity I think I was a better actor than he. As I had not 
 embarked in the vagabond line through ambition, I did not 
 repine at lack of preferment; but I was grieved to find that 
 a vagrant life was not without its cares and anxieties; and 
 that jealousies, intrigues, and mad ambition, were to be found 
 even among vagabonds. 
 
 Indeed, as I became more familiar with my situation, and 
 the delusions of fancy gradually faded away, I began to find 
 that my associates were not the happy careless creatures | 
 had at first imagined them. They were jealous of each other’s 
 talents ; they quarrelled about parts, the same as the actors 
 on the grand theatres; they quarrelled about dresses; and 
 there was one robe of yellow silk, trimmed with red, and a 
 head-dress of three rumpled ostrich-feathers, which were con- 
 tinually setting the ladies of the company by the ears. Even 
 those who had attained the highest honors were not more 
 happy than the rest; for Mr. Flimsey himself, our first tra- 
 gedian, and apparently a jovial good-humored fellow, confessed 
 to me one day, in the fulness of his heart, that he was a mis- 
 erable man. He had a brother-in-law, a relative by marriage, 
 though not by blood, who was manager of a theatre in a small 
 country town. And this same brother (“a little more than 
 kin but less than kind”) looked down upon him, and treated 
 him with contumely, because, forsooth, he was but a strolling 
 player. I tried to console him with the thoughts of the vast 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 193 
 
 applause he daily received, but it was all in vain. He de- 
 clared that it gave him no delight, and that he should never 
 be a happy man, until the name of Flimsey rivalled the name 
 of Crimp. 
 
 How little do those before the scenes know of what passes 
 behind ! how little can they judge, from the countenances of 
 actors, of what is passing in their hearts! I have known two 
 lovers quarrel like cats behind the scenes, who were, the 
 moment after, to fly into each other’s embraces. And I have 
 dreaded, when our Belvidera was to take her farewell kiss of 
 her Jaffier, lest she should bite a piece out of his cheek. Our 
 tragedian was a rough joker off the stage; our prime clown 
 the most peevish mortal living. The latter used to go about 
 snapping and snarling, with a broad laugh painted on his 
 countenance; and I can assure you, that whatever may be 
 said of the gravity of a monkey, or the melancholy of a gibed 
 cat, there is no more melancholy creature in existence than a 
 mountebank off duty. 
 
 The only thing in which all parties agreed, was to backbite 
 the manager, and cabal against his regulations. This, how- 
 ever, I have since discovered to be a common trait of human 
 nature, and to take place in all communities. It would seem 
 to be the main business of man to repine at government. In 
 all situations of life, into which I have looked, I have found 
 mankind divided into two grand parties: those who ride, and 
 those who are ridden. The great struggle of life seems to be 
 which shall keep in the saddle. This, it appears to me, is the 
 fundamental principle of politics, whether in great or little 
 life. Tlowever, I do not mean to moralize—but one cannot 
 
 always sink the philosopher. 
 9 
 
194 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 Well, then, to return to myself, it was determined, as | 
 said, that I was not fit for tragedy, and, unluckily, as my 
 study was bad, having a very poor memory, I was _ pro- 
 nounced unfit for comedy also; besides, the line of young 
 gentlemen was already engrossed by an actor with whom I 
 could not pretend to enter into competition, he having filled 
 it for almost half a century. I came down again, therefore, 
 to pantomime. In consequence, however, of the good offices 
 of the manager’s lady, who had taken a liking to me, I was 
 promoted from the part of the satyr to that of the lover; and 
 with my face patched and painted, a huge cravat of paper, a 
 steeple-crowned hat, and dangling long-skirted sky-blue coat, 
 was metamorphosed into the lover of Columbine. My part 
 did not call for much of the tender and sentimental. I had 
 merely to pursue the fugitive fair one; to have a door now 
 and then slammed in my face; to run my head occasionally 
 against a post; to tumble and roll about with Pantaloon and 
 the Clown; and to endure the hearty thwacks of Harlequin’s 
 wooden sword. 
 
 As ill luck would have it, my poetical temperament be- 
 gan to ferment within me, and to work out new troubles. 
 The inflammatory air of a great metropolis, added to the rural 
 scenes in which the fairs were held, such as Greenwich Park, 
 Epping Forest, and the lovely valley of the West End, had 
 a powerful effect upon me. While in Greenwich Park, I was 
 witness to the old holiday games of running down hill, and 
 kissing in the ring; and then the firmament of blooming faces 
 and blue eyes that would be turned towards me, as I was 
 playing antics on the stage; all these set my young blood and 
 my poetical vein in full flow. In short, I played the charac 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 195 
 
 ter to the life, and became desperately enamored of Co. 
 lumbine. She was a trim, well-made, tempting girl, with a 
 roguish dimpling face, and fine chestnut hair clustering all 
 about it. The moment I got fairly smitten, there was an end 
 to all playing. Iwas such a creature of fancy and feeling, 
 that I could not put on a pretended, when I was powerfully 
 affected by a real emotion. I could not sport with a fiction 
 that came so near to the fact. JI became too natural in my 
 acting to succeed. And then, what a situation for a lover! 
 I was a mere stripling, and she played with my passion; for 
 girls soon grow more adroit and knowing in these matters 
 than your awkward youngsters. What agonies had I to 
 suffer! Every time that she danced in front of the booth, 
 and made such liberal displays of her charms, I was in tor- 
 ment. ‘To complete my misery, I had a real rival in Harle- 
 quin, an active, vigorous, knowing varlet, of six-and-twenty. 
 What had a raw, inexperienced youngster like me to hope 
 from such a competition ? 
 
 I had still, however, some advantages in my favor. In 
 spite of my change of life, I retained that indescribable some- 
 thing which always distinguishes the gentleman; that some- 
 thing which dwells in a man’s air and deportment, and not in 
 his clothes ; and which is as difficult for a gentleman to put 
 off, as for a vulgar fellow to put on. The company generally 
 felt it, and used to call me Little Gentleman Jack. The girl 
 felt it too, and, in spite of her predilection for my powerful 
 rival, she liked to flirt with me. This only aggravated my 
 troubles, by increasing my passion, and awakening the jeal- 
 ousy of her party-colored lover. 
 
 Alas! think what I suffered at being obliged to keep up 
 
196 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 an ineffectual chase after my Columbine through whole pan- 
 tomimes; to see her carried off in the vigorous arms of the 
 happy Harlequin ; and to be obliged, instead of snatching her 
 from him, to tumble sprawling with Pantaloon and the Clown, 
 and bear the infernal and degrading thwacks of my rival’s 
 weapon of lath, which, may heaven confound him ! (excuse my 
 passion,) the villain laid on with a malicious good-will: nay, 
 I could absolutely hear him chuckle and laugh beneath his ac- 
 cursed mask—lI beg pardon for growing a little warm in my 
 narrative—I wish to be cool, but these recollections will some- 
 times agitate me. I have heard and read of many desperate 
 and deplorable situations of lovers, but none, I think, in 
 which true love was ever exposed to so severe and peculiar 
 a trial. 
 
 This could not last long; flesh and blood, at least such 
 flesh and blood as mine, could not bear it. I had repeated 
 heart-burnings and quarrels with my rival, in which he treated 
 me with the mortifying forbearance of a man towards a child. 
 Had he quarrelled outright with me, I could have stomached 
 it, at least I should have known what part to take; but to be 
 humored and treated as a child in the presence of my mis- 
 tress, when I felt all the bantam spirit of a little man swelling 
 within me—Gods ! it was insufferable ! 
 
 At length, we were exhibiting one day at West End fair, 
 which was at that time a very fashionable resort, and often 
 beleaguered with gay equipages from town. Among the 
 spectators that filled the first row of our little canvas theatre 
 one afternoon, when I had to figure in a pantomime, were a 
 number of young ladies from a boarding-school, with their 
 
 governess. Guess my confusion, when, in the midst of my 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 197 
 
 antics, I beheld among the number my quondam flame ; her 
 whom I had berhymed at school, her for whose charms I had 
 smarted so severely, the cruel Sacharissa! What was worse, 
 I fancied she recollected me, and was repeating the story of 
 my humiliating flagellation, for I saw her whispering to her 
 companions and her governess. I lost all consciousness of the 
 part I was acting, and of the place where I was. I felt shrunk 
 to nothing, and could have crept into a rat-hole—unluckily, 
 none was open to receive me. Before I could recover from 
 my confusion, I was tumbled over by Pantaloon and the 
 Clown, and I felt the sword of Harlequin making vigorous 
 assaults in a manner most degrading to my dignity. 
 
 Heaven and earth! was I again to suffer martyrdom in 
 this ignominious manner, in the knowledge, and even before 
 the very eyes of this most beautiful, but most disdainful of 
 fair ones? All my long-smothered wrath broke out at once; 
 the dormant feelings of the gentleman arose within me. 
 Stung to the quick by intolerable mortification, I sprang on 
 my feet in an instant; leaped upon Harlequin like a young 
 tiger ; tore off his mask ; buffeted him in the face; and soon 
 shed more blood on the stage, than had been spilt upon it 
 during a whole tragic campaign of battles and murders. 
 
 As soon as Harlequin recovered from his surprise, he re- 
 turned my assault with interest. I was nothing in his hands, 
 I was game, to be sure, for I was a gentleman; but he had 
 the clownish advantage of bone and muscle. I felt as if I 
 could have fought even unto the death; and I was likely to 
 do so, for he was, according to the boxing phrase, “ putting 
 
 my head into chancery,” when the gentle Columbine flew to 
 
198 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 my assistance. God bless the women! they are always on 
 the side of the weak and the oppressed ! 
 
 The battle now became general; the dramatis persone 
 ranged on either side. The manager interposed in vain; in 
 vain were his spangled black bonnet and towering white 
 feathers seen whisking about, and nodding, and bobbing in the 
 thickest of the fight. Warriors, ladies, priests, satyrs, kings, 
 queens, gods, and goddesses, all joined pell-mell in the affray ; 
 never, since the conflict under the walls of Troy, had there 
 been such a chance-medley warfare of combatants, human and 
 divine. The audience applauded, the ladies shrieked, and fled 
 from the theatre; and a scene of discord ensued that baffles 
 all description. 
 
 Nothing but the interference of the peace-officers restored 
 some degree of order. The havoc, however, among dresses 
 and decorations, put an end to all further acting for that day. 
 The battle over, the next thing was to inquire why it was be- 
 gun; a common question among politicians after a bloody 
 and unprofitable war, and one not always easy to be answer- 
 ed. It was soon traced to me, and my unaccountable trans- 
 port of passion, which they could only attribute to my having 
 run a muck. The manager was judge and jury, and plaintiff 
 into the bargain ; and in such cases justice is always speedily 
 administered. He came out of the fight as sublime a wreck 
 as the Santissima Trinidada. His gallant plumes, which once 
 towered aloft, were drooping about his ears; his robe of state 
 hung in ribbons from his back, and but ill concealed the rav- 
 ages he had suffered in the rear. He had received kicks and 
 cuffs from all sides during the tumult; for every one took the 
 
 opportunity of slyly gratifying some lurking grudge on his 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 199 
 
 fat carcass. He was a discreet man, and did not choose to 
 declare war with all his company, so he swore all those kicks 
 and cuffs had been given by me, and I let him enjoy the 
 opinion. Some wounds he bore, however, which wore the in- 
 contestable traces of a woman’s warfare: his sleek rosy cheek 
 was scored by trickling furrows, which were ascribed to the 
 nails of my intrepid and devoted Columbine. ‘The ire of the 
 monarch was not to be appeased; he had suffered in his per- 
 son, and he had suffered in his purse; his dignity, too, had 
 been insulted, and that went for something; for dignity is 
 always more irascible, the more petty the potentate. He 
 wreaked his wrath upon the beginners of the affray, and Co- 
 lumbine and myself were discharged, at once, from the com- 
 pany. 
 
 Figure me, then, to yourself, a stripling of little more 
 than sixteen, a gentleman by birth, a vagabond by trade, 
 turned adrift upon the world, making the best of my way 
 through the crowd of West End fair; my mountebank dress 
 fluttering in rags about me; the weeping Columbine hanging 
 upon my arm, in splendid but tattered finery ; the tears cours- 
 ing one by one down hier face, carrying off the red paint in 
 torrents, and literally “ preying upon her damask cheek.” 
 
 The crowd made way for us as we passed, and hooted in 
 our rear. I felt the ridicule of my situation, but had too 
 much gallantry to desert this fair one, who had sacrificed 
 every thing for me. Having wandered through the fair, we 
 emerged, like another Adam and Eve, into unknown regions, 
 and “had the world before us where to choose.” Never was 
 a more disconsolate pair seen in the soft valley of West End. 
 
 The luckless Columbine cast many a lingering look at the fair, 
 
200 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 which seemed to put on a more than usual splendor : its tents, 
 and booths, and party-colored groups, all brightening in the 
 sunshine, and gleaming among the trees ; and its gay flags and 
 streamers fluttering in the light summer airs. With a heavy 
 sigh she would lean on my arm and proceed. I had no hope 
 nor consolation to give her; but she had linked herself to my 
 fortunes, and she was too much of a woman to desert me. 
 Pensive and silent, then, we traversed the beautiful fields 
 which lie behind Hampstead, and wandered on, until the 
 fiddle, and the hautboy, and the shout, and the laugh, were 
 swallowed up in the deep sound of the big bass-drum, and 
 even that died away into a distant rumble. We passed along 
 the pleasant, sequestered walk of Nightingale-lane. For a 
 pair of lovers, what scene could be more propitious ?—But 
 such a pair of lovers! Not a nightingale sang to soothe us: 
 the very gipsies, who were encamped there during the fair, 
 made no offer to tell the fortunes of such an ill-omened couple, 
 whose fortunes, I suppose, they thought too legibly written 
 to need an interpreter ; and the gipsy children crawled into 
 their cabins, and peeped out fearfully at us as we went by. 
 For a moment I paused, and was almost tempted to turn 
 gipsy, but the poetical feeling, for the present, was fully satis- 
 fied, and I passed on. ‘Thus we travelled and travelled, like a 
 prince and princess in a nursery tale, until we had traversed 
 a part of Hampstead Heath, and arrived in the vicinity of 
 Jack Straw’s Castle. Here, wearied and dispirited, we seated 
 ourselves on the margin of the hill, hard by the very mile- 
 stone where Whittington of yore heard the Bow-bells ring 
 out the presage of his future greatness. Alas! no bell rung 
 
 an invitation to us, as we looked disconsolately upon the dis- 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 201 
 
 tant city. Old London seemed to wrap itself unsociably in its 
 mantle of brown smoke, and to offer no encouragement to 
 such a couple of tatterdemalions. 
 
 For once, at least, the usual course of the pantomime was 
 reversed, Harlequin was jilted, and the lover had carried off 
 Columbine in good earnest. But what was I to do with her ? 
 I could not take her in my hand, return to my father, throw 
 myself on my knees, and crave his forgiveness and blessing, 
 according to dramatic usage. The very dogs would have 
 chased such a draggled-tailed beauty from the grounds. 
 
 In the midst of my doleful dumps, some one tapped me 
 on the shoulder, and, looking up, I saw a couple of rough 
 sturdy fellows standing behind me. Not knowing what to 
 expect, I jumped on my legs, and was preparing again to 
 make battle, but was tripped up and secured in a twinkling. 
 
 “ Come, come, young master,” said one of the fellows in a 
 gruff but good-humored tone, “don’t let’s have any of your 
 tantrums ; one would have thought you had had swing enough 
 for this bout. Come; it’s high time to leave off harlequinad- 
 ing, and go home to your father.” 
 
 In fact, I had fallen into the hands of remorseless men. 
 The cruel Sacharissa had proclaimed who I was, and that a re- 
 ward had been offered throughout the country for any tidings 
 of me; and they had seen a description of me which had 
 been inserted in the public papers. Those harpies, therefore, 
 for the mere sake of filthy lucre, were resolved to deliver me 
 over into the hands of my father, and the clutches of my peda- 
 gogue. 
 
 In vain I swore I would not leave my faithful and afflicted 
 
 Columbine. In vain I tore myself from their grasp, and flew 
 9% 
 
202 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 to her, and vowed to protect her; and wiped the tears from 
 her cheek, and with them a whole blush that might have vied 
 with the carnation for brilliancy. My persecutors were in- 
 flexible ; they even seemed to exult in our distress; and to 
 enjoy this theatrical display of dirt, and finery, and tribula- 
 tion. I was carried off in despair, leaving my Columbine des- 
 titute in the wide world; but many a look of agony did I 
 cast back at her as she stood gazing piteously after me from 
 the brink of Hampstead Hill; so forlorn, so fine, so ragged, 
 so bedraggled, yet so beautiful. 
 
 Thus ended my first peep into the world. I returned 
 home, rich in good-for-nothing experience, and dreading the 
 reward [ was to receive for my improvement. My reception, 
 however, was quite different from what I had expected. My 
 father had a spice of the devil in him, and did not seem to 
 like me the worse for my freak, which he termed “ sowing 
 my wild oats.” He happened to have some of his sporting 
 friends to dine the very day of my return; they made me 
 tell some of my adventures, and laughed heartily at them. 
 
 One old fellow, with an outrageously red nose, took to me 
 hugely. I heard him whisper to my father that I was a lad 
 of mettle, and might make something clever; to which my 
 father replied, that I had good points, but was an ill-broken 
 whelp, and required a great deal of the whip. Perhaps this 
 very conversation raised me a little in his esteem, for I found 
 the red-nosed old gentleman was a veteran fox-hunter of the 
 neighborhood, for whose opinion my father had vast deference. 
 Indeed, I believe he would have pardoned any thing in me 
 more readily than poetry, which he called a cursed, sneaking, 
 
 puling, housekeeping employment, the bane of all fine man- 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 203 
 
 hood. He swore it was unworthy of a youngster of my ex- 
 pectations, who was one day to have so great an estate, and 
 would be able to keep horses and hounds, and hire poets to 
 write songs for him into the bargain. 
 
 I had now satisfied, for a time, my roving propensity. I 
 had exhausted the poetical feeling. I had been heartily buffet- 
 ed out of my love for theatrical display. I felt humiliated by 
 my exposure, and willing to hide my head anywhere for a 
 season, so that I might be out of the way of the ridicule of 
 the world; for I found folks not altogether so indulgent 
 abroad as they were at my father’s table. I could not stay 
 at home; the house was intolerably doleful now that my 
 mother was no longer there to cherish me. Every thing 
 around spoke mournfully of her. The little flower-garden in 
 which she delighted, was all in disorder and overrun with 
 weeds. J attempted for a day or two to arrange it, but my 
 heart grew heavier and heavier as | labored. Every little 
 broken-down flower, that I had seen her rear so tenderly, 
 seemed to plead in mute eloquence to my feelings. There 
 was a favorite honeysuckle which I had seen her often training 
 with assiduity, and had heard her say it would be the pride of 
 her garden. I found it grovelling along the ground, tangled 
 and wild, and twining round every worthless weed ; and it 
 struck me as an emblem of myself, a mere scatterling, run- 
 ning to waste and uselessness. I could work no longer in the 
 garden. 
 
 My father sent me to pay a visit to my uncle, by way of 
 keeping the old gentleman in mind of me. I was received, as 
 usual, without any expression of discontent, which we always 
 considered equivalent to a hearty welcome. Whether he had 
 
204 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 ever heard of my strolling freak or not, I could not discover, 
 he and his man were both so taciturn. I spent a day or two 
 roaming about the dreary mansion and neglected park, and 
 felt at one time, I believe, a touch of poetry, for I was tempt- 
 ed to drown myself in a fish pond; I rebuked the evil spirit, 
 however, and it left me. I found the same red-headed boy 
 running wild about the park, but I felt in no humor to hunt 
 him at present. On the contrary, I tried to coax him to me, 
 and to make friends with him ; but the young savage was un- 
 tamable. 
 
 When I returned from my uncle’s, I remained at home for 
 some time, for my father was disposed, he said, to make a 
 man of me. He took me out hunting with him, and I became 
 a great favorite of the red-nosed squire, because I rode at 
 every thing, never refused the boldest leap, and was always 
 sure to be in at the death. I used often, however, to offend 
 my father at hunting-dinners, by taking the wrong side in 
 politics. My father was amazingly ignorant, so ignorant, in 
 fact, as not to know that he knew nothing. He was stanch, 
 however, to church and king, and full of old-fashioned preju- 
 dices. Now I had picked up a little knowledge in politics 
 and religion during my rambles with the strollers, and found 
 myself capable of setting him right as to many of his anti- 
 quated notions. I felt it my duty to duso; we were apt, there- 
 fore, to differ occasionally in the political discussions which 
 sometimes arose at those hunting-dinners. 
 
 I was at that age when a man knows least, and is most 
 vain of his knowledge, and when he is extremely tenacious in 
 defending his opinion upon subjects about which he knows 
 nothing: My father was a hard man for any one to argue 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 205 
 
 with, for he never knew when he was refuted. I sometimes 
 posed him a little, but then he had one argument that always 
 settled the question; he would threaten to knock me down. 
 I believe he at last grew tired of me, because I both outtalked 
 and outrode him. The red-nosed squire, too, got out of con- 
 ceit with me, because in the heat of the chase, I rode over him 
 one day as he and his horse lay sprawling in the dirt: so | 
 found myself getting into disgrace with all the world, and 
 would have got heartily out of humor with myself, had I not 
 been kept in tolerable self-conceit by the parson’s three 
 daughters. 
 
 They were the same who had admired my poetry on a 
 former occasion, when it had brought me into disgrace at 
 school ; and [ had ever since retained an exalted idea of their 
 judgment. Indeed, they were young ladies not merely of 
 taste but of science. Their education had been superintended 
 by their mother, who was a_ bluestocking. They knew 
 enough of botany to tell the technical names of all the flowers 
 in the garden, and all their secret concerns into the bargain. 
 They’ knew music, too, not mere common-place music, but 
 Rossini and Mozart, and they sang Moore’s Irish Melodies to 
 perfection. They had pretty little work-tables, covered with 
 all kinds of objects of taste ; specimens of lava, and painted 
 eggs, and work-boxes, painted and varnished by themselves. 
 They excelled in knotting and netting, and painted in water- 
 colors; and made feather fans, and fire-screens, and worked 
 in silks and worsteds; and talked French and Italian, and 
 knew Shakspeare by heart. They even knew something of 
 geology and mineralogy ; and went about the neighborhood 
 
 g* 
 
206 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 knocking stones to pieces, to the great admiration and per. 
 plexity of the country folk. 
 
 1 am a little too minute, perhaps, in detailing their accom- 
 plishments, but I wish to let you see that these were not com- 
 monplace young ladies, but had pretensions quite above the 
 ordinary run. It was some consolation to me, therefore, to 
 find favor in such eyes. Indeed, they had always marked 
 me out for a genius, and considered my late vagrant freak as 
 fresh proof of the fact. They observed that Shakspeare him- 
 self had been a mere pickle in his youth; that he had stolen 
 a deer, as every one knew, and kept loose company, and con- 
 sorted with actors: so I comforted myself marvellously with 
 the idea of having so decided a Shaksperian trait in my char- 
 acter. 
 
 The youngest of the three, however, was my grand conso- 
 lation. She was a pale, sentimental girl, with long “‘ hyacin- 
 thine” ringlets hanging about her face. She wrote poetry 
 herself, and we kept up a poetical correspondence. She had 
 a taste for the drama, too, and I taught her how to act several 
 of the scenes in Romeo and Juliet. I used to rehearse the 
 garden scene under her lattice, which looked out from among 
 woodbine and honeysuckles into the church-yard. 1 began to 
 think her amazingly pretty as well as clever, and I believe I 
 should have finished by falling in love with her, had not her 
 father discovered our theatrical studies. He was a studious, 
 abstracted man, generally too much absorbed in his learned 
 and religious labors to notice the little foibles of his daugh- 
 ters, and perhaps blinded by a father’s fondness ; but he unex- 
 pectedly put his head out of his study-window one day in the 
 midst of a scene, and put a stop to our rehearsals. THe had a 
 
’ BUCKTHORNE. ° 207 
 
 vast deal of that prosaic good sense which I forever found a 
 stumbling-block in my poetical path. My rambling freak had 
 not struck the good man as poetically as it had his daughters. 
 He drew his comparison from a different manual. He looked 
 upon me as a prodigal son, and doubted whether I should ever 
 arrive at the happy catastrophe of the fatted calf. 
 
 I fancy some intimation was given to my father of this 
 new breaking out of my poetical temperament, for he sudden- 
 ly intimated that it was high time I should prepare for the 
 university. I dreaded a return to the school whence 1 had 
 eloped: the ridicule of my fellow-scholars, and the glance 
 from the squire’s pew, would have been worse than death to 
 me. I was fortunately spared the humiliation. My father 
 sent me to board with a country clergyman, who had three or 
 four boys under his care. I went to him joyfully, for I had 
 often heard my mother mention him with esteem. In fact he 
 had been an admirer of hers in his younger days, though too 
 humble in fortune and modest in pretensions to aspire to her 
 hand; but he had ever retained a tender regard for her. He 
 was a good man; a worthy specimen of that valuable body 
 of our country clergy who silently and unostentatiously do a 
 vast deal of good; who are, as it were, woven into the whole 
 system of rural life, and operate upon it with the steady yet 
 unobtrusive influence of temperate piety and learned good 
 sense. He lived in a small village not far from Warwick, 
 one of those little communities where the scanty flock is, in 
 a manner, folded into the bosom of the pastor. The vener- 
 able church, in its grass-grown cemetery, was one of those 
 rural temples scattered about our country as if to sanctify the 
 land. 
 
4 
 
 208 ; TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 I have the worthy pastor before my mind’s eye at this 
 moment, with his mild benevolent countenance, rendered still 
 more venerable by his silver hairs. 1 have him before me, 
 as I saw him on my arrival, seated in the embowered porch 
 of his small parsonage, with a flower-garden before it, and his 
 pupils gathered round him like his children. I shall never 
 forget his reception of me, for I believe he thought of my 
 poor mother at the time, and his heart yearned towards her 
 child. His eye glistened when he received me at the door, 
 and he took me into his arms as the adopted child of his affec- 
 tions. Never had I been so fortunately placed. He was one 
 of those excellent members of our church, who help out their 
 narrow salaries by instructing a few gentlemen’s sons. I am 
 convinced those little seminaries are among the best nurseries 
 of talent and virtue in the land. Both heart and mind are 
 cultivated and improved. The preceptor is the companion 
 and the friend of his pupils. His sacred character gives him 
 dignity in their eyes, and his solemn functions produce that 
 elevation of mind and sobriety of conduct necessary to those 
 who are to teach youth to think and act worthily. 
 
 I speak from my own random observation and experience ; 
 but I think I speak correctly. At any rate, I can trace much 
 of what is good in my own heterogeneous compound to the 
 short time I was under the instruction of that good man. He 
 entered into the cares and occupations and amusements of his 
 pupils ; and won his way into our confidence, and studied our 
 hearts and minds more intently than we did our books. 
 
 He soon sounded the depth of my character. I had be- 
 come, as I have alrcady hinted, a little liberal in my notions, 
 and apt to philosophize on both politics and religion ; having 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 209 
 
 seen something of men and things, and leernt, from my fellow- 
 philosophers, the strollers, to despise all vulgar prejudices. 
 He did not attempt to cast down my vainglory, nor to ques- 
 tion my right view of things; he merely instilled into my 
 mind a little information on these topics; though in a quiet 
 ‘unobtrusive way, that never ruffled a feather of my self-con- 
 ceit. I was astonished to find what a change a little knowl- 
 edge makes in one’s mode of viewing matters; and how dif- 
 ferent a subject is when one thinks, or when one only talks 
 about it. I conceived a vast deference for my teacher, and 
 was ambitious of his good opinion. In my zeal to make a 
 favorable impression, I presented him with a whole ream of 
 my poetry. He read it attentively, smiled, and pressed my 
 hand when he returned it to me, but said nothing. The next 
 day he set me at mathematics. 
 
 Somehow or other the process of teaching seemed robbed 
 by him of all its austerity. I was not conscious that he 
 
 _ thwarted an inclination or opposed a wish; but I felt that, for 
 the time, my inclinations were entirely changed. I became 
 fond of study, and zealous to improve myself. I made toler- 
 able advances in studies which I had before considered as un- 
 attainable, and I wondered at my own proficiency I thought, 
 too, I astonished my preceptor ; for I often caught his eyes 
 fixed upon me with a peculiar expression. I suspect, sintve, 
 that he was pensively tracing in my countenance the early 
 lineaments of my mother. 
 
 Education was not apportioned by him into tasks, and en- 
 joined as a labor, to be abandoned with joy the moment the 
 hour of study was expired. We had, it is true, our allotted 
 hours of occupation, to give us habits of method, and of the 
 
210 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 distribution of time; but they were made pleasant to us, and 
 our feelings were enlisted in the cause. When they were 
 over, education still went on. It pervaded all our relaxa- 
 tions and amusements. There was a steady march of im- 
 provement. Much of his instruction was given during pleas- 
 ant rambles, or when seated on the margin of the Avon; and 
 information received in that way, often makes a deeper im- 
 pression than when acquired by poring over books. I have 
 many of the pure and eloquent precepts that flowed from his 
 lips associated in my mind with lovely scenes in nature, which 
 make the recollection of them indescribably delightful. 
 
 I do not pretend to say that any miracle was effected with 
 me. After all said and done, I was but a weak disciple. My 
 poetical temperament still wrought within me and wrestled 
 hard with wisdom, and, I fear, maintained the mastery. I 
 found mathematics an intolerable task in fine weather. I 
 would be prone to forget my problems, to watch the birds 
 hopping about the windows, or the bees humming about the | 
 honeysuckles ; and whenever I could steal away, I would wan- 
 der about the grassy borders of the Avon, and excuse this 
 truant propensity to myself with the idea that I was treading 
 classic ground, over which Shakspeare had wandered. What 
 luxurious idleness have I indulged, as I lay under the trees 
 and watched the silver waves rippling through the arches of 
 the broken bridge, and laving the rocky bases of old War- 
 wick Castle; and how often have I thought of sweet Shak- 
 speare, and in my boyish enthusiasm have kissed the waves 
 which had washed his native village. , 
 
 My good preceptor would often accompany me in these 
 desultory rambles. He sought to get hold of this vagrant 
 
BUCKTHORNE. ~ 211 
 
 mood of mind and turn it to some account. He endeavored 
 to teach me to mingle thought with mere sensation; to moral- 
 ize on the scenes around ; and to inake the beauties of nature 
 administer to the understanding of the heart. He endeavored 
 to direct my imagination to high and noble objects, and to fill 
 it with lofty images. In a word, he did all he could to make 
 the best of a poetical temperament, and to counteract the mis- 
 chief which had been done to me by my great expectations. 
 
 Had I been earlier put under the care of the good pastor, 
 or remained with him a longer time, I really believe he would 
 have made something of me. He had already brought a great 
 deal of what had been flogged into me into tolerable order, 
 and had weeded out much of the unprofitable wisdom which 
 had sprung up in my vagabondizing. I already began to find 
 that with all my genius a little study would be no disadvan- 
 tage to me; and, in spite of my vagrant freaks, I began to 
 doubt my being a second Shakspeare. 
 
 Just as I was making these precious discoveries, the good 
 parson died. It was a melancholy day throughout the neigh- 
 borhood. He had his little flock of scholars, his children, as 
 he used to call us, gathered round him in his dying moments ; 
 and he gave us the parting advice of a father, now that he had 
 to leave us, and we were to be separated from each other, and 
 scattered about in the world. He took me by the hand, and 
 talked with me earnestly and affectionately, and called to my 
 mind my mother, and used her name to enforce his dying ex- 
 hortations, for I rather think he considered me the rnost err- 
 ing and heedless of his flock. He held my hand in his, long 
 after he had done speaking, and kept his eye fixed on me ten- 
 
 derly and almost piteously: his lips moved as if he weré 
 
913 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 silently praying for me; and he died away, still holding me 
 by the hand. 
 
 There was not a dry eye in the church when the funeral 
 service was read from the pulpit from which he had so often 
 preached. When the body was committed to the earth, our 
 little band gathered round it, and watched the coffin as it was 
 lowered into the grave. The parishioners looked at us with 
 sympathy ; for we were mourners not merely in dress but in 
 heart. We lingered about the grave, and clung to one another 
 for a time, weeping and speechless, and then parted, like a 
 band of brothers, parting from the paternal hearth, never to 
 assemble there again. 
 
 How had the gentle spirit of that good man sweetened our 
 natures, and linked our young hearts together by the kindest 
 ties! I have always had a throb of pleasure at meeting with 
 an old schoolmate, even though one of my truant associates ; 
 but whenever, in the course of my life, I have encountered one 
 of that little flock with which I was folded on the banks of the 
 Avon, it has been with a gush of affection, and a glow of vir- 
 tue, that for the moment have made me a better man. 
 
 I was now sent to Oxford, and was wonderfully impressed 
 on first entering it as a student. Learning here puts on all 
 its majesty. It is lodged in palaces; it is sanctified by the 
 sacred ceremonies of religion; it has a pomp and circumstance 
 which powerfully affect the imagination. Such, at least, it 
 had in my eyes, thoughtless as | was. My previous studies 
 with the worthy pastor had prepared me to regard it with 
 deference and awe. He had been educated here, and always 
 spoke of the University with filial fondness and classic venera- 
 
 tion. When I beheld the clustering spires and pinnacles of 
 
BUCKTHORNE. » 213 
 
 this most august of cities rising from the plain, [ hailed them 
 in my enthusiasm as the points of a diadem, which the nation 
 had placed upon the brows of science. 
 
 For a time old Oxford was full of enjoyment for me. 
 There was a charm about its monastic buildings; its great 
 Gothic quadrangles ; its solemn halls, and shadowy cloisters. 
 I delighted, in the evenings, to get in places surrounded by 
 the colleges, where all modern buildings were screened from 
 the sight ; and to see the professors and students sweeping | 
 along in the dusk in their antiquated caps and gowns. I 
 seemed for a time to be transported among the people and 
 edifices of the old times. I was a frequent attendant, also, of 
 the evening service in the New College Hall; to hear the fine 
 organ, and the choir swelling an anthem in that solemn build- 
 ing, where painting, music, and architecture, are in such ad- 
 mirable unison. 
 
 A favorite haunt, too, was the beautiful walk bordered by 
 lofty elms along the river, behind the gray walls of Magdalen 
 College, which goes by the name of Addison’s Walk, from be- 
 ing his favorite resort when an Oxford student. I became 
 also a lounger in the Bodleian library, and a great dipper into 
 books, though I cannot say that I studied them; in fact, being 
 no longer under direction or control, | was gradually relapsing 
 into mere indulgence of the fancy. Still this would have been 
 pleasant and harmless enough, and I might have awakened 
 from mere literary dreaming to something better. — The 
 chances were in my favor, for the riotous times of the Univer- 
 sity were past. The days of hard drinking were at an end. 
 The old feuds of “Town and Gown,” like the civil wars of the 
 White and Red Rose, had died away ; and student and citizen 
 
214 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 slept in peace and whole skins, without risk of being sum- 
 moned in the night to bloody brawl. It had become the 
 fashion to study at the University, and the odds were always 
 in favor of my following the fashion. Unluckily, however, I 
 fell in company with a special knot of young fellows, of lively 
 parts and ready wit, who had lived occasionally upon town, 
 and become initiated into the Fancy. They voted study to 
 be the toil of dull minds, by which they slowly crept up the 
 hill, while genius arrived at it at a bound. I felt ashamed to 
 play the owl among such gay birds; so I threw by my 
 books, and became a man of spirit. 
 
 As my father made me a tolerable allowance, notwithstand- 
 ing the narrowness of his income, having an eye always to 
 my great expectations, I was enabled to appear to advantage 
 among my companions. I cultivated all kinds of sport and 
 exercises. I was one of the most expert oarsmen that rowed 
 on the Isis. I boxed, fenced, angled, shot, and hunted, and 
 my rooms in college were always decorated with whips of all 
 kinds, spurs, fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, foils, and boxing- 
 gloves. <A pair of leather breeches would seem to be throw- 
 ing one leg out of the halftopen drawers, and empty bottles 
 lumbered the bottom of every closet. 
 
 My father came to see me at college when I was in the 
 height of my career. He asked me how I came on with my 
 studies, and what kind of hunting there was in the neighbor- 
 hood. He examined my various sporting apparatus with a 
 curious eye; wanted to know if any of the professors were 
 fox hunters, and whether they were generally good shots, for 
 he suspected their studying so much must be hurtful to the 
 sight. We had a day’s shooting together: I delighted him 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 915 
 
 with my skill, and astonished him by my learned disquisitions 
 on horse-flesh, and on Manton’s guns; so, upon the whole, he 
 departed highly satisfied with my improvement at college. 
 
 I do not know how it is, but I cannot be idle long without 
 getting in love. I had not been a very long time a man of 
 spirit, therefore, before I became deeply enamored of a shop- 
 keeper’s daughter in the High-street, who, in fact, was the ad- 
 miration of many of the students. I wrote several sonnets in 
 praise of her, and spent half of my pocket-money at the shop, 
 in buying articles which I did not want, that I might have an 
 opportunity of speaking to her. Her father, a severe-looking 
 old gentleman, with bright silver buckles, and a crisp-curled 
 wig, kept a strict guard on her, as the fathers generally do 
 upon their daughters in Oxford, and well they may. I tried 
 to get into his good graces, and to be sociable with him, but 
 all in vain. I said several good things in his shop, but he 
 never laughed: he had no relish for wit and humor. He was 
 one of those dry old gentlemen who keep youngsters at bay. 
 He had already brought up two or three daughters, and was 
 experienced in the ways of students. He was as knowing and 
 wary as a gray old badger that has often been hunted. To 
 see him on Sunday, so stiff and starched in his demeanor, so 
 precise in his dress, with his daughter under his arm, was 
 enough to deter all graceless youngsters from approaching. 
 
 I managed, however, in spite of his vigilance, to have 
 several conversations with the daughter, as I cheapened 
 articles in the shop. I made terrible long bargains, and ex- 
 amined the articles over and over before I purchased. In the 
 mean time, I would convey a sonnet or an acrostic under cover 
 
 of a piece of cambxic, or slipped into a pair of stockings; I 
 
216 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 would whisper soft nonsense into her ear as I haggled about 
 the price; and would squeeze her hand tenderly as I received 
 my half-pence of change in a bit of whity-brown paper. Let 
 this serve as a hint to all haberdashers who have pretty 
 daughters for shop-girls, and young students for customers. 
 I do not know whether my words and looks were very 
 eloquent, but my poetry was irresistible; for, to tell the 
 truth, the girl had some literary taste, and was seldom with- 
 out a book from the circulating library. 
 
 By the divine power of poetry, therefore, which is so 
 potent with the lovely sex, did I subdue the heart of this fair 
 little haberdasher. We carried on a sentimental correspond- 
 ence for a time across the counter, and I supplied her with 
 rhyme by the stockingfull. At length I prevailed on her to 
 grant an assignation. But how was this to be effected? Her 
 father kept her always under his eye; she never walked out 
 alone ; and the house was locked up the moment that the 
 shop was shut. All these difficulties served but to give zest 
 to the adventure. I proposed that the assignation should be 
 in her own chamber, into which I would climb at night. The 
 plan was irresistible-—A cruel father, a secret lover, and a 
 clandestine meeting! All the little girl’s studies from the 
 circulating library seemed about to be realized. 
 
 But what had I in view in making this assignation? In- 
 deed, I know not. I had no evil intentions, nor can I say that 
 I had any good ones. I liked the girl, and wanted to have an 
 opportunity of seeing more of her; and the assignation was 
 made, as I have done many things else, heedlessly and with- 
 out forethought. I asked myself a few questions of the kind, 
 
 after all my arrangements were made, but the answers were 
 
BUCKTHORNE. YAW. 
 
 very unsatisfactory. “Am I to ruin this poor thoughtless 
 girl?” said 1 to myself. “No!” was the prompt and indig- 
 nant answer. “Am I to run away with her?”—“ whither, 
 and to what purpose ?”—“ Well, then, am I to marry her ?” 
 —‘ Poh! a man of my expectations marry a shopkeeper’s 
 daughter?” ‘ What then am I to do with her?” “ Hum— 
 why—let me get into the chamber first, and then consider” 
 —and so the self-examination ended. 
 
 Well, sir, “come what come might,” I stole under cover of 
 the darkness to the dwelling of my dulcinea. All was quiet. 
 At the concerted signal her window was gently opened. It 
 was just above the projecting bow-window of her father’s 
 shop, which assisted me in mounting. The house was low, 
 and I was enabled to scale the fortress with tolerable ease. 
 I clambered with a beating heart ; I reached the casement; I 
 hoisted my body half into the chamber; and was welcomed, 
 not by the embraces of my expecting fair one, but by the 
 grasp of the crabbed-looking old father in the crisp-curled wig. 
 
 I extricated myself from his clutches, and endeavored to 
 make my retreat; but I was confounded by his cries of 
 thieves! and robbers! I was bothered too by his Sunday 
 cane, which was amazingly busy about my head as I descend- 
 ed, and against which my hat was but a poor protection. 
 Never before had I an idea of the activity of an old man’s 
 arm, and the hardness of the knob of an ivory-headed cane. 
 In my hurry and confusion I missed my footing, and fell 
 sprawling on the pavement. I was immediately surrounded 
 by myrmidons, who, I doubt not, were on the watch for me. 
 Indeed, I was in no situation to escape, for I had sprained my 
 ancle in the fall, and could not stand. I was seized as a house- 
 
 10 
 
218 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 breaker ; and to exonerate myself of a greater crime, I had to 
 accuse myself of a less. I made known who I was, and why 
 I came there. Alas! the varlets knew it already, and were 
 only amusing themselves at my expense. My perfidious 
 muse had been playing me one of her slippery tricks. The 
 old curmudgeon of a father had found my sonnets and acros- 
 tics hid away in holes and corners of his shop; he had no 
 taste for poetry like his daughter, and had instituted a rigor- 
 ous though silent observation. He had moused upon our let- 
 ters, detected our plans, and prepared every thing for my re- 
 ception. Thus was I ever doomed to be led into scrapes by 
 the muse. Let no man henceforth carry on a secret amour in 
 poetry ! 
 
 The old man’s ire was in some measure appeased by the 
 pommeling of my head and the anguish of my sprain; so he 
 did not put me to death on the spot. He was even humane 
 enough to furnish a shutter, on which I was carried back to 
 college like a wounded warrior. The porter was roused to 
 admit me. The college gate was thrown open for my entry. 
 The affair was blazed about the next morning, and became the 
 joke of the college from the buttery to the hall. 
 
 I had leisure to repent during several weeks’ confinement 
 by my sprain, which I passed in translating Boethius’s Con- 
 solations of Philosophy. I received a most tender and ill- 
 spelled letter from my mistress, who had been sent to a rela- 
 tion in Coventry. She protested her innocence of my misfor- 
 tune, and vowed to be true to me “ till deth.” I took no 
 notice of the letter, for I was cured for the present, both of 
 love and poetry. Women, however, are more constant in 
 
 their attachments than men, whatever philosophers may say 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 219 
 
 to the contrary. I am assured that she actually remained 
 faithful to her vow for several months; but she had to deal 
 with a cruel father, whose heart was as hard as the knob of 
 his cane. He was not to be touched by tears nor poetry, but 
 absolutely compelled her to marry a reputable young trades- 
 man, who made her a happy woman in spite of herself, and 
 of all the rules of romance; and what is more, the mother of 
 several children. They are at this very day a thriving couple, 
 and keep a snug corner shop, just opposite the figure of Peep- 
 ing Tom, at Coventry. 
 
 I will not fatigue you by any more details of my studies 
 at Oxford; though they were not always as severe as these, 
 nor did I always pay as dear for my lessons. To be brief, 
 then, I lived on in my usual miscellaneous manner, gradually 
 getting knowledge of good and evil, until I had attained my 
 twenty-first year. I had scarcely came of age when I heard 
 of the sudden death of my father. ‘The shock was severe, for 
 though he had never treated me with much kindness, still he 
 was my father, and at his death, I felt alone in the world. 
 
 I returned home, and found myself the solitary master of 
 the paternal mansion. A. crowd of gloomy feelings came 
 thronging upon me. It was a place that always sobered me, 
 and brought me to reflection ; now especially ; it looked so 
 deserted and melancholy. I entered the little breakfasting- 
 room. There were my father’s whip and spurs, hanging by 
 the fireplace; the Stud-Book, Sporting Magazine, and Racing 
 Calendar, his only reading. His favorite spaniel lay on the 
 hearth-rug. The poor animal, who had never before noticed 
 me, now came fondling about me, licked my hand, then looked 
 round the room, whined, wagged his tail slightly, and gazed 
 
920 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 wistfully in my face. I felt the full force of the appeal. 
 “Poor Dash,” said I, “we are both alone in the world, with 
 nobody to care for us, and will take care of one another.”— 
 the dog never quitted me afterwards. 
 
 I could not go into my mother’s room—my heart swelled 
 when I passed within sight of the door. Her portrait hung in 
 the parlor, just over the place where she used to sit. As I 
 cast my eyes on it, I thought that it looked at me with ten- 
 derness, and I burst into tears. I was a careless dog, it is 
 true, hardened a little, perhaps, by living in public schools, 
 and buffeting about among strangers, who cared nothing for 
 me; but the recollection of a mother’s tenderness was over- 
 coming. 
 
 I was not of an age or a temperament to be long depressed. 
 There was a reaction in my system, that always brought me 
 up again after every pressure; and, indeed, my spirits were 
 always most buoyant after a temporary prostration. I settled 
 the concerns of the estate as soon as possible; realized my 
 property, which was not very considerable, but which ap- 
 peared a vast deal to me, having a poetical eye, that magnified 
 every thing; and finding myself, at the end of a few months, 
 free of all further business or restraint, I determined to go to 
 London and enjoy myself. Why should I not ?—I was young, 
 animated, joyous; had plenty of funds for present pleasures, 
 and my uncle’s estate in the perspective. Let those mope at 
 college, and pore over books, thought I, who have their way 
 to make in the world; it would be ridiculous drudgery in a 
 youth of my expectations. Away to London, therefore, I rat- 
 tled in a tandem, determined to take the town gayly. I 
 passed through several of the villages where I had played the 
 
BUCKTHORNE. yA | 
 
 Jack Pudding a few years before; and I visited the scenes of 
 many of my adventures and follies merely from that feeling of 
 melancholy pleasure which we have in stepping again the 
 footprints of foregone existence, even when they have passed 
 among weeds and" briers. I made a circuit in the latter part 
 of my journey, so as to take in West End and Hampstead, 
 the scenes of my last dramatic exploit, and of the battle royal 
 of the booth. As I drove along the ridge of Hampstead Hill, 
 by Jack Straw’s Castle, I paused at the spot where Columbine 
 and I had sat down so disconsolately in our ragged finery, and 
 had looked dubiously on London. I almost expected to see 
 her again, standing on the hill’s brink, “like Niobe, all tears ;” 
 —mournful as Babylon in ruins! 
 
 “ Poor Columbine !” said I, with a heavy sigh, “ thou wert 
 faithful to the dis- 
 
 tressed, and ready to sacrifice thyself in the cause of worthless 
 
 a gallant, generous girl—a true woman ; 
 
 man!” 
 
 I tried to whistle off the recollection of her, for there was 
 always something of self-reproach with it. I drove gayly 
 along the road, enjoying the stare of hostlers and stable-boys, 
 as [managed my horses knowingly down the steep street of 
 Hampstead ; when, just at the skirts of the village, one of the 
 traces of my leader came loose. [ pulled up, and as the 
 animal was restive, and my servant a bungler, I called for 
 assistance to the robustious master of a snug ale-house, who 
 stood at his door with a tankard in his hand. He came readi- 
 ly to assist me, followed by his wife, with her bosom half 
 open, a child in her arms, and two more at her heels. I stared 
 for a moment, as if doubting my eyes. I could not be mis- 
 
 taken ; in the fat, beer-blown landlord of the ale-house, I re- 
 
2292 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 collected my old rival Harlequin, and in his slattern spouse, 
 the once trim and dimpling Columbine. 
 
 The change of my looks from youth to manhood, and the 
 change in my circumstances, prevented them from recognizing 
 me. ‘They could not suspect in the dashing young buck, fash- 
 ionably dressed and driving his own equipage, the painted 
 beaux, with old peaked hat, and long, flimsy, sky-blue coat. 
 My heart yearned with kindness towards Columbine, and I 
 was glad to see her establishment a thriving one. As soon as 
 the harness was adjusted, I tossed a small purse of gold into 
 her ample bosom; and then, pretending to give my horses a 
 hearty cut of the whip, I made the lash curl with a whistling 
 about the sleek sides of ancient Harlequin. The horses dashed 
 off like lightning, and I was whirled out of sight before either 
 of the parties could get over their surprise at my liberal dona- 
 tions. I have always considered this as one of the greatest 
 proofs of my poetical genius; it was distributing poetical jus- 
 tice in perfection. 
 
 I now entered London en cavalier, and became a blood 
 upon town. I took fashionable lodgings, in the West End; 
 employed the first tailor; frequented the regular lounges ; 
 gambled a little ; lost my money good-humoredly, and gained 
 a number of fashionable, good-for-nothing acquaintances. I 
 gained some reputation also for a man of science, having be- 
 come an expert boxer in the course of my studies at Oxford. 
 I was distinguished, therefore, among the gentlemen of the 
 Fancy ; became hand and glove with certain boxing noblemen, 
 and was the admiration of the Fives Court. A gentleman’s 
 science, however, is apt to get him into bad scrapes; he is 
 too prone to play the knight-errant, and to pick up quarrels 
 
 can. 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 993 
 
 which less scientifical gentlemen would quietly avoid. I un- 
 dertook one day to punish the insolence of a porter. He was 
 a Hercules of a fellow, but then I was so secure in my science ! 
 I gained the victory of course. The porter pocketed his 
 humiliation, bound up his broken head, and went about his 
 business as unconcernedly as though nothing had happened; 
 while I went to bed with my victory, and did not dare to show 
 my battered face for a fortnight: by which I discovered that 
 a gentleman may have the worst of the battle even when vic- 
 torious. 
 
 J am naturally a philosopher, and no one can moralize bet- 
 ter after a misfortune has taken place; so I lay on my bed 
 and moralized on this sorry ambition, which levels the gen- 
 tleman with the clown. I know it is the opinion of many 
 sages, who have thought deeply on these matters, that the 
 noble science of boxing keeps up the bull-dog courage of the 
 nation; and far be it from me to decry the advantage of be- 
 coming a nation of bull-dogs; but I now saw clearly that it 
 was calculated to keep up the breed of English ruffians. 
 “ What is the Fives Court,” said I to myself, as I turned un- 
 comfortably in bed, “but a college of scoundrelism, where 
 every bully-ruffan in the land may gain a fellowship? 
 What is the slang language of the Fancy but a jargon by 
 which fools and knaves commune and understand each other, 
 and enjoy a kind of superiority over the uninitiated? What 
 is a boxing-match but an arena, where the noble and the illus- 
 trious are jostled into familiarity with the infamous and the 
 vulgar? What, in fact, is the Fancy itself, but a chain of easy 
 communication, extending from the peer down to the pick- 
 pocket, through the medium of which a man of rank may find 
 
994 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 he has shaken hands, at three removes, with the murderer 
 on the gibbet ?— 
 
 “Enough!” ejaculated I, thoroughly convinced through 
 the force of my philosophy, and the pain of my bruises—“ Pll 
 have nothing more to do with the Fancy.” So when I had 
 recovered from my victory, I turned my attention to softer 
 themes, and became a devoted admirer of the ladies. Had I 
 had more industry and ambition in my nature, I might have 
 worked my way to the very height of fashion, as I saw many 
 laborious gentlemen doing around me. But it is a toilsome, 
 an anxious, and an unhappy life; there are few things so sleep- 
 less and miserable as your cultivators of fashionable smiles. 
 I was quite content with that kind of society which forms the 
 frontiers of fashion, and may be easily taken possession of. 
 I found it a light, easy, productive soil. I had but to go 
 about and sow visiting cards, and I reaped a whole harvest of 
 invitations. Indeed, my figure and address were by no means 
 against me. It was whispered, too, among the young ladies, 
 that I was prodigiously clever, and wrote poetry; and the 
 old ladies had ascertained that I was a young gentleman of 
 good family, handsome fortune, and “ great expectations.” 
 
 I now was carried away by the hurry of gay life, so intoxi- 
 cating to a young man, and which a man of poetical tempera- 
 ment enjoys so highly on his first tasting of it; that rapid 
 variety of sensations; that whirl of brilliant objects; that 
 succession of pungent pleasures! I had no time for thought. 
 I only felt. I never attempted to write poetry; my poetry 
 seemed all to go off by transpiration. I lived poetry ; it was 
 all a poetical dream tome. A mere sensualist knows nothing 
 of the delights of a splendid metropolis. He lives in a round 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 225 
 
 of animal gratifications and heartless habits. But to a young 
 man of poetical feelings, it is an ideal world, a scene of en- 
 chantment and delusion ; his imagination is in perpetual ex- 
 citement, and gives a spiritual zest to every pleasure. 
 
 A season of town life, however, somewhat sobered me of 
 my intoxication ; or rather I was rendered more serious by 
 one of my old complaints—I fell in love. It was with a very 
 pretty, though a very haughty fair one, who had come to 
 London under the care of an old maiden aunt to enjoy the 
 pleasures of a winter in town, and to get married. There 
 was not a doubt of her commanding a choice of lovers; for 
 she had long been the belle of a little cathedral city, and one 
 of the poets of the place had absolutely celebrated her beauty 
 in a copy of Latin verses. The most extravagant anticipa- 
 tions were formed by her friends of the sensation she would 
 produce. It was feared by some that she might be precip- 
 itate in her choice, and take up with some inferior title. The 
 aunt was determined nothing should gain her under a lord. 
 
