TALES OF A TRAVELLER

BY

WASHINGTON IRVING

CONTENTS. 

PART FIRST. 

STRANGE STORIES BY A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN. 

A Hunting DinnerAdventure of my UncleAdventure of my AuntBold DragoonAdventure of the Mysterious PictureAdventure of the Mysterious StrangerStory of the Young Italian

PART SECOND. 

BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS. 

Literary LifeLiterary DinnerClub of Queer FellowsPoor Devil AuthorBuckthorne; or, the Young Man of Great ExpectationsGrave Reflections of a Disappointed ManBooby SquireStrolling Manager

PART THIRD. 

THE ITALIAN BANDITTI. 

Inn at TerracinaAdventure of the Little AntiquaryAdventure of the Popkins FamilyPainter's AdventureStory of the Bandit ChieftainStory of the Young Robber

PART FOURTH. 

THE MONEY-DIGGERS. 

Hell GateKidd, the PirateDevil and Tom WalkerWolfert Webber; or, Golden DreamsAdventure of Sam, the Black Fisherman

TALES OF A TRAVELLER

PART FIRST

STRANGE STORIES BY A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN. 

 I'll tell you more; there was a fish taken, A monstrous fish, with, a sword by's side, a long sword, A pike in's neck, and a gun in's nose, a huge gun, And letters of mart in's mouth, from the Duke of Florence. _Cleanthes_. This is a monstrous lie. _Tony_. I do confess it. Do you think I'd tell you truths!

 FLETCHER'S WIFE FOR A MONTH. 

[The following adventures were related to me by the same nervousgentleman who told me the romantic tale of THE STOUT GENTLEMAN, published in Bracebridge Hall. 

It is very singular, that although I expressly stated that story tohave been told to me, and described the very person who told it, stillit has been received as an adventure that happened to myself. Now, Iprotest I never met with any adventure of the kind. I should not havegrieved at this, had it not been intimated by the author of Waverley, in an introduction to his romance of Peveril of the Peak, that he washimself the Stout Gentleman alluded to. I have ever since beenimportuned by letters and questions from gentlemen, and particularlyfrom ladies without number, touching what I had seen of the greatunknown. 

Now, all this is extremely tantalizing. It is like being congratulatedon the high prize when one has drawn a blank; for I have just as greata desire as any one of the public to penetrate the mystery of thatvery singular personage, whose voice fills every corner of the world, without any one being able to tell from whence it comes. He who keepsup such a wonderful and whimsical incognito: whom nobody knows, andyet whom every body thinks he can swear to. 

My friend, the nervous gentleman, also, who is a man of very shy, Retired habits, complains that he has been excessively annoyed inconsequence of its getting about in his neighborhood that he is thefortunate personage. Insomuch, that he has become a character ofconsiderable notoriety in two or three country towns; and has beenrepeatedly teased to exhibit himself at blue-stocking parties, for noother reason than that of being "the gentleman who has had a glimpseof the author of Waverley. "

Indeed, the poor man has grown ten times as nervous as ever, since hehas discovered, on such good authority, who the stout gentleman was;and will never forgive himself for not having made a more resoluteeffort to get a full sight of him. He has anxiously endeavored to callup a recollection of what he saw of that portly personage; and hasever since kept a curious eye on all gentlemen of more than ordinarydimensions, whom he has seen getting into stage coaches. All in vain!The features he had caught a glimpse of seem common to the whole raceof stout gentlemen; and the great unknown remains as great an unknownas ever. ]

A HUNTING DINNER. 

I was once at a hunting dinner, given by a worthy fox-hunting oldBaronet, who kept Bachelor's Hall in jovial style, in an ancientrook-haunted family mansion, in one of the middle counties. He had beena devoted admirer of the fair sex in his young days; but havingtravelled much, studied the sex in various countries with distinguishedsuccess, and returned home profoundly instructed, as he supposed, inthe ways of woman, and a perfect master of the art of pleasing, he hadthe mortification of being jilted by a little boarding school girl, whowas scarcely versed in the accidence of love. 

The Baronet was completely overcome by such an incredible defeat;retired from the world in disgust, put himself under the government ofhis housekeeper, and took to fox-hunting like a perfect Jehu. Whateverpoets may say to the contrary, a man will grow out of love as he growsold; and a pack of fox hounds may chase out of his heart even thememory of a boarding-school goddess. The Baronet was when I saw him asmerry and mellow an old bachelor as ever followed a hound; and thelove he had once felt for one woman had spread itself over the wholesex; so that there was not a pretty face in the whole country round, but came in for a share. 

The dinner was prolonged till a late hour; for our host having noladies in his household to summon us to the drawing-room, the bottlemaintained its true bachelor sway, unrivalled by its potent enemy thetea-kettle. The old hall in which we dined echoed to bursts ofrobustious fox-hunting merriment, that made the ancient antlers shakeon the walls. By degrees, however, the wine and wassail of mine hostbegan to operate upon bodies already a little jaded by the chase. Thechoice spirits that flashed up at the beginning of the dinner, sparkledfor a time, then gradually went out one after another, or only emittednow and then a faint gleam from the socket. 

Some of the briskest talkers, who had given tongue so bravely at thefirst burst, fell fast asleep; and none kept on their way but certainof those long-winded prosers, who, like short-legged hounds, worry onunnoticed at the bottom of conversation, but are sure to be in at thedeath. Even these at length subsided into silence; and scarcely anything was heard but the nasal communications of two or three veteranmasticators, who, having been silent while awake, were indemnifyingthe company in their sleep. 

At length the announcement of tea and coffee in the cedar parlorroused all hands from this temporary torpor. Every one awokemarvellously renovated, and while sipping the refreshing beverage outof the Baronet's old-fashioned hereditary china, began to think ofdeparting for their several homes. But here a sudden difficulty arose. While we had been prolonging our repast, a heavy winter storm had setin, with snow, rain, and sleet, driven by such bitter blasts of wind, that they threatened to penetrate to the very bone. 

"It's all in vain, " said our hospitable host, "to think of puttingone's head out of doors in such weather. So, gentlemen, I hold you myguests for this night at least, and will have your quarters preparedaccordingly. "

The unruly weather, which became more and more tempestuous, renderedThe hospitable suggestion unanswerable. The only question was, whethersuch an unexpected accession of company, to an already crowded house, would not put the housekeeper to her trumps to accommodate them. 

"Pshaw, " cried mine host, "did you ever know of a Bachelor's Hall thatwas not elastic, and able to accommodate twice as many as it couldhold?" So out of a good-humored pique the housekeeper was summoned toconsultation before us all. The old lady appeared, in her gala suit offaded brocade, which rustled with flurry and agitation, for in spiteof mine host's bravado, she was a little perplexed. But in abachelor's house, and with bachelor guests, these matters are readilymanaged. There is no lady of the house to stand upon squeamish pointsabout lodging guests in odd holes and corners, and exposing the shabbyparts of the establishment. A bachelor's housekeeper is used to shiftsand emergencies. After much worrying to and fro, and diversconsultations about the red room, and the blue room, and the chintzroom, and the damask room, and the little room with the bow window, the matter was finally arranged. 

When all this was done, we were once more summoned to the standingRural amusement of eating. The time that had been consumed in dozingafter dinner, and in the refreshment and consultation of the cedarparlor, was sufficient, in the opinion of the rosy-faced butler, toengender a reasonable appetite for supper. A slight repast hadtherefore been tricked up from the residue of dinner, consisting ofcold sirloin of beef; hashed venison; a devilled leg of a turkey orso, and a few other of those light articles taken by country gentlemento ensure sound sleep and heavy snoring. 

The nap after dinner had brightened up every one's wit; and a greatdeal of excellent humor was expended upon the perplexities of minehost and his housekeeper, by certain married gentlemen of the company, who considered themselves privileged in joking with a bachelor'sestablishment. From this the banter turned as to what quarters eachwould find, on being thus suddenly billeted in so antiquated amansion. 

"By my soul, " said an Irish captain of dragoons, one of the most merryand boisterous of the party--"by my soul, but I should not besurprised if some of those good-looking gentlefolks that hang alongthe walls, should walk about the rooms of this stormy night; or if Ishould find the ghost of one of these long-waisted ladies turning intomy bed in mistake for her grave in the church-yard. 

"Do you believe in ghosts, then?" said a thin, hatchet-faced gentleman, with projecting eyes like a lobster. 

I had remarked this last personage throughout dinner-time for one ofThose incessant questioners, who seem to have a craving, unhealthyappetite in conversation. He never seemed satisfied with the whole ofa story; never laughed when others laughed; but always put the joke tothe question. He could never enjoy the kernel of the nut, but pesteredhimself to get more out of the shell. 

"Do you believe in ghosts, then?" said the inquisitive gentleman. 

"Faith, but I do, " replied the jovial Irishman; "I was brought up inthe fear and belief of them; we had a Benshee in our own family, honey. "

"A Benshee--and what's that?" cried the questioner. 

"Why an old lady ghost that tends upon your real Milesian families, and wails at their window to let them know when some of them are todie. "

"A mighty pleasant piece of information, " cried an elderly gentleman, with a knowing look and a flexible nose, to which he could give awhimsical twist when he wished to be waggish. 

"By my soul, but I'd have you know it's a piece of distinction to bewaited upon by a Benshee. It's a proof that one has pure blood inone's veins. But, egad, now we're talking of ghosts, there never was ahouse or a night better fitted than the present for a ghost adventure. Faith, Sir John, haven't you such a thing as a haunted chamber to puta guest in?"

"Perhaps, " said the Baronet, smiling, "I might accommodate you even onthat point. "

"Oh, I should like it of all things, my jewel. Some dark oaken room, with ugly wo-begone portraits that stare dismally at one, and aboutwhich the housekeeper has a power of delightful stories of love andmurder. And then a dim lamp, a table with a rusty sword across it, anda spectre all in white to draw aside one's curtains at midnight--"

"In truth, " said an old gentleman at one end of the table, "you put mein mind of an anecdote--"

"Oh, a ghost story! a ghost story!" was vociferated round the board, every one edging his chair a little nearer. 

The attention of the whole company was now turned upon the speaker. Hewas an old gentleman, one side of whose face was no match for theother. The eyelid drooped and hung down like an unhinged windowshutter. Indeed, the whole side of his head was dilapidated, andseemed like the wing of a house shut up and haunted. I'll warrant thatside was well stuffed with ghost stories. 

There was a universal demand for the tale. 

"Nay, " said the old gentleman, "it's a mere anecdote--and a verycommonplace one; but such as it is you shall have it. It is a storythat I once heard my uncle tell when I was a boy. But whether ashaving happened to himself or to another, I cannot recollect. But nomatter, it's very likely it happened to himself, for he was a man veryapt to meet with strange adventures. I have heard him tell of othersmuch more singular. At any rate, we will suppose it happened tohimself. "

"What kind of man was your uncle?" said the questioning gentleman. 

"Why, he was rather a dry, shrewd kind of body; a great traveller, andfond of telling his adventures. "

"Pray, how old might he have been when this happened?"

"When what happened?" cried the gentleman with the flexible nose, impatiently--"Egad, you have not given any thing a chance to happen-—come, never mind our uncle's age; let us have his adventures. "

The inquisitive gentleman being for the moment silenced, the oldgentleman with the haunted head proceeded. 

THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 

Many years since, a long time before the French revolution, my unclehad passed several months at Paris. The English and French were onbetter terms, in those days, than at present, and mingled cordiallytogether in society. The English went abroad to spend money then, andthe French were always ready to help them: they go abroad to save moneyat present, and that they can do without French assistance. Perhaps thetravelling English were fewer and choicer then, than at present, whenthe whole nation has broke loose, and inundated the continent. At anyrate, they circulated more readily and currently in foreign society, and my uncle, during his residence in Paris, made many very intimateacquaintances among the French noblesse. 

Some time afterwards, he was making a journey in the winter-time, inthat part of Normandy called the Pays de Caux, when, as evening wasclosing in, he perceived the turrets of an ancient chateau rising outof the trees of its walled park, each turret with its high conical roofof gray slate, like a candle with an extinguisher on it. 

"To whom does that chateau belong, friend?" cried my uncle to a meager, but fiery postillion, who, with tremendous jack boots and cocked hat, was floundering on before him. 

"To Monseigneur the Marquis de ----, " said the postillion, touching hishat, partly out of respect to my uncle, and partly out of reverence tothe noble name pronounced. My uncle recollected the Marquis for aparticular friend in Paris, who had often expressed a wish to see himat his paternal chateau. My uncle was an old traveller, one that knewhow to turn things to account. He revolved for a few moments in hismind how agreeable it would be to his friend the Marquis to besurprised in this sociable way by a pop visit; and how much moreagreeable to himself to get into snug quarters in a chateau, and have arelish of the Marquis's well-known kitchen, and a smack of his superiorchampagne and burgundy; rather than take up with the miserablelodgment, and miserable fare of a country inn. In a few minutes, therefore, the meager postillion was cracking his whip like a verydevil, or like a true Frenchman, up the long straight avenue that ledto the chateau. 

You have no doubt all seen French chateaus, as every body travels inFrance nowadays. This was one of the oldest; standing naked and alone, in the midst of a desert of gravel walks and cold stone terraces; witha cold-looking formal garden, cut into angles and rhomboids; and a coldleafless park, divided geometrically by straight alleys; and two orthree noseless, cold-looking statues without any clothing; andfountains spouting cold water enough to make one's teeth chatter. Atleast, such was the feeling they imparted on the wintry day of myuncle's visit; though, in hot summer weather, I'll warrant there wasglare enough to scorch one's eyes out. 

The smacking of the postillion's whip, which grew more and more intensethe nearer they approached, frightened a flight of pigeons out of thedove-cote, and rooks out of the roofs; and finally a crew of servantsout of the chateau, with the Marquis at their head. He was enchanted tosee my uncle; for his chateau, like the house of our worthy host, hadnot many more guests at the time than it could accommodate. So hekissed my uncle on each cheek, after the French fashion, and usheredhim into the castle. 

The Marquis did the honors of his house with the urbanity of hiscountry. In fact, he was proud of his old family chateau; for part ofit was extremely old. There was a tower and chapel that had been builtalmost before the memory of man; but the rest was more modern; thecastle having been nearly demolished during the wars of the League. TheMarquis dwelt upon this event with great satisfaction, and seemedreally to entertain a grateful feeling towards Henry IV. , for havingthought his paternal mansion worth battering down. He had many storiesto tell of the prowess of his ancestors, and several skull-caps, helmets, and cross-bows to show; and divers huge boots and buffjerkins, that had been worn by the Leaguers. Above all, there was atwo-handled sword, which he could hardly wield; but which he displayedas a proof that there had been giants in his family. 

In truth, he was but a small descendant from such great warriors. Whenyou looked at their bluff visages and brawny limbs, as depicted intheir portraits, and then at the little Marquis, with his spindleshanks; his sallow lanthern visage, flanked with a pair of powderedear-locks, or _ailes de pigeon_, that seemed ready to fly away with it;you would hardly believe him to be of the same race. But when youlooked at the eyes that sparkled out like a beetle's from each side ofhis hooked nose, you saw at once that he inherited all the fiery spiritof his forefathers. In fact, a Frenchman's spirit never exhales, however his body may dwindle. It rather rarefies, and grows moreinflammable, as the earthly particles diminish; and I have seen valorenough in a little fiery-hearted French dwarf, to have furnished out atolerable giant. 

When once the Marquis, as he was wont, put on one of the old helmetsthat were stuck up in his hall; though his head no more filled it thana dry pea its pease cod; yet his eyes sparkled from the bottom of theiron cavern with the brilliancy of carbuncles, and when he poised theponderous two-handled sword of his ancestors, you would have thoughtyou saw the doughty little David wielding the sword of Goliath, whichwas unto him like a weaver's beam. 

However, gentlemen, I am dwelling too long on this description of theMarquis and his chateau; but you must excuse me; he was an old friendof my uncle's, and whenever my uncle told the story, he was always fondof talking a great deal about his host. --Poor little Marquis! He wasone of that handful of gallant courtiers, who made such a devoted, buthopeless stand in the cause of their sovereign, in the chateau of theTuilleries, against the irruption of the mob, on the sad tenth ofAugust. 

He displayed the valor of a preux French chevalier to the last;flourished feebly his little court sword with a sa-sa! in face of awhole legion of _sans-culottes_; but was pinned to the wall like abutterfly, by the pike of a poissarde, and his heroic soul was borne upto heaven on his _ailes de pigeon_. 

But all this has nothing to do with my story; to the point then:--

When the hour arrived for retiring for the night, my uncle was shown tohis room, in a venerable old tower. It was the oldest part of thechateau, and had in ancient times been the Donjon or stronghold; ofcourse the chamber was none of the best. The Marquis had put him there, however, because he knew him to be a traveller of taste, and fond ofantiquities; and also because the better apartments were alreadyoccupied. Indeed, he perfectly reconciled my uncle to his quarters bymentioning the great personages who had once inhabited them, all ofwhom were in some way or other connected with the family. If you wouldtake his word for it, John Baliol, or, as he called him, Jean deBailleul, had died of chagrin in this very chamber on hearing of thesuccess of his rival, Robert the Bruce, at the battle of Bannockburn;and when he added that the Duke de Guise had slept in it during thewars of the League, my uncle was fain to felicitate himself upon beinghonored with such distinguished quarters. 

The night was shrewd and windy, and the chamber none of the warmest. Anold, long-faced, long-bodied servant in quaint livery, who attendedupon my uncle, threw down an armful of wood beside the fire-place, gavea queer look about the room, and then wished him _bon repos_, with agrimace and a shrug that would have been suspicious from any other thanan old French servant. The chamber had indeed a wild, crazy look, enough to strike any one who had read romances with apprehension andforeboding. The windows were high and narrow, and had once beenloop-holes, but had been rudely enlarged, as well as the extremethickness of the walls would permit; and the ill-fitted casementsrattled to every breeze. You would have thought, on a windy night, someof the old Leaguers were tramping and clanking about the apartment intheir huge boots and rattling spurs. A door which stood ajar, and likea true French door would stand ajar, in spite of every reason andeffort to the contrary, opened upon a long, dark corridor, that led theLord knows whither, and seemed just made for ghosts to air themselvesin, when they turned out of their graves at midnight. The wind wouldspring up into a hoarse murmur through this passage, and creak the doorto and fro, as if some dubious ghost were balancing in its mind whetherto come in or not. In a word, it was precisely the kind of comfortlessapartment that a ghost, if ghost there were in the chateau, wouldsingle out for its favourite lounge. 

My uncle, however, though a man accustomed to meet with strangeadventures, apprehended none at the time. He made several attempts toshut the door, but in vain. Not that he apprehended any thing, for hewas too old a traveller to be daunted by a wild-looking apartment; butthe night, as I have said, was cold and gusty, something like thepresent, and the wind howled about the old turret, pretty much as itdoes round this old mansion at this moment; and the breeze from thelong dark corridor came in as damp and chilly as if from a dungeon. Myuncle, therefore, since he could not close the door, threw a quantityof wood on the fire, which soon sent up a flame in the greatwide-mouthed chimney that illumined the whole chamber, and made theshadow of the tongs on the opposite wall, look like a long-leggedgiant. My uncle now clambered on top of the half score of mattresseswhich form a French bed, and which stood in a deep recess; then tuckinghimself snugly in, and burying himself up to the chin in thebed-clothes, he lay looking at the fire, and listening to the wind, andchuckling to think how knowingly he had come over his friend theMarquis for a night's lodgings: and so he fell asleep. 

He had not taken above half of his first nap, when he was awakened bythe clock of the chateau, in the turret over his chamber, which struckmidnight. It was just such an old clock as ghosts are fond of. It had adeep, dismal tone, and struck so slowly and tediously that my unclethought it would never have done. He counted and counted till he wasconfident he counted thirteen, and then it stopped. 

The fire had burnt low, and the blaze of the last faggot was almostexpiring, burning in small blue flames, which now and then lengthenedup into little white gleams. My uncle lay with his eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn almost down to his nose. His fancy was alreadywandering, and began to mingle up the present scene with the crater ofVesuvius, the French opera, the Coliseum at Rome, Dolly's chop-house inLondon, and all the farrago of noted places with which the brain of atraveller is crammed--in a word, he was just falling asleep. 

Suddenly he was aroused by the sound of foot-steps that appeared to beslowly pacing along the corridor. My uncle, as I have often heard himsay himself, was a man not easily frightened; so he lay quiet, supposing that this might be some other guest; or some servant on hisway to bed. The footsteps, however, approached the door; the doorgently opened; whether of its own accord, or whether pushed open, myuncle could not distinguish:--a figure all in white glided in. It was afemale, tall and stately in person, and of a most commanding air. Herdress was of an ancient fashion, ample in volume and sweeping thefloor. She walked up to the fire-place without regarding my uncle; whoraised his nightcap with one hand, and stared earnestly at her. Sheremained for some time standing by the fire, which flashing up atintervals cast blue and white gleams of light that enabled my uncle toremark her appearance minutely. 

Her face was ghastly pale, and perhaps rendered still more so by theBlueish light of the fire. It possessed beauty, but its beauty wassaddened by care and anxiety. There was the look of one accustomed totrouble, but of one whom trouble could not cast down nor subdue; forthere was still the predominating air of proud, unconquerableresolution. Such, at least, was the opinion formed by my uncle, and heconsidered himself a great physiognomist. 

The figure remained, as I said, for some time by the fire, putting outfirst one hand, then the other, then each foot, alternately, as ifwarming itself; for your ghosts, if ghost it really was, are apt to becold. My uncle furthermore remarked that it wore high-heeled shoes, after an ancient fashion, with paste or diamond buckles, that sparkledas though they were alive. At length the figure turned gently round, casting a glassy look about the apartment, which, as it passed over myuncle, made his blood run cold, and chilled the very marrow in hisbones. It then stretched its arms toward heaven, clasped its hands, andwringing them in a supplicating manner, glided slowly out of the room. 

My uncle lay for some time meditating on this visitation, for (as heRemarked when he told me the story) though a man of firmness, he wasalso a man of reflection, and did not reject a thing because it was outof the regular course of events. However, being, as I have before said, a great traveller, and accustomed to strange adventures, he drew hisnightcap resolutely over his eyes, turned his back to the door, hoistedthe bedclothes high over his shoulders, and gradually fell asleep. 

How long he slept he could not say, when he was awakened by the voiceof some one at his bed-side. He turned round and beheld the old Frenchservant, with his ear-locks in tight buckles on each side of a long, lanthorn face, on which habit had deeply wrinkled an everlasting smile. He made a thousand grimaces and asked a thousand pardons for disturbingMonsieur, but the morning was considerably advanced. While my uncle wasdressing, he called vaguely to mind the visitor of the preceding night. He asked the ancient domestic what lady was in the habit of ramblingabout this part of the chateau at night. The old valet shrugged hisshoulders as high as his head, laid one hand on his bosom, threw openthe other with every finger extended; made a most whimsical grimace, which he meant to be complimentary:

"It was not for him to know any thing of _les braves fortunes_ ofMonsieur. "

My uncle saw there was nothing satisfactory to be learnt in thisquarter. After breakfast he was walking with the Marquis through themodern apartments of the chateau; sliding over the well-waxed floors ofsilken saloons, amidst furniture rich in gilding and brocade; untilthey came to a long picture gallery, containing many portraits, some inoil and some in chalks. 

Here was an ample field for the eloquence of his host, who had all thefamily pride of a nobleman of the _ancient regime_. There was not agrand name in Normandy, and hardly one in France, that was not, in someway or other, connected with his house. My uncle stood listening withinward impatience, resting sometimes on one leg, sometimes on theother, as the little Marquis descanted, with his usual fire andvivacity, on the achievements of his ancestors, whose portraits hungalong the wall; from the martial deeds of the stern warriors in steel, to the gallantries and intrigues of the blue-eyed gentlemen, with fairsmiling faces, powdered ear-locks, laced ruffles, and pink and bluesilk coats and breeches; not forgetting the conquests of the lovelyshepherdesses, with hoop petticoats and waists no thicker than an hourglass, who appeared ruling over their sheep and their swains withdainty crooks decorated with fluttering ribbands. 

In the midst of his friend's discourse my uncle's eyes rested on afull-length portrait, which struck him as being the very counterpart ofhis visitor of the preceding night. 

"Methinks, " said he, pointing to it, "I have seen the original of thisportrait. "

"_Pardonnez moi_, " replied the Marquis politely, "that can hardly be, as the lady has been dead more than a hundred years. That was thebeautiful Duchess de Longueville, who figured during the minority ofLouis the Fourteenth. "

"And was there any thing remarkable in her history. "

Never was question more unlucky. The little Marquis immediately threwhimself into the attitude of a man about to tell a long story. In fact, my uncle had pulled upon himself the whole history of the civil war ofthe Fronde, in which the beautiful Duchess had played so distinguisheda part. Turenne, Coligni, Mazarin, were called up from their graves tograce his narration; nor were the affairs of the Barricadoes, nor thechivalry of the Pertcocheres forgotten. My uncle began to wish himselfa thousand leagues off from the Marquis and his merciless memory, whensuddenly the little man's recollections took a more interesting turn. He was relating the imprisonment of the Duke de Longueville, with thePrinces Condé and Conti, in the chateau of Vincennes, and theineffectual efforts of the Duchess to rouse the sturdy Normans to theirrescue. He had come to that part where she was invested by the royalforces in the chateau of Dieppe, and in imminent danger of falling intotheir hands. 

"The spirit of the Duchess, " proceeded the Marquis, "rose with hertrials. It was astonishing to see so delicate and beautiful a beingbuffet so resolutely with hardships. She determined on a desperatemeans of escape. One dark unruly night, she issued secretly out of asmall postern gate of the castle, which the enemy had neglected toguard. She was followed by her female attendants, a few domestics, andsome gallant cavaliers who still remained faithful to her fortunes. Herobject was to gain a small port about two leagues distant, where shehad privately provided a vessel for her escape in case of emergency. 

"The little band of fugitives were obliged to perform the distance onfoot. When they arrived at the port the wind was high and stormy, thetide contrary, the vessel anchored far off in the road, and no means ofgetting on board, but by a fishing shallop that lay tossing like acockle shell on the edge of the surf. The Duchess determined to riskthe attempt. The seamen endeavored to dissuade her, but the imminenceof her danger on shore, and the magnanimity of her spirit urged her on. She had to be borne to the shallop in the arms of a mariner. Such wasthe violence of the wind and waves, that he faltered, lost hisfoothold, and let his precious burden fall into the sea. 

"The Duchess was nearly drowned; but partly through her own struggles, partly by the exertions of the seamen, she got to land. As soon as shehad a little recovered strength, she insisted on renewing the attempt. The storm, however, had by this time become so violent as to set allefforts at defiance. To delay, was to be discovered and taken prisoner. As the only resource left, she procured horses; mounted with her femaleattendants _en croupe_ behind the gallant gentlemen who accompaniedher; and scoured the country to seek some temporary asylum. 

"While the Duchess, " continued the Marquis, laying his forefinger on myuncle's breast to arouse his flagging attention, "while the Duchess, poor lady, was wandering amid the tempest in this disconsolate manner, she arrived at this chateau. Her approach caused some uneasiness; forthe clattering of a troop of horse, at dead of night, up the avenue ofa lonely chateau, in those unsettled times, and in a troubled part ofthe country, was enough to occasion alarm. 

"A tall, broad-shouldered chasseur, armed to the teeth, galloped ahead, and announced the name of the visitor. All uneasiness was dispelled. The household turned out with flambeaux to receive her, and never didtorches gleam on a more weather-beaten, travel-stained band than cametramping into the court. Such pale, care-worn faces, such bedraggleddresses, as the poor Duchess and her females presented, each seatedbehind her cavalier; while half drenched, half drowsy pages andattendants seemed ready to fall from their horses with sleep andfatigue. 

"The Duchess was received with a hearty welcome by my ancestors. Shewas ushered into the Hall of the chateau, and the fires soon crackledand blazed to cheer herself and her train; and every spit and stewpanwas put in requisition to prepare ample refreshments for the wayfarers. 

"She had a right to our hospitalities, " continued the little Marquis, drawing himself up with a slight degree of stateliness, "for she wasrelated to our family. I'll tell you how it was: Her father, Henry deBourbon, Prince of Condé--"

"But did the Duchess pass the night in the chateau?" said my unclerather abruptly, terrified at the idea of getting involved in one ofthe Marquis's genealogical discussions. 

"Oh, as to the Duchess, she was put into the apartment you occupiedlast night; which, at that time, was a kind of state apartment. Herfollowers were quartered in the chambers opening upon the neighboringcorridor, and her favorite page slept in an adjoining closet. Up anddown the corridor walked the great chasseur, who had announced herarrival, and who acted as a kind of sentinel or guard. He was a dark, stern, powerful-looking fellow, and as the light of a lamp in thecorridor fell upon his deeply-marked face and sinewy form, he seemedcapable of defending the castle with his single arm. 

"It was a rough, rude night; about this time of theyear. --_Apropos_--now I think of it, last night was the anniversary ofher visit. I may well remember the precise date, for it was a night notto be forgotten by our house. There is a singular tradition concerningit in our family. " Here the Marquis hesitated, and a cloud seemed togather about his bushy eyebrows. "There is a tradition--that a strangeoccurrence took place that night--a strange, mysterious, inexplicableoccurrence. "

Here he checked himself and paused. 

"Did it relate to that lady?" inquired my uncle, eagerly. 

"It was past the hour of midnight, " resumed the Marquis--"when thewhole chateau--"

Here he paused again--my uncle made a movement of anxious curiosity. 

"Excuse me, " said the Marquis--a slight blush streaking his sullenvisage. "There are some circumstances connected with our family historywhich I do not like to relate. That was a rude period. A time of greatcrimes among great men: for you know high blood, when it runs wrong, will not run tamely like blood of the _canaille_--poor lady!--But Ihave a little family pride, that--excuse me--we will change the subjectif you please. "--

My uncle's curiosity was piqued. The pompous and magnificentintroduction had led him to expect something wonderful in the story towhich it served as a kind of avenue. He had no idea of being cheatedout of it by a sudden fit of unreasonable squeamishness. Besides, beinga traveller, in quest of information, considered it his duty to inquireinto every thing. 

The Marquis, however, evaded every question. 

"Well, " said my uncle, a little petulantly, "whatever you may think ofit, I saw that lady last night. "

The Marquis stepped back and gazed at him with surprise. 

"She paid me a visit in my bed-chamber. "

The Marquis pulled out his snuff-box with a shrug and a smile; takingit no doubt for an awkward piece of English pleasantry, whichpoliteness required him to be charmed with. My uncle went on gravely, however, and related the whole circumstance. The Marquis heard himthrough with profound attention, holding his snuff-box unopened in hishand. When the story was finished he tapped on the lid of his boxdeliberately; took a long sonorous pinch of snuff--

"Bah!" said the Marquis, and walked toward the other end of thegallery. --

 * * * * *

Here the narrator paused. The company waited for some time for him toresume his narrative; but he continued silent. 

"Well, " said the inquisitive gentleman, "and what did your uncle saythen?"

"Nothing, " replied the other. 

"And what did the Marquis say farther?"

"Nothing. "

"And is that all?"

"That is all, " said the narrator, filling a glass of wine. 

"I surmise, " said the shrewd old gentleman with the waggish nose--"Isurmise it was the old housekeeper walking her rounds to see that allwas right. "

"Bah!" said the narrator, "my uncle was too much accustomed to strangesights not to know a ghost from a housekeeper!"

There was a murmur round the table half of merriment, half ofdisappointment. I was inclined to think the old gentleman had really anafterpart of his story in reserve; but he sipped his wine and saidnothing more; and there was an odd expression about his dilapidatedcountenance that left me in doubt whether he were in drollery orearnest. 

"Egad, " said the knowing gentleman with the flexible nose, "this storyof your uncle puts me in mind of one that used to be told of an aunt ofmine, by the mother's side; though I don't know that it will bear acomparison; as the good lady was not quite so prone to meet withstrange adventures. But at any rate, you shall have it. "

THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT. 

My aunt was a lady of large frame, strong mind, and great resolution;she was what might be termed a very manly woman. My uncle was a thin, puny little man, very meek and acquiescent, and no match for my aunt. It was observed that he dwindled and dwindled gradually away, from theday of his marriage. His wife's powerful mind was too much for him; itwore him out. My aunt, however, took all possible care of him, had halfthe doctors in town to prescribe for him, made him take all theirprescriptions, _willy nilly_, and dosed him with physic enough to curea whole hospital. All was in vain. My uncle grew worse and worse themore dosing and nursing he underwent, until in the end he added anotherto the long list of matrimonial victims, who have been killed withkindness. 

"And was it his ghost that appeared to her?" asked the inquisitivegentleman, who had questioned the former storyteller. 

"You shall hear, " replied the narrator:--My aunt took on mightily forthe death of her poor dear husband! Perhaps she felt some compunctionat having given him so much physic, and nursed him into his grave. Atany rate, she did all that a widow could do to honor his memory. Shespared no expense in either the quantity or quality of her mourningweeds; she wore a miniature of him about her neck, as large as a littlesun dial; and she had a full-length portrait of him always hanging inher bed chamber. All the world extolled her conduct to the skies; andit was determined, that a woman who behaved so well to the memory ofone husband, deserved soon to get another. 

It was not long after this that she went to take up her residence in anold country seat in Derbyshire, which had long been in the care ofmerely a steward and housekeeper. She took most of her servants withher, intending to make it her principal abode. The house stood in alonely, wild part of the country among the gray Derbyshire hills; witha murderer hanging in chains on a bleak height in full view. 

The servants from town were half frightened out of their wits, at theidea of living in such a dismal, pagan-looking place; especially whenthey got together in the servants' hall in the evening, and comparednotes on all the hobgoblin stories they had picked up in the course ofthe day. They were afraid to venture alone about the forlornblack-looking chambers. My ladies' maid, who was troubled with nerves, declared she could never sleep alone in such a "gashly, rummaging oldbuilding;" and the footman, who was a kind-hearted young fellow, didall in his power to cheer her up. 

My aunt, herself, seemed to be struck with the lonely appearance of thehouse. Before she went to bed, therefore, she examined well thefastenings of the doors and windows, locked up the plate with her ownhands, and carried the keys, together with a little box of money andjewels, to her own room; for she was a notable woman, and always saw toall things herself. Having put the keys under her pillow, and dismissedher maid, she sat by her toilet arranging her hair; for, being, inspite of her grief for my uncle, rather a buxom widow, she was a littleparticular about her person. She sat for a little while looking at herface in the glass, first on one side, then on the other, as ladies areapt to do, when they would ascertain if they have been in good looks;for a roystering country squire of the neighborhood, with whom she hadflirted when a girl, had called that day to welcome her to the country. 

All of a sudden she thought she heard something move behind her. SheLooked hastily round, but there was nothing to be seen. Nothing but thegrimly painted portrait of her poor dear man, which had been hungagainst the wall. She gave a heavy sigh to his memory, as she wasaccustomed to do, whenever she spoke of him in company; and went onadjusting her nightdress. Her sigh was re-echoed; or answered by along-drawn breath. She looked round again, but no one was to be seen. She ascribed these sounds to the wind, oozing through the rat holes ofthe old mansion; and proceeded leisurely to put her hair in papers, when, all at once, she thought she perceived one of the eyes of theportrait move. 

"The back of her head being towards it!" said the story-teller with theruined head, giving a knowing wink on the sound side of hisvisage--"good!"

"Yes, sir!" replied drily the narrator, "her back being towards theportrait, but her eye fixed on its reflection in the glass. "

Well, as I was saying, she perceived one of the eyes of the portraitmove. So strange a circumstance, as you may well suppose, gave her asudden shock. To assure herself cautiously of the fact, she put onehand to her forehead, as if rubbing it; peeped through her fingers, andmoved the candle with the other hand. The light of the taper gleamed onthe eye, and was reflected from it. She was sure it moved. Nay, more, it seemed to give her a wink, as she had sometimes known her husband todo when living! It struck a momentary chill to her heart; for she was alone woman, and felt herself fearfully situated. 

The chill was but transient. My aunt, who was almost as resolute apersonage as your uncle, sir, (turning to the old story-teller, ) becameinstantly calm and collected. She went on adjusting her dress. She evenhummed a favorite air, and did not make a single false note. Shecasually overturned a dressing box; took a candle and picked up thearticles leisurely, one by one, from the floor, pursued a rollingpin-cushion that was making the best of its way under the bed; thenopened the door; looked for an instant into the corridor, as if indoubt whether to go; and then walked quietly out. 

She hastened down-stairs, ordered the servants to arm themselves withthe first weapons that came to hand, placed herself at their head, andreturned almost immediately. 

Her hastily levied army presented a formidable force. The steward had arusty blunderbuss; the coachman a loaded whip; the footman a pair ofhorse pistols; the cook a huge chopping knife, and the butler a bottlein each hand. My aunt led the van with a red-hot poker; and, in myopinion, she was the most formidable of the party. The waiting maidbrought up the rear, dreading to stay alone in the servants' hall, smelling to a broken bottle of volatile salts, and expressing herterror of the ghosteses. 

"Ghosts!" said my aunt resolutely, "I'll singe their whiskers forthem!"

They entered the chamber. All was still and undisturbed as when sheleft it. They approached the portrait of my uncle. 

"Pull me down that picture!" cried my aunt. 

A heavy groan, and a sound like the chattering of teeth, was heard fromthe portrait. The servants shrunk back. The maid uttered a faintshriek, and clung to the footman. 

"Instantly!" added my aunt, with a stamp of the foot. 

The picture was pulled down, and from a recess behind it, in which hadformerly stood a clock, they hauled forth a round-shouldered, black-bearded varlet, with a knife as long as my arm, but trembling allover like an aspen leaf. 

"Well, and who was he? No ghost, I suppose!" said the inquisitivegentleman. 

"A knight of the post, " replied the narrator, "who had been smittenwith the worth of the wealthy widow; or rather a marauding Tarquin, whohad stolen into her chamber to violate her purse and rifle her strongbox when all the house should be asleep. In plain terms, " continued he, "the vagabond was a loose idle fellow of the neighborhood, who had oncebeen a servant in the house, and had been employed to assist inarranging it for the reception of its mistress. He confessed that hehad contrived his hiding-place for his nefarious purposes, and hadborrowed an eye from the portrait by way of a reconnoitering hole. "

"And what did they do with him--did they hang him?" resumed thequestioner. 

"Hang him?--how could they?" exclaimed a beetle-browed barrister, witha hawk's nose--"the offence was not capital--no robbery nor assault hadbeen committed--no forcible entry or breaking into the premises--"

"My aunt, " said the narrator, "was a woman of spirit, and apt to takethe law into her own hands. She had her own notions of cleanlinessalso. She ordered the fellow to be drawn through the horsepond tocleanse away all offences, and then to be well rubbed down with anoaken towel. "

"And what became of him afterwards?" said the inquisitive gentleman. 

"I do not exactly know--I believe he was sent on a voyage ofimprovement to Botany Bay. "

"And your aunt--" said the inquisitive gentleman--"I'll warrant shetook care to make her maid sleep in the room with her after that. "

"No, sir, she did better--she gave her hand shortly after to theroystering squire; for she used to observe it was a dismal thing for awoman to sleep alone in the country. "

"She was right, " observed the inquisitive gentleman, nodding his headsagaciously--"but I am sorry they did not hang that fellow. "

It was agreed on all hands that the last narrator had brought his taleto the most satisfactory conclusion; though a country clergyman presentregretted that the uncle and aunt, who figured in the differentstories, had not been married together. They certainly would have beenwell matched. 

"But I don't see, after all, " said the inquisitive gentleman, "thatthere was any ghost in this last story. "

"Oh, if it's ghosts you want, honey, " cried the Irish captain ofdragoons, "if it's ghosts you want, you shall have a whole regiment ofthem. And since these gentlemen have been giving the adventures oftheir uncles and aunts, faith and I'll e'en give you a chapter too, outof my own family history. "

THE BOLD DRAGOON;

OR THE ADVENTURE OF MY GRANDFATHER. 

My grandfather was a bold dragoon, for it's a profession, d'ye see, that has run in the family. All my forefathers have been dragoons anddied upon the field of honor except myself, and I hope my posterity maybe able to say the same; however, I don't mean to be vainglorious. Well, my grandfather, as I said, was a bold dragoon, and had served inthe Low Countries. In fact, he was one of that very army, which, according to my uncle Toby, "swore so terribly in Flanders. " He couldswear a good stick himself; and, moreover, was the very man thatintroduced the doctrine Corporal Trim mentions, of radical heat andradical moisture; or, in other words, the mode of keeping out the dampsof ditch water by burnt brandy. Be that as it may, it's nothing to thepurport of my story. I only tell it to show you that my grandfather wasa man not easily to be humbugged. He had seen service; or, according tohis own phrase, "he had seen the devil"--and that's saying everything. 

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was on his way to England, for which heintended to embark at Ostend;--bad luck to the place for one where Iwas kept by storms and head winds for three long days, and the divil ofa jolly companion or pretty face to comfort me. Well, as I was saying, my grandfather was on his way to England, or rather to Ostend--nomatter which, it's all the same. So one evening, towards nightfall, herode jollily into Bruges. Very like you all know Bruges, gentlemen, aqueer, old-fashioned Flemish town, once they say a great place fortrade and money-making, in old times, when the Mynheers were in theirglory; but almost as large and as empty as an Irishman's pocket at thepresent day. 

Well, gentlemen, it was the time of the annual fair. All Bruges wascrowded; and the canals swarmed with Dutch boats, and the streetsswarmed with Dutch merchants; and there was hardly any getting alongfor goods, wares, and merchandises, and peasants in big breeches, andwomen in half a score of petticoats. 

My grandfather rode jollily along in his easy, slashing way, for he wasa saucy, sunshiny fellow--staring about him at the motley crowd, andthe old houses with gable ends to the street and storks' nests on thechimneys; winking at the ya vrouws who showed their faces at thewindows, and joking the women right and left in the street; all of whomlaughed and took it in amazing good part; for though he did not know aword of their language, yet he always had a knack of making himselfunderstood among the women. 

Well, gentlemen, it being the time of the annual fair, all the town wascrowded; every inn and tavern full, and my grandfather applied in vainfrom one to the other for admittance. At length he rode up to an oldrackety inn that looked ready to fall to pieces, and which all the ratswould have run away from, if they could have found room in any otherhouse to put their heads. It was just such a queer building as you seein Dutch pictures, with a tall roof that reached up into the clouds;and as many garrets, one over the other, as the seven heavens ofMahomet. Nothing had saved it from tumbling down but a stork's nest onthe chimney, which always brings good luck to a house in the LowCountries; and at the very time of my grandfather's arrival, there weretwo of these long-legged birds of grace, standing like ghosts on thechimney top. Faith, but they've kept the house on its legs to this veryday; for you may see it any time you pass through Bruges, as it standsthere yet; only it is turned into a brewery--a brewery of strongFlemish beer; at least it was so when I came that way after the battleof Waterloo. 

My grandfather eyed the house curiously as he approached. It might Notaltogether have struck his fancy, had he not seen in large letters overthe door, HEER VERKOOPT MAN GOEDEN DRANK. 

My grandfather had learnt enough of the language to know that the signpromised good liquor. "This is the house for me, " said he, stoppingshort before the door. 

The sudden appearance of a dashing dragoon was an event in an old inn, frequented only by the peaceful sons of traffic. A rich burgher ofAntwerp, a stately ample man, in a broad Flemish hat, and who was thegreat man and great patron of the establishment, sat smoking a cleanlong pipe on one side of the door; a fat little distiller of Genevafrom Schiedam, sat smoking on the other, and the bottle-nosed hoststood in the door, and the comely hostess, in crimped cap, beside him;and the hostess' daughter, a plump Flanders lass, with long goldpendants in her ears, was at a side window. 

"Humph!" said the rich burgher of Antwerp, with a sulky glance at thestranger. 

"Der duyvel!" said the fat little distiller of Schiedam. 

The landlord saw with the quick glance of a publican that the new guestwas not at all, at all, to the taste of the old ones; and to tell thetruth, he did not himself like my grandfather's saucy eye. 

He shook his head--"Not a garret in the house but was full. "

"Not a garret!" echoed the landlady. 

"Not a garret!" echoed the daughter. 

The burgher of Antwerp and the little distiller of Schiedam continuedto smoke their pipes sullenly, eyed the enemy askance from under theirbroad hats, but said nothing. 

My grandfather was not a man to be browbeaten. He threw the reins onhis horse's neck, cocked his hat on one side, stuck one arm akimbo, slapped his broad thigh with the other hand--

"Faith and troth!" said he, "but I'll sleep in this house this verynight!"

My grandfather had on a tight pair of buckskins--the slap went to thelandlady's heart. 

He followed up the vow by jumping off his horse, and making his waypast the staring Mynheers into the public room. May be you've been inthe barroom of an old Flemish inn--faith, but a handsome chamber it wasas you'd wish to see; with a brick floor, a great fire-place, with thewhole Bible history in glazed tiles; and then the mantel-piece, pitching itself head foremost out of the wall, with a whole regiment ofcracked tea-pots and earthen jugs paraded on it; not to mention half adozen great Delft platters hung about the room by way of pictures; andthe little bar in one corner, and the bouncing bar-maid inside of itwith a red calico cap and yellow ear-drops. 

My grandfather snapped his fingers over his head, as he cast an eyeround the room: "Faith, this is the very house I've been lookingafter, " said he. 

There was some farther show of resistance on the part of the garrison, but my grandfather was an old soldier, and an Irishman to boot, and noteasily repulsed, especially after he had got into the fortress. So heblarney'd the landlord, kissed the landlord's wife, tickled thelandlord's daughter, chucked the bar-maid under the chin; and it wasagreed on all hands that it would be a thousand pities, and a burningshame into the bargain, to turn such a bold dragoon into the streets. So they laid their heads together, that is to say, my grandfather andthe landlady, and it was at length agreed to accommodate him with anold chamber that had for some time been shut up. 

"Some say it's haunted!" whispered the landlord's daughter, "but you'rea bold dragoon, and I dare say you don't fear ghosts. "

"The divil a bit!" said my grandfather, pinching her plump cheek; "butif I should be troubled by ghosts, I've been to the Red Sea in my time, and have a pleasant way of laying them, my darling!"

And then he whispered something to the girl which made her laugh, andgive him a good-humored box on the ear. In short, there was nobody knewbetter how to make his way among the petticoats than my grandfather. 

In a little while, as was his usual way, he took complete possession ofthe house: swaggering all over it;--into the stable to look after hishorse; into the kitchen to look after his supper. He had something tosay or do with every one; smoked with the Dutchmen; drank with theGermans; slapped the men on the shoulders, tickled the women under theribs:-never since the days of Ally Croaker had such a rattling bladebeen seen. The landlord stared at him with astonishment; the landlord'sdaughter hung her head and giggled whenever he came near; and as heturned his back and swaggered along, his tight jacket setting off hisbroad shoulders and plump buckskins, and his long sword trailing by hisside, the maids whispered to one another--"What a proper man!"

At supper my grandfather took command of the table d'hôte as though hehad been at home; helped everybody, not forgetting himself; talked withevery one, whether he understood their language or not; and made hisway into the intimacy of the rich burgher of Antwerp, who had neverbeen known to be sociable with any one during his life. In fact, herevolutionized the whole establishment, and gave it such a rouse, thatthe very house reeled with it. He outsat every one at table exceptingthe little fat distiller of Schiedam, who had sat soaking for a longtime before he broke forth; but when he did, he was a very devilincarnate. He took a violent affection for my grandfather; so they satdrinking, and smoking, and telling stories, and singing Dutch and Irishsongs, without understanding a word each other said, until the littleHollander was fairly swampt with his own gin and water, and carried offto bed, whooping and hiccuping, and trolling the burthen of a Low Dutchlove song. 

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was shown to his quarters, up a hugeStaircase composed of loads of hewn timber; and through long rigmarolepassages, hung with blackened paintings of fruit, and fish, and game, and country frollics, and huge kitchens, and portly burgomasters, suchas you see about old-fashioned Flemish inns, till at length he arrivedat his room. 

An old-times chamber it was, sure enough, and crowded with all kinds oftrumpery. It looked like an infirmary for decayed and superannuatedfurniture; where everything diseased and disabled was sent to nurse, orto be forgotten. Or rather, it might have been taken for a generalcongress of old legitimate moveables, where every kind and country hada representative. No two chairs were alike: such high backs and lowbacks, and leather bottoms and worsted bottoms, and straw bottoms, andno bottoms; and cracked marble tables with curiously carved legs, holding balls in their claws, as though they were going to play atninepins. 

My grandfather made a bow to the motley assemblage as he entered, andhaving undressed himself, placed his light in the fire-place, askingpardon of the tongs, which seemed to be making love to the shovel inthe chimney corner, and whispering soft nonsense in its ear. 

The rest of the guests were by this time sound asleep; for yourMynheers are huge sleepers. The house maids, one by one, crept upyawning to their attics, and not a female head in the inn was laid on apillow that night without dreaming of the Bold Dragoon. 

My grandfather, for his part, got into bed, and drew over him one ofthose great bags of down, under which they smother a man in the LowCountries; and there he lay, melting between, two feather beds, like ananchovy sandwich between two slices of toast and butter. He was awarm-complexioned man, and this smothering played the very deuce withhim. So, sure enough, in a little while it seemed as if a legion ofimps were twitching at him and all the blood in his veins was in feverheat. 

He lay still, however, until all the house was quiet, excepting thesnoring of the Mynheers from the different chambers; who answered oneanother in all kinds of tones and cadences, like so many bull-frogs ina swamp. The quieter the house became, the more unquiet became mygrandfather. He waxed warmer and warmer, until at length the bed becametoo hot to hold him. 

"May be the maid had warmed it too much?" said the curious gentleman, inquiringly. 

"I rather think the contrary, " replied the Irishman. "But be that as itmay, it grew too hot for my grandfather. "

"Faith there's no standing this any longer, " says he; so he jumped outof bed and went strolling about the house. 

"What for?" said the inquisitive gentleman. 

"Why, to cool himself to be sure, " replied the other, "or perhaps tofind a more comfortable bed--or perhaps--but no matter what he wentfor--he never mentioned; and there's no use in taking up our time inconjecturing. "

Well, my grandfather had been for some time absent from his room, andwas returning, perfectly cool, when just as he reached the door heheard a strange noise within. He paused and listened. It seemed as ifsome one was trying to hum a tune in defiance of the asthma. Herecollected the report of the room's being haunted; but he was nobeliever in ghosts. So he pushed the door gently ajar, and peeped in. 

Egad, gentlemen, there was a gambol carrying on within enough to haveastonished St. Anthony. 

By the light of the fire he saw a pale weazen-faced fellow in a longFlannel gown and a tall white night-cap with a tassel to it, who sat bythe fire, with a bellows under his arm by way of bagpipe, from which heforced the asthmatical music that had bothered my grandfather. As heplayed, too, he kept twitching about with a thousand queer contortions;nodding his head and bobbing about his tasselled night-cap. 

My grandfather thought this very odd, and mighty presumptuous, and wasabout to demand what business he had to play his wind instruments inanother gentleman's quarters, when a new cause of astonishment met hiseye. From the opposite side of the room a long-backed, bandy-leggedchair, covered with leather, and studded all over in a coxcomicalfashion with little brass nails, got suddenly into motion; thrust outfirst a claw foot, then a crooked arm, and at length, making a leg, slided gracefully up to an easy chair, of tarnished brocade, with ahole in its bottom, and led it gallantly out in a ghostly minuet aboutthe floor. 

The musician now played fiercer and fiercer, and bobbed his head andHis nightcap about like mad. By degrees the dancing mania seemed toseize upon all the other pieces of furniture. The antique, long-bodiedchairs paired off in couples and led down a country dance; athree-legged stool danced a hornpipe, though horribly puzzled by itssupernumerary leg; while the amorous tongs seized the shovel round thewaist, and whirled it about the room in a German waltz. In short, allthe moveables got in motion, capering about; pirouetting, hands across, right and left, like so many devils, all except a great clothes-press, which kept curtseying and curtseying, like a dowager, in one corner, inexquisite time to the music;--being either too corpulent to dance, orperhaps at a loss for a partner. 

My grandfather concluded the latter to be the reason; so, being, like atrue Irishman, devoted to the sex, and at all times ready for a frolic, he bounced into the room, calling to the musician to strike up "PaddyO'Rafferty, " capered up to the clothes-press and seized upon twohandles to lead her out:--When, whizz!--the whole revel was at an end. The chairs, tables, tongs, and shovel slunk in an instant as quietlyinto their places as if nothing had happened; and the musician vanishedup the chimney, leaving the bellows behind him in his hurry. Mygrandfather found himself seated in the middle of the floor, with theclothes-press sprawling before him, and the two handles jerked off andin his hands. 

"Then after all, this was a mere dream!" said the inquisitivegentleman. 

"The divil a bit of a dream!" replied the Irishman: "there never was atruer fact in this world. Faith, I should have liked to see any mantell my grandfather it was a dream. "

Well, gentlemen, as the clothes-press was a mighty heavy body, and mygrandfather likewise, particularly in rear, you may easily suppose twosuch heavy bodies coming to the ground would make a bit of a noise. Faith, the old mansion shook as though it had mistaken it for anearthquake. The whole garrison was alarmed. The landlord, who sleptjust below, hurried up with a candle to inquire the cause, but with allhis haste his daughter had hurried to the scene of uproar before him. The landlord was followed by the landlady, who was followed by thebouncing bar-maid, who was followed by the simpering chambermaids allholding together, as well as they could, such garments as they hadfirst lain hands on; but all in a terrible hurry to see what the devilwas to pay in the chamber of the bold dragoon. 

My grandfather related the marvellous scene he had witnessed, and theprostrate clothes-press, and the broken handles, bore testimony to thefact. There was no contesting such evidence; particularly with a lad ofmy grandfather's complexion, who seemed able to make good every wordeither with sword or shillelah. So the landlord scratched his head andlooked silly, as he was apt to do when puzzled. The landladyscratched--no, she did not scratch her head, --but she knit her brow, and did not seem half pleased with the explanation. But the landlady'sdaughter corroborated it by recollecting that the last person who haddwelt in that chamber was a famous juggler who had died of St. Vitus'sdance, and no doubt had infected all the furniture. 

This set all things to rights, particularly when the chambermaidsdeclared that they had all witnessed strange carryings on in thatroom;--and as they declared this "upon their honors, " there could notremain a doubt upon the subject. 

"And did your grandfather go to bed again in that room?" said theinquisitive gentleman. 

"That's more than I can tell. Where he passed the rest of the night wasa secret he never disclosed. In fact, though he had seen much service, he was but indifferently acquainted with geography, and apt to makeblunders in his travels about inns at night, that it would have puzzledhim sadly to account for in the morning. "

"Was he ever apt to walk in his sleep?" said the knowing old gentleman. 

"Never that I heard of. "

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE. 

As one story of the kind produces another, and as all the companyseemed fully engrossed by the topic, and disposed to bring theirrelatives and ancestors upon the scene, there is no knowing how manymore ghost adventures we might have heard, had not a corpulent oldfox-hunter, who had slept soundly through the whole, now suddenlyawakened, with a loud and long-drawn yawn. The sound broke the charm;the ghosts took to flight as though it had been cock-crowing, and therewas a universal move for bed. 

"And now for the haunted chamber, " said the Irish captain, taking hiscandle. 

"Aye, who's to be the hero of the night?" said the gentleman with theruined head. 

"That we shall see in the morning, " said the old gentleman with thenose: "whoever looks pale and grizzly will have seen the ghost. "

"Well, gentlemen, " said the Baronet, "there's many a true thing said injest. In fact, one of you will sleep in a room to-night--"

"What--a haunted room? a haunted room? I claim the adventure--andI--and I--and I, " cried a dozen guests, talking and laughing at thesame time. 

"No--no, " said mine host, "there is a secret about one of my rooms onwhich I feel disposed to try an experiment. So, gentlemen, none of youshall know who has the haunted chamber, until circumstances reveal it. I will not even know it myself, but will leave it to chance and theallotment of the housekeeper. At the same time, if it will be anysatisfaction to you, I will observe, for the honor of my paternalmansion, that there's scarcely a chamber in it but is well worthy ofbeing haunted. "

We now separated for the night, and each went to his allotted room. Mine was in one wing of the building, and I could not but smile at itsresemblance in style to those eventful apartments described in thetales of the supper table. It was spacious and gloomy, decorated withlamp-black portraits, a bed of ancient damask, with a testersufficiently lofty to grace a couch of state, and a number of massivepieces of old-fashioned furniture. I drew a great claw-footed arm-chairbefore the wide fire-place; stirred up the fire; sat looking into it, and musing upon the odd stories I had heard; until, partly overcome bythe fatigue of the day's hunting, and partly by the wine and wassail ofmine host, I fell asleep in my chair. 

The uneasiness of my position made my slumber troubled, and laid me atthe mercy of all kinds of wild and fearful dreams; now it was that myperfidious dinner and supper rose in rebellion against my peace. I washag-ridden by a fat saddle of mutton; a plum pudding weighed like leadupon my conscience; the merry thought of a capon filled me withhorrible suggestions; and a devilled leg of a turkey stalked in allkinds of diabolical shapes through my imagination. In short, I had aviolent fit of the nightmare. Some strange indefinite evil seemedhanging over me that I could not avert; something terrible andloathsome oppressed me that I could not shake off. I was conscious ofbeing asleep, and strove to rouse myself, but every effort redoubledthe evil; until gasping, struggling, almost strangling, I suddenlysprang bolt upright in my chair, and awoke. 

The light on the mantel-piece had burnt low, and the wick was divided;there was a great winding sheet made by the dripping wax, on the sidetowards me. The disordered taper emitted a broad flaring flame, andthrew a strong light on a painting over the fire-place, which I had nothitherto observed. 

It consisted merely of a head, or rather a face, that appeared to bestaring full upon me, and with an expression that was startling. It waswithout a frame, and at the first glance I could hardly persuade myselfthat it was not a real face, thrusting itself out of the dark oakenpannel. I sat in my chair gazing at it, and the more I gazed the moreit disquieted me. I had never before been affected in the same way byany painting. The emotions it caused were strange and indefinite. Theywere something like what I have heard ascribed to the eyes of thebasilisk; or like that mysterious influence in reptiles termedfascination. I passed my hand over my eyes several times, as if seekinginstinctively to brush away this allusion--in vain--they instantlyreverted to the picture, and its chilling, creeping influence over myflesh was redoubled. 

I looked around the room on other pictures, either to divert myattention, or to see whether the same effect would be produced by them. Some of them were grim enough to produce the effect, if the meregrimness of the painting produced it--no such thing. My eye passed overthem all with perfect indifference, but the moment it reverted to thisvisage over the fire-place, it was as if an electric shock dartedthrough me. The other pictures were dim and faded; but this oneprotruded from a plain black ground in the strongest relief, and withwonderful truth of coloring. The expression was that of agony--theagony of intense bodily pain; but a menace scowled upon the brow, and afew sprinklings of blood added to its ghastliness. Yet it was not allthese characteristics--it was some horror of the mind, some inscrutableantipathy awakened by this picture, which harrowed up my feelings. 

I tried to persuade myself that this was chimerical; that my brain wasconfused by the fumes of mine host's good cheer, and, in some measure, by the odd stories about paintings which had been told at supper. Idetermined to shake off these vapors of the mind; rose from my chair, and walked about the room; snapped my fingers; rallied myself; laughedaloud. It was a forced laugh, and the echo of it in the old chamberjarred upon my ear. I walked to the window; tried to discern thelandscape through the glass. It was pitch darkness, and howling stormwithout; and as I heard the wind moan among the trees, I caught areflection of this accursed visage in the pane of glass, as though itwere staring through the window at me. Even the reflection of it wasthrilling. 

How was this vile nervous fit, for such I now persuaded myself it was, to be conquered? I determined to force myself not to look at thepainting but to undress quickly and get into bed. I began to undress, but in spite of every effort I could not keep myself from stealing aglance every now and then at the picture; and a glance was nowsufficient to distress me. Even when my back was turned to it, the ideaof this strange face behind me, peering over my shoulder, wasinsufferable. I threw off my clothes and hurried into bed; but stillthis visage gazed upon me. I had a full view of it from my bed, and forsome time could not take my eyes from it. I had grown nervous to adismal degree. 

I put out the light, and tried to force myself to sleep;--all in vain!The fire gleaming up a little, threw an uncertain light about the room, leaving, however, the region of the picture in deep shadow. What, thought I, if this be the chamber about which mine host spoke as havinga mystery reigning over it?--I had taken his words merely as spoken injest; might they have a real import? I looked around. The faintlylighted apartment had all the qualifications requisite for a hauntedchamber. It began in my infected imagination to assume strangeappearances. The old portraits turned paler and paler, and blacker andblacker; the streaks of light and shadow thrown among the quaint oldarticles of furniture, gave them singular shapes and characters. Therewas a huge dark clothes-press of antique form, gorgeous in brass andlustrous with wax, that began to grow oppressive to me. 

Am I then, thought I, indeed, the hero of the haunted room? Is therereally a spell laid upon me, or is this all some contrivance of minehost, to raise a laugh at my expense? The idea of being hag-ridden bymy own fancy all night, and then bantered on my haggard looks the nextday was intolerable; but the very idea was sufficient to produce theeffect, and to render me still more nervous. Pish, said I, it can be nosuch thing. How could my worthy host imagine that I, or any man wouldbe so worried by a mere picture? It is my own diseased imagination thattorments me. I turned in my bed, and shifted from side to side, to tryto fall asleep; but all in vain. When one cannot get asleep by lyingquiet, it is seldom that tossing about will effect the purpose. Thefire gradually went out and left the room in darkness. Still I had theidea of this inexplicable countenance gazing and keeping watch upon methrough the darkness. Nay, what was worse, the very darkness seemed togive it additional power, and to multiply its terrors. It was likehaving an unseen enemy hovering about one in the night. Instead ofhaving one picture now to worry me, I had a hundred. I fancied it inevery direction. And there it is, thought I, --and there, andthere, --with its horrible and mysterious expression, still gazing andgazing on me. No if I must suffer this strange and dismal influence, itwere better face a single foe, than thus be haunted by a thousandimages of it. 

Whoever has been in such a state of nervous agitation must know thatthe longer it continues, the more uncontrollable it grows; the very airof the chamber seemed at length infected by the baleful presence ofthis picture. I fancied it hovering over me. I almost felt the fearfulvisage from the wall approaching my face, --it seemed breathing upon me. This is not to be borne, said I, at length, springing out of bed. I canstand this no longer. I shall only tumble and toss about here allnight; make a very spectre of myself, and become the hero of thehaunted chamber in good earnest. Whatever be the consequence. I'll quitthis cursed room, and seek a night's rest elsewhere. They can but laughat me at all events, and they'll be sure to have the laugh upon me if Ipass a sleepless night and show them a haggard and wo-begone visage inthe morning. 

All this was half muttered to myself, as I hastily slipped on myclothes; which having done, I groped my way out of the room, anddown-stairs to the drawing-room. Here, after tumbling over two or threepieces of furniture, I made out to reach a sofa, and stretching myselfupon it determined to bivouac there for the night. 

The moment I found myself out of the neighborhood of that strangepicture, it seemed as if the charm were broken. All its influence wasat an end. I felt assured that it was confined to its own drearychamber, for I had, with a sort of instinctive caution, turned the keywhen I closed the door. I soon calmed down, therefore, into a state oftranquillity; from that into a drowsiness, and finally into a deepsleep; out of which I did not awake, until the housemaid, with herbesom and her matin song, came to put the room in order. She stared atfinding me stretched upon the sofa; but I presume circumstances of thekind were not uncommon after hunting dinners, in her master's bachelorestablishment; for she went on with her song and her work, and took nofarther heed of me. 

I had an unconquerable repugnance to return to my chamber; so I foundmy way to the butler's quarters, made my toilet in the best waycircumstances would permit, and was among the first to appear at thebreakfast table. Our breakfast was a substantial fox-hunter's repast, and the company were generally assembled at it. When ample justice hadbeen done to the tea, coffee, cold meats, and humming ale, for allthese were furnished in abundance, according to the tastes of thedifferent guests, the conversation began to break out, with all theliveliness and freshness of morning mirth. 

"But who is the hero of the haunted chamber?--Who has seen the ghostlast night?" said the inquisitive gentleman, rolling his lobster eyesabout the table. 

The question set every tongue in motion; a vast deal of bantering;criticising of countenances; of mutual accusation and retort tookplace. Some had drunk deep, and some were unshaven, so that there weresuspicious faces enough in the assembly. I alone could not enter withease and vivacity into the joke. I felt tongue-tied--embarrassed. Arecollection of what I had seen and felt the preceding night stillhaunted my mind. 

It seemed as if the mysterious picture still held a thrall upon me. Ithought also that our host's eye was turned on me with an air ofcuriosity. In short, I was conscious that I was the hero of the night, and felt as if every one might read it in my looks. 

