GIFT OF 
 
 University of California Berkeley 
 
v- 
 
THE POEMS AND STORIES 
 
 OP 
 
 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 
 
 Collects anto EUitcU, tottfj a Sftetclj of tfje 8utJjor, 
 
 BY 
 WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY. 
 
 1881. 
 
Copyright, 1881, 
 BY JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS : 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
(Efjts Folume, 
 
 THE FIRST THAT EVER HAS BEEN MADE 
 OF THE WRITINGS OF 
 
 FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN, 
 
 SOLDIER AND PATRIOT 
 
 AS WELL AS POET AND SCHOLAR, 
 
 IS DEDICATED 
 
 TO THE ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, 
 
 UNDER WHOSE FLAG HE FOUGHT, AND FOR 
 WHOSE CAUSE HE DIED. 
 
 365973 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 work that is here performed imperfectly, but as 
 thoroughly as is now possible -should have been done 
 a long time ago, and would have been done, but for several 
 serious obstacles interposed by what, seemingly, was an 
 almost malign fate. 'Brien on his death-bed appointed 
 two friends to be his literary executors. One of them, Mr. 
 Frank Wood, speedily followed him "into the silent land." 
 The other, Mr. Thomas E. Davis, found neither opportu- 
 nity, encouragement, nor an auspicious time for the fulfil- 
 ment of the work. O'Brien's writings were scattered far 
 and wide. In some instances the use of them was thought to 
 be impeded by the claim of copyright. The facts of his brief 
 career were but obscurely known. His character and his 
 way of life had made him a difficult subject to treat. It 
 was natural that a gentleman, not by profession a man of 
 letters, and embarrassed by such untoward circumstances, 
 should hesitate at such a task. About six years ago, the 
 intimation was given that O'Brien's writings would be col- 
 lected and published by one of his relatives in Ireland. 
 Nothing, however, came of that ; and it seemed more than 
 likely that justice to the memory of this brilliant writer 
 would never be attempted. Tarn almost the last survivor 
 of the literary comrades with whom he was associated more 
 than twenty years ago ; and perhaps it is not altogether 
 inappropriate that the work so long left untouched by others 
 should at last be accomplished by me. 
 
v i PBEFACE. 
 
 The writings here collected have been drawn from many 
 sources, and they have been thoughtfully chosen, carefully 
 arranged, and, in some instances, revised. It has been 
 found essential to search many old files and to confer with 
 many persons. Messrs. Harper 3? Brothers, with ready 
 kindness, have permitted me to use all of O'Brien's works 
 that were originally published in their periodicals, and 
 also the cuts which illustrate the satire of " The Finishing 
 School." The Harpers were among his stanchest, most 
 practical, and most faithful friends. Articles of his have 
 been taken also from the Atlantic Monthly, the Knicker- 
 bocker, Putnam's Magazine, the United States Review, 
 Vanity Fair, the Lantern, the Home Journal, and other 
 sources. He contributed to many periodicals, to the 
 New York Times, the Evening Post, Leslie's Story Paper, 
 Leslie's Stars and Stripes, the Democratic Review, and 
 the American Whig Review ; and it is said that, in 1851, 
 he edited, in London, a publication devoted to the World's 
 Fair, and that he also wrote for the Leisure Hour. Like 
 all authors who are obliged, habitually and constantly, to 
 work under the stress and strain of writing for bread, he 
 produced things that had no value beyond the moment, and 
 some that were below the level of his own standard of taste. 
 In preparing this volume, the endeavor has been made to 
 present a selection of his chief and characteristic works, 
 rather than to mass together all that he wrote. The material 
 thus far collected would Jill more than a thousand pages, 
 and much of what is now necessarily omitted is equally 
 worthy with the works here given of republication in a per- 
 manent form. 
 
 Among O'Brien's writings which it has not been found 
 possible to include in this collection, but which may here- 
 after be presented to the public, are essays entitled " Tour 
 
PREFACE. vil 
 
 Health" "Bird Gossip" and "A Paper of All Sorts," and 
 seven miscellaneous poems, all published in Harper ; 
 his " Fragments from an Unpublished Magazine," which 
 appeared in the Democratic Review, in September, October, 
 and December, 1852 ; his series of sketches, called " The 
 lllan about Town" begun in Harper's Weekly, and con- 
 tinued in Frank H. Bellew's Picayune ; his dramatic re- 
 views, contributed to the Saturday Press in 1858-59] a 
 number of papers in the old series of Putnam ; many mis- 
 cellaneous articles in the Home Journal, the Lantern, Van- 
 ity Fair, and other papers ; more than twenty stories ; 
 and six plays. It is said that he began, and partly com- 
 posed, a tragedy on the subject of Samson ; but I have not 
 been able to Jind it. He undertook to write, for Leslie's 
 Stars and Stripes, a paper published, during about six 
 months, in 1859, a romance entitled " The Scarlet Pet- 
 ticoat "; but this has not been found. He began, in Bel- 
 lew's Picayune, March 27th, 1858, a story called " From 
 Hand to Mouth"; but he left it incomplete, and it was 
 finished either by Bellew ("Triangle"), or by Pool, his 
 sub-editor. He wrote discursive articles on many subjects. 
 He was surprisingly apt at jest, and squib, and song. 
 With a rare aptitude for literature, he possessed also an 
 extraordinary faculty for journalism. I have traced his 
 busy pen in many places. He was the most industrious 
 idle man that ever I have known. 
 
 It is more than eighteen years since O'Brien diedf Many 
 men who knew him and could have given information con- 
 cerning him have, within that time, passed away. In 
 making a memoir of him I have endeavored to augment my 
 own imperfect tribute by adding to it the testimony of other 
 writers. Mr. Thomas E. Davis, O'Brien's surviving ex- 
 ecutor, Mr. Louis H. Stephens, the principal artist of 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 Vanity Fair^ and Mr. Stephen Fiske, whose name in jour- 
 nalism is a synonyme of sprightliness and dash, have 
 generously enriched with their recollections the memorial 
 pages which follow. I reprint, beside-, a sketch of him by 
 the beloved and lamented George Arnold, and an account 
 of his military career that was written by Frank WoVd, 
 in the New York Leader, April l%th, 1862 ; and in this, 
 as Wood was appointed one of his executors, there is a sort 
 of fulfilment of the wishes of the dead. I have received 
 encouragement in my task from Bellew, one of O'Brierfs 
 best friends and earliest associates in America ; from 
 Aldrich, the poet, once his close companion ; from the 
 learned, gracious, and kindly veteran of letters, Dr. R. 
 Shelton Mackenzie ; from Mr. Thomas Powell, whose green 
 old age delights in genial remembrance of the literary past ; 
 from Dr. A. L. Carroll, who knew him well; and from 
 Mr. J. W. Harper, Jr., whose friendship for the poet when 
 he was living is now a fresh and tender memory, surviving 
 all the years that have passed since he died. Mr. Stephens, 
 furthermore, has been persuaded to paint, from memory, a 
 portrait of O'Brien to embellish this volume ; and I pre- 
 serve here a Dirge for O'Brien by the late Charles Daw son 
 Shanly, his friend and mine. Tenderly loved and deeply 
 deplored, he too sleeps the long sleep of death. How deep 
 had been his joy, if only he could have lived to take a per- 
 sonal part in this commemoration of his brilliant country- 
 man an.d cherished comrade! His dirge as full of tears 
 as of music is a fitting ritual for the soldier poet. "In 
 death they are not divided." 
 
 W. W. 
 
 Fort Hill, New Brighton, Staten Island, 
 October 12th, 1880. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SKETCH or O'BRIEN, by William Winter xiii 
 
 Dirge for O'Brien, by C. D. Shanly xiv 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 O'Brien in his Last Days, by Thomas E. Davis . . xxxi 
 O'Brien as Poet and Soldier, by Frank Wood .... xxxvi 
 
 O'Brien's Personal Characteristics, by George Arnold . xlvi 
 
 O'Brien's Bohemian Days, by Stephen Fiske .... liv 
 
 O'Brien as Journalist and Soldier, by Louis H. Stephens . lix 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Sir Brasil's Falcon 3 
 
 Kane 16 
 
 The Lost Steamship 20 
 
 A Fallen Star 23 
 
 The Ballad of the Shamrock 28 
 
 Amazon . 31 
 
 The Man at the Door 35 
 
 The Enchanted Titan 37 
 
 Loss 39 
 
 Our Christmas Tree 42 
 
 The Pot of Gold 45 
 
 Minot's Ledge 48 
 
 The Legend of Easter Eggs 50 
 
 Down in the Glen at Idlewild 53 
 
 Wanted Saint Patrick 54 
 
 The Prize Fight . . . . 57 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Song of the Locomotive 61 
 
 Irish Castles 64 
 
 Loch Ine 65 
 
 An April Day 66 
 
 Johnny 68 
 
 The Skaters f .' '' 71 
 
 The Demon of the Gibbet 73 
 
 The Wharf Rat 74 
 
 TheHavelock 75 
 
 The Countersign '. 78 
 
 The Zouaves 80 
 
 A Soldier's Letter 83 
 
 The Prisoner of War 86 
 
 Winter 89 
 
 The Sewing Bird 90 
 
 A Summer Idyl . 99 
 
 By the Passaic 102 
 
 The Three Gannets . 104 
 
 The Sea 105 
 
 Willy and I 106 
 
 The Challenge 107 
 
 When I came back from Sea 107 
 
 An Old Story 110 
 
 Helen Lee Ill 
 
 Strawberries 118 
 
 Battledores 119 
 
 The Finishing School 121 
 
 STORIES. 
 
 The Diamond Lens 145 
 
 The Wondersmith 177 
 
 Tommatoo 224 
 
 Mother of Pearl 257 
 
 The Bohemian . . 281 
 
 The Lost Room 309 
 
 The Pot of Tulips 332 
 
CONTENTS. xi 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Golden Ingot 355 
 
 My Wife's Tempter ,374 
 
 What Was It ? 390 
 
 Duke Humphrey's Dinner 408 
 
 Milly Dove 426 
 
 The Dragon Fang 454 
 
 APPENDIX : Charles Dawson Shanly 481 
 
SKETCH OF O'BRIEN 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 / count myself in nothing else so happy 
 
 As in a soul rememb'ring my good friends." 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
A DIEGE: 
 
 IN MEMORY OF FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 
 DIED, APRIL 6, 1862. 
 
 I. 
 
 Toll, bell, 
 
 With solemn knell, 
 
 For him who fell 
 
 In the galloping jlyht ! 
 Trumpets, ring 
 To the dirge we sing 
 In our hearts that cling 
 
 Round the spirit so bright ! 
 Roll, drum, 
 
 v As the vaulted tomb 
 
 For his early doom 
 
 Is gaping drearily ! 
 Cold and dead, 
 In his stony bed 
 
 Lay him, who lately sang so cheerily ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Hush, hush ! 
 The memories rush 
 With impetuous gush 
 
 On heart and head: 
 Speak low, 
 None of us know 
 Half we forego 
 
 In the gallant dead. 
 Plant jlowers, 
 Not where April showers, 
 But tears, like ours, 
 
 Shall make them bloom, 
 And their breath impart 
 To each kindred heart 
 In the crypt of which 
 
 Is thepoefs tomb! 
 
 CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. 
 Vanity Fair, April 19th, 1862. 
 
SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 THAT the facts of a man's life which can be stated are 
 but poorly adequate to convey a full sense of what that 
 life really was is a truth that receives additional illustra- 
 tion in this imperfect biography. Yet this record is as 
 nearly complete as careful research and conscientious 
 labor can now make it. The more important part of the 
 life of its subject was his intellectual and spiritual ex- 
 perience. The history of his mind, however, is written 
 in his works. It is only attempted, in this place, to set 
 down the incidents of his career. 
 
 FITZ- JAMES O'BRIEN was born in the county of Lim- 
 erick, Ireland, about the year 1828. His father was an 
 attorney-at-law. His mother was a lady of remarkable 
 beauty. He received a good education at Dublin Uni- 
 versity. He was not trained, however, to either of 
 the learned professions; but it is remembered that he 
 claimed to have been at one time a soldier in the Brit- 
 ish service. He very early evinced a taste and aptitude 
 for writing verses; and among his first works are two 
 poems, entitled " Loch Ine " and " Irish Castles," which 
 appear, without an author's name, in " The Ballads of 
 Ireland," collected and edited by Edward Hayes (1856). 
 On leaving college he went up to London, where, in the 
 
xvi SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 course of about two years, he spent his inheritance, 
 stated at eight thousand pounds. In 1851, according 
 to a somewhat dubious report, he edited, in London, a 
 periodical devoted to the World's Fair. Late in that 
 year, or early in 1852, he found it essential to seek his 
 fortune in the New World. One of his friends was Dr. 
 Collins, brother to the Roman Catholic Bishop of Cloyne, 
 and through his influence O'Brien obtained letters of 
 introduction, from Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie, then 
 editor of a newspaper in Liverpool, and correspondent 
 for the New York Evening Star, addressed to Major 
 Noah, General George P. Morris, and other prominent 
 citizens of the American capital. With these, on his 
 arrival here, the adventurous young poet made an au- 
 spicious entrance into society and literature ; and it was 
 not long before his singularly brilliant abilities were 
 recognized, and he became a general favorite. In that 
 way his American career began, which was destined, 
 within the brief period of ten years, to be signalized by 
 the production of some of the most original and beau- 
 tiful poems and stories in the literature of his time, to 
 flow through many painful vicissitudes and much trouble, 
 and to end abruptly in a soldier's grave. 
 
 The chronicle of his literary life must, necessarily, be 
 discursive. It was in no sense more eventful than 
 such lives usually are, except that it was more pain- 
 fully irregular and more startlingly productive. His ear- 
 liest writings here were published by John Brougham, in 
 the Lantern. "When I first knew him," says his old 
 comrade, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, " he was trimming the 
 wick of the Lantern, which went out shortly afterwards." 
 In that paper appeared, among other of his productions, 
 the touching poem of "An Old Story," "The Ballad of 
 
SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. xvii 
 
 Sir Brown," "The Gory Gnome," and "The Wonderful 
 Adventures of Mr. Papplewick." At one of Brougham's 
 weekly dinners, in Windust's old place, near the original 
 Park Theatre, at which the writers and artists of his 
 Lantern were regularly convened, and at which every- 
 thing but the paper was discussed, O'Brien made the 
 acquaintance of the artist and author, Mr. Frank H. Bel- 
 lew, who became one of his intimate friends. The New 
 York residences were, in those days, much further " down 
 town" than they are now, and O'Brien and Bellew at one 
 time lodged together in Leonard Street, and subsequently 
 in Broadway, immediately opposite to what is now the 
 Metropolitan Hotel, and on the site of the building after- 
 wards locally famous as Stanwix Hall. That, of course, 
 was the season of the light heart and the foaming flagon, 
 when the chimes are heard at midnight and the bloom 
 is on the rye. O'Brien's associations then were largely 
 with the circles that eddied around Willis and Morris; 
 and at that time he wrote a few sketches and verses 
 for the Home Journal. His poem which I have named 
 " The Demon of the Gibbet " originally appeared in that 
 paper, under the inexpressive title of " What Befell." He 
 contributed, also, in a fitful and miscellaneous way, to 
 the Evening Post and to the New York Times ; and he 
 wrote for the American Whig Review his "Fragments 
 from an Unpublished Magazine." He was, in brief, a 
 literary soldier of fortune ; and, with his expensive tastes 
 and already settled habits of extravagance, it is needless 
 to say that in time he found the Grub Street pathway 
 an exceedingly weary road. 
 
 The most important literary association that he ever 
 formed was that which made him a regular contributor 
 to Harper's Magazine. His first paper in that publication 
 
 b 
 
xviii SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 appeared in the number for February, 1853, and is enti- 
 tled " The Two Skulls." It is scientific and philosophical. 
 He contributed to fifty-two numbers, and there are sixty- 
 six of his productions in that periodical. His pen appears 
 to have been in its most prolific period during the years 
 1855, '56, and '57. His last paper in Harper, a story 
 entitled " How I Overcame my Gravity," was not pub- 
 lished till May, 1864, more than two years after he 
 was dead. He never saw in print, either, for they also 
 were posthumous publications, his excellent story of 
 " Tommatoo," or his sad poem of " Down in the Glen 
 at Idlewild." He wrote copiously for Harper's Weekly, 
 as well as for the Magazine. His noble ode on KANE 
 was first printed in that journal, and there likewise 
 first appeared his richly fanciful, inventive, picturesque 
 poem of " The Zouaves," a work which conspicu- 
 ously illustrates his remarkable faculty for giving an im- 
 aginative application to an idea or topic of the passing 
 hour. He wrote stories, too, for Harper's Weekly, and he 
 wrote a series of familiar letters, called " The Man about 
 Town," which, even at this distance of time, can be read 
 with pleasure, for the liveliness of their spirit and the 
 grace of their style. All this while he was writing, as 
 capricious fancy prompted or as the spur of necessity com- 
 pelled, in other quarters. The veteran James W. AVallack 
 was one of his dearest friends, and for Wallack's theatre 
 he wrote several bright little pieces, spirited in idea, 
 impetuous in spirit, and clean and polished in mechanism, 
 which were acted well, and which found a ready accep- 
 tation. One of these, " A Gentleman from Ireland," still 
 keeps the stage, and will long be found serviceable to the 
 dashing light comedian. For Laura Keene's theatre, at 
 the instance of Jefferson, then its stage manager and 
 
SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. ^ xix 
 
 principal actor, he adapted one of Brough's burlesques; 
 and this piece, under the title of " The Tycoon," was pro- 
 duced during the visit of the first Japanese Embassy to 
 this country. He was possessed of a strong dramatic 
 sense and had a good knowledge of the stage, the latter 
 having been acquired in his London days, and, although 
 he was inclined to push the theory of " natural " acting 
 much too far, as may be seen in his tale of " Mother of 
 Pearl," he could write with incisive judgment and inform- 
 ing taste on the acted drama. He did so in the autumn 
 of 1858, in the New York Saturday Press; and one of 
 his dramatic articles, in particular, a disquisition upon 
 the tragedy of " Hamlet," with Mr. Barry Sullivan as the 
 melancholy Dane, is remarkable equally for poetic in- 
 telligence, acute analysis, and fine description. To Put- 
 nam's Magazine that noble monument to the exquisite 
 taste of George William Curtis he was a contributor 
 in the first number and for several years ; and several of 
 the gems of this collection have been taken from that 
 source. He was a diligent writer for Vanity Fair, and 
 from those sparkling columns are gathered his grisly fancy 
 of " The Wharf Rat," his athletic and sonorous " Song of 
 the Locomotive," and his idyl of "Strawberries." Two 
 of his most remarkable stories belong to this period of 
 nomadic labor, " The Diamond Lens " and " The Won- 
 dersmith," published in the Atlantic Monthly, in January, 
 1858, and October, 1859. They electrified magazine 
 literature, and they set up a model of excellence which, 
 in this department, has made it better than it ever had 
 been, in this country, before those tales were printed. 
 
 O'Brien had a great admiration for the strange, wild, 
 passionate genius of Matilda Heron ; and it once suited 
 his fancy to travel, as a literary assistant, with H. L. 
 
xx ., SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 Bateman, that iron-willed yet genial Boanerges of man- 
 agers, who was then directing a professional tour for 
 that actress. Miss Heron was acting in " Camille," which 
 had but recently been introduced upon the American 
 stage, and in a drama by Mrs. Bateman, entitled "Ger- 
 aldine." On this trip O'Brien visited Boston, and he 
 remained for some time in that city and its neighborhood ; 
 and I remember that he considerably astonished some of 
 the quiet literary circles of that staid and decorous region 
 by his utter and unaffected irreverence for various cam- 
 phorated figure-heads which were then an incubus upon 
 American letters. It was there and then that I first 
 met him, and first observed that stalwart mind and that 
 formidable frankness of temperament for which he was 
 remarkable. He was now considerably changed from 
 what he had been when he came to America. Mental 
 toil and bodily privation, the hardships of a gypsy life, 
 the reactionary sense of being in false positions and of 
 being misunderstood, which often will embitter natural 
 sweetness and turn amiability to proud and glittering de- 
 fiance, had done their work upon his nature, and made 
 him, in some of his moods, as lawless, arrogant, and tru- 
 culent, as in others he was gentle, resigned, affectionate, 
 and almost forlorn. In his face and carriage there was 
 the strong and splendid freedom of the wild woods ; yet 
 at times there came into his eyes a weary look of unrest, 
 and a quite indescribable light of dangerous, half-slum- 
 bering wrath, as of a soul that was a hunted vagabond 
 standing sentinel over its own desolation. I was attracted 
 toward him by a profound sympathy, and we became 
 comrades and friends, and so remained to the end. I 
 have heard that, when he first established himself in New 
 York, he dwelt in comfortable quarters and surrounded 
 
SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. xxi 
 
 himself with appliances of luxury. His raiment was 
 superb ; his library was excellent ; his furniture was taste- 
 ful; and, like De Mauprat, he was " splendid in banquets." 
 His personal appearance in those days before, as hap- 
 pened in June, 1858, his nose had been broken by the 
 blow of a pugilist was singularly attractive. He had 
 a fair and glowing complexion, and waving brown hair; 
 his eyes were gray -blue, large, brilliant, and expressive ; 
 his smile was honest and sweet, and his countenance 
 frank and winning; he was of the middle stature, an 
 athlete in person, and he moved with negligent grace. 
 His voice was rich in quality, loud and clear, and he had 
 a bluff and breezy manner of speech, tending at times to 
 a joyous turbulence. In a general way he retained these 
 characteristics ; but at the time of our companionship he 
 had emerged from his condition of elegance, and his for- 
 tunes were low. He had no property; he was at variance 
 with many old acquaintances ; his face had suffered dis- 
 figurement ; he lived nowhere in particular ; and he was 
 thoroughly well acquainted with hard times. I found 
 him, in those gypsy days, a delightful associate. His 
 animal spirits were prodigious. His literary invention 
 was alert, vigorous, and almost incessant. His enjoyment 
 of the passing hour was so keen, that it gave a zest to 
 the enjoyment of all around him. No matter how close 
 poverty might pinch, or how dark the clouds might lower 
 over the portal of the future, the laugh of O'Brien blew 
 care away from the cup of life, as the foam is blown from 
 the white caps of the sea. 
 
 His habits of literary composition, as will be surmised, 
 were erratic. A man less buoyant than he would have 
 been paralyzed by the hardships through which he drift- 
 ed and labored. But, amid chaos or tempest, he was 
 
xxii SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 always seeing, always thinking, always at work. Perhaps 
 he liked best to drift in the sunshine and to make merry 
 with genial companions; but he could nerve himself 
 to effort when the occasion demanded it, and he could 
 execute prodigious tasks with amazing celerity. Times 
 of indolence and times of tremendous exertion check- 
 ered his life along the whole of its course. He was not 
 a fluent writer, because he thought deeply, and wrote 
 logically, and was fastidious in taste j but his creative lit- 
 erary impulse was exceedingly strong, and his feeling was 
 earnest. He possessed an ample and ready command of 
 the resources of literary art, his mind was replete with 
 what it had absorbed in hours of apparent idleness, and 
 he worked with relentless purpose and absorbing zeal. 
 In this way it chanced that he could accomplish a for- 
 midable task in a surprisingly short time, yet always 
 deliver his work rounded and finished as if with the scru- 
 pulous labor of weeks. His poem of " A Fallen Star," 
 for example, was written in my lodging, between mid- 
 night and morning, at one sitting, and he left the original 
 draft upon the table, having made a clean copy of it for 
 the press. A fac-simile of a page of that manuscript is 
 given in this volume, and it strikingly reveals the care 
 with which he wrote. His poem of " The Sewing Bird " 
 was also written in my lodging, within the course of two 
 nights, and I have kept the pen with which it was written, 
 as a relic of a remarkable effort. I never saw him so 
 deeply depressed as he was then, and with good reason, 
 for he was destitute, cheerless, and hungry ; and when- 
 ever that was his case he would not share with a com- 
 rade, and even when food was left in his way he would 
 not take it. He sold " The Sewing Bird " for one hun- 
 dred dollars, and a few hours later he was as merry as a 
 
SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. xxiii 
 
 brook in spring-time. One of his favorite haunts was 
 the old Hone house, in Broadway, at the southeast cor- 
 ner of Great Jones Street ; and there, under very similar 
 circumstances, in the course of an evening, he produced 
 the ringing poem of " The Lost Steamship." His story 
 of " What Was It 1 " was written at odd moments, in the 
 lodging of his friend Aldrich, in Clinton Place. These 
 details have a trivial sound, but somehow they help to 
 give a lifelike picture of the man, displaying, back of 
 the strange circumstances under which his literature was 
 produced, the still stranger nature that produced it. 
 
 The burden laid upon the poet is, that he must feel 
 and express the great and varied elemental passions of 
 humanity, yet never himself depart from the perfect 
 poise of a sane and decorous life. All literary history is 
 the narrative of his endeavor, with a greater or less de- 
 gree of failure, to achieve this perfect result. All literary 
 criticism abounds in censure of him because being a 
 man and not a god he falls short of his object. Yet 
 through the everlasting march of the ages he still strives 
 onward ; still obeys his inexorable fate ; still tries to utter 
 for all mankind the voice of the universal heart ; and 
 still, amid the flying echoes of his own celestial music, he 
 may stray into sin and sorrow, he may faint and falter by 
 the way, and so drop into a lamentable grave. O'Brien 
 was in no wise more successful than some others of his 
 kind. He fulfilled his destiny as well as he could. The 
 attrition of his character with his circumstances devel- 
 oped faults and impelled to errors. He was, personally, 
 very far from being a perfect creature. He was not 
 deficient in moral sense ; on the contrary, his perception 
 of right and wrong was uncommonly keen ; but he was 
 deficient in moral courage and in stability of principle, 
 
xxiv SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 and what was originally noble in his moral nature had 
 been to some extent marred, though not spoiled, by con- 
 viviality and chronic improvidence. His conduct was 
 never intentionally wrong, but it was sometimes marked 
 by a heedless irregularity in the ordinary affairs of life, 
 such as, to many persons, is almost as culpable as bad 
 intention. He knew this, and his realization of it only 
 enraged him against his own defects. He was at times 
 haughty and combative ; partly because of his Hibernian 
 blood, and partly, no doubt, because of his resentful con- 
 viction that he deserved by his powers, his achieve- 
 ments, and the possibilities of his mind and future a 
 higher position in literature than had ever been accorded 
 to him. But, so far as I ever could learn, his faults and 
 errors did serious injury to no one but himself; while for 
 the creation of literature he was, in the hands of Fate, 
 a magnificent instrument. There was such a breezy au- 
 dacity in his genius, that, thinking of him after all these 
 years, I feel a thrill of barbaric joy, as if youth itself were 
 come back. He was like a giant oak, responsive to the 
 midnight gale, and exultant in its rage. He was like 
 the ocean swept by the tempest, that answers with clarion 
 tumult and savage delight. He never paltered with life, 
 nor fawned on the tedious little self-constituted poten- 
 tates with whom the avenues of society are infested. 
 He did not approach literature with timid deprecation, 
 but he fronted his work royally, and he performed it. 
 He spoke his mind, and he neither valued life nor feared 
 death. Thus constituted, sensitive to the grandest 
 influences of nature and the tenderest touch of art, 
 the mystic spirit that is in creation could play upon him 
 at its will, and sound what stops it pleased. Time, no 
 doubt, would have improved this organ of the Muse, 
 
SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. XXV 
 
 would have broadened and mellowed its tones, and made 
 it vocal with yet more heavenly emotion. The noble 
 instrument was too soon broken ; the life that promised 
 so much was too soon quenched in the darkness of the 
 grave. Nevertheless, in what was uttered and is now 
 preserved there lives a rich and buoyant power, and a 
 wonderful soul of beauty. Here, garnered in his pages, 
 are rich creations of the imagination, splendid or som- 
 bre pictures, original conceptions of character, rare bits of 
 description, fine strokes of analysis of life, strong paeans 
 of joy, and sad wails of grief. Here is the eloquent and 
 beautiful manifestation of a genius, broad in its scope, 
 affluent in its tide, adequate in its strength, brilliant 
 in its splendor, gentle and humane in its teaching and 
 influence. Such works are the best interpreters of their 
 own beneficence. There is no end and no measure to 
 the good that literature accomplishes when, through the 
 ministration of beauty, it helps to free our souls from 
 the hard conditions under which life is imposed upon the 
 human race. 
 
 The venerable Sheltou Mackenzie, in a gracious and 
 tender letter, responsive to inquiries of mine, refers to 
 O'Brien's death, in these words : " To die on the field of 
 honor, under the flag of his adopted country, was just 
 the doom his gallant spirit would have craved." It was 
 the doom reserved for him, and he met it bravely and 
 well. He was a lover of liberty and the rights of man, 
 and a stanch, unfaltering advocate of the principle of 
 Union in the American Republic. When the war broke 
 out, in 1861, accordingly, he joined the Seventh Regiment 
 of the National Guard of New York, in the hope of being 
 sent to the front, and he was in camp with that regiment 
 at Washington for six weeks. "A brilliant, dashing fel- 
 
xx vi SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 low," writes Colonel Emmons Clark, " very brave, and a 
 universal favorite. He never in any way did anything to 
 hurt the good name of the regiment. He held the rank 
 of Captain, and is so entered on our regimental roll of 
 honor." When the Seventh came home he left it and 
 for a time was occupied in gathering recruits for a volun- 
 teer regiment, to be called the McClellan Rifles. He 
 subsequently received an appointment on the staff of 
 General Lander,* and at once repaired to the scene of 
 conflict in Virginia. His period of active military service 
 was brief, but he distinguished himself by energy and 
 valor. On the 26th of February, 1862, in a skirmish 
 with Colonel Ashley's cavalry, he was shot, and severely 
 wounded. He lingered till the 6th of April, when he 
 died. His death occurred at Cumberland, Virginia, His 
 body was brought home, and buried with military honors. 
 
 * There is but a meagre and imperfect record, at the War Depart- 
 ment, in Washington, (though a strictly official one, and no doubt 
 correct as far as it goes,) of O'Brien's military career. T. B. Aldrich 
 and O'Brien applied at nearly the same time for a place on General 
 Lander's staff. The application of Aldrich an old friend of Gen- 
 eral Lander's was a few days in advance of that of O'Brien. 
 General Lander sent a telegram to Aldrich, at Portsmouth, N. H., 
 offering to him a staff appointment, with the rank of Lieutenant. 
 In the meanwhile, Aldrich had left Portsmouth, and the telegram 
 remained there, unopened and unregarded. Thereupon General 
 Lander, receiving no answer, gave the post to O'Brien, who shortly 
 afterwards was killed. Old Henry Clapp used dryly to say that 
 "Aldrich was shot in O'Brien's shoulder." 
 
 That O'Brien received this appointment is certain ; but, being 
 already in the field, he was not formally mustered in, and he was 
 killed before his commission had been signed : hence the meagreness 
 of the official record at the War Department. Writing from " Camp 
 Kelly," Virginia, January 21st, 1862, to his friend Mr. Thomas E. 
 Davis, O'Brien says : " I am in harness, and am staff officer of pa- 
 rade, and am already intrusted with the rather arduous but important 
 
SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. xxvii 
 
 The last time I saw him in life he took from my hand a 
 copy of. Shirley Brooks's novel of " The Silver Cord." He 
 was going to the front. The next time I saw him he 
 was in his coffin. The silver cord had been loosed, and 
 the stormy heart of the poet-soldier was at rest. Even in 
 death his countenance wore its old expression of defiant 
 endurance. His funeral was held in the armory of the 
 Seventh Kegiment. The silver-haired veteran Wallack, 
 leaning on Lester's arm, his pale, handsome face wet 
 with tears, stood beside the bier; and round them were 
 clustered many of O'Brien's comrades, now likewise dead 
 and gone. With muffled drums and martial dirges we 
 bore him to Greenwood Cemetery, and there a guard of 
 honor fired its volley over his tomb, and, with a few 
 flowers from the loving hand of poor Matilda Heron, we 
 left him forever. There his ashes still rest ; * and there, 
 
 duty of posting the pickets all through this devil of a wilderness. 
 Address to me always as A. D. C., General Lander's Brigade." 
 
 " My impression is," writes General McClellan, "that Mr. O'Brien 
 served with Lander as a volunteer aid." This in the absence of a 
 regular commission would be his rank. He gave his life without 
 price. 
 
 In the Xew American Cyclopaedia, annual volume, for 1862, on 
 page 543, occurs the following reference to the exploit at Bloomery 
 Gap, in which O'Brien participated : " In this brilliant dash the 
 Confederate commander and his staff surrendered to General Lander, 
 who, with a single aid, had outridden the rest of the force, and, 
 coming upon them at full gallop, demanded their swords." The 
 "single aid" was O'Brien. ED. 
 
 * The remains of O'Brien were placed, at first, in the receiving 
 tomb at Greenwood, but on November 27, 1874, were removed and 
 buried in the earth. His grave is number 1183, in lot number 
 17.263, in that cemetery. At the funeral of O'Brien, Frank Wood, 
 T. B. Aldrich, Edward F. Mullen (the quaint, original artist of 
 Vanity Fair), and I rode in a coach together, and "Wood (now 
 dead) carried O'Brien's sword. ED. 
 
xxviii SKETCH OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 in time to come, will many a pilgrim to the shrine of 
 genius and of noble valor lay the chaplet of remembrance 
 on the grave of Fitz-James O'Brien. 
 
 WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 FORT HILL, NEW BRIGHTON, STATEN ISLAND, 
 October 19th, 1880. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 BY SEVERAL WRITERS. 
 
 "/ remember him well; and I remember him worthy of thy 
 praise." 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
O'BEIEN IN HIS LAST DAYS. 
 
 MY DEAR WINTER: 
 
 An effort to rescue O'Brien's name, with honor, from 
 oblivion, interests me immensely, and I am confident 
 that such a work, undertaken by you, will successfully 
 realize its promise. It would give me great pleasure 
 to bring to you all the papers that I possess referring 
 to O'Brien, and to talk over our friend with you. Your 
 letter, advising me of your project, was forwarded to my 
 address at Paris, and has just been returned to me here. 
 You have my heartiest sympathy in the work that you 
 have undertaken, and I rejoice that it will at last be 
 accomplished. 
 
 Shortly after O'Brien's death I consulted with my asso- 
 ciate executor, Frank Wood, as to the course of action 
 proper for us to pursue ; and it was agreed that, as he was 
 more devoted than I to literary pursuits, all of O'Brien's 
 papers that were possessed by me should be given to him, 
 and he should write a memoir, and make a* selection of the 
 writings for publication, subject to my approval. I gave 
 to him thereupon everything of O'Brien's that I then 
 had, even private letters. My reliance on his ability 
 to do this work was complete, and no doubt he would 
 have done it had he lived. Ill-health came upon me 
 shortly after this, and drove me to Europe, and I never 
 
xxxii RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 heard of him again except the news of his death. I 
 have been for many years a resident abroad, and occu- 
 pied by engrossing duties. I have made many and ear- 
 nest inquiries as to the fate of the papers delivered 
 to Wood, but could never ascertain what befell them. 
 Among them was O'Brien's last letter, written to me 
 on his death-bed. 
 
 While I was in Europe I met O'Brien's mother (Mrs. 
 De Courcy O'Grady, she having married again, some time 
 after the death of O'Brien's father, and when O'Brien 
 was still a lad), and she expressed great affection for her 
 lost boy, and deep interest in the idea of publishing his 
 works. I intimated to her as you have intimated to 
 me that, in case the book should succeed, a suitable 
 monument would be erected over O'Brien's grave. I 
 am glad you have this design in view. My path has 
 been strewn with difficulties, and you are doing me a real 
 service in taking up this work. 
 
 My knowledge of O'Brien was confined to the latter 
 part of his life. He and I were engaged in raising a 
 regiment, to be known as the McClellan Rifles, and we 
 made a good start in this business; but I found myself 
 unable to bear the exposure of the camp, and so left the 
 affair to him. He was about this time involved in what 
 might have proved a serious trouble, though he was 
 entirely in the right. He was attacked by an inferior 
 officer, absent without leave from camp, and he was com- 
 pelled, in self-defence, to fire upon him ; and the man 
 a mutinous, abusive, dangerous person was hurt, but 
 ultimately he recovered. O'Brien lived in my house, at 
 Staten Island, for some time after this event, and it was 
 there that he wrote his poem of "A Soldier's Letter," 
 which he read to me just after completing it. 
 
HIS LAST DAYS. xxxiii 
 
 I never enjoyed anything more than hearing him read 
 his own writings. He was truly a manly fellow, an in- 
 tensely live man, in look, bearing, and manner : yet on 
 these occasions he would become subdued to such exquisite 
 softness by the deep pathos of his words, arousing the 
 delicate, womanly sensibility which formed a large part of 
 his hidden character, that you neither saw nor heard 
 the every-day man. In person he was just above the 
 middle height, strong, and well made. His eyes were 
 blue ; the lids hung mournfully over them, giving them 
 that peculiarly melancholy appearance which has often 
 been ascribed to those who are destined to a violent death. 
 When he was excited and in good spirits this expression 
 would disappear, and his eyes would dance with glee. 
 He had led a wandering life in New York before I knew 
 him, and his carelessness in worldly matters had alienated 
 the good opinion of vpersons who would gladly have been 
 his friends. Before he went on what proved his death- 
 trip to General Lander, he promised that on his return 
 he would settle down with me, and devote himself to the 
 production of something in literature that might live. 
 He had " a great work," he said, prepared in his mind, 
 which he had " thought out through years of thinking," 
 and this he would write when his soldiering was over. 
 
 There was an exceedingly humorous side to O'Brien's 
 character, his Celtic alacrity for combat being not the 
 least comic of his peculiarities. Donald McLeod, author 
 of " Pynnshurst," was once O'Brien's comrade, and they 
 slept in the same bed. One night, just after they had 
 retired, a fierce discussion arose between them with ref- 
 erence to Scotch and Irish nationality, and O'Brien 
 uttered opinions which his Scotch companion could not 
 brook. " I '11 not allow this," cried McLeod. " Do as 
 
xxxiv RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 you please about that," said O'Brien. " I '11 demand sat- 
 isfaction, sir ! " roared McLeod. " Very well," answered 
 Fitz-James, equally enraged and belligerent, and pull- 
 ing the blanket well over himself, " very well, sir ; you 
 know where to find me in the morning." This last explo- 
 sion, though intended in deadly sincerity, had the effect 
 of turning the quarrel to laughter, and so made an end 
 of it. 
 
 O'Brien, at one time, began to collect his scattered writ- 
 ings, with a view to their publication in a volume ; and he 
 made a title-page and a list of pieces. He liked his story 
 of "The Golden Ingot" and his unfinished ballad of "Amy 
 Scudder." I have seen two plays of his in manuscript, 
 entitled " The Two Ophelias," and " Blood will Tell." He 
 was proficient in the French language, and, in particular, 
 he habitually read every French play that appeared. His 
 learning, with reference to many subjects, seemed ample 
 and minute, and when he chose to speak of literary affairs 
 he enthralled the listener with his eloquence. There was 
 great sweetness in his nature, and under happier circum- 
 stances his life, I think, would have been free from those 
 asperities and blemishes which caused him to be much 
 censured. He was a devoted patriot, and he went into 
 the war with ardent zeal. When he was leaving New 
 York to join General Lander, we dined together, and 
 parted for the last time. " I can say nothing to you," he 
 said, " but you know where my heart is." I did, and it 
 was in the right place. 
 
 He died at the home of Mr. George A. Thurston, at 
 Cumberland, Maryland, April 6th, 1862, seven weeks 
 after he received his death-wound in battle. He bore his 
 illness well and met his death with fortitude. Mr. Thurs- 
 tou, from whom he received every kindness, wrote to me, 
 
O'BRIEN RECRUITING. 
 From a Caricature by Mullen in " Vanity Fair.' 
 
HIS LAST DAYS. xxxv 
 
 April 1st, as follows : "Mr. O'Brien was this morning seized 
 with tetanus, and, though so far the symptoms are mild, 
 he yet is so reduced physically by his long illness and the 
 painful character of his wound that we have cause to fear 
 he cannot recover. He is aware of his danger, and meets it 
 in the most manly way ; indeed he has never been hopeful 
 from the first. I write to his mother to-day, advising her 
 of his danger, and the causes which led to it, and I think 
 this should have been done long since. But he was so 
 averse to her knowing anything of the trouble that he 
 would neither write himself nor permit any one to write 
 for him." A little later Mr. Thurston wrote again, an- 
 nouncing the end : " We did all in our power for the 
 poor fellow, and in fact I may say we were fortunate 
 enough to give him everything that he desired or his sur- 
 geons suggested." I was on my way to him when he 
 died, and I brought home his remains from Baltimore. 
 ThisJeaf is all I can add to the garland you are weaving 
 for our departed friend. 
 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 THOMAS E. DAVIS. 
 
 No. 82 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK, 
 October 22d, 1880. 
 
xxxvi RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 O'BKIEN AS POET AND SOLDIER* 
 
 IT is with a heart heavy laden that I sit down to write 
 of the friend who is gone. The feeling that one whom 
 we have loved will never look upon us in life again sel- 
 dom comes save when the last mournful tributes to the 
 departed have been paid, and the door of the charnel- 
 house is closed forever upon him. And especially is 
 
 * This tribute to O'Brien was first published in the New York 
 Leader, April 12th, 1862, having been written for that paper by its 
 author, who had been appointed one of the poet's literary executors, 
 and who, had he lived, would have fulfilled, with all his heart, the 
 task that has been attempted by me in this volume. Frank Wood 
 died, in 1864, at the age of twenty-three years. His career as a 
 writer began in Bellew's Picayune, and in the publications of 
 Frank Leslie. He subsequently became the first editor of Vanity 
 Fair, and one of the contributors to the Saturday Press ; and 
 he wrote in the Leader a series of sketches of the pulpit orators 
 of New York. At a later period, and just before South Carolina 
 revolted against the Union, he resided at Charleston, as correspond- 
 ent for the World. On his return he delivered a lecture, entitled 
 "Down South in Secession Times," and he edited a daily paper in 
 Brooklyn. Still later he wrote theatrical notices for the Illustrated 
 News, and during about six months occupied the position of night 
 editor of the Journal of Commerce. For a time also he was a 
 dramatic critic for the Spirit of tlie Titties. Nor did he confine 
 his labors exclusively to journalism. He was the translator of 
 Michelet's " L' Amour." His burlesque of "Leah the Forsook" 
 
AS POET AND SOLDIER. xxxvii 
 
 this so in the case of O'Brien. He was such a live man 
 that it is hard to think of him as dead. We who were 
 his friends could scarcely realize, at first, that the bright 
 and genial nature had been blotted out of existence, and 
 we would not see the dark shadow that had crept in 
 where before the sunshine fell. The truth comes to us 
 now with a double bitterness. The cheerful face, the 
 good, kind heart, the brilliant wit that was a part of him, 
 have all gone from us, never to return. 
 
 The biography of our friend cannot be fully written 
 now, and I reserve the honorable task for a future day, 
 purposing here to give the merest outline of his literary 
 career and pass to the military experiences which marked 
 the last year of his life. 
 
 Fitz-James O'Brien was born in Ireland, in the year 
 1830.* His family was one of the highest in the land. 
 
 is remembered as a clever piece of its kind. He wrote also a 
 burlesque called " The Statue Bride," and he was one of the adapt- 
 ers of " Taming a Butterfly." As a writer, he was clear, vigor- 
 ous, often humorous, always manly and truthful. As a man, he 
 met frankness with frankness, and did his duty faithfully, and 
 gained true friends who do not forget him. He was taken away 
 in the spring-time of his life, and the promise of his young days 
 is therefore a tender memory. His name is added to those of other 
 vanished comrades, Symonds, Wilkins, O'Brien, Neill, and the 
 rest, not to be spoken without a sigh of regret. His death took 
 place at Haverstraw, Rockland County, New York, and his grave 
 is at Auburn, where he was born. 
 
 " Like clouds that rake the mountain summits, 
 
 Or waves that own no curbing hand, 
 How fast has brother followed brother, 
 
 From sunshine to the sunless laud ! " ED. 
 
 * This would make him but thirty-two when he died. The 
 general impression in our circle was that he was older. I do not 
 kiiow whether Wood had positive authority for this date. He was 
 
xxxviii RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 Fitz-James was a cousin of the present Lord Fermoy, 
 and was also related to the distinguished Irish patriot, 
 Smith O'Brien. The boy never had brothers or sisters, 
 and was left a half-orphan, when about twelve years of 
 age, by the death of his father. After a considerable 
 
 somewhat mistaken, according to my information, with reference to 
 O'Brien's family and early life, and first attempts in literature. The 
 statement that the poet was related to Smith O'Brien, the Irish 
 agitator, was first published by the late Charles F. Br'iggs, in the 
 New York Times, and it was coupled with the equally erroneous 
 assertion that Fitz-James was heir to the title and estate of Lord 
 Inchiquin, Smith O'Brien's brother. When Smith O'Brien was in 
 New York, Fitz-James did not call on him ; and, as I am informed 
 by Mr. Bellew, that visitor stated, in answer to a direct inquiry, that 
 Fitz-James was not in any way related to him. The fact is, I 
 believe, that this was a hoax ; and it may have been invented 
 by O'Brien's satirist, Mr. William North, author of "The Man of 
 the World," etc., who lampooned him under the name of Fitz-Gam- 
 mon 0' Bouncer. Or it may have originated with Mr. Briggs him- 
 self, who disliked O'Brien with all that cordiality of sentiment 
 of which he was so capable. O'Brien's title of "Baron Inchiquin," 
 I remember, was a joke among his acquaintances. I never heard 
 him speak of the subject. There is a story that, when on his 
 death-bed, he received a costly jewel labelled, " From the Baroness 
 of Inchiquin." It was no doubt part of the same folly. Mr. 
 Briggs said, in the presence of Dr. Mackenzie, that O'Brien, in 
 conversation with him, had claimed to have been an officer in 
 the Guards. This, I surmise, was either a misunderstanding on 
 the part of Mr. Briggs, or a bit of serious waggery on the part of 
 O'Brien, who liked to amuse himself by ascertaining how much 
 certain solemn persons would believe. Thus, on one occasion, 
 at table in the Manhattan Club, when the overwhelming Count 
 Gurowski was shouting forth his knowledge of court etiquette, 
 O'Brien dissented from that nobleman's views, and was promptly 
 challenged for his authority by the growling and spluttering diplo- 
 matist. To this he replied, with entire gravity, " I was for several 
 months a resident at the Court of St. James, as maid of honor to 
 the Queen." Nor was O'Brien related to Lord Fermoy. ED. 
 
AS POET AND SOLDIER. xxxix 
 
 time his mother married again, and became Mrs. DeCourcy 
 O'Grady. 
 
 In the fulness of time Fitz-James was sent to Trinity 
 College, Dublin, where he acquired that solid education 
 that served him in such good stead afterwards. Shortly 
 after his graduation he came to New York, where he 
 made his first essay in literature, in the shape of an arti- 
 cle for the Lantern, a comic journal edited by John 
 Brougham. Brougham saw that O'Brien was a valuable 
 man to have on the Lantern staff, and the young author, 
 before he had time to recover from the surprise his suc- 
 cess caused him, was engaged as a regular contributor 
 to the paper. When the Lantern expired, O'Brien was 
 tendered a position as editorial writer on the Times, by 
 Mr. Raymond, who appreciated his genius from the first. 
 While connected with the Times O'Brien wrote for the 
 various periodicals of the day, Harper's Magazine, 
 Putnam 's Monthly, etc., contributing to them some of 
 his finest tales and poems. In the Atlantic Monthly, 
 during the first year of its existence, he published his 
 marvellous story, " The Diamond Lens," which holds its 
 place now in literature (and ever will), as one of the most 
 extraordinary creations of imagination. He was more 
 constant in his contributions to Harper's Magazine than 
 to any other periodical, and wrote for it, during the year 
 past, the finest poems (with one exception) that have 
 been written relative to the present war. I need only re- 
 fer to the titles of some of these, such as "The Counter- 
 sign," "A Soldier's Letter," and " The Prisoner of War," 
 to bring every one to my opinion in this matter. O'Brien's 
 ready wit and large sense of humor also found a field in 
 the columns of Vanity Fair, and the last article he ever 
 wrote was printed in that paper. 
 
xl RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 It was with a presentiment as to the tarn secession 
 would take, that, in January, 1861, O'Brien joined the 
 New York Seventh Regiment. Three months later he 
 marched off in its ranks to the defence of Washington, 
 and, on arriving there, wrote the most graphic narrative 
 of that memorable expedition extant. When the month 
 for which they volunteered had expired, it will be re- 
 membered, there was a division of sentiment in the regi- 
 ment, as to the question of coming home. O'Brien was 
 very decidedly among those who desired to stay, but 
 other counsels prevailed, and the Seventh came back to 
 New York. Rendered, as it were, more thirsty than 
 ever by this sip from the cup of martial life, O'Brien, 
 immediately on his return, interested himself, with some 
 of his comrades, in the formation of a volunteer regi- 
 ment, in which he himself was to hold the post of Cap- 
 tain. But at this time the people's first patriotic spasm 
 had passed, the Union army seemed to have as many 
 men as was necessary, and recruits to the new regi- 
 ment came in but slowly. The enterprise languished, 
 and O'Brien left the regiment to join another which 
 promised better, but which was in its turn abandoned. 
 In this manner the summer and part of the fall were 
 passed. All this time O'Brien was chafing like a caged 
 eagle. Sick, finally, of these vexatious delays, and im- 
 patient for active service in the field, he gave up all idea 
 of going with a complete regiment to the war, and went 
 to Washington to get, if possible, a position on some 
 general's staff. In this he was at first unsuccessful. He 
 now returned to New York as disconsolate as it was pos- 
 sible for one of his sunny nature to be. At last, in Jan- 
 uary of the present year (1862), a summons came from 
 General Lander containing the much desired appoint- 
 
AS POET AND SOLDIER. xli 
 
 ment. O'Brien was instantly lifted from the depths of 
 melancholy to the acme of joy. The next day he set 
 out for Lander's department, happy and joyful, and after 
 many tribulations and difficulties succeeded yi reaching 
 his command. O'Brien's dashing energy and brilliant 
 soldierly qualities soon endeared him to the General, 
 whose death a nation has since mourned. 
 
 At the battle of Bloomery Gap he rendered Lander a 
 valuable assistance. In the intention of surprising the 
 enemy, Lander moved seven regiments and five hun- 
 dred cavalry on the Gap, about fourteen miles from 
 his own camp, during the night. They arrived on the 
 ground at five o'clock the next morning, but for some 
 hours there was no sign of the rebels. Every one was 
 in despair, when an action began in the rear of the 
 column. Lander jumped upon his horse, O'Brien did 
 the same, and the two rode off like the wind toward 
 the scene of battle. As they flew down the road, an 
 ambuscade on the left opened on them, when the Gen- 
 eral immediately dashed up a hill, calling for some 
 sixty cavalry to follow him. Through fear or from a 
 misapprehension of the order only two obeyed. Lander, 
 O'Brien, and these two men charged up the hill, in the 
 face of a deadly rifle fire, and cut the ambuscade off. 
 The General captured the rebel Colonel Baldwin, while 
 Captain Baird, Assistant Adjutant-General of the Six- 
 teenth Brigade, and attached to General Carson's staff, 
 with eight others, surrendered to O'Brien, who kept the 
 Captain's sword and accoutrements as trophies. The 
 general engagement lasted about an hour, and resulted 
 in the capture of sixty-one prisoners, seventeen of whom 
 were officers. For the bravery displayed in this affair, 
 General Lander made special and honorable mention- 
 
xlii RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 of Lieutenant O'Brien in his despatch to General Mc- 
 Clellan. 
 
 Two days after this, on the 16th of February, O'Brien 
 was sent out at four o'clock in the morning, with a cav- 
 alry company, to capture a hundred head of cattle be- 
 longing to the secessionists. The expedition resulted 
 in a skirmish with the enemy, in which O'Brien's little 
 force of thirty-five cavalry was pitted against one hundred 
 and fifty rebel infantry and sixty of Jackson's regular 
 cavalry. The enemy fell upon our advance from behind 
 a bluff, and the advance tame galloping back to the main 
 body, after having fired a few random shots. Nothing 
 daunted by the enemy's superiority in numbers, our young 
 lieutenant immediately charged upon them with his men, 
 who were a little irresolute, as there was a cross-fire from 
 the hillside, in addition to the cavalry fire from the road. 
 As they rode forward, the rebel officer held up his hand 
 and cried, " Halt ! who are you 1 " O'Brien shouted back 
 in reply,. " Union soldiers ! " and fired at him. This was 
 the signal for a general engagement. The rebels could 
 easily have captured so small a party ; but O'Brien's on- 
 slaught was so audacious that they thought he must have 
 reserves somewhere. As it was, our side came off un- 
 harmed (with one exception), having killed two of the 
 enemy, and wounded four. 
 
 The exception was O'Brien. His encounter with the 
 rebel colonel, Ashley, was a regular duel. They were 
 about twenty paces asunder, and fired, with great delibera- 
 tion, three shots ; O'Brien was hit by the second shot, 
 and his men aver that he killed Ashley with his last, as 
 that officer fell when he fired. The ball passed com- 
 pletely through O'Brien's left shoulder, splintering his 
 scapular bone. Although wounded he still continued to 
 
AS POET AND SOLDIER. xliii 
 
 rally his men, until a subordinate officer, seeing him reel- 
 ing in his saddle from loss of blood, got him to the rear, 
 after which he brought our men off. In a state of weak- 
 ness and agony, O'Brien was now obliged to ride twenty- 
 four miles, but he passed through the ordeal like a hero. 
 His gratification may be conceived when, the next day, 
 there came the following despatch from General McClel- 
 lan : 
 
 " GENERAL LANDER, Please say to Lieutenant O'Brien 
 that I am much pleased with his gallantry, and deeply 
 pained to hear of his wound. I trust he will soon be 
 well enough to give the cause the benefit of his services 
 again. GEORGE B. MCCLELLAN." 
 
 The surgeon who took charge of O'Brien at first did not 
 consider the wound a dangerous one, and the poor fellow 
 wrote to his friends here about it in the most cheerful 
 strain, saying he should be able to come to New York 
 in twenty days at the outside. But the twenty days 
 passed, and he did not come. Still the letters were as 
 cheerful as ever, and no one apprehended evil from the 
 delay. On Friday, the 4th of April, Mr. Thomas E. 
 Davis received the first news of the alarming change 
 that had taken place, in a pencil scribble from O'Brien 
 himself. On the same day came a more despondent letter 
 from Mr. George A. Thurston, of Cumberland, Maryland, 
 the gentleman at whose house O'Brien lay through his 
 long illness. It seems that the first surgeon (named 
 Maccabe) had wholly mistaken the character of his pa- 
 tient's wound. On the 20th of March, a surgeon of 
 ability took O'Brien's case in hand, and on examination 
 found that the joint of the arm at the shoulder had 
 been smashed into a hundred fragments. A resection 
 
xliv RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 of the joint, one of the most difficult and dangerous 
 operations in surgery, was the only resource. In his 
 letter (to Mr. Davis) O'Brien says : 
 
 " I gave up the ghost, and told him to go ahead. There 
 were about twelve surgeons to witness the operation. All 
 my shoulder bone and a portion of my upper arm have 
 been taken away. I nearly died. My breath ceased, 
 heart ceased to beat, pulse stopped. However, I got 
 through. I am not yet out of danger from the opera- 
 tion, but a worse disease has set in. I have got tetanus, 
 or lock-jaw. There is a chance of my getting out of it, 
 that 's all. In case I don't, good-by, old fellow, with all 
 my love. I don't want to make any legal document, but 
 I desire that you and Frank Wood should be my literary 
 executors, because after I 'm dead I may turn out a 
 bigger man than when living.* I 'd write more if I could, 
 but I 'm very weak. Write to me. I may be alive. 
 Also, get Wood to write." 
 
 On the day after the receipt of this intelligence, 
 Mr. Davis and I started in an early morning train for 
 Cumberland. Arrived at Baltimore, we learned to our 
 dismay that no train would leave for Cumberland within 
 the next twenty-four hours. We immediately telegraphed 
 to Mr. Thurston, who answered : " O'Brien is very low. 
 He is glad you are coming." 
 
 The next morning, Sunday, (as we afterwards learned 
 from Drs. Folsom and MacMahon, the surgeons who were 
 with him at the last,) O'Brien felt a little better than 
 
 * This calls to mind the bitter words of Walter Savage Landor, 
 in his "Examination of Shakespeare": "The worms must have 
 eaten us before it is rightly shown what we are. It is only when 
 we are skeletons that we are boxed, and ticketed, and prized, and 
 shown. " ED. 
 
AS POET AND SOLDIER. xlv 
 
 usual, and, being helped up, sat for a time on the side of 
 his bed. Dr. MacMahon asked him if he would take a 
 glass of sherry. O'Brien said, "Yes." While slowly 
 sipping the sherry he turned pale and fell back. The 
 doctors immediately dashed cologne-water in his face, and 
 began to fan him. But it was too late. His features 
 were set in death. 
 
 So died, at the threshold of his career, a true poet and 
 a brave soldier, a man of such a kindly and charming 
 nature that he was beloved even by his enemies. God 
 grant that the tidings be taken tenderly to the lone 
 mother, looking anxiously, even at this moment mayhap, 
 for the bright words that nevermore will come to her 
 from her only boy, in the country beyond the sea ! 
 
 FRANK WOOD. 
 
xlvi RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 O'BRIEN'S PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 [From the New-York Citizen, September 30, 1865.] 
 
 JOURNALIST AND POET. 
 
 AMONG the men of talent and esprit whom it was my 
 good fortune to meet at the long table in Pfaff's dingy 
 cellar hardly less known now than that of Auerbach 
 were two who, to my judgment, represented their classes 
 perfectly ; the one being a typical Journalist, of the ele- 
 gant and successful kind ; the other being an equally 
 typical Poet. 
 
 I speak of E. G. P. WILKINS and FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 
 
 The former, in the winter of 1860-61, when he came to 
 Pfaff's for his cafe noir, before going his usual rounds 
 of the theatres, or later in the evening, was a tall, thin 
 young man, with stooping shoulders, and a strikingly 
 handsome face. His complexion was light ; his eyes 
 were intensely blue and expressive, sometimes earnestly 
 thoughtful, sometimes gentle and abstracted, sometimes- 
 twinkling with -plenitude of merriment. His features 
 were sharply cut, and thorough-bred in mould ; his skin, 
 clear and delicate ; his hair, which he parted nearly in 
 the middle of a high forehead, was lustrous. and wavy; 
 and his mouth was partly concealed by a well-grown and 
 becoming mustache, golden brown in color, and remarka- 
 bly fine in texture. His hands were long, thin, and deli- 
 cate as a girl's. His dress was always unexceptionable, 
 no matter what the occasion or the season, though his 
 
PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS. xlvii 
 
 preference was generally for loose, rough, easy styles, 
 which became him wonderfully. 
 
 All his appointments and surroundings were tasteful and 
 plentiful. He was not a man to go without the things he 
 wanted. If he asked you to his rooms, his decanters 
 never turned up unexpectedly empty. If he was suddenly 
 called upon to go out in the evening, he was never without 
 suitable trappings for the occasion. In a word, he was 
 never at fault for the minor elegances and hospitalities of 
 life, and his forethought and supervision in these mat- 
 ters should preserve his memory from the imputation of 
 *' Bohemianism." 
 
 Fitz-James O'Brien was cast in a different mould. He 
 was shorter than Wilkins, and far more muscular, being, 
 indeed, a gymnast of some ability, and a firm disciple of 
 the church of St. Biceps. His complexion was florid ; 
 his eyes dark blue, with a marvellously winning expres- 
 sion ; his chin very small, and his mouth entirely covered 
 by a heavy, brown, cavalry mustache. His hair, which 
 was darker than that of Wilkins, was so fine as to appear 
 thin. 
 
 There was more life, more vigor, more animal spirit 
 and manliness, in this face, than in the one I have first 
 described ; but it was not so high-bred and gentle, nor, 
 to my taste, so refinedly handsome. Still, Fitz-James 
 O'Brien would have passed anywhere for a fine-looking 
 man, as he certainly was. 
 
 In one personal peculiarity he had a great advantage, 
 not only over Ned Wilkins, but over almost all other men 
 I ever knew. His voice, in speaking, was the richest, the 
 sweetest, the most persuasive and expressive, of all the male 
 voices I can now recall. It was a power in itself. I shall 
 never forget the impression he made upon a little party, 
 
xlviii RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 one evening, by the manner in which he read several of 
 Emerson's poems. He threw so much warmth, so much 
 human tenderness and sympathy into them, that we were 
 all astonished. Then, artfully turning the leaves, as if still 
 reading from the book, he recited his own " Bacchus " : 
 
 " Pink as the rose was his skin so fair, 
 
 Round as the rosebud his perfect shape, 
 And there lay a light in his tawny hair, 
 
 Like the sun in the heart of a bursting grape! " 
 
 " 
 
 You can fancy how we marvelled to hear such luscious 
 tropes from Emerson, and how we laughed over the de- 
 ception when O'Brien informed us of it. 
 
 Wilkins was an indefatigable worker. The sun never 
 set without having shone upon something accomplished 
 by him. The dramatic and musical articles, and a va- 
 riety of short, sprightly, sometimes sharp, and often hu- 
 morous editorials in the Herald, were from his pen. 
 
 Besides these, he wrote a dashing, humorous, highly 
 original and to the managers often exasperating 
 dramatic feuilleton for a weekly paper, and was the New 
 York correspondent for several American and foreign 
 journals. 
 
 It will be readily imagined that so much occupation left 
 him but little leisure. Yet nobody ever saw him in a 
 hurry, or with the air of being pressed by business. He 
 always had plenty of time to chat, to take a glass of some- 
 thing social, to join in any merry-making, to romp with 
 his sister's children, to whom he was greatly attached, 
 and to amuse himself in a hundred ways; but the 
 work was invariably done, and done well, without slight 
 or slovenliness. 
 
 It was, indeed, one of his harmless and pleasant affec- 
 
PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS. xlix 
 
 tations and he had many to let nobody know when 
 he worked ; to appear not to work at all, but to accom- 
 plish much, notwithstanding. Perhaps a habit of his, 
 which was not very widely known, might explain some- 
 thing of his apparent leisure. He rose at six in the 
 morning, and wrote till breakfast-time, between nine 
 and ten. With the product of this healthy, fresh, early- 
 morning labor in his pocket, he could breakfast with ele- 
 gant idleness, and saunter down town as if time-killing 
 were his only object in life. In the 'Herald office he 
 usually wrote something more, and returned home to 
 dine at dusk, with nothing to think of until the theatres 
 opened, when he went about from one to the other, wher- 
 ever there was anything new going on, making mental 
 notes for the amusement paragraphs which he usually 
 wrote immediately on going home, and sent to the paper 
 by a messenger. 
 
 O'Brien's methods of working were in no wise so sys- 
 tematic as this. Poets are erratic by nature, and none 
 more so than he was. He often let days and weeks pass 
 without putting a line on paper. Then, when the inspira- 
 tion came, he wrote steadily and easily on to the end, 
 often without interruption. He was not known, how- 
 ever, to rise at six o'clock in the morning. On the con- 
 trary, he was inordinately fond of his bed, sleeping ten, 
 twelve, and fifteen hours on a stretch. One or two o'clock 
 in the afternoon was a common hour for his appearance 
 for breakfast, and nearly all his work was done between 
 that time and dark. 
 
 Undoubtedly his habits of labor would have been much 
 more regular if he had lived an orderly and methodical 
 life, with surroundings accumulated by the instinct of 
 comfort, an instinct as much inborn as an ear for music 
 
 d 
 
1 RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 or an eye for color. But poor Fitz lacked this. He loved 
 luxuries but could not acquire them. Left to himself, 
 he became instantly reduced to a half-furnished bedroom 
 in some dingy hotel, a solitary suit of clothing, and 
 nothing else. He was frequently without a pen, a bot- 
 tle of ink, a sheet of paper, or money enough to purchase 
 either, a condition of things not highly favorable to the 
 entertainment of the Muses. 
 
 When I first knew him, in '50, '57, he had elegant rooms, 
 with a large and valuable library, piles of manuscripts, 
 dressing-cases, decanters, pipes, pictures, a wardrobe of 
 much splendor, and all sorts of knickknackery such as 
 young bachelors love to collect. These properties were 
 subsequently left, a melancholy trail, among the lodging- 
 houses in which he lived, or rather through which he 
 passed, for the partial indemnification of the disap- 
 pointed keepers thereof. 
 
 I do not think that Fitz ever incurred a debt in his 
 life without feeling perfectly sure of its immediate pay- 
 ment. But, somehow, when he had the money, he had 
 also so many other uses for it that the debt was crowded 
 over " till next time." Meanwhile he came to be afflicted 
 with a certain curious fear of his creditor, that increased 
 with every day of credit, until meeting him voluntarily 
 was far beyond Fitz's strength of mind ; so the debt went 
 forever uncancelled. This was hardly criminal, save in 
 the strictest dry-goods point of view ; but it was exceed- 
 ingly unfortunate for O'Brien and for others. 
 
 All these petty considerations, however, sink into noth- 
 ingness when we read a poem like the ode to Kane, or a 
 romance like " The Diamond Lens." Let it be recorded, 
 in passing, that all the stories about O'Brien's stealing- the 
 plot of this wonderful tale from one of the late William 
 
PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS. li 
 
 North's manuscripts are utterly and ridiculously false. 
 North had not brain enough, and has nowhere indicated 
 the possession of half enough, to have conceived such a 
 work. It is like saying that Tennyson borrows inspira- 
 tion from Tupper.* 
 
 Ned Wilkins left no work which will live beyond the 
 memory of his personal friends. His feuilletons, before 
 mentioned, were very clever, and upon these rests the best 
 part of his strictly literary reputatjpn. The Herald files 
 bear abundant testimony to his powers as a journalist. 
 
 His death seemed, when it came, like some great mis- 
 take. Everybody exclaimed, " No, not Wilkins ! " when 
 they heard of it. It did not seem possible. I passed a 
 delightful evening with him, two weeks before. We went 
 to Niblo's, to laugh at Forrest's Metamora, and found 
 plenty to laugh at, after which I accompanied him to 
 his rooms, where we talked about literature French 
 especially, and Montaigne, one of his prime favorites 
 until the small hours began to grow. A few days later, 
 I heard he was ill, but of nothing serious. A week after, 
 I was in the house, and went up to his chamber with a 
 wild and untamable friend of his, to give him a rouse. 
 
 * O'Brien's story of " The Diamond Lens " was, in fact, prompted 
 by a suggestion made to him by Belle w, the artist, or by Dr. A. L. 
 Carroll, respecting the wonders concealed in a drop of water. There 
 is a superb passage on this subject somewhere in the works of Edward 
 Everett. " The Diamond Lens " first appeared in January, 1858, 
 in the Atlantic Monthly. William North was not then living, 
 he having committed suicide, at No. 7 Bond Street, New York, on 
 November 13th, 1854. North was the author of a story entitled 
 " Microcosmos," which may have related to a topic kindred with 
 that of " The Diamond Lens," and which was lost by a publisher 
 in Philadelphia. The known writings of North, as Arnold sug- 
 gests, indicate neither the force nor the quality of imagination 
 
lii KECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 He was in bed, and sleepy; but laughed as he said, 
 "There, good night, shut the door behind you," in 
 token of his willingness to be left alone. 
 
 Two days later I saw him in the street with William 
 Stuart, the manager, and was pained to see how like an 
 old man he walked. This was Tuesday or Wednesday. 
 On the Sunday following Will Winter came to my rooms, 
 pale, haggard, hollow-eyed, and told me with a gasp that 
 Ned Wilkins was dead ! 
 
 He was just on the threshold. His position was just 
 assured and ripening. He was just coming into a hand- 
 some income from his manifold labors. He had just 
 established a happy home, with the family of a deceased 
 brother. Everything smiled upon him, and fortune was 
 turning her wheel in his behalf, when poof ! the 
 candle is out! 
 
 Not so with Fitz- James O'Brien. He was, I think, of 
 exactly the same age, but he had lived more. He had 
 gained experience in London, where he dissipated his 
 patrimony and underwent a grand passion. He was a 
 sort of poet before Ned dreamed of writing anything. 
 
 O'Brien has left enough poems to make a volume or 
 two of rare excellence. 
 
 needful to produce such a work as " The Diamond Lens " ; whereas 
 O'Brien's writings abound with the same powers and attributes that 
 are shown in this particular tale. North and O'Brien were once 
 friends, but they parted in enmity ; and this foolish imputation of 
 plagiarism, to which Arnold refers, was subsequently cast upon 
 O'Brien by some obscure adherent of North's. It never had the 
 least foundation in truth. Bat O'Brien was too brilliant a mind, 
 and wrote too well, to escape the hostility of envy and the pursuit 
 of detraction. North's principal work, "The Man of the World," 
 in which O'Brien is satirized as 0' Bouncer, was originally named 
 "The Slave of the Lamp." ED. 
 
PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS. liii 
 
 His death was tragic. He was on the staff of General 
 Lander, and he went out with forty men to forage one day, 
 near Bloomery Gap. Meeting a force of Confederates, 
 Fitz ordered a charge, as a matter of course; he never 
 knew what physical fear was. Unhappily the enemy 
 outnumbered him largely, and his charge was of no use. 
 A skirmish ensued, and in it Fitz met the Confederate 
 officer in command, face to face, in the road. A regular 
 duel with revolvers ensued. At the second shot O'Brien's 
 shoulder was fractured, the ball entering near the elbow 
 and glancing up the humerus bone. This, however, did 
 not spoil his eye, and with another shot he knocked his 
 opponent out of the saddle. 
 
 The best of treatment, in a private family, at Cumber- 
 land, only alleviated his lingering tortures, and he died, 
 within seven weeks, in terrible agony, lockjaw having 
 threatened him almost from the first. During his illness 
 he managed to write two or three fine poems and some 
 charming letters. 
 
 I think a larger number of persons mourned for O'Brien 
 than for Wilkins ; for all his many readers missed him, 
 and sorrowed thereat. But there was a deeper grief in 
 St. Thomas's Church, on that mournful rainy afternoon, 
 among those who gathered about the beautiful presence 
 of what was once Ned Wilkins, than often falls to the 
 lot of any of us, be we journalists, poets, or simple 
 " lookers-on in Vienna." * 
 
 GEORGE ARNOLD. 
 
 * St. Thomas's Church stood at the northwest corner of Broad- 
 way and Houston Street, New York. It was torn down long ago. 
 ED. 
 
liv RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 O'BKIEN'S BOHEMIAN DAYS. 
 
 MY DEAR WINTER : Your letter revives many pleasant 
 recollections. As I read it, FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN stands 
 before me, and I see his stout, athletic figure, his broad, 
 ruddy Irish face, his characteristic suit of that check- 
 pattern supposed to be monopolized by British tourists 
 in French farces. He used to call it his " banking " suit ; 
 and, indeed/ in those merry Bohemian days, the checks 
 he wore were the only ones we knew. 
 
 O'Brien had not only the figure but the training of an 
 athlete, and I remember that, before the war turned the 
 attention of our young men to athletics, his skill was 
 considered wonderful. He was an admirable swordsman, 
 and had served in the English army, although he was 
 always reticent as to his history. I have seen several 
 instances of his skill with the pistol. Once we were 
 to dine with a friend in chambers, and sat in a front 
 room waiting for dinner. Over the table, in the. back 
 room, was suspended from the chandelier one of those 
 little card-board ornaments, three-sided, with a tiny ball 
 of worsted hanging from each of the corners. The con- 
 versation turned upon William Tell, and, to illustrate 
 the feasibility of Tell's feat with the apple, Fitz- James, 
 without rising from his chair, drew a revolver from his 
 pocket and shot off the three tiny balls swinging from the 
 
HIS BOHEMIAN DAYS. lv 
 
 chandelier ornament, one, two, three, as quickly as I 
 could give the word. 
 
 Just then a waiter entered with a plate of birds for 
 dinner. " Ha ! " cried O'Brien, " now we can have some 
 real shooting. Let fly a bird, waiter ! " " But, sir," stam- 
 mered the waiter, "the birds are fried!" "Fried!" 
 shouted O'Brien, with a voice that rang through the 
 house, "then let me shoot the cook! A cook who 
 would fry birds deserves death ! The cook ! Tell him 
 to come up and be killed instantly ! " 
 
 The idea of suicide was often in O'Brien's mind. I 
 recall a night at Pfaff 's when the matter was seriously 
 discussed. Just at that period death was very dear to 
 all of us. You had written your dark poem of " Orgia." 
 George Arnold was meditating gloomy verses. Poor 
 Shepherd, hanging crape upon his usual genial mood, 
 was confiding to Pfaff his fondness for the tomb. Harry 
 Clapp,* always cynical, declared that his feeling in regard 
 
 * N. G. Shepherd and Henry Clapp, Jr. were casual and not 
 intimate associates of O'Brien. The former was a most amiable 
 man, and a charming writer, whether in verse or prose. The latter 
 was one of the most sparkling cynical wits that have ever worked 
 on the American press. Clapp was born, Nov. llth, 1814, at Nan- 
 tucket, Mass., and in early life he distinguished himself both as a 
 writer and an orator for the temperance cause and for the abolition of 
 slavery. On October 23d, 1858, he started the New York Saturday 
 Press, with T. B. Aldrich as assistant editor, and O'Brien as dramatic 
 reviewer. Aldrich and O'Brien retired from the paper in January, 
 1859, and in December, 1860, it was discontinned. Several years 
 later Clapp revived it, stating that it had been suspended for 
 want of means, and was now started again for the same reason. The 
 favorite signature of this caustic satirist was "Figaro." He led a 
 restless, unhappy, and, toward the last, a very wretched and pitia- 
 ble life, and he died in extreme penury aged sixty-one on the 
 2d of April, 1875. His name, at the time, was bandied about in 
 
Ivi KECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 to death was one of "consuming, intolerable curiosity." 
 " That," said O'Brien, " is my feeling exactly, and I intend 
 to satisfy my curiosity without waiting for the slow decay 
 of nature. Doubtless the ' consuming ' may come after- 
 wards ; but of that we must take the chances. With 
 such a fascinating problem as that of death before us, 
 I cannot imagine how anybody can be satisfied to go on 
 with the monotonous stupidity of living." 
 
 O'Brien's talk was often crisply epigrammatic. He 
 was not a punster : the wit of his remarks was in the 
 idea and the nice arrangement of words ; the humor was 
 subtle and as bright as sunshine ; not the broad Irish 
 wit and humor of smart sayings and sudden repartee, but 
 quaint, peculiar, pervading the thought as well as the 
 expression of the thought. After he had been shot, in 
 the war, and when he was on his death-bed, he wrote a 
 letter, which I have unfortunately lost, relative to the 
 spring fashion openings, of which the papers were then 
 
 a thoroughly inhuman and disgraceful manner by many journal- 
 ists in this country, who, while he lived, were never his equals 
 either in ability or any virtue. His grave is beside that of his 
 mother, at Nantucket. His epitaph was written, as follows, by the 
 editor of this volume : 
 
 H. C. 
 
 "Wit stops to grieve and laughter stops to sigh 
 
 That so much wit and laughter e'er could die ; 
 
 But pity, conscious of its anguish past, 
 
 Is glad this tortured spirit rests at last. 
 
 His purpose, thought, and goodness ran to waste ; 
 
 He made a happiness he could not taste ; 
 
 Mirth could not help him, talent could not save ; 
 
 Through cloud and storm he drifted to the grave. 
 
 Ah, give his memory who made the cheer, 
 
 And gave so many smiles a single tear! ED. 
 
HIS BOHEMIAN DAYS. Ivii 
 
 full, and he described the trees, flowers, and hospital 
 life in the terms employed by the fashion-writers, using 
 them so aptly and so daintily that they seemed abso- 
 lutely poetical, and the reader wondered why nature 
 should not have been always depicted in the patois of the 
 modiste and the colors of the fashion-plate. Yet this let- 
 ter, as carefully written as if it were intended for pub- 
 lication, was thrown off in a painful hour, to amuse and 
 reassure an anxious friend. But O'Brien could write 
 nothing carelessly. His diamonds were all polished and 
 faceted. He never seemed to find them in the rough, 
 although he drew them from an apparently inexhaustible 
 mine. 
 
 He spoke guardedly to me of an attachment in the old 
 country, that had marred his life. " Passion I can feel," 
 he said ; " but never again shall I know what it is to 
 love. A man who once really loves can love but once. 
 I have loved one woman ; for all other women my heart 
 is dead ; but my passions, which have no heart in them, 
 are as strong as lions, and they tear me like lions." It 
 was the old story, trite enough to be almost ludicrous. 
 
 O'Brien, like most of his comrades of that brilliant 
 coterie we knew and loved, died too soon for his fame. 
 His writings were exquisite, but they are forgotten except 
 by the select few who collect and prize such literary gems. 
 The war interposes between his fame and the present 
 generation, like a new deluge. The clear, sweet, strong 
 voice of his poetry was drowned by the clash of resound- 
 ing arms. Even as a soldier of the Union he fell too 
 soon; for his memory is obscured by the holocausts of 
 later but not more noble sacrifices. To recall him and 
 his works is like discovering a genius who lived before the 
 flood, and was overwhelmed by the waves upon which 
 
Iviii RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 the dumb beasts that voyaged with Noah rode safely 
 to Mount Ararat and celebrity. How many other great 
 and glowing souls were quenched, like O'Brien's, by the 
 war that drowned out the old era and gave us a new 
 America ! To you, preserved like the dove in the ark 
 of life, I rejoice that the task has come of revivifying 
 one of the genial and gracious names that were lost be- 
 neath the waters of the Lethe of 1861. 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 STEPHEN FISKE. 
 NEW YORK, October 8th, 1880. 
 
AS JOUKNALIST AND SOLDIER. lix 
 
 O'BKIEN AS JOUENALIST AND SOLDIER 
 
 MY DEAR WINTER : It is questionable whether I can 
 contribute anything in relation to FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN 
 beyond that which is already known to you. After the 
 lapse of eighteen years, my reminiscences of him are, 
 I fear, too general to be of interest. 
 
 Coming to Vanity Fair, some five months after the 
 date of its first publication, my early impressions of him, 
 derived mainly from others, were to speak frankly 
 not of a kind to attract me toward him ; yet, as I look 
 back upon my acquaintance with him, the retrospect 
 recalls no act of his during the continuance of our 
 friendly relations which ended only with his death 
 that should lead me to speak unkindly of him now. 
 Without reference to the loss that literature sustained in 
 his death, I felt a keen sorrow at his sudden " taking-off," 
 for there was a strain of manliness underlying his erratic 
 habits of life that always had a charm for me, and a 
 claim upon my warmest sympathies. There is, perhaps, 
 something that may well be left unsaid ; but, as that is 
 true, in a greater or less degree, of all of us, the reflection 
 may go for what it is worth, with those who care to 
 dwell upon it, and whose freedom from human frailty 
 gives them a charter to censure other men. 
 
 The personality of O'Brien presents itself clearly before 
 me now, and I can almost see him as he was then, when 
 
Ix RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 his strong, yrell-knit frame and exuberant and rejoicing 
 vigor bade fair to outlast the lives of all his associates. 
 
 It was a custom, in the early days of Vanity Fair, in 
 the old editorial rooms at No. 113 Nassau Street, New 
 York, for the writers and artists who were then associated 
 with it to assemble every Friday afternoon, and, over a 
 glass of wine and a cigar, submit and discuss suggestions 
 for subjects for the next issue. On these occasions 
 O'Brien's arrival was always the signal for an outburst of 
 welcome, and our interest immediately centred in the new- 
 comer. His personal magnetism and bright intelligence 
 brought him at once to the front; for, in the friendly 
 encounter of wit and humor, O'Brien always self-reli- 
 ant, brilliant, well-tempered, apt at repartee, and piquant 
 with a jovial aggressiveness imparted new vitality to 
 the little circle, and made lively work for all about him. 
 Amid the laughter, buzz and hum of voices, and the quick 
 interchange of quip and jest, to which he invariably 
 contributed his full share, he would take his place at 
 the table, and turn off paragraphs, writing off-hand and 
 rapidly, (how well it is needless for me to say,) upon 
 almost any subject that presented itself. 
 
 Excellent traits in his character were his freedom from 
 envy and his prompt recognition of ability in others, 
 which no personal differences could induce him to dis- 
 pute ; and when his judgment was asked among his lit- 
 erary friends, which was not infrequently the case, his 
 advice was kindly and conscientiously given. Careless, 
 as he certainly was, of the opinions of others regarding 
 his actions, he was keenly sensitive to the spirit of un- 
 fairness which prompted attacks upon him in certain 
 journals, as to matters so entirely personal as to possess 
 no interest for the public. Never shrinking from any 
 
AS JOURNALIST AND SOLDIER. Ixi 
 
 responsibility for his acts, and despising an ambushed 
 attack, he was a fearless, open enemy, physically and in- 
 tellectually equipped for defence, and always in his " boots 
 and spurs." His sympathies were naturally with the 
 weaker side, and frequent and bitter were the satirical 
 shafts he let fly at the heads of men occupying posi- 
 tions which, in his opinion, belonged of right to women. 
 Looking to more ambitious work, he had selected the 
 story of Samson as a subject for a drama, and, I think, 
 had partly written it. 
 
 At the breaking out of the war, O'Brien, an uncom- 
 promising Union man, never failed to support with his 
 pen the cause which he afterward aided with his sword. 
 A love of adventure would have impelled such a man to 
 the army ; but every man who knew him knew that in 
 joining the Union forces in the field he was prompted by 
 love for his adopted country. After his experience at 
 Camp Cameron with the New York Seventh Regiment, 
 in which he served as a private soldier, he felt that the 
 opportunity had come for him to redeem the time he had 
 so carelessly used. He went to the front, determined to 
 make a good record in his new profession. Cool, clear- 
 headed, and full of fight, he had the elements for brilliant 
 soldiership. 
 
 At this time he was much in my society, and I remem- 
 ber with what a sad earnestness he occasionally referred 
 to the past, and how well and hopefully he dwelt upon 
 the possibilities of the future. I have an abiding faith 
 that he spoke then from the deepest promptings of his 
 heart. He died young, when his vigorous constitution 
 gave hope of years of life before him, in which his better 
 nature and unquestionable genius could have given to 
 the world the best that was in him. 
 
kii RECOLLECTIONS OF O'BRIEN. 
 
 A few days before his death he wrote a singularly in- 
 teresting letter to his friend Frank Wood, under circum- 
 stances in which a man has but little courage for corre- 
 spondence. Written when he was dying, after a severe 
 surgical operation performed when he was exhausted by 
 long suffering from his wound, this letter impresses the 
 reader with the marvellous self-control of a man "a 
 philosopher serene and cold," to quote his own words 
 who could look death in the face, and composedly con- 
 template and analyze his own feelings and condition. 
 
 Surely his memory and his works have a claim upon 
 the American people. He gave to our country all he 
 could, his life : let him who can give more ! While 
 it may be regretted that the early promise of a man so 
 capable was not entirely realized, the works that he has 
 left are an earnest of the beautiful spirit that stirred 
 within him : 
 
 " And, for his passage, 
 
 The soldier's music and the rites of war 
 
 Speak loudly for him." 
 
 LOUIS H. STEPHENS. 
 PHILADELPHIA, August 3d, 1880. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 "Making the hard way sweet and delectable." 
 
 SHAKESPEAEE. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 
 
 THE hunt was o'er. The last thin bugle-note 
 
 Had stole away among the friendly trees, 
 
 Declining gently on its weary way, 
 
 And dying in their arms. The exhausted hounds 
 
 Besmeared with wild-boar's blood lay down, and licked 
 
 Their sanguine coats ; or, growling, strove to scare 
 
 With lazy paw the floating globes of flies 
 
 That buzzed around them lured with scent of gore. 
 
 The horses, bridle-tethered to the trees, 
 
 With flanks thin drawn, where lay the hardened sweat 
 
 In glistening furrows, champed the cruel bit, 
 
 Or nibbled at the leaves. Beneath the shade 
 
 Of a great chestnut that obscured the sun 
 
 The hunters, gathered in a little group, 
 
 Talked of the chase ; and pleasant stories ran 
 
 Of perils, magnified with sportsman's boasts, 
 
 And huge leaps taken in the heat of chase. 
 
 Then hearty laughs at some green youth's mishap 
 
 Went round the circle like a jocund ring 
 
 Of sparkling merriment. The men were gay 
 
 In joyance of rude strength. Their eyes were bold ; 
 
 Their white teeth glistened through their nut-brown beards 
 
 Like foam-beads in dark ale. Their skins were tanned 
 
4 SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 
 
 By honest wind and sun, and every limb 
 
 Was large and fit for use. These men were rough 
 
 As prickly-pear or pomegranate, but they 
 
 Were ripe, and honest-fruited at the core. 
 
 Then in each pause a silver bowl went round, 
 
 Filled with red wine, and every hunter drank, 
 
 1 Health to St. Hubert, our good patron saint ! ' 
 
 And passed the wine bowl on, until it came 
 
 To where Sir Brasil sat. And he outspoke, 
 
 * You know, my friends, I live not to drink wine, 
 
 Since that sad day when in the Holy Land 
 
 The Emir made me quaff my brother's blood 
 
 Disguised as wine. I cannot join your revel. 
 
 Pardon me, comrades, I will seek some stream, 
 
 Hid in the twilight of this leafy glade, 
 
 And drink your healths in a more homely draught.' 
 
 Then rose he 'mid good-natured jeers and smiles 
 
 At such faint-heartedness in belted knight, 
 
 And, yielding in return mock courtesies, 
 
 He leashed his favorite falcon to his wrist, 
 
 And, girding on his sword, straight took his way, 
 
 Along the silent glades. 
 
 There was no water 
 
 In all the summer woods. The insatiate sun 
 Had drunk all up, and robbed each secret spring, 
 Save the round beads of dew that nestling dwelt 
 Beep in the bottom of the foxglove's bells. 
 There was no water: Beds of vanished streams 
 Mocked him with memories of lucid waves, 
 That rose and fell before his fancy's eye 
 In glassy splendor. As the soothing wind 
 Stole softly o'er the leaves, it gave low tones, 
 That sounded in Sir Brasil's sharpened ear 
 
SIK BRASIL'S FALCON. 
 
 Like distant ripplings of a pleasant stream ; 
 
 But there was none. The umbered soil was dry, 
 
 And the hare rustled through parched, crisping grass. 
 
 Sir Brasil sighed : his brow was hot, his tongue 
 
 Beat dry against his teeth. His upmost thought 
 
 "Was water, water, clear, and bright, and cool ! 
 
 A storm-cock flew across the glade ; his beak 
 
 Was red with berries of the mountain ash, 
 
 That had lain hidden from the by-gone frost 
 
 Deep in some cranny of the gaping earth. 
 
 Then quoth Sir Brasil, ' I will follow him, 
 
 For I have heard that birds do fly to springs, 
 
 As sands of steel to magnets.' So he struck 
 
 A bee's line through the woods, and followed him. 
 
 Thick grew the brambles, for there was no path 
 
 For dainty feet ; but gnarled roots of oak 
 
 Pushed earth aside and twined in curving cords 
 
 Like snakes at play. Pale wild-flowers grew in crowds, 
 
 Like captive fays, o'er whom the giant trees 
 
 Kept watch and ward. Through the green canopy 
 
 That stretched overhead, stray, vagrant sunbeams stole, 
 
 Turning with fairy power the withered leaves 
 
 To evanescent gold. Lizards, with skins 
 
 Like lapis-lazuli, peeped. with glittering eyes 
 
 Between the crevices of mouldering trees. 
 
 The hum of bees 'round many a trunk foretold 
 
 The heavy honeycomb that lay within, 
 
 Concealed with cunning passages and doors 
 
 Of deftly-woven moss. The bright jay chattered, 
 
 And the bold robin gazed with mute surprise 
 
 On the strange shape whose daring seemed to make 
 
 The woods his own, while on Sir Brasil went, 
 
 Stumbling o'er roots, embraced by brambly arms, 
 
6 SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 
 
 And leaving fragments of his rich attire 
 
 Fluttering on thorny boughs, that many a day 
 
 Held in great awe the timid woodland birds. 
 
 The sun grew low. It was three hours beyond 
 
 The middle day, when, lo ! Sir Brasil stepped 
 
 With hooded falcon leashed upon his wrist, 
 
 Cloak torn in shreds, and plume that hung awry, 
 
 Beyond the limit of the lonely wood, 
 
 And found himself upon the rugged brink 
 
 Of a dried water-course. It was a dank 
 
 And dismal place. The broad, misshapen trees 
 
 Were bare anatomies, with scarce a leaf 
 
 To clothe their withered bones. Huge, fleshy weeds 
 
 Grew in black groups along the ragged edge 
 
 Of a tall, beetling cliff, whose steep face sloped 
 
 With slabs of rock, adown whose pallid sides 
 
 The thin, white moss spread like a leprosy. 
 
 Along the base of this pale cliff there ran 
 
 The channel of some fitful winter stream 
 
 Long fled. The smooth, round pebbles paved 
 
 The empty bed, and all the secret rocks 
 
 Lay bare and dry. Some there were quaintly holed, 
 
 And eaten through by the soft, toothless waves, 
 
 And some were strangely carved, and smoothly hewn, 
 
 With watery chisels, into phantasm forms. 
 
 There was no stream. No limpid water went 
 
 With trickling step along the stony course. 
 
 The ousel had forsook the place, and sought 
 
 Another stream to dipple with its wings. 
 
 The heron stood no longer by the brink. 
 
 The azure of the halcyon flashed no more 
 
 From bank to bank. The tall brown-tufted reeds, 
 
 That sung so softly to the evening wind, 
 
SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 
 
 Had withered all, and lay in matted heaps 
 
 Upon the arid earth. Sir Brasil sighed, 
 
 " There is no water here, I am athirst. 
 
 0, I would give a broad piece for one drop 
 
 To cool my parching throat ! " As said he this, 
 
 The sunlight flashed upon some glittering point 
 
 That shone like diamond. Hastening forward, he 
 
 Beheld from out the crevice of a rock 
 
 A sluggish flow, that trickled drop by drop, 
 
 Of dark, green water. So reluctantly 
 
 It oozed through the fissure, that it seemed 
 
 Like the last lifeblood of a river-god 
 
 Ebbing in lingering drops from out his heart ! 
 
 " My faith ! " Sir Brasil said, " though not as clear 
 
 As wave of Castaly or Hippocrene, 
 
 Thou art right welcome, for my throat is dry, 
 
 And I am faint with thirst ; and thou, poor bird, 
 
 Shalt share my luck, and quaff this scanty spring." 
 
 So saying to the falcon on his wrist, 
 
 He loosed its leashes and unlaced its hood, 
 
 And let its bold eye gaze abroad again 
 
 Upon the sunny world. The joyous bird 
 
 Gave one far skyward glance j another swept 
 
 The wide horizon round, then preening all 
 
 His plumes, and ruffling them toward the sun, 
 
 He pecked the knight with a love-softened beak, 
 
 And nestled to his arm. 
 
 Then Brasil straight 
 
 Unloosed a silken belt from which there swung 
 A golden bugle. Taking it, he stopped 
 The jewelled mouthpiece with a plug of moss ; 
 Then, stooping, held the inverted bell beneath 
 The slowly falling stream. With toil and pain 
 
8 SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 
 
 He gathered each slow drop, and watched them rise 
 
 By hair's-breadth after hair's-breadth, till he saw 
 
 The dear draught level with the golden rim ; 
 
 Then joyously he raised it to his lips, 
 
 And cried, " Here 's to thee, goddess of the stream ! 
 
 Locked in the heart of this cold rock. Alone, 
 
 Forsaken by the fickle waves that made 
 
 The current of thy life, thou art most desolate, 
 
 And weep'st all day those trickling drops, which are 
 
 Thy tears. In them I pledge me to thy grief ! " 
 
 But as he raised the golden bugle up 
 
 Toward his lips, the falcon with swift stroke 
 
 Of his long pinion dashed it from his hand, 
 
 And all the precious draught ran waste on earth. 
 
 Sir Brasil frowned. " How now, bold bird 1 " he cried, 
 
 " Thou dost not know how toilsomely I filled 
 
 That scanty measure, or thou never wouldst 
 
 Have wasted it. Next time take better heed, 
 
 Or thou wilt rue it." Once again Sir Brasil 
 
 With weary hand and long delay filled up 
 
 The golden measure, and as he did raise 
 
 It to his lips, the falcon with one stroke 
 
 Of his swift pinion dashed it to the earth. 
 
 Sir Brasil swore, " Now by the sacred cup 
 
 Which Christ did drink of, I will wring thy neck, 
 
 Thou foolish bird, an thou do that again ! " 
 
 A third time did he stoop, and, horn in hand, 
 
 Bend his broad back to catch the sluggish stream ; 
 
 A third time did he raise the bugle up 
 
 Toward his lips ; a third time with swift wing 
 
 The falcon dashed the measure from his hand. 
 
 Then flashed Sir Brasil's eye with humid fire, 
 
 Quivered his thin-drawn lip, and paled his cheek, 
 
SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 9 
 
 And with an ungloved hand he smote the bird 
 Full in the throat. It fluttered on his wrist, 
 And drew its jesses taut ; with panting strength 
 Spread out its arrowy wings convulsively, 
 As if 't would flee right sunward from black death, 
 Then drew them close. The silver Milan bells,* 
 That quivered on its legs, rattled a chime 
 Of mortal melody that smote the sky, 
 Its old domain. Its curved beak opened wide, 
 Agape for air. Its large, round, golden eye 
 Turned one long look of sad, reproachful love 
 Full on Sir Brasil j then, with a faint gasp, 
 That stifling burst from its choked, swollen throat, 
 It fluttering fell. The silken jesses slipped ; 
 Its proud head bent in death's last agony ; 
 And, tumbling from his wrist, it gasped and died ! 
 The stern knight bit his lip as he looked down ; 
 He loved the bird, but had a hasty hand, 
 And hastier temper. " Well-a-day ! " he said, 
 " The bird was mulish and deserved its fate. 
 Yet would I had not killed it ! " Then he took 
 With mournful hand his bugle, and a sigh 
 Fluttered between his lips, like some sad bird 
 From prison flying blindly. " Well ! " he said, 
 " 'T is weary work filling these sluggish draughts ; 
 Each takes an hour at least. I '11 to the source 
 Of this thin stream, and ravish it with lips 
 As eager as e'er pressed the Sabine maid, 
 When Roman youth grew hot. I '11 dip my horn, 
 
 * Milan bells. The tinkling bells that were fastened to the fal- 
 con's legs came from this city. It was necessary that their tone 
 should be sonorous and shrill, and they were graduated in a rising 
 scale of semitones. 
 
10 SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 
 
 And raise it diamond-dripping from the wave, 
 
 And as I drink, the abundant stream shall well 
 
 Over the brim, and trickle down my beard, 
 
 Like morning dew. I '11 quaff with thirsty joy, 
 
 And when I 've drank I '11 fling the lucid lees 
 
 On the dry leaves, and arid flowers, that they 
 
 May share the moist delight ! " And with these words 
 
 Ite sought the secret windings of the stream, 
 
 And followed them. 
 
 Starkly the falcon lay ; 
 
 The dry leaves rattled with a stealthy sound ; 
 The beetle hummed, the insects in the grass 
 Made silver whisperings ; the mouse crept out 
 From underneath the sod, and, timid, gazed 
 On the proud foe that lay so stiff and strange. 
 Half fearing stratagem, it dared not move, 
 But pricked its ears, and oped its glittering eyes 
 Enchained with wonder, till a lizard slim 
 Darted from out the grass, and boldly brushed 
 The falcon's lifeless wing. Then did the mouse 
 Believe its foe was dead. Then did it play 
 Around the corpse, and gaze into its eyes, 
 Those large, round golden eyes, that from the clouds 
 Could pierce the crouching vermin of the earth 
 With overhanging death ! 
 
 The dry leaves fell ; 
 
 The water dropped ; the insects in the grass 
 Hummed their sharp songs that sounded in the ear 
 Like tiny silver tiuklings. In the midst 
 Of all this fair monotony of life 
 Lay the dead falcon ! 
 
 With much weary toil 
 Sir Brasil traced the windings of the stream, 
 
SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 11 
 
 Through rock defiles, as wild as sculptured dreams 
 
 Where naked horrors frowned. Through oozy swamps 
 
 Coated with marish oil in which the sun 
 
 Made slimy rainbows ; through forsaken beds 
 
 Of ancient streams ; o'er massive boulder stones, 
 
 Humped with old age, and coated with gray moss ; 
 
 O'er trunks of rotting trees that in the night 
 
 Lit with pale splendor the dark paths around, 
 
 And slept in light ; o'er sharp volcanic soil 
 
 That crackled 'neath the tread ; o'er naked plains, 
 
 Where the sad wind could find not even a stone 
 
 To whet its breath on, but went babbling round 
 
 With dull, blunt edge, Sir Brasil took his way 
 
 With weary foot, and tongue that often wagged 
 
 In sanctimonious oath. A full, slow hour 
 
 Had passed, and e'en the knight, though faint with thirst, 
 
 Was nigh to turn upon his steps and wend 
 
 Back through the woods, when, lo ! like sapphires seen 
 
 Through the smoke-curling clouds of maiden's hair, 
 
 Gleamed something blue. It twisted as it shone, 
 
 And glanced in distance like an azure spray. 
 
 As speeds the Arab after five days' thirst 
 
 To the green oasis, that desert's teat 
 
 At which its children suck, so Brasil sped, 
 
 And nerved his flagging limbs to reach the spot 
 
 So distant and so dear. 
 
 "At last!" he cried, 
 
 " At last, at last, the water glads my sight ! 
 O, I will lave, and drink, and lave again, 
 Until my very bones the moisture feel, 
 And half my blood is water ! " And he ran 
 Like a young deer ; but as he nearer came, 
 A poisonous vapor seemed to load the air, 
 
12 SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 
 
 And foul mephitic clouds that clogged each sense 
 
 Hovered oppressively with leaden wings. 
 
 Sir Brasil staggered on. The poisoned air 
 
 Smote on his brain like an invisible sword, 
 
 And clove his consciousness. He raved, and reeled, 
 
 And threw his arms aloft, and tried to pray, 
 
 And spoke pet words to his dead falcon, as 
 
 It were alive ; then suddenly he seemed 
 
 With one great effort to regain himself, 
 
 And onward strode. 
 
 But as he neared the place 
 Whence shot the sapphire gleam, a horrid sight 
 Burst on his view. Lo ! coiling on a mound 
 A huge, green serpent lay. Tier upon tier 
 Of emerald scales that glistered into blue 
 Swept upwards in grand spirals. His great head 
 Lay open-jawed, and hanging o'er the brink 
 Of a steep rock, while slavering from his mouth 
 A stream of distilled poison, green and rank, 
 Trickled in sluggish drops, that at the base 
 Gathered themselves into an oily stream, 
 And flowed away. 
 
