He who listened, while the other read, was the
master of the house, now emaciated in form, and alter-
ed as to the expression and healthiness of his counten-
ance; for his mind had dwelt too long among visionary
thoughts, and his body had been worn by imprison-
ment and stripes: The hale and weather-beaten old
man, who sat beside him, had sustained less injury
from a far longer course of the same mode of life.
In person he was tall and dignified, and, which alone
would have made him hateful to the Puritans, his grey
locks fell from beneath the broad-brimmed hat, and
rested on his shoulders. As the old man read the
sacred page, the snow drifted against the windows, or
eddied in at the crevices of the door, while a blast kept
laughing in the chimney, and the blaze leaped fiercely
up to seek it. And sometimes, when the wind struck
the hill at a certain angle, and swept down by the

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   The Quaker at length closed the book, retaining
however his hand between the pages which he had
been reading, while he looked steadfastly at Pearson.
The attitude and features of the latter might have
indicated the endurance of bodily pain; he leaned his
forehead on his hands, his teeth were firmly closed,
and his frame was tremulous at intervals with a nervous
agitation.

   `Friend Tobias,' inquired the old man, compassion-
ately, `hast thou found no comfort in these many
blessed passages of scripture?'

   `Thy voice has fallen on my ear like a sound afar
off and indistinct,' replied Pearson without lifting his
eyes. `Yea, and when I have harkened carefully, the
words seemed cold and lifeless, and intended for
another and a lesser grief than mine. Remove the
book,' he added, in a tone of sullen bitterness. `I
have no part in its consolations, and they do but fret
my sorrow the more.'

   `Nay, feeble brother, be not as one who hath never
known the light,' said the elder Quaker, earnestly, but
with mildness. `Art thou he that wouldst be content
to give all, and endure all, for conscience' sake; desiring
even peculiar trials, that thy faith might be purified,

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   `It is heavy! It is heavier than I can bear!' ex-
claimed Pearson, with the impatience of a variable
spirit. `From my youth upward I have been a man
marked out for wrath; and year by year, yea, day
after day, I have endured sorrows such as others know
not in their life-time. And now I speak not of the
love that has been turned to hatred, the honor to
ignominy, the ease and plentifulness of all things to
danger, want, and nakedness. All this I could have
borne, and counted myself blessed. But when my
heart was desolate with many losses, I fixed it upon
the child of a stranger, and he became dearer to me
than all my buried ones; and now he too must die, as
if my love were poison. Verily, I am an accursed
man, and I will lay me down in the dust, and lift up
my head no more.'

   `Thou sinnest, brother, but it is not for me to
rebuke thee; for I also have had my hours of dark-
ness, wherein I have murmured against the cross,'
said the old Quaker. He continued, perhaps in the
hope of distracting his companion's thoughts from his
own sorrows. `Even of late was the light obscured
within me, when the men of blood had banished me
on pain of death, and the constables led me onward

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   `Have I not borne all this; and have I murmured?'
interrupted Pearson, impatiently.

   `Nay, friend, but hear me,' continued the other.
`As we journeyed on, night darkened on our path, so
that no man could see the rage of the persecutors, or
the constancy of my endurance, though Heaven forbid
that I should glory therein. The lights began to
glimmer in the cottage windows, and I could discern
the inmates as they gathered, in comfort and security,
every man with his wife and children by their own
evening hearth. At length we came to a tract of
fertile land; in the dim light, the forest was not visible
around it; and behold! there was a straw-thatched
dwelling, which bore the very aspect of my home, far
over the wild ocean, far in our own England. Then
came bitter thoughts upon me; yea, remembrances
that were like death to my soul. The happiness of
my early days was painted to me; the disquiet of my
manhood, the altered faith of my declining years. I
remembered how I had been moved to go forth a
wanderer, when my daughter, the youngest, the dearest
of my flock, lay on her dying bed, and' --

   `Couldst thou obey the command at such a mo-
ment?' exclaimed Pearson, shuddering.

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   `Yea, yea,' replied the old man, hurriedly. `I was
kneeling by her bed-side when the voice spoke loud
within me; but immediately I rose, and took my staff,
and gat me gone. Oh! that it were permitted me to
forget her woeful look, when I thus withdrew my arm,
and left her journeying through the dark valley alone!
for her soul was faint, and she had leaned upon my
prayers. Now in that night of horror I was assailed
by the thought that I had been an erring christian,
and a cruel parent; yea, even my daughter, with her
pale, dying features, seemed to stand by me and
whisper, "Father, you are deceived; go home and
shelter your grey head." Oh! thou, to whom I have
looked in my farthest wanderings,' continued the
Quaker, raising his agitated eyes to heaven, `inflict
not upon the bloodiest of our persecutors the unmiti-
gated agony of my soul, when I believed that all I had
done and suffered for Thee was at the instigation of a
mocking fiend! But I yielded not; I knelt down and
wrestled with the tempter, while the scourge bit more
fiercely into the flesh. My prayer was heard, and I
went on in peace and joy towards the wilderness.'

   The old man, though his fanaticism had generally
all the calmness of reason, was deeply moved while
reciting this tale; and his unwonted emotion seemed
to rebuke and keep down that of his companion.
They sat in silence, with their faces to the fire,
imagining, perhaps, in its red embers, new scenes of
persecution yet to be encountered. The snow still

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   `I have well nigh sunk under my own share of this
trial,' observed he, sighing heavily;' yet I would that
it might be doubled to me, if so the child's mother
could be spared. Her wounds have been deep and
many, but this will be the sorest of all.'

   `Fear not for Catharine,' replied the old Quaker;
`for I know that valiant woman, and have seen how
she can bear the cross. A mother's heart, indeed, is
strong in her, and may seem to contend mightily with
her faith; but soon she will stand up and give thanks
that her son has been thus early an accepted sacrifice.
The boy hath done his work, and she will feel that he
is taken hence in kindness both to him and her.
Blessed, blessed are they, that with so little suffering
can enter into peace!'

   The fitful rush of the wind was now disturbed by a
portentous sound; it was a quick and heavy knocking
at the outer door. Pearson's wan countenance grew
paler, for many a visit of persecution had taught him
what to dread; the old man, on the other hand, stood

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   `The men of blood have come to seek me,' he
observed, with calmness. `They have heard how I
was moved to return from banishment; and now am I
to be led to prison, and thence to death. It is an end
I have long looked for. I will open unto them, lest
they say, "Lo, he feareth!" '

   `Nay, I will present myself before them,' said
Pearson, with recovered fortitude. `It may be that
they seek me alone, and know not that thou abidest
with me.'

   `Let us go boldly, both one and the other,' rejoined
his companion. `It is not fitting that thou or I
should shrink.'

   They therefore proceeded through the entry to the
door, which they opened, bidding the applicant `Come
in, in God's name!' A furious blast of wind drove
the storm into their faces, and extinguished the lamp;
they had barely time to discern a figure, so white from
head to foot with the drifted snow, that it seemed like
Winter's self, come in human shape to seek refuge
from its own desolation.

   `Enter, friend, and do thy errand, be it what it
may,' said Pearson. `It must needs be pressing, since
thou comest on such a bitter night.'

   `Peace be with this household,' said the stranger,
when they stood on the floor of the inner apartment.

   Pearson started, the elder Quaker stirred the slum-

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   `Catharine, blessed woman,' exclaimed the old man,
`art thou come to this darkened land again! art thou
come to bear a valiant testimony as in former years?
The scourge hath not prevailed against thee, and from
the dungeon hast thou come forth triumphant; but
strengthen, strengthen now thy heart, Catharine, for
Heaven will prove thee yet this once, ere thou go to
thy reward.'

   `Rejoice, friends!' she replied. `Thou who hast
long been of our people, and thou whom a little child
hath led to us, rejoice! Lo! I come, the messenger
of glad tidings, for the day of persecution is overpast.
The heart of the king, even Charles, hath been moved
in gentleness towards us, and he hath sent forth his
letters to stay the hands of the men of blood. A
ship's company of our friends hath arrived at yonder
town, and I also sailed joyfully among them.'

   As Catharine spoke, her eyes were roaming about
the room, in search of him for whose sake security
was dear to her. Pearson made a silent appeal to the
old man, nor did the latter shrink from the painful
task assigned him.

   `Sister,' he began, in a softened yet perfectly calm
tone, `thou tellest us of His love, manifested in tem-
poral good; and now must we speak to thee of that
self-same love, displayed in chastenings. Hitherto,

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Catharine, thou hast been as one journeying in a dark-
some and difficult path, and leading an infant by the
hand; fain wouldst thou have looked heavenward
continually, but still the cares of that little child have
drawn thine eyes, and thy affections, to the earth.
Sister! go on rejoicing, for his tottering footsteps shall
impede thine own no more.'

   But the unhappy mother was not thus to be consoled;
she shook like a leaf, she turned white as the very
snow that hung drifted into her hair. The firm old
man extended his hand and held her up, keeping his eye
upon her's, as if to repress any outbreak of passion.

   `I am a woman, I am but a woman; will He try me
above my strength?' said Catharine, very quickly, and
almost in a whisper. `I have been wounded sore; I
have suffered much; many things in the body, many
in the mind; crucified in myself, and in them that
were dearest to me. Surely,' added she, with a long
shudder, `He hath spared me in this one thing.' She
broke forth with sudden and irrepressible violence.
`Tell me, man of cold heart, what has God done to
me? Hath He cast me down never to rise again?
Hath He crushed my very heart in his hand? And
thou, to whom I committed my child, how hast thou
fulfilled thy trust? Give me back the boy, well,
sound, alive, alive; or earth and heaven shall avenge
me!'

   The agonized shriek of Catharine was answered by
the faint, the very faint voice of a child.

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   On this day it had become evident to Pearson, to his
aged guest, and to Dorothy, that Ilbrahim's brief and
troubled pilgrimage drew near its close. The two
former would willingly have remained by him, to make
use of the prayers and pious discourses which they
deemed appropriate to the time, and which, if they be
impotent as to the departing traveller's reception in
the world whither he goes, may at least sustain him in
bidding adieu to earth. But though Ilbrahim uttered
no complaint, he was disturbed by the faces that
looked upon him; so that Dorothy's entreaties, and
their own conviction that the child's feet might tread
heaven's pavement and not soil it, had induced the two
Quakers to remove. Ilbrahim then closed his eyes
and grew calm, and, except for now and then, a kind
and low word to his nurse, might have been thought to
slumber. As night-fall came on, however, and the
storm began to rise, something seemed to trouble the
repose of the boy's mind, and to render his sense of
hearing active and acute. If a passing wind lingered
to shake the casement, he strove to turn his head
towards it; if the door jarred to and fro upon its
hinges, he looked long and anxiously thitherward; if
the heavy voice of the old man, as he read the
scriptures, rose but a little higher, the child almost
held his dying breath to listen; if a snow-drift swept
by the cottage, with a sound like the trailing of a
garment, Ilbrahim seemed to watch that some visitant
should enter.

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   But, after a little time, he relinquished whatever
secret hope had agitated him, and, with one low, com-
plaining whisper, turned his cheek upon the pillow.
He then addressed Dorothy with his usual sweetness,
and besought her to draw near him; she did so, and
Ilbrahim took her hand in both of his, grasping it with
a gentle pressure, as if to assure himself that he re-
tained it. At intervals, and without disturbing the
repose of his countenance, a very faint trembling passed
over him from head to foot, as if a mild but somewhat
cool wind had breathed upon him, and made him
shiver. As the boy thus led her by the hand, in his
quiet progress over the borders of eternity, Dorothy
almost imagined that she could discern the near,
though dim delightfulness, of the home he was about
to reach; she would not have enticed the little wan-
derer back, though she bemoaned herself that she
must leave him and return. But just when Ilbrahim's
feet were pressing on the soil of Paradise, he heard a
voice behind him, and it recalled him a few, few paces
of the weary path which he had travelled. As Dor-
othy looked upon his features, she perceived that
their placid expression was again disturbed; her own
thoughts had been so wrapt in him, that all sounds of
the storm, and of human speech, were lost to her; but
when Catharine's shriek pierced through the room, the
boy strove to raise himself.

   `Friend, she is come! Open unto her!' cried he.

   In a moment, his mother was kneeling by the bed-

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side; she drew Ilbrahim to her bosom, and he nestled
there, with no violence of joy, but contentedly as if he
were hushing himself to sleep. He looked into her
face, and reading its agony, said, with feeble earnest-
ness;

   `Mourn not, dearest mother. I am happy now.'
And with these words, the gentle boy was dead.

* * * * *

   The king's mandate to stay the New England perse-
cutors was effectual in preventing further martyrdoms;
but the colonial authorities, trusting in the remoteness
of their situation, and perhaps in the supposed insta-
bility of the royal government, shortly renewed their
severities in all other respects. Catharine's fanaticism
had become wilder by the sundering of all human ties;
and wherever a scourge was lifted, there was she to
receive the blow; and whenever a dungeon was un-
barred, thither she came, to cast herself upon the floor.
But in process of time, a more christian spirit -- a spirit
of forbearance, though not of cordiality or approbation,
began to pervade the land in regard to the persecuted
sect. And then, when the rigid old Pilgrims eyed her
rather in pity than in wrath; when the matrons fed
her with the fragments of their children's food, and
offered her a lodging on a hard and lowly bed; when
no little crowd of school-boys left their sports to cast
stones after the roving enthusiast; then did Catharine
return to Pearson's dwelling, and made that her home.

   As if Ilbrahim's sweetness yet lingered round his

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ashes; as if his gentle spirit came down from heaven
to teach his parent a true religion, her fierce and
vindictive nature was softened by the same griefs
which had once irritated it. When the course of years
had made the features of the unobtrusive mourner
familiar in the settlement, she became a subject of not
deep, but general interest; a being on whom the
otherwise superfluous sympathies of all might be
bestowed. Every one spoke of her with that degree
of pity which it is pleasant to experience; every one
was ready to do her the little kindnesses, which are not
costly, yet manifest good will; and when at last she
died, a long train of her once bitter persecutors fol-
lowed her, with decent sadness and tears that were not
painful, to her place by Ilbrahim's green and sunken
grave.

   

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---

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MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CA-
TASTROPHE.
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Page 149

MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATAS-
TROPHE.

   

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   A young fellow, a tobacco-pedler by trade, was on
his way from Morristown, where he had dealt largely
with the Deacon of the Shaker settlement, to the village
of Parker's Falls on Salmon River. He had a neat
little cart, painted green, with a box of cigars depicted
on each side-panel, and an Indian chief, holding a
pipe and a golden tobacco-stalk, on the rear. The
pedler drove a smart little mare, and was a young man
of excellent character, keen at a bargain, but none the
worse liked by the Yankees; who, as I have heard
them say, would rather be shaved with a sharp razor
than a dull one. Especially was he beloved by the
pretty girls along the Connecticut, whose favor he used
to court by presents of the best smoking-tobacco in his
stock; knowing well that the country lasses of New

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England are generally great performers on pipes.
Moreover, as will be seen in the course of my story,
the pedler was inquisitive, and something of a tattler,
always itching to hear the news and anxious to tell it
again.

   After an early breakfast at Morristown, the tobacco-
pedler, whose name was Dominicus Pike, had travel-
led seven miles through a solitary piece of woods, with-
out speaking a word to any body but himself and his
little gray mare. It being nearly seven o'clock, he
was as eager to hold a morning gossip, as a city shop-
keeper to read the morning paper. An opportunity
seemed at hand, when after lighting a cigar with a
sun-glass, he looked up, and perceived a man coming
over the brow of the hill, at the foot of which the pedler
had stopped his green cart. Dominicus watched him
as he descended, and noticed that he carried a bundle
over his shoulder on the end of a stick, and travelled
with a weary, yet determined pace. He did not look
as if he had started in the freshness of the morning,
but had footed it all night, and meant to do the same
all day.

   `Good morning, mister,' said Dominicus, when
within speaking distance. `You go a pretty good
jog. What's the latest news at Parker's Falls?'

   The man pulled the broad brim of a gray hat over
his eyes, and answered, rather sullenly, that he did
not come from Parker's Falls, which, as being the
limit of his own day's journey, the pedler had naturally
mentioned in his inquiry.

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   `Well, then,' rejoined Dominicus Pike, `let's have
the latest news where you did come from. I'm not
particular about Parker's Falls. Any place will
answer.'

   Being thus importuned, the traveller -- who was as
ill-looking a fellow as one would desire to meet, in a
solitary piece of woods -- appeared to hesitate a little,
as if he was either searching his memory for news, or
weighing the expediency of telling it. At last mount-
ing on the step of the cart, he whispered in the ear of
Dominicus, though he might have shouted aloud, and
no other mortal would have heard him.

   `I do remember one little trifle of news,' said he.
`Old Mr Higginbotham, of Kimballton, was murdered
in his orchard, at eight o'clock last night, by an Irish-
man and a nigger. They strung him up to the branch
of a St. Michæl's pear-tree, where nobody would find
him till the morning.'

   As soon as this horrible intelligence was communica-
ted, the stranger betook himself to his journey again,
with more speed than ever, not even turning his head
when Dominicus invited him to smoke a Spanish cigar
and relate all the particulars. The pedler whistled to
his mare and went up the hill, pondering on the dole-
ful fate of Mr. Higginbotham, whom he had known in
the way of trade, having sold him many a bunch of
long nines, and a great deal of pig-tail, lady's twist,
and fig tobacco. He was rather astonished at the
rapidity with which the news had spread. Kimballton

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was nearly sixty miles distant in a straight line; the
murder had been perpetrated only at eight o'clock
the preceding night; yet Dominicus had heard of it
at seven in the morning, when, in all probability, poor
Mr. Higginbotham's own family had but just discover-
ed his corpse, hanging on the St. Michæl's pear-tree.
The stranger on foot must have worn seven-league
boots, to travel at such a rate.

   `Ill news flies fast, they say,' thought Dominicus
Pike; `but this beats railroads. The fellow ought
to be hired to go express with the President's Mes-
sage.'

   The difficulty was solved, by supposing that the
narrator had made a mistake of one day, in the date
of the occurrence; so that our friend did not hesitate
to introduce the story at every tavern and country-store
along the road, expending a whole bunch of Spanish-
wrappers among at least twenty horrified audiences.
He found himself invariably the first bearer of the
intelligence, and was so pestered with questions that
he could not avoid filling up the outline, till it became
quite a respectable narrative. He met with one piece
of corroborative evidence. Mr. Higginbotham was a
trader; and a former clerk of his to whom Dominicus
related the facts, testified that the old gentleman was
accustomed to return home through the orchard,
about night-fall, with the money and valuable papers
of the store in his pocket. The clerk manifested but
little grief at Mr. Higginbotham's catastrophe, hinting,

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what the pedler had discovered in his own dealings
with him, that he was a crusty old fellow, as close as
a vise. His property would descend to a pretty niece
who was now keeping school in Kimballton.

   What with telling the news for the public good, and
driving bargains for his own, Dominicus was so much
delayed on the road, that he chose to put up at a
tavern, about five miles short of Parker's Falls. After
supper, lighting one of his prime cigars, he seated
himself in the bar-room, and went through the story
of the murder, which had grown so fast that it took
him half an hour to tell. There were as many as
twenty people in the room, nineteen of whom received
it all for gospel. But the twentieth was an elderly
farmer, who had arrived on horseback a short time be-
fore, and was now seated in a corner, smoking his
pipe. When the story was concluded, he rose up very
deliberately, brought his chair right in front of Do-
minicus, and stared him full in the face, puffing out the
vilest tobacco smoke the pedler had ever smelt.

   `Will you make affidavit,' demanded he, in the tone
of a country justice taking an examination, `that old
Squire Higginbotham of Kimballton was murdered in
his orchard the night before last, and found hanging
on his great pear-tree yesterday morning?'

   `I tell the story as I heard it, mister,' answered
Dominicus, dropping his half-burnt cigar; `I don't say
that I saw the thing done. So I can't take my oath
that he was murdered exactly in that way.'

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   `But I can take mine,' said the farmer, that if Squire
Higginbotham was murdered night before last, I drank
a glass of bitters with his ghost this morning. Being
a neighbor of mine, he called me into his store, as I
was riding by, and treated me, and then asked me to
do a little business for him on the road. He did'nt
seem to know any more about his own murder than I
did.'

   `Why, then it can't be a fact!' exclaimed Dominicus
Pike.

   `I guess he'd have mentioned, if it was,' said the
old farmer; and he removed his chair back to the
corner, leaving Dominicus quite down in the mouth.

   Here was a sad resurrection of old Mr. Higgin-
botham! The pedler had no heart to mingle in the
conversation any more, but comforted himself with a
glass of gin and water, and went to bed, where, all
night long, he dreamt of hanging on the St. Michæl's
pear-tree. To avoid the old farmer (whom he so de-
tested, that his suspension would have pleased him
better than Mr. Higginbotham's), Dominicus rose in
the gray of the morning, put the little mare into the
green cart, and trotted swiftly away towards Parker's
Falls. The fresh breeze, the dewy road, and the
pleasant summer dawn, revived his spirits, and might
have encouraged him to repeat the old story, had there
been any body awake to hear it. But he met neither
ox-team, light wagon, chaise, horseman, nor foot-travel-
ler, till just as he crossed Salmon River, a man came

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trudging down to the bridge with a bundle over his
shoulder, on the end of a stick.

   `Good morning, mister,' said the pedler, reining in
his mare. `If you come from Kimballton or that
neighborhood, may be you can tell me the real fact
about this affair of old Mr. Higginbotham. Was the
old fellow actually murdered two or three nights ago,
by an Irishman and a nigger?'

   Dominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to ob-
serve, at first, that the stranger himself had a deep
tinge of negro blood. On hearing this sudden question,
the Ethiopian appeared to change his skin, its yellow
hue becoming a ghastly white, while, shaking and
stammering, he thus replied: --

   `No! no! There was no colored man! It was an
Irishman that hanged him last night, at eight o'clock.
I came away at seven! His folks can't have looked for
him in the orchard yet.'

   Scarcely had the yellow man spoken, when he in-
terrupted himself, and though he seemed weary enough
before, continued his journey at a pace, which would
have kept the pedler's mare on a smart trot. Domin-
icus stared after him in great perplexity. If the murder
had not been committed till Tuesday night, who was
the prophet that had foretold it, in all its circumstances,
on Tuesday morning? If Mr. Higginbotham's corpse
were not yet discovered by his own family, how came
the mulatto, at above thirty miles distance, to know
that he was hanging in the orchard, especially as he

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had left Kimballton before the unfortunate man was
hanged at all. These ambiguous circumstances, with
the stranger's surprise and terror, made Dominicus
think of raising a hue and cry after him, as an accom-
plice in the murder; since a murder, it seemed, had
really been perpetrated.

   `But let the poor devil go,' thought the pedler.
`I don't want his black blood on my head; and hang-
ing the nigger would'nt unhang Mr. Higginbotham.
Unhang the old gentleman! It's a sin, I know; but I
should hate to have him come to life a second time,
and give me the lie!'

   With these meditations, Dominicus Pike drove into
the street of Parker's Falls, which, as every body
knows, is as thriving as three cotton factories and a
slitting mill can make it. The machinery was not
in motion, and but a few of the shop doors unbarred,
when he alighted in the stable yard of the tavern, and
made it his first business to order the mare four quarts
of oats. His second duty, of course was to impart Mr.
Higginbotham's catastrophe to the ostler. He deemed
it advisable, however, not to be too positive as to the
date of the direful fact, and also to be uncertain
whether it were perpetrated by an Irishman and a
mulatto, or by the son of Erin alone. Neither did he
profess to relate it on his own authority, or that of any
one person; but mentioned it as a report generally
diffused.

   The story ran through the town like fire among

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girdled trees, and became so much the universal talk,
that nobody could tell whence it had originated. Mr.
Higginbotham was as well known at Parker's Falls as
any citizen of the place, being part owner of the slit-
ting mill, and a considerable stockholder in the cotton
factories. The inhabitants felt their own prosperity
interested in his fate. Such was the excitement, that
the Parker's Falls Gazette anticipated its regular day
of publication, and came out with half a form of blank
paper and a column of double pica emphasized with
capitals, and headed HORRID MURDER OF MR.
HIGGINBOTHAM! Among other dreadful details,
the printed account described the mark of the cord
round the dead man's neck, and stated the number of
thousand dollars of which he had been robbed; there
was much pathos also about the affliction of his niece,
who had gone from one fainting fit to another, ever
since her uncle was found hanging on the St. Michæl's
pear-tree with his pockets inside out. The village
poet likewise commemorated the young lady's grief in
seventeen stanzas of a ballad. The selectmen held a
meeting, and in consideration of Mr. Higginbotham's
claims on the town, determined to issue handbills,
offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the appre-
hension of his murderers, and the recovery of the stolen
property.

   Meanwhile, the whole population of Parker's Falls,
consisting of shopkeepers, mistresses of boarding
houses, factory girls, millmen, and schoolboys, rushed

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into the street and kept up such a terrible loquacity,
as more than compensated for the silence of the cotton
machines, which refrained from their usual din out of
respect to the deceased. Had Mr. Higginbotham
cared about posthumous renown, his untimely ghost
would have exulted in this tumult. Our friend Do-
minicus, in his vanity of heart, forgot his intended pre-
cautions, and mounting on the town pump, announced
himself as the bearer of the authentic intelligence
which had caused so wonderful a sensation. He im-
mediately became the great man of the moment, and
had just begun a new edition of the narrative, with a
voice like a field preacher, when the mail stage drove
into the village street. It had travelled all night, and
must have shifted horses, at Kimballton at three in the
morning.

   `Now we shall hear all the particulars,' shouted the
crowd.

   The coach rumbled up to the piazza of the tavern,
followed by a thousand people; for if any man had
been minding his own business till then, he now left
it at sixes and sevens, to hear the news. The pedler,
foremost in the race, discovered two passengers, both
of whom had been startled from a comfortable nap to
find themselves in the centre of a mob. Every man
assailing them with separate questions, all propound-
ed at once, the couple were struck speechless, though
one was a lawyer and the other a young lady.

   `Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham! Tell us

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the particulars about old Mr. Higginbotham!' bawled
the mob. `What is the coroner's verdict? Are the
murderers apprehended? Is Mr. Higginbotham's niece
come out of her fainting fits? Mr. Higginbotham!
Mr. Higginbotham!!'

   The coachman said not a word, except to swear
awfully at the ostler for not bringing him a fresh team
of horses. The lawyer inside had generally his wits
about him even when asleep; the first thing he did,
after learning the cause of the excitement, was to pro-
duce a large red pocket-book. Meantime, Dominicus
Pike, being an extremely polite young man, and also
suspecting that a female tongue would tell the story
as glibly as a lawyer's, had handed the lady out of the
coach. She was a fine smart girl, now wide awake
and bright as a button, and had such a sweet pretty
mouth, that Dominicus would almost as lieves have
heard a love tale from it as a tale of murder.

   `Gentlemen and ladies,' said the lawyer, to the
shopkeepers, the millmen, and the factory girls, `I can
assure you that some unaccountable mistake, or, more
probably, a wilful falsehood, maliciously contrived to
injure Mr. Higginbotham's credit, has excited this sin-
gular uproar. We passed through Kimballton at three
o'clock this morning, and most certainly should have
been informed of the murder, had any been perpetrated.
But I have proof nearly as strong as Mr. Higginbo-
tham's own oral testimony, in the negative. Here is a
note, relating to a suit of his in the Connecticut courts,

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which was delivered me from that gentleman himself.
I find it dated at ten o'clock last evening.'

   So saying, the lawyer exhibited the date and signa-
ture of the note, which irrefragably proved, either that
this perverse Mr. Higginbotham was alive when he
wrote it, or, -- as some deemed the more probable case,
of two doubtful ones, -- that he was so absorbed in
worldly business as to continue to transact it, even
after his death. But unexpected evidence was forth-
coming. The young lady, after listening to the pedler's
explanation, merely seized a moment to smooth her
gown and put her curls in order, and then appeared at
the tavern door, making a modest signal to be heard.

   `Good people,' said she, `I am Mr. Higginbotham's
niece.'

   A wondering murmur passed through the crowd, on
beholding her so rosy and bright; that same unhappy
niece, whom they had supposed, on the authority of
the Parker's Falls Gazette, to be lying at death's door
in a fainting fit. But some shrewd fellows had doubt-
ed all along whether a young lady would be quite so
desperate at the hanging of a rich old uncle.

   `You see,' continued Miss Higginbotham, with a
smile, `that this strange story is quite unfounded, as
to myself; and I believe I may affirm it to be equally
so in regard to my dear uncle Higginbotham. He has
the kindness to give me a home in his house, though
I contribute to my own support by teaching a school.
I left Kimballton this morning to spend the vacation

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of commencement week with a friend, about five
miles from Parker's Falls. My generous uncle, when
he heard me on the stairs, called me to his bed-side,
and gave me two dollars and fifty cents, to pay my
stage fare, and another dollar for my extra expenses.
He then laid his pocket book under his pillow, shook
hands with me, and advised me to take some biscuit
in my bag, instead of breakfasting on the road. I feel
confident, therefore, that I left my beloved relative
alive, and trust that I shall find him so on my return.'

   The young lady courtesied at the close of her speech,
which was so sensible, and well-worded, and delivered
with such grace and propriety, that every body thought
her fit to be Preceptress of the best Academy in the
State. But a stranger would have supposed that Mr.
Higginbotham was an object of abhorrence at Parker's
Falls, and that a thanksgiving had been proclaimed for
his murder; so excessive was the wrath of the inhabi-
tants, on learning their mistake. The millmen re-
solved to bestow public honors on Dominicus Pike,
only hesitating whether to tar and feather him, ride
him on a rail, or refresh him with an ablution at the
town pump, on the top of which he had declared him-
self the bearer of the news. The selectmen, by advice
of the lawyer, spoke of prosecuting him for a misde-
meanor, in circulating unfounded reports, to the great
disturbance of the peace of the commonwealth. No-
thing saved Dominicus, either from mob-law or a court
of justice, but an eloquent appeal made by the young

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lady in his behalf. Addressing a few words of heart-
felt gratitude to his benefactress, he mounted the green
cart and rode out of town, under a discharge of artil-
lery from the schoolboys, who found plenty of ammu-
nition in the neighboring clay-pits and mud holes. As
he turned his head, to exchange a farewell glance with
Mr. Higginbotham's niece, a ball, of the consistence
of hasty-pudding, hit him slap in the mouth, giving
him a most grim aspect. His whole person was so
bespattered with the like filthy missiles, that he had
almost a mind to ride back, and supplicate for the
threatened ablution at the town pump; for, though not
meant in kindness, it would now have been a deed of
charity.

   However, the sun shone bright on poor Dominicus,
and the mud, an emblem of all stains of undeserved
opprobrium, was easily brushed off when dry. Being
a funny rogue, his heart soon cheered up; nor could
he refrain from a hearty laugh at the uproar which his
story had excited. The handbills of the selectmen
would cause the commitment of all the vagabonds in
the State; the paragraph in the Parker's Falls Gazette
would be reprinted from Maine to Florida, and per-
haps form an item in the London newspapers; and
many a miser would tremble for his money-bags and
life, on learning the catastrophe of Mr. Higginbotham.
The pedler meditated with much fervor on the charms
of the young schoolmistress, and swore that Daniel
Webster never spoke nor looked so like an angel as

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Miss Higginbotham, while defending him from the
wrathful populace at Parker's Falls.