The jokes, however, passed over, and no suspicion seemed to attach tome. I was just congratulating myself on my escape, when a servant camein, saying, that the gentleman who had slept on the sofa in thedrawing-room, had left his watch under one of the pillows. My repeaterwas in his hand. 

"What!" said the inquisitive gentleman, "did any gentleman sleep on thesofa?"

"Soho! soho! a hare--a hare!" cried the old gentleman with the flexiblenose. 

I could not avoid acknowledging the watch, and was rising in greatconfusion, when a boisterous old squire who sat beside me, exclaimed, slapping me on the shoulder, "'Sblood, lad! thou'rt the man as has seenthe ghost!"

The attention of the company was immediately turned to me; if my facehad been pale the moment before, it now glowed almost to burning. Itried to laugh, but could only make a grimace; and found all themuscles of my face twitching at sixes and sevens, and totally out ofall control. 

It takes but little to raise a laugh among a set of fox-hunters. Therewas a world of merriment and joking at my expense; and as I neverrelished a joke overmuch when it was at my own expense, I began to feela little nettled. I tried to look cool and calm and to restrain mypique; but the coolness and calmness of a man in a passion areconfounded treacherous. 

Gentlemen, said I, with a slight cocking of the chin, and a bad attemptat a smile, this is all very pleasant--ha! ha!--very pleasant--but I'dhave you know I am as little superstitious as any of you--ha! ha!--andas to anything like timidity--you may smile, gentlemen--but I trustthere is no one here means to insinuate that. --As to a room's beinghaunted, I repeat, gentlemen--(growing a little warm at seeing a cursedgrin breaking out round me)--as to a room's being haunted, I have aslittle faith in such silly stories as any one. But, since you put thematter home to me, I will say that I have met with something in my roomstrange and inexplicable to me--(a shout of laughter). Gentlemen, I amserious--I know well what I am saying--I am calm, gentlemen, (strikingmy flat upon the table)--by heaven I am calm. I am neither trifling, nor do I wish to be trifled with--(the laughter of the companysuppressed with ludicrous attempts at gravity). There is a picture inthe room in which I was put last night, that has had an effect upon methe most singular and incomprehensible. 

"A picture!" said the old gentleman with the haunted head. "A picture!"cried the narrator with the waggish nose. "A picture! a picture!"echoed several voices. Here there was an ungovernable peal of laughter. 

I could not contain myself. I started up from my seat--looked round onthe company with fiery indignation--thrust both my hands into mypockets, and strode up to one of the windows, as though I would havewalked through it. I stopped short; looked out upon the landscapewithout distinguishing a feature of it; and felt my gorge rising almostto suffocation. 

Mine host saw it was time to interfere. He had maintained an air ofGravity through the whole of the scene, and now stepped forth as if toshelter me from the overwhelming merriment of my companions. 

"Gentlemen, " said he, "I dislike to spoil sport, but you have had yourlaugh, and the joke of the haunted chamber has been enjoyed. I must nowtake the part of my guest. I must not only vindicate him from yourpleasantries, but I must reconcile him to himself, for I suspect he isa little out of humor with his own feelings; and above all, I mustcrave his pardon for having made him the subject of a kind ofexperiment. 

"Yes, gentlemen, there is something strange and peculiar in the chamberto which our friend was shown last night. There is a picture whichpossesses a singular and mysterious influence; and with which there isconnected a very curious story. It is a picture to which I attach avalue from a variety of circumstances; and though I have often beentempted to destroy it from the odd and uncomfortable sensations itproduces in every one that beholds it; yet I have never been able toprevail upon myself to make the sacrifice. It is a picture I never liketo look upon myself; and which is held in awe by all my servants. Ihave, therefore, banished it to a room but rarely used; and should havehad it covered last night, had not the nature of our conversation, andthe whimsical talk about a haunted chamber tempted me to let it remain, by way of experiment, whether a stranger, totally unacquainted with itsstory, would be affected by it. "

The words of the Baronet had turned every thought into a differentchannel: all were anxious to hear the story of the mysterious picture;and for myself, so strongly were my feelings interested, that I forgotto feel piqued at the experiment which my host had made upon my nerves, and joined eagerly in the general entreaty. 

As the morning was stormy, and precluded all egress, my host was gladof any means of entertaining his company; so drawing his arm-chairbeside the fire, he began--

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 

Many years since, when I was a young man, and had just left Oxford, Iwas sent on the grand tour to finish my education. I believe my parentshad tried in vain to inoculate me with wisdom; so they sent me tomingle with society, in hopes I might take it the natural way. Such, atleast, appears to be the reason for which nine-tenths of our youngstersare sent abroad. 

In the course of my tour I remained some time at Venice. The romanticcharacter of the place delighted me; I was very much amused by the airof adventure and intrigue that prevailed in this region of masks andgondolas; and I was exceedingly smitten by a pair of languishing blackeyes, that played upon my heart from under an Italian mantle. So Ipersuaded myself that I was lingering at Venice to study men andmanners. At least I persuaded my friends so, and that answered all mypurpose. Indeed, I was a little prone to be struck by peculiarities incharacter and conduct, and my imagination was so full of romanticassociations with Italy, that I was always on the lookout foradventure. 

Every thing chimed in with such a humor in this old mermaid of a city. My suite of apartments were in a proud, melancholy palace on the grandcanal, formerly the residence of a Magnifico, and sumptuous with thetraces of decayed grandeur. My gondolier was one of the shrewdest ofhis class, active, merry, intelligent, and, like his brethren, secretas the grave; that is to say, secret to all the world except hismaster. I had not had him a week before he put me behind all thecurtains in Venice. I liked the silence and mystery of the place, andwhen I sometimes saw from my window a black gondola glidingmysteriously along in the dusk of the evening, with nothing visible butits little glimmering lantern, I would jump into my own zenduletto, andgive a signal for pursuit. But I am running away from my subject withthe recollection of youthful follies, said the Baronet, checkinghimself; "let me come to the point. "

Among my familiar resorts was a Cassino under the Arcades on one sideof the grand square of St. Mark. Here I used frequently to lounge andtake my ice on those warm summer nights when in Italy every body livesabroad until morning. I was seated here one evening, when a group ofItalians took seat at a table on the opposite side of the saloon. Theirconversation was gay and animated, and carried on with Italian vivacityand gesticulation. 

I remarked among them one young man, however, who appeared to take noshare, and find no enjoyment in the conversation; though he seemed toforce himself to attend to it. He was tall and slender, and ofextremely prepossessing appearance. His features were fine, thoughemaciated. He had a profusion of black glossy hair that curled lightlyabout his head, and contrasted with the extreme paleness of hiscountenance. His brow was haggard; deep furrows seemed to have beenploughed into his visage by care, not by age, for he was evidently inthe prime of youth. His eye was full of expression and fire, but wildand unsteady. He seemed to be tormented by some strange fancy orapprehension. In spite of every effort to fix his attention on theconversation of his companions, I noticed that every now and then hewould turn his head slowly round, give a glance over his shoulder, andthen withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if something painful had methis eye. This was repeated at intervals of about a minute, and heappeared hardly to have got over one shock, before I saw him slowlypreparing to encounter another. 

After sitting some time in the Cassino, the party paid for therefreshments they had taken, and departed. The young man was the lastto leave the saloon, and I remarked him glancing behind him in the sameway, just as he passed out at the door. I could not resist the impulseto rise and follow him; for I was at an age when a romantic feeling ofcuriosity is easily awakened. The party walked slowly down the Arcades, talking and laughing as they went. They crossed the Piazzetta, butpaused in the middle of it to enjoy the scene. It was one of thosemoonlight nights so brilliant and clear in the pure atmosphere ofItaly. The moon-beams streamed on the tall tower of St. Mark, andlighted up the magnificent front and swelling domes of the Cathedral. The party expressed their delight in animated terms. I kept my eye uponthe young man. He alone seemed abstracted and self-occupied. I noticedthe same singular, and, as it were, furtive glance over the shoulderthat had attracted my attention in the Cassino. The party moved on, andI followed; they passed along the walks called the Broglio; turned thecorner of the Ducal palace, and getting into a gondola, glided swiftlyaway. 

The countenance and conduct of this young man dwelt upon my mind. Therewas something in his appearance that interested me exceedingly. I methim a day or two after in a gallery of paintings. He was evidently aconnoisseur, for he always singled out the most masterly productions, and the few remarks drawn from him by his companions showed an intimateacquaintance with the art. His own taste, however, ran on singularextremes. On Salvator Rosa in his most savage and solitary scenes; onRaphael, Titian, and Corregio in their softest delineations of femalebeauty. On these he would occasionally gaze with transient enthusiasm. But this seemed only a momentary forgetfulness. Still would recur thatcautious glance behind, and always quickly withdrawn, as thoughsomething terrible had met his view. 

I encountered him frequently afterwards. At the theatre, at balls, atconcerts; at the promenades in the gardens of San Georgio; at thegrotesque exhibitions in the square of St. Mark; among the throng ofmerchants on the Exchange by the Rialto. He seemed, in fact, to seekcrowds; to hunt after bustle and amusement; yet never to take anyinterest in either the business or gayety of the scene. Ever an air ofpainful thought, of wretched abstraction; and ever that strange andrecurring movement, of glancing fearfully over the shoulder. I did notknow at first but this might be caused by apprehension of arrest; orperhaps from dread of assassination. But, if so, why should he go thuscontinually abroad; why expose himself at all times and in all places?

I became anxious to know this stranger. I was drawn to him by thatRomantic sympathy that sometimes draws young men towards each other. His melancholy threw a charm about him in my eyes, which was no doubtheightened by the touching expression of his countenance, and the manlygraces of his person; for manly beauty has its effect even upon man. Ihad an Englishman's habitual diffidence and awkwardness of address tocontend with; but I subdued it, and from frequently meeting him in theCassino, gradually edged myself into his acquaintance. I had no reserveon his part to contend with. He seemed on the contrary to courtsociety; and in fact to seek anything rather than be alone. 

When he found I really took an interest in him he threw himselfentirely upon my friendship. He clung to me like a drowning man. Hewould walk with me for hours up and down the place of St. Mark--or hewould sit until night was far advanced in my apartment; he took roomsunder the same roof with me; and his constant request was, that I wouldpermit him, when it did not incommode me, to sit by me in my saloon. Itwas not that he seemed to take a particular delight in my conversation;but rather that he craved the vicinity of a human being; and above all, of a being that sympathized with him. "I have often heard, " said he, "of the sincerity of Englishmen--thank God I have one at length for afriend!"

Yet he never seemed disposed to avail himself of my sympathy other thanby mere companionship. He never sought to unbosom himself to me; thereappeared to be a settled corroding anguish in his bosom that neithercould be soothed "by silence nor by speaking. " A devouring melancholypreyed upon his heart, and seemed to be drying up the very blood in hisveins. It was not a soft melancholy--the disease of the affections; buta parching, withering agony. I could see at times that his mouth wasdry and feverish; he almost panted rather than breathed; his eyes werebloodshot; his cheeks pale and livid; with now and then faint streaksathwart them--baleful gleams of the fire that was consuming his heart. As my arm was within his, I felt him press it at times with aconvulsive motion to his side; his hands would clinch themselvesinvoluntarily, and a kind of shudder would run through his frame. Ireasoned with him about his melancholy, and sought to draw from him thecause--he shrunk from all confiding. "Do not seek to know it, " said he, "you could not relieve it if you knew it; you would not even seek torelieve it--on the contrary, I should lose your sympathy; and that, "said he, pressing my hand convulsively, "that I feel has become toodear to me to risk. "

I endeavored to awaken hope within him. He was young; life had athousand pleasures in store for him; there is a healthy reaction in theyouthful heart; it medicines its own wounds--

"Come, come, " said I, "there is no grief so great that youth cannotoutgrow it. "--"No! no!" said he, clinching his teeth, and strikingrepeatedly, with the energy of despair, upon his bosom--"It ishere--here--deep-rooted; draining my heart's blood. It grows and grows, while my heart withers and withers! I have a dreadful monitor thatgives me no repose--that follows me step by step; and will follow mestep by step, until it pushes me into my grave!"

As he said this he gave involuntarily one of those fearful glances overhis shoulder, and shrunk back with more than usual horror. I could notresist the temptation to allude to this movement, which I supposed tobe some mere malady of the nerves. The moment I mentioned it his facebecame crimsoned and convulsed--he grasped me by both hands: "For God'ssake, " exclaimed he, with a piercing agony of voice--"never allude tothat again; let us avoid this subject, my friend; you cannot relieveme, indeed you cannot relieve me; but you may add to the torments Isuffer;--at some future day you shall know all. "

I never resumed the subject; for however much my curiosity might bearoused, I felt too true compassion for his sufferings to increase themby my intrusion. I sought various ways to divert his mind, and toarouse him from the constant meditations in which he was plunged. Hesaw my efforts, and seconded them as far as in his power, for there wasnothing moody or wayward in his nature; on the contrary, there wassomething frank, generous, unassuming, in his whole deportment. All thesentiments that he uttered were noble and lofty. He claimed noindulgence; he asked no toleration. He seemed content to carry his loadof misery in silence, and only sought to carry it by my side. There wasa mute beseeching manner about him, as if he craved companionship as acharitable boon; and a tacit thankfulness in his looks, as if he feltgrateful to me for not repulsing him. 

I felt this melancholy to be infectious. It stole over my spirits;Interfered with all my gay pursuits, and gradually saddened my life;yet I could not prevail upon myself to shake off a being who seemed tohang upon me for support. In truth, the generous traits of characterthat beamed through all this gloom had penetrated to my heart. Hisbounty was lavish and open-handed. His charity melting and spontaneous. Not confined to mere donations, which often humiliate as much as theyrelieve. The tone of his voice, the beam of his eye, enhanced everygift, and surprised the poor suppliant with that rarest and sweetest ofcharities, the charity not merely of the hand, but of the heart. Indeed, his liberality seemed to have something in it of self-abasementand expiation. He humbled himself, in a manner, before the mendicant. "What right have I to ease and affluence, " would he murmur to himself, "when innocence wanders in misery and rags?"

The Carnival time arrived. I had hoped that the gay scenes which thenPresented themselves might have some cheering effect. I mingled withhim in the motley throng that crowded the place of St. Mark. Wefrequented operas, masquerades, balls. All in vain. The evil keptgrowing on him; he became more and more haggard and agitated. Often, after we had returned from one of these scenes of revelry, I haveentered his room, and found him lying on his face on the sofa: hishands clinched in his fine hair, and his whole countenance bearingtraces of the convulsions of his mind. 

The Carnival passed away; the season of Lent succeeded; Passion weekarrived. We attended one evening a solemn service in one of thechurches; in the course of which a grand piece of vocal andinstrumental music was performed relating to the death of our Saviour. 

I had remarked that he was always powerfully affected by music; on thisoccasion he was so in an extraordinary degree. As the peeling notesswelled through the lofty aisles, he seemed to kindle up with fervor. His eyes rolled upwards, until nothing but the whites were visible; hishands were clasped together, until the fingers were deeply imprinted inthe flesh. When the music expressed the dying agony, his face graduallysunk upon his knees; and at the touching words resounding through thechurch, "_Jesu mori_, " sobs burst from him uncontrolled. I had neverseen him weep before; his had always been agony rather than sorrow. Iaugured well from the circumstance. I let him weep on uninterrupted. When the service was ended we left the church. He hung on my arm as wewalked homewards, with something of a softer and more subdued manner;instead of that nervous agitation I had been accustomed to witness. Healluded to the service we had heard. "Music, " said he, "is indeed thevoice of heaven; never before have I felt more impressed by the storyof the atonement of our Saviour. Yes, my friend, " said he, clasping hishands with a kind of transport, "I know that my Redeemer liveth. "

We parted for the night. His room was not far from mine, and I heardhim for some time busied in it. I fell asleep, but was awakened beforedaylight. The young man stood by my bed-side, dressed for travelling. He held a sealed packet and a large parcel in his hand, which he laidon the table. "Farewell, my friend, " said he, "I am about to set forthon a long journey; but, before I go, I leave with you theseremembrances. In this packet you will find the particulars of my story. When you read them, I shall be far away; do not remember me withaversion. You have been, indeed, a friend to me. You have poured oilinto a broken heart, --but you could not heal it. --Farewell--let me kissyour hand--I am unworthy to embrace you. " He sunk on his knees, seizedmy hand in despite of my efforts to the contrary, and covered it withkisses. I was so surprised by all this scene that I had not been ableto say a word. 

But we shall meet again, said I, hastily, as I saw him hurrying towardsthe door. 

"Never--never in this world!" said he, solemnly. He sprang once more tomy bed-side--seized my hand, pressed it to his heart and to his lips, and rushed out of the room. 

Here the Baronet paused. He seemed lost in thought, and sat lookingupon the floor and drumming with his fingers on the arm of his chair. 

"And did this mysterious personage return?" said the inquisitivegentleman. "Never!" replied the Baronet, with a pensive shake of thehead: "I never saw him again. " "And pray what has all this to do withthe picture?" inquired the old gentleman with the nose--"True!" saidthe questioner--"Is it the portrait of this crack-brained Italian?""No!" said the Baronet drily, not half liking the appellation given tohis hero; "but this picture was inclosed in the parcel he left with me. The sealed packet contained its explanation. There was a request on theoutside that I would not open it until six months had elapsed. I keptmy promise, in spite of my curiosity. I have a translation of it by me, and had meant to read it, by way of accounting for the mystery of thechamber, but I fear I have already detained the company too long. "

Here there was a general wish expressed to have the manuscript read;particularly on the part of the inquisitive gentleman. So the worthyBaronet drew out a fairly written manuscript, and wiping hisspectacles, read aloud the following story:

THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN. 

I was born at Naples. My parents, though of noble rank, were limited infortune, or rather my father was ostentatious beyond his means, andexpended so much in his palace, his equipage, and his retinue, that hewas continually straitened in his pecuniary circumstances. I was ayounger son, and looked upon with indifference by my father, who, froma principle of family pride, wished to leave all his property to myelder brother. 

I showed, when quite a child, an extreme sensibility. Every thingaffected me violently. While yet an infant in my mother's arms, andbefore I had learnt to talk, I could be wrought upon to a wonderfuldegree of anguish or delight by the power of music. As I grew older myfeelings remained equally acute, and I was easily transported intoparoxysms of pleasure or rage. It was the amusement of my relatives andof the domestics to play upon this irritable temperament. I was movedto tears, tickled to laughter, provoked to fury, for the entertainmentof company, who were amused by such a tempest of mighty passion in apigmy frame. They little thought, or perhaps little heeded thedangerous sensibilities they were fostering. I thus became a littlecreature of passion, before reason was developed. In a short time Igrew too old to be a plaything, and then I became a torment. The tricksand passions I had been teased into became irksome, and I was dislikedby my teachers for the very lessons they had taught me. 

My mother died; and my power as a spoiled child was at an end. Therewas no longer any necessity to humor or tolerate me, for there wasnothing to be gained by it, as I was no favorite of my father. Itherefore experienced the fate of a spoiled child in such situation, and was neglected or noticed only to be crossed and contradicted. Suchwas the early treatment of a heart, which, if I am judge of it at all, was naturally disposed to the extremes of tenderness and affection. 

My father, as I have already said, never liked me--in fact, he neverUnderstood me; he looked upon me as wilful and wayward, as deficient innatural affection:--it was the stateliness of his own manner; theloftiness and grandeur of his own look that had repelled me from hisarms. I always pictured him to myself as I had seen him clad in hissenatorial robes, rustling with pomp and pride. The magnificence of hisperson had daunted my strong imagination. I could never approach himwith the confiding affection of a child. 

My father's feelings were wrapped up in my elder brother. He was to bethe inheritor of the family title and the family dignity, and everything was sacrificed to him--I, as well as every thing else. It wasdetermined to devote me to the church, that so my humors and myselfmight be removed out of the way, either of tasking my father's time andtrouble, or interfering with the interests of my brother. At an earlyage, therefore, before my mind had dawned upon the world and itsdelights, or known any thing of it beyond the precincts of my father'spalace, I was sent to a convent, the superior of which was my uncle, and was confided entirely to his care. 

My uncle was a man totally estranged from the world; he had neverrelished, for he had never tasted its pleasures; and he deemed rigidself-denial as the great basis of Christian virtue. He considered everyone's temperament like his own; or at least he made them conform to it. His character and habits had an influence over the fraternity of whichhe was superior. A more gloomy, saturnine set of beings were neverassembled together. The convent, too, was calculated to awaken sad andsolitary thoughts. It was situated in a gloomy gorge of those mountainsaway south of Vesuvius. All distant views were shut out by sterilevolcanic heights. A mountain stream raved beneath its walls, and eaglesscreamed about its turrets. 

I had been sent to this place at so tender an age as soon to lose allDistinct recollection of the scenes I had left behind. As my mindexpanded, therefore, it formed its idea of the world from the conventand its vicinity, and a dreary world it appeared to me. An early tingeof melancholy was thus infused into my character; and the dismalstories of the monks, about devils and evil spirits, with which theyaffrighted my young imagination, gave me a tendency to superstition, which I could never effectually shake off. They took the same delightto work upon my ardent feelings that had been so mischievouslyexercised by my father's household. 

I can recollect the horrors with which they fed my heated fancy duringan eruption of Vesuvius. We were distant from that volcano, withmountains between us; but its convulsive throes shook the solidfoundations of nature. Earthquakes threatened to topple down ourconvent towers. A lurid, baleful light hung in the heavens at night, and showers of ashes, borne by the wind, fell in our narrow valley. Themonks talked of the earth being honey-combed beneath us; of Streams ofmolten lava raging through its veins; of caverns of sulphurous flamesroaring in the centre, the abodes of demons and the damned; of fierygulfs ready to yawn beneath our feet. All these tales were told to thedoleful accompaniment of the mountain's thunders, whose low bellowingmade the walls of our convent vibrate. 

One of the monks had been a painter, but had retired from the world, and embraced this dismal life in expiation of some crime. He was amelancholy man, who pursued his art in the solitude of his cell, butmade it a source of penance to him. His employment was to portray, either on canvas or in waxen models, the human face and human form, inthe agonies of death and in all the stages of dissolution and decay. The fearful mysteries of the charnel house were unfolded in hislabors--the loathsome banquet of the beetle and the worm. --I turn withshuddering even from the recollection of his works. Yet, at that time, my strong, but ill-directed imagination seized with ardor upon hisinstructions in his art. Any thing was a variety from the dry studiesand monotonous duties of the cloister. In a little while I becameexpert with my pencil, and my gloomy productions were thought worthy ofdecorating some of the altars of the chapel. 

In this dismal way was a creature of feeling and fancy brought up. Every thing genial and amiable in my nature was repressed and nothingbrought out but what was unprofitable and ungracious. I was ardent inmy temperament; quick, mercurial, impetuous, formed to be a creatureall love and adoration; but a leaden hand was laid on all my finerqualities. I was taught nothing but fear and hatred. I hated my uncle, I hated the monks, I hated the convent in which I was immured. I hatedthe world, and I almost hated myself, for being, as I supposed, sohating and hateful an animal. 

When I had nearly attained the age of sixteen, I was suffered, on oneoccasion, to accompany one of the brethren on a mission to a distantpart of the country. We soon left behind us the gloomy valley in whichI had been pent up for so many years, and after a short journey amongthe mountains, emerged upon the voluptuous landscape that spreadsitself about the Bay of Naples. Heavens! How transported was I, when Istretched my gaze over a vast reach of delicious sunny country, gaywith groves and vineyards; with Vesuvius rearing its forked summit tomy right; the blue Mediterranean to my left, with its enchanting coast, studded with shining towns and sumptuous villas; and Naples, my nativeNaples, gleaming far, far in the distance. 

Good God! was this the lovely world from which I had been excluded! IHad reached that age when the sensibilities are in all their bloom andfreshness. Mine had been checked and chilled. They now burst forth withthe suddenness of a retarded spring. My heart, hitherto unnaturallyshrunk up, expanded into a riot of vague, but delicious emotions. Thebeauty of nature intoxicated, bewildered me. The song of the peasants;their cheerful looks; their happy avocations; the picturesque gayety oftheir dresses; their rustic music; their dances; all broke upon me likewitchcraft. My soul responded to the music; my heart danced in mybosom. All the men appeared amiable, all the women lovely. 

I returned to the convent, that is to say, my body returned but myheart and soul never entered there again. I could not forget thisglimpse of a beautiful and a happy world; a world so suited to mynatural character. I had felt so happy while in it; so different abeing from what I felt myself while in the convent--that tomb of theliving. I contrasted the countenances of the beings I had seen, full offire and freshness and enjoyment, with the pallid, leaden, lack-lustrevisages of the monks; the music of the dance, with the droning chant ofthe chapel. I had before found the exercises of the cloister wearisome;they now became intolerable. The dull round of duties wore away myspirit; my nerves became irritated by the fretful tinkling of theconvent bell; evermore dinging among the mountain echoes; evermorecalling me from my repose at night, my pencil by day, to attend to sometedious and mechanical ceremony of devotion. 

I was not of a nature to meditate long, without putting my thoughtsinto action. My spirit had been suddenly aroused, and was now all awakewithin me. I watched my opportunity, fled from the convent, and made myway on foot to Naples. As I entered its gay and crowded streets, andbeheld the variety and stir of life around me, the luxury of palaces, the splendor of equipages, and the pantomimic animation of the motleypopulace, I seemed as if awakened to a world of enchantment, andsolemnly vowed that nothing should force me back to the monotony of thecloister. 

I had to inquire my way to my father's palace, for I had been so youngon leaving it, that I knew not its situation. I found some difficultyin getting admitted to my father's presence, for the domestics scarcelyknew that there was such a being as myself in existence, and mymonastic dress did not operate in my favor. Even my father entertainedno recollection of my person. I told him my name, threw myself at hisfeet, implored his forgiveness, and entreated that I might not be sentback to the convent. 

He received me with the condescension of a patron rather than thekindness of a parent. He listened patiently, but coldly, to my tale ofmonastic grievances and disgusts, and promised to think what else couldbe done for me. This coldness blighted and drove back all the frankaffection of my nature that was ready to spring forth at the leastwarmth of parental kindness. All my early feelings towards my fatherrevived; I again looked up to him as the stately magnificent being thathad daunted my childish imagination, and felt as if I had nopretensions to his sympathies. My brother engrossed all his care andlove; he inherited his nature, and carried himself towards me with aprotecting rather than a fraternal air. It wounded my pride, which wasgreat. I could brook condescension from my father, for I looked up tohim with awe as a superior being, but I could not brook patronage froma brother, who, I felt, was intellectually my inferior. The servantsperceived that I was an unwelcome intruder in the paternal mansion, and, menial-like, they treated me with neglect. Thus baffled at everypoint; my affections outraged wherever they would attach themselves, Ibecame sullen, silent, and despondent. My feelings driven back uponmyself, entered and preyed upon my own heart. I remained for some daysan unwelcome guest rather than a restored son in my father's house. Iwas doomed never to be properly known there. I was made, by wrongtreatment, strange even to myself; and they judged of me from mystrangeness. 

I was startled one day at the sight of one of the monks of my convent, gliding out of my father's room. He saw me, but pretended not to noticeme; and this very hypocrisy made me suspect something. I had becomesore and susceptible in my feelings; every thing inflicted a wound onthem. In this state of mind I was treated with marked disrespect by apampered minion, the favorite servant of my father. All the pride andpassion of my nature rose in an instant, and I struck him to the earth. 

My father was passing by; he stopped not to inquire the reason, norindeed could he read the long course of mental sufferings which werethe real cause. He rebuked me with anger and scorn; he summoned all thehaughtiness of his nature, and grandeur of his look, to give weight tothe contumely with which he treated me. I felt I had not deserved it--Ifelt that I was not appreciated--I felt that I had that within me whichmerited better treatment; my heart swelled against a father'sinjustice. I broke through my habitual awe of him. I replied to himwith impatience; my hot spirit flushed in my cheek and kindled in myeye, but my sensitive heart swelled as quickly, and before I had halfvented my passion I felt it suffocated and quenched in my tears. Myfather was astonished and incensed at this turning of the worm, andordered me to my chamber. I retired in silence, choking with contendingemotions. 

I had not been long there when I overheard voices in an adjoiningapartment. It was a consultation between my father and the monk, aboutthe means of getting me back quietly to the convent. My resolution wastaken. I had no longer a home nor a father. That very night I left thepaternal roof. I got on board a vessel about making sail from theharbor, and abandoned myself to the wide world. No matter to what portshe steered; any part of so beautiful a world was better than myconvent. No matter where I was cast by fortune; any place would be morea home to me than the home I had left behind. The vessel was bound toGenoa. We arrived there after a voyage of a few days. 

As I entered the harbor, between the moles which embrace it, and beheldthe amphitheatre of palaces and churches and splendid gardens, risingone above another, I felt at once its title to the appellation of Genoathe Superb. I landed on the mole an utter stranger, without knowingwhat to do, or whither to direct my steps. No matter; I was releasedfrom the thraldom of the convent and the humiliations of home! When Itraversed the Strada Balbi and the Strada Nuova, those streets ofpalaces, and gazed at the wonders of architecture around me; when Iwandered at close of day, amid a gay throng of the brilliant and thebeautiful, through the green alleys of the Aqua Verdi, or among thecolonnades and terraces of the magnificent Doria Gardens, I thought itimpossible to be ever otherwise than happy in Genoa. 

A few days sufficed to show me my mistake. My scanty purse wasexhausted, and for the first time in my life I experienced the sordiddistress of penury. I had never known the want of money, and had neveradverted to the possibility of such an evil. I was ignorant of theworld and all its ways; and when first the idea of destitution cameover my mind its effect was withering. I was wandering pensivelythrough the streets which no longer delighted my eyes, when chance ledmy stops into the magnificent church of the Annunciata. 

A celebrated painter of the day was at that moment superintending theplacing of one of his pictures over an altar. The proficiency which Ihad acquired in his art during my residence in the convent had made mean enthusiastic amateur. I was struck, at the first glance, with thepainting. It was the face of a Madonna. So innocent, so lovely, such adivine expression of maternal tenderness! I lost for the moment allrecollection of myself in the enthusiasm of my art. I clasped my handstogether, and uttered an ejaculation of delight. The painter perceivedmy emotion. He was flattered and gratified by it. My air and mannerpleased him, and he accosted me. I felt too much the want of friendshipto repel the advances of a stranger, and there was something in thisone so benevolent and winning that in a moment he gained my confidence. 

I told him my story and my situation, concealing only my name and rank. He appeared strongly interested by my recital; invited me to his house, and from that time I became his favorite pupil. He thought he perceivedin me extraordinary talents for the art, and his encomiums awakened allmy ardor. What a blissful period of my existence was it that I passedbeneath his roof. Another being seemed created within me, or rather, all that was amiable and excellent was drawn out. I was as recluse asever I had been at the convent, but how different was my seclusion. Mytime was spent in storing my mind with lofty and poetical ideas; inmeditating on all that was striking and noble in history or fiction; instudying and tracing all that was sublime and beautiful in nature. Iwas always a visionary, imaginative being, but now my reveries andimaginings all elevated me to rapture. 

I looked up to my master as to a benevolent genius that had opened tome a region of enchantment. I became devotedly attached to him. He wasnot a native of Genoa, but had been drawn thither by the solicitationof several of the nobility, and had resided there but a few years, forthe completion of certain works he had undertaken. His health wasdelicate, and he had to confide much of the filling up of his designsto the pencils of his scholars. He considered me as particularly happyin delineating the human countenance; in seizing upon characteristic, though fleeting expressions and fixing them powerfully upon my canvas. I was employed continually, therefore, in sketching faces, and oftenwhen some particular grace or beauty or expression was wanted in acountenance, it was entrusted to my pencil. My benefactor was fond ofbringing me forward; and partly, perhaps, through my actual skill, andpartly by his partial praises, I began to be noted for the expressionof my countenances. 

Among the various works which he had undertaken, was an historicalpiece for one of the palaces of Genoa, in which were to be introducedthe likenesses of several of the family. Among these was one entrustedto my pencil. It was that of a young girl, who as yet was in a conventfor her education. She came out for the purpose of sitting for thepicture. I first saw her in an apartment of one of the sumptuouspalaces of Genoa. She stood before a casement that looked out upon thebay, a stream of vernal sunshine fell upon her, and shed a kind ofglory round her as it lit up the rich crimson chamber. She was butsixteen years of age--and oh, how lovely! The scene broke upon me likea mere vision of spring and youth and beauty. I could have fallen downand worshipped her. She was like one of those fictions of poets andpainters, when they would express the _beau ideal_ that haunts theirminds with shapes of indescribable perfection. 

I was permitted to sketch her countenance in various positions, and IFondly protracted the study that was undoing me. The more I gazed onher the more I became enamoured; there was something almost painful inmy intense admiration. I was but nineteen years of age; shy, diffident, and inexperienced. I was treated with attention and encouragement, formy youth and my enthusiasm in my art had won favor for me; and I aminclined to think that there was something in my air and manner thatinspired interest and respect. Still the kindness with which I wastreated could not dispel the embarrassment into which my ownimagination threw me when in presence of this lovely being. It elevatedher into something almost more than mortal. She seemed too exquisitefor earthly use; too delicate and exalted for human attainment. As Isat tracing her charms on my canvas, with my eyes occasionally rivetedon her features, I drank in delicious poison that made me giddy. Myheart alternately gushed with tenderness, and ached with despair. Now Ibecame more than ever sensible of the violent fires that had laindormant at the bottom of my soul. You who are born in a more temperateclimate and under a cooler sky, have little idea of the violence ofpassion in our southern bosoms. 

A few days finished my task; Bianca returned to her convent, but herimage remained indelibly impressed upon my heart. It dwelt on myimagination; it became my pervading idea of beauty. It had an effecteven upon my pencil; I became noted for my felicity in depicting femaleloveliness; it was but because I multiplied the image of Bianca. Isoothed, and yet fed my fancy, by introducing her in all theproductions of my master. I have stood with delight in one of thechapels of the Annunciata, and heard the crowd extol the seraphicbeauty of a saint which I had painted; I have seen them bow down inadoration before the painting: they were bowing before the lovelinessof Bianca. 

I existed in this kind of dream, I might almost say delirium, forupwards of a year. Such is the tenacity of my imagination that theimage which was formed in it continued in all its power and freshness. Indeed, I was a solitary, meditative being, much given to reverie, andapt to foster ideas which had once taken strong possession of me. I wasroused from this fond, melancholy, delicious dream by the death of myworthy benefactor. I cannot describe the pangs his death occasioned me. It left me alone and almost broken-hearted. He bequeathed to me hislittle property; which, from the liberality of his disposition and hisexpensive style of living, was indeed but small; and he mostparticularly recommended me, in dying, to the protection of a noblemanwho had been his patron. 

The latter was a man who passed for munificent. He was a lover and anencourager of the arts, and evidently wished to be thought so. Hefancied he saw in me indications of future excellence; my pencil hadalready attracted attention; he took me at once under his protection;seeing that I was overwhelmed with grief, and incapable of exertingmyself in the mansion of my late benefactor, he invited me to sojournfor a time in a villa which he possessed on the border of the sea, inthe picturesque neighborhood of Sestri de Ponenti. 

I found at the villa the Count's only son, Filippo: he was nearly of myage, prepossessing in his appearance, and fascinating in his manners;he attached himself to me, and seemed to court my good opinion. Ithought there was something of profession in his kindness, and ofcaprice in his disposition; but I had nothing else near me to attachmyself to, and my heart felt the need of something to repose itselfupon. His education had been neglected; he looked upon me as hissuperior in mental powers and acquirements, and tacitly acknowledged mysuperiority. I felt that I was his equal in birth, and that gave anindependence to my manner which had its effect. The caprice and tyrannyI saw sometimes exercised on others, over whom he had power, were nevermanifested towards me. We became intimate friends, and frequentcompanions. Still I loved to be alone, and to indulge in the reveriesof my own imagination, among the beautiful scenery by which I wassurrounded. 

The villa stood in the midst of ornamented grounds, finely decoratedWith statues and fountains, and laid out into groves and alleys andshady bowers. It commanded a wide view of the Mediterranean, and thepicturesque Ligurian coast. Every thing was assembled here that couldgratify the taste or agreeably occupy the mind. Soothed by thetranquillity of this elegant retreat, the turbulence of my feelingsgradually subsided, and, blending with the romantic spell that stillreigned over my imagination, produced a soft voluptuous melancholy. 

I had not been long under the roof of the Count, when our solitude wasenlivened by another inhabitant. It was a daughter of a relation of theCount, who had lately died in reduced circumstances, bequeathing thisonly child to his protection. I had heard much of her beauty fromFilippo, but my fancy had become so engrossed by one idea of beauty asnot to admit of any other. We were in the central saloon of the villawhen she arrived. She was still in mourning, and approached, leaning onthe Count's arm. As they ascended the marble portico, I was struck bythe elegance of her figure and movement, by the grace with which the_mezzaro_, the bewitching veil of Genoa, was folded about her slenderform. 

They entered. Heavens! what was my surprise when I beheld Bianca beforeme. It was herself; pale with grief; but still more matured inloveliness than when I had last beheld her. The time that had elapsedhad developed the graces of her person; and the sorrow she hadundergone had diffused over her countenance an irresistible tenderness. 

She blushed and trembled at seeing me, and tears rushed into her eyes, for she remembered in whose company she had been accustomed to beholdme. For my part, I cannot express what were my emotions. By degrees Iovercame the extreme shyness that had formerly paralyzed me in herpresence. We were drawn together by sympathy of situation. We had eachlost our best friend in the world; we were each, in some measure thrownupon the kindness of others. When I came to know her intellectually, all my ideal picturings of her were confirmed. Her newness to theworld, her delightful susceptibility to every thing beautiful andagreeable in nature, reminded me of my own emotions when first Iescaped from the convent. Her rectitude of thinking delighted myjudgment; the sweetness of her nature wrapped itself around my heart;and then her young and tender and budding loveliness, sent a deliciousmadness to my brain. 

I gazed upon her with a kind of idolatry, as something more thanmortal; and I felt humiliated at the idea of my comparativeunworthiness. Yet she was mortal; and one of mortality's mostsusceptible and loving compounds; for she loved me!

How first I discovered the transporting truth I cannot recollect; Ibelieve it stole upon me by degrees, as a wonder past hope or belief. We were both at such a tender and loving age; in constant intercoursewith each other; mingling in the same elegant pursuits; for music, poetry, and painting were our mutual delights, and we were almostseparated from society, among lovely and romantic scenery! Is itstrange that two young hearts thus brought together should readilytwine round each other?

Oh, gods! what a dream--a transient dream! of unalloyed delight thenpassed over my soul! Then it was that the world around me was indeed aparadise, for I had a woman--lovely, delicious woman, to share it withme. How often have I rambled over the picturesque shores of Sestri, orclimbed its wild mountains, with the coast gemmed with villas, and theblue sea far below me, and the slender Pharo of Genoa on its romanticpromontory in the distance; and as I sustained the faltering steps ofBianca, have thought there could no unhappiness enter into so beautifula world. Why, oh, why is this budding season of life and love sotransient--why is this rosy cloud of love that sheds such a glow overthe morning of our days so prone to brew up into the whirlwind and thestorm!

I was the first to awaken from this blissful delirium of theaffections. I had gained Bianca's heart: what was I to do with it? Ihad no wealth nor prospects to entitle me to her hand. Was I to takeadvantage of her ignorance of the world, of her confiding affection, and draw her down to my own poverty? Was this requiting the hospitalityof the Count?--was this requiting the love of Bianca?

Now first I began to feel that even successful love may have itsbitterness. A corroding care gathered about my heart. I moved about thepalace like a guilty being. I felt as if I had abused itshospitality--as if I were a thief within its walls. I could no longerlook with unembarrassed mien in the countenance of the Count. I accusedmyself of perfidy to him, and I thought he read it in my looks, andbegan to distrust and despise me. His manner had always beenostentatious and condescending, it now appeared cold and haughty. Filippo, too, became reserved and distant; or at least I suspected himto be so. Heavens!--was this mere coinage of my brain: was I to becomesuspicious of all the world?--a poor surmising wretch; watching looksand gestures; and torturing myself with misconstructions. Or iftrue--was I to remain beneath a roof where I was merely tolerated, andlinger there on sufferance? "This is not to be endured!" exclaimed I;"I will tear myself from this state of self-abasement; I will breakthrough this fascination and fly--Fly?--whither?--from the world?--forwhere is the world when I leave Bianca behind me?"

My spirit was naturally proud, and swelled within me at the idea ofbeing looked upon with contumely. Many times I was on the point ofdeclaring my family and rank, and asserting my equality, in thepresence of Bianca, when I thought her relatives assumed an air ofsuperiority. But the feeling was transient. I considered myselfdiscarded and contemned by my family; and had solemnly vowed never toown relationship to them, until they themselves should claim it. 

The struggle of my mind preyed upon my happiness and my health. Itseemed as if the uncertainty of being loved would be less intolerablethan thus to be assured of it, and yet not dare to enjoy theconviction. I was no longer the enraptured admirer of Bianca; I nolonger hung in ecstasy on the tones of her voice, nor drank in withinsatiate gaze the beauty of her countenance. Her very smiles ceased todelight me, for I felt culpable in having won them. 

She could not but be sensible of the change in me, and inquired thecause with her usual frankness and simplicity. I could not evade theinquiry, for my heart was full to aching. I told her all the conflictof my soul; my devouring passion, my bitter self-upbraiding. "Yes!"said I, "I am unworthy of you. I am an offcast from my family--awanderer--a nameless, homeless wanderer, with nothing but poverty formy portion, and yet I have dared to love you--have dared to aspire toyour love!"

My agitation moved her to tears; but she saw nothing in my situation sohopeless as I had depicted it. Brought up in a convent, she knewnothing of the world, its wants, its cares;--and, indeed, what woman isa worldly casuist in matters of the heart!--Nay, more--she kindled intoa sweet enthusiasm when she spoke of my fortunes and myself. We haddwelt together on the works of the famous masters. I had related to hertheir histories; the high reputation, the influence, the magnificenceto which they had attained;--the companions of princes, the favoritesof kings, the pride and boast of nations. All this she applied to me. Her love saw nothing in their greatest productions that I was not ableto achieve; and when I saw the lovely creature glow with fervor, andher whole countenance radiant with the visions of my glory, whichseemed breaking upon her, I was snatched up for the moment into theheaven of her own imagination. 

I am dwelling too long upon this part of my story; yet I cannot helpLingering over a period of my life, on which, with all its cares andconflicts, I look back with fondness; for as yet my soul was unstainedby a crime. I do not know what might have been the result of thisstruggle between pride, delicacy, and passion, had I not read in aNeapolitan gazette an account of the sudden death of my brother. It wasaccompanied by an earnest inquiry for intelligence concerning me, and aprayer, should this notice meet my eye, that I would hasten to Naples, to comfort an infirm and afflicted father. 

I was naturally of an affectionate disposition; but my brother hadnever been as a brother to me; I had long considered myself asdisconnected from him, and his death caused me but little emotion. Thethoughts of my father, infirm and suffering, touched me, however, tothe quick; and when I thought of him, that lofty, magnificent being, now bowed down and desolate, and suing to me for comfort, all myresentment for past neglect was subdued, and a glow of filial affectionwas awakened within me. 

The predominant feeling, however, that overpowered all others wastransport at the sudden change in my whole fortunes. A home--a name--arank--wealth awaited me; and love painted a still more rapturousprospect in the distance. I hastened to Bianca, and threw myself at herfeet. "Oh, Bianca, " exclaimed I, "at length I can claim you for my own. I am no longer a nameless adventurer, a neglected, rejected outcast. Look--read, behold the tidings that restore me to my name and tomyself!"

I will not dwell on the scene that ensued. Bianca rejoiced in thereverse of my situation, because she saw it lightened my heart of aload of care; for her own part she had loved me for myself, and hadnever doubted that my own merits would command both fame and fortune. 

I now felt all my native pride buoyant within me; I no longer walkedwith my eyes bent to the dust; hope elevated them to the skies; my soulwas lit up with fresh fires, and beamed from my countenance. 

I wished to impart the change in my circumstances to the Count; to lethim know who and what I was, and to make formal proposals for the handof Bianca; but the Count was absent on a distant estate. I opened mywhole soul to Filippo. Now first I told him of my passion; of thedoubts and fears that had distracted me, and of the tidings that hadsuddenly dispelled them. He overwhelmed me with congratulations andwith the warmest expressions of sympathy. I embraced him in thefullness of my heart. I felt compunctious for having suspected him ofcoldness, and asked him forgiveness for having ever doubted hisfriendship. 

Nothing is so warm, and enthusiastic as a sudden expansion of the heartbetween young men. Filippo entered into our concerns with the mosteager interest. He was our confidant and counsellor. It was determinedthat I should hasten at once to Naples to re-establish myself in myfather's affections and my paternal home, and the moment thereconciliation was effected and my father's consent insured, I shouldreturn and demand Bianca of the Count. Filippo engaged to secure hisfather's acquiescence; indeed, he undertook to watch over ourinterests, and was the channel through which we were to correspond. 

My parting with Bianca was tender--delicious--agonizing. 

It was in a little pavilion of the garden which had been one of ourfavorite resorts. How often and often did I return to have one moreadieu--to have her look once more on me in speechless emotion--to enjoyonce more the rapturous sight of those tears streaming down her lovelycheeks--to seize once more on that delicate hand, the frankly accordedpledge of love, and cover it with tears and kisses! Heavens! There is adelight even in the parting agony of two lovers worth a thousand tamepleasures of the world. I have her at this moment before my eyes--atthe window of the pavilion, putting aside the vines that clusteredabout the casement--her light form beaming forth in virgin white--hercountenance all tears and smiles--sending a thousand and a thousandadieus after me, as, hesitating, in a delirium of fondness andagitation, I faltered my way down the avenue. 

As the bark bore me out of the harbor of Genoa, how eagerly my eyesStretched along the coast of Sestri, till it discerned the villagleaming from among trees at the foot of the mountain. As long as daylasted, I gazed and gazed upon it, till it lessened and lessened to amere white speck in the distance; and still my intense and fixed gazediscerned it, when all other objects of the coast had blended intoindistinct confusion, or were lost in the evening gloom. 

On arriving at Naples, I hastened to my paternal home. My heart yearnedfor the long-withheld blessing of a father's love. As I entered theproud portal of the ancestral palace, my emotions were so great that Icould not speak. No one knew me. The servants gazed at me withcuriosity and surprise. A few years of intellectual elevation anddevelopment had made a prodigious change in the poor fugitive striplingfrom the convent. Still that no one should know me in my rightful homewas overpowering. I felt like the prodigal son returned. I was astranger in the house of my father. I burst into tears, and wept aloud. When I made myself known, however, all was changed. I who had once beenalmost repulsed from its walls, and forced to fly as an exile, waswelcomed back with acclamation, with servility. One of the servantshastened to prepare my father for my reception; my eagerness to receivethe paternal embrace was so great that I could not await his return;but hurried after him. 

What a spectacle met my eyes as I entered the chamber! My father, whomI had left in the pride of vigorous age, whose noble and majesticbearing had so awed my young imagination, was bowed down and witheredinto decrepitude. A paralysis had ravaged his stately form, and left ita shaking ruin. He sat propped up in his chair, with pale, relaxedvisage and glassy, wandering eye. His intellects had evidently sharedin the ravage of his frame. The servant was endeavoring to make himcomprehend the visitor that was at hand. I tottered up to him and sunkat his feet. All his past coldness and neglect were forgotten in hispresent sufferings. I remembered only that he was my parent, and that Ihad deserted him. I clasped his knees; my voice was almost stifled withconvulsive sobs. "Pardon--pardon--oh my father!" was all that I couldutter. His apprehension seemed slowly to return to him. He gazed at mefor some moments with a vague, inquiring look; a convulsive tremorquivered about his lips; he feebly extended a shaking hand, laid itupon my head, and burst into an infantine flow of tears. 

From that moment he would scarcely spare me from his sight. I appearedthe only object that his heart responded to in the world; all else wasas a blank to him. He had almost lost the powers of speech, and thereasoning faculty seemed at an end. He was mute and passive; exceptingthat fits of child-like weeping would sometimes come over him withoutany immediate cause. If I left the room at any time, his eye wasincessantly fixed on the door till my return, and on my entrance therewas another gush of tears. 

To talk with him of my concerns, in this ruined state of mind, wouldhave been worse than useless; to have left him, for ever so short atime, would have been cruel, unnatural. Here then was a new trial formy affections. I wrote to Bianca an account of my return and of myactual situation; painting in colors vivid, for they were true, thetorments I suffered at our being thus separated; for to the youthfullover every day of absence is an age of love lost. I enclosed theletter in one to Filippo, who was the channel of our correspondence. Ireceived a reply from him full of friendship and sympathy; from Biancafull of assurances of affection and constancy. 

Week after week, month after month elapsed, without making any changein my circumstances. The vital flame, which had seemed nearly extinctwhen first I met my father, kept fluttering on without any apparentdiminution. I watched him constantly, faithfully--I had almost saidpatiently. I knew that his death alone would set me free; yet I neverat any moment wished it. I felt too glad to be able to make anyatonement for past disobedience; and, denied as I had been allendearments of relationship in my early days, my heart yearned towardsa father, who, in his age and helplessness, had thrown himself entirelyon me for comfort. My passion for Bianca gained daily more force fromabsence; by constant meditation it wore itself a deeper and deeperchannel. I made no new friends nor acquaintances; sought none of thepleasures of Naples which my rank and fortune threw open to me. Minewas a heart that confined itself to few objects, but dwelt upon thosewith the intenser passion. To sit by my father, and administer to hiswants, and to meditate on Bianca in the silence of his chamber, was myconstant habit. Sometimes I amused myself with my pencil in portrayingthe image that was ever present to my imagination. I transferred tocanvas every look and smile of hers that dwelt in my heart. I showedthem to my father in hopes of awakening an interest in his bosom forthe mere shadow of my love; but he was too far sunk in intellect totake any more than a child-like notice of them. 

When I received a letter from Bianca it was a new source of solitaryluxury. Her letters, it is true, were less and less frequent, but theywere always full of assurances of unabated affection. They breathed notthe frank and innocent warmth with which she expressed herself inconversation, but I accounted for it from the embarrassment whichinexperienced minds have often to express themselves upon paper. Filippo assured me of her unaltered constancy. They both lamented inthe strongest terms our continued separation, though they did justiceto the filial feeling that kept me by my father's side. 

Nearly eighteen months elapsed in this protracted exile. To me theywere so many ages. Ardent and impetuous by nature, I scarcely know howI should have supported so long an absence, had I not felt assured thatthe faith of Bianca was equal to my own. At length my father died. Lifewent from him almost imperceptibly. I hung over him in mute affliction, and watched the expiring spasms of nature. His last faltering accentswhispered repeatedly a blessing on me--alas! how has it been fulfilled!

When I had paid due honors to his remains, and laid them in the tomb ofour ancestors, I arranged briefly my affairs; put them in a posture tobe easily at my command from a distance, and embarked once more, with abounding heart, for Genoa. 

Our voyage was propitious, and oh! what was my rapture when first, inthe dawn of morning, I saw the shadowy summits of the Apennines risingalmost like clouds above the horizon. The sweet breath of summer justmoved us over the long wavering billows that were rolling us on towardsGenoa. By degrees the coast of Sestri rose like a sweet creation ofenchantment from the silver bosom of the deep. I behold the line ofvillages and palaces studding its borders. My eye reverted to awell-known point, and at length, from the confusion of distant objects, it singled out the villa which contained Bianca. It was a mere speck inthe landscape, but glimmering from afar, the polar star of my heart. 

Again I gazed at it for a livelong summer's day; but oh how differentthe emotions between departure and return. It now kept growing andgrowing, instead of lessening on my sight. My heart seemed to dilatewith it. I looked at it through a telescope. I gradually defined onefeature after another. The balconies of the central saloon where firstI met Bianca beneath its roof; the terrace where we so often had passedthe delightful summer evenings; the awning that shaded her chamberwindow--I almost fancied I saw her form beneath it. Could she but knowher lover was in the bark whose white sail now gleamed on the sunnybosom of the sea! My fond impatience increased as we neared the coast. The ship seemed to lag lazily over the billows; I could almost havesprung into the sea and swam to the desired shore. 

The shadows of evening gradually shrouded the scene, but the moon arosein all her fullness and beauty and shed the tender light so dear tolovers, over the romantic coast of Sestri. My whole soul was bathed inunutterable tenderness. I anticipated the heavenly evenings I shouldpass in wandering with Bianca by the light of that blessed moon. 

It was late at night before we entered the harbor. As early nextmorning as I could get released from the formalities of landing I threwmyself on horseback and hastened to the villa. As I galloped round therocky promontory on which stands the Faro, and saw the coast of Sestriopening upon me, a thousand anxieties and doubts suddenly sprang up inmy bosom. There is something fearful in returning to those we love, while yet uncertain what ills or changes absence may have effected. Theturbulence of my agitation shook my very frame. I spurred my horse toredoubled speed; he was covered with foam when we both arrived pantingat the gateway that opened to the grounds around the villa. I left myhorse at a cottage and walked through the grounds, that I might regaintranquillity for the approaching interview. I chid myself for havingsuffered mere doubts and surmises thus suddenly to overcome me; but Iwas always prone to be carried away by these gusts of the feelings. 

On entering the garden everything bore the same look as when I had leftit; and this unchanged aspect of things reassured me. There were thealleys in which I had so often walked with Bianca; the same shadesunder which we had so often sat during the noontide. There were thesame flowers of which she was fond; and which appeared still to beunder the ministry of her hand. Everything around looked and breathedof Bianca; hope and joy flushed in my bosom at every step. I passed alittle bower in which we had often sat and read together. A book and aglove lay on the bench. It was Bianca's glove; it was a volume of theMetestasio I had given her. The glove lay in my favorite passage. Iclasped them to my heart. "All is safe!" exclaimed I, with rapture, "she loves me! she is still my own!"

I bounded lightly along the avenue down which I had faltered so slowlyat my departure. I beheld her favorite pavilion which had witnessed ourparting scene. The window was open, with the same vine clambering aboutit, precisely as when she waved and wept me an adieu. Oh! howtransporting was the contrast in my situation. As I passed near thepavilion, I heard the tones of a female voice. They thrilled through mewith an appeal to my heart not to be mistaken. Before I could think, Ifelt they were Bianca's. For an instant I paused, overpowered withagitation. I feared to break in suddenly upon her. I softly ascendedthe steps of the pavilion. The door was open. I saw Bianca seated at atable; her back was towards me; she was warbling a soft melancholy air, and was occupied in drawing. A glance sufficed to show me that she wascopying one of my own paintings. I gazed on her for a moment in adelicious tumult of emotions. She paused in her singing; a heavy sigh, almost a sob followed. I could no longer contain myself. "Bianca!"exclaimed I, in a half smothered voice. She started at the sound;brushed back the ringlets that hung clustering about her face; darted aglance at me; uttered a piercing shriek and would have fallen to theearth, had I not caught her in my arms. 

"Bianca! my own Bianca!" exclaimed I, folding her to my bosom; my voicestifled in sobs of convulsive joy. She lay in my arms without sense ormotion. Alarmed at the effects of my own precipitation, I scarce knewwhat to do. I tried by a thousand endearing words to call her back toconsciousness. She slowly recovered, and half opening her eyes--"wheream I?" murmured she faintly. "Here, " exclaimed I, pressing her to mybosom. "Here! close to the heart that adores you; in the arms of yourfaithful Ottavio!"

"Oh no! no! no!" shrieked she, starting into sudden life andterror--"away! away! leave me! leave me!"

She tore herself from my arms; rushed to a corner of the saloon, andcovered her face with her hands, as if the very sight of me werebaleful. I was thunderstruck--I could not believe my senses. I followedher, trembling, confounded. I endeavored to take her hand, but sheshrunk from my very touch with horror. 

"Good heavens, Bianca, " exclaimed I, "what is the meaning of this? Isthis my reception after so long an absence? Is this the love youprofessed for me?"

At the mention of love, a shuddering ran through her. She turned to mea face wild with anguish. "No more of that! no more of that!" gaspedshe--"talk not to me of love--I--I--am married!"

I reeled as if I had received a mortal blow. A sickness struck to myvery heart. I caught at a window frame for support. For a moment ortwo, everything was chaos around me. When I recovered, I beheld Biancalying on a sofa; her face buried in a pillow, and sobbing convulsively. Indignation at her fickleness for a moment overpowered every otherfeeling. 

"Faithless--perjured--" cried I, striding across the room. But anotherglance at that beautiful being in distress, checked all my wrath. Angercould not dwell together with her idea in my soul. 

"Oh, Bianca, " exclaimed I, in anguish, "could I have dreamt of this;could I have suspected you would have been false to me?"

She raised her face all streaming with tears, all disordered withemotion, and gave me one appealing look--"False to you!--they told meyou were dead!"

"What, " said I, "in spite of our constant correspondence?"

She gazed wildly at me--"correspondence!--what correspondence?"

"Have you not repeatedly received and replied to my letters?"

She clasped her hands with solemnity and fervor--"As I hope for mercy, never!"

A horrible surmise shot through my brain--"Who told you I was dead?"

"It was reported that the ship in which you embarked for Naplesperished at sea. "

"But who told you the report?"

She paused for an instant, and trembled--

"Filippo!"

"May the God of heaven curse him!" cried I, extending my clinched fistsaloft. 

"Oh do not curse him--do not curse him!" exclaimed she--"He is--he is--my husband!"

This was all that was wanting to unfold the perfidy that had beenpractised upon me. My blood boiled like liquid fire in my veins. Igasped with rage too great for utterance. I remained for a timebewildered by the whirl of horrible thoughts that rushed through mymind. The poor victim of deception before me thought it was with her Iwas incensed. She faintly murmured forth her exculpation. I will notdwell upon it. I saw in it more than she meant to reveal. I saw with aglance how both of us had been betrayed. "'Tis well!" muttered I tomyself in smothered accents of concentrated fury. "He shall account tome for this!"

Bianca overhead me. New terror flashed in her countenance. "For mercy'ssake do not meet him--say nothing of what has passed--for my sake saynothing to him--I only shall be the sufferer!"

A new suspicion darted across my mind--"What!" exclaimed I--"do youthen _fear_ him--is he _unkind_ to you--tell me, " reiterated I, grasping her hand and looking her eagerly in the face--"tellme--_dares_ he to use you harshly!"

"No! no! no!" cried she faltering and embarrassed; but the glance ather face had told me volumes. I saw in her pallid and wasted features;in the prompt terror and subdued agony of her eye a whole history of amind broken down by tyranny. Great God! and was this beauteous flowersnatched from me to be thus trampled upon? The idea roused me tomadness. I clinched my teeth and my hands; I foamed at the mouth; everypassion seemed to have resolved itself into the fury that like a lavaboiled within my heart. Bianca shrunk from me in speechless affright. As I strode by the window my eye darted down the alley. Fatal moment! Ibeheld Filippo at a distance! My brain was in a delirium--I sprang fromthe pavilion, and was before him with the quickness of lightning. Hesaw me as I came rushing upon him--he turned pale, looked wildly toright and left, as if he would have fled, and trembling drew his sword. 

"Wretch!" cried I, "well may you draw your weapon!"

I spake not another word--I snatched forth a stiletto, put by the swordwhich trembled in his hand, and buried my poniard in his bosom. He fellwith the blow, but my rage was unsated. I sprang upon him with theblood-thirsty feeling of a tiger; redoubled my blows; mangled him in myfrenzy, grasped him by the throat, until with reiterated wounds andstrangling convulsions he expired in my grasp. I remained glaring onthe countenance, horrible in death, that seemed to stare back with itsprotruded eyes upon me. Piercing shrieks roused me from my delirium. Ilooked round and beheld Bianca flying distractedly towards us. My brainwhirled. I waited not to meet her, but fled from the scene of horror. Ifled forth from the garden like another Cain, a hell within my bosom, and a curse upon my head. I fled without knowing whither--almostwithout knowing why--my only idea was to get farther and farther fromthe horrors I had left behind; as if I could throw space between myselfand my conscience. I fled to the Apennines, and wandered for days anddays among their savage heights. How I existed I cannot tell--whatrocks and precipices I braved, and how I braved them, I know not. Ikept on and on--trying to outtravel the curse that clung to me. Alas, the shrieks of Bianca rung for ever in my ear. The horrible countenanceof my victim was for ever before my eyes. "The blood of Filippo criedto me from the ground. " Rocks, trees, and torrents all resounded withmy crime. 

Then it was I felt how much more insupportable is the anguish ofremorse than every other mental pang. Oh! could I but have cast offthis crime that festered in my heart; could I but have regained theinnocence that reigned in my breast as I entered the garden at Sestri;could I but have restored my victim to life, I felt as if I could lookon with transport even though Bianca were in his arms. 

By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse settled into a permanentmalady of the mind. Into one of the most horrible that ever poor wretchwas cursed with. Wherever I went, the countenance of him I had slainappeared to follow me. Wherever I turned my head I beheld it behind me, hideous with the contortions of the dying moment. I have tried in everyway to escape from this horrible phantom; but in vain. I know notwhether it is an illusion of the mind, the consequence of my dismaleducation at the convent, or whether a phantom really sent by heaven topunish me; but there it ever is--at all times--in all places--nor hastime nor habit had any effect in familiarizing me with its terrors. Ihave travelled from place to place, plunged into amusements--trieddissipation and distraction of every kind--all--all in vain. 

I once had recourse to my pencil as a desperate experiment. I paintedan exact resemblance of this phantom face. I placed it before me inhopes that by constantly contemplating the copy I might diminish theeffect of the original. But I only doubled instead of diminishing themisery. 

Such is the curse that has clung to my footsteps--that has made my lifea burthen--but the thoughts of death, terrible. God knows what I havesuffered. What days and days, and nights and nights, of sleeplesstorment. What a never-dying worm has preyed upon my heart; what anunquenchable fire has burned within my brain. He knows the wrongs thatwrought upon my poor weak nature; that converted the tenderest ofaffections into the deadliest of fury. He knows best whether a frailerring creature has expiated by long-enduring torture and measurelessremorse, the crime of a moment of madness. Often, often have Iprostrated myself in the dust, and implored that he would give me asign of his forgiveness, and let me die. --

Thus far had I written some time since. I had meant to leave thisrecord of misery and crime with you, to be read when I should be nomore. My prayer to heaven has at length been heard. You were witness tomy emotions last evening at the performance of the Miserere; when thevaulted temple resounded with the words of atonement and redemption. Iheard a voice speaking to me from the midst of the music; I heard itrising above the pealing of the organ and the voices of the choir; itspoke to me in tones of celestial melody; it promised mercy andforgiveness, but demanded from me full expiation. I go to make it. To-morrow I shall be on my way to Genoa to surrender myself to justice. You who have pitied my sufferings; who have poured the balm of sympathyinto my wounds, do not shrink from my memory with abhorrence now thatyou know my story. Recollect, when you read of my crime I shall haveatoned for it with my blood!

When the Baronet had finished, there was an universal desire expressedto see the painting of this frightful visage. After much entreaty theBaronet consented, on condition that they should only visit it one byone. He called his housekeeper and gave her charge to conduct thegentlemen singly to the chamber. They all returned varying in theirstories: some affected in one way, some in another; some more, someless; but all agreeing that there was a certain something about thepainting that had a very odd effect upon the feelings. 

I stood in a deep bow window with the Baronet, and could not helpexpressing my wonder. "After all, " said I, "there are certain mysteriesin our nature, certain inscrutable impulses and influences, thatwarrant one in being superstitious. Who can account for so many personsof different characters being thus strangely affected by a merepainting?"

"And especially when not one of them has seen it!" said the Baronetwith a smile. 

"How?" exclaimed I, "not seen it?"

"Not one of them?" replied he, laying his finger on his lips in sign ofsecrecy. "I saw that some of them were in a bantering vein, and I didnot choose that the memento of the poor Italian should be made a jestof. So I gave the housekeeper a hint to show them all to a differentchamber!"

Thus end the Stories of the Nervous Gentleman. 

PART SECOND. 

BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS. 

 "'Tis a very good world that we live in, To lend, or to spend, or to give in; But to beg, or to borrow, or get a man's own, 'Tis the very worst world, sir, that ever was known. "

 LINES FROM AN INN WINDOW. 

LITERARY LIFE. 

Among the great variety of characters which fall in a traveller's way, I became acquainted during my sojourn in London, with an eccentricpersonage of the name of Buckthorne. He was a literary man, had livedmuch in the metropolis, and had acquired a great deal of curious, though unprofitable knowledge concerning it. He was a great observer ofcharacter, and could give the natural history of every odd animal thatpresented itself in this great wilderness of men. Finding me verycurious about literary life and literary characters, he took much painsto gratify my curiosity. 