 Sir Brasil's heart grew sick ; 
 For now he saw what he would fain have drunk, 
 And what the falcon wasted, was the venom 
 That slavered from the serpent on the rock, 
 And, filtering through some secret stony way, 
 Welled out below in green and sluggish drops 
 Of withering poison. Now like a fierce wind 
 Remorse howled through his soul, and hunted thought 
 Fled from its scorching breath. His nature swung 
 Naked and desolate as a gibbet corpse 
 From which the flesh drops piecemeal. He did feel 
 
SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 13 
 
 That death should fly him, as a ghost of guilt 
 
 More horrid than himself. He felt that God 
 
 Held not within his arsenal of curses * 
 
 One great enough for him ; that earth's green skin 
 
 Crept, as he trode, as shudders human flesh 
 
 When loathsome beings touch it. He grew white 
 
 As the swamp-lily, and upon his cheek 
 
 Stood beads of dew, round and distinct as those 
 
 That morning winds brush from the shivering trees. 
 
 His strong frame shook ; short sobbings dry and fierce 
 
 Rang in his throat, and on his swelling chest 
 
 The silken doublet rose and fell amain, 
 
 Like bellying sail that labors with the wind. 
 
 He tore his long, fair curls, and cast them down 
 
 And stamped upon them, whilst he cursed himself 
 
 For his deep cruelty to so fair a bird. 
 
 Then he took counsel with himself, and thought 
 
 If it were good to turn his dagger in 
 
 And sheathe it in his heart ; but, lo ! within 
 
 His soul a spirit rose like those that flit 
 
 From out deep fountains in the even-time 
 
 To warn us of dark ills and spread a mist 
 
 Betwixt him and the thought of foul self-murder. 
 
 Straightway he turned, and said unto himself, 
 
 " The guilty, by the avenging will of God, 
 
 Are dragged by secret force toward the spot 
 
 Where lie their victims. I will hasten back 
 
 To where my dead bird lies by the steep bank, 
 
 And mark each footstep with a moan, as monks 
 
 Mark rosaries with prayers." So saying went, 
 
 With ashen cheek, slow step, and muttering lips, 
 
 Straight to the spot where the dead falcon lay. 
 
 A little while he stood regarding it 
 
14 SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 
 
 With a drear wistful look ; then, stooping down, 
 He smoothed its ruffled plumage with his hand, 
 Close/I its round, staring eyes, and gently folded 
 Its stiffened wings along its breast ; then broke 
 Into a lamentation wild. 
 
 "Obird, 
 
 My soul is darkened in thy death ! strong grief. 
 Winds like a snake about my heart, and crushes it 
 In its chill clasp. I never yet did feel 
 Such bitter wrath against mine own right hand 
 As I do now. To think that this fond hand, 
 On which so oft thou lovingly hast sat, 
 Should turn against thee, and with one foul blow 
 Dash all thy life away ! 0, 't was a deed 
 Becoming some vile lackey, whose coarse wrath 
 Is blinded by thick blood ; but not a knight, 
 Whose blood was filtered through three thousand years, 
 And to cross swords with whom might surely make 
 The foe a gentleman ! I mind me well 
 The day we came together. Thou wert young, 
 Scarce fledged, and with thy talons yet ungrown ; 
 But there was courage in thee, and one day, 
 When thou didst see a heron in the sky, 
 Thou beat'st thy breast against the window-pane, 
 And all the falcon sparkled in thine eyes ! 
 Then 't was my pride to deck thee splendidly. 
 Thy silver bells, wrought in old Milan's town, 
 Were shrill as whistle, and the ascending tones 
 Were modulated cunningly. Thy hood 
 Of purple cramoise, worked with threads of gold, 
 Came from that maiden's hand whom I do prize 
 Beyond all other women. Then thy food 
 Was dainty in its kind, as thou hadst been 
 
SIR BRASIL'S FALCON. 15 
 
 The merlin of an emperor. I did love thee ; 
 All proves that I did love thee ; and I would 
 Have chopped this right hand from its arm before 
 It should have hurt thee wittingly ; but I 
 Am hot, and when thy persevering wing 
 Stretched between me and death, it angered me, 
 And I I 0, I cannot think of it, 
 Except I curse myself, and wish myself 
 Accursed by God and man ! 
 
 0, never more 
 
 Will thy silk jesses twine around my wrist ! 
 No more will we two wander in the dawn, 
 When the wild-flowers are necklaced all with dew, 
 And the wet grass pulses with morning life, 
 To watch a sedge of herons by the stream, 
 Or listen for the bittern's lonely boom 
 Rising from out the reeds ! No more, no more, 
 When the game springs from out the sedgy pool 
 And soars aloft, shall I tear off thy hood, 
 Unloose thy jesses, and then launch thee forth 
 Upon the deadly race. I ne'er shall see 
 Thee rise in airy spirals to the clouds, 
 While the wide heron labors far below, 
 Till when almost a speck, with sudden swoop, 
 Like a live thunderbolt, thou dashest down 
 Full on the foe, and, striking at his heart, 
 Fall'st fastened to thy victim ! 
 
 How tell 
 
 The maiden fair who worked thy purple hood 
 And loved to stroke thy feathers i' the sun, 
 How shall I tell my crime ? Why, she would loathe me, 
 And wave me from her sight with crushing look, 
 And shut me from her heart. I should be held 
 
16 KANE. 
 
 By all good knights, and ladies fair, a dastard 
 
 Who raised his hand against a loving bird, 
 
 And killed it for its love. I cannot home ! 
 
 The first quest I should hear would be, ' Where is 
 
 Thy falcon, Brasil 1 ' and could I reply, 
 
 ' Three times it saved my life, fair dame, 
 
 Therefore I slew it.' 0, no home for me ! 
 
 Here in this lonely glade I '11 lay me down 
 
 Close to my murdered bird and then and then 
 
 Let what will come." 
 
 The shades of evening fell, 
 The invisible dews dropped spirit-like on earth ; 
 The woods were silent, and, when the white moon 
 Came riding o'er their tops, she sadly saw 
 The knight beside the falcon. 
 
 KANE. 
 
 DIED 16TH FEBRUARY, 1857. 
 
 I. 
 ALOFT, upon an old basaltic crag, 
 
 Which, scalped by keen winds that defend the pole, 
 Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll 
 Around the secret of the mystic zone, 
 A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag 
 
 Flutters alone : 
 And underneath, upon the lifeless front 
 
 Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced ! 
 Fit type of him, who, famishing and gaunt, 
 But with a rocky purpose in his soul, 
 Breasted the gathering snows, 
 Clung to the drifting floes, 
 
KANE. 17 
 
 By want beleaguered, and by winter chased, 
 Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste. 
 
 ii. 
 Not many months ago we greeted him, 
 
 Crowned with the icy honors of the North. 
 Across the land his hard-won fame went forth, 
 And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb. 
 His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, 
 Burst from its decorous quiet as he came. 
 Hot southern lips, with eloquence aflame, 
 Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim, 
 Proffered its horny hand. The large-lunged West 
 
 From out its giant breast 
 
 Yelled its frank welcome. And from main to main, 
 Jubilant to the sky, 
 Thundered the mighty cry, 
 HONOR TO KANE! 
 
 in. 
 In vain, in vain, beneath his feet we flung 
 
 The reddening roses ! All in vain we poured 
 
 The golden wine, and round the shining board 
 Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung 
 
 With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast ! 
 
 Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased 
 Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes, 
 Bright as auroral fires in southern skies, 
 
 Faded and faded ; and the brave young heart 
 That the relentless arctic winds had robbed 
 Of all its vital heat, in that long quest 
 For the lost Captain, now within his breast 
 
 More and more faintly throbbed. 
 His was the victory ; but as his grasp 
 2 
 
18 KANE. 
 
 Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp, 
 Death launched a whistling dart ; 
 And ere the thunders of applause were done 
 His bright eyes closed forever on the sun ! 
 Too late, too late, the splendid prize he won 
 In the Olympic race of science and of art ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Like to some shattered berg that, pale and lone, 
 Drifts from the white north to a tropic zone, 
 And in the burning day 
 Wastes peak by peak away, 
 
 Till on some rosy even 
 It dies with sunlight blessing it ; so he 
 Tranquilly floated to a southern sea, 
 And melted into heaven ! 
 
 v. 
 
 He needs no tears, who lived a noble life ! 
 We will not weep for him who died so well ; 
 But we will gather round the hearth, and tell 
 The story of his strife. 
 Such homage suits him well ; 
 Better than funeral pomp, or passing-bell ! 
 
 VJ. 
 
 What tale of peril and self-sacrifice ! 
 Prisoned amid the fastnesses of ice, 
 
 With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow ! 
 
 Night lengthening into months ; the ravenous floe 
 Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear 
 Crunches his prey ; the insufficient share 
 
 Of loathsome food ; 
 The lethargy of famine ; the despair 
 
 Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued ; 
 
KANE. 19 
 
 Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued 
 Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind 
 Glimmered the fading embers of a mind ! 
 That awful hour, when through the prostrate band 
 Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand 
 
 Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew, 
 
 The whispers of rebellion, faint and few 
 
 At first, but deepening ever till they grew 
 Into black thoughts of murder, such the throng 
 Of horrors round the Hero. High the song 
 Should be that hymns the noble part he played ! 
 Sinking himself, yet ministering aid 
 
 To all around him ; by a mighty will 
 
 Living defiant of the wants that kill, 
 Because his death would seal his comrades' fate ; 
 
 Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill 
 Those polar winters, dark and desolate. 
 Equal to every trial, every fate, 
 
 He stands, until spring, tardy with relief, 
 
 Unlocks the icy gate, 
 
 And the pale prisoners thread the world once more, 
 To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore, 
 Bearing their dying chief ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold 
 From royal hands, who wooed the knightly state : 
 
 The knell of old formalities is tolled, 
 
 And the world's knights are now self-consecrate. 
 
 No grander episode doth chivalry hold 
 In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, 
 Than that long vigil of unceasing pain, 
 
 Faithfully kept, through hunger and through cold, 
 By the good Christian knight, Elisha Kane ! 
 
20 THE LOST STEAMSHIP. 
 
 THE LOST STEAMSHIP. 
 
 ' Ho, there ! Fisherman, hold your hand ! 
 
 Tell me what is that far away, 
 There, where over the isle of sand 
 
 Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray 1 
 See ! it rocks with a ghastly life, 
 
 Rising and rolling through clouds of spray, 
 Right in the midst of the breakers' strife, 
 
 Tell me what is it, Fisherman, pray I ' 
 
 1 That, good sir, was a steamer stout 
 
 As ever paddled around Cape Race ; 
 And many 's the wild and stormy bout 
 
 She had with the winds, in that selfsame place ; 
 But her time was come ; and at ten o'clock 
 
 Last night she struck on that lonesome shore ; 
 And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock, 
 
 And at dawn this morning she was no more.' 
 
 ' Come, as you seem to know, good man, 
 
 The terrible fate of this gallant ship, 
 Tell me about her all that you can ; 
 
 And here 's my flask to moisten your lip. 
 Tell me how many she had aboard, 
 
 Wives, and husbands, and lovers true, 
 How did it fare with her human hoard *\ 
 
 Lost she many, or lost she few 1 ' 
 
 4 Master, I may not drink of your flask, 
 Already too moist I feel my lip ; 
 
THE LOST STEAMSHIP. 21 
 
 But I 'm ready to do what else you ask, 
 And spin you my yarn about the ship : 
 
 'T was ten o'clock, as I said, last night, 
 
 When she struck the breakers and went ashore ; 
 
 And scarce had broken the morning's light 
 
 Than she sank in twelve feet of water or more, 
 
 * But long ere this they knew her doom, 
 
 And the captain called all hands to prayer ; 
 And solemnly over the ocean's boom 
 
 Their orisons wailed on the troublous air. 
 And round about the vessel there rose 
 
 Tall plumes of spray as white as snow, 
 Like angels in their ascension clothes, 
 
 Waiting for those who prayed below. 
 
 * So these three hundred people clung 
 
 As well as they could to spar and rope ; 
 With a word of prayer upon every tongue, 
 
 Nor on any face a glimmer of hope. 
 But there was no blubbering weak and wild, 
 
 Of tearful faces I saw but one, 
 A rough old salt, who cried like a child, 
 
 And not for himself, but the captain's son. 
 
 ' The captain stood on the quarter-deck, 
 
 Firm, but pale, with trumpet in hand ; 
 Sometimes he looked at the breaking wreck, 
 
 Sometimes he sadly looked to land. 
 And often he smiled to cheer the crew 
 
 But, Lord ! the smile was terrible grim 
 Till over the quarter a huge sea flew ; 
 
 And thatjnras the last they saw of him. 
 
22 THE LOST STEAMSHIP. 
 
 * I saw one young fellow with his bride, 
 
 Standing amidships upon the wreck ; 
 His face was white as the boiling tide, 
 
 And she was clinging about his neck. 
 And I saw them try to say good-by, 
 
 But neither could hear the other speak ; 
 So they floated away through the sea to die 
 
 Shoulder to shoulder, and cheek to cheek. 
 
 ' And there was a child, but eight at best, 
 
 "Who went his way in a sea she shipped ; 
 All the while holding upon his breast 
 
 A little pet parrot whose wings were clipped. 
 And as the boy and the bird went by, 
 
 Swinging away on a tall wave's crest, 
 They were gripped by a man, with a drowning cry, 
 
 And together the three went down to rest. 
 
 1 And so the crew went one by one, 
 
 Some with gladness, and few with fear ; 
 Cold and hardship such work had done 
 
 That few seemed frightened when death was near. 
 Thus every soul on board went down, 
 
 Sailor and passenger, little and great ; 
 The last that sank was a man of my town, 
 
 A capital swimmer, the second mate.' 
 
 * Now, lonely fisherman, who are you 
 
 That say you saw this terrible wreck ? 
 How do I know what you say is true, 
 
 When every mortal was swept from the deck ? 
 Where were you in that hour of death ? 
 
 How did you learn what you relate ? ' 
 His answer came in an under-breath, 
 
 1 Master, I was the second mate ! ' * 
 
A FALLEN STAR. 23 
 
 A FALLEN STAR. 
 
 I SAUNTERED home across the park, 
 
 And slowly smoked my last cigar ; 
 The summer night was still and dark, 
 With not a single star : 
 
 And, conjured by I know not what, 
 
 A memory floated through my brain, 
 The vision of a friend forgot, 
 
 Or thought of now with pain. 
 
 A brilliant boy that once I knew, 
 
 In far-off, happy days of old, 
 With sweet, frank face, and eyes of blue, 
 And hair that shone like gold : 
 
 Fresh crowned with college victory, 
 
 The boast and idol of his class, 
 With heart as pure, and warm, and free 
 As sunshine on the grass ! 
 
 A figure sinewy, lithe, and strong, 
 
 A laugh infectious in its glee, 
 A voice as beautiful as song, 
 When heard along the sea. 
 
 On me, the man of sombre thought, 
 
 The radiance of his friendship won, 
 As round an autumn tree is wrought 
 The enchantment of the sun. 
 
24 A FALLEN STAR. 
 
 He loved me with a tender truth, 
 
 He clung to me as clings the vine, 
 And, like a brimming fount of youth, 
 His nature freshened mine. 
 
 Together hand in hand we walked ; 
 
 We threaded pleasant country ways, 
 Or, couched beneath the limes, we talked, 
 On sultry summer days. 
 
 For me he drew aside the veil 
 
 Before his bashful heart that hung, 
 And told a sweet, ingenuous tale 
 That trembled on his tongue. 
 
 He read me songs and amorous lays, 
 
 Where through each slender line a fire 
 Of love flashed lambently, as plays 
 The lightning through the wire. 
 
 A nobler maid he never knew 
 
 Than she he longed to call his wife ; 
 A fresher nature never grew 
 Along the shores of life. 
 
 Thus rearing diamond arches up 
 
 Whereon his future life to build, 
 He quaffed all day the golden cup 
 That youthful fancy filled. 
 
 Like fruit upon a southern slope, 
 
 He ripened on all natural food, 
 The winds that thrill the skyey cope, 
 The sunlight's golden blood : 
 
V) 
 
 M 
 
 
 
 1 
 
n ?isj 
 
 m 
 
 i 
 
 4 
 
 a 
 
 , 1 
 
A FALLEN STAR. 25 
 
 And in his talk I oft discerned 
 
 A timid music vaguely heard ; 
 The fragments of a song scarce learned, 
 The essays of a bird, 
 
 The first faint notes the poet's breast, 
 
 Ere yet his pinions warrant flight, 
 Will, on the margin of the nest, , 
 
 Utter with strange delight. 
 
 Thus rich with promise was the boy, 
 
 When, swept abroad by circumstance, 
 We parted, he to live, enjoy, 
 And I to war with chance. 
 
 ii. - 
 
 The air was rich with fumes of wine 
 
 When next we met. 'T was at a feast, 
 And he, the boy I thought divine, 
 Was the unhallowed priest. 
 
 There was the once familiar grace, 
 
 The old, enchanting smile was there ; 
 Still shone around his handsome face 
 The glory of his hair. 
 
 But the pure beauty that I knew 
 
 Had lowered through some ignoble task ; 
 Apollo's head was peering through 
 A drunken bacchant's mask. 
 
 The smile, once honest as the day, 
 Now waked to words of grossest wit ; 
 
26 A FALLEN STAR. 
 
 The eyes, so simply frank and gay, 
 With lawless fires were lit. 
 
 He was the idol of the board ; 
 
 He led the careless, wanton throng ; 
 The soul that once to heaven had soared 
 Now grovelled in a song. 
 
 He wildly flung his wit away 
 
 In small retort, in verbal brawls, 
 And played with words as jugglers play 
 With hollow brazen balls. 
 
 But often when the laugh was loud, 
 
 And highest gleamed the circling bowl, 
 I saw what unseen passed the crowd, 
 The shadow on his soul. 
 
 And soon the enigma was unlocked ; 
 The harrowing history I heard, 
 The sacred duties that he mocked, 
 The forfeiture of word. 
 
 And how he did his love a wrong 
 
 His wild remorse his mad career 
 And now ah ! hearken to that song, 
 And hark the answering cheer ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Thus musing sadly on the law 
 
 That lets such brilliant meteors quench, 
 Down the dark path a form I saw 
 Uprising from a bench. 
 
A FALLEN STAR. 27 
 
 Ragged and pale, in strident tones 
 
 It asked for alms, I knew for what ; 
 The tremor shivering through its bones 
 Was eloquent of the sot. 
 
 It begged, it prayed, it whined, it cried, 
 
 It followed with a shuffling tramp, 
 It would not, could not be denied, 
 I turned beneath a lamp. 
 
 It clutched the coins I gave, and fled 
 
 With muttered words of horrid glee, 
 When, like the white, returning dead, 
 A vision rose to me. 
 
 A nameless something in its air, 
 
 A sudden gesture as it moved, 
 'T was he, the gay, the debonnaire ! 
 'T was he, the boy I loved ! 
 
 And while along the lonesome park 
 
 The eager drunkard sped afar, 
 I looked to heaven, and through the dark 
 I saw a falling star ! 
 
28 THE BALLAD OF THE SHAMROCK. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE SHAMROCK. 
 
 MY boy left me just twelve years ago : 
 
 'T was the black year of famine, of sickness and woe, 
 
 When the crops died out, and the people died too, 
 
 And the land into one great grave-yard grew ; 
 
 And our neighbors' faces were as white and thin 
 
 As the face of the moon when she first comes in ; 
 
 And honest men's hearts were rotten with blight, 
 
 And they thieved and prowled like the wolves at night ; 
 
 When the whole land was dark as dark could be, 
 
 'T was then that Donal, my boy, left me. 
 
 We were turned from our farm where we 'd lived so long, 
 For we could n't pay the rent, and the law was strong ; 
 From our low meadow lands, and flax fields blue, 
 And the handsome green hill where the yellow furze grew, 
 And the honest old cow that, each evening, would stand 
 At the little gate, lowing to be milked by my hand ; 
 And the small patch of garden at the end of the lawn, 
 Where Donal grew sweet flowers for his Colleen Bawn ; 
 But Donal and I had to leave all these, 
 I to live with father, and he to cross the seas. 
 
 For Donal was as proud as any king's son, 
 And swore he 'd not stand by and see such wrongs done, 
 But would seek a fortune out in the wide, wide West, 
 Where the honest can find labor and the weary rest ; 
 And as soon as he was able why then he 'd send for me 
 To rest my poor old head in his home across the sea : 
 And then his young face flushed like a June sky at dawn, 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE SHAMROCK. 29 
 
 As he said that he was thinking how his Colleen Bawn 
 Could come along to help me to keep the house straight, 
 For he knew how much she loved him, and she 'd prom- 
 ised him to wait. 
 
 I think I see him now, as he stood one blessed day, 
 With his pale smiling face upon the Limerick quay, 
 And I lying on his breast, with his long, curly hair 
 Blowing all about my shoulders as if to keep me there ; 
 And the quivering of his lip, that he tried to keep so 
 
 proud, 
 Not because of his old mother, but the idle, curious 
 
 crowd, 
 Then the hoisting of the anchor, and the flapping of the 
 
 sail, 
 
 And the stopping of my heart when the wild, Irish wail 
 From the mothers, and the children, and the kinsfolk on 
 
 the quay 
 Told me plainer than all words that my darling was away. 
 
 Ten years went dragging by, and I heard but now and 
 
 then, 
 For my Donal, though a brave boy, was no scholar with 
 
 the pen ; 
 
 But he sent me kindly words, and bade me not despair, 
 And sometimes sent me money, perhaps more than he 
 
 could spare ; 
 
 So I waited and I prayed until it came to pass 
 That Father Pat he wanted me one Sunday after mass, 
 When I went, a little fearsome, to the back vestry-room, 
 Where his reverence sat a-smiling like a sunflower in the 
 
 gloom : 
 And then he up and told me God bless him ! that 
 
 my boy 
 Had sent to bring me over, and I nearly died for joy. 
 
30 THE BALLAD OF THE SHAMROCK. 
 
 All day I was half-crazed as I wandered through the 
 house ; 
 
 The dropping of the sycamore seeds, or the scramble of a 
 mouse, 
 
 Thrilled through me like a gun-shot; I durst not look 
 behind, 
 
 For the pale face of my darling was always in my mind. 
 
 The pale face so sorrowful, the eyes so large and dark, 
 
 And soft shining as the deer's are in young Lord Massy's 
 park; 
 
 And the long chestnut hair blown loosely by the wind, 
 
 All this seemed at my shoulder, and I dared not look be- 
 hind, 
 
 But I said in my own heart, it is but the second sight 
 
 Of the day when I shall kiss him, all beautiful and bright. 
 
 Then I made my box ready to go across the sea, 
 My boy had sent a ticket, so my passage it was free ; 
 But all the time I longed that some little gift I had 
 To take across the ocean to my own dear lad ; 
 A pin, or a chain, or something of the kind, 
 Just to 'mind the poor boy of the land he 'd left behind. 
 But I was too poor to buy it, so I 'd nothing left to do 
 But to go to the old farm, the homestead that he knew ; 
 To the handsome green hill where my Donal used to play, 
 And cut a sod of shamrock for the exile far away. 
 
 All through the voyage I nursed it, and watered it each day, 
 And kept its green leaves sheltered from the salt-sea 
 
 spray, 
 And I 'd bring it upon deck when the sun was shining 
 
 fair, 
 To watch its triple leaflets opening slowly in the air. 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE SHAMROCK. 31 
 
 At first the sailors langhed at my little sod of grass, 
 But when they knew my object they gently let me pass ; 
 And the ladies in the cabin were very kind to me ; 
 They made me tell the story of my boy across the sea : 
 So I told them of my Donal, and his fair, manly face, 
 Till bare speaking of my darling made a sunshine in the 
 place. 
 
 We landed at the Battery in New York's big bay, 
 
 The sun was shining grandly, and the wharves looked gay. 
 
 But I could see no sunshine nor beauty in the place, 
 
 What I only cared to look on was Donal's sweet face ; 
 
 But in all the great crowd, and I turned everywhere, 
 
 I could not see a sign of him, my darling was not there ; 
 
 I asked the men around me to go and find my son, 
 
 But they only stared or laughed, and left me, one by one, 
 
 Till at last an old countryman came up to me and said 
 
 How could I live to hear it 1 that Donal was dead ! 
 
 The shamrock sod is growing on Greenwood's hill-side. 
 
 It grows above the heart of my darling and my pride ; 
 
 And on summer days I sit by the headstone all day, 
 
 With my heart growing old and my head growing gray ; 
 
 And I watch the dead leaves whirl from the sycamore- 
 trees, 
 
 And wonder why it is that I can't die like these ; 
 
 But I think that this same winter, and frofn my heart I 
 hope, 
 
 I '11 be lying nice and quiet upon Greenwood's slope, 
 
 With my darling close beside me underneath the trickling 
 dew, 
 
 And the shamrocks creeping pleasantly above us two. 
 
32 AMAZON. 
 
 AMAZON. 
 
 I BURN to tell my love ; to call her mine ; 
 
 To pour upon her heart the fiery tide 
 That fills my own ; to open my soul's shrine 
 
 And show her her own image deified ! 
 
 But vain the web my brain untiring weaves ; 
 
 For hours I school in vain my spellbound tongue. 
 My passion hangs, unuttered, on the eaves 
 
 Of my soul's portal. Of a love unsung 
 I am the minstrel, for I sing alone. 
 
 My own heart is my hermitage, and there 
 I chant impassioned hymns, and weep, and groan, 
 
 And to love's phantom dedicate my prayer. 
 When on a lonely couch my head I lay, 
 
 What mystic eloquence comes to me unsought ! 
 In fervent litanies to her I pray, 
 
 And tell my love in rosaries of thought. 
 A bold and reckless suitor in the night, 
 
 A weak and silent coward in the day ; 
 When all is dark I long to greet the light, 
 
 But dazzled when light comes, I turn away ! 
 
 0, you should see her ! She is, of all queens 
 
 That drive their chariots over bleeding hearts, 
 The loveliest one ! Not by her sex's means 
 
 She won her throne. She has no need of arts. 
 Born to enslave, she conquers with a glance ; 
 
 All blandishments and subtile wiles disdains ; 
 A heretic to the antique romance, 
 
 To know she is, is knowing that she reigns. 
 
AMAZON. 33 
 
 Like the phosphoric trees in forests dark 
 
 She lights all hearts, and yet herself is cold ; 
 
 And woe to him who, dazzled by the spark, 
 Hopes for a heat her heart can never hold ! 
 
 But she is beautiful ! No vocal dream 
 
 Warbled in slumber by the nightingale, 
 Can match her voice's music. Sculptors seem, 
 
 When most inspired, to copy her and fail ! 
 To gaze on her is song unto the sight ; 
 
 A harmony of vision, heaven-sent, * 
 
 Where all the tones of human charms unite, 
 
 And are in one majestic woman blent ! 
 
 But once I thought she loved me. Bitter hour, 
 
 Whose mingled joy tind torment haunt me still ! 
 Her eyes look out from every starry flower ; 
 
 I hear her mocking laugh in every rill. 
 Yet on this grief I love to muse alone 
 
 It is a key that hath my nature tuned ; 
 Upon my riven heart I gaze as one 
 
 Grows to companionship with even his wound. 
 
 'T was in the autumn woods we rode one morn 
 
 To hunt the deer, with wild and willing steeds. 
 The young wind gayly blew his mellow horn, 
 
 And beat the tangled coverts of the reeds. 
 The golden elms tossed high their lucent leaves, 
 
 While on their giant boles, so rough in form, 
 The rugged bark stood out in corded sheaves, 
 
 Like muscles swoln in wrestling with the storm! 
 
 A sudden, wayward fancy seized us here 
 To pause and act a leafy masquerade. 
 3 
 
34 AMAZON. 
 
 No idle tongues nor curious eyes were near, 
 
 And silent splendor filled the sunlit glade. 
 So, gathering armfuls of the autumn vines, 
 
 I wove their red ropes round the passive girl, 
 Looping the tendrils of the blushing vines 
 
 Round arms, and head, and each escaping curl. 
 Then through her horse's mane that blackly shone, 
 
 I plaited mosses long and leaden-hued, 
 Until she seemed like some young Amazon 
 
 Chained by the mighty monach of the wood. 
 
 
 
 mockery of conquest ! Hidden sting ! 
 
 triumph treacherous as the sleeping seas ! 
 She played the captive, /, the victor-king, 
 
 Threading triumphal arches through the trees ! 
 
 Sudden, with one wild burst of regal might 
 
 She flung her fluttering fetters to the wind ; 
 She and her steed with bound of fierce delight 
 
 Dashed through the crashing boughs that closed behind. 
 And so she vanished. From the distance dim 
 
 Her scornful laughter floated to my ear ; 
 A jest for her, for me a funeral hymn, 
 
 Sung o'er a love that froze upon its bier ! 
 
 How shall I conquer her 1 Since that cursed day 
 Her image stands between me and the world ! 
 
 Around my cup of life where flowers should lay, 
 Forbidding me, a poisoned snake is curled. 
 
 As heron chased by hawk I soar through space, 
 The fatal shafts of her disdain to shun, 
 
 And seek the clouds ; but vain the dizzy race, 
 
 1 find her still between me and the sun ! 
 
THE MAN AT THE DOOR. 35 
 
 queen, enthroned upon an icy height, 
 
 What holocaust does thy proud heart desire 1 
 When will it flame like beacon through the night 
 
 With fiery answer to another's fire ] 
 Ah ! why so cold so ever cold to me 1 
 
 I chafe I chafe all day from dawn to dark, 
 As chafes the wave of Adria's glowing sea 
 
 Against the pulseless marble of Saint Mark ! 
 
 THE MAN AT THE DOOR. 
 
 i. 
 
 How joyous to-day is the little old town, 
 
 With banners and streamers as cheery as spring ! 
 They flutter on turrets and battlements brown, 
 
 And the ancient cathedral is fine as a king. 
 The sexton a nosegay has put in his breast, 
 
 And his face is as bright as a Jericho rose, 
 That, after a century's withering rest, 
 
 Unwrinkles its petals and suddenly blows. 
 
 n. 
 The brown-breasted swallows aloft and alow 
 
 Swoop faster and further than ever before, 
 And I 'm sure that the cock on the steeple will crow 
 
 When he hears from the city the jubilant roar. 
 The girls are as gay as a holiday fleet, 
 
 Their ribbons are streaming from bosom and hair, 
 And they laugh in the face of each young man they meet, 
 
 And the young men reply with an insolent stare. 
 
36 THE MAN AT THE DOOR. 
 
 III. 
 'T is not without reason the old town is gay, 
 
 And banners and ribbons are reddening the air, 
 For beautiful Bertha will marry to-day 
 
 With gallant young Albert, the son of the Mayor. 
 He is brown as a nut from the hazels of Spain ; 
 
 Her face, like the twilight, is pensive and sweet ; 
 As they march hand in hand through the murmuring 
 lane, 
 
 Low blessings, like flowers, fall unseen at their feet. 
 
 IV. 
 
 While they sweep like twin barks through the waves of 
 the crowd, 
 
 A story is falling from many a tongue, 
 Of the young gypsy prince who, a year ago, bowed 
 
 At the shrine where a hundred their passion had sung ; 
 And how Bertha heaped scorn on his love and his race, 
 
 How she flung in the street the rich presents he sent, 
 Until he, with the hatred of hell in his face, 
 * Went sullenly back to his tribe and his tent. 
 
 v. 
 Soon all stories are hushed in a gathering roar, 
 
 And the people sway back like the ebb of a tide, 
 And the rosy old sexton stands by the church-door, 
 
 To merrily welcome the bridegroom and bride : 
 But his glee is so great that he does not behold 
 
 The tall man that stands near the pillar, hard by, 
 Nor the flash of the dagger that 's hafted with gold, 
 
 Nor the still keener flash of the lowering eye. 
 
THE ENCHANTED TITAN. 37 
 
 VI. 
 
 On they come, and the sexton bows low to the ground, 
 
 The bride smiles a welcome, the bells ring a chime, 
 While a grand acclamation, in surges of sound, 
 
 Thrills up through the sky like a sonorous rhyme. 
 They are under the porch when, one dash through the 
 crowd, 
 
 One flash of a dagger, one shriek of despair, 
 And Bertha falls dead ; while, stern-visaged and proud, 
 
 The swarthy-skinned prince of the gypsies is there ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 How sombre to-day is the little old town, 
 
 With mourning, and sables, and funeral display; 
 Long weepers are hanging from battlements brown, 
 
 And the ancient cathedral is haggard and gray. 
 The sexton a white rose has put in his breast, 
 
 While his face is as blank as a snow-laden sky ; 
 For Bertha and Albert have gone to their rest, 
 
 And the prince of the gypsies is swinging on high. 
 
 THE ENCHANTED TITAN. 
 
 CURSE you ! 0, a hundred thousand curses 
 Weigh upon your soul, you black enchanter ! 
 
 Could I pour them like the coins from purses, 
 I would utter such a pile instanter 
 
 As would crush you to a bloody pulp. 
 
 But my rage I fain am forced to gulp ; 
 
38 THE ENCHANTED TITAN. 
 
 Anathemas are vain against cold iron, 
 Nor can I swear this magic box asunder, 
 
 Where I 've been stifling since the days of Chiron, 
 
 Fretting on tempered bolts, and hurling muffled thunder. 
 
 ii. 
 Through the chinks I see the dim green waters 
 
 Filled with sunshine, or with moonlight hazy ; 
 Through them swim the oceanic daughters, 
 
 Beautiful enough to drive me crazy. 
 The fishes gaze at me with sphery eyes, 
 And seem to say, with cold-blooded surprise, 
 What Titan is it, that } s so barred and bolted, 
 
 Caged like a rat in some infernal cellar 1 
 Why even Enceladus, when the dog revolted, 
 
 Was not so hardly treated by the Cloud-Compeller ! 
 
 in. 
 And all, forsooth, because I loved his daughter ! 
 
 Loved that child of spells and incantation ; 
 Love her now, beneath this dreary water, 
 
 Love her through eternal tribulation ! 
 I wonder if her lips lament me still, 
 In her enchanted castle on the hill 1 
 Or has she yielded to that damned magician, 
 
 And with my pygmy rival weakly wedded 1 
 Jove ! the torment of this bare suspicion 
 
 Preying forevef on my heart, and like the Hydra headed ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 bitter day, when spells, like snakes uprearing, 
 Enwrapped my limbs, and, muscular as pliant, 
 
 Pinioned my struggling arms, until despairing 
 I lay upon the earth, a captured giant ! 
 
LOSS. 39 
 
 Then came the horror of this iron box, 
 The closing of its huge enchanted locks ; 
 Then the cursed wizard to the windy summit 
 
 Of the tall cape a coffered prisoner bore me, 
 And flung me off, until, like seaman's plummet, 
 
 I sank, and the drear ocean closed forever o'er me! 
 
 LOSS. 
 
 STRETCHED silver-spun the spider's nets ; 
 
 The quivering sky was white with fire ; 
 The blackbird's scarlet epaulettes 
 
 Reddened the hemlock's topmost spire. 
 
 The mountain, in his purple cloak, 
 
 His feet with misty vapors wet, 
 Lay dreamily, and seemed to smoke 
 
 All day his giant calumet. 
 
 From farm-house bells the noonday rung ; 
 
 The teams that ploughed the furrows stopped ; 
 The ox refreshed his lolling tongue, 
 
 And brows were wiped and spades were dropped ; 
 
 And down the field the mowers stepped, 
 With burning brows and figures lithe, 
 
 As in their brawny hands they swept 
 From side to side the hissing scythe ; 
 
 Till sudden ceased the noonday task, 
 
 The scythes 'mid swaths of grass lay still, 
 
 As girls with can and cider-flask 
 Came romping gayly down the hill. 
 
40 LOSS. 
 
 And over all there swept a stream 
 Of subtile music, felt, not heard, 
 
 As when one conjures in a dream 
 The distant singing of a bird. 
 
 I drank the glory of the scene, 
 
 Its autumn splendor fired my veins ; 
 
 The woods were like an Indian queen 
 Who gazed upon her old domains. 
 
 And ah ! methought I heard a sigh 
 Come softly through her leafy lips ; 
 
 A mourning over days gone by, 
 
 That were before the white man's ships. 
 
 And so I came to think on Loss, 
 I never much could think on Gain ; 
 
 A poet oft will woo a cross 
 
 On whom a crown is pressed in vain. 
 
 I came to think I know not how, 
 
 Perchance through sense of Indian wrong 
 
 Of losses of my own, that now 
 
 Broke for the first time into song ; 
 
 A fluttering strain of feeble words 
 
 That scarcely dared to leave my breast ; 
 
 But like a brood of fledgling birds 
 
 Kept hovering round their natal nest. 
 
 * loss ! ' I sang, ' early loss ! 
 
 blight that nipped the buds of spring ! 
 spell that turned the gold to dross ! 
 
 steel that clipped the untried wing ! 
 
LOSS. 41 
 
 1 1 mourn all days, as sorrows he 
 
 Whom once they called a merchant prince 
 
 Over the ships he sent to sea, 
 And never, never heard of since. 
 
 1 To ye, woods, the annual May 
 
 Restores the leaves ye lost before ; 
 The tide that now forsakes the bay 
 
 This flight will wash the widowed shore. 
 
 ' But I shall never see again 
 
 The shape that smiled upon my youth ; 
 A mist of sorrow veils my brain, 
 
 And dimly looms the light of truth. 
 
 ' She faded, fading woods, like you ! 
 
 And fleeting shone with sweeter grace ; 
 And as she died, the colors grew 
 
 To softer splendor in her face. 
 
 ' Until one day the hectic flush 
 
 Was veiled with death's eternal snow ; 
 
 She swept from earth amid a hush, 
 And I was left alone below ! ' 
 
 While thus I moaned I heard a peal 
 Of laughter through the meadows flow ; 
 
 I saw the farm-boys at their meal, 
 I saw the cider circling go. 
 
 And still the mountain calmly slept, 
 
 His feet with valley vapors wet ; 
 And slowly circling upward crept 
 
 The smoke from out his calumet. 
 
42 OUR CHRISTMAS-TREE. 
 
 Mine was the sole discordant breath 
 
 That marred this dream of peace below. 
 
 ' God ! ' I cried, 'give, give me death, 
 Or give me grace to bear thy blow ! ' 
 
 OUR CHRISTMAS-TREE. 
 
 MADAM MILLIONNAIRE, 
 So wealthy and so fair, 
 
 1 know how rich and rare 
 
 Is your Christmas-tree. 
 There the ruddy apples swing, 
 And the gilded bonbons cling, 
 And 't is gaudy as a king 
 
 In some Indian sea. 
 
 A hundred tapers shine 
 In the foliage of the pine, 
 And gifts of rare design 
 
 Make the branches gay. 
 And in the outer room, 
 Decked with satin and with plume, 
 Like roses in their bloom, 
 
 Sweet children play. 
 
 But this very Christmas night, 
 When your home 's so warm and bright, 
 And your children's hearts are light 
 As the thistle's down, 
 
OUR CHRISTMAS-TREE. 43 
 
 I am sitting by my hearth, 
 With not a ray of mirth, 
 But a feeling as of dearth, 
 And, I fear, a frown. 
 
 For I 'm very, very poor, 
 And the wolf is at my door, 
 And a shadow J s on my floor 
 
 That will not pass by ; 
 But I do not envy you, 
 For my heart at least is true, 
 And, thank God, there are so few 
 
 As poor as I ! 
 
 The weary mother sits 
 On a little stool, and knits, 
 While across her face there flits 
 
 Look sad to see. 
 Our eldest gravely sighs 
 With a face of sad surmise, 
 And our youngest darling cries 
 
 For her Christmas-tree. 
 
 So I hush the little one, 
 And talk cheerly to my son, 
 And try to make some fun 
 
 Out of Christmas-trees ; 
 And I tell them how I 've planned 
 A tree more fine and grand 
 Than ever grew on land 
 
 Or by distant seas. 
 
44 OUR CHRISTMAS-TREE. 
 
 My tree is very high, 
 For it reaches to the sky, 
 And sweet birds passing by 
 
 There fold their wings. 
 Its leaves are ever green, 
 With a wondrous glossy sheen, 
 And the summer wind serene 
 
 Around it sings. 
 
 And I Ve hung upon my tree 
 A myriad gifts you see, 
 And all the world is free 
 
 To come and take. 
 There is love and -gentle mirth, 
 There 's a happy home and hearth, 
 And " Peace to all on earth," 
 
 For the Christ-child's sake. 
 
 There are sweet and soothing words 
 Melodious as the birds, 
 There is charity that herds 
 
 With the poor forlorn. 
 There are pardons for all wrongs, 
 And cheerful peasant songs, 
 And the virtue that belongs 
 
 To the country born. 
 
 There are merry marriage bells, 
 There 's the noble heart that swells 
 When first young nature tells 
 Of great manly hopes. 
 
THE POT OF GOLD. 45 
 
 And underneath, alas ! 
 A tiny wreath we pass, 
 That once withered on the grass 
 Of Greenwood's slopes. 
 
 So, Madam Millionnaire, 
 Your tree, I know, is fair, 
 But it can not quite compare 
 
 With this I see : 
 
 For heaven has blessed the shoots, 
 And fancy riped the fruits, 
 And my heart is round the roots 
 
 Of our Christmas-tree. 
 
 THE POT OF GOLD. 
 
 THE sun flung wide its golden arms 
 Above the dripping woods of Maine, 
 
 And wove across the misty sky 
 The seven-dyed ribbon of the rain. 
 
 An old wife at the cottage door 
 
 Sat with her grandson by her knee, " 
 
 And watched the rainbow belt the clouds 
 And span the world from sea to sea. 
 
 Then, in that quiet evening hour, 
 
 The wondering boy a tale she told, 
 
 How he who sought the rainbow's foot 
 Would find beneath a pot of gold. 
 
46 THE POT OF GOLD. 
 
 The eager boy drank in the tale, 
 His eyes were filled with feverish fire ; 
 
 And in his fluttering heart there leaped 
 A wild, impulsive, vague desire. 
 
 And as the gorgeous sun went down, 
 
 And from the skies the mists were rolled, 
 
 He stole with hurrying step away 
 To seek the wondrous pot of gold. 
 
 Through lonesome woods with whispering leaves, 
 That sung an endless forest hymn, 
 
 Where shadowy cat-birds wailed unseen, 
 And squirrels leaped from limb to limb, 
 
 By rivers thundering to the sea, 
 
 By ragged hill and gloomy glen, 
 Through swamps where slept the sluggish air, 
 
 And by the pleasant homes of men, 
 
 The strange boy wandered night and day, 
 His eyes still filled with quenchless fire ; 
 
 While still within his heart there grew 
 That wild, impulsive, vague desire. 
 
 Men marvelled as he passed them by 
 With weary step and lagging pace ; 
 
 And women, as they saw him, sighed 
 In pity for his childlike face. 
 
 And many asked why thus he went 
 
 O'er hill and flood, through heat and cold ; 
 
 While he the steadfast answer made, 
 " I go to seek the pot of gold." 
 
THE POT OF GOLD. 47 
 
 And then they smiled, and told the boy 
 That many a youth that quest had tried, 
 
 And some had fainted by the way, 
 
 And all had failed, and most had died. 
 
 For never had the mystic goal 
 
 By any human foot been trod ; 
 The secret of the rainbow's base 
 
 Was known but to its builder God. 
 
 He heard, but heeded not : his eyes 
 
 Were fixed upon the horizon's brim. 
 What mattered to him others' fate, 
 
 'T was not the fate in store for him. 
 
 And still the rainbow came and went, 
 
 And scarf-like hung about the sun ; 
 And still the seeker's restless soul 
 
 Sang of the treasure to be won. 
 
 So went the time till one dark day, 
 
 When flesh and blood could bear no more, 
 
 Haggard and pale he fainting fell 
 
 Close by the well-known cottage door. 
 
 With quivering lips he told his tale ; 
 
 The pitying tears above him fell ; 
 Once more around his couch he heard 
 
 The voices that he loved so well. 
 
 And soon a modest, mild-eyed man, 
 
 With quiet tones, stood at his side, 
 Telling a sweet, entrancing tale 
 
 Of One who suffered and who died ; 
 
48 MINOT'S LEDGE. 
 
 And talked about a treasure, too, 
 
 Through pain and suffering to be won, 
 
 That lay beyond the rainbow arch, 
 Ay, and beyond the parent sun. 
 
 As the boy heard the simple words, 
 From out his eyes the fierce fire fled, 
 
 And straight an unseen presence wove 
 A calmer splendor round his head. 
 
 And so his young life ebbed away ; 
 
 His heart was still, his limbs were cold ; 
 But by the smile upon his face 
 
 They knew he 'd found the pot of gold ! 
 
 MINOT'S LEDGE. 
 
 LIKE spectral hounds across the sky 
 
 The white clouds scud before the storm, 
 And naked in the howling night 
 
 The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form. 
 The waves with slippery fingers clutch 
 
 The massive tower, and climb and fall, 
 And, muttering, growl with baffled rage 
 
 Their curses on the sturdy wall. 
 
 Up in the lonely tower he sits, 
 
 The keeper of the crimson light, 
 
 Silent and awe-struck does he hear 
 The imprecations of the night. 
 
MINOT'S LEDGE. 49 
 
 The white spray beats against the panes, 
 Like some wet ghost that down the air 
 
 Is hunted by a troop of fiends, 
 And seeks a shelter anywhere. 
 
 He prays aloud the lonely man 
 
 For every soul that night at sea, 
 But more than all for that brave boy 
 
 Who used to gayly climb his knee, 
 Young Charley, with the chestnut hair 
 
 And hazel eyes and laughing lip : 
 " May Heaven look down," the old man cries, 
 
 " Upon my son, and on his ship ! " 
 
 While thus with pious heart he prays, 
 
 Far in the distance sounds a boom : 
 He pauses, and again there rings 
 
 That sullen thunder through the room. 
 A ship upon the shoal to-night ! 
 
 She cannot hold for one half-hour ! 
 But clear the ropes and grappl ing-hooks, 
 
 And trust in the Almighty Power ! 
 
 On the drenched gallery he stands, 
 
 Striving to pierce the solid night ; 
 Across the sea the red eye throws 
 
 A steady wake of crimson light, 
 And where it falls upon the waves 
 
 He sees a human head float by, 
 With long, drenched curls of chestnut hair, 
 
 And wild but fearless hazel eye. 
 4 
 
50 THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS. 
 
 Out with the hooks ! One mighty fling ! 
 
 Adown the wind the long rope curls. 
 0, will it catch 1 Ah, dread suspense ! 
 
 While the wild ocean wilder whirls. 
 A steady pull it tautens now ! 
 
 0, his old heart will burst with joy 
 As on the slippery rocks he drags 
 
 The breathing body of his boy. 
 
 Still sweep the spectres through the sky, 
 
 Still scud the clouds before the storm, 
 Still naked in the howling night 
 
 The red-eyed lighthouse lifts its form. 
 Without, the world is wild with rage, 
 
 Unkennelled demons are abroad, 
 But with the father and the son, 
 
 Within, there is the peace of God. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS. 
 
 TRINITY bells with their hollow lungs, 
 
 And their vibrant lips and their brazen tongues, 
 
 Over the roofs of the city pour 
 
 Their Easter music with joyous roar, 
 
 Till the soaring notes to the sun are rolled 
 
 As he swings along in his path of gold. 
 
 " Dearest papa," says my boy to me, 
 
 As he merrily climbs on his mother's knee, 
 
THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS. 51 
 
 " Why are these eggs that you see me hold 
 Colored so fiiiely with blue and gold 1 
 And what is the wonderful bird that lays 
 Such beautiful eggs upon Easter days 1 " 
 
 Tenderly shine the April skies, 
 
 Like laughter and tears in my child's blue eyes, 
 
 And every face in the street is gay, 
 
 Why cloud this youngster's by saying nay ] 
 
 So I cudgel my brains for the tale he begs, 
 
 And tell him this story of Easter eggs : 
 
 You have heard, my boy, of the Man who died, 
 
 Crowned with keen thorns and crucified ; 
 
 And how Joseph the wealthy whom God reward ! 
 
 Cared for the corse of his martyred Lord, 
 
 And piously tombed it within the rock, 
 
 And closed the gate with a mighty block. 
 
 Now close by the tomb a fair tree grew, 
 With pendulous leaves, and blossoms of blue ; 
 And deep in the green tree's shadowy breast 
 A beautiful singing bird sat on her nest, 
 Which was bordered with mosses like malachite, 
 And held four eggs of an ivory white. 
 
 Now when the bird from her dim recess 
 Beheld the Lord in his burial dress, 
 And looked on the heavenly face so pale, 
 And the dear hands pierced with the cruel nail, 
 Her heart nigh broke with a sudden pang, 
 And out of the depths of her sorrow she sang. 
 
 All night long till the moon was up 
 
 She sat and sang in her moss-wreathed cup, 
 
52 THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS. 
 
 A song of sorrow as wild and shrill 
 
 As the homeless wind when it roams the hill, 
 
 So full of tears, so loud and long, 
 
 That the grief of the world seemed turned to song. 
 
 But soon there came through the weeping night 
 
 A glittering angel clothed in white ; 
 
 And he rolled the stone from the tomb away, 
 
 Where the Lord of the earth and the heavens lay ; 
 
 And Christ arose in the cavern's gloom, 
 
 And in living lustre came from the tomb. 
 
 Now the bird that sat in the heart of the tree 
 Beheld this celestial mystery, 
 And its heart was filled with a sweet delight, 
 And it poured a song on the throbbing night ; 
 Notes climbing notes, till higher, higher, 
 They shot to heaven like spears of fire. 
 
 When the glittering, white-robed angel heard 
 
 The sorrowing song of the grieving bird, 
 
 And, after, the jubilant psean of mirth 
 
 That hailed Christ risen again on earth, 
 
 He said, " Sweet bird, be forever blest, 
 
 Thyself, thy eggs, and thy moss- wreathed nest ! " 
 
 And ever, my child, since that blessed night, 
 When death bowed down to the Lord of light, 
 The eggs of that sweet bird change their hue, 
 And burn with red and gold and blue, 
 Reminding mankind in their simple way 
 Of the holy marvel of Easter day. 
 
DOWN IN THE GLEN AT IDLEWILD. 53 
 
 DOWN IN THE GLEN AT IDLEWILD. 
 
 THE red moon, like a golden grape, 
 
 Hangs slowly ripening in the sky, 
 And o'er the helmets of the hills 
 
 Like plumes the summer lightnings fly. 
 The solemn pine-trees stoop above 
 
 The brook, that, like a sleeping child, 
 Lies babbling of its simple dreams 
 
 Down in the glen at Idlewild. 
 
 The red mill in the distance sleeps, 
 
 The old mill that, when winter comes, 
 Wakes to a wild, spasmodic life, 
 
 And through the rocky channel hums. 
 And starry-flowered water-plants, 
 
 With myriad eyes of moistened light, 
 Peep coyly from their sheltered nooks, 
 
 The shy companions of the night. 
 
 But brighter than the starry flowers 
 
 There shine a maiden's lustrous eyes, 
 And yellower shines her yellow hair 
 
 Than the full moon that floods the skies, 
 As where the waters kiss the cliff 
 
 She waits for him, the pearl of men, 
 And idly plucks the ivy leaves, 
 
 And listens, and then waits again. 
 
 She waits to hear the well-known call, 
 
 The echoes of the agile foot, 
 The bursting of the lacing boughs, 
 
 The crackling of the fragile root ; 
 
54 WANTED SAINT PATRICK. 
 
 But ah ! the path is steep and dark, 
 The jagged rocks lie far below ; 
 
 And heaven must help the wight who slips, 
 Up where those treacherous mosses grow. 
 
 At last he comes ! she hears his step ! 
 
 But ah ! what means that fearful crash 1 
 Down the steep cliff a dark shape falls, 
 
 From rock to rock she sees it dash. 
 Was it for this you waited long, 
 
 loving heart ! hapless child ! 
 Dead at her feet her lover lies, 
 
 Down in the glen at Idlewild ! 
 
 WANTED SAINT PATRICK. 
 
 WHEN Irish hills were fair and green, 
 
 And Irish fields were white with daisies, 
 And harvests, golden and serene, 
 
 Slept in the lazy summer hazes ; 
 When bards went singing through the land 
 
 Their grand old songs of knightly story, 
 And hearts were found in every hand, 
 
 And all was peace, and love, and glory ; 
 'T was in those happy, happy days 
 
 When every peasant lived in clover, 
 And in the pleasant woodland ways 
 
 One never met the begging rover ; 
 
WANTED SAINT PATRICK. 55 
 
 When all was honest, large, and true, 
 And naught was hollow or theatric , 
 
 'T was in those days of golden hue 
 
 That Erin knew the great Saint Patrick. 
 
 ii. 
 
 He came among the rustics rude 
 
 With shining robes and splendid crosier, 
 And swayed the listening multitude 
 
 As breezes sway the beds of osier. 
 He preached the love of man for man, 
 
 And moved the unlettered Celt with wonder, 
 Till through the simple crowd there ran 
 
 A murmur like repeated thunder. 
 He preached the grand Incarnate Word 
 
 By rock and ruin, hill and hollow,. 
 Till warring princes dropped the sword 
 
 And left the fields of blood to follow. 
 For never yet did bardic song, 
 
 Though graced with harp and poet's diction, 
 With such strange charm enchain the throng 
 
 As that sad tale of crucifixion. 
 
 in. 
 
 Though fair the isle and brave the men, 
 
 Yet still a blight the land infested ; 
 Green vipers darted through each glen, 
 
 And snakes within the woodlands nested ; 
 And 'mid the banks where violets blew, 
 
 And on the slopes where bloomed the primrose, 
 Lurked spotted toads of loathsome hue, 
 
 And coiling, poisonous serpents grim rose. 
 
56 WANTED ST. PATRICK. 
 
 Saint Patrick said : " The reptile race 
 
 Are types of human degradation ; 
 From other ills I 've cleansed the place, 
 
 And now of these I '11 rid the nation." 
 He waved his crosier o'er his head, 
 
 And lo I each venomed thing took motion, 
 And toads and snakes and vipers fled 
 
 In terror to the circling ocean. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Why is Saint Patrick dead ? or why 
 
 Does he not seek this soil to aid us 1 
 To wave his mystic crook on high, 
 
 And rout the vermin that degrade us 1 
 Our land is fertile, broad, and fair, 
 
 And should be fairer yet and broader ; 
 But noxious reptiles taint the air, 
 
 And poison peace, and law, and order. 
 For murder stalks along each street, 
 
 And theft goes lurking through our alleys, 
 What reptiles worse does traveller meet 
 
 On India's hills, in Java's valleys 1 
 And when we see this gambling host, 
 
 That Amongst us practise this and that trick, 
 One knows not which would serve us most, 
 
 The Goddess Justice or Saint Patrick 1 
 
THE PRIZE-FIGHT. 57 
 
 THE PRIZE-FIGHT. 
 
 i. 
 
 HAMMER and tongs ! What have we here 1 
 Let us approach, but not too near. 
 Two men standing breast to breast, 
 Head erect and arching chest ; 
 Shoulders square and hands hard clenched, 
 And both their faces a trifle blenched. 
 Their lips are set in a smile so grim, 
 And sturdily set each muscular limb. 
 Round them circles a ring of rope, 
 Over them hangs the heavens' blue cope. 
 Why do they glare at each other so ] 
 What ! you really then don't know] 
 This is a prize-fight, gentle sir ! 
 This is what makes the papers stir. 
 Talk of your ocean telegraph ! 
 'T is n't so great an event by half, 
 As when two young men lusty and tall, 
 
 With nothing between them of hate or wrongs, 
 Come together to batter and maul, 
 Come to fight till one shall fall, 
 Hammer and tongs ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 Round about is a bestial crowd, 
 Heavily-jawed and beetle-browed ; 
 Concave faces, trampled in 
 As if with the iron hoof of sin ; 
 Blasphemies dripping from off their lips, 
 Pistols bulging behind their hips ; 
 
58 THE PRIZE-FIGHT. 
 
 Hands accustomed to deal the cards, 
 
 Or strike with the cowardly knuckle-guards. 
 
 Who are these ruffianly fellows, you say, 
 
 That taint the breath of this autumn day 1 
 
 These are " the Fancy," gentle sir. 
 
 The Fancy ? What are they to her ? 
 
 0, 't is their fancy to look at a fight, 
 
 To see men struggle, and gouge, and bite. 
 
 Bloody noses and bunged-up eyes, 
 
 These are the things the Fancy prize. 
 
 And so they get men, lusty and tall, 
 
 With nothing between them of hate or wrongs, 
 To come together to batter and maul, 
 To come and fight till one shall fall, 
 Hammer and tongs ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Grandly the autumn forests shine, 
 Red as the gold in an Indian mine ! 
 A dreamy mist, a vapory smoke, 
 Hangs round the patches of evergreen oak. 
 Over the broad lake shines the sun, 
 The lake that Perry battled upon, 
 Striking the upland fields of maize 
 That glow through the soft October haze. 
 Nature is tracing with languid hand 
 Lessons of peace over lake and land. 
 Ay ! yet this is the tranquil spot 
 Chosen by bully, assassin, and sot 
 To pit two young men, lusty and tall, 
 
 With nothing between them of hate or wrongs, 
 One with the other, to batter and maul, 
 To tussle and fight till one shall fall, 
 Hammer and tongs ! 
 
THE PRIZE-FIGHT. 59 
 
 IV. 
 
 Their faces are rich with a healthy hue, 
 Their eyes are clear, and bright, and blue ; 
 Every muscle is clean and fine, 
 And their blood is pure as the purest wine. 
 It is a pleasure their limbs to scan, 
 Splendid types of the animal man, 
 Splendid types of that human grace, 
 The noblest that God has willed to trace, 
 Brought to this by science and art ; 
 Trained, and nourished, and kept apart ; 
 Cunningly fed on the wholesomest food, 
 Carefully watched in every mood ; 
 Brought to this state, so noble and proud, 
 To savagely tussle before a crowd, 
 To. dim the light of the eyes so clear, 
 To mash the face to a bloody smear, 
 To maim, deface, and kill, if they can, 
 The glory of all creation, Man ! 
 This the task of those, lusty and tall, 
 
 With nothing between them of hate or wrongs, 
 To bruise and wrestle, and batter and maul, 
 And fight till one or the other shall fall, 
 Hammer and tongs ! 
 
 v. 
 
 With feet firm planted upon the sand, 
 Face to face at " the scratch " they stand. 
 Feinting first a blow a guard ! 
 Then some hitting, heavy and hard. 
 The round fist falls with a horrible thud ; 
 Wherever it falls comes a spout of blood ! 
 
60 THE PRIZE-FIGHT. 
 
 Blow after blow, fall after fall, 
 
 For twenty minutes they tussle and maul. 
 
 The lips of the one are a gory gash, 
 
 The others are knocked to eternal smash ! 
 
 The bold, bright eyes are bloody and dim, 
 
 And, staggering, shivers each stalwart limb. 
 
 Faces glowing with stupid wrath, 
 
 Hard breaths breathed through a bloody froth j 
 
 Blind and faint, they rain their blows 
 
 On cheeks like jelly and shapeless nose ; 
 
 While the concave faces around the rope 
 
 Darken with panic or light with hope, 
 
 Till one fierce brute, with a terrible blow, 
 
 Lays the other poor animal low. 
 
 Are these the forms so noble and proud, 
 
 That, kinglike, towered above the crowd 1 
 
 Where are the faces so healthy and fresh 1 ? 
 
 There ! those illegible masses of flesh ! 
 
 Thus we see men lusty and tall, 
 
 Who, with nothing between them of hate or wrongs, 
 Will bruise and batter, and tussle and maul, 
 And fight till one or the other shall fall, 
 Hammer and tongs ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Trainers, backers, and betters all, 
 Who teach young men to tussle and maul, 
 And spend their muscle, and blood, and life, 
 Given for good, in a loathsome strife, 
 I know what the Devil will do for you, 
 You pistolling, bullying, cowardly crew ! 
 He '11 light up his furnaces red and blue, 
 And treat you all to a roast and stew ; 
 
THE SONG OF THE LOCOMOTIVE. 61 
 
 0, he '11 do you up, and he '11 do you brown, 
 
 On pitchforks cleft into mighty prongs, 
 While chuckling fiends your agonies crown 
 By stirring you up and keeping you down 
 With hammer and tongs ! 
 
 THE SONG OF THE LOCOMOTIVE. 
 
 FAST through the sombre pine-forests I flash, 
 Pounding the track with monotonous crash, 
 Lighting the gloom with a comet-like glare, 
 Thrilling with noises unearthly the air, 
 Startling the turkey and coon from then* sleep, 
 Mighty with motion, resistless I sweep. 
 
 Bong ! Bong ! 
 
 Smashing along ! 
 I lighten my road with a bit of a song ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 0, 1 can sing, though of iron my throat, 
 And discordant my wild, supernatural note ! 
 And the song that I sing is of danger and dread, 
 The midnight collision, the quivering dead ; 
 The power imperial that nothing can stay ; 
 The myriad of perils that lurk by the way. 
 
 Bong ! Bong ! 
 
 Crashing along ! 
 I shorten the road with a bit of a song ! 
 
62 THE SONG OF THE LOCOMOTIVE. 
 
 III. 
 
 Ho there, old stoker ! who think you control 
 This iron-ribbed animal, body and soul ; 
 Why, one pant of my lungs and one heave of my flank 
 Would flash you down yonder precipitous bank ; 
 So don't be too proud of your muscle and bones, 
 For sixty feet down there are horrible stones ! 
 
 Ding ! Dong ! 
 
 Bumping along ! 
 Don't think that I 'm singing your funeral song ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 For I know that behind me I carry a treasure, 
 And it thrills through my nerves with a singular pleasure. 
 There the bride by her newly-wed husband reposes, 
 And the bronze of his cheek is faint flushed by her roses ; 
 And the pale mother sits with her babe at her bosom, 
 Like a lily that just has unfolded a blossom. 
 
 Bong ! Bong ! 
 
 Gently along ! 
 Soft as the winds of the summer my song ! 
 
 v. 
 
 But away with all sentiment ! I am a steed 
 
 That lives on the wild inspiration of speed ! 
 
 I feed upon distance, I grapple with space ; 
 
 My soul is a furnace, my life is a race ; 
 
 The long prairie shakes with my thunderous tread, 
 
 And my dissonance curdles the air overhead ! 
 
 Bong ! Bong ! 
 
 Madly along ! 
 The mountains I split with reverberant song ! 
 
IRISH CASTLES. 63 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet sometimes I think, when I 'm housed for the night, 
 I may live to behold the decay of my might ; 
 For not far from my stable I often behold 
 A decrepit old Loco, once gallant and bold ; 
 Now his piston is gouty, his boiler is " bust," 
 And the gold of his harness is eaten with rust. 
 
 Ding ! Dong ! 
 
 Rotting so long, 
 With never a mouthful of coals, or a song! 
 
 VII. 
 
 0, better to die in the hour of my pride ! 
 
 Far better to perish in tunnel or tide ! 
 
 Ha ! what red light is this that 's advancing amain ? 
 
 J T is my rival returning, the haughty down train ! 
 
 Clear the track ! I 'm upon you ! Hurrah ! what a smash ! 
 
 There, old fellow, I think I have settled your hash ! 
 
 Bong ! Bong ! 
 
 Slowly along ! 
 I 'm rather too crippled to finish my song 1 
 
 IRISH CASTLES. 
 
 ' SWEET Norah, come here and look into the fire ; 
 
 Maybe in its embers good luck we might see ; 
 But don't come too near, or your glances so shining 
 
 Will put it clean out, like the sunbeams, machree ! 
 
64 IKISH CASTLES. 
 
 1 Just look 'twixt the sods, where so brightly they 're 
 
 burning : 
 
 There 's a sweet little valley, with river and trees, 
 And a house on the bank quite as big as the squire's, 
 Who knows but some day we '11 have something like 
 these 1 
 
 1 And now there 's a coach and four galloping horses, 
 A coachman to drive, and a footman behind ; 
 
 That betokens some day we will keep a fine carriage, 
 And dash through the streets with the speed of the 
 wind/ 
 
 As Dermot was speaking, the rain down the chimney 
 Soon quenched the turf-fire on the hollowed hearth- 
 stone, 
 
 While mansion and carriage in smoke-circles vanished, 
 And left the poor dreamers dejected and lone. 
 
 Then Norah to Dermot these words softly whispered : 
 ' 'T is better to strive than to vainly desire ; 
 
 And our little hut by the roadside is better 
 
 Than palace, and servants, and coach in the fire ! ' 
 
 'T is years since poor Dermot his fortune was dreaming, 
 Since Norah's sweet counsel effected his cure : 
 
 For ever since then hath he toiled night and morning, 
 And now his snug mansion looks down on the Suir. 
 
LOCH INK 65 
 
 LOCH INK 
 
 I KNOW a lake where the cool waves break, 
 
 And softly fall on the silver sand ; 
 And no steps intrude on that solitude, 
 
 And no voice save mine disturbs the strand : 
 
 And a mountain bold, like a giant of old, 
 Turned to stone by some magic spell, 
 
 Uprears in might his misty height, 
 And his craggy sides are wooded welL 
 
 In the midst doth smile a little isle, 
 
 And its verdure shames the emerald's green : 
 
 On its grassy side, in ruined pride, 
 A castle of old is darkling seen. 
 
 On its lofty crest the wild crane's nest ; 
 
 In its halls the sheep good shelter find ; 
 And the ivy shades where a hundred blades 
 
 Were hung, when the owners in sleep reclined. 
 
 That chief of old, could he now behold 
 
 His lordly tower a shepherd's pen, 
 His corpse, long dead, from its narrow bed 
 
 Would rise, with anger and shame, again. 
 
 'T is sweet to gaze when the sun's bright rays 
 Are cooling themselves in the trembling wave ; 
 
 But 't is sweeter far when the evening star 
 Shines like a smile at friendship's grave. 
 5 
 
66 AN APRIL DAY. 
 
 There the hollow shells through their wreathed cells 
 
 Make music on the silent shore, 
 As the summer breeze, through the distant trees, 
 
 Murmurs in fragrant breathings o'er. 
 
 And the sea-weed shines like the hidden mines, 
 
 Or the fairy cities beneath the sea ; 
 And the wave-washed stones are bright as the thrones 
 
 Of the ancient kings of Araby. ' 
 
 If it were my lot in that fairy spot 
 
 To live forever and dream 't were mine, 
 
 Courts might woo and kings pursue 
 Ere I would leave thee, loved Loch Ine. 
 
 AN APRIL DAY. 
 
 THIS was the day a year ago 
 
 When first I saw her, sauntering slow 
 
 Over the meadow and down the lane, 
 
 Where the privet was shining with recent rain. 
 
 The world had flung its torpor away, 
 And breathed the pure air of the April day ; 
 The sap was pulsing through maple-trees, 
 And the rivers were rushing to meet the seas. 
 
 All the secret thrills that through nature run, 
 Silent and swift as the threads of the sun, 
 Shook with their tremors each growing thing, 
 And worked with the mystic charms of spring. 
 
AN APRIL DAY. 67 
 
 Like ghosts at the resurrection day, 
 The snowdrops arose from the torpid clay, 
 And the violets opened their purple eyes, 
 And smiled in the face of the tender skies. 
 
 The larch-trees were covered with crimson buds 
 Till their branches seemed streaming with sanguine floods ; 
 And the ivy looked faded, and old, and sere, - 
 
 'Mid the greenness that sprouted everywhere. 
 
 But though the landscape was passing bright 
 Her coming lent it a rarer light ; 
 A tenderer verdure was on the grass, 
 And flowers grew brighter to see her pass. 
 
 Her form and face, as she moved along, 
 Seemed like a sweet, incarnate song, 
 A living hymn that the earth, in glee, 
 Sung to heaven, the sun, and me. 
 
 So seemed she to me a year ago, 
 When first I saw her, sauntering slow 
 Over the meadow and down the lane, 
 Where the privet shone with the April rain. 
 
 The year is past entombed forgot : 
 I stand to-day on the selfsame spot : 
 Still do the pallid snowdrops rise, 
 And the violets open their purple eyes : 
 
 And a coming greenness is in the lane, 
 And the privet glistens with recent rain ; 
 The larches sprout, and the blue-birds sing, 
 And the earth resounds with the joy of spring ! 
 
68 JOHNNY. 
 
 But the joy of the world is gone from me ; 
 I see no beauty in field or tree ; 
 The flower that bloomed in my path is crushed ; 
 The music that solaced my life is hushed. 
 
 I see her tombstone from where I stand, 
 Stark and stiff, like a ghastly hand 
 Pointing to heaven, as if to say, 
 There we shall meet, some April day ! 
 
 JOHNNY. 
 
 I CARE not how you have been blest 
 No maiden ever yet possessed 
 
 A lover like my lover. 
 His eyes were of a dancing blue ; 
 His chestnut hair was just the hue 
 
 That flecks the golden plover. 
 
 'T was on a dreamy night in June, 
 "When earth and heaven throbbed in tune, 
 
 That first he told his passion. 
 Together we were sauntering down 
 The lonely road that led to town, 
 
 In most romantic fashion. 
 
 He took my hand in his, and placed 
 His other arm about my waist ; 
 
 His heart went clicky clacket. 
 And 'midst an incoherent flow 
 Of protestations deep and low, 
 
 He pressed me to his jacket. 
 
JOHNNY. 69 
 
 I eight and twenty years had seen, 
 And Johnny was not quite thirteen ; 
 
 Yet justice I must render : 
 'Mid all the swains I 've had since then 
 And some of them were charming men 
 
 I ne'er had one more tender. 
 
 He swore he loved me more than life ; 
 He 'd die if I were not his wife ; 
 
 I was his only jewel ; 
 He dreamed of me by day and night ; 
 I was his sun, his star, his light, 
 
 In fact, all kinds of fuel. 
 
 I dared not let him see the smile 
 That glimmered on my lips the while 
 
 He madly was entreating ; 
 For worlds I would not cause to smart 
 The honest, manly little heart 
 
 That in his breast was beating. 
 
 Then he ah ! cunning little Jack 
 Rehearsed a speech from Telemaque 
 
 A fact he did not mention ; 
 While I, with half-averted face, 
 Kept listening, with the utmost grace 
 
 And most profound attention. 
 
 He wished to fly to some far isle 
 Where summer skies forever smile, 
 
 And fruits are in profusion ; 
 And there, away from haunts of men, 
 We 'd live the golden age again, 
 
 In exquisite seclusion. 
 
70 JOHNNY. 
 
 The sun of love our days should gild, 
 And stalwart he would straightway build 
 
 A beautiful pavilion ; 
 And we would live on deer and fish, 
 With grapes as much as we could wish, 
 
 And kisses by the million. 
 
 I listened gravely to his plan 
 The loving, noble little man 
 
 So earnest and so funny ; 
 Then hinted that to reach this haunt 
 Of wedded bliss, why, we might want 
 
 A little ready money. 
 
 The blow was fatal : Johnny's face 
 Grew solemn at a fearful pace, 
 
 And silently we parted. 
 I went my way : he went to bed 
 Revolving finance in his head, 
 
 And nearly broken-hearted. 
 
 I need not say we did not fly 
 To that eternal summer sky, 
 
 So far across the water. 
 I hear no more of Telemaque, 
 For I, in short, may say that Jack 
 
 Is married to my daughter. 
 
THE SKATERS. 71 
 
 THE SKATERS. 
 
 LIKE clouds they scud across the ice, 
 His hand holds hers as in a vice ; 
 The moonlight strikes the back-blown hair 
 Of handsome Madge and Rupert Clare. 
 
 The ice resounds beneath the steel ; 
 It groans to feel his spurning steel ; 
 While ever with the following wind 
 A shadowy skater flits behind. 
 
 t Why skate we thus so far from land ] 
 
 Rupert Clare, let go my hand ! 
 
 1 cannot see I cannot hear 
 The wind about us moans with fear ! * 
 
 His hand is stifier than a vice, 
 His touch is colder than the ice, 
 His face is paler than the moon 
 That paves with light the lone lagoon ! 
 
 * Rupert Clare, I feel I trace 
 
 A something awful in your face ! 
 
 You crush my hand you sweep me on 
 
 Until my breath and sense are gone ! ' 
 
 His grasp is stiffer than a vice, 
 His touch is colder than the ice ; 
 She only hears the ringing tune 
 Of skates upon the lone lagoon. 
 
72 THE SKATERS. 
 
 ' Rupert Clare ! sweet Rupert Clare ! 
 For heaven's mercy hear my prayer ! 
 I could not help my heart you know ! 
 Poor Willy Gray, he loves me so ! ' 
 
 His grip is stiffer than a vice, 
 His lip is bluer than the ice ; 
 While ever thrills the ringing tune 
 Of skates along the lone lagoon. 
 
 * Rupert Clare ! where are your eyes 1 
 The rotten ice before us lies ! 
 You dastard ! Loose your hold, I say ! 
 God ! Where are you, Willy Gray 1 ' 
 
 A shriek that seems to split the sky, 
 A wilder light in Rupert's eye, 
 She cannot cannot loose that grip ; 
 His sinewy arm is round her hip ! 
 
 But like an arrow on the wind 
 
 The shadowy skater scuds behind ; 
 
 The lithe ice rises to the stroke 
 
 Of steel-shod heels that seem to smoke. 
 
 He hurls himself upon the pair ; 
 He tears his bride from Rupert Clare ; 
 His fainting Madge, whose moist eyes say, 
 Ah ! here, at last, is Willy Gray ! 
 
 The lovers stand with heart to heart, 
 ' No more,' they cry, ' no more to part ! ' 
 But still along the lone lagoon 
 The steel skates ring a ghostly tune ! 
 
THE DEMON OF THE GIBBET. 73 
 
 And in the moonlight, pale and cold, 
 The panting lovers still behold 
 The self-appointed sacrifice 
 Skating toward the rotten ice ! 
 
 THE DEMON OF THE GIBBET. 
 
 THERE was no west, there was no east, 
 
 No star abroad for eye to see ; 
 And Norman spurred his jaded beast 
 
 Hard by the terrible gallows-tree. 
 
 ' Norman, haste across this waste, 
 For something seems to follow me ! ' 
 
 1 Cheer up, dear Maud, for, thanked be God, 
 We nigh have passed the gallows-tree ! ' 
 
 He kissed her lip : then spur and whip ! 
 
 And fast they fled across the lea ! 
 But vain the heel and rowel steel, 
 
 For something leaped from the gallows-tree ! 
 
 ' Give me your cloak, your knightly cloak, 
 That wrapped you oft beyond the sea ; 
 
 The wind is bold, my bones are old, 
 And I am cold on the gallows-tree.' 
 
 ' holy God ! dearest Maud, 
 
 Quick, quick, some prayers, the best that be ! 
 A bony hand my neck has spanned, 
 
 And tears my knightly cloak from me ! ' 
 
74 THE WHARF RAT. 
 
 4 Give me your wine, the red, red wine, 
 That in the flask hangs by your knee ! 
 
 Ten summers burst on me accurst, 
 And I 'm athirst on the gallows-tree.' 
 
 i Maud, my life ! my loving wife ! 
 
 Have you no prayer to set us free ? 
 My belt unclasps, a demon grasps 
 
 And drags my wine-flask from my knee ! ' 
 
 ' Give me your bride, your bonnie bride, 
 That left her nest with you to flee ! 
 
 0, she hath flown to be my own, 
 For I 'm alone on the gallows-tree ! ' 
 
 * Cling closer, Maud, and trust in God ! 
 
 Cling close ! Ah, heaven, she slips from me ! ' 
 A prayer, a groan, and he alone 
 
 Rode on that night from the gallows-tree. 
 
 THE WHARF RAT. 
 
 i. 
 
 THE wharf is silent and black, and motionless lie the ships ; 
 
 The ebb-tide sucks at the piles with its cold and slimy lips; 
 
 And down through the tortuous lane a sailor comes sing- 
 ing along, 
 
 And a girl in the Gallipagos isles is the burden of his 
 song. 
 
THE HAVELOCK. 75 
 
 II. 
 
 Behind the white cotton bales a figure is crouching low ; 
 It listens with eager ears, as the straggling footsteps go. 
 It follows the singing sailor, stealing upon his track, 
 And when he reaches the river-side, the wharf rat 's at 
 his back. 
 
 in. 
 
 A man is missing next day, and a paragraph tells the fact ; 
 
 But the way he went, or the road he took, will never, 
 never be tracked ! 
 
 For the lips of the tide are dumb, and it keeps such se- 
 crets well, 
 
 And the fate of the singing sailor boy the wharf rat alone 
 can tell. 
 
 THE HAVELOCK. 
 
 ON southern uplands I was born, 
 
 Kissed by the lips of the golden morn ; 
 
 Strong, and tall, and straight was I, 
 
 And my white plumes danced as the wind went by, 
 
 Till the hills above and the vales below 
 
 Seemed drowned in a mist of drifting snow. 
 
 But by and by my plumes were stripped 
 By negroes lusty and dusky-lipped, 
 And they bore me off to a darksome mill, 
 With jaws and teeth that never were still ; 
 And there I was mangled and whirled about, 
 Till it chewed me up and it spat me out. 
 
76 THE HAVELOCK, 
 
 and bound with canvas and rope, 
 I hung on the edge of a dizzy slope, 
 Till I saw the panting steamer glide 
 Close to the edge of the terrible slide, ^ 
 When they pushed me over and let me go, 
 And swift as a bullet I plunged below. 
 
 So down the river they bore me then, 
 
 And passed me over to trading men, 
 
 And bartered me off, and shipped me to sea, 
 
 From the crowded wharf of the long levee ; 
 
 And so we sailed for many a day, 
 
 Till the mud of the Mersey around us lay. 
 
 Through dingy factories then I passed, 
 Where flickered the shuttle flashing fast ; 
 And British fingers all wan and thin 
 With labor, and hunger, and drink, and sin, 
 Twisted my threads, in the fetid gloom, 
 And wove them close on the whirring loom. 
 
 So back to my country I came again, 
 
 Fit for the uses of busy men ; 
 
 And the time went by, till one summer day 
 
 In a beautiful maiden's lap I lay, 
 
 While with scissors, and thimble, and needle, and thread, 
 
 She fashioned me thus for a soldier's head. 
 
 For the light of battle was in the sky, 
 
 And the armed thousands were hurrying by, 
 
 And the brawny farmer and slender clerk 
 
 Were side by side in the holy work ; 
 
 For a wondrous fire through the people ran, 
 
 Through maid, and woman, and child, and man. 
 
THE HAVELOCK. 77 
 
 Ah ! 't was a tender and sorrowful day 
 When the soldier lover went marching away ; 
 For that selfsame morn he had called her bride, 
 As they stood at the altar side by side ; 
 Then with one long kiss and a hushed good-by 
 He went with his comrades to do or die ! 
 
 To-day I am on the selfsame earth 
 
 That nourished my parents and gave me birth ; 
 
 But the waving snow is no longer there, 
 
 And muskets flash in the sunlit air, 
 
 And the hillside shakes with the heavy tramp 
 
 Of the hostile armies from camp to camp. 
 
 And the head that I cover is thinking now 
 Of the fair hands that placed me upon his brow, 
 And wonders whether, in the coming fight 
 That will redden these southern slopes to-night, 
 I shall safely ride through the stormy fray, 
 Or ownerless lie in the crimson clay. 
 
 And northward far, at the selfsame time 
 That he dreaming stands in this sunny clime, 
 The hands that made me are raised in prayer, 
 And her voice ascends through the silent air ; 
 And if pureness and goodness have power to charm, 
 The head that I cover is safe from harm. 
 
78 THE COUNTERSIGN. 
 
 THE COUNTERSIGN. 
 
 ALAS ! the weary hours pass slow, 
 
 The night is very dark and still, 
 And in the marshes far below 
 
 I hear the bearded whippoorwill. 
 I scarce can see a yard ahead, 
 
 My ears are strained to catch each sound; 
 I hear the leaves about me shed, 
 
 And the springs bubbling through the ground. 
 
 Along the beaten path I pace, 
 
 Where white rags mark my sentry's track ; 
 In formless shrubs I seem to trace 
 
 The foeman's form with bending back. 
 I think I see him crouching low, 
 
 I stop and list I stoop and peer 
 Until the neighboring hillocks grow 
 
 To groups of soldiers far and near. 
 
 With ready piece I wait and watch, 
 
 Until my eyes, familiar grown, 
 Detect each harmless earthen notch, 
 
 And turn guerillas into stone. 
 And then amid the lonely gloom, 
 
 Beneath the weird old tulip-trees, 
 My silent marches I resume, 
 
 And think on other times than these. 
 
 Sweet visions through the silent night ! 
 The deep bay-windows fringed with vine, 
 
THE COUNTERSIGN. 79 
 
 The room within, in softened light, 
 The tender, milk-white hand in mine; 
 
 The timid pressure, and the pause 
 
 That ofttimes overcame our speech, 
 
 That time when by mysterious laws 
 We each felt all in all to each. 
 
 And then that bitter, bitter day, 
 
 When came the final hour to part, 
 When, clad in soldier's honest gray, 
 
 I pressed her weeping to my heart. 
 Too proud of me to bid me stay, 
 
 Too fond of me to let me go, 
 I had to tear myself away, 
 
 And left her stolid in her woe. 
 
 So comes the dream so fleets the night 
 
 When distant in the darksome glen, 
 Approaching up the sombre height, 
 
 I hear the solid march of men ; 
 Till over stubble, over sward, 
 
 And fields where gleams the golden sheaf, 
 I see the lantern of the guard 
 
 Advancing with the night relief. 
 
 " Halt ! who goes there 1 " my challenge cry : 
 
 It rings along the watchful line. 
 " Relief ! " I hear a voice reply. 
 
 " Advance, and give the countersign ! " 
 With bayonet at the charge, I wait, 
 
 The corporal gives the mystic spell ; 
 With arms at port I charge my mate, 
 
 And onward pass, and all is well. 
 
80 THE ZOUAVES. 
 
 But in the tent that night awake, 
 
 I think, if in the fray I fall, 
 Can I the mystic answer make 
 
 When the angelic sentries call 1 
 And pray that heaven may so ordain. 
 
 That when I near the camp divine, 
 Whate'er my travail or my pain, 
 
 I yet may have the countersign. 
 
 CAMP CAMERON, July, 1861. 
 
 THE ZOUAVES. 
 
 To bugle-note and beat of drum 
 They come, the gallant Zouaves come ! 
 With gleams of blue and glints of red ; 
 With airy, light, elastic tread ; 
 With dashing, wild, insouciant air ; 
 With figures sinewy, lithe, and spare ; 
 With gait replete with fiery grace ; 
 With cloudless eye and boyish face, 
 And agile play of feet and hands, 
 Swift as a Bedouin of the sands, 
 
 They come, the gay Zouaves ! 
 
 Lo ! as they file along the green, 
 
 I seem to see the Algerine ! 
 
 The marble piles of building fade, 
 
 And the vast desert, without shade 
 
 Save where the oasis uplifts 
 
 Its green plumes 'mid the sandy drifts 
 
THE ZOUAVES. 81 
 
 Stretches before my dazzled sight 
 While, rising o'er a distant height, 
 On lean, swift steeds, with slender spears, 
 The sallow Arab troop appears, 
 
 To chase the French Zouaves ! 
 
 They slope along the gold-red sand ; 
 Their keen eyes sweep the sky and land ; 
 The lean steeds snuff the desert wind ; 
 The watchful vulture soars behind, 
 But nothing moves upon the plain ; 
 The keen eyes search the sands in vain. 
 ^Before, behind, and left and right, 
 A sandy ripple meets the sight : 
 Not even these black-eyed devils know 
 That, nigh yon sand-hill, lying low, 
 
 Are crouched the brave Zouaves ! 
 
 Four puffs of smoke that seem to float 
 From out the earth, a crackling note, 
 Four saddles emptied in the troop ! 
 Then, wild and shrill the Arab whoop, 
 And, spurring with the stirruped feet, 
 And dashing of the. coursers fleet, 
 And then four puffs of smoke once more, 
 Four saddles emptied as before. 
 In vain their Allah they invoke, 
 With pertinacious puffs of smoke 
 Reply the brave Zouaves ! 
 
 Out of the earth, like Genii, rise 
 The red Zouaves with flashing eyes, 
 And on the sallow Arab troop 
 Like hawks upon a bird they swoop, 
 6 
 
82 THE ZOUAVES. 
 
 With bayonet keen, with murderous gun, 
 With curious, planned, erratic run, 
 With sudden fall upon the sand, 
 With quick deploy, with gun in hand : 
 Thus like a meteor of the skies, 
 Vivid with red and blue, arise 
 
 The dauntless French Zouaves ! 
 
 Over the tawny sands they fly, 
 Now seem they far, now seem they nigh. 
 They fire and fall, they fall and fire, 
 They scud on limbs of sinewy wire ; 
 In each manoeuvre seeming wild, 
 Each soldier .'s docile as a child; 
 And even the fleetest Arab finds 
 A foe that 's fleeter than the winds. 
 Thus, outmanoeuvred and outsped, 
 He turns and hides his haughty head 
 Before the French Zouaves ! 
 
 Your Zouave corps, haughty France ! 
 We looked on as a wild romance, 
 And many a voice was heard to scoff 
 At Algiers and at Malakoff ; 
 Nor did we Yankees credit quite 
 Their evolutions in the fight. 
 But now we 're very sure what they 
 Have done can here be done to-day, 
 When thus before our sight deploys 
 The gallant corps from Illinois, 
 American Zouaves ! 
 
A SOLDIER'S LETTER. 83 
 
 A SOLDIER'S LETTER. 
 
 January 20, 1862. 
 WITH the head of a drum for my desk, I sit on a southern 
 
 slope, 
 "While the sunlight streaks the apples that hang in the 
 
 orchard hard by, 
 And puzzle my brains over verses and many a marvellous 
 
 trope, 
 
 And vainly seek inspiration from out the sky. 
 What can I tell you now that you have not known before 1 
 How dearly I love you, Mary, and how hard the. parting 
 
 was, 
 And how bravely you kissed my lips when we stood at the 
 
 open door, 
 And blessed me for going with heart and hand in the 
 
 cause ! 
 0, sweet as a lily flushed with the red of the roses near 
 
 When beat by the hot, implacable sun above, 
 Was the hue of your angel face, as tear after tear 
 Rose to your ivory eyelids and welled with love ! 
 
 War is not quite so hard as you poor townspeople think ; 
 We have plenty of food to eat, and a good, warm blanket 
 
 at night, 
 
 And now and then, you know, a quiet, moderate drink ; 
 Which does n't hurt us, dearest, and makes things 
 
 right. 
 
 But the greatest blessing of all is the total want of 
 care; 
 
84 A SOLDIER'S LETTER. 
 
 The happy, complete reliance of the carefully -guardianed 
 
 child 
 Who has no thought for his dinner, and is given good 
 
 clothes to wear, 
 And whose leisure moments are with innocent sports 
 
 beguiled. 
 The drill of the soldier is pleasant, if one works with a 
 
 willing heart, 
 
 It is only the worthless fellow that grumbles at double- 
 quick ; 
 I like the ingenious manoeuvres that constitute war an 
 
 art, 
 And not even the cleaning of arms can make me sick. 
 
 One of the comrades five that sleep in the tent with me 
 Is a handsome, fair-faced boy, with curling, sun-burned 
 
 hair; 
 Like me, he has left a sweetheart on the shore of the 
 
 northern sea, 
 
 And, like her I love, he says she also is good and fair. 
 So we talk of our girls at night when the other chaps are 
 
 asleep, 
 Talk in the sacred whispers that are low with the choke 
 
 of love, 
 
 And often when we are silent I think I can hear him weep, 
 And murmur her name in accents that croon like the 
 
 nesting dove. 
 Then, when we are out on picket, and the nights are calm 
 
 and still, 
 When our beats lie close together, we pause and chatter 
 
 the same ; 
 
 And the weary hours pass swiftly, till over the distant hill 
 The sun comes up unclouded and fierce with flame. 
 
A SOLDIER'S LETTER. 85 
 
 The scene that I look on is lovely ! The cotton-fields 
 
 smooth and white, 
 
 With the bending negroes shelling the flocculent, burst- 
 ing pods, 
 And the quiet sentinels slowly pacing the neighboring 
 
 height, 
 
 And now and then hidden by groups of the golden-rods. 
 Beautiful are the isles that mottle the slumberous bay ; 
 
 Beautiful are the azure veins of the creeks ; 
 Beautiful is the crimson that, far away, 
 
 Burns on the woods like the paint on an Indian's cheeks ! 
 Beautiful are the thoughts of the time when Hist ! 
 What sound is that I hear 1 'T is the rifle's continuous 
 
 crack ! 
 The long-roll beats to arms ! I must not cannot be 
 
 missed. 
 Dear love, I '11 finish this letter when I come back. 
 
 January 30. 
 Don't be startled, my darling, at this handwriting not 
 
 being mine : 
 
 I have been a little ill, and the comrade I spoke of before 
 Has kindly offered to take from my loving lips this line ; 
 So he holds, as you see, the pen I can hold no more. 
 That was a skirmish that came, as I wrote to you, out on 
 
 the hill ; 
 
 We had sharp fighting a while, and I lost my arm. 
 There ! don't cry, my darling ! it will not kill, 
 
 And other poor fellows there met greater harm. 
 I have my left arm still to fold you close to my heart, 
 All the strength of my lost one will pass into that, I 
 
 know ; 
 We soon shall be together, never, never to part, 
 
 And to suffer thus for your country is bliss, not woe ! 
 
86 THE PRISONER OF WAR. 
 
 THE PRISONER OF WAR. 
 
 As I lie in my cot at night, and look through the open 
 
 door, 
 And watch the silken sky that is woven with threads 
 
 of stars, 
 While the white tents sleep on the field like sheep on a 
 
 tawny moor, 
 And the hushed streets traverse the camp like dusky 
 
 I think of my comrade afar, lying down in a southern 
 
 cell, 
 With his life on a paper lot and a loving heart on his 
 
 life, 
 And my blood boils up in my veins, and I feel like a fiend 
 
 of hell, 
 And I long to vent my hate and my rage in strife. 
 
 I loved him with all my love ; loved him even as well as 
 
 she 
 Whose hair he carried away in a locket close to his 
 
 heart; 
 
 I remember how jealous I felt when under the sycamore- 
 tree, 
 
 The night ere the regiment started, I saw them part. 
 We had been chums together, had studied and drank 
 
 in tune ; 
 
 The joy or the grief that struck him rebounded also 
 on me, 
 
THE PRISONER OF WAR. 87 
 
 As his joy arose mine followed, as waters follow the moon, 
 And his tears found their way to my heart as a stream 
 to the sea. 
 
 I sing the irregular song of a soul that is bursting with 
 pain ! 
 
 There is no metre for sorrow, no rhythm for real despair : 
 Go count the feet of the wind as it tramples the naked 
 plain, 
 
 Or mimic the silent sadness of snow in the air ! 
 I cannot control my heart, nor my innate desire of song, 
 
 I only know that a wild and impetuous grief, 
 A fierce, athletic, vengeful feeling of wrong, 
 
 Beats at my brain to-night and must have relief ! 
 
 Spite of all I do to crush it, his sorrowful face will come, 
 Come with its awful framework of interlaced bars and 
 
 stone, 
 And out of his patient visage, and lips that are terribly 
 
 dumb, 
 
 I hear the imprisoned whisper, " I am alone ! " 
 Solitude thus for him, the life and soul of his throng ; 
 
 Whose wit electric wakened the sluggish board ; 
 Whose voice, though sweet in converse, was sweeter still 
 
 in song ; 
 Whose heart like a cornucopia always poured ! 
 
 I mind me when by the Charles River we twain have 
 walked, 
 
 Close to the elms so hallowed in unwritten song, 
 And over the college topics gravely pondered and talked, 
 
 With devious student ideas of right and wrong. 
 
88 THE PRISONER OF WAR. 
 
 Ah! the river flews there in its usual placid way ; 
 
 The wherries are moored at the boat-house, the elm- 
 trees leaf and fall, 
 But there is not a voice that now could make the old 
 
 college gay, 
 His dusty cap and his gown are worth them all. 
 
 How can he be a prisoner there when I have him here in 
 
 my heart ? 
 
 Closer I hold his image than they in the south hold him ; 
 It is wrapped and corded with fibres that never, never 
 
 will part, 
 
 And shrined in love and friendship instead of a dun- 
 geon grim. 
 Up on the fatal bluff where the gallant Baker fell, 
 
 And the foe, insidious, fired from thicket, and copse, 
 
 and tree, 
 There, after fighting long, and bravely, and well, 
 
 The friend of my heart was cut off as a stream by the sea ! 
 
 Lying here in my tent at night, and looking out at the 
 
 door, 
 
 It is I who am the prisoner, not you, beloved friend ! 
 It is I who feel the shackles, and the prick of the healing 
 
 sore, 
 
 And all the prison sufferings without end. 
 I see the mocking faces all day through the windows 
 
 stare, 
 I know they are staring at you, but they sneeringly 
 
 lower on me, 
 And I swear an oath as sacred as a soldier ever can swear 
 
 That I will be with you there, or you will be free ! 
 IN CAMP, December, 1861. 
 
WINTER. 89 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 COLD wind, white suow, 
 
 Sweeps fast, falls slow, 
 And chills the landscape's autumn glow ; 
 
 The ice-bolts freeze 
 
 The naked trees, 
 And seal the old year's obsequies. 
 
 A leaden sky 
 
 Droops heavily, 
 As dull and glazed as dead man's eye ; 
 
 The sweeping clouds, 
 
 In cold, cold crowds, 
 Enfold the day with ghostly shrouds. 
 
 The woods lie bare, 
 
 And here and there ^ 
 
 The gray moss hangs its mournful hair ; 
 
 The leaves sun-burned, 
 
 By fierce winds spurned, 
 Lie mouldering 'mid the soil inurned. 
 
 The leafless lines 
 
 Of trailing vines 
 Stretch, harp-like, through the sounding pines j 
 
 From their festoons 
 
 Float wailing croons, 
 As weird and grim as northern runes. 
 
90 THE SEWING BIRD. 
 
 The day is cold, 
 
 The earth is old, 
 And mourns her summer's squandered gold ; 
 
 The birds are dumb, 
 
 The springs are numb, 
 For winter in his might has come. 
 
 THE SEWING BIRD. 
 
 A CHIMNEY'S shadow, flung by the sun 
 
 As it sank in the west when the day was done, 
 
 Silent and dark as the noiseless bat 
 
 Crept through the room where the work-girl sat, 
 
 Where she sat all day at her poor pine table, 
 
 Working, as long as her hands were able, 
 
 On shirt and collar and chemisette, 
 
 On gowns of silk and on veils of net, 
 
 Till her busy fingers seemed to be 
 
 A skeleton kind of machinery. 
 
 The table was strewn with threads of silk, 
 
 With pearly buttons that shone like milk, 
 
 With gaudy stuffs of a thousand dyes, 
 
 And beads that gleamed in the gloom like eyes ; 
 
 While in the midst of these beautiful things 
 
 Glimmered a Sewing Bird's silver wings. 
 
 But the blankets that lay on her bed were poor, 
 
 And cracks were plain in the crazy door, 
 
 The roof was low and the floor was old, 
 
 And the work-girl shivered as if a-cold ; 
 
THE SEWING BIRD. 91 
 
 And to judge by the veins in her wan white hand, 
 She did not live on the fat of the land. 
 
 n. 
 
 Now when the shadow crept through the room, . 
 
 Filling the place with a cheerless gloom, 
 
 So that the weary work was stopped, 
 
 Her thin, mechanical hands she dropped, 
 
 And gazed at the wall so bare and bald, 
 
 Where the shadowy feet of the twilight crawled. 
 
 If at that moment she dreamed at all, 
 
 Or peopled with visions the cold, white wall, 
 
 She thought perhaps of that one bright day, 
 
 In the month of June or the month of May, 
 
 When, rich with the savings of many a week, 
 
 She felt fresh winds blow over her cheek, 
 
 As, with friends as poor and lowly as she, 
 
 She caught her first glimpse of the calm, blue sea, 
 
 Or roamed by copses or sunny lea, 
 
 And learned how bright the world could be. 
 
 But I doubt if the poor are rich in dreams, 
 
 Or build fine castles by golden streams ; 
 
 For want, like frost-bite, kills the grain 
 
 That Fancy sows in the teeming brain, 
 
 And it is not every dreamy stare 
 
 That is filling with fairies the twilight air. 
 
 in. 
 
 Yet still she sat, and, it may be, dreamed 
 I hope so until there suddenly seemed 
 To sweep through the room a rustle of wings, 
 With a tinkling as if of silver rings, 
 
92 THE SEWING BIRD. 
 
 And then a low and a soaring song, 
 
 That every instant grew more strong. 
 
 She looked at wall and window and floor, 
 
 She peered through the gloom at the crazy door ; 
 
 Nothing was visible anywhere, 
 
 Yet still the song was thrilling the air ; 
 
 Then she turned her eyes to the table of pine, 
 
 And saw something shiver and dimly shine ; 
 
 And lo ! from the midst of the shreds of silk, 
 
 And the pearly buttons that shone like milk, 
 
 There came the song of the silver rings, 
 
 And the gleam and flutter of shining wings ; 
 
 As up from the table the Sewing Bird sprang, 
 
 While singing it soared, and soaring it sang : 
 
 " Follow me up and follow me down, 
 
 Hither and thither, through all the town ; 
 
 For there are lessons that must be taught, 
 
 And there are changes that must be wrought, 
 
 And there are wrongs that the world shall know, 
 
 So follow, follow, where'er I go ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then the work-girl rose from her rickety chair, 
 And opened the door that led on the stair, 
 While swift overhead the Sewing Bird flew, 
 And carolled and fluttered as if it knew 
 That it led her spirit in threads as strong 
 As the chains of love or the poet's song ; 
 While ever there rang through the corridor hollow 
 The silvery strain of " Follow ! Follow ! " 
 
THE SEWING BIRD. 93 
 
 V. 
 
 So down the avenue of Broadway, 
 
 Where the lamp-light shone like an amber day, 
 
 The Sewing Bird led the maiden along, 
 
 To the airy tune of its fairy song. 
 
 They came to a palace ornate and tall, 
 
 With marble pillars and marble wall, 
 
 And windows of glass so large and clear 
 
 That the panes seemed lucid as atmosphere. 
 
 The work-girl stopped as the crowd went by, 
 
 And gazed through the windows with wistful eye j 
 
 For the walls were splendid with paint and gold, 
 
 The couches were fit for the Sybarites old, 
 
 And the floor was soft with the Brussels woof, 
 
 And flowery frescos ran over the roof, 
 
 While a delicate radiance from globes of glass 
 
 Fell soft as sunlight upon the grass. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Who are the princes the work-girl thought - 
 That dwell in this palace by Genii wrought 1 
 She looked, and beheld some dozen or ten 
 Young and excessively nice young men ; 
 Their faces were beardless, rosy, and fair, 
 An astonishing curl was in their hair, 
 Their feet were squeezed into shiny boots, 
 Their nails were pink, and white at the roots, 
 Their hands were as taper, their limbs as fine, 
 As an Arab maiden's in Palestine ; 
 Their waistcoats were miracles to behold, 
 Ribbed with velvet and flecked with gold ; 
 
94 THE SEWING BIRD. 
 
 And perfect rivers of watch-chain ran 
 
 Over the breast of each nice young man. 
 
 But you could not see in a single face 
 
 Of courage or manhood the faintest trace ; 
 
 Through every feature the sentiment ran, 
 
 " If you please, I would rather not be a man ! " 
 
 One of them sat in an easy chair, 
 
 With smirking, impudent, indolent air, 
 
 Blandly explaining, with smile serene, 
 
 The merits of Cantator's sewing-machine ; 
 
 While others ]ounged through the gorgeous room, 
 
 Diffusing the odors of Lubin's perfume, 
 
 Or gossiping over the last new play, 
 
 Or their " spree " last week and " Was n't it gay ? " 
 
 But the crowd at the windows thought them sublime 
 
 And wished that they had such an easy time. 
 