   Dominicus was now on the Kimballton turnpike,
having all along determined to visit that place, though
business had drawn him out of the most direct road
from Morristown. As he approached the scene of the
supposed murder, he continued to revolve the circum-
stances in his mind, and was astonished at the aspect
which the whole case assumed. Had nothing occurred
to corroborate the story of the first traveller, it might
now have been considered as a hoax; but the yellow
man was evidently acquainted either with the report
or the fact; and there was a mystery in his dismayed
and guilty look on being abruptly questioned. When,
to this singular combination of incidents, it was added
that the rumor tallied exactly with Mr. Higginbotham's
character and habits of life; and that he had an
orchard, and a St. Michæl's pear-tree, near which he
always passed at night-fall; the circumstantial evidence
appeared so strong, that Dominicus doubted whether
the autograph produced by the lawyer, or even the
niece's direct testimony, ought to be equivalent. Mak-
ing cautious inquiries along the road, the pedler further
learned that Mr. Higginbotham had in his service an
Irishman of doubtful character, whom he had hired
without a recommendation, on the score of economy.

   `May I be hanged myself,' exclaimed Dominicus
Pike aloud, on reaching the top of a lonely hill, `if
I'll believe old Higginbotham is unhanged, till I see

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him with my own eyes, and hear it from his own
mouth! And as he's a real shaver, I'll have the min-
ister, or some other responsible man, for an endorser.'

   It was growing dusk when he reached the toll-house
on Kimballton turnpike, about a quarter of a mile from
the village of this name. His little mare was fast
bringing him up with a man on horseback, who trotted
through the gate a few rods in advance of him, nodded
to the toll-gatherer, and kept on towards the village.
Dominicus was acquainted with the toll-man, and
while making change, the usual remarks on the weather
passed between them.

   `I suppose, said the pedler, throwing back his whip-
lash, to bring it down like a feather on the mare's
flank, `you have not seen anything of old Mr. Higgin-
botham within a day or two?'

   `Yes,' answered the toll-gatherer. `He passed the
gate just before you drove up, and yonder he rides
now, if you can see him through the dusk. He's been
to Woodfield this afternoon, attending a sheriff's sale
there. The old man generally shakes hands and has
a little chat with me; but to-night, he nodded, -- as if
to say, `charge my toll,' -- and jogged on; for wherever
he goes, he must always be at home by eight o'clock.'

   `So they tell me,' said Dominicus.

   `I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the
squire does,' continued the toll-gatherer. `Says I to
myself, to-night, he's more like a ghost or an old
mummy than good flesh and blood.'

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   The pedler strained his eyes through the twilight,
and could just discern the horseman now far ahead on
the village road. He seemed to recognise the rear of
Mr. Higginbotham; but through the evening shadows,
and amid the dust from the horse's feet, the figure
appeared dim and unsubstantial; as if the shape of the
mysterious old man were faintly moulded of darkness
and gray light. Dominicus shivered.

   `Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the other
world, by way of the Kimballton turnpike,' thought he.

   He shook the reins and rode forward, keeping about
the same distance in the rear of the gray old shadow,
till the latter was concealed by a bend of the road.
On reaching this point the pedler no longer saw the
man on horseback, but found himself at the head of
the village street, not far from a number of stores and
two taverns, clustered round the meeting-house steeple.
On his left was a stone wall and a gate, the boun-
dary of a wood-lot, beyond which lay an orchard,
further still, a mowing-field, and last of all, a house.
These were the premises of Mr. Higginbotham, whose
dwelling stood beside the old highway, but had been
left in the back ground by the Kimballton turnpike.
Dominicus knew the place; and the little mare stopped
short by instinct; for he was not conscious of tight-
ening the reins.

   `For the soul of me, I cannot get by this gate!'
said he, trembling. `I never shall be my own man

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again, till I see whether Mr. Higginbotham is hanging
on the St. Michæl's pear-tree!'

   He leaped from the cart, gave the rein a turn round
the gate-post, and ran along the green path of the
wood-lot, as if Old Nick were chasing behind. Just
then the village clock tolled eight, and as each deep
stroke fell, Dominicus gave a fresh bound and flew
faster than before, till, dim in the solitary centre of the
orchard, he saw the fated pear-tree. One great branch
stretched from the old contorted trunk across the path,
and threw the darkest shadow on that one spot. But
something seemed to struggle beneath the branch!

   The pedler had never pretended to more courage
than befits a man of peaceable occupation, nor could
he account for his valor on this awful emergency.
Certain it is, however, that he rushed forward, pros-
trated a sturdy Irishman with the but-end of his whip,
and found -- not indeed hanging on the St.
Michæl's pear-tree, but trembling beneath it, with a
halter round his neck -- the old identical Mr. Higgin-
botham!

   `Mr. Higginbotham,' said Dominicus tremulously,
`you're an honest man, and I'll take your word for it.
Have you been hanged, or not?'

   If the riddle be not already guessed, a few words
will explain the simple machinery, by which this
`coming event' was made to `cast its shadow before.'
Three men had plotted the robbery and murder of Mr.

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Higginbotham; two of them, successively, lost courage
and fled, each delaying the crime one night, by their
disappearance; the third was in the act of perpetra-
tion, when a champion, blindly obeying the call of
fate, like the heroes of old romance, appeared in the
person of Dominicus Pike.

   It only remains to say, that Mr. Higginbotham took
the pedler into high favor, sanctioned his addresses to
the pretty schoolmistress, and settled his whole prop-
erty on their children, allowing themselves the interest.
In due time, the old gentleman capped the climax of
his favors, by dying a Christian death, in bed, since
which melancholy event, Dominicus Pike has removed
from Kimballton, and established a large tobacco man-
ufactory in my native village.

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Page 171

LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE.

   

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   Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

   The town-crier has rung his bell, at a distant corner,
and little Annie stands on her father's door-steps,
trying to hear what the man with the loud voice is
talking about. Let me listen too. Oh! he is telling
the people that an elephant, and a lion, and a royal
tiger, and a horse with horns, and other strange beasts
from foreign countries, have come to town, and will
receive all visiters who choose to wait upon them.
Perhaps little Annie would like to go. Yes; and I
can see that the pretty child is weary of this wide and
pleasant street, with the green trees flinging their shade
across the quiet sunshine, and the pavements and the
sidewalks all as clean as if the housemaid had just
swept them with her broom. She feels that impulse
to go strolling away -- that longing after the mystery
of the great world -- which many children feel, and
which I felt in my childhood. Little Annie shall take

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a ramble with me. See! I do but hold out my hand,
and, like some bright bird in the sunny air, with her
blue silk frock fluttering upwards from her white
pantalets, she comes bounding on tiptoe across the
street.

   Smooth back your brown curls, Annie; and let me
tie on your bonnet, and we will set forth! What a
strange couple to go on their rambles together! One
walks in black attire, with a measured step, and a
heavy brow, and his thoughtful eyes bent down, while
the gay little girl trips lightly along, as if she were
forced to keep hold of my hand, lest her feet should
dance away from the earth. Yet there is sympathy
between us. If I pride myself on anything, it is
because I have a smile that children love; and, on
the other hand, there are few grown ladies that could
entice me from the side of little Annie; for I delight
to let my mind go hand in hand with the mind of a
sinless child. So, come, Annie; but if I moralize as
we go, do not listen to me; only look about you, and
be merry!

   Now we turn the corner. Here are hacks with two
horses, and stage-coaches with four, thundering to
meet each other, and trucks and carts moving at a
slower pace, being heavily laden with barrels from the
wharves, and here are rattling gigs, which perhaps will
be smashed to pieces before our eyes. Hitherward,
also, comes a man trundling a wheelbarrow along the
pavement. Is not little Annie afraid of such a tumult?

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No; she does not even shrink closer to my side, but
passes on with fearless confidence, a happy child
amidst a great throng of grown people, who pay the
same reverence to her infancy, that they would to
extreme old age. Nobody jostles her; all turn aside
to make way for little Annie; and what is most sin-
gular, she appears conscious of her claim to such
respect. Now her eyes brighten with pleasure! A
street musician has seated himself on the steps of
yonder church, and pours forth his strains to the busy
town, a melody that has gone astray among the tramp
of footsteps, the buzz of voices, and the war of passing
wheels. Who heeds the poor organ-grinder? None
but myself and little Annie, whose feet begin to move
in unison with the lively tune, as if she were loth that
music should be wasted without a dance. But where
would Annie find a partner? Some have the gout in
their toes, or the rheumatism in their joints; some are
stiff with age; some feeble with disease; some are so
lean that their bones would rattle, and others of such
ponderous size that their agility would crack the flag-
stones; but many, many have leaden feet, because
their hearts are far heavier than lead. It is a sad
thought that I have chanced upon. What a company
of dancers should we be! For I, too, am a gentleman
of sober footsteps, and therefore, little Annie, let us
walk sedately on.

   It is a question with me, whether this giddy child,
or my sage self, have most pleasure in looking at the

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shop-windows. We love the silks of sunny hue, that
glow within the darkened premises of the spruce dry-
goods men; we are pleasantly dazzled by the bur-
nished silver, and the chased gold, the rings of wedlock
and the costly love-ornaments, glistening at the window
of the jeweller; but Annie, more than I, seeks for a
glimpse of her passing figure in the dusty looking-
glasses at the hardware stores. All that is bright and
gay attracts us both.

   Here is a shop to which the recollections of my
boyhood, as well as present partialities, give a peculiar
magic. How delightful to let the fancy revel on the
dainties of a confectioner; those pies, with such white
and flaky paste, their contents being a mystery, whether
rich mince, with whole plums intermixed, or piquant
apple, delicately rose-flavored; those cakes, heart-
shaped or round, piled in a lofty pyramid; those sweet
little circlets, sweetly named kisses; those dark ma-
jestic masses, fit to be bridal loaves at the wedding of
an heiress, mountains in size, their summits deeply
snow-covered with sugar! Then the mighty treasures
of sugarplums, white, and crimson, and yellow, in
large glass vases; and candy of all varieties; and
those little cockles, or whatever they are called, much
prized by children for their sweetness, and more for
the mottos which they enclose, by love-sick maids
and bachelors! Oh! my mouth waters, little Annie,
and so doth yours; but we will not be tempted, except
to an imaginary feast; so let us hasten onward, de-
vouring the vision of a plum cake.

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   Here are pleasures, as some people would say, of a
more exalted kind, in the window of a bookseller. Is
Annie a literary lady? Yes; she is deeply read in
Peter Parley's tomes, and has an increasing love for
fairy tales, though seldom met with now-a-days, and
she will subscribe, next year, to the Juvenile Miscel-
lany. But, truth to tell, she is apt to turn away from
the printed page, and keep gazing at the pretty pictures,
such as the gay-colored ones which make this shop-
window the continual loitering place of children.
What would Annie think, if, in the book which I
mean to send her, on New Year's day, she should find
her sweet little self, bound up in silk or morocco with
gilt edges, there to remain till she become a woman
grown, with children of her own to read about their
mother's childhood! That would be very queer.

   Little Annie is weary of pictures, and pulls me
onward by the hand, till suddenly we pause at the
most wondrous shop in all the town. Oh, my stars!
Is this a toyshop, or is it fairy land? For here are
gilded chariots, in which the king and queen of the
fairies might ride side by side, while their courtiers,
on these small horses, should gallop in triumphal pro-
cession before and behind the royal pair. Here, too,
are dishes of china ware, fit to be the dining set of
those same princely personages, when they make a
regal banquet in the stateliest hall of their palace,
full five feet high, and behold their nobles feasting
adown the long perspective of the table. Betwixt the

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king and queen should sit my little Annie, the pret-
tiest fairy of them all. Here stands a turbaned Turk,
threatening us with his sabre, like an ugly heathen as
he is. And next a Chinese mandarine, who nods his
head at Annie and myself. Here we may review a
whole army of horse and foot, in red and blue uniforms,
with drums, fifes, trumpets and all kinds of noiseless
music; they have halted on the shelf of this window,
after their weary march from Lilliput. But what cares
Annie for soldiers? No conquering queen is she,
neither a Semiramis nor a Catharine; her whole heart
is set upon that doll, who gazes at us with such a
fashionable stare. This is the little girl's true play-
thing. Though made of wood, a doll is a visionary
and ethereal personage, endowed by childish fancy
with a peculiar life; the mimic lady is a heroine of
romance, an actor and a sufferer in a thousand
shadowy scenes, the chief inhabitant of that wild world
with which children ape the real one. Little Annie
does not understand what I am saying, but looks wish-
fully at the proud lady in the window. We will invite
her home with us as we return. Meantime, good-by,
Dame Doll! A toy yourself, you look forth from your
window upon many ladies that are also toys, though
they walk and speak, and upon a crowd in pursuit of
toys, though they wear grave visages. Oh, with your
never-closing eyes, had you but an intellect to moralize
on all that flits before them, what a wise doll would
you be! Come, little Annie, we shall find toys enough,
go where we may.

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   Now we elbow our way among the throng again.
It is curious, in the most crowded part of a town, to
meet with living creatures that had their birth-place in
some far solitude, but have acquired a second nature
in the wilderness of men. Look up, Annie, at that
canary bird, hanging out of the window in his cage.
Poor little fellow! His golden feathers are all tar-
nished in this smoky sunshine; he would have glistened
twice as brightly among the summer islands; but still
he has become a citizen in all his tastes and habits,
and would not sing half so well without the uproar
that drowns his music. What a pity that he does not
know how miserable he is! There is a parrot, too,
calling out, `Pretty Poll! Pretty Poll!' as we pass
by. Foolish bird, to be talking about her prettiness
to strangers; especially as she is not a pretty Poll,
though gaudily dressed in green and yellow. If she
had said `pretty Annie,' there would have been some
sense in it. See that gray squirrel, at the door of the
fruit-shop, whirling round and round so merrily within
his wire wheel! Being condemned to the treadmill,
he makes it an amusement. Admirable philosophy!

   Here comes a big, rough dog, a countryman's dog
in search of his master; smelling at every body's heels,
and touching little Annie's hand with his cold nose,
but hurrying away, though she would fain have patted
him. Success to your search, Fidelity! And there
sits a great yellow cat upon a window-sill, a very cor-
pulent and comfortable cat, gazing at this transitory

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world, with owl's eyes, and making pithy comments,
doubtless, or what appear such, to the silly beast. Oh,
sage puss, make room for me beside you, and we will
be a pair of philosophers!

   Here we see something to remind us of the town-crier,
and his ding-dong-bell! Look! look at that great
cloth spread out in the air, pictured all over with wild
beasts, as if they had met together to choose a king,
according to their custom in the days of Æsop. But
they are choosing neither a king nor a President; else
we should hear a most horrible snarling! They have
come from the deep woods, and the wild mountains,
and the desert sands, and the polar snows, only to do
homage to my little Annie. As we enter among them,
the great elephant makes us a bow, in the best style of
elephantine courtesy, bending lowly down his mountain
bulk, with trunk abased and leg thrust out behind.
Annie returns the salute, much to the gratification of
the elephant, who is certainly the best bred monster
in the caravan. The lion and the lioness are busy
with two beef bones. The royal tiger, the beautiful,
the untamable, keeps pacing his narrow cage with a
haughty step, unmindful of the spectators, or recalling
the fierce deeds of his former life, when he was wont
to leap forth upon such inferior animals, from the
jungles of Bengal.

   Here we see the very same wolf -- do not go near
him, Annie! -- the self-same wolf that devoured little
Red Riding Hood and her grandmother. In the next

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cage, a hyena from Egypt, who has doubtless howled
around the pyramids, and a black bear from our own
forests, are fellow prisoners, and most excellent friends.
Are there any two living creatures, who have so few
sympathies that they cannot possibly be friends? Here
sits a great white bear, whom common observers would
call a very stupid beast, though I perceive him to be
only absorbed in contemplation; he is thinking of his
voyages on an iceberg, and of his comfortable home
in the vicinity of the north pole, and of the little cubs
whom he left rolling in the eternal snows. In fact, he
is a bear of sentiment. But, oh, those unsentimental
monkeys! the ugly, grinning, aping, chattering, ill-
natured, mischievous and queer little brutes. Annie
does not love the monkeys. Their ugliness shocks
her pure, instinctive delicacy of taste, and makes her
mind unquiet, because it bears a wild and dark resem-
blance to humanity. But here is a little pony, just big
enough for Annie to ride, and round and round he
gallops in a circle, keeping time with his trampling
hoofs to a band of music. And here -- with a laced
coat and a cocked hat, and a riding whip in his hand,
here comes a little gentleman, small enough to be
king of the fairies, and ugly enough to be king of the
gnomes, and takes a flying leap into the saddle. Mer-
rily, merrily, plays the music, and merrily gallops the
pony, and merrily rides the little old gentleman. Come,
Annie, into the street again; perchance we may see
monkeys on horseback there!

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   Mercy on us, what a noisy world we quiet people
live in! Did Annie ever read the cries of London
city? With what lusty lungs doth yonder man pro-
claim that his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters! Here
comes another mounted on a cart, and blowing a
hoarse and dreadful blast from a tin horn, as much as
to say `fresh fish!' And hark! a voice on high, like
that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque, an-
nouncing that some chimney sweeper has emerged
from smoke and soot, and darksome caverns, into the
upper air. What cares the world for that? But,
well-a-day, we hear a shrill voice of affliction, the
scream of a little child, rising louder with every repe-
tition of that smart, sharp, slapping sound, produced
by an open hand on tender flesh. Annie sympathizes,
though without experience of such direful woe. Lo!
the town-crier again, with some new secret for the
public ear. Will he tell us of an auction, or of a lost
pocketbook, or a show of beautiful wax figures, or of
some monstrous beast more horrible than any in the
caravan? I guess the latter. See how he uplifts the
bell in his right hand, and shakes it slowly at first,
then with a hurried motion, till the clapper seems to
strike both sides at once, and the sounds are scattered
forth in quick succession, far and near.

   Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

   Now he raises his clear, loud voice, above all the
din of the town; it drowns the buzzing talk of many
tongues, and draws each man's mind from his own

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business; it rolls up and down the echoing street, and
ascends to the hushed chamber of the sick, and pene-
trates downward to the cellar kitchen, where the hot
cook turns from the fire to listen. Who, of all that
address the public ear, whether in church, or court-
house, or hall of state, has such an attentive audience
as the town-crier! What saith the people's orator?

   `Strayed from her home, a LITTLE GIRL, of five
years old, in a blue silk frock and white pantalets,
with brown curling hair and hazel eyes. Whoever
will bring her back to her afflicted mother -- '

   Stop, stop, town-crier! The lost is found. Oh,
my pretty Annie, we forgot to tell your mother of our
ramble, and she is in despair, and has sent the town-
crier to bellow up and down the streets, affrighting
old and young, for the loss of a little girl who has not
once let go my hand? Well, let us hasten homeward;
and as we go, forget not to thank heaven, my Annie,
that after wandering a little way into the world, you
may return at the first summons, with an untainted
and unwearied heart, and be a happy child again. But
I have gone too far astray for the town-crier to call
me back!

   Sweet has been the charm of childhood on my
spirit, throughout my ramble with little Annie! Say
not that it has been a waste of precious moments, an
idle matter, a babble of childish talk, and a reverie of
childish imaginations, about topics unworthy of a
grown man's notice. Has it been merely this? Not

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so; not so. They are not truly wise who would affirm
it. As the pure breath of children revives the life of
aged men, so is our moral nature revived by their free
and simple thoughts, their native feeling, their airy
mirth, for little cause or none, their grief, soon roused
and soon allayed. Their influence on us is at least
reciprocal with ours on them. When our infancy is
almost forgotten, and our boyhood long departed,
though it seems but as yesterday; when life settles
darkly down upon us, and we doubt whether to call
ourselves young any more; then it is good to steal
away from the society of bearded men, and even of
gentler woman, and spend an hour or two with chil-
dren. After drinking from those fountains of still
fresh existence, we shall return into the crowd, as I do
now, to struggle onward and do our part in life, per-
haps as fervently as ever, but, for a time, with a kinder
and purer heart, and a spirit more lightly wise. All
this by thy sweet magic, dear little Annie!

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WAKEFIELD.
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WAKEFIELD.

   

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   In some old magazine or newspaper, I recollect a
story, told as truth, of a man -- let us call him Wake-
field -- who absented himself for a long time from his
wife. The fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not very
uncommon, nor -- without a proper distinction of cir-
cumstances -- to be condemned either as naughty or
nonsensical. Howbeit, this, though far from the most
aggravated, is perhaps the strangest instance, on record,
of marital delinquency; and, moreover, as remarkable
a freak as may be found in the whole list of human
oddities. The wedded couple lived in London. The
man, under pretence of going a journey, took lodg-
ings in the next street to his own house, and there,
unheard of by his wife or friends, and without the
shadow of a reason for such self-banishment, dwelt
upwards of twenty years. During that period, he
beheld his home every day, and frequently the forlorn
Mrs. Wakefield. And after so great a gap in his

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matrimonial felicity -- when his death was reckoned
certain, his estate settled, his name dismissed from
memory, and his wife, long, long ago, resigned to her
autumnal widowhood -- he entered the door one even-
ing, quietly, as from a day's absence, and became a
loving spouse till death.

   This outline is all that I remember. But the in-
cident, though of the purest originality, unexampled,
and probably never to be repeated, is one, I think,
which appeals to the general sympathies of mankind.
We know, each for himself, that none of us would
perpetrate such a folly, yet feel as if some other might.
To my own contemplations, at least, it has often
recurred, always exciting wonder, but with a sense that
the story must be true, and a conception of its hero's
character. Whenever any subject so forcibly affects
the mind, time is well spent in thinking of it. If the
reader choose, let him do his own meditation; or if he
prefer to ramble with me through the twenty years of
Wakefield's vagary, I bid him welcome; trusting that
there will be a pervading spirit and a moral, even
should we fail to find them, done up neatly, and con-
densed into the final sentence. Thought has always
its efficacy, and every striking incident its moral.

   What sort of a man was Wakefield? We are free
to shape out our own idea, and call it by his name.
He was now in the meridian of life; his matrimonial
affections, never violent, were sobered into a calm,
habitual sentiment; of all husbands, he was likely to

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be the most constant, because a certain sluggishness
would keep his heart at rest, wherever it might be
placed. He was intellectual, but not actively so; his
mind occupied itself in long and lazy musings, that
tended to no purpose, or had not vigor to attain it;
his thoughts were seldom so energetic as to seize hold
of words. Imagination, in the proper meaning of the
term, made no part of Wakefield's gifts. With a cold,
but not depraved nor wandering heart, and a mind
never feverish with riotous thoughts, nor perplexed
with originality, who could have anticipated, that our
friend would entitle himself to a foremost place among
the doers of eccentric deeds? Had his acquaintances
been asked, who was the man in London, the surest
to perform nothing today which should be remember-
ed on the morrow, they would have thought of Wake-
field. Only the wife of his bosom might have hesita-
ted. She, without having analyzed his character, was
partly aware of a quiet selfishness, that had rusted into
his inactive mind -- of a peculiar sort of vanity, the
most uneasy attribute about him -- of a disposition to
craft, which had seldom produced more positive effects
than the keeping of petty secrets, hardly worth reveal-
ing -- and, lastly, of what she called a little strangeness,
sometimes, in the good man. This latter quality is
indefinable, and perhaps non-existent.

   Let us now imagine Wakefield bidding adieu to his
wife. It is the dusk of an October evening. His
equipment is a drab greatcoat, a hat covered with an

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oilcloth, top-boots, an umbrella in one hand and a
small portmanteau in the other. He has informed
Mrs. Wakefield that he is to take the night-coach into
the country. She would fain inquire the length of his
journey, its object, and the probable time of his return;
but, indulgent to his harmless love of mystery, interro-
gates him only by a look. He tells her not to expect
him positively by the return coach, nor to be alarmed
should he tarry three or four days; but, at all events,
to look for him at supper on Friday evening. Wake-
field himself, be it considered, has no suspicion of what
is before him. He holds out his hand; she gives her
own, and meets his parting kiss, in the matter-of-course
way of a ten years' matrimony; and forth goes the
middle-aged Mr. Wakefield, almost resolved to perplex
his good lady by a whole week's absence. After the
door has closed behind him, she perceives it thrust
partly open, and a vision of her husband's face, through
the aperture, smiling on her, and gone in a moment.
For the time, this little incident is dismissed without
a thought. But, long afterwards, when she has been
more years a widow than a wife, that smile recurs,
and flickers across all her reminiscences of Wake-
field's visage. In her many musings, she surrounds
the original smile with a multitude of fantasies, which
make it strange and awful; as, for instance, if she
imagines him in a coffin, that parting look is frozen
on his pale features; or, if she dreams of him in
Heaven, still his blessed spirit wears a quiet and crafty

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smile. Yet, for its sake, when all others have given
him up for dead, she sometimes doubts whether she is
a widow.

   But, our business is with the husband. We must
hurry after him, along the street, ere he lose his in-
dividuality, and melt into the great mass of London
life. It would be vain searching for him there. Let
us follow close at his heels, therefore, until, after
several superfluous turns and doublings, we find him
comfortably established by the fireside of a small apart-
ment, previously bespoken. He is in the next street
to his own, and at his journey's end. He can scarcely
trust his good fortune, in having got thither unper-
ceived -- recollecting that, at one time, he was delayed
by the throng, in the very focus of a lighted lantern;
and, again, there were footsteps, that seemed to tread
behind his own, distinct from the multitudinous tramp
around him; and, anon, he heard a voice shouting
afar, and fancied that it called his name. Doubtless,
a dozen busybodies had been watching him, and told
his wife the whole affair. Poor Wakefield! Little
knowest thou thine own insignificance in this great
world! No mortal eye but mine has traced thee. Go
quietly to thy bed, foolish man; and, on the morrow,
if thou wilt be wise, get thee home to good Mrs.
Wakefield, and tell her the truth. Remove not thyself,
even for a little week, from thy place in her chaste
bosom. Were she, for a single moment, to deem thee
dead, or lost, or lastingly divided from her, thou

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wouldst be wofully conscious of a change in thy true
wife, for ever after. It is perilous to make a chasm in
human affections; not that they gape so long and
wide -- but so quickly close again!

   Almost repenting of his frolic, or whatever it may
be termed, Wakefield lies down betimes, and starting
from his first nap, spreads forth his arms into the wide
and solitary waste of the unaccustomed bed. `No' --
thinks he, gathering the bed-clothes about him -- `I
will not sleep alone another night.'

   In the morning, he rises earlier than usual, and sets
himself to consider what he really means to do. Such
are his loose and rambling modes of thought, that he
has taken this very singular step, with the conscious-
ness of a purpose, indeed, but without being able to
define it sufficiently for his own contemplation. The
vagueness of the project, and the convulsive effort with
which he plunges into the execution of it, are equally
characteristic of a feeble-minded man. Wakefield
sifts his ideas, however, as minutely as he may, and
finds himself curious to know the progress of matters
at home -- how his exemplary wife will endure her
widowhood, of a week; and, briefly, how the little
sphere of creatures and circumstances, in which he
was a central object, will be affected by his removal.
A morbid vanity, therefore, lies nearest the bottom of
the affair. But, how is he to attain his ends? Not,
certainly, by keeping close in this comfortable lodging,
where, though he slept and awoke in the next street

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to his home, he is as effectually abroad, as if the stage-
coach had been whirling him away all night. Yet,
should he reappear, the whole project is knocked in
the head. His poor brains being hopelessly puzzled
with this dilemma, he at length ventures out, partly
resolving to cross the head of the street, and send one
hasty glance towards his forsaken domicile. Habit --
for he is a man of habits -- takes him by the hand, and
guides him, wholly unaware, to his own door, where,
just at the critical moment, he is aroused by the scra-
ping of his foot upon the step. Wakefield! whither
are you going?

   At that instant, his fate was turning on the pivot.
Little dreaming of the doom to which his first back-
ward step devotes him, he hurries away, breathless
with agitation hitherto unfelt, and hardly dares turn
his head, at the distant corner. Can it be, that no-
body caught sight of him? Will not the whole house-
hold -- the decent Mrs. Wakefield, the smart maid-
servant, and the dirty little footboy -- raise a hue-and-
cry, through London streets, in pursuit of their fugitive
lord and master? Wonderful escape! He gathers
courage to pause and look homeward, but is perplex-
ed with a sense of change about the familiar edifice,
such as affects us all, when, after a separation of
months or years, we again see some hill or lake, or
work of art, with which we were friends, of old. In
ordinary cases, this indescribable impression is caused
by the comparison and contrast between our imperfect

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reminiscences and the reality. In Wakefield, the
magic of a single night has wrought a similar transfor-
mation, because, in that brief period, a great moral
change has been effected. But this is a secret from
himself. Before leaving the spot, he catches a far and
momentary glimpse of his wife, passing athwart the
front window, with her face turned towards the head
of the street. The crafty nincompoop takes to his
heels, scared with the idea, that, among a thousand
such atoms of mortality, her eye must have detected
him. Right glad is his heart, though his brain be
somewhat dizzy, when he finds himself by the coal-fire
of his lodgings.

   So much for the commencement of this long whim-
wham. After the initial conception, and the stirring
up of the man's sluggish temperament to put it in
practice, the whole matter evolves itself in a natural
train. We may suppose him, as the result of deep
deliberation, buying a new wig, of reddish hair, and
selecting sundry garments, in a fashion unlike his
customary suit of brown, from a Jew's old-clothes bag.
It is accomplished. Wakefield is another man. The
new system being now established, a retrograde move-
ment to the old would be almost as difficult as the step
that placed him in his unparalleled position. Further-
more, he is rendered obstinate by a sulkiness, occasion-
ally incident to his temper, and brought on, at present, by
the inadequate sensation which he conceives to have
been produced in the bosom of Mrs. Wakefield. He

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will not go back until she be frightened half to death.
Well; twice or thrice has she passed before his sight,
each time with a heavier step, a paler cheek, and more
anxious brow; and in the third week of his non-appear-
ance, he detects a portent of evil entering the house,
in the guise of an apothecary. Next day, the knocker
is muffled. Towards night-fall, comes the chariot of a
physician, and deposits its big-wigged and solemn bur-
then at Wakefield's door, whence, after a quarter of
an hour's visit, he emerges, perchance the herald of a
funeral. Dear woman! Will she die? By this time,
Wakefield is excited to something like energy of feel-
ing, but still lingers away from his wife's bed-side,
pleading with his conscience, that she must not be
disturbed at such a juncture. If aught else restrains
him, he does not know it. In the course of a few
weeks, she gradually recovers; the crisis is over; her
heart is sad, perhaps, but quiet; and, let him return
soon or late, it will never be feverish for him again.
Such ideas glimmer through the mist of Wakefield's
mind, and render him indistinctly conscious, that an
almost impassable gulf divides his hired apartment from
his former home. `It is but in the next street!' he
sometimes says. Fool! it is in another world. Hith-
erto, he has put off his return from one particular day
to another; henceforward, he leaves the precise time
undetermined. Not tomorrow -- probably next week --
pretty soon. Poor man! The dead have nearly as
much chance of re-visiting their earthly homes, as the
self-banished Wakefield.