 Alas! with all her charms, the young lady lacked the one 
 thing needful—she had no money. So she waited in vain for 
 duke, marquis, or earl, to throw himself at her feet. As the 
 season waned, so did the lady’s expectations; when, just 
 towards the close, I made my advances. 
 
 I was most favorably received by both the young lady 
 and her aunt. It is true, I had no title; but then such great 
 expectations. A marked preference was immediately shown 
 me over two rivals, the younger son of a needy baronet, and 
 a captain of dragoons on half-pay. I did not absolutely take 
 the field in form, for I was determined not to be precipitate ; 
 
 but I drove my equipage frequently through the street in 
 ide 
 
226 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 which she lived, and was always sure to see her at the 
 window, generally with a book in her hand. I resumed my 
 knack at rhyming, and sent her a long copy of verses; 
 anonymously, to be sure, but she knew my hand-writing. 
 Both aunt and niece, however, displayed the most delightful 
 ignorance on the subject. The young lady showed them to 
 me; wondered who they could be written by ; and declared 
 there was nothing in this world she loved so much as poetry ; 
 while the maiden aunt would put her pinching spectacles on 
 her nose, and read them, with blunders in sense and sound, 
 excruciating to an author’s ears; protesting there was noth- 
 ing equal to them in the whole Elegant Extracts. 
 
 The fashionable season closed without my adventuring to 
 make a declaration, though I certainly had encouragement. I 
 was not perfectly sure that I had effected a lodgment in the 
 young lady’s heart; and, to tell the truth, the aunt overdid 
 her part, and was a little too extravagant in her liking of me. 
 I knew that maiden aunts were not to be captivated by the 
 mere personal merits of their nieces’ admirers ; and I wanted 
 to ascertain how much of all this favor I owed to driving an 
 equipage, and having great expectations. oon 
 
 I had received many hints how charming their native 
 place was during the summer months ; what pleasant society 
 they had; and what beautiful drives about the neighborhood. 
 They had not, therefore, returned home long, before I made 
 my appearance in dashing style, driving down the principal 
 street. The very next morning I was seen at prayers, seated 
 in the same pew with the reigning belle. Questions were 
 whispered about the aisles, after service, “ Who is he?” and 
 “ What is he?” And the replies were as usual, “ A young 
 
BUCKTHORNE. OOF 
 
 gentleman of good family and fortune, and great expec- 
 tations.” 
 
 I was much struck with the peculiarities of this reverend 
 little place. A cathedral, with its dependencies and regula- 
 tions, presents a picture of other times, and of a different 
 order of things. It is a rich relic of a more poetical age. 
 There still linger about it the silence and solemnity of the 
 cloister. In the present instance especially, where the cathe- 
 dral was large, and the town small, its influence was the 
 more apparent. The solemn pomp of the service, performed 
 twice a day, with the grand intonations of the organ, and the 
 voices of the choir swelling through the magnificent pile, dif- 
 fused, as it were, a perpetual Sabbath over the place. This 
 routine of solemn ceremony continually going on, independ- 
 ent, as it were, of the world; this daily offering of melody 
 and praise, ascending like incense from the altar, had a 
 powerful effect upon my imagination. 
 
 The aunt introduced me to her coterie, formed of families 
 connected with the cathedral, and others of moderate fortune, 
 but high respectability, who had nestled themselves under the 
 wings of the cathedral to enjoy good society at moderate 
 expense. It was a highly aristocratical little circle; scru- 
 pulous in its intercourse with others, and jealously cautious 
 about admitting any thing common or unclean. 
 
 It seemed as if the courtesies of the old school had taken 
 refuge here. There were continual interchanges of civilities, 
 and of small presents of fruits and delicacies, and of com- 
 plimentary crow-quill billets ; for in a quiet, well-bred com- 
 munity like this, living entirely at ease, little duties, and 
 little amusements, and little civilities, filled up the day. I 
 
228 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 have seen, in the midst of a warm day, a corpulent, powdered 
 footman, issuing from the iron gateway of a stately mansion, 
 and traversing the little place with an air of mighty import, 
 bearing a small tart on a large silver salver. 
 
 . Their evening amusements were sober and primitive. 
 They assembled at a moderate hour; the young ladies 
 played music, and the old ladies, whist ; and at an early hour 
 they dispersed. There was no parade on these social oc- 
 casions. Two or three old sedan chairs were in constant 
 activity, though the greater part made their exit in clogs and 
 pattens, with a footman or waiting-maid carrying a lantern in 
 advance ; and long before midnight the clank of pattens and 
 gleam of lanterns about the quiet little place, told that the 
 evening party had dissolved. 
 
 Still I did not feel myself altogether so much at my ease 
 as I had anticipated considering the smallness of the place. I 
 found it very different from other country places, and that it 
 was not so easy to make a dash there. Sinner that I was! 
 the very dignity and decorum of the little community was 
 rebuking tome. I feared my past idleness and folly would 
 rise in judgment against me. I stood in awe of the digni- 
 taries of the cathedral, whom I saw mingling familiarly in 
 society. I became nervous on this point. The creak of a 
 prebendary’s shoes, sounding from one end of a quiet street 
 to another, was appalling to me; and the sight of a shovel 
 hat was sufficient at any time to check me in the midst of my 
 boldest poetical soarings. 
 
 And then the good aunt could not be quiet, but would 
 cry me up for a genius, and extol my poetry to every one. 
 So long as she confined this to the ladies it did well enough, 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 229 
 
 because they were able to feel and appreciate poetry of the 
 new romantic school. Nothing would content the good lady, 
 however, but she must read my verses to a prebendary, who 
 had long been the undoubted critic of the place. He was a 
 thin, delicate old gentleman, of mild, polished manners, 
 steeped to the lips in classic lore, and not easily put in a heat 
 by any hot-blooded poetry of the day. He listened to my 
 most fervid thoughts and fervid words without a glow; 
 shook his head with a smile, and condemned them as not 
 being according to Horace, as not being legitimate poetry. 
 
 Several old ladies, who had heretofore been my admirers, 
 shook their heads at hearing this; they could not think of 
 praising any poetry that was not according to Horace; and 
 as to any thing illegitimate, it was not to be countenanced in 
 good society. Thanks to my stars, however, I had youth 
 and novelty on my side: so the young ladies persisted in 
 admiring my poetry in despite of Horace and illegitimacy. 
 
 I consoled myself with the good opinion of the young 
 ladies, whom I had always found to be the best judges of 
 poetry. As to these old scholars, said I, they are apt to be 
 chilled by being steeped in the cold fountains of the classics. 
 Still I felt that I was losing ground, and that it was necessary 
 to bring matters to a point. Just at this time there was a 
 ‘public ball, attended by the best society of the place, and by 
 the gentry of the neighborhood: I took great pains with my 
 toilet on the occasion, and I had never looked better. I had 
 determined that night to make my grand assault on the heart 
 of the young lady, to battle it with all my forces, and the 
 next morning to demand a surrender in due form. 
 
 I entered the ballroom amidst a buzz and flutter, which 
 10* 
 
230 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 generally took place among the young ladies on my. appear- 
 ance. I was in fine spirits; for, to tell the truth, I had 
 exhilarated myself by a cheerful glass of wine on the occa- 
 sion. I talked, and rattled, and said a thousand silly things, 
 slap-dash, with all the confidence of a man sure of his au- 
 ditors,—and every thing had its effect. 
 
 In the midst of my triumph I observed a little knot 
 gathering together in the upper part of the room. By 
 degrees it increased. A tittering broke out here and there, 
 and glances were cast round at me, and then there would be 
 fresh tittering. Some of the young ladies would hurry away 
 to distant parts of the room, and whisper to their friends. 
 Wherever they went, there was still this tittering and glanc- 
 ing at me. I did not know what to make of all this. I 
 looked at myself from head to foot, and peeped at my back 
 in a glass, to see if any thing was odd about my person; any 
 awkward exposure, any whimsical tag hanging out :—no-— 
 every thing was right—I was a perfect picture. I determined 
 that it must be some choice saying of mine that was bandied 
 about in this knot of merry beauties, and I determined to 
 enjoy one of my good things in the rebound. I stepped 
 gently, therefore, up the room, smiling at every one as I 
 passed, who, I must say, all smiled and tittered in return. I 
 approached the group, smirking and perking my chin, like a 
 man who is full of pleasant feeling, and sure of being well 
 received. The cluster of little belles opened as I advanced. 
 
 Heavens and earth! whom should I perceive in the midst 
 of them but my early and tormenting flame, the everlasting 
 Sacharissa! She was grown, it is true, into the full beauty 
 
 of womanhood; but showed, by the provoking merriment of 
 
 i 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 2381 
 
 her countenance, that she perfectly recollected me, and the 
 ridiculous flagellations of which she had twice been the cause. 
 
 I saw at once the exterminating cloud of ridicule bursting 
 over me. My crest fell. The flame of love went suddenly 
 out, or was extinguished by overwhelming shame. How I 
 got down the room I know not: I fancied every one tittering 
 atme. Just as I reached the door, I caught a glance of my 
 mistress and her aunt listening to the whispers of Sacharissa, 
 the old lady raising her hands and eyes, and the face of the 
 _ young one lighted up, as I imagined, with scorn ineffable. I 
 paused to see no more, but made two steps from the top of 
 the stairs to the bottom. The next morning, before sunrise, 
 I beat a retreat, and did not feel the blushes cool from my 
 tingling cheeks, until I had lost sight of the old towers of the 
 cathedral. 
 
 I now returned to town thoughtful and crest-fallen. My 
 money was nearly spent, for [ had lived freely and without 
 calculation. The dream of love was over, and the reign of 
 pleasure at an end. I determined to retrench while I had yet 
 a trifle left: so selling my equipage and horses for half their 
 value, I quietly put the money in my pocket, and turned 
 pedestrian. I had not a doubt that, with my great expecta- 
 tions, I could at any time raise funds, either on usury or by 
 borrowing; but I was principled against both, and resolved 
 by strict economy, to make my slender purse hold out until 
 my uncle should give up the ghost, or rather the estate. I 
 stayed at home therefore and read, and would have written, 
 but I had already suffered too much from my poetical pro- 
 ductions, which had generally involved me in some ridicu- 
 lous scrape. I gradually acquired a rusty look, and had a 
 
232 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 straitened money-borrowing air, upon which the world began 
 to shy me. I have never felt disposed to quarrel with the 
 world for its conduct; it has always used me well. When I 
 have been flush and gay, and disposed for society, it has 
 caressed me; and when I| have been pinched and reduced, and 
 wished to be alone, why, it has left me alone; and what 
 more could a man desire? Take my word for it, this world 
 is a more obliging world than people generally represent it. 
 
 Well, sir, in the midst of my retrenchment, my retire- 
 ment, and my studiousness, I received news that my uncle 
 was dangerously ill. I hastened on the wings of an heir’s 
 affections to receive his dying breath and his last testament. 
 I found him attended by his faithful valet, old Iron John; by 
 the woman who occasionally worked about the house, and by 
 the foxy-headed boy, young Orson, whom I had occasionally 
 hunted about the park. Iron John gasped a kind of asthmat- 
 ical salutation as I entered the room, and received me with 
 something almost like a smile of welcome: The woman sat 
 blubbering at the foot of the bed; and the foxy-headed 
 Orson, who had now grown up to be a lubberly lout, stood 
 gazing in stupid vacancy at a distance. 
 
 My uncle lay stretched upon his back. The chamber was 
 without fire, or any of the comforts of a sick room. The 
 cob-webs flaunted from the ceiling. The tester was covered 
 with dust, and the curtains were tattered. From underneath 
 the bed peeped out one end of his strong box. Against the 
 wainscot were suspended rusty blunderbusses, horse-pistols, 
 and a cut-and-thrust sword, with which he had fortified his 
 room to defend his life and treasure. He had employed no 
 physician during his illness ; and from the scanty relics lying 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 933 
 
 on the table, seemed almost to have denied himself the assist- 
 ance of a cook. 
 
 When I entered the room, he was lying motionless; his 
 eyes fixed and his mouth open: at the first look I thought 
 him a corpse. The noise of my entrance made him turn his 
 head. At the sight of me a ghastly smile came over his face, 
 and his glazing eye gleamed with satisfaction. It was the 
 only smile he had ever given me, and it went to my heart. 
 “Poor old man!” thought I, “why should you force me to 
 leave you thus desolate, when I see that my presence has the 
 power to cheer you?” 
 
 “ Nephew,” said he, after several efforts, and in a low 
 gasping voice—“ I am glad you are come. I shall now die 
 with satisfaction. Look,” said he, raising his withered 
 hand, and pointing—*“ look in that box on the table: you will 
 find that I have not forgotten you.” 
 
 I pressed his hand to my heart, and the tears stood in my 
 eyes. I sat down by his bedside, and watched him, but he 
 never spoke again. My presence, however, gave him evi- 
 dent satisfaction ; for every now and then, as he looked to me, 
 a vague smile would come over his visage, and he would 
 feebly point to the sealed box on the table. As the day wore 
 away, his life appeared to wear away with it. Towards sun- 
 set his head sank on the bed, and lay motionless, his eyes 
 grew glazed, his mouth remained open, and thus he gradu- 
 ally died. 
 
 I could not but feel shocked at this absolute extinction of 
 my kindred. I dropped a tear of real sorrow over this 
 strange old man, who had thus reserved the smile of kindness 
 to his death-bed; like an evening sun after a gloomy day, 
 
234 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 just shining out to set in darkness. Leaving the corpse in 
 charge of the domestics, I retired for the night. 
 
 It was a rough night. The winds seemed as if singing 
 my uncle’s requiem about the mansion, and the bloodhounds 
 howled without, as if they knew of the death of their old 
 master. Iron John almost grudged me the tallow candle to 
 burn in my apartment, and light up its dreariness, so accus- 
 tomed had he been to starveling economy. I could not sleep. 
 The recollection of my uncle’s dying scene, and the dreary 
 sounds about the house affected my mind. These, however, 
 were succeeded by plans for the future, and I lay awake the 
 greater part of the night, indulging the poetical anticipation 
 how soon I should make these old walls ring with cheerful 
 life, and restore the hospitality of my mother’s ancestors. 
 
 My uncle’s funeral was decent, but private. I knew that 
 nobody respected his memory, and I was determined none 
 should be summoned to sneer over his funeral, and make 
 merry at his grave. He was buried in the church of the 
 neighboring village, though it was not the burying-place of 
 his race ; but he had expressly enjoined that he should not be 
 buried with his family : he had quarrelled with most of them 
 when living, and he carried his resentments even into the 
 grave. 
 
 I defrayed the expenses of his funeral out of my own 
 purse, that I might have done with the undertakers at once, - 
 and clear the ill-omened birds from the premises. I invited 
 the parson of the parish, and the lawyer from the village, to 
 attend at the house the next morning, and hear the reading of 
 the will. I treated them to an excellent breakfast, a profu- 
 sion that had not been seen at the house for many a year. 
 
BUCKTHORNE. 235 
 
 As soon as the breakfast things were removed, I summoned 
 Iron John, the woman, and the boy, for I was particular in 
 having every one present and proceeding regularly. The box 
 was placed on the table—all was silence—I broke the seal— 
 raised the lid, and beheld—not the will—but my accursed 
 poem of Doubting Castle and Giant Despair ! 
 
 Could any mortal have conceived that this old withered 
 man, so taciturn, and apparently so lost to feeling, could have 
 treasured up for years the thoughtless pleasantry of a boy, to 
 punish him with such cruel ingenuity ? I now could account 
 for his dying smile, the only one he had ever given me. He 
 had been a grave man all his life, it was strange that he 
 should die in the enjoyment of a joke, and it was hard that 
 that joke should be at my expense. 
 
 The lawyer and the parson seemed at a loss to compre. 
 hend the matter. “ Here must be some mistake,” said the 
 lawyer; “ there is no will here.” 
 
 “Oh!” said Iron John, creaking forth his rusty jaws, “if 
 it is a will you are looking for, I believe I can find one.” 
 
 He retired with the same singular smile with which he 
 had greeted me on my arrival, and which I now apprehended 
 boded me no good. In a little while he returned with a will 
 perfect at all points, properly signed and sealed, and wit- 
 nessed and worded with horrible correctness ; in which the 
 deceased left large legacies to Iron John and his daughter, 
 and the residue of his fortune to the foxy-headed boy, who, to 
 my utter astonishment, was his son by this very woman; he 
 having married her privately, and, as I verily believe, for no 
 other purpose than to have an heir, and so balk my father 
 and his issue of the inheritance. There was one little pro- 
 
236 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 viso, in which he mentioned, that, having discovered his 
 nephew to have a pretty turn for poetry, he presumed he had 
 no occasion for wealth; he recommended him, however, to 
 the patronage of his heir, and requested that he might have a 
 garret, rent-free, in Doubting Castle. 
 
 {> J 
 “i a ~ 
 
GRAVE REFLECTIONS OF A DISAPPOINTED 
 MAN. 
 
 \ R. BUCKTHORNE had paused at the death of his 
 
 uncle, and the downfall of his great expectations, which 
 formed, as he said, an epoch in his history ; and it was not 
 until some little time afterwards, and in a very sober mood, 
 that he resumed his party-colored narrative. 
 
 After leaving the remains of my defunct uncle, said he, 
 when the gate closed between me and what was once to have 
 been mine, I felt thrust out naked into the world, and com- 
 pletely abandoned to fortune. What was to become of me? 
 I had been brought up to nothing but expectations, and they 
 had all been disappointed. I had no relations to look to 
 for counsel or assistance. The world seemed all to have 
 died away from me. Wave after wave of relationship had 
 ebbed off, and I was left a mere hulk upon the strand. J am 
 not apt to be greatly cast down, but at this time I felt sadly 
 disheartened. I could not realize my situation, nor form a 
 conjecture how I was to get forward. I was now to endeavor 
 to make money. The idea was new and strange to me. It 
 was like being asked to discover the philosopher’s stone. I 
 
 had never thought about money otherwise than to put my 
 
238 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 hand into my pocket and find it; or if there were none there, 
 to wait until a new supply came from home. I had consid- 
 ered life as a mere space of time to be filled up with enjoy- 
 ments; but to have it portioned out into long hours and days 
 of toil, merely that I might gain bread to give me strength to 
 toil on—to labor but for the purpose of perpetuating a life of 
 labor, was new and appalling to me. This may appear a 
 very simple matter to some; but it will be understood by 
 every unlucky wight in my predicament, who has had the 
 misfortune of being born to great expectations. 
 
 I passed several days in rambling about the scenes of my 
 boyhood ; partly because I absolutely did not know what to 
 do with myself, and partly because I did not know that I 
 should ever see them again. I clung to them as one clings 
 to a wreck, though he knows he must eventually cast himself 
 loose and swim for his life. I sat down on a little hill within 
 sight of my paternal home, but I did not venture to approach 
 it, for I felt compunction at the thoughtlessness with which I 
 had dissipated my patrimony ; yet was I to blame when I 
 had the rich possessions of my curmudgeon of an uncle in 
 expectation ? 
 
 The new possessor of the place was making great altera- 
 tions. ‘The house was almost rebuilt. The trees which stood 
 
 about it were cut down: my mother’s flower-garden was 
 ? a 
 
 thrown into a lawn—all was undergoing a change. I turned 
 my back upon it with a sigh, and rambled to another part of 
 the country. 
 
 How thoughtful a little adversity makes one! As I 
 came within sight of the schoolhouse where I had so often 
 
 been flogged in the cause of wisdom, you would hardly have 
 
A DISAPPOINTED MAN. 2389 
 
 reccgnized the truant boy, who, but a few years since, had 
 eloped so heedlessly from its walls. I leaned over the paling 
 of the play-ground, and watched the scholars at their games, 
 and looked to see if there might not be some urchin among 
 them like I was once, full of gay dreams about life and the 
 world. The play-ground seemed smaller than when I used to 
 sport about it. The house and park, too, of the neighboring 
 squire, the father of the cruel Sacharissa, had shrunk in size 
 aud diminished in magnificence. The distant hills no longer 
 appeared so far off, and, alas! no longer awakened ideas of 
 a fairy land beyond. 
 
 As I was rambling pensively through a neighboring 
 meadow, in which I had many a time gathered primroses, I 
 met the very pedagogue who had been the tyrant and dread 
 of my boyhood. I had sometimes vowed to myself, when 
 suffering under his rod, that 1 would have my revenge if ever 
 I met him when I had grown to bea man. The time had 
 come; but I had no disposition to keep my vow. The few 
 years which had matured me into a vigorous man had shrunk 
 him into decrepitude. He appeared to have had a paralytic 
 stroke. I looked at him, and wondered that this poor help- 
 less mortal could have been an object of terror to me; that I 
 should have watched with anxiety the glance of that failing 
 eye, or dreaded the power of that trembling hand. He tot- 
 tered feebly along the path, and had some difficulty in getting 
 over astile. I ran and assisted him. He looked at me with 
 surprise, but did not recognize me, and made a low bow of 
 humility, and thanks. I had no disposition to make myself 
 known, for I felt that I had nothing to boast of. The pains 
 he had taken, and the pains he had inflicted, had been equally 
 
240 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 useless. His repeated predictions were fully verified, and 
 I felt that little Jack Buckthorne, the idle boy, had grown 
 to be a very good-for-nothing man. 
 
 This is all very comfortless detail; but as I have told 
 you of my follies, it is meet that I show you how for once I 
 was schooled for them. The most thoughtless of mortals 
 will some time or other have his day of gloom, when he will 
 be compelled to reflect. 
 
 I felt on this occasion as if I had a kind of penance to per- 
 form, and I made a pilgrimage in expiation of my past levity. 
 Having passed a night at Leamington, I set off by a private 
 path, which leads up a hill through a grove and across quiet 
 fields, till I came to the small village, or rather hamlet, of 
 Lenington. I sought the village church. It is an old low 
 edifice of gray stone, on the brow of a small hill, looking 
 over fertile fields, towards where the proud towers of War- 
 wick castle lift themselves against the distant horizon. 
 
 A part of the churchyard is shaded by large trees. Under 
 one of them my mother lay buried. You have no doubt 
 thought me a light, heartless being. I thought myself so; 
 but there are moments of adversity which let us into some 
 feelings of our nature to which we might otherwise remain 
 perpetual strangers. 
 
 I sought my mother’s grave; the weeds were already 
 matted over it, and the tombstone was half hid among nettles. 
 I cleared them away, and they stung my hands; but I was 
 heedless of the pain, for my heart ached too severely. I sat 
 down on the grave, and read over and over again the epitaph 
 on the stone. 
 
 It was simple,—but it was true. I had written it myself. 
 
A DISAPPOINTED MAN. 241 
 
 J had tried to write a poetical epitaph, but in vain; my feel- 
 ings refused to utter themselves in rhyme. My heart had 
 gradually been filling during my lonely wanderings ; it was 
 now charged to the brim, and overflowed. I sank upon the 
 grave, and buried my face in the tall grass, and wept like a 
 child. Yes, I wept in manhood upon the grave, as I had in 
 infancy upon the bosom of my mother. Alas! how little do 
 we appreciate a mother’s tenderness while living! how heed- 
 less are we in youth of all her anxieties and kindness! But 
 wheu she is dead and gone; when the cares and coldness of 
 the world come withering to our hearts ; when we find how 
 hard it is to meet with true sympathy ; how few love us for 
 ourselves ; how few will befriend us in our misfortunes ; then 
 it is that we think of the mother we have lost. It is true I 
 had always loved my mother, even in my most heedless days ; 
 but I felt how inconsiderate and ineffectual had been my love. 
 My heart melted as I retraced the days of infancy, when I was 
 led by a mother’s hand, and rocked to sleep in a mother’s 
 arms, and was without care or sorrow. “QO my mother!” 
 exclaimed I, burying my face again in the grass of the grave ; 
 “Oh that I were once more by your side; sleeping never to 
 wake again on the cares and troubles of this world.” 
 
 I am not naturally of a morbid temperament, and the vio- 
 lence of my emotion gradually exhausted itself. It was a 
 hearty, honest, natural discharge of grief which had been 
 slowly accumulating, and gave me wonderful relief. I rose 
 from the grave as if I had been offering up a sacrifice, and I 
 felt as if that sacrifice had been accepted. 
 
 I sat down again on the grass, and plucked, one by one, 
 
 the weeds from her grave: the tears trickled more slowly 
 11 
 
249 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 down my cheeks, and ceased to be bitter. It was a comfort 
 to think, that she had died before sorrow and poverty came 
 upon her child and all his great expectations were blasted. 
 
 I leaned my cheek upon my hand, and looked upon the 
 landscape. Its quiet beauty soothed me. The whistle of a 
 peasant from an adjoining field came cheerily to my ear. I 
 seemed to respire hope and comfort with the free air that 
 whispered through the leaves, and played lightly with my 
 hair, and dried the tears upon my cheek. A lark, rising 
 from the field before me, and leaving as it were a stream of 
 song behind him as he rose, lifted my fancy with him. He 
 hovered in the air just above the place where the towers of 
 Warwick castle marked the horizon, and seemed as if flutter- 
 ing with delight at his own melody. “Surely,” thought J, 
 “if there was such a thing as transmigration of souls, this 
 might be taken for some poet let loose from earth, but still 
 revelling in song, and carolling about fair fields and lordly 
 towers.” 
 
 At this moment the long-forgotten feeling of poetry rose 
 within me. A thought sprang at once into my mind.—“I 
 will become an author!” said]. “I have hitherto indulged 
 in poetry as a pleasure, and it has brought me nothing but 
 pain; let me try what it will do when I cultivate it with de- 
 votion as a pursuit.” 
 
 The resolution thus suddenly aroused within me heaved a 
 load from off my heart. I felt a confidence in it from the 
 very place where it was formed. It seemed as though my 
 mother’s spirit whispered it to me from the grave. “I will 
 henceforth,” said J, “ endeavor to be all that she fondly imag- 
 
 ined me. I will endeavor to act as if she were witness of my 
 
A DISAPPOINTED MAN. 243 
 
 actions ; I will endeavor to acquit myself in such a manner 
 that, when I revisit her grave, there may at least be no com- 
 punctious bitterness with my tears.” 
 
 I bowed down and kissed the turf in solemn attestation of 
 my vow. I plucked some primroses that were growing there, 
 and laid them next my heart. I left the churchyard with my 
 spirit once more lifted up, and set out a third time for London 
 
 in the character of an author. 
 
 Here my companion made a pause, and I waited in anxious 
 suspense, hoping to have a whole volume of literary life un- 
 folded to me. He seemed, however, to have sunk into a fit 
 of pensive musing, and when, after some time, I gently roused 
 him by a question or two as to his literary career, 
 
 “ No,” said he smiling: “ over that part of my story I wish 
 to leave a cloud. Let the mysteries of the craft rest sacred 
 forme. Let those who have never ventured into the republic 
 of letters still look upon it as a fairy land. Let them sup- 
 pose the author the very being they picture him from his 
 works—I am not the man to mar their illusion. Iam not 
 the man to hint, while one is admiring the silken web of 
 Persia, that it has been spun from the entrails of a miserable 
 worm.” 
 
 “ Well,” said I, “if you will tell me nothing of your lit- 
 erary history, let me know at least if you have had any 
 further intelligence from Doubting Castle.” 
 
 “ Willingly,” replied he, “ though I have but little to com- 
 municate.” 
 
THE BOOBY SQUIRE. 
 
 LONG time elapsed, said Buckthorne, without my re- 
 
 ceiving any accounts of my cousin and his estate. In- 
 deed, I felt so much soreness on the subject, that I wished, if 
 possible, to shut it from my thoughts. At length, chanee took 
 me to that part of the country, and I could not refrain from 
 making some inquiries. 
 
 I learnt that my cousin had grown up ignorant, self-willed, 
 and clownish. His ignorance and clownishness had prevented 
 his mingling with the neighboring gentry: in spite of his 
 great fortune, he had been unsuccessful in an attempt to gain 
 the hand of the daughter of the parson, and had at length 
 shrunk into the limits of such a society as a mere man of 
 wealth can gather in a country neighborhood. 
 
 He kept horses and hounds, and a roaring table, at which 
 were collected the loose livers of the country round, and the 
 shabby gentlemen of a village in the vicinity. When he 
 could get no other company, he would smoke and drink with 
 his own servants, who in turn fleeced and despised him. 
 Still, with all his apparent prodigality, he had a leaven of the 
 old man in him, which showed that he was his trueborn son. 
 
 He lived far within his income, was vulgar in his expenses, 
 
THE BOOBY SQUIRE. 945 
 
 and penurious in many points wherein a gentleman would be 
 extravagant. His house-servants were obliged occasionally 
 to work on his estate, and part of the pleasure-grounds were 
 ploughed up and devoted to husbandry. 
 
 His table, though plentiful, was coarse; his liquors were 
 strong and bad; and more ale and whiskey were expended in 
 his establishment than generous wine. He was loud and ar- 
 rogant at his own table, and exacted a rich man’s homage 
 from his vulgar and obsequious guests. 
 
 As to Iron John, his old grandfather, he had grown impa- 
 tient of the tight hand his own grandson kept over him, and 
 quarrelled with him soon after he came to the estate. The 
 old man ‘had retired to the neighboring village, where he lived 
 on the legacy of his late master, in a small cottage, and was 
 as seldom seen out of it as a rat out of his hole in daylight. 
 
 The cub, like Calaban, seemed to have an instinctive at- 
 tachment to his mother. She resided with him, but, from long 
 habit, she acted more as a servant than as a mistress of the 
 mansion; for she toiled in all the domestic drudgery, and 
 was oftener in the kitchen than the parlor. Such was the in- 
 formation which I collected of my rival cousin, who had so 
 unexpectedly elbowed me out of my expectations. 
 
 I now felt an irresistible hankering to pay a visit to this 
 scene of my boyhood, and to get a peep at the odd kind of 
 life that was passing within the mansion of my maternal an- 
 cestors. [I determined to do so in disguise. My booby 
 cousin had never seen enough of me to be very familiar with 
 my countenance, and a few years make a great difference be- 
 tween youth and manhood. I understood he was a breeder 
 
 of cattle, and proud of his stock; I dressed myself therefore 
 
246 YALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 as a substantial farmer, and with the assistance of a red 
 scratch that came low down on my forehead, made a com- 
 plete change in my physiognomy. 
 
 It was past three o’clock when I arrived at the gate of the 
 park, and was admitted by an old woman who was washing 
 in a dilapidated building, which had once been a porter’s 
 lodge. I advanced up the remains of a noble avenue, many 
 of the trees of which had been cut down and sold for timber. 
 The grounds were in scarcely better keeping than during my 
 uncle’s life-time. The grass was overgrown with weeds, and 
 the trees wanted pruning and clearing of dead branches. 
 Cattle were grazing about the lawns, and ducks and geese 
 swimming in the fish-ponds. The road to the house bore 
 very few traces of carriage-wheels, as my cousin received few 
 visitors but such as came on foot or horseback, and never 
 used a carriage himself. Once, indeed, as I was told, he had 
 the old family carriage drawn out from among the dust and 
 cobwebs of the coach-house, and furbished up, and driven, 
 with his mother, to the village church, to take formal posses- 
 sion of the family pew; but there was such hooting and 
 laughing after them, as they passed through the village, and 
 such giggling and bantering about the church-door, that the 
 pageant had never made a reappearance. 
 
 As I approached the house, a legion of whelps sallied out, 
 barking at me, accompanied by the low howling, rather than 
 barking, of two old worn out blood hounds, which I recog- 
 nized for the ancient lifeguards of my uncle. The house had 
 still a neglected random appearance, though much altered for 
 the better since my last visit. Several of the windows were 
 broken and patched up with boards, and others had been 
 
 1 
 
THE BOOBY SQUIRE. 247 
 
 bricked up to save taxes. I observed smoke, however, rising 
 from the chimneys, a phenomenon rarely witnessed in the 
 ancient establishment. On passing that part of the house 
 where the dining-room was situated, I heard the sound of 
 boisterous merriment, where three or four voices were talking 
 at once, and oaths and laughter were horribly mingled. 
 
 The uproar of the dogs had brought a servant to the door, 
 a tall hard-fisted country clown, with a livery coat put over 
 the under garments of a ploughman. I requested to see the 
 master of the house, but was told that he was at dinner with 
 some “ gemmen” of the neighborhood. I made known my 
 business, and sent in to know if I might talk with the master 
 about his cattle, for I felt a great desire to have a peep at him 
 in his orgies. 
 
 Word was returned that he was engaged with company, 
 and could not attend to business, but that if I would step in 
 and take a drink of something, I was heartily welcome. I 
 accordingly entered the hall, where whips and hats of all 
 kinds and shapes were lying on an oaken table; two or three 
 clownish servants were lounging about; every thing had a 
 look of confusion and carelessness. 
 
 The apartments through which I passed had the same air 
 of departed gentility and sluttish housekeeping. The once 
 rich curtains were faded and dusty ; the furniture greased and 
 tarnished. On entering the dining-room, I found a number 
 of odd, vulgar-looking, rustic gentlemen, seated round a table, 
 on which were bottles, decanters, tankards, pipes, and tobacco. 
 Several dogs were lying about the room, or sitting and watch- 
 ing their masters, and one was gnawing a bone under a side- 
 table. The master of the feast sat at the head of the board. 
 
948 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 He was greatly altered. He had grown thickset and rather 
 gummy, with a fiery foxy head of hair. There was a singular 
 mixture of foolishness, arrogance, and conceit, in his counte- 
 nance. He was dressed in a vulgarly fine style, with leather 
 breeches, a red waistcoat, and green coat, and was evidently, 
 like his guests, a little flushed with drinking. The whole 
 company stared at me with a whimsical muzzy look, like 
 men whose senses were a little obfuscated by beer rather 
 than wine. 
 
 My cousin, (God forgive me! the appellation sticks in 
 my throat,) my cousin invited me with awkward civility, or, 
 as he intended it, condescension, to sit to the table and drink. 
 We talked, as usual, about the weather, the crops, polities, 
 and hard times. My cousin was a loud politician, and 
 evidently accustomed to talk without contradiction at his 
 own table. He was amazingly loyal, and talked of standing 
 by the throne to the last guinea, “as every gentleman of 
 fortune should do.” ‘The village exciseman who was_ half 
 
 “very true” to every thing he 
 
 asleep, could just ejaculate 
 said. The conversation turned upon cattle; he boasted of 
 his breed, his mode of crossing it, and of the general manage- 
 ment of his estate. This unluckily drew out a history of the 
 place and of the family. He spoke of my late uncle with 
 the greatest irreverence, which I could easily forgive. He 
 mentioned my name, and my blood began to boil. He de- 
 scribed my frequent visits to my uncle, when I was a lad, and 
 I found the varlet, even, at that time, imp as he was, had 
 known that he was to inherit the estate. He described the 
 scene of my uncle’s death, and the opening of the will, with a 
 
 degree of coarse humor that I had not expected from him; and, 
 
THE BOOBY SQUIRE. 249 
 
 vexed as I was,I could not help joining in the laugh, for I have 
 always relished a joke, even though made at my own expense. 
 He went on to speak of my various pursuits, my strolling 
 freak, and that somewhat nettled me; at length he talked of 
 my parents. He ridiculed my father; I stomached even 
 that, though with great difficulty. He mentioned my mother 
 with a sneer, and in an instant he lay sprawling at my feet. | 
 
 Here a tumult succeeded: the table was nearly over- 
 turned; bottles, glasses, and tankards, rolled crashing and 
 clattering about the floor. The company seized hold of both 
 of us, to keep us from doing any further mischief. I 
 struggled to get loose, for I was boiling with fury. My cousin 
 defied me to strip and fight him on the lawn. I agreed, for I 
 felt the strength of a giant in me, and I longed to pommel 
 him soundly. 
 
 Away then we were borne. A ring was formed. I had 
 a second assigned me in true boxing style. My cousin, as he 
 advanced to fight, said something about his generosity in 
 showing me such fair play, when I had made such an unpro- 
 voked -attack upon him at his own table. ‘“ Stop there,” 
 cried I, in a rage. “ Unprovoked? know that I am John 
 Buckthorne, and you have insulted the memory of my 
 mother.” 
 
 The lout was suddenly struck by what I said: he drew 
 back, and thought for a moment. 
 
 “ Nay, damn it,” said he, “ that’s too much—that’s clean 
 another thing—I’ve a mother myself—and no one shall speak 
 ill of her, bad as she is.” 
 
 He paused again: nature seemed to have a rough 
 
 struggle in his rude bosom. 
 Lhe 
 
250 TALES OF A TRAVELLER, 
 
 “ Damn it, cousin,” cried he, “I’m sorry for what I said. 
 Thou’st served me right in knocking me down, and I like thee 
 the better for it. Here’s my hand: come and live with me, 
 and damn me but the best room in the house, and the best 
 horse in the stable, shall be at thy service.” 
 
 I declare to you I was strongly moved at this instance of 
 nature breaking her way through such a lump of flesh. I 
 forgave the fellow in a moment his two heinous crimes, of 
 having been born in wedlock, and inheriting my estate. I 
 shook the hand he offered me, to convince him that I bore 
 him no ill-will ; and then making my way through the gaping 
 crowd of toadeaters, bade adieu to my uncle’s domains for- 
 ever.—This is the last I have seen or heard of my cousin, or 
 of the domestic concerns of Doubting Castle, 
 
eee see © Ie PNG WA NCATGEE Rt. 
 
 S I was walking one morning with Buckthorne near one 
 
 of the principal theatres, he directed my attention to a 
 group of those equivocal beings that may often be seen hover- 
 ing about the stage-doors of theatres. They were marvel- 
 lously ill-favored in their attire, their coats buttoned up to 
 their chins; yet they wore their hats smartly on one side, 
 and had a certain knowing, dirty-gentlemanlike air, which is 
 common to the subalterns of the drama. Buckthorne knew 
 them well by early experience. 
 
 “These,” said he, “are the ghosts of departed kings and 
 heroes ; fellows who sway sceptres and truncheons; com- 
 mand kingdoms and armies; and after giving away realms 
 and treasures over night, have scare a shilling to pay for a 
 breakfast in the morning. Yet they have the true vagabond 
 abhorrence of all useful and industrious employment; and 
 they have their pleasures too; one of which is to lounge in 
 this way in the sunshine, at the stage-door, during rehearsals, 
 and make hackneyed theatrical jokes on all passers-by. 
 Nothing is more traditional and legitimate than the stage. 
 Old scenery, old clothes, old sentiments, old ranting, and old 
 
 jokes, are handed down from generation to generation; and 
 
952 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 will probably continue to be so until time shall be no more. 
 Every hanger-on of a theatre becomes a wag by inheritance, 
 and flourishes about at tap-rooms and sixpenny clubs with 
 the property jokes of the green-room.” 
 
 While amusing ourselves with reconnoitering this group, 
 we noticed one in particular who appeared to be the oracle. 
 He was a weatherbeaten veteran, a little bronzed by time 
 and beer, who had no doubt grown gray in the parts of 
 robbers, cardinals, Roman senators, and walking noblemen. 
 
 “There is something in the set of that hat, and the turn 
 of that physiognomy, extremely familiar to me,” said Buck- 
 thorne. He looked a little closer,—* I cannot be mistaken, 
 that must be my old brother of the truncheon, Flimsey, the 
 tragic hero of the Strolling Company.” 
 
 It was he in fact. The poor fellow showed evident signs 
 that times went hard with him, he was so finely and shabbily 
 dressed. His coat was somewhat threadbare, and of the 
 Lord Townly cut; single breasted, and scarcely capable of 
 meeting in front of his body, which, from long intimacy, had 
 acquired the symmetry and robustness of a beer barrel. He 
 wore a pair of dingy-white stockinet pantaloons, which had 
 much ado to reach his waistcoat, a great quantity of dirty 
 cravat ; and a pair of old russet-colored tragedy boots. 
 
 When his companions had dispersed, Buckthorne drew 
 him aside, and made himself known to him. The tragic 
 veteran could scarcely recognize him, or believe that he was 
 really his quondam associate, “tittle Gentleman Jack.” 
 Buckthorne invited him to a neighboring coffee-house to talk 
 over old times; and in the course of a little while we were 
 
 put in possession of his history in brief. 
 
THE STROLLING MANAGER. 253 
 
 He had continued to act the heroes in the strolling com- 
 pany for some time after Buckthorne had left it, or rather 
 had been driven from it so abruptly. At length the manager 
 died, and the troop was thrown into confusion. Every one 
 aspired to the crown, every one was for taking the lead; and 
 the manager’s widow, although a tragedy queen, and a brim- 
 stone to boot, pronounced it utterly impossible for a woman 
 to keep any control over such a set of tempestuous ras- 
 callions. 
 
 “Upon this hint, I spoke,” said Flimsey. I stepped for- 
 ward, and offered my services in the most effectual way. 
 They were accepted. In a week’s time I married the widow, 
 and succeeded to the throne. “The funeral baked meats did 
 coldly furnish forth the marriage table,’ as Hamlet says. 
 But the ghost of my predecessor never haunted me; and I 
 inherited crowns, sceptres, bowls, daggers, and all the stage 
 trappings and trumpery, not omitting the widow, without 
 the least molestation. 
 
 I now led a flourishing life of it; for our company was 
 pretty strong and attractive, and as my wife and I took the 
 heavy parts of tragedy, it was a great saving to the treasury. 
 We carried off the palm from all the rival shows at coun- 
 try fairs; and I assure you we have even drawn full houses, 
 and been applauded by the critics at Batlemy Fair itself, 
 though we had Astley’s troop, the Irish giant, and “the death 
 of Nelson” in wax work, to contend against. 
 
 I soon began to experience, however, the cares of com- 
 mand. I discovered that there were cabals breaking out in the 
 company, headed by the clown, who you may recollect was a 
 
 terribly peevish, fractious fellow, and always in ill-humor. I 
 11 Bat 
 
954 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 had a great mind to turn him off at once, but I could not do 
 without him, for there was not a droller scoundrel on the stage. 
 Ilis very shape was comic, for he had but to turn his back 
 upon the audience, and all the ladies were ready to die with 
 laughing. He felt his importance, and took advantage of it. 
 Ife would keep the audience in a continual roar, and then 
 come behind the scenes, and fret and fume, and play the very 
 devil. J excused a great deal in him, however, knowing that 
 comic actors are a little prone to this infirmity of temper. 
 
 I had another trouble of a nearer and dearer nature to 
 struggle with, which was the affection of my wife. As ill- 
 luck would have it, she took it into her head to be very fond 
 of me, and became intolerably jealous. I could not keep a 
 pretty girl in the company, and hardly dared embrace an 
 ugly one, even when my part required it. I have known her 
 reduce a fine lady to tatters, “to very rags,” as Hamlet 
 says, in an instant, and destroy one of the very best dresses 
 in the wardrobe, merely because she saw me kiss her at the 
 side scenes ; though I give you my honor it was done merely 
 by way of rehearsal. 
 
 This was doubly annoying, because I have a natural liking 
 to pretty faces, and wish to have them about me; and 
 because they are indispensable to the success of a company 
 at a fair, where one has to vie with so many rival theatres. 
 But when once a jealous wife gets a freak in her head, 
 there’s no use in talking of interest or any thing else. Egad, 
 sir, | have more than once trembled when, during a fit of her 
 tantrums, she was playing high tragedy, and flourishing her 
 tin dagger on the stage, lest she should give way to her 
 
 humor, and stab some fancied rival in good earnest. 
 
THE STROLLING MANAGER. 255 
 
 I went on better, however, than could be expected, con- 
 sidering the weakness of my flesh, and the violence of my 
 rib. I had not a much worse time of it than old Jupiter, 
 whose spouse was continually ferreting out some new in- 
 trigue, and making the heavens almost too hot to hold him. 
 
 At length, as luck would have it, we were performing at 
 a country fair, when I understood the theatre of a neighboring 
 town to be vacant. I had always been desirous to be enrolled 
 in a settled company, and the height of my desire was to get 
 on a par with a brother-in-law, who was manager of a 
 regular theatre, and who had looked down upon me. Here 
 was an opportunity not to be neglected. I concluded an 
 agreement with the proprietors, and in a few days opened 
 the theatre with great eclat. 
 
 Behold me now at the summit of my ambition, “ the high 
 top-gallant of my joy,” as Romeo says. No longer a chief- 
 tain of a wandering tribe, but a monarch of a legitimate 
 throne, and entitled to call even the great potentates of Co- 
 vent Garden and Drury Lane cousins. You,no doubt, think 
 my happiness complete. Alas, sir! I was one of the most 
 uncomfortable dogs living. No one knows, who has not 
 tried, the miseries of a manager ; but above all of a country 
 manager. No one can conceive the contentions and quarrels 
 within doors, the oppressions and vexations from without. 
 I was pestered with the bloods and loungers of a country 
 town, who infested my green-room, and played the mischief 
 among my actresses. But there was no shaking them off. 
 It would have been ruin to affront them ; for though trouble- 
 some friends, they would have been dangerous enemies. 
 
 Then there were the village critics and village amateurs, who 
 
256 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 were continually tormenting me with advice, and getting into 
 a passion if I would not take it; especially the village doctor 
 and the village attorney, who had both been to London oc- 
 casionally, and knew what acting should be. 
 
 I had also to manage as arrant a crew of scapegraces as 
 ever were collected together within the walls of a theatre. 
 Thad been obliged to combine my original troop with some 
 of the former troop of the theatre, who were favorites of the 
 public. Here was a mixture that produced perpetual fer- 
 ment. They were all the time either fighting or frolicking 
 with each other, and I scarcely know which mood was least 
 troublesome. If they quarrelled, every thing went wrong ; 
 and if they were friends, they were continually playing off 
 some prank upon each other, or upon me; for I had un- 
 happily acquired among them the character of an easy, good- 
 natured fellow—the worst character that a manager can 
 possess. 
 
 Their waggery at times drove me almost crazy; for 
 there is nothing so vexatious as the hackneyed tricks and 
 hoaxes and pleasantries of a veteran band of theatrical vaga- 
 bonds. I relished them well enough, it is true, while I was 
 merely one of the company, but as a manager I found them 
 detestable. They were incessantly bringing some disgrace 
 upon the theatre by their tavern frolicks and their pranks 
 about the country town. All my lectures about the impor- 
 tance of keeping up the dignity of the profession and the re- 
 spectability of the company were in vain. The villains could 
 not sympathize with the delicate feelings of a man in station. 
 They: even trifled with the seriousness of stage business. 1 
 
 have had the whole piece interrupted, and a crowded audience 
 
THE STROLLING MANAGER. Q57 
 
 of at least twenty-five pounds kept waiting, because the actors 
 had hid away the breeches of Rosalind; and have known 
 Hamlet to stalk solemnly on to deliver his soliloquy, with a 
 dish-clout pinned to his skirts. Such are the baleful conse- 
 quences of a manager’s getting a character for good-nature. 
 
 I was intolerably annoyed, too, by the great actors who 
 
 came down starring, as it is called, from London. Of all 
 baneful influences, keep me from that of a London star. A 
 first-rate actress going the rounds of the country theatres is as 
 bad as a blazing comet whisking about the heavens, and 
 shaking fire and plagues and discords from its tail. 
 The moment one of these “ heavenly bodies ” appeared in 
 my horizon, I was sure to be in hot water. My theatre was 
 overrun by provincial dandies, copper-washed counterfeits of 
 Bond-street loungers, who are always proud to be in the train 
 of an actress from town, and anxious to be thought on ex- 
 ceeding good terms with her. It was really a relief to me 
 when some random young nobleman would come in pursuit 
 of the bait, and awe all this small fry at a distance. I have 
 always felt myself more at ease with a nobleman than with 
 the dandy of a country town. 
 
 And then the injuries I suffered in my personal dignity 
 and my managerial authority from the visits of these great 
 London actors! ‘Sblood, sir, I was no longer master of my- 
 self on my throne. I was hectored and lectured in my own 
 green-room, and made an absolute nincompoop on my own 
 stage. There is no tyrant so absolute and capricious as a 
 London star at a country theatre. I dreaded the sight of all 
 of them, and yet if I did not engage them, I was sure of hay- 
 
 ing the public clamorous against me. They drew full houses, 
 
258 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 and appeared to be making my fortune; but they swallowed 
 up all the profits by their insatiable demands. They were 
 absolute tape-worms to my little theatre; the more it took 
 in the poorer it grew. They were sure to leave me with an 
 exhausted public, empty benches, and a score or two of 
 affronts to settle among the town’s folk, in consequence of 
 misunderstandings about the taking of places. 
 
 But the worst thing I had to undergo in my managerial 
 career was patronage. Oh, sir! of all things deliver me from 
 the patronage of the great people of a country town. It was my 
 ruin. You must know that this town, though small, was filled 
 with feuds, and parties, and great folks; being a busy little trad- 
 ing and manufacturing town. The mischief was that their 
 greatness was of a kind not to be settled by reference to the 
 court calendar, or college of heraldry ; it was therefore the 
 most quarrelsome kind of greatness in existence. You smile, 
 sir, but let me tell you there are no feuds more furious than 
 the frontier feuds which take place in these “ debatable 
 lands” of gentility. The most violent dispute that I ever 
 knew in high life was one which occurred at a country town, 
 on a question of precedence between the ladies of a manufac- 
 turer of pins and a manufacturer of needles. 
 
 At the town where I was situated there were perpetual 
 altercations of the kind. The head mamufacturer’s lady, for 
 instance, was at daggers-drawings with the head shopkeeper’s, 
 and both were too rich and had too many friends to be 
 treated lightly. The doctor’s and lawyer’s ladies held 
 their heads still higher; but they in turn were kept in 
 check by the wife of a country banker, who kept her own 
 carriage ; while a masculine widow of cracked character and 
 
THE STROLLING MANAGER. 259 
 
 second-handed fashion, who lived in a large house and claimed 
 to be in some way related to nobility, looked down upon them 
 all. To be sure, her manners were not over elegant, nor her 
 fortune over large; but then, sir, her blood—oh, her blood 
 carried it all hollow; there was no withstanding a woman 
 with such blood in her veins. 
 
 After all, her claims to high connexion were questioned, 
 and she had frequent battles for precedence at balls and 
 assemblies with some of the sturdy dames of the neighbor- 
 hood, who stood upon their wealth and their virtue ; but then 
 she had two dashing daughters, who dressed as fine as 
 dragoons, and had as high blood as their mother, and seconded 
 in every thing; so they carried their point with high heads, 
 and every body hated, abused, and stood in awe of the Fan- 
 tadlins. 
 
 Such was the state of the fashionable world in this self- 
 important little town. Unluckily, I was not as well acquainted 
 with its politics as I should have been. I had found myself 
 a stranger and in great perplexities during my first season ; 
 I determined, therefore, to put myself under the patronage of 
 some powerful name, and thus to take the field with the pre- 
 judices of the public in my favor. I cast around my thoughts 
 for that purpose, and in an evil hour they fell upon Mrs, Fan- 
 tadlin. No one seemed to me to have a more absolute sway 
 in the world of fashion. I had always noticed that her party 
 slammed the box-door the loudest at the theatre; and had 
 the most beaus attending on them, and talked and laughed 
 loudest during the performance ; and then the Miss Fantad- 
 lins wore always more feathers and flowers than any other 
 
 ladies ; and used quizzing-glasses incessantly. ‘The first even- 
 
260 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 ing of my theatre’s re-opening, therefore, was announced in 
 staring capitals on the play-bills, as under the patronage of 
 “The Honorable Mrs. Fantadlin.” 
 
 Sir, the whole community flew to arms! the banker’s 
 wife felt her dignity grievously insulted at not having the 
 preference ; her husband being high bailiff and the richest 
 man in the place. She immediately issued invitations for a 
 large party, for the night of the performance, and asked many 
 a lady to it whom she never had noticed before. Presume to 
 patronize the theatre! insufferable! And then for me to 
 dare to term her ‘The Honorable!’ What claim had she to 
 the title forsooth! The fashionable world had long groaned 
 under the tyranny of the Fantadlins, and were glad to make a 
 common cause against this new instance of assumption. 
 Those, too, who had never before been noticed by the 
 banker’s lady were ready to enlist in any quarrel for the 
 honor of her acquaintance. All minor feuds were forgotten. 
 The doctor’s lady and the lawyer’s lady met together, and the 
 manufacturer’s lady and the shopkeeper’s lady kissed each 
 other; and all, headed by the banker’s lady, voted the 
 theatre a bore, and determined to encourage nothing but 
 the Indian Jugglers and Mr. Walker’s Eidouranion. 
 
 Alas for poor Pillgarlick ! I knew little the mischief that 
 was brewing against me. My box-book remained blank ; the 
 evening arrived; but no audience. ‘The music struck up to 
 a tolerable pit and gallery, but no fashionables! I peeped 
 anxiously from behind the curtain, but the time passed away ; 
 the play was retarded until pit and gallery became furious ; 
 and I had to raise the curtain, and play my greatest part in 
 
 tragedy to “a beggarly account of empty boxes.” 
 
THE STROLLING MANAGER. 261 
 
 It is true the T’antadlins came late, as was their custom, 
 and entered like a tempest, with a flutter of feathers and red 
 shawls ; but they were evidently disconcerted at finding they 
 had no one to admire and envy them, and were enraged at 
 this glaring defection of their fashionable followers. All the 
 beau-monde were engaged at the banker’s lady’s rout. They 
 remained for some time in solitary and uncomfortable state ; 
 and though they had the theatre almost to themselves, yet, 
 for the first time, they talked in whispers. They left the 
 house at the end of the first piece, and I never saw them after- 
 wards. 
 
 Such was the rock on which I split. I never got over the 
 patronage of the Fantadlin family. My house was deserted ; 
 my actors grew discontented because they were ill paid; my 
 door became a hammering place for every bailiff in the coun- 
 try ; and my wife became more and more shrewish and tor- 
 menting the more I wanted comfort. 
 