"The literary world of England, " said he to me one day, "is made up ofa number of little fraternities, each existing merely for itself, andthinking the rest of the world created only to look on and admire. Itmay be resembled to the firmament, consisting of a number of systems, each composed of its own central sun with its revolving train of moonsand satellites, all acting in the most harmonious concord; but thecomparison fails in part, inasmuch as the literary world has no generalconcord. Each system acts independently of the rest, and indeedconsiders all other stars as mere exhalations and transient meteors, beaming for awhile with false fires, but doomed soon to fall and beforgotten; while its own luminaries are the lights of the universe, destined to increase in splendor and to shine steadily on toimmortality. "

"And pray, " said I, "how is a man to get a peep into one of thesesystems you talk of? I presume an intercourse with authors is a kind ofintellectual exchange, where one must bring his commodities to barter, and always give a _quid pro quo_. "

"Pooh, pooh--how you mistake, " said Buckthorne, smiling; "you mustnever think to become popular among wits by shining. They go intosociety to shine themselves, not to admire the brilliancy of others. Ithought as you do when I first cultivated the society of men ofletters, and never went to a blue-stocking coterie without studying mypart beforehand as diligently as an actor. The consequence was, I soongot the name of an intolerable proser, and should in a little whilehave been completely excommunicated had I not changed my plan ofoperations. From thenceforth I became a most assiduous listener, or ifever I were eloquent, it was tête-a-tête with an author in praise ofhis own works, or what is nearly as acceptable, in disparagement of theworks of his contemporaries. If ever he spoke favorably of theproductions of some particular friend, I ventured boldly to dissentfrom him, and to prove that his friend was a blockhead; and much aspeople say of the pertinacity and irritability of authors, I neverfound one to take offence at my contradictions. No, no, sir, authorsare particularly candid in admitting the faults of their friends. 

"Indeed, I was extremely sparing of my remarks on all modern works, excepting to make sarcastic observations on the most distinguishedwriters of the day. I never ventured to praise an author that had notbeen dead at least half a century; and even then I was rather cautious;for you must know that many old writers have been enlisted under thebanners of different sects, and their merits have become as completetopics of party prejudice and dispute, as the merits of livingstatesmen and politicians. Nay, there have been whole periods ofliterature absolutely _taboo'd_, to use a South Sea phrase. It is, forexample, as much as a man's reputation is worth, in some circles, tosay a word in praise of any writers of the reign of Charles the Second, or even of Queen Anne; they being all declared to be Frenchmen indisguise. "

"And pray, then, " said I, "when am I to know that I am on safe grounds;being totally unacquainted with the literary landmarks and the boundarylines of fashionable taste?"

"Oh, " replied he, there is fortunately one tract of literature thatforms a kind of neutral ground, on which all the literary world meetamicably; lay down their weapons and even run riot in their excess ofgood humor, and this is, the reigns of Elizabeth and James. Here youmay praise away at a venture; here it is 'cut and come again, ' and themore obscure the author, and the more quaint and crabbed his style, themore your admiration will smack of the real relish of the connoisseur;whose taste, like that of an epicure, is always for game that has anantiquated flavor. 

"But, " continued he, "as you seem anxious to know something of literarysociety I will take an opportunity to introduce you to some coterie, where the talents of the day are assembled. I cannot promise you, however, that they will be of the first order. Somehow or other, ourgreat geniuses are not gregarious, they do not go in flocks, but flysingly in general society. They prefer mingling, like common men, withthe multitude; and are apt to carry nothing of the author about thembut the reputation. It is only the inferior orders that herd together, acquire strength and importance by their confederacies, and bear allthe distinctive characteristics of their species. "

A LITERARY DINNER. 

A few days after this conversation with Mr. Buckthorne, he called uponme, and took me with him to a regular literary dinner. It was given bya great bookseller, or rather a company of booksellers, whose firmsurpassed in length even that of Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego. 

I was surprised to find between twenty and thirty guests assembled, most of whom I had never seen before. Buckthorne explained this to meby informing me that this was a "business dinner, " or kind of fieldday, which the house gave about twice a year to its authors. It istrue, they did occasionally give snug dinners to three or four literarymen at a time, but then these were generally select authors; favoritesof the public; such as had arrived at their sixth and seventh editions. "There are, " said he, "certain geographical boundaries in the land ofliterature, and you may judge tolerably well of an author's popularity, by the wine his bookseller gives him. An author crosses the port lineabout the third edition and gets into claret, but when he has reachedthe sixth and seventh, he may revel in champagne and burgundy. "

"And pray, " said I, "how far may these gentlemen have reached that Isee around me; are any of these claret drinkers?"

"Not exactly, not exactly. You find at these great dinners the commonsteady run of authors, one, two, edition men--or if any others areinvited they are aware that it is a kind of republican meeting--Youunderstand me--a meeting of the republic of letters, and that they mustexpect nothing but plain substantial fare. "

These hints enabled me to comprehend more fully the arrangement of thetable. The two ends were occupied by two partners of the house. And thehost seemed to have adopted Addison's ideas as to the literaryprecedence of his guests. A popular poet had the post of honor, opposite to whom was a hot-pressed traveller in quarto, with plates. Agrave-looking antiquarian, who had produced several solid works, whichwere much quoted and little read, was treated with great respect, andseated next to a neat, dressy gentleman in black, who had written athin, genteel, hot-pressed octavo on political economy that was gettinginto fashion. Several three-volume duodecimo men of fair currency wereplaced about the centre of the table; while the lower end was taken upwith small poets, translators, and authors, who had not as yet riseninto much notice. 

The conversation during dinner was by fits and starts; breaking outhere and there in various parts of the table in small flashes, andending in smoke. The poet, who had the confidence of a man on goodterms with the world and independent of his bookseller, was very gayand brilliant, and said many clever things, which set the partner nexthim, in a roar, and delighted all the company. The other partner, however, maintained his sedateness, and kept carving on, with the airof a thorough man of business, intent upon the occupation of themoment. His gravity was explained to me by my friend Buckthorne. Heinformed me that the concerns of the house were admirably distributedamong the partners. "Thus, for instance, " said he, "the grave gentlemanis the carving partner who attends to the joints, and the other is thelaughing partner who attends to the jokes. "

The general conversation was chiefly carried on at the upper end of thetable; as the authors there seemed to possess the greatest courage ofthe tongue. As to the crew at the lower end, if they did not make muchfigure in talking, they did in eating. Never was there a moredetermined, inveterate, thoroughly-sustained attack on the trencher, than by this phalanx of masticators. When the cloth was removed, andthe wine began to circulate, they grew very merry and jocose amongthemselves. Their jokes, however, if by chance any of them reached theupper end of the table, seldom produced much effect. Even the laughingpartner did not seem to think it necessary to honor them with a smile;which my neighbour Buckthorne accounted for, by informing me that therewas a certain degree of popularity to be obtained, before a booksellercould afford to laugh at an author's jokes. 

Among this crew of questionable gentlemen thus seated below the salt, my eye singled out one in particular. He was rather shabbily dressed;though he had evidently made the most of a rusty black coat, and worehis shirt-frill plaited and puffed out voluminously at the bosom. Hisface was dusky, but florid--perhaps a little too florid, particularlyabout the nose, though the rosy hue gave the greater lustre to atwinkling black eye. He had a little the look of a boon companion, withthat dash of the poor devil in it which gives an inexpressibly mellowtone to a man's humor. I had seldom seen a face of richer promise; butnever was promise so ill kept. He said nothing; ate and drank with thekeen appetite of a gazetteer, and scarcely stopped to laugh even at thegood jokes from the upper end of the table. I inquired who he was. Buckthorne looked at him attentively. "Gad, " said he, "I have seen thatface before, but where I cannot recollect. He cannot be an author ofany note. I suppose some writer of sermons or grinder of foreigntravels. "

After dinner we retired to another room to take tea and coffee, wherewe were re-enforced by a cloud of inferior guests. Authors of smallvolumes in boards, and pamphlets stitched in blue paper. These had notas yet arrived to the importance of a dinner invitation, but wereinvited occasionally to pass the evening "in a friendly way. " They werevery respectful to the partners, and indeed seemed to stand a little inawe of them; but they paid very devoted court to the lady of the house, and were extravagantly fond of the children. I looked round for thepoor devil author in the rusty black coat and magnificent frill, but hehad disappeared immediately after leaving the table; having a dread, nodoubt, of the glaring light of a drawing-room. Finding nothing fartherto interest my attention, I took my departure as soon as coffee hadbeen served, leaving the port and the thin, genteel, hot-pressed, octavo gentlemen, masters of the field. 

THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 

I think it was but the very next evening that in coming out of CoventGarden Theatre with my eccentric friend Buckthorne, he proposed to giveme another peep at life and character. Finding me willing for anyresearch of the kind, he took me through a variety of the narrow courtsand lanes about Covent Garden, until we stopped before a tavern fromwhich we heard the bursts of merriment of a jovial party. There wouldbe a loud peal of laughter, then an interval, then another peal; as ifa prime wag were telling a story. After a little while there was asong, and at the close of each stanza a hearty roar and a vehementthumping on the table. 

"This is the place, " whispered Buckthorne. "It is the 'Club of QueerFellows. ' A great resort of the small wits, third-rate actors, andnewspaper critics of the theatres. Any one can go in on paying ashilling at the bar for the use of the club. "

We entered, therefore, without ceremony, and took our seats at a lonetable in a dusky corner of the room. The club was assembled round atable, on which stood beverages of various kinds, according to thetaste of the individual. The members were a set of queer fellowsindeed; but what was my surprise on recognizing in the prime wit of themeeting the poor devil author whom I had remarked at the booksellers'dinner for his promising face and his complete taciturnity. Matters, however, were entirely changed with him. There he was a mere cypher:here he was lord of the ascendant; the choice spirit, the dominantgenius. He sat at the head of the table with his hat on, and an eyebeaming even more luminously than his nose. He had a quiz and a fillipfor every one, and a good thing on every occasion. Nothing could besaid or done without eliciting a spark from him; and I solemnly declareI have heard much worse wit even from noblemen. His jokes, it must beconfessed, were rather wet, but they suited the circle in which hepresided. The company were in that maudlin mood when a little wit goesa great way. Every time he opened his lips there was sure to be a roar, and sometimes before he had time to speak. 

We were fortunate enough to enter in time for a glee composed by himexpressly for the club, and which he sang with two boon companions, whowould have been worthy subjects for Hogarth's pencil. As they were eachprovided with a written copy, I was enabled to procure the reading ofit. 

 Merrily, merrily push round the glass, And merrily troll the glee, For he who won't drink till he wink is an ass, So neighbor I drink to thee. Merrily, merrily puddle thy nose, Until it right rosy shall be; For a jolly red nose, I speak under the rose, Is a sign of good company. 

We waited until the party broke up, and no one but the wit remained. Hesat at the table with his legs stretched under it, and wide apart; hishands in his breeches pockets; his head drooped upon his breast; andgazing with lack-lustre countenance on an empty tankard. His gayety wasgone, his fire completely quenched. 

My companion approached and startled him from his fit of brown study, introducing himself on the strength of their having dined together atthe booksellers'. 

"By the way, " said he, "it seems to me I have seen you before; yourface is surely the face of an old acquaintance, though for the life ofme I cannot tell where I have known you. "

"Very likely, " said he with a smile; "many of my old friends haveforgotten me. Though, to tell the truth, my memory in this instance isas bad as your own. If, however, it will assist your recollection inany way, my name is Thomas Dribble, at your service. "

"What, Tom Dribble, who was at old Birchell's school in Warwickshire?"

"The same, " said the other, coolly. 

"Why, then we are old schoolmates, though it's no wonder you don'trecollect me. I was your junior by several years; don't you recollectlittle Jack Buckthorne?"

Here then ensued a scene of school-fellow recognition; and a world oftalk about old school times and school pranks. Mr. Dribble ended byobserving, with a heavy sigh, "that times were sadly changed sincethose days. "

"Faith, Mr. Dribble, " said I, "you seem quite a different man here fromwhat you were at dinner. I had no idea that you had so much stuff inyou. There you were all silence; but here you absolutely keep the tablein a roar. "

"Ah, my dear sir, " replied he, with a shake of the head and a shrug ofthe shoulder, "I'm a mere glow-worm. I never shine by daylight. Besides, it's a hard thing for a poor devil of an author to shine atthe table of a rich bookseller. Who do you think would laugh at anything I could say, when I had some of the current wits of the day aboutme? But here, though a poor devil, I am among still poorer devils thanmyself; men who look up to me as a man of letters and a bel esprit, andall my jokes pass as sterling gold from the mint. "

"You surely do yourself injustice, sir, " said I; "I have certainlyheard more good things from you this evening than from any of thosebeaux esprits by whom you appear to have been so daunted. "

"Ah, sir! but they have luck on their side; they are in the fashion--there's nothing like being in fashion. A man that has once got hischaracter up for a wit, is always sure of a laugh, say what he may. Hemay utter as much nonsense as he pleases, and all will pass current. Noone stops to question the coin of a rich man; but a poor devil cannotpass off either a joke or a guinea, without its being examined on bothsides. Wit and coin are always doubted with a threadbare coat. 

"For my part, " continued he, giving his hat a twitch a little more onone side, "for my part, I hate your fine dinners; there's nothing, sir, like the freedom of a chop-house. I'd rather, any time, have my steakand tankard among my own set, than drink claret and eat venison withyour cursed civil, elegant company, who never laugh at a good joke froma poor devil, for fear of its being vulgar. A good joke grows in a wetsoil; it flourishes in low places, but withers on your d--d high, drygrounds. I once kept high company, sir, until I nearly ruined myself; Igrew so dull, and vapid, and genteel. Nothing saved me but beingarrested by my landlady and thrown into prison; where a course ofcatch-clubs, eight-penny ale, and poor-devil company, manured my mindand brought it back to itself again. "

As it was now growing late we parted for the evening; though I feltanxious to know more of this practical philosopher. I was glad, therefore, when Buckthorne proposed to have another meeting to talkover old school times, and inquired his school-mate's address. Thelatter seemed at first a little shy of naming his lodgings; butsuddenly assuming an air of hardihood--"Green Arbour court, sir, "exclaimed he--"number--in Green Arbour court. You must know the place. Classic ground, sir! classic ground! It was there Goldsmith wrote hisVicar of Wakefield. I always like to live in literary haunts. "

I was amused with this whimsical apology for shabby quarters. On ourWay homewards Buckthorne assured me that this Dribble had been theprime wit and great wag of the school in their boyish days, and one ofthose unlucky urchins denominated bright geniuses. As he perceived mecurious respecting his old school-mate, he promised to take me withhim, in his proposed visit to Green Arbour court. 

A few mornings afterwards he called upon me, and we set forth on ourexpedition. He led me through a variety of singular alleys, and courts, and blind passages; for he appeared to be profoundly versed in all theintricate geography of the metropolis. At length we came out upon FleetMarket, and traversing it, turned up a narrow street to the bottom of along steep flight of stone steps, named Break-neck Stairs. These, hetold me, led up to Green Arbour court, and that down them poorGoldsmith might many a time have risked his neck. When we entered thecourt, I could not but smile to think in what out-of-the-way cornersgenius produces her bantlings! And the muses, those capricious dames, who, forsooth, so often refuse to visit palaces, and deny a singlesmile to votaries in splendid studies and gilded drawing-rooms, --whatholes and burrows will they frequent to lavish their favors on someragged disciple!

This Green Arbour court I found to be a small square of tall andMiserable houses, the very intestines of which seemed turned insideout, to judge from the old garments and frippery that fluttered fromevery window. It appeared to be a region of washerwomen, and lines werestretched about the little square, on which clothes were dangling todry. Just as we entered the square, a scuffle took place between twoviragos about a disputed right to a washtub, and immediately the wholecommunity was in a hubbub. Heads in mob caps popped out of everywindow, and such a clamor of tongues ensued that I was fain to stop myears. Every Amazon took part with one or other of the disputants, andbrandished her arms dripping with soapsuds, and fired away from herwindow as from the embrazure of a fortress; while the swarms ofchildren nestled and cradled in every procreant chamber of this hive, waking with the noise, set up their shrill pipes to swell the generalconcert. 

Poor Goldsmith! what a time must he have had of it, with his quietDisposition and nervous habits, penned up in this den of noise andvulgarity. How strange that while every sight and sound was sufficientto embitter the heart and fill it with misanthropy, his pen should bedropping the honey of Hybla. Yet it is more than probable that he drewmany of his inimitable pictures of low life from the scenes whichsurrounded him in this abode. The circumstance of Mrs. Tibbs beingobliged to wash her husband's two shirts in a neighbor's house, whorefused to lend her washtub, may have been no sport of fancy, but afact passing under his own eye. His landlady may have sat for thepicture, and Beau Tibbs' scanty wardrobe have been a facsimile of hisown. 

It was with some difficulty that we found our way to Dribble'slodgings. They were up two pair of stairs, in a room that looked uponthe court, and when we entered he was seated on the edge of his bed, writing at a broken table. He received us, however, with a free, open, poor devil air, that was irresistible. It is true he did at firstappear slightly confused; buttoned up his waistcoat a little higher andtucked in a stray frill of linen. But he recollected himself in aninstant; gave a half swagger, half leer, as he stepped forth to receiveus; drew a three-legged stool for Mr. Buckthorne; pointed me to alumbering old damask chair that looked like a dethroned monarch inexile, and bade us welcome to his garret. 

We soon got engaged in conversation. Buckthorne and he had much to sayabout early school scenes; and as nothing opens a man's heart more thanrecollections of the kind, we soon drew from him a brief outline of hisliterary career. 

THE POOR DEVIL AUTHOR. 

I began life unluckily by being the wag and bright fellow at school;and I had the farther misfortune of becoming the great genius of mynative village. My father was a country attorney, and intended that Ishould succeed him in business; but I had too much genius to study, andhe was too fond of my genius to force it into the traces. So I fellinto bad company and took to bad habits. Do not mistake me. I mean thatI fell into the company of village literati and village blues, and tookto writing village poetry. 

It was quite the fashion in the village to be literary. We had a littleknot of choice spirits who assembled frequently together, formedourselves into a Literary, Scientific, and Philosophical Society, andfancied ourselves the most learned philos in existence. Every one had agreat character assigned him, suggested by some casual habit oraffectation. One heavy fellow drank an enormous quantity of tea; rolledin his armchair, talked sententiously, pronounced dogmatically, and wasconsidered a second Dr. Johnson; another, who happened to be a curate, uttered coarse jokes, wrote doggerel rhymes, and was the Swift of ourassociation. Thus we had also our Popes and Goldsmiths and Addisons, and a blue-stocking lady, whose drawing-room we frequented, whocorresponded about nothing with all the world, and wrote letters withthe stiffness and formality of a printed book, was cried up as anotherMrs. Montagu. I was, by common consent, the juvenile prodigy, thepoetical youth, the great genius, the pride and hope of the village, through whom it was to become one day as celebrated asStratford-on-Avon. 

My father died and left me his blessing and his business. His blessingbrought no money into my pocket; and as to his business it soondeserted me: for I was busy writing poetry, and could not attend tolaw; and my clients, though they had great respect for my talents, hadno faith in a poetical attorney. 

I lost my business therefore, spent my money, and finished my poem. Itwas the Pleasures of Melancholy, and was cried up to the skies by thewhole circle. The Pleasures of Imagination, the Pleasures of Hope, andthe Pleasures of Memory, though each had placed its author in the firstrank of poets, were blank prose in comparison. Our Mrs. Montagu wouldcry over it from beginning to end. It was pronounced by all the membersof the Literary, Scientific, and Philosophical Society the greatestpoem of the age, and all anticipated the noise it would make in thegreat world. There was not a doubt but the London booksellers would bemad after it, and the only fear of my friends was, that I would make asacrifice by selling it too cheap. 

Every time they talked the matter over they increased the price. Theyreckoned up the great sums given for the poems of certain popularwriters, and determined that mine was worth more than all put together, and ought to be paid for accordingly. For my part, I was modest in myexpectations, and determined that I would be satisfied with a thousandguineas. So I put my poem in my pocket and set off for London. 

My journey was joyous. My heart was light as my purse, and my head fullof anticipations of fame and fortune. With what swelling pride did Icast my eyes upon old London from the heights of Highgate. I was like ageneral looking down upon a place he expects to conquer. The greatmetropolis lay stretched before me, buried under a home-made cloud ofmurky smoke, that wrapped it from the brightness of a sunny day, andformed for it a kind of artificial bad weather. At the outskirts of thecity, away to the west, the smoke gradually decreased until all wasclear and sunny, and the view stretched uninterrupted to the blue lineof the Kentish Hills. 

My eye turned fondly to where the mighty cupola of St. Paul's swelledDimly through this misty chaos, and I pictured to myself the solemnrealm of learning that lies about its base. How soon should thePleasures of Melancholy throw this world of booksellers and printersinto a bustle of business and delight! How soon should I hear my namerepeated by printers' devils throughout Pater Noster Row, and AngelCourt, and Ave Maria Lane, until Amen corner should echo back thesound!

Arrived in town, I repaired at once to the most fashionable publisher. Every new author patronizes him of course. In fact, it had beendetermined in the village circle that he should be the fortunate man. Icannot tell you how vaingloriously I walked the streets; my head was inthe clouds. I felt the airs of heaven playing about it, and fancied italready encircled by a halo of literary glory. 

As I passed by the windows of bookshops, I anticipated the time when mywork would be shining among the hotpressed wonders of the day; and myface, scratched on copper, or cut in wood, figuring in fellowship withthose of Scott and Byron and Moore. 

When I applied at the publisher's house there was something in theloftiness of my air, and the dinginess of my dress, that struck theclerks with reverence. They doubtless took me for some person ofconsequence, probably a digger of Greek roots, or a penetrator ofpyramids. A proud man in a dirty shirt is always an imposing characterin the world of letters; one must feel intellectually secure before hecan venture to dress shabbily; none but a great scholar or a greatgenius dares to be dirty; so I was ushered at once to the sanctumsanctorum of this high priest of Minerva. 

The publishing of books is a very different affair now-a-days from whatit was in the time of Bernard Lintot. I found the publisher afashionably-dressed man, in an elegant drawing-room, furnished withsofas and portraits of celebrated authors, and cases of splendidlybound books. He was writing letters at an elegant table. This wastransacting business in style. The place seemed suited to themagnificent publications that issued from it. I rejoiced at the choiceI had made of a publisher, for I always liked to encourage men of tasteand spirit. 

I stepped up to the table with the lofty poetical port that I had Beenaccustomed to maintain in our village circle; though I threw in itsomething of a patronizing air, such as one feels when about to make aman's fortune. The publisher paused with his pen in his hand, andseemed waiting in mute suspense to know what was to be announced by sosingular an apparition. 

I put him at his ease in a moment, for I felt that I had but to come, see, and conquer. I made known my name, and the name of my poem;produced my precious roll of blotted manuscript, laid it on the tablewith an emphasis, and told him at once, to save time and come directlyto the point, the price was one thousand guineas. 

I had given him no time to speak, nor did he seem so inclined. HeContinued looking at me for a moment with an air of whimsicalperplexity; scanned me from head to foot; looked down at themanuscript, then up again at me, then pointed to a chair; and whistlingsoftly to himself, went on writing his letter. 

I sat for some time waiting his reply, supposing he was making up hismind; but he only paused occasionally to take a fresh dip of ink; tostroke his chin or the tip of his nose, and then resumed his writing. It was evident his mind was intently occupied upon some other subject;but I had no idea that any other subject should be attended to and mypoem lie unnoticed on the table. I had supposed that every thing wouldmake way for the Pleasures of Melancholy. 

My gorge at length rose within me. I took up my manuscript; thrust itinto my pocket, and walked out of the room: making some noise as Iwent, to let my departure be heard. The publisher, however, was toomuch busied in minor concerns to notice it. I was suffered to walkdown-stairs without being called back. I sallied forth into the street, but no clerk was sent after me, nor did the publisher call after mefrom the drawing-room window. I have been told since, that heconsidered me either a madman or a fool. I leave you to judge how muchhe was in the wrong in his opinion. 

When I turned the corner my crest fell. I cooled down in my pride andmy expectations, and reduced my terms with the next bookseller to whomI applied. I had no better success: nor with a third: nor with afourth. I then desired the booksellers to make an offer themselves; butthe deuce an offer would they make. They told me poetry was a meredrug; everybody wrote poetry; the market was overstocked with it. Andthen, they said, the title of my poem was not taking: that pleasures ofall kinds were worn threadbare; nothing but horrors did now-a-days, andeven these were almost worn out. Tales of pirates, robbers, and bloodyTurks might answer tolerably well; but then they must come from someestablished well-known name, or the public would not look at them. 

At last I offered to leave my poem with a bookseller to read it andjudge for himself. "Why, really, my dear Mr. --a--a--I forget yourname, " said he, cutting an eye at my rusty coat and shabby gaiters, "really, sir, we are so pressed with business just now, and have somany manuscripts on hand to read, that we have not time to look at anynew production, but if you can call again in a week or two, or say themiddle of next month, we may be able to look over your writings andgive you an answer. Don't forget, the month after next--good morning, sir--happy to see you any time you are passing this way"--so saying hebowed me out in the civilest way imaginable. In short, sir, instead ofan eager competition to secure my poem I could not even get it read! Inthe mean time I was harassed by letters from my friends, wanting toknow when the work was to appear; who was to be my publisher; but aboveall things warning me not to let it go too cheap. 

There was but one alternative left. I determined to publish the poemmyself; and to have my triumph over the booksellers, when it shouldbecome the fashion of the day. I accordingly published the Pleasures ofMelancholy and ruined myself. Excepting the copies sent to the reviews, and to my friends in the country, not one, I believe, ever left thebookseller's warehouse. The printer's bill drained my purse, and theonly notice that was taken of my work was contained in theadvertisements paid for by myself. 

I could have borne all this, and have attributed it as usual to themismanagement of the publisher, or the want of taste in the public: andcould have made the usual appeal to posterity, but my village friendswould not let me rest in quiet. They were picturing me to themselvesfeasting with the great, communing with the literary, and in the highcourse of fortune and renown. Every little while, some one came to mewith a letter of introduction from the village circle, recommending himto my attentions, and requesting that I would make him known insociety; with a hint that an introduction to the house of a celebratedliterary nobleman would be extremely agreeable. 

I determined, therefore, to change my lodgings, drop my correspondence, and disappear altogether from the view of my village admirers. Besides, I was anxious to make one more poetic attempt. I was by no meansdisheartened by the failure of my first. My poem was evidently toodidactic. The public was wise enough. It no longer read forinstruction. "They want horrors, do they?" said I, "I'faith, then theyshall have enough of them. " So I looked out for some quiet retiredplace, where I might be out of reach of my friends, and have leisure tocook up some delectable dish of poetical "hell-broth. "

I had some difficulty in finding a place to my mind, when chance threwme in the way Of Canonbury Castle. It is an ancient brick tower, hardby "merry Islington;" the remains of a hunting-seat of Queen Elizabeth, where she took the pleasures of the country, when the neighborhood wasall woodland. What gave it particular interest in my eyes, was thecircumstance that it had been the residence of a poet. It was hereGoldsmith resided when he wrote his Deserted Village. I was shown thevery apartment. It was a relique of the original style of the castle, with pannelled wainscots and gothic windows. I was pleased with its airof antiquity, and with its having been the residence of poor Goldy. 

"Goldsmith was a pretty poet, " said I to myself, "a very pretty poet;though rather of the old school. He did not think and feel so stronglyas is the fashion now-a-days; but had he lived in these times of hothearts and hot heads, he would have written quite differently. "

In a few days I was quietly established in my new quarters; my booksall arranged, my writing desk placed by a window looking out into thefield; and I felt as snug as Robinson Crusoe, when he had finished hisbower. For several days I enjoyed all the novelty of change and thecharms which grace a new lodgings before one has found out theirdefects. I rambled about the fields where I fancied Goldsmith hadrambled. I explored merry Islington; ate my solitary dinner at theBlack Bull, which according to tradition was a country seat of SirWalter Raleigh, and would sit and sip my wine and muse on old times ina quaint old room, where many a council had been held. 

All this did very well for a few days: I was stimulated by novelty;inspired by the associations awakened in my mind by these curioushaunts, and began to think I felt the spirit of composition stirringwithin me; but Sunday came, and with it the whole city world, swarmingabout Canonbury Castle. I could not open my window but I was stunnedwith shouts and noises from the cricket ground. The late quiet roadbeneath my window was alive with the tread of feet and clack oftongues; and to complete my misery, I found that my quiet retreat wasabsolutely a "show house!" the tower and its contents being shown tostrangers at sixpence a head. 

There was a perpetual tramping up-stairs of citizens and theirfamilies, to look about the country from the top of the tower, and totake a peep at the city through the telescope, to try if they coulddiscern their own chimneys. And then, in the midst of a vein ofthought, or a moment of inspiration, I was interrupted, and all myideas put to flight, by my intolerable landlady's tapping at the door, and asking me, if I would "jist please to let a lady and gentleman comein to take a look at Mr. Goldsmith's room. "

If you know anything what an author's study is, and what an author ishimself, you must know that there was no standing this. I put apositive interdict on my room's being exhibited; but then it was shownwhen I was absent, and my papers put in confusion; and on returninghome one day, I absolutely found a cursed tradesman and his daughtersgaping over my manuscripts; and my landlady in a panic at myappearance. I tried to make out a little longer by taking the key in mypocket, but it would not do. I overheard mine hostess one day tellingsome of her customers on the stairs that the room was occupied by anauthor, who was always in a tantrum if interrupted; and I immediatelyperceived, by a slight noise at the door, that they were peeping at methrough the key-hole. By the head of Apollo, but this was quite toomuch! with all my eagerness for fame, and my ambition of the stare ofthe million, I had no idea of being exhibited by retail, at sixpence ahead, and that through a key-hole. So I bade adieu to Canonbury Castle, merry Islington, and the haunts of poor Goldsmith, without havingadvanced a single line in my labors. 

My next quarters were at a small white-washed cottage, which stands notfar from Hempstead, just on the brow of a hill, looking over Chalkfarm, and Camden town, remarkable for the rival houses of Mother RedCap and Mother Black Cap; and so across Cruckskull common to thedistant city. 

The cottage is in no wise remarkable in itself; but I regarded it withreverence, for it had been the asylum of a persecuted author. Hitherpoor Steele had retreated and lain perdue when persecuted by creditorsand bailiffs; those immemorial plagues of authors and free-spiritedgentlemen; and here he had written many numbers of the Spectator. Itwas from hence, too, that he had despatched those little notes to hislady, so full of affection and whimsicality; in which the fond husband, the careless gentleman, and the shifting spendthrift, were so oddlyblended. I thought, as I first eyed the window, of his apartment, thatI could sit within it and write volumes. 

No such thing! It was haymaking season, and, as ill luck would have it, immediately opposite the cottage was a little alehouse with the sign ofthe load of hay. Whether it was there in Steele's time or not I cannotsay; but it set all attempt at conception or inspiration at defiance. It was the resort of all the Irish haymakers who mow the broad fieldsin the neighborhood; and of drovers and teamsters who travel that road. Here would they gather in the endless summer twilight, or by the lightof the harvest moon, and sit round a table at the door; and tipple, andlaugh, and quarrel, and fight, and sing drowsy songs, and dawdle awaythe hours until the deep solemn notes of St. Paul's clock would warnthe varlets home. 

In the day-time I was still less able to write. It was broad summer. Thehaymakers were at work in the fields, and the perfume of the new-mownhay brought with it the recollection of my native fields. So instead ofremaining in my room to write, I went wandering about Primrose Hill andHempstead Heights and Shepherd's Field, and all those Arcadian scenesso celebrated by London bards. I cannot tell you how many delicioushours I have passed lying on the cocks of new-mown hay, on the pleasantslopes of some of those hills, inhaling the fragrance of the fields, while the summer fly buzzed above me, or the grasshopper leaped into mybosom, and how I have gazed with half-shut eye upon the smoky mass ofLondon, and listened to the distant sound of its population, and pitiedthe poor sons of earth toiling in its bowels, like Gnomes in "the darkgold mine. "

People may say what they please about Cockney pastorals; but after all, there is a vast deal of rural beauty about the western vicinity ofLondon; and any one that has looked down upon the valley of Westend, with its soft bosom of green pasturage, lying open to the south, anddotted with cattle; the steeple of Hempstead rising among rich groveson the brow of the hill, and the learned height of Harrow in thedistance; will confess that never has he seen a more absolutely rurallandscape in the vicinity of a great metropolis. 

Still, however, I found myself not a whit the better off for myfrequent change of lodgings; and I began to discover that inliterature, as in trade, the old proverb holds good, "a rolling stonegathers no moss. "

The tranquil beauty of the country played the very vengeance with me. Icould not mount my fancy into the termagant vein. I could not conceive, amidst the smiling landscape, a scene of blood and murder; and the smugcitizens in breeches and gaiters, put all ideas of heroes and banditsout of my brain. I could think of nothing but dulcet subjects. "Thepleasures of spring"--"the pleasures of solitude"--"the pleasures oftranquillity"--"the pleasures of sentiment"--nothing but pleasures; andI had the painful experience of "the pleasures of melancholy" toostrongly in my recollection to be beguiled by them. 

Chance at length befriended me. I had frequently in my ramblingsloitered about Hempstead Hill; which is a kind of Parnassus of themetropolis. At such times I occasionally took my dinner at Jack Straw'sCastle. It is a country inn so named. The very spot where thatnotorious rebel and his followers held their council of war. It is afavorite resort of citizens when rurally inclined, as it commands finefresh air and a good view of the city. 

I sat one day in the public room of this inn, ruminating over abeefsteak and a pint of port, when my imagination kindled up withancient and heroic images. I had long wanted a theme and a hero; bothsuddenly broke upon my mind; I determined to write a poem on thehistory of Jack Straw. I was so full of my subject that I was fearfulof being anticipated. I wondered that none of the poets of the day, intheir researches after ruffian heroes, had ever thought of Jack Straw. I went to work pell-mell, blotted several sheets of paper with choicefloating thoughts, and battles, and descriptions, to be ready at amoment's warning. In a few days' time I sketched out the skeleton of mypoem, and nothing was wanting but to give it flesh and blood. I used totake my manuscript and stroll about Caen Wood, and read aloud; andwould dine at the castle, by way of keeping up the vein of thought. 

I was taking a meal there, one day, at a rather late hour, in thepublic room. There was no other company but one man, who sat enjoyinghis pint of port at a window, and noticing the passers-by. He wasdressed in a green shooting coat. His countenance was strongly marked. He had a hooked nose, a romantic eye, excepting that it had somethingof a squint; and altogether, as I thought, a poetical style of head. Iwas quite taken with the man, for you must know I am a little of aphysiognomist: I set him down at once for either a poet or aphilosopher. 

As I like to make new acquaintances, considering every man a volume ofhuman nature, I soon fell into conversation with the stranger, who, Iwas pleased to find, was by no means difficult of access. After I haddined, I joined him at the window, and we became so sociable that Iproposed a bottle of wine together; to which he most cheerfullyassented. 

I was too full of my poem to keep long quiet on the subject, and beganto talk about the origin of the tavern, and the history of Jack Straw. I found my new acquaintance to be perfectly at home on the topic, andto jump exactly with my humor in every respect. I became elevated bythe wine and the conversation. In the fullness of an author's feelings, I told him of my projected poem, and repeated some passages; and he wasin raptures. He was evidently of a strong poetical turn. 

"Sir, " said he, filling my glass at the same time, "our poets don'tlook at home. I don't see why we need go out of old England for robbersand rebels to write about. I like your Jack Straw, sir. He's ahome-made hero. I like him, sir. I like him exceedingly. He's Englishto the back bone, damme. Give me honest old England, after all; them'smy sentiments, sir!"

"I honor your sentiments, " cried I zealously. "They are exactly my own. An English ruffian for poetry is as good a ruffian for poetry as any inItaly or Germany, or the Archipelago; but it is hard to make our poetsthink so. "

"More shame for them!" replied the man in green. "What a plague wouldthey have?" What have we to do with their Archipelagos of Italy andGermany? Haven't we heaths and commons and high-ways on our own littleisland? Aye, and stout fellows to pad the hoof over them too? Come, sir, my service to you--I agree with you perfectly. "

"Poets in old times had right notions on this subject, " continued I;"witness the fine old ballads about Robin Hood, Allen A'Dale, and otherstaunch blades of yore. "

"Right, sir, right, " interrupted he. "Robin Hood! He was the lad to crystand! to a man, and never flinch. "

"Ah, sir, " said I, "they had famous bands of robbers in the good oldtimes. Those were glorious poetical days. The merry crew of SherwoodForest, who led such a roving picturesque life, 'under the greenwoodtree. ' I have often wished to visit their haunts, and tread the scenesof the exploits of Friar Tuck, and Clym of the Clough, and Sir Williamof Coudeslie. "

"Nay, sir, " said the gentleman in green, "we have had several verypretty gangs since their day. Those gallant dogs that kept about thegreat heaths in the neighborhood of London; about Bagshot, andHounslow, and Black Heath, for instance--come, sir, my service to you. You don't drink. "

"I suppose, " said I, emptying my glass--"I suppose you have heard ofthe famous Turpin, who was born in this very village of Hempstead, andwho used to lurk with his gang in Epping Forest, about a hundred yearssince. "

"Have I?" cried he--"to be sure I have! A hearty old blade that; soundas pitch. Old Turpentine!--as we used to call him. A famous finefellow, sir. "

"Well, sir, " continued I, "I have visited Waltham Abbey, and ChinkfordChurch, merely from the stories I heard, when a boy, of his exploitsthere, and I have searched Epping Forest for the cavern where he usedto conceal himself. You must know, " added I, "that I am a sort ofamateur of highwaymen. They were dashing, daring fellows; the lastapologies that we had for the knight errants of yore. Ah, sir! thecountry has been sinking gradually into tameness and commonplace. Weare losing the old English spirit. The bold knights of the post haveall dwindled down into lurking footpads and sneaking pick-pockets. There's no such thing as a dashing gentlemanlike robbery committednow-a-days on the king's highway. A man may roll from one end ofEngland to the other in a drowsy coach or jingling post-chaise withoutany other adventure than that of being occasionally overturned, sleeping in damp sheets, or having an ill-cooked dinner. 

"We hear no more of public coaches being stopped and robbed by awell-mounted gang of resolute fellows with pistols in their hands andcrapes over their faces. What a pretty poetical incident was it forexample in domestic life, for a family carriage, on its way to acountry seat, to be attacked about dusk; the old gentleman eased of hispurse and watch, the ladies of their necklaces and ear-rings, by apolitely-spoken highwayman on a blood mare, who afterwards leaped thehedge and galloped across the country, to the admiration of MissCarolina the daughter, who would write a long and romantic account ofThe adventure to her friend Miss Juliana in town. Ah, sir! we meet withnothing of such incidents now-a-days. "

"That, sir, "--said my companion, taking advantage of a pause, when Istopped to recover breath and to take a glass of wine, which he hadjust poured out--"that, sir, craving your pardon, is not owing to anywant of old English pluck. It is the effect of this cursed system ofbanking. People do not travel with bags of gold as they did formerly. They have post notes and drafts on bankers. To rob a coach is likecatching a crow; where you have nothing but carrion flesh and feathersfor your pains. But a coach in old times, sir, was as rich as a Spanishgalleon. It turned out the yellow boys bravely; and a private carriagewas a cool hundred or two at least. "

I cannot express how much I was delighted with the sallies of my newacquaintance. He told me that he often frequented the castle, and wouldbe glad to know more of me; and I promised myself many a pleasantafternoon with him, when I should read him my poem, as it proceeded, and benefit by his remarks; for it was evident he had the true poeticalfeeling. 

"Come, sir!" said he, pushing the bottle, "Damme, I like you!--You're aman after my own heart; I'm cursed slow in making new acquaintances ingeneral. One must stand on the reserve, you know. But when I meet witha man of your kidney, damme my heart jumps at once to him. Them's mysentiments, sir. Come, sir, here's Jack Straw's health! I presume onecan drink it now-a-days without treason!"

"With all my heart, " said I gayly, "and Dick Turpin's into thebargain!"

"Ah, sir, " said the man in green, "those are the kind of men forpoetry. The Newgate kalendar, sir! the Newgate kalendar is your onlyreading! There's the place to look for bold deeds and dashing fellows. "

We were so much pleased with each other that we sat until a late hour. I insisted on paying the bill, for both my purse and my heart werefull; and I agreed that he should pay the score at our next meeting. Asthe coaches had all gone that run between Hempstead and London he hadto return on foot, He was so delighted with the idea of my poem that hecould talk of nothing else. He made me repeat such passages as I couldremember, and though I did it in a very mangled manner, having awretched memory, yet he was in raptures. 

Every now and then he would break out with some scrap which he wouldMisquote most terribly, but would rub his hands and exclaim, "ByJupiter, that's fine! that's noble! Damme, sir, if I can conceive howyou hit upon such ideas!"

I must confess I did not always relish his misquotations, whichsometimes made absolute nonsense of the passages; but what authorstands upon trifles when he is praised? Never had I spent a moredelightful evening. I did not perceive how the time flew. I could notbear to separate, but continued walking on, arm in arm with him past mylodgings, through Camden town, and across Crackscull Common, talkingthe whole way about my poem. 

When we were half-way across the common he interrupted me in the midstof a quotation by telling me that this had been a famous place forfootpads, and was still occasionally infested by them; and that a manhad recently been shot there in attempting to defend himself. 

"The more fool he!" cried I. "A man is an idiot to risk life, or evenlimb, to save a paltry purse of money. It's quite a different case fromthat of a duel, where one's honor is concerned. For my part, " added I, "I should never think of making resistance against one of thosedesperadoes. "

"Say you so?" cried my friend in green, turning suddenly upon me, andputting a pistol to my breast, "Why, then have at you, my lad!--come, disburse! empty! unsack!"

In a word, I found that the muse had played me another of her tricks, and had betrayed me into the hands of a footpad. There was no time toparley; he made me turn my pockets inside out; and hearing the sound ofdistant footsteps, he made one fell swoop upon purse, watch, and all, gave me a thwack over my unlucky pate that laid me sprawling on theground; and scampered away with his booty. 

I saw no more of my friend in green until a year or two afterwards;when I caught a sight of his poetical countenance among a crew ofscapegraces, heavily ironed, who were on the way for transportation. Herecognized me at once, tipped me an impudent wink, and asked me how Icame on with the history of Jack Straw's castle. 

The catastrophe at Crackscull Common put an end to my summer'scampaign. I was cured of my poetical enthusiasm for rebels, robbers, and highwaymen. I was put out of conceit of my subject, and what wasworse, I was lightened of my purse, in which was almost every farthingI had in the world. So I abandoned Sir Richard Steele's cottage indespair, and crept into less celebrated, though no less poetical andairy lodgings in a garret in town. 

I see you are growing weary, so I will not detain you with any more ofmy luckless attempts to get astride of Pegasus. Still I could notconsent to give up the trial and abandon those dreams of renown inwhich I had indulged. How should I ever be able to look the literarycircle of my native village in the face, if I were so completely tofalsify their predictions. For some time longer, therefore, I continuedto write for fame, and of course was the most miserable dog inexistence, besides being in continual risk of starvation. 

I have many a time strolled sorrowfully along, with a sad heart and anempty stomach, about five o'clock, and looked wistfully down the areasin the west end of the town; and seen through the kitchen windows thefires gleaming, and the joints of meat turning on the spits anddripping with gravy; and the cook maids beating up puddings, ortrussing turkeys, and have felt for the moment that if I could but havethe run of one of those kitchens, Apollo and the muses might have thehungry heights of Parnassus for me. Oh, sir! talk of meditations amongthe tombs--they are nothing so melancholy as the meditations of a poordevil without penny in pouch, along a line of kitchen windows towardsdinner-time. 

At length, when almost reduced to famine and despair, the idea all atonce entered my head, that perhaps I was not so clever a fellow as thevillage and myself had supposed. It was the salvation of me. The momentthe idea popped into my brain, it brought conviction and comfort withit. I awoke as from a dream. I gave up immortal fame to those who couldlive on air; took to writing for mere bread, and have ever since led avery tolerable life of it. There is no man of letters so much at hisease, sir, as he that has no character to gain or lose. I had to trainmyself to it a little, however, and to clip my wings short at first, orthey would have carried me up into poetry in spite of myself. So Idetermined to begin by the opposite extreme, and abandoning the higherregions of the craft, I came plump down to the lowest, and turnedcreeper. 

"Creeper, " interrupted I, "and pray what is that?" Oh, sir! I see youare ignorant of the language of the craft; a creeper is one whofurnishes the newspapers with paragraphs at so much a line, one thatgoes about in quest of misfortunes; attends the Bow-street office; thecourts of justice and every other den of mischief and iniquity. We arepaid at the rate of a penny a line, and as we can sell the sameparagraph to almost every paper, we sometimes pick up a very decentday's work. Now and then the muse is unkind, or the day uncommonlyquiet, and then we rather starve; and sometimes the unconscionableeditors will clip our paragraphs when they are a little too rhetorical, and snip off twopence or threepence at a go. I have many a time had mypot of porter snipped off of my dinner in this way; and have had todine with dry lips. However, I cannot complain. I rose gradually in thelower ranks of the craft, and am now, I think, in the most comfortableregion of literature. 

"And pray, " said I, "what may you be at present!" "At present, " saidhe, "I am a regular job writer, and turn my hand to anything. I work upthe writings of others at so much a sheet; turn off translations; writesecond-rate articles to fill up reviews and magazines; compile travelsand voyages, and furnish theatrical criticisms for the newspapers. Allthis authorship, you perceive, is anonymous; it gives no reputation, except among the trade, where I am considered an author of all work, and am always sure of employ. That's the only reputation I want. Isleep soundly, without dread of duns or critics, and leave immortalfame to those that choose to fret and fight about it. Take my word forit, the only happy author in this world is he who is below the care ofreputation. "

The preceding anecdotes of Buckthorne's early schoolmate, and a varietyof peculiarities which I had remarked in himself, gave me a strongcuriosity to know something of his own history. There was a dash ofcareless good humor about him that pleased me exceedingly, and at timesa whimsical tinge of melancholy ran through his humor that gave it anadditional relish. He had evidently been a little chilled and buffetedby fortune, without being soured thereby, as some fruits becomemellower and sweeter, from having been bruised or frost-bitten. Hesmiled when I expressed my desire. "I have no great story, " said he, "to relate. A mere tissue of errors and follies. But, such as it is, you shall have one epoch of it, by which you may judge of the rest. "And so, without any farther prelude, he gave me the following anecdotesof his early adventures. 

BUCKTHORNE, OR THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS. 

I was born to very little property, but to great expectations; which isperhaps one of the most unlucky fortunes that a man can be born to. Myfather was a country gentleman, the last of a very ancient andhonorable, but decayed family, and resided in an old hunting lodge inWarwickshire. He was a keen sportsman and lived to the extent of hismoderate income, so that I had little to expect from that quarter; butthen I had a rich uncle by the mother's side, a penurious, accumulatingcurmudgeon, who it was confidently expected would make me his heir;because he was an old bachelor; because I was named after him, andbecause he hated all the world except myself. 

He was, in fact, an inveterate hater, a miser even in misanthropy, andhoarded up a grudge as he did a guinea. Thus, though my mother was anonly sister, he had never forgiven her marriage with my father, againstwhom he had a cold, still, immovable pique, which had lain at thebottom of his heart, like a stone in a well, ever since they had beenschool boys together. My mother, however, considered me as theintermediate being that was to bring every thing again into harmony, for she looked upon me as a prodigy--God bless her. My heart overflowswhenever I recall her tenderness: she was the most excellent, the mostindulgent of mothers. I was her only child; it was a pity she had nomore, for she had fondness of heart enough to have spoiled a dozen!

I was sent, at an early age, to a public school, sorely against mymother's wishes, but my father insisted that it was the only way tomake boys hardy. The school was kept by a conscientious prig of theancient system, who did his duty by the boys intrusted to his care;that is to say, we were flogged soundly when we did not get ourlessons. We were put into classes and thus flogged on in droves alongthe highways of knowledge, in the same manner as cattle are driven tomarket, where those that are heavy in gait or short in leg have tosuffer for the superior alertness or longer limbs of their companions. 

For my part, I confess it with shame, I was an incorrigible laggard. Ihave always had the poetical feeling, that is to say, I have alwaysbeen an idle fellow and prone to play the vagabond. I used to get awayfrom my books and school whenever I could, and ramble about the fields. I was surrounded by seductions for such a temperament. The school-housewas an old-fashioned, white-washed mansion of wood and plaister, standing on the skirts of a beautiful village. Close by it was thevenerable church with a tall Gothic spire. Before it spread a lovelygreen valley, with a little stream glistening along through willowgroves; while a line of blue hills that bounded the landscape gave riseto many a summer day dream as to the fairy land that lay beyond. 

In spite of all the scourgings I suffered at that school to make melove my book, I cannot but look back upon the place with fondness. Indeed, I considered this frequent flagellation as the common lot ofhumanity, and the regular mode in which scholars were made. My kindmother used to lament over my details of the sore trials I underwent inthe cause of learning; but my father turned a deaf ear to herexpostulations. He had been flogged through school himself, and sworethere was no other way of making a man of parts; though, let me speakit with all due reverence, my father was but an indifferentillustration of his own theory, for he was considered a grievousblockhead. 

My poetical temperament evinced itself at a very early period. TheVillage church was attended every Sunday by a neighboring squire--thelord of the manor, whose park stretched quite to the village, and whosespacious country seat seemed to take the church under its protection. Indeed, you would have thought the church had been consecrated to himinstead of to the Deity. The parish clerk bowed low before him, and thevergers humbled themselves into the dust in his presence. He alwaysentered a little late and with some stir, striking his caneemphatically on the ground; swaying his hat in his hand, and lookingloftily to the right and left, as he walked slowly up the aisle, andthe parson, who always ate his Sunday dinner with him, never commencedservice until he appeared. He sat with his family in a large pewgorgeously lined, humbling himself devoutly on velvet cushions, andreading lessons of meekness and lowliness of spirit out of splendidgold and morocco prayer-books. Whenever the parson spoke of thedifficulty of the rich man's entering the kingdom of heaven, the eyesof the congregation would turn towards the "grand pew, " and I thoughtthe squire seemed pleased with the application. 

The pomp of this pew and the aristocratical air of the family struck Myimagination wonderfully, and I fell desperately in love with a littledaughter of the squire's about twelve years of age. This freak of fancymade me more truant from my studies than ever. I used to stroll aboutthe squire's park, and would lurk near the house to catch glimpses ofthis little damsel at the windows, or playing about the lawns, orwalking out with her governess. 

I had not enterprise or impudence enough to venture from myconcealment; indeed, I felt like an arrant poacher, until I read one ortwo of Ovid's Metamorphoses, when I pictured myself as some sylvandeity, and she a coy wood nymph of whom I was in pursuit. There issomething extremely delicious in these early awakenings of the tenderpassion. I can feel, even at this moment, the thrilling of my boyishbosom, whenever by chance I caught a glimpse of her white frockfluttering among the shrubbery. I now began to read poetry. I carriedabout in my bosom a volume of Waller, which I had purloined from mymother's library; and I applied to my little fair one all thecompliments lavished upon Sacharissa. 

At length I danced with her at a school ball. I was so awkward a booby, that I dared scarcely speak to her; I was filled with awe andembarrassment in her presence; but I was so inspired that my poeticaltemperament for the first time broke out in verse; and I fabricatedsome glowing lines, in which I be-rhymed the little lady under thefavorite name of Sacharissa. I slipped the verses, trembling andblushing, into her hand the next Sunday as she came out of church. Thelittle prude handed them to her mamma; the mamma handed them to thesquire, the squire, who had no soul for poetry, sent them in dudgeon tothe school-master; and the school-master, with a barbarity worthy ofthe dark ages, gave me a sound and peculiarly humiliating flogging forthus trespassing upon Parnassus. 

This was a sad outset for a votary of the muse. It ought to have curedme of my passion for poetry; but it only confirmed it, for I felt thespirit of a martyr rising within me. What was as well, perhaps, itcured me of my passion for the young lady; for I felt so indignant atthe ignominious horsing I had incurred in celebrating her charms, thatI could not hold up my head in church. 

Fortunately for my wounded sensibility, the midsummer holydays came on, and I returned home. My mother, as usual, inquired into all my schoolconcerns, my little pleasures, and cares, and sorrows; for boyhood hasits share of the one as well as of the others. I told her all, and shewas indignant at the treatment I had experienced. She fired up at thearrogance of the squire, and the prudery of the daughter; and as to theschool-master, she wondered where was the use of having school-masters, and why boys could not remain at home and be educated by tutors, underthe eye of their mothers. She asked to see the verses I had written, and she was delighted with them; for to confess the truth, she had apretty taste in poetry. She even showed to them to the parson's wife, who protested they were charming, and the parson's three daughtersinsisted on each having a copy of them. 

All this was exceedingly balsamic, and I was still more consoled andencouraged, when the young ladies, who were the blue-stockings of theneighborhood, and had read Dr. Johnson's lives quite through, assuredmy mother that great geniuses never studied, but were always idle; uponwhich I began to surmise that I was myself something out of the commonrun. My father, however, was of a very different opinion, for when mymother, in the pride of her heart, showed him my copy of verses, hethrew them out of the window, asking her "if she meant to make a balladmonger of the boy. " But he was a careless, common-thinking man, and Icannot say that I ever loved him much; my mother absorbed all my filialaffection. 

I used occasionally, during holydays, to be sent on short visits to theuncle, who was to make me his heir; they thought it would keep me inhis mind, and render him fond of me. He was a withered, anxious-lookingold fellow, and lived in a desolate old country seat, which he sufferedto go to ruin from absolute niggardliness. He kept but one man-servant, who had lived, or rather starved, with him for years. No woman wasallowed to sleep in the house. A daughter of the old servant lived bythe gate, in what had been a porter's lodge, and was permitted to comeinto the house about an hour each day, to make the beds, and cook amorsel of provisions. 

The park that surrounded the house was all run wild; the trees grownout of shape; the fish-ponds stagnant; the urns and statues fallen fromtheir pedestals and buried among the rank grass. The hares andpheasants were so little molested, except by poachers, that they bredin great abundance, and sported about the rough lawns and weedyavenues. To guard the premises and frighten off robbers, of whom he wassomewhat apprehensive, and visitors, whom he held in almost equal awe, my uncle kept two or three blood-hounds, who were always prowling roundthe house, and were the dread of the neighboring peasantry. They weregaunt and half-starved, seemed ready to devour one from mere hunger, and were an effectual check on any stranger's approach to this wizardcastle. 

Such was my uncle's house, which I used to visit now and then duringThe holydays. I was, as I have before said, the old man's favorite;that is to say, he did not hate me so much as he did the rest of theworld. I had been apprised of his character, and cautioned to cultivatehis good-will; but I was too young and careless to be a courtier; andindeed have never been sufficiently studious of my interests to letthem govern my feelings. However, we seemed to jog on very welltogether; and as my visits cost him almost nothing, they did not seemto be very unwelcome. I brought with me my gun and fishing-rod, andhalf supplied the table from the park and the fishponds. 

Our meals were solitary and unsocial. My uncle rarely spoke; he pointedfor whatever he wanted, and the servant perfectly understood him. Indeed, his man John, or Iron John, as he was called in theneighborhood, was a counterpart of his master. He was a tall, bony oldfellow, with a dry wig that seemed made of cow's tail, and a face astough as though it had been made of bull's hide. He was generally cladin a long, patched livery coat, taken out of the wardrobe of the house;and which bagged loosely about him, having evidently belonged to somecorpulent predecessor, in the more plenteous days of the mansion. Fromlong habits of taciturnity, the hinges of his jaws seemed to have grownabsolutely rusty, and it cost him as much effort to set them ajar, andto let out a tolerable sentence, as it would have done to set open theiron gates of a park, and let out the family carriage that was droppingto pieces in the coach-house. 

I cannot say, however, but that I was for some time amused with myuncle's peculiarities. Even the very desolateness of the establishmenthad something in it that hit my fancy. When the weather was fine I usedto amuse myself, in a solitary way, by rambling about the park, andcoursing like a colt across its lawns. The hares and pheasants seemedto stare with surprise, to see a human being walking these forbiddengrounds by day-light. Sometimes I amused myself by jerking stones, orshooting at birds with a bow and arrows; for to have used a gun wouldhave been treason. Now and then my path was crossed by a littlered-headed, ragged-tailed urchin, the son of the woman at the lodge, who ran wild about the premises. I tried to draw him into familiarity, and to make a companion of him; but he seemed to have imbibed thestrange, unsocial character of every thing around him; and always keptaloof; so I considered him as another Orson, and amused myself withshooting at him with my bow and arrows, and he would hold up hisbreeches with one hand, and scamper away like a deer. 

There was something in all this loneliness and wildness strangelypleasing to me. The great stables, empty and weather-broken, with thenames of favorite horses over the vacant stalls; the windows brickedand boarded up; the broken roofs, garrisoned by rooks and jackdaws; allhad a singularly forlorn appearance: one would have concluded the houseto be totally uninhabited, were it not for a little thread of bluesmoke, which now and then curled up like a corkscrew, from the centreof one of the wide chimneys, when my uncle's starveling meal wascooking. 

My uncle's room was in a remote corner of the building, stronglysecured and generally locked. I was never admitted into thisstrong-hold, where the old man would remain for the greater part of thetime, drawn up like a veteran spider in the citadel of his web. Therest of the mansion, however, was open to me, and I sauntered about itunconstrained. The damp and rain which beat in through the brokenwindows, crumbled the paper from the walls; mouldered the pictures, andgradually destroyed the furniture. I loved to rove about the wide, waste chambers in bad weather, and listen to the howling of the wind, and the banging about of the doors and window-shutters. I pleasedmyself with the idea how completely, when I came to the estate, I wouldrenovate all things, and make the old building ring with merriment, till it was astonished at its own jocundity. 

The chamber which I occupied on these visits was the same that had beenmy mother's, when a girl. There was still the toilet-table of her ownadorning; the landscapes of her own drawing. She had never seen itsince her marriage, but would often ask me if every thing was still thesame. All was just the same; for I loved that chamber on her account, and had taken pains to put every thing in order, and to mend all theflaws in the windows with my own hands. I anticipated the time when Ishould once more welcome her to the house of her fathers, and restoreher to this little nestling-place of her childhood. 

At length my evil genius, or, what perhaps is the same thing, the muse, inspired me with the notion of rhyming again. My uncle, who never wentto church, used on Sundays to read chapters out of the Bible; and IronJohn, the woman from the lodge, and myself, were his congregation. Itseemed to be all one to him what he read, so long as it was somethingfrom the Bible: sometimes, therefore, it would be the Song of Solomon;and this withered anatomy would read about being "stayed with flagonsand comforted with apples, for he was sick of love. " Sometimes he wouldhobble, with spectacle on nose, through whole chapters of hard Hebrewnames in Deuteronomy; at which the poor woman would sigh and groan asif wonderfully moved. His favorite book, however, was "The Pilgrim'sProgress;" and when he came to that part which treats of DoubtingCastle and Giant Despair, I thought invariably of him and his desolateold country seat. So much did the idea amuse me, that I took toscribbling about it under the trees in the park; and in a few days hadmade some progress in a poem, in which I had given a description of theplace, under the name of Doubting Castle, and personified my uncle asGiant Despair. 

I lost my poem somewhere about the house, and I soon suspected that myuncle had found it; as he harshly intimated to me that I could returnhome, and that I need not come and see him again until he should sendfor me. 

Just about this time my mother died. --I cannot dwell upon thiscircumstance; my heart, careless and wayworn as it is, gushes with therecollection. Her death was an event that perhaps gave a turn to all myafter fortunes. With her died all that made home attractive, for myfather was harsh, as I have before said, and had never treated me withkindness. Not that he exerted any unusual severity towards me, but itwas his way. I do not complain of him. In fact, I have never been of acomplaining disposition. I seem born to be buffeted by friends andfortune, and nature has made me a careless endurer of buffetings. 

I now, however, began to grow very impatient of remaining at school, tobe flogged for things that I did not like. I longed for variety, especially now that I had not my uncle's to resort to, by way ofdiversifying the dullness of school with the dreariness of his countryseat. I was now turned of sixteen; tall for my age, and full of idlefancies. I had a roving, inextinguishable desire to see different kindsof life, and different orders of society; and this vagrant humor hadbeen fostered in me by Tom Dribble, the prime wag and great genius ofthe school, who had all the rambling propensities of a poet. 

I used to set at my desk in the school, on a fine summer's day, andinstead of studying the book which lay open before me, my eye wasgazing through the window on the green fields and blue hills. How Ienvied the happy groups seated on the tops of stage-coaches, chatting, and joking, and laughing, as they were whirled by the school-house, ontheir way to the metropolis. Even the wagoners trudging along besidetheir ponderous teams, and traversing the kingdom, from one end to theother, were objects of envy to me. I fancied to myself what adventuresthey must experience, and what odd scenes of life they must witness. All this was doubtless the poetical temperament working within me, andtempting me forth into a world of its own creation, which I mistook forthe world of real life. 

While my mother lived, this strange propensity to roam was counteractedby the stronger attractions of home, and by the powerful ties ofaffection, which drew me to her side; but now that she was gone, theattractions had ceased; the ties were severed. I had no longer ananchorage ground for my heart; but was at the mercy of every vagrantimpulse. Nothing but the narrow allowance on which my father kept me, and the consequent penury of my purse, prevented me from mounting thetop of a stage-coach and launching myself adrift on the great ocean oflife. 

Just about this time the village was agitated for a day or two, by thepassing through of several caravans, containing wild beasts, and otherspectacles for a great fair annually held at a neighboring town. 

I had never seen a fair of any consequence, and my curiosity wasPowerfully awakened by this bustle of preparation. I gazed with respectand wonder at the vagrant personages who accompanied these caravans. Iloitered about the village inn, listening with curiosity and delight tothe slang talk and cant jokes of the showmen and their followers; and Ifelt an eager desire to witness this fair, which my fancy decked out assomething wonderfully fine. 

A holyday afternoon presented, when I could be absent from the schoolfrom noon until evening. A wagon was going from the village to thefair. I could not resist the temptation, nor the eloquence of TomDribble, who was a truant to the very heart's core. We hired seats, andset off full of boyish expectation. I promised myself that I would buttake a peep at the land of promise, and hasten back again before myabsence should be noticed. 

Heavens! how happy I was on arriving at the fair! How I was enchantedwith the world of fun and pageantry around me! The humors of Punch; thefeats of the equestrians; the magical tricks of the conjurors! But whatprincipally caught my attention was--an itinerant theatre; where atragedy, pantomime, and farce were all acted in the course of half anhour, and more of the dramatis personae murdered, than at either DruryLane or Covent Garden in a whole evening. I have since seen many a playperformed by the best actors in the world, but never have I derivedhalf the delight from any that I did from this first representation. 

There was a ferocious tyrant in a skull cap like an inverted porringer, and a dress of red baize, magnificently embroidered with gilt leather;with his face so be-whiskered and his eyebrows so knit and expandedwith burnt cork, that he made my heart quake within me as he stampedabout the little stage. I was enraptured too with the surpassing beautyof a distressed damsel, in faded pink silk, and dirty white muslin, whom he held in cruel captivity by way of gaining her affections; andwho wept and wrung her hands and flourished a ragged pockethandkerchief from the top of an impregnable tower, of the size of aband-box. 

Even after I had come out from the play, I could not tear myself fromthe vicinity of the theatre; but lingered, gazing, and wondering, andlaughing at the dramatis personae, as they performed their antics, ordanced upon a stage in front of the booth, to decoy a new set ofspectators. 

I was so bewildered by the scene, and so lost in the crowd ofsensations that kept swarming upon me that I was like one entranced. Ilost my companion Tom Dribble, in a tumult and scuffle that took placenear one of the shows, but I was too much occupied in mind to thinklong about him. I strolled about until dark, when the fair was lightedup, and a new scene of magic opened upon me. The illumination of thetents and booths; the brilliant effect of the stages decorated withlamps, with dramatic groups flaunting about them in gaudy dresses, contrasted splendidly with the surrounding darkness; while the uproarof drums, trumpets, fiddles, hautboys, and cymbals, mingled with theharangues of the showmen, the squeaking of Punch, and the shouts andlaughter of the crowd, all united to complete my giddy distraction. 

Time flew without my perceiving it. When I came to myself and thoughtof the school, I hastened to return. I inquired for the wagon in whichI had come: it had been gone for hours. I asked the time: it was almostmidnight! A sudden quaking seized me. How was I to get back to school?I was too weary to make the journey on foot, and I knew not where toapply for a conveyance. Even if I should find one, could I venture todisturb the school-house long after midnight? to arouse that sleepinglion, the usher, in the very midst of his night's rest? The idea wastoo dreadful for a delinquent school-boy. All the horrors of returnrushed upon me--my absence must long before this have beenremarked--and absent for a whole night? A deed of darkness not easilyto be expiated. The rod of the pedagogue budded forth into tenfoldterrors before my affrighted fancy. I pictured to myself punishment andhumiliation in every variety of form; and my heart sickened at thepicture. Alas! how often are the petty ills of boyhood as painful toour tender natures, as are the sterner evils of manhood to our robusterminds. 