 As the work-girl gazed at this splendid array 
 
 Of Cantator's youths on show in Broadway, 
 
 She gathered her shawl round her wasted form, 
 
 While her breath congealed on the window-panes warm, 
 
 And sighed, " Ah me ! ah me ! ah me ! 
 
 This is the place where I should be ! " 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then the Sewing Bird swelled his silvery throat, 
 And trilled through the air his crystalline note : 
 " Follow me up and follow me dow7i, 
 Hither and thither, through all the town ; 
 For there are still more splendid marts, 
 That never will warm the work-girls' hearts, 
 And the lesson is still to be fully learned 
 How woman s pittance by man is earned ! " 
 
THE SEWING BIRD. 95 
 
 VIII. 
 
 'T was a vast, majestic dry-goods store, 
 
 Into whose portals from every shore 
 
 Came cashmeres, satins, and silks, and shawls, 
 
 To flood the counters and fill the halls : 
 
 There Paris sent its delicate gloves, 
 
 "With mantles, " Such beauties ! " and bonnets, " Such 
 
 loves ! " 
 
 And China yielded from primitive looms 
 Its silks shot over with changeable blooms, 
 While India's golden tissues blent 
 With camel's-hair from the Syrian's tent. 
 At each counter was something, not man, not boy, 
 A sort of effeminate hobbledehoy, 
 And over the laces it simpered and smiled, 
 And blandly each feminine idiot beguiled 
 With " Charmingest fashion ! " and " Is n't it sweet ] " 
 " Just allow me to show you remarkably neat ! " 
 " No pattern is like it on honor in town, 
 Just becomes your complexion, shall I put it down ? " 
 And its frippery fingers went dabbling through tapes, 
 And its glozing discourse was of trimmings and capes, 
 And to see its expressionless eyes you 'd have thought 
 That its soul, like its tapes, had been long ago bought. 
 As the work-girl gazed on this muscleless crew, 
 Who were doing the things she was suited to do, 
 She sighed, " Ah me ! ah me ! ah me ! 
 This is the place where I should be ! " 
 
 IX. 
 
 Then the Sewing Bird swelled his silvery throat, 
 And uttered a piercing, reverberant note : 
 
96 THE SEWING BIRD. 
 
 " Follow me here, and follow me there, 
 Out through the free-blowing mountain air, 
 Up to the heart of the healthy hill, 
 Deep in the heart of the backwoods still ; 
 For the lesson still remains for you 
 To show you the labor that men should do." 
 
 Up in a wild Californian hill, 
 
 Where the torrents swept with a mighty will, 
 
 And the grandeur of nature filled the air, 
 
 And the cliffs were lofty, rugged, and bare, 
 
 Some thousands of lusty fellows she saw 
 
 Obeying the first great natural law. 
 
 From the mountain's side they had scooped the earth 
 
 Down to the veins where the gold had birth, 
 
 And the mighty pits they had girdled about 
 
 With ramparts massive, and wide, and stout ; 
 
 And they curbed the torrents, and swept them round 
 
 Wheresoever they willed, through virgin ground. 
 
 They rocked huge cradles the livelong day, 
 
 And shovelled the heavy, tenacious clay, 
 
 And grasped the nugget of gleaming ore, 
 
 The sinew of commerce on every shore. 
 
 Their beards were rough and their eyes were bright, 
 
 For their labor was healthy, their hearts were light ; 
 
 And the kings and princes of distant lands 
 
 Blessed the work of their stalwart hands. 
 
 Then high o'er the shovel's and pickaxe's clang 
 Loudly the song of the Sewing Bird rang : 
 
THE SEWING BIRD. 97 
 
 " See, see, see, see ! 
 
 THIS is the place where MEN should be ! " 
 
 And he soared once more through the boundless air, 
 
 While the work-girl followed him, wondering where. 
 
 XI. 
 
 She saw a region of mighty woods 
 Stretching away for millions of roods ; 
 The odorous cedar and pine-tree tall, 
 And the live oak, the grandest among them all, 
 And the solemn hemlock, massive and grim, 
 Claiming broad space for each mighty limb. 
 Then she heard the clang of the woodman's axe 
 Booming along through the lumber-tracks, 
 And she heard the crack of the yielding trunk, 
 As deeper and deeper the keen axe sunk, 
 And the swishing fall the sonorous thrill 
 And the following stillness, more than stilL 
 Then, moving among the avenues dim, 
 She saw the lumbermen, giant of limb ; 
 The frankness of heaven was in each face, 
 And their forms were grand with untutored grace ; 
 Their laugh was hearty, their blow was strong, 
 And sweet as the wood-notes their working song, 
 As they hewed the limbs from the giant tree, 
 And stripped off his leafy mystery ; 
 They breathed the air with elastic lungs, 
 They trolled their ditties with mirthful tongues, 
 And to see it would do a citizen good, 
 With what unction they relished their homely food ; 
 For their hunger was keen as their trenchant axe, 
 And their jokes as broad as their brawny backs. 
 
 7 
 
98 THE SEWING BIRD. 
 
 Then the Sewing Bird sang, again and again, 
 
 As he soared o'er the sonorous woods of Maine, 
 
 " See, see, see, see ! 
 
 THIS is the place where MEN should bef" 
 
 And^he floated once more through the azure air, 
 
 And the work-girl followed him, wondering where. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Vast plateaus of loamy land she saw, 
 
 Quickening with life in the early thaw. 
 
 The pulse of the waking spring she heard, 
 
 And the broken trills of the gladdened bird, 
 
 And the teams afield with their heavy plod 
 
 As they dragged the share through the juicy sod. 
 
 Through the crisp, clear air she heard the voice 
 
 Of sturdy ploughmen and farmer-boys, 
 
 And a busy din from the farm-yards rang, 
 
 And she heard the spades in the furrows clang. 
 
 Then a sudden change swept over the scene, 
 
 As the summer sun with a light serene 
 
 Smiled upon cottage and field and fold, 
 
 And reddened the harvests of waving gold. 
 
 Then down through the golden sea there came 
 
 The mowers swarthy and stout of frame ; 
 
 And the cradle-scythe in their hands they swung 
 
 Till the hiss of the blade through the grain-fields rung, 
 
 As they cut their way with a mighty motion, 
 
 Like sharp-prowed ships in a yellow ocean. 
 
 Then the Sewing Bird sang like a mellow horn, 
 
 As 1 it soared o'er Ohio's land of corn, 
 
 " See, see, see, see f 
 
 THIS is the place where MEN should be I " 
 
A SUMMER IDYL. 99 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The work-girl sat in her attic room, 
 Cold arid silent, and wrapped in gloom ; 
 There was no longer a glimmer of day, 
 And the Sewing Bird still on the table lay. 
 The voice was silent that once had sung, 
 And silent forever the silver tongue ; 
 But she pondered long on the strange decree 
 That she, wherever she turned, must see 
 Men in the places where women should be J 
 
 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 IT was a moonlit summer night ; 
 
 The heavens were drenched with silver rain, 
 And frowning rose Katahdin's height 
 
 Above the murmuring woods of Maine. 
 
 Close by our resting-place a stream 
 That seemed to long to kiss our feet 
 
 Sang, as it went, some fairy theme, 
 Musical, low, and incomplete. 
 
 The world was hushed, but nothing slept. 
 
 The cricket shrilled amid the sheaves, 
 And through the mighty woods there crept 
 
 The mystic utterances of leaves. 
 
100 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 Never had moonbeams shone so bright, 
 Never had earth seemed half so fair 
 
 I loved the stream, the trees, the night, 
 The wondrous azure of the air. 
 
 And through my very finger-tips 
 I felt the full enjoyment thrill ; 
 
 I wished I could with loving lips 
 
 Kiss the sweet moon that crowned the hill ! 
 
 Ah, why 1 Another moon I knew, 
 
 Less luminous, but all as fair, 
 Above my shoulder shining, through 
 
 A wondrous haze of golden hair ; 
 
 Shining as once Diana shone 
 
 Upon the boy, in Ida's grove ; 
 Her stooping face, no longer wan, 
 
 Flushed in the harvest-time of love. 
 
 So not for me that orb serene, 
 
 That grandly crowned the mountain-crest ; 
 And, turning to my proper queen, 
 
 I drew her down upon my breast. 
 
 1 Amy,' said I, * shine on me 
 
 Through all my life as that moon shines, 
 Shedding o'er each asperity 
 
 The light that softens and refines ; 
 
 
 
 ' So mildly, that my eyes can rest 
 
 Untiring on your gentle face, 
 Yet not so distant but my breast 
 
 May be your happy resting-place. 
 
, IDYL.'- . : \ \ '> \ A 101 
 
 * Bestow that sweet, attractive spell 
 That draws the sea toward the skies, 
 
 And let my tide of being swell 
 Beneath the lustre of your eyes. 
 
 t And if some sullen cloud should sail 
 'Twixt you and me in social space, 
 
 Why, when 't is past I will inhale 
 A sweeter influence from your face. 
 
 ' Be changeful, too, like that sweet moon ! 
 
 Change is the law of earthly life, 
 And nature hums the varying tune 
 
 Of weal and woe, of peace and strife.' 
 
 She ruffled all her yellow hair, 
 
 But, answering not a single word, 
 Veiled in the dusky twilight air, 
 
 She nestled to me like a bird. 
 
 And in the vague electric spark, 
 
 Felt only when cheek touches cheek, 
 
 I knew through all the shadows dark 
 The promise that she did not speak. 
 
 blessed moonlit summer night ! 
 
 When earth seemed drenched with silver rain, 
 And frowning rose Katahdin's height 
 
 Above the murmuring woods of Maine. 
 
102 BY THE PASS A 1C. 
 
 BY THE PASSAIC. 
 
 WHERE the river seeks the cover 
 
 Of the trees whose boughs hang over, 
 
 And the slopes are green with clover, 
 
 In the quiet month of May ; 
 Where the eddies meet and mingle, 
 Babbling o'er the stony shingle, 
 There I angle, 
 There I dangle, 
 All the day. 
 
 0, 't is sweet to feel the plastic 
 Rod, with top and butt elastic, 
 Shoot the line in coils fantastic, 
 Till, like thistle-down, the fly 
 Lightly drops upon the water, 
 Thirsting for the finny slaughter, 
 As I angle, 
 And I dangle, 
 Mute and sly. 
 
 Then I gently shake the tackle, 
 Till the barbed and fatal hackle 
 In its tempered jaws shall shackle 
 That old trout, so wary grown. 
 Now I strike him ! joy ecstatic ! 
 Scouring runs ! leaps acrobatic ! 
 So I angle, 
 So I dangle, 
 All alone. 
 
BY THE PASSAIC. 103 
 
 Then when grows the sun too fervent, 
 And the lurking trouts, observant, 
 Say to ine, * Your humble servant ! 
 
 Now we see your treacherous hook ! ' 
 Maud, as if by hazard wholly, 
 Saunters down the pathway slowly, 
 While I angle, 
 There to dangle 
 With her hook. 
 
 Then somehow the rod reposes, 
 And the book no page uncloses ; 
 But I read the leaves of roses 
 
 That unfold upon her cheek ; 
 And her small hand, white and tender, 
 Rests in mine. Ah ! what can send her 
 Thus to dangle 
 While I angle? 
 Cupid, speak I 
 
104 THE THKEE GANNETS. 
 
 THE THREE GANNETS. 
 
 ON a wrinkled rock, in a distant sea, 
 
 Three white gannets sat in the sun ; 
 They shook the brine from their feathers so fine, 
 
 And lazily, one by one, 
 They sunnily slept while the tempest crept. 
 
 ii. 
 
 In a painted boat, on a distant sea, 
 
 Three fowlers sailed merrily on, 
 And each took aim, as he came near the game, 
 
 And the gannets fell, one by one, 
 And fluttered and died while the tempest sighed. 
 
 in. 
 
 Then a cloud came over the distant sea, 
 
 A darkness came over the sun, 
 And a storm-wind smote on the painted boat, 
 
 And the fowlers sank, one by one, 
 Down, down with their craft while the tempest laughed. 
 
THE SEA. 105 
 
 THE SEA. 
 
 EBB and flow ! ebb and flow ! 
 By basalt crags, through caverns low, 
 Through rifted rocks, o'er pebbly strand, 
 On windy beaches of naked sand ! 
 
 To and fro ! to and fro ! 
 
 Chanting ever and chanting slow, 
 
 Thy harp is swept with liquid hands, 
 
 And thy voice is breathing of distant lands ! 
 
 Sweet and low ! sweet and lo.w ! 
 
 Those golden echoes I surely know. 
 
 Thy lips are rich with the lazy south, 
 
 And the tuneful icebergs have touched thy mouth. 
 
 Come and go ! come and go ! 
 
 The sun may shine and the winds may blow, 
 
 But thou wilt forever sing, sea ! 
 
 And I never, ah ! never, shall sing like thee ! 
 
 December, 1854. 
 
106 WILLY AND I. 
 
 WILLY AND I. 
 
 WE grew together in wind and rain, 
 We shared the pleasure, we shared the pain ; 
 I would have died for him, and he, 
 I thought, would have done the same for me, 
 ' Willy and I. 
 
 % 
 
 Summer and winter found us together, 
 Through snow and storm and shiny weather ; 
 Together we hid in the scented hay, 
 Or plucked the blooms of our English May, 
 Willy and I. " 
 
 I called him husband, he called me wife, 
 We builded the dream of a perfect life : 
 He was to conquer some noble state, 
 And I was to love him through every fate, 
 Willy and I. 
 
 0, he was so fair, with his golden hair, 
 And his breath was sweet as our homestead air ! 
 My cheeks were red, and the neighbors said, 
 A thousand pities we were not wed, 
 Willy and I. 
 
 Now I stand alone in the wind and rain, 
 With none of the pleasure and all the pain ; 
 I am a beggar, and Willy is dead, 
 And the blood of another is on his head, 
 Willy and I. 
 
WHEN I CAME BACK FROM SEA. 107 
 
 THE CHALLENGE. 
 
 A WARRIOR hung his plumed helm 
 On the rugged trunk of an aged elm ; 
 ' Where is the knight so bold,' he cried, 
 ' That dares my haughty crest deride 1 ' 
 
 The wind came by with a sullen howl, 
 
 And dashed the helm on the pathway foul, 
 
 And shook in scorn each sturdy limb, 
 
 For where was the knight that could fight with him ? 
 
 WHEN I CAME BACK FROM SEA. 
 
 WHEN we set sail to chase the whale 
 
 From old Nantucket Bay, 
 0, a lighter, merrier heart than mine 
 
 Never yet sailed away ! 
 While some were sad, and none was glad, 
 
 I was singing with glee ; 
 For I was to marry sweet Maggie Gray 
 
 When I came back from sea. 
 
 Her hair was brown as the kelp that drifts 
 Where sea-currents come and go ; 
 
 Like gentians peeping through snowy rifts, 
 Her blue eyes shone in snow. 
 
108 WHEN I CAME BACK FROM SEA. 
 
 And further down the sea-pink grew, 
 
 Healthy, hardy, and free ; 
 And all these treasures would be mine 
 
 When I came back from sea. 
 
 Wherever I went in the far, far south, 
 
 In strait or in calm lagoon, 
 My heart, like the cheerful heart it was, 
 
 Kept singing a merry tune. 
 It shortened the watch of the weary nights, 
 
 It lightened my work for me ; 
 For it sang, ' You '11 marry sweet Maggie Gray 
 
 When you come back from sea.' 
 
 My comrades too, though rude and rough, 
 
 Ever ready to give and take, 
 Were gentle, for all of them knew my bird, 
 
 And were kind to me for her sake ; 
 And none ever dared, in our fo'castle games, 
 
 To make ribald jests to me ; 
 For I was to marry sweet Maggie Gray 
 
 When I came back from sea. 
 
 For three long years we sailed and whaled, 
 
 Until we had filled our hold ; 
 Then homeward sped, while every head 
 
 Was running on wages and gold. 
 But I did not care what would be my share, 
 
 However large it might be ; 
 My only thought was of Maggie Gray, 
 
 As I came back from sea. 
 
WHEN I CAME BACK FROM SEA. 109 
 
 At last one day we saw the bay 
 
 And the old Nantucket shore ; 
 I landed and ran like an Indian man 
 
 To Maggie's cottage door. 
 But the door was barred, and there was not a soul 
 
 To give word or welcome to me ; 
 For Maggie Gray had gone away, 
 
 And I had come back from sea ! 
 
 I ran like mad through the little town, 
 
 And questioned all I met ; 
 But I only got a shake of the head, 
 
 Or a look of sad regret ; 
 Until old Ben a rough man too 
 
 Came kindly up to me, 
 Saying, ' Lad, 't were better a thousand times 
 
 You 'd never come back from sea.' 
 
 Then I heard it all, how a gay gallant 
 
 Had come from Boston down, 
 And robbed the nest of my little pet bird, 
 
 And carried her off to town ; 
 While I was left with a broken heart, 
 
 And nothing to welcome me, 
 But a tale of shame and a ruined name, 
 
 When I came back from sea. 
 
110 AN OLD STORY. 
 
 AN OLD STORY. 
 
 THE snow falls fast in the silent street, 
 And the wind is laden with cutting sleet, 
 And there is a pitiless glare in the sky, 
 As a haggard woman goes wandering by. 
 
 The rags that wrap her wasted form 
 Are frozen stiff in the perishing storm, 
 And she is so cold that the snow-flakes rest 
 Unmelted upon her marble breast. 
 
 Ah ! who could believe that those rayless eyes 
 Were once as sunny as April skies, 
 And the flowers she plucked in the early spring 
 Loved to be touched by so pure a thing ? 
 
 J T is past, and the fierce wind, shrieking by, 
 Drowns the faint gasp of her parting sigh ; 
 And lifeless she falls at the outer gate 
 Of him who has left her desolate ! 
 
 Silently falls the snow on her face, 
 
 Clothing her form in its stainless grace ; 
 
 As though God, in his mercy, had willed that she 
 
 Should die in a garment of purity. 
 
HELEN LEE. Ill 
 
 HELEN LEE. 
 
 ROSY-CHEEKED, dark -haired October 
 
 Through the land was passing gayly, 
 
 Crowned with maize-leaves, and behind him 
 Followed Pleuty^with her horn, 
 
 Calling in the later harvests, 
 
 Flattering the chuckling farmer, 
 
 Pelting him with -ruddy apples, 
 
 And with shocks of yellow corn. 
 
 He it was whose royal pleasure 
 Clothed the woods in gold and purple j 
 He it was whose fickle pleasure 
 
 Clothed them, stripped, and left them bare 
 Then, as if in late contrition, 
 Summoned back the truant summer, 
 Wove of smoke an azure mantle 
 
 For the shivering earth to wear. 
 
 Poor amends the Indian summer 
 Made, with all its pitying sunshine, 
 For the loss of leafy glory, 
 
 Painted flower, and singing bird ; 
 So from rocks, and trees, and hedges, 
 From the fallen leaves and grasses, 
 Came a sound of mourning, as the 
 
 Melancholy breezes stirred. 
 
112 HELEN LEE. 
 
 Yet the train of hale October 
 
 Rang with laughter, song, and dancing, 
 
 As the young men and the maidens 
 
 Sang and danced the harvest-home 
 As from many a low-roofed farmhouse 
 Flashed the lights of merry-making, 
 Rose the note of ready-making 
 
 For the merriment to come. 
 
 Pleasant was the starry evening, 
 Pleasant, though the air was chilly, 
 When the youths and maidens gathered 
 
 At the call of David Lee, 
 David Lee, the hearty farmer, 
 Who had wrestled with his acres, 
 And in barn, and stack, and cellar 
 
 Stored the spoils of victory. 
 
 As the beaks of captured vessels, 
 Gilded ensigns, suits of armor, 
 Shone as trophies on the temples 
 
 Of the gods, in classic days, 
 So around the farmer's kitchen 
 Hung long rows of golden melons ; 
 So along the farmer's rafters 
 
 Hung festoons of perfect maize. 
 
 Not a child had Farmer David, 
 He had known the loss of children, 
 Known a parent's voiceless anguish, 
 
 When the rose forsakes the cheek, - 
 
HELEN LEE. 113 
 
 When the hand grows thin and thinner, 
 And the pulses fainter, feebler, 
 When the eyes are sunk and leaden, 
 And the tongue forgets to speak. 
 
 One bright spring a pair of rosebuds, 
 Growing in the father's garden, 
 Filled his hope with crimson promise, 
 
 They were gone in early June. 
 Then there came a tiny daughter, 
 Learned to kiss and call him ' Father,' 
 Vanished like an April snow-flake, 
 
 And the mother followed soon. 
 
 Then his face grew dark and stony, 
 Then his soul shrunk up in sorrow, 
 As a flower shuts at nightfall 
 
 From the dampness and the cold ; 
 Till a sister, dying, left him 
 Her one child, a blue-eyed darling, 
 Whose dear love and tender graces 
 
 Kept his heart from growing old. 
 
 Maidenhood stole softly on her, 
 Like the changing of the seasons, 
 Till the neighbors came to think her 
 
 Beautiful as one could be ; 
 And the young men, when they met her, 
 Blushed, they knew not why, and stammered, 
 And would prize a kingdom cheaper 
 
 Than a smile of Helen Lee. 
 8 
 
114 HELEN LEE. 
 
 In the barn the youths and maidens 
 Stripped the corn of husk and tassel, 
 Warmed the chillness of October 
 
 With the life of spring and May ; 
 While through every chink the lanterns, 
 And sonorous gusts of laughter, 
 Made assault on night and silence 
 
 With the counterfeit of day. 
 
 Songs were sung, sweet English ballads. 
 Which their fathers and their mothers 
 Sang together by the rivers 
 
 Of the dear old fatherland ; 
 Tales were told, quaint English stories, 
 Tales of humor and of pathos ; 
 Tales of love, and home, and fireside, 
 
 That a child could understand. 
 
 Most they called on Richard Miller, 
 
 Prince among the story-tellers ; 
 
 Young and graceful, strong and handsome, 
 
 Rich in all that blesses life ; 
 For his stories ended happy, 
 Ended always with a marriage ; 
 Every youth became a husband, 
 
 Every maid became a wife. 
 
 So he told how Harry Marline 
 Roved about the world a long time, 
 Then returned to find the maiden 
 
 Whom he loved had proven true, 
 
HELEN LEE. 115 
 
 How he brought home gold and silver, 
 How they made a famous wedding ; 
 And he closed by saying slyly, 
 * An example, girls, for you ! ' 
 
 Then said Helen, smiling archly, 
 ' I will never have a husband ! ' 
 And the ear which she was husking 
 
 Fell into the basket, red ; 
 Whereupon they clapped and shouted, 
 For a red ear means a lover, 
 And the maiden, vexed and blushing, 
 
 In the shadow hid her head. 
 
 Soon the jest was quite forgotten, 
 And her face again she lifted 
 To behold his eyes upon her 
 
 With a look so strange and new, 
 That, when games and dancing followed, 
 And she chanced to touch his fingers, 
 In her hand she felt a tremor, 
 
 On her cheek a warmer hue. 
 
 When the candles burning dimly, 
 Flaring, smoking in the socket, 
 Sent the party homeward, shouting, 
 
 Through the starlight crisp and clear, 
 Richard lingered in the doorway, 
 
 Took the bashful hand of Helen, 
 Whispered softly in the darkness 
 
 Pleasant words for maid to hear. 
 
116 HELEN LEE. 
 
 When she sought her little chamber, 
 Long she could not sleep for thinking 
 Of his looks, his voice, and language, 
 
 For the youth had turned her head ; 
 In her dreams she murmured, ' Richard,' 
 When she woke her thought was, ' Richard,' 
 When she bade * Good morning, father ! ' 
 
 ' Richard,' she had almost said. 
 
 the pleasant, pleasant autumn ! 
 
 How it seemed like spring-time to them ! 
 
 How the flowers budded, blossomed, 
 
 In their hearts afresh each day! 
 the walks they had together, 
 From the singing-schools and parties, 
 In the white and frosty moonlight, 
 
 In the starlight cold and gray ! 
 
 the happy winter evenings ! 
 Long, indeed, to want and sickness, 
 Short enough to youth and maiden 
 
 By the hearth of David Lee ; 
 Looking in each other's faces, 
 Listening to each other's voices, 
 Blending with the golden present 
 
 Golden days that were to be. 
 
 When the voice of spring was calling 
 To the flowers in field and forest, 
 ' It is time to waken, children ! ' 
 
 And the flowers obeyed the call ; 
 
HELEN LEE. 117 
 
 When the cattle on the hillside, 
 And the fishes in the river, 
 Felt anew the joy of living, 
 Was a wedding festival. 
 
 Violets and honeysuckles 
 
 Bloomed on window-sill and mantel, 
 
 On the old clock's oaken turret, 
 
 In the young bride's flaxen hair ; 
 And the sweet-brier filled the morning 
 With its eloquence of odor ; 
 ' Life is cold, but love can warm it ; 
 
 0, be faithful, happy pair ! ' 
 
 Solemnly the village pastor 
 Said the simple marriage-service ; 
 Then came one, with roguish twinkle, 
 
 Asking, ' had another heard 
 Of a certain little maiden 
 Who would never have a husband 1 ' 
 And the young bride turned to Richard, 
 
 Smiled, but answered not a word. 
 
 And as Farmer Lee looked on them, 
 Down his cheek the tears were falling, 
 But a light shone from his features 
 
 On the circle gathered round, 
 And he leaned on Richard's shoulder, 
 Saying, ' Friends, be happy with me, 
 For I have not lost a daughter, 
 
 But a worthy son have found ! ' 
 
118 STRAWBERRIES. 
 
 STRAWBERRIES. 
 
 THE garden was filled with odors 
 
 From jasmine and heliotrope, 
 And the tender moss-rose, muffled 
 
 In its beautiful velvet cope ; 
 White currants, like beads of amber, 
 
 Strung upon sea-green silk, 
 Mingled their spicy clusters 
 
 With snowberries white as milk. 
 
 ii. 
 I watched her plucking the strawberries, 
 
 And bending over the bank, 
 Where the luscious rubies lay hiding, 
 
 As if from her search they shrank ; 
 And when she bit them, she opened 
 
 Lips ripe and red as they, 
 Ah ! if I had been the strawberries, 
 
 I would not have hidden away. 
 
 in. 
 * Are you not fond of strawberries'? 
 
 Why don't you pluck and eat 1 
 See, here is. a noble fellow, 
 
 Juicy, and red, and sweet. 
 Don't stand there looking so solemn, 
 
 As if you thought 't was a sin 
 To eat of such delicate morsels, 
 
 But open your mouth and begin.' 
 
BATTLEDORES. 119 
 
 IV. 
 
 ' Ah ! Imogen, dear,' I answered, 
 
 ' I care for no fruit but one : 
 'T is as ripe and red as this berry, 
 
 And as full of the blood of the sun. 
 But you selfishly hold it from me, 
 
 Nor offer me even a part/ 
 * What is this fruit 1 ' she questioned. 
 
 ' This fruit,' I said, is your heart ! ' 
 
 v. 
 
 The strawberry dropped from her fingers, 
 
 And she stretched out her little hand, 
 And I knew that, instead of the fruit, it held 
 
 The sweetest heart in the land. 
 So we left the strawberries lying 
 
 In their shadowy leaves that day, 
 And silently walked in the garden, 
 
 While the long hours stole away. 
 
 BATTLEDORES. 
 
 MAT is blond and Madge is brown, 
 And 'twixt the two I fly ; 
 
 One lives in country, one in town, 
 But yet for both I sigh. 
 
120 BATTLEDORES. 
 
 Madge says that I 'm in love with May, 
 And pouts a sweet disdain, 
 
 Yet all the while her brown eyes say, 
 ' I fear no rival's reign.' 
 
 n. 
 
 May is calm, and like the moon 
 
 That sails the summer sky, 
 Her voice is sweeter than the tune 
 
 That scented night-winds sigh ; 
 And underneath her quiet glance 
 
 All happily I lie, 
 And live a dreamy, sweet romance 
 
 When her fair form is nigh. 
 
 in. 
 
 Thus 'twixt the two my heart is thrown, 
 
 And shuttle-like I fly ; 
 For blue-eyed May is all my own, 
 
 When brown Madge is not by. 
 But loving each, and loving both, 
 
 I know not how to lie, 
 So here 's to both, however loth, 
 
 Good-by, good-by, good-by ! 
 
THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 121 
 
 THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 
 
 THE SCHOOL. 
 
 Miss MARY DEGAI, at the age of sixteen, 
 Was as pretty a maiden as ever was seen. 
 
 Her eyes were deep blue, 
 
 Not that meaningless hue 
 That one sees on old china, and sometimes on new ; 
 
 Which really implies 
 
 Hers were not saucer eyes, 
 Though the people declared and I 'm not sure which 
 
 worser is 
 That, though not saucer eyes, they had worked many 
 
 sorceries. 
 
 Her hair was that shade of which poets are fond, 
 A compromise lustrous 'twixt chestnut and blond. 
 
 Her figure was fragile, 
 
 Yet springy and agile ; 
 While her. clear, pallid skin, so essentially Frenchy, 
 
 Neither brunette nor fair, 
 
 Just gave her the air 
 Of a sort of Fifth Avenue Beatrix Cenci. 
 
 With a spick and span new, superfine education, 
 Befitting a maid of such fortunate station, 
 Miss Mary Degai had just made her debut, 
 
 From the very select, 
 
 Genteel, circumspect 
 
 Establishment kept by it cannot be wrong 
 Just to mention the name by one Madame Cancan. 
 
122 
 
 THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 
 
 This Madame Cancan was a perfect Parisian, 
 Her morals infernal, her manners elysian. 
 
 She was slender and graceful, and rouged with much art, 
 A mistress of dumb show, from ogle to start. 
 
THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 123 
 
 Her voice was delightful, her teeth not her own, 
 And a cane-bottomed chair when she sat seemed a throne. 
 In short, this dear, elegant Madame Cancan 
 Was like a French dinner at some restaurant, 
 That is, she completely was made a la carte, 
 And I think she 'd a truffle instead of a heart. 
 But then what good rearing she gave to her pupils ! 
 They dressed like those elegant ladies at Goupil's 
 One sees in the prints just imported from France ; 
 With what marvellous grace did they join in the dance ! 
 No Puritan modesty marred their toumure, 
 Being modest is nearly as bad as being poor, 
 No shudder attacked them when man laid his hand on 
 Their waists in the redowa's graceful abandon, ' 
 As they swung in that waltz to voluptuous music. 
 Ah ! did we but see 
 Our sisters so free, 
 
 I warrant the sight would make both me and you sick ! 
 Thus no trouble was spared through those young misses' 
 
 lives 
 
 To make them good partners, and very bad wives. 
 Receptions were given each week on a Wednesday, 
 Which day by the school was entitled " the men's day," 
 Because on such date young New York was allowed 
 To visit en masse that ingenuous crowd, 
 When they talked threadbare nothings and flat shilly- 
 shally, 
 
 Of Gottschalk's mustache, or Signora Vestvali, 
 Followed up by the thrillingest questions and answers, 
 Such as which they liked best, the schottische or the 
 
 lancers ? 
 
 No flirting, of course, was permitted; dear ! 
 If Madame Cancan such a word were to hear, 
 
124 
 
 THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 
 
 She would look a whole beltful of dagger-blades at you, 
 And faint in the style of some favorite statue. 
 
 The men were invited alone to impart 
 
 To her young protegees that most difficult art 
 
THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 125 
 
 Of conversing with ease ; and if ease was the aim 
 
 That Madame had in view she was not much to blame, 
 
 For I vow she succeeded so well with her shes, 
 
 That her school might take rank as a chapel of ease ! 
 
 Au reste, Madame's pension was quite in the fashion : 
 
 None better knew how to put shawl or pin sash on 
 
 Than did her young ladies ; 't was good as a play 
 
 To watch the well-bred and impertinent way 
 
 They could enter a room in. Their gait in the street 
 
 Was five-barred, one might say, 't was so high and 
 
 complete. 
 
 Then their boots were so small, and their stockings so neat, 
 Alas ! that such dainty and elegant feet 
 
 Should be trained a la mode 
 In that vicious gymnasium, the modern girls' school, 
 
 To trip down the road 
 
 That, while easy and broad, 
 Conducts to a place that 's more spacious than cool ! 
 
 Miss Mary Degai 
 
 Was the pet protegee 
 
 Of dear Madame Cancan. She was excellent pay, 
 In her own right an heiress, a plum at the least, 
 A plantation down south and a coal-mine down east, 
 I can't state the sum of her fortune in figures, 
 But I know she had plenty of dollars and niggers. 
 
 She was petted and feted, 
 
 And splendidly treated, 
 
 Laj 7 abed when she chose, and her school-teachers cheated ; 
 Smuggled candy in school ; smoked cigars, and 0, fie! 
 Read a great many very queer books on the sly. 
 She 'd a love affair, too, quite a sweet episode, 
 With a wonderful foreign young Count, who abode 
 
126 
 
 THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 
 
 Iii the opposite dwelling, a Count Cherami, 
 A charming young beau, 
 
 Who was tres comme il faut, 
 And who was with our boarding-school Miss Uen pris. 
 
THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 127 
 
 So he shot letters on to the roof with an arrow, 
 And thence they were picked by a provident sparrow, 
 An amiable housemaid, who thought that the course 
 
 Of true love should run smooth, 
 
 And had pity on youth, 
 So, sooner than leave the fond pair no resource, 
 Disinterestedly brought all the letters to Mary, 
 At a dollar apiece, the beneficent fairy ! 
 
 THE BALL. 
 
 'T was the height of the season, the spring-time of Brown, 
 
 Who sowed invitations all over the town. 
 
 Soirees musicale, tableaux, matinees, 
 
 Turned days into nights, and the nights into days ; 
 
 And women went mad upon feathers and flounces, 
 
 And scruples gave way to auriferous ounces. 
 
 Amanda came over her father with new arts 
 
 To grant her a credit at amiable Stewart's, 
 
 And sulked till he 'd promised that, if she 'd not miff any, 
 
 He 'd give her the bracelet she wanted from Tiffany. 
 
 As a matter of course, 
 
 Young New York was in force. 
 
 Tight boots and loose coats, 
 
 Stiff, dog-collared throats ; 
 
 Champagne under chair, 
 
 Drunk with dare-devil air. 
 
 Mr. Brown's light brigade 
 
 Was in splendor arrayed. 
 
 0, that season, I wot, 
 
 Will be never forgot ! 
 
 For 't was then that young Beelzebub, proved all his vigor 
 Of mind by inventing a wonderful figure, 
 
128 
 
 THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 
 
 To be danced every night by " his set " in that million 
 Of marvellous mazes, the German cotillon. 
 
 'T was the height of the winter. The poor summer flowers 
 Were forced to come out at unreasonable hours. 
 
THE FINISHING SCHOOL. , 129 
 
 Camellias, amazed at the frost and the snow, 
 
 Without asking their leaves, were requested to blow ; 
 
 And gardeners, relentless, awaked the moss-roses 
 
 From slumbers hybernant to tickle the noses 
 
 Of maidens just budding, like them, out of season ; 
 
 And pale, purple violets, sick and etiolate, 
 
 Tried in vain to preserve their wan blossoms inviolate. 
 
 In short, 't was the time of the ball-giving season, 
 The reign of low dresses, ice-creams, and unreason, 
 And the greatest event of the night not the day, 
 Though the latter 's the phrase the most proper to say, 
 Was the bal de debut of Miss Mary Degai. 
 
 What a ball that one was ! All the city was there. 
 Brown reigned like a king on the white marble stair, 
 And whistled perhaps 't was to drive away care 
 Loud, shrilly, and long, to each carriage and pair 
 
130 
 
 THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 
 
 As it landed its burden of feminine fair. 
 And Kammerer, hid in a nice little lair 
 Of thick-tufted laurels, played many an air, 
 
 Soft waltz, wild mazourka, quick polka, slow Schottische, 
 With all those quadrilles called by Jullien " the Scottish." 
 
THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 131 
 
 Globed lamps shed soft light over shoulders of satin, 
 While men, hat in hand, fashion d, la Manhattan, 
 Talked in tones that were muffled in sweet modulation 
 To all those fair flowers of a fairer creation, 
 About whether the play or the ballet were properer 1 
 Or they did not observe them last night at the opera. 
 
 the nooks and the corners the secret expansions 
 That are found in the depths of Fifth Avenue mansions ! 
 The deeply-bayed windows, screened off by camellias, 
 Just made for the loves of the Toms and Amelias ; 
 The dim little boudoir 
 Where nestles proh pudor ! 
 
 That pair of young doves, in the deep shadow cooing, 
 W T hich means, in plain English, legitimate wooing. 
 The ancients, I know, or I *ve got the idea, 
 Placed love in some spot that they called Cytherea, 
 A commonplace garden, with nothing but sparrows 
 To shoot at, and that would be wasting love's arrows, 
 And where, if he sat on the grass with his Psyche, 
 He 'd probably start before long with, " 0, Criky ! 
 There 's a bug on my tunic ! " But that was all gam- 
 mon. 
 
 The true home of love is the palace of mammon, 
 Where gardens grow up, under glass, nice and neat, 
 And lovers may wander, 
 And ever grow fonder, 
 Without even once getting wet on their feet ! 
 
 In one of those bowers, remote and secluded, 
 With pale-blossomed roses ingeniously wooded, 
 Through whose light-scented leaves a faint music stole in, 
 Like perfume made audible, here might be seen 
 
132 THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 
 
 Tete-h-tete^ that is, close as 't was proper to be, 
 Miss Mary Degai and the Count Cherami. 
 
 The Count was exactly the man for sixteen, 
 
 He was tall, he was dark, he was haughty of mien, 
 
THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 133 
 
 He had beautiful feet, and his smile was serene ; 
 Though his hair might have needed a little \vahpene, 
 Still what he had left was of glossiest sheen ; 
 His age let me see well, his age might have been 
 Between thirty and forty, a dangerous age, 
 All the passions of youth, and the wit of the sage. 
 The Count was an exile, a matter of course, 
 A foreigner here has no other resource ; 
 The Count was an exile for reasons political, 
 Though some said but people are really so critical 
 That he was but a croupier who 'd made a good swoop, 
 And had tried change of air for his fit of the croupe. 
 And 't was true that his eyes had a villanous flash, 
 But then he had got such a lovely mustache, 
 And his English was broken to exquisite smash ! 
 
 There he sat tete-ct-tete with Miss Mary Degai, 
 
 Talking low in her ear, in his Frenchified way, 
 
 Of his chateau at home, and the balls at the Tuileries, 
 
 Longchamps, and Chantilly, and other torn-fooleries, 
 
 While poor Madison Mowbray a rising young lawyer 
 
 Who promised, his friends said, to be a top-sawyer 
 
 Disconsolate wandered in search of Miss Mary, 
 
 Seeking here, seeking there, that invisible fairy, 
 
 Who had promised her hand for the very next waltz, 
 
 And who now was accused as the falsest of false. 
 
 Madison Mowbray, go home to your briefs, 
 
 To your Chitty and Blackstone, and such like reliefs ! 
 
 For though Mary Degai pledged her hand for the 
 
 dance, 
 
 And though Mr. Degai promised it in advance 
 To your keeping forever, you '11 never possess it, 
 Or swear at the altar to hold and caress it ; 
 
134 
 
 THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 
 
 For while you are moping in blankest amazement, 
 Two black-shrouded figures slip out of the basement, 
 
 Vfri?*3^ 
 
 *m&* " 
 
 /ixn 
 
 And so to the corner, then into a carriage, 
 Which looks rather like an elopement and marriage. 
 
THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 
 
 135 
 
 But, to cut matters short, of the whole the amount 
 Is that Mary Degai has run off with the Count. 
 
 i 
 
 DENOUEMENT. 
 
 There 's a tenement-house in Mulberry Street, 
 Where thieves, and beggars, and loafers meet, 
 A house whose face wears a leprous taint 
 Of mouldy plaster and peeling paint. 
 The windows are dull as the bleary eyes 
 Of a drunken sot, and a black pool lies 
 Full of festering garbage outside the door. 
 The old stairs shudder from floor to floor, 
 As if they shrank with an occult dread 
 From the frequent criminal's guilty tread. 
 And blasphemous women and drunken men 
 Inhabit this foul, accursed den, 
 
136 THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 
 
 And oaths and quarrels disturb the night, 
 And ruffianly faces offend the light, 
 And wretches that dare not look on the sun 
 Burrow within till the day is done. 
 
 Here, in a room on the highest flat, 
 
 The playground of beetle and of rat, 
 
 Almost roofless, and bare, and cold, 
 
 With the damp walls reeking with slimy mould, 
 
 A woman hung o'er one smouldering ember 
 
 That lay in the grate it was in December. 
 
 0, how thin she was, and wan ! 
 
 What sunken eyes ! what lips thin drawn ! 
 
 Her mouth how it quivered ! 
 
 Her form how it shivered ! 
 Her teeth how they chattered, as if they 'd cheat 
 
 Each skeleton limb 
 
 With the pantomime grim 
 Of having something at last to eat ! 
 
 There is no sight more awful, say I, 
 To look upon, whether in earth or sky, 
 Than the terrible glare of a hungry eye ! 
 
 The woman sat over the smouldering ember, 
 Pinched with the cold of that bitter December, 
 Passing her hand in a weariful way 
 O'er the faint firelight's flickering spray, 
 Till might be seen the faint red ray 
 Gleam through the thin, transparent palm, 
 As one beholds the sunshine calm 
 Through a painted window play. 
 Who that beheld her in sunnier day, 
 
THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 
 
 137 
 
 Lapped in roses and bathed in balm, 
 Would credit that this was Mary Degai ? 
 
 But where was the money in stocks and in rents? 
 
 All squandered ! The niggers 1 All sold ! The per cents? 
 
138 THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 
 
 All gone ! The magnificent Count Cherami 
 
 Had made with her money a seven-years spree 
 
 In Paris and London : had known figurantes, 
 
 Played at poker and bluff with one-thousand-franc antes, 
 
 Bred racers, built yachts, and in seven years' time 
 
 Neither husband nor wife had as much as a dime. 
 
 There was no help from father. The old man was dead, 
 
 With the curse unrevoked that he 'd laid on her head. 
 
 No help from her husband. A Count could not work 
 
 And slave to enrich some tyrannical Turk. 
 
 No help from herself, thanks to Madame Cancan, 
 
 She had not a notion of getting along. 
 
 Her fingers revolted from needle and thread, 
 
 And to earn a loaf were by far too well bred. 
 
 Too proud for a beggar, too thin for the stage, 
 
 She lay like a log in this hard-working age, 
 
 The dreary result of a fashion fanatic, 
 
 And helplessly starved in a comfortless attic. 
 
 Hark ! a step on the stairs ! How her thin cheek grows 
 
 white 
 
 As she cowers away with a shiver of fright. 
 And the door is burst open, the Count staggers in, 
 With a hiccup and oath, and a blasphemous din. 
 Mad with drink, crazed with hunger, and weary of life, 
 He revenges his sins on the head of his wife. 
 Let us hasten the door of that garret to close 
 On the nakedness, poverty, hunger, and woes, 
 On the oaths, on the shrieks, on the cowardly blows ! 
 
 young ladies who sigh over novels in yellow, 
 And think Eugene Sue an exceeding smart fellow, 
 
THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 139 
 
 There are more aims in life than a crinoline skirt, 
 And a maid may be charming and yet not a flirt ; 
 And merit is better than title, my dears : 
 In this country we 've no occupation for peers 
 Save those ones that our beautiful harbor affords, 
 And those piers are worth more than the whole House of 
 Lords. 
 
 And though money, I know, 
 
 Is voted quite slow 
 In circles pretending to elegant rank, 
 There 's no very great sin in a sum at the bank. 
 Nor is marriage the portal to idle enjoyment : 
 The true salt of life is an active employment. 
 And if you have money there 's plenty of work 
 In the back-slums and alleys, where starvingly lurk 
 Humanity's outcasts, 'mid want and disease, 
 Broken hearts to be healed, craving wants to appease. 
 Above all, ye young heroines, take this amount 
 
 Of wholesome advice, 
 
 Which like curry with rice 
 
 Gives a flavor, and saves one from saying things twice. 
 Be this axiom forever with you paramount : 
 Don't you ever advance all your cash on a Count. 
 
 Madame Cancan still lives, and still ogles and teaches, 
 And still her lay sermons on fashion she preaches ; 
 Still keeps of smooth phrases the choicest assortment ; 
 Still lectures on dress, easy carriage, deportment ; 
 And spends all her skill in thus moulding her pets 
 Into very-genteelly-got-up marionettes. 
 Yes ! puppet 's the word ; for there 's nothing inside 
 But a clock work of vanity, fashion, and pride ; 
 
140 
 
 THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 
 
 Puppets warranted sound, that without any falter 
 When wound up will go just as far as the altar ; 
 
 But when once the cap 's donned with the matronly border, 
 Lo ! the quiet machine goes at once out of order. 
 
THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 141 
 
 Ah ! Madame Cancan, you may paint, you may plaster 
 Each crevice of time that comes faster and faster ; 
 But you cannot avert that black day of disaster, 
 When in turn you '11 be summoned yourself by a Master ! 
 You may speak perfect French, and Italian, and Spanish, 
 And know how to enter a room and to vanish, 
 To flirt with your fan quite as well as did Soto, 
 To play well-bred games from ecart6 to loto ; 
 But in spite of all this, won't you look rather small 
 When you 're called up before the great Teacher of all 1 
 False teacher, false friend, more, false speaker, false wife, 
 Dare you stand to be parsed in the grammar of life 1 
 What account will you give of the many pure souls 
 To be guided by you through the quicksands and shoals 
 That beset their youth's shore 1 Were they harbored or 
 
 wrecked 1 
 You did n't take trouble to think, I expect ; 
 
 For each cockle-shell boat, 
 
 When you set it afloat, 
 
 Had guitar-strings for ropes, crinoline for a sail, 
 Nice rigging that was to encounter a gale 1 
 
 Ah ! Madame Cancan, our great Master above, 
 
 Who instructs us in charity, virtue, and love, 
 
 When he finds you deficient in all of your lessons, 
 
 A deliberate dunce both in substance and essence, 
 
 Will send you, I fear, to a Finishing School, 
 
 Which differs from yours though, in being less cool, 
 
 And kept on the corporal-punishment rule. 
 
 There 's excellent company there to be found : 
 
 The uppermost ranks you '11 see floating around ; 
 
 Some for grinding the poor are placed there underground, 
 
 So the hind has his justice as well as the hound. 
 
142 
 
 THE FINISHING SCHOOL. 
 
 Nor is dress much less thought of there than in Manhattan, 
 You may not find silks, but you '11 surely find Satan ; 
 And I doubt if you '11 like their severe education, 
 There 's lots to be learned, and no recreation, 
 And what 's worse is you 'II never have any vacation. 
 
STOKIES. 
 
 " Pray you sit by its, and tell 's a tale." 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 
 From a drawing by So] Eytinge, Jr. 
 
STORIES. 
 
 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 I. 
 
 THE BENDING OF THE TWIG. 
 
 FROM a very early period of my life the entire bent of 
 my inclinations had been towards microscopic investiga- 
 tions. When I was not more than ten years old, a distant 
 relative of our family, hoping to astonish my inexpe- 
 rience, constructed a simple microscope for me, by drill- 
 ing in a disk of copper a small hole, in which a drop of 
 pure water was sustained by capillary attraction. This^ 
 very primitive apparatus, magnifying some fifty diame- 
 tei-s, presented, it is true, only indistinct and imperfect 
 forms, but still sufficiently wonderful to work up my im- 
 agination to a preternatural state of excitement. 
 
 Seeing me so interested in this rude instrument, my 
 cousin explained to me all that he knew about the princi- 
 ples of the microscope, related to me a few of the wonders 
 which had been accomplished through its agency, and 
 ended by promising to send me one regularly constructed, 
 immediately on his return to the city. I counted the 
 days, the hours, the minutes, that intervened between 
 that promise and his departure. 
 
 Meantime I was not idle. Every transparent substance 
 
 r io 
 
146 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 that bore the remotest resemblance to a lens I eagerly 
 seized upon, and employed in vain attempts to realize that 
 instrument, the theory of whose construction I as yet 
 only vaguely comprehended. All panes of glass contain- 
 ing those oblate spheroidal knots familiarly known as 
 " bull's-eyes" were ruthlessly destroyed, in the hope of 
 obtaining lenses of marvellous power. I even went so far 
 as to extract the crystalline humor from the eyes of fishes 
 and animals, and endeavored to press it into the micro- 
 scopic service. I plead guilty to having stolen the glasses 
 from my Aunt Agatha's spectacles, with a dim idea of 
 grinding them into lenses of wondrous magnifying prop- 
 erties, in which attempt it is scarcely necessary to say 
 that I totally failed. 
 
 At last the promised instrument came. It was of that 
 order known as Field's simple microscope, and had cost 
 perhaps about fifteen dollars. As far as educational pur- 
 poses went, a better apparatus could not have been se- 
 lected. Accompanying it was a small treatise on the 
 microscope, its history, uses, and discoveries. I com- 
 prehended then for the first time the "Arabian Nights' 
 Entertainments." The dull veil of ordinary existence 
 that hung across the world seemed suddenly to roll away, 
 and to lay bare a land of enchantments. I felt towards 
 my companions as the seer might feel towards the ordi- 
 nary masses of men. I held conversations with nature 
 in a tongue which they could not understand. I was in 
 daily communication with living wonders, such as they 
 never imagined in their wildest visions. I penetrated be- 
 yond the external portal of things, and roamed through 
 the sanctuaries. Where they beheld only a drop of rain 
 slowly rolling down the window-glass, I saw a universe of 
 beings animated with all the passions common to physical 
 
THE DIAMOND LENS. 147 
 
 life, and convulsing their minute sphere with struggles as 
 fierce and protracted as those of men. In the common 
 spots of mould, which my mother, good housekeeper that 
 she was, fiercely scooped away from her jam pots, there 
 abode for me, under the name of mildew, enchanted gar- 
 dens, filled with dells and avenues of the densest foliage 
 and most astonishing verdure, while from the fantastic 
 boughs of these microscopic forests hung strange fruits 
 glittering with green, and silver, and gold. 
 
 It was no scientific thirst that at this time filled my 
 mind. It was the pure enjoyment of a poet to whom a 
 world of wonders has been disclosed. I talked of my soli- 
 tary pleasures to none. Alone with my microscope, I 
 dimmed my sight, day after day and night after night, 
 poring over the marvels which it unfolded to me. I was 
 like one who, having discovered the ancient Eden still 
 existing in all its primitive glory, should resolve to enjoy 
 it in solitude, and never betray to mortal the secret of its 
 locality. The rod of my life was bent at this moment. 
 I destined myself to be a microscopist. 
 
 Of course, like every novice, I fancied myself a dis- 
 coverer. I was ignorant at the time of the thousands of 
 acute intellects engaged in the same pursuit as myself, 
 and with the advantage of instruments a thousand times 
 more powerful than mine. The names of Leeuwenhoek, 
 Williamson, Spencer, Ehrenberg, Schultz, Dujardin, Schact, 
 and Schleiden were then entirely unknown to me, or if 
 known, I was ignorant of their patient and wonderful re- 
 searches. In every fresh specimen of cryptogamia which 
 I placed beneath my instrument I believed that I discov- 
 ered wonders of which the world was as yet ignorant. I 
 remember well the thrill of delight and admiration that 
 shot through me the first time that I discovered the com- 
 
148 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 mon wheel animalcule (Rotifer a vulgaris) expanding and 
 contracting its flexible spokes, and seemingly rotating 
 through the water. Alas ! as I grew older, and obtained 
 some works treating of my favorite study, I found that 
 I was only on the threshold of a science to the investiga- 
 tion of which some of the greatest men of the age were 
 devoting their lives and intellects. 
 
 As I grew up, my parents, who saw but little likeli- 
 hood of anything practical resulting from the examination 
 of bits of moss and drops of water through a brass tube 
 and a piece of glass, were anxious that I should choose a 
 profession. It was their desire that I should enter the 
 counting-house of my uncle, Ethan Blake, a prosperous 
 merchant, who carried on business in New York. This 
 suggestion I decisively combated. I had no taste for 
 trade ; I should only make a failure j in short, I refused 
 to become a merchant. 
 
 But it was necessary for me to select some pursuit. 
 My parents were staid New England people, who insisted 
 on the necessity of labor ; and therefore, although, thanks 
 to the bequest of my poor Aunt Agatha, I should, on 
 coming of age, inherit a small fortune sufficient to place 
 me above want, it was decided that, instead of waiting 
 for this, I should act the nobler part, and employ the in- 
 tervening years in rendering myself independent. 
 
 After much cogitation I complied with the wishes of 
 my family, and selected a profession. I determined to 
 study medicine at the New York Academy. This dispo- 
 sition of my future suited me. A removal from my rela- 
 tives would enable me to dispose of my time as I pleased 
 without fear of detection. As long as I paid my Acad- 
 emy fees, I might shirk attending the lectures if I chose ; 
 and, as I never had the remotest intention of standing an 
 
THE DIAMOND LENS. 149 
 
 examination, there was no danger of my being " plucked." 
 Besides, a metropolis was the place for me. There I could 
 obtain excellent instruments, the newest publications, inti- 
 macy with men of pursuits kindred with my own, in 
 short, all things necessary to insure a profitable devotion 
 of my life to my beloved science. I had an abundance of 
 money, few desires that were not bounded by my illumi- 
 nating mirror on one side and my object-glass on the 
 other ; what, therefore, was to prevent my becoming an 
 illustrious investigator of the veiled worlds ] It was with 
 the most buoyant hope that I left my New England 
 home and established myself in New York. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE LONGING OF A MAN OP SCIENCE. 
 
 MY first step, of course, was to find suitable apartments. 
 These I obtained, after a couple of days' search, in Fourth 
 Avenue ; a very pretty second-floor unfurnished, contain- 
 ing sitting-room, bedroom, and a smaller apartment which 
 I intended to fit up as a laboratory. I furnished my 
 lodgings simply, but rather elegantly, and then devoted 
 all my energies to the adornment of the temple of my 
 worship. I visited Pike, the celebrated optician, and 
 passed in review his splendid collection of microscopes, 
 Field's Compound, Hinghain's, Spencer's, Nachet's Binocu- 
 lar, (that founded on the principles of the stereoscope,) 
 and at length fixed upon that form known as Spencer's 
 Trunnion Microscope, as combining the greatest number of 
 improvements with an almost perfect freedom from tre- 
 mor. Along with this I purchased every possible accessory, 
 draw-tubes, micrometers, a camera-lucida, lever-stage, 
 
150 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 achromatic condensers, white cloud illuminators, prisms, 
 parabolic condensers, polarizing apparatus, forceps, aquatic 
 boxes, fishing-tubes, with a host of other articles, all of 
 which would have been useful in the hands of an expe- 
 rienced microscopist, but, as I afterwards discovered, were 
 not of the slightest present value to me. It takes years 
 of practice to know how to use a complicated microscope. 
 The optician looked suspiciously at me as I made these 
 wholesale purchases. He evidently was uncertain whether 
 to set me down as some scientific celebrity or a madman. 
 I think he inclined to the -latter belief. I suppose I was 
 mad. Every great genius is mad upon the subject in 
 which he is greatest. The unsuccessful madman is dis- 
 graced and called a lunatic. 
 
 Mad or not, I set myself to work with a zeal which few 
 scientific students have ever equalled. I had everything 
 to learn relative to the delicate study upon which I had 
 embarked, a study involving the most earnest patience, 
 the most rigid analytic powers, the steadiest hand, the 
 most untiring eye, the most refined and subtile manipu- 
 lation. 
 
 For a long time half my apparatus lay inactively on 
 the shelves of my laboratory, which was now most amply 
 furnished with every possible contrivance for facilitating 
 my investigations. The fact was that I did not know 
 how to use some of my scientific implements, never 
 having been taught microscopies, and those whose use I 
 understood theoretically were of little avail, until by prac- 
 tice I could attain the necessary delicacy of handling. 
 Still, such was the fury of my ambition, such the untiring 
 perseverance of my experiments, that, difficult of credit 
 as it may be, in the course of one year I became theoreti- 
 cally and practically an accomplished microscopist. 
 
THE DIAMOND LENS. 151 
 
 During this period of my labors, in which I submitted 
 specimens of every substance that came under my obser- 
 vation to the action of my lenses, I became a discoverer, 
 in a small way, it is true, for I was very young, but 
 still a discoverer. It was I who destroyed Ehrenberg's 
 theory that the Volvox globator was an animal, and proved 
 that his " monads '? with stomachs and eyes were merely 
 phases of the formation of a vegetable cell, and were, when 
 they reached their mature state, incapable of the act of 
 conjugation, or any true generative act, without which no 
 organism rising to any stage of life higher than vegetable 
 can be said to be complete. It was I who resolved the 
 singular problem of rotation in the cells and hairs of 
 plants into ciliary attraction, in spite of the assertions of 
 Mr. Wenham and others, that my explanation was the 
 result of an optical illusion. 
 
 But notwithstanding these discoveries, laboriously and 
 painfully made as they were, I felt horribly dissatisfied. 
 At every step I found myself stopped by the imperfections 
 of my instruments. Like all active microscopists, I gave 
 my imagination full play. Indeed, it is a common com- 
 plaint against many such, that they supply the defects of 
 their instruments with the creations of their brains. I 
 imagined depths beyond depths in nature which the lim- 
 ited power of my lenses prohibited me from exploring. I 
 lay awake at night constructing imaginary microscopes 
 of immeasurable power, with which I seemed to pierce 
 through all the envelopes of matter down to its original 
 atom. How I cursed those imperfect mediums which ne- 
 cessity through ignorance compelled me to use ! How I 
 longed to discover the secret of some perfect lens, whose 
 magnifying power should be limited only by the resolva- 
 bility of the object, and which at the same time should 
 
152 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 be free from spherical and chromatic aberrations, in short 
 from all the obstacles over which the poor microscopist 
 finds himself continually stumbling ! I felt convinced that 
 the simple microscope, composed of a single lens of such 
 vast yet perfect power was possible of construction. To 
 attempt to bring the compound microscope up to such a 
 pitch would have been commencing at the wrong end; 
 this latter being simply a partially successful endeavor 
 to remedy those very defects of the simple instrument, 
 which, if conquered, would leave nothing to be desired. 
 
 It was in this mood of mind that I became a construct- 
 ive microscopist. After another year passed in this new 
 pursuit, experimenting on every imaginable substance, 
 glass, gems, flints, crystals, artificial crystals formed of 
 the alloy of varous vitreous materials, in short, having 
 constructed as many varieties of lenses as Argus had eyes, 
 I found myself precisely where I started, with nothing 
 gained save an extensive knowledge of glass-making. I 
 was almost dead with despair. My parents were sur- 
 prised at my apparent want of progress in my medical 
 studies, (I had not attended one lecture since my arrival 
 in the city,) and the expenses of my mad pursuit had 
 been so great as to embarrass me very seriously. 
 
 I was in this frame of mind one day, experimenting in 
 my laboratory on a small diamond, that stone, from its 
 great refracting power, having always occupied my at- 
 tention more than any other, when a young Frenchman, 
 who lived on the floor above me, and who was in the 
 habit of occasionally visiting me, entered the room. 
 
 I think that Jules Simon was a Jew. He had many 
 traits of the Hebrew character : a love of jewelry, of dress, 
 and of good living. There was something mysterious 
 about him. He always had something to sell, and yet 
 
THE DIAMOND LENS. 153 
 
 went into excellent society. When I say sell, I should 
 perhaps have said peddle ; for his operations were gener- 
 ally confined to the disposal of single articles, a picture, 
 for instance, or a rare carving in ivory, or a pair of duel- 
 ling-pistols, or the dress of a Mexican caballero. When I 
 was first furnishing my rooms, he paid me a visit, which 
 ended in my purchasing an antique silver lamp, which he 
 assured me was a Cellini, it was handsome enough 
 even for that, and some other knickknacks for my 
 sitting-room. Why Simon should pursue this petty trade 
 I never could imagine. He apparently had plenty of 
 money, and had the entree of the best houses in the city, 
 taking care, however, I suppose, to drive no bargains 
 within the enchanted circle of the Upper Ten. I came 
 at length to the conclusion that this peddling was but a 
 mask to cover some greater object, and even went so far 
 as to believe my young acquaintance to be implicated in 
 the slave-trade. That, however, was none of my affair. 
 
 On the present occasion, Simon entered my room in a 
 state of considerable excitement. 
 
 " Ah ! mon ami ! " he cried, before I could even offer 
 him the ordinary salutation, " it has occurred to me to 
 be the witness of the most astonishing things in the 
 world. I promenade myself to the house of Madame 
 
 How does the little animal le renard name 
 
 himself in the Latin ] " 
 
 " Vulpes," I answered. 
 
 " Ah ! yes, Vulpes. I promenade myself to the 
 house of Madame Vulpes." 
 
 " The spirit medium 1 " 
 
 " Yes, the great medium. Great heavens ! what a 
 woman ! I write on a slip of paper many of questions 
 concerning affairs the most secret, affairs that conceal 
 
154 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 themselves in the abysses of my heart the most profound ; 
 and behold ! by example ! what occurs 1 This devil of a 
 woman makes me replies the most truthful to all of them. 
 She talks to me of things that I do not love to talk of to 
 myself. What am I to think 1 I am fixed to the earth ! " 
 
 " Am I to understand you, M. Simon, that this Mrs. 
 Vulpes replied to questions secretly written by you, which 
 questions related to events known only to yourself 1 ?" 
 
 " Ah ! more than that, more than that," he answered, 
 with an air of some alarm. "She related to me things 
 But," he added, after a pause, and suddenly changing his 
 manner, "why occupy ourselves with these follies'? It 
 was all the biology, without doubt. It goes without say- 
 ing that it has not my credence. But why are we here, 
 mon ami ? It has occurred to me to discover the most 
 beautiful thing as you can imagine, a vase with green 
 lizards on it, composed by the great Bernard Palissy. It 
 is in my apartment ; let us mount. I go to show it to 
 you." 
 
 I followed Simon mechanically ; but my thoughts were 
 far from Palissy and his enamelled ware, although I, like 
 him, was seeking in the dark a great discovery. This 
 casual mention of the spiritualist, Madame Vulpes, set me 
 on a new track. What if this spiritualism should be re- 
 ally a great fact 1 What if, through communication with 
 more subtile organisms than my own, I could reach at a 
 single bound the goal, which perhaps a life of agonizing 
 mental toil would never enable me to attain 1 
 
 While purchasing the Palissy vase from my friend 
 Simon, I was mentally arranging a visit to Madame 
 Vulpes. 
 
THE DIAMOND LENS. 155 
 
 III. 
 THE SPIRIT OP LEEUWENHOEK. 
 
 Two evenings after this, thanks to an arrangement by 
 letter and the promise of an ample fee, I found Madame 
 Vulpes awaiting me at her residence alone. She was a 
 coarse-featured woman, with keen and rather cruel dark 
 eyes, and an exceedingly sensual expression about her 
 mouth and under jaw. She received me in perfect silence, 
 in an apartment on the ground floor, very sparely fur- 
 nished. In the centre of the room, close to where Mrs. 
 Vulpes sat, there was a common round mahogany ta- 
 ble. If I had come for the purpose of sweeping her 
 chimney, the woman could not have looked more indif- 
 ferent to my appearance. There was no attempt to 
 inspire the visitor with awe. Everything bore a sim- 
 ple and practical aspect. This intercourse with the 
 spiritual world was evidently as familiar an occupation 
 with Mrs. Vulpes as eating her dinner or riding in an 
 omnibus. 
 
 " You come for a communication, Mr. Linley ? " said 
 the medium, in a dry, business-like tone, of voice. 
 
 " By appointment, yes." 
 
 "What sort of communication do you want] a 
 written one 1 " 
 
 11 Yes, I wish for a written one." 
 
 " From any particular spirit 1 " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Have you ever known this spirit on this earth 1 " 
 
 "Never. He died long before I was born. I wish 
 merely to obtain from him some information which he 
 ought to be able to give better than any other." 
 
156 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 " Will you seat yourself at the table, Mr. Liuley," said 
 the medium, "and place your hands upon it ?" 
 
 I obeyed, Mrs. Vulpes being seated opposite to me, 
 with her hands also on the table. We remained thus for 
 about a minute and a half, when a violent succession of 
 raps came on the table, on the back of my chair, on the 
 floor immediately under my feet, and even on the window- 
 panes. Mrs. Vulpes smiled composedly. 
 
 " They are very strong to-night," she remarked. " You 
 are fortunate." She then continued, "Will the spirits 
 communicate with this gentleman ? " 
 
 Vigorous affirmative. 
 
 " Will the particular spirit he desires to speak with 
 communicate 1 " 
 
 A very confused rapping followed this question. 
 
 " I know what they mean," said Mrs. Vulpes, address- 
 ing herself to me ; " they wish you to write down the 
 name of the particular spirit that you desire to converse 
 with. Is that so 1 " she added, speaking to her invisible 
 guests. 
 
 That it was so was evident from the numerous affirma- 
 tory responses. While this was going on, I tore a slip 
 from my pocket-book, and scribbled a name, under the 
 table. 
 
 "Will this spirit communicate in writing with this 
 gentleman ? " asked the medium once more. 
 
 After a moment's pause, her hand seemed to be seized 
 with a violent tremor, shaking so forcibly that the table 
 vibrated. She said that a spirit had seized her hand and 
 would write. I handed her some sheets of paper that 
 were on the table, and a pencil. The latter she held 
 loosely in her hand, which presently began to move over 
 the paper with a singular and seemingly involuntary mo- 
 
THE DIAMOND LENS. 157 
 
 tion. After a few moments had elapsed, she handed 
 me the paper, on which I found written, in a large, un- 
 cultivated hand, the words, "He is not here, but has 
 been sent for." A pause of a minute or so now ensued, 
 during which Mrs. Vulpes remained perfectly silent, but 
 the raps continued at regular intervals. When the short 
 period I mention had elapsed, the hand of the medium 
 was again seized with its convulsive tremor, and she 
 wrote, under this strange influence, a few words on the 
 paper, which she handed to me. They were as follows : 
 
 " I am here. Question me. 
 
 " LEEUWEXHOEK." 
 
 I was astounded. The name was identical with that I 
 had written beneath the table, and carefully kept con- 
 cealed. Neither was it at all probable that an unculti- 
 vated woman like Mrs. Vulpes should know even the 
 name of the great father of microscopies. It may have 
 been biology ; but this theory was soon doomed to be de- 
 stroyed. I wrote on my slip still concealing it from 
 Mrs. Vulpes a series of questions, which, to avoid 
 tediousness, I shall place with the responses, in the order 
 in which they occurred : 
 
 I. Can the microscope be brought to perfection 1 
 
 SPIRIT. Yes. 
 
 I. Am I destined to accomplish this great task ] 
 
 SPIRIT. You are. 
 
 I. I wish to know how to proceed to attain this end. 
 For the love which you bear to science, help me ! 
 
 SPIRIT. A diamond of one hundred and forty carats, 
 submitted to electro-magnetic currents for a long period, 
 will experience a rearrangement of its atoms inter se y and 
 from that stone you will form the universal lens. 
 
158 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 I. Will great discoveries result from the use of such 
 a lens 1 
 
 SPIRIT. So great that all that has gone before is as 
 nothing. 
 
 I. But the refractive power of the diamond is so 
 immense, that the image will be formed within the lens. 
 How is that difficulty to be surmounted 1 
 
 SPIRIT. Pierce the lens through its axis, and the 
 difficulty is obviated. The image will be formed in the 
 pierced space, which will itself serve as a tube to look 
 through. Now I am called. Good night. 
 
 I cannot at all describe the effect that these extraordi- 
 nary communications had upon me. I felt completely 
 bewildered. No biological theory could account for the 
 discovery of the lens. The medium might, by means of 
 biological rapport with my mind, have gone so far as to 
 read my questions, and reply to them coherently. But 
 biology could not enable her to discover that magnetic 
 currents would so alter the crystals of the diamond as to 
 remedy its previous defects, and admit of its being pol- 
 ished into a perfect lens. Some such theory may have 
 passed through my head, it is true ; but if so, I had for- 
 gotten it. In my excited condition of mind there was no 
 course left but to become a convert, and it was in a state 
 of the most painful nervous exaltation that I left the 
 medium's house that evening. She accompanied me to 
 the door, hoping that I was satisfied. The raps followed 
 us as we went through the hall, sounding on the balusters, 
 the flooring, and even the lintels of the door. I hastily 
 expressed my satisfaction, and escaped hurriedly into the 
 cool night air. I walked home with but one thought pos- 
 sessing me, how to obtain a diamond of the immense 
 size required. My entire means multiplied a hundred 
 
THE DIAMOND LENS. 159 
 
 times over would have been inadequate to its purchase. 
 Besides, such stones are rare, and become historical. I 
 could find such only in the regalia of Eastern or European 
 monarchs. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE EYE OP MORNING. 
 
 THERE was a light in Simon's room as I entered my 
 house. A vague impulse urged me to visit him. As I 
 opened the door of his sitting-room unannounced, he was 
 bending, with his back toward me, over a carcel lamp, 
 apparently engaged in minutely examining some object 
 which he held in his hands. As I entered, he started 
 suddenly, thrust his hand into his breast pocket, and 
 turned to me with a face crimson with confusion. 
 
 " What ! " I cried, " poring over the miniature of some 
 fair lady ? Well, don't blush so much ; I won't ask to 
 see it." 
 
 Simon laughed awkwardly enough, but made none of 
 the negative protestations usual on such occasions. He 
 asked me to take a seat. 
 
 " Simon," said I, " I have just come from Madame 
 Vulpes." 
 
 This time Simon turned as white as a sheet, and seemed 
 stupefied, as if a sudden electric shock had smitten him. 
 He babbled some incoherent words, and went hastily to a 
 small closet where he usually kept his liquors. Although 
 astonished at his emotion, I was too preoccupied with my 
 own idea to pay much attention to anything else. 
 
 " You say truly when you call Madame Vulpes a devil 
 of a woman," I continued. " Simon, she told me wonder- 
 
160 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 ful things to-night, or rather was the means of telling me 
 wonderful things. Ah ! if I could only get a diamond 
 that weighed one hundred and forty carats ! " 
 
 Scarcely had the sigh with which I uttered this desire 
 died upon my lips, when Simon, with the aspect of a wild 
 beast, glared at me savagely, and, rushing to the mantel- 
 piece, where some foreign weapons hung on the wall, 
 caught up a Malay creese, and brandished it furiously 
 before him. 
 
 " No ! " he cried in French, into which he always broke 
 when excited. " No ! you shall not have it ! You are 
 perfidious ! You have consulted with that demon, and 
 desire my treasure ! But I will die first ! Me ! I am 
 brave ! You cannot make me fear ! " 
 
 All this, uttered in a loud voice trembling with ex- 
 citement, astounded me. I saw at a glance that I had 
 accidentally trodden upon the edges of Simon's secret, 
 whatever it was. It was necessary to reassure him. 
 
 " My dear Simon," I said, " I am entirely at a loss to 
 know what you mean. I went to Madame Vulpes to 
 consult with her on a scientific problem, to the solution 
 of which I discovered that a diamond of the size I just 
 mentioned was necessary. You were never alluded to 
 during the evening, nor, so far as I was concerned, even 
 thought of. What can be the meaning of this outburst ? 
 If you happen to have a set of valuable diamonds in your 
 possession, you need fear nothing from me. The diamond 
 which I require you could not possess; or, if you did 
 possess it, you would not be living here." 
 
 Something in my tone must have completely reassured 
 him ; for his expression immediately changed to a sort of 
 constrained merriment, combined, however, with a certain 
 suspicious attention to my movements. He laughed, and 
 
THE DIAMOND LENS. 161 
 
 said that I must bear with him ; that he was at certain 
 moments subject to a species of vertigo, which betrayed 
 itself in incoherent speeches, and that the attacks passed 
 off as rapidly as they came. He put his weapon aside 
 while making this explanation, and endeavored, with some 
 success, to assume a more cheerful air. 
 
 All this did not impose on me in the least. I was too 
 much accustomed to analytical labors to be baffled by so 
 flimsy a veil. I determined to probe the mystery to the 
 bottom. 
 
 " Simon," I said, gayly, " let us forget all this over a 
 bottle of Burgundy. I have a case of Lausseure's Clos 
 Vougeot down-stairs, fragrant with the odors and ruddy 
 with the sunlight of the Cote d'Or. Let us have up a 
 couple of bottles. What say you 1 " 
 
 " With all my heart," answered Simon, smilingly. 
 
 I produced the wine and we seated ourselves to drink. 
 It was of a famous vintage, that of 1848, a year when 
 war and wine throve together, and its pure but power- 
 ful juice seemed to impart renewed vitality to the system. 
 By the time we had half finished the second bottle, Si- 
 mon's head, which I knew was a weak one, had begun to 
 yield, while I remained calm as ever, only that every 
 draught seemed to send a flush of vigor through my 
 limbs. Simon's utterance became more and more indis- 
 tinct. He took to singing French chansons of a not very 
 moral tendency. I rose suddenly from the table just at 
 the conclusion of one of those incoherent verses, and, fix- 
 ing my eyes on him with a quiet smile, said : " Simon, I 
 have deceived you. I learned your secret this evening. 
 You may as well be frank with me. Airs. Vulpes, or 
 rather one of her spirits, told me all." 
 
 He started with horror. His intoxication seemed for 
 11 
 
162 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 the moment to fade away, and he made a movement 
 towards the weapon that he had a short time before laid 
 down. I stopped him with my hand. 
 
 " Monster ! " he cried, passionately, " I am ruined ! 
 What shall I do ? You shall never have it ! I swear by 
 my mother ! " 
 
 " I don't want it," I said ; " rest secure, but be frank 
 with me. Tell me all about it." 
 
 The drunkenness began to return. He protested with 
 maudlin earnestness that I was entirely mistaken, that 
 I was intoxicated ; then asked me to swear eternal secrecy, 
 and promised to disclose the mystery to me. I pledged 
 myself, of course, to all. With an uneasy look in his eyes, 
 and hands unsteady with drink and nervousness, he drew 
 a small case from his breast and opened it. Heavens ! 
 How the mild lamp-light was shivered into a thousand 
 prismatic arrows, as it fell upon a vast rose-diamond that 
 glittered in the case ! I was no judge of diamonds, but 
 I saw at a glance that this was a gem of rare size and 
 purity. I looked at Simon with wonder, and must I 
 confess it] with envy. How could he have obtained 
 this treasure ? In reply to my questions, I could just 
 gather from his drunken statements (of which, I fancy, 
 half the incoherence was affected) that he had been su- 
 perintending a gang of slaves engaged in diamond-wash- 
 ing in Brazil ; that he had seen one of them secrete a 
 diamond, but, instead of informing his employers, had 
 quietly watched the negro until he saw him bury his 
 treasure ; that he had dug it up and fled with it, but 
 that as yet he was afraid to attempt to dispose of it pub- 
 licly, so valuable a gem being almost certain to attract 
 too much attention to its owner's antecedents, and he 
 had not been able to discover any of those obscure chan- 
 
THE DIAMOND LENS. 163 
 
 nels by which such matters are conveyed away safely. 
 He added, that, in accordance with oriental practice, he 
 had named his diamond with the fanciful title of " The 
 Eye of Morning." 
 
 While Simon was relating this to me, I regarded the 
 great diamond attentively. Never had I beheld any- 
 thing so beautiful. All the glories of light, ever ima- 
 gined or described, seemed to pulsate in its crystalline 
 chambers. Its weight, as I learned from Simon, was 
 exactly one hundred and forty carats. Here was an 
 amazing coincidence. The hand of destiny seemed in it. 
 On the very evening when the spirit of Leeuwenhoek 
 communicates to me the great secret of the microscope, 
 the priceless means which he directs me to employ start 
 up within my easy reach ! I determined, with the most 
 perfect deliberation, to possess myself of Simon's diamond. 
 
 I sat opposite to him while he nodded over his glass, and 
 calmly revolved the whole affair. I did not for an instant 
 contemplate so foolish an act as a common theft, which 
 would of course be discovered, or at least necessitate flight 
 and concealment, all of which must interfere with my 
 scientific plans. There was but one step to be taken, 
 to kill Simon. After all, what was the life of a little ped- 
 dling Jew, in comparison with the interests of science? 
 Human beings are taken every day from the condemned 
 prisons to be experimented on by surgeons. This man, 
 Simon, was by his own confession a criminal, a robber, 
 and I believed on my soul a murderer. He deserved 
 death quite as much as any felon condemned by the laws : 
 why should I not, like government, contrive that his pun- 
 ishment should contribute to the progress of human 
 knowledge 1 
 
 The means for accomplishing everything I desired lay 
 
164 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 
 
 within my reach. There stood upon the mantel-piece a 
 bottle half full of French laudanum. Simon was so occu- 
 pied with his diamond, which I had just restored to him, 
 that it was an affair of no difficulty to drug his glass. In 
 a quarter of an hour he was in a profound sleep. 
 
 I now opened his waistcoat, took the diamond from the 
 inner pocket in which he had placed it, and removed him 
 to the bed, on which I laid him so that his feet hung 
 down over the edge. I had possessed myself of the Ma- 
 lay creese, which I held in my right hand, while with the 
 other I discovered as accurately as I could by pulsation 
 the exact locality of the heart. It was essential that all 
 the aspects of his death should lead to the surmise of self- 
 murder. I calculated the exact angle at which it was 
 probable that the weapon, if levelled by Simon's own 
 hand, would enter his breast; then with one powerful 
 blow I thrust it up to the hilt in the very spot which I 
 desired to penetrate. A convulsive thrill ran through 
 Simon's limbs. I heard a smothered sound issue from 
 his throat, precisely like the bursting of a large air-bub- 
 ble, sent up by a diver, when it reaches the surface of 
 the water ; he turned half round on his side, and, as if to 
 assist my plans more effectually, his right hand, moved 
 by some mere spasmodic impulse, clasped the handle of 
 the creese, which it remained holding with extraordinary 
 muscular tenacity. Beyond this there was no apparent 
 struggle. The laudanum, I presume, paralyzed the usual 
 nervous action. He must have died instantly. 
 
 There was yet something to be done. To make it 
 certain that all suspicion of the act should be diverted 
 from any inhabitant of the house to Simon himself, it 
 was necessary that the door should be found in the 
 morning locked on the inside. How to do this, and after- 
 
THE DIAMOND LENS. 165 
 
 wards escape myself 1 ? Not by the window j that was a 
 physical impossibility. Besides, I was determined that 
 the windows also should be found bolted. The solution 
 was simple enough. I descended softly to my own room 
 for a peculiar instrument which I had used for holding 
 small slippery substances, such as mmute spheres of glass, 
 etc. This instrument was nothing more than a long 
 slender hand-vice, with a very powerful grip, and a con- 
 siderable leverage, which last was accidentally owing to 
 the shape of the handle. Nothing was simpler than, 
 when the key was in the lock, to seize the end of its stem 
 in this vice, through the keyhole,* from the outside, and 
 so lock the door. Previously, however, to doing this, I 
 burned a number of papers on Simon's hearth. Suicides 
 almost always burn papers before they destroy themselves. 
 I also emptied some more laudanum into Simon's glass, 
 having first removed from it all traces of wine, cleaned 
 the other wine-glass, and brought the bottles away with 
 me. If traces of two persons drinking had been found 
 in the room, the question naturally would have arisen, 
 Who was the second'* Besides, the wine-bottles might 
 have been identified as belonging to me. The laudanum 
 I poured out to account for its presence in his stomach, 
 in case of a post-mortem examination. The theory natu- 
 rally would be, that he first intended to poison himself, 
 but, after swallowing a little of the drug, was either dis- 
 gusted with its taste, or changed his mind from other 
 motives, and chose the dagger. These arrangements 
 made, I walked out, leaving the gas burning, locked the 
 door with my vice, and went to bed. 
 
 Simon's death was not discovered until nearly three in 
 the afternoon. The servant, astonished at seeing the gas 
 burning, the light streaming on the dark landing from 
 
166 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 under the door, peeped through the keyhole and saw 
 Simon on the bed. She gave the alarm. The door was 
 burst open, and the neighborhood was in a fever of ex- 
 citement. 
 
 Every one in the house was arrested, myself included. 
 There was an inquest ; but no clew to his death beyond 
 that of suicide could be obtained. Curiously enough, he 
 had made several speeches to his friends the preceding 
 week, that seemed to point to self-destruction. One gen- 
 tleman swore that Simon had said in his presence that 
 "he was tired of life." His landlord affirmed that Si- 
 mon, when paying him his last month's rent, remarked 
 that "he should not pay him rent much longer." All the 
 other evidence corresponded, the door locked inside, 
 the position of the corpse, the burnt papers. As I anti- 
 cipated, no one knew of the possession of the diamond by 
 Simon, so that no motive was suggested for his murder. 
 The jury, after a prolonged examination, brought in the 
 usual verdict, and the neighborhood once more settled 
 down into its accustomed quiet. 
 
 V. 
 
 ANIMULA. 
 
 THE three months succeeding Simon's catastrophe I 
 devoted night and day to my diamond lens. I had con- 
 structed a vast galvanic battery, composed of nearly two 
 thousand pairs of plates, a higher power I dared not 
 use, lest the diamond should be calcined. By means of 
 this enormous engine I was enabled to send a powerful 
 current of electricity continually through my great dia- 
 mond, which it seemed to me gained in lustre every day. 
 
THE DIAMOND LENS. 167 
 
 At the expiration of a month I commenced the grinding 
 and polishing of the lens, a work of intense toil and 
 exquisite delicacy. The great density of the stone, and 
 the care required to be taken with the curvatures of the 
 surfaces of the lens, rendered the labor the severest and 
 most harassing that I had yet undergone. 
 
 At last the eventful moment came ; the lens was com- 
 pleted. I stood trembling on the threshold of new 
 worlds. I had the realization of Alexander's famous wish 
 before me. The lens lay on the table, ready to- be placed 
 upon its platform. My hand fairly shook as I enveloped 
 a drop of water with a thin coating of oil of turpentine, 
 preparatory to its examination, a process necessary in 
 order to prevent the rapid evaporation of the water. I 
 now placed the drop on a thin slip of glass under the 
 lens, and throwing upon it, by the combined aid of a 
 prism and a mirror, a powerful stream of light, I ap- 
 proached my eye to the minuta hole drilled through the 
 axis of the lens. For an instant I saw nothing save what 
 seemed to be an illuminated chaos, a vast luminous abyss. 
 A pure white light, cloudless and serene, and seemingly 
 limitless as space itself, was my first impression. Gently, 
 and with the greatest care, I depressed the lens a few 
 hair's-breadths. The wondrous illumination still contin- 
 ued, but as the lens approached the object a scene of 
 indescribable beauty was unfolded to my view. 
 
 I seemed to gaze upon a vast space, the limits of which 
 extended far beyond my vision. An atmosphere of magi- 
 cal luminousness permeated the entire field of view. I 
 was amazed to see no trace of auimalculous life. Not a 
 living thing, apparently, inhabited that dazzling expanse. 
 I comprehended instantly that, by the wondrous power 
 of my lens, I had penetrated beyond the grosser particles 
 
168 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 of aqueous matter, beyond the realms of infusoria and 
 protozoa, down to the original gaseous globule, into whose 
 luminous interior I was gazing, as into an almost bound- 
 less dome filled with a supernatural radiance. 
 
 It was, however, no brilliant void into which I looked. 
 On every side I beheld beautiful inorganic forms, of un- 
 known texture, and colored with the most enchanting 
 hues. These forms presented the appearance of what 
 might be called, for want of a more specific definition, 
 foliated clouds of the highest rarity ; that is, they undu- 
 lated and broke into vegetable formations, and were tinged 
 with splendors compared with which the gilding of our 
 autumn woodlands is as dross compared with gold. Far 
 away into the illimitable distance stretched long avenues 
 of these gaseous forests, dimly transparent, and painted 
 with prismatic hues of unimaginable brilliancy. The 
 pendent branches waved along the fluid glades until 
 every vista seemed to break through half-lucent ranks of 
 many-colored drooping silken pennons. What seemed to 
 be either fruits or flowers, pied with a thousand hues, 
 lustrous and ever varying, bubbled from the crowns of 
 this fairy foliage. No hills, no lakes, no rivers, no forms 
 animate or inanimate, were to be seen, save those vast 
 auroral copses that floated serenely in the luminous still- 
 ness, with leaves and fruits and flowers gleaming with 
 unknown fires, unrealizable by mere imagination. 
 
 How strange, I thought, that this sphere should be thus 
 condemned to solitude ! I had hoped, at least, to discover 
 some new form of animal life, perhaps of a lower class 
 than any with which we are at present acquainted, but 
 still, some living organism. I found my newly discovered 
 world, if I may so speak, a beautiful chromatic desert. 
 
 While I was speculating on the singular arrangements 
 
THE DIAMOND LENS. 169 
 
 of the internal economy of Nature, with which she so 
 frequently splinters into atoms our most compact theo- 
 ries, I thought I beheld a form moving slowly through the 
 glades of one of the prismatic forests. I looked more 
 attentively, and found that I was not mistaken. Words 
 cannot depict the anxiety with which I awaited the nearer 
 approach of this mysterious object. Was it merely some 
 inanimate substance, held in suspense in the attenuated 
 atmosphere of the globule 1 or was it an animal endowed 
 with vitality and motion ] It approached, flitting behind 
 the gauzy, colored veils of cloud-foliage, for seconds dimly 
 revealed, then vanishing. At last the violet pennons that 
 trailed nearest to me vibrated ; they were gently pushed 
 aside, and the form floated out into the broad light. 
 
 It was a female human shape. When I say human, I 
 mean it possessed the outlines of humanity, but there 
 the analogy ends. Its adorable beauty lifted it illimita- 
 ble heights beyond the loveliest daughter of Adam. 
 
 I cannot, I dare not, attempt to inventory the charms 
 of this divine revelation of perfect beauty. Those eyes 
 of mystic violet, dewy and serene, evade my words. Her 
 long, lustrous hair following her glorious head in a golden 
 wake, like the track sown in heaven by a falling star, 
 seems to quench my most burning phrases with its splen- 
 dors. If all the bees of Hybla nestled upon my lips, 
 they would still sing but hoarsely the wondrous harmo- 
 nies of outline that enclosed her form. 
 
 She swept out from between the rainbow-curtains of 
 the cloud-trees into the broad sea of light that lay beyond. 
 Her motions were those of some graceful naiad, cleaving, 
 by a mere effort of her will, the clear, unruffled waters 
 that fill the chambers of the sea. She floated forth with 
 the serene grace of a frail bubble ascending through the 
 
170 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 still atmosphere of a June day. The perfect roundness 
 of her limbs formed suave and enchanting curves. It 
 was like listening to the most spiritual symphony of 
 Beethoven the divine, to watch the harmonious flow of 
 lines. This, indeed, was a pleasure cheaply purchased 
 at any price. What cared I, if I had waded to the portal 
 of this wonder through another's blood 1 I would have 
 given my own to enjoy one such moment of intoxication 
 and delight. 
 
 Breathless with gazing on this lovely wonder, and for- 
 getful for an instant of everything save her presence, I 
 withdrew my eye from the microscope eagerly, alas ! 
 As my gaze fell on the thin slide that lay beneath my 
 instrument, the bright light from mirror and from prism 
 sparkled on a colorless drop of water ! There, in that 
 tiny bead of dew, this beautiful being was forever impris- 
 oned. The planet Neptune was not more distant from 
 me than she. I hastened once more to apply my eye to 
 the microscope. 
 
 Animula (let me now call her by that dear name which 
 I subsequently bestowed on her) had changed her posi- 
 tion. She had again approached the wondrous forest, 
 and was gazing earnestly upwards. Presently one of the 
 trees as I must call them unfolded a long ciliary pro- 
 cess, with which it seized one of the gleaming fruits that 
 glittered on its summit, and, sweeping slowly down, held 
 it within reach of Animula. The sylph took it in her 
 delicate hand and began to eat. My attention was so en- 
 tirely absorbed by her, that I could not apply myself to 
 the task of determining whether this singular plant was 
 or was not instinct with volition. 
 
 I watched her, as she made her repast, with the most 
 profound attention. The suppleness of her motions sent 
 
THE DIAMOND LENS. 171 
 
 a thrill of delight through my frame ; my heart beat 
 madly as she turned her beautiful eyes in the direction of 
 the spot in which I stood. What would I not have given 
 to have had the power to precipitate myself into that 
 luminous ocean, and float with her through those groves 
 of purple and gold ! While I was thus breathlessly fol- 
 lowing her every movement, she suddenly started, seemed 
 to listen for a moment, and then cleaving the brilliant 
 ether in which she was floating, like a flash of light, 
 pierted through the opaline forest, and disappeared. 
 
 Instantly a series of the most singular sensations at- 
 tacked me. It seemed as if I had suddenly gone blind. 
 The luminous sphere was still before me, but my daylight 
 had vanished. What caused this sudden disappearence 1 
 Had she a lover or a husband ] Yes, that was the solu- 
 tion ! Some signal from a happy fellow-being had vibrated 
 through the avenues of the forest, and she had obeyed 
 the summons. 
 
 The agony of my sensations, as I arrived at this con- 
 clusion, startled me. I tried to reject the conviction that 
 my reason forced upon me. I battled against the fatal 
 conclusion, but in vain. It was so. I had no escape 
 from it. I loved an animalcule ! 
 
 It is true that, thanks to the marvellous power of my 
 microscope, she appeared of human proportions. Instead 
 of presenting the revolting aspect of the coarser creatures, 
 that live and struggle and die, in the more easily resolv- 
 able portions of the water-drop, she was fair and delicate 
 and of surpassing beauty. But of what account was all 
 that I Every time that my eye was withdrawn from the 
 instrument, it fell on a miserable drop of water, within 
 which, I must be content to know, dwelt all that could 
 make my life lovely. 
 
172 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 Could she but see me once ! Could I for one moment 
 pierce the mystical walls that so inexorably rose to sep- 
 arate us, and whisper all that filled rny soul, I might 
 consent to be satisfied for the rest of my life with the 
 knowledge of her remote sympathy. It would be some- 
 thing to have established even the faintest personal link 
 to bind us together, to know that at times, when roam- 
 ing through those enchanted glades, she might think of 
 the wonderful stranger, who had broken the monotony of 
 her life with his presence, and left a gentle memory in 
 her heart ! 
 
 But it could not be. No invention of which human 
 intellect was capable could break down the barriers that 
 nature had erected. I might feast my soul upon her 
 wondrous beauty, yet she must always remain ignorant 
 of the adoring eyes that day and night gazed upon her, 
 and, even when closed, beheld her in dreams. With a 
 bitter cry of anguish I fled from the room, and, flinging 
 myself on my bed, sobbed myself to sleep like a child. 
 
 VI. 
 THE SPILLING OP THE CUP. 
 
 I AROSE the next morning almost at daybreak, and 
 rushed to my microscope. I trembled as I sought the 
 luminous world in miniature that contained my all. Ani- 
 mula was there. I had left the gas-lamp, surrounded by 
 its moderators, burning, when I went to bed the night 
 before. I found the sylph bathing, as it were, with an 
 expression of pleasure animating her features, in the bril- 
 liant light which surrounded her. She tossed her lustrous 
 golden hair over her shoulders with innocent coquetry. 
 
THE DIAMOND LENS. 173 
 
 She lay at full length in the transparent medium, in 
 which she supported herself with ease, and gambolled 
 with the enchanting grace that the nymph Salmncis 
 might have exhibited when she sought to conquer the 
 modest Hermaphroditus. I tried an experiment to sat- 
 isfy myself if her powers of reflection were developed. I 
 lessened the lamp-light considerably. By the dim light 
 that remained, I could see an expression of pain flit across 
 her face. She looked upward suddenly, and her brows 
 contracted. I flooded the stage of the microscope again 
 with a full stream of light, and her whole expression 
 changed. She sprang forward like some substance de- 
 prived of all weight. Her eyes sparkled and her lips 
 moved. Ah ! if science had only the means of conduct- 
 ing and reduplicating sounds, as it does the rays of light, 
 what carols of happiness would then have entranced my 
 ears ! what jubilant hymns to Adonaiis would have thrilled 
 the illumined air ! 
 
 I now comprehended how it was that the Count de Ga- 
 balis peopled his mystic world with sylphs, beautiful 
 beings whose breath of life was lambent fire, and who 
 sported forever in regions of purest ether and purest light. 
 The Rosicrucian had anticipated the wonder that I had 
 practically realized. 
 
 How long this worship of my strange divinity went on 
 thus I scarcely know. I lost all note of time. All day 
 from early dawn, and far into the night, I was to be 
 found peering through that wonderful lens. I saw no 
 one, went nowhere, and scarce allowed myself sufficient 
 time for my meals. My whole life was absorbed in con- 
 templation as rapt as that of any of the Romish saints. 
 Every hour that I gazed upon the divine form strength- 
 ened my passion, a passion that was always overshad- 
 
174 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 owed by the maddening conviction, that, although I could 
 gaze on her at will, she never, never could behold me! 
 
 At length, I grew so pale and emaciated, from want of 
 rest, and continual brooding over my insane love and its 
 cruel conditions, that I determined to make some effort 
 to wean myself from it. " Come," I said, " this is at best 
 but a fantasy. Your imagination has bestowed on Ani- 
 mula charms which in reality she does not possess. Se- 
 clusion from female society has produced this morbid 
 condition of mind. Compare her with the beautiful wo- 
 men of your own world, and this false enchantment will 
 vanish." 
 
 I looked over the newspapers by chance. There I 
 beheld the advertisement of a celebrated danseuse who 
 appeared nightly at Niblo's. The Signoriua Caradolce 
 had the reputation of being the most beautiful as well as 
 the most graceful woman in the world. I instantly 
 dressed and went to the theatre. 
 
 The curtain drew up. The usual semicircle of fairies 
 in white muslin were standing on the right toe around 
 the enamelled flower-bank, of green canvas, on which the 
 belated prince was sleeping. Suddenly a flute is heard. 
 The fairies start. The trees open, the fairies all stand 
 on the left toe, and the queen enters. It was the Signo- 
 rina. She bounded forward amid thunders of applause, 
 and, lighting on one foot, remained poised in air. Heav- 
 ens! was this the great enchantress that had drawn mon- 
 archs at her chariot-wheels? Those heavy muscular 
 limbs, those thick ankles, those cavernous eyes, that stere- 
 otyped smile, those crudely painted cheeks! Where were 
 the vermeil blooms, the liquid expressive eyes, the har- 
 monious limbs of Animula? 
 
 The Signorina danced. "What gross, discordant move- 
 
THE DIAMOND LENS. 175 
 
 ments ! The play of her limbs was all false and artificial. 
 Her bounds were painful athletic efforts ; her poses were 
 angular and distressed the eye. I could bear it no longer ; 
 with an exclamation of disgust that drew every eye upon 
 me, I rose from my seat in the very middle of the Signo- 
 rina's pas-de-fascination, and abruptly quitted the house. 
 
 I hastened home to feast my eyes once more on the 
 lovely form of my sylph. I felt that henceforth to com- 
 bat this passion would be impossible. I applied my eye 
 to the lens. Animula was there, but what could have 
 happened 1 Some terrible change seemed to have taken 
 place during my absence. Some secret grief seemed to 
 cloud the lovely features of her I gazed upon. Her face 
 had grown thin and haggard ; her limbs trailed heavily ; 
 the wondrous lustre of her golden hair had faded. She 
 was ill ! ill, and I could not assist her ! I believe at 
 that moment I would have gladly forfeited all claims to 
 my human birthright, if I could only have been dwarfed 
 to the size of an animalcule, and permitted to console her 
 from whom fate had forever divided me. 
 
 I racked my brain for the solution of this mystery. 
 What was it that afflicted the sylph] She seemed to suf- 
 fer intense pain. Her features contracted, and she even 
 writhed, as if with some internal agony. The wondrous 
 forests appeared also to have lost half their beauty. Their 
 hues were dim and in some places faded away altogether. 
 I watched Animula for hours with a breaking heart, and 
 she seemed absolutely to wither away under my very eye. 
 Suddenly I remembered that I had not looked at the 
 water-drop for several days. In fact, I hated to see it ; 
 for it reminded me of the natural barrier between Ani- 
 mula and myself. I hurriedly looked down on the stage 
 of the microscope. The slide was still there, but, great 
 
176 THE DIAMOND LENS. 
 
 heavens ! the water-drop had vanished ! The awful truth 
 burst upon me; it had evaporated, until it had become 
 so minute as to be invisible to the naked eye ; I had been 
 gazing on its last atom, the one that contained Animula, 
 and she was dying ! 
 
 I rushed again to the front of the lens, and looked 
 through. Alas! the last agony had seized her. The 
 rainbow-hued forests had all melted away, and Animula 
 lay struggling feebly in what seemed to be a spot of dim 
 light. Ah ! the sight was horrible : the limbs once so 
 round and lovely shrivelling up into nothings ; the eyes 
 those eyes that shone like heaven being quenched into 
 black dust ; the lustrous golden hair now lank and dis- 
 colored. The last throe came. I beheld that final strug- 
 gle of the blackening form and I fainted. 
 
 When I awoke out of a trance of many hours, I found 
 myself lying amid the wreck of my instrument, myself as 
 shattered in mind and body as it. I crawled feebly to 
 my bed, from which I did not rise for months. 
 
 They say now that I am mad ; but they are mistaken. 
 I am poor, for I have neither the heart nor the will to 
 work; all my money is spent, and I live on charity. 
 Young men's associations that love a joke invite me to 
 lecture on Optics before them, for which they pay me, 
 and laugh at me while I lecture. " Linley, the mad 
 microscopist," is the name I go by. I suppose that I 
 talk incoherently while I lecture. Who could talk sense 
 when his brain is haunted by such ghastly memories, 
 while ever and anon among the shapes of death I behold 
 the radiant form of my lost Animula ! 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 177 
 
 THE WOKDEESMITH. 
 
 GOLOSH STREET AND ITS PEOPLE. 
 
 A SMALL lane, the name of which I have forgotten, or 
 do not choose to remember, slants suddenly off from 
 Chatham Street, (before that headlong thoroughfare 
 rushes into the Park,) and retreats suddenly down to- 
 wards the East River, as if it were disgusted with the 
 smell of old clothes, and had determined to wash itself 
 clean. This excellent intention it has, however, evidently 
 contributed towards the making of that imaginary pave- 
 ment mentioned in the old adage ; for it is still emphati- 
 cally a dirty street. It has never been able to shake off 
 the Hebraic taint of filth which it inherits from the an- 
 cestral thoroughfare. It is slushy and greasy, as if it 
 were twin brother of the Roman Ghetto. 
 