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   Would that I had a folio to write, instead of an
article of a dozen pages! Then might I exemplify
how an influence, beyond our control, lays its strong
hand on every deed which we do, and weaves its con-
sequences into an iron tissue of necessity. Wakefield
is spell-bound. We must leave him, for ten years or
so, to haunt around his house, without once crossing
the threshold, and to be faithful to his wife, with all
the affection of which his heart is capable, while he is
slowly fading out of hers. Long since, it must be
remarked, he has lost the perception of singularity in
his conduct.

   Now for a scene! Amid the throng of a London
street, we distinguish a man, now waxing elderly, with
few characteristics to attract careless observers, yet
bearing, in his whole aspect, the hand-writing of no
common fate, for such as have the skill to read it. He
is meagre; his low and narrow forehead is deeply
wrinkled; his eyes, small and lustreless, sometimes
wander apprehensively about him, but oftener seem to
look inward. He bends his head, and moves with an
indescribable obliquity of gait, as if unwilling to dis-
play his full front to the world. Watch him, long
enough to see what we have described, and you will
allow, that circumstances -- which often produce re-
markable men from nature's ordinary handiwork --
have produced one such here. Next, leaving him to
sidle along the foot-walk, cast your eyes in the opposite
direction, where a portly female, considerably in the

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wane of life, with a prayer-book in her hand, is pro-
ceeding to yonder church. She has the placid mien
of settled widowhood. Her regrets have either died
away, or have become so essential to her heart, that
they would be poorly exchanged for joy. Just as the
lean man and well-conditioned woman are passing, a
slight obstruction occurs, and brings these two figures
directly in contact. Their hands touch; the pressure
of the crowd forces her bosom against his shoulder;
they stand, face to face, staring into each other's eyes.
After a ten years' separation, thus Wakefield meets his
wife!

   The throng eddies away, and carries them asunder.
The sober widow, resuming her former pace, proceeds
to church, but pauses in the portal, and throws a per-
plexed glance along the street. She passes in, how-
ever, opening her prayer-book as she goes. And the
man? With so wild a face, that busy and selfish
London stands to gaze after him, he hurries to his
lodgings, bolts the door, and throws himself upon the
bed. The latent feelings of years break out; his
feeble mind acquires a brief energy from their strength;
all the miserable strangeness of his life is revealed to
him at a glance: and he cries out, passionately --
`Wakefield! Wakefield! You are mad!'

   Perhaps he was so. The singularity of his situation
must have so moulded him to itself, that, considered
in regard to his fellow-creatures and the business of
life, he could not be said to possess his right mind.

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He had contrived, or rather he had happened, to dis-
sever himself from the world -- to vanish -- to give up his
place and privileges with living men, without being
admitted among the dead. The life of a hermit is
nowise parallel to his. He was in the bustle of the
city, as of old; but the crowd swept by, and saw him
not; he was, we may figuratively say, always beside
his wife, and at his hearth, yet must never feel the
warmth of the one, nor the affection of the other. It
was Wakefield's unprecedented fate, to retain his
original share of human sympathies, and to be still in-
volved in human interests, while he had lost his recip-
rocal influence on them. It would be a most curious
speculation, to trace out the effect of such circum-
stances on his heart and intellect, separately, and in
unison. Yet, changed as he was, he would seldom be
conscious of it, but deem himself the same man as
ever; glimpses of the truth, indeed, would come, but
only for the moment; and still he would keep saying --
`I shall soon go back!' -- nor reflect, that he had been
saying so for twenty years.

   I conceive, also, that these twenty years would ap-
pear, in the retrospect, scarcely longer than the week
to which Wakefield had at first limited his absence.
He would look on the affair as no more than an inter-
lude in the main business of his life. When, after a
little while more, he should deem it time to re-enter his
parlor, his wife would clap her hands for joy, on be-
holding the middle-aged Mr. Wakefield. Alas, what

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a mistake! Would Time but await the close of our
favorite follies, we should be young men, all of us, and
till Doomsday.

   One evening, in the twentieth year since he vanished,
Wakefield is taking his customary walk towards the
dwelling which he still calls his own. It is a gusty
night of autumn, with frequent showers, that patter
down upon the pavement, and are gone, before a man
can put up his umbrella. Pausing near the house,
Wakefield discerns, through the parlor-windows of the
second floor, the red glow, and the glimmer and fitful
flash, of a comfortable fire. On the ceiling appears a
grotesque shadow of good Mrs. Wakefield. The cap,
the nose and chin, and the broad waist, form an admi-
rable caricature, which dances, moreover, with the up-
flickering and down-sinking blaze, almost too merrily
for the shade of an elderly widow. At this instant, a
shower chances to fall, and is driven, by the unman-
nerly gust, full into Wakefield's face and bosom. He
is quite penetrated with its autumnal chill. Shall he
stand, wet and shivering here, when his own hearth
has a good fire to warm him, and his own wife will
run to fetch the gray coat and small-clothes, which,
doubtless, she has kept carefully in the closet of their
bedchamber? No! Wakefield is no such fool. He
ascends the steps -- heavily! -- for twenty years have
stiffened his legs, since he came down -- but he knows
it not. Stay, Wakefield! Would you go to the sole
home that is left you? Then step into your grave!

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The door opens. As he passes in, we have a parting
glimpse of his visage, and recognise the crafty smile,
which was the precursor of the little joke, that he has
ever since been playing off at his wife's expense. How
unmercifully has he quizzed the poor woman! Well;
a good night's rest to Wakefield!

   This happy event -- supposing it to be such -- could
only have occurred at an unpremeditated moment. We
will not follow our friend across the threshold. He
has left us much food for thought, a portion of which
shall lend its wisdom to a moral, and be shaped into a
figure. Amid the seeming confusion of our myste-
rious world, individuals are so nicely adjusted to a
system, and systems to one another, and to a whole,
that, by stepping aside for a moment, a man exposes
himself to a fearful risk of losing his place for ever.
Like Wakefield, he may become, as it were, the Out-
cast of the Universe.

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A RILL FROM THE TOWN-
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A RILL FROM THE TOWN-
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[

   (Scene -- the corner of two principal streets.* The
Town-Pump talking through its nose.)

]

   Noon, by the north clock! Noon, by the east!
High noon, too, by these hot sunbeams, which fall,
scarcely aslope, upon my head, and almost make the
water bubble and smoke, in the trough under my nose.
Truly, we public characters have a tough time of it!
And, among all the town officers, chosen at March
meeting, where is he that sustains, for a single year,
the burthen of such manifold duties as are imposed, in
perpetuity, upon the Town-Pump? The title of ` town-
treasurer' is rightfully mine, as guardian of the best
treasure that the town has. The overseers of the
poor ought to make me their chairman, since I pro-
vide bountifully for the pauper, without expense to

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him that pays taxes. I am at the head of the fire
department, and one of the physicians to the board of
health. As a keeper of the peace, all water-drinkers
will confess me equal to the constable. I perform some
of the duties of the town-clerk, by promulgating public
notices, when they are posted on my front. To speak
within bounds, I am the chief person of the munici-
pality, and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to
my brother officers, by the cool, steady, upright, down-
right, and impartial discharge of my business, and the
constancy with which I stand to my post. Summer or
winter, nobody seeks me in vain; for, all day long, I
am seen at the busiest corner, just above the market,
stretching out my arms, to rich and poor alike; and
at night, I hold a lantern over my head, both to show
where I am, and keep people out of the gutters.

   At this sultry noontide, I am cupbearer to the
parched populace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is
chained to my waist. Like a dram-seller on the mall,
at muster-day, I cry aloud to all and sundry, in my
plainest accents, and at the very tiptop of my voice.
Here it is, gentlemen! Here is the good liquor! Walk
up, walk up, gentlemen, walk up, walk up! Here is
the superior stuff! Here is the unadulterated ale of
father Adam -- better than Cognac, Hollands, Jamaica,
strong beer, or wine of any price; here it is, by the
hogshead or the single glass, and not a cent to pay!
Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and help yourselves!

   It were a pity, if all this outcry should draw no cus-

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tomers. Here they come. A hot day, gentlemen!
Quaff, and away again, so as to keep yourselves in
a nice cool sweat. You, my friend, will need another
cup-full, to wash the dust out of your throat, if it be as
thick there as it is on your cowhide shoes. I see that
you have trudged half a score of miles, today; and,
like a wise man, have passed by the taverns, and
stopped at the running brooks and well-curbs. Other-
wise, betwixt heat without and fire within, you would
have been burnt to a cinder, or melted down to no-
thing at all, in the fashion of a jelly-fish. Drink, and
make room for that other fellow, who seeks my aid to
quench the fiery fever of last night's potations, which
he drained from no cup of mine. Welcome, most
rubicund sir! You and I have been great strangers,
hitherto; nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be
anxious for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of your
breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man!
The water absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet,
and is converted quite to steam, in the miniature tophet,
which you mistake for a stomach. Fill again, and
tell me, on the word of an honest toper, did you ever,
in cellar, tavern, or any kind of a dram-shop, spend
the price of your children's food, for a swig half so
delicious? Now, for the first time these ten years,
you know the flavor of cold water. Good-by; and,
whenever you are thirsty, remember that I keep a
constant supply, at the old stand. Who next? Oh,
my little friend, you are let loose from school, and

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come hither to scrub your blooming face, and drown
the memory of certain taps of the ferule, and other
schoolboy troubles, in a draught from the Town-Pump.
Take it, pure as the current of your young life. Take
it, and may your heart and tongue never be scorched
with a fiercer thirst than now! There, my dear child,
put down the cup, and yield your place to this elderly
gentleman, who treads so tenderly over the paving-
stones, that I suspect he is afraid of breaking them.
What! he limps by, without so much as thanking me,
as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people,
who have no wine-cellars. Well, well, sir -- no harm
done, I hope! Go draw the cork, tip the decanter;
but, when your great toe shall set you a-roaring, it will
be no affair of mine. If gentlemen love the pleasant
titillation of the gout, it is all one to the Town-Pump
This thirsty dog, with his red tongue lolling out, does
not scorn my hospitality, but stands on his hind legs,
and laps eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly
he capers away again! Jowler, did your worship ever
have the gout?

   Are you all satisfied? Then wipe your mouths, my
good friends; and, while my spout has a moment's
leisure, I will delight the town with a few historical
reminiscences. In far antiquity, beneath a darksome
shadow of venerable boughs, a spring bubbled out of
the leaf-strewn earth, in the very spot where you now
behold me, on the sunny pavement. The water was
as bright and clear, and deemed as precious, as liquid

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diamonds. The Indian sagamores drank of it, from
time immemorial, till the fatal deluge of the fire-water
burst upon the red men, and swept their whole race
away from the cold fountains. Endicott, and his fol-
lowers, came next, and often knelt down to drink,
dipping their long beards in the spring. The richest
goblet, then, was of birch bark. Governor Winthrop,
after a journey afoot from Boston, drank here, out of
the hollow of his hand. The elder Higginson here
wet his palm, and laid it on the brow of the first town-
born child. For many years, it was the watering-place,
and, as it were, the washbowl of the vicinity -- whither
all decent folks resorted, to purify their visages, and
gaze at them afterwards -- at least, the pretty maidens
did -- in the mirror which it made. On Sabbath days,
whenever a babe was to be baptized, the sexton filled
his basin here, and placed it on the communion-table
of the humble meeting-house, which partly covered the
site of yonder stately brick one. Thus, one generation
after another was consecrated to Heaven by its waters,
and cast their waxing and waning shadows into its
glassy bosom, and vanished from the earth, as if mortal
life were but a flitting image in a fountain. Finally,
the fountain vanished also. Cellars were dug on all
sides, and cart-loads of gravel flung upon its source,
whence oozed a turbid stream, forming a mudpuddle,
at the corner of two streets. In the hot months, when
its refreshment was most needed, the dust flew in
clouds over the forgotten birthplace of the waters, now

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their grave. But, in the course of time, a Town-
Pump was sunk into the source of the ancient spring;
and when the first decayed, another took its place --
and then another, and still another -- till here stand I,
gentlemen and ladies, to serve you with my iron goblet.
Drink, and be refreshed! The water is as pure and
cold as that which slaked the thirst of the red Saga-
more, beneath the aged boughs, though now the gem
of the wilderness is treasured under these hot stones,
where no shadow falls, but from the brick buildings.
And be it the moral of my story, that, as this wasted
and long-lost fountain is now known and prized again,
so shall the virtues of cold water, too little valued
since your fathers' days, be recognised by all.

   Your pardon, good people! I must interrupt my
stream of eloquence, and spout forth a stream of water,
to replenish the trough for this teamster and his two
yoke of oxen, who have come from Topsfield, or some-
where along that way. No part of my business is
pleasanter than the watering of cattle. Look! how
rapidly they lower the watermark on the sides of the
trough, till their capacious stomachs are moistened
with a gallon or two apiece, and they can afford time
to breathe it in, with sighs of calm enjoyment. Now
they roll their quiet eyes around the brim of their
monstrous drinking-vessel. An ox is your true toper.

   But I perceive, my dear auditors, that you are
impatient for the remainder of my discourse. Impute
it, I beseech you, to no defect of modesty, if I insist a

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little longer on so fruitful a topic as my own multifa-
rious merits. It is altogether for your good. The
better you think of me, the better men and women
will you find yourselves. I shall say nothing of my
all-important aid on washing-days; though, on that
account alone, I might call myself the household god
of a hundred families. Far be it from me, also, to
hint, my respectable friends, at the show of dirty faces,
which you would present, without my pains to keep
you clean. Nor will I remind you how often, when
the midnight bells make you tremble for your combus-
tible town, you have fled to the Town-Pump, and
found me always at my post, firm, amid the confusion,
and ready to drain my vital current in your behalf.
Neither is it worth while to lay much stress on my
claims to a medical diploma, as the physician, whose
simple rule of practice is preferable to all the nauseous
lore, which has found men sick or left them so, since
the days of Hippocrates. Let us take a broader view
of my beneficial influence on mankind.

   No; these are trifles, compared with the merits
which wise men concede to me -- if not in my single
self, yet as the representative of a class -- of being the
grand reformer of the age. From my spout, and such
spouts as mine, must flow the stream, that shall cleanse
our earth of the vast portion of its crime and anguish,
which has gushed from the fiery fountains of the still.
In this mighty enterprise, the cow shall be my great
confederate. Milk and water! The Town-Pump and

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the Cow! Such is the glorious copartnership, that
shall tear down the distilleries and brewhouses, uproot
the vineyards, shatter the cider-presses, ruin the tea
and coffee trade, and, finally monopolize the whole
business of quenching thirst. Blessed consummation!
Then, Poverty shall pass away from the land, finding
no hovel so wretched, where her squalid form may
shelter itself. Then Disease, for lack of other victims,
shall gnaw its own heart, and die. Then Sin, if she
do not die, shall lose half her strength. Until now,
the phrensy of hereditary fever has raged in the human
blood, transmitted from sire to son, and re-kindled, in
every generation, by fresh draughts of liquid flame.
When that inward fire shall be extinguished, the heat
of passion cannot but grow cool, and war -- the drunk-
enness of nations -- perhaps will cease. At least, there
will be no war of households. The husband and wife,
drinking deep of peaceful joy -- a calm bliss of temper-
ate affections -- shall pass hand in hand through life,
and lie down, not reluctantly, at its protracted close.
To them, the past will be no turmoil of mad dreams,
nor the future an eternity of such moments as follow
the delirium of the drunkard. Their dead faces shall
express what their spirits were, and are to be, by a
lingering smile of memory and hope.

   Ahem! Dry work, this speechifying; especially to
an unpractised orator. I never conceived, till now,
what toil the temperance-lecturers undergo for my
sake. Hereafter, they shall have the business to them-

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selves. Do, some kind Christian, pump a stroke or
two, just to wet my whistle. Thank you, sir! My
dear hearers, when the world shall have been regen-
erated, by my instrumentality, you will collect your
useless vats and liquor casks, into one great pile, and
make a bonfire, in honor of the Town-Pump. And,
when I shall have decayed, like my predecessors, then,
if you revere my memory, let a marble fountain, richly
sculptured, take my place upon this spot. Such mon-
uments should be erected everywhere, and inscribed
with the names of the distinguished champions of my
cause. Now listen; for something very important is
to come next.

   There are two or three honest friends of mine -- and
true friends, I know, they are -- who, nevertheless, by
their fiery pugnacity in my behalf, do put me in fearful
hazard of a broken nose, or even of a total overthrow
upon the pavement, and the loss of the treasure which
I guard. I pray you, gentlemen, let this fault be
amended. Is it decent, think you, to get tipsy with
zeal for temperance, and take up the honorable cause
of the Town-Pump, in the style of a toper, fighting for
his brandy-bottle? Or, can the excellent qualities of
cold water be no otherwise exemplified, than by plung-
ing, slapdash, into hot water, and wofully scalding
yourselves and other people? Trust me, they may.
In the moral warfare, which you are to wage -- and,
indeed, in the whole conduct of your lives -- you cannot
choose a better example than myself, who have never

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permitted the dust, and sultry atmosphere, the turbu-
lence and manifold disquietudes of the world around
me, to reach that deep, calm well of purity, which
may be called my soul. And whenever I pour out
that soul, it is to cool earth's fever, or cleanse its
stains.

   One o'clock! Nay, then, if the dinner-bell begins
to speak, I may as well hold my peace. Here comes
a pretty young girl of my acquaintance, with a large
stone pitcher for me to fill. May she draw a husband,
while drawing her water, as Rachel did of old. Hold
out your vessel, my dear! There it is, full to the
brim; so now run home, peeping at your sweet image
in the pitcher, as you go; and forget not, in a glass of
my own liquor, to drink -- `Success to the Town-
Pump!'

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THE GREAT CARBUNCLE.
SMALL | MEDIUM

   

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Page 213

THE GREAT CARBUNCLE.*
A MYSTERY OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   At night-fall, once, in the olden time, on the rug-
ged side of one of the Crystal Hills, a party of adven-
turers were refreshing themselves, after a toilsome and
fruitless quest for the Great Carbuncle. They had
come thither, not as friends, nor partners in the enter-
prise, but each, save one youthful pair, impelled by
his own selfish and solitary longing for this wondrous
gem. Their feeling of brotherhood, however, was
strong enough to induce them to contribute a mutual
aid in building a rude hut of branches, and kindling a
great fire of shattered pines, that had drifted down the
headlong current of the Amonoosuck, on the lower
bank of which they were to pass the night. There

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was but one of their number, perhaps, who had become
so estranged from natural sympathies, by the absorbing
spell of the pursuit, as to acknowledge no satisfaction
at the sight of human faces, in the remote and solitary
region whither they had ascended. A vast extent of
wilderness lay between them and the nearest settle-
ment, while scant a mile above their heads, was that
bleak verge, where the hills throw off their shaggy
mantle of forest trees, and either robe themselves in
clouds, or tower naked into the sky. The roar of the
Amonoosuck would have been too awful for endurance,
if only a solitary man had listened, while the mountain
stream talked with the wind.

   The adventurers, therefore, exchanged hospitable
greetings, and welcomed one another to the hut, where
each man was the host, and all were the guests of the
whole company. They spread their individual supplies
of food on the flat surface of a rock, and partook of a
general repast; at the close of which, a sentiment of
good fellowship was perceptible among the party,
though repressed by the idea, that the renewed search
for the Great Carbuncle must make them strangers
again, in the morning. Seven men and one young
woman, they warmed themselves together at the fire,
which extended its bright wall along the whole front of
their wigwam. As they observed the various and con-
trasted figures that made up the assemblage, each man
looking like a caricature of himself, in the unsteady
light that flickered over him, they came mutually to

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the conclusion, that an odder society had never met,
in city or wilderness -- on mountain or plain.

   The eldest of the group, a tall, lean, weather-beaten
man, some sixty years of age, was clad in the skins of
wild animals, whose fashion of dress he did well to
imitate, since the deer, the wolf, and the bear, had
long been his most intimate companions. He was one
of those ill-fated mortals, such as the Indians told of,
whom, in their early youth, the Great Carbuncle smote
with a peculiar madness, and became the passionate
dream of their existence. All, who visited that region,
knew him as the Seeker, and by no other name. As
none could remember when he first took up the search,
there went a fable in the valley of the Saco, that for
his inordinate lust after the Great Carbuncle, he had
been condemned to wander among the mountains till
the end of time, still with the same feverish hopes at
sunrise -- the same despair at eve. Near this miserable
Seeker sat a little elderly personage, wearing a high
crowned hat, shaped somewhat like a crucible. He
was from beyond the sea, a Doctor Cacaphodel, who
had wilted and dried himself into a mummy, by con-
tinually stooping over charcoal furnaces, and inhaling
unwholesome fumes, during his researches in chemistry
and alchymy. It was told of him, whether truly or
not, that, at the commencement of his studies, he had
drained his body of all its richest blood, and wasted
it, with other inestimable ingredients, in an unsuccess-
ful experiment -- and had never been a well man since.

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Another of the adventurers was Master Ichabod Pigs-
nort, a weighty merchant and selectman of Boston, and
an elder of the famous Mr. Norton's church. His
enemies had a ridiculous story, that Master Pigsnort
was accustomed to spend a whole hour, after prayer-
time, every morning and evening, in wallowing naked
among an immense quantity of pine-tree shillings,
which were the earliest silver coinage of Massachu-
setts. The fourth, whom we shall notice, had no
name, that his companions knew of, and was chiefly
distinguished by a sneer that always contorted his
thin visage, and by a prodigious pair of spectacles,
which were supposed to deform and discolor the whole
face of nature, to this gentleman's perception. The
fifth adventurer likewise lacked a name, which was
the greater pity, as he appeared to be a poet. He was
a bright-eyed man, but wofully pined away, which was
no more than natural, if, as some people affirmed, his
ordinary diet was fog, morning mist, and a slice of the
densest cloud within his reach, sauced with moonshine,
whenever he could get it. Certain it is, that the
poetry, which flowed from him, had a smack of all
these dainties. The sixth of the party was a young
man of haughty mien, and sat somewhat apart from
the rest, wearing his plumed hat loftily among his
elders, while the fire glittered on the rich embroidery
of his dress, and gleamed intensely on the jeweled
pommel of his sword. This was the Lord de Vere,
who, when at home, was said to spend much of his

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time in the burial-vault of his dead progenitors, rumma-
ging their mouldy coffins in search of all the earthly
pride and vain-glory, that was hidden among bones and
dust; so that, besides his own share, he had the col-
lected haughtiness of his whole line of ancestry.

   Lastly, there was a handsome youth in rustic garb,
and by his side, a blooming little person, in whom a
delicate shade of maiden reserve was just melting into
the rich glow of a young wife's affection. Her name
was Hannah, and her husband's Matthew; two homely
names, yet well enough adapted to the simple pair,
who seemed strangely out of place among the whimsical
fraternity whose wits had been set agog by the Great
Carbuncle.

   Beneath the shelter of one hut, in the bright blaze
of the same fire, sat this varied group of adventurers,
all so intent upon a single object, that, of whatever
else they began to speak, their closing words were
sure to be illuminated with the Great Carbuncle.
Several related the circumstances that brought them
thither. One had listened to a traveller's tale of this
marvelous stone, in his own distant country, and had
immediately been seized with such a thirst for behold-
ing it, as could only be quenched in its intensest lustre.
Another, so long ago as when the famous Captain
Smith visited these coasts, had seen it blazing far at
sea, and had felt no rest in all the intervening years,
till now that he took up the search. A third, being
encamped on a hunting expedition, full forty miles south

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of the White Mountains, awoke at midnight, and be-
held the Great Carbuncle gleaming like a meteor, so
that the shadows of the trees fell backward from it.
They spoke of the innumerable attempts, which had
been made to reach the spot, and of the singular
fatality which had hitherto withheld success from all
adventurers, though it might seem so easy to follow to
its source a light that overpowered the moon, and
almost matched the sun. It was observable that each
smiled scornfully at the madness of every other, in an-
ticipating better fortune than the past, yet nourished a
scarcely hidden conviction, that he would himself be
the favored one. As if to allay their too sanguine
hopes, they recurred to the Indian traditions, that a
spirit kept watch about the gem, and bewildered those
who sought it, either by removing it from peak to peak
of the higher hills, or by calling up a mist from the
enchanted lake over which it hung. But these tales
were deemed unworthy of credit; all professing to
believe, that the search had been baffled by want of
sagacity or perseverance in the adventurers, or such
other causes as might naturally obstruct the passage
to any given point, among the intricacies of forest,
valley, and mountain.

   In a pause of the conversation, the wearer of the
prodigious spectacles looked round upon the party,
making each individual, in turn, the object of the
sneer which invariably dwelt upon his countenance.

   `So, fellow-pilgrims,' said he, `here we are, seven

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wise men and one fair damsel -- who, doubtless, is as
wise as any gray-beard of the company: here we are,
I say, all bound on the same goodly enterprise. Me-
thinks now, it were not amiss, that each of us declare
what he proposes to do with the Great Carbuncle,
provided he have the good hap to clutch it. What
says our friend in the bear-skin? How mean you,
good sir, to enjoy the prize which you have been
seeking, the Lord knows how long, among the Crystal
Hills?'

   `How enjoy it!' exclaimed the aged Seeker, bit-
terly. `I hope for no enjoyment from it -- that folly has
past long ago! I keep up the search for this accursed
stone, because the vain ambition of my youth has be-
come a fate upon me, in old age. The pursuit alone
is my strength -- the energy of my soul -- the warmth
of my blood, and the pith and marrow of my bones!
Were I to turn my back upon it, I should fall down
dead, on the hither side of the Notch, which is the gate-
way of this mountain region. Yet, not to have my
wasted life-time back again, would I give up my hopes
of the Great Carbuncle! Having found it, I shall bear
it to a certain cavern that I wot of, and there, grasp-
ing it in my arms, lie down and die, and keep it buried
with me for ever.'

   `Oh, wretch, regardless of the interests of science!'
cried Doctor Cacaphodel, with philosophic indigna-
tion. `Thou art not worthy to behold, even from
afar off, the lustre of this most precious gem that ever

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was concocted in the laboratory of Nature. Mine is
the sole purpose for which a wise man may desire the
possession of the Great Carbuncle. Immediately on
obtaining it -- for I have a presentiment, good people,
that the prize is reserved to crown my scientific repu-
tation -- I shall return to Europe, and employ my remain-
ing years in reducing it to its first elements. A portion
of the stone will I grind to impalpable powder; othe
parts shall be dissolved in acids, or whatever solvents
will act upon so admirable a composition; and the
remainder I design to melt in the crucible, or set on
fire with the blow-pipe. By these various methods, I
shall gain an accurate analysis, and finally bestow
the result of my labors upon the world, in a folio
volume.'

   `Excellent!' quoth the man with the spectacles.
`Nor need you hesitate, learned sir, on account of the
necessary destruction of the gem; since the perusal of
your folio may teach every mother's son of us to con-
coct a Great Carbuncle of his own.'

   `But, verily,' said Master Ichabod Pigsnort, `for
mine own part, I object to the making of these counter-
feits, as being calculated to reduce the marketable
value of the true gem. I tell ye frankly, sirs, I have
an interest in keeping up the price. Here have I
quitted my regular traffic, leaving my warehouse in the
care of my clerks, and putting my credit to great
hazard, and furthermore, have put myself in peril of
death or captivity by the accursed heathen savages --

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and all this without daring to ask the prayers of the
congregation, because the quest for the Great Car-
buncle is deemed little better than a traffic with the
evil one. Now think ye that I would have done this
grievous wrong to my soul, body, reputation and estate,
without a reasonable chance of profit?'

   `Not I, pious Master Pigsnort,' said the man with
the spectacles. `I never laid such a great folly to thy
charge.'

   `Truly, I hope not,' said the merchant. `Now, as
touching this Great Carbuncle, I am free to own that I
have never had a glimpse of it; but be it only the
hundredth part so bright as people tell, it will surely
outvalue the Great Mogul's best diamond, which he
holds at an incalculable sum. Wherefore, I am mind-
ed to put the Great Carbuncle on shipboard, and
voyage with it to England, France, Spain, Italy, or
into Heathendom, if Providence should send me
thither, and, in a word, dispose of the gem to the best
bidder among the potentates of the earth, that he may
place it among his crown jewels. If any of ye have a
wiser plan, let him expound it.'

   `That have I, thou sordid man!' exclaimed the poet.
`Dost thou desire nothing brighter than gold, that thou
wouldst transmute all this ethereal lustre into such
dross, as thou wallowest in already? For myself,
hiding the jewel under my cloak, I shall hie me back
to my attick chamber, in one of the darksome alleys
of London. There, night and day, will I gaze upon

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it -- my soul shall drink its radiance -- it shall be dif-
fused throughout my intellectual powers, and gleam
brightly in every line of poesy that I indite. Thus,
long ages after I am gone, the splendor of the Great
Carbuncle will blaze around my name!'

   `Well said, Master Poet!' cried he of the spectacles.
`Hide it under thy cloak, say'st thou? Why, it will
gleam through the holes, and make thee look like a
jack-o'lantern!'

   `To think!' ejaculated the Lord de Vere, rather to
himself, than his companions, the best of whom he
held utterly unworthy of his intercourse, -- `to think
that a fellow in a tattered cloak should talk of convey-
ing the Great Carbuncle to a garret in Grub street!
Have not I resolved within myself, that the whole
earth contains no fitter ornament for the great hall of
my ancestral castle? There shall it flame for ages,
making a noonday of midnight, glittering on the suits
of armor, the banners, and escutcheons, that hang
around the wall, and keeping bright the memory of
heroes. Wherefore have all other adventurers sought
the prize in vain, but that I might win it, and make it
a symbol of the glories of our lofty line? And never,
on the diadem of the White Mountains, did the Great
Carbuncle hold a place half so honored, as is reserved
for it in the hall of the de Veres!'

   `It is a noble thought,' said the Cynic, with an
obsequious sneer. `Yet might I presume to say so,
the gem would make a rare sepulchral lamp, and would

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display the glories of your lordship's progenitors more
truly in the ancestral vault, than in the castle hall.'

   `Nay forsooth,' observed Matthew, the young rustic,
who sat hand in hand with his bride, `the gentleman
has bethought himself of a profitable use for this bright
stone. Hannah here and I are seeking it for a like
purpose.'

   `How, fellow!' exclaimed his lordship, in surprise.
`What castle hall hast thou to hang it in?'

   `No castle,' replied Matthew, `but as neat a cottage
as any within sight of the Crystal Hills. Ye must
know, friends, that Hannah and I, being wedded the
last week, have taken up the search of the Great Car-
buncle, because we shall need its light in the long
winter evenings; and it will be such a pretty thing to
show the neighbors, when they visit us. It will shine
through the house, so that we may pick up a pin in
any corner, and will set all the windows a-glowing, as
if there were a great fire of pine knots in the chimney.
And then how pleasant, when we awake in the night,
to be able to see one another's faces!'