 I tried for a time the usual consolation of a harassed and 
 henpecked man; I took to the bottle, and tried to tipple away 
 my cares, but in vain. I don’t mean to decry the bottle; it 
 is no doubt an excellent remedy in many cases, but it did not 
 answer in mine. It cracked my voice, coppered my nose, 
 but neither improved my wife nor my affairs. My establish- 
 ment became a scene of confusion and peculation. I was 
 considered a ruined man, and of course fair game for every 
 one to pluck at, as every one plunders a sinking ship. Day 
 after day some of the troop deserted, and, like deserting sol- 
 diers, carried off their arms and accoutrements with them. 
 In this manner my wardrobe took legs and walked away, my 
 
 finery strolled all over the country, my swords and daggers 
 
2962 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 glittered in every barn, until, at last, my tailor made “ one 
 fell swoop,” and carried off three dress-coats, half a dozen 
 doublets, and nineteen pair of flesh-colored pantaloons. This 
 was the “ be all and the end all” of my fortune. Ino longer 
 hesitated what to do. Egad, thought I, since stealing is the 
 order of the day, I'll steal too; so I secretly gathered to- 
 gether the jewels of my wardrobe, packed up a hero’s dress in 
 a handkerchief, slung it on the end of a tragedy sword, and 
 quietly stole off at dead of night, “the bell then beating one,” 
 leaving my queen and kingdom to the mercy of my rebellious 
 subjects, and my merciless foes the bumbailiffs. 
 
 Such, sir, was the “end of all my greatness.” I was 
 heartily cured of all passion for governing, and returned once 
 more into the ranks. I had for some time the usual run of 
 an actor’s life. I played in various country theatres, at fairs, 
 and in barns ; sometimes hard pushed, sometimes flush, until, 
 on one occasion, I came within an ace of making my fortune, 
 and becoming one of the wonders of the age. 
 
 I was playing the part of Richard the Third in a country 
 barn, and in my best style; for to tell the truth, I was a little 
 in liquor, and the critics of the company always observed that 
 I played with most effect when I had a glass too much. There 
 was a thunder of applause when I came to that part where 
 Richard cries for “a horse! a horse!” My cracked voice 
 had always a wonderful effect here; it was like two voices 
 run into one; you would have thought two men had been 
 calling for a horse, or that Richard had called for two horses. 
 And when I flung the taunt at Richmond, “ Richard is hoarse 
 with calling thee to arms,’ I thought the barn would have 
 
 come down about my ears with the raptures of the audience. 
 
 _- 
 
THE STROLLING MANAGER. 263 
 
 The very next morning a person waited upon me at my 
 lodgings. I saw at once he was a gentleman by his dress ; 
 for he had a large brooch in his bosom, thick rings on his 
 fingers, and used a quizzing-glass. And a gentleman he 
 proved to be; for I soon ascertained that he was a kept 
 author, or kind of literary tailor to one of the great London 
 theatres ; one who worked under the manager’s directions, and 
 cut up and cut down plays, and patched and pieced, and new 
 faced, and turned them inside out; in short, he was one of 
 the readiest and greatest writers of the day. 
 
 He was now on a foraging excursion in quest of something 
 that might be got up for a prodigy. The theatre, it seems, 
 was in desperate condition—nothing but a miracle could save 
 it. He had seen me act Richard the night before, and had 
 pitched upon me for that miracle. I had a remarkable blus- 
 ter in my style and swagger in my gait. I certainly differed 
 from all other heroes of the barn: so the thought struck the 
 agent to bring me out as a theatrical wonder, as the restorer 
 of natural and legitimate acting, as the only one who could 
 understand and act Shakspeare rightly. 
 
 When he opened his plan I shrunk from it with becoming 
 modesty, for well as I thought of myself, | doubted my com- 
 petency to such an undertaking. 
 
 I hinted at my imperfect knowledge of Shakspeare, having 
 played his characters only after mutilated copies, interlarded 
 with a great deal of my own talk by way of helping memory 
 or heightening the effect. 
 
 “So much the better,” cried the gentleman with rings on 
 
 his fingers! “so much the better. New readings, sir !—new 
 
264 YALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 readings! Don’t study a line—let us have Shakspeare after 
 your own fashion.” 
 
 “ But then my voice was cracked ; it could not fill a Lon- 
 don theatre.” 
 
 “So much the better! so much the better! The public is 
 tired of intonation—the ore rotundo has had its day. No, sir, 
 your cracked voice is the very thing—spit and splutter, and 
 snap and snarl, and ‘ play the very dog’ about the stage, and 
 you'll be the making of us.” 
 
 “ But then,”—I could not help blushing to the end of my 
 very nose as I said it, but I was determined to be candid ;— 
 “but then,” added I, “ there is one awkward circumstance; I 
 have an unlucky habit—my misfortunes, and the exposures 
 to which one is subjected in country barns, have obliged me 
 now and then to—to—take a drop of something comfortable 
 
 —and so—and so as 
 
 “ What! you drink ? cried the agent eagerly. 
 
 I bowed my head in blushing acknowledgment. 
 
 “ So much the better! so much the better! The irregu- 
 larities of genius! A sober fellow is commonplace. The 
 public like an actor that drinks. Give me your hand, sir. 
 You’re the very man to make a dash with.” 
 
 I still hung back with lingering diffidence, declaring my- 
 self unworthy of such praise. 
 
 “*Sblood, man,” cried he, “no praise at all. You don’t 
 imagine J think you a wonder; I only want the public to 
 think so. Nothing is so easy as to gull the public, if you 
 only set up a prodigy. Common talent any body can meas- 
 ure by common rule; but a prodigy sets all rule and meas- 
 
 urement at defiance.’ 
 
THE STROLLING MANAGER. 265 
 
 These words opened my eyes in an instant: we now came 
 to a proper understanding, less flattering, it is true, to my 
 vanity, but much more satisfactory to my judgment. 
 
 It was agreed that I should make my appearance before a 
 London audience, as a dramatic sun just bursting from behind 
 the clouds: one that was to banish all the lesser lights and 
 false fires of the stage. Every precaution was to be taken to 
 possess the public mind at every avenue. The pit was to be 
 packed with sturdy clappers; the newspapers secured by 
 vehement puffers; every theatrical resort to be haunted by 
 hireling talkers. In a word, every engine of theatrical hum- 
 bug was to be put in action. Wherever I differed from 
 former actors, it was to be maintained that I was right and 
 they were wrong. IfI ranted, it was to be pure passion; if 
 ] were vulgar, it was to be pronounced a familiar touch of 
 nature; if I made any queer blunder, it was to be a new 
 reading. If my voice cracked, or I got out in my part, I was 
 only to bounce, and grin, and snarl at the audience, and make 
 any horrible grimace that came into my head, and my ad- 
 mirers were to call it “a great point,” and to fall back and 
 shout and yell with rapture. 
 
 “In short,” said the gentleman with the quizzing-glass, 
 “strike out boldly and bravely : no matter how or what you 
 do, so that it be but odd and strange. If you do but escape 
 pelting the first night, your fortune and the fortune of the 
 theatre is made.” 
 
 I set off for London, therefore, in company with the kept 
 author, full of new plans and new hopes. Iwas to be the 
 restorer of Shakspeare and Nature, and the legitimate drama ; 
 
 my very swagger was to be heroic, and my cracked voice the 
 12 
 
266 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 standard of elocution. Alas, sir, my usual luck attended me: 
 before I arrived at the metropolis a rival wonder had ap- 
 peared ; a woman who could dance the slack rope, and run 
 up a cord from the stage to the gallery with fireworks all 
 round her. She was seized on by the manager with avidity. 
 She was the saving of the great national theatre for the 
 season. Nothing was talked of but Madame Saqui’s fire- 
 works and flesh-colored pantaloons ; and Nature, Shakspeare, 
 the legitimate drama, and poor Pillgarlick, were completely 
 left in the lurch. 
 
 When Madame Saqui’s performance grew stale, other 
 wonders succeeded : horses, and harlequinades, and mummery 
 of all kinds; until another dramatic prodigy was brought 
 forward to play the very gamie for which I had been intended. 
 I called upon the kept author for an explanation, but he was 
 deeply engaged in writing a melo-drama or a pantomime, and 
 was extremely testy on being interrupted in his studies, 
 However, as the theatre was in some measure pledged to 
 provide for me, the manager acted, according to the usual 
 phrase, “ like a man of honor,” and I received an appointment 
 in the corps. It had been a turn of a die whether I should be 
 Alexander the Great or Alexander the coppersmith—the lat- 
 ter carried it. I could not be put at the head of the drama, so 
 I was put at the tail of it. In other words, I was enrolled 
 among the number of what are called useful men ; those who 
 enact soldiers, senators, and Banquo’s shadowy line. I was 
 perfectly satisfied with my lot; for I have always been a bit 
 of a philosopher. If my situation was not splendid, it at least 
 was secure; and in fact I have seen half a dozen prodigies ap- 
 
 pear, dazzle, burst like bubbles and pass away, and yet here 
 
% 
 THE STROLLING MANAGER. 267 
 
 I am, snug, unenvied and unmolested, at the foot of the pro- 
 fession. 
 
 You may smile; but let me tell you, we “ useful men” 
 are the only comfortable actors on the stage. We are safe 
 from hisses, and below the hope of applause. We fear not 
 the success of rivals, nor dread the critic’s pen. So long as 
 we get the words of our parts, and they are not often many, 
 it is all we care for. We have our own merriment, our own 
 friends, and our own admirers—for every actor has his friends 
 and admirers, from the highest to the lowest. The first-rate 
 actor dines with the noble amateur, and entertains a fashion- 
 able table with scraps and songs and theatrical slip-slop. 
 The second-rate actors have their second-rate friends and ad- 
 mirers, with whom they likewise spout tragedy and talk slip- 
 slop—and so down even to us; who have our friends and 
 admirers among spruce clerks and aspiring apprentices— 
 who treat us to a dinner now and then, and enjoy at tenth 
 hand the same scraps and songs and slip-slop that have been 
 served up by our more fortunate brethren at the tables of the 
 great. 
 
 I now, for the first time in my theatrical life, experience 
 what true pleasure is. I have known enough of notoriety to 
 pity the poor devils who are called favorites of the public. 
 I would rather be a kitten in the arms of a spoiled child, to 
 be one moment patted and pampered and the next moment 
 thumped over the head with the spoon. I smile to see our 
 leading actors fretting themselves with envy and jealousy 
 about a trumpery renown, questionable in its quality, and 
 uncertain in its duration. I laugh, too, though of course in 
 
 my sleeve, at the bustle and importance, and trouble and 
 
268 TALES OF A TRAVILLER. 
 
 perplexities of our manager—who is harassing himself to 
 death in the hopeless effort to please every body. 
 
 I have found among my fellow subalterns two or three 
 quondam managers, who like myself have wielded the scep- 
 tres of country theatres, and we have many a sly joke to- 
 gether at the expense of the manager and the public. Some- 
 times, too, we meet, like deposed and exiled kings, talk over 
 the events of our respective reigns, moralize over a tankard 
 of ale, and laugh at the humbug of the great and little world ; 
 which, I take it, is the essence of practical philosophy. 
 
 Thus end the anecdotes of Buckthorne and his friends. _ It 
 grieves me much that I could not procure from him further 
 particulars of his history, and especially of that part of it 
 which passed in town. He had evidently seen much of liter- 
 ary life; and, as he had never risen to eminence in letters, 
 and yet was free from the gall of disappointment, I had hoped 
 to gain some candid intelligence concerning his contempo- 
 raries. The testimony of such an honest chronicler would 
 have been particularly valuable at the present time; when, 
 owing to the extreme fecundity of the press, and the thousand 
 anecdotes, criticisms, and biographical sketches that are daily 
 poured forth concerning public characters, it is extremely diffi- 
 cult to get at any truth concerning them. 
 
 He was always, however, excessively reserved and fas- 
 tidious on this point, at which I very much wondered, authors 
 in general appearing to think each other fair game, and being 
 
 ready to serve each other up for the amusement of the public. 
 
THE STROLLING MANAGER. 269 
 
 A few mornings after hearing the history of the ex- 
 manager, | was surprised by a visit from Buckthorne before 
 I was out of bed. He was dressed for travelling. 
 
 “Give me joy! give me joy!” said he, rubbing his hands 
 with the utmost glee, “ my great expectations are realized !” 
 
 I gazed at him with a look of wonder and inquiry. 
 
 “ My booby cousin is dead!” cried he; “may he rest in 
 peace! he nearly broke his neck in a fall from his horse in a 
 fox-chase. By good luck, he lived long enough to make his 
 will. He has made me his heir, partly out of an odd feeling 
 of retributive justice, and partly because, as he says, none of 
 his own family nor friends know how to enjoy such an estate. 
 Pm off to the country to take possession. I’ve done with 
 authorship. That for the critics!” said he, snapping his 
 finger. “Come down to Doubting Castle, when I get settled, 
 and, egad, ’'ll give you a rouse.” So saying, he shook me 
 heartily by the hand, and bounded off in high spirits. 
 
 A long time elapsed before | heard from him again. In- 
 deed, it was but lately that I received a letter, written in the 
 happiest of moods. He was getting the estate in fine order ; 
 every thing went to his wishes; and what was more, he was 
 married to Sacharissa, who it seems had always entertained 
 an ardent though secret attachment for him, which he for- 
 tunately discovered just after coming to his estate. 
 
 “T find,” said he, “ you are a little given to the sin of 
 authorship, which I renounce: if the anecdotes I have given 
 you of my story are of any interest, you may make use of 
 them ; but come down to Doubting Castle, and see how we 
 live, and [ll give you my whole London life over a social 
 
 4 
 
270 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 glass; and a rattling history it shall be about authors and 
 reviewers,” 
 
 If ever I visit Doubting Castle and get the history he 
 promises, the public shall be sure to hear of it. 
 
PART THIRD. 
 
 THE ITALIAN BANDITTI. 
 
MELE SDNN + AT: TERRACINA. 
 
 RACK! crack! crack! crack! crack! 
 
 “ Here comes the estafette from Naples,” said mine host 
 of the inn at Terracina; “ bring out the relay.” 
 
 The estafette came galloping up the road according to 
 custom, brandishing over his head a short-handled whip, with 
 a long, knotted lash, every smack of which made a report 
 like a pistol. He was a tight, square-set young fellow, in 
 the usual uniform : a smart blue coat, ornamented with facings 
 and gold lace, but so short behind as to reach scarcely below 
 his waistband, and cocked up not unlike the tail of a wren; a 
 cocked hat edged with gold lace; a pair of stiff riding-boots ; 
 but, instead of the usual leathern breeches, he had a fragment 
 of a pair of drawers, that scarcely furnished an apology for 
 modesty to hide behind. 
 
 The estafette galloped up to the door, and jumped from 
 his horse. 
 
 “A glass of rosolio, a fresh horse, and a pair of breeches,” 
 said he, “and quickly, per amor di Dio, 1 am behind my 
 time, and must be off!” 
 
 “San Gennaro!” replied the host; “why, where hast 
 
 thou left thy garment ?” 
 12 
 
274 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 “ Among the robbers between this and Fondi.” 
 
 “ What, rob an estafette! I never heard of such folly. 
 What could they hope to get from thee ?” 
 
 “My leather breeches!” replied the estafette. “They 
 were bran new, and shone like gold, and hit the fancy of the 
 captain.” 
 
 “Well, these fellows grow worse and worse. To meddle 
 with an estafette! and that merely for the sake of a pair of 
 leather breeches ! ” 
 
 The robbing of the government messenger seemed to 
 strike the host with more astonishment than any other enor- 
 mity that had taken place on the road ; and, indeed, it was the 
 first time so wanton an outrage had been committed; the 
 robbers generally taking care not to meddle with any thing 
 belonging to government. 
 
 The estafette was by this time equipped, for he had not 
 lost an instant in making his preparations while talking. The 
 relay was ready ; the rosolio tossed off; he grasped the reins 
 and the stirrup. 
 
 “Were there many robbers in the band?” said a hand- 
 some, dark young man, stepping forward from the door of 
 the inn. 
 
 “ As formidable a band as ever I saw,” said the estafette, 
 springing into the saddle. 
 
 “ Are they cruel to travellers?” said a beautiful young 
 Venetian lady, who had been hanging on the gentleman’s arm. 
 
 “Cruel, signora!” echoed the estafette, giving a glance 
 at the lady as he put spurs to his horse. ‘Corpo di Bacco! 
 They stiletto all the men; and, as to the women 4 
 Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!—The last words were 
 
THE INN AT TERRACINA. 275 
 
 drowned in the smacking of the whip, and away galloped the 
 estafette along the road to the Pontine marshes. 
 
 “Holy Virgin!” ejaculated the fair Venetian, “ what wil’ 
 become of us!” 
 
 The inn of which we are speaking stands just outside of 
 the walls of Terracina, under a vast precipitous height of 
 rocks, crowned with the ruins of the castle of Theodric the 
 Goth. The situation of Terracina is remarkable. It is a 
 little, ancient, lazy Italian town, on the frontiers of the Roman 
 territory. There seems to be an idle pause in every thing 
 about the place. The Mediterranean spreads before it—that 
 sea without flux or reflux. The port is without a sail, except- 
 ing that once in a while a solitary felueca may be seen dis- 
 gorging its holy cargo of baccala, or codfish, the meagre 
 provision for the quaresima, or Lent. The inhabitants are 
 apparently a listless, heedless race, as people of soft sunny 
 climates are apt to be; but under this passive, indolent ex- 
 terior are said to lurk dangerous qualities. They are sup- 
 posed by many to be little better than the banditti of the 
 neighboring mountains, and indeed to hold a secret corre- 
 spondence with them. The solitary watchtowers, erected here 
 and there along the coast, speak of pirates and corsairs that 
 hover about these shores ; while the low huts, as stations for 
 soldiers, which dot the distant road, as it winds up through 
 an olive grove, intimate that in the ascent there is danger for 
 the traveller, and facility for the bandit. Indeed, it is be- 
 tween this town and Fondi that the road to Naples is most 
 infested by banditti. It has several windings and solitary 
 places, where the robbers are enabled to see the traveller 
 from a distance, from the brows of hills or impending preci- 
 
276 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 pices, and to lie in wait for him at lonely and difficult 
 passes. 
 
 The Italian robbers are a desperate class of men, that 
 have almost formed themselves into an order of society. 
 They wear a kind of uniform, or rather costume, which openly 
 designates their profession. This is probably done to dimin- 
 ish its skulking, lawless character, and to give it something of 
 a military air in the eyes of the common people; or, per- 
 haps, to catch by outward show and finery the fancies of the 
 young men of the villages, and thus to gain recruits. Their 
 dresses are often very rich and picturesque. They wear jack- 
 ets and breeches of bright colors, sometimes gayly embroid- 
 ered; their breasts are covered with medals and relics; their 
 hats are broad-brimmed, with conical crowns, decorated with 
 feathers, of variously-colored ribands; their hair is sometimes 
 gathered in silk nets; they wear a kind of sandal of cloth or 
 leather, bound round the legs with thongs, and extremely 
 flexible, to enable them to scramble with ease and celerity 
 among the mountain precipices; a broad belt of cloth, or a 
 sash of silk net, is stuck full of pistols and stilettos; a carbine 
 is slung at the back; while about them is generally thrown, 
 in a negligent manner, a great dingy mantle, which serves as 
 a protection in storms, or a bed in their bivouacs among the 
 mountains. 
 
 They range over a great extent of wild country, along the 
 chain of Apennines, bordering on different states; they know 
 all the difficult passes, the short cuts for retreat, and the im- 
 practicable forests of the mountain summits, where no force 
 dare follow them. ‘They are secure of the good-will of the in- 
 habitants of those regions, a poor and semi-barbarous race, 
 
THE INN AT TERRACINA. OTL 
 
 whom they never disturb and often enrich. Indeed, they are 
 considered as a sort of illegitimate heroes among the moun- 
 tain villages, and in certain frontier towns where they dispose 
 of their plunder. ‘Thus countenanced, and sheltered, and 
 secure in the fastnesses of their mountains, the robbers have 
 set the weak police of the Italian states at defiance. It is in 
 vain that their names and descriptions are posted on the doors 
 of country churches, and rewards offered for them alive or 
 dead ; the villagers are either too much awed by the terrible 
 instances of vengeance inflicted by the brigands, or have too 
 good an understanding with them to be their betrayers. It is 
 true they are now and then hunted and shot down like 
 beasts of prey by the gens-d’armes, their heads put in iron 
 cages, and stuck upon posts by the road-side, or their limbs 
 hung up to blacken in the trees near the places where they 
 have cormmitted their atrocities; but these ghastly spectacles 
 only serve to make some dreary pass of the road still more 
 dreary, and to dismay the traveller, without deterring the 
 bandit. 
 
 At the time that the estafette made his sudden appearance 
 almost im cuerpo, as has been mentioned, the audacity of the 
 robbers had risen to an unparalleled height. They had laid 
 villas under contribution; they had sent messages into coun- 
 try towns, to tradesmen and rich burghers, demanding sup- 
 plies of money, of clothing, or even of luxuries, with menaces 
 of vengeance in case of refusal. They had their spies and 
 emissaries in every town, village, and inn, along the principal 
 roads, to give them notice of the movements and quality of 
 travellers. ‘They had plundered carriages, carried people of 
 
 rank and fortune into the mountains, and obliged them to 
 12* 
 
278 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 write for heavy ransoms, and had committed outrages on 
 females who had fallen into their hands. 
 
 Such was briefly the state of the robbers, or rather such 
 was the account of the rumors prevalent concerning them, 
 when the scene took place at the inn of Terracina. The dark 
 handsome young man and the Venetian lady, incidentally 
 mentioned, had arrived early that afternoon in a private car- 
 riage drawn by mules, and attended by a single servant. 
 They had been recently married, were spending the honey- 
 moon in travelling through these delicious countries, and were 
 on their way to visit a rich aunt of the bride at Naples. 
 
 The lady was young, and tender, and timid. ‘The stories 
 she had heard along the road had filled her with apprehension, 
 not more for herself than for her husband; for though she had 
 been married almost a month, she still loved him almost to 
 idolatry. When she reached Terracina, the rumors of the 
 road had increased to an alarming magnitude; and the sight 
 of two robbers’ skulls, grinning in iron cages, on each side of 
 the old gateway of the town, brought her to a pause. Her 
 husband had tried in vain to reassure her; they had lingered 
 all the afternoon at the inn, until it was too late to think of 
 starting that evening, and the parting words of the estafette 
 completed her affright. 
 
 “Let us return to Rome,” said she, putting her arm with- 
 in her husband’s, and drawing towards him as if for protection. 
 —“ Let us return to Rome, and give up this visit to Naples.” 
 
 “And give up the visit to your aunt, too?” said the hus- 
 band. 
 
 “ Nay—what is my aunt in comparison with your safety ?” 
 said she, looking up tenderly in his face. 
 
THE INN AT TERRACINA. 279 
 
 There was something in her tone and manner that showed 
 she really was thinking more of her husband’s safety at the 
 moment than of her own; and being so recently married, and 
 a match of pure affection, too, it is very possible that she was: 
 at least her husband thought so. Indeed any one who has 
 heard the sweet musical tone of a Venetian voice, and the 
 melting tenderness of a Venetian phrase, and felt the soft 
 witchery of a Venetian eye, would not wonder at the husband’s 
 believing whatever they professed. He clasped the white 
 hand that had been laid within his, put his arm round her 
 slender waist, and drawing her fondly to his bosom, “ This 
 night, at least,” said he, “we will pass at Terracina.” 
 
 Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack! Another apparition 
 of the road attracted the attention of mine host and his guests. 
 From the direction of the Pontine marshes, a carriage, drawn 
 by half a dozen horses, came driving at a furious rate; the 
 postilions smacking their whips like mad, as is the case when 
 conscious of the greatness or of the munificence of their fare. It 
 was a landaulet with a servant mounted on the dickey. The 
 compact, highly-finished, yet proudly simple construction of 
 the carriage; the quantity of neat, well-arranged trunks and 
 conveniences; the loads of box-coats on the dickey ; the fresh, 
 burly, blufflooking face of the master at the window; and the 
 ruddy, round-headed servant, in close-cropped hair, short coat, 
 drab breeches, and long gaiters, all proclaimed at once that 
 this was the equipage of an Englishman. 
 
 “ Horses to Fondi,” said the Englishman, as the landlord 
 came bowing to the carriage door. 
 
 “ Would not his Excellenza alight, and take some refresh- 
 ments ?” 
 
280 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 ““No—he did not mean to eat until he got to Fondi.” 
 
 “ But the horses will be some time in getting ready.” 
 
 “Ah! that’s always the way; nothing but delay in this 
 cursed country !” 
 
 f? 
 
 “If his Excellenza would only walk into the house 
 
 “ No, no, no !—I tell you no!—I want nothing but horses, 
 and as quick as possible. John, see that the horses are got 
 ready, and don’t let us be kept here an hour or two. Tell 
 him if we’re delayed over the time, I’ll lodge a complaint with 
 the postmaster.” 
 
 John touched his hat, and set off to obey his master’s 
 orders with the taciturn obedience of an English servant. 
 
 In the mean time the Englishman got out of the carriage, 
 and walked up and down before the inn, with his hands in his 
 pockets, taking no notice of the crowd of idlers who were 
 gazing at him and his equipage. He was tall, stout, and well 
 made; dressed with neatness and precision; wore a travelling 
 cap of the color of gingerbread ; and had rather an unhappy 
 expression about the corners of his mouth: partly from not 
 having yet made his dinner, and partly from not having been 
 able to get on at a greater rate than seven miles an hour. 
 Not that he had any other cause for haste than an English- 
 man’s usual hurry to get to the end of a journey ; or, to use 
 the regular phrase, “ to get on.” Perhaps, too, he was a little 
 sore from having been fleeced at every stage. 
 
 After some time, the servant returned from the stable with 
 a look of some perplexity. 
 
 “ Are the horses ready, John?” 
 
 “No, sir—I never saw sucha place. There’s no getting 
 any thing done. I think your honor had better step into 
 
THE INN AT TERRACINA. 281 
 
 the house and get something to eat; it will be a long while 
 before we get to Fundy.” 
 
 “D—n the house—it’s a mere trick—lI’ll not eat any 
 thing, just to spite them,” said the Englishman, still more 
 crusty at the prospect of being so long without his dinner. 
 
 “They say your honor’s very wrong,” said John, “ to set 
 off at this late hour. The road’s full of highwaymen.” 
 
 “ Mere tales to get custom.” 
 
 “The estafette which passed us was stopped by a whole 
 gang,” said John, increasing his emphasis with each additional 
 piece of information. 
 
 “JT don’t believe a word of it.” 
 
 “They robbed him of his breeches,” said John, giving at 
 the same time a hitch to his own waistband. 
 
 “ All humbug!” 
 
 Here the dark handsome young man stepped forward, and 
 addressing the Englishman very politely, in broken English, 
 invited him to partake of a repast he was about to make. 
 
 “Thank’ee,’ said the Englishman, thrusting his hands 
 deeper into his pockets, and casting a slight side-glance of 
 suspicion at the young man, as if he thought, from his civility, 
 he must have a design upon his purse. 
 
 “ We shall be most happy, if you will do us the favor,” 
 said the lady in her soft Venetian dialect. There was a sweet- 
 ness in her accents that was most persuasive. The English- 
 man cast a look upon her countenance; her beauty was still 
 more eloquent. His features instantly relaxed. He made a 
 polite bow. “ With great pleasure, Signora,” said he. 
 
 In short, the eagerness to “get on” was suddenly slack- 
 
 ened; the determination to famish himself as far as Fondi, by 
 
282 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 way of punishing the landlord, was abandoned; John chose 
 an apartment in the inn for his master’s reception; and prepa- 
 rations were made to remain there until morning. 
 
 The carriage was unpacked of such of its contents as were 
 indispensable for the night. There was the usual parade of 
 trunks and writing-desks, and portfolios and dressing-boxes, 
 and those other oppressive conveniences which burden a com- 
 fortable man. The observant loiterers about the inn-door, 
 wrapped up in great dirt-colored cloaks, with only a hawk’s- 
 eye uncovered, made many remarks to each other on this 
 quantity of luggage that seemed enough for an army. The 
 domestics of the inn talked with wonder of the splendid dress- 
 ing-case, with its gold and silver furniture, that was spread out 
 on the toilet-table, and the bag of gold that chincked as it was 
 taken out of the trunk. The strange A/lor’s wealth, and the 
 greasures he carried about him, were the talk, that evening, 
 over all Terracina. 
 
 The Englishman took some time to make his ablutions 
 and arrange his dress for table; and, after considerable labor 
 and effort in putting himself at his ease, made his appearance, 
 with stiff white cravat, his clothes free from the least speck of 
 dust, and adjusted with precision. He made a civil bow on 
 entering in the unprofessing English way, which the fair 
 Venetian, accustomed to the complimentary salutations of the 
 continent, considered extremely cold. 
 
 The supper, as it was termed by the Italian, or dinner, as 
 the Englishman called it, was now served: heaven and earth, 
 and the waters under the earth, had been moved to furnish it ; 
 for there were birds of the air, and beasts of the field, and fish 
 of the sea. The Englishman’s servant, too, had turned the 
 
THE INN AT TERRACINA. 283 
 
 kitchen topsy-turvy in his zeal to cook his master a beefsteak ; 
 and made his appearance, loaded with ketchup, and soy, and 
 Cayenne pepper, and Harvey sauce, and a bottle of port wine, 
 from that warehouse, the carriage, in which his master seemed 
 desirous of carrying England about the world with him.  In- 
 deed the repast was one of those Italian farragoes which re- 
 quire a little qualifying. The tureen of soup was a black sea, 
 with livers, and limbs, and fragments of all kinds of birds, and 
 beasts floating like wrecks about it. A meagre-winged 
 animal, which my host called a delicate chicken, had evidently 
 died of a consumption. The macaroni was smoked. The 
 beefsteak was tough.buffalo’s flesh. There was what appeared 
 to be a dish of stewed eels, of which the Englishman ate with 
 great relish; but had nearly refunded them when told that 
 they were vipers, caught among the rocks of Terracina, and 
 esteemed a great delicacy. 
 
 Nothing, however, conquers a traveller’s spleen sooner 
 than eating, whatever may be the cookery; and nothing 
 brings him into good humor with his company sooner than 
 eating together; the Englishman, therefore, had not half 
 finished his repast and his bottle, before he began to think the 
 Venetian a very tolerable fellow for a foreigner, and his wife 
 almost handsome enough to be an Englishwoman. 
 
 In the course of the repast, the usual topics of travellers 
 were discussed, and among others, the reports of robbers, 
 which harassed the mind of the fair Venetian. The landlord 
 and waiter dipped into the conversation with that familiarity 
 permitted on the continent, and. served up so many bloody 
 tales as they served up the dishes, that they almost frightened 
 away the poor lady’s appetite. The Englishman, who had a 
 
284 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 national antipathy to every thing technically called “humbug,” 
 listened to them all with a certain screw of the mouth, expres- 
 sive of incredulity. There was the well-known story of the 
 school of Terracina, captured by the robbers; and one of the 
 scholars cruelly massacred, in order to bring the parents to 
 terms for the ransom of the rest. And another, of a gentleman 
 of Rome, who received his son’s.ear in a letter, with informa- 
 tion, that his son would be remitted to him in this way, by in- 
 stalments, until he paid the required ransom. 
 
 The fair Venetian shuddered as she heard these tales; and 
 the landlord, like a true narrator of the terrible, doubled the 
 dose when he saw how it operated. He was just proceeding 
 to relate the misfortunes of a great English lord and his 
 family, when the Englishman, tired of his volubility inter- 
 rupted him, and pronounced these accounts to be mere travel- 
 lers’ tales, or the exaggerations of ignorant peasants, and de- 
 signing innkeepers. The landlord was indignant at the doubt 
 levelled at his stories, and the innuendo levelled at his cloth; 
 he cited, in corroboration, half a dozen tales still more terrible. 
 
 “T don’t believe a word of them,” said the Englishman. 
 
 “ But the robbers have been tried and executed !” 
 
 “ All a farce!” 
 
 “ But their heads are stuck up along the road !” 
 
 “ Old skulls accumulated during a century.” 
 
 The landlord muttered to himself as he went out at the 
 door, “San Gennaro! quanto sono singolari questi Inglesi!” 
 
 A fresh hubbub outside of the inn announced the arrival 
 of more travellers; and, from the variety of voices, or rather 
 
 of clamors, the clattering of hoofs, the rattling of wheels, and 
 
THE INN AT TERRACINA. 285 
 
 the general uproar both within and without, the arrival 
 seemed to be numerous. 
 
 It was, in fact, the procaccio and its convoy; a kind of 
 caravan which sets out on certain days for the transportation 
 of merchandise, with an escort of soldiery to protect it from 
 the robbers. Travellers avail themselves of its protection, 
 and a long file of carriages generally accompany it. 
 
 A considerable time elapsed before either landlord or 
 waiter returned; being hurried hither and thither by that 
 tempest of noise and bustle, which takes place in an Italian inn 
 on the arrival of any considerable accession of custom. 
 When mine host reappeared, there was a smile of triumph on 
 his countenance. 
 
 “ Perhaps,” said he, as he cleared the table; “ perhaps 
 the signor has not heard of what has happened ?” 
 
 “What?” said the Englishman, dryly. 
 
 “ Why, the procaccio has brought accounts of fresh ex- 
 ploits of the robbers.” 
 
 Bish 17? 
 
 “There’s more news of the English Milor and his family,” 
 said the host exultingly. 
 
 “ An English lord? What English lord?” 
 
 “ Milor Popkin.” 
 
 “Lord Popkins? I never heard of such a title!” 
 
 “ O! sicuro a great nobleman, who passed through here 
 lately with mi ladi and her daughters. A magnifico, one of 
 the grand counsellors of London, an almanno !” 
 
 “ Almanno—almanno ?—tut—he means alderman.” 
 
 “ Sicuro—Aldermanno Popkin, and the Principessa Pop- 
 
286 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 kin, and the Signorine Popkin?” said mine host, triumph- 
 antly. 
 
 He now put himself into an attitude, and would “have 
 launched into a full detail, had he not been thwarted by the 
 Englishman, who seemed determined neither to credit nor in- 
 dulge him in his stories, but dryly motioned for him to clear 
 away the table. 
 
 An Italian tongue, however, is not easily checked; that of 
 mine host continued to wag with increasing volubility, as he 
 conveyed the relics of the past out of the room; and the last 
 that could be distinguished of his voice, as it died away along 
 the corridor, was the iteration of the favorite word, Popkin— 
 Popkin—Popkin—pop—pop—pop. 
 
 The arrival of the procaccio had, indeed, filled the house 
 with stories, as it had with guests. The Englishman and his 
 companions walked after supper up and down the large hall, 
 or common room of the inn, which ran through the centre of 
 the building. It was spacious and somewhat dirty, with tables 
 placed in various parts, at which groups of travellers were 
 seated ; while others strolled about, waiting, in famished im- 
 patience, for their evening’s meal. 
 
 It was a heterogeneous assemblage of people of all ranks 
 and countries, who had arrived in all kinds of vehicles. 
 Though distinct knots of travellers, yet the travelling to- 
 gether, under one common escort, had jumbled them into a 
 certain degree of companionship on the road ; besides, on the 
 continent travellers are always familiar, and nothing is more 
 motley than the groups which gather casually together in 
 sociable conversation in the public rooms of inns. 
 
 The formidable number, and formidable guard of the pro- 
 
THE INN AT TERRACINA. 287 
 
 eaccio had prevented any molestation from banditti; but 
 every party of travellers had its tale of wonder, and one car- 
 riage vied with another in its budget of assertions and sur- 
 mises. Fierce, whiskered faces had been seen peering over 
 the rocks; carbines and stilettos gleaming from among the 
 bushes; suspicious-looking fellows, with flapped hats, and 
 scowling eyes, had occasionally reconnoitered a straggling 
 carriage, but had disappeared on seeing the guard. 
 
 The fair Venetian listened to all these stories with 
 that avidity with which we always pamper any feeling of 
 alarm ; even the Englishman began to feel interested in the 
 common topic, desirous of getting more correct informa- 
 tion than mere flying reports. Conquering, therefore, that 
 shyness which is prone to keep an Englishman solitary in 
 crowds, he approached one of the talking groups, the oracle 
 of which was a tall, thin Italian, with long aquiline nose, a 
 high forehead, and lively prominent eye, beaming from under 
 a green velvet travelling-cap, with gold tassel. He was of 
 Rome, a surgeon by profession, a poet by choice, and some- 
 thing of an improvisatore. 
 
 In the present instance, however, he was talking in plain 
 prose, but holding forth with the fluency of one who talks 
 well, and likes to exert his talent. A question or two from 
 the [Englishman drew copious replies; for an Englishman 
 sociable among strangers is regarded as a phenomenon on the 
 continent, and always treated with attention for the rarity’s 
 sake. The improvisatore gave much the same account of the 
 banditti that I have already furnished. 
 
 “But why does not the police exert itself, and root them 
 
 out?” demanded the Englishman. 
 
288 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 “ Because the police is too weak, and the banditti are too 
 strong,” replied the other. “T'o root them out would be a 
 more difficult task than you imagine. They are connected 
 and almost identified with the mountain peasantry and the 
 people of the villages. ‘The numerous bands have an under- 
 standing with each other, and with the country round. A 
 gendarme cannot stir without their being aware of it. They 
 have their scouts every where, who lurk about towns, vil- 
 lages, and inns, mingle in every crowd, and pervade every 
 place of resort. I should not be surprised if some one should 
 be supervising us at this moment.” 
 
 The fair Venetian looked round fearfully, and turned pale. 
 
 Here the improvisatore was interrupted by a lively Nea- 
 politan lawyer. 
 
 “ By the way,” said he, “I recollect a little adventure of a 
 learned doctor, a frend of mine, which happened in this very 
 neighborhood; not far from the ruins of Theodric’s Castle, 
 which are on the top of those great rocky heights above the 
 town.” 
 
 A wish was, of course, expressed to hear the adventure of 
 the doctor, by all excepting the improvisatore, who, being fond 
 of talking and of hearing himself talk, and accustomed, more- 
 over, to harangue without interruption, looked rather an- 
 noyed at being checked when in full career. The Neapolitan, 
 however, took no notice of his chagrin, but related the follow- 
 
 ing anecdote. 
 
ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY. 
 
 M* friend, the Doctor, was a thorough antiquary ; a lit- 
 
 tle rusty, musty old fellow, always groping among ruins. 
 He relished a building as you Englishmen relish a cheese,— 
 the more mouldy and crumbling it was, the more it suited his 
 taste. A shell of an old nameless temple, or the cracked 
 walls of a broken-down amphitheatre, would throw him into 
 raptures; and he took more delight in these crusts and 
 cheese-parings of antiquity, than in the best-conditioned mod- 
 ern palaces. 
 
 He was a curious collector of coins also, and had just 
 gained an accession of wealth that almost turned his brain. 
 He had picked up, for instance, several Roman Consulars, 
 half a Roman As, two Punics, which had doubtless belonged 
 to the soldiers of Hannibal, having been found on the very 
 spot where they had encamped among the Apennines. He 
 had, moreover, one Samnite, struck after the Social War, and 
 a Philistis, a queen that never existed; but above all, he 
 valued himself upon a coin, indescribable to any but the 
 initiated in these matters, bearing a cross on one side, and a 
 
 pegasus on the other, and which, by some antiquarian logic, 
 
 13 
 
290 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 the little man adduced as an historical document, illustrating 
 the progress of Christianity. , 
 
 All these precious coins he carried about him in a 
 leathern purse, buried deep in a pocket of his little black 
 breeches. 
 
 The last maggot he had taken into his brain, was to hunt 
 after the ancient cities of the Pelasgi, which are said to exist 
 to this day among the mountains of the Abruzzi; but about 
 which a singular degree of obscurity prevails.* He had 
 
 *Among the many fond speculations of antiquaries is that of the exist- 
 ence of traces of the ancient Pelasgian cities in the Apennines; and 
 many a wistful eye is cast by the traveller, versed in antiquarian lore, 
 at the richly-wooded mountains of the Abruzzi, as a forbidden fairy land 
 of research. These spots, so beautiful, yet so inaccessible, from the 
 rudeness of their inhabitants and the hordes of banditti which infest 
 them, are aregion of fabletothe learned. Sometimesa wealthy virtuoso, 
 whose purse and whose consequence could command a military escort, 
 
 has penetrated to some individual point among the mountains; and 
 
 sometimes a wandering artist or student, under protection of poverty or 
 insignificance, has brought away some vague account, only calculated to 
 give a keener edge to curiosity and conjecture. 
 
 By those who maintain the existence of the Pelasgian cities, it is 
 affirmed that the formation of the different kingdoms in the Pelopon- 
 nesus gradually caused the expulsion thence of the Pelasgi; but that 
 their great migration may be dated from the finishing the wall around 
 Acropolis, and that at this period they came to Italy. To these, in the 
 spirit of theory, they would ascribe the introduction of the elegant arts 
 into the country. It is evident, however, that, as barbarians flying 
 before the first dawn of civilization, they could bring little with them 
 superior to the inventions of the aborigines, and nothing that would 
 have survived to the antiquarian through sucha lapse of ages. It would 
 appear more probable, that these cities, improperly termed Pelasgian, 
 were coeval with many that have been discovered. The romantic 
 Aricia, built by Hippolytus before the siege of Troy, and the poetic 
 Tibur, /usculate and Proenes, built by Telegonus after the dispersion 
 of the Greeks ;—these, lying contiguous to inhabited and cultivated spots, 
 have been discovered. There are others, too, on the ruins of which the 
 
THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY. 291 
 
 made many discoveries concerning them, and had recorded a 
 great many valuable notes and memorandums on the subject, 
 in a voluminous book, which he always carried about with 
 him ; either for the purpose of frequent reference, or through 
 fear lest the precious document should fall into the hands of 
 brother antiquaries. He had, therefore, a large pocket in the 
 skirt of his coat, where he bore about this inestimable tome, 
 banging against his rear as he walked. 
 
 Thus heavily laden with the spoils of antiquity, the good 
 little man, during a sojourn at Terracina, mounted one day 
 the rocky cliffs which overhang the town, to visit the castle of 
 Theodric, He was groping about the ruins towards the hour 
 of sunset, buried in his reflections, his wits no doubt wool- 
 gathering among the Goths and Romans, when he heard foot- 
 steps behind him. 
 
 He turned, and beheld five or six young fellows, of rough, 
 saucy demeanor, clad in a singular manner, half peasant, 
 half huntsman, with carbines in their hands. Their whole 
 appearance and carriage left him no doubt into what company 
 he had fallen. 
 
 The Doctor was a feeble little man, poor in look, and 
 poorer in purse. He had but little gold or silver to be 
 robbed of; but then he had his curious ancient coin in his 
 breeches pocket. He had, moreover, certain other valuables, 
 
 such as an old silver watch, thick as a turnip, with figures on 
 
 latter and more civilized Grecian colonists have ingrafted themselves, 
 and which have become known by their merits or their medals. But 
 that there are many still undiscovered, imbedded in the Abruzzi, it is the 
 delight of the antiquarians to fancy. Strange that such a virgin soil for 
 research, such an unknown realm of knowledge, should at this day re- 
 main in the very centre of hackneyed Italy! 
 
992 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 it large enough for a clock ; and a set of seals at the end of a 
 steel chain, dangling half way down to his knees. All these 
 were of precious esteem, being family relics. He had also a 
 seal ring, a veritable antique intaglio, that covered half his 
 knuckles. It was a Venus, which the old man almost wor- 
 shipped with the zeal of a voluptuary. But what he most 
 valued was his inestimable collection of hints relative to the 
 Pelasgian citics, which he would gladly have given all the 
 money in his pocket to have had safe at the bottom of his 
 trunk in Terracina. 
 
 However, he plucked up a stout heart, at least as stout a 
 heart as he could, seeing that he was but a puny little man at 
 the best of times. So he wished the hunters a “ buon 
 giorno.” ‘They returned his salutation, giving the old gentle- 
 man a sociable slap on the back that made his heart leap into 
 his throat. | 
 
 They fell into conversation, and walked for some time 
 together among the heights, the Doctor wishing them all the 
 while at the bottom of the crater of Vesuvius. At length 
 they came to a small osteria on the mountain, where they 
 proposed to enter and have a cup of wine together: the 
 Doctor consented, though he would as soon have been invited 
 to drink hemlock. 
 
 One of the gang remained sentinel at the door; the other 
 swaggered into the house, stood their guns in the corner of 
 the room, and each drawing a pistol or stiletto out of his belt, 
 laid it upon the table. They now drew benches round the 
 board, called lustily for wine, and, hailing the Doctor as 
 though he had been a boon companion of long standing, in- 
 
 sisted upon his sittmg down and making merry. 
 
THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY. 293 
 
 The worthy man complied with forced grimace, but with 
 fear and trembling; sitting uneasily on the edge of his chair ; 
 eyeing ruefully the black-muzzled pistols, and cold, naked 
 stilettos; and supping down heartburn with every drop of 
 liquor. His new comrades, however, pushed the bottle 
 bravely, and plied him vigorously. They sang, they laughed ; 
 told excellent stories of their robberies and combats, mingled 
 with many-ruffian jokes, and the little Doctor was fain to 
 laugh at all their cut-throat pleasantries, though his heart 
 was dying away at the very bottom of his bosom. 
 
 By their own account, they were young men from the 
 villages, who had recently taken up this line of life out of the 
 wild caprice of youth. They talked of their murderous 
 exploits as a sportsman talks of his amusements: to shoot 
 down a traveller seemed of little more consequence to them 
 than to shoot a hare. They spoke with rapture of the 
 glorious roving life they led, free as birds; here to-day, gone 
 to-morrow ; ranging the forests, climbing the rocks, scouring 
 the valleys; the world their own wherever they could lay 
 hold of it; full purses—merry companions—pretty women. 
 The little antiquary got fuddled with their talk and their 
 wine, for they did not spare bumpers. He half forgot 
 his fears, his seal-ring, and his family watch; even the 
 treatise on the Pelasgian cities, which was warming under 
 him, for a time faded from his memory in the glowing 
 picture that they drew. He declares that he no longer 
 wonders at the prevalence of this robber mania among the 
 mountains ; for he felt at the time, that, had he been a young 
 
 man, and a strong man, and had there been no danger of the 
 
294 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 galleys in the background, he should have been half tempted 
 himself to turn bandit. 
 
 At length the hour of separating arrived. The Doctor 
 was suddenly called to himself and his fears by seeing the 
 robbers resume their weapons. He now quaked for his 
 valuables, and, above all, for his antiquarian treatise. He 
 endeavored, however, to look cool and unconcerned ; and 
 drew from out his deep pocket a long, lank, leathern purse, 
 far gone in consumption, at the bottom of which a few coin 
 chinked with the trembling of his hand. 
 
 The chief of the party observed his movement, and laying 
 his hand upon the antiquary’s shoulder, “ Harkee! Signor 
 Dottore!” said he, “ we have drunk together as friends and 
 comrades; let us part as such. We understand you. We 
 know who and what you are, for we know who every body is 
 that sleeps at Terracina, or that puts foot upon the road. 
 You are arich man, but you carry all your wealth in your 
 head: we cannot get at it, and we should not know what to 
 do with it if we could. I see you are uneasy about your 
 ring; but don’t worry yourself, it is not worth taking; you 
 think it an antique, but it’s a counterfeit—a mere sham.” 
 
 Here the ire of the antiquary rose: the Doctor forgot 
 himself in his zeal for the character of his ring. Heaven and 
 earth! his Venus a sham! Had they pronounced the wife of 
 his bosom “no better than she should be,” he could not have 
 been more indignant. He fired up in vindication of his 
 intaglio, 
 
 ’ continued the robber, “ we have no time to 
 
 “ Nay, nay,’ 
 dispute about it; value it as you please. Come, you're a 
 
 brave little old signor—one more cup of wine, and we'll pay 
 
THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY. 995 
 
 the reckoning. No compliments—you shall not pay a grain 
 —you are our guest—lI insist upon it. So—now make the 
 best of your way back to Terracina; it’s growing late. 
 Buono viaggio! And harkee! take care how you wander 
 among these mountains,—you may not always fall into such 
 good company.” 
 
 They shouldered their guns; sprang gayly up the rocks ; 
 and the little Doctor hobbled back to Terracina, rejoicing 
 that the robbers had left his watch, his coins, and his treatise, 
 unmolested ; but still indignant that they should have pro- 
 
 nounced his Venus an impostor. 
 
 The improyisatore had shown many symptoms of impa- 
 tience during this recital. He saw his theme in danger of 
 being taken out of his hands, which to an able talker is 
 always a grievance, but to an improvisatore is an absolute 
 calamity : and then for it to be taken away by a Neapolitan 
 was still more vexatious; the inhabitants of the different 
 Italian states having an implacable jealousy of each other in 
 all things, great and small. He took advantage of the first 
 pause of the Neapolitan to catch hold again of the thread of 
 the conversation. 
 
 “As I observed before,” said he, “the prowlings of the 
 banditti are so extensive; they are so much in league with 
 
 one another, and so interwoven with various ranks of so- 
 
 99 
 
 ciety . 
 “or that matter,” said the Neapolitan, “I have heard 
 that your government has had some understanding with those 
 
 gentry ; or, at least, has winked at their misdeeds.” 
 
296 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 “ My government ?” said the Roman, impatiently. 
 
 “ Ay, they say that Cardinal Gonsalvi—” 
 
 “Hush!” said the Roman, holding up his finger, and 
 rolling his large eyes about the room. 
 
 “Nay, I only repeat what I heard commonly rumored in 
 Rome,” replied the Neapolitan, sturdily. “It was openly 
 said, that the cardinal had been up to the mountains and had 
 an interview with some of the chiefs. And I have been told, 
 moreover, that while honest people have been kicking their 
 heels in the cardinal’s antechamber, waiting by the hour for 
 admittance, one of those stiletto-looking fellows has elbowed 
 his way through the crowd, and entered without ceremony 
 into the cardinal’s presence.” 
 
 ’ observed the improvisatore, “ that there have 
 
 “T know,’ 
 been such reports, and it is not impossible that government 
 may have made use of these men at particular periods: such 
 as at the time of your late abortive revolution, when your 
 carbonari were so busy with their machinations all over the 
 country. The ‘information which such men could collect, who 
 were familiar, not merely with the recesses and secret places 
 of the mountains, but also with the dark and dangerous 
 recesses of society; who knew every suspicious character, 
 and all his movements and all his lurkings ; in-a word, who 
 knew all that was plotting in a world of mischief ;—the 
 utility of such men as instruments in the hands of government 
 was too obvious to be overlooked ; and Cardinal Gonsalvi, as 
 a politic statesman, may, perhaps, have made use of them: 
 Besides, he knew that, with all their atrocities, the robbers 
 were always respectful towards the church, and devout in 
 
 their religion.” 
 
THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY. 297 
 
 “ Religion! religion!’ echoed the Englishman. 
 
 “Yes, religion,’ repeated the Roman. “They have each 
 their patron saint. ‘They will cross themselves and say their 
 prayers, whenever, in their mountain haunts, they hear the 
 matin or the Ave-Maria bells sounding from the valleys; 
 and will often descend from their retreats, and run imminent 
 risks to visit some favorite shrine. I recollect an instance in 
 point. 
 
 “JT was one evening in the village of Frascati, which 
 stands on the beautiful brow of a hill rising from the 
 Campagna, just below the Abruzzi mountains. The people, as 
 is usual in fine evenings in our Italian towns and villages, 
 were recreating themselves in the open air, and chatting in 
 groups in the public square. While I was conversing with a 
 knot of friends, I noticed a tall fellow, wrapped in a great 
 mantle, passing across the square, but skulking along in the 
 dusk, as if anxious to avoid observation. The people drew 
 back as he passed. It was whispered to me that he was a 
 notorious bandit.” 
 
 “But why was he not immediately seized?” said the 
 Englishman. 
 
 “ Because it was nobody’s business; because nobody 
 wished to incur the vengeance of his comrades; because 
 there were not sufficient gendarmes near to insure security 
 against the number of desperadoes he might have at hand ; 
 because the gendarmes might not have received particular 
 instructions with respect to him, and might not feel disposed 
 to engage in a hazardous conflict without compulsion. In 
 short, I might give you a thousand reasons rising out of the 
 
 13* 
 
298 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 state of our government and manners, not one of which after 
 all might appear satisfactory.” 
 
 The Englishman shrugged his shoulders with an air of 
 contempt. 
 
 “JT have been told,” added the Roman, rather quickly, 
 “that even in your metropolis of London, notorious thieves, 
 well known to the police as such, walk the streets at noonday 
 in search of their prey, and are not molested unless caught in 
 the very act of robbery.” 
 
 The Englishman gave another shrug, but with a different 
 expression. | 
 
 “Well, sir, I fixed my eye on this daring wolf, thus 
 prowling through the fold, and saw him enter a church. I 
 was curious to witness his devotion. You know our spacious 
 magnificent churches. The one in which he entered was vast, 
 and shrouded in the dusk of evening. At the extremity of 
 the long aisles a couple of tapers feebly glimmered on the 
 grand altar. In one of the side chapels was a votive candle 
 placed before the image of a saint. Before this image the 
 robber had prostrated himself. is mantle partly falling off 
 from his shoulders as he knelt, revealed a form of Herculean 
 strength ; a stiletto and pistol glittered in nis belt; and the 
 light falling on his countenance, showed features not unhand- 
 some, but strongly and fiercely characterized. As he prayed, 
 he became vehemently agitated; his lips quivered; sighs and 
 
 murmurs, almost groans, burst from him ; he beat his breast 
 
 with violence ; then clasped his hands and wrung them con- 
 
 vulsively, as he extended them towards the image. Never 
 had I seen such a terrific picture of remorse. I felt fearful of 
 being discovered watching him, and withdrew. Shortly after- 
 
THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY. 299 
 
 wards, I saw him issue from the church wrapped in his 
 mantle. He re-crossed the square, and no doubt returned to 
 the mountains with a disburdened conscience, ready to incur 
 a fresh arrear of crime.” 
 