 I like a dirty slum ; not because I am naturally un- 
 clean, I have not a drop of Neapolitan blood in my 
 veins, but because I generally find a certain sediment 
 of philosophy precipitated in its gutters. A clean street 
 is terribly prosaic. There is no food for thought in care- 
 fully swept pavements, barren kennels, and vulgarly spot- 
 less houses. But when I go down a street which has 
 been left so long to itself that it has acquired a distinct 
 outward character, I find plenty to think about. The 
 scraps of sodden letters lying in the ash-barrel have their 
 
 12 
 
178 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 meaning : desperate appeals, perhaps, from Tom, the 
 baker's assistant, to Amelia, the daughter of the dry-goods 
 retailer, who is always selling at a sacrifice in consequence 
 of the late fire. That may be Tom himself who is now 
 passing me in a white apron, and I look up at the win- 
 dows of the house (which does not, however, give any 
 signs of a recent conflagration) and almost hope to see 
 Amelia wave a white pocket-handkerchief. The bit of 
 orange-peel lying on the sidewalk inspires thought. Who 
 will fall over it 1 who but the industrious mother of six 
 children, the youngest of which is only nine months old, 
 all of whom are dependent on her exertions for support 1 
 I see her slip and tumble. I see the pale face convulsed 
 with agony, and the vain struggle to get up ; the pitying 
 crowd closing her off from all air; the anxious young 
 doctor who happened to be passing by ; the manipulation 
 of the broken limb, the shake of the head, the moan of 
 the victim, the litter borne on men's shoulders, the gates 
 of the New York Hospital unclosing, the subscription 
 taken up on the spot. There is some food for speculation 
 in that three-year-old, tattered child, masked with dirt, 
 who is throwing a brick at another three-year-old, tat- 
 tered child, masked with dirt. It is not difficult to per- 
 ceive that he is destined to lurk, as it were, through life. 
 His bad, flat face or, at least, .what can be seen of it 
 does not look as if it were made for the light of day. The 
 mire in which he wallows now is but a type of the moral 
 mire in which he will wallow hereafter. The feeble little 
 hand lifted at this instant to smite his companion, half 
 in earnest, half in jest, will be raised against his fellow- 
 beings forevermore. 
 
 Golosh Street as I will call this nameless lane before 
 alluded to is an interesting locality. All the oddities 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 179 
 
 of trade seemed to have found their way thither and 
 made an eccentric mercantile settlement. There is a 
 bird-shop at one corner wainscoted with little cages con- 
 taining linnets, waxwings, canaries, blackbirds, Mino- 
 birds, with a hundred other varieties, known only to 
 naturalists. Immediately opposite is an establishment 
 where they sell nothing but ornaments made out of the 
 tinted leaves of autumn, varnished and gummed into va- 
 rious forms. Further down is a second-hand book-stall, 
 which looks like a sentry-box mangled out flat, and which 
 is remarkable for not containing a complete set of any 
 work. There is a small chink between two ordinary-sized 
 houses, in which a little Frenchman makes and sells arti- 
 ficial eyes, specimens of which, ranged on a black velvet 
 cushion, stare at you unwinkingly through the window 
 as you pass, until you shudder and hurry on, thinking 
 how awful the world would be if every one went about 
 without eyelids. There are junk-shops in Golosh Street 
 that seem to have got hold of all the old nails in the ark 
 and all the old brass of Corinth. Madame Filomel, the 
 fortune-teller, lives at No. 12 Golosh Street, second story 
 front, pull the bell on the left-hand side. Next door to 
 Madame is the shop of Herr Hippe, commonly called the 
 AVondersmith. 
 
 Herr Hippe's shop is the largest in Golosh Street, and 
 to all appearance is furnished with the smallest stock. 
 Beyond a few packing-cases, a turner's lathe, and a shelf 
 laden with dissected maps of Europe, the interior of the 
 shop is entirely unfurnished. The window, which is lofty 
 and wide, but much begrimed with dirt, contains the 
 only pleasant object in the place. This is a beautiful 
 little miniature theatre, that is to say, the orchestra 
 and stage. It is fitted with charmingly painted scenery 
 
180 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 and all the appliances for scenic changes. There are tiny 
 traps, and delicately constructed " lifts," and real foot- 
 lights fed with burning-fluid, and in the orchestra sits a di- 
 minutive conductor before his desk, surrounded by musical 
 manikins, all provided with the smallest of violoncellos, 
 flutes, oboes, drums, and such like. There are characters 
 also on the stage. A Templar in a white cloak is drag- 
 ging a fainting female form to the parapet of a ruined 
 bridge, while behind a great black rock on the left one 
 can see a man concealed, who, kneeling, levels an arque- 
 buse at the knight's heart. But the orchestra is silent ; 
 the conductor never beats the time, the musicians never 
 play a note ; the Templar never drags his victim an inch 
 nearer to the bridge ; the masked avenger takes an eternal 
 aim with his weapon. This repose appears unnatural ; 
 for so admirably are the figures executed that they seem 
 replete with life. One is almost led to believe, in looking 
 on them, that they are resting beneath some spell which 
 hinders their motion. One expects every moment to 
 hear the loud explosion of the arquebuse, to see the 
 blue smoke curling, the Templar falling, to hear the or- 
 chestra playing the requiem of the guilty. 
 
 Few people knew what Herr Hippe's business or trade 
 really was. That he worked at something was evident ; 
 else why the shop 1 Some people inclined to the belief 
 that he was an inventor, or mechanician. His workshop 
 was in the rear of the store, and into that sanctuary no 
 one but himself had admission. He arrived in Golosh 
 Street eight or ten years ago, and one fine morning, the 
 neighbors, taking down their shutters, observed that 
 No. 13 had got a tenant. A tall, thin, sallow-faced man 
 stood on a ladder outside the shop entrance, nailing up a 
 large board, on which " Herr Hippe, Wondersmith," was 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 181 
 
 painted in black letters on a yellow ground. The little 
 theatre stood in the window, where it stood ever after, 
 and HeiT Hippe was established. 
 
 But what was a Wondersmith 1 people asked each 
 other. No one could reply. Madame Filomel was con- 
 sulted ; but she looked grave, and said that it was none 
 of her business. Mr. Pippel, the bird-fancier, who was a 
 German, and ought to know best, thought it was the 
 English for some singular Teutonic profession ; but his 
 replies were so vague that Golosh Street was as unsatis- 
 fied as ever. Solon, the little humpback, who kept the 
 odd-volume book-stall at the lowest corner, could throw 
 no light upon it. And at length people had to come to 
 the conclusion that Herr Hippe was either a coiner or a 
 magician, and opinions were divided. 
 
 II. 
 
 A BOTTLEFUL OP SOULS. 
 
 IT was a dull December evening. There was little 
 trade doing in Golosh Street, and the shutters were up at 
 most of the shops. Hippe's store had been closed at 
 least an hour, and the Mino-birds and Bohemian wax- 
 wings at Mr. Pippel's had their heads tucked under their 
 wings in their first sleep. 
 
 Herr Hippe sat in his parlor, which was lit by a pleas- 
 ant wood-fire. There were no candles in the room, and 
 the flickering blaze played fantastic tricks on the pale 
 gray walls. It seemed the festival of shadows. Pro- 
 cessions of shapes, obscure and indistinct, passed across 
 the leaden-hued panels and vanished in the dusk corners. 
 Every fresh blaze flung up by the wayward logs created 
 
182 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 new images. Now it was a funeral throng, with the 
 bowed figures of mourners, the shrouded coffin, the 
 plumes that waved like extinguished torches; now a 
 knightly cavalcade with flags and lances, and weird 
 horses, that rushed silently along until they met the 
 angle of the room, when they pranced through the wall 
 and vanished. 
 
 On a table close to where Herr Hippe sat was placed 
 a large square box of some dark wood, while over it was 
 spread a casing of steel, so elaborately wrought in an 
 open arabesque pattern that it seemed like a shining 
 blue lace which was lightly stretched over its surface. 
 
 Herr Hippe lay luxuriously in his arm-chair, looking 
 meditatively into the fire. He was tall and thin, and 
 his skin was of a dull saffron hue. Long, straight hair, 
 sharply cut, regular features, a long, thin mustache, that 
 curled like a dark asp around his mouth, the expres- 
 sion of which was so bitter and cruel that it seemed to 
 distil the venom of the ideal serpent, and a bony, mus- 
 cular form, were the prominent characteristics of the 
 Wondersmith. 
 
 The profound silence that reigned in the chamber was 
 broken by a peculiar scratching at the panel of the door, 
 like that which at the French court was formerly substi- 
 tuted for the ordinary knock, when it was necessary to 
 demand admission to the royal apartments. Herr Hippe 
 started, raised his head, which vibrated on his long neck 
 like the head of a cobra when about to strike, and after 
 a moment's silence uttered a strange guttural sound. 
 The door unclosed, and a squat, broad-shouldered woman, 
 with large, wild, oriental eyes, entered softly. 
 
 " Ah ! Filomel, you are come ! " said the Wondersmith, 
 sinking back in his chair. " Where are the rest of them 1 " 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 183 
 
 **' They will be here presently," answered Madame Filo- 
 mel, seating herself in an arm-chair much too narrow for 
 a person of her proportions, and over the sides of which 
 she bulged like a pudding. 
 
 " Have you brought the souls ? " asked the Wonder- 
 smith. 
 
 " They are here," said the fortune-teller, drawing a 
 large pot-bellied black bottle from under her cloak. "Ah ! 
 I have had such trouble with them ! " 
 
 " Are they of the right brand, wild, tearing, dark, 
 devilish fellows ] We want no essence of milk and honey, 
 you know. None but souls bitter as hemlock or scorch- 
 ing as lightning will suit our purpose." 
 
 " You will see, you will see, Grand Duke of Egypt ! 
 They are ethereal demons, every one of them. They are 
 the pick of a thousand births. Do you think that I, old 
 midwife that I am, don't know the squall of the demon 
 child from that of the angel child, the very moment they 
 are delivered 1 ? Ask a musician how he knows, even in 
 the dark, a note struck by Thalberg from one struck by 
 Listz ! " 
 
 " I long to test them," cried the Wondersmith, rubbing 
 his hands joyfully. " I long to see how the little devils 
 will behave when I give them their shapes. Ah ! it will 
 be a proud day for us when we let them loose upon the 
 cursed Christian children ! Through the length and 
 breadth of the land they will go ; wherever our wander- 
 ing people set foot, and wherever they are, the children 
 of the Christians shall die. Then we, the despised Bo- 
 hemians, the gypsies, as they call us, will be once more 
 lords of the earth, as we were in the days when the ac- 
 cursed things called cities did not exist, and men lived 
 in the free woods and hunted the game of the forest. 
 
184 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 Toys indeed ! Ay, ay, we will give the little dears toy$! 
 toys that all day will sleep calmly in their boxes, seem- 
 ingly stiff and wooden and without life, but at night, 
 when the souls enter them, will arise and surround the 
 cots of the sleeping children, and pierce their hearts with 
 their keen, envenomed blades ! Toys indeed ! 0, yes ! I 
 will sell them toys ! " 
 
 And the Wondersmith laughed horribly, while the 
 snaky mustache on his upper lip writhed as if it had 
 truly a serpent's power and could sting. 
 
 " Have you got your first batch, Herr Hippe ] " asked 
 Madame Filomel. " Are they all ready ? " 
 
 " 0, ay ! they are ready," answered the Wondersmith 
 with gusto, opening, as he spoke, the box covered with 
 the blue steel lace-work ; " they are here." 
 
 The box contained a quantity of exquisitely carved 
 wooden manikins of both sexes, painted with great dex- 
 terity so as to present a miniature resemblance to nature. 
 They were, in fact, nothing more than admirable speci- 
 mens of those toys which children delight in placing in 
 various positions on the table, in regiments, or sitting 
 at meals, or grouped under the stiff green trees which 
 always accompany them in the boxes in which they are 
 sold at the toy-shops. 
 
 The peculiarity, however, about the manikins of Herr 
 Hippe was not alone the artistic truth with which the 
 limbs and the features were gifted ; but on the counte- 
 nance of each little puppet the carver's art had wrought 
 an expression of wickedness that was appalling. Every 
 tiny face had its special stamp of ferocity. The lips were 
 thin and brimful of malice ; the small black bead-like 
 eyes glittered with the fire of a universal hate. There 
 was not one of the manikjns, male or female, that did 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 185 
 
 not hold in his or her hand some miniature weapon. 
 The little men, scowling like demons, clasped in their 
 wooden fingers swords delicate as a housewife's needle. 
 The women, whose countenances expressed treachery and 
 cruelty, clutched infinitesimal daggers, with which they 
 seemed about to take some terrible vengeance. 
 
 " Good ! " said Madame Filomel, taking one of the 
 manikins out of the box and examining it attentively ; 
 "you work well, Duke Balthazar! These little ones are 
 of the right stamp ; they look as if they had mischief in 
 them. Ah ! here come our brothers." 
 
 At this moment the same scratching that preceded the 
 entrance of Madame Filomel was heard at the door, and 
 Herr Hippe replied with a hoarse, guttural cry. The 
 next moment two men entered. The first was a small 
 man with very brilliant eyes. He was wrapt in a long 
 shabby cloak, and wore a strange nondescript species of 
 cap on his head, such a cap as one sees only in the low 
 billiard-rooms in Paris. His companion was tall, long- 
 limbed, and slender ; and his dress, although of the ordi- 
 nary cut, either from the disposition of colors, or from 
 the careless, graceful attitudes of the wearer, assumed a 
 certain air of picturesqueness. Both the men possessed 
 the same marked oriental type of countenance which 
 distinguished the Wondersmith and Madame Filomel. 
 True gypsies they seemed, who would not have been out 
 of place telling fortunes, or stealing chickens in the green 
 lanes of England, or wandering with their wild music and 
 their sleight-of-hand tricks through Bohemian villages. 
 
 "Welcome, brothers!" said the Woudersmith ; "you 
 are in time. Sister Filomel has brought the souls, and 
 we are about to test them. Monsieur Kerplonne, take off 
 your cloak. Brother Oaksmith, take a chair. I promise 
 
186 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 you some amusement this evening; so make yourselves 
 comfortable. Here is something to aid you." 
 
 And while the Frenchman Kerplonne, and his tall com- 
 panion, Oaksmith, were obeying Hippe's invitation, he 
 reached over to a little closet let' into the wall, and took 
 thence a squat bottle and some glasses, which he placed 
 on the table. 
 
 " Drink, brothers ! " he said ; " it is not Christian blood, 
 but good stout wine of Oporto. It goes right to the heart, 
 and warms one like the sunshine of the south." 
 
 " It is good," said Kerplonne, smacking his lips with 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "Why don't you keep brandy 1 ? Hang wine!" cried 
 Oaksmith, after having swallowed two bumpers in rapid 
 succession. 
 
 " Bah ! Brandy has been the ruin of our race. It has 
 made us sots and thieves. It shall never cross my thresh- 
 old," cried the Wondersmith, with a sombre indignation. 
 
 " A little of it is not bad, though, Duke," said the 
 fortune-teller. "It consoles us for our misfortunes; it 
 gives us the crowns we once wore ; it restores to us the 
 power we once wielded ; it carries us back, as if by magic, 
 to that land of the sun from which fate has driven us; it 
 darkens the memory of all the evils that we have for 
 centuries suffered." 
 
 " It is a devil ; may it be cursed ! " cried Herr Hippe, 
 passionately. "It is a demon that stole from me my 
 son, the finest youth in all Courland. Yes ! my son, the 
 son of the Waywode Balthazar, Grand Duke of Lower 
 Egypt, died raving in a gutter, with an empty brandy- 
 bottle in his hands. Were it not that the plant is a 
 sacred one to our race, I would curse the grape and the 
 vine that bore it." 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 187 
 
 This outburst was delivered with such energy that the 
 three gypsies kept silence. Oaksmith helped himself to 
 another glass of port, and the fortune-teller rocked to and 
 fro in her chair, too much overawed by the Wondersmith's 
 vehemence of manner to* reply. The little Frenchman, 
 Kerplonne, took no part in the discussion, but seemed 
 lost in admiration of the manikins, which he took from 
 the box in which they lay, handling them with the great- 
 est care. 
 
 After the 'silence had lasted for about a minute, Herr 
 Hippe broke it with the sudden question, " How does 
 your eye get on, Kerplonne 1" 
 
 " Excellently, Duke. It is finished. I have it here." 
 And the little Frenchman put his hand into his breeches 
 pocket and pulled out a large artificial human eye. Its 
 great size was the only thing in this eye that would lead 
 any one to suspect its artificiality. It was at least twice 
 the size of life ; but there was a fearful speculative light 
 in its iris, which seemed to expand and contract like the 
 eye of a living being, that rendered it a horrible staring 
 paradox. It looked like the naked eye of the Cyclops, 
 torn from his forehead, and still burning with wrath and 
 the desire for vengeance. 
 
 The little Frenchman laughed pleasantly as he held the 
 eye in his hand, and gazed down on that huge, dark pupil, 
 that stared back at him, it seemed, with an air of defiance 
 and mistrust. 
 
 " It is a devil of an eye," said the little man, wiping 
 the enamelled surface with an old silk pocket-handkerchief ; 
 " it reads like a demon. My niece the unhappy one 
 has a wretch of a lover, and I have a long time feared 
 that she would run away with him. I could not read her 
 correspondence, for she kept her writing-desk closely 
 
188 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 locked. But I asked her j^esterday to keep this eye in 
 some very safe place for me. She put it, as I knew she 
 would, into her desk, and by its aid I read every one of 
 her letters. She was to run away next Monday, the un- 
 grateful ! but she will find herself disappointed." 
 
 And the little man laughed heartily at the success of 
 his stratagem, and polished and fondled the great eye 
 until that optic seemed to grow sore with rubbing. 
 
 "And you have been at work, too, I see, Herr Hippe. 
 Your manikins are excellent. But where are the souls 1 " 
 
 " In that bottle," answered the Wondersmith, pointing 
 to the pot-bellied black bottle that Madame Filomel had 
 brought with her. "Yes, Monsieur Kerplonne," he con- 
 tinued, " my manikins are well made. I invoked the aid 
 of Abigor, the demon of soldiery, and he inspired me. 
 The little fellows will be famous assassins when they are 
 animated. We will try them to-night." 
 
 " Good ! " cried Kerplonne, rubbing his hands joyously. 
 " It is close upon New Year's day. We will fabricate 
 millions of the little murderers by New Year's eve, and 
 sell them in large quantities ; and when the households 
 are all asleep, and the Christian children are waiting for 
 Santa Glaus to come, the small ones will troop from their 
 boxes, and the Christian children will die. It is famous ! 
 Health to Abigor ! " 
 
 " Let us try them at once," said Oaksmith. " Is your 
 daughter, Zonela, in bed, Herr Hippe 1 Are we secure 
 from intrusion ] " 
 
 " No one is stirring about the house," replied the Won- 
 dersmith, gloomily. 
 
 Filomel leaned over to Oaksmith, and said in an under- 
 tone, "Why do you mention his daughter 1 ? ^You know 
 he does not like to have her spoken about." 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 189 
 
 " I will take care that we are not disturbed," said Ker- 
 plorme, rising. " I will put my eye outside the door, to 
 watch." 
 
 He went to the door and placed his great eye upon the 
 floor with tender care. As he did so, a dark form, unseen 
 by him or his second vision, glided along the passage 
 noiselessly, and was lost in the darkness. 
 
 " Now for it ! " exclaimed Madame Filomel, taking up 
 her fat black bottle. " Herr Hippe, prepare your mani- 
 kins ! " 
 
 The Wondersrnith took the little dolls out, one by one, 
 and set them upon the table. Such an array of villanous 
 countenances was never seen. An army of Italian bravoes, 
 seen through the wrong end of a telescope, or a band of 
 prisoners at the galleys in Liliput, will give some faint 
 idea of the appearance they presented. While Madame 
 Filomel uncorked the black bottle, Herr Hippe covered 
 the dolls with a species of linen tent, which he took also 
 from the box. This done, the fortune-teller held the 
 mouth of the bottle to the door of the tent, gathering 
 the loose cloth closely round the glass neck. Immediately 
 tiny noises were heard inside the tent. Madame Filomel 
 removed the bottle, and the Wondersmith lifted the 
 covering in which he had enveloped his little people. 
 
 A wonderful transformation had taken place. Wooden 
 and inflexible no longer, the crowd of manikins were now 
 in full motion. The bead-like eyes turned, glittering, on 
 all sides ; the thin, wicked lips quivered with bad passions ; 
 the tiny hands sheathed and unsheathed the little swords 
 and daggers. Episodes, common to life, were taking 
 place in every direction. Here two martial manikins 
 paid court to a pretty, sly-faced female, who smiled on 
 each alternately, but gave her hand to be kissed to a 
 
190 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 third manikin, an ugly little scoundrel, who crouched be- 
 hind her. There a pair of friendly dolls walked arm in 
 arm, apparently on the best terms, while, all the time, 
 one was watching his opportunity to stab the other in 
 the back. 
 
 " I think they '11 do," said the Wondersmith, chuckling 
 as he watched these various incidents. " Treacherous, 
 cruel, bloodthirsty. All goes marvellously well. But 
 stay ! I will put the grand test to them." 
 
 So saying, he drew a gold dollar from his pocket, and 
 let it fall on the table, in the very midst of the throng of 
 manikins. It ' had hardly touched the table when there 
 was a pause on all sides. Every head was turned towards 
 the dollar. Then about twenty of the little creatures 
 rushed towards the glittering coin. One, fleeter than the 
 rest, leaped upon it and drew his sword. The entire 
 crowd of little people had now gathered round this new 
 centre of attraction. Men and women struggled and 
 shoved to get nearer to the piece of gold. Hardly had 
 the first Liliputian mounted upon the treasure, when a 
 hundred blades flashed back a defiant answer to his, and 
 a dozen men, sword in hand, leaped upon the yellow plat- 
 form and drove him off at the sword's point. Then com- 
 menced a general battle. The miniature faces were con- 
 vulsed with rage and avarice. Each furious doll tried to 
 plunge dagger or sword into his or her neighbor, and the 
 women seemed possessed by a thousand devils. 
 
 " They will break themselves into atoms," cried Filo- 
 mel, as she watched with eagerness this savage melee. 
 "You had better gather them up, Herr Hippe. I will 
 exhaust my bottle and suck all the souls back from 
 them." 
 
 " 0, they are perfect devils ! they are magnificent 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 191 
 
 little demons ! " cried the Frenchman, with enthusiasm. 
 "Hippe, you are a wonderful man. Brother Oaksmith, 
 you have no such man as Hippe among your English 
 gypsies." 
 
 "Not exactly," answered Oaksmith, rather sullenly, 
 " not exactly. But we have men there who can make a 
 twelve-year-old horse look like a four-year-old, and who 
 can take you and Herr Hippe up with one hand, and 
 throw you over their shoulders." 
 
 " The good God forbid ! " said the little Frenchman. 
 " I do not love such play. It is incommodious." 
 
 While Oaksmith and Kerplonne were talking, the Won- 
 dersmith had placed the linen tent over the struggling 
 dolls, and Madame Filomel, who had been performing 
 some mysterious manipulations with her black bottle, put 
 the mouth once more to the door of the tent. In an 
 instant the confused murmur within ceased. Madame 
 Filomel corked the bottle quickly. The Wondersmith 
 withdrew the tent, and, lo! the furious dolls were once 
 more wooden-jointed and inflexible ; and the old sinister 
 look was again frozen on their faces. 
 
 " They must have blood, though," said Herr Hippe, as 
 he gathered them up and put them into their box. " Mr. 
 Pippel, the bird-fancier, is asleep. I have a key that 
 opens his door. We will let them loose among the birds ; 
 it will be rare fun." 
 
 " Magnificent ! " cried Kerplonne. " Let us go on the 
 instant. But first let me gather up my eye." 
 
 The Frenchman pocketed his eye, after having given it 
 a polish with the silk handkerchief; Herr Hippe extin- 
 guished the lamp ; Oaksmith took a last bumper of port ; 
 and the four gypsies departed for Mr. Pippel's, carrying 
 the box of manikins with them. 
 
192 THE WONDEKSMITH. 
 
 III. 
 
 SOLON. 
 
 THE shadow that glided along the dark corridor, at the 
 moment that Monsieur Kerplonne deposited his sentinel 
 eye outside the door of the Wondersmith's apartment, 
 sped swiftly through the passage and ascended the stairs 
 to the attic. Here the shadow stopped at the entrance 
 to one of the chambers and knocked at the door. There 
 was no reply. 
 
 " Zonela, are you asleep 1 " said the shadow, softly. 
 
 "0, Solon, is it you 1 " replied a sweet low voice from 
 within. "I thought it was Herr Hippe. Come in.' 
 
 The shadow opened the door and entered. There were 
 neither candles nor lamp in the room ; but through the 
 projecting window, which was open, there came the faint 
 gleams of the starlight, by which one could distinguish a 
 female figure seated on a low stool in the middle of the 
 floor. 
 
 " Has he left you without light again, Zonela ? " asked 
 the shadow, closing the door of the apartment. " I have 
 brought my little lantern with me, though." 
 
 " Thank you, Solon," answered she called Zonela ; " you 
 are a good fellow. He never gives me any light of an 
 evening, but bids me go to bed. 1 like to sit sometimes 
 and look at the moon and the stars, the stars more 
 than all ; for they seem all the time to look right back 
 into my face, very sadly, as if they would say, 'We see 
 you, and pity you, and would help you, if we could.' But 
 it is so mournful to be always looking at such myriads of 
 melancholy eyes ! and I long so to read those nice books 
 that you lend me, Solon ! " 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 193 
 
 By this time the shadow had lit the lantern and was a 
 shadow no longer. A large head, covered with a profu- 
 sion of long blonde hair, which was cut after that fashion 
 known as ct Venfants dEdouard ; a beautiful pale face, lit 
 with wide, blue, dreamy eyes; long arms and slender 
 hands, attenuated legs, and an enormous hump ; 
 such was Solon, the shadow. As soon as the humpback 
 had lit the lamp, Zonela arose from the low stool on 
 which she had been seated, and took Solon's hand affec- 
 tionately in hers. 
 
 Zonela was surely not of gypsy blood. That rich au- 
 burn hair, that looked almost black in the lamp-light, 
 that pale, transparent skin, tinged with an under-glow of 
 warm rich blood, the hazel eyes, large and soft as those 
 of a fawn, were never begotten of a Zingaro. Zonela was 
 seemingly about sixteen ; her figure, although somewhat 
 thin and angular, was full of the unconscious grace of 
 youth. She was dressed in an old cotton print, which 
 had been once of an exceedingly boisterous pattern, but 
 was now a mere suggestion of former splendor; while 
 round her head was twisted, in fantastic fashion, a silk 
 handkerchief of green ground spotted with bright crimson. 
 This strange head-dress gave her an elfish appearance. 
 
 " I have been out all day with the organ, and I am so 
 tired, Solon ! not sleepy, but weary, I mean. Poor 
 Furbelow was sleepy, though, and he 's gone to bed." 
 
 " I 'm weary, too, Zonela ; not weary as you are, 
 though, for I sit in my little book-stall all day long, and 
 do not drag round an organ and a monkey and play old 
 tunes for pennies, but weary of myself, of life, of the 
 load that I carry on my shoulders " ; and, as he said tins, 
 the poor humpback glanced sideways, as if to call atten- 
 tion to his deformed person. 
 
 13 
 
194 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 "Well, but you ought not to be melancholy amidst 
 your books, Solon. Gracious ! If I could only sit in the 
 sun and read as you do, how happy I should be ! But 
 it 's very tiresome to trudge round all day with that nasty 
 organ, and look up at the houses, and know that you are 
 annoying the people inside ; and then the boys play such 
 bad tricks on poor Furbelow, throwing him hot pennies 
 to pick up, and burning his poor little hands ; and oh ! 
 sometimes, Solon, the men in the street make me so 
 afraid, they speak to me and look at me so oddly ! 
 I 'd a great deal rather sit in your book-stall and read." 
 
 "I have nothing but odd volumes in my stall," an- 
 swered the humpback. " Perhaps that 's right, though ; 
 for, after all, I 'm nothing but an odd volume myself." 
 
 " Come, don't be melancholy, Solon. Sit down and tell 
 me a story. I '11 bring Furbelow to listen." 
 
 So saying, she went to a dusk corner of the cheerless 
 attic room, and returned with a little Brazilian monkey 
 in her arms, a poor, mild, drowsy thing, that looked 
 as if it had cried itself to sleep. She sat down on her 
 little stool, with Furbelow in her lap, and nodded her 
 head to Solon, as much as to say, "Go on ; we are at- 
 tentive." 
 
 " You want a story, do you ? " said the humpback, with 
 a mournful smile. " Well, I '11 tell you one. Only what 
 will your father say, if he catches me here ? " 
 
 " Herr Hippe is not my father," cried Zonela, indig- 
 nantly. " He 's a gypsy, and I know I 'm stolen ; and 
 I 'd run away from him, if I only knew where to run to. 
 If I were his child, do you think that he would treat me 
 as he does 1 make me trudge round the city, all day long, 
 with a barrel-organ and a monkey, though I love poor, 
 dear little Furbelow, and keep me up in a garret, and 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 195 
 
 give me ever so little to eat 1 I know I 'm not his child, 
 for he hates me." 
 
 "Listen to my story, Zonela, and we 11 talk of that 
 afterwards. Let me sit at your feet " ; and, having 
 coiled himself up at the little maiden's feet, he com- 
 menced : 
 
 " There once lived in a great city, just like this city of 
 New York, a poor little hunchback. He kept a second- 
 hand book-stall, where he made barely enough money to 
 keep body and soul together. He was very sad at times, 
 because he knew scarce any one, and those that he did 
 know did not love him. He had passed a sickly, secluded 
 youth. The children of his neighborhood would not play 
 with him, for he was not made like them ; and the people 
 in the streets stared at him with pity, or scoffed at him 
 when he went by. Ah ! Zonela, how his poor heart was 
 wrung with bitterness when he beheld the procession of 
 shapely men and fine women that every day passed him 
 by in the thoroughfares of the great city ! How he re- 
 pined and cursed his fate as the torrent of fleet-footed 
 firemen dashed past him to the toll of the bells, magnifi- 
 cent in their overflowing vitality and strength ! But 
 there was one consolation left him, one drop of honey 
 in the jar of gall, so sweet that it ameliorated all the bit- 
 terness of life. God had given him a deformed body, but 
 his mind was straight and healthy. So the poor hunch- 
 back shut himself into the world of books, and was, if not 
 happy, at least contented. He kept company with cour- 
 teous paladins, and romantic heroes, and beautiful women ; 
 and this society was of such excellent breeding that it 
 never so much as once noticed his poor crooked back or 
 his lame walk. The love of books grew upon him with 
 his years. He was remarked for his studious habits ; 
 
196 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 and "when, one day, the obscure people that he called 
 father and mother parents only in name died, a 
 compassionate book-vender gave him enough stock in 
 trade to set up a little stall of his own. Here, in his 
 book-stall, he sat in the sun all day, waiting for the cus- 
 tomers that seldom came, and reading the fine deeds of 
 the people of the ancient time, or the beautiful thoughts 
 of the poets that had warmed millions of hearts before 
 that hour, and still glowed for him with undiminished 
 fire. One day, when he was reading some book, that, 
 small as it was, was big enough to shut the whole world 
 out from him, he heard some music in the street. Look- 
 ing up from his book, he saw a little girl, with large eyes, 
 playing an organ, while a monkey begged for alms from a 
 crowd of idlers who had nothing in their pockets but 
 their hands. The girl was playing, but she was also 
 weeping. The merry notes of the polka were ground out 
 to a silent accompaniment of tears. She looked very sad, 
 this organ-girl, and her monkey seemed to have caught 
 the infection, for his large brown eyes were moist, as if he 
 also wept. The poor hunchback was struck with pity, 
 and called the little girl over to give her a penny, not, 
 dear Zonela, because he wished to bestow alms, but be- 
 cause he wanted to speak with her. She came, and they 
 talked together. She came the next day, for it turned 
 out that they were neighbors, and the next, and, in 
 short, every day. They became friends. They were both 
 lonely and afflicted, with this difference, that she was 
 beautiful, and he was a hunchback." 
 
 " Why, Solon," cried Zonela, " that 's the very way you 
 and I met ! " 
 
 " It was then," continued Solon, with a faint smile, 
 " that life seemed to have its music. A great harmony 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 197 
 
 seemed to the poor cripple to fill the world. The carts 
 that took the flour-barrels from the wharves to the store- 
 houses seemed to emit joyous melodies from their wheels. 
 The hum of the great business streets sounded like grand 
 symphonies of triumph. As one who has been travelling 
 through a barren country without much heed feels with 
 singular force the sterility of the lands he has passed 
 through when he reaches the fertile plains that lie at the 
 end of his journey, so the humpback, after his vision had 
 been freshened with this blooming flower, remembered for 
 the first time the misery of the life that he had led. But 
 he did not allow himself to dwell upon the past. The 
 present was so delightful that it occupied all his thoughts. 
 Zonela, he was in love with the organ-girl." 
 
 " 0, that 's so nice ! " said Zonela, innocently, pinch- 
 ing poor Furbelow, as she spoke, in order to dispel a very- 
 evident snooze that was creeping over him. " It 's going 
 to be 4 a love-story." 
 
 " Ah ! but, Zonela, he did not know whether she loved 
 him in return. You forget that he was deformed." 
 
 " But," answered the girl gravely, " he was good." 
 
 A light like the flash of an aurora illuminated Solon's 
 face for an instant. He put out his hand suddenly, as if 
 to take Zonela's and press it to his heart ; but an unac- 
 countable timidity seemed to arrest the impulse, and he 
 only stroked Furbelow's head, upon which that indi- 
 vidual opened one large brown eye to the extent of the 
 eighth of an inch, and, seeing that it was only Solon, in- 
 stantly closed it again, and resumed his dream of a city 
 where there were no organs and all the copper coin of the 
 realm was iced. 
 
 " He hoped and feared," continued Solon, in a low, 
 mournful voice ; " but at times he was very miserable, 
 
198 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 because he did not think it possible that so much happi- 
 ness was reserved for him as the love of this beautiful, 
 innocent girl. At night, when he was in bed, and all the 
 world was dreaming, he lay awake looking up at the old 
 books against the walls, thinking how he could bring 
 about the charming of her heart. One night, when he 
 was thinking of this, with his eyes fixed upon the mouldy 
 backs of the odd volumes that lay on their shelves, and 
 looked back at him wistfully, as if they would say, l We 
 also are like you, and wait to be completed,' it seemed 
 as if he heard a rustle of leaves. Then, one by one, the 
 books came down from their places to the floor, as if 
 shifted by invisible hands, opened their worm-eaten cov- 
 ers, and from between the pages of each the hunchback 
 saw issue forth a curious throng of little people that 
 danced here and there through the apartment. Each one 
 of these little creatures was shaped so as to bear resem- 
 blance to some one of the letters of the alphabet. One 
 tall, long-legged fellow seemed like the letter A ; a burly 
 fellow, with a big head and a paunch, was the model of 
 B ; another leering little chap might have passed for a Q ; 
 and so on through the whole. These fairies for fairies 
 they were climbed upon the hunchback's bed, and 
 clustered thick as bees upon his pillow. ' Come ! ' they 
 cried to him, * we will lead you into fairy-land.' So say- 
 ing, they seized his hand, and he suddenly found himself 
 in a beautiful country, where the light did not come from 
 sun or moon or stars, but floated round and over and in 
 everything like the atmosphere. On all sides he heard 
 mysterious melodies sung by strangely musical voices. 
 None of the features of the landscape was definite ; yet 
 when he looked on the vague harmonies of color that 
 melted one into another before his sight he was filled 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 199 
 
 with a sense of inexplicable beauty. On every side of 
 him fluttered radiant bodies, which darted to and fro 
 through the illumined space. They were not birds, yet 
 they flew like birds ; and as each one crossed the path of 
 his vision he felt a strange delight flash through his brain, 
 and straightway an interior voice seemed to sing beneath 
 the vaulted dome of his temples a verse containing some 
 beautiful thought. The little fairies were all this time 
 dancing and fluttering around him, perching on his head, 
 on his shoulders, or balancing themselves on his finger- 
 tips. ' Where am 1 1 ' he asked, at last, of his friends, the 
 fairies. ' Ah, Solon ! ' he heard them whisper, hi tones 
 that sounded like the distant tinkling of silver bells, 
 ' this land is nameless ; but those whom we lead hither, 
 who tread its soil, and breathe its air, and gaze on its 
 floating sparks of light, are poets forevermore.' Having 
 said this, they vanished, and with them the beautiful in- 
 definite land, and the flashing lights, and the illumined 
 air ; and the hunchback found himself again in bed, with 
 the moonlight quivering on the floor, and the dusty books 
 on their shelves, grim and mouldy as ever." 
 
 "You have betrayed yourself. You called yourself 
 Solon," cried Zonela. " Was it a dream ? " 
 
 "I do not know," answered Solon; "but since that 
 night I have been a poet." 
 
 " A poet 1 " screamed the little organ girl, "a real 
 poet, who makes verses which every one reads and every 
 one talks of?" 
 
 " The people call me a poet," answered Solon, with a 
 sad smile. " They do not know me by the name of So- 
 lon, for I write under an assumed title ; but they praise 
 me, and repeat my songs. But, Zonela, I can't sing this 
 load off of my back, can II" 
 
200 THE WONDEBSMITH. 
 
 " 0, bother the hump ! " said Zone*la, jumping up 
 suddenly. " You 're a poet, and that 's enough, is n't it 1 
 I 'm so glad you 're a poet, Solon ! You must repeat all 
 your best things to me, won't you 1 " 
 
 Solon nodded assent. 
 
 " You don't ask me," he said, " who was the little girl 
 that the hunchback loved." 
 
 Zonela's face flushed crimson. She turned suddenly 
 away, and ran into a dark corner of the room. In a mo- 
 ment she returned with an old hand-organ in her arms. 
 
 " Play, Solon, play ! " she cried. lt I am so glad that 
 I want to dance. Furbelow, come and dance in honor of 
 Solon the Poet." 
 
 It was her confession. Solon's eyes flamed, as if his 
 brain had suddenly ignited. He said nothing ; 'but a tri- 
 umphant smile broke over his countenance. Zon^la, the 
 twilight of whose cheeks was still rosy with the setting 
 blush, caught the lazy Furbelow by his little paws ; Solon 
 turned the crank of the organ, which wheezed out as 
 merry a polka as its asthma would allow, and the girl 
 and the monkey commenced their fantastic dance. They 
 had taken but a few steps when the door suddenly opened, 
 and the tall figure of the Wondersmith appeared on the 
 threshold. His face was convulsed with rage, and the 
 black snake that quivered on his upper lip seemed to 
 rear itself as if about to spring upon the hunchback. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE MANIKINS AND THE MINOS. 
 
 THE four gypsies left Herr Hippe's house cautiously, 
 and directed their steps towards Mr. Pippel's bird-shop. 
 
THE WONDERSMTTH. 201 
 
 Golosh Street was asleep. Nothing was stirring in that 
 tenebrous slum, save a dog that savagely gnawed a bone 
 which lay on a dust-heap, tantalizing him with the flavor 
 of food without its substance. As the gypsies moved 
 stealthily along in the darkness they had a sinister and 
 murderous air that would not have failed to attract the 
 attention of the policeman of the quarter, if that worthy 
 had not at the moment been comfortably ensconced in 
 the neighboring "Rainbow" bar-room, listening to the 
 improvisations of that talented vocalist, Mr. Harrison, 
 who was making impromptu verses on every possible sub- 
 ject, to the accompaniment of a cithern which was played 
 by a sad little Italian in a large cloak, to whom the host 
 of the " Rainbow " gave so many toddies and a dollar for 
 his nightly performance. 
 
 Mr. Pippel's shop was but a short distance from the 
 Wondersmith's house. A few moments, therefore, brought 
 the gypsy party to the door, when, by the aid of a key 
 which Herr Hippe produced, they silently slipped into 
 the entry. Here the Wondersmith took a dark-lantern 
 from under his cloak, removed the cap that shrouded the 
 light, and led the way into the shop, which was separated 
 from the entry only by a glass door, that yielded, like the 
 outer one, to a key which Hippe took from his pocket. 
 The four gypsies now entered the shop and closed the 
 door behind them. 
 
 It was a little world of birds. On every side, whether 
 in large or small cages, one beheld balls of various-colored 
 feathers standing on one leg and breathing peacefully. 
 Love-birds, nestling shoulder to shoulder, with their heads 
 tucked under their wings and all their feathers puffed 
 out, so that they looked like globes of malachite ; English 
 bullfinches, with ashen-colored backs, in which their black 
 
202 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 heads were buried, and corselets of a rosy down; Java 
 sparrows, fat and sleek and cleanly; troupials, so glossy 
 and splendid in plumage that they Jooked as if they were 
 dressed in the celebrated armor of the Black Prince, 
 which was jet, richly damascened with gold ; a cock of 
 the rock, gleaming, a ball of tawny fire, like a setting 
 sun ; the campauero of Brazil, white as snow, with his 
 dilatable tolling-tube hanging from his head, placid and 
 silent ; these, with a humbler crowd of linnets, canaries, 
 robins, mocking-birds, and phoebes, slumbered calmly in 
 their little cages, that were hung so thickly on the wall 
 as not to leave an inch of it visible. 
 
 " Splendid little morsels, all of them ! " exclaimed Mon- 
 sieur Kerplonne. " Ah, we are going to have a rare beat- 
 ing ! " 
 
 " So Pippel does not sleep in his shop," said the Eng- 
 lish gypsy, Oaksniith. 
 
 " No. The fellow lives somewhere up one of the ave- 
 nues," answered Madame Filomel. " He came, the other 
 evening, to consult me about his fortune. I did not tell 
 him," she added with a laugh, "that he was going to 
 have so distinguished a sporting party on his premises." 
 
 " Come," said the Wondersmith, producing the box of 
 manikins, "get ready with souls, Madame Filomel. I am 
 impatient to see my little men letting out lives for the 
 first time. Just at the moment that the Wondersmith 
 uttered this sentence, the four gypsies were startled by a 
 hoarse voice issuing from a corner of the room, and pro- 
 pounding in the most guttural tones the intemperate 
 query of " What '11 you take 1 " This sottish invitation 
 had scarce been given, when a second extremely thick 
 voice replied from an opposite corner, in accents so rough 
 that they seemed to issue from a throat torn and fur- 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 203 
 
 rowed by the liquid lava of many bar-rooms, "Brandy 
 and water." 
 
 " Hollo ! who 's here ? " muttered Herr Hippe, flashing 
 the light of his lantern round the shop. 
 
 Oaksmith turned up his coat-cuffs, as if to be ready 
 for a fight; Madame Filomel glided, or rather rolled, 
 towards the door ; while Kerplonne put his hand into his 
 pocket, as if to assure himself that his supernumerary 
 optic was all right. 
 
 " What '11 you take ? " croaked the voice in the corner, 
 once more. 
 
 " Brandy and water," rapidly replied the second voice 
 in the other corner. And then, as if by a concerted move- 
 ment, a series of bibular invitations and acceptances were 
 rolled backwards and forwards with a volubility of utter- 
 ance that threw Patter versus Clatter into the shade. 
 
 " What the devil can it be 1 " muttered the Wonder- 
 smith, flashing his lantern here and there. " Ah ! it is 
 those Minos." 
 
 So saying, he stopped under one of the wicker cages 
 that hung high up on the wall, and raised the lantern 
 above his head, so as to throw the light upon that par- 
 ticular cage. The hospitable individual who had been 
 extending all these hoarse invitations to partake of intox- 
 icating beverages was an inhabitant of the cage. It was 
 a large Mine-bird, who now stood perched on his cross- 
 bar, with his yellowish-orange bill sloped slightly over 
 his shoulder, and his white eye cocked knowingly upon 
 the Wondersmith. The respondent voice in the other 
 corner came from another Mino-bird, who sat in the dusk 
 in a similar cage, also attentively watching the Wonder- 
 smith. These Mino-birds have a singular aptitude for 
 acquiring phi 
 
204 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 " What '11 you take !" repeated the Mino, cocking his 
 other eye upon Herr Hippe. 
 
 "MonDieu! what a bird !" exclaimed the little French- 
 man. " He is, in truth, polite." 
 
 " I don't know what I '11 take," said Hippe, as if replying 
 to the Miuo-bird ; " but I know what you '11 get, old fellow ! 
 Filomel, open the cage-doors, and give me the bottle." 
 
 Filomel opened, one after another, the doors of the 
 numberless little cages, thereby arousing from slumber 
 their feathered occupants, who opened their beaks, and 
 stretched their claws, and stared with great surprise at 
 the lantern and the midnight visitors. 
 
 By this time the Wondersmith had performed the mys- 
 terious manipulations with the bottle, and the manikins 
 were once more in full motion, swarming out of their box, 
 sword and dagger in hand, with their little black eyes 
 glittering fiercely, and their white teeth shining. The lit- 
 tle creatures seemed to scent their prey. The gypsies 
 stood in the centre of the shop, watching the proceedings 
 eagerly, while the Liliputians made in a body towards the 
 wall and commenced climbing from cage to cage. Then 
 was heard a tremendous fluttering of wings, and faint, 
 despairing " quirks" echoed on all sides. In almost every 
 cage there was a fierce manikin thrusting his sword or 
 dagger vigorously into the body of some unhappy bird. 
 It recalled the antique legend of the battles of the Pyg- 
 mies and the Cranes. The poor love-birds lay with 
 their emerald feathers dabbled in their heart's blood, 
 shoulder to shoulder in death as in life. Canaries gasped 
 at the bottom of their cages, while the water in their 
 little glass fountains ran red. The bullfinches wore 
 an unnatural crimson on their breasts. The mocking- 
 bird lay on his back, kicking spasmodically, in the last 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 205 
 
 agonies, with a tiny sword-thrust cleaving his melodious 
 throat in twain, so that from the instrument which used 
 to gush with wondrous music only scarlet drops of blood 
 now trickled. The manikins were ruthless. Their faces 
 were ten times wickeder than ever, as they roamed from 
 cage to cage, slaughtering with a fury that seemed en- 
 tirely unappeasable. Presently the feathery rustlings 
 became fewer and fainter, and the little pipings of de- 
 spair died away ; and in every cage lay a poor murdered 
 minstrel, with the song that abode within him forever 
 quenched ; in every cage but two, and those two were 
 high up on the wall ; and in each glared a pair of wild, 
 white eyes ; and an orange beak, tough as steel, pointed 
 threateningly down. With the needles which they 
 grasped as swords all wet and warm with blood, and 
 their beadlike eyes flashing in the light of the lantern, 
 the Lilliputian assassins swarmed up the cages in two 
 separate bodies, until they reached the wickets of the 
 habitations in which the Minos abode. Mino saw them 
 coming, had listened attentively to the many death- 
 struggles of his comrades, and had, in fact, smelt a rat. 
 Accordingly he was ready for the manikins. There he 
 stood at the barbican of his castle, with formidable beak 
 couched like a lance. The manikins made a gallant 
 charge. " What '11 you take 1 r ' was rattled out by the 
 Mino, in a deep bass, as with one plunge of his sharp bill 
 he scattered the ranks of the enemy, and sent three of 
 them flying to the floor, where they lay with broken 
 limbs. But the manikins were brave automata, and again 
 they closed and charged the gallant Mino. Again the 
 wicked white eyes of the bird gleamed, and again the or- 
 ange bill dealt destruction. Everything seemed to be 
 going on swimmingly for Mino, when he found himself 
 
206 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 attacked in the rear by two treacherous manikins, who 
 had stolen upon him from behind, through the lattice- 
 work of the cage. Quick as lightning the Mino turned 
 to repel this assault, but all too late ; two slender, quiv- 
 ering threads of steel crossed in his poor body, and he 
 staggered into a corner of the cage. His white eyes 
 closed, then opened ; a shiver passed over his body, be- 
 ginning at his shoulder-tips and dying off in the extreme 
 tips of the wings ; he gasped as if for air, and then, with 
 a convulsive shudder, which ruffled all his feathers, croaked 
 out feebly his little speech, " What '11 you take ? " In- 
 stantly from the opposite corner came the old response, 
 still feebler than the question, a mere gurgle, as it 
 were, of " Brandy and water." Then all was silent. The 
 Mino-birds were dead. 
 
 " They spill blood like Christians," said the Wonder- 
 smith, gazing fondly on the manikins. " They will be 
 famous assassins." 
 
 V. 
 
 TIED UP. 
 
 HERE HIPPE stood in the doorway, scowling. His eyes 
 seemed to scorch the poor hunchback, whose form, physi- 
 cally inferior, crouched before that baneful, blazing glance, 
 while its head, mentally brave, reared itself as if to re- 
 deem the cowardice of the frame to which it belonged. 
 So the attitude of the serpent : the body pliant, yielding, 
 supple; but the crest thrown aloft, erect, and threaten- 
 ing. As for Zonela, she was frozen in the attitude of 
 motion; a dancing nymph in colored marble; agility 
 stunned ; elasticity petrified. 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 207 
 
 Furbelow, astonished at this sudden change, and catch- 
 ing, with all the mysterious rapidity of instinct peculiar 
 to the lower animals, at the enigmatical character of the 
 situation, turned his pleading, melancholy eyes from one 
 to another of the motionless three, as if begging that his 
 humble intellect (pardon me, naturalists, for the use of 
 this word " intellect " in the matter of a monkey !) should 
 be enlightened as speedily as possible. Not receiving 
 the desired information, he, after the manner of trained 
 animals, returned to his muttons ; in other words, he 
 conceived that this unusual entrance, and consequent dra- 
 matic tableau, meant "shop." He therefore dropped Zo- 
 nela's hand, and pattered on his velvety little feet over 
 towards the grim figure of the Wondersmith, holding out 
 his poor little paw for the customary copper. He had 
 but one idea drilled into him, soulless creature that he 
 was, and that was alms. But I have seen creatures 
 that professed to have souls, and that would have been 
 indignant if you had denied them immortality, who took 
 to the soliciting of alms as naturally as if beggary had 
 been the original sin, and was regularly born with them, 
 and never baptized out of them. I will give these Ban- 
 dits of the Order of Charity this credit, however, that 
 they knew the best highways and the richest founts of 
 benevolence, unlike to Furbelow, who, unreasoning and 
 undiscriminating, begged from the first person that was 
 near. Furbelow, owing to this intellectual inferiority to 
 the before-mentioned Alsatians, frequently got more kicks 
 than coppers, and the present supplication which he in- 
 dulged in towards the Wondersmith was a terrible con- 
 firmation of the rule. The reply to the extended pleading 
 paw was what might be called a double-barrelled kick, 
 a kick to be represented by the power of two when the 
 
208 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 foot touched the object, multiplied by four when the entire 
 leg formed an angle of 45 with the spinal column. The 
 long, nervous leg of the Wondersmith caught the little 
 creature in the centre of the body, doubled up his brown, 
 hairy form, till he looked like a fur driving-glove, and 
 sent him whizzing across the room into a fur corner, 
 where he dropped senseless and flaccid. 
 
 This vengeance which Herr Hippe executed upon Fur- 
 below seemed to have operated as a sort of escape-valve, 
 and he found voice. He hissed out the question, " Who 
 are you 1" to the hunchback ; and in listening to that 
 essence of sibilation it really seemed as if it proceeded 
 from the serpent that curled upon his upper lip. 
 
 " Who are you 1 Deformed dog, who are you 1 What 
 do you here 1 " 
 
 " My name is Solon," answered the fearless head of the 
 hunchback, while the frail, cowardly body shivered and 
 trembled inch by inch into a corner. 
 
 " So you come to visit my daughter in the night-time, 
 when I am away 1 " continued the Woudersmith, with a 
 sneering tone that dropped from his snake- wreathed mouth 
 like poison. "You are a brave and gallant lover, are 
 you not? Where did you win that Order of the Curse 
 of God that decorates your shoulders 1 The women turn 
 their heads and look after you in the street, when you 
 pass, do they not 1 lost in admiration of that symmetrical 
 figure, those graceful limbs, that neck pliant as the stem 
 that moors the lotus ! Elegant, conquering, Christian 
 cripple, what do you here in my daughter's room 1 " 
 
 Can you imagine Jove, limitless in power and wrath, 
 hurling from his vast grasp mountain after mountain upon 
 the struggling Enceladus, and picture the Titan sink- 
 ing, sinking, deeper and deeper into the earth, crushed 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 209 
 
 and dying, with nothing visible through the superincum- 
 bent masses of Pelion -and Ossa but a gigantic head and 
 two flaming eyes, that, despite the death which is creep- 
 ing through each vein, still flash back defiance to the di- 
 vine enemy 1 Well, Solon and Herr Hippe presented such 
 a picture, seen through the wrong end of a telescope, 
 reduced in proportion, but alike in action. Solon's feeble 
 body seemed to sink into utter annihilation beneath the 
 horrible taunts that his enemy hurled at him, while the 
 large, brave brow and unconquered eyes still sent forth a 
 magnetic resistance. 
 
 Suddenly the poor hunchback felt his arm grasped. 
 A thrill seemed to run through his entire body. A warm 
 atmosphere, invigorating and full of delicious odor, sur- 
 rounded him. It appeared as if invisible bandages were 
 twisted all about his limbs, giving him a strange strength. 
 His sinking legs straightened. His powerless arms were 
 braced. Astonished, he glanced round for an instant, and 
 beheld Zonela, with a world of love burning in her large 
 lambent eyes, wreathing her round white arms about his 
 humped shoulders. Then the poet knew the great sus- 
 taining power of love. Solon reared himself boldly. 
 
 " Sneer at my poor form," he cried, in strong vibrating 
 tones, flinging out one long arm and one thin finger at 
 the Wondersmith, as if he would have impaled him like a 
 beetle. "Humiliate me if you can. I care not. You 
 are a wretch, and I am honest and pure. This girl is not 
 your daughter. You are like one of those demons in the 
 fairy tales that held beauty and purity locked in infernal 
 spells. I do not fear you, Herr Hippe. There are stories 
 abroad about you in the neighborhood, and when you 
 pass people say that they feel evil and blight hovering 
 over their thresholds. You persecute this girl. You are 
 
 14 
 
210 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 her tyrant. You hate her. I am a cripple. Providence 
 has cast this lump upon my shoulders. But that is 
 nothing. The camel, that is the salvation of the children 
 of the desert, has been given his hump in order that he 
 might bear his human burden better. This girl, who is 
 homeless as the Arab, is my appointed load in life, and, 
 please God, I will carry her on this back, hunched though 
 it may be. I have come to see her because I love her, 
 because she loves me. You have no claim on her ; so I 
 will take her from you." 
 
 Quick as lightning the Wondersmith had stridden a 
 few paces, and grasped the poor cripple, who was yet 
 quivering with the departing thunder of his passion. He 
 seized him in his bony, muscular grasp, as he would have 
 seized a puppet, and held him at arm's length, gasping 
 and powerless ; while Zone'la, pale, breathless, entreating, 
 sank half-kneeling on the floor. 
 
 " Your skeleton will be interesting to science when you 
 are dead, Mr. Solon/' hissed the Wondersmith. " But 
 before I have the pleasure of reducing you to an anatomy, 
 which I will assuredly do, I wish to compliment you on 
 your power of penetration, or sources of information ; for 
 I know not if you have derived your knowledge from your 
 own mental research or the efforts of others. You are 
 perfectly correct in your statement that this charming 
 young person, who day after day parades the streets with 
 a barrel-organ and a monkey, the last unhappily in- 
 disposed at present, listening to the degrading jokes of 
 ribald boys and depraved men, you are quite correct, 
 sir, in stating that she is not my daughter. On the con- 
 trary, she is the daughter of an Hungarian nobleman 
 who had the misfortune to incur my displeasure. I had 
 a son, crooked spawn of a Christian ! a son, not like 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 211 
 
 you, cankered, gnarled stump of life that you are, but 
 a youth tall and fair and noble in aspect, as became a 
 child of one whose lineage makes Pharaoh modern, 
 a youth whose foot in the dance was as swift and beauti- 
 ful to look at as the golden sandals of the sun when he 
 dances upon the sea in summer. This youth was virtuous 
 and good ; and being of good race, and dwelling in a 
 country where his rank, gypsy as he was, was recognized, 
 he mixed with the proudest of the land. One day he fell 
 in with this accursed Hungarian, a fierce drinker of that 
 devil's blood called brandy* My child until that hour 
 had avoided this bane of our race. Generous wine he 
 drank, because the soul of the sun, our ancestor, palpi- 
 tated in its purple waves. But brandy, which is fallen 
 and accursed wine, as devils are fallen and accursed an- 
 gels, had never crossed his lips, until in an evil hour he 
 was seduced by this Christian hog, and from that day 
 forth his life was one fiery debauch, which set only in 
 the black waves of death. I vowed vengeance on the 
 destroyer of my child, and I kept my word. I have 
 destroyed his child, not compassed her death, but 
 blighted her life, steeped her in misery and poverty, and 
 now, thanks to the thousand devils, I have discovered a 
 new torture for her heart. She thought to solace her 
 life with a love-episode ! Sweet little epicure that she 
 was ! She shall have her little crooked lover, sha'n't 
 she 1 0, yes ! she shall have him, cold and stark and 
 livid, with that great, black, heavy hunch, which no 
 back, however broad, can bear, Death, sitting between his 
 shoulders ! " 
 
 There was something so awful and demoniac in this 
 entire speech and the manner in which it was delivered, 
 that it petrified Zonela into a mere inanimate figure, 
 
212 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 whose eyes seemed unalterably fixed on the fierce, cruel 
 face of the Wondersmith. As for Solon, he was para- 
 lyzed in the grasp of his foe. He heard, but could not 
 reply. His large eyes, dilated with horror to far beyond 
 their ordinary size, expressed unutterable agony. 
 
 The last sentence had hardly been hissed out by the 
 gypsy when he took from his pocket a long, thin coil of 
 whip-cord, which he entangled in a complicated mesh 
 around the cripple's body. It was not the ordinary bind- 
 ing of a prisoner. The sf ender lash passed and repassed 
 in a thousand intricate folds*over the powerless limbs of 
 the poor humpback. When the operation was completed, 
 he looked as if he had been sewed from head to foot in 
 some singularly ingenious species of network. 
 
 " Now, my pretty lop-sided little lover," laughed Herr 
 Hippe, flinging Solon over his shoulder as a fisherman 
 might fling a netful of fish, " we will proceed to put you 
 into your little cage until your little coffin is quite ready. 
 Meanwhile we will lock up your darling beggar-girl to 
 mourn over your untimely end." 
 
 So saying, he stepped from the room with his captive, 
 and securely locked the door behind him. 
 
 When he had disappeared, the frozen Zonela thawed, 
 and with a shriek of anguish flung herself on the inani- 
 mate body of Furbelow. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE POISONING OP THE SWORDS. 
 
 IT was New Year's eve, and eleven o'clock at night. 
 All over this great land, and in every great city in the 
 land, curly heads were lying on white pillows, dreaming 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 213 
 
 of the coming of the generous Santa Glaus. Innumerable 
 stockings hung by countless bedsides. Visions of beauti- 
 ful toys, passing in splendid pageantry through myriads 
 of dimly lit dormitories, made millions of little hearts 
 palpitate in sleep. Ah ! what heavenly toys those were 
 that the children of this soil beheld, that mystic night, 
 in their dreams! Painted cars with orchestral wheels, 
 making music more delicious than the roll of planets. 
 Agile men, of cylindrical figure, who sprang unexpectedly 
 out of meek-looking boxes, with a supernatural fierceness 
 in their crimson cheeks and fur-whiskers. Herds of mar- 
 vellous sheep, with fleeces as impossible as the one that 
 Juson sailed after ; animals entirely indifferent to grass 
 and water and "rot" and "ticks." Horses spotted with 
 an astounding regularity, and furnished^ with the most 
 ingenious methods of locomotion. Slender foreigners, 
 attired in painfully short tunics, whose existence passed 
 in continually turning heels over head down a steep flight 
 of steps, at the bottom of which they lay in an exhausted 
 condition with dislocated limbs, imtil they were restored 
 to their former elevation, when they went at it again as if 
 nothing had happened. Stately swans, that seemed to 
 have a touch of the ostrich in them ; for they swam con- 
 tinually after a piece of iron which was held before them, 
 as if consumed with a ferruginous hunger. Whole farm- 
 yards of roosters, whose tails curled the wrong way, a 
 slight defect, that was, however, amply atoned for by the 
 size and brilliancy of their scarlet combs, which, it would 
 appear, Providence had intended for pen-wipers. Pears, 
 that, when applied to youthful lips, gave forth sweet and 
 inspiring sounds. Regiments of soldiers, that performed 
 neat but limited evolutions on cross-jointed contractile 
 battle-fields. All these things, idealized, transfigured, 
 
214 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 and illuminated by the powers and atmosphere and col- 
 ored lamps of dream-land, did the millions of dear sleeping 
 children behold, the night of the New Year's eve of which 
 I speak. 
 
 It was on this night, when Time was preparing to shed 
 his skin, and come out young and golden and glossy as 
 ever, when, in the vast chambers of the universe, silent 
 and infallible preparations were making for the wonderful 
 birth of the coming year, when mystic dews were se- 
 creted for his baptism, and mystic instruments were tuned 
 in space to welcome him, it was at this holy and solemn 
 hour that the Wondersmith and his three gypsy compan- 
 ions sat in close conclave in the little parlor before men- 
 tioned. 
 
 There was a fire roaring in the grate. On a table, 
 nearly in the centre of the room, stood a huge decanter 
 of port wine, that glowed in the blaze which lit the 
 chamber like a flask of crimson fire. On every side, piled 
 in heaps, inanimate, but scowling with the same old won- 
 drous scowl, lay myriads of the manikins, all clutching in 
 their wooden hands their tiny weapons. The Wonder- 
 smith held in one hand a small silver bowl filled with a 
 green, glutinous substance, which he was delicately apply- 
 ing, with the aid of a camel's-hair brush, to the tips of 
 tiny swords and daggers. A horrible smile wandered 
 over his sallow face, a smile as unwholesome in appear- 
 ance as the sickly light that plays above reeking grave- 
 yards. 
 
 "Let us drink great draughts, brothers," he cried, 
 leaving off his strange anointment for a while, to lift a 
 great glass, filled with sparkling liquor, to his lips. " Let 
 us drink to our approaching triumph. Let us drink to 
 the great poison, Macousha, Subtle seed of Death, 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 215 
 
 swift hurricane that sweeps away Life, vast hammer 
 that crushes brain and heart* and artery with its resistless 
 weight, I drink to it." 
 
 "It is a noble decoction, Duke Balthazar," said the old 
 fortune-teller and midwife, Madame Filomel, nodding in 
 her chair as she swallowed her wine in great gulps. 
 "Where did you obtain. it 1" 
 
 "It is made," said the Wondersmith, swallowing an- 
 other great draught of wine ere he replied, " in the wild 
 woods of Guiana, in silence and in mystery. But one 
 tribe of Indians, the Macoushi Indians, know the secret. 
 It is simmered over fires built of strange woods, and the 
 maker of it dies in the making. The place, for a mile 
 around the spot where it is fabricated, is shunned as 
 accursed. Devils hover over the pot in which it stews ; 
 and the birds of the air, scenting the smallest breath of 
 its vapor from far away, drop to earth with paralyzed 
 wings, cold and dead." 
 
 " It kills, then, fast 1 " asked Kerplonne, the artificial- 
 eye maker, his own eyes gleaming, under the influence 
 of the wine, with a sinister lustre, as if they had been 
 fresh from the factory, and were yet untarnished by use. 
 
 " Kills 1 " echoed the Wondersmith, derisively ; " it is 
 swifter than thunderbolts, stronger than lightning. But 
 you shall see it proved before we let forth our army on 
 the city accursed. You shall see a wretch die, as if smit- 
 ten by a falling fragment of the sun." 
 
 " What 1 Do you mean Solon ] " asked Oaksmith and 
 the fortune-teller together. 
 
 " Ah ! you mean the young man who makes the com- 
 merce with books 1" echoed Kerplonne. "It is well. 
 His agonies will instruct us." 
 
 " Yes ! Solon," answered Hippe, with a savage accent. 
 
216 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 " I hate him, and he shall die this horrid death. Ah ! 
 how the little fellows will leap upon him, when I bring 
 him in, bound and helpless, and give their beautiful 
 wicked souls to them ! How they will pierce him in ten 
 thousand spots with their poisoned weapons, until his 
 skin turns blue and violet and crimson, and his form 
 swells with the venom, until his hump is lost in shape- 
 less flesh ! He hears what I say, every word of it. He 
 is in the closet next door, and is listening. How com- 
 fortable he feels ! How the sweat of terror rolls on his 
 brow ! How he tries to loosen his bonds, and curses all 
 earth and heaven when he finds that he cannot ! Ho ! 
 ho ! Handsome lover of Zonla, will she kiss you when 
 you are livid and swollen 1 Brothers, let us drink again, 
 drink always. Here, Oaksmith, take these brushes, 
 and you, Filomel, and finish the anointing of these 
 swords. This wine is grand. This poison is grand. It 
 is fine to have good wine to drink, and good poison to 
 kill with ; is it not 1 " and, with flushed face and rolling 
 eyes, the Wondersmith continued to drink and use his 
 brush alternately. 
 
 The others hastened to follow his example. It was a 
 horrible scene : those four wicked faces ; those myriads 
 of tiny faces, just as wicked ; the certain unearthly air 
 that pervaded the apartment ; the red, unwholesome glare 
 cast by the fire ; the wild and reckless way in which the 
 weird company drank the red-illumined wine. 
 
 The anointing of the swords went on rapidly, and the 
 wine went as rapidly down the throats of the four poison- 
 ers. Their faces grew more and more inflamed each 
 instant ; their eyes shone like rolling fireballs ; their hair 
 was moist and dishevelled. The old fortune-teller rocked 
 to and fro in her chair, like those legless plaster figures 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 217 
 
 that sway upon convex loaded bottoms. All four began 
 to mutter incoherent sentences, and babble unintelligi- 
 ble wickednesses. Still the anointing of the swords 
 went on. 
 
 " I see the faces of millions of young corpses," babbled 
 Herr Hippe, gazing, with swimming eyes, into the silver 
 bowl that contained the Macousha poison, " all young, 
 all Christians, and the little fellows dancing, dancing, 
 and stabbing, stabbing. Filomel, Filomel, I say ! " 
 
 " Well, Grand Duke," snored the old woman, giving a 
 violent lurch. 
 
 " Where 's the bottle of souls ?" 
 
 " In my right-hand pocket, Herr Hippe" ; and she felt, 
 so as to assure herself that it was there. She half drew 
 out the black bottle, before described in this narrative, 
 and let it slide again into her pocket, let it slide again, 
 but it did not completely regain its former place. Caught 
 by some accident, it hung half out, swaying over the edge 
 of the pocket, as the fat midwife rolled backwards and 
 forwards in her drunken efforts at equilibrium. 
 
 " All right," said Herr Hippe, " perfectly right ! Let 's 
 drink." 
 
 He reached out his hand for his glass, and, with a dull 
 sigh, dropped on the table, in the instantaneous slumber 
 of intoxication. Oaksmith soon fell back in his chair, 
 breathing heavily. Kerplonne followed. And the heavy, 
 stertorous breathing of Filomel told that she slumbered 
 also ; but still her chair retained its rocking motion, and 
 still the bottle of souls balanced itself on the edge of her 
 pocket. 
 
218 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 VII. 
 
 LET LOOSE. 
 
 SURE enough, Solon heard every word of the fiendish 
 talk of the Wondersmith. For how many days he had 
 been shut up, bound in the terrible net, in that dark 
 closet, he did not know ; but now he felt that his last 
 hour was come. His little strength was completely worn 
 out in efforts to disentangle himself. Once a day a door 
 opened, and Herr Hippe placed a crust of bread and a 
 cup of water within his reach. On this meagre fare he 
 had subsisted. It was a hard life ; but, bad as it was, it 
 was better than the horrible death that menaced him. 
 His brain reeled with terror at the prospect of it. Then, 
 where was Zonela ? Why did she not come to his rescue 1 
 But she was, perhaps, dead. The darkness, too, appalled 
 him. A faint light, when the moon was bright, came at 
 night through a chink far up in the wall ; and the only 
 other hole in the chamber was an aperture through which, 
 at some former time, a stove-pipe had been passed. Even 
 if he were free, there would have been small hope of es- 
 cape ; but, laced as it were in a network of steel, what 
 was to be done? He groaned and writhed upon the floor, 
 and tore at the boards with his hands, which were free 
 from the wrists down. All else was as solidly laced up 
 as an Indian pappoose. Nothing but pride kept him from 
 shrieking aloud, when, on the night of New Year's eve, 
 he heard the fiendish Hippe recite the programme of his 
 murder. 
 
 While he was thus wailing and gnashing his teeth in 
 darkness and torture, he heard a faint noise above his 
 head. Then something seemed to leap from the ceiling 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 219 
 
 and alight softly on the floor. He shuddered with ter- 
 ror. Was it some new torture of the Wondersmith's in- 
 vention 1 The next moment, he felt some small animal 
 crawling over his body, and a soft, silky paw was pushed 
 timidly across his face. His heart leaped with joy. 
 
 " It is Furbelow ! " he cried. " Zonela has sent him. 
 He came through the stove-pipe hole." 
 
 It was Furbelow, indeed, restored to life by Zonela's 
 care, and who had come down a narrow tube, that no 
 human being could have threaded, to console the poor 
 captive. The monkey nestled closely into the hunch- 
 back's bosom, and, as he did so, Solon felt something 
 cold and hard hanging from his neck. He touched it. 
 It was sharp. By the dim light that struggled through 
 the aperture high up in the wall, he discovered a knife, 
 suspended by a bit of cord. Ah ! how the blood came 
 rushing through the veins that crossed over and through 
 his heart, when life and liberty came to him in this bit 
 of rusty steel ! With his manacled hands he loosened 
 the heaven-sent weapon; a few cuts were rapidly made 
 in the cunning network of cord that enveloped his limbs, 
 and in a few seconds he was free ! cramped and faint 
 with hunger, but free ! free to move, to use the limbs 
 that God had given him for his preservation, free to 
 fight, to die fighting, perhaps, but still to die free. 
 He ran to the door. The bolt was a weak one, for the 
 Woudersmith had calculated more surely on his prison 
 of cords than on any jail of stone, and more ; and 
 with a few efforts the door opened. He went cautiously 
 out into the darkness, with Furbelow perched on his 
 shoulder, pressing his cold muzzle against his cheek. He 
 had made but a few steps when a trembling hand was 
 put into his, and in another moment Zonela's palpitating 
 
220 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 heart was pressed against his own. One long kiss, an 
 embrace, a few whispered words, and the hunchback and 
 the girl stole softly towards the door of the chamber in 
 which the four gypsies slept. All seemed still ; nothing 
 but the hard breathing of the sleepers and the monoto- 
 nous rocking of Madame Filomel's chair broke the silence. 
 Solon stooped down and put his eye to the keyhole, 
 through which a red bar of light streamed into the entry. 
 As he did so, his foot crushed some brittle substance that 
 lay just outside the door; at the same moment a howl of 
 agony was heard to issue from the room within. Solon 
 started ; nor did he know that at that instant he had 
 crushed into dust Monsieur Kerplonne's supernumerary 
 eye, and the owner, though wrapt in a drunken sleep, 
 felt the pang quiver through his brain. 
 
 While Solon peeped through the keyhole, all in the 
 room was motionless. He had not gazed, however, for 
 many seconds, when the chair of the fortune-teller gave a 
 sudden lurch, and the black bottle, already hanging half 
 out of her wide pocket, slipped entirely from its resting- 
 place, and, falling heavily to the ground, shivered into 
 fragments. 
 
 Then took place an astonishing spectacle. The myriads 
 of armed dolls, that lay in piles about the room, became 
 suddenly imbued with motion. They stood up straight, 
 their tiny limbs moved, their black eyes flashed with 
 wicked purposes, their thread-like swords gleamed as they 
 waved them to and fro. The villanous souls imprisoned 
 in the bottle began to work within them. Like the Lili- 
 putians, when they found the giant Gulliver asleep, they 
 scaled in swarms the burly sides of the four sleeping 
 gypsies. At every step they took, they drove thgir thin 
 swords and quivering daggers into the flesh of the drunken 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 221 
 
 authors of their being. To stab and kill was their mis- 
 sion, and they stabbed and killed with incredible fury. 
 They clustered on the Wondersmith's sallow cheeks and 
 sinewy throat, piercing every portion with their diminu- 
 tive poisoned blades. Filomel's fat carcass was alive 
 with them. They blackened the spare body of Monsieur 
 Kerplonne. They covered Oaksmith's huge form like a 
 cluster of insects. 
 
 Overcome completely with the fumes of wine, these 
 tiny wounds did not for a few moments awaken the sleep- 
 ing victims. But the swift and deadly poison Macousha, 
 with which the weapons had been so fiendishly anointed, 
 began to work. Herr Hippe, stung into sudden life, 
 leaped to his feet, with a dwarf army clinging to his 
 clothes and his hands, always stabbing, stabbing, stab- 
 bing. For an instant, a look of stupid bewilderment 
 clouded his face ; then the horrible truth burst upon him. 
 He gave a shriek like that which a horse utters when he 
 finds himself fettered and surrounded by fire, a shriek 
 that curdled the air for miles and miles. 
 
 " Oaksmith ! Kerplonne ! Filomel ! Awake ! awake ! 
 We are lost ! The souls have got loose ! We are dead ! 
 poisoned ! accursed ones ! demons, ye are slaying 
 me ! Ah ! fiends of hell ! " 
 
 Aroused by these frightful howls, the three gypsies 
 sprang also to their feet, to find themselves stung to 
 death by the manikins. They raved, they shrieked, they 
 swore. They staggered round the chamber. Blinded in 
 the eyes by the ever-stabbing weapons, \vith the poi- 
 son already burning in their veins like red-hot lead, 
 their forms swelling and discoloring visibly every mo- 
 ment, their howls and attitudes and furious gestures 
 made the scene look like a chamber in hell. 
 
222 THE WONDERSMITH. 
 
 Maddened beyond endurance, the Wondersmith, half- 
 blind and choking with the venom that had congested 
 all the blood-vessels of his body, seized dozens of the 
 manikins and dashed them into the fire, trampling them 
 down with his feet. 
 
 " Ye shall die too, if I die," he cried, with a roar like 
 that of a tiger. " Ye shall bum, if I burn. I gave ye 
 life, I give ye death. Down ! down ! burn ! 
 flame ! Fiends that ye are, to slay us ! Help me, broth- 
 ers ! Before we die, let us have our revenge ! " 
 
 On this, the other gypsies, themselves maddened by 
 approaching death, began hurling manikins, by handfuls, 
 into the fire. The little creatures, being wooden of body, 
 quickly caught the flames, and an awfnl struggle for life 
 took place in miniature in the grate. Some of them es- 
 caped from between the bars and ran about the room, 
 blazing, writhing in agony, and igniting the curtains and 
 other draperies that hung around. Others fought and 
 stabbed one another in the very core of the fire, like 
 combating salamanders. Meantime, the motions of the 
 gypsies grew more languid and slow, and their curses 
 were uttered in choked guttural tones. The faces of all 
 four were spotted with red and green and violet, like 
 so many egg-plants. Their bodies were swollen to a 
 frightful size, and at last they dropped on the floor, like 
 over-ripe fruit shaken from the boughs by the winds of 
 autumn. 
 
 The chamber was now a sheet of fire. The flames 
 roared round and round, as if seeking for escape, licking 
 every projecting cornice and sill with greedy tongues, as 
 the serpent licks his prey before he swallows it. A hot, 
 putrid breath came through the keyhole, and smote 
 Solon and Zonela like a wind of death. They clasped 
 
THE WONDERSMITH. 223 
 
 each other's hands with a moan of terror, and fled from 
 the house. 
 
 The next morning, when the young year was just un- 
 closing its eyes, and the happy children all over the great 
 city were peeping from their beds into the myriads of 
 stockings hanging near by, the blue skies of heaven shone 
 through a black network of stone and charred rafters. 
 These were all that remained of the habitation of Herr 
 Hippe, the Wondersmith. 
 
224 TOMMATOO. 
 
 TOMMATOO. 
 I. 
 
 THE HOUSE BY THE STONE-YARD. 
 
 A FAIRY that had lost the power of vanishing, and was 
 obliged to remain ever present, doing continual good ; a 
 cricket on the hearth, chirping through heat and cold ; 
 an animated amulet, sovereign against misfortune ; a 
 Santa Glaus, without the wrinkles, but young and beauti- 
 ful, choosing the darkest moments to leap right into one's 
 heart, and drop there the prettiest moral playthings to 
 gladden and make gay, such, in my humble opinion, 
 was Tommatoo. 
 
 As yet I do not ask the reader to agree with me ; for 
 over him I have this one great advantage, I know who 
 Tommatoo is. When, however, he makes her acquaint- 
 ance also, hears her twitter round the house, beholds the 
 flash of her large dusky-gray eyes, is wonder-struck at the 
 marvellous twinkling of her ever-dancing little feet, he 
 can take his choice of all the personifications with which 
 I began this story, and I feel convinced that he will select 
 the most beautiful to enrobe Tommatoo. 
 
 There is (or rather was, six years ago, when the inci- 
 dents to be narrated took place, but I shall narrate 
 them in the present tense) a vast flat of land stretching 
 along the New York shore of the North River, close to 
 where Thirty-Second Street vanishes into a swamp, in 
 
TOMMATOO. 225 
 
 which unborn avenues are supposed to be slowly matur- 
 ing. Although yet in embryo, they are already chris- 
 tened, and city engineers have imaginative ground-plans 
 hanging on their walls, where Twelfth and Thirteenth 
 Avenues are boldly represented, with as much minuteness 
 as Fifth or Sixth. Should, however, any sanguine person 
 be led by those delusive maps to seek for such mythical 
 thoroughfares, Ponce de Leon, after his pursuit of the 
 Fountain of Youth, would not offer a more striking 
 example of ill-success. On reaching the spot where im- 
 agination depicted the long perspective of rails, with 
 crowded and hurrying cars gliding smoothly to and fro, 
 he would behold this vision of civic activity replaced by 
 the dreary and mysterious waste I have spoken of, with- 
 out even a sign-post pointing to the splendid future re- 
 served for it by city surveyors. 
 
 This tract of land is perhaps the most melancholy and 
 mysterious spot in the whole city. The different streets 
 that cross the island pull up, as it were, suddenly on 
 reaching this dreary place, seemingly afraid to trust 
 themselves any further. The buildings that approach 
 nearest to its confines are long, low ranges of fetid 
 slaughter-houses, where on Sundays bloated butcher-boys 
 lounge against the walls ; and on week-days one hears 
 through the closed doors the muffled blow, the heavy fall 
 of the oxen within ; the groan, and the hard-drawn breath ; 
 and then a red, sluggish stream trickles out from under 
 the doorway and flows into the gutter, where hungry dogs 
 wait impatiently to lap it up. The murderous atmosphere, 
 these smells of blood, seem appropriate enough as one 
 approaches this desolate locality. 
 
 A great plain of red, swampy clay is covered here and 
 there with numberless huge, helpless beams of timber, 
 
 15 
 
226 TOMMATOO. 
 
 some floating like dead rafts in the stream, and chained 
 to the bank ; others high and dry, blackening in the sun, 
 and shadowing criminal-looking dogs that skulk in and 
 out among them all day long. One or two immature 
 piers jut out into the river here and there, and grimy 
 sloops that seem to have no particular trade, unless it is 
 to rot calmly at their moorings, lie alongside, and grate 
 and chafe lazily against the slimy logs. A few homeless 
 boys, with smeared faces and thin, starved arms, who 
 seem to have dressed themselves in the rags and kite-tails 
 that flutter on telegraph-wires, lie on the sunny sides of 
 the timber piles sleeping away hunger, or sometimes sit 
 on the edges of the green piers languidly fishing for some- 
 thing which they never catch. Cinders most unaccounta- 
 bly prevail all over the place ; they crackle under the 
 feet, and the dogs gather round occasional piles of them, 
 growling over a burned bone lying in the ashes : where 
 they come from is not to be known. There are no houses, 
 no factories, and the rotting sloops are so damp and slimy 
 that it woul$ be a mockery to suppose a fire had ever 
 been lit in any one of them. Nevertheless the cinders 
 prevail; and at certain hours in the day two or three 
 crouching creatures wander slowly among the heaps, 
 picking mysterious objects, with hands that seem them- 
 selves to have been burned into coke. 
 
 The place is also a species of morgue for dead dogs. 
 Every cur that the Hudson drowns floats inevitably to this 
 spot and is swept up on the swampy bank, when the 
 outlawed mongrels that skulk between the timber logs 
 crowd around it, and perhaps identify the corpse. On Sun- 
 days you see a few low-browed, soap-locked loafers strolling 
 among the piles, pitching stones into the water, and, if it 
 is summer, stripping off their tattered shirts to have a 
 
TOMMATOO. 227 
 
 swim ; but on week-days the place is entirely dead. The 
 starved boys and the shadowy rag-pickers flitting here 
 and there give no air of life ; they seem very thin and 
 impalpable, and haunt the place like ghosts. 
 
 Further on this dreary swamp changes somewhat its 
 character. The great balks of timber disappear, and a 
 few shingle huts so loosely built that the wind whistles 
 through their walls with a shriek of triumph are scat- 
 tered here and there. Large masses of stone lie about, 
 hewn into square blocks for house-fronts, and in the day- 
 time the monotonous click of the stone-cutter's chisel 
 shrills continually from the shingle huts. This straggling 
 stone-yard, for such it is, is perhaps less desolate than 
 the swamp further down, but at night when the moon 
 streams on the huge white blocks that lie there so cold 
 and dead, and the huts are deserted by the workmen, and 
 nothing moves but a shadowy dog that flits by, seen for 
 an instant against the pallid stones the place is in- 
 expressibly weird and lonely. 
 
 Just on the confines of this stone-yard, in a rutty, 
 half-made road that is bounded on both sides by burned- 
 looking building-lots, where nothing hides the scalded 
 earth but some unhealthy boulders, and occasional rem- 
 nants of old shoes that are black and pulpy with decay, 
 stands a small house built of unpainted shingles. It 
 is two-storied, with a basement, and a somewhat im- 
 posing flight of steps up to the door ; yet it wears a reck- 
 less and despairing aspect. I have no doubt when this 
 house was built it had many youthful hopes of estab- 
 lishing a neighborhood and becoming a dwelling of re- 
 spectability. It promised itself, perhaps, a coat or two 
 of paint, and had visions of being the ancestor of a street. 
 But year after year wore away, and it found itself still 
 
228 TOMMATOO. 
 
 naked as when it was born. No companion dwelling 
 lifted its head to cheer the solitude. On all sides the 
 bleak river-winds tousled and smote its bare walls until 
 its windows chattered with the cold. It grew weary of 
 waiting for the neighborhood that never was to come, and 
 seemed to care no longer what became of it. It let 
 beardy mosses grow all over its haggard face. Its edges 
 were chipped and ragged ; its chimneys, no longer spruce 
 and tapering, bulged and tottered to one side, like the 
 crushed hat of a confirmed drunkard. It buttoned itself 
 up no more about the chest with its snug, comfortable 
 doors, but let them hang loose on one hinge, and flap about 
 in the wind. It was evident to any one who saw it that 
 the house near the stone-yard had gone to the bad. 
 
 Forlorn and seedy as it looked, this house was inhab- 
 ited. The shivering, shrunken windows gleamed with 
 lights by night, yet not cheerfully, but with a wild glare, 
 like that which streams from the eyes of those about to 
 die. If the skulking men that prowled in summer even- 
 ings among the sheds of the stone-yard, whistling mys- 
 teriously to each other, had any taste for music, the house 
 would have been to them a source of great wonder. 
 Sometimes for hours together a wild and mellow music 
 would stream upon the air, soaring over the dreary yard, 
 wailing sadly along the waste river-grounds and by the 
 rotting sloops until it reached the water, when it would 
 float triumphally along, as if it knew that it was leaving 
 the desolate place behind it, and bury itself deep in the 
 sleeping groves that nodded on the distant Weehawken 
 heights. The character of these melodious sounds was 
 entirely mystical and strange. They were not born of 
 violin or bugle, and yet seemed to have the souls of both 
 instruments intermingling with another distinctly their 
 
TOMMATOO. 229 
 
 own -j another soul, not merely instrumental, but human, 
 passionate, luxuriant, as if all the utterances of a great 
 Italian love desire, entreaty, and triumph were trans- 
 lated into aerial harmonies. 
 
 To you and I, reader, there need be no mystery in 
 either house or music. That despairing-looking chateau 
 was inhabited but by three people, an old man, a young 
 girl, and a youth of about twenty-one. As age is entitled 
 to its traditional homage of precedence, I will first intro- 
 duce to you the elder of the trio. I beg to present to 
 your notice the maestro, Baioccho.' 
 
 You could not possibly conceive a man made up with 
 less waste of material than Signor Baioccho.* Nature, 
 when she formed him, must have been terribly short of 
 stuff. There was too little of everything in his physical 
 composition. He was abbreviated in every limb and fea- 
 ture. This, nevertheless, was fortunate, for had he been 
 on a large scale he would have been insupportably ugly ; 
 he was too small, however, to be repulsive, and so was 
 only queer. But how queer he was, with his withered, 
 pinched-up face, his sparse, stiff beard, which looked like 
 a thin growth of thorns, and his quaint, convulsed figure, 
 that gave one the idea that all inside of him was catgut 
 and wheels, and that something was continually breaking 
 in his machinery ! Yet, with all this likeness to a comic 
 toy, how inexpressibly mournful was the countenance of 
 Signor Baioccho ! what terrible sorrow was hopelessly 
 shut up in that wretched little frame ! 
 
 Baioccho had been a musician, and was now a cook. 
 Years ago, when opera was young in New York, Baioccho 
 came "here from Italy with a company, set up an opera- 
 house, was instantly successful, and made a fortune. 
 Music was his religion, the lyric stage his temple, the con- 
 
230 TOMMATOO. 
 
 ductor's desk his altar, the overture his mass. But he 
 became a fanatic in his faith. He enlarged his house ; 
 he spent thousands of dollars on the production of new 
 operas, and, as a matter of course, he became bankrupt. 
 For the opera is like a Parisian mistress, the most charm- 
 ing, fascinating, bewildering of all creations, and inva- 
 riably leaves you without a shilling at last. For many 
 years poor Baioccho struggled to keep his feet. He led 
 orchestras at second-rate theatres; he gave lessons on 
 the piano and violin, always hoping, always dreaming of 
 one day grasping again the magical baton, the sceptre of 
 his world. It was a vain struggle, however ; other maestri 
 came over from Italy with still more wondrous and expen- 
 sive singers than those Baioccho brought, and they built 
 opera-houses, and bought newspaper puffs, and covered 
 the dead walls with huge announcements of colossal suc- 
 cesses; and the world, rushing on the heels of novelty, 
 swept over the ancestor of American opera, and poor Bai- 
 occho found himself trampled on, bruised, and left to die. 
 It were too sad a task to enumerate the various steps 
 which led Baioccho from Parnassus to the kitchen. An 
 accomplishment of which in his palmy days he had been 
 not a little proud, was now brought into requisition to 
 save him from starvation ; the hand that was too weak 
 to hold the baton found itself still able to brandish the 
 ladle. Those gay Italian tenors, those majestic bassos, 
 little thought when, round his elegant supper-table long 
 ago, they used to applaud his amateur cookery, delicious 
 mayonnaises, harmonious salads, that the day would arrive 
 when the poor conductor would don the white apron and 
 cotton cap very seriously, and sweat all day in a restau- 
 rant kitchen through an eternal round of soups and roasts 
 and entrees ever the same. But so it was. Those who 
 
TOMMATOO. 231 
 
 frequented Calcar's Restaurant would now and then be- 
 hold a wizened little man stealing quietly from some mys- 
 terious passage leading to the kitchen, and sneaking up to 
 the bar, where he would hastily swallow a potent draught 
 of raw brandy, and shuffle back guiltily to the place 
 whence he came. And they would see one or two old 
 New-Yorkers looking pitifully after him, and saying to 
 each other that they remembered poor Baioccho when he 
 drove his carriage. He now trudged home every night 
 on foot ; and it was sad to see the old fellow, unsteady 
 with drink, staggering down the rutty road to the house 
 near the stone-yard, where the faithful Tommatoo kept 
 watch until she heard his stumbling footstep, when, trip- 
 ping to the door, she tenderly helped him up to bed. 
 
 So ! we have come at last to Tommatoo. I have been 
 longing to get to her for some time past, but it would 
 have been unkind to have deserted old Baioccho now that 
 he is so poor. Salutation to his misfortunes ! 
 
 Tommatoo was Baioccho's only child. In some quaint 
 old Italian chapel, it may be by the shores of Sorrento, a 
 smiling babe was one sunny day christened by the stout 
 old Padre, and the name bestowed was Tomasina. Melo- 
 dious as was this pretty name, the little girl that bore it, 
 as soon as she reached lisping age, obstinately refused to 
 be known by any cognomen but that of Tommatoo. This 
 sounded awfully heathenish to old Baioccho, but she was 
 apparently determined, and in time her imperious infant 
 will had its effect on the family. She became Tommatoo 
 to all intents and purposes, as far as household experi- 
 ence went, and even when she grew up to the age of 
 reason did not seem anxious to reclaim her original ap- 
 pellation. 
 
 Tommatoo was one of those lovely, fair-haired Italians 
 
232 TOMMATOO. 
 
 that one sees so seldom, but which once seen are never 
 forgotten. At some antique period, when Alaric was 
 king, some of the blood of his blonde race must have min- 
 gled with the olive-skinned Roman Baiocchi, and after 
 centuries of rest suddenly bloomed in Tommatoo. Her 
 eyes were a dark liquid gray, like a twilight lake. Her 
 face was pale, yet not cold, for a southern fire seemed 
 to smoulder beneath the skin, with a beautiful, subdued 
 glow. Her mouth, small and moist and rosy, pouted 
 over pearly teeth, half seen, and the curves of her smooth 
 cheeks swept into a wickedly dimpled chin, that aided 
 and abetted with all its might the criminal beauty of her 
 bewildering lips. This sweet virginal face was set in a 
 golden frame of luxuriant hair, that one of Raphael's saints 
 might have envied. 
 
 Yet why speak of Tommatoo's beauty so rapturously ? 
 I shall have no enthusiasm left for that bright and joyous 
 nature that burst from her as the sun bursts from a golden 
 cloud, shedding its own lustre on everything, and infus- 
 ing into all a portion of its own innate warmth. Every 
 one has felt at times, when wandering through the fields, 
 the intense joy experienced from the twittering of the 
 birds amidst the branches and the glancing of their tiny 
 forms through the leaves. Some such pure and healthy 
 influence did Tommatoo exercise over the little household. 
 She twittered and sung, and, as it were, fluttered lightly 
 through the rooms, until one could swear that the sun 
 shone wherever she went. All day, while old Baioccho 
 was absent attending to his culinary duties, compounding 
 wondrous soups, and moving amidst the thick steams of 
 the kitchen like an elf in some incantation scene, Tomma- 
 too was putting the old house in order ; sweeping up the 
 little sitting-room, displaying its scanty furniture to the 
 
TOMMATOO. 233 
 
 best advantage, and occasionally darting like a swallow 
 into Mr. Gustave Beaumont's sanctum sanctorum. 
 
 It must be confessed that this was one of the house- 
 hold occupations that Tommatoo performed with the great- 
 est willingness; for Mr. Gustave Beaumont was young, 
 handsome, and played the most delightful melodies on his 
 great instrument, invented by himself, entitled the Pan- 
 corno. The Pancorno was a singular piece of mechanism ; 
 hideously suggestive, in appearance, of some nameless in- 
 strument of torture from the dungeons of the Inquisition, 
 yet in reality capable of soothing the most agonizing pains 
 by the sweetness of its notes. By aid of some interior 
 arrangement of tubes, the vibrations of the horn portion 
 acted in turn upon what must have been a series of wires 
 also concealed, and which seemed to give the effect of a 
 trio between flute, violin, and French-horn. It was from 
 the Pancorno that the seraphic strains heard at night 
 across the stone-yard floated so harmoniously, giving to 
 the old house an air of being one of those enchanted 
 abodes frequent in fairy tales, in which dwelt some spell- 
 bound prince, who thus summoned in music his faithful 
 knights to his rescue. 
 
 Gustave was a clever young Frenchman, with an ex- 
 traordinary passion for music, whom old Baioccho had 
 known ever since he was a child. He was the son of the 
 bassoon in one of the orchestras which the maestro had 
 conducted in his palmy days ; but one night the bassoon 
 died in the middle of a rapid passage, and the little Gus- 
 tave was left without a father, and but one friend, Bai- 
 occho. The old Italian took the bassoon's son home, 
 brought him up as his own child along with Tommatoo ; 
 and when his fall came Gustave still shared his scanty 
 means. To do the young fellow justice, he wanted to 
 
234 TOMMATOO. 
 
 work, but the old man would not have it. " You are a 
 genius, Gustave," he would say, " and, please the Virgin, 
 you shall do something great." So Gustave did nothing 
 great or small save the invention of the Pancorno, out of 
 which he expected to reap a fortune, and he continued to 
 live at the house by the stone-yard, having first scrupu- 
 lously bargained with his entertainer to pay three dollars 
 a week, which, as -he did nothing but play on the Pan- 
 corno and make love to Tommatoo, it is needless to say 
 he never earned and never paid. It quieted his con- 
 science, however, and he used to say to himself that when 
 he sold his invention for one hundred thousand dollars, 
 that being the least he would take for it, old Baioccho 
 should live like a prince. 
 
 And this is the last of the inmates of the house by 
 the stone-yard. 
 
 II. 
 
 A FAMILY GROUP. 
 
 " Is that you, father?" 
 
 " Ah, the little Tommatoo ! So you maintain the 
 watch for the poor old father 1 Bless you, little angel ! " 
 
 " Take care of the step, father. Take care." 
 
 " Put yourself easy, my child. I will be remindful of 
 the step. I am very steadfast on my feet this evening. " 
 
 And, as if to falsify his testimony, poor old Baioccho 
 staggered up the steps leading to the hall-door, and would 
 have fallen if Tommatoo had not caught one of his thin 
 arms and held him up. 
 
 "It is nothing; it is nothing!" he exclaimed, as he 
 tottered through the hall into the little parlor. " I can 
 
TOMMATOO. 235 
 
 walk myself well enough. But it is the kitchen, that 
 dam kitchen ! It has got into my head, my child. Where 
 is the cognac 1 " 
 
 " Do you think it would do you any good, father 1 " 
 asked Tommatoo, sorrowfully ; " won't it make your head 
 bad?" 
 
 " Ah, little dove ! It does not comprehend. My child, 
 the cognac is the life to me. When I stew and form 
 dishes and mingle soups all day long in that dam kitchen, 
 it gets into my head ; and sometimes, mon Dieu ! when I 
 stand over the ragout, and try to forget the place where I 
 have found myself for a moment, the old times return 
 upon me and I become very sad and sorrowful, so that I 
 have to walk myself out to the bar and drink the cognac ; 
 and then, per baccho ! I remember myself not, and I go 
 back to my kitchen quite raised. Give me one little 
 glass of cognac, my child 1 one glass for the poor old 
 father ! " 
 
 Tommatoo fluttered over to a little cupboard that stood 
 on one side of the room, and brought out a bottle and a 
 wine-glass, and, pouring out some brandy, handed it to 
 the old man. 
 
 He raised it tremulously to his mouth, and quaffed it off 
 at a single draught ; then, smacking his lips, he muttered, 
 "Ah ! the cognac is the soul to the old men like me ! " 
 
 There was nothing disgusting in Baioccho's intoxica- 
 tion. The inebriety of the old musician was as cleanly 
 as the tipsiness of a toy-man had such been possible. 
 His little eyes only twinkled the brighter, and his nose 
 seemed longer and sharper and thinner, and his lips 
 moved more rapidly ; but that was all. His speech was 
 not thick, nor were his ideas clouded. It was drunken- 
 ness idealized. 
 
236 TOMMATOO. 
 
 " What has my child to tell me of the day ? " asked the 
 old man, invigorated as it were by the petit verve de cognac. 
 
 Tommatoo drooped her eyelids, colored a little, and 
 did not reply for a moment. 
 
 " Some one has been here," she said, at last. 
 
 " Which was it, little one 1 " 
 
 " It was it was " And the little one faltered. 
 
 " Diable ! " cried the old man, leaping like an enraged 
 cat from his chair, as if an idea had flashed upon him 
 suddenly. " Ten millions of devils ! was it not that 
 brute Giuseppe 1" 
 
 "It was, father," answered Tommatoo, soothingly. 
 "Pray, don't fly into a rage. I could not help it." 
 
 " The wretch ! the abandoned-by-God miserable fel- 
 low ! " shouted old Baioccho, growing more and more 
 excited each moment. " So he must place himself near 
 my child, my angel, to steal her away from me ! But 
 we will see ! What did he say to you ] " he added, turn- 
 ing almost fiercely to Tommatoo. 
 
 " 0, nothing more than what he has said to you. He 
 said he loved me very much, and if I would marry him 
 that he would take us all back to Italy, and that you 
 should end your days in comfort." 
 
 " 0, the serpent ! His mother and his grandfather 
 were snakes ! You know not that man, Tommatoo ! He 
 is capable of roasting his father on a spit ! " 
 
 " But, dear father, you know I hate him. I will never 
 marry any one but Gustave, and not that until you wish 
 it. I laughed at Giuseppe, and told him to go away." 
 And Tommatoo made an ineffectual attempt to give some 
 idea of her stern manner to Giuseppe ; but if the reality 
 was at all like the representation, I don't think that the 
 descendant of snakes was very much crushed. 
 
TOMMATOO. 237 
 
 " Ah, child ! you are as innocent as the flower that 
 grows under our feet ! " and Baioccho looked down, but, 
 finding no flowers, continued : " He will perform some 
 mischief to us. I feel it in in the air ! " and the sharp 
 eyes seemed to pierce into the depths of the gloomy room, 
 and fasten on some spectral misfortune. " Now Gustave 
 is a good boy. He will be a great man. His Pancorno 
 shall be played in many universal cities, and the good 
 fortune shall come to him. Thou shalt be the wife of 
 Gustave, my small pet child ! " 
 
 " But," said Tommatoo, with a half-smile, " I think he 
 loves his Pancorno better than he does me." 
 
 " It is the love of the artist, mignonne. He loves it 
 with his soul, but his heart ah, that is thine ! " 
 
 " Hark ! there he is ! " cried Tommatoo, hushing her 
 father into silence as the liquid, delicious notes of the 
 Pancorno stole through the house. 
 
 "Yes, let us listen. heaven, how beautiful!" ex- 
 claimed the old musician, rapturously ; then in a half- 
 whisper added, " One little glass more of the cognac, ma 
 biche." 
 
 And there they sat in the dusk of the room, the old 
 man warming his veins with the cognac, the young girl 
 dreaming of her lover, and both listening to the music 
 that bore them far away, out of the old house by the 
 stone-yard, into a delicious land, where the sea lay like a 
 mistress on the broad breast of the beaches, and the 
 breath of the orange groves wandered like unheard music 
 through the slopes and valleys. 
 
 " I think so of my home," murmured the old maestro, 
 and I know that a tear fell through the twilight as he 
 spoke, " of my dear, dear home when I hear the music. 
 Ah ! why does not my brother the brother of my youth 
 
238 TOMMATOO. 
 
 replace me in my dear Italy 1 He is more rich than 
 a great many of Jews, and yet he will not spare his poor 
 brother one scudo, Tommatoo. 0, if I were the rich 
 Pietro, and he the poor cook Giulio Baioccho, I would 
 not count my zechins until he had what he wanted. If 
 he would only promise to leave my little Tommatoo some- 
 thing when he died, I would not care for myself. Ah, the 
 bad brother ! Mignonne, one other little verre de cognac 
 for the poor old cook." 
 