   There was a general smile among the adventurers,
at the simplicity of the young couple's project, in regard
to this wondrous and invaluable stone, with which the
greatest monarch on earth might have been proud to
adorn his palace. Especially the man with spectacles,
who had sneered at all the company in turn, now
twisted his visage into such an expression of ill-natured
mirth, that Matthew asked him, rather peevishly, what
he himself meant to do with the Great Carbuncle.

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   `The Great Carbuncle!' answered the Cynic, with
ineffable scorn. `Why, you blockhead, there is no
such thing, in rerum naturâ. I have come three thou-
sand miles, and am resolved to set my foot on every
peak of these mountains, and poke my head into every
chasm, for the sole purpose of demonstrating to the
satisfaction of any man, one whit less an ass than
thyself, that the Great Carbuncle is all a humbug!'

   Vain and foolish were the motives that had brought
most of the adventurers to the Crystal Hills, but none
so vain, so foolish, and so impious too, as that of the
scoffer with the prodigious spectacles. He was one of
those wretched and evil men, whose yearnings are
downward to the darkness, instead of Heavenward, and
who, could they but extinguish the lights which God
hath kindled for us, would count the midnight gloom
their chiefest glory. As the Cynic spoke, several of
the party were startled by a gleam of red splendor, that
showed the huge shapes of the surrounding mountains,
and the rock-bestrewn bed of the turbulent river, with
an illumination unlike that of their fire, on the trunks
and black boughs of the forest trees. They listened
for the roll of thunder, but heard nothing, and were
glad that the tempest came not near them. The stars,
those dial-points of Heaven, now warned the adventur-
ers to close their eyes on the blazing logs, and open
them, in dreams, to the glow of the Great Carbuncle.

   The young married couple had taken their lodgings
in the furthest corner of the wigwam, and were separa-

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ted from the rest of the party by a curtain of curiously
woven twigs, such as might have hung, in deep festoons
around the bridal bower of Eve. The modest little
wife had wrought this piece of tapestry, while the other
guests were talking. She and her husband fell asleep
with hands tenderly clasped, and awoke, from visions
of unearthly radiance, to meet the more blessed light
of one another's eyes. They awoke at the same instant,
and with one happy smile beaming over their two faces,
which grew brighter, with their consciousness of the
reality of life and love. But no sooner did she recol-
lect where they were, than the bride peeped through
the interstices of the leafy curtain, and saw that the
outer room of the hut was deserted.

   `Up, dear Matthew!' cried she, in haste. `The
strange folk are all gone! Up, this very minute, or
we shall lose the Great Carbuncle!'

   In truth, so little did these poor young people deserve
the mighty prize which had lured them thither, that
they had slept peacefully all night, and till the summits
of the hills were glittering with sunshine; while the
other adventurers had tossed their limbs in feverish
wakefulness, or dreamed of climbing precipices, and
set off to realize their dreams with the earliest peep of
dawn. But Matthew and Hannah, after their calm
rest, were as light as two young deer, and merely
stopped to say their prayers, and wash themselves in a
cold pool of the Amonoosuck, and then to taste a
morsel of food, ere they turned their faces to the moun-

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tain side. It was a sweet emblem of conjugal affection,
as they toiled up the difficult ascent, gathering strength
from the mutual aid which they afforded. After sev-
eral little accidents, such as a torn robe, a lost shoe,
and the entanglement of Hannah's hair in a bough,
they reached the upper verge of the forest, and were
now to pursue a more adventurous course. The innu-
merable trunks and heavy foliage of the trees had
hitherto shut in their thoughts, which now shrank
affrighted from the region of wind, and cloud, and
naked rocks, and desolate sunshine, that rose immeas-
urably above them. They gazed back at the obscure
wilderness which they had traversed, and longed to be
buried again in its depths, rather than trust themselves
to so vast and visible a solitude.

   `Shall we go on?' said Matthew, throwing his arm
round Hannah's waist, both to protect her, and to com-
fort his heart by drawing her close to it.

   But the little bride, simple as she was, had a woman's
love of jewels, and could not forego the hope of possess-
ing the very brightest in the world, in spite of the
perils with which it must be won.

   `Let us climb a little higher,' whispered she, yet
tremulously, as she turned her face upward to the
lonely sky.

   `Come then,' said Matthew, mustering his manly
courage, and drawing her along with him; for she
became timid again, the moment that he grew bold.

   And upward, accordingly, went the pilgrims of the

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Great Carbuncle, now treading upon the tops and
thickly interwoven branches of dwarf pines, which, by
the growth of centuries, though mossy with age, had
barely reached three feet in altitude. Next, they came
to masses and fragments of naked rock, heaped confus-
edly together, like a cairn reared by giants, in memory
of a giant chief. In this bleak realm of upper air,
nothing breathed, nothing grew; there was no life but
what was concentred in their two hearts; they had climb-
ed so high, that Nature herself seemed no longer to
keep them company. She lingered beneath them, within
the verge of the forest trees, and sent a farewell glance
after her children, as they strayed where her own
green foot-prints had never been. But soon they were
to be hidden from her eye. Densely and dark, the
mists began to gather below, casting black spots of
shadow on the vast landscape, and sailing heavily to
one centre, as if the loftiest mountain-peak had sum-
moned a council of its kindred clouds. Finally, the
vapors welded themselves, as it were, into a mass,
presenting the appearance of a pavement over which
the wanderers might have trodden, but where they
would vainly have sought an avenue to the blessed
earth which they had lost. And the lovers yearned to
behold that green earth again, more intensely, alas!
than, beneath a clouded sky, they had ever desired a
glimpse of Heaven. They even felt it a relief to their
desolation, when the mists, creeping gradually up the
mountain, concealed its lonely peak, and thus anni-

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hilated, at least for them, the whole region of visible
space. But they drew closer together, with a fond and
melancholy gaze, dreading lest the universal cloud
should snatch them from each other's sight.

   Still, perhaps, they would have been resolute to
climb as far and as high, between earth and heaven, as
they could find foot-hold, if Hannah's strength had not
begun to fail, and with that, her courage also. Her
breath grew short. She refused to burthen her husband
with her weight, but often tottered against his side,
and recovered herself each time by a feebler effort.
At last, she sank down on one of the rocky steps of
the acclivity.

   `We are lost, dear Matthew,' said she, mournfully.
`We shall never find our way to the earth again. And,
oh, how happy we might have been in our cottage!'

   `Dear heart! -- we will yet be happy there,' answered
Matthew. `Look! In this direction, the sunshine
penetrates the dismal mist. By its aid, I can direct
our course to the passage of the Notch. Let us go
back, love, and dream no more of the Great Carbuncle!'

   `The sun cannot be yonder,' said Hannah, with des-
pondence. `By this time, it must be noon. If there
could ever be any sunshine here, it would come from
above our heads.'

   `But, look!' repeated Matthew, in a somewhat
altered tone. `It is brightening every moment. If
not sunshine, what can it be?'

   Nor could the young bride any longer deny, that a

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radiance was breaking through the mist, and changing
its dim hue to a dusky red, which continually grew
more vivid, as if brilliant particles were interfused with
the gloom. Now, also, the cloud began to roll away
from the mountain, while, as it heavily withdrew, one
object after another started out of its impenetrable
obscurity into sight, with precisely the effect of a new
creation, before the indistinctness of the old chaos had
been completely swallowed up. As the process went
on, they saw the gleaming of water close at their feet,
and found themselves on the very border of a mountain-
lake, deep, bright, clear, and calmly beautiful, spreading
from brim to brim of a basin that had been scooped out
of the solid rock. A ray of glory flashed across its
surface. The pilgrims looked whence it should proceed,
but closed their eyes with a thrill of awful admiration,
to exclude the fervid splendor that glowed from the
brow of a cliff, impending over the enchanted lake.
For the simple pair had reached that lake of mystery,
and found the long-sought shrine of the Great Car-
buncle!

   They threw their arms around each other, and trem-
bled at their own success; for as the legends of this
wondrous gem rushed thick upon their memory, they
felt themselves marked out by fate -- and the conscious-
ness was fearful. Often, from childhood upward, they
had seen it shining like a distant star. And now that
star was throwing its intensest lustre on their hearts.
They seemed changed to one another's eyes, in the

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red brilliancy that flamed upon their cheeks, while it
lent the same fire to the lake, the rocks, and sky, and
to the mists which had rolled back before its power.
But, with their next glance, they beheld an object that
drew their attention even from the mighty stone. At
the base of the cliff, directly beneath the Great Car-
buncle, appeared the figure of a man, with his arms
extended in the act of climbing, and his face turned
upward, as if to drink the full gush of splendor. But
he stirred not, no more than if changed to marble.

   `It is the Seeker,' whispered Hannah, convulsively
grasping her husband's arm. `Matthew, he is dead!'

   `The joy of success has killed him,' replied Matthew,
trembling violently. `Or perhaps the very light of the
Great Carbuncle was death!'

   `The Great Carbuncle,' cried a peevish voice behind
them. `The Great Humbug! If you have found it,
prithee point it out to me.'

   They turned their heads, and there was the Cynic,
with his prodigious spectacles set carefully on his nose,
staring now at the lake, now at the rocks, now at the
distant masses of vapor, now right at the Great Carbun-
cle itself, yet seemingly as unconscious of its light,
as if all the scattered clouds were condensed about
his person. Though its radiance actually threw the
shadow of the unbeliever at his own feet, as he turned
his back upon the glorious jewel, he would not be con-
vinced that there was the least glimmer there.

   `Where is your Great Humbug?' he repeated. `I
challenge you to make me see it!'

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   `There,' said Matthew, incensed at such perverse
blindness, and turning the Cynic round towards the
illuminated cliff. `Take off those abominable specta-
cles, and you cannot help seeing it!'

   Now these colored spectacles probably darkened the
Cynic's sight, in at least as great a degree as the
smoked glasses through which people gaze at an
eclipse. With resolute bravado, however, he snatched
them from his nose, and fixed a bold stare full upon
the ruddy blaze of the Great Carbuncle. But, scarcely
had he encountered it, when, with a deep, shuddering
groan, he dropt his head, and pressed both hands across
his miserable eyes. Thenceforth there was, in very
truth, no light of the Great Carbuncle, nor any other
light on earth, nor light of Heaven itself, for the poor
Cynic. So long accustomed to view all objects through
a medium that deprived them of every glimpse of
brightness, a single flash of so glorious a phenomenon,
striking upon his naked vision, had blinded him for
ever.

   `Matthew,' said Hannah, clinging to him, `let us go
hence!'

   Matthew saw that she was faint, and kneeling down,
supported her in his arms, while he threw some of the
thrillingly-cold water of the enchanted lake upon her
face and bosom. It revived her, but could not reno-
vate her courage.

   `Yes, dearest!' cried Matthew, pressing her tremu-
lous form to his breast, -- `we will go hence, and return

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to our humble cottage. The blessed sunshine, and the
quiet moonlight, shall come through our window. We
will kindle the cheerful glow of our hearth, at eventide,
and be happy in its light. But never again will we
desire more light than all the world may share with
us.'

   `No,' said his bride, `for how could we live by day,
or sleep by night, in this awful blaze of the Great Car-
buncle!"

   Out of the hollow of their hands, they drank each a
draught from the lake, which presented them its
waters uncontaminated by an earthly lip. Then, lend-
ing their guidance to the blinded Cynic, who uttered
not a word, and even stifled his groans in his own
most wretched heart, they began to descend the moun-
tain. Yet, as they left the shore, till then untrodden,
of the Spirit's lake, they threw a farewell glance
towards the cliff, and beheld the vapors gathering
in dense volumes, through which the gem burned
duskily.

   As touching the other pilgrims of the Great Carbun-
cle, the legend goes on to tell, that the worshipful
Master Ichabod Pigsnort soon gave up the quest, as a
desperate speculation, and wisely resolved to betake
himself again to his warehouse, near the town-dock, in
Boston. But, as he passed through the Notch of the
mountains, a war party of Indians captured our un-
lucky merchant, and carried him to Montreal, there
holding him in bondage, till, by the payment of a

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heavy ransom, he had wofully subtracted from his
hoard of pine-tree shillings. By his long absence,
moreover, his affairs had become so disordered, that,
for the rest of his life, instead of wallowing in silver,
he had seldom a sixpence-worth of copper. Doctor
Cacaphodel, the alchymist, returned to his laboratory
with a prodigious fragment of granite, which he ground
to powder, dissolved in acids, melted in the crucible,
and burnt with the blowpipe, and published the result
of his experiments in one of the heaviest folios of the
day. And, for all these purposes, the gem itself could
not have answered better than the granite. The poet,
by a somewhat similar mistake, made prize of a great
piece of ice, which he found in a sunless chasm of the
mountains, and swore that it corresponded, in all
points, with his idea of the Great Carbuncle. The
critics say, that, if his poetry lacked the splendor of
the gem, it retained all the coldness of the ice. The
Lord de Vere went back to his ancestral hall, where
he contented himself with a wax-lighted chandelier,
and filled, in due course of time, another coffin in the
ancestral vault. As the funeral torches gleamed within
that dark receptacle, there was no need of the Great
Carbuncle to shew the vanity of earthly pomp.

   The Cynic, having cast aside his spectacles, wander-
ed about the world, a miserable object, and was punish-
ed with an agonizing desire of light, for the wilful
blindness of his former life. The whole night long,
he would lift his splendor-blasted orbs to the moon
and stars; he turned his face eastward, at sunrise, as

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duly as a Persian idolater; he made a pilgrimage to
Rome, to witness the magnificent illumination of Saint
Peter's church; and finally perished in the great fire
of London, into the midst of which he had thrust him-
self, with the desperate idea of catching one feeble ray
from the blaze, that was kindling earth and heaven.

   Matthew and his bride spent many peaceful years, and
were fond of telling the legend of the Great Carbuncle.
The tale, however, towards the close of their length-
ened lives, did not meet with the full credence that
had been accorded to it by those, who remembered
the ancient lustre of the gem. For it is affirmed, that,
from the hour when two mortals had shown themselves
so simply wise, as to reject a jewel which would have
dimmed all earthly things, its splendor waned. When
other pilgrims reached the cliff, they found only an
opaque stone, with particles of mica glittering on its
surface. There is also a tradition that, as the youth-
ful pair departed, the gem was loosened from the fore-
head of the cliff, and fell into the enchanted lake, and
that, at noontide, the Seeker's form may still be seen
to bend over its quenchless gleam.

   Some few believe that this inestimable stone is
blazing, as of old, and say that they have caught its
radiance, like a flash of summer lightning, far down
the valley of the Saco. And be it owned, that, many
a mile from the Crystal Hills, I saw a wondrous light
around their summits, and was lured, by the faith of
poesy, to be the latest pilgrim of the Great Car-
buncle.

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THE PROPHETIC PICTURES.
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THE PROPHETIC PICTURES.*

   

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   `But this painter!' cried Walter Ludlow, with ani-
mation. `He not only excels in his peculiar art, but
possesses vast acquirements in all other learning and
science. He talks Hebrew with Doctor Mather, and
gives lectures in anatomy to Doctor Boylston. In a
word, he will meet the best instructed man among us,
on his own ground. Moreover, he is a polished gentle-
man -- a citizen of the world -- yes, a true cosmopolite;
for he will speak like a native of each clime and coun-
try on the globe, except our own forests, whither he is
now going. Nor is all this what I most admire in
him.'

   `Indeed!' said Elinor, who had listened with a
woman's interest to the description of such a man.
`Yet this is admirable enough.'

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   `Surely it is,' replied her lover, `but far less so than
his natural gift of adapting himself to every variety of
character, insomuch that all men -- and women too,
Elinor -- shall find a mirror of themselves in this won-
derful painter. But the greatest wonder is yet to be
told.'

   `Nay, if he have more wonderful attributes than
these,' said Elinor, laughing, `Boston is a perilous
abode for the poor gentleman. Are you telling me of
a painter, or a wizard?'

   `In truth,' answered he, `that question might be
asked much more seriously than you suppose. They
say that he paints not merely a man's features, but his
mind and heart. He catches the secret sentiments
and passions, and throws them upon the canvas, like
sunshine -- or perhaps, in the portraits of dark-souled
men, like a gleam of infernal fire. It is an awful gift,'
added Walter, lowering his voice from its tone of enthu-
siasm. `I shall be almost afraid to sit to him.'

   `Walter, are you in earnest?' exclaimed Elinor.

   `For Heaven's sake, dearest Elinor, do not let him
paint the look which you now wear,' said her lover,
smiling, though rather perplexed. `There: it is pass-
ing away now, but when you spoke, you seemed fright-
ened to death, and very sad besides. What were you
thinking of?'

   `Nothing; nothing,' answered Elinor, hastily. `You
paint my face with your own fantasies. Well, come for
me tomorrow, and we will visit this wonderful artist.'

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   But when the young man had departed, it cannot be
denied that a remarkable expression was again visible
on the fair and youthful face of his mistress. It was a
sad and anxious look, little in accordance with what
should have been the feelings of a maiden on the eve
of wedlock. Yet Walter Ludlow was the chosen of
her heart.

   `A look!' said Elinor to herself. `No wonder that
it startled him, if it expressed what I sometimes feel.
I know, by my own experience, how frightful a look
may be. But it was all fancy, I thought nothing of it
at the time -- I have seen nothing of it since -- I did
but dream it.'

   And she busied herself about the embroidery of a
ruff, in which she meant that her portrait should be
taken.

   The painter, of whom they had been speaking, was
not one of those native artists, who at a later period
than this, borrowed their colors from the Indians, and
manufactured their pencils of the furs of wild beasts.
Perhaps, if he could have revoked his life and pre-ar-
ranged his destiny, he might have chosen to belong to
that school without a master, in the hope of being at
least original, since there were no works of art to
imitate, nor rules to follow. But he had been born
and educated in Europe. People said, that he had
studied the grandeur or beauty of conception, and every
touch of the master-hand, in all the most famous pic-
tures, in cabinets and galleries, and on the walls of

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churches, till there was nothing more for his powerful
mind to learn. Art could add nothing to its lessons,
but Nature might. He had therefore visited a world,
whither none of his professional brethren had preceded
him, to feast his eyes on visible images, that were noble
and picturesque, yet had never been transferred to
canvas. America was too poor to afford other tempt-
ations to an artist of eminence, though many of the
colonial gentry, on the painter's arrival, had expressed
a wish to transmit their lineaments to posterity, by
means of his skill. Whenever such proposals were
made, he fixed his piercing eyes on the applicant, and
seemed to look him through and through. If he
beheld a sleek and comfortable visage, though there
were a gold-laced coat to adorn the picture, and golden
guineas to pay for it, he civilly rejected the task and
the reward. But if the face were the index of any-
thing uncommon, in thought, sentiment, or experience;
or if he met a beggar in the street, with a white beard
and a furrowed brow; or if, sometimes a child hap-
pened to look up and smile: he would exhaust all the
art on them, that he denied to wealth.

   Pictorial skill being so rare in the colonies, the
painter became an object of general curiosity. If few
or none could appreciate the technical merit of his
productions, yet there were points, in regard to which
the opinion of the crowd was as valuable as the refined
judgment of the amateur. He watched the effect that
each picture produced on such untutored beholders,

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and derived profit from their remarks, while they would
as soon have thought of instructing Nature herself, as
him who seemed to rival her. Their admiration, it
must be owned, was tinctured with the prejudices of
the age and country. Some deemed it an offence
against the Mosaic law, and even a presumptuous mock-
ery of the Creator, to bring into existence such lively
images of his creatures. Others, frightened at the art
which could raise phantoms at will, and keep the form
of the dead among the living, were inclined to consider
the painter as a magician, or perhaps the famous Black
Man of old witch-times, plotting mischief in a new
guise. These foolish fancies were more than half
believed, among the mob. Even in superior circles,
his character was invested with a vague awe, partly
rising like smoke-wreaths from the popular supersti-
tions, but chiefly caused by the varied knowledge and
talents which he made subservient to his profession.

   Being on the eve of marriage, Walter Ludlow and
Elinor were eager to obtain their portraits, as the
first of what, they doubtless hoped, would be a long
series of family pictures. The day after the conversa-
tion above recorded, they visited the painter's rooms.
A servant ushered them into an apartment, where,
though the artist himself was not visible, there were
personages, whom they could hardly forbear greeting
with reverence. They knew, indeed, that the whole
assembly were but pictures, yet felt it impossible to
separate the idea of life and intellect from such striking

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counterfeits. Several of the portraits were known to
them, either as distinguished characters of the day, or
their private acquaintances. There was Governor
Burnett, looking as if he had just received an undutiful
communication from the House of Representatives, and
were inditing a most sharp response. Mr. Cooke hung
beside the ruler whom he opposed, sturdy, and some-
what puritanical, as befitted a popular leader. The
ancient lady of Sir William Phipps eyed them from
the wall, in ruff and farthingale, an imperious old
dame, not unsuspected of witchcraft. John Winslow,
then a very young man, wore the expression of warlike
enterprise, which long afterwards made him a distin-
guished general. Their personal friends were recog-
nised at a glance. In most of the pictures, the whole
mind and character were brought out on the counte-
nance, and concentrated into a single look, so that, to
speak paradoxically, the originals hardly resembled
themselves so strikingly as the portraits did.

   Among these modern worthies, there were two old
bearded Saints, who had almost vanished into the
darkening canvas. There was also a pale, but unfad-
ed Madonna, who had perhaps been worshiped in
Rome, and now regarded the lovers with such a mild
and holy look, that they longed to worship too.

   `How singular a thought,' observed Walter Ludlow,
`that this beautiful face has been beautiful for above
two hundred years! Oh, if all beauty would endure so
well! Do you not envy her, Elinor?'

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   `If Earth were Heaven, I might,' she replied. `But
where all things fade, how miserable to be the one that
could not fade!'

   `This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly
scowl, saint though he be,' continued Walter. `He
troubles me. But the Virgin looks kindly at us.'

   `Yes; but very sorrowfully, methinks,' said Elinor.

   The easel stood beneath these three old pictures,
sustaining one that had been recently commenced.
After a little inspection, they began to recognise the
features of their own minister, the Rev. Dr. Colman,
growing into shape and life, as it were, out of a cloud.

   `Kind old man!' exclaimed Elinor. `He gazes at
me, as if he were about to utter a word of paternal
advice.'

   `And at me,' said Walter, `as if he were about to
shake his head and rebuke me, for some suspected
iniquity. But so does the original. I shall never feel
quite comfortable under his eye, till we stand before
him to be married.'

   They now heard a footstep on the floor, and turn-
ing, beheld the painter, who had been some moments in
the room, and had listened to a few of their remarks.
He was a middle-aged man, with a countenance well
worthy of his own pencil. Indeed, by the picturesque,
though careless arrangement of his rich dress, and,
perhaps, because his soul dwelt always among painted
shapes, he looked somewhat like a portrait himself.
His visiters were sensible of a kindred between the

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artist and his works, and felt as if one of the pictures
had stept from the canvas to salute them.

   Walter Ludlow, who was slightly known to the
painter, explained the object of their visit. While he
spoke, a sunbeam was falling athwart his figure and
Elinor's, with so happy an effect, that they also seem-
ed living pictures of youth and beauty, gladdened by
bright fortune. The artist was evidently struck.

   `My easel is occupied for several ensuing days, and
my stay in Boston must be brief,' said he, thought-
fully; then after an observant glance, he added: `but
your wishes shall be gratified, though I disappoint the
chief Justice and Madame Oliver. I must not lose
this opportunity, for the sake of painting a few ells of
broadcloth and brocade.'

   The painter expressed a desire to introduce both
their portraits into one picture, and represent them
engaged in some appropriate action. This plan would
have delighted the lovers, but was necessarily rejected,
because so large a space of canvas would have been
unfit for the room which it was intended to decorate.
Two half-length portraits were therefore fixed upon.
After they had taken leave, Walter Ludlow asked
Elinor, with a smile, whether she knew what an influ-
ence over their fates the painter was about to acquire.

   `The old women of Boston affirm,' continued he,
`that after he has once got possession of a person's
face and figure, he may paint him in any act or situa-
tion whatever -- and the picture will be prophetic. Do
you believe it?'

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   `Not quite,' said Elinor, smiling. `Yet if he has
such magic, there is something so gentle in his man-
ner, that I am sure he will use it well.'

   It was the painter's choice to proceed with both the
portraits at the same time, assigning as a reason, in the
mystical language which he sometimes used, that the
faces threw light upon each other. Accordingly, he
gave now a touch to Walter, and now to Elinor, and
the features of one and the other began to start forth
so vividly, that it appeared as if his triumphant art
would actually disengage them from the canvas. Amid
the rich light and deep shade, they beheld their phantom
selves. But, though the likeness promised to be per-
fect, they were not quite satisfied with the expression;
it seemed more vague than in most of the painter's
works. He, however, was satisfied with the prospect
of success, and being much interested in the lovers,
employed his leisure moments, unknown to them, in
making a crayon sketch of their two figures. During
their sittings, he engaged them in conversation, and
kindled up their faces with characteristic traits, which,
though continually varying, it was his purpose to
combine and fix. At length he announced, that at
their next visit, both the portraits would be ready for
delivery.

   `If my pencil will but be true to my conception, in
the few last touches which I meditate,' observed he,
`these two pictures will be my very best performances.
Seldom, indeed, has an artist such subjects.'

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   While speaking, he still bent his penetrative eye
upon them, nor withdrew it till they had reached the
bottom of the stairs.

   Nothing, in the whole circle of human vanities,
takes stronger hold of the imagination, than this affair
of having a portrait painted. Yet why should it be so?
The looking-glass, the polished globes of the andirons,
the mirror-like water, and all other reflecting surfaces,
continually present us with portraits, or rather ghosts
of ourselves, which we glance at, and straightway
forget them. But we forget them, only because they
vanish. It is the idea of duration -- of earthly im-
mortality -- that gives such a mysterious interest to our
own portraits. Walter and Elinor were not insensible
to this feeling, and hastened to the painter's rooms,
punctually at the appointed hour, to meet those pictured
shapes, which were to be their representatives with
posterity. The sunshine flashed after them into the
apartment, but left it somewhat gloomy, as they closed
the door.

   Their eyes were immediately attracted to their
portraits, which rested against the farthest wall of the
room. At the first glance, through the dim light and
the distance, seeing themselves in precisely their natural
attitudes, and with all the air that they recognised
so well, they uttered a simultaneous exclamation of
delight.

   `There we stand,' cried Walter, enthusiastically,
`fixed in sunshine for ever! No dark passions can gather
on our faces!'

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   `No,' said Elinor, more calmly; `no dreary change
can sadden us.'

   This was said while they were approaching, and had
yet gained only an imperfect view of the pictures. The
painter, after saluting them, busied himself at a table
in completing a crayon sketch, leaving his visiters to
form their own judgment as to his perfected labors.
At intervals, he sent a glance from beneath his deep
eyebrows, watching their countenances in profile, with
his pencil suspended over the sketch. They had now
stood some moments, each in front of the other's
picture, contemplating it with entranced attention,
but without uttering a word. At length, Walter step-
ped forward -- then back -- viewing Elinor's portrait in
various lights, and finally spoke.

   `Is there not a change?' said he, in a doubtful and
meditative tone. `Yes; the perception of it grows
more vivid, the longer I look. It is certainly the
same picture that I saw yesterday; the dress -- the
features -- all are the same; and yet something is
altered.'

   `Is then the picture less like than it was yesterday?'
inquired the painter, now drawing near, with irrepressi-
ble interest.

   `The features are perfect Elinor,' answered Walter;
`and, at the first glance, the expression seemed also
her's. But, I could fancy that the portrait has changed
countenance, while I have been looking at it. The
eyes are fixed on mine with a strangely sad and anxious

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expression. Nay, it is grief and terror! Is this like
Elinor?'

   `Compare the living face with the pictured one,'
said the painter.

   Walter glanced sidelong at his mistress, and started.
Motionless and absorbed -- fascinated, as it were -- in
contemplation of Walter's portrait, Elinor's face had
assumed precisely the expression of which he had just
been complaining. Had she practised for whole hours
before a mirror, she could not have caught the look so
successfully. Had the picture itself been a mirror, it
could not have thrown back her present aspect, with
stronger and more melancholy truth. She appeared
quite unconscious of the dialogue between the artist
and her lover.

   `Elinor,' exclaimed Walter, in amazement, `what
change has come over you?'

   She did not hear him, nor desist from her fixed gaze,
till he seized her hand, and thus attracted her notice;
then, with a sudden tremor, she looked from the picture
to the face of the original.

   `Do you see no change in your portrait?' asked
she.

   `In mine? -- None!' replied Walter, examining it.
`But let me see! Yes; there is a slight change -- an
improvement, I think, in the picture, though none in
the likeness. It has a livelier expression than yester-
day, as if some bright thought were flashing from the
eyes, and about to be uttered from the lips. Now that
I have caught the look, it becomes very decided.'

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   While he was intent on these observations, Elinor
turned to the painter. She regarded him with grief
and awe, and felt that he repaid her with sympathy
and commiseration, though wherefore, she could but
vaguely guess.

   `That look!' whispered she, and shuddered. `How
came it there?'

   `Madam,' said the painter, sadly, taking her hand,
and leading her apart, `in both these pictures, I have
painted what I saw. The artist -- the true artist -- must
look beneath the exterior. It is his gift -- his proudest,
but often a melancholy one -- to see the inmost soul,
and, by a power indefinable even to himself, to make
it glow or darken upon the canvas, in glances that
express the thought and sentiment of years. Would
that I might convince myself of error in the present
instance!'

   They had now approached the table, on which were
heads in chalk, hands almost as expressive as ordinary
faces, ivied church-towers, thatched cottages, old thun-
der-stricken trees, oriental and antique costume, and all
such picturesque vagaries of an artist's idle moments.
Turning them over, with seeming carelessness, a
crayon sketch of two figures was disclosed.

   `If I have failed,' continued he; -- `if your heart
does not see itself reflected in your own portrait -- if
you have no secret cause to trust my delineation of
the other -- it is not yet too late to alter them. I might

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change the action of these figures too. But would it
influence the event?'

   He directed her notice to the sketch. A thrill ran
through Elinor's frame; a shriek was upon her lips;
but she stifled it, with the self-command that becomes
habitual to all, who hide thoughts of fear and anguish
within their bosoms. Turning from the table, she
perceived that Walter had advanced near enough to
have seen the sketch, though she could not determine
whether it had caught his eye.

   `We will not have the pictures altered,' said she,
hastily. `If mine is sad, I shall but look the gayer for
the contrast.'

   `Be it so,' answered the painter, bowing. `May
your griefs be such fanciful ones, that only your pic-
ture may mourn for them! For your joys -- may they
be true and deep, and paint themselves upon this
lovely face, till it quite belie my art!'