 Here the Neapolitan was about to get hold of the conver- 
 sation, and had just preluded with the ominous remark, 
 “That puts me in mind of a circumstance,” when the impro- 
 visatore, too adroit to suffer himself to be again superseded, 
 went on, pretending not to hear the interruption. 
 
 “ Among the many circumstances connected with the ban- 
 ditti, which serve to render the traveller uneasy and insecure, 
 is the understanding which they sometimes have with inn- 
 keepers. Many an isolated inn among the lonely parts of 
 the Roman territories, and especially about the mountains, 
 are of a dangerous and perfidious character. They are places 
 where the banditti gather information, and where the unwary 
 traveller, remote from hearing or assistance, is betrayed to 
 the midnight dagger. The robberies committed at such 
 inns are often accompanied by the most atrocious murders ; 
 for it is only by the complete extermination of their victims 
 that the assassins can escape detection. I recollect an adven- 
 ture,” added he, “ which occurred at one of these solitary 
 mountain inns, which, as you all seem in a mood for robber 
 anecdotes, may not be uninteresting.” 
 
 Having secured the attention and awakened the curiosity 
 of the by-standers, he paused for a moment, rolled up his 
 large eyes as improvisatori are apt to do when they would 
 recollect an impromptu, and then related with great dramatic 
 effect the following story, which had, doubtless, been well 
 prepared and digested beforehand. 
 
THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 
 
 T was late one evening that a carriage, drawn by mules, 
 slowly toiled its way up one of the passes of the Apen- 
 nines. It was through one of the wildest defiles, where a 
 hamlet ‘occurred only at distant intervals, perched on the 
 summit of some rocky height, or the white towers of a con- 
 vent peeped out from among the thick mountain foliage. 
 The carriage was of ancient and ponderous construction. Its 
 faded embellishments spoke of former splendor, but its crazy 
 springs and axle-trees creaked out the tale of present decline. 
 Within was seated a tall, thin old gentleman, in a kind of 
 military travelling dress, and a foraging cap trimmed with 
 fur, though the gray locks which stole from under it hinted 
 that his fighting days were over. Beside him was a pale, 
 beautiful girl of eighteen, dressed in something of a northern 
 or Polish costume. One servant was seated in front, a rusty, 
 crusty looking fellow, with a scar across his face, an orange- 
 tawny schnu7-bart or pair of mustaches, bristling from under 
 his nose, and altogether the air of an old soldier. 
 It was, in fact, the equipage of a Polish nobleman; a 
 wreck of one of those princely families once of almost orien- 
 tal magnificence, but broken down and impoverished by the 
 
THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 301 
 
 disasters of Poland. The Count, like many other generous 
 spirits, had been found guilty of the crime of patriotism, and 
 was, in a manner, an exile from his country. He had resided 
 for some time in the first cities of Italy, for the education of 
 his daughter, in whom all his cares and pleasures were now 
 centred. He had taken her into society, where her beauty 
 and her accomplishments gained her many. admirers; and 
 had she not been the daughter of a poor broken-down Polish 
 nobleman, it is more than probable many would have con- 
 tended for her hand. Suddenly, however, her health became 
 delicate and drooping ; her gayety fled with the roses of her 
 cheek, and she sank into silence and debility. The old Count 
 saw the change with the solicitude of a parent. “ We must 
 try a change of air and scene,” said he; and in a few days 
 the old family carriage was rumbling among the Apennines. 
 
 Their only attendant was the veteran Caspar, who had been 
 born in the family, and grown rusty in its service. He had 
 followed his master in all his fortunes; had fought by his 
 side; had stood over him when fallen in battle; and had 
 received, in his defence, the sabre-cut which added such grim- 
 ness to his countenance. He was now his valet, his steward, 
 his butler, his factotum. The only being that rivalled his 
 master in his affections was his youthful mistress. She had 
 grown up under his eye, he had led her by the hand when she 
 was a child, and he now looked upon her with the fondness of 
 a parent. Nay, he even took the freedom of a parent in 
 giving his blunt opinion on all matters which he thought 
 were for her good; and felt a parent’s vanity at seeing her 
 gazed at and admired. 
 
 The evening was thickening; they had been for some 
 13* 
 
302 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 time passing through narrow gorges of the mountains, along 
 the edges of a tumbling stream. The scenery was lonely and 
 savage. The rocks often beetled over the road, with flocks of 
 white goats browzing on their brinks, and gazing down upon 
 the travellers. They had between two or three leagues yet 
 to go before they could reach any village; yet the muleteer, 
 Pietro, a tippling old fellow, who had refreshed himself at the 
 last halting-place with a more than ordinary quantity of wine, 
 sat singing and talking alternately to his mules, and suffering 
 them to lag on at a snail’s pace, in spite of the frequent 
 entreaties of the Count and maledictions of Caspar. 
 
 The clouds began to roll in heavy masses along the moun- 
 tains, shrouding their summits from view. The air was 
 damp and chilly. The Count’s solicitude on his daughter’s 
 account overcame his usual patience. He leaned from the 
 carriage, and called to old Pietro in an angry tone: 
 
 “Forward!” said he. “It will be midnight before we 
 arrive at our inn.” 
 
 “Yonder it is, Signor,” said the muleteer. 
 
 “ Where ?”’ demanded the Count. 
 
 “ Yonder,” said Pietro, pointing to a desolate pile about 
 a quarter of a league distant. 
 
 “ That the place ?—why, it looks more like a ruin than an 
 inn. I thought we were to put up for the night at a comfort- 
 able village.” 
 
 Here Pietro uttered a string of piteous exclamations and 
 ejaculations, such as are ever at the tip of the tongue of a 
 delinquent muleteer. “Such roads! and such mountains! 
 and then his poor animals were way-worn, and leg-weary ; 
 
 they would fall lame; they would never be able to reach the — 
 
THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 3803 
 
 village. And then what could his Excellenza wish for better 
 
 than the inn; a perfect custella—a palazza 
 
 and such people! 
 —and such a larder !—and such beds !—His Excellenza 
 might fare as sumptuously, and sleep as soundly there as a 
 prince!” 
 
 The Count was easily persuaded, for he was anxious to 
 get his daughter out of the night air; so in a little while the 
 old carriage rattled and jingled into the great gateway of the 
 inn. 
 
 The building did certainly in some measure answer to 
 the muleteer’s description. It was large enough for either cas- 
 tle or palace; built in a strong, but simple and almost rude 
 style; with a great quantity of waste room. It had in fact 
 been, in former times, a hunting-seat of one of the Italian 
 princes. There was space enough within its walls and 
 out-buildings to have accommodated a little army. A 
 scanty household seemed now to people this dreary mansion. 
 The faces that presented themselves on the arrival of the 
 travellers were begrimed with dirt, and scowling in their ex- 
 pression. They all knew old Pietro, however, and gave him 
 a welcome as he entered, singing and talking, and almost 
 whooping, into the gateway. 
 
 The hostess of the inn waited, herself, on the Count and 
 his daughter, to show them the apartments. They were con- 
 ducted through a long gloomy corridor, and then through a 
 suite of chambers opening into each other, with lofty ceilings, 
 and great beams extending across them. Every thing, how- 
 ever, had a wretched, squalid look. The walls were damp 
 
 and bare, excepting that here and there hung some great 
 
304 ~ TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 painting, large enough for a chapel, and blackened out of all 
 
 distinction. 
 
 They chose two. bedrooms, one within another; the inner 
 
 one for the daughter. The bedsteads were massive and mis- 
 shapen ; but on examining the beds so vaunted by ‘old Pietro 
 they found them stuffed with fibres of hemp knotted in great 
 lumps. The Count shrugged his shoulders, but there was no 
 choice left. 
 
 The chilliness of the apartments crept to their bones; 
 and. they were glad to return to a common chamber or kind 
 of hall, where was a fire burning in a huge cavern, miscalled 
 a chimney. A quantity of green wood, just thrown on, 
 puffed out volumes of smoke. The room corresponded to 
 the rest of the mansion. The floor was paved and dirty. A 
 great oaken table stood in the centre, immovable from: its 
 size and weight. The only thing that contradicted this preva- 
 lent air of indigence was the dress of the hostess. She was a 
 slattern of course; yet her garments, though dirty and negli- 
 gent, were of costly materials. She wore several rings of 
 great value on her fingers, and jewels in her ears, and round 
 her neck was a string of large pearls, to which was attached 
 a sparkling crucifix. She had the remains of beauty, yet 
 there was something in the expression of her countenance 
 that inspired the young lady with singular aversion. She 
 was officious and obsequious in her attentions, and both the 
 Count and his daughter felt relieved, when she consigned them 
 to the care of a dark, sullen-looking servant-maid, and went 
 off to superintend the supper. 
 
 Caspar was indignant at the muleteer for having, either 
 
 through negligence or design, subjected his master and mis- 
 
THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 305 
 
 tress to such quarters ; and vowed by his mustaches to have 
 revenge on the old varlet the moment they were safe out 
 from among the mountains. He kept up a continual quarrel 
 with the sulky servant-maid, which only served to increase 
 the sinister expression with which she regarded the travellers, 
 from under her strong dark eyebrows. 
 
 As to the Count, he was a good-humored passive traveller. 
 Perhaps real misfortunes had subdued his spirit, and rendered 
 him tolerant of many of those petty evils which make pros- 
 perous men miserable. He drew a large broken arm-chair 
 to the fireside for his daughter, and another for himself, and 
 seizing an enormous pair of tongs, endeavored to rearrange 
 the wood so as to produce a blaze. His efforts, however, 
 were only repaid by thicker puffs of smoke, which almost 
 overcame the good gentleman’s patience. He would draw 
 back, cast a look upon his delicate daughter, then upon the 
 cheerless, squalid apartment, and, shrugging his shoulders, 
 would give a fresh stir to the fire. 
 
 Of all the miseries of a comfortless inn, however, there is 
 none greater than sulky attendance: the good Count for some 
 time bore the smoke in silence, rather than address himself 
 to the scowling servant-maid. At length he was compelled 
 to beg for drier firewood. The woman retired muttering. 
 On re-entering the room hastily, with an armful of fagots, 
 her foot slipped; she fell, and striking her head against the 
 corner of a chair, cut her temple severely. 
 
 The blow stunned her for a time, and the wound bled 
 profusely. When she recovered, she found the Count’s 
 daughter administering to her wound, and binding it up 
 
 with her own handkerchief. It was such an attention as any 
 
306 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 woman of ordinary feeling would have yielded; but perhaps 
 there was something in the appearance of the lovely being 
 who bent over her, or in the tones of her voice, that touched 
 the heart of the woman, unused to be administered to by such 
 hands. Certain it is, she was strongly affected. She caught 
 the delicate hand of the Polonaise, and pressed it fervently 
 to her lips: 
 
 “May San Francesco watch over you, Signora!” ex 
 claimed she. 
 
 A new arrival broke the stillness of the inn. It was a 
 Spanish princess with a numerous retinue. The court yard 
 was in an uproar; the house in a bustle. The landlady 
 hurried to attend such distinguished guests: and the poor 
 Count and his daughter, and their supper, were for a 
 moment forgotten. The veteran Caspar muttered Polish 
 maledictions enough to agonize an Italian ear; but it was 
 impossible to convince the hostess of the superiority of his 
 old master and young mistress to the whole nobility of 
 Spain. 
 
 The noise of the arrival had attracted the daughter to the 
 window just as the new comers had alighted. A young 
 cavalicr sprang out of the carriage and handed out the 
 Princess. The latter was a little shrivelled old lady, with a 
 face of parchment and sparkling black eye; she was richly 
 and gayly dressed, and walked with the assistance of a golden- 
 headed cane as high as herself. The young man was tall and 
 elegantly formed. The Count’s daughter shrank back at the 
 sight of him, though the deep frame of the window screened 
 her from observation. She gave a heavy sigh as she closed 
 
 the casement. What that sigh meant I cannot say. Perhaps 
 
THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 307 
 
 it was at the contrast between the splendid equipage of the 
 Princess, and the crazy rheumatic-looking old vehicle of her 
 father, which stood hard by. Whatever might be the rea- 
 son, the young lady closed the casement with a sigh. She 
 returned to her chair,—a slight shivering passed over her 
 delicate frame: she leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair, 
 rested her pale cheek in the palm of her hand, and looked 
 mournfully into the fire. 
 
 The Count thought she appeared paler than usual. 
 
 “ Does anything ail thee, my child?” said he. 
 
 “ Nothing, dear father!” replied she, laying her hand 
 within his, and looking up smiling in his face; but as she 
 said so, a treacherous tear rose suddenly to. her eye, and she 
 turned away her head. 
 
 “ The air of the window has chilled thee,” said the Count, 
 fondly, “ but a good night’s rest will make all well again.” 
 
 The supper table was at length laid, and the supper 
 about to be served, when the hostess appeared, with her usual 
 obsequiousness, apologizing for showing in the new-comers ; 
 but the night air was cold, and there was no other chamber 
 in the inn with a fire in it. She had scarcely made the 
 apology when the Princess entered, leaning on the arm of the 
 elegant young man. 
 
 The Count immediately recognized her for a lady whom 
 he had met frequently in society, both at Rome and Naples ; 
 and at whose conversaziones, in fact, he had been constantly 
 invited. The cavalier, too, was her nephew and heir, who 
 had been greatly admired in the gay circles both for his 
 merits and prospects, and who had once been on a visit at 
 
 the same time with his daughter and himself at the villa of 
 
308 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 a nobleman near Naples. Report had recently afhanced him 
 to a rich Spanish heiress. 
 
 The meeting was agreeable to both the Count and the 
 Princess. The former was a gentleman of the old school, 
 courteous in the extreme; the Princess had been a belle in 
 her youth, and a woman of fashion all her life, and liked to 
 be attended to. 
 
 The young man approached the daughter, and began some- 
 thing of a complimentary observation ; but his manner was 
 embarrassed, and his compliment ended in an indistinct mur- 
 mur; while the daughter bowed without looking up, moved 
 her lips without articulating a word, and sank again into her 
 chair, where she sat gazing into the fire, with a thousand 
 varying expressions passing over her countenance. 
 
 This singular greeting of the young people was not per- 
 ceived by the old ones, who were occupied at the time with 
 their own courteous salutations. It was arranged that they 
 should sup together; and as the Princess travelled with her 
 own cook, a very tolerable supper soon smoked upon the 
 board. ‘This, too, was assisted by choice wines, and liquors, 
 and delicate confitures brought from one of her carriages ; for 
 she was a veteran epicure, and curious in her relish for the good 
 things of this world. She was, in fact, a vivacious little old 
 lady, who mingled the woman of dissipation with the devotee. 
 She was actually on her way to Loretto to expiate a long life 
 of gallantries and peccadilloes by a rich offering at the holy 
 shrine. She was, to be sure, rather a luxurious penitent, and 
 a contrast to the primitive pilgrims, with scrip and staff, and 
 cockle-shell ; but then it would be unreasonable to expect 
 
 such self-denial from people of fashion; and there was not a 
 
 —. 
 
THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 309 
 
 doubt of the ample efficacy of the rich crucifixes, and golden 
 vessels, and jeweled ornaments, which she was bearing to the 
 treasury of the blessed Virgin. 
 
 The Princess and the Count chatted much during supper 
 about the scenes and society in which they had mingled, and 
 did not notice that they had all the conversation to them- 
 selves: the young people were silent and constrained. The 
 daughter ate nothing in spite of the politeness of the Princess, 
 who continually pressed her to taste of one or other of the 
 delicacies. The Count shook his head. 
 
 ” said he. “I thought she 
 
 “She is not well this evening, 
 would have fainted just now as she was looking out of the 
 window at your carriage on its arrival.” 
 
 A crimson glow flushed to the very temples of the 
 daughter ; but she leaned over her plate, and her tresses cast 
 a shade over her countanance. 
 
 When supper was over, they drew their chairs about the 
 great fire-place. The flame and smoke had subsided, and a 
 heap of glowing embers diffused a grateful warmth. A 
 guitar, which had been brought from the Count’s carriage, 
 leaned against the wall; the Princess perceived it: “Can we 
 not have a little music before parting for the night?” de- 
 manded she. | 
 
 The Count was proud of his daughter’s accomplishment, 
 and joined in the request.. The young man made an effort 
 of politeness, and taking up the guitar, presented it, though in 
 an embarrassed manner, to the fair musician. She would 
 have declined it, but was too much confused to do so; indeed, 
 she was so nervous and agitated, that she dared not trust her 
 
 voice to make an excuse. She touched the instrument with a 
 
310 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 faltering hand, and, after preluding a little, accompanied her- 
 self in several Polish airs. Her father’s eyes glistened as he 
 sat gazing on her. Even the crusty Caspar lingered in the 
 room, partly through a fondness for the music of his native 
 country, but chiefly through his pride in the musician. 
 Indeed the melody of the voice, and the delicacy of the touch, 
 were enough to have charmed more fastidious ears. The 
 little Princess nodded her head and tapped her hand to the 
 music, though exceedingly out of time; while the nephew sat 
 buried in profound contemplation of a black picture on the 
 opposite wall. 
 
 “And now,” said the Count, patting her cheek fondly, 
 “one more favor. Let the Princess hear that little Spanish 
 air you were so fond of. You can’t think,” added he, “ what 
 a proficiency she has made in your language ; though she has 
 been a sad girl and neglected it of late.” 
 
 The color flushed the pale cheek of the daughter. She 
 hesitated, murmured something; but with sudden effort, 
 collected herself} struck the guitar boldly, and began. It 
 was a Spanish romance, with something of love and melan- 
 choly in it. She gave the first stanza with great expression, 
 for the tremulous melting tones of her voice went to the 
 heart ; but her articulation failed, her lips quivered, the 
 song died away, and she burst into tears. 
 
 The Count folded her tenderly in his arms. “Thou art 
 not well my child,” said he, “ and I am tasking thee cruelly. 
 Retire to thy chamber, and God bless thee!” She bowed 
 to the company without raising her eyes, and glided out of 
 the room. . 
 
 The Count shook his head as the door closed. “Some- 
 
THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. Sit 
 
 thing is the matter with that child,” said he, “ which I cannot 
 divine. She has lost all health and spirits lately. She was 
 always a tender flower, and I had much pains to rear her. 
 Excuse a father’s foolishness,” continued he, “ but I have seen 
 much trouble in my family ; and this poor girl is all that is 
 
 now left to me; and she used to be so lively sa 
 
 “ Maybe she’s in love!” said the little Princess, with a 
 shrewd nod of the head. 
 
 “Impossible!” replied the good Count artlessly. ‘She 
 has never mentioned a word of such a thing to me.” 
 
 How little did the worthy gentleman dream of the 
 thousand cares, and griefs, and mighty love concerns which 
 agitate a virgin heart, and which a timid girl scarcely 
 breathes unto herself. 
 
 The nephew of the Princess rose abruptly and walked 
 about the room. 
 
 When she found herself alone in her chamber, the feelings 
 of the young lady, so long restrained, broke forth with vio- 
 lence. She opened the casement that the cool air might blow 
 upon her throbbing temples. Perhaps there was some little 
 pride or pique mingled with her emotions; though her gentle 
 nature did not seem calculated to harbor any such angry 
 inmate. 
 
 !” said she, with a sudden mantling 
 
 “He saw me weep 
 of the cheek, and a swelling of the throat,—‘ but no matter ! 
 —no matter!” 
 
 And so saying, she threw her white arm across the win- 
 dow frame, buried her face in them, and abandoned herself to 
 an agony of tears. She remained lost in a reverie, until the 
 
 sound of her father’s and Caspar’s voices in the adjoining 
 
$12 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 room gave token that the party had retired for the night. 
 The lights gleaming from window to window, showed that 
 they were conducting the Princess to her apartments, which 
 were in the opposite wing of the inn; and she distinctly saw 
 the figure of the nephew as he passed one of the easements. 
 
 She heaved a deep heart-drawn sigh, and was about to 
 close the lattice, when her attention was caught by words 
 spoken below her window by two persons who had just 
 turned an angle of the building. 
 
 “But what will become of the poor young lady ?” said a 
 voice, which she recognized for that of the servant-woman. 
 
 “Pooh! she must take her chance,” was the reply from 
 old Pietro. 
 
 “But cannot she be spared?” asked the other entreat- 
 ingly ; “she’s so kind-hearted !” 
 
 “Cospetto! what has got into thee?” replied the other 
 petulantly : “ would you mar the whole business for the sake 
 of a silly girl?” By this time they had got so far from the 
 window that the Polonaise could hear nothing further. There 
 was something in this fragment of conversation calculated to 
 
 alarm. Did it relate to herself ?—and if so, what was this 
 
 impending danger from which it was entreated that she might 
 be spared? She was several times on the point of tapping 
 at her father’s door, to tell him what she had heard, but she 
 might have been mistaken; she might have heard indis- 
 tinctly ; the conversation might have alluded to some one 
 else; at any rate, it was too indefinite to lead to any conclu- 
 sion. While in this state of irresolution, she was startled 
 by a low knock against the waincost in a remote part of her 
 gloomy chamber. On holding up the light, she beheld a 
 
THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 3138 
 
 small door there, which she had not before remarked. It 
 was bolted on the inside. She advanced, and demanded who 
 knocked, and was answered in a voice of the female domestic. 
 On opening the door, the woman stood before it pale and 
 agitated. She entered softly, laying her finger on her lips as 
 in sign of caution and secrecy. 
 
 “Fly!” said she: “leave this house instantly, or you 
 are lost!” 
 
 The young lady trembling with alarm, demanded an ex- 
 planation. 
 
 ’ replied the woman, “I dare not—I 
 
 “T have no time,’ 
 shall be missed if I linger here—but fly instantly, or you are 
 lost.” 
 
 “ And leave my father 2?” 
 
 “ Where is he ?” 
 
 “Tn the adjoining chamber.” 
 
 “ Call him, then, but lose no time.” 
 
 The young lady knocked at her father’s door. He was 
 not yet retired to bed. She hurried into his room, and told 
 him of the fearful warnings she had received. The Count re- 
 turned with her into the chamber, followed by Caspar. His 
 questions soon drew the truth out of the embarrassed answers 
 of the woman. The inn was beset by robbers. They were 
 to be introduced after midnight, when the attendants of the 
 Princess and the rest of the travellers were sleeping, and 
 would be an easy prey. 
 
 “ But we can barricade the inn, we can defend ourselves,” 
 said the Count. 
 
 “What! when the people of the inn are in league with 
 the banditti ?” 
 
 14 
 
314 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 “ How then are we to escape? Can we not order out 
 the carriage and depart ?”’ 
 
 “San Francesco! for what? to give the alarm that the 
 plot is discovered? That would make the robbers desperate, 
 and bring them on you at once. They have had notice of 
 the rich booty in the inn, and will not easily let it escape 
 them.” 
 
 “ But how else are we to get off?” 
 
 “There is a horse behind the inn,” said the woman, “ from 
 which the man has just dismounted who has been to summon 
 the aid of part of the band at a distance.” 
 
 “ One horse; and there are three of us!”’ said the Count. 
 
 “And the Spanish Princess!” cried the daughter anx- 
 iously—* How can she be extricated from the danger ?” 
 
 “ Diavolo! what is she to me?” said the woman in 
 sudden passion. “It is you I come to save, and you will 
 betray me, and we shall all be lost! Hark!” continued she, “I 
 am called—I shall be discovered—one word more. This door 
 leads by a staircase to the courtyard. Under the shed, in the 
 rear of the yard, is a small door leading out to the fields. 
 You will find a horse there; mount it; make a circuit under 
 the shadow of a ridge of rocks that you will see; proceed 
 cautiously and quietly until you cross a brook, and find your- 
 self on the road just where there are three white crosses 
 nailed against a tree; then put your horse to his speed, and 
 make the best of your way to the village—but recollect, my 
 life is in your hands—say nothing of what you haye heard or 
 seen, whatever may happen at this inn.” 
 
 The woman hurried away.. A short and agitated consul- 
 tation took place between the Count, his daughter, and the 
 
THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. B15 
 
 veteran Caspar. The young lady seemed to have lost all 
 apprehension for herself in her solicitude for the safety of 
 the Princess. “To fly in selfish silence, and leave her to be 
 massacred !”—-A shuddering seized her at the very thought. 
 The gallantry of the Count, too, revolted at the idea. He 
 could not consent to turn his back upon a party of helpless 
 travellers, and leave them in ignorance of the danger which 
 hung over them. | 
 
 “But what is to become of the young lady,” said Caspar, 
 “if the alarm is given, and the inn thrown in a tumult? 
 What may happen to her in a chance-medley affray ?” 
 
 Here the feelings of the father were aroused; he looked 
 upon his lovely, helpless child, and trembled at the chance 
 of her falling into the hands of ruffians. 
 
 The daughter, however, thought nothing of herself. ‘“ The 
 Princess ! the Princess !—only let the Princess know her 
 danger.” She was willing to share it with her. 
 
 At length Caspar interfered with the zeal of a faithful old 
 servant. No time was to be lost—the first thing was to get 
 the young lady out-of danger. “ Mount the horse,” said he 
 to the Count, “take her behind you, and fly! Make for the 
 village, rouse the inhabitants, and send assistance. Leave 
 me here to give the alarm to the Princess and her people. 
 I am an old soldier, and I think we shall be able to stand 
 siege until you send us aid.” 
 
 The daughter would again have insisted on staying with 
 the Princess— 
 
 “For what?” said old Caspar bluntly. “You could do 
 no good—you would be in the way ;—we should have to take 
 
 care of you instead of ourselves.” 
 
316 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 There was no answering these objections ; the Count seized 
 his pistols, and taking his daughter under his arm, moved 
 towards the staircase. The young lady paused, stepped back, 
 
 and said, faltering with agitation—“ There is a young cavalier 
 
 with the Princess—her nephew—perhaps he may—” 
 
 “T understand you, Mademoiselle,’ replied old Caspar 
 with a significant nod; “not a hair of his head shall suffer 
 harm if I can help it.” 
 
 The young lady blushed deeper than ever; she had not 
 anticipated being so thoroughly understood by the blunt old 
 servant. 
 
 “That is not what I mean,” said she, hesitating. She 
 would have added something, or made some explanation, but 
 the moments were precious, and her father hurried her away. 
 
 They found their way through the courtyard to the small 
 postern gate where the horse stood, fastened to a ring in the 
 wall. The Count mounted, took his daughter behind him, 
 and they proceeded as quietly as possible in the direction 
 which the woman had pointed out. Many a fearful and anx- 
 ious look did the daughter cast back upon the gloomy pile; 
 the lights which had feebly twinkled through the dusky case- 
 ments were one by one disappearing, a sign that the inmates 
 were gradually sinking to repose; and she trembled with im- 
 patience, lest succor should not arrive until that repose had 
 been fatally interrupted. 
 
 They passed silently and safely along the skirts of the 
 rocks, protected from observation by their overhanging shad- 
 ows. ‘They crossed the brook, and reached the place where 
 three white crosses nailed against a tree told of some murder 
 that had been committed there. Just as they had reached this 
 
THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 317 
 
 ill-omened spot they beheld several men in the gloom coming 
 down a craggy defile among the rocks. 
 
 “ Who goes there?” exclaimed a voice. The Count put 
 spurs to his horse, but one of the men sprang forward and 
 seized the bridle. The horse started back, and reared, and 
 had not the young lady clung to her father, she would have 
 been thrown off. The Count leaned forward, put a pistol to 
 the very head of the ruffian, and fired. The latter fell dead. 
 The horse sprang forward. Two or three shots were fired 
 which whistled by the fugitives, but only served to augment 
 their speed. They reached the village in safety. 
 
 The whole place was soon roused; but such was the awe 
 in which the banditti were held, that the inhabitants shrunk at 
 the idea of encountering them. A desperate band had for 
 some time infested that pass through the mountains, and the 
 inn had long been suspected of being one of those horrible 
 places where the unsuspicious wayfarer is entrapped and 
 silently disposed of. The rich ornaments worn by the slat- 
 tern hostess of the inn had excited heavy suspicions. Several 
 instances had occurred of small parties of travellers disappear- 
 ing mysteriously on that road, who, it was supposed at first, 
 had been carried off by the robbers for the purpose of ransom, 
 but who had never been heard of more. Such were the tales 
 buzzed in the ears of the Count by the villagers, as he en- 
 deavored to rouse them to the rescue of the Princess and her 
 train from their perilous situation. The daughter seconded 
 the exertions of her father with all the eloquence of prayers, 
 and tears, and beauty. Every moment that elapsed increased 
 her anxiety until it became agonizing. Fortunately there 
 was a body of gendarmes resting at the village. A number 
 
318 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 of the young villagers. volunteered to accompany them, and 
 the little army was put in motion. The Count having de- 
 posited his daughter in a place of safety, was too much of the 
 old soldier not to hasten to the scene of danger. It would be 
 difficult to paint the anxious agitation of the young lady while 
 awaiting the result. 
 
 The party arrived at the inn just in time. The robbers, 
 finding their plans discovered, and the travellers prepared for 
 their reception, had become open and furious in their attack. 
 The Princess’s party had barricaded themselves in one suite 
 of apartments, and repulsed the robbers from the doors and 
 windows. Caspar had shown the generalship of a veteran, 
 and the nephew of the Princess, the dashing valor of a young 
 - soldier. Their ammunition, however, was nearly exhausted, 
 and they would have found it difficult to hold out much 
 longer, when a discharge from the musketry of the gendarmes 
 gave them the joyful tidings of succor. 
 
 A fierce fight ensued, for part of the robbers were sur- 
 prised in the inn, and had to stand siege in their turn; while 
 their comrades made desperate attempts to relieve them from 
 under cover of the neighboring rocks and thickets. 
 
 I cannot pretend to give a minute account of the fight, as 
 I have heard it related in a variety of ways. Suffice it to say, 
 the robbers were defeated ; several of them killed, and several 
 taken prisoners ; which last, together with the people of the 
 inn, were either executed or sent to the galleys. 
 
 I picked up these particulars in the course of a journey 
 which I made some time after the event had taken place. I 
 passed by the very inn. It was then dismantled, excepting 
 one wing, in which a body of gendarmes was stationed. They 
 
 —— 
 
THE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 319 
 
 pointed out to me the shot-holes in the window-frames, the 
 walls, and the panels of the doors. There were a number of 
 withered limbs dangling from the branches of a neighboring 
 tree, and blackening in the air, which I was told were the 
 limbs of the robbers who had been slain, and the culprits 
 who had been executed. The whole place had a dismal, wild, 
 forlorn look. 
 
 _ “ Were any of the Princess’s party killed ?” inquired the 
 Englishman. 
 
 “ As far as I can recollect, there were two or three.” 
 
 “ Not the nephew, I trust ?” said the fair Venetian. 
 
 “Oh no: he hastened with the Count to relieve the anx- 
 iety of the daughter by the assurances of victory. The 
 young lady had been sustained through the interval of sus- 
 pense by the very intensity of her feelings. The moment she 
 saw her father returning in safety, accompanied by the nephew 
 of the Princess, she uttered a ery of rapture, and fainted. 
 Happily, however, she soon recovered, and what is more, was 
 married shortly afterwards to the young cavalier, and the 
 whole party accompanied the old Princess in her pilgrimage 
 to Loretto, where her votive offerings may still be seen in the 
 
 treasury of the Santa Casa.” 
 
 Jt would be tedious to follow the devious course of the 
 conversation as it wound through a maze of stories of the 
 kind, until it was taken up by two other travellers who had 
 come under convoy of the procaccio: Mr. Hobbs and Mr. 
 
 Dobbs, a linen-draper and a green-grocer, just returning from 
 
320 TALES OF A TRAVELLER.’ 
 
 a hasty tour in Greece and the Holy Land. They were full 
 of the story of Alderman Popkins. They were astonished 
 that the robbers should dare to molest a man of his impor- 
 tance on ’Change, he being an eminent dry-salter of Throg- 
 morton-street, and a magistrate to boot. 
 
 In fact, the story of the Popkins family was but too true. 
 It was attested by too many present to be for a moment 
 doubted; and from the contradictory and concordant testi- 
 mony of half a score, all eager to relate it, and all talking at 
 the same time, the Englishman was enabled to gather the 
 
 following particulars, 
 
 ~. ALORA & MHORENS So. 
 
ADVENTURE OF THE POPKINS FAMILY. 
 
 T was but a few days before, that the carriage of Alderman 
 Popkins had driven up to the inn of Terracina. Those 
 who have seen an English family-carriage on the continent 
 must have remarked the sensation it produces. It is an 
 epitome of England; a little morsel of the old Island rolling 
 about the world. Every thing about it compact, snug, fin- 
 ished, and fitting. The wheels turning on patent axles without 
 rattling ; the body, hanging so well on its springs, yielding 
 to every motion, yet protecting from every shock ; the ruddy 
 faces gaping from the windows—sometimes of a portly old 
 citizen, sometimes of a voluminous dowager, and sometimes 
 of a fine fresh hoyden just from boarding-school. And then 
 the dickeys loaded with well-dressed servants beef-fed and 
 bluff; looking down from their heights with contempt on all 
 the world around; profoundly ignorant of the country and 
 the people, and devoutly certain that every thing not English 
 must be wrong. 
 Such was the carriage of Alderman Popkins as it made 
 its appearance at Terracina. The courier who had preceded 
 it to order horses, and who was a Neapolitan, had given a 
 
 magnificent account of the richness and greatness of his mas- 
 14* 
 
322 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 ter; blundering with an Italian’s splendor of imagination 
 about the Alderman’s titles and dignities. The host had 
 added his usual share of exaggeration; so that by the time 
 the Alderman drove up to the door, he was a Milor—Mag- 
 nifico—Pincipe—the Lord knows what ! 
 
 The Alderman was advised to take an escort to Fondi and 
 Itri, but he refused. It was as much as a man’s life was 
 worth, he said, to stop him on the king’s highway : he would 
 complain of it to the ambassador at Naples; he would make 
 a national affair of it. The Principessa Popkins, a fresh, 
 motherly dame, seemed perfectly secure in the protection of 
 her husband, so omnipotent a man in the city. The Sig- 
 norines Popkins, two fine bouncing girls, looked to their 
 brother Tom, who had taken lessons in boxing; and as to 
 the dandy himself, he swore no scaramouch of an Italian 
 robber would dare to meddle with an Englishman. The 
 landlord shrugged his shoulders, and turned out the palms of 
 his hands with a true Italian grimace, and the carriage of 
 Milor Popkins rolled on. 
 
 They passed through several very suspicious places with- 
 out any molestation. The Misses Popkins, who were very 
 romantic, and had learnt to draw in water-colors, were en- 
 chanted with the savage scenery around; it was so like what 
 they had read in’ Mrs. Radcliff’s romances ; they should like, 
 of all things, to make sketches. At length the carriage ar- 
 rived at a place where the road wound up a long hill. Mrs. 
 Popkins had sunk into a sleep; the young ladies were lost in 
 the “ Loves of the Angels ;” and the dandy was hectoring 
 the postilions from the coach-box. The Alderman got out, as 
 
 he said, to stretch his legs up the hill. It was a long, wind- 
 
THE POPKINS FAMILY. 323 
 
 ing ascent, and obliged him every now and then to stop and 
 blow and wipe his forehead, with many a pish! and phew! 
 being rather pursy and short of wind. As the carriage, how- 
 ever was far behind him, and moved slowly under the weight 
 of so many well-stuffed trunks, and well-stuffed travellers, he 
 had pleaty of time to walk at leisure. 
 
 On a jutting point of a rock that overhung the road, nearly 
 at the summit of the hill, just where the road began again to 
 descend, he saw a solitary man seated, who appeared to be 
 tending goats. Alderman Popkins was one of your shrewd 
 travellers who always like to be picking up small information 
 along the road; so he thought he’d just scramble up to the 
 honest man, and have a little talk with him by way of learn- 
 ing the news and getting a lesson in Italian. As he drew 
 near to the peasant, he did not half like his looks. He was 
 partly reclining on the rocks, wrapped in the usual long man- 
 tle, which, with his slouched hat, only left a part of a swarthy 
 visage, with a keen black eye, a beetle brow, and a fierce mus- 
 tache to be seen. He had whistled several times to his dog, 
 which was roving about the side of the hill. As the Alderman 
 approached, He arose and greeted him. When standing erect, 
 he seemed almost gigantic, at least in the eyes of Alderman 
 Popkins, who, however, being a short man, might be deceived. 
 
 The latter would gladly now have been back in the car- 
 riage, or even on ’Change in London; for he was by no 
 means well-pleased with his company. However, he deter- 
 mined to put the best face on matters, and was beginning a 
 conversation about the state of the weather, the baddishness of 
 the crops, and the price of goats in that part of the country, 
 when he heard a violent screaming. He ran to the edge of 
 
324 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 the rock, and looking over, beheld his carriage surrounded by 
 robbers. One held down the fat footman, another had the 
 dandy by his starched cravat, with a pistol to his head; one 
 was rummaging a portmanteau, another rummaging the 
 Principessa’s pockets; while the two Misses Popkins were 
 screaming from each window of the carriage, and their waiting- 
 maid squalling from the dickey. 
 
 Alderman Popkins felt all the ire of the parent and the 
 magistrate roused within him. He grasped his cane, and was 
 on the point of scrambling down the rocks either to assault 
 the robbers or to read the riot act, when he was suddenly 
 seized by the arm. It was by his friend the goatherd, whose 
 cloak falling open, discovered a belt stuck full of pistols and 
 stilettos. In short, he found himself in the clutches of the 
 captain of the band, who had stationed himself on the rock to 
 look out for travellers and to give notice to his men. 
 
 A sad ransacking took place. Trunks were turned inside 
 out, and all the finery and frippery of the Popkins family 
 scattered about the road. Such a chaos of Venice beads and 
 Roman mosaics, and Paris bonnets of the young ladies, min- 
 gled with the Alderman’s nightcaps and lambs’-wool stock- 
 ings, and the dandy’s hair-brushes, stays, and starched cravats. 
 
 The gentlemen were eased of their purses and their 
 watches, the ladies of their jewels; and the whole party 
 were on the point of being carried up into the mountain, 
 when fortunately the appearance of soldiers at a distance 
 obliged the robbers to make off with the spoils they had se- 
 cured, and leave the Popkins family to gather together the 
 remnants of their effects, and make the best of their way to 
 Fondi. 
 
THE POPKINS FAMILY. 325 
 
 When safe arrived, the Alderman made a terrible bluster- 
 ing at the inn; threatened to complain to the ambassador at 
 Naples, and was ready to shake his cane at the whole country. 
 The dandy had many stories to tell of his scuffles with the 
 brigands, who overpowered him merely by numbers. As to 
 the Misses Popkins, they were quite delighted with the ad- 
 venture, and were occupied the whole evening in writing it in 
 their journals. They declared the captain of the band to be 
 a most romantic-looking man, they dared to say some unfor- 
 tunate lover or exiled nobleman; and several of the band to 
 be very handsome young men—* quite picturesque ! ” 
 
 “In verity,” said mine host of Terracina, “they say the 
 captain of the band is un gallant uomo.” 
 
 “A gallant man!” said the Englishman indignantly : 
 “Td have your gallant man hanged like a dog!” 
 
 “To dare to meddle with Englishmen!” said Mr. Hobbs. 
 
 “ And such a family as the Popkinses!” said Mr. Dobbs. 
 
 “They ought to come upon the country for damages!” 
 said Mr. Hobbs. 
 
 “ Our ambassador should make a complaint to the govern- 
 ment of Naples,” said Mr. Dobbs. 
 
 “They should be obliged to drive these rascals out of the 
 country,” said Hobbs. 
 
 “And if they did not, we should declare war against 
 them,” said Dobbs. . 
 
 “ Pish !—humbug!” muttered the Englishman to him 
 self, and walked away. 
 
 The Englishman had been a little wearied by this story, 
 14* 
 
326 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 and by the ultra zeal of his countrymen, and was glad when 
 a summons to their supper relieved him from the crowd of 
 travellers. He walked out with his Venetian friends and a 
 young Frenchman of an interesting demeanor, who had be- 
 come sociable with them in the course of the conversation. 
 They directed their steps towards the sea, which was lit up 
 by the rising moon. 
 
 As they strolled along the beach they came to where a 
 party of soldiers were stationed in a circle. They were 
 guarding a number of galley slaves, who were permitted to 
 refresh themselves in the evening breeze, and sport and roll 
 upon the sand. 
 
 The Frenchman paused, and pointed to the group of 
 wretches at their sports. “It is difficult,” said he, “ to con- 
 ceive a more frightful mass of crime than is here collected. 
 Many of these have probably been robbers, such as you have 
 heard described. Such is, too often, the career of crime in 
 this country. The parricide, the fratricide, the infanticide, 
 the miscreant of every kind, first flies from. justice and turns 
 mountain bandit ; and then, when wearied of a life of danger, 
 becomes traitor to his brother desperadoes ; betrays them to 
 punishment, and thus buys a commutation of his own sentence 
 from death to the galleys; happy in the privilege of wallow- 
 ing on the shore an hour a day, in this mere state of animal 
 enjoyment.”’ | 
 
 The fair Venetian shuddered as she cast a look at. the 
 horde of wretches at their evening amusement.  “ They 
 seemed,” she said, “like so many serpents writhing to- 
 gether.” And yet the idea that some of them had been 
 robbers, those formidable beings that haunted her imagina- 
 
THE POPKINS FAMILY. $27 
 
 tion, made her still cast another fearful glance, as we con- 
 template some terrible beast of prey, with a degree of awe 
 and horror, even though caged and chained. 
 
 The conversation reverted to the tales of banditti which 
 they had heard at the inn. The Englishman condemned some 
 of them as fabrications, others as exaggerations. As to the 
 story of the improvisatore, he pronounced it a mere piece 
 of romance, originating in the heated brain of the narrator. 
 
 *¢ And yet,” said the Frenchman, “ there is so much ro- 
 mance about the real life of those beings, and about the sin- 
 gular country they infest, that it is hard to tell what to re- 
 ject on the ground of improbability. I have had an adven- 
 ture happen to myself which gave me an opportunity of 
 getting some insight into their manners and habits, which I 
 found altogether out of the common run of existence.” 
 
 There was an air of mingled frankness and modesty about 
 the Frenchman which had gained the good will of the whole 
 party, not even excepting the Englishman. They all eagerly 
 inquired after the particulars of the circumstances he al- 
 Iuded to, and as they strolled slowly up and down the sea- 
 shore, he related the following adventure. 
 
THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 
 
 AM an historical painter by profession, and resided for 
 
 some time in the family of a foreign Prince at his villa, 
 about fifteen miles from Rome, among some of the most in- 
 teresting scenery of Italy. It is situated on the heights of 
 ancient Tusculum. In its neighborhood are the ruins of the 
 villas of Cicero, Scylla, Lucullus, Rufinus, and other illus- 
 trious Romans, who sought refuge here occasionally from 
 their toils, in the bosom of a soft and luxurious repose. 
 From the midst of delightful bowers, refreshed by the pure 
 mountain breeze, the eye looks over a romantic landscape 
 full of poetical and historical associations. The Albanian 
 mountains ; Tivoli, once the favorite residence of Horace and 
 Meczenas ; the vast, deserted, melancholy Campagna, with the 
 Tiber winding through it, and St. Peter’s dome swelling in 
 the midst, the monument, as it were, over the grave of ancient 
 Rome. 
 
 I assisted the Prince in researches which he was making 
 among the classic ruins of his vicinity: his exertions were 
 highly successful. Many wrecks of admirable statues and 
 fragments of exquisite sculpture were dug up; monuments 
 of the taste and magnificence that reigned in the ancient Tus- 
 
THE PAINTERS ADVENTURE. 329 
 
 culan abodes. He had studded his villa and its grounds with 
 statues, relievos, vases, and sarcophagi, thus retrieved from 
 the bosom of the earth. 
 
 The mode of life pursued at the villa was delightfully 
 serene, diversified by interesting occupations and elegant 
 leisure. Every one passed the day according to his pleasure 
 or pursuits; and we all assembled in a cheerful dinner party 
 at sunset. 
 
 It was on the fourth of November, a beautiful serene day, 
 that we had assembled in the saloon at the sound of the first 
 dinner-bell. The family were surprised at the absence of the 
 Prince’s confessor. They waited for him in vain, and at length 
 placed themselves at table. They at first attributed his ab- 
 sence to his having prolonged his customary walk; and the 
 early part of the dinner passed without any uneasiness. 
 When the dessert was served, however, without his making 
 his appearance, they began to feel anxious. They feared he 
 might have been taken ill in some alley of the woods, or 
 might have fallen into the hands of robbers. Not far from 
 the villa, with the interval of a small valley, rose the moun- 
 tains of the Abruzzi, the strong-hold of banditti. Indeed, the 
 neighborhood had for some time past been infested by them ; 
 and Barbone, a notorious bandit chief, had often been met 
 prowling about the solitudes of Tusculum. The daring en- 
 terprises of these ruffians were well known: the objects of 
 their cupidity or vengeance were insecure even in palaces. 
 As yet they had respected the possessions of the Prince ; but 
 the idea of such dangerous spirits hovering about the neigh- 
 borhood was sufficient to occasion alarm. 
 
 The fears of the company increased as evening closed in. 
 
330 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 The Prince ordered out forest guards and domestics with 
 flambeaux to search for the confessor. They had not de- 
 
 parted long when a slight noise was heard in the corridor of 
 - the ground-floor. The family were dining on the first floor, » 
 and the remaining domestics were occupied in attendance. 
 There was no one on the ground-floor at this moment but the 
 housekeeper, the laundress, and three field laborers, who were 
 yesting themselves, and conversing with the women. 
 
 I heard the noise from below, and presuming it to be oce- 
 casioned by the return of the absentee, I left the table and 
 hastened down stairs, eager to gain intelligence that might 
 relieve the anxiety of the Prince and Princess. I had scarcely 
 reached the last step, when I beheld before me a man dressed 
 as a bandit; a carbine in his hand, and a stiletto and pistols 
 in his belt. His countenance had a mingled expression of 
 ferocity and trepidation: he sprang upon me, and exclaimed 
 exultingly, “ Ecco il principe ! ” 
 
 I saw at once into what hands I had fallen, but endeavored 
 to summon up coolness and presence of mind. A glance 
 towards the lower end of the corridor showed me several 
 ruffians, clothed and armed in the same manner with the one 
 who had seized me. They were guarding the two females 
 and the field laborers. The robber, who held me firmly by 
 the collar, demanded repeatedly whether or not I were the 
 Prince: his object evidently was to carry off the Prince, and 
 extort an immense ransom. He was enraged at receiving 
 none but vague replies, for I felt the importance of misleading 
 him. 
 
 A sudden thought struck me how I might extricate my- 
 
 self from his clutches. I was unarmed, it is true, but I was 
 
THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. sat 
 
 vigorous. His companions were at a distance. By a sudden 
 exertion I might wrest myself from him, and spring up the 
 staircase, whither he would not dare to follow me singly. 
 The idea was put in practice as soon as conceived. The 
 rufhian’s throat was bare; with my right hand I seized him by 
 it, with my left hand I grasped the arm which held the car- 
 bine. The suddenness of my attack took him completely 
 unawares, and the strangling nature of my grasp paralyzed 
 him. He choked and faltered. I felt his hand relaxing its 
 hold, and was on the point of jerking myself away, and dart- 
 ing up the staircase, before he could recover himself, when I 
 was suddenly seized by some one from behind. 
 
 I had to let go my grasp. The bandit, once released, fell 
 upon me with fury, and gave me several blows with the butt 
 end of his carbine, one of which wounded me severely in the 
 forehead and covered me with blood. He took advantage of 
 my being stunned to rifle me of my watch, and whatever 
 valuables I had about my person. 
 
 When I recovered from the effect of the blow, I heard the 
 voice of the chief of the banditti, who exclaimed—* Quello e 
 il principe; siamo contente; andiamo!” (It is the Prince; 
 enough ; let us be off.) The band immediately closed around 
 me and dragged me out of the palace, bearing off the three 
 laborers likewise. 
 
 I had no hat on, and the blood flowed from my wound ; 
 I managed to stanch it, however, with my pocket-handker- 
 chief, which I bound round my forehead. The captain of the 
 band conducted me in triumph, supposing me to be the Prince. 
 We had gone some distance before he learnt his mistake from 
 
 one of the laborers. His rage was terrible. It was too late 
 
352 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 to return to the villa and endeavor to retrieve his error, for 
 by this time the alarm must have been given, and every one in 
 arms. He darted at mea ferocious look—swore I had deceived 
 him, and caused him to miss his fortune—and told me to pre- 
 pare for death. The rest of the robbers were equally furious. 
 I saw their hands upon their poniards, and I knew that death 
 was seldom an empty threat with these rufhans. The laborers 
 saw the peril into which their information had betrayed me 
 and eagerly assured the captain that I was a man for whom the 
 Prince would pay a great ransom. This produced a pause. 
 For my part, I cannot say that I had been much dismayed by 
 their menaces. I mean not to make any boast of courage; 
 but I have been so schooled to hardship during the late reyo- 
 lutions ; and have beheld death around me in so many perilous 
 and disastrous scenes, that I have become in some measure 
 callous to its terrors. The frequent hazard of life makes a 
 man at length as reckless of it as a gambler of his money. 
 To their threat of death, I replied, “ that the sooner it was ex- 
 ecuted the better.” This reply seemed to astonish the captain ; 
 and the prospect of ransom held out by the laborers had, no 
 doubt, a still greater effect on him. He considered for a mo- 
 ment, assumed a calmer manner, and made a sign to his com- 
 panions, who had remained waiting for my death-warrant. 
 “Forward!” said he; “we will see about this matter by 
 and by!” 
 
 We descended rapidly towards the road of La Molara, 
 which leads to Rocca Priori. In the midst of this road is a 
 solitary inn. ‘The captain ordered the troop to halt at the dis- 
 tance of a pistol-shot from it, and enjoined profound silence. 
 
 He approached the threshold alone, with noiseless steps. He 
 
THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 333 
 
 “examined the outside of the door very narrowly, and then re- 
 turning precipitately, made a sign for the troop to continue its 
 march in silence. It has since been ascertained, that this was 
 one of those infamous inns which are the secret resorts of ban- 
 ditti. The innkeeper had an understanding with the captain 
 as he most probably had with the chiefs of the different bands. 
 When any of the patroles and gens-d’armes were quartered at 
 his house, the brigands were warned of it by a preconcerted 
 signal on the door; when there was no such signal, they might 
 enter with safety, and be sure of welcome. 
 
 After pursuing our road a little further, we struck off to- 
 wards the woody mountains which envelope Rocca Priori. 
 Our march was long and painful; with many circuits and 
 windings: at length we clambered a steep ascent, covered 
 with a thick forest; and when we had reached the centre, I 
 was told to seat myself on the ground. No sooner had I done 
 so than, at a sign from their chief, the robbers surrounded me, 
 and spreading their great cloaks from one to the other, formed 
 a kind of pavilion of mantles, to which their bodies might be 
 said to serve as columns. ' The captain then struck a light, and 
 a flambeau was lit immediately. The mantles were extended 
 to prevent the light of the flambeau from being seen through 
 the forest. Anxious as was my situation, I could not look 
 round upon this screen of dusky drapery, relieved by the 
 bright colors of the robbers’ garments, the gleaming of their 
 weapons, and the variety of strong marked countenances, lit 
 up by the flambeau, without admiring the picturesque effect 
 of the scene. It was quite theatrical. 
 
 The captain now held an inkhorn, and giving me pen and 
 paper, ordered me to write what he should dictate. I obeyed. 
 
334 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 It was a demand, couched in the style of robber eloquence, 
 “that the Prince should send three thousand dollars for 
 my ransom; or that my death should be the consequence of 
 a refusal.” 
 
 I knew enough of the desperate character of these beings 
 to feel assured this was not an idle menace. ‘Their only mode 
 of insuring attention to their demands is to make the infliction. 
 of the penalty inevitable. I saw at once, however, that the 
 demand was preposterous, and made in improper language. 
 
 I told the captain so, and assured him that so extravagant 
 a sum would never be granted.—* That I was neither a friend 
 nor relative of the Prince but a mere artist, employed to 
 execute certain paintings. That I had nothing to offer as a 
 ransom, but the price of my labors; if this were not sufh- 
 cient, my life was at their disposal; it was a thing on which I 
 set but little value.” 
 
 I was the more hardy in my reply, because I saw that 
 coolness and hardihood had an effect upon the robbers. It is 
 true, as I finished speaking, the captain laid his hand upon his 
 stiletto; but he restrained himself, and snatching the letter, 
 folded it, and ordered me, in a peremptory tone, to address it 
 to the Prince. He then dispatched one of the laborers with 
 it to Tusculum, who promised to return with all possible 
 speed. 
 
 The robbers now prepared themselves for sleep, and I was 
 told that I might do the same.. They spread their great cloaks 
 on the ground, and lay down around me. One was stationed 
 at a little distance to keep watch, and was relieved every two 
 hours. ‘The strangeness and wildness of this mountain bivouac 
 
 among lawless beings, whose hands seemed ever ready to 
 
THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 835 
 
 grasp the stiletto, and with whom life was so trivial and in- 
 secure, was enough to banish repose. The coldness of the 
 earth, and of the dew, however, had a still greater effect than 
 mental causes in disturbing my rest. The airs wafted to these 
 mountains from the distant Mediterranean, diffused a great 
 chilliness as the night advanced. An expedient suggested it- 
 self. I called one of my fellow-prisoners, the laborers, and 
 made him lie down beside me. Whenever one of my limbs 
 became chilled, [ approached it to the robust limb of my 
 neighbor, and borrowed some of his warmth. In this way I 
 was able to obtain a little sleep. 
 
 Day at length dawned, and I was roused from my slumber 
 by the voice of the chieftain. He desired me to rise and fol- 
 low him.- I obeyed. On considering his physiognomy atten- 
 tively, it appeared a little softened. He even assisted me in 
 scrambling up the steep forest, among rocks and brambles. 
 Habit had made him a vigorous mountaineer ; but I found it 
 excessively toilsome to climb these rugged heights. We 
 arrived at length at the summit of the mountain. 
 