 " Shall I go and tell Gustave that you have come 
 home ?" asked Tommatoo. " We must have supper soon, 
 you know, father." 
 
 " Do, my beloved. Sweet as are the notes of the Pan- 
 corno, thy voice is sweeter still. Go and gladden the 
 good Gustave with its music." 
 
 Tommatoo tripped to the door, perched for a moment 
 on the threshold like a little bird hovering on the edge 
 of its cage, then, after looking back into the dusky room 
 with a radiant smile that seemed to illuminate the twi- 
 light, she vanished, and in a few moments the notes of 
 the Pancorno ceased, and there were light, pattering foot- 
 steps heard in its stead. 
 
 The old musician, when she was gone, buried his head 
 in his hands, and seemed lost in meditation ; so lost 
 that he neither heard nor saw anything around him; 
 neither the footsteps that came softly toward him through 
 the gloom, nor the tall cloaked form that stood beside 
 him, until a hand laid on his shoulder startled him from 
 his reverie, and he looked up. 
 
 " Who is that 1 " he asked, with a sort of astonished 
 abruptness, as he in vain tried to distinguish the new- 
 comer's features through the darkness. 
 
 " It is I, Giuseppe," answered the figure in a very 
 calm voice, and in Italian. 
 
TOMMATOO. 239 
 
 " What dost thou here again, outcast 1 " cried the old 
 maestro, starting from his seat hurriedly and in great 
 agitation. "I tell thee that thou shalt never wed my 
 daughter. I know thee well. I know of thy prison life. 
 I know of that bloody affair in Venice, when even the 
 sacred stole of the priest could not shield his heart from 
 thy accursed hand. Begone ! or I will call for help, and 
 have thee lodged in the jail." 
 
 "Come, come, Baioccho, no need of all this bad lan- 
 guage. You wrong me, I swear you wrong me. I am 
 not the man you take me for, nor do I wish to press my 
 suit with Tommatoo. I come for other ends. I bear 
 great tidings to thee. I bring thee great riches." 
 
 "Ah, boaster, you will not cajole me with your fine 
 words ! " cried the old cook, mockingly. 
 
 " If I do, may I forget my mother's grave ! " exclaimed 
 Giuseppe, earnestly. "Walk with me for ten minutes 
 along the road, and if I prove not my words thou shalt 
 never see my face again." 
 
 In spite of his detestation of his feilow-countryman 
 Baioccho could not prevent his heart from leaping to his 
 mouth at the mention of wealth. In a moment he saw 
 himself emancipated from the accursed kitchen, his Tom- 
 matoo clad as became her beauty, Gustave's Pancorno 
 brought before the public, and all three living happily in 
 the dear Italy, making a music out of life itself. 
 
 " Well," said he, " I will go and walk with you. But 
 why not tell it here 1 " 
 
 " Because houses are less safe to speak in than the 
 universe," said Giuseppe. " You forget that I was once 
 a conspirator, and am cautious." 
 
 " I remember it well enough," muttered Baioccho, as 
 both left the house, " and the police of Venice remember 
 it better." 
 
240 TOMMATOO. 
 
 They walked slowly toward the stone-yard. Neither 
 spoke, Baioccho disdaining to show any impatience, 
 Giuseppe remaining silent for some motive of his own. 
 So on through the stone-yard ; amidst the white blocks 
 that loomed like dim ghosts through the darkness ; by 
 the shingle huts that, with their jagged corners and ir- 
 regular roofs, seemed in the darkness to crouch like 
 strange animals, squatting upon the dreary earth ; over 
 rough masses of unhewn stone, through deep ruts left by 
 cart-wheels in the soft clay, until they reached the river. 
 
 " Well," said Baioccho, at last, " how long am I to wait 
 for this wondrous intelligence ? " 
 
 " Your brother is dead," answered Giuseppe. 
 
 " What ! " almost shrieked the old cook, " and and 
 he left " 
 
 "You everything." 
 
 " Holy Virgin be praised ! " ejaculated the poor old 
 fellow, clasping his hands and kneeling in the damp, oozy 
 earth. "My dear Tommatoo will be rich." 
 
 " I have just arrived from Italy," continued Giuseppe. 
 " I saw your brother. I found him dying. I spoke to 
 him about you, and induced him to will to you the fortune 
 which he was going to leave to the Church. Do you not 
 think I deserve some reward for all this ? " 
 
 " You shall have it. I swear it ! " cried the old mu- 
 sician, fervently. " You shall name your own reward." 
 
 " Good. I want your daughter." 
 
 " Ah, traitor ! that is what you demand ! " cried the ex- 
 citable old man in his shrill voice. " Never ! never ! 
 never ! No ; you shall have money, but no Tommatoo, 
 no Tommatoo." 
 
 "Tommatoo is your heir at law when you die," re- 
 marked Giuseppe. 
 
TOMMATOO. 241 
 
 " Certainly. I know why you want to wed with her, 
 you fellow ! " 
 
 " She will inherit very soon." 
 
 " Eh ! " The old man did not exactly seem to compre- 
 hend, but peered up into Giuseppe's face. 
 
 " She will come into possession in ten minutes," added 
 Giuseppe, and rapidly as lightning he passed a sort of 
 handkerchief across Baioccho's mouth, stifling all utter- 
 ance. The old man, though thin, possessed a great te- 
 nacity of muscle, and he struggled long and vigorously 
 against his assailant. He twined about his legs, he 
 crawled up his huge chest, he dug his bony fingers into 
 his throat, all the while uttering through the gag upon 
 his mouth terrible muffled cries of agony that were more 
 dreadful from their being so suppressed. The youth and 
 strength of Giuseppe told at last. The old man grew 
 faint and almost ceased to struggle. In an instant Giu- 
 seppe seized him by the waist, lifted him clear off" the 
 the ground, and swung him into the river. He watched 
 him sink. "I think that Tommatoo is mine now," he 
 muttered, as he turned and fled rapidly back through 
 the stone-yard. 
 
 Baioccho sank, but speedily came to the surface. In- 
 stinctively he stretched out his hands, and suddenly one 
 of them came in contact with some floating substance. 
 He grasped it, and found it a drifting beam of timber 
 that had become loosed from its moorings to the bank 
 and was travelling with the stream. With some diffi- 
 culty he got astride of it and removed his gag. His first 
 impulse was to shout for help, for he could not swim, and 
 he was already some distance from the bank, and he put 
 all his strength into a furious cry. The sound of his own 
 voice echoing over that desolate shore seemed to tell him 
 
 16 
 
242 TOMMATOO. 
 
 how little chance he had of obtaining assistance in that 
 way, and, after shouting until his lungs were sore, he 
 gave it up, and clung to the hope of being picked up 
 by some boat. 
 
 The tide was running out rapidly, and a wind was 
 blowing down stream, so that Baioccho could tell from 
 the rippling of the waves around the beam that he was 
 floating fast with the current. It was very dark. On 
 either side of the bank he could see the faint lights in 
 the houses, and now and then the black spectral hull of 
 some sloop or schooner would suddenly appear to him as 
 he floated past, and then vanish. All on the river seemed 
 dead. There was not a sound of life. There did not 
 seem a hope for the old musician. - 
 
 Still he floated fast. Past the dreary black wharves, 
 round which vessels made palisades of masts seen dimly 
 against the dull sky. Past the shadowy groves of the 
 Elysian Fields, that now, alas ! seemed like the banks 
 of Acheron. Past the cheerful Atlantic Gardens, where 
 lights gleamed on the water, and people were making 
 merry, while the poor old musician was floating to his 
 death. Past the great hive of the city, that in the gloom 
 seemed to lie upon the water exhausted with its day's 
 labor. And so on out into the broad bay. Then for 
 the first time Baioccho felt that he would be swept out 
 to sea. He had not recoiled from his fate up to this 
 time, for he was brave, and, after all, drowning was only 
 death. But starvation ah ! that thought was too hor- 
 rible, and for the first time a groan escaped from the poor 
 musician. He then thought of Tommatoo, of Gustavo, 
 of their agony at his never returning, their vague 
 sorrow for his fate, which would never be known. Then 
 he prayed to God that the murderer, Giuseppe, would 
 
TOMMATOO. 243 
 
 be baffled in his designs on his dear child, and 
 then 
 
 A dull, roaring sound along the water. A hissing of 
 the air and of the sea. A red glare from what seemed 
 like a fierce angry eye moving over the waves. A sparkle 
 of foam, seen white through the gloom, and Baioccho saw 
 the ferry-boat bearing right down on him. He shouted ; 
 he tried to stand upright on the timber log, but it slipped 
 and turned ; he took off his coat and flung it high in the 
 air, all to attract attention. But in vain. Closer, 
 closer came the fiery eye. With what seemed to the old 
 musician ever-increasing speed the sharp prow cut through 
 the water. The funnel gave out short puffs of triumph, 
 the wheels beat their paddles madly on the water, as if 
 they knew what work they had to do, then a sudden, aw- 
 ful shriek from Baioccho. The projecting ledge of the 
 boat shot over him. He touched it for an instant with 
 his hand, and then went under. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE GRANDSON OP SNAKES. 
 
 " FATHER, Gustave will be down in a few minutes, and 
 we will have supper ! " cried Tommatoo, fluttering into 
 the dark room like some pretty little nocturnal bird. 
 " Father ! why don't you answer 1 Why, where can he 
 be ] Ah, that cognac ! He has perhaps taken too much 
 while I was away, poor father ! " and Tommatoo hastily 
 lit, with a lucifer match, a little fluid lamp, and held it 
 high above her head while her eyes everywhere sought 
 the expected recumbent form of the old musician. 
 
 " Why, he is not here ! " she cried, in a tone half of 
 
244 TOMMATOO. 
 
 astonishment, half of alarm. " 0, where has he gone 1 
 Not out into this dark, dark night. God forbid ! I will 
 call Gtistave " ; and she ran toward the door of the 
 apartment. But ere she quite reached it she stopped 
 and drew back, for a tall, dark figure filled the little 
 doorway, and a pair of bright sinister eyes reflected back 
 the lamplight. 
 
 " Ah, pretty one ! you did not expect to see me again 
 to-day, did you 1 " said the new-comer, in a half-mocking 
 tone, and in Italian ; " but you see how it is : I am fasci- 
 nated, and haunt the spot where I will find you." 
 
 " Signor Giuseppe, my father does not wish you to 
 come here ; you know what I think, and yet you come. 
 That I think is wrong " ; and Tomrnatoo looked like a 
 moralist of the Middle Ages, if one could imagine such 
 a personage with beautiful blond hair, large dark-gray 
 eyes, and the neatest little waist in the world. 
 
 " Ah ! none of you appreciate me," answered Giuseppe, 
 advancing into the chamber. " Your father is a good 
 man, but full of prejudices. I am progressive, and 
 he does not understand progress, that is all. But I 
 am a good fellow, Signorina, a capital fellow for all 
 that." 
 
 He looked at this moment, standing close to the door 
 and unclasping his heavy cloak, with his pale, unhealthy 
 skin shining in the lamplight, and his eyes glistening with 
 a furtive meaning, so truly the reverse of a good fellow 
 that I am not surprised at the faint frown that perched 
 for a moment on Tommatoo's forehead, and then suddenly 
 slid off her smooth temples and was lost. 
 
 " I am going, Signor Giuseppe," she said, making a 
 movement toward the door, between which and her the 
 Italian was standing. " I wish you good evening." 
 
TOMMATOO. 245 
 
 " Stay a moment ! " he cried, interposing. " Where is 
 the worthy Baioccho 1 ?" 
 
 " He is not here. I do not know where he is. Let 
 me pass, Signor. I am going to search for him." 
 
 " Perhaps he has taken too much of the delightful 
 cognac of which he is so fond," said Giuseppe, sneeringly. 
 
 " My father is a good man, Signor ! " cried Tommatoo, 
 indignantly, "and his weaknesses should be respected. 
 Let me pass, sir ! " 
 
 " Not just yet, little one. I have something to say to 
 you. You know that I love you. I told you so three 
 months ago, before I went to Italy. I tell you so now 
 that I have returned." 
 
 " I do not want to hear your confession, Signor. I wish 
 to go and seek my father." 
 
 " Listen to me, Tommatoo," and he stretched his 
 long arm across her till it fell like a great bar between 
 her and the door. " Listen. If you become my wife, 
 this is what I will do for you. I will take you to Italy, 
 and you shall have a villa that the Prince Borghese might 
 envy. We will have much money, I shall be very rich 
 indeed, and all Italy shall not contain finer horses, car- 
 riages, servants, than ours. I will be magnificent, Tom- 
 matoo, gorgeous, princely. Perhaps, too, I will purchase 
 a patent of nobility, it is to be done ; there 's the 
 banker Torlonia. And how would my Tommatoo like to 
 sit in state and be called Principezza 1 Ah ! it would 
 be glorious, would it not]" 
 
 So excited was he with the visions he had himself con- 
 jured up that Giuseppe stretched forth his arms, and, en- 
 closing Tommatoo between them, drew her toward him, 
 while a devilish glitter shone in his dark eyes. 
 
 " We are alone, sweet dove," he said, in a soft voice ; 
 
246 TOMMATOO. 
 
 " none in this silent house to watch us. Will you not 
 vow to be my bride, the bride of Giuseppe that loves 
 you so, and who will make you a little countess ? Ah ! 
 the little one is not so cruel after all." 
 
 But he mistook Tommatoo's terrified immobility for a 
 timid though undemonstrative assent. To his utter as- 
 tonishment, after a moment's silence, that young lady 
 opened her mouth and shrieked, " Gustave ! Hasten ! 
 Gustave, I am in danger ! " with all the power of an ex- 
 cellent set of lungs. 
 
 "Whew! who the devil is Gustave 1" muttered Giu- 
 seppe, astounded. " I thought that none lived in the 
 house but those two. Who the devil is this Gustave ? " 
 And as he spoke he thrust his hand inside his coat as if 
 feeling for some weapon. 
 
 There was an immediate response to Tommatoo's call, 
 in the shape of the descent of a pair of boots four stairs 
 at a time. In a few seconds the boots had reached the 
 door, and Gustave Beaumont, who stood in them, suddenly 
 appeared on the scene of action. 
 
 " Diavolo ! " ground Giuseppe between his teeth, as he 
 beheld this new apparition. Then, taking a stride back- 
 ward, he seemed like some wild animal preparing for a 
 spring. 
 
 " Quest ce gue c'est ? Qu'est ce que ce Monsieur la ? " 
 rapidly demanded Monsieur Gustave, looking rather omi- 
 nously at Giuseppe, who, not understanding a word of 
 French, preserved a grim silence. 
 
 " Gustave ! this man persecutes me. Protect me 
 from him ! " cried Tommatoo, bounding toward the young 
 Frenchman and taking shelter as it were under his wing. 
 
 " Soyez tranquille, enfant ! " said Gustave, fondly enfold- 
 ing her little form with his arm. " What the devil you 
 
TOMMATOO. 247 
 
 do here, sare," he continued, in English, seeing that Giu- 
 seppe had not replied to his previous interrogatories in 
 French. " For why do you bring the fright to this young 
 girl, sare? Who you are, sare 1 ? I demand to know. 
 Moi ! Gustave Beaumont ! " 
 
 " I reply myself not, sir, to your interrogations, when 
 they put themselves to me in a manner so insolent," an- 
 swered Giuseppe, haughtily, his eyes flashing through the 
 gloom of the half-lit chamber. 
 
 " Ask him about our dear father, Gustave," cried Tom- 
 matoo, earnestly, nestling up to the young musician's 
 side. " I left him here a few moments since, and he has 
 disappeared. I feel sure that this bad man knows some- 
 thing of him. Ask him, dear Gustave." 
 
 " One cannot know about all the world," answered 
 Giuseppe, before Gustave had time to interrogate him. 
 "My business is not with the old man. Look in the 
 cellar where the strong waters are kept. He will be 
 there." 
 
 With a mocking laugh the Italian folded his cloak 
 around him and strode toward the door. Gustave re- 
 moved his arm from Tommatoo's waist, round which it 
 had stolen, and placed himself resolutely between Giu- 
 seppe and the door, and barred his passage. 
 
 " You shall not depart from here until we know about 
 Signor Baioccho. You are suspected a great deal." 
 
 " Let me pass away from here," cried Giuseppe, ad- 
 vancing savagely, " or, by the head of the Virgin, you will 
 meet with misfortune!" And placing his hand in his 
 breast he half drew a small poniard. 
 
 Gustave saw the motion, and quick as thought sprang 
 on the Italian, weaving his young, sinewy arms around 
 his waist, and pressing his chin against his antagonist's 
 
248 TOMMATOO. 
 
 breast until he fairly howled with pain. Tommatoo, with 
 one faint moan, sank on her knees on the ground, and one 
 might see, by the clasped hands and the murmuring lips, 
 dimly shown in the imperfect lamp-light, that the little 
 one was offering up her prayers to heaven. 
 
 The pair now struggling were evenly matched as far as 
 youth and size. But in point of endurance the Italian 
 had decidedly the advantage. The sedentary life which 
 the young Frenchman led had relaxed his naturally pow- 
 erful muscular system ; and consequently, although capa- 
 ble of a vast momentary effort, he was entirely unable 
 to sustain a prolonged contest. For the space of two 
 minutes nothing was heard in the room but the hard 
 breathing of the struggling men ; the slipping of the feet 
 on the uncarpeted floor ; the sudden stamp, as one sought 
 an advantage which the other as quickly frustrated. Gus- 
 tave's main object seemed to be to keep the Italian from 
 using his poniard, and this he sought to effect by pressing 
 him so closely in his arms as to render it an impossibility 
 to use his hands. For some time he was successful in 
 this ; but presently his want of tenacity of muscle showed 
 itself in the relaxation of his grip and the quick recur- 
 rence of his breaths, almost amounting to panting. Inch 
 by inch Giuseppe loosened his arm from the Frenchman's 
 grasp, and inch by inch his hand moved toward his breast 
 where the poniard lay, his eyes all the while flashing with 
 a light that seemed to announce his approaching ven- 
 geance. In vain did Gustave strain every nerve to hold 
 his own. The large drops of sweat gathered on his fore- 
 head ; the blood flowed from between his lips, bitten in 
 the agony of exertion ; and his knees fairly shook with 
 the power of a will that far exceeded the strength of the 
 frame on which it was exercised. He could not last 
 
TOMMATOO. 249 
 
 much longer. Giuseppe, in proportion as he beheld his 
 adversary sinking, seemed to gain additional force. He 
 at length extricated his arm. At length he grasped the 
 poniard and plucked it from its sheath. Held aloft an 
 instant over Gustave's head, it quivered in its descent ; 
 when, with a dull, heavy thud, some enormous weight fell 
 on the back part of the Italian's head, the dagger was 
 dashed from his hand, and he fell stunned and senseless 
 on the floor. 
 
 " Sweet child, my life owes itself to you ! " said Gus- 
 tave, as he stood over the prostrate form of his antago- 
 nist, while he gazed with intense astonishment on Tom- 
 matoo, who, revealed to him by the Italian's fall, 
 exhibited herself as the agent of that lucky event, as- 
 sisted by an enormous bludgeon which she held in her 
 hand. 
 
 "It was an inspiration of heaven, I think," said she 
 simply. " I was praying to the Virgin, when I recol- 
 lected that papa's big stick was in the corner ; so I stole 
 toward it, lifted it up, and struck that bad fellow with it, 
 only I did not think I could strike him so hard. I hope 
 he is not very much hurt." And she looked pityingly 
 down on the villain whom a moment before she would 
 have gladly seen perish. 
 
 11 'Ore nom de Dieu ! He moves himself!" cried Gus- 
 tave, beholding a slight indication of returning animation 
 in the body of the Italian. " Quick, Tommatoo ! ropes 
 to bind him up ! Bring me great, strong twines, for he is 
 very dangerous, this fellow. Ha, rascal ! you are there ! 
 You lie very low now, brigand ! "We will trouble our- 
 selves with your care, sir. Yes, we will have the honor 
 to conduct you to the bureau of the Chief of the Police, 
 and there we will demand of you that you shall let us 
 
250 TOMMATOO. 
 
 know all your villanies. Quick, child, the twines! 
 The fellow will get himself up very presently." 
 
 And so, chattering a sort of mingled monologue of re- 
 proach, triumph, and sarcasm, Gustave passed the rope 
 which Tommatoo brought him around Giuseppe's body in 
 so scientific and elaborate a manner that the wretched 
 man was as incapable of motion as an Indian pappoose 
 strapped to its board, and lay on the floor with nothing 
 but the winking of his large, dark, villanous eyes to tell 
 of his being animate. 
 
 Now came the great question, who was to go for the 
 police. If Gustave went, Tommatoo would be left alone 
 in that terrible house, with that terrible man, who might 
 unloose that wonderful network of bonds in which Gus- 
 tave had enlaced him. If Tommatoo went, she would 
 have to thread her way alone through that dreary, dan- 
 gerous locality ; and she confessed she had not the cour- 
 age to make the attempt. If they both went, who was 
 to take care of the captive 1 So they, perforce, came to 
 the conclusion that they must wait until morning ; and 
 accordingly Gustave, determined not to lose sight of his 
 prize, lifted him on his shoulder as one would a bale of 
 goods, and, carrying him up to his own room, the room 
 in which the Pancorno resided, threw him into a corner. 
 Then he and Tommatoo sat down gloomily to speculate 
 and wonder over Baioccho's disappearance. It was in 
 vain that they interrogated Giuseppe. That individual 
 glared at them from, his corner like a coil of ropes with a 
 pair of large eyes hidden somewhere in it, but would con- 
 descend to no reply. And so the hours passed, as they 
 gloomily watched for the day. 
 
 Weary with speculation, and heart-sore enough with 
 pondering over the fate of old Baioccho, Gustave, as the 
 
TOMMATOO. 251 
 
 small hours wore on, could no longer resist his inclination 
 to invoke the genius of the Pancorno to disperse the sad 
 thoughts that hung like black clouds around him and 
 Tommatoo ; so he sat down to that mysteriously con- 
 structed instrument, and poured forth those wild improvi- 
 sations that seemed to interpret some love-passage in the 
 history of young ^Eolus. And when the sun broke faintly 
 over the dreary stone-yard, and its first rays fell on the 
 livid face of the Italian lying bound in the corner, it 
 floated upward through the sky, buoyed hy those har- 
 monies that seemed to seek their native heaven. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE P.EAN OP THE PANCORNO. 
 
 THE th Ward Station-House. It was the early 
 
 hour of the morning, before the over-night prisoners had 
 departed to be judged by the immaculate justices pre- 
 siding in the neighboring district police court, and the 
 poor, sleepless-looking, blear-eyed people were emerging 
 from the " lock-up " in the basement, still heavy with the 
 poison of bad liquor and spotted all over the face with 
 the bites of mosquitoes that abound in all police stations. 
 Along the walls of the general room hung rows of glazed 
 fire-caps and locust-wood clubs, while, stretched in rank 
 and file on the floor beneath, one saw a quantity of India- 
 rubber overshoes, splashed with the mud gathered in the 
 weary night-tramp on the heels of crime. What stories 
 of city vice spoke in those dirty, flexible shoes ! One saw 
 the burglar at work with file and centre-bit, and accom- 
 plice keeping watch with pricked-up ears. The file grates 
 and the centre-bit cuts, and the confederate strains his 
 
252 TOMMATOO. 
 
 hearing as the grasshopper leaps from the wall ; but none 
 sees the dark shadows creeping round the corner, and 
 the pavement yields no echo to the muffled feet ; and the 
 silent overshoes steal on until, with one quick leap and 
 one heavy blow with the club, the burglar and confed- 
 erate lie powerless on the ground. 
 
 The th Ward Station-House was a dreary-looking 
 
 establishment. The police captain in plain clothes, with 
 a presentation watch in his pocket, attached to a presenta- 
 tion chain, and a presentation diamond ring on his finger, 
 and a presentation pin in his shirt front, which having 
 buttons did not seem to require it, sat on a high chair 
 behind a high counter on which he measured out justice 
 by the yard. Two or three sly-looking men, in plain 
 clothes also, with a furtive glance in the eyes, and an air 
 of always seeming to be looking round a corner that 
 bespoke the detective, or "shadow," lounging on the 
 stout chairs, picking their teeth and watching everybody, 
 even the police captain, as if they were ready at any mo- 
 ment to detect anybody in something illegal. A pleas- 
 ant-looking chain of handcuffs hung on the wall, some 
 ten or twelve pair linked together, cold, brutal-looking 
 loops of iron that seemed to regret it was wrists and not 
 necks that it was their duty to clasp. Sitting on the sill 
 of the deep window, which opened into the street, were 
 two little children crying lustily. They had been lost or 
 had run away, and in the face of the boy, a large-eyed 
 French lad, some six years old, one could see the deter- 
 mination working that made him preserve, when ques- 
 tioned, a sullen silence as to his name and home. The 
 other, a little girl, thanks to the philoprogenitive organ 
 of one of the police, was munching a jam tart amidst 
 all her grief, and slobbering the unwholesome pastry with 
 her tears. 
 
TOMMATOO. 253 
 
 But chief of all the figures in that melancholy room 
 were three persons who had, in the charge of a policeman, 
 arrived at early dawn. Deep in one corner, the farthest 
 from the door, sat Giuseppe, now carefully uncorded but 
 still scowling out of his cloak, as if he might dart poi- 
 soned poniards out of his eyes; while before the high 
 counter on which the prize police captain measured out 
 his two-pennyworth of justice, stood Gustave and Tomma- 
 too, who was weeping bitterly. 
 
 " You say that you left your father for but a few mo- 
 ments, and on your return he had disappeared 1 " in- 
 quired the prize captain, solemnly. 
 
 " Yes, sir ! " sobbed Tommatoo. " My dear, dear father ! 
 What has become of him 1 0, that bad man ! " a 
 wicked glance at Giuseppe in the corner. 
 
 "And when you returned you found the prisoner in 
 the room where you had left your father ] " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; and I know that he knows where my father 
 is, I see it in his eyes. 0, sir, make him tell, make 
 him tell. Pinch him until he tells, beat him until he 
 tells ! " 
 
 The prize captain smiled, condescendingly. 
 
 "Lieutenant!" he said, "telegraph a description of 
 this Baioccho to the chiefs office, with inquiries." 
 
 Immediately a thin policeman commenced working the 
 telegraph that lay in one corner of the room, but the 
 monotonous click of the instrument was but little con- 
 solation to the aching bosom of Tommatoo. 
 
 A half-hour passed an hour during which Tom- 
 matoo related over and over again the details of her little 
 story to the prize captain. The subordinates of the office 
 began to take an interest in her, and gathered round her 
 as she sat nestling close to Gustave, who was completely 
 
254 TOMMATOO. 
 
 amazed by the novelty of his situation, and each had a 
 kind word for the little maiden. 
 
 An hour passed. Ah, how dreary ! dreary to Giuseppe 
 scowling in his cloak, carefully watched by two stalwart 
 policemen ; dreary to Gustave, who wondered how police- 
 men could live without music ; dreary to little Tomma- 
 too, who, with swollen eyes, and heavy, sad heart, sorrowed 
 for the old musician. 
 
 Presently there was a bustle. A carriage drove up to 
 the door with policemen on the box, and Tommatoo's 
 heart fluttered. The door of the vehicle opened, and out 
 tottered Baioccho, feebly singing, crowing, dancing, with 
 his old eyes twinkling with cognac, and a suit of gigantic 
 clothes on, out of which he seemed to be endeavoring to 
 scramble. In another instant Tommatoo was in his arms. 
 
 " Ah, mon enfant, ma fille bien aime ! the old father has 
 brought himself back. Per baccho ! brought himself back 
 with the joy in his heart. The assassin failed in his 
 work. Ha !" 
 
 This last exclamation was caused by a sudden rush for 
 the door which Giuseppe had made the moment the old 
 musician appeared. His attempt at escape was vain, 
 however, for before he had made two steps he was col- 
 lared, and a pair of handcuffs magically slipped over his 
 wrists. He sat down again sullenly, but with a face 
 white with terror. 
 
 "Ha ! serpent that thou art ! " cried Baioccho, placing 
 himself before Giuseppe and shaking his withered old fist 
 at him. "Thy time has arrived. Thou wilt hang for 
 this. So you thought to drown the poor old maestro who 
 never harmed you ^ But no ! the God above is good, and 
 when waves lifted themselves up to engulf me, and the 
 boat of the passage came to knock me on the head, a 
 
TOMMATOO. 255 
 
 heaven-descended rope put itself into my hand, and a 
 blessed sailor pulled me up to the deck. 0, no ! I am 
 not dead yet, and the sweet dove that you covet will 
 find some other nest than thine ! " 
 
 Then turning to the prize captain, the old man, still 
 with one arm round his daughter, poured forth his voluble 
 tale ; how Giuseppe had flung him into the river; how 
 he was floating out to sea when the ferry-boat had come 
 down on him ; and how, just in the nick of time, some 
 one on board had discerned him in the water and flung 
 him a rope ; all this mixed up in his extraordinary Eng- 
 lish, and interlarded with French and Italian imprecations 
 on the head of Giuseppe, so that the prize captain was 
 entirely bewildered, and all that he could do was to order 
 the assassin into the lock-up, and bind over the old maes- 
 tro to appear in evidence. This done, he and Gustave 
 and Tommatoo, now chirping like a bird, went home 
 together. 
 
 I would not like to count all the petits verres de cognac 
 that the old musician took that night ; but I know that 
 Baioccho on that occasion danced the most singular 
 dances, and sang the most eccentric songs, and told Tom- 
 matoo and Gustave at least fifty times the wondrous 
 story of his adventures, and how his brother was, he 
 believed, dead, and had left him all his wealth; and so 
 the night closed on jubilation in the old house by the 
 stone-yard. 
 
 Strange to say, Baioccho's brother was dead and had 
 left him his heir. This, it was supposed, Giuseppe had 
 learned in Italy, and had hastened home with the inten- 
 tion of profiting by an information of which he was the 
 earliest recipient. Chance, however, frustrated his plans, 
 and after a trial, in which Baioccho's eccentric evidence 
 
256 TOMMATOO. 
 
 was a feature, the gates of the state prison closed over 
 the assassin. 
 
 In time Baiocch^ realized his inheritance and bade 
 farewell to the kitchen. The Pancorno was brought be- 
 fore the public, and every one remembers the sensation 
 it created that winter at the Antique Concerts given at 
 Niblo's. Women, while listening to its wonderful strains, 
 could not help noticing how handsome was the young 
 Frenchman who played on it ; yet none saw the lovely 
 face that every night gazed from the front row on the 
 performer ; but I know that Gustave Beaumont played 
 all the better because he knew that Tommatoo, otherwise 
 Madame Beaumont, was looking at him. Madame Beau- 
 mont ! Tommatoo as a madame ! Can you realize it 1 
 I can't. 
 
MOTHER OF PEARL. 257 
 
 MOTHEE OF PEAEL. 
 
 I. 
 
 I MET her in India, when, during an eccentric course of 
 travel, I visited the land of palanquins and hookahs. 
 She was a slender, pale, spiritual-looking girl. Her figure 
 swayed to and fro when she walked, like some delicate 
 plant brushed by a very gentle wind. Her face betokened 
 a rare susceptibility of nervous organization. Large, 
 dark -gray eyes, spanned by slender arches of black eye- 
 brows ; irregular and mobile features ; a mouth large and 
 singularly expressive, and conveying vague hints of a 
 sensual nature whenever she smiled. The paleness of* her 
 skin could hardly be called paleness ; it was rather a 
 beautiful transparency of texture, through the whiteness 
 of which one beheld the underglow of life, as one sees the 
 fires of a lamp hazily revealed through the white ground- 
 glass shade that envelops it. Her motions were full of a 
 strange and subtile grace. It positively sent a thrill of 
 an indefinable nature through me to watch her moving 
 across a room. It was perhaps a pleasurable sensation 
 at beholding her perform so ordinary an act in so un- 
 usual a manner. Every wanderer in the fields has been 
 struck with delight on beholding a tuft of thistle-down 
 floating calmly through the still atmosphere of a summer 
 day. She possessed in the most perfect degree this aerial 
 serenity of motion. With all the attributes of body, she 
 
 17 
 
258 MOTHER OF PEARL. 
 
 seemed to move as if disembodied. It was a singular and 
 paradoxical combination of the real and ideal, and therein 
 I think lay the charm. 
 
 Then her voice. It was like no voice that I ever heard 
 before. It wa"s low and sweet ; but how many hundreds 
 of voices have I heard that were as low and just as sweet ! 
 The charm lay in something else. Each word was uttered 
 with a sort of dovelike " coo," pray do not laugh at 
 the image, for I am striving to express what after all is 
 perhaps inexpressible. However, I mean to say that the 
 harsh gutturals and hissing dentals of our English tongue 
 were enveloped by her in a species of vocal plumage, so 
 that they flew from her lips, not like pebbles or snakes, 
 as they do from mine and yours, but like humming-birds, 
 soft and round, and imbued with a strange fascination of 
 sound. 
 
 We fell in love, married, and Minnie agreed to share 
 my travel for a year, after which we were to repair to my 
 native place in Maine, and settle down into a calm, loving 
 country life. 
 
 It was during this year that our little daughter Pearl 
 was born. The way in which she came to be named 
 Pearl was this. 
 
 We were cruising in the Bay of Condatchy, on the west 
 coast of Ceylon, in a small vessel which I had hired for a 
 month's trip, to go where I listed. I had always a singu- 
 lar desire to make myself acquainted with the details of 
 the pearl fishery, and I thought this would be a good 
 opportunity ; so with my wife and servants and little 
 nameless child, she was only three months old, on 
 whom, however, we showered daily a thousand unwritable 
 love-titles, I set sail for the grounds of a celebrated pearl 
 fishery. 
 
MOTHER OF PEARL. 259 
 
 It was a great although an idle pleasure to sit in one of 
 the small coasting-boats in that cloudless and serene cli- 
 mate, floating on an unruffled sea, and watch the tawny 
 natives, naked, with the exception of a small strip of 
 cotton cloth wound around their loins, plunge into the 
 marvellously clear waters, and after having shot down far 
 beyond sight, as if they had been lead instead of flesh 
 and blood, suddenly break above the surface after what 
 seemed an age of immersion, holding in their hands a 
 basket filled with long, uncouthly shaped bivalves, any 
 of which might contain a treasure great as that which 
 Cleopatra wasted in her goblet. The oysters being flung 
 into the boat, a brief breathing-spell was taken, and then 
 once more the dark-skinned diver darted down like some 
 agile fish, to recommence his search. For the pearl 
 oyster is by no means to be found in the prodigal pro- 
 fusion in which his less aristocratic brethren, the mill- 
 ponds and blue-points and chinkopins, exist. He is rare 
 and exclusive, and does not bestow himself liberally. 
 He, like all high-born castes, is not prolific. 
 
 Sometimes a fearful moment of excitement would over- 
 take us. While two or three of the pearl-divers were 
 under water, the calm, glassy surface of the sea would be 
 cleft by what seemed the thin blade of a sharp knife, cut- 
 ting through the water with a slow, even, deadly motion. 
 This we knew to be the dorsal fin of the man-eating 
 shark. Nothing can give an idea of the horrible sym- 
 bolism of that back fin. To a person utterly unacquainted 
 with the habits of the monster, the silent, stealthy, re- 
 sistless way in which that membranous blade divided the 
 water would inevitably suggest a cruelty swift, unap- 
 peasable, relentless. This may seem exaggerated to any 
 one who has not seen the spectacle I speak of. Every 
 
260 MOTHER OF PEARL. 
 
 seafaring man will admit its truth. When this ominous 
 apparition became visible, all on board the fishing-boats 
 were instantly in a state of excitement. The water was 
 beaten with oars until it foamed. The natives shouted 
 aloud with the most unearthly yells ; missiles of all kinds 
 were flung at this Seeva of the ocean, and a relentless 
 attack was kept up on him until the poor fellows groping 
 below showed their mahogany faces above the surface. 
 We were so fortunate as not to have been the spectators 
 of any tragedy, but we knew from hearsay that it often 
 happened that the shark a fish, by the way, possessed 
 of a rare intelligence quietly bided his time until the 
 moment the diver broke water, when there would be a 
 lightning-like rush, a flash of the white belly as the brute 
 turned on his side to snap, a faint cry of agony from the 
 victim, and then the mahogany face would sink convulsed, 
 never to rise again, while a great crimson clot of blood 
 would hang suspended in the calm ocean, the red memo- 
 rial of a sudden and awful fatality. 
 
 One breathless day we were floating in .our little boat 
 at the pearl fishery, watching the diving. "We" means 
 my wife, myself, and our little daughter, who was nestled 
 in the arms of her " ayah," or colored nurse. It was one 
 of those tropical mornings the glory of which is inde- 
 scribable. The sea was so transparent that the boat in 
 which we lay, shielded from the sun by awnings, seemed 
 to hang suspended in air. The tufts of pink and white 
 coral that studded the bed of the ocean beneath were as 
 distinct as if they were growing at our feet. We seemed 
 to be gazing upon a beautiful parterre of variegated 
 candytuft. The shores, fringed with palms and patches 
 of a gigantic species of cactus, which was then in bloom, 
 were as still and serene as if they had been painted on 
 
MOTHER OF PEARL. 261 
 
 glass. Indeed, the whole landscape looked like a beautiful 
 scene beheld through a glorified stereoscope ; eminently 
 real as far as detail went, but fixed and motionless as 
 death. Nothing broke the silence save the occasional 
 plunge of the divers into the water, or the noise of the 
 large oysters falling into the bottom of the boats. In the 
 distance, on a small, narrow point of land, a strange 
 crowd of human beings was visible. Oriental pearl mer- 
 chants, Fakirs selling amulets, Brahmins in their dirty 
 white robes, all attracted to the spot by the prospect of 
 gain (as fish collect round a handful of bait flung into a 
 pond), bargaining, cheating, and strangely mingling religion 
 and lucre. My wife and I lay back on the cushions that 
 lined the after part of our little skiff, languidly gazing on 
 the sea and the sky by turns. Suddenly our attention 
 was aroused by a great shout, which was followed by a 
 volley of shrill cries from the pearl-fishing boats. On 
 turning in that direction, the greatest excitement was 
 visible among the different crews. Hands were pointed, 
 white teeth glittered in the sun, and every dusky form 
 was gesticulating violently. Then two or three negroes 
 seized some long, poles and commenced beating the water 
 violently. Others flung gourds and calabashes and odd 
 pieces of wood and stones in the direction of a particular 
 spot that lay between the nearest fishing-boat and our- 
 selves. The only thing visible in this spot was a black, 
 sharp blade, thin as the blade of a pen-knife, that ap- 
 peared, slowly and evenly cutting through the still water. 
 No surgical instrument ever glided through human flesh 
 with a more silent, cruel calm. It needed not the cry 
 of " Shark ! shark ! " to tell us what it was. In a mo- 
 ment we had a vivid picture of that unseen monster, 
 with his small, watchful eyes, and his huge mouth with 
 
262 MOTHER OF PEARL. 
 
 its double row of fangs, presented to our mental vision. 
 There were three divers under water at this moment, 
 while directly above them hung suspended this remorse- 
 less incarnation of death. My wife clasped my hand con- 
 vulsively, and became deathly pale. I stretched out the 
 other hand instinctively, and grasped a revolver which 
 lay beside me. I was in the act of cocking it when a 
 shriek of unutterable agony from the ayah burst on our 
 ears. I turned my head quick as a flash of lightning, 
 and beheld her, with empty arms, hanging over the gun- 
 wale of the boat, while down in the calm sea I saw a 
 tiny little face, swathed in white, sinking sinking 
 sinking! w 
 
 What are words to paint such a crisis ? What pen, 
 however vigorous, could depict the pallid, convulsed face 
 of my wife, my own agonized countenance, the awful 
 despair that settled on the dark face of the ayah, as we 
 three beheld the love of our lives serenely receding from 
 us forever in that impassable, transparent ocean 3 My 
 pistol fell from my grasp. I, who rejoiced in a vigor of 
 manhood such as few attain, was struck dumb and help- 
 less. My brain whirled in its dome. Every outward 
 object vanished from my sight, and all I saw was a vast, 
 translucent sea and one sweet face, rosy as a sea-shell, 
 shining in its depths, shining with a vague smile that 
 seemed to bid me a mute farewell as it floated away to 
 death ! I was roused from a trance of anguish by the 
 flitting of a dark form through the clear water, cleaving 
 its way swiftly toward that darling little shape, that grew 
 dimmer and dimmer every second as it settled in the sea. 
 We all saw it, and the same thought struck us all. That 
 terrible, deadly back fin was the key of our sudden terror. 
 The shark ! A simultaneous shriek burst from our lips. 
 
MOTHER OF PEARL. 263 
 
 I tried to jump overboard, but was withheld by some one. 
 Little use had I done so, for I could not swim a stroke. 
 The dark shape glided on like a flash of light. It reached 
 our treasure. In an instant all we loved on earth was 
 blotted from our sight ! My heart stood still. My breath 
 ceased ; life trembled on my lips. The next moment a 
 dusky head shot out of the water close to our boat, a 
 dusky head whose parted lips gasped for breath, but 
 whose eyes shone with the brightness of a superhuman 
 joy. The second after, two tawny hands held a dripping 
 white mass above water, and the dark head shouted to 
 the boatmen. Another second, and the brave pearl-diver 
 had clambered in and laid my little daughter at her 
 mother's feet. This was the shark ! This the man-eater ! 
 This hero in sun-burned hide, who, with his quick, aquatic 
 sight, had seen our dear one sinking through the sea, and 
 had brought her up to us again, pale and dripping, but 
 still alive ! 
 
 What tears and what laughter fell on us three by turns 
 as we named our gem rescued from the ocean " Little 
 Pearl"! 
 
 II. 
 
 I HAD been about a year settled at my pleasant home- 
 stead in Maine, when the great misfortune of my life fell 
 upon me. 
 
 My existence was almost exceptional in its happiness. 
 Independent in circumstances; master of a beautiful 
 place, the natural charms of which were carefully sec- 
 onded by art ; married to a woman whose refined and 
 cultivated mind seemed to be in perfect accord with my 
 
264 MOTHER OF PEARL. 
 
 own; and the father of the loveliest little maiden that 
 ever tottered upon tiny feet, what more could I wish 
 for? In the summer-time we varied the pleasant mo- 
 notony of our rustic life by flying visits to Newport and 
 Nahant. In the winter, a month or six weeks spent in 
 New York, party-going and theatre-going, surfeited us 
 with the rapid life of a metropolis, but gave us food for 
 conversation for months to come. The intervals were 
 well filled up with farming, reading, and the social inter- 
 course into which we naturally fell with the old residents 
 around us. 
 
 I said a moment ago that I was perfectly happy at this 
 time. I was wrong. I was happy, but not perfectly 
 happy. A vague grief overshadowed me. My wife's 
 health gave me at times great concern. Charming and 
 spirituelle as she was on most occasions, there were times 
 when she seemed a prey to a brooding melancholy. She 
 would sit for hours in the twilight, in what appeared to 
 be a state of mental apathy, and at such times it was 
 almost impossible to rouse her into even a moderate state 
 of conversational activity. When I addressed her, she 
 would languidly turn her eyes on me, droop the eyelids 
 over the eyeballs, and gaze at me with a strange expres- 
 sion that, I knew not why, sent a shudder through my 
 limbs. It was in vain that I questioned her to ascertain 
 if she suffered. She was perfectly well, she said, but 
 weary. I consulted my old friend and neighbor, Doctor 
 Melony, but, after a careful study of her constitution, he 
 proclaimed her, after his own fashion, to be " Sound as a 
 bell, sir ! sound as a bell ! " 
 
 To me, however, there was a funereal tone in this bell. 
 If it did not toll of death, it at least proclaimed disaster. 
 I cannot say why those dismal forebodings should have 
 
MOTHER OF PEARL. 265 
 
 possessed me. Let who will explain the many presenti- 
 ments of good and bad fortune which waylay men in 
 the road of life, as the witches used to waylay the trav- 
 eller of old, and rise up in his path prognosticating 
 or cursing. 
 
 At times, though, Minnie, as if to cheat speculation, 
 displayed a gayety and cheerfulness beyond all expecta- 
 tion. She would propose little excursions to noted places 
 in our neighborhood, and no eyes in the party would be 
 brighter, no laugh more ringing than hers. Yet these 
 bright spots were but checkers on a life of gloom ; days 
 passed in moodiness and silence ; nights of restless toss- 
 ing on the couch ; and ever and anon that strange, fur- 
 tive look following me as I went to and fro ! 
 
 As the year slowly sailed through the green banks of 
 summer into the naming scenery of the fall, I resolved to 
 make some attempt to dissipate this melancholy under 
 which my wife so obviously labored. 
 
 " Minnie," I said to her, one day, " I feel rather dull. 
 Let us go to New York for a few weeks." 
 
 " What for ] " she answered, turning her face around 
 slowly until her eyes rested on mine, eyes still filled 
 with that inexplicable expression ! " What for 1 To 
 amuse ourselves 1 My dear Gerald, how can New York 
 amuse you ] We live in a hotel, each room of which is a 
 stereotyped copy of the other. We get the same bill of 
 fare with a fresh date every day for dinner. We 
 go to parties that are a repetition of the parties we went 
 to last year. The same thin-legged young man leads ' the 
 German,' and one could almost imagine that the stewed 
 terrapin which you got for supper had been kept over 
 since the previous winter. There is no novelty, no 
 nothing." 
 
266 MOTHER OF PEARL. 
 
 " There is a novelty, my dear," I said, although I could 
 not help smiling at her languid dissection of a New York 
 season. "You love the stage, and a new, and, as I am 
 told, a great actress, has appeared there. I, for my part, 
 want to see her." 
 
 " Who is she 1 But, before you answer, I know per- 
 fectly well what a great American dramatic novelty is. 
 She has been gifted by nature with fine eyes, a good fig- 
 ure, and a voice which has a tolerable scale of notes. 
 Some one, or something, puts it into her head that she 
 was born into this world for the special purpose of inter- 
 preting Shakespeare. She begins by reciting to her 
 friends in a little village, and, owing to their encourage- 
 ment, determines to take lessons from some broken-down 
 actor, who ekes out an insufficient salary by giving lessons 
 in elocution. Under his tuition as she would under 
 the instruction of any professor of that abominable art 
 known as ' elocution ' she learns how to display her 
 voice at the expense of the sense of the author. She 
 thinks of nothing but rising and falling inflections, swim- 
 ming entrances and graceful exits. Her idea of great 
 emotion is hysterics, and her acme of by-play is to roll 
 her eyes at the audience. You listen in vain for a natu- 
 ral intonation of the voice. You look in vain on the 
 painted over-painted face for a single reflex of the 
 emotions depicted by the dramatist; emotions that, I am 
 sure, when he was registering them on paper, flitted over 
 his countenance, and thrilled his whole being as the au- 
 roral lights shimmer over the heavens, and send a vibra- 
 tion through all nature ! My dear husband, I am tired 
 of your great American actress. Please go and buy me 
 half a dozen dolls." 
 
 I laughed. She was in her cynical mood, and none 
 
MOTHER OF PEARL. 267 
 
 could be more sarcastic than she. But I was determined 
 to gain my point. 
 
 " But," I resumed, " the actress I am anxious to see is 
 the very reverse of the too truthful picture you have 
 painted. I want to see Matilda Heron." 
 
 " And who is Matilda Heron 1 " 
 
 "Well, I can't very well answer your question defi- 
 nitely, Minnie ; but this I know, that she has come from 
 somewhere, and fallen like a bomb-shell in New York. 
 The metaphor is not too pronounced. Her appearance 
 has been an explosion. Now, you blase critic of actresses, 
 here is a chance for a sensation ! Will you go ? " 
 
 " Of course I will, dear Gerald. But if I am disap- 
 pointed, call on the gods to help you. I will punish you, 
 if you mislead me, in some awful manner. I '11 write 
 a play, or go on the stage myself." 
 
 "Minnie," said I, kissing her smooth white forehead, 
 " if you go on the stage, you will make a most miserable 
 failure." 
 
 III. 
 
 WE went to New York. Matilda Heron was then play- 
 ing her first engagement at Wallack's Theatre. The day 
 after I arrived I secured a couple of orchestra seats, and 
 before the curtain rose Minnie and I were installed in our 
 places, I full of anticipation, she, as all prejudging 
 critics are, determined to be terribly severe if she got 
 a chance. 
 
 We were too well bred, too well brought up, too well 
 educated, and too cosmopolitan, to feel any qualms 
 about the morality of the play. We had read it in the 
 
268 MOTHER OF PEARL. 
 
 French under the title of La Dame aux Camelias, and 
 it was now produced in dramatic form under the title 
 of " Camille." 
 
 If my wife did not get a chance for criticism, she at 
 least got a sensation. Miss Heron's first entrance was 
 wonderfully unconventional. The woman dared to come 
 in upon that painted scene as if it really was the home 
 apartment it was represented to be. She did not slide 
 in with her face to the audience, and wait for the mockery 
 that is called " a reception." She walked in easily, natu- 
 rally, unwitting of any outside eyes. The petulant man- 
 ner in which she took off her shawl, the commonplace 
 conversational tone in which she spoke to her servant, 
 were revelations to Minnie and myself. Here was a dar- 
 ing reality. Here was a woman who, sacrificing for the 
 moment all conventional prejudices, dared to play the 
 lorette as the lorette herself plays her dramatic life, 
 with all her whims, her passion, her fearlessness of conse- 
 quences, her occasional vulgarities, her impertinence, her 
 tenderness and self-sacrifice ! 
 
 It was not that we did not see faults. Occasionally 
 Miss Heron's accent was bad, and had a savor of Celtic 
 origin. But what mattered accent, or what mattered 
 elocution, when we felt ourselves in the presence of an 
 inspired woman ! 
 
 Miss Heron's Camille electrified both Minnie and my- 
 self. My wife was particularly bouleversee. The artist 
 we were beholding had not in a very marked manner any 
 of those physical advantages which Minnie had predicated 
 in her onslaught on the dramatic stars. It is true that 
 Miss Heron's figure was commanding, and there was 
 a certain powerful light in her eyes that startled and 
 thrilled ; but there was not the beauty of the " favorite 
 
MOTHER OF PEARL. 269 
 
 actress." The conquest that she achieved was purely 
 intellectual and magnetic. 
 
 Of course we were present at the next performance. 
 It was "Medea." We then beheld the great actress 
 under a new phase. In Camille she died for love ; in 
 Medea she killed for love. I never saw a human being 
 so rocked by emotion as was my wife during the pro- 
 gress of this tragedy. Her countenance was a mirror of 
 every incident and passion. She swayed to and fro under 
 those gusts of indignant love that the actress sent forth 
 from time to time, and which swept the house like a 
 storm. When the curtain fell she sat trembling, 
 vibrating still with those thunders of passion that the 
 swift lightnings of genius had awakened. She seemed 
 almost in a dream, as I took her to the carnage, and dur- 
 ing the drive to our hotel she was moody and silent. It 
 was in vain that I tried to get her to converse about the 
 play. That the actress was great, she acknowledged in 
 the briefest possible sentence. Then she leaned back and 
 seemed to fall into a reverie from which nothing would 
 arouse her. 
 
 I ordered supper into our sitting-room, and made Min- 
 nie drink a couple of glasses of champagne in the hope 
 that it would rouse her into some state of mental activity. 
 All my efforts, however, were without avail. She was 
 silent and strange, and occasionally shivered as if pene- 
 trated with a sudden chill. Shortly after, she pleaded 
 weariness and retired for the night, leaving me puzzled 
 more than ever by the strangeness of her case. 
 
 An hour or two afterward, when I went to bed, I found 
 Minnie apparently asleep. Never had she seemed more 
 beautiful. Her lips were like a bursting rosebud about 
 to blow under the influence of a perfumed wind, just 
 
270 MOTHER OF PEARL. 
 
 parted as they were by the gentle breath that came and 
 went. The long, dark lashes that swept over her cheek 
 gave a pensive charm to her countenance, which was 
 heightened by a rich stray of nutty hair that swept 
 loosely across her bosom, tossed in the restlessness of 
 slumber. I printed a light kiss upon her forehead, and, 
 with an unuttered prayer for her welfare, lay down to 
 rest. 
 
 I know not how long I had been asleep when I was 
 awakened from a profound slumber by one of those inde- 
 scribable sensations of mortal peril which seem to sweep 
 over the soul, and with as it were the thrill of its pas- 
 sage call louder than a trumpet, Awake ! arouse ! your 
 life hangs by a hair ! That this strange physical warning 
 is in all cases the result of a magnetic phenomenon I 
 have not the slightest doubt. To prove it, steal softly, 
 ever so softly, to the bedside of a sleeper, and, although 
 no noise betrays your presence, the slumberer will almost 
 invariably awaken, aroused by a magnetic perception of 
 your proximity. How much more powerfully must the 
 stealthy approach of one who harbors sinister designs 
 affect the slumbering victim ! An antagonistic magnet- 
 ism hovers near ; the whole of the subtile currents that 
 course through the electrical machine known as man are 
 shocked with a powerful repulsion, and the sentinel mind 
 whose guard has just been relieved, and which is slumber- 
 ing in its quarters, suddenly hears the .rappel beaten and 
 leaps to arms. 
 
 In the midst of my deep sleep I sprang with a sudden 
 bound upright, with every faculty alert. By one of those 
 unaccountable mysteries of our being, I realized, before 
 my eyes could be by any possibility alive to external 
 objects, the presence of a great horror. Simultaneously 
 
MOTHER OF PEARL. 271 
 
 with this conviction, or following it so quickly as to be 
 almost twin with it, I beheld the vivid flash of a knife, 
 and felt an acute pain in my shoulder. The next in- 
 stant all was plain, as if the scene, instead of passing in 
 a half-illuminated bedroom, had occurred in the full sun- 
 light of the orient. My wife was standing by my bed- 
 side, her hands firmly pinioned in mine, while on the 
 white coverlet lay a sharp table-knife red with the blood 
 which was pouring from a deep wound in my shoulder. 
 I had escaped death by a miracle. Another instant 
 and the long blade would have been driven through iny 
 heart. 
 
 I never was so perfectly self-possessed as on that ter- 
 rible occasion. I forced Minnie to sit on the bed, while I 
 looked calmly into her face. She returned my gaze with 
 a sort of serene defiance. 
 
 " Minnie," I said, " I loved you dearly. Why did you 
 do this]" 
 
 " I was weary of you," she answered, in a cold, even 
 voice, a voice so level that it seemed to be spoken on 
 ruled lines, " that is my reason." 
 
 Great heavens ! I was not prepared for this sangui- 
 nary calm. I had looked for perhaps some indication of 
 somnambulism ; I had vaguely hoped even for the inco- 
 herence or vehemence of speech which would have beto- 
 kened a sudden insanity, anything, everything but this 
 awful avowal of a deliberate design to murder a man who 
 loved her better than the life she sought ! Still I clung 
 to hope. I could not believe that this gentle, refined 
 creature could deliberately quit my side at midnight, pos- 
 sess herself of the very knife which had been used at the 
 table, across which I lavished a thousand fond attentions, 
 and remorselessly endeavor to stab me to the heart. It 
 
272 MOTHER OF PEARL. 
 
 must be the act of one insane, or laboring under some 
 momentary hallucination. I determined to test her fur- 
 ther. I adopted a tone of vehement reproach, hoping, if 
 insanity was smouldering in her brain, to fan the embers 
 to such a flame as would leave no doubt on my mind. 
 I would rather she should be mad than feel that she 
 hated me. 
 
 " Woman ! " I thundered fiercely, " you must have the 
 mind of a fiend to repay my love in this manner. Beware 
 of my vengeance. Your punishment shall be terrible." 
 
 " Punish me," she answered ; and oh ! how serene and 
 distant her voice sounded ! " punish me how and when 
 you will. It will not matter much." The tones were 
 calm, assured, and fearless. The manner perfectly cohe- 
 rent. A terrible suspicion shot across my mind. 
 
 1 'Have I a rival?" I asked ; " is it a guilty love that 
 has prompted you to plan my death 1 If so, I am sorry 
 you did not kill me." 
 
 " I do not know any other man whom I love. I can- 
 not tell why it is that I do not love you. You are very 
 kind and considerate, but your presence wearies me. I 
 sometimes see vaguely, as in a dream, my ideal of a hus- 
 band, but he has no existence save in my soul, and I sup- 
 pose I shall never meet him." 
 
 " Minnie, you are mad ! " I cried, despairingly. 
 
 "Am I?" she answered, with a faint, sad smile slowly 
 overspreading her pale face, like the dawn breaking imper- 
 ceptibly over a cold gray lake. " Well, you can think so 
 if you will. It is all one to me." 
 
 I never beheld such apathy, such stoical indifference. 
 Had she exhibited fierce rage, disappointment at her fail- 
 ure, a mad thirst for my life-blood, I should have preferred 
 it to this awful stagnation of sensibility, this frozen still- 
 
MOTHER OF PEARL. 273 
 
 ness of the heart. I felt all my nature harden suddenly 
 toward her. It seemed to me as if my face became fixed 
 and stern as a bronze head. 
 
 "You are an inexplicable monster," I said, in tones 
 that startled myself, they were so cold and metallic ; 
 " and I shall not try to decipher you. I will use every 
 endeavor to ascertain, however, whether it is some spe- 
 cies of insanity that has thus afflicted you, or whether 
 you are ruled by the most vicious soul that ever inhab- 
 ited a human body. You shall return to my house to- 
 morrow, when I will place you under the charge of Doctor 
 Melony. You will live in the strictest seclusion. I need 
 not tell you that, after what has happened, you must 
 henceforth be a stranger to your daughter. Hands crim- 
 soned with her father's blood are not those that I would 
 see caressing her." 
 
 " Very well. It is all one to me where I am, or how I 
 live." 
 
 Go to bed." 
 
 She went, calmly as a well-taught child, coolly turning 
 over the pillow on which was sprinkled the blood from 
 the wound in my shoulder, so as to present the under 
 side for her beautiful, guilty head to repose on ; gently 
 removed the murderous knife, which was still lying on 
 the coverlet, and placed it on a little table by the side of 
 the bed, and then without a word calmly composed her- 
 self to sleep. 
 
 It was inexplicable. I stanched my wound and sat 
 down to think. 
 
 What was the meaning of it all ? I had visited many 
 lunatic asylums, and had, as one of the various items 
 in my course of study, read much on the phenomena 
 of insanity, which had always been exceedingly interest- 
 
 18 
 
274 MOTHER OF PEARL. 
 
 ing to me for this reason : I thought it might be that 
 only through the aberrated intellect can we approach 
 the secrets of the normal mind. The castle, fortified 
 and garrisoned at every angle and loophole, guards its 
 interior mysteries ; it is only when the fortress crum- 
 bles that we can force our way inside, and detect the 
 secret of its masonry, its form, and the theory of its 
 construction. 
 
 But in all my researches I had never met with any symp- 
 toms of a diseased mind similar to these my wife exhibited. 
 There was a uniform coherence that completely puzzled 
 me. Her answers to my questions were complete and 
 determinate, that is, they left no room for what is 
 called " cross-examination." No man ever spent such a 
 night of utter despair as I did, watching in that dimly lit 
 chamber until dawn, while she, my would-be murderess, 
 lay plunged in so profound and calm a slumber that she 
 might have been a wearied angel rather than a self-pos- 
 sessed demon. The mystery of her guilt was maddening ; 
 and I sat hour after hour in my easy-chair, seeking in 
 vain for a clew, until the dawn, spectral and gray, arose 
 over the city. Then I packed up all our luggage, and 
 wandered restlessly over the house until the usual hour 
 for rising had struck. 
 
 On returning to my room I found my wife just com- 
 pleting her toilet. To my consternation and horror she 
 flung herself into my arms as I entered. 
 
 " Gerald ! " she cried, " I have been so frightened. 
 What has brought all this blood on the pillow and the 
 sheets ? Where have you been ? When I awoke and 
 missed you and discovered these stains, I knew not what 
 to think. Are you hurt ? What is the matter 1 " 
 
 I stared at her. There was not a trace of conscious 
 
MOTHER OF PEARL. . 275 
 
 guilt in her countenance. It was the most consummate 
 acting. Its very perfection made me the more relentless. 
 
 " There is no necessity for this hypocrisy," I said ; " it 
 will not alter my resolve. We depart for home to-day. 
 Our luggage is packed, the bills are all paid. Speak to 
 me, I pray you, as little as possible." 
 
 " What is it 1 Am I dreaming 1 Gerald, my dar- 
 ling ! what have I done, or what has come over you 1 " 
 She almost shrieked these queries. 
 
 "You know as well as I do, you fair-faced monster. 
 You tried to murder me last night, when I was asleep. 
 There 's your mark on my shoulder. A loving signature, 
 is it not 1 " 
 
 I bared my shoulder as I spoke, and exposed the wound. 
 She gazed wildly in my face for a moment, then tottered 
 and fell. I lifted her up and placed her on the bed. She 
 did not faint, and had strength enough left to ask me to 
 leave her alone for a few moments. I quitted her with a 
 glance of contempt, and went down stairs to make arrange- 
 ments for our journey. After an absence of about an hour 
 I returned to our apartments. I found her sitting placidly 
 in an easy-chair, looking out of the window. She scarcely 
 noticed my entrance, and the same old, distant look was 
 on her face. 
 
 " We start at three o'clock. Are you ready *? " I said 
 to her. 
 
 "Yes. I need no preparation." Evenly, calmly ut- 
 tered, without even turning her head to look at me. 
 
 "You have recovered your memory, it seems," I said. 
 "You wasted your histrionic talents this morning." 
 
 "Did I ]" She smiled with the most perfect serenity, 
 arranged herself more easily in her chair, and leaned 
 back as if in a revery. I was enraged beyond endurance, 
 and left the room abruptly. 
 
276 MOTHER OF PEARL. 
 
 That evening saw us on our way home. Throughout 
 the journey she maintained the same apathetic air. We 
 scarcely exchanged a word. The instant we reached our 
 house I assigned apartments to her, strictly forbidding 
 her to move from them, and despatched a messenger for 
 Doctor Melony. Minnie, on her part, took possession of 
 her prison without a word. She did not even ask to see 
 our darling little Pearl, who was a thousand times more 
 beautiful and engaging than ever. 
 
 felony arrived, and I laid the awful facts before him. 
 The poor man was terribly shocked. 
 
 "Depend on it, it's opium," he said. "Let me see 
 her." 
 
 An hour afterward he came to me. 
 
 " It 's not opium, and it 's not insanity," he said; "it 
 must be somnambulism. I find symptoms, however, that 
 puzzle me beyond all calculation. That she is not in her 
 normal condition of mind is evident ; but I cannot dis- 
 cover the cause of this unnatural excitement. She is 
 coherent, logical, but perfectly apathetic to all outward 
 influences. At first I was certain that she was a victim 
 of opium. Now I feel convinced that I was entirely 
 wrong. It must be somnambulism. I will reside for a 
 time in the house, and trust me to discover this mystery. 
 Meanwhile she must be carefully watched." 
 
 Melony was as good as his word. He watched her inces- 
 santly, and reported to me her condition. The poor man 
 was dreadfully puzzled. The strictest surveillance failed 
 to elicit the slightest evidence of her taking any stimu- 
 lants, although she remained almost all the time in the apa- 
 thetic state which was so terrible to behold. The Doctor 
 endeavored to arouse her by reproaches for her attempt 
 on my life. She, in return, only smiled, and replied that 
 
MOTHER OF PEARL. 277 
 
 it was a matter in which she had no further interest. 
 Not a trace of any somnambulistic habit could be discov- 
 ered. I was thoroughly wretched. I secluded myself 
 from all society but that of Melony ; and had it not been 
 for him and my darling little Pearl I am certain that I 
 should have gone mad. The most of my days I spent 
 wandering in the great woods which lay in the neighbor- 
 hood of my farm, and my evenings I endeavored to divert 
 with reading or a chat with the good Doctor. Yet, talk of 
 what we might, the conversation would always return to 
 the same melancholy topic. It was a maze of sorrow in 
 which we invariably, no matter in what direction we wan- 
 dered, brought up at the same spot. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Doctor and myself were sitting one evening, late, in 
 my library, talking gloomily enough over my domestic tra- 
 gedy. He was endeavoring to persuade me to look more 
 brightly on the future ; to dismiss as far as possible from 
 my mind the accursed horror that dwelt in my home, and 
 to remember that I had still a dear object left on which 
 to centre my affections. This allusion to little Pearl, in 
 such a mood as. I was then in, only served to heighten 
 my agony. I began immediately to revolve the chances 
 that, were my wife's disease really insanity, it would be 
 perpetuated in my dear child. Melony, of course, pooh- 
 poohed the idea ; but with the obstinacy of grief I clung 
 to it. Suddenly a pause took place in the argument, 
 and the dreary sounds that fill the air in the last nights 
 of autumn swept around the house. The wind soughed 
 through the tree-tops, which were now almost bare, as 
 
278 MOTHER OF PEARL. 
 
 if moaning at being deprived of its leafy playmates. In- 
 explicable noises passed to and fro without the windows. 
 Dead leaves rustled along the piazza, like the rustle of 
 the garments of ghosts. Chilly draughts came from un- 
 seen crevices, blowing on back and cheek till one felt as 
 if some invisible lips were close behind, pouring malig- 
 nant breaths on face and shoulder. Suddenly the pause 
 in our conversation was filled by a noise that we knew 
 came neither from air nor dry leaf. We heard sound- 
 ing through the night the muffled tread of footsteps. I 
 knew that, except ourselves, the household had long since 
 retired to bed. By a simultaneous action we both sprang 
 to our feet and rushed to a door which opened into a long 
 corridor leading to the nursery, and which communicated, 
 by a series of rambling passages, with the main body of 
 the house. As we flung back the door a light appeared 
 at the further end advancing slowly toward us. It was 
 borne by a tall, white figure. It was my wife ! Calm 
 and stately, and with her wonderful serene step, she 
 approached. My heart was frozen when I saw spots of 
 blood on her hands and night-robe. I gave a wild cry, 
 and rushed past her. In another instant I was in baby's 
 room. The night light was burning dimly ; the col- 
 ored nurse was sleeping calmly in her bed ; while, in a 
 little cot in another part of the room, I saw Ah ! how 
 tell it 1 I cannot ! Well, little Pearl was murdered, 
 murdered ! My darling lay 
 
 It was I now who was insane. I rushed back into 
 the corridor to slay the fiend who had done this hor- 
 rible deed. I had no mercy for her then. I would 
 have killed her a thousand times over. Great Heaven ! 
 She was leaning against the wall conversing as calmly 
 with the Doctor as if nothing had happened ; smoothing 
 
MOTHER OF PEARL. 279 
 
 her hair with her reddened fingers, nonchalant as if at 
 an evening party. I ran at her* to crush her. Melony 
 leaped between us. 
 
 "Stop," he cried. - "The secret is out"; and as he 
 spoke he held up a little silver box containing what seemed 
 to be a greenish paste. "It is hasheesh, and she is con- 
 fessing ! " 
 
 Her statement was the most awful thing I ever listened 
 to. It was as deliberate as a lawyer's brief. She had 
 contracted this habit in the East, she said, long before I 
 knew her, and could not break it off. It wound her na- 
 ture in chains of steel ; by degrees it grew upon her, until 
 it became her very life. Her existence lay as it were in 
 a nut-shell, but that shell was to her a universe. One 
 night, she continued, when she was under the influence 
 of the drug, she went with me to see a play in which 
 the wife abhors her husband and murders her children. 
 
 It was "Medea." From that instant murder became 
 
 # 
 
 glorified in her sight, through the medium of the spell- 
 working drug. Her soul became rapt in the contempla- 
 tion of the spilling of blood. I was to have been her 
 first victim, Pearl her second. She ended by saying, 
 with an ineffable smile, that the delight of the taking 
 away of life was beyond imagination. 
 
 I suppose I must have fainted, for when I awoke from 
 what seemed oblivion I found myself in bed, with Dr. Me- 
 lony by my side. He laid his finger on his lip, and whis- 
 pered to me that I had been very ill, and must not talk. 
 But I could not restrain myself. 
 
 " Where is she 1 " I muttered. 
 
 " Where she ought to be," he answered ; and then I 
 caught faintly the words, " Private madhouse." 
 
280 MOTHER OF PEARL. 
 
 hasheesh ! demon of a new paradise, spiritual whirl- 
 wind, I know you now ! You blackened my life, you 
 robbed me of all I held dear ; but you have since consoled 
 me. You thought, wicked enchanter, that you had de- 
 stroyed my peace forever. But I have won, through you 
 yourself, the bliss you once blotted out. Vanish past ! 
 Hence present ! Out upon actuality ! Hand in hand, I 
 walk with the conqueror of time, and space, and suffering. 
 Bend, all who hear me, to his worship ! 
 
THE BOHEMIAN. 281 
 
 THE BOHEMIAN. 
 
 I WAS launched into the world when I reached twenty- 
 one, at which epoch I found myself in possession of health, 
 strength, physical beauty, and boundless ambition. I 
 was poor. My father had been an unsuccessful operator 
 in Wall Street ; had passed through the various vicissi- 
 tudes of fortune common to his profession, and ended by 
 being left a widower, with barely enough to live upon and 
 to give me a collegiate education. As I was aware of 
 the strenuous exertions he had made to accomplish this 
 last, how he had pinched himself in a thousand ways 
 to endow me with intellectual capital, I immediately felt, 
 on leaving college, the necessity of burdening him no 
 longer. The desire for riches entirely possessed me. I 
 had no dream but wealth. Like those poor wretches 
 so lately starving on the Darien Isthmus, who used to 
 beguile their hunger with imaginary banquets, I consoled 
 my pangs of present poverty with visions of boundless 
 treasure. 
 
 A friend of mine, who was paying-teller in one of our 
 New York banks, once took me into the vaults when he 
 was engaged in depositing his specie, and as I beheld the 
 golden coins falling in yellow streams from his hands, a 
 strange madness seemed to possess me. I became from 
 that moment a prey to a morbid disorder, which, if we 
 
282 THE BOHEMIAN. 
 
 had a psychological pathology, might be classed as the 
 mania aurabilis. I literally saw gold, nothing but gold. 
 Walking in the country my eyes involuntarily sought 
 the ground, as if hoping to pierce the sod and discover 
 some hidden treasure. Coming home late at night, 
 through the silent New York streets, every stray piece of 
 mud or loose fragment of paper that lay upon the side- 
 walk was carefully scanned; for, in spite of my better 
 reason, I cherished the vague hope that some time or 
 other I should light upon a splendid treasure, which, for 
 want of a better claimant, would remain mine. It seemed, 
 in short, as if one of those gold gnomes of the Hartz 
 Mountains had taken possession of me and ruled me like 
 a master. I dreamed such dreams as would cast Sinbad's 
 valley of diamonds into the shade. The very sunlight 
 itself never shone upon me but the wish crossed my brain 
 that I could solidify its splendid beams and coin them 
 into "eagles." 
 
 I was by profession a lawyer. Like the rest of my fra- 
 ternity I had my little office, a small room on the fourth 
 story in Nassau Street, with magnificent painted tin la- 
 bels announcing my rank and title all the way up the 
 stairs. Despite the fact that I had many of these labels 
 fixed to the walls, and in every available corner, my legal 
 threshold was virgin. No client gladdened my sight. 
 Many and many a time my heart beat as I heard heavy 
 footsteps ascending the stairs, but the half-dawning hope 
 of employment was speedily crushed. They always 
 stopped on the floor below, where a disgusting convey- 
 ancer, with a large practice, had put up his shingle. So 
 T passed day after day alone with my Code and Black- 
 stone, and my Chitty, writing articles for the maga- 
 zines on legal-looking paper, so that in case a client 
 
THE BOHEMIAN. 283 
 
 entered he might imagine I was engaged at my profes- 
 sion, by which I earned a scanty and precarious sub- 
 sistence. 
 
 I was, of course, at this period in love. That a young 
 man should be very ambitious, very poor, and very unhap- 
 py, and not in love, would be too glaring a contradiction 
 of the usual course of worldly destinies. I was, there- 
 fore, entirely and hopelessly in love. My life was divided 
 between two passions, the desire of becoming wealthy, 
 and my love for Annie Deane. 
 
 Annie was an author's daughter. Need I add, after 
 this statement, that she was as poor as myself] This 
 was the only point in my theory of the conquest of wealth 
 on which I contradicted myself. To be consistent, I 
 should have devoted myself to some of those young ladies, 
 about whom it is whispered, before you are introduced, 
 that " she will have a hundred and fifty thousand dollars." 
 But though I had made up my mind to devote my life to 
 the acquisition of wealth, and though I verily believe I 
 might have parted with my soul for the same end, I had 
 yet too much of the natural man in my composition to 
 sacrifice my heart. 
 
 Annie Deane was, however, such a girl as to make this 
 infraction of my theory of life less remarkable. She was, 
 indeed, marvellously beautiful. Not of that insipid style 
 of beauty which one sees in .Greek statues and London 
 annuals. Her nose did not form a grand line with her 
 forehead. Her mouth would scarcely have been claimed 
 by Cupid as his bow ; but then, her upper lip was so 
 short, and the teeth within so pearly, the brow was so 
 white and full, and the throat so round, slender, and 
 pliant ! and when, above all this, a pair of wondrous 
 dark-gray eyes reigned in supreme and tender beauty, 
 
284 THE BOHEMIAN. 
 
 I felt that a portion of the wealth of my life had already 
 been acquired, in gaining the love of Annie Deane. 
 
 Our love affair ran as smoothly as if the old adage 
 never existed ; probably for the reason that there was 
 no goal in sight, for we were altogether too poor to dream 
 of marriage as yet, and there did not seem very much 
 probability of my achieving the success necessary to the 
 fulfilment of our schemes. Annie's constitutional delica- 
 cy, however, was a source of some uneasiness to me. She 
 evidently possessed a very highly strung nervous organiza- 
 tion, and was to the extremest degree what might be termed 
 impressionable. The slightest change in the weather af- 
 fected her strangely. Certain atmospheres appeared to 
 possess an influence over her for better or for worse ; but 
 it was in connection with social instincts, so to speak, that 
 the peculiarities of her organism were so strikingly devel- 
 oped. These instincts, for I cannot call them anything 
 else, guided her altogether in her choice of acquaintance. 
 She was accustomed to declare that, by merely touching 
 a person's hand, she became conscious of liking or aver- 
 sion. Upon the entrance of certain persons into a room 
 where she was, even if she had never seen them before, 
 her frame would shrink and shiver like a dying flower, and 
 she would not recover until they had left the apartment. 
 For these strange affections she could not herself account, 
 and they on more than one occasion were the source of 
 very bitter annoyances to herself and her parents. 
 
 "Well, things were in this state when one day, in the 
 early part of June, I was sitting alone in my little office. 
 The beginning of a story which I was writing lay upon 
 the table. The title was elaborately written at the top 
 of the page, but it seemed as if I had stuck in the mid- 
 dle of the second paragraph. In the first, for it wa 
 
THE BOHEMIAN. 285 
 
 an historical tale after the most approved model, I had 
 described the month, the time of day, and the setting 
 sun. In the second, I introduced my three horsemen, 
 who were riding slowly down a hill. The nose of the 
 first and elder horseman, however, upset me. I could 
 not for the life of me determine whether it was to be 
 aquiline or Roman. 
 
 While I was debating this important point, and swaying 
 between a multitude of suggestions, there came a sharp, 
 decisive knock at my door. I think, if the knock had 
 come upon the nose about which I was thinking, or on 
 my own, I should scarcely have been more surprised. " A 
 client!" I cried to myself. "Huzza ! the gods have at last 
 laid on a pipe from Pactolus for ray especial benefit." In 
 reality, between ourselves, I did not say anything half so 
 good; but the exclamation, as I have written it, will 
 convey some idea of the vague exultation that filled my 
 soul when I heard that knock. 
 
 " Come in ! " I cried, when I had reached down a Chitty 
 and concealed my story under a second-hand brief which 
 I had borrowed from a friend in the profession. " Come 
 in ! " and I arranged myself in a studious and absorbed 
 attitude. 
 
 The door opened and my visitor entered. I had a sort 
 of instinct that he was no client, from the first moment. 
 Rich men and who but a rich man goes to law may 
 sometimes be seedy in their attire, but it is always a pe- 
 culiar and respectable seediness. The air of wealth is 
 visible, I know not by what magic, beneath the most 
 threadbare coat. You see at a glance that the man who 
 wears it might, if he chose, be clad in fine linen. The 
 seediness of the poor man is, on the other hand, equally 
 unmistakable. You seem to discern instantly that his 
 
286 THE BOHEMIAN. 
 
 coat is poor from necessity. My visitor, it was easy to 
 perceive, was of this latter class. My hopes of profit sank 
 at the sight of his pale, unshaven face, his old, shapeless 
 boots, his shabby Kossuth hat, his over-coat shining with 
 long wear, which, though buttoned, I could see no longer 
 merited its name, for it was plain that no other coat 
 lurked beneath it. Withal, this man had an air of con- 
 scious power as he entered. You could see that he had 
 nothing in his pockets, but then he looked as if he had 
 much in his brain. 
 
 He saluted me with a sort of careless respect as he en- 
 tered. I bowed in return, and offered him the other 
 chair. I had but two. 
 
 " Can I do anything for you, sir 1 " I inquired blandly, 
 still clinging to the hope of clientage. 
 
 " Yes," said he, shortly ; " I never make purposeless 
 visits." 
 
 " Hem ! If you will be so kind as to state your case," 
 for his rudeness rather shook my faith in his poverty, 
 " I will give it my best attention." 
 
 " I 've no doubt of that, Mr. Cranstoun," he replied, 
 "for you are as much interested in it as I am." 
 
 "Indeed ! " I exclaimed, not without some surprise and 
 much interest at this sadden disclosure. " To whom 
 have I the honor of speaking, then 1 " 
 
 " My name is Philip Brann." 
 
 " Brann ? Brann 1 A resident of this city ? " 
 
 "No. I am by birth an Englishman, but I never 
 reside anywhere." 
 
 " 0, you are a commercial agent, then, perhaps 1 " 
 
 " I am a Bohemian." 
 
 "A what ?" 
 
 "A Bohemian," he repeated, coolly removing the pa- 
 
THE BOHEMIAN. 287 
 
 pers with which I had concealed my magazine story, and 
 glancing over the commencement. "You see my habits 
 are easy." 
 
 " I see it perfectly, sir," I answered. 
 
 " When I say that I am a Bohemian, I do not wish you 
 to understand that I am a Zingaro. I don't steal chick- 
 ens, tell fortunes, or live in a camp. I am a social Bohe- 
 mian, and fly at higher game." 
 
 " But what has all this got to do with me 1 " I asked, 
 sharply : for I was not a little provoked at the disap- 
 pointment I experienced in the fellow's not having turned 
 out to be a client. 
 
 " Much. It is necessary that you should know some- 
 thing about me before you do that which you will do." 
 
 " 0, I am to do something, then ? " 
 
 " Certainly. Have you read Henri Murger's Scenes de 
 la Vie de Boheme ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 
 
 " Well, then, you can comprehend my life. I am 
 clever, learned, witty, and tolerably good-looking. I can 
 write brilliant magazine articles," here his eye rested 
 contemptuously on my historical tale, " I can paint pic- 
 tures, and, what is more, sell the pictures I paint. I can 
 compose songs, make comedies, and captivate women." 
 
 " On my word, sir, you have a choice of professions," I 
 said, sarcastically ; for the scorn with which the Bohe- 
 mian had eyed my story offended me. 
 
 " That 's it," he answered ; " I don't want a profession. 
 I could make plenty of money if I chose to work, but I 
 don't choose to work. I will never work. I have a con- 
 tempt for labor." 
 
 " Probably you despise money equally," I replied, with 
 a sneer. 
 
288 THE BOHEMIAN. 
 
 "No, I don't. To acquire money without trouble is 
 the great object of my life, as to acquire it in any way or 
 by any means is the great object of yours." 
 
 " And pray, sir, how do you know that I have any such 
 object ? " I asked, in a haughty tone. 
 
 " 0, I know it. You dream only of wealth. You in- 
 tend to try and obtain it by industry. You will never 
 succeed." 
 
 " Your prophecies, sir, are more dogmatical than pleas- 
 ant." 
 
 "Don't be angry," he replied, smiling at my frowns. 
 "You shall be wealthy. I can show you the road to 
 wealth. We will follow it together ! " 
 
 The sublime assurance of this man astounded me. 
 His glance, penetrating and vivid, seemed to pierce into 
 my very heart. A strange and uncontrollable interest in 
 him and his plans filled my breast. I burned to know 
 more. 
 
 " What is your proposal V' I asked, severely ; for a 
 thought at the moment flashed across me that some un- 
 lawful scheme might be the aim of this singular being. 
 
 " You need not be alarmed," he answered, as if reading 
 my thoughts. " The road I wish to lead you is an honest 
 one. I am too wise a man ever to become a criminal. 
 
 " Then, Mr. Philip Brann, if you will explain your 
 plans I shall feel more assured on that point." 
 
 " Well, in the first place," he began, crossing his legs 
 and taking a cigar out of a bundle that lay in one of the 
 pigeon-holes of my desk, "in the first place, you must 
 introduce me to the young lady to whom you are en- 
 gaged, Miss Annie Deane." 
 
 " Sir ! " I exclaimed, starting to my feet, and quivering 
 with indignation at such a proposal ; " what do you 
 
THE BOHEMIAN. 289 
 
 mean 1 Do you think it likely that I would introduce to 
 a young lady in whom I am interested a man whom I 
 never saw before to-day, and who has voluntarily con- 
 fessed to being a vagabond 1 ? Sir, in spite of your uni- 
 versal acquirements, I think Providence forgot to endow 
 you with sense." 
 
 " I '11 trouble you for one of those matches. Thank 
 you. So you refuse to introduce me ! I knew you would. 
 But I also know that ten minutes from this time you will 
 be very glad to do it. Look at my eyes ! " 
 
 The oddity of this request, and the calm assurance with 
 which it was made, were too much for me. In spite of 
 my anger, I burst into a fit of loud laughter. He waited 
 patiently until my mirth had subsided. 
 
 "You need not laugh," he resumed; "I am perfectly 
 serious. Look at my eyes attentively, and tell me if you 
 see anything strange in them." 
 
 At such a proposition from any other man, I should 
 have taken for granted that he was mocking me, and 
 kicked him down stairs. This Bohemian, however, had 
 an earnestness of- manner that staggered me. I became 
 serious, and I did look at his eyes. 
 
 They were certainly very singular eyes, the most 
 singular eyes that I had ever beheld. They were long, 
 gray, and of a very deep hue. Their steadiness was won- 
 derful. They never moved. One might fancy that they 
 were gazing into the depths of one of those Italian lakes, 
 on an evening when the waters are so calm as to seem 
 solid. But it was the interior of these organs if I may 
 so speak that was so marvellous. As I gazep!, I seemed 
 to behold strange things passing in the deep gray distance 
 which seemed to stretch infinitely away. I could have 
 sworn that I saw figures moving, and landscapes wonder- 
 
 19 
 
290 THE BOHEMIAN. 
 
 fully real. My gaze seemed to be fastened to his by 
 some inscrutable power; and the outer world, gradu- 
 ally passing off like a cloud, left me literally living in 
 that phantom region which I beheld in those mysterious 
 eyes. 
 
 I was aroused from this curious lethargy by the Bohe- 
 mian's voice. It seemed to me at first as if muffled by 
 distance, and sounded drowsily in my ear. I made a 
 powerful effort and recalled my senses, which seemed to 
 be wandering in some far-off place. 
 
 "You are more easily affected than I imagined," re- 
 marked Brann, as I stared heavily at him with a half- 
 stupefied air. 
 
 " What have you done 1 What is this lethargy that I 
 feel upon me ? " I stammered out. 
 
 "Ah! you believe now," replied Brann, coldly; "I 
 thought you would. Did you observe nothing strange in 
 my eyes i " 
 
 " Yes. I saw landscapes, and figures, and many strange 
 things. I almost thought I could distinguish Miss 
 Miss Deane ! " 
 
 " Well, it is not improbable. People can behold what- 
 ever they wish in my eyes." 
 
 " But will you not explain 1 I no longer doubt the 
 fact that you are possessed of extraordinary powers, but I 
 must know more of you. Why do you wish to be intro- 
 duced to Miss Deane 1 " 
 
 "Listen to me, Cranstoun," answered the Bohemian, 
 placing his hand on my shoulder ; " I do not wish you to 
 enter into any blindfold compact. I will explain all my 
 views to you ; for, though I have learned to trust no man, 
 I know you cannot avail yourself of any information I 
 may give you without my assistance." 
 
THE BOHEMIAN. 291 
 
 " So much the better," said I ; " for then you will not 
 suspect me." 
 
 " As you have seen," continued the Bohemian, " I pos- 
 sess some remarkable powers. The origin, the causes of 
 these endowments, I do not care to investigate. The sci- 
 entific men of France and Germany have wearied them- 
 selves in reducing the psychological phenomena of which 
 I am a practical illustration to a system. They have 
 failed. An arbitrary nomenclature, and a few interesting 
 and suggestive experiments made by Reichenbach, are all 
 the results of years of the intellectual toil of our greatest 
 minds. As you will have guessed by this time, I am 
 what is vulgarly called ' a mesmerist.' I can throw peo- 
 ple into trances, deaden the nervous susceptibilities, and 
 do a thousand things by which, if I chose to turn exhib- 
 itor, I could realize a fortune. But, while possessing those 
 qualities which exhibit merely a commonplace superiority 
 of psychical force, and which are generally to be found in 
 men of a highly sympathetic organization, I yet can boast 
 of unique powers such as I have never known to be 
 granted to another being besides myself. What these 
 powers are I have now no need to inform you. You will 
 very soon behold them practically illustrated. 
 
 " Now, to come to my object. Like you, I am ambi- 
 tious ; but I have, unlike you, a constitutional objection 
 to labor. It is sacrilege to expect men with minds like 
 yours and mine to work. Why should we, who are 
 expressly and evidently created by nature to enjoy, 
 why should we, with our delicate tastes, our refined sus- 
 ceptibilities, our highly wrought organizations, spend our 
 lives in ministering to the enjoyment of others 1 In short, 
 my friend, I do not wish to row the boat in the great 
 voyage of life. I prefer sitting at the stern, with purple 
 
292 THE BOHEMIAN. 
 
 'awnings and ivory couches around me, and my hand upon 
 the golden helm. I wish to achieve fortune at a single 
 stroke. With your assistance I can do it. You will 
 join me ! " 
 
 " Under certain conditions." 
 
 I was not yet entirely carried away by the earnest elo- 
 quence of this strange being. 
 
 " I will grant what conditions you like," he continued, 
 fervently. "Above all, I will set your mind at rest by 
 swearing to you, whatever may be my power, never in 
 any way to interfere between you and the young girl 
 whom you love. I will respect her as I would a sister." 
 
 This last promise cleared away many of my doubts. 
 The history which this man gave of himself, and the 
 calm manner with which he asserted his wondrous power 
 over women, I confess, rendered me somewhat cautious 
 about introducing him to Annie. His air was, however, 
 now so frank and manly, he seemed to be so entirely ab- 
 sorbed by his one idea of wealth, that I had no hesita- 
 tion in declaring to him that I accepted his strange 
 proposals. 
 
 " Good ! " he exclaimed. " You are, I see, a man of 
 resolution. We shall succeed. I will now let you into my 
 plans. Your fiancee, Miss Annie Deane, is a clairvoyance 
 of the first water. I saw her the other day at the Acad- 
 emy of Design. I stood near her as she examined a pic- 
 ture, and my physiognomical and psychological knowledge 
 enabled me to ascertain beyond a doubt that her organiza- 
 tion was the most nervous and sympathetic I had ever 
 met. It is to her pure and piercing instincts that we 
 shall owe our success." 
 
 Without regarding my gestures of astonishment and 
 alarm, he continued : 
 
THE BOHEMIAN. 293 
 
 " You must know that this so-called science of mesmer- 
 ism is in its infancy. Its professors are, for the most 
 part, incapables ; its pupils, credulous fools. As a proof 
 of this, endeavor to recall, if you can, any authentic in- 
 stance in which this science has been put to any practical 
 use. Have these mesmeric professors and their instru- 
 ments ever been able to predict or foresee the rise of 
 stocks, the course of political events, the approaches of 
 disaster ? Never, my friend, save in the novels of Alexan- 
 dre Dumas and Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton. The reason 
 of this is very simple. The professors were limited in 
 their power, and the somnambules limited in their suscep- 
 tibilities. When two such people as Miss Deane and my- 
 self labor together, everything is possible ! " 
 
 " 0, I see ! You propose to operate in the stocks. My 
 dear sir, you are mad. Where is the money 1 " 
 
 " Bah ! who said anything about operating in stocks 1 
 That involves labor and an office. I can afford neither. 
 No, Cranstoun, we will take a shorter road to wealth than 
 that. A few hours' exertion is all we need to make us 
 millionnaires" 
 
 " For heaven's sake explain ! I am wearied with cu- 
 riosity deferred." 
 
 " It is thus. This island and its vicinity abound in 
 concealed treasure. Much was deposited by the early 
 Dutch settlers during their wars with the Indians. Cap- 
 tain Kidd and other buccaneers have made numberless 
 caches containing their splendid spoils, which a violent 
 death prevented their ever reclaiming. Poor Poe, you 
 know, who was a Bohemian, like myself, made a story on 
 the tradition, but, poor fellow ! he only dug up his treas- 
 ure on paper. There was also a considerable quantity of 
 plate, jewels, and coin concealed by the inhabitants of New 
 
294 THE BOHEMIAN. 
 
 York and the neighborhood during the war with England. 
 You may wonder at my asserting this so confidently. Let 
 it suffice for you that I know it to be so. It is my inten- 
 tion to discover some of this treasure." 
 
 Having calmly made this announcement, he folded his 
 arms and gazed at me with the air of a god prepared to 
 receive the ovations of his worshippers. 
 
 "How is this to be accomplished?" I inquired, ear- 
 nestly, for I had begun to put implicit faith in this man, 
 who seemed equally gifted and audacious. 
 
 " There are two ways by which we can arrive at our 
 desires. The first is by the command of that power com- 
 mon to somnambules, who, having their faculties concen- 
 trated on a certain object during the magnetic trance, 
 become possessed of the power of inwardly beholding and 
 verbally describing it, as well as the locality where it is 
 situated. The other is peculiar to myself, and, as you 
 have seen, consists in rendering my eyes a species of 
 camera-obscura to the clairvoyante, in which she vividly 
 perceives all that we would desire. This mode I have 
 greater faith in than in any other, and I believe that our 
 success will be found there." 
 
 " How is it," I inquired, " that you have not before- 
 put this wondrous power to a like use 1 Why did you 
 not enrich yourself long since through this means ? " 
 
 " Because I have never been able to find a somnambule 
 sufficiently impressionable to be reliable in her evidence. 
 I have tried many, but they have all deceived me. You 
 confess to having beheld certain shadowy forms in my 
 eyes, but you could not define them distinctly. The 
 reason is simply that your magnetic organization is not 
 perfect. This faculty of mine, which has so much aston- 
 ished you, is nothing new. It is employed by the Egyp- 
 
THE BOHEMIAN. 295 
 
 tians, who use a small glass mirror where I use my eyes. 
 The testimony of M. Leon Laborde, who practised the 
 art himself, Lord Prudhoe, and a host of other witnesses, 
 have recorded their experience of the truth of the science 
 which I preach. However, I need discourse no further 
 on it. I will prove to you its verity. Now that you 
 have questioned me sufficiently, will you introduce me to 
 your lady-love, Mr. Henry Cranstoun $ " 
 
 " And will you promise me, Mr. Philip Brann, on your 
 honor as a man, that you will respect my relations with 
 that lady 1" 
 
 " I promise, upon my honor." 
 
 " Then I yield. When shall it be ? " 
 
 " To-night. I hate delays." 
 
 "This evening, then, I will meet you at the Astor 
 House, and we will go together to Mr. Deane's house." 
 
 That night, accompanied by my new friend, the Bohe- 
 mian, I knocked at the door of Mr. Deane's house, in 
 Amity Place. A modest neighborhood, fit for a man who 
 earned his living by writing novels for cheap publishers, 
 and correspondence for Sunday newspapers. Annie was, 
 as usual, in the sitting-room on the first floor, and the 
 lamps had not yet been lighted, so that the apartment 
 seemed filled with a dull gloom as we entered. 
 
 " Annie dear," said I, as she ran to meet me, " let me 
 present to you my particular friend, Mr. Philip Brann, 
 whom I have brought with me for a special purpose, 
 which I will presently explain." 
 
 She did not reply. 
 
 Piqued by this strange silence, and feeling distressed 
 about the Bohemian, who stood calmly upright, with a 
 faint smile on his lips, I repeated my introduction rather 
 sharply. 
 
296 THE BOHEMIAN. 
 
 " Annie," I reiterated, " you could not have heard me. 
 I am anxious to introduce to you my friend, Mr. Brann." 
 
 " I heard you," she answered, in a low voice, catching 
 at my coat as if to support herself, " but I feel very ill." 
 
 " Good heavens ! what 's the matter, darling 1 Let me 
 get you a glass of wine, or water." 
 
 " Do not be alarmed," said the Bohemian, arresting my 
 meditated rush to the door, " I understand Miss Deane's 
 indisposition thoroughly. If she will permit me, I will 
 relieve her at once." 
 
 A low murmur of assent seemed to break involuntarily 
 from Annie's lips. The Bohemian led her calmly to an 
 arm-chair near the window, held her hands in his for a 
 few moments, and spoke a few words to her in a low 
 tone. In less than a minute she declared herself quite 
 recovered. 
 
 " It was you who caused my illness," she said to him, 
 in a tone whose vivacity contrasted strangely with her 
 previous languor. " I felt your presence in the room like 
 a terrible electrical shock." 
 
 " And I have cured what I caused," answered the Bo- 
 hemian ; " yoil are very sensitive to magnetic impressions. 
 So much the better." 
 
 "Why so much the better? " she asked anxiously. 
 
 " Mr. Cranstouu will explain," replied Brann, carelessly ; 
 and, with a slight bow, he moved to another part of the 
 dusky room, leaving Annie and myself together. 
 
 " Who is this Mr. Brann, Henry 1 " asked Annie, as soon 
 as the Bohemian was out of ear-shot. " His presence 
 affects me strangely." 
 
 "He is a strange person, who possesses wonderful 
 powers," I answered ; " he is going to be of great ser- 
 vice to us, Annie." 
 
THE BOHEMIAN. 297 
 
 " Indeed ! how so ? " 
 
 I then related to her what had passed between the Bo- 
 hemian and myself at my office, and explained his object 
 in coming hither on this evening. I painted in glowing 
 colors the magnificent future that opened for her and 
 myself, if his scheme should prove successful, and ended 
 by entreating her, for my sake, to afford the Bohemian 
 every facility for arriving at the goal of his desires. 
 
 As I finished, I discovered that Annie was trembling 
 violently. I caught her hand in mine. It was icy cold, 
 and quivered with a sort of agitated and intermittent 
 tremor. 
 
 "0 Henry!" she exclaimed, "I feel a singular pre- 
 sentiment that seems to warn me against this thing. 
 Let us rest content in our poverty. Have a true heart, 
 and learn to labor and to wait. You will be rich in 
 time; and then we will live happily together, secure 
 in the consciousness that our means have been ac- 
 quired by honest industry. I fear those secret treasure- 
 seekings." 
 
 "What nonsense!" I cried; "these are a timid girl's 
 fears. It would be folly to pine patiently for years in 
 poverty, when we can achieve wealth at a stroke. The 
 sooner we are rich, the sooner we shall be united, and to 
 postpone that moment would be to make me almost doubt 
 your love. Let us try this man's power. There will be 
 nothing lost if he fails." 
 
 " Do with me as you will, Henry," she answered, " I 
 will obey you in all things ; only I cannot help feeling a 
 vague terror that seems to forebode misfortune." 
 
 I laughed and bade her be of good cheer, and rang for 
 lights in order that the experiment might be commenced 
 at once. We three were alone. Mrs. Deane was on a 
 
298 THE BOHEMIAN. 
 
 visit at Philadelphia; Mr. Deane was occupied with his 
 literary labors in another room, so that we had everything 
 necessary to insure the quiet which the Bohemian insisted 
 should reign during his experiments. 
 
 The Bohemian did not magnetize in the common way, 
 with passes and manipulations. He sat a little in the 
 shade, with his back to the strong glare of the chande- 
 liers, while Annie sat opposite to him, looking full in his 
 face. I sat at a little distance, at a small table, with a 
 pencil and note-book, with which I was preparing to regis- 
 ter such revelations as our dairvoyante should make. 
 
 The Bohemian commenced operations by engaging Miss 
 Deane in a light and desultory conversation. He seemed 
 conversant with all the topics of the town, and talked of 
 the opera, and the annual exhibition at the Academy 
 of Design, as glibly as if he had never done anything 
 but cultivate small talk. Imperceptibly but rapidly, 
 however, he gradually led the conversation to money 
 matters. From these he glided into a dissertation on 
 the advantages of wealth, touched on the topic of cele- 
 brated misers, thence slid smoothly into a discourse on 
 concealed treasures, about which he spoke in so eloquent 
 and impressive a manner as to completely fascinate both 
 his hearers. 
 
 Then it was that I observed a singular change take 
 place in Annie Deane's countenance. Hitherto pale and 
 somewhat listless, as if suffering from mental depression, 
 she suddenly became illumined as if by an inward fire. 
 A rosy flush mounted to her white cheeks ; her lips, eagerly 
 parted as if drinking in some intoxicating atmosphere, 
 were ruddy with a supernatural health, and her eyes 
 dilated as they gazed upon the Bohemian with a piercing 
 intensity. 
 
THE BOHEMIAN. 299 
 
 The latter ceased to speak, and after a moment's silence 
 he said, gently, " Miss Deane, do you see 1 " 
 
 " I see ! " she murmured, without altering the fixity of 
 her gaze for an instant. 
 
 " Mark well what you observe," continued the Bohe- 
 mian ; " describe it with all possible accuracy." Then, 
 turning to me, he said rapidly, "Take care and note 
 everything." 
 
 " I see," pursued Annie, speaking in a measured mono- 
 tone and gazing into the Bohemian's eyes while she 
 waved her hand gently as if keeping time to the rhythm 
 of her words, "I see a sad and mournful island on 
 which the ocean beats forever. The sandy ridges are 
 crowned with manes of bitter grass that wave and wave 
 sorrowfully in the wind. No trees or shrubs are rooted 
 in .that salt and sterile soil. The burning breath of 
 the Atlantic has seared the surface and made it al- 
 ways barren. The surf, that whitens on the shore, 
 drifts like a shower of snow across its bleak and storm- 
 blown plains. It is the home of the sea-gull and the 
 crane." 
 
 "It is called Coney Island ? " the Bohemian half in- 
 quired, half asserted. 
 
 " It is the name," pursued the seeress, but in so even 
 a tone that one would scarce imagine she had heard the 
 question. She then continued to speak as before, still 
 keeping up that gentle oscillation of her hand, which, in 
 spite of my reason, seemed to me to have something terri- 
 ble in its monotony. 
 
 " I see the spot," she continued, " where what you lone 
 lies buried. My gaze pierces through the shifting soil 
 until it finds the gold that burns in the gloom. And 
 there are jewels, too, of regal size and priceless value, 
 
300 THE BOHEMIAN. 
 
 hidden so deeply in the barren sand ! No sunlight has 
 reached them for many years, but they burn for me as if 
 they were set in the glory of an eternal day ! " 
 
 " Describe the spot accurately ! " cried the Bohemian, 
 in a commanding tone, making for the first time a su- 
 premely imperative gesture. 
 