   After the marriage of Walter and Elinor, the pic-
tures formed the two most splendid ornaments of their
abode. They hung side by side, separated by a narrow
panel, appearing to eye each other constantly, yet
always returning the gaze of the spectator. Travelled
gentlemen, who professed a knowledge of such sub-
jects, reckoned these among the most admirable speci-
mens of modern portraiture; while common observers
compared them with the originals, feature by feature,
and were rapturous in praise of the likeness. But, it
was on a third class, -- neither travelled connoisseurs

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nor common observers, but people of natural sensi-
bility -- that the pictures wrought their strongest effect.
Such persons might gaze carelessly at first, but, be-
coming interested, would return day after day, and
study these painted faces like the pages of a mystic
volume. Walter Ludlow's portrait attracted their
earliest notice. In the absence of himself and his
bride, they sometimes disputed as to the expression
which the painter had intended to throw upon the
features; all agreeing that there was a look of earnest
import, though no two explained it alike. There was
less diversity of opinion in regard to Elinor's picture.
They differed, indeed, in their attempts to estimate the
nature and depth of the gloom that dwelt upon her
face, but agreed that it was gloom, and alien from the
natural temperament of their youthful friend. A cer-
tain fanciful person announced, as the result of much
scrutiny, that both these pictures were parts of one
design, and that the melancholy strength of feeling, in
Elinor's countenance, bore reference to the more vivid
emotion, or, as he termed it, the wild passion, in that
of Walter. Though unskilled in the art, he even
began a sketch, in which the action of the two figures
was to correspond with their mutual expression.

   It was whispered among friends, that, day by day,
Elinor's face was assuming a deeper shade of pensive-
ness, which threatened soon to render her too true a
counterpart of her melancholy picture. Walter, on
the other hand, instead of acquiring the vivid look

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which the painter had given him on the canvas, be-
came reserved and downcast, with no outward flashes
of emotion, however it might be smouldering within.
In course of time, Elinor hung a gorgeous curtain of
purple silk, wrought with flowers, and fringed with
heavy golden tassels, before the pictures, under pre-
tence that the dust would tarnish their hues, or the
light dim them. It was enough. Her visiters felt, that
the massive folds of the silk must never be withdrawn,
nor the portraits mentioned in her presence.

   Time wore on; and the painter came again. He
had been far enough to the north to see the silver
cascade of the Crystal Hills, and to look over the vast
round of cloud and forest, from the summit of New
England's loftiest mountain. But he did not profane
that scene by the mockery of his art. He had also lain
in a canoe on the bosom of Lake George, making his
soul the mirror of its loveliness and grandeur, till not
a picture in the Vatican was more vivid than his recol-
lection. He had gone with the Indian hunters to
Niagara, and there, again, had flung his hopeless pen-
cil down the precipice, feeling that he could as soon
paint the roar, as aught else that goes to make up the
wondrous cataract. In truth, it was seldom his impulse
to copy natural scenery, except as a frame-work for
the delineations of the human form and face, instinct
with thought, passion, or suffering. With store of
such, his adventurous ramble had enriched him; the
stern dignity of Indian chiefs; the dusky loveliness

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of Indian girls; the domestic life of wigwams; the
stealthy march; the battle beneath gloomy pine-trees;
the frontier fortress with its garrison; the anomaly of
the old French partisan, bred in courts, but grown
gray in shaggy deserts; such were the scenes and
portraits that he had sketched. The glow of perilous
moments; flashes of wild feeling; struggles of fierce
power -- love, hate, grief, frenzy -- in a word, all the
worn-out heart of the old earth, had been revealed to
him under a new form. His portfolio was filled with
graphic illustrations of the volume of his memory,
which genius would transmute into its own substance,
and imbue with immortality. He felt that the deep
wisdom in his art, which he had sought so far, was
found.

   But, amid stern or lovely nature, in the perils of the
forest, or its overwhelming peacefulness, still there
had been two phantoms, the companions of his way.
Like all other men around whom an engrossing pur-
pose wreathes itself, he was insulated from the mass of
human kind. He had no aim -- no pleasure -- no sym-
pathies -- but what were ultimately connected with his
art. Though gentle in manner, and upright in intent
and action, he did not possess kindly feelings; his
heart was cold; no living creature could be brought
near enough to keep him warm. For these two beings,
however, he had felt, in its greatest intensity, the sort
of interest which always allied him to the subjects of
his pencil. He had pried into their souls with his

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keenest insight, and pictured the result upon their
features, with his utmost skill, so as barely to fall
short of that standard which no genius ever reached,
his own severe conception. He had caught from the
duskiness of the future -- at least, so he fancied -- a
fearful secret, and had obscurely revealed it on the
portraits. So much of himself -- of his imagination
and all other powers -- had been lavished on the study
of Walter and Elinor, that he almost regarded them as
creations of his own, like the thousands with which he
had peopled the realms of Picture. Therefore did
they flit through the twilight of the woods, hover on
the mist of waterfalls, look forth from the mirror of
the lake, nor melt away in the noontide sun. They
haunted his pictorial fancy, not as mockeries of life,
nor pale goblins of the dead, but in the guise of por-
traits, each with the unalterable expression which his
magic had evoked from the caverns of the soul. He
could not recross the Atlantic, till he had again beheld
the originals of those airy pictures.

   `Oh, glorious Art!' thus mused the enthusiastic
painter, as he trod the street. `Thou art the image of
the Creator's own. The innumerable forms, that
wander in nothingness, start into being at thy beck.
The dead live again. Thou recallest them to their
old scenes, and givest their gray shadows the lustre of
a better life, at once earthly and immortal. Thou
snatchest back the fleeting moments of History. With
thee, there is no Past; for, at thy touch, all that is

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great becomes for ever present; and illustrious men
live through long ages, in the visible performance of
the very deeds, which made them what they are. Oh,
potent Art! as thou bringest the faintly revealed Past
to stand in that narrow strip of sunlight, which we call
Now, canst thou summon the shrouded Future to meet
her there? Have I not achieved it! Am I not thy
Prophet?'

   Thus, with a proud, yet melancholy fervor, did he
almost cry aloud, as he passed through the toilsome
street, among people that knew not of his reveries,
nor could understand nor care for them. It is not
good for man to cherish a solitary ambition. Unless
there be those around him, by whose example he may
regulate himself, his thoughts, desires, and hopes will
become extravagant, and he the semblance, perhaps
the reality, of a madman. Reading other bosoms,
with an acuteness almost preternatural, the painter
failed to see the disorder of his own.

   `And this should be the house,' said he, looking up
and down the front, before he knocked. `Heaven
help my brains! That picture! Methinks it will
never vanish. Whether I look at the windows or the
door, there it is framed within them, painted strongly,
and glowing in the richest tints -- the faces of the
portraits -- the figures and action of the sketch!'

   He knocked.

   `The Portraits! Are they within inquired he,
of the domestic; then recollecting himself -- `your
master and mistress! Are they at home?'

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   `They are, sir,' said the servant, adding, as he
noticed that picturesque aspect of which the painter
could never divest himself, -- `and the Portraits too!'

   The guest was admitted into a parlor, communica-
ting by a central door, with an interior room of the
same size. As the first apartment was empty, he
passed to the entrance of the second, within which,
his eyes were greeted by those living personages, as
well as their pictured representatives, who had long
been the objects of so singular an interest. He in-
voluntarily paused on the threshold.

   They had not perceived his approach. Walter and
Elinor were standing before the portraits, whence the
former had just flung back the rich and voluminous
folds of the silken curtain, holding its golden tassel
with one hand, while the other grasped that of his
bride. The pictures, concealed for months, gleamed
forth again in undiminished splendor, appearing to
throw a sombre light across the room, rather than to
be disclosed by a borrowed radiance. That of Elinor
had been almost prophetic. A pensiveness, and next
a gentle sorrow, had successively dwelt upon her coun-
tenance, deepening, with the lapse of time, into a quiet
anguish. A mixture of affright would now have made
it the very expression of the portrait. Walter's face
was moody and dull, or animated only by fitful flashes,
which left a heavier darkness for their momentary
illumination. He looked from Elinor to her portrait,
and thence to his own, in the contemplation of which
he finally stood absorbed.

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   The painter seemed to hear the step of Destiny
approaching behind him, on its progress towards its
victims. A strange thought darted into his mind.
Was not his own the form in which that Destiny had
embodied itself, and he a chief agent of the coming
evil which he had foreshadowed?

   Still, Walter remained silent before the picture, com-
muning with it, as with his own heart, and abandoning
himself to the spell of evil influence, that the painter
had cast upon the features. Gradually his eyes kin-
dled; while as Elinor watched the increasing wildness
of his face, her own assumed a look of terror; and
when at last, he turned upon her, the resemblance of
both to their portraits was complete.

   `Our fate is upon us!' howled Walter. `Die!'

   Drawing a knife, he sustained her, as she was sink-
ing to the ground, and aimed it at her bosom. In the
action, and in the look and attitude of each, the painter
beheld the figures of his sketch. The picture, with all
its tremendous coloring, was finished.

   `Hold, madman!' cried he sternly.

   He had advanced from the door, and interposed him-
self between the wretched beings, with the same sense
of power to regulate their destiny, as to alter a scene
upon the canvas. He stood like a magician, controll-
ing the phantoms which he had evoked.

   `What!' muttered Walter Ludlow, as he relapsed
from fierce excitement into sullen gloom. `Does Fate
impede its own decree?'

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   `Wretched lady!' said the painter. `Did I not
warn you?'

   `You did,' replied Elinor calmly, as her terror gave
place to the quiet grief which it had disturbed. `But
-- I loved him!'

   Is there not a deep moral in the tale? Could the
result of one, or all our deeds, be shadowed forth and
set before us -- some would call it Fate, and hurry
onward -- others be swept along by their passionate
desires -- and none be turned aside by the Prophetic
Pictures.

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DAVID SWAN.
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Page 261

DAVID SWAN.
A FANTASY.

   

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   We can be but partially acquainted even with the
events which actually influence our course through
life, and our final destiny. There are innumerable
other events, if such they may be called, which come
close upon us, yet pass away without actual results, or
even betraying their near approach, by the reflection
of any light or shadow across our minds. Could we
know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would be
too full of hope and fear, exultation or disappointment,
to afford us a single hour of true serenity. This idea
may be illustrated by a page from the secret history of
David Swan.

   We have nothing to do with David, until we find
him, at the age of twenty, on the high road from his
native place to the city of Boston, where his uncle, a
small dealer in the grocery line, was to take him be-
hind the counter. Be it enough to say, that he was a

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native of New Hampshire, born of respectable parents,
and had received an ordinary school education, with a
classic finish by a year at Gilmanton academy. After
journeying on foot, from sunrise till nearly noon of a
summer's day, his weariness and the increasing heat
determined him to sit down in the first convenient
shade, and await the coming up of the stage coach.
As if planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared
a little tuft of maples, with a delightful recess in the
midst, and such a fresh bubbling spring, that it seemed
never to have sparkled for any wayfarer but David
Swan. Virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty
lips, and then flung himself along the brink, pillowing
his head upon some shirts and a pair of pantaloons,
tied up in a striped cotton handkerchief. The sun-
beams could not reach him; the dust did not yet rise
from the road, after the heavy rain of yesterday; and
his grassy lair suited the young man better than a bed
of down. The spring murmured drowsily beside him;
the branches waved dreamily across the blue sky, over-
head; and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams
within its depths, fell upon David Swan. But we are
to relate events which he did not dream of.

   While he lay sound asleep in the shade, other people
were wide awake, and passed to and fro, a-foot, on
horseback, and in all sorts of vehicles, along the sunny
road by his bedchamber. Some looked neither to the
right hand nor the left, and knew not that he was
there; some merely glanced that way, without admit-

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ting the slumberer among their busy thoughts; some
laughed to see how soundly he slept; and several,
whose hearts were brimming full of scorn, ejected their
venomous superfluity on David Swan. A middle-aged
widow, when nobody else was near, thrust her head a
little way into the recess, and vowed that the young
fellow looked charming in his sleep. A temperance
lecturer saw him, and wrought poor David into the
texture of his evening's discourse, as an awful instance
of dead drunkenness by the road-side. But, censure,
praise, merriment, scorn, and indifference, were all
one, or rather all nothing, to David Swan.

   He had slept only a few moments, when a brown
carriage, drawn by a handsome pair of horses, bowled
easily along, and was brought to a stand-still, nearly in
front of David's resting place. A linch-pin had fallen
out, and permitted one of the wheels to slide off. The
damage was slight, and occasioned merely a momentary
alarm to an elderly merchant and his wife, who were
returning to Boston in the carriage. While the coach-
man and a servant were replacing the wheel, the lady
and gentleman sheltered themselves beneath the maple
trees, and there espied the bubbling fountain, and
David Swan asleep beside it. Impressed with the awe
which the humblest sleeper usually sheds around him,
the merchant trod as lightly as the gout would allow;
and his spouse took good heed not to rustle her silk
gown, lest David should start up, all of a sudden.

   `How soundly he sleeps!' whispered the old gentle-

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man. `From what a depth he draws that easy breath!
Such sleep as that, brought on without an opiate,
would be worth more to me than half my income; for
it would suppose health, and an untroubled mind.'

   `And youth, besides,' said the lady. `Healthy and
quiet age does not sleep thus. Our slumber is no
more like his, than our wakefulness.'

   The longer they looked, the more did this elderly
couple feel interested in the unknown youth, to whom
the way-side and the maple shade were as a secret
chamber, with the rich gloom of damask curtains
brooding over him. Perceiving that a stray sunbeam
glimmered down upon his face, the lady contrived to
twist a branch aside, so as to intercept it. And having
done this little act of kindness, she began to feel like a
mother to him.

   `Providence seems to have laid him here,' whisper-
ed she to her husband, `and to have brought us hither
to find him, after our disappointment in our cousin's
son. Methinks I can see a likeness to our departed
Henry. Shall we waken him?'

   `To what purpose?' said the merchant, hesitating.
`We know nothing of the youth's character.'

   `That open countenance!' replied his wife, in the
same hushed voice, yet earnestly. `This innocent
sleep!'

   While these whispers were passing, the sleeper's
heart did not throb, nor his breath become agitated,
nor his features betray the least token of interest.

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Yet Fortune was bending over him, just ready to let
fall a burthen of gold. The old merchant had lost his
only son, and had no heir to his wealth, except a dis-
tant relative, with whose conduct he was dissatisfied.
In such cases, people sometimes do stranger things
than to act the magician, and awaken a young man to
splendor, who fell asleep in poverty.

   `Shall we not waken him?' repeated the lady, per-
suasively.

   `The coach is ready, sir,' said the servant, behind.

   The old couple started, reddened, and hurried
away, mutually wondering, that they should ever have
dreamed of doing any thing so very ridiculous. The
merchant threw himself back in the carriage, and
occupied his mind with the plan of a magnificent
asylum for unfortunate men of business. Meanwhile,
David Swan enjoyed his nap.

   The carriage could not have gone above a mile or
two, when a pretty young girl came along, with a
tripping pace, which shewed precisely how her little
heart was dancing in her bosom. Perhaps it was this
merry kind of motion that caused -- is there any harm
in saying it? -- her garter to slip its knot. Conscious
that the silken girth, if silk it were, was relaxing its
hold, she turned aside into the shelter of the maple
trees, and there found a young man asleep by the
spring! Blushing, as red as any rose, that she should
have intruded into a gentleman's bedchamber, and for
such a purpose too, she was about to make her escape

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on tiptoe. But, there was peril near the sleeper. A
monster of a bee had been wandering overhead -- buzz,
buzz, buzz -- now among the leaves, now flashing
through the strips of sunshine, and now lost in the
dark shade, till finally he appeared to be settling on the
eyelid of David Swan. The sting of a bee is some-
times deadly. As free-hearted as she was innocent,
the girl attacked the intruder with her handkerchief,
brushed him soundly, and drove him from beneath the
maple shade. How sweet a picture! This good deed
accomplished, with quickened breath, and a deeper
blush, she stole a glance at the youthful stranger, for
whom she had been battling with a dragon in the air.

   `He is handsome!' thought she, and blushed redder
yet.

   How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so
strong within him, that, shattered by its very strength,
it should part asunder, and allow him to perceive the
girl among its phantoms? Why, at least, did no smile
of welcome brighten upon his face? She was come,
the maid whose soul, according to the old and beauti-
ful idea, had been severed from his own, and whom,
in all his vague but passionate desires, he yearned to
meet. Her, only, could he love with a perfect love --
him, only, could she receive into the depths of her
heart -- and now her image was faintly blushing in the
fountain, by his side; should it pass away, its happy
lustre would never gleam upon his life again.

   `How sound he sleeps!' murmured the girl.

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   She departed, but did not trip along the road so
lightly as when she came.

   Now, this girl's father was a thriving country mer-
chant in the neighborhood, and happened, at that
identical time, to be looking out for just such a young
man as David Swan. Had David formed a way-side
acquaintance with the daughter, he would have be-
come the father's clerk, and all else in natural succes-
sion. So here, again, had good fortune -- the best of
fortunes -- stolen so near, that her garments brushed
against him; and he knew nothing of the matter.

   The girl was hardly out of sight, when two men
turned aside beneath the maple shade. Both had dark
faces, set off by cloth caps, which were drawn down
aslant over their brows. Their dresses were shabby,
yet had a certain smartness. These were a couple of
rascals, who got their living by whatever the devil sent
them, and now, in the interim of other business, had
staked the joint profits of their next piece of villany
on a game of cards, which was to have been decided
here under the trees. But, finding David asleep by
the spring, one of the rogues whispered to his fellow,

   `Hist! -- Do you see that bundle under his head?'

   The other villain nodded, winked, and leered.

   `I'll bet you a horn of brandy,' said the first, `that
the chap has either a pocketbook, or a snug little
hoard of small change, stowed away amongst his shirts.
And if not there, we shall find it in his pantaloons'
pocket.'

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   `But how if he wakes?' said the other.

   His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed
to the handle of a dirk, and nodded.

   `So be it!' muttered the second villain.

   They approached the unconscious David, and, while
one pointed the dagger towards his heart, the other
began to search the bundle beneath his head. Their
two faces, grim, wrinkled, and ghastly with guilt and
fear, bent over their victim, looking horrible enough
to be mistaken for fiends, should he suddenly awake.
Nay, had the villains glanced aside into the spring,
even they would hardly have known themselves, as
reflected there. But David Swan had never worn a
more tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother's
breast.

   `I must take away the bundle,' whispered one.

   `If he stirs, I'll strike,' muttered the other.

   But, at this moment, a dog, scenting along the
ground, came in beneath the maple trees, and gazed
alternately at each of these wicked men, and then at
the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain.

   `Pshaw!' said one villain. `We can do nothing
now. The dog's master must be close behind.'

   `Let's take a drink, and be off,' said the other.

   The man, with the dagger, thrust back the weapon
into his bosom, and drew forth a pocket pistol, but not
of that kind which kills by a single discharge. It was
a flask of liquor, with a block-tin tumbler screwed
upon the mouth. Each drank a comfortable dram,

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and left the spot, with so many jests, and such laughter
at their unaccomplished wickedness, that they might
be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. In a
few hours, they had forgotten the whole affair, nor
once imagined that the recording angel had written
down the crime of murder against their souls, in letters
as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, he still
slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow of death
when it hung over him, nor of the glow of renewed
life, when that shadow was withdrawn.

   He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An
hour's repose had snatched, from his elastic frame, the
weariness with which many hours of toil had burthen-
ed it. Now, he stirred -- now, moved his lips, without
a sound -- now, talked, in an inward tone, to the noon-
day spectres of his dream. But a noise of wheels
came rattling louder and louder along the road, until
it dashed through the dispersing mist of David's slum-
ber -- and there was the stage coach. He started up,
with all his ideas about him.

   `Halloo, driver! -- Take a passenger?' shouted he

   `Room on top!' answered the driver.

   Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily to-
wards Boston, without so much as a parting glance at
that fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. He knew not
that a phantom of wealth had thrown a golden hue
upon its waters -- nor that one of love had sighed softly
to their murmur -- nor that one of death had threatened
to crimson them with his blood -- all, in the brief hour

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since he lay down to sleep. Sleeping or waking, we
hear not the airy footsteps of the strange things that
almost happen. Does it not argue a superintending
Providence, that, while viewless and unexpected events
thrust themselves continually athwart our path, there
should still be regularity enough, in mortal life, to
render foresight even partially available?

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SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE.
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SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE.

   

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   So! I have climbed high, and my reward is small.
Here I stand, with wearied knees, earth, indeed, at
a dizzy depth below, but heaven far, far beyond me
still. O that I could soar up into the very zenith,
where man never breathed, nor eagle ever flew, and
where the ethereal azure melts away from the eye, and
appears only a deepened shade of nothingness! And
yet I shiver at that cold and solitary thought. What
clouds are gathering in the golden west, with direful
intent against the brightness and the warmth of this
summer afternoon! They are ponderous air-ships,
black as death, and freighted with the tempest; and
at intervals their thunder, the signal-guns of that un-
earthly squadron, rolls distant along the deep of heaven.
These nearer heaps of fleecy vapor -- methinks I could
roll and toss upon them the whole day long! -- seem
scattered here and there, for the repose of tired pil-
grims through the sky. Perhaps -- for who can tell? --

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beautiful spirits are disporting themselves there, and
will bless my mortal eye with the brief appearance of
their curly locks of golden light, and laughing faces,
fair and faint as the people of a rosy dream. Or,
where the floating mass so imperfectly obstructs the
color of the firmament, a slender foot and fairy limb,
resting too heavily upon the frail support, may be thrust
through, and suddenly withdrawn, while longing fancy
follows them in vain. Yonder again is an airy arch-
ipelago, where the sunbeams love to linger in their
journeyings through space. Every one of those little
clouds has been dipped and steeped in radiance, which
the slightest pressure might disengage in silvery pro-
fusion, like water wrung from a sea-maid's hair. Bright
they are as a young man's visions, and like them,
would be realized in chillness, obscurity and tears.
I will look on them no more.

   In three parts of the visible circle, whose centre is
this spire, I discern cultivated fields, villages, white
country-seats, the waving lines of rivulets, little placid
lakes, and here and there a rising ground, that would
fain be termed a hill. On the fourth side is the sea,
stretching away towards a viewless boundary, blue and
calm, except where the passing anger of a shadow flits
across its surface, and is gone. Hitherward, a broad
inlet penetrates far into the land; on the verge of the
harbor, formed by its extremity, is a town; and over
it am I, a watchman, all-heeding and unheeded. O
that the multitude of chimneys could speak, like those

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of Madrid, and betray in smoky whispers, the secrets
of all who, since their first foundation, have assembled
at the hearths within! O that the Limping Devil of
Le Sage would perch beside me here, extend his wand
over this contiguity of roofs, uncover every chamber,
and make me familiar with their inhabitants! The
most desirable mode of existence might be that of a
spiritualized Paul Pry, hovering invisible round man
and woman, witnessing their deeds, searching into
their hearts, borrowing brightness from their felicity,
and shade from their sorrow, and retaining no emotion
peculiar to himself. But none of these things are
possible; and if I would know the interior of brick
walls, or the mystery of human bosoms, I can but
guess.

   Yonder is a fair street, extending north and south.
The stately mansions are placed each on its carpet of
verdant grass, and a long flight of steps descends from
every door to the pavement. Ornamental trees, the
broad-leafed horse-chestnut, the elm so lofty and bend-
ing, the graceful but infrequent willow, and others
whereof I know not the names, grow thrivingly among
brick and stone. The oblique rays of the sun are in-
tercepted by these green citizens, and by the houses,
so that one side of the street is a shaded and pleasant
walk. On its whole extent there is now but a single
passenger, advancing from the upper end; and he,
unless distance, and the medium of a pocket spyglass
do him more than justice, is a fine young man of

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twenty. He saunters slowly forward, slapping his left
hand with his folded gloves, bending his eyes upon the
pavement, and sometimes raising them to throw a
glance before him. Certainly, he has a pensive air.
Is he in doubt, or in debt? Is he, if the question be
allowable, in love? Does he strive to be melancholy
and gentlemanlike? -- Or, is he merely overcome by
the heat? But I bid him farewell, for the present.
The door of one of the houses, an aristocratic edifice,
with curtains of purple and gold waving from the
windows, is now opened, and down the steps come
two ladies, swinging their parasols, and lightly arrayed
for a summer ramble. Both are young, both are
pretty; but methinks the left hand lass is the fairer of
the twain; and though she be so serious at this
moment, I could swear that there is a treasure of gentle
fun within her. They stand talking a little while upon
the steps, and finally proceed up the street. Meantime,
as their faces are now turned from me, I may look
elsewhere.

   Upon that wharf, and down the corresponding street,
is a busy contrast to the quiet scene which I have just
noticed. Business evidently has its centre there, and
many a man is wasting the summer afternoon in labor
and anxiety, in losing riches, or in gaining them, when
he would be wiser to flee away to some pleasant
country village, or shaded lake in the forest, or wild
and cool sea-beach. I see vessels unlading at the
wharf, and precious merchandise strown upon the

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ground, abundantly as at the bottom of the sea, that
market whence no goods return, and where there is
no captain nor supercargo to render an account of
sales. Here, the clerks are diligent with their paper
and pencils, and sailors ply the block and tackle that
hang over the hold, accompanying their toil with cries,
long-drawn and roughly melodious, till the bales and
puncheons ascend to upper air. At a little distance, a
group of gentlemen are assembled round the door of a
warehouse. Grave seniors be they, and I would wager
-- if it were safe, in these times, to be responsible for
any one -- that the least eminent among them, might
vie with old Vincentio, that incomparable trafficker of
Pisa. I can even select the wealthiest of the company.
It is the elderly personage in somewhat rusty black,
with powdered hair, the superfluous whiteness of which
is visible upon the cape of his coat. His twenty ships
are wafted on some of their many courses by every
breeze that blows, and his name -- I will venture to say,
though I know it not -- is a familiar sound among the
far separated merchants of Europe and the Indies.

   But I bestow too much of my attention in this quarter.
On looking again to the long and shady walk, I per-
ceive that the two fair girls have encountered the
young man. After a sort of shyness in the recognition,
he turns back with them. Moreover, he has sanction-
ed my taste in regard to his companions by placing
himself on the inner side of the pavement, nearest the
Venus to whom I -- enacting, on a steeple-top, the part

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of Paris on the top of Ida -- adjudged the golden
apple.

   In two streets, converging at right angles towards
my watchtower, I distinguish three different proces-
sions. One is a proud array of voluntary soldiers in
bright uniform, resembling, from the height whence I
look down, the painted veterans that garrison the
windows of a toyshop. And yet, it stirs my heart;
their regular advance, their nodding plumes, the sun-
flash on their bayonets and musket-barrels, the roll of
their drums ascending past me, and the fife ever and
anon piercing through -- these things have wakened a
warlike fire, peaceful though I be. Close to their rear
marches a battalion of schoolboys, ranged in crooked
and irregular platoons, shouldering sticks, thumping a
harsh and unripe clatter from an instrument of tin, and
ridiculously aping the intricate manoeuvres of the
foremost band. Nevertheless, as slight differences are
scarcely perceptible from a church spire, one might be
tempted to ask, `Which are the boys?' -- or rather,
`Which the men?' But, leaving these, let us turn to
the third procession, which, though sadder in outward
show, may excite identical reflections in the thoughtful
mind. It is a funeral. A hearse, drawn by a black
and bony steed, and covered by a dusty pall; two or
three coaches rumbling over the stones, their drivers
half asleep; a dozen couple of careless mourners in
their every-day attire; such was not the fashion of our
fathers, when they carried a friend to his grave. There

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is now no doleful clang of the bell, to proclaim sorrow to
the town. Was the King of Terrors more awful in
those days than in our own, that wisdom and philosophy
have been able to produce this change? Not so.
Here is a proof that he retains his proper majesty.
The military men, and the military boys, are wheeling
round the corner, and meet the funeral full in the face.
Immediately the drum is silent, all but the tap that
regulates each simultaneous foot-fall. The soldiers
yield the path to the dusty hearse, and unpretending
train, and the children quit their ranks, and cluster on
the sidewalks, with timorous and instinctive curiosity.
The mourners enter the churchyard at the base of the
steeple, and pause by an open grave among the burial
stones; the lightning glimmers on them as they lower
down the coffin, and the thunder rattles heavily while
they throw the earth upon its lid. Verily, the shower
is near, and I tremble for the young man and the girls,
who have now disappeared from the long and shady
street.

   How various are the situations of the people covered
by the roofs beneath me, and how diversified are the
events at this moment befalling them! The new-born,
the aged, the dying, the strong in life, and the recent
dead, are in the chambers of these many mansions. The
full of hope, the happy, the miserable, and the des-
perate, dwell together within the circle of my glance.
In some of the houses over which my eyes roam so
coldly, guilt is entering into hearts that are still tenanted

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by a debased and trodden virtue, -- guilt is on the
very edge of commission, and the impending deed
might be averted; guilt is done, and the criminal
wonders if it be irrevocable. There are broad thoughts
struggling in my mind, and, were I able to give them
distinctness, they would make their way in eloquence.
Lo! the rain-drops are descending.

   The clouds, within a little time, have gathered over
all the sky, hanging heavily, as if about to drop in one
unbroken mass upon the earth. At intervals, the
lightning flashes from their brooding hearts, quivers,
disappears, and then comes the thunder, travelling
slowly after its twin-born flame. A strong wind has
sprung up, howls through the darkened streets, and
raises the dust in dense bodies, to rebel against the
approaching storm. The disbanded soldiers fly, the
funeral has already vanished like its dead, and all
people hurry homeward -- all that have a home; while
a few lounge by the corners, or trudge on desperately,
at their leisure. In a narrow lane which communi-
cates with the shady street, I discern the rich old
merchant, putting himself to the top of his speed, lest
the rain should convert his hair-powder to a paste.
Unhappy gentleman! By the slow vehemence, and
painful moderation wherewith he journeys, it is but
too evident that Podagra has left its thrilling tender-
ness in his great toe. But yonder, at a far more rapid
pace, come three other of my acquaintance, the two
pretty girls and the young man, unseasonably interrupted

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in their walk. Their footsteps are supported by
the risen dust, the wind lends them its velocity, they
fly like three sea-birds driven landward by the tem-
pestuous breeze. The ladies would not thus rival
Atalanta, if they but knew that any one were at leisure
to observe them. Ah! as they hasten onward, laugh-
ing in the angry face of nature, a sudden catastrophe
has chanced. At the corner where the narrow lane
enters into the street, they come plump against the old
merchant, whose tortoise motion has just brought him
to that point. He likes not the sweet encounter; the
darkness of the whole air gathers speedily upon his
visage, and there is a pause on both sides. Finally he
thrusts aside the youth with little courtesy, seizes an
arm of each of the two girls, and plods onward, like a
magician with a prize of captive fairies. All this is
easy to be understood. How disconsolate the poor
lover stands! regardless of the rain that threatens an
exceeding damage to his well-fashioned habiliments, till
he catches a backward glance of mirth from a bright
eye, and turns away with whatever comfort it conveys.

   The old man and his daughters are safely housed,
and now the storm lets loose its fury. In every dwell-
ing I perceive the faces of the chambermaids as they
shut down the windows, excluding the impetuous
shower, and shrinking away from the quick fiery glare.
The large drops descend with force upon the slated
roofs, and rise again in smoke. There is a rush and
roar, as of a river through the air, and muddy streams

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bubble majestically along the pavement, whirl their
dusky foam into the kennel, and disappear beneath
iron grates. Thus did Arethusa sink. I love not
my station here aloft, in the midst of the tumult
which I am powerless to direct or quell, with the blue
lightning wrinkling on my brow, and the thunder mut-
tering its first awful syllables in my ear. I will descend.
Yet let me give another glance to the sea, where the
foam breaks out in long white lines upon a broad ex-
panse of blackness, or boils up in far distant points,
like snowy mountain-tops in the eddies of a flood; and
let me look once more at the green plain, and little
hills of the country, over which the giant of the storm
is striding in robes of mist, and at the town, whose
obscured and desolate streets might beseem a city of
the dead: and turning a single moment to the sky,
now gloomy as an author's prospects, I prepare to
resume my station on lower earth. But stay! A
little speck of azure has widened in the western
heavens; the sunbeams find a passage, and go rejoicing
through the tempest; and on yonder darkest cloud,
born, like hallowed hopes, of the glory of another world,
and the trouble and tears of this, brightens forth the
Rainbow!

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THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE
HILLS.
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Page 285

THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE
HILLS.

   

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   In those strange old times, when fantastic dreams
and madmen's reveries were realized among the actual
circumstances of life, two persons met together at an
appointed hour and place. One was a lady, graceful
in form and fair of feature, though pale and troubled,
and smitten with an untimely blight in what should
have been the fullest bloom of her years; the other
was an ancient and meanly dressed woman, of ill-fa-
vored aspect, and so withered, shrunken and decrepit,
that even the space since she began to decay must
have exceeded the ordinary term of human existence.
In the spot where they encountered, no mortal could
observe them. Three little hills stood near each other,
and down in the midst of them sunk a hollow basin,
almost mathematically circular, two or three hundred
feet in breadth, and of such depth that a stately cedar

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might but just be visible above the sides. Dwarf pines
were numerous upon the hills, and partly fringed the
outer verge of the intermediate hollow; within which
there was nothing but the brown grass of October, and
here and there a tree-trunk, that had fallen long ago,
and lay mouldering with no green successor from its
roots. One of these masses of decaying wood, for-
merly a majestic oak, rested close beside a pool of
green and sluggish water at the bottom of the basin.
Such scenes as this (so gray tradition tells) were once
the resort of a Power of Evil and his plighted sub-
jects; and here, at midnight or on the dim verge of
evening, they were said to stand round the mantling
pool, disturbing its putrid waters in the performance
of an impious baptismal rite. The chill beauty of an
autumnal sunset was now gilding the three hill-tops,
whence a paler tint stole down their sides into the
hollow.

   `Here is our pleasant meeting come to pass,' said
the aged crone, `according as thou hast desired. Say
quickly what thou wouldst have of me, for there is but
a short hour that we may tarry here.'

   As the old withered woman spoke, a smile glimmer-
ed on her countenance, like lamplight on the wall of
a sepulchre. The lady trembled, and cast her eyes
upward to the verge of the basin, as if meditating to
return with her purpose unaccomplished. But it was
not so ordained.

   `I am stranger in this land, as you know,' said she

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at length. `Whence I come it matters not; -- but I
have left those behind me with whom my fate was
intimately bound, and from whom I am cut off for ever.
There is a weight in my bosom that I cannot away
with, and I have come hither to inquire of their wel-
fare.'

   `And who is there by this green pool, that can
bring thee news from the ends of the Earth?' cried
the old woman, peering into the lady's face. `Not
from my lips mayst thou hear these tidings; yet, be
thou bold, and the daylight shall not pass away from
yonder hill-top, before thy wish be granted.'

   `I will do your bidding though I die,' replied the
lady desperately.

   The old woman seated herself on the trunk of the
fallen tree, threw aside the hood that shrouded her
gray locks, and beckoned her companion to draw near.

   `Kneel down,' she said, `and lay your forehead on
my knees.'

   She hesitated a moment, but the anxiety, that had
long been kindling, burned fiercely up within her. As
she knelt down, the border of her garment was dipped
into the pool; she laid her forehead on the old
woman's knees, and the latter drew a cloak about the
lady's face, so that she was in darkness. Then she
heard the muttered words of a prayer, in the midst of
which she started, and would have arisen.

   `Let me flee, -- let me flee and hide myself, that they
may not look upon me!' she cried. But, with return-

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ing recollection, she hushed herself, and was still as
death.

   For it seemed as if other voices, -- familiar in infancy,
and unforgotten through many wanderings, and in
all the vicissitudes of her heart and fortune -- were
mingling with the accents of the prayer. At first the
words were faint and indistinct, not rendered so by
distance, but rather resembling the dim pages of a
book, which we strive to read by an imperfect and
gradually brightening light. In such a manner, as the
prayer proceeded, did those voices strengthen upon
the ear; till at length the petition ended, and the con-
versation of an aged man, and of a woman broken and
decayed like himself, became distinctly audible to the
lady as she knelt. But those strangers appeared not
to stand in the hollow depth between the three hills.
Their voices were encompassed and re-echoed by the
walls of a chamber, the windows of which were rattling
in the breeze; the regular vibration of a clock, the
crackling of a fire, and the tinkling of the embers as
they fell among the ashes, rendred the scene almost
as vivid as if painted to the eye. By a melancholy
hearth sat these two old people, the man calmly de-
spondent, the woman querulous and tearful, and their
words were all of sorrow. They spoke of a daughter,
a wanderer they knew not where, bearing dishonor
along with her, and leaving shame and affliction to
bring their gray heads to the grave. They alluded
also to other and more recent woe, but in the midst of

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their talk, their voices seemed to melt into the sound
of the wind sweeping mournfully among the autumn
leaves; and when the lady lifted her eyes, there was
she kneeling in the hollow between three hills.

   `A weary and lonesome time yonder old couple
have of it,' remarked the old woman, smiling in the
lady's face.

   `And did you also hear them!' exclaimed she, a
sense of intolerable humiliation triumphing over her
agony and fear.

   `Yea; and we have yet more to hear,' replied the
old woman. `Wherefore, cover thy face quickly.'

   Again the withered hag poured forth the monoto-
nous words of a prayer that was not meant to be
acceptable in Heaven; and soon, in the pauses of her
breath, strange murmurings began to thicken, gradu-
ally increasing so as to drown and overpower the
charm by which they grew. Shrieks pierced through
the obscurity of sound, and were succeeded by the
singing of sweet female voices, which in their turn
gave way to a wild roar of laughter, broken suddenly
by groanings and sobs, forming altogether a ghastly
confusion of terror and mourning and mirth. Chains
were rattling, fierce and stern voices uttered threats,
and the scourge resounded at their command. All
these noises deepened and became substantial to the
listener's ear, till she could distinguish every soft and
dreamy accent of the love songs, that died causelessly
into funeral hymns. She shuddered at the unprovoked

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wrath which blazed up like the spontaneous kindling
of flame, and she grew faint at the fearful merriment,
raging miserably around her. In the midst of this
wild scene, where unbound passions jostled each other
in a drunken career, there was one solemn voice of a
man, and a manly and melodious voice it might once
have been. He went to-and-fro continually, and his
feet sounded upon the floor. In each member of that
frenzied company, whose own burning thoughts had
become their exclusive world, he sought an auditor for
the story of his individual wrong, and interpreted their
laughter and tears as his reward of scorn or pity. He
spoke of woman's perfidy, of a wife who had broken
her holiest vows, of a home and heart made desolate.
Even as he went on, the shout, the laugh, the shriek,
the sob, rose up in unison, till they changed into the
hollow, fitful, and uneven sound of the wind, as it
fought among the pine trees on those three lonely hills.
The lady looked up, and there was the withered
woman smiling in her face.

   `Couldst thou have thought there were such merry
times in a Mad House?' inquired the latter.

   `True, true,' said the lady to herself; `there is
mirth within its walls, but misery, misery without.'

   `Wouldst thou hear more?' demanded the old
woman.

   `There is one other voice I would fain listen to
again,' replied the lady faintly.

   Then lay down thy head speedily upon my knees,

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that thou mayst get thee hence before the hour be
past.'

   The golden skirts of day were yet lingering upon
the hills, but deep shades obscured the hollow and the
pool, as if sombre night were rising thence to over-
spread the world. Again that evil woman began to
weave her spell. Long did it proceed unanswered, till
the knolling of a bell stole in among the intervals of
her words, like a clang that had travelled far over
valley and rising ground, and was just ready to die in
the air. The lady shook upon her companion's knees,
as she heard that boding sound. Stronger it grew and
sadder, and deepened into the tone of a death-bell,
knolling dolefully from some ivy-mantled tower, and
bearing tidings of mortality and woe to the cottage, to
the hall, and to the solitary wayfarer, that all might
weep for the doom appointed in turn to them. Then
came a measured tread, passing slowly, slowly on, as
of mourners with a coffin, their garments trailing on
the ground, so that the ear could measure the length
of their melancholy array. Before them went the
priest, reading the burial-service, while the leaves of
his book were rustling in the breeze. And though
no voice but his was heard to speak aloud, still there
were revilings and anathemas, whispered but distinct,
from women and from men, breathed against the
daughter who had wrung the aged hearts of her pa-
rents, -- the wife who had betrayed the trusting fond-
ness of her husband, -- the mother who had sinned

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against natural affection, and left her child to die.
The sweeping sound of the funeral train faded away
like a thin vapor, and the wind, that just before had
seemed to shake the coffin-pall, moaned sadly round
the verge of the Hollow between three Hills. But
when the old woman stirred the kneeling lady, she
lifted not her head.

   `Here has been a sweet hour's sport!' said the
withered crone, chuckling to herself.

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THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN.
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Page 295

THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN.

   

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   At fifteen, I became a resident in a country village,
more than a hundred miles from home. The morning
after my arrival -- a September morning, but warm and
bright as any in July -- I rambled into a wood of oaks,
with a few walnut trees intermixed, forming the closest
shade above my head. The ground was rocky, uneven,
overgrown with bushes and clumps of young saplings,
and traversed only by cattle-paths. The track, which
I chanced to follow, led me to a crystal spring, with a
border of grass, as freshly green as on May morning,
and overshadowed by the limb of a great oak. One
solitary sunbeam found its way down, and played like
a goldfish in the water.

   From my childhood, I have loved to gaze into a
spring. The water filled a circular basin, small, but
deep, and set round with stones, some of which were
covered with slimy moss, the others naked, and of
variegated hue, reddish, white, and brown. The bot-

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tom was covered with coarse sand, which sparkled
in the lonely sunbeam, and seemed to illuminate the
spring with an unborrowed light. In one spot,
the gush of the water violently agitated the sand,
but without obscuring the fountain, or breaking the
glassiness of its surface. It appeared as if some living
creature were about to emerge, the Naiad of the spring,
perhaps, in the shape of a beautiful young woman, with
a gown of filmy water-moss, a belt of rainbow drops,
and a cold, pure, passionless countenance. How would
the beholder shiver, pleasantly, yet fearfully, to see her
sitting on one of the stones, paddling her white feet in
the ripples, and throwing up water, to sparkle in the
sun! Wherever she laid her hands on grass and flowers,
they would immediately be moist, as with morning
dew. Then would she set about her labors, like a
careful housewife, to clear the fountain of withered
leaves, and bits of slimy wood, and old acorns from
the oaks above, and grains of corn left by cattle in
drinking, till the bright sand, in the bright water, were
like a treasury of diamonds. But, should the intruder
approach too near, he would find only the drops of a
summer shower, glistening about the spot where he
had seen her.

   Reclining on the border of grass, where the dewy
goddess should have been, I bent forward, and a pair
of eyes met mine within the watery mirror. They
were the reflection of my own. I looked again, and
lo! another face, deeper in the fountain than my own

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image, more distinct in all the features, yet faint as
thought. The vision had the aspect of a fair young
girl, with locks of paly gold. A mirthful expression
laughed in the eyes and dimpled over the whole sha-
dowy countenance, till it seemed just what a fountain
would be, if, while dancing merrily into the sunshine,
it should assume the shape of woman. Through the
dim rosiness of the cheeks, I could see the brown
leaves, the slimy twigs, the acorns, and the sparkling
sand. The solitary sunbeam was diffused among the
golden hair, which melted into its faint brightness, and
became a glory round that head so beautiful!

   My description can give no idea how suddenly the
fountain was thus tenanted, and how soon it was left
desolate. I breathed; and there was the face! I held
my breath; and it was gone! Had it passed away, or
faded into nothing? I doubted whether it had ever
been.

   My sweet readers, what a dreamy and delicious hour
did I spend, where that vision found and left me!
For a long time, I sat perfectly still, waiting till it
should reappear, and fearful that the slightest motion,
or even the flutter of my breath, might frighten it
away. Thus have I often started from a pleasant
dream, and then kept quiet, in hopes to wile it back.
Deep were my musings, as to the race and attributes
of that ethereal being. Had I created her? Was she
the daughter of my fancy, akin to those strange shapes
which peep under the lids of children's eyes? And

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did her beauty gladden me, for that one moment, and
then die? Or was she a water-nymph within the foun-
tain, or fairy, or woodland goddess, peeping over my
shoulder, or the ghost of some forsaken maid, who had
drowned herself for love? Or, in good truth, had a
lovely girl, with a warm heart, and lips that would
bear pressure, stolen softly behind me, and thrown her
image into the spring?

   I watched and waited, but no vision came again. I
departed, but with a spell upon me, which drew me
back, that same afternoon, to the haunted spring. There
was the water gushing, the sand sparkling, and the
sunbeam glimmering. There the vision was not, but
only a great frog, the hermit of that solitude, who
immediately withdrew his speckled snout and made
himself invisible, all except a pair of long legs, beneath
a stone. Methought he had a devilish look! I could
have slain him as an enchanter, who kept the myste-
rious beauty imprisoned in the fountain.

   Sad and heavy, I was returning to the village. Be-
tween me and the church spire, rose a little hill, and
on its summit a group of trees, insulated from all the
rest of the wood, with their own share of radiance
hovering on them from the west, and their own solitary
shadow falling to the east. The afternoon being far
declined, the sunshine was almost pensive, and the
shade almost cheerful; glory and gloom were mingled
in the placid light; as if the spirits of the Day and
Evening had met in friendship under those trees, and

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found themselves akin. I was admiring the picture,
when the shape of a young girl emerged from behind
the clump of oaks. My heart knew her; it was the
Vision; but so distant and ethereal did she seem, so
unmixed with earth, so imbued with the pensive glory
of the spot where she was standing, that my spirit
sunk within me, sadder than before. How could I
ever reach her!

   While I gazed, a sudden shower came pattering down
upon the leaves. In a moment the air was full of
brightness, each rain-drop catching a portion of sun-
light as it fell, and the whole gentle shower appearing
like a mist, just substantial enough to bear the burthen
of radiance. A rainbow, vivid as Niagara's, was painted
in the air. Its southern limb came down before the
group of trees, and enveloped the fair Vision, as if the
hues of Heaven were the only garment for her beauty.
When the rainbow vanished, she, who had seemed a
part of it, was no longer there. Was her existence
absorbed in nature's loveliest phenomenon, and did
her pure frame dissolve away in the varied light? Yet,
I would not despair of her return; for, robed in the
rainbow, she was the emblem of Hope.

   Thus did the Vision leave me; and many a doleful
day succeeded to the parting moment. By the spring,
and in the wood, and on the hill, and through the
village; at dewy sunrise, burning noon, and at that
magic hour of sunset, when she had vanished from my
sight, I sought her, but in vain. Weeks came and

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went, months rolled away, and she appeared not in
them. I imparted my mystery to none, but wandered
to-and-fro, or sat in solitude, like one that had caught
a glimpse of Heaven, and could take no more joy on
earth. I withdrew into an inner world, where my
thoughts lived and breathed, and the Vision in the
midst of them. Without intending it, I became at
once the author and hero of a romance, conjuring up
rivals, imagining events, the actions of others and my
own, and experiencing every change of passion, till
jealousy and despair had their end in bliss. Oh, had I
the burning fancy of my early youth, with manhood's
colder gift, the power of expression, your hearts, sweet
ladies, should flutter at my tale!

   In the middle of January, I was summoned home.
The day before my departure, visiting the spots which
had been hallowed by the Vision, I found that the
spring had a frozen bosom, and nothing but the snow
and a glare of winter sunshine, on the hill of the rain-
bow. `Let me hope,' thought I, `or my heart will be
as icy as the fountain, and the whole world as desolate
as this snowy hill.' Most of the day was spent in pre-
paring for the journey, which was to commence at four
o'clock the next morning. About an hour after supper,
when all was in readiness, I descended from my cham-
ber to the sitting-room, to take leave of the old cler-
gyman and his family, with whom I had been an inmate.
A gust of wind blew out my lamp as I passed through
the entry.

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   According to their invariable custom, so pleasant a
one when the fire blazes cheerfully, the family were
sitting in the parlor, with no other light than what
came from the hearth. As the good clergyman's scanty
stipend compelled him to use all sorts of economy, the
foundation of his fires was always a large heap of tan,
or ground bark, which would smoulder away, from
morning till night, with a dull warmth and no flame.
This evening, the heap of tan was newly put on, and
surmounted with three sticks of red oak, full of moist-
ure, and a few pieces of dry pine, that had not yet
kindled. There was no light, except the little that
came sullenly from two half-burnt brands, without even
glimmering on the andirons. But I knew the position
of the old minister's arm-chair, and also where his wife
sat, with her knitting-work, and how to avoid his two
daughters, one a stout country lass, and the other a
consumptive girl. Groping through the gloom, I found
my own place next to that of the son, a learned colle-
gian, who had come home to keep school in the village
during the winter vacation. I noticed that there was
less room than usual, to-night, between the collegian's
chair and mine.

   As people are always taciturn in the dark, not a
word was said for sometime after my entrance. No-
thing broke the stillness but the regular click of the
matron's knitting-needles. At times, the fire threw
out a brief and dusky gleam, which twinkled on the
old man's glasses, and hovered doubtfully round our

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circle, but was far too faint to portray the individuals
who composed it. Were we not like ghosts? Dreamy
as the scene was, might it not be a type of the mode
in which departed people, who had known and loved
each other here, would hold communion in eternity?
We were aware of each other's presence, not by sight,
nor sound, nor touch, but by an inward consciousness.
Would it not be so among the dead?

   The silence was interrupted by the consumptive
daughter, addressing a remark to some one in the cir-
cle, whom she called Rachel. Her tremulous and
decayed accents were answered by a single word, but
in a voice that made me start, and bend towards the
spot whence it had proceeded. Had I ever heard that
sweet, low tone? If not, why did it rouse up so many
old recollections, or mockeries of such, the shadows of
things familiar, yet unknown, and fill my mind with
confused images of her features who had spoken,
though buried in the gloom of the parlor? Whom
had my heart recognised, that it throbbed so? I lis-
tened, to catch her gentle breathing, and strove, by
the intensity of my gaze, to picture forth a shape where
none was visible.

   Suddenly, the dry pine caught; the fire blazed up
with a ruddy glow; and where the darkness had been,
there was she -- the Vision of the Fountain! A spirit
of radiance only, she had vanished with the rainbow,
and appeared again in the fire-light, perhaps to flicker
with the blaze, and be gone. Yet, her cheek was rosy

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and life-like, and her features, in the bright warmth of
the room, were even sweeter and tenderer than my
recollection of them. She knew me! The mirthful
expression, that had laughed in her eyes and dimpled
over her countenance, when I beheld her faint beauty
in the fountain, was laughing and dimpling there now.
One moment, our glance mingled -- the next, down
rolled the heap of tan upon the kindled wood -- and
darkness snatched away that daughter of the light, and
gave her back to me no more!

   Fair ladies, there is nothing more to tell. Must the
simple mystery be revealed, then, that Rachel was the
daughter of the village 'Squire, and had left home for
a boarding-school, the morning after I arrived, and
returned the day before my departure? If I trans-
formed her to an angel, it is what every youthful lover
does for his mistress. Therein consists the essence of
my story. But, slight the change, sweet maids, to
make angels of yourselves!

   

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FANCY'S SHOW BOX.
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Page 307

FANCY'S SHOW BOX.
A MORALITY.

   

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   What is Guilt? A stain upon the soul. And it is
a point of vast interest, whether the soul may contract
such stains, in all their depth and flagrancy, from
deeds which have been plotted and resolved upon, but
which, physically, have never had existence. Must
the fleshly hand, and visible frame of man, set its seal
to the evil designs of the soul, in order to give them
their entire validity against the sinner? Or, while none
but crimes perpetrated are cognizable before an earthly
tribunal, will guilty thoughts -- of which guilty deeds
are no more than shadows -- will these draw down the
full weight of a condemning sentence, in the supreme
court of eternity? In the solitude of a midnight
chamber, or in a desert, afar from men, or in a church,
while the body is kneeling, the soul may pollute itself
even with those crimes, which we are accustomed to

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deem altogether carnal. If this be true, it is a fearful
truth.

   Let us illustrate the subject by an imaginary example.
A venerable gentleman, one Mr. Smith, who had long
been regarded as a pattern of moral excellence, was
warming his aged blood with a glass or two of generous
wine. His children being gone forth about their
worldly business, and his grandchildren at school, he
sat alone, in a deep, luxurious arm chair, with his feet
beneath a richly carved mahogany table. Some old
people have a dread of solitude, and when better com-
pany may not be had, rejoice even to hear the quiet
breathing of a babe, asleep upon the carpet. But Mr.
Smith, whose silver hair was the bright symbol of a life
unstained, except by such spots as are inseparable from
human nature, he had no need of a babe to protect
him by its purity, nor of a grown person, to stand
between him and his own soul. Nevertheless, either
Manhood must converse with Age, or Womanhood
must soothe him with gentle cares, or Infancy must
sport around his chair, or his thoughts will stray into
the misty region of the past, and the old man be chill
and sad. Wine will not always cheer him. Such
might have been the case with Mr. Smith, when,
through the brilliant medium of his glass of old Madeira,
he beheld three figures entering the room. These
were Fancy, who had assumed the garb and aspect of
an itinerant showman, with a box of pictures on her
back; and Memory, in the likeness of a clerk, with a

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pen behind her ear, an ink-horn at her button-hole,
and a huge manuscript volume beneath her arm; and
lastly, behind the other two, a person shrouded in a
dusky mantle, which concealed both face and form.
But Mr. Smith had a shrewd idea that it was Con-
science.

   How kind of Fancy, Memory, and Conscience, to
visit the old gentleman, just as he was beginning to
imagine that the wine had neither so bright a sparkle,
nor so excellent a flavor, as when himself and the
liquor were less aged! Through the dim length of
the apartment, where crimson curtains muffled the
glare of sunshine, and created a rich obscurity, the
three guests drew near the silver-haired old man.
Memory, with a finger between the leaves of her huge
volume, placed herself at his right hand. Conscience,
with her face still hidden in the dusky mantle, took
her station on the left, so as to be next his heart; while
Fancy set down her picture-box upon the table, with
the magnifying glass convenient to his eye. We can
sketch merely the outlines of two or three, out of the
many pictures, which at the pulling of a string, succes-
sively peopled the box with the semblances of living
scenes.

   One was a moonlight picture; in the back ground, a
lowly dwelling; and in front, partly shadowed by a
tree, yet besprinkled with flakes of radiance, two
youthful figures, male and female. The young man
stood with folded arms, a haughty smile upon his lip,

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and a gleam of triumph in his eye, as he glanced down
ward at the kneeling girl. She was almost prostrate
at his feet, evidently sinking under a weight of shame
and anguish, which hardly allowed her to lift her
clasped hands in supplication. Her eyes she could not
lift. But neither her agony, nor the lovely features on
which it was depicted, nor the slender grace of the
form which it convulsed, appeared to soften the obdu-
racy of the young man. He was the personification of
triumphant scorn. Now, strange to say, as old Mr.
Smith peeped through the magnifying glass, which
made the objects start out from the canvas with magical
deception, he began to recognise the farm-house, the
tree, and both the figures of the picture. The young
man, in times long past, had often met his gaze within
the looking-glass; the girl was the very image of his
first love -- his cottage-love -- his Martha Burroughs!
Mr. Smith was scandalized. `Oh, vile and slanderous
picture!' he exclaims. `When have I triumphed over
ruined innocence? Was not Martha wedded, in her
teens, to David Tomkins, who won her girlish love, and
long enjoyed her affection as a wife? And ever since
his death, she has lived a reputable widow!' Mean-
time, Memory was turning over the leaves of her
volume, rustling them to and fro with uncertain fingers,
until, among the earlier pages, she found one which
had reference to this picture. She reads it, close to
the old gentleman's ear; it is a record merely of sinful
thought, which never was embodied in an act; but,

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while Memory is reading, Conscience unveils her face,
and strikes a dagger to the heart of Mr. Smith. Though
not a death-blow, the torture was extreme.

   The exhibition proceeded. One after another, Fancy
displayed her pictures, all of which appeared to have
been painted by some malicious artist, on purpose to
vex Mr. Smith. Not a shadow of proof could have
been adduced, in any earthly court, that he was guilty
of the slightest of those sins which were thus made to
stare him in the face. In one scene, there was a table
set out, with several bottles, and glasses half filled with
wine, which threw back the dull ray of an expiring
lamp. There had been mirth and revelry, until the
hand of the clock stood just at midnight, when Murder
stept between the boon companions. A young man
had fallen on the floor, and lay stone dead, with a
ghastly wound crushed into his temple, while over him,
with a delirium of mingled rage and horror in his
countenance, stood the youthful likeness of Mr. Smith.
The murdered youth wore the features of Edward
Spencer! `What does this rascal of a painter mean?'
cries Mr. Smith, provoked beyond all patience. ` Ed-
ward Spencer was my earliest and dearest friend, true
to me as I to him, through more than half a century.
Neither I, nor any other, ever murdered him. Was
he not alive within five years, and did he not, in token
of our long friendship, bequeath me his gold-headed
cane, and a mourning ring?' Again had Memory
been turning over her volume, and fixed at length upon

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so confused a page, that she surely must have scribbled
it when she was tipsy. The purport was, however,
that, while Mr. Smith and Edward Spencer were
heating their young blood with wine, a quarrel had
flashed up between them, and Mr. Smith, in deadly
wrath, had flung a bottle at Spencer's head. True, it
missed its aim, and merely smashed a looking-glass;
and the next morning, when the incident was imper-
fectly remembered, they had shaken hands with a
hearty laugh. Yet, again, while Memory was reading,
Conscience unveiled her face, struck a dagger to the
heart of Mr. Smith, and quelled his remonstrance
with her iron frown. The pain was quite excrucia-
ting.

   Some of the pictures had been painted with so doubt-
ful a touch, and in colors so faint and pale that the
subjects could barely be conjectured. A dull, semi-
transparent mist had been thrown over the surface of
the canvas, into which the figures seemed to vanish,
while the eye sought most earnestly to fix them. But,
in every scene, however dubiously portrayed, Mr.
Smith was invariably haunted by his own lineaments,
at various ages, as in a dusty mirror. After poring
several minutes over one of these blurred and almost
indistinguishable pictures, he began to see, that the
painter had intended to represent him, now in the
decline of life, as stripping the clothes from the backs
of three half-starved children. `Really, this puzzles
me!' quoth Mr. Smith, with the irony of conscious

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rectitude. `Asking pardon of the painter, I pronounce
him a fool, as well as a scandalous knave. A man of
my standing in the world, to be robbing little children
of their clothes! Ridiculous!' -- But while he spoke,
Memory had searched her fatal volume, and found a
page, which, with her sad, calm voice, she poured into
his ear. It was not altogether inapplicable to the
misty scene. It told how Mr. Smith had been griev-
ously tempted, by many devilish sophistries, on the
ground of a legal quibble, to commence a lawsuit
against three orphan children, joint heirs to a con-
siderable estate. Fortunately, before he was quite
decided, his claims had turned out nearly as devoid of
law, as justice. As Memory ceased to read, Con-
science again thrust aside her mantle, and would have
struck her victim with the envenomed dagger, only
that he struggled, and clasped his hands before his
heart. Even then, however, he sustained an ugly
gash.

   Why should we follow Fancy through the whole
series of those awful pictures? Painted by an artist
of wondrous power, and terrible acquaintance with the
secret soul, they embodied the ghosts of all the never-
perpetrated sins, that had glided through the life-time
of Mr. Smith. And could such beings of cloudy
fantasy, so near akin to nothingness, give valid evi-
dence against him, at the day of judgment? Be that
the case or not, there is reason to believe, that one
truly penitential tear would have washed away each

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hateful picture, and left the canvas white as snow.
But Mr. Smith, at a prick of Conscience too keen to
be endured, bellowed aloud, with impatient agony, and
suddenly discovered that his three guests were gone.
There he sat alone, a silver-haired and highly venera-
ted old man, in the rich gloom of the crimson-curtain-
ed room, with no box of pictures on the table, but
only a decanter of most excellent Madeira. Yet his
heart still seemed to fester with the venom of the
dagger.

   Nevertheless, the unfortunate old gentleman might
have argued the matter with Conscience, and alleged
many reasons wherefore she should not smite him so
pitilessly. Were we to take up his cause, it should
be somewhat in the following fashion. A scheme of
guilt, till it be put in execution, greatly resembles a
train of incidents in a projected tale. The latter, in
order to produce a sense of reality in the reader's mind,
must be conceived with such proportionate strength by
the author as to seem, in the glow of fancy, more like
truth, past, present, or to come, than purely fiction.
The prospective sinner, on the other hand, weaves his
plot of crime, but seldom or never feels a perfect
certainty that it will be executed. There is a dream-
iness diffused about his thoughts; in a dream, as it
were, he strikes the death-blow into his victim's heart,
and starts to find an indelible blood-stain on his hand.
Thus a novel-writer, or a damatist, in creating a villain
of romance, and fitting him with evil deeds, and the

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villain of actual life, in projecting crimes that will be
perpetrated, may almost meet each other, half way
between reality and fancy. It is not until the crime is
accomplished, that guilt clenches its gripe upon the
guilty heart and claims it for its own. Then, and not
before, sin is actually felt and acknowledged, and, if
unaccompanied by repentance, grows a thousand fold
more virulent by its self-consciousness. Be it con-
sidered, also, that men often over-estimate their capacity
for evil. At a distance, while its attendant circum-
stances do not press upon their notice, and its results
are dimly seen, they can bear to contemplate it. They
may take the steps which lead to crime, impelled by
the same sort of mental action as in working out a
mathematical problem, yet be powerless with compunc-
tion, at the final moment. They knew not what deed
it was, that they deemed themselves resolved to do.
In truth, there is no such thing in man's nature, as a
settled and full resolve, either for good or evil, except
at the very moment of execution. Let us hope, there-
fore, that all the dreadful consequences of sin will not
be incurred, unless the act have set its seal upon the
thought.

   Yet, with the slight fancy-work which we have
framed, some sad and awful truths are interwoven.
Man must not disclaim his brotherhood, even with the
guiltiest, since, though his hand be clean, his heart
has surely been polluted by the flitting phantoms of
iniquity. He must feel, that, when he shall knock at

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the gate of Heaven, no semblance of an unspotted life
can entitle him to entrance there. Penitence must
kneel, and Mercy come from the footstool of the throne,
or that golden gate will never open!

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DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERI-
MENT.
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Page 319

DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERI-
MENT.

   

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   That very singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once
invited four venerable friends to meet him in his study.
There were three white-bearded gentlemen, Mr. Med-
bourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, and a
withered gentlewoman, whose name was the Widow
Wycherly. They were all melancholy old creatures,
who had been unfortunate in life, and whose greatest
misfortune it was, that they were not long ago in their
graves. Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had
been a prosperous merchant, but had lost his all by a
frantic speculation, and was now little better than a
mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best
years, and his health and substance, in the pursuit of
sinful pleasures, which had given birth to a brood of
pains, such as the gout, and divers other torments of
soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician,

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a man of evil fame, or at least had been so, till time
had buried him from the knowledge of the present
generation, and made him obscure instead of infamous.
As for the Widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that
she was a great beauty in her day; but, for a long
while past, she had lived in deep seclusion, on account
of certain scandalous stories, which had prejudiced the
gentry of the town against her. It is a circumstance
worth mentioning, that each of these three old gentle-
men, Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr.
Gascoigne, were early lovers of the Widow Wycherly,
and had once been on the point of cutting each other's
throats for her sake. And, before proceeding farther,
I will merely hint, that Dr. Heidegger and all his four
guests were sometimes thought to be a little beside
themselves; as is not unfrequently the case with old
people, when worried either by present troubles or
woful recollections.

   `My dear old friends,' said Dr. Heidegger, motion-
ing them to be seated, `I am desirous of your assistance
in one of those little experiments with which I amuse
myself here in my study.'

   If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger's study must
have been a very curious place. It was a dim, old-
fashioned chamber, festooned with cobwebs, and be-
sprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood
several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which
were filled with rows of gigantic folios, and black-
letter quartos, and the upper with little parchment

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covered duodecimos. Over the central bookcase was
a bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, according to
some authorities, Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to
hold consultations, in all difficult cases of his practice.
In the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall and
narrow oaken closet, with its door ajar, within which
doubtfully appeared a skeleton. Between two of the
bookcases hung a looking-glass, presenting its high
and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame. Among
many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was
fabled that the spirits of all the doctor's deceased
patients dwelt within its verge, and would stare him in
the face whenever he looked thitherward. The op-
posite side of the chamber was ornamented with the
full-length portrait of a young lady, arrayed in the
faded magnificence of silk, satin, and brocade, and
with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half a
century ago, Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of
marriage with this young lady; but, being affected
with some slight disorder, she had swallowed one of
her lover's prescriptions, and died on the bridal eve-
ning. The greatest curiosity of the study remains to
be mentioned; it was a ponderous folio volume, bound
in black leather, with massive silver clasps. There
were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the
title of the book. But it was well known to be a book
of magic; and once, when a chambermaid had lifted
it, merely to brush away the dust, the skeleton had
rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady had

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stepped one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly
faces had peeped forth from the mirror; while the
brazen head of Hippocrates frowned, and said -- ` For-
bear!'

   Such was Dr. Heidegger's study. On the summer
afternoon of our tale, a small round table, as black as
ebony, stood in the centre of the room, sustaining a
cut-glass vase, of beautiful form and elaborate work-
manship. The sunshine came through the window,
between the heavy festoons of two faded damask cur-
tains, and fell directly across this vase; so that a mild
splendor was reflected from it on the ashen visages
of the five old people who sat around. Four cham-
paigne glasses were also on the table.

   `My dear old friends,' repeated Dr. Heidegger,' may
I reckon on your aid in performing an exceedingly
curious experiment?'

   Now Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentle-
man, whose eccentricity had become the nucleus for a
thousand fantastic stories. Some of these fables, to
my shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back
to mine own veracious self; and if any passages of the
present tale should startle the reader's faith, I must be
content to bear the stigma of a fiction-monger.

   When the doctor's four guests heard him talk of his
proposed experiment, they anticipated nothing more
wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an air-pump,
or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or
some similar nonsense, with which he was constantly

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in the habit of pestering his intimates. But without
waiting for a reply, Dr. Heidegger hobbled across the
chamber, and returned with the same ponderous folio,
bound in black leather, which common report affirmed
to be a book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, he
opened the volume, and took from among its black-
letter pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though
now the green leaves and crimson petals had assumed
one brownish hue, and the ancient flower seemed ready
to crumble to dust in the doctor's hands.

   `This rose,' said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, `this
same withered and crumbling flower, blossomed five-
and-fifty years ago. It was given me by Sylvia Ward,
whose portrait hangs yonder; and I meant to wear it
in my bosom at our wedding. Five-and-fifty years it
has been treasured between the leaves of this old
volume. Now, would you deem it possible that this
rose of half a century could ever bloom again?'

   `Nonsense!' said the Widow Wycherly, with a
peevish toss of her head. `You might as well ask
whether an old woman's wrinkled face could ever
bloom again.'

   `See!' answered Dr. Heidegger.

   He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose
into the water which it contained. At first, it lay
lightly on the surface of the fluid, appearing to imbibe
none of its moisture. Soon, however, a singular
change began to be visible. The crushed and dried
petals stirred, and assumed a deepening tinge of crim-

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SMALL | MEDIUM
son, as if the flower were reviving from a death-like
slumber; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage became
green; and there was the rose of half a century, look-
ing as fresh as when Sylvia Ward had first given it to
her lover. It was scarcely full-blown; for some of
its delicate red leaves curled modestly around its moist
bosom, within which two or three dew-drops were
sparkling.

   `That is certainly a very pretty deception,' said the
doctor's friends; carelessly, however, for they had
witnessed greater miracles at a conjurer's show: `pray
how was it effected?'

   `Did you never hear of the "Fountain of Youth?"'
asked Dr. Heidegger, `which Ponce De Leon, the
Spanish adventurer, went in search of, two or three
centuries ago?'

   `But did Ponce De Leon ever find it?' said the
Widow Wycherly.

   `No,' answered Dr. Heidegger, `for he never sought
it in the right place. The famous Fountain of Youth,
if I am rightly informed, is situated in the southern
part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from Lake
Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several gigan-
tic magnolias, which, though numberless centuries
old, have been kept as fresh as violets, by the virtues
of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of mine,
knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent me
what you see in the vase.'

   `Ahem!' said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not

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a word of the doctor's story: `and what may be the
effect of this fluid on the human frame?'

   `You shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel,'
replied Dr. Heidegger; `and all of you, my respect-
ed friends, are welcome to so much of this admirable
fluid, as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For
my own part, having had much trouble in growing
old, I am in no hurry to grow young again. With
your permission, therefore, I will merely watch the
progress of the experiment.'

   While he spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the
four champaigne glasses with the water of the Fountain
of Youth. It was apparently impregnated with an
effervescent gas, for little bubbles were continually
ascending from the depths of the glasses, and bursting
in silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor diffused
a pleasant perfume, the old people doubted not that it
possessed cordial and comfortable properties; and,
though utter skeptics as to its rejuvenescent power,
they were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr.
Heidegger besought them to stay a moment.

   `Before you drink, my respectable old friends,' said
he, `it would be well that, with the experience of a
life-time to direct you, you should draw up a few
general rules for your guidance, in passing a second
time through the perils of youth. Think what a sin
and shame it would be, if, with your peculiar advan-
tages, you should not become patterns of virtue and
wisdom to all the young people of the age!'

---

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SMALL | MEDIUM

   The doctor's four venerable friends made him no
answer, except by a feeble and tremulous laugh; so
very ridiculous was the idea, that, knowing how closely
repentance treads behind the steps of error, they
should ever go astray again.

   `Drink, then,' said the doctor, bowing: `I rejoice
that I have so well selected the subjects of my experi-
ment.

   With palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their
lips. The liquor, if it really possessed such virtues as
Dr. Heidegger imputed to it, could not have been
bestowed on four human beings who needed it more
wofully. They looked as if they had never known
what youth or pleasure was, but had been the offspring
of Nature's dotage, and always the gray, decrepit,
sapless, miserable creatures, who now sat stooping
round the doctor's table, without life enough in their
souls or bodies to be animated even by the prospect
of growing young again. They drank off the water,
and replaced their glasses on the table.

   Assuredly there was an almost immediate improve-
ment in the aspect of the party, not unlike what might
have been produced by a glass of generous wine,
together with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine,
brightening over all their visages at once. There was
a healthful suffusion on their cheeks, instead of the
ashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like.
They gazed at one another, and fancied that some
magic power had really begun to smooth away the

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SMALL | MEDIUM
deep and sad inscriptions which Father Time had
been so long engraving on their brows. The Widow
Wycherly adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a
woman again.

   `Give us more of this wondrous water!' cried they,
eagerly. `We are younger -- but we are still too old!
Quick! -- give us more!'

   `Patience, patience!' quoth Dr. Heidegger, who
sat watching the experiment, with philosophic cool-
ness. `You have been a long time growing old.
Surely, you might be content to grow young in half an
hour! But the water is at your service.'

   Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of youth,
enough of which still remained in the vase to turn half
the old people in the city to the age of their own
grandchildren. While the bubbles were yet sparkling
on the brim, the doctor's four guests snatched their
glasses from the table, and swallowed the contents at
a single gulp. Was it delusion! Even while the
draught was passing down their throats, it seemed to
have wrought a change on their whole systems. Their
eyes grew clear and bright; a dark shade deepened
among their silvery locks; they sat around the table,
three gentlemen, of middle age, and a woman, hardly
beyound her buxom prime.

   `My dear widow, you are charming!' cried Colonel
Killigrew, whose eyes had been fixed upon her face,
while the shadows of age were flitting from it like
darkness from the crimson daybreak.

---

-328-

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   The fair widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killi-
grew's compliments were not always measured by sober
truth; so she started up and ran to the mirror, still
dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman would
meet her gaze. Meanwhile, the three gentlemen be-
haved in such a manner, as proved that the water of
the Fountain of Youth possessed some intoxicating
qualities; unless, indeed, their exhilaration of spirits
were merely a lightsome dizziness, caused by the sud-
den removal of the weight of years. Mr. Gascoigne's
mind seemed to run on political topics, but whether
relating to the past, present, or future, could not easily
be determined, since the same ideas and phrases have
been in vogue these fifty years. Now he rattled forth
full-throated sentences about patriotism, national glory,
and the people's right; now he muttered some perilous
stuff or other, in a sly and doubtful whisper, so cau-
tiously that even his own conscience could scarcely
catch the secret; and now, again, he spoke in meas-
ured accents, and a deeply deferential tone, as if a
royal ear were listening to his well-turned periods.
Colonel Killigrew all this time had been trolling forth
a jolly bottle-song, and ringing his glass in symphony
with the chorus, while his eyes wandered toward the
buxom figure of the Widow Wycherly. On the other
side of the table, Mr. Medbourne was involved in
a calculation of dollars and cents, with which was
strangely intermingled a project for supplying the East
Indies with ice, by harnessing a team of whales to the
polar icebergs.

---

-329-

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the
mirror, curtseying and simpering to her own image,
and greeting it as the friend whom she loved better
than all the world beside. She thrust her face close
to the glass, to see whether some long-remembered
wrinkle or crows-foot had indeed vanished. She exam-
ined whether the snow had so entirely melted from her
hair, that the venerable cap could be safely thrown
aside. At last, turning briskly away, she came with a
sort of dancing step to the table.

   `My dear old doctor,' cried she, `pray favor me
with another glass!'

   `Certainly, my dear madam, certainly!' replied the
complaisant doctor; `see! I have already filled the
glasses.'

   There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brim-full of
this wonderful water, the delicate spray of which, as it
effervesced from the surface, resembled the tremulous
glitter of diamonds. It was now so nearly sunset, that
the chamber had grown duskier than ever; but a mild
and moon-like splendor gleamed from within the vase,
and rested alike on the four guests, and on the doctor's
venerable figure. He sat in a high-backed, elaborately-
carved, oaken arm-chair, with a gray dignity of aspect
that might have well befitted that very Father Time,
whose power had never been disputed, save by this
fortunate company. Even while quaffing the third
draught of the Fountain of Youth, they were almost
awed by the expression of his mysterious visage.

---

-330-

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   But, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of
young life shot through their veins. They were now
in the happy prime of youth. Age, with its miserable
train of cares, and sorrows, and diseases, was remem-
bered only as the trouble of a dream, from which they
had joyously awoke. The fresh gloss of the soul, so
early lost, and without which the world's successive
scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again
threw its enchantment over all their prospects. They
felt like new-created beings, in a new-created universe.

   `We are young! We are young!' they cried, exult-
ingly.

   Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the
strongly marked characteristics of middle life, and
mutually assimilated them all. They were a group of
merry youngsters, almost maddened with the exuberant
frolicksomeness of their years. The most singular
effect of their gaiety was an impulse to mock the infir-
mity and decrepitude of which they had so lately been
the victims. They laughed loudly at their old-fashioned
attire, the wide-skirted coats and flapped waistcoats of
the young men, and the ancient cap and gown of the
blooming girl. One limped across the floor, like a
gouty grandfather; one set a pair of spectacles astride
of his nose, and pretended to pore over the blackletter
pages of the book of magic; a third seated himself in
an arm-chair, and strove to imitate the venerable dignity
of Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted mirthfully, and
leaped about the room. The Widow Wycherly -- if

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SMALL | MEDIUM
so fresh a damsel could be called a widow -- tripped up
to the doctor's chair, with a mischievous merriment in
her rosy face.

   `Doctor, you dear old soul,' cried she, `get up and
dance with me!' And then the four young people
laughed louder than ever, to think what a queer figure
the poor old doctor would cut.

   `Pray excuse me,' answered the doctor, quietly. `I
am old and rheumatic, and my dancing days were over
long ago. But either of these gay young gentlemen
will be glad of so pretty a partner.'

   `Dance with me, Clara!' cried Colonel Killigrew.

   `No, no, I will be her partner!' shouted Mr. Gas-
coigne.

   She promised me her hand, fifty years ago!' ex-
claimed Mr. Medbourne.

   They all gathered round her. One caught both her
hands in his passionate grasp -- another threw his arm
about her waist -- the third buried his hand among the
glossy curls that clustered beneath the widow's cap.
Blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her
warm breath fanning each of their faces by turns, she
strove to disengage herself, yet still remained in their
triple embrace. Never was there a livelier picture of
youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the prize.
Yet, by a strange deception, owing to the duskiness of
the chamber, and the antique dresses which they still
wore, the tall mirror is said to have reflected the fig-
ures of the three old, gray, withered grandsires, ridic-

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SMALL | MEDIUM
ulously contending for the skinny ugliness of a shriv-
elled granddam.

   But they were young: their burning passions proved
them so. Inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the
girl-widow, who neither granted nor quite withheld her
favors, the three rivals began to interchange threatening
glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize, they
grappled fiercely at one another's throats. As they
struggled to and fro, the table was overturned, and the
vase dashed into a thousand fragments. The precious
Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream across the
floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly, which, grown
old in the decline of summer, had alighted there to
die. The insect fluttered lightly through the chamber,
and settled on the snowy head of Dr. Heidegger.

   `Come, come, gentlemen! -- come, Madam Wych-
erly,' exclaimed the doctor, `I really must protest
against this riot.'

   They stood still, and shivered; for it seemed as if
gray Time were calling them back from their sunny
youth, far down into the chill and darksome vale of
years. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in
his carved arm-chair, holding the rose of half a century,
which he had rescued from among the fragments of
the shattered vase. At the motion of his hand, the
four rioters resumed their seats; the more readily,
because their violent exertions had wearied them,
youthful though they were.

   `My poor Sylvia's rose!' ejaculated Dr. Heidegger,

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SMALL | MEDIUM
holding it in the light of the sunset clouds: `it ap-
pears to be fading again.'

   And so it was. Even while the party were looking
at it, the flower continued to shrivel up, till it became
as dry and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown
it into the vase. He shook off the few drops of moist-
ure which clung to its petals.

   `I love it as well thus, as in its dewy freshness,'
observed he, pressing the withered rose to his withered
lips. While he spoke, the butterfly fluttered down
from the doctor's snowy head, and fell upon the floor.

   His guests shivered again. A strange chillness,
whether of the body or spirit they could not tell, was
creeping gradually over them all. They gazed at one
another, and fancied that each fleeting moment snatched
away a charm, and left a deepening furrow where none
had been before. Was it an illusion? Had the
changes of a life-time been crowded into so brief a
space, and were they now four aged people, sitting
with their old friend, Dr. Heidegger?

   `Are we grown old again, so soon!' cried they,
dolefully.

   In truth, they had. The Water of Youth possessed
merely a virtue more transient than that of wine. The
delirium which it created had effervesced away. Yes!
they were old again. With a shuddering impulse, that
showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her
skinny hands before her face, and wished that the

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SMALL | MEDIUM
coffin-lid were over it, since it could be no longer
beautiful.

   `Yes, friends, ye are old again,' said Dr. Heidegger;
`and lo! the Water of Youth is all lavished on the
ground. Well -- I bemoan it not; for if the fountain
gushed at my very door-step, I would not stoop to bathe
my lips in it -- no, though its delirium were for years
instead of moments. Such is the lesson ye have taught
me!'

   But the doctor's four friends had taught no such
lesson to themselves. They resolved forthwith to make
a pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at morning, noon,
and night, from the Fountain of Youth.

THE END.

---

---

---

---

   

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CATALOGUE
OF
SCHOOL AND CLASSICAL BOOKS,
PUBLISHED AND SOLD BY
THE
AMERICAN STATIONERS' COMPANY,
BOSTON.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   The Publishers beg leave to call the attention of Instructors and
School Committees to the list of School Books enumerated be-
low. It is their aim to be engaged in the publication of such
only as will stand the test of criticism, and receive the approba-
tion of discriminating Teachers; and also to have their Books
manufactured in a superior manner.

---

EMERSON'S ARITHMETICS.

   THE NORTH AMERICAN ARITHMETIC, in Three
Parts. By Frederick Emerson, late Principal of the Depart-
ment of Arithmetic, Boylston School, Boston.

   PART FIRST is a small book, designed for the use of chil-
dren from five to eight years of age.

   PART SECOND contains, within itself, a complete system
of Mental and Written Arithmetic, sufficiently extensive for
common schools.

   PART THIRD, for advanced scholars, comprises a review
of the elementary principles of arithmetic, with a full develop-
ment of its higher operations.

   KEYS to Emerson's Arithmetic, for the use of Teachers.

   This System of Arithmetic is the result of five years' labor,
which the author entered upon with a view of preparing a stand-
ard work, that would justify general use in American schools.
The effort has proved completely successful; and the ease and
rapidity with which scholars learn arithmetic from these books
is truly gratifying. The recommendations in favor of the work
are very numerous and decisive; they are from gentlemen who
do not lend their names to give countenance to indifferent pub-
lications. They are such as the following: --

---

Letter

Williams College, Oct. 2, 1832.
To Mr. Frederick Emerson.

Sir,

    -- I have received the First and Second Parts of your North
American Arithmetic, and am highly pleased with the plan of the work, and
the manner of its execution thus far. It unites simplicity with fulness. and
will thus be sure to interest the beginner, whilst it furnishes, at the same time.
an ample guide to the more advanced pupil.

Respectfully and truly yours,


ALBERT HOPKINS,
Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy in
Williamstown College.

---

VALUABLE SCHOOL BOOKS PUBLISHED

Letter

Cambridge, Oct. 31, 1834.
To the Publishers of Emerson's Arithmetic.

Gentlemen,

   

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    -- I have examined the Third Part of Mr. Emerson's
Arithmetic with great pleasure. The perspicuity of its arrangement, and
the clearness and brevity of its explanations, combined with its happy adap-
tation to the purposes of practical business, are its great recommendations.
I hope it will soon be introduced into all our schools, and take the place of
ill-digested treatises, to which our instructors have hitherto been compelled
to resort.

Respectfully,


BENJAMIN PIERCE,
Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy,
Harvard University.

---

Letter

Burlington, 15th Feb. 1833.

   [Conclusion of a letter to the Author.] I should think it hardly possible
that a child could be faithfully conducted through these two works [First and
Second Parts] without being vastly better acquainted with the subject than
children formerly were. Being judiciously compelled in some measure to
invent their own rules, they can scarcely fail of being able to assign a proper
reason for the process, as well as to recollect it for future use. Indeed, I do
not know any one particular in which, for the use of very young pupils, they
could be improved.

Yours resp'y,


JAMES DEAN,
Late Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philo-
sophy in the University of Vermont.

---

Letter

Boston, Nov. 10, 1834.
To the Publishers.

   I have carefully examined the Third Part of the North Ameri-
can Arithmetic, by Mr. Emerson; and am so well satisfied that it is the best
treatise on the subject with which I am acquainted, that I have determined
to introduce it as a text-book into my school.

Very respectfully, &c., yours,


E. BAILEY,
Principal of the Young Ladies' High School, Boston.

---

Letter

Friends' Boarding School, Providence, 5 mo. 15, 1835.

   Notwithstanding the obvious improvements of the study, both in a practi-
cal point of view and as an intellectual exercise, arithmetic is perhaps
the science which is most negligently taught in common schools, and the
true principles of which are left in the greatest obscurity in the minds of
scholars. One reason of this is the imperfection of the common treatises used
in our schools. The Arithmetic of Dr. Adams was a decided improvement
upon its predecessors in the way of lucid explanations, and, as might be ex-
pected, others followed which went still farther in the track of inductive
illustration. The North American Arithmetic, by Frederick Emerson, ap-
pears to me to exhibit the science in a manner more clear, simple and prac-
tical, better adapted to the use of schools and the benefit of teachers, who
may not themselves be thoroughly conversant with arithmetic, than any book
I have seen. The doctrine of Ratio and Proportion is treated in the way in
which it can alone be rendered perfectly intelligible to the pupil, and far
more satisfactory than in any English or American Arithmetic that has fallen
under my notice.

J. GRISCOM,
Literary Principal of the Friends' Boarding School --
late of the New York High School.

---

Letter

New York, June 20, 1835.
Mr. Emerson,

Dear Sir,

    -- Having examined your North American Arithmetic
with much care, and made some use of it as a text-book in my classes, I do
not hesitate to regard it as better adapted than any other, to the schools of
the United States. It has long been objected to the books on this subject in
common use, that they are deficient in explanation, and unscientific in arrange-
ment; more apt to check than develop the powers of reasoning and calcu-
lation. To your work, certainly, these objections are inapplicable. No
pupil, it seems to me, can go through Parts First, Second, and Third, with

SMALL | MEDIUM
ordinary attention, without acquiring a facility of analysis, a readiness both
of rule and reason, and a dexterity of practice, not easily to be derived from
any other books yet published.

Your friend, respectfully,


WM. J. ADAMS,
Principal of Classical and Commercial School.

---

   The Masters of the Boston Public Schools, Department of
Arithmetic, make the following statement: --

   We have considered it our duty to render ourselves acquainted with the
more prominent systems of arithmetic, published for the use of Schools, and
to fix on some work which appears to unite the greatest advantages, and to
report the same to the School Committee of Boston, for adoption in the Pub-
lic Schools. After the most careful examination, we have, without any hesi-
tancy, come to the conclusion, that Emerson's North American Arithmetic
[Parts First, Second, and Third,] is the work best suited to the wants of all
classes of scholars, and most convenient for the purposes of instruction. Ac-
cordingly, we have petitioned for the adoption of the work in the Public
Schools.

P. MACKINTOSH, Jr., LEVI CONANT,
JAMES ROBINSON, J. FAIRBANK,
OTIS PIERCE, JOHN P. LATHROP,
ABEL WHEELER, ABNER FORBES.

    18, 1834, it was voted, unanimously, "That Emerson's North
American Arithmetic be substituted for Colburn's First Les-
sons and Sequel."

   Among others, who have recommended Emerson's Arithme-
tic, are --

WALTER R. JOHNSON,
Principal of the Philadelphia High School.

EDWARD TURNER,
Professor of Math. and Phil. in Middlebury College.

JOHN ADAMS,
Principal of the Phillips Academy, Andover.

GEORGE W. KEELY,
Professor of Mathematics in Waterville College.

A. CASWELL,
Professor of Mathematics in Brown University.

AMOS EATON,
Senior Professor in the Rensselaer School.

JAMES HAMILTON,
Prof. Math., Nat. Phil. and Astronomy in Nashville Univ.

S. W. SETON,
Visitor for the Public School Society, New York.

B. F. JOSLIN,
Professor of Natural Philosophy, Union College.

WILLIAM WALL,
Professor of Mathematics in Ohio University.

B. M'GOWAN,
Professor of Math. and Nat. Phil. St. Louis University.

MERRITT CALDWELL,
Principal of the Maine Wesleyan Seminary.

E. A. ANDREWS,
Principal of the New Haven Young Ladies' Institute.

J. F. JENKINS,
Principal of Mechanics' Society School, New York.

---

EMERSON'S READING BOOKS.

   

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   1. THE FIRST-CLASS READER; a Selection for Exer-
cises in Reading, from standard British and American Authors,
designed for the Use of Schools in the United States.

   2. THE SECOND-CLASS READER; designed for the
Use of the Middle Class of Schools.

   3. THIRD CLASS READER; designed for the Younger
Classes in Schools.

   4. THE PROGRESSIVE PRIMER AND FOURTH
CLASS READER; a First Book for Children, introductory to
the National Spelling Book, and Third Class Reader.

   These four works, prepared by Mr. B. D. Emerson, author of
the "National Spelling Book," and other highly-approved school
books, form a series of Readers, which have been compiled
chiefly in reference to the condition and present wants of the
common schools of our country; the pupils of which generally
are, or advantageously might be, organized into three reading
classes. The matter contained in each of these Readers is hap-
pily adapted to the intellectual advancement of those pupils who
may be supposed to hold a place in that class for which it is de-
signed; the style and sentiment contained in each Class Book
rising in proper gradation from the most juvenile of the series,
to that of the most maturity.

   These Readers are confidently recommended to all who have
the superintendence of education. They contain nothing sec-
tarian, nothing which is not calculated to promote unaffected
devotion, pure morality, diffusive benevolence, sound patriotism,
and general intelligence. In addition to these general traits of
character, it is believed that the Introductory part of this series,
embraced under the head of "Suggestions to Teachers," cannot
fail to be duly appreciated by every intelligent schoolmaster.

---

RECOMMENDATIONS.
From Professor Hough, of Middlebury College, to the Publishers.

Gentlemen,

    -- I have examined the First Class Reader, by B. D. Emer-
son; and, in my view, the selections are judiciously made, and charac-
terized by great purity and elegance of style, and yet are not so elevated
as to be unintelligible by those for whose use it is designed. The work is
throughout, so far as I have discovered, unexceptionable in the sentiment
with which it is fraught. It is introduced by some very useful "Suggestions
to Teachers," with regard to the examination of their pupils on the lessons
read. On the whole, I know not of a reading book of higher merit, for the
more advanced classes in our schools.

JOHN HOUGH,
Professor of Languages.

---

From Professor Turner, of Middlebury College.

Gentlemen,

    -- Allow me to express my cordial approbation of the selection
of pieces introduced into the First Class Reader. In correctness of senti-
ment, manliness of style, and elegance of diction, this approaches more
nearly than any of the previous compilations with which I am acquainted, to
what a book should be, which is designed to be a reading manual for youth.

Yours very respectfully,


EDWARD TURNER,
Professor of Math. and Nat. Phil.

---

From the Principal of the Abbot Female Academy, Andover.

To: To the Publishers.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   I have carefully examined the Reading Books prepared by Mr.
B. D. Emerson, and cordially bear testimony to the merits of the work. I
am much pleased with the character of the selections, and highly approve of
the system of instruction recommended by Mr. E. in his "Suggestions to
Teachers." I hope these books will gain the extensive circulation to which
they are justly entitled.

S. LAMSON,
Principal of Abbot Female Academy.

---

Letter

Philadelphia, April 5, 1834.

   Having examined the series of School Reading Books, entitled the "First
Class Reader," the "Second Class Reader," and the "Third Class Reader,"
by B. D. Emerson, the undersigned regard them as having very high claims
to the notice and approbation of the public. The books form a regular se-
ries, carefully graduated according to the advancement of classes in good
English Schools. The selections are very judiciously made, both in matter
and style. Each piece is adapted to the comprehension of the scholar, and
conveys some useful truth, either moral or scientific. Specimens are pre-
sented of the best writers in the English language, and throughout the series
is given a very great deal of historical and general information.

   These considerations, together with the accuracy, plainness and beauty of
the printing and paper, and the unusually moderate price at which they are
sold, are deemed by us sufficient to authorize this public testimonial of our
approbation, and in doing so we cordially recommend Mr. Emerson's Read-
ers to the teachers throughout the United States.

S. C. WALKER,
J. B. WALKER,
Principals of Commercial and Classical School.


In addition to the above, the Publishers beg leave to state that these
books have been introduced into the Preparatory School of the University of
Pennsylvania, into all the Public Schools in Philadelphia, and into very many
of the best Schools in Pennsylvania, New York, and New England.

---

---

Letter

To: To the Publishers.

   Having examined the First and Second Class Readers, compiled by
Mr. B. D. Emerson, I take great pleasure in recommending them to the public,
as highly deserving their patronage. I consider these works a decided im-
provement upon those of a similar character now in use. The selections are
made with much taste and judgment, and are peculiarly adapted to the ca-
pacities and wants of those for whose use they are intended. I shall intro-
duce them into the series of reading books used by my pupils.

W. F. SPEAR,
Principal of the Roxbury Female High School.


I fully and most cordially concur in the above recommendation.
F. S. EASTMAN,
Principal of the Roxbury Grammar School.

---

---

From Benjamin Greenleaf, Esq., Principal of the Bradford Academy, to
the Author.

Bradford Academy, Nov. 25, 1834.

Dear Sir,

    -- I have attentively examined your series of Readers. The les-
sons are selected with much taste, and are well calculated to produce a good
moral influence. It is desirable that these works should be extensively used
in our High Schools and Academies. Your Third Class Reader is used in
all our District Schools and highly approved.

Yours very respectfully,


BENJ'N GREENLEAF.

---

From the Lowell Observer.

   Emerson's Class Readers. * * * * The selections are made with
reference to purity of sentiment, and to moral impression; and are, on that

SMALL | MEDIUM
account, worthy of all commendation. * * * * In short, we can say of
these Readers, that we know of no books, which, for beauty of selection,
purity of sentiment, and for variety of expression, will compare with them.
The sooner they are introduced into our schools the better.

---

From the Annals of Education.

   The First Class Reader and The Second Class Reader. --
* * We are pleased with these selections, for we think they are executed on
the plan proposed; that "each extract should contain some useful truth --
something of more importance than the mere amusement of a passing hour."

---

Letter

To: To the Publishers.


Gentlemen,

    -- Having given Mr. Emerson's Reading Books a
careful examination, I feel confident that they possess merits equal to those
of any other Readers now in use. The experience of many years in school-
keeping has convinced me that a change of books is of primary importance
in acquiring an art so much neglected, yet so ornamental and useful as good
reading. It is not to be supposed that children can profit much by reading
again and again what has, from their earliest recollections, been sounded
over and over in their ears, till every section and almost every word are as
familiar to them as the walls of their school-room. To make ready readers
there is need of some novelty. We not unfrequently meet with those who
can read fluently and well the worn pages of a school book, but yet who
hesitate and blunder over the columns of a newspaper, or the pages of a
strange book. I am, therefore, glad to see your Readers, and it will give
me pleasure to encourage their introduction into our schools.

Yours respectfully,


WM. COFFIN, Jr.
Principal of the Male Department of Coffin School, Nantucket.

---

WEBBER'S ENGLISH GRAMMAR.

   AN INTRODUCTION TO ENGLISH GRAMMAR, on
an Analytical Plan, adapted to the Use of Students in Colleges,
and the Higher Classes in Academies and Common Schools.
By Samuel Webber, A. M.

   The great fault of Murray is a want of perspicuity. The definitions are
often vague, and in some instances a definition of one term contains another,
that is not explained till some time after, in a more advanced part of the work;
nor do the definitions seem always to be correct. There are, besides, often
omissions of circumstances of importance; and the Syntax presents little but
a chaos of rules and remarks, without any guiding principles in the use of
language and the construction of sentences.

   It seemed to the author that the way to correct these defects was to ar-
range the whole system anew; to take up the subject from the very begin-
ning, and pursue it more analytically, tracing out and explaining the various
natures, properties and uses of words, instead of defining them, and drawing
out and exhibiting their forms and modifications from the different purposes to
which they are applied, and as expressive of their corresponding changes in
signification; going on gradually from step to step, and as far as possible
making each step clear itself, without anticipating any thing not sufficiently
obvious to persons having such a general comprehension of the meaning of
language, as to fit them for pursuing a subject that must be taught by lan-
guage solely.

   The American Monthly Review says of Doct. Webber's Grammar, "The
author has treated the subject with great acuteness: he has resorted to ex-
planations which reward examination, by imparting a well-defined meaning,
resulting from through induction. The Syntax surpasses that of any of the
Grammars in common use; the rules are expressed with great care, and
generally with all the clearness which the subject admits. We think the
plan of the Syntax very judicious and successful."

---

Whelpley's Compend of History.

   

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   A COMPEND OF HISTORY from the Earliest Times;
comprehending a General View of the Present State of the World.
By Samuel Whelpley. Seventh Edition, with Corrections and
Improvements, by Rev. Joseph Emerson, Principal of the
Female Seminary at Wethersfield.

   Of Whelpley's Compend, the Rev. Mr. Emerson says, in the Prospectus
of his Female Seminary, "For many years I have been solicitously inquiring
for the best Compend of General History for the use of Schools. That which
I consider by far the best which I have yet examined, is the Compend of Mr.
Whelpley. My estimation of this work has been rising for more than ten
years, while I have been engaged in reading and teaching it more than ten
times through. It is not a mere compilation or abridgment in the words of
others: his style is his own -- a style, perhaps, not less distinctly marked than
that of any other prose writer in the language."

   CONVERSATIONS ON THE ANIMAL ECONOMY;
designed for the Instruction of Youth. By Isaac Ray, M. D.
Illustrated by numerous Engravings.

   This book can need no other recommendation than that it was made by
Doct. Ray, has received the sanction of Professor Cleaveland, and is used in
many of our most respectable seminaries.

   A CATECHISM OF NATURAL THEOLOGY. By
I. Nichols, D. D. "Every house is builded by some man.
He that built all things is God."

   This valuable work was much wanted, especially for the higher classes in
our Sunday schools, to which Paley's admirable treatise on the same sub-
ject is, on many accounts, not fitted. The general style of the latter, it is
true, is incomparable, and many of the author's illustrations are among the
most striking and beautiful that can be adduced; and of these Dr. Nichols
has availed himself freely, and, for the most part, without altering the ex-
pression. But Paley committed a serious error in the very outset, consider-
ing his work as one to be put into the hands of the young, by plunging into
some of the most abstruse and difficult metaphysical questions on the athe-
istical controversy; questions for which his readers are not prepared, and
questions, too, it must be confessed, which he has not treated with much
ability, nor even with his accustomed clearness, nor even with fairness. Pa-
ley, also, as is well known, was not an adept in the natural sciences; in con-
sequence of which several defects and a few serious blunders occur in his
work, which are but imperfectly corrected and supplied by Paxton's Illustra-
tions, and the excellent notes in the last Boston edition. Dr. Nichols has
had this edition before him, and other recent and valuable treatises on
the same and kindred subjects, and particularly Dr. Bell's two admirable
numbers, in the "Library of Useful Knowledge," on Animal Mechanics.
With these materials, he has given us a compilation, which, for the learning
it displays, and the devotional spirit breathing through its pages, as well as
for its literary execution and general appearance, merits a much higher dis-
tinction than is commonly awarded to works of this class. The present edi-
tion is a great improvement on the first, as regards the mechanical execution.
The text has also been enlarged about one seventh part; most of the addi-
tions consisting of further and important illustrations, under the different
heads, borrowed from comparative anatomy.

--
Christian Examiner.

   This valuable work, which is wholly free from any thing of a sectarian
character, is rapidly coming into use in various Academies, and the higher
classes of Sunday Schools.

---

FRENCH CLASSICS.

   

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   WANOSTROCHT'S FRENCH GRAMMAR. -- This
highly-esteemed and well-known French Grammar needs no
commendation at the present day. It is used throughout the
country, and has passed through a great many editions in Lon-
don, and been several times printed in Paris. Its extensive use
may be considered a sufficient test of its worth.

   FRENCH WORD-BOOK The Explanatory and Pro-
nouncing French Word-Book; or First Step to the French
Language. Being an easy Spelling-Book, and Vocabulary of
Three Thousand Words. To which is annexed, the French
Phrase-Book. By M.L'Abbé Bossut.

   The original plan of this little manual has been highly appreciated, and
the work used with much success; but with the view of rendering it still
more useful to those pupils who cannot always call to their aid the services of
a native teacher, and also to assist such instructors in the French language
as may not be perfectly conversant with its pronunciation, the editor has in
this edition annexed the sound and articulation of each word, according to
the approved Dictionary of the Abbé Tardy.

   The teacher will find it a great help; and as far as a knowledge of three
thousand words, and a great many familiar and idiomatic phrases will go, so
far, at least, the young English scholar may, by this work, acquire the French
language and idiom without the aid of a professional in tructor.

   LA BAGATELLE; intended to introduce young Children to
some Knowledge of the French Language. -- This little work will
be found interesting to very young children. It is reprinted with
additions and improvements from the English edition, which has
been found a very useful and popular book to be used as the First
Lessons in French.

   CHARLES XII. in French, by Voltaire; with English
Notes, for Schools and Academies. Stereotype Edition. -- This
celebrated Classic is now too extensively used in Schools and
Academies throughout England and America to require any
comment.

   HENTZ'S FRENCH READER. A Classical French
Reader; selected from the best Writers in that Language, in Prose
and Poetry; attended with Notes explanatory of Idioms, &c.,
throughout the Work. By N. M. Hentz, A. M., Professor of
Modern Languages in the University of North Carolina.

   It has been heretofore a great disadvantage in teaching French in this
country, that a good selection from authors could not easily be obtained.
The compiler of this work has availed himself of the experience acquired in
several years' teaching, and hopes he has produced a work which will prove
useful and satisfactory.

   BOYER'S FRENCH AND ENGLISH DICTIONARY. --
This is far superior to any other Dictionary ever published, and
the demand for it is constantly increasing.

---

LATIN CLASSICS.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   FIRST LESSONS IN LATIN, UPON A NEW PLAN,
combining Abstract Rules with a Progressive Series of Practical
Exeroises [sic] . By Charles Dexter Cleveland. Stereotype
Edition; used in the Boston Public Latin School.

   WALKER'S LATIN READER. The New Latin Read-
er, containing the Latin Text for the Purpose of Recitation, ac-
companied with a Key, containing the Text, with a Literal and
Free Translation, arranged in such a Manner as to point out the
Difference between the Latin and English Idioms. For the Use
of Beginners in the Study of the Latin Language. By S. C.
Walker. Philadelphia. Fourth Edition, Stereotype.

   The translations consist of, Part 1, Familiar Latin Phrases; Part 2, Histo-
riæ Sacræ; Part 3, Narrationes Selectæ.

   To teach the Idiomatic difference of the Latin or Greek languages from
the English -- the most difficult part of the labor of learning a language -- is
what this method proposes to accomplish, and what, in our opinion, it is as-
suredly able to accomplish. We have not a doubt that a clever boy will learn
in one week more words, and more of the idiomatic difference between the Eng-
lish and the Latin by this book, than he will by the use of a grammar, diction-
ary, and the common mode of ancient instruction, in a month.

   The mode of teaching after the plan of this book is simply this. 1. It
gives the literal meaning of each root in the original. 2. By means of the
prepositions and auxiliaries, it gives the meaning of each root, as modified by
inflection. 3 It gives a translation of phrases, or idioms by which the true im-
port of the original and the difference of the idiom are learned with precision.
4. The Latin words are arranged after the English order in the Key. 5. The
pupil is required to translate from the pure Latin text, at the latter part of
the book.

   The pupil begins to translate and study grammar at the same time. He
is directed to study, for recitation, a small lesson in grammar; and by the
aid of the Key to prepare for translation a suitable portion of the Latin text.
In this way he is beguiled, without difficulty or pain, into a knowledge of the
first principles of the language, and in a little time, applied to other similar
exercises, will be able to throw away these mechanical aids, and read a
Latin author without them.

--
Flint's Western Review.

   We regard the method of studying Latin proposed by Mr. Walker as
very decidedly superior to the prevailing one. It is recommended by phi-
losophy as well as by common sense. It is a mode of instruction calculated
to interest the youngest class of learners, instead of perplexing and fatiguing
them in the manner of the ancient method. It is particularly suited to the
purposes of maternal instruction, and to the use of those advanced beyond
the period of childhood, who may wish to instruct themselves. Lastly, it is
admirably calculated for the purposes of monitorial instruction.

   We have already so fully borne testimony to the general merits of the
system, and to the faithful execution of this work in particular, that it is
scarcely necessary to add a cordial recommendation of Mr. Walker's book
to teachers and parents throughout our country.

--
Journal of Education.

   GILES'S FIRST BOOK IN LATIN, on a New Plan.

   LEMPRIERE'S CLASSICAL DICTIONARY, for Schools
and Academies, in which all the indelicate passages are omitted.
(Boston Edition.)

   A LIFE OF GEORGE WASHINGTON, in Latin Prose.
By Francis Glass, A. M. Edited by J. N. Reynolds. Highly
recommended by Professors Anthon and Kingsley.

---

BLAKE'S GEOGRAPHY.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   NEW AMERICAN UNIVERSAL GEOGRAPHY, for
Schools and Academies, on the Principles of Analysis and Com-
parison; illustrated with thirty-two Copperplate and Stereotype
Maps, besides numerous Engravings, Tables, and Diagrams.
By Rev. J. L. Blake, A. M.

   The plan of this work contains some very important peculiar-
ities, which meet the eye at the first glance -- so apparent that
they need only be seen in order to be appreciated. From an
examination of the sheets before the book was bound, orders
were received for about 4000 copies.

   The form is imperial octavo, having twelve copperplate color-
ed Maps done up with the text. It is also illustrated and enrich-
ed by Diagrams, Statistical Tables, and a large number of stere-
otype Maps for the more important parts of Geography.

   It will be seen, from an examination of Blake's New Geogra-
phy, that it contains three or four times as much matter as seve-
ral of the School Geographies designed to hold a corresponding
rank, now extensively in use, while at the same time the price is
one third less. The pages are not only large, but are filled with
closely-printed columns, instead of being nearly half blank.
Should the New American Universal Geography be introduced
into schools, where scholars will be unable to go through the
whole of it, the extra portions contained in it, as will be readily
perceived, can be passed over. without any interruption in study-
ing what is common to all School Geographies. The Historical
Sketches, and the description of cities and towns, make these
extra portions of the volume, which are so arranged in separate
divisions as to have no perplexing connection with the other
parts of it.

   Among the recommendations which have been given are the
following: --

Letter

To: To the Rev. J. L. Blake.


Sir,

    -- Having received and examined, with some attention, a
copy of your "American Universal Geography." I have no hesitation in giv-
ing it the preference to other works intended for School Geographies, and
for the following reason, viz.: Your Geography contains the copperplate
Maps in the same volume with the text; it embraces matter far greater in
quantity, and in my opinion superior in quality; it unites History with Ge-
ography as History and Geography should be united; and, finally, its value
is much enhanced by the stereotype Maps.

Yours, truly,


B. CUSHMAN
Preceptor Portland Academy.

Extract of a Letter from the Literary Fraternity of Waterville College.

   From a cursory examination, we feel no hesitation in expressing our de-
cided approbation of Blake's New American School Geography. The form
of the volume being such as to admit the insertion of the Maps, together
with the minuteness of detail presented by the author, we think, gives the
work a decided superiority over those of the kind now in use.

   The general plan and execution of the work we cheerfully approve.

In behalf of the Prudential Committee of the Literary Fraternity of
Waterville College,

R. GIDDINGS, Chairman

---

EMERSON'S SPELLING BOOKS.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   1. THE NATIONAL SPELLING BOOK. This work, prepared by
B. D. Emerson, late Principal of the Adams Grammar School, Boston, is
used exclusively in the Boston and Philadelphia Public Schools, and is
extensively used in New England, New York, and the Southern and West-
ern States.

   "The ingenious classification of the words, so as to mark accurately the sounds,
not only of the accented, but of the unaccented syllables; the conciseness and sim-
plicity of the Introduction and Key; the abundance and judicious arrangement of
the matter contained in the work, and its faithful mechanical execution, render it, in
our opinion, decidedly superior to any Spelling Book with which we are acquainted."

JOHN FROST,
ABRAHAM ANDREWS,
CORNELIUS WALKER,
N. K. G. OLIVER,
CHARLES FOX,
WM. ADAMS,
BARNUM FIELD,
Masters in the Department of
Reading and Grammar in the
Public Schools of Boston.

   "This Spelling Book bears every mark of having been compiled with strict refer-
ence to the actual purposes of instruction. Great pains have evidently been taken to
render it highly superior in character, and worthy of becoming a National Work."

Journal of Education.

   "Having carefully examined a copy of the National Spelling Book, by B. D.
Emerson, I do not hesitate to say that, in my opinion, it is, beyond all comparison,
the best book of the kind with which I am acquainted."

EBENEZER BAILEY,
Principal of the Young Ladies' High School, Boston.

   "This Spelling Book is the result of the labors of a practical and popular teacher;
and, so far as I have the means of judging, it has the advantage when compared with
any other book of the kind that has ever been published, either in Great Britain or in
the United States."

JOHN PIERPONT,
Compiler of the American First Class Book, National Reader, &c.

   "The plan of the National Spelling Book is happily devised for the aid of school
teachers, and for the intellectual improvement of scholars. It is very desirable that
it be universally introduced. Send me a hundred to be introduced in this region.

Yours, &c."

ANDREW YATES,
President of the Polytechnic Institution, Chittenango, New York.

   "Having examined with some care the National Spelling Book, compiled by B. D.
Emerson, we cheerfully express our approbation of the work. We recommend the
work to the school committees, instructors, and others concerned in directing com-
mon education throughout our country."

B. B. WISNER, D. D., and WILLIAM JENKS, D. D., Boston.

JEREMIAH EVARTS, Cor. Sec. Am. Board of Com. for Foreign Missions.

FRANCIS WAYLAND, Jr., D. D., President Brown University.

B. F. FARNSWORTH, Academ. and Theolog. Inst., New Hampton, N. H.

Rev. S. C. LOVELAND, Reading, Vt., Author of a Greek and English Lexicon
of the New Testament.

DANIEL ADAMS, M. D., Author of the Scholar's Arithmetic, &c.

Rev. N. BOUTON, Concord, N. H. Rev. N. W. WILLIAMS, Do.

   "We have examined Mr. B. D. Emerson's Spelling Book with care and satisfac-
tion. We think it contains improvements on initiatory books of the same class
heretofore used."

LEVI HEDGE, LL. D., and SIDNEY WILLARD, A. M.,
Professors Harvard University.

   "I must say, I like the National Spelling Book better than any other I ever saw;
and I have seen many."

I. I. HITCHCOCK, Instructor, Baltimore.

   "I think the National Spelling Book deserving of ample consideration, by teachers
and committees intrusted with the selection of school books."

WALTER R. JOHNSON,
Principal of the High School, Franklin Institute, Philadelphia.

   "In the most flattering recommendations of Emerson's Spelling Book we fully
concur, and we would cordially recommend it to our citizens as being, in our opinion,
better adapted for general use in our district schools than any other."

L. COLEMAN, M. LAWRENCE, M. SHAW, School Com. of Belchertown.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   It has likewise received the approbation of BENJA. A. GOULD, late Principal
of the Public Latin Grammar School, Boston -- Capt. PARTRIDGE, Scientific and
Military Academy, Middletown -- JOHN RICHARDSON, Leicester Academy -- R. G.
PARKER, Roxbury.

   2. THE INTRODUCTION TO THE NATIONAL SPELLING
BOOK; for the use of Primary Schools.

   3. THE NEW NATIONAL SPELLING BOOK. This work may
properly be called a revised and improved version of the old National Spell-
ing Book (meaning that now in general use). The principal improvements
are as follows: -- The k in such words as publick, frolick, and the u in such
words as honour, favour, &c., are omitted; the Key is rendered more simple;
and additional progressive reading lessons, illustrated by cuts, are introduced.
In its present popular form, it is believed to be better adapted to the wants of
the common schools of our country, than any other spelling book ever pre-
sented to the public.

   * * * "No book enjoys a greater or more justly deserved reputation than the
National Spelling Book, by B. D. Emerson, of which this work is a revision by the
original author, and it is evidently an improvement upon its predecessor."

--
Dover Gaz.

   * * * * "This work is decidedly an improvement upon the former, by the
same author. The Key is more simple; the reading lessons are more judiciously
selected; and the arrangement is improved."

Annals of Education.

---

American Common-Place Books of
Poetry and Prose.

   1. THE AMERICAN COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF POETRY,
with Occasional Notes. By G. B. Cheever.

   2. THE AMERICAN COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE; a
Collection of Eloquent and Interesting Extracts from the Writings of Amer-
ican Authors. By G. B. Cheever.

   American authors, and contain spe-
cimens of American literature from its earliest period to the present day. All the
pieces are of the purest moral character. They are intended as reading books for
the higher classes in seminaries for both sexes, and will be found, it is thought, well
adapted to a department of education in which it is difficult to find a volume of suit-
able character. They will also serve as a pleasant mental recreation for the fireside.
They are used in all the leading High Schools in this country, and also in many of
the most distinguished in Great Britain.

   "The Common-Place Book of American Poetry. -- The Americans complain
bitterly, and with some appearance of justice, that their poets have been undeservedly
neglected by the people of England. This they ascribe to envy, to jealousy, to the
affected contempt for every thing American, once so fashionable among our literary
coxcombs; forgetting that Irving, and Bryant, and Channing, furnish indisputable
proof of the respect shown to transatlantic talent.

   "The greater, and far the better part of American poetry, is of the class usually
called occasional and fugitive; and to this cause, principally, must be attributed the
ignorance of our countrymen on the subject. Mr. Cheever has performed a commen-
dable task in collecting the scattered gems that were spread over a wide extent of
pamphlets and periodicals. Every piece he has inserted well merits a place in the
collection. The preface, and the few notes written by the editor, are very valuable,
and prove that he has a mind capable of comprehending the highest beauties of poetry,
and the still more rare qualification of imaginative taste controlled by critical sa-
gacity."

London Atheneum.

   "It may be said of the American Common-Place Book of Poetry, as the Eng-
lish reviewers said of the Common-Place Book of Prose, that `it is, in fact, any
thing but common-place.' The selections are made with great impartiality, and are
distinguished by purity of taste, and a pervading tone of devotional feeling. On the
whole, we think such a book could not have been compiled better. Among three or
four hundred extracts, there are none which the tasteful reader regrets to see; there
are none which are not creditable to our moral and intellectual character as a nation.
There is something so purifying in the influence of good poetry, that young people
cannot be too much encouraged in forming a taste for it; and we know of no compila-
tion more likely to form a correct taste, than Mr. Cheever's American Common-Place
Book of Poetry.'

Massachusetts Journal.

---

BALBI'S GEOGRAPHY.

   

SMALL | MEDIUM

   AN ABRIDGMENT OF UNIVERSAL GEOGRAPHY,
MODERN AND ANCIENT, chiefly compiled from the
Abrège de Geographie of Adrian Balbi. By T. G. Brad-
ford; accompanied by a valuable Atlas, and illustrated by
Engravings.

   The above work contains 520 pages, 12mo., and is the most copious School
Geography yet offered to the public, and it is believed to be an important
improvement, especially for the use of the higher schools and seminaries. It
has received the sanction of all teachers who have examined it, and has been
favorably noticed in many of our public journals. The Atlas accompanying
this work contains thirty-six maps and charts, and is confidently recommend-
ed as superior, in every respect, to any thing of the kind now in use. From
the numerous notices of the work, the publishers present the following: --

From the Rev. J. M. Matthews, D. D., Chancellor of New York University.

   I have looked over Balbi's Geography, and the Atlas accompanying it.
The arrangement and execution of both the works are such as to render
them a valuable acquisition to our schools. I hope they will meet the patron-
age which they so well merit.

From the Rev. George Bush, Professor of Hebrew and Oriental Literature,
New York University.

   From the examination I have been able to bestow upon Balbi's Geography
and Atlas, I am fully satisfied of its claims to general patronage. As a man-
ual of geography and statistics, at once compendious and complete, I am
not acquainted with any so highly deserving the attention of those who are
placed at the head of our literary institutions.

From S. Johnston, Esq., Principal of an English and Classical School,
New York.

   The examination of Balbi's Geography and Atlas has afforded me much
pleasure. I highly approve of its arrangement, which, with the new matter
it contains relative to Canals and Railroads, &c., renders it a valuable text-
book for our more advanced schools. As a proof of my approbation of the
book, I have resolved to adopt it in my first class.

From Mr. J. F. Jenkins, Principal of the Mechanics' Society Institute, New
York.

New York, Sept. 11, 1835.

   Having examined Bradford's edition of Balbi's Geography, I am happy to
state my conviction that it is a valuable work. The arrangement of a greater
amount than usual of important information, is judicious throughout, and the
number, neatness and accuracy of the accompanying maps, give it a decided
superiority over most of the geographical treatises in use, and render it
peculiarly suitable for the highest classes of students.

From Mr. A. Clarke, Principal of the Owego Academy, Tioga County,
New York.

   I have examined, with much pleasure, Bradford's edition of Balbi's Geog-
raphy and Atlas. With the arrangement of subjects I am particularly
pleased. The student is at once made acquainted with the more easy and
interesting geography of his own country, and is then introduced to other
portions of the world, arranged somewhat in the order of their importance.
I think that this, with the valuable Atlas accompanying it, will be well re-
ceived by an intelligent public.

From the New York Morning News.

   It has, indeed, all the advantages which Balbi's work could supply; but it
has also the additional ones of more recent dates and facts, and a fuller and
more accurate notice of our own country. It has also the merit of an arrange-
ment at once new, philosophic, and, to the American reader, more acceptable
than that of the European geographies.

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ALGEBRA

   

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   BAILEY'S FIRST LESSONS IN ALGEBRA. -- Although
this work has been before the public but little more than a year,
several editions have already been called for; and it has been
very extensively introduced into academies and schools in various
parts of the country. From a great number of notices and rec-
ommendations of the work in their possession, the publishers
select the following: --

From Teachers in Boston Public Schools.

   We have used "Bailey's First Lessons in Algebra," in the Public Writing
Schools of Boston, respectively committed to our instruction, and can testify
with confidence to its high value. The peculiar excellence of the work con-
sists in its serving not only as a text-book, but in a great measure as a teacher.
The plainness, simplicity, and fulness with which the subject is treated, ena-
ble the scholar to proceed in the exercises understandingly, with little or no
aid, other than that which is to be found on the pages of the book.

P. MACKINTOSH, Jr., OTIS PIERCE,
JAMES ROBINSON, ABEL WHEELER.

Boston, November 25, 1834.

From Mr. B. Greenleaf, Preceptor of Bradford Academy.

   I have, with much attention and satisfaction, examined "Bailey's First
Lessons in Algebra." As a first course of lessons in this very interesting
science, this book, I do not hesitate to say, far exceeds any other that I have
seen. No scholar will consider Algebra a dry study while attending to this
system. I am very glad to find that Algebra has been introduced into many
of our town schools; and am positive that there is no better way to make
scholars understand Arithmetic well, than that they should devote part of
their time to the study of Algebra. I most cordially recommend the work to
the attention of School Committees and Teachers.

   A KEY, in a separate volume, is published for the use of
Teachers.

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GOODRICH'S UNITED STATES.

   A HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMER-
ICA, on a Plan adapted to the Capacity of Youth, and designed
to aid the Memory, by systematic Arrangement and interesting
Association. By Charles A. Goodrich. A New Stereotype
Edition, revised and enlarged from the Forty-Fourth Edition.
Containing General Views of the Aboriginal Tribes; Sketches of
the Discoveries and Settlements made by different Nations; the
Progress of the Colonies; the Revolution; the several Admin-
istrations. The whole interspersed with Notices of the different
Eras of the Progress of Manners, Religion, Commerce, Agri-
culture, Arts and Manufactures, Population, and Education.

   GOODRICH'S QUESTIONS to the above.

   EMERSON'S QUESTIONS. Questions and Supplement
to Goodrich's History of the United States.

   THE CHILD'S HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES,
designed as a First Book of History for Schools, illustrated by
numerous Anecdotes and Engravings. By Charles A. Good-
rich. Seventh Edition.

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ASTRONOMY.

   

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   VOSE'S ASTRONOMY. A Compendium of Astronomy;
intended to simplify and illustrate the Principles of that Science.
Adapted to the Use of Common Schools, as well as higher Sem-
inaries. By John Vose, A. M., late Principal of Pembroke
Academy, and Author of a larger work on Astronomy.

   In this Compendium of Astronomy, it has been the aim of the author to ren-
der the principles of the science so simple, that they may be easily under-
stood, not only by the scholar who attends a few weeks at an academy, but
by him whose means and views do not carry him beyond the common
schools.

From the Annals of Education.

   It (Vose's Astronomy) appears to have been prepared with care, and to
deserve confidence for its accuracy. * * * The spirit of the writer is excel-
lent; and we rejoice to see that our elementary books of natural science
have begun to recognize the Great First Cause, as well as the immediate
second causes of the wonders they describe. We think this book is well
adapted to high schools.

From the American Traveller.

   We are pleased to meet with a successful attempt to simplify the principles
of Astronomy, and reduce its leading features to the understanding of
children.

From the Boston Galaxy.

   Mr. Vose's book contains a simple and luminous account of the solar sys-
tem, and of most of the celestial phenomena. It is well written and arranged.
The definitions are copious and accurate. He has made the principles of the
science easy to be understood; and we doubt not that his labors will be use-
ful to many besides school-boys.

From Amasa Bush, High School, Norwich, Vt.

   I consider the Astronomy by John Vose to be the most lucid compend I
have ever seen on that science. I have introduced it into my school in
preference to any other.

From Benjamin Greenleaf, Bradford Academy.

   I have attentively examined Vose's Astronomy. The work is well ar-
ranged, clear, and perspicuous. The scholar will find little or no difficulty
in understanding the illustrations. I have seen no work on this science, of
the same extent, which I consider so valuable.

   FIRST LESSONS IN ASTRONOMY; designed for
Common Schools, illustrated with Cuts. By Samuel Worces-
ter. New revised and enlarged Stereotype Edition.

   This work is written in an easy and familiar style, and will be found use-
ful in every school in leading the pupils on in the first steps to one of the most
interesting of the sciences, and one which has heretofore been too much neg-
lected. It is believed that this work contains nothing but what quite young
children can comprehend; and yet it contains the essential rudiments of this
study, than which there is not one better calculated to expand and ennoble
the youthful mind. The science of Astronomy seems not to have been here-
tofore so far divested of its more difficult parts, as to be adapted to our com-
mon schools; and therefore our children grow up in ignorance of much valu-
able and interesting truth relating to this subject, which they are capable of
receiving.

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BAKEWELL'S PHILOSOPHY.

   

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   PHILOSOPHICAL CONVERSATIONS; in which are familiarly
explained the Causes of many daily-occurring Natural Phenomena. By
Frederick C. Bakewell -- With Notes and Questions for Review. By
Ebenezer Bailey.

   "This work is composed of philosophical conversations, in which are familiarly
explained the causes of many daily-occurring natural phenomena; edited by Mr.
Bailey, who has added notes and questions for review. From an examination of this
useful book, we should think it better adapted to the capacity of youthful learners,
than other familiarizing essays of the kind which have fallen under our notice. The
conversational style is pleasing, and matter conveyed in this way becomes most accu-
rately impressed on the minds of learners. It is difficult to make children interested
in natural science; and a work like this, which renders it attractive, and which is at
the same time perfectly correct, should be unhesitatingly adopted by parents and
teachers."

Centinel and Palladium.

   "We have taken more than usual pains to examine this book, and find it worthy
of all commendation. The explanations of natural phenomena are given in a dialogue
so spirited and lively, and the methods of illustration are so happily adapted to the
capacity and tastes of young persons, that we should think a boy beginning to peruse
this book would find himself almost as much interested in it as in Sandford and Mer-
ton or the History of Robinson Crusoe."

New York Evening Post.

   "In these Conversations many natural phenomena of daily occurrence are explained
in a manner highly useful and instructive to the juxvenile mind. It is exceedingly well
adapted to schools and private families."

New York Albion.

   "Bakewell's delightful Conversations have been much improved by the judicious
adoption of questions for review, which must greatly facilitate the study of this inter-
esting and much approved work."

The Knickerbocker.

   "Bakewell has succeeded in producing a work filled with so many interesting
descriptions and experiments, that the favorable opinion of the young reader will
speedily be enlisted in its favor. Every thing that has puzzled his inexperienced
mind, from the falling of snow, or the use of the thermometer, to the generation of
steam, or the refraction of light, is explained in so perspicuous a manner, that he
cannot fail to go along with his author. The conversational style which has been
adopted, and the employment of numerous diagrams to illustrate the text, also greatly
assist in facilitating the communication of the writer's ideas."

--
Montreal Gazette.

    from instructors, which we have not room to insert here.

---

DECLAMATION.

   THE JUVENILE SPEAKER, comprising a Collection of Pieces,
original and selected, from various Authors, adapted to the Capacities of
Children in Common Schools. By An Instructor.

---

CLASSICAL DICTIONARY.

   LEMPRIERE'S CLASSICAL DICTIONARY, for Schools and Acad-
emie, containing every Name, and all that is important or useful, in the
original Work.

    original work, and all the matter that is useful or important for families and young
persons. All the indelicate passages are excluded, that render it improper for youth
of either sex; and the work is so arranged as to make it the best fitted for schools of
any in use. As there are several editions of Lempriere published (all more expen-
sive than this), care should be taken to order the Boston Improved Edition.

---

School Committees,

   MERCHANTS, and COUNTRY TRADERS generally, can be
supplied with SCHOOL BOOKS and STATIONERY, in any quantity, on
the most accommodating terms, by addressing their orders and references to

J. B. Russell, Agent for the American Stationers' Company.

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