 Here it was that I felt all the enthusiasm of my art sudden- 
 ly awakened ; and | forgot in an instant all my perils and 
 fatigues at this magnificent view of the sunrise in the midst of 
 the mountains of the Abruzzi. It was on these heights that 
 Hannibal first pitched his camp, and pointed out Rome to his 
 followers. The eye embraces a vast extent of country. The 
 minor height of Tusculum, with its villas and its sacred ruins, 
 lie below; the Sabine hills and the Albanian mountains stretch 
 on either hand; and beyond Tusculum and Frascati spreads 
 
 out the immense Campagna, with its lines of tombs, and here 
 
336 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 and there a broken aqueduct stretching across it, and the 
 towers and domes of the eternal city in the midst. 
 
 Fancy this scene lit up by the glories of a rising sun, and 
 bursting upon my sight as I looked forth from among the 
 majestic forests of the Abruzzi. Fancy, too, the savage fore- 
 ground, made still more savage by groups of banditti, armed 
 and dressed in their wild picturesque manner, and you will 
 not wonder that the enthusiasm of a painter for a moment 
 overpowered all his other feelings. 
 
 The banditti were astonished at my admiration of a scene 
 which familiarity had made so common in their eyes. I took 
 advantage of their halting at this spot, drew forth a quire of 
 drawing-paper, and began to sketch the features of the land- 
 scape. The height on which I was seated was wild and soli- 
 tary, separated from the ridge of Tusculum by a valley nearly 
 three miles wide, though the distance appeared less from the 
 purity of the atmosphere. This height was one of the favorite 
 retreats of the banditti, commanding a look-out over the coun- 
 try ; while at the same time it was covered with forests, and 
 distant from the populous haunts of men. 
 
 While I was sketching, my attention was called off for a 
 moment by the cries of birds, and the bleatings of sheep. I 
 looked around, but could see nothing of the animals which 
 uttered them. They were repeated, and appeared to come 
 from the summits of the trees. On looking more narrowly, I 
 perceived six of the robbers perched in the tops of oaks, which 
 grew on the breezy crest of the mountain, and commanded an 
 uninterrupted prospect. They were keeping a look-out like 
 so many vultures; casting their eyes into the depths of the 
 
 valley below us; communicating with each other by signs, 
 
 -_. 
 
THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. aot 
 
 or holding discourse in sounds which might be mistaken 
 by the wayfarer for the cries of hawks and crows, or the 
 bleating of the mountain flocks. After they had recon- 
 noitered the neighborhood, and finished their singular dis- 
 course, they descended from their airy perch, and returned to 
 their prisoners. The captain posted three of them at three 
 naked sides of the mountain, while he remained to guard us 
 with what appeared his most trusty companion. 
 
 I had my book of sketches in my hand; he requested to 
 see it, and after having run his eye over it, expressed. himself 
 convinced of the truth of my assertion that I was a painter. 
 I thought I saw a gleam of good feeling dawning in him, and 
 determined to avail myself of it. I knew that the worst of 
 men have their good points and their accessible sides, if one 
 would but study them carefully. Indeed, there is a singular 
 mixture in the character of the Italian robber. With reckless 
 ferocity he often mingles traits of kindness and good-humor. 
 He is not always radically bad; but driven to his course of life 
 by some unpremeditated crime, the effect of those sudden 
 bursts of passion to which the Italian temperament is prone. 
 This has compelled him to take to the mountains, or, as it is 
 technically termed among them, “ andare in campagna.” He 
 has become a robber by profession ; but, like a soldier, when 
 not in action he can lay aside his weapon and his fierceness, 
 and become like other men. 
 
 I took occasion, from the observations of the captain on my 
 sketchings, to fall into conversation with him, and found him 
 sociable and communicative. By degrees I became complete- 
 ly at my ease with him. I had fancied I perceived about him 
 
 a degree of self-love, which I determined to make use of. I 
 15 
 
338 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 assumed an air of careless frankness, and told him, that, as an 
 artist, I pretended to the power of judging of the physiog- 
 nomy; that I thought I perceived something in his features 
 and demeanor which announced him worthy of higher for- 
 tunes; that he was not formed to exercise the profession to 
 which he had abandoned himself; that he had talents and 
 qualities fitted for a nobler sphere of action ; that he had but 
 to change his course of life, and, in a legitimate career, the 
 same courage and endowments which now made him an ob- 
 ject of terror, would assure him the applause and admiration 
 of society. 
 
 I had not mistaken my man; my discourse both touched and ex- 
 cited him. He seized my 
 hand, pressed it, and re- 
 plied with strong emotion 
 —‘‘ You have guessed the 
 truth ; you have judged of 
 me rightly.” He remained 
 for a moment silent; then 
 with a kind of effort, he 
 resumed—‘‘I will tell you 
 some particulars of my life, 
 and you will perceive that it | 
 was the oppression of others, a 
 rather than my own crimes, 
 which drove me to the moun- » 
 tains. I sought to serve my 
 fellow-men, and they have 
 persecuted me from among 
 them.” We seated ourselves 
 
 on the grass, and the rob- 
 
 ber gave me the following 
 
 anecdotes of his history. 
 
.* THE STORY OF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN. 
 
 AM a native of the village of Prossedi. My father was 
 
 easy enough in circumstances, and we lived peaceably and 
 independently, cultivating our fields. All went on well with 
 us, until a new chief of the Sbirri was sent to our village to 
 take command of the police. He was an arbitrary fellow, 
 prying into every thing, and practising all sorts of vexations 
 and oppressions in the discharge of his office. I was at that 
 time eighteen years of age, and had a natural love of justice 
 and good neighborhood. I had also a little education, and 
 knew something of history, so as to be able to judge a little 
 of men and their actions. All this inspired me with hatred 
 for this paltry despot. My own family, also, became the ob- 
 ject of his suspicion or dislike, and felt more than once the 
 arbitrary abuse of his power. ‘These things worked together 
 in my mind, and | gasped after vengeance. My character was 
 always ardent and energetic, and, acted upon by the love of 
 justice, determined me, by one blow, to rid the country of 
 the tyrant. 
 Full of my project, | rose one morning before peep of day, 
 and concealing a stiletto under my waistcoat—here you see 
 it !—(and he drew forth a long keen poniard) I lay in wait for 
 
340 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 him in the outskirts of the village. I knew all his haunts, 
 and his habit of making his rounds and prowling about like a 
 wolf in the gray of the morning. At length I met him, and 
 attacked him with fury. He was armed, but I took him 
 unawares, and was full of youth and vigor. I gave him re- 
 peated blows to make sure work, and laid him lifeless at my 
 feet. 
 
 When I was satisfied that I had done for him, I returned 
 with all haste to the village, but had the ill luck to meet two 
 of the Sbirri as I entered it. They accosted me, and asked if 
 I had seen their chief. I assumed an air of tranquillity, and 
 told them I had not. They continued on their way, and with- 
 in a few hours brought back the dead body to Prossedi. 
 Their suspicions of me being already awakened, I was arrested 
 and thrown into prison. Here I lay several weeks, when the 
 Prince, who was Seigneur of Prossedi, directed judicial pro- 
 ceedings against me. Iwas brought to trial, and a witness 
 was produced, who pretended to have seen me flying with 
 precipitation not far from the bleeding body; and so I was 
 condemned to the galleys for thirty years. 
 
 “ Curse on such laws!” vociferated the bandit, foaming 
 with rage: “Curse on such a government! and ten thousand 
 curses on the Prince who caused me to be adjudged so rigor- 
 ously, while so many other Roman Princes harbor and _ pro- 
 tect assassins a thousand times more culpable! What had I 
 done but what was inspired by a love of justice and my coun- 
 try? Why was my act more culpable than that of ‘Brutus, 
 when he sacrificed Caesar to the cause of liberty and justice ?” 
 
 There was something at once both lofty and ludicrous in 
 
 the rhapsody of this robber chief, thus associating himself with 
 
THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN. d41 
 one of the great names of antiquity. It showed, however, 
 that he had at least the merit of knowing the remarkable facts 
 in the history of his country. He became more calm, and re- 
 sumed his narrative. 
 
 I was conducted to Civita Vecchia in fetters. My heart 
 was burning with rage. I had been married scarce six months 
 to a woman whom I passionately loved, and who was preg- 
 nant. My family was in despair. For a long time I made 
 unsuccessful efforts to break my chain. At length I found a 
 morsel of iron, which I hid carefully, and endeavored, with a 
 pointed flint, to fashion it into a kind of file. I occupied myself 
 in this work during the night-time, and when it was finished, I 
 made out, after a long time, to sever one of the rings of my 
 chain. My flight was successful. 
 
 I wandered for several weeks in the mountains which sur- 
 round Prossedi, and found means to inform my wife of the 
 place where 1 was concealed. She came often to see me. I 
 had determined to put myself at the head of an armed band. 
 She endeavored, for a long time, to dissuade me, but finding 
 my resolution fixed, she at length united in my project of 
 vengeance, and brought me, herself, my poniard. By her 
 means I communicated with several brave fellows of the 
 neighboring villages, whom I knew to be ready to take to the 
 mountains, and only panting for an opportunity to exercise 
 their daring spirits. We soon formed a combination, pro- 
 cured arms, and we have had ample opportunities of re- 
 venging ourselves for the wrongs and injuries which most of 
 us have suffered. Every thing has succeeded with us until 
 now, and had it not been for our blunder in mistaking you for 
 
 the Prince, our fortunes would have been made. 
 € 
 
342 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 . Here the robber concluded his story. He had talked him- 
 self into complete companionship, and assured me he no 
 longer bore me any grudge for the error of which I had been 
 the innocent cause. Heeven professed a kindness for me, and 
 wished me to remain some time with them. He promised to 
 give me a sight of certain grottos which they occupied beyond 
 Villetri, and whither they resorted during the intervals of their 
 expeditions. 
 
 He assured me that they led a jovial life there; had plenty 
 of good cheer; slept on beds of moss; and were waited 
 upon by young and beautiful females, whom I might take for 
 models. 
 
 I confess I felt my curiosity roused by his descriptions of 
 the grottos and their inhabitants: they realized those scenes 
 in robber story which I had always looked upon as mere 
 creations of the fancy. I should gladly. have accepted his in- 
 vitation, and paid a visit to these caverns, could I have felt 
 more secure in my company. 
 
 I began to find my situation less painful. I had evidently 
 propitiated the good will of the chieftain, and hoped that he 
 might release me for a moderate ransom. A new alarm, 
 however, awaited me. While the captain was looking out 
 with impatience for the return of the messenger, who had been 
 sent to the Prince, the sentinel posted on the side of the 
 mountain facing the plain of La Molara came running towards 
 us. “ We are betrayed!” exclaimed he. “The police of 
 Frascati are after us, A party of carabineers have just 
 stopped at the inn below the mountain.” Then, laying his 
 hand on his stiletto, he swore, with a terrible oath, that if 
 
 ~ 
 + 
 w 
 “ul 
 
THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 343 
 
 they made the least movement towards the mountain, my life 
 and the lives of my fellow-prisoners should answer for it. 
 
 The chieftain resumed all his ferocity of demeanor, and 
 approved of what his companion said; but when the latter 
 had returned to his post, he turned to me with a softened air : 
 “TI must act as chief,’ said he, “and humor my dangerous 
 subalterns. It is a law with us to kill our prisoners rather 
 than suffer them to be rescued; but do not be alarmed. In 
 case we are surprised, keep by me; fly with us, and I will 
 consider myself responsible for your life.” 
 
 There was nothing very consolatory in this arrangement, 
 which would have placed me between two dangers. I scarcely 
 knew, in case of flight, from which I should have the most to 
 apprehend, the carbines of the pursuers, or the stilettos of the 
 pursued. I remained ‘silent, however, and endeavored to 
 maintain a look of tranquillity. 
 
 For an hour was I kept in this state of peril and anxiety. 
 The robbers, crouching among their leafy coverts, kept an 
 eagle watch upon the carabineers below, as they loitered about 
 the inn; sometimes lolling about the portal; sometimes 
 disappearing for several minutes; then sallying out, examin- 
 ing their weapons, pointing in different directions, and appar- 
 ently asking questions about the neighborhood. Not a move- 
 ment, a gesture, was lost upon the keen eyes of the brigands. 
 At length we were relieved from our apprehensions. The 
 carabineers having finished their refreshment, seized their 
 arms,.continued along the valley towards the great road, and 
 gradually left the mountain behind them. “I felt almost cer- 
 tain,” said the chief, “that they could not be sent after us. 
 They know too well how prisoners have fared in our hands on 
 
344 “TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 similar occasions. Our laws in this respect are inflexible, and 
 are necessary for our safety. If we once flinched from them, 
 there would no longer be such a thing as a ransom to be pro- 
 cured.” 
 
 There were no signs yet of the messenger’s return. I was 
 preparing to resume my sketching, when the captain drew a 
 quire of paper from his knapsack. “Come,” said he, laugh- 
 ing, “ you are a painter,—take my likeness. The leaves of 
 your portfolio are small,—draw it on this.” I gladly con- 
 sented, for it was a study that seldom presents itself to a 
 painter. I recollected that Salvator Rosa in his youth had 
 voluntarily sojourned for a time among the banditti of Cala- 
 bria, and had filled his mind with the savage scenery and sav- 
 age associates by which he was surrounded. I seized my pencil 
 with enthusiasm at the thought. I found the captain the most 
 docile of subjects, and, after various shiftings of position, 
 placed him in an attitude to my mind. 
 
 Picture to yourself a stern muscular figure, in fanciful 
 bandit costume; with pistols and poniard in belt; his brawny 
 neck bare; a handkerchief loosely thrown around it, and the 
 two ends in front strung with rings of all kinds, the spoils of 
 travellers ; relics and medals hanging on his breast ; his hat 
 decorated with various colored ribbons; his vest and short 
 breeches of bright colors, and finely embroidered ; his legs in 
 buskins or leggins. ancy him on a mountain height, among 
 wild rocks and rugged oaks, leaning on his carbine, as if 
 meditating some exploit; while far below are beheld villages 
 and villas, the scenes of his maraudings, with the wide Cam- 
 pagna dimly extending in the distance. 
 
 The robber was pleased with the sketch, and seemed to 
 
THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 345 
 
 admire himself upon paper. I had scarcely finished, when the 
 laborer arrived who had been sent for my ransom. He had 
 reached 'Tusculum two hours after midnight. He had brought 
 me a letter from the Prince, who was in bed at the time of his 
 arrival. As I had predicted, he treated the demand as ex- 
 travagant, but offered five hundred dollars for my ransom. 
 Having no money by him at the moment, he had sent a note 
 for the amount, payable to whomsoever should conduct me 
 safe and sound to Rome. I presented the note of hand to the 
 chieftain; he received it with a shrug. “O what use are 
 notes of hand to us?” said he. “ Who can we send with you 
 to Rome to receive it? Weare all marked men; known 
 and described at every gate, and military post, and village 
 church door. No; we must have gold and silver; let the 
 sum be paid in cash, and you shall be restored to liberty.” 
 
 The captain again placed a sheet of paper before me to 
 communicate his determination to the Prince. When I had 
 finished the letter, and took the sheet from the quire, I found 
 on the opposite side of it the portrait which I had just been 
 tracing. I was about to tear it off and give it to the chief. 
 
 “ Hold!” said he, “let it go to Rome; let them see what 
 kind of a looking fellow Iam. Perhaps the Prince and his 
 friends may form as good an opinion of me from my face as 
 you have done.” 
 
 This was said sportively, yet it was evident there was 
 vanity lurking at the bottom. Even this wary, distrustful 
 chief of banditti, forgot for a moment his usual foresight and 
 precaution, in the common wish to be admired. He never 
 reflected what use might be made of this portrait in his pursuit 
 
 and conviction. 
 15* 
 
346 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 The letter was folded and directed, and the messenger 
 departed again for Tusculum. It was now eleven o’clock in 
 the morning, and as yet we had eaten nothing. In spite of all 
 my anxiety, I began to feel a craving appetite. I was glad 
 therefore to hear the captain talk something about eating. 
 He observed that for three days and nights they had been 
 lurking about among rocks and woods, meditating their expe- 
 dition to Tusculum, during which time all their provisions 
 had been exhausted. He should now take measures to pro- 
 cure a supply. Leaving me, therefore, in charge of his com. 
 rade, in whom he appeared to have implicit confidence, he 
 departed, assuring me that in less than two hours I should 
 make a good dinner. Where it was to come from was an 
 enigma to me, though it was evident these beings had their 
 secret friends and agents throughout the country 
 
 Indeed the inhabitants of these mountains, and of the 
 valleys which they embosom, are a rude, half-civilized set. 
 The towns and villages among the forests of the Abruzzi, shut 
 up from the rest of the world, are almost like savage dens. 
 It is wonderful that such rude abodes, so little known and 
 visited, should be embosomed in the midst of one of the most 
 travelled and civilized countries of Europe. Among these 
 regions the robber prowls unmolested ; not a mountaineer 
 hesitates to give him secret harbor and assistance. The 
 shepherds, however, who tend their flocks among the moun- 
 tains, are the favorite emissaries of the robbers, when they 
 would send messages down to the valleys either for ransom 
 or supplies. 
 
 The shepherds of the Abruzzi are as wild as the scenes 
 
 they frequent. They are clad in a rude garb of black or 
 
THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 347 
 
 brown sheep-skin; they have high conical hats, and coarse 
 sandals of cloth bound around their legs with thongs, similar 
 to those worn by the robbers. They carry long staves, on 
 which, as they lean, they form picturesque objects in. the 
 lonely landscape, and they are followed by their ever-constant 
 companion, the dog. They are a curious, questioning set, 
 glad at any time to relieve the monotony of their solitude by 
 the conversation of the passer-by ; and the dog will lend an 
 attentive ear, and put on as sagacious and inquisitive a look 
 as his master. 
 
 But I am wandering from my story. I was now left 
 alone with one of the robbers, the confidential companion of 
 the chief. He was the youngest and most vigorous of the 
 band; and though his countenance had something of that 
 dissolute fierceness which seems natural to this desperate, law- 
 less mode of life, yet there were traces of manly beauty about 
 it. Asan artist I could not but admire it. I had remarked 
 in him an air of abstraction and reverie, and at times a move- 
 ment of inward suffering and impatience. He now sat on 
 the ground, his elbows on his knees, his head resting between 
 his clenched fists, and his eyes fixed on the earth with an 
 expression of sadness and bitter rumination. I had grown 
 familiar with him from repeated conversations, and had 
 found him superior in mind to the rest of the band. I was 
 anxious to seize any opportunity of sounding the feelings of 
 these singular beings. I fancied I read in the countenance of 
 this one traces of self-condemnation and remorse; and the 
 ease with which I had drawn forth the confidence of the 
 chieftain, encouraged me to hope the same with his follower. 
 
 After a little preliminary conversation, I ventured to ask 
 
848 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 him if he did not feel regret at having abandoned his family, 
 and taken to this dangerous profession. “I feel,” replied he, 
 “but one regret, and that will end only with my life.” 
 
 As he said this, he pressed his clenched fists upon his 
 bosom, drew his breath through his set teeth, and added, with 
 a deep emotion, “I have something within here that stifles 
 me; it is like a burning iron consuming my very heart. I 
 could tell you a miserable story—but not now—another 
 time.” 
 
 He relapsed into his former position, and sat with his 
 head between his hands, muttering to himself in broken 
 ejaculations, and what appeared at times to be curses and 
 maledictions. I saw he was not in a mood to be disturbed, 
 so I left him to himself. In a little while the exhaustion of 
 his feelings, and probably the fatigues he had undergone in 
 this expedition, began to produce drowsiness. He struggled 
 with it for a time, but the warmth and stillness of mid-day 
 made it irresistible, and he at length stretched himself upon 
 the herbage and fell asleep. ~ 
 
 I now beheld a chance of escape within my reach. My 
 guard lay before me at my mercy. His vigorous limbs 
 relaxed by sleep—his bosom open for the blow—his carbine 
 slipped from his nerveless grasp, and lying by his side—his 
 stiletto half out of the pocket in which it was usually carried. 
 Two only of his comrades were in sight, and those at a con- 
 siderable distance on the edge of the mountain, their backs 
 turned to us, and their attention occupied in keeping a lookout 
 upon the plain. Through a strip of intervening forest, and 
 at the foot of a steep descent, I beheld the village of Roeca 
 Priori. To have secured the carbine of the sleeping brigand ; 
 
THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 349 
 
 to have seized upon his poniard, and have plunged it in his 
 heart, would have been the work of an instant. Should he 
 die without noise, I might dart through the forest, and down 
 to Rocca Priori before my flight might be discovered. In 
 ease of alarm, I should still have a fair start of the robbers, 
 and a chance of getting beyond the reach of their shot. 
 
 Here then was an opportunity for both escape and 
 vengeance ; perilous indeed, but powerfully tempting. Had 
 my situation been more critical I could not have resisted it. 
 I reflected, however, for a moment. The attempt, if success- 
 ful, would be followed by the sacrifice of my two fellow- 
 prisoners, who were sleeping profoundly, and could not be 
 awakened in time to escape. The laborer who had gone after 
 the ransom might also fall a victim to the rage of the robbers, 
 without the money which he brought being saved. Besides, 
 the conduct of the chief towards me made me feel confident 
 of speedy deliverance. These reflections overcame the first 
 powerful impulse, and I calmed the turbulent agitation which 
 it had awakened. 
 
 I again took out my materials for drawing, and amused 
 myself with sketching the magnificent prospect. It was 
 now about noon, and every thing had sunk into repose, like 
 the sleeping bandit before me. The noontide stillness that 
 reigned over these mountains, the vast landscape below, 
 gleaming with distant towns, and dotted with various habita- 
 tions and signs of life, yet all so silent, had a powerful effect: 
 upon my mind. The intermediate valleys, too, which lie 
 among the mountains, have a peculiar air of solitude. Few 
 sounds are heard at mid-day to break the quiet of the scene. 
 
 Sometimes the whistle of a solitary muleteer, lagging with 
 
 .5* 
 
3850 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 his lazy animal along the road which winds through the cen- 
 tre of the valley ; sometimes the faint piping of a shepherds 
 reed from the side of the mountain, or sometimes the bell of 
 an ass slowly pacing along, followed by a monk with bare 
 feet, and bare, shining head, and carrying provisions to his 
 convent. 
 
 I had continued to sketch for some time among my sleep- 
 ing companions, when at length I saw the captain of the band 
 approaching, followed by a peasant leading a mule, on which 
 was a well-filled sack. I at first apprehended that this was 
 some new prey fallen into the hands of the robber; but the 
 contented look of the peasant soon relieved me, and I was 
 rejoiced to hear that it was our promised repast. The 
 brigands now came running from the three sides of the moun- 
 tain, having the quick scent of vultures. Every one busied 
 himself in unloading the mule, and relieving the sack of its 
 contents. 
 
 The first thing that made its appearance was an enormous 
 ham, of a color and plumpness that would have inspired the 
 pencil of Teniers; it was followed by a large cheese, a bag 
 of boiled chestnuts, a little barrel of wine, and a quantity of 
 good household bread. Every thing was arranged on the 
 grass with a degree of symmetry ; and the captain, present- 
 ing me with his knife, requested me to help myself. We 
 all seated ourselves around the viands, and nothing was heard 
 for a time but the sound of vigorous mastication, or the 
 gurgling of the barrel of wine as it revolved briskly about 
 the circle. My long fasting, and mountain air and exercise, 
 had given me a keen appetite; and never did repast appear 
 to me more excellent or picturesque. 
 
THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 351 
 
 From time to time one of the band was despatched to 
 keep a look-out upon the plain. No enemy was at hand, and 
 the dinner was undisturbed. The peasant received nearly 
 three times the value of his provisions, and set off down the 
 mountain ‘highly satisfied with his bargain. I felt invigorated 
 by the hearty meal I had made, and notwithstanding that the 
 wound I had received the evening before was painful, yet I 
 could not but feel extremely interested and gratified by the 
 singular scenes continually presented tome. Every thing was 
 picturesque about these wild beings and their haunts. ‘Their 
 bivouacs ; their groups on guard; their indolent noontide 
 repose on the mountain-brow ; their rude repast on the herb- 
 age among rocks and trees; every thing presented a study 
 for a painter: but it was towards the approach of evening 
 that I felt the highest enthusiasm awakened. 
 
 The setting sun, declining beyond the vast Campagna, 
 shed its rich yellow beams on the woody summit of the 
 Abruzzi. Several mountains crowned with snow shone 
 brilliantly in the distance, contrasting their brightness with 
 others, which, thrown into shade, assumed deep tints of 
 purple and violet. As the evening advanced, the landscape 
 darkened into a sterner character. The immense solitude 
 around ; the wild mountains broken into rocks and precipices, 
 intermingled with vast oaks, corks and chestnuts; and the 
 groups of banditti in the foreground, reminded me of the 
 savage scenes of Salvator Rosa. 
 
 To beguile the time, the captain proposed to his connieteine 
 to spread before me their jewels and cameos, as I must doubt- 
 less be a judge of such articles, and able to form an estimate 
 of their value. He set the example, the others followed it; 
 
352 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 and in a few moments I saw the grass before me sparkling 
 with jewels and gems that would have delighted the eyes of an 
 antiquary or a fine lady. 
 
 Among them were several precious jewels, and antique 
 intaglios and cameos of great value; the spoils, doubtless, of 
 travellers of distinction. I found that they were in the habit 
 of selling their booty in the frontier towns; but as these, in 
 general, were thinly and poorly peopled, and little frequented 
 by travellers, they could offer no market for such valuable 
 articles of taste and luxury. I suggested to them the cer- 
 tainty of their readily obtaining great prices for these gems 
 among the rich strangers with whom Rome was thronged. 
 
 The impression made upon their greedy minds was 
 immediately apparent. One of the band, a young man, and 
 the least known, requested permission of the captain to de- 
 part the following day, in disguise, for Rome, for the purpose 
 of traffic; promising, on the faith of a bandit, (a sacred 
 pledge among them,) to return in two days to any place 
 that he might appoint. The captain consented, and a 
 curious scene took place; the robbers crowded round him 
 eagerly, confiding to him such of their jewels as they wished 
 to dispose of, and giving him instructions what to demand. 
 There was much bargaining and exchanging and selling of 
 trinkets among them; and I beheld my watch, which had 
 a chain and valuable seals, purchased by the young robber- 
 merchant of the ruffan who had plundered me, for sixty 
 dollars. I now conceived a faint hope, that if it went to 
 Rome, I might somehow or other regain possession of it.* 
 
 *The hopes of the artist were not disappointed—the robber was 
 
THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 353 
 
 In the mean time day declined, and no messenger returned 
 from Tusculum. The idea of passing another night in the 
 woods was extremely disheartening, for I began to be satis- 
 fied with what I had seen of robber-life. The chieftain now 
 ordered his men to follow him, that he might station them at 
 their posts; adding, that if the messenger did not return 
 before night, they must shift their quarters to some other 
 place. 
 
 I was again left alone with the young bandit who had 
 before guarded me; he had the same gloomy air and haggard 
 eye, with now and then a bitter sardonic smile. I deter- 
 mined to probe this ulcerated heart, and reminded him of a 
 kind promise he had given me to tell me the cause of his 
 suffering. It seemed to me as if these troubled spirits were 
 glad of any opportunity to disburden themselves, and of hav- 
 ing some fresh, undiseased mind, with which they could com- 
 municate. I had hardly made the request, when he seated 
 himself by my side, and gave me his story in, as near as I| 
 can recollect, the following words. 
 
 stopped at one of the gates of Rome. Something in his looks or deport- 
 ment had excited suspicion. He was searched, and the valuable trin- 
 kets found on him sufficiently evinced his character. On applying to 
 the police, the artist’s watch was returned to him. 
 
THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ROBBER. 
 
 WAS born in the little town of Frosinone, which lies at 
 
 the skirts of the Abruzzi. My father had made a little 
 property in trade, and gave me some education, as he in- 
 tended me for the church; but I had kept gay company too 
 much to relish the cowl, so I grew up a loiterer about the place. 
 I was a heedless fellow, a little quarrelsome on occasion, but 
 good-humored in the main; so I made my way very well for 
 a time, until I fell in love. There lived in our town a sur- 
 veyor or land-bailiff of the prince, who had a young daughter, 
 a beautiful girl of sixteen ; she was looked upon as something 
 better than the common run of our townsfolk, and was kept 
 almost entirely at home. I saw her occasionally, and be- 
 came madly in love with her—she looked so fresh and tender, 
 and so different from the sunburnt females to whom I had 
 been accustomed. 
 
 As my father kept me in money, I always dressed well, 
 and took all opportunities of showing myself off to advantage 
 in the eyes of the little beauty. I used to see her at church ; 
 and as I could play a little upon the guitar, I gave a tune 
 sometimes under her window of an evening; and I tried to 
 
 oO? 
 have interviews with her in her father’s vineyard, not far 
 
THE YOUNG ROBBER. 3D5 
 
 from the town, where she sometimes walked. She was 
 evidently pleased with me, but she was young and shy ; and 
 her father kept a strict eye upon her, and took alarm at my 
 attentions, for he had a bad opinion of me, and looked for a 
 better match for his daughter. I became furious at the diffi- 
 culties thrown in my way, having been accustomed always 
 to easy success among the women, being considered one of 
 the smartest young fellows of the place. 
 
 Her father brought home a suitor for her, a rich farmer 
 from a neighboring town. The wedding-day was appointed, 
 and preparations were making. I got sight of her at the 
 window, and I thought she looked sadly at me. I determined 
 the match should not take place, cost what it might. I met 
 her intended bridegroom in the market-place, and could not 
 restrain the expression of my rage. A few hot words passed 
 between us, when I drew my stiletto and stabbed him to the 
 heart. I fled to a neighboring church for refuge, and with a 
 little money I obtained absolution, but I did not dare to ven- . 
 ture from my asylum. 
 
 At that time our captain was forming his troop. He had 
 known me from boyhood; and hearing of my situation, came 
 to me in secret, and made such offers, that I agreed to enroll 
 myself among his followers. Indeed, 1 had more than once 
 thought of taking to this mode of life, having known several 
 brave fellows of the mountains, who used to spend their 
 money freely among us youngsters of the town. I accord- 
 ingly left my asylum Jate one night, repaired to the appointed 
 place of meeting, took the oaths prescribed, and became one 
 of the troop. We were for some time in a distant part of 
 
 the mountains, and our wild adventurous. kind of life hit my 
 
356 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 fancy wonderfully, and diverted my thoughts. At length 
 they returned with all their violence to the recollection of 
 Rosetta ; the solitude in which I often found myself gave me 
 time to brood over her image; and, as I have kept watch at 
 night over our sleeping camp in the mountains, my feelings 
 have been aroused almost to a fever. 
 
 At length we shifted our ground, and determined to 
 make a descent upon the road between Terracina and Naples. 
 In the course of our expedition we passed a day or two in the 
 woody mountains which rise above Frosinone. I cannot 
 tell you how I felt when I looked down upon that place, and 
 distinguished the residence of Rosetta. I determined to have 
 an interview with her;—but to what purpose? I could not 
 expect that she would quit her home, and accompany me in 
 my hazardous life among the mountains. She had been 
 brought up too tenderly for that; when I looked upon the 
 women who were associated with some of our troop, I could 
 not have borne the thoughts of her being their companion. 
 All return to my former life was likewise hopeless, for a 
 price was set upon my head. Still I determined to see her; 
 the very hazard and fruitlessness of the thing made me furious 
 to accomplish it. 
 
 About three weeks since, I persuaded our captain to draw 
 down to the vicinity of Frosinone, suggesting the chance of 
 entrapping some of its principal inhabitants, and compelling 
 them to a ransom. We were lying in ambush towards 
 evening, not far from the vineyard of Rosetta’s father. I 
 stole quietly from my companions, and drew near to re- 
 connoitre the place of her frequent walks. How my heart 
 beat when among the vines I beheld the gleaming of a white 
 
THE YOUNG ROBBER. 357 
 
 dress! I knew it must be Rosetta’s; it being rare for any 
 female of that place to dress in white. I advanced secretly 
 and without noise, until, putting aside the vines, I stood 
 suddenly before her. She uttered a piercing shriek, but I 
 seized her in my arms, put my hand upon her mouth, and 
 conjured her to be silent. I poured out all the frenzy of my 
 passion ; offered to renounce my mode of life ; to put my fate 
 in her hands; to fly where we might live in safety together. 
 All that I could say or do would not pacify her. Instead of 
 love, horror and affright seemed to have taken possession of 
 her breast. She struggled partly from my grasp, and filled 
 the air with her cries. 
 
 In an instant the captain and the rest of my companions 
 were around us. I would have given any thing at that 
 moment had she been safe out of our hands, and in her 
 father’s house. It was too late. The captain pronounced her 
 a prize, and ordered that she should be borne to the moun- 
 tains. I represented to him that she was my prize; that I 
 had a previous claim to her; and I mentioned my former 
 attachment. He sneered bitterly in reply; observed that 
 brigands had no business with village intrigues, and that, 
 according to the laws of the troop, all spoils of the kind were 
 determined by lot. Love and jealousy were raging in 
 my heart, but I had to choose between obedience and 
 death. I surrendered her to the captain, and we made for the 
 mountains. 
 
 She was overcome by affright, and her steps were so 
 feeble and faltering that it was necessary to support her. I 
 could not endure the idea that my comrades should touch her, 
 
 and assuming a forced tranquillity, begged she might be 
 
358 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 confided to me, as one to whom she was more accustomed. 
 The captain regarded me, for a moment, with a searching 
 look, but I bore it without flinching, and he consented. I 
 took her in my arms; she was almost senseless. Her head 
 rested on my shoulder; I felt her breath on my face, and it 
 seemed to fan the flame which devoured me. Oh God! to 
 have this glowing treasure in my arms, and yet to think it 
 was not mine! 
 
 We arrived at the foot of the mountain; I ascended it 
 with difficulty, particularly where the woods were thick, but 
 I would not relinquish my delicious burden. I reflected with 
 rage, however, that I must soon do so. The thoughts that so 
 delicate a creature must be abandoned to my rude -compan- 
 ions maddened me. I felt tempted, the stiletto in my hand, 
 to cut my way through them all, and bear her off in triumph. 
 I scarcely conceived the idea before I saw its rashness ; but 
 my brain was fevered with the thought that any but myself 
 should enjoy her charms. I endeavored to outstrip my com- 
 panions by the quickness of my movements, and to get a 
 little distance ahead, in case any favorable opportunity of 
 escape should present. Vain effort! The voice of the cap- 
 tain suddenly ordered a halt. I trembled, but had to obey. 
 The poor girl partly opened a languid eye, but was without 
 strength or motion. I laid her upon the grass. The captain 
 darted on me a terrible look of suspicion, and ordered me 
 to scour the woods with my companions in search of 
 some shepherd, who might be sent to her father’s to demand a 
 ransom. 
 
 I saw at once the peril. To resist with violence was cer- 
 tain death, but to leave her alone, in the power of the cap- 
 
THE YOUNG ROBBER. 359 
 
 tain !—I spoke out then with a fervor, inspired by my passion 
 and by despair. I reminded the captain that I was the first 
 to seize her; that she was my prize; and that my previous 
 attachment to her ought to make her sacred among my 
 companions. I insisted, therefore, that he should pledge me 
 his word to respect her, otherwise I would refuse obedience 
 to his orders. His only reply was to cock his carbine, and 
 at the signal my comrades did the same. They laughed with 
 eruelty at my impotent rage. What could Ido? I felt the 
 madness of resistance. 1 was menaced on all hands, and my 
 companions obliged me to follow them. She remained alone 
 with the chief—yes, alone—and almost lifeless !— 
 
 Here the robber paused in his recital, overpowered by 
 his emotions. Great drops of sweat stood on his forehead ; 
 he panted rather than breathed; his brawny bosom rose and 
 fell like the waves of the troubled sea. When he had be- 
 come a little calm, he continued his recital. 
 
 I was not long in finding a shepherd, said he. Iran with 
 the rapidity of a deer, eager, if possible, to get back before 
 what I dreaded might take place. I had left my companions 
 far behind, and I rejoined them before they had reached one 
 half the distance I had made. I hurried them back to the place 
 where we had left the captain. As we approuched, I beheld 
 him seated by the side of Rosetta. His triumphant look, 
 and the desolate condition of the unfortunate girl, left 
 me no doubt of her fate. I know not how I restrained my 
 fury. 
 
 It was with extreme difficulty, and by guiding her hand, 
 that she was made to trace a few characters, requesting her 
 father to send three hundred dollars as her ransom. The 
 
360 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 letter was despatched by the shepherd. When he was gone, 
 the chief turned sternly to me. “ You have set an example,” 
 said he, “ of mutiny and self-will, which, if indulged, would be 
 ruinous to the troop. Had I treated you as our laws re- 
 quire, this bullet would have been driven through your 
 brain. But you are an old friend. I have borne patiently 
 with your fury and your folly. I have even protected you 
 from a foolish passion that would have unmanned you. “As 
 to this girl, the laws of our association must have their 
 course.” So saying, he gave his commands: lots were 
 drawn, and the helpless girl was abandoned to the troop. 
 
 Here the robber paused again, panting with fury, and it 
 was some moments before he could resume his story. 
 
 Hell, said he, was raging in my heart. I beheld the_im- 
 possibility of avenging myself; and I felt that, according to 
 the articles in which we stood bound to one another, the cap- 
 tain was in the right. JI rushed with frenzy from the place; 
 I threw myself upon the earth; tore up the grass with my 
 hands ; and beat my head and gnashed my teeth in agony and 
 rage. When at length I returned, I beheld the wretched 
 victim, pale, dishevelled, her dress torn and disordered. An 
 emotion of pity, for a moment, subdued my fiercer feelings. 
 I bore her to the foot of a tree, and leaned her gently against 
 it. I took my gourd, which was filled with wine, and apply- 
 ing it to her lips, endeavored to make her swallow a little. 
 To what a condition was she reduced! she, whom I had once 
 seen the pride of Frosinone; who but a short time before I 
 had beheld sporting in her father’s vineyard, so fresh, and 
 beautiful, and happy! Her teeth were clenched; her eyes 
 fixed on the ground; her form without motion, and in a state 
 
THE YOUNG ROBBER. 361 
 
 of absolute insensibility. I hung over her in an agony of re- 
 collection at all that she had been, and of anguish at what I 
 now beheld her. I darted around a look of horror at my 
 companions, who seemed like so many fiends exulting in the 
 downfall of an angel; and I felt a horror at being myself 
 their accomplice. 
 
 The captain, always suspicious, saw, with his usual pene- 
 tration, what was passing within me, and ordered me to go 
 upon the ridge of the woods, to keep a look-out over the 
 neighborhood, and await the return of the shepherd. I[ 
 obeyed, of course, stifling the fury that raged within me, 
 though I felt, for the moment, that he was my most deadly 
 foe. 
 
 On my way, however, a ray of reflection came across my 
 mind. I perceived that the captain was but following, with 
 strictness, the terrible laws to which we had sworn fidelity. 
 That the passion by which I had been blinded might, with 
 justice, have been fatal to me, but for his forbearance ; that 
 he had penetrated my soul, and had taken precautions, by 
 sending me out of the way, to prevent my committing any 
 excess in my anger. From that instant I felt that I was 
 capable of pardoning him. 
 
 Occupied with these thoughts, I arrived at the foot of the 
 mountain. ‘The country was solitary and secure, and in a short 
 time I beheld the shepherd at a distance crossing the plain. 
 I hastened to meet him. He had obtained nothing. He had 
 found the father plunged in the deepest distress. He had 
 read the letter with violent emotion, and then, calming himself 
 with a sudden exertion, he had replied coldly : “ My daughter 
 
 16 
 
ie) 
 
 362 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 has been dishonored by those wretches ; let her be returned 
 without ransom,—or let her die!” 
 
 I] shuddered at this reply. I knew that, according to the 
 laws of our troop, her death was inevitable. Our oaths re- 
 quired it. -I felt, nevertheless, that not having been able to 
 have her to myself, I could be her executioner ! 
 
 The robber again paused with agitation. I sat musing 
 upon his last frightful words, which proved to what excess 
 the passions may be carried, when escaped from all moral 
 restraint. There was a horrible verity in this story that re- 
 minded me of some of the tragic fictions of Dante. 
 
 We now come to a fatal moment, resumed the bandit. 
 After the report of the shepherd, I returned with him, and 
 the chieftain received from his lips the refusal of her father. 
 At a signal which we all understood, we followed him 
 to some distance from the victim. He there pronounced 
 her sentence of déath. Every one stood ready to execute his 
 orders, but I interfered. I observed that there was some- 
 thing due to pity as well as to justice. That I was as ready 
 as any one to approve the implacable law, which was to serve 
 as a warning to all those who hesitated to pay the ransoms de- 
 manded for our prisoners; but that though the sacrifice was 
 proper, it ought to be made without cruelty. The night is 
 approaching, continued I; she will soon be wrapped in sleep ; 
 let her then be dispatched. All I now claim on the score of 
 former kindness is, let me strike the blow. I will do it as 
 surely, though more tenderly than another. Several 
 raised their voices against my proposition, but the captain 
 
 imposed silence on them. He told me I might conduct her 
 
THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 3863 
 
 into a thicket at some distance, and he relied upon my pro- 
 mise. 
 
 I hastened to seize upon my prey. There was a forlorn kind 
 of triumph at having at length become her exclusive posses- 
 sor. I bore her off into the thickness of the forest. She re- 
 mained in the same state of insensibility or stupor. I was 
 al that she did not recollect me, for had she once mur- 
 mured my name, ! should have been overcome. She slept 
 at length in the arms of him who was to poniard her. Many 
 were the conflicts I underwent before I could bring myself to 
 strike the blow. But my heart had become sore by the 
 recent conflicts it had undergone, and I dreaded lest, by procras- 
 tination, some other should become her executioner. When 
 her repose had continued for some time, I separated myself 
 gently from her, that I might not disturb her sleep, and seiz- 
 ing suddenly my poniard, plunged it intoher bosom. A pain- 
 ful and concentrated murmur, but without any convulsive 
 movement, accompanied her last sigh—So perished this 
 unfortunate ! 
 
 He ceased to speak. 1 sat, horror-struck, covering my 
 face with my hands, seeking, as it were, to hide from myself 
 the frightful images he had presented to my mind. I was 
 roused from this silence by the voice of the captain: “ You 
 sleep,” said he, “and it is time to be off. Come, we must 
 abandon this height, as night is setting in, and the messenger 
 is not returned. I will post some one on the mountain edge 
 
 to conduct him to the place where we shall pass the night.” 
 
564 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 This was no agreeable news tome. I was sick at heart 
 with the dismal story I had heard. I was harassed. and 
 fatigued, and the sight of the banditti began to grow insup- 
 portable to me. . 
 
 The captain assembled his comrades. We rapidly de- 
 scended the forest, which we had mounted with so much diffi- 
 culty in the morning, and soon arrived in what appeared to 
 be a frequented road. The robbers proceeded with great 
 caution, carrying their guns cocked, and looking on every side 
 with wary and suspicious eyes. They were apprehensive of 
 encountering the civic patrole. We left Rocca Priori behind 
 us. There was a fountain near by, and as I was excessively 
 thirsty, I begged permission to stop and drink. The captain 
 himself went and brought me water in his hat. We pursued 
 our route, when, at the extremity of an alley which crossed the 
 road, I perceived a female on horseback, dressed in white. 
 She was alone. I recollected the fate of the poor girl in the 
 story, and trembled for her safety. 
 
 One of the brigands saw her at the same instant, and 
 plunging into the bushes, he ran precipitately in the direction 
 towards her. Stopping on the border of the alley, he put one 
 knee to the ground, presented his carbine ready to menace 
 her, or to shoot her horse if she attempted to fly, and in this 
 way awaited her approach. I kept my eyes fixed on her with 
 intense anxiety. I felt tempted to shout and warn her of her 
 danger, though my own destruction would have been the 
 consequence. It was awful to see this tiger crouching ready 
 for a bound, and the poor innocent victim unconsciously near 
 him. Nothing but a mere chance could save her. To my 
 joy the chance turned in her favor. She seemed almost 
 
THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 365 
 
 accidentally to take an opposite path, which led outside of the 
 woods, where the robber dared not venture. To this casual 
 deviation she owed her safety. 
 
 I could not imagine why the captain of the band had 
 ventured to such a distance from the height on which he had 
 placed the sentinel to watch the return of the messenger. 
 He seemed himself anxious at the risk to which he ex- 
 posed himself. His movements were rapid and uneasy; I 
 could scarce keep pace with him. At length, after three 
 hours of what might be termed a forced march, we mounted 
 the extremity of the same woods, the summit of which we had 
 occupied during the day; and I learnt with satisfaction that 
 we had reached our quarters for the night. “You must be 
 fatigued,” said the chieftain; “but it was necessary to sur- 
 vey the environs so as not to be surprised during the night. 
 Had we met with the famous civic guard of Rocca Priori, 
 you would have seen fine sport.’”’ Such was the indefatigable 
 precaution and forethought of this robber chief, who really 
 gave continual evidence of military talent. 
 
 The night was magnificent. The moon, rising above the 
 horizon in a cloudless sky, faintly lit up the grand features of 
 the mountain, while lights twinkling here and there, like ter- 
 restrial stars in the wide dusky expanse of the landscape, 
 betrayed the lonely cabins of the shepherds. Exhausted by 
 fatigue, and by the many agitations I had experienced, I pre- 
 pared to sleep, soothed by the hope of approaching deliver- 
 ance. The captain ordered his companions to collect some 
 dry moss ; he arranged with his own hands a kind of mattress 
 and pillow of it, and gave me his ample mantle as a covering. 
 
 I could not but feel both surprised and gratified by such un- 
 
366 TALES OF A.TRAVELLER. | 
 
 expected attentions on the part of this benevolent cut-throat ; 
 for there is nothing more striking than to find the ordinary 
 charities, which are matters of course in common life, flourish- 
 ing by the side of such stern and sterile crime. It is like 
 finding tender flowers and fresh herbage of the valley growing 
 among the rocks and cinders of the volcano. 
 
 Before I fell asleep I had some further discourse with the 
 captain, who seemed to feel great confidence in me. He re- 
 ferred to our previous conversation of the morning; told me 
 he was weary of his hazardous profession; that he had ac- 
 quired sufficient property, and was anxious to return to the 
 world, and lead a peaceful life in the bosom of his family. 
 He wished to know whether it was not in my power +o pro- 
 cure for him a passport to the United States of America. I 
 applauded his good intentions, and promised to do every 
 thing in my pewer to promote its success. We then parted 
 for the night. I stretched myself upon my couch of moss, 
 which, after my fatigues, felt like a bed of down; and, shel- 
 tered by the robber-mantle from all humidity,I slept soundly, 
 without waking, until the signal to arise. 
 
 It was nearly six o’clock, and the day was just dawning. 
 As the place where we had passed the night was too much 
 exposed, we moved up into the thickness of the woods. <A 
 fire was kindled. While there was any flame, the mantles 
 were again extended round it: but when nothing remained 
 but glowing cinders, they were lowered, and the robbers 
 seated themselves in a circle. 
 
 The scene before me reminded me of some of those de- 
 scribed by Homer. There wanted only the victim on the 
 coals, and the sacred knife to cut off the succulent parts, and 
 
THE .PAINTER’S ADVENTURE. 367 
 
 distribute them around. My companions might have rivalled 
 the grim warriors of Greece. In place of the noble repasts, 
 however, of Achilles and Agamemnon, I beheld displayed on 
 the grass the remains of the ham which had sustained so vig- 
 orous an attack on the preceding evening, accompanied by the 
 relics of the bread, cheese, and wine. We had scarcely com- 
 menced our frugal breakfast, when I heard again an imitation 
 of the bleating of sheep, similar to what I had heard the day 
 before. The captain answered it in the same tone. Two 
 men were soon after seen descending from the woody height, 
 where we had passed the preceding evening. On nearer ap- 
 proach, they proved to be the sentinel and the messenger. 
 The captain rose, and went to meet them. He made a signal 
 for his comrades to joinhim. They had a short conference, 
 and then returning to me with great eagerness, “ Your ransom 
 is paid,” said he, “ you are free!” 
 
 Though I had anticipated deliverance, I cannot tell you 
 what a rush of delight these tidings gave me. I cared not to 
 finish my repast, but prepared to depart. The captain took 
 me by the hand, requested permission to write to me, and 
 begged ine not to forget the passport. I replied, that I hoped 
 to be of effectual service to him, and that I relied on his 
 honor to return the Prince’s note, for five hundred dollars, 
 now that the cash was paid. He regarded me for a moment 
 with surprise, then seeming to recollect himself, “ 4’ giusto,” 
 said he, “ eccoto—adio !” * He delivered me the note, pressed 
 my hand once more, and we separated. The laborers were 
 permitted to follow me, and we resumed with joy our road 
 toward Tusculum. 
 
 *It is just—there it is—adieu ! 
 
368 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 - §& 
 
 The Frenchman ceased to speak. The party continued, 
 for a few moments, to pace the shore in silence. The story 
 had made a deep impression, particularly on the Venetian 
 lady. At that part which related to the young girl of Frosi- 
 none, she was violently affected. Sobs broke from her; she 
 clung closer to her husband, and as she looked up to him as 
 if for protection, the moonbeams shining on her beautifully 
 fair countenance, showed it paler than usual, while tears glit- 
 tered in her fine dark eyes. 
 
 “ Corragio, mia vita!” said he, as he gently and fondly 
 tapped the white hand that lay upon his arm. 
 
 The party now returned to the inn, and separated for the 
 night. The fair Venetian, though of the sweetest tempera- 
 ment, was half out of humor with the Englishman, for a cer- 
 tain slowness of faith which he had evinced throughout the 
 whole evening. She could not understand this dislike to 
 “ humbug,” as he termed it, which held a kind of sway over 
 him, and seemed to control his opinions and his very actions. 
 
 “Tl warrant,” said she to her husband, as they retired 
 for the night,—*“ ll warrant, with all his affected indifference, 
 this Englishman’s heart would quake at the very sight of a 
 bandit.” 
 
 Her husband gently, and good-humoredly, checked her. 
 
 “T have no patience with these Englishmen,” said she, as 
 she got into bed—* they are so cold and insensible ! ” 
 
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGLISHMAN. 
 
 N the morning all was bustle in the inn at Terracina. The 
 procaccio had departed at daybreak on its route towards 
 Rome, but the Englishman was yet to start, and the departure 
 of an English equipage is always enough to keep an inn in a 
 bustle. On this occasion there was more than usual stir, for 
 the Englishman, having much property about him, and having 
 been convinced of the real danger of the road, had applied to 
 the police, and obtained, by dint of liberal pay, an escort of 
 eight dragoons and twelve foot soldiers, as far as Fondi. 
 Perhaps, too, there might have been a little ostentation at 
 bottom, though, to say the truth, he had nothing of it in his 
 manner. He moved about, taciturn and reserved as usual, 
 among the gaping crowd; gave laconic orders to John, as he 
 packed away the thousand and one indispensable conveniences 
 of the night ; double loaded his pistols with great sang froid, 
 and deposited them in the pockets -of the carriage ; taking no 
 notice of a pair of keen eyes gazing on him from among the 
 herd of loitering idlers. 
 The fair Venetian now came up with a request, made in 
 her dulcet tones, that he would permit their carriage to pro- 
 ceed under protection of his escort. The Englishman, who 
 
370 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 was busy loading another pair of pistols for his servant, and 
 held the ramrod between his teeth, nodded assent, as a matter 
 of course, but without lifting up his eyes. The fair Venetian 
 was a little piqued at what she supposed indifference :—* O 
 Dio!” ejaculated she softly as she retired; “ Quanto sono 
 insensibili questi Inglesi.” 
 
 At length, off they set in gallant style. The eight dra- 
 goons prancing in front, the twelve foot soldiers marching in 
 rear, and the carriage moving slowly in the centre, to enable 
 the infantry to keep pace with them. ‘They had proceeded 
 but a few hundred yards, when it was discovered that some 
 indispensable article had been left behind. In fact, the Eng- 
 lishman’s purse was missing, and John was despatched to 
 the inn to search for it. This occasioned a little delay, and 
 the carriage of the Venetians drove slowly on. John came 
 back out of breath and out of humor. ‘The purse was not to 
 be found. His master was irritated ; he recollected the very 
 place where it lay; he had not a doubt the Italian servant had 
 pocketed it. John was again sent back. He returned once 
 more without the purse, but with the landlord and the whole 
 household at his heels. A thousand ejaculations and protes- 
 tations, accompanied by all sorts of grimaces and contortions 
 —‘“ No purse had been seen—his excellenza must be mistaken.” | 
 
 “ No—his excellenza was not mistaken—the purse lay on 
 the marble table, under the mirror, a green purse, half full 
 of gold and silver.” Again a thousand grimaces and contor- 
 tions, and vows by San Gennaro, that no purse of the kind 
 had been seen. 
 
 The Englishman became furious. “The waiter had pock- 
 eted it—the landlord was a knave—the inn a den of thieves 
 
THE ENGLISHMAN’S ADVENTURE. el 
 
 —it was a vile country—he had been cheated and plundered 
 from one end of it to the other—but he’d have satisfaction— 
 he’d drive right off to the police.” 
 
 He was on the point of ordering the postilions to turn 
 back, when, on rising, he displaced the cushion of the carriage, 
 and the purse of money fell chinking to the floor. 
 
 All the blood in his body seemed to rush into his face— 
 “ Curse the purse,” said he, as he snatched it up. He dashed 
 a handful of money on the ground before the pale, cringing 
 
 -waiter—* There, be off!” cried he. “John, order the postil- 
 ions to drive on.” 
 
