{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_18126/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_18126","id":"gutenberg_18126","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18126","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Chesapeake Bay Region (Md. and Va.) -- Fiction"],"text":"E-text prepared by Bethanne M. Simms, Sankar Viswanathan, and the Project\nGutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net/)\n\n\n\nTALES OF THE CHESAPEAKE\n\nby\n\nGEO. ALFRED TOWNSEND\n\n\"GATH.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n         A fruity smell is in the school-house lane;\n           The clover bees are sick with evening heats;\n         A few old houses from the window-pane\n           Fling back the flame of sunset, and there beats\n         The throb of oars from basking oyster fleets,\n           And clangorous music of the oyster tongs\n         Plunged down in deep bivalvulous retreats,\n           And sound of seine drawn home with negro songs.\n\n\n\n\nNew York:\nAmerican News Company,\n39 and 41 Chambers Street.\n1880.\nCopyright, 1880,\nGeo. Alfred Townsend.\n\n\n\n\n\nTO MY FATHER,\n\nREV. STEPHEN TOWNSEND, M.D., PH.D.,\n\nWHOSE ANCESTORS EXPLORED THE CHESAPEAKE BAY IN 1623,\nAND WERE SETTLED ON THE POCOMOKE RIVER ALMOST\nTWO HUNDRED YEARS, NEAR HIS BIRTHPLACE;\n\nWITH\n\nTHE AFFECTION OF\n\n_HIS ONLY SURVIVING SON._\n\n\n\n\nOf the following pieces, two, \"Kidnapped,\" and \"Dominion over the\nFish,\" have been published in _Chambers's Journal_, London. The poem\n\"Herman of Bohemia Manor\" is new. All the compositions illustrate the\nsame general locality.\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\nMOTHERNOOK.\n\nTHE EASTERN SHORE OF MARYLAND.\n\n\n    One day, worn out with head and pen,\n    And the debate of public men,\n      I said aloud, \"Oh! if there were\n    Some place to make me young awhile,\n      I would go there, I would go there,\n    And if it were a many a mile!\"\n      Then something cried--perhaps my map,\n    That not in vain I oft invoke--\n      \"Go seek again your mother's lap,\n      The dear old soil that gave you sap,\n    And see the land of Pocomoke!\"\n\n    A sense of shame that never yet\n    My foot on that old shore was set,\n      Though prodigal in wandering,\n    Arose; and with a tingled cheek,\n      Like some late wild duck on the wing,\n    I started down the Chesapeake.\n      The morning sunlight, silvery calm,\n    From basking shores of woodland broke,\n      And capes and inlets breathing balm,\n      And lovely islands clothed in palm,\n    Closed round the sound of Pocomoke.\n\n    The pungy boats at anchor swing,\n    The long canoes were oystering,\n      And moving barges played the seine\n    Along the beaches of Tangiers;\n      I heard the British drums again\n    As in their predatory years,\n      When Kedge's Straits the Tories swept,\n    And Ross's camp-fires hid in smoke.\n      They plundered all the coasts except\n      The camp the Island Parson kept\n    For praying men of Pocomoke.\n\n    And when we thread in quaint intrigue\n    Onancock Creek and Pungoteague,\n      The world and wars behind us stop.\n    On God's frontiers we seem to be\n      As at Rehoboth wharf we drop,\n    And see the Kirk of Mackemie:\n      The first he was to teach the creed\n    The rugged Scotch will ne'er revoke;\n      His slaves he made to work and read,\n      Nor powers Episcopal to heed,\n    That held the glebes on Pocomoke.\n\n    But quiet nooks like these unman\n    The grim predestinarian,\n      Whose soul expands to mountain views;\n    And Wesley's tenets, like a tide,\n      These level shores with love suffuse,\n    Where'er his patient preachers ride.\n      The landscape quivered with the swells\n    And felt the steamer's paddle stroke,\n      That tossed the hollow gum-tree shells,\n      As if some puffing craft of hell's\n    The fisher chased in Pocomoke.\n\n    Anon the river spreads to coves,\n    And in the tides grow giant groves.\n      The water shines like ebony,\n    And odors resinous ascend\n      From many an old balsamic tree,\n    Whose roots the terrapin befriend;\n      The great ball cypress, fringed with beard,\n    Presides above the water oak,\n      As doth its shingles, well revered,\n      O'er many a happy home endeared\n    To thousands far from Pocomoke.\n\n    And solemn hemlocks drink the dew,\n    Like that old Socrates they slew;\n      The piny forests moan and moan,\n    And in the marshy splutter docks,\n      As if they grazed on sky alone,\n    Rove airily the herds of ox.\n      Then, like a narrow strait of light,\n    The banks draw close, the long trees yoke,\n      And strong old manses on the height\n      Stand overhead, as to invite\n    To good old cheer on Pocomoke.\n\n    And cunning baskets midstream lie\n    To trap the perch that gambol by;\n      In coves of creek the saw-mills sing,\n    And trim the spar and hew the mast;\n      And the gaunt loons dart on the wing,\n    To see the steamer looming past.\n      Now timber shores and massive piles\n    Repel our hull with friendly stroke,\n      And guide us up the long defiles,\n      Till after many fairy miles\n    We reach the head of Pocomoke.\n\n    Is it Snow Hill that greets me back\n    To this old loamy _cul-de-sac_?\n      Spread on the level river shore,\n    Beneath the bending willow-trees\n      And speckled trunks of sycamore,\n    All moist with airs of rival seas?\n      Are these old men who gravely bow,\n    As if a stranger all awoke,\n      The same who heard my parents vow,\n    --Ah well! in simpler days than now--\n    To love and serve by Pocomoke?\n\n    Does Chincoteague as then produce\n    These rugged ponies, lean and spruce?\n      Are these the steers of Accomac\n    That do the negro's drone obey?\n      The things of childhood all come back:\n    The wonder tales of mother day!\n      The jail, the inn, the ivy vines\n    That yon old English churchside cloak,\n      Wherein we read the stately lines\n      Of Addison, writ in his signs,\n    Above the dead of Pocomoke.\n\n    The world in this old nook may peep,\n    And think it listless and asleep;\n      But I have seen the world enough\n    To think its grandeur something dull.\n      And here were men of sterling stuff,\n    In their own era wonderful:\n      Young Luther Martin's wayward race,\n    And William Winder's core of oak,\n      The lion heart of Samuel Chase,\n      And great Decatur's royal face,\n    And Henry Wise of Pocomoke.\n\n    When we have raged our little part,\n    And weary out of strife and art,\n      Oh! could we bring to these still shores\n    The peace they have who harbor here,\n      And rest upon our echoing oars,\n    And float adown this tranquil sphere,\n      Then might yon stars shine down on me,\n    With all the hope those lovers spoke,\n      Who walked these tranquil streets I see\n      And thought God's love nowhere so free\n    Nor life so good as Pocomoke.\n\n\n\n\nTALES AND IDYLS.\n\n\nKING OF CHINCOTEAGUE\n\nHAUNTED PUNGY\n\nTICKING STONE\n\nTHE IMP IN NANJEMOY\n\nFALL OF UTIE\n\nLEGEND OF FUNKSTOWN\n\nJUDGE WHALEY'S DEMON\n\nA CONVENT LEGEND\n\nCRUTCH, THE PAGE\n\nHERMAN OF BOHEMIA MANOR\n\nKIDNAPPED\n\nTHE JUDGE'S LAST TUNE\n\nDOMINION OVER THE FISH\n\nTHE CIRCUIT PREACHER\n\nTHE BIG IDIOT\n\nA BAYSIDE IDYL\n\nSIR WILLIAM JOHNSON'S NIGHT\n\nPHANTOM ARCHITECT\n\nTHE LOBBY BROTHER\n\nPOTOMAC RIVER\n\nTELL-TALE FEET\n\nUPPER MARLB'RO'\n\nPREACHERS' SONS IN 1849\n\nCHESTER RIVER\n\nOLD WASHINGTON ALMSHOUSE\n\nOLD ST. MARY'S\n\n\n\n\nKING OF CHINCOTEAGUE.\n\n\nThe night before Christmas, frosty moonlight, the outcast preacher\ncame down to the island shore and raised his hands to the stars.\n\n\"O God! whose word I so long preached in meekness and sincerity,\" he\ncried, \"have mercy on my child and its mother, who are poor as were\nThine own this morning, eighteen hundred and forty years ago!\"\n\nThe moonlight scarcely fretted the soft expanse of Chincoteague Bay.\nThere seemed a slender hand of silver reaching down from the sky to\ntremble on the long chords of the water, lying there in light and\nshade, like a harp. The drowsy dash of the low surf on the bar beyond\nthe inlet was harsh to this still and shallow haven for wreckers and\noystermen. It was very far from any busy city or hive of men, between\nthe ocean and the sandy peninsula of Maryland.\n\nBut no land is so remote that it may not have its banished men. The\noutcast preacher had committed the one deadly sin acknowledged amongst\nthose wild wreckers and watermen. It was not that he had knocked a\ndrowning man in the head, nor shown a false signal along the shore to\ndecoy a vessel into the breakers, nor darkened the lighthouse lamp.\nThese things had been done, but not by him.\n\nHe had married out of his race. His wife was crossed with despised\nblood.\n\n\"What do you seek, preacher?\" exclaimed a gruff, hard voice. \"Has the\nCanaanite woman driven you out from your hut this sharp weather, in\nthe night?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered the outcast preacher. \"My heart has sent me forth to\nbeg the service of your oyster-tongs, that I may dip a peck of\noysters from the cove. We are almost starved.\"\n\n\"And rightly starved, O psalm-singer! You were doing well. Preaching,\nha! ha! Preaching the miracle of the God in the manger, the baby of\nthe maid. You prayed and travelled for the good of Christians. The\ntime came when you practised that gospel. You married the daughter of\na slave. Then they cast you off. They outlawed you. You were made\nmeaner, Levin Purnell, than the Jew of Chincoteague!\"\n\nThe speaker was a bearded, swarthy, low-set man, who looked out from\nthe cabin of a pungy boat. His words rang in the cold air like\ndropping icicles articulate.\n\n\"I know you, Issachar,\" exclaimed the outcast preacher. \"They say that\nyou are hard and avaricious. Your people were bond slaves once to\nevery nation. This is the birth night of my faith. In the name of\nJoseph, who fed your brethren when they were starving, with their\nfather, for corn, give me a few oysters, that we may live, and not\ndie!\"\n\nThe Jew felt the supplication. He was reminded of Christmas eve. The\npoorest family on Chincoteague had bought his liquor that night for a\ncarouse, or brought from the distant court-house town something for\nthe children's stockings. Before him was one whose service had been\nthat powerful religion, shivering in the light of its natal star on\nthe loneliest sea-shore of the Atlantic. He had harmed no man, yet all\nshunned him, because he had loved, and honored his love with a\nreligious rite, instead of profaning it, like others of his race.\n\n\"Take my tongs,\" replied the Jew. \"Dip yonder! It will be your only\nChristmas gift.\"\n\n\"Peace to thee on earth and good-will to thee from men!\" answered the\noutcast.\n\nThe preacher raised the long-handled rakes, spread the handles, and\ndropped them into the Sound. They gave from the bottom a dull, ringing\ntingle along their shafts. He strove to lift them with their weight\nof oysters, but his famished strength was insufficient.\n\n\"I am very weak and faint,\" he said. \"Oh, help me, for the pity of\nGod!\"\n\nThe Jew came to his relief doggedly. The Jew was a powerful,\nbow-legged man, but with all his strength he could scarcely raise the\nburden.\n\n\"By Abraham!\" he muttered, \"they are oysters of lead. They will\nneither let go nor rise.\"\n\nHe finally rolled upon the deck a single object. It broke apart as it\nfell. The moonlight, released by his humped shadow, fell upon\nsomething sparkling, at which he leaped with a sudden thirst, and\ncried:\n\n\"Gold! Jewels! They are mine.\"\n\nIt was an iron casket, old and rusty, that he had raised. Within it,\npartly rusted to the case, the precious lustre to which he had devoted\nhis life flashed out to the o'erspread arch of night, sown thick with\nstar-dust. A furious strength was added to his body. He broke the\nobject from the casket and held it up to eyes of increased wonder and\nawe. Then, with an oath, he would have plunged it back into the sea.\n\nThe outcast preacher interposed.\n\n\"It is your Christmas gift, Issachar. _It is a cross._ Curse not! It\ncannot harm you nor me. Dip again, and bring me a few oysters, or my\nwife may die.\"\n\n\"I know the form of that cross,\" said the oyster-man. \"It is Spanish.\nMany a year ago, no doubt, some high-pooped galleon, running close to\nthe coast, went ashore on Chincoteague and drifted piecemeal through\nthe inlet, wider then than now. This mummery, this altar toy, destined\nfor some Papist mission-house, has lain all these years in the\nbrackish Sound. Ha! ha! That Issachar the Jew should raise a cross,\nand on the Christian's Christmas eve! But it is mine! My tongs, my\nvessel, myself brought it aboard!\"\n\nHe seized the preacher's skinny arm with the ferocity of greed.\n\n\"I do not claim it, Issachar. My worship is not of forms and images.\nDip again, and help me to my hut with a few oysters, for I am very\nfaint. Then all my knowledge and interest in this effigy I will\nsurrender to you.\"\n\n\"Agreed!\" exclaimed the Jew, plunging the tongs to the bottom again\nand again, in his satisfaction.\n\nThey walked inland across the difficult sands, the Jew carrying the\ncrucifix jealously. Lights gleamed from a few huts along the level\nisland. At the meanest hut of all they stopped, and heard within a\nbaby's cry, to which there was no response. The preacher staggered\nback with apprehension. The Jew raised the latch and led the way.\n\nThe light of some burning driftwood and dried sea-weed filled the low\nroof and was reflected back to a cot, on which a woman lay with a\nliving child beside her. Something dread and ineffable was conveyed by\nthat stiffened form. The Jew, familiar with misery and all its\nindications, caught the preacher in his arms.\n\n\"Levin Purnell,\" he said, \"thy Christmas gift has come. Bear up! There\nis no more persecution for thee. She is dead!\"\n\nThe outcast preacher looked once, wildly, on the woman's face, and\nwith a cry pressed his hands to his heart. The Jew laid him down upon\na miserable pallet, and for a few moments watched him steadily.\nNeither sound nor motion revealed the presence of the cold spark of\nlife. The husband's heart was broken.\n\n\"Poor wretch!\" exclaimed the Jew. \"Mismated couple; in death as\nobstinate as in life. Lie there together, befriended in the closing\nhour by the Jew of Chincoteague, a present--to-morrow's Christmas--for\nthy neighbors of this Christian island!\"\n\nHe stirred the fire. Death had no terrors for him, who had seen it by\nland and sea, in brawls and shipwrecks, by hunger and by scurvy. He\nlaid the bodies side by side, and warmed the infant at the fire.\nLooking up from the living child's face, he caught the sparkle of the\ncrucifix he had discovered, where it stood in the narrow window-sill.\nThere were gems of various colors in it, and they reflected the\nfirelight lustrously, like a slender chandelier, or, as the Jew\nremembered in the version of the Evangels, like the gifts those\nbearded wise men, of whom he might resemble one, brought to the manger\nof the infant Christ--gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Struck\nby the conceit, he looked again at the baby's face--the baby but a few\ndays or weeks old--and he felt, in spite of himself, a softness and\npity.\n\n\"It might be true,\" he muttered, \"that a Jewish man, a tricked and\nunsuspecting husband of a menial, like her who has perished with this\npreacher, _did_ behold a new-born baby in the manger of an inn,\neighteen hundred and forty years ago.\"\n\nHe looked again at the cross. In the relief of the night against the\nwindow-pane its jewels shone like the only living things in the hovel.\nA figure was extended upon this cross, and every nail was a precious\nstone; the crown of thorns was all diamonds.\n\n\"It might be true,\" he said again, \"that on a cross-beam like that,\nthe manger baby perished for some audacity--as I might be put to death\nif I mocked the usages of a whole nation, as this preacher has done.\"\n\nThe cross, an object as high as one of the window-panes, and suffused\nwith the exuding dyes of its jewels, took now a dewy lustre, as if\nweeping precious gum and amber. The Jew felt an instant's sense of\nsuperstition, which he dashed away, and placing the child, already\nsleeping, before the fire, awakened rapacity led him to hunt the hovel\nover. He found nothing but a few religious books, and amongst them a\nleather-covered Testament, which he opened and read with\ninsensibility--passing on, at length, to interest, then to\nfascination, at last to rage and defiance--the opening chapters and\nthe close of the story of Jesus.\n\n\"Now, by the sufferings of my patient race! I will do a thing unlike\nmyself, to prove this testimony a libel. Here is a child more homeless\nthan this carpenter, Joseph's, without the false pretence of coming\nof David's line. Its mother tainted with negro blood, like the slaves\nI have imported. Its father the obscurest preacher of his sect. I will\nrob the shark and the crab of a repast. It shall be my child and a\nHebrew. Yea, if I can make it so, a Rabbi of Israel!\"\n\nIssachar looked again at the cross. Day was breaking in the window\nbehind it, and the rich light of its gems was obscurer, but its form\nand proportions seemed to have expanded--perhaps because he had worn\nhis eyes reading by the firelight--and the outstretched figure looked\nlarge as humanity, and the cross lofty and real, as that which it was\nmade to commemorate. He hid it beneath his garment, and walked forth\ninto the gray dawn of Christmas. One star remained in mid-heaven,\nwhiter than the day. It poised over the hovel of the dead like\nsomething new-born in the sky, and unacquainted with its fellow orbs.\n\n\"Christmas gift!\" shouted a party of lads and women, rushing upon the\nJew. \"Christmas gift! You are caught, Issachar. Give us a present, old\nmiser!\"\n\nIt was the custom in that old settled country that whoever should be\nearliest up, and say \"Christmas gift!\" to others, should receive some\nlittle token in farthings or kind.\n\n\"Bah!\" answered the Jew. \"Look in yonder, where the best of your\nreligion lie, perished by your inhumanity, and behold your Christmas\ngift to them!\"\n\nThere, where no friendly feet but those of negroes and slaves had\nentered for months, the strengthening morning showed a young wife,\nalmost white, and the most beautiful of her type, with comely\nfeatures, and eyes and hair that the proudest white beauty might envy.\nThe gauntness of death had scarcely diminished those charms which had\nbrought the pride of the world's esteem and the prudence of religion\nto her feet, and lifted her to virtuous matrimony, only to banish her\nlover from the hearthstones of his race and make them both outcasts,\nthe poorest of the creatures of God, even on Chincoteague. A slight\nsense of self-accusation touched the bystanders.\n\n\"He was a good preacher,\" said one, \"and I was converted under him. He\nbaptized my children. That he should have married a darkey!\"\n\n\"She was a pious girl,\" added another, \"and from her youth up was in\ntemptation, which she resisted, like a white woman. That she should\nhave ruined this preacher!\"\n\n\"He was a poet,\" said a third. \"'Peared like as if he believed every\nthing he preached. But, my sakes! we can't have sich things in _our_\nchurch.\"\n\n\"She loved him, too, the hussy!\" exclaimed a fourth. \"She would have\nbeen his slave if he had asked her. Oh! what misery she felt when she\nknew that his passion for her was starving him, body and soul!\"\n\nThey slipped away, with a feeling that, somehow, two very guilty\npeople had been punished in those two. The negroes made the funeral\nprocession. The Jew walked amongst the negroes.\n\n\"O Father Abraham,\" he said, chuckling to himself, \"forgive me that I\nstand here, no renegade to my faith, yet the only white Christian on\nChincoteague!\"\n\nIssachar was oyster-man, sailor, and sutler in one. He advanced money\nto build pungy boats, knit nets, and make huts. He kept a trading\nplace, packed fish, and dealt with the Eastern port cities by a\nschooner whose crew he shipped himself and sometimes commanded her. He\nwas a wrecker, too, prompt and enterprising; passed middle life, but\nfull of vitality; bold and cunning in equal degree; and he had been,\nit was guessed, a slaver, and some said a pirate. He was called by the\nnegroes the King of Chincoteague. His schooner was named The Eli.\n\nChincoteague is the principal inhabited island along the one hundred\nmiles of coast between the capes of the Delaware and of the\nChesapeake--a coast of low bars, divided into long and slender islands\nby a dozen inlets, which, almost filled with sand, permit only\nlight-draught vessels to enter; and it is destruction to any ship to\ngo ashore on that coast, where five successive lighthouses warn the\ncommerce of the Atlantic off, but are unable to intimidate the storms\nwhich sweep the low shores and almost threaten to leap over the\npeninsula and submerge it. Chincoteague lies like a tongue between two\ninlets, and partly protrudes into the sea, but is also sheltered in\npart by the bar of Assateague, whose light has flamed for years.\nChincoteague is about ten miles long, and behind it an inland bay\nstretches continuously, under various names, for thirty miles,\nprotected from the ocean, and scarcely flavored with its salt, except\nnear the outlet at Chincoteague, where the oysters lie in the brackish\nsluices, and all sorts of fish, from shrimps to sharks, hover around\nthe oyster beds. In the green depths they can be seen, and there the\ncrab darts sidewise, like a shooting star. In the sandy beach grows\nthe mamano, or snail-clam, putting his head from his shell at high\ntide to suck nutrition from the mysterious food of the sea, and giving\nback such chowder to man as makes the eater feel his stomach to\npossess a nobility above the pleasures of the brain. The bay of\nChincoteague is five or six miles wide, and the nearest hamlet is in\nVirginia, as is Chincoteague island also. The hamlet takes the name of\nHorntown, and not far from there is the old court-house seat of Snow\nHill, in Maryland. Every soul on Chincoteague was native there or\nthereabout, except Issachar the Jew.\n\nHe had appeared amongst them after a sudden storm, the solitary\nsurvivor of a wreck that had partly drifted ashore, and, as he said,\ngone down with all his fortune. The mild air and easy livelihood of\nthe spot pleased the Jew, after his first despair, and he set about\nmaking another fortune. Capable, solitary and active, he soon\noutstripped all the people of the islands, and neither beloved nor\nunbeloved, lived grimly, as chance ordained, and until now, had never\nshown more than business benevolence. It was a surprising thing to the\npeople of Chincoteague, when the news went round that he had been over\nto court at Drummond-town and given his recognizance to bring up the\norphan boy--whom he named Abraham Purnell--so that the county should\nnot be at the expense of him, and he also brought out from New York,\non the Eli's next trip, a Hebrew woman to be the boy's matron. Suckled\nat a negro's breast, Abraham grew to a vigorous youth, resembling his\nguardian's race and his mother's as well, in the curling nature of his\nhair and the brightness of his eyes. The Old Testament Scriptures\nalone were taught him, and Issachar himself joined the family circle\nat daily prayer to encourage the faith of Israel in the stranger. The\nfinest of the lean, tough ponies, bred only on Chincoteague, and\nrenowned throughout the peninsula for their endurance, was bought for\nthe boy, as he grew older. He was made Issachar's companion, and, in\ncourse of time, passed in fireside talk for a Jew, like his protector.\n\nOnly once the superior comfort and clothing of Issachar's _protege_\nprovoked the remark from one of a group of men that Abraham was \"only\na stuck-up nigger, anyway;\" and then, like a maniac, Old Issachar\ndashed from his store with a boat-hook and struck down the offender\nlike a dead man.\n\nBut the boy was of such docile and beautiful nature that he excited no\ngeneral antagonism. He was four removals from pure African blood, and\nas his mother had been a freed girl, he was a citizen, or might be if\nhe pleased. The certain heir of Issachar's possessions, the only thing\nexcept gold that Issachar loved, and of a parentage which linked\nmisfortune with piety, his mysterious nativity gave him with the\nnegroes a sacred character. They believed that he would become their\nking and priest and lead them out of bondage to a promised land; and\nthis involuntary homage so pleased old Issachar that his heart\ninclined toward the black race above the Christian whites around him.\nIf an aged negro fell sick, the Jew sent, by his ward, medicine and\nfood. If a very poor negro was buried, the Jew contributed to the\nexpenses. He gave the first counsel of worldly wisdom to the negro\nfreedmen, and gave them faithful interest on their savings. One slave\nthat he possessed he set free, saying:\n\n\"By Jacob's staff! I will not hold as cattle the blood people of my\nson!\"\n\nHis enlarged benevolence made no difference in his business. It grew\nto the widest limits of that humble society, and by the accident of a\nyounger life coming forward to bear his honor up, Issachar grew into\nsympathy with the social life of all the lower peninsula. If they\nwanted money for public enterprise on the mainland, the Jew of\nChincoteague was first to be thought of. His credit, Masonic in its\nreach, extended to his compatriots in distant cities, and the\npoliticians crossed the Sound to bring him into alliance with their\nparties. To personal flattery he was obtuse, except when it reached\nhis ward, and then a melting mood came over him. At every Christmas he\nled himself the eloquent Oriental prayer, young Abraham responding\nwith even a richer imagery, for his mind was alert, his schooling had\nbeen private and unintermittent, and his father's enthusiasm and his\nmother's docility made him a poet and a son together.\n\n\"My son,\" said the Jew, as Abraham's fifteenth Christmas approached,\n\"the time is at hand when we must part for years. I am growing old,\nand the loss of thee, O my love! is harder than thou canst know. The\nsands of life are running out with me, as from an hour-glass. With\nthee the heavens are rosy and the world is new. Thou beautiful Samuel,\nJehovah's selected one! Wilt thou remember me when far away?\"\n\n\"Father,\" answered Abraham, \"what besides thee can I love? Every\nmorning, and at noon, and again at night, I will face from the East to\npray toward thee; for God will not listen unless I am grateful to my\nfather.\"\n\n\"Thou art going to Amsterdam,\" said Issachar. \"There, amongst the\nnoblest Jews of Europe, the descendants of the Jewish Portuguese, the\nHebrew tongue in its purity, the law of Moses in its majesty, our lore\nin its plenitude, thou wilt learn. I look to thee, adopted child of\nIsrael! to give the promise of thy youth to the study of our grand old\nreligion, and, like the infant Moses, discovered amongst these\nbulrushes of Chincoteague, to be the reviver of our faith, the\nstatesman of our sect. Yea! the rebuilder of our Zion. It has been\nordained that these things will be done, and, by the stars of Abraham;\nit shall be so!\"\n\n\"My father,\" said young Abraham, \"God will keep all His promises.\"\n\nThe Jew took from a chest of massive cedar wood, empty of all besides,\nthe precious crucifix.\n\n\"Look on that,\" he exclaimed. \"Dost thou know what it represents?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Abraham.\n\n\"It is the symbol of the faith in which thy father died. A Hebrew\nimpostor, one Jesus, was nailed by the Roman conquerors of Jerusalem\nto a cross-piece of wood. He affected to be the son of David and the\nSaviour of men. My son, in the name of his punishment the children of\nIsrael have been burned at the stake, dispersed abroad among the\nnations, and hated of mankind. Preaching his imposture thy father and\nthy mother were suffered to die for their consistency. See what I have\ndone with the bauble! The years I have expended on thy mind and\ncomfort have cost me money. From that crucifix, one by one, I have\nplucked the precious stones for thy education. Here, from the side,\nwhere they say the soldier's spear was thrust, I have sold the costly\nruby. The nail in the feet, a sapphire, paid thy Jewish matron. The\nemerald in this right hand purchased thy books. I send thee abroad\nwith the price of the diamonds in the crown.\"\n\n\"Father,\" said young Abraham, \"the image is hallowed to me for thy\npiety. It is Humanity, O my father! that has made me devoutly a Jew,\nand thee, unsuspectingly, a Christian.\"\n\nHe sailed away upon the Eli. His parting words had affected old\nIssachar so much that his mind returned along the course of years to\nthe Christmas night he had passed in the outcast preacher's hut, and\nthe curious story of Jesus he had read there in the New Testament and\nin the presence of the dead.\n\n\"To-morrow is Christmas,\" said the Jew; \"a hallowed day to me, because\nit brought me a son whose obedience and piety have gratified the exile\nof my old age. Although these Christians have covered him with their\ndespite, his excellent charity remembers it not. I will be no less\nmagnanimous, and I will cross the bay and attend the Methodist worship\nat Snow Hill on Christmas morning, that I may communicate its\nfrivolity to my son.\"\n\nHe kept his word; and for fear thieves might discover and steal the\nvaluable crucifix, he hid it beneath his vesture and carried it to the\nmainland. The little plank meeting-house at the edge of Snow Hill was\nfilled with whites on the floor, but in the end gallery, amongst the\nnegroes, Issachar haughtily took his seat, an object of wonder to both\nraces, for his face and reputation were generally recognized. Perhaps\nit was for this reason that the young preacher, a gentle, graceful\nperson, adapted his sermon to the sweetness of the Christian story\nrather than bear upon those descriptions which might antagonize his\nJewish auditor.\n\nHe told the story of the world's selfishness when Christ appeared; how\nthe Jews, living in the straitest of sectarian aristocracies, inviting\nand receiving no accessions, had finally fallen under the dogmatism of\nthe uncharitable Pharisees, who esteemed themselves the only righteous\ndevotees and doctrinaires amongst the millions of people on the earth.\nJesus, a youth of good Jewish extraction, and honorable family, had\nbeen bold enough to denounce Phariseeism and make its votaries\nridiculous. He was scorned by them, if for no other crime, for the\ncheap offence, in a bigoted age, denominated blasphemy. Here the\npreacher, looking toward the Jew, paid a tribute to the antiquity and\nloyalty of the better class of Jews, and said that it was well known\nthat one of his own forerunners in the Christian ministry, dying in\npenury from the consequences of a marital mistake, had been befriended\nin his death and in his posterity by a gallant follower of the House\nof Israel.\n\nThe congregation, facing about to look at the Jew in the gallery,\namongst the negroes, were surprised to see tears on his gray\neyelashes, and the colored elders, who loved Issachar exceedingly,\nexclaimed, in stentorian chorus:\n\n\"Praise God for dat Israelite, in whom dar is no guile! Hallelujah!\"\n\nThen, as if the Christmas frost had melted, these grateful\nexclamations made warmth at once in both races, and encouraged the\norator in his extemporization. Issachar began to appreciate the\npossibility of the founder of a more liberal sect of Jews, whose\ncharitable hand should be extended to Gentiles also, and whose heaven\nshould comprehend all the posterity of Adam. Perhaps his son's\nportrait was in his mind--that loving son who had but just departed in\nthe interests of the law of Moses and the restoration of the Temple.\nAt the end of the sermon alms were invited for the support of the\nminister and the propagation of such a gospel as he had preached. With\na mixture of pride and humility old Issachar descended the gallery\nstairs and walked up the aisle, and, taking the crucifix from his\nbreast, planted it upon the altar.\n\n\"There,\" he said, \"if your sect asserts the sentiments of this sermon,\nyou are entitled to this rich image. I am repaid for its possession by\na son of Gentile parentage whose obedience has been the delight of my\nold years, and for the gift God has given me in him, I tender you\nthis counterfeit of Jesus nailed on the Roman scaffold.\"\n\nThe congregation gazed a minute at the golden cross. Ireful laughter\nbroke forth, followed by rage.\n\n\"The pagan! The papist! The Turk! The idolater!\" they exclaimed. \"He\nmocks the memory of our Saviour on Christmas morning! Out with him!\"\n\nThe Jew recovered the crucifix and put it beneath his mantle. He\nvouchsafed no reply except a scornful \"Ha! ha! ha!\" and with this he\nstrode out of the Methodist meeting, rejoined his boatmen, and\nreturned to the island of Chincoteague.\n\nYears passed, and the Jew grew very feeble. He had lasted his\nfourscore and ten years, and prosperity had attended him through all,\nand children loved him; but, true to his first and only fondness, his\nheart was ever across the sea, where gentle Abraham, studiously intent\namongst the Rabbis, communicated with his father by every mail and\nraised the old man's mind to a height of serious appreciation which\ngreed and commerce had never given him. Although hungering for his\nboy, Issachar forebore to disturb young Abraham's studies until a\nbitter illness came to him, and in his gloom and solitude his great\nwant burst from his lips, and he said aloud:\n\n\"Almighty Father! What will it avail to these old bones if the Temple\nbe rebuilded, and I die without placing my hands on the eyelids of my\nboy and blessing him in Thy name? I will pluck from this Christian\nimage the last jewel and dispose of it, that he may return and place\nhis hands in mine, and receive my benediction, and gladden me with his\ngratitude.\"\n\nThe image was therefore wholly separated from the cross. Nothing\nremained but the figure in gold of that bloody Pillory on which He\ndied on whom two hundred millions of human beings rely for\nintercession with their Creator and Destiny.\n\nThe days seemed months to the Jew of Chincoteague. The negroes\ngathered round his cabin to be of assistance if he should require it;\nfor they also looked for young Abraham as the Shiloh of their race,\nand would have died for old Issachar, unredeemed as they thought him,\nexcept by his goodness to their prince and favorite.\n\nA high tide, following a series of dreadful storms, arose on the coast\nof the peninsula, as if the Gulf Stream, like a vast ploughshare, had\nthrown the Atlantic up from its furrow and tossed it over the beach of\nAssateague.\n\nThe sturdy ponies were all drowned. The sea was undivided from the\nbay. Pungy boats and canoes drifted helplessly along the coast, and\nthe Eli alone was out of danger in the harbor of New York, waiting to\nreceive young Abraham. At last the freshet crept over the house-tops,\nand nothing remained but the cottage of the Jew, planted on piles,\nwhich lifting it higher than the surrounding houses, yet threatened it\nthe more if the water should float it from its pedestal and send it to\nsea. Every effort was made to induce the Jew to abandon it, but he was\nobdurate.\n\n\"By the tables of the law!\" he said, \"living or dead, here will I\nabide until my son returns.\"\n\nThe bravest negro left the island of Chincoteague at last, placing\nfood beside old Issachar, and there he lay upon his pallet, with\nnothing to pierce the darkness of his lair except that sacred cross he\nhad raised from the depths of the ocean. That object, like a sentient,\noverruling thing, still shed its lustre upon the wretched interior of\nthe deserted hut, and, day by day, repeated its story to the neglected\noccupant.\n\nThe mighty storm increased in power as Christmas approached, in the\nyear one thousand eight hundred and fifty----. Wrecks came ashore on\nthe submerged shoal of Chincoteague, but there were now no wreckers to\nlabor for salvage. The Eli, too, was overdue. One night a familiar gun\nwas heard at sea, thrice, and twice thrice, and Issachar raised up and\nsaid, in anguish:\n\n\"It is my schooner. My son is at hand and in danger. Oh! for a day's\nstrength, as I had it in my youth, to go to his relief through the\nsurf. But, miserable object that I am! I cannot rise from my bed. What\nhelp, what hope, in the earth or in heaven can I implore?\"\n\nThe naked cross beamed brightly all at once in the darkness of the\ncabin. Issachar felt the legend it conveyed, and with piety, not\napostacy, he uttered:\n\n\"O Paschal Lamb! O Waif of God! Die Thou for me this night, and give\nme to look upon the countenance of my son!\"\n\nThe Jew, intently gazing at the cross, passed into such a stupor or\necstasy that he had no knowledge of the flight of time. He only knew\nthat, after a certain dreamy interval, the door of his house yielded\nto a living man, and, nearly naked with breasting the surf and\nfighting for life, young Abraham staggered into the hut and recognized\nhis father.\n\n\"O son!\" cried Issachar, \"I feel the news thou hast to tell. The Eli\nis wrecked and thou only hast survived. The moments are precious.\nHark! this house is yielding to the buoyant current. Stay not for me,\nwhose sands are nearly run. I am too old to try for life or fear to\ndie, but thou art full of youth and beauty, and Israel needs thee in\nthe world behind me. Let me bless thee, Abraham, and commit thee to\nGod.\"\n\nThe water entered the cracks of the cabin; a pitching motion, as if it\nwere afloat, made the son of the negro cling closer to the Jew.\n\n\"Father,\" he said, \"I have passed the bitterness of death. When the\nvessel struck and threw me into the surf, I cried to God and fought\nfor life. The waves rolled over me, and the agony of dying so young\nand happy grew into such a terror that I could not pray. In my despair\na something seemed to grasp me, like tongs of iron, and my eyes were\nfilled with light, bright as the face of the I AM. Behold! I am here,\nand that which saved me has made me content to die by thee.\"\n\nThe old man drew the dripping ringlets of the younger one to his\nvenerable beard. The house rocked like a sailing vessel, and the\nstrong sea-fogs seemed to close them round.\n\n\"We are sailing to sea,\" whispered the Jew. \"It is too late to escape.\nThe next billow may fling us apart, and our bones shall descend\namongst the oyster-shells to build houses for the nutritious beings of\nthe water. Thence, some day, my son, from the heavens God may drop His\ntongs and draw us up to Him, as on this night thy father and I drew\nthe casket, many years ago. Look there! Look there!\"\n\nThe heads of both were turned toward the spot where the finger of the\nold man pointed, and they saw the denuded cross shining in the light\nof the agitated fire, so large and bright that it reduced all other\nobjects to insignificance.\n\n\"It was a light like that,\" exclaimed Abraham, \"which shone in my eyes\nthrough the darkness of the billows.\"\n\n\"It was on that,\" whispered Issachar, \"that I called for help, my son,\nwhen thou wert dying. From the hour I dipped it from the water my\nheart has been warmer to the world and man. Is there, in all the hoary\ntraditions of our church, a reason why we should not beseech its\nillumination again before it returns to the ocean with ourselves? Do\nthou decide, who art full of wisdom; for I am ignorant in thy eyes,\nand heavy with sins.\"\n\nThe cross, resplendent, seemed to wear a visible countenance. Wrapped\nin Issachar's arms, like a babe to its mother, young Abraham extended\nhis hands to the effigy, and in its beams a wondrous consolation of\nlove and rest returned to those poor companions, reconciling them to\ntheir helplessness in the presence of the Almighty awe.\n\n\"Child of God!\" exclaimed the Jew, \"thou beauty of the Gentiles, I\ngave thee life but for a span, and thou seemest to bring to me the\nlife immortal.\"\n\nThe morning broke on the shore frosty and clear after the subsided\nstorm, and the earliest wreckers, seeking in the drift for Christmas\ngifts to give their children, found well-remembered parts of the Eli\nand portions of the tenement of its proprietor. A wave rolled higher\nthan the rest and cast upon the shore two bodies--a young man of the\ncomely face and symmetry of a woman, without a sign of pain in his\nfeatures and dark, oriental eyes, and an old man, venerable as an\ninhabitant of the ocean and mysterious as a being of some race\nanterior to the deluge. In his rugged face the marks of that antiquity\nwhich has something stately in the lowest types of the Jew, and in\nthis one an almost Mosaic might, were softened to a magnanimity where\ndeath had nothing to contribute but its silence and respect. Laying\nthem together, the fishermen and idlers looked at them with a\nsuperstition partly of remorse and mild remembrance, and the star of\nChristmas twinkled over them in the sky. None felt that they were\nother than father and son, and black men and white, indifferent that\nday to social prejudices, followed the child of Hagar and the Hebrew\npatriarch to the grave.\n\n\n\n\nHAUNTED PUNGY.\n\n\n    They hewed the pines on Haunted Point\n      To build the pungy boat,\n    And other axes than their own\n      Yet other echoes smote;\n    They heard the phantom carpenters,\n      But not a man could see;\n    And every pine that crashed to earth\n      Brought down a viewless tree.\n\n    They launched the pungy, not alone;\n      Another vessel slipped\n    Down in the water with their own,\n      And ghostly sailors shipped;\n    They heard the rigging flap and creak,\n      And hollow orders cried.\n    But not a living man could seek,\n      And not a boat beside.\n\n    They sailed away from Haunted Point,\n      Convoyed by something more:\n    A boatswain's whistle answered back,\n      And oar replied to oar.\n    No matter where the anchor dropped,\n      The fiends would not aroint,\n    And every morn the pungy boat\n      Still lay off Haunted Point.\n\n    They hailed; and voices as in fog\n      Seemed half to speak again--\n    A devilish chuckling rolled afar,\n      And mutiny of men.\n    The parson of the islands said\n      It was the pirate band,\n    Whose gold was lost on Haunted Point\n      And hid with bloody hand.\n\n    Until what time a kidnapped boy,\n      By ruffians whipped and stole,\n    Should in the groves of Haunted Point\n      Convert his stealer's soul!\n    They stole the island parson's child,\n      He said a little prayer:\n    Down sank the ground; a gliding sound\n      Went whispering through the air.\n\n    And in the depths the pungy sank;\n      And, as the divers told,\n    They sought the wreck to lift again,\n      And found the pirates' gold.\n    And in a chapel close at hand\n      The pious freedmen toil;\n    No slaves are left in all the land,\n      Nor any pirates' spoil.\n\n\n\n\nTICKING STONE.\n\n\nPeople say that a certain tombstone in the London Tract \"Hardshell\"\nBaptist graveyard, near Newark, Delaware, will give to the ear placed\nflat upon it the sound of a ticking like a watch. The London Tract\nChurch, as its name implies, was the worshipping place of certain\nsettlers who either came from London, or chose land owned by a London\ncompany. It is a quaint edifice of hard stone, with low-bent bevelled\nroof, and surrounded by a stone wall, which has a shingle coping. The\nwall incloses many gravestones, their inscriptions showing that very\nmany of the old worshippers of the church were Welsh. Some large and\nhealthy forest trees partly shade the graveyard and the grassy and\nsandy cross-roads where it stands, near the brink of the pretty White\nClay Creek.\n\nI climbed over the coping of the graveyard wall last spring, and\nfollowed my companion, the narrator of the following story, to what\nappeared to be the very oldest portion of the inclosure. The\ntombstones were in some cases quite illegible as to inscriptions, worn\nbare and smooth by more than a century's rains and chipping frosts,\nand others were sunken deep in the grass so as to afford only partial\nrecompense for the epitaph hunter.\n\n\"This is the Ticking Stone,\" said my companion, pointing to a\nrecumbent slab, worn smooth and scarcely showing a trace of former\nlettering; \"put your ear upon it while I pull away the weeds, and then\nnote if you hear any thing.\"\n\nI laid my ear upon the mossy stone, and almost immediately felt an\naudible, almost tangible ticking, like that of a lady's watch.\n\n\"You are scratching the stone, Pusey,\" I cried to my informant.\n\n\"No! Upon my honor! That is not the sound of a scratch that you hear.\nIt cannot be any insect nor any process of moving life in the stone or\nbeneath it. Can you liken it to any thing but the equal motion of a\nrather feeble timepiece?\"\n\nI listened again, and this time longer, and a sort of superstition\ngrew over me, so that had I been alone, probably I would have\nexperienced a sense of timid loneliness. To stand amidst those silent\nmemorial stones of the early times and hear a watch beat beneath one\nof them as perfectly as you can feel it in your vest pocket, and then\nto feel your heart start nervously at the recognition of this\ndisassociated sound, is not satisfying, even when in human company.\n\n\"This is the best ghost I have ever found,\" I said. \"Perhaps some one\nhas slipped a watch underneath, for it is somebody's watch; there _is_\nsomething real in it.\"\n\n\"I took the stone up once myself,\" said Pusey, \"and the ticking then\nseemed to come up from the ground. While I deliberated, an old man\ncame out of yonder old sexton-looking house, and warned me not to\ndisturb the dead. He crossed the wall, and assisted me to replace the\nstone, and then bade me sit down upon it, ancient mariner-like, while\nhe disclosed the cause of the phenomenon.\"\n\nHere my companion stopped a minute--and in the pause we could hear the\nold trees wave very solemnly above us, and a nut, or burr, or sycamore\nball, came rattling down the old kirk roof as we stood there in the\ngraves, to startle us the more, and then he said:\n\n\"It is just as queer as the tale he told me--the disappearance of that\nold man. Nobody about here can recognize him from my descriptions. He\nwalked toward the old mill down the Newark road, and the next time I\nlooked up he was gone. The people in the house there think I am\nflighty in my mind for insisting upon his appearance to me at all.\"\n\n\"Go on with the tale right here, my flesh-creeping friend,\" I said.\n\"It will do us good to feel occasionally solemn.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"This stone, young man,\" said my Quakerly rebuker, in a hard country\nfarmer's voice; \"this stone is the London Tract Ticking Stone. It is\nthe oldest preacher and admonitor in this churchyard. It is older than\nthe graves of any of the known pastors or communicants round about it.\n\n\"In the year 1764 the comparative solitude of this region was broken\nby a large party of chain-bearers, rod-men, axe-men, commissaries,\ncooks, baggage-carriers, and camp-followers. They had come by order of\nLord Baltimore and William Penn, to terminate a long controversy\nbetween two great landed proprietors, and they were led by Charles\nMason, of the Royal Observatory, at Greenwich, England, and by\nJeremiah Dixon, the son of a collier discovered in a coalpit. For\nthree years they continued westward, running their stakes over\nmountains and streams, like a gypsy camp in appearance, frightening\nthe Indians with their sorcery. But, near this spot, they halted\nlongest, to fix with precision the tangent point, and the point of\nintersection of three States--the circular head of Delaware, the\nabutting right angle of Maryland, and the tiny pan-handle of\nPennsylvania.\n\n\"The people of this region were sparse in number, but of strong,\nsober, and yet wild characteristics. The long boundary quarrel had\nmade them predatory, and though God-fearing people, they would fight\nwith all their religious intensity for their right in the land and the\ndominion of their particular province. They suspended their feuds when\nthe surveying battalion came into their broken country, and looked\nwith curious interest upon all that pertained to the distinguished\nforeign mathematicians. Around their camp of tents and pack-mules,\npeddlers and preachers called together their motley congregations, and\nthe sound of axes clearing the timber was accompanied by fiddling and\nharanguing, the fighting of dogs, and the coarse tones of religious or\nbusiness oratory. It was in the height of the era of the great period\nof the Dissenters in England, and Methodist, Baptist, and Calvinistic\nzealots were piercing to the boundaries of English-speaking people,\nwild forerunners of those organized bands of clergy which were\nspeedily to make our colonies sober-minded, and prepare them for\nself-government.\n\n\"Charles Mason was the scientific spirit of the party--a cool,\nobserving, painstaking, plodding man, slow in his processes and\nreliable in his conclusions, and the bond of friendship between\nhimself and Dixon was that of two unequal minds admiring the\nsuperiorities of each other. They had already proceeded together to\nthe Cape of Good Hope on two occasions to study an eclipse and an\noccultation. Mason liked Dixon for his ready spirits, almost\nimprovident courage, speed with details, and worldly bearing. Though\nlittle is known of their memories now, because they left us no\nprolific records and spent much of the period of service among us in\nthe midst of the wilderness or in the reticence required for\nmathematical calculation, yet they were the successors of Washington\nin the surveying of the Alleghany ridges. Their survey was reliable;\nthe line was true. How much superior does it stand to-day to the line\nof thirty degrees thirty minutes, which is the next great political\nparallel below it, and was partly run only a few years afterwards! Up\nto their line for the next hundred years flowed the waters of slavery,\nbut sent no human drop beyond, which did not evaporate in the free\nlight of a milder sun. God speed the surveyor, whoever he be, who\nplants the stakes of a tranquil commonwealth and leaves them to be\nthe limit of bad principles, the pioneer line of good ones!\n\n\"Charles Mason had spent many years of his life, up to his old age,\nexperimenting with timepieces of his own invention. Many years before,\nSir Isaac Newton had called the attention of the British Government to\nthe necessity for an accurate portable time-keeper at sea, to\ndetermine longitude, and in 1714 Parliament offered a reward of 20,000\npounds sterling for such a chronometer. Thenceforward for fifty years\nthe inventive spirits of England and the Continent were secretly at\nwork to produce a timepiece which would deserve the large reward,\namongst them Charles Mason, who labored with such perfect discretion\nand uncommunicative self-reliance that none knew, none will ever know,\nthe motive principle he employed or the enginery he devised. While he\nwas working at this survey, near the spot at which we stand, the Board\nof Award gave the L20,000 to one John Harrison, almost at the very\ninstant when Mason and Dixon's line was begun. This you can confirm by\nany history of Horology. Charles Mason lived down to the year 1787,\nsurviving Dixon, who had died in England ten years previously, and he\nwas known to say to the end of his days, to people resident in\nPhiladelphia, that a child had eaten up L20,000 belonging to him at a\nsingle mouthful.\n\n\"The child whom the neighborhood at that time accused of this act was\nknown in later life as Fithian Minuit, babe of a woman of mixed\nEnglish and Finnish-Dutch descent, who came from the fishermen's town\nof Head of Elk, a few hours jog to the southward, to sell fish to the\nsurveying camp. She was a woman of mingled severity of features and\nbodily obesity, uniting in one temper and frame the Scandinavian and\nthe Low Dutch traits, ignorant good-humor, grim commerce, and stolid\nappetite. Her baby was the fattest, quaintest, and ugliest in the\ncountry; ready to devour any thing, to grin at any thing, go to the\narms of everybody, and, in short, it represented all the traits of\nthe Middle State races--the government of the members, including the\nbrain, by the belly.\n\n\"One day this Finnish-Dutch baby--aged perhaps two years--was picked\nup by one of the assistant surveyors and carried into the tent of\nCharles Mason. The great surveyor was at that instant bending down\nover a small metallic object which he was examining through the medium\nof a lens. He recognized the child, and seemed glad of the opportunity\nto dismiss more serious occupation from his mind, so he instantly\nleaped up and poked the fat urchin with his thumb, tempting the bite\nof its teeth with his forefinger, and was otherwise reducing his tired\nfaculties to the needs of a child's amusement, when suddenly the voice\nof its mother at the tent's opening drew him away.\n\n\"'Fresh fish, mighty surveyor! Fall shad, and the most beautiful\nyellow perch. Buy something for the sake of Minuit's baby!'\n\n\"The celebrated surveyor, who seemed in an admirable humor, stepped\njust outside the tent to look at the fish, and in that little interval\nhis assistant, seized with inquisitiveness, stole up to his table, and\npicked up the tiny object lying there under the magnifying glass.\n\n\"'This is the little ticking seducer which absorbs my master's time,'\nhe said. 'Why, it isn't big enough for an infant to count the minutes\nof its life upon it!'\n\n\"At this the fat, good-humored baby, anticipating something to eat,\nreached out its hands. The surveyor's assistant, in a moment of\nmischief, put the object in the child's grasp. The child clutched it,\nbit at it, and swallowed it whole in an instant.\n\n\"Before the assistant surveyor could think of any other harm done than\nthe possible choking of the child, the child's mother and the great\nsurveyor entered the tent. The arms of the first reached for her\noffspring, and of the second for the subject of his experiment.\n\n\"'My chronometer!'\n\n\"'The child of the fish-woman ate it!'\n\n\"The fish-woman screamed, and reversed the urchin after the manner of\nmothers, and swung him to and fro like a pendulum. He came up a trifle\nred in the face, but laughing as usual, and the ludicrous\ninappositeness of the great loss, the unconscious cause of it, the\nbaby's wonderful digestion, the assistant's distress, and the\nsurveyor's calm but pallid self-control, made Jeremiah Dixon, dropping\nin at the minute, roar with laughter.\n\n\"'Dixon,' said Mason, 'the work of half my life, my everlasting\ntimepiece, just completed and set going, has found a temperature where\nit requires no compensation balance.'\n\n\"'I am glad of it,' said his associate, 'for now we can proceed with\nMason and Dixon's line, and nothing else!'\n\n\"A look, more of pity than of reproach, passed over Mason's scarcely\nruffled face--the pity of one man solely conscious of a great object\nlost, for another, indifferent or ignorant both of the object and the\nloss. He took the smiling urchin in his hands, and raising it upon his\nshoulder, placed his ear to its side. Thence came with faint\nregularity the sound of a simple, gentle ticking. They all heard it by\nturns, and, while they paused in puzzled wonder and humor, the\nundaunted infant looked down as innocent as a chubby, cheery face\npainted on some household clock. The innocent expression of the child\ntouched the mathematician's heart. He filled a glass with good Madeira\nwine, and drank the devourer's health in these benignant words:\n\n\"'May Minuit's baby run as long and as true as the article on which he\nhas made his meal!'\n\n\"Next day they set the great stone in the corner of the State of\nMaryland, and, breaking camp, vanished westward through the cleft of\nlight opened by their pioneers, pursued yet for many miles by a motley\nmultitude.\n\n\"Before many years this fertile country filled up with hamlets,\nmills, and churches; the War of Independence scarcely interrupted its\nprosperity, because the Quaker element adhered with constancy to\nneither side, and only one campaign was fought here. The story of the\nboy who ate a watch passed out of general knowledge and remark; he was\nknown to have been a drummer at the battle of Chadd's Ford, and to\nhave buried his mother before the close of the war, at the Delaware\nfishing hamlet of Marcus Hook, amongst her Finnish progenitors.\n\n\"But soon after the peace, the short, fat body and queer, merry Dutch\nface of Fithian Minuit were known all along the roads of Chester,\nCecil, and Newcastle counties, by parts of the people of three States,\nas components of one of the least offensive, most industrious, and\nmost lively and popular young chaps around the head of the Chesapeake.\n\n\"He was respectful with the old and congenial with the young--always\ngoing and never tired, up early and late, of a chirruping sort of\naddress and an equal temper, and while he appeared to be thrifty and\nmoney-making, he did all manner of good turns for the high and the\nhumble; and, although everybody said he was the homeliest young man in\nthe region, yet more village girls went to their front doors to see\nhim than if he had been a showman coming to town to do feats of magic.\nHe was not unintelligent either, and could play on the violin, compute\naccounts equal to the best country book-keeper, and as he was of\nreligious turn, although attached to no particular denomination, the\nmeeting-houses on every side, hardly excepting the Quakers themselves,\ndelighted to see him drive up on Sundays and tell an anecdote to the\nchildren and sing a little air, half-hymn sort, half stave, but always\ngiven with a good countenance, which apologized for the worldly notes\nof it. If any severe interpreter of Christian amusements took the\npeople to task for tolerating such a universal and desultory\ncharacter, there were others to rise up and ask what evil or\npassionate word or act of sorry behavior in Fithian Minuit could be\ninstanced. The severe Francis Asbury himself raised the question once\non the Bohemia Manor amongst the Methodists, and got so little support\nthat he charged young Minuit with the possession of some devilish art\nor spell to entrap the people; but Fithian once, when the good\nitinerant's horse broke down on the road, met Mr. Asbury, won his\naffections, and mended his big silver watch.\n\n\"This mending of clocks, watches, and every description of\ntime-keepers was the occupation of Minuit. He had picked up the art,\nsome said, from a Yankee in the army at the close of the war, and\ncertainly no man of his time or territory had such good luck with\ntimepieces. Residing in the little village of Christina (by the\npretentious called Christi-anna, and by the crude, with nearer\nrectitude, called Crist_ene_), Fithian kept a snug little shop full of\nall manners and forms of clocks, dials, sand-glasses, hour-burning\ncandles, water-clocks, and night tapers. He had amended and improved\nthe new Graham clock, called the 'dead scapement,' or 'dead-beat\nescapement' (the origin of our modern word _dead-beat_, signifying a\nman who does not meet his engagements, whereas the original\n'dead-beat' was the most faithful engagements-keeper of its time.\nPerhaps a dead-beat nowadays is a time-server; for this would be a\ncorrect derivation). From this shop the young Minuit, in a plain but\nreliable wagon, with a nag never fast and never slow, and indifferent\nto temperatures, travelled the country for a radius of forty\nmiles--not embarrassed even by the Delaware, which he crossed once a\nmonth, and attended fully to the temporal and partly to the spiritual\nneeds of all the Jerseymen betwixt Elsinborough and Swedesboro.\n\n\"Over the door of Minuit's whitewashed cabin on the knoll of Christina\nwas the sign of a jovial, fat person, bearing some resemblance to\nhimself, in the centre of whose stomach stood a clock inscribed, 'My\ntime is everybody's.' Past this little shop went the entire long\ncaravan and cavalcade by land between the North and South,\nstage-coaches, mail-riders, highwaymen, chariots, herdsters, and\ntramps; for Christina bridge was on the great tide-water road and at\nthe head of navigation on the Swedish river of the same name, so that\nhere vessels from the Delaware transferred their cargo to wagons, and\na portage of only ten miles to the Head of Elk gave goods and\npassengers reshipment down the Chesapeake. This village declined only\nwhen the canal just below it was opened in 1829 and a little railway\nin 1833. It was nearly a century and a half old when Minuit set his\nsign there, before General Washington went past it to be inaugurated.\nFrom Fithian's window the pleasant land was seen spread out below him\nbeyond the Christina; and the Swedish, Dutch, and English farms smiled\nfrom their loamy levels on sails which moved with scarcely perceptible\nmotion through the narrow dykes planted with greenest willows. Before\nhis door the teamsters, ill-tempered with lashing and swearing at\ntheir teams in the ruts of Iron Hill, schoolboys from Nottingham,\nmillers' men from Upper White Clay, and bargemen and stage passengers,\nrecovered temper to see the sign of the great paunch with a timepiece\nset so naturally in it indicating the hour of dinner. Within they\nfound the clock-maker, with face beaming as if reflected from a\nwatch-case, working handily amongst a hundred ticking pieces, of which\nhe looked to be one. There were large sundials for the outer walls of\nbarns and farm-houses, very popular in the Pennsylvania hills;\nsand-glasses for the Peninsula, where it cost nothing to fill them;\nand hour-burning candles, much affected by the Chesapeake gentry,\nwhich gave at once light and time. There were ancient striking clocks,\nsuch as the monks may have used to disturb them for early prayers,\nwhich, with a horrible rattle of wheels and clash of heavy weights,\nhammered the alarm. There were the tremendous watches of river\ncaptains who had aspired to go to sea, and old crutch escapement\nwatches which Huygens himself had perhaps handled in Holland. The\nwindow was filled with trains of wheels and pinions, snails and racks,\ncrystals, and faces and watches, cackling at each other. There were\nstriking clocks which rung chimes or rocked like little vessels on\napparent billows, or started off with notes like grasshoppers. A\nhundred of the most musical tree-frogs shut up in a piano might give a\nfeeble notion of the tunes and thrummings assembled in this shop. It\nwas the same day or night, and the power of Fithian Minuit over\ntime-keepers was nearly miraculous. He appeared to be able to smile an\nold watch into action. Transferred to his hand, some spent and rusty\nsentinel, long silent and useless, seemed to feel the warmth of the\nmender and resumed the round of duty. He would buy from the old estate\nhalls on the Sassafras and the Chester rivers, tall, solemn clocks,\ndead to the purpose of their creation, their stately learned faces\nlost to former automatic expressions or waggery, and when exposed to\nthe infectious influences of his shop, a gurgle of sound as of the\ninhalation of air into their lungs had been heard, according to some\npeople, and next day the carcass of the clock would be found resonant\nand its faculties recovered. One day the great patriots, John\nDickinson and Caesar Rodney, riding past Christina together, stopped\nfor dinner, and sent their watches in to be cleaned meantime.\n\n\"'Minuit,' said Rodney, 'you are a devil with a time-keeper!'\n\n\"'Nay, Minuit,' said Dickinson, 'thou art the gentlest custodian of\ntime in our parts. I would some one could regulate these States and\ntimes like thee.'\n\n\"The country round resorted to Minuit for repairs, but he generally\ncame himself along the roads fortuitously about the time anybody's\ndials stood still. He was almost equal as a weather prophet to his\nfame as a mechanic, and as his broad, fat face, blue eyes, and portly\nbody passed some farmer's gate, the cheery cry would go up, perhaps:\n\n\"'Make hay--the wind's right!' or again: 'Time enough, farmer, with\nanother pair of hands. But it's coming from the east!'\n\n\"Had it been possible to suggest any superstition about a man\nuniversally popular, people would have said that this henchman of time\nand minute-hand of diligence drew his power from doubtful sources.\nFurther north, where there was less superstition than amongst these\nmingled unspiritualized populations, Minuit might have been burnt as a\nwizard. A little doctor in the Deutsch hills, who once prescribed for\nthe clock-mender, reported that his pulse had a metallic beat, and,\nlooking suddenly up, he saw, where Minuit's face had been, a round\nclock face looking down and ticking at him. This doctor was a\nworthless fellow, however, and loose of tongue. Minuit, it was\nobserved, never used a tuning-fork in church, like all leaders of\nreligious music, but cast his eyes down a moment towards his heart,\nand tapped his foot, and then, as if catching the pitch somewhere from\nwithin, he raised the tune and carried it forward with an exquisite\nsense of rhythm.\n\n\"A very old man and a cripple, who lived across the way from Minuit's,\naffected to observe extraordinary changes in his stature according to\nthe weather changes, elongating as the temperature rose, and in very\ncold weather sinking into himself; this man also observed, on the day\nof a solar eclipse, that for the period there was nothing at all in\nthe place where the clock-mender's head had been except a ring of\nlight which enlarged as the disk of the sun was released. But who\ncould rely upon the vagaries of an old man, who could do nothing but\nmake memoranda out of his window upon the doings of his neighbors?\n\n\"If anybody knew more than that Fithian Minuit was an obliging,\nneighborly man, and a model for mechanics, it must have been the\nsubject of his romance. He was related to have told all that he knew\nupon the mystery of his being to his clergyman, and there is nothing\nnow to confirm the gossip; for the preacher himself has gone to sleep\nin the old Shrewsbury graveyard in Maryland.\n\n\"At Port Penn, where the last island in the channel of the lower\nDelaware now raises its flaming beacon, and the belated collier steers\nsafely by Reedy Island light, lived the daughter of an old West India\nand coasting captain, who would permit his chronometers to be repaired\nand cleaned by nobody but Minuit. His cottage stood where now there is\na broad and sandy street leading to a wooden pier and to\nbathing-houses on a pleasure beach. The few people near at hand were\npilots, captains of bay craft, and grain-buyers; although the Dutch\nand Swedish farms, alternating with long marshes, musical with birds,\nhad lined the wide Delaware at this point many a year. In calm, sunny\nweather, the broad beauty of the river and its low gold and emerald\nshores, with bulky vessels swinging up on the slow full tide, combined\nthe sceneries of America and the Netherlands; but when a gale blew\nover the low shores, scattering the reed-birds like the golden pollen\nof the marsh lilies, and cold white gulls succeeded, diving and\ncareening like sharks of the sky, the ships and coasters felt no\nserenity in these wide yeasty reaches of the Delaware bay, and they\nlabored to drop anchor behind the natural breakwater of Reedy Island.\nThere, clustering about as thickly in that olden time as they now seek\nfrom all the ocean round the costly shelter of Henlopen breakwater,\ncoaster and pirate, fisherman and slaver, sent up the prayer a\nbeneficent government has since granted in the fullest measure, for a\nperfect Coast Survey and a vigilant Lighthouse Board.\n\n\"The daughter of Captain Lum was named Lois, and she was the junior of\nFithian Minuit by several years, a slender, beautiful girl, with hair\nand eyes of the softest brown, and household ways, daughterly and\nendearing.\n\n\"The old sea-captain, who made five voyages a year to the nearer\nIndies, and sent ashore to Port Penn as he passed, returning, the best\nof rum and the freshest of tropical fruits, looked with a jealous eye\nupon any possible suitor to his daughter, and had, perhaps,\nembarrassed her prospects for a younger protector, if such she had\never wished. But he loved to see the clock-maker come to the cottage,\nwho had never shown partiality for any woman, while popular with all.\n\n\"'Minuit,' he used to say, 'the best man on watch by land or sea, thou\nNorth Star; look to my girl as to my chronometer, and I'll pay thee\ntwice the cost of thy time!'\n\n\"It was the captain's delight, while ashore, to have every timepiece,\nstationary or portable, taken apart in the presence of his daughter\nand himself, while he told his sailor yarns, and Lois stood ready to\nserve his punch, or pass to the fat, smooth-faced, cheerful Minuit the\npieces of mechanism: brass gimbals, chronometer-boxes, wheels and\nsprings, ship-glasses, compasses, the manifold parts of little things\nby which men grope their way out of sight of land, hung between a\nhuman watch and the crystal shell of the embossed heaven. Chronometers\nwere with Minuit attractive and yet awe-giving subjects. The legend of\nhis childhood, well forgotten by all else, said that he had swallowed\na chronometer, so small that a sea-captain could swim with it in his\nmouth. And now the sailors of all the navies cruised by the aid of\nclumsy watches, big as house-clocks, which to look at made Minuit\nsmile with pity.\n\n\"'Captain Lum,' he said aloud, on the eve of a voyage in the winter\nseason, 'I have often yearned to go to sea. The sight of it makes me a\nlittle wild. I think I could guess my way over it and about it, by\ninherent reckoning.'\n\n\"He saw the pair of white hands holding something before him tremble a\nlittle, and he looked up. The spiritual face of Lois was looking at\nhis with wistful apprehension and interest. If ever his pulse beat out\nof time it was now--for in that exchange of glances he felt what she\ndid not understand--that he was beloved.\n\n\"Pain and joy, not swiftly, but softly, filled Minuit--pain, because\nhe had loved this girl and wished never to have her know it, but would\nkeep it an unbreathed, a holy mystery; and joy, like any lover's\nrecognizing himself in the dear heart he had never importuned.\n\n\"Next day the good ship Chirpland came off Port Penn. The jolly\ncaptain saying adieu to Minuit, clasped his hand.\n\n\"'I saw thy look and my daughter's yesterday,' he said. 'It is weak of\nme to deny her a man like thee, thou sailor's friend. My ship is old.\nThese coasts are dangerous. Nights and days come when we get no sight\nof lights ashore or in heaven. If thy chronometer fail, fail not thou,\nbut be to her repairer and possessor!'\n\n\"The discovery and the trust embarrassed Minuit, but he had never\ndenied the request of any man. His time, as his sign affirmed, was\neverybody's. Yet a thrill, a twang, a twinge of delicious fear passed\nthrough him now. He loved this girl dearly, but he feared to love at\nall. He had now both the parental and the womanly recognition, and his\ndays were lonely even with his garrulous timepieces, but he felt a\nlonelier sense of the possibility of turning her affection to awe.\nThose queer legends of his birth, his affinity for fixed luminaries\nand motions, and his conscious knowledge that he stood in some way\nrelated to spheres and orbits, and the laws of revolution and period,\nhad never disturbed his mind in its calculations. But if he did stand\nexceptional in these respects to his fellow-men, might another and a\nbeloved one comprehend what he himself did not? Yet the kindly regard\nof his neighbors, the composure of a conscience well consulted, and\nthe hope that he was worthy of human love, made him resolve to keep\nthe captain's admonition, though he hoped the occasion to obey it\nmight never arrive.\n\n\"In the absence of the good ship, however, love could not be deceived.\nIt spoke in waitings and longings, and in tender glances and\nconsiderateness. She knew the rattle of his carriage-wheels, and he\ncould feel her in the air like the breath of a beautiful day soon to\nappear in distance. Time, toward which he stood in such natural\nharmony, was dearer that it contained this passion and life more\nexquisite, and himself more questionable for it all.\n\n\"It was a stormy winter. Ships strewed the coast between Hatteras and\nNavesink, and the capes of the Delaware received many a tattered\nbarque. The ice poured down and wedged itself between Reedy Island and\nthe shores, and crushed to pieces many that had escaped the ocean\ngales. One night in a raging storm the door of Captain Lum's cabin was\nthrown open, and a sailor appeared fresh from the water. He bore in\nhis hand a chronometer, which Minuit recognized in a moment, and he\ndrew his arm for the first time around the maiden's form.\n\n\"'The Chirpland went down on Five Fathom Shoal, and the captain stood\nby her. He bade us return his chronometer, and say that he perished in\nthe assurance that his daughter was left to the guidance of another\nfully as sure.'\n\n\"'My child,' said Minuit, 'I accept thee wholly, sharing thy griefs!\nWeep, but on the breast of one who loves thee!'\n\n\"The village of Christina rejoiced when its broad-faced, dimpled\nfriend came home with a bride so fair and well-descended. They dressed\nthe sign before his door with flowers. Only the groom wore an anxious\nface as he led her into his tidy home, now for the first time blessed\nwith a mistress.\n\n\"The night of the nuptials came softly down, as nowhere else except\nupon the skies of the Delaware and Chesapeake, and Minuit was happy.\nThe thrumming clocks in the shop below mingled their tones and\ntickings in one consonant chorus, scarcely heard above the long drone\nand low monotonies of the insects in the creeks and woods, which\nassisted silence. The husband slept, how well beloved he could not\nknow.\n\n\"In the dreams of the night he was awakened. In the pale moonshine he\nsaw his wife, clad in her garments of whiteness, standing by his bed\nall trembling.\n\n\"'Tell me,' she said, 'what it is that I hear? I have listened till I\nam afraid. As I lay in this room perfectly silent, with my head, my\nhusband, nearest your heart, I felt the ticking of a watch. At first\nit was only curious and strange. Now it haunts me and terrifies me. I\nam a simple girl, new and nervous to this wedded life. Is this noise\nnatural? What is it?'\n\n\"Minuit trembled also.\n\n\"'Lois, my bride, my heaven!' he said. 'Oh! pity me, who have tried to\npity all and make all happy, if I cannot myself explain away the cause\nof your alarm. I have kept myself lonely these many years, aware that\nI was not like other men, but that my heart--no evil monitor to\nme--gave a different sound. There is nothing in its beat, my wife, to\nmake you fear it. Return and lay your head upon it, and you will hear\nit say this only, if you listen with faith: _love_!'\n\n\"Thus the watch-maker turned superstition to assurance, and the\nadmonition of his heart was a source of joy instead of fear to the\nlistener at its side. It ticked a few bright years with constancy, and\nwas the last benediction of the world to her ere she was ushered into\nthat peace which passeth understanding.\n\n\"At the death of his wife Minuit felt a deeper sense of his\nresponsibility to time, and the finite uses of it expanded to a\ncheerful conception of the infinite. The country round was generally\nsettled by a religious people, and the many meeting-houses of\ndifferent sects had his equal confidence and sympathy. Pursuing his\ncraft with unwearied diligence, and delighting the homestead with his\nviolin as of old, a more pensive and wistful expression replaced his\nsmile, and love withdrawn beckoned him toward it beyond the boundaries\nof period. Hard populations, which would not listen to preachers,\nheard with delight the amiable warnings of this friendly man, and as\nhis own generation grew older, a new race dawned to whom he appeared\nin the light of a pure-spirited evangelist. 'Improve the time! watch\nit! ennoble it! It is a part of the beautiful and perpetual circle of\neverlasting duty. It is to the great future only the little disk of a\nsecond-hand, traversed as swiftly, while the great rim of heaven\naccepts it as a part of the eternal round!' Such was the burden of his\nsermon.\n\n\"He could ride all along the roads, and hear his missionaries\npreaching for him wherever a clock struck, or a dial on the gable of a\ngreat stone barn propelled its shadows. His tracts were in every\nfarmer's vest pocket. Whatever he made he consecrated with a paragraph\nof counsel.\n\n\"The old sign faded out. The clock-maker's sight grew dim, but his\napprehensions of the everlasting love and occupation were clearer and\nmore confident to the end.\n\n\"One day they found him in the graveyard of the London Tract, by the\nside of the spot where his wife was interred, worn and asleep at the\nripe age of three-score.\n\n\"The mill teams and the farm wagons stopped in the road, and the\ncountry folks gathered round in silence.\n\n\"'Run down at last,' said one. 'If there are heavenly harps and bells,\nhe hears them now!'\"\n\nAnd there they hear the ticking, the preaching of this faithful life,\nunder the old stone, sending up its pleasant message yet. The stone is\nperishing like a broken crystal, but the memory of the diligent and\nuseful man beneath it rings amongst the holy harmonies of the country.\nThough dead, he yet speaketh!\n\n\n\n\nTHE IMP IN NANJEMOY.\n\n\n    Dull in the night, when the camps were still,\n    Thumped two nags over Good Hope Hill;\n    The white deserter, the passing spy,\n    Took to the brush as the pair went by;\n    The army mule gave over the chase;\n    The Catholic negro, hearing the pace,\n    Said, as they splashed through Oxon Run:\n    \"Dey ride like de soldiers who speared God's Son!\"\n    But when Good Friday's bells behind\n    Died in the capital on the wind,\n    He who rode foremost paused to say:\n      \"Herold, spur up to my side, scared boy!\n    A word has rung in my ears all day--\n      Merely a jingle, 'Nanjemoy.'\"\n\n    \"Ha!\" said Herold, \"John, why that's\n    A little old creek on the river. Surratt's\n    Lies just before us. You halt on the green\n    While I slip in the tavern and get your carbine!\"\n    The outlaw drank of the whiskey deep,\n    Which the tipsy landlord, half asleep,\n    Brought to his side, and his broken foot\n    He raised from the stirrup and slashed the boot.\n    \"Lloyd,\" he cried, \"if some news you invite--\n    Old Seward was stabbed in his bed to-night.\n    Lincoln _I_ shot--that long-lived fox--\n    As he looked at the play from the theatre box;\n    And it seemed to me that the sound I heard,\n      As the audience fluttered, like ducks round decoy,\n    Was only the buzz of a musical word\n      That I cannot get rid of--'Nanjemoy.'\"\n\n    \"Twenty miles we must ride before day,\n    Cross Mattawoman, Piscataway,\n    If in the morn we would take to the woods\n    In the swamp of Zekiah, at Doctor Mudd's!\"\n    \"Quaint are the names,\" thought the outlaw then,\n    \"Though much I have mingled with Maryland men!\n    I have fever, I think, or my mind's o'erthrown.\n    Though scraped is the flesh by this broken bone,\n    Every jog that I take on this road so lonely,\n      With thoughts, aye bloody, my mind to employ,\n    I can but say, over and over, this only--\n      The drowsy, melodious 'Nanjemoy.'\"\n\n    Silent they galloped by broken gates,\n    By slashes of pines around old estates;\n    By planters' graves afield under clumps\n    Of blackjack oaks and tobacco stumps;\n    The empty quarters of negroes grin\n    From clearings of cedar and chinquopin;\n    From fodder stacks the wild swine flew,\n    The shy young wheat the frost peeped through,\n    And the swamp owl hooted as if she knew\n      Of the crime, as she hailed: \"Ahoy! Ahoy!\"\n    And the chiming hoofs of the horses drew\n      The pitiless rhythm of \"Nanjemoy.\"\n\n    So in the dawn as perturbed and gray\n    They hid in the farm-house off the way,\n    And the worn assassin dozed in his chair,\n    A voice in his dreams or afloat in the air,\n    Like a spirit born in the Indian corn--\n    Immemorial, vague, forlorn,\n    And disembodied--murmured forever\n    The name of the old creek up the river.\n    \"God of blood!\" he said unto Herold,\n    As they groped in the dusk, lost and imperilled,\n    In the oozy, entangled morass and mesh\n    Of hanging vines over Allen's Fresh:\n    \"The chirp of birds and the drone of frogs,\n    The lizards and crickets from trees and bogs\n    Follow me yet, pursue and ferret\n      My soul with a word which I used to enjoy,\n    As if it had turned on me like a spirit\n      And stabbed my ear with its 'Nanjemoy.'\"\n\n    Ay! Great Nature fury or preacher\n    Makes, as she wists, of the tiniest creature--\n    Arming a word, as it floats on the mind,\n    With the dagger of wrath and the wing of the wind.\n    What, though weighted to take them down,\n    Their swimming steeds in the river they drown,\n    And paddle the farther shore to gain,\n    Chased by gunboats or lost in rain?\n    Many a night they try the ferry\n      And the days in haggard sleep employ,\n    But every raft, or float, or wherry,\n      Drifts up the tide to Nanjemoy.\n\n    \"Ho! John, we shall have no more annoy,\n    We've crossed the river from Nanjemoy.\n    The bluffs of Virginny their shadows reach\n    To hide our landing upon the beach!\"\n    Repelled from the manse to hide in the barn,\n    The sick wretch hears, like a far-away horn,\n    As he lies on the straw by the snoring boy,\n    The winding echo of \"N-a-n-j-e-m-o-y.\"\n    All day it follows, all night it whines,\n    From the suck of waters, the moan of pines,\n    And the tread of cavalry following after,\n    The flash of flames on beam and rafter,\n    The shot, the strangle, the crash, the swoon,\n    Scarce break his trance or disturb the croon\n    Of the meaningless notes on his lips which fasten,\n      And the soldier hears, as he seeks to convoy\n    The dying words of the dark assassin,\n      A wandering murmur, like \"Nanjemoy.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE FALL OF UTIE.\n\n\nThe reception at Secretary Flake's was at its height. Bland Van, the\nPresident of the nation, had departed with his boys; the punch-bowl\nhad been emptied nine times; and still the cry from our republican\nsociety was, \"Fill up!\"\n\nA pair of young men, unacquainted with each other, pressed at the same\ntime to the punch-bowl, and Jack, the chief ladler, turning from the\nyounger, a clerk in civil dress, helped the elder, a tall naval\nofficer, to a couple of glasses. The clerk, young Utie, who was\nsomewhat flushed, addressed the chief ladler and remarked:\n\n\"You dam nigger, didn't you see my glass?\"\n\n\"See it, sah? Yes! I've seen it seval times afo, dis evening.\"\n\nBlack Jack then received the current allowance of curses for his color\nand his impudence, all of which he took meekly, till the officer,\nLieutenant Dibdo, interrupted on the negro's behalf.\n\n\"It's none o' yo affair, I reckon!\" cried Utie sullenly.\n\n\"The man had no intention of slighting you,\" said Dibdo. \"You have\nbeen drinking too much, boy, and your coarseness is coming out.\"\n\nA fresh crowd of thirsty people pressing up at this point gave Jack\nhis opportunity to cry: \"Room around de punch-bowl!\"\n\nAnd the disputants were separated and squeezed by the promenading\ntides into different rooms.\n\nThe officer presently forgot all about it, but not so young Utie, who\nwas partly drunk, entirely vain, not a gentleman by nature, and\noutraged that anybody had dubbed him \"a boy.\" He sought the side of a\nfine young girl, the daughter of the chief of the bureau where he was\nemployed, and with whom he was in love. She was attired in the free\ncostume of republican receptions--bare arms, a low dress giving ample\ndisplay to the whitest shoulders in the room, and fine natural hair\ndressed with flowers. Every gentleman who passed her during the\nevening had looked his homage freely--old beaux, dignitaries,\nofficers, foreign deputies, _roues_--and as she had been two or three\nwinters in that kind of society, nothing discomposed her.\n\n\"Robert,\" she said, with part of a glance, as Utie rejoined her, \"you\ngo to the punch-bowl too much. You reflect upon me, sir. Besides, I\nheard you quarrelling with that handsome officer. I am dying to know\nhim. Who is he?\"\n\nUtie looked viciously up, anger and jealousy inflaming his heated\nface, for, although he had no engagement with Miss Rideau, he\nconceived himself her future suitor. But some rash words that he said\nagainst the officer were scarcely heard by the self-possessed beauty\nof official society, because, just then, the young officer and a\nfriend were approaching them. She dropped her eyes when she met\nLieutenant Dibdo's bold glance of admiration, perhaps in order not to\nbe privy to the more searching look with which, like a gentleman of\nthe world, he ran over the fine points of her plump body as he passed.\nBut young Utie, seeing the offender of a moment ago taking such ardent\nand leisurely survey of the girl under his care, turned pale with\nhate. The officer did not notice him at all, absorbed in the fine\ncolors, eyes, and proportions of Miss Rideau, and this further\noutraged Utie who--to his credit be it said--had only modest thoughts\nfor her. When he saw, however, that she looked after the manly figure\nand naval gilt of him of the profane eyes, as if to return his\nadmiration, the intoxicated boy dropped an oath.\n\n\"I will horsewhip that powder-monkey!\" he said.\n\n\"Robert,\" said the girl placidly, \"you won't. You have no horse and no\nhorsewhip, but you have been drinking. Go from me, sir! Some one else\nshall see me home to-night.\"\n\n\"I will kill the man who takes my place! Do you dare to speak that way\nto me?\"\n\nHe had raised his voice, in his rage, so that some others heard it.\nThere was a little pause of pressing people, for that was a chivalrous\nage as to the manner of men to women, and the young officer, just then\nreturning, availed himself of a pretty girl's dilemma to say:\n\n\"May I assist you, miss? I presume you are not in very agreeable\ncompany.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir,\" answered Miss Rideau. \"I would be obliged to have\nsome one find my aunt for me; she is here somewhere.\"\n\n\"Will you accept a stranger's arm?\"\n\n\"In this misfortune, I will.\"\n\nDibdo took off the pretty girl, and one of his naval companions,\nlooking after him, exclaimed, \"What a genius Dib. is with the ladies!\"\nBut the companion, feeling a trembling, unsteady hand upon his arm,\nturned about and met young Utie's desperate face. \"I want to know the\nname of that fellow!\" said Utie.\n\n\"That is Charles Dibdo,\" said the naval companion, \"lieutenant of the\nUnited States frigate Fox, and I recommend you, my boy, to address\n_him_ in a civil tone. For me, I never mind a drunken man.\"\n\nThoroughly demonized now, young Robert Utie turned blindly about for\nsome implement of revenge. He found it in Tiltock, a fellow-clerk, a\nnovitiate and a ninny, who was visible in the crowd.\n\n\"Tiltock, are you a man of honor?\"\n\n\"I hope so, Bob.\"\n\n\"Can you carry a challenge?\"\n\n\"Oh yes! I guess so, to 'blige a ole friend.\"\n\n\"Can you write it?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not.\"\n\n\"Then take it by word of mouth. That scoundrel there, Lieutenant\nDibdo, has insulted a lady, and me too. I must have his blood. Follow\nhim up, and meet me at Gadsby's with his answer.\"\n\nFull of self-importance at this first and safe opportunity to stand\nupon what is known as \"the field of honor,\" Tiltock kept the\nlieutenant in his eye, and took him finally aside and demanded a\nmeeting in the name of Utie. The naval officer answered that he had\nsimply relieved a lady from a drunken boy; but Tiltock, in the\ndramatic way common to halcyon old times, refused to accept either\n\"drunken\" or \"boy\" as terms appropriate to \"the code,\" and pressed for\nan answer. In five minutes the naval officer replied, through his\nnaval companion, that having ascertained Mr. Utie to be a gentleman's\nson, and he as an United States officer not being able to decline a\nchallenge, the latter was accepted. The weapons were to be pistols,\nthe place the usual ground at Bladensburg, and the time the afternoon\nof the next day.\n\nThere was a good deal of drinking and boasting at the hotels that\nnight, Utie and Tiltock telling everybody, as a particular secret,\nthat there was to be \"an 'fah honah,\" otherwise a \"juel,\" at\n\"Bladensburg, sah!\" The gin-drinking, cock-fighting, sporting element\nof the town was aroused, and Utie and Tiltock were invited on all\nsides to imbibe to the significant toast of \"The Field.\" Very noisy,\nvery insolent, nuisances indeed, these two mere lads--the offspring of\na vain and ignorant social period of which some elements yet\nremain--borrowed the money to hire a carriage, and at midnight they\nset out with some associates by the old, rutty, clay road for the\nMaryland village of Bladensburg. That night they caroused until\nNature, despite her revolt, put them to bed. In the morning, with a\nswollen and sallow face, dry hair, unsteady hands, aching eyes and\ndim vision, Robert Utie awoke to the recollection of his folly and his\nrashness, and he realized the critical period which he had provoked.\nHis clerkship lost, his self-pride poignant, his pockets nearly empty,\nhis respectable career irretrievably terminated, his sweetheart\ninsulted, and his life in danger! There was no escape either from\ndespair or fate. Tiltock was strutting about below stairs with a\ndrunken old doctor, misnamed a surgeon, who deposited behind the bar a\nrusty case of surgical instruments, and who took a deep potation to\nthe toast of \"The fawchuns of waw.\" The Bladensburg people were well\naware of the occasion, and the old tavern was surrounded by loafers\nand gossips, many of whom were boys who had walked out from the city\nas we go to prize-fights in our day. To fill up the time a dog-fight\nand a chicken-fight were improvised by the enterprising stable-boys in\nthe back yard, on the green slopes of the running Branch. While\nTiltock strutted out of town at an imposing pace to examine \"The\nField,\" Robert Utie retired to his room, sought with an emetic to\nrelieve his stomach, and then sat down to write some letters and an\nepitaph. The paper was thin, and the pen and ink matched it, but the\ndrunken boy's eyes marred more than all; for suddenly the secret\nfountains of his lost youth were touched as by the prick of his pen,\nand the drops gushed out upon the two words he had written:\n\n\"Dear mother--\"\n\nNot his sweetheart, who was nothing to him now; not his \"honor,\" which\nhad been only vain-glory and deceit; not any thing but this earliest,\neverlasting faith which is ours forever, whether we be steadfast or go\nastray: the tie of home, of childhood, and of our mother's prayer and\nkiss--this was the soft reproach which glided between a wasted youth\nand the \"field of valor\" he had tempted. He wept. He sobbed. He threw\nhimself upon the bed, and pressing his temples into the ragged quilt,\nfelt the panorama of childhood pass across his mind like something\ncool, sorrowful, and compassionate. The sickness _she_ had cured, the\nbad words _she_ had taken from his undutiful lips, the whipping she\nhad saved him from at the cost of her deceit, the lie she had never\ntold _him_, the tears he had found her shedding upon her knees when\nfirst he had been drinking, the money he had never given her out of\nhis salary but had spent with idlers, his ruined soul which to that\nmother's thought was pure as a baby's still, and watched by all the\nangels of God: these were admonitions from the green meadows of\nchildhood. Before was the barren field of honor.\n\nHow short is the struggle betwixt youth and selfishness, that sum of\nall diseases and crimes; that selfishness out of which wars arise and\nhell is habitated!\n\nA poor, overworked Christian negro, a slave in the tavern, hearing the\nsobbing of Robert Utie and aware that one of the duellists occupied\nthat room, lifted the latch, and wakened the wretched boy from his\nremorse.\n\n\"Young moss,\" he said, \"doan you fight no juels! Oh! doan do it, for\nde bressed Lord's sake! It's nuffin but pride and sin. Yo's only a\npore, spilt boy, but you got a soul, young moss! Doan you go git kilt\nin dat ar bloody gully wha' so many gits hurt amoss to deff!\"\n\nUtie arose from the dream of home, and kicked the poor slave out of\nthe room. He then drank, speculated upon his chances, practised with\nan imaginary pistol at the wall, and meditated running away,\nalternately, until Tiltock's business-step rang in the hall.\n\n\"Bob,\" he said, \"we've picked you a beautiful piece of ground, and the\nother party's waiting. It's the most popular juel of the season.\"\n\nThey walked up the sandy village street, under the old hip-roofed\nhouses, crossed the Branch bridge, and proceeded a quarter of a mile\non the road to Washington. There, where a rivulet crossed the road\namongst some bushes, they descended by a path into a copse, and on to\na green meadow-space cleared away by former rain freshets. Farm boys,\ntown boys, and intruders of all sorts were lurking near. The field of\nhonor resembled a gypsy camp.\n\nLieutenant Dibdo's companion came up to Tiltock and said that his\nfriend did not wish to fight, and would make any manly apology, even\nthough unconscious of offence, if the challenge was withdrawn. The\ncrowd was ardent for the fight, and Tiltock, who was punctilious about\nhonor, particularly where he could cut a safe figure, repelled the\ncompromise, as \"unwarranted by the code.\" He knew as much about the\ncode as about honor, and more about both than about getting a living.\n\n\"Then,\" said the lieutenant, \"I am authorized to say that my principal\nwill take Mr. Utie's first fire. Let him improve the generous chance\nas he will. The second time we will make business of it.\"\n\nThe interlopers fell back. The word was given: \"Ready--Aim--Fire!\"\nRobert Utie, sustained by braggadocio, that quality which makes\nmurderers die on the scaffold heroically, fired full at the body of\nLieutenant Dibdo. That officer fired into the air and remained unmoved\nand unharmed.\n\n\"Is another shot demanded?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Tiltock, \"our honor is not yet satisfied.\"\n\nHe waved the crowd back in an imperious way--they having rushed in\nafter the first shot--and he gave the word himself like a dramatic\nreading.\n\nRobert Utie looked, and this time with a livid, sobered face, into the\nopen pistol of the man he had provoked, the professional officer of\ndeath. The fine, cool face behind the pistol was concise, grave, and\neloquent now as a judge's pronouncing the last sentence of the law.\nThe next instant the boy was biting and clawing at the ground in\nmortal agony. The impatient crowd rushed in. A faint voice was heard\nto gasp for what some said was \"water\" and some thought was \"mother.\"\nThen a figure with a dissipated face a little dignified by death, and\nwith some of the softness of childhood glimmering in it, like the\nbright footfall of the good angel whose mission was done and whose\nflight was taken--this figure lay upon its back amongst the bushes,\nunder the sunshine, peeped at by distant hills, contemplated by idlers\nas if it were the body of a slain game-chicken, and the drunken\n\"surgeon\" was idiotically feeling for its heart.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said Tiltock with a flourish, \"we are all witnesses that\nevery thing has been honorably conducted.\"\n\nThe city had its little talk. The newspapers in those days were models\nof what is called high-toned journalism, and printed nothing on purely\npersonal matters like duels when requested to respect the feelings of\nfamilies. As if \"the feelings of families\" were not the main cause of\nduels! There was a mother somewhere, still clinging with her prayers\nto the footstool of God, hoping for the soul of her boy even after\ndeath and wickedness. This was all, except the revolution of the\nworld, and the wedding in due time upon it of Lieutenant Dibdo and\nMiss Rideau. It was what was called a romantic wedding.\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF FUNKSTOWN.\n\n\nI.\n\n    Nick Hammer sat in Funkstown\n      Before his tavern door--\n    The same old blue-stone tavern\n      The wagoners knew of yore,\n    When the Conestoga schooners\n      Came staggering under their load,\n    And the lines of slow pack-horses\n      Stamped over the National Road.\n\n    Nick Hammer and son together,\n      Both blowing pipe-smoke there,\n    Like a pair of stolid limekilns,\n      In the blue South Mountain air;\n    And the mills of the Antietam,\n      Grinding the Dunker's wheat\n    So oldly and so slowly,\n      Groaned up the deserted street.\n\n    \"What think'st thou, Nick, my father?\"\n      Said Nick, the old man's twin.\n    \"This whole year thou art silent.\n      Let a little speech begin.\n    Thou think'st the bar draws little;\n      That the stables are empty yet,\n    And the growing pride of Hagerstown,\n      Thou can'st not that forget.\"\n\n    \"Thou liest, Nick, my little boy;\n      For Hager's bells I hear\n    Like the bells of olden travel,\n      Forgot upon mine ear.\n    In a wonderful thing once asked him\n      Thy dear old daddy is sunk--\n    I have sot here a year and wondered\n      Who the devil was Mr. Funk!\"\n\nII.\n\n    \"A year ago I was smoking,\n      When a strange young fellow came by.\n    He was taking notes on paper,\n      And the rum in his'n was _rye_.\n    Says he: 'I'm a writin' a hist'ry'--\n      'Twas then I thought he was drunk--\n    'And I want to see your graveyard,\n      And the tomb of your founder, Funk!'\n\n    \"I think if he'd sot there, sonny,\n      I'd looked at him a week;\n    But he wanished tow'rd the graveyard,\n      Before your daddy could speak.\n    Directly back he tumbled,\n      Before I had quit my stare,\n    And he says: 'I'm disappinted!\n      No Funk is buried in there.'\n\n    \"'The Funks is all up-country'--\n      That's all I could think to say,\n    'There never was Funks in Funkstown,\n      And there ain't any Funks to-day.'\n    'Why man,' he says, 'the city\n      That stands on Potomac's shores\n    Was settled by Funk, the elder,\n      Who afterward settled yours!\n\n    \"'The Carrols, they bust him yonder;\n      Old Hager, he bust him here;\n    But my heart will bust till I find him,\n      And make a sketch of his bier.\n    Oh shame on the Funkstown spirit\n      That in Maryland does dwell!\n    _He_ wouldn't consent to be buried\n      Where you can keep a hotel.'\"\n\nIII.\n\n    \"There's John Stocklager, daddy,\"\n      Said young Nick, thinking much;\n    \"A hundred years he's settled\n      Amongst the mountain Dutch.\n    Ask _him_!\" \"Nay, young Nick Hammer,\n      You young fellows run too fast:\n    I shall set out here a thinking,\n      And maybe Funk'll go past!\"\n\nIV.\n\n    He drank and smoked and pondered,\n      And deep in the mystery sunk;\n    And the more Nick Hammer wondered\n      The duller he grew about Funk.\n    The wagoners talked it over,\n      And a new idea to trace\n    Enlivened the dead old village\n      Like a new house built in the place.\n\nV.\n\n    One day in June two wagons\n      Came over Antietam bridge\n    And a tall old man behind them\n      Strode up the turnpike ridge.\n    His beard was long and grizzled,\n      His face was gnarled and long,\n    His voice was keen and nasal,\n      And his mouth and eye were strong.\n\n    One wagon was full of boxes\n      And the other full of poles,\n    As the weaver's wife discovered\n      While the weaver took the tolls.\n    Two young men drove the horses,\n      And neither the people knew;\n    But young Nick asked a question\n      And that old man looked him through.\n\n    A little feed they purchased,\n      And their teams drank in the creek,\n    And to and fro they travelled\n      As silently for a week--\n    Went southward laden heavy,\n      And northward always light,\n    And the gnarled old man aye with them,\n      With the long beard flowing white.\n\n    From Sharpsburg up to Cavetown\n      The story slowly rolled--\n    That old man knew the mountains\n      Were filled with ore of gold.\n    The boxes held his crucibles;\n      'Twas haunted where he trod;\n    And every shafted pole he brought\n      Was a divining rod!\n\n    And none knew whence he came there,\n      Nor they his course who took,\n    Down the road to Harper's Ferry,\n      In a shaggy mountain nook;\n    But Nick the Sire grew certain,\n      While from his eye he shrunk,\n    That old man was none other\n      Than the missing Mr. Funk:\n\n    The famous city-builder\n      Who once had pitched upon\n    The sunny ledge of Funkstown,\n      And the site of Washington.\n    Again he was returning\n      To the Potomac side,\n    To found a temple in the hills\n      Before he failed and died!\n\n    And Nick laughed gently daily\n      That he alone had guessed\n    The mystery of the elder Funk\n      That had puzzled all the rest.\n    And younger Nick thought gently:\n      \"Since that chap asked for Funk\n    There's been commotion in this town,\n      And daddy's always drunk.\"\n\nVI.\n\n    But once the ring of rapid hoofs\n      Came sudden in the night,\n    And on the Blue Ridge summits flashed\n      The camp-fire's baleful light.\n    Young Nick was in the saddle,\n      With half the valley men,\n    To find that old man's fighting sons\n      Who kept the ferry glen.\n\n    And like the golden ore that grew\n      To his divining rod,\n    The shining, armed soldiery\n      Swarmed o'er the clover sod;\n    O'er Crampton's gap the columns fought,\n      And by Antietam fords,\n    Till all the world, Nick Hammer thought,\n      At Funkstown had drawn swords.\n\nVII.\n\n    Together, as in quiet days\n      Before the battle's roar,\n    Nick Hammer and his one-legg'd son\n      Smoked by the tavern door.\n    The dead who slept on Sharpsburg Heights\n      Were not more still than they;\n    They leaned together like the hills,\n      But nothing had to say;\n\n    Save once, as at his wooden stump\n      The young man looked awhile,\n    And damned the man who made that war--\n      He saw Nick Hammer smile.\n    \"My little boy,\" the old man said,\n      \"Think long as I have thunk--\n    You'll find this war rests on the head\n      Of that 'air Mister Funk!\"\n\n\n\n\nJUDGE WHALEY'S DEMON.\n\n\nIn the little town of Chester, near the Bay of Chesapeake, lived an\nelegant man, with the softest manners in the world and a shadow\nforever on his countenance. He bore a blameless character and an\nhonored name. He had one son of the same name as his own, Perry\nWhaley. This son was forever with him, for use or for pleasure; they\ncould not be happy separated, nor congenial together. A destiny seemed\nto unite them, but with it also a baleful memory. The negroes\nwhispered that in the boy's conception and birth was a secret of\nshame; he was not this father's son, and his mother had confessed it.\n\nThat mother was gone--fled to a distant part of the world with her\nbetrayer--and the divorce was recorded while yet young Perry Whaley\nwas a babe. But the boy never knew it: his origin reposed in the\nsensitive memory of his father only, and every day the father looked\nat the son long and distantly, and the son at the father with a most\naffectionate longing.\n\n\"Papa,\" he would say, \"can't you try to love me? Do I disobey you? I\nam sure I am always unhappy out of your sight.\"\n\nThe father could not do without that boy, but could only hate him. \"My\nson,\" he would reply, \"you are obedient, but a demon! I could not love\nyou if I would!\"\n\n\"Never mind then, father, I can wait. There is plenty of time in life\nto make you love me!\"\n\nJudge Whaley--for he had been on the bench--was the highest example in\nMaryland of honor and pride. A General of militia, often in the\nLegislature, and once or twice a Senator at Washington, he had all\nthe shattered sensibilities of a proud man wounded in the soul. Age\nwas coming untimely upon his high temples and shadowed countenance,\nand as he walked along the market-place and green court-house yard,\npolite to men, boys, and negroes, they said in low tones, \"Pity such a\nreal gentleman can't be happy!\"\n\nIn public affairs Judge Whaley was not silent: he led his party with\nintrepid utterances, and his prejudices, like his intellect, were\nstrong; but though the election sometimes hung by a few votes, and his\ninfluence then gave every temptation on the part of low speakers and\nwriters to allude to his domestic dishonor, the vile reminiscence was\nnever mentioned. A profound respect for the man permeated society, and\nin his unsmiling way he was kind to whites and blacks. A slaveholder,\nand at the head of the principal slave-holding connection, and the\nparticular champion in that region of slavery privileges, he would\ntake his Bible and visit the cottages of his negroes and read to them\neven when sick of contagious fevers. He defended poor clients freely\nin the courts, and fought for the lives of free negroes under capital\nindictments. He was of the vestry of the aged Episcopal Church, which\ndominated the social influence of the town, and never omitted\nattendance on all the services, but with the shadow forever on his\nbrow. Young Perry went everywhere with his father, and chattered and\nwas active to oblige him, and sometimes by his boyish humor made a\nlittle light weaken the strong edges of that paternal shadow; but in a\nfew minutes, looking up into the Judge's face, he would see that\ndistant, accusing look returned again.\n\nA great desire sprang up in the boy's heart to be fully loved by his\nfather. He looked at other boys and saw that they received from their\nfathers a treatment not more gentle, but more real, as if a deep well\nof feeling lay in those parents which could send up cool water or\ntears, either in disagreement or sympathy. Young Perry had his own\nhorse and his negro, and was the only inhabitant, besides the Judge,\nof the old black brick, square, colonial house on the brink of the\nriver--that house whence the light had gone in lurid flight when the\nyoung wife, in the bravado of her shame, departed forever.\n\nJudge Whaley was able, with his intellectual sympathy, to observe that\nhis boy was apt and right-minded.\n\nPerry read law precociously, and liked it. He was the best juvenile\ndebater in the little old college on the slight hill overlooking the\ntown. His appearance was good, and he had a cheerful nature; yet\nnowhere, among beautiful girls or riding companions, gunning on the\nriver, crabbing on the bridge, or skating on the meadows, was he half\nso happy as with his father.\n\n\"Well, Perry,\" the Judge would say, \"how is my demon to-day--what is\nhe studying now?\"\n\n\"Studying you, papa; I don't understand you.\"\n\n\"The time will come, alas for you!\" exclaimed the Judge.\n\n\"Do I displease you in any thing I do?\"\n\n\"No, my son.\"\n\n\"Do you believe I love you?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do believe it. I wish, Perry, it could be returned.\"\n\nThe son, under the influence of this discouraging confidence, became\nserious and melancholy. He would take his gun on his shoulder and wade\nout into the meadow marshes, as if for game, and there would be seen\nby other gunners sitting on some old pier or perched on some worm\nfence, looking straight up at the sky, as if it might answer the\nriddle of his father's hate and his own unreciprocated affection. He\nwould also, on rainy or cold days, when the inmates could not stir\nabroad, mount his horse and ride to the almshouse beyond the town\nmill, and, taking a pleasant story or ballad from his pocket, read to\nthe huddled paupers, as well as to the keeper's family, attracted by\nhis pleasant condescension. By degrees the boy's face also took the\nshadow worn by his father.\n\n\"Oh, if they could only love!\" remarked the old people around the\ncourt-house; \"or if they only could admit the real love between them!\"\n\nThe Judge never admitted it; that seemed to be a part of his religion,\na duty to himself, if painful, and the son never woke nor retired to\nrest without searching in that paternal shadow for the kindly gleam of\nawakened love, yet ever kissed the shadow only, and a brow that was\ncold.\n\nOne Christmas Day the river was frozen--a rare event in that genial\nlatitude, and hearing that wild geese were flying down toward the bay\ncreeks and coves, the Judge took his gun and a negro and set off,\nwithout waiting for Perry, who was not immediately to be found. An\nhour later the boy returned and heard of his father's departure, and\nstarted on horseback to overtake the carriage. He followed the track\nbeyond the mill and almshouse, and across the heads of several\npeninsulas or necks leading into the wide tidal river. A few frosted\npersimmons hung yet to their warty branches; the hulls of last\nautumn's black walnuts were beneath the spreading boughs; old orchards\nof peach-trees where the tints of green and bud smouldered in pink\ncontrast to the oft-blackened and sapless branches, set off the purple\nbeads of the haw on the bushes along the lanes. Fish-hawks, flying\nacross the sky, felt the shadow of the flocks of wild ducks flying\nhigher; and rabbits crossed the road so boldly in the face of Perry\nWhaley, that once a raccoon, limping across a cornfield like a lame\nspaniel, turned too and took both barrels of Perry's gun without other\nfright or injury than slightly to hurry its pace. As the young man\nheard the crows chatter around the corn-shocks and the mocking-bird in\nsome alder-thicket answer and sauce the catbird's scream, he said to\nhimself:\n\n\"Every thing is attached by an inner chord to something else, and that\nother thing, free-hearted, carols or quarrels back--except father to\nme. Can I not, too, find something to love me? There is Marion, the\nDoctor's daughter, with the chestnut curls falling all round her\nneck--she loves me, I know; but until I gain my father's love I cannot\nthink of woman!\"\n\nThe pine-trees above his head murmured rather than moaned, as if they\nstrongly sympathized with him and would presently make loud and angry\ncause against his enemies. \"What is it,\" asked Perry of his\nunsuspecting mind, \"which makes my father so unappeasable? What is\nthere in me which broods upon his just and honorable life, and which\nhe cannot drive away though he tries? Has he some learned\nsuperstition, some religious vow or mistaken sacrifice?\"\n\nPerry turned down a lane and then into the bed of a frozen brook, and\ncoming in sight of the broad river, espied his father, gun in hand,\nstealthily creeping under a load of brush and twigs which the Judge's\nnegro had piled about his back and head, to conceal his figure from a\nflock of ducks that were bathing and diving in an open place of deep\nwater, to which the ice had not extended.\n\nThe gliding brush heap, by slow and flitting advances, had progressed\nabout to within gunshot of the scarce suspecting fowls, and Perry and\nthe negro, from different sides of the cove, watched with the keenest\ninterest--when suddenly, with very little noise, the ice gave way and\nJudge Whaley had sunk in deep water, loaded down with heavy gunning\nboots, shot-belt, overcoat and gun. The negro stood paralyzed a\nminute and then fell upon his knees, unknowing what to do. A sense of\njoy started in Perry Whaley's breast as strong as his apprehensive\nfears. He might be made the instrument of saving that beloved life,\nand dissipating the spell of its indifference!\n\nNothing but this ardent passion saved Perry himself from drowning. He\nhad crossed the cove ere yet the impulse of parental recognition had\ntaken form, and throwing a rein from the carriage around the negro\nman's armpits, and seizing a long fence-rail, ran rapidly across,\npulling both toward the point of danger.\n\nJudge Whaley had been a powerful man and an accomplished sportsman;\nand still as resolute as in youth, struggled with all intelligence for\nhis life. He sank to the bottom on first breaking through the ice,\nthen reaching upward made two or three powerful efforts to catch the\nrim of the ice-field and sank again in each endeavor, weighted down\nwith leather and iron. He had sunk to rise no more when Perry reached\nthe edge of the field, placed the end of the rail over the abyss and\nplanted the negro's weight upon it, and then he dived, head foremost,\ninto the freezing salt depths--where the tide was running--and with\nthe carriage rein looped in his right hand. Before he could lay hand\nupon his father, that desperate man had seized him by the hair and\ndrawn his head to the bottom, and every instant Perry felt that his\nremainder of breath was almost run unless he could break that iron\nhold. Even in that instant of agony, with death painting its awful\npageantry on his interior sight, Perry felt a gladder kind of destiny;\nthat perhaps the arms of a father's love were around him, and in\nanother sphere, already about to dawn, the shadow might depart from\nthat kind face and unyearning heart.\n\nBut with a sense of more human dutifulness, Perry recalled his\nresiduum of perception. It was necessary to break that drowning man's\ngrapple upon his hair, and taking the only way, if cruel, to assist\nhis father, the young man struck the elder's knuckles with his\nclinched fist. As they released the rein was thrown about Judge\nWhaley's shoulders and run through the buckle, and as his rescuer,\nalmost exhausted, swam upward, he made the rein fast to his ankle and\nseized hold of the rail. Here occurred another agonizing delay. The\nnegro could not pull the rail in, between his own fears and the double\nburden; the young man was exhausted and cramped with cold, and every\ninstant his father, still submerged, was drowning. At this moment\nwhen the renewed probability of death brought no compensations of a\ntender sentiment, it pleased the tide to whirl Judge Whaley's body\ninwards, directly beneath the ice-field, and he being now insensible,\nif alive at all, the negro clutched it effectually. In the awakened\npain and hope of that minute, Perry Whaley supported himself along the\npiece of rail to the solid ice, and assisted to draw his father from\nthe water, and then swooned dead. They lay together, the unwelcome son\nand the repelling father, under the universal pity of the great eye of\nHeaven, on the natal day of Him who came into the world also\nfatherless, but not disowned.\n\nA neighboring farmer sent one of his boys to Chester for the doctor,\nand by rubbing and restoratives, both the Judge and his son were\nbrought back to circulation and pulsation. Perry soon recovered, but\nJudge Whaley was saved only with the greatest difficulty. It was\nnightfall in the hospitable farm-house before he was able to see or\nspeak, and then, a little drunken with the spirits which had been\nadministered, he asked in a whisper:\n\n\"Who saved my life?\"\n\n\"Who but your son Perry?\" answered the cheerful Doctor Voss. \"You were\nboth wrapped together for a long while in the bottom of the cove!\"\n\n\"My son!\" exclaimed Judge Whaley, scarcely understanding the reply.\n\"Who is my son?\"\n\n\"Here, father! We are both alive. Thank God!\"\n\n\"_My_ son?\" muttered Judge Whaley. \"Brave son! Who is it?\"\n\n\"Why, Perry Whaley!\" answered the good housewife. \"His arms are around\nyour neck. Those warm kisses were his!\"\n\nThe sick man glared about him till his eye fell on the boy.\n\n\"Ha!\" he whispered. \"By you. Had I awakened in heaven would you have\nbeen there, too?\"\n\nThe Judge sank back into a moment's insensibility, and the son sat\nthere sobbing piteously.\n\nThough saved from the wave Judge Whaley had a long following spell of\nfever, in which his son nursed him for many weeks, and once the spark\nof life seemed to have fled; the Judge's pulse stopped still, and\nwhile they were at solemn prayer--the rector of the Episcopal Church\nreading from his book--Perry cried: \"He still lives. It is the\nmedicine he needs!\"\n\nAfter the second resuscitation Dr. Voss remarked: \"It is not often,\nJudge Whaley, that a man's life is twice saved by his son!\"\n\nTears were no longer in Perry's eyes; he had heard his father in\ndelirium constantly repeat his name. After the Judge's recovery he\nplaced in Perry's pocket a fine English watch, and gave him a pair of\nhorses and a stylish wagon.\n\n\"Hereafter,\" he said, \"you shall take charge of the property. My son,\nlook about you and find a wife! In your character you are deserving of\na good one, for I fear the affection you are seeking can never arise\nin my heart enough to satisfy you. Gratitude and respect are always\nhere, my son, but love has been a stranger to me these many years. I\nwish you to marry while I live, and be happy in some good woman's\naffection. I may die and you may not become my heir! There is the\ndoctor's beautiful daughter; she has my decided approval!\"\n\n\"If it is your wish, father, I will marry.\"\n\nThe day Perry Whaley was admitted to the bar of Kent County on motion\nof his father, he stopped with his pair of horses at Doctor Voss's\nhouse, and asked Miss Marion to take a drive. She was a peerless\nbrunette, whose dark brown curls taking the light upon their\nluxuriance seemed the rippling of water from the large amber wells of\nher eyes. In childhood she had looked with admiration on his straight,\ntrim figure and manly courtesy, and hoped that she might find favor in\nhis sight. For this she had put by the scant opportunities in a small,\nold, unvisited town, to be wedded to her equals, and the whispered\nimputation that there was a taint in Perry Whaley's blood made no\nimpression upon her wishes. Her younger sisters were gone before her,\nbut true to the impetuous tendencies of her childhood she waited for\nPerry, indulging the dream that she was destined to be his wife.\n\nThe happy, supreme opportunity had come. They took the road over the\nriver drawbridge into another county; the frost was out of the ground,\nand the loamy road invited the horses to their speed until the breath\nof spring raised in Marion's cheeks the color that dressed the budding\npeach orchards which spread over the whole landscape, as if Nature was\nin maternity and her rosy breasts were full of milk.\n\n\"Do you like these horses, Marion?\" said Perry Whaley, when they had\ngone several miles. \"If you do you can drive them as long as you\nlive.\"\n\nShe laughed, more because it was the feminine way than in her feeling.\n\n\"Drive them alone?\"\n\n\"Only when you do not want me to go.\"\n\n\"Then it will seldom be alone, Perry.\"\n\nThey both breathed short in silence, the happy silence of youth's\ndesire and assent, until Perry said, \"You are sure you love me, then?\"\n\n\"Must I be frank, Perry?\"\n\n\"As much as ever in your life!\"\n\n\"I am very sure. I loved you in my childhood--no more now than then,\nexcept that the growth of love has strengthened with my strength.\"\n\n\"Marion,\" said the young man with a thoughtful face, \"if I have not\nlong ago recognized this fidelity, which, to be also frank with you, I\nhave suspected--not because of any desert of mine, but love is like\nthe light which we distinctly feel even with our eyes shut--it has\nbeen because with all my soul I was laboring for my father's love\nfirst. You have seen the shadow on his brow? How it came there I do\nnot know. I have thought that with my wife to light the dark chambers\nof our old house, a triple love would bloom there, and what he has\ncalled the demon in me would disappear beneath your beautiful\nministrations. Be that angel to both of us, and as my wife touch the\nfountain of his tears and make his noble heart embrace me!\"\n\nMarion Voss felt a great sense of trouble. \"Is it possible,\" she\nthought, \"that Perry has never suspected the cause of that shadow on\nthe Judge's life? Perhaps not! It would have been cruel to tell Perry,\nbut crueller, perhaps, to let him grow to manhood in unchallenged\npride and find it out at such a critical time.\" The rest of the ride\npassed in endearments and the engagement vow was made.\n\n\"My dear one,\" said Marion, as they rolled on the bridge at Chester,\nand the few lights of the town and of the vessels and the single\nsteamboat descended into the river, \"had you not better have an\nunderstanding with your father on the subject of his affection?\nPerhaps you have talked in riddles. Something far back may have\ndisturbed your mutual faith. Whatever it is, nothing shall break my\npromise to you. I will be your wife, or no man's. But the shadow that\nis on Judge Whaley's face I fear no wife can drive away.\"\n\nThese words disturbed young Perry Whaley, as he drove his horses into\nthe hotel stable and slowly pursued his way across the public plot or\narea, past the old square brick Methodist church, already lighted\nbrightly for a special evening service, though it was a week-day. He\npassed next the small, echoing market-house and the Episcopal church,\nand court-house yard. Every thing he saw had at that moment the\nappearance of something so very vivid and real that it frightened him.\nYonder was the spot where, with other boys, he had burned tar-barrels\non election nights; up a lane the jail where he had seen the prisoners\nflatten their noses against the bars to beg tobacco; a tall Lombardy\npoplar at a corner stood stolid except at its summit, where a portion\nof the foliage whispered with a freshening sound. How still; as if\nevery thing was in suspense like him--the favorite of the old town\nfor so many years, and soon to become the possessor of its most\nbeautiful and virtuous woman!\n\nHe sounded the knocker at the door of the square, solid brick mansion,\nbuilt while all acknowledged the King of Britain here, and in whose\nthreshold General Washington had stood more than once. His father\nadmitted him directly into a prim, wainscoted room with a\nsquare-angled stairway in the corner leading above; a thick rag carpet\nwas on the floor; the furniture was mahogany and hair-cloth; on the\nwall were portraits of the Whaleys or Whalleys, back to that regicide\nwho fled from the vengeance of King Charles's sons, and, escaping many\nperils in New England, lived unrecognized on this peninsula.\n\nJudge Whaley had lighted a large oil lamp, and its shade threw the\nflame upon his strong magisterial face, wherein grief and\nrighteousness seemed as highly blent as in some indigent republican\nMilton or Pym.\n\n\"My father,\" said Perry Whaley with the tender tone habitual to him,\n\"I have consulted your wishes as well as my desire. Marion Voss will\nbe my wife.\"\n\n\"It is well, my son,\" replied Judge Whaley, placing upon his nose his\nfirst pair of silver spectacles. \"You are entitled to so much beauty\nand grace on every ground of a dutiful youth and agreeable person, and\nof talents which will make both of you a comfortable livelihood.\"\n\n\"Father, with so great a change of relations before me, I desire to\nobtain your whole confidence.\"\n\nPerry's voice trembled; the Judge sat still as one of the brazen\nandirons where the wood burned with a colorless flame in the\nfireplace. The father took off the spectacles and laid them down.\n\n\"Confidence in what respect, Perry?\"\n\nThe young man walked to his father and knelt at his knee and clasped\nhis hand. Even then Perry saw the shadow gather in that kind man's\nbrow, as if he perceived the demon in his son.\n\n\"Before I make a lady my wife, father, I want every mystery of my\nlife related. I have always heard that my mother died. Where is she\nburied?\"\n\nThere was a long pause.\n\n\"She is not dead,\" said Judge Whaley, without any inflection, \"except\nto me.\"\n\n\"Not dead, father?\" asked the son, with throbbing temples. \"Oh, why\nhave I been so deceived? Were you unhappy?\"\n\n\"I thought I was happy,\" said the Judge huskily; \"that was long my\nimpression.\"\n\n\"And my mother--was she, too, happy when you were so?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nThe young man rose and walked to the wainscot and back again. \"Dear\nfather, I see the origin of the shadow upon your brow. Why was I not\ntold before? Perhaps the son of two unhappy parents might have brought\nthem together again, if for no other congenial end, than that he was\ntheir only son!\"\n\nThe Judge raised his eyes to the imploring eyes of the younger man.\nThe shadow never was so deep upon his brow as Perry saw it now; it was\nthe shadow of a long inured agony intensified by a dread judicial\nsympathy.\n\n\"You are not my son!\" he said.\n\nPerry's mouth opened, but not to articulate. He stretched out his\nhands to touch something, and that only which he could not reach\nstruck and stunned him; he had fallen senseless to the floor.\n\nWhen Perry returned to knowledge he was lying upon the carpet, a cloak\nunder his head, and his father, walking up and down, stooped over him\nfrequently to look into his face with a tender, yet suffering\ninterest. The young man did not move, and only revealed his\nwakefulness at last by raising his hand to check a relieving flow of\ntears.\n\n\"My dear boy,\" finally said Judge Whaley, himself shedding tears, \"I\nhad supposed that you already knew something of the tragedy of my\nlife.\"\n\n\"Never,\" moaned Perry.\n\n\"Then, forgive me; I should myself have gradually told you the tale;\nit might have come up with your growth, inwoven like a mere ghost\nstory. Did no playmate, no older intimate, not one of your age\nstriving for the bar, ever whisper to you that I had been deceived,\nand that you, my only comfort, were the fruit of the deception?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\" Perry's tears seemed to dry in the recollection. \"We were\nboth gentlemen--at least, after we reached this world. No one ever\ninsulted me nor you! I humbly thank God that, discredited as I may\nhave been, my conduct to all was so considerate that no one could\nobtrude such a truth upon me. Is it the truth? O father!--I must call\nyou so! it is the only word I know--is this, at last, one of the\ndreadful visions of diseased sleep or of insanity? Who am I? What was\nmy mother? I can bear it all, for now I have seen why you never loved\nme.\"\n\nPerry, pale as death and still of feeble brain, had arisen as he spoke\nand made this imploration with only the eloquence of haggard\nforgetfulness. The Judge took Perry's hands and supported him.\n\n\"My son, have I not earned the name of father? Yes, I have plucked the\npoison-arrow from my heart and sucked its venom. I have taken the\noffspring of my injurer and warmed it in my bosom. Every morning when\nyou arose I was reminded of my dishonor. Every night when we kissed\ngood-night, I felt, God knows, that I had loved my enemies and done\ngood to them which injured me!\"\n\nThe young man, looking up and around in the impotence of expression,\nsaw the portraits of the dead Whaleys in unbroken lineal\nrespectability, bending their eyes upon him--the one, the only\nimpostor of the name!\n\n\"Perry,\" continued the Judge, \"I am not wholly guilty of keeping you\nblind. I have told you many times that between us was a gap, a rift of\nsomething. I have sometimes said, as your artless caresses, mixed\nwith the bitter recollection of your origin, almost dispossessed my\nreason, that you were 'my demon.'\"\n\n\"Yes, father; but I was so anxious to love you that I never brooded on\nthat. I see it all! Every repulse comes back to me now. You have\nsuffered, indeed, and been the Christian. But I must hear the tale\nbefore I depart.\"\n\n\"Depart! Where?\"\n\n\"To find my mother, if she lives. To find my name! I cannot bear this\none. It would be deceit.\"\n\n\"Not even the name of My Son?\"\n\n\"Alas! no. Just as I am I must be known. My putative father, if he\nlives, must give me another name.\"\n\n\"Thank God, Perry, he is dead!\"\n\n\"But not his name. I can make honorable even my--\"\n\n\"Say it not!\" exclaimed the Judge, placing his hand upon Perry's\nmouth. \"Pure as all your life has been, you shall not degrade it with\nsuch a word. Oh, my son!--my orphan son!--dear faithful prattler\naround my feet for all these desolate and haunted years, I have\ndoubted for your sake every thing--that wedlock was good, that pride\nof virtuous origin was wise, that human jealousy was any thing but a\ntiger's selfishness. I did not sow the seed that brought you forth;\ntoo well I know it! Yet grateful and fair has been the vine as if\nwatered by the tears of angels; and when I sleep the demon in you\nfades, and then, at least, your loving tendrils find all my nature an\narbor to take you up!\"\n\n\"Would to God!\" said Perry bitterly, \"that in the sleep of everlasting\ndeath we laid together. O my God! how I have loved you--father!\"\n\nThe Judge enfolded the young man in his arms and like a child Perry\nrested there. The lamp, previously burning very low, went out for want\nof oil, as the old man nursed like his own babe the serpent's\noffspring, not his own but another's untimely son, bred on the honor\nof a husband's name. As they sat in the perfect darkness of the old\nriverside mansion, Judge Whaley told his tale.\n\nHe had neglected to marry until he had become of settled legal and\nbusiness habits, and more than forty-five years of age when he chose\nfor a wife a young lady who professed to admire and love him. They had\nno children. The wife was a coquette, and began to woo admiration\nalmost as soon as the nuptials were done. Judge Whaley thought nothing\nill of this; he was in the heyday of his practice and willing to let\none so much his junior enjoy herself. Among his law students was a\nyoung man from South Carolina, of brilliant manners and insidious\naddress. This person had already become so intimate with Mrs. Whaley\nas to draw upon the Judge anonymous letters notifying him that he was\ntoo indifferent, to which letters he gave no attention, only bestowing\nthe more confidence and freedom upon her, when, happily, as it was\nthought, the wife showed signs of maternity. Perry was born, to the\njoy of his father. The young mother, however, hastened to recover her\nhealth and gayety. The favor she expressed for the student's society\nwas revived and not opposed by her husband. Judge Whaley returned\nunexpectedly one day to his residence; he came upon a scene that in an\ninstant destroyed faith and rendered explanation impossible. His wife\nwas false. The student passionately avowed himself her seducer. The\nJudge went through the ordeal like a magistrate.\n\n\"Take her away with you,\" he said. \"That is the only reparation you\ncan do her, until she is legally divorced, and after that, if\nnecessary, I will give her an allowance, but she cannot rest under\nthis roof another night. It has been the abode of chaste wives since\nit was builded. My honor is at stake. This day she must go. Make her\nyour wife and let neither ever return.\"\n\nThey departed by carriage, unknown to any, and never had returned.\nBut a few weeks after they disappeared a letter was received by Judge\nWhaley, admonishing him that his son was the offspring of the same\nillegal relations. It was signed and written by his wife. The wretched\nman debated whether he should send the infant to an asylum or keep it\nupon his premises. Through procrastination, continued for twenty\nyears, the child had derived all the advantages of legitimacy, and\nstill the demon of the husband's peace was the test of the gentleman's\nreligion.\n\nAs this story had proceeded toward its final portions, the young man\nhad detached himself from his father's arms. When Judge Whaley\nconcluded in the darkness he waited in vain for a response. The old\nman lighted the lamp and peered about the room wistfully. Perry was\ngone.\n\nThat night, in the happiness of her engagement, Marion Voss had a glad\nunrest, which her mother noticed. \"Dear,\" said the mother, \"let us go\nover to the Methodist church. It is one of their protracted meetings\nor revivals, as they call it. If Perry comes he will know where to\nfind us, as I will leave word.\"\n\nThe Methodists were second in social standing, but a wide gap\nseparated them from the slave-holding and family aristocracy, who were\nEpiscopalians. The sermon was delivered by one of their most powerful\nproselytizers, an old man in a homespun suit, high shoulders, lean,\nlong figure, and glittering eyes. He was a wild kind of orator,\nstriking fear to the soul, dipping it in the fumes of damnation,\nlifting it thence to the joys of heaven. Terrible, electrical\npreaching! It was the product of uncultured genius and human\ndisappointment. Marion sat in awe, hardly knowing whether it was\nimpious or angelic. In a blind exordium the old zealot commanded those\nwho would save their souls to walk forward and kneel publicly at the\naltar, and make their struggle there for salvation.\n\nThe first whom Marion saw to walk up the dimly lighted aisle and kneel\nwas Perry Whaley. All in the church saw and knew him, and a\nthunderous singing broke out, in which religious and mere\ndenominational zeal all threw their enthusiasm.\n\n\"Judge Whaley's son--Episcopalian--admitted to the bar\nto-day--wonderful!\"\n\nMarion heard these whispers on every hand; and as the singing ceased,\nand the congregation knelt to pray, Marion's mother saw her turning\nvery pale, and silently and unobserved led her out of the\nmeeting-house.\n\nIt was one o'clock in the morning when Judge Whaley heard Perry enter\nthe door. He was preceded by the beams of a lamp, as his step came\nalmost trippingly up the stairs. The Judge looked up and saw the face\nof his demon, streaked with recent tears and shaded with dishevelled\nhair, but on it a look like eternal sunshine.\n\n\"Glory! glory! glory!\" exclaimed the young man hoarsely. He rushed\nupon his aged friend, and kissed him in an ecstacy almost violent.\n\n\"My boy! Perry! What is it? You are not out of your mind?\"\n\n\"No! no! I have found my father, our father!\"\n\n\"Who is it?\" asked the Judge, with a rising superstition, as if this\nwere not his orphan, but its preternatural copy; \"you have found your\nfather? What father?\"\n\n\"God!\" exclaimed young Perry, his countenance like flame. \"My father\nis God and He is love!\"\n\nThe town of Chester and the whole country had now a serious of rapid\nsensations. Judge Whaley and his son were turned lunatics, and behaved\nlike a pair of boys. Marion Voss had broken her engagement with Perry\nWhaley because he insisted that he was not the Judge's son. Young\nPerry was exhorting in the Methodist church, and studying and starving\nhimself to be a preacher. The Methodists were wild with social and\ndenominational triumph: the Episcopalians were outraged, and meditated\nsending Perry to the lunatic asylum. Finally, to the great joy of\nnervous people, the last sensation came--Perry Whaley had left\nChester to be a preacher.\n\nJudge Whaley now grew old rapidly, and meek and careless of his\nattire. In an old pair of slippers, glove-less and abstracted, he\ncrossed the court-house green, no longer the first gentleman in the\ncounty in courteous accost and lofty tone. He read his Bible in the\nseclusion of his own house, and fishermen on the river coming in after\nmidnight saw the lamp-light stream through the chinks of his shutters,\nand said: \"He has never been the same since Perry went away.\" But he\nread in the religious papers of the genius and power of the absent\none, roving like a young hermit loosened, and with a tongue of flame\nover the length and breadth of the country, producing extraordinary\nexcitement and adding thousands to his humble denomination.\n\nOn Christmas Day the Judge was sitting in his great room reading the\nsame mystic book, and listening, with a wistfulness that had never\nleft him, to every infrequent footfall in the street. There came a\nknock at the door. He opened it, and out of the darkness into which he\ncould not see came a voice altered in pitch, but with remembered\naccents in it, saying:\n\n\"Father, mother has come home!\"\n\nStepping back before that extraordinary salutation, Judge Whaley saw a\nman come forward leading a woman by the hand. The Judge receded until\nhe could go no farther, and sank into his chair. The woman knelt at\nhis feet; older, and grown gray and in the robes of humility, yet in\ncountenance as she had been, only purified, as it seemed, by suffering\nand repentance, he saw his wife of more than twenty years before.\n\nLooking up into the face of the son he had watched so long for, the\nold man saw a still more wonderful transformation. The elegant young\ngentleman of a few months before was a living spectre, his bright eyes\nstanding out large and consumptive upon a transparent skin, and\nglittering with fanaticism or excitement.\n\n\"Perry Whaley,\" said the woman firmly, but with sweetness, \"it is\ntwenty-two years since I left this house with hate of me in your heart\nand a degraded name; I was in thought and act a pure woman, though the\nevidence against me was mountain-high. My sin was that of many\nwomen--flirtation. Nothing more, before my God! I trifled with one of\nyour students, a reckless and hot-blooded man, and inspired him with a\ntyrannous passion. He swore if I would not fly with him to destroy me.\nOne day, the most dreadful of my life, he heard your foot upon the\nstairs ascending to my chamber, and threw himself into it before you\nand avowed himself your injurer. Then rose in confirmation of him\nevery girlish folly; I saw myself in your mild eyes condemned, in this\ncommunity long suspected, and by my own family discarded for your\nsake. Where could I go but to the author of my sorrows? He became my\nhusband and I am a widow.\"\n\nJudge Whaley stretched out his hand in the direction of his eyes, not\nupon the old wife at his feet, but toward his son, who had settled\ninto a chair and closed his eyes as if in tired rapture.\n\n\"Hear me but a moment more,\" said the kneeling woman. \"I was the slave\nof an ever-jealous maniac; but my heart was still at this fireside\nwith your bowed spirit, and this our son. My husband told me that the\nway to recover the child was to claim it as his. His motive, I fear,\nwas different--to place me on record as confessedly false and prevent\nour reunion forever. But I was not wise enough to see it. I only\nthought you would send my son to me. I waited in my lonely home in\nCharleston years on years. He came at last, but not too late; my\nfrivolous soul, grown selfish with vanity and disappointment, bent\nitself before God through the prayers of our son. I am forgiven, Perry\nWhaley. _I have felt it!_\"\n\nThe old man did not answer, but strained his eyes upon his son. \"See\nthere!\" he slowly spoke, \"Perry is dying. Famished all these years for\nhuman love, this excess of joy has snapped the silver cord. Wife,\nMary, we have martyred him.\"\n\nIt was the typhoid fever which had developed from Perry's wasting\nvitality. He sank into delirium as they looked at him, and was carried\ntenderly to his bed. Marion Voss came to nurse him with his mother.\nShe, too, after Perry's departure, had grown serious and followed his\nexample, and was a Methodist. The young zealot sank lower and lower,\ndespite science or prayers. Both churches prayed for him. Negroes and\nwhites united their hopes and kind offices. One morning he was of\ndying pulse, and the bell in the Episcopal church began to toll. At\nthe bedside all the little family had instinctively knelt, and Perry's\nmother was praying with streaming eyes, committing the worn-out nature\nto Heavenly Love, when suddenly Judge Whaley, who had kept his hand on\nPerry's pulse, exclaimed:\n\n\"It beats! He lives again. The stimulant, Marion!\"\n\nFather and son had rescued each other's lives. One day as Perry had\nrecovered strength, Judge Whaley said:\n\n\"My son, are you a minister, qualified to perform marriages?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"When you are ready and strong, will you marry your mother and me\nagain?\"\n\n\"Very soon,\" said Perry; \"but not too soon. Here is Marion waiting for\nme, as she has waited, like Rachel for Jacob, these many years. I\nshall preach no more, dear father, except as a layman. I see by your\neyes that the demon is no longer in our home, and the remainder of my\nlife will be spent in returning to you the joy my presence for years\ndispelled.\"\n\n\"O Perry, my patient son,\" exclaimed the father, \"they who entertain\nangels unawares have nothing to look to with regret--except\nunkindness.\"\n\n\n\n\nA CONVENT LEGEND.\n\n\n    The General Moreau, that pure republican,\n      Who won at Hohenlinden so much glory,\n    And by Bonaparte hated, crossed the sea to be free.\n      And brought to the Delaware his story.\n    World-renowned as he was, unto Washington he strayed.\n      Where Pichegru, his friend, had contended,\n    And to Georgetown he rode, in search of a church,\n      To confess what of good he offended.\n\n    The Jesuits' nest beckoned up to the height\n      Where pious John Carroll had laid it,\n    And the General knelt at the cell but to tell\n      His offence; yet or ever he said it,\n    A voice in the speech of his Bretagny home,\n      From within, where the monk was to listen,\n    Exclaimed like a soldier: \"Ah me! _mon ami_,\n      Take my place and a sinful one christen!\n\n    \"For mine was the band that brought exile to you;\n      Cadoudal, the Chouan, my master,\n    Broke my sword and my heart, and I lost when I crost,\n      Both honor and love to be pastor.\n    A knight of the king and my lady at court,\n      At the call of Vendee the despised,\n    Into Paris I stole with a few, one or two,\n      As assassins, to murder disguised.\n\n    \"On the third of Nivose, in the narrowest street,\n      And never a traitor one to breathe it,\n    We prepared to blow up Bonaparte with a cart,\n      And a barrel of powder beneath it.\n    He came like a flash, dashing by, but behind,\n      Poor folks and his escort in feather,\n    And the child that we put, _sans_ remorse, by the horse,\n      Were torn all to pieces together.\"\n\n    \"To the guillotine both of my comrades were sent,\n      But the Church, saving me for the tonsure,\n    Hid me off in the wilds, and my dame, to her shame,\n      To be _Pere_ sold me out from a _Monsieur_;\n    And now she is clad in the silk of the court,\n      And I in the wool of confessor,--\n    Hate me not, ere hence you go, Jean Victor Moreau!\n      And with France be my fame's intercessor!\"\n\n    \"Limoelan! priest! is it you that I hear\n      In this convent by Washington's river?\n    Ah! France, how thy children are hurled round the world,\n      Like the arrows from destiny's quiver!\n    Take shrift for thy crime! Be thou pardoned with peace,\n      Poor exile of Breton, my brother!\"\n    And the cannon of Dresden Moreau gave release,\n      The bells of the convent the other.\n\n\n\n\nCRUTCH, THE PAGE.\n\n\nI.--CHIPS.\n\nThe Honorable Jeems Bee, of Texas, sitting in his committee-room half\nan hour before the convening of Congress, waiting for his negro\nfamiliar to compound a julep, was suddenly confronted by a small boy\non crutches.\n\n\"A letter!\" exclaimed Mr. Bee, \"with the frank of Reybold on it--that\nYankeest of Pennsylvania Whigs! Yer's familiarity! Wants me to appoint\none U--U--U, what?\"\n\n\"Uriel Basil,\" said the small boy on crutches, with a clear, bold, but\nrather sensitive voice.\n\n\"Uriel Basil, a page in the House of Representatives, bein' an infirm,\ndeservin' boy, willin' to work to support his mother. Infirm boy wants\nto be a page, on the recommendation of a Whig, to a Dimmycratic\ncommittee. I say, gen'lemen, what do you think of that, heigh?\"\n\nThis last addressed to some other members of the committee, who had\nmeantime entered.\n\n\"Infum boy will make a spry page,\" said the Hon. Box Izard, of\nArkansaw.\n\n\"Harder to get infum page than the Speaker's eye,\" said the orator,\nPontotoc Bibb, of Georgia.\n\n\"Harder to get both than a 'pintment in these crowded times on a\nopposition recommendation when all ole Virginny is yaw to be tuk care\nof,\" said Hon. Fitzchew Smy, of the Old Dominion.\n\nThe small boy standing up on crutches, with large hazel eyes swimming\nand wistful, so far from being cut down by these criticisms, stood\nstraighter, and only his narrow little chest showed feeling, as it\nbreathed quickly under his brown jacket.\n\n\"I can run as fast as anybody,\" he said impetuously. \"My sister says\nso. You try me!\"\n\n\"Who's yo' sister, bub?\"\n\n\"Joyce.\"\n\n\"Who's Joyce?\"\n\n\"Joyce Basil--_Miss_ Joyce Basil to you, gentlemen. My mother keeps\nboarders. Mr. Reybold boards there. I think it's hard when a little\nboy from the South wants to work, that the only body to help him find\nit is a Northern man. Don't you?\"\n\n\"Good hit!\" cried Jeroboam Coffee, Esq., of Alabama. \"That boy would\nrun, if he could!\"\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said another member of the committee, the youthful\nabstractionist from South Carolina, who was reputed to be a great poet\non the stump, the Hon. Lowndes Cleburn--\"gentlemen, that boy puts the\nthing on its igeel merits and brings it home to us. I'll ju my juty in\nthis issue. Abe, wha's my julep?\"\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said the Chairman of Committee, Jeems Bee, \"it 'pears to\nme that there's a social p'int right here. Reybold, bein' the only\nWhig on the Lake and Bayou Committee, ought to have something if he\nsees fit to ask for it. That's courtesy! We, of all men, gentlemen,\ncan't afford to forget it.\"\n\n\"No, by durn!\" cried Fitzchew Smy.\n\n\"You're right, Bee!\" cried Box Izard. \"You give it a constitutional\nset.\"\n\n\"Reybold,\" continued Jeems Bee, thus encouraged, \"Reybold is (to speak\nout) no genius! He never will rise to the summits of usefulness. He\nlacks the air, the swing, the _pose_, as the sculptors say; he won't\ntreat, but he'll lend a little money, provided he knows where you\ngoin' with it. If he ain't open-hearted, he ain't precisely mean!\"\n\n\"You're right, Bee!\" (General expression.)\n\n\"Further on, it may be said that the framers of the govment never\nintended _all_ the patronage to go to one side. Mr. Jeffson put _that_\non the steelyard principle: the long beam here, the big weight of\nbeing in the minority there. Mr. Jackson only threw it considabul more\non one side, but even he, gentlemen, didn't take the whole patronage\nfrom the Outs; he always left 'em enough to keep up the courtesy of\nthe thing, and we can't go behind _him_. Not and be true to our\ntraditions. Do I put it right?\"\n\n\"Bee,\" said the youthful Lowndes Cleburn, extending his hand, \"you put\nit with the lucidity and spirituality of Kulhoon himself!\"\n\n\"Thanks, Cleburn,\" said Bee; \"this is a compliment not likely to be\nforgotten, coming from you. Then it is agreed, as the Chayman of yo'\nCommittee, that I accede to the request of Mr. Reybold, of\nPennsylvania?\"\n\n\"Aye!\" from everybody.\n\n\"And now,\" said Mr. Bee, \"as we wair all up late at the club last\nnight, I propose we take a second julep, and as Reybold is coming in\nhe will jine us.\"\n\n\"I won't give you a farthing!\" cried Reybold at the door, speaking to\nsome one. \"Chips, indeed! What shall I give you money to gamble away\nfor? A gambling beggar is worse than an impostor! No, sir!\nEmphatically no!\"\n\n\"A dollar for four chips for brave old Beau!\" said the other voice.\n\"I've struck 'em all but you. By the State Arms! I've got rights in\nthis distreek! Everybody pays toll to brave old Beau! Come down!\"\n\nThe Northern Congressman retreated before this pertinacious mendicant\ninto his committee-room, and his pesterer followed him closely,\nnothing abashed, even into the privileged cloisters of the committee.\nThe Southern members enjoyed the situation.\n\n\"Chips, Right Honorable! Chips for old Beau. Nobody this ten-year has\nrun as long as you. I've laid for you, and now I've fell on you. Judge\nBee, the fust business befo' yo' committee this mornin' is a\nassessment for old Beau, who's away down! Rheumatiz, bettin' on the\nblack, failure of remittances from Fauqueeah, and other casualties by\nwind an' flood, have put ole Beau away down. He's a institution of his\ncountry and must be sustained!\"\n\nThe laughter was general and cordial amongst the Southerners, while\nthe intruder pressed hard upon Mr. Reybold. He was a singular object;\ntall, grim, half-comical, with a leer of low familiarity in his eves,\nbut his waxed mustache of military proportions, his patch of goatee\njust above the chin, his elaborately oiled hair and flaming necktie,\nset off his faded face with an odd gear of finery and impressiveness.\nHis skin was that of an old _roue's_, patched up and calked, but the\nfeatures were those of a once handsome man of style and carriage.\n\nHe wore what appeared to be a cast-off spring overcoat, out of season\nand color on this blustering winter day, a rich buff waistcoat of an\nembossed pattern, such as few persons would care to assume, save,\nperhaps, a gambler, negro buyer, or fine \"buck\" barber. The assumption\nof a large and flashy pin stood in his frilled shirt-bosom. He wore\nwatch-seals without the accompanying watch, and his pantaloons, though\nfaded and threadbare, were once of fine material and cut in a style of\nextravagant elegance, and they covered his long, shrunken, but\naristocratic limbs, and were strapped beneath his boots to keep them\nshapely. The boots themselves had been once of varnished kid or fine\ncalf, but they were cracked and cut, partly by use, partly for\ncomfort; for it was plain that their wearer had the gout, by his\naristocratic hobble upon a gold-mounted cane, which was not the least\ninconsistent garniture of his mendicancy.\n\n\"Boys,\" said Fitzchew Smy, \"I s'pose we better come down early.\nThere's a shillin', Beau. If I had one more sech constituent as you, I\nshould resign or die premachorely!\"\n\n\"There's a piece o' tobacker,\" said Jeems Bee languidly, \"all I can\nafforde, Beau, this mornin'. I went to a chicken-fight yesterday and\nlost all my change.\"\n\n\"Mine,\" said Box Izard, \"is a regulation pen-knife, contributed by the\nUnited States, with the regret, Beau, that I can't 'commodate you with\na pine coffin for you to git into and git away down lower than you\never been.\"\n\n\"Yaw's a dollar,\" said Pontotoc Bibb; \"it'll do for me an' Lowndes\nCleburn, who's a poet and genius, and never has no money. This buys me\noff, Beau, for a month.\"\n\nThe gorgeous old mendicant took them all grimly and leering, and then\npounced upon the Northern man, assured by their twinkles and winks\nthat the rest expected some sport.\n\n\"And now, Right Honorable from the banks of the Susquehanna, Colonel\nReybold--you see, I got your name; I ben a layin' for you!--come down\nhandsome for the Uncle and ornament of his capital and country. What's\nyore's?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Reybold in a quiet way. \"I cannot give a man like you\nany thing, even to get rid of him.\"\n\n\"You're mean,\" said the stylish beggar, winking to the rest. \"You hate\nto put your hand down in yer pocket, mightily. I'd rather be ole Beau,\nand live on suppers at the faro banks, than love a dollar like you!\"\n\n\"I'll make it a V for Beau,\" said Pontotoc Bibb, \"if he gives him a\nrub on the raw like that another lick. Durn a mean man, Cleburn!\"\n\n\"Come down, Northerner,\" pressed the incorrigible loafer again; \"it\ndon't become a Right Honorable to be so mean with old Beau.\"\n\nThe little boy on crutches, who had been looking at this scene in a\nstate of suspense and interest for some time, here cried hotly:\n\n\"If you say Mr. Reybold is a mean man, you tell a story, you nasty\nbeggar! He often gives things to me and Joyce, my sister. He's just\ngot me work, which is the best thing to give; don't you think so,\ngentlemen?\"\n\n\"Work,\" said Lowndes Cleburn, \"is the best thing to give away, and the\nmost onhandy thing to keep. I like play the best--Beau's kind o'\nplay.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jeroboam Coffee; \"I think I prefer to make the chips fly\nout of a table more than out of a log.\"\n\n\"I like to work!\" cried the little boy, his hazel eyes shining, and\nhis poor, narrow body beating with unconscious fervor, half suspended\non his crutches, as if he were of that good descent and natural spirit\nwhich could assert itself without bashfulness in the presence of older\npeople. \"I like to work for my mother. If I was strong, like other\nlittle boys, I would make money for her, so that she shouldn't keep\nany boarders--except Mr. Reybold. Oh! she has to work a lot; but she's\nproud and won't tell anybody. All the money I get I mean to give her;\nbut I wouldn't have it if I had to beg for it like that man!\"\n\n\"O Beau,\" said Colonel Jeems Bee, \"you've cotched it now! Reybold's\neven with you. Little Crutch has cooked your goose! Crutch is right\neloquent when his wind will permit.\"\n\nThe fine old loafer looked at the boy, whom he had not previously\nnoticed, and it was observed that the last shaft had hurt his pride.\nThe boy returned his wounded look with a straight, undaunted, spirited\nglance, out of a child's nature. Mr. Reybold was impressed with\nsomething in the attitude of the two, which made him forget his own\ninterest in the controversy.\n\nBeau answered with a tone of nearly tender pacification:\n\n\"Now, my little man; come, don't be hard on the old veteran! He's\ndown, old Beau is, sence the time he owned his blooded pacer and dined\nwith the _Corps Diplomatique_; Beau's down sence then; but don't call\nthe old feller hard names. We take it back, don't we?--we take _them_\nwords back?\"\n\n\"There's a angel somewhere,\" said Lowndes Cleburn, \"even in a\nWashington bummer, which responds to a little chap on crutches with a\nclear voice. Whether the angel takes the side of the bummer or the\nlittle chap, is a p'int out of our jurisdiction. Abe, give Beau a\njulep. He seems to have been demoralized by little Crutch's last.\"\n\n\"Take them hard words back, Bub,\" whined the licensed mendicant, with\neither real or affected pain; \"it's a p'int of honor I'm a standin'\non. Do, now, little Major!\"\n\n\"I shan't!\" cried the boy. \"Go and work like me. You're big, and you\ncalled Mr. Reybold mean. Haven't you got a wife or little girl, or\nnobody to work for? You ought to work for yourself, anyhow. Oughtn't\nhe, gentlemen?\"\n\nReybold, who had slipped around by the little cripple and was holding\nhim in a caressing way from behind, looked over to Beau and was even\nmore impressed with that generally undaunted worthy's expression. It\nwas that of acute and suffering sensibility, perhaps the effervescence\nof some little remaining pride, or it might have been a twinge of the\ngout. Beau looked at the little boy, suspended there with the weak\nback and the narrow chest, and that scintillant, sincere spirit\nbeaming out with courage born in the stock he belonged to. Admiration,\nconciliation, and pain were in the ruined vagrant's eyes. Reybold felt\na sense of pity. He put his hand in his pocket and drew forth a\ndollar.\n\n\"Here, Beau,\" he said, \"I'll make an exception. You seem to have some\nfeeling. Don't mind the boy!\"\n\nIn an instant the coin was flying from his hand through the air. The\nbeggar, with a livid face and clinched cane, confronted the\nCongressman like a maniac.\n\n\"You bilk!\" he cried. \"You supper customer! I'll brain you! I had\nrather parted with my shoes at a dolly shop and gone gadding the hoof,\nwithout a doss to sleep on--a town pauper, done on the vag--than to\nhave made been scurvy in the sight of that child and deserve his words\nof shame!\"\n\nHe threw his head upon the table and burst into tears.\n\nII.--HASH.\n\nMrs. Tryphonia Basil kept a boarding-house of the usual kind on\nFour-and-a-Half Street. Male clerks--there were no female clerks in\nthe Government in 1854--to the number of half a dozen, two old bureau\nofficers, an architect's assistant, Reybold, and certain temporary\nvisitors made up the table. The landlady was the mistress; the slave\nwas Joyce.\n\nJoyce Basil was a fine-looking girl, who did not know it--a fact so\nastounding as to be fitly related only in fiction. She did not know\nit, because she had to work so hard for the boarders and her mother.\nLoving her mother with the whole of her affection, she had suffered\nall the pains and penalties of love from that repository. She was\nto-day upbraided for her want of coquetry and neatness; to-morrow, for\nproposing to desert her mother and elope with a person she had never\nthought of. The mainstay of the establishment, she was not aware of\nher usefulness. Accepting every complaint and outbreak as if she\ndeserved it, the poor girl lived at the capital a beautiful scullion,\nan unsalaried domestic, and daily forwarded the food to the table, led\nin the chamberwork, rose from bed unrested and retired with all her\nbones aching. But she was of a natural grace that hard work could not\nmake awkward; work only gave her bodily power, brawn, and form. Though\nno more than seventeen years of age, she was a superb woman, her chest\nthrown forward, her back like the torso of a _Venus de Milo_, her head\nplaced on the throat of a Minerva, and the nature of a child moulded\nin the form of a matron. Joyce Basil had black hair and eyes--very\nlong, excessive hair, that in the mornings she tied up with haste so\nimperfectly, that once Reybold had seen it drop like a cloud around\nher and nearly touch her feet. At that moment, seeing him, she\nblushed. He plead, for once, a Congressman's impudence, and without\nher objection, wound that great crown of woman's glory around her\nhead, and, as he did so, the perfection of her form and skin, and the\noverrunning health and height of the Virginia girl, struck him so\nthoroughly that he said:\n\n\"Miss Joyce, I don't wonder that Virginia is the mother of\nPresidents.\"\n\nBetween Reybold and Joyce there were already the delicate relations of\na girl who did not know that she was a woman, and a man who knew she\nwas beautiful and worthy. He was a man vigilant over himself, and the\npoverty and menial estate of Joyce Basil were already insuperable\nobstacles to marrying her, but still he was attracted by her\ninsensibility that he could ever have regarded her in that light of\nmarriage. \"Who was her father, the Judge?\" he used to reflect. The\nJudge was a favorite topic with Mrs. Basil at the table.\n\n\"Mr. Reybold,\" she would say, \"you commercial people of the Nawth\ncan't hunt, I believe. Jedge Basil is now on the mountains of Fawquear\nhunting the plova. His grandfather's estate is full of plova.\"\n\nIf, by chance, Reybold saw a look of care on Mrs. Basil's face, he\ninquired for the Judge, her husband, and found he was still shooting\non the Occequan.\n\n\"Does he never come to Washington, Mrs. Basil?\" asked Reybold one day,\nwhen his mind was very full of Joyce, the daughter.\n\n\"Not while Congress is in session,\" said Mrs. Basil. \"It's a little\ntoo much of the _oi polloi_ for the Judge. His family, you may not\nknow, Mr. Reybold, air of the Basils of King George. They married into\nthe Tayloze of Mount Snaffle. The Tayloze of Mount Snaffle have Ingin\nblood in their veins--the blood of Poky-huntus. They dropped the name\nof Taylor, which had got to be common through a want of Ingin blood,\nand spelled it with a E. It used to be Taylor, but now it's Tayloze.\"\n\nOn another occasion, at sight of Joyce Basil cooking over the fire,\nagainst whose flame her moulded arms took momentary roses upon their\nivory, Reybold said to himself: \"Surely there is something above the\ncommon in the race of this girl.\" And he asked the question of Mrs.\nBasil:\n\n\"Madame, how was the Judge, your husband, at the last advices?\"\n\n\"Hunting the snipe, Mr. Reybold. I suppose you do not have the snipe\nin the North. It is the aristocratic fowl of the Old Dominion. Its\nbill is only shorter than its legs, and it will not brown at the fire,\nto perfection, unless upon a silver spit. Ah! when the Jedge and\nmyself were young, before his land troubles overtook us, we went to\nthe springs with our own silver and carriages, Mr. Reybold.\"\n\nLooking up at Mrs. Basil, Reybold noticed a pallor and flush\nalternately, and she evaded his eye.\n\nOnce Mrs. Basil borrowed a hundred dollars from Reybold in advance of\nboard, and the table suffered in consequence.\n\n\"The Judge,\" she had explained, \"is short of taxes on his Fawquear\nlands. It's a desperate moment with him.\" Yet in two days the Judge\nwas shooting blue-winged teal at the mouth of the Accotink, and his\nentire indifference to his family set Reybold to thinking whether the\nVirginia husband and father was any thing more than a forgetful\nsavage. The boarders, however, made very merry over the absent\nunknown. If the beefsteak was tough, threats were made to send for\n\"the Judge,\" and let him try a tooth on it; if scant, it was suggested\nthat the Judge might have paid a gunning visit to the premises and\ninspected the larder. The daughter of the house kept such an even\ntemper, and was so obliging within the limitations of the\nestablishment, that many a boarder went to his department without\ncomplaint, though with an appetite only partly satisfied. The boy,\nUriel, also was the guardsman of the household, old-faced as if with\nthe responsibility of taking care of two women. Indeed, the children\nof the landlady were so well behaved and prepossessing that, compared\nwith Mrs. Basil's shabby _hauteur_ and garrulity, the legend of the\nJudge seemed to require no other foundation than offspring of such\ngood spirit and intonation.\n\nMrs. Tryphonia Basil was no respecter of persons. She kept boarders,\nshe said, as a matter of society, and to lighten the load of the\nJudge. He had very little idea that she was making a mercantile matter\nof hospitality, but, as she feelingly remarked, \"the old families are\nmisplaced in such times as these yer, when the departments are filled\nwith Dutch, Yankees, Crackers, Pore Whites, and other foreigners.\" Her\nmanner was, at periods, insolent to Mr. Reybold, who seldom protested,\nout of regard to the daughter and the little Page; he was a man of\nquite ordinary appearance, saying little, never making speeches or\nsoliciting notice, and he accepted his fare and quarters with little\nor no complaint.\n\n\"Crutch,\" he said one day to the little boy, \"did you ever see your\nfather?\"\n\n\"No, I never saw him, Mr. Reybold, but I've had letters from him.\"\n\n\"Don't he ever come to see you when you are sick?\"\n\n\"No. He wanted to come once when my back was very sick, and I laid in\nbed weeks and weeks, sir, dreaming, oh! such beautiful things. I\nthought mamma and sister and I were all with papa in that old home we\nare going to some day. He carried me up and down in his arms, and I\nfelt such rest that I never knew any thing like it, when I woke up,\nand my back began to ache again. I wouldn't let mamma send for him,\nthough, because she said he was working for us all to make our\nfortunes, and get doctors for me, and clothes and school for dear\nJoyce. So I sent him my love, and told papa to work, and he and I\nwould bring the family out all right.\"\n\n\"What did your papa seem like in that dream, my little boy?\n\n\"Oh! sir, his forehead was bright as the sun. Sometimes I see him now\nwhen I am tired at night after running all day through Congress.\"\n\nReybold's eyes were full of tears as he listened to the boy, and,\nturning aside, he saw Joyce Basil weeping also.\n\n\"My dear girl,\" he said to her, looking up significantly, \"I fear he\nwill see his great Father very soon.\"\n\nReybold had few acquaintances, and he encouraged the landlady's\ndaughter to go about with him when she could get a leisure hour or\nevening. Sometimes they took a seat at the theatre, more often at the\nold Ascension Church, and once they attended a President's reception.\nJoyce had the bearing of a well-bred lady, and the purity of thought\nof a child. She was noticed as if she had been a new and distinguished\narrival in Washington.\n\n\"Ah! Reybold,\" said Pontotoc Bibb, \"I understand, ole feller, what\nkeeps you so quiet now. You've got a wife onbeknown to the Kemittee!\nand a happy man I know you air.\"\n\nIt pleased Reybold to hear this, and deepened his interest in the\nlandlady's family. His attention to her daughter stirred Mrs. Basil's\npride and revolt together.\n\n\"My daughter, Colonel Reybold,\" she said, \"is designed for the army.\nThe Judge never writes to me but he says: 'Tryphonee, be careful that\nyou impress upon my daughter the importance of the military\nprofession. My mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother married into\nthe army, and no girl of the Basil stock shall descend to civil life\nwhile I can keep the Fawquear estates.'\"\n\n\"Madame,\" said the Congressman, \"will you permit me to make the\nsuggestion that your daughter is already a woman and needs a father's\ncare, if she is ever to receive it. I beseech you to impress this\nsubject upon the Judge. His estates cannot be more precious to his\nheart, if he is a man of honor; nay, what is better than honor, his\nduty requires him to come to the side of these children, though he be\never so constrained by business or pleasure to attend to more worldly\nconcerns.\"\n\n\"The Judge,\" exclaimed Mrs. Basil, much miffed, \"is a man of\nhereditary ijees, Colonel Reybold. He is now in pursuit of\nthe--ahem!--the Kinvas-back on his ancestral waters. If he should hear\nthat you suggested a pacific life and the grovelling associations of\nthe capital for him, he might call you out, sir!\"\n\nReybold said no more; but one evening when Mrs. Basil was absent,\ncalled across the Potomac, as happened frequently, at the summons of\nthe Judge--and on such occasions she generally requested a temporary\nloan or a slight advance of board--Reybold found Joyce Basil in the\nlittle parlor of the dwelling. She was alone and in tears, but the\nlittle boy Uriel slept before the chimney-fire on a rug, and his pale,\nthin face, catching the glow of the burning wood, looked beautified as\nReybold addressed the young woman.\n\n\"Miss Joyce,\" he said, \"our little brother works too hard. Is there\nnever to be relief for him? His poor, withered body, slung on those\ncrutches for hours and hours, racing up the aisles of the House with\nstronger pages, is wearing him out. His ambition is very interesting\nto see, but his breath is growing shorter and his strength is frailer\nevery week. Do you know what it will lead to?\"\n\n\"O my Lord!\" she said, in the negrofied phrase natural to her\nlatitude, \"I wish it was no sin to wish him dead.\"\n\n\"Tell me, my friend,\" said Reybold, \"can I do nothing to assist you\nboth? Let me understand you. Accept my sympathy and confidence. Where\nis Uriel's father? What is this mystery?\"\n\nShe did not answer.\n\n\"It is for no idle curiosity that I ask,\" he continued. \"I will appeal\nto him for his family, even at the risk of his resentment. Where is\nhe?\"\n\n\"Oh, do not ask!\" she exclaimed. \"You want me to tell you only the\ntruth. He is _there_!\"\n\nShe pointed to one of the old portraits in the room--a picture fairly\npainted by some provincial artist--and it revealed a handsome face, a\nlittle voluptuous but aristocratic, the shoulders clad in a martial\ncloak, the neck in ruffles and ruffles, also and a diamond in the\nshirt bosom. Reybold studied it with all his mind.\n\n\"Then it is no fiction,\" he said, \"that you have a living father, one\nanswering to your mother's description. Where have I seen that face?\nHas some irreparable mistake, some miserable controversy, alienated\nhim from his wife? Has he another family?\"\n\nShe answered with spirit:\n\n\"No, sir. He is my father and my brother's only. But I can tell you no\nmore.\"\n\n\"Joyce,\" he said, taking her hand, \"this is not enough. I will not\npress you to betray any secret you may possess. Keep it. But of\nyourself I must know something more. You are almost a woman. You are\nbeautiful.\"\n\nAt this he tightened his grasp, and it brought him closer to her side.\nShe made a little struggle to draw away, but it pleased him to see\nthat when the first modest opposition had been tried she sat quite\nhappily, though trembling, with his arm around her.\n\n\"Joyce,\" he continued, \"you have a double duty: one to your mother and\nthis poor invalid, whose journey toward that Father's house not made\nwith hands is swiftly hastening; another duty toward your nobler\nself--the future that is in you and your woman's heart. I tell you\nagain that you are beautiful, and the slavery to which you are\ncondemning yourself forever is an offence against the creator of such\nperfection. Do you know what it is to love?\"\n\n\"I know what it is to feel kindness,\" she answered after a time of\nsilence. \"I ought to know no more. You goodness is very dear to me. We\nnever sleep, brother and I, but we say your name together, and ask God\nto bless you.\"\n\nReybold sought in vain to suppress a confession he had resisted. The\ncontact of her form, her large dark eyes now fixed upon him in\nemotion, the birth of the conscious woman in the virgin and her\naffection still in the leashes of a slavish sacrifice, tempted him\nonward to the conquest.\n\n\"I am about to retire from Congress,\" he said. \"It is no place for me\nin times so insubstantial. There is darkness and beggary ahead for all\nyour Southern race. There is a crisis coming which will be followed by\ndesolation. The generation to which your parents belong is doomed! I\nopen my arms to you, dear girl, and offer you a home never yet\ngladdened by a wife. Accept it, and leave Washington with me and with\nyour brother. I love you wholly.\"\n\nA happy light shone in her face a moment. She was weary to the bone\nwith the day's work, and had not the strength, if she had the will, to\nprevent the Congressman drawing her to his heart. Sobbing there, she\nspoke with bitter agony:\n\n\"Heaven bless you, dear Mr. Reybold, with a wife good enough to\ndeserve you! Blessings on your generous heart. But I cannot leave\nWashington. I love another here!\"\n\nIII.--DUST.\n\nThe Lake and Bayou Committee reaped the reward of a good action.\nCrutch, the page, as they all called Uriel Basil, affected the\nsensibility of the whole committee to the extent that profanity almost\nceased there, and vulgarity became a crime in the presence of a child.\nGentle words and wishes became the rule; a glimmer of reverence and a\nthought of piety were not unknown in that little chamber.\n\n\"Dog my skin!\" said Jeems Bee, \"if I ever made a 'pintment that give\nme sech satisfaction! I feel as if I had sot a nigger free!\"\n\nThe youthful abstractionist, Lowndes Cleburn, expressed it even\nbetter. \"Crutch,\" he said, \"is like a angel reduced to his bones. Them\nair wings or pinions, that he might have flew off with, being a pair\nof crutches, keeps him here to tarry awhile in our service. But,\ngentlemen, he's not got long to stay. His crutches is growing too\nheavy for that expandin' sperit. Some day we'll look up and miss him\nthrough our tears.\"\n\nThey gave him many a present; they put a silver watch in his pocket,\nand dressed him in a jacket with gilt buttons. He had a bouquet of\nflowers to take home every day to that marvellous sister of whom he\nspoke so often; and there were times when the whole committee, seeing\nhim drop off to sleep as he often did through frail and weary nature,\nsat silently watching lest he might be wakened before his rest was\nover. But no persuasion could take him off the floor of Congress. In\nthat solemn old Hall of Representatives, under the semicircle of gray\ncolumns, he darted with agility from noon to dusk, keeping speed upon\nhis crutches with the healthiest of the pages, and racing into the\ndocument-room; and through the dark and narrow corridors of the old\nCapitol loft, where the House library was lost in twilight. Visitors\nlooked with interest and sympathy at the narrow back and body of this\ninvalid child, whose eyes were full of bright, beaming spirit. He\nsometimes nodded on the steps by the Speaker's chair; and these spells\nof dreaminess and fatigue increased as his disease advanced upon his\nwasting system. Once he did not awaken at all until adjournment. The\ngreat Congress and audience passed out, and the little fellow still\nslept, with his head against the Clerk's desk, while all the other\npages were grouped around him, and they finally bore him off to the\ncommittee-room in their arms, where, amongst the sympathetic watchers,\nwas old Beau. When Uriel opened his eyes the old mendicant was looking\ninto them.\n\n\"Ah! little Major,\" he said, \"poor Beau has been waiting for you to\ntake those bad words back. Old Beau thought it was all bob with his\nlittle cove.\"\n\n\"Beau,\" said the boy, \"I've had such a dream! I thought my dear\nfather, who is working so hard to bring me home to him, had carried me\nout on the river in a boat. We sailed through the greenest marshes,\namong white lilies, where the wild ducks were tame as they can be. All\nthe ducks were diving and diving, and they brought up long stalks of\ncelery from the water and gave them to us. Father ate all his. But\nmine turned into lilies and grew up so high that I felt myself going\nwith them, and the higher I went the more beautiful grew the birds.\nOh! let me sleep and see if it will be so again.\"\n\nThe outcast raised his gold-headed cane and hobbled up and down the\nroom with a laced handkerchief at his eyes.\n\n\"Great God!\" he exclaimed, \"another generation is going out, and here\nI stay without a stake, playing a lone hand forever and forever.\"\n\n\"Beau,\" said Reybold, \"there's hope while one can feel. Don't go away\nuntil you have a good word from our little passenger.\"\n\nThe outstretched hand of the Northern Congressman was not refused by\nthe vagrant, whose eccentric sorrow yet amused the Southern\nCommitteemen.\n\n\"Ole Beau's jib-boom of a mustache 'll put his eye out,\" said Pontotoc\nBibb, \"ef he fetches another groan like that.\"\n\n\"Beau's very shaky around the hams an' knees,\" said Box Izard; \"he's\nbeen a good figger, but even figgers can lie ef they stand up too\nlong.\"\n\nThe little boy unclosed his eyes and looked around on all those\nkindly, watching faces.\n\n\"Did anybody fire a gun?\" he said. \"Oh! no. I was only dreaming that I\nwas hunting with father, and he shot at the beautiful pheasants that\nwere making such a whirring of wings for me. It was music. When can I\nhunt with father, dear gentlemen?\"\n\nThey all felt the tread of the mighty hunter before the Lord very near\nat hand; the hunter whose name is Death.\n\n\"There are little tiny birds along the beach,\" muttered the boy. \"They\ntwitter and run into the surf and back again, and am I one of them? I\nmust be; for I feel the water cold, and yet I see you all, so kind to\nme! Don't whistle for me now; for I don't get much play, gentlemen!\nWill the Speaker turn me out if I play with the beach birds just once?\nI'm only a little boy working for my mother.\"\n\n\"Dear Uriel,\" whispered Reybold, \"here's Old Beau, to whom you once\nspoke angrily. Don't you see him?\"\n\nThe little boy's eyes came back from far-land somewhere, and he saw\nthe ruined gamester at his feet.\n\n\"Dear Beau,\" he said, \"I can't get off to go home with you. They won't\nexcuse me, and I give all my money to mother. But you go to the back\ngate. Ask for Joyce. She'll give you a nice warm meal every day. Go\nwith him, Mr. Reybold! If you ask for him it will be all right; for\nJoyce--dear Joyce!--she loves you.\"\n\nThe beach birds played again along the strand; the boy ran into the\nfoam with his companions and felt the spray once more. The Mighty\nHunter shot his bird--a little cripple that twittered the sweetest of\nthem all. Nothing moved in the solemn chamber of the committee but the\nvoice of an old forsaken man, sobbing bitterly.\n\nIV.--CAKE.\n\nThe funeral was over, and Mr. Reybold marvelled much that the Judge\nhad not put in an appearance. The whole committee had attended the\nobsequies of Crutch and acted as pall-bearers. Reybold had escorted\nthe page's sister to the Congressional cemetery, and had observed even\nOld Beau to come with a wreath of flowers and hobble to the grave and\ndeposit them there. But the Judge, remorseless in death as frivolous\nin life, never came near his mourning wife and daughter in their\nseverest sorrow. Mrs. Tryphonia Basil, seeing that this singular want\nof behavior on the Judge's part was making some ado, raised her voice\nabove the general din of meals.\n\n\"Jedge Basil,\" she exclaimed, \"has been on his Tennessee purchase.\nThese Christmas times there's no getting through the snow in the\nCumberland Gap. He's stopped off thaw to shoot the--ahem!--the wild\ntorkey--a great passion with the Jedge. His half-uncle, Gineral\nJohnson, of Awkinso, was a torkey-killer of high celebrity. He was a\nDeshay on his Maw's side. I s'pose you haven't the torkey in the Dutch\ncountry, Mr. Reybold?\"\n\n\"Madame,\" said Reybold, in a quieter moment, \"have you written to the\nJudge the fact of his son's death?\"\n\n\"Oh yes--to Fawquear.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Basil,\" continued the Congressman, \"I want you to be explicit\nwith me. Where is the Judge, your husband, at this moment?\"\n\n\"Excuse me, Colonel Reybold, this is a little of a assumption, sir.\nThe Jedge might call you out, sir, for intruding upon his incog. He's\nvery fine on his incog., you air awair.\"\n\n\"Madame,\" exclaimed Reybold straightforwardly, \"there are reasons why\nI should communicate with your husband. My term in Congress is nearly\nexpired. I might arouse your interest, if I chose, by recalling to\nyour mind the memorandum of about seven hundred dollars in which you\nare my debtor. That would be a reason for seeing your husband anywhere\nnorth of the Potomac, but I do not intend to mention it. Is he\naware--are you?--that Joyce Basil is in love with some one in this\ncity?\"\n\nMrs. Basil drew a long breath, raised both hands, and ejaculated:\n\"Well, I declaw!\"\n\n\"I have it from her own lips,\" continued Reybold. \"She told me as a\nsecret, but all my suspicions are awakened. If I can prevent it,\nmadame, that girl shall not follow the example of hundreds of her\nclass in Washington, and descend, through the boarding-house or the\nlodging quarter, to be the wife of some common and unambitious clerk,\nwhose penury she must some day sustain by her labor. I love her\nmyself, but I will never take her until I know her heart to be free.\nWho is this lover of your daughter?\"\n\nAn expression of agitation and cunning passed over Mrs. Basil's face.\n\n\"Colonel Reybold,\" she whined, \"I pity your blasted hopes. If I was a\nwidow, they should be comfoted. Alas! my daughter is in love with one\nof the Fitzchews of Fawqueeah. His parents is cousins of the Jedge,\nand attached to the military.\"\n\nThe Congressman looked disappointed, but not yet satisfied.\n\n\"Give me at once the address of your husband,\" he spoke. \"If you do\nnot, I shall ask your daughter for it, and she cannot refuse me.\"\n\nThe mistress of the boarding-house was not without alarm, but she\ndispelled it with an outbreak of anger.\n\n\"If my daughter disobeys her mother,\" she cried, \"and betrays the\nJedge's incog., she is no Basil, Colonel Reybold. The Basils repudiate\nher, and she may jine the Dutch and other foreigners at her pleasure.\"\n\n\"That is her only safety,\" exclaimed Reybold. \"I hope to break every\nstring that holds her to yonder barren honor and exhausted soil.\"\n\nHe pointed toward Virginia, and hastened away to the Capitol. All the\nway up the squalid and muddy avenue of that day he mused and wondered:\n\"Who is Fitzhugh? Is there such a person any more than a Judge Basil?\nAnd yet there _is_ a Judge, for Joyce has told me so. _She_, at least,\ncannot lie to me. At last,\" he thought, \"the dream of my happiness is\nover. Invincible in her prejudice as all these Virginians, Joyce Basil\nhas made her bed amongst the starveling First Families, and there she\nmeans to live and die. Five years hence she will have her brood around\nher. In ten years she will keep a boarding-house and borrow money. As\nher daughters grow up to the stature and grace of their mother, they\nwill be proud and poor again and breed in and out, until the race will\nperish from the earth.\"\n\nSlow to love, deeply interested, baffled but unsatisfied, Reybold made\nup his mind to cut his perplexity short by leaving the city for the\ncounty of Fauquier. As he passed down the avenue late that afternoon,\nhe turned into E Street, near the theatre, to engage a carriage for\nhis expedition. It was a street of livery-stables, gambling dens,\ndrinking houses, and worse; murders had been committed along its\nsidewalks. The more pretentious _canaille_ of the city harbored there\nto prey on the hotels close at hand and aspire to the chance\nacquaintance of gentlemen. As Reybold stood in an archway of this\nstreet, just as the evening shadows deepened above the line of sunset,\nhe saw something pass which made his heart start to his throat and\nfastened him to the spot. Veiled and walking fast, as if escaping\ndetection or pursuit, the figure of Joyce Basil flitted over the\npavement and disappeared in a door about at the middle of this\nAlsatian quarter of the capital.\n\n\"What house is that?\" he asked of a constable passing by, pointing to\nthe door she entered.\n\n\"Gambling den,\" answered the officer. \"It used to be old Phil\nPendleton's.\"\n\nReybold knew the reputation of the house: a resort for the scions of\nthe old tide-water families, where hospitality thinly veiled the\nparamount design of plunder. The connection established the truth of\nMrs. Basil's statement. Here, perhaps, already married to the\ndissipated heir of some unproductive estate, Joyce Basil's lot was\ncast forever. It might even be that she had been tempted here by some\nwretch whose villainy she knew not of. Reybold's brain took fire at\nthe thought, and he pursued the fugitive into the doorway. A negro\nsteward unfastened a slide and peeped at Reybold knocking in the hall;\nand, seeing him of respectable appearance, bowed ceremoniously as he\nlet down a chain and opened the door.\n\n\"Short cards in the front saloon,\" he said; \"supper and faro back.\nChambers on the third floor. Walk up.\"\n\nReybold only tarried a moment at the gaming tables, where the silent,\nmonotonous deal from the tin box, the lazy stroke of the markers, and\nthe transfer of ivory \"chips\" from card to card of the sweat-cloth,\nimpressed him as the dullest form of vice he had ever found. Treading\nsoftly up the stairs, he was attracted by the light of a door partly\najar, and a deep groan, as of a dying person. He peeped through the\ncrack of the door, and beheld Joyce Basil leaning over an old man,\nwhose brow she moistened with her handkerchief. \"Dear father,\" he\nheard her say, and it brought consolation to more than the sick man.\nReybold threw open the door and entered into the presence of Mrs.\nBasil and her daughter. The former arose with surprise and shame, and\ncried:\n\n\"Jedge Basil, the Dutch have hunted you down. He's here--the Yankee\ncreditor.\"\n\nJoyce Basil held up her hand in imploration, but Reybold did not heed\nthe woman's remark. He felt a weight rising from his heart, and the\nblindness of many months lifted from his eyes. The dying mortal upon\nthe bed, over whose face the blue billow of death was rolling\nrapidly, and whose eyes sought in his daughter's the promise of mercy\nfrom on high, was the mysterious parent who had never arrived--the\nJudge from Fauquier. In that old man's long waxed mustache, crimped\nhair, and threadbare finery the Congressman recognized Old Beau, the\noutcast gamester and mendicant, and the father of Joyce and Uriel\nBasil.\n\n\"Colonel Reybold,\" faltered that old wreck of manly beauty and of\npromise long departed, \"Old Beau's passing in his checks. The chant\ncoves will be telling to-morrow what they know of his life in the\npapers, but I've dropped a cold deck on 'em these twenty years. Not\none knows Old Beau, the Bloke, to be Tom Basil, cadet at West Point in\nthe last generation. I've kept nothing of my own but my children's\ngood name. My little boy never knew me to be his father. I tried to\nkeep the secret from my daughter, but her affection broke down my\ndisguises. Thank God! the old rounder's deal has run out at last. For\nhis wife he'll flash her diles no more, nor be taken on the vag.\"\n\n\"Basil,\" said Reybold, \"what trust do you leave to me in your family?\"\n\nMrs. Basil strove to interpose, but the dying man raised his voice:\n\n\"Tryphonee can go home to Fauquier. She was always welcome\nthere--without me. I was disinherited. But here, Colonel! My last drop\nof blood is in the girl. She loves you.\"\n\nA rattle arose in the sinner's throat. He made an effort, and\ntransferred his daughter's hand to the Congressman's. Not taking it\naway, she knelt with her future husband at the bedside and raised her\nvoice:\n\n\"Lord, when Thou comest into Thy kingdom, remember him!\"\n\n\n\n\nHERMAN OF BOHEMIA MANOR.\n\n(_See note at end of poem._)\n\n\nI.--THE MANOR.\n\n    \"My corn is gathered in the bins,\"\n      The Lord Augustin Herman said;\n    \"My wild swine romp in chincapins;\n    Dried are the deer and beaver skins;\n      And on Elk Mountain's languid head\n      The autumn woods are red.\n\n    \"So in my heart an autumn falls;\n      I stand a lonely tree unleaved;\n    And to my hermit manor walls\n    The wild-goose from the water calls,\n      As if to mock a man bereaved:\n      My years are nearly sheaved.\n\n    \"Go saddle me the Flemish steed\n      My brother Verlett gave to me,\n    What time his sister did concede\n    Her dainty hand to hear me plead!\n      Poor soul! she's mouldering by the sea\n      And I with misery.\"\n\n    The slave man brought the wild-maned horse\n      All wilder that with stags he grazed--\n    Bred from the seed the knightly Norse\n    Rode from Araby. Like remorse\n      The eyes in his gray forehead blazed,\n      As on his lord he gazed.\n\n    \"Now guard ye well my lands and stock;\n      Slack not the seine, ply well the axe;\n    The eagle circles o'er the flock;\n    The Indian at my gates may knock:\n      The firelock prime for his attacks;\n      I ride the sunrise tracks.\"\n\n    Swift as a wizard on a broom,\n      The strong gray horse and rider ran,\n    Adown the forest stripped of bloom.\n    By stump and bough that scarce gave room\n      To pass the woodman's caravan,\n      Rode the Bohemian.\n\n    \"Lord Herman, stay,\" the brewer cried,\n      \"And Huddy's friendly flagon clink!\"\n    And martial Hinoyossa spied\n    The horseman, moving with the tide\n      That ebbed from Appoquinimink,\n      Nor stopped to rest or drink.\n\n    \"Where rides old Herman?\" Beekman mused;\n      \"That railing wife has turned his head.\"\n    \"He keeps the saddle as he used,\n    In younger days, when he enthused\n      Three provinces,\" Pierre Alricks said,\n      \"And mapped their landscapes spread.\"\n\n    Broad rose Zuydt River as the sail\n      Above his periauger flew;\n    Loud neighed the steed to snuff the gale;\n    But Herman saw not, swift and pale,\n      Two carrier pigeons, winging true\n      North-east, across the blue.\n\n    They quit the cage of Stuyvesant's spy,\n      And lurking Willems' message bore:\n    (\"This morn rode Herman rapid by,\n    Tow'rd Amsterdam, to satisfy\n      Yet wider titles than he tore\n      From shallow Baltimore!\")\n\nII.--REPLEVIN.\n\n    The second sunset at his back\n      From Navesink Highlands threw the shade\n    Of horse and Herman, long and black,\n    Across the golden ripples' track,\n      Where with the Kills the ocean played\n      A measured serenade;\n\n    There where to sea a river ran,\n      Between tall hills of brown and sand,\n    A mountain island rose to span\n    The outlet of the Raritan,\n      And made a world on either hand,\n      Soft as a poet planned:\n\n    Fair marshes pierced with brimming creeks,\n      Where wild-fowl dived to oyster caves;\n    And shores that swung to wooded peaks,\n    Where many a falling water seeks\n      The cascade's plunge to reach the waves,\n      And greenest farmland laves:\n\n    Deep tide to every roadstead slips,\n      And many capes confuse the shore,\n    Yet none do with their forms eclipse\n    Yon ocean, made for royal ships,\n      Whose swells on silver beaches roar\n      And rock forevermore.\n\n    Old Herman gazed through lengthening shades\n      Far up the inland, where the spires,\n    Defined on rocky palisades,\n    Flung sunset from their burnished blades,\n      And with their bells in evening choirs\n      Breathed homesick men's desires:\n\n    \"New Amsterdam! 'tis thine or mine--\n      The foreground of this stately plan!\n    To me the Indian did assign\n    Totem on totem, line on line--\n      Both Staten and the groves that ran\n      Far up the Raritan.\n\n    \"By spiteful Stuyvesant long restrained,\n      Now, while the English break his power,\n    Be Achter Kill again regained\n    And Herman's title entertained,\n      Here float my banner from my tower,\n      Here is my right, my hour!\"\n\nIII.--THE SQUATTERS.\n\n    He scarce had finished, when a rush,\n      Like partridge through the stubble, broke,\n    And armed men trod down the brush;\n    A harsh voice, trembling in the hush,\n      As it must either stab or choke,\n      Imperiously spoke:\n\n    \"Ye conquered men of Achter Kill,\n      Whose farms by loyal toil ye got,\n    True Dutchmen! give this traitor will--\n    And he is yours to loose or kill--\n      All that ye have he will allot\n      Anew--field, cradle, cot.\n\n    \"Years past, beyond our Southern bounds,\n      On States' commission sent by me,\n    He mapped the English papists' grounds,\n    And like a Judas, o'er our wounds,\n      Our raiment parted openly:\n      This is the man ye see!\n\n    \"Yet followed by my sleepless age,\n      Fast as he rode my pigeons sped--\n    Straight as the ravens from their cage,\n    Straight as the arrows of my rage,\n      Straight as the meteor overhead\n      That strikes a traitor dead.\"\n\n    They bound Lord Herman fast as hate,\n      And bore him o'er to Staten Isle;\n    Behind him closed the postern gate,\n    And round him pitiless as fate,\n      Closed moat and palisade and pile:\n      \"Thou diest at morn,\" they smile.\n\nIV.--STUYVESANT.\n\n    Morn broke on lofty Staten's height,\n      O'er low Amboy and Arthur Kill;\n    And ocean dallying with the light,\n    Between the beaches leprous white,\n      And silent hook and headland hill,\n      And Stuyvesant had his will;\n\n    One-legged he stood, his sharp mustache\n      Stiff as the sword he slashed in ire;\n    His bald crown, like a calabash,\n    Fringed round with ringlets white as ash,\n      And features scorched with inner fire;\n      Age wore him like a briar.\n\n    \"Bring the Bohemian forth!\" he cried;\n      \"Old man, thy moments are but few.\"\n    \"So much the better, Dutchman! bide\n    Thy little time of aged pride,\n      Thy poor revenges to pursue--\n      Thy date is hastening, too.\n\n    \"No crime is mine, save that I sought\n      A refuge past thy jealous ken,\n    And peaceful arts to strangers taught,\n    And mine own title hither brought,\n      Before the laws of Englishmen,\n      A banished denizen.\n\n    \"Yet that thy churlish soul may plead\n      A favor to a dying foe,\n    I'll ask thee, Stuyvesant, ere I bleed,\n    Let me once more on my gray steed\n      Thrice round the timbered _enceinte_ go:\n      Fire, when I tell thee so!\"\n\n    \"What freak is this?\" quoth Stuyvesant grim.\n      Quoth Herman, \"'Twas a charger brave--\n    Like my first bride in eye and limb--\n    A wedding-gift; indulge the whim!\n      And from his back to plunge, I crave,\n      A bridegroom, in her grave.\"\n\n    Then muttered the uneasy guard:\n      \"We rob an old man of his lands,\n    And slay him. Sure his fate is hard,\n    His dying plea to disregard!\"\n      \"Ride then to death!\" Stuyvesant commands;\n      \"Unbind his horse, his hands!\"\n\nV.--THE LEAP.\n\n    The old steed darted in the fort,\n      And neighed and shook his long gray mane;\n    Then, seeing soldiery, his port\n    Grew savage. With a charger's snort,\n      Upright he reared, as young again\n      And scenting a campaign.\n\n    Hard on his nostrils Herman laid\n      An iron hand and drew him down,\n    Then, mounting in the esplanade,\n    The rude Dutch rustics stared afraid:\n      \"By Santa Claus! he needs no crown,\n      To look more proud renown!\"\n\n    Lame Stuyvesant, also, envious saw\n      How straight he sat in courteous power,\n    Like boldness sanctified by law,\n    And age gave magisterial awe;\n      Though in his last and bitter hour,\n      Of knightliness the flower.\n\n    His gray hairs o'er his cassock blew,\n      And in his peak'd hat waved a plume;\n    A horn swung loose and shining through\n    High boots of buckskin, as he drew\n      The rein, a jewel burst to bloom:\n      The signet ring of doom.\n\n    'Thrice round the fort! Then as I raise\n      This hand, aim all and murder well!'\n    His head bends low; the steed's eyes blaze,\n    But not less bright do Herman's gaze,\n      As circling round the citadel,\n      He peers for hope in hell.\n\n    Fast were the gates; no crevice showed.\n      The ramparts, spiked with palisades,\n    Grew higher as once round he rode;\n    The arquebusiers prime the load,\n      And drop to aim from ambuscades;\n      No latch, no loophole aids.\n\n    But one small hut its chimney thrust\n      Between the timbers, close as they;\n    Twice round and with a desperate trust\n    Lord Herman muttered: \"die I must:\n      _There_, CHARGE!\" and spurred through beam and clay--\n      \"By heaven! he is away!\"\n\nVI.--THE KILLS.\n\n    In clouds of dust the muskets fire,\n      And volleying oaths old Stuyvesant from:\n    \"Turn out! In yonder Kills he'll mire,\n    Or drown, unless the fiends conspire.\n      Mount! Follow! Still he must succumb--\n      That tide was never swum.\"\n\n    Through hut and chimney, down the ditch\n      And up the bank, plunge horse and man;\n    And down the Kills of bramble pitch,\n    Oft-stumbling, those old gray knees which,\n      Hunting the raccoon, led the van;\n      Now, limp yet game he ran.\n\n    But cool and supple, Herman sat,\n      His mind at work, his frame the horse's,\n    And knew with each pulsation, that\n    Past foe and fen, past crag, and flat,\n      And marsh, the steed he nearer forces\n      To the broad sea's recourses.\n\n    \"Old friend,\" he thought, \"thou art too weak\n      To try the Kills and drown, or falter,\n    The while from shore their marksmen seek\n    My heart. (Once o'er the Chesapeake\n      I paddled oarless.) Lest the halter\n      Be mine, I must not palter--\n\n    \"Thou diest, though my marriage-gift:\n      I still can swim. Poor Joost, adieu!\"\n    Ere ceased the heartfelt sigh he lift,\n    The prospect widened: all adrift,\n      The salty sluice burst into view,\n      Where grappling tides fought through,\n\n    And sucked to doom the venturous bear,\n      And from his ferry swept the rower--\n    How wide, how terrible, how fair!\n    Yet how inspiriting the air--\n      How tempts the long salt grass the mower!\n      How treacherous the shore!\n\n    Far up the right spread Newark Bay,\n      To lone Secaucus wooded rock;\n    Nor could the Kill von Kull convey\n    Passaic's mountain flood away:\n      In Arthur Kill the surges choke,\n      The wild tides interlock.\n\n    O'er Arthur Kill the Holland farms\n      Their gambril roofs, red painted, show;\n    Beyond the newer Yankee swarms--\n    His cider-presses spread their arms.\n      Before, the squatter; back, the foe;\n      And the dark waters flow.\n\n    As that salt air the stallion felt,\n      He whimpers gayly, as if still is\n    Upon his sight his native Scheldt,\n    Or Skagger Rack, or Little Belt,--\n      Their waving grass and silver lilies,\n      Where browsed the amorous fillies.\n\n    And o'er the tide some lady nags\n      Blew back his challenge. Scarce could Herman\n    Hold in his seat. \"By John of Prague's\n    True faith!\" he thought, \"thy spirit lags\n      Not, Joost! Thy course thyself determine!\"\n      And plunges like a merman.\n\n    Leander's spirit in the steed\n      Inspired his stroke, not Herman's fear;\n    And fast the island shores recede,\n    Fast rise the rider's spirits freed,\n      The golden mainland draws more near--\n      \"O gallant horse! 'tis here!\"\n\nVII.--ELUSION.\n\n    Across the Kills the muskets crack--\n      \"Ha! ha!\" Lord Herman waves his beaver:\n    \"Die of thy spleen ere I come back,\n    Old Stuyvesant!\" With a noise of wrack\n      The fort blew up of his aggriever!--\n      But not without retriever.\n\n    For from the smoke two pigeons fly,\n      One south, one westward, separating,\n    And straight as arrows crossed the sky,\n    With silent orders (\"_He must die_\n      _Who comes hereafter. Lie in waiting!_\")\n      Their snowy pinions freighting.\n\n    They warn the men of Minisink;\n      They warn the Dutchmen of Zuydt River.\n    Now speed to Jersey's farther brink,\n    Old horse, old master, ere ye shrink!--\n      Or ambushed fall ere moonrise quiver,\n      On paths where ye shall shiver.\n\n    On went the twain till past the ford\n      That red-walled Raritan led over,\n    And lonely woodland shades explored.\n    Unarmed with firelock or with sword,\n      Free-hearted rode the forest rover,\n      Of all wild kind the drover:\n\n    Fled deer and bear before his coming,\n      The wild-cat glared, the viper hissed;\n    And died the long day's insect-drumming.\n    Where things of night began their humming,\n      And witchly phantoms went to tryst,\n      Was Herman exorcist.\n\n    \"No land so tangled but my eye\n      Can map its confines and its courses;\n    Yet on life's map who can espy\n    Where hides his foe--where he shall die?\"\n      So Herman said, and his resources\n      Resigned unto his horse's.\n\n    All night the steed instinctive travelled--\n      His weary rider wept for him--\n    Through unseen gulfs the whirlwind ravelled,\n    Up moonlit beds of streamlets gravelled,\n      Till halting every bleeding limb,\n      He stands by something dim,\n\n    And will not stir till morning breaks.\n      \"What is't I see, low clustering there,\n    Beyond those broadening bays and lakes,\n    That yonder point familiar makes?--\n      Is it New Amstel, lowly fair,\n      And this the Delaware?\"\n\nVIII.--THE ECHO.\n\n    Lord Herman hugged his horse with pride;\n      He raised his horn and blew so loudly,\n    That more than echoes back replied:\n    Horns answered louder; horsemen cried,\n      And muskets banged, as if avowedly\n      On Stuyvesant's errand proudly!\n\n    \"Die, traitor; fleer! though thou 'scape\n      Our ambush on thy devil's racer,\n    Caught here upon this marshy cape,\n    Thy bones the muskrat's brood shall scrape,\n      The sturgeon suck--Death thy embracer!\"\n      So shouts each sanguine chaser.\n\n    To die in sight of Amstel's walls,\n      And gallant Joost to die beside him?--\n    O foolish blast, such fate that calls!\n    O river that the heart appalls!\n      Dear Joost may live. And _they_ bestride him?\n      \"By hell! none else shall ride him!\n\n    \"My steed, thy limbs like mine are sore!\n      Few years are left us ere the billows\n    Roll over both. Come but once more,\n    And to the bottom or the shore,\n      Bear me and thee to happy pillows,\n      Or 'neath the water willows!\"\n\n    He strokes old Joost. He bends him low.\n      He winds his horn and laughs derision.\n    One spring!--they've cleared the bog and sloe,\n    And down the ebb tide buoyant go--\n      That stately tide. So like a vision\n      Of home, to Norse and Frisian,\n\n    Where full a league spread Maas and Rhine,\n      And in the marsh the rice-birds twitter;\n    The long cranes pasture and the kine\n    Loom lofty in the misty shine\n      Of dawn and reedy islands glitter:\n      Yet death all where is bitter.\n\n    Ere out of range a volley peals,\n      But greed too great made aye a blunder.\n    His horse Lord Herman's self conceals,\n    Yet once his horse and he go under,\n      And rise again. No wound he feels.\n      They hold their fire in wonder!\n\n    Short of the mark the bullets splash:\n      \"Now drown thee, wizard! at thy pleasure,\"\n    The Dutchmen hiss through teeth they gnash.\n    He answers not; for o'er the plash\n      Of waves he hears Joost's gasping measure\n      Of breath's fast wasting treasure.\n\nIX.--PEGASUS.\n\n    The sighs when dying comrades fall,\n      Struck by the foe, are only sad;\n    They leaped the ditch and climbed the wall,\n    And shared the purpose of us all;\n      The fame they have; the joy they had:\n      \"Rest in thy tracks, brave lad!\"\n\n    But thou, poor beast! unknown to fame,\n      Whose heart is reached while ours is bounding,\n    Amidst the victory's acclaim--\n    By thee we kneel with more of shame,\n      That bore us through the fight resounding,\n      And dumbly took our wounding!\n\n    Lord Herman saw the blood drops seethe,\n      The nag's neck droop, the nostril bubble,\n    And loosed the bridle from his teeth;\n    Yet swam the old legs underneath,\n      Invincibly. The gap they double;\n      But further swim in trouble.\n\n    And lovely Nature stretched her aid,\n      Her sympathetic tow and eddy;\n    The oars of air with azure blade,\n    And silent gravities persuade\n      And waft them onward, slow and steady--\n      On duteous deeds aye ready.\n\n    High leaped the perch. The hawk screamed joy.\n      Under Joost's belly musically\n    The ripples broke. Bright clouds convoy\n    The brute that man would but destroy,\n      And all instinctive agents rally\n      Strong and medicinally.\n\n    In vain! The gurgling waters suck\n      That old life under. Herman swimming\n    Seized but the horse tail. Like a buck\n    Breasting a lake in wild woods' pluck,\n      Joost rose, the glaze his bright eyes dimming,\n      And blood his sockets brimming.\n\n    Then voices speak and women cry.\n      The treading feet find soil to stand.\n    Above them the green ramparts lie,\n    And twixt their shadows and the sky,\n      The wondering burghers crowd the strand,\n      And Herman help to land:\n\n    \"Now to Newcastle's English walls,\n      Hail, Herman! and thy matchless stud!\"\n    Joost staggers up the bank and falls,\n    And dying to his master crawls.\n      Yields up his long solicitude,\n      And spills his veins of blood.\n\n    In Herman's arms his neck is prest,\n      With martial pride his dark eye glazes;\n    He feels the hand he loves the best\n    Stroke fondly, and a chill of rest,\n      As if he rolled in pasture daisies\n      And heard in winds his praises:\n\n    \"O couldst thou speak, what wouldst thou say?\n      I who can speak am dumb before thee.\n    Thine eyes that drink Olympian day\n    Where steeds of wings thy soul convey,\n      With pride of eagles circling o'er thee:\n      Thou seest I adore thee!\n\n    \"Bound to thy starry home and her\n      Who brought me thee and left earth hollow!\n    An honored grave thy bones inter,\n    And painting shall thy fame confer,\n      Ere in thy shining track I follow,\n      Thou courser of Apollo!\"\n\nNOTE TO HERMAN OF BOHEMIA MANOR.[1]\n\nThe singular incident of this poem was published in 1862, in Rev. John\nLednum's \"Personal Rise of Methodism,\" and in the following words:\n\n\"It is said that the Dutch had him (Herman) a prisoner of war, at one\ntime, under sentence of death, in New York. A short time before he was\nto be executed, he feigned himself to be deranged in mind, and\nrequested that his horse should be brought to him in the prison. The\nhorse was brought, finely caparisoned. Herman mounted him, and seemed\nto be performing military exercises, when, on the first opportunity,\nhe bolted through one of the large windows, that was some fifteen feet\nabove ground, leaped down, swam the North River, ran his horse through\nJersey, and alighted on the bank of the Delaware, opposite Newcastle,\nand thus made his escape from death and the Dutch. This daring feat,\ntradition says, he had transferred to canvas--himself represented as\nstanding by the side of his charger, from whose nostrils the blood was\nflowing.\"--Page 277.\n\nSuch a singular and improbable story attracted great local attention,\nand in 1870, Francis Vincent, publishing his \"History of Delaware,\"\nwrote: \"The author found this incident in both Lednum and Foot, and\nhas seen a copy of this painting. It is in the possession of James R.\nOldham, Esq., of Christiana Bridge, the only male descendant of Herman\nin Delaware State. He is the seventh in descent from Augustin\nHerman.\"--Page 469.\n\nIn 1875, Rev. Charles P. Mallery, of Chesapeake City, a part of the\nBohemia Manor, wrote in the Elkton (Md.) _Democrat_ as follows:\n\"Herman resided on the Manor for more than twenty years, during which\ntime he once rode to New York on the back of his favorite horse, to\nreclaim his long-neglected possessions there. He found his land\noccupied by squatters.... They secured him, as they thought, for the\nnight; but he soon found means to escape by leaping his horse through\na forced opening, swimming the North River, and continuing his flight\nthrough New Jersey until he reached the shore opposite Newcastle,\nwhere he swam his horse across the Delaware and was safe.... Dr.\nSpotswood, of Newcastle, told me that there was a tradition in his\ntown that the horse was buried there.\" Augustin Herman made the first\ndrawing of New Amsterdam, and early maps of Maryland and New England.\nHe was the first speculator in city real estate in America.\n\n[Footnote 1: The Bohemia Manor is a tract of 18,000 acres of the best\nland on the Delaware peninsula. It was granted to Augustine Herman,\nBohemian, whose tombstone, now lying in the yard of Richard Bayard, on\nthe site of Herman's park, bears date 1661. He received the manor for\nmaking an early map of Maryland, and granted a part of the land to the\nsect of Labadists. In the course of a century it became the homestead\nof Senator Richard Bassett, heir of the last lord of the manor, and of\nhis son-in-law, Senator James A. Bayard, the first. Herman was the\nprincipal historic personage about the head of the Chesapeake, and was\nPeter Stuyvesant's diplomatist to New England as well as Maryland. The\nargument he made for the priority of the Dutch settlement on the\nDelaware was the basis of the independence of Delaware State. The\nlegend of his escape from New York is told in several local books and\nnewspapers, and it was the subject of one of his paintings, as he was\nboth draughtsman and designer. G. A. T.]\n\nIn 1876 I visited the relics of Herman on the Manor, and observed the\ntopography and foliage. I then undertook to put this legend into\nverse, but struck a short, ill-accommodating stanza, in which I\nnevertheless persevered until the tale was told. I found that Herman\nhad bought, in 1652, \"the Raritan Great Meadows and the territory\nalong the Staten Island Kills from Ompoge, or Amboy, to the Pechciesse\nCreek, and a tract on the south side of the Raritan, opposite Staten\nIsland\" (see Broadhead, page 537). It at once occurred to me to put\nthe seat of Herman's capture by squatters on this property, and to\ntake Staten Island's bold scenery as a contrast to that of the head of\nthe Chesapeake, whence Herman had ridden. He could, besides, more\nreasonably swim the Kills than the North River with a horse, as a\ngentle prelude to swimming the Delaware.\n\nOne year before buying the above property (see Broadhead's \"History of\nNew York,\" page 526), Peter Stuyvesant vindictively persecuted Herman,\nLockerman, and others, who retired to Staten Island to brood. These\nmen belonged to \"the popular party.\" I therefore had a hint to make\nStuyvesant himself the incarcerator of Herman in a fort, and the most\navailable period seemed to be subsequent to the capture of Dutch New\nYork by the English, but before the Dutch settlements on the Delaware\nwere yielded. Stuyvesant surrendered New York September 8th, 1664. It\nwas not until October 10th that Newcastle on the Delaware surrendered.\nThe theory of the poem is that Herman, hearing New York to be English,\nlike Maryland where he resided, repaired to his possessions.\nStuyvesant rallies the squatters against him and makes use of a fort\non Staten Island, not yet noticed by the English, as Herman's place of\npunishment. On Herman's escape this fort is blown up. When Herman\nreturns to Newcastle, it is no longer Dutch, but English. Four days is\nthe time of the action. The device of the carrier pigeons is possibly\nan anachronism, and also the age of Herman. I have aimed to make the\nstory reasonable, if not creditable.\n\n\n\n\nKIDNAPPED.\n\n\nA celebrated apostle of the Methodist sect, on the Eastern shore of\nMaryland, was the Rev. Titus Bates. He had been twenty-six years\nengaged in the ministry, and was now a bronzed, worn, failing man,\nconsumed by the zeal of his order, but still anxious to continue his\nwork and die at his post. Like all his tribe, he was an itinerant,\nmoving from town to town every second year--these towns being his\nplaces of abode, while his fields of labor were called \"circuits,\" and\ncomprised many houses of worship scattered through the surrounding\ndistrict. He had chosen his wife with reference to his vocation, and\nshe was equally earnest with himself. She attended the sick, prayed\nwith the dying, taught Sabbath-schools, and organized religious\nmeetings among the women. They had but one son, Paul, an odd, silent\nlittle fellow, who was thought to be more bashful than bright; but his\nparents loved him tenderly, and argued the highest usefulness from his\nstill, sober, thoughtful habits. He was of a singularly dark\ncomplexion, with fine black eyes and curling hair, and he was now old\nenough to ride to and fro with his father upon the long pastoral\njourneys.\n\nPaul's sixth birthday occurred on a raw Sunday in December. He had\nbeen promised, as a special treat on that occasion, a visit to\nHogson's Corner, an old meeting-house near the bay-side, twenty miles\ndistant. His mother woke him at an early hour, and, while he\nbreakfasted, the gray pony Bob came to the door in the \"sulky.\" His\nmother bade him to be a good boy, and kissed him; he took his seat\nupon a stool at his father's feet, and watched the stone parsonage\nfade quickly out of sight. The last houses of the town vanished; they\npassed some squalid huts of free negroes; and when, after an hour,\nthey came to a grim, solitary hill, the snow began to fall. It beat\ndown very fast, whitening the frozen furrows in the fields, making\npyramids of the charred stumps, and bleaching the sinuous\n\"worm-fences\" which bordered the road. After a while, they found a\ngate built across the way, and Paul leaped out to open it. The snow\nwas deep on the other side, and the little fellow's strength was taxed\nto push it back; but he succeeded, and his father applauded him. Then\nthere were other gates; for there were few public highways here, and\nthe routes led through private fields. It seemed that he had opened a\ngreat many gates before they came to the forest, and then Paul wrapped\nhis chilled wet feet in the thick buffalo hide, and watched the dreary\nstretches of the pines moan by, the flakes still falling, and the\nwheels of the sulky dragging in the drifts. The road was very lonely;\nhis father hummed snatches of hymns as they went, and the little boy\nshaped grotesque figures down the dim aisles of the woods, and\nwondered how it would be with travellers lost in their depths. He was\nnot sorry when they reached the meeting-house--a black old pile of\nplanks, propped upon logs, with a long shelter-roof for horses down\nthe side of the graveyard. A couple of sleighs, a rough-covered\nwagon, called a \"dearbourn,\" and several saddled horses, were tied\nbeneath the roof. Two very aged negroes were seen coming up one of the\ncross-roads, and the shining, surging Chesapeake, bearing a few pale\nsails, was visible in the other direction. Some boors were gossiping\nin the churchyard, slashing their boots with their riding-whips; one\nlean, solemn man came out to welcome the preacher, addressing him as\n\"Brother Bates;\" and another led the sulky into the wagon-shed, and\ntreated Bob to some ears of corn, which he needed very much.\n\nThen they all repaired to the church, which looked inside like a\ngreat barn. The beams and shingles were bare; some swallows in the\neaves flew and twittered at will; and a huge stove, with branching\npipes, stood in the naked aisle. The pews were hard and prim, and\noccupied by pinch-visaged people; the pulpit was a plain shelf, with\nhanging oil-lamps on either side; and over the door in the rear\nprojected a rheumatic gallery, where the black communicants were boxed\nup like criminals. A kind old woman gave Paul a ginger-cake, but his\nfather motioned him to put it in his pocket; and after he had warmed\nhis feet, he was told to sit in the pew nearest the preacher on what\nwas called the \"Amen side.\" Then the services began, the preacher\nleading the hymns, and the cracked voices of the old ladies joining in\nat the wrong places. But after a while a venerable negro in the\ngallery tuned up, and sang down the shrill swallows with natural\nmelody. The prayers were long, and broken by ejaculations from the\npews. The text was announced amid profound silence, after everybody\nhad coughed several times, and then the itinerant launched into his\nsermon. At first it was dry and argumentative, then burdened with\ndivisions and quotations, but in the end he closed the great book, and\nmade one of those fierce, feeling appeals--brimming with promises of\ngrace and threatenings of hell--in words so homely that all felt them\ntrue, while the wild, interpolated cries of the believers thrilled and\nterrified the young.\n\nLittle Paul heard with pale lips these grim, religious revelations,\nand his child's fancy conjured up awful pictures of worlds beyond the\ngrave. He wondered that the birds dared riot in the roof: the sky in\nthe gable window was full of cloudy marvels; and the snow beat under\nthe door, like a shroud blown out of one of the churchyard tombs. The\nclosing prayer was said at last, the unconverted walked away, but five\nor six communicants remained to tell their experience in the\nclass-meeting. Paul's father gave him permission to go into the yard\nif he liked, and the boy got into the sulky, beneath the buffalo, and\nheard the sobs and hymns floating dismally on the wind. Grim shapes\nthronged his mind again, wherein the Bible stories were mingled with\ntales of ghosts and strange nursery fables. They chased each other in\nand out, generating others as they went, and then came drowsiness, and\nPaul slept.\n\nThe class-meeting lasted an hour. It was very fervent and\ndemonstrative; and when it was over the kind old lady who had given\nPaul the gingerbread asked the preacher home to dinner. She said that\nroasted turkey, wild duck, and pumpkin-pie were waiting for them; and\nMr. Bates thought fondly what a treat it would be for Paul on his\nbirthday. He was to preach again that afternoon, seven miles away, and\nso moved briskly toward the sulky.\n\n\"The poor fellow is asleep,\" said the preacher, seeing that the\ncurling head was not thrust up at his approach. \"I wonder of what he\ndreams?\" He drew near as he spoke. Old Bob was munching his corn\nsedately; the sulky had a saucy air; the robe nestled in the front,\nwith the tiny stool peeping from a corner; but Paul was not there. The\npreacher called aloud; the horses raised their ears in reply, and the\nwheels crackled in the frozen crust. He called again; some\nsleigh-bells jingled merrily, and then the pines moaned. He looked\ninto the other vehicles; he watched for the little foot-tracks in the\nsnow; he ran back to the old church, and searched beneath every pew.\n\n\"Brethren--sisters,\" he cried, \"I cannot find my boy!\" and his voice was\ntremulous. They gathered round him and some said that Paul had ridden\naway with the worldly lads; others, that he was hiding mischievously.\nBut one silent bystander looked into the drifts, and traced four great\nboot-marks close to the sulky. He followed them across the road into the\npines, and out into the road again, where they were lost in the\nmultitude of impressions. \"Brother,\" he faltered, \"God give you\nstrength! your boy has been stolen--kidnapped!\"\n\nThe old man staggered, but the kind old lady caught him, and as he\nleaned upon her shoulder his face grew hard and blanched; then he\nremoved his hat, and his gray hair streamed over his gaunt features.\n\"Let us pray!\" he said.\n\nThe preacher plodded to his next appointment as if he had still a\nchild, and his sermon was as full and straightforward. He announced\nhis bereavement from the pulpit when he had done, and the whole\ncountry was alarmed and excited. He bore the tidings to his desolate\nhome, and his stricken wife heard it with a stern resignation.\nThenceforward he preached more of the burning pit, and less of the\ngolden city; his eyes were full of fierce light, and his visage grew\nlong and ghastly. He denied himself all joys and comforts; his prayers\nrang in the midnight through the gloomy parsonage; and he toiled in\nthe ministry as if reckless of life, and anxious to lose it in his\nMaster's service. The end came at last; the world closed over the grim\ncouple, and they hoped through the grave's portal to find their child.\n\nWhen Paul awoke from his nap in the sulky, he found himself far in the\nforest, and moving swiftly forward. A huge negro, with bloodshot eyes,\nwas transferring him to an evil-looking white man, and he struggled in\nthe latter's arms, crying for his papa.\n\nThe negro drew a long knife from his breast and flourished it before\nPaul's face. \"Hold um jaw, or I kill um dead!\" he muttered. \"Got um\ngrave dug out yer.\"\n\n\"O yer young yerlin!\" said the other man, boxing Paul's ears, \"yer\ndon't know yer own father, don't yer? I'm yer parpa!\"\n\n\"You are not,\" cried Paul. \"Where are you taking me? Where is the\nchurch, and the sulky, and old Bob?\"\n\nThe negro drove his knife so close to Paul's throat that the boy\nflinched and shrieked.\n\n\"You dare to say fader to anybody,\" yelled the negro, \"and I cut yo'\nheart out! You dare to tell yer name, or yer fader's name, or wha yo\ncome from, and I cut yo' eyes out! I cut yo' heart and eyes out--do\nyo' yar?\"\n\nThe lad was cowed into cold, tearless terror; he shrank from the\nglittering edge, and trembled at the giant's murderous expression. He\nthought they had brought him to this lonely spot to slay him, and he\nembraced silence as the only chance for his young life. He wondered if\nthis were not one of his wild imaginings, or if it had not something\nto do with the punishment pronounced in the morning's fierce sermon.\n\nThe two men came to a ruined cabin after awhile; it was buried in deep\nshade; the logs were worm-eaten, and the clay chimney had fallen down.\nThey climbed by a creaking ladder into the loft and laid Paul upon a\nragged bed. A young negro woman and her child were there, and the boy\nsaw that her foot was shackled to the floor, for the chain rattled as\nshe moved. They gave him a piece of beef and a corn-cake, and\nstripping him of his tidy clothes, dressed him in the coarse blue\ndrilling worn by slaves. The two men drank frequently from the same\nbottle, talking in low tones, and after a time both of them lay down\nand slept. The woman dandled her child to and fro, for it moaned\npainfully, and the pines without made a deep dirge. No birds trilled\nor screamed in this desert place, but a roaring as of loud waters was\nborne now and then on the twilight; it was the bay close below them,\nmaking thunder upon the beach.\n\nWhen Paul woke from his second sleep he was on the deck of a vessel.\nThe shore lay beneath him, and the waves heaved behind. It was night;\nthe snow-flakes still filtered through the profound darkness, and the\nwind whistled in the rigging. A red lantern moved along the beach;\nsome voices were heard speaking together, and one of them said:\n\"Don't be afraid of the boy; I have sold lots paler than him. Lick him\nsmartly if he gammons, and he'll tell no tales.\"\n\nThen they lifted the anchor aboard; the tide floated off the sloop;\nthey were soon scudding before the wind under a freezing starlight.\nTwo weary days passed over Paul, of travel by land and water. They\ncame to the city of Richmond at last, and marched him with five other\nunfortunates to the common slave-pen. It was situated in a squalid\nsuburb, surrounded by a high spiked wall, and entered by an office\nfrom which a watchman could observe the interior through two grated\ndoors. The pen consisted of a paved area open to the sky, except on\none side, where it was protected by a shelving roof, and of a jail or\nden. The latter was walled up in a corner, but its inmates could look\nout upon the area through a window in the door, and their savage\nfeatures revealed at the bars so terrified Paul that he retreated to\nthe opposite corner, afraid to look towards them. Now and then they\nhowled and blasphemed; for two were delirious from drunkenness and one\nwas desperate from rage, and as they moved like tigers to and fro,\ntheir irons clanked behind them, dragging on the stone floor. A number\nof women were huddled together beneath the roof, some as fair as Paul,\nothers as black as ebony. Some had babes at their breasts, others had\nno regard for their offspring, but sat stolidly apart while their\nchildren cried for nourishment. In the open place a bevy of the\ncoarser inmates were holding a rude dance, a large gray-haired man\npatted time or \"juber\" with his feet and hands, calling the figures\nhuskily aloud; while the women, with bright turbans tied around their\nheads, grinned and screamed with glee as they followed the measure\nwith their large, heavy shoes.\n\nTheir efforts were directed not so much to grace as to strength, for\nsome kept up the dance for a whole hour, divesting themselves of\nparcels of clothing as they proceeded, and breathing hard as if weary\nto exhaustion. The men applauded vociferously, coupling the names of\nthe performers with wild ejaculations, but subsiding when the keeper\nappeared at the door occasionally to command less noise. Remote from\nthe bacchanals crouched a serious group of negroes, who sang religious\nmelodies, quite oblivious of their wild associates; and in still\nanother quarter a humorous fellow was enlivening his constituents with\nodd sayings and stories. Paul's heart sank within him as he looked\nupon these scenes. A sense of his degradation rushed over his young\nmind, and he threw himself upon the stones with his head in his hands,\nand wept hot tears of bitterness. Henceforth he should be a creature,\na thing, a slave! He must know no ambition but indolence, no bliss but\nignorance, no rest but sleep, no hope but death! Long leagues must\ninterpose between himself and his home; he should never kiss his\nmother again, or kneel with his father in the holiness of prayer. The\nrecollections of his childhood would be crushed out by agonizing\nexperiences of bondage; he would forget his name and the face of his\nfriends, and at last preserve only the horrible consciousness that he\nwas the chattel of his master!\n\nThe uproar continued far into the night; one poor creature was\ndelivered of a child in the hazy light of the morning. Paul was too\nyoung to think much of the matter, for his own sorrows engrossed him;\nbut he often recurred, in his subsequent career, to the romance of\nthat bondwoman, and the soul which first felt the breath of life in\nthe precincts of the slave shamble. What a childhood must it have had\nto look back upon--cradled in disgrace, sung to sleep with the simple\nmelodies of grief, bred for no high purposes, but with the one\ndistinct and dreadful idea of gain--to be filched from that dusky\nbosom when its little limbs had first essayed motion, that its feeble\nlips might lisp the accents of servility. Days and weeks passed over\nPaul, but he found no opportunity to tell his story. They kept him\npurposely that he might forget it, or feel the hopelessness of\nrelating it. Other wretches came and went, till there remained none of\nthe original inmates of his prison, and he learned to mingle with his\ncoarse companions, joining sometimes in their gayety, and the high\nwalls stood forever between his dreams and the sky till the sombre\nshadows were printed upon his heart.\n\nThe boy's turn came at length. He climbed the auction block before the\ngaping multitude, and leaped to show his suppleness. They were pleased\nwith his still serious manner, the paleness of his skin, his\nthoughtful eyes, and the shining ringlets of his hair. Bids were\nbandied briskly upon him, and the auctioneer rattled glibly of the\nrare lot to be sold.\n\n\"Who owns the boy?\" cried a bystander.\n\n\"Colonel James Purnell, of the Eastern shore,\" answered the\nauctioneer. \"His mother is a likely piece that will be in the market\npresently.\"\n\nTears came to Paul's eyes, but he held down the great sob that started\nto his throat, and called lustily: \"It is a wicked story! My father is\nwhite, and my mother is white! I am not a slave, and they have stolen\nme!\"\n\nA loud, long laugh broke from the crowd, and the trader cracked a\nmerry joke, which helped the pleasantry.\n\n\"We may call that a 'white lie,'\" he said; \"but it is a peart lad, and\nthe air with which he told it is worth a cool hundred! Going at four\nhundred dollars--four hundred,\" etc.\n\nThe bidding recommenced. The article rose in esteem, and Paul was\npushed from the block into the arms of a tall, angular person, who led\nhim into the city. That afternoon he was placed in a railway carriage,\nand on the third night he was quartered in Mobile, at the dwelling of\nhis purchaser. The tall person proved to be the agent of a rich old\nlady--a childless widow--who required a handsome, active lad, to wait\nupon her person, and make a good appearance in the drawing-room.\n\nShe had many servants; but Paul was not compelled to associate with\nthem, and his duties were light, though menial. When his mistress went\nout to walk, he must carry her spaniel in his arms. He must stand\nbehind her at dinner, wielding a fly-brush of peacock's feathers. He\nmust run errands, and be equally ready to serve her whims and satisfy\nher wants. She was not harsh, but very petulant; and had Paul been\nhasty or high-tempered, his lot might have been a bitter one. On the\ncontrary, he was quiet, docile, and bashful, and he pleased her\nmarvellously. If he sometimes wept for the happy past, or felt a\nchild's strong yearning for something to love, he hid his grief from\nthose about him, and sought that consolation which the world cannot\ntake away in the simple prayers he had conned from his mother. He was\na slave, but not a negro. His pleasures were not theirs, for he had\nquick intelligence, and he shrank from their loud, lewd glee. Their\nblood had thickened through generations of bondage, and trained in the\nharness of beasts, they had become creatures of draught. His had\nrippled bright and brisk through generations of freedom, and a year\ncould not drag him to their level. He had learned to read and write,\nand it was his habit to stand at the window in his leisure moments,\nadding to his information from some pleasant book; but his mistress\nsupposed that he was looking at the pictures merely, till one day,\nentering the dining-room softly, she heard him reading aloud. He had a\nsweet, boy's voice, which somewhat pacified the anger she felt at such\npresumption in a slave; and though at first rebuking him, she\nreconsidered the matter during the evening, and bade him read to her\nfrom a new novel. Henceforward Paul gained favor, and his mistress\nfound it convenient to employ him as an amanuensis. She released him\nfrom menial duties, and gave him neat attire, and it was wonderful how\nwell these accessories became him. He was unassuming, as before,\nsubmitting with patience to his lot; and at length he became\nindispensable to Mrs. Everett. Her attachment to books of fiction\namounted to dissipation, and the part that he bore in their perusal\nfilled his warm imagination till his fancies were brighter than\nromance--they became poetry. The one great grief of his life touched\nhis whole face with a pensive melancholy, but he forebore to tell them\nhis true history again, preferring to wait for some golden moment when\nhe might be believed and emancipated.\n\nFrom the beginning Mrs. Everett's agent disliked him. Wait was a\nNorthern adventurer, cool, courageous, and ambitious, who had settled\nin the South with the resolution of becoming rich, and he had pursued\nhis purpose with steady inflexibility. He was not a bad man, but a\nbitter one, and Paul had in some sort divided Mrs. Everett's esteem\nfrom him. Previously he had been her sole and undisputed adviser, and\nas she was readily influenced, he hoped, in course of time, to be\nacceptable as her second husband. He was young and manly, and she was\ngiddy and middle-aged. Her relatives held him in contempt, but he had\nproved his courage, and they did not care to cross him. But with the\ncoming of Paul he had lost somewhat of her regard, and he had laid it\nto the boy's charge. Paul read his calm purpose in his keen eyes, and\nhe shuddered at the thought of some day falling into his relentless\nhands. He labored to conciliate his enemy, but with little effect,\nuntil one afternoon, Wait told him to obtain permission from Mrs.\nEverett and come to the office. He dictated some ambiguous letters to\nPaul, and gave him many papers to burn, meanwhile inspecting a pair of\nlong pistols which he took from a portmanteau. It was late in the\nafternoon when he had done, and then he bade Paul take the case of\npistols, slip quietly into the street, and walk straight on till he\nwas overtaken. He obeyed, not without suspicion, and when he reached\nthe city limits found the agent, to his great surprise, seated in a\ncarriage. Two other persons attended him, and one, who was bald and\nwore glasses, had a case of surgical instruments lying at his feet.\nPaul climbed to the driver's box, and they dashed along by the\nwater-side, meeting a second carriage on their way. The last rays of\nsunset were streaming over the low landscape when both carriages\nstopped, their occupants dismounted, and Wait came to the front and\nreached up his hand to Paul.\n\n\"Good-by, boy,\" he said in a tone of unwonted tenderness; \"remain here\na moment and you will see me again!\"\n\nThey filed along a dyke separating two swamps, and turning down to the\nbeach, were hidden behind a line of cypress trees. For a few moments\nPaul only heard the roar of the surf, the noise of the distant town,\nand the short breathing of the sedate negro beside him. Then there\nwere shouts, as of a person counting rapidly, and two reports so close\nthat one seemed the echo of the other. A few minutes afterward the\nagent appeared, leaning upon the arms of his attendants. He was\ndivested of coat and vest, and as he came nearer, bareheaded, Paul saw\nthat his face was colorless and working as from deadly pain. His shirt\nwas perforated close to the collar, and the blood flowing beneath had\nstained it to his waist, and dripped in a runnel from his boots. He\nfainted when he had taken his seat; and as the carriage rolled away,\nPaul looked back toward the duelling-ground, and beheld two men\nbearing upon their shoulders a stiff, straight burden, wrapped in a\ncloak.\n\nThe second carriage passed him, driven swiftly, and it seemed to emit\na chill draught upon Paul like the damp wind from a tomb; it was the\npresence of death, at whose very mention we grow cold.\n\nWait had vindicated his courage, but at the expense of his life. He\nlingered on in agony many days; and Paul so pitied him that he stole\ninto his darkened chamber and begged to do him kindnesses. The grim\nman lay implacable, waiting for death; but one night as he writhed\nwith the dew upon his forehead, Paul heard him mutter, \"My God! my\nmother!\"\n\nThe boy remembered a quaint text of Scripture: \"Save me, O God! for\nthe waters have come in unto my soul;\" and he repeated it in the\nstrong man's ear. \"Go on,\" cried Wait, rising upon his elbow; \"I have\nheard that before: tell me the rest.\"\n\n\"I have the good book here,\" replied Paul. \"I am sure it will be\npleasant to you, sir, if you will let me read.\"\n\n\"Do so, boy; I used to know it well. An old friend taught those\nstrange words to me, but I have forgotten them now.\"\n\nPaul read some soothing and beautiful Psalms, which took his\ncompanion's mind back to his native mountains, and the white spire of\nthe village church where he had worshipped with his mother. The hard\nlines melted in his face as he listened, but Paul fell upon a bitter\nverse, and the agent's conscience began to trouble him. He could not\nlook into the boy's eyes, for they seemed to rebuke him, and at last\nhe commanded Paul to stop.\n\nIt was midnight. They heard the great clock in the hall strike twelve,\nand all the household slumbered.\n\n\"Go to your mistress's room,\" said Wait; \"tell her that I must see her\n_now_--she must come at once. The morning may never come to me. Go;\nGod bless you!\"\n\nHe called Paul back when he had got to the door, and added\nfalteringly:\n\n\"My boy, do you say your prayers?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Would you mind thinking of me when you say them to-night?\"\n\n\"I do so every night, sir.\"\n\n\"Good-night!\"\n\nPaul heard the agent sobbing as he stole away; but when he knocked at\nMrs. Everett's door she answered petulantly, and at first she refused\nto rise. She had little self-denial; it would pain her to enter a\ndying chamber; and she would have left Wait to perish, had not some\nstrange passage from the romance entered her head of dead folk, with\nsecrets on their minds, haunting the living. It would be very terrible\nto be haunted, and the old woman was frightened into obedience. When\nshe returned her mind was disquieted, and she made Paul stay in her\nroom to compose her with cheerful talk. Finally she fell asleep, and\nhe hastened to the agent's chamber. It was very dark within, and he\nwaited a moment that the other might recognize him. Wait seemed to be\nin deep slumber, though Paul could not hear him breathe; but as the\nlad ventured to place his head upon the quilt, it encountered a hand\nso cold and hard that it seemed to be marble. Paul knew that he need\nno longer remember his enemy in his prayers.\n\nWhat transpired between his mistress and her agent at this dying\ninterview Paul could not surmise, but he believed that it concerned\nhimself. He perceived that Mrs. Everett treated him more considerately\nafterward; and many times, as he looked up from a long silence, he\nfound her regarding him inquisitively. She asked him strange questions\nonce, bearing upon his early life, and he was almost encouraged to\nreveal the secret of his birth; but she seemed to divine his purpose,\nand changed the theme. Something troubled her, he knew; and when he\napplied himself to conciliate and cheer her, at those moments she\nsuffered most. Had she loved the stern, ambitious man whose closed\nchamber still chilled her mansion? Was it because she was childless,\nand travelling graveward? Or did she cherish a mother's feeling for\nPaul, and wish that he was of her race, and worthy to be her son?\nToward each of these theories he inclined, favoring the last, and\nfinally he concluded that she did not love, but feared him. He had\ngrown tall and manly. An individual beauty, rather of mind than of\nface, developed in him, and his mistress had been prodigal of favors,\nso that his dress and ornaments corresponded with his person. He\nmight have ruled, rather than served in her dwelling; but content with\nthe recognition of his equality, he maintained the same modest guise,\nand his mistress felt an uneasy pride in his promotion. One day he\nfound her weeping, and when he spoke she answered bitterly:\n\n\"Paul, you have ceased to love me; you are ungrateful; you wish to be\nfree--you would leave me!\"\n\nHe responded pleasantly--for he had become familiar with such\nmoods--that he had found a new romance which he would read. It was not\na long story, but a thrilling one, and based upon the simple narrative\nof Joseph in bondage. The outline was true, the details were fabulous,\nand the old lady marvelled that a theme so trite could be so well\nembellished. He read far into the night, and she bade him leave the\nbook upon her table, that she might peruse it again.\n\n\"It is manuscript,\" he said, \"and this is the only copy.\"\n\n\"Why, Paul,\" she said, \"how came you by it?\"\n\n\"I wrote it myself.\"\n\nPaul was indeed the author, having filled in the sorrows of his hero\nfrom his own experiences. Mrs. Everett was loud in its praises; she\nwas sure that it indicated genius, and she lay awake that night\nmeditating an act of charity and of justice. She would make a free man\nof Paul, and he should find in far lands that equality which he could\nnot obtain in his own. They would journey together. He should have\nmeans and advantages, and become her protege and heir. But the strong\nself-love defeated this resolve. If Paul were not bound to her by law,\nhe might forsake her, and she could not bear to lose him, for he had\nbecome a part of her heart; but when she broached the matter, Paul\ngave his parole never to leave her without consent.\n\nHe was still a slave, with the taint of a trampled race in his blood,\nand he said nothing to Mrs. Everett of his origin. They crossed the\nseas; they dwelt in pleasant places, beneath soft skies; and Paul grew\nin knowledge. But his patron was still harassed by some deep remorse.\nShe hurried him from city to city like the fabled apostate, and at\nlength fell sick in London, on the eve of their return to America.\nPaul gleaned from her ravings in delirium the cause of her unrest.\nWait had made known to her on the night of his decease the secret of\nthe young man's origin, and had conjured her to do justice to the lad.\nHer self-love had deterred her in consummating this duty, and\nconscience had therefore tortured her. She was enabled to reach New\nYork, where she left the preacher's son the bulk of her property, and\nreceived his gratitude and forgiveness before she died.\n\nPaul was free--haunted no longer by premonitions of future suffering;\nand his first impulse was to return to the Eastern shore and discover\nhis desolate parents. His recollections of them were imperfect. He\npreserved many trifling circumstances, though more important events\nwere forgotten; but as he made his way to the old village his heart\nbeat high. There were the negro quarters, the cornfields, the twisting\nfences, and, at last, the shady stone parsonage--recollections they\nseemed of objects beheld in a foggy dream. They directed him to the\nMethodist Church--a prim, square structure in the centre of the\nvillage--a tavern on one side, a court-house and market on the other;\nand when the sexton threw open a window, the bleared light fell upon a\nmarble slab set in the wall:\n\n          \"Near this spot lie the remains of\n               REV. TITUS BATES,\n      for two years Pastor of this Congregation,\n          and of PEGGY, his Wife.\n   'They have ceased from their labors, and their\n               works do follow them.'\"\n\nPaul's hopes fell. He walked through the village friendless, and,\nimpelled by his swift-coming fancies, strolled far into the suburbs.\nA crowd was collected round a squalid negro cabin, and, less by\ninterest than by instinct, he bent his steps toward it.\n\n\"What is the matter, friend?\" he asked of a bystander.\n\n\"The boys hez scented kidnappers to this shanty,\" answered the man;\n\"and by doggy! they going to trap 'em!\"\n\nThe mob seemed to be fearfully incensed as Paul pushed close to the\nscene. There were said to be two of the man-stealers, both of whom had\nbeen very daring and successful. He heard their names called as Peter\nGettis and Dave Goule, and the opinion was expressed that the\nfirst-named would not yield without a desperate struggle. The mob was\nhot and clamorous, and while a selected committee entered the den to\nsearch it, the rest brandished clubs and knives, and yelled for\njustice and blood. Word came at length that the kidnappers were\nconcealed beneath the floor of the cabin; and at the hint, a score of\nstalwart fellows began to pull up the planks, while their associates\nformed a wide circle around, prepared to prevent escape.\n\nFinally, the cry arose: \"Here they air! This is them! Drag 'em out!\nWhoo-oop!\"\n\nThe men within the cabin rushed through the doors and windows as if\npursued, and a stalwart negro, with bloodshot eyes, almost naked, and\nflourishing a huge knife, staggered to the threshold, and glared\nfiercely round him.\n\nThe circle stood firm; some were clubbing their cudgels, others\nlifting their blades, and here and there along the line rang out the\nclick of a pistol.\n\n\"Come, Pete,\" cried one of the ringleaders; \"you're treed, Pete! Don't\nbe a fool, but give yourself in.\"\n\nThe negro gnashed his teeth, and his wild eyes glared like coals of\nfire.\n\n\"Do you give me faih-play?\" he bellowed, extending the knife.\n\n\"Yes, Pete, yes,\" answered the multitude.\n\n\"Then look heah,\" answered the wretch, drawing his knife across his\nthroat. He staggered into the air like an ox, cursing as he came. They\nparted to avoid him, and as he reached a fence, a few rods from the\ncabin, he leaned upon it, and swaying to and fro, raised his horrible\neyes to the sky.\n\nPaul recognized his ancient captor with a thrill and a silent prayer.\nVengeance had come in His own good time, and Paul felt no bitterness\ntoward the poor fellow, but prayed forgiveness for his slipping soul.\n\nThe second offender burrowed so remotely that the mob could not drag\nhim from his covert. They struck at him with knives, and hired dogs to\ncreep beneath the logs and rend him, but in vain. At length one of the\nringleaders obtained a torch, and the cabin was fired in several\nplaces. The flames spouted into the night, bursting from the small\nwindows, and the roof fell in with a crash, scattering ashes and\nred-hot coals. They could hear the shriek of the victim now, and he\nwas seen dancing among the fire-brands, for the blaze encircled him\nlike an impassable wall. He made a desperate rush at length to\noverleap the fire, and his figure, magnified by the red light, looked\ngigantic as he sprang high in the air. A dozen pistols clattered\ntogether--the man fell heavily forward, tossing up his scorched hands,\nand the frizzing, cracking timbers closed darkly above him to the\nthunder of his executioners' huzzas.\n\nPaul did not reveal himself. He left the village stealthily, and\njourneyed northward. Years afterwards a name was added to the tablet\nin the old church:\n\n           \"Here lie also the Remains of the\n                REV. PAUL BATES.\n             'He went about doing good.'\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE JUDGE'S LAST TUNE.\n\n\n    The Judge took down his fiddle,\n      And put his feet on the stove,\n    And heaved a sigh from his middle\n      That might have been fat, or love;\n    He leaned his head on the mantel,\n      And bent his ear to the strings,\n    And the tender chords awakened\n      The echoes of many things.\n\n    The Bar had enjoyed the measure,\n      The Bench and Senate had been\n    Amused at the simple pleasure\n      He drew from his violin;\n    But weary of power and duty,\n      He had laid them down with a sigh,\n    Exhausted of life the beauty,\n      And he fiddled he knew not why.\n\n    In the days when passion budded,\n      And she in the churchyard lain\n    Came over his books as he studied\n      With an exquisite pang of pain,\n    He played to his sons their mother's\n      Old favorites ere she wed;\n    Those tunes, like hundreds of others,\n      Were requiems of the dead.\n\n    They lay in the kirk's inclosure:\n      All three, in the shadows dim,\n    In a cenotaph's cynosure\n      That waited for only him,\n    Who sat with his fiddle tuning\n      On the spot where his fame was won,\n    On the empty world communing,\n      Without a wife or a son.\n\n    And he drew his bow so plaintive\n      And loud, like a human cry,\n    That the light of the shutter darkened\n      From somebody passing by.\n    A young man peeped at the pensive\n      Great man, so familiar known;\n    His features, if inoffensive,\n      Were like to the judge's own.\n\n    \"Come in,\" cried the politician--\n      \"Come not,\" his soul would have said--\n    \"Thou bringest to me a vision\n      Of a sin ere thy mother wed,\n    When I, wild boy from college,\n      Her humble desert o'ercame,\n    And we hid the guilty knowledge\n      Beneath thy father's name.\"\n\n    The youth delayed no longer,\n      His sense of music strong,\n    Nor knew of his mother's wronger,\n      Nor that she had known a wrong;\n    Deep in the grave the secret\n      Her husband might never guess.\n    He stood before his father\n      With a loyal gentleness.\n\n    \"What tune, fair boy, desirest\n      My old friend's worthy son?--\n    Say but what thou requirest,\n      And for father's sake 'tis done.\"\n    \"Oh! Judge, our State's defender,\n      Whose life has all been power,\n    Play me the tune most tender,\n      When thou felt thy greatest hour!\"\n\n    The old man thought a minute,\n      Irresolutely stirred,\n    As if his fiddle's humor\n      Changed like a mocking-bird;\n    Then, as his tears came raining\n      Upon the plaintive chords,\n    He played the invitation\n      To the sinner, of his Lord's.\n\n    \"Come, poor and needy sinners,\n      And weak and sick, and sore,\n    The patient Jesus lingers\n      To draw you through the door.\"\n    It was a tune remembered\n      From old revival nights,\n    In crowded country churches,\n      Where dimly blew the lights.\n\n    And boys grew superstitious\n      To hear the mourners wail.\n    The great man, self-degraded,\n      So sighed his contrite tale\n    In notes that failed for sobbing,\n      To feel Heaven's sentence well,\n    That took away his Isaac\n      And blessed the Ishmael.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Low in the tomb of glory\n      The old man's ashes lie--\n    Unuttered this my story,\n      Unwritten to human eye;\n    And the young man, blessed and blessing,\n      Walks over the shady town,\n    The evil passions repressing,\n      And his head bent humbly down.\n\n    Perhaps he marvels why treasure\n      Of the judge to his credit is set,\n    And an old revival measure\n      Should have been the statesman's pet.\n    But he hears the invitation,\n      And sees the streaming eyes\n    Of the old man lost to the nation,\n      And forgiven beyond the skies.\n\n\n\n\nDOMINION OVER THE FISH.\n\n\n\"A gift-book for Christmas. A poem preferred. Limited text, and\nprofuse illustration.\" What should it be?\n\nAs if by invocation, the Ancient Mariner rose before me! He stood in\nthe doorway of my office, and held me with his glittering eye. He\nlifted his skinny hand to his long gray beard, and then gravely tipped\nhis oiled hat. \"The reader for Spry, Stromboli, and Smith?\"\n\nI had that honor, and handed him a chair. He sat in it after the\nmanner of a flounder, concentrated his eye upon me like a star-fish,\nand produced a roll of manuscript with the fluttering claws of a\nlobster. Then he stirred and squirmed, like an elderly eel, looking\ndistrustfully into the vestibule. I closed the door and begged to be\ninformed of his business.\n\n\"I have a great work for you,\" he said mysteriously, proffering his\nmanuscript. As he leaned over to do this, I saw a shining something on\nthe top of his head, but the thick white hair concealed it when he\nresumed his place. The manuscript smelled as if it had contained\nmackerel, and looked as if it had come from the bottom of the sea. I\nfound, curiously enough, some fish-scales adhering to it, and its\ntitle very oddly confirmed these testimonies--\"Five Years in the Great\nDeep.\"\n\nI glanced at the author with some surprise. He was the quaintest of\nmariners, and if I had met him leagues under the sea, I should have\nthought him in his proper element. His locks were like dry sea-weed;\nhis cheeks were so swollen that they might have contained gills, but\nthis was probably tobacco. When he wiped his nose with a handkerchief\nlike a scoop-net, some shells and pebbles fell from his pocket, and\nhis ears flapped like a pair of ventrals. I remarked as he pursued the\nlost articles over the floor, that he wore a microscope strapped in a\nleathern case, and a geological hammer belted to his side. He walked\nas if habituated to swimming, and when he shrugged his shoulders I\nexpected to see a dorsal fin burst out of the back of his jacket. He\nmight have been sixty years of age, but looked much older, and behaved\nlike a well-born person, though, superficially judged, he might have\nlived in Billingsgate.\n\n\"A good title for a fiction,\" I said encouragingly.\n\n\"I never penned a line of fiction in my life,\" exclaimed my visitor\nsternly.\n\nReferring to the copy again, I saw that it purported to be the work of\n\"Rudentia Jones, Fellow of the Palaeontologic Society, Entomologist to\nthe Institute for Harmonizing the Universes, and Ruler of Subaqueous\nCreation, excepting the Finny Mammalia.\"\n\n\"Ah! I see,\" said I; \"a capital title for a satire!\"\n\n\"Life is too grave, and science too sacred,\" replied my visitor, \"for\nthe indulgence of idle banterings. The work is mine; I am its hero;\nand it is all true.\" He wore so earnest a face, and looked so directly\nand intelligently at me, that I forebore to smile. \"I have travelled\nin strange countries,\" he said; \"Nature has been bountiful in her\nrevelations to me, indeed; my experiences have been so individual,\nthat I sometimes discredit them myself. I do not complain that others\nridicule them.\"\n\nHe spoke in the manner of one devoted to his species; and an easy\ndignity, which some trace to high birth and the consciousness of\ndominion, became him very naturally. The eldest of the admirals, or\nold Neptune himself, could not have seemed more kingly; but once or\ntwice he started at a noise from the publishing-house, as if longing\nto get back to his legitimate brine. I told him to leave the\nmanuscript in my hands for a fortnight, that I might form an opinion\nas to its claims for publication.\n\n\"No!\" he said quickly. \"It is not a girl's romance, or a boy's poem,\nor the strollings of a man-errant: it is of such rare value that gold\ncannot purchase it; it is so priceless that I cannot own it myself; it\nis like the air, or the water, or the light, or the magnet--the\nproperty of all the peoples. It must not leave my sight. I must read\nit to you now!\"\n\nHe literally held me with his eye. He stood erect dilating, until he\nseemed to reach the height of a mainmast, as long and lank and brown\nas the subject of the veritable _rime_; and his ears, contracted,\nflapped like the pectorals of a flying-fish. It was uncertain whether\nhe was going to fly or swim, or seize and shake me. I believed him to\nbe either a lunatic or an apparition; but when the frenzy of the\nmoment was over, he became a very harmless, kindly, and grave old\ngentleman, who begged my pardon for transgressing decorum in the\nenthusiasm for his \"great work.\" He still smelled abominably of fish,\nbut I could not take it into my heart to be harsh with this most\npertinacious of authors.\n\nI had been but a short time in the service of Spry, Stromboli & Smith,\nand my nerves had not yet been exercised by sensitive and eccentric\nwriters. I had led a vagabond career myself, and had frequent reason,\nin my incipient literary days, to be grieved with publishers'\n\"readers;\" and when promoted to the same exalted place, I resolved to\nbe charitable, careful, and obliging--to do as I would be done by--to\ncrush no delicate Keats, to enrage no Johnson, by slight, prejudice,\nor deprecation. But to suffer the infliction of a crack-brained old\nnaturalist, repeating an interminable manuscript in my own office,\nwent beyond my best resolve! Still there was little to do. It would be\na paltry task to select a poem for illustration, and had not this\nsame Ancient Mariner suggested an admirable one?\n\n\"I can grant your request in part, Mr. Jones,\" I said at length; \"you\nmay read one hour; and if at the end of that period I do not think\nfavorably of your article, you must promise to read no further.\"\n\nThe old gentleman gave his parole at once, took a pair of great green\nspectacles from a sea-grass case, and blowing his nose again, rained\npebbles and marine shells over the whole office. When he took the\nmanuscript from my hand, I saw the shining something distinctly on the\ntop of his head; and when he sat back to read, he was a perfect copy\nof a dry old king-fish, looking through a pair of staring, glaring,\ngreen eyes. Without more ado, and in a rippling kind of voice, as of\nthe rushing of deep water, the old naturalist read the following\nintroduction to a most wonderful manuscript:\n\n\"At a very early period of my life I manifested an inclination for the\nstudy of the sciences. In my eighteenth year I submitted a theory of\ninter-stellar telegraphing to the Gymnotian Academy. It was my purpose\nto have placed the papers simultaneously before the scientific bodies\nof each of the seven planets in our constellation, but having no\ncapital, the design failed, though I was complimented thereupon by the\n'Institute for Harmonizing the Universes,' and elected a contributing\nmember of that society. For several years I petitioned annually for\noutfit and transportation to Scilly Islands,[2] on the Ecliptic\nCircle, where I purposed to develop my scheme of transferring a\nportion of our globe to the system of Orion. In this I was opposed by\nthe Palaeontologic Society, on the ground that some valuable fossils\nwere presumed to be there; and Parliament, opining that my protests\nwere subversive of the law of gravity, rejected them. A number of\nprojects, each of which, I firmly believe, would have benefited my\nkind, and facilitated correspondence between all created beings,\nterminated unfortunately, and my relatives at length placed it out of\nmy power to continue these philanthropic exertions. For some years I\nwas denied the ear of man, and in the interval my hair grew gray and\nmy body a trifle faint. But the lofty impulses of youth survived. My\nmind could not be imprisoned, and I held communication with the stars\nthrough the grating of my chamber in the still midnight. At last the\nrelief came. I had long prayed for it! My deliverer was Sirius, the\nbrightest of the celestial intelligences. He shone upon my window bars\nwith an intense concentrated light, and they reddened and melted\nbefore daybreak. I fled to Glasgow in the month of April, 184-, and\nobtained a captain's clerkship on the whaler Crimson Dragon.\n\n[Footnote 2: This group of Scilly Islands is in the South Pacific; not\noff Land's End.]\n\n\"We took in water at the Shetland Islands, and sailing north-westward,\nskirted the coast of Greenland, whence, cruising in a southerly\ndirection, we lay off Labrador, and waited for our prey. Our crew was\nfifty men, all told. Our captain had been a whaler thirty-eight years,\nand had killed five hundred and six animals or eight more than the\nrenowned Scoresby. We carried seven light-boats for actual service,\nand twenty-seven thousand feet, or more than five miles, of rope.\nThree men kept watch, day and night, in the 'crow's-nest,' at the\nmaintop; but though we beat along the whole coast, through Davis'\nStrait, and among the mighty icebergs of Baffin's Bay, we saw no\ncetaceous creatures, save twice some floundering porpoises, and thrice\na solitary grampus. With these beings I endeavored to open\ncommunication, but they made no intelligible responses. The stars also\nof this latitude failed to comprehend my signals, from which I\nconcluded that they were less intelligent than those of more temperate\nskies. But with the animalcules of the sea I obtained most gratifying\nrelations. A series of experiments with the _infusoria_ satisfied me\nthat they were not loath to an exchange of information, and finally\nthey followed the ship by myriads, so that all the waves were full of\nfire, which the sailors remarked; and fearful of being observed, I\nceased my experiments for a time.\n\n\"On the evening of the fifth Saturday of our cruise, I waited till the\nchanging of the watch; then I stole noiselessly upon deck, and\nsecreted myself behind a life-boat which hung at the side of the\nvessel. The helmsman was nodding silently upon his tiller; two seamen\nsat motionless upon the bow, and the lookout party in the crow's-nest\ntalked mutteringly of our ill-luck as they scanned the horizon. The\nNorthern Lights were pulsing like some great radiating heart, and the\nsea was alternately flame and shadow. The headlands of Labrador lay to\nthe south--bare, boundless, precipitous; and to the east a glittering\niceberg floated slowly towards us, like a palace of gold and emerald.\nThe ship rolled calmly upon the long swells, the ripples plashing in\nlow lulling monotone, and her hull and spars were reflected darkly\nbeneath me. I drew a long gray hair from my temple, and subjected it\nto a gentle friction between my palm and finger; then I pricked my\nwrist, and leaning forward, placed it against my heart: five\nblood-drops--symbols of the five types of organized creation--fell\nsimmering into the depths, and the scintillant hair, floating after\nthem, described a true spiral. In an instant the Aurora grew bright to\nblindness; there was a rush of infinite stars, and a host of beautiful\nbeings fluttered to the surface of the sea, within the shadow of the\nship! A gull darted along the water, and in the far distance I heard\nthe bellow of the huge Greenland whale. All animate nature had\nacknowledged my message; I had touched the nerve of the universes!\n\n\"'Blow me if there warn't a whale, Ben!' said one of the men in the\nmaintop.\n\n\"'My eyes! but it wor like it,' replied the other.\n\n\"Fearful of being remarked, I slipped below, a second time\ndisappointed, but with such exultant feelings that I tried in vain to\nsleep. The intimacy of species and their common language, lost in the\ndegeneracy of the first human beings, were about to be restored by me.\nConfusion had overcome the counsels of the countless things which had\ntalked and dwelt together in the past, but science was about to win\nback from sin the great secret of communication. I should translate\nthe scream of eagles and the cooing of doves; I should hear the gossip\nof my household kittens, and speak familiarly with the mighty\nhippopotami. The serpent should teach me his traditions, and the\nmultitude of mollusks should develop the mysteries of their sluggish\nvitality; nay, the plurality of worlds should be demonstrated, and\nwith the combined intelligences of all the systems, we should wrest\nthe mysteries of life, matter, and eternity from their Divine\nrepository!\n\n\"I lay awake all night revelling in these anticipations, and at dawn\nwas quite weak of body. It was now the Sabbath, and at nine o'clock\nall hands were summoned to the poop-deck for the customary worship. I\nlay upon a coil of rope, when the mate commenced to read the service,\nand a deep drowsiness came over me. The lesson was a part of the first\nchapter of Genesis--the weird history of creation. He had reached the\ntwenty-eighth verse when I dropped asleep. It could have been only an\ninstant's forgetfulness, for when I awoke he had not finished the\nreading of the same verse, but in that instant a vision had passed\nbefore me.\n\n\"A female of marvellous beauty rose from the water. I had seen the\nlong green locks, the eyes of azure, and the glossy neck--it was\nTethys, the queen of the sea-nymphs. She was begotten of humidity in\nthe remote beginning, and seemed even now cloudy and incorporeal.\nEuripius, the divinity of whirlpools, lay in the waves at her feet,\nprojecting a spectrum of spray, in an arch, above her head.\n\n\"'Man,' she said, or rather rippled, for it was like the even voice of\nwaters, 'your love of nature, the boundlessness of your kindness, the\ndaring of your speculation, the profoundness of your introspection,\nhave made you one of us. Awake, and hear our decree!'\n\n\"She melted into vapor, and disappeared. I opened my eyes. The crew\nwere grouped about the deck, the mate was reading the lesson, the\nwords which I heard were: 'Have dominion over the fish!'\n\n\"'A fall! a fall!' was shouted from the maintop. The men on watch had\ndiscovered the long-expected prey.\n\n\"'Man the boats!' cried the captain; 'all hands be spry! Where away,\nlook out?'\n\n\"'Sou'-west!' answered the crow's-nest, 'about two leagues. There must\nbe hoceans of 'em! They 'eave like water-spouts, and, lor! how they\nlobtail!'\n\n\"The seven boats were arranged in curved shape, so as to form a\nsemicircle around the animals; and the captain's, of which I took the\nhelm, formed the left tip of the crescent. We pulled steadily for a\nhalf-hour over a smooth sea, and came at length so close to our\nvictims that we could count them. Truly it was 'a fall'! A few cubs\nplayed recklessly around the surface; but there was an enormous bull,\nwhose bulk was much greater than that of the ship's hull, which came\nonce in full view, dived vertically, and beat the water with his\nterrible tail, making such billows that a storm seemed to be raging.\nThe other animals swam in the froth and foam thus developed, now\nplunging to the far depths, now shooting their huge bodies into the\nair, and falling with a splash, as of the emptying of the ocean. The\nscene was so exciting that even my wonderful discoveries passed out of\nmind. Our oars dipped noiselessly; the crews were silent; the\nharpooners stood, each in the bow of his launch, with naked weapons\nextended, waiting to strike. The first opportunity occurred to the\nlaunch on our extreme right. At the distance of twenty yards the\nexecutioner hurled his javelin full into the back of the great bull; a\nroar ensued and a frightful leap. The other creatures repeated the\nagonized cry, and they swam southward with the velocity of a ship\nunder full sail.\n\n\"'Now, lads, bend your oars!' shouted the captain through his trumpet.\nThe entire length of rope unwound directly from the reel or 'bollard'\nof the first launch, and the line of a second boat was attached\nforthwith; a third and a fourth were annexed, but the whale exhibited\nno sign of exhaustion, and dragged his pursuers like the wind. A fifth\nand a sixth line spun out. The captain's cheek grew pale, and he\nopened his clasp-knife with a curse upon his lips. There remained the\nline of our boat alone: unless the monster stopped within ten minutes,\nwe should lose every foot of the ship's cordage, and this last rope\nwould have to be severed. Tremulously a seaman attached it; it was\nwhirled out as if by a locomotive. The oars moved like light, but no\nhuman activity could approach that of our victim. He nearly swamped\nthe launch, and the friction of the bollard threatened to set it\nablaze.\n\n\"'What devil of the deep is this?' said the captain, bending forward\nwith his blade. The sailors ceased with hot faces, and stared aghast.\nI seemed to hear calling voices; I grew faint and blind. The bollard\nsnapped with a dead, dull sound; I was entangled in the stout twine,\nand tossed into the sea. Some oars were thrown overboard, that I might\nbe buoyed up. Three of the launches were turned toward me, and the\nseamen called aloud that I should keep up courage. But the line pulled\nme downward; my heart ceased to beat; I beheld with indescribable\nterror the pale surface receding, and the dark shapes of the vessels\nabove me were finally lost to view. I knew that at the first\ninhalation the brine would fill my mouth and lungs; I held my breath\nhard, and tried to pray. Down, down, down into the blue depths--a\ncycle of protracted years it seemed! My ears were stunned with\nstrange noises; my lips parted, and at length the sea rushed into my\nthroat; for an instant I seemed to strangle, but I did not perish.\n\n\"The fluid was mysteriously expelled from me. I breathed as freely of\nthe water as a moment before I had breathed of the air! A weight was\nlifted from my brain, which had before been crushing it, and my\ntemples grew suddenly cool. A spiracle had developed at the apex of my\ncranium, and I exuded water through a cavity or 'blow-hole' in the top\nof my head, like the cetacea around me!\"\n\nThe naturalist here paused and ran his hand through his hair. The\nshining something among his gray locks revealed itself as a plate of\nsilver, circular in shape, covering what had evidently been an opening\nin the skull. He looked less like a man than ever, and when,\nconsulting a glutinous old chronometer, like a jellyfish, he found\nthat his hour was passing, he begged so earnestly to be allowed to\nfinish his \"Introduction,\" that I gave him leave. A boy coming in with\ncopy so frightened him, however, that I thought he was going to turn\nupon his stomach, and swim away through the window.\n\n\"I became sensible directly of three organic changes: my heels clave\ntogether, my feet flattened, and my toes turned out, like a caudal\nfin; my integument grew thick and hard, and my blood thin and chill.\nBut these conditions being novel to me, and my fears only equalled by\nmy wonder as yet, I was paralyzed, and continued to sink. I had\ndescended about one hundred fathoms, and was experiencing a strange\noppression, as of the forcing together of my bones, when I heard a\nsonorous voice close below me say! 'If you go any deeper, you will\nsustain a pressure of twenty atmospheres, and may not get back at\nall.'\"\n\nI looked beneath, and to my horror a huge whale was coming upward with\nextended jaws. His half-human eyes were turned benignantly upon me;\nbut he was evidently in pain, and from a point in his back, where a\nbroken harpoon still remained, gouts of blood curdled upward, coloring\nthe water. His vocal power lay in his spiracle, and he said again:\n\n\"'I should have been asphyxiated in five minutes.'\n\n\"'Who is it that speaks?' I faltered. 'Leviathan, king of the sea, be\nmerciful!'\n\n\"'I am called _New England Tom_ by the creatures of the upper\nelement,' answered the whale, 'although falsely thought to be of the\nfamily of the Spermaceti; but though my exploits have recommended me\nto my species, I am not equal to the high title you have given me.\n_That_ is possessed by you and our sovereign Jonah only!'\n\n\"The conviction rushed upon me that I had, indeed, 'dominion over the\nfish'!\n\n\"'I have suffered this wound for your majesty's sake,' said the whale\nagain; 'for I had been deputed to wait in this latitude for your\narrival, and convey you to our sovereign. But though I am now in the\nthird century of my age, I can survive a dozen such prickings, and if\nI chose could shiver the Crimson Dragon with a blow of my tail, as in\n1804 I stove the Essex, and made driftwood of her spars.'\n\n\"In an instant I was seated within the mighty maw of this famous\nmonster. His jaw-bones were forty feet in length; the roof of his\nmouth was fifteen feet high, and formed of a spacious arch of\n'balleen,' or whale-bone. His crescent-shaped tail, thirty-five feet\nfrom tip to tip, swept the depths twice or thrice; and when we emerged\ninto the air, the blood spouted from his pores, and he threw cataracts\nof water through his spiracle. I saw the Crimson Dragon some miles\naway, but there were no traces of her boats. The crews of the launches\nwere fathoms deep in the ocean!\n\n\"I passed the cape of Greenland, rounded the base of Mount Hecla, and\nwas escorted to the abode of the king of the cetacea by a multitude of\nhis subjects. A submarine island, forty fathoms from the surface, had\nbeen occupied three thousand years by this venerable person. He came\nout to meet me upon the back of a mighty 'rorqual,' and a body-guard\nof four hundred picked narwhals swam before him. Fifty white whales\nsurrounded their monarch, and a host of dolphins, grampuses, and\nporpoises brought up the rear. Banners of dyed seal-skin bore his\narms--three gourds, _argent_, upon a field _vert_; and with these were\ncarried as trophies the wrecks of ships, including the identical\nshallop whence he was expelled on the voyage to Tarshish. But,\nmarvellous beyond all, the 'great fish' (falsely so translated, since\nno cetaceous creature can be denominated a _fish_) into which he was\nreceived still lived, and accompanied him. It was now the eldest of\nthe species, but very sprightly, and burdened with dignities. The\nSeer-King saluted gravely, and gave me a draught of spirits, distilled\nfrom the fronds of a rare sea-tangle. His long tenure in the deep had\nobliterated much of the similitude to man, but his memory of\nterrestrial matters was extraordinary. The weeds were wrapped about\nhis head after the manner of a crown, and he carried a sceptre of\nwalrus tusk. He told me that his original three days' experience under\nthe sea had so cooled his blood, that the suns of Nineveh parched him,\nand he had cried for cooling water. I informed him that Nineveh no\nlonger existed, at which he was gratified beyond measure; for his only\nknowledge of events happening on the earth had been derived from the\nwrecks which had sunk into his domain. I found that he was badly\ninformed upon matters of science, and he heard my theories of\nharmonizing the universes with impatience. In his days, he said, no\nsuch ideas were broached, and he was indifferent to the intellectual\ndevelopment of his subjects.\n\n\"My visit was brief, for, though the palace of Jonah had a sepulchral\ngrandeur about it--a mighty cavern beneath the waves--yet the\nglittering stalactites which studded the roof, and the cold columns of\nice supporting its halls, nearly froze me, and at length I made ready\nto depart.\n\n\"An escort of 'thrashers,' or grampuses, accompanied me. The Seer-King\nwould have detached a cohort of white whales, but the animosity of my\ntribes might have provoked combat. I left the cetacea with some\nforeboding. They were allied in some degree to man; they were capable\nof some human impressions; their blood was warm like mine; they\nbreathed with lungs; they had double hearts; and nourished kindness\nfor their offspring. But I was now about to be delivered over to the\ncold, cruel, gluttonous tribes of the fish. The family of sharks\nreceived me. They could not be counted for multitude. The terrible\n_requiem_ of the storm--the cannibal white shark--welcomed me with\nopen jaws; the blue shark flung up his caudal for joy; the fox-shark\nlashed the sea; the northern shark glared through his purblind orbs;\nthe hammer-head dilated his yellow irides; the purple dog-fish made a\nlow purring huzza; and the spotted eyes of the monk-fish glistened\nwith satisfaction. The hound-shark, the basking-shark, and the\nport-beagle were not less loyal; and these, the most perfectly\norganized of my cartilaginous tribes, handed me over to the\ndeep-swimming Norwegian 'sea-rat.' Thus I kept steadily southward, the\nwater growing warmer hour by hour, now riding on the serrated snouts\nof saw-fishes, now moving in the midst of battalions of sword-fish,\nnow acknowledged by the great pike, now vaulting above the surface on\nthe backs of flying-fish, now clinging to the spines of sturgeons, now\npassing through illimitable shoals of cod, now borne by the swift\nsea-salmon, now dazzled by the golden scales of the carp, now passing\nover miles of flat-fish, now hailed by monster conger-eels, now\nswimming down files of leering hippocampuses, now received by\ncongregations of staid aldermanic lobsters. The torpedo telegraphed my\ncoming to the tribes before, and at last I reached my abode, on the\nline of the equator, in mid-Atlantic.\n\n\"The magnitude and beauty of my court no mind can realize. A truncated\ncone of granitic rock, whose base extended to the profoundest depths\nof the sea--even to the region of perpetual fire--formed with its\nupper plane a circular lagoon at the surface of the ocean. Geysers or\nvolcanoes of fresh water gurgled up through the centre of this palace,\nand vast submarine groves, intermixed with meadows, extended for\nleagues along its sides. My household consisted entirely of silver and\ngolden carp, but my guards were of the loyal and gentle, yet\ncourageous and powerful xiphias (sword-fish). These barred the\nunlicensed ingress of my subjects, and if the adventurous foot of man\nshould profane my lagoon, I could close its inlet and cover it with\nfloods. The dim aisles of the waters were full of wonderful lights:\ncombinations of colors, unknown above, were here developed in gigantic\n_fuci_, around whose boles the scarlet tangle climbed, and parasites\nof purple and emerald played upon their rinds. Some of these forests\npointed upward toward the sun; some grew downward, deriving light and\nheat from the incandescent gulfs. My state apartments were built of\ncoral, in wondrous architecture, and trumpet-weed clothed their\nbattlements. Some cavernous recesses were lit with constellations of\nshining zoophytes, and there were floors of pearl, studded with\ndiamonds. I could stroll through marvellous arch-ways, gathering\njewels at every step, or wander in my royal meadows, among the wrecks\nand spoils of hurricanes; or rising through the mellow depths, sit\namong the palms of the lagoon, watching the white sails of ships or\nstudying the awfulness of the storm.\n\n\"For a time I secluded myself, theorizing upon the policy of my\ngovernment. My dominions were vast and venerable; they comprehended\ntwo thirds of the surface of the globe; no deluges had destroyed them,\nand they had been peopled ages before the coming of man. Life here\ninhabited forms, vegetable and animal, to which the greatest\nterrestrials were puny. But the darkness which of old rested on the\nface of the deep, now shadowed its depths. There was no _mind_ here.\nThese gigantic beings were shapes without souls. How should I reason\nwith creatures who could not feel, whose heads could not know till\nto-morrow that their members had been severed to-day--some of whom, in\na single moment, passed their whole existences, and fulfilled all the\nfunctions of eating, drinking, and generating--who were not only\nincapable of thoughts, affections, and emotions, but who could not\nsee, smell, hear, taste, or touch? But such subjects are among the\nafflictions of all wise rulers, and I resolved to conclude upon\nnothing till I had visited every part of my dominions.\n\n\"During three years of travel I classified the fishes anew, all\nprevious enumeration being paltry, and made the notes and queries\nwhich form the staple of my manuscript. I found fresh-water creatures\nto which the sheat-fish would be a morsel, and hydras to which the\nfabled sea-serpent would be a worm. I ascended the rivers with the\nsalmon, and fathomed the motives of the climbing-perch. I heard the\nnarrative of a _siluris_ tossed out of a volcano, and talked with a\nhaddock which produced at a birth more young than there are men upon\nthe globe. I have noted the harlequin-angler, which lived three weeks\nin Amsterdam, hopping about on his fins like a toad; the sucking-fish\nwhich adhered to Marc Antony's galley and held it fast; the\nhorned-fish (_fil en dos_) which the savages discard from their nets\nin terror and prayer; and the sprats which rise with vapors into the\nclouds, and are rained back into the sea. I have collected the\ntraditions of many of these beings, and have translated some of their\nballads. There is music under the ocean; but most of the fishes sing\nwith their fins, beating the water to rude measures. Among the\ntraditions of all the tribes is that of a time when the waters were\npeaceful and the fishes happy, when none were rapacious, when death\nwas unknown, when no storms lashed the ripples into billows, and when\nbeings of the upper air bathed at the surface, and the fishes rendered\nthem homage. But some foul deed of which the finny folk were guiltless\nbrought confusion into the waters; the ocean covered all the globe,\ncorpses sank into the depths and were devoured, nets were let down\nfrom above, strange fires were kindled beneath, and whirlpools,\nwater-spouts, storms, and volcanoes began.\n\n\"I devoted a fourth year to perfecting my system of organic\ncommunication, and made some advance toward developing life in\ninorganic matter. From this latter attainment it would be but a step\nto _perpetuate_ life, and I should thus restore immortality to man.\nBut the shark family having threatened to revolt, I left off my\ninvestigations for some months, and organized a military force, with\nwhich I massacred the malcontents till my subjects swam in blood.\nReturning victoriously at the head of my legions, a sad incident\noccurred. A ship was crossing our line of march, and I had an\nunaccountable curiosity to hear something of terrestrial affairs. Five\nsawfish, at my bidding, staved in the ship's bottom, and she sank\nalmost instantly. The corpses of the drowned drifted slowly down, and\nas I passed among them, turning up the faces, I recognized in one the\nfeatures of my mother!\n\n\"After a season of remorse I continued my investigations, but a novel\nand unexpected discovery deranged my plans, and wrought a change in my\ndestiny.\n\n\"The subtlest forms of matter, as commonly known, are the\nimponderables--light, heat, magnetism, and electricity. I had\nconcluded that these were manifestations of some still subtler form,\nand that this was _life_, beyond which lay the ethereal elements\n(called _principles_) of mind and soul--soul being ultimate and\neternal. To demonstrate this I resolved to descend as far as possible\ninto the depths of the sea, and examine the beings which dwelt in the\nremotest darkness. The conical shape of my island allowed me to\ndescend within its shelving interior, and yet sustain no great\natmospheric pressure. I selected a sturgeon, whose body was so\npowerfully plated that he could not be crushed, and his long-pointed\nshape gave him great facility for penetrating dense waters. I attached\na phosphorescent light to his caudal, that I might not lose him in the\ngloom, and he preceded me along the sloping interior. We passed the\nfoundations of my court, bade adieu to the deep-swimming hydras, left\nthe profoundest polypi behind, and came at length to uninhabited\nregions, three thousand fathoms below the surface. My pioneer here\nsuffered great inconvenience, and only by the most vigorous efforts\nwas able to progress at all. The blackness was literally tangible, and\nour lantern, at most, only 'darkness visible.' By threat and\npersuasion I forced him forward, hardly able to make headway myself.\nHe swept the almost solid element with his powerful tail, depressed\nhis sharp snout, sucked a long breath, and we darted forward\nsimultaneously. There was a cracking as of bones forced together, and\nmy cranium seemed to split. We shot out of the density into lighter\nwater, and the momentum carried us fifty fathoms beyond!\n\n\"We had passed out of the limit of solar attraction, and were being\ndrawn toward the centre of the earth!\n\n\"Before, we had been descending; now, we were rising. The fluid grew\nrarer and warmer as we proceeded, the darkness more luminous, and at\nlast we became visible to each other, swimming in a ruby and\ntransparent liquid, unlike any aspect or part of our native domain.\nThe fluid became so rare finally, that the sturgeon was unable to go\nfarther, kept down by his superior gravity. Some lights glimmering\nabove us, and some mysterious sounds alarming him, he turned and fled.\nI was left alone.\n\n\"I reached the surface of this peaceful sea. A scene lay before me\nmore beautiful than any wonder of the deep. I knew that I was among\nimmortals, and that this was 'Happy Archipelago'!\n\n\"The surface was calm. Some purple islets were sprinkled here and\nthere, and creatures marvellously fair were basking in the roseate\nwaters. They looked like angels half way out of heaven. Their faces\nwere of a silvery hue; their hairs shone on the stream like tremulous\nbeams of light; their eyes were of a tender azure, and their bosoms\nrose and fell as if they were all dreaming of blessedness. Some\nstrains of ravishing harmony that were floating among the islands\nceased when I appeared, and I thought I heard the snapping of a\nlute-string. All the spirits started at once. They were\ncrescent-shaped, and stood upon their nether tips. A star upon their\nforeheads shone like a pure diamond. They saw me and vanished!\n\n\"All but one! She was the fairest of the spirits, and looked, thus\nfrightened, like the pale new moon. The violet veins faded from her\nlids, and her blue eyes were full of wonder. I felt as if, for the\nfirst time, a sinless being had looked upon me, and my heart grew so\nblack and heavy that I sank a little way. I feared to breathe, for she\nmight vanish. I wished to lie forever with her face shining upon me.\nWhat were science, and dominion, and the secret of man's immortality\nto one pure glance like hers? In the agony of my soul I spoke:\n'Spirit! Immortal! Woman! O stay! Speak to me!'\n\n\"'Who are you? Whence do you come? You are not of us, nor of our\nelement.'\n\n\"The voice was like a disembodied sound, coming from nothing, floating\nin space eternally.\n\n\"'I am a creature of a cursed race--ruler of a blighted domain--a\nrealm filled with violence: it lies beneath you.'\n\n\"The pale face grew tender; the star on the forehead grew dim, like a\ntearful eye. She pitied me.\n\n\"'There are beings above us,' she said, 'winged beings, that talk with\nus sometimes; but nothing below. Are _they_ sorrowful as you are? Are\ntheir brows all heavy with sadness like yours? Why are they unhappy?'\n\n\"I wept and moaned.\n\n\"'They have not your pure eyes; they cannot hear your voice. They have\nsinned.'\n\n\"She glided toward me. I felt my gray hairs dropping one by one; my\nheavy heart grew light; my groans softened to sighs.\n\n\"A shape came suddenly between us.\n\n\"I knew the long green locks, and the glossy neck. It was Tethys who\nspoke. 'Man,' she said, 'you were made one of us, not one of these. Go\nback to your domain, for you are mortal. Resume dominion over the\nfish, or, striving to win more, lose all!'\n\n\"I turned my face seaward bitterly. I looked back once; the blue eyes\nwere gleaming--oh, so tenderly!--and I could not go. I muttered an\nexecration at my bitter fate. Straightway the sky rocked, the sea\nrose, the pale star vanished. I had spoken a wicked word.\n\n\"I was consigned to Euripius, the divinity of whirlpools. In vain I\nstruggled in his watery arms; the swift current bore me circling away,\nand finally whirled me with frightful velocity. My feet were shaken\nasunder, my integument softened, my brain reeled. I was passed from\neddy to eddy; I became drunken with emotion; I suffered all the\ntortures of the lost. A waterspout lifted me from the clutch of the\nsea, and deposited me upon the dry land, close to the home of my\ninfancy.\n\n\"I have passed the weary hours of my penance in arranging the memoirs\nwhich follow. Science has again wooed me with her allurements; the\nstars continue their correspondence. I have not despaired of the great\nsecret of immortality; and though these hairs are few and white, I\nshall be rejuvenated in the tranquil depths of the water, and reassert\nfor ages my rightful dominion over the fish!\"\n\nI was in doubt whether to laugh or wonder when the Ancient Mariner\nconcluded; but I was relieved from passing judgment upon his article\nby the unceremonious entrance of a tall, lithe, gray-eyed person, who\nwore gold seals and carried a thick walking-stick. The naturalist\nappeared to be bent on diving through the floor, and swimming away\nthrough the cellar; but he caught the stern, keen eye of the stranger\nand cowered. The tall man lifted his cane, and struck the manuscript\nout of his Highness's hands; he demolished the microscope at a blow,\nand flung the geological hammer out of the window.\n\n\"Come along,\" he said. \"No! drop that trash--every article of it, or\nelse you'll be experimenting again. Come along!\"\n\nThey went away together, leaving my office littered with broken glass\nand sea-shells. With some astonishment I followed through the\nwarehouse to the street; they had entered a carriage and were driving\nrapidly away. The next morning's paper explained the whole occurrence\nin the following paragraph:\n\n\"_Much Learning hath made him mad._--Yesterday noon an elderly lunatic,\nnamed Robert Jones, committed suicide by leaping over the parapet of\nLondon Bridge. He was in the custody at the time of Dr. Stretveskit, the\ncelebrated keeper of the Asylum for Monomaniacs. He had been at large\nsome days, and was traced to several publishing-houses, whither he had\ngone to contrive the publication of some insane vagaries. He was finally\noverhauled at the office of Spry, Stromboli & Co., and placed in a\ncarriage; but seizing a favorable moment when travel was impeded upon\nthe bridge, he burst through the glass door and cleared the parapet at a\nbound. Jones was an adventurous and dangerous character. Some years ago\nhe set fire to the Shrimpshire Asylum, where his family had confined\nhim, and went abroad upon a whale-ship; but meeting with an accident, he\nunderwent the process of trepanning and came home more crazy than\nbefore. At one time he attempted to drown his mother, in furtherance of\nsome strange experiment; but it was thought at the date of his death\nthat he was recovering his wits. Among his delusions was a strange\none--that he had been made viceroy over all the fishes. His body has not\nbeen recovered.\"\n\nI read the last sentence with a thrill. My late visitor might even now\nbe presiding at some finny council; and as I should have occasion to\ncross the sea some day, an untimely shipwreck might place me in closer\nrelations with him. I determined, therefore, to print the manuscript\nwhich remained in my hands. May it appease his Mightiness, the King of\nthe Fishes!\n\n\n\n\nTHE CIRCUIT PREACHER.\n\n\n    His thin wife's cheek grows pinched and pale with anxiousness intense;\n    He sees the brethren's prayerful eyes o'er all the conference;\n    He hears the Bishop slowly call the long \"Appointment\" rolls,\n    Where in His vineyard God would place these gatherers of souls.\n\n    Apart, austere, the knot of grim Presiding Elders sit;\n    He wonders if some city \"Charge\" may not for him have writ?\n    Certes! could they his sermon hear on Paul and Luke awreck,\n    Then had his talent ne'er been hid on Annomessix Neck!\n\n    Poor rugged heart, be still a pause, and you, worn wife, be meek!\n    Two years of banishment they read far down the Chesapeake!\n    Though Brother Bates, less eloquent, by Wilmington is wooed,\n    The Lord that counts the sparrows fall shall feed His little brood.\n\n    \"Cheer up! my girl, here Brother Riggs our circuit knows 'twill please.\n    He raised three hundred dollars there, besides the marriage fees.\n    What! tears from us who preached the word these thirty years or so?\n    Two years on barren Chincoteague, and two in Tuckahoe?\n\n    \"The schools are good, the brethren say, and our Church holds the wheel;\n    The Presbyterians lost their house; the Baptists lost their zeal.\n    The parsonage is clean and dry; the town has friendly folk,--\n    Not half so dull as Murderkill, nor proud like Pocomoke.\n\n    \"Oh! Thy just will, our Lord, be done, though these eight seasons more,\n    We see our ague-crippled boys pine on the Eastern Shore,\n    While we, Thy stewards, journey out our dedicated years\n    Midst foresters of Nanticoke, or heathen of Tangiers!\n\n    \"Yea! some must serve on God's frontiers, and I shall fail, perforce,\n    To sow upon some better ground my most select discourse;\n    At Sassafras, or Smyrna, preach my argument on 'Drink,'\n    My series on the Pentateuch, at Appoquinimink.\n\n    \"Gray am I, brethren, in the work, though tough to bear my part;\n    It is these drooping little ones that sometimes wring my heart,\n    And cheat me with the vain conceit the cleverness is mine\n    To fill the churches of the Elk, and pass the Brandywine.\n\n    \"These hairs were brown, when, full of hope, ent'ring these holy lists,\n    Proud of my Order as a knight--the shouting Methodists--\n    I made the pine woods ring with hymns, with prayer the night-winds shook,\n    And preached from Assawaman Light far north as Bombay Hook.\n\n    \"My nag was gray, my gig was new; fast went the sandy miles;\n    The eldest Trustees gave me praise, the fairest sisters smiles;\n    Still I recall how Elder Smith of Worten Heights averred.\n    My Apostolic Parallels the best he ever heard.\n\n    \"All winter long I rode the snows, rejoicing on my way;\n    At midnight our revival hymns rolled o'er the sobbing bay;\n    Three Sabbath sermons, every week, should tire a man of brass--\n    And still our fervent membership must have their extra class!\n\n    \"Aggressive with the zeal of youth, in many a warm requite\n    I terrified Immersionists, and scourged the Millerite;\n    But larger, tenderer charities such vain debates supplant,\n    When the dear wife, saved by my zeal, loved the Itinerant.\n\n    \"No cooing dove of storms afeard, she shared my life's distress,\n    A singing Miriam, alway, in God's poor wilderness;\n    The wretched at her footstep smiled, the frivolous were still;\n    A bright path marked her pilgrimage, from Blackbird to Snowhill.\n\n    \"A new face in the parsonage, at church a double pride!--\n    Like the Madonna and her babe they filled the 'Amen-side'--\n    Crouched at my feet in the old gig, my boy, so fair and frank,\n    Naswongo's darkest marshes cheered, and sluices of Choptank.\n\n    \"My cloth drew close; too fruitful love my fruitless life outran;\n    The townfolk marvelled, when we moved, at such a caravan!\n    I wonder not my lads grew wild, when, bright, without the door\n    Spread the ripe, luring, wanton world--and we, within, so poor!\n\n    \"For, down the silent cypress aisles came shapes even me to scout,\n    Mocking the lean flanks of my mare, my boy's patched roundabout,\n    And saying: 'Have these starveling boors, thy congregation, souls,\n    That on their dull heads Heaven and thou pour forth such living coals?\n\n    \"Then prayer brought hopes, half secular, like seers by Endor's witch:\n    Beyond our barren Maryland God's folks were wise and rich;\n    Where climbing spires and easy pews showed how the preacher thrived,\n    And all old brethren paid their rents, and many young ones wived!\n\n    \"I saw the ships Henlopen pass with chaplains fat and sleek;\n    From Bishopshead with fancy's sails I crossed the Chesapeake;\n    In velvet pulpits of the North said my best sermons o'er--\n    And that on Paul to Patmos driven, drew tears in Baltimore.\n\n    \"Well! well! my brethren, it is true we should not preach for pelf--\n    (I would my sermon on Saint Paul the Bishop heard himself!)\n    But this crushed wife--these boys--these hairs! they cut me to the core;\n    Is it not hard, year after year, to ride the Eastern Shore?\n\n    \"Next year? Yes, yes, I thank you much! Then my reward may fall!\n    (That is a downright fair discourse on Patmos and St. Paul!)\n    So Brother Riggs, once more my voice shall ring in the old lists,\n    Cheer up, sick heart, who would not die among these Methodists?\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE BIG IDIOT.\n\n\n\"Sister, thy boy is a big idiot--a very big idiot!\" said Gerrit Van\nSwearingen, the Schout of New Amstel. Then the Schout struck his long\nofficial staff on the ground, and went off in a grand manner to\nfrighten debtors.\n\nThe Widow Cloos made no reply, but dropped a couple of tears as she\nsaw her son, Nanking, shrink away before his uncle's frown and roll\nhis head in deprecation of such language.\n\n\"My mother,\" he whispered, \"won't the big wild turkeys fly away with\nmy uncle Gerrit if he calls me such dreadful names?\"\n\n\"Nanking,\" said the widow, kissing the big idiot, \"your uncle is a\nvery great man. I don't know what is greater, unless it is an admiral,\nor a stadtholder, or maybe a king!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" conceded Nanking, \"he is a dreadfully great man. He puts\ndrunken Indians in the stocks and ties mighty smugglers up to the\nwhipping-pump. But Saint Nicholas will punish him if he calls me an\nidiot.\"\n\n\"Ah! Nanking,\" replied the widow, \"nothing can curb your\nuncle--neither the valiant Captain Hinoyossa, nor the puissant\ndirector of every thing, great Beeckman, nor hardly Pietrus Stuyvesant\nhimself.\"\n\n\"I know who can frighten him,\" exclaimed the big idiot. \"Santa Claus!\nHe's bigger than a schout. Mother, his whip-lash can reach clear over\nNew Amstel--isn't it so? How many deers and ponies does he drive? Will\nhe bring me any thing this year?\"\n\n\"My poor son!\" said the poor mother, \"we are so far from Holland and\nso very humble here, that Saint Nicholas may forget us this year; but\nGod will watch over us!\"\n\nNanking could hardly comprehend this astonishing statement: that Saint\nNicholas could ever forget little boys anywhere. So he went out by the\nriver to think about it. There were three or four Swedish boys out\nthere rolling marbles and playing at jack-stones. They did not like to\nplay with Dutch boys, but Nanking was only a big idiot, and they did\nnot harbor malice against him.\n\n\"_He! Zoo!_\" they cried; \"wilt thou play?\"\n\n\"Yes, directly. But tell me, Peter Stalcop, and you, Paul Mink, do the\nvery poorest little boys in Sweden get nothing on Christmas?\"\n\n\"_Ah, Zon der tuijfel!_ without doubt,\" cried the boys. \"Old Knecht\nClobes, your Santa Claus, is a bad man. That is why he gave the Dutch\nour country here. And in Sweden, too, he turns people to wolves, and\nbrothers and sisters tear each other to pieces.\"\n\n\"But not in Holland,\" exclaimed Nanking. \"There he gives the strong\nboys skates and the weak boys Canary wine. He brought, one time, long\nago, three murdered boys to life, so that they could eat goose for\nChristmas dinner. And three poor maidens, whose lovers would not take\nthem because they had no marriage portions, found gold on the\nwindow-sill to get them husbands.\"\n\n\"_Foei! Fus!_ You're lied to, Nanking! There is no good Christmas in\nthis land.\"\n\nNanking said they were very wicked to doubt true and good things. He\nbelieved every thing, and particularly every thing pleasant. His\nmother, whose house was on the river bank, looked out with a fond\nsadness as she heard him playing, his heart amongst the little boys,\nalthough he was so big.\n\n\"_Ach! helas!_\" she said to herself, \"what will become of my dear\nman-lamb? He is simple and fatherless, poor and confiding. Thank God,\nat least he is not a woman!\"\n\nThe Widow Cloos had come but recently from Holland, sent out by\ncharity at the instance of her brother, Van Swearingen, the schout or\nbailiff of New Amstel colony. Her son, who was almost a man in years,\nhad been kept in the Orphan House at Amsterdam until his growth made\nhim a misplaced object there, and his feeble intellect forbade that he\nshould become a soldier, and die, like his father, in the Dutch\nbattles. So the Widow Cloos brought Nanking out in the ship Mill, to\nthe city of Amsterdam's own colony on the banks of the South River,\nwhich the English called the Delaware. They came in a starving time,\nwhen the crops were drenched out by rains and all the people and the\nsoldiery of the fort were down with bilious and scarlet fever. The\nwidow was just getting over a long attack of this illness, and her\nbrother, the schout, regarded the innocent Nanking as the cause of her\npoverty.\n\n\"Thou hadst better drown him,\" said the hard official; \"he'll eat all\nthy substance or give the remainder away, for he believes every thing\nand everybody.\"\n\n\"O brother!\" pleaded the widow, \"if he did not believe something, how\nsad would he be! All the children love him, and he is company for\nthem.\"\n\nIt was an odd sight to see Nanking down with the boys, as big as the\nfather of any of them, playing as gently as the littlest. He rode them\npig-a-back on his broad shoulders; they liked to see him light his\npipe and smoke without getting sick. He worked for his mother,\ncarrying water and catching fish, and was the only person in New\nAmstel (or Newcastle) who could go out into the woods fearlessly among\nthe Minquas Indians; for the Indians all believed that feeble-minded\npeople were the Great Spirit's especial friends, and saw beyond the\nboundaries of this world into that better heaven where shad ran all\nthe year in the celestial rivers, and the oysters walked upon the\nland to be eaten. Nanking believed all this, too. It was his confiding\nnature which made him useless for worldly business. Hobgoblins and\ngenii, charms and saints, and whatever he had heard in earnest, he\nheld in earnest to be true.\n\n\"Dear me!\" thought Nanking, when he was done playing marbles, \"can't I\nbe of use to somebody? Perhaps if I could do something useful my uncle\nwould not think me a big idiot. Then, besides, little Elsje Alrichs\nmight let me be her sweetheart and carry her doll!\"\n\nElsje was the daughter of Peter Alrichs, the late great director's\nson, whose father slept in the graveyard of the little log church on\nSand Hook, beside Dominie Welius, the holy psalm-tune leader. Nanking\nbelieved that when the weathercock on the church tingled in the wind,\nit was Dominie Welius in the grave striking his tuning-fork to catch\nthe key-note. Peter Alrichs inherited the well-cleared farm of his\npapa, and had the best estate in all New Amstel except Gerrit Van\nSwearingen, who was accused of getting rich by smuggling, peculating,\nand slave-catching. Little Elsje liked Nanking, but her father too,\nsaid he was a big idiot. So Nanking had a hard time.\n\n\"Elsje,\" cried Nanking one day, \"don't tell anybody if I give you a\nsecret.\"\n\n\"No, big sweetheart!\"\n\n\"I'm going to catch a stork!\"\n\n\"We don't have storks in New Netherlands, Nanking.\"\n\n\"That's just where I'm going to be smart,\" exclaimed Nanking. \"Because\nthere are no storks here I'm going to catch one. Then uncle Gerrit\ncannot call me a big idiot.\"\n\nElsje gave Nanking her doll to hold. He sat there as big as a soldier,\nand handled the doll tenderly; for he believed it to be alive as much\nas she did, and she was a little girl.\n\n\"In Holland,\" said Nanking, \"there is a stork on every happy chimney.\nThe farmers put a wagon-wheel on the chimney-top, and along comes your\nstork and his family, and they build a nest on the wagon-wheel. There\nit is, Elsje, all twigs and grass, warm as pie, heated by the\nchimney-fire, and such a squawking you never heard. It keeps the devil\naway! The old stork sits up on one long straight leg, and with the\nother foot he hands the worms around to the family. I used to sit down\nand watch them by the hour in that other Amstel where ours gets its\nname.\"\n\n\"By the great city of Amsterdam?\" asked Elsje.\n\n\"That's it. In Amstel, the suburb of Amsterdam, where you can see such\nbeautiful ships from all parts of the world. If I get a stork for our\nchimney may I hold your doll another day?\"\n\n\"Yes, Nanking, and I'll give you a kiss.\"\n\nNanking told his mother next day that he was going to the woods, and\nnot to cry if he did not return at dark. The Widow Cloos kissed him,\nand saw him go happily up the street.\n\n\"_Om licht en donker!_\" she moaned. \"Between the hawk and the buzzard!\nPoor, simple son! The Indians may kill him, but here he will only get\nhis uncle's curse!\"\n\nNanking walked out through the little settlement of log and brick, and\npast the court-house, where the stocks and whipping-post were always\nstanding. He saw his uncle Van Swearingen's smart dwelling, with its\nend to the street and notched gables, and many panes in its glazed\nwindows, and two front doors, and large iron figures in front, telling\nthe date his uncle built it. A little way off was the fine residence\nof Peter Alrichs, with a balcony on the roof where the family sat of\nevenings, smoking their pipes and seeing starlight come out on the\nriver and the flag drop at sunset from Fort Casimir; or hearing the\nroll of drums as they changed the guard or fired a gun to overhaul a\nvessel.\n\n\"If I get a stork and bring it back,\" thought Nanking, \"won't I\nastonish this town? It'll be proclaimed, I expect, in a public manner,\nthat Nanking Cloos is no longer the big idiot.\"\n\nThe woods closed round New Amstel not very far from the houses, and\nonly an Indian path led on through the strong timber or marshy copse.\nNanking was unarmed and not afraid. He walked until long after sun-up,\nand waded the headwater swamps of Christine Kill, until he saw before\nhim the hills of Chisopecke rise blue and wooded, and there he knew\nthe Minquas kept their fort. But the Minquas had no storks. He turned\nthe first and second of these hills and then crossed the range and\ndescended to the rain-washed country on the other side, where, amid\nthe low sparse pines on the lonely barrens, he could walk more\nreadily, guided south-westward by the proceeding sun. The fierce\nSusquehannocks dwelt beyond the next high range, and Nanking had heard\nfrom other Indians that they only had some storks. Fierce Indians they\nwere, but all Indians had been good to Nanking; so he advanced right\nmerrily, and at the crossing of the second river snaked a fish out of\nthe water with his line and made a fire with his flint and punk-wood\nto cook it. When he had finished his meal he looked up and was\nsurrounded by Indians.\n\nThey were fierce, grave Indians, armed with spears and bows. Although\nthey looked angry, Nanking wiped his mouth on his ragged sleeve and\nsaluted them all kindly--shaking hands. He perceived that they formed\naround him closely, in front and rear, but he was not suspicious on\nthis account. The Indians marched him over a long range of very high\nhills and stopped at a place where, through the timber, could be seen\na noble bay.\n\n\"It is Chisopecke Bay,\" cried Nanking gladly, \"and there, they say,\nare storks and plentiful geese. I suppose, when we come to a proper\nplace, these Indians will ask me what I want.\"\n\nThe Indians turned down from the bay-view, backward, by another trail,\nand entered a very rocky glen, where rocks as big as the houses of New\nAmstel were strewn all over the country-side. Following downward, by a\ndangerous way like stair-steps, they entered at length a small shady\namphitheatre, where a waterfall plunged down a gorge and foamed and\nthundered. Nanking fairly danced with delight.\n\n\"Oh!\" he exclaimed, \"I have seen paintings of cascades in Holland, but\nnothing like this. My mother and Elsje must come here.\"\n\nThe Indians, now present in great numbers, looked at Nanking dancing\nand laughing with the greatest wonder, but still they were far from\naffable. After a while they began to sit around in a large circle and\nsing a doleful sort of tune. Then two Indians produced a long piece of\ngrapevine and tied one end of it to a tree and the other end around\nNanking's wrists, which were fastened together behind his back. A fire\nhad already been lighted at the foot of the tree, and the coals were\nnow strewn over the ground.\n\n\"_Hond mold!_ Keep courage!\" thought Nanking. \"It is only some kind of\nplay or game. How can I get a stork from them unless I play with\nthem?\"\n\nBut the Indians still sung their doleful tune and did not laugh a bit.\nThe month was December, and the fire, at first grateful, grew\nunreasonably warm. At last Nanking trod on a hot coal, which burnt his\nold shoe through, and raised a blister on his heel.\n\n\"Such a game as this I never learned in Amsterdam or New Amstel,\"\nthought Nanking, laughing good-naturedly; \"I guess I will cut it short\nby riding one of their boys pig-a-back.\"\n\nSo he picked out a young Indian with his roving eye, one perhaps\nsixteen years old, and, darting upon him, lifted the Indian boy up in\npowerful arms and carried him around the fiery circle. The young brave\nstruggled in vain. Nanking clinched his big fingers around the Indian\nand dandled him like a baby. The effect upon the Indians in the\ncircle was exciting; they seized their spears, stopped their singing,\nand rushed upon their guest with apparent or assumed fury.\n\n\"_Ha! herfe!_\" cried Nanking, \"I have changed the monotony of this\ngame, anyhow!\"\n\nAt this moment an old Indian woman, the mother of the boy whom Nanking\nhad desired to amuse, threw herself between the upraised spears and\nthe laughing widow's son. She shouted something very earnestly, and\nthen stretched herself at Nanking's feet. All the other Indians also\nflung themselves down in fear or revulsion of feeling, and some\ncrawled in another minute to where the burning coals were strewn over\nthe sward, and with their fingers or with tree-boughs returned these\ncoals to the fire, while others quenched the fire itself with water\nfrom the torrent. Nanking had never lost his temper. He put the young\nIndian down and kissed him, and shook hands with one after another,\nwho only rose as he approached them with a kind countenance. They\nunbound his hands and overwhelmed him with attentions and professions,\nand placed their fingers on their foreheads significantly, still\nlooking at him.\n\n\"Well,\" exclaimed Nanking, \"I hope they also don't take me for a big\nidiot! No, they do not. It is only a part of the queer game.\"\n\nIt was now growing late in the day, and Nanking wanted some food. The\nSusquehannocks produced nuts, venison, fish, hominy, and succotash.\nTheir formerly savage countenances beamed confidence and\nconsideration. Nanking expressed his wishes by signs. He wanted a\ngreat, long-legged, long-winged bird, a stork, to carry back alive to\nNew Amstel. The Indian chiefs conferred, and finally replied, by signs\nand assurances, that they had such a bird, but that it would take two\nwhole days to procure one.\n\n\"Very well,\" thought Nanking, \"I may as well stay here until I get it,\nand not return home like a fool. My mother will trust in God, if not\nin Saint Nicholas, and I trust in both. Elsje will not forget me at\nany time!\"\n\nAll the next day Nanking played ball and bandy with the Susquehannock\nboys, and taught them jack-stones and how to make a shuttlecock. They\nput eagle's feathers in his hair, and the old men adopted him into\ntheir tribe. On the third day the absent Indians returned with a\nstork. It was a white stork with a red bill and plenty of stork's\nneck, but short legs. Nanking doubted if it could stand on one leg on\nthe top of a chimney and feed worms around to the young stork family,\nbut he felt very proud and happy. The whole tribe seemed to have\nassembled to see Nanking go away. He had become the friend of all the\nboys and women and the _protege_ of the tall warriors. They placed his\nstork in a canoe, and in a second canoe following it were a couple of\nlarge deers freshly killed, which he was to take to his mother as the\ngift of the fierce Susquehannocks. Amid the cheers and adieus of the\nnation the two canoes pushed off and, entering the broad bay, paddled\nup a river under the side of a bar of blue mountains, until the river\ndwindled to a mere creek, and finally its navigation ceased\naltogether. By signs upon the head of the dead stag, indicating a\nlarger deer, Nanking knew they were at the \"Head-of-Elk\" River. His\nfierce friends left him here with many professions of apology and\nesteem, and soon after they departed Swedes and Minquas appeared, who\nhad observed the hostile canoes from their lookout stations on the\nneighboring hills. These also welcomed Nanking, being already well\nacquainted with him, and taking up his venison proceeded through the\nwoods toward New Amstel. He carried the live stork himself--a rough\nbird, which would not yield to blandishments or good treatment. After\na very fatiguing journey and four days' absence from home, Nanking\nentered New Amstel in the dead of night.\n\n\"To-morrow,\" he thought, \"I shall be repaid for all this. They will\nsay, 'Nanking Cloos is the smartest man in the colony of New Amstel.'\nPerhaps I shall be a burgomaster, and eat terrapin stewed in Canary\nwine!\"\n\nNanking was up betimes, looking at the chimneys on his mother's\ndwelling, of which there were two, and both were the largest chimneys\nin New Amstel. The Widow Cloos lived in a huge log building with brick\nends, long and rather low, which had been built by the commissary of\nthe colony at the expense of the city of Amsterdam as a magazine of\nfood and supply for her colonists; but after several years of\nunprofitable experiment with the colony, it was resolved to give no\nmore provisions away, and the director, great Captain Hinoyossa, when\nVan Swearingen became the schout, allowed the latter's sister to\ninhabit one end of the warehouse, and that the farthest end from the\nwater. The rest was uninhabited, and Nanking, looking at the chimney\nwhich surmounted the river gable, said to himself:\n\n\"That will never do for my stork, as there is no fire lighted there. I\nnever saw smoke from that chimney in my life. The stork requires a\nnest where there is heat, and plenty of it.\"\n\nHe therefore prepared to climb to the chimney on the land-side and\nestablish a nest. There was a broken cart-wheel in the warehouse,\nwhich Nanking procured and drew to the roof, and when daylight broke\nupon the town the earliest loungers and fishermen saw the happy\nsimpleton working like a chimney-sweep, as they thought, except that\ninstead of brushing he was piling brush around the chimney on the\ncart-wheel. His mother came out and looked joy to see him back; the\nsoldiers strolled down from the fort and the boys and women from the\ntown. Uncle Van Swearingen was there, smiting the ground with his\nshodden staff, and ejaculating, \"_Foei! weg! fychaam u!_ Fie! leave\noff! fie on you! What absurdity is this on the property of our\n_hoofstad_, our metropolis?\"\n\n\"Never mind, uncle!\" answered the beaming Nanking. \"I have been a\ngreat man in the last few days. I have lived among the fierce\nSusquehannocks. Presently you shall see something that you shall see!\"\n\nPeter Alrichs also came down to the quay with his pretty daughter, who\ncould no longer keep her secret. \"Good Nanking,\" she whispered, \"is\nbuilding a nest for a real stork. He has found one, just like the dear\ncreatures in Holland!\"\n\nThe news was presently dispersed, and all felt an interest, until\nfinally Nanking produced his stork.\n\n\"It is like a stork, indeed!\" uttered Peter Alrichs; \"'tis big as one,\ntoo, but its wings are all white!\"\n\n\"'Tis a stork, _yah, op myne eer_! Upon my honor, it is!\" muttered\nuncle Van Swearingen.\n\n\"Nanking is not an idiot, papa!\" said Elsje, overjoyed.\n\nThe widow was delighted at the enterprise of her son.\n\nWhen Nanking had carried the great bird to the nest he made a little\nspeech:\n\n\"Worshipful masters and good people all, I have been at great pains to\nget this stork, not for my own gratification entirely, though there\nare some here I expect to please particularly. (He looked at Elsje and\nhis mother.) This stork will pick up the offal and eat it, and we\nshall have no more bad fevers here for want of a good scavenger. By\nand by he will bring more storks, and they will multiply; and every\nhouse, however humble, shall have its own stork family to ornament the\nchimney-top and remind us of our dear native land. I have done all\nthis good with the hope of being useful, and now I hope nobody will\ncall me wicked names any more.\"\n\nNanking cut the fastenings on the bird and set it on the new-made\nnest. In a minute the stork stood up on its short legs, poked its\nbeautiful head and neck into the air, and with its wings struck\nNanking so heavy a blow that it knocked him off the roof of the house,\nbut happily the fall did not hurt him. As he arose the huge bird was\nspreading its wings for flight. Before Nanking could climb the ladder\nagain, it was sailing through the air, magnificent as a ship, toward\nits winter pastures on the bay of Chisopecke.\n\n\"_He! Zoo!_\" exclaimed the soldiers.\n\n\"_Foei! weg!_\" cried the fishermen.\n\nOnly three persons said \"_Ach! helas!_\"--the Widow Cloos, pretty\nElsje, and Nanking.\n\n\"Thy stork is a savage bird!\" cried Peter Alrichs. \"The English on the\nChisopecke name it a _swan_!\"\n\nNanking burst into tears. His uncle struck the ground with his\nschout's staff, swore dreadfully, and shouted to the Widow Cloos:\n\n\"Sister, thy boy is nothing but a big idiot. Thou hadst better drown\nhim, as I told thee!\"\n\nNothing could equal the mortification of Nanking. He thought he would\ndie of grief. He was now known to be more of an idiot than ever, and\nthe fickle Miss Elsje would not let him hold her doll for a whole\nweek.\n\n\"My poor son,\" entreated the widow, \"do not pine and lose courage! The\nvenison will feed us half the winter. You can help me smoke it and dry\nit. Do not give up your sweet simple faith, my boy! As long as you\nkeep that we are rich!\"\n\nThe next day Schout Van Swearingen, the great dignitary, came in and\nsaid to Nanking: \"As you are a big idiot and good for nothing else, I\nwill give you an office. Even there you will be a failure, for you are\ntoo simple to steal any thing.\"\n\nNanking's mother was happy to hear this, and to see her son in a\nlinsey-woolsey coat with large brass buttons, and six pairs of\nbreeches--the gift of the city of Amsterdam--stride up the streets of\nNew Amstel, with copper buckles in his shoes and his hair tied in an\neel-skin queue. The schout, his uncle, who was sheriff and chief of\npolice in one, marched him up to the jail and presented him with a\nbeautiful plaything--a handle of wood with nine leather whip-lashes\nupon the end of it. \"Your duties will be light,\" said the schout.\n\"Every man you flog will give your mother a fee. Come here with me and\nbegin your labors!\"\n\nIn the open space before the jail and _stadt huys_ were a pair of\nstocks and a whipping-post. Nanking's uncle released a rough but\nlight-built man, who had been sitting in the stocks, and taking off\nthe man's jacket and shirt, fastened him to the post by his wrists.\n\n\"Give this culprit fifty lashes, well laid on!\" ordered the schout.\n\nNanking turned pale. \"Must I whip him? What has he been doing that he\nis wicked?\"\n\n\"Smuggling!\" exclaimed Schout Van Swearingen. \"He has taken advantage\nof the free port of New Amstel to smuggle to the Swedes of Altona and\nNew Gottenburg, and the English of Maryland. Mark his back well!\"\n\nThe sailor, as he seemed to be, looked at Nanking without fear. \"Come,\nearn your money,\" he said.\n\n\"Uncle,\" cried Nanking, throwing down the whip, \"how can I whip this\nman who never injured me? Do not all the people smuggle in New Amstel?\nWas it not to stop that which brought the mighty Director Stuyvesant\nhither with the great schout of New Amsterdam, worshipful Peter\nTonneman? Yes, uncle, I have heard the people say so, and that you\nhave smuggled yourself ever since your superior, the glorious Captain\nHinoyossa, sailed to Europe.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" exclaimed the bold smuggler. \"Van Swearingen, _dat is voor u_!\nThat is for you!\"\n\n\"_Vore God_!\" exclaimed the schout; \"am I exposed and mocked by this\nidiot?\"\n\nHe took up the whip and beat Nanking so hard that the strong young man\nhad to disarm his uncle of the instrument. Then, stripped of his fine\nclothes and restored to his rags, Nanking was returned with contempt\nto his mother's house.\n\n\"Mother!\" he cried, throwing himself upon the floor, \"am I an idiot\nbecause I cannot hurt others? No, I will be a fool, but not\nwhip-master!\"\n\nThe shrewd Peter Alrichs came to the widow's abode and asked to see\nNanking. He brought with him the worshipful Beeckman, lord of all\nSouth River, except New Amstel's little territory, which reached from\nChristine Hill to Bombay Hook. They both put long questions to\nNanking, and he showed them his burnt heel, still scarred by the\nfagots of the Susquehannocks.\n\n\"_Ik houd dat voor waar!_ I believe it is true,\" they said to each\nother. \"They were burning him at the stake and he did not know it.\nYes, his feeble mind saved him!\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" protested Nanking. \"It was because I thought no evil of\nanybody.\"\n\n\"Hearken, Nanking!\" said Peter Alrichs, very soberly. \"And you, Mother\nCloos, come hither too. This boy can make our fortunes if we can make\nhim fully comprehend us.\"\n\n\"Yah, mynheers!\"\n\n\"He can return in safety to the land of the Susquehannocks, where no\nother Dutchman can go and live. Thence, down the great river of rocks\nand rapids, come all the valuable furs. Of these we Dutch on South\nRiver receive altogether only ten thousand a year. Nanking must take\nsome rum and bright cloth to his friends, the chiefs, and make them\npromise to send no more furs to the English of Chisopecke, but bring\nthem to Head-of-Elk. There we will make a treaty, and Nanking and\nthee, widow, shall have part of our profits.\"\n\n\"_Zeer wel!_\" cried Nanking. \"That is very well. But Elsje, may I\nmarry her, too?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Peter Alrichs, smiling, \"you can come to see her\nsometimes and carry her doll.\"\n\n\"Good enough!\" cried Nanking, overjoyed.\n\nBefore Nanking started on his trip, the sailor-man he had refused to\nwhip walked into his mother's house.\n\n\"Widow Cloos, no doubt,\" he said, bowing. \"Madame, I owe your son a\nservice. Here are three petticoats and a pair of blue stockings with\nred clocks; for I see that your ankles still have a fine turn to\nthem.\"\n\nThe widow courtesied low; for she had not received a compliment in\nseven years.\n\nNanking now began to show his leg also, as modestly as possible.\n\n\"Ah! Nanking,\" cried the sailor, \"I have a piece of good Holland stuff\nfor you to make you shirts and underclothes. 'Tis a pity so good a boy\nhas not a rich father; ha! widow?\"\n\nThe widow stooped very low again, but had the art to show her ankle to\nthe best advantage, though she blushed. She said it was very lonely\nfor her in the New World.\n\n\"Now, Widow Cloos,\" continued the sailor, \"I am Ffob Oothout, at your\nservice! I am a mariner. Some years ago, when Jacob Alrichs was our\ndirector, I helped to build this great warehouse with my own hands.\nThey were good men, then, in charge of New Amstel's government.\nThieves and jealous rogues have succeeded them. Would you think it,\nthey suspect even me, and ordered Nanking to whip me with the cat! But\nfor Nanking I should have a bloody back at this minute, and you would\nbe wiping the brine out of it for me, I do not doubt!\"\n\nNanking had gone out meantime, seeing that he was to get no\nclock-stockings.\n\n\"Widow, come hither,\" said the sailor. \"Do you know I like this big\nbarn of a warehouse. It is my handicraft, you know, and that attaches\nme to it. Well, you say nothing to anybody, and let me sleep in the\nriver end. In a little while the noble veteran, Alexander D'Hinoyosso,\nwill be due from Holland on the ship Blue Cock. Then we will all have\ngood protection. In that ship are lots of supplies of mine. Of\nevenings we can court and drink liquor of my own mulling. And when\nthe Blue Cock comes to port you shall have more petticoats and\nhigh-heeled shoes than any beauty in New Amstel.\"\n\nFfob Oothout stole a couple of kisses from the widow, like a bold\nsailor-man, and she promised that he should lodge in the river end of\nthe Amsterdam warehouse.\n\nFor the rest of that afternoon Nanking carried Elsje's beautiful doll,\nand his feelings were very much comforted.\n\n\"Big sweetheart,\" she said, \"what a smart man you would be if you\ncould only make me a bigger doll than this, which would open and shut\nits eyes and cry '_fus_; hush!'\"\n\nNanking left New Amstel at moonlight, at the head of a little\nprocession, carrying gay cloths and plenty of rum for the\nSusquehannocks. The last words Peter Alrichs said to him were: \"You\nmust talk wisely, Nanking. It is a mighty responsibility you have on\nthis errand. Remember Elsje!\"\n\nNext morning Nanking pushed off in a boat, all alone, from the\nHead-of-Elk, and rowed under the blue bar of mountain into the\nChisopecke, and turned up the creek below the rocky mouth of the great\nriver toward the council-fire retreat of the fierce Susquehannocks. As\nhe was about to step ashore a band of Englishmen confronted him, with\nswords and muskets.\n\n\"Whom art thou?\" cried their leader, a stalwart man, with long\nmustaches.\n\n\"Only Nanking Cloos, mynheers, who used to be the big idiot of New\nAmstel. But,\" he added, with confidence, \"I am now a great man on a\nvery responsible mission to the Indians. I am to talk much and wisely.\nThey are to send to New Amstel thousands of furs and peltries, and I\nam to give them this rum and finery!\"\n\n\"He talks beautifully,\" exclaimed the English; and the chief man\nadded:\n\n\"Nanking, I know thee well. Thy mother is the pretty widow in the\nhouse by the river. I am Colonel Utye, who swore so dreadfully when I\nsummoned New Amstel to surrender. Come ashore, Nanking.\"\n\nNanking felt very proud to be recognized thus and receive such\ncompliments for his mother. The English poured out a big flagon of\nFrench brandy and gravely drank his health, touching their foreheads\nwith their thumbs. The brandy elated and exalted Nanking very much.\n\n\"Nanking,\" said Colonel Utye, \"we desire to spare thee a long journey\nand much danger. Leave here thy rum and presents, and return to thy\npatrons, Alrichs and Beeckman, bearing our English gratitude, and thou\nshalt wear a beautiful hat, such as the King of England allows only\nhis jester to put upon his head.\"\n\nNanking felt very much obliged to these kind gentlemen. They made the\nhat of the red cloth he had brought. It was like a tall steeple on a\nhouse, and was at least three feet long. As proud as possible he\nre-entered New Amstel on the evening of the day after he left it. It\nwas now within a few days of Christmas, and the Dutch burghers and\nboors, and Swedes, English and Finns, were anticipating that holiday\nby assembling at the two breweries which the town afforded, and\nquaffing nightly of beer. Beeckman and Alrichs were interested in the\nlargest brewery, and their beer was sent by Appoquinimy in great\nhogsheads to the English of Maryland in exchange for butts of tobacco.\n\nAs Nanking walked into the big room where fifty men were drinking, his\nprodigious red hat rose almost to the ceiling, and was greeted by\nroars of laughter.\n\n\"_Goeden avond! Hoe yaart gij!_ How do you do, my bully?\"\n\nNanking bowed politely, and singling out Beeckman and Alrichs, stood\nbefore them with child-like joy.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" he said, \"I gave all your presents to the noble Colonel\nUtye, who sends his deepest gratitude, and presented me with this\nexalted cap in acknowledgment of my capacity.\"\n\n\"Thou idiot!\" exclaimed Beeckman; \"'tis a dunce's cap!\"\n\n\"Dunder and blitzen!\" swore Peter Alrichs, \"hast thou lost all our\nprovision and made fools of us, too?\"\n\nThey struck the dunce's cap off Nanking's head with their staves, and\nthrew their beer in his face.\n\n\"Two hundred guilders are we out of pocket,\" cried both these great\nmen. \"Was ever such a brainless dolt in our possessions?\"\n\nThe room rang with the cry, \"Incurable idiot!\" and Gerrit Van\nSwearingen cried louder than any, \"Go drown thyself, and spare thy\nmother shame!\"\n\n\"Then I shall not marry Elsje?\" exclaimed Nanking, bursting into\ntears.\n\n\"No!\" stormed Peter Alrichs; \"thou shalt marry a calf. Away!\"\n\nWhen Nanking arrived home he found his mother sitting very close to\nFfob Oothout. He told his tale with a broken heart.\n\n\"My man,\" exclaimed the rough sailor, in his kindest tone, but still\nvery rough, \"take this advice from me: Whatever thou believest, tell\nit not. Where thy head is weak, hold thy teeth tight. Then thou canst\nstill have faith in many things, and make no grief.\"\n\nThe next day the Blue Cock sailed into the roadstead and the fort\nthundered a salute. Fort and vessel dipped the tricolor flag of the\nStates-General and the municipal banner of Amsterdam. Beeckman\nsurrendered all the country on South River to Hinoyossa, who came\nashore very drunk and very haughty, and threatened to set up an empire\nfor himself and fit out privateers against the world.\n\n\"Let him lose no time,\" muttered Ffob Oothout; \"the English have\ndoomed these Western Netherlands!\"\n\nAmidst the festivity Nanking was in a condition of despair. He had\nseen Elsje on the street and she turned up her nose at him. Christmas\nwas only one day off, and Santa Claus, the Swede boys insisted, never\ncame to the sorrowing shores of New Amstel.\n\n\"My uncle Gerrit was right,\" thought Nanking. \"I had better drown\nmyself. Yes; I will watch on Christmas eve for Santa Claus. I will\ngive him plenty of time to come. He is the patron saint of children,\nand if he neglects poor, simple boys in this needful place, there is\nno truth in any thing. On Christmas morning I will fall into the river\nwithout any noise. My mother will cry, perhaps, but nobody else, and\nthey will all say, 'It was better that the big idiot should be\ndrowned; he had not sense enough to keep out of the water.'\"\n\nNanking spent half the day watching the chimneys of his mother's\nhouse. Both chimneys were precisely alike in form and capacity, and\nthe largest in the place. But the chimney next the river did not\nretain the dark, smoky, red color of the chimney on the land side.\n\n\"No wonder,\" thought Nanking, \"for no fire nor smoke has been made in\nthat river chimney for years. It almost seems that the bricks therein\nare oozing out their color and growing pale and streaked.\"\n\nNight fell while he was watching. Nanking hid himself upon the roof of\nthe house, determined to see if Saint Nicholas ever came to bless\nchildren any more by descending into chimneys, or was only a myth.\n\nIt was a little cold, and under the moonlight the frost was forming on\nthe marshes and fields. The broad, remorseless river flowed past with\nnothing on its tide except the two or three vessels tied to the river\nbank, of which the Blue Cock was directly under the widow's great\ndwelling. From the town came sounds of revelry and wassail, of singing\nand quarrel, and from the church on Sand Hook softer chanting, where\nthe women were twining holly and laurel and mistletoe. Nanking lay\nflat on the roof, with his face turned toward the sky. The moon went\ndown and it grew very dark.\n\n\"Lord of all things,\" he murmured, \"forgive my rash intention and\ncomfort my poor mother!\"\n\nThe noise of the town died on the night air, and every light went out.\nNanking said to himself, \"Is it Christmas at all, out in this lonely\nwilderness of the world? Is it the same sky which covers Holland, and\nare these stars as gentle as yonder, where all are rich and happy?\"\n\nHe heard a noise. A voice whispered, just above the edge of the\nchimney on the river gable: \"_Fus-s-s! Pas op!_\"\n\n\"What is that?\" thought Nanking; \"somebody saying, 'Hist! be careful?'\nSurely I see something moving on the chimney, like a living head.\"\n\nThe voice whispered again: \"_Maak hast! Kom hier!_\" Or, \"Hasten! Come\nhere!\"\n\nNanking raised up and made a noise.\n\n\"_Wie komt, daar_?\" demanded the voice, and in a minute repeated:\n\"_Wie sprecht, daar_?\"\n\nThey ask, \"Who comes and who speaks?\" said Nanking. \"Blessed be the\npromises of heaven! It is Santa Claus!\"\n\nThen he heard movements at the chimney, and people seemed to be\nascending and descending a ladder. There seemed, also, to be noises on\nthe deck of the Blue Cock, and sounds of falling burdens and spoken\nwords: \"Maak plaats!\" or make room for more.\n\n\"I never heard of Santa Claus stopping so long at one humble house,\"\nthought Nanking.\n\nAfter awhile all sounds ceased. Nanking crept to the chimney and\ntouched it with his hand. It had no opening whatever in the top.\n\nHe felt around this mysterious chimney. \"He! Zoo!\" he said aloud,\n\"there is more wood here than brick. 'Tis a false chimney altogether!\"\n\nThen he saw that his close observation had not been at fault. The\nchimney over the river gable was a painted chimney, a mere invention.\nYet, surely Santa Claus had been there.\n\nAfter a time Nanking opened the top and side of this chimney as if\nthey were two doors. He found it packed with goods of all kinds--a ton\nat least.\n\n\"I will run and awaken my mother,\" he thought. \"But no. Did not Ffob\nOothout tell me to blab no secrets and shut my teeth tight? I will\ntell nobody. These costly things are all mine; for there are no other\nboys in this whole dwelling but Nanking Cloos, the fatherless idiot!\"\n\nHe slipped down and hastened to his boat, which lay in a cove not far\nbelow. Towing it along the bank to a sheltered place convenient,\nNanking began to load up the goods from the chimney. Before daylight\nbroke he had secured every thing, and hoisting sail was speedily\ncarried to the island of the Pea Patch, far down the bay--that island\nwhich shone in the offing and seemed to close the river's mouth. Here,\nin the wreck of an old galiot, he hid every article dry and secure;\nkegs of liquors and wine, shawls and blankets, pieces of silk,\ngunpowder, beautiful pipes, bars of silver and copper, and a whole bag\nof gold. Nanking covered them with dry driftwood and boughs of trees,\nand sailed again to New Amstel, where he arrived before breakfast.\n\nAt breakfast Nanking found upon his bench a beautiful new gun.\n\n\"It is thine, good child,\" said Ffob Oothout, \"for sparing me those\nlashes. Thy churlish uncle felt so reproved by thy innocent words that\nhe set me free. Widow, here is a _spiegel_ for thee, a looking-glass\nto see, unseen, whoever passes up or down the street. That is a\nwoman's high privilege everywhere. Thou shalt be, erelong, the\nbest-dressed wife in all New Amstel. Nanking, wouldst thou like to\nhave a father?\"\n\n\"I would like you, Ffob Oothout, for a father.\"\n\n\"Widow,\" said Ffob, \"he has popped the question for me; wilt thou take\nan old pirate for thy man?\"\n\n\"They are all pirates here,\" replied the blushing widow, \"and thou\nart the best pirate or man I have seen.\"\n\n\"Well, then, when the English conquer this region I have that will\nmake thee rich. Till then let us wait on the good event, but not delay\nthe marriage.\"\n\nThat Christmas Day they were married in form. As the three sat before\nthe fresh venison and drank wine from the store of the Blue Cock,\nNanking said:\n\n\"Father Ffob, you are wise. Give me yet another word of advice, that I\nmay not continue to be a big idiot.\"\n\n\"Trust whom thou wilt, Nanking, yet ever hold thy tongue. If thou hast\nnow a secret, hold it close. Begin this instant!\"\n\n\"Even the secrets of Santa Claus?\"\n\n\"Yes, even them.\"\n\nNanking said no more. He found compensation for Elsje's contumely in\nhis gun, and roved the forests through, and peeped from time to time\nat his mystic treasures.\n\nOne day the news came overland that the English had taken New\nAmsterdam. Then the great Hinoyossa and uncle Van Swearingen and\nAlrichs and Beeckman swore dreadfully, and said they would fight to\nthe last man. Ffob Oothout went around amongst the Swedes and the\ncitizen Dutch, and prepared them to take the matter reasonably.\n\nOne day in October of that same wonderful year, 1664, two mighty\nvessels of war, flying the English flag, came to anchor off New Amstel\nand the fort. They parleyed with the citizens for a surrender, and\nFfob Oothout conducted the negotiations. The citizens were to receive\nprotection and property. The fort replied by a cannon. Then the\nEnglish soldiery landed and formed their veteran lines. They charged\nthe ramparts and broke down the palisades, and killed three Dutchmen\nand wounded ten more. Proclamation was made that New Amstel should for\nall the future be named New-_castle_, and that Gerrit Van Swearingen,\nthe refractory schout, should yield up his noble property to Captain\nJohn Carr, of the invaders, and Peter Alrichs lose every thing for the\nbenefit of the fortunate William Tom.\n\nThe English soldiery proceeded to make barracks of the Amsterdam\nwarehouse. The first night they inhabited it they strove to light a\nfire under the wooden chimney in the river gable. The chimney caught\nfire and burnt out like an old hollow barrel.\n\n\"Wife,\" exclaimed Ffob Oothout, looking grimly on, \"in that chimney\nwas all my property and thine. Poor boy,\" he said to Nanking, \"we must\nall be poor together now.\"\n\n\"No,\" cried Nanking, \"I have yet the gifts of Santa Claus which I took\nfrom that chimney on the night before Christmas. Yours, father, may be\nburnt. Mine are all safe!\"\n\nHe sailed his father and mother to the island since called the Pea\nPatch, and Ffob Oothout recognized his property.\n\n\"Wonderful Nanking!\" he cried, \"thy faith was all the wisdom we had.\nGod protects the simple! Thou art our treasure.\"\n\nThe great Hinoyossa condignly fled to Maryland. Uncle Van Swearingen\nwas exported to Holland, and in the dwelling of Peter Alrichs the\nfamily of Ffob Oothout made their abode.\n\n\"Nanking,\" asked the houseless Alrichs, \"is not Elsje pretty yet?\"\n\n\"Not as pretty,\" answered Nanking, \"as my little baby sister. I will\ncarry nobody's doll but hers.\"\n\n\"Humph!\" said Peter Alrichs, \"you are not the big idiot I took you\nfor!\"\n\n\n\n\nA BAYSIDE IDYL.\n\n\n    Basking on the Choptank pleasant Cambridge lies\n    In the humid atmosphere under fluttered skies,\n    And the oaks and willows their protection fling\n    Round the court-house cluster and the public spring.\n\n    There the streets are cleanly and they meet oblique,\n    Forced upon each other by the village creek\n    Winding round the ancient lawns, till the site appears\n    Like a moated fortress crumbling down with years.\n\n    Round the town the oysters grow within the coves,\n    And the fertile cornfields bearing yellow loaves;\n    And the wild duck flying o'er the parish spire\n    Fall into the graveyard when the fowlers fire?\n\n    There the old armorial stones dwellers seldom read;\n    There the ivy clambers like the rankest weed;\n    There the Cambridge lawyers sometimes scale the wall\n    To the grave of Helen, loveliest of all.\n\n    Even here the fairest of the little band\n    Strangers call the fairest girls in Maryland,\n    Like the peach her color ere its dyes are fast,\n    And her form as slender as the virgin mast.\n\n    Like a vessel gliding with a net in tow,\n    Up the street of evenings Helen seemed to flow,\n    Leaving light behind her and a nameless spell\n    Murmured in the young men, like an ocean shell.\n\n    Made too early conscious of her power to charm,\n    Still unconscious ever love of men could harm,\n    Voices whispered to her: \"Beauty rare as thine\n    Princes in the city never drank in wine!\n\n    \"Hide it not in Cambridge! Cross the bay and see\n    How a world delighted hastes to honor thee.\n    Seek the fortune-teller and thy future hear;\n    There is empire yonder; there is thy career!\"\n\n    Oh, the sad ambition and the speedy dart!\n    He, the fortune-reader, read poor Helen's heart;\n    And a face created for the hearthstone's light--\n    Fishers tell its ruin as they scud by night.\n\n    Whisper, whisper, whisper! leaf and wave and grass;\n    Look not sidewise, maiden, as the place you pass.\n    If you hear a restless spirit when you pray,\n    'Tis the voice that tempted Helen o'er the bay.\n\n\n\n\nSIR WILLIAM JOHNSON'S NIGHT.\n\n\nAn extraordinary story, some say the recital of a dream, or scenes in\nsomnambulism, is that of Andrew Waples, of Horntown, Va. He visited\nSaratoga twenty years ago, well-to-do, the owner of slaves, sloops,\nlands, and fisheries, and visits it now upon an income of $2000 a\nyear, derived from boiling down fish into phosphates for the midland\nmarkets. He preserves, however, the habit and appearance of old days:\nthat is to say, his chin is folded away under his lip like a reef in a\nmainsail; his cheek-bones hide his ears, so tusky and prominent are\nthe former, and tipped with a varnish of red, like corns on old folks'\nfeet; he has a nose which is so long and bony that it seems to have\nbeen constructed in sections, like a tubular bridge, and to\ncommunicate with itself by relays of sensation. A straight, mournful,\ntwinkling, yet aristocratic man was Andrew Waples, \"befo' de waw, sah!\nbefo' de waw!\"\n\nHe had no sooner arrived at Saratoga than he met some ancient boon\ncompanions, who took him off to the lake, exploded champagne, filled\nhis lungs with cigar-smoke, and sent him to bed, the first night, with\na decided thirst and no occasion to say his prayers. For it was\nAndrew's intention, being a mournful man of the Eastern Shore, to pray\non every unusual occurrence. Piety is relative as well as real, but\nAndrew Waples on this occasion jumped into bed, said hic and amen, and\n\"times befo' de waw,\" and went to sleep in the somnorific air of the\nSprings.\n\nHe awoke with a dry throat, a disposition to faint and surrender his\nstomach, and an irresistible propensity to walk abroad and drink of\nthe waters. He looked at his watch: it was two o'clock, and Saturday\nnight. \"Alas!\" said Andrew Waples aloud, \"the bars are closed. Even\nMorrissey has gone to bed, and the club-house is in darkness, but\nperhaps I can climb over the gate of some spring company, or find a\nfountain uninclosed. Yes, there is the High Rock Spring!\"\n\nHe drew on his clothes partly, slipped his feet in slippers, and wrote\non a piece of paper, which he conspicuously posted on the gas bracket:\n\n\"Andrew Waples, Gentleman (befo' de waw), departed from the United\nStates Hotel, at two o'clock A. M., precisely. If any accident happens\nto him, seek at the High Rock Spring, or thereabouts.\"\n\nIt was a sad, green, ghostly moonlight streaming through the elms as\nAndrew Waples walked up Broadway. The moon appeared to be dredging for\noysters amongst the clouds, circling around there by bars, islets, and\nshoals. Bits of spotted and mackerel-back sky swam like hosts of\nmenhaden through the pearly sheen of the more open aerial main. The\nleaves of the tall domes and kissing branches of the elms, that peeped\non either side into open windows of people asleep and told across the\nstreet to each other the secrets there, were now themselves heavy as\nif with surfeit of gossip and they drooped and hardly rustled. Not a\ntipsy waiter lurked in the shadows, not a skylarking couple of darkey\nlovers whispered on doorsteps. No birds, nor even crickets, serenaded\nthe torpid night. The shuffling feet of Andrew Waples barely made\nwatch-dogs growl in their dreams, and started his own heart with the\nconcussions they produced on the arborescent and deeply-shadowed\naisles of the after midnight. He saw the town-hall clock pallidly\nilluminated above its tower. The low frame villa of Chancellor\nWalworth, cowering amongst the pine-trees, expressed the burden of\nparricidal blood that had of late oppressed its memories. There were\nno murmurs from the court-room where Judge Barnard had been tried,\nbut its deep silence seemed from the clock to tick: \"Removed!\ndisqualified!\" and \"Disqualified! removed!\"\n\nTurning from Broadway to lesser streets of cheap hotels and plain\nboarding cottages, where weary women and girls had drudged all day\nlong, and washerwomen moaned and fluting and ruffling were the\namusements of the poor, Andrew Waples became haunted with the idea\nthat Saratoga was poisoned, that every soul in the village was dead,\nand that he was to be the last man of the century to drink of the\nSprings. Nature and night were in the swoon of love or death. Parting\ntheir drowsy curtains went Waples through the muffled echoes, impelled\nby nothing greater than a human thirst.\n\nHe saw his shadow, at length, fall down the steep stairs of the valley\nof High Rock Spring, as he stood at the top of the steps uncovered to\nthe moon. It was a shadow nearly a hundred feet long, a high-cheeked\nhead without a chin and all nose, like the profile of a mountain. But\nwhat was extraordinary was the total absence of an abdominal part to\nMr. Waples' exaggerated shadow, for he distinctly saw a young\nmaple-tree, in perfect moonlight, grow through the cavity where his\nstomach ought to have been.\n\n\"I must be hollow,\" said Andrew, as he looked,--\"the frame of a\nstomach removed; for surely my whole figure is in blackness, except my\nbread-basket.\" But his fears were dissipated by the sound of voices,\nof glasses clinking and water running, and the evident semblance of\nlife at the High Rock Spring in the ravine beneath, to which the steep\nstairs descended. At the same moment he descried another shadow\npropelled alongside his own, as if from some far distance in the rear\na human object was slowly advancing to stand beside him.\n\nThere were very old wooden houses around this precipice or promontory\nof Saratoga, some of them a hundred years old, and decrepit and in\nruins; for here, at the High Rock, was the original fountain of the\nvillage. As if from the cover of one of these old and decaying\ntenements came a person of venerable aspect, with a tray of glasses\nfastened to the top of a staff, like a great caster of bottles on a\nbroomstick. As this person stood by the side of Andrew Waples, and\nplanted his staff on the top step of the stairs, his prolonged shadow,\nfalling in the valley, gave him the appearance of a gigantic Neptune,\nwith a trident in his hand.\n\n\"Hallo!\" exclaimed Mr. Waples, \"are you a town scavenger, to be up at\nthis time of the clock?\"\n\nThe man replied, after a very curious and explosive sound of his lips,\nlike the extraction of a cork from a bottle, \"No, sir; I'm only the\nGreat Dipper.\"\n\n\"Very good,\" resumed Mr. Waples. \"Then, perhaps, you'll explain to me\na very great optical delusion, or tell me that I'm drunk. Do you see\nour two shadows as they fall yonder on the ground, and amongst the\ntree-tops? Now, if I have any eyes in my head, there is a stomach in\nyour shadow and no stomach whatever in mine.\"\n\n\"Quite right,\" answered the Great Dipper. \"You are the mere rim of a\nformer stomach. Abdominally, you are defunct.\"\n\nAndrew Waples put his hand instinctively where his stomach was\npresumed to be, and he saw the hand of his shadow distinctly imitate\nthe motion, and repeat it through his empty centre.\n\n\"This is Sir William Johnson's night,\" remarked the Great Dipper. \"We\nhave a large company of guests on this anniversary, and no gentleman\nis admitted with a stomach, nor any lady with a character. My whole\nforce of dippers is on to-night, and I must be spry.\"\n\nAs the venerable man spoke, and ceased to speak, exploding before and\nafter each utterance, it occurred to Mr. Waples that his voice had a\nsort of mineral-water gurgle, which was very refreshing to a thirsty\nman's ears. He followed, therefore, down the flight of rickety stairs\nand stood in the midst of a promenading party of many hundred people,\nvariously dressed and in the costumes of several generations.\n\nThe canopy or pavilion of the spring, which, like a fairy temple,\nseemed to have been exhaled from in bubbles, was yet capped, as in the\nbroad light of day, by a gilded eagle, from whose beak was suspended a\nbottle of the water, and no other light was shed upon the scene than\nthe silver and golden radiance emitted together from this bottle, as\nif ten thousand infinitely small goldfish floated there in liquid\nquicksilver. The spring itself, flowing over its ancient mound of\nlime, iron and clay, like the venerable beard over the Arabian\nprophet's yellow breast, shed another light as if through a veil\nfluttered the molten fire of some pulsating crater. The whole scene of\nthe narrow valley, the group of springs, the sandy walks, dark\nfoliage, and in closing ridges took a pale yellow hue from the\neffervescing water and the irradiant bottle in the eagle's beak. The\npeople walking to and fro and drinking and returning, all carried\ntheir hands upon their stomachs or sides, and sighed amidst their\nflirtations. Mr. Waples saw, despite their garments, which represented\na hundred years and more of all kinds, from Continental uniforms and\nhunting shirts to brocades, plush velvets, and court suits, that not a\nbeing of all the multitude contained an abdomen. He stopped one large\nand portly man, who was carried on a litter, and said:\n\n\"Have you a window through you, too, old chap?\"\n\n\"'Sh!\" exclaimed one of the supporters of the litter, who wore the\nfeathers and attire of an Indian. \"'Tis Sir William Johnson--he who\nreceives to-night.\"\n\n\"Young man,\" exclaimed that great and first of Indian agents, \"this is\nthe spot where all people come to find their stomachs. Mine was lost\none hundred and ten years ago. The Mohawks, my wards, then brought me\nthrough the forest to this spot. Faith! I was full of gout and humors,\nand took a drink from a gourd. One night in the year I walk from\npurgatory and quench my thirst at this font. The rest of the year I\nlimp in the agonies of dyspepsia.\"\n\nA large and short-set woman was walking in one of the paths, wearing\nalmost royal robes, and her train was held up by a company of young\ngallants, some of whom whistled and trolled stanzas of foreign music.\n\"Can you tell me her name!\" asked Waples, speaking to a bystander.\n\n\"It is Madame Rush, the daughter of the banker who rivalled Girard.\nShe was a patroness of arts and letters in her day, full of\nsentiment.\"\n\n\"But disguised in a stomacher!\" interrupted our friend. The lady\npassed him as he spoke, and, looking regretfully in his face,\nmurmured:\n\n\"Avoid hot joints for supper! Terrapin must crawl again. Drink nothing\nbut claret. Adieu!\"\n\n\"Really,\" thought Andrew Waples, \"this is a sort of mass meeting of\nhuman picture-frames. But here is one I know by his portrait--the\ngod-like head, the oxen eyes, the majestic stalk of Daniel Webster.\"\nHe was about to address this massive figure, when it turned and looked\nupon him with rolling orbs like diamonds in dark caves.\n\n\"Brandy,\" said the great man, \"'tis the drink of a gentleman, and the\nstimulus of oratory. But public life requires a thousand stomachs. Who\ncould have saved the Constitution on only one?\"\n\n\"Poor ghost!\" thought Andrew Waples. \"Yet here is a milder man, also\nof mighty girth, like the frame of a mastodon, transparent. Your name,\nmy friend?\"\n\n\"John Meredith Clayton, of Delaware! I filled my paunch of midnights\nwith chicken soup. I arose from bed to riot in gravy. Ye who have\nlivers and intestines, think of my fame and fate!\"\n\nThe old man sobbed as he receded, and Waples had only time to get a\nglimpse of the next trio before they were upon him.\n\n\"I agree with Commodore Vanderbilt,\" said the other, the wearer of a\nrubicund face, and great blue eyes. \"My _forte_ was oysters and\neconomy. I grew wondrous fat and conservative, and one day awoke with\na stomach that exclaimed, 'I have become round, so that you can\ntrundle me for the exercise you deprived me of.' Henceforward, not\neven the unequalled advantages of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad gave\nme pleasure. I live like a skeleton world, without an inner globe,\nwithout a paunch. Beware?\"\n\n\"Well,\" cried Mr. Waples, \"it is a singular thing that the\nconservative as well as the volatile lose their full habits. How is it\nwith Colonel Tom Scott, I wonder?\"\n\n\"No rest,\" exclaimed a full-necked man, \"I eat at figures, and think\nin my sleeping car. Go slow, go fast, young man, 'But it is even,\nheads I win, stomach you lose!'\"\n\nThe shaggy iron-gray whiskers and hair of Charles Sumner were well\nknown to Mr. Waples, as that great Senator strutted down the maple\npaths. \"You here, also!\" shouted Mr. Waples.\n\n\"Ay!\" answered the champion. \"Freedom is not worth enjoying without\nthe gastric juice. The taste of Chateau Yquem pursues me through\neternity. There are times when Plymouth Rock is a pennyweight in value\ncompared to High Rock at Saratoga, and all the acts of Congress\nfoolish beside a pint of Congress water!\"\n\nA tall and elegant man came by and said: \"I was the reviver of the\nrunning turf. My stomach was tough as my four-in-hand. 'Twas Angostura\nnipped my bud. It was, by Saint Jerome!\"\n\nAnother passer, with a dark skin and a merry twinkle, said: \"Uncle\nJohn's under the weather to-night. But he can lay out another\ngeneration yet. While there's sleep there's hope. Cecil's the word!\nGive me me an order.\"\n\nA tremendous fellow, with a foot a little gouty, gulped down a gallon\nof the water, and said: \"Rufe Andrews never gives up while on that\nhigh rock he builds his church!\"\n\n\"The way to eat a sheep's head,\" exclaimed a florid man, \"is with\nplain sauce. Clams are not kind after nightfall. Champagne destroyed\nthe coats of W. Wickham, Mayor of the _bon vivants_. _Sic transit_\novertook my rapid transit. Heigh-ho!\"\n\n\"Hear me lisp a couplet,\" said the great poet Saxe. \"Oh, how many a\nslip 'twixt the couplet and the cup! Abdomen dominates. When Homer had\nno paunch, he went blind.\"\n\n\"Halt! 'Sdeath! is't I, that once could put the whole Brazilian court\nto bed, who prowls these grounds for midnight water now? I am the\nChevalier Webb. Who says it is dyspepsia? I will spit him upon my\nwalking-staff.\"\n\n\"Ees! 'tis good drinkin' at the fount when one can naught sleep.\nJohnson, of Congress Spring, the resident cherub; that's my name. I\ntipped the rosy, and it tripped on me. What measure I used to take\naround the bread-basket!\"\n\n\"The top of the foine midnight to you!\" said Richard O'Gorman. \"I'm\nhere, my lords and gentle folk, to find a portion of my appetite. It\nwas not so when I could lead a revolution in a cabbage garden.\"\n\nSo went past Uncle Dan Sanford and Father Farrell, and arm-in-arm, on\nmutual errands of thirst, Judge Hilton and Joseph Seligman.\n\n\"Shudge,\" said Seligman, \"when you refushed me a room, it was only\nbecaush you had no stummicks? Heigh, Shudge?\"\n\n\"Ay, Joseph, me broth of a darlint,\" answered Hilton, \"when a spalpeen\nhas no stummick, he speaks without circum--spection. Ye can impty yer\nstummick wherever ye loike over the furniture, if ye'll fill this\naching void.\"\n\nSo went the procession. All walking with hands laid heavily on their\npaunches, or where they used to be. Lovers had lost the light of\ninterest from their eyes, wedded people the light of retrospection,\nstatesmen the pride of intellect, princes and legates the pride of\npower. Wealth flashed in a thousand diamonds to contrast with the\nheavy eyes that had no vanity in them, and religion wore the\nasceticism of everlasting gloom instead of the hope of immortal life.\n\nAs Mr. Andrew Waples beheld these things, and felt his thirst impel\nhim toward the fountain of the High Rock, he became sensible of a\nwonderful change in the proportions of that object. It had always been\na mound or cone of sand, clay, magnesia, and lime, well oxidized, and\nmade rusty-red by the particles of iron in the composition deposited\nwith the other materials, through ages of overflow. It had never been\nabove three feet in height, and of little more diameter than a man's\nstature. The water, flowing through its middle, sparkled and\ndischarged diamond showers of bubbles, and ran down the\nochre-besmeared sides, to disappear in the ground, the cavity through\nwhich it came not more than ten inches wide. Such had been the\ndimensions of the High Rock Spring.\n\nBut it was now a mountain, rising high in the air, and flowing crystal\nand gold, like a volcano in an eruption of jewels. The pyrites of\nsulphur and motes of iron, that formerly gleamed in the rills that\ntrickled down its slopes, were now big as cascades, filled with\ncarbuncles and rocks of amethyst. A mist of soft splendor, like the\nlight of stars crushed to dust and diffused around the mountain's\nhead, revealed an immense multitudes of people scaling the slopes, and\ndrinking; and some were raising their hands to Heaven in praise, and\nsome were drawing the water from the mountain's base by flumes and\ntroughs. This extensive prospect fell to a foreground of people, such\nas Mr. Waples had been mingling with, and these were clamoring and\nsupplicating for water faster than a hundred dippers there could pass\nit up. The dippers were of all garbs and periods, from Indians and\nrustics to boys in cadet uniform. The vessels with which they dipped\nwere of all shapes and metals, from conch shells and calabashes to\ncups of transparent china, and goblets of gold and silver. Amongst the\ndippers, conspicuous by his benevolent face and clothing of a\nbutternut color, was the Great Dipper himself, directing operations.\n\n\"Drink freely!\" he exclaimed, \"for the night is going by. Sir William\nJohnson has ordered his litter, and the company is breaking up. Drink\nwhile you may, for the sun is soon to arise, and ye who have no\nstomachs will be exposed and disgraced.\"\n\n\"Hark ye! old friend,\" whispered Andrew Waples to the Great Dipper,\n\"are there here people alive, as well as dead people, and why do they\nfear exposure?\"\n\nThe Great Dipper replied: \"Nobody can be said to live who has lost his\nstomach. We make no other distinction here. There are thousands who\nhave lost them, however, and who deceive mankind. Even these, you\nperceive, who drink at the High Rock Spring, flirt while they feel\nunutterable gloom, and so are dead women above the ground tied to\nliving men, and men without a human hope of health mated to joyous\nbeauty and animation.\"\n\nIt seemed at this point that Mr. Waples shrank away down to the\nground, and the Great Dipper loomed up high as the mountain of High\nRock. His drinking glasses were as large as Mr. Waples' body; he was a\nmighty giant, clad in colors like those of the overflowing mountain.\n\n\"Old chap,\" cried Mr. Waples, \"methinks your clothing up there is of\nmuch age and tarnish. Tell me its material?\"\n\nA voice came down the long ravines of the mountain like rolling\nthunder. \"It's calcareous tufa I'm a-wearing, wove on me by exudation\nand accretion in the past two thousand years.\"\n\nAt this point the head of the Great Dipper was quite invisible in the\nclouds, but the tray of glasses he carried, which were now big as\nbarrels or full-sized casks, was set down on Mr. Waples' toe. As he\nsought to get out of the way a torrent of water washed him up and\naway, and he was spilled into one of the glasses; and then, as it\nappeared, he was raised an inconceivable distance in the air and\nplunged down like a bursted balloon from the sky to the sea, and he\nfound himself immersed in mineral water and rapidly descending,\nagainst the current, toward the centre of the earth!\n\nBefore Mr. Waples could get his breath he was landed in a bar or shoal\nof mineral salt, which came nearly to the surface of the torrent in\nwhich he found himself, and the current of this torrent was ascending\ntoward the surface, as full of mineral substances as a freshet is full\nof saw-logs. Explosions of gas, loud and rapid as the guns in a naval\nbattle, took place on every side. The walls of the inclosure made a\nlarge and almost regular cave or tunnel of blue marl, and in the\ncontrary way from the course of the stream. Mr. Waples sank along the\nsides of the cave in the swash or backflow, until he arrived at a\ngrand archway of limestone, riven from a mass of slate. A voice from\nthe roof of the archway, whispering like a sigh of pain, articulated\nshrilly,\n\n\"Who goes back?\"\n\nWaples discerned, in the joint or junction of the arch a huge deformed\nobject, whose hands were caught between the masses of stone, and he\nstill desperately pulled to divide them, so that the torrent could\nescape through. The eyes of this object rolled in pain, but he gave no\nsign of relinquishing his hold, and again the painful whisper skipped\nthrough the abyss, \"Who goes back from the alluvial?\" Mr. Waples got a\nbreathful of air from an explosion of bubbles, and boldly replied,\n\"The Great Dipper's assistant.\"\n\n\"Tell him,\" whispered the hunchback in the roof, \"that Priam, the\nFault Finder, is holding the strata back, but wants the relief to come\non three centuries hence, that I may spit upon my hands.\"\n\nMr. Waples had no time to reply, for a large bubble of carbonic acid\ngas burst at that moment, and blew him through the gap or \"fault\" of\nthe rock, into the coldest and clammiest cavern he had ever trodden.\nFrom every part of the walls, ceilings, and floor exuded moisture,\nwhich flowed off in rills and large canals, until they formed the\ntorrent that disappeared at the Fault Finder's Archway.\n\n\"Magnesia, faugh!\" exclaimed Mr. Waples, unconscious that he was in\nthe presence of somebody.\n\n\"You don't like Magnesia, then?\" rejoined a large, spongy object on\nthe floor, whose forehead perspired while he looked up through the\nchalky-white sockets of sightless eyes. \"Why, he's a sixth part of all\nthat's drunk at the springs. Here, I'll call him up. Come Magnesia!\ncome Potash! come Lime, Soda, Lithia, and Baryta! Come ye all to the\npresence of Prince Saturation.\"\n\nThere glided to the Sponge's feet a number of leather-looking beings,\nof broad, circular faces, and to every face a tail was appended on the\nother side.\n\n\"The gentleman don't like our laboratory,\" exclaimed the Sponge,\npurring the while like a cat. \"Apply your suckers to him, ye\npercolating angels, and draw him to the forests of Fernandes!\"\n\nMr. Waples felt a hundred little wafers of suction take hold of his\nbody, and a sense of great compression, as if he was being pulled\nthrough a mortar bed. He opened his eyes on the summit of a stalagmite\nin a vast thicket or swamp of overthrown and decaying trees. Birds of\nburied ages, whose long, bittern-like cries flopped wofully through\nthe silence, made ever and anon a call to each other, like the Nemesis\nof century calling to century. One of these birds, having authority\nand standing on one leg, observed to Mr. Waples, in a very\nphilosophical manner:\n\n\"Stranger, are you of the Fungi family?\"\n\n\"No, Fernandes,\" answered our bold adventurer; \"I live nearer the\nphosphates when at home, and it's a good article.\"\n\nA mournful chorus of croons from the loons went round the solitude.\n\"Phosphates! phew! Phosphates! phew!\"\n\n\"This apartment,\" exclaimed the one-legged bird, \"is exclusively for\nfungi of the old families. Here we rot piecemeal and furnish gas to\nthe nine-thousandth generation after us. By our decay the springs are\nfed with bubbles. Here is the world as it fell in the floral period,\nand our boughs are budding anew in the Eldorado of the waters above\nus.\"\n\n\"Phosphates! phew!\" shouted the great birds of this land of Lethe, as\nMr. Waples' stalagmite broke off and dropped him and set him astride\nof an ancient pterodactyl bird that flew off with its burden to an\nimmense height, and swinging him there by the seat of his breeches, as\nif he were to be the pendulum of a fundamental and firmamental clock,\nthe griffin-bird finally let go. Mr. Waples was propelled at least six\nmiles out of gravity, and tossed into a most deep and silent lake.\nNothing affected its loveliness but an oppressive shadow that came\nfrom above, and seemed to sink every floating object in the scarcely\nbuoyant waves. No shores were visible, but distant mountains on one\nside; nothing lived in the waters but meteoric lights and objects that\nran as if on errands for the spirit above. Broad, submissive,\nunevaporating, but sinking down; the great inland lonely pool was\neverywhere the creature of an invisible footprint. Mr. Waples knew the\npower it obeyed to be that prostrate, cloud-like, overbrooding\npresence, far above, with outlines like a mountain range. The silent\nsea was the water-trough of Apalachia, the western dyke of the deluge\nof Noah. The oppressive spirit, stretching overhead, was Bellydown, or\nthe thing that brooded over the waters of chaos, known to\nschoolmasters as Atmospheric Pressure.\n\nMr. Waples saw it all now. The spirit overhead, with equal and\neternal pressure, forced down this meteoric water through the slopes\nof stone, until it reascended toward the clouds of its origin and was\nlost in the forest of the fossils, where every decaying fibre made\nbubbles to drive it forward, and hold in solution the mineral\nsubstances it was to receive in the porous magnesian barrier between\nit and freedom. Soaking through this, the water escaped by the break\nin the strata at the arch of the Fault Finder.\n\nBut who had ever passed back against the current of the earth's\nbarometry, from the spa to the reservoir, like Andrew Waples, of\nHorntown, Eastern Shore of Virginia?\n\nHe felt a mighty vanity overwhelm him to get recognition of some kind\nfrom Bellydown, who disdained even thunder for a language.\n\n\"Thou sprawling spirit, up yonder in the sky!\" shouted Mr. Waples,\nwith much firmness, \"if thou art not mere nightmare, mere figment of\nthe sciences, let me feel thy strength unequally, for once!\"\n\nThe vast cloud object moved and yawned. Something like a small world,\nwearing a boot, smote Andrew Waples in the rear, as if the spirit\nabove had kicked him on the proper spot. He felt a pain and a flying\nsensation, that was like paralysis on wings, and he never seemed to\nstop for years, until he fell and struck the ground, and, after an\ninterval, looked around him.\n\nHe was in his room, at the United States Hotel, and had fallen out of\nbed. The clock in the Baptist church cupola struck two. On the gas\nbracket was pinned a written notice, not yet dry, that Andrew Waples\nhad just started for the High Rock Spring.\n\nBut he knew that his adventure continued to be true, for when he went\nto breakfast at daylight, he found he had no stomach.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PHANTOM ARCHITECT.\n\n\n    Four hundred miles of brawling through many a mountain pass,\n    From the shadow of the Catskills to the rocks of Havre de Grace,\n    The Susquehanna flashes by willowy isles of May\n    And deluges of April to the splendors of the bay.\n\n    It brings Otsego water and Juniata bright,\n    Chenango's sunny current and dark Swatara's night,\n    By booms of lumber winding and rafts of coal and ore,\n    And gliding barges crossing the dams from shore to shore.\n\n    It is an aisle of silver along the mountain nave,\n    Where towers the Alleghany reflected in its wave,\n    By many a mine of treasure and many a borough quaint,\n    And many a home of hero and tomb of simple saint.\n\n    The granite gates resign it to mingle with the bay,\n    And softened bars of mountain stand glowing o'er the way;\n    The wild game flock the offing; the great seine-barges go--\n    From battery to windlass, and singing as they row.\n\n    The negroes watch the lighthouse, the trains upon the bridge,\n    The little fisher's village strewn o'er the grassy ridge,\n    The cannoneers that, paddling in stealthy rafts of brush,\n    With their decoys around them, the juicy ducks do flush.\n\n    And oft by night, they whisper, a phantom architect\n    Lurks round the Cape of Havre, of ruined intellect,\n    Who had designed a city upon this eminence,\n    To cover all the headland and rule the land from hence.\n\n    And sometimes men belated the phantom builder find,\n    Lost on the darkened water and drifting with the wind;\n    Then by his will a vision starts sudden on the night--\n    The city flashing splendor o'er all that barren height.\n\n    Its dome of polished marble and tholus full of fire;\n    The dying look of sunset just fading from the spire;\n    The towers of its prisons, the spars and masts of fleets,\n    And lines of lamps that clamber along the crowded streets.\n\n    The ships of war at anchor in the indented ports,\n    The thunder of the broadsides, the answer of the forts--\n    These by his invocation arise and flame and thrill,\n    Raised on his faith tenacious and strengthened by his will.\n\n    My soul! there is a city, set like a diadem,\n    Beyond a crystal river: the new Jerusalem.\n    The architect was lowly and walked with fishermen;\n    But only He can open the blessed sight again.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOBBY BROTHER.\n\n\nI.\n\nThe express train going south on the Northern Central Railroad, March\n3d, 186-, carried perhaps a score of newly-elected Congressmen,\nprepared to take their seats on the first day of the term. For every\nCongressman there were at least five followers, adventurers or\nclients, some distinguished by their tighter-fitting faces, signifying\nthat they were men of commerce; others, by their unflagging and\nsomewhat overstrained amiability, not to say sycophancy, signifying\nthat out of the aforesaid Congressmen they expected something \"fat.\"\nOf the former class the hardest type was unquestionably Jabel Blake,\nand the business which he had in hand with the freshly Honorable\nArthur MacNair, who sat at his side reading the Pittsburg news-paper,\nwas the establishment of a national bank at the town of Ross Valley,\nPennsylvania.\n\nJabel Blake had as little the look of a bank president as had his\nrepresentative the bearing of a politician. MacNair was a thin, almost\nfragile young person, with light-red hair and a freckled face and\nclear blue eyes, which nearly made a parson of him--a suggestion\ncarried out by his plain guard and silver watch and his very sober,\nsettled expression. The Honorable Perkiomen Trappe, who had served\nthree terms from the Apple-butter District, remarked of him, from the\nadjoining seat, \"Made his canvass, I s'pose, by a colporterin'\nMethodist books, and stans ready to go to his hivinly home by way of\nthe Injin Ring!\"\n\nBut, in reality, the Congressman belonged to the same faith with his\nconstituent and client--both Presbyterians like their great-grandfathers,\nwho were Scotch pioneers among the spurs of the Alleghenies; and there\nstill lived these twain, in fashion little changed--MacNair a lawyer at\nthe court-house town, and Jabel Blake the creator, reviver, and\ncapitalist of the hamlet of Ross Valley. Jabel was hard, large, bony, and\ndark, with pinched features and a whitish-gray eye, and a keen, thin,\nlong voice high-pitched, every separate accent of which betrayed the love\nof money.\n\n\"It's an expensive trip,\" said Jabel Blake; \"it's a costly trip. More\nmen are made poor, Arthur MacNair, by travellin' than by sickness.\nTwice a year to Pittsburg and twice to Phildelfy is the whole of my\ngadding. I stop, in Phildelfy, at the Camel Tavern, on Second Street,\nand a very expensive house--two dollars a day. At Washington they rob\neverybody, I'm told, and I shall be glad to get away with my clothes.\"\n\n\"Tut! Jabel,\" said MacNair, \"brother Elk has taken rooms for me at\nWillards', and for the little time you stay at the capital you can\nlodge with us. A man who has elected a Congressman in spite of the\nPennsylvania Railroad shouldn't grudge one visit in his life-time to\nWashington.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Jabel, \"I don't know as I begrudge that, though your\nelection, Arty, cost me four hundred and seven dollars and--I've got\nit here in a book.\"\n\n\"I know that,\" said MacNair quietly; \"don't read it again, Jabel. You\nbehaved like a sturdy, indignant man, paid all my expenses, though you\nprotested against an election in a moral land involving the\nexpenditure of a dime, and though you pass for the closest man west of\nthe mountains. And here we are, going upon errands of duty, as little\nworldly as we can be, yet not anxious to belittle ourselves or our\ndistrict.\"\n\n\"I'd cheerfully given more, Arty, to beat that corporation. A\ntwenty-dollar bill or so, you know! But money is tight. I've scraped\nand scraped for years to start my bank at Ross Valley, and every\ndollar wasted retards the village. You boys have cost me a sight of\nmoney. There's Elk's sword and horse, and the schooling of both of\nyou, and the burying of your father, Jim MacNair, eighteen years ago\nthis May. Dear! dear!\"\n\nThe Honorable Perkiomen Trappe, catching a part of this remark,\nobserved that Jabel Blake, judging by his appearance, shouldn't have\nburied MacNair's father, but devoured him. Jabel's unfeeling remark\ngave MacNair no apparent pain; but he said:\n\n\"Jabel, don't speak to Elk about father. He is not as patient as he\nshould be, and perhaps in Washington they disguise some of the matters\nwhich we treat bluntly and openly. There's Kitty Dunlevy, you know,\nand she is a little proud.\"\n\nThe glazed, whitish eye of Jabel bore the similitude of a beam of\nsatisfaction.\n\n\"It's nothing agin you boys,\" he said, \"that Jim MacNair, your father,\ndidn't do well. He wronged nobody but himself, as I made the\nstonecutter say over his grave. _That_ cost me upwards of eleven\ndollars, so I did _my_ duty by him. You boys don't seem to have his\nappetite for liquor. You are a member of Congress, and Elk was one of\nthe bravest ginerals in the war; and I don't see, if he saves his\nmoney and his health, but he is good enough even for Judge Dunlevy's\ngirl.\"\n\nJudge Dunlevy was the beau ideal of Jabel Blake, as the one eminent\nlocal statesman of the region round Ross Valley--the County Judge when\nJabel was a child, the Supreme Justice of the State, and now a\nDistrict Justice of the United States in a distant field. His\nreputation for purity, dignity, original social consideration, moral\nintrepidity, and direct Scotch sagacity had made his name a tower of\nstrength in his native State. To Jabel's clannish and religious nature\nJudge Dunlevy represented the loftiest possibilities of human\ncharacter; and that one of the two poor orphans--the sons of a\nwood-cutter and log-roller on the Alleghenies, and the victim of\nintemperance at last--whom Jabel had watched and partly reared,\nshould now be betrothed to Catharine Dunlevy, the judge's only\ndaughter, affected every remaining sentiment in Jabel's heart.\n\nAbsorbed in the contemplation of this honorable alliance, Jabel took\nout his account-book and absently cast up the additions, and so the\nlong delay at Baltimore caused no remarks and the landscapes slipped\nby until, like the sharp oval of a colossal egg, the dome of the\nCapitol arose above the vacant lots of the suburbs of Washington.\n\nA tall, handsome, manly gentleman in citizen black, standing\nexpectantly on the platform of the station, came up and greeted\nMacNair with the word,\n\n\"Arthur!\"\n\n\"Elk!\"\n\nAnd the brothers, legislator and soldier, stood contrasted as they\nclasped hands with the fondness of orphans of the same blood. They had\nno superficial resemblances, Arthur being small, clerical, freckled,\nand red-haired, with a staid face and dress and a stunted, ill-fed\nlook, like the growth of an ungracious soil; Elk, straight and tall,\nwith the breeding and clothing of a metropolitan man, with black eyes\nand black hair and a small \"imperial\" goatee upon his nether lip; with\nan adventurous nature and experience giving intonation to his regular\nface, and the lights and contrasts of youth, command, valor,\nsentiment, and professional associations adding such distinction that\nevery lady passenger going by looked at him, even in the din of a\ndepot, with admiration.\n\nTo Jabel Blake, who came up lugging an ancient and large carpet-bag,\nand who repelled every urchin who wanted the job of carrying it, Elk\nMacNair spoke cordially but without enthusiasm.\n\n\"Jabel,\" he said, \"if I hear you growl about money as long as you are\nhere, I'll take you up to the Capitol and lose you among the\ncoal-holes.\"\n\n\"It took many a grunt to make the money,\" said Jabel Blake, \"and it's\nnatural to growl at the loss of it.\"\n\nBy this time they had come to the street, and there in a livery\nbarouche were the superb broad shoulders, fringed from above with\nfleece-white hair, of Judge Dunlevy. Health, wisdom, and hale,\nhonorable age were expressed attributes of his body and face, and by\nhis side, the flower of noble womanhood, sat Catharine, his child,\nworthy of her parentage. Both of them welcomed Arthur MacNair with\nthat respectful warmth which acknowledged the nearness of his\nrelationship to the approaching nuptials, and the Judge said:\n\n\"Great credit to Jabel Blake as a representative citizen, in that his\neyes have seen the glory of these fine boys, to whom he has been so\nfast a friend!\"\n\nJabel's glassy eyes shone, and his mouth unclosed like a smile in a\nfossil pair of jaws.\n\n\"It's the nighest I ever come to being paid for my investment in Arty\nand Elk,\" he said, \"to get sech a compliment from Judge Dunlevy! They\n_are_ good boys, though they've cost me a powerful lot, and I hope\nthey'll save their money, stick to their church, and never forgit Ross\nValley, which claims the honor of a buildin' 'em up.\"\n\n\"Get up here, Jabel, and ride!\" cried Elk. \"Remember that coal-hole,\nold man!\"\n\n\"No! no!\" cried Jabel; \"I can walk. These fine carriages is expensive\nluxuries. They'll do for politicians, I 'spose, but not for business\nmen with limited means.\"\n\nThe Judge made Jabel Blake sit facing him, however, and they rattled\noff to the hotel, where Elk MacNair had secured a parlor and suite for\nhis brother in the retired end of the structure, commanding a view of\nNewspaper Row upon one side and of the Treasury facade on the other.\nThe long, tarnished mirrors, the faded tapestry, and the heavy,\nsoiled, damask curtains impressed Jabel Blake as parts of the wild\nextravagance of official society, and gave him many misgivings as to\nthe amount of his bill. He retained enough of his Scotch temperament,\nhowever, to make no ceremony about a glass of punch, which the General\nordered up for the old man, Arthur MacNair only abstaining, and the\nbeauty and amiability of the Judge's daughter, who sat at his side and\nbeguiled him to speak of his idolized village, his mills, his\nimprovements, and his new bank, softened his hard countenance as by\nthe reflection of her own, and touched him with tender and gratified\nconceptions of the social opportunities of his _proteges_. Miss\nDunlevy's face, with the clear intellectual and moral nature of her\nfather calmly looking out, expressed also a more emotional and more\nsympathetic bias. A pure and strong woman, whose life had ripened\namong the families and circles of the best in condition and influence,\nshe had never crossed to the meaner side of necessity, nor appreciated\nthe fact, scarcely palpable, even to her father, that he was poor. An\nentire life spent in the public service had allowed neither time nor\npropriety for improving his private fortune; and as his salary\ncontinued over the war era at the same modest standard which had\nbarely sufficed for cheaper years, he had been making annual inroads\nupon his little estate, which was now quite exhausted. His daughter\nmight have ended his heartache and crowned his wishes by availing\nherself of any of several offers of marriage which had been made to\nher; but the soldierly bearing, radiant face, and fine intellect of\nElk MacNair had conquered competition when first he sought, through\nher father's influence, a lieutenancy in the army.\n\nHis career had been brilliant and fortunate, and when he was brought\nin from the field dangerously wounded, her womanly ministrations at\nthe hospital had helped to set him upon his horse again, with life\nmade better worth preserving for the promise of her hand, surrendered\nwith her father's free consent. It was a love-match, without\nreservations or inquiries, the _rapport_ and wish of two equal\nbeings, kindred in youth, sympathy, and career, earnest to dwell\ntogether and absorbed in the worship of each other. Folded in full\nunion of soul as perfectly as the leaves of a book, which are in\ncontact at every point equally, they felt at this period the wistful\ntenderness of a marriage near at hand, and their eyes anticipated it,\nseeking each other out. She was cast in the large stature of her\nfather, and her dark brown hair and eyes betokened the stability of\nher character, while her graces of movement and speech no less\nrevealed her adaptability to the social responsibilities which she had\nsolely conducted since her mother's death. Together, Catharine and her\naffianced made a couple equal to the fullest destiny, and they won\npraise without envy from all.\n\n\"It is a happy fortuity,\" said Judge Dunlevy, putting aside his glass;\n\"Catharine's marriage to a worthy man, native to my own part of the\ncountry; Arthur's induction into national life; and hard-working Jabel\nBlake's final triumph with his bank! There is no misgiving in the mind\nof any of us. The way is all smooth. Perfect content, perfect love, no\nstain upon our honors or our characters: with such simple family\ndemocracies all over the land we vindicate the truthfulness of our\ninstitutions, and grow old without desponding of our country!\"\n\n\"I feel almost religiously happy,\" said Arthur, the Congressman; \"not\nfor myself, particularly; not for my mere election to Congress, for in\nour district there are many abler men to make representatives of--I\nhope none with more steadfast good intentions!--but Elk here always\nhad so much health, blood, wayward will, and brilliancy that I\nsometimes feared he might abandon the safe highways of labor and\nself-denial and try some dangerous short-cut to fortune. To see him\nsurvive the battle-field and begin the longer campaigns of peace with\na profession, a reputation, no entanglements, and such a wife, makes\nme a religious man. God bless you, brother Elk!\"\n\nGeneral MacNair said, in a jesting way, that Arthur was the truest,\nmost old-fashioned, and most ridiculously scrupulous brother that ever\ngrew up among the daisies; but he was affected, as were they all.\n\n\"Elk MacNair,\" asked Jabel Blake, in his hard, incisive, positive,\nbusiness voice, \"what do you mean to do after you are married?\"\n\nThe General looked at Jabel as if he were a little officious and with\nlarge capacities for being disagreeable.\n\n\"I have arranged to buy a partnership in a legal firm having the\nlargest practice in the North west. This is better than beginning\nalone and waiting to make a business.\"\n\n\"How much will that cost?\" persisted Jabel Blake, not remarking the\ngrowing repulsion with which the General answered, after some little\nembarrassment:\n\n\"One hundred and sixty thousand dollars.\"\n\n\"Why!\" cried Jabel Blake, \"that is nearly as much as it takes to start\nthe Ross Valley bank. Take care! Take care! Beware, Elk MacNair, of\ngetting into debt at your time of life. It makes gray hairs come. It\nbreaks up domestic pleasure. It mortgages tranquil years. Neither a\nborrower nor a lender be! That's Bible talk, and the Bible is not only\nthe best book for the family, but the best business book besides.\"\n\n\"I don't mean to run in debt,\" said the General, with a look, perhaps\nsurly; \"I mean to buy into the firm with cash.\"\n\n\"Bosh!\" said Jabel Blake, rising up, \"where did you get one hundred\nand sixty thousand dollars, Elk MacNair?\"\n\n\"If you were not claiming to its fullest extent the privilege of my\nfather's friend, Jabel, I should tell you that it was none of your\nbusiness! I will have made the money by the practice of law in the\nCity of Washington.\"\n\n\"Dear me, Elk,\" said his brother, quietly; \"I don't presume to be\nworth five thousand dollars, all told. But I suppose you have genius\nand opportunity, and the times are wondrous for men of acquaintance\nand enterprise.\"\n\nJabel Blake stared at Elk MacNair a long while without speaking.\n\nII.\n\nThe sudden revelation that Elk MacNair was very rich had, on the\nwhole, a depressing effect. Kate Dunlevy, who had expected to marry\npurely for love, found with a little chagrin that she was also\nmarrying for money. The Judge was led to remark upon the curiosities\nof a speculative age and a fluctuating currency, and said he longed\nfor the solid times of hard coin, cheap prices, easy stages, and a\nJeffersonian republic. As for Jabel Blake, he was too late for that\nday to deposit his bonds at the Treasury and obtain the currency for\nthe Ross Valley bank, so he went sauntering around the city, grim as a\ndefeated office-seeker.\n\nThe brothers also made some calls, and Arthur MacNair was puzzled and\nat the same time pleased, to find that his dashing junior knew\neverybody, had something to chat about with innumerable strangers or\nmembers, and was freely admitted to any public office he desired. They\ncame home at twilight, quite fatigued, and found Jabel Blake lying on\na bed in the inner chamber, fast asleep.\n\n\"Dreaming of his bank!\" said Elk MacNair; \"what a metallic soul must\nJabel's be! His very voice rattles like money. His features are cut\nhard as a face on a coin.\"\n\n\"Jabel has good points, Elk,\" said the Congressman; \"if you can\nunderstand the passion of the town builder you can apprehend him. He\nhas devoted his life to Ross Valley, and the only text of Scripture he\nfinds it hard to understand is, that he who ruleth his soul is greater\nthan he who buildeth a city.\"\n\nThe two brothers sat together in the main room; the day, at the\nwindows, was growing grayer, and they were silent for a while.\n\nThe face of Elk MacNair had been growing long during the whole\nafternoon, but with an assumed gayety he had sought to make the hours\npass pleasantly, and when his thoughtful and modest brother endeavored\nto argue with him that his legal labors were wearing him out, Elk\nMacNair turned the conversation off in a cheerful way by saying:\n\n\"Arthur, I have arranged that you shall have the chairmanship of a\nfirst-rate committee.\"\n\n\"How arranged it?\"\n\n\"Oh, these things can be managed, you know. Every good position in\nWashington has to be begged for, or brought about by strategic\napproaches. I know the Speaker and the Speaker's friends below him,\nand the old chairman of the committee where I wish you to be; and,\namong us all, you have obtained the rare distinction, for a new\nmember, of going to the head of one of the best of the second-class\ncommittees.\"\n\n\"I do not like this, Elk,\" said Arthur. \"I hope I am without ambition,\nparticularly of that sort which would annihilate processes and labors,\nand seek to obtain distinction by an easy path. I do not know that I\nshall make a speech during the whole of this Congress, although I\nshall try to be in my seat every day, and to vote when I am well\ninformed. What committee is it that you have been at such pains to put\nme at the head of it?\"\n\n\"The Committee on Ancient Contracts.\"\n\nArthur MacNair, who had not much color at the best of times, turned a\nlittle pale.\n\n\"Elk,\" said he, \"there is a bad sound in that word 'contracts.' Of\ncourse, I do not take much stock in the widespread scandal about our\nGovernment giving away contract work to do from base or personal\nconsiderations; but I have a little belief that one ought to avoid\neven the appearance of evil. I think I must refuse to go on that\ncommittee.\"\n\nElk MacNair seemed to grow darker and older, and his face assumed an\nintensity of expression which his brother did not perceive.\n\n\"Pshaw! Arty,\" he said, with agitation, \"everything here goes by\nfriends. You brought with you no renown, no superstition, nothing\nwhich would entitle you to the Speaker's consideration. He might have\nput you, but for me, away down on the Committee on Revolutionary\nPensions.\"\n\n\"I think I would like that committee,\" said Arthur MacNair quietly.\n\"In it I might be the means of doing gratitude to some old and needy\nhero. I like those tasks which involve no notoriety. At home, in our\nchurch and among our townsfolks, I always tried to get on the\nsocieties which are unknown to public fame; and there, any little\nthing which I can diligently do brings its own reward. I must decline\nto go on the Committee on Ancient Contracts, Elk!\"\n\nThe younger brother, with his dark burning eyes, met at this point the\ncool, unsuspecting glance of the country lawyer, and something in it\nseemed to embarrass even his worldliness, for he rose from his seat\nand threw up his hands impatiently.\n\n\"Oh! very well,\" he said. \"I thought I was doing you a service, and\nnow I see that it has been love's labor lost. In fact, I want you on\nthat committee to serve a little turn for me!\"\n\nThe country brother looked up with truthful surprise.\n\n\"For you, Elk?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" cried the younger, striding up and down the floor with the step\nof one made decisive by being put at bay; \"I want you upon that\ncommittee, not only to do me a turn but to do me a benefit; to come to\nmy rescue; to fulfil the expectations of many hard-working months; to\nmake me happy. Yes, Arthur, to make my fortune!\"\n\nArthur MacNair followed the rapid walk and excited voice of his\nbrother with astonishment. His small, thin, commonplace face seemed to\ndevelop lights and intelligences which were painful to him, the\nclearer his apprehensions became. He said, in a quiet, still voice, as\nif he also were interested now,\n\n\"I am afraid I am on the eve of hearing something bad, my brother. If\nit must come, let it all come.\"\n\n\"Arthur MacNair,\" said Elk, his voice raised above the ordinary pitch,\nand the recklessness of an officer in the ardor of battle showing in\nhis working face, quick talk, and rapid gestures, \"you _are_ on the\neve of hearing something. In your answer lies my destiny. I told you I\nwas a lawyer, and had made one hundred and sixty thousand dollars with\nwhich I was to buy my way into an attorney's firm and establish myself\nin business. It was true. I have made that engagement. My talent and\nenergy are recognized, and the place of which I spoke is waiting for\nme immediately after my marriage. The lady who is to be my bride is\ndivided from me by no other consideration than this--that I have not\nobtained the one hundred and sixty thousand dollars.\"\n\nThe Congressman grew paler, and he made an effort to say \"Go on,\" but\nhis voice was scarcely audible, and Elk MacNair saw that he seemed to\nbe suddenly sick. With self-reproach the younger brother observed all\nthis, but it was too late for him to falter; the time was too\nprecious.\n\n\"Arty,\" he said; \"oh, my brother, the whole story must be told and the\nfull crisis met. I am dependent upon you for the price of my\nhappiness; for the hand of my wife; for the key to my fortune; for all\nthat makes the future auspicious and the past clear. I am not a\nlawyer, as I have said, in the common sense in which, with modest\neffort and goodness, you have followed out your career. I am a\nlobbyist!\"\n\n\"I returned from the war flushed with my success, and told on every\nhand that an immediate and profound prosperity were close before me.\nThese politicians and speculators around the capital took me by the\nhand, flattered me, and showed me where my fortune was within my own\ngrasp. Little by little they led me on, using my reputation and\ninfluence to accomplish their ends; and my mode of living, my\nacquaintances, my expectations, increased with my facilities, until,\nchafing under the consciousness that I was working out the private\ninterests of others, I resolved to stake all upon one large hazard,\nconclude this wayward, self-accusing life, and depart from the\npurlieus of legislation. Up to the present time no stigma has been\nattached to my irregularities, none have suspected that I was less\nthan I claimed to be--a soldier and a gentleman, betrothed to the\nnoblest woman in the world. But this manner of living in the end works\nthe destruction of habits and reputation to any who continue in it. To\nbe brief, I have found political life nothing but a commerce. All have\ntheir price, and the highest sometimes sell out the cheapest. Men are\nestimated here by their boldness and breadth only, and a single\nsuccessful venture of the kind I have in hand will dismiss me from\nthis city rich and without exposure, and I swear never again to be\nseen in the lobbies of the Federal legislature. All my dependence in\nthis, however, is upon you. I watched your campaign in our native\nregion--how gallantly and how exceptionably you fought it, none knows\nso well!--and I took to heart the belief that, wishing to see me\ndistinguished, wedded, and settled, your old scruples might give way,\nand you would afford me this last, best chance. Shall I go on?\"\n\nThe small, thin face of the elder brother seemed to have lost all of\nits vitality; his fragile form was even more diminished; it might\nalmost have been paralysis which had seized him.\n\n\"Water!\" he muttered. \"I cannot talk.\"\n\nThe younger brother ran for a glass, and with a look of mingled guilt\nand affection sought to support him with his arm. Arthur MacNair\nfeebly repelled his assistance.\n\n\"You may finish, sir,\" he said.\n\n\"God forgive me,\" cried Elk MacNair, sinking into a chair; \"my\nbrother, I beseech you, do not think so evil of me as to suppose that\nin this enterprise I would compromise your character for one minute,\nand if it shall be necessary, all the fault shall be mine by open\nconfession. There is an old claim for postal services rendered many\nyears ago, which has reposed in the catacombs of one of the\ndepartments. The claimant has long been dead, and it was purchased for\na small sum from his heirs. There are some equities about the claim;\nthe attestations in its favor are purely documentary, and I have so\nentirely manipulated every instrumentality on the way to its passage,\njudicial, legislative, and executive, that if the Committee on Ancient\nContracts should report favorably upon it at the beginning of the\nsession, my confederates in the House will see that it goes along, and\nthe department will pay it immediately. Congress will then at once\nadjourn, within a day or two, for such is the usage here. With my\nshare of the money, which will be large, I will be a man of wealth and\nable to turn my back once and for all upon this Capitol. You are to be\nthe chairman of the committee; the other members, as is habitual here,\nwill intrust the whole matter to you; a few words explanatory of this\nclaim will send it on its way, and the crisis of my life will have\npassed.\"\n\nWhen the younger brother had finished, he also seemed to have expended\nhis strength in the effort he had made, and he sat limp and\ndespondent. The elder brother, on the contrary, appeared to recover\nhis strength by a vigorous effort of the will. He stood up. He walked\nstraight before his brother and looked down upon him with his\npenetrating blue eyes.\n\n\"Elk MacNair,\" he said, \"tell me--by our common origin, solemnly,\ntruthfully, and on your honor, tell me--will this claim stand the test\nof full investigation? Is it right?\"\n\n\"Arthur,\" said the younger, feebly, \"under that appeal I must speak\ntruthfully. The claim is irregular; perhaps it has been paid already.\nThere is no time for investigation. I have stocked the cards, and the\ntrick must be taken at once or never. You have this alternative. I can\ntake you off that committee, and I have a man in reversion who will\nget the post and pass the claim.\"\n\nThe stature of Arthur MacNair seemed to expand, and he became the\npositive spirit of the room.\n\n\"Not so,\" he said; \"it shall not pass, Elk MacNair, neither by my help\nnor by any other man's! You have acknowledged to me that there is no\njustice in this thing. You have made me a party to a fraud. You shall\nknow that the only oath I came here to take is that of allegiance to\nthe interests of the country. No brotherhood, no sympathy, no\nambition, no pity, nothing shall be able to swerve me from my full\nduty.\"\n\n\"What would you do, fanatic?\" cried Elk MacNair.\n\n\"I will denounce that claim upon the floor of Congress, and couple\nwith the denunciation the story of this infamous proposal you have\nmade to a member of Congress.\"\n\nThe younger brother gave a laugh.\n\n\"What nonsense, Arthur,\" he said. \"If you expect to find any large\nclass of Americans who will appreciate such heroism, exhibited at the\nsacrifice of your own blood and family, you do not know your\ncountrymen in these days. The only men who deal in sentiment in our\ntime are demagogues, who never feel it. A sneer will go up from all\nthe circles of the capital, from all the presses of the land, at a man\nwho seeks, in a political age, to play the part of the elder Brutus.\"\n\n\"Miserable, lost, dishonored man!\" said Arthur MacNair. \"In the\nvalleys of my State, in the quiet farming districts all through the\nUnion, among the hard-working, the penurious, and the plain--such as\nyou and your class despise--there are armies of men who would rise and\nmarch upon this capital if they appreciated the whole of the scene in\nwhich you have figured to-day! You would steal the money of the\npeople that you may buy a character and a position among your\ncountrymen. Shame upon the man who would defend the acquisition of\nsuch booty to wed the woman he loves.\"\n\nEvery word which Arthur MacNair had uttered, and most of all the last,\ncut like a knife into the pride of Elk MacNair.\n\n\"I thought I was pleading with my brother,\" he said hoarsely, \"not to\na stone. I shall say no more. I have placed myself in your power.\nRemember this: if my point is not carried within three days, or if it\nbe balked by your interference, I will blow out my brains. I have\nwalked to the door of hell on the battle-field, and I can go further.\"\n\nHe seized his hat and hurried away like a fury. Arthur MacNair stood\nmotionless an instant in the middle of the floor, and then, worn out\nwith the intensity of the scene, his limbs gave way beneath him, and\nhe fell unconscious.\n\nIn a moment the hard, strong face and giant form of Jabel Blake\nappeared over the threshold of the bedroom; he lifted his Congressman\nand counsel in his arms and carried him grimly to a sofa.\n\nIII.\n\nThe Honorable Perkiomen Trappe was much delighted, on the morning\nsubsequent to the occurrences related in our last chapter, to see\nJabel Blake walk down Pennsylvania Avenue with the pensive air of a\nman whose heart had been broken. The Honorable Perkiomen supposed that\nJabel had failed to receive some drawback or other upon his\nincome-tax, and he rejoiced in the reverses of the close and thrifty.\n\nBut Jabel Blake was now concerned solely with the sudden and violent\nrupture between the MacNair brothers. He had little acquaintance with\nElk MacNair, and no great fondness for him; but, being well informed\nas to the positive, combative traits of character in Arthur MacNair,\nJabel knew very well that what his counsel had threatened to do he\nwould do, though his own heart-strings might be sundered.\n\nThe deepest wish in Jabel's heart, next to establishing a national\nbank in Ross Valley, was to see the marriage between Kate Dunlevy and\nthe MacNair family brought to pass; yet such was his reverence for the\nDunlevys and so great his antagonism to the Washington Lobby that he\nwas half inclined to be himself the means of breaking off the match\nbetween the daughter of his great neighbor and exemplar and the son of\nhis old chum and companion.\n\nJabel took his way to the house of the old Circuit Judge, which was\none of a row of tall brown-stone structures not far from the city\nhall, and when he rang the bell a servant showed him to a library in\nthe second story, where the Judge was dictating certain judicial\nopinions to his daughter. The two elderly men retired to an adjacent\napartment, which seemed, from its appointments and the character of\nneedlework and literature strewn about, to be the _boudoir_ of Miss\nDunlevy; and the Judge, who was somewhat past the prime of life,\nplunged into a long story about Ross Valley and its early settlement,\nspeaking much of the time with his eyes closed in a sort of half\nreverie, while Jabel, who occupied a seat nearer to the library, was\nmeantime overhearing a conversation between Kate Dunlevy and young Elk\nMacNair, who had followed hard upon Jabel's heels. The old Judge\nmeantime, used to their voices, paused only to remark that he thought\nElk MacNair one of the strongest, most brilliant, and most promising\nmen in the nation, and then went on with his dissertation upon pioneer\ndays among the spurs of the Alleghenies. Jabel, however, who was an\nattentive, inquisitive busybody, and who lived in a part of the\ncountry where folks of quality and large pursuits were few, observed\nthat the two voices in the next room were lowered, and that their\nkey, while not so high, was yet even more startling than before.\n\n\"Kate,\" said Elk MacNair, \"I had counted upon my brother as an assured\nally in something of the most momentous importance to me at this\njuncture, before our marriage. My brother is a man of power, but of\nnarrow views, and I have unconsciously aroused his animosity. He is\nnot to be appeased. Nothing can divert him from his purpose.\n\n\"It can be nothing, if Arthur is the arbiter and your happiness the\nsubject,\" said Miss Dunlevy.\n\n\"It is a point of honor differently taken by two men,\" said Elk\nMacNair; \"and the issue is a matter of character. It is a matter of\nfortune besides, and if neither relents both will suffer.\"\n\nThese words were attended with some emotion which smote the rough\nfeelings of Jabel Blake, and he was a witness of some subsidiary\nendearments, besides, which softened his indignation against the young\nofficer. So he followed Elk MacNair from the house and accosted him\nupon the street.\n\n\"General,\" he said, \"I claim the privilege of a guardian over you\nboys--over your brother in particular, who is a true man and an\nobstinate one. I know the matter of your difference. If you do not\nyield, Arthur MacNair will keep his word! You will be exposed on the\nfloor of Congress, exactly as he promised, and your engagement with\nKitty Dunlevy broken forever.\"\n\n\"Jabel Blake,\" answered the soldier, \"I know just what I am about. I\ntold my brother that I would blow my own head off if he sacrificed me\nfor a sentiment. And just that I mean to do.\"\n\n\"I know the devil in the MacNair blood,\" said Jabel Blake; \"but you\nare playing a false part and Arthur a true one. He fought his campaign\nagainst the corruptions and chicanery of power, and he will trample\nyou out like a snake.\"\n\n\"He thinks he's correcting a boy,\" said Elk MacNair; \"he shall find me\na soldier.\"\n\n\"And you will find him a Christian soldier, truer to his allegiance\nthan to rob his country!\"\n\n\"Pshaw!\" laughed Elk MacNair; \"a skinflint who has raked up fortune\nwith his fingers, ground down his laborers, pinched his soul, and\nstooped his stature for money, has no right to be my chaplain, Jabel\nBlake! You have grown rich like a scavenger. What matter if I bring\ndown fortune with my rifle, though the American eagle be the bird. I\nwould spare my body some of the dirty crawling you have done to get\nyour bank!\"\n\n\"Base boy!\" cried Jabel Blake, with more contempt than anger; \"I will\nlive to teach you that a life of thrift and honest toil is above your\npower to insult it. You can neither repel me nor break your brother's\nheart. The time will come when you will weep to deserve the respect\nyou have lost from these gray hairs.\"\n\nHe passed away with his old, heavy, deliberate gait, and left the\nyoung man almost repentant.\n\nIV.\n\nThe galleries and floors of the House of Representatives were crowded,\nas was usual upon early working days of the session. Among the members\nin a retired seat his red shock of hair, clerical dress, and thin,\nworn, commonplace, freckled face denoted the new member from the\nScotch district of Pennsylvania. The gay daughter of the Honorable\nPerkiomen Trappe, picking him out from the diplomatic gallery by the\naid of her opera-glass, remarked that she mourned for her country when\nEurope could behold such a specimen of homespun among American\nCongressmen.\n\n\"And what's more, pet,\" said the Honorable Perkiomen, \"he's a bin put\non a fat committee. He has the cheer in the room on Ancient Contracts,\nand your unfortnit father is only a member under him. I think that\nstaving cavalry brother of his'n, Elk MacNair, fixed his feed for\nhim!\"\n\nThey turned to look at Elk MacNair, sitting in the gallery near by\nwith the venerable Judge and the Judge's daughter. His dark goatee,\neyes, and hair, were set in a face unusually pale and intense, and his\nmanly and refined worldly bearing suited his associations. Kate\nDunlevy, with her charms of bloom, repose, and stateliness, looked\nlike the wife of such a public man.\n\n\"Elk,\" said she, \"you do not seem to be at ease to-day. You are pale\nand nervous, and you have stared down there at your brother's seat\ntill people are taking notice of you.\"\n\n\"I am suffering a little, Kitty; that is all. My case comes up within\nfive minutes, and I might as well blow my head off if it shall stick\nanywhere.\"\n\nHis eyes seemed to flame out with a reckless light as he said this.\n\n\"Arthur has a sick look as well,\" said Kate. \"This public life is too\nexciting for him. See how nervously he sips that glass of water.\"\n\n\"Sick!\" exclaimed Elk MacNair, with a voice of bitterness, yet with a\nmelancholy glance of admiration in the direction of the Congressman;\n\"he is more dangerous than sick. His will is sublime, Kate; nothing\ncan soften it, not even pity.\"\n\nThe committees were now being called by the Speaker, and chairman\nafter chairman rose to make his report. As the list diminished more\nand more, and the Committee upon Ancient Contracts approached its\nturn, there were no two such livid, deathly faces in all the crowded\nhouse as these two brothers wore. Elk MacNair's had a settled\nferocity. The youthfulness and comely moods were gone from it, and the\nburnt-out countenance of a man of the world looked dead and ashen\nabove the exhausted reservoirs of a diseased mind. Nothing was left\nbut the last chance before despair, and apprehensive of the failure of\nthis hope also, his gloved hand, resting upon a pocket hidden at his\nhip, sought support from the hilt of a pistol secreted there. Was\n_this_ the meaning of the sullen and ghastly determination glaring\nfrom his eyes? Yes, love and death were almost mated; and so in every\nbusy Congress do the spectres of temptation and ill-omen lurk in wait.\n\nThe country brother on the floor showed also his tenacious purpose in\nhis compressed lips, straight, expanded breast and shoulders, and\nclear and direct but grave look. No extremity of occasion could make a\nheroic figure of him, but in his plain face was the beauty of moral\ncourage. He rose to his feet when the Speaker cried:\n\n\"Committee on Ancient Contracts is next in order. The gentleman from\nPennsylvania!\"\n\nThe people in the galleries were not disappointed that such a homely\nman should have no voice nor grace, and that he spoke only with the\ngravest effort.\n\n\"The gentleman's voice is inaudible to the chair,\" said the Speaker.\n\nBut Elk MacNair had heard it from where he sat. He had distinguished\nthe fitful words:\n\n\"The committee reports against the ---- claim for postal services,\ndesires that it do not pass, and the chairman wishes to make a\npersonal explanation relative to the claim.\"\n\n\"Kitty,\" said Elk MacNair, in a coarse whisper, \"my brother has broken\nmy heart!\"\n\n\"Stay!\" said Miss Dunlevy; \"he staggers in his seat as if he were\nabout to fall. A page has run to him with a letter. He reads it. Elk,\nfor Heaven's sake, go to his help! He is dying!\"\n\nThere was a rush of members about the new chairman of committee.\nConfusion reigned upon the floor of Congress. The lobby brother had\napprehended it all. He cleared the gallery at a run, passed a familiar\ndoorkeeper like a dart, and raised his senior to his breast.\n\n\"Arty,\" he whispered, \"may Heaven forgive me! I repent of my folly and\nwickedness, and entreat you to speak to me!\"\n\n\"Heaven has forgiven you, Elk MacNair!\" muttered the spent\nCongressman. \"Your father's friend has spared your fame and my\nfeelings at the expense of his fortune. It has taken the bank of Jabel\nBlake--the dream of his life--to save you from a dishonored name, and\nto give you a wife too worthy for you!\"\n\nHe put a piece of paper in the lobbyist's hands. It said:\n\n     \"Arthur, I have given you the last gift in my power--a\n     costly and a dear one--to keep your brother from disgrace,\n     and to save you both remorse. I have bought the ---- claim,\n     and destroyed it, but Ross Valley has lost the bank.\n\n                                         \"JABEL BLAKE.\"\n\nV.\n\nOn the terrace of the Capitol, while all this was occurring, a gaunt,\ngigantic, aged figure might have been seen, looking away into the city\nbasking in the plain at his feet, with almost the bitterness of\nprophecy. He carried an old worn carpet-bag, and a railroad ticket\nappeared in his hat-band. It was Jabel Blake, shaking the dust of the\ncapital city from his feet!\n\nTo him the soft and purple panorama brought no emotions, as pride of\ncountry or aesthetic associations; and even the bracing savor of the\ngale upon the eminence seemed laden, to his hard regard, with the\ncorruptions and excesses of a debauched government and a rank society.\nThe river, to him, was but the fair sewer to this sculptured\nsepulchre. The lambent amphitheatre of the inclosing ridges was like\nthe wall of a jail which he longed to cross and return no more. He saw\nthe dark granite form of the Treasury Department, and groaned like one\nwhose heart was broken there. The bank of Ross Valley was never to be!\n\nJabel thought in one instant of the inquiries which should be\naddressed to him on his return, the prying curiosity of the hamlet,\nthe strictures of his neighbors and laborers, the exultation of his\nenemies, the lost chance of his cherished village to become the mart\nof its locality and dispense from its exchequer enterprise and aid to\nfarms and mines and mills.\n\n\"The good God may make it up to my children some day,\" he said; \"but\nthe bank is never to be in the life of old Jabel Blake!\"\n\nSo Jabel went home and met with all obtuseness the flying rumors of\nthe country. His worst enemies said that he had fallen from grace\nwhile in Washington, and \"bucked\" with all his bonds against a faro\nbank. His best friends obtained no explanation of his losses. He kept\nhis counsel, grew even sterner and thriftier than he had ever been,\nand only at the Presbyterian church, where he prayed in public\nfrequently at the evening meetings, were glimpses afforded of his\nrecollections of Washington by the resonant appeals he made that the\nmoney-changers might be lashed out of the temples there, and\ndesolation wrought upon them that sold doves.\n\nThere was no bank at Ross Valley, but people began to say that old\nJabel Blake had particles of gold in the flinty composition of his\nlife, and that his trip to Washington had made him gentler and wider\nin his charities. He was attentive to young children. He encouraged\nyoung lovers. He lifted many errant people to their feet, and started\nthem on their way to a braver life of sacrifice. And fortune smiled\nupon him as never before. His mills went day and night, stopping never\nexcept on Sabbaths. The ground seemed to give forth iron and lime\nwherever he dug for it. The town became the thriftiest settlement in\nthe Allegheny valleys, and Jabel Blake was the earliest riser and the\nhardest delver in the State.\n\nIt happened at the end of two years that rheumatism and an\noverstrained old age brought Jabel Blake to bed, and a flood, passing\ndown the valley, aroused him, despite advice, to his old indomitable\nleadership against its ravages. He returned to his rest never to\narise; for now a fever laid hold upon the old captain, and he talked\nin his delirium of Judge Dunlevy and his bank, and he was attended all\nthe while by Arthur MacNair.\n\nOne night, in a little spell of relief, Jabel Blake opened his eyes\nand said,\n\n\"Arty, I dreamed old Jabel Blake was in heaven, and that he had\nfounded a bank there!\"\n\n\"Jabel,\" said the young Congressman, \"you must have some treasure laid\nup there, old friend. And not only in heaven, but in this world also.\nLook on this happy family redeemed by your sacrifice!\"\n\nJabel Blake opened his eyes wider, and they fell upon Judge Dunlevy.\n\n\"This is a great honor,\" he said; \"Ross Valley brings her great\ncitizen back.\"\n\n\"No!\" cried the Judge, \"it is you, Jabel, who have brought us all to\nyour bedside to do ourselves honor. Here are Elk MacNair and my\ndaughter, who owe all their fortune to your fatherly kindness, and who\nhave come to repay you the uttermost farthing. Providence has\nappreciated your sacrifice. They bring for your blessing, my grandson,\nand the name they have given him is Jabel Blake.\"\n\n\"Jabel,\" said General MacNair, \"take with our full hearts this money.\nIt has been honestly earned with the capital of your bank. We return\nit that you may fulfil the dream of your life!\"\n\nJabel Blake took the money, and a smile overspread his face. His hard\nlineaments were soft and fatherly now, and their tears attested how\nwell he was esteemed. He drew Elk MacNair's ear to his lips, and said\nfeebly, and with his latest articulate breath,\n\n\"General, you owe me two years' interest!\"\n\nThey laid Jabel Blake away by his fathers, and on the day of the\nfuneral Ross Valley was crowded like a shrine.\n\n\n\n\nPOTOMAC RIVER.\n\n\n    Brave river in the mountains bred,\n      And broadening on thy way,\n    So stately that thy stretches seem\n      The bosom of the bay!\n    Thy growth is like the nation's life,\n      Through which thy current flows--\n    Already past the cataracts\n      And widening to repose.\n\n    Thy springs are at the Fairfax stone,\n      Thy great arms northward course,\n    They join and break the mountain bars\n      With ever rallying force;\n    But in thy nature is such peace,\n      The beaten mountains yield,\n    And lie their riven battlements\n      Within thy silver shield.\n\n    Through battle-fields thy runnels wind,\n      In fame thy ferries shine;\n    Thy ripples lave the ancient stones\n      On Freedom's boundary line;\n    Where every slave the border crossed,\n      A living host repass'd,\n    And of the sentries of thy fords,\n      John Brown shall be the last!\n\n    Yet, O Potomac! of thy peace\n      Somewhat let faction feel,\n    And Northern Pilgrims patient hear\n      Of Mosby and MacNeill.\n    The long trees bloom where Stuart cross'd,\n      And weep where Ashby bled,\n    And every echo in thy hills\n      Seems Stonewall Jackson's tread.\n\n    The love we bore in other days\n      No difference can bar,\n    And truce was kept at Vernon's grave\n      However rolled the war.\n    Like thee, oh river! human states\n      By many a rapid rage,\n    Before they reach the deeper tides\n      And glass the perfect age.\n\n    Brief is the span since Calvert's huts\n      Were still the Indian's sport,\n    And Braddock's columns stumbled on\n      The borderer Cresap's fort,\n    Till now the tinted hills grow fond\n      Around yon marble height,\n    Where Freedom calmly rules a realm\n      That tires her eagle's flight.\n\n    And still the wild deer sip thy springs,\n      The wild duck haunt thy coves,\n    And all the year the fisher fleets\n      Bask o'er thine oyster groves;\n    The strange new bass thy trout pursue.\n      And where the herring spawn,\n    The blue sky opens to let through\n      Thine own majestic swan.\n\n    Haste, Nature! Raze yon shiftless halls,\n      Where pride penurious bides,\n    The while the richness of the hills\n      Runs off to choke the tides;\n    Where every negro cabin stood\n      A freeman's hearthside warm,\n    And broad estates of bramble wood\n      Expunge in many a farm!\n\n    Fill and revive these fair arcades,\n      O race to Freedom born!\n    The tinkling herds that roam the glades,\n      The barge's mellow horn,\n    The lonesome sails that come and go\n      Repeat the wish again:\n    The ardent river yearns to know\n      Not memories, but MEN!\n\n\n\n\nTELL-TALE FEET.\n\n\nThe din of the day is quiet now, and the street is deserted. The last\nbacchanal reeled homeward an hour ago. The most belated cabman has\npassed out of hearing. The one poor wretch who comes nightly to the\nwater-side has closed her complaint; I saw her shawl float over the\nparapet as she flung her lean arms against the sky and went down with\na scream. Here, in the busiest spot of the mightiest city, there is no\nhuman creature abroad; but footsteps are yet ringing on the\ndesolateness. They are heard only by me. There are two of them; the\nfirst light, timorous, musical; the other harsh and heavy, as if shod\nwith steel. I recognize them with a thrill; for they have haunted me\nmany years, and they are speaking to me now. The one is soothing and\npleading, and it implores me to write; but the second is like the\nstriking of a revengeful knell. \"Confession and Pardon,\" says the one;\n\"Horror and Remorse,\" echoes the other. They tinkle and toll thus\nevery midnight, when my hour of penance arrives and I have tried to\nregister my story. It is almost finished now. Let me read the pages\nsoftly to myself:\n\n\"My life has been a long career of suffering. The elements, whose\nchanges and combinations contribute to the pleasure of my species,\nhave arrayed themselves against me. I am fashioned so delicately that\nthe every-day bustle of the world provokes exquisite and incessant\npain. Embodied like my fellows, my nerves are yet sensitive beyond\ngirlishness, and my organs of sight, smell, and hearing are\nmarvellously acute. The inodorous elements are painfully odorous to\nme. I can hear the subtlest processes in nature, and the densest\ndarkness is radiant with mysterious lights. My childhood was a\nprotracted horror, and the noises of a great city in which I lived\nshattered and well-nigh crazed me. In the dead calms I shuddered at\nthe howling of winds. I fancied that I could detect the gliding\nrevolution of the earth, and hear the march of the moon in her\nattendant orbit.\n\n\"My parents loved me tenderly, and, failing to soothe or conciliate\nme, they removed from the busy city to a secluded villa in the\nsuburbs. Those labors which necessitated abrupt or prolonged sound\nwere performed outside our grounds. The domestics were enjoined to\nconduct their operations with the utmost quietude. Carriages never\ncame to the threshold, but stopped at the lodge; the drives were\nstrewn with bark to drown the rattle of wheels; familiar fowls and\nbeasts were excluded; the pines were cut down, though they had moaned\nfor half a century; the angles of the house were rounded, that the\nwind might not scream and sigh of midnight, and the flapping of a\nshutter would have warranted the dismissal of the servants. Thick\ncarpets covered the floors. My apartments lay in a remote wing, and\nwere surrounded with double walls, filled with wool, to deaden\ncommunication. Goodly books were provided, but none which could arouse\nfears or passions. Fiery romances were prohibited, and histories of\nturmoil and war, with theology and its mournful revelations, and\nmedicine, which revived the bitter story of my organism. My library\nwas stocked with dreamy and diverting compositions--old Walton, the\npensive angler; the vagaries of ancient Burton, and the placid\nessayists of the Addisonian day. Of poets I had Cowper and Wordsworth,\nwho loved quiet life and were the chroniclers of domestic men and\nmanners. Pictures of shadowy studios and calm lakes, unfrequented\ncoverts and sleepy wayside inns, covered my wall. The tints of\ntapestry, panel, and furniture were subdued, and the sunshine which\nmellowed a stained window was softened by an ingenious arrangement of\nshades and refractors. Art opposed her quaintest contrivances against\nthe intense and violent moods of Nature, and my retirement was secure\nfrom the inroads of all except my careful guardians.\n\n\"But I was still unhappy, and the prey of vivid fancies. This privacy\nsuggested the great world without, where men were wrestling with\ndangers. I imagined ships upon stormy seas, and whirlwinds around\nmountain-homes; the chaos of cities, the rout of armies, dim arctic\nsolitudes, where the icebergs tumbled apart and the frozen seas split\nasunder. They had banished painful occurrences, but the sensitive\norganism could not be destroyed, and I bore up until almost insane,\nstruggling to be cheerful when stunned and dazzled. At last, when my\nmother stole into my room one day--it was October, I think, for I\ncould hear the tiniest leaves dropping to the grass far below--I laid\nmy head wearily in her lap and covered my ears with my hands. My eyes\nwere filled with tears.\n\n\"'My dear mother, I cannot bear this life. I suffer as of old, though\nthere be not a mote across the sun nor a breath in the air. If my mind\ncould be led from these consciousnesses, I might be calm.'\n\n\"'Luke,' said my mother, 'you need a companion.'\n\n\"The thought was a new one, and so thrilled me.\n\n\"'No, mother,' I replied; 'strong, healthy beings could not exist thus\ncloistered.'\n\n\"'For less than money,' she responded, 'they have done more.'\n\n\"'We should not agree,' I said; 'I would be peevish and he would\ndespise me.'\n\n\"'Your companion must be a woman, my son.'\n\n\"A succession of short chills passed through every nerve, and a\nmoment's faintness possessed me.\n\n\"'It must not be,' I pleaded; 'a restless, chatting, plotting woman\nwould be worse than all.'\n\n\"My mother marked my rising agitation and glided away.\n\n\"'Whatever can relieve you, dear Luke,' she said, 'your father shall\nobtain.'\n\n\"I now fancied that they believed me mad, and that a keeper was to be\nintroduced to me, under the guise of a companion. I formed many mental\nportraits of this fierce person, and they kept me awake through the\nlong watches. I even meditated escape, and unclosed my casement with\nthat design, but the sunlight, the bird songs, and the zephyrs rushed\ninto my window and staggered me like so many sentinels. One day I\nslept fitfully, and dreamed that I was poor and orphaned, with the\nalternatives of death or work before me. I had wandered to a village\nand thrown myself beneath some elms, with a horrible despair sealing\nmy eyelids. Suddenly the grass was stirred by some human footfalls,\nand two soft voices were speaking close beside me.\n\n\"'It is strange,' said the first voice; 'he is pale and delicate, but\nwith no evidences of heavier afflictions.'\n\n\"'You do not know him,' murmured the other; 'wait and see!'\n\n\"A face bent down to mine, and the lips of a woman touched my cheek. I\nstarted in my sleep, caught my breath gaspingly, and quivered like an\naspen.\n\n\"'This is indeed terrible,' said the soft voice compassionately; 'but\ndo not despair. It cannot be nature. It must be habit, or bashfulness,\nor the effect of some childish and forgotten fright. Cheer up, and\nhope!\"\n\n\"'Be kind to him, Heraine,' resumed the other; 'you are my last resort,\nand becoming his companion you become my child. Do not vex, do not excite\nhim. Be yourself--always calm, gentle, and affectionate--and the kindness\nwhich you show my boy may God return to you in mercy and blessing!'\n\n\"I unclosed my eyes; the scene was resolved to my quiet library.\nSomething glided through the door, but a form from the other side\nflung a shadow across my face. A premonition of the keeper thrilled me\na moment, but I turned slowly at length and looked into the intruder's\nface.\n\n\"A woman, or rather a girl with a woman's face, serene and placid, as\nif never ruffled by care or passion, sat between me and the window,\nand the gloomy light softened her calm countenance. As I looked up her\nlashes fell, and her blue eyes were bent fixedly upon the floor. She\nseemed like one of my sedate portraits, which had come down from its\ncase. She waited, apparently, for some sign of recognition, or until\nmy surprise should have passed away, and did not move while I ran her\nover with keen curiosity. She was, probably, of my own age, though her\nself-possession might have stamped her as much older; but the bloom of\nher cheek and her bosom just ripening were indices of a girl's year's.\nShe raised her eyes at length and bade me good afternoon in a voice\nwhich reminded me of the faintest lullaby. The quiet tone was seconded\nby an assuring glance, and directly we were conversing without\nrestraint, as if friends of years rather than acquaintances of an\nhour.\n\n\"Heraine was the impersonation of composure. The neutral tint of dress\ncorresponded with the smooth tresses of her brown hair. Her touch was\nmagnetic, and petulancy vanished at her smile as at a charm. Her\nintelligence was, doubtless, the secret of her power. She divined my\nmoods without inquiry, and cheered them without effort. She led me out\nof the unhealthy atmosphere engendered by my sensitiveness, and I\nsometimes forgot my disability for hours. She was as good as she was\ncapable, and as amiable as she was resolute. We fraternized\nimmediately, and I felt all the newness of a regenerated life. My\ntemperament was fitful as of yore, but the gloomy spectres vanished;\nand my attention being weaned from the slighter occurrences of\nnature, I was no longer racked by their tremors and jars. The soft\nface of Heraine seemed to hush all chaos, and when she smiled I\nthought that the very earth had ceased to roll. When her large liquid\neyes were fully opened upon me, I seemed to be looking into the hungry\nblue of the sky, and carried aloft by the look beyond the influence of\nmatter. For the moment my nerves grew numb, the compass of my senses\nnarrowed to her wondrous face, and the fetters which bound me to it\nwere forged of gold.\n\n\"The months went by like the stars, which wheel eternally, but seem\nmotionless as we watch them. Sometimes we read aloud, but our voices\nwere low and lulling, as if quieter than silence. Then we talked of my\ncalm paintings, shadowing deeper lonelinesses in them. But it was my\nhighest rapture to sit in stillness for hours while Heraine, cushioned\nat my feet, made cunning embroideries, like some facile poet whose\nfingers were dropping rhymes.\n\n\"I remarked that our conversations were progressive. My companion led\nme gradually into forbidden themes, as if to strengthen and embolden\nme. We went forth, in fancy, from our shadowy chamber, through deep\ngroves, into twilights, beneath soft skies, even into the glare of the\nsun, and, at last, among the storms and the seas. I may have quivered,\nbut I was not shocked; for the wrack and roar of the universe were\ndrowned in the quietness of her voice. Then we walked abroad a little\nway, and, though pained, I endured; for she did not abuse these\nsuccesses. She had travelled in far countries, and often read me\nfriendly letters which attested how well the world esteemed her.\nSometimes her acquaintances came to the house, but never to my room;\nand once or twice she was absent a whole day, when my nervousness\nreturned. There was one correspondent whose missives were never read\nto me--a fine, bold hand, which at length became familiar. Their\nreceipt pleased her, I thought, and once I ventured to say,\n\n\"'Heraine, you have a pleasant letter there.'\n\n\"She only blushed very much, and all her quietness was gone for a\nmoment.\n\n\"As the months expanded into years, a new feeling engendered from our\nintimacy. I did not comprehend it at first. It crept upon me like the\nunfolding of a new sense, or the gradual realizing of the earliest\nprofound thought. An unexpected event gave it recognition.\n\n\"The boldly-indorsed letters came twice a month at first, afterward\nfour times, and finally twice, thrice, and even five times a week.\nHeraine was quick and flushed. She passed but two or three hours daily\nin my apartment, and substituted for the embroidery a dress of such\nbright hues that it dazzled my eyes. One day she took her accustomed\nseat, with a face subdued to sadness and an irresolute manner.\n\n\"'Luke,' she said, after a long pause, 'we have passed many days\npleasantly together?'\n\n\"She did not wait for me to speak, though I thrilled and turned deadly\nwhite.\n\n\"'And because so pleasantly, I contemplate my farewell with regret.'\n\n\"'Your farewell, Heraine?'\n\n\"'Yes,' she said firmly; 'to-day--this afternoon--this hour--I bid\nadieu to Glengoyle!'\n\n\"I fell forward in my seat, forcing down my heart, which sobbed and\nswelled, and the whole world rang, flared, and burst into violence. If\nthe seas had opened their fountains and the crust of the globe crushed\nup, there would have been no greater chaos. But in my faintness and\nagony I caught the blue eye which had soothed and melted me so often,\nand, clasping my hands, I fell at her knees and said,\n\n\"'Heraine, I love you!'\n\n\"It was her time to tremble now, and I interpreted the pallor of her\ncheek as a signal of hope.\n\n\"'I know that I love you,' I said; 'if the earth and the stars were to\nbe blotted out, and you remain, I should not miss them. You are my\nuniverse. Without you there is no creation, and the elements are at\nwar. If you leave me, you have left only a bright space in a wretched\neternity. No voice but yours can say \"peace\" to me. Be merciful and\nremain!'\n\n\"She was moved with my appeal, and tears came to her eyes.\n\n\"'I did not know that it had come to this,' she said. Then her\ncomposure returned, and she raised me with a smile.\n\n\"'If you would win any woman,' she said meaningly, 'you must first be\na man. You are not a man, Luke. You are a child! You have shut the\nsunlight from you, and the trill of a thrush pierces you like an\narrow. Would you cage your wife in the gloominess of this sepulchre?\nWould you hush her songs, and tremble beneath her caresses, and die in\nthe delights of her love? Go! Open the window of this vault! Mingle\nwith the crowds of cities! Ascend into the mountains! Cross the seas!\nBecome worthy of my affection, and then entreat me again!'\n\n\"She had shown me the abject thing I was. Her conditions were harder\nthan death; but the hope she had spoken was like a glimpse of Heaven,\nand I answered,\n\n\"'Heraine, I will do it!'\n\n\"In a month I set out for my travels. An easy coach conveyed me to\nLondon, and the third day I lay sick in Paris. Sore of body and brain,\nstrained in nerve and stunned in sense, I persisted in my resolve, and\nwas whirled, more dead than alive, across the Continent to Berlin. In\nthe period of three months I had traversed all the leading kingdoms\nand pushed my purpose to the sandy banks of the Nile. Every moment in\nthis journey was an infinity of torture; but in the bitterest pangs I\nremembered the divine consummation, and kept on. My infirmities were\nincreased rather than diminished. In the deepest thunder I could hear\nthe delving of the beetle; and though the whole vault blazed with\nelectric light, I could see the twinkle of the glow-worm. But among\nthe multitude of noises which haunted me, the most persistent were the\nfootfalls of men. There were pauses in the lives of all other beings.\nThe weasel and the hyena rested sometimes, and I could avoid their\nhaunts, but men were forever alert and ubiquitous. I heard them in\nabysses, upon peaks, and in wildernesses. They trod upon my nerves;\nthey crushed sleep from my soul. I closed my ears in vain; I fled\nwithout refuge; I prayed without avail. The patter of little children,\nthe footfall of the maiden, the elastic pace of the youth, the racking\nlimp of the cripple, the veteran hobbling upon his wooden stump, the\nconfused tread of crowds, the steady tramp of soldiers--these tortured\nme by daylight, and I kept penance at midnight with the going of\noutcasts and vagrants.\n\n\"I learned to classify these footfalls. My sensations of them were so\nkeen that my memory retained them. I recognized individuals, not by\ntheir faces but by their feet. A solitary tourist met me among the\nruins of Luxor; I knew his tread, though months had elapsed, among the\nthousands on London Bridge. A gypsy family, whom I passed on the\nSpanish sierras, went under my window in Paris, and I missed the feet\nof the lad who had been hanged. Ten thieves were marched to the\npillory in Kiev; I counted the paces of the four who escaped, from a\nclosed diligence on the Simplon. I lost not one among the millions of\nfootfalls. But there were two which I distinguished every where. When\nI pursued, they retreated; when I fled, they followed me. They were\nlike two echoes in different keys; and one of them I loved, the other\nI hated. The first was soft, tinkling, harmonious, like a memory\nrather than a sound; the other was firm, vigorous, and vehement, and\nit kept time with the soft footstep, as if to drown it to my ears.\nWhen I was fagged and wretched, the light footfall approached me; but\nwhen, inspirited, I rose to behold its owner, it died away in the\nthunder of its companion tread.\n\n\"At last I embarked for America, and when the land disappeared I said\nto myself, 'At sea, at least, no footfalls can follow.' But one night,\nwhen the clangor of the screw drove me upon deck, I heard, far astern,\nthrough the deep fog, the sound of two haunting feet. Next morning a\nswifter steamer overtook us. The waves revelled between, and the winds\nwere high, but above the bellow of our engines and the elements, those\nthrilling footfalls rang out. I caught a glimpse of a familiar\nsomething, as the rival craft went by, and reeled and fell upon the\ndeck.\n\n\"I found New York the noisiest city in the world, and felt that a\nweek's tenure would drive me mad. A fire occurred in Broadway the\nnight of my arrival, and the din of the mobs which ran to its relief\nwas greater than all the combined clamors of Europe. So I resorted to\na beautiful village called Wyoming, in the heart of the Susquehanna\nmountains, and passed the month of September in comparative quiet. If\nany place in the world is shut in from brawls and storms, it is this\nhistoric valley. Its reminiscences were sad and painful to me, but its\nscenes were like soft dreams.\n\n\"During a part of my tenure in the village I missed my shadowy\nattendants; but when, one day, I ascended to Prospect Rock, I heard\namid the hum of farms and mines and mills, those same audible\nrepetitions floating up the sides of the mountain. The valley grew dim\nupon my sight, and I hastened nervously to my cottage. Thenceforward I\nseldom lost them. When I penetrated the wild glen of the Lackawanna,\nor climbed the Umbrella Tree, or ventured into the Wolf's Den, or sat\nupon Queen Esther's Rock, or sailed upon Harvey's Lake, they followed\nme, the one lulling, the other maddening--invisible but omnipresent\ntypes of the good and the evil which forever hover in the air.\n\n\"One day I ventured to Falling Waters, a reservoir which is\nprecipitated from a cliff, called Campbell's Ridge, into a gorge of\nthe Shawnee Mountains. The deafening roar of the cataract would be\nalmost deathly to me; but, strengthened by the promise of Heraine, I\ndetermined to add this achievement to the long list of inflictions\nendured for her sake.\n\n\"I made the ascent on foot, and could see, from the base of the ridge,\nthe skein of foam shining through the pines in its everlasting flight\ndown the rocks. I became accustomed to the sound as I gradually\napproached, and mused, with gladness, of an early return to England.\nHeraine would acknowledge my vindication. Suffering more anguish from\na sunbeam or a song than others from the knout or the rack, I had yet\nrun the gauntlet of the intensest horrors, cheered by the certainty of\nher regard. She would confess her error. We should shut out the world\nagain from our shadowy home at Glengoyle, and go down together, hand\nin hand, to a deeper stillness. As I mused thus I heard the haunting\nfootfalls again, going up the mountain before me. To my delight, their\nattendant demon was inaudible, and I pursued them rapturously. The\nrush of waters grew louder. They had moaned before; they shrieked and\nscreamed now, as if in the agony of their suicidal leap. But, clear\nand musical, above the hell of sound rang the tinkling feet which had\nled me around the globe.\n\n\"I called aloud. I quickened my pace. I could see only in glimpses\nthrough my tears; but along the steep sinuosities of the path\nsomething fluttered and vanished, and fluttered again--I recognized\nHeraine.\n\n\"I knew now the fidelity of her affection. She had followed my invalid\nwanderings, to be near me in want and prostration. I could have knelt\nin the aisle of the dim woods, with God's choir of waters pealing\nbefore me, to weep my gratitude. But as the figure of Heraine\ndisappeared above, those other abhorred footfalls rang keenly below.\nDeep, rapid, and elastic, they were sonorously defined above the clash\nof the cataract. I fled, with my hands upon my ears.\n\n\"On and on! winding among boles, creeping beneath branches, climbing\nledges, vaulting over fissures and chasms, I reached the open plain at\nlast, and halted unnerved upon the brink of the abyss.\n\n\"The glory of the prospect filled me with exquisite pain. A mist,\narched by a delicate rainbow, rose from the tumbling flood, and the\nsunny valley was visible, at intervals, beyond it, inclosed by blue\nmountains and intersected by the pale, ribbon-like Susquehanna. It was\nmy fate to endure, not to enjoy; but at this moment the cataract was\nforgotten in a deeper torment; the boughs opened, the sky split with\nthe shock of feet, and a man bounded from the wood.\n\n\"He was tall, handsome, and athletic, and his ruddy cheeks were\nflushed with exercise. He made a trumpet of his hands, and hallooed,\nlong and clear,\n\n\"'Hera--a--a--ine!'\n\n\"Then he whistled through his fist till the rocks and water rang.\n\n\"'Where the deuce is the dear girl?' he said, and his eyes fell upon\nme.\n\n\"A terrible hatred rose in my heart against this man. It was the first\ngreat passion I had nurtured, and had received no other provocation\nthan the empty sounds of his footfalls. But antipathies are not\naccidental merely; they are organic; and my quick sense took alarm\neven from his tread. One's character may be defined in his gait, but I\nknew from the tramp of this person that his nature was averse to mine.\nWhy had he followed my affianced across the seas? Why had his crashing\ndrowned the music of her steps? Why had he uttered her name with an\nendearment? Why had he been retained at her side, and I sent alone and\nwretched before? My wrists knotted nervously as these accusations took\nshape, and my blood became gall.\n\n\"'I beg pardon,' he said curtly; 'but are you the young man we are\nlooking for?'\n\n\"I asked through my teeth whom he designated in the term '_we_.'\n\n\"'Heraine, of course,' he replied; 'give me your hand! We have\nfollowed our little invalid--that's what we call you--over many a\nleague, and may make his acquaintance at last. Ralph Clendenning, at\nyour service!'\n\n\"I shrank menacingly from him, and counted the dull throbs of my\nheart.\n\n\"'What! timid!' he said; 'and with so old a friend? I never met you,\nindeed, but then I have talked of you so often that you have grown to\nbe quite a brother.'\n\n\"I saw that he was frank and winning, and hated him the more.\n\n\"'Upon my word,' he added, 'there was none whom I had resolved in my\nmind to love so well, for the sake of Heraine.'\n\n\"A cry escaped me, so bitter that it seemed a howl, and I clenched my\nhands.\n\n\"He still followed me along the very edge of the cliff, extending his\nhand. A horrible impulse rushed upon me, and a thought darker than\njealousy caught it up. I hurled myself against him. He staggered on\nthe brink of the abyss, and went down with a sharp, half-stifled\nscream!\n\n\"My eyes followed the dead weight, as it rolled from ledge to ledge,\naccelerated each instant by the force of the cataract. A world, tossed\nout of gravity and crashing among the planets, could not have been\nmore awfully distinct. Down--down--down--a formless mass of fibre and\nbone, the mist seemed to buoy it up when it reached the deepmost\ncascade, and as it disappeared through the tops of the pines I heard\nthe coming of footfalls.\n\n\"Mine was a soul in torment, listening to music in heaven. I stood,\nstiff and numb in horror, staring into the gulf. The roar of the\ncataract was smothered to a babble. The rainbow vibrated tremulously\nto the dropping harmonies. I saw the familiar shadow as it gided to\nmy feet. A soft hand thrilled me with its touch, and the old voice\nsaid,\n\n\"'Dear Luke, I am Heraine, come back.'\n\n\"I could not stir. My eyes were forged to the abyss.\n\n\"'Why do you glare so wildly?' she said. 'Come! you have been brave,\nand must not fail now. Have you no kind greeting for Heraine?'\n\n\"Down in the abyss, swaying and rocking upon the pine bough, with the\nfrank smile as when I murdered him, I saw my victim in fancy.\n\n\"'Speak, Luke,' she repeated. 'I have a dear friend here; he has made\nthe long pilgrimage with me, fondly anticipating this meeting. You\nwill know him to-day, and I am sure you will love him.'\n\n\"Still surging upon mist and spray and bough, with the halo of the\nrainbow shimmering above it, the noble face turned upward forgivingly.\n\n\"'We have planned for your happiness, dear friend. Compared to the\nretreat we have fashioned for you, Glengoyle is a Babel. But you are\nill, Luke; What terrible allurement lies in the waterfall? Come away\nfrom the brink! Ralph! Ralph!'\n\n\"She called in clear tones. The woods and waters answered back.\n\n\"'He is there,' I stammered; 'down--deep--dead--do you see him?--how\nhe smiles and surges on the tufts of the pines! I--thrust him over--in\nrage--even as he gave me his hand--I slew him!'\n\n\"'Merciful God!' she whispered in horror; 'he was my husband!'\n\n\"The rainbow dissolved; the waterfall deluged the valley; the\nmountains were covered with waves; the skies grew pitchy dark; I saw\nnothing more.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"My sensations upon waking were those of a diver who has risen from\nthe tranquil depths to the surface. Hubbub recommenced; horror\nreturned. My hair was shaven close to my skull; my head ached\ndismally; I moved my hand with an effort, and my eyelids were so weak\nthat I could not unseal them for a time.\n\n\"I was lying in my old chamber at Glengoyle, and Heraine was sitting\nat my bedside. Her garments were sable, her brown hair thin, her face\nplacid, as of yore, but marked by deep-seated grief, and the magnetism\nof will and courage was gone from it. To the eye she was the same; to\nthe mind, a weak and broken thing. Crime had changed both our natures;\nshe had been tutor and governess before, and I the passive, submissive\ncreature; but sin had made me bold, and sorrow worn her to a woman.\n\n\"'Luke,' she said, in the same lullaby tone, 'do you know me? do you\nrecognize the place? are you still weak?'\n\n\"'Heraine,' said I, sternly, 'do not the wrongs we have done each\nother forbid this intimacy?'\n\n\"'Oh, Luke!' she replied, 'let us not uncover the past. I have buried\nyour sin with its victim, and watched you through weary months, and\nprayed God to pardon you.'\n\n\"'Can God pardon your sin to me, Heraine?'\n\n\"'I trust so, Luke,' she said feebly, 'if ever in my life I treasured\nyou a hard thought or did you any injury.'\n\n\"'Is it no injury,' I said, 'to have lured me by a false promise from\nmy quiet home? I have endured the torture of cities, seas, suns, and\nstorms. Your pledge was my spur and talisman through all. But you had\ncheated me with a lie. You were another's already. For you I have\nstained my hands with blood and shut heaven against my soul!'\n\n\"'As I have an account to Settle, Luke,' she pleaded, 'I meant your\nhappiness only. To have told you that I was wedded would have pained\nyou. I thought to familiarize you with scenes and sounds, by making my\nregard an incentive to adventure. It was your mother's plan. I yielded\nto the deception, and believed it good.\"\n\n\"'It was a wicked falsehood,' I said; 'you knew the weakness of my\nnature--that my sensitiveness was a disease--that to cross me was to\nkill. You have made both of us wretched forever.'\n\n\"My cruelty was murdering her; her face grew deathly in its pallor,\nand she pressed her hands upon her heart.\n\n\"'Let the dead man lie between us,' I proceeded; 'it is not seemly for\nyou to be my friend; and to me you are an ever-present accusation. We\nmust not see each other!'\n\n\"'Oh, Luke!' she cried, falling upon her knees imploringly; 'I am a\nbruised thing, a-weary of the world. This silence and darkness are\nendeared to me. Do not send me away!'\n\n\"'You agitate me,' I said; 'let us do our penance, each in loneliness.\nThere was a time when our sorrows were mutual; it is past; we have\nonly to say farewell.'\n\n\"I covered my face with my hands; she touched my brow with her lips,\nand when the door had closed upon her sobbing I heard her footfalls\nmaking mournful music on the stairs. They rang upon the lawn, then\npattered down the drive; they passed desolately out of the gate, they\nwere lost on the highway, and then the world became blank again.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"'Luke,' said my mother timidly, 'Mrs.\nClendenning--Heraine--is--dead.'\n\n\"'I know it,' said I quietly.\n\n\"She seemed surprised, and interrogated me with her eyes.\n\n\"'She died at twilight yesterday,' I stated; 'as the first candles\nwere lit in the lodge and the earliest star appeared--I heard her\nfootsteps.'\n\n\"'At that time she passed away,' sobbed my mother. 'Oh, Luke! you were\ncruel to the poor girl. Her parting prayer was made for you. To the\nlast you stood between Heraine and heaven.'\n\n\"'At that time, mother, I was sitting at my window. Tears and thrills\nhaunted me during the afternoon, and I was frightened in the silence\nand darkness. And I heard Heraine's footsteps come up the road, pass\nthe lodge, ascend the stairs, and cross my threshold. They were like\nechoes rather than sounds--hollow and ghostly; and mingled with them\nwere the deeper footfalls of my other spectre, her husband.'\n\n\"I could not inhabit my chamber now. These awful sounds drove me into\nthe open world, where I hoped to lose them in the tread of multitudes.\nI wandered to the old church on the day of the funeral, and looked\nupon the bier with dry and burning eyes. The pastor read of the holy\nJerusalem, and said that her pure feet were walking the golden\nstreets. But in the hushes of the sobbing I heard them close beside\nme, and while children were strewing her grave with flowers they\nfollowed me over the stile and through the village till I gained the\nfields and took to my heels in fright.\n\n\"I sought the resort of crowds, and lived amid turbulences. In busy\nhours I baffled my pursuers; but in the dark midnights, when only the\nmiserable walked, I suffered the agonies of remorse and penance. The\never-flowing stream of life on London Bridge became my solace. My\napartments are here, and I sit continually at an open window, leaning\nfar forward, to catch the thunder of the tramp. I know the footfalls\nas of old. I see the suicide pace to and fro, to nerve herself for the\ndeed. I hear her sleek betrayer, and detect their wretched offspring\nas he first essays to filch a handkerchief or a purse.\n\n\"Oh, the footfalls! the footfalls! Each tread marks a good or a wicked\nthought. A fiend or an angel starts beneath every heel. They write an\neternal record as they go. Their voices float forever to witness\nagainst or for us. We people space as we cleave it. The ground that is\ndumb as we spurn it has a memory and a revenge. I am more sensitive\nthan my kind; and my penance to these monitors of my sin is but a\nrealization of the terror which all must feel at the accusation of\ntheir footfalls.\"\n\n\n\n\nUPPER MARLB'RO'.\n\n\n    Through a narrow, ravelled valley, wearing down the farmer's soil,\n    The Patuxent flows inconstant, with a hue of clay and oil,\n    From the terraces of mill-dams and the temperate slopes of wheat,\n    To the bottoms of tobacco, watched by many a planter's seat.\n\n    There the blackened drying-houses show the hanging shocks of green,\n    Smoking through the lifted shutters, sunning in the nicotine;\n    And around old steamboat-landings loiter mules and over-seers,\n    With the hogsheads of tobacco rolled together on the piers.\n\n    Inland from the river stranded in a cove between the hills,\n    Lies old Marlb'ro' Court and village, acclimated to her chills;\n    And the white mists nightly rising from the swamps that trench her round,\n    Seem the sheeted ghosts of memories buried in that ancient ground.\n\n    Here in days when still Prince George's of the province was the queen,\n    Great old judges ruled the gentry, gathering to the court-house green;\n    When the Ogles and the Tayloes matched their Arab steeds to race,\n    Judge Duval adjourned the sessions, Luther Martin quit his case.\n\n    Here young Roger Taney lingered, while the horn and hounds were loud,\n    To behold the pompous Pinkney scattering learning to the crowd;\n    And old men great Wirt remembered, while their minds he strove to win,\n    As a little German urchin drumming at his father's inn.\n\n    When the ocean barks could moor them in the shadow of the town\n    Ere the channels filled and mouldered with the rich soil wafted down--\n    Here the Irish trader, Carroll, brought the bride of Darnell Hall,\n    And their Jesuit son was Bishop of the New World over all.\n\n    Here the troopers of Prince George's, with their horse-tail helmets, won\n    Praise from valiant Eager Howard and from General Wilkinson;\n    And (the village doctor seeking from the British to restore)\n    Key, the poet, wrote his anthem in the light of Baltimore.\n\n    One by one the homes colonial disappear in Time's decrees.\n    Though the apple orchards linger and the lanes of cherry-trees;\n    E'en the Woodyard[3] mansion kindles when the chimney-beam consumes,\n    And the tolerant Northern farmer ploughs around old Romish tombs.\n\n    By the high white gravelled turnpike trails the sunken, copse-grown route,\n    Where the troops of Ross and Cockburn marched to victory, and about,\n    Halting twice at Upper Marlb'ro', where 'tis still tradition's brag,\n    That 'twas Barney got the victory though the British got the swag.\n\n    But the Capital, rebuilded, counts 'mid towns rebellious this--\n    Standing in the old slave region 'twixt it and Annapolis;\n    And the cannons their embrasures on the Anacostia forts\n    Open tow'rd old ruined Marlb'ro' and the dead Patuxent ports.\n\n[Footnote 3: \"The Woodyard,\" the finest brick mansion on the western\npeninsula of Maryland, the seat of the Wests, twelve miles from\nWashington, burned down a few years ago by the unaccountable ignition\nof the great beam of wood over the big chimney-place, which had stood\nthere for nearly 200 years. Either seasoned by the fire or fired by\nspooks, it caught in the night, and a heap of imported bricks stood\nnext morning in place of The Woodyard.]\n\n    Still from Washington some traveller, tempted by the easy grades,\n    Through the Long Old Fields continues cantering in the evening shades,\n    Till he hears the frogs and crickets serenading something lost,\n    In the aguey mists of Marlb'ro' banked before him like a frost.\n\n    Then the lights begin to twinkle, and he hears the negroes' feet\n    Dancing in the old storehouses on the sandy business street,\n    And abandoned lawyers' lodges underneath the long trees lurk,\n    Like the vaults around a graveyard where the court-house is the kirk.\n\n    He will see the sallow old men drinking juleps, grave and bleared--\n    But no more their household servants at the court-house auctioneered;\n    And the county clerk will prove it by the records on his shelves,\n    That the fathers of the province were no better than ourselves.\n\n\n\n\nPREACHERS' SONS IN 1849.\n\n\nWhen I admit that these reminiscences are real, it will at once be\ninferred that I am a preacher's son. The general reputation of my\nclass has been bad since the day of Eli; but I affirm and maintain\nthat reason does not bear out this verdict, however obstinate\nexperience may be. For why should the best parents have the worst\nchildren? and that our itinerant sires were godly and self-sacrificing\nmen the most prodigal of their boys must confess. No flippant or\nerrant example rises before me when I take my father's portrait in my\nhand and recall the humility and heroism of his life. A stern and\nangular face, out of whose saliences look two ruddy windows, lit by a\nsteadfast cheerfulness, is thinly thatched by hairs of iron-gray, and\naround the long loose throat a bunch of frosted beard sparkles as if\nthe painter's pencil had fastened there in reverence. I do not need to\nstudy the bent, broad shoulders and thin sinewy limbs to measure the\nhardness and steepness of his path; he climbed it like a bridegroom,\nhumming quaint snatches of hymns to lull his human waywardnesses, and\nall the fever and errantry of our own vain career shrink abashed\nbefore his high devotion.\n\nThat I have turned out a rover is not odd; for the travelling\npreacher's son is cradled upon the highway. Three months after my\nbirth we \"moved\" a hundred miles; by my sixteenth year we had made\neleven migrations.\n\nWe children little sympathize with our weak and sickly mother on these\noccasions, but look forward to a change of abode as something very\nnovel and desirable. We count the days between Christmas and April,\nafter which the annual \"Conference\" assembles in the distant city, and\nwe see our father, in his best black suit, quit the parsonage door\nwith an anxious face, cut to the heart by his wife's farewell, \"May\nthey give you a good place, Thomas!\"\n\nThen come letters--one, two, three: \"The bishops are friendly;\" \"The\nPresiding Elder has promised to do the best for us that he can;\" \"The\ninfluential Doctor Bim has praised our missionary sermon, and Brother\nClick, the Secretary, has applauded our Charge's large subscription to\nthe _Advocate_;\" \"Our character has passed even the severe approval of\nthe great theologian, Steep;\" \"Take courage, my dear, and hope for the\nbest!\"\n\nThe membership, meanwhile, are dropping in by couples to say kindly\nwords to our mother, whom they pity, and it is rumored that they are\ncollecting a purse to help us on our way. At last our father returns,\nstriving to hide his solicitude in a smile, for no fate to which they\ncould consign himself would scathe that grisly servant of his Master;\nbut for his family, who do not altogether share the spirit of his\nmission, he has a little fear. He kisses us all in order, from the\nleast to the biggest, commencing and ending with our mother, and\nplayfully prevaricates as to our \"appointment,\" the name of which we\nnoisily demand, until his wife says timidly,\n\n\"Where do they send us, Thomas?\"\n\nHe tries to smile and trifle, but the possibility of her discontent\ngives him so great pain that we children perceive it.\n\n\"How would you like to go to Greensburg?\"\n\n\"Not _Greensburg_!\" she says, with a sudden paleness.\n\n\"Isn't it a good circuit?\" he says smilingly; \"they paid the last\npreacher three hundred dollars, and his marriage fees were a hundred\nmore. They say he saved fifty dollars a year!\"\n\n\"Oh, Thomas, I thought I had fortitude, but this--\"\n\n\"Is only to test your faith,\" he cries. \"A poor preacher's wife should\nbe willing to go anywhere--even to Greensburg; but that is not our\nappointment, dear; we move to Swan Neck.\"\n\nThen the fun begins in earnest. The church people come to look at our\ncontribution bedquilts, and help us pack up the blue earthenware. The\nlegs of the prodigious box, yclept a milk chest, are summarily\namputated and laid away in it, with the parental library, which, we\nare sorry to say, is equally doubtful in point of both ornament and\nuse. The good gossips slyly peep into the covers of Matthew Henry, and\nregard their retiring pastor as a more learned man than they had\nsuspected, while the black letter-press of Lorenzo Dow, and John\nBunyan, and Fox's \"Book of Martyrs\" touches them like so much\nnecromancy. The faithful old clock, whose disorders are crises in our\nhumdrum pastoral year, is stopped and disjointed, much to our marvel,\nand all the spare straw in the barn is brought to protect the large\ngilt-edged cups and saucers, which say upon their edges, \"To our\npastor,\" and \"To our pastor's wife.\" The thin rag carpets are folded\naway; the potatoes in the bin are sold to Brother Bibb, the grocer,\nand to a very few of the select sisters we present a can of our\npreserved quinces, with directions how to prepare them. Poor Em., the\nblack domestic, drops so many tears upon the parlor stove as she\ncarries it out to the wagon that the fresh blackening she has so\nindustriously given it goes for nothing; for Em. is to be discharged,\nand the fact troubles her, though a preacher's servant has little to\neat and plenty to do.\n\nAt last the old parsonage is quite bare and deserted, though our\nsuccessors, box and baggage, have moved in upon us, much to the\nannoyance of the females, who see with jealousy that the new arrival\ngets the lion's share of attention, and that Brother Tipp, whose\nclass-book we took from him, and who has backbitten us ever since, is\ncourteous as a dancing-master with our rival. We shall talk for six\nyears to come--that is, our mother--of Bangs's, the new-comer's,\nimpudence in feeding his horse on our oats, and shall never speak of\nhim as Brother Bangs, but simply call him _Bangs_, emphasized. We are\nnot even sure that he will not turn his poultry loose before ours has\nbeen secured, and we boys, with great zeal, run down the roosters and\nducks, giving them, if the truth must be told, longer chase than is\nnecessary. The aged muscovy, we are sorry to say, lames himself in the\nretreat, and the only goose on the premises hides among Powell's, the\nneighbor's, so that we cannot tell which from which. However, the\nproperty is tied up at last in the several wagons; Sister Phoenix's\nlunch has been eaten, and our father, the itinerant, in his\nshirt-sleeves, stands up, with pain and perspiration on his brow, to\nbid his flock good-by.\n\n\"Now, brethren,\" he says, with a quiver at his throat, \"my time is\npassing; I have finished the work appointed for me to do. Renew the\nkindnesses you have done me and my little ones upon the good steward\nwho is to replace me. My heart weeps to cut the bonds which have held\nus so long together; but in this world I am a pilgrim and a stranger.\nLet us all pray!\"\n\nAs his shrill, broken voice goes up in a mingled wail and hosanna, we\nchildren peep by stealth into the working faces of the bystanders, and\nour own grow tearful, till our little sister cries aloud, and our\nmother falls into some fond matron's arms.\n\nImmediately our wagons are on the way. The clustering village roofs\nand the church spire sink down behind. We are too full of excitement\nto share the silence of our elders, and the passing objects while us\nto laughter and debate.\n\nSwan Neck is a representative circuit. It lies, as everybody knows,\nsomewhere upon the Eastern shore--that landmark and stronghold of\nMethodism. The parsonage is in Crochettown, the county-seat, and the\ncircuit comprises half a dozen churches down the neck, among the pine\nforests and on the bay side. Our father tells our mother on the way of\nthe advantages of the place, till we take it to be quite a metropolis.\nHe says that Wiggins, whom we succeed, gives a first-rate account of\nit. One of the members (Judd) is a judge, and our church, in short,\nrules the roast thereabout, and makes the Episcopalians stand around,\nnot to speak of the Baptists, who try as usual to edge us out.\n\nThe boys ask with glowing cheeks if there is a river at Crochettown,\nand are thrown into ecstasy by the reply that a large steamboat\ntouches there twice a week, and that there is a drawbridge. We are\nless interested in the statement that the schools are good, but hear\nwith delight the history of one Dumple, an innkeeper, who persecutes\nour church and sells quantities of \"rum\" to our young men. William,\nthe son of Wiggins, our predecessor, was once seen in the bar-room and\nreported to his father, who fetched him home by _posse comitatus_, and\nfound that he smelled strongly of soda water.\n\nAs we go along the road in this way, our furniture mean time having\nbeen shipped by water, a very compact and knotty young man rides up\nbehind us upon a nag which we at once identify as church property. The\nsleekness of the flanks betokens his conversance with other people's\ncorn-cribs, and he has a habit of shying at all the farm-house gates\nas if habituated to stopping whenever he liked and staying to dinner.\nHis Perseus has a semi-gallant, semi-verdant way of lifting his hat,\nand his voice is hard as his knuckles.\n\n\"Woa, Sal!\" he says (all preachers drive mares, it may be\ninterpolated), \"have I the pleasure of addressing Brother Ryder?\"\n\n\"The same, sir.\"\n\n\"My name is Chough, sir; the annual Conference has done me the favor\nof associating my name with yours at Swan Neck.\"\n\n\"Oh, ho! You are my colleague; my wife, Brother Chough!\"\n\nThe wife runs Brother Chough over immediately, who looks very red and\nawkward, and she gives her estimate of him in an undertone. It will be\nbad for Chough if he is at all airish or scholastic, or individual in\nhis opinions, for between a senior pastor's wife and his young\nassistant there is an hereditary distrust; conceit has no show at all\nin a young itinerant.\n\nBut Chough wisely confines his remarks to asking questions about the\nbishops, and agrees with us that Doctor Bim's address on the church\nextension cause was sound as the Fathers, and finally gives us his own\nextraction, which we trace to the respectable Choughs of Caroline\nCounty, and at once fraternize with him.\n\nThose were happy days for us children! Cornfield and barn and negro\nquarter rolled by us like things of fable. We watched the squirrels in\nthe scrubwood as never again we shall take interest in human\ncompanionship, and stopped at farm-house troughs to water our nag with\nkeener joy than that with which we have since gazed upon far blue seas\nor soft cis-alpine lakes and rivers.\n\nAt last we reach the place; the complement of free negro cabins lies\non its outskirts; we ask the way to the Methodist preacher's\nresidence, and learning with feigned surprise that \"he has just gone\nan' lef town for good,\" cross a sandy creek and bridge, climb a hill,\nand stop at our future threshold.\n\nIt is an ancient edifice of brick; a pigmy stable stands beside it,\nwith a gate intervening, and in the rear we have a lot big enough to\ngraze one frugal horse, and a garden sufficiently large to employ us\nboys. Our father starts off immediately to find the keys; but in the\nface of a gathering of small lads in pinafores and jack-knives, who\ncome to gaze at us, we scale the gate, enter a back shutter, and cry\na welcome to our mother from the second-story front.\n\nWe hastily scan the several chambers to claim all that we find in the\ndrawers and closets; are gratified to observe the bow-gun and\nshinney-sticks of the young Wigginses departed, and quite fall out\namong ourselves over the wooden effigy of an Indian which has tumbled\ndown from the barn-top.\n\nSoon the nearest neighbor of our persuasion arrives with our father,\nand takes our mother and the baby away to his dwelling. A fat old\ntrustee and local preacher carries off ourself and sister, and we go\nbashfully and wonderingly into the heart of the town, past the church,\npast the market-house, past the tavern and court and public hall,\nuntil the door of our host closes upon us, and our short sandy hairs\nappear at the windows to scan the street and the people.\n\nYeasty, our host, is the only local preacher in Crochettown, where he\nalso keeps a store, but is said to be as rich as Croesus, and\nmiserly as get out; and he has a pretty daughter, Margot, who sweeps\ninto the room like a little queen, and, being older than ourselves,\npatronizes us till we blush. She rattles off all the town talk, the\nparties in the winter season, the terrible master of the academy, and\nthe handsomest boys, including Barret, who is dissipated and writes\npoetry; the beauty of Marian Lee, who seems to be the terror of young\ngentlemen, though Margot don't see any thing in her, the proud piece!\n\nAnd so we pick up the history of the village with the diligence of\nFroissart or Jean de Troyes, and eat last winter's apples by the ruddy\ngrate, listening to Margot, with our very round tow head upon our\nsister's, filled with vague dreams of greatness and wealth, and old\nYeasty's silver half dollars piled up around us, and Margot to chat at\nour side forever.\n\nOh! innocent days of itinerant urchinhood, your freshness comes no\nmore; we \"move on\" as of old--waifs in the wide circuit of this nomad\nlife--but with the hymns which lulled us in the neglected\nmeeting-house, the prophecies they told us of toil, duty, reverence,\nand content, have floated into heaven whither our father has gone!\n\nThe bulk of our furniture being delayed, and our mother impatient of\naccepting hospitality, we move into the great, bare parsonage house on\nSaturday, and sit in the only furnished room. It grieves even\nourselves to see how this merry moving has thinned her anxious white\nface, and therefore we forbear to fret her when we read the three long\nBible chapters she exacts. Josh, our brother, does not purposely\npronounce physician \"physiken,\" as he is in the habit of doing, and\nour sister remembers for once that ewe lamb is to be called \"yo,\" and\nnot \"e-we\" in two syllables. The dinner is quite cold, but Josh, who\ncomplains, is reminded of the poor Shepherd of Salisbury Plain, who\ncould not afford salt with his potatoes. Josh says that for his part\nhe don't like potatoes anyhow, and will not be comforted.\n\nIn the afternoon we present ourselves at Sunday-school, and as the\npreacher's sons are supposed to be first-class ecclesiastical\nscholars, are put in the Bible-class. Here we surprise everybody by\nthe quantity of verses we know by heart, and get many red and blue\ntickets for our reward. It must be confessed that we had been twice\nbefore paid for the same lesson, it being our perquisite to carry all\nthat we know from school to school. We see Margot among the girls,\nswinging her feet under the seat as she hummingly commits her lesson\nto memory, and as her feet are very pretty, they do not perhaps move\nunconsciously. But Josh and we have quite a battle as to Margot, Josh\nsaying, \"She's my girl,\" and we averring that \"we know better--she's\nmine,\" until finally our sister disposes of the matter by betraying us\nto the little coquette, whereat we are both ashamed, and go home\nhastily.\n\nWe feed and curry the horse by turns, and hunt eggs in the stable\nwith boisterous rivalry, and have quite a contest as to who shall go\ndown upon \"the circuit\" first, which is at last settled in favor of\nthe first person.\n\nOn the appointed Sunday we rise betimes, \"gear up\" the nag to the\nsulky, and depositing a carpet-stool in the foot, sit upon it between\nour father's legs, and trot out of town at a respectably slow gait to\nclear the preacher of any suspicion of keeping a fast horse. Fairly\nout of town, however, we switch up somewhat, ourself watching over the\ndasher the clods and dust thrown from the mare's shoes, and our father\nhumming snatches of hymns, with his grave eyes twinkling.\n\nWe say \"How de do,\" of course, to every passer-by, as it is the pride\nof the profession to lead the etiquette of the country; and, passing\nremarks upon the badness of the fences, the staunchness of the barns,\nand the coziness of the dwellings, soon leave the cultivated high-road\nfor one of the by-ways which lead down the sparsely-settled \"Neck.\"\nThe sombre pine forests gather about us; a squirrel or two runs across\nthe route, and a solitary crow caws in the tree-top; we hear the loud\n\"tap-tap-tap\" of a woodpecker, and see through the sinuous aisles of\nfirs some groups of negroes pattering to church. The men take off\ntheir hats obsequiously, and the women duck their heads, and our\nfather says benignantly, \"Going to church, boys? that's right! I like\nto see you honor the Great Master!\" At which the younger Africans show\ntheir teeth, and the more forward patriarchs reply, \"Yes, massar,\nbress de Lord!\"\n\nSo the teams increase in number like the wayfarers, all with the same\nobject in view, until we see the church at last, standing behind a\nline of whitewashed palings, flanked by less pretentious worm fences,\nand in the rear a long shed for horses, open in front, shadows the few\ntomb memorials of stone and stake.\n\nSeveral lads and worldlings at the gate, slashing their boots with\nriding-whips, make obeisance, while two or three plain old gentlemen\nwalk down to meet us, saying:\n\n\"Brother Ryder, we _pre_-sume! Welcome to Dodson's Corner, Brother\nRyder!\"\n\nWe tie up the nag, loosen her bridle bit, and follow into the\nmeeting-house--a lofty building unplastered at the roof, whose open\neaves and shingles give place in summer to nests of wasps, and in the\nwinter to audacious birds, some of which swoop screaming to the\npulpit, and beat the window panes in futile flight. Two uncarpeted\naisles lead respectively to the men's side and the women's side--for,\nfar be it from us, primitive Methodists, to improve upon the\ndiscipline of Wesley--and midway of each aisle, in square areas, stand\ntwo high stoves, with branching pipes which radiate from their red-hot\ncylinders of clay. The pulpit is a square unpainted barricade, with\npedestals on each side for a pair of oil-lamps; the cushions which\nsustain the Bible are the gift of young unconverted ladies, and are\nsacredly brought to the place of worship each Sunday morning and taken\naway in the afternoon.\n\nBy the side of the stove the old stewards and the new minister stand\nawhile talking over the moral _status_ of the country, the advances\nmade by the Baptists, and the amount of money contributed by Dodson's\nCorner to the various funds of the church. The folk, meanwhile, drop\nin by squads, the colored element filling the unsteady gallery in the\nrear, until our father looks at his open-faced watch, and says:\n\n\"Bless my soul, brethren, it is time to begin the services!\"\n\nHe ascends into the pulpit. We sit on what is known as the \"Amen\nside,\" with our thumb in our button-hole, and watch the process of the\nchief steward, who is unlimbering his tuning-fork. He obtains the\npitch of the tune by rapping the pew with this, or, if his teeth be\nsound, which is rare, touches the prongs with his incisors. Then his\nhead--whose baldness, we imagine, arises from the people in the rear\nlooking all the hair off--is thrown back resolutely, his jaws fly wide\nopen, he projects a tangible stream of music to the roof, to the alarm\nof the birds, and comes to a dead halt at the end of the second\nline--for here we have congregational singing, and even those without\nhymn books may assist to swell the music. But very often the leader\nbreaks down; the vanguard of old ladies cannot keep up the tune;\nvolunteers make desperate efforts to rally the chorus, but retire\ndiscomfited, and the pastor, in addition to praying, reading, and\npreaching, must finally, in his worn, subdued voice, lead the forlorn\nhope.\n\nThe sermon on this inaugural occasion may justly be termed a work of\nart. It must be conclusive of the piety, learning, eloquence, and\nsound doctrine of the preacher, and be by turns argumentative,\ncombative, stirring, pathetic, practical, and pictorial. The text has\nabout the same connection at first with the discourse that a campanile\nhas with a cathedral. A solid eulogium upon the book from which it is\ntaken gives occasion for some side-slashes at Voltaire, Hume, and\nGibbon; the deaths of these are contrasted with the obsequies of the\nrighteous, and the old-fashioned, material place of punishment is\nreasserted and minutely described. The text is then said to naturally\nresolve itself into three parts--the injunction, the direction, and\nsome practical illustrations. The injunction, it is further allowed,\nre-subdivides itself, and these parts are each proclaimed in the form\nof speech of \"Once more.\" We are quite too old a hand at listening to\nimagine that \"once more\" means _only_ once more, and start to\nenumerate the beams in the roof, the panes in the windows, and the\ngray hairs in the old gentleman's head before us. About the time that\nwe feel sleepy an anecdote arouses us: then the iteration of\nexpletives from the membership succeeds; we see that the owner of the\ntuning-fork has fallen to sleep in so ingenious an attitude that he\nwould never have been detected but for his snore, and are amused by\nthe fashion one good lady has of slowly wagging her head as she drinks\nin the discourse. A slight commotion in the gallery arises, which\ngives a steward excuse to steal down the aisle and hasten to the scene\nof disturbance; the final appeal, brimming with the poetry of mercy,\ngrace, patience, and salvation is said; we all kneel down upon the\nhard cold floor while the last prayer is being made, and receive the\nbenediction, as if some invisible shadow of bright wings had fallen\nupon the dust and fever of our lives.\n\nTo say that the first person is weary but vindicates the sagacity of\nour father, who steals down to our side and whispers, \"You may go out,\nFred, if you are tired.\" But curiosity compels us to remain after the\ncongregation is dismissed, that we may hear the class-meeting\nexperiences.\n\nThose solemn corollaries to the service thrill me with their\nrecollection even now. The almost empty church echoing the sobs of the\nweary, and heart-bruised, and spirit-broken; the pinched, hard faces\nof the older people telling their bitter trials in bereavement,\nmisappreciation, and poverty. But bursting through all, that\nunconquerable enthusiasm which lends to the face more than the glow of\nintelligence, and to the heart more than the recompense of riches; the\ntimid utterance of the younger converts, outlining the rebellious\ninstincts of their tempted bodies, and their need of more faith,\ngrace, and help divine. While these speak in order, the bald-headed\nchorister interpolates appropriate snatches of psalms, and the\npreacher cries, \"Patience, my brother! All will be well! Hope on, hope\never!\"\n\nAt last the impatient negroes in the gallery have their opportunity,\nand roll down thunders of exuberant piety, which, by their natural,\nalmost inspired eloquence, pathos, and vehemence, stir even their\nmasters to ejaculations of praise.\n\nHow must such spiritually social reunions cheer the long, hard lives\nof these poor, remote believers! He was a profound statesman who,\nprojecting a gospel for the lowly, devised the class-meeting as an\noutlet for their suppressed emotions, sympathies, and sorrows.\n\nHowever, it is all over, and there is quite a dispute after the\n\"class\" as to who shall have the pastor's company to dinner. It is a\npiece of fine diplomacy to determine this. Policy dictates the most\ninfluential; feeling, the most reverend and poor. But the interest of\nthe church is paramount; a compliment or a promise appeases the vanity\nof the humbler, and we follow the double team of the great landholder,\nTibbet, and are soon sitting before his roaring fire.\n\nItinerants are notoriously big eaters. Our father keeps a weather eye\non the provender as it is brought in smoking, and it being soon\napparent that the dinner is to be orthodox, if not apostolic, his\nsocial attributes improve wonderfully. He breaks out in little spurts\nof anecdote, not entirely secular, nor yet too didactic to be jovial.\nThey run upon young Brother Bolt, who once, after an unusual happy\n\"revival\" night, to show his great faith, tried to leap over a creek\nand doused himself to the ears; upon the great controversialist,\nWhanger, who, being invited to preach in a \"High Church\" pulpit,\nimproved the occasion to trace apostolic succession as far back as\nPope Joan; upon the first intelligent contraband of his kind, whose\nmistress affirmed that if one's ill deeds were numerically greater\nthan his good ones he would be--jammed, and if the contrary, saved,\nand who responded, \"Spose'n dey boff de same, missus?\"\n\nThese are told with inimitable spirit and mimicry, as want of clerical\nwit is a direct impeachment of the validity of one's \"call\" to preach;\nand when the table is filled, and with outstretched hands the blessing\nsaid, our father gets a universal compliment for his carving. There is\nroast turkey, with rich stuffing, bright cranberry sauce, and savory\npies of pumpkin, mince, and persimmon, cider to wash down the mealy\nripeness of the sweet potato, and at the end transparent quinces\ndrowned in velvet cream. How glibly goes the time! We play with a\nyoung miss, who shows us her library, in which, we are sorry to say, a\nbook about pirates deeply absorbs us. But at last the sulky comes to\nthe door; we say good-by with touched full hearts, and pass hummingly\nto appointment No. 2.\n\nThis is \"Sand Hill,\" perhaps, or \"Mumpson Town,\" or \"Ebenezer,\" or\n\"Dry Pond;\" and when we have mustered again in the afternoon, and in\nthe evening for the third time, turn Sal's head toward the parsonage,\nand sail along in the night, cold and worn, past fields of stubble,\nover which the wind sweeps, past negro cabins, watching like human\nthings upon us, through dreary woods where the tall pines rock against\nthe stars and the clouds sail whitely by like witches going to a\nrendezvous, past cheerful homes, gleaming light and rest and worldly\ncompetence, the owners whereof have heard no deep command to carry the\ngospel into wildernesses, or hearing disobeyed. And all the while our\nfather sings softly to himself, looking now and then at us who are his\ncross, and again into the shining constellations which hide his crown.\n\nBut we \"preacher's sons,\" by which name we are universally\ndistinguished, have our own crosses as well. It is generally agreed\nthat much ought to be expected of us and little obtained. Let one of\nus play truant from school, or use a naughty word in play, or make\nmarbles a source of revenue, or fight on the common when provoked, or\nsteal a cherry, and the fact travels our town over like a telegram. We\nonce suffer greatly in repute by selling our neighbor's old iron and\nbrass to an itinerant pedler, and are alleged to have run up a debit\naccount of one dime with an old negro who sells spruce beer and \"horse\ncakes\"--whereafter we fail.\n\nThe church people, much to our dissatisfaction, present us with\ncastaway coats and boots, which we are made to wear, and once or\ntwice, when we encounter Margot in this shape, we burst into tears\nand run home to hide our wounded vanity in the stable loft. There, in\nthe \"mow,\" while we devise bitter and futile conspiracies against\nsociety, the mare, munching her fodder, looks up at us with patient\neyes, as if to say: \"Am I not also mortified for the faith?\" But we\nare cut to the heart to think that Margot may contrast us with\nbetter-dressed boys, and therefore think us of little spirit,\nlearning, and courage. It is for you, pretty coquette, that we carry\nmany scandals and scars! We do not quite love you, Margot; but we are\nfoolishly vain and sensitive, and your eyes are very beautiful!\n\nStill we are acknowledged at school to be \"smart.\" All preacher's sons\nare so by common concession, and though we may not visit the circus,\nlike others, we get abundance of free tickets for concerts, panoramas,\nand glass-blowers. Once, indeed, the great Chippewa chief,\nHaw-waw-many-squaw, having thrown the town into consternation by\nplacards of himself scalping his enemies and smoking their tobacco,\nmakes a triumphal entry into the main street at full gallop, and\npitching his tent before the court-house, walks into the\nparsonage--war plumes, moccasins, and all--gives us complimentary\nseats, and eats the better half of our dinner. This incident is a\nsource of pride to ourself beyond any thing experienced by any urchin\nbesides. We boast of it frequently, and, being disliked therefor,\ncommit several impromptu scalpings on our own account.\n\nVagabonds unnumbered beg our hospitality, and get it. Some of these it\nwould be difficult to determine, either as to profession or\ndestination. Many of them are systematic pensioners upon the preacher,\nand plead devotion to our denomination as a means of gaining our\nhearts. They have the gossip of the \"Conference\" at their tongues'\nends, and lead our family devotion with the grace and hypocrisy of\nBelial.\n\nThe weddings that we hold are frequent and various. Runaway couples\ncome to us, blushing and short-winded, satisfy us of their lawful age,\nare united, and pass into the moon, leaving a five-dollar bill behind\nthem. We cannot quite find it in our hearts, even at this late day, to\nforgive those numerous candidates for felicity who hold the par value\nof a wedding ceremony to be no more than two dollars. Yet, though we\ngrieve to admit it, two dollars is the average fee. At one time the\nnegro population, anxious to be wived by a white preacher, makes\ninroads upon us _en masse_ to the detriment of decorum and our\ncarpets. We summarily shut down upon this business when we find that\ntheir fees come to but half a dollar a pair.\n\nHowever, the year drifts by, and we are greatly concerned to know if\nit is the sentiment of Swan Neck that we shall continue its pastor\nanother year. Old Yeasty, Margot's father, as we are aware, feels\nhimself slighted because we do not call upon him of Sundays to make\nthe closing prayers; for Yeasty's prayer is a sermon under another\nname, and runs the morning into twilight; but a sly compliment that we\npay him in a diplomatic sermon at the end of the conference year\nbrings him round all right, and back we go to Swan Neck.\n\nSo with burying the dead and writing their obituaries; making the\nbabes pure with that holy sprinkling which gives them, dying early, to\na Christian immortality; launching our thunders upon the bold,\nsoftening the hearts of the errant, mingling with our unbending creed\nthe more pliable ethics of worldly graces, and, in a word, walking\nlike Saint John on the savage border of civilization, to thrill the\nbrutal and unlettered with the tidings of one just day to come--our\nitinerant lives drift on till the marble slab in the meeting-house\nwall writes the itinerant's only human memorial.\n\nWe have dreamed our last. Burst from the narrow chrysalis which we\nwould gladly rebuild again, the seething, churning sea is before us\nand around us; we only catch, like the strains of bells through the\nfog, the hum of hymns, the drowsy murmur of the buzzing\nSabbath-school, and the nasal ring of the itinerant's summer sermon.\nMargot is married to Chough, our whilom colleague, and makes her\nmigration in his Bedouin train, and does not know how once she\nthrilled us. The tuning-fork is rusty, and the chorister in his coffin\nmay hear, if he can, his successor stirring the birds in the roof with\nhis sonorous melody. All are at rest, and we live on--moving, moving,\nmoving--so deeply fastened into our natures are our early instincts;\nbut every night we say the same parsonage prayer, and every morning\nlook upon the wall where hangs the grave, grim features we revere--the\nItinerant Preacher.\n\n\n\n\nCHESTER RIVER.\n\n\n    Wise is the wild duck winging straight to thee,\n    River of summer! from the cold Arctic sea,\n    Coming, like his fathers for centuries, to seek\n    The sweet, salt pastures of the far Chesapeake.\n\n    Soft 'twixt thy capes like sunset's purple coves,\n    Shallow the channel glides through silent oyster groves,\n    Round Kent's ancient isle, and by beaches brown,\n    Cleaving the fruity farms to slumb'rous Chestertown.\n\n    Long ere the great bay bore the Baltimores,\n    Yielded thy virgin tide to Virginian oars;\n    Elsewhere the word went, \"Multiply! increase!\"\n    Long ago thy destinies were perfect as thy peace.\n\n    Still, like thy water-fowl, dearly do I yearn,\n    In memory's migration once more to return,\n    Where the dull old college from the gentle ridge,\n    O'erlooks the sunny village, the river, and the bridge.\n\n    On the pier decrepit I do loiter yet,\n    With my crafty crab-lines and my homespun net,\n    Till the silver fishes in pools of twilight swam,\n    And stars played round my bait in the coves of calm.\n\n    Sweet were the chinquapins growing by thy brink,\n    Sweet the cool spring-water in the gourd to drink,\n    Beautiful the lilies when the tide declined,\n    As if night receding had left some stars behind.\n\n    But when the peach tints vanished from the plain,\n    Or struggled no longer the shad against the seine,\n    Every reed in thy march into music stirred,\n    And to gold it blossomed in a singing bird.\n\n    Eden of water-fowl! clinging to thy dells\n    Ages of mollusks have yielded their shells,\n    While, like the exquisite spirits they shed,\n    Ride the white swans in the surface o'erhead.\n\n    Silent the otter, stealing by thy moon,\n    Through the fluttered heron, hears the cry of the loon;\n    Motionless the setter in thy dawnlight gray\n    Shows the happy hidden cove where the wild duck play.\n\n    Homely are thy boatmen, venturing no more\n    In their dusky pungies than to Baltimore,\n    Happy when the freshet from northern mountains sweeps,\n    And strews the bay with lumber like wrecks upon the deeps.\n\n    Not for thy homesteads of a former space,\n    Not for thy folk of supposititious race;\n    Something I love thee, river, for thy rest,\n    More for my childhood buried in thy breast.\n\n    From the mightier empire of the solid land,\n    A pilgrim infrequent I seek thy fertile strand,\n    And with a calm affection would wish my grave to be\n    Where falls the Chester to the bay, the bay unto the sea.\n\n\n\n\nOLD WASHINGTON ALMSHOUSE.\n\n\nA stranger in Washington, looking down the wide outer avenue named\n\"Massachusetts,\" which goes bowling from knoll to knoll and disappears\nin the unknown hills of the east, has no notion that it leads\nanywhere, and gives up the conundrum. On the contrary, it points\nstraight to the Washington Asylum, better known as the District\nPoor-House, an institution to become hereafter conspicuous to every\ntourist who shall prefer the Baltimore and Potomac to the Baltimore\nand Ohio Railroad; for the new line crosses the Eastern Branch by a\npile-bridge nearly in the rear of the poor-house, and let us hope that\nwhen the whistle, like\n\n          \"the pibroch's music, thrills\n    To the heart of those lone hills,\"\n\nthe dreary banks and bluffs of the Eastern Branch will show more\nfrequent signs of habitation and visitation.\n\nTo visit the poor-house one must have a \"permit\" from the mayor,\nphysician, or a poor commissioner. Provided with this, he will follow\nout Pennsylvania Avenue over Capitol Hill, until nearly at the brink\nof the Anacostia or Eastern Branch, when by the oblique avenue called\n\"Georgia\" he will pass to his right the Congressional burying-ground,\nand arriving at the powder magazine in front, draw up at the almshouse\ngate, a mile and a quarter from the palace of Congress.\n\nIt is a smart brick building, four stories high, with green trimmings,\nstanding on the last promontory of some grassy commons beloved of\ngeese and billygoats. The short, black cedars, which appear to be a\nspecies of vegetable crape, give a stubby look of grief to the region\nround the poor-house, and, thickest at the Congressional Cemetery,\nscreen from the paupers the view of the city. Across the plains, once\nmade populous by army hospitals, few objects move except funeral\nprocessions, creeping toward the graveyard or receding at a merry\ngait, and occasional pensioners, out on leave, coming home dutifully\nto their bed of charity. The report of some sportsman's gun, where he\nis rowing in the marshes of the gray river, sometimes raises echoes in\nthe high hills and ravines of the other shore, where, many years ago,\nthe rifles of Graves and Cilley were heard by every partisan in the\nland. Now the tall forts, raised in the war, are silent and deserted;\nthe few villas and farm-houses look from their background of pine upon\nthe smart edifice on the city shore, and its circle of hospitals\nnearer the water, and its small-pox hospital a little removed, and\nupon the dead-house and the Potter's Field at the river brink. We all\nknow the melancholy landscape of a poor-house.\n\nThe Potter's Field preceded the poor-house on this site by many years.\nThe almshouse was formerly erected on M Street, between Sixth and\nSeventh, and, being removed here, it burned to the ground in the month\nof March, fourteen years ago, when the present brick structure was\nraised. The entire premises, of which the main part is the almshouse\ngarden, occupy less than fifty acres, and the number of inmates is\nless than two hundred, the females preponderating in the proportion of\nthree to one. Under the same roof are the almshouse and the\nwork-house, the inmates of the former being styled \"Infirmants,\" and\nof the latter \"Penitents.\" The government of the institution is vested\nin three commissioners, to whom is responsible the intendent, Mr.\nJoseph F. Hodgson, a very cheerful and practical-looking \"Bumble.\"\n\nEvery Wednesday the three commissioners meet at this almshouse and\nreceive the weekly reports of the intendent, physician, and gardener.\nOnce every year these officers, and the matron, wagoner, and baker are\nelected. Sixteen ounces of bread and eight ounces of beef are the\nration of the district pauper. The turnkey, gate-keeper, chief\nwatchmen, and chief nurses, are selected from the inmates. The gates\nare closed at sunset, and the lights go out at eight P.M. all\nwinter. The inmates wear a uniform, labelled in large letters\n\"Work-house,\" or \"Washington Asylum.\"\n\nThe poor-house is an institution coeval with the capital. We are told\nthat while crabbed old Davy Burns, the owner of the most valuable part\nof the site of Washington City, was haggling with General Washington\nover his proportion of lots, his neglected and intemperate brother,\nTommy, was an inmate of the poor-house.\n\nThus, while the Romulus of the place married his daughter to a\nCongressman, and was buried in a \"mausoleum\" on H Street, Remus died\nwithout the walls and mingled his ashes, perhaps, with paupers.\n\nThe vaunted metropolis of the republican hopes of mankind--for such\nwas Washington, the fabulous city, advertised and praised in every\ncapital of Western Europe--drew to its site artists, adventurers, and\nspeculators from all lands. From Thomas Law, a secretary of Warren\nHastings, who wasted the earnings of India on enterprises here, to a\nFrenchman who died on the guillotine for practising with an infernal\nmachine upon the life of Napoleon Bonaparte, the long train of\npilgrims came and saw and despaired, and many of them, perhaps, lie in\nthe Potter's Field. Old books and newspapers, chary on such personal\nquestions, contain occasional references as to some sculptor's\nsuicide, or to the straits of this or that French officer, a claimant\nabout Congress; and we know that Major L'Enfant, who conceived the\nplan of the place, sought refuge with a pitying friend and died here\npenniless. The long war of twenty years in Europe brought to America\nthousands in search of safety and rest, and to these the magnetism of\nthe word \"capital\" was often the song of the siren wiling them to the\npoor-house. By the time Europe had wearied of the sword, the fatality\nattending high living, large slave-tilled estates, the love of\nofficial society, and the defective education of the young men of\ntide-water Virginia and Maryland, produced a new class of native-born\nerrants and broken profligates at Washington, and many a life whose\nmemories began with a coach-and-four and a park of deer ended them\nbetween the coverlets of a poor-house bed. The old times were, after\nall, very hollow times! We are fond of reading about the hospitality\nof the Madisonian age, but could so many have accepted it if all were\nprosperous?\n\nIn our time, work being the fate and the redemption of us all, the\nDistrict Almshouse contains few government employes. Now and then, as\nMr. Hodgson told us, some clerk, spent with sickness or exhausted by\nevil indulgences, takes the inevitable road across the vacant plains\nand eats his pauper ration in silence or in resignation; but the age\nis better, not, perhaps, because the heart of man is changed, but in\nthat society is organized upon truer principles of honor, of\nmanfulness, and of labor. The class of well-bred young men who are\nashamed to admit that they must earn their living, and who affect the\ncompany of gamesters and chicken-fighters, has some remnants left\namong us, but they find no aliment in the public sentiment, and hear\nno response in the public tone. Duelling is over; visiting one's\nrelatives as a profession is done; thrift is no more a reproach, and\neven the reputation of being a miser is rather complimentary to a man.\nThe worst chapters of humanity in America are those narrating the\nindigence of the old agricultural families on the streams of the\nChesapeake; the quarterly sale of a slave to supply the demands of a\nfalse understanding of generosity; the inhuman revelling of one's\nfriends upon the last possessions of his family, holding it to be a\njest to precipitate his ruin; the wild orgies held on the glebe of\nsome old parish church, horses hitched to the gravestones, and punch\nmixed in the baptismal font; and at the last, delirium, impotence,\ndecay! Let those who would understand it read Bishop Meade, or descend\nthe Potomac and Rappahannock, even at this day, and cross certain\nthresholds.\n\nThe Washington poor-house seems to be well-arranged, except in one\nrespect: under the same roof, divided only by a partition and a\ncorridor, the vicious are lodged for punishment and the unfortunate\nfor refuge.\n\nWe passed through a part of the building where, among old, toothless\nwomen, semi-imbecile girls--the relicts of error, the heirs of\naffliction--three babies of one mother were in charge of a strong,\nrosy Irish nurse. Two of them, twins, were in her lap, and a third\nupon the floor halloaing for joy. Such noble specimens of childhood we\nhad never seen; heads like Caesar's, eyes bright as the depths of wells\ninto which one laughs and receives his laughter back, and the\ncomplexions and carriage of high birth. The woman was suckling them\nall, and all crowed alternately, so that they made the bare floors and\nwalls light up as with pictures. A few yards off, though out of\nhearing, were the thick forms of criminals, drunkards, wantons, and\nvagrants, seen through the iron bars of their wicket, raising the\ncroon and song of an idle din, drumming on the floor, or moving to and\nfro restlessly. Beneath this part of the almshouse were cells where\nbad cases were locked up. The association of the poor and the wicked\naffected us painfully.\n\nStrolling into the syphilitic wards, where, in the awful contemplation\nof their daily, piecemeal decay, the silent victims were stretched all\nday upon their cots; among the idiotic and the crazed; into the\napartments of the aged poor, seeing, let us hope, blessed visions of\nlife beyond these shambles; and drinking in, as we walked, the solemn\nbut needful lesson of our own possibilities and the mutations of our\nnature, we stood at last among the graves of the almshouse dead--those\nwho have escaped the dissecting-knife. Scattered about, with little\nstones and mounds here and there, under the occasional sullen green of\ncedars, a dead-cart and a spade sticking up as symbols, and the\nneglected river, deserted as the Styx, plashing against the low banks,\nwe felt the sobering melancholy of the spot and made the prayer of\n\"Give me neither poverty nor riches!\"\n\n1871.\n\n\n\n\nOLD ST. MARY'S.\n\n\n    This is the river. Like Southampton water\n    It enters broadly in the woody lands,\n    As if to break a continent asunder,\n    And sudden ceasing, lo! the city stands:\n    St. Mary's--stretching forth its yellow hands\n    Of beach, beneath the bluff where it commands\n    In vision only; for the fields are green\n    Above the pilgrims. Pleasant is the place;\n    No ruin mars its immemorial face.\n    As young as in virginity renewed,\n    Its widow's sorrows gone without a trace,\n    And tempting man to woo its solitude.\n\n    The river loves it, and embraces still\n    Its comely form with two small arms of bay,\n    Whereon, of old, the Calvert's pinnace lay,\n    The Dove--dear bird!--the olive in its bill,\n    That to the Ark returned from every gale\n    And found a haven by this sheltering hill.[4]\n\n    Lo! all composed, the soft horizons lie\n    Afloat upon the blueness of the coves,\n    And sometimes in the mirage does the sky\n    Seem to continue the dependent groves,\n    And draw in the canoe that careless roves\n    Among the stars repeated round the bow.\n    Far off the larger sails go down the world,\n    For nothing worldly sees St. Mary's now;\n    The ancient windmills all their sails have furled,\n    The standards of the Lords of Baltimore,\n    And they, the Lords, have passed to their repose;\n    And nothing sounds upon the pebbly shore\n    Except thy hidden bell, Saint Inigo's.\n\n[Footnote 4: The Catholic settlers of Maryland had a ship called The\nArk, and a pinnace called The Dove.]\n\n    There in a wood the Jesuits' chapel stands\n    Amongst the gravestones, in secluded calm.\n    But, Sabbath days, the censer's healing balm,\n    The Crucified with His extended hands,\n    And music of the masses, draw the fold\n    Back to His worship, as in days of old.\n\n    Upon a cape the priest's house northward blinks,\n    To see St. Mary's Seminary guard\n    The dead that sleep within the parish yard,\n    In English faith--the parish church that links\n    The present with the perished, for its walls\n    Are of the clay that was the capital's,\n    When halberdiers and musketeers kept ward,\n    And armor sounded in the oaken halls.\n\n    A fruity smell is in the school-house lane;\n    The clover bees are sick with evening heats;\n    A few old houses from the window pane\n    Fling back the flame of sunset, and there beats\n    The throb of oars from basking oyster fleets,\n    And clangorous music of the oyster tongs,\n    Plunged down in deep bivalvulous retreats,\n    And sound of seine drawn home with negro songs.\n\n    Night falls as heavily in such a clime\n    As tired childhood after all day's play,\n    Waiting for mother who has passed away,\n    And some old nurse, with iterated rhyme\n    Of hymns or topics of the olden time,\n    Lulls wonder with her tenderness to rest:\n    So, old St. Mary's! at the close of day,\n    Sing thou to me, a truant, on thy breast.","title":"Tales of the Chesapeake","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":85139}