I wandered about among the booths, and I might have derived a lessonfrom my actual feelings, how much the charms of this world depend uponourselves; for I no longer saw anything gay or delightful in therevelry around me. At length I lay down, wearied and perplexed, behindone of the large tents, and covering myself with the margin of the tentcloth to keep off the night chill, I soon fell fast asleep. 

I had not slept long, when I was awakened by the noise of merrimentwithin an adjoining booth. It was the itinerant theatre, rudelyconstructed of boards and canvas. I peeped through an aperture, and sawthe whole dramatis personae, tragedy, comedy, pantomime, all refreshingthemselves after the final dismissal of their auditors. They were merryand gamesome, and made their flimsy theatre ring with laughter. I wasastonished to see the tragedy tyrant in red baize and fierce whiskers, who had made my heart quake as he strutted about the boards, nowtransformed into a fat, good humored fellow; the beaming porringer laidaside from his brow, and his jolly face washed from all the terrors ofburnt cork. I was delighted, too, to see the distressed damsel in fadedsilk and dirty muslin, who had trembled under his tyranny, andafflicted me so much by her sorrows, now seated familiarly on his knee, and quaffing from the same tankard. Harlequin lay asleep on one of thebenches; and monks, satyrs, and Vestal virgins were grouped together, laughing outrageously at a broad story told by an unhappy count, whohad been barbarously murdered in the tragedy. This was, indeed, noveltyto me. It was a peep into another planet. I gazed and listened withintense curiosity and enjoyment. They had a thousand odd stories andjokes about the events of the day, and burlesque descriptions andmimickings of the spectators who had been admiring them. Theirconversation was full of allusions to their adventures at differentplaces, where they had exhibited; the characters they had met with indifferent villages; and the ludicrous difficulties in which they hadoccasionally been involved. All past cares and troubles were now turnedby these thoughtless beings into matter of merriment; and made tocontribute to the gayety of the moment. They had been moving from fairto fair about the kingdom, and were the next morning to set out ontheir way to London. 

My resolution was taken. I crept from my nest, and scrambled through ahedge into a neighboring field, where I went to work to make atatterdemalion of myself. I tore my clothes; soiled them with dirt;begrimed my face and hands; and, crawling near one of the booths, purloined an old hat, and left my new one in its place. It was anhonest theft, and I hope may not hereafter rise up in judgment againstme. 

I now ventured to the scene of merrymaking, and, presenting myselfbefore the dramatic corps, offered myself as a volunteer. I feltterribly agitated and abashed, for "never before stood I in such apresence. " I had addressed myself to the manager of the company. He wasa fat man, dressed in dirty white; with a red sash fringed with tinsel, swathed round his body. His face was smeared with paint, and a majesticplume towered from an old spangled black bonnet. He was the Jupitertonans of this Olympus, and was surrounded by the interior gods andgoddesses of his court. He sat on the end of a bench, by a table, withone arm akimbo and the other extended to the handle of a tankard, whichhe had slowly set down from his lips as he surveyed me from head tofoot. It was a moment of awful scrutiny, and I fancied the groupsaround all watching us in silent suspense, and waiting for the imperialnod. 

He questioned me as to who I was; what were my qualifications; and whatterms I expected. I passed myself off for a discharged servant from agentleman's family; and as, happily, one does not require a specialrecommendation to get admitted into bad company, the questions on thathead were easily satisfied. As to my accomplishments, I would spout alittle poetry, and knew several scenes of plays, which I had learnt atschool exhibitions. I could dance--, that was enough; no furtherquestions were asked me as to accomplishments; it was the very thingthey wanted; and, as I asked no wages, but merely meat and drink, andsafe conduct about the world, a bargain was struck in a moment. 

Behold me, therefore transformed of a sudden from a gentleman studentto a dancing buffoon; for such, in fact, was the character in which Imade my debut. I was one of those who formed the groups in the dramas, and were principally, employed on the stage in front of the booth, toattract company. I was equipped as a satyr, in a dress of drab frizethat fitted to my shape; with a great laughing mask, ornamented withhuge ears and short horns. I was pleased with the disguise, because itkept me from the danger of being discovered, whilst we were in thatpart of the country; and, as I had merely to dance and make antics, thecharacter was favorable to a debutant, being almost on a par with SimonSnug's part of the Lion, which required nothing but roaring. 

I cannot tell you how happy I was at this sudden change in mysituation. I felt no degradation, for I had seen too little of societyto be thoughtful about the differences of rank; and a boy of sixteen isseldom aristocratical. I had given up no friend; for there seemed to beno one in the world that cared for me, now my poor mother was dead. Ihad given up no pleasure; for my pleasure was to ramble about andindulge the flow of a poetical imagination; and I now enjoyed it inperfection. There is no life so truly poetical as that of a dancingbuffoon. 

It may be said that all this argued grovelling inclinations. I do notthink so; not that I mean to vindicate myself in any great degree; Iknow too well what a whimsical compound I am. But in this instance Iwas seduced by no love of low company, nor disposition to indulge inlow vices. I have always despised the brutally vulgar; and I havealways had a disgust at vice, whether in high or low life. I wasgoverned merely by a sudden and thoughtless impulse. I had no idea ofresorting to this profession as a mode of life; or of attaching myselfto these people, as my future class of society. I thought merely of atemporary gratification of my curiosity, and an indulgence of myhumors. I had already a strong relish for the peculiarities ofcharacter and the varieties of situation, and I have always been fondof the comedy of life, and desirous of seeing it through all itsshifting scenes. 

In mingling, therefore, among mountebanks and buffoons I was protectedby the very vivacity of imagination which had led me among them. Imoved about enveloped, as it were, in a protecting delusion, which myfancy spread around me. I assimilated to these people only as theystruck me poetically; their whimsical ways and a certainpicturesqueness in their mode of life entertained me; but I was neitheramused nor corrupted by their vices. In short, I mingled among them, asPrince Hal did among his graceless associates, merely to gratify myhumor. 

I did not investigate my motives in this manner, at the time, for I wastoo careless and thoughtless to reason about the matter; but I do sonow, when I look back with trembling to think of the ordeal to which Iunthinkingly exposed myself, and the manner in which I passed throughit. Nothing, I am convinced, but the poetical temperament, that hurriedme into the scrape, brought me out of it without my becoming an arrantvagabond. 

Full of the enjoyment of the moment, giddy with the wildness of animalspirits, so rapturous in a boy, I capered, I danced, I played athousand fantastic tricks about the stage, in the villages in which weexhibited; and I was universally pronounced the most agreeable monsterthat had ever been seen in those parts. My disappearance from schoolhad awakened my father's anxiety; for I one day heard a description ofmyself cried before the very booth in which I was exhibiting; with theoffer of a reward for any intelligence of me. I had no great scrupleabout letting my father suffer a little uneasiness on my account; itwould punish him for past indifference, and would make him value me themore when he found me again. I have wondered that some of my comradesdid not recognize in me the stray sheep that was cried; but they wereall, no doubt, occupied by their own concerns. They were all laboringseriously in their antic vocations, for folly was a mere trade with themost of them, and they often grinned and capered with heavy hearts. With me, on the contrary, it was all real. I acted _con amore_, andrattled and laughed from the irrepressible gayety of my spirits. It istrue that, now and then, I started and looked grave on receiving asudden thwack from the wooden sword of Harlequin, in the course of mygambols; as it brought to mind the birch of my school-master. But Isoon got accustomed to it; and bore all the cuffing, and kicking, andtumbling about, that form the practical wit of your itinerantpantomime, with a good humor that made me a prodigious favorite. 

The country campaign of the troupe was soon at an end, and we set offfor the metropolis, to perform at the fairs which are held in itsvicinity. The greater part of our theatrical property was sent ondirect, to be in a state of preparation for the opening of the fairs;while a detachment of the company travelled slowly on, foraging amongthe villages. I was amused with the desultory, hap-hazard kind of lifewe led; here to-day, and gone to-morrow. Sometimes revelling inale-houses; sometimes feasting under hedges in the green fields. Whenaudiences were crowded and business profitable, we fared well, and whenotherwise, we fared scantily, and consoled ourselves with anticipationsof the next day's success. 

At length the increasing frequency of coaches hurrying past us, coveredwith passengers; the increasing number of carriages, carts, wagons, gigs, droves of cattle and flocks of sheep, all thronging the road; thesnug country boxes with trim flower gardens twelve feet square, andtheir trees twelve feet high, all powdered with dust; and theinnumerable seminaries for young ladies and gentlemen, situated alongthe road, for the benefit of country air and rural retirement; allthese insignia announced that the mighty London was at hand. The hurry, and the crowd, and the bustle, and the noise, and the dust, increasedas we proceeded, until I saw the great cloud of smoke hanging in theair, like a canopy of state, over this queen of cities. 

In this way, then, did I enter the metropolis; a strolling vagabond; onthe top of a caravan with a crew of vagabonds about me; but I was ashappy as a prince, for, like Prince Hal, I felt myself superior to mysituation, and knew that I could at any time cast it off and emergeinto my proper sphere. 

How my eyes sparkled as we passed Hyde-park corner, and I saw splendidequipages rolling by, with powdered footmen behind, in rich liveries, and fine nosegays, and gold-headed canes; and with lovely women within, so sumptuously dressed and so surpassingly fair. I was always extremelysensible to female beauty; and here I saw it in all its fascination;for, whatever may be said of "beauty unadorned, " there is somethingalmost awful in female loveliness decked out in jewelled state. Theswan-like neck encircled with diamonds; the raven locks, clustered withpearls; the ruby glowing on the snowy bosom, are objects that I couldnever contemplate without emotion; and a dazzling white arm claspedwith bracelets, and taper transparent fingers laden with sparklingrings, are to me irresistible. My very eyes ached as I gazed at thehigh and courtly beauty that passed before me. It surpassed all that myimagination had conceived of the sex. I shrunk, for a moment, intoshame at the company in which I was placed, and repined at the vastdistance that seemed to intervene between me and these magnificentbeings. 

I forbear to give a detail of the happy life which I led about theskirts of the metropolis, playing at the various fairs, held thereduring the latter part of spring and the beginning of summer. Thiscontinual change from place to place, and scene to scene, fed myimagination with novelties, and kept my spirits in a perpetual state ofexcitement. 

As I was tall of my age I aspired, at one time, to play heroes intragedy; but after two or three trials, I was pronounced, by themanager, totally unfit for the line; and our first tragic actress, whowas a large woman, and held a small hero in abhorrence, confirmed hisdecision. 

The fact is, I had attempted to give point to language which had nopoint, and nature to scenes which had no nature. They said I did notfill out my characters; and they were right. The characters had allbeen prepared for a different sort of man. Our tragedy hero was around, robustious fellow, with an amazing voice; who stamped andslapped his breast until his wig shook again; and who roared andbellowed out his bombast, until every phrase swelled upon the ear likethe sound of a kettle-drum. I might as well have attempted to fill outhis clothes as his characters. When we had a dialogue together, I wasnothing before him, with my slender voice and discriminating manner. Imight as well have attempted to parry a cudgel with a small sword. Ifhe found me in any way gaining ground upon him, he would take refuge inhis mighty voice, and throw his tones like peals of thunder at me, until they were drowned in the still louder thunders of applause fromthe audience. 

To tell the truth, I suspect that I was not shown fair play, and thatthere was management at the bottom; for without vanity, I think I was abetter actor than he. As I had not embarked in the vagabond linethrough ambition, I did not repine at lack of preferment; but I wasgrieved to find that a vagrant life was not without its cares andanxieties, and that jealousies, intrigues, and mad ambition were to befound even among vagabonds. 

Indeed, as I become more familiar with my situation, and the delusionsof fancy began to fade away, I discovered that my associates were notthe happy careless creatures I had at first imagined them. They werejealous of each other's talents; they quarrelled about parts, the sameas the actors on the grand theatres; they quarrelled about dresses; andthere was one robe of yellow silk, trimmed with red, and a head-dressof three rumpled ostrich feathers, which were continually setting theladies of the company by the ears. Even those who had attained thehighest honors were not more happy than the rest; for Mr. Flimseyhimself, our first tragedian, and apparently a jovial, good-humoredfellow, confessed to me one day, in the fullness of his heart, that hewas a miserable man. He had a brother-in-law, a relative by marriage, though not by blood, who was manager of a theatre in a small countrytown. And this same brother, ("a little more than kin, but less thankind, ") looked down upon him, and treated him with contumely, becauseforsooth he was but a strolling player. I tried to console him with thethoughts of the vast applause he daily received, but it was all invain. He declared that it gave him no delight, and that he should neverbe a happy man until the name of Flimsey rivalled the name of Crimp. 

How little do those before the scenes know of what passes behind; howlittle can they judge, from the countenances of actors, of what ispassing in their hearts. I have known two lovers quarrel like catsbehind the scenes, who were, the moment after, ready to fly into eachother's embraces. And I have dreaded, when our Belvidera was to takeher farewell kiss of her Jaffier, lest she should bite a piece out ofhis cheek. Our tragedian was a rough joker off the stage; our primeclown the most peevish mortal living. The latter used to go aboutsnapping and snarling, with a broad laugh painted on his countenance;and I can assure you that, whatever may be said of the gravity of amonkey, or the melancholy of a gibed cat, there is no more melancholycreature in existence than a mountebank off duty. 

The only thing in which all parties agreed was to backbite the manager, and cabal against his regulations. This, however, I have sincediscovered to be a common trait of human nature, and to take place inall communities. It would seem to be the main business of man to repineat government. In all situations of life into which I have looked, Ihave found mankind divided into two grand parties;--those who ride andthose who are ridden. The great struggle of life seems to be whichshall keep in the saddle. This, it appears to me, is the fundamentalprinciple of politics, whether in great or little life. However, I donot mean to moralize; but one cannot always sink the philosopher. 

Well, then, to return to myself. It was determined, as I said, that Iwas not fit for tragedy, and unluckily, as my study was bad, having avery poor memory, I was pronounced unfit for comedy also: besides, theline of young gentlemen was already engrossed by an actor with whom Icould not pretend to enter into competition, he having filled it foralmost half a century. I came down again therefore to pantomime. Inconsequence, however, of the good offices of the manager's lady, whohad taken a liking to me, I was promoted from the part of the satyr tothat of the lover; and with my face patched and painted, a huge cravatof paper, a steeple-crowned hat, and dangling, long-skirted, sky-bluecoat, was metamorphosed into the lover of Columbine. My part did notcall for much of the tender and sentimental. I had merely to pursue thefugitive fair one; to have a door now and then slammed in my face; torun my head occasionally against a post; to tumble and roll about withPantaloon and the clown; and to endure the hearty thwacks ofHarlequin's wooden sword. 

As ill luck would have it, my poetical temperament began to fermentwithin me, and to work out new troubles. The inflammatory air of agreat metropolis added to the rural scenes in which the fairs wereheld; such as Greenwich Park; Epping Forest; and the lovely valley ofthe West End, had a powerful effect upon me. While in Greenwich Park Iwas witness to the old holiday games of running down hill; and kissingin the ring; and then the firmament of blooming faces and blue eyesthat would be turned towards me as I was playing antics on the stage;all these set my young blood, and my poetical vein, in full flow. Inshort, I played my character to the life, and became desperatelyenamored of Columbine. She was a trim, well-made, tempting girl, with arougish, dimpling face, and fine chestnut hair clustering all about it. The moment I got fairly smitten, there was an end to all playing. I wassuch a creature of fancy and feeling that I could not put on apretended, when I was powerfully affected by a real emotion. I couldnot sport with a fiction that came so near to the fact. I became toonatural in my acting to succeed. And then, what a situation for alover! I was a mere stripling, and she played with my passion; forgirls soon grow more adroit and knowing in these than your awkwardyoungsters. What agonies had I to suffer. Every time that she danced infront of the booth and made such liberal displays of her charms, I wasin torment. To complete my misery, I had a real rival in Harlequin; anactive, vigorous, knowing varlet of six-and-twenty. What had a raw, inexperienced youngster like me to hope from such a competition?

I had still, however, some advantages in my favor. In spite of mychange of life, I retained that indescribable something which alwaysdistinguishes the gentleman; that something which dwells in a man's airand deportment, and not in his clothes; and which it is as difficultfor a gentleman to put off as for a vulgar fellow to put on. Thecompany generally felt it, and used to call me little gentleman Jack. The girl felt it too; and in spite of her predilection for my powerfulrival, she liked to flirt with me. This only aggravated my troubles, byincreasing my passion, and awakening the jealousy of her parti-coloredlover. 

Alas! think what I suffered, at being obliged to keep up an ineffectualchase after my Columbine through whole pantomimes; to see her carriedoff in the vigorous arms of the happy Harlequin; and to be obliged, instead of snatching her from him, to tumble sprawling with Pantaloonand the clown; and bear the infernal and degrading thwacks of myrival's weapon of lath; which, may heaven confound him! (excuse mypassion) the villain laid on with a malicious good-will; nay, I couldabsolutely hear him chuckle and laugh beneath his accursed mask--I begpardon for growing a little warm in my narration. I wish to be cool, but these recollections will sometimes agitate me. I have heard andread of many desperate and deplorable situations of lovers; but none, Ithink, in which true love was ever exposed to so severe and peculiar atrial. 

This could not last long. Flesh and blood, at least such flesh andblood as mine, could not bear it. I had repeated heartburnings andquarrels with my rival, in which he treated me with the mortifyingforbearance of a man towards a child. Had he quarrelled outright withme, I could have stomached it; at least I should have known what partto take; but to be humored and treated as a child in the presence of mymistress, when I felt all the bantam spirit of a little man swellingwithin me--gods, it was insufferable!

At length we were exhibiting one day at West End fair, which was atthat time a very fashionable resort, and often beleaguered by gayequipages from town. Among the spectators that filled the front row ofour little canvas theatre one afternoon, when I had to figure in apantomime, was a party of young ladies from a boarding-school, withtheir governess. Guess my confusion, when, in the midst of my antics, Ibeheld among the number my quondam flame; her whom I had be-rhymed atschool; her for whose charms I had smarted so severely; tho cruelSacharissa! What was worse, I fancied she recollected me; and wasrepeating the story of my humiliating flagellation, for I saw herwhispering her companions and her governess. I lost all consciousnessof the part I was acting, and of the place where I was. I felt shrunkto nothing, and could have crept into a rat-hole--unluckily, none wasopen to receive me. Before I could recover from my confusion, I wastumbled over by Pantaloon and the clown; and I felt the sword ofHarlequin making vigorous assaults, in a manner most degrading to mydignity. 

Heaven and earth! was I again to suffer martyrdom in this ignominiousmanner, in the knowledge, and even before the very eyes of this mostbeautiful, but most disdainful of fair ones? All my long-smotheredwrath broke out at once; the dormant feelings of the gentleman arosewithin me; stung to the quick by intolerable mortification, I sprang onmy feet in an instant; leaped upon Harlequin like a young tiger; toreoff his mask; buffeted him in the face, and soon shed more blood on thestage than had been spilt upon it during a whole tragic campaign ofbattles and murders. 

As soon as Harlequin recovered from his surprise he returned my assaultwith interest. I was nothing in his hands. I was game to be sure, for Iwas a gentleman; but he had the clownish advantages of bone and muscle. I felt as if I could have fought even unto the death; and I was likelyto do so; for he was, according to the vulgar phrase, "putting my headinto Chancery, " when the gentle Columbine flew to my assistance. Godbless the women; they are always on the side of the weak and theoppressed. 

The battle now became general; the dramatis personae ranged on eitherside. The manager interfered in vain. In vain were his spangled blackbonnet and towering white feathers seen whisking about, and nodding, and bobbing, in the thickest of the fight. Warriors, ladies, priests, satyrs, kings, queens, gods and goddesses, all joined pell-mell in thefray. Never, since the conflict under the walls of Troy, had there beensuch a chance medley warfare of combatants, human and divine. Theaudience applauded, the ladies shrieked and fled from the theatre, anda scene of discord ensued that baffles all description. 

Nothing but the interference of the peace officers restored some degreeof order. The havoc, however, that had been made among dresses anddecorations put an end to all farther acting for that day. The battleover, the next thing was to inquire why it was begun; a common questionamong politicians, after a bloody and unprofitable war; and one notalways easy to be answered. It was soon traced to me, and myunaccountable transport of passion, which they could only attribute tomy having run _a muck_. The manager was judge and jury, and plaintiffin the bargain, and in such cases justice is always speedilyadministered. He came out of the fight as sublime a wreck as theSantissìma Trinidada. His gallant plumes, which once towered aloft, were drooping about his ears. His robe of state hung in ribbands fromhis back, and but ill concealed the ravages he had suffered in therear. He had received kicks and cuffs from all sides, during thetumult; for every one took the opportunity of slyly gratifying somelurking grudge on his fat carcass. He was a discreet man, and did notchoose to declare war with all his company; so he swore all those kicksand cuffs had been given by me, and I let him enjoy the opinion. Somewounds he bore, however, which were the incontestible traces of awoman's warfare. His sleek rosy cheek was scored by trickling furrows, which were ascribed to the nails of my intrepid and devoted Columbine. The ire of the monarch was not to be appeased. He had suffered in hisperson, and he had suffered in his purse; his dignity too had beeninsulted, and that went for something; for dignity is always moreirascible the more petty the potentate. He wreaked his wrath upon thebeginners of the affray, and Columbine and myself were discharged, atonce, from the company. 

Figure me, then, to yourself, a stripling of little more than sixteen;a gentleman by birth; a vagabond by trade; turned adrift upon theworld; making the best of my way through the crowd of West End fair; mymountebank dress fluttering in rags about me; the weeping Columbinehanging upon my arm, in splendid, but tattered finery; the tearscoursing one by one down her face; carrying off the red paint intorrents, and literally "preying upon her damask cheek. "

The crowd made way for us as we passed and hooted in our rear. I feltthe ridicule of my situation, but had too much gallantry to desert thisfair one, who had sacrificed everything for me. Having wandered throughthe fair, we emerged, like another Adam and Eve, into unknown regions, and "had the world before us where to choose. " Never was a moredisconsolate pair seen in the soft valley of West End. The lucklessColumbine cast back many a lingering look at the fair, which seemed toput on a more than usual splendor; its tents, and booths, andparti-colored groups, all brightening in the sunshine, and gleamingamong the trees; and its gay flags and streamers playing and flutteringin the light summer airs. With a heavy sigh she would lean on my armand proceed. I had no hope or consolation to give her; but she hadlinked herself to my fortunes, and she was too much of a woman todesert me. 

Pensive and silent, then, we traversed the beautiful fields that liebehind Hempstead, and wandered on, until the fiddle, and the hautboy, and the shout, and the laugh, were swallowed up in the deep sound ofthe big bass drum, and even that died away into a distant rumble. Wepassed along the pleasant sequestered walk of Nightingale lane. For apair of lovers what scene could be more propitious?--But such a pair oflovers! Not a nightingale sang to soothe us: the very gypsies who wereencamped there during the fair, made no offer to tell the fortunes ofsuch an ill-omened couple, whose fortunes, I suppose, they thought toolegibly written to need an interpreter; and the gypsey children crawledinto their cabins and peeped out fearfully at us as we went by. For amoment I paused, and was almost tempted to turn gypsey, but thepoetical feeling for the present was fully satisfied, and I passed on. Thus we travelled, and travelled, like a prince and princess in nurserychronicle, until we had traversed a part of Hempstead Heath and arrivedin the vicinity of Jack Straw's castle. 

Here, wearied and dispirited, we seated ourselves on the margin of thehill, hard by the very mile-stone where Whittington of yore heard theBow bells ring out the presage of his future greatness. Alas! no bellrung in invitation to us, as we looked disconsolately upon the distantcity. Old London seemed to wrap itself up unsociably in its mantle ofbrown smoke, and to offer no encouragement to such a couple oftatterdemalions. 

For once, at least, the usual course of the pantomime was reversed. Harlequin was jilted, and the lover had earned off Columbine in goodearnest. But what was I to do with her? I had never contemplated such adilemma; and I now felt that even a fortunate lover may be embarrassedby his good fortune. I really knew not what was to become of me; for Ihad still the boyish fear of returning home; standing in awe of thestern temper of my father, and dreading the ready arm of the pedagogue. And even if I were to venture home, what was I to do with Columbine? Icould not take her in my hand, and throw myself on my knees, and cravehis forgiveness and his blessing according to dramatic usage. The verydogs would have chased such a draggle-tailed beauty from the grounds. 

In the midst of my doleful dumps, some one tapped me on the shoulder, and looking up I saw a couple of rough sturdy fellows standing behindme. Not knowing what to expect I jumped on my legs, and was preparingagain to make battle; but I was tripped up and secured in a twinkling. 

"Come, come, young master, " said one of the fellows in a gruff, butgood-humored tone, "don't let's have any of your tantrums; one wouldhave thought that you had had swing enough for this bout. Come, it'shigh time to leave off harlequinading, and go home to your father. "

In fact I had a couple of Bow street officers hold of me. The cruelSacharissa had proclaimed who I was, and that a reward had been offeredthroughout the country for any tidings of me; and they had seen adescription of me that had been forwarded to the police office in town. Those harpies, therefore, for the mere sake of filthy lucre, wereresolved to deliver me over into the hands of my father and theclutches of my pedagogue. 

It was in vain that I swore I would not leave my faithful and AfflictedColumbine. It was in vain that I tore myself from their grasp, and flewto her; and vowed to protect her; and wiped the tears from her cheek, and with them a whole blush that might have vied with the carnation forbrilliancy. My persecutors were inflexible; they even seemed to exultin our distress; and to enjoy this theatrical display of dirt, andfinery, and tribulation. I was carried off in despair, leaving myColumbine destitute in the wide world; but many a look of agony did Icast back at her, as she stood gazing piteously after me from the brinkof Hempstead Hill; so forlorn, so fine, so ragged, so bedraggled, yetso beautiful. 

Thus ended my first peep into the world. I returned home, rich ingood-for-nothing experience, and dreading the reward I was to receivefor my improvement. My reception, however, was quite different fromwhat I had expected. My father had a spice of the devil in him, and didnot seem to like me the worse for my freak, which he termed "sowing mywild oats. " He happened to have several of his sporting friends to dinewith him the very day of my return; they made me tell some of myadventures, and laughed heartily at them. One old fellow, with anoutrageously red nose, took to me hugely. I heard him whisper to myfather that I was a lad of mettle, and might make something clever; towhich my father replied that "I had good points, but was an ill-brokenwhelp, and required a great deal of the whip. " Perhaps this veryconversation raised me a little in his esteem, for I found thered-nosed old gentleman was a veteran fox-hunter of the neighborhood, for whose opinion my father had vast deference. Indeed, I believe hewould have pardoned anything in me more readily than poetry; which hecalled a cursed, sneaking, puling, housekeeping employment, the bane ofall true manhood. He swore it was unworthy of a youngster of myexpectations, who was one day to have so great an estate, and would heable to keep horses and hounds and hire poets to write songs for himinto the bargain. 

I had now satisfied, for a time, my roving propensity. I had exhaustedthe poetical feeling. I had been heartily buffeted out of my love fortheatrical display. I felt humiliated by my exposure, and was willingto hide my head anywhere for a season; so that I might be out of theway of the ridicule of the world; for I found folks not altogether soindulgent abroad as they were at my father's table. I could not stay athome; the house was intolerably doleful now that my mother was nolonger there to cherish me. Every thing around spoke mournfully of her. The little flower-garden in which she delighted was all in disorder andoverrun with weeds. I attempted, for a day or two, to arrange it, butmy heart grew heavier and heavier as I labored. Every littlebroken-down flower that I had seen her rear so tenderly, seemed toplead in mute eloquence to my feelings. There was a favoritehoneysuckle which I had seen her often training with assiduity, and hadheard her say it should be the pride of her garden. I found itgrovelling along the ground, tangled and wild, and twining round everyworthless weed, and it struck me as an emblem of myself: a merescatterling, running to waste and uselessness. I could work no longerin the garden. 

My father sent me to pay a visit to my uncle, by way of keeping the oldgentleman in mind of me. I was received, as usual, without anyexpression of discontent; which we always considered equivalent to ahearty welcome. Whether he had ever heard of my strolling freak or notI could not discover; he and his man were both so taciturn. I spent aday or two roaming about the dreary mansion and neglected park; andfelt at one time, I believe, a touch of poetry, for I was tempted todrown myself in a fish-pond; I rebuked the evil spirit, however, and itleft me. I found the same red-headed boy running wild about the park, but I felt in no humor to hunt him at present. On the contrary, I triedto coax him to me, and to make friends with him, but the young savagewas untameable. 

When I returned from my uncle's I remained at home for some time, formy father was disposed, he said, to make a man of me. He took me outhunting with him, and I became a great favorite of the red-nosedsquire, because I rode at everything; never refused the boldest leap, and was always sure to be in at the death. I used often however, tooffend my father at hunting dinners, by taking the wrong side inpolitics. My father was amazingly ignorant--so ignorant, in fact, asnot to know that he knew nothing. He was staunch, however, to churchand king, and full of old-fashioned prejudices. Now, I had picked up alittle knowledge in politics and religion, during my rambles with thestrollers, and found myself capable of setting him right as to many ofhis antiquated notions. I felt it my duty to do so; we were apt, therefore, to differ occasionally in the political discussions thatsometimes arose at these hunting dinners. 

I was at that age when a man knows least and is most vain of hisknowledge; and when he is extremely tenacious in defending his opinionupon subjects about which he knows nothing. My father was a hard manfor any one to argue with, for he never knew when he was refuted. Isometimes posed him a little, but then he had one argument that alwayssettled the question; he would threaten to knock me down. I believe heat last grew tired of me, because I both out-talked and outrode him. The red-nosed squire, too, got out of conceit of me, because in theheat of the chase, I rode over him one day as he and his horse laysprawling in the dirt. My father, therefore, thought it high time tosend me to college; and accordingly to Trinity College at Oxford was Isent. 

I had lost my habits of study while at home; and I was not likely tofind them again at college. I found that study was not the fashion atcollege, and that a lad of spirit only ate his terms; and grew wise bydint of knife and fork. I was always prone to follow the fashions ofthe company into which I fell; so I threw by my books, and became a manof spirit. As my father made me a tolerable allowance, notwithstandingthe narrowness of his income, having an eye always to my greatexpectations, I was enabled to appear to advantage among myfellow-students. I cultivated all kinds of sports and exercises. I wasone of the most expert oarsmen that rowed on the Isis. I boxed andfenced. I was a keen huntsman, and my chambers in college were alwaysdecorated with whips of all kinds, spurs, foils, and boxing gloves. Apair of leather breeches would seem to be throwing one leg out of thehalf-open drawers, and empty bottles lumbered the bottom of everycloset. 

I soon grew tired of this, and relapsed into my vein of mere poeticalindulgence. I was charmed with Oxford, for it was full of poetry to me. I thought I should never grow tired of wandering about its courts andcloisters; and visiting the different college halls. I used to love toget in places surrounded by the colleges, where all modern buildingswere screened from the sight; and to walk about them in twilight, andsee the professors and students sweeping along in the dusk in theircaps and gowns. There was complete delusion in the scene. It seemed totransport me among the edifices and the people of old times. It was agreat luxury, too, for me to attend the evening service in the newcollege chapel, and to hear the fine organ and the choir swelling ananthem in that solemn building; where painting and music andarchitecture seem to combine their grandest effects. 

I became a loiterer, also, about the Bodleian library, and a greatdipper into books; but too idle to follow any course of study or veinof research. One of my favorite haunts was the beautiful walk, borderedby lofty elms, along the Isis, under the old gray walls of MagdalenCollege, which goes by the name of Addison's Walk; and was his resortwhen a student at the college. I used to take a volume of poetry in myhand, and stroll up and down this walk for hours. 

My father came to see me at college. He asked me how I came on with mystudies; and what kind of hunting there was in the neighborhood. Heexamined my sporting apparatus; wanted to know if any of the professorswere fox-hunters; and whether they were generally good shots; for hesuspected this reading so much was rather hurtful to the sight. Suchwas the only person to whom I was responsible for my improvement: is itmatter of wonder, therefore, that I became a confirmed idler?

I do not know how it is, but I cannot be idle long without getting inlove. I became deeply smitten with a shopkeeper's daughter in the highstreet; who in fact was the admiration of many of the students. I wroteseveral sonnets in praise of her, and spent half of my pocket-money atthe shop, in buying articles which I did not want, that I might have anopportunity of speaking to her. Her father, a severe-looking oldgentleman, with bright silver buckles and a crisp, curled wig, kept astrict guard on her; as the fathers generally do upon their daughtersin Oxford; and well they may. I tried to get into his good graces, andto be sociable with him; but in vain. I said several good things in hisshop, but he never laughed; he had no relish for wit and humor. He wasone of those dry old gentlemen who keep youngsters at bay. He hadalready brought up two or three daughters, and was experienced in theways of students. 

He was as knowing and wary as a gray old badger that has often beenhunted. To see him on Sunday, so stiff and starched in his demeanor; soprecise in his dress; with his daughter under his arm, and hisivory-headed cane in his hand, was enough to deter all gracelessyoungsters from approaching. 

I managed, however, in spite of his vigilance, to have severalConversations with the daughter, as I cheapened articles in the shop. Imade terrible long bargains, and examined the articles over and over, before I purchased. In the meantime, I would convey a sonnet or anacrostic under cover of a piece of cambric, or slipped into a pair ofstockings; I would whisper soft nonsense into her ear as I haggledabout the price; and would squeeze her hand tenderly as I received myhalfpence of change, in a bit of whity-brown paper. Let this serve as ahint to all haberdashers, who have pretty daughters for shop-girls, andyoung students for customers. I do not know whether my words and lookswere very eloquent; but my poetry was irresistible; for, to tell thetruth, the girl had some literary taste, and was seldom without a bookfrom the circulating library. 

By the divine power of poetry, therefore, which is irresistible withthe lovely sex, did I subdue the heart of this fair little haberdasher. We carried on a sentimental correspondence for a time across thecounter, and I supplied her with rhyme by the stockingful. At length Iprevailed on her to grant me an assignation. But how was it to beeffected? Her father kept her always under his eye; she never walkedout alone; and the house was locked up the moment that the shop wasshut. All these difficulties served but to give zest to the adventure. I proposed that the assignation should be in her own chamber, intowhich I would climb at night. The plan was irresistible. A cruelfather, a secret lover, and a clandestine meeting! All the littlegirl's studies from the circulating library seemed about to berealised. But what had I in view in making this assignation? Indeed Iknow not. I had no evil intentions; nor can I say that I had any goodones. I liked the girl, and wanted to have an opportunity of seeingmore of her; and the assignation was made, as I have done many thingselse, heedlessly and without forethought. I asked myself a fewquestions of the kind, after all my arrangements were made; but theanswers were very unsatisfactory. "Am I to ruin this poor thoughtlessgirl?" said I to myself. "No!" was the prompt and indignant answer. "AmI to run away with her?" "Whither--and to what purpose?" "Well, then, am I to marry her!"--"Pah! a man of my expectations marry ashopkeeper's daughter!" "What, then, am I to do with her?""Hum--why. --Let me get into her chamber first, and then consider"--andso the self-examination ended. 

Well, sir, "come what come might, " I stole under cover of the darknessto the dwelling of my dulcinea. All was quiet. At the concerted signalher window was gently opened. It was just above the projectingbow-window of her father's shop, which assisted me in mounting. Thehouse was low, and I was enabled to scale the fortress with tolerableease. I clambered with a beating heart; I reached the casement; Ihoisted my body half into the chamber and was welcomed, not by theembraces of my expecting fair one, but by the grasp of thecrabbed-looking old father in the crisp curled wig. 

I extricated myself from his clutches and endeavored to make myretreat; but I was confounded by his cries of thieves! and robbers! Iwas bothered, too, by his Sunday cane; which was amazingly busy aboutmy head as I descended; and against which my hat was but a poorprotection. Never before had I an idea of the activity of an old man'sarm, and hardness of the knob of an ivory-headed cane. In my hurry andconfusion I missed my footing, and fell sprawling on the pavement. Iwas immediately surrounded by myrmidons, who I doubt not were on thewatch for me. Indeed, I was in no situation to escape, for I hadsprained my ankle in the fall, and could not stand. I was seized as ahousebreaker; and to exonerate myself from a greater crime I had toaccuse myself of a less. I made known who I was, and why I came there. Alas! the varlets knew it already, and were only amusing themselves atmy expense. My perfidious muse had been playing me one of her slipperytricks. The old curmudgeon of a father had found my sonnets andacrostics hid away in holes and corners of his shop; he had no tastefor poetry like his daughter, and had instituted a rigorous thoughsilent observation. He had moused upon our letters; detected the ladderof ropes, and prepared everything for my reception. Thus was I everdoomed to be led into scrapes by the muse. Let no man henceforth carryon a secret amour in poetry. 

The old man's ire was in some measure appeased by the pummelling of myhead, and the anguish of my sprain; so he did not put me to death onthe spot. He was even humane enough to furnish a shutter, on which Iwas carried back to the college like a wounded warrior. The porter wasroused to admit me; the college gate was thrown open for my entry; theaffair was blazed abroad the next morning, and became the joke of thecollege from the buttery to the hall. 

I had leisure to repent during several weeks' confinement by my sprain, which I passed in translating Boethius' Consolations of Philosophy. Ireceived a most tender and ill-spelled letter from my mistress, who hadbeen sent to a relation in Coventry. She protested her innocence of mymisfortunes, and vowed to be true to me "till death. " I took no noticeof the letter, for I was cured, for the present, both of love andpoetry. Women, however, are more constant in their attachments thanmen, whatever philosophers may say to the contrary. I am assured thatshe actually remained faithful to her vow for several months; but shehad to deal with a cruel father whose heart was as hard as the knob ofhis cane. He was not to be touched by tears or poetry; but absolutelycompelled her to marry a reputable young tradesman; who made her ahappy woman in spite of herself, and of all the rules of romance; andwhat is more, the mother of several children. They are at this very daya thriving couple and keep a snug corner shop, just opposite the figureof Peeping Tom at Coventry. 

I will not fatigue you by any more details of my studies at Oxford, though they were not always as severe as these; nor did I always pay asdear for my lessons. People may say what they please, a studious lifehas its charms, and there are many places more gloomy than thecloisters of a university. 

To be brief, then, I lived on in my usual miscellaneous manner, gradually getting a knowledge of good and evil, until I had attained mytwenty-first year. I had scarcely come of age when I heard of thesudden death of my father. The shock was severe, for though he hadnever treated me with kindness, still he was my father, and at hisdeath I felt myself alone in the world. 

I returned home to act as chief mourner at his funeral. It was attendedby many of the sportsmen of the country; for he was an important memberof their fraternity. According to his request his favorite hunter wasled after the hearse. The red-nosed fox-hunter, who had taken a littletoo much wine at the house, made a maudlin eulogy of the deceased, andwished to give the view halloo over the grave; but he was rebuked bythe rest of the company. They all shook me kindly by the hand, saidmany consolatory things to me, and invited me to become a member of thehunt in my father's place. 

When I found myself alone in my paternal home, a crowd of gloomyfeelings came thronging upon me. It was a place that always seemed tosober me, and bring me to reflection. Now, especially, it looked sodeserted and melancholy; the furniture displaced about the room; thechairs in groups, as their departed occupants had sat, either inwhispering tête-à-têtes, or gossiping clusters; the bottles anddecanters and wine-glasses, half emptied, and scattered about thetables--all dreary traces of a funeral festival. I entered the littlebreakfasting room. There were my father's whip and spurs hanging by thefire-place, and his favorite pointer lying on the hearth-rug. The pooranimal came fondling about me, and licked my hand, though he had neverbefore noticed me; and then he looked round the room, and whined, andwagged his tail slightly, and gazed wistfully in my face. I felt thefull force of the appeal. "Poor Dash!" said I, "we are both alone inthe world, with nobody to care for us, and we'll take care of oneanother. " The dog never quitted me afterwards. 

I could not go into my mother's room: my heart swelled when I passedWithin sight of the door. Her portrait hung in the parlor, just overthe place where she used to sit. As I cast my eyes on it I thought itlooked at me with tenderness, and I burst into tears. My heart had longbeen seared by living in public schools, and buffeting about amongstrangers who cared nothing for me; but the recollection of a mother'stenderness was overcoming. 

I was not of an age or a temperament to be long depressed. There was areaction in my system that always brought me up again at everypressure; and indeed my spirits were most buoyant after a temporaryprostration. I settled the concerns of the estate as soon as possible;realized my property, which was not very considerable, but whichappeared a vast deal to me, having a poetical eye that magnifiedeverything; and finding myself, at the end of a few months, free of allfarther business or restraint, I determined to go to London and enjoymyself. Why should not I?--I was young, animated, joyous; had plenty offunds for present pleasures, and my uncle's estate in the perspective. Let those mope at college and pore over books, thought I, who havetheir way to make in the world; it would be ridiculous drudgery in ayouth of my expectations. 

Well, sir, away to London I rattled in a tandem, determined to take thetown gaily. I passed through several of the villages where I had playedthe jack-pudding a few years before; and I visited the scenes of manyof my adventures and follies, merely from that feeling of melancholypleasure which we have in stepping again into the footprints offoregone existence, even when they have passed among weeds and briars. I made a circuit in the latter part of my journey, so as to take inWest End and Hempstead, the scenes of my last dramatic exploit, and ofthe battle royal of the booth. As I drove along the ridge of HempsteadHill, by Jack Straw's castle, I paused at the spot where Columbine andI had sat down so disconsolately in our ragged finery, and lookeddubiously upon London. I almost expected to see her again, standing onthe hill's brink, "like Niobe all tears;"--mournful as Babylon inruins!

"Poor Columbine!" said I, with a heavy sigh, "thou wert a gallant, generous girl--a true woman, faithful to the distressed, and ready tosacrifice thyself in the cause of worthless man!"

I tried to whistle off the recollection of her; for there was alwaysSomething of self-reproach with it. I drove gayly along the road, enjoying the stare of hostlers and stable-boys as I managed my horsesknowingly down the steep street of Hempstead; when, just at the skirtsof the village, one of the traces of my leader came loose. I pulled up;and as the animal was restive and my servant a bungler, I called forassistance to the robustious master of a snug ale-house, who stood athis door with a tankard in his hand. He came readily to assist me, followed by his wife, with her bosom half open, a child in her arms, and two more at her heels. I stared for a moment as if doubting myeyes. I could not be mistaken; in the fat, beer-blown landlord of theale-house I recognized my old rival Harlequin, and in his slatternspouse, the once trim and dimpling Columbine. 

The change of my looks, from youth to manhood, and the change of mycircumstances, prevented them from recognizing me. They could notsuspect, in the dashing young buck, fashionably dressed, and drivinghis own equipage, their former comrade, the painted beau, with oldpeaked hat and long, flimsy, sky-blue coat. My heart yearned withkindness towards Columbine, and I was glad to see her establishment athriving one. As soon as the harness was adjusted, I tossed a smallpurse of gold into her ample bosom; and then, pretending give my horsesa hearty cut of the whip, I made the lash curl with a whistling aboutthe sleek sides of ancient Harlequin. The horses dashed off likelightning, and I was whirled out of sight, before either of the partiescould get over their surprise at my liberal donations. I have alwaysconsidered this as one of the greatest proofs of my poetical genius. Itwas distributing poetical justice in perfection. 

I now entered London _en cavalier_, and became a blood upon town. Itook fashionable lodgings in the West End; employed the first tailor;frequented the regular lounges; gambled a little; lost my moneygood-humoredly, and gained a number of fashionable good-for-nothingacquaintances. Had I had more industry and ambition in my nature, Imight have worked my way to the very height of fashion, as I saw manylaborious gentlemen doing around me. But it is a toilsome, an anxious, and an unhappy life; there are few beings so sleepless and miserable asyour cultivators of fashionable smiles. 

I was quite content with that kind of society which forms the frontiersof fashion, and may be easily taken possession of. I found it a light, easy, productive soil. I had but to go about and sow visiting cards, and I reaped a whole harvest of invitations. Indeed, my figure andaddress were by no means against me. It was whispered, too, among theyoung ladies, that I was prodigiously clever, and wrote poetry; and theold ladies had ascertained that I was a young gentleman of good family, handsome fortune, and "great expectations. "

I now was carried away by the hurry of gay life, so intoxicating to ayoung man; and which a man of poetical temperament enjoys so highly onhis first tasting of it. That rapid variety of sensations; that whirlof brilliant objects; that succession of pungent pleasures. I had notime for thought; I only felt. I never attempted to write poetry; mypoetry seemed all to go off by transpiration. I lived poetry; it wasall a poetical dream to me. A mere sensualist knows nothing of thedelights of a splendid metropolis. He lives in a round of animalgratifications and heartless habits. But to a young man of poeticalfeelings it is an ideal world; a scene of enchantment and delusion; hisimagination is in perpetual excitement, and gives a spiritual zest toevery pleasure. 

A season of town life somewhat sobered me of my intoxication; or ratherI was rendered more serious by one of my old complaints--I fell inlove. It was with a very pretty, though a very haughty fair one, whohad come to London under the care of an old maiden aunt, to enjoy thepleasures of a winter in town, and to get married. There was not adoubt of her commanding a choice of lovers; for she had long been thebelle of a little cathedral town; and one of the prebendaries hadabsolutely celebrated her beauty in a copy of Latin verses. 

I paid my court to her, and was favorably received both by her and heraunt. Nay, I had a marked preference shown me over the younger son of aneedy baronet, and a captain of dragoons on half pay. I did notabsolutely take the field in form, for I was determined not to beprecipitate; but I drove my equipage frequently through the street inwhich she lived, and was always sure to see her at the window, generally with a book in her hand. I resumed my knack at rhyming, andsent her a long copy of verses; anonymously to be sure; but she knew myhandwriting. They displayed, however, the most delightful ignorance onthe subject. The young lady showed them to me; wondered who they couldbe written by; and declared there was nothing in this world she lovedso much as poetry: while the maiden aunt would put her pinchingspectacles on her nose, and read them, with blunders in sense andsound, that were excruciating to an author's ears; protesting there wasnothing equal to them in the whole elegant extracts. 

The fashionable season closed without my adventuring to make adeclaration, though. I certainly had encouragement. I was not perfectlysure that I had effected a lodgment in the young lady's heart; and, totell the truth, the aunt overdid her part, and was a little tooextravagant in her liking of me. I knew that maiden aunts were not aptto be captivated by the mere personal merits of their nieces' admirers, and I wanted to ascertain how much of all this favor I owed to mydriving an equipage and having great expectations. 

I had received many hints how charming their native town was during thesummer months; what pleasant society they had; and what beautifuldrives about the neighborhood. They had not, therefore, returned homelong, before I made my appearance in dashing style, driving down theprincipal street. It is an easy thing to put a little quiet cathedraltown in a buzz. The very next morning I was seen at prayers, seated inthe pew of the reigning belle. All the congregation was in a flutter. The prebends eyed me from their stalls; questions were whispered aboutthe aisles after service, "who is he?" and "what is he?" and thereplies were as usual--"A young gentleman of good family and fortune, and great expectations. "

I was pleased with the peculiarities of a cathedral town, where I foundI was a personage of some consequence. I was quite a brilliantacquisition to the young ladies of the cathedral circle, who were gladto have a beau that was not in a black coat and clerical wig. 

You must know that there was a vast distinction between the classes ofsociety of the town. As it was a place of some trade, there were manywealthy inhabitants among the commercial and manufacturing classes, wholived in style and gave many entertainments. Nothing of trade, however, was admitted into the cathedral circle--faugh! the thing could not bethought of. The cathedral circle, therefore, was apt to be very select, very dignified, and very dull. They had evening parties, at which theold ladies played cards with the prebends, and the young ladies sat andlooked on, and shifted from one chair to another about the room, untilit was time to go home. 

It was difficult to get up a ball, from the want of partners, theCathedral circle being very deficient in dancers; and on thoseoccasions, there was an occasional drafting among the dancing men ofthe other circle, who, however, were generally regarded with greatreserve and condescension by the gentlemen in powdered wigs. Several ofthe young ladies assured me, in confidence, that they had often lookedwith a wistful eye at the gayety of the other circle, where there wassuch plenty of young beaux, and where they all seemed to enjoythemselves so merrily; but that it would be degradation to think ofdescending from their sphere. 

I admired the degree of old-fashioned ceremony and superannuatedcourtesy that prevailed in this little place. The bowings andcourtseyings that would take place about the cathedral porch aftermorning service, where knots of old gentlemen and ladies would collecttogether to ask after each other's health, and settle the card partyfor the evening. The little presents of fruits and delicacies, and thethousand petty messages that would pass from house to house; for in atranquil community like this, living entirely at ease, and havinglittle to do, little duties and little civilities and littleamusements, fill up the day. I have smiled, as I looked from my windowon a quiet street near the cathedral, in the middle of a warm summerday, to see a corpulent powdered footman in rich livery, carrying asmall tart on a large silver salver. A dainty titbit, sent, no doubt, by some worthy old dowager, to top off the dinner of her favoriteprebend. 

Nothing could be more delectable, also, than the breaking up of one oftheir evening card parties. Such shaking of hands such mobbing up incloaks and tippets! There were two or three old sedan chairs that didthe duty of the whole place; though the greater part made their exit inclogs and pattens, with a footman or waiting-maid carrying a lanthornin advance; and at a certain hour of the night the clank of pattens andthe gleam of these jack lanthorns, here and there, about the quietlittle town, gave notice that the cathedral card party had dissolved, and the luminaries were severally seeking their homes. To such acommunity, therefore, or at least to the female part of it, theaccession of a gay, dashing young beau was a matter of some importance. The old ladies eyed me with complacency through their spectacles, andthe young ladies pronounced me divine. Everybody received me favorably, excepting the gentleman who had written the Latin verses on thebelle. --Not that he was jealous of my success with the lady, for he hadno pretensions to her; but he heard my verses praised wherever he went, and he could not endure a rival with the muse. 

I was thus carrying every thing before me. I was the Adonis of theCathedral circle; when one evening there was a public ball which wasattended likewise by the gentry of the neighborhood. I took great painswith my toilet on the occasion, and I had never looked better. I haddetermined that night to make my grand assault on the heart of theyoung lady, to batter it with all my forces, and the next morning todemand a surrender in due form. 

I entered the ball-room amidst a buzz and flutter, which generally tookplace among the young ladies on my appearance. I was in fine spirits;for to tell the truth, I had exhilarated myself by a cheerful glass ofwine on the occasion. I talked, and rattled, and said a thousand sillythings, slap-dash, with all the confidence of a man sure of hisauditors; and every thing had its effect. 

In the midst of my triumph I observed a little knot gathering togetherin the upper part of the room. By degrees it increased. A titteringbroke out there; and glances were cast round at me, and then therewould be fresh tittering. Some of the young ladies would hurry away todistant parts of the room, and whisper to their friends; wherever theywent there was still this tittering and glancing at me. I did not knowwhat to make of all this. I looked at myself from head to foot; andpeeped at my back in a glass, to see if any thing was odd about myperson; any awkward exposure; any whimsical tag hanging out--no--everything was right. I was a perfect picture. 

I determined that it must be some choice saying of mine, that washandled about in this knot of merry beauties, and I determined to enjoyone of my good things in the rebound. 

I stepped gently, therefore, up the room, smiling at every one as Ipassed, who I must say all smiled and tittered in return. I approachedthe group, smirking and perking my chin, like a man who is full ofpleasant feeling, and sure of being well received. The cluster oflittle belles opened as I advanced. 

Heavens and earth! whom should I perceive in the midst of them, but myearly and tormenting flame, the everlasting Sacharissa! She was grownup, it is true, into the full beauty of womanhood, but showed by theprovoking merriment of her countenance, that she perfectly recollectedme, and the ridiculous flagellations of which she had twice been thecause. 

I saw at once the exterminating cloud of ridicule that was burstingover me. My crest fell. The flame of love went suddenly out in mybosom; or was extinguished by overwhelming shame. How I got down theroom I know not; I fancied every one tittering at me. Just as I reachedthe door, I caught a glance of my mistress and her aunt, listening tothe whispers of my poetic rival; the old lady raising her hands andeyes, and the face of the young one lighted up with scorn ineffable. Ipaused to see no more; but made two steps from the top of the stairs tothe bottom. The next morning, before sunrise, I beat a retreat; and didnot feel the blushes cool from my tingling cheeks until I had lostsight of the old towers of the cathedral. 

I now returned to town thoughtful and crestfallen. My money was nearlyspent, for I had lived freely and without calculation. The dream oflove was over, and the reign of pleasure at an end. I determined toretrench while I had yet a trifle left; so selling my equipage andhorses for half their value, I quietly put the money in my pocket andturned pedestrian. I had not a doubt that, with my great expectations, I could at any time raise funds, either on usury or by borrowing; but Iwas principled against both one and the other; and resolved, by stricteconomy, to make my slender purse hold out, until my uncle should giveup the ghost; or rather, the estate. 

I stayed at home, therefore, and read, and would have written; but Ihad already suffered too much from my poetical productions, which hadgenerally involved me in some ridiculous scrape. I gradually acquired arusty look, and had a straightened, money-borrowing air, upon which theworld began to shy me. I have never felt disposed to quarrel with theworld for its conduct. It has always used me well. When I have beenflush, and gay, and disposed for society, it has caressed me; and whenI have been pinched, and reduced, and wished to be alone, why, it hasleft me alone, and what more could a man desire?--Take my word for it, this world is a more obliging world than people generally represent it. 

Well, sir, in the midst of my retrenchment, my retirement, and mystudiousness, I received news that my uncle was dangerously ill. Ihastened on the wings of an heir's affection to receive his dyingbreath and his last testament. I found him attended by his faithfulvalet, old Iron John; by the woman who occasionally worked about thehouse; and by the foxy-headed boy, young Orson, whom I had occasionallyhunted about the park. 

Iron John gasped a kind of asthmatical salutation as I entered theroom, and received me with something almost like a smile of welcome. The woman sat blubbering at the foot of the bed; and the foxy-headedOrson, who had now grown to be a lubberly lout, stood gazing in stupidvacancy at a distance. 

My uncle lay stretched upon his back. The chamber was without a fire, or any of the comforts of a sick-room. The cobwebs flaunted from theceiling. The tester was covered with dust, and the curtains weretattered. From underneath the bed peeped out one end of his strong box. Against the wainscot were suspended rusty blunderbusses, horse pistols, and a cut-and-thrust sword, with which he had fortified his room todefend his life and treasure. He had employed no physician during hisillness, and from the scanty relics lying on the table, seemed almostto have denied himself the assistance of a cook. 

When I entered the room he was lying motionless; with his eyes fixedand his mouth open; at the first look I thought him a corpse. The noiseof my entrance made him turn his head. At the sight of me a ghastlysmile came over his face, and his glazing eye gleamed withsatisfaction. It was the only smile he had ever given me, and it wentto my heart. "Poor old man!" thought I, "why would you not let me loveyou?--Why would you force me to leave you thus desolate, when I seethat my presence has the power to cheer you?"

"Nephew, " said he, after several efforts, and in a low gasping voice--"I am glad you are come. I shall now die with satisfaction. Look, "said he, raising his withered hand and pointing--"look--in that box onthe table you will find that I have not forgotten you. "

I pressed his hand to my heart, and the tears stood in my eyes. I satdown by his bed-side, and watched him, but he never spoke again. Mypresence, however, gave him evident satisfaction--for every now andthen, as he looked at me, a vague smile would come over his visage, andhe would feebly point to the sealed box on the table. As the day woreaway, his life seemed to wear away with it. Towards sunset, his handsunk on the bed and lay motionless; his eyes grew glazed; his mouthremained open, and thus he gradually died. 

I could not but feel shocked at this absolute extinction of my kindred. I dropped a tear of real sorrow over this strange old man, who had thusreserved his smile of kindness to his deathbed; like an evening sunafter a gloomy day, just shining out to set in darkness. Leaving thecorpse in charge of the domestics, I retired for the night. 

It was a rough night. The winds seemed as if singing my uncle's requiemabout the mansion; and the bloodhounds howled without as if they knewof the death of their old master. Iron John almost grudged me thetallow candle to burn in my apartment and light up its dreariness; soaccustomed had he been to starveling economy. I could not sleep. Therecollection of my uncle's dying scene and the dreary sounds about thehouse, affected my mind. These, however, were succeeded by plans forthe future, and I lay awake the greater part of the night, indulgingthe poetical anticipation, how soon I would make these old walls ringwith cheerful life, and restore the hospitality of my mother'sancestors. 

My uncle's funeral was decent, but private, I knew there was nobodyThat respected his memory; and I was determined that none should besummoned to sneer over his funeral wines, and make merry at his grave. He was buried in the church of the neighboring village, though it wasnot the burying place of his race; but he had expressly enjoined thathe should not be buried with his family; he had quarrelled with themost of them when living, and he carried his resentments even into thegrave. 

I defrayed the expenses of the funeral out of my own purse, that Imight have done with the undertakers at once, and clear the ill-omenedbirds from the premises. I invited the parson of the parish, and thelawyer from the village to attend at the house the next morning andhear the reading of the will. I treated them to an excellent breakfast, a profusion that had not been seen at the house for many a year. Assoon as the breakfast things were removed, I summoned Iron John, thewoman, and the boy, for I was particular of having every one presentand proceeding regularly. The box was placed on the table. All wassilence. I broke the seal; raised the lid; and beheld--not the will, but my accursed poem of Doubting Castle and Giant Despair!

Could any mortal have conceived that this old withered man; sotaciturn, and apparently lost to feeling, could have treasured up foryears the thoughtless pleasantry of a boy, to punish him with suchcruel ingenuity? I could now account for his dying smile, the only onehe had ever given me. He had been a grave man all his life; it wasstrange that he should die in the enjoyment of a joke; and it was hardthat that joke should be at my expense. 

The lawyer and the parson seemed at a loss to comprehend the matter. "Here must be some mistake, " said the lawyer, "there is no will here. "

"Oh, " said Iron John, creaking forth his rusty jaws, "if it is a willyou are looking for, I believe I can find one. "

He retired with the same singular smile with which he had greeted me onmy arrival, and which I now apprehended boded me no good. In a littlewhile he returned with a will perfect at all points, properly signedand sealed and witnessed; worded with horrible correctness; in which heleft large legacies to Iron John and his daughter, and the residue ofhis fortune to the foxy-headed boy; who, to my utter astonishment, washis son by this very woman; he having married her privately; and, as Iverily believe, for no other purpose than to have an heir, and so baulkmy father and his issue of the inheritance. There was one littleproviso, in which he mentioned that having discovered his nephew tohave a pretty turn for poetry, he presumed he had no occasion forwealth; he recommended him, however, to the patronage of his heir; andrequested that he might have a garret, rent free, in Doubting Castle. 

Mr. Buckthorne had paused at the death of his uncle, and the downfallof his great expectations, which formed, as he said, an epoch in hishistory; and it was not until some little time afterwards, and in avery sober mood, that he resumed his particolored narrative. 

After leaving the domains of my defunct uncle, said he, when the gateClosed between me and what was once to have been mine, I felt thrustout naked into the world, and completely abandoned to fortune. What wasto become of me? I had been brought up to nothing but expectations, andthey had all been disappointed. I had no relations to look to forcounsel or assistance. The world seemed all to have died away from me. Wave after wave of relationship had ebbed off, and I was left a merehulk upon the strand. I am not apt to be greatly cast down, but atthis, time I felt sadly disheartened. I could not realize my situation, nor form a conjecture how I was to get forward. 

I was now to endeavor to make money. The idea was new and strange tome. It was like being asked to discover the philosopher's stone. I hadnever thought about money, other than to put my hand into my pocket andfind it, or if there were none there, to wait until a new supply camefrom home. I had considered life as a mere space of time to be filledup with enjoyments; but to have it portioned out into long hours anddays of toil, merely that I might gain bread to give me strength totoil on; to labor but for the purpose of perpetuating a life of laborwas new and appalling to me. This may appear a very simple matter tosome, but it will be understood by every unlucky wight in mypredicament, who has had the misfortune of being born to greatexpectations. 

I passed several days in rambling about the scenes of my boyhood;partly because I absolutely did not know what to do with myself, andpartly because I did not know that I should ever see them again. Iclung to them as one clings to a wreck, though he knows he musteventually cast himself loose and swim for his life. I sat down on ahill within sight of my paternal home, but I did not venture toapproach it, for I felt compunction at the thoughtlessness with which Ihad dissipated my patrimony. But was I to blame, when I had the richpossessions of my curmudgeon of an uncle in expectation?

The new possessor of the place was making great alterations. The housewas almost rebuilt. The trees which stood about it were cut down; mymother's flower-garden was thrown into a lawn; all was undergoing achange. I turned my back upon it with a sigh, and rambled to anotherpart of the country. 

How thoughtful a little adversity makes one. As I came in sight of theschool-house where I had so often been flogged in the cause of wisdom, you would hardly have recognized the truant boy who but a few yearssince had eloped so heedlessly from its walls. I leaned over the palingof the playground, and watched the scholars at their games, and lookedto see if there might not be some urchin among them, like I was once, full of gay dreams about life and the world. The play-ground seemedsmaller than when I used to sport about it. The house and park, too, ofthe neighboring squire, the father of the cruel Sacharissa, had shrunkin size and diminished in magnificence. The distant hills no longerappeared so far off, and, alas! no longer awakened ideas of a fairyland beyond. 

As I was rambling pensively through a neighboring meadow, in which Ihad many a time gathered primroses, I met the very pedagogue who hadbeen the tyrant and dread of my boyhood. I had sometimes vowed tomyself, when suffering under his rod, that I would have my revenge ifever I met him when I had grown to be a man. The time had come; but Ihad no disposition to keep my vow. The few years which had matured meinto a vigorous man had shrunk him into decrepitude. He appeared tohave had a paralytic stroke. I looked at him, and wondered that thispoor helpless mortal could have been an object of terror to me! That Ishould have watched with anxiety the glance of that failing eye, ordreaded the power of that trembling hand! He tottered feebly along thepath, and had some difficulty in getting over a stile. I ran andassisted him. He looked at me with surprise, but did not recognize me, and made a low bow of humility and thanks. I had no disposition to makemyself known, for I felt that I had nothing to boast of. The pains hehad taken and the pains he had inflicted had been equally useless. Hisrepeated predictions were fully verified, and I felt that little JackBuckthorne, the idle boy, had grown up to be a very good-for-nothingman. 

This is all very comfortless detail; but as I have told you of myfollies, it is meet that I show you how for once I was schooled forthem. 

The most thoughtless of mortals will some time or other have this dayof gloom, when he will be compelled to reflect. I felt on this occasionas if I had a kind of penance to perform, and I made a pilgrimage inexpiation of my past levity. 

Having passed a night at Leamington, I set off by a private path whichleads up a hill, through a grove, and across quiet fields, until I cameto the small village, or rather hamlet of Lenington. I sought thevillage church. It is an old low edifice of gray stone on the brow of asmall hill, looking over fertile fields to where the proud towers ofWarwick Castle lifted themselves against the distant horizon. A part ofthe church-yard is shaded by large trees. Under one of these my motherlay buried. You have, no doubt, thought me a light, heartless being. Ithought myself so--but there are moments of adversity which let us intosome feelings of our nature, to which we might otherwise remainperpetual strangers. 

I sought my mother's grave. The weeds were already matted over it, andthe tombstone was half hid among nettles. I cleared them away and theystung my hands; but I was heedless of the pain, for my heart ached tooseverely. I sat down on the grave, and read over and over again theepitaph on the stone. It was simple, but it was true. I had written itmyself. I had tried to write a poetical epitaph, but in vain; myfeelings refused to utter themselves in rhyme. My heart had graduallybeen filling during my lonely wanderings; it was now charged to thebrim and overflowed. I sank upon the grave and buried my face in thetall grass and wept like a child. Yes, I wept in manhood upon thegrave, as I had in infancy upon the bosom of my mother. Alas! howlittle do we appreciate a mother's tenderness while living! Howheedless are we in youth, of all her anxieties and kindness. But whenshe is dead and gone; when the cares and coldness of the world comewithering to our hearts; when we find how hard it is to find truesympathy, how few love us for ourselves, how few will befriend us inour misfortunes; then it is we think of the mother we have lost. It istrue I had always loved my mother, even in my most heedless days; but Ifelt how inconsiderate and ineffectual had been my love. My heartmelted as I retraced the days of infancy, when I was led by a mother'shand and rocked to sleep in a mother's arms, and was without care orsorrow. "Oh, my mother!" exclaimed I, burying my face again in thegrass of the grave--"Oh, that I were once more by your side; sleeping, never to wake again, on the cares and troubles of this world!"

I am not naturally of a morbid temperament, and the violence of myemotion gradually exhausted itself. It was a hearty, honest, naturaldischarge of griefs which had been slowly accumulating, and gave mewonderful relief. I rose from the grave as if I had been offering up asacrifice, and I felt as if that sacrifice had been accepted. 

I sat down again on the grass, and plucked, one by one, the weeds fromher grave; the tears trickled more slowly down my cheeks, and ceased tobe bitter. It was a comfort to think that she had died before sorrowand poverty came upon her child, and that all his great expectationswere blasted. 

I leaned my cheek upon my hand and looked upon the landscape. Its quietbeauty soothed me. The whistle of a peasant from an adjoining fieldcame cheerily to my ear. I seemed to respire hope and comfort with thefree air that whispered through the leaves and played lightly with myhair, and dried the tears upon my cheek. A lark, rising from the fieldbefore me, and leaving, as it were, a stream of song behind him as herose, lifted my fancy with him. He hovered in the air just above theplace where the towers of Warwick Castle marked the horizon; and seemedas if fluttering with delight at his own melody. "Surely, " thought I, "if there were such a thing as transmigration of souls, this might betaken for some poet, let loose from earth, but still revelling in song, and carolling about fair fields and lordly towns. "

At this moment the long forgotten feeling of poetry rose within me. AThought sprung at once into my mind: "I will become an author, " said I. "I have hitherto indulged in poetry as a pleasure, and it has broughtme nothing but pain. Let me try what it will do, when I cultivate itwith devotion as a pursuit. "

The resolution, thus suddenly aroused within me, heaved a load from offmy heart. I felt a confidence in it from the very place where it wasformed. It seemed as though my mother's spirit whispered it to me fromher grave. "I will henceforth, " said I, "endeavor to be all that shefondly imagined me. I will endeavor to act as if she were witness of myactions. I will endeavor to acquit myself in such manner, that when Irevisit her grave there may, at least, be no compunctious bitterness inmy tears. "

I bowed down and kissed the turf in solemn attestation of my vow. Iplucked some primroses that were growing there and laid them next myheart. I left the church-yard with my spirits once more lifted up, andset out a third time for London, in the character of an author. 

 * * * * *

Here my companion made a pause, and I waited in anxious suspense;hoping to have a whole volume of literary life unfolded to me. Heseemed, however, to have sunk into a fit of pensive musing; and whenafter some time I gently roused him by a question or two as to hisliterary career. "No, " said he smiling, "over that part of my story Iwish to leave a cloud. Let the mysteries of the craft rest sacred forme. Let those who have never adventured into the republic of letters, still look upon it as a fairy land. Let them suppose the author thevery being they picture him from his works; I am not the man to martheir illusion. I am not the man to hint, while one is admiring thesilken web of Persia, that it has been spun from the entrails of amiserable worm. "

"Well, " said I, "if you will tell me nothing of your literary history, let me know at least if you have had any farther intelligence fromDoubting Castle. "

"Willingly, " replied he, "though I have but little to communicate. "

THE BOOBY SQUIRE. 

A long time elapsed, said Buckthorne, without my receiving any accountsof my cousin and his estate. Indeed, I felt so much soreness on thesubject, that I wished, if possible, to shut it from my thoughts. Atlength chance took me into that part of the country, and I could notrefrain from making some inquiries. 

I learnt that my cousin had grown up ignorant, self-willed, andclownish. His ignorance and clownishness had prevented his minglingwith the neighboring gentry. In spite of his great fortune he had beenunsuccessful in an attempt to gain the hand of the daughter of theparson, and had at length shrunk into the limits of such society as amere man of wealth can gather in a country neighborhood. 

He kept horses and hounds and a roaring table, at which were collectedthe loose livers of the country round, and the shabby gentlemen of avillage in the vicinity. When he could get no other company he wouldsmoke and drink with his own servants, who in their turns fleeced anddespised him. Still, with all this apparent prodigality, he had aleaven of the old man in him, which showed that he was his true-bornson. He lived far within his income, was vulgar in his expenses, andpenurious on many points on which a gentleman would be extravagant. Hishouse servants were obliged occasionally to work on the estate, andpart of the pleasure grounds were ploughed up and devoted to husbandry. 

His table, though plentiful, was coarse; his liquors strong and bad;and more ale and whiskey were expended in his establishment thangenerous wine. He was loud and arrogant at his own table, and exacted arich man's homage from his vulgar and obsequious guests. 

As to Iron John, his old grandfather, he had grown impatient of thetight hand his own grandson kept over him, and quarrelled with him soonafter he came to the estate. The old man had retired to a neighboringvillage where he lived on the legacy of his late master, in a smallcottage, and was as seldom seen out of it as a rat out of his hole indaylight. 

The cub, like Caliban, seemed to have an instinctive attachment to hismother. She resided with him; but, from long habit, she acted more asservant than as mistress of the mansion; for she toiled in all thedomestic drudgery, and was oftener in the kitchen than the parlor. Suchwas the information which I collected of my rival cousin, who had sounexpectedly elbowed me out of all my expectations. 

I now felt an irresistible hankering to pay a visit to this scene of myboyhood; and to get a peep at the odd kind of life that was passingwithin the mansion of my maternal ancestors. I determined to do so indisguise. My booby cousin had never seen enough of me to be veryfamiliar with my countenance, and a few years make great differencebetween youth and manhood. I understood he was a breeder of cattle andproud of his stock. I dressed myself, therefore, as a substantialfarmer, and with the assistance of a red scratch that came low down onmy forehead, made a complete change in my physiognomy. 

It was past three o'clock when I arrived at the gate of the park, andWas admitted by an old woman, who was washing in a dilapidated buildingwhich had once been a porter's lodge. I advanced up the remains of anoble avenue, many of the trees of which had been cut down and sold fortimber. The grounds were in scarcely better keeping than during myuncle's lifetime. The grass was overgrown with weeds, and the treeswanted pruning and clearing of dead branches. Cattle were grazing aboutthe lawns, and ducks and geese swimming in the fishponds. 

The road to the house bore very few traces of carriage wheels, as mycousin received few visitors but such as came on foot or on horseback, and never used a carriage himself. Once, indeed, as I was told, he hadhad the old family carriage drawn out from among the dust and cobwebsof the coachhouse and furbished up, and had drove, with his mother, tothe village church to take formal possession of the family pew; butthere was such hooting and laughing after them as they passed throughthe village, and such giggling and bantering about the church door, that the pageant had never made a reappearance. 

As I approached the house, a legion of whelps sallied out barking atme, accompanied by the low howling, rather than barking, of two oldworn-out bloodhounds, which I recognized for the ancient life-guards ofmy uncle. The house had still a neglected, random appearance, thoughmuch altered for the better since my last visit. Several of the windowswere broken and patched up with boards; and others had been bricked upto save taxes. I observed smoke, however, rising from the chimneys; aphenomenon rarely witnessed in the ancient establishment. On passingthat part of the house where the dining-room was situated, I heard thesound of boisterous merriment; where three or four voices were talkingat once, and oaths and laughter were horribly mingled. 

The uproar of the dogs had brought a servant to the door, a tall, hard-fisted country clown, with a livery coat put over the under-garmentsof a ploughman. I requested to see the master of the house, but wastold he was at dinner with some "gemmen" of the neighborhood. I madeknown my business and sent in to know if I might talk with the masterabout his cattle; for I felt a great desire to have a peep at him athis orgies. Word was returned that he was engaged with company, andcould not attend to business, but that if I would "step in and take adrink of something, I was heartily welcome. " I accordingly entered thehall, where whips and hats of all kinds and shapes were lying on anoaken table, two or three clownish servants were lounging about;everything had a look of confusion and carelessness. 

The apartments through which I passed had the same air of departedgentility and sluttish housekeeping. The once rich curtains were fadedand dusty; the furniture greased and tarnished. On entering thedining-room I found a number of odd, vulgar-looking, rustic gentlemenseated round a table, on which were bottles, decanters, tankards, pipes, and tobacco. Several dogs were lying about the room, or sittingand watching their masters, and one was gnawing a bone under aside-table. 

The master of the feast sat at the head of the board. He was greatlyaltered. He had grown thick-set and rather gummy, with a fiery, foxyhead of hair. There was a singular mixture of foolishness, arrogance, and conceit in his countenance. He was dressed in a vulgarly finestyle, with leather breeches, a red waistcoat, and green coat, and wasevidently, like his guests, a little flushed with drinking. The wholecompany stared at me with a whimsical muggy look, like men whose senseswere a little obfuscated by beer rather than wine. 

My cousin, (God forgive me! the appellation sticks in my throat, ) mycousin invited me with awkward civility, or, as he intended it, condescension, to sit to the table and drink. We talked, as usual, about the weather, the crops, politics, and hard times. My cousin was aloud politician, and evidently accustomed to talk without contradictionat his own table. He was amazingly loyal, and talked of standing by thethrone to the last guinea, "as every gentleman of fortune should do. "The village exciseman, who was half asleep, could just ejaculate, "verytrue, " to every thing he said. 

The conversation turned upon cattle; he boasted of his breed, his modeof managing it, and of the general management of his estate. Thisunluckily drew on a history of the place and of the family. He spoke ofmy late uncle with the greatest irreverence, which I could easilyforgive. He mentioned my name, and my blood began to boil. He describedmy frequent visits to my uncle when I was a lad, and I found thevarlet, even at that time, imp as he was, had known that he was toinherit the estate. 

He described the scene of my uncle's death, and the opening of thewill, with a degree of coarse humor that I had not expected from him, and, vexed as I was, I could not help joining in the laugh, for I havealways relished a joke, even though made at my own expense. He went onto speak of my various pursuits; my strolling freak, and that somewhatnettled me. At length he talked of my parents. He ridiculed my father:I stomached even that, though with great difficulty. He mentioned mymother with a sneer--and in an instant he lay sprawling at my feet. 

Here a scene of tumult succeeded. The table was nearly overturned. Bottles, glasses, and tankards, rolled crashing and clattering aboutthe floor. The company seized hold of both of us to keep us from doingfarther mischief. I struggled to get loose, for I was boiling withfury. My cousin defied me to strip and fight him on the lawn. I agreed;for I felt the strength of a giant in me, and I longed to pummel himsoundly. 

Away then we were borne. A ring was formed. I had a second assigned mein true boxing style. My cousin, as he advanced to fight, saidsomething about his generosity in showing me such fair play, when I hadmade such an unprovoked attack upon him at his own table. 

"Stop there!" cried I, in a rage--"unprovoked!--know that I am JohnBuckthorne, and you have insulted the memory of my mother. "

The lout was suddenly struck by what I said. He drew back and reflectedfor a moment. 

"Nay, damn it, " said he, "that's too much--that's clear another thing. I've a mother myself, and no one shall speak ill of her, bad as sheis. "

He paused again. Nature seemed to have a rough struggle in his rudebosom. 

"Damn it, cousin, " cried he, "I'm sorry for what I said. Thou'st servedme right in knocking me down, and I like thee the better for it. Here'smy hand. Come and live with me, and damme but the best room in thehouse, and the best horse in the stable, shall be at thy service. "

I declare to you I was strongly moved at this instance of naturebreaking her way through such a lump of flesh. I forgave the fellow ina moment all his crimes of having been born in wedlock and inheritingmy estate. I shook the hand he offered me, to convince him that I borehim no ill will; and then making my way through the gaping crowd oftoad-eaters, bade adieu to my uncle's domains forever. This is the lastI have seen or heard of my cousin, or of the domestic concerns ofDoubting Castle. 

THE STROLLING MANAGER. 

As I was walking one morning with Buckthorne, near one of the Principaltheaters, he directed my attention to a group of those equivocal beingsthat may often be seen hovering about the stage-doors of theaters. Theywere marvellously ill-favored in their attire, their coats buttoned upto their chins; yet they wore their hats smartly on one side, and had acertain knowing, dirty-gentlemanlike air, which is common to thesubalterns of the drama. Buckthorne knew them well by early experience. 

These, said he, are the ghosts of departed kings and heroes; fellowswho sway sceptres and truncheons; command kingdoms and armies; andafter giving way realms and treasures over night, have scarce ashilling to pay for a breakfast in the morning. Yet they have the truevagabond abhorrence of all useful and industrious employment; and theyhave their pleasures too: one of which is to lounge in this way in thesunshine, at the stage-door, during rehearsals, and make hackneyedtheatrical jokes on all passers-by. 

Nothing is more traditional and legitimate than the stage. Old scenery, old clothes, old sentiments, old ranting, and old jokes, are handeddown from generation to generation; and will probably continue to beso, until time shall be no more. Every hanger-on of a theater becomes awag by inheritance, and flourishes about at tap-rooms and six-pennyclubs, with the property jokes of the green-room. 

While amusing ourselves with reconnoitring this group, we noticed onein particular who appeared to be the oracle. He was a weather-beatenveteran, a little bronzed by time and beer, who had no doubt, growngray in the parts of robbers, cardinals, Roman senators, and walkingnoblemen. 

"There's something in the set of that hat, and the turn of thatphysiognomy, that is extremely familiar to me, " said Buckthorne. Helooked a little closer. "I cannot be mistaken, " added he, "that must bemy old brother of the truncheon, Flimsey, the tragic hero of thestrolling company. "

It was he in fact. The poor fellow showed evident signs that times wenthard with him; he was so finely and shabbily dressed. His coat wassomewhat threadbare, and of the Lord Townly cut; single-breasted, andscarcely capable of meeting in front of his body; which, from longintimacy, had acquired the symmetry and robustness of a beer-barrel. Hewore a pair of dingy white stockinet pantaloons, which had much ado toreach his waistcoat; a great quantity of dirty cravat; and a pair ofold russet-colored tragedy boots. 

When his companions had dispersed, Buckthorne drew him aside and madeHimself known to him. The tragic veteran could scarcely recognize him, or believe that he was really his quondam associate "little gentlemanJack. " Buckthorne invited him to a neighboring coffee-house to talkover old times; and in the course of a little while we were put inpossession of his history in brief. 

He had continued to act the heroes in the strolling company for sometime after Buckthorne had left it, or rather had been driven from it soabruptly. At length the manager died, and the troop was thrown intoconfusion. Every one aspired to the crown; every one was for taking thelead; and the manager's widow, although a tragedy queen, and abrimstone to boot, pronounced it utterly impossible to keep any controlover such a set of tempestuous rascallions. 

Upon this hint I spoke, said Flimsey--I stepped forward, and offered myservices in the most effectual way. They were accepted. In a week'stime I married the widow and succeeded to the throne. "The funeralbaked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage table, " as Hamletsays. But the ghost of my predecessor never haunted me; and I inheritedcrowns, sceptres, bowls, daggers, and all the stage trappings andtrumpery, not omitting the widow, without the least molestation. 

I now led a flourishing life of it; for our company was pretty strongAnd attractive, and as my wife and I took the heavy parts of tragedy, it was a great saving to the treasury. We carried off the palm from allthe rival shows at country fairs; and I assure you we have even drawnfull houses, and being applauded by the critics at Bartlemy fairitself, though we had Astley's troupe, the Irish giant, and "the deathof Nelson" in wax-work to contend against. 

I soon began to experience, however, the cares of command. I discoveredthat there were cabals breaking out in the company, headed by theclown, who you may recollect was a terribly peevish, fractious fellow, and always in ill-humor. I had a great mind to turn him off at once, but I could not do without him, for there was not a droller scoundrelon the stage. His very shape was comic, for he had to turn his backupon the audience and all the ladies were ready to die with laughing. He felt his importance, and took advantage of it. He would keep theaudience in a continual roar, and then come behind the scenes and fretand fume and play the very devil. I excused a great deal in him, however, knowing that comic actors are a little prone to this infirmityof temper. 

I had another trouble of a nearer and dearer nature to struggle with;which was, the affection of my wife. As ill luck would have it, shetook it into her head to be very fond of me, and became intolerablyjealous. I could not keep a pretty girl in the company, and hardlydared embrace an ugly one, even when my part required it. I have knownher to reduce a fine lady to tatters, "to very rags, " as Hamlet says, in an instant, and destroy one of the very best dresses in thewardrobe; merely because she saw me kiss her at the sidescenes;--though I give you my honor it was done merely by way ofrehearsal. 

This was doubly annoying, because I have a natural liking to prettyfaces, and wish to have them about me; and because they areindispensable to the success of a company at a fair, where one has tovie with so many rival theatres. But when once a jealous wife gets afreak in her head there's no use in talking of interest or anythingelse. Egad, sirs, I have more than once trembled when, during a fit ofher tantrums, she was playing high tragedy, and flourishing her tindagger on the stage, lest she should give way to her humor, and stabsome fancied rival in good earnest. 

I went on better, however, than could be expected, considering theweakness of my flesh and the violence of my rib. I had not a much worsetime of it than old Jupiter, whose spouse was continually ferreting outsome new intrigue and making the heavens almost too hot to hold him. 

At length, as luck would have it, we were performing at a country fair, when I understood the theatre of a neighboring town to be vacant. I hadalways been desirous to be enrolled in a settled company, and theheight of my desire was to get on a par with a brother-in-law, who wasmanager of a regular theatre, and who had looked down upon me. Here wasan opportunity not to be neglected. I concluded an agreement with theproprietors, and in a few days opened the theatre with great eclát. 

Behold me now at the summit of my ambition, "the high top-gallant of myjoy, " as Thomas says. No longer a chieftain of a wandering tribe, butthe monarch of a legitimate throne--and entitled to call even the greatpotentates of Covent Garden and Drury Lane cousin. 

You no doubt think my happiness complete. Alas, sir! I was one of theMost uncomfortable dogs living. No one knows, who has not tried, themiseries of a manager; but above all, of a country management--no onecan conceive the contentions and quarrels within doors, the oppressionsand vexations from without. 

I was pestered with the bloods and loungers of a country town, whoinfested my green-room, and played the mischief among my actresses. Butthere was no shaking them off. It would have been ruin to affront them;for, though troublesome friends, they would have been dangerousenemies. Then there were the village critics and village amateurs, whowere continually tormenting me with advice, and getting into a passionif I would not take it:--especially the village doctor and the villageattorney; who had both been to London occasionally, and knew whatacting should be. 

I had also to manage as arrant a crew of scapegraces as were evercollected together within the walls of a theatre. I had been obliged tocombine my original troupe with some of the former troupe of thetheatre, who were favorites with the public. Here was a mixture thatproduced perpetual ferment. They were all the time either fighting orfrolicking with each other, and I scarcely knew which mood was leasttroublesome. If they quarrelled, everything went wrong; and if theywere friends, they were continually playing off some confounded prankupon each other, or upon me; for I had unhappily acquired among themthe character of an easy, good natured fellow, the worst character thata manager can possess. 

Their waggery at times drove me almost crazy; for there is nothing soVexatious as the hackneyed tricks and hoaxes and pleasantries of aveteran band of theatrical vagabonds. I relished them well enough, itis true, while I was merely one of the company, but as manager I foundthem detestable. They were incessantly bringing some disgrace upon thetheatre by their tavern frolics, and their pranks about the countrytown. All my lectures upon the importance of keeping up the dignity ofthe profession, and the respectability of the company were in vain. Thevillains could not sympathize with the delicate feelings of a man instation. They even trifled with the seriousness of stage business. Ihave had the whole piece interrupted, and a crowded audience of atleast twenty-five pounds kept waiting, because the actors had hid awaythe breeches of Rosalind, and have known Hamlet stalk solemnly on todeliver his soliloquy, with a dish-clout pinned to his skirts. Such arethe baleful consequences of a manager's getting a character for goodnature. 

I was intolerably annoyed, too, by the great actors who came down_starring_, as it is called, from London. Of all baneful influences, keep me from that of a London star. A first-rate actress going therounds of the country theatres, is as bad as a blazing comet, whiskingabout the heavens, and shaking fire, and plagues, and discords from itstail. 

The moment one of these "heavenly bodies" appeared on my horizon, I wassure to be in hot water. My theatre was overrun by provincial dandies, copper-washed counterfeits of Bond street loungers; who are alwaysproud to be in the train of an actress from town, and anxious to bethought on exceeding good terms with her. It was really a relief to mewhen some random young nobleman would come in pursuit of the bait, andawe all this small fry to a distance. I have always felt myself more atease with a nobleman than with the dandy of a country town. 

And then the injuries I suffered in my personal dignity and mymanagerial authority from the visits of these great London actors. Sir, I was no longer master of myself or my throne. I was hectored andlectured in my own green-room, and made an absolute nincompoop on myown stage. There is no tyrant so absolute and capricious as a Londonstar at a country theatre. 

I dreaded the sight of all of them; and yet if I did not engage them, Iwas sure of having the public clamorous against me. They drew fullhouses, and appeared to be making my fortune; but they swallowed up allthe profits by their insatiable demands. They were absolute tape-wormsto my little theatre; the more it took in, the poorer it grew. Theywere sure to leave me with an exhausted public, empty benches, and ascore or two of affronts to settle among the townsfolk, in consequenceof misunderstandings about the taking of places. 

But the worst thing I had to undergo in my managerial career waspatronage. Oh, sir, of all things deliver me from the patronage of thegreat people of a country town. It was my ruin. You must know that thistown, though small, was filled with feuds, and parties, and greatfolks; being a busy little trading and manufacturing town. The mischiefwas that their greatness was of a kind not to be settled by referenceto the court calendar, or college of heraldry. It was therefore themost quarrelsome kind of greatness in existence. You smile, sir, butlet me tell you there are no feuds more furious than the frontierfeuds, which take place on these "debatable lands" of gentility. Themost violent dispute that I ever knew in high life, was one thatoccurred at a country town, on a question of precedence between theladies of a manufacturer of pins and a manufacturer of needles. 

At the town where I was situated there were perpetual altercations ofthe kind. The head manufacturer's lady, for instance, was at daggersdrawings with the head shopkeeper's, and both were too rich and had toomany friends to be treated lightly. The doctor's and lawyer's ladiesheld their heads still higher; but they in their turn were kept incheck by the wife of a country banker, who kept her own carriage; whilea masculine widow of cracked character, and second-hand fashion, wholived in a large house, and was in some way related to nobility, lookeddown upon them all. She had been exiled from the great world, but hereshe ruled absolute. To be sure her manners were not over-elegant, norher fortune over-large; but then, sir, her blood--oh, her blood carriedit all hollow, there was no withstanding a woman with such blood in herveins. 

After all, she had frequent battles for precedence at balls andassemblies, with some of the sturdy dames of the neighborhood, whostood upon their wealth and their reputations; but then she had twodashing daughters, who dressed as fine as dragons, and had as highblood as their mother, and seconded her in everything. So they carriedtheir point with high heads, and every body hated, abused, and stood inawe of the Fantadlins. 

Such was the state of the fashionable world in this self-importantlittle town. Unluckily I was not as well acquainted with its politicsas I should have been. I had found myself a stranger and in greatperplexities during my first season; I determined, therefore, to putmyself under the patronage of some powerful name, and thus to take thefield with the prejudices of the public in my favor. I cast round mythoughts for the purpose, and in an evil hour they fell upon Mrs. Fantadlin. No one seemed to me to have a more absolute sway in theworld of fashion. I had always noticed that her party slammed the boxdoor the loudest at the theatre; had most beaux attending on them; andtalked and laughed loudest during the performance; and then the MissFantadlins wore always more feathers and flowers than any other ladies;and used quizzing glasses incessantly. The first evening of mytheatre's reopening, therefore, was announced in flaring capitals onthe play bills, "under the patronage of the Honorable Mrs. Fantadlin, "

Sir, the whole community flew to arms! The banker's wife felt herDignity grievously insulted at not having the preference; her husbandbeing high bailiff, and the richest man in the place. She immediatelyissued invitations for a large party, for the night of the performance, and asked many a lady to it whom she never had noticed before. Thefashionable world had long groaned under the tyranny of the Fantadlins, and were glad to make a common cause against this new instance ofassumption. --Presume to patronize the theatre! insufferable! Those, too, who had never before been noticed by the banker's lady, were readyto enlist in any quarrel, for the honor of her acquaintance. All minorfeuds were therefore forgotten. The doctor's lady and the lawyer's ladymet together; and the manufacturer's lady and the shopkeeper's ladykissed each other, and all, headed by the banker's lady, voted thetheatre a _bore_, and determined to encourage nothing but the IndianJugglers, and Mr. Walker's Eidonianeon. 

Alas for poor Pillgarlick! I little knew the mischief that was brewingagainst me. My box book remained blank. The evening arrived, but noaudience. The music struck up to a tolerable pit and gallery, but nofashionables! I peeped anxiously from behind the curtain, but the timepassed away; the play was retarded until pit and gallery becamefurious; and I had to raise the curtain, and play my greatest part intragedy to "a beggarly account of empty boxes. "

It is true the Fantadlins came late, as was their custom, and enteredlike a tempest, with a flutter of feathers and red shawls; but theywere evidently disconcerted at finding they had no one to admire andenvy them, and were enraged at this glaring defection of theirfashionable followers. All the beau-monde were engaged at the banker'slady's rout. They remained for some time in solitary and uncomfortablestate, and though they had the theatre almost to themselves, yet, forthe first time, they talked in whispers. They left the house at the endof the first piece, and I never saw them afterwards. 

Such was the rock on which I split. I never got over the patronage ofthe Fantadlin family. It became the vogue to abuse the theatre anddeclare the performers shocking. An equestrian troupe opened a circusin the town about the same time, and rose on my ruins. My house wasdeserted; my actors grew discontented because they were ill paid; mydoor became a hammering-place for every bailiff in the county; and mywife became more and more shrewish and tormenting, the more I wantedcomfort. 

The establishment now became a scene of confusion and peculation. I Wasconsidered a ruined man, and of course fair game for every one to pluckat, as every one plunders a sinking ship. Day after day some of thetroupe deserted, and like deserting soldiers, carried off their armsand accoutrements with them. In this manner my wardrobe took legs andwalked away; my finery strolled all over the country; my swords anddaggers glittered in every barn; until at last my tailor made "one fellswoop, " and carried off three dress coats, half a dozen doublets, andnineteen pair of flesh-colored pantaloons. 

This was the "be all and the end all" of my fortune. I no longerhesitated what to do. Egad, thought I, since stealing is the order ofthe day, I'll steal too. So I secretly gathered together the jewels ofmy wardrobe; packed up a hero's dress in a handkerchief, slung it onthe end of a tragedy sword, and quietly stole off at dead ofnight--"the bell then beating one, "--leaving my queen and kingdom tothe mercy of my rebellious subjects, and my merciless foes, thebum-bailiffs. 

Such, sir, was the "end of all my greatness. " I was heartily cured ofAll passion for governing, and returned once more into the ranks. I hadfor some time the usual run of an actor's life. I played in variouscountry theatres, at fairs, and in barns; sometimes hard pushed;sometimes flush, until on one occasion I came within an ace of makingmy fortune, and becoming one of the wonders of the age. 

I was playing the part of Richard the Third in a country barn, andAbsolutely "out-Heroding Herod. " An agent of one of the great Londontheatres was present. He was on the lookout for something that might begot up as a prodigy. The theatre, it seems, was in desperatecondition--nothing but a miracle could save it. He pitched upon me forthat miracle. I had a remarkable bluster in my style, and swagger in mygait, and having taken to drink a little during my troubles, my voicewas somewhat cracked; so that it seemed like two voices run into one. The thought struck the agent to bring me out as a theatrical wonder; asthe restorer of natural and legitimate acting; as the only one whocould understand and act Shakespeare rightly. He waited upon me thenext morning, and opened his plan. I shrunk from it with becomingmodesty; for well as I thought of myself, I felt myself unworthy ofsuch praise. 

"'Sblood, man!" said he, "no praise at all. You don't imagine that Ithink you all this. I only want the public to think so. Nothing so easyas gulling the public if you only set up a prodigy. You need not try toact well, you must only act furiously. No matter what you do, or howyou act, so that it be but odd and strange. We will have all the pitpacked, and the newspapers hired. Whatever you do different from famousactors, it shall be insisted that you are right and they were wrong. Ifyou rant, it shall be pure passion; if you are vulgar, it shall be atouch of nature. Every one shall be prepared to fall into raptures, andshout and yell, at certain points which you shall make. If you do butescape pelting the first night, your fortune and the fortune of thetheatre is made. "

I set off for London, therefore, full of new hopes. I was to be therestorer of Shakespeare and nature, and the legitimate drama; my veryswagger was to be heroic, and my cracked voice the standard ofelocution. Alas, sir! my usual luck attended me. Before I arrived inthe metropolis, a rival wonder had appeared. A woman who could dancethe slack rope, and run up a cord from the stage to the gallery withfire-works all round her. She was seized on by the management withavidity; she was the saving of the great national theatre for theseason. Nothing was talked of but Madame Saqui's fire-works andflame-colored pantaloons; and nature, Shakespeare, the legitimatedrama, and poor Pillgarlick were completely left in the lurch. 

However, as the manager was in honor bound to provide for me, he kepthis word. It had been a turn-up of a die whether I should be Alexanderthe Great or Alexander the copper-smith; the latter carried it. I couldnot be put at the head of the drama, so I was put at the tail. In otherwords, I was enrolled among the number of what are called useful men;who, let me tell you, are the only comfortable actors on the stage. Weare safe from hisses and below the hope of applause. We fear not thesuccess of rivals, nor dread the critic's pen. So long as we get thewords of our parts, and they are not often many, it is all we care for. We have our own merriment, our own friends, and our own admirers; forevery actor has his friends and admirers, from the highest to thelowest. The first-rate actor dines with the noble amateur, andentertains a fashionable table with scraps and songs and theatricalslip-slop. The second-rate actors have their second-rate friends andadmirers, with whom they likewise spout tragedy and talk slip-slop; andso down even to us; who have our friends and admirers among spruceclerks and aspiring apprentices, who treat us to a dinner now and then, and enjoy at tenth hand the same scraps and songs and slip-slop thathave been served up by our more fortunate brethren at the tables of thegreat. 

I now, for the first time in my theatrical life, knew what truepleasure is. I have known enough of notoriety to pity the poor devilswho are called favorites of the public. I would rather be a kitten inthe arms of a spoiled child, to be one moment petted and pampered, andthe next moment thumped over the head with the spoon. I smile, too, tosee our leading actors, fretting themselves with envy and jealousyabout a trumpery renown, questionable in its quality and uncertain inits duration. I laugh, too, though of course in my sleeve, at thebustle and importance and trouble and perplexities of our manager, whois harassing himself to death in the hopeless effort to please everybody. 

I have found among my fellow subalterns two or three quondam managers, who, like myself, have wielded the sceptres of country theatres; and wehave many a sly joke together at the expense of the manager and thepublic. Sometimes, too, we meet like deposed and exiled kings, talkover the events of our respective reigns; moralize over a tankard ofale, and laugh at the humbug of the great and little world; which, Itake it, is the very essence of practical philosophy. 

Thus end the anecdotes of Buckthorne and his friends. A few morningsafter our hearing the history of the ex-manager, he bounced into myroom before I was out of bed. 

"Give me joy! give me joy!" said he, rubbing his hands with the utmostglee, "my great expectations are realized!"

I stared at him with a look of wonder and inquiry. "My booby cousin isdead!" cried he, "may he rest in peace! He nearly broke his neck in afall from his horse in a fox-chase. By good luck he lived long enoughto make his will. He has made me his heir, partly out of an odd feelingof retributive justice, and partly because, as he says, none of his ownfamily or friends know how to enjoy such an estate. I'm off to thecountry to take possession. I've done with authorship. --That for thecritics!" said he, snapping his fingers. "Come down to Doubting Castlewhen I get settled, and egad! I'll give you a rouse. " So saying heshook me heartily by the hand and bounded off in high spirits. 

A long time elapsed before I heard from him again. Indeed, it was but ashort time since that I received a letter written in the happiest ofmoods. He was getting the estate into fine order, everything went tohis wishes, and what was more, he was married to Sacharissa: who, itseems, had always entertained an ardent though secret attachment forhim, which he fortunately discovered just after coming to his estate. 

"I find, " said he, "you are a little given to the sin of authorshipwhich I renounce. If the anecdotes I have given you of my story are ofany interest, you may make use of them; but come down to DoubtingCastle and see how we live, and I'll give you my whole London life overa social glass; and a rattling history it shall be about authors andreviewers. "

If ever I visit Doubting Castle, and get the history he promises, thePublic shall be sure to hear of it. 

PART THIRD. 

THE ITALIAN BANDITTI. 

THE INN AT TERRACINA. 

Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!

"Here comes the estafette from Naples, " said mine host of the inn atTerracina, "bring out the relay. "

The estafette came as usual galloping up the road, brandishing over hishead a short-handled whip, with a long knotted lash; every smack ofwhich made a report like a pistol. He was a tight square-set youngfellow, in the customary uniform--a smart blue coat, ornamented withfacings and gold lace, but so short behind as to reach scarcely belowhis waistband, and cocked up not unlike the tail of a wren. A cockedhat, edged with gold lace; a pair of stiff riding boots; but instead ofthe usual leathern breeches he had a fragment of a pair of drawers thatscarcely furnished an apology for modesty to hide behind. 

The estafette galloped up to the door and jumped from his horse. 

"A glass of rosolio, a fresh horse, and a pair of breeches, " said he, "and quickly--I am behind my time, and must be off. "

"San Genaro!" replied the host, "why, where hast thou left thygarment?"

"Among the robbers between this and Fondi. "

"What! rob an estafette! I never heard of such folly. What could theyhope to get from thee?"

"My leather breeches!" replied the estafette. "They were bran new, andshone like gold, and hit the fancy of the captain. "

"Well, these fellows grow worse and worse. To meddle with an estafette!And that merely for the sake of a pair of leather breeches!"

The robbing of a government messenger seemed to strike the host withMore astonishment than any other enormity that had taken place on theroad; and indeed it was the first time so wanton an outrage had beencommitted; the robbers generally taking care not to meddle with anything belonging to government. 

The estafette was by this time equipped; for he had not lost an instantin making his preparations while talking. The relay was ready: therosolio tossed off. He grasped the reins and the stirrup. 

"Were there many robbers in the band?" said a handsome, dark young man, stepping forward from the door of the inn. 

"As formidable a band as ever I saw, " said the estafette, springinginto the saddle. 

"Are they cruel to travellers?" said a beautiful young Venetian lady, who had been hanging on the gentleman's arm. 

"Cruel, signora!" echoed the estafette, giving a glance at the lady ashe put spurs to his horse. "_Corpo del Bacco!_ they stiletto all themen, and as to the women--"

Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!--the last words were drowned in thesmacking of the whip, and away galloped the estafette along the road tothe Pontine marshes. 

"Holy Virgin!" ejaculated the fair Venetian, "what will become of us!"

The inn of Terracina stands just outside of the walls of the old townof that name, on the frontiers of the Roman territory. A little, lazy, Italian town, the inhabitants of which, apparently heedless andlistless, are said to be little better than the brigands which surroundthem, and indeed are half of them supposed to be in some way or otherconnected with the robbers. A vast, rocky height rises perpendicularlyabove it, with the ruins of the castle of Theodoric the Goth, crowningits summit; before it spreads the wide bosom of the Mediterranean, thatsea without flux or reflux. There seems an idle pause in every thingabout this place. The port is without a sail, excepting that once in awhile a solitary felucca may be seen, disgorging its holy cargo ofbaccala, the meagre provision for the Quaresima or Lent. The nakedwatch towers, rising here and there along the coast, speak of piratesand corsairs which hover about these shores: while the low huts, asstations for soldiers, which dot the distant road, as it winds throughan olive grove, intimate that in the ascent there is danger for thetraveller and facility for the bandit. 

Indeed, it is between this town and Fondi that the road to Naples isMostly infested by banditti. It winds among rocky and solitary places, where the robbers are enabled to see the traveller from a distance fromthe brows of hills or impending precipices, and to lie in wait for him, at the lonely and difficult passes. 

At the time that the estafette made this sudden appearance, almost in_cuerpo_, the audacity of the robbers had risen to an unparalleledheight. They had their spies and emissaries in every town, village, andosteria, to give them notice of the quality and movements oftravellers. They did not scruple to send messages into the countrytowns and villas, demanding certain sums of money, or articles of dressand luxury; with menaces of vengeance in case of refusal. They hadplundered carriages; carried people of rank and fortune into themountains and obliged them to write for heavy ransoms; and hadcommitted outrages on females who had fallen in their power. 

The police exerted its rigor in vain. The brigands were too numerousAnd powerful for a weak police. They were countenanced and cherished byseveral of the villages; and though now and then the limbs ofmalefactors hung blackening in the trees near which they had committedsome atrocity; or their heads stuck upon posts in iron cages made somedreary part of the road still more dreary, still they seemed to strikedismay into no bosom but that of the traveller. 

The dark, handsome young man; and the Venetian lady, whom I havementioned, had arrived early that afternoon in a private carriage, drawn by mules and attended by a single servant. They had been recentlymarried, were spending the honeymoon in travelling through thesedelicious countries, and were on their way to visit a rich aunt of theyoung lady's at Naples. 

The lady was young, and tender and timid. The stories she had heardalong the road had filled her with apprehension, not more for herselfthan for her husband; for though she had been married almost a month, she still loved him almost to idolatry. When she reached Terracina therumors of the road had increased to an alarming magnitude; and thesight of two robbers' skulls grinning in iron cages on each side of theold gateway of the town brought her to a pause. Her husband had triedin vain to reassure her. They had lingered all the afternoon at theinn, until it was too late to think of starting that evening, and theparting words of the estafette completed her affright. 

"Let us return to Rome, " said she, putting her arm within herhusband's, and drawing towards him as if for protection--"let us returnto Rome and give up this visit to Naples. "

"And give up the visit to your aunt, too, " said the husband. 

"Nay--what is my aunt in comparison with your safety, " said she, looking up tenderly in his face. 

There was something in her tone and manner that showed she really wasThinking more of her husband's safety at that moment than of her own;and being recently married, and a match of pure affection, too, it isvery possible that she was. At least her husband thought so. Indeed, any one who has heard the sweet, musical tone of a Venetian voice, andthe melting tenderness of a Venetian phrase, and felt the soft witcheryof a Venetian eye, would not wonder at the husband's believing whateverthey professed. 

He clasped the white hand that had been laid within his, put his armround her slender waist, and drawing her fondly to his bosom--"Thisnight at least, " said he, "we'll pass at Terracina. "

Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!

Another apparition of the road attracted the attention of mine host andhis guests. From the road across the Pontine marshes, a carriage drawnby half a dozen horses, came driving at a furious pace--the postillionssmacking their whips like mad, as is the case when conscious of thegreatness or the munificence of their fare. It was a landaulet, with aservant mounted on the dickey. The compact, highly finished, yetproudly simple construction of the carriage; the quantity of neat, well-arranged trunks and conveniences; the loads of box coats and upperbenjamins on the dickey--and the fresh, burly, gruff-looking face atthe window, proclaimed at once that it was the equipage of anEnglishman. 

"Fresh horses to Fondi, " said the Englishman, as the landlord camebowing to the carriage door. 

"Would not his Excellenza alight and take some refreshment?"

"No--he did not mean to eat until he got to Fondi!"

"But the horses will be some time in getting ready--"

"Ah. --that's always the case--nothing but delay in this cursedcountry. "

"If his Excellenza would only walk into the house--"

"No, no, no!--I tell you no!--I want nothing but horses, and as quickas possible. John! see that the horses are got ready, and don't let usbe kept here an hour or two. Tell him if we're delayed over the time, I'll lodge a complaint with the postmaster. "

John touched his hat, and set off to obey his master's orders, with thetaciturn obedience of an English servant. He was a ruddy, round-facedfellow, with hair cropped close; a short coat, drab breeches, and longgaiters; and appeared to have almost as much contempt as his master foreverything around him. 

In the mean time the Englishman got out of the carriage and walked upand down before the inn, with his hands in his pockets: taking nonotice of the crowd of idlers who were gazing at him and his equipage. He was tall, stout, and well made; dressed with neatness and precision, wore a travelling-cap of the color of gingerbread, and had rather anunhappy expression about the corners of his mouth; partly from nothaving yet made his dinner, and partly from not having been able to geton at a greater rate than seven miles an hour. Not that he had anyother cause for haste than an Englishman's usual hurry to get to theend of a journey; or, to use the regular phrase, "to get on. "

After some time the servant returned from the stable with as sour alook as his master. 

"Are the horses ready, John?"

"No, sir--I never saw such a place. There's no getting anything done. Ithink your honor had better step into the house and get something toeat; it will be a long while before we get to Fundy. "

"D--n the house--it's a mere trick--I'll not eat anything, just tospite them, " said the Englishman, still more crusty at the prospect ofbeing so long without his dinner. 

"They say your honor's very wrong, " said John, "to set off at this latehour. The road's full of highwaymen. "

"Mere tales to get custom. "

"The estafette which passed us was stopped by a whole gang, " said John, increasing his emphasis with each additional piece of information. 

"I don't believe a word of it. "

"They robbed him of his breeches, " said John, giving at the same time ahitch to his own waist-band. 

"All humbug!"

Here the dark, handsome young man stepped forward and addressing theEnglishman very politely in broken English, invited him to partake of arepast he was about to make. "Thank'ee, " said the Englishman, thrustinghis hands deeper into his pockets, and casting a slight side glance ofsuspicion at the young man, as if he thought from his civility he musthave a design upon his purse. 

"We shall be most happy if you will do us that favor, " said the lady, in her soft Venetian dialect. There was a sweetness in her accents thatwas most persuasive. The Englishman cast a look upon her countenance;her beauty was still more eloquent. His features instantly relaxed. Hemade an attempt at a civil bow. "With great pleasure, signora, " saidhe. 

In short, the eagerness to "get on" was suddenly slackened; thedetermination to famish himself as far as Fondi by way of punishing thelandlord was abandoned; John chose the best apartment in the inn forhis master's reception, and preparations were made to remain thereuntil morning. 

The carriage was unpacked of such of its contents as were indispensablefor the night. There was the usual parade of trunks and writing-desks, and portfolios, and dressing-boxes, and those other oppressiveconveniences which burden a comfortable man. The observant loiterersabout the inn door, wrapped up in great dirt-colored cloaks, with onlya hawk's eye uncovered, made many remarks to each other on thisquantity of luggage that seemed enough for an army. And the domesticsof the inn talked with wonder of the splendid dressing-case, with itsgold and silver furniture that was spread out on the toilette table, and the bag of gold that chinked as it was taken out of the trunk. Thestrange "Milor's" wealth, and the treasures he carried about him, werethe talk, that evening, over all Terracina. 

The Englishman took some time to make his ablutions and arrange hisdress for table, and after considerable labor and effort in puttinghimself at his ease, made his appearance, with stiff white cravat, hisclothes free from the least speck of dust, and adjusted with precision. He made a formal bow on entering, which no doubt he meant to becordial, but which any one else would have considered cool, and tookhis seat. 

The supper, as it was termed by the Italian, or dinner, as theEnglishman called it, was now served. Heaven and earth, and the watersunder the earth, had been moved to furnish it, for there were birds ofthe air and beasts of the earth and fish of the sea. The Englishman'sservant, too, had turned the kitchen topsy-turvy in his zeal to cookhis master a beefsteak; and made his appearance loaded with ketchup, and soy, and Cayenne pepper, and Harvey sauce, and a bottle of portwine, from that warehouse, the carriage, in which his master seemeddesirous of carrying England about the world with him. Every thing, however, according to the Englishman, was execrable. The tureen of soupwas a black sea, with livers and limbs and fragments of all kinds ofbirds and beasts, floating like wrecks about it. A meagre wingedanimal, which my host called a delicate chicken, was too delicate forhis stomach, for it had evidently died of a consumption. The macaroniwas smoked. The beefsteak was tough buffalo's flesh, and thecountenance of mine host confirmed the assertion. Nothing seemed to hithis palate but a dish of stewed eels, of which he ate with greatrelish, but had nearly refunded them when told that they were vipers, caught among the rocks of Terracina, and esteemed a great delicacy. 

In short, the Englishman ate and growled, and ate and growled, like acat eating in company, pronouncing himself poisoned by every dish, yeteating on in defiance of death and the doctor. The Venetian lady, notaccustomed to English travellers, almost repented having persuaded himto the meal; for though very gracious to her, he was so crusty to allthe world beside, that she stood in awe of him. There is nothing, however, that conquers John Bull's crustiness sooner than eating, whatever may be the cookery; and nothing brings him into good humorwith his company sooner than eating together; the Englishman, therefore, had not half finished his repast and his bottle, before hebegan to think the Venetian a very tolerable fellow for a foreigner, and his wife almost handsome enough to be an Englishwoman. 

In the course of the repast the tales of robbers which harassed themind of the fair Venetian, were brought into discussion. The landlordand the waiter served up such a number of them as they served up thedishes, that they almost frightened away the poor lady's appetite. Among these was the story of the school of Terracina, still fresh inevery mind, where the students were carried up the mountains by thebanditti, in hopes of ransom, and one of them massacred, to bring theparents to terms for the others. There was a story also of a gentlemanof Rome, who delayed remitting the ransom demanded for his son, detained by the banditti, and received one of his son's ears in aletter with information that the other would be remitted to him soon, if the money were not forthcoming, and that in this way he wouldreceive the boy by instalments until he came to terms. 

The fair Venetian shuddered as she heard these tales. The landlord, like a true story-teller, doubled the dose when he saw how it operated. He was just proceeding to relate the misfortunes of a great Englishlord and his family, when the Englishman, tired of his volubility, testily interrupted him, and pronounced these accounts mere traveller'stales, or the exaggerations of peasants and innkeepers. The landlordwas indignant at the doubt levelled at his stories, and the innuendolevelled at his cloth; he cited half a dozen stories still moreterrible, to corroborate those he had already told. 

"I don't believe a word of them, " said the Englishman. 

"But the robbers had been tried and executed. "

"All a farce!"

"But their heads were stuck up along the road. "

"Old skulls accumulated during a century. "

The landlord muttered to himself as he went out at the door, "SanGenaro, come sono singolari questi Inglesi. "

A fresh hubbub outside of the inn announced the arrival of moretravellers; and from the variety of voices, or rather clamors, theclattering of horses' hoofs, the rattling of wheels, and the generaluproar both within and without, the arrival seemed to be numerous. Itwas, in fact, the procaccio, and its convoy--a kind of caravan ofmerchandise, that sets out on stated days, under an escort of soldieryto protect it from the robbers. Travellers avail themselves of theoccasion, and many carriages accompany the procaccio. It was a longtime before either landlord or waiter returned, being hurried away bythe tempest of new custom. When mine host appeared, there was a smileof triumph on his countenance. --"Perhaps, " said he, as he cleared awaythe table, "perhaps the signor has not heard of what has happened. "

"What?" said the Englishman, drily. 

"Oh, the procaccio has arrived, and has brought accounts of freshexploits of the robbers, signor. "

"Pish!"

"There's more news of the English Milor and his family, " said the host, emphatically. 

"An English lord. -What English lord?"

"Milor Popkin. "

"Lord Popkin? I never heard of such a title!"

"_O Sicuro_--a great nobleman that passed through here lately with hisMilady and daughters--a magnifico--one of the grand councillors ofLondon--un almanno. "

"Almanno--almanno?--tut! he means alderman. "

"Sicuro, aldermanno Popkin, and the principezza Popkin, and the signorinaPopkin!" said mine host, triumphantly. He would now have entered into afull detail, but was thwarted by the Englishman, who seemed determinednot to credit or indulge him in his stories. An Italian tongue, however, is not easily checked: that of mine host continued to run onwith increasing volubility as he conveyed the fragments of the repastout of the room, and the last that could be distinguished of his voice, as it died away along the corridor, was the constant recurrence of thefavorite word Popkin--Popkin--Popkin--pop--pop--pop. 

The arrival of the procaccio had indeed filled the house with storiesas it had with guests. The Englishman and his companions walked outafter supper into the great hall, or common room of the inn, which runsthrough the centre building; a gloomy, dirty-looking apartment, withtables placed in various parts of it, at which some of the travellerswere seated in groups, while others strolled about in famishedimpatience for their evening's meal. As the procaccio was a kind ofcaravan of travellers, there were people of every class and country, who had come in all kinds of vehicles; and though they kept in somemeasure in separate parties, yet the being united under one commonescort had jumbled them into companionship on the road. Theirformidable number and the formidable guard that accompanied them, hadprevented any molestation from the banditti; but every carriage had itstale of wonder, and one vied with another in the recital. Not one buthad seen groups of robbers peering over the rocks; or their gunspeeping out from among the bushes, or had been reconnoitred by somesuspicious-looking fellow with scowling eye, who disappeared on seeingthe guard. 

The fair Venetian listened to all these stories with that eagercuriosity with which we seek to pamper any feeling of alarm. Even theEnglishman began to feel interested in the subject, and desirous ofgaining more correct information than these mere flying reports. 

He mingled in one of the groups which appeared to be the mostrespectable, and which was assembled round a tall, thin person, withlong Roman nose, a high forehead, and lively prominent eye, beamingfrom under a green velvet travelling-cap with gold tassel. He washolding forth with all the fluency of a man who talks well and likes toexert his talent. He was of Rome; a surgeon by profession, a poet bychoice, and one who was something of an improvvisatore. He soon gavethe Englishman abundance of information respecting the banditti. 

"The fact is, " said he, "that many of the people in the villages amongthe mountains are robbers, or rather the robbers find perfect asylumamong them. They range over a vast extent of wild impracticablecountry, along the chain of Apennines, bordering on different states;they know all the difficult passes, the short cuts and strong-holds. They are secure of the good-will of the poor and peaceful inhabitantsof those regions, whom they never disturb, and whom they often enrich. Indeed, they are looked upon as a sort of illegitimate heroes among themountain villages, and some of the frontier towns, where they disposeof their plunder. From these mountains they keep a look-out upon theplains and valleys, and meditate their descents. "

"The road to Fondi, which you are about to travel, is one of the placesmost noted for their exploits. It is overlooked from some distance bylittle hamlets, perched upon heights. From hence, the brigands, likehawks in their nests, keep on the watch for such travellers as arelikely to afford either booty or ransom. The windings of the roadenable them to see carriages long before they pass, so that they havetime to get to some advantageous lurking-place from whence to pounceupon their prey. "

"But why does not the police interfere and root them out?" said theEnglishman. 

"The police is too weak and the banditti are too strong, " replied theimprovvisatore. "To root them out would be a more difficult task thanyou imagine. They are connected and identified with the people of thevillages and the peasantry generally; the numerous bands have anunderstanding with each other, and with people of various conditions inall parts of the country. They know all that is going on; a _gensd'armes_ cannot stir without their being aware of it. They have theirspies and emissaries in every direction; they lurk about towns, villages, inns, --mingle in every crowd, pervade every place of resort. I should not be surprised, " said he, "if some one should be supervisingus at this moment. "

The fair Venetian looked round fearfully and turned pale. 

"One peculiarity of the Italian banditti" continued the improvvisatore, "is that they wear a kind of uniform, or rather costume, whichdesignates their profession. This is probably done to take away fromits skulking lawless character, and to give it something of a militaryair in the eyes of the common people; or perhaps to catch by outwarddash and show the fancies of the young men of the villages. Thesedresses or costumes are often rich and fanciful. Some wear jackets andbreeches of bright colors, richly embroidered; broad belts of cloth; orsashes of silk net; broad, high-crowned hats, decorated with feathersof variously-colored ribbands, and silk nets for the hair. 

"Many of the robbers are peasants who follow ordinary occupations inthe villages for a part of the year, and take to the mountains for therest. Some only go out for a season, as it were, on a huntingexpedition, and then resume the dress and habits of common life. Manyof the young men of the villages take to this kind of life occasionallyfrom a mere love of adventure, the wild wandering spirit of youth andthe contagion of bad example; but it is remarked that they can neverafter brook a long continuance in settled life. They get fond of theunbounded freedom and rude license they enjoy; and there is somethingin this wild mountain life checquered by adventure and peril, that iswonderfully fascinating, independent of the gratification of cupidityby the plunder of the wealthy traveller. "

Here the improvvisatore was interrupted by a lively Neapolitan lawyer. "Your mention of the younger robbers, " said he, "puts me in mind of anadventure of a learned doctor, a friend of mine, which happened in thisvery neighborhood. "

A wish was of course expressed to hear the adventure of the doctor byall except the improvvisatore, who, being fond of talking and ofhearing himself talk, and accustomed moreover to harangue withoutinterruption, looked rather annoyed at being checked when in fullcareer. 

The Neapolitan, however, took no notice of his chagrin, but related Thefollowing anecdote. 

THE ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY. 

My friend the doctor was a thorough antiquary: a little, rusty, mustyOld fellow, always groping among ruins. He relished a building as youEnglishmen relish a cheese, the more mouldy and crumbling it was, themore it was to his taste. A shell of an old nameless temple, or thecracked walls of a broken-down amphitheatre, would throw him intoraptures; and he took more delight in these crusts and cheese paringsof antiquity than in the best-conditioned, modern edifice. 

He had taken a maggot into his brain at one time to hunt after theAncient cities of the Pelasgi which are said to exist to this day amongthe mountains of the Abruzzi; but the condition of which is strangelyunknown to the antiquaries. It is said that he had made a great manyvaluable notes and memorandums on the subject, which he always carriedabout with him, either for the purpose of frequent reference, orbecause he feared the precious documents might fall into the hands ofbrother antiquaries. He had therefore a large pocket behind, in whichhe carried them, banging against his rear as he walked. 

Be this as it may; happening to pass a few days at Terracina, in thecourse of his researches, he one day mounted the rocky cliffs whichoverhang the town, to visit the castle of Theodoric. He was gropingabout these ruins, towards the hour of sunset, buried in hisreflections, --his wits no doubt wool-gathering among the Goths andRomans, when he heard footsteps behind him. 

He turned and beheld five or six young fellows, of rough, saucydemeanor, clad in a singular manner, half peasant, half huntsman, withfusils in their hands. Their whole appearance and carriage left him inno doubt into what company he had fallen. 

The doctor was a feeble little man poor, in look and poorer in purse. He had but little money in his pocket; but he had certain valuables, such as an old silver watch, thick as a turnip, with figures on itlarge enough for a clock, and a set of seals at the end of a steelchain, that dangled half down to his knees; all which were of preciousesteem, being family reliques. He had also a seal ring, a veritableantique intaglio, that covered half his knuckles; but what he mostvalued was, the precious treatise on the Pelasgian cities, which, hewould gladly have given all the money in his pocket to have had safe atthe bottom of his trunk in Terracina. 

However, he plucked up a stout heart; at least as stout a heart as hecould, seeing that he was but a puny little man at the hest of times. So he wished the hunters a "buon giorno. " They returned his salutation, giving the old gentleman a sociable slap on the back that made hisheart leap into his throat. 

They fell into conversation, and walked for some time together amongThe heights, the doctor wishing them all the while at the bottom of thecrater of Vesuvius. At length they came to a small osteria on themountain, where they proposed to enter and have a cup of wine together. The doctor consented; though he would as soon have been invited todrink hemlock. 

One of the gang remained sentinel at the door; the others swaggeredinto the house; stood their fusils in a corner of the room; and eachdrawing a pistol or stiletto out of his belt, laid it, with someemphasis, on the table. They now called lustily for wine; drew benchesround the table, and hailing the doctor as though he had been a booncompanion of long standing, insisted upon his sitting down and makingmerry. He complied with forced grimace, but with fear and trembling;sitting on the edge of his bench; supping down heartburn with everydrop of liquor; eyeing ruefully the black muzzled pistols, and cold, naked stilettos. They pushed the bottle bravely, and plied himvigorously; sang, laughed, told excellent stories of robberies andcombats, and the little doctor was fain to laugh at these cut-throatpleasantries, though his heart was dying away at the very bottom of hisbosom. 

By their own account they were young men from the villages, who hadRecently taken up this line of life in the mere wild caprice of youth. They talked of their exploits as a sportsman talks of his amusements. To shoot down a traveller seemed of little more consequence to themthan to shoot a hare. They spoke with rapture of the glorious rovinglife they led; free as birds; here to-day, gone to-morrow; ranging theforests, climbing the rocks, scouring the valleys; the world their ownwherever they could lay hold of it; full purses, merry companions;pretty women. --The little antiquary got fuddled with their talk andtheir wine, for they did not spare bumpers. He half forgot his fears, his seal ring, and his family watch; even the treatise on the Pelasgiancities which was warming under him, for a time faded from his memory, in the glowing picture which they drew. He declares that he no longerwonders at the prevalence of this robber mania among the mountains; forhe felt at the time, that had he been a young man and a strong man, andhad there been no danger of the galleys in the background, he shouldhave been half tempted himself to turn bandit. 

At length the fearful hour of separating arrived. The doctor wassuddenly called to himself and his fears, by seeing the robbers resumetheir weapons. He now quaked for his valuables, and above all for hisantiquarian treatise. He endeavored, however, to look cool andunconcerned; and drew from out of his deep pocket a long, lank, leathern purse, far gone in consumption, at the bottom of which a fewcoin chinked with the trembling of his hand. 

The chief of the party observed this movement; and laying his hand uponthe antiquary's shoulder--"Harkee! Signor Dottore!" said he, "we havedrank together as friends and comrades, let us part as such. Weunderstand you; we know who and what you are; for we know who everybody is that sleeps at Terracina, or that puts foot upon the road. Youare a rich man, but you carry all your wealth in your head. We can'tget at it, and we should not know what to do with it, if we could. Isee you are uneasy about your ring; but don't worry your mind; it isnot worth taking; you think it an antique, but it's a counterfeit--amere sham. "

Here the doctor would have put in a word, for his antiquarian pride wastouched. 

"Nay, nay, " continued the other, "we've no time to dispute about it. Value it as you please. Come, you are a brave little old signor--onemore cup of wine and we'll pay the reckoning. No compliments--I insiston it. So--now make the best of your way back to Terracina; it'sgrowing late--buono viaggio!--and harkee, take care how you wanderamong these mountains. "

They shouldered their fusils, sprang gaily up the rocks, and the littledoctor hobbled back to Terracina, rejoicing that the robbers had lethis seal ring, his watch, and his treatise escape unmolested, thoughrather nettled that they should have pronounced his veritable intaglioa counterfeit. 

The improvvisatore had shown many symptoms of impatience during thisrecital. He saw his theme in danger of being taken out of his hands bya rival story-teller, which to an able talker is always a seriousgrievance; it was also in danger of being taken away by a Neapolitan, and that was still more vexatious; as the members of the differentItalian states have an incessant jealousy of each other in all things, great and small. He took advantage of the first pause of the Neapolitanto catch hold again of the thread of the conversation. 

"As I was saying, " resumed he, "the prevalence of these banditti is soextensive; their power so combined and interwoven with other ranks ofsociety--"

"For that matter, " said the Neapolitan, "I have heard that yourgovernment has had some understanding with these gentry, or at leastwinked at them. "

"My government?" said the Roman, impatiently. 

"Aye--they say that Cardinal Gonsalvi--"

"Hush!" said the Roman, holding up his finger, and rolling his largeeyes about the room. 

"Nay-I only repeat what I heard commonly rumored in Rome, " replied theother, sturdily. "It was whispered that the Cardinal had been up to themountain, and had an interview with some of the chiefs. And I have beentold that when honest people have been kicking their heels in theCardinal's anti-chamber, waiting by the hour for admittance, one ofthese stiletto-looking fellows has elbowed his way through the crowd, and entered without ceremony into the Cardinal's presence. 

"I know, " replied the Roman, "that there have been such reports; and itis not impossible that government may have made use of these men atparticular periods, such as at the time of your abortive revolution, when your carbonari were so busy with their machinations all over thecountry. The information that men like these could collect, who werefamiliar, not merely with all the recesses and secret places of themountains, but also with all the dark and dangerous recesses ofsociety, and knew all that was plotting in the world of mischief; theutility of such instruments in the hands of government was too obviousto be overlooked, and Cardinal Gonsalvi as a politic statesman, may, perhaps, have made use of them; for it is well known the robbers, withall their atrocities, are respectful towards the church, and devout intheir religion. "

"Religion!--religion?" echoed the Englishman. 

"Yes--religion!" repeated the improvvisatore. "Scarce one of them butwill cross himself and say his prayers when he hears in his mountainfastness the matin or the _ave maria_ bells sounding from the valleys. They will often confess themselves to the village priests, to obtainabsolution; and occasionally visit the village churches to pray at somefavorite shrine. I recollect an instance in point: I was one evening inthe village of Frescati, which lies below the mountains of Abruzzi. Thepeople, as usual in fine evenings in our Italian towns and villages, were standing about in groups in the public square, conversing andamusing themselves. I observed a tall, muscular fellow, wrapped in agreat mantle, passing across the square, but skulking along in thedark, as if avoiding notice. The people, too, seemed to draw back as hepassed. It was whispered to me that he was a notorious bandit. "

"But why was he not immediately seized?" said the Englishman. 

"Because it was nobody's business; because nobody wished to incur thevengeance of his comrades; because there were not sufficient _gensd'armes_ near to insure security against the numbers of desperadoes hemight have at hand; because the _gens d'armes_ might not have receivedparticular instructions with respect to him, and might not feeldisposed to engage in the hazardous conflict without compulsion. Inshort, I might give you a thousand reasons, rising out of the state ofour government and manners, not one of which after all might appearsatisfactory. "

The Englishman shrugged his shoulders with an air of contempt. 

"I have been told, " added the Roman, rather quickly, "that even in yourmetropolis of London, notorious thieves, well known to the police assuch, walk the streets at noon-day, in search of their prey, and arenot molested unless caught in the very act of robbery. "

The Englishman gave another shrug, but with a different expression. 

"Well, sir, I fixed my eye on this daring wolf thus prowling throughthe fold, and saw him enter a church. I was curious to witness hisdevotions. You know our spacious, magnificent churches. The one inwhich he entered was vast and shrouded in the dusk of evening. At theextremity of the long aisles a couple of tapers feebly glimmered on thegrand altar. In one of the side chapels was a votive candle placedbefore the image of a saint. Before this image the robber hadprostrated himself. His mantle partly falling off from his shoulders ashe knelt, revealed a form of Herculean strength; a stiletto and pistolglittered in his belt, and the light falling on his countenance showedfeatures not unhandsome, but strongly and fiercely charactered. As heprayed he became vehemently agitated; his lips quivered; sighs andmurmurs, almost groans burst from him; he beat his breast withviolence, then clasped his hands and wrung them convulsively as heextended them towards the image. Never had I seen such a terrificpicture of remorse. I felt fearful of being discovered by him, andwithdrew. Shortly after I saw him issue from the church wrapped in hismantle; he recrossed the square, and no doubt returned to his mountainwith disburthened conscience, ready to incur a fresh arrear of crime. "

The conversation was here taken up by two other travellers, recentlyarrived, Mr. Hobbs and Mr. Dobbs, a linen-draper and a green-grocer, just returning from a tour in Greece and the Holy Land: and who werefull of the story of Alderman Popkins. They were astonished that therobbers should dare to molest a man of his importance on 'change; hebeing an eminent dry-salter of Throgmorton street, and a magistrate toboot. 

In fact, the story of the Popkins family was but too true; it wasattested by too many present to be for a moment doubted; and from thecontradictory and concordant testimony of half a score, all eager torelate it, the company were enabled to make out all the particulars. 

THE ADVENTURE OF THE POPKINS FAMILY. 

It was but a few days before that the carriage of Alderman Popkins haddriven up to the inn of Terracina. Those who have seen an Englishfamily carriage on the continent, must know the sensation it produces. It is an epitome of England; a little morsel of the old island rollingabout the world--every thing so compact, so snug, so finished andfitting. The wheels that roll on patent axles without rattling; thebody that hangs so well on its springs, yielding to every motion, yetproof against every shock. The ruddy faces gaping out of the windows;sometimes of a portly old citizen, sometimes of a voluminous dowager, and sometimes of a fine fresh hoyden, just from boarding school. Andthen the dickeys loaded with well-dressed servants, beef-fed and bluff;looking down from their heights with contempt on all the world around;profoundly ignorant of the country and the people, and devoutly certainthat every thing not English must be wrong. 

Such was the carriage of Alderman Popkins, as it made its appearance atTerracina. The courier who had preceded it, to order horses, and whowas a Neapolitan, had given a magnificent account of the riches andgreatness of his master, blundering with all an Italian's splendor ofimagination about the alderman's titles and dignities; the host hadadded his usual share of exaggeration, so that by the time the aldermandrove up to the door, he was Milor--Magnifico--Principe--the Lord knowswhat!

The alderman was advised to take an escort to Fondi and Itri, but herefused. It was as much as a man's life was worth, he said, to stop himon the king's highway; he would complain of it to the ambassador atNaples; he would make a national affair of it. The principezza Popkins, a fresh, motherly dame, seemed perfectly secure in the protection ofher husband, so omnipotent a man in the city. The signorini Popkins, two fine bouncing girls, looked to their brother Tom, who had takenlessons in boxing; and as to the dandy himself, he was sure noscaramouch of an Italian robber would dare to meddle with anEnglishman. The landlord shrugged his shoulders and turned out thepalms of his hands with a true Italian grimace, and the carriage ofMilor Popkins rolled on. 