 About half an hour had been exhausted in this altercation. 
 The Venetian carriage had loitered along; its passengers 
 looking out from time to time, and expecting the escort every 
 moment to follow. They had gradually turned an angle of 
 the road that shut them out of sight. The little army was 
 again in motion, and made a very picturesque appearance as 
 it wound along at the bottom of the rocks; the morning sun- 
 shine beaming upon the weapons of the soldiery. 
 
 The Englishman lolled back in his carriage, vexed with 
 himself at what had passed, and consequently out of humor 
 with all the world. As this, however, is no uncommon case 
 with gentlemen who travel for their pleasure, it is hardly 
 worthy of remark. They had wound up from the coast 
 among the hills, and came to a part of the road that admitted 
 of some prospect ahead. 
 
 ‘“T see nothing of the lady’s carriage, sir,” said John, lean- 
 ing down from the coach-box. 
 
 “Pish!” said the Englishman, testily—“ don’t plague 
 me about the lady’s carriage; must I be continually pestered 
 
872 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 with the concerns of strangers?” John said not another 
 word, for he understood his master’s mood. 
 
 The road grew more wild and lonely ; they were slowly 
 proceeding on a foot-pace up a hill; the dragoons were some 
 distance ahead, and had just reached the summit of the hill, 
 when they uttered an exclamation, or rather shout, and gal- 
 loped forward. The Englishman was roused from his sulky 
 reverie. He stretched his head from the carriage, which had 
 attained the brow of the hill. Before him extended a long 
 hollow defile, commanded on one side by rugged precipitous 
 heights, covered with bushes of scanty forest. At some dis- 
 tance he beheld the carriage of the Venetians overturned. 
 A numerous gang of desperadoes were rifling it; the young 
 man and his servant were overpowered, and partly stripped ; 
 and the lady was in the hands of two of the ruffians. The 
 Englishman seized his pistols, sprang from the carriage, and 
 called upon John to follow him. 
 
 In the mean time, as the dragoons came forward, the rob- 
 bers, who were busy with the carriage, quitted their spoil, 
 formed themselves in the middle of the road, and taking a 
 deliberate aim, fired. One of the dragoons fell, another was 
 wounded, and the whole were for a moment checked and 
 thrown into confusion. The robbers loaded again in an in- 
 stant. The dragoons discharged their carbines, but without 
 apparent effect. They received another volley, which, though 
 none fell, threw them again into confusion. The robbers 
 were loading a second time when they saw the foot soldiers 
 at hand. “ Scampa via!” was the word: they abandoned 
 their prey, and retreated up the rocks, the soldiers after 
 them. They fought from cliff to cliff, and bush to bush, the 
 
THE ENGLISHMAN’S ADVENTURE. 878 
 
 robbers turning every now and then to fire upon their pur- 
 suers; the soldiers scrambling after them, and discharging 
 their muskets whenever they could get a chance. Sometimes 
 a soldier or a robber was shot down, and came tumbling 
 among the cliffs. The dragoons kept firing from below, 
 whenever a robber came in sight. 
 
 The Englishman had hastened to the scene of action, and 
 the balls discharged at the dragoons had whistled past him as 
 he advanced. One object, however, engrossed his attention. 
 It was the beautiful Venetian lady in the hands of two of the 
 robbers, who, during the confusion of the fight, carried her 
 shrieking up the mountain. He saw her dress gleaming 
 among the bushes, and he sprang up the rocks to intercept 
 the robbers, as they bore off their prey. The ruggedness of 
 the steep, and the entanglements of the bushes, delayed and 
 impeded him. He lost sight of the lady, but was still guided 
 by her cries, which grew fainter and fainter. They were off 
 to the left, while the reports of muskets showed that the 
 battle was raging to the right. At length he came upon what 
 appeared to be a rugged footpath, faintly worn in a gulley of 
 the rocks, and beheld the rufhans at some distance hurrying 
 the lady up the defile. One of them hearing his approach, 
 let go his prey, advanced towards him, and levelling the car- 
 bine which had been slung on his back, fired. The ball 
 whizzed through the Englishman’s hat, and carried with it 
 some of his hair. He returned the fire with one of his 
 pistols, and the robber fell. The other brigand now dropped 
 the lady, and drawing a long pistol from his belt, fired on 
 his adversary with deliberate aim. The ball passed between 
 his left arm and. his side, slightly wounding the arm. The 
 
374 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 Englishman advanced, and discharged his remaining pistol, 
 which wounded the robber, but not severely. 
 
 The brigand drew a stiletto and rushed upon his adver- 
 sary, who eluded the blow, receiving merely a slight wound, 
 and defended himself with his pistol, which had a spring bay- 
 onet. They closed with one another, and a desperate struggle 
 ensued. The robber was a square-built, thickset man, power- 
 ful, muscular, and active. The Englishman, though of larger 
 frame and greater strength, was less active, and less accus- 
 tomed to athletic exercises and feats of hardihood, but he 
 showed himself practised and skilled in the art of defence. 
 They were on a craggy height, and the Englishman perceived 
 that his antagonist was striving to press him to the edge. A 
 side-glance showed him also the robber whom he had first 
 wounded, scrambling up to the assistance of his comrade, 
 stiletto in hand. He had in fact attained the summit of the 
 cliff, he was within a few steps, and the Englishman felt that 
 his case was desperate, when he heard suddenly the report of} 
 a pistol, and the rufhan fell. The shot came from John, 
 who had arrived just in time to save his master. 
 
 The remaining robber, exhausted by loss of blood and the 
 violence of the contest, showed signs of faltering. The Eng- 
 lishman pursued his advantage, pressed on him, and as his 
 strength relaxed, dashed him headlong from the precipice. 
 He looked after him, and saw him lying motionless among 
 the rocks below. 
 
 The Englishman now sought the fair Venetian. He found 
 her senseless on the ground. With his servant’s assistance he 
 bore her down to the road, where her husband was raving 
 like one distracted. He had sought her in vain, and had 
 
THE ENGLISHMAN’S ADVENTURE. 375 
 
 given her over for lost ; and when he beheld her thus brought 
 back in safety, his joy was equally wild and ungovernable. 
 He would have caught her insensible form to his bosom had 
 not the Englishman restrained him. The latter, now really 
 aroused, displayed a true tenderness and manly gallantry, 
 which one would not have expected from his habitual 
 phlegm. His kindness, however, was practical, not wasted 
 in words. He despatched John to the carriage for restora- 
 tives of all kinds, and, totally thoughtless of himself, was anx- 
 ious only about his lovely charge. The occasional discharge 
 of firearms along the height, showed that a retreating fight 
 was still kept up by the robbers. The lady gave signs of 
 reviving animation. The Englishman, eager to get her from 
 this place of danger, conveyed her to his own carriage, and, 
 committing her to the care of her husband, ordered the dra- 
 goons to escort them to Fondi. The Venetian would have 
 insisted on the Englishman’s getting into the carriage ; but 
 the latter refused. He poured forth a torrent of thanks and 
 benedictions ; but the Englishman beckoned to the postilions 
 to drive on. 
 
 John now dressed his master’s wounds, which were found 
 not to be serious, though he was faint with loss of blood. 
 The Venetian carriage had been righted, and the baggage 
 replaced; and, getting into it, they set out on their way 
 towards Fondi, leaving the foot-soldiers still engaged in fer- 
 reting out the banditti. 
 
 Before arriving at Fondi, the fair Venetian had com- 
 pletely recovered from her swoon. She made the usual 
 question— 
 
 “Where was she?” 
 
876 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 “Tn the Englishman’s carriage.” 
 
 ‘How had she escaped from the robbers ? ” 
 
 “The Englishman had rescued her.” 
 
 Her transports were unbounded ; and mingled with them 
 were enthusiastic ejaculations of gratitude to her deliverer. 
 A thousand times did she reproach herself for having accused 
 him of coldness and insensibility. ‘The moment she saw him, 
 she rushed into his arms with the vivacity of her nation, and 
 hung about his neck in a speechless transport of gratitude. 
 Never was man more embarrassed by the embraces of a fine 
 
 woman. 
 Tut !—tut!” said the Englishman. 
 ‘*'You are wounded!” shrieked the fair Venetian, as she saw blood 
 upon his clothes. 
 “Pooh! nothing at all! ” 
 
 ‘*“ My deliverer! 
 
 —my angel!” ex- 
 
 claimed she, clasp- 
 
 > 
 
 ing him = again ~ 
 round the _ neck, 
 and sobbing on his 
 
 bosom. j) 
 é eget) 
 “Pish!” said / 
 
 H] 
 the Englishman, yp 
 
 H 
 I 
 
 . . 
 foolish, ‘‘ this is |j 
 all humbug.” Ma 
 The fair Vene- 1 | 
 tian, however, has © / 
 never since accused // Ht iN 
 the English of in- ‘i 
 sensibility. 
 
 i il 
 
 ‘ 
 
PART FOURTH. 
 
 THE MONEY-DIGGERS. 
 
 FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH 
 KNICKERBOCKER. 
 
 “Now I remember those old women’s words, 
 Who in my youth would tell me winter’s tales: 
 And speak of sprites and ghosts that glide by night 
 About the place where treasure hath been hid.” 
 Mar ow’s Jew of Malta. 
 
¥ 
 
 eft: peematy Se 
 
 oi apy <eaiis 
 2 Gubr £ 
 
 i 
 
 ’ f 
 * oe 
 7. i) sha « 
 ” : ‘ 
 ALY es ’ 
 ent 
 
HELL-GATE. 
 
 BOUT six miles from the renowned city of the Manhat- 
 
 toes, in that Sound or arm of the sea which passes be- 
 tween the mainland and Nassau, or Long Island, there is a 
 narrow strait, where the current is violently compressed 
 between shouldering promontories, and horribly perplexed 
 by rocks and shoals. Being, at the best of times, a very 
 violent, impetuous current, it takes these impediments in 
 mighty dudgeon ; boiling in whirlpools; brawling and fret- 
 ting in ripples; raging and roaring in rapids and breakers ; 
 and, in short, indulging in all kinds of wrong-headed par- 
 oxysms. At such times, woe to any unlucky vessel that -ven- 
 tures within its clutches. 
 
 This termagant humor, however, prevails only at certain 
 times of tide. At low water, for instance, it is as pacific a 
 stream as you would wish to see; but as the tide rises, it 
 begins to fret ; at half-tide it roars with might and main, like 
 a bull bellowing for more drink ; but when the tide is full, it 
 relapses into quiet, and, for a time, sleeps as soundly as an 
 alderman after dinner. In fact, it may be compared to a 
 quarrelsome toper, who is a peaceable fellow enough when he 
 has no liquor at all, or when he has a skinfull ; but who, when 
 half-seas over, plays the very devil. . 
 
380 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 This mighty, blustering, bullying, hard-drinking little 
 strait, was a place of great danger and perplexity to the 
 Dutch navigators of ancient days; hectoring their tub-built 
 barks in a most unruly style; whirling them about in a 
 manner to make any but a Dutchman giddy, and not unfre- 
 quently stranding them upon rocks and reefs, as it did the 
 famous squadron of Oloffe the Dreamer, when seeking a place 
 to found the city of the Manhattoes. Whereupon, out of 
 sheer spleen, they denominated it Helle-gat, and solemnly 
 gave ft over to the devil. This appellation has since been 
 aptly rendered into English by the name of Hell-gate, and 
 into nonsense by the name of Hurl-gate, according to certain 
 foreign intruders, who neither understood Dutch nor English 
 —may St. Nicholas confound them ! 
 
 This strait of Hell-gate was a place of great awe and per- 
 ilous enterprise to me in my boyhood, having been much of 
 a navigator on those small seas, and having more than once 
 run the risk of shipwreck and drowning in the course of 
 certain holiday voyages, to which, in common with other 
 Dutch urchins, I was rather prone. Indeed, partly from the 
 name, and partly from various strange circumstances con- 
 nected with it, this place had far more terrors in the eyes of 
 my truant companions and myself than had Scylla and Cha- 
 rybdis for the navigators of yore. 
 
 In the midst of this strait, and hard by a group of rocks 
 called the Hen and Chickens, there lay the wreck of a vessel 
 which had been entangled in the whirlpools and stranded dur- 
 ing a storm. There was a wild story told to us of this being 
 the wreck of a pirate, and some tale of bloody murder which 
 I cannot now recollect, but which made us regard it with 
 
HELL-GATE. 3881 
 
 great awe, and keep far from it in our cruisings. Indeed, the 
 desolate look of the forlorn hulk, and the fearful place where 
 it lay rotting, were enough to awaken strange notions. A 
 row of timber-heads, blackened by time, just peered above 
 the surface at high water ; but at low tide a considerable part 
 of the hull was bare, and its great ribs or timbers, partly 
 stripped of their planks, and dripping with sea-weeds, looked 
 like the huge skeleton of some sea-monster. There was also 
 the stump of a mast, with a few ropes and blocks swinging 
 about and whistling in the wind, while the sea-gull wheeled 
 and screamed around the melancholy carcass. I have a faint 
 recollection of some hobgoblin tale of sailors’ ghosts being 
 seen about this wreck at night, with bare skulls, and blue 
 lights in their sockets instead of eyes, but I have forgotten all 
 the particulars. 
 
 In fact, the whole of this neighborhood was like the straits 
 of Pelorus of yore, a region of fable and romance. to me. 
 From the strait to the Manhattoes, the borders of the Sound 
 are greatly diversified, being broken and indented by rocky 
 nooks overhung with trees, which give them a wild and ro- 
 mantic look. In the time of my boyhood, they abounded 
 with traditions about pirates, ghosts, smugglers, and buried 
 money ; which had a wonderful effect upon the young minds 
 of my companions and myself. 
 
 As I grew to more mature years, I made diligent research 
 after the truth of these strange traditions; for I have always 
 been a curious investigator of the valuable but obscure 
 branches of the history of my native province. I found 
 infinite difficulty, however, in arriving at any precise infor- 
 
 mation. In seeking to dig up one fact, it is incredible the 
 
382 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 number of fables that J unearthed. I will say nothing of the 
 devil’s stepping-stones, by which the arch-fiend made his 
 retreat from Connecticut to Long Island, across the Sound; 
 seeing the subject is likely to be learnedly treated by a 
 worthy friend and contemporary historian, whom I have fur- 
 nished with particulars thereof.* Neither will I say any 
 thing of the black man in a three-cornered hat, seated in the 
 stern of a jolly-boat, who used to be seen about Hell-gate in 
 stormy weather, and who went by the name of the pirate’s 
 spuke, (i. e., pirate’s ghost,) and whom, it is said, old Gov- 
 ernor Stuyvesant once shot with a silver bullet ; because I 
 never could meet with any person of stanch credibility who 
 professed to have seen this spectrum, unless it were the 
 widow of Manus Conklen, the blacksmith, of Frogsneck ; but 
 then, poor woman, she was a little purblind, and might have 
 been mistaken ; though they say she saw farther than other 
 folks in the dark. 
 
 All this, however, was but little satisfactory in regard to 
 the tales of pirates and their buried money, about which I 
 was most curious; and the following is all that I could, for a 
 long time, collect, that had any thing like an air of authen- 
 ticity. 
 
 * For a very interesting and authentic account of the devil and his 
 stepping-stones, see the valuable Memoir read before the New York 
 
 Historical Society, since the death of Mr. Knickerbocker, by his friend, 
 
 an eminent jurist of the place. 
 
1oUD Da THB DhcAY TE. 
 
 N old times, just after the territory of the New-Nether- 
 
 lands had been wrested from the hands of their High 
 Mightinesses, the Lords States-General of Holland, by King 
 Charles the Second, and while it was as yet in an unquiet 
 state, the province was a great resort of random adventurers, 
 loose livers, and all that class of hap-hazard fellows who live 
 by their wits, and dislike the old-fashioned restraint of law 
 and gospel. Among these, the foremost were the buccaneers. 
 These were rovers of the deep, who perhaps in time of war 
 had been educated in those schools of piracy, the privateers ; 
 but having once tasted the sweets of plunder, had ever re- 
 tained a hankering after it. There is but a slight step from 
 the privateersman to the pirate; both fight for the love of 
 plunder ; only that the latter is the bravest, as he dares both 
 the enemy and the gallows. 
 
 But in whatever school they had been taught, the bucca- 
 neers that kept about the English colonies were daring 
 fellows, and made sad work in times of peace among the 
 Spanish settlements and Spanish merchantmen. The easy 
 access to the harbor of the Manhattoes, the number of hiding- 
 places about its waters, and the laxity of its scarcely-organ- 
 
384 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 ized government, made it a great rendezvous of the pirates ; 
 where they might dispose of their booty, and concert new 
 depredations. As they brought home with them wealthy 
 lading of all kinds, the luxuries of the tropics, and the sump- 
 tuous spoils of the Spanish provinces, and disposed of them 
 with the proverbial carelessness of freebooters, they were 
 welcome visitors to the thrifty traders of the Manhattoes. 
 Crews of these desperadoes, therefore, the runagates of every 
 country and every clime, might be seen swaggering in open 
 day about the streets of the little burgh, elbowing its quiet 
 mynheers ; trafficking away their rich outlandish plunder at 
 half or quarter price to the wary merchant; and then squan- 
 dering their prize-money in taverns, drinking, gambling, sing- 
 ing, swearing, shouting, and astounding the neighborhood 
 with midnight brawl and ruffian revelry. 
 
 At length these excesses rose to such a height as to be- 
 come a scandal to the provinces, and to call loudly for the 
 interposition of government. Measures were accordingly 
 taken to put a stop to the widely-extended evil, and to ferret 
 this vermin brood out of the colonies. 
 
 Among the agents employed to execute this purpose was 
 the notorious Captain Kidd. He had long been an equivocal 
 character ; one of those nondescript animals of the ocean that 
 are neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. He was somewhat of a 
 trader, something more of a smuggler, with a considerable 
 dash of the picaroon. He had traded for many years among 
 the pirates, in a little rakish, musquito-built vessel, that could 
 run into all kinds of waters. He knew all their haunts and 
 
 lurking-places; was always hooking about on mysterious 
 
KIDD THE PIRATE. 385 
 
 voyages, and was as busy as a Mother Cary’s chicken in a 
 storm. 
 
 This nondescript personage was pitched upon by govern- 
 ment as the very man to hunt the pirates by sea, upon the 
 good old maxim of “ setting a rogue to catch a rogue;” or 
 as otters are sometimes used to catch their cousins-german, 
 the fish. 
 
 Kidd accordingly sailed for New York, in 1695, in a 
 gallant vessel called the Adventure Galley, well armed and 
 duly commissioned. On arriving at his old haunts, however, 
 he shipped his crew on new terms; enlisted a number of his 
 old comrades, lads of the knife and the pistol; and then set 
 sail for the East. Instead of cruising against pirates, he 
 turned pirate himself; steered to the Madeiras, to Bonavista, 
 and Madagascar, and cruised about the entrance of the Red 
 Sea, Here, among other maritime robberies, he captured a 
 rich Quedah merchantman, manned by Moors, though com- 
 manded by an Englishman. Kidd would fain have passed 
 this off for a worthy exploit, as being a kind of crusade 
 against the infidels; but government had long since lost all 
 relish for such Christian triumphs. 
 
 After roaming the seas, trafficking his prizes, and chang- 
 ing from ship to ship, Kidd had the hardihood to return to 
 Boston, laden with booty, with a crew of swaggering com- 
 panions at his heels. 
 
 Times, however, were changed. The buccaneers could no 
 longer show a whisker in the colonies with impunity. The 
 new governor, Lord Bellamont, had signalized himself by his 
 zeal in extirpating these offenders; and was doubly exaspe- 
 
 V7 
 
386 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 rated against Kidd, having been instrumental in appointing 
 him to the trust which he had betrayed. No sooner, there- 
 fore, did he show himself in Boston, than the alarm was 
 given of his reappearance, and measures were taken to arrest 
 this cutpurse of the ocean. The daring character which Kidd 
 had acquired, however, and the desperate fellows who fol- 
 lowed like bull-dogs at his heels, caused a little delay in his 
 arrest. He took advantage of this, it is said, to bury the 
 greater part of his treasures, and then carried a high 
 head about the streets of Boston. He even attempted 
 to defend himself when arrested, but was secured and 
 thrown into prison, with his followers. Such was the 
 formidable character of this pirate, and his crew, that it was 
 thought advisable to despatch a frigate to bring them to Eng- 
 land. Great exertions were made to screen him from justice, 
 but in vain; he and his comrades were tried, condemned, and 
 hanged at Execution Dock in London. Kidd died hard, for 
 the rope with which he was first tied up broke with his 
 weight, and he tumbled to the ground. He was tied up a 
 second time, and more effectually ; hence came, doubtless, the 
 story of Kidd’s having a charmed life, and that he had to be 
 twice hanged. 
 
 Such is the main outline of Kidd’s history; but it has 
 given birth to an innumerable progeny of traditions. The 
 report of his having buried great treasures of gold and jewels 
 before his arrest, set the brains of all the good people along 
 the coast in a ferment. There were rumors on rumors of 
 great sums of money found here and there, sometimes in one 
 part of the country, sometimes in another; of coins with 
 
KIDD THE PIRATE. 387 
 
 Moorish inscriptions, doubtless the spoils of his eastern 
 prizes, but which the common people looked upon with 
 superstitious awe, regarding the Moorish letters as diabolical 
 or magical characters. 
 
 Some reported the treasure to have been buried in soli- 
 tary, unsettled places, about Plymouth and Cape Cod; but 
 by degrees various other parts, not only on the eastern coast, 
 but along the shores of the Sound, and even of Manhatian 
 and Long Island, were gilded by these rumors. In fact, the 
 rigorous measures of Lord Bellamont spread sudden conster- 
 nation among the buccaneers in every part of the provinces: 
 they secreted their money and jewels in lonely out-of-the-way 
 places, about the wild shores of the rivers and sea-coast, and 
 dispersed themselves over the face of the country. The hand 
 of justice prevented many of them from ever returning to re- 
 gain their buried treasures, which remained, and remain prob- 
 ably to this day, objects of enterprise for the money-digger. 
 
 This is the cause of those frequent reports of trees and 
 rocks bearing mysterious marks, supposed to indicate the 
 spots where treasures lay hidden; and many have been the 
 ransackings after the pirate’s booty. In all the stories which 
 once abounded of these enterprises, the devil played a con- 
 spicuous part. Hither he was conciliated by ceremonies and 
 invocations, or some solemn compact was made with him. 
 Still he was ever prone to play the money-diggers some slip- 
 pery trick. Some would dig so far as to come to an iron 
 chest, when some baffling circumstance was sure to take 
 place. Either the earth would fall in and fill up the pit, or 
 some direful noise or apparition would frighten the party 
 
388 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 from the place: sometimes the devil himself would appear, 
 and bear off the prize when within their very grasp; and if 
 they revisited the place the next day, not a trace would be 
 found of their labors of the preceding night. 
 
 All these rumors, however, were extremely yague, and 
 for a long time tantalized, without gratifying, my curiosity. 
 There is nothing in this world so hard to get at as truth, and 
 there is nothing in this world but truth that I care for. I 
 sought among all my favorite sources of authentic informa- 
 tion, the oldest inhabitants, and particularly the old Dutch 
 wives of the province; but though I flatter myself that I am 
 better versed than most men in the curious history of my 
 native province, yet for a long time my inquiries were unat- 
 tended with any substantial result. 
 
 At length it happened that, one calm day in the latter 
 part of summer, I was relaxing myself from the toils of 
 severe study, by a day’s amusement in fishing in those waters 
 which had been the favorite resort of my boyhood. I was in 
 company with several worthy burghers of my native city, 
 among whom were more than one illustrious member of the 
 corporation, whose names, did I dare to mention them, would 
 do honor to my humble page. Our sport was indifferent. 
 The fish did not bite freely, and we frequently changed our 
 fishing-ground without bettering our luck. We were at 
 length anchored close under a ledge of rocky coast, on the 
 eastern side of the island of Manhatta. It was a still, warm 
 day. The stream whirled and dimpled by us, without a 
 wave or even a ripple; and every thing was so calm and 
 quiet, that it was almost startling when the kingfisher would 
 
 pitch himself from the branch of some high tree, and after 
 
KIDD THE PIRATF. 389 
 
 suspending himself for a moment in the air, to take his aim, 
 would souse into the smooth water after his prey. While 
 we were lolling in our boat, half drowsy with the warm still- 
 ness of the day, and the dulness of our sport, one of our 
 party, a worthy alderman, was overtaken by a slumber, and, 
 as he dozed, suffered the sinker of his drop-line to lie upon 
 the bottom of the river. On waking, he found he had caught 
 something of importance from the weight. On drawing it to 
 the surface, we were much surprised to find it a long pistol 
 of very curious and outlandish fashion, which, from its rusted 
 condition, and its stock being wormeaten and covered with 
 barnacles, appeared to have lain a long time under water. 
 The unexpected appearance of this document of warfare, 
 occasioned much speculation among my pacific companions. 
 One supposed it to have fallen there during the revolutionary 
 war; another, from the peculiarity of its fashion, attributed 
 it to the voyagers in the earliest days of the settlement ; per- 
 chance to the renowned Adrian Block, who explored the 
 Sound, and discovered Block Island, since so noted for its 
 cheese. But a third, after regarding it for some time, pro- 
 nounced it to be of veritable Spanish workmanship. 
 
 “Pll warrant,” said he, “if this pistol could talk, it would 
 tell strange stories of hard fights among the Spanish Dons. 
 I’ve no doubt but it is a relic of the buccaneers of old times 
 —who knows but it belonged to Kidd himself?” 
 
 “ Ah! that Kidd was a resolute fellow,” cried an old iron- 
 faced Cape Cod whaler.—“ There’s a fine old song about him, 
 all to the tune of— 
 
 My name is Captain Kidd, 
 As I sailed, as I sailed— 
 
390 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 And then it tells about how he gained the devil’s good graces 
 by burying the Bible: 
 
 I had the Bible in my hand, 
 As I sailed, as I sailed, 
 And I buried it in the sand, 
 
 As I sailed.— 
 
 “ Odsfish, if I thought this pistol had belonged to Kidd, I 
 should set great store by it, for curiosity’s sake. By the 
 way, I recollect a story about a fellow who once dug up 
 Kidd’s buried money, which was written by a neighbor of 
 mine, and which I learnt by heart. As the fish don’t bite 
 just now, I'll tell it to you, by way of passing away the 
 
 time.”—And so saying, he gave us the following narration. 
 
THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 
 
 FEW miles from Boston in Massachusetts, there is a 
 deep inlet, winding several miles into the interior of the 
 country from Charles Bay, and terminating in a thickly- 
 wooded swamp or morass. On one side of this inlet is a beau- 
 tiful dark grove; on the opposite side the land rises abruptly 
 from the water’s edge into a high ridge, on which grow a few 
 scattered oaks of great age and immense size. Under one of 
 these gigantic trees, according to old stories, there was a 
 great amount of treasure buried by Kidd the pirate. The 
 inlet allowed a facility to bring the money in a boat secretly 
 and at night to the very foot of the hill; the elevation of the 
 place permitted a good look-out to be kept that no one was 
 at hand; while the remarkable trees formed good landmarks 
 by which the place might easily be found again. The old 
 stories add, moreover, that the devil presided at the hiding of 
 the money, and took it under his guardianship ; but this, it is 
 well known, he always does with buried treasure, particularly 
 when it has been ill-gotten. Be that as it may, Kidd never 
 returned to recover his wealth; being shortly after seized at 
 Boston, sent out to England, and there hanged for a pirate. 
 About the year 1727, just at the time that earthquakes 
 
302 TALES OF A ‘TRAVELLER. 
 
 were prevalent in New England, and shook many tall sinners 
 down upon their knees, there lived near this place a meagre, 
 miserly fellow, of the name of Tom Walker. He had a wife 
 as miserly as himself: they were-so miserly that they even 
 conspired to cheat each other. Whatever the woman could 
 lay hands on, she hid away; a hen could not cackle but she 
 was on the alert to secure the new-laid egg. Her husband 
 was continually prying about to detect her secret hoards, and 
 many and fierce were the conflicts that took place about what 
 ought to have been common property. They lived in a forlorn- 
 looking house that stood alone, and had an air of starvation. 
 A few straggling savin-trees, emblems of sterility, grew near 
 it; no smoke ever curled from its chimney; no traveller 
 stopped at its door. A miserable horse, whose ribs were as 
 articulate as the bars of a gridiron, stalked about a field, 
 where a thin carpet of moss, scarcely covering the ragged 
 beds of puddingstone, tantalized and balked his hunger ; and 
 sometimes he would lean his head over the fence, look 
 piteously at the passer-by, and seem to petition deliverance 
 from this land of famine. 
 
 The house and its inmates had altogether a bad name. 
 Tom’s wife was a tall termagant, fierce of temper, loud of 
 tongue, and strong of arm. Her voice was often heard in 
 wordy warfare with her husband; and his face sometimes 
 showed signs that their conflicts were not confined to words. 
 No one ventured, however, to interfere between them. ‘The 
 lonely wayfarer shrunk within himself at the horrid clamor 
 and clapper-clawing ; eyed the den of discord askance; and 
 hurried on his way, rejoicing, if a bachelor, in his celibacy. 
 
 One day that Tom Walker had been to a distant part of the 
 
THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 893 
 
 neighborhood, he took what he considered a short cut home- 
 ward, through the swamp. Like most short cuts, it was an 
 ill-chosen route. The swamp was thickly grown with great 
 gloomy pines and hemlocks, some of them ninety feet high, 
 which made it dark at noonday, and a retreat for all the owls 
 of the neighborhood. It was full of pits and quagmires, 
 partly covered with weeds and mosses, where the green sur- 
 face often betrayed the traveller into a gulf of black, smother- 
 ing mud: there were also dark and stagnant pools, the abodes 
 of the tadpole, the bull-frog, and the water-snake ; where the 
 trunks of pines and hemlocks lay half-drowned, half-rotting, 
 looking like alligators sleeping in the mire. 
 
 Tom had long been picking his way cautiously through 
 this treacherous forest ; stepping from tuft to tuft of rushes 
 and roots, which afforded precarious footholds among deep 
 sloughs ; or pacing carefully, like a cat, along the prostrate 
 trunks of trees; startled now and then by the sudden scream- 
 ing of the bittern, or the quacking of a wild duck rising on 
 the wing from some solitary pool. At length he arrived at a 
 firm piece of ground, which ran out like a peninsula into the 
 deep bosom of the swamp. It had been one of the strong- 
 holds of the Indians during their wars with the first colonists. 
 Here they had thrown up a kind of fort, which they had 
 looked upon as almost impregnable, and had used as a place 
 of refuge for their squaws and children. Nothing remained of 
 the old Indian fort but a few embankments, gradually sinking 
 to the level of the surrounding earth, and already overgrown 
 in part by oaks and other forest trees, the foliage of which 
 formed a contrast to the dark pines and hemlocks of the 
 
 swamp. 
 Mis 
 
394 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 It was late in the dusk of evening when Tom Walker 
 reached the old fort, and he paused there awhile to rest him- 
 self. Any one but he would have felt unwilling to linger in 
 this lonely, melancholy place, for the common people had a 
 bad opinion of it, from the stories handed down from the 
 time of the Indian wars; when it was asserted that the 
 savages held incantations here, and made sacrifices to the evil 
 spirit. 
 
 Tom Walker, however, was not a man to be troubled 
 with any fears of the kind. He reposed himself for some 
 time on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, listening to the boding 
 ery of the tree-toad, and delving with his walking-staff into a 
 mound of black mould at his feet. As he turned up the soil un- 
 consciously, his staff struck against something hard. He raked 
 it out of the vegetable mould, and lo! a cloven skull, with an 
 Indian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before him. The 
 rust on the weapon showed the time that had elapsed since 
 this death-blow had been given. It was a dreary memento 
 of the fierce struggle that had taken place in this last foothold 
 of the Indian warriors. 
 
 “Humph!” said Tom Walker, as he gave it a kick to 
 shake the dirt from it. 
 
 “Let that skull alone!” said a gruff voice. Tom lifted 
 up his eyes, and beheld a great black man seated directly 
 opposite him, on the stump of a tree. He was exceedingly 
 surprised, having neither heard nor seen any one approach ; 
 and he was still more perplexed on observing, as well as the 
 gathering gloom would permit, that the stranger was neither 
 negro nor Indian. It is true he was dressed in a rude half 
 Indian garb, and had a red belt or sash swathed round his 
 
THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 3895 
 
 body ; but his face was neither black nor copper-color, but 
 swarthy and dingy, and begrimed with soot, as if he had been 
 accustomed to toil among fires and forges. He had a shock 
 of coarse black hair, that stood out from his head in all direc- 
 tions, and bore an axe on his shoulder. 
 
 He scowled for a moment at Tom with a pair of great 
 red eyes. | 
 
 “What are you doing on my grounds?” said the black 
 man, with a hoarse growling voice. 
 
 “Your grounds!” said Tom with a sneer, “no more 
 your grounds than mine; they belong to Deacon Peabody.” 
 
 “ Deacon Peabody be d 
 flatter myself he will be, if he does not look more to his own 
 
 sins and less to those of his neighbors. Look yonder, and see 
 
 d,’ said the stranger, “as I 
 
 how Deacon Peabody is faring.” 
 
 Tom looked in the direction that the stranger pointed, 
 and beheld one of the great trees, fair and flourishing without, 
 but rotten at the core, and saw that it had been nearly hewn 
 through, so that the first high wind was likely to blow it 
 down. On the bark of the tree was scored the name of 
 Deacon Peabody, an eminent man, who had waxed wealthy by 
 driving shrewd bargains with the Indians. He now looked 
 around, and found most of the tail trees marked with the 
 name of some great man of the colony, and all more or less 
 scored by the axe. The one on which he had been seated, 
 and which had evidently just been hewn down, bore the name 
 of Crowninshield ; and he recollected a mighty rich man of 
 that name, who made a vulgar display of wealth, which it was 
 whispered he had acquired by buccaneering. 
 
 “ He’s just ready for burning!” said the black man, with 
 
396 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 a growl of triumph. “ You see I am likely to have a good 
 stock of firewood for winter.” 
 
 “But what right have you,” said Tom, “to cut down 
 Deacon Peabody’s timber ?” 
 
 “The right of a prior claim,” said the other. “This 
 woodland belonged to me long before one of your white-faced 
 race put foot upon the soil.” 
 
 “ And pray, who are you, if I may be so bold ?” said Tom. 
 
 “Oh, I go by various names. I am the wild huntsman 
 in some countries; the black miner in others. In this 
 neighborhood I am known by the name of the black woods- 
 man. I am he to whom the red men consecrated this spot, 
 and in honor of whom they now and then roasted a white 
 man, by way of sweet-smelling sacrifice. Since the red men 
 have been exterminated by you white savages, 1 amuse my- 
 self by presiding at the persecutions of Quakers and  Ana- 
 baptists ; [am the great patron and prompter of slave-deal- 
 ers, and the grand-master of the Salem witches.” 
 
 “The upshot of all which is, that, if I mistake not,” said 
 Tom, sturdily, “ you are he commonly called Old Scratch.” 
 
 “The same, at your service!” replied the black man, 
 with a half civil nod. 
 
 Such was the opening of this interview, according to the 
 old story; though it has almost too familiar an air to be 
 credited. One would think that to meet with such a singular 
 personage, in this wild, lonely place, would have shaken any 
 man’s nerves; but Tom was a hard-minded fellow, not easily 
 daunted, and he had lived so long with a termagant wife, 
 that he did not even fear the devil. 
 
 It is said that after this commencement they had a long and 
 
THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 397 
 
 earnest conversation together, as Tom returned homeward. 
 The black man told him of great sums of money buried by 
 Kidd the pirate, under the oak-trees on the high ridge, not 
 far from the morass. All these were under his command, 
 and protected by his power, so that none could find them 
 but such as propitiated his favor. These he offered to place 
 within Tom Walker’s reach, having conceived an especial 
 kindness for him; but they were to be had only on certain 
 conditions. What these conditions were may be easily sur- 
 mised, though Tom never disclosed them publicly. They 
 must have been very hard, for he required time to think of 
 them, and he was not a man to stick at trifles when money 
 was in view. When they had reached the edge of the 
 swamp, the stranger paused—* What proof have I that all 
 you have been telling me is true?” said Tom. “ There’s 
 my signature,” said the black man, pressing his finger on 
 Tom’s forehead. So saying, he turned off among the thickets 
 of the swamp, and seemed, as Tom said, to go down, down, 
 down, into the earth, until nothing but his head and shoul- 
 ders could be seen, and so on, until he totally disappeared. 
 
 When Tom reached home, he found the black print of a 
 finger burnt, as it were, into his forehead, which nothing could 
 obliterate. 
 
 The first news his wife had to tell him was the sudden 
 death of Absalom Crowninshield, the rich buccaneer. It was 
 announced in the papers with the usual flourish, that “A 
 great man had fallen in Israel.” 
 
 Tom recollected the tree which his black friend had just 
 
 hewn down, and which was ready for burning. “ Let -the 
 Ey 
 
398 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 freebooter roast,” said Tom, “ who cares!” He now felt con- 
 vinced that all he had heard and seen was no illusion. 
 
 He was not prone to let his wife into his confidence ; 
 but as this was an uneasy secret, he willingly shared it with 
 her. All her avarice was awakened at the mention of hidden 
 gold, and she urged her husband to comply with the black 
 man’s terms, and secure what would make them wealthy for 
 life. However Tom might have felt disposed to sell himself 
 to the Devil, he was determined not to do so to oblige his wife’; 
 so he flatly refused, out of the mere spirit of contradiction. 
 Many and bitter were the quarrels they had on the subject ; 
 but the more she talked, the more resolute was Tom not to be 
 damned to please her. 
 
 At length she determined to drive the bargain on her 
 own account, and if she succeeded, to keep all the gain to 
 herself. Being of the saine fearless temper as her husband, 
 she set off for the old Indian fort towards the close of a 
 summer’s day. She was many hours absent. When she 
 came back, she was reserved and sullen in her replies. She 
 spoke something of a black man, whom she had met about 
 twilight, hewing at the root of a tall tree. He was sulky, 
 however, and would not come to terms: she was to go 
 again with a propitiatory offering, but what it was she for- 
 bore to say. 
 
 The next evening she set off again for the swamp, with 
 her apron heavily laden. Tom waited and waited for her, 
 but in vain; midnight came, but she did not make her ap- 
 pearance: morning, noon, night returned, but still she did 
 not‘come. Tom now grew uneasy for her safety, especially 
 as he found she had carried off in her apron the silver teapot 
 
THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 399 
 
 and spoons, and every portable article of value. Another night 
 elapsed, another morning came; but no wife. In a word, she 
 was never heard of more. 
 
 What was her real fate nobody knows, in consequence of 
 so many pretending to know. It is one of those facts which 
 have become confounded by a variety of historians. Some 
 asserted that she lost her way among the tangled mazes of 
 the swamp, and sank into some pit or slough; others, more 
 uncharitable, hinted that she had eloped with the household 
 booty, and made off to some other province; while others 
 surmised that the tempter had decoyed her into a dismal 
 quagmire, on the top of which her hat was found lying. In 
 confirmation of this, it was said a great black man, with an 
 axe on his shoulder, was seen late that very evening coming 
 out of the swamp, carrying a bundle tied in a check apron, 
 with an air of surly triumph. 
 
 The most current and probable story, however, observes, 
 that Tom Walker grew so anxious about the fate of his wife 
 and his property, that he set out at length to seek them both 
 at the Indian fort. During a long summer’s afternoon he 
 searched about the gloomy place, but no wife was to be 
 seen. He called her name repeatedly, but she was nowhere 
 to be heard. The bittern alone responded to his voice, as he 
 flew screaming by; or the bull-frog croaked dolefully from a 
 neighboring pool. At length, it is said, just in the brown 
 hour of twilight, when the owls began to hoot, and the bats 
 to flit about, his attention was attracted by the clamor of 
 carrion crows hovering about a cypress-tree. He looked up, 
 and beheld a bundle tied in a check apron, and hanging in the 
 branches of the tree, with a great vulture perched hard by, as 
 
400 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 if keeping watch upon it. He leaped with joy; for he re- 
 cognized his wife’s apron, and supposed it to contain the 
 household valuables. 
 
 “Let us get hold of the property,” said he, consolingly to 
 himself, “and we will endeavor to do without the woman.” 
 
 As he scrambled up the tree, the vulture spread its wide 
 wings, and sailed off screaming into the deep shadows of the 
 forest. Ton. seized the checked apron, but woeful sight! 
 found nothing but.a heart and liver tied up in it! 
 
 Such, according to this most authentic old story, was all 
 that was to be found of Tom’s wife. She had probably at- 
 tempted to deal with the black man as she had been accus- 
 tomed to deal with her husband; but though a female scold 
 is generally considered a match for the devil, yet in this in- 
 stance she appears to have had the worst of it. She must 
 have died game, however; for it is said Tom noticed many 
 prints of cloven feet deeply stamped about the tree, and found 
 handfuls of hair, that looked as if they had been plucked from 
 the coarse black shock of the woodman. ‘Tom knew his wife’s 
 prowess by experience. He shrugged his shoulders, as he 
 looked at the signs of a fierce clapper-clawing. “ Egad,” said 
 he to himself, “Old Scratch must have had a tough time of 
 it!” 
 
 Tom consoled himself for the loss of his property, with 
 the loss of his wife, for he was a man of fortitude. He even 
 felt something like gratitude towards the black woodman, 
 who, he considered, had done him a kindness. He sought, 
 therefore, to cultivate a further acquaintance with him, but for 
 some time without success; the old black-legs played shy, 
 
 for whatever people may think, he is not always to be had 
 
THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 401 
 
 for calling for: he knows how to play his cards when pretty 
 sure of his game. 
 
 At length, it is said, when delay had whetted Tom’s 
 eagerness to the quick, and prepared him to agree to any 
 thing rather than not gain the promised treasure, he met the 
 black man one evening in his usual woodman’s dress, with 
 his axe on his shoulder, sauntering along the swamp, and 
 humming a tune. He affected to receive Tom’s advances 
 with great indifference, made brief replies, and went on hum- 
 ming his tune. 
 
 By degrees, however, Tom brought him to business, and 
 they began to haggle about the terms on which the former 
 was to have the pirate’s treasure. There was one condition 
 which need not be mentioned, being generally understood in 
 all cases where the devil grants favors; but there were 
 others about which, though of less importance, he was inflex- 
 ibly obstinate. He insisted that the money found through 
 his means should be employed in his service. He proposed, 
 therefore, that Tom should employ it in the black traffick ; 
 that is to say, that he should fit out a slave-ship. This, how- 
 ever, Tom resolutely refused: he was bad enough in all con- 
 science; but the devil himself could not tempt him to turn 
 slave-trader. 
 
 Finding Tom so squeamish on this point, he did not in- 
 sist upon it, but proposed, instead, that he should turn 
 usurer; the devil being extremely anxious for the increase \ 
 of usurers, looking upon them as his peculiar people. 
 
 To this no objections were made, for it was just to Tom’s 
 
 taste. 
 
4.02 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 “ You shall open a broker’s shop in Boston next month,” 
 said the black man. 
 
 “T’ll do it to-morrow, if you wish,” said Tom Walker. 
 
 “ You shall lend money at two per cent. a month,” 
 
 “ Egad, ll charge four!” replied Tom Walker. 
 
 “You shall extort bonds, foreclose mortgages, drive the 
 
 99 
 
 merchants to bankruptcy 
 
 “T’ll drive them to the d-——l,” cried Tom Walker. 
 
 “You are the usurer for my money!” said black-legs 
 with delight. “ When will you want the rhino?” 
 
 “This very night.” 
 
 “Done!” said the devil. 
 
 “Done!” said Tom Walker.—So they shook hands and 
 struck a bargain. 
 
 A few days’ time saw Tom Walker seated behind his | 
 desk in a counting-house in Boston. 
 
 His reputation for a ready-moneyed man, who would lend 
 money out for a good consideration, soon spread abroad. 
 Everybody remembers the time of Governor Belcher, when 
 money was particularly scarce. It was a time of paper 
 credit. The country had been deluged with government 
 bills, the famous Land Bank had been established ; there had 
 been a rage for speculating; the people had run mad with 
 schemes for new settlements; for building cities in the wil- 
 derness ; land-jobbers went about with maps of grants, and 
 townships, and Eldorados, lying nobody knew where, but 
 which everybody was ready to purchase. In a word, the 
 great speculating fever which breaks out every now and then 
 in the country, had raged to an alarming degree, and every- 
 
 body was dreaming of making sudden fortunes from nothing. 
 
THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 403 
 
 As usual the fever had subsided; the dream had gone off, 
 and the imaginary fortunes with it; the patients were left in 
 doleful plight, and the whole country resounded with the 
 consequent cry of “ hard times.” 
 
 At this propitious time of public distress did Tom 
 Walker set up as usurer in Boston. His door was soon 
 thronged by customers. The needy and adventurous; the 
 gambling speculator; the dreaming land-jobber; the thrift- 
 less tradesman; the merchant with cracked credit; in short, 
 every one driven to raise money by desperate means and 
 desperate sacrifices, hurried to Tom Walker. ) 
 
 Thus Tom was the universal friend of the needy, and 
 acted like a “friend in need;” that is to say, he always 
 exacted good pay and good security. In proportion to the 
 distress of the applicant was the hardness of his terms. He 
 accumulated bonds and mortgages; gradually squeezed his 
 customers closer and closer: and sent them at length, dry as 
 a sponge, from his door. 
 
 In this way he made money hand over hand; became a 
 rich and mighty man, and exalted his cocked hat upon 
 ’Change. He built himself, as usual, a vast house, out of 
 ostentation ; but left the greater part of it unfinished and 
 unfurnished, out of parsimony. He even set up a carriage in 
 the fulness of his vainglory, though he nearly starved the 
 horses which drew it; and as the ungreased wheels groaned 
 and screeched on the axle-trees, you would have thought you 
 heard the souls of the poor debtors he was squeezing. 
 
 As Tom waxed old, however, he grew thoughtful. 
 Having secured the good things of this world, he began to 
 feel anxious about those of the next. He thought with regret 
 
404 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 on the bargain he had made with his black friend, and set his 
 wits to work to cheat him out of the conditions. He became, 
 therefore, all of a sudden, a violent church-goer. He prayed 
 loudly and strenuously, as if heaven were to be taken by 
 force of lungs. Indeed, one might always tell when he had 
 sinned most during the week, by the clamor of his Sunday 
 devotion. The quiet Christians who had been modestly and 
 steadfastly travelling Zionward, were struck with  self-re- 
 proach at seeing themselves so suddenly outstripped in their 
 career by this new-made convert. Tom was as rigid in 
 religious as in money matters; he was a stern supervisor and 
 censurer of his neighbors, and seemed to think every sin 
 entered up to their account became a credit on his own side of 
 the page. He even talked of the expediency of reviving the 
 persecution of Quakers and Anabaptists. In a word, Tom’s 
 zeal become as notorious as his riches. . 
 
 Still, in spite of all this strenuous attention to forms, 
 Tom had a lurking dread that the devil, after all, would have 
 his due. That he might not be taken unawares, therefore, 
 it is said he always carried a small Bible in his coat-pocket. 
 He had also a great folio Bible on his counting-house desk, 
 and would frequently be found reading it when people called 
 on business; on such occasions he would lay his green 
 spectacles in the book, to mark the place, while he turned 
 round to drive some usurious bargain. 
 
 Some say that Tom grew alittle crack-brained in his old days, 
 and that fancying his end approaching, he had his horse new 
 shod, saddled and bridled, and buried with his feet upper- 
 most; because he supposed that at the last day the world 
 would be turned upside down; in which case he should find 
 
THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 405 
 
 his horse standing ready for mounting, and he was deter- 
 mined at the worst to give his old friend a run for it. This, 
 however, is probably a mere old -wives’ fable. If he really 
 did take such a precaution, it was totally superfluous; at 
 least so says the authentic old legend; which closes his story 
 in the following manner. 
 
 One hot summer afternoon in the dog-days, just as a ter- 
 rible black thundergust was coming up, Tom sat in his count- 
 ing house in his white linen cap and India silk morning-gown. 
 He was on the point of. foreclosing a mortgage, by which he 
 would complete the ruin of an unlucky land speculator for 
 whom he had professed the greatest friendship. The poor 
 land-jobber begged him to grant a few months’ indul- 
 gence. .-m had grown testy and irritated, and refused 
 another day. 
 
 “My family will be ruined, and brought upon the 
 parish,” said the land-jobber. “ Charity begins at home,” 
 replied Tom; “I must take care of myself in these hard 
 times.” 
 
 “ You have made so much money out of me,” said the 
 speculator. 
 
 Tom lost his patience and his piety—“ The devil take 
 me,” said he, “if I have made a farthing!” 
 
 Just then there were three loud knocks at the street 
 door. He stepped out to see who was there. A black man 
 was holding a black horse, which neighed and stamped with 
 impatience. 
 
 “Tom, youre come for,” said the black fellow, gruffly. 
 Tom shrank back, but too late. He had left his little Bible 
 at the bottom of his coat-pocket, and his big Bible on the desk 
 
406 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 buried under the mortgage he was about to foreclose: never 
 was sinner taken more unawares. The black man whisked 
 him like a child into the saddle, gave the horse the lash, and 
 away he galloped, with Tom on his back, in the midst of the 
 thunderstorm. ‘The clerks stuck their pens behind their ears, 
 and stared after him from the windows. Away went Tom 
 Walker, dashing down the streets ; his white cap bobbing up 
 and down; his morning-gown fluttering in the wind, and his 
 steed striking fire out of the pavement at every bound. 
 When the clerks turned to look for the black man he had 
 disappeared. 
 
 Tom Walker never returned to foreclose the mortgage. 
 A countryman who lived on the border of the swamp, re- 
 ported that in the height of the thundergust he had heard a 
 great clattering of hoofs and a howling along the road, and 
 running to the window caught sight of a figure, such as I have 
 described, on a horse that galloped like mad across the fields, 
 over the hills, and down into the black hemlock swamp 
 towards the old Indian fort ; and that shortly after a thunder- 
 bolt falling in that direction seemed to set the whole forest 
 in a blaze. 
 
 The good people of Boston shook their heads and shrug- 
 ged their shoulders, but had been so much accustomed to 
 witches and goblins, and tricks of the devil, in all kinds of 
 shapes, from the first settlement of the colony, that they were 
 not so much horror-struck as might have been expected. 
 Trustees were appointed to take charge of Tom’s effects. 
 There was nothing, however, to administer upon. On 
 searching his coffers all his bonds and mortgages were found 
 
 reduced to cinders. In place of gold and silver his iron 
 
THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 407 
 
 chest was filled with chips and shavings; two skeletons lay 
 in his stable instead of his halfstarved horses, and the very 
 next day his great house took fire and was burnt to the 
 ground, 
 
 Such was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotten 
 wealth. Let all griping money-brokers lay this ‘story to 
 heart. The truth of it isnot to be doubted. The very hole un- 
 der the oak-trees, whence he dug Kidd’s money, is to be seen 
 to this day ; and the neighboring swamp and old Indian fort are 
 often haunted in stormy nights by a figure on horseback, in 
 morning-gown and white cap, which is doubtless the troubled 
 spirit of the usurer. In fact, the story has resolved itself 
 into a proverb, and is the origin of that popular saying, so 
 prevalent throughout New England, of “ The Devil and Tom 
 Walker.” 
 
 Such, as nearly as I can recollect, was the purport of the 
 tale told by the Cape Cod whaler. There were divers trivial 
 particulars which I have omitted, and which whiled away the 
 morning very pleasantly, until the time of tide favorable to 
 fishing being passed, it was proposed to land, and refresh 
 ourselves under the trees, till the noontide heat should have 
 abated. 
 
 We accordingly landed on a delectable part of the island 
 of Manhatta, in that shady and embowered tract formerly 
 under the domain of the ancient family of the Hardenbrooks. 
 It was a spot well known to me in the course of the aquatic 
 
 expeditions of my boyhood. Not far from where we landed 
 
A08 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 there was an old Dutch family vault, constructed in the side 
 of a bank, which had been an object of great awe and fable 
 among my schoolboy associates. We had peeped into it 
 during one of our coasting voyages, and been startled by the 
 sight of mouldering coffins and musty bones within; but 
 what had given it the most fearful interest in our eyes, was 
 its being in some way connected with the pirate wreck which 
 lay rotting among the rocks of Hell-gate. There were 
 stories also of smuggling connected with it, particularly relat- 
 ing to a time when this retired spot was owned by a noted 
 burgher, called Ready Money Provost; a man of whom it 
 was whispered that he had many mysterious dealings with 
 parts beyond the seas. All these things, however, had_been 
 jumbled together in our minds in that vague way in which 
 such themes are mingled up in the tales of boyhood. 
 
 While I was pondering upon these matters, my com- 
 panions had spread a repast, from the contents of our well- 
 stored pannier, under a broad chestnut, on the greensward 
 which swept down to the water’s edge. Here we solaced 
 ourselves on the cool grassy carpet during the warm sunny 
 hours of mid-day. While lolling on the grass, indulging in 
 that kind of musing reverie of which I am fond, I summoned 
 up the dusky recollections of my boyhood respecting this 
 place, and repeated them like the imperfectly remembered 
 traces of a dream, for the amusement of my companions. 
 When I had finished, a worthy old burgher, John Josse Van- 
 dermoere, the same who once related to me the adventures 
 of Dolph Heyliger, broke silence, and observed, that he 
 recollected a story of money-digging, which occurred in this 
 
 very neighborhood, and might account for some of the 
 
THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 40 
 
 traditions which I had heard in my boyhood. As we knew 
 him to be one of the most authentic narrators in the province, 
 we begged him to let us have the particulars, and accordingly, 
 while we solaced ourselves with a clean long pipe of Blase 
 Moore’s best tobacco, the authentic John Josse Vandermoere 
 related the following tale. 
 