 "There is a spot upon that lonely island," the seeress 
 continued, in the unimpassioned monotone that seemed 
 more awful than the thunder of an army, " where three 
 huge, sandy ridges meet. At the junction of these three 
 ridges a stake of locust-wood is driven deeply down. 
 When by the sun it is six o'clock, a shadow falls west- 
 ward on the sand. Where this shadow ends, the treasure 
 lies." 
 
 " Can you draw ? " asked the Bohemian. 
 
 " She cannot," I answered hastily. The Bohemian 
 raised his hand to enjoin silence. 
 
 " I can draw now" the seeress replied firmly, never for 
 an instant removing her eyes from the Bohemian's. 
 
 " Will you draw the locality you describe, if I give you 
 the materials ? " pursued the magnetizer. 
 
 "I will." 
 
 Brann drew a sheet of Bristol-board and a pencil from 
 his pocket, and presented them to her in silence. She 
 took them, and, still keeping her eyes immovably fixed on 
 those of the magnetizer, began sketching rapidly. I was 
 thunderstruck. Annie, I knew, had never made even the 
 rudest sketch before. 
 
 "It is done ! " she said, after a few minutes' silence, 
 handing the Bristol-board back to the Bohemian. Moved 
 by an inexpressible curiosity, I rose and looked over his 
 shoulder. It was wonderful ! There was a masterly 
 sketch of such a locality as she described executed on the 
 
THE BOHEMIAN. 301 
 
 paper. But its vividness, its desolation, its evident truth, 
 were so singularly given that I could scarcely believe my 
 senses. I could almost hear the storms of the Atlantic 
 howling over the barren sands. 
 
 " There is something wanting yet," said the Bohemian, 
 handing the sketch back to her, and smiling at my amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " I know it," she remarked, calmly. Then, giving a 
 few rapid strokes with her pencil, she handed it to him 
 once more. 
 
 The points of the compass Jtad been added in the upper 
 right-lia.nd corner of the drawing. Nothing more was 
 needed to establish the perfect accuracy of the sketch. 
 
 " This is truly wonderful ! " I could not help exclaim- 
 ing. 
 
 "It is finished," cried the Bohemian, exultingly, and 
 dashing his handkerchief two or three times across Annie's 
 face. Under this new influence her countenance under- 
 went a rapid change. Her eyes, a moment before dilated 
 to their utmost capabilities, now suddenly became dull, 
 and the eyelids drooped heavily over them. Her form, 
 that during the previous scene had been rigidly erect and 
 strung to its highest point of tension, seemed to collapse 
 like one of those strips of gold-leaf that electricians ex- 
 periment with, when the subtle fluid has ceased to course 
 through its pores. Without uttering a word, and before 
 the Bohemian or myself could stir, she sank like a corpse 
 on the floor. 
 
 " Wretch ! " I cried, rushing forward, " what have you 
 done?" 
 
 " Secured the object of our joint ambition," replied the 
 fellow, with that imperturbable calmness that so dis- 
 tinguished him. " Do not be alarmed at this fainting- 
 
302 THE BOHEMIAN. 
 
 fit, my friend. Exhaustion is always the consequence of 
 such violent psychological phenomena. Miss Deane will 
 be perfectly recovered by to-morrow evening, and by that 
 time we shall have returned, millionnaires." 
 
 " I will not leave her until she is recovered," I an- 
 swered sullenly, while 1 tried to restore the dear girl to 
 consciousness. 
 
 "Yes, but you will," asserted Brann, lighting his cigar 
 as coolly as if nothing very particular had happened. 
 " By dawn to-morrow, you and I will have embarked for 
 Coney Island." 
 
 " You cold-blooded savage ! " I cried passionately, " will 
 you assist me to restore your victim to consciousness? 
 If you do not, by heaven, I will blow your brains out ! " 
 
 " What with 1 The fire-shovel ? " he answered with a 
 laugh. Then, carelessly approaching, he took Annie's 
 hands in his, and blew with his mouth gently upon her 
 forehead. The effect was almost instantaneous. Her 
 eyes gradually unclosed, and she made a feeble effort to 
 sustain herself. 
 
 "Call the housekeeper," said the Bohemian, "have 
 Miss Deane conducted to bed, and by to-morrow evening 
 all will be tranquil." 
 
 I obeyed his directions almost mechanically, little dream- 
 ing how bitterly his words would be realized. Yes, truly ! 
 All would be tranquil by to-morrow evening ! 
 
 I sat up all night with Brann. I did not leave Mr. 
 Deane's until a late hour, when I saw Annie apparently 
 wrapped in a peaceful slumber, and betook myself to a 
 low tavern that remained open all night, where the Bo- 
 hemian awaited me. There we arranged our plan. We 
 were to take a boat at the Battery, at the earliest glimpse 
 of dawn ; then, provided with a spade and shovel, a 
 
THE BOHEMIAN. 303 
 
 pocket compass, and a valise in which to transport our 
 treasure, we were to row down to our destination. I 
 was feverish ancf troubled. The strange scene I had wit- 
 nessed, and the singular adventure that awaited, seemed 
 in combination to have set my brain on fire. My temples 
 throbbed ; the cold perspiration stood upon my forehead, 
 and it was in vain that I allowed myself to join the Bohe- 
 mian in the huge draughts of brandy which he continu- 
 ally gulped down, and which seemed to produce little or 
 no effect on his iron frame. How madly, how terribly, I 
 longed for the dawn ! 
 
 At last the hour came. We took our implements in a 
 carriage down to the Battery, hired a boat, and in a short 
 time were out in the stream pulling lustily down the 
 foggy harbor. The exercise of rowing seemed to afford 
 me some relief. I pulled madly at my oar, until the 
 sweat rolled in huge drops from my brow, and hung in 
 trembling beads on the curls of my hair. After a long 
 and wearisome pull, we lauded on the island at the most 
 secluded spot we could find, taking particular care that it 
 was completely sheltered from the view of the solitary 
 hotel, where doubtless inquisitive idlers would be found. 
 After beaching our boat carefully, we struck toward the 
 centre of the island, Brann seeming to possess some won- 
 derful instinct for the discovery of localities, for almost 
 without any trouble he walked nearly straight to the spot 
 we were in search of. 
 
 " This is the place," said he, dropping the valise which 
 he carried. " Here are the three ridges, and the locust 
 stake, lying exactly due north. Let us see what the true 
 time is." 
 
 So saying, he unlocked the valise and drew forth a 
 small sextant, with which he proceeded to take an ob- 
 
304 THE BOHEMIAN. 
 
 servation. I could not help admiring the genius of this 
 man, who seemed to think of and foresee everything. 
 After a few moments engaged in making calculations 
 on the back of a letter, he informed me that exactly 
 twenty-one minutes would elapse before the shadow of 
 the locust-stake would fall on the precise spot indicated 
 by the seeress. " Just time enough," said he, " to enjoy 
 a cigar." 
 
 Never did twenty-one minutes appear so long to a 
 human being as these did to me. There was nothing in 
 the landscape to arrest my attention. All was a wild 
 waste of sand, on which a few patches of salt grass waved 
 mournfully. My heart beat until I could hear its pulsa- 
 tions. A thousand times I thought that my strength 
 must give way beneath the weight of my emotions, and 
 that death would overtake me ere I had realized my 
 dreams. I was obliged at length to dip my handkerchief 
 in a marshy pool that was near me, and bind it about 
 my burning temples. 
 
 At length the shadow from the locust log fell upon the 
 enchanted spot. Brann and myself seized the spades 
 wildly, and dug with the fury of ghouls who were rooting 
 up their loathsome repast. The light sand flew in heaps 
 on all sides. The sweat rolled from our bodies. The 
 hole grew deeper and deeper ! 
 
 At last heavens ! a metallic sound ! My spade 
 struck some hollow, sonorous substance. My limbs fairly 
 shook as I flung myself into the pit, and scraped the sand 
 away with my nails. I laughed like a madman, and bur- 
 rowed like a mole. The Bohemian, always calm, with a 
 few strokes of his shovel laid bare an old iron pot with 
 a loose lid. In an instant this was smashed with a frantic 
 blow of my fist, and my hands were buried in a heap of 
 
THE BOHEMIAN. 305 
 
 shining gold! Red, glittering coins, bracelets that 
 seemed to glow like the stars in heaven, goblets, rings, 
 jewels, in countless profusion. flashed before my eyes 
 for an instant like the sparkles of an aurora. Then came 
 a sudden darkness and I remember no more ! 
 
 How long I lay in this unconscious state I know not. 
 It seemed to me that I was aroused by a sensation similar 
 to that of having water poured upon me, and it was some 
 moments before I could summon up sufficient strength to 
 raise myself on one elbow. I looked bewilderedly around : 
 I was alone ! I then strove to remember something that 
 I seemed to have forgotten, when my eye fell on the hole 
 in the sand, on the edge of which I found I was lying. 
 A dull-red gleam as of gold seemed to glimmer from out 
 the bottom. This talismanic sight restored to me every- 
 thing, my memory and my strength. I sprang to my 
 feet : I gazed around. The Bohemian was nowhere visi- 
 ble. Had he fled with the treasure 1 My heart failed me 
 for a moment at the thought ; but no ! there lay the 
 treasure gleaming still in the depths of the hole, with a 
 dull-red light, like the distant glare of hell. I looked at 
 the sun ; he had sunk low in the horizon, and the dews 
 already falling had, with the damp sea-air, chilled me to 
 the bone. While I was brushing the moisture from 
 my coat, wondering at this strange conduct of the Bohe- 
 mian, my eye caught sight of a slip of paper pinned 
 upon my sleeve. I tore it off eagerly. It contained these 
 words : 
 
 "I leave you. I am honest though I am selfish, and- 
 have divided with you the treasure which you have helped 
 me to gain. You are now rich, but it may be that you will 
 not be happy. Return to the city, but return in doubt. 
 
 "THE BOHEMIAN." 
 20 
 
306 THE BOHEMIAN. 
 
 What terrible enigma was this that the last sentence of 
 this note enshrouded 1 what veiled mystery was it that 
 rose before my inward vision in shapeless horror $ I knew 
 not. I could not guess, but a foreboding of some un- 
 known and overwhelming disaster rushed instantly upon 
 me, and seemed to crush my soul. Was it Annie, or 
 was it my father 1 One thing was certain, there was no 
 time to be lost in penetrating the riddle. I seized the 
 valise, which the Bohemian had charitably left me, 
 how he bore away his own share of the treasure I know 
 not, and poured the gold and jewels into it with trem- 
 bling hands. Then, scarce able to travel with the weight 
 of the treasure, I staggered toward the beach, where we 
 had left the boat. She was gone. Without wasting an 
 instant, I made my way as rapidly as I could to the dis- 
 tant pier, where a thin stream of white smoke informed 
 me that the steamer for New York was waiting for the 
 bathers. I reached her just as she was about to start, 
 and, staggering to an obscure corner, sorrowfully sat down 
 upon my treasure. 
 
 With what different feelings from those which I antici- 
 pated was I returning to the city. My dream of wealth 
 had been realized beyond my wildest hopes. All that I 
 had thought necessary to yield me the purest happiness 
 was mine, and yet there was not a more miserable wretch 
 in existence. Those fatal words, "Return to the city, 
 but return in doubt ! " were ever before me. 0, how I 
 'counted every stroke of the engine that impelled me to 
 the city ! 
 
 There was a poor, blind, humpbacked fiddler on board, 
 who played all along the way. He played execrably, and 
 his music made my flesh creep. As we neared the city 
 he came round with his hat soliciting alms. In my reck- 
 
THE BOHEMIAN. 307 
 
 lessness, I tumbled all the money I had in my pockets 
 into his hands. I never shall forget the look of joy that 
 flashed over his poor old seared and sightless face at 
 the touch of these few dollars. " Good heavens ! " I 
 groaned, "here am I, sitting on the wealth of a kingdom, 
 which is all mine, and dying of despair ; while this old 
 wretch has extracted from five dollars enough of happi- 
 ness to make a saint envious ! " Then my thoughts wan- 
 dered back to Annie and the Bohemian, and there always 
 floated before me in the air the agonizing words, " Keturn 
 to the city, but return in doubt ! " 
 
 The instant I reached the pier, I dashed through the 
 crowd with my valise, and, jumping into the first carriage 
 I met, promised a liberal bounty to the driver if he would 
 drive me to Amity Place in the shortest possible space of 
 time. Stimulated by this, we flew through the streets, 
 and in a few moments I was standing at Mr. Deane's 
 door. Even then it seemed to me as if a dark cloud hung 
 over that house, above all others in the city. I rang; 
 but my hand had scarcely left the bell-handle when the 
 door opened, and Doctor Lott, the family physician, ap- 
 peared on the threshold. He looked grave and sad. 
 
 " We were expecting you, Mr. Cranstoun," he said, very 
 mournfully. 
 
 " Has has anything happened 1 " I stammered, 
 catching at the railings for support. 
 
 " Hush ! come in." And the kind Doctor took me by 
 the arm and led me like a child into the parlor. 
 
 " Doctor, for heaven's sake, tell me what is the matter. 
 I know something has happened. Is Annie dead 1 0, 
 my brain will burst unless you end this suspense ! " 
 
 " No, not dead. But tell me, Mr. Cranstoun, has Miss 
 Deane experienced any uncommon excitement lately 1 " 
 
308 THE BOHEMIAN. 
 
 " Yes yes last night ! " I groaned wildly, " she was 
 mesmerized by a wretch. 0, fool that I was to suffer it ! " 
 
 " Ah ! that explains all," answered the Doctor. Then 
 he took my hand gently in his. " Prepare yourself, Mr. 
 Cranstoun," he continued, with deep pity in his voice, 
 " prepare yourself for a terrible shock." 
 
 " She is dead, then ! " I murmured. " Is she not 1 " 
 
 " She is. She died this morning, of over-excitement, 
 of the cause of which I was ignorant until now. Calm 
 yourself, my dear sir. She expired blessing you." 
 
 I tore myself from his grasp, and rushed up stairs. The 
 door of her room was open, and, in spite of myself, my 
 agitated tramp softened to a stealthy footfall as I entered. 
 There were two figures in the room. One was an old 
 man, who knelt by the bedside of my lost love, sobbing 
 bitterly. It was her father. The other lay upon the 
 bed, with marble face, crossed hands, and sealed eyelids. 
 All was tranquil and serene in the chamber of death. 
 Even the sobbings of the father, though bitter, were muf- 
 fled and subdued. And she lay on the couch, with closed 
 eyes, the calmest of all ! 0, the seeress now saw more 
 than earthly science could show her ! 
 
 I felt, as I knelt by her father and kissed her cold 
 hand in the agony of my heart, that I was justly pun- 
 ished. 
 
 Below stairs, in the valise, lay the treasure I had gained. 
 Here, in her grave-clothes, lay the treasure I had lost. 
 
THE LOST ROOM. 309 
 
 THE LOST EOOM. 
 
 IT was oppressively warm. The sun had long disap- 
 peared, but seemed to have left its vital spirit of heat be- 
 hind it. The air rested ; the leaves of the acacia-trees 
 that shrouded my windows hung plumb-like on their 
 delicate stalks. The smoke of my cigar scarce rose 
 above my head, but hung about me in a pale blue cloud, 
 which I had to dissipate with languid waves of my hand. 
 My shirt was open at the throat, and my chest heaved 
 laboriously in the effort to catch some breaths of fresher 
 air. The noises of the city seemed to be wrapped in slum- 
 ber, and the shrilling of the mosquitoes was the only 
 sound that broke the stillness. 
 
 As I lay with my feet elevated on the back of a chair, 
 wrapped in that peculiar frame of mind in which thought 
 assumes a species of lifeless motion, the strange fancy 
 seized me of making a languid inventory of the principal 
 articles of furniture in my room. It was a task well 
 suited to the mood in which I found myself. Their forms 
 were duskily denned in the dim twilight that floated shad- 
 owily through the chamber ; it was no labor to note and 
 particularize each, and from the place where I sat I could 
 command a view of all my possessions without even turn- 
 ing my head. 
 
 There was, imprimis, that ghostly lithograph by Car 
 
310 THE LOST ROOM. 
 
 lame. It was a mere black spot on the white wall, but 
 my inner vision scrutinized every detail of the picture. 
 A wild, desolate, midnight heath, with a spectral oak-tree 
 in the centre of the foreground. The wind blows fiercely, 
 and the jagged branches, clothed scantily with ill-grown 
 leaves, are swept to the left continually by its giant force. 
 A formless wrack of clouds streams across the awful sky, 
 and the rain sweeps almost parallel with the horizon. 
 Beyond, the heath stretches off into endless blackness, in 
 the extreme of which either fancy or art has conjured up 
 some undefinable shapes that seem riding into space. At 
 the base of the huge oak stands a shrouded figure. His 
 mantle is wound by the blast in tight folds around his 
 form, and the long cock's feather in his hat is blown 
 upright, till it seems as if it stood on end with fear. His 
 features are not visible, for he has grasped his cloak with 
 both hands, and drawn it from either side across his face. 
 The picture is seemingly objectless. It tells no tale, but 
 there is a weird power about it that haunts one, and it 
 was for that I bought it. 
 
 Next to the picture comes the round blot that hangs 
 below it, which I know to be a smoking-cap. It has my 
 coat of arms embroidered on the front, and for that reason 
 I never wear it ; though, when properly arranged on my 
 head, with its long blue silken tassel hanging down by my 
 cheek, I believe it becomes me well. I remember the 
 time when it was in the course of manufacture. I re- 
 member the tiny little hands that pushed the colored 
 silks so nimbly through the cloth that was stretched on 
 the embroidery-frame, the vast trouble I was put to " to 
 get a colored copy of my armorial bearings for the heral- 
 dic work which was to decorate the front of the band, 
 the pursings up of the little mouth, and the contractions 
 
THE LOST ROOM. 311 
 
 of the young forehead, as their possessor plunged into a 
 profound sea of cogitation touching the way in which the 
 cloud should be represented from which the armed hand, 
 that is my crest, issues, the heavenly moment when 
 the tiny hands placed it on my head, in a position that I 
 could not bear for more than a few seconds, and I, king- 
 like, immediately assumed my royal prerogative after the 
 coronation, and instantly levied a tax on my only subject, 
 which was, however, not paid unwillingly. Ah ! the cap 
 is there, but the embroiderer has fled ; for Atropos was 
 severing the web of life above her head while she was 
 weaving that silken shelter for mine ! 
 
 How uncouthly the huge piano that occupies the corner 
 at the left of the door looms out in the uncertain twi- 
 light ! I neither play nor sing, yet I own a piano. It is 
 a comfort to me to look at it, and to feel that the music 
 is there, although I am not able to break the spell that 
 binds it. It is pleasant to know that Bellini and Mo- 
 zart, Cimarosa, Porpora, Gliick, and all such, or at least 
 their souls, sleep in that unwieldy case. There lie em- 
 balmed, as it were, all operas, sonatas, oratorios, nottur- 
 nos, marches; songs, and dances, that ever climbed into ex- 
 istence through the four ]bars that wall in melody. Once 
 I was entirely repaid for the investment of my funds in 
 that instrument which I never use. Blokeeta, the com- 
 poser, came to see me. Of course his instincts urged him 
 as irresistibly to my piano as if some magnetic power lay 
 within it compelling him to approach. He tuned it, he 
 played on it. All night long, until the gray and spectral 
 dawn rose out of the depths of the midnight, he sat and 
 played, and I lay smoking by the window listening. Wild, 
 unearthly, and sometimes insufferably painful, were the 
 improvisations of Blokeeta. The chords of the instru- 
 
312 THE LOST ROOM. 
 
 ment seemed breaking with anguish. Lost souls shrieked 
 in his dismal preludes ; the half-heard utterances of spir- 
 its in pain, that groped at inconceivable distances from 
 anything lovely or harmonious, seemed to rise dimly up 
 out of the waves of sound that gathered under his hands. 
 Melancholy human love wandered out on distant heaths, 
 or beneath dank and gloomy cypresses, murmuring its un- 
 answered sorrow, or hateful gnomes sported and sang in 
 the stagnant swamps, triumphing in unearthly tones over 
 the knight whom they had lured to his death. Such was 
 Blokeeta's night's entertainment ; and when he at length 
 closed the piano, and hurried away through the cold morn- 
 ing, he left a memory about the instrument from which 
 I could never escape. 
 
 Those snow-shoes that hang in the space between the 
 mirror and the door recall Canadian wanderings, a long 
 race through the dense forests, over the frozen snow, 
 through whose brittle crust the slender hoofs of the cari- 
 bou that we were pursuing sank at every step, until the 
 poor creature despairingly turned at bay in a small juni- 
 per coppice, and we heartlessly shot him down. And I 
 remember how Gabriel, the habitant, and Francois, the 
 half-breed, cut his throat, and how the hot blood rushed 
 out in a torrent over the snowy soil ; and I recall the 
 snow cabane that Gabriel built, where we all three slept 
 so warmly; and the great fire that glowed at our feet, 
 painting all kinds of demoniac shapes on the black screen 
 of forest that lay without ; and the deer-steaks that we 
 roasted for our breakfast ; and the savage drunkenness of 
 Gabriel in the morning, he having been privately drinking 
 out of my brandy-flask all the night long. 
 
 That long, haftless dagger that dangles over the mantel- 
 piece makes my heart swell. I found it, when a boy, in 
 
THE LOST ROOM. 313 
 
 a hoary old castle in which one of my maternal ancestors 
 once lived. That same ancestor who, by the way, yet 
 lives in history was a strange old sea-king, who dwelt 
 on the extremest point of the southwestern coast of Ire- 
 land. He owned the whole of that fertile island called 
 Inniskeiran, which directly faces Cape Clear, where be- 
 tween them the Atlantic rolls furiously, forming what the 
 fishermen of the place call " the Sound." An awful place 
 in winter is that same Sound. On certain days no boat 
 can live there for a moment, and Cape Clear is frequently 
 cut off for days from any communication with the main 
 land. 
 
 This old sea-king Sir Florence O'Driscoll by name 
 passed a stormy life. From the summit of his castle he 
 watched the ocean, and when any richly laden vessels, 
 bound from the south to the industrious Gal way mer- 
 chants, hove in sight, Sir Florence hoisted the sails of his 
 galley, and it went hard with him if he did not tow into 
 harbor ship and crew. In this way he lived ; not a very 
 honest mode of livelihood, certainly, according to our 
 modern ideas, but quite reconcilable with the morals of 
 the time. As may be supposed, Sir Florence got into 
 trouble. Complaints were laid against him at the English 
 court by the plundered merchants, and the Irish viking 
 set out for London, to plead his own cause before good 
 Queen Bess, as she was called. He had one powerful 
 recommendation : he was a marvellously handsome man. 
 Not Celtic by descent, but half Spanish, half Danish in 
 blood, he had the great northern stature with the regular 
 features, flashing eyes, and dark hair of the Iberian race. 
 This may account for the fact that his stay at the English 
 court was much longer than was necessary, as also for 
 the tradition, which a local historian mentions, that the 
 
314 THE LOST ROOM. 
 
 English Queen evinced a preference for the Irish chieftain, 
 of other nature than that usually shown by monarch to 
 subject. 
 
 Previous to his departure, Sir Florence had intrusted 
 the care of his property to an Englishman named Hull. 
 During the long absence of the knight, this person man- 
 aged to ingratiate himself with the local authorities, and 
 gain their favor so far that they were willing to support 
 him in almost any scheme. After a protracted stay, Sir 
 Florence, pardoned of all his misdeeds, returned to his 
 home. Home no longer. Hull was in possession, and 
 refused to yield an acre of the lands he had so nefariously 
 acquired. It was no use appealing to the law, for its 
 officers were in the opposite interest. It was no use 
 appealing to the Queen, for she had another lover, and 
 had forgotten the poor Irish knight by this time ; and so 
 the viking passed the best portion of his life in unsuccessful 
 attempts to reclaim his vast estates, and was eventually, 
 in his old age, obliged to content himself with his castle 
 by the sea and the island of Inniskeiran, the only spot of 
 which the usurper was unable to deprive him. So this 
 old story of my kinsman's fate looms up out of the dark- 
 ness that enshrouds that haftless dagger hanging on the 
 wall. 
 
 It was somewhat after the foregoing fashion that I 
 dreamily made the inventory of my personal property. 
 As I turned my eyes on each object, one after the other, 
 or the places where they lay, for the room was now so 
 dark that it was almost impossible to see with any dis- 
 tinctness, a crowd of memories connected with each 
 rose up before me, and, perforce, I had to indulge them. 
 So I proceeded but slowly, and at last my cigar shortened 
 to a hot and bitter morsel that I could barely hold be- 
 
THE LOST ROOM. 315 
 
 tween my lips, while it seemed to me that the night grew 
 each moment more insufferably oppressive. While I was 
 revolving some impossible means of cooling my wretched 
 body, the cigar stump began to burn my lips. I flung it 
 angrily through the open window, and stooped out to 
 watch it falling. It first lighted on the leaves of the 
 acacia, sending out a spray of red sparkles, then, rolling 
 off, it fell plump on the dark walk in the garden, faintly 
 illuminating for a moment the dusky trees and breathless 
 flowers. Whether it was the contrast between the red 
 flash of the cigar-stump and the silent darkness of the 
 garden, or whether it was that I detected by the sudden 
 light a faint waving of the leaves, I know not ; but some- 
 thing suggested to me that the garden was cool. I will 
 take a turn there, thought I, just as I am ; it cannot be 
 warmer than this room, and however still the atmosphere, 
 there is always a feeling of liberty and spaciousness in 
 the open air, that partially supplies one's wants. With 
 this idea running through my head, I arose, lit another 
 cigar, and passed out into the long, intricate corridors 
 that led to the main staircase. As I crossed the threshold 
 of my room, with what a different feeling I should have 
 passed it had I known that I was never to set foot in it 
 again ! 
 
 I lived in a very large house, in which I occupied two 
 rooms on the second floor. The house was old-fashioned, 
 and all the floors communicated by a huge circular stair- 
 case that wound up through the centre of the building, 
 while at every landing long, rambling corridors stretched 
 off into mysterious nooks and corners. This palace of 
 mine was very high, and its resources, in the way of 
 crannies and windings, seemed to be interminable. Noth- 
 ing seemed to stop anywhere. Cul-de-sacs were unknown 
 
316 THE LOST ROOM. 
 
 on the premises. The corridors and passages, like mathe- 
 matical lines, seemed capable of indefinite extension, and 
 the object of the architect must have been to erect an 
 edifice in which people might go ahead forever. The 
 whole place was gloomy, not so much because it was 
 large, but because an unearthly nakedness seemed to per- 
 vade the structure. The staircases, corridors, halls, and 
 vestibules all partook of a desert-like desolation. There 
 was nothing on the walls to break the sombre monotony 
 of those long vistas of shade. No carvings on the wain- 
 scoting, no moulded masks peering down from the simply 
 severe cornices, no marble vases on the landings. There 
 was an eminent dreariness and want of life so rare in 
 an American establishment all over the abode. It was 
 Hood's haunted house put in order and newly painted. 
 The servants, too, were shadowy, and chary of their visits. 
 Bells rang three times before the gloomy chambermaid 
 could be induced to present herself ; and the negro waiter, 
 a ghoul-like looking creature from Congo, obeyed the 
 summons only when one's patience was exhausted or one's 
 want satisfied in some other way. When he did come, 
 one felt sorry that he had not stayed away altogether, so 
 sullen and savage did he appear. He moved along the 
 echoless floors with a slow, noiseless shamble, until his 
 dusky figure, advancing from the gloom, seemed like some 
 reluctant afreet, compelled by the superior power of his 
 master to disclose himself. When the doors of all the 
 chambers were closed, and no light illuminated the long 
 corridor save the red, unwholesome glare of a small oil 
 lamp on a table at the end, where late lodgers lit their 
 candles, one could not by any possibility conjure up a 
 sadder or more desolate prospect. 
 
 Yet the house suited me. Of meditative and sedentary 
 
THE LOST ROOM. 317 
 
 habits, I enjoyed the extreme quiet. There were but 
 few lodgers, from which I infer that the landlord did 
 not drive a very thriving trade ; and these, probably op- 
 pressed by the sombre spirit of the place, were quiet and 
 ghost-like in their movements. The proprietor I scarcely 
 ever saw. My bills were deposited by unseen hands 
 every month on my table, while I was out walking or 
 riding, and my pecuniary response was intrusted to the 
 attendant afreet. On the whole, when the bustling, wide- 
 awake spirit of New York is taken into consideration, the 
 sombre, half-vivified character of the house in which I 
 lived was an anomaly that no one appreciated better than 
 I who lived there. 
 
 I felt my way down the wide, dark staircase in my pur- 
 suit of zephyrs. The garden, as I entered it, did feel 
 somewhat cooler than my own room, and I puffed my 
 cigar along the dim, cypress-shrouded walks with a sensa- 
 tion of comparative relief. It was very dark. The tall- 
 growing flowers that bordered the path were so wrapped in 
 gloom as to present the aspect of solid pyramidal masses, 
 all the details of leaves and blossoms being buried in an 
 embracing darkness, while the trees had lost all form, 
 and seemed like masses of overhanging cloud. It was a 
 place and time to excite the imagination ; for in the im- 
 penetrable cavities of endless gloom there was room for 
 the most riotous fancies to play at will. I walked and 
 walked, and the echoes of my footsteps on the uugravelled 
 and mossy path suggested a double feeling. I felt alone 
 and yet in company at the same time. The solitariness 
 of the place made itself distinct enough in the stillness, 
 broken alone by the hollow reverberations of my step, 
 while those very reverberations seemed to imbue me with 
 an undefined feeling that I was not alone. I was not, 
 
318 THE LOST ROOM. 
 
 therefore, much startled when I was suddenly accosted 
 from beneath the solid darkness of an immense cypress 
 by a voice saying, " Will you give me a light, sir ? " 
 
 " Certainly," I replied, trying in vain to distinguish the 
 speaker amidst the impenetrable dark. 
 
 Somebody advanced, and I held out my cigar. All I 
 could gather definitively about the individual who thus 
 accosted me was that he must have been of extremely 
 small stature ; for I, who am by no means an overgrown 
 man, had to stoop considerably in handing him my cigar. 
 The vigorous puff that he gave his own lighted up my 
 Havana for a moment, and I fancied that I caught a 
 glimpse of a pale, weird countenance, immersed in a back- 
 ground of long, wild hair. The flash was, however, so 
 momentary that I could not even say certainly whether 
 this was an actual impression or the mere effort of imagi- 
 nation to embody that which the senses had failed to 
 distinguish. 
 
 " Sir, you are out late," said this unknown to me, as 
 he, with half-uttered thanks, handed me back my cigar, 
 for which I had to grope in the gloom. 
 
 " Not later than usual," I replied, dryly. 
 
 " Hum ! you are fond of late wanderings, then 1 " 
 
 " That is just as the fancy seizes me." 
 
 " Do you live here 1 " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Queer house, is n't it 1 " 
 
 " I have only found it quiet." 
 
 " Hum ! But you will find it queer, take my word for 
 it." This was earnestly uttered ; and I felt at the same 
 time a bony finger laid on my arm, that cut it sharply 
 like a blunted knife. 
 
 " I cannot take your word for any such assertion," I 
 
THE LOST ROOM. 319 
 
 replied, rudely, shaking off the bony finger with an irre- 
 pressible motion of disgust. 
 
 " No offence, no offence," muttered my unseen com- 
 panion rapidly, in a strange, subdued voice, that would 
 have been shrill had it been louder ; " your being angry 
 does not alter the matter. You will find it a queer house. 
 Everybody finds it a queer house. Do you know who 
 live there ] " 
 
 " I never busy myself, sir, about other people's affairs," 
 I answered sharply, for the individual's manner, combined 
 with my utter uncertainty as to his appearance, oppressed 
 me with an irksome longing to be rid of him. 
 
 " 0, you don't 1 Well, I do. I know what they are, 
 well, well, well ! " and as he pronounced the three last 
 words his voice rose with each, until, with the last, it 
 reached a shrill shriek that echoed horribly among the 
 lonely walks. " Do you know what they eat 1 " he con- 
 tinued. 
 
 " No, sir, nor care." 
 
 " 0, but you will care. You must care. You shall 
 care. I '11 tell you what they are. They are enchanters. 
 They are ghouls. They are cannibals. Did you never 
 remark their eyes, and how they gloated on you when 
 you passed] Did you never remark the food that they 
 served up at your table 1 Did you never in the dead of 
 night hear muffled and unearthly footsteps gliding along 
 the corridors, and stealthy hands turning the handle of 
 your door 1 Does not some magnetic influence fold itself 
 continually around you when they pass, and send a thrill 
 through spirit and body, and a cold shiver that no sun- 
 shine will chase away 1 0, you have ! You have felt 
 all these things ! I know it ! " 
 
 The earnest rapidity, the subdued tones, the eagerness 
 
320 THE LOST ROOM. 
 
 of accent, with which all this was uttered, impressed me 
 most uncomfortably. It really seemed as if I could recall 
 all those weird occurrences and influences of which he 
 spoke ; and I shuddered in spite of myself in the midst 
 of the impenetrable darkness that surrounded me. 
 
 " Hum ! " said I, assuming, without knowing it, a confi- 
 dential tone, " may I ask how you know these things T 
 
 " How I know them 1 Because I am their enemy ; be- 
 cause they tremble at my whisper ; because I hang upon 
 their track with the perseverance of a bloodhound and 
 the steal thiness of a tiger because because I was 
 of them once ! " 
 
 " Wretch ! " I cried excitedly, for involuntarily his 
 eager tones had wrought me up to a high pitch of spas- 
 modic nervousness, " then you mean to say that you- " 
 
 As I uttered this word, obeying an uncontrollable im- 
 pulse, I stretched forth my hand in the direction of the 
 speaker and made a blind clutch. The tips of my fingers 
 seemed to touch a surface as smooth as glass, that glided 
 suddenly from under them. A sharp, angry hiss sounded 
 through the gloom, followed by a whirring noise, as if 
 soniQ projectile passed rapidly by, and the next moment I 
 felt instinctively that I was alone. 
 
 A most disagreeable feeling instantly assailed me ; a 
 prophetic instinct that some terrible misfortune menaced 
 me; an eager and overpowering anxiety to get back to 
 my own room without loss of time. I turned and ran 
 blindly along the dark cypress alley, every dusky clump 
 of flowers that rose blackly in the borders making my 
 heart each moment cease to beat. The echoes of my 
 own footsteps seemed to redouble and assume the sounds 
 of unknown pursuers following fast upon my track. The 
 boughs of lilac-bushes and syringas, that here and there 
 
THE LOST ROOM. 321 
 
 stretched partly across the walk, seemed to have been 
 furnished suddenly with hooked hands that sought to 
 grasp me as I flew by, and each moment I expected to 
 behold some awful and impassable barrier fall across my 
 track and wall me up forever. 
 
 At length I reached the wide entrance. With a single 
 leap I sprang up the four or five steps that formed the 
 stoop, and dashed along the hall, up the wide, echoing 
 stairs, and again along the dim, funereal corridors until 
 I paused, breathless and panting, at the door of my room. 
 Once so far, I stopped for an instant and leaned heavily 
 against one of the panels, panting lustily after my late 
 run. I had, however, scarcely rested my whole weight 
 against the door, when it suddenly gave way, and I stag- 
 gered in head-foremost. To my utter astonishment the 
 room I had left in profound darkness was now a blaze of 
 light. So intense was the illumination that, for a few 
 seconds while the pupils of my eyes were contracting 
 under the sudden change, I saw absolutely nothing save 
 the dazzling glare. This fact in itself, coming on me with 
 such utter suddenness, was sufficient to prolong my con- 
 fusion, and it was not until after several minutes had 
 elapsed that I perceived the room was not only illumi- 
 nated, but occupied. And such occupants ! Amazement 
 at the scene took such possession of me that I was inca- 
 pable of either moving or uttering a word. All that I 
 could do was to lean against the wall, and stare blankly 
 at the strange picture. 
 
 It might have been a scene out of Faublas, or Gram- 
 mont's Memoirs, or happened in some palace of Minister 
 Fouque. 
 
 Round a large table in the centre of the room, where 
 I had left a student-like litter of books and papers, were 
 
 21 
 
322 THE LOST ROOM. 
 
 seated half a dozen persons. Three were men and three 
 were women. The table was heaped with a prodigality 
 of luxuries. Luscious eastern fruits were piled up in 
 silver filigree vases, through whose meshes their glowing 
 rinds shone in the contrasts of a thousand hues. Small 
 silver dishes that Benvenuto might have designed, filled 
 with succulent and aromatic meats, were distributed upon 
 a cloth of snowy damask. Bottles of every shape, slender 
 ones from the Rhine, stout fellows from Holland, sturdy 
 ones from Spain, and quaint basket-woven flasks from 
 Italy, absolutely littered the board. Drinking-glasses of 
 every sfze and hue filled up the interstices, and the 
 thirsty German flagon stood side by side with the aerial 
 bubbles of Venetian glass that rest so lightly on their 
 threadlike steins. An odor of luxury and sensuality 
 floated through the apartment. The lamps that burned 
 in every direction seemed to diffuse a subtle incense on 
 the air, and in a large vase that stood on the floor I saw 
 a mass of magnolias, tuberoses, and jasmines grouped to- 
 gether, stifling each other with their honeyed and heavy 
 fragrance. 
 
 The inhabitants of my room seemed beings well suited 
 to so sensual an atmosphere. The women were strangely 
 beautiful, and all were attired in dresses of the most fan- 
 tastic devices and brilliant hues. Their figures were 
 round, supple, and elastic ; their eyes dark and languish- 
 ing ; their lips full, ripe, and of the richest bloom. The 
 three men wore half-masks, so that all I could distinguish 
 were heavy jaws, pointed beards, and brawny throats 
 that rose like massive pillars out of their doublets. All 
 six lay reclining on Roman couches about the table, drink- 
 ing down the purple wines in large draughts, and tossing 
 back their heads and laughing wildly. 
 
THE LOST ROOM. 323 
 
 I stood, I suppose, for some three minutes, with my 
 back against the wall staring vacantly at the bacchanal 
 vision, before any of the revellers appeared to notice my 
 presence. At length, without any expression to indicate 
 whether I had been observed from the beginning or not, 
 two of the women arose from their couches, and, approach- 
 ing, took each a hand and led me to the table. I obeyed 
 their motions mechanically. I sat on a couch between 
 them as they indicated. I unresistingly permitted them 
 to wind their arms about my neck. 
 
 " You must drink," said one, pouring out a large glass 
 of red wine, " here is Clos Vougeot of a fare vintage ; 
 and here," pushing a flask of amber-hued wine before me, 
 " is Lachryma Christi." 
 
 " You must eat," said the other, drawing the silver 
 dishes toward her. " Here are cutlets stewed with olives, 
 and here are slices of a filet stuffed with bruised sweet 
 chestnuts " ; and as she spoke, she, without waiting for 
 a reply, proceeded to help me. 
 
 The sight of the food recalled to me the warnings I 
 had received in the garden. This sudden effort of mem- 
 ory restored to me my other faculties at the same instant. 
 I sprang to my feet, thrusting the women from me with 
 each hand. 
 
 " Demons ! " I almost shouted, " I will have none of 
 your accursed food. I know you. You are cannibals, 
 you are ghouls, you are enchanters. Begone, I tell you ! 
 Leave my room in peace ! " 
 
 A shout of laughter from all six was the only effect 
 that my passionate speech produced. The men rolled on 
 their couches, and their half-masks quivered with the 
 convulsions of their mirth. The women shrieked, and 
 tossed the slender wine-glasses wildly aloft, and turned 
 
324 THE LOST KOOM. 
 
 to me and flung themselves on my bosom fairly sobbing 
 with laughter. 
 
 " Yes," I continued, as soon as the noisy mirth had 
 subsided, " yes, I say, leave my room instantly ! I will 
 have none of your unnatural orgies here ! " 
 
 " His room ! " shrieked the woman on my right. 
 
 " His room ! " echoed she on my left. 
 
 " His room ! He calls it his room ! " shouted the whole 
 party, as they rolled once more into jocular convulsions. 
 
 " How know you that it is your room 1 " said one of 
 the men who sat opposite to me, at length, after the 
 laughter had once more somewhat subsided. 
 
 "How do I knowT' I replied, indignantly. " How do 
 I know my own room 7 How could I mistake it, pray 1 ? 
 There 's my furniture my piano " 
 
 " He calls that a piano ! " shouted my neighbors, again 
 in convulsions as I pointed to the corner where my huge 
 piano, sacred to the memory of Blokeeta, used to stand. 
 " 0, yes ! It is his room. There there is his piano ! " 
 
 The peculiar emphasis they laid on the word " piano " 
 caused me to scrutinize the article I was indicating more 
 thoroughly. Up to this time, though utterly amazed at 
 the entrance of these people into my chamber, and con- 
 necting them somewhat with the wild stories I had heard 
 in the garden, I still had a sort of indefinite idea that the 
 whole thing was a masquerading freak got up in my 
 absence, and that the bacchanalian orgie I was witnessing 
 was nothing more than a portion of some elaborate hoax 
 of which I was to be the victim. But when my eyes 
 turned to the corner where I had left a huge and cum- 
 brous piano, and beheld a vast and sombre organ lifting 
 its fluted front to the very ceiling, and convinced my- 
 self, by a hurried process of memory, that it occupied the 
 
THE LOST ROOM. 325 
 
 very spot in which I had left my' own instrument, the 
 little self-possession that I had left forsook me. I gazed 
 around me bewildered. 
 
 In like manner everything was changed. In the place 
 of that old haftless dagger, connected with so many his- 
 toric associations personal to myself, I beheld a Turkish 
 yataghan dangling by its belt of crimson silk, while the 
 jewels in the hilt blazed as the lamplight played upon 
 them. In the spot where hung my cherished smoking- 
 cap, memorial of a buried love, a knightly casque was 
 suspended, on the crest of which a golden dragon stood 
 in the act of springing. That strange lithograph by Ca- 
 lame was no longer a lithograph, but it seemed to me that 
 the portion of the wall which it had covered, of the exact 
 shape and size, had been cut out, and, in place of the pic- 
 ture, a real scene on the same scale, and with real actors, 
 was distinctly visible. The old oak was there, and the 
 stormy sky was there ; but I saw the branches of the oak 
 sway with the tempest, and the clouds drive before the 
 wind. The wanderer in his cloak was gone ; but in his 
 place I beheld a circle of wild figures, men and women, 
 dancing with linked hands around the bole of the great 
 tree, chanting some wild fragment of a song, to which the 
 winds roared an unearthly chorus. The snow-shoes, too, 
 on whose sinewy woof I had sped for many days amidst 
 Canadian wastes, had vanished, and in their place lay a 
 pair of strange up-curled Turkish slippers, that had, 
 perhaps, been many a time shuffled off at the doors of 
 mosques, beneath the steady blaze of an orient sun. 
 
 All was changed. Wherever my eyes turned they 
 missed familiar objects, yet encountered strange repre- 
 sentatives. Still, in all the substitutes there seemed to 
 me a reminiscence of what they replaced. They seemed 
 
326 THE LOST ROOM. 
 
 only for a time transmuted into other shapes, and there 
 lingered around them the atmosphere of what they once 
 had been. Thus I could have sworn the room to have 
 been mine, yet there was nothing in it that I could 
 rightly claim. Everything reminded me of some for- 
 mer possession that it was not. I looked for the acacia 
 at the window, and, lo ! long, silken palm-leaves swayed 
 in through the open lattice ; yet they had the same mo- 
 tion and the same air of my favorite tree, and seemed 
 to murmur to me, " Though we seem to be palm-leaves, 
 yet are we acacia-leaves ; yea, those very ones on which 
 you used to watch the butterflies alight and the rain pat- 
 ter while you smoked and dreamed ! " So in all things ; 
 the room was, yet was not, mine ; and a sickening con- 
 sciousness of my utter inability to reconcile its identity 
 with its appearance overwhelmed me, and choked my 
 reason. 
 
 "Well, have you determined whether or not this is 
 your room 1 " asked the girl on my left, proffering me a 
 huge tumbler creaming over with champagne, and laugh- 
 ing wickedly as she spoke. 
 
 " It is mine," I answered, doggedly, striking the glass 
 rudely with my hand, and dashing the aromatic wine 
 over the white cloth. " I know that it is mine ; and ye 
 are jugglers and enchanters who want to drive me mad." 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! " she said, gently, not in the least an- 
 gered a,t my rough treatment. " You are excited. Alf 
 shall play something to soothe you." 
 
 At her signal, one of the men sat down at the organ. 
 After a short, wild, spasmodic prelude, he began what 
 seemed to me to be a symphony of recollections. Dark 
 and sombre, and all through full of quivering and in- 
 tense agony, it appeared to recall a dark and dismal 
 
THE LOST ROOM. 327 
 
 night, on a cold reef, around which an unseen but ter- 
 ribly audible ocean broke with eternal fury. It seemed 
 as if a lonely pair were on the reef, one living, the other 
 dead ; one clasping his arms around the tender neck and 
 naked bosom of the other, striving to warm her into life, 
 when his own vitality was being each moment sucked 
 from him by the icy breath of the storm. Here and 
 there a terrible wailing minor key would tremble through 
 the chords like the shriek of sea-birds, or the warning 
 of advancing death. While the man played I could 
 scarce restrain myself. It seemed to be Blokeeta whom 
 I listened to, and on whom I gazed. That wondrous 
 night of pleasure and pain that I had once passed listen- 
 ing to him seemed to have been taken up again at the 
 spot where it had broken off, and the same hand was con- 
 tinuing it. I stared at the man called Alf. There he 
 sat with his cloak and doublet, and long rapier and mask 
 of black velvet. But there was something in the air of 
 the peaked beard, a familiar mystery in the wild mass of 
 raven hair that fell as if wind-blown over his shoulders, 
 which riveted my memory. 
 
 " Blokeeta ! Blokeeta ! " I shouted, starting up furiously 
 from the couch on which I was lying, and bursting the 
 fair arms that were linked around my neck as if they had 
 been hateful chains, " Blokeeta ! my friend ! speak to 
 me, I entreat you ! Tell these horrid enchanters to leave 
 me. Say that I hate them. Say that I command them 
 to leave my room." 
 
 The man at the organ stirred not in answer to my ap- 
 peal. He ceased playing, and the dying sound of the last 
 note he had touched faded off into a melancholy moan. 
 The other men and the women burst once more into peals 
 of mocking laughter. 
 
328 THE LOST ROOM. 
 
 "Why will you persist in calling this your room?" said 
 the woman next me, with a smile meant to be kind, but 
 to me inexpressibly loathsome. "Have we not shown 
 you by the furniture, by the general appearance of the 
 place, that you are mistaken, and that this cannot be 
 your apartment 1 Rest content, then, with us. You are 
 welcome here, and need no longer trouble yourself about 
 your room." 
 
 " Rest content !" I answered, madly ; " live with ghosts! 
 eat of awful meats, and see awful sights ! Never, never ! 
 You have cast some enchantment over the place that has 
 disguised it ; but for all that I know it to be my room. 
 You shall leave it ! " 
 
 " Softly, softly ! " said another of the sirens. " Let us 
 settle this amicably. This poor gentleman seems obsti- 
 nate and inclined to make an uproar. Now we do not 
 want an uproar. We love the night and its quiet ; and 
 there is no night that we love so well as that on which the 
 moon is coffined in clouds. Is it not so, my brothers?" 
 
 An awful and sinister smile gleamed on the counte- 
 nances of her unearthly audience, and seemed to glide 
 visibly from underneath their masks. 
 
 " Now," she continued, " I have a proposition to make. 
 It would be ridiculous for us to surrender this room sim- 
 ply because this gentleman states that it is his ; and yet 
 I feel anxious to gratify, as far as may be fair, his wild 
 assertion of ownership. A room, after all, is not much 
 to us ; we can get one easily enough, but still we should 
 be loath to give this apartment up to so imperious a de- 
 mand. We are willing, however, to risk its loss. That 
 is to say," turning to me, "I propose that we play 
 for the room. If you win, we will immediately surren- 
 der it to you just as it stands ; if, on the contrary, you 
 
THE LOST ROOM. 329 
 
 lose, you shall bind yourself to depart and never molest 
 us again." 
 
 Agonized at the ever-darkening mysteries that seemed 
 to thicken around me, and despairing of being able to dis- 
 sipate them by the mere exercise of my own will, I caught 
 almost gladly at the chance thus presented to me. The 
 idea of my loss or my gain scarce entered into my calcu- 
 lations. All I felt was an indefinite knowledge that I 
 might, in the way proposed, regain, in an instant, that 
 quiet chamber and that peace of mind of which I had 
 so strangely been deprived. 
 
 " I agree ! " I cried, eagerly ; " I agree. Anything to 
 rid myself of such unearthly company ! " 
 
 The woman touched a small golden bell that stood near 
 her on the table, and it had scarce ceased to tinkle when 
 a negro dwarf entered with a silver tray on which were 
 dice-boxes and dice. A shudder passed over me as I 
 thought in this stunted African I could trace a resem- 
 blance to the ghoul-like black servant to whose attendance 
 I had been accustomed. 
 
 " Now," said my neighbor, seizing one of the dice-boxes 
 and giving me the other, "the highest wins. Shall I 
 throw first?" 
 
 I nodded assent. She rattled the dice, and I felt an 
 inexpressible load lifted from my heart as she threw fif- 
 teen. 
 
 " It is your turn," she said, with a mocking smile ; "but 
 before you throw, I repeat the offer I made you before. 
 Live with us. Be one of us. We will initiate you into 
 our mysteries and enjoyments, enjoyments of which 
 you can form no idea unless you experience them. Come; 
 it is not too late yet to change your mind. Be with 
 
330 THE LOST ROOM. 
 
 My reply was a fierce oath, as I rattled the dice with 
 spasmodic nervousness and flung them on the board. 
 They rolled over and over again, and during that brief 
 instant I felt a suspense, the intensity of which I have 
 never known before or since. At last they lay before me. 
 A shout of the same horrible, maddening laughter rang 
 in my ears. I peered in vain at the dice, but my sight 
 was so confused that I could not distinguish the amount 
 of the cast. This lasted for a few moments. Then my 
 sight grew clear, and I sank back almost lifeless with de- 
 spair as I saw that I had thrown but twelve! 
 
 " Lost ! lost ! " screamed my neighbor, with a wild 
 laugh. " Lost ! lost ! " shouted the deep voices of the 
 masked men. " Leave us, coward ! " they all cried ; "you 
 are not fit to be one of us. Remember your promise ; 
 leave us ! " 
 
 Then it seemed as if some unseen power caught me by 
 the shoulders and thrust me toward the door. In vain I 
 resisted. In vain I screamed and shouted for help. In 
 vain I implored them for pity. All the reply I had was 
 those mocking peals of merriment, while, under the in- 
 visible influence, I staggered like a drunken man toward 
 the door. As I reached the threshold the organ pealed 
 out a wild, triumphal strain. The power that impelled 
 me concentrated itself into one vigorous impulse that 
 sent me blindly staggering out into the echoing corridor, 
 and, as the door closed swiftly behind me, I caught one 
 glimpse of the apartment I had left forever. A change 
 passed like a shadow over it. The lamps died out, the 
 siren women and masked men vanished, the flowers, the 
 fruits, the bright silver and bizarre furniture faded swiftly, 
 and I saw again, for the tenth of a second, my own old 
 chamber restored. There was the acacia waving darkly ; 
 
THE LOST ROOM. 331 
 
 there was the table littered with books ; there was the 
 ghostly lithograph, the dearly beloved smoking-cap, the 
 Canadian snow-shoes, the ancestral dagger. And there, 
 at the piano, organ no longer, sat Blokeeta playing. 
 
 The next instant the door closed violently, and I was 
 left standing in the corridor stunned and despairing. 
 
 As soon as I had partially recovered my comprehension 
 I rushed madly to the door, with the dim idea of beating 
 it in. My fingers touched a cold and solid wall. There 
 was no door ! I felt all along the corridor for many 
 yards on both sides. There was not even a crevice to 
 give me hope. I rushed down stairs shouting madly. 
 No one answered. In the vestibule I met the negro ; I 
 seized him by the collar, and demanded my room. The 
 demon showed his white and awful teeth, which were filed 
 into a saw-like shape, and, extricating himself from my 
 grasp with a sudden jerk, fled down .the passage with a 
 gibbering laugh. Nothing but echo answered to my de- 
 spairing shrieks. The lonely garden resounded with my 
 cries as I strode madly through the dark walks, and the 
 tall funereal cypresses seemed to bury me beneath their 
 heavy shadows. I met no one, could find no one. I 
 had to bear my sorrow and despair alone. 
 
 Since that awful hour I have never found my room. 
 Everywhere I look for it, yet never see it. Shall I ever 
 find it? 
 
332 THE POT OF TULIPS. 
 
 THE POT OF TULIPS. 
 
 TWENTY-EIGHT years ago I went to spend the summer 
 at an old Dutch villa which then lifted its head from the 
 wild country that, in present days, has been tamed down 
 into a site for a Crystal Palace. Madison Square was 
 then a wilderness of fields and scrub oak, here and there 
 diversified with tall and stately elms. Worthy citizens 
 who could afford two establishments rusticated in the 
 groves that then flourished where ranks of brown-stone 
 porticos now form the landscape ; and the locality of 
 Fortieth Street, where my summer palace stood, was 
 justly looked upon as at an enterprising distance from 
 the city. 
 
 I had an imperious desire to live in this house ever 
 since I can remember. I had often seen it when a boy, 
 and its cool verandas and quaint garden seemed, when- 
 ever I passed, to attract me irresistibly. In after years, 
 when I grew up to man's estate, I was not sorry, therefore, 
 when one summer, fatigued with the labors of my busi- 
 ness, I beheld a notice in the papers intimating that it 
 was to be let furnished. I hastened to my dear friend, 
 Jaspar Joye, painted the delights of this rural retreat in 
 the most glowing colors, easily obtained his assent to 
 share the enjoyments and the expense with me, and a 
 month afterward we were taking our ease in this new 
 paradise. 
 
THE POT OF TULIPS. 333 
 
 Independent of early associations, other interests at- 
 tached me to this house. It was somewhat historical, 
 and had given shelter to George Washington on the oc- 
 casion of one of his visits to the city. Furthermore, I 
 knew the descendants of the family to whom it had origi- 
 nally belonged. Their history was strange and mournful, 
 and it seemed to me as if their individuality was some- 
 how shared by the edifice. It had been built by a Mr. 
 Van Koeren, a gentleman of Holland, the younger son of 
 a rich mercantile firm at the Hague, who had emigrated 
 to this country in order to establish a branch of his fa- 
 ther's business in New York, which even then gave indi- 
 cations of the prosperity it has since reached with such 
 marvellous rapidity. He had brought with him a fair 
 young Belgian wife ; a loving girl, if I may believe her 
 portrait, with soft brown eyes, chestnut hair, and a deep, 
 placid contentment spreading over her fresh and innocent 
 features. Her son, Alain Van Koeren, had her picture 
 an old miniature in a red gold frame as well as that 
 of his father \ and in truth, when looking on the two, one 
 could not conceive a greater contrast than must have ex- 
 isted between husband and wife. Mr. Van Koeren must 
 have been a man of terrible will and gloomy tempera- 
 ment. His face in the picture is dark and austere, 
 his eyes deep-sunken, and burning as if with a slow, in- 
 ward fire. The lips are thin and compressed, with much 
 determination of purpose ; and his chin, boldly salient, is 
 brimful of power and resolution. When first I saw those 
 two pictures I sighed inwardly and thought, " Poor child ! 
 you must often have sighed for the sunny meadows of 
 Brussels, in the long, gloomy nights spent in the company 
 of that terrible man ! " 
 
 I was not far wrong, as I afterward discovered. Mr. 
 
334 THE POT OF TULIPS. 
 
 and Mrs. Van Koeren were very unhappy. Jealousy was 
 his monomania, and he had scarcely been married before 
 his girl-wife began to feel the oppression of a gloomy and 
 ceaseless tyranny. Every man under fifty, whose hair 
 was not white and whose form was erect, was an object of 
 suspicion to this Dutch Bluebeard. Not that he was vul- 
 garly jealous. He did not frown at his wife before stran- 
 gers, or attack her with reproaches in the midst of her 
 festivities. He was too well-bred a man to bare his pri- 
 vate woes to the world. But at night, when the guests 
 had departed and the dull light of the quaint old Flemish 
 lamps but half illuminated the nuptial chamber, then it 
 was that with monotonous invective Mr. Van Koeren 
 crushed his wife. And Marie, weeping and silent, would 
 sit on the edge of the bed listening to the cold, trenchant 
 irony of her husband, who, pacing up and down the room, 
 would now and then stop in his walk to gaze with his 
 burning eyes upon the pallid face of his victim. Even 
 the evidences that Marie gave of becoming a mother did 
 not check him. He saw in that coming event, which most 
 husbands anticipate with mingled joy and fear, only an 
 approaching incarnation of his dishonor. He watched 
 with a horrible refinement of suspicion for the arrival of 
 that being in whose features he madly believed he should 
 but too surely trace the evidences of his wife's crime. 
 
 Whether it was that these ceaseless attacks wore out 
 her strength, or that Providence wished to add another 
 chastening misery to her burden of woe, I dare not spec- 
 ulate ; but it is certain that one luckless night Mr. Van 
 Koeren learned with fury that he had become a father 
 two months before the allotted time. During his first 
 paroxysm of rage, on the receipt of intelligence which 
 seemed to confirm all his previous suspicions, it was, I 
 
THE POT OF TULIPS. 335 
 
 believe, with difficulty that he was prevented from slaying 
 both the innocent causes of his resentment. The caution 
 of his race and the presence of the physicians induced him, 
 however, to put a curb upon his furious will until reflec- 
 tion suggested quite as criminal, if not as dangerous, a 
 vengeance. As soon as his poor wife had recovered from 
 her illness, unnaturally prolonged by the delicacy of con- 
 stitution induced by previous mental suffering, she was 
 astonished to find, instead of increasing his persecutions, 
 that her husband had changed his tactics and treated her 
 with studied neglect. He rarely spoke to her except on 
 occasions when the decencies of society demanded that he 
 should address her. He avoided her presence, and no 
 longer inhabited the same apartments. He seemed, in 
 short, to strive as much as possible to forget her existence. 
 But if she did not suffer from personal ill-treatment it was 
 because a punishment more acute was in store for her. If 
 Mr. Van Koeren had chosen to affect to consider her be- 
 neath his vengeance, it was because his hate had taken 
 another direction, and seemed to have derived increased 
 intensity from the alteration. It was upon the unhappy 
 boy, the cause of all this misery, that the father lavished 
 a terrible hatred. Mr. Van Koeren seemed determined, 
 that, if this child sprang from other loins than his, the 
 mournful destiny which he forced upon him should am- 
 ply avenge his own existence and the infidelity of his 
 mother. While the child was an infant his plan seemed 
 to have been formed. Ignorance and neglect were the 
 two deadly influences with which he sought to assassinate 
 the moral nature of this boy ; and his terrible campaign 
 against the virtue of his own son was, as he grew up, car- 
 ried into execution with the most consummate generalship. 
 He gave him money, but debarred him from education. 
 
336 THE POT OF TULIPS. 
 
 He allowed him liberty of action, but withheld advice. It 
 was in vain that his mother, who foresaw the frightful 
 consequences of such a training, sought in secret by every 
 means in her power to nullify her husband's attempts. 
 She strove in vain to seduce her son into an ambition to 
 be educated. She beheld with horror all her agonized 
 efforts frustrated, and saw her son and only child becom- 
 ing, even in his youth, a drunkard and a libertine. In 
 the end it proved too much for her strength ; she sick- 
 ened, and went home to her sunny Belgian plains. There 
 she lingered for a few months in a calm but rapid decay, 
 whose calmness was broken but by the one grief; until 
 one autumn day, when the leaves were falling from the 
 limes, she made a little prayer for her son to the good God, 
 and died. Vain orison ! Spendthrift, gamester, libertine, 
 and drunkard by turns, Alain Van Koeren's earthly des- 
 tiny was unchangeable. The father, who should have 
 been his guide, looked on each fresh depravity of his son's 
 with a species of grim delight. Even the death of his 
 wronged wife had no effect upon his fatal purpose. He 
 still permitted the young man to run blindly to destruc- 
 tion by the course into which he himself had led him. 
 
 As years rolled by, and Mr. Van Koeren himself ap- 
 proached to that time of life when he might soon expect 
 to follow his persecuted wife, he relieved himself of the 
 hateful presence of his son altogether. Even the link of 
 a systematic vengeance, which had hitherto united them, 
 was severed, and Alain was cast adrift without either 
 money or principle. The occasion of this final separation 
 between father and son was the marriage of the latter 
 with a girl of humble, though honest extraction. This 
 was a good excuse for the remorseless Van Koeren, so he 
 availed himself of it by turning his son out of doors. 
 
THE POT OF TULIPS. 337 
 
 From that time forth they never met. Alain lived a life 
 of meagre dissipation, and soon died, leaving behind him 
 one child, a daughter. By a coincidence natural enough, 
 Mr. Van Koeren's death followed his son's almost imme- 
 diately. He died as he had lived, sternly. But those 
 who were around his couch in his last moments men- 
 tioned some singular facts connected with the manner of 
 his death. A few moments before he expired, he raised 
 himself in the bed, and seemed as if conversing with some 
 person invisible to the spectators. His lips moved as if 
 in speech, and immediately afterward he sank back, bathed 
 in a flood of tears. " Wrong ! wrong ! " he was heard to 
 mutter, feebly ; then he implored passionately the forgive- 
 ness of some one who, he said, was present. The death 
 struggle ensued almost immediately, and in the midst of 
 his agony he seemed wrestling for speech. All that could 
 be heard, however, were a few broken words. " I was 
 wrong. My unfounded For God's sake look in 
 You will find " Having uttered these fragmentary 
 sentences, he seemed to feel that the power of speech had 
 passed away forever. He fixed his eyes piteously on those 
 around him, and, with a great sigh of grief, expired. I 
 gathered these facts from his granddaughter and Alain's 
 daughter, Alice Van Koeren, who had been summoned by 
 some friend to her grandfather's dying couch when it was 
 too late. It was the first time she had seen him, and 
 then she saw him die. 
 
 The results of Mr. Van Koeren's death were a nine 
 days' wonder to all the merchants in New York. Beyond 
 a small sum in the bank, and the house in which he lived, 
 which was mortgaged for its full value, Mr. Van Koeren 
 had died a pauper ! To those who knew him and knew 
 his affairs, this seemed inexplicable. Five or six years 
 
 22 
 
338 THE POT OF TULIPS. 
 
 before his death he had retired from business with a for- 
 tune of several hundred thousand dollars. He had lived 
 quietly since then, was known not to have speculated, 
 and could not have gambled. The question then was, 
 where had his wealth vanished to. Search was made in 
 every secretary, in every bureau, for some document 
 which might throw a light on the mysterious disposition 
 that he had made of his property. None was found. 
 Neither will, nor certificates of stock, nor title deeds, nor 
 bank accounts, were anywhere discernible. Inquiries were 
 made at the .offices of companies in which Mr. Van Koeren 
 was known to be largely interested ; he had sold out his 
 stock years ago. Real estate that had been believed to 
 be his was found on investigation to have passed into 
 other hands. There could be no doubt that for some 
 years past Mr. Van Koeren had been steadily converting all 
 his property into money, and what he had done with that 
 money no one knew. Alice Van Koeren and her mother, 
 who at the old gentleman's death were at first looked on 
 as millionnaires, discovered, when all was over, that they 
 were no better off than before. It was evident that the 
 old man, determined that one whom, though bearing his 
 name, he believed not to be of his blood, should never in- 
 herit his wealth or any share of it, had made away with 
 his fortune before his death, a posthumous vengeance 
 which was the only one by which the laws of the State of 
 New York relative to inheritance could be successfully 
 evaded. 
 
 I took a peculiar interest in the case, and even helped 
 to make some researches for the lost property, not so 
 much, I confess, from a spirit of general philanthropy, as 
 from certain feelings which I experienced toward Alice 
 Van Koeren, the heir to this invisible estate. I had long 
 
THE POT OF TULIPS. 339 
 
 known both her and her mother, when they were living 
 in honest poverty and earning a scanty subsistence by 
 their own labor; Mrs. Van Koeren working as an em- 
 broideress, and Alice turning to account, as a preparatory 
 governess, the education which her good mother, spite of 
 her limited means, had bestowed on her. 
 
 In a few words, then, I loved Alice Van Koeren, and 
 was determined to make her my wife as soon as my means 
 would allow me to support a fitting establishment. My 
 passion had never been declared. I was content for the 
 time with the secret consciousness of my own love, and 
 the no less grateful certainty that Alice returned it, all 
 unuttered as it was. I had, therefore, a double interest 
 in passing the summer at the old Dutch villa, for I felt it 
 to be connected somehow with Alice, and I could not for- 
 get the singular desire to iuhabit it which I had so often 
 experienced as a boy. 
 
 It was a lovely day in June when Jasper Joye and my- 
 self took up our abode in our new residence ; and as we 
 smoked our cigars on the piazza in the evening we felt 
 for the first time the unalloyed pleasure with which a 
 townsman breathes the puie air of the country. 
 
 The house and grounds had a quaint sort of beauty 
 that to me was eminently pleasing. Landscape garden- 
 ing, in the modern acceptation of the term, was then 
 almost unknown in this country, and the " laying out " of 
 the garden that surrounded our new home would doubt- 
 less have shocked Mr. London, the late Mr. Downing, or 
 Sir Thomas Dick Lauder. It was formal and artificial to 
 the last degree. The beds were cut into long parallelo- 
 grams, rigid and severe of aspect, and edged with prim 
 rows of stiff dwarf box. The walks, of course, crossed al- 
 ways at right angles, and the laurel and cypress trees that 
 
340 THE POT OF TULIPS. 
 
 grew here and there were clipped into cones, and spheres, 
 and rhomboids. It is true that, at the time my friend 
 and I hired the house, years of neglect had restored to 
 this formal garden somewhat of the raggedness of nature. 
 The box edgings were rank and wild. The clipped trees, 
 forgetful of geometric propriety, flourished into unauthor- 
 ized boughs and rebel offshoots. The walks were green 
 with moss, and the beds of Dutch tulips, which had been 
 planted in the shape of certain gorgeous birds, whose 
 colors were represented by masses of blossoms, each of a 
 single hue, had transgressed their limits, and the purple of 
 a parrot's wings might have been seen running recklessly 
 into the crimson of his head ; while, as bulbs, however 
 well-bred, will create other bulbs, the flower-birds of this 
 queer old Dutch garden became in time abominably dis- 
 torted in shape ; flamingoes with humps, golden pheas- 
 ants with legs preternaturally elongated, macaws afflicted 
 with hydrocephalus, each species of deformity being 
 proportioned to the rapidity with which the roots had 
 spread in some particular direction. Still, this strange 
 mixture of raggedness and formality, this conglomerate 
 of nature and art, had its charms. It was pleasant to 
 watch the struggle, as it were, between the opposing ele- 
 ments, and to see nature triumphing by degrees in every 
 direction. 
 
 The house itself was pleasant and commodious. Rooms 
 that, though not lofty, were spacious ; wide windows, and 
 cool piazzas extending over the four sides of the build- 
 ing; and a collection of antique carved furniture, some 
 of which, from its elaborateness, might well have come 
 from the chisel of Master Grinling Gibbons. There was 
 a mantel-piece in the dining-room, with which I remem- 
 ber being very much struck when first I came to take 
 
THE POT OF TULIPS. 341 
 
 possession. It was a singular and fantastical piece of 
 carving. It was a perfect tropical garden, menagerie, 
 and aviary, in one. Birds, beasts, and flowers were sculp- 
 tured on the wood with exquisite correctness of detail, 
 and painted with the hues of nature. The Dutch taste for 
 color was here fully gratified. Parrots, love-birds, scar- 
 let lories, blue-faced baboons, crocodiles, passion-flowers, 
 tigers, Egyptian lilies, and Brazilian butterflies, were all 
 mixed in gorgeous confusion. The artist, whoever he 
 was, must have been an admirable naturalist, for the 
 ease and freedom of his carving were only equalled by 
 the wonderful accuracy with which the different animals 
 were represented. Altogether it was one of those oddi- 
 ties of Dutch conception, whose strangeness was in this 
 instance redeemed by the excellence of the execution. 
 
 Such was the establishment that Jasper Joye and my- 
 self were to inhabit for the summer months. 
 
 " What a strange thing it was," said Jasper, as we 
 lounged on the piazza together the night of our arrival, 
 "that old Van Koeren's property should never have 
 turned up!" 
 
 "It is a question with some people whether he had 
 any at his death," I answered. 
 
 " Pshaw ! every one knows that he did not or could 
 not have lost that with which he retired from business." 
 
 " It is strange," said I, thoughtfully ; " yet every possi- 
 ble search has been made for documents that might throw 
 light on the mystery. I have myself sought in every 
 quarter for traces of this lost wealth, but in vain." 
 
 " Perhaps he buried it,'* suggested Jasper, laughing ; " if 
 so, we may find it here in a hole one fine morning." 
 
 " I think it much more likely that he destroyed it," I 
 replied. "You know he never could be got to believe 
 
342 THE POT OF TULIPS. 
 
 that Alain Van Koeren was his son, and I believe him 
 quite capable of having flung all his money into the sea 
 in order to prevent those whom he considered not of his 
 blood inheriting it, which they must have done under our 
 laws." 
 
 " I am sorry that Alice did not become an heiress, both 
 for your sake and hers. She is a charming girl." 
 
 Jasper, from whom I concealed nothing, knew of my 
 love. 
 
 '.'As to that," I answered, "it is little matter. I shall 
 in a year or two be independent enough to marry, and 
 can afford to let Mr. Van Koeren's cherished gold sleep 
 wherever he has concealed it." 
 
 " Well, I 'm off to bed," said Jasper, yawning. " This 
 country air makes one sleepy early. Be on the lookout 
 for trap-doors and all that sort of thing, old fellow. 
 Who knows but the old chap's dollars will turn up. 
 Good night ! "* 
 
 " Good night, Jasper ! " 
 
 So we parted for the night. He to his room, which lay 
 on the west side of the building ; I to mine on the east, 
 situated at the end of a long corridor and exactly opposite 
 to Jasper's. 
 
 The night was very still and warm. The clearness 
 with which I heard the song of the katydid and the 
 croak of the bull-frog seemed to make the silence more 
 distinct. The air was dense and breathless, and, although 
 longing to throw wide my windows, I dared not ; for, out- 
 side, the ominous trumpetings of an army of mosquitoes 
 sounded threateningly. 
 
 I tossed on my bed oppressed with the heat ; kicked 
 the sheets into every spot where they ought not to be ; 
 turned my pillow every two minutes in the hope of find- 
 
THE POT OF TULIPS. 343 
 
 ing a cool side ; in short, did everything that a man 
 does when he lies awake on a very hot night and cannot 
 open his window. 
 
 Suddenly, in the midst of my miseries, and when I had 
 made up my mind to fling open the casement in spite of 
 the legion of mosquitoes that I knew were hungrily wait- 
 ing outside, I felt a continuous stream of cold air blowing 
 upon my face. Luxurious as the sensation was, I could 
 not help starting as I felt it. Where could this draught 
 come from ] The door was closed ; so were the windows. 
 It did not come from the direction of the fireplace, and, 
 even if it did, the air without was too still to produce so 
 strong a current. I rose in my bed and gazed round the 
 room, the whole of which, though only lit by a dim 
 twilight, was still sufficiently visible. I thought at first 
 it was a trick of Jasper's, who might have provided him- 
 self with a bellows or a long tube ; but a careful inves- 
 tigation of the apartment convinced me that no one was 
 present. Besides, I had locked the door, and it was not 
 likely that any one had been concealed in the room be- 
 fore I entered it. It was exceedingly strange ; but still 
 the draught of cool wind blew on my face and chest, 
 every now and then changing its direction, sometimes 
 on one side, sometimes on the other. I am not consti- 
 tutionally nervous, and had been too long accustomed 
 to reflect on philosophical subjects to become the prey 
 of fear in the presence of mysterious phenomena. I had 
 devoted much time to the investigation of what are popu- 
 larly called supernatural matters, by those who have not 
 reflected or examined sufficiently to discover that none 
 of these apparent miracles are sw/?er-natural, but all, how- 
 ever singular, directly dependent on certain natural laws. 
 I became speedily convinced, therefore, as I sat up in my 
 
344 THE POT OF TULIPS. 
 
 bed peering into the dim recesses of my chamber, that 
 this mysterious wind was the effect or forerunner of a 
 supernatural visitation, and I mentally determined to in- 
 vestigate it, as it developed itself, with a philosophical 
 calmness. 
 
 " Is any one in this room ? v I asked, as distinctly as I 
 could. No reply; while the cool wind still swept over 
 my cheek. I knew, in the case of Elizabeth Eslinger, 
 who was visited by an apparition while in the Weinsberg 
 jail, and whose singular and apparently authentic experi- 
 ences were made the subject of a book by Dr. Kerner, 
 that the manifestation of the spirit was invariably accom- 
 panied by such a breezy sensation as I now experienced. 
 I therefore gathered my will, as it were, into a focus, and 
 endeavored, as much as lay in my power, to put myself 
 in accord with the disembodied spirit, if such there were, 
 knowing that on such conditions alone would it be enabled 
 to manifest itself to me. 
 
 Presently it seemed as if a luminous cloud was gather- 
 ing in one corner of the room, a sort of dim phos- 
 phoric vapor, shadowy and ill-defined. It changed its po- 
 sition frequently, sometimes coming nearer and at others 
 retreating to the furthest end of the room. As it grew 
 intenser and more radiant, I observed a sickening and 
 corpse-like odor diffuse itself through the chamber, and, 
 despite my anxiety to witness this phenomenon undis- 
 turbed, I could with difficulty conquer a feeling of faint- 
 ness which oppressed me. 
 
 The luminous cloud now began to grow brighter and 
 brighter as I gazed. The horrible odor of which I have 
 spoken did not cease to oppress me, and gradually I could 
 discover certain lines making themselves visible in the 
 midst of this lambent radiance. These lines took the 
 
THE POT OF TULIPS. 345 
 
 form of a human figure, a tall man, clothed in a long 
 dressing-robe, with a pale countenance, burning eyes, and 
 a very bold and prominent chin. At a glance I recog- 
 nized the original of the picture of old Van Koeren that I 
 had seen with Alice. My interest was now aroused to the 
 highest point ; I felt that I stood face to face with a spirit, 
 and doubted not that I should learn the fate of the old 
 man's mysteriously concealed wealth. 
 
 The spirit presented a very strange appearance. He 
 himself was not luminous, except some tongues of fire 
 that seemed to proceed from the tips of his fingers, but 
 was compleiely surrounded by a thin gauze of light, so to 
 speak, through which his outlines were visible. His head 
 was bare, and his white hair fell in huge masses around 
 his stern, saturnine face. As he moved on the floor, I 
 distinctly heard a strange crackling sound, such as one 
 hears when a substance has been overcharged with elec- 
 tricity. But the circumstance that seemed to me most 
 incomprehensible connected with the apparition was that 
 Yan Koeren held in both hands a curiously painted 
 flower-pot, out of which sprang a number of the most 
 beautiful tulips in full blossom. He seemed very uneasy 
 and agitated, and moved about the room as if in pain, 
 frequently bending over the pot of tulips as if to inhale 
 their odor, then holding it out to me, seemingly in the 
 hope of attracting my attention to it. I was, I confess, 
 very much puzzled. I knew that Mr. Van Koeren had 
 in his lifetime devoted much of his leisure to the cul- 
 tivation of flowers, importing from Holland the most 
 expensive and rarest bulbs ; but how this innocent fancy 
 could trouble him after death I could not imagine. I 
 felt assured, however, that some important reason lay at 
 the bottom of this spectral eccentricity, and determined 
 to fathom it if I could. 
 
346 THE POT OF TULIPS. 
 
 " What brings you here 1 w I asked audibly ; directing 
 mentally, however, at the same time, the question to the 
 spirit with all the power of my will. He did not seem 
 to hear me, but still kept moving uneasily about, with 
 the crackling noise I have mentioned, and holding the 
 pot of tulips toward me. 
 
 " It is evident," I said to myself, " that I am not suffi- 
 ciently in accord with this spirit for him to make himself 
 understood by speech. He has, therefore, recourse to 
 symbols. The pot of tulips is a symbol. But of what 1 " 
 
 Thus reflecting on these things I continued to gaze 
 upon the spirit. While observing him attentively, he 
 approached my bedside by a rapid movement, and laid 
 one hand on my arm. The touch was icy cold, and 
 pained me at the moment. Next morning my arm was 
 swollen, and marked with a round blue spot. Then, pass- 
 ing to my bedroom-door, the spirit opened it and went 
 out, shutting it behind him. Catching for a moment 
 at the idea that I was the dupe of a trick, I jumped 
 out of bed and ran to the door. It was locked with the 
 key on the inside, and a brass safety-bolt, which lay above 
 the lock, shot safely home. All was as I had left it on 
 going to bed. Yet I declare most solemnly, that, as the 
 ghost made his exit, I not only saw the door open, but / 
 saw the corridor outside, and distinctly observed a large pic- 
 ture of William of Orange that hung just opposite to my room. 
 This to me was the most curious portion of the phenom- 
 ena I had witnessed. Either the door had been opened by 
 the ghost, and the resistance of physical obstacles over- 
 come in some amazing manner, because in this case the 
 bolts must have been replaced when the ghost was out- 
 side the door, or he must have had a sufficient mag- 
 netic accord with my mind to impress upon it the belief 
 
THE POT OF TULIPS. 347 
 
 that the door was opened, and also to conjure up in my 
 brain the vision of the corridor and the picture, features 
 that I should have seen if the door had been opened by 
 any ordinary physical agency. 
 
 The next morning at breakfast I suppose my manner 
 must have betrayed me, for Jasper said to me, after star- 
 ing at me for some time, " Why, Harry Escott, what 's the 
 matter with you 1 You look as if you had seen a ghost ! " 
 
 " So I have, Jasper." 
 
 Jasper, of course, burst into laughter, and said he 'd 
 shave my head and give me a shower-bath. 
 
 " Well, you may laugh," I answered ; " but you shall 
 see it to-night, Jasper." 
 
 He became serious in a moment, I suppose there 
 was something earnest in my manner that convinced him 
 that my words were not idle, and asked me to explain. 
 I described ray interview as accurately as I could. 
 
 " How did you know that it was old Van Koeren 1 " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Because I have seen his picture a hundred times with 
 Alice," I answered, " and this apparition was as like it as 
 it was possible for a ghost to be like a miniature." 
 
 " You must not think I 'm laughing at you, Harry, he 
 continued, " but I wish you would answer this. We have 
 all heard of ghosts, ghosts of men, women, children, 
 dogs, horses, in fact every living animal ; but hang me 
 if ever I heard of the ghost of a flower-pot before." 
 
 " My dear Jasper, you would have heard of such things 
 if you had studied such branches of learning. All the 
 phenomena I witnessed last night are supportable by 
 well-authenticated facts. The cool wind has attended the 
 appearance of more than one ghost, and Baron Reichen- 
 bach asserts that his patients, who you know are for the 
 
348 THE POT OF TULIPS. 
 
 most part sensitive to apparitions, invariably feel this 
 wind when a magnet is brought close to their bodies. 
 With regard to the flower-pot about which you make so 
 merry, it is to me the least wonderful portion of the appa- 
 rition. When a ghost is unable to find a person of suffi- 
 cient receptivity, in order to communicate with him by 
 speech it is obliged to have recourse to symbols to ex- 
 press its wishes. These it either creates by some mys- 
 terious power out of the surrounding atmosphere, or it 
 impresses, by magnetic force on the mind of the person 
 it visits, the form of the symbol it is anxious to have 
 represented. There is an instance mentioned by Jung 
 Stilling of a student at Brunswick, who appeared to a 
 professor of his college, with a picture in his hands, which 
 picture had a hole in it that the ghost thrust his head 
 through. For a long time this symbol was a mystery ; 
 but the student was persevering, and appeared every 
 night with his head through the picture, until at last 
 it was discovered that, before he died, he had got some 
 painted slides for a magic lantern from a shopkeeper in 
 the town, which had not been paid for at his death ; and 
 when the debt had been discharged, he and his picture 
 vanished forevermore. Now here was a symbol distinctly 
 bearing on the question at issue. This poor student could 
 find no better way of expressing his uneasiness at the 
 debt for the painted slides than by thrusting his head 
 through a picture. How he conjured up the picture I 
 cannot pretend to explain, but that it was used as a sym- 
 bol is evident." 
 
 " Then you think the flower-pot of old Van Koeren is 
 a symbol 1 " 
 
 " Most assuredly, the pot of tulips he held was intended 
 to express that which he could not speak. I think it 
 
THE POT OF TULIPS. 349 
 
 must have had some reference to his missing property, 
 and it is our business to discover in what manner." 
 
 " Let us go and dig up all the tulip beds," said Jasper, 
 " who knows but he may have buried his money in one 
 of them 1 " 
 
 I grieve to say that I assented to Jasper's proposition, 
 and on that eventful day every tulip in that quaint old 
 garden was ruthlessly uprooted. The gorgeous macaws, 
 and ragged parrots, and long-legged pheasants, so cun- 
 ningly formed by those brilliant flowers, were that day 
 exterminated. Jasper and I had a regular battue amidst 
 this floral preserve, and many a splendid bird fell before 
 our unerring spades. We, however, dug in vain. No 
 secret coffer turned up out of the deep mould of the 
 flower-beds. We evidently were not on the right scent. 
 Our researches for that day terminated, and Jasper and 
 myself waited impatiently for the night. 
 
 It was arranged that Jasper should sleep in my room. 
 I had a bed rigged up for him near my own, and I was to 
 have the additional assistance of his senses in the inves- 
 tigation of the phenomena that we so confidently expected 
 to appear. 
 
 The night came. We retired to our respective couches, 
 after carefully bolting the doors, and subjecting the entire 
 apartment to the strictest scrutiny, rendering it totally 
 impossible that a secret entrance should exist unknown 
 to us. We then put out the lights, and awaited the 
 apparition. 
 
 We did not remain in suspense long. About twenty 
 minutes after we retired to bed, Jasper called out, " Har- 
 ry, I feel the cool wind ! " 
 
 " So do I," I answered, for at that moment a light 
 breeze seemed to play across my temples. 
 
350 THE POT OF TULIPS. 
 
 " Look, look, Harry ! " continued Jasper in a tone of 
 painful eagerness, " I see a light there in the corner ! " 
 
 It was the phantom. As before, the luminous cloud 
 appeared to gather in the room, growing more and more 
 intense each minute. Presently the dark lines mapped 
 themselves out, as it were, in the midst of this pale, radi- 
 ant vapor, and there stood Mr. Van Koeren, ghastly and 
 mournful as ever, with the pot of tulips in his hands. 
 
 " Do you see it V' I asked Jasper. 
 
 " My God ! yes," said Jasper, in a low voice. " How 
 terrible he looks ! " 
 
 " Can you speak to me, to-night 1 " I said, addressing 
 the apparition, and again concentrating my will upon my 
 question. " If so, unburden yourself. We will assist 
 you, if we can." 
 
 There was no reply. The ghost preserved the same 
 sad, impassive countenance ; he had heard me not. He 
 seemed in great distress on this occasion, moving up and 
 down, and holding out the pot of tulips imploringly toward 
 me, each motion of his being accompanied by the crack- 
 ling noise and the corpse-like odor. I felt sorely troubled 
 myself to see this poor spirit torn by an endless grief, so 
 anxious to communicate to me what lay on his soul, and 
 yet debarred by some occult power from the privilege. 
 
 "Why, Harry," cried Jasper after a silence, during 
 which we both watched the motions of the ghost intently, 
 " why, Harry, my boy, there are two of them ! " 
 
 Astonished by his words, I looked around, and became 
 immediately aware of the presence of a second luminous 
 cloud, in the midst of which I could distinctly trace the 
 figure of a pale but lovely woman. I needed no second 
 glance to assure me that it was the unfortunate wife of 
 Van Koeren. 
 
THE POT OF TULIPS. 351 
 
 " It is his wife, Jasper," I replied ; " I recognize her, 
 as I have recognized her husband, by the portrait." 
 
 " How sad she looks ! " exclaimed Jasper in a low voice. 
 
 She did indeed look sad. Her face, pale and mournful, 
 did not, however, seem convulsed with sorrow, as was 
 her husband's. She seemed to be oppressed with a calm 
 grief, and gazed with a look of interest that was pain- 
 ful in its intensity, on Van Koeren. It struck me, from 
 his air, that, though she saw him, he did not see her. 
 His whole attention was concentrated on the pot of tu- 
 lips, while Mrs. Van Koeren, who floated at an elevation 
 of about three feet from the floor, and thus overtopped 
 her husband, seemed equally absorbed in the contempla- 
 tion of his slightest movement. Occasionally she would 
 turn her eyes on me, as if to call my attention to her 
 companion, and then, returning, gaze on him with a sad, 
 womanly, half-eager smile, that to me was inexpressibly 
 mournful. 
 
 There was something exceedingly touching in this 
 strange sight ; these two spirits so near, yet so distant. 
 The sinful husband torn with grief and weighed down 
 with some terrible secret, and so blinded by the grossness 
 of his being as to be unable to see the wife-angel who was 
 watching over him ; while she, forgetting all her wrongs, 
 and attracted to earth by perhaps the same human sym- 
 pathies, watched from a greater spiritual height, and with 
 a tender interest, the struggles of her suffering spouse. 
 
 "By Jove !" exclaimed Jasper, jumping from his bed, 
 " I know what it means now." 
 
 " What does it mean ] " I asked, as eager to know as 
 he was to communicate. 
 
 "Well, that flower-pot that the old chap is holding " 
 Jasper, I grieve to say, was rather profane. 
 
352 THE POT OF TULIPS. 
 
 " Well, what of that flower-pot ? " 
 
 " Observe the pattern. It has two handles made of red 
 snakes, whose tails twist round the top and form a rim. 
 It contains tulips of three colors, yellow, red, and purple." 
 
 "I see all that as well as you do. Let us have the 
 solution." 
 
 " Well, Harry, my boy ! don't you remember that there 
 is just such a flower-pot, tulips, snakes and all, carved on 
 the queer old painted mantel-piece in the dining-room * 
 
 " So there is ! " and a gleam of hope shot across my 
 brain, and my heart beat quicker. 
 
 " Now as sure as you are alive, Harry, the old fellow has 
 concealed something important behind that mantel-piece." 
 
 "Jasper, if ever I am Emperor of France, I will make 
 you chief of police; your inductive reasoning is mag- 
 nificent." 
 
 Actuated by the same impulse, and without another 
 word, we both sprang out of bed and lit a candle. The 
 apparitions, if they remained, were no longer visible in 
 the light. Hastily throwing on some clothes, we rushed 
 down stairs to the dining-room, determined to have the 
 old mantel-piece down without loss of time. We had 
 scarce entered the room when we felt the cool wind 
 blowing on our faces. 
 
 "Jasper," said I, "they are here !," 
 
 " Well," answered Jasper, " that only confirms my sus- 
 picions that we are 011 the right track this time. Let us 
 go to work. See ! here 's the pot of tulips." 
 
 This pot of tulips occupied the centre of the mantel- 
 piece, and served as a nucleus round which all the fantas- 
 tic animals sculptured elsewhere might be said to gather. 
 It was carved on a species of raised shield, or boss, of 
 wood, that projected some inches beyond the plane of the 
 
THE POT OF TULIPS. 353 
 
 remainder of the mantel-piece. The pot itself was painted 
 a brick color. The snakes were of bronze color, gilt, and 
 the tulips yellow, red, and purple were painted after 
 nature with the most exquisite accuracy. 
 
 For some time Jasper and myself tugged away at this 
 projection without any avail. We were convinced that it 
 was a movable panel of some kind, but yet were totally 
 unable to move it. Suddenly it struck me that we had 
 not yet twisted it. I immediately proceeded to apply all 
 my strength, and after a few seconds of vigorous exertion 
 I had the satisfaction of finding it move slowly round. 
 After giving it half a dozen turns, to my astonishment the 
 long upper panel of the mantel-piece fell out toward us, 
 apparently on concealed hinges, after the manner of 
 the portion of escritoires that is used as a writing-table. 
 Within were several square cavities sunk in the wall, 
 and lined with wood. In one of these was a bundle 
 of papers. 
 
 We seized these papers with avidity, and hastily glanced 
 over them. They proved to be documents vouching for 
 property to the amount of several hundred thousand dol- 
 lars, invested in the name of Mr. Van Koeren in a certain 
 firm at Bremen, who, no doubt, thought by this time 
 that the money would remain unclaimed forever. The 
 desires of these poor troubled spirits were accomplished. 
 Justice to the child had been given through the instru- 
 mentality of the erring father. 
 
 The formulas necessary to prove Alice and her mother 
 sole heirs to Mr. Van Koeren's estate were briefly gone 
 through, and the poor governess passed suddenly from the 
 task of teaching stupid children to the envied position of 
 a great heiress. I had ample reason afterward for think- 
 ing that her heart did not change with her fortunes. 
 * 23 
 
354 THE POT OF TULIPS. 
 
 That Mr. Van Koeren became aware of his wife's inno- 
 cence, just before he died, I have no doubt. How this 
 was manifested I cannot of course say, but I think it 
 highly probably that his poor wife herself was enabled at 
 the critical moment of dissolution, when the link that 
 binds body and soul together is attenuated to the last 
 thread, to put herself in accord with her unhappy hus- 
 band. Hence his sudden starting up in his bed, his ap- 
 parent conversation with some invisible being, and his 
 fragmentary disclosures, too broken, however, to be com- 
 prehended. 
 
 The question of apparitions has been so often discussed 
 that I feel no inclination to enter here upon the truth or 
 fallacy of the ghostly theory. I myself believe in ghosts. 
 Alice my wife believes in them firmly ; and if it 
 suited me to do so I could overwhelm you with a scien- 
 tific theory of my own on the subject, reconciling ghosts 
 and natural phenomena. 
 
THE GOLDEN INGOT. 355 
 
 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 
 
 I HAD just retired to rest, with my eyes almost blind 
 with, the study of a new work on physiology by M. Brown- 
 Sequard, when the night-bell was pulled violently. 
 
 It was winter, and I confess I grumbled- as I rose and 
 went down stairs to open the door. Twice that week I 
 had been aroused long after midnight for the most trivial 
 causes. Once, to attend upon the son and heir of a 
 wealthy family, who had cut his thumb with a penknife, 
 which, it seems, he insisted on taking to bed with him ; 
 and once, to restore a young gentleman to consciousness, 
 who had been found by his horrified parent stretched 
 insensible on the staircase. Diachylon in the one case 
 and ammonia in the other, were all that my patients re- 
 quired ; and I had a faint suspicion that the present 
 summons was perhaps occasioned by no case more neces- 
 sitous than those I have quoted. I was too young in my 
 profession, however, to neglect opportunities. It is only 
 when a physician rises to a very large practice that he 
 can afford to be inconsiderate. I was on the first step of 
 the ladder, so I humbly opened my door. 
 
 A woman was standing ankle-deep in the snow that lay 
 upon the stoop. I caught but a dim glimpse of her form, 
 for the night was cloudy ; but I could hear her teeth rat- 
 tling like castanets, and, as the sharp wind blew her 
 
356 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 
 
 clothes close to her form, I could discern from the sharp- 
 ness of the outlines that she was very scantily supplied 
 with raiment. 
 
 "Come in, come in, my good woman," I said hastily, 
 for the wind seemed to catch eagerly at the opportunity 
 of making itself at home in my hall, and was rapidly 
 forcing an entrance through the half-open door. " Come 
 in, you can tell me all you have to communicate inside." 
 
 She slipped in like a ghost, and I closed the door. 
 While I was striking a light in my office, I could hear 
 her teeth still clicking, out in the dark hall, till it seemed 
 as if some skeleton was chattering. As soon as I obtained 
 a light I begged her to enter the room, and, without occu- 
 pying myself particularly about her appearance, asked 
 her abruptly what her business was. 
 
 " My father has met with a severe accident," she said, 
 " and requires instant surgical aid. I entreat you to 
 come to him immediately." 
 
 The freshness and the melody of her voice startled me. 
 Such voices rarely if ever issue from any but beautiful 
 forms. I looked at her attentively, but, owing to a non- 
 descript species of shawl in which her head was wrapped, 
 I could discern nothing beyond what seemed to be a pale, 
 thin face, and large eyes. Her dress was lamentable. 
 An old silk, of a color now unrecognizable, clung to her 
 figure in those limp folds which are so eloquent of misery. 
 The creases where it had been folded were worn nearly 
 through, and the edges of the skirt had decayed into 
 a species of irregular fringe, which was clotted and dis- 
 colored with mud. Her shoes which were but half con- 
 cealed by this scanty garment were shapeless and soft 
 with moisture. Her hands were hidden under the ends 
 of the shawl which covered her head and hung down 
 
THE GOLDEN INGOT. 357 
 
 over a bust, the outlines of which, although angular, seemed 
 to possess grace. Poverty, when partially shrouded, sel- 
 dom fails to interest : witness the statue of the Veiled 
 Beggar, by Monti. 
 
 " In what manner was your father hurt 1 " I asked, in a 
 tone considerably softened from the one in which I put 
 my first question. 
 
 " He blew himself up, sir, and is terribly wounded." 
 
 " Ah ! He is in some factory then 1 " 
 
 " No, sir, he is a chemist." 
 
 " A chemist 1 Why, he is a brother professional. Wait 
 an instant and I will slip on my coat and go with you. 
 Do you live far from here ] " 
 
 " In the Seventh Avenue, not more than two blocks 
 from the end of this street." 
 
 " So much the better. We will be with him in a few 
 minutes. Did you leave any one in attendance on him ] " 
 
 " No, sir. He will allow no one but myself to enter 
 his laboratory. And, injured as he is, I could not induce 
 him to quit it." 
 
 " Indeed ! He is engaged in some great research, per- 
 haps ? I have known such cases." 
 
 We were passing under a lamp-post, and the woman 
 suddenly turned and glared at me with a look of such 
 wild terror that for an instant I involuntarily glanced 
 round me under the impression that some terrible peril, 
 unseen by me, was menacing us both. 
 
 " Don't don't ask me any questions," she said breath- 
 lessly. " He will tell you all. But do, 0, do hasten ! 
 Good God ! he may be dead by this time ! " 
 
 I made no reply, but allowed her to grasp my hand, 
 which she did with a bony, nervous clutch, and endeav- 
 ored with some difficulty to keep pace with the long strides 
 
358 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 
 
 I might well call them bounds, for they seemed the 
 springs of a wild animal rather than the paces of a young 
 girl with which she covered the ground. Not a word 
 more was uttered until we stopped before a shabby, old- 
 fashioned tenement-house in the Seventh Avenue, not far 
 above Twenty-Third Street. She pushed the door open 
 with a convulsive pressure, and, still retaining hold of my 
 hand, literally dragged me up-stairs to what seemed to be 
 a back off-shoot from the main building, as high, perhaps, 
 as the fourth story. In a moment more I found myself 
 in a moderate-sized chamber, lit by a single lamp. In 
 one corner, stretched motionless on a wretched pallet-bed, 
 I beheld what I supposed to be the figure of my patient. 
 
 " He is there," said the girl ; " go to him. See if he 
 is dead, I dare not look." 
 
 I made my way as well as I could through the num- 
 berless dilapidated chemical instruments with which the 
 room was littered. A French chafing-dish supported on 
 an iron tripod had been overturned, and was lying across 
 the floor, while the charcoal, still warm, was scattered 
 around in various directions. Crucibles, alembics, and 
 retorts were confusedly piled in various corners, and on 
 a small table I saw distributed in separate bottles a num- 
 ber of mineral and metallic substances, which I recognized 
 as antimony, mercury, plumbago, arsenic, borax, etc. It 
 was veritably the apartment of a poor chemist. All the 
 apparatus had the air of being second-hand. There was 
 no lustre of exquisitely annealed glass and highly polished 
 metals, such as dazzles one in the laboratory of the pros- 
 perous analyst. The make-shifts of poverty were every- 
 where visible. The crucibles were broken, or gallipots 
 were used instead of crucibles. The colored tests were 
 not in the usual transparent vials, but were placed in 
 
THE GOLDEN INGOT. 359 
 
 ordinary black bottles. There is nothing more melan- 
 choly than to behol'd science or art in distress. A thread- 
 bare scholar, a tattered book, or a battered violin is a 
 mute appeal to our sympathy. 
 
 I approached the wretched pallet-bed on which the vic- 
 tim of chemistry was lying. He breathed heavily, and 
 had his head turned toward the wall. I lifted his arm 
 gently to arouse his attention. " How goes it, my poor 
 friend ? " I asked him. " Where are you hurt 1 " 
 
 In a moment, as if startled by the sound of my voice, 
 he sprang up in his bed, and cowered against the wall 
 like a wild animal driven to bay. " Who are you 1 I 
 don't know you. Who brought you here ] You are a 
 stranger. How dare you come into my private rooms 
 to spy upon me 1 " 
 
 And as he uttered this rapidly, with a frightful nervous 
 energy, I beheld a pale distorted face, draped with long 
 gray hair, glaring at me with a mingled expression of fury 
 and terror. 
 
 " I am no spy," I answered mildly. " I heard that 
 you had met with an accident, and have come to cure 
 you. I am Doctor Luxor, and here is my card." 
 
 The old man took the card, and scanned it eagerly. 
 " You are a physician 1 " he inquired distrustfully. 
 
 " And surgeon also." 
 
 " You are bound by oath not to reveal the secrets of 
 your patients." 
 
 " Undoubtedly." 
 
 "I am afraid that I am hurt," he continued faintly, 
 half sinking back in the bed. 
 
 I seized the opportunity to make a brief examination 
 of his body. I found that the arms, a part of the chest, 
 and a part of the face were terribly scorched ; but it 
 
360 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 
 
 seemed to me that there was nothing to be apprehended 
 but pain. 
 
 "You will not reveal anything that you may learn 
 here 1 " said the old man, feebly fixing his eyes on my 
 face while I was applying a soothing ointment to the 
 burns. " You will promise me 1 " 
 
 I nodded assent. 
 
 " Then I will trust you. Cure me, I will pay you 
 well." 
 
 I could scarce help smiling. If Lorenzo de' Medici, 
 conscious of millions of ducats in his coffers, had been 
 addressing some leech of the period, he could not have 
 spoken with a loftier air than this inhabitant of the fourth 
 story of a tenement-house in the Seventh Avenue. 
 
 "You must keep quiet," I answered. "Let nothing 
 irritate you. I will leave a composing draught with your 
 daughter, which she will give you immediately. I will 
 see you in the morning. You will be well in a week." 
 
 " Thank God ! " came in a murmur from a dusk corner 
 near the door. I turned, and beheld the dim outline of 
 the girl, standing with clasped hands in the gloom of the 
 dim chamber. 
 
 "My daughter!" screamed the old man, once more 
 leaping up in the bed with renewed vitality. "You have 
 seen her, then 1 ? When? where? 0, may a thousand 
 cur" 
 
 " Father ! father ! Anything, anything but that. 
 Don't, don't curse me ! " And the poor girl, rushing in, 
 flung herself sobbing on her knees beside his pallet. 
 