They passed through several very suspicious places without anymolestation. The Misses Popkins, who were very romantic, and had learntto draw in water colors, were enchanted with the savage scenery around;it was so like what they had read in Mrs. Radcliffe's romances, theyshould like of all things to make sketches. At length, the carriagearrived at a place where the road wound up a long hill. Mrs. Popkinshad sunk into a sleep; the young ladies were reading the last works ofSir Walter Scott and Lord Byron, and the dandy was hectoring thepostilions from the coach box. The Alderman got out, as he said, tostretch his legs up the hill. It was a long winding ascent, and obligedhim every now and then to stop and blow and wipe his forehead with manya pish! and phew! being rather pursy and short of wind. As thecarriage, however, was far behind him, and toiling slowly under theweight of so many well-stuffed trunks and well-stuffed travellers, hehad plenty of time to walk at leisure. 

On a jutting point of rock that overhung the road nearly at the summitof the hill, just where the route began again to descend, he saw asolitary man seated, who appeared to be tending goats. Alderman Popkinswas one of your shrewd travellers that always like to be picking upsmall information along the road, so he thought he'd just scramble upto the honest man, and have a little talk with him by way of learningthe news and getting a lesson in Italian. As he drew near to thepeasant he did not half like his looks. He was partly reclining on therocks wrapped in the usual long mantle, which, with his slouched hat, only left a part of a swarthy visage, with a keen black eye, a beetlebrow, and a fierce moustache to be seen. He had whistled several timesto his dog which was roving about the side of the hill. As the Aldermanapproached he rose and greeted him. When standing erect he seemedalmost gigantic, at least in the eyes of Alderman Popkins; who, however, being a short man, might be deceived. 

The latter would gladly now have been back in the carriage, or even on'change in London, for he was by no means well pleased with hiscompany. However, he determined to put the best face on matters, andwas beginning a conversation about the state of the weather, thebaddishness of the crops, and the price of goats in that part of thecountry, when he heard a violent screaming. He ran to the edge of therock, and, looking over, saw away down the road his carriage surroundedby robbers. One held down the fat footman, another had the dandy by hisstarched cravat, with a pistol to his head; one was rummaging aportmanteau, another rummaging the principezza's pockets, while the twoMisses Popkins were screaming from each window of the carriage, andtheir waiting maid squalling from the dickey. 

Alderman Popkins felt all the fury of the parent and the magistrateRoused within him. He grasped his cane and was on the point ofscrambling down the rocks, either to assault the robbers or to read theriot act, when he was suddenly grasped by the arm. It was by his friendthe goatherd, whose cloak, falling partly off, discovered a belt stuckfull of pistols and stilettos. In short, he found himself in theclutches of the captain of the band, who had stationed himself on therock to look out for travellers and to give notice to his men. 

A sad ransacking took place. Trunks were turned inside out, and all thefinery and the frippery of the Popkins family scattered about the road. Such a chaos of Venice beads and Roman mosaics; and Paris bonnets ofthe young ladies, mingled with the alderman's night-caps and lamb'swool stockings, and the dandy's hair-brushes, stays, and starchedcravats. 

The gentlemen were eased of their purses and their watches; the ladiesof their jewels, and the whole party were on the point of being carriedup into the mountain, when fortunately the appearance of soldiery at adistance obliged the robbers to make off with the spoils they hadsecured, and leave the Popkins family to gather together the remnantsof their effects, and make the best of their way to Fondi. 

When safe arrived, the alderman made a terrible blustering at the inn;threatened to complain to the ambassador at Naples, and was ready toshake his cane at the whole country. The dandy had many stories to tellof his scuffles with the brigands, who overpowered him merely bynumbers. As to the Misses Popkins, they were quite delighted with theadventure, and were occupied the whole evening in writing it in theirjournals. They declared the captain of the band to be a mostromantic-looking man; they dared to say some unfortunate lover, orexiled nobleman: and several of the band to be very handsome youngmen--"quite picturesque!"

"In verity, " said mine host of Terracina, "they say the captain of theband is _un galant uomo_. "

"A gallant man!" said the Englishman. "I'd have your gallant man hang'dlike a dog!"

"To dare to meddle with Englishmen!" said Mr. Hobbs. 

"And such a family as the Popkinses!" said Mr. Dobbs. 

"They ought to come upon the country for damages!" said Mr. Hobbs. 

"Our ambassador should make a complaint to the government of Naples, "said Mr. Dobbs. 

"They should be requested to drive these rascals out of the country, "said Hobbs. 

"If they did not, we should declare war against them!" said Dobbs. 

The Englishman was a little wearied by this story, and by the ultrazeal of his countrymen, and was glad when a summons to their supperrelieved him from a crowd of travellers. He walked out with hisVenetian friends and a young Frenchman of an interesting demeanor, whohad become sociable with them in the course of the conversation. Theydirected their steps toward the sea, which was lit up by the risingmoon. The Venetian, out of politeness, left his beautiful wife to beescorted by the Englishman. The latter, however, either from shyness orreserve, did not avail himself of the civility, but walked on withoutoffering his arm. The fair Venetian, with all her devotion to herhusband, was a little nettled at a want of gallantry to which hercharms had rendered her unaccustomed, and took the proffered arm of theFrenchman with a pretty air of pique, which, however, was entirely lostupon the phlegmatic delinquent. 

Not far distant from the inn they came to where there was a body ofsoldiers on the beach, encircling and guarding a number of galleyslaves, who were permitted to refresh themselves in the evening breeze, and to sport and roll upon the sand. 

"It was difficult, " the Frenchman observed, "to conceive a morefrightful mass of crime than was here collected. The parricide, thefratricide, the infanticide, who had first fled from justice and turnedmountain bandit, and then, by betraying his brother desperadoes, hadbought a commutation of punishment, and the privilege of wallowing onthe shore for an hour a day, with this wretched crew of miscreants!"

The remark of the Frenchman had a strong effect upon the company, particularly upon the Venetian lady, who shuddered as she cast a timidlook at this horde of wretches at their evening relaxation. "Theyseemed, " she said, "like so many serpents, wreathing and twistingtogether. "

The Frenchman now adverted to the stories they had been listening to atthe inn, adding, that if they had any further curiosity on the subject, he could recount an adventure which happened to himself among therobbers and which might give them some idea of the habits and mannersof those beings. There was an air of modesty and frankness about theFrenchman which had gained the good-will of the whole party, not evenexcepting the Englishman. They all gladly accepted his proposition; andas they strolled slowly up and down the seashore, he related thefollowing adventure. 

THE PAINTER'S ADVENTURE. 

I am an historical painter by profession, and resided for some time inthe family of a foreign prince, at his villa, about fifteen miles fromRome, among some of the most interesting scenery of Italy. It issituated on the heights of ancient Tusculum. In its neighborhood arethe ruins of the villas of Cicero, Sulla, Lucullus, Rufinus, and otherillustrious Romans, who sought refuge here occasionally, from theirtoils, in the bosom of a soft and luxurious repose. From the midst ofdelightful bowers, refreshed by the pure mountain breeze, the eye looksover a romantic landscape full of poetical and historical associations. The Albanian mountains, Tivoli, once the favorite residence of Horaceand Maecenas; the vast deserted Campagna with the Tiber running throughit, and St. Peter's dome swelling in the midst, the monument--as itwere, over the grave of ancient Rome. 

I assisted the prince in the researches he was making among the classicruins of his vicinity. His exertions were highly successful. Manywrecks of admirable statues and fragments of exquisite sculpture weredug up; monuments of the taste and magnificence that reigned in theancient Tusculan abodes. He had studded his villa and its grounds withstatues, relievos, vases, and sarcophagi; thus retrieved from the bosomof the earth. 

The mode of life pursued at the villa was delightfully serene, diversified by interesting occupations and elegant leisure. Every onepassed the day according to his pleasure or occupation; and we allassembled in a cheerful dinner party at sunset. It was on the fourth ofNovember, a beautiful serene day, that we had assembled in the saloonat the sound of the first dinner-bell. The family were surprised at theabsence of the prince's confessor. They waited for him in vain, and atlength placed themselves at table. They first attributed his absence tohis having prolonged his customary walk; and the first part of thedinner passed without any uneasiness. When the dessert was served, however, without his making his appearance, they began to feel anxious. They feared he might have been taken ill in some alley of the woods;or, that he might have fallen into the hands of robbers. At theinterval of a small valley rose the mountains of the Abruzzi, thestrong-hold of banditti. Indeed, the neighborhood had, for some time, been infested by them; and Barbone, a notorious bandit chief, had oftenbeen met prowling about the solitudes of Tusculum. The daringenterprises of these ruffians were well known; the objects of theircupidity or vengeance were insecure even in palaces. As yet they hadrespected the possessions of the prince; but the idea of such dangerousspirits hovering about the neighbourhood was sufficient to occasionalarm. 

The fears of the company increased as evening closed in. The princeordered out forest guards, and domestics with flambeaux to search forthe confessor. They had not departed long, when a slight noise washeard in the corridor of the ground floor. The family were dining onthe first floor, and the remaining domestics were occupied inattendance. There was no one on the ground floor at this moment but thehouse keeper, the laundress, and three field laborers, who were restingthemselves, and conversing with the women. 

I heard the noise from below, and presuming it to be occasioned by thereturn of the absentee, I left the table, and hastened down stairs, eager to gain intelligence that might relieve the anxiety of the princeand princess. I had scarcely reached the last step, when I beheldbefore me a man dressed as a bandit; a carbine in his hand, and astiletto and pistols in his belt. His countenance had a mingledexpression of ferocity and trepidation. He sprang upon me, andexclaimed exultingly, "Ecco il principe!"

I saw at once into what hands I had fallen, but endeavored to summon upcoolness and presence of mind. A glance towards the lower end of thecorridor showed me several ruffians, clothed and armed in the samemanner with the one who had seized me. They were guarding the twofemales and the field laborers. The robber, who held me firmly by thecollar, demanded repeatedly whether or not I were the prince. Hisobject evidently was to carry off the prince, and extort an immenseransom. He was enraged at receiving none but vague replies; for I feltthe importance of misleading him. 

A sudden thought struck me how I might extricate myself from hisclutches. I was unarmed, it is true, but I was vigorous. His companionswere at a distance. By a sudden exertion I might wrest myself from himand spring up the staircase, whither he would not dare to follow mesingly. The idea was put in execution as soon as conceived. Theruffian's throat was bare: with my right hand I seized him by it, justbetween the mastoides; with my left hand I grasped the arm which heldthe carbine. The suddenness of my attack took him completely unawares;and the strangling nature of my grasp paralyzed him. He choked andfaltered. I felt his hand relaxing its hold, and was on the point ofjerking myself away and darting up the staircase before he couldrecover himself, when I was suddenly seized by some one from behind. 

I had to let go my grasp. The bandit, once more released, fell upon mewith fury, and gave me several blows with the butt end of his carbine, one of which wounded me severely in the forehead, and covered me withblood. He took advantage of my being stunned to rifle me of my watchand whatever valuables I had about my person. 

When I recovered from the effects of the blow, I heard the voice of thechief of the banditti, who exclaimed "Quello e il principe, siamocontente, audiamo!" (It is the prince, enough, let us be off. ) The bandimmediately closed round me and dragged me out of the palace, bearingoff the three laborers likewise. 

I had no hat on, and the blood was flowing from my wound; I managed tostaunch it, however, with my pocket-handkerchief, which I bound roundmy forehead. The captain of the band conducted me in triumph, supposingme to be the prince. We had gone some distance before he learnt hismistake from one of the laborers. His rage was terrible. It was toolate to return to the villa and endeavor to retrieve his error, for bythis time the alarm must have been given, and every one in arms. Hedarted at me a furious look; swore I had deceived him, and caused himto miss his fortune; and told me to prepare for death. The rest of therobbers were equally furious. I saw their hands upon their poinards;and I knew that death was seldom an empty menace with these ruffians. 

The laborers saw the peril into which their information had betrayedme, and eagerly assured the captain that I was a man for whom theprince would pay a great ransom. This produced a pause. For my part, Icannot say that I had been much dismayed by their menaces. I mean notto make any boast of courage; but I have been so schooled to hardshipduring the late revolutions, and have beheld death around me in so manyperilous and disastrous scenes that I have become, in some measurecallous to its terrors. The frequent hazard of life makes a man atlength as reckless of it as a gambler of his money. To their threat ofdeath, I replied: "That the sooner it was executed, the better. " Thisreply seemed to astonish the captain, and the prospect of ransom heldout by the laborers, had, no doubt, a still greater effect on him. Heconsidered for a moment; assumed a calmer manner, and made a sign tohis companions, who had remained waiting for my death warrant. "Forward, " said he, "we will see about this matter by and bye. "

We descended rapidly towards the road of la Molara, which leads toRocca Priori. In the midst of this road is a solitary inn. The captainordered the troop to halt at the distance of a pistol shot from it; andenjoined profound silence. He then approached the threshold alone withnoiseless steps. He examined the outside of the door very narrowly, andthen returning precipitately, made a sign for the troop to continue itsmarch in silence. It has since been ascertained that this was one ofthose infamous inns which are the secret resorts of banditti. Theinnkeeper had an understanding with the captain, as he most probablyhad with the chiefs of the different bands. When any of the patrolesand gens d'armes were quartered at his house, the brigands were warnedof it by a preconcerted signal on the door; when there was no suchsignal, they might enter with safety and be sure of welcome. Many anisolated inn among the lonely parts of the Roman territories, andespecially on the skirts of the mountains, have the same dangerous andsuspicious character. They are places where the banditti gatherinformation; where they concert their plans, and where the unwarytraveller, remote from hearing or assistance, is sometimes betrayed tothe stiletto of the midnight murderer. 

After pursuing our road a little farther, we struck off towards theWoody mountains which envelope Rocca Priori. Our march was long andpainful, with many circuits and windings; at length we clambered asteep ascent, covered with a thick forest, and when we had reached thecentre, I was told to seat myself on the earth. No sooner had I doneso, than at a sign from their chief, the robbers surrounded me, andspreading their great cloaks from one to the other, formed a kind ofpavilion of mantles, to which their bodies might be said to seem ascolumns. The captain then struck a light, and a flambeau was litimmediately. The mantles were extended to prevent the light of theflambeau from being seen through the forest. Anxious as was mysituation, I could not look round upon this screen of dusky drapery, relieved by the bright colors of the robbers' under-dresses, thegleaming of their weapons, and the variety of strong-markedcountenances, lit up by the flambeau, without admiring the picturesqueeffect of the scene. It was quite theatrical. 

The captain now held an ink-horn, and giving me pen and paper, orderedme to write what he should dictate. I obeyed. It was a demand, couchedin the style of robber eloquence, "that the prince should send threethousand dollars for my ransom, or that my death should be theconsequence of a refusal. "

I knew enough of the desperate character of these beings to feelassured this was not an idle menace. Their only mode of insuringattention to their demands, is to make the infliction of the penaltyinevitable. I saw at once, however, that the demand was preposterous, and made in improper language. 

I told the captain so, and assured him, that so extravagant a sum wouldnever be granted; that I was neither friend or relative of the prince, but a mere artist, employed to execute certain paintings. That I hadnothing to offer as a ransom but the price of my labors; if this werenot sufficient, my life was at their disposal: it was a thing on whichI sat but little value. 

I was the more hardy in my reply, because I saw that coolness andhardihood had an effect upon the robbers. It is true, as I finishedspeaking the captain laid his hand upon his stiletto, but he restrainedhimself, and snatching the letter, folded it, and ordered me, in aperemptory tone, to address it to the prince. He then despatched one ofthe laborers with it to Tusculum, who promised to return with allpossible speed. 

The robbers now prepared themselves for sleep, and I was told that Imight do the same. They spread their great cloaks on the ground, andlay down around me. One was stationed at a little distance to keepwatch, and was relieved every two hours. The strangeness and wildnessof this mountain bivouac, among lawless beings whose hands seemed everready to grasp the stiletto, and with whom life was so trivial andinsecure, was enough to banish repose. The coldness of the earth and ofthe dew, however, had a still greater effect than mental causes indisturbing my rest. The airs wafted to these mountains from the distantMediterranean diffused a great chilliness as the night advanced. Anexpedient suggested itself. I called one of my fellow prisoners, thelaborers, and made him lie down beside me. Whenever one of my limbsbecame chilled I approached it to the robust limb of my neighbor, andborrowed some of his warmth. In this way I was able to obtain a littlesleep. 

Day at length dawned, and I was roused from my slumber by the voice ofthe chieftain. He desired me to rise and follow him. I obeyed. Onconsidering his physiognomy attentively, it appeared a little softened. He even assisted me in scrambling up the steep forest among rocks andbrambles. Habit had made him a vigorous mountaineer; but I found itexcessively toilsome to climb those rugged heights. We arrived atlength at the summit of the mountain. 

Here it was that I felt all the enthusiasm of my art suddenly awakened;and I forgot, in an instant, all perils and fatigues at thismagnificent view of the sunrise in the midst of the mountains ofAbruzzi. It was on these heights that Hannibal first pitched his camp, and pointed out Rome to his followers. The eye embraces a vast extentof country. The minor height of Tusculum, with its villas, and itssacred ruins, lie below; the Sabine hills and the Albanian mountainsstretch on either hand, and beyond Tusculum and Frescati spreads outthe immense Campagna, with its line of tombs, and here and there abroken aqueduct stretching across it, and the towers and domes of theeternal city in the midst. 

Fancy this scene lit up by the glories of a rising sun, and burstingupon my sight, as I looked forth from among the majestic forests of theAbruzzi. Fancy, too, the savage foreground, made still more savage bygroups of the banditti, armed and dressed in their wild, picturesquemanner, and you will not wonder that the enthusiasm of a painter for amoment overpowered all his other feelings. 

The banditti were astonished at my admiration of a scene whichfamiliarity had made so common in their eyes. I took advantage of theirhalting at this spot, drew forth a quire of drawing-paper, and began tosketch the features of the landscape. The height, on which I wasseated, was wild and solitary, separated from the ridge of Tusculum bya valley nearly three miles wide; though the distance appeared lessfrom the purity of the atmosphere. This height was one of the favoriteretreats of the banditti, commanding a look-out over the country;while, at the same time, it was covered with forests, and distant fromthe populous haunts of men. 

While I was sketching, my attention was called off for a moment by thecries of birds and the bleatings of sheep. I looked around, but couldsee nothing of the animals that uttered them. They were repeated, andappeared to come from the summits of the trees. On looking morenarrowly, I perceived six of the robbers perched on the tops of oaks, which grew on the breezy crest of the mountain, and commanded anuninterrupted prospect. From hence they were keeping a look-out, likeso many vultures; casting their eyes into the depths of the valleybelow us; communicating; with each other by signs, or holding discoursein sounds, which might be mistaken by the wayfarer for the cries ofhawks and crows, or the bleating of the mountain flocks. After they hadreconnoitred the neighborhood, and finished their singular discourse, they descended from their airy perch, and returned to their prisoners. The captain posted three of them at three naked sides of the mountain, while he remained to guard us with what appeared his most trustycompanion. 

I had my book of sketches in my hand; he requested to see it, and afterhaving run his eye over it, expressed himself convinced of the truth ofmy assertion, that I was a painter. I thought I saw a gleam of goodfeeling dawning in him, and determined to avail myself of it. I knewthat the worst of men have their good points and their accessiblesides, if one would but study them carefully. Indeed, there is asingular mixture in the character of the Italian robber. With recklessferocity, he often mingles traits of kindness and good humor. He isoften not radically bad, but driven to his course of life by someunpremeditated crime, the effect of those sudden bursts of passion towhich the Italian temperament is prone. This has compelled him to taketo the mountains, or, as it is technically termed among them, "andarein Campagna. " He has become a robber by profession; but like a soldier, when not in action, he can lay aside his weapon and his fierceness, andbecome like other men. 

I took occasion from the observations of the captain on my sketchings, to fall into conversation with him. I found him sociable andcommunicative. By degrees I became completely at my ease with him. Ihad fancied I perceived about him a degree of self-love, which Idetermined to make use of. I assumed an air of careless frankness, andtold him that, as artist, I pretended to the power of judging of thephysiognomy; that I thought I perceived something in his features anddemeanor which announced him worthy of higher fortunes. That he was notformed to exercise the profession to which he had abandoned himself;that he had talents and qualities fitted for a nobler sphere of action;that he had but to change his course of life, and in a legitimatecareer, the same courage and endowments which now made him an object ofterror, would ensure him the applause and admiration of society. 

I had not mistaken my man. My discourse both touched and excited him. He seized my hand, pressed it, and replied with strong emotion, "Youhave guessed the truth; you have judged me rightly. " He remained for amoment silent; then with a kind of effort he resumed. "I will tell yousome particulars of my life, and you will perceive that it was theoppression of others, rather than my own crimes, that drove me to themountains. I sought to serve my fellow-men, and they have persecuted mefrom among them. " We seated ourselves on the grass, and the robber gaveme the following anecdotes of his history. 

THE STORY OF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN. 

I am a native of the village of Prossedi. My father was easy enough Incircumstances, and we lived peaceably and independently, cultivatingour fields. All went on well with us until a new chief of the sbirriwas sent to our village to take command of the police. He was anarbitrary fellow, prying into every thing, and practising all sorts ofvexations and oppressions in the discharge of his office. 

I was at that time eighteen years of age, and had a natural love ofjustice and good neighborhood. I had also a little education, and knewsomething of history, so as to be able to judge a little of men andtheir actions. All this inspired me with hatred for this paltry despot. My own family, also, became the object of his suspicion or dislike, andfelt more than once the arbitrary abuse of his power. These thingsworked together on my mind, and I gasped after vengeance. My characterwas always ardent and energetic; and acted upon by my love of justice, determined me by one blow to rid the country of the tyrant. 

Full of my project I rose one morning before peep of day, andconcealing a stiletto under my waistcoat--here you see it!--(and hedrew forth a long keen poniard)--I lay in wait for him in the outskirtsof the village. I knew all his haunts, and his habit of making hisrounds and prowling about like a wolf, in the gray of the morning; atlength I met him, and attacked him with fury. He was armed, but I tookhim unawares, and was full of youth and vigor. I gave him repeatedblows to make sure work, and laid him lifeless at my feet. 

When I was satisfied that I had done for him, I returned with all hasteto the village, but had the ill-luck to meet two of the sbirri as Ientered it. They accosted me and asked if I had seen their chief. Iassumed an air of tranquillity, and told them I had not. They continuedon their way, and, within a few hours, brought back the dead body toProssedi. Their suspicions of me being already awakened, I was arrestedand thrown into prison. Here I lay several weeks, when the prince, whowas Seigneur of Prossedi, directed judicial proceedings against me. Iwas brought to trial, and a witness was produced who pretended to haveseen me not far from the bleeding body, and flying with precipitation, so I was condemned to the galleys for thirty years. 

"Curse on such laws, " vociferated the bandit, foaming with rage; "curseon such a government, and ten thousand curses on the prince who causedme to be adjudged so rigorously, while so many other Roman princesharbor and protect assassins a thousand times more culpable. What had Idone but what was inspired by a love of justice and my country? Why wasmy act more culpable than that of Brutus, when he sacrificed Caesar tothe cause of liberty and justice?"

There was something at once both lofty and ludicrous in the rhapsody ofthis robber chief, thus associating himself with one of the great namesof antiquity. It showed, however, that he had at least the merit ofknowing the remarkable facts in the history of his country. He becamemore calm, and resumed his narrative. 

I was conducted to Civita Vecchia in fetters. My heart was burning withrage. I had been married scarce six months to a woman whom I passionatelyloved, and who was pregnant. My family was in despair. For a long timeI made unsuccessful efforts to break my chain. At length I found amorsel of iron which I hid carefully, endeavored with a pointed flintto fashion it into a kind of file. I occupied myself in this workduring the night-time, and when it was finished, I made out, after along time, to sever one of the rings of my chain. My flight wassuccessful. 

I wandered for several weeks in the mountains which surround Prossedi, and found means to inform my wife of the place where I was concealed. She came often to see me. I had determined to put myself at the head ofan armed band. She endeavored for a long time to dissuade me; butfinding my resolution fixed, she at length united in my project ofvengeance, and brought me, herself, my poniard. 

By her means I communicated with several brave fellows of theNeighboring villages, who I knew to be ready to take to the mountains, and only panting for an opportunity to exercise their daring spirits. We soon formed a combination, procured arms, and we have had ampleopportunities of revenging ourselves for the wrongs and injuries whichmost of us have suffered. Every thing has succeeded with us until now, and had it not been for our blunder in mistaking you for the prince, our fortunes would have been made. 

Here the robber concluded his story. He had talked himself intocompanionship, and assured me he no longer bore me any grudge for theerror of which I had been the innocent cause. He even professed akindness for me, and wished me to remain some time with them. Hepromised to give me a sight of certain grottos which they occupiedbeyond Villetri, and whither they resorted during the intervals oftheir expeditions. He assured me that they led a jovial life there; hadplenty of good cheer; slept on beds of moss, and were waited upon byyoung and beautiful females, whom I might take for models. 

I confess I felt my curiosity roused by his descriptions of thesegrottos and their inhabitants; they realized those scenes inrobber-story which I had always looked upon as mere creations of thefancy. I should gladly have accepted his invitation, and paid a visitto those caverns, could I have felt more secure in my company. 

I began to find my situation less painful. I had evidently propitiatedthe good-will of the chieftain, and hoped that he might release me fora moderate ransom. A new alarm, however, awaited me. While the captainwas looking out with impatience for the return of the messenger who hadbeen sent to the prince, the sentinel who had been posted on the sideof the mountain facing the plain of la Molara, came running towards uswith precipitation. "We are betrayed!" exclaimed he. "The police ofFrescati are after us. A party of carabiniers have just stopped at theinn below the mountain. " Then laying his hand on his stiletto, heswore, with a terrible oath, that if they made the least movementtowards the mountains, my life and the lives of my fellow-prisonersshould answer for it. 

The chieftain resumed all his ferocity of demeanor, and approved ofwhat his companion said; but when the latter had returned to his post, he turned to me with a softened air: "I must act as chief, " said he, "and humor my dangerous subalterns. It is a law with us to kill ourprisoners rather than suffer them to be rescued; but do not be alarmed. In case we are surprised keep by me; fly with us, and I will considermyself responsible for your life. "

There was nothing very consolatory in this arrangement, which wouldhave placed me between two dangers; I scarcely knew, in case of flight, which I should have most to apprehend from, the carbines of thepursuers, or the stilettos of the pursued. I remained silent, however, and endeavored to maintain a look of tranquillity. 

For an hour was I kept in this state of peril and anxiety. The robbers, crouching among their leafy coverts, kept an eagle watch upon thecarabiniers below, as they loitered about the inn; sometimes lollingabout the portal; sometimes disappearing for several minutes, thensallying out, examining their weapons, pointing in different directionsand apparently asking questions about the neighborhood; not a movementor gesture was last upon the keen eyes of the brigands. At length wewere relieved from our apprehensions. The carabiniers having finishedtheir refreshment, seized their arms, continued along the valleytowards the great road, and gradually left the mountain behind them. "Ifelt almost certain, " said the chief, "that they could not be sentafter us. They know too well how prisoners have fared in our hands onsimilar occasions. Our laws in this respect are inflexible, and arenecessary for our safety. If we once flinched from them, there would nolonger be such thing as a ransom to be procured. "

There were no signs yet of the messenger's return. I was preparing toresume my sketching, when the captain drew a quire of paper from hisknapsack--"Come, " said he, laughing, "you are a painter; take mylikeness. The leaves of your portfolio are small; draw it on this. " Igladly consented, for it was a study that seldom presents itself to apainter. I recollected that Salvator Rosa in his youth had voluntarilysojourned for a time among the banditti of Calabria, and had filled hismind with the savage scenery and savage associates by which he wassurrounded. I seized my pencil with enthusiasm at the thought. I foundthe captain the most docile of subjects, and after various shifting ofpositions, I placed him in an attitude to my mind. 

Picture to yourself a stern, muscular figure, in fanciful banditcostume, with pistols and poniards in belt, his brawny neck bare, ahandkerchief loosely thrown around it, and the two ends in front strungwith rings of all kinds, the spoils of travellers; reliques and medalshung on his breast; his hat decorated with various-colored ribbands;his vest and short breeches of bright colors and finely embroidered;his legs in buskins or leggins. Fancy him on a mountain height, amongwild rocks and rugged oaks, leaning on his carbine as if meditatingsome exploit, while far below are beheld villages and villas, thescenes of his maraudings, with the wide Campagna dimly extending in thedistance. 

The robber was pleased with the sketch, and seemed to admire himselfupon paper. I had scarcely finished, when the laborer arrived who hadbeen sent for my ransom. He had reached Tusculum two hours aftermidnight. He brought me a letter from the prince, who was in bed at thetime of his arrival. As I had predicted, he treated the demand asextravagant, but offered five hundred dollars for my ransom. Having nomoney by him at the moment, he had sent a note for the amount, payableto whomever should conduct me safe and sound to Rome. I presented thenote of hand to the chieftain; he received it with a shrug. "Of whatuse are notes of hand to us?" said he, "who can we send with you toRome to receive it? We are all marked men, known and described at everygate and military post, and village church-door. No, we must have goldand silver; let the sum be paid in cash and you shall be restored toliberty. "

The captain again placed a sheet of paper before me to communicate Hisdetermination to the prince. When I had finished the letter and tookthe sheet from the quire, I found on the opposite side of it theportrait which I had just been tracing. I was about to tear it off andgive it to the chief. 

"Hold, " said he, "let it go to Rome; let them see what kind of lookingfellow I am. Perhaps the prince and his friends may form as good anopinion of me from my face as you have done. "

This was said sportively, yet it was evident there was vanity lurkingat the bottom. Even this wary, distrustful chief of banditti forgot fora moment his usual foresight and precaution in the common wish to beadmired. He never reflected what use might be made of this portrait inhis pursuit and conviction. 

The letter was folded and directed, and the messenger departed againFor Tusculum. It was now eleven o'clock in the morning, and as yet wehad eaten nothing. In spite of all my anxiety, I began to feel acraving appetite. I was glad, therefore, to hear the captain talksomething of eating. He observed that for three days and nights theyhad been lurking about among rocks and woods, meditating theirexpedition to Tusculum, during which all their provisions had beenexhausted. He should now take measures to procure a supply. Leaving me, therefore, in the charge of his comrade, in whom he appeared to haveimplicit confidence, he departed, assuring me, that in less than twohours we should make a good dinner. Where it was to come from was anenigma to me, though it was evident these beings had their secretfriends and agents throughout the country. 

Indeed, the inhabitants of these mountains and of the valleys whichthey embosom are a rude, half civilized set. The towns and villagesamong the forests of the Abruzzi, shut up from the rest of the world, are almost like savage dens. It is wonderful that such rude abodes, solittle known and visited, should be embosomed in the midst of one ofthe most travelled and civilized countries of Europe. Among theseregions the robber prowls unmolested; not a mountaineer hesitates togive him secret harbor and assistance. The shepherds, however, who tendtheir flocks among the mountains, are the favorite emissaries of therobbers, when they would send messages down to the valleys either forransom or supplies. The shepherds of the Abruzzi are as wild as thescenes they frequent. They are clad in a rude garb of black or brownsheep-skin; they have high conical hats, and coarse sandals of clothbound round their legs with thongs, similar to those worn by therobbers. They carry long staffs, on which as they lean they formpicturesque objects in the lonely landscape, and they are followed bytheir ever-constant companion, the dog. They are a curious, questioningset, glad at any time to relieve the monotony of their solitude by theconversation of the passerby, and the dog will lend an attentive ear, and put on as sagacious and inquisitive a look as his master. 

But I am wandering from my story. I was now left alone with one of therobbers, the confidential companion of the chief. He was the youngestand most vigorous of the band, and though his countenance had somethingof that dissolute fierceness which seems natural to this desperate, lawless mode of life, yet there were traits of manly beauty about it. As an artist I could not but admire it. I had remarked in him an air ofabstraction and reverie, and at times a movement of inward sufferingand impatience. He now sat on the ground; his elbows on his knees, hishead resting between his clenched fists, and his eyes fixed on theearth with an expression of sad and bitter rumination. I had grownfamiliar with him from repeated conversations, and had found himsuperior in mind to the rest of the band. I was anxious to seize everyopportunity of sounding the feelings of these singular beings. Ifancied I read in the countenance of this one traces ofself-condemnation and remorse; and the ease with which I had drawnforth the confidence of the chieftain encouraged me to hope the samewith his followers. 

After a little preliminary conversation, I ventured to ask him if hedid not feel regret at having abandoned his family and taken to thisdangerous profession. "I feel, " replied he, "but one regret, and thatwill end only with my life;" as he said this he pressed his clenchedfists upon his bosom, drew his breath through his set teeth, and addedwith deep emotion, "I have something within here that stifles me; it islike a burning iron consuming my very heart. I could tell you amiserable story, but not now--another time. "--He relapsed into hisformer position, and sat with his head between his hands, muttering tohimself in broken ejaculations, and what appeared at times to be cursesand maledictions. I saw he was not in a mood to be disturbed, so I lefthim to himself. In a little time the exhaustion of his feelings, andprobably the fatigues he had undergone in this expedition, began toproduce drowsiness. He struggled with it for a time, but the warmth andsultriness of mid-day made it irresistible, and he at length stretchedhimself upon the herbage and fell asleep. 

I now beheld a chance of escape within my reach. My guard lay before meat my mercy. His vigorous limbs relaxed by sleep; his bosom open forthe blow; his carbine slipped from his nerveless grasp, and lying byhis side; his stiletto half out of the pocket in which it was usuallycarried. But two of his comrades were in sight, and those at aconsiderable distance, on the edge of the mountain; their backs turnedto us, and their attention occupied in keeping a look-out upon theplain. Through a strip of intervening forest, and at the foot of asteep descent, I beheld the village of Rocca Priori. To have securedthe carbine of the sleeping brigand, to have seized upon his poniardand have plunged it in his heart, would have been the work of aninstant. Should he die without noise, I might dart through the forestand down to Rocca Priori before my flight might be discovered. In caseof alarm, I should still have a fair start of the robbers, and a chanceof getting beyond the reach of their shot. 

Here then was an opportunity for both escape and vengeance; perilous, indeed, but powerfully tempting. Had my situation been more critical Icould not have resisted it. I reflected, however, for a moment. Theattempt, if successful, would be followed by the sacrifice of my twofellow prisoners, who were sleeping profoundly, and could not beawakened in time to escape. The laborer who had gone after the ransommight also fall a victim to the rage of the robbers, without the moneywhich he brought being saved. Besides, the conduct of the chief towardsme made me feel certain of speedy deliverance. These reflectionsovercame the first powerful impulse, and I calmed the turbulentagitation which it had awakened. 

I again took out my materials for drawing, and amused myself withsketching the magnificent prospect. It was now about noon, and everything seemed sunk into repose, like the bandit that lay sleeping beforeme. The noon-tide stillness that reigned over these mountains, the vastlandscape below, gleaming with distant towns and dotted with varioushabitations and signs of life, yet all so silent, had a powerful effectupon my mind. The intermediate valleys, too, that lie among mountainshave a peculiar air of solitude. Few sounds are heard at mid-day tobreak the quiet of the scene. Sometimes the whistle of a solitarymuleteer, lagging with his lazy animal along the road that windsthrough the centre of the valley; sometimes the faint piping of ashepherd's reed from the side of the mountain, or sometimes the bell ofan ass slowly pacing along, followed by a monk with bare feet and bareshining head, and carrying provisions to the convent. 

I had continued to sketch for some time among my sleeping companions, when at length I saw the captain of the band approaching, followed by apeasant leading a mule, on which was a well-filled sack. I at firstapprehended that this was some new prey fallen into the hands of therobbers, but the contented look of the peasant soon relieved me, and Iwas rejoiced to hear that it was our promised repast. The brigands nowcame running from the three sides of the mountain, having the quickscent of vultures. Every one busied himself in unloading the mule andrelieving the sack of its contents. 

The first thing that made its appearance was an enormous ham of a colorand plumpness that would have inspired the pencil of Teniers. It wasfollowed by a large cheese, a bag of boiled chestnuts, a little barrelof wine, and a quantity of good household bread. Everything wasarranged on the grass with a degree of symmetry, and the captainpresenting me his knife, requested me to help myself. We all seatedourselves round the viands, and nothing was heard for a time but thesound of vigorous mastication, or the gurgling of the barrel of wine asit revolved briskly about the circle. My long fasting and the mountainair and exercise had given me a keen appetite, and never did repastappear to me more excellent or picturesque. 

From time to time one of the band was despatched to keep a look-outupon the plain: no enemy was at hand, and the dinner was undisturbed. 

The peasant received nearly twice the value of his provisions, and setoff down the mountain highly satisfied with his bargain. I feltinvigorated by the hearty meal I had made, and notwithstanding that thewound I had received the evening before was painful, yet I could notbut feel extremely interested and gratified by the singular scenescontinually presented to me. Every thing seemed pictured about thesewild beings and their haunts. Their bivouacs, their groups on guard, their indolent noon-tide repose on the mountain brow, their rude repaston the herbage among rocks and trees, every thing presented a study fora painter. But it was towards the approach of evening that I felt thehighest enthusiasm awakened. 

The setting sun, declining beyond the vast Campagna, shed its richyellow beams on the woody summits of the Abruzzi. Several mountainscrowned with snow shone brilliantly in the distance, contrasting theirbrightness with others, which, thrown into shade, assumed deep tints ofpurple and violet. As the evening advanced, the landscape darkened intoa sterner character. The immense solitude around; the wild mountainsbroken into rocks and precipices, intermingled with vast oak, cork, andchestnuts; and the groups of banditti in the foreground, reminded me ofthose savage scenes of Salvator Rosa. 

To beguile the time the captain proposed to his comrades to spreadbefore me their jewels and cameos, as I must doubtless be a judge ofsuch articles, and able to inform them of their nature. He set theexample, the others followed it, and in a few moments I saw the grassbefore me sparkling with jewels and gems that would have delighted theeyes of an antiquary or a fine lady. Among them were several preciousjewels and antique intaglios and cameos of great value, the spoilsdoubtless of travellers of distinction. I found that they were in thehabit of selling their booty in the frontier towns. As these in generalwere thinly and poorly peopled, and little frequented by travellers, they could offer no market for such valuable articles of taste andluxury. I suggested to them the certainty of their readily obtaininggreat pieces for these gems among the rich strangers with which Romewas thronged. 

The impression made upon their greedy minds was immediately apparent. One of the band, a young man, and the least known, requested permissionof the captain to depart the following day in disguise for Rome, forthe purpose of traffick; promising on the faith of a bandit (a sacredpledge amongst them) to return in two days to any place he mightappoint. The captain consented, and a curious scene took place. Therobbers crowded round him eagerly, confiding to him such of theirjewels as they wished to dispose of, and giving him instructions whatto demand. There was bargaining and exchanging and selling of trinketsamong themselves, and I beheld my watch, which had a chain and valuableseals, purchased by the young robber merchant of the ruffian who hadplundered me, for sixty dollars. I now conceived a faint hope that ifit went to Rome, I might somehow or other regain possession of it. 

In the mean time day declined, and no messenger returned from Tusculum. 

The idea of passing another night in the woods was extremelydisheartening; for I began to be satisfied with what I had seen ofrobber life. The chieftain now ordered his men to follow him, that hemight station them at their posts, adding, that if the messenger didnot return before night they must shift their quarters to some otherplace. 

I was again left alone with the young bandit who had before guarded me:he had the same gloomy air and haggard eye, with now and then a bittersardonic smile. I was determined to probe this ulcerated heart, andreminded him of a kind of promise he had given me to tell me the causeof his suffering. 

It seemed to me as if these troubled spirits were glad of anopportunity to disburthen themselves; and of having some freshundiseased mind with which they could communicate. I had hardly madethe request but he seated himself by my side, and gave me his story in, as nearly as I can recollect, the following words. 

THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ROBBER. 

I was born at the little town of Frosinone, which lies at the skirts ofthe Abruzzi. My father had made a little property in trade, and gave mesome education, as he intended me for the church, but I had kept gaycompany too much to relish the cowl, so I grew up a loiterer about theplace. I was a heedless fellow, a little quarrelsome on occasions, butgood-humored in the main, so I made my way very well for a time, untilI fell in love. There lived in our town a surveyor, or land bailiff, ofthe prince's who had a young daughter, a beautiful girl of sixteen. Shewas looked upon as something better than the common run of ourtownsfolk, and kept almost entirely at home. I saw her occasionally, and became madly in love with her, she looked so fresh and tender, andso different to the sunburnt females to whom I had been accustomed. 

As my father kept me in money, I always dressed well, and took allOpportunities of showing myself to advantage in the eyes of the littlebeauty. I used to see her at church; and as I could play a little uponthe guitar, I gave her a tune sometimes under her window of an evening;and I tried to have interviews with her in her father's vineyard, notfar from the town, where she sometimes walked. She was evidentlypleased with me, but she was young and shy, and her Father kept astrict eye upon her, and took alarm at my attentions, for he had a badopinion of me, and looked for a better match for his daughter. I becamefurious at the difficulties thrown in my way, having been accustomedalways to easy success among the women, being considered one of thesmartest young fellows of the place. 

Her father brought home a suitor for her; a rich farmer from aneighboring town. The wedding-day was appointed, and preparations weremaking. I got sight of her at her window, and I thought she lookedsadly at me. I determined the match should not take place, cost what itmight. I met her intended bridegroom in the market-place, and could notrestrain the expression of my rage. A few hot words passed between us, when I drew my stiletto, and stabbed him to the heart. I fled to aneighboring church for refuge; and with a little money I obtainedabsolution; but I did not dare to venture from my asylum. 

At that time our captain was forming his troop. He had known me fromboyhood, and hearing of my situation, came to me in secret, and madesuch offers that I agreed to enlist myself among his followers. Indeed, I had more than once thought of taking to this mode of life, havingknown several brave fellows of the mountains, who used to spend theirmoney freely among us youngsters of the town. I accordingly left myasylum late one night, repaired to the appointed place of meeting; tookthe oaths prescribed, and became one of the troop. We were for sometime in a distant part of the mountains, and our wild adventurous kindof life hit my fancy wonderfully, and diverted my thoughts. At lengththey returned with all their violence to the recollection of Rosetta. The solitude in which I often found myself gave me time to brood overher image, and as I have kept watch at night over our sleeping camp inthe mountains, my feelings have been roused almost to a fever. 

At length we shifted our ground, and determined to make a descent uponthe road between Terracina and Naples. In the course of our expedition, we passed a day or two in the woody mountains which rise aboveFrosinone. I cannot tell you how I felt when I looked down upon theplace, and distinguished the residence of Rosetta. I determined to havean interview with her; but to what purpose? I could not expect that shewould quit her home, and accompany me in my hazardous life among themountains. She had been brought up too tenderly for that; and when Ilooked upon the women who were associated with some of our troop, Icould not have borne the thoughts of her being their companion. Allreturn to my former life was likewise hopeless; for a price was setupon my head. Still I determined to see her; the very hazard andfruitlessness of the thing made me furious to accomplish it. 

It is about three weeks since I persuaded our captain to draw down tothe vicinity of Frosinone, in hopes of entrapping some of its principalinhabitants, and compelling them to a ransom. We were lying in ambushtowards evening, not far from the vineyard of Rosetta's father. I stolequietly from my companions, and drew near to reconnoitre the place ofher frequent walks. 

How my heart beat when, among the vines, I beheld the gleaming of awhite dress! I knew it must be Rosetta's; it being rare for any femaleof the place to dress in white. I advanced secretly and without noise, until putting aside the vines, I stood suddenly before her. She uttereda piercing shriek, but I seized her in my arms, put my hand upon hermouth and conjured her to be silent. I poured out all the frenzy of mypassion; offered to renounce my mode of life, to put my fate in herhands, to fly with her where we might live in safety together. All thatI could say, or do, would not pacify her. Instead of love, horror andaffright seemed to have taken possession of her breast. --She struggledpartly from my grasp, and filled the air with her cries. In an instantthe captain and the rest of my companions were around us. I would havegiven anything at that moment had she been safe out of our hands, andin her father's house. It was too late. The captain pronounced her aprize, and ordered that she should be borne to the mountains. Irepresented to him that she was my prize, that I had a previous claimto her; and I mentioned my former attachment. He sneered bitterly inreply; observed that brigands had no business with village intrigues, and that, according to the laws of the troop, all spoils of the kindwere determined by lot. Love and jealousy were raging in my heart, butI had to choose between obedience and death. I surrendered her to thecaptain, and we made for the mountains. 

She was overcome by affright, and her steps were so feeble andfaltering, and it was necessary to support her. I could not endure theidea that my comrades should touch her, and assuming a forcedtranquillity, begged that she might be confided to me, as one to whomshe was more accustomed. The captain regarded me for a moment with asearching look, but I bore it without flinching, and he consented, Itook her in my arms: she was almost senseless. Her head rested on myshoulder, her mouth was near to mine. I felt her breath on my face, andit seemed to fan the flame which devoured me. Oh, God! to have thisglowing treasure in my arms, and yet to think it was not mine!

We arrived at the foot of the mountain. I ascended it with difficulty, particularly where the woods were thick; but I would not relinquish mydelicious burthen. I reflected with rage, however, that I must soon doso. The thoughts that so delicate a creature must be abandoned to myrude companions, maddened me. I felt tempted, the stiletto in my hand, to cut my way through them all, and bear her off in triumph. I scarcelyconceived the idea, before I saw its rashness; but my brain was feveredwith the thought that any but myself should enjoy her charms. Iendeavored to outstrip my companions by the quickness of my movements;and to get a little distance ahead, in case any favorable opportunityof escape should present. Vain effort! The voice of the captainsuddenly ordered a halt. I trembled, but had to obey. The poor girlpartly opened a languid eye, but was without strength or motion. I laidher upon the grass. The captain darted on me a terrible look ofsuspicion, and ordered me to scour the woods with my companions, insearch of some shepherd who might be sent to her father's to demand aransom. 

I saw at once the peril. To resist with violence was certain death; butto leave her alone, in the power of the captain!--I spoke out then witha fervor inspired by my passion and my despair. I reminded the captainthat I was the first to seize her; that she was my prize, and that myprevious attachment for her should make her sacred among my companions. I insisted, therefore, that he should pledge me his word to respecther; otherwise I should refuse obedience to his orders. His only replywas, to cock his carbine; and at the signal my comrades did the same. They laughed with cruelty at my impotent rage. What could I do? I feltthe madness of resistance. I was menaced on all hands, and mycompanions obliged me to follow them. She remained alone with thechief--yes, alone and almost lifeless!--

Here the robber paused in his recital, overpowered by his emotions. Great drops of sweat stood on his forehead; he panted rather thanbreathed; his brawny bosom rose and fell like the waves of a troubledsea. When he had become a little calm, he continued his recital. 

I was not long in finding a shepherd, said he. I ran with the rapidityof a deer, eager, if possible, to get back before what I dreaded mighttake place. I had left my companions far behind, and I rejoined thembefore they had reached one-half the distance I had made. I hurriedthem back to the place where we had left the captain. As we approached, I beheld him seated by the side of Rosetta. His triumphant look, andthe desolate condition of the unfortunate girl, left me no doubt of herfate. I know not how I restrained my fury. 

It was with extreme difficulty, and by guiding her hand, that she wasmade to trace a few characters, requesting her father to send threehundred dollars as her ransom. The letter was despatched by theshepherd. When he was gone, the chief turned sternly to me: "You haveset an example, " said he, "of mutiny and self-will, which if indulgedwould be ruinous to the troop. Had I treated you as our laws require, this bullet would have been driven through your brain. But you are anold friend; I have borne patiently with your fury and your folly; Ihave even protected you from a foolish passion that would have unmannedyou. As to this girl, the laws of our association must have theircourse. " So saying, he gave his commands, lots were drawn, and thehelpless girl was abandoned to the troop. 

Here the robber paused again, panting with fury and it was some momentsbefore he could resume his story. 

Hell, said he, was raging in my heart. I beheld the impossibility ofavenging myself, and I felt that, according to the articles in which westood bound to one another, the captain was in the right. I rushed withfrenzy from the place. I threw myself upon the earth; tore up the grasswith my hands, and beat my head, and gnashed my teeth in agony andrage. When at length I returned, I beheld the wretched victim, pale, dishevelled; her dress torn and disordered. An emotion of pity for amoment subdued my fiercer feelings. I bore her to the foot of a tree, and leaned her gently against it. I took my gourd, which was filledwith wine, and applying it to her lips, endeavored to make her swallowa little. To what a condition was she recovered! She, whom I had onceseen the pride of Frosinone, who but a short time before I had beheldsporting in her father's vineyard, so fresh and beautiful and happy!Her teeth were clenched; her eyes fixed on the ground; her form withoutmotion, and in a state of absolute insensibility. I hung over her in anagony of recollection of all that she had been, and of anguish at whatI now beheld her. I darted round a look of horror at my companions, whoseemed like so many fiends exulting in the downfall of an angel, and Ifelt a horror at myself for being their accomplice. 

The captain, always suspicious, saw with his usual penetration what waspassing within me, and ordered me to go upon the ridge of woods to keepa look-out upon the neighborhood and await the return of the shepherd. I obeyed, of course, stifling the fury that raged within me, though Ifelt for the moment that he was my most deadly foe. 

On my way, however, a ray of reflection came across my mind. Iperceived that the captain was but following with strictness theterrible laws to which we had sworn fidelity. That the passion by whichI had been blinded might with justice have been fatal to me but for hisforbearance; that he had penetrated my soul, and had taken precautions, by sending me out of the way, to prevent my committing any excess in myanger. From that instant I felt that I was capable of pardoning him. 

Occupied with these thoughts, I arrived at the foot of the mountain. The country was solitary and secure; and in a short time I beheld theshepherd at a distance crossing the plain. I hastened to meet him. Hehad obtained nothing. He had found the father plunged in the deepestdistress. He had read the letter with violent emotion, and then calminghimself with a sudden exertion, he had replied coldly, "My daughter hasbeen dishonored by those wretches; let her be returned without ransom, or let her die!"

I shuddered at this reply. I knew, according to the laws of our troop, her death was inevitable. Our oaths required it. I felt, nevertheless, that, not having been able to have her to myself, I could become herexecutioner!

The robber again paused with agitation. I sat musing upon his lastFrightful words, which proved to what excess the passions may becarried when escaped from all moral restraint. There was a horribleverity in this story that reminded me of some of the tragic fictions ofDanté. 

We now came to a fatal moment, resumed the bandit. After the report ofthe shepherd, I returned with him, and the chieftain received from hislips the refusal of the father. At a signal, which we all understood, we followed him some distance from the victim. He there pronounced hersentence of death. Every one stood ready to execute his order; but Iinterfered. I observed that there was something due to pity, as well asto justice. That I was as ready as any one to approve the implacablelaw which was to serve as a warning to all those who hesitated to paythe ransoms demanded for our prisoners, but that, though the sacrificewas proper, it ought to be made without cruelty. The night isapproaching, continued I; she will soon be wrapped in sleep; let herthen be despatched. All that I now claim on the score of formerfondness for her is, let me strike the blow. I will do it as surely, but more tenderly than another. 

Several raised their voices against my proposition, but the captainImposed silence on them. He told me I might conduct her into a thicketat some distance, and he relied upon my promise. 

I hastened to seize my prey. There was a forlorn kind of triumph athaving at length become her exclusive possessor. I bore her off intothe thickness of the forest. She remained in the same state ofinsensibility and stupor. I was thankful that she did not recollect me;for had she once murmured my name, I should have been overcome. Sheslept at length in the arms of him who was to poniard her. Many werethe conflicts I underwent before I could bring myself to strike theblow. My heart had become sore by the recent conflicts it hadundergone, and I dreaded lest, by procrastination, some other shouldbecome her executioner. When her repose had continued for some time, Iseparated myself gently from her, that I might not disturb her sleep, and seizing suddenly my poniard, plunged it into her bosom. A painfuland concentrated murmur, but without any convulsive movement, accompanied her last sigh. So perished this unfortunate. 

He ceased to speak. I sat horror-struck, covering my face with myhands, seeking, as it were, to hide from myself the frightful images hehad presented to my mind. I was roused from this silence by the voiceof the captain. "You sleep, " said he, "and it is time to be off. Come, we must abandon this height, as night is setting in, and the messengeris not returned. I will post some one on the mountain edge, to conducthim to the place where we shall pass the night. "

This was no agreeable news to me. I was sick at heart with the dismalstory I had heard. I was harassed and fatigued, and the sight of thebanditti began to grow insupportable to me. 

The captain assembled his comrades. We rapidly descended the forestwhich we had mounted with so much difficulty in the morning, and soonarrived in what appeared to be a frequented road. The robbers proceededwith great caution, carrying their guns cocked, and looking on everyside with wary and suspicious eyes. They were apprehensive ofencountering the civic patrole. We left Rocca Priori behind us. Therewas a fountain near by, and as I was excessively thirsty, I beggedpermission to stop and drink. The captain himself went, and brought mewater in his hat. We pursued our route, when, at the extremity of analley which crossed the road, I perceived a female on horseback, dressed in white. She was alone. I recollected the fate of the poorgirl in the story, and trembled for her safety. 

One of the brigands saw her at the same instant, and plunging into thebushes, he ran precipitately in the direction towards her. Stopping onthe border of the alley, he put one knee to the ground, presented hiscarbine ready for menace, or to shoot her horse if she attempted tofly, and in this way awaited her approach. I kept my eyes fixed on herwith intense anxiety. I felt tempted to shout, and warn her of herdanger, though my own destruction would have been the consequence. Itwas awful to see this tiger crouching ready for a bound, and the poorinnocent victim wandering unconsciously near him. Nothing but a merechance could save her. To my joy, the chance turned in her favor. Sheseemed almost accidentally to take an opposite path, which led outsideof the wood, where the robber dare not venture. To this casualdeviation she owed her safety. 

I could not imagine why the captain of the band had ventured to such adistance from the height, on which he had placed the sentinel to watchthe return of the messengers. He seemed himself uneasy at the risk towhich he exposed himself. His movements were rapid and uneasy; I couldscarce keep pace with him. At length, after three hours of what mightbe termed a forced march, we mounted the extremity of the same woods, the summit of which we had occupied during the day; and I learnt withsatisfaction, that we had reached our quarters for the night. 

"You must be fatigued, " said the chieftain; "but it was necessary tosurvey the environs, so as not to be surprised during the night. Had wemet with the famous civic guard of Rocca Priori you would have seenfine sport. " Such was the indefatigable precaution and forethought ofthis robber chief, who really gave continual evidences of militarytalent. 

The night was magnificent. The moon rising above the horizon in acloudless sky, faintly lit up the grand features of the mountains, while lights twinkling here and there, like terrestrial stars, in thewide, dusky expanse of the landscape, betrayed the lonely cabins of theshepherds. Exhausted by fatigue, and by the many agitations I hadexperienced, I prepared to sleep, soothed by the hope of approachingdeliverance. The captain ordered his companions to collect some drymoss; he arranged with his own hands a kind of mattress and pillow ofit, and gave me his ample mantle as a covering. I could not but feelboth surprised and gratified by such unexpected attentions on the partof this benevolent cut-throat: for there is nothing more striking thanto find the ordinary charities, which are matters of course in commonlife, flourishing by the side of such stern and sterile crime. It islike finding the tender flowers and fresh herbage of the valley growingamong the rocks and cinders of the volcano. 

Before I fell asleep, I had some farther discourse with the captain, who seemed to put great confidence in me. He referred to our previousconversation of the morning; told me he was weary of his hazardousprofession; that he had acquired sufficient property, and was anxiousto return to the world and lead a peaceful life in the bosom of hisfamily. He wished to know whether it was not in my power to procure hima passport for the United States of America. I applauded his goodintentions, and promised to do everything in my power to promote itssuccess. We then parted for the night. I stretched myself upon my couchof moss, which, after my fatigues, felt like a bed of down, andsheltered by the robber's mantle from all humidity, I slept soundlywithout waking, until the signal to arise. 

It was nearly six o'clock, and the day was just dawning. As the placewhere we had passed the night was too much exposed, we moved up intothe thickness of the woods. A fire was kindled. While there was anyflame, the mantles were again extended round it; but when nothingremained but glowing cinders, they were lowered, and the robbers seatedthemselves in a circle. 

The scene before me reminded me of some of those described by Homer. There wanted only the victim on the coals, and the sacred knife, to cutoff the succulent parts, and distribute them around. My companionsmight have rivalled the grim warriors of Greece. In place of the noblerepasts, however, of Achilles and Agamemnon, I beheld displayed on thegrass the remains of the ham which had sustained so vigorous an attackon the preceding evening, accompanied by the reliques of the bread, cheese, and wine. 

We had scarcely commenced our frugal breakfast, when I heard again anImitation of the bleating of sheep, similar to what I had heard the daybefore. The captain answered it in the same tone. Two men were soonafter seen descending from the woody height, where we had passed thepreceding evening. On nearer approach, they proved to be the sentineland the messenger. The captain rose and went to meet them. He made asignal for his comrades to join him. They had a short conference, andthen returning to me with eagerness, "Your ransom is paid, " said he;"you are free!"

Though I had anticipated deliverance, I cannot tell you what a rush ofdelight these tidings gave me. I cared not to finish my repast, butprepared to depart. The captain took me by the hand; requestedpermission to write to me, and begged me not to forget the passport. Ireplied, that I hoped to be of effectual service to him, and that Irelied on his honor to return the prince's note for five hundreddollars, now that the cash was paid. He regarded me for a moment withsurprise; then, seeming to recollect himself, "E giusto, " said he, "eccoloadio!"[1] He delivered me the note, pressed my hand once more, and we separated. The laborers were permitted to follow me, and weresumed with joy our road towards Tusculum. 

[Footnote 1: It is just--there it is--adieu!]

 * * * * *

The artist ceased to speak; the party continued for a few moments topace the shore of Terracina in silence. The story they had heard hadmade a deep impression on them, particularly on the fair Venetian, whohad gradually regained her husband's arm. At the part that related tothe young girl of Frosinone, she had been violently affected; sobsbroke from her; she clung close to her husband, and as she looked up tohim as if for protection, the moon-beams shining on her beautifullyfair countenance showed it paler than usual with terror, while tearsglittered in her fine dark eyes. "O caro mio!" would she murmur, shuddering at every atrocious circumstance of the story. 

"Corragio, mia vita!" was the reply, as the husband gently and fondlytapped the white hand that lay upon his arm. 

The Englishman alone preserved his usual phlegm, and the fair Venetianwas piqued at it. 

She had pardoned him a want of gallantry towards herself, though a sinof omission seldom met with in the gallant climate of Italy, but thequiet coolness which he maintained in matters which so much affectedher, and the slow credence which he had given to the stories which hadfilled her with alarm, were quite vexatious. 

"Santa Maria!" said she to husband as they retired for the night, "whatinsensible beings these English are!"

In the morning all was bustle at the inn at Terracina. 

The procaccio had departed at day-break, on its route towards Rome, butthe Englishman was yet to start, and the departure of an Englishequipage is always enough to keep an inn in a bustle. On this occasionthere was more than usual stir; for the Englishman having much propertyabout him, and having been convinced of the real danger of the road, had applied to the police and obtained, by dint of liberal pay, anescort of eight dragoons and twelve foot-soldiers, as far as Fondi. 

Perhaps, too, there might have been a little ostentation at bottom, from which, with great delicacy be it spoken, English travellers arenot always exempt; though to say the truth, he had nothing of it in hismanner. He moved about taciturn and reserved as usual, among the gapingcrowd in his gingerbread-colored travelling cap, with his hands in hispockets. He gave laconic orders to John as he packed away the thousandand one indispensable conveniencies of the night, double loaded hispistols with great _sang-froid_, and deposited them in the pockets ofthe carriage, taking no notice of a pair of keen eyes gazing on himfrom among the herd of loitering idlers. The fair Venetian now came upwith a request made in her dulcet tones, that he would permit theircarriage to proceed under protection of his escort. The Englishman, whowas busy loading another pair of pistols for his servant, and held theramrod between his teeth, nodded assent as a matter of course, butwithout lifting up his eyes. The fair Venetian was not accustomed tosuch indifference. "O Dio!" ejaculated she softly as she retired, "comosono freddi questi Inglesi. " At length off they set in gallant style, the eight dragoons prancing in front, the twelve foot-soldiers marchingin rear, and carriages moving slowly in the centre to enable theinfantry to keep pace with them. They had proceeded but a few hundredyards when it was discovered that some indispensable article had beenleft behind. 

In fact, the Englishman's purse was missing, and John was despatched tothe inn to search for it. 

This occasioned a little delay, and the carriage of the Venetians droveslowly on. John came back out of breath and out of humor; the purse wasnot to be found; his master was irritated; he recollected the veryplace where it lay; the cursed Italian servant had pocketed it. Johnwas again sent back. He returned once more, without the purse, but withthe landlord and the whole household at his heels. A thousandejaculations and protestations, accompanied by all sorts of grimacesand contortions. "No purse had been seen--his excellenza must bemistaken. "

No--his excellenza was not mistaken; the purse lay on the marble table, under the mirror: a green purse, half full of gold and silver. Again athousand grimaces and contortions, and vows by San Genario, that nopurse of the kind had been seen. 

The Englishman became furious. "The waiter had pocketed it. Thelandlord was a knave. The inn a den of thieves--it was a d----dcountry--he had been cheated and plundered from one end of it to theother--but he'd have satisfaction--he'd drive right off to the police. "

He was on the point of ordering the postilions to turn back, when, onrising, he displaced the cushion of the carriage, and the purse ofmoney fell chinking to the floor. 

All the blood in his body seemed to rush into his face. "D--n thepurse, " said he, as he snatched it up. He dashed a handful of money onthe ground before the pale, cringing waiter. "There--be off, " cried he;"John, order the postilions to drive on. "

Above half an hour had been exhausted in this altercation. The Venetiancarriage had loitered along; its passengers looking out from time totime, and expecting the escort every moment to follow. They hadgradually turned an angle of the road that shut them out of sight. Thelittle army was again in motion, and made a very picturesque appearanceas it wound along at the bottom of the rocks; the morning sunshinebeaming upon the weapons of soldiery. 

The Englishman lolled back in his carriage, vexed with himself at whathad passed, and consequently out of humor with all the world. As this, however, is no uncommon case with gentlemen who travel for theirpleasure, it is hardly worthy of remark. 

They had wound up from the coast among the hills, and came to a part ofthe road that admitted of some prospect ahead. 

"I see nothing of the lady's carriage, sir, " said John, leaning overfrom the coach box. 

"Hang the lady's carriage!" said the Englishman, crustily; "don'tplague me about the lady's carriage; must I be continually pesteredwith strangers?"

John said not another word, for he understood his master's mood. Theroad grew more wild and lonely; they were slowly proceeding in a footpace up a hill; the dragoons were some distance ahead, and had justreached the summit of the hill, when they uttered an exclamation, orrather shout, and galloped forward. The Englishman was aroused from hissulky revery. He stretched his head from the carriage, which hadattained the brow of the hill. Before him extended a long hollowdefile, commanded on one side by rugged, precipitous heights, coveredwith bushes and scanty forest trees. At some distance he beheld thecarriage of the Venitians overturned; a numerous gang of desperadoeswere rifling it; the young man and his servant were overpowered andpartly stripped, and the lady was in the hands of two of the ruffians. 

The Englishman seized his pistols, sprang from his carriage, and calledupon John to follow him. In the meantime, as the dragoons came forward, the robbers who were busy with the carriage quitted their spoil, formedthemselves in the middle of the road, and taking deliberate aim, fired. One of the dragoons fell, another was wounded, and the whole were for amoment checked and thrown in confusion. The robbers loaded again in aninstant. The dragoons had discharged their carbines, but withoutapparent effect; they received another volley, which, though none fell, threw them again into confusion. The robbers were loading a secondtime, when they saw the foot soldiers at hand. --"Scampa via!" was theword. They abandoned their prey, and retreated up the rocks; thesoldiers after them. They fought from cliff to cliff, and bush to bush, the robbers turning every now and then to fire upon their pursuers; thesoldiers scrambling after them, and discharging their muskets wheneverthey could get a chance. Sometimes a soldier or a robber was shot down, and came tumbling Among the cliffs. The dragoons kept firing frombelow, whenever a robber came in sight. 

The Englishman hastened to the scene of action, and the ballsdischarged at the dragoons had whistled past him as he advanced. Oneobject, however, engrossed his attention. It was the beautiful Venetianlady in the hands of two of the robbers, who, during the confusion ofthe fight, carried her shrieking up the mountains. He saw her dressgleaming among the bushes, and he sprang up the rocks to intercept therobbers as they bore off their prey. The ruggedness of the steep andthe entanglements of the bushes, delayed and impeded him. He lost sightof the lady, but was still guided by her cries, which grew fainter andfainter. They were off to the left, while the report of muskets showedthat the battle was raging to the right. 