 18 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER, OR GOLDEN 
 DREAMS. 
 
 te the year of grace one thousand seven hundred and— 
 
 blank—for I do not remember the precise date; however, 
 it was somewhere in the early part of the last century, there 
 lived in the ancient city of the Manhattoes a worthy burgher, 
 Wolfert Webber by name. He was descended from old 
 Cobus Webber of the Brille in Holland, one of the original 
 settlers, famous for introducing the cultivation of cabbages, 
 and who came over to the province during the protectorship 
 of Oloffe Van Kortlandt, otherwise called the Dreamer. 
 
 The field in which Cobus Webber first planted himself 
 and his cabbages had remained ever since in the family, who 
 continued in the same line of husbandry, with that praise- 
 worthy perseverance for which our Dutch burghers are noted. 
 The whole family genius, during several generations, was 
 devoted to the study and development of this one noble 
 vegetable ; and to this concentration of intellect may doubt- 
 less be ascribed the prodigious renown to which the Webber 
 cabbages attained. 
 
 The Webber dynasty continued in uninterrupted succes- 
 
 sion; and never did a line give more unquestionable proofs 
 
-‘WOLFERT WEBBER. 411 
 
 of legitimacy. The eldest son succeeded to the looks, as well 
 as the territory of his sire; and had the portraits of this line 
 of tranquil potentates been taken, they would have presented 
 a row of heads marvellously resembling in shape and magni- 
 tude the vegetables over which they reigned. 
 
 The seat of government continued unchanged in the fam- 
 ily mansion :—a Dutch-built house, with a front, or rather 
 gable-end of yellow brick, tapering to a point, with the cus- 
 tomary iron weathercock at the top. Every thing about the 
 building bore the air of long-settled ease and security. 
 Flights of martins peopled the little coops nailed against its 
 walls, and swallows built their nests under the eaves; and 
 every one knows that these house-loving birds bring good 
 luck to the dwelling where they take up their abode. In a 
 bright summer morning in early summer, it was delectable 
 to hear their cheerful notes, as they sported about in the pure 
 sweet air, chirping forth, as it were, the greatness and pros- 
 perity of the Webbers. 
 
 Thus quietly and comfortably did this excellent family 
 vegetate under the shade of a mighty button-wood tree, which 
 by little and little grew so great as entirely to overshadow 
 their palace. The city gradually spread its suburbs round 
 their domain. Houses sprang up to interrupt their prospects. 
 The rural lanes in the vicinity began to grow into the bustle 
 and populousness of streets; in short, with all the habits of 
 rustic life they began to find themselves the inhabitants of a 
 city. Still, however, they maintained their hereditary 
 character, and hereditary possessions, with all the tenacity 
 of petty German princes in the midst of the empire. Wol- 
 fert was the last of the line, and succeeded to the patriarchal 
 
412 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 bench at the door, under the family tree, and swayed the 
 sceptre of his fathers, a kind of rural potentate in the midst 
 of the metropolis. | 
 
 To share the cares and sweets of sovereignty, he had taken 
 unto himself a helpmate, one of that excellent kind, called 
 stirring women; that is to say, she was one of those notable 
 little housewives who are always busy where there is nothing 
 to do. Her activity, however, took one particular direction ; 
 her whole life seemed devoted to intense knitting; whether 
 at home or abroad, walking or sitting, her needles were con- 
 tinually in motion, and it is even affirmed that by her un- 
 wearied industry she very nearly supplied her household 
 with stockings throughout the year. This worthy couple 
 were blessed with one daughter, who was brought up with 
 great tenderness and care; uncommon pains had been taken 
 with her education, so that she could stitch in every variety 
 of way; make all kinds of pickles and preserves, and mark 
 her own name on a sampler. The influence of her taste was 
 seen also in the family garden, where the ornamental began 
 to mingle with the useful; whole rows of fiery marigolds and 
 splendid hollyhocks bordered the cabbage-beds ; and gigantic 
 sunflowers lolled their broad jolly faces over the fences, seem- 
 ing to ogle most affectionately the passers-by. 
 
 Thus reigned and vegetated Wolfert Webber over his 
 paternal acres, peacefully and contentedly. Not but that, 
 like all other sovereigns, he had his occasional cares and vex- 
 ations. The growth of his native city sometimes caused him 
 annoyance. His little territory gradually became hemmed 
 in by streets and houses, which intercepted air and sunshine. 
 
 He was now and then subjected to the irruptions of the 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 413 
 
 border population that infest the streets of a metropolis ; 
 who would make midnight forays into his dominions, and 
 carry off captive whole platoons of his noblest subjects. 
 Vagrant swine would make a descent, too, now and then, 
 when the gate was left open, and lay all waste before them ; 
 and mischievous urchins would decapitate the illustrious sun- 
 flowers, the glory of the garden, as they lolled their heads so 
 fondly over the walls. Still all these were petty grievances, 
 which might now and then ruffle the surface of his mind, as a 
 summer breeze will ruffle the surface of a mill-pond; but 
 they could not disturb the deep-seated quiet of his soul. He 
 would but seize a trusty staff, that stood behind the door, 
 issue suddenly out, and anoint the back of the aggressor, 
 whether pig or urchin, and then return within doors, marvel- 
 lously refreshed and tranquillized. 
 
 The chief cause of anxiety to honest Wolfert, however, 
 was the growing prosperity of the city. The expenses of 
 living doubled and trebled; but he could not double and 
 treble the magnitude of his cabbages; and the number of 
 competitors prevented the increase of price; thus, therefore, 
 while every one around him grew richer, Wolfert grew 
 poorer, and he could not, for the life of him, perceive how the 
 evil was to be remedied. : 
 
 This growing care, which increased from day to day, had 
 its gradual effect upon our worthy burgher ; insomuch, that 
 it at length implanted two or three wrinkles in his brow; 
 things unknown before in the family of the Webbers ; and it 
 seemed to pinch up the corners of his cocked hat intv an ex- 
 pression of anxiety, totally opposite to the tranquil, broad- 
 
 brimmed, low-crowned beavers of his illustrious progenitors. 
 
414 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 Perhaps even this would not have materially disturbed 
 the serenity of his mind, had he had only himself and his wife 
 to care for; but there was his daughter gradually growing to 
 maturity ; and all the world knows that when daughters 
 begin to ripen, no fruit nor flower requires so much looking 
 after. I have no talent at describing female charms, else fain 
 would I depict the progress of this little Dutch beauty. 
 How her blue eyes grew deeper and deeper, and her cherry 
 lips redder and redder; and how she ripened and ripened, 
 and rounded and rounded in the opening breath of sixteen 
 summers, until, in her seventeenth spring, she seemed ready 
 to burst out of her bodice, like a half blown rose-bud. 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! could I but show her as she was then, 
 tricked out on a Sunday morning, in the hereditary finery of 
 the old Dutch clothes-press, of which her mother had con- 
 fided to her the key. The wedding-dress of her grandmother, 
 modernized for use, with sundry ornaments, handed down as 
 heirlooms in the family. Her pale brown hair smoothed 
 with buttermilk in flat waving lines on each side of her fair 
 forehead. ‘The chain of yellow virgin gold, that encircled her 
 neck; the little cross, that just rested at the entrance of a soft 
 valley of happiness, as if it would sanctify the place. The— 
 but, pooh !—it is not for an old man like me to be prosing 
 about female beauty " suffice it to say, Amy had attained her 
 seventeenth year. Long since had her sampler exhibited 
 hearts in couples desperately transfixed with arrows, and true 
 lovers’ knots worked in deep blue silk; and it was evident 
 she began to languish for some more interesting occupation 
 than the rearing of sunflowers or pickling of cucumbers. © 
 
 At this critical period of female existence, when the heart 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 415 
 
 within a damsel’s bosom, like its emblem, the miniature 
 which hangs without, is apt to be engrossed by a single 
 image, a new visitor began to make his appearance under the 
 roof of Wolfert Webber. ‘This was Dirk Waldron, the only 
 son of a poor widow, but who could boast of more fathers 
 than any lad in the province; for his mother had had four 
 husbands, and this only child; so that though born in her last 
 wedlock, he might fairly claim to be the tardy fruit of a long 
 course of cultivation. This son of four fathers, united the 
 merits and the vigor of all his sires. If he had not had a 
 great family before him, he seemed likely to have a great one 
 after him; for you had only to look at the fresh bucksome 
 youth, to see that he was formed to be the founder of a 
 mighty race. 
 
 This youngster gradually became an intimate visitor of 
 the family. He talked little, but he sat long. He filled the 
 father’s pipe when it was empty, gathered up the mother’s 
 knitting-needle, or ball of worsted when it fell to the ground ; 
 stroked the sleek coat of the tortoise-shell cat, and replen- 
 ished the teapot for the daughter from the bright copper 
 kettle that sang before the fire. All these quiet little offices 
 may seem of trifling import; but when true love is trans- 
 lated into Low Dutch, it is in this way that it eloquently 
 expresses itself. They were not lost upon the Webber fam- 
 ily. The winning youngster found marvellous favor in the 
 eyes of the mother; the tortoise-shell cat, albeit the most 
 staid and demure of her kind, gave indubitable signs of ap- 
 probation of his visits, the teakettle seemed to sing out a 
 cheering note of welcome at his approach, and if the sly 
 
 glances of the daughter might be rightly read, as she sat 
 
416 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 bridling and dimpling, and sewing by her. mother’s side, she 
 was not a whit behind Dame Webber, or grimalkin, or the 
 teakettle, in good will. 
 
 W olfert alone saw nothing of what was going on. Pro- 
 foundly wrapt up in meditation on the growth of the city and 
 his cabbages, he sat looking in the fire, and puffing his pipe in 
 silence. One night, however, as the gentle Amy, according 
 to custom, lighted her lover to the outer door, and he, 
 according to custom, took his parting salute, the smack re- 
 sounded so vigorously through the long, silent entry, as to 
 startle even the dull ear of Wolfert. He was slowly roused 
 to a new source of anxiety. It had never entered into his 
 head that this mere child, who, as it seemed, but the other 
 day had been climbing about his knees, and playing with 
 dolls and baby-houses, could all at once be thinking of lovers 
 and matrimony. He rubbed his eyes, examined into the fact, 
 and really found that while he had been dreaming of other 
 matters, she had actually grown to be a woman, and what 
 was worse, had fallen in love. Here arose new cares for 
 Wolfert. He was a kind father, but he was a prudent man. 
 The young man was a lively, stirring lad; but then he had 
 neither money nor land. Wolfert’s ideas all ran in one 
 channel ; and he saw no alternative in case of a marriage, but 
 to portion off the young couple with a corner of his cabbage 
 garden, the whole of which was barely sufficient for the 
 support of his family. —- 
 
 Like a prudent father, therefore, he determined to nip this 
 passion in the bud, and forbade the youngster the house ; 
 though sorely did it go against his fatherly heart, and many a 
 silent tear did it cause in the bright eye of his daughter. 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. Ga 
 
 She showed herself, however, a pattern of filial piety and 
 obedience. She never pouted and sulked; she never flew in 
 the face of parental authority ; she never flew into a passion, 
 nor fell into hysterics, as many romantic novel-read young 
 ladies would do. Not she, indeed! She was none such 
 heroical rebellious trumpery, I’ll warrant ye. On the con- 
 trary, she acquiesced like an obedient daughter, shut the 
 street door in her lover’s face, and if ever she did grant him 
 an interview, it was either out of the kitchen window, or over 
 the garden fence. 
 
 Wolfert was deeply cogitating these matters in his mind, 
 and his brow wrinkled with unusual care, as he wended his 
 way one Saturday afternoon to a rural inn, about two miles 
 from the city. It was a favorite resort of the Dutch part of 
 the community, from being always held by a Dutch line of 
 landlords, and retaining an air and relish of the good old 
 times. It was a Dutch-built house, that had probably been a 
 country seat of some opulent burgher in the early time of the 
 settlement. It stood near a point of land, called Corlear’s 
 Hook, which stretches out into the Sound, and against which 
 the tide, at its flux and reflux, sets with extraordinary rapid- 
 ity. The venerable and somewhat crazy mansion was distin- 
 guished from afar, by a grove of elms and sycamores that 
 seemed to wave a hospitable invitation, while a few weeping- 
 willows, with their dank, drooping foliage, resembling fallen 
 waters, gave an idea of coolness, that rendered it an attractive 
 spot during the heats of summer. 
 
 Here, therefore, as I said, resorted many of the old inhab- 
 itants of the Manhattoes, where, while some played at shuffle- 
 
 18* 
 
418 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 board and quoits and ninepins, others smoked a deliberate 
 pipe, and talked over public affairs. 
 
 It was on a blustering autumnal afternoon that Wolfert 
 made his visit to the inn. The grove of elms and willows 
 was stripped of its leaves, which whirled in rustling eddies 
 about the fields. The nine-pin alley was deserted, for the 
 premature chilliness of the day had driven the company 
 within doors. As it was Saturday afternoon, the habitual 
 club was in session, composed principally of regular Dutch 
 burghers, though mingled occasionally with persons of various 
 character and country, as is natural in a place of such motley 
 population. 
 
 Beside the fireplace, in a huge leather-bottomed arm-chair, 
 sat the dictator of this little world, the venerable Rem, or as 
 it was pronounced, Ramm Rapelye. He was a man of Wal- 
 loon race, and illustrious for the antiquity of his line; his 
 great-grandmother having been the first white child born in 
 the province. But he was still more illustrious for his 
 wealth and dignity: he had long filled the noble office of 
 alderman, and was a man to whom the governor himself took 
 off his hat. He had maintained possession of the leather- 
 bottomed chair from time immemorial ; and had gradually 
 “waxed in bulk as he sat in his seat of government, until in 
 the course of years he filled its whole magnitude. His word 
 was decisive with his subjects ; for he was so rich a man, that 
 he was never expected to support any opinion by argument. 
 The landlord waited on him with peculiar officiousness ; not 
 that he paid better than his neighbors, but then the coin of a 
 rich man seems always to be so much more acceptable. 
 The landlord had ever a pleasant word and a joke, to insin- 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. - 419 
 
 uate in the ear of the august Ramm. It is true, Ramm never 
 laughed, and, indeed, ever maintained a mastifflike gravity, 
 and even surliness of aspect; yet he now and then rewarded 
 mine host with a token of approbation ; which though noth- 
 ing more nor less than a kind of grunt, still delighted the 
 landlord more than a broad laugh from a poorer man. 
 
 “This will be a rough night for the money-diggers,” said 
 mine host, as a gust of wind howled round the house, and 
 rattled at the windows. : 
 
 “ What! are they at their works again?” said an English 
 half-pay captain, with one eye, who was a very frequent at- 
 tendant at the inn. 
 
 “ Aye, are they,” said the landlord, “ and well may they 
 be. They’ve had luck of late. They say a great pot of 
 money has been dug up in the fields, just behind Stuyve- 
 sant’s orchard. Folks think it must have been buried there 
 in old times, by Peter Stuyvesant, the Dutch governor.” 
 
 “Fudge!” said the one-eyed man of war, as he added a 
 small portion of water to a bottom of brandy. 
 
 “ Well, you may believe it or not as you please,’ said 
 mine host, somewhat nettled; “ but every body knows that 
 the old governor buried a great deal of his money at the time 
 of the Dutch troubles, when the English red coats seized on 
 the province. They say, too, the old gentleman walks; aye, 
 and in the very same dress that he wears in the picture that 
 hangs up in the family house.” 
 
 “ Fudge!” said the half-pay officer. 
 
 “ Fudge, if you please !—But didn’t Corney Van Zandt 
 see him at midnight, stalking about in the meadow with his 
 
 wooden leg, and a drawn sword in his hand, that flashed like 
 
AAO s.. “TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 fire? And what can he be walking for, but because people 
 have been troubling the place where he buried his money in 
 old times?” 
 
 Here the landlord was interrupted by several guttural 
 sounds from Ramm Rapelye, betokening that he was labor- 
 ing with the unusual production of an idea. As he was too 
 great a man to be slighted by a prudent publican, mine host 
 respectfully paused until he should deliver himself. The 
 corpulent frame of this mighty burgher now gave all the 
 symptoms of a volcanic mountain on the point of an eruption. 
 First, there was a certain heaving of the abdomen, not unlike 
 an earthquake; then was emitted a cloud of tobacco-smoke 
 from that crater, his mouth; then there was a kind of rattle 
 in the throat, as if the idea were working. its way up through 
 a region of phlegm; then there were several disjointed mem- 
 bers of a sentence thrown out, ending in a cough; at length 
 his voice forced its way into a slow, but absolute tone of a 
 man who feels the weight of his purse, if not of his ideas ; 
 every portion of his speech being marked by a testy puff of 
 tobacco-smoke. 
 
 “ Who talks of old Peter Stuyvesant’s walking ?—puff— 
 Have people no respect for persons ?—puff—puff—Peter 
 Stuyvesant knew better what to do with his money than to 
 bury it—puff—I know the Stuyvesant family—puff—every 
 one of them—puff—not a more respectable family in the 
 province—puff—old standards—puff—warm householders— 
 puff—none of your upstarts—puff—puff—puff.i—Don’t talk 
 to me of Peter Stuyvesant’s walking—puff—puff—puff— 
 puff.” 
 
 Here the redoubtable Ramm contracted his brow, clasped 
 
 | 
 
 7 
 i ol) a 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 421 
 
 up his mouth, till it wrinkled at each corner, and redoubled 
 his smoking with such vehemence, that the cloudy volumes 
 soon wreathed round his head, as the smoke envelopes the 
 awful summit of Mount Etna. 
 
 A general silence followed the sudden rebuke of this very 
 rich man. The subject, however, was too interesting to be 
 readily abandoned. ‘The conversation soon broke forth again 
 from the lips of Peechy Prauw Van Hook, the chronicler of 
 the club, one of those prosing, narrative old men who seem 
 to be troubled with an incontinence of words, as they grow 
 old. 
 
 Peechy could, at any time, tell as many stories in an even- 
 ing as his hearers could digest ina month. He now resumed 
 the conversation, by affirming that, to his knowledge, money 
 had, at different times, been digged up in various parts of the 
 island. The lucky persons who had discovered them had al- 
 ways dreamt of them three times beforehand, and what was 
 worthy of remark, those treasures had never been found but 
 by some descendant of the good old Dutch families, which 
 clearly proved that they had been buried by Dutchmen in 
 the olden time. 
 
 “ Fiddlestick with your Dutchmen!” cried the half-pay 
 officer. “The Dutch had nothing to do with them. They 
 were all buried by Kidd the pirate, and his crew.” 
 
 Here a key-note was touched that roused the whole com- 
 pany. The name of Captain Kidd was like a talisman in 
 those times, and was associated with a thousand marvellous 
 stories. 
 
 The half-pay officer took the lead, and in his narrations 
 18* 
 
429, TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 fathered upon Kidd all the plunderings and exploits of Mor- 
 gan, Blackbeard, and the whole list of bloody buccaneers. 
 
 The officer was a man of great weight among the peace. 
 able members of the club, by reason of his warlike character 
 and gunpowder tales. All his golden stories of Kidd, how- 
 ever, and of the booty he had buried, were obstinately 
 rivalled by the tales of Peechy Prauw, who, rather than 
 suffer his Dutch progenitors to be eclipsed by a foreign free- 
 booter, enriched every field and shore in the neighborhood 
 with the hidden wealth of Peter Stuyvesant and his contem- 
 poraries. 
 
 Not a word of this conversation was lost upon Wolfert 
 Webber. He returned pensively home, full of magnificent 
 ideas. The soil of his native island seemed to be turned into 
 gold dust; and every field to teem with treasure. His head 
 almost reeled at the thought how often he must have heed- 
 lessly rambled over places where countless sums lay, 
 scarcely covered by the turf beneath his feet. His mind was 
 in an uproar with this whirl of new ideas. As he came in 
 sight of the venerable mansion of his forefathers, and the 
 little realm where the Webbers had so long, and so content- 
 edly flourished, his gorge rose at the narrowness of his des- 
 tiny. 
 
 “Unlucky Wolfert!” exclaimed he; “others can go to bed 
 and dream themselves into whole mines of wealth; they have 
 but to seize a spade in the morning, and turn up doubloons 
 like potatoes ; but thou must dream of hardships, and rise to 
 poverty—must dig thy field from year’s end to year’s end, 
 and yet raise nothing but cabbages ! ” 
 
 Wolfert Webber went to bed with a heavy heart ; and it 
 
 ” 
 
 7 oP  =cer “a 
 
 ee ee 
 
 ee A ee eS ee Se 
 
 E>, Ram 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. Bee 2 r9) 
 
 was long before the golden visions that disturbed his brain 
 permitted him to sink into repose. The same visions, how- 
 ever, extended into his sleeping thoughts, and assumed a more 
 definite form. He dreamt that he had discovered an im- 
 mense treasure in the centre of his garden. At every stroke 
 of the spade he laid bare a golden ingot; diamond crosses 
 sparkled out of the dust; bags of money turned up their 
 bellies, corpulent with pieces-of-eight, or venerable doub- 
 loons ; and chests, wedged close with moidores, ducats, and 
 pistareens, yawned before his ravished eyes, and vomited 
 forth their glittering contents. 
 
 Wolfert awoke a poorer man than ever. He had no 
 heart to go about his daily concerns, which appeared so 
 paltry and profitless; but sat all day long in the chimney 
 corner, picturing to himself ingots and heaps of gold in the 
 fire. The next night his dream was repeated. He was again 
 in his garden, digging, and laying open stores of hidden 
 wealth. There was something very singular in this repeti- 
 tion. He passed another day of reverie, and though it was 
 cleaning day, and the house, as usual in Dutch households, 
 completely topsy-turvy, yet he sat unmoved amidst the gen- 
 eral uproar. 
 
 ‘The third night he went to bed with a palpitating heart. 
 He put on his red night-cap wrong side outwards, for good 
 luck. It was deep midnight before his anxious mind could 
 settle itself into sleep. Again the golden dream was re- 
 peated, and again he saw his garden teerning with ingots and 
 money-bags. 
 
 Wolfert rose the next morning in complete bewilderment. 
 
494 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 A dream, three times repeated, was never known to lie; and 
 if so, his fortune was made. 
 
 In his agitation he put on his waistcoat with the hind part 
 before, and this was a corroboration of good luck. He no 
 longer doubted that a huge store of money lay buried some- 
 where in his cabbage field, coyly waiting to be sought for; 
 and he repined at having so long been scratching about the 
 surface of the soil instead of digging to the centre. 
 
 He took his seat at the breakfast table full of these specu- 
 lations ; asked his daughter to put a lump of gold into his 
 tea, and on handing his wife a plate of slap-jacks, begged her 
 to help herself to a doubloon. 
 
 His grand care now was how -to secure this immense 
 treasure without its being known. Instead of his working 
 regularly in his grounds in the daytime, he now stole from 
 his bed at night, and with spade and pickaxe, went to work to 
 rip up and dig about his paternal acres, from one end to the 
 other. In a little time the whole garden, which had pre- 
 sented such a goodly and regular appearance, with its phalanx 
 of cabbages, like a vegetable army in battle array, was 
 reduced to a scene of devastation; while the relentless Wol- 
 fert, with night-cap on head, and lantern and spade in hand, 
 stalked through the slaughtered ranks, the destroying angel 
 of his own vegetable world. 
 
 Every morning bore testimony to the ravages of the pre- 
 ceding night in cabbages of all ages and conditions, from the 
 tender sprout to the full-grown head, piteously rooted from 
 their quiet beds like worthless weeds, and left to wither in 
 the sunshine. In vain Wolfert’s wife remonstrated ; in vain 
 
 his darling daughter wept over the destruction of some 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 425 
 
 favorite marigold. ‘Thou shalt have gold of another guess 
 sort,” he would cry, chucking her under the chin; “thou 
 shalt have a string of crooked ducats for thy wedding neck- 
 lace, my child.” His family began really to fear that the 
 poor man’s wits were diseased. He muttered in his sleep 
 at night about mines of wealth, about pearls and diamonds, 
 and bars of gold. In the daytime he was moody and ab- 
 stracted, and walked about as if in a trance. Dame Webber 
 held frequent councils with all the old women of the neigh- 
 borhood ; scarce an hour in the day but a knot of them might 
 be seen wagging their white caps together round her door, 
 while the poor woman made some piteous recital. The 
 daughter, too, was fain to seek for more frequent consolation 
 from the stolen interviews of her favored swain, Dirk Wal- 
 dron. The delectable little Dutch songs, with which she used 
 to dulcify the house, grew less and less frequent, and she 
 would forget her sewing, and Jook wistfully in her father’s 
 face as he sat pondering by the fireside. Wolfert caught her 
 eye one day fixed on him thus anxiously, and for a moment 
 was roused from his golden reveries.—‘ Cheer up, my girl,” 
 said he, exultingly, “ why dost thou droop ?—thou shalt hold 
 up thy head one day with the Brinckerhoffs, and the Scher- 
 merhorns, the Van Hornes, and the Van Dams.—By Saint 
 Nicholas, but the patroon himself shall be glad to get thee for 
 his son !” 
 
 Amy shook her head at his vainglorious boast, and was 
 more than ever in doubt of the soundness of the good man’s 
 intellect. 
 
 In the mean time Wolfert went on digging and digging ; 
 but the field was extensive, and as his dream had indicated 
 
496 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 no precise spot, he had to dig at random. The winter 
 set in before one-tenth of the scene of promise had been ex- 
 plored. 
 
 The ground became frozen hard, and the nights too cold 
 for the labors of the spade. ) 
 
 No sooner, however, did the returning warmth of spring 
 loosen the soil, and the small frogs begin to pipe in the 
 meadows, but Wolfert resumed his labors with renovated 
 zeal, Still, however, the hours of industry were reversed. 
 
 Instead of working cheerily all day, planting and setting 
 out his vegetables, he remained thoughtfully idle, until the 
 shades of night summoned him to his secret labors. In this 
 way he continued to dig from night to night, and week to 
 week, and month to month, but not a stiver did he find. On 
 the contrary, the more he digged, the poorer he grew. The 
 rich soil of his garden was digged away, and the sand and 
 gravel from beneath was thrown to the surface, until the 
 whole field presented an aspect of sandy barrenness. 
 
 In the mean time, the seasons gradually rolled on. The 
 little frogs which had piped in the meadows in early spring, 
 croaked as bull-frogs during the summer heats, and then sank 
 into silence. The peach-tree budded, blossomed, and bore its 
 fruit. The swallows and martins came, twitted about the 
 roof, built their nests, reared their young, held their congress 
 along the eaves, and then winged their flight in search of 
 another spring. The caterpillar spun its winding-sheet, 
 dangled in it from the great button-wood tree before the 
 house ; turned into a moth, fluttered with the last sunshine of 
 summer, and disappeared; and finally the leaves of the 
 button-wood tree turned yellow, then brown, then rustled one 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER: 427 
 
 by one to the ground, and whirling about in little eddies of 
 wind and dust, whispered that winter was at hand. 
 
 Wolfert gradually woke from his dream of wealth as the 
 year declined. He had reared no crop for the supply of his 
 household during the sterility of winter. The season was 
 long and severe, and for the first time the family was really 
 straitened in its comforts. By degrees a revulsion of thought 
 took place in Wolfert’s mind, common to those whose golden 
 dreams have been disturbed by pinching realities. The 
 idea gradually stole upon him that he should come to want. 
 He already considered himself one of the most unfortunate 
 men in the province, having lost such an incalculable amount 
 of undiscovered treasure, and now, when thousands of pounds 
 had eluded his search, to be perplexed for shillings and pence, 
 was cruel in the extreme. 
 
 Haggard care gathered about his brow; he went about 
 
 with a money-seeking air, his eyes bent downwards into the 
 
 _ dust, and carrying his hands in his pockets, as men are apt to 
 
 do when they have nothing else to put into them. He could 
 not even pass the city almshouse without giving it a rueful 
 glance, as if destined to be his future abode. 
 
 The strangeness of his conduct and of his looks occasioned 
 much speculation and remark. Tor a long time he was sus- 
 pected of being crazy, and then every body pitied him; and 
 at length it began to be suspected that he was poor, and then 
 every body avoided him. | 
 
 The rich old burghers of his acquaintance met him outside 
 of the door when he called, entertained him hospitably on 
 the threshold, pressed him warmly by the hand at parting, 
 shook their heads as he walked away, with the kind-hearted 
 
498 TALES OF A> TRAVELLER. 
 
 expression of “ poor Wolfert,’ and turned a corner nimbly 
 if by chance they saw him approaching as they walked the 
 streets. Even the barber and the cobbler of the neighbor- 
 hood, and a tattered tailor in an alley hard by, three of the 
 poorest and merriest rogues in the world, eyed him with that 
 abundant sympathy which usually attends a lack of means; 
 and there is not a doubt but their pockets would have been at 
 his command, only that they happened to be empty. 
 
 Thus every body deserted the Webber mansion, as if 
 poverty were contagious, like the plague; every body but 
 honest Dirk Waldron, who still kept up his stolen visits to 
 the daughter, and indeed seemed to wax more affectionate as 
 the fortunes of his mistress were in the wane. 
 
 Many months had elapsed since Wolfert had frequented 
 his old resort, the rural inn. He was taking a long lonely 
 walk one Saturday afternoon, musing over his wants and 
 disappointments, when his feet took instinctively their wonted 
 direction, and on awaking out of a reverie, he found himself 
 before the door of the inn. For some moments he hesitated 
 whether to enter, but his heart yearned for companionship ; 
 and where can a ruined man find better companionship than 
 at a tavern, where there is neither sober example nor sober 
 advice to put him out of countenance ? 
 
 Wolfert found several of the old frequenters of ine’ inn 
 at their usual posts, and seated in their usual places; but one 
 was missing, the great Ramm Rapelye, who for many years 
 had filled the leather-bottomed chair of state. His place was 
 supplied by a stranger, who seemed, however, completely at 
 home in the chair and the tavern. He was rather under 
 
 size, but deep chested, square, and muscular. His broad 
 
 a 
 
WOLKERT WEBBER. 429 
 
 shoulders, double joints, and bow knees, gave tokens of 
 prodigious strength. His face was dark and weather beaten ; 
 a deep scar, as if from the slash of a cutlass, had almost 
 divided his nose, and made a gash in his upper lip, through 
 which his teeth shone like a bull-dog’s. A mop of iron gray 
 hair gave a grisly finish to this hard favored visage. His 
 dress was of an amphibious character. He wore an old hat 
 edged with tarnished lace, and cocked in martial style, on one 
 side of his head; a rusty blue military coat with brass 
 buttons, and a wide pair of short petticoat trowsers, or rather 
 breeches, for they were gathered up at the knees. He 
 ordered every body about him with an authoritative air; talk- 
 ing in a brattling voice, that sounded like the crackling of 
 thorns under a pot; d——d the landlord and _ servants 
 with perfect impunity, and was waited upon with greater 
 obsequiousness than had ever been shown to the mighty 
 Ramm himself. 
 
 Wolfert’s curiosity was awakened to know who and what 
 was this stranger, who had thus usurped absolute sway in 
 this ancient domain. Peechy Prauw took him aside, into a 
 remote corner of the hall, and there, in an under voice, and 
 with great caution, imparted to him all that he knew on the 
 subject. The inn had been aroused several months before, on 
 a dark stormy night, by repeated long shouts, that seemed like 
 the howlings of a wolf. They came from the water-side; and 
 at length were distinguished to be hailing the house in the sea- 
 faring manner, “ House-a-hoy!” The landlord turned out 
 with his head waiter, tapster, hostler, and errand-boy—that 
 is to say, with his old negro Cuff. On approaching the place 
 whence the voice proceeded, they found this amphibious-look- 
 
430 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 ing personage at the water’s edge, quite alone, and seated on 
 a great oaken sea-chest. How he came there, whether he 
 had been set on shore from some boat, or had floated to land 
 on his chest, nobody could tell, for he did not seem disposed 
 to answer questions; and there was something in his looks 
 and manners that put a stop to all questioning. Suffice it to 
 say, he took possession of a corner room of the inn, to which 
 his chest was removed with great difficulty. Here he had 
 remained ever since, keeping about the inn and its vicinity. 
 Sometimes, it is true, he disappeared for one, two, or three 
 days at a time, going and returning without giving any notice 
 or account of his movements. He always appeared to have 
 plenty of money, though often of very strange outlandish 
 coinage ; and he regularly paid his bill every evening before 
 turning in. 
 
 He had’ fitted up his room to his own fancy, having 
 slung a hammock from the ceiling instead of a bed, and dee- 
 orated the walls with rusty pistols and cutlasses of foreign 
 workmanship. A greater part of his time was passed in this 
 room, seated by the window, which commanded a wide 
 view of the Sound, a short old-fashioned pipe in his mouth, 
 a glass of rum-toddy at his elbow, and a pocket telescope in 
 his hand, with which he reconnoitred every boat that moved - 
 upon the water. Large square-rigged vessels seemed to 
 excite but little attention; but the moment he descried any 
 thing with a shoulder-of-mutton sail, or that a barge, or 
 yawl, or jolly-boat hove in sight, up went the telescope, and 
 he examined it with the most scrupulous attention. 
 
 All this might have passed without much notice, for in 
 
 those times the province was so much the resort of adven- 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 431 
 
 turers of all characters and climes, that any oddity in dress or 
 behavior attracted but small attention. In a little while, 
 however, this strange sea-monster, thus strangely cast upon 
 dry land, began to encroach upon the long-established cus- 
 toms and customers of the place, and to interfere in a dicta- 
 torial manner in the affairs of the nine-pin alley and the bar- 
 room, until in the end he usurped an absolute command over 
 the whole inn. It was all in vain to attempt to withstand his 
 authority. He was not exactly quarrelsome, but boisterous 
 and peremptory, like one accustomed to tyrannize on a 
 quarter-deck ; and there was a dare-devil air about every 
 thing he said and did, that inspired wariness in all bystanders. 
 Even the half-pay officer, so long the hero of the club, was 
 soon, silenced by him; and the quiet burghers stared with 
 wonder at seeing their inflammable man of war so readily 
 and quietly extinguished. 
 
 And then the tales that he would tell were enough to make 
 a peaceable man’s hair stand on end. There was not a sea- 
 fight, nor marauding nor freebooting adventure that had hap- 
 pened within the last twenty years, but he seemed perfectly 
 versed in it. He delighted to talk of the exploits of the buc- 
 caneers in the West Indies, and on the Spanish Main. How 
 his eyes would glisten as he described the waylaying of treas- 
 ure-ships, the desperate fights, yard-arm and yard-arm—broad- 
 side and broadside—the boarding and capturing huge 
 Spanish galleons! With what chuckling relish would he de- 
 scribe the descent upon some rich Spanish colony ; the rifling 
 of a church; the sacking of a convent! You would have 
 thought you heard some gormandizer dilating upon the 
 
 roasting of a savory goose at Michaelmas as he described the 
 
432 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 roasting of some Spanish Don to make him discover his treas- 
 ure—a detail given with a minuteness that made every rich 
 old burgher present turn uncomfortably in his chair. AII this 
 would be told with infinite glee, as if he considered it an ex- 
 cellent joke; and then he would give such a tyrannical leer 
 in the face of his next neighbor, that the poor man would be 
 fain to laugh out of sheer faint-heartedness. If any one, how- 
 ever, pretended to contradict him in any of his stories he 
 was on fire in an instant. His very cocked hat assumed a 
 momentary fierceness, and seemed to resent the contradiction. 
 “How the devil should you know as well as I1?—I tell you 
 
 it was as I say ;” 
 
 and he would at the same time let slip a 
 broadside of thundering oaths and tremendous sea-phrases, 
 such as. had never been heard before within these peaceful 
 walls. 
 
 Indeed, the worthy burghers began to surmise that he 
 knew more of those stories than mere hearsay. | Day after 
 day their conjectures concerning him grew more and more 
 wild and fearful. The strangeness of his arrival, the strange- 
 ness of his manners, the mystery that surrounded him, all 
 made him something incomprehensible in their eyes. He 
 was a kind of monster of the deep to them—he was a merman 
 —he was a behemoth—he was a leviathan—in short, they 
 knew not what he was. 
 
 The domineering spirit of this boisterous sea-urchin at 
 length grew quite intolerable. He was no respecter of per- 
 sons ; he contradicted the richest burghers without hesitation ; 
 he took possession of the sacred elbow-chair, which, time out 
 of mind, had been the seat of sovereignty of the illustrious 
 Ramm Rapelye. Nay, he even went so far in one of his 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 433 
 
 rough jocular moods, as to slap that mighty burgher on the 
 back, drink his toddy, and wink in his face, a thing scarcely 
 to be believed. From this time Ramm Rapelye appeared 
 no more at the inn; his example was followed by several of 
 the most eminent customers, who were too rich to tolerate 
 being bullied out of their opinions, or being obliged to laugh 
 at another man’s jokes. The landlord was almost in despair ; 
 but he knew not how to get rid of this sea-monster and 
 his sea-chest, who seemed both to have grown like fixtures, 
 or excrescences on his establishment. 
 
 Such was the account whispered cautiously in Wolfert’s 
 ear, by the narrator, Peechy Prauw, as he held him by the 
 button in a corner of the hall, casting a wary glance now and 
 then towards the door of the bar-room, lest he should be over- 
 heard by the terrible hero of his tale. 
 
 Wolfert took his seat in a remote part of the room in 
 silence ; impressed with profound awe of this unknown, so 
 versed in freebooting history. It was to him a wonderful 
 instance of the revolutions of mighty empires, to find the 
 venerable Ramm Rapelye thus ousted from the throne, and 
 a rugged tarpawling dictating from his elbow chair, hectoring 
 the patriarchs, and filling this tranquil little realm with brawl 
 and bravado. 
 
 The stranger was on this evening in a more than usually 
 communicative mood, and was narrating a number of astound- 
 ing stories of plunderings and burnings on the high seas. He 
 dwelt upon them with peculiar relish, heightening the fright- 
 ful particulars in proportion to their effect on his peaceful 
 auditors. He gave a swaggering detail of the capture of a 
 
 Spanish merchantman. She was lying becalmed during a 
 19 
 
434 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 long summer’s day, just off from the island which was one 
 of the lurking-places of the pirates. They had reconnoitred 
 her with their spy-glasses from the shore, and ascertained her 
 character and force. At night a picked crew of daring fel- 
 lows set off for her ina whale boat. They approached with 
 muffled oars, as she lay rocking idly with the undulations of 
 the sea, and her sails flapping against the masts. They were 
 close under the stern before the guard on deck was aware of 
 their approach. The alarm was given; the pirates threw 
 hand-grenades on deck, and sprang up the main chains sword 
 in hand. 
 
 The crew flew to arms, but in great confusion; some 
 were shot down, others took refuge in the tops; others were 
 driven overboard and drowned, while others fought hand to 
 hand from the main-deck to the quarter-deck, disputing gal- 
 lantly every inch of ground. There were three Spanish gen- 
 tlemen on board with their ladies, who made the most despe- 
 rate resistance. They defended the companion-way, cut down 
 several of their assailants, and fought like very devils, for 
 they were maddened by the shrieks of the ladies from the 
 cabin. One of the Dons was old, and soon dispatched. The 
 other two kept their ground vigorously, even though the 
 captain of the pirates was among their assailants. Just then 
 there was a shout of victory from the main-deck. “ The 
 ship is ours!” cried the pirates. 
 
 One of the Dons immediately dropped his sword and 
 surrendered ; the other, who was a hot-headed youngster, and 
 just married, gave the captain a slash in the face that laid all 
 open. The captain just made out to articulate the words 
 
 ‘“‘no quarter.” 
 
 ies | . A ay 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 435 
 
 “And what did they do with their prisoners?” said 
 Peechy Prauw, eagerly. 
 
 “Threw them all overboard,’ was the answer. <A dead 
 pause followed the reply. Peechy Prauw sunk quietly 
 back, like a man who had wnwarily stolen upon the lair of a 
 sleeping lion. The honest burghers cast fearful glances at 
 the deep scar slashed across the visage of the stranger, and 
 moved their chairs a little farther off. The seaman, however, 
 smoked on without moving a muscle, as though he either 
 did not perceive or did not regard the unfavorable effect he 
 had produced upon his hearers. 
 
 The half-pay officer was the first to break the silence ; for 
 he was continually tempted to make ineffectual head against 
 this tyrant of the seas, and to regain his lost consequence in 
 the eyes of his ancient companions. He now tried to match 
 the gunpowder tales of the stranger by others equally tremen- 
 dous. Kidd, as usual, was his hero, concerning whom he 
 seemed to have picked up many of the floating traditions of 
 the province. The seaman had always evinced a_ settled 
 pique against the one-eyed warrior. On this occasion he 
 listened with peculiar impatience. He sat with one arm 
 akimbo, the other elbow on the table, the hand holding on to 
 the small pipe he was pettishly puffing; his legs crossed ; 
 drumming with one foot on the ground, and casting every 
 now and then the side-glance of a basilisk at the prosing 
 captain. At length the latter spoke of Kidd’s having ascend- 
 ed the Hudson with some of his crew, to land his plunder 
 in secrecy. 
 
 “ Kidd up the Hudson!” burst forth the seaman, with a 
 
 tremendous oath—* Kidd never was up the Hudson !” 
 
436 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 “T tell you he was,” said the other. “ Aye, and they say 
 he buried a quantity of treasure on the little flat that runs 
 out into the river, called the Devil’s Dans Kammer.” 
 
 “The Devil’s Dans Kammer in your teeth!” cried the 
 seaman. “TI tell you Kidd never was up the Hudson. What 
 a plague do you know of Kidd and his haunts ?” 
 
 “ What do I know ?”’ echoed the half-pay officer. “ Why, 
 I was in London at the time of his trial; aye, and I had the 
 pleasure of seeing him hanged at Execution Dock.” 
 
 “ Then, sir, let me tell you that you saw as pretty a fellow 
 hanged as ever trod shoe-leather. Aye!” putting his face 
 nearer to that of the officer, ‘‘ and there was many a land-lub- 
 ber looked on that might much better have swung in his 
 stead.” 7 | 
 
 The half-pay officer was silenced ; but the indignation thus 
 pent up in his bosom glowed with intense vehemence in his 
 single eye, which kindled like a coal. 
 
 Peechy Prauw, who never could remain silent, observed 
 that the gentleman certainly was in the right. Kidd never 
 did bury money up the Hudson, nor indeed in any of those 
 parts, though many affirmed such to be the fact. It was Brad- 
 ish and others of the buccaneers who had buried money ; 
 some said in Turtle Bay, others on Long Island, others in the 
 neighborhood of Hellgate. Indeed, added he, I recollect an 
 adventure of Sam, the negro fisherman, many years ago, 
 which some think had something to do with the buccaneers. 
 As we are all friends here, and as it will go no further, I’ll 
 tell it to you. | 
 
 “Upon a dark night many years ago, as Black Sam was 
 
 returning from fishing in Hell-gate——” 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 437 
 
 Here the story was nipped in the bud by a sudden move- 
 ment from the unknown, who laying his iron fist on the table, 
 knuckles downward, with a quiet force that indented the very 
 boards, and looking grimly over his shoulder, with the grin of 
 an angry bear—“ Heark’ee, neighbor,” said he, with signifi- 
 cant nodding of the head, “ you’d better let the buccaneers 
 and their money alone—they’re not for old men and old 
 women to meddle with. They fought hard for their money ; 
 they gave body and soul for it; and wherever it lies buried, 
 depend upon it he must have a tug with the devil who gets 
 it)” 
 
 This sudden explosion was succeeded by a blank silence 
 throughout the room. Peechy Prauw shrunk within him- 
 self; and even the one-eyed officer turned pale. Wolfert, who 
 from a dark corner of the room had listened with intense 
 eagerness to all this talk about buried treasure, looked with 
 mingled awe and reverence at this bold buccaneer ; for such he 
 really suspected him to be. There was a chinking of gold 
 and a sparkling of jewels in all his stories about the Spanish 
 Main that gave a value to every period; and Wolfert would 
 have given any thing for the rummaging of the ponderous 
 sea-chest, which his imagination crammed full of golden chal- 
 ices, crucifixes, and jolly round bags of doubloons. 
 
 The dead stillness that had fallen upon the company was 
 at length interrupted by the stranger, who pulled out a prodi- 
 gious watch of curious and ancient workmanship, and which 
 in Wolfert’s eyes had a decidedly Spanish look. On touching 
 aspring it struck ten o’clock ; upon which the sailor called for 
 his reckoning, and having paid it out of a handful of outlandish 
 coin, he drank off the remainder of his beverage, and without 
 
438 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 taking leave of any one, rolled out of the room, muttering to 
 himself, as he stamped up stairs to his chamber. 
 
 It was some time before the company could recover from 
 the silence into which they had been thrown. The very foot- 
 steps of the stranger, which were heard now and then as he 
 traversed his chamber, inspired awe. 
 
 Still the conversation in which they had been engaged was 
 too interesting not to be resumed. A heavy thundergust had 
 gathered up unnoticed while they were lost in talk, and the 
 torrents of rain that fell forbade all thoughts of setting off 
 for home until the storm should subside. They drew nearer 
 together, therefore, and entreated the worthy Peechy Prauw 
 to continue the tale which had been so discourteously inter- 
 rupted. He readily complied, whispering, however, in a tone 
 scarcely above his breath, and drowned occasionally by the 
 
 rolling of the thunder; and he would pause every now and 
 
 then, and listen with evident awe, as he heard the heavy foot- 
 
 steps of the stranger pacing over head. 
 
 The following is the purport of his story. 
 
 ae | 
 
ADVENTURE OF THE BLACK FISHERMAN. 
 
 VERY body knows Black Sam, the old negro fisherman, 
 or, as he is commonly called, Mud Sam, who has fished 
 about the Sound for the last half century. It is now many 
 years since Sam, who was then as active a young negro as any 
 in the province, and worked on the farm of Killian Suydam on 
 Long Island, having finished his day’s work at an early hour, 
 was fishing, one still summer evening, just about the neigh- 
 borhood of Hell-gate. 
 
 Tle was in a light skiff, and being well acquainted with the 
 currents and eddies, had shifted his station according to the 
 shifting of the tide, from the Hen and Chickens to the Hog’s 
 Back, from the Hog’s Back to the Pot, and from the Pot to 
 the Frying-Pan; but in the eagerness of his sport he did not 
 see that the tide was rapidly ebbing, until the roaring of the 
 whirlpools and eddies warned him of his danger; and he had 
 some difficulty in shooting his skiff from among the rocks 
 and breakers, and getting to the point of Blackwell’s Island. 
 Here he cast anchor for some time, waiting the turn of the 
 tide to enable him to return homewards. As the night set 
 
 in, it grew blustering and gusty. Dark clouds came bundling 
 
440 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 up in the west ; and now and then a growl of thunder or a 
 flash of lightning told that a summer storm was at hand. 
 Sam pulled over, therefore, under the lee of Manhattan Island, 
 _ and coasting along, came to a snug nook, just under a steep 
 beetling rock, where he fastened his skiff to the root of a tree 
 that shot out from a cleft, and spread its broad branches like a 
 canopy over the water. The gust came scouring along; the 
 wind threw up the river in white surges; the rain rattled 
 among the leaves; the thunder bellowed worse than that 
 which is now bellowing ; the lightning seemed to lick up the 
 surges of the stream; but Sam, snugly sheltered under rock 
 and tree, lay crouching in his skiff, rocking upon the billows 
 until he fell asleep. When he woke all was quiet. The gust 
 had passed away, and only now and then a faint gleam of 
 lightning in the east showed which way it had gone. The 
 night was dark and moonless; and from the state of the tide 
 Sam concluded it was near midnight. He was on the point 
 of making loose his skiff to return homewards, when he saw 
 a light gleaming along the water from a distance, which seem- 
 ed rapidly approaching. As it drew near he perceived it came 
 from a lantern in the bow of a boat gliding along under shadow 
 of the land. It pulled up in a small cove, close to where he 
 was. A man jumped on shore, and searching about with the 
 lantern, exclaimed, “ This is the place—here’s the iron ring.” 
 The boat was then made fast, and the man returning on board, 
 assisted his comrades in conveying something heavy on shore. 
 As the light gleamed among them, Sam saw that they were 
 five stout desperate-looking fellows, in red woollen caps, with 
 a leader in a three-cornered hat, and that some of them 
 were armed with dirks, or long knives, and pistols. They 
 
THE BLACK FISHERMAN. 441 
 
 talked low to one another, and occasionally in some outlandish 
 tongue which he could not understand. 
 
 On landing they made their way among the bushes, taking 
 turns to relieve each other in lugging their burden up the 
 rocky bank. Sam/’s curiosity was now fully aroused ; so leav- 
 ing his skiff he clambered silently up a ridge that overlooked 
 their path. They had stopped to rest for a moment, and the 
 leader was looking about among the bushes with his lantern. 
 ‘“‘ Have you brought the spades ?” said one. ‘‘ They are here,” 
 replied another, who had them on his shoulder. “ We must 
 dig deep, where there will be no risk of discovery,” said a 
 third. 
 
 A cold chill ran through Sam’s veins. He fancied he saw 
 before him a gang of murderers, about to bury their victim. 
 His knees smote together. In his agitation he shook the 
 branch of a tree with which he was supporting himself as he 
 looked over the edge of the cliff. 
 
 “ What’s that?” cried one of the gang. ‘Some one stirs 
 among the bushes !” 
 
 The lantern was held up in the direction of the noise. 
 One of the red-caps cocked a pistol, and pointed it towards 
 the very place where Sam was standing. He stood motion- 
 less—breathless ; expecting the next moment to be his last. 
 Fortunately his dingy complexion was in his favor, and made 
 no glare among the leaves. 
 
 “°Tis no one,” said the man with the lantern. “ What a 
 plague ! you would not fire off your pistol and alarm the coun- 
 try !”’ 
 
 The pistol was uncocked; the burden was resumed, and 
 
 the party slowly toiled along the bank. Sam watched them 
 19% 
 
442 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 as they went; the light sending back fitful gleams through 
 the dripping bushes, and it was not till they were fairly out 
 of sight that he ventured to draw breath freely. He now 
 thought of getting back to his boat, and making his escape 
 out of the reach of such dangerous neighbors; but curiosity 
 was all-powerful. He hesitated and lingered and listened. 
 By and by he heard the strokes of spades. “They are dig- 
 ging the grave!” said he to himself; and the cold sweat start- 
 ed upon his forehead. Every stroke of a spade, as it sound- 
 ed through the silent groves, went to his heart; it was evi- 
 dent there was as little noise made as possible; every thing 
 had an air of terrible mystery and secrecy. Sam had a great 
 relish for the horrible,—a tale of murder was a treat for him ; 
 and he was a constant attendant at executions. He could not 
 resist an impulse, in spite of every danger, to steal nearer to 
 the scene of mystery, and overlook the midnight fellows at 
 their work. He crawled along cautiously, therefore, inch by 
 inch; stepping with the utmost care among the dry leaves, 
 lest their rustling should betray him. He came at length to 
 where a steep rock intervened between him and the gang ; for 
 he saw the light of their lantern shining up against the branch- 
 es of the trees on the other side. Sam slowly and silently 
 clambered up the surface of the rock, and raising his head above 
 its naked edge, beheld the villains immediately below him, and 
 so near, that though he dreaded discovery, he dared not with- 
 draw lest the least movement should be heard. In this way 
 he remained, with his round black face peering above the edge 
 of the rock, like the sun just emerging above the edge of the 
 horizon, or the round-cheeked moon on the dial of a clock. 
 
 The red-caps had nearly finished their work; the grave 
 
THE BLACK FISHERMAN. 443 
 
 was filled up, and they were carefully replacing the turf. 
 This done, they scattered dry leaves over the place. “ And 
 now,” said the leader, “I defy the devil himself to find it 
 out.” 
 
 “The murderers!” exclaimed Sam, involuntarily. 
 
 The whole gang started, and looking up, beheld the round 
 black head of Sam just above them. His white eyes strained 
 half out of their orbits; his white teeth chattering, and his 
 whole visage shining with cold perspiration. 
 
 “ We're discovered !” cried one. 
 
 “ Down with him!” cried another. 
 
 Sam heard the cocking of a pistol, but did not pause for 
 the report. He scrambled over rock and stone, through brush 
 and brier; rolled down banks like a hedge-hog ; scrambled 
 up others like a catamount. In every direction he heard some 
 one or other of the gang hemming him in. At length he 
 reached the rocky ridge along the river; one of the red-caps 
 was hard behind him. A steep rock like a wall rose directly 
 in his way ; it seemed to cut off all retreat, when fortunately 
 he espied the strong cord-like branch of a grape-vine reaching 
 half way down it. He sprang at it with the force of a desper- 
 ate man, seized it with both hands, and being young and 
 agile, succeeded in swinging himself to the summit of the 
 cliff. Here he stood in full relief against the sky, when the 
 red-cap cocked his pistol and fired. The ball whistled by 
 Sam’s head. With the lucky thought of a man in an emer- 
 gency, he uttered a yell, fell to the ground, and detached at 
 the same time a fragment of the rock, which tumbled with a 
 loud splash into the river: . 
 
 “T’ve done his business,” said the red-cap to one or two 
 
444 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 of his comrades as they arrived panting. “ He'll tell no tales, 
 except to the fishes in the river.” 
 
 His pursuers now turned to meet their companions. Sam 
 sliding silently down the surface of the rock, let himself quietly 
 into his skiff, cast loose the fastening, and abandoned himself 
 to the rapid current, which in that place runs like a mill- 
 stream, and soon swept him off from the neighborhood. It 
 was not, however, until he had drifted a great distance that 
 he ventured to ply his oars when he made his skiff dart like 
 an arrow through the strait of Hell-gate, never heeding the 
 danger of Pot, Frying Pan, nor Hog’s Back itself: nor 
 did he feel himself thoroughly secure until safely nestled in 
 bed in the cockloft of the ancient farm-house of the Suydams. 
 
 Here the worthy Peechy Prauw paused to take breath, 
 and to take a sip of the gossip tankard that stood at his el- 
 bow. His auditors remained with open mouths and out- 
 stretched necks, gaping like a nest of swallows for an addi- 
 tional mouthful. 
 