 "Ah, brigand ! you are there, are you ? Sir," said he, 
 turning to me, "I am the most unhappy man in the 
 world. Talk of Sisyphus rolling the ever-recoiling stone, 
 of Prometheus gnawed by the vulture since the birth 
 
THE GOLDEN INGOT. 361 
 
 of time. The fables yet live. There is my rock, forever 
 crushing me back ! there is my aternal vulture, feeding 
 upon my heart ! There ! there ! there ! " And, with an 
 awful gesture of malediction and hatred, he pointed with 
 his wounded hand, swathed and shapeless with bandages, 
 at the cowering, sobbing, wordless woman by his side. 
 
 I was too much horror-stricken to attempt even to 
 soothe him. The anger of blood against blood has an 
 electric power which paralyzes bystanders. 
 
 " Listen to me, sir," he continued, " while I skin this 
 painted viper. I have your oath ; you will not reveal. I 
 am an alchemist, sir. Since I was twenty-two years old, 
 I have pursued the wonderful and subtle secret. Yes, 
 to unfold the mysterious Rose guarded with such terrible 
 thorns ; to decipher the wondrous Table of Emerald ; to 
 accomplish the mystic nuptials of the Red King and the 
 White Queen; to marry them soul to soul and body to 
 body for ever and ever, in the exact proportions of laud 
 and water, such has been my sublime aim, such has 
 been the splendid feat that I have accomplished." 
 
 I recognized at a glance, in this incomprehensible far- 
 rago, the argot of the true alchemist. Ripley, Flamel, 
 and others have supplied the world, in their works, with 
 the melancholy spectacle of a scientific Bedlam. 
 
 " Two years since," continued the poor man, growing 
 more and more excited with every word that he uttered, 
 " two years since, I succeeded in solving the great 
 problem, in transmuting the baser metals into gold. 
 None but myself, that girl, and God knows the privations 
 I had suffered up to that time. Food, clothing, air, ex- 
 ercise, everything but shelter, was sacrificed toward the 
 one great end. Success at last crowned my labors. That 
 which Nicholas Flamel did in 1382, that which George 
 
362 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 
 
 Ripley did at Rhodes in 1460, that which Alexander Sethon 
 and Michael Scudivogjus did in the seventeenth century, 
 I did in 1856. I made gold ! I said to myself, * I will 
 astonish New York more than Flamel did Paris.' He 
 was a poor copyist, and suddenly launched into magnifi- 
 cence. I had scarce a rag to rny back : I would rival the 
 Medicis. I made gold every day. I toiled night and 
 morning ; for I must tell you that I never was able to 
 make more than a certain quantity at a time, and that by 
 a process almost entirely dissimilar to those hinted at in 
 those books of alchemy I had hitherto consulted. But I 
 had no doubt that facility would come with experience, 
 and that erelong I should be able to eclipse in wealth the 
 richest sovereigns of the earth. 
 
 " So I toiled on. Day after day I gave to this girl here 
 what gold I succeeded in fabricating, telling her to store 
 it away after supplying our necessities. I was astonished 
 to perceive that we lived as poorly as ever. I reflected, 
 however, that it was perhaps a commendable piece of 
 prudence on the part of my daughter. Doubtless, I said, 
 she argues that the less we spend -the sooner we shall ac- 
 cumulate a capital wherewith to live at ease ; so, thinking 
 her course a wise one, I did not reproach her with her nig- 
 gardliness, but toiled on amid want, with closed lips. 
 
 " The gold which I fabricated was, as I said before, of 
 an invariable size, namely, a little ingot worth perhaps 
 thirty or forty-five dollars. In two years I calculated 
 that I had made five hundred of these ingots, which, 
 rated at an average of thirty dollars a piece, would amount 
 to the gross sum of fifteen thousand dollars. After de- 
 ducting our slight expenses for two years, we ought to 
 have nearly fourteen thousand dollars left. It was time, 
 I thought, to indemnify myself for my years of suffering, 
 
THE GOLDEN INGOT. 363 
 
 and surround my child and myself with such moderate 
 comforts as our means allowed. I went to my daughter 
 and explained to her that I desired to make an encroach- 
 ment upon our little hoard. To my utter amazement, 
 she burst into tears, and told me that she had not got a 
 dollar, that all of our wealth had been stolen from her. 
 Almost overwhelmed by this new misfortune, I in vain 
 endeavored to discover from her in what manner our sav- 
 ings had been plundered. She could afford me no ex- 
 planation beyond what I might gather from an abundance 
 of sobs and a copious flow of tears. 
 
 " It was a bitter blow, Doctor, but nil desperandum was 
 my motto, so I went to work at my crucible again, with 
 redoubled energy, and made an ingot nearly every second 
 day. I determined this time to put them in some secure 
 place myself ; but the very first day I set my apparatus 
 in order for the projection, the girl Marian that is my 
 daughter's name came weeping to me and implored me 
 to allow her to take care of our treasure. I refused, de- 
 cisively, saying that, having found her already incapable 
 of filling the trust, I could place no faith in her again. 
 But she persisted, clung to my neck, threatened to aban- 
 don me, in short used so many of the bad but irresistible 
 arguments known to women, that I had not the heart to 
 refuse her. She has since that time continued to take 
 the ingots. 
 
 " Yet you behold," continued the old alchemist, casting 
 an inexpressibly mournful glance around the wretched 
 apartment, " the way we live. Our food is insufficient 
 and of bad quality ; we never buy clothes ; the rent of 
 this hole is a mere nothing. What am I to think of the 
 wretched girl who plunges me into this misery 1 Is she 
 a miser, think you 1 or a female gamester 1 or or 
 
364 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 
 
 does she squander it riotously in places I know not of 1 ? 
 Doctor, Doctor! do not blame me if I heap impreca- 
 tions on her head, for I have suffered bitterly ! " The 
 poor man here closed his eyes and sank back groaning 
 on his bed. 
 
 This singular narrative excited in me the strangest 
 emotions. I glanced at the girl Marian, who had been a 
 patient listener to these horrible accusations of cupidity, 
 and never did I behold a more angelic air of resignation 
 than beamed over her countenance. It was impossible 
 that any one with those pure, limpid eyes, that calm, 
 broad forehead, that childlike mouth, could be such a 
 monster of avarice or deceit as the old man represented. 
 The truth was plain enough : the alchemist was mad, 
 what alchemist was there ever who was not ? and his 
 insanity had taken this terrible shape. I felt an inex- 
 pressible pity move my heart for this poor girl, whose 
 youth was burdened with such an awful sorrow. 
 
 "What is your name 1 ?" I asked the old man, taking 
 his tremulous, fevered hand in mine. 
 
 " William Blakelock," he answered. " I come of an 
 old Saxon stock, sir, that bred true men and women in 
 former days. God ! how did it ever come to pass that 
 such a one as that girl ever sprung from our line 1 " The 
 glance of loathing and contempt that he cast at her made 
 me shudder. 
 
 " May you not be mistaken in your daughter 1 " I said, 
 very mildly. " Delusions with regard to alchemy are, or 
 have been, very common - " 
 
 " What, sir 1 " cried the old man, bounding in his bed. 
 " What ? Do you doubt that gold can be made 1 Do 
 you know, sir, that M. C. Theodore Tiffereau made gold 
 at Paris, in the year 1854, in the presence of M. Levol, 
 
THE GOLDEN INGOT. 365 
 
 the assayer of the Imperial Mint, and the result of the 
 experiments was read before the Academy of Sciences on 
 the sixteenth of October of the same year 1 But stay ; 
 you shall have better proof yet. I will pay you with one 
 of my ingots, and you shall attend me until I am well. 
 Get me an ingot ! " 
 
 This last command was addressed to Marian, who was 
 still kneeling close to her father's bedside. I observed 
 her with some curiosity as this mandate was issued. She 
 became very pale, clasped her hands convulsively, but 
 neither moved nor made any reply. 
 
 " Get me an ingot, I say ! " reiterated the alchemist, 
 passionately. 
 
 She fixed her large eyes imploringly upon him. Her 
 lips quivered, and two huge tears rolled slowly down her 
 white cheeks. 
 
 "Obey me, wretched girl," cried the old man in an agi- 
 tated voice, " or I swear, by all that I reverence in heaven 
 and earth, that I will lay my curse upon you forever ! " 
 
 I felt for an instant that I ought perhaps to interfere, 
 and spare the girl the anguish that she was so evidently 
 suffering ; but a powerful curiosity to see how this strange 
 scene would terminate withheld me. 
 
 The last threat of her father, uttered as it was with a 
 terrible vehemence, seemed to appall Marian. She rose 
 with a sudden leap, as if a serpent had stung her, and, 
 rushing into an inner apartment, returned with a small 
 object in her hand, which she placed in mine, and then 
 flung herself in a chair in a distant corner of the room, 
 weeping bitterly. 
 
 " You see you see," said the old man sarcastically, 
 " how reluctantly she parts with it. Take it, sir ; it is 
 yours." 
 
366 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 
 
 It was a small bar of metal. I examined it carefully, 
 poised it in my hand, the color, weight, everything, 
 announced that it really was gold. 
 
 " You doubt its genuineness, perhaps," continued the 
 alchemist. " There are acids on yonder table, test it." 
 
 I confess that I did doubt its genuineness ; but after I 
 had acted upon the old man's suggestion, all further sus- 
 picion was rendered impossible. It was gold of the high- 
 est purity. I was astounded. Was then, after all, this 
 man's tale a truth 1 Was his daughter, that fair, angelic- 
 looking creature, a demon of avarice, or a slave to worse 
 passions'? I felt bewildered. I had never met with 
 anything so incomprehensible. I looked from father to 
 daughter in the blankest amazement. I suppose that my 
 countenance betrayed my astonishment, for the old man 
 said, " I perceive that you are surprised. Well, that is 
 natural. You had a right to think me mad until I proved 
 myself sane." 
 
 " But, Mr. Blakelock," I said, " I really cannot take 
 this gold. I have no right to it. I cannot in justice 
 charge so large a fee." 
 
 "Take it, take it," he answered impatiently; "your 
 fee will amount to that before I am well. Beside," he 
 added mysteriously, " I wish to secure your friendship. 
 I wish that you should protect me from her," and he 
 pointed his poor, bandaged hand at Marian. 
 
 My eye followed his gesture, and I caught the glance 
 that replied, a glance of horror, distrust, despair. The 
 beautiful face was distorted into positive ugliness. 
 
 " It 's all true," I thought ; " she is the demon that her 
 father represents her." 
 
 I now rose to go. This domestic tragedy sickened me. 
 This treachery of blood against blood was too horrible to 
 
THE GOLDEN INGOT. 367 
 
 witness. I wrote a prescription for the old man, left 
 , directions as to the renewal of the dressings upon his 
 burns, and, bidding him good night, hastened towards 
 the door. 
 
 While I was fumbling on the dark, crazy landing for 
 the staircase, I felt a hand laid on my arm. 
 
 " Doctor," whispered a voice that I recognized as Ma- 
 rian Blakelock's, " Doctor, have you any compassion in 
 your heart 1 " 
 
 " I hope so," I answered, shortly, shaking off her hand, 
 her touch filled me with loathing. 
 
 " Hush ! don't talk so loud. If you have any pity in 
 your nature, give me back, I entreat of you, that gold 
 ingot which my father gave you this evening." 
 
 " Great heaven ! " said I, " can it be possible that so fair 
 a woman can be such a mercenary, shameless wretch "? " 
 
 " Ah ! you know not, I cannot tell you ! Do not 
 judge me harshly. I call God to witness that I am not 
 what you deem me. Some day or other you will know. 
 But," she added, interrupting herself, "the ingot, where 
 is it? I must have it. My life depends on your giving 
 it to me." 
 
 " Take it, impostor ! " I cried, placing it in her hand, 
 that closed on it with a horrible eagerness. " I never in- 
 tended to keep it. Gold made under the same roof that 
 covers such as you must be accursed." 
 
 So saying, heedless of the nervous effort she made to 
 detain me, I stumbled down the stairs and walked hastily 
 home. 
 
 The next morning, while I was in my office, smoking 
 my matutinal cigar, and speculating over the singular 
 character of my acquaintances of last night, the door 
 opened, and Marian Blakelock entered. She had the 
 
368 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 
 
 same look of terror that I had observed the evening be- 
 fore, and she panted as if she had been running fast. 
 
 " Father has got out of bed," she gasped out, " and in- 
 sists on going on with his alchemy. Will it kill him 1 " 
 
 "Not exactly," I answered, coldly. "It were better 
 that he kept quiet, so as to avoid the chance of inflam- 
 mation. However, you need not be alarmed ; his burns 
 are not at all dangerous, although painful." 
 
 " Thank God ! thank God ! " she cried, in the most im- 
 passioned accents; and, before I was aware of what she 
 was doing, she seized my hand and kissed it. 
 
 " There, that will do," I said, withdrawing my hand ; 
 " you are under no obligations to me. You had better 
 go back to your father." 
 
 " I can't go," she answered. " You despise me, is it 
 not so 1 " 
 
 I made no reply. 
 
 "You think me a monster, a criminal. When you 
 went home last night, you were wonder-struck that so vile 
 a creature as I should have so fair a face." 
 
 "You embarrass me, madam," I said, in a most chilling 
 tone. "Pray relieve me from this unpleasant position." 
 
 " Wait ! I cannot bear that you should think ill of 
 me. You are good and kind, and I desire to possess your 
 esteem. You little know how I love my father." 
 
 I could not restrain a bitter smile. 
 
 "You do not believe that? W T ell, I will convince you. 
 I have had a hard struggle all last night with myself, but 
 am now resolved. This life of deceit must continue no 
 longer. Will you hear my vindication 1 " 
 
 I assented. The wonderful melody of her voice and 
 the purity of her features were charming me once more. 
 I half believed in her innocence already. 
 
THE GOLDEN INGOT. 369 
 
 " My father has told you a portion of his history. But 
 he did not tell you that his continued failures in his 
 search" after the secret of metallic transmutation nearly 
 killed him. Two years ago he was on the verge of the 
 grave, working every day at his mad pursuit, and every 
 day growing weaker and more emaciated. I saw that if 
 his mind was not relieved in some way he would die. 
 The thought was madness to me, for I loved him, I 
 love him still, as a daughter never loved a father before. 
 During all these years of poverty I had supported the 
 house with my needle ; it was hard work, but I did it, 
 I do it still ! " 
 
 " What 1" I cried, startled, " does not " 
 
 "Patience. Hear me out. My father was dying of 
 , disappointment. I must save him. By incredible exer- 
 tions, working night and day, I saved about thirty-five 
 dollars in notes. These I exchanged for gold, and one 
 day, when my father was not looking, I cast them into 
 the crucible in which he was making one of his vain at- 
 tempts at transmutation. God, I am sure, will pardon 
 the deception. I never anticipated the misery it would 
 lead to. 
 
 "I never beheld anything like the joy of my poor 
 father, when, after emptying his crucible, he found a de- 
 posit of pure gold at the bottom. He wept, and danced, 
 and sang, and built such castles in the air, that my brain 
 was dizzy to hear him. He gave me the ingot to keep, 
 and went to work at his alchemy with renewed vigor. 
 The same thing occurred. He always found the same 
 quantity of gold in his crucible. I alone knew the secret. 
 He was happy, poor man, for nearly two years, in the be- 
 lief that he was amassing a fortune. I all the while plied 
 my needle for our daily bread. When he asked me for 
 
 24 
 
370 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 
 
 his savings, the first stroke fell upon me. Then it was 
 that I recognized the folly of my conduct. I could give 
 him no money. I never had any, while he believed 
 that I had fourteen thousand dollars. My heart was 
 nearly broken when I found that he had conceived the 
 most injurious suspicions against me. Yet I could not 
 blame him. I could give no account of the treasure 
 I had permitted him to believe was in my possession. I 
 must suffer the penalty of my fault, for to undeceive him 
 would be, I felt, to kill him. I remained silent then, and 
 suffered. 
 
 " You know the rest. You now know why it was that 
 I was reluctant to give you that ingot, why it was that 
 I degraded myself so far as to ask it back. It was the 
 only means I had of continuing a deception on which I 
 believed my father's life depended. But that delusion 
 has been dispelled. I can live this life of hypocrisy no 
 longer. I cannot exist, and hear my father, whom I love 
 so, wither me daily with his curses. I will undeceive 
 him this very day. Will you come with me, for I fear 
 the effect on his enfeebled frame 1 ?" 
 
 " Willingly," I answered, taking her by the hand ; " and 
 I think that no absolute danger need be apprehended. 
 Now, Marian," I added, " let me ask forgiveness for having 
 even for a moment wounded so noble a heart. You are 
 truly as great a martyr as any of those whose sufferings 
 the Church perpetuates in altar-pieces." 
 
 "I knew you would do me justice when you knew all," 
 she sobbed, pressing my hand ; " but come. I am on 
 fire. Let us hasten to my father, and break this terror 
 to him." 
 
 When we reached the old alchemist's room, we found 
 him busily engaged over a crucible which was placed on 
 
THE GOLDEN INGOT. 371 
 
 a small furnace, and in which some indescribable mixture 
 was boiling. He looked up as we entered. 
 
 " No fear of me, Doctor," he said, with a ghastly smile, 
 " no fear. I must not allow a little physical pain to inter- 
 rupt my great work, you know. By the way, you are just 
 in time. In a few moments the marriage of the Red King 
 and White Queen will be accomplished, as George Ripley 
 calls the great act, in his book entitled The Twelve Gates. 
 Yes, Doctor, in less than ten minutes you will see me 
 make pure, red, shining gold ! " And the poor old man 
 smiled triumphantly, and stirred his foolish mixture with 
 a long rod, which he held with difficulty in his bandaged 
 hands. It was a grievous sight for a man of any feeling 
 to witness. 
 
 " Father," said Marian, in a low, broken voice, advan- 
 cing a little toward the poor old dupe, " I want your for- 
 giveness." 
 
 " Ah, hypocrite ! for what *? Are you going to give me 
 back my gold 1 " 
 
 "No, father, but for the deception that I have been 
 practising on you for two years " 
 
 " I knew it ! I knew it ! " shouted the old man, with a 
 radiant countenance. "She has concealed my fourteen 
 thousand dollars all this time, and now comes to restore 
 them. I will forgive her. Where are they, Marian 1 " 
 
 " Father, it must come out. You never made any 
 gold. It was I who saved up thirty-five dollars, and I 
 used to slip them into your crucible when your back was 
 turned, and I did it only because I saw that you were 
 dying of disappointment. It was wrong, I know, but, 
 father, I meant well. You '11 forgive me, won't you 2 " 
 And the poor girl advanced a step towards the alche- 
 mist. 
 
372 THE GOLDEN INGOT. 
 
 He grew deathly pale, and staggered as if about to fall. 
 The next instant, though, he recovered himself, and burst 
 into a horrible sardonic laugh. Then he said, in tones 
 full of the bitterest irony, "A conspiracy, is it 1 ? Well 
 done, Doctor ! You think to reconcile me with this 
 wretched girl by trumping up this story, that I have 
 been for two years a dupe of her filial piety. It 's 
 clumsy, Doctor, and is a total failure. Try again." 
 
 " But I assure you, Mr. Blakelock," I said as earnestly 
 as I could, " I believe your daughter's statements to be 
 perfectly true. You will find it to be so, as she has got 
 the ingot in her possession which so often deceived you 
 into the belief that you made gold, and you will cer- 
 tainly find that no transmutation has taken place in 
 your crucible." 
 
 "Doctor," said the old man, in tones of the most set- 
 tled conviction, "you are a fool. That girl has wheedled 
 you. In less than a minute I will turn you out a piece 
 of gold, purer than any the earth produces. Will that 
 convince you?" 
 
 " That will convince me," I answered. By a gesture I 
 imposed silence on Marian, who was about to speak. I 
 thought it better to allow the old man to be his own 
 undeceiver, and we awaited the coming crisis. 
 
 The old man, still smiling with anticipated triumph, 
 kept bending eagerly over his crucible, stirring the mix- 
 ture with his rod, and muttering to himself all the time. 
 " Now," I heard him say, " it changes. There, there 's 
 the scum. And now the green and bronze shades flit 
 across it. 0, the beautiful green ! the precursor of the 
 golden-red hue, that tells of the end attained ! Ah ! now 
 the golden-red is coming slowly slowly ! It deepens, 
 it shines, it is dazzling ! Ah, I have it ! " So saying, he 
 
THE GOLDEN INGOT. 373 
 
 caught up his crucible in a chemist's tongs, and bore it 
 slowly toward the table on which stood a brass vessel. 
 
 " Now, incredulous Doctor ! " he cried, " come and be 
 convinced "; and immediately began carefully pouring the 
 contents of the crucible into the brass vessel. When 
 the crucible was quite empty, he turned it up, and called 
 me again. " Come, Doctor, come and be convinced. See 
 for yourself." 
 
 " See first if there is any gold in your crucible," I an- 
 swered, without moving. 
 
 He laughed, shook his head derisively, and looked into 
 the crucible. In a moment he grew pale as death. 
 
 " Nothing ! " he cried. " 0, a jest ! a jest ! There 
 must be gold somewhere. Marian ! " 
 
 "The gold is here, father," said Marian, drawing the 
 ingot from her pocket ; " it is all we ever had." 
 
 " Ah ! " shrieked the poor old man, as he let the empty 
 crucible fall, and staggered toward the ingot which Marian 
 held out to him. He made three steps, and then fell on 
 his face. Marian rushed toward him, and tried to lift 
 him, but could not. I put her aside gently, and placed 
 my hand on his heart. 
 
 " Marian/' said I, "it is perhaps better as it is. He 
 is dead ! " 
 
374 MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 
 
 MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 
 
 A PREDESTINED MARRIAGE. 
 
 ELSIE and I were to be married in less than a week. 
 It was rather a strange match, and I knew that some of 
 our neighbors shook their heads over it and said that no 
 good would come. The way it came to pass was thus. 
 
 I loved Elsie Burns for two years, during which time 
 she refused me three times. I could no more help asking 
 her to have me, when the chance offered, than I could 
 help breathing or living. To love her seemed natural to 
 me as existence. I felt no shame, only sorrow, when she 
 rejected me ; I felt no shame either when I renewed my 
 suit. The neighbors called me mean-spirited to take up 
 with any girl that had refused me as often as Elsie Burns 
 had done ; but what cared I about the neighbors 1 If it 
 is black weather, and the sun is under a cloud every day 
 for a month, is that any reason why the poor farmer 
 should not hope for the blue sky and the plentiful burst 
 of warm light when the dark month is over? I never 
 entirely lost heart. Do not, however, mistake me. I did 
 not mope, and moan, and grow pale, after the manner of 
 poetical lovers. No such thing. I went bravely about 
 my business, ate and drank as usual, laughed when the 
 laugh went round, and slept soundly, and woke refreshed. 
 Yet all this time I loved desperately loved Elsie 
 
MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 375 
 
 Burns. I went wherever I hoped to meet her, but did 
 not haunt her with my attentions. I behaved to her as 
 any friendly young man would have behaved : I met her 
 and parted from her cheerfully. She was a good girl, 
 too, and behaved well. She had me in her power, how 
 a woman in Elsie's situation could have mortified a man 
 in mine ! but she never took the slightest advantage of 
 it. She danced with me when I asked her, and had no 
 foolish fears of allowing me to see her home of nights, 
 after a ball was over, or of wandering with me through 
 the pleasant New England fields when the wild-flowers 
 made the paths like roads in fairy-land. 
 
 On the several disastrous occasions when I presented 
 my suit I did it simply and manfully, telling her that I 
 loved her very much, and would do everything to make 
 her happy, if she would be my wife. I made no fulsome 
 protestations, and did not once allude to suicide. She, 
 on the other hand, calmly and gravely thanked me for 
 my good opinion, but with the same calm gravity rejected 
 me. I used to tell her that I was grieved ; that I would 
 not press her; that I would wait an<J hope for some 
 change in her feelings. She had an esteem for me, she 
 would say, but could not marry me. I never asked her 
 for any reasons. I hold it to be an insult to a woman of 
 sense to demand her reasons on such an occasion. Enough 
 for me that she did not then wish to be my wife ; so the 
 old intercourse went on, she cordial and polite as ever, 
 I never for one moment doubting that the day would 
 come when my roof-tree would shelter her, and we should 
 smile together over our fireside at my long and indefati- 
 gable wooing. 
 
 I will confess that at times I felt a little jealous, jeal- 
 ous of a man named Hammond Brake, who lived in our 
 
376 MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 
 
 village. He was a weird, saturnine fellow, who made no 
 friends among the young men of the neighborhood, but 
 who loved to go alone, with his books and his own 
 thoughts for company. He was a studious, and, I be- 
 lieve, a learned young man, and there was no avoiding 
 the fact that he possessed considerable influence over El- 
 sie. She liked to talk with him in corners, or in secluded 
 nooks of the forest, when we all went out blackberry- 
 gathering or picnicking. She read books that he gave 
 her, and whenever a discussion arose relative to any topic 
 higher than those ordinary ones we usually canvassed, 
 Elsie appealed to Brake for his opinion, as a disciple con- 
 sulting a beloved master. I confess that for a time I 
 feared this man as a rival. A little closer observation, 
 however, convinced me that my suspicions were un- 
 founded. The relation between Elsie and Hammond 
 Brake was purely intellectual. She reverenced his talents 
 and acquirements, but she did not love him. His influ- 
 ence over her, nevertheless, was none the less decided. 
 
 In time as I thought all along Elsie yielded. I 
 was what was considered a most eligible match, being 
 tolerably rich, and Elsie's parents were most anxious to 
 have me for a son-in-law. I was good-looking and well- 
 educated enough, and the old people, I believe, pertina- 
 ciously dinned all my advantages into my little girl's ears. 
 She battled against the marriage for a long time with a 
 strange persistence, all the more strange because she 
 never alleged the slightest personal dislike to me ; but 
 after a vigorous cannonading from her own garrison, (in 
 which, I am proud to say, I did not in any way join,) she 
 hoisted the white flag and surrendered. 
 
 I was very happy. I had no fear about being able to 
 gain Elsie's heart. I think indeed I know that she 
 
MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 377 
 
 had liked me all along, and that her refusals were dic- 
 tated by other feelings than those of a personal nature. 
 I only guessed as much then. It was some time before I 
 knew all. 
 
 As the day approached for our wedding Elsie did not 
 appear at all stricken with woe. The village gossips had 
 not the smallest opportunity for establishing a romance, 
 with a compulsory bride for the, heroine. Yet to me it 
 seemed as if there was something strange about her. A 
 vague terror appeared to beset her. Even in her most 
 loving moments, when resting in my arms, she would 
 shrink away from me, and shudder as if some cold wind 
 had suddenly struck upon her. That it was caused by no 
 aversion to me was evident, for she would the moment 
 after, as if to make amends, give me one of those volun- 
 tary kisses that are sweeter than all others. 
 
 I reflected over this gravely, as was my custom, but 
 could come to no conclusion. I dismissed it as one of 
 those mysteries of maidenhood which it is not given to 
 man to fathom. 
 
 The day came at length on which we were to be mar- 
 ried, a glorious autumnal day, on which the sweet sea- 
 son of fruits and flowers seemed to have copied the kings 
 of old, and robed itself in its brightest purple and gold, 
 in order to die with becoming splendor. The little village 
 church was nearly filled with the bridal party and the 
 curious crowd who came to see the persevering lover win 
 his bride. Elsie was calm, and grave, and beautiful. 
 The sober beauty of the autumn itself seemed to tinge 
 her face. 
 
 Once only did she show any emotion. "When the sol- 
 emn question was put to her, the answer to which was to 
 decide her destinv, I felt her hand which was in mine 
 
378 MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 
 
 tremble. As she gasped out a convulsive "Yes," she 
 gave one brief, imploring glance at the gallery on the 
 right. I placed the ring upon her finger, and looked in 
 the direction in which she gazed. Hammond Brake's 
 dark countenance was visible looking over the railings, 
 and his eyes were bent sternly on Elsie. I turned quickly 
 round to my bride, but her brief emotion, of whatever 
 nature, had vanished. She was looking at me anxiously, 
 and smiling somewhat sadly through her maiden's 
 tears. 
 
 I kissed her, and whispered a loving word or two in 
 her ear, at which she brightened ; and her grave, decorous 
 old father, and quaint, tender-hearted mother, kissed her, 
 and we rode all alone through glories of the autumn 
 woods to our home. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE STRANGE BOOK. 
 
 THE months went by quickly, and we were very happy. 
 I learned that Elsie really loved me, and of my love for 
 her she had proof long ago. I will not say that there was 
 no cloud upon our little horizon. There was one, but 
 it was so small, and appeared so seldom, that I scarcely 
 feared it. The old vague terror seemed still to attack my 
 wife. If T did not know her to be pure as heaven's snow, 
 I would have said it was a remorse. At times she scarcely 
 appeared to hear what I said, so deep would be her rev- 
 ery. Nor did those moods seem pleasant ones. When 
 rapt in such, her sweet features would contract, as if in a 
 hopeless effort to solve some mysterious problem. A sad 
 
MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 379 
 
 pain, as it were, quivered in her white, drooped eyelids. 
 One thing I particularly remarked : she spent hours at a 
 time gazing at the west. There was a small room in our 
 house whose windows, every evening, flamed with the red 
 light of the setting sun. Here Elsie would sit and gaze 
 westward, so motionless and entranced that it seemed as 
 if her soul was going down with the day. Her conduct 
 to me was curiously varied. She apparently loved me 
 very much, yet there were times when she absolutely 
 avoided me. I have seen her strolling through the fields, 
 and left the house with the intention of joining her, but 
 the moment she caught sight of me approaching, she has 
 fled into the neighboring copse, with so evident a wish 
 to avoid me that it would have been absolutely cruel to 
 follow. 
 
 Once or twice the old jealousy of Hammond Brake 
 crossed my mind, but I was obliged to dismiss it as a 
 frivolous suspicion. Nothing in my wife's conduct justi- 
 fied any such theory. Brake visited us once or twice a 
 week, in fact, when I returned from my business in the 
 village, I used to find him seated in the parlor with Elsie, 
 reading some favorite author, or conversing on some novel 
 literary topic ; but there was no disposition to avoid my 
 scrutiny. Brake seemed to come as a matter of right ; 
 and the perfect unconsciousness of furnishing any grounds 
 for suspicion with which he acted was a sufficient answer 
 to my mind for any wild doubts that my heart may have 
 suggested. 
 
 Still I could not but remark that Brake's visits were in 
 some manner connected with Elsie's melancholy. On the 
 days when he had appeared and departed the gloom 
 seemed to hang more thickly than ever over her head. 
 She sat, on such occasions, all the evening at the western 
 
380 MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 
 
 window, silently gazing at the cleft in the hills through 
 which the sun passed to his repose. 
 
 At last I made up my mind to speak to her. It 
 seemed to me to be my duty, if she had a sorrow, to par- 
 take of it. I approached her on the matter with the 
 most perfect confidence that I had nothing to learn beyond 
 the existence of some girlish grief, which a confession and a 
 few loving kisses would exorcise forever. 
 
 " Elsie," I said to her one night, as she sat, according 
 to her custom, gazing westward, like those maidens of the 
 old ballads of chivalry watching for the knights that 
 never came, " Elsie, what is the matter with you, dar- 
 ling 1 I have noticed a strange melancholy in you for 
 some time past. Tell me all about it." 
 
 She turned quickly round and gazed at me with eyes 
 wide open and face filled with a sudden fear. " Why do 
 you ask me that, Mark 1 " she answered. " I have noth- 
 ing to tell." 
 
 From the strange, startled manner in which this reply 
 was given, I felt convinced that she had something to 
 tell, and instantly formed a determination to discover 
 what it was. A pang shot through my heart as I thought 
 that the woman whom I held dearer than anything on 
 earth hesitated to trust me with a petty secret. 
 
 " Elsie," I said, " don't treat me as if I was a grand 
 inquisitor, with racks and thumb-screws in readiness for 
 you if you prove contumacious. You need not look at 
 me in that frightened way. I 'm not an ogre, child. I 
 don't breakfast on nice, cosey little women five months 
 married. Supposing you do owe a bill to the milliner, in 
 Boston, what does it matter ? I 'm tolerably rich. 
 How much is it 1 " 
 
 I knew perfectly well that she did not owe any such 
 
MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 381 
 
 bill, but it was a mode of testing her. A look of relief 
 passed over her features as I spoke. 
 
 " Mark," she said, stroking my hair with her little 
 hand and smiling faintly, "you 're a goose. I don't owe 
 any bill to the milliner in Boston, and I have no secret 
 worth knowing. I know I 'm a little melancholy at 
 times, I feel weary ; but that is not unnatural, you 
 know, just now, Mark dear," - kissing me on the lips, 
 "you must bear with my moods for a little while, until 
 there are three of us, and then I '11 be better company." 
 
 I knew what she alluded to, but, God help me ! I felt 
 sad enough at the moment, though I kissed her back, and 
 ceased to question her. I felt sad, because my instinct 
 told me that she deceived me ; and it is very hard to be 
 deceived, even in trifles, by those we love. I left her 
 sitting at her favorite window, and walked out into the 
 fields. I wanted to think. 
 
 1 remained out until I saw lights in the parlor shining 
 through the dusk evening ; then I returned slowly. As I 
 passed the windows, which were near the ground, our 
 house being cottage-built, I looked in. Hammond Brake 
 was sitting with my wife. She was sitting in a rocking-chair 
 opposite to him, holding a small volume open on her lap. 
 Brake was talking to her very earnestly, and she was listen- 
 ing to him with an expression I had never before seen on 
 her countenance. Awe, fear, and admiration were all 
 blent together in those dilating eyes. She seemed ab- 
 sorbed, body and soul, in what this man said. I shuddered 
 at the sight. A vague terror seized upon me ; I hastened 
 into the house. As I entered the room, rather suddenly, 
 my wife started and hastily concealed the little volume 
 that lay on her lap in one of her wide pockets. As she 
 did so, a loose leaf escaped from the volume and slowly 
 
382 MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 
 
 fluttered to the floor unobserved by either her or her 
 companion. But I had my eye upon it. I felt that it 
 was a clew. 
 
 "What new novel or philosophical wonder have you 
 both been poring over V' I asked, quite gayly, stealthily 
 watching at the same time the telltale embarrassment 
 under which Elsie was laboring. 
 
 Brake, who was not in the least discomposed, replied. 
 "That," said he, "is a secret which must be kept from 
 you. It is an advance copy, and is not to be shown to 
 any one except your wife." 
 
 " Ha ! " cried I, " I know what it is. It is your volume 
 of poems that Ticknor is publishing. Well, I can wait 
 until it is regularly for sale." 
 
 I knew that Brake had a volume in the hands of the 
 publishing house I mentioned, with a vague promise of 
 publication some time in the present century. Hammond 
 smiled significantly, but did not reply. He evidently 
 wished to cultivate this supposed impression of mine. 
 Elsie looked relieved, and heaved a deep sigh. I felt 
 more than ever convinced that a secret was beneath all 
 this. So I drew my chair over the fallen leaf that lay 
 unnoticed on the carpet, and talked and laughed with 
 Hammond Brake gayly, as if nothing was on my mind, 
 while all the time a great load of suspicion lay heavily at 
 my heart. 
 
 At length Hammond Brake rose to go. I wished him 
 good night, but did not offer to accompany him to the 
 door. My wife supplied this omitted courtesy, as I had 
 expected. The moment I was alone I picked up the 
 book-leaf from the floor. It was not the leaf of a volume 
 of poems. Beyond that, however, I learned nothing. It 
 contained a string of paragraphs printed in the Biblical 
 
MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 383 
 
 fashion, and the language was Biblical in style. It seemed 
 to be a portion of some religious book. Was it possible 
 that my wife was being converted to the Romish faith 1 
 Yes, that was it. Brake was a Jesuit in disguise, I 
 had heard of such things, and had stolen into the 
 bosom of my family to plant there his destructive errors. 
 There could be no longer any doubt of it. This was 
 some portion of a Romish book; some infamous Pop- 
 ish publication. Fool that I was not to see it all be- 
 fore ! But there was yet time. I would forbid him 
 the house. 
 
 I had just formed this resolution when my wife entered. 
 I put the strange leaf in my pocket and took my hat. 
 
 "Why, you are not going out, surely]" cried Elsie, 
 surprised. 
 
 " I have a headache," I answered. " I will take a short 
 walk." 
 
 Elsie looked at me with a peculiar air of distrust. Her 
 woman's instinct told her that there was something wrong. 
 Before she could question me, however, I had left the 
 room and was walking rapidly on Hammond Brake's 
 track. 
 
 He heard the footsteps, and I saw his figure, black 
 against the sky, stop and peer back through the dusk to 
 see who was following him. 
 
 " It is I, Brake," I called out. " Stop ; I wish to speak 
 with you." 
 
 He stopped, and in a minute or so we were walking 
 side by side along the road. My fingers itched at that 
 moment to be on his throat. I commenced the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 " Brake," I said, " I 'm a very plain sort of man, and I 
 never say anything without good reason. What I came 
 
384 MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 
 
 after you to tell you is, that I don't wish you to come to 
 my house any more, or to speak with Elsie any farther 
 than the ordinary salutations go. It 's no joke. I 'm 
 quite in earnest." 
 
 Brake started, and, stopping short, faced, me suddenly 
 in the road. "What have I done?" he asked. "You 
 surely are too sensible a man to be jealous, Dayton." 
 
 " 0," I answered, scornfully, " not jealous in the ordi- 
 nary sense of the word, a bit. But I don't think your 
 company good company for my wife, Brake. If you will 
 have it out of me, I suspect you of being a Roman Catho- 
 lic, and of trying to convert my wife." 
 
 A srnile shot across his face, and I saw his sharp, white 
 teeth gleam for an instant in the dusk. 
 
 " Well, what if I am a Papist 1 " he said, with a strange 
 tone of triumph in his voice. " The faith is not criminal. 
 Besides, what proof have you that I was attempting to 
 proselyte your wife ? " 
 
 " This," said I, pulling the leaf from my pocket, 
 ''this leaf from one of those devilish Papist books you 
 and she were reading this evening. I picked it up from 
 the floor. Proof enough, I think ! " 
 
 In an instant Brake had snatched the leaf from niy 
 hand and torn it into atoms. 
 
 " You shall be obeyed," he said. " I will not speak 
 with Elsie as long as she is your wife. Good night. So 
 you think I 'm a Papist, Dayton 1 You 're a clever fel- 
 low ! " And with rather a sneering chuckle he marched 
 on along the road and vanished into the darkness. 
 
MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 385 
 
 III. 
 THE SECRET DISCOVERED. 
 
 BRAKE came no more. I said nothing to Elsie about 
 his prohibition, and his name was never mentioned. It 
 seemed strange to me that she should not speak of his 
 absence, and I was very much puzzled by her silence. 
 Her moodiness seemed to have increased, and, what was 
 most remarkable, in proportion as she grew more and 
 more reserved, the intenser were the bursts of affection 
 which she exhibited for me. She would strain me to 
 her bosom and kiss me, as if she and I were about to be 
 parted forever. Then for hours she would remain sitting 
 at her window, silently gazing, with that terrible, wistful 
 gaze of hers, at the west. 
 
 I will confess to having watched my wife at this time. 
 I could not help it. That some mystery hung about 
 her I felt convinced. I must fathom it or die. Her 
 honor I never for a moment doubted ; yet there seemed 
 to weigh continually upon me the prophecy of some aw- 
 ful domestic calamity. This time the prophecy was not 
 in vain. 
 
 About three weeks after I had forbidden Brake my 
 house, I was strolling over my farm in the evening, 
 apparently inspecting my agriculture, but in reality 
 speculating on that topic which latterly was ever present 
 to me. 
 
 There was a little knoll covered with evergreen oaks 
 at the end of the lawn. It was a picturesque spot, for 
 on one side the bank went off into a sheer precipice of 
 about eighty feet in depth, at the bottom of which a 
 pretty pool lay, that in the summer time was fringed 
 
 25 
 
386 MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 
 
 with white" water-lilies. I had thought of building a 
 summer-house in this spot, and now my steps mechani- 
 cally directed themselves toward the place. As I ap- 
 proached I heard voices. I stopped and listened eagerly. 
 A few seconds enabled me to ascertain that Hammond 
 Brake and my wife were in the copse talking together. 
 She still followed him, then ; and he, scoundrel that he 
 was, had broken his promise. A fury seemed to fill my 
 veins as I made this discovery. I felt the impulse strong 
 upon me to rush into the grove, and then and there 
 strangle the villain who was poisoning my peace. But 
 with a powerful effort I restrained myself. It was neces- 
 sary that I should overhear what was said. I threw 
 myself flat on the grass, and so glided silently into the 
 copse until I was completely within ear-shot. This was 
 what I heard. 
 
 My wife was sobbing. " So soon, so soon 1 Ham- 
 mond, give me a little time ! " 
 
 "I cannot, Elsie. My chief orders me to join him. 
 You must prepare to accompany me.'* 
 
 " No, no ! " murmured Elsie. " He loves me so ! And 
 I love him. Our child, too, how can I rob him of our 
 unborn babe 1 " 
 
 "Another sheep for our flock," answered Brake, sol- 
 emnly. " Elsie, do you forget your oath 1 Are you one 
 of us, or are you a common hypocrite, who will be of us 
 until the hour of self-sacrifice, and then fly like a coward 1 
 Elsie, you must leave to-night." 
 
 " Ah ! my husband, my husband ! " sobbed the unhappy 
 woman. 
 
 "You have no husband, woman," cried Brake, harshly. 
 " I promised Dayton not to speak to you as long as you 
 were his wife, but the vow was annulled before it was 
 
MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 387 
 
 made. Your husband in God yet awaits you. You will 
 yet be blessed with the true spouse." 
 
 " I feel as if I were going to die," cried Elsie. " How 
 can I ever forsake him, he who was so good to me 1 " 
 
 "Nonsense! no weakness. He is not worthy of you. 
 Go home and prepare for your journey. You know 
 where to meet me. I will have everything ready, and 
 by daybreak there shall be no trace of us left. Be- 
 ware of permitting your husband to suspect anything. 
 He is not very shrewd at such things, he thought I 
 was a Jesuit in disguise, but we had better be careful. 
 Now go. You have been too long here already. Bless 
 you, sister." 
 
 A few faint sobs, a rustling of Lsaves, and I knew that 
 Brake was alone. I rose, and stepped silently into the 
 open space in which he stood. His back was toward me. 
 His arms were lifted high over his head with an exultant 
 gesture, and I could see his profile, as it slightly turned 
 toward me, illuminated with a smile of scornful triumph. 
 I put my hand suddenly on his throat from behind, and 
 flung him on the ground before he could utter a cry. 
 
 "Not a word," I said, unclasping a short-bladed knife 
 which I carried; " answer my questions, or, by heaven, 
 I will cut your throat from ear to ear ! " 
 
 He looked up into my face with an unflinching eye, and 
 set his lips as if resolved to suffer all. 
 
 "What are you 1 ? Who are you? What object have 
 you in the seduction of my wife 1 " 
 
 He smiled, but was silent. 
 
 " Ah ! you won't answer. We '11 see." 
 
 I pressed the knife slowly against his throat. His face 
 contracted spasmodically, but although a thin red thread 
 of blood sprang out along the edge of the blade, Brake 
 
388 MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 
 
 remained mute. An idea suddenly seized me. This sort 
 of death had no terrors for him. I would try another. 
 There was the precipice. I was twice as powerful as he 
 was, so I seized him in my arms, and in a moment trans- 
 ported him to the margin of the steep, smooth cliff, the 
 edge of which was garnished with the tough stems of the 
 wild vine. He seemed to feel it was useless to struggle 
 with me, so allowed me passively to roll him over the 
 edge. When he was suspended in the air, I gave him a 
 vine stem to cling to and let him go. He swung at 
 a height of eighty feet, with face upturned and pale. 
 He dared not look down. I seated myself on the edge of 
 the cliff, and with my knife began to cut into the thick 
 vine a foot or two above the place of his grasp. I was 
 correct in my calculation. This terror was too much for 
 him. As he saw the notch in the vine getting deeper 
 and deeper, his determination gave way. 
 
 " I '11 answer you," he gasped out, gazing at me with 
 starting eyeballs ; " what do you ask ? " 
 
 " What are you 1 " was my question, as I ceased cutting 
 at the stem. 
 
 " A Mormon," was the answer, uttered with a groan. 
 " Take me up. My hands are slipping. Quick ! " 
 
 " And you wanted my wife to follow you to that infernal 
 Salt Lake City, I suppose ? " 
 
 " For God's sake, release me ! I '11 quit the place, never 
 to come back. Do help me up, Dayton, I 'm falling ! " 
 
 I felt mightily inclined to let the villain drop ; but it 
 did not suit my purpose to be hung for murder, so I 
 swung him back again on the sward, where he fell panting 
 and exhausted. 
 
 " Will you quit the place to-night ] " I said. " You 'd 
 better. By Heaven, if you don't, I '11 tell all the men in 
 
MY WIFE'S TEMPTER. 389 
 
 the village, and we 11 lynch you, as sure as your name is 
 Brake." 
 
 " I '11 go, I '11 go," he groaned. " I swear never to 
 trouble you again." 
 
 " You ought to be hanged, you villain. Be off ! " 
 
 He slunk away through the trees like a beaten dog ; 
 and I went home in a state bordering on despair. I 
 found Elsie crying. She was sitting by the window as of 
 old. I knew now why she gazed so constantly at the 
 west. It was her Mecca. Something in my face, I sup- 
 pose, told her that I was laboring under great excitement. 
 She rose startled, as soon as I entered the room. 
 
 " Elsie," said I, " I am come to take you home." 
 
 " Home ? Why, I am at home, am I not ] What do 
 you mean 1 " 
 
 "No. This is no longer your home. You have de- 
 ceived me. You are a Mormon. I know all. You have 
 become a convert to that apostle of hell, Brigham Young, 
 and you cannot live with me. I love you still, Elsie, 
 dearly; but you must go and live with your father." 
 
 She saw there was no appeal from my word, and with 
 a face hopeless with despair she arranged her dress and 
 passively went with me. 
 
 I live in the same village with my wife, and yet am a 
 widower. She is very penitent, they say ; yet I cannot 
 bring myself to believe that one who has allowed the 
 Mormon poison to enter her veins can ever be cured. 
 People say that we shall come together again, but I know 
 better. Mine is not the first hearth that Mormonism has 
 rendered desolate. 
 
390 WHAT WAS IT? 
 
 WHAT WAS IT ? 
 
 IT is, I confess, with considerable diffidence that I ap- 
 proach the strange narrative which I am about to relate. 
 The events which I purpose detailing are of so extraordi- 
 nary a character that I ana quite prepared to meet with 
 an unusual amount of incredulity and scorn. I accept 
 all such beforehand. I have, I trust, the literary courage 
 to face unbelief. I have, after mature consideration, 
 resolved to narrate, in as simple and straightforward a 
 manner as I can compass, some facts that passed under 
 my observation, in the month of July last, and which, 
 in the annals of the mysteries of physical science, are 
 wholly unparalleled. 
 
 I live at No. Twenty-sixth Street, in New York. The 
 house is in some respects a curious one. It has enjoyed 
 for the last two years the reputation of being haunted. 
 It is a large and stately residence, surrounded by what 
 was once a garden, but which is now only a green enclos- 
 ure used for bleaching clothes. The dry basin of what 
 has been a fountain, and a few fruit-trees ragged and 
 unpruned, indicate that this spot in past days was a 
 pleasant, shady retreat, filled with fruits and flowers and 
 the sweet murmur of waters. 
 
 The house is very spacious. A hall of noble size leads 
 to a large spiral staircase winding through its centre, 
 
WHAT WAS IT? 391 
 
 while the various apartments are of imposing dimen- 
 sions. It was built some fifteen or twenty years since by 
 
 Mr. A , the well-known New York merchant, who five 
 
 years ago threw the commercial world into convulsions by 
 
 a stupendous bank fraud. Mr. A , as every one knows, 
 
 escaped to Europe, and died not long after, of a broken 
 heart. Almost immediately after the news of his decease 
 reached this country and was verified, the report spread 
 in Twenty-sixth Street that No. was haunted. Legal 
 measures had dispossessed the widow of its former owner, 
 and it was inhabited merely by a care-taker and his wife, 
 placed there by the house-agent into whose hands it had 
 passed for purposes of renting or sale. These people de- 
 clared that they were troubled with unnatural noises. 
 Doors were opened without any visible agency. The 
 remnants of furniture scattered through the various rooms 
 were, during the night, piled one upon the other by un- 
 known hands. Invisible feet passed up and down the 
 > * * 
 
 stairs in broad daylight, accompanied by the rustle of 
 unseen silk dresses, and the gliding of viewless hands 
 along the massive balusters. The care-taker and his wife 
 declared they would live there no longer. The house- 
 agent laughed, dismissed them, and put others in their 
 place. The noises and supernatural manifestations con- 
 tinued. The neighborhood caught up the story, and the 
 house remained untenanted for three years. Several per- 
 sons negotiated for it; but, somehow, always before the 
 bargain was closed they heard the unpleasant rumors 
 and declined to treat any further. 
 
 It was in this state of things that my landlady, who 
 at that time kept a boarding-house in Bleecker $treet, 
 and who wished to move further up town, conceived the 
 bold idea of renting No. Twenty-sixth Street. Hap- 
 
392 WHAT WAS IT? 
 
 pening to have in her house rather a plucky and philo- 
 sophical set of boarders, she laid her scheme before us, 
 stating candidly everything she had heard respecting the 
 ghostly qualities of the establishment to which she wished 
 to remove us. With the exception of two timid persons, 
 a sea-captain and a returned Californian, who imme- 
 diately gave notice that they would leave, all of Mrs. 
 Moffat's guests declared that they would accompany her 
 in her chivalric incursion into the abode of spirits. 
 
 Our removal was effected in the month of May, and we 
 were charmed with our new residence. The portion of 
 Twenty-sixth Street where our house is situated, between 
 Seventh and Eighth Avenues, is one of the pleasantest 
 localities in New York. The gardens back of the houses, 
 running down nearly to the Hudson, form, in the sum- 
 mer time, a perfect avenue of verdure. The air is pure 
 and invigorating, sweeping, as it does, straight across the 
 river from the Weehawken heights, and even the ragged 
 garden which surrounded the house, although dfsplaying 
 on washing days rather too much clothes-line, still gave 
 us a piece of greensward to look at, and a cool retreat 
 in the summer evenings, where we smoked our cigars in 
 the dusk, and watched the fire-flies flashing their dark- 
 lanterns in the long grass. 
 
 Of course we had no sooner established ourselves at 
 No. than we began to expect the ghosts. We abso- 
 lutely awaited their advent with eagerness. Our dinner 
 conversation was supernatural. One of the boarders, 
 who had purchased Mrs. Crowe's " Night Side of Nature " 
 for his own private delectation, was regarded as a public 
 enemy by the entire household for not having bought 
 twenty copies. The man led a life of supreme wretch- 
 edness while he was reading this volume. A system of 
 
WHAT WAS IT? 393 
 
 espionage was established, of which he was the victim. 
 If he incautiously laid the book down for an instant 
 and left the room, it was immediately seized and read 
 aloud in secret places to a select few. I found myself a 
 person of immense importance, it having leaked out that 
 I was tolerably well versed in the history of supernatu- 
 ralism, and had once written a story the foundation of 
 which was a ghost. If a table or a wainscot panel hap- 
 pened to warp when we were assembled in the large 
 drawing-room, there was an instant silence, and every 
 one was prepared for an immediate clanking of chains 
 and a spectral form. 
 
 After a month of psychological excitement, it was with 
 the utmost dissatisfaction that we were forced to acknowl- 
 edge that nothing in the remotest degree approaching 
 the supernatural had manifested itself. Once the black 
 butler asseverated that his candle had been blown out by 
 some invisible agency while he was undressing himself 
 for the night ; but as I had more than once discovered 
 this colored gentleman in a condition when one candle 
 must have appeared to him like two, I thought it possible 
 that, by going a step further in his potations, he might 
 have reversed this phenomenon, and seen no candle at all 
 where he ought to have beheld one. 
 
 Things were in this state when an incident took place 
 so awful and inexplicable in its character that my reason 
 fairly reels at the bare memory of the occurrence. It was 
 the tenth of July. After dinner was over I repaired, with 
 my friend Dr. Hammond, to the garden to smoke my 
 evening pipe. Independent of certain mental sympathies 
 which existed between the Doctor and myself, we -were 
 linked together by a vice. We both smoked opium. We 
 knew each other's secret, and respected it. We enjoyed 
 
394 WHAT WAS IT? 
 
 together that wonderful expansion of thought, that mar- 
 vellous intensifying of the perceptive faculties, that bound- 
 less feeling of existence when we seem to have points of 
 contact with the whole universe, in short, that unim- 
 aginable spiritual bliss, which I would not surrender for a 
 throne, and which I hope you, reader, will never never 
 taste. 
 
 Those hours of opium happiness which the Doctor and 
 I spent together in secret were regulated with a scientific 
 accuracy. We did not blindly smoke the drug of para- 
 dise, and leave our dreams to chance. While smoking, 
 we carefully steered our conversation through the bright- 
 est and calmest channels of thought. We talked of the 
 East, and endeavored to recall the magical panorama of 
 its glowing scenery. We criticised the most sensuous 
 poets, those who painted life ruddy with health, brim- 
 ming with passion, happy in the possession of youth 
 and strength and beauty. If we talked of Shakespeare's 
 " Tempest," we lingered over Ariel, and avoided Caliban. 
 Like the Guebers, we turned our faces to the east, and 
 saw only the sunny side of the world. 
 
 This skilful coloring of our train of thought produced 
 in our subsequent visions a corresponding tone. The 
 splendors of Arabian fairy-land dyed our dreams. We 
 paced that narrow strip of grass with the tread and port 
 of kings. The song of the rana arborea, while he clung 
 to the bark of the ragged plum-tree, sounded like the 
 strains of divine musicians. Houses, walls, and streets 
 melted like rain-clouds, and vistas of unimaginable glory 
 stretched away before us. It was a. rapturous compan- 
 ionship. We enjoyed the vast delight more perfectly 
 because, even in our most ecstatic moments, we were 
 conscious of each other's presence. Our pleasures, while 
 
WHAT WAS IT? 395 
 
 individual, were still twin, vibrating and moving in mu- 
 sical accord. 
 
 On the evening in question, the tenth of July, the 
 Doctor and myself drifted into an unusually metaphysi- 
 cal mood. We lit our large meerschaums, filled with fine 
 Turkish tobacco, in the core of which burned a little 
 black nut of opium, that, like the nut in the fairy tale, 
 held within its narrow limits wonders beyond the reach 
 of kings ; we paced to and fro, conversing. A strange 
 perversity dominated the currents of our thought. They 
 would not flow through the sun-lit channels into which we 
 strove to divert them. LFor some unaccountable reason, 
 they constantly diverged into dark and lonesome beds, 
 where a continual gloom brooded. It was in vain that, 
 after our old fashion, we flung ourselves on the shores of 
 the East, and talked of its gay bazaars, of the splendors 
 of the time of Haroun, of harems and golden palaces. 
 Black afreets continually arose from the depths of our 
 talk, and expanded, like the one the fisherman released 
 from the copper vessel, until they blotted everything 
 bright from our vision. Insensibly, we yielded to the 
 occult force that swayed us, and indulged in gloomy spec- 
 ulation. We had talked some time upon the proneness 
 of the human mind to mysticism, and the almost univer- 
 sal love of the terrible, when. Hammond suddenly said 
 to me, " What do you consider to be the greatest element 
 of terror]" 
 
 The question puzzled me. That many things were 
 terrible, I knew. Stumbling over a corpse in the dark ; 
 beholding, as I once did, a woman floating down a deep 
 and rapid river, with wildly lifted arms, and awful, up- 
 turned face, uttering, as she drifted, shrieks that rent 
 one's heart, while we, the spectators, stood frozen at a 
 
396 WHAT WAS IT? 
 
 window which overhung the river at a height of sixty 
 feet, unable to make the slightest effort to save her, but 
 dumbly watching her last supreme agony and her dis- 
 appearance. A shattered wreck, with no life visible, en- 
 countered floating listlessly on the ocean, is a terrible 
 object, for it suggests a huge terror, the proportions of 
 which are veiled. But it now struck me, for the first 
 time, that there must be one great and ruling embodiment 
 of fear, a King of Terrors, to which all others must 
 succumb. What might it be I To what train of circum- 
 stances would it owe its existence 1 
 
 11 1 confess, Hammond," I replied to my friend, " I 
 never considered the subject before. That there must be 
 one Something more terrible than any other thing, I feel. 
 I cannot attempt, however, even the most vague defini- 
 tion." 
 
 " I am somewhat like you, Harry," he answered. " I 
 feel my capacity to experience a terror greater than any- 
 thing yet conceived by the human mind ; something 
 combining in fearful and unnatural amalgamation hitherto 
 supposed incompatible elements. The calling of the voices 
 in Brockden Brown's novel of * Wieland ' is awful ; so is 
 the picture of the Dweller of the Threshold, in Bulwer's 
 'Zanoni'; but," he added, shaking his head gloomily, 
 "there is something more horrible still than these." 
 
 "Look here, Hammond," I rejoined, "let us drop this 
 kind of talk, for heaven's sake ! We shall suffer for it, 
 depend on it." 
 
 " I don't know what's the matter with me to-night," 
 he replied, "but my brain is running upon all sorts of 
 weird and awful thoughts. I feel as if I could write a 
 story like Hoffman, to-night, if I were only master of a 
 literary style." 
 
WHAT WAS IT? 397 
 
 "Well, if we are going to be Hoffmanesque in our talk, 
 I 'm off to bed. Opium and nightmares should never be 
 brought together. How sultry it is ! Good-night, Ham- 
 mond." 
 
 " Good-night, Harry. Pleasant dreams to you." 
 
 "To you, gloomy wretch, afreets, ghouls, and enchant- 
 ers." 
 
 We parted, and each sought his respective chamber. I 
 undressed quickly and got into bed, taking with me, ac- 
 cording to my usual custom, a book, over which I gener- 
 ally read myself to sleep. I opened the volume as soon 
 as I had laid my head upon the pillow, and instantly flung 
 it to the other side of the room. It was Goudon's " His- 
 tory of Monsters," a curious French work, which I had 
 lately imported from Paris, but which, in the state of 
 mind I had then reached, was anything but an agreeable 
 companion. I resolved to go to sleep at once; so, turn- 
 ing down my gas until nothing but a little blue point of 
 light glimmered on the top of the tube, I composed my- 
 self to rest. 
 
 The room was in total darkness. The atom of gas that 
 still remained alight did not illuminate a distance of 
 three inches round the burner. I desperately drew my 
 arm across my eyes, as if to shut out even the. darkness, 
 and tried to think of nothing. It was in vain. The 
 txmfotmded themes touched on by Hammond in the gar- 
 den kept obtruding themselves on my brain. I battled 
 against them. I erected ramparts of would-be blankness 
 of intellect to keep them out. They still crowded upon 
 me. While I was lying still as a corpse, hoping that by 
 a perfect physical inaction I should hasten mental repose, 
 an awful incident occurred. A Something dropped, as it 
 seemed, from the ceiling, plumb upon my chest, and the 
 
398 WHAT WAS IT? 
 
 next instant I felt two bony hands encircling my throat, 
 endeavoring to choke me. 
 
 I am no coward, and am possessed of considerable phys- 
 ical strength. The suddenness of the attack, instead of 
 stunning me, r strung every nerve to its highest tension. 
 My body acted from instinct, before my brain had time 
 to realize the terrors of my position. In an instant I 
 wound two muscular arms around the creature, and 
 squeezed it, with all the strength of despair, against my 
 chest. In a few seconds the bony hands that had fas- 
 tened on my throat loosened their hold, and I was free to 
 breathe once more. Then commenced a struggle of awful 
 intensity. Immersed in the most profound darkness, to- 
 tally ignorant of the nature of the Thing by which I was 
 so suddenly attacked, finding my grasp slipping every 
 moment, by reason, it seemed to me, of the entire naked- 
 ness of my assailant, bitten with sharp teeth in the shoul- 
 der, neck, and chest, having every moment to protect my 
 throat against a pair of sinewy, agile hands, which my ut- 
 most efforts could not confine, these were a combination 
 of circumstances to combat which required all the strength, 
 skill, and courage that I possessed. 
 
 At last, after a silent, deadly, exhausting struggle, I 
 got my assailant under by a series of incredible efforts of 
 strength. Once pinned, with my knee on what I made 
 out to be its chest, I knew that I was victor. I rested 
 for a moment to breathe. I heard the creature beneath 
 me panting in the darkness, and felt the violent throb- 
 bing of a heart. It was apparently as exhausted as 
 I was ; that was one comfort. At this moment I re- 
 membered that I usually placed under my pillow, be- 
 fore going to bed, a large yellow silk pocket-handker- 
 chief. I felt for it instantly; it was there. In a few 
 
WHAT WAS IT? 399 
 
 seconds more I had, after a fashion, pinioned the crea- 
 ture's arms. 
 
 I now felt tolerably secure. There was nothing more 
 to be done but to turn on the gas, and, having first seen 
 what my midnight assailant was like, arouse the house- 
 hold. I will confess to being actuated by a certain pride 
 in not giving the alarm before; I wished to make the 
 capture alone and unaided. 
 
 Never losing my hold for an instant, I slipped from the 
 bed to the floor, dragging my captive with me. I had 
 but a few steps to make to reach the gas-burner ; these I 
 made with the greatest caution, holding the creature in a 
 grip like a vice. At last I got within arm's-length of the 
 tiny speck of blue light which told me where the gas- 
 burner lay. Quick as lightning I released my grasp with 
 one hand and let on the full flood of light. Then I turned 
 to look at my captive. 
 
 I cannot even attempt to give any definition of my sen- 
 sations the instant after I turned on the gas. I suppose 
 I must have shrieked with terror, for in less than a minute 
 afterward my room was crowded with the inmates of the 
 house. I shudder now as I think of that awful moment. 
 / saw nothing ! Yes ; I had one arm firmly clasped round 
 a breathing, panting, corporeal shape, my other hand 
 gripped with all its strength a throat as warm, and ap- 
 parently fleshly, as my own ; and yet, with this living 
 substance in my grasp, with its body pressed against my 
 own, and all in the bright glare of a large jet of gas, I 
 absolutely beheld nothing ! Not even an outline, a 
 vapor ! 
 
 I do not, even at this hour, realize the situation in which 
 I found myself. I cannot recall the astounding incident 
 thoroughly. Imagination in vain tries to compass the 
 awful paradox. 
 
400 WHAT WAS IT? 
 
 It breathed. I felt its warm breath upon my cheek. 
 It struggled fiercely. It had hands. They clutched me. 
 Its skin was smooth, like my own. There it lay, pressed 
 close up against me, solid as stone, and yet utterly 
 invisible ! 
 
 I wonder that I did not faint or go mad on the instant. 
 Some wonderful instinct must have sustained me; for, 
 absolutely, in place of loosening my hold on the terrible 
 Enigma, I seemed to gain an additional strength in my 
 moment of horror, and tightened my grasp with such won- 
 derful force that I felt the creature shivering with agony. 
 
 Just then Hammond entered my room at the head of 
 the household. As soon as he beheld my face which, 
 I suppose, must have been an awful sight to look at 
 he hastened forward, crying, " Great heaven, Harry ! 
 what has happened 1 ?" 
 
 " Hammond ! Hammond ! " I cried, " come here. 0, 
 this is awful ! I have been attacked in bed by something 
 or other, which I have hold of; but I can't see it, I 
 can't see it ! " 
 
 Hammond, doubtless struck by the unfeigned horror 
 expressed in my countenance, made one or two steps for- 
 ward with an anxious yet puzzled expression. A very 
 audible titter burst from the remainder of my visitors. 
 This suppressed laughter made me furious. To laugh at 
 a human being in my position ! It was the worst species 
 of cruelty. Now, I can understand why the appearance 
 of a man struggling violently, as it would seem, with an 
 airy nothing, and calling for assistance against a vision, 
 should have appeared ludicrous. Then, so great was my 
 rage against the mocking crowd that had I the power I 
 would have stricken them dead where they stood. 
 
 " Hammond ! Hammond ! " I cried again, despairingly, 
 
WHAT WAS IT? 401 
 
 " for God's sake come to me. I can hold the the thing 
 but a short while longer. It is overpowering me. Help 
 me ! Help me ! " 
 
 " Harry," whispered Hammond, approaching me, " you 
 have been smoking too much opium." 
 
 " I swear to you, Hammond, that this is no vision," I 
 answered, in the same low tone. " Don't you see how it 
 shakes my whole frame with its struggles 1 If you don't 
 believe me, convince yourself. Feel it, touch it." 
 
 Hammond advanced and laid his hand in the spot I 
 indicated. A wild cry of horror burst from him. He 
 had felt it ! 
 
 In a moment he had discovered somewhere in my room 
 a long piece of cord, and was the next instant winding it 
 and knotting it about the body of the unseen being that 
 I clasped in my arms. 
 
 " Harry," he said, in a hoarse, agitated voice, for, 
 though he preserved his presence of mind, he was deeply 
 moved, " Harry, it 's all safe now. You may let go, old 
 fellow, if you 're tired. The Thing can't move." 
 
 I was utterly exhausted, and I gladly loosed my hold. 
 
 Hammond stood holding the ends of the cord that bound 
 the Invisible, twisted round his hand, while before him, self- 
 supporting as it were, he beheld a rope laced and inter- 
 laced, and stretching tightly around a vacant space. I 
 never saw a man look so thoroughly stricken with awe. 
 Nevertheless his face expressed all the courage and deter- 
 mination which I knew him to possess. His ftps, although 
 white, were set firmly, and one could perceive at a glance 
 that, although stricken with fear, he was not daunted. 
 
 The confusion that ensued among the guests of the 
 house who were witnesses of this extraordinary scene be- 
 tween Hammond and myself, who beheld the panto- 
 
 26 
 
402 WHAT WAS IT? 
 
 mime of binding this struggling Something, who beheld 
 me almost sinking from physical exhaustion when my task 
 of jailer was over, the confusion and terror that took 
 possession of the bystanders, when they saw all this, was 
 beyond description. The weaker ones fled from the apart- 
 ment. The few who remained clustered near the door 
 and could not be induced to approach Hammond and 
 his Charge. Still incredulity broke out through their 
 terror. They had not the courage to satisfy themselves, 
 and yet they doubted. It was in vain that I begged of 
 some of the men to come near and convince themselves 
 by touch of the existence in that room of a living being 
 which was invisible. They were incredulous, but did 
 not dare to undeceive themselves. How could a solid, 
 living, breathing body be invisible, they asked. My reply 
 was this. I gave a sign to Hammond, and both of us 
 conquering our fearful repugnance to touch the invisible 
 creature lifted it from the ground, manacled as it was, 
 and took it to my bed. Its weight was about that of a 
 boy of fourteen. 
 
 "Now, my friends," I said, as Hammond and myself 
 held the creature suspended over the bed, " I can give 
 you self-evident proof that here is a solid, ponderable 
 body, which, nevertheless, you cannot see. Be good 
 enough to watch the surface of the bed attentively." 
 
 I was astonished at my own courage in treating this 
 strange event so calmly ; but I had recovered from my 
 first terror, and felt a sort of scientific pride in the affair, 
 which dominated every other feeling. 
 
 The eyes of the bystanders were immediately fixed on 
 my bed. At a given signal Hammond and I let the crea- 
 ture fall. There was the dull sound of a heavy body 
 alighting on a soft mass. The timbers of the bed creaked. 
 
WHAT WAS IT? 403 
 
 A deep impression marked itself distinctly on the pillow, 
 and on the bed itself. The crowd who witnessed this gave 
 a low cry, and rushed from the room. Hammond and I 
 were left alone with our Mystery. 
 
 We remained silent for some time, listening to the low, 
 irregular breathing of the creature on the bed, and watch- 
 ing the rustle of the bed-clothes as it impotently struggled 
 to free itself from confinement. Then Hammond spoke. 
 
 " Harry, this is awful." 
 
 "Ay, awful." 
 
 " But not unaccountable." 
 
 " Not unaccountable ! What do you mean 1 Such a 
 thing has never occurred since the birth of the world. I 
 know not what to think, Hammond. God grant that I 
 am not mad, and that this is not an insane fantasy ! " 
 
 " Let us reason a little, Harry. Here is a solid body 
 which we touch, but which we cannot see. The fact is 
 so unusual that it strikes us with terror. Is there no par- 
 allel, though, for such a phenomenon 1 Take a piece of 
 pure glass. It is tangible and transparent. A certain 
 chemical coarseness is all that prevents its being so en- 
 tirely transparent as to be totally invisible. It is not 
 theoretically impossible, mind you, to make a glass which 
 shall not reflect a single ray of light, a glass so pure 
 and homogeneous in its atoms that the rays from the 
 sun will pass through it as they do through the air, re- 
 fracted but not reflected. We do not see the air, and yet 
 we feel it." 
 
 " That 's all very well, Hammond, but these are inani- 
 mate substances. Glass does not breathe, air does not 
 breathe. This thing has a heart that palpitates, a will 
 that moves it, lungs that play, and inspire and respire." 
 
 ft You forget the phenomena of which we have so often 
 
404 WHAT WAS IT? 
 
 heard of late," answered the Doctor, gravely. "At the 
 meetings called ' spirit circles,' invisible hands have been 
 thrust into the hands of those persons round the table, 
 warm, fleshly hands that seemed to pulsate with mortal 
 life." 
 
 " What 1 Do you think, then, that this thing is " 
 
 " I don't know what it is," was the solemn reply ; " but 
 please the gods I will, with your assistance, thoroughly 
 investigate it." 
 
 We watched together, smoking many pipes, all night 
 long, by the bedside of the unearthly being that tossed 
 and panted until it was apparently wearied out. Then 
 we learned by the low, regular breathing that it slept. 
 
 The next morning the house was all astir. The board- 
 ers congregated on the landing outside my room, and 
 Hammond and myself were lions. We had to answer a 
 thousand questions as to the state of our extraordinary 
 prisoner, for as yet not one person in the house except 
 ourselves could be induced to set foot in the apartment. 
 
 The creature was awake. This was evidenced by the 
 convulsive manner in which the bed-clothes were moved 
 in its efforts to escape. There was something truly ter- 
 rible in beholding, as it were, those second-hand indica- 
 tions of the terrible writhings and agonized struggles for 
 liberty which themselves were invisible. 
 
 Hammond and myself had racked our brains during the 
 long night to discover some means by which we might 
 realize the shape and general appearance of the Enigma. 
 As well as we could make out by passing our hands over 
 the creature's form, its outlines and lineaments were hu- 
 man. There was a mouth ; a round, smooth head with- 
 out hair; a nose, which, however, was little elevated above 
 the cheeks ; and its hands and feet felt like those of a 
 
WHAT WAS IT? 405 
 
 boy. At first we thought of placing the being on a 
 smooth surface and tracing its outline with chalk, as 
 shoemakers trace the outline of the foot. This plan was 
 given up as being of no value. Such an outline would 
 give not the slightest idea of its conformation. 
 
 A happy thought struck me. We would take a cast of 
 it in plaster of Paris. This would give us the solid fig- 
 ure, and satisfy all our wishes. But how to do it 1 The 
 movements of the creature would disturb the setting of 
 the plastic covering, and distort the mould. Another 
 thought. Why not give it chloroform ] It had respira- 
 tory organs, that was evident by its breathing. Once 
 reduced to a state of insensibility, we could do with it 
 
 what we would. Doctor X was sent for ; and after 
 
 the worthy physician had recovered from the first shock 
 of amazement, he proceeded to administer the chloroform. 
 In three minutes afterward we were enabled to remove 
 the fetters from the creature's body, and a modeller was 
 busily engaged in covering the invisible form with the 
 moist clay. In five minutes more we had a mould, and 
 before evening a rough fac-simile of the Mystery. It was 
 shaped like a man, distorted, uncouth, and horrible, but 
 still a man. It was small, not over four feet and some 
 inches in height, and its limbs revealed a muscular de- 
 velopment that was unparalleled. Its face surpassed in 
 hideousness anything I had ever seen. Gustave Dore, 
 or Callot, or Tony Johannot, never conceived anything so 
 horrible. There is a face in one of the latter's illustra- 
 tions to Un Voyage oil il vous plaira, which somewhat 
 approaches the countenance of this creature, but does not 
 equal it. It was the physiognomy of what I should fancy 
 a ghoul might be. It looked as if it was capable of feed- 
 ing on human flesh. 
 
406 WHAT WAS IT? 
 
 Having satisfied our curiosity, and bound every one in 
 the house to secrecy, it became a question what was to 
 be done with our Enigma 1 ? It was impossible that we 
 should keep such a horror in our house ; it was equally 
 impossible that such an awful being should be let loose 
 upon the world. I confess that I would have gladly 
 voted for the creature's destruction. But who would 
 shoulder the responsibility ? Who would undertake the 
 execution of this horrible semblance of a human being ] 
 Day after day this question was deliberated gravely. The 
 boarders all left the house. Mrs. Moffat was in despair, 
 and threatened Hammond and myself with all sorts of 
 legal penalties if we did not remove the Horror. Our an- 
 swer was, " We will go if you like, but we decline taking 
 this creature with us. Remove it yourself if you please. 
 It appeared in your house. On you the responsibility 
 rests." To this there was, of course, no answer. Mrs. 
 Moffat could not obtain for love or money a person who 
 would even approach the Mystery. 
 
 The most singular part of the affair was that we were 
 entirely ignorant of what the creature habitually fed on. 
 Everything in the way of nutriment that we could think 
 of was placed before it, but was never touched. It was 
 awful to stand by, day after day, and see the clothes 
 toss, and hear the hard breathing, and know that it was 
 starving. 
 
 Ten, twelve days, a fortnight passed, and it still lived. 
 The pulsations of the heart, however, were daily growing 
 fainter, and had now nearly ceased. It was evident that 
 the creature was dying for want of sustenance. While 
 this terrible life-struggle was going on, I felt miserable. 
 I could not sleep. Horrible as the Creature was, it was 
 pitiful to think of the pangs it was suffering. 
 
WHAT WAS IT? 407 
 
 At last it died. Hammond and I found it cold and 
 stiff one morning in the bed. The heart had ceased to 
 beat, the lungs to inspire. We hastened to bury it in the 
 garden. It was a strange funeral, the dropping of that 
 viewless corpse into the damp hole. The cast of its form 
 
 I gave to Doctor X , who keeps it in his museum in 
 
 Tenth Street. 
 
 As I am on the eve of a long journey from which I may 
 not return, J have drawn up this narrative of an event 
 the most singular that has ever come to my knowledge. 
 
408 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 
 
 DUKE HUMPHEEY'S DINJSTEK * 
 
 " HAVE we no more coal, Agnes 1 " 
 
 " No more." 
 
 " What the deuce are we going to do for fire 1 " 
 
 " I have n't the slightest idea, Dick. You 're clever. 
 Why don't you invent some way of warming one's self 
 without the aid of fire 1 " 
 
 " If you were a man I could box with you," said Dick, 
 looking meditatively at his wife as if wondering whether 
 she could stand a round or two. " Boxing warms one up 
 famously ; but then we have no gloves." 
 
 " No," said Agnes, with a laugh, " and we shall have 
 no shoes either in a very short time," and she pushed 
 out, as she spoke, a little foot with a dilapidated slipper 
 on it. 
 
 " What a funny thing it is to have no money, Agnes ! " 
 said Dick, gazing at a very small fire which smouldered 
 in the grate, with a rather contemplative air. " Do you 
 know that, if it was n't so confoundedly cold, I 'd rather 
 enjoy poverty. Now in summer-time there must be 
 something very piquant in misery." 
 
 * O'Brien wrote a little comedy on the same subject treated in 
 this story, which was produced at Wallack's Theatre, February 
 4th, 1856, with Mr. Lester Wallack as Burdoon, and Mrs. Hoey as 
 Agnes. ED. 
 
DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 409 
 
 " Only to think," answered Agnes, " of the thousands 
 of dollars that I 've thrown away on follies, when a tenth 
 part of the sum would be a perfect dream of happiness 
 now." 
 
 "At present five dollars would present as magnifi- 
 cent an appearance as the English national debt in gold 
 sovereigns." 
 
 " Do you remember the ball at which you first pro- 
 posed to me, Dick ] " 
 
 " Don't 1 1 " 
 
 " The large, lofty rooms, glowing with burnished gold 
 and soft lights ; the carpets, with their elastic, mossy 
 pile, into which one's feet sank so far and so pleasantly 
 that they became loath to leave their nests^ making one 
 lounge lazily instead of walking; the conservatory, dimly 
 lit with colored lamps, where tropical leaves nodded 
 heavily, as if bathed in Eastern dreams, and the rich scent 
 of the tuberoses wandered through the trees like the 
 souls of dead flowers roaming in search of some bloomy 
 paradise ; the music streaming through the wide doors 
 of the dancing-rooms, and quivering off into the distance ; 
 the rustle of rich silks ; the murmur of the thousand 
 voices ; the light ; the perfume ; the glory of youth and 
 joy spreading over everything like an atmosphere of 
 human sunshine in which myriads of gay and splendid 
 butterflies floated. Don't you remember, Dick 1 " 
 
 " I do," answered Dick, with rather a sad smile, and a 
 glance round the wretched room in which they were sit- 
 ting. " I remember well the glories of the life in which 
 you were born, and the contrast, strange enough, with 
 the life to which I have brought you. You have de- 
 scribed the past ; let me describe the present. A fourth- 
 story room in a tumble-down tenement-house in the 
 
410 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 
 
 filthiest part of Mulberry Street. German shoemakers 
 and Irish washerwomen above and below us. No furni- 
 ture save a table and a pallet-bed. A couple of old wine- 
 boxes to sit on, in place of chairs. Two feet of snow on the 
 ground, and no coal ; an exceedingly healthy and prom- 
 ising hunger gnawing at both of us, and no money to buy 
 food. All our available goods sold or pawned long ago. 
 Repudiated by our relatives because we chose to marry 
 each other on the ridiculous basis of mutual affection. 
 All our efforts to obtain work being constantly frustrated 
 by either Providence or his Satanic Majesty. Just enough 
 of inconvenient pride left in us to prevent us from beg- 
 ging. And I think, my dear Agnes, you have as pretty a 
 case for suicide as ever came up in evidence before a Paris 
 police court, Don't you feel like a pan of charcoal and 
 a last embrace 1 or a dose of strychnine and a despairing 
 letter to our friends 1 I would offer you a pair of pistols 
 and a mutual shooting arrangement, but at present my 
 account at the Merchants' Bank is rather confused, and I 
 do not like to draw a check for any amount until it is 
 settled." 
 
 And the young husband laughed as heartily as if the 
 whole thing were a sort of comedy which he was rehears- 
 ing, and which he thought he was doing exceedingly 
 well. 
 
 " Dick," said his wife, very earnestly, coming round to 
 where her husband sat, and kissing him gently on the 
 forehead, "Dick, you are jesting, are you not? You 
 have no such ideas, I trust ? " 
 
 " Jesting 1 Of course I am, you dear little puss ! Of 
 all the unphilosophical things a man can do, killing him- 
 self is about the most unphilosophical. To kill another 
 man is unphilosophical, because the chances are ten to one 
 
DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 411 
 
 that the murder will be discovered, and the perpetrator 
 hanged. Therefore, murder is only a devious way of com- 
 mitting suicide, with the additional disadvantage of hav- 
 ing killed a fellow-creature. But, as far as regards the 
 individual, suicide is still more unphilosophical than mur- 
 der, for you. do not allow yourself even a chance of escape. 
 We may have to die of starvation, my dear little Mentor, 
 though I think it unlikely. If we have, however, the best 
 thing we can do is to use all the means in our power to 
 avert the unpleasant occurrence, and, if it comes, meet it. 
 manfully, you may say womanfully, if you choose. But 
 if we were to kill ourselves by poison in order to avoid 
 dying twenty hours later of starvation, don't you think 
 we should be doing rather an absurd thing 1 Particularly 
 if, after we were dead, our spirits discovered that Provi- 
 dence would have sent us, at the nineteenth hour, some 
 guardian angel, in shape of a friend, who would have 
 relieved us from all our misery. No, my dear, we won't 
 have any prussic acid, or French exits from life. When 
 we are too weak to stand up, we will lie down side by side ; 
 and when we are too exhausted to live, we will clasp our 
 hands together, bless God with our last breath, and die 
 like the babes in the wood. Perhaps, after we are dead, 
 that Irish washerwoman who lives in the fifth story may 
 come in, like the robin in the legend, and cover us with 
 leaves. She is n't very like a robin, certainly," continued 
 Dick, with an air of mock meditation, "for she swears 
 frightfully, and, I regret to say, smells of whiskey." 
 
 This struck the pair as so very comic an idea that they 
 simultaneously clapped their hands, and burst into peals 
 of laughter. To hear those shrieks of merriment one 
 would have thought this young couple the blithest and 
 most careless creatures in the world. 
 
412 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 
 
 Their history was a simple romance. They were both 
 orphans, the only difference being that Agnes Grey was 
 an orphan with rich relatives, and Richard Burdoon an 
 orphan with no relatives at all. Agnes had been adopted 
 by her uncle, an old bachelor, who lived in Boston, a 
 selfish old man, who, once he took possession of the poor 
 girl, looked on her as his personal property, and regarded 
 all who would seek to deprive him of her as atrocious 
 burglars, worthy of the extremest penalties of the law. 
 He petted her, then, as Caligula petted his favorite horse. 
 She was clothed in purple and fine linen, and had her 
 gilded stable. Agnes Grey had but to express a desire, 
 and every luxury that wealth could purchase dropped at 
 her feet from the hands of the abominable old fairy, her 
 uncle. She gave balls and matinees, and rode on Arab 
 steeds. Her jewels were the newest and the most won- 
 derful, her dresses unimaginably well-fitting. Having 
 wealth, beauty, and an indulgent guardian, this charming- 
 young girl wanted but one thing, a lover. It is a cu- 
 rious dispensation of Providence, that, while some young 
 ladies are all their lives waiting for lovers, that commodity 
 never arrives, whereas others have scarce begun to feel 
 the vague desire, when lo ! it rains and hails and snows 
 any quantity of adoring young gentlemen. Agnes Grey, 
 then, had scarcely conjured up the youngest of desires in 
 her most secret heart, when the wall opened, and Mr. 
 Richard Burdoon, stepping out, proclaimed himself her 
 lover. I don't mean to say that the wall opened in real- 
 ity, but it is a metaphorical way I have of expressing that 
 he arrived in the nick of time. They met at a party. 
 Mr. Burdoon, having been left a few thousand dollars just 
 one year previously by the death of his only surviving 
 relative, set off for Europe to spend them. He succeeded 
 
DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 413 * 
 
 to admiration, and, at the time I speak of, had just re- 
 turned with an immense deal of useless experience, and 
 just three hundred and fifty dollars. Considering, very 
 properly, that so enormous a capital justified any folly, he 
 ran off with Miss Agnes Grey, without consulting her 
 avuncular dragon. That jealous old relative, wounded in 
 his tenderest spot, raged like a fury, disowned his un- 
 happy niece, and swore a solemn oath that he would let 
 her die of starvation ere he would assist her. At first, 
 Agnes and her husband mentally whistled at his threats. 
 Had they not three hundred and fifty dollars "? Armed 
 with so incalculable a sum, what cared they for poverty 1 
 They came to New York. Ah ! how quickly did the 
 scenes in the panorama succeed each other ! Metro- 
 politan Hotel and fine apartments ; then boarding-house, 
 and sudden departure therefrom owing to bills unpaid ; 
 then cheap lodgings and visits to the pawnbroker ; then 
 appealing letters to old uncle, all of which were re- 
 turned unopened. Lastly, in the miserable tenement in 
 Mulberry Street, we find them without sixpence, laughing 
 in the face of starvation. 
 
 What wonders will not youth and hope work ! What 
 horrible witches fly affrighted at its merry laugh, piercing 
 as the clarion of the cock ! Midas should have been the 
 god of youth, for he turned everything to gold ! 
 
 After a pause in the merry talk of this young couple, 
 which I took advantage of in order to relate all I knew 
 of their history, Dick said suddenly, as if the conviction 
 forced itself on" him for the first time, " Do you know, 
 Agnes, that I feel absolutely hungry?" 
 
 " No ! Do you, though 1 " said Agnes, with the most 
 comic air of surprise. " Let us hasten up dinner." 
 
 "Certainly," answered Dick, falling instinctively in 
 
414 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 
 
 with her humor. "This cook of ours is confoundedly 
 slow to-day. I shall give her warning"; and he made 
 a feint of looking at his watch. 
 
 " I will ring the bell, and tell John to hurry her," said 
 Agnes, pulling an imaginary bell-rope. " John," she con- 
 tinued, after a pause sufficient to allow the mythical John 
 to mount the stairs, " John, tell the cook to send up 
 the dinner instantly. Master is very angry at the delay." 
 
 "Yes, mum," replied a gruff voice, which Agnes, of 
 course, did not affect to consider as proceeding from the 
 bottom of Dick's chest! Then Agnes and her husband 
 talked of indifferent matters for a moment or two, as if 
 beguiling the weary time before dinner. After a proper 
 period of delay, John's gruff voice announced dinner in 
 the same mysterious manner as before. Then Dick made 
 a great show of giving Agnes his arm, and leading her in 
 state into the dining-room. This solemn procession, how- 
 ever, consisted in marching round the naked chamber a 
 couple of times, and bringing up before the old deal table, 
 which was supposed to be loaded with all the delicacies of 
 the season. Dick was agreeably surprised at the splendor 
 of the repast. 
 
 " What ! " he exclaimed, seating himself on the old 
 wine-box, and glancing over the bare table, " what a 
 sumptuous feast ! Ha ! I shall enjoy it. My appetite is 
 splendid. John, remove the cover from the soup. This 
 is potaye a la reine, my dear. Excellent, if I may judge 
 by the odor. Shall I send you some 1 " 
 
 " Thank you, dear," answered Agnes, receiving a sup- 
 posititious soup-plate from the mythical John. " It is 
 delicious ! But oh ! I declare, I have burned my mouth, 
 it is so hot ! " and Agnes went through all the spasms of a 
 person suffering from a spoonful of hot soup. 
 
DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 415 
 
 " As I live, a salmon ! " exclaimed Dick, starting into 
 an attitude of surprise. " It is early in the season for 
 such fish." 
 
 " It was sent from Scotland, in ice," replied Agnes. 
 
 " It is a noble animal ! " said Dick, using an aerial fish- 
 knife with wonderful dexterity. " There is no sport more 
 magnificent than that of salmon-fishing, particularly on 
 ' the Scotch and Irish rivers. The noble scenery, the rapid 
 river, the long, lithe rod, the whizzing line that drops he 
 gorgeous fly into the deep pool, where the silver-sided ras- 
 cals lurk. Then the strike; tfee quick whirring of the 
 wheel ; the flashing leaps of the captive ; the moments of 
 agony when the line slackens as he runs up stream ; the 
 joy when he pulls again ; the breathless anxiety when the 
 gaff is thrust under him as he swims ; the deep sigh of 
 relief when he is hauled, flapping, shining, bleeding, dying, 
 into the boat ; all this is " 
 
 "Very eloquent, no doubt," says Agnes; "but your 
 salmon is cooling all this time, my dear husband." 
 
 " Ah ! true," cries Dick, with a sudden start, and ap- 
 plying himself with instant vigor to the discussion of a 
 supposed cut of rosy flesh, with mealy flakes of white lying 
 in the crevices of the meat. " What a delicious salmon ! 
 We are indebted to our noble friend in Scotland." 
 
 " You will find this turban de volatile aux truffes very 
 excellent," said Agnes, peering with the air of a connois- 
 seur at the ideal dish before her. " Francis's last master 
 says that he is celebrated for it." 
 
 " Hum ! we will see," muttered Dick, pursing up his 
 lips, and leaning back as far as he could on the wine-box, 
 with a critical importance. " Good heavens, Agnes ! " he 
 exclaimed, the moment after, with an air of horror, " how 
 could you recommend this 1 Why, the fellow has not put 
 
416 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 
 
 a single cock's-comb in it ! Pshaw ! Here, John, take this 
 away, and tell Frangois, if he sends up a dish of that kind 
 again, I will condemn him to eat it." 
 
 "Fortunately, there are some delicious cotelettes ft, la 
 financiere left, so that we can dispense with the volatile" 
 says Agnes. 
 
 " They are indeed excellent," answers Dick, making be- 
 lieve that his mouth is full of the succulent meat of the 
 cotelettes. 
 
 So on through the whole of this strange repast. Deli- 
 cacy after delicacy.was announced, some relished, others 
 criticised, more dismissed indignantly. The unlucky Fran- 
 gois came in for many severe rebukes, transmitted through 
 the mythical John. The game was pronounced overdone*, 
 and an English pheasant a present from an illustrious 
 British friend was condemned as having been utterly 
 spoiled in the dressing. The dessert, however, consisted 
 of a soufflet, and a delicious confection, called guteaux 
 Egyptienne, was solemnly pronounced to be perfect, and 
 John was commissioned to convey a flattering compliment 
 to Frangois, as a salve for the rebukes given during the 
 previous courses. Two children, playing at "feasting," 
 could not have conducted this visionary repast more ear- 
 nestly. The correct wines were drunk at the correct 
 moment, and all the little ceremonies of a formal dinner 
 scrupulously performed. 
 
 When all was over, when the coffee had been served 
 and drunk, when the table had been cleared away, and 
 John had respectfully retired, the eyes of the young 
 couple met, and a flash of laughter sprang from the en- 
 counter. Casting aside the elegant formality of the great 
 lady en grand tenue, Agnes ran to her husband, and, clasp- 
 ing him round the neck, fairly sobbed out her laughter on 
 his breast. 
 
DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 417 
 
 " Do you know, dear," said Dick, after a little while, 
 " it may entail on me the reputation of being a glutton, 
 of having a wolf in my stomach, of being a vampire, or 
 a thousand other unpleasant reports 1 But I nevertheless 
 cannot help confessing that I feel rather more hungry 
 than I did before I commenced that exquisite dinner, 
 which, in spite of some failures, does FranQois infinite 
 credit." 
 
 "Would you like to dine over again, Dick?" inquired 
 his wife, with a grave air. "Nothing is easier, you 
 know." 
 
 "Certainly," answered Dick, dubiously, "nothing is 
 easier ; but but I 'm rather afraid that my tastes are 
 becoming somewhat coarse. I am really ashamed of the 
 very idea; but the fact is that at this very moment I 
 have an intense longing for a piece of roast beef." 
 
 " That is singular," said Agnes, with an air of surprise. 
 " However, nature sometimes avenges itself on luxury, 
 by afflicting her votaries with homely tastes. I really 
 pity you, Dick. For my part, nothing less delicate than 
 a reed-bird, tender, succulent, melting, an epitome, 
 in fact, of perfume, nourishment, and flavor, nothing 
 less than this could possibly tempt my pampered ap- 
 petite." 
 
 "I declare, Agnes," cried Dick, "I have a fancy just 
 now to behave like a poor devil who has n't got a penny. 
 Yes ! you may shrug your shoulders, but I really wish 
 to divest myself of my splendor, and commit an act 
 that contradicts the magnificence with which we are 
 surrounded." 
 
 " Explain yourself." 
 
 "You remember that magnificent edition of Erasmus 
 which my old friend, Harry Waters, gave me when I was 
 
 27 
 
418 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 
 
 going abroad. Well, I cherish that book dearly, for the 
 sake of him, and the few affectionate lines he has written 
 on the fly-leaf. Now, if a very poor man had that book 
 he would sell it, if he had nothing else to dispose of, for 
 it is clasped with silver, and is worth something; so I, 
 who wish, merely for a freak, to experience the sensations 
 of a poor man, have an idea of going out and selling that 
 book, merely for the sake of the illusion, you know. 
 Nothing more, on my honor." 
 
 " You always had queer fancies, dear," answered Agnes, 
 as unconcernedly as if she had millions in her purse ; but 
 one might see beneath all that careless gayety a sudden 
 flash of hope sparkle for an instant. One could see very 
 plainly that this book which, doubtless, had till then 
 been forgotten gave her a new lease of life ; one could 
 see very plainly how bravely she had been smiling in the 
 face of hunger and of death. 
 
 " Let me perform the last act of the millionnaire before 
 I play the part of a beggar," said Dick, rising joyously 
 from his wine-box. " Sardanapalus burned his furniture ; 
 why should not I consume my chairs ? The fire is going 
 out in a most unaccountable manner ; let us see how this 
 fauteuil will blaze." So saying, he broke the wine-box 
 into fragments, and cast it into the almost fireless grate. 
 
 The wine-box blazed. A lofty, ruddy flame sprang up 
 in the fireplace, and shed a glow over the cold, naked 
 room. It seemed as if the purple Burgundy that once 
 had lain between those few boards had left some portion 
 of its fiery heart behind it. Who knows but that a bottle 
 of that glowing wine was at that very moment sparkling 
 on some splendid table, that in some other hemisphere 
 the curtains were drawn close, and the wax-lights blaz- 
 ing, and a party of jolly fellows, with legs well stretched 
 
DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 419 
 
 under the shining mahogany, were toasting beautiful 
 women, while the case which held the precious juice 
 they were quaffing, the shell from which the soul that 
 they were inhaling had fled, was burning in a rusty 
 grate, and making a bonfire to scare away the wehrwolf, 
 death 1 
 
 " The blaze is really quite cheerful," said Agnes, warm- 
 ing her hands, while a faint glow of pleasure spread itself 
 over her face. " Do you know that I think a wood-fire 
 preferable to all others 1 " 
 
 "It recalls the feudal times," answered Dick. "We 
 are in a vast baronial hall. The roof is solid with ribs of 
 blackened oak, and antlers hang from the walls, to each 
 horn of which cling a thousand memories of the chase. 
 The floor is of solid stone. Old, tattered banners droop 
 from the walls, and wave heavily, as if too weak with 
 age to shake off the thickening dust that soils their his- 
 toric splendor. No modern garments shroud our limbs. 
 You, dearest, are clad in a lustrous Cramoisie velvet, 
 with peaked stomacher, and stately train sweeping on 
 the ground. A cavalier's hat, with its trailing feather, 
 droops over my temples. My sword clangs against the 
 pavement, and I assume a picturesque and haughty atti- 
 tude, as I stand with my back to the wide fireplace, where 
 huge logs of oak, supported by iron 'dogs,' spit and 
 blaze, and send streams of sparkles up the huge chim- 
 ney. I am at present meditating whether Hubert the 
 seneschal shall be beheaded or not. Shall I order his 
 instant execution, or " 
 
 "Sell the book 1 ?" interrupted Agnes; "please your- 
 self." 
 
 " By Jove, I forgot ! " said Dick, forgetting in a mo- 
 ment all his splendor and feudality. " Agnes, I '11 be 
 
420 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 
 
 back in five minutes. Tell John to prepare tea, and let 
 us have the Sevres service"; and he bolted down the 
 crazy stairs, reaching the bottom in a few bounds. 
 
 Agnes smiled sorrowfully as she crouched over the 
 rapidly-sinking fire. The wine-box was fast losing its 
 fiery spirit and degenerating into a dull mass of blacken- 
 ing embers. Now that her joyous young husband was 
 away she had no one with whom she could laugh at mis- 
 ery. It takes two to fight that crawling, cruel monster. 
 The moment the echoes of Dick's footsteps had died away 
 the horror laid its cold hand upon her heart. It was in 
 vain that she tried to sing, to laugh, to conjure up those 
 comical visions which she and Dick had used so often 
 before as an exorcism. She felt a black wall, as it were, 
 closing gradually round her; the air became too thick 
 to breathe ; the last bit of sky was gradually being shut 
 off, then then a quick foot on the stairs, a merry 
 cricket-like voice, a half-sung carol, and Dick burst into 
 the room, performing a species of triumphal dance. A 
 piece of paper fluttered in his hand. 
 
 " Two dollars ! " he cried, executing an indescribable 
 figure. " Going for two dollars ! This splendid, mag- 
 nificent, delicious, succulent book, with silver facings, like 
 a militia officer, going for two dollars ! Who- '11 bid 1 Only 
 two dollars ! Gone at two dollars ! " 
 
 " You don't mean to say " said Agnes, rising ea- 
 gerly. 
 
 "I do. I absolutely got two dollars for the book. 
 'T was worth fifteen; but then you know we must not 
 be too nice. Is n't it splendid ? " and he waved the two- 
 dollar bill as a young ensign waves his standard in the 
 battle. " I brought it home, Agnes dear, because I think 
 you are the best person to spend it. These wretches of 
 
DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 421 
 
 tradespeople would certainly cheat me if I attempted to 
 buy any eatables. What shall it be % " 
 
 " What do you think of sausages 1 " said Agnes, sug- 
 gesting rather timidly. " They are cheap and " 
 
 " Excellent ! " cried Dick, with a new pirouette, " charm- 
 ing ! I adore the sausage. Sausage, with some nice white 
 bread, a pat of butter, and a few apples, and we shall feast 
 in dazzling splendor ! " 
 
 "Not forgetting a cigar for Dick," whispered Agnes, 
 looking up lovingly in his face. " I know that you long 
 for a cigar." 
 
 " Angel !" cried Dick, clasping her in his arms, and 
 waltzing round the room with her. " There are no sound- 
 ings to the depth of woman's love ! " 
 
 "I 'm off to the market, love," said Agnes, giving him 
 a kiss ; but this chaste salute was suddenly interrupted 
 by a knock at the door. Both hearts leaped. Who could 
 it be 1 A new misfortune 1 The bookseller, where Dick 
 sold the book, seemed suspicious about his being in pos- 
 session of such property. Heaven grant that nothing un- 
 pleasant threatened, was the prayer of the young couple. 
 
 " Does Mr. Burdoon live here 1 " said a very deep, gruff 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes," said Dick, boldly, " come in." 
 
 A short, thick-set man in a great-coat entered, and stood 
 near the door. It was a dusky twilight in the room. 
 The Assyrian bonfire of the wine-box had just expired in 
 a few convulsive sparkles, and it was hi vain that Dick 
 tried to see the stranger's countenance. 
 
 " Are you Mr. Burdoon 1 " asked the visitor. 
 
 "I am," answered Dick; "what is your business, sir 1 ? 
 I would ask you to be seated, but, unfortunately, all my 
 furniture is packed up." 
 
422 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER." 
 
 "Never mind," answered the man, gruffly. "You sold 
 a book a short time since at Mr. Marbell's bookstore, did 
 you not 1 " 
 
 "I really am not aware, sir," said Dick, haughtily, 
 "that this is any one's business but my own." 
 
 " Softly, softly, my friend," answered the new-comer. 
 " No need of quarrelling. How did that book come into 
 your possession ? " 
 
 "Are you a police-officer?" inquired Dick, in a men- 
 acing tone. 
 
 " Never mind," said the man, "answer my question first." 
 
 "When I have answered it, I shall kick you down 
 stairs, my friend." 
 
 " I '11 run the risk," said the fellow, with a short laugh. 
 
 " Well, then, it was given to me by a friend," answered 
 Dick, making an ominous step toward the intruder. 
 
 " Wait a moment, don't kick me down stairs just yet. 
 Why did you part with that book ? " 
 
 "Curse you, that 's none of your business," cried Dick, 
 savagely. " If you value your bones you '11 leave me." 
 