At length he came upon what appeared to be a rugged footpath, faintlyworn in a gully of the rock, and beheld the ruffians at some distancehurrying the lady up the defile. One of them hearing his approach letgo his prey, advanced towards him, and levelling the carbine which hadbeen slung on his back, fired. The ball whizzed through theEnglishman's hat, and carried with it some of his hair. He returned thefire with one of his pistols, and the robber fell. The other brigandnow dropped the lady, and drawing a long pistol from his belt, fired onhis adversary with deliberate aim; the ball passed between his left armand his side, slightly wounding the arm. The Englishman advanced anddischarged his remaining pistol, which wounded the robber, but notseverely. The brigand drew a stiletto, and rushed upon his adversary, who eluded the blow, receiving merely a slight wound, and defendinghimself with his pistol, which had a spring bayonet. They closed withone another, and a desperate struggle ensued. The robber was asquare-built, thick-set, man, powerful, muscular, and active. TheEnglishman, though of larger frame and greater strength, was lessactive and less accustomed to athletic exercises and feats ofhardihood, but he showed himself practised and skilled in the art ofdefence. They were on a craggy height, and the Englishman perceivedthat his antagonist was striving to press him to the edge. 

A side glance showed him also the robber whom he had first wounded, Scrambling up to the assistance of his comrade, stiletto in hand. Hehad, in fact, attained the summit of the cliff, and the Englishman sawhim within a few steps, when he heard suddenly the report of a pistoland the ruffian fell. The shot came from John, who had arrived just intime to save his master. 

The remaining robber, exhausted by loss of blood and the violence ofthe contest, showed signs of faltering. His adversary pursued hisadvantage; pressed on him, and as his strength relaxed, dashed himheadlong from the precipice. He looked after him and saw him lyingmotionless among the rocks below. 

The Englishman now sought the fair Venetian. He found her senseless onthe ground. With his servant's assistance he bore her down to the road, where her husband was raving like one distracted. 

The occasional discharge of fire-arms along the height showed that aRetreating fight was still kept up by the robbers. The carriage wasrighted; the baggage was hastily replaced; the Venetian, transportedwith joy and gratitude, took his lovely and senseless burthen in hisarms, and the party resumed their route towards Fondi, escorted by thedragoons, leaving the foot soldiers to ferret out the banditti. Whileon the way John dressed his master's wounds, which were found not to beserious. 

Before arriving at Fondi the fair Venetian had recovered from herswoon, and was made conscious of her safety and of the mode of herdeliverance. Her transports were unbounded; and mingled with them wereenthusiastic ejaculations of gratitude to her deliverer. A thousandtimes did she reproach herself for having accused him of coldness andinsensibility. The moment she saw him she rushed into his arms, andclasped him round the neck with all the vivacity of her nation. 

Never was man more embarrassed by the embraces of a fine woman. 

"My deliverer! my angel!" exclaimed she. 

"Tut! tut!" said the Englishman. 

"You are wounded!" shrieked the fair Venetian, as she saw the bloodupon his clothes. 

"Pooh--nothing at all!"

"O Dio!" exclaimed she, clasping him again round the neck and sobbingon his bosom. 

"Pooh!" exclaimed the Englishman, looking somewhat foolish; "this isall nonsense. "

PART FOURTH. 

THE MONEY DIGGERS. 

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER

 Now I remember those old women's words Who in my youth would tell me winter's tales; And speak of spirits and ghosts that glide by night About the place where treasure had been hid. 

 --MARLOW'S JEW OF MALTA. 

HELL GATE. 

About six miles from the renowned city of the Manhattoes, and in thatSound, or arm of the sea, which passes between the main land and Nassauor Long Island, there is a narrow strait, where the current isviolently compressed between shouldering promontories, and horriblyirritated and perplexed by rocks and shoals. Being at the best of timesa very violent, hasty current, its takes these impediments in mightydudgeon; boiling in whirlpools; brawling and fretting in ripples andbreakers; and, in short, indulging in all kinds of wrong-headedparoxysms. At such times, woe to any unlucky vessel that ventureswithin its clutches. 

This termagant humor is said to prevail only at half tides. At lowwater it is as pacific as any other stream. As the tide rises, itbegins to fret; at half tide it rages and roars as if bellowing formore water; but when the tide is full it relapses again into quiet, andfor a time seems almost to sleep as soundly as an alderman afterdinner. It may be compared to an inveterate hard drinker, who is apeaceable fellow enough when he has no liquor at all, or when he has askin full, but when half seas over plays the very devil. 

This mighty, blustering, bullying little strait was a place of greatDifficulty and danger to the Dutch navigators of ancient days;hectoring their tub-built barks in a most unruly style; whirling themabout, in a manner to make any but a Dutchman giddy, and notunfrequently stranding them upon rocks and reefs. Whereupon out ofsheer spleen they denominated it Hellegat (literally Hell Gut) andsolemnly gave it over to the devil. This appellation has since beenaptly rendered into English by the name of Hell Gate; and into nonsenseby the name of Hurl Gate, according to certain foreign intruders whoneither understood Dutch nor English. May St. Nicholas confound them!

From this strait to the city of the Manhattoes the borders of the Soundare greatly diversified; in one part, on the eastern shore of theisland of Manhata and opposite Blackwell's Island, being very muchbroken and indented by rocky nooks, overhung with trees which give thema wild and romantic look. 

The flux and reflux of the tide through this part of the Sound isextremely rapid, and the navigation troublesome, by reason of thewhirling eddies and counter currents. I speak this from experience, having been much of a navigator of these small seas in my boyhood, andhaving more than once run the risk of shipwreck and drowning in thecourse of divers holiday voyages, to which in common with the Dutchurchins I was rather prone. 

In the midst of this perilous strait, and hard by a group of rockscalled "the Hen and Chickens, " there lay in my boyish days the wreck ofa vessel which had been entangled in the whirlpools and stranded duringa storm. There was some wild story about this being the wreck of apirate, and of some bloody murder, connected with it, which I cannotnow recollect. Indeed, the desolate look of this forlorn hulk, and thefearful place where it lay rotting, were sufficient to awaken strangenotions concerning it. A row of timber heads, blackened by time, peeredabove the surface at high water; but at low tide a considerable part ofthe hull was bare, and its great ribs or timbers, partly stripped oftheir planks, looked like the skeleton of some sea monster. There wasalso the stump of a mast, with a few ropes and blocks swinging aboutand whistling in the wind, while the sea gull wheeled and screamedaround this melancholy carcass. 

The stories connected with this wreck made it an object of great awe tomy boyish fancy; but in truth the whole neighborhood was full of fableand romance for me, abounding with traditions about pirates, hobgoblins, and buried money. As I grew to more mature years I mademany researches after the truth of these strange traditions; for I havealways been a curious investigator of the valuable, but obscurebranches of the history of my native province. I found infinitedifficulty, however, in arriving at any precise information. In seekingto dig up one fact it is incredible the number of fables which Iunearthed; for the whole course of the Sound seemed in my younger daysto be like the straits of Pylorus of yore, the very region of fiction. I will say nothing of the Devil's Stepping Stones, by which that archfiend made his retreat from Connecticut to Long Island, seeing that thesubject is likely to be learnedly treated by a worthy friend andcontemporary historian[2] whom I have furnished with particularsthereof. Neither will I say anything of the black man in athree-cornered hat, seated in the stern of a jolly boat who used to beseen about Hell Gate in stormy weather; and who went by the name of thePirate's Spuke, or Pirate's Ghost, because I never could meet with anyperson of stanch credibility who professed to have seen this spectrum;unless it were the widow of Manus Conklin, the blacksmith of Frog'sNeck, but then, poor woman, she was a little purblind, and might havebeen mistaken; though they said she saw farther than other folks in thedark. All this, however, was but little satisfactory in regard to thetales of buried money about which I was most curious; and the followingwas all that I could for a long time collect that had anything like anair of authenticity. 

[Footnote 2: For a very interesting account of the Devil and hisStepping Stones, see the learned memoir read before the New YorkHistorical Society since the death of Mr. Knickerbocker, by his friend, an eminent jurist of the place. ]

KIDD THE PIRATE. 

In old times, just after the territory of the New Netherlands had beenwrested from the hands of their High Mightinesses, the Lords StatesGeneral of Holland, by Charles the Second, and while it was as yet inan unquiet state, the province was a favorite resort of adventurers ofall kinds, and particularly of buccaneers. These were piratical roversof the deep, who made sad work in times of peace among the Spanishsettlements and Spanish merchant ships. They took advantage of the easyaccess to the harbor of the Manhattoes, and of the laxity of itsscarcely-organized government, to make it a kind of rendezvous, wherethey might dispose of their ill-gotten spoils, and concert newdepredations. Crews of these desperadoes, the runagates of everycountry and clime, might be seen swaggering, in open day, about thestreets of the little burgh; elbowing its quiet Mynheers; traffickingaway their rich outlandish plunder, at half price, to the warymerchant, and then squandering their gains in taverns; drinking, gambling, singing, swearing, shouting, and astounding the neighborhoodwith sudden brawl and ruffian revelry. 

At length the indignation of government was aroused, and it wasdetermined to ferret out this vermin brood from, the colonies. Greatconsternation took place among the pirates on finding justice inpursuit of them, and their old haunts turned to places of peril. Theysecreted their money and jewels in lonely out-of-the-way places; buriedthem about the wild shores of the rivers and sea-coast, and dispersedthemselves over the face of the country. 

Among the agents employed to hunt them by sea was the renowned CaptainKidd. He had long been a hardy adventurer, a kind of equivocalborderer, half trader, half smuggler, with a tolerable dash of thepickaroon. He had traded for some time among the pirates, lurking aboutthe seas in a little rakish, musquito-built vessel, prying into allkinds of odd places, as busy as a Mother Carey's chicken in a gale ofwind. 

This nondescript personage was pitched upon by government as the veryman to command a vessel fitted out to cruise against the pirates, sincehe knew all their haunts and lurking-places: acting upon the shrewd oldmaxim of "setting a rogue to catch a rogue. " Kidd accordingly sailedfrom New York in the Adventure galley, gallantly armed and dulycommissioned, and steered his course to the Madeiras, to Bonavista, toMadagascar, and cruised at the entrance of the Red Sea. Instead, however, of making war upon the pirates, he turned pirate himself:captured friend or foe; enriched himself with the spoils of a wealthyIndiaman, manned by Moors, though commanded by an Englishman, andhaving disposed of his prize, had the hardihood to return to Boston, laden with wealth, with a crew of his comrades at his heels. 

His fame had preceded him. The alarm was given of the reappearance ofthis cut-purse of the ocean. Measures were taken for his arrest; but hehad time, it is said, to bury the greater part of his treasures. Heeven attempted to draw his sword and defend himself when arrested; butwas secured and thrown into prison, with several of his followers. Theywere carried to England in a frigate, where they were tried, condemned, and hanged at Execution Dock. Kidd died hard, for the rope with whichhe was first tied up broke with his weight, and he tumbled to theground; he was tied up a second time, and effectually; from whencearose the story of his having been twice hanged. 

Such is the main outline of Kidd's history; but it has given birth toan innumerable progeny of traditions. The circumstance of his havingburied great treasures of gold and jewels after returning from hiscruising set the brains of all the good people along the coast in aferment. There were rumors on rumors of great sums found here andthere; sometimes in one part of the country, sometimes in another; oftrees and rocks bearing mysterious marks; doubtless indicating thespots where treasure lay hidden; of coins found with Moorishcharacters, the plunder of Kidd's eastern prize, but which the commonpeople took for diabolical or magic inscriptions. 

Some reported the spoils to have been buried in solitary unsettledplaces about Plymouth and Cape Cod; many other parts of the Easterncoast, also, and various places in Long Island Sound, have been gildedby these rumors, and have been ransacked by adventurous money-diggers. 

In all the stories of these enterprises the devil played a conspicuouspart. Either he was conciliated by ceremonies and invocations, or somebargain or compact was made with him. Still he was sure to play themoney-diggers some slippery trick. Some had succeeded so far as totouch the iron chest which contained the treasure, when some bafflingcircumstance was sure to take place. Either the earth would fall in andfill up the pit or some direful noise or apparition would throw theparty into a panic and frighten them from the place; and sometimes thedevil himself would appear and bear off the prize from their verygrasp; and if they visited the place on the next day, not a trace wouldbe seen of their labors of the preceding night. 

Such were the vague rumors which for a long time tantalized withoutgratifying my curiosity on the interesting subject of these piratetraditions. There is nothing in this world so hard to get at as truth. I sought among my favorite sources of authentic information, the oldestinhabitants, and particularly the old Dutch wives of the province; butthough I flatter myself I am better versed than most men in the curioushistory of my native province, yet for a long time my inquiries wereunattended with any substantial result. 

At length it happened, one calm day in the latter part of summer, thatI was relaxing myself from the toils of severe study by a day'samusement in fishing in those waters which had been the favorite resortof my boyhood. I was in company with several worthy burghers of mynative city. Our sport was indifferent; the fish did not bite freely;and we had frequently changed our fishing ground without bettering ourluck. We at length anchored close under a ledge of rocky coast, on theeastern side of the island of Manhata. It was a still, warm day. Thestream whirled and dimpled by us without a wave or even a ripple, andevery thing was so calm and quiet that it was almost startling when thekingfisher would pitch himself from the branch of some dry tree, andafter suspending himself for a moment in the air to take his aim, wouldsouse into the smooth water after his prey. While we were lolling inour boat, half drowsy with the warm stillness of the day and thedullness of our sport, one of our party, a worthy alderman, wasovertaken by a slumber, and, as he dozed, suffered the sinker of hisdrop-line to lie upon the bottom of the river. On waking, he found hehad caught something of importance, from the weight; on drawing it tothe surface, we were much surprised to find a long pistol of verycurious and outlandish fashion, which, from its rusted condition, andits stock being worm-eaten and covered with barnacles, appeared to havebeen a long time under water. The unexpected appearance of thisdocument of warfare occasioned much speculation among my pacificcompanions. One supposed it to have fallen there during therevolutionary war. Another, from the peculiarity of its fashion, attributed it to the voyagers in the earliest days of the settlement;perchance to the renowned Adrian Block, who explored the Sound anddiscovered Block Island, since so noted for its cheese. But a third, after regarding it for some time, pronounced it to be of veritableSpanish workmanship. 

"I'll warrant, " said he, "if this pistol could talk it would tellstrange stories of hard fights among the Spanish Dons. I've not a doubtbut it's a relique of the buccaneers of old times. "

"Like enough, " said another of the party. "There was Bradish thepirate, who at the time Lord Bellamont made such a stir after thebuccaneers, buried money and jewels somewhere in these parts or onLong-Island; and then there was Captain Kidd--"

"Ah, that Kidd was a daring dog, " said an iron-faced Cape Cod whaler. "There's a fine old song about him, all to the tune of:

 'My name is Robert Kidd, As I sailed, as I sailed. '

And it tells how he gained the devil's good graces by burying theBible:

 'I had the Bible in my hand, As I sailed, as I sailed, And I buried it in the sand, As I sailed. '

Egad, if this pistol had belonged to him I should set some store by itout of sheer curiosity. Ah, well, there's an odd story I have heardabout one Tom Walker, who, they say, dug up some of Kidd's buriedmoney; and as the fish don't seem to bite at present, I'll tell it toyou to pass away time. "

THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 

A few miles from Boston, in Massachusetts, there is a deep inletwinding several miles into the interior of the country from CharlesBay, and terminating in a thickly-wooded swamp, or morass. On one sideof this inlet is a beautiful dark grove; on the opposite side the landrises abruptly from the water's edge, into a high ridge on which grow afew scattered oaks of great age and immense size. It was under one ofthese gigantic trees, according to old stories, that Kidd the pirateburied his treasure. The inlet allowed a facility to bring the money ina boat secretly and at night to the very foot of the hill. Theelevation of the place permitted a good look-out to be kept that no onewas at hand, while the remarkable trees formed good landmarks by whichthe place might easily be found again. The old stories add, moreover, that the devil presided at the hiding of the money, and took it underhis guardianship; but this, it is well-known, he always does withburied treasure, particularly when it has been ill gotten. Be that asit may, Kidd never returned to recover his wealth; being shortly afterseized at Boston, sent out to England, and there hanged for a pirate. 

About the year 1727, just at the time when earthquakes were prevalentin New England, and shook many tall sinners down upon their knees, there lived near this place a meagre miserly fellow of the name of TomWalker. He had a wife as miserly as himself; they were so miserly thatthey even conspired to cheat each other. Whatever the woman could layhands on she hid away; a hen could not cackle but she was on the alertto secure the new-laid egg. Her husband was continually prying about todetect her secret hoards, and many and fierce were the conflicts thattook place about what ought to have been common property. They lived ina forlorn-looking house, that stood alone and had an air of starvation. A few straggling savin trees, emblems of sterility, grew near it; nosmoke ever curled from its chimney; no traveller stopped at its door. Amiserable horse, whose ribs were as articulate as the bars of agridiron, stalked about a field where a thin carpet of moss, scarcelycovering the ragged beds of pudding-stone, tantalized and balked hishunger; and sometimes he would lean his head over the fence, lookedpiteously at the passer-by, and seem to petition deliverance from thisland of famine. 

The house and its inmates had altogether a bad name. Tom's wife was atall termagant, fierce of temper, loud of tongue, and strong of arm. Her voice was often heard in wordy warfare with her husband; and hisface sometimes showed signs that their conflicts were not confined towords. No one ventured, however, to interfere between them; the lonelywayfarer shrunk within himself at the horrid clamor andclapper-clawing; eyed the den of discord askance, and hurried on hisway, rejoicing, if a bachelor, in his celibacy. 

One day that Tom Walker had been to a distant part of the neighborhood, he took what he considered a short cut homewards through the swamp. Like most short cuts, it was an ill-chosen route. The swamp was thicklygrown with great gloomy pines and hemlocks, some of them ninety feethigh; which made it dark at noon-day, and a retreat for all the owls ofthe neighborhood. It was full of pits and quagmires, partly coveredwith weeds and mosses; where the green surface often betrayed thetraveller into a gulf of black smothering mud; there were also dark andstagnant pools, the abodes of the tadpole, the bull-frog, and thewater-snake, and where trunks of pines and hemlocks lay half drowned, half rotting, looking like alligators, sleeping in the mire. 

Tom had long been picking his way cautiously through this treacherousforest; stepping from tuft to tuft of rushes and roots which affordedprecarious footholds among deep sloughs; or pacing carefully, like acat, among the prostrate trunks of trees; startled now and then by thesudden screaming of the bittern, or the quacking of a wild duck, risingon the wing from some solitary pool. At length he arrived at a piece offirm ground, which ran out like a peninsula into the deep bosom of theswamp. It had been one of the strongholds of the Indians during theirwars with the first colonists. Here they had thrown up a kind of fortwhich they had looked upon as almost impregnable, and had used as aplace of refuge for their squaws and children. Nothing remained of theIndian fort but a few embankments gradually sinking to the level of thesurrounding earth, and already overgrown in part by oaks and otherforest trees, the foliage of which formed a contrast to the dark pinesand hemlocks of the swamp. 

It was late in the dusk of evening that Tom Walker reached the oldfort, and he paused there for a while to rest himself. Any one but hewould have felt unwilling to linger in this lonely, melancholy place, for the common people had a bad opinion of it from the stories handeddown from the time of the Indian wars; when it was asserted that thesavages held incantations here and made sacrifices to the evil spirit. Tom Walker, however, was not a man to be troubled with any fears of thekind. 

He reposed himself for some time on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, listening to the boding cry of the tree-toad, and delving with hiswalking-staff into a mound of black mould at his feet. As he turned upthe soil unconsciously, his staff struck against something hard. Heraked it out of the vegetable mould, and lo! a cloven skull with anIndian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before him. The rust on theweapon showed the time that had elapsed since this death blow had beengiven. It was a dreary memento of the fierce struggle that had takenplace in this last foothold of the Indian warriors. 

"Humph!" said Tom Walker, as he gave the skull a kick to shake the dirtfrom it. 

"Let that skull alone!" said a gruff voice. 

Tom lifted up his eyes and beheld a great black man, seated directlyOpposite him on the stump of a tree. He was exceedingly surprised, having neither seen nor heard any one approach, and he was still moreperplexed on observing, as well as the gathering gloom would permit, that the stranger was neither negro nor Indian. It is true, he wasdressed in a rude, half Indian garb, and had a red belt or sash swathedround his body, but his face was neither black nor copper color, butswarthy and dingy and begrimed with soot, as if he had been accustomedto toil among fires and forges. He had a shock of coarse black hair, that stood out from his head in all directions; and bore an axe on hisshoulder. 

He scowled for a moment at Tom with a pair of great red eyes. 

"What are you doing in my grounds?" said the black man, with a hoarsegrowling voice. 

"Your grounds?" said Tom, with a sneer; "no more your grounds thanmine: they belong to Deacon Peabody. "

"Deacon Peabody be d----d, " said the stranger, "as I flatter myself hewill be, if he does not look more to his own sins and less to hisneighbor's. Look yonder, and see how Deacon Peabody is faring. "

Tom looked in the direction that the stranger pointed, and beheld oneof the great trees, fair and flourishing without, but rotten at thecore, and saw that it had been nearly hewn through, so that the firsthigh wind was likely to blow it down. On the bark of the tree wasscored the name of Deacon Peabody. He now looked round and found mostof the tall trees marked with the names of some great men of thecolony, and all more or less scored by the axe. The one on which he hadbeen seated, and which had evidently just been hewn down, bore the nameof Crowninshield; and he recollected a mighty rich man of that name, who made a vulgar display of wealth, which it was whispered he hadacquired by buccaneering. 

"He's just ready for burning!" said the black man, with a growl oftriumph. "You see I am likely to have a good stock of firewood forwinter. "

"But what right have you, " said Tom, "to cut down Deacon Peabody'stimber?"

"The right of prior claim, " said the other. "This woodland belonged tome long before one of your white-faced race put foot upon the soil. "

"And pray, who are you, if I may be so bold?" said Tom. 

"Oh, I go by various names. I am the Wild Huntsman in some countries;the Black Miner in others. In this neighborhood I am known by the nameof the Black Woodsman. I am he to whom the red men devoted this spot, and now and then roasted a white man by way of sweet-smellingsacrifice. Since the red men have been exterminated by you whitesavages, I amuse myself by presiding at the persecutions of quakers andanabaptists; I am the great patron and prompter of slave dealers, andthe grand master of the Salem witches. "

"The upshot of all which is, that, if I mistake not, " said Tom, sturdily, "you are he commonly called Old Scratch. "

"The same at your service!" replied the black man, with a half civilnod. 

Such was the opening of this interview, according to the old story, though it has almost too familiar an air to be credited. One wouldthink that to meet with such a singular personage in this wild, lonelyplace, would have shaken any man's nerves; but Tom was a hard-mindedfellow, not easily daunted, and he had lived so long with a termagantwife, that he did not even fear the devil. 

It is said that after this commencement they had a long and earnestConversation together, as Tom returned homewards. The black man toldhim of great sums of money which had been buried by Kidd the pirate, under the oak trees on the high ridge not far from the morass. Allthese were under his command and protected by his power, so that nonecould find them but such as propitiated his favor. These he offered toplace within Tom Walker's reach, having conceived an especial kindnessfor him: but they were to be had only on certain conditions. What theseconditions were, may easily be surmised, though Tom never disclosedthem publicly. They must have been very hard, for he required time tothink of them, and he was not a man to stick at trifles where money wasin view. When they had reached the edge of the swamp the strangerpaused. 

"What proof have I that all you have been telling me is true?" saidTom. 

"There is my signature, " said the black man, pressing his finger onTom's forehead. So saying, he turned off among the thickets of theswamp, and seemed, as Tom said, to go down, down, down, into the earth, until nothing but his head and shoulders could be seen, and so on untilhe totally disappeared. 

When Tom reached home he found the black print of a finger burnt, as itwere, into his forehead, which nothing could obliterate. 

The first news his wife had to tell him was the sudden death of AbsalomCrowninshield, the rich buccaneer. It was announced in the papers withthe usual flourish, that "a great man had fallen in Israel. "

Tom recollected the tree which his black friend had just hewn down, andwhich was ready for burning. "Let the freebooter roast, " said Tom, "whocares!" He now felt convinced that all he had heard and seen was noillusion. 

He was not prone to let his wife into his confidence; but as this wasan uneasy secret, he willingly shared it with her. All her avarice wasawakened at the mention of hidden gold, and she urged her husband tocomply with the black man's terms and secure what would make themwealthy for life. However Tom might have felt disposed to sell himselfto the devil, he was determined not to do so to oblige his wife; so heflatly refused out of the mere spirit of contradiction. Many and bitterwere the quarrels they had on the subject, but the more she talked themore resolute was Tom not to be damned to please her. At length shedetermined to drive the bargain on her own account, and if shesucceeded, to keep all the gain to herself. 

Being of the same fearless temper as her husband, she sat off for theold Indian fort towards the close of a summer's day. She was manyhour's absent. When she came back she was reserved and sullen in herreplies. She spoke something of a black man whom she had met abouttwilight, hewing at the root of a tall tree. He was sulky, however, andwould not come to terms; she was to go again with a propitiatoryoffering, but what it was she forebore to say. 

The next evening she sat off again for the swamp, with her apronheavily laden. Tom waited and waited for her, but in vain: midnightcame, but she did not make her appearance; morning, noon, nightreturned, but still she did not come. Tom now grew uneasy for hersafety; especially as he found she had carried off in her apron thesilver tea pot and spoons and every portable article of value. Anothernight elapsed, another morning came; but no wife. In a word, she wasever heard of more. 

What was her real fate nobody knows, in consequence of so manypretending to know. It is one of those facts that have becomeconfounded by a variety of historians. Some asserted that she lost herway among the tangled mazes of the swamp and sunk into some pit orslough; others, more uncharitable, hinted that she had eloped with thehousehold booty, and made off to some other province; while othersassert that the tempter had decoyed her into a dismal quagmire, on topof which her hat was found lying. In confirmation of this, it was saida great black man with an axe on his shoulder was seen late that veryevening coming out of the swamp, carrying a bundle tied in a checkapron, with an air of surly triumph. 

The most current and probable story, however, observes that Tom Walkergrew so anxious about the fate of his wife and his property that he satout at length to seek them both at the Indian fort. During a longsummer's afternoon he searched about the gloomy place, but no wife wasto be seen. He called her name repeatedly, but she was no where to beheard. The bittern alone responded to his voice, as he flew screamingby; or the bull-frog croaked dolefully from a neighboring pool. Atlength, it is said, just in the brown hour of twilight, when the owlsbegan to hoot and the bats to flit about, his attention was attractedby the clamor of carrion crows that were hovering about a cypress tree. He looked and beheld a bundle tied in a check apron and hanging in thebranches of a tree; with a great vulture perched hard by, as if keepingwatch upon it. He leaped with joy, for he recognized his wife's apron, and supposed it to contain the household valuables. 

"Let us get hold of the property, " said he consolingly to himself, "andwe will endeavor to do without the woman. "

As he scrambled up the tree the vulture spread its wide wings, andsailed off screaming into the deep shadows of the forest. Tom seizedthe check apron, but, woful sight! found nothing but a heart and livertied up in it. 

Such, according to the most authentic old story, was all that was to befound of Tom's wife. She had probably attempted to deal with the blackman as she had been accustomed to deal with her husband; but though afemale scold is generally considered a match for the devil, yet in thisinstance she appears to have had the worst of it. She must have diedgame, however: from the part that remained unconquered. Indeed, it issaid Tom noticed many prints of cloven feet deeply stamped about thetree, and several handfuls of hair that looked as if they had beenplucked from the coarse black shock of the woodsman. Tom knew hiswife's prowess by experience. He shrugged his shoulders as he looked atthe signs of a fierce clapper-clawing. "Egad, " said he to himself, "OldScratch must have had a tough time of it!"

Tom consoled himself for the loss of his property by the loss of hiswife; for he was a little of a philosopher. He even felt something likegratitude towards the black woodsman, who he considered had done him akindness. He sought, therefore, to cultivate a farther acquaintancewith him, but for some time without success; the old black legs playedshy, for whatever people may think, he is not always to be had forcalling for; he knows how to play his cards when pretty sure of hisgame. 

At length, it is said, when delay had whetted Tom's eagerness to thequick, and prepared him to agree to any thing rather than not gain thepromised treasure, he met the black man one evening in his usualwoodman dress, with his axe on his shoulder, sauntering along the edgeof the swamp, and humming a tune. He affected to receive Tom's advancewith great indifference, made brief replies, and went on humming histune. 

By degrees, however, Tom brought him to business, and they began tohaggle about the terms on which the former was to have the pirate'streasure. There was one condition which need not be mentioned, beinggenerally understood in all cases where the devil grants favors; butthere were others about which, though of less importance, he wasinflexibly obstinate. He insisted that the money found through hismeans should be employed in his service. He proposed, therefore, thatTom should employ it in the black traffic; that is to say, that heshould fit out a slave ship. This, however, Tom resolutely refused; hewas bad enough, in all conscience; but the devil himself could nottempt him to turn slave dealer. 

Finding Tom so squeamish on this point, he did not insist upon it, butproposed instead that he should turn usurer; the devil being extremelyanxious for the increase of usurers, looking upon them as his peculiarpeople. 

To this no objections were made, for it was just to Tom's taste. 

"You shall open a broker's shop in Boston next month, " said the blackman. 

"I'll do it to-morrow, if you wish, " said Tom Walker. 

"You shall lend money at two per cent a month. "

"Egad, I'll charge four!" replied Tom Walker. 

"You shall extort bonds, foreclose mortgages, drive the merchant tobankruptcy--"

"I'll drive him to the d---l, " cried Tom Walker, eagerly. 

"You are the usurer for my money!" said the black legs, with delight. "When will you want the rhino?"

"This very night. "

"Done!" said the devil. 

"Done!" said Tom Walker. --So they shook hands and struck a bargain. 

A few days' time saw Tom Walker seated behind his desk in a countinghouse in Boston. His reputation for a ready-moneyed man, who would lendmoney out for a good consideration, soon spread abroad. Every bodyremembers the days of Governor Belcher, when money was particularlyscarce. It was a time of paper credit. The country had been delugedwith government bills; the famous Land Bank had been established; therehad been a rage for speculating; the people had run mad with schemesfor new settlements; for building cities in the wilderness; landjobbers went about with maps of grants, and townships, and Eldorados, lying nobody knew where, but which every body was ready to purchase. Ina word, the great speculating fever which breaks out every now and thenin the country, had raged to an alarming degree, and body was dreamingof making sudden fortunes from nothing. As usual, the fever hadsubsided; the dream had gone off, and the imaginary fortunes with it;the patients were left in doleful plight, and the whole countryresounded with the consequent cry of "hard times. "

At this propitious time of public distress did Tom Walker set up as ausurer in Boston. His door was soon thronged by customers. The needyand the adventurous; the gambling speculator; the dreaming land jobber;the thriftless tradesman; the merchant with cracked credit; in short, every one driven to raise money by desperate means and desperatesacrifices, hurried to Tom Walker. 

Thus Tom was the universal friend of the needy, and he acted like a"friend in need;" that is to say, he always exacted good pay and goodsecurity. In proportion to the distress of the applicant was thehardness of his terms. He accumulated bonds and mortgages; graduallysqueezed his customers closer and closer; and sent them, at length, dryas a sponge from his door. 

In this way he made money hand over hand; became a rich and mighty man, and exalted his cocked hat upon 'change. He built himself, as usual, avast house, out of ostentation; but left the greater part of itunfinished and unfurnished out of parsimony. He even set up a carriagein the fullness of his vain-glory, though he nearly starved the horseswhich drew it; and as the ungreased wheels groaned and screeched on theaxle trees, you would have thought you heard the souls of the poordebtors he was squeezing. 

As Tom waxed old, however, he grew thoughtful. Having secured the goodthings of this world, he began to feel anxious about those of the next. He thought with regret on the bargain he had made with his blackfriend, and set his wits to work to cheat him out of the conditions. Hebecame, therefore, all of a sudden, a violent church-goer. He prayedloudly and strenuously as if heaven were to be taken by force of lungs. Indeed, one might always tell when he had sinned most during the week, by the clamor of his Sunday devotion. The quiet Christians who had beenmodestly and steadfastly travelling Zion-ward, were struck withself-reproach at seeing themselves so suddenly outstripped in theircareer by this new-made convert. Tom was as rigid in religious, as inmoney matters; he was a stern supervisor and censurer of his neighbors, and seemed to think every sin entered up to their account became acredit on his own side of the page. He even talked of the expediency ofreviving the persecution of quakers and anabaptists. In a word, Tom'szeal became as notorious as his riches. 

Still, in spite of all this strenuous attention to forms, Tom had aLurking dread that the devil, after all, would have his due. That hemight not be taken unawares, therefore, it is said he always carried asmall Bible in his coat pocket. He had also a great folio Bible on hiscounting-house desk, and would frequently be found reading it whenpeople called on business; on such occasions he would lay his greenspectacles on the book, to mark the place, while he turned round todrive some usurious bargain. 

Some say that Tom grew a little crack-brained in his old days, and thatfancying his end approaching, he had his horse new shod, saddled andbridled, and buried with his feet uppermost; because he supposed thatat the last day the world would be turned upside down; in which case heshould find his horse standing ready for mounting, and he wasdetermined at the worst to give his old friend a run for it. This, however, is probably a mere old wives' fable. If he really did takesuch a precaution it was totally superfluous; at least so says theauthentic old legend, which closes his story in the following manner:

On one hot afternoon in the dog days, just as a terrible blackthunder-gust was coming up, Tom sat in his counting-house in his whitelinen cap and India silk morning-gown. He was on the point offoreclosing a mortgage, by which he would complete the ruin of anunlucky land speculator for whom he had professed the greatestfriendship. The poor land jobber begged him to grant a few months'indulgence. Tom had grown testy and irritated and refused another day. 

"My family will be ruined and brought upon the parish, " said the landjobber. 

"Charity begins at home, " replied Tom, "I must take care of myself inthese hard times. "

"You have made so much money out of me, " said the speculator. 

Tom lost his patience and his piety--"The devil take me, " said he, "ifI have made a farthing!"

Just then there were three loud knocks at the street door. He steppedout to see who was there. A black man was holding a black horse whichneighed and stamped with impatience. 

"Tom, you're come for!" said the black fellow, gruffly. Tom shrunkback, but too late. He had left his little Bible at the bottom of hiscoat pocket, and his big Bible on the desk buried under the mortgage hewas about to foreclose: never was sinner taken more unawares. The blackman whisked him like a child astride the horse and away he galloped inthe midst of a thunder-storm. The clerks stuck their pens behind theirears and stared after him from the windows. Away went Tom Walker, dashing down the street; his white cap bobbing up and down; hismorning-gown fluttering in the wind, and his steed striking fire out ofthe pavement at every bound. When the clerks turned to look for theblack man he had disappeared. 

Tom Walker never returned to foreclose the mortgage. A countryman wholived on the borders of the swamp, reported that in the height of thethunder-gust he had heard a great clattering of hoofs and a howlingalong the road, and that when he ran to the window he just caught sightof a figure, such as I have described, on a horse that galloped likemad across the fields, over the hills and down into the black hemlockswamp towards the old Indian fort; and that shortly after athunder-bolt fell in that direction which seemed to set the wholeforest in a blaze. 

The good people of Boston shook their heads and shrugged theirshoulders, but had been so much accustomed to witches and goblins andtricks of the devil in all kinds of shapes from the first settlement ofthe colony, that they were not so much horror-struck as might have beenexpected. Trustees were appointed to take charge of Tom's effects. There was nothing, however, to administer upon. On searching hiscoffers all his bonds and mortgages were found reduced to cinders. Inplace of gold and silver, his iron chest was filled with chips andshavings; two skeletons lay in his stable instead of his half-starvedhorses, and the very next day his great house took fire and was burntto the ground. 

Such was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotten wealth. Let allgriping money-brokers lay this story to heart. The truth of it is notto be doubted. The very hole under the oak trees, from whence he dugKidd's money, is to be seen to this day; and the neighboring swamp andold Indian fort is often haunted in stormy nights by a figure onhorseback, in a morning-gown and white cap, which is doubtless thetroubled spirit of the usurer. In fact, the story has resolved itselfinto a proverb, and is the origin of that popular saying prevalentthroughout New-England, of "The Devil and Tom Walker. "

Such, as nearly as I can recollect, was the tenor of the tale told bythe Cape Cod whaler. There were divers trivial particulars which I haveomitted, and which wiled away the morning very pleasantly, until thetime of tide favorable for fishing being passed, it was proposed thatwe should go to land, and refresh ourselves under the trees, until thenoontide heat should have abated. 

We accordingly landed on a delectable part of the island of Mannahatta, in that shady and embowered tract formerly under dominion of theancient family of the Hardenbrooks. It was a spot well known to me inthe course of the aquatic expeditions of my boyhood. Not far from wherewe landed, was an old Dutch family vault, in the side of a bank, whichhad been an object of great awe and fable among my schoolboyassociates. There were several mouldering coffins within; but what gaveit a fearful interest with us, was its being connected in our mindswith the pirate wreck which lay among the rocks of Hell Gate. Therewere also stories of smuggling connected with it, particularly during atime that this retired spot was owned by a noted burgher called ReadyMoney Prevost; a man of whom it was whispered that he had many andmysterious dealings with parts beyond seas. All these things, however, had been jumbled together in our minds in that vague way in which suchthings are mingled up in the tales of boyhood. 

While I was musing upon these matters my companions had spread arepast, from the contents of our well-stored pannier, and we solacedourselves during the warm sunny hours of mid-day under the shade of abroad chestnut, on the cool grassy carpet that swept down to thewater's edge. While lolling on the grass I summoned up the duskyrecollections of my boyhood respecting this place, and repeated themlike the imperfectly remembered traces of a dream, for theentertainment of my companions. When I had finished, a worthy oldburgher, John Josse Vandermoere, the same who once related to me theadventures of Dolph Heyliger, broke silence and observed, that herecollected a story about money-digging which occurred in this veryneighborhood. As we knew him to be one of the most authentic narratorsof the province we begged him to let us have the particulars, andaccordingly, while we refreshed ourselves with a clean long pipe ofBlase Moore's tobacco, the authentic John Josse Vandermoere related thefollowing tale. 

WOLFERT WEBBER; OR, GOLDEN DREAMS. 

In the year of grace one thousand seven hundred and--blank--for I donot remember the precise date; however, it was somewhere in the earlypart of the last century, there lived in the ancient city of theManhattoes a worthy burgher, Wolfert Webber by name. He was descendedfrom old Cobus Webber of the Brille in Holland, one of the originalsettlers, famous for introducing the cultivation of cabbages, and whocame over to the province during the protectorship of Oloffe VanKortlandt, otherwise called the Dreamer. The field in which CobusWebber first planted himself and his cabbages had remained ever sincein the family, who continued in the same line of husbandry, with thatpraiseworthy perseverance for which our Dutch burghers are noted. Thewhole family genius, during several generations was devoted to thestudy and development of this one noble vegetable; and to thisconcentration of intellect may doubtless be ascribed the prodigioussize and renown to which the Webber cabbages attained. 

The Webber dynasty continued in uninterrupted succession; and never dida line give more unquestionable proofs of legitimacy. The eldest sonsucceeded to the looks, as well as the territory of his sire; and hadthe portraits of this line of tranquil potentates been taken, theywould have presented a row of heads marvellously resembling in shapeand magnitude the vegetables over which they reigned. 

The seat of government continued unchanged in the family mansion:--aDutch-built house, with a front, or rather gable-end of yellow brick, tapering to a point, with the customary iron weathercock at the top. Every thing about the building bore the air of long-settled ease andsecurity. Flights of martins peopled the little coops nailed againstthe walls, and swallows built their nests under the eaves; and everyone knows that these house-loving birds bring good luck to the dwellingwhere they take up their abode. In a bright sunny morning in earlysummer, it was delectable to hear their cheerful notes, as they sportedabout in the pure, sweet air, chirping forth, as it were, the greatnessand prosperity of the Webbers. 

Thus quietly and comfortably did this excellent family vegetate underthe shade of a mighty button-wood tree, which by little and little grewso great as entirely to overshadow their palace. The city graduallyspread its suburbs round their domain. Houses sprung up to interrupttheir prospects. The rural lanes in the vicinity began to grow into thebustle and populousness of streets; in short, with all the habits ofrustic life they began to find themselves the inhabitants of a city. 

Still, however, they maintained their hereditary character, andHereditary possessions, with all the tenacity of petty German princesin the midst of the Empire. Wolfert was the last of the line, andsucceeded to the patriarchal bench at the door, under the family tree, and swayed the sceptre of his fathers, a kind of rural potentate in themidst of a metropolis. 

To share the cares and sweets of sovereignty, he had taken unto himselfa help-mate, one of that excellent kind called stirring women; that isto say, she was one of those notable little housewives who are alwaysbusy when there is nothing to do. Her activity however, took oneparticular direction; her whole life seemed devoted to intenseknitting; whether at home or abroad; walking or sitting, her needleswere continually in motion, and it is even affirmed that by herunwearied industry she very nearly supplied her household withstockings throughout the year. This worthy couple were blessed with onedaughter, who was brought up with great tenderness and care; uncommonpains had been taken with her education, so that she could stitch inevery variety of way; make all kinds of pickles and preserves, and markher own name on a sampler. The influence of her taste was seen also inthe family garden, where the ornamental began to mingle with theuseful; whole rows of fiery marigolds and splendid hollyhocks borderedthe cabbage-beds; and gigantic sunflowers lolled their broad, jollyfaces over the fences, seeming to ogle most affectionately thepassers-by. 

Thus reigned and vegetated Wolfert Webber over his paternal acres, peaceably and contentedly. Not but that, like all other sovereigns, hehad his occasional cares and vexations. The growth of his native citysometimes caused him annoyance. His little territory gradually becamehemmed in by streets and houses, which intercepted air and sunshine. Hewas now and then subject to the irruptions of the border population, that infest the streets of a metropolis, who would sometimes makemidnight forays into his dominions, and carry off captive wholeplatoons of his noblest subjects. Vagrant swine would make a descent, too, now and then, when the gate was left open, and lay all wastebefore them; and mischievous urchins would often decapitate theillustrious sunflowers, the glory of the garden, as they lolled theirheads so fondly over the walls. Still all these were petty grievances, which might now and then ruffle the surface of his mind, as a summerbreeze will ruffle the surface of a mill-pond; but they could notdisturb the deep-seated quiet of his soul. He would seize a trustystaff, that stood behind the door, issue suddenly out, and anoint theback of the aggressor, whether pig or urchin, and then return withindoors, marvellously refreshed and tranquillized. 

The chief cause of anxiety to honest Wolfert, however, was the growingprosperity of the city. The expenses of living doubled and trebled; buthe could not double and treble the magnitude of his cabbages; and thenumber of competitors prevented the increase of price; thus, therefore, while every one around him grew richer, Wolfert grew poorer, and hecould not, for the life of him, perceive how the evil was to beremedied. 

This growing care which increased from day to day, had its gradualeffect upon our worthy burgher; insomuch, that it at length implantedtwo or three wrinkles on his brow; things unknown before in the familyof the Webbers; and it seemed to pinch up the corners of his cocked hatinto an expression of anxiety, totally opposite to the tranquil, broad-brimmed, low-crowned beavers of his illustrious progenitors. 

Perhaps even this would not have materially disturbed the serenity ofhis mind had he had only himself and his wife to care for; but therewas his daughter gradually growing to maturity; and all the world knowswhen daughters begin to ripen no fruit or flower requires so muchlooking after. I have no talent at describing female charms, else fainwould I depict the progress of this little Dutch beauty. How her blueeyes grew deeper and deeper, and her cherry lips redder and redder; andhow she ripened and ripened, and rounded and rounded in the openingbreath of sixteen summers, until, in her seventeenth spring, she seemedready to burst out of her bodice like a half-blown rose-bud. 

Ah, well-a-day! could I but show her as she was then, tricked out on aSunday morning in the hereditary finery of the old Dutch clothes-press, of which her mother had confided to her the key. The wedding dress ofher grandmother, modernized for use, with sundry ornaments, handed downas heirlooms in the family. Her pale brown hair smoothed withbuttermilk in flat waving lines on each side of her fair forehead. Thechain of yellow virgin gold, that encircled her neck; the little cross, that just rested at the entrance of a soft valley of happiness, as ifit would sanctify the place. The--but pooh!--it is not for an old manlike me to be prosing about female beauty: suffice it to say, Amy hadattained her seventeenth year. Long since had her sampler exhibitedhearts in couples desperately transfixed with arrows, and true lovers'knots worked in deep blue silk; and it was evident she began tolanguish for some more interesting occupation than the rearing ofsunflowers or pickling of cucumbers. 

At this critical period of female existence, when the heart within adamsel's bosom, like its emblem, the miniature which hangs without, isapt to be engrossed by a single image, a new visitor began to make hisappearance under the roof of Wolfert Webber. This was Dirk Waldron, theonly son of a poor widow, but who could boast of more fathers than anylad in the province; for his mother had had four husbands, and thisonly child, so that though born in her last wedlock, he might fairlyclaim to be the tardy fruit of a long course of cultivation. This sonof four fathers united the merits and the vigor of his sires. If he hadnot a great family before him, he seemed likely to have a great oneafter him; for you had only to look at the fresh gamesome youth, to seethat he was formed to be the founder of a mighty race. 

This youngster gradually became an intimate visitor of the family. Hetalked little, but he sat long. He filled the father's pipe when it wasempty, gathered up the mother's knitting-needle, or ball of worstedwhen it fell to the ground; stroked the sleek coat of thetortoise-shell cat, and replenished the teapot for the daughter fromthe bright copper kettle that sung before the fire. All these quietlittle offices may seem of trifling import, but when true love istranslated into Low Dutch, it is in this way that it eloquentlyexpresses itself. They were not lost upon the Webber family. Thewinning youngster found marvellous favor in the eyes of the mother; thetortoise-shell cat, albeit the most staid and demure of her kind, gaveindubitable signs of approbation of his visits, the tea-kettle seemedto sing out a cheering note of welcome at his approach, and if the slyglances of the daughter might be rightly read, as she sat bridling anddimpling, and sewing by her mother's side, she was not a wit behindDame Webber, or grimalkin, or the tea-kettle in good-will. 

Wolfert alone saw nothing of what was going on. Profoundly wrapt up inmeditation on the growth of the city and his cabbages, he sat lookingin the fire, and puffing his pipe in silence. One night, however, asthe gentle Amy, according to custom, lighted her lover to the outerdoor, and he, according to custom, took his parting salute, the smackresounded so vigorously through the long, silent entry as to startleeven the dull ear of Wolfert. He was slowly roused to a new source ofanxiety. It had never entered into his head, that this mere child, who, as it seemed but the other day, had been climbing about his knees, andplaying with dolls and baby-houses, could all at once be thinking oflove and matrimony. He rubbed his eyes, examined into the fact, andreally found that while he had been dreaming of other matters, she hadactually grown into a woman, and what was more, had fallen in love. Here were new cares for poor Wolfert. He was a kind father, but he wasa prudent man. The young man was a very stirring lad; but then he hadneither money or land. Wolfert's ideas all ran in one channel, and hesaw no alternative in case of a marriage, but to portion off the youngcouple with a corner of his cabbage garden, the whole of which wasbarely sufficient for the support of his family. 

Like a prudent father, therefore, he determined to nip this passion inthe bud, and forbade the youngster the house, though sorely did it goagainst his fatherly heart, and many a silent tear did it cause in thebright eye of his daughter. She showed herself, however, a pattern offilial piety and obedience. She never pouted and sulked; she never flewin the face of parental authority; she never fell into a passion, orfell into hysterics, as many romantic novel-read young ladies would do. Not she, indeed! She was none such heroical rebellious trumpery, Iwarrant ye. On the contrary, she acquiesced like an obedient daughter;shut the street-door in her lover's face, and if ever she did grant himan interview, it was either out of the kitchen window, or over thegarden fence. 

Wolfert was deeply cogitating these things in his mind, and his browwrinkled with unusual care, as he wended his way one Saturday afternoonto a rural inn, about two miles from the city. It was a favorite resortof the Dutch part of the community from being always held by a Dutchline of landlords, and retaining an air and relish of the good oldtimes. It was a Dutch-built house, that had probably been a countryseat of some opulent burgher in the early time of the settlement. Itstood near a point of land, called Corlears Hook, which stretches outinto the Sound, and against which the tide, at its flux and reflux, sets with extraordinary rapidity. The venerable and somewhat crazymansion was distinguished from afar, by a grove of elms and sycamoresthat seemed to wave a hospitable invitation, while a few weepingwillows with their dank, drooping foliage, resembling falling waters, gave an idea of coolness, that rendered it an attractive spot duringthe heats of summer. 

Here, therefore, as I said, resorted many of the old inhabitants of theManhattoes, where, while some played at the shuffle-board and quoitsand ninepins, others smoked a deliberate pipe, and talked over publicaffairs. 

It was on a blustering autumnal afternoon that Wolfert made his visitto the inn. The grove of elms and willows was stripped of its leaves, which whirled in rustling eddies about the fields. 

The ninepin alley was deserted, for the premature chilliness of the dayhad driven the company within doors. As it was Saturday afternoon, thehabitual club was in session, composed principally of regular Dutchburghers, though mingled occasionally with persons of various, character and country, as is natural in a place of such motleypopulation. 

Beside the fire-place, and in a huge leather-bottomed armchair, sat thedictator of this little world, the venerable Rem, or, as it waspronounced, Ramm Rapelye. 

He was a man of Walloon race, and illustrious for the antiquity of hisline, his great grandmother having been the first white child born inthe province. But he was still more illustrious for his wealth anddignity: he had long filled the noble office of alderman, and was a manto whom the governor himself took off his hat. He had maintainedpossession of the leathern-bottomed chair from time immemorial; and hadgradually waxed in bulk as he sat in his seat of government, until inthe course of years he filled its whole magnitude. His word wasdecisive with his subjects; for he was so rich a man, that he was neverexpected to support any opinion by argument. The landlord waited on himwith peculiar officiousness; not that he paid better than hisneighbors, but then the coin of a rich man seems always to be so muchmore acceptable. The landlord had always a pleasant word and a joke, toinsinuate in the ear of the august Ramm. It is true, Ramm neverlaughed, and, indeed, maintained a mastiff-like gravity, and evensurliness of aspect, yet he now and then rewarded mine host with atoken of approbation; which, though nothing more nor less than a kindof grunt, yet delighted the landlord more than a broad laugh from apoorer man. 

"This will be a rough night for the money-diggers, " said mine host, asa gust of wind howled round the house, and rattled at the windows. 

"What, are they at their works again?" said an English half-paycaptain, with one eye, who was a frequent attendant at the inn. 

"Aye, are they, " said the landlord, "and well may they be. They've hadluck of late. They say a great pot of money has been dug up in thefield, just behind Stuyvesant's orchard. Folks think it must have beenburied there in old times by Peter Stuyvesant, the Dutch Governor. "

"Fudge!" said the one-eyed man of war, as he added a small portion ofwater to a bottom of brandy. 

"Well, you may believe, or not, as you please, " said mine host, somewhat nettled; "but every body knows that the old governor buried agreat deal of his money at the time of the Dutch troubles, when theEnglish red-coats seized on the province. They say, too, the oldgentleman walks; aye, and in the very Same dress that he wears in thepicture which hangs up in the family house. "

"Fudge!" said the half-pay officer. 

"Fudge, if you please!--But didn't Corney Van Zandt see him atmidnight, stalking about in the meadow with his wooden leg, and a drawnsword in his hand, that flashed like fire? And what can he be walkingfor, but because people have been troubling the place where he buriedhis money in old times?"

Here the landlord was interrupted by several guttural sounds from RammRapelye, betokening that he was laboring with the unusual production ofan idea. As he was too great a man to be slighted by a prudentpublican, mine host respectfully paused until he should deliverhimself. The corpulent frame of this mighty burgher now gave all thesymptoms of a volcanic mountain on the point of an eruption. First, there was a certain heaving of the abdomen, not unlike an earthquake;then was emitted a cloud of tobacco smoke from that crater, his mouth;then there was a kind of rattle in the throat, as if the idea wereworking its way up through a region of phlegm; then there were severaldisjointed members of a sentence thrown out, ending in a cough; atlength his voice forced its way in the slow, but absolute tone of a manwho feels the weight of his purse, if not of his ideas; every portionof his speech being marked by a testy puff of tobacco smoke. 

"Who talks of old Peter Stuyvesant's walking?--puff--Have people norespect for persons?--puff--puff--Peter Stuyvesant knew better what todo with his money than to bury it--puff--I know the Stuyvesantfamily--puff--every one of them--puff--not a more respectable family inthe province--puff--old standers--puff--warm householders--puff--noneof your upstarts--puff--puff--puff. --Don't talk to me of PeterStuyvesant's walking--puff--puff--puff--puff. "

Here the redoubtable Ramm contracted his brow, clasped up his mouth, till it wrinkled at each corner, and redoubled his smoking with suchvehemence, that the cloudly volumes soon wreathed round his head, asthe smoke envelopes the awful summit of Mount Etna. 

A general silence followed the sudden rebuke of this very rich man. Thesubject, however, was too interesting to be readily abandoned. Theconversation soon broke forth again from the lips of Peechy Prauw VanHook, the chronicler of the club, one of those narrative old men whoseem to grow incontinent of words, as they grow old, until their talkflows from them almost involuntarily. 

Peechy, who could at any time tell as many stories in an evening as hishearers could digest in a month, now resumed the conversation, byaffirming that, to his knowledge, money had at different times been dugup in various parts of the island. The lucky persons who had discoveredthem had always dreamt of them three times beforehand, and what wasworthy of remark, these treasures had never been found but by somedescendant of the good old Dutch families, which clearly proved thatthey had been buried by Dutchmen in the olden time. 

"Fiddle-stick with your Dutchmen!" cried the half-pay officer. "TheDutch had nothing to do with them. They were all buried by Kidd, thepirate, and his crew. "

Here a key-note was touched that roused the whole company. The name ofCaptain Kidd was like a talisman in those times, and was associatedwith a thousand marvellous stories. 

The half-pay officer was a man of great weight among the peaceablemembers of the club, by reason of his military character, and of thegunpowder scenes which, by his own account, he had witnessed. 

The golden stories of Kidd, however, were resolutely rivalled by thetales of Peechy Prauw, who, rather than suffer his Dutch progenitors tobe eclipsed by a foreign freebooter, enriched every spot in theneighborhood with the hidden wealth of Peter Stuyvesant and hiscontemporaries. 

Not a word of this conversation was lost upon Wolfert Webber. Hereturned pensively home, full of magnificent ideas of buried riches. The soil of his native island seemed to be turned into gold-dust; andevery field teemed with treasure. His head almost reeled at the thoughthow often he must have heedlessly rambled over places where countlesssums lay, scarcely covered by the turf beneath his feet. His mind wasin a vertigo with this whirl of new ideas. As he came in sight of thevenerable mansion of his forefathers, and the little realm where theWebbers had so long and so contentedly flourished, his gorge rose atthe narrowness of his destiny. 

"Unlucky Wolfert!" exclaimed he, "others can go to bed and dreamthemselves into whole mines of wealth; they have but to seize a spadein the morning, and turn up doubloons like potatoes; but thou mustdream of hardship, and rise to poverty--must dig thy field from year'send to year's end, and--and yet raise nothing but cabbages!"

Wolfert Webber went to bed with a heavy heart; and it was long beforethe golden visions that disturbed his brain, permitted him to sink intorepose. The same visions, however, extended into his sleeping thoughts, and assumed a more definite form. He dreamt that he had discovered animmense treasure in the centre of his garden. At every stroke of thespade he laid bare a golden ingot; diamond crosses sparkled out of thedust; bags of money turned up their bellies, corpulent with pieces ofeight, or venerable doubloons; and chests, wedged close with moidores, ducats, and pistareens, yawned before his ravished eyes, and vomitedforth their glittering contents. 

Wolfert awoke a poorer man than ever. He had no heart to go about hisdaily concerns, which appeared so paltry and profitless; but sat allday long in the chimney-corner, picturing to himself ingots and heapsof gold in the fire. The next night his dream was repeated. He wasagain in his garden, digging, and laying open stores of hidden wealth. There was something very singular in this repetition. He passed anotherday of reverie, and though it was cleaning-day, and the house, as usualin Dutch households, completely topsy-turvy, yet he sat unmoved amidstthe general uproar. 

The third night he went to bed with a palpitating heart. He put on hisred nightcap, wrong side outwards for good luck. It was deep midnightbefore his anxious mind could settle itself into sleep. Again thegolden dream was repeated, and again he saw his garden teeming withingots and money-bags. 

Wolfert rose the next morning in complete bewilderment. A dream threetimes repeated was never known to lie; and if so, his fortune was made. 

In his agitation he put on his waistcoat with the hind part before, andthis was a corroboration of good luck. He no longer doubted that a hugestore of money lay buried somewhere in his cabbage-field, coyly waitingto be sought for, and he half repined at having so long been scratchingabout the surface of the soil, instead of digging to the centre. 

He took his seat at the breakfast-table full of these speculations;asked his daughter to put a lump of gold in to his tea, and on handinghis wife a plate of slap-jacks, begging her to help herself to adoubloon. 

His grand care now was how to secure this immense treasure without itbeing known. Instead of working regularly in his grounds in theday-time, he now stole from his bed at night, and with spade andpickaxe, went to work to rip up and dig about his paternal acres, fromone end to the other. In a little time the whole garden, which hadpresented such a goodly and regular appearance, with its phalanx ofcabbages, like a vegetable army in battle array, was reduced to a sceneof devastation, while the relentless Wolfert, with nightcap on head, and lantern and spade in hand, stalked through the slaughtered ranks, the destroying angel of his own vegetable world. 

Every morning bore testimony to the ravages of the preceding night incabbages of all ages and conditions, from the tender sprout to thefull-grown head, piteously rooted from their quiet beds like worthlessweeds, and left to wither in the sunshine. It was in vain Wolfert'swife remonstrated; it was in vain his darling daughter wept over thedestruction of some favorite marygold. "Thou shalt have gold of anotherguess-sort, " he would cry, chucking her under the chin; "thou shalthave a string of crooked ducats for thy wedding-necklace, my child. "His family began really to fear that the poor man's wits were diseased. He muttered in his sleep at night of mines of wealth, of pearls anddiamonds and bars of gold. In the day-time he was moody and abstracted, and walked about as if in a trance. Dame Webber held frequent councilswith all the old women of the neighborhood, not omitting the parishdominie; scarce an hour in the day but a knot of them might be seenwagging their white caps together round her door, while the poor womanmade some piteous recital. The daughter, too, was fain to seek for morefrequent consolation from the stolen interviews of her favored swain, Dirk Waldron. The delectable little Dutch songs with which she used todulcify the house grew less and less frequent, and she would forget hersewing and look wistfully in her father's face as he sat pondering bythe fireside. 

Wolfert caught her eye one day fixed on him thus anxiously, and for amoment was roused from his golden reveries--"Cheer up, my girl, " saidhe, exultingly, "why dost thou droop?--thou shalt hold up thy head oneday with the--and the Schenaerhorns, the Van Hornes, and the VanDams--the patroon himself shall be glad to get thee for his son!"

Amy shook her head at this vain-glorious boast, and was more than everin doubt of the soundness of the good man's intellect. 

In the meantime Wolfert went on digging, but the field was extensive, and as his dream had indicated no precise spot, he had to dig atrandom. The winter set in before one-tenth of the scene of promise hadbeen explored. The ground became too frozen and the nights too cold forthe labors of the spade. No sooner, however, did the returning warmthof spring loosen the soil, and the small frogs begin to pipe in themeadows, but Wolfert resumed his labors with renovated zeal. Still, however, the hours of industry were reversed. Instead of workingcheerily all day, planting and setting out his vegetables, he remainedthoughtfully idle, until the shades of night summoned him to his secretlabors. In this way he continued to dig from night to night, and weekto week, and month to month, but not a stiver did he find. On thecontrary, the more he digged the poorer he grew. The rich soil of hisgarden was digged away, and the sand and gravel from beneath werethrown to the surface, until the whole field presented an aspect ofsandy barrenness. 

In the meantime the seasons gradually rolled on. The little frogs thathad piped in the meadows in early spring, croaked as bull-frogs in thebrooks during the summer heats, and then sunk into silence. The peachtree budded, blossomed, and bore its fruit. The swallows and martinscame, twittered about the roof, built their nests, reared their young, held their congress along the eaves, and then winged their flight insearch of another spring. The caterpillar spun its winding-sheet, dangled in it from the great buttonwood tree that shaded the house, turned into a moth, fluttered with the last sunshine of summer, anddisappeared; and finally the leaves of the buttonwood tree turnedyellow, then brown, then rustled one by one to the ground, and whirlingabout in little eddies of wind and dust, whispered that winter was athand. 

Wolfert gradually awoke from his dream of wealth as the year declined. He had reared no crop to supply the wants of his household during thesterility of winter. The season was long and severe, and for the firsttime the family was really straightened in its comforts. By degrees arevulsion of thought took place in Wolfert's mind, common to thosewhose golden dreams have been disturbed by pinching realities. The ideagradually stole upon him that he should come to want. He alreadyconsidered himself one of the most unfortunate men in the province, having lost such an incalculable amount of undiscovered treasure, andnow, when thousands of pounds had eluded his search, to be perplexedfor shillings and pence was cruel in the extreme. 

Haggard care gathered about his brow; he went about with amoney-seeking air, his eyes bent downwards into the dust, and carryinghis hands in his pockets, as men are apt to do when they have nothingelse to put into them. He could not even pass the city almshousewithout giving it a rueful glance, as if destined to be his futureabode. 

The strangeness of his conduct and of his looks occasioned muchspeculation and remark. For a long time he was suspected of beingcrazy, and then every body pitied him; at length it began to besuspected that he was poor, and then every body avoided him. 

The rich old burghers of his acquaintance met him, outside of the doorwhen he called, entertained him hospitably on the threshold, pressedhim warmly by the hand on parting, shook their heads as he walked away, with the kind-hearted expression of "poor Wolfert, " and turned a cornernimbly, if by chance they saw him approaching as they walked thestreets. Even the barber and cobbler of the neighborhood, and atattered tailor in an alley hard by, three of the poorest and merriestrogues in the world, eyed him with that abundant sympathy which usuallyattends a lack of means, and there is not a doubt but their pocketswould have been at his command, only that they happened to be empty. 

Thus every body deserted the Webber mansion, as if poverty werecontagious, like the plague; every body but honest Dirk Waldron, whostill kept up his stolen visits to the daughter, and indeed seemed towax more affectionate as the fortunes of his mistress were on the wane. 

Many months had elapsed since Wolfert had frequented his old resort, the rural inn. He was taking a long lonely walk one Saturday afternoon, musing over his wants and disappointments, when his feet tookinstinctively their wonted direction, and on awaking out of a reverie, he found himself before the door of the inn. For some moments hehesitated whether to enter, but his heart yearned for companionship;and where can a ruined man find better companionship than at a tavern, where there is neither sober example nor sober advice to put him out ofcountenance?

Wolfert found several of the old frequenters of the tavern at theirusual posts, and seated in their usual places; but one was missing, thegreat Ramm Rapelye, who for many years had filled the chair of state. His place was supplied by a stranger, who seemed, however, completelyat home in the chair and the tavern. He was rather under-size, butdeep-chested, square, and muscular. His broad shoulders, double joints, and bow-knees, gave tokens of prodigious strength. His face was darkand weather-beaten; a deep scar, as if from the slash of a cutlass, hadalmost divided his nose, and made a gash in his upper lip, throughwhich his teeth shone like a bull-dog's. A mass of iron gray hair gavea grizzly finish to his hard-favored visage. His dress was of anamphibious character. He wore an old hat edged with tarnished lace, andcocked in martial style, on one side of his head; a rusty blue militarycoat with brass buttons, and a wide pair of short petticoat trousers, or rather breeches, for they were gathered up at the knees. He orderedevery body about him with an authoritative air; talked in a brattlingvoice, that sounded like the crackling of thorns under a pot; damnedthe landlord and servants with perfect impunity, and was waited uponwith greater obsequiousness than had ever been shown to the mighty Rammhimself. 

Wolfert's curiosity was awakened to know who and what was this strangerwho had thus usurped absolute sway in this ancient domain. He could getnothing, however, but vague information. Peechy Prauw took him aside, into a remote corner of the hall, and there in an under-voice, and withgreat caution, imparted to him all that he knew on the subject. The innhad been aroused several months before, on a dark stormy night, byrepeated long shouts, that seemed like the howlings of a wolf. Theycame from the water-side; and at length were distinguished to behailing the house in the seafaring manner. "House-a-hoy!" The landlordturned out with his head-waiter, tapster, hostler, and errand boy--thatis to say with his old negro Cuff. On approaching the place from whencethe voice proceeded, they found this amphibious-looking personage atthe water's edge, quite alone, and seated on a great oaken sea-chest. How he came there, whether he had been set on shore from some boat, orhad floated to land on his chest, nobody could tell, for he did notseem disposed to answer questions, and there was something in his looksand manners that put a stop to all questioning. Suffice it to say, hetook possession of a corner room of the inn, to which his chest wasremoved with great difficulty. Here he had remained ever since, keepingabout the inn and its vicinity. Sometimes, it is true, he disappearedfor one, two, or three days at a time, going and returning withoutgiving any notice or account of his movements. He always appeared tohave plenty of money, though often of very strange, outlandish coinage;and he regularly paid his bill every evening before turning in. 

He had fitted up his room to his own fancy, having slung a hammock fromthe ceiling instead of a bed, and decorated the walls with rustypistols and cutlasses of foreign workmanship. A great part of his timewas passed in this room, seated by the window, which commanded a wideview of the Sound, a short old-fashioned pipe in his mouth, a glass ofrum toddy at his elbow, and a pocket telescope in his hand, with whichhe reconnoitred every boat that moved upon the water. Largesquare-rigged vessels seemed to excite but little attention; but themoment he descried any thing with a shoulder-of-mutton sail, or that abarge, or yawl, or jolly boat hove in sight, up went the telescope, andhe examined it with the most scrupulous attention. 

All this might have passed without much notice, for in those times theprovince was so much the resort of adventurers of all characters andclimes that any oddity in dress or behavior attracted but littleattention. But in a little while this strange sea monster, thusstrangely cast up on dry land, began to encroach upon thelong-established customs and customers of the place; to interfere in adictatorial manner in the affairs of the ninepin alley and thebar-room, until in the end he usurped an absolute command over thelittle inn. It was in vain to attempt to withstand his authority. Hewas not exactly quarrelsome, but boisterous and peremptory, like oneaccustomed to tyrannize on a quarter deck; and there was a dare-devilair about every thing he said and did, that inspired a wariness in allbystanders. Even the half-pay officer, so long the hero of the club, was soon silenced by him; and the quiet burghers stared with wonder atseeing their inflammable man of war so readily and quietlyextinguished. 

And then the tales that he would tell were enough to make a peaceableman's hair stand on end. There was not a sea fight, or marauding orfree-booting adventure that had happened within the last twenty yearsbut he seemed perfectly versed in it. He delighted to talk of theexploits of the buccaneers in the West-Indies and on the Spanish Main. How his eyes would glisten as he described the waylaying of treasureships, the desperate fights, yard arm and yard arm--broadside and broadside--the boarding and capturing of large Spanish galleons! with whatchuckling relish would he describe the descent upon some rich Spanishcolony; the rifling of a church; the sacking of a convent! You wouldhave thought you heard some gormandizer dilating upon the roasting asavory goose at Michaelmas as he described the roasting of some SpanishDon to make him discover his treasure--a detail given with a minutenessthat made every rich old burgher present turn uncomfortably in hischair. All this would be told with infinite glee, as if he consideredit an excellent joke; and then he would give such a tyrannical leer inthe face of his next neighbor, that the poor man would be fain to laughout of sheer faint-heartedness. If any one, however, pretended tocontradict him in any of his stories he was on fire in an instant. Hisvery cocked hat assumed a momentary fierceness, and seemed to resentthe contradiction. --"How the devil should you know as well as I! I tellyou it was as I say!" and he would at the same time let slip abroadside of thundering oaths and tremendous sea phrases, such as hadnever been heard before within those peaceful walls. 

Indeed, the worthy burghers began to surmise that he knew more of thesestories than mere hearsay. Day after day their conjectures concerninghim grew more and more wild and fearful. The strangeness of hismanners, the mystery that surrounded him, all made him somethingincomprehensible in their eyes. He was a kind of monster of the deep tothem--he was a merman--he was behemoth--he was leviathan--in short, they knew not what he was. 

The domineering spirit of this boisterous sea urchin at length grewquite intolerable. He was no respecter of persons; he contradicted therichest burghers without hesitation; he took possession of the sacredelbow chair, which time out of mind had been the seat of sovereignty ofthe illustrious Ramm Rapelye. Nay, he even went so far in one of hisrough jocular moods, as to slap that mighty burgher on the back, drinkhis toddy and wink in his face, a thing scarcely to be believed. Fromthis time Ramm Rapelye appeared no more at the inn; his example wasfollowed by several of the most eminent customers, who were too rich totolerate being bullied out of their opinions, or being obliged to laughat another man's jokes. The landlord was almost in despair, but he knewnot how to get rid of this sea monster and his sea-chest, which seemedto have grown like fixtures, or excrescences on his establishment. 

Such was the account whispered cautiously in Wolfert's ear, by thenarrator, Peechy Prauw, as he held him by the button in a corner of thehall, casting a wary glance now and then towards the door of thebar-room, lest he should be overheard by the terrible hero of his tale. 

Wolfert took his seat in a remote part of the room in silence;impressed with profound awe of this unknown, so versed in freebootinghistory. It was to him a wonderful instance of the revolutions ofmighty empires, to find the venerable Ramm Rapelye thus ousted from thethrone; a rugged tarpaulin dictating from his elbow chair, hectoringthe patriarchs, and filling this tranquil little realm with brawl andbravado. 

The stranger was on this evening in a more than usually communicativemood, and was narrating a number of astounding stories of plunderingsand burnings upon the high seas. He dwelt upon them with peculiarrelish, heightening the frightful particulars in proportion to theireffect on his peaceful auditors. He gave a long swaggering detail ofthe capture of a Spanish merchantman. She was laying becalmed during along summer's day, just off from an island which was one of the lurkingplaces of the pirates. They had reconnoitred her with their spy-glassesfrom the shore, and ascertained her character and force. At night apicked crew of daring fellows set off for her in a whale boat. Theyapproached with muffled oars, as she lay rocking idly with theundulations of the sea and her sails flapping against the masts. Theywere close under her stern before the guard on deck was aware of theirapproach. The alarm was given; the pirates threw hand grenades on deckand sprang up the main chains sword in hand. 

The crew flew to arms, but in great confusion some were shot down, others took refuge in the tops; others were driven overboard anddrowned, while others fought hand to hand from the main deck to thequarter deck, disputing gallantly every inch of ground. There werethree Spanish gentlemen on board with their ladies, who made the mostdesperate resistance; they defended the companion-way, cut down severalof their assailants, and fought like very devils, for they weremaddened by the shrieks of the ladies from the cabin. One of the Donswas old and soon despatched. The other two kept their groundvigorously, even though the captain of the pirates was among theirassailants. Just then there was a shout of victory from the main deck. "The ship is ours!" cried the pirates. 

One of the Dons immediately dropped his sword and surrendered; theother, who was a hot-headed youngster, and just married, gave thecaptain a slash in the face that laid all open. The captain just madeout to articulate the words "no quarter. "

"And what did they do with their prisoners?" said Peechy Prauw, eagerly. 

"Threw them all overboard!" said the merman. 

A dead pause followed this reply. Peechy Prauw shrunk quietly back likea man who had unwarily stolen upon the lair of a sleeping lion. Thehonest burghers cast fearful glances at the deep scar slashed acrossthe visage of the stranger, and moved their chairs a little fartheroff. The seaman, however, smoked on without moving a muscle, as thoughhe either did not perceive or did not regard the unfavorable effect hehad produced upon his hearers. 

The half-pay officer was the first to break the silence; for he wasContinually tempted to make ineffectual head against this tyrant of theseas, and to regain his lost consequence in the eyes of his ancientcompanions. He now tried to match the gunpowder tales of the strangerby others equally tremendous. Kidd, as usual, was his hero, concerningwhom he had picked up many of the floating traditions of the province. The seaman had always evinced a settled pique against the red-facedwarrior. On this occasion he listened with peculiar impatience. He satwith one arm a-kimbo, the other elbow on a table, the hand holding onto the small pipe he was pettishly puffing; his legs crossed, drummingwith one foot on the ground and casting every now and then the sideglance of a basilisk at the prosing captain. At length the latter spokeof Kidd's having ascended the Hudson with some of his crew, to land hisplunder in secrecy. 

"Kidd up the Hudson!" burst forth the seaman, with a tremendous oath;"Kidd never was up the Hudson!"

"I tell you he was, " said the other. "Aye, and they say he buried aquantity of treasure on the little flat that runs out into the river, called the Devil's Dans Kammer. "

"The Devil's Dans Kammer in your teeth!" cried the seaman. "I tell youKidd never was up the Hudson--what the plague do you know of Kidd andhis haunts?"

"What do I know?" echoed the half-pay officer; "why, I was in London atthe time of his trial, aye, and I had the pleasure of seeing him hangedat Execution Dock. "

"Then, sir, let me tell you that you saw as pretty a fellow hanged asever trod shoe leather. Aye!" putting his face nearer to that of theofficer, "and there was many a coward looked on, that might much betterhave swung in his stead. "

The half-pay officer was silenced; but the indignation thus pent up inhis bosom glowed with intense vehemence in his single eye, whichkindled like a coal. 

Peechy Prauw, who never could remain silent, now took up the word, andin a pacifying tone observed that the gentleman certainly was in theright. Kidd never did bury money up the Hudson, nor indeed in any ofthose parts, though many affirm the fact. It was Bradish and others ofthe buccaneers who had buried money, some said in Turtle Bay, others onLong-Island, others in the neighborhood of Hell Gate. Indeed, added he, I recollect an adventure of Mud Sam, the negro fisherman, many yearsago, which some think had something to do with the buccaneers. As weare all friends here, and as it will go no farther, I'll tell it toyou. 

"Upon a dark night many years ago, as Sam was returning from fishing inHell Gate--"

Here the story was nipped in the bud by a sudden movement from theunknown, who, laying his iron fist on the table, knuckles downward, with a quiet force that indented the very boards, and looking grimlyover his shoulder, with the grin of an angry bear. "Heark'ee, neighbor, " said he, with significant nodding of the head, "you'd betterlet the buccaneers and their money alone--they're not for old men andold women to meddle with. They fought hard for their money, they gavebody and soul for it, and wherever it lies buried, depend upon it hemust have a tug with the devil who gets it. "

This sudden explosion was succeeded by a blank silence throughout theroom. Peechy Prauw shrunk within himself, and even the red-facedofficer turned pale. Wolfert, who, from a dark corner of the room, hadlistened with intense eagerness to all this talk about buried treasure, looked with mingled awe and reverence on this bold buccaneer, for suchhe really suspected him to be. There was a chinking of gold and asparkling of jewels in all his stories about the Spanish Main that gavea value to every period, and Wolfert would have given any thing for therummaging of the ponderous sea-chest, which his imagination crammedfull of golden chalices and crucifixes and jolly round bags ofdoubloons. 

The dead stillness that had fallen upon the company was at lengthinterrupted by the stranger, who pulled out a prodigious watch ofcurious and ancient workmanship, and which in Wolferts' eyes had adecidedly Spanish look. On touching a spring it struck ten o'clock;upon which the sailor called for his reckoning, and having paid it outof a handful of outlandish coin, he drank off the remainder of hisbeverage, and without taking leave of any one, rolled out of the room, muttering to himself as he stamped up-stairs to his chamber. 

It was some time before the company could recover from the silence intowhich they had been thrown. The very footsteps of the stranger, whichwere heard now and then as he traversed his chamber, inspired awe. 

Still the conversation in which they had been engaged was toointeresting not to be resumed. A heavy thunder-gust had gathered upunnoticed while they were lost in talk, and the torrents of rain thatfell forbade all thoughts of setting off for home until the stormshould subside. They drew nearer together, therefore, and entreated theworthy Peechy Prauw to continue the tale which had been sodiscourteously interrupted. He readily complied, whispering, however, in a tone scarcely above his breath, and drowned occasionally by therolling of the thunder, and he would pause every now and then, andlisten with evident awe, as he heard the heavy footsteps of thestranger pacing overhead. 

The following is the purport of his story. 

THE ADVENTURE OF SAM, THE BLACK FISHERMAN. 

COMMONLY DENOMINATED MUD SAM. 

Every body knows Mud Sam, the old negro fisherman who has fished aboutthe Sound for the last twenty or thirty years. Well, it is now manyyears since that Sam, who was then a young fellow, and worked on thefarm of Killian Suydam on Long Island, having finished his work early, was fishing, one still summer evening, just about the neighborhood ofHell Gate. He was in a light skiff, and being well acquainted with thecurrents and eddies, he had been able to shift his station with theshifting of the tide, from the Hen and Chickens to the Hog's back, andfrom the Hog's back to the Pot, and from the Pot to the Frying-pan; butin the eagerness of his sport Sam did not see that the tide was rapidlyebbing; until the roaring of the whirlpools and rapids warned him ofhis danger, and he had some difficulty in shooting his skiff from amongthe rocks and breakers, and getting to the point of Blackwell's Island. Here he cast anchor for some time, waiting the turn of the tide toenable him to return homewards. 

As the night set in it grew blustering and gusty. Dark clouds camebundling up in the west; and now and then a growl of thunder or a flashof lightning told that a summer storm was at hand. Sam pulled over, therefore, under the lee of Manhattan Island, and coasting along cameto a snug nook, just under a steep beetling rock, where he fastened hisskiff to the root of a tree that shot out from a cleft and spread itsbroad branches like a canopy over the water. The gust came scouringalong; the wind threw up the river in white surges; the rain rattledamong the leaves, the thunder bellowed worse than that which is nowbellowing, the lightning seemed to lick up the surges of the stream;but Sam, snugly sheltered under rock and tree, lay crouched in hisskiff, rocking upon the billows, until he fell asleep. When he awokeall was quiet. The gust had passed away, and only now and then a faintgleam of lightning in the east showed which way it had gone. The nightwas dark and moonless; and from the state of the tide Sam concluded itwas near midnight. He was on the point of making loose his skiff toreturn homewards, when he saw a light gleaming along the water from adistance, which seemed rapidly approaching. As it drew near heperceived that it came from a lanthorn in the bow of a boat which wasgliding along under shadow of the land. It pulled up in a small cove, close to where he was. A man jumped on shore, and searching about withthe lanthorn exclaimed, "This is the place--here's the Iron ring. " Theboat was then made fast, and the man returning on board, assisted hiscomrades in conveying something heavy on shore. As the light gleamedamong them, Sam saw that they were five stout, desperate-lookingfellows, in red woollen caps, with a leader in a three-cornered hat, and that some of them were armed with dirks, or long knives, andpistols. They talked low to one another, and occasionally in someoutlandish tongue which he could not understand. 

On landing they made their way among the bushes, taking turns torelieve each other in lugging their burthen up the rocky bank. Sam'scuriosity was now fully aroused, so leaving his skiff he clamberedsilently up the ridge that overlooked their path. They had stopped torest for a moment, and the leader was looking about among the busheswith his lanthorn. "Have you brought the spades?" said one. "They arehere, " replied another, who had them on his shoulder. "We must digdeep, where there will be no risk of discovery, " said a third. 

A cold chill ran through Sam's veins. He fancied he saw before him agang of murderers, about to bury their victim. His knees smotetogether. In his agitation he shook the branch of a tree with which hewas supporting himself as he looked over the edge of the cliff. 

"What's that?" cried one of the gang. "Some one stirs among thebushes!"

The lanthorn was held up in the direction of the noise. One of thered-caps cocked a pistol, and pointed it towards the very lace whereSam was standing. He stood motionless--breathless; expecting the nextmoment to be his last. Fortunately, his dingy complexion was in hisfavor, and made no glare among the leaves. 

"'Tis no one, " said the man with the lanthorn. "What a plague! youwould not fire off your pistol and alarm the country. "

The pistol was uncocked; the burthen was resumed, and the party slowlytoiled up the bank. Sam watched them as they went; the light sendingback fitful gleams through the dripping bushes, and it was not tillthey were fairly out of sight that he ventured to draw breath freely. He now thought of getting back to his boat, and making his escape outof the reach of such dangerous neighbors; but curiosity wasall-powerful with poor Sam. He hesitated and lingered and listened. Byand bye he heard the strokes of spades. 

"They are digging the grave!" said he to himself; the cold sweatstarted upon his forehead. Every stroke of a spade, as it soundedthrough the silent groves, went to his heart; it was evident there wasas little noise made as possible; every thing had an air of mystery andsecrecy. Sam had a great relish for the horrible--a tale of murder wasa treat for him; and he was a constant attendant at executions. Hecould not, therefore, resist an impulse, in spite of every danger, tosteal nearer, and overlook the villains at their work. He crawled alongcautiously, therefore, inch by inch; stepping with the utmost careamong the dry leaves, lest their rustling should betray him. He came atlength to where a steep rock intervened between him and the gang; hesaw the light of their lanthorn shining up against the branches of thetrees on the other side. Sam slowly and silently clambered up thesurface of the rock, and raising his head above its naked edge, beheldthe villains immediately below him, and so near that though he dreadeddiscovery, he dared not withdraw lest the least movement should beheard. In this way he remained, with his round black face peering overthe edge of the rock, like the sun just emerging above the edge of thehorizon, or the round-cheeked moon on the dial of a clock. 

The red-caps had nearly finished their work; the grave was filled up, and they were carefully replacing the turf. This done, they scattereddry leaves over the place. "And now, " said the leader, "I defy thedevil himself to find it out. "

"The murderers!" exclaimed Sam involuntarily. 

The whole gang started, and looking up, beheld the round black head ofSam just above them. His white eyes strained half out of their orbits;his white teeth chattering, and his whole visage shining with coldperspiration. 

"We're discovered!" cried one. 

"Down with him!" cried another. 

Sam heard the cocking of a pistol, but did not pause for the report. Hescrambled over rock and stone, through bush and briar; rolled downbanks like a hedgehog; scrambled up others like a catamount. In everydirection he heard some one or other of the gang hemming him in. Atlength he reached the rocky ridge along the river; one of the red-capswas hard behind him. A steep rock like a wall rose directly in his way;it seemed to cut off all retreat, when he espied the strong cord-likebranch of a grape-vine reaching half way down it. He sprang at it withthe force of a desperate man, seized it with both hands, and beingyoung and agile, succeeded in swinging himself to the summit of thecliff. Here he stood in full relief against the sky, when the red-capcocked his pistol and fired. The ball whistled by Sam's head. With thelucky thought of a man in an emergency, he uttered a yell, fell to theground, and detached at the same time a fragment of the rock, whichtumbled with a loud splash into the river. 

"I've done his business, " said the red-cap, to one or two of hiscomrades as they arrived panting. "He'll tell no tales, except to thefishes in the river. "

His pursuers now turned off to meet their companions. Sam slidingsilently down the surface of the rock, let himself quietly into hisskiff, cast loose the fastening, and abandoned himself to the rapidcurrent, which in that place runs like a mill-stream, and soon swepthim off from the neighborhood. It was not, however, until he haddrifted a great distance that he ventured to ply his oars; when he madehis skiff dart like an arrow through the strait of Hell Gate, neverheeding the danger of Pot, Frying-pan, or Hog's-back itself; nor did hefeel himself thoroughly secure until safely nestled in bed in thecockloft of the ancient farm-house of the Suydams. 

Here the worthy Peechy paused to take breath and to take a sip of thegossip tankard that stood at his elbow. His auditors remained with openmouths and outstretched necks, gaping like a nest of swallows for anadditional mouthful. 

"And is that all?" exclaimed the half-pay officer. 

"That's all that belongs to the story, " said Peechy Prauw. 

"And did Sam never find out what was buried by the redcaps?" saidWolfert, eagerly; whose mind was haunted by nothing but ingots anddoubloons. 

"Not that I know of; he had no time to spare from his work; and to tellthe truth, he did not like to run the risk of another race among therocks. Besides, how should he recollect the spot where the grave hadbeen digged? every thing would look different by daylight. And then, where was the use of looking for a dead body, when there was no chanceof hanging the murderers?"

"Aye, but are you sure it was a dead body they buried?" said Wolfert. 

"To be sure, " cried Peechy Prauw, exultingly. "Does it not haunt in theneighborhood to this very day?"

"Haunts!" exclaimed several of the party, opening their eyes stillwider and edging their chairs still closer. 

"Aye, haunts, " repeated Peechy; "has none of you heard of fatherred-cap that haunts the old burnt farm-house in the woods, on theborder of the Sound, near Hell Gate?"

"Oh, to be sure, I've heard tell of something of the kind, but then Itook it for some old wives' fable. "

"Old wives' fable or not, " said Peechy Prauw, "that farmhouse standshard by the very spot. It's been unoccupied time out of mind, andstands in a wild, lonely part of the coast; but those who fish in theneighborhood have often heard strange noises there; and lights havebeen seen about the wood at night; and an old fellow in a red cap hasbeen seen at the windows more than once, which people take to be theghost of the body that was buried there. Once upon a time threesoldiers took shelter in the building for the night, and rummaged itfrom top to bottom, when they found old father red-cap astride of acider-barrel in the cellar, with a jug in one hand and a goblet in theother. He offered them a drink out of his goblet, but just as one ofthe soldiers was putting it to his mouth-Whew! a flash of fire blazedthrough the cellar, blinded every mother's son of them for severalminutes, and when they recovered their eye-sight, jug, goblet, andred-cap had vanished, and nothing but the empty cider-barrel remained. "

Here the half-pay officer, who was growing very muzzy and sleepy, andnodding over his liquor, with half-extinguished eye, suddenly gleamedup like an expiring rushlight. 

"That's all humbug!" said he, as Peechy finished his last story. 

"Well, I don't vouch for the truth of it myself, " said Peechy Prauw, "though all the world knows that there's something strange about thehouse and grounds; but as to the story of Mud Sam, I believe it just aswell as if it had happened to myself. "

The deep interest taken in this conversation by the company, had madethem unconscious of the uproar that prevailed abroad, among theelements, when suddenly they were all electrified by a tremendous clapof thunder. A lumbering crash followed instantaneously that made thebuilding shake to its foundation. All started from their seats, imagining it the shock of an earthquake, or that old father red-cap wascoming among them in all his terrors. They listened for a moment, butonly heard the rain pelting against the windows, and the wind howlingamong the trees. The explosion was soon explained by the apparition ofan old negro's bald head thrust in at the door, his white goggle eyescontrasting with his jetty poll, which was wet with rain and shone likea bottle. In a jargon but half intelligible he announced that thekitchen chimney had been struck with lightning. 

A sullen pause of the storm, which now rose and sunk in gusts, produceda momentary stillness. In this interval the report of a musket washeard, and a long shout, almost like a yell, resounded from the shore. Every one crowded to the window; another musket shot was heard, andanother long shout, that mingled wildly with a rising blast of wind. Itseemed as if the cry came up from the bosom of the waters; for thoughincessant flashes of lightning spread a light about the shore, no onewas to be seen. 

Suddenly the window of the room overhead was opened, and a loud halloouttered by the mysterious stranger. Several hailings passed from oneparty to the other, but in a language which none of the company in thebar-room could understand; and presently they heard the window closed, and a great noise overhead as if all the furniture were pulled andhauled about the room. The negro servant was summoned, and shortlyafter was seen assisting the veteran to lug the ponderous sea-chestdown stairs. 

The landlord was in amazement. "What, you are not going on the water insuch a storm?"

"Storm!" said the other, scornfully, "do you call such a sputter ofweather a storm?"

"You'll get drenched to the skin--You'll catch your death!" said PeechyPrauw, affectionately. 

"Thunder and lightning!" exclaimed the merman, "don't preach aboutweather to a man that has cruised in whirlwinds and tornadoes. "

The obsequious Peechy was again struck dumb. The voice from the waterwas again heard in a tone of impatience; the bystanders stared withredoubled awe at this man of storms, which seemed to have come up outof the deep and to be called back to it again. As, with the assistanceof the negro, he slowly bore his ponderous sea-chest towards the shore, they eyed it with a superstitious feeling; half doubting whether hewere not really about to embark upon it, and launch forth upon the wildwaves. They followed him at a distance with a lanthorn. 

"Douse the light!" roared the hoarse voice from the water. "No onewants light here!"

"Thunder and lightning!" exclaimed the veteran; "back to the house withyou!"

Wolfert and his companions shrunk back is dismay. Still their curiositywould not allow them entirely to withdraw. A long sheet of lightningnow flickered across the waves, and discovered a boat, filled with men, just under a rocky point, rising and sinking with the heavy surges, andswashing the water at every heave. It was with difficulty held to therocks by a boat hook, for the current rushed furiously round the point. The veteran hoisted one end of the lumbering sea-chest on the gunwaleof the boat; he seized the handle at the other end to lift it in, whenthe motion propelled the boat from the shore; the chest slipped offfrom the gunwale, sunk into the waves, and pulled the veteran headlongafter it. A loud shriek was uttered by all on shore, and a volley ofexecrations by those on board; but boat and man were hurried away bythe rushing swiftness of the tide. A pitchy darkness succeeded; WolfertWebber indeed fancied that He distinguished a cry for help, and that hebeheld the drowning man beckoning for assistance; but when thelightning again gleamed along the water all was drear and void. Neitherman nor boat was to be seen; nothing but the dashing and weltering ofthe waves as they hurried past. 

The company returned to the tavern, for they could not leave it beforethe storm should subside. They resumed their seats and gazed on eachother with dismay. The whole transaction had not occupied five minutesand not a dozen words had been spoken. When they looked at the oakenchair they could scarcely realize the fact that the strange being whohad so lately tenanted it, full of life and Herculean vigor, shouldalready be a corpse. There was the very glass he had just drunk from;there lay the ashes from the pipe which he had smoked as it were withhis last breath. As the worthy burghers pondered on these things, theyfelt a terrible conviction of the uncertainty of human existence, andeach felt as if the ground on which he stood was rendered less stableby this awful example. 

As, however, the most of the company were possessed of that valuablephilosophy which enables a man to bear up with fortitude against themisfortunes of his neighbors, they soon managed to console themselvesfor the tragic end of the veteran. The landlord was happy that the poordear man had paid his reckoning before he went. 

"He came in a storm, and he went in a storm; he came in the night, andhe went in the night; he came nobody knows from whence, and he has gonenobody knows where. For aught I know he has gone to sea once more onhis chest and may land to bother some people on the other side of theworld! Though it's a thousand pities, " added the landlord, "if he hasgone to Davy Jones that he had not left his sea-chest behind him. "

"The sea-chest! St. Nicholas preserve us!" said Peechy Prauw. "I'd nothave had that sea-chest in the house for any money; I'll warrant he'dcome racketing after it at nights, and making a haunted house of theinn. And as to his going to sea on his chest, I recollect what happenedto Skipper Onderdonk's ship on his voyage from Amsterdam. 

"The boatswain died during a storm, so they wrapped him up in a sheet, and put him in his own sea-chest, and threw him overboard; but theyneglected in their hurry-skurry to say prayers over him--and the stormraged and roared louder than ever, and they saw the dead man seated inhis chest, with his shroud for a sail, coming hard after the ship; andthe sea breaking before him in great sprays like fire, and there theykept scudding day after day and night after night, expecting everymoment to go to wreck; and every night they saw the dead boatswain inhis sea-chest trying to get up with them, and they heard his whistleabove the blasts of wind, and he seemed to send great seas mountainhigh after them, that would have swamped the ship if they had not putup the dead lights. And so it went on till they lost sight of him inthe fogs of Newfoundland, and supposed he had veered ship and stood forDead Man's Isle. So much for burying a man at sea without sayingprayers over him. "

The thunder-gust which had hitherto detained the company was now at anend. The cuckoo clock in the hall struck midnight; every one pressed todepart, for seldom was such a late hour trespassed on by these quietburghers. As they sallied forth they found the heavens once moreserene. The storm which had lately obscured them had rolled aways andlay piled up in fleecy masses on the horizon, lighted up by the brightcrescent of the moon, which looked like a silver lamp hung up in apalace of clouds. 

The dismal occurrence of the night, and the dismal narrations they hadmade, had left a superstitious feeling in every mind. They cast afearful glance at the spot where the buccaneer had disappeared, almostexpecting to see him sailing on his chest in the cool moonshine. Thetrembling rays glittered along the waters, but all was placid; and thecurrent dimpled over the spot where he had gone down. The party huddledtogether in a little crowd as they repaired homewards; particularlywhen they passed a lonely field where a man had been murdered; and hewho had farthest to go and had to complete his journey alone, though aveteran sexton, and accustomed, one would think to ghosts and goblins, yet went a long way round, rather than pass by his own church-yard. 

Wolfert Webber had now carried home a fresh stock of stories andnotions to ruminate upon. His mind was all of a whirl with thesefreebooting tales; and then these accounts of pots of money and Spanishtreasures, buried here and there and every where about the rocks andbays of this wild shore, made him almost dizzy. 

"Blessed St. Nicholas!" ejaculated he, half aloud, "is it not possibleto come upon one of these golden hoards, and so make one's self rich ina twinkling. How hard that I must go on, delving and delving, day inand day out, merely to make a morsel of bread, when one lucky stroke ofa spade might enable me to ride in my carriage for the rest of mylife!"

As he turned over in his thoughts all that he had been told of thesingular adventure of the black fisherman, his imagination gave atotally different complexion to the tale. He saw in the gang of redcapsnothing but a crew of pirates burying their spoils, and his cupiditywas once more awakened by the possibility of at length getting on thetraces of some of this lurking wealth. Indeed, his infected fancytinged every thing with gold. He felt like the greedy inhabitant ofBagdad, when his eye had been greased with the magic ointment of thedervise, that gave him to see all the treasures of the earth. Casketsof buried jewels, chests of ingots, bags of outlandish coins, seemed tocourt him from their concealments, and supplicate him to relieve themfrom their untimely graves. 

On making private inquiries about the grounds said to be haunted byfather red-cap, he was more and more confirmed in his surmise. Helearned that the place had several times been visited by experiencedmoney-diggers, who had heard Mud Sam's story, though none of them hadmet with success. On the contrary, they had always been dogged with illluck of some kind or other, in consequence, as Wolfert concluded, oftheir not going to work at the proper time, and with the properceremonials. The last attempt had been made by Cobus Quackenbos, whodug for a whole night and met with incredible difficulty, for as fastas he threw one shovel full of earth out of the hole, two were thrownin by invisible hands. He succeeded so far, however, as to uncover aniron chest, when there was a terrible roaring, and ramping, and ragingof uncouth figures about the hole, and at length a shower of blows, dealt by invisible cudgels, that fairly belabored him off the forbiddenground. This Cobus Quackenbos had declared on his death-bed, so thatthere could not be any doubt of it. He was a man that had devoted manyyears of his life to money-digging, and it was thought would haveultimately succeeded, had he not died suddenly of a brain fever in thealms-house. 

Wolfert Webber was now in a worry of trepidation and impatience;fearful lest some rival adventurer should get a scent of the buriedgold. He determined privately to seek out the negro fisherman and gethim to serve as guide to the place where he had witnessed themysterious scene of interment. Sam was easily found; for he was one ofthose old habitual beings that live about a neighborhood until theywear themselves a place in the public mind, and become, in a manner, public characters. There was not an unlucky urchin about the town thatdid not know Mud Sam the fisherman, and think that he had a right toplay his tricks upon the old negro. Sam was an amphibious kind ofanimal, something more of a fish than a man; he had led the life of anotter for more than half a century, about the shores of the bay, andthe fishing grounds of the Sound. He passed the greater part of histime on and in the water, particularly about Hell Gate; and might havebeen taken, in bad weather, for one of the hobgoblins that used tohaunt that strait. There would he be seen, at all times, and in allweathers; sometimes in his skiff, anchored among the eddies, orprowling, like a shark about some wreck, where the fish are supposed tobe most abundant. Sometimes seated on a rock from hour to hour, loomingthrough mist and drizzle, like a solitary heron watching for its prey. He was well acquainted with every hole and corner of the Sound; fromthe Wallabout to Hell Gate, and from Hell Gate even unto the Devil'sStepping Stones; and it was even affirmed that he knew all the fish inthe river by their Christian names. 

Wolfert found him at his cabin, which was not much larger than atolerable dog-house. It was rudely constructed of fragments of wrecksand drift-wood, and built on the rocky shore, at the foot of the oldfort, just about what at present forms the point of the Battery. A"most ancient and fish-like smell" pervaded the place. Oars, paddles, and fishing-rods were leaning against the wall of the fort; a net wasspread on the sands to dry; a skiff was drawn up on the beach, and atthe door of his cabin lay Mud Sam himself, indulging in a true negro'sluxury--sleeping in the sunshine. 

Many years had passed away since the time of Sam's youthful adventure, and the snows of many a winter had grizzled the knotty wool upon hishead. He perfectly recollected the circumstances, however, for he hadoften been called upon to relate them, though in his version of thestory he differed in many points from Peechy Prauw; as is notunfrequently the case with authentic historians. As to the subsequentresearches of money-diggers, Sam knew nothing about them; they werematters quite out of his line; neither did the cautious Wolfert care todisturb his thoughts on that point. His only wish was to secure the oldfisherman as a pilot to the spot, and this was readily effected. Thelong time that had intervened since his nocturnal adventure had effacedall Sam's awe of the place, and the promise of a trifling reward rousedhim at once from his sleep and his sunshine. 

The tide was adverse to making the expedition by water, and Wolfert wastoo impatient to get to the land of promise, to wait for its turning;they set off, therefore, by land. A walk of four or five miles broughtthem to the edge of a wood, which at that time covered the greater partof the eastern side of the island. It was just beyond the pleasantregion of Bloomen-dael. Here they struck into a long lane, stragglingamong trees and bushes, very much overgrown with weeds and mulleinstalks as if but seldom used, and so completely overshadowed as toenjoy but a kind of twilight. Wild vines entangled the trees andflaunted in their faces; brambles and briars caught their clothes asthey passed; the garter-snake glided across their path; the spottedtoad hopped and waddled before them, and the restless cat-bird mewed atthem from every thicket. Had Wolfert Webber been deeply read inromantic legend he might have fancied himself entering upon forbidden, enchanted ground; or that these were some of the guardians set to keepa watch upon buried treasure. As it was, the loneliness of the place, and the wild stories connected with it, had their effect upon his mind. 

On reaching the lower end of the lane they found themselves near theshore of the Sound, in a kind of amphitheatre, surrounded by foresttree. The area had once been a grass-plot, but was now shagged withbriars and rank weeds. At one end, and just on the river bank, was aruined building, little better than a heap of rubbish, with a stack ofchimneys rising like a solitary tower out of the centre. The current ofthe Sound rushed along just below it, with wildly-grown trees droopingtheir branches into its waves. 

Wolfert had not a doubt that this was the haunted house of fatherred-cap, and called to mind the story of Peechy Prauw. The evening wasapproaching, and the light falling dubiously among these places, gave amelancholy tone to the scene, well calculated to foster any lurkingfeeling of awe or superstition. The night-hawk, wheeling about in thehighest regions of the air, emitted his peevish, boding cry. Thewoodpecker gave a lonely tap now and then on some hollow tree, and thefirebird, [3] as he streamed by them with his deep-red plumage, seemedlike some genius flitting about this region of mystery. 

[Footnote 3: Orchard Oreole. ]

They now came to an enclosure that had once been a garden. It extendedalong the foot of a rocky ridge, but was little better than awilderness of weeds, with here and there a matted rose-bush, or a peachor plum tree grown wild and ragged, and covered with moss. At the lowerend of the garden they passed a kind of vault in the side of the bank, facing the water. It had the look of a root-house. The door, thoughdecayed, was still strong, and appeared to have been recently patchedup. Wolfert pushed it open. It gave a harsh grating upon its hinges, and striking against something like a box, a rattling sound ensued, anda skull rolled on the floor. Wolfert drew back shuddering, but wasreassured on being informed by Sam that this was a family vaultbelonging to one of the old Dutch families that owned this estate; anassertion which was corroborated by the sight of coffins of varioussizes piled within. Sam had been familiar with all these scenes when aboy, and now knew that he could not be far from the place of which theywere in quest. 

They now made their way to the water's edge, scrambling along ledges ofrocks, and having often to hold by shrubs and grape-vines to avoidslipping into the deep and hurried stream. At length they came to asmall cove, or rather indent of the shore. It was protected by steeprocks and overshadowed by a thick copse of oaks and chestnuts, so as tobe sheltered and almost concealed. The beach sloped gradually withinthe cove, but the current swept deep and black and rapid along itsjutting points. Sam paused; raised his remnant of a hat, and scratchedhis grizzled poll for a moment, as he regarded this nook: then suddenlyclapping his hands, he stepped exultingly forward, and pointing to alarge iron ring, stapled firmly in the rock, just where a broad shelveof stone furnished a commodious landing-place. It was the very spotwhere the red-caps had landed. Years had changed the more perishablefeatures of the scene; but rock and iron yield slowly to the influenceof time. On looking more narrowly, Wolfert remarked three crosses cutin the rock just above the ring, which had no doubt some mysterioussignification. Old Sam now readily recognized the overhanging rockunder which his skiff had been sheltered during the thunder-gust. Tofollow up the course which the midnight gang had taken, however, was aharder task. His mind had been so much taken up on that eventfuloccasion by the persons of the drama, as to pay but little attention tothe scenes; and places looked different by night and day. Afterwandering about for some time, however, they came to an opening amongthe trees which Sam thought resembled the place. There was a ledge ofrock of moderate height like a wall on one side, which Sam thoughtmight be the very ridge from which he overlooked the diggers. Wolfertexamined it narrowly, and at length described three crosses similar tothose above the iron ring, cut deeply into the face of the rock, butnearly obliterated by the moss that had grown on them. His heart leapedwith joy, for he doubted not but they were the private marks of thebuccaneers, to denote the places where their treasure lay buried. Allnow that remained was to ascertain the precise spot; for otherwise hemight dig at random without coming upon the spoil, and he has alreadyhad enough of such profitless labor. Here, however, Sam was perfectlyat a loss, and, indeed, perplexed him by a variety of opinions; for hisrecollections were all confused. Sometimes he declared it must havebeen at the foot of a mulberry tree hard by; then it was just beside agreat white stone; then it must have been under a small green knoll, ashort distance from the ledge of rock: until at length Wolfert becameas bewildered as himself. 

The shadows of evening were now spreading themselves over the woods, and rock and tree began to mingle together. It was evidently too lateto attempt anything farther at present; and, indeed, Wolfert had comeunprepared with implements to prosecute his researches. Satisfied, therefore, with having ascertained the place, he took note of all itslandmarks, that he might recognize it again, and set out on his returnhomeward, resolved to prosecute this golden enterprise without delay. 

The leading anxiety which had hitherto absorbed every feeling being nowin some measure appeased, fancy began to wander, and to conjure up athousand shapes and chimeras as he returned through this hauntedregion. Pirates hanging in chains seemed to swing on every tree, and healmost expected to see some Spanish Don, with his throat cut from earto ear, rising slowly out of the ground, and shaking the ghost of amoney-bag. 

Their way back lay through the desolate garden, and Wolfert's nerveshad arrived at so sensitive a state that the flitting of a bird, therustling of a leaf, or the falling of a nut was enough to startle him. As they entered the confines of the garden, they caught sight of afigure at a distance advancing slowly up one of the walks and bendingunder the weight of a burthen. They paused and regarded himattentively. He wore what appeared to be a woollen cap, and still morealarming, of a most sanguinary red. The figure moved slowly on, ascended the bank, and stopped at the very door of the sepulchralvault. Just before entering he looked around. What was the horror ofWolfert when he recognized the grizzly visage of the drowned buccaneer. He uttered an ejaculation of horror. The figure slowly raised his ironfist and shook it with a terrible menace. Wolfert did not pause to seemore, but hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him, nor was Samslow in following at his heels, having all his ancient terrors revived. Away, then, did they scramble, through bush and brake, horriblyfrightened at every bramble that tagged at their skirts, nor did theypause to breathe, until they had blundered their way through thisperilous wood and had fairly reached the high-road to the city. 

Several days elapsed before Wolfert could summon courage enough toprosecute the enterprise, so much had he been dismayed by theapparition, whether living dead, of the grizzly buccaneer. In themeantime, what a conflict of mind did he suffer! He neglected all hisconcerns, was moody and restless all day, lost his appetite; wanderedin his thoughts and words, and committed a thousand blunders. His restwas broken; and when he fell asleep, the nightmare, in shape of a hugemoney-bag, sat squatted upon his breast. He babbled about incalculablesums; fancied himself engaged in money digging; threw the bed-clothesright and left, in the idea that he was shovelling among the dirt, groped under the bed in quest of the treasure, and lugged forth, as hesupposed, an inestimable pot of gold. 

Dame Webber and her daughter were in despair at what they conceived areturning touch of insanity. There are two family oracles, one or otherof which Dutch housewives consult in all cases of great doubt andperplexity: the dominie and the doctor. In the present instance theyrepaired to the doctor. There was at that time a little, dark, mouldyman of medicine famous among the old wives of the Manhattoes for hisskill not only in the healing art, but in all matters of strange andmysterious nature. His name was Dr. Knipperhausen, but he was morecommonly known by the appellation of the High German doctor. [4] To himdid the poor women repair for counsel and assistance touching themental vagaries of Wolfert Webber. 

[Footnote 4: The same, no doubt, of whom mention is made in the historyof Dolph Heyliger. ]

They found the doctor seated in his little study, clad in his darkcamblet robe of knowledge, with his black velvet cap, after the mannerof Boorhaave, Van Helmont, and other medical sages: a pair of greenspectacles set in black horn upon his clubbed nose, and poring over aGerman folio that seemed to reflect back the darkness of hisphysiognomy. The doctor listened to their statement of the symptoms ofWolfert's malady with profound attention; but when they came to mentionhis raving about buried money, the little man pricked up his ears. Alas, poor women! they little knew the aid they had called in. 

Dr. Knipperhausen had been half his life engaged in seeking the shortcuts to fortune, in quest of which so many a long lifetime is wasted. He had passed some years of his youth in the Harz mountains of Germany, and had derived much valuable instruction from the miners, touching themode of seeking treasure buried in the earth. He had prosecuted hisstudies also under a travelling sage who united all the mysteries ofmedicine with magic and legerdemain. His mind, therefore, had becomestored with all kinds of mystic lore: he had dabbled a little inastrology, alchemy, and divination; knew how to detect stolen money, and to tell where springs of water lay hidden; in a word, by the darknature of his knowledge he had acquired the name of the High Germandoctor, which is pretty nearly equivalent to that of necromancer. Thedoctor had often heard rumors of treasure being buried in various partsof the island, and' had long been anxious to get on the traces of it. No sooner were Wolfert's waking and sleeping vagaries confided to him, than he beheld in them the confirmed symptoms of a case ofmoney-digging, and lost no time in probing it to the bottom. Wolferthad long been sorely depressed in mind by the golden secret, and as afamily physician is a kind of father confessor, he was glad of theopportunity of unburthening himself. So far from curing, the doctorcaught the malady from his patient. The circumstances unfolded to himawakened all his cupidity; he had not a doubt of money being buriedsomewhere in the neighborhood of the mysterious crosses, and offered tojoin Wolfert in the search. He informed him that much secrecy andcaution must be observed in enterprises of the kind; that money is onlyto be digged for at night; with certain forms and ceremonies; theburning of drugs; the repeating of mystic words, and above all, thatthe seekers must be provided with a divining rod, which had thewonderful property of pointing to the very spot on the surface of theearth under which treasure lay hidden. As the doctor had given much ofhis mind to these matters, he charged himself with all the necessarypreparations, and, as the quarter of the moon was propitious, heundertook to have the divining rod ready by a certain night. [5]

[Footnote 5: The following note was found appended to this paper in thehandwriting of Mr. Knickerbocker. "There has been much written againstthe divining rod by those light minds who are ever ready to scoff atthe mysteries of nature, but I fully join with Dr. Knipperhausen ingiving it my faith. I shall not insist upon its efficacy in discoveringthe concealment of stolen goods, the boundary-stones of fields, thetraces of robbers and murderers, or even the existence of subterraneoussprings and streams of water; albeit, I think these properties noteasily to be discredited; but of its potency in discovering vein ofprecious metal, and hidden sums of money and jewels, I have not theleast doubt. Some said that the rod turned only in the hands of personswho had been born in particular months of the year; hence astrologershad recourse to planetary influence when they would procure a talisman. Others declared that the properties of the rod were either an effect ofchance, or the fraud of the holder, or the work of the devil. Thussayeth the reverend Father Gaspard Schott in his Treatise on Magic. 'Propter haec et similia argumenta audacter ego pronuncio vimconversivam virgulae befurcatae nequaquam naturalem esse, sed vel casavel fraude virgulam tractantis vel ope diaboli, ' etc. 

"Georgius Agricula also was of opinion that it was a mere delusion ofthe devil to inveigle the avaricious and unwary into his clutches, andin his treatise 'de re Metallica, ' lays particular stress on themysterious words pronounced by those persons who employed the diviningrod during his time. But I make not a doubt that the divining rod isone of those secrets of natural magic, the mystery of which is to beexplained by the sympathies existing between physical things operatedupon by the planets, and rendered efficacious by the strong faith ofthe individual. Let the divining rod be properly gathered at the propertime of the moon, cut into the proper form, used with the necessaryceremonies, and with a perfect faith in its efficacy, and I canconfidently recommend it to my fellow-citizens as an infallible meansof discovering the various places on the island of the Manhattoes wheretreasure hath been buried in the olden time. D. K. "]

Wolfert's heart leaped with joy at having met with so learned and ablea coadjutor. Every thing went on secretly, but swimmingly. The doctorhad many consultations with his patient, and the good women of thehousehold lauded the comforting effect of his visits. In the meantime, the wonderful divining rod, that great key to nature's secrets, wasduly prepared. The doctor had thumbed over all his books of knowledgefor the occasion; and Mud Sam was engaged to take them in his skiff tothe scene of enterprise; to work with spade and pick-axe in unearthingthe treasure; and to freight his bark with the weighty spoils they werecertain of finding. 

At length the appointed night arrived for this perilous undertaking. Before Wolfert left his home he counselled his wife and daughter to goto bed, and feel no alarm if he should not return during the night. Like reasonable women, on being told not to feel alarm, they fellimmediately into a panic. They saw at once by his manner that somethingunusual was in agitation; all their fears about the unsettled state ofhis mind were roused with tenfold force: they hung about him entreatinghim not to expose himself to the night air, but all in vain. WhenWolfert was once mounted on his hobby, it was no easy matter to get himout of the saddle. It was a clear starlight night, when he issued outof the portal of the Webber palace. He wore a large napped hat tiedunder the chin with a handkerchief of his daughter's, to secure himfrom the night damp, while Dame Webber threw her long red cloak abouthis shoulders, and fastened it round his neck. 

The doctor had been no less carefully armed and accoutred by hishousekeeper, the vigilant Frau Ilsy, and sallied forth in his cambletrobe by way of surtout; his black velvet cap under his cocked hat, athick clasped book under his arm, a basket of drugs and dried herbs inone hand, and in the other the miraculous rod of divination. 

The great church clock struck ten as Wolfert and the doctor passed bythe church-yard, and the watchman bawled in hoarse voice a long anddoleful "All's well!" A deep sleep had already fallen upon thisprimitive little burgh; nothing disturbed this awful silence, exceptingnow and then the bark of some profligate night-walking dog, or theserenade of some romantic cat. It is true, Wolfert fancied more thanonce that he heard the sound of a stealthy footfall at a distancebehind them; but it might have been merely the echo of their own stepsechoing along the quiet streets. He thought also at one time that hesaw a tall figure skulking after them--stopping when they stopped, andmoving on as they proceeded; but the dim and uncertain lamp light threwsuch vague gleams and shadows, that this might all have been merefancy. 

They found the negro fisherman waiting for them, smoking his pipe inthe stern of his skiff, which was moored just in front of his littlecabin. A pick-axe and spade were lying in the bottom of the boat, witha dark lanthorn, and a stone jug of good Dutch courage, in which honestSam no doubt, put even more faith than Dr. Knipperhausen in his drugs. 

Thus then did these three worthies embark in their cockleshell of askiff upon this nocturnal expedition, with a wisdom and valor equalledonly by the three wise men of Gotham, who went to sea in a bowl. Thetide was rising and running rapidly up the Sound. The current bore themalong, almost without the aid of an oar. The profile of the town layall in shadow. Here and there a light feebly glimmered from some sickchamber, or from the cabin window of some vessel at anchor in thestream. Not a cloud obscured the deep starry firmament, the lights ofwhich wavered on the surface of the placid river; and a shootingmeteor, streaking its pale course in the very direction they weretaking, was interpreted by the doctor into a most propitious omen. 

In a little while they glided by the point of Corlears Hook with therural inn which had been the scene of such night adventures. The familyhad retired to rest, and the house was dark and still. Wolfert felt achill pass over him as they passed the point where the buccaneer haddisappeared. He pointed it out to Dr. Knipperhausen. While regardingit, they thought they saw a boat actually lurking at the very place;but the shore cast such a shadow over the border of the water that theycould discern nothing distinctly. They had not proceeded far when theyheard the low sounds of distant oars, as if cautiously pulled. Samplied his oars with redoubled vigor, and knowing all the eddies andcurrents of the stream, soon left their followers, if such they were, far astern. In a little while they stretched across Turtle bay andKip's bay, then shrouded themselves in the deep shadows of theManhattan shore, and glided swiftly along, secure from observation. Atlength Sam shot his skiff into a little cove, darkly embowered bytrees, and made it fast to the well known iron ring. They now landed, and lighting the lanthorn, gathered their various implements andproceeded slowly through the bushes. Every sound startled them, eventhat of their footsteps among the dry leaves; and the hooting of ascreech owl, from the shattered chimney of father red-cap's ruin, madetheir blood run cold. 

In spite of all Wolfert's caution in taking note of the landmarks, itwas some time before they could find the open place among the trees, where the treasure was supposed to be buried. At length they came tothe ledge of rock; and on examining its surface by the aid of thelanthorn, Wolfert recognized the three mystic crosses. Their heartsbeat quick, for the momentous trial was at hand that was to determinetheir hopes. 

The lanthorn was now held by Wolfert Webber, while the doctor producedthe divining rod. It was a forked twig, one end of which was graspedfirmly in each hand, while the centre, forming the stem, pointedperpendicularly upwards. The doctor moved this wand about, within acertain distance of the earth, from place to place, but for some timewithout any effect, while Wolfert kept the light of the lanthorn turnedfull upon it, and watched it with the most breathless interest. Atlength the rod began slowly to turn. The doctor grasped it with greaterearnestness, his hand trembling with the agitation of his mind. Thewand continued slowly to turn, until at length the stem had reversedits position, and pointed perpendicularly downward; and remainedpointing to one spot as fixedly as the needle to the pole. 

"This is the spot!" said the doctor in an almost inaudible tone. 

Wolfert's heart was in his throat. 

"Shall I dig?" said Sam, grasping the spade. 

"_Pots tousends_, no!" replied the little doctor, hastily. He nowordered his companions to keep close by him and to maintain the mostinflexible silence. That certain precautions must be taken, andceremonies used to prevent the evil spirits which keep about buriedtreasure from doing them any harm. The doctor then drew a circle roundthe place, enough to include the whole party. He next gathered drytwigs and leaves, and made a fire, upon which he threw certain drugsand dried herbs which he had brought in his basket. A thick smoke rose, diffusing a potent odor, savoring marvellously of brimstone andassafoetida, which, however grateful it might be to the olfactorynerves of spirits, nearly strangled poor Wolfert, and produced a fit ofcoughing and wheezing that made the whole grove resound. DoctorKnipperhausen then unclasped the volume which he had brought under hisarm, which was printed in red and black characters in German text. While Wolfert held the lanthorn, the doctor, by the aid of hisspectacles, read off several forms of conjuration in Latin and German. He then ordered Sam to seize the pick-axe and proceed to work. Theclose-bound soil gave obstinate signs of not having been disturbed formany a year. After having picked his way through the surface, Sam cameto a bed of sand and gravel, which he threw briskly to right and leftwith the spade. 

"Hark!" said Wolfert, who fancied he heard a trampling among the dryleaves, and a rustling through the bushes. Sam paused for a moment, andthey listened. No footstep was near. The bat flitted about them insilence; a bird roused from its nest by the light which glared up amongthe trees, flew circling about the flame. In the profound stillness ofthe woodland they could distinguish the current rippling along therocky shore, and the distant murmuring and roaring of Hell Gate. 

Sam continued his labors, and had already digged a considerable hole. The doctor stood on the edge, reading formulae every now and then fromthe black letter volume, or throwing more drugs and herbs upon thefire; while Wolfert bent anxiously over the pit, watching every strokeof the spade. Any one witnessing the scene thus strangely lighted up byfire, lanthorn, and the reflection of Wolfert's red mantle, might havemistaken the little doctor for some foul magician, busied in hisincantations, and the grizzled-headed Sam as some swart goblin, obedient to his commands. 

At length the spade of the fisherman struck upon something that soundedhollow. The sound vibrated to Wolfert's heart. He struck his spadeagain. 

"'Tis a chest, " said Sam. 

"Full of gold, I'll warrant it!" cried Wolfert, clasping his hands withrapture. 

Scarcely had he uttered the words when a sound from overhead caught hisear. He cast up his eyes, and lo! by the expiring light of the fire hebeheld, just over the disk of the rock, what appeared to be the grimvisage of the drowned buccaneer, grinning hideously down upon him. 

Wolfert gave a loud cry and let fall the lanthorn. His paniccommunicated itself to his companions. The negro leaped out of thehole, the doctor dropped his book and basket and began to pray inGerman. All was horror and confusion. The fire was scattered about, thelanthorn extinguished. In their hurry-skurry they ran against andconfounded one another. They fancied a legion of hobgoblins let looseupon them, and that they saw by the fitful gleams of the scatteredembers, strange figures in red caps gibbering and ramping around them. The doctor ran one way, Mud Sam another, and Wolfert made for the waterside. As he plunged struggling onwards through bush and brake, he heardthe tread of some one in pursuit. 

He scrambled frantically forward. The footsteps gained upon him. Hefelt himself grasped by his cloak, when suddenly his pursuer wasattacked in turn: a fierce fight and struggle ensued--a pistol wasdischarged that lit up rock and bush for a period, and showed twofigures grappling together--all was then darker than ever. The contestcontinued--the combatants clenched each other, and panted and groaned, and rolled among the rocks. There was snarling and growling as of acur, mingled with curses in which Wolfert fancied he could recognizethe voice of the buccaneer. He would fain have fled, but he was on thebrink of a precipice and could go no farther. 

Again the parties were on their feet; again there was a tugging andstruggling, as if strength alone could decide the combat, until one wasprecipitated from the brow of the cliff and sent headlong into the deepstream that whirled below. Wolfert heard the plunge, and a kind ofstrangling bubbling murmur, but the darkness of the night hid everything from view, and the swiftness of the current swept every thinginstantly out of hearing. One of the combatants was disposed of, butwhether friend or foe Wolfert could not tell, nor whether they mightnot both be foes. He heard the survivor approach and his terrorrevived. He saw, where the profile of the rocks rose against thehorizon, a human form advancing. He could not be mistaken: it must bethe buccaneer. Whither should he fly! a precipice was on one side; amurderer on the other. The enemy approached: he was close at hand. Wolfert attempted to let himself down the face of the cliff. His cloakcaught in a thorn that grew on the edge. He was jerked from off hisfeet and held dangling in the air, half choaked by the string withwhich his careful wife had fastened the garment round his neck. Wolfertthought his last moment had arrived; already had he committed his soulto St. Nicholas, when the string broke and he tumbled down the bank, bumping from rock to rock and bush to bush, and leaving the red cloakfluttering like a bloody banner in the air. 

It was a long while before Wolfert came to himself. When he opened hiseyes the ruddy streaks of the morning were already shooting up the sky. He found himself lying in the bottom of a boat, grievously battered. Heattempted to sit up but was too sore and stiff to move. A voicerequested him in friendly accents to lie still. He turned his eyestoward the speaker: it was Dirk Waldron. He had dogged the party, atthe earnest request of Dame Webber and her daughter, who, with thelaudable curiosity of their sex, had pried into the secretconsultations of Wolfert and the doctor. Dirk had been completelydistanced in following the light skiff of the fisherman, and had justcome in time to rescue the poor money-digger from his pursuer. 

Thus ended this perilous enterprise. The doctor and Mud Sam severallyfound their way back to the Manhattoes, each having some dreadful taleof peril to relate. As to poor Wolfert, instead of returning intriumph, laden with bags of gold, he was borne home on a shutter, followed by a rabble route of curious urchins. His wife and daughtersaw the dismal pageant from a distance, and alarmed the neighborhoodwith their cries: they thought the poor man had suddenly settled thegreat debt of nature in one of his wayward moods. Finding him, however, still living, they had him conveyed speedily to bed, and a jury of oldmatrons of the neighborhood assembled to determine how he should bedoctored. The whole town was in a buzz with the story of themoney-diggers. Many repaired to the scene of the previous night'sadventures: but though they found the very place of the digging, theydiscovered nothing that compensated for their trouble. Some say theyfound the fragments of an oaken chest and an iron pot lid, whichsavored strongly of hidden money; and that in the old family vaultthere were traces of holes and boxes, but this is all very dubious. 

In fact, the secret of all this story has never to this day beendiscovered: whether any treasure was ever actually buried at thatplace, whether, if so, it was carried off at night by those who hadburied it; or whether it still remains there under the guardianship ofgnomes and spirits until it shall be properly sought for, is all matterof conjecture. For my part I incline to the latter opinion; and make nodoubt that great sums lie buried, both there and in many other parts ofthis island and its neighborhood, ever since the times of thebuccaneers and the Dutch colonists; and I would earnestly recommend thesearch after them to such of my fellow citizens as are not engaged inany other speculations. 

There were many conjectures formed, also, as to who and what was thestrange man of the seas who had domineered over the little fraternityat Corlears Hook for a time; disappeared so strangely, and reappearedso fearfully. Some supposed him a smuggler stationed at that place toassist his comrades in landing their goods among the rocky coves of theisland. Others that he was a buccaneer; one of the ancient comradeseither of Kidd or Bradish, returned to convey away treasures formerlyhidden in the vicinity. The only circumstance that throws any thinglike a vague light over this mysterious matter is a report thatprevailed of a strange foreign-built shallop, with the look of apiccaroon, having been seen hovering about the Sound for several dayswithout landing or reporting herself, though boats were seen going toand from her at night: and that she was seen standing out of the mouthof the harbor, in the gray of the dawn after the catastrophe of themoney-diggers. 

I must not omit to mention another report, also, which I confess israther apocryphal, of the buccaneer, who was supposed to have beendrowned, being seen before daybreak, with a lanthorn in his hand, seated astride his great sea-chest and sailing through Hell Gate, whichjust then began to roar and bellow with redoubled fury. 

While all the gossip world was thus filled with talk and rumor, poorWolfert lay sick and sorrowful in his bed, bruised in body and sorelybeaten down in mind. His wife and daughter did all they could to bindup his wounds both corporal and spiritual. The good old dame neverstirred from his bedside, where she sat knitting from morning tillnight; while his daughter busied herself about him with the fondestcare. Nor did they lack assistance from abroad. Whatever may be said ofthe desertions of friends in distress, they had no complaint of thekind to make. Not an old wife of the neighborhood but abandoned herwork to crowd to the mansion of Wolfert Webber, inquire after hishealth and the particulars of his story. Not one came, moreover, without her little pipkin of pennyroyal, sage, balm, or other herb-tea, delighted at an opportunity of signalizing her kindness and herdoctorship. What drenchings did not the poor Wolfert undergo, and allin vain. It was a moving sight to behold him wasting away day by day;growing thinner and thinner and ghastlier and ghastlier, and staringwith rueful visage from under an old patchwork counterpane upon thejury of matrons kindly assembled to sigh and groan and look unhappyaround him. 

Dirk Waldron was the only being that seemed to shed a ray of sunshineinto this house of mourning. He came in with cheery look and manlyspirit, and tried to reanimate the expiring heart of the poormoney-digger, but it was all in vain. Wolfert was completely done over. If any thing was wanting to complete his despair, it was a noticeserved upon him in the midst of his distress, that the corporation wereabout to run a new street through the very centre of his cabbagegarden. He saw nothing before him but poverty and ruin; his lastreliance, the garden of his forefathers, was to be laid waste, and whatthen was to become of his poor wife and child?

His eyes filled with tears as they followed the dutiful Amy out of theroom one morning. Dirk Waldron was seated beside him; Wolfert graspedhis hand, pointed after his daughter, and for the first time since hisillness broke the silence he had maintained. 

"I am going!" said he, shaking his head feebly, "and when I am gone--mypoordaughter--"

"Leave her to me, father!" said Dirk, manfully--"I'll take care ofher!"

Wolfert looked up in the face of the cheery, strapping youngster, andsaw there was none better able to take care of a woman. 

"Enough, " said he, "she is yours!--and now fetch me a lawyer--let memake my will and die. "

The lawyer was brought--a dapper, bustling, round-headed little man, Roorback (or Rollebuck, as it was pronounced) by name. At the sight ofhim the women broke into loud lamentations, for they looked upon thesigning of a will as the signing of a death-warrant. Wolfert made afeeble motion for them to be silent. Poor Amy buried her face and hergrief in the bed-curtain. Dame Webber resumed her knitting to hide herdistress, which betrayed itself, however, in a pellucid tear, thattrickled silently down and hung at the end of her peaked nose; whilethe cat, the only unconcerned member of the family, played with thegood dame's ball of worsted, as it rolled about the floor. 

Wolfert lay on his back, his nightcap drawn over his forehead; his eyesclosed; his whole visage the picture of death. He begged the lawyer tobe brief, for he felt his end approaching, and that he had no time tolose. The lawyer nibbed his pen, spread out his paper, and prepared towrite. 

"I give and bequeath, " said Wolfert, faintly, "my small farm--"

"What--all!" exclaimed the lawyer. 

Wolfert half opened his eyes and looked upon the lawyer. 

"Yes--all" said he. 

"What! all that great patch of land with cabbages and sunflowers, whichthe corporation is just going to run a main street through?"

"The same, " said Wolfert, with a heavy sigh and sinking back upon hispillow. 

"I wish him joy that inherits it!" said the little lawyer, chucklingand rubbing his hands involuntarily. 

"What do you mean?" said Wolfert, again opening his eyes. 

"That he'll be one of the richest men in the place!" cried littleRollebuck. 

The expiring Wolfert seemed to step back from the threshold ofexistence: his eyes again lighted up; he raised himself in his bed, shoved back his red worsted nightcap, and stared broadly at the lawyer. 

"You don't say so!" exclaimed he. 

"Faith, but I do!" rejoined the other. "Why, when that great field andthat piece of meadow come to be laid out in streets, and cut up intosnug building lots--why, whoever owns them need not pull off his hat tothe patroon!"

"Say you so?" cried Wolfert, half thrusting one leg out of bed, "why, then I think I'll not make my will yet!"

To the surprise of everybody the dying man actually recovered. Thevital spark which had glimmered faintly in the socket, received freshfuel from the oil of gladness, which the little lawyer poured into hissoul. It once more burnt up into a flame. 

Give physic to the heart, ye who would revive the body of aspirit-broken man! In a few days Wolfert left his room; in a few daysmore his table was covered with deeds, plans of streets and buildinglots. Little Rollebuck was constantly with him, his right-hand man andadviser, and instead of making his will, assisted in the more agreeabletask of making his fortune. In fact, Wolfert Webber was one of thoseworthy Dutch burghers of the Manhattoes whose fortunes have been made, in a manner, in spite of themselves; who have tenaciously held on totheir hereditary acres, raising turnips and cabbages about the skirtsof the city, hardly able to make both ends meet, until the corporationhas cruelly driven streets through their abodes, and they have suddenlyawakened out of a lethargy, and, to their astonishment, foundthemselves rich men. 

Before many months had elapsed a great bustling street passed throughthe very centre of the Webber garden, just where Wolfert had dreamed offinding a treasure. His golden dream was accomplished; he did indeedfind an unlooked-for source of wealth; for, when his paternal landswere distributed into building lots, and rented out to safe tenants, instead of producing a paltry crop of cabbages, they returned him anabundant crop of rents; insomuch that on quarter day, it was a goodlysight to see his tenants rapping at his door, from morning to night, each with a little round-bellied bag of money, the golden produce ofthe soil. 

The ancient mansion of his forefathers was still kept up, but insteadof being a little yellow-fronted Dutch house in a garden, it now stoodboldly in the midst of a street, the grand house of the neighborhood;for Wolfert enlarged it with a wing on each side, and a cupola or tearoom on top, where he might climb up and smoke his pipe in hot weather;and in the course of time the whole mansion was overrun by thechubby-faced progeny of Amy Webber and Dirk Waldron. 

As Wolfert waxed old and rich and corpulent, he also set up a greatgingerbread-colored carriage drawn by a pair of black Flanders mareswith tails that swept the ground; and to commemorate the origin of hisgreatness he had for a crest a fullblown cabbage painted on thepannels, with the pithy motto _Alles Kopf_ that is to say, ALL HEAD;meaning thereby that he had risen by sheer head-work. 

To fill the measure of his greatness, in the fullness of time therenowned Ramm Rapelye slept with his fathers, and Wolfert Webbersucceeded to the leathern-bottomed arm-chair in the inn parlor atCorlears Hook; where he long reigned greatly honored and respected, insomuch that he was never known to tell a story without its beingbelieved, nor to utter a joke without its being laughed at.