 “ And is that all?” exclaimed the half-pay officer. 
 
 “That’s all that belongs to the story,” said Peechy Prauw. 
 
 “ And did Sam never find out what was buried by the red- 
 caps ?” said Wolfert, eagerly, whose mind was haunted by 
 nothing but ingots and doubloons. 
 
 “ Not that I know of” said Peechy ; “he had no time to 
 spare from his work, and, to tell the truth, he did not like to 
 run the risk of another race among the rocks. Besides, how 
 should he recollect the spot where the grave had been digged ? 
 every thing would look so different by daylight. And then, 
 where was the use of looking for a dead body, when there 
 was no chance of hanging the murderers ?” 
 
THE BLACK FISHERMAN. 445 
 
 “Aye, but are you sure it was a dead body they bur- 
 ied?” said Wolfert. 
 
 “To be sure,” cried Peechy Prauw, exultingly. “ Does it 
 not haunt in the neighborhood to this very day ?” 
 
 “ Haunts!” exclaimed several of the party, opening their 
 eyes still wider, and edging their chairs still closer. 
 
 “ Aye, haunts,” repeated Peechy ; “ have none of you heard 
 of father Red-cap, who haunts the old burnt farm-house in the 
 woods, on the border of the Sound, near Hell-gate ?” 
 
 “Oh, to be sure, ’ve heard tell of something of the kind, 
 but then I took it for some old wives’ fable.” 
 
 “ Old wives’ fable or not,” said Peechy Prauw, “ that farm- 
 house stands hard by the very spot. It’s been unoccupied time 
 out of mind, and stands in a lonely part of the coast; but 
 those who fish in the neighborhood have often heard strange 
 noises there; and lights have been seen about the wood at 
 night; and an old fellow in a red cap has been seen at the 
 windows more than once, which people take to be the ghost 
 of the body buried there. Once upon a time three soldiers 
 took shelter in the building for the night, and rummaged it 
 from top to bottom, when they found old father Red-cap a- 
 stride of a cider-barrel in the cellar, with a jug in one hand and 
 a goblet in the other. He offered them a drink out of his goblet, 
 but just as one of the soldiers was putting it to his mouth— 
 whew !—a flash of fire blazed through the cellar, blinded 
 every mother’s son of them for several minutes, and when 
 they recovered their eye-sight, jug, goblet, and Red-cap 
 had vanished, and nothing but the empty cider-barrel re- 
 mained,” 
 
 Here the half-pay officer, who was growing very muzzy 
 
 19* 
 
446 TALES OF A TRAVELLER, 
 
 and sleepy, and nodding over his liquor, with half-extinguished 
 eye, suddenly gleamed up like an expiring rushlight. 
 
 “'That’s all fudge!” said he, as Peechy finished his last 
 story. 
 
 “ Well, I don’t vouch for the truth of it myself,” said 
 Peechy Prauw, “though all the world knows that there’s 
 something strange about that house and grounds; but as to 
 the story of Mud Sam, I believe it just as well as if it had 
 happened to myself.” 
 
 The deep interest taken in this conversation by the com- 
 pany had made them unconscious of the uproar abroad among 
 the elements, when suddenly they were electrified by a tre- 
 mendous clap of thunder. A lumbering crash followed in- 
 stantaneously, shaking the building to its very foundation. 
 All started from their seats, imagining it the shock of an 
 earthquake, or that old father Red-cap was coming among 
 them in all his terrors, They listened for a moment, but on- 
 ly heard the rain pelting against the windows, and the wind 
 howling among the trees. The explosion was soon explained 
 by the apparition of an old negro’s bald head thrust in at the 
 door, his white goggle eyes contrasting with his jetty poll, 
 which was wet with rain, and shone like a bottle. In a jargon 
 but half intelligible, he announced that the kitchen chimney 
 had been struck with lightning. 
 
 A sullen pause of the storm, which now rose and. sunk in 
 gusts, produced a momentary stillness. In this interval the 
 
 report of a musket was heard, and a long shout, almost like a 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 447 
 
 yell, resounded from the shores. Every one crowded to the 
 window ; another musket-shot was heard, and another long 
 shout, mingled wildly with a rising blast of wind. It seemed 
 as if the ery came up from the bosom of the waters; for 
 though incessant flashes of lightning spread a light about the 
 shore, no one was to be seen. 
 
 Suddenly the window of the room overhead was opened, 
 and a loud halloo uttered by the mysterious stranger. Sey- 
 eral hailings passed from one party to the other, but in a lan- 
 guage which none of the company in the bar-room could un- 
 derstand ; and presently they heard the window closed, and a 
 great noise overhead, as if all the furniture were pulled and 
 hauled about the room. The negro servant was summoned, 
 and shortly afterwards was seen assisting the veteran to lug 
 the ponderous sea-chest down stairs. 
 
 The landlord was in amazement. “ What, you are not 
 going on the water in such a storm ?” 
 
 “Storm!” said the other, scornfully, “do you call such a 
 sputter of weather a storm ?” 
 
 “You'll get drenched to the skin—Youw'll catch your death!” 
 said Peechy Prauw, affectionately. 
 
 “ Thunder and lightning !” exclaimed the veteran, “ don’t 
 preach about weather to a man that has cruised in whirl- 
 winds and tornadoes.” 
 
 The obsequious Peechy was again struck dumb. The voice 
 from the water was heard once more in a tone of impatience ; 
 the bystanders stared with redoubled awe at this man of 
 storms, who seemed to have come up out of the deep, and to 
 be summoned back to it again. As, with the assistance of 
 
 the negro, he slowly bore his ponderous sea-chest towards 
 
448 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 the shore, they eyed it with a superstitious feeling; half 
 doubting whether he were not really about to embark upon it 
 and launch forth upon the wild waves. They followed him 
 at a distance with a lantern. 
 
 “ Dowse the light!” roared the hoarse voice from the wa- 
 ter. “No one wants light here!” 
 
 “Thunder and lightning!” exclaimed the veteran, turning 
 short upon them ; “ back to the house with you!” 
 
 W olfert and his companions shrunk back in dismay. Still 
 their curiosity would not allow them entirely to withdraw. 
 A long sheet of lightning now flickered across the waves, and 
 discovered a boat, filled with men, just under a rocky point, 
 rising and sinking with the heaving surges, and swashing the 
 waters at every heave. It was with difficulty held to the 
 rocks by a boat-hook, for the current rushed furiously round 
 the point. The veteran hoisted one end of the lumbering sea- 
 chest on the gunwale of the boat, and seized the handle at the 
 other end to lift it in, whenthe motion propelled the boat 
 from the shore; the chest slipped off from the gunwale, and, 
 sinking into the waves, pulled the veteran headlong after it. 
 A loud shriek was uttered by all on shore, and a volley of 
 execrations by those on board; but boat and man were hur- 
 ried away by the rushing swiftness of the tide. A pitchy 
 darkness succeeded ; Wolfert Webber indeed fancied that he 
 distinguished a cry for help, and that he beheld the drowning 
 man beckoning for assistance; but when the lightning again 
 gleamed along the water, all was void; neither man nor boat 
 was to be seen; nothing but the dashing and weltering of the 
 waves as they hurried past. 
 
 The company returned to the tavern to await the subsid- 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 449 
 
 ing of the storm. They resumed their seats, and gazed on 
 each other with dismay. The whole transaction had not occu- 
 pied five minutes, and not a dozen words had been spoken. 
 When they looked at the oaken chair, they could scarcely 
 realize the fact that the strange being who had so lately ten- 
 anted it, full of life and Herculean vigor, should already be a 
 corpse. There was the very glass he had just drunk from ; 
 there lay the ashes from the pipe which he had smoked, as it 
 were, with his last breath. As the worthy burghers pondered 
 on these things, they felt a terrible conviction of the uncer- 
 tainty of existence, and each felt as if the ground on which he 
 stood was rendered less stable by his awful example. 
 
 As, however, the most of the company were possessed of 
 that valuable philosophy which enables a man to bear up with 
 fortitude against the misfortunes of his neighbors, they soon 
 managed to console themselves for the tragic end of the vet- 
 eran. The landlord was particularly happy that the poor 
 dear man had paid his reckoning before he went ; and made a 
 kind of farewell speech on the occasion. 
 
 “ He came,” said he, “in a storm, and he went in a storm ; 
 he came in the night, and. he went in the night; he came no- 
 body knows whence, and he has gone nobody knows where. 
 For aught I know he has gone to sea once more on his chest, 
 and may land to bother some people on the other side of the 
 world! Though it’s a thousand pities,” added he, “if he has 
 gone to Davy Jones’ locker, that he had not left his own lock- 
 er behind him.” 
 
 “His locker! St. Nicholas preserve us!” cried Peechy 
 Prauw. “Id not have had that sea-chest in the house for any 
 
 money ; I'll warrant he’d come racketing after it at nights, 
 
450 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 and making a haunted house of the inn. And, as to his going 
 to sea in his chest, I recollect what happened to Skipper On- 
 derdonk’s ship on his voyage from Amsterdam. 
 
 “The boatswain died during a storm, so they wrapped him 
 up in a sheet, and put him in his own sea-chest, and threw him 
 overboard; but they neglected in their hurry-skurry to say pray- 
 ers over him—and the storm raged and roared louder than ever, 
 and they saw the dead man seated in his chest, with his shroud 
 for a sail, coming hard after the ship ; and the sea breaking be- 
 fore him in great sprays like fire ; and there they kept scudding 
 day after day, and night after night, expecting every moment 
 to go to wreck ; and every night they saw the dead boatswain 
 in his sea-chest trying to get up with them, and they heard his 
 whistle above the blasts of wind, and he seemed to send 
 great seas mountain high after them, that would have swamp- 
 ed the ship if they had not put up the dead-lights. And so it 
 went on till they lost sight of him in the fogs off Newfound- 
 Jand, and supposed he had veered ship and stood for Dead 
 Man’s Isle. So much for burying a man at sea without say- 
 ing prayers over him.” 
 
 The thundergust which had hitherto detained the company 
 was now at an end. The cuckoo clock in the hall told mid- 
 night ; every one pressed to depart, for seldom was such a 
 late hour of the night trespassed on by these quiet burghers, 
 As they sallied forth, they found the heavens once more serene. 
 The storm which had lately obscured them had rolled away, 
 and lay piled up in fleecy masses on the horizon, lighted up 
 by the bright crescent of the moon, which looked like a little 
 silver lamp hung up in a palace of clouds, 
 
 The dismal occurrence of the night, and the dismal narra- 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 451 
 
 tions they had made, had left a superstitious feeling in every 
 mind. ‘They cast a fearful glance at the spot where the buc- 
 caneer had disappeared, almost expecting to see him sailing 
 on his chest in the cool moonshine. The trembling rays glit- 
 tered along the waters, but all was placid; and the current 
 dimpled over the spot where he had gone down. The party 
 huddled together in a little crowd as they repaired home- 
 wards ; particularly when they passed a lonely field where a 
 man had been murdered; and even the sexton, who had 
 to complete his journey alone, though accustomed, one would 
 think, to ghosts and goblins, went a long way round, rather 
 than pass by his own church-yard. 
 
 Wolfert Webber had now carried home a fresh stock of 
 stories and notions to ruminate upon. These accounts of pots 
 of money and Spanish treasures, buried here and there and 
 every where, about the rocks and bays of these wild shores, 
 made him almost dizzy. “ Blessed St. Nicholas!” ejaculated 
 he half aloud, “ is it not possible to come upon one of these 
 golden hoards, and to make one’s self rich in a twinkling ? 
 How hard that I must go on, delving and delving, day in and 
 day out, merely to make a morsel of bread, when one lucky 
 stroke of a spade might enable me to ride in my carriage for 
 the rest of my life!” 
 
 As he turned over in his thoughts all that had been told 
 of the singular adventure of the negro fisherman, his imagina- 
 tion gave a totally different complexion to the tale. He saw 
 in the gang of red-caps nothing but a crew of pirates burying 
 their spoils, and his cupidity was once more awakened by the 
 possibility of at. lengh getting on the traces of some of this 
 
 lurking wealth. Indeed, his infected fancy tinged every thing 
 
452 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 with gold. He felt like the greedy inhabitant of Bagdad, when 
 his eyes had been greased with the magic ointment of the der- 
 vise, that gave him to see all the treasures of the earth. Cas- 
 kets of buried jewels, chests of ingots, and barrels of outland- 
 ish coins, seemed to court him from their concealments, and 
 supplicate hin to relieve them from their untimely graves. 
 
 On making private inquiries about the grounds said to be 
 haunted by Father Red-cap, he was more and more confirmed 
 in his surmise. He learned that the place had several times 
 been visited by experienced money-diggers, who had heard 
 black Sam’s story, though none of them had met with suc- 
 eess. On the contrary, they had always been dogged with ill- 
 luck of some kind or other, in consequence, as Wolfert con- 
 cluded, of not going to work at the proper time, and with the 
 proper ceremonials. The last attempt had been made by Co- 
 bus Quackenbos, who dug for a whole night, and met with in- 
 credible difficulty, for as fast as he threw one shovel full of 
 earth out of the hole, two were thrown in by invisible hands: 
 He succeeded so far, however, as to uncover an iron chest, 
 when there was a terrible roaring, ramping, and raging of un- 
 couth figures about the hole, and at length a shower of blows, 
 dealt by invisible cudgels, fairly belabored him off of the for- 
 bidden ground. This Cobus Quackenbos had declared on his 
 death-bed, so that there could not be any doubt of it. He 
 was a man that had devoted many years of his life to 
 money-digging, and it was thought would have ultimately 
 succeeded, had he not died recently of a brain-fever in the 
 alms-house. 
 
 Wolfert Webber was now in a worry of trepidation and 
 
 impatience ; fearful lest some rival adventurer should get a 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 453 
 
 scent of the buried gold. He determined privately to seek 
 out the black fisherman, and get him to serve as guide to the 
 place where he had witnessed the mysterious scene of inter- 
 ment. Sam was easily found; for he was one of those old hab- 
 itual beings that live about a neighborhood until they wear 
 themselves a place in the public mind, and become, in a man- 
 ner, public characters. There was not an unlucky urchin about 
 town that did not know Sam the fisherman, and think that he 
 had a right to play his tricks upon the old negro. Sam had 
 led an amphibious life for more than half a century, about the 
 shores of the bay, and the fishing-grounds of the Sound. He 
 passed the greater part of his time on and in the water, par- 
 ticularly about Hell-gate; and might have been taken, in bad 
 weather, for one of the hobgoblins that used to haunt that 
 strait. There would he be seen, at all times, and in all 
 weathers ; sometimes in his skiff, anchored among the eddies, 
 or prowling, like a shark about some wreck, where the fish 
 are supposed to be most abundant. Sometimes seated on a 
 rock from hour to hour, looking in the mist and drizzle, like a 
 solitary heron watching for its prey. He was well acquainted 
 with every hole and corner of the Sound; from the Walla- 
 bout to Hell-gate, and from Hell-gate even unto the Devil’s 
 Stepping-Stones ; and it was even affirmed that he knew all 
 the fish in the river by their Christian names. 
 
 Wolfert found him at his cabin, which was not much 
 larger than a tolerable dog-house. It was rudely constructed 
 of fragments of wrecks and drift-wood, and built on the rocky 
 shore, at the foot of the old fort, just about what at present 
 forms the point of the Battery. A “most ancient and fish- 
 like smell” pervaded the place. Oars, paddles, and fishing- 
 
454 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 rods were leaning against the wall of the fort; a net was 
 spread on the sands to dry; a skiff was drawn up on the 
 beach, and at the door 6f his cabin was Mud Sam himself, 
 indulging in the true negro luxury of sleeping in the sun- 
 shine. 
 
 Many years had passed away since the time of Sam’s 
 youthful adventure, and the snows of many a winter had griz- 
 zled the knotty wool upon his head. He perfectly recollect- 
 ed the circumstances, however, for he had often been called 
 upon to relate them, though in his version of the story he dif- 
 fered in many points from Peechy Prauw; as is not unfre- 
 quently the case with authentic historians. As to the subse- 
 quent researches of money-diggers, Sam knew nothing about 
 them; they were matters quite out of his line; neither did 
 the cautious Wolfert care to disturb his thoughts on that 
 point. His only wish was to secure the old fisherman as a 
 pilot to the spot, and this was readily effected. The long time 
 that had intervened since his nocturnal adventure had effaced 
 all Sam’s awe of the place, and the promise of a trifling re- 
 ward roused him at once from his sleep and his sunshine. 
 
 The tide was adverse to making the expedition by water, 
 and Wolfert was too impatient to get to the land of promise, 
 to wait for its turning; they set off, therefore, by land. A 
 walk of four or five miles brought them to the edge of a wood, 
 which at that time covered the greater part of the eastern side 
 of the island. It was just beyond the pleasant region of 
 Bloomen-dael. Here they struck into a long lane, straggling 
 among trees and bushes, very much overgrown with weeds 
 and mullen-stalks, as if but seldom used, and so completely 
 
 overshadowed as to enjoy but a kind of twilight. Wild vines 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. - W455 
 
 entangled the trees and flaunted in their faces; brambles and 
 briers caught their clothes as they passed; the garter-snake 
 glided across their path; the spotted toad hopped and wad. 
 dled before them, and the restless cat-bird mewed at them 
 from every thicket. Had Wolfert Webber been deeply read 
 in romantic legend, he might have fancied himself entering up. 
 on forbidden, enchanted ground; or that these were some of 
 the guardians set to keep watch upon buried treasure. As it 
 was, the loneliness of the place, and the wild stories connected 
 with it, had their effect upon his mind. 
 
 On reaching the lower end of the lane, they found them- 
 selves near the shore of the Sound in a kind of amphitheatre, 
 surrounded by forest trees. The area had once been a grass- 
 plot, but was now shagged with briers and rank weeds. 
 At one end, and just on the river bank, was a ruined building, 
 little better than a heap of rubbish, with a stack of chimneys 
 rising like a solitary tower out of the centre. The current of, 
 the Sound rushed along just below it ; with wildly grown trees 
 drooping their branches into its waves. 
 
 Wolfert had not a doubt that this was the haunted house 
 of Father Red-cap, and called to mind the story of Peechy 
 Prauw. ‘The evening was approaching, and the light falling 
 dubiously among the woody places, gave a melancholy tone 
 to the scene, well calculated to foster any lurking feeling of awe 
 or superstition. The night-hawk, wheeling about in the high- 
 est regions of the air, emitted his peevish, boding cry. The 
 woodpecker gave a lonely tap now and then on some hollow 
 tree, and the fire-bird* streamed by them with his deep-red 
 plumage. 
 
 * Orchard Oriole. 
 
456 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 They now came to an inclosure that had once been a gar- 
 den. It extended along the foot of a rocky ridge, but was lit- 
 tle better than a wilderness of weeds, with here and there a 
 matted rose bush, or a peach or plum tree grown wild and 
 ragged, and covered with moss. At the lower end of the gar- 
 den they passed a kind of vault in the side of a bank, facing 
 the water. It had the look of a root-house. The door, 
 though decayed, was still strong, and appeared to have been 
 recently patched up. Wolfert pushed it open. It gave a 
 harsh grating upon its hinges, and striking against something 
 like a box, a rattling sound ensued, and a skull rolled on the 
 floor. Wolfert drew back shuddering, but was reassured on 
 being informed by the negro that this was a family vault, be- 
 longing to one of the old Dutch families that owned this es- 
 tate ; an assertion corroborated by the sight of coffins of vari- 
 ous sizes piled within. Sam had been familiar with all these 
 
 ~scenes when a boy, and now knew that he could not be far 
 from the place of which they were in quest. 
 
 They now made their way to the water’s edge, scrambling 
 along ledges of rocks that overhung the waves, and obliged 
 often to hold by shrubs and grape-vines to avoid slipping into 
 the deep and hurried stream. Atlength they came toa small 
 cove, or rather indent of the shore. It was protected by steep 
 rocks, and overshadowed by a thick copse of oaks and chestnuts, 
 so as to be sheltered and almost concealed. The beach shelved 
 gradually within the cove, but the current swept deep, and black, 
 and rapid, along its jutting points. The negro paused ; raised his 
 remnant of a hat, and scratched his grizzled poll for a moment, 
 as he regarded this nook ; then suddenly clapping his hands, he 
 stepped exultingly forward, and pointed to a large iron ring, sta- 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 457 
 
 pled firmly in the rock, just where a broad shelf of stone fur- 
 nished a commodious landing-place. It was the very spot 
 where the red-caps had landed. Years had changed the more 
 perishable features of the scene; but rock and iron yield slow- 
 ly to the influence of time. On looking more closely, Wol- 
 fert remarked three crosses cut in the rock just above the ring, 
 which had no doubt some mysterious signification. Old Sam 
 now readily recognized the overhanging rock under which his» 
 skiff had been sheitered during the thundergust. To follow 
 up the course which the midnight gang had taken, however, 
 was a harder task. is mind had been so much taken up on 
 that eventful occasion by the persons of the drama, as to pay 
 but little attention to the scenes ; and these places look so dif- 
 ferent by night and day. After wandering about for some 
 time, however, they came to an opening among the trees which 
 Sam thought resembled the place. There was a ledge of rock 
 of moderate height like a wall on one side, which he thought 
 might be the very ridge whence he had overlooked the diggers. 
 Wolfert examined it narrowly, and at length discovered three 
 crosses similar to those on the above ring, cut deeply into 
 the face of the rock, but nearly obliterated by moss that had 
 grown over them. His heart leaped with joy, for he doubted 
 not they were the private marks of the buccaneers. All now 
 that remained was to ascertain the precise spot were the treas. 
 ure lay buried ; for otherwise he might dig at random in the 
 neighborhood of the crosses, without coming upon the spoils, 
 and he had already had enough of such profitless labor. 
 Here, however, the old negro was perfectly at a loss, and indeed 
 perplexed him by a variety of opinions; for his recollections 
 
 were all confused.. Sometimes he declared it must have been 
 
 20 
 
458 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 at the foot of a mulberry-tree hard by; then beside a great 
 white stone ; then under a small green knoll, a short distance 
 from the ledge of rocks; until at length Wolfert became as 
 bewildered as himself. 
 
 The shadows of evening were now spreading themselves 
 over the woods, and rock and tree began to mingle together. 
 It was evidently too late to attempt any thing farther at pres- 
 ent; and, indeed, Wolfert had come unprovided with imple- 
 ments to prosecute his researches. Satisfied, therefore, with 
 having ascertained the place, he took note of all its landmarks, 
 that he might recognize it again, and set out on his return 
 homewards, resolved to prosecute this golden enterprise with- 
 out delay. 
 
 The leading anxiety which had hitherto absorbed every feel- 
 ing, being now in some measure appeased, fancy began to 
 wander, and to conjure up a thousand shapes and chimeras as 
 he returned through this haunted region. Pirates hanging in 
 chains seemed to swing from every tree, and he almost expect- 
 ed to see some Spanish Don, with his throat cut from ear to 
 ear, rising slowly out of the ground, and shaking the ghost of 
 a money-bag. 
 
 “Their way back lay through the desolate garden, and Wol- 
 fert’s nerves had arrived at so sensitive a state that the flitting 
 of a bird, the rustling of a leaf, or the falling of a nut, was 
 enough to startle him. As they entered the confines of the 
 garden, they caught sight of a figure at a distance advancing 
 slowly up one of the walks, and bending under the weight of 
 a burden. They paused and regarded him attentively. He 
 wore what appeared to be a woollen cap, and still more alarm- 
 
 ing, of a most sanguinary red. 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 459 
 
 The figure moved slowly on, ascended the bank, and stop- 
 ped at the very door of the sepulchral vault. Just before 
 entering it he looked around. What was the affright of Wol- 
 fert, when he recognized the grisly visage of the drowned 
 buccaneer! He uttered an ejaculation of horror. The figure 
 slowly raised his iron fist, and shook it with a terrible men- 
 ace. Wolfert did not pause to see any more, but hurried off 
 as fast as his legs could carry him, nor was Sam slow in fol- 
 lowing at his heels, having all his ancient terrors revived. 
 Away, then, did they scramble through bush and brake, hor- 
 ribly frightened at every bramble that tugged at their skirts, 
 nor did they pause to breathe, until they had blundered their 
 way through this perilous wood, and fairly reached the high 
 road to the city. 
 
 Several days elapsed before Wolfert could summon cour- 
 age enough to prosecute the enterprise, so much had he been 
 dismayed by the apparition, whether living or dead, of the 
 grisly buccaneer. In the mean time, what a conflict of mind 
 did he suffer! He neglected all his concerns, was moody and 
 restless all day, lost his appetite, wandered in his thoughts 
 and words, and committed a thousand blunders. His rest 
 was broken; and when he fell asleep, the nightmare, in shape 
 of a huge money-bag, sat squatted upon his breast. He bab- 
 bled about incalculable sums; fancied himself engaged in 
 money-digging ; threw the bedclothes right and left, in the 
 idea that he was shovelling away the dirt; groped under the 
 bed in quest of the treasure, and lugged forth, as he supposed, 
 an inestimable pot of gold. 
 
 Dame Webber and her daughter were in despair at what 
 they conceived a returning touch of insanity. There are two 
 
460 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 family oracles, one or other of which Dutch housewives con- 
 sult in all cases of great doubt and perplexity—the dominie 
 and the doctor. In the present instance they repaired to the 
 doctor. There was at that time a little dark mouldy man of 
 medicine, famous among the old wives of the Manhattoes for 
 his skill, not only in the healing art, but in all matters of 
 strange and mysterious nature. His name was Dr. Knipper- 
 hausen, but he was more commonly known by the appellation 
 of the High German Doctor.* To him did the poor women 
 repair for council and assistance touching the mental vagaries 
 of Wolfert Webber. 
 
 They found the doctor seated in his little study clad in his 
 dark camlet robe of knowledge, with his black velvet cap ; 
 after the manner of Boorhaave, Van Helmont, and other medi- 
 cal sages; a pair of green spectacles set in black horn upon 
 his clubbed nose, and poring over a German folio that reflect- 
 ed back the darkness of his physiognomy. The doctor listened 
 to their statement of the symptoms of Wolfert’s malady with 
 profound attention ; but when they came to mention his ray- 
 ing about buried money, the little man pricked up his ears. 
 Alas, poor women! they little knew the aid they had called 
 in. 
 
 Dr. Knipperhausen had been half his life engaged in seek- 
 ing the short cuts to fortune, in quest of which so many a long 
 lifetime is wasted. He had passed some years of his youth 
 among the Harz mountains of Germany, and had derived 
 much valuable instruction from the miners, touching the mode 
 
 of seeking treasure buried in the earth. He had prosecuted 
 
 * The same, no doubt, of whom mention is made in the history of 
 Dolph Heyliger. 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 461 
 
 his studies also under a travelling sage who united the myste- 
 ries of medicine with magic and legerdemain. His mind there- 
 fore had become stored with all kinds of mystic lore; he had 
 dabbled a little in astrology, alchemy, divination ; knew how 
 to detect stolen money, and to tell where springs of water 
 lay hidden; in a word, by the dark nature of his knowledge 
 he had acquired the name of the High German Doctor, which 
 is pretty nearly equivalent to that of necromancer. The doc- 
 tor had often heard rumors of treasure being buried in various 
 parts of the island, and had long been anxious to get on the 
 traces of it. No sooner were Wolfert’s waking and sleeping 
 vagaries confided to him, than he beheld in them the confirm- 
 ed symptoms of a case of money-digging, and lost no time in 
 probing it to the bottom. Wolfert had long been sorely op- 
 pressed in mind by the golden secret, and as a family phy- 
 sician is a kind of father confessor, he was glad of any op- 
 portunity of unburdening himself. So far from curing, the 
 doctor caught the malady from his patient. The circumstan- 
 ces unfolded to him awakened all his cupidity ; he had not a 
 doubt of money being buried somewhere in the neighborhood 
 of the mysterious crosses, and offered to join Wolfert in the 
 search. He informed him that much secrecy and caution 
 must be observed in enterprises of the kind; that money is 
 only to be digged for at night; with certain forms and cere- 
 monies ; and burning of drugs ; the repeating of mystic words, 
 and above all, that the seekers must first be provided with a 
 divining rod, which had the wonderful property of pointing 
 to the very spot on the surface of the earth under which treas- 
 ure lay hidden. As the doctor had given much of his mind 
 to these matters, he charged himself with all the necessary 
 
462 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 preparations, and, as the quarter of the moon was propitious, 
 he undertook to have the divining rod ready by a certain 
 night.* 
 
 Wolfert’s heart leaped with joy at having met with so learn- 
 
 ed and able a coadjutor. Every thing went on secretly, but 
 
 * The following note was found appended to this passage in the 
 hand-writing of Mr. Knickerbocker. ‘There has been much written 
 against the divining rod by those light minds who are ever ready to scoff 
 at the mysteries of nature; but I fully join with Dr. Knipperbausen in 
 giving it my faith. I shall not insist upon its efficacy in discovering the 
 concealment of stolen goods, the boundary stones of fields, the traces 
 of robbers and murderers, or even the existence of subterraneous springs 
 and streams of water: albeit, I think these properties not to be readily 
 discredited; but of its potency in discovering veins of precious metal, 
 and hidden sums of money and jewels, I have not the least doubt.- Some 
 said that the rod turned only in the hands of persons who had been born 
 in particular months of the year; hence astrologers had recourse to 
 planetary influence when they would procure a talisman. Others de- 
 clared that the properties of the rod were either an effect of chance, or 
 the fraud of the holder, or the work of the devil. Thus saith the 
 reverend father Gaspard Sebett in his Treatise on Magic; ‘ Propter hee 
 et similia argumenta audacter ego promisero vim conversivam virgulz 
 bifureatzee nequaquam naturalem esse, sed vel casu vel fraude virgulam 
 tractantis vel ope diaboli,’ &c. 
 
 ‘“‘Georgius Agricola also was of opinion that it was a mere delusion 
 of the devil to inveigle the avaricious and unwary into his clutches, and 
 in his treatise ‘de re Metallica,’ lays particular stress on the mysterious 
 words pronounced by those persons who employed the divining rod 
 during his time. But Imake not a doubt that the divining rod is one 
 of those secrets of natural magic, the mystery of which is to be explained 
 by the sympathies existing between physical things operated upon by 
 the planets, and rendered efficacious by the strong faith of the individ- 
 ual. Let the divining rod be properly gathered at the proper time of 
 of the moon, cut into the proper form, used with the necessary cerenio- 
 nies, and with a perfect faith in its efficacy, and I can confidently recom- 
 mend it to my fellow-citizens as an infallible means of discovering the 
 places on the Island of the Manhattoes where treasure hath been buried 
 
 in the olden time. 
 py Rt” 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 463 
 
 swimmingly. The doctor had many consultations with his 
 patient, and the good woman of the household lauded the com- 
 forting effect of his visits. In the mean time the wonderful 
 divining rod, that great key to nature’s secrets, was duly 
 prepared. The doctor had thumbed over all his books of 
 knowledge for the occasion ; and the black fisherman was en- 
 gaged to take them in his skiff to the scene of enterprise; to 
 work with spade and pickaxe in unearthing the treasure; and 
 to freight his bark with the weighty spoils they were certain 
 of finding. 
 
 At length the appointed night arrived for this perilous un- 
 dertaking. Before Wolfert left his home he counselled his 
 wife and daughter to go to bed, and feel no alarm if he should 
 not return during the night. Like reasonable women, on be- 
 ing told not to feel alarm they fell immediately into a panic. 
 They saw at once by his manner that something unusual was 
 in agitation ; all their fears about the unsettled state of his 
 mind were revived with tenfold force: they hung about him, 
 entreating him not to expose himself to the night air, but all 
 in vain. When once Wolfert was mounted on his hobby, it 
 was no easy matter to get him out of the saddle. It was a 
 clear starlight night, when he issued out of the portal of the 
 Webber palace. He wore a large flapped hat tied under the 
 chin with a handkerchief of his daughter’s, to secure him from 
 the night damp, while Dame Webber threw her long red 
 cloak about his shoulders, and fastened it round his neck. 
 
 The doctor had been no less carefully armed and accou- 
 tred by his housekeeper, the vigilant I’rau Ilsy ; and sallied 
 forth in his camlet robe by way of surcoat; his black velvet 
 cap under his cocked hat, a thick clasped book under his arm, 
 
464 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 a basket of drugs and dried herbs in one hand, and in the 
 other the miraculous rod of divination. 
 
 The great church clock struck ten as Wolfert and the doc- 
 tor passed by the church yard, and the watchman bawled in 
 hoarse voice a long and doleful “ all’s well!” A deep sleep 
 had already fallen upon this primitive little burgh: nothing 
 disturbed this awful silence, excepting now and then the bark 
 of some profligate night-walking dog, or the serenade of some 
 romantic cat. It is true, Wolfert fancied more than once that 
 he heard the sound of a stealthy footfall at a distance behind 
 them ; but it might have been merely the echo of their own 
 steps along the quiet streets. He thought also at one time 
 that he saw a tall figure skulking after them—stopping when 
 they stopped, and moving on as they proceeded ; but the dim 
 and uncertain lamp-light threw such vague gleams and shad- 
 ows, that this might all have been mere fancy. 
 
 They found the old fisherman waiting for them, smoking 
 his pipe in the stern of the skiff, which was moored just in 
 front of his little cabin. A pickaxe and spade were lying in 
 the bottom of the boat, with a dark lantern, and a stone bot- 
 tle of good Dutch courage, in which honest Sam no doubt 
 put even more faith than Dr. Knipperhausen in his drugs. 
 
 Thus then did these three worthies embark in their cockle- 
 shell of a skiff upon this nocturnal expedition, with a wisdom 
 and valor equalled only by the three wise men of Gotham, 
 who adventured to sea in a bowl. The tide was rising and 
 running rapidly up the Sound. The current bore them along, 
 almost without the aid of an oar. The profile of the town lay 
 all in shadow. Here and there a light feebly glimmered 
 
 from some sick chamber, or from the cabin window of some 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 465 
 
 vessel at anchor in the stream. Not a cloud obscured the 
 deep starry firmament, the lights of which wavered on the sur- 
 face of the placid river; and a shooting meteor, streaking its 
 pale course in the very direction they were taking, was inter- 
 preted by the doctor into a most propitious omen. 
 
 In a little while they glided by the point of Corlaer’s 
 Hook with the rural inn which had been the scene of such 
 night adventures. The family had retired to rest, and the 
 house was dark and still. Wolfert felt a chill pass over him 
 as they passed the point where the buccaneer had disappeared. 
 He pointed it out to Dr. Knipperhausen. While regarding 
 it, they thought they saw a boat actually lurking at the very 
 place; but the shore cast such a shadow over the border of the 
 water that they could discern nothing distinctly. They had not 
 _ proceeded far when they heard the low sounds of distant oars, 
 as if cautiously pulled. Sam plied his oars withredoubled vigor, 
 and knowing all the eddies and currents of the stream, soon 
 left their followers, if such they were, far astern. In a little 
 while they stretched across Turtle bay and Kip’s bay, then 
 shrouded themselves in the deep shadows of the Manhattan 
 shore, and glided swiftly along, secure from observation. At 
 length the negro shot his skiff into a little cove, darkly embow- 
 ered by trees, and made it fast to the well-known iron ring. 
 They now landed, and lighting the lantern, gathered their 
 various implements and proceeded slowly through the bushes. 
 Every sound startled them, even that of their own footsteps 
 among the dry leaves; and the hooting of a screech owl, from 
 the shattered chimney of the neighboring ruin, made their 
 blood run cold. 
 
 In spite of all Wolfert’s cauticn in taking note of the land- 
 
466 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 marks, it was some time before they could find the open place 
 among the trees, where the treasure was supposed to be bur- 
 ied. At length they came to the ledge of rock; and on ex- 
 amining its surface by the aid of the lantern, Wolfert recog- 
 nized the three mystic crosses. Their hearts beat quick, for 
 the momentous trial was at hand that was to determine their 
 hopes. 
 
 The lantern was now held by Wolfert Webber, while the 
 doctor produced the divining rod. It was a forked twig, one 
 end of which was grasped firmly in each hand, while the cen- 
 tre, forming the stem, pointed perpendicularly upwards. 
 The doctor moved this wand about, within a certain distance 
 of the earth, from place to place, but for some time without 
 any effect, while Wolfert kept the light of the lantern turned 
 full upon it, and watched it with the most breathless interest. 
 At length the rod began slowly to turn. The doctor grasped 
 it with greater earnestness, his hands trembling with the agi- 
 tation of his mind. The wand continued to turn gradually, 
 until at length the stem had reversed its position, and pointed 
 perpendicularly downward, and remained pointing to one spot 
 as fixedly as the needle to the pole. 
 
 “This is the spot!” said the doctor, in an almost inaud- 
 ible tone. 
 
 Wolfert’s heart was in his throat. 
 
 “Shall I dig?” said the negro, grasping the spade. 
 
 “ Pots tausends, no !” replied the little doctor, hastily. 
 He now ordered his companions to keep close by him, and to 
 maintain the most inflexible silence. That certain precautions 
 must be taken and ceremonies used to prevent the evil spirits 
 
 which kept about buried treasure from doing them any harm. 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 467 
 
 He then drew a circle about the place, enough to include the 
 whole party. He next gathered dry twigs and leaves and 
 made a fire, upon which he threw certain drugs and dried 
 herbs which he had brought in his basket. A thick smoke 
 rose, diffusing a potent odor, savoring marvellously of brimstone 
 and assafcetida, which, however grateful it might be to the ol- 
 factory nerves of spirits, nearly strangled poor Wolfert, and 
 produced a fit of coughing and wheezing that made the whole 
 grove resound. Dr. Knipperhausen then unclasped the vol- 
 ume which he had brought under his arm, which was printed 
 in red and black characters in German text. While Wolfert 
 held the lantern, the doctor, by the aid of his spectacles, read 
 off several forms of conjuration in Latin and German. He 
 then ordered Sam to seize the pickaxe and proceed to work. 
 The close-bound soil gave obstinate signs of not having been 
 disturbed for many a year. After having picked his way 
 through the surface, Sam came to a bed of sand and gravel, 
 which he threw briskly to right and left with the spade. 
 
 “ Wark!” said Wolfert, who fancied he heard a trampling 
 among the dry leaves, and a rustling through the bushes. 
 Sam paused for a moment, and they listened. No footstep 
 wasnear. The bat flitted by them in silence ; a bird, roused from 
 its roost by the light which glared up among the trees, flew 
 circling about the flame. In the profound stillness of the 
 woodland, they could distinguish the current rippling along 
 the rocky shore, and the distant murmuring and roaring of 
 Hell-gate. 
 
 The negro continued his labors, and had already digged a 
 considerable hole. The doctor stood on the edge, reading for- 
 
 mule every now and then from his black-letter volume, or 
 
468 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 throwing more drugs and herbs upon the fire; while Wol- 
 fert bent anxiously over the pit, watching every stroke of the 
 spade. Any one witnessing the scene thus lighted up by fire, 
 lantern, and the reflection of Wolfert’s red mantle, might 
 have mistaken the little doctor for some foul magician, busied 
 in his incantations, and the grizzly-headed negro for some 
 swart goblin, obedient to his commands. 
 
 At length the spade of the fisherman struck upon some. 
 thing that sounded hollow. The sound vibrated to Wolfert’s 
 heart. He struck his spade again.— 
 
 “°Tis a chest,” said Sam. 
 
 “Full of gold, Pll warrant it!” cried Wolfert, clasping 
 his hands with rapture. 
 
 Scarcely had he uttered the words when a sound from 
 above caught his ear. He cast up his eyes, and lo! by the ex- 
 piring light of the fire he beheld, just over the disk of the rock, 
 what appeared to be the grim visage of the drowned bucca- 
 neer, grinning hideously down upon him. 
 
 Wolfert gave a loud cry, and let fall the lantern. His 
 panic communicated itself to hiscompanions. The negro leap- 
 ed out of the hole; the doctor dropped his book and basket, 
 and began to pray in German. All was horror and confusion. 
 The fire was scattered about, the lantern extinguished. In 
 their hurry-scurry they ran against and confounded one an- 
 other. They fancied a legion of hobgoblins let loose upon 
 them, and that they saw, by the fitful gleams of the scattered 
 embers, strange figures, in red caps, gibbering and ramping 
 around thei. The doctor ran one way, the negro another, 
 and Wolfert made for the water side. As he plunged strug- 
 gling onwards through brush and brake, he heard the tread of 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 469 
 
 some one in pursuit. He scrambled frantically forward. 
 The footsteps gained upon him. He felt himself grasped by 
 his cloak, when suddenly his pursuer was attacked in turn: a 
 fierce fight and struggle ensued—a pistol was discharged that 
 lit up rock and bush for a second, and showed two figures grap- 
 pling together—all was then darker than ever. The contest 
 continued—the combatants clinched each other, and panted, 
 and groaned, and rolled among the rocks. There was snarling 
 and growling as of a cur, mingled with curses, in which Wol- 
 fert fancied he could recognize the voice of the buccaneer. 
 He would fain have fled, but he was on the brink of a pre- 
 cipice, and could go no further. 
 
 Again the parties were on their feet; again there was a 
 tugging and struggling, as if strength alone could decide the 
 combat, until one was precipitated from the brow of the cliff, 
 and sent headlong into the deep stream that whirled below. 
 Wolfert heard the plunge, and a kind of strangling, bubbling 
 murmur, but the darkness of the night hid every thing from 
 him, and the swiftness of the current swept every thing in- 
 stantly out of hearing. One of the combatants was disposed 
 of, but whether friend or foe, Wolfert could not tell, nor 
 whether they might not both be foes. He heard the survivor 
 approach, and his terror revived. He saw, where the profile 
 of the rocks rose against the horizon, a human form advane- 
 ing. He could not be mistaken: it must be the buccaneer. 
 Whither should he fly !—a precipice was on one side—a mur- 
 derer on the other. The enemy approached—he was close at 
 hand. Wolfert attempted to let himself down the face of the 
 cliff, His cloak caught in a thorn that grew on the edge. 
 He was aa from off his feet, and held dangling in the 
 
4:70 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 air, half-choked by the string with which his careful wife had 
 fastened the garment around his neck. Wolfert thought his 
 last moment was arrived ; already had he committed his soul 
 to St. Nicholas, when the string broke, and he tumbled down 
 the bank, bumping from rock to rock, and bush to bush, and 
 leaving the red cloak fluttering like a bloody banner in the air. 
 
 It was a long while before Wolfert came to himsellt. 
 When he opened his eyes, the ruddy streaks of morning were 
 already shooting up the sky. He found himself grievously 
 battered, and lying in the bottom of a boat. He attempted 
 to sit up, but was too sore and stiff to move. A voice re 
 quested him in friendly accents to lie still. He turned his eyes 
 towards the speaker: it was Dirk Waldron. He had dog- 
 ged the party, at the earnest request of Dame Webber and 
 her daughter, who with the laudable curiosity of their sex, 
 had pried into the secret consultations of Wolfért and the 
 doctor. Dirk had been completely distanced in following 
 the light skiff of the fisherman, and had just come in to rescue 
 the poor money-digger from his pursuer. 
 
 Thus ended this perilous enterprise. The doctor and 
 Black Sam severally found their way back to the Manhattoes, 
 each having some dreadful tale of peril to relate. As to poor 
 Wolfert, instead of returning in triumph laden with bags of 
 gold, he was borne home on a shutter, followed by a rabble- 
 rout of curious urchins. His wife and daughter saw the dis- 
 mal pageant from a distance, and alarmed the neighborhood 
 with their cries: they thought the poor man had suddenly 
 settled the great debt of nature in one of his wayward moods. 
 Finding him, however still living, they had him speedily to 
 
 bed, and a jury of old matrons of the neighborhood assem- 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 471 
 
 bled, to determine how he should be doctored. The whole 
 town was in a buzz with the story of the money-diggers. 
 Many repaired to the scene of the previous night’s adven- 
 tures: but though they found the very place of the digging, 
 they discovered nothing that compensated them for their trou- 
 ble. Some say they found the fragments of an oaken chest, 
 and an iron pot-lid, which savored strongly of hidden money ; 
 and that in the old family vault there were traces of bales and 
 boxes, but this is all very dubious. 
 
 In fact, the secret of all this story has never to this day 
 been discovered: whether any treasure were ever actually 
 buried at that place; whether, if so, it were carried off at 
 night by those who had buried it; or whether it still remains 
 there under the guardianship of gnomes and spirits until it 
 shall be properly sought for, is all matter of conjecture. For 
 my part I incline to the latter opinion; and make no doubt 
 that great sums lie buried, both there and in other parts of 
 this island and its neighborhood, ever since the times of the 
 buccaneers and the Dutch colonists ; and I would earnestly rec- 
 ommend the search after them to such of my fellow-citizens 
 as are not engaged in any other speculations. 
 
 There were many conjectures formed, also, as to who and 
 what was the strange man of the seas who had domineered 
 over the little fraternity at Corlaer’s Hook for a time; disap- 
 peared so strangely, and reappeared so fearfully. Some sup- 
 posed him a smuggler stationed at that place to assist his com- 
 rades in landing their goods among the rocky coves of the 
 island. Others, that he was one of the ancient comrades of 
 Kidd or Bradish, returned to convey away treasures formerly 
 hidden in the vicinity.. The only circumstance that throws 
 
472 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 any thing like a vague light on this mysterious matter, is a re- 
 port which prevailed of a strange foreign-built shallop, with 
 much the look of a picaroon, having been seen hovering about 
 the Scund for several days without landing or reporting her- 
 self, though boats were seen going to and from her at night: 
 and that she was seen standing out of the mouth of the har- 
 bor, in the gray of the dawn after the catastrophe of the 
 money-diggers. 
 
 I must not omit to mention another report, also, which I 
 confess is rather apocryphal, of the buccaneer, who was sup- 
 posed to have been drowned, being seen before daybreak, 
 with a lantern in his hand, seated astride of his great sea-chest, 
 and sailing through Hell-gate, which just then began to roar 
 and bellow with redoubled fury. 
 
 While all the gossip world was thus filled with talk and 
 rumor, poor Wolfert lay sick and sorrowful in his bed, bruised 
 in body and sorely beaten down in mind. His wife and 
 daughter did all they could to bind up his wounds, both cor- 
 poral and spiritual. The good old dame never stirred from 
 his bedside, where she sat knitting from morning till night; 
 while his daughter busied herself about him with the fondest 
 care. Nor did they lack assistance from abroad. Whatever 
 may be said of the desertion of friends in distress, they had 
 no complaint of the kind to make. Not an old wife of the 
 neighborhood but abandoned her work to crowd to the mansion 
 of Wolfert Webber, to inquire after his health, and the particu- 
 lars of his story. Not one came moreover without her little 
 pipkin of pennyroyal, sage, balm, or other herb tea, delighted 
 at an opportunity of signalizing her kindness and her doctor- 
 ship. What drenchings did not the poor Wolfert undergo, 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 473 
 
 and all in vain! It was a moving sight to behold him wast- 
 ing away day by day; growing thinner and thinner, and 
 ghastlier and ghastlier, and staring with rueful visage from 
 under an old patchwork counterpane, upon the jury of ma- 
 trons. kindly assembled to sigh and groan and look unhappy 
 around him. 
 
 Dirk Waldron was the only being that seemed to shed a 
 ray of sunshine into this house of mourning. He came in 
 with cheery look and manly spirit, and tried to reanimate the 
 expiring heart of the poor money-digger, but it was all in 
 vain. Wolfert was completely done over. If any thing was 
 wanting to complete his despair, it was a notice served upon 
 him in the midst of his distress, that the corporation were 
 about to run a new street through the very centre of his cab- 
 bage garden. He now saw nothing before him but poverty 
 and ruin; his last reliance, the garden of his forefathers, was 
 to be laid waste, and what then was to become of his poor 
 wife and child ? 
 
 His eyes filled with tears as they followed the dutiful Amy 
 out of the room one morning. Dirk Waldron was seated be- 
 side him; Wolfert grasped his hand, pointed after his daugh- 
 ter, and for the first time since his illness, broke the silence 
 he had maintained. 
 
 “Tam going!” said he, shaking his head feebly, “ and 
 when I am gone—my poor daughter——” 
 
 “Leave her to me, father!” said Dirk, manfully— Pll 
 take care of her!” 
 
 Wolfert looked up in the face of the cheery, strapping 
 youngster, and saw there was none better able to take care of 
 
 & woman. 
 
474 . TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 “ Enough,” said he—“ she is yours !—and now fetch me a 
 Jawyer—let me make my will and die.” 
 
 The lawyer was brought—a dapper, bustling, round-head- 
 ed little man, Roorback (or Rollebuck as it was pronounced) 
 by name. At the sight of him the women broke into loud 
 lamentations, for they looked upon the signing of a will as 
 the signing of a death warrant. Wolfert made a feeble mo- 
 tion for them to be silent. Poor Amy buried her face and 
 her grief in the bed curtain. Dame Webber resumed her 
 knitting to hide her distress, which betrayed itself however in 
 a pellucid tear, which trickled silently down, and hung ai the 
 end of her peaked nose; while the cat, the only unconcerned 
 member of the family, played with the good dame’s ball of 
 worsted, as it rolled about the floor. 
 
 Wolfert lay on his back, his night-cap drawn over his fore- 
 head; his eyes closed; his whole visage the picture of 
 death. He begged the lawyer to be brief, for he felt his end 
 approaching, and that he had no time to lose. The lawyer 
 nibbed his pen, spread out his paper, and prepared to write. 
 
 “T give and bequeath,” said Wolfert, faintly, “my small 
 
 9 
 
 farm 
 “ W hat—all !”’ exclaimed the lawyer. 
 Wolfert half opened his eyes and looked upon the lawyer. 
 “ Yes—all,” said he. 
 “ What! all that great patch of land with canoe and 
 
 sun-flowers, which the corporation is just going to run a main 
 
 street through ?” 
 “'The same,” said Wolfert, with a heavy sigh, and sinking 
 back upon his pillow. 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. 475 
 
 “TI wish him joy that inherits it!” said the little lawyer, 
 chuckling, and rubbing his hands involuntarily. 
 
 “What do you mean?” said Wolfert, again opening his 
 eyes. 
 
 “That he’ll be one of the richest men in the place!” cried 
 little Rollebuck. 
 
 The expiring Wolfert seemed to step back from the thresh- 
 old of existence: his eyes again lighted up; he raised him- 
 self in his bed, shoved back his red worsted night cap, and 
 stared broadly at the lawyer. 
 
 “ You don’t say so!” exclaimed he. 
 
 “ Faith, but I do!” rejoined the other. “ Why, when that 
 "great field and that huge meadow come to be laid out in 
 streets, and cut up into snug building lots—why, whoever 
 owns it need not pull off his hat to the patroon ! ” 
 
 “Say you so?” cried Wolfert, half thrusting one leg out 
 of bed, “ why, then I think [ll not make my will yet!” 
 
 To the surprise of every body the dying man actually re- 
 covered. ‘The vital spark, which had glimmered faintly in the 
 socket, received fresh fuel from the oil of gladness, which the 
 little lawyer poured into his soul. It once more burnt up in- 
 to a flame. 
 
 Give physic to the heart, ye who would revive the body 
 of a spirit-broken man! In a few days Wolfert left his room ; 
 in afew days more his table was covered with deeds, plans of 
 streets, and building lots. Little Rollebuck was constantly with 
 him, his right-hand man and adviser ; and instead of making his 
 will, assisted in the more agreeable task of making his for- 
 tune. In fact Wolfert Webber was one of those worthy Dutch 
 burghers of the Manhattoes whose fortunes have been made, 
 
476 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 in a manner, in spite of themselves; who have tenaciously 
 held on to their hereditary acres, raising turnips and cabbages 
 about the skirts of the city, hardly able to make both ends 
 meet, until the corporation has cruelly driven streets through 
 their abodes, and they have suddenly awakened out of their 
 lethargy, and, to their astonishment, found themselves rich 
 men. 
 
 Before many months had elapsed, a great bustling street 
 
 passed through the very centre of the Webber garden, just 
 where Wolfert had dreamed of finding a treasure. His golden 
 dream was accomplished ; he did indeed find an unlooked-for 
 source of wealth; for, when his paternal lands were distrib- 
 uted into building lots, and rented out to safe tenants, in- 
 stead of producing a paltry crop of cabbages, they returned 
 him an abundant crop of rent ; insomuch that on quarter-day, 
 it was a goodly sight to see his tenants knocking at the door, 
 from morning till night, each with a little round-bellied bag 
 of money, a golden produce of the soil. 
 The ancient mansion of his forefathers was still kept up ; 
 but instead of being a little yellow-fronted Dutch house in a 
 garden, it now stood boldly in the midst of a street, the 
 grand home of the neighborhood ; for Wolfert enlarged it with 
 a wing on each side, and a cupola or tearoom on top, where he 
 might climb up and smoke his pipe in hot weather; and in the 
 course of time the whole mansion was overrun by the chubby- 
 faced progeny of Amy Webber and Dirk Waldron. 
 
 As Wolfert waxed old, and rich, and corpulent, he also 
 set up a great ginger-bread colored carriage, drawn by a pair 
 of black Flanders mares, with tails that swept the ground ; 
 
 [ and to commemorate the origin of his greatness, he had for 
 
WOLFERT WEBBER. ATT 
 
 his crest, a full blown cabbage painted on the pannels, with 
 the pithy motto Alles Hopf, that is to say, ALL HEAD; mean- 
 ing thereby that he had risen by sheer head-work. 
 
 ; 
 | 
 
 = 
 
 To fill the measure of his greatness, in the fulness of time 
 the renowned Ramm Rapelye slept with his fathers, and Wol- 
 fert Webber succeeded to the leather-bottomed arm-chair, in 
 the inn parlor at Corlaer’s Hook; where he long reigned 
 greatly honored and respected, insomuch that he was never 
 known to tell a story without its being believed, nor to utter 
 a joke without its being laughed at. 
 
 THE END. 
 
NOV4 1939 
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