 " I don't value my bones, so I '11 stay until you have 
 answered me," said the man, very quietly. Dick could 
 not help smiling at this audacity. 
 
 " Every question I answer," said he, " I shall give you 
 an additional kick for. You know the terms, ask away." 
 
 " Why did you part with that book 1 " 
 
 "Because I was starving. Because I saw my wife 
 fainting, and dying of cold and hunger before my eyes, 
 all the time with a brave smile upon her lips. Because 
 I have sought for work and could not get it. Because 
 there was neither food, nor fire, nor furniture in this 
 wretched hole. Because starvation was flapping his 
 wings like a vulture, hoping each moment to plunge 
 
DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 423 
 
 his beak into our vitals. For these reasons I sold the 
 book that dear old Harry Waters gave me, and for none 
 other would I have profaned his gift. Now I have ex- 
 posed mj misery to you, sir, whoever you are, and you 
 shall pay dearly for it. I will break every bone in your 
 body," and he sprang like a tiger at the short, thick-set 
 man, who stood in the gloom. He felt himself suddenly 
 seized by the shoulder, and rooted to the earth, as if he 
 had been in the grip of an enormous vise. 
 
 " Dick Burd&on," said the thick-set man, and this time 
 his voice was sweet and soft as a woman's, " you are not 
 going to kick me, Dick Burdoon ; for many a star-lit 
 night, in the silent fields, you have lain with my arms 
 around you, and your head upon my bosom, while we 
 talked of the splendid things we would achieve when we 
 two went out into life hand in hand." 
 
 Dick trembled like a leaf, and said not a word. 
 
 "You will not kick me, Dick Burdoon," went on the 
 thick-set man, loosening his grasp of Dick's shoulder, and 
 drawing closer as he spoke, " because one day, when the 
 sun was pitiless, and the river cool, a young, weak boy, 
 tempted by the clear waters, ventured into a deep part, 
 and went down. And then his friend, older and stronger 
 than himself, plunged in, determined to rescue that fair 
 boy or perish with him. And he dived into the deep 
 waters twice, and the second time he found him, clasped 
 in the meshes of loathsome weeds, with the merciless 
 river sweeping away his young life. The elder boy strug- 
 gled with him to land, and when they reached the 
 shore people could scarce tell the saver from the saved. 
 But when both recovered their strength and speech, the 
 younger boy swore eternal gratitude to his preserver, and 
 they vowed to be friends forevermore." 
 
424 DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 
 
 " I remember ! I remember ! " cried Dick sobbingly. 
 
 " Since that time," continued the thick-set man, " their 
 paths in life have lain asunder ; but I know that in the 
 hearts of both the old friendship lives still, and that, if 
 one of the twain were frowned on by the world, the other 
 would pour out his life in smiles to make it sunshine with 
 him again. That is why I know that you will" not kick 
 me, Dick Burdoon." 
 
 " Harry ! Harry Waters, my dear, dear old boy ! " 
 cried Dick through his tears, and flinging himself into the 
 visitor's arms. " God bless you for coming, Harry, for I 
 needed you sorely." 
 
 " I saw you, my boy," said Harry, folding him in an 
 embrace so gentle that one would imagine he was fondling 
 a child, "I saw you the moment you entered the shop. 
 You know 1 was always famous for poking in old book- 
 stores, and I am glad I have such tastes. I saw you sell- 
 ing the old Erasmus, my boy, and knew that something 
 must be wrong with you. I followed you here, and now 
 we three are joined, thank God, for a long time to come." 
 And the kind fellow took poor, timid Agnes's hand and 
 drew her close till all three were united in one fond trinity 
 of love. 
 
 Need I tell how Harry Waters, the rich bachelor, 
 carried Agnes and Dick off that evening to his house, and 
 made much of them there ? Need I say how they lived 
 with him until Dick got employment, from which he has 
 gradually raised himself to be a great merchant 1 Need 
 I tell about that solemn christening, whereat Dick's first- 
 born was named, with much ceremony, Harry Waters 
 Burdoon 1 A hint of all those happy days will, I am sure, 
 be enough for the warm-hearted reader, who has long 
 since, I know, wished the young couple a full meal. One 
 
DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER. 425 
 
 thing I must relate, however, an incident that occurred 
 on the evening after the sale of the Erasmus. When the 
 sobbings and the embraces were all over, Harry Waters, 
 by way of saying something general, said to Dick, " By 
 the way, have you dined yet 1 " 
 
 Dick turned to his wife, who smiled. 
 
 "0, yes," we dined sumptuously an hour ago," said 
 Dick. 
 
 " Ah ! indeed ! " said Harry, rather surprised. 
 
 " Yes ! we dined with Duke Humphrey ! " 
 
426 MILLY DOVE. 
 
 MILLY DOVE. 
 
 IT was the quaintest of imaginable rooms. It was deep 
 and dark in the corners, where the very spirit of mystery 
 itself seemed to hide away, while there lay from end to 
 end of the crazy old floor a long bar of golden light, that 
 had poured in through the single window, seeming like a 
 luminous pathway which, if followed, would take one 
 straight out through the diamonded casement, and so on 
 to heaven. The walls were dim, and deeply panelled with 
 some dark, melancholy wood, and in the chinks of every 
 panel active spiders lived a toilsome life, passing their 
 days in the construction of suspension-bridges from their 
 houses to the ceiling, which works were apparently un- 
 dertaken from a purely scientific motive, as they were 
 never seen to traverse them after they were finished. 
 Three chairs lurked in the corners of this half-lit cham- 
 ber. One of them old-fashioned, with a high back and 
 crooked arms seemed to repose in the twilight of the 
 place, like some high-shouldered old beau of the last cen- 
 tury, silently reflecting, as it were, on the habits of the 
 present generation. This old fellow was not, however, 
 always in retreat. He was many a time during the day 
 dragged forth into the centre of the stream of golden 
 light that poured through the deep window, where he 
 seemed to blink and shrink from the unwonted glare, 
 
MILLY DOVE. 427 
 
 while a small, bright figure nestled into his comfortable 
 angles, and pierced his bent and padded old arms with cruel 
 pins, to which divers endless cotton threads were fastened. 
 And then, as the sunlight poured splendidly through the 
 diamond panes, powdering the air with golden dust and 
 playing on the carvings of the ceiling, there was not a 
 prettier picture in the world not even in your grand 
 foreign galleries beyond the sea than Milly Dove, sit- 
 ting in her sumptuous old chair. 
 
 She was very, very pretty, this little Milly Dove. Her 
 eyes were so dark and blue, and the light that shone in 
 them seemed to be so far off behind, that one saw it 
 shining, shining miles and miles away, like the lights of a 
 distant city across the sea ! Then her hair was of such 
 a rich brown, golden-hued where the light struck it, ' 
 and her rosy, cloven mouth was so fresh and dewy, that, 
 if I were a painter, I would not have tried to paint Milly 
 Dove for the world, I would only have dreamed of 
 her. 
 
 Milly sat the greater part of the day in that high- 
 backed chair, right in the sunny stream, working at her 
 embroidery or knitting. I said before prettily enough 
 too, I think that the light, as it poured in, seemed like 
 a path to heaven. If it were so, who that saw this little 
 maiden seated in its radiance would not say that she was 
 an angel made to tread it ] 
 
 She did not tread it, however, or even dream of any 
 such proceeding as marching out through the window on 
 a pavement of sunbeams, and wandering off into prob- 
 lematical regions. Not that Milly Dove did not wish to 
 go to heaven ; but she had so many things to do down 
 below here that she never would have thought of such a 
 journey, unless it pleased God to take her. 
 
428 MILLY DOVE. 
 
 She had much to do, that little thing, though you 
 would not think it to look at her. Milly Dove kept a 
 shop. Yes ! absolutely kept a shop. Directly opposite to 
 that old-fashioned window which lit the little room, a small 
 glass door stood always half open, through which one could 
 catch a glimpse of a small counter and small shelves, and 
 a varied assortment of the smallest merchandise it was 
 possible to keep. Tiny drums for infants of a military 
 turn of mind ; scanty bundles of cotton and muslin stuffs, 
 large enough, perhaps, to furnish dolls' dresses ; infini- 
 tesimal brooches ; ridiculously reduced thimbles ; stunted 
 whips ; dwarf rakes and spades, and baby wheelbarrows, 
 together with a hundred such like articles, useful or orna- 
 mental, lay on the shelves, were hidden away in secret 
 places under the counter, or depended in bunches from 
 the low ceiling. 
 
 It seemed exceedingly odd to be obliged to regard 
 Milly Dove as the owner of all this magnificent and va- 
 ried property. Her childish figure had nothing of the 
 rigidity of a proprietor ; she did not look as if she had 
 any pockets to keep her money in ; nor did she possess in 
 the faintest degree the air of being arithmetical. No one 
 would believe, to look into those" clear, unworldly eyes, 
 that she could buy or sell anything to the slightest ad- 
 vantage, unless, indee'd, it were eggs, that commodity 
 having been, as every one knows who has read story- 
 books, intrusted from time immemorial to pretty little 
 girls to convey to^market. Now, in spite of all this, 
 Milly Dove was a famous hand at a bargain. It was 
 excellent to see her standing behind her small counter, 
 insisting pertinaciously on the price of some article which 
 she was selling ; explaining with much gravity, to the 
 cunning clown who wished to purchase, its various merits 
 
MILLY DOVE. 429 
 
 and positive value ; declaring that, if she gave it a cent 
 cheaper, it would be a dead loss to her, and how were 
 folks to live if they did not make some profit on their 
 goods 1 Then all this with such a sweet and gentle firm- 
 ness, such a mixture of innocence and shrewdness, that it 
 must be a hard customer indeed who could find the heart 
 to beat her down. 
 
 That house, a small, old-fashioned New England 
 tenement, smelling of the Mayflower, together with the 
 shop and its stock of goods, was all that Milly Dove pos- 
 sessed in this wide world. Her parents were dead, and 
 this old roof, with a scanty supply of merchandise, was 
 all they had to bequeath to their only child. And she 
 managed her inheritance wonderfully well, let me tell 
 you ! By the aid of her little shop, she made nearly two 
 hundred and fifty dollars in the year; and she had a 
 tenant for the upper part of the house, in the person of 
 a Mr. Josiah Compton, who paid her probably as much 
 more ; so that this little proprietor of sixteen, although 
 somewhat forlorn, was not very poor, and was able to lay 
 something by every year in a savings bank at Boston. 
 
 Mr. Josiah Compton was Milly's only friend. He was 
 a gnarled bachelor of fifty-six ; odd, kind-hearted, passion- 
 ately attached to flowers and music, and loving dearly 
 everything old and quaint, and which did not smell, as 
 he said, of the modern varnish. He had lived in this 
 house a very long time. Indeed, he had been living 
 there for many a year before Milly was born, and loved 
 the place for the air of quiet antiquity with which it 
 was haunted. There was a curious old garden at the 
 back of the house, which Mr. Josiah Compton had with 
 his own hands brought to a high state of floral cul- 
 ture. He had labored at it for years, and had written 
 
430 MILLY DOVE. 
 
 the history of his toil in flowers. The ground glowed 
 with tulips and ranunculuses; fiery lychnises and rich- 
 blossomed roses flaunted in the deep borders ; trumpet 
 honeysuckles thrust the golden lips of their horns through 
 a tented drapery of glossy leaves, as if about to sound a 
 challenge to the blue convolvulus ; dahlias, drunk with 
 dew, nodded their heavy heads ; the campanulas, w^th 
 their bells of intense blue, grew in close ranks around the 
 edges of the beds, like a tiny army guarding the borders 
 of this kingdom of flowers. Color and perfume floated 
 like a spell through the entire place. The brilliant plants, 
 trained into no formality, sprang up to heaven with a 
 splendid freedom. The walks were paved with the blos- 
 soms that they shed, and the heavens were fragrant with 
 the odors that they breathed 
 
 On this garden Mr. Compton's window opened ; and he 
 would sit in the summer time at his piano, with the case- 
 ment flung wide, the rich perfume of the flowers floating 
 in upon the languid air, and the rich music he awakened 
 surging over and under and through all, and mingling it- 
 self inextricably with the warm breath of the blossoming 
 roses. 
 
 Mr. Compton's playing and he played beautifully 
 was a source of intense pleasure to Milly, as she sat in her 
 old-fashioned parlor underneath, and watched the shop 
 through the half-open door. Poor child ! of music as an 
 art she was profoundly ignorant. Dominants, subdomi- 
 nants, fifths and sevenths, intervals, contrapunta, and 
 such like, were mysteries unknown to her by name. She 
 had never heard any other performer than Mr. Compton ; 
 but those wild voluntaries that he played pleased her 
 mightily, those sad, harmonious wailings, that poured 
 all day long through the open window, until toward the 
 
HILLY DOVE. 431 
 
 close of day, when the sun was setting, they would burst 
 into some triumphal melody that would sweep her soul 
 up along the path of golden light striking heavenward, 
 until it reached a goal so dazzlingly beautiful that she 
 grew blinded with its glories. 
 
 She was very happy sitting there in the sunshine, knit- 
 tii% and listening to the music. Occasionally some vil- 
 lager, in need of a ball of twine or a pair of scissors, would 
 enter the shop, and then Milly, jumping nimbly from her 
 perch, would glide behind the small counter, looking in- 
 tensely business-like. Or mayhap it would be some great 
 boy who had just come into possession of wealth unlimited 
 in the shape of a quarter-dollar, and who tremblingly en- 
 tered Milly's little shop, determined, yet scarce knowing 
 how, to spend it. And to all such Milly Dove was beau- 
 tifully kind and patient ; showing them, with perfect good- 
 humor, all the expensive toys to which they pointed, 
 although perfectly aware all the time of the extent of their 
 means, which were generally displayed in their hands with 
 the most confiding simplicity. Her little sales over, she 
 would again retreat to her parlor, to knit, or, it may be, to 
 take a good long peep at her panorama. 
 
 Milly Dove had a panorama. Not a panorama ever so 
 many miles long, professing to exhibit the entire world in 
 the most satisfactory manner possible in an hour and 
 twenty-five minutes. No ; Milly's panorama was, I must 
 confess, limited in extent, but it possessed endless variety 
 for her, and I do believe that she was never tired of look- 
 ing at it. 
 
 The panorama was by no means complicated. Its ex- 
 hibition was not encumbered with huge pulleys, and im- 
 possibly heavy weights and windlasses and cog-wheels to 
 keep it moving. But, in spite of this insignificance when 
 
432 MILLY DOVE. 
 
 compared with a " seven-mile mirror," Milly's panorama 
 was for her a splendid pastime. It was an endless round 
 of enjoyment, a garden of perpetual delights. 
 
 This work of art consisted of a large woode*n box sup- 
 ported on four long, diverging, attenuated legs. It con- 
 tained a few colored prints hung on hinges from the top, 
 one hiding the other, each capable of being lifted inWa 
 horizontal position, so as to disclose the next picture in 
 succession, by a series of little pulleys of a primitive char- 
 acter fixed on the exterior of the box. These pictures, 
 when viewed through the double convex lens which was 
 fixed in the front of the box at a proper focal distance, 
 were magnified and glorified in so wonderful and splendid 
 . a manner, that to Milly they presented the aspect of illim- 
 itable paintings, unsurpassable in beauty of design or bril- 
 liancy of color. How this treasure of art had come into 
 her family the little maiden was altogether ignorant. Her 
 mother was possessed of it long before Milly made her 
 appearance in the world, and when dying had left no tra- 
 dition of its history. The probability was, that some 
 wandering exhibitor may have left it with Mrs. Dove in 
 pledge for unpaid board, and had never redeemed it, poor 
 fellow ! 
 
 But there it was, and when Milly was left alone in the 
 world it became hers, and proud enough of it she was, 
 I can assure you. It afforded the dear child wondrous 
 delight to look through the peep-hole, and draw up the 
 paintings one after the other. She knew nothing of his- 
 tory, I don't like her a bit the less for that, and the 
 subjects of these splendid illustrations would have re- 
 mained mysteries to her forever, had it not been for the 
 kindness of Mr. Compton, who would pull the strings as 
 she peeped, and, assuming the air and manner of a veri- 
 
MILLY DOVE. 433 
 
 table showman, explain each cartoon as it appeared. That 
 gentleman, however, was not always quite certain himself 
 as to what scenes were really depicted in this splendid 
 gallery ; but then he never hesitated on account of any 
 want of knowledge, but assigned to each picture the most 
 probable explanation and title he could think of. I have 
 seeir*many grand battle-pieces in great galleries across the 
 sea that might just as well have been called the battle of 
 Pavia as the battle of Agincourt, and have looked at many 
 a heathen goddess painted by some great old artist, who 
 might quite as well have been put down as Moll Flan- 
 ders in the catalogue, and no one would have questioned 
 the propriety of the title. So I do not blame Mr. Comp- 
 ton in the least for his impromptu style of nomencla- 
 ture. It satisfied Milly perfectly, and he had no other 
 object. 
 
 These explanations did not, however, tax Mr. Compton's 
 inventive faculties very largely. There were the Pyra- 
 mids of Ghizeh, which he could not very well mistake, and 
 which afforded him an opportunity of delivering a very 
 learned discourse on the manners and customs of the 
 ancient Egyptians, all carefully extracted from an ency- 
 clopaedia; and there was the battle of Waterloo, which 
 the Duke of Wellington's nose and Napoleon's coat iden- 
 tified sufficiently ; but, again, there arose a fiery painting 
 with flames, and soldiers, and much killing, and falling 
 horses, with agonized mothers of large families in the 
 fourth stories, which, having no better name for it, Mr. 
 Compton christened the Battle of Prague ; and when he 
 afterward performed the piece of music of that name on 
 the piano, and came to the part called by the composer 
 in an explanatory note "the cries of the wounded," there 
 remained no shadow of doubt on Milly's mind that the 
 
 28 
 
434 MILLY DOVE. 
 
 picture was indeed a faithful representation of that terri- 
 ble combat, and that Mr. Compton was the best-informed 
 historian in the world. 
 
 Of late, somehow, Milly, poor child, was not quite so 
 interested in her panorama, or so attentive to her shop as 
 was her wont. She had not peeped through that magical 
 hole for many days; her knitting was, I regret to say, 
 of an unusually spasmodic character: when she sat in 
 the sunshine it seemed almost too gay for her ; and her 
 pretty little face seemed to have a cloud of sadness cov- 
 ering it. But she welcomed the music with more pleasure 
 than ever ; and the more melancholy it was, the better she 
 liked it \ for it seemed then to speak to her in a language 
 which she understood, yet could not interpret, harmo- 
 niously talking of strange things which she thought she 
 felt, and still was unable to comprehend. So she sat all 
 day and listened to Mr. Compton's wild improvisations, 
 as they floated over the flowers, till perfume and harmony 
 seemed to be mingling, and she grew so abstracted in her 
 habits that she had to be called thrice by Mrs. Barberry, 
 who wanted to buy a flour-dredge, before she thought of 
 answering. 
 
 It was singular, but no less true, that just at this time 
 I had the privilege of peeping into that pure little maiden's 
 mind, and observing, in secret, all its innocent little oper- 
 ations. It was a rare privilege, I know, but I hope I love 
 honor, beauty, and virtue too much not to look upon the 
 prerogative as holy. You will hear, therefore, from me 
 only such things as are necessary to the conduct of the 
 story I am endeavoring to relate. 
 
 I saw, at my very first peep, what it was that induced 
 Milly to forget her panorama, and pay such little heed to 
 old Mrs. Barberry. The cause of all this distraction was 
 
MILLY DOVE. 435 
 
 a certain person, of whom you shall know more before I 
 have done with you. 
 
 About a week previous to the time I am speaking of 
 a stranger had made his appearance in the little town of 
 Blossomdale, in which Milly lived ; and just about the 
 same time Milly, who had heard of the stranger's arrival 
 as one hears everything in a village but had not seen 
 him, observed a man of singular aspect passing her shop 
 frequently. Coupling the two facts together she came to 
 the conclusion that this person and the strange arrival 
 were one ; which at least proves that Milly Dove was 
 capable of inductive reasoning. 
 
 He was a remarkable man, this stranger. Not very 
 tall, but rather powerfully built; he always walked rap- 
 idly, with his frame stooped forward from the hips, as 
 if his mind were in advance of his body. His face was 
 somewhat narrow, and delicately featured. A thin mus- 
 tache curled around a small mouth, and his hair was pro- 
 fuse, though not long. But it was in his eyes that his 
 individuality chiefly resided, eyes that seemed to gaze 
 at nothing, and yet see everything. They did not look, 
 they absorbed, those great dark eyes, and shed from out 
 their own darkness a shadow over the whole face. They 
 were eyes truly delightful to look at, as it is delight- 
 ful to look down into a calm sea, and hard to be for- 
 gotten. 
 
 Milly did not easily forget them, I promise you. They 
 haunted her as she sat alone in the little half-lit parlor, 
 and seemed to glow with a strange light in the dim cor- 
 ners where the spiders dwelt. She looked at them, and 
 they k>oked at her all the livelong day, and this was why 
 she forgo v t her panorama, 
 
 Now Milly Dove told Mr. Compton everything. He 
 
436 MILLY DOVE. 
 
 was her only friend. He stood to her in the place of a 
 parent, and loved her as a daughter. Confidence existed 
 between them as a matter of course, and she talked to 
 him as the stream flows. So she soon told him about this 
 stranger : how she had seen him ; how his face haunted 
 her continually ; how she kept thinking about him all 
 day long; how she watched for him at the hour when 
 it was usual for him to pass her door, and felt a sort of 
 dim, indistinct pleasure when he passed. All this she 
 told her old friend simply, truly, naturally, without even 
 the remotest idea of the nature or origin of her feelings ; 
 for Milly was at that happy age when people are not 
 learned in the mysteries of themselves, and do not possess 
 the mournful knowledge which enables them to anato- 
 mize their own hearts. Mr. Compton at first looked rather 
 sad at hearing this naive confession ; but after a moment 
 he laughed and kissed her fair forehead, saying that she 
 would soon forget this wonderful stranger. Then he sat 
 down at his piano and played so wild and wonderful a 
 strain, fraught with such depths of pure and unconscious 
 passion, that Milly lay statue-like near him, and dreamed 
 so perfectly that she dreamed no more. 
 
 II. 
 
 IT was a pleasant June day. Through the open win- 
 dow in Milly's little room a mingled stream of sunshine 
 and the breath of flowers rolled in, filling the chamber 
 with light and perfume. The spiders dozed in the crev- 
 ices of the panelled walls, while their aerial webs shone 
 like delicate threads of silver. The high-shouldered chairs 
 sidled off into the corners, as if they were ashamed of 
 
MILLY DOVE. 437 
 
 their age, and the great panorama, which stood on one 
 side of the door, glared with its huge, eye-like lens at 
 the green window, like a species of four-legged Cyclops. 
 Milly, as usual, was sitting in the sun. Nestled into 
 that great, high-backed chair, which was a world too 
 large for her, she worked absently at some intricate femi- 
 nine fabric, a fabric it was that I believe would have 
 driven me crazy if I had been set down to learn its mys- 
 teries. There were dozens of strings pinned to various 
 portions of the unhappy old chair. More strings trailed 
 on the floor, whose courses, if followed, would be found 
 to terminate in numberless little balls, that kept continu- 
 ally rolling off into the corners and disturbing the spiders 
 that lived on the first floors of the panels. Then each 
 string had to be unpinned every second minute, and jug- 
 gled with after some wondrous fashion, until, having 
 been thrust, by a species of magic known only to Milly, 
 through an interminable perspective of loops, it was sol- 
 emnly repinned to the chair, and then the whole process 
 began again. 
 
 Whether it was owing to the complication of this terri- 
 ble web, or to the preoccupation of her own thoughts, no 
 Penelope ever made so many blunders as Milly Dove, on 
 that June morning. Every now and then the web would 
 come to a sudden stand-still; a minute investigation of 
 certain curious knots would result in the discovery of 
 some heart-rending error. Then the vagrant balls would 
 have to be hunted up in the corners, and the pin would 
 have to come out, and with a pettish toss of the head and 
 a little pouting of the under lip, the child would tediously 
 unravel all the false work and begin again. 
 
 Sometimes she would let it drop altogether, and gaze 
 absently through the open window, as if she were watch- 
 
438 MILLY DOVE. 
 
 ing the humming-birds that hung before the golden-lipped 
 tubes of the trumpet-honeysuckle ; or she would turn 
 toward the desolate panorama, that seemed to gaze re- 
 proachfully at her with its single eye, and ponder over 
 the propriety of taking another peep at that bloody Battle 
 of Prague, or the extraordinary representation of the Is- 
 raelites gathering the manna in the desert, which said 
 manna seemed to have been made into very respectable 
 and well-baked quartern loaves before it fell. 
 
 Milly's reveries, whatever they were, were interrupted 
 by the entrance of Master Dick Boby, the eldest son of 
 Judge Boby, who was the richest and greatest man in the 
 village. Master Boby had acquired probably by in- 
 heritance the sum of half a dollar, and immediately 
 upon coming into possession of his property had set off 
 for Milly's shop, uncertain as to whether he would pur- 
 chase her entire stock or simply confine himself to the 
 acquisition of a stick of molasses candy. Milly, with her 
 pleasant smile, was behind the counter in an instant, 
 awaiting the commands of the young squire. 
 
 " What 's them guns apiece, Miss Milly ] " inquired 
 Master Boby, pointing to a couple of flimsy fowling-pieces 
 that stood in the corner. 
 
 " Six dollars apiece, sir." 
 
 " I guess you 'd take half-price for them if a body was to 
 buy both ? " said the young millionnaire, half inquiringly, 
 as if he had only to put his hand in his pocket and pull 
 out the money. 
 
 " Well," said Milly, " I did n't buy them ; they were 
 here when father died, and as they Ve been so long on 
 my hands, I 'd be glad to sell them cheap. You can 
 have them both for seven dollars and fifty cents, if you 
 want them, Master Dick." 
 
MILLY DOVE. 439 
 
 "0, I don't want them; only father might, if his own 
 gun was to burst. What's the price of them skates, 
 Miss Milly?" 
 
 " A dollar fifty, sir. They are capital skates, and came 
 all the way from York. But what do you want of skates 
 this weather, Master Dick 1 " 
 
 "0, I didn't know but I might lose my own skates 
 next winter, you know, so I thought I 'd ask Are you 
 going to the circus show this evening, Miss Milly ? for if 
 you 'd like to go, I can get tickets from father, and I '11 
 take you." And Master Dick looked admiringly at the 
 pretty little maiden. 
 
 "Thank, you kindly, sir; but I don't think Mr. Comp- 
 ton would like me to go. He says the circus is a bad 
 place." 
 
 " He don't know nothing," answered Master Dick, sur- 
 lily ; " but if you won't go, I know one who will. Give 
 me an ounce of molasses candy, and half an ounce of 
 peppermint, Miss Milly." 
 
 Milly had just opened the drawer containing the 
 confections demanded by Master Dick, and was about 
 measuring out the required quantity of molasses and 
 peppermint, when she saw something through the window 
 that made her suddenly stop. A gentleman was march- 
 ing slowly down the street. He appeared to be lost in 
 reverie, for his head was thrown back, and his eyes were 
 fixed on vacancy, while he moved on apparently uncon- 
 scious of the existence of everybody, himself included. 
 He was a pleasant gentleman, too, and seemed to be oc- 
 cupied with pleasing thoughts, for a sort of half-born 
 smile played around his thin lips, seeming always on the 
 point of becoming a laugh but never fulfilling its prom- 
 ise. This gentleman had just arrived opposite to Milly 's 
 
440 MILLY DOVE. 
 
 door, when his reverie was suddenly and most unex- 
 pectedly interrupted by a big stone. This big stone was 
 a stone of infamous habits. It lurked under a specious 
 coating of clay, seemingly soft and elastic in its nature, 
 but all the while turning up one sharp and treacherous 
 edge, that to the foot of the tight-booted and unwary 
 pedestrian caused unutterable tortures. It was a Tar- 
 tuffe among stones, hypocritical, velvety, inducing con- 
 fidence, but woe to the toe that lit upon its venomous 
 edge ! 
 
 Well, of course this thoughtful gentleman marched 
 straight upon this assassin of a stone. Tschut ! A terri- 
 ble " thud " of toes against the treacherous edge, a wild 
 flinging out of arms in a vain attempt at equilibrium, a 
 convulsive ejaculation which I hope nobody heard, and 
 our pedestrian measured his length in the dust. He rose 
 in a moment, looked reproachfully at the stone as if to 
 upbraid it for its misconduct, then, recalled probably by 
 some unusual sensation, he looked down at his legs. 
 Alas ! across his left knee there was a great gaping split 
 in his trousers, through which a wide vista of linen was 
 visible. The poor gentleman gazed ruefully at this scene 
 of destruction; looked around, and then again at his 
 knee ; then tried to walk a step or two ; stopped, looked 
 at his knee once more, and seemed to meditate pro- 
 foundly on his position. 
 
 While rapt in this painful reverie, the victim of that 
 abominable stone was startled by a very sweet little voice 
 at his elbow. This voice, belonging to Milly Dove, said, 
 " Please, sir, if you will step into the shop, I will mend it 
 for you." 
 
 The gentleman turned round, and gave a rapid glance 
 at the sunny, girlish face that looked up into his with 
 
MILLY DOVE. 441 
 
 such a frank, easy expression, as if it was the most natural 
 thing in the world that he should fall, and that she should 
 come out and offer to mend his trousers. 
 
 " Thank you, child ! " said he, simply. " I am very 
 much obliged to you. What is your name 1 " 
 
 " Milly Dove, sir." 
 
 " And this is your father's shop, I suppose ? " And the 
 stranger glanced round as he entered, with a 'half-smile 
 at the varied assortment of goods that it contained. It 
 was quite deserted ; for Master Dick Boby, left alone 
 with the candy, had, I regret to say, helped himself and 
 departed. 
 
 . " No, sir ; it 's mine ! " answered Milly, poking in her 
 pocket for her needle-box. 
 
 " Yours ! why, you are young to be at the head of an 
 establishment." 
 
 " I was sixteen my last birthday, sir. Will you come 
 into the inside room, if you please, so that you may put 
 your foot upon a chair "? " 
 
 The stranger did as he was bidden, and Milly's nimble 
 fingers were soon busily drawing together the jagged 
 edges of that gaping rent in his injured trousers. He 
 looked down upon her with a wondering gaze. 
 
 " I suppose some of your relatives live with you here 1 ?" 
 he said, after a pause, during which he had been studying 
 her features intently. 
 
 "No, sir ; I am alone." 
 
 " Alone ! " 
 
 " No ; that is not exactly alone. Mr. Compton 
 lodges up-stairs." 
 
 " Mr. Compton ? " said the stranger, a sort of dark 
 shadow falling across his face like a veil. " Who is Mr. 
 Compton ? A young man 1 " 
 
442 MILLY DOVE. * 
 
 " A friend of my mother's, sir. He lives here all the 
 year round, and is a dear, pleasant gentleman. He 's 
 quite young, too ; not more than fifty-six." 
 
 " Ah ! " and the Knight of the Rueful Breeches seemed 
 to breathe more freely. " That is young indeed ! How 
 long have you been keeping shop ? " 
 
 " Two years, sir. My mother died about that time, 
 and the neighbors were all very good to me when I began. 
 I think it will do now, sir ! " * 
 
 "Thanks! thanks!" replied the stranger, scarce giving 
 a glance at the neat seam across his knee. " You are an 
 excellent little workwoman." And as he spoke he seated 
 himself deliberately in Milly's high-backed chair, much to 
 that young lady's surprise. "You have a pretty room 
 here," he continued, looking round him approvingly, 
 " a very pretty room ! The sunlight gushing in through 
 that window, and parting, as it were to make good its en- 
 trance, the honeysuckles that wave before it, has a charm- 
 ing effect. Is it you who take care of the flowers out 
 there 1 " 
 
 " 0, there 's not much to do now," said Milly, mod- 
 estly. " Mr. Compton made the garden, and now I help 
 him a little. They grow there so nicely, the flowers do ! 
 And in the spring I freshen up the beds a little, and weed 
 the walks, and clip off the dead branches, and I think 
 the sun and the rain do the rest." 
 
 " Hum ! that 's prettily said ! " 
 
 Poor Milly grew scarlet at the tone of easy assurance 
 in which this approbation was uttered. This gentleman 
 seemed to have an air of the world about him that some- 
 how alarmed her, she knew not why, his walk, his way 
 of speech, his manner, were all so different from those of 
 the loutish villagers to whom she had been accustomed. 
 
MILLY DOVE. 443 
 
 He was even unlike Mr. Compton, who to Milly, until 
 then, had been the highest type of human perfection. 
 
 " I 'd like to live in a room like this ! " muttered the 
 stranger half aloud, gazing round him with evident pleas- 
 ure. " It has a sweet, thoughtful air ; and that garden 
 outside would fill me with poetry. I 'd like very much 
 indeed to live here ! " 
 
 " Then why don't you come 1 " was on the tip of Milly's 
 tongue ; but she suddenly recollected herself in time, and 
 so was silent. 
 
 " Do you ever read, Miss Milly Dove 1 " was the next 
 question, as the visitor turned abruptly to the young 
 maiden. 
 
 < No yes that is sometimes," was the alarmed 
 reply. 
 
 " Which means that you do not read at all 1 " said the 
 stranger, gravely. 
 
 Milly looked as if she was immediately about to tuck 
 the end of her little apron into her eyes, and weep herself 
 away. 
 
 "Well," continued he, "that can be remedied; but 
 Mr. Compton should have given you books." 
 
 "Sir," said Milly stoutly, quick to espouse her friend's 
 cause, though unable to defend her own, " Sir, Mr. 
 Compton knows a great deal more, in fact, than any one 
 I e*er saw, a.nd everything that he does is right." 
 
 The stranger laughed. "You are a chivalrous but 
 illogical little maiden," said he, in a tone of insufferable 
 patronage. 
 
 "I may not read much," said Milly, flushing up, "but 
 I have a panorama." 
 
 " 0, you have a panorama 1 A panorama of what 1 
 ' Let us see this wonder that supplies the place of books." 
 
444 MILLY DOVE. 
 
 " Shall I show it to you, sir 1 " asked Milly timidly. 
 
 "Certainly; but before profiting by your kindness, I 
 must introduce myself formally. I am Mr. Alexander 
 Winthrop, a poor gentleman, with enough for his appe- 
 tites, and too little for his desires. I am fond of travel- 
 ling, books, and thinking. I am only twenty-five years 
 old, although I look thirty. I live close to New York, 
 and am at present at Blossomdale on business. Now, you 
 know all that I intend you to know about me ; so we will 
 go on with our panorama." 
 
 This off-hand introduction was delivered with such grav- 
 ity that poor Milly did not know what to make of it. 
 At first, she thought he was laughing at her, but on 
 looking at his eyes she could not detect the slightest 
 twinkle of merriment ; so she nodded her little head to 
 Mr. Alexander Winthrop, as if to say, " All fight, I know 
 you," and then proceeded to introduce him to the panorama. 
 
 " This," said Milly in a solemn voice, as she made him 
 put his eye to the peep-hole, and proceeded to pull the 
 strings that lifted the pictures, " this is the invasion of 
 Mexico by the Spaniards. The man in the big boat is 
 Cortes, a very cruel man indeed ; and the man on the 
 shore is Montezuma, the king of Mexico, who may be 
 known by his red skin." 
 
 " Hem ! " coughed Mr. Alexander. " How do you know 
 that this is the invasion of Mexico 1 " 
 
 " Mr. Compton told me, sir." 
 
 " 0, Mr. Compton told you ! Then it 's all right, of 
 course. But," he continued, muttering to himself, "if 
 Mr. Compton is right, Cortes dressed exceedingly like 
 William Penn; and Montezuma would make a capital 
 North American Indian." 
 
 " This picture," continued Milly, pulling another string, 
 
MILLY DOVE. 445 
 
 " represents the great Pyramids of Egypt, built by various 
 kings to serve for their tombs. The ancient Egyptians 
 were far advanced in civilization, while the rest of the 
 globe was plunged in the obscurity of ignorance. Their 
 chief god was Osiris, and the priesthood was so powerful 
 that the government, in truth, was an ecclesiastical one. 
 The ancient Egyptians were in the habit of placing a 
 skeleton at the head of the table when they feasted, for 
 the purpose of reminding them of their mortality, and it 
 is believed that from them first sprang the art of embalm- 
 ing bodies. They were a highly commercial people, and 
 found large markets for the products of their industry 
 and art, in the ancient cities of Greece and Rome." 
 
 "Why, child, where did you learn this?" exclaimed 
 Mr. Alexander, gazing with astonishment on the little 
 maiden, who ran off this farrago of learning with the glib- 
 ness of a lecturer on ancient history, looking all the while 
 exceedingly proud of her knowledge. 
 
 " Mr. Compton told me," she answered proudly. 
 
 Mr. Alexander could no longer contain himself, but 
 burst into a shout of laughter that made Milly's ears 
 tingle. Her round cheeks flushed, and the tears rose to 
 her eyes. Poor little thing ! She thought this Mr. Alex- 
 ander Winthrop exceedingly rude, and yet she could not 
 feel angry with him. 
 
 " Well, what 's the next picture 1 " he asked, as soon as 
 he had recovered from his mirth, and without making the 
 slightest apology for his improper behavior. 
 
 " It 's the Battle of the Nile," answered Milly, rather 
 sullenly, for she did not exactly like the merciless laugh 
 of her new friend. 
 
 " I was there all the while," chimed in Mr. Alexander. 
 
 " You could n't. It happened ever so long ago," an- 
 
446 MILLY DOVE. 
 
 swered Milly quickly, delighted at finding Mr. Alexander 
 out in a fib. 
 
 That gentleman was on the point of going off into 
 another fit of merriment, when a wild prelude on a piano 
 wavered harmoniously through the window. After wan- 
 dering up and down the keys for a short time, striking 
 out fragments of melodies, and fluttering uncertainly from 
 one to the other, as a butterfly roams from bud to bud, not 
 knowing which to choose, the performer at length struck 
 on a theme that seemed to satisfy him, and then poured 
 out his entire soul. That it was a voluntary, one could 
 discern in an instant, from the occasional irregularity of 
 the rhythm, and lack of proper sequence between the 
 parts ; but it was so wild, so original, so mournful, so full 
 of broken utterances of passion, that one might have im- 
 agined it the wail of a lost angel, outside the gates of that 
 paradise which he saw but could not enjoy. 
 
 " That is a great performer," said Mr. Alexander, rising. 
 " I must go and see him." 
 
 " It 's Mr. Compton," cried Milly, eagerly ; " he does 
 not like to be disturbed. You must not go now." 
 
 " I don't care," said Mr. Alexander, very coolly. 
 "Where's the stairs? 0, here ! all right!" And 
 before she could detain him, he had bounded up the 
 stairs, and was gone. 
 
 " I make no apology for coming in here in this way," 
 said Mr. Alexander, as he pushed open Mr. Compton's 
 door, " because, if you don't want people to rush in on 
 you unannounced, you should not play so well, nor im- 
 provise such original themes." 
 
 " You are an artist, then 1 " said Mr. Compton, rising 
 in some surprise at this sudden intrusion. "All such 
 have a right to enter here." 
 
MILLY DOVE. 447 
 
 " Enough of an artist to' comprehend you," said the 
 young man, bluntly. " You are an artist, Mr. Compton, 
 and have never done anything but toy with art. More 
 shame for you ! " 
 
 "Who is my lecturer?" said Mr. Compton, rather 
 sternly. 
 
 " My name is Alexander Winthrop." 
 
 " What ! he who " 
 
 " Hush ! " cried the young man, lifting his finger ; for 
 at that moment Milly appeared, with flushed cheeks, on 
 the threshold of the door. " I am only Alexander Win- 
 throp. I tore my trousers by a fall "opposite to this 
 house. This little fairy," pointing to Milly, " mended 
 them for me. I heard you playing; I ran up stairs. 
 Now you know all about me." 
 
 " Then you must be the stranger of whom Milly has so 
 often spoken to me, as passing the door every day," said 
 Mr. Compton, with a bland ignorance of the incautious- 
 ness of his remark, and totally heedless of Milly's ago- 
 nized telegraphings to make him stop. 
 
 " 0, then, the little fairy knew me before ! " exclaimed 
 Mr. Alexander, eagerly. " So we were old acquaintances, 
 Miss Milly^" 
 
 Milly said nothing, but appeared to have suddenly 
 remembered that her shop had been left unprotected, and 
 disappeared as if by magic. 
 
 " I want to have a talk with you, Mr. Compton," said 
 Mr. Alexander, looking after her. 
 
 Mr. Compton sighed. " Let us go into the garden," 
 he said ; and they went out together. 
 
448 MILLY DOVE. 
 
 III. 
 
 Two months after this, Milly Dove sat in her little 
 room, reading. Those wondrous fabrics on which she used 
 to labor with such patience were gone. There was dust 
 on the panorama ; its single eye was dim and melancholy. 
 No more balls disturbed the repose of the fat old spiders 
 in the panels; the very shop itself seemed to have an 
 uncared-for look. 
 
 The reason of all this was that Milly Dove had become 
 a student, a hard, close, unwearying student, and the 
 books that she read were given to her by Mr. Alexander. 
 One author in particular pleased her mightily. A man 
 named IvanThorle had lately astonished the world with an 
 alternate succession of works of philosophy and fiction. In 
 both paths did he seem to be equally at home. His nov- 
 els were tender, impassioned, truthful, and always breath- 
 ing the sublimest scorn for everything mean and unholy. 
 His philosophy was still more wonderful, because it was so 
 clear. The progress of man was always his theme. The 
 gradual amalgamation of races ; the universal equalization 
 of climate from the cultivation of the entire globe ; the 
 disappearance of poverty from the earth before the influ- 
 ence of machinery, which labored for all ; the consequent 
 improvement of the physical condition of our race ; the 
 abolishment of crime ; in short, the apogee of the world. 
 On all this he expatiated with a profundity of thought 
 and simplicity of expression that made him at once the 
 deepest and clearest of writers. Ivan Thorle, then, opened 
 a new world for Milly. For the first time she compre- 
 hended the true beauty of life, and experienced those de- 
 licious sensations which one experiences when beginning 
 to observe, an epoch, let me tell you, that comes much 
 
MILLY DOVE. 449 
 
 later than one imagines. Thus a trinity of genius and 
 goodness reigned supreme in Milly Dove's little heart, 
 Mr. Compton, Mr. Alexander, and Ivan Thorle, and 
 although her reason placed Mr. Compton first, as being 
 the oldest friend, and Ivan Thorle next, as being the 
 greatest genius, yet I doubt much if that little maiden's 
 heart did not put Mr. Alexander Winthrop, her affianced 
 lover, high above all. 
 
 There was one thing that grieved this dear child, and 
 it was so strange a grief for her to have had at that period 
 that it seems a mystery to me how she ever could have 
 had it. It was that Mr. Alexander was not a great writer. 
 She loved him very dearly, and she knew that Mr. Comp- 
 ton loved him, and they talked very learnedly together 
 for hours at a time. He was very clever, this Mr. Alex- 
 ander Winthrop ; but oh ! if he would only write books like 
 Ivan Thorle ! If he would create those dear stories, 
 so pure, so good, and so true ! If he would make those 
 splendid books that made every one love his fellow-men 
 better when he had read them, and which were so purely 
 written that a child might understand them ! If he would 
 only do this, she told him many times, as she clung to his 
 breast, she would be as happy as the humming-birds that 
 lived outside, forever in the sunshine ! And Mr. Alex- 
 ander would stroke her brown hair, and kiss her white 
 forehead, and, smiling mysteriously, say, " Some time, per- 
 haps " But he did not write books, and Milly Dove 
 was sad. 
 
 Her sadness was now, however, for the moment lost in 
 the perusal of Ivan Thorle's last book, " The Ladder of 
 Stars," a strange mixture of romance and philosophy ; 
 and Milly pored over it in her high-backed chair, while 
 the humming-birds outside looked in at her with their 
 
 29 
 
450 MILLY DOVE. 
 
 sharp, cunning eyes, and said to themselves, as they saw 
 her rosy lips, "Bless us! where there are flowers there 
 must be loads of honey. Let us go in and get it ! " But 
 now and then these rosy flowers had a strange way of 
 opening with a laughing sound, and showing rows of 
 white seed inside, in a manner unlike any flower ever 
 before seen ; so that the humming-birds thought they 
 might be dangerous flowers, and did not go in. Milly 
 was reading one of the most beautiful passages in the 
 "Ladder of Stars," when she heard a step behind her. 
 She turned, and beheld one of the most beautiful ladies 
 she had ever seen, standing in the doorway. A tall, 
 proud-looking lady she was, with bright e3 7 es and fierce 
 lip, and the smallest hands in the world. And such 
 dress ! So rich and elegant and flowing ! Milly thought 
 she was a fairy. Being naturally polite, however, even to 
 fairies, the little maiden rose and advanced timidly to this 
 sultana. The lady did not keep her long in suspense. 
 
 "Your name is Milly Dove 1 ?" she said, in a command- 
 ing voice. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said Milly, half frightened at the tone 
 of the question. 
 
 " You are going to marry a man calling himself Alex- 
 ander Winthrop. Is it not so 1 " 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." Milly's limbs began to tremble at this 
 point. 
 
 " You must not marry him." 
 
 " Why, ma'am ^ " Milly's strength began to come back 
 a little. 
 
 " Because he would make you unhappy." 
 
 " How do you know, ma'am 1 " Milly Dove ! Milly 
 Dove ! where did you pick up the Socratic mode of rea- 
 soning ] 
 
MILLY DOVE. 451 
 
 " Because I know it," said the sultana, stamping her 
 foot. " You cannot marry him. He loves me. I know 
 he does ! " she continued passionately. 
 
 " He loves me better ! " said Hilly, quietly. " I know 
 it, for he told me so." 
 
 "You! love you better! Listen, child. You do not 
 know this man. He is proud, wealthy, learned, a genius, 
 and courted by all the world. His sphere in life rolls 
 through another orbit than yours. His genius, his tastes, 
 his friendships, will all separate him from you. He thinks 
 he loves you now ; well, in three months he will be dis- 
 enchanted. He will neglect you, ill-treat you, perhaps, 
 laugh at your ill-breeding, sport with your ignorance, 
 and break your heart. Be warned in time. Here ! I am 
 rich. You shall have money, as much money as you 
 wish, if you fly this place and promise never to see Alex- 
 ander Winthrop again. I will make you wealthy, hap- 
 py, everything you wish, only leave me my love ! leave 
 me my love ! " She held out a purse to Milly as she 
 spoke, and her splendid form literally shook with pas- 
 sion. 
 
 Poor Milly was thunderstruck ; she knew not what to 
 do. 0, how she wished for either Alexander or Mr. 
 Compton ! 
 
 "Ma'am," said she at last, "I don't want money. I 
 never knew that Mr. Alexander was rich ; but it makes 
 no matter to me whether he is or not. I know he loves 
 me ; for he said so, and he never tells a lie. Therefore I 
 cannot do as you wish me. I am sorry, ma'am, that you 
 should love Mr. Alexander too." 
 
 "But you must, I tell you, you must, girl! You 
 shall not wed him ! He is mine ! Do you not know " 
 
 " She does not know, Miss Helen De Rham," said Mr. 
 
452 MILLY DOVE. 
 
 Alexander himself, stepping, at this juncture, out of the 
 shop, and putting his arm around Milly's waist. 
 
 " 0, you are here, sir ! " said Miss De Kham, with a 
 scornful curl of her upper lip. " Enjoying love in a cot- 
 tage, which, no doubt, you taste merely as a literary ex- 
 perience to be made serviceable in your next book. It is 
 a pretty idyl." 
 
 " Madam," said Alexander, "let me hear no unworthy 
 sneers against a love so pure that you could not under- 
 stand it. Milly, as this lady has thought fit to intrude 
 herself on my privacy and yours, it is fit that you should 
 learn the history of our association." 
 
 " Tell it, sir, by all means," said Miss De Rham, seat- 
 ing herself in a chair; "you are accustomed to weave 
 romances." 
 
 " I tell the truth, madam, always ; and if I did not 
 this pure mind here is too true a touchstone not to detect 
 the falsehood. Milly, that handsome lady there was once 
 my friend. I believe I loved her, for she was beautiful 
 and gifted. We were much together, and I understand 
 that she expressed admiration for my talents. I thought 
 her honest, and I loved her for her honesty ; for she was 
 one of those who could talk with that frank bluntness 
 that so well simulates sincerity. Well, she was ambitious ; 
 she wanted to be a goddess, when she was only a woman ; 
 she wished to write, when God had only given her the 
 power to appreciate. She came to me one day with a 
 poem, a beautiful poem, which she said she had writ- 
 ten. I got it published for her ; it was admired every- 
 where. On the strength of it she rose to the reputation 
 of a woman of genius. Well, Milly, it was all a lie! 
 an acted, a spoken, a perpetuated lie ! the poem was 
 not hers. It was written for her by a protege of hers, who 
 
MILLY DOVE. 453 
 
 betrayed her trust, and the deception was discovered. I 
 left Miss De Rham, Milly Dove, to the shame which, if 
 she had a heart, ought to have eaten it out." 
 
 " And you could not discover the difference between an 
 innocent piece of vanity and a crime ! Ivan Thorle, 
 in spite of all your knowledge you know not the world ! " 
 
 "I do not wish to know it better, Miss De Rham. 
 Leave me and my bride in ignorance and peace. Go, 
 madam, back to your town luxury and refined atmosphere, 
 where pretty names are given to bad deeds. I wish to 
 remain unmolested with that pure love which will ever 
 be a mystery to you. Go ! " 
 
 "What name did she call you 1 ?" cried Milly Dove, 
 breathlessly, as the proud lady swept scornfully out 
 through the little shop. 
 
 "Milly, you may now know what I have long con- 
 cealed. I am Ivan Thorle ! " 
 
 " You 1 you 1 0, I am so glad so glad so glad ! 
 Dear Alexander, I have now nothing to wish for." 
 
 "But I have, dear Milly !" 
 
 Those who have read Alexander Winthrop's latest and 
 best novel, " The Village Bride," will see there how hap- 
 pily he and Milly and Mr. Compton lived together ; and 
 they will recognize in the lecturer on Woman's Rights the 
 portrait of Miss De Rham. 
 
454 THE DKAGON FANG. 
 
 THE DRAGON FANG POSSESSED BY 
 THE CONJURER PIOU-LU. 
 
 CHAPTER OF THE MIRACULOUS DRAGON FANG. 
 
 "COME, men and women, and little people of Tching- 
 tou, come and listen. The small and ignoble person who 
 annoys you by his presence is the miserable conjurer 
 known as Piou-Lu. Everything that can possibly be 
 desired he can give you ; charms to heal dissensions in 
 your noble and illustrious families ; spells by which 
 beautiful little people without style may become learned 
 Bachelors, and reign high in the palaces of literary com- 
 position; Supernatural red pills, with which you can 
 cure your elegant and renowned diseases ; wonderful 
 incantations, by which the assassins of any members of 
 your shining and virtuous families can be discovered and 
 made to yield compensation, or be brought under the just 
 eye of the Brother of the Sun. What is it that you 
 want 1 This mean little conjurer, who now addresses you, 
 can supply all your charming and refreshing desires ; for 
 he is known everywhere as Piou-Lu, the possessor of the 
 ever-renowned and miraculous Dragon Fang ! " 
 
 There was a little, dry laugh, and a murmur among the 
 crowd of idlers that surrounded the stage erected by Piou- 
 Lu in front of the Hotel of the Thirty-two Virtues. 
 Fifth-class Mandarins looked at fourth-class Mandarins 
 and smiled, as much as to say, " We who are educated 
 
THE DRAGON FANG. 455 
 
 men know what to think of this fellow." But the fourth- 
 class Mandarins looked haughtily at the fifth-class, as if 
 they had no business to smile at their superiors. The 
 crowd, however, composed as it was principally of small 
 traders, barbers, porcelain-tinkers, and country people, 
 gazed with open mouths upon the conjurer, who, clad in 
 a radiant garment of many colors, strutted proudly up 
 and down upon his temporary stage. 
 
 "What is a Dragon Fang, ingenious and well-educated 
 conjurer 1 " at last inquired Wei-chang-tze, a solemn-look- 
 ing Mandarin of the third class, who was adorned with a 
 sapphire button, and a one-eyed peacock's feather. " What 
 is a Dragon Fang *? " 
 
 " Is it possible," asked Piou-Lu, " that the wise and 
 illustrious son of virtue, the Mandarin Wei-chang-tze, 
 does not know what a Dragon Fang is 1 " and the conjurer 
 pricked up his ears at the Mandarin, as a hare at a bark- 
 ing dog. 
 
 " Of course, of course," said the Mandarin Wei-chang- 
 tze, looking rather ashamed of his having betrayed such 
 ignorance, "one does not pass his examinations for noth- 
 ing. I merely wished that you should explain to those 
 ignorant people here what a Dragon Fang is; that was 
 why I asked." 
 
 " I thought that the Soul of Wisdom must have known," 
 said Piou-Lu, triumphantly, looking as if he believed 
 firmly in the knowledge of Wei-chaug-tze. " The noble 
 commands of Wei-chang-tze shall be obeyed. You all 
 know," said he, looking round upon the people, " that 
 there are three great and powerful Dragons inhabiting 
 the universe. Lung, or the Dragon of the Sky ; Li, or 
 the Dragon of the Sea; and Kiau, or the Dragon of 
 the Marshes. All these Dragons are wise, strong, and 
 
456 THE DRAGON FANG. 
 
 terrible. They are wondrously formed, and can take any 
 shape that pleases them. Well, good people, a great 
 many moons ago, in the season of spiked grain, I was 
 following the profession of a barber in the mean and 
 unmentionable town of Siho, when one morning, as I was 
 sitting in my shop waiting for customers, I heard a great 
 noise of tam-tams, and a princely palanquin stopped 
 before my door. I hastened, of course to observe the 
 honorable Rites toward this new-comer, but before I could 
 reach the street a Mandarin, splendidly attired, descended 
 from the palanquin. The ball on his cap was of a stone 
 and color that I had never seen before, and three feathers 
 of some unknown bird hung down behind his head-dress. 
 He held his hand to his jaw, and walked into my house 
 with a lordly step. I was greatly confused, for I knew 
 not what rank he was of, and felt puzzled how to address 
 him. He put an end to my embarrassment. 
 
 " ' I am in the house of Piou-Lu, the barber,' he said, 
 in a haughty .voice that sounded like the roll of a copper 
 drum amidst the hills. 
 
 " ' That disgraceful and ill-conditioned person stands 
 before you,' I replied, bowing as low as I could. 
 
 " ' It is well,' said he, seating himself in my operating- 
 chair, while two of his attendants fanned him. ' Piou- 
 Lu, I have the toothache ! ' 
 
 " ' Does your lordship,' said I, ' wish that I should 
 remove your noble and illustrious pain ? ' 
 
 " ' You must draw my tooth,' said he. ' Woe to you if 
 you draw the wrong one ! ' 
 
 " * It is too much honor,' I replied ; ' but I will make 
 my abominable and ill-conducted instruments entice your 
 lordship's beautiful tooth out of your high-born jaw with 
 much rapidity.' 
 
THE DRAGON FANG. 457 
 
 *' So I got my big pincers, and my opinm-bottle, and 
 opened the strange Mandarin's mouth. Ah ! it was then 
 that my low-born and despicable heart descended into my 
 bowels. I should have dropped my pincers from sheer 
 fright if they had not caught by their hooked ends in my 
 wide sleeve. The Mandarin's mouth was all on fire inside. 
 As he breathed, the flames rolled up and down his throat, 
 like the flames that gather on the Yellow Grass Plains in 
 the season of Much Heat. His palate glowed like red- 
 hot copper, and his tongue was like a brass stewpan that 
 had been on the salt-fire for thirty days. But it was his 
 teeth that affrighted me most. They were a serpent's 
 teeth. They were long, and curved inward, and seemed 
 to be made of transparent crystal, in the centre of which 
 small tongues of orange-colored fire leaped up and down 
 out of some cavity in the gums. 
 
 " ' Well, dilatory barber,' said the Mandarin, in a hor- 
 rible tone, while I stood pale and trembling before him, 
 ' why don't you draw my tooth ? Hasten, or I will have 
 you sliced lengthwise and fried in the sun.' 
 
 " ' 0, ray lord ! ' said I, terrified at this threat, ' I fear 
 that my vicious and unendurable pincers are not suffi- 
 ciently strong.' 
 
 " ' Slave ! ' answered he in a voice of thunder, ' if you do 
 not fulfil my desires, you will not see another moon rise.' 
 
 " I saw that I should be killed any way, so I might as 
 well make the attempt. I made a dart with my pincers 
 at the first tooth that came, closed them firmly on the 
 crystal fang, and began to pull with all my strength. 
 The Mandarin bellowed like an ox of Thibet. The flames 
 rolled from his throat in such volumes that I thought 
 they would singe my eyebrows. His two attendants and 
 his four palanquin-bearers put their arms round my waist 
 
458 THE DRAGON FANG. 
 
 to help me to pull, and there we tugged for three or four 
 minutes, until at last I heard a report as loud as nine 
 thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine fire-crackers. The 
 attendants, the palanquin-bearers, and myself all fell flat 
 on the floor, and the crystal fang glittered between the 
 jaws of the pincers. 
 
 " The Mandarin was smiling pleasantly as I got up 
 from the floor. 'Piou-Lu,' said he, 'you had a narrow 
 escape. You have removed my toothache, but had you 
 failed, you would have perished miserably ; for I am the 
 Dragon Lung, who rules the sky and the heavenly bod- 
 ies, and I am as powerful as I am wise. . Take as a 
 reward the Dragon Fang which you drew from my jaw. 
 You will find it a magical charm with which you can 
 work miracles. Honor your parents, observe the Rites, 
 and live in peace.' 
 
 "So saying, he breathed a whole cloud of fire and 
 smoke from his throat, that filled my poor and despicable 
 mansion. The light dazzled and the smoke suffocated me, 
 and when I recovered my sight and breath the Dragon 
 Lung, the attendants, the palanquin, and the four bearers 
 had all departed, how and whither I knew not. Thus 
 was it, elegant and refined people of Tching-tou, that this 
 small and evil-minded person who stands before you be- 
 came possessed of the wonderful Dragon Fang, with which 
 he can work miracles." 
 
 This story, delivered as it was with much graceful and 
 dramatic gesticulation, and a volubility that seemed al- 
 most supernatural, had its effect upon the crowd, and a 
 poor little tailor, named Hang-pou, who was known to be 
 always in debt, was heard to say that he wished he had 
 the Dragon-Fang, wherewith to work miracles with his 
 creditors. But the Mandarins, blue, crystal, and gilt, 
 
THE DRAGON FANG. 459 
 
 smiled contemptuously, and said to themselves, "We 
 who are learned men know how to esteem these things." 
 
 The Mandarin Wei-chang-tze, however, seemed to be of 
 an inquiring disposition, and evinced a desire to continue 
 his investigations. 
 
 "Supremely visited conjurer," said he to Piou-Lu, 
 " your story is indeed wonderful. To have been visited 
 by the Dragon Lung must have been truly refreshing and 
 enchanting. Though not in the least doubting your mar- 
 vellous relation, I am sure this virtuous assemblage would 
 like to see some proof of the miraculous power of your 
 Dragon Fang." 
 
 The crowd gave an immediate assent to this sentiment 
 by pressing closer to the platform on which Piou-Lu 
 strutted, and exclaiming with one voice, "The lofty 
 Mandarin says wisely. We would like to behold," 
 
 Piou-Lu did not seem in the slightest degree disconcert- 
 ed. His narrow bjack eyes glistened like the dark edges 
 of the seeds of the water-melon, and he looked haughtily 
 around him. 
 
 " Is there any one of you who would like to have a 
 miracle performed, and of what nature 1 " he asked, with 
 a triumphant wave of his arms. 
 
 " I would like to see my debts paid," murmured the 
 little tailor, Hang-pou. 
 
 " Hang-pou," replied the conjurer, " this unworthy 
 personage is not going to pay your debts. Go home and 
 sit in your shop, and drink no more rice-wine, and your 
 debts will be paid ; for labor is the Dragon Fang that 
 works miracles for idle tailors ! " 
 
 There was a laugh through the crowd at this sally, 
 because Hang-pou was well known to be fond of intoxicat- 
 ing drinks, and spent more of his time in the street than 
 on his shop-board. 
 
460 THE DKAGON FANG. 
 
 " Would either of you like to be changed into a camel 1 " 
 continued Piou-Lu. " Say the word, afed there shall not 
 be a finer beast in all Thibet ! * 
 
 No one, however, seemed to be particularly anxious to 
 experience this transformation. Perhaps it was because 
 it was warm weather, and camels bear heavy burdens. 
 
 " I will change the whole honorable assemblage into 
 turkey-buzzards, if it only agrees," continued the conjurer ; 
 " or I will make the Lake Tung come up into the town 
 in the shape of a water-melon, and then burst and over- 
 flow everything." 
 
 " But we should all be drowned ! " exclaimed Hang-pou, 
 who was cowardly as well as intemperate. 
 
 " That 's true," said Piou-Lu, " but then you need not 
 fear your creditors," and he gave such a dart of his long 
 arm at the poor little tailor, that the wretched man 
 thought he was going to claw him up and change him 
 into some frightful animal. 
 
 "Well, since this illustrious assembly will not have 
 turkey-buzzards or camels, this weak-minded, ill-shapen 
 personage must work a miracle on himself," said Piou-Lu, 
 descending from his platform into the street, and bringing 
 with him a little three-legged stool made of bamboo rods. 
 
 The crowd retreated as he approached, and even the 
 solemn Wei-chang-tze seemed rather afraid of this mirac- 
 ulous conjurer. Piou-Lu placed the bamboo stool firmly 
 on the ground, and then mounted upon it. 
 
 "Elegant and symmetrical bamboo stool," he said, lift- 
 ing his arms, and exhibiting something in his hand that 
 seemed like a piece of polished jade-stone, " elegant and 
 symmetrical bamboo stool, the justly despised conjurer, 
 named Pion-Lu, entreats that you will immediately grow 
 tall, in the name of the Dragon Lung ! " 
 
THE DRAGON FANG. 461 
 
 Truly the stool began to grow, in the presence of the 
 astonished crowd. The three legs of bamboo lengthened 
 and lengthened with great rapidity, bearing Piou-Lu high 
 up into the air. As he ascended he bowed gracefully to 
 the open-mouthed assembly. 
 
 " It is delightful ! " he cried ; " the air up here is so 
 fresh ! I smell the tea-winds from Fuh-kien. I can see 
 the spot where the heavens and the earth cease to run 
 parallel. I hear the gongs of Pekin, and listen to the 
 lowing of the herds in Thibet. Who would not have an 
 elegant bamboo stool that knew how to grow 1 " 
 
 By this time Piou-Lu had risen to an enormous height. 
 The legs of the slender tripod on which he was mounted 
 seemed like silkworm's threads, so thin were they com- 
 pared with their length. The crowd began to tremble 
 for Piou-Lu. 
 
 "Will he never stop?" said a Mandarin with a gilt 
 ball, named Lin. 
 
 " 0, yes ! " shouted Piou-Lu from the dizzy height of his 
 bamboo stool. " 0, yes ! this ugly little person will imme- 
 diately stop. Elegant stool, the poor conjurer entreats 
 you to stop growing ; but he also begs that you will afford 
 some satisfaction to this beautifying assemblage down 
 below, who have honored you with their inspection." 
 
 The bamboo stool, with the utmost complaisance, ceased 
 to lengthen out its attenuated limbs, but on the moment 
 experienced another change as terrifying to the crowd. 
 The three legs began to approach each other rapidly, and 
 before the eye could very well follow their motions had 
 blended mysteriously and inexplicably into one, the stool 
 still retaining a miraculous equilibrium. Immediately 
 this single stem began to thicken most marvellously, and 
 instead of the dark shining skin of a bamboo stick, it 
 
462 THE DRAGON FANG. 
 
 seemed gradually to be incased in overlapping rings of a 
 rough bark. Meanwhile a faint rustling noise continued 
 overhead, and when the crowd, attracted by the sound, 
 looked up, instead of the flat disk of cane-work on which 
 Piou-Lu had so wondrously ascended, they beheld a 
 cabbage-shaped mass of green, which shot forth every 
 moment long, pointed satiny leaves of the tenderest green, 
 and the most graceful shape imaginable. But where was 
 Piou-Lu 1 Some fancied that in the yellow crown that 
 topped the cabbage-shaped bud of this strange tree they 
 could see the tip of his cap, and distinguish his black, 
 roguish eyes, but that may have been all fancy ; and they 
 were quickly diverted from their search for the conjurer 
 by a shower of red, pulpy fruits, that began to fall with 
 great rapidity from the miraculous tree. Of course there 
 was a scramble, in which the Mandarins themselves did 
 not disdain to join; and the crimson fruits the like of 
 which no one in Tching-tou had ever seen before proved 
 delightfully sweet and palatable to the taste. 
 
 " That 's right ! that 's right ! perfectly bred and very 
 polite people," cried a shrill voice while they were all 
 scrambling for the crimson fruits ; "pick fruit while it is 
 fresh, and tea while it is tender. For the sun wilts, and 
 the chills toughen, and the bluest plum blooms only for a 
 day." 
 
 Everybody looked up, and lo ! there was Piou-Lu, as 
 large as life, strutting upon the stage, waving a large green 
 fan in his hand. While the crowd was yet considering 
 this wonderful reappearance of the conjurer, there was 
 heard a very great outcry at the end of the street, and a 
 tall thin man in a coarse blue gown came running up at 
 full speed. 
 
 "Where are my plums, sons of thieves'?" he cried, 
 
THE DRAGON FANG. 463 
 
 almost breathless with haste. " Alas ! alas ! I am com- 
 pletely ruined. My wife will perish miserably for want 
 of food, and my sons will inherit nothing but empty 
 baskets at my death ! Where are my plums 1 " 
 
 " Who is it that dares to address the virtuous and 
 well-disposed people of Tching-tou after this fashion?" 
 demanded the Mandarin Lin, hi a haughty voice, as he 
 confronted the new-comer. 
 
 The poor man, seeing the gilt ball, became immediately 
 very humble, and bowed several times to the Mandarin. 
 
 " 0, my lord ! " said he, " I am an incapable and unde- 
 serving plum-seller, named Liho. I was just now sitting 
 at my stall in a neighboring street selling five cash worth 
 of plums to a customer, when suddenly all the plums 
 rose out of my baskets as if they had the wings of hawks, 
 and flew through the air over the tops of the houses in 
 this direction. Thinking myself the sport of demons, I 
 ran after them, hoping to catch them, and Ah ! there 
 are my plums," he cried, suddenly interrupting himself, 
 and making a dart at some of the crimson fruits that the 
 tailor Hang held in his hand, intending to carry them 
 home to his wife. 
 
 " These your plums ! " screamed Hang, defending his 
 treasure vigorously. "Mole that you are, did you ever 
 see scarlet plums 1 " 
 
 "This man is stricken by Heaven," said Piou-Lu, 
 gravely. " He is a fool who hides his plums and then 
 thinks that they fly. away. Let some one shake his 
 gown." 
 
 A porcelain-cobbler who stood near the fruiterer imme- 
 diately seized the long blue robe and gave it a lusty pull, 
 when, to the wonder of everybody, thousands of the 
 most beautiful plums fell out, as from a tree shaken by 
 
464 THE DEAGON FANG. 
 
 the winds of autumn. At this moment a great gust of 
 wind arose in the street, and a pillar of dust mounted up 
 to the very top of the strange tree, that still stood waving 
 its long satiny leaves languidly above the house-tops. 
 For an instant every one was blinded, and when the dust 
 had subsided so as to permit the people to use their eyes 
 again the wonderful tree had completely vanished, and 
 all that could be seen was a little bamboo stool flying 
 along the road, where it was blown by the storm. The 
 poor fruiterer, Liho, stood aghast, looking at the plums, 
 in which he stood knee-deep. 
 
 The Mandarin, addressing him, said sternly, "Let us 
 hear no more such folly from Liho, otherwise he will get 
 twenty strokes of the stick." 
 
 " Gather your plums, Liho," said Piou-Lu kindly, " and 
 think this one of your fortunate days; for he who runs 
 after his losses with open mouth does not always overtake 
 them." 
 
 And as the conjurer descended from his platform it did 
 not escape the sharp eyes of the little tailor Hang that 
 Piou-Lu exchanged a mysterious signal with the Mandarin 
 Wei-ehang-tze. 
 
 THE CHAPTER OF THE SHADOW OP THE DUCK. 
 
 IT was close on nightfall when Piou-Lu stopped before 
 Wei-chaug-tze's house. The lanterns were already lit, 
 and the porter dozed in a bamboo chair so spundly, that 
 Piou-Lu entered the porch and passed the screen without 
 awaking him. The inner room was dimly lighted by 
 some horn lanterns elegantly painted with hunting scenes ; 
 but despite the obscurity the conjurer could discover 
 
THE DRAGON FANG. 465 
 
 Wei-chang-tze seated at the farther end of the apartment 
 on an inclined couch covered with blue and yellow satin. 
 Along the corridor that led to the women's apartments 
 the shadows lay thick ; but Piou-Lu fancied he could hear 
 the pattering of little feet upon the matted floor, and see 
 the twinkle of curious eyes illuminating the solemn dark- 
 ness. Yet, after all, he may have been mistaken, for the 
 corridor opened on a garden wealthy in the rarest flowers, 
 and he may have conceived the silver dripping of the 
 fountain to be the pattering of dainty feet, and have mis- 
 taken the moonlight shining on the moist leaves of the 
 lotus for the sparkle of women's eyes. 
 
 "Has Piou-Lu arrived in my dwelling?" asked "Wei- 
 chang-tze from the dim corner in which he lay. 
 
 " That ignoble and wrath-deserving personage bows his 
 head before you," answered Piou-Lu, advancing and salut- 
 ing the Mandarin in accordance with the laws of the 
 Book of Rites. 
 
 " I hope that you performed your journey hither in 
 great safety and peace of mind," said Wei-chang-tze, 
 gracefully motioning to the conjurer to seat himself on a 
 small blue sofa that stood at a little distance. 
 
 " When so mean an individual as Piou-Lu is honored 
 by the request of the noble Wei-chang-tze, good fortune 
 must attend him. How could it be otherwise *? " replied 
 Piou-Lu, seating himself not on the small blue sofa, but 
 on the satin one which was partly occupied by the Man- 
 darin himself. 
 
 " Piou-Lu did not send in his name, as the Rites direct," 
 said Wei-chang-tze, looking rather disgusted by this im- 
 pertinent freedom on the part of the conjurer. 
 
 "The elegant porter that adorns the noble porch of 
 Wei-chang-tze was fast asleep," answered Piou-Lu, "and 
 
 30 
 
466 THE DRAGON FANG. 
 
 Piou-Lu knew that the great Mandarin expected him with 
 impatience." 
 
 "Yes," said Wei-chang-tze ; "I am oppressed by a 
 thousand demons ; devils sleep in my hair, and my ears 
 are overflowing with evil spirit ; I cannot rest at night, 
 and feel no pleasure in the day. Therefore was it that I 
 wished to see you, in hopes that you would, by amusing 
 the demon that inhabits my stomach, induce him to de- 
 part." 
 
 " I will endeavor to delight the respectable demon who 
 lodges in your stomach with my unworthy conjurations," 
 replied Piou-Lu. " But first I must go into the garden 
 to gather flowers." 
 
 "Go," said Wei-chang-tze. "The moon shines, and 
 you will see there very many rare and beautiful plants 
 that are beloved by my daughter Wu." 
 
 "The moonlight itself cannot shine brighter on the 
 lilies than the glances of your lordship's daughter," said 
 the conjurer, bowing and proceeding to the garden. 
 
 Ah ! what a garden it was that Piou-Lu now entered ! 
 The walls that surrounded it were lofty, and built of a 
 rosy stone brought from the mountains of Mantchouria. 
 This wall, on whose inner face flowery designs and tri- 
 umphal processions were sculptured at regular intervals, 
 sustained the long and richly laden shoots of the white 
 magnolia, which spread its large snowy chalices in myr- 
 iads over the surface. Tamarisks and palms sprang up 
 in various parts of the grounds, like dark columns support- 
 ing the silvery sky ; while the tender and mournful willow 
 drooped its delicate limbs over numberless fish-ponds, 
 whose waters seemed to repose peacefully in the bosom of 
 the emerald turf. The air was distracted with innumer- 
 able perfumes, each more fragrant than the other. The 
 
THE DRAGON FANG. 467 
 
 blue convolvulus, the crimson ipomea, the prodigal azaleas, 
 the- spotted tiger-lilies, the timid and half-hidden jasmine, 
 all poured forth, during the day and night, streams of 
 perfume from the inexhaustible fountains of their chal- 
 ices. The heavy odors of the tube-rose floated languidly 
 through the leaves, as a richly-plumaged bird would float 
 through summer air, borne down by his own splendor. 
 The blue lotus slept on the smooth waves of the fish- 
 ponds in sublime repose. There seemed an odor of en- 
 chantment over the entire place. The flowers whispered 
 their secrets in the perfumed silence ; the inmost heart 
 of every blossom was unclosed at that mystic hour ; all 
 the magic and mystery of plants floated abroad, and the 
 garden seemed filled with the breath of a thousand spells. 
 But amidst the lilies and lotuses, amidst the scented roses 
 and the drooping convolvuli, there moved a flower fairer 
 than all. 
 
 " I am here," whispered a low voice, and a dusky figure 
 came gliding towardPiou-Lu,as he stood by the fountain. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the conjurer, in a tender tone, far differ- 
 ent from the shrill one in which he addressed the crowd 
 opposite the Hotel of the Thirty-two Virtues. " The gar- 
 den is now complete. Wu, the Eose of Completed Beauty, 
 has blossomed on the night." 
 
 " Let Piou-Lu shelter her under his mantle from the 
 cold winds of evening, and bear her company for a little 
 while, for she has grown up under a lonely wall," said 
 Wu, laying her little hand gently on the conjurer's arm, 
 and nestling up to his side as a bird nestles into the fallen 
 leaves warmed by the sun. 
 
 " She can lie there but a little while," answered Piou- 
 Lu, folding the Mandarin's daughter in a passionate em- 
 brace, " for Wei-chang-tze awaits the coming of Piou-Lu 
 
468 THE DRAGON FANG. 
 
 impatiently, in order to have a conjuration with a devil 
 that inhabits his stomach." 
 
 " Alas ! ' said Wu, sadly, " why do you not seek some 
 other and more distinguished employment than that of a 
 conjurer 1 ? Why do you not seek distinction in the Palace 
 of Literary Composition, and obtain a style 1 Then we 
 need not meet in secret, and you might without fear 
 demand my hand from my father." 
 
 Piou-Lu smiled, almost scornfully. He seemed to gain 
 an inch in stature, and looked around him with an air 
 of command. 
 
 "The marble from which the statue is to be carved 
 must lie in the quarry until the workman finds it," he 
 answered, "and the hour of my destiny has not yet 
 arrived." 
 
 " Well, we must wait, I suppose," said Wu, with a sigh. 
 "Meantime, Piou-Lu, I love you." 
 
 " The hour will come sooner than you think," said 
 Piou-Lu, returning her caress ; " and now go, for the 
 Mandarin waits." 
 
 Wu glided away through the gloom to her own apart- 
 ment, while the conjurer passed rapidly through the garden 
 and gathered the blossoms of certain flowers as he went. 
 He seemed to linger with a strange delight over the buds 
 bathed in the moonlight and the dew ; their perfume 
 ascended into his nostrils like incense, and he breathed it 
 with a voluptuous pleasure. 
 
 " Now let the demon tremble in the noble stomach of 
 Wei-chang-tze," said Piou-Lu, as he re-entered the hall of 
 reception laden with flowers. " This ill-favored personage 
 will make such conjurations as shall delight the soul of 
 the elegant and well-born Mandarin, and cause his illus- 
 trious persecutor to fly terrified." 
 
THE DRAGON FANG. 469 
 
 Piou-Lu then stripped off the petals from many of the 
 flowers, and gathered them in a heap on the floor. The 
 mass of leaves was indeed variegated. The red of the 
 quamoclit, the blue of the convolvulus, the tender pink of 
 the camellia, the waxen white of the magnolia, were all 
 mingled together like the thousand hues in the Scarfs of 
 Felicity. Having built this confused mass t>f petals in 
 the shape of a pyramid, Piou-Lu unwound a scarf from 
 his waist and flung it over the heap. He then drew the 
 piece of jade-stone from his pocket, and said, 
 
 " This personage of outrageous presence desires that 
 what will be may be shown to the lofty Mandarin, Wei- 
 chang-tze." 
 
 As he pronounced these words, he twitched the scarf 
 away with a rapid jerk, and lo ! the flower-leaves were 
 gone, and in their place stood a beautiful mandarin duck, 
 in whose gorgeous plumage one might trace the brilliant 
 hues of the flowers. Piou-Lu now approached the duck, 
 caught it up with one hand, while with the other he drew 
 a sharp knife from his girdle and severed the bird's head 
 from its body at a single stroke. To the great astonish- 
 ment of Wei-chang-tze, the body and dismembered head 
 of the bird vanished the moment the knife had passed 
 through the neck ; but at the same instant a duck, re- 
 sembling it in every respect, escaped from the conjurer's 
 hands and flew across the room. When I say that this 
 duck resembled the other in every respect, I mean only 
 in shape, size, and colors. For the rest, it was no bodily 
 duck. It was impalpable and transparent, and even when 
 it flew it made no noise with its wings. 
 
 " This is indeed wonderful ! " said Wei-chang-tze. " Let 
 the marvellous conjurer explain." 
 
 " The duck formed out of flowers was a duck pure in 
 
470 THE DRAGON FANG. 
 
 body and in spirit, most lofty Mandarin," said Piou-Lu, 
 "and when it died under- the knife, I ordered its soul to 
 pass into its shadow, which can never be killed. Hence 
 the shadow of the duck has all the colors as well as the 
 intelligence of the real duck that gave it birth." 
 
 " And to what end has the very wise Piou-Lu created 
 this beautiful duck-shadow 1 " asked the Mandarin. 
 
 "The cultivated Wei-chang-tze shall immediately be- 
 hold," answered the conjurer, drawing from his wide 
 sleeve a piece of rock-salt and flinging it to the farther 
 end of the room. He had hardly done this when a ter- 
 rific sound, between a bark and a howl, issued from the 
 dim corner into which he had cast the rock-salt, and im- 
 mediately a large gray wolf issued wonderfully from out 
 of the twilight, and rushed with savage fangs upon the 
 shadow of the beautiful duck. 
 
 " Why, it is a wolf from the forests of Mantchouria ! " 
 exclaimed Wei-chang-tze, rather alarmed at this frightful 
 apparition. " This is no shadow, but a living and blood- 
 thirsty beast." 
 
 " Let my lord observe and have no fear," said Piou-Lu, 
 tranquilly. 
 
 The wolf seemed rather confounded when, on making a 
 snap at the beautiful duck, his sharp fangs met no resist- 
 ance, while the bird flew with wonderful venom straight 
 at his fiery eyes. He growled, and snapped, and tore 
 with his claws at the agile shadow that fluttered around 
 and over him, but all to no purpose. As well might the 
 hound leap at the reflection of the deer in the pool where 
 he drinks. The shadow of the beautiful duck seemed all 
 the while to possess some strange, deadly influence over 
 the savage wolf. His growls grew fainter and fainter, 
 and his red and flaming eyes seemed to drop blood. His 
 
THE DRAGON FANG. 471 
 
 limbs quivered all over, and the rough hairs of his coat 
 stood ou end with terror and pain, the shadow of the 
 beautiful duck never ceasing all the time to fly straight 
 at his eyes. 
 
 " The wolf is dying ! " exclaimed Wei-chang-tze. 
 
 " He will die, die like a dog," said Piou-Lu, in a tone 
 of savage triumph. 
 
 And presently, as he predicted, the wolf gav two or 
 three faint howls, turned himself round in a circle as if 
 making a bed to sleep on, and then laid down and died. 
 The shadow of the beautiful duck seemed now to be 
 radiant with glory. It shook its bright wings, that were 
 lovely and transparent as a rainbow, and, mounting on 
 the dead body of the wolf, sat in majesty upon his grim 
 and shaggy throne. 
 
 " And what means this strange exhibition, learned and 
 wise conjurer 1 ?" asked Wei-chang-tze, with a sorely trou- 
 bled air. 
 
 " I will tell you," said Piou-Lu, suddenly dropping his 
 respectful and ceremonious language, and lifting his hand 
 with an air of supreme power. "The mandarin duck, 
 elegant, faithful, and courageous, is an emblem of the 
 dynasty of Ming, that true Chinese race that ruled so 
 splendidly in this land before the invaders usurped the 
 throne. The cowardly and savage wolf is a symbol of the 
 Mantchou Tartar robbers who slew our liberties, shaved 
 our heads, and enchained our people. The time has now 
 arrived when the duck has recovered its splendor and its 
 courage, and is going to kill the wolf ; for the wolf can- 
 not bite it, as it works like a shadow in the twilight and 
 mystery of secret association. This you know, Wei- 
 chang-tze, as well as I." 
 
 " I have indeed heard of a rebel Chinese named Tien-te, 
 
472 THE DRAGON FANG. 
 
 who has raised a flame in our peaceful land, and who, 
 proclaiming himself a lineal descendant of the dynasty of 
 Ming, seeks to dethrone our wise and heavenly sovereign, 
 Hien-foung." 
 
 " Lie not to me, Wei-chang-tze, for I know your inmost 
 thoughts. Chinese as you are, I know that you hate the 
 Tartar in your heart, but you are afraid to say so for fear 
 of losingyonr head." 
 
 The Mandarin was so stupefied at this audacious address 
 that he could not reply, while the conjurer continued : 
 " I come to make you an offer. Join the forces of the 
 heaven-descended Emperor Tien-te. Join with him in 
 expelling this tyrannical Tartar race from the Central 
 Kingdom, and driving them back again to their cold hills 
 and barren deserts. Fly with me to the Imperial camp, 
 and bring with you your daughter Wu, the Golden Heart 
 of the Lily, and I promise you the command of one third 
 of the Imperial forces, and the Presidency of the College 
 of Ceremonies." 
 
 " And who are you, who dare to ask of Wei-chang-tze 
 to bestow on you his nobly-born daughter?" said Wei- 
 chang-tze, starting in a rage from his couch. 
 
 " I ! " replied Piou-Lu, shaking his conjurer's gown 
 from his shoulders and displaying a splendid garment of 
 yellow satin, on the breast of which was emblazoned the 
 Imperial Dragon, " Lam your Emperor, Tien-te 1" 
 
 " Ha ! " screamed a shrill voice behind him at this mo- 
 ment, "here he is. The elegant and noble rebel for 
 whose head our worthy Emperor has offered a reward of 
 ten thousand silver tales. Here he is. Catch ! beautiful 
 and noble Mandarins, catch him ! and I will pay my 
 creditors with the head-money." 
 
 Piou-Lu turned, and beheld the little tailor Hang-pou, 
 
THE DRAGON FANG. 473 
 
 at whose back were a whole file of soldiers and a number 
 of Mandarins. Wei-chang-tze shuddered, for in this com- 
 promise of his character he knew that his death was 
 written if he fell into the Imperial hands. 
 
 "STATELY and temperate tailor," said Piou-Lu, calmly, 
 " why do you wish to arrest me 1 " 
 
 " Ho ! because I will get a reward, and I want to pay 
 my debts," said Hang-pou, grinning spitefully. 
 
 "A reward for me, the miserable and marrowless con- 
 jurer, Piou-Lu ! 0, elegant cutter of summer gowns, your 
 well-educated brains are not at home ! " 
 
 " 0, we know you well enough, mighty conjurer. 
 You are none other than the contumacious rebel, Tien-te, 
 who dares to claim the throne held by the wise and mer- 
 ciful Hien Foung ; and we will bear you to the court of 
 Pekin in chains, so that you may wither in the light 
 of his terrible eyes." 
 
 "You think you will get a reward of ten thousand 
 silver tales for my head 1 " said Piou-Lu. 
 
 " Certainly," replied the little tailor, rubbing his hands 
 with glee, " certainly. His Unmatched and Isolated 
 Majesty has promised it, and the Brother of the Sun 
 never lies." 
 
 " Listen, inventive closer of symmetrical seams ! Lis- 
 ten, and I will tell you what will become of your ten thou- 
 sand silver tales. There is a long avenue leading to the 
 Imperial treasury, and at every second step is an open 
 hand. When the ten thousand tales are poured out, the 
 first hand grasps a half, the second hand an eighth of the 
 
474 THE DRAGON FANG. 
 
 remaining half, the third hand grasps a fourth of the rest, 
 and when the money-bags get down a little lower, all the 
 hands grasp together; so that when the bags reach 
 the little tailor Hang-pou, who stands stamping his feet 
 very far down indeed, they are entirely empty ; for Tartar 
 robbers surround the throne, and a Tartar usurper sits 
 upon it, and the great Chinese nation toils in its rice-fields 
 to gild their palaces, and fill their seraglios, and for all 
 they give get neither justice nor mercy. But I, Tien-te, 
 the Heavenly Emperor of this Central Land, will ordain 
 it otherwise, and hurl the false Dragon from his throne ; 
 for it is written in the Book of Prognostics, a copy of 
 which was brought to me on the wings of a yellow ser- 
 pent, that the dynasty of Han shall rule once more, and 
 the Tartar wolves perish miserably out of the Land of 
 Flowers." 
 
 " This is treason against the Light of the Universe, our 
 most gracious Emperor," said the Mandarin Lin. " You 
 shall have seventy times seven pounds of cold iron put 
 upon your neck for these blasphemies, and I will prom- 
 ise you that many bamboo splinters shall be driven up 
 under your rebellious nails." 
 
 " Let our ears be no longer filled with these atrocious 
 utterances ! " cried Hang-pou. " brave and splendid 
 Mandarins, order your terrifying tigers to arrest this de- 
 praved rebel, in order that we may hasten with him to 
 Pekin." 
 
 "Before you throw the chains of sorrow around my 
 neck, tailor of celestial inspirations," said Piou-Lu ; 
 with calm mockery, " before the terrible weight of your 
 just hand falls upon me, I pray you, if you would oblige 
 me, to look at that duck." So saying, Piou-Lu pointed 
 to where the shadow of the duck was sitting on the body 
 of the wolf. 
 
THE DRAGON FANG. 475 
 
 " 0, what a beautiful duck ! " cried Hang-pou, with 
 glistening eyes, and clapping his hands. " Let us try 
 and catch him ! " 
 
 "It is indeed a majestic duck," said Mandarin Lin, 
 gravely stroking his mustache. " I am favorable to his 
 
 capture." 
 
 "You will wait until we catch the duck, illustrious 
 rebel ! " said Hang-pou to Piou-Lu, very innocently, never 
 turning his eyes from the duck, to which they seemed to 
 be glued by some singular spell of attraction. 
 
 " I will talk with the Mandarin Wei-chang-tze while you 
 put your noble manoeuvres into motion," answered Piou-Lu. 
 
 "Now let us steal upon the duck," said Hang-pou. 
 " Handsomely-formed duck, we entreat of you to remain 
 as quiet as possible, in order that we may grasp you in 
 
 our hands." 
 
 Then, as if actuated by a single impulse, the entire 
 crowd, with the exception of Wei-chang-tze and Piou-Lu, 
 moved toward the duck. The Mandarins stepped on 
 tiptoe, with bent bodies, and little black eyes glistening 
 with eagerness ; Hang-pou crawled on his belly like a 
 serpent ; and the soldiers, casting aside their bows and 
 shields, crept, with their hands upon their sides, toward 
 the beautiful birch The duck remained perfectly quiet, 
 its variegated wings shining like painted tale, and its 
 neck lustrous as the court robe of a first-class Mandarin. 
 The crowd scarcely breathed, so intense was their .eager- 
 ness to capture the duck ; and they moved slowly forward, 
 gradually surrounding it. 
 
 Hang-pou was the first to make a clutch at the bird, 
 but he was very much astonished to find his hand closing 
 on empty air, while the duck remained seated on the 
 wolf, as still as a picture. 
 
476 THE DRAGON FANG. 
 
 " Miserable tailor ! " cried Mandarin Lin, " your hand 
 is a sieve, with meshes wide enough to strain elephants. 
 How can you catch the beautiful duck 1 ? Behold me!" 
 and Mandarin Lin made a rapid and well-calculated dive 
 at the duck. To the wonderment of every one except 
 Piou-Lu and Wei-chang-tze, the duck seemed to ooze 
 through his fingers, and, escaping, flew away to the other 
 end of the room. 
 
 " If my hand is a sieve," said Hang-pou, " it is evident 
 that the noble Mandarin's hand is not a wall of beaten 
 copper, for it lets ducks fly through with wonderful ease." 
 
 "It is a depraved and abominable duck, of criminal 
 parentage," said Mandarin Lin, in a terrible rage; "and 
 I vow, by the whiskers of the Dragon, that I will catch 
 it and burn it on a spit." 
 
 " 0, yes ! " cried the entire crowd, Mandarins, soldiers, 
 and the little tailor, all now attracted to the chase of 
 the duck by a power that they could no longer resist. 
 " 0, yes ! we will most assuredly capture this little duck, 
 and, depriving him of his feathers, punish him on a spit 
 that is exceedingly hot." 
 
 So the chase commenced. Here and there, from one 
 corner to the other, up the walls, on the altar of the 
 household gods, in short, in every possible portion of the 
 large room, did the Mandarins, the little tailor, and the 
 soldiers pursue the shadow of the beautiful duck. Never 
 was seen such a duck. It seemed to be in twenty places 
 at a time. One moment Mandarin Lin would throw him- 
 self bodily on the bird, in hopes of crushing it, and would 
 call out triumphantly that now indeed he had the duck ; 
 but the words would be hardly out of his mouth when a 
 loud shout from the rest of the party would disabuse his 
 mind, and, turning, he would behold the duck marching 
 
THE DRAGON FANG. 477 
 
 proudly down the centre of the floor. Another time a 
 soldier would declare that he had the duck in his breeches 
 pocket; but while his neighbors were carefully probing 
 that recess the duck would be seen calmly emerging from 
 his right-hand sleeve. One time Hang-Pou sat down 
 suddenly on the mouth of a large china jar, and resolutely 
 refused to stir, declaring that he had seen the duck enter 
 the jar, and that he was determined to sit upon the mouth 
 until the demon of a duck was starved to death. But 
 even while uttering his heroic determination, his mouth 
 was seen to open very wide, and, to the astonishment of 
 all, the duck flew out. In an instant the whole crowd 
 was after him again ; Mandarin Hy-le tumbled over 
 Mandarin Ching-tze, and Mandarin Lin nearly drove his 
 head through Hang-pou's stomach. The unhappy wretches 
 began now to perspire and grow faint with fatigue, but 
 the longer the chase went on the hotter it grew. There 
 was no rest for any of them. From corner to corner, 
 from side to side, now in one direction, now in another, 
 no matter whither the duck flew, they were compelled to 
 follow. Their faces streamed, and their legs seemed ready 
 to sink under them. Their eyeballs were ready to start 
 out of their heads, and they had the air of government 
 couriers who had travelled five hundred li in eleven days. 
 They were nearly dead. 
 
 " Those men will surely perish, illustrious claimant of 
 the throne," said Wei-chang-tze, gazing with astonishment 
 at this mad chase. 
 
 " Let them perish ! " said the conjurer ; " so will perish 
 all the enemies of the Celestial sovereign, Tie"n-te\ Wei- 
 chang-tze, once more, do you accept my offer 1 ? If you 
 remain here, you will be sent to Pekin in chains ; if you 
 come with me, I will gird your waist with the scarf of 
 
478 THE DRAGON FANG. 
 
 Perpetual Delight. We want wise men like you to guide 
 our armies, and " 
 
 "And the illustrious Tien-te loves the Mandarin's 
 daughter," said Wei-chang-tze, roguishly finishing the 
 sentence. " Light of the Universe and Son of Heaven, 
 Wei-chang-tze is your slave ! " 
 
 Piou-Lu for I still call him by his conjurer's name 
 gave a low whistle, and, obedient to the summons, Wu's 
 delicate shape came gliding from the corridor toward her 
 lover, with the dainty step of a young fawn going to the 
 fountain. 
 
 " Wu," said Piou-Lu, " the marble is carved, and the 
 hour is come." 
 
 " My father, then, has consented 1 " said Wu, looking 
 timidly at her father. 
 
 " When the Emperor of the Central Land condescends 
 to woo, what father dare refuse 1 " said Wei-chang-tze. 
 
 " Emperor ! " said Wu, opening her black eyes with 
 wonder. " My Piou-lu an Emperor ! " 
 
 " I am indeed the son of the Dragon," said Piou-Lu, 
 folding her to his breast, "and you shall sit upon a 
 throne of ivory and gold." 
 
 " And I thought you were only a conjurer ! " murmured 
 Wu, hiding her head in his yellow gown. 
 
 " But how , are we to leave this place 1 " asked Wei- 
 chang-tze, looking alarmed. " The guard will seize us if 
 they get knowledge of your presence." 
 
 " We shall be at my castle in the mountains of Tse- 
 Hing, near the Kouei-Lin, in less than a minute," an- 
 swered Piou-Lu ; " for to the possessor of the Dragon Fang 
 all things are possible." 
 
 Even as he spoke the .ground began to slide from under 
 their feet with wonderful rapidity, leaving them motion- 
 
THE DRAGON FANG. 479 
 
 less and upright. Houses, walls, gardens, fields, all 
 passed by them with the swiftness of a dream, until, in 
 a few seconds, they found themselves in the mountain 
 castle of Tien-te, where they were welcomed with a 
 splendid hospitality. Wu became the favorite wife of 
 the adventurous Emperor, and Wei-chang-tze one of his 
 most famous generals. 
 
 The day after these events some Tartar soldiers en- 
 tered Wei-chang-tze's house to search for the Mandarin, 
 when, in the reception-hall, they were confounded at 
 finding a number of men lying dead upon the floor, while 
 in the midst sat a beautiful duck, that immediately on 
 their entrance flew out through a window, and was seen 
 no more. The dead men were soon recognized, and it 
 was the opinion of the people of Tching-tou that Wei- 
 chang-tze had poisoned all the soldiers and Mandarins, 
 and then fled. The tailor, Hang-pou, being among the 
 corpses, was found to have given his creditors the slip 
 forever. 
 
 Victory still sits on the banner of Tien-te, and he will, 
 without doubt, by the time that the tea is again fit to 
 gather, sit upon the ancient throne of his ancestors. 
 
 Everything is now gracefully concluded. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 'I come but in as others do." 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
CHARLES DAWSON SHANLT. 
 From a painting by William E. Marshall. 
 
CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. 
 
 IFrom the New York Tribune, April 19, 1875.] 
 
 INFORMATION has been received of the death of Charles Dawson 
 Shanly. He expired at Jacksonville, in Florida, whither he had 
 gone for the benefit'of his health, on the 15th of April. This news 
 will carry a sharp pang of sorrow to more than one heart. Mr. 
 Shanly was known to the public as a writer for the magazines, 
 charmingly companionable, quietly humorous, playful, and quaint ; 
 but all that he was as a writer seems little in comparison with what 
 he was as a man ; and it is the high-minded, kind-hearted, simple, 
 faithful comrade and friend, rather than the man of letters, who 
 will at first be mourned. Nobility of character, integrity of con- 
 duct, fidelity to duty, cheerful submission to fate, sweetness of 
 temperament, and modesty of bearing are rarer and richer virtues 
 than intellectual brilliancy ; and they were all combined in him. 
 Air. Shanly has lived" in New York, working with his pen, for about 
 eighteen years ; and to all who knew him, and all with whom he 
 came into contact, he was conspicuous as a type of what, with ten- 
 derness and pride, the human heart instinctively accepts as a gentle- 
 man. His life was lonely. His mind seemed to have been long ago 
 saddened in some way, but not embittered. He was a kindly, quiet, 
 thoughtful man, who worked hard, accomplished much, did all the 
 good that he could find to do, and never spoke about himself or 
 his labors. His fortunes were small, and they were precarious. 
 He was at times acquainted with hardship. But whether in shadow 
 or sunshine his mind and heart remained equable and patient, and 
 his industry and probity undisturbed. There were not many per- 
 sons, perhaps, who saw and appreciated his example. The more 
 showy and pretentious author gets the most credit with the crowd. 
 But those who did understand this example found comfort and 
 
484 APPENDIX. 
 
 strength in it, and will remember it now with love and pride. Mr. 
 Shanly's writings consist of many essays and descriptive articles, in 
 The Atlantic Monthly, many poems and ballads, some of which 
 are imaginative and pathetic, while some are satirical or humorous, 
 
 and many miscellaneous articles and paragraphs in the newspapers. 
 He was, in 1860, one of the chief contributors to Vanity Fair, 
 which was started, in the fall of the previous year, by Mr. William 
 A. Stephens, and he became, at a subsequent time, its editor. 
 He was also the editor of Mrs. Grundy, which was started here by 
 Dr. Alfred L. Carrol, in July, 1865, and was discontinued after the 
 publication of twelve numbers. He was a contributor to The New 
 York Leader, for which, as afterward for The New York Weekly 
 Review, and during a time for The New York Albion, he wrote 
 reviews of art. He was passionately fond of painting, and he was 
 an expert draughtsman in the line of comic sketches. One of his 
 characteristic drawings, published, long ago, in The London Punch, 
 represents with excellent comic effect the horror and discomfiture of 
 a stout old Englishman, who, at a private museum of natural cu- 
 riosities, has mistaken a big honied owl for a stuffed cat, and has 
 got his bald head scratched by the angry fowl. This little thing 
 is mentioned as denoting the bent of his playfulness. He was also 
 a contributor to The New York World, wherein he wrote upon social 
 topics and the evanescent trifles of the passing day. He particularly 
 excelled as a writer of poems of dramatic incident, or of representa- 
 tive dramatic mood. "The Brier- wood Pipe," which met with a 
 wide acceptance and admiration during the Civil War, was his ; and 
 so too was the weird ballad of "The Walker of the Snow." Still 
 another unique work of this kind was his startling and sad poem, 
 
 which is picture and poem in one, " Rifleman, shoot me a fancy 
 shot." This was first published in London, in Once a Week. Mr. 
 Shanly did not, perhaps, accomplish enough in this vein to win for 
 him an abiding rank among the poets ; but his name is entitled to 
 its place in every representative collection of American poetry. He 
 was not indeed an American by birth, but this was the land of his 
 choice and his labors, and here he would have wished to be remem- 
 bered. Mr. Shanly was an Irish gentleman, of old and honorable 
 family. He lived in Great Britain, and also in Canada, before settling 
 in New York. He was about fifty years of age, and of a hardy con- 
 stitution, having blue eyes, iron -gray hair, a weather-beaten face, 
 
CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. 485 
 
 and a slender, wiry figure. He was thoroughly well acquainted 
 with animals and field sports, and he was a great walker. "Within 
 the last two years his health has seemed to waste slowly and grad- 
 ually away ; but this, like all else that was painful and sad in his 
 life, he kept to himself. He knew when he went hence that he was 
 going to his death, and he had prepared himself, with humbleness 
 and submission, for the inexorable change. There is no one of the 
 busy workers in journalism who will not be benefited by reflection 
 upon a character so pure and simple, a life so industrious, useful, 
 and blameless, and an end so tranquil. 
 
 WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 University Press : John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 
 

 
973 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY