UC-NRLF 
 
 SB 2Mfl DMb 
 
of 
 
 T T 
 ]al 
 
 x>xx 
 


DAISY S NECKLACE 
 
 And What Came of It. 
 
 (A LITERARY EPISODE.) 
 
 BY 
 
 T. B. A L D R I C H. 
 
 The little dogs and all, 
 . . . see, they bark at me ! 
 KINO LEAR. 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 
 DERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU STREET. 
 CINCINNATI : H. W. DERBY & Co. 
 
 857 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, 
 
 BY DERBY & JACKSON, 
 
 in the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 Southern District of New-York. 
 
TO 
 
 C. L. F., 
 
 THE NOBLE MERCHANT AND THE GOOD FRIEND, 
 
 THIS BURLESQUE OF THINGS IN GENERAL, 
 
 IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS. 
 
 The House by the Sea The Round Window God s eyes in 
 Flowers The Day-Dreamers A Picture An Angel Old 
 Nanny On the Sea-Shore Shell-Hunting Bell s Freak and 
 Mortimer s Dream Asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE DEAD HOPE. 
 
 Time s Changes Fall-down Castles Little Bell waiting 
 When will Father come Home ? Little Bell weary What the 
 Sea said Nevermore. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 SOUL-LAND. 
 
 Autumn and Winter By the Fireside Where little Bell is 
 going Nanny sings about Chloe Bell reads a poem The flight 
 of an Angel The Funeral The good Parson The two Grave 
 stones. 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY. 
 
 Down Town Messrs. Flint & Snarle Tim, the Office Boy, 
 and the pale Book-keeper The Escritoire The Purloined 
 Package Mr. Flint goes Home Midnight Miss Daisy 
 Snarle Tho Poor Author. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 DAISY SNARLE. 
 
 Sunday morning Harvey Snarle and Mortimer A Tale of 
 Sorrow The Snow-child Mortimer takes Daisy s hand 
 Snarle s death. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE PHANTOM AT SEA. 
 
 A Storm in the Tropics The Lone Ship The Man at the 
 Wheel How he sang strange Songs The Apparition The 
 drifting Bark. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN. 
 
 Mr. Flint sips vino d oro The Stranger The Letter Mr. 
 Flint Outwitted Mr. Flint s Photograph The Madman s 
 Story The Wrecked Soul How Mr. Flint is troubled by his 
 Conscience, and dreams of a Pair of Eyes. 
 
CONTENTS. VII 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MR. FLINT IS PERFECTLY ASTONISHED, AND MORTIMER HAS A 
 VISION. 
 
 The Light Heart A Scene The Sunny Heart A Dream 
 of Little Bell A Hint. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 DAISY AND THE NECKLACE. 
 
 Our petite Heroine How she talked to the Poets The 
 Morocco Case Daisy s Eyes make Pictures Tears, idle 
 Tears ! 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ST. AGNES EVE. 
 
 The Old Year St. Agnes Keats Poem The Circlet of 
 Pearls A Cloud The Promise Mrs. Sna/rle continues her 
 Knitting. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MORTIMER, HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GREAT PUBLISHER, 
 AND MR. FLINT MAKES A DISCOVERY. 
 
 H. H. Hardwill, Publisher Criminal Literature Alliterative 
 Titles Goldwood Poor Authors A Heaven for them in the 
 Perspective Flint s Discovery, and the Horns of his Dilemma. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ^ W H A T DAISY DID. 
 
 The Arrest Doubt and Love Daisy and the Necklace 
 
 The Search The Heart of Daisy Snarle. 
 
VJTI CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 IN THE TOMBS. 
 
 The Author s Summer Residence The Egyptian Prison 
 Without and Within A Picture Sunshine in shadow Joe 
 Wilkes and his unique Proposal Gloomy Prospects The Face 
 at the Cell-window. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING. 
 
 The Strange Visit The Lawyer Walters and Mr. Flint 
 The Clouds A Strip of Sunshine Mortimer. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES. 
 
 A Picture The Lawyer s Note Mr. Hardwill once more 
 The Scene at the Law Office Mr. Flint Ears du Combat 
 Face to Face. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA. 
 
 Clap-trapJohn Flint The [Old House Joe Wilkes 
 Strephon and Chloe Tim enjoying himself Edward Walters 
 and Little Bell A Last Word. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
T O T H E 
 
 UNFORTUNATE READER 
 
 IN this little Extravaganza, I have done just what 
 1 intended. 
 
 I have attempted to describe, in an auto-biogra 
 phical sort of way, a well-meaning, but somewhat 
 vain young gentleman, who, having flirted despe 
 rately with the Magazines, takes it into his silly head 
 to write a novel, all the chapters of which are laid 
 before the reader, with some running criticism by 
 T. James Barescythe, Esquire, the book-noticer of 
 " The Morning Glory," (" a journal devoted to the 
 Fine Arts and the Amelioration of all Mankind,") and 
 the type of a certain class which need not be distinctly 
 specified for recognition. 1 have endeavored to make 
 the novel of my literary hero such a one as a young 
 man with fine taste and crude talent might produce ; 
 and I think I have succeeded. It is certainly suffi 
 ciently unfinished. 
 
 2 
 
10 TO THE UNFOKTUNATE READER. 
 
 In drawing the character of Barescythe, the point 
 of my quill may have pierced a friend ; and if you 
 ask, like Ludovico, 
 
 What shall be said of theel" 
 
 I shall answer, like Othello, 
 
 " Why, anything : 
 
 An honorable murderer, if you will ; 
 For nought I did in hate, but all in honor." . 
 
 The only audacious thing I have done is the writing 
 of this preface. If there is anything more stupid 
 than a " preface," it is a book-critic. If anything 
 could be more stupid than a book-critic, it would 
 be a preface. But, thank heaven, there is not. 
 In saying this, I refer to a particular critic ; for 
 I would not, for the sake of a tenth edition, ma 
 lign in such a wholesale manner those capital good 
 fellows of the press those verbal accoucheurs who 
 are so pleasantly officious at the birth of each new 
 genius. Not I. I have 
 
 " A fellow-feeling" 
 
 and a love for them, which would seem like a bid for 
 their good nature, if expressed here. 
 
 I have put my name on the title-page of this 
 trifle from principle. My pen-children are all mine, 
 
TO THE UNFORTUNATE READER. 11 
 
 and I cannot think of disowning one, though it may 
 happen to be born hump-backed. But I beg of you, 
 gentlest of unfortunate readers, not to take DAISY S 
 NECKLACE as a serious exponent of my skill at story 
 telling. It is not printed at the " urgent request of 
 numerous friends" I am so fortunate as not to have 
 many but a seductive little argument in the shape of 
 a cheque is the sole cause of its present form ; other 
 wise, I should be content to let it die an easy death 
 in the columns of the journal which first had the te 
 merity to publish it. If the world could always 
 know, as it may in this case, why a book is printed, it 
 would look with kindlier eyes on dullness bound in 
 muslin. It would say, with honest Sancho Panza : 
 " Let us not look the gift-horse in the mouth." 
 
 When the sunshine of this dear old world has 
 reddened the wine in my heart melted down its 
 sparkles to a creamy flavor, I will give you a richer 
 draught mayhap a beaker of Hippocrene. 
 
 Till then, may God s blessing be on us both, though 
 neither of us deserve it. 
 
 CLINTON PLACE, 1856. 
 

 PROLOGUE. 
 
It hath beene sayed, and it seemeth soe untoe me, that ye 
 man who writes a booke maist have much vanitie and vexation 
 of spirite. 
 
 YE Two POORE AUTHORS. 
 
PROLOGUE, 
 
 "MRS. Muggins!" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Say that I am sick. Say I am dead buried 
 out of town. In short, say anything you will ; but 
 deny my existence to every one who calls, with the 
 exception of Mr. Barescythe." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "I am going to write a novel, Mrs. Muggins!" 
 
 That lady did not exhibit much emotion. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 And Mrs. Muggins ambled out of the room- 
 door, to which she had been summoned by some 
 peremptory appeals of my bell. I was somewhat 
 shocked at the cool manner with which Mrs. Mug 
 gins received the literary intelligence ; but she, poor, 
 
16 PROLOGUE. 
 
 simple soul, did not know that my greatness was 
 a-ripening. 
 
 " Some of these days," said I to myself, turn 
 ing toward the window, " some of these days, rnay- 
 hap a hundred years hence, as the stranger passes 
 through Washington Parade Ground, this house 
 wrinkled and old then will be pointed out to his 
 wonder-loving eyes as the one in which my novel 
 was written ; and the curious stranger will cut his 
 name on the walls of the room which I never oc 
 cupied, arid carry away a slice of the door-step !" 
 
 I immediately fell in love with this fascinating 
 thought, and followed it up. 
 
 The slender trees which now inhabit the Parade 
 Ground had grown immensely the trunks of some 
 were three feet in diameter, and around them all 
 was a massive iron railing. The brick and brown- 
 stone houses on Waverly Place and Fourth-street 
 had long been removed, and huge edifices with cast- 
 iron fronts supplanted them. I looked in vain for 
 the little drug-store on the corner with its red 
 and green bottles, and the fruit-man s below with 
 its show of yellow bananas and sour oranges. 
 The University, dimly seen through the interlacing 
 branches, was a classic ruin. 
 
 Everything was changed and new. 
 
 All the old land-marks were gone, save the 
 
PROLOGUE. 17 
 
 Parade Ground, and one quaint old house facing 
 Mac Dougal-street : the which house was propped 
 up with beams, for, long and long ago, before 
 " the memory of the oldest inhabitant" even, an 
 author, a sweet quiet man, once wrote a famous 
 book there, and the world of 1956 would preserve 
 the very floors he trod on ! 
 
 And so I sat there by my window in the au 
 tumnal sunshine, and watched the golden clouds as 
 the wind blew them against the square white tur 
 rets of the University, which peered above the 
 trees. 
 
 Ah, Mrs. Muggins, thought I, though you only 
 said u yes, sir," when I spoke of my novel though 
 your name is carved in solid brass on the hall- 
 door, yet you will be forgotten like a rain that fell 
 a thousand years ago, when my name, only stamped 
 with printer s ink, on ephemeral slips of paper, is a 
 household word. 
 
 So I came to pity Mrs. Muggins, and harbored 
 no ill feelings toward the simple creature who was 
 so speedily to be gathered under the dusty wings 
 of oblivion. I wondered how she could be cheer 
 ful. I wondered if she ever thought of being "dead 
 and forgotten," and if it troubled her. 
 
 Lost in the aromatic fumes of a regalia, I sat 
 waiting the advent of my friend Barescythe Barry 
 
 2* 
 
18 PKOLOGUE. 
 
 for short to whom I had addressed a laconic note, 
 begging him to visit me at my rooms without 
 delay. 
 
 1 like Barescythe. 
 
 He is conceited, but that s a small fault with 
 genius. His idea of literature does not exactly 
 chime with mine, for he believes that there have 
 been no novels, to speak of, since Scott s, and little 
 poetry since Pope s. But, aside from this, he is a 
 noble fellow ; he carries his heart, like a falcon, on 
 his hand, where everybody can see it. Barry is 
 fond of wine but that s a failing not peculiar to 
 genius, and not confined to book-critics. He is a 
 trifle rough in speech, not always the thing in man 
 ners ; but ** the elements so mix in him" that 1 
 have a great mind to finish that excellent quota 
 tion. 
 
 I heard his familiar step on the stairs, and a 
 second afterwards he kicked open my room-door 
 with his characteristic disregard of ceremony. 
 
 * Ralph," said he, with some anxiety, what s 
 up?" 
 
 "Sit down!" 
 
 " Are you sick ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Are you going to be ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
PROLOGUE. 19 
 
 " Then why, in the name of the many-headed Hy 
 dra, did you send me such an article as this? 
 Read it." 
 
 The note ran as follows : 
 
 "Mac Dougal-street, 
 
 11 June 30, 18 . 
 (i DEAR BARRY, 
 
 * Come and see me without delay. I have got 
 a 
 
 " Eternally, 
 
 "RALPH." 
 
 " 0, yes !" said I, laughing ; " I left out a word. 
 I meant to have said, I have got an idea/ }; 
 
 " Humph ! I thought it was a colic." 
 
 Mr. Barescythe had left a host of editorial duties 
 in the middle and busiest time of the day, ex 
 pecting to find me lying at the point of death, and 
 was quite out of humor because I was not. 
 
 There is something extremely human in Bare- 
 scythe. 
 
 " Criticus, I spoke as deliberately as the subject 
 would allow, ; I am going to write a novel." 
 
 This unfortunate avowal was the rose-leaf which 
 caused the cup of his indignation to overflow. 
 
 " If it had been a case of cholera," commenced 
 
20 PKOLOGUE. 
 
 Barescythe, with visible emotion, "or the measles, 
 or the croup, or the chicken-pox if you had broken 
 your thigh, spine, or neck, I wouldn t have com 
 plained. But a novel " 
 
 And Barry began whistling wildly, 
 
 
 as he invariably does when annoyed. After using up 
 a variety of popular airs, the shadow of his good- 
 humor returned to him. 
 
 " Kalph," he said, taking my hand, " I have a great 
 respect for you. I don t know why, to be frank, 
 but I have. I like your little song of what do 
 you call it ? in Putnam s Monthly, and your prose 
 sketches in the Knickerbocker; but don t be a fool, 
 Ralph !" 
 
 With which piece of friendly advice, he put on 
 his brown felt hat, drew it over his brows, and 
 stalked out of the room, with 
 
 " A countenance more 
 In sorrow than in anger," 
 
 like Mr. Hamlet s father. 
 
 I saw no more of Barescythe for two weeks. 
 The summer months flew away. 
 
PROLOGUE. 21 
 
 The nights were growing longer. The air had 
 a vein of sparkling cold in it ; at every gust the 
 trees in the Parade Ground shook down golden 
 ingots ; and the grass-plots, and the graveled walks, 
 and the marble bowl of the fountain, were paved with 
 emerald and amethyst a mosaic flooring of tinted 
 leaves. The clouds were haggard faces, and the wind 
 wailed like a broken heart. Indeed, 
 
 " The melancholy days had come, 
 The saddest of the year," 
 
 and Mrs. Muggins had made a fire in my grate ! 
 
 Blessings on him who invented fire-places! A 
 poor day-dreamer s benediction go with him ! The 
 world in the grate ! I have watched its fantastic 
 palaces and crimson inhabitants dipped my pen, 
 as it were, into its stained rivers, and written their 
 grotesqueness ! Dizzy bridges, feudal castles, great 
 yawning caves, and red-hot gnomes, are to be found 
 in the grate ; mimic volcanos, and ships that sail into 
 sparry grottos, and delicate fire-shells with pink and 
 blue lips ! 
 
 Crash ! 
 
 The coals sink down, and new figures are born, 
 like the transient pictures in a kaleidescope. So it 
 carne to pass that I dozed over the metempsychosis 
 of my fire-world, and commenced the novel. 
 
22 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Give me crisp winter days for writing, and the 
 long snowy nights for dreamy slumber. 
 
 O antique humorist, quaint-mouthed Sancho Panza! 
 with you, I say, "Blessings on the man who in 
 vented sleep !" Sleep, pleasant sleep ! that little 
 airy nothing on the eyelids ! that little spell of 
 thought which comes from no place and goes no* 
 where ! which comes upon us silently and splen 
 didly, like a falling star, and trails its golden fancies 
 on our waking hours. Sleep for the young fresh, 
 dewy sleep ! Sleep for the sick ! Sleep for the 
 weary and disconsolate sweet dreams and sweet 
 forgetfulness for them! Smooth the white hairs of 
 the old ; place thy invisible fingers on their lips ; 
 close their eyes gently, gently, Sleep, and let them 
 pass into nothingness ! 
 
 In a dreamy mood, half awake and half asleep, I 
 filled sheet after sheet with my curious back-handed 
 chirography. The white feathery snow came down 
 cygnet-soft, and I wrote. I heard the wind ditties in 
 the chimney, the merry wrangling of sleigh-bells, 
 the sonorous clash of fire-bells, and the manuscript 
 grew under my pen, as if by magic. I came to 
 love the nurslings of my fancy as no one else will. 
 I liked the cold, cynical features of Mr. Flint, with 
 his undertaker s aspect ; the child-spirit, Bell ; Daisy 
 Snarle s eyes ; the heart-broken old sailor ; the pale 
 
PROLOGUE. 23 
 
 book-keeper ; Tim, the office boy ; Mr. Hardwill, the 
 great publisher ; Joe Wilkes, and all of them ! 
 
 Mrs. Muggins occasionally looked in on me. 
 
 Mrs. Muggins regard for me was increasing. She 
 never left the coal-scuttle on the stairs for my benefit, 
 as she used to ; she was eternally hearing my bell ring 
 when it didn t, and answering it so promptly when it 
 did, that I began to think that she lived night and day 
 just outside my door. 
 
 Pleasant Mrs. Muggins! 
 
 I tried not to feel elated at these little widowy at 
 tentions ; but los hombres son mortales. 
 
 She handed me my coffee with a motherly tender 
 ness that was perfectly touching. She looked at me 
 with the eyes of Solicitude, and spoke with the lips of 
 culminating Respect ; and once, in a burst of confi 
 dence, she told me that she had six orphan sons, who 
 were " sealurs." 
 
 My respect increased for Mrs. Muggins. My 
 novel might run through only one edition, but she, 
 she had six editions of herself afloat ! And I thought 
 that, after all, a woman like her who had pro 
 duced a half a dozen Neptunes, founded perhaps 
 a half a dozen races, was rendering more service 
 to this apple-like globe, than one poor devil of an 
 author prolifically pregnant with indifferent books. 
 
 I spoke to Barescythe about it, and it was pleasant 
 to have him coincide with me once. 
 
24 PROLOGUE. 
 
 It is an agreeable fact, that 
 
 " The world goes up and the world goes down, 
 And the sunshine follows the rain." 
 
 The new year was four months old. The flowers 
 were teething : the tiny robins were able to go 
 alone, and above the breezy hum of many thousand 
 voices, above the monotonous and ocean-like jar 
 of omnibus wheels, I could hear the babbling of 
 hyaline rills in pleasant woodland places ! I could 
 not see the silver threads of water winding in and 
 out among the cool young grass ; I could not guess 
 where they were ; but through the city smoke, 
 over the dingy chimney-tops, they spake to me 
 with kindly voices ! 
 
 I knew that daisies were fulling in sunny meadows, 
 and that the dandelion trailed its gold by the dusty 
 road-sides : for 
 
 " The delicate-footed Spring was come." 
 
 I knew it by the geranium at my window. It 
 had put forth two sickly leaves. Two sickly leaves 
 for me, and the world alive with vernal things ! 
 Spring, thou Queen of the Twelve ! Dainty, dewy 
 Spring 
 
 " Give me a golden pen, and let me lean 
 On heaped-up flowers," 
 
 when I write of thee ! Thy breath is the amber 
 
PROLOGUE. 25 
 
 sunshine, and thy foot-prints are violets! Hide 
 Winter in thy mantle : crown his cold brow with 
 mignionette : hang morning-glories on his icicles : 
 keep him from me forever ! 
 
 " For winter maketh the light heart sad, 
 And thou thou makest the sad heart gay!" 
 
 "Barry," said I, " the sunshine has taken me by 
 the hand, to lead me into a sweet New -England 
 village. There is my manuscript. Read it, if you 
 can, condemn it, if you will, and tell me what you 
 think of it when I return." 
 
 That awful critic put DAISY S NECKLACE under 
 his arm, and walked away a victim to friendship, 
 a literary Damon of the Nineteenth Century. 
 
I. 
 
As children gathering pebbles on the shore. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 No daintie flower or herbe that growes on groivnd, 
 No arborett with painted blossomes drest 
 And smelling sweete, but there it might be found 
 To bud outfaire, and throwe her sweete smels al around. 
 
 EDMUND SPENCER, 
 
I, 
 
 THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS. 
 
 The House by the Sea the Round Window God s Eyes 
 in Flowers the Day-Dreamers A Picture An Angel 
 Old Nanny On the Sea-Shore Shell-Hunting Bell s 
 Freak and Mortimer s Dream Asleep. 
 
 IMAGINE, if you will, one of the quaintest old 
 country mansions that was ever built a big-chim 
 neyed, antique-gabled, time-browned old pile, and 
 you have a picture of the Ivy ton House as it was 
 in summers gone by. 
 
 The pillars of the porch were not to be seen for 
 the fragrant vines which clambered over them ; lip- 
 tempting grapes purpled* on the southern gable of 
 
 * Mr. Barescythe, with his characteristic word-catching spirit, 
 wishes to know if grapes and cherries are ripe at one and the 
 same time in New-England. 
 
30 THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS. 
 
 the house, and the full, bright cherries clustered 
 thicker than stars among the leaves. The walks of 
 the garden were white with pebbles brought from 
 the sea-shore ; the dewy clover-beds, on each side, 
 lay red with luscious strawberries, as if some one 
 had sprinkled drops of fire over them ; and among 
 the larches and the cherry trees there was a salt 
 sea-smell pleasantly mingled with the breathing of 
 wild roses. 
 
 A large, round window in one of the gables looked 
 toward the ocean a fine place for a summer view, 
 or to watch, of a gusty afternoon, the billows as 
 they swell and break in long waving battalions on 
 the beach. 
 
 One evening near the end of summer, two chil 
 dren were sitting at this circular window. Ten 
 Aprils had half ripened them. The boy had dark 
 hair, and a touch of sunlight in his darker eyes. 
 The girl was light and delicate with a face of 
 spiritual beauty, dream-like, heavenly, like the pic 
 tures of the Madonna which genius has hung on 
 the chapel walls of the Old World. 
 
 " Bell," said the boy, * we never grow weary of 
 looking at the sea." 
 
 "No; because while we are watching, we think 
 that father may be coming home to us across its 
 bosom ; and we count the waves as if they were 
 
THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS. 31 
 
 moments. We like to see them roll away, and feel 
 that time grows shorter between father and us." 
 
 " Yes, that is so," he replied ; " but then, we 
 love night almost as much as the sea." 
 
 " That is because we have a Father in .heaven 
 as well as one at sea/ and the girl shaded her 
 angel face with a dainty little hand. 
 
 il And we love the sunbeams and the flowers, 
 Bell !" 
 
 lt We do, indeed !" cried Bell, and the sunshine 
 nestled among her curls. " We do, indeed ! because 
 God, like the good fairy in our story-book, comes 
 in sunlight, or hides in flowers ; and he reveals 
 himself in ever so many ways, to all who love 
 him." 
 
 " Hides in flowers," repeated the boy, musingly ; 
 " I never thought of that. Then, perhaps only 
 perhaps the dew-drops which I showed you last 
 night in the white japonica were God s eyes!" 
 
 " May be so," returned Bell, simply. 
 
 They were two strange children- nature, and, 
 perhaps, circumstances had made them so. They 
 were born and had always lived in the old house. 
 Their mother was in heaven, and their father was 
 one of those who go down to the sea in ships. 
 With no one to teach them, save the old house 
 keeper Nanny, their minds had taken odd turns 
 
32 THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS. 
 
 and conceits ; they had grown up old people in a 
 hundred ways. 
 
 The roar of the winds and the sea had been in 
 their ears from infancy. In the summer months 
 they wandered late on the sandy beaches, or slept 
 with the silent sunshine under the cherry trees. 
 They had grown up with nature, and nature beat 
 in them like another heart. She had imbued them 
 with her richer and tenderer moods. 
 
 Bell was the wildest and strangest of the two. 
 She was one of those serial little creatures who, 
 somehow or other, get into this world some 
 times it must be by slipping through the fingers 
 of the angels, for they seem strangely out of place, 
 and I am sure that they are missed somewhere ! 
 They never stay long ! They come to earth and 
 sometimes ripen for heaven in a twelve month ! 
 The sweetest flowers are those that die in the 
 spring-time : they touch the world with beauty, and 
 are gone, before a ruder breath than that of God 
 scatters their perfume. Bell was a Gipsy angel 
 one of those who wander, for awhile, outside the 
 walls of heaven, in the shady pastures and by-ways 
 of the world. 
 
 " Mortimer," said Bell, after a long silence, " how 
 nice it is to sit here and watch the bits of sails com 
 ing and going coming and going, never weary ! 
 
THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS. 88 
 
 I wonder how long we have sat at this window and 
 watched the white specks? I wonder if it will 
 always be so ; if you and 1 will still be here, loving 
 the sea and stars, when our .heads ; are as white as 
 Nanny s ?" 
 
 " No !" cried the boy, impetuously. l I am going 
 out into the broad, deep world, and write books 
 full of wonderful thought, like the Arabian Nights !" 
 
 And he repeated it, the broad, deep world! Ah, 
 child! what have such dreamers as you to do in 
 the broad, deep world the wonderful, restless sea, 
 where men cast the net of thought and bring up 
 pebbles ? 
 
 " I would like that, Mort ! cried Bell, clapping 
 her hands. " But then, what a grand place this 
 would be to write them in ! You can have your 
 desk by the open window here ; and when your 
 eyes are tired, you can rest them on the sea. And 
 I will be so quiet as gentle as pussy, even, and 
 do nothing but make pens for you all the time. 
 Wouldn t that be fine?" 
 
 " Yes ! and father should go no more away in 
 ships. He might have a yacht to leap over the 
 surge in, to sail around all those little islands and 
 in the green bays ; but never go off to sea. The 
 books I am going to write will bring us money 
 enough." 
 
 2 
 
34 THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS. 
 
 So the little castle-builders talked until the sun 
 had melted into the waves, and twilight, like a 
 pilgrim that had been resting by the road-side, rose 
 up from the beach, and came slowly toward the 
 old house. 
 
 Mortimer, who had been gazing dreamily at the 
 beach which grew fainter and fainter, till it seemed 
 like a white thread running through the selvage of 
 blue drapery turned his eyes on Bell. 
 
 " Bell," said he, quietly, " as you sit there in the 
 shadows, with your beautiful hair folded over your 
 forehead, you look like an angel !" 
 
 "Do I?" 
 
 " I can put my hand on your neck, yet you seem 
 far away from me." 
 
 " Come, rest your head in my lap, Mort/ said the 
 girl, tenderly, "and I will tell you of a real true 
 angel who once came into this world." 
 
 The chestnut locks of the boy looked darker 
 against her white dress, as Bell bent over him, and 
 commenced, in a low, silvery voice, an old angel 
 legend. She was in the midst of a strange descrip 
 tion of Paradise, when a tremulous voice came up 
 the stairway 
 
 "Come to tea, children!" 
 
 Then the two looked at each other curiously. It 
 was so odd to be called to tea, and they in Heaven ! 
 
THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS. 35 
 
 It was a long step from Paradise to the supper- 
 table ; but the dream was shattered. Bell laughed. 
 Then they closed the window, and descended to the 
 room below, where Nanny had prepared the evening 
 meal of snowy bread and milk, and ripe purple 
 whortleberries. It was very queer to see the three 
 sitting at table to see homely-looking, but kind- 
 hearted Nanny, between the two children, like a 
 twilight between two pleasant mornings. 
 
 When supper was over, and while Nanny was 
 washing the tea-things, the children went down to 
 the beach, shell hunting. The white moon stood di 
 rectly over the sea, and the waves were full of silvery 
 arrows, as if Diana had scattered them from her 
 quiver. Mortimer s eyes drank in the sight, as they 
 had a thousand times before, for Nature is ever new 
 to her lovers. In the measured roll of the sea, he 
 heard the diapason of a grand poem, and the far-off 
 thunder, heard now and then, was the chorus of the 
 gods. 
 
 But Heaven rapt the heart of little Bell ! The 
 waves fell on her finer ear like subtlest music ; to 
 her they were harps, and the fingers of angels were 
 touching them, while the thunder was "God walk 
 ing overhead !" 
 
 They wandered along the sands, picking up curious 
 shells and cream-white pebbles, dashed with red or 
 
36 THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS. 
 
 clouded with mazarine. Bell would hold them 
 up to her ear, and listen to the " little whispers," 
 as she called them; but the boy would skim them 
 along the wave-tips, and shout when some great 
 billow caught one, and hurled it back scornfully at 
 his feet. 
 
 Bell saw a ridge of rocks which looked like the 
 back of a whale, running out some distance into 
 the sea, where the water was whiter and leaped 
 higher than anywhere else ; and soon her dainty 
 feet picked a way over the jagged rocks. The boy 
 was about to send a light shell skipping through 
 the surf, when his glance caught Bell standing on 
 the highest jut of the ledge, the wind lifting her 
 long hair and the folds of her dress. 
 
 "Bell! Bell!" 
 
 " The stars are in the sea, brother," she replied, 
 " and the winds are wild here." 
 
 "Bell! Bell!" 
 
 " I cannot come to you. 1 fear to walk over the 
 rocks again ! But it is beautiful here, and I am not 
 afraid !" 
 
 "Ah, Bell!" he spoke sadly, that s what I dreamt. 
 I thought that there w r as a gulf between us, and 
 when I called, Bell ! Bell ! you answered, / can 
 not come to you, brother ; but you can come to fn,e / 
 O, Bell sister Bell ! as you love me, come back. I 
 
THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS. 37 
 
 tremble when you look so like an angel. Come to 
 me, sister." 
 
 Mortimer ran out on the slender bridge of stone 
 and led Bell back by the hand. After a little while 
 they heard Nanny calling them to come home. 
 
 The children occupied a small chamber over the 
 front door. A scented vine clomb all about the 
 window, and taught the ruddy sun at morning to 
 throw a subdued light into the room; and it broke 
 the orange stream of sunset. At night the dream 
 ers from their bed could see the stars hanging like 
 fruit among its cloudy leaves. 
 
 When Bell and Mortimer came up from the sea- 
 beach, the moonlight, breaking through this leafy 
 lattice, made the chamber as that of Abon Ben Ad- 
 hem like a lily in bloom." Nanny brought a 
 lamp, and kissed them good-night. 
 
 " O, we don t want a lamp all this moon I" cried 
 Bell. 
 
 The boy sat half undressed at the window. " Bell 
 loves moonlight like, a fairy," he said. 
 
 Bell s robe fell to her knees in snowy folds, and 
 she stood like a petite Venus rising from the froth. 
 Then brother and sister braided their voices in a 
 simple prayer to Our Father in Heaven. They 
 prayed for kind old Nanny, and for one on the wide 
 sea. 
 
38 THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS. 
 
 " When will father come home ?" asked Bell, for 
 the hundredth time that day. 
 
 " It will not be long now. When the houghs of 
 the cherry trees are an inch deep with ice, and 
 the logs crackle in the fire-place then he will come. 
 Let us go to sleep, and dream of him. 
 
 And thus, hand in hand, the two went in to 
 Dream-land 
 
 The world of Sleep, 
 
 The beautiful old World! 
 The dreamy Palestine of pilgrim Thought ! 
 The Lotus Garden, where the soul may lie 
 Lost in elysium, while the music moan 
 Of some unearthly river, faintly caught, 
 Seems like the whispering of Angels, blown 
 Upon ffiolian harp-strings ! And we change 
 Into a seeming something that is not ! 
 
II. 
 
Ah, yes ! with joy the April rain 
 
 Thrills nature s breast ; but mine with pain 
 
 Sigheth : "He will not come again /" 
 
 ALBERT LAIGHTON. 
 
II, 
 
 THE DEAD HOPE. 
 
 Time s Changes Fall-down Castles Little Bell Waiting 
 When will Father Come Home ? Little Bell Weary What 
 [ the Sea said Never more. 
 
 LONGFELLOW beautifully asks in Hyperion, " What 
 is Time, but the shadow of the hour-hand on a dial- 
 plate ?" 
 
 The flowers of the earth and the hearts of men 
 are dial-plates. The shadows coming and going on 
 them are the hour-hands ; when a flower fades, or 
 a heart ceases to beat, it is only a weight run 
 down. The whole universe is but one immense 
 time-piece, throbbing with innumerable wheels, heavy 
 with weights, and wearing itself away ! Desire is a 
 restless pendulum, one end linked to the heart, and 
 the other pointing downward! 
 
 2 
 
42 THE DEAD HOPE. 
 
 A year had added another link to that chain 
 which stretches through eternity. A year ! Battles 
 lost and won : nations in mourning for their dead : 
 ships gone down at sea; and new paths worn to 
 graveyards ! 
 
 O, for the castles that blow down in a year! 
 
 But time fell gently on the inmates of the Old 
 House. The trees and vines were a little larger ; 
 and winter had somewhat browned the gables. 
 Bell was paler and more beautiful, and Mortimer 
 was still the same dreamer. 
 
 There was a question which haunted the Old 
 House. It was heard in the garden, at " the round 
 window," and on the stair. 
 
 "When will father come home?" 
 
 The months flew away, like carrier doves, with 
 memories beneath their wings. 
 
 "When will father come home?" 
 
 And the question was asked again and again, till 
 the little lips and heart of Bell grew weary. Then 
 she folded her hands, and said : 
 
 " He will never come !" 
 
 Her blue eyes became more dreamy, and her 
 slight form so very slight glided about the house. 
 She would listen to the sea. Once she said, " Never 
 more !" and the sea repeated it with a human voice. 
 In the still night she asked, 
 
THE DEAD HOPE. 43 
 
 
 
 " When will father come home ?" 
 
 " Never more/ said the sea and she heard it 
 through the open window " Never more !" 
 
 She waited, and the months went by. 
 
 Was the child Bell the only one in this world 
 waiting ? 
 
 Who has not some hope at sea ? Who has not 
 waited, and watched, and grown weary? 
 
 Who has not a question in his heart, to which 
 a low spirit- voice replies : 
 
 "Never more!" 
 
III. 
 
I saw our little Gertrude die : 
 
 She left oft breathing, and no more 
 
 I smoothed the pillow beneath her head, 
 
 She was more beautiful than before) 
 
 Like violets faded were her eyes ; 
 
 By this we knew that she was dead ! 
 
 Through the open window looked the skies 
 
 Into the chamber where she lay, 
 
 And the wind was like the sound of wings. 
 
 As if Angels came to bear her away. 
 
 THE GOLDEN LEGEND, 
 
III. 
 
 SOUL -LAND. 
 
 Autumn and Winter By the Fireside WJiere little Bell 
 is going Nanny sings about CloeBell reads a Poem 
 The flight of an Angel The Funeral The good 
 Parson The two Grave-stones. 
 
 IT was autumn. The wind, with its chilly fingers, 
 picked off the sere leaves, and made mounds of 
 them in the garden walks. The boom of the sea 
 was heavier, and the pale moon fell oftener on 
 stormy waves than in the summer months. Change 
 and decay had come over the face of Earth even 
 as they come over the features of one dead. In 
 woods and hollow places vines lay rotting, and 
 venturesome buds that dared to bloom on the hem 
 of winter ; and the winds made wail over the 
 graves of last year s flowers. 
 
48 SOUL-LAND. 
 
 Then Winter came Winter, with its beard of 
 snow Winter, with its frosty breath and icy fingers, 
 turning everything to pearl. The wind whistled 
 odd tunes down the chimney; the plum-tree brushed 
 against the house, and the hail played a merry 
 tattoo on the window-glass. How the logs blazed 
 in the sitting room ! 
 
 Bell did not leave her room now. 
 
 Her fairy foot-steps were never heard tripping, 
 nor her voice vibrating through the entry in some 
 sweet song. She scarcely ever looked out at the 
 window all was dreary there ; besides, she fancied 
 that the wind " looked at her. It was in her arm 
 chair by the antique fire-place that she was most 
 comfortable. She never wearied of watching the , 
 pictured tiles ; and one, representing the infant 
 Christ in the manger, was her favorite. There she 
 sat from sunny morn until shadowy twilight, with 
 her delicate hands crossed on her lap, while Morti 
 mer read to her. Sometimes she would fix her 
 large, thoughtful eyes on the fantastic grouping of 
 the embers at her feet, and then she did not hear 
 him reading. 
 
 She was wandering in Soul-land. 
 
 Heaven s gates are open when the world s are 
 shut. The gates of this world were closing on Bell, 
 and her feet were hesitating at the threshold of 
 Heaven, waiting only for the mystic word to enter ! 
 
SOUL-LAND. 49 
 
 Very beautiful Bell was. Her perfect soul could 
 not hide itself in the pale, spiritual face. It was 
 visible in her thought and in her eyes. There was 
 a world of tender meaning in her smile. The 
 Angel of Patience had folded her in its wings, and 
 she was meek, holy. As Mortimer sat by her be 
 fore the evening lamps were lighted, and watched 
 the curious pictures which the flickering drift-wood 
 painted on the walls, he knew that she could not 
 last till the violets came again. She spoke so gently 
 of death, the bridge which spans the darkness be 
 tween us and Heaven so softened its dark, dread 
 ful outlines, that it seemed as beautiful as a path 
 of flowers to the boy and Nanny. 
 1 " Death," said Bell one day, " is a folding of the 
 hands to sleep. How quiet is death ! There is no 
 more yearning, no more waiting in the grave. It 
 comes to me pleasantly, the thought that I shall 
 lie under the daisies, God s daisies ! and the robins 
 will sing over me in the trees. Everything is so 
 holy in the churchyard the moss on the walls, the 
 willows, and the long grass that moves in the 
 wind !" 
 
 Poor Nanny tried to hum one of her old ditties 
 about Cloe and her lover ; then suddenly she found 
 something interesting at the window. But it would 
 not do. The tears would come, and she knelt down 
 
50 SOUL-LAND. 
 
 by Bell s side, and Bell s little hand fell like a strip 
 of white moonlight on Nanny s hair. 
 
 il We shall miss you, darling ! sobbed Morti 
 mer. 
 
 " At first, won t you ?" and Bell smiled, and who 
 knows what sights she saw in the illumined fire 
 place ? Were they pictures of Heaven, little Bell ? 
 
 "What shall I read to you,* pet? asked Morti 
 mer one morning. She had been prattling for an 
 hour in her wise, child-like way, and was more 
 than usually bright. 
 
 " You shall not read to me at all," replied Bell, 
 chirpingly, " but sit at my feet, and / will read to 
 you." 
 
 She took a slip of paper from her work-basket, 
 and her voice ran along the sweetest lines that the 
 sweetest poet ever wrote. They are from Alfred 
 Tennyson s * May Queen." 
 
 " I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, 
 There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet ; 
 
 But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
 And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 
 
 All in the -wild March morning I heard the angels call ; 
 
 It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; 
 
 The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, 
 And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul. 
 
SOUL-LAND. 51 
 
 For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effic dear ; 
 I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
 
 With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resigned, 
 And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 
 
 I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed, 
 
 And then did something speak to me I know not what was said ; 
 
 For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, 
 And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 
 
 But you were sleeping ; and I said, It s not for them : its mine, 
 And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign ; 
 
 And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, 
 Then seemed to go right up to Heaven, and die among the stars. 
 
 So now I think my time is near I trust it is. I know 
 The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go ; 
 
 And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day, 
 
 But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away ; 
 
 And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret 
 There s many worthier than I would make him happy yet ; 
 
 If I had lived I cannot tell I might have been his wife ; 
 But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 
 
 Oh look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; 
 He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know ; 
 
 And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine 
 Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 
 
52 SOUL-LAND. 
 
 O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done, 
 The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun 
 
 To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast 
 And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest !" 
 
 When Bell had finished reading, she took Morti 
 mer s hand in her own. 
 
 " I shall not die until the violet comes the beau 
 tiful violet, with its clouded bell !" 
 
 March melted into April the month of tears ! 
 Then came blossoming May, and still Bell lingered, 
 like a^train of music so sweet that the echoes will 
 not let it die. 
 
 One morning in June, the sun with noiseless feet 
 came creeping into the room and Bell was dying. 
 Mortimer was telling her of some sea-side walk, 
 when the unseen angel came between them. Bell s 
 voice went from her, her heart grew chilly, and 
 she knew that it was death. The boy did not 
 notice the change ; but when her hand lay cold in 
 his, he looked up with fear. He saw her beautiful 
 eyes looking heavenward, and those smiles which 
 wreathe the lips of the young after death the sun 
 set of smiles. 
 
 "Bell! Bell! Bell!" 
 
 But she did not hear him. 
 
 The viewless spirits of flowers came through the 
 open window into the quiet room; and the winds, 
 
SOUL-LAKD. 
 
 63 
 
 which made the curtains tremble, gently lifted the 
 tresses of the sleeping angel. Then the chiming 
 of village bells came and went in pulses of soft 
 sound. How musical they were that morning ! 
 How the robins showered their silvery notes, like 
 rain-drops among the leaves! There was holy life 
 in everything the lilac-scented atmosphere, the 
 brooks, the grass, and the flowers that lay budding 
 on the bosom of delicious June ! And thus it was, 
 in the exquisite spring-time, that the hand of death 
 led little Bell into Soul-land. 
 
 One afternoon, the blinds were turned down : 
 not a ray of light stole through them, only the 
 spicy air. There was something solemn stalking 
 in the entries, and all through the house. It seemed 
 as if there was a corpse in every room. 
 
 The way the chairs were placed, the darkened 
 parlor, the faded flowers on the mantel-piece, and 
 the brooding silence said it said that Bell was 
 dead ! 
 
 Yes ! In the little parlor she lay, in her white 
 shroud. Bell? No; it was not Bell. It was only 
 the beautiful robe which her spirit in its flight 
 had cast aside ! 
 
 There was a moving of feet to and fro. Gradu- 
 
54 SOUL-LAND. 
 
 ally, the room became full of forms. The village 
 parson stood among them. His hair had the white 
 touch of age, and his heart knew the chastening 
 hand of God. " Exceeding peace" was written on 
 his meek face. He lifted up his soul on the arms 
 of prayer. He spoke of the dead, whose life had 
 been as pure as a new snow. He spoke cheer 
 fully and tenderly, and sometimes smiled, for his 
 
 " Faith was large in Time, 
 And that which shapes it to some perfect end." 
 
 He had drank at the fountain of God s word ; 
 his soul had been refreshed, and his were not the 
 lips to preach the doctrine of an endless wail. He 
 knew that there are many mansions in our Father s 
 house ; and he said that Bell was happier there 
 than here. He glanced back upon her infant days, 
 and ran along the various threads of her life, to 
 the moment death disentangled them from the world. 
 " This little one in her shroud," he said, " is an elo 
 quent sermon. She passed through the dark val 
 ley without fear ; and sits, like Mary, at the feet of 
 our Saviour." Of this life, he said : " It is but an 
 imperfect prelude to the next." Of death : lt It is 
 only a brief sleep : some sunny morning we shall 
 wake up with the child Bell, and find ourselves in 
 Heaven !" 
 
SOUL-LAND. 55 
 
 The coffin was closed, and the train passed through 
 the gravelled walk. 
 
 Then came that dull, heavy sound of earth fall 
 ing on the coffin-lid, which makes one s heart throb. 
 Did you ever hear it ? 
 
 When Bell had been a year in Heaven, a plain 
 head-stone was placed over Nanny. She lingered 
 only a little while after her darling. She folded 
 her arms and fell asleep one summer twilight, and 
 never again opened her kind old eyes on< this world. 
 Age had weakened her frame, and the parting of 
 soul and body was only the severing of a fragile 
 cord. 
 
 Mortimer did not remain long in the old house ; its 
 light and pleasantness had passed away. The little 
 stock of money which his father had left previous 
 to his last voyage, was exhausted ; he could earn 
 nothing in the village. His early dream of the 
 great city came over him again. He yearned for 
 its ceaseless excitement, its grandeur he never 
 thought of its misery, its sin and pollution. Through 
 the length of one July night he lay awake in bed, 
 while his eyes were like kaleidescopes, taking a 
 thousand arabesque forms and fancies. Toward 
 morning he fell asleep, having built some fall-down 
 
56 SOUL-LAND. 
 
 castles in the air. The next day he took a last, 
 lingering look at the old rooms ; a last ramble on 
 the sea-shore ; he sat an hour under the braided 
 branches of the cherry trees, gave a parting look 
 at the white caps of the sea, and turned his eyes 
 to the city in the dim distance the great city- 
 ocean, with no one to point out to him its sunken 
 reefs, its quicksands, and maelstroms. 
 
 Next to Bell s grave he placed a simple tablet 
 to the memory of his father. 
 
 " This sod does not enfold him," said Mortimer 
 to himself; "but it will be pleasant for me to think, 
 when *I am far away, that their names are near 
 together," 
 
 So he left them in the quiet churchyard at Ivy- 
 ton lejt.them sleeping among the thick musk-roses, 
 in the warm sunshine ; and the same berylline moss 
 was creeping over the two mounds. One headstone 
 said " LITTLE BELL," and the other: 
 
 SACRED 
 
 "TO THE IS/IEMORY 
 
 OP 
 
 OUE FATHER, 
 
 LOST AT SEA, 
 
 18. 
 
 
IV. 
 
The Almighty Dollar. 
 
 WASHINGTON IRYING. 
 
 The age is dull and mean. Men creep, 
 Not walk; with blood too pale and tame 
 To pay the debt they owe to shame ; 
 Buy cheap, sell dear ; eat, drink, and sleep 
 Down-pillowed, deaf to moaning want ; 
 Pay tithes for soul-insurance ; keep 
 Six days to Mammon, one to Cant. 
 
 J. G. WHITTIER. 
 
 Every one is as God made him, and oftentimes 
 A great deal worse. 
 
 MIGUEL DE CERYANTES. 
 
 
IV 
 
 A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY. 
 
 Down Town Messrs. Flint fy Snarle Tim, the Office Soy, 
 and the pale Book-Keeper The Escritoire The Purloined 
 Package Mr. Flint goes Home Midnight Miss^Daisy 
 Snark The Poor Author. 
 
 IN one of those thousand and one vein-like streets 
 which cross and recross the mercantile heart of 
 Gotham, is situated a red brick edifice, which, like 
 the beggar who solicits your charity in the Park, 
 has seen better days. 
 
 In the time of our Knickerbocker sires, it was 
 an aristocratic dwelling fronting on a fashionable 
 street, and "Jeems," in green livery, opened the 
 hall door. The street was a quiet, orderly street in 
 those days a certain air of conscious respectabi 
 lity hung about it. Sometimes a private cabriolet 
 rolled augustly along ; and of summer evenings the 
 
60 A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY. 
 
 city beaux, with extraordinary shoe-buckles, might 
 have been seen promenading the grass-fringed side 
 walks. To-day it is a miasmatic, miserable, muddy 
 thoroughfare. Your ears are startled by the " Ex- 
 tray rival of the Rabia," and the omnibuses dash 
 through the little confined street with a perfect mad 
 ness. Instead of the white-kided, be-ruffled gallants 
 of Eld, you meet a hurrying throng of pale, anx 
 ious faces, with tare, tret and speculation in their eyes. 
 
 It is a business street, for Mammon has banished 
 Fashion to the golden precincts of Fifth Avenue. 
 The green of Jeems livery is, like himself, invisi 
 ble. He has departed this life gone, like Hiawatha, 
 to the Land of the Hereafter to the land of spir 
 its, where we can conceive him to be in his ele 
 ment ; but he lias a " town residence" in an obscure 
 graveyard, with his name and " recommendation" 
 on a stone door-plate. His mundane superiors are 
 reclining beneath the shadow of St. Paul s steeple, 
 where they are regaled with some delectable music 
 if you would only think so) from the balcony of 
 (the Museum opposite, and have the combined ben 
 efit of Barnum s scenic-artist and the Drurnmond 
 light. 
 
 The massive door-plate, and highly polished, dis- 
 troted knocker, no longer grace the oaken panels of 
 number 85 ; but a republican sign over the fam- 
 
A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY. 61 
 
 ily-looking door-way tells you that " the. front room, 
 second floor," is occupied by Messrs. Flint & Snarle. 
 After passing up a flight of broad, uncarpeted stairs, 
 you again see the name of that respectable firm, 
 painted on a light of ground glass set in the office 
 door. Once on the other side of that threshold, 
 you breathe mercantile air. There have been so 
 many brain-trying interest calculations worked out 
 on those high desks, that the very atmosphere, fig 
 uratively speaking, is mathematical. 
 
 The sign should not read Flint & Snarle, for 
 Snarle has been dead six months, and it is not 
 pleasant to contemplate a name without an owner 
 it is not to every one, but Mr. Flint likes to read 
 the sign, and think that Snarle is dead. He was 
 the reve rse of Flint, and that his name should 
 have been Snarle at all is odd, for in life he was the 
 quintessence of quietness, and the oil of good na 
 ture. But Flint is well named ; he is chalcedony 
 at heart. Nobody says this, but everybody knows 
 it. Nell, the pretty match-girl, who sells her wares 
 in Wall-street, never approaches him, nor the news 
 boys ; and blind men, with sagacious, half-fed dogs, 
 steer clear of him by instinct. He doesn t tole 
 rate paupers, and Italian hand-organs with monkey 
 accompaniments not he. 
 
 The man who has not as much money as the 
 
62 A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY. 
 
 surviving senior of Flint & Snarle, is a dog in 
 Flint s distinguished estimation. His God is not 
 that divine Presence, whose thought 
 
 " Shaped the world, 
 And laid it in the sunbeams." 
 
 Flint s God is Gold. 
 
 "Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! 
 Bright and yellow, hard and cold, 
 Molten, graven, hammered and rolled ; 
 Heavy to get, and light to hold ; 
 Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold ; 
 Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled ; 
 Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old 
 To the very verge of the church-yard mould ; 
 Price of many a crime untold : 
 Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!" 
 
 Flint is about fifty-three years of age ; but if 
 you could forget his gray hair, and look only at 
 those small, piercing black eyes, you would hardly 
 think him forty. His black dress-coat is buttoned 
 around his somewhat attenuated form, and he wears 
 a stiff white cravat because it looks religious. In 
 this respect, and perhaps in others, you will find 
 Flint s prototype on every corner people who look 
 religious, if religion can be associated with the 
 aspect of an undertaker. 
 
 It is Monday morning, 
 
 
A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY. 63 
 
 Mr. Flint sits in his private office reading the 
 letters. There is a window cut in the wall, and 
 he glances through it now and then, eyeing the 
 book-keeper as if the poor careworn fellow were 
 making false entries. On a high consumptive-look 
 ing stool sits the office boy, filing away answered 
 letters and sundry bills paid. The stool seems so 
 high and the boy so small, that he at once sug 
 gests some one occupying a dangerous position at 
 a mast-head or on the golden ball of a church-stee 
 ple. For thus risking his life, he receives " thirty 
 dollars per year, and clothing." We like to have 
 forgotten that. The said clothing consists of one 
 white cravat full of hinges, and a dilapidated coat, 
 twelve sizes too large for him, his widowed mother 
 supplying the deficiency. 
 
 Save the monotonous ticking of a thick-set, croupy 
 clock, and the nervous scratching of pens, not a 
 sound is heard. 
 
 Mr. Flint in deep thought, with his thumbs lost 
 in the arm-holes of a white vest, paces up and 
 down his limited sanctum, just as a thoughtful- 
 eyed, velvet-mouthed leopard walks its confined 
 cage, only waiting for a chance to put its paws 
 on somebody. The stool on which the boy is sitting 
 is a rickety concern, and its creakings annoy Mr. 
 Flint, who comes out, and looks over the orphan s 
 
64 A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY. 
 
 shoulder. If his lynx eyes discover a document 
 incorrectly filed, he pinches the delinquent s ears, 
 till he (the orphan) is as red in the face as an 
 August sunset. Mr. Flint chuckles when he gets 
 back to his desk, and seems to enjoy it immensely, 
 for he drums out an exhilarating dead march with his 
 long, wiry fingers on the cover of the letter-book. 
 The pale book-keeper his hair and eyes are darker 
 than when we first saw him sitting with little Bell 
 at l( the round window" in the Old House con 
 tinues to write assiduously; and the orphan thinks 
 that he hears fire-bells, his ears ring so. 
 
 He s an unfortunate atom of humanity, that office- 
 boy. He was never young. He never passed through 
 the degrading cycles of infancy never had any 
 marbles or hoops : his limbs were never ignomin- 
 iously confined by those " triangular arrangements" 
 incidental to babyhood. At five, when other chil 
 dren are bumping their heads over steep stairs, he 
 smoked cinnamon segars, and was a precocious, 
 astute little villain at seven. For thirty-six months 
 he folded books for Harper & Brothers, and at 
 the advanced age of ten years three months, was 
 bound over to the tender mercies of Flint & Snarle 
 for " thirty dollars per year and clothing, (so th e 
 indentures read;) but as he is charged with all 
 the inkstands demolished during the term, and one 
 
A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY. 65 
 
 gross of imaginary lead pencils, he generally has 
 about twenty-five dollars to his credit on the 1st of 
 January, which Flint generously offers to keep for 
 him at four per cent, interest, and which offer the 
 ungrateful orphan " firmly but respectfully" declines. 
 
 "Mortimer!" cries Mr. Flint, in a quick, snarly 
 voice from the inner office. 
 
 The book-keeper lays down the pen which he 
 has just dipped in the ink, and disappears in the 
 little room. Mr. Flint is turning over the leaves 
 of the invoice book. 
 
 "In thirteen pages there are no less than two 
 blots and five erasures. You have grown careless 
 in your penmanship lately;" and Mr. Flint closes 
 the book with a report like that of a pocket-pistol, 
 and opens it again. One would suppose the office- 
 boy to be shot directly through the heart ; but he 
 survives, and is attacked with a wonderful fit of 
 industry. 
 
 " Do you write in your sleep ?" inquires Mr. flint, 
 with a quiet insolence. 
 
 Mortimer thinks how often he has toiled over 
 those same pages at hours when he should have 
 been sleeping hours taken from his life. But he 
 makes no reply. He only bites his lips, and lets his 
 eyes flash. Suddenly a thought strikes him, and, 
 bending over Mr. Flint s shoulder, as if to examine 
 
 4* 
 
66 A FEW SPECIMEMS OF HUMANITY, 
 
 more closely his careless chirography, he takes a 
 small key from an open drawer in the escritoire be 
 hind him, and drops it into his vest-pocket. After 
 receiving a petulant reprimand, Mortimer returns 
 to his desk ; and again that weary, weary pen 
 scratches over the paper. 
 
 After the bank deposit is made up, and Mr. Flint 
 looks over the bill-book, and startles the orphan 
 from a state of semi-somnolency, he goes on Change. 
 He is no sooner out, than Mortimer throws Tim a 
 bit of silver coin. 
 
 " Get some apples for yourself, Tim." 
 Tim (he s small of his age) slides down from the 
 high stool with agility, while his two eyes look like 
 interrogation points. He is wondering at this sud 
 den outbreak of munificence, for though " Mr. Mor 
 timer" always had a kind word for Tim, and tried 
 to extricate him from the web of mistakes which 
 Tim was forever spinning around himself, yet Tim 
 never knew him to come down with the " block tin" 
 before, as he eloquently expressed it; and he looks 
 at Mortimer all the time he is getting his cap, and 
 pauses a moment at the door to see if he doesn t 
 repent. 
 
 When Tim s feet cease sounding on the stairs, 
 Mortimer goes into the back office, and with the 
 key which he had taken from the drawer, unlocks 
 
A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY. 67 
 
 a small iron hand-safe. His trembling fingers turn 
 over package after package ; at last he finds one 
 which seems to be the object of his search. This 
 he hastily conceals in the bosom of his coat. After 
 carefully re-locking the safe, he approaches the 
 escritoire to return the purloined key, but to his dis 
 may he finds the drawer locked. The one above 
 it, however, is unfastened. Drawing this out, he 
 places the key in its right compartment. 
 
 Mortimer, in searching for the paper which he 
 has hidden in his bosom, had removed several others 
 from the safe; but in his nervousness he had 
 neglected to replace a small morocco case. He 
 discovers his negligence, and hears foot-falls on the 
 stairs at the same moment. There is no time to 
 re-open the chest : he wraps the case in his hand 
 kerchief, and resumes his place at the desk. 
 
 Tim returns munching the remains of a gigantic 
 apple, and bearing about him a convicting smell of 
 peanuts. Suddenly Mr. Flint enters, and Tim is 
 necessitated to swallow the core of his russet with 
 out that usual preparatory mastication which na 
 ture s kindly law suggests. Mr. Flint has made a 
 capital bargain on Change, and his face is lighted 
 up with a srnile, if fancy can coax such an expres 
 sion into one. It looks like a gas-light in an un 
 dertaker s window. 
 
68 A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY. 
 
 It is five o clock. Mr. Flint goes home to doze 
 over a diminutive glass of sherry. He holds it up 
 between his eyes and the light, smiling to see the 
 liquid jewels, and wishes that they were real rubies. 
 Flint ! they are red tears, and not jewels which 
 glisten in your glass, for you crushed the poor, and 
 took advantage of the unfortunate to buy this 
 pleasant blood which pulses in your brittle chalice ! 
 
 That night he thought of a pair of blue, innocent 
 eyes which once looked pleadingly in his of two 
 tiny arms that were once wound fondly around his 
 neck. Those eyes haunted him into the misty realm 
 of dreams, where myriads of little arms were 
 stretched out to him ; and he turned restlessly on 
 his pillow. Ah, Flint, there is an invisible and 
 powerful spirit in the heart of every man that will 
 speak. It whispers to the criminal in his cell ; and 
 the downy pillows and sumptuous drapery around 
 the couch of Wealth cannot keep it away at mid 
 night. 
 
 There is not a house but has its skeleton. There 
 is a ghastly one in Flint s. 
 
 The silvery lips in Trinity steeple chime the hour 
 of eleven ; St. Paul s catch it up, and hosts of bel- 
 frys toss the hour to and fro like a shuttle-cork. 
 Then the goblin bells hush themselves to sleep again 
 in their dizzy nests, murmuring, murmuring! and 
 
A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY. 69 
 
 the pen of the pale book-keeper keeps time with 
 the ticking of the office time-piece. 
 
 It is nearly twelve o clock when he reaches the 
 door of a common two-story house in Marion-street. 
 The door is opened before he can turn the bolt 
 with his night-key, and the whitest possible little 
 hand presses his. He draws it within his own, and 
 places his arm around the daintiest little waist that 
 ever submitted to the operation. Then the two 
 enter the front parlor, where the dim light falls on 
 Mortimer and a beautiful girl on the verge of 
 womanhood. She looks into his face, and his lips 
 touch a tress of chestnut hair which has fallen over 
 his shoulder. 
 
 "You are very pale. Have you been unwell to 
 day ?" 
 
 " No, Daisy," and he bends down and kisses her. 
 
 " Why do you persist in sitting up for me ? I 
 shall scold if you spoil your cheeks. Kiss me, 
 Daisy/ 
 
 The girl pouts, and declares she won t, as she 
 coquettishly twines her arms around his neck, and 
 Mortimer has such a kiss as all Flint s bank stock 
 could not buy him a pure, earnest kiss. He was 
 rich, poor in the world s eye, richer than Flint, with 
 his corpulent money bags, God pity him ! 
 
70 A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY. 
 
 They sit a long while without speaking. Morti 
 mer breaks the silence. 
 
 <{ We are very poor, Daisy." 
 
 "Yes, but happy." 
 
 " Sometimes. To-night I am not ; I am weary of 
 this daily toiling. The world is not a workshop 
 to wear out souls in. Man has perverted its use. 
 Life, and thought, and brain, are but crucibles to 
 smelt gold in. Nobleness is made the slave of 
 avarice, just as a pure stream is taught to turn a 
 mill-wheel and become foul and muddied. The rich 
 are scornful, and the poor sorrowful. O, Daisy, such 
 things should not be ! My heart beats when I think 
 how poorly you and your mother are living." 
 
 " O, how much we owe you, Mortimer ! you are 
 selling your life for us. From morning till night, 
 day after day, you have been our slave. Poor, 
 dear Mortimer, how can we thank you ? We can 
 only give you love and prayers. You will not let 
 me help you. Last night, when you found me 
 embroidering a collar, a bit of work which Mrs. 
 Potiphar had kindly given me, you pleasantly cut it 
 in pieces with your pen-knife, and then pawned your 
 gold pencil to pay for ruining Mrs. Potiphar s mus 
 lin too proud to have me work !" 
 
 l( Why will you pain me, darling ? I was com 
 plaining for others, not myself. I do not toil as 
 
A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY. 71 
 
 thousands do. I am impulsive and irascible, and do 
 not mean all I say. I am ungrateful ; my heart 
 should be full of gratitude to-night, for the cloud 
 which has hung over me the last six months has 
 shown its silver lining." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" cries Daisy. 
 * Do you know that you are an heiress ?" asks 
 Mortimer, gaily. 
 
 Daisy laughs at the idea, and mockingly says, 
 " Yes." 
 
 " An heiress to a good name, Daisy ! which is 
 better than purple, and linen, and fine gold." 
 
 Daisy looks mystified, but forbears -to question 
 him, for he complains of sleep. The lovers part at 
 the head of the stairs. Mortimer, on reaching his 
 room, draws a paper from his bosom ; he weeps 
 over it, reads it again and again ; then he holds it 
 in the flame of a candle. When the ashes have 
 fallen at his feet, he exclaims : 
 
 tf I have kept my promise, Harvey Snarle ! Peace 
 to your memory!" 
 
 From a writing-desk in a corner of the room he 
 takes a pile of manuscript, and weary as he is, adds 
 several pages to it. The dream of his boyhood 
 has grown with him that delightful dream of au 
 thorship ! How this will-o -the-wisp of the brain 
 entices one into mental fogs ! How it coaxes and 
 
72 A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY. 
 
 pets one, cheats and ruins one! And so that ap 
 palling pile of closely-written manuscript is Morti 
 mer s romance ? Wasted hours and wasted thought 
 who would buy or read it ? 
 
 A down-town clock strikes the hour of two so 
 gently, that it sounds like the tinkling of sheep- 
 bells coming through the misty twilight air from 
 the green meadows. With which felicitous simile 
 we will give our hero a little sleep, after having 
 kept him up two hours after midnight. 
 
 Slumber touches his eyelids gently ; but Daisy 
 lies awake for hours ; at last, falling into a trouble 
 sleep, she dreams that she is an heiress. 
 
 Oh, Daisy Sarle ! 
 
V. 
 
The litter cups of Death are mixed, 
 And we must drink and drink again. 
 
 E. H. STODDARD. 
 
V. 
 
 DAISY SNARLE. 
 
 Sunday Morning Harvey Snarle and Mortimer A Tale of 
 Sorrow The Snow-child Mortimer takes Daisy s hand 
 Snarle s death. 
 
 Six months previous to the commencement of 
 the last chapter, Mr. Harvey Snarle lay dying, 
 slowly, in a front room of the little house in Marion- 
 street. 
 
 It was Sunday morning. 
 
 The church bells were ringing speaking with 
 musical lips to "ye goode folk," and chiming a 
 sermon to the pomp and pride of the city. As 
 Mortimer sat by the window, the houses opposite 
 melted before his vision ; and again he saw the 
 old homestead buried in a world of leaves heard 
 the lapping of the sea, and a pleasant chime of 
 bells from the humble church at Ivy town. And 
 
76 DAISY SNARLE. 
 
 more beautiful than all, was a child with clouds 
 of golden hair, wandering up and down the sea 
 shore. 
 
 11 Mortimer ?" said the sick man. 
 
 Then the dream melted, and the common-looking 
 brick buildings came back again. 
 
 " The doctor thought I could- not live ?" said 
 the man, inquiringly. 
 
 " He thought there was little hope," replied Mor 
 timer. " But doctors are not fortune-tellers," he 
 added, cheerfully. 
 
 " I feel that he is right little hope. Where is 
 Daisy ?" 
 
 " She has lain down for a moment. Shall I call 
 her ?" 
 
 " Wearied ! Poor angel ; she watched me last 
 night. I did not sleep much. I closed my eyes, 
 and she smiled to think that I was slumbering 
 quietly. No ; do not call her." 
 
 After a pause, the sick man said : 
 
 " Wet my lips, I have something to tell you." 
 
 Mortimer moistened his feverish lips, and sat on 
 the bed-side. 
 
 " It comes over me," said the consumptive. 
 
 "What? That pain?" 
 
 " No ; my life. There is something drearier than 
 death in the world." 
 
DAISY SNARLE. 77 
 
 " Sometimes life," thought Mortimer, half aloud 
 
 The sick man looked at him. 
 
 " Why did you say that ?" 
 
 " I thought it. Life is a bitter gift sometimes. An 
 ambition or a passion possess us, flatters and mocks 
 us. Death is not so dreary a thing as life then." 
 
 "He felt that." 
 
 " Who ?" 
 
 " The devil." 
 
 " His mind is wandering," murmured Mortimer 
 " wandering." 
 
 "It isn t, said Snarle, slowly. " A passion, a love, 
 made Flint s life bitter." 
 
 " Flint ! Did he ever love anything but gold ?" 
 
 " Yes ; but it was long ago ! We are cousins. We 
 were schoolmates and friends, sharing our boyish 
 sports and troubles with that confiding friendship 
 which leaves us in our teens. We lived together. 
 I can see the old white frame house at Hampton 
 Falls !" and the man passed his emaciated hand 
 over his eyes, as if to wipe out some unpleasant 
 picture. "A niece of my father s came to spend a 
 winter with us. Young men s thoughts run to love. 
 I could but love her, she was so beautiful and good ; 
 and while she did a thousand kind things to win my 
 affection, she took a strange aversion to my cousin 
 Flint, who grew rude and impetuous. We were 
 
78 DAISY SNARLE. 
 
 married. But long before that, Flint packed up his 
 little trunk, and, without a word of farewell, left us 
 one night for a neighboring city. Years went by, 
 and from time to time tidings reached us of his 
 prosperity and growing wealth. We were proud 
 of his industry, and thought of him kindly. We, 
 too, were prospering. But the tide of our fortune 
 changed. My father s affairs and mine became com 
 plicated. He died, and the farm was sold. One 
 day I stood at Flint s office door, and asked for 
 employment. Evil day ! better for me if I had 
 toiled in the fields from morning till night, wringing 
 a reluctant livelihood from the earth, which is even 
 more human than Flint. Wet my lips, boy, and 
 come near to me, that I may tell you how I be 
 came his slave ; softly, so the air may not hear me." 
 
 Mortimer drew nearer to him. 
 
 " It was a hard winter for the poor. My darling 
 wife was suffering from the mere want of proper 
 medicines and food. I asked Flint for a little more 
 than the pitiable salary which he allowed me. He 
 smiled, and said that I was extravagant. We had 
 not clothes enough to shield us from the cold ! I 
 told him that my wife was sick ; and he replied, 
 bitterly, poor men should not have wives. Wet 
 my lips again. Can you love me, boy, after what I 
 shall tell you ? I forged a check for a trivial 
 
DAISY SNARLE. 79 
 
 amount !" and Snarle s voice sunk to a hoarse whis 
 per. " Can you love me ?" 
 
 " Can I love you ?" cried Mortimer. He could not 
 see the sick man for his tears. "Can I forget all 
 your kindness. Years ago, when I was a mere child, 
 toiling early and late in Flint s office, did you not 
 take me to your home, a poor hope-broken boy ? 
 Have I not grown up with Daisy, like your own 
 child ? Not love you ?" 
 
 Mortimer laid his face on the same pillow with 
 the sick man s. 
 
 11 I was not sent to prison," continued Snarle, 
 with a shudder ; " only my own mind, and soul, 
 and actions were prisoners. I was Flint s ! Flint 
 owned me ! That little paper which he guards so 
 carefully is the title-deed. O, Mortimer, as you 
 hold my memory dear, destroy that paper tear it, 
 burn it, trample it out of the world ! " 
 
 With these words Snarle sank back upon the 
 pillow, from which he had half risen. He went on 
 speaking in a lower tone : 
 
 " I have suffered so much that I am sure God 
 will forgive me. Never let the world, know never 
 let my wife and Daisy know that I was a " 
 
 " O, I will promise you, dear father," cried Mor 
 timer, before he could finish the dreadful word. "I 
 will destroy the paper, though twenty Flints guarded 
 
80 DAISY SNARLE. 
 
 it. The man who steals a loaf of bread for famish 
 ing lips, is not such a criminal in God s sight as he 
 who steals a million times its value by law to feed 
 his avarice. Think no more of it. The angel who 
 records in his book, has written a hundred good deeds 
 over that unfortunate one. The world s frown is not 
 God s frown, and His heart is open when man s is 
 barred with unforgiveness." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you," said Snarle, brightening 
 up a little. " Your words give me comfort. I have 
 not much more to tell. Flint took me into the firm, 
 but I was the same slave. I worked, and worked, 
 and the reapings were his. You have seen it you 
 know it. And this was his revenge. His wounded 
 love and pride have wrecked themselves on me. He 
 has never crossed the threshold of our door never 
 laid his eyes on my wife since the time when we 
 were thoughtless boys together. O, how cruel he 
 has been to me ! Evening after evening, in mid 
 winter, he has made me bring the last editions of 
 the Express to his house, and never asked me in !" 
 
 This was said with such a ludicrous expression, 
 that Mortimer would have laughed if it had been 
 anybody but poor Snarle. Exhausted with talking, 
 the sick man sank into a quiet slumber. 
 
 Mortimer sat by his bed-side for an hour, watch 
 ing the change of expressions in the sleeper s face 
 
DAISY SNARLE. 81 
 
 tne shadow of his dreams coming and going ! 
 Then his head drooped upon his bosom, and he 
 slept so soundly that he did not know that Daisy 
 came in the room, and stood beside him, looking 
 in his face with her fond, quiet eyes. 
 
 When he awoke, one long dark shadow from the 
 houses opposite slanted into the apartment. 
 
 Snarle was looking at him. 
 
 u I have been asleep," said Snarle, " and have had 
 such pleasant thoughts that it is painful to find my 
 self in this poor little world again. Ah, me, what 
 will wife and Daisy do in it all alone?" 
 
 " Not alone," said Mortimer. " I will watch over 
 them love them." Then, after a pause : " Father, 
 I love Daisy I would make her my wife." 
 
 " Ah, 1 wished that ; but I did not think it ;" and 
 Snarle paused a moment. " Have you told Daisy 
 so?" 
 
 " Yes but " 
 
 " Well," said Snarle, waiting. 
 
 "But she does not love me; and that is why I 
 said love would make life bitter." 
 
 " Perhaps she does." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " What did Daisy say ?" 
 
 "She said there were clouds in the morning of 
 her life (these were her own words) which had 
 
 4 
 
82 DAISY SNARLE. 
 
 no sunshine in them. Then she called me brother 
 and kissed me, and told me that I must never think 
 of her as my wife. She would be my sister always. 
 And when I speak to her of this, she turns away or 
 hums a pleasant air to mock me." 
 
 " She is not our child, Mortimer." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " No, I am not wandering," said Snarle, in reply 
 to Mortimer s look. " She is not our child. We 
 adopted her under strange circumstances. I have 
 not told you this before. Daisy did not wish me to ; 
 but it is right that you should know it now. Sit 
 nearer to me." 
 
 Mortimer obeyed mechanically. 
 
 " One stormy night we were sitting, my wife and 
 I, in the room below. I remember as if it were 
 yesterday, how the wind slammed the window- 
 blinds, and blew out the street-lamps. It was just 
 a year ago that night we lost our little Maye, and 
 we were very sad. We sat in silence, while without 
 the storm increased. The hail and snow dashed 
 against the window-panes, and down the chimney. 
 Every now and then the wind lulled, and everything 
 was still." 
 
 Heaven knows why Mr. Snarle ceased speaking 
 just then ; but he did, and seemed lost in reverie. 
 
 " What was I saying ?" 
 
DAISY SN ARLE. 
 
 " You were speaking of the storm." 
 Yes, yes. It was in one of those pauses of 
 the wind that we heard a low sob under our win 
 dows. We did not heed it at first, for sometimes 
 a storm moans like a human voice. It came again 
 so distinctly as to leave no doubt. I opened the 
 hall-door, and groped about in the snow. When I 
 returned to the sitting-room, I held little Daisy in 
 my arms. She was no larger than our Maye who 
 died our little three-year-old. The child was half 
 frozen, and nothing but a coarse cloak thrown over 
 her night-dress, had saved her from perishing. I 
 reported the circumstance at the police-station, but 
 such things were of too common occurrence to ex 
 cite much interest. Weeks passed, and then months, 
 and no one answered the advertisements. At last 
 we had learned to love the child so dearly, that 
 we dreaded the thought of parting with it. I asked 
 and obtained permission to adopt the pet, and so 
 Daisy became ours. She is very proud, and the 
 mystery of her birth troubles her ; and this " 
 
 Before Snarle could finish the sentence, Daisy 
 herself opened the room door, and came tripping 
 up to the bed-side. 
 
 Mortimer took her hand very quietly. 
 
 " Daisy," he said, " 1 love you." 
 
 Daisy hid her face in the pillow. 
 
84 DAISY SNARLE. 
 
 " He has told me everything, and I love you, 
 Daisy !" 
 
 Daisy looked up with the tears and sunshine of 
 April in her eyes. 
 
 " Do you love me ?" he asked. 
 
 The girl was silent for a moment, then a sweet 
 little " yes" budded on her lips. 
 
 Then Mortimer kissed Daisy, and poor Snarle 
 died happy ; for that evening his life-stream ebbed 
 with the tide, and mingled with that ocean which is 
 forever and forever. 
 
 REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 
 
VI. 
 
A lone ship sailing on the sea : 
 
 Before the north twas driven like a cloud; 
 
 High on the poop a man sat mournfully : 
 
 The wind was whistling through mast and shroud, 
 
 And to the whistling wind thus did he sing aloud. 
 
 SMITH S "BARBARA." 
 
VI. 
 
 THE PHANTOM AT SEA. 
 
 A Storm in the Tropics The Lone Ship The Man at 
 the Wheel How he sang strange Songs The Appari 
 tionThe Drifting Bark. 
 
 THE blood-red sun had gone down into the 
 Atlantic. Faint purple streaks streamed up the 
 western horizon, like the fingers of some great 
 shadowy hand clutching at the world. 
 
 Huge masses of dark, agate- looking clouds were 
 gathering in the zenith, and the heavy, close at 
 mosphere told the coming of a storm. Now and 
 then the snaky lightning darted across the heavens 
 and coiled itself away in a cloud. 
 
 A lone ship stood almost motionless in the twi 
 light. 
 
88 THE PHANTOM AT SKA. 
 
 The sails were close-reefed. Here and there oo 
 the forecastle were groups of lazy-looking seamen ; 
 and a man walked the quarter-deck, glancing anx 
 iously aloft. The sea was as smooth as a mirror, 
 and that dreadful stillness was in the air which so 
 often preludes a terrific storm in the tropics. A 
 rumbling was heard in the sky like the sound of 
 distant artillery, or heavy bodies of water falling 
 from immense heights. 
 
 Then the surface of the sea was broken by mimic 
 waves tipped with froth, and the vast expanse seemed 
 like a prairie in a snow fall. 
 
 The lightning became more frequent and vivid, 
 and the thunder seemed breaking on the very top 
 masts of the vessel. Then the starless night sunk 
 down on the ocean, and the sea raved in the gath 
 ering darkness. The storm was at its height : the 
 wind, 
 
 " Through unseen sluices of the air," 
 
 tore the shrouds to strings, and bent the dizzy, ta 
 pering masts till they threatened to snap. But the 
 bark bore bravely through it, while the huge waves 
 seemed bearing her down to those coral labyrinths, 
 where nothing goes 
 
 " But doth suffer a sea-change 
 Into something rich and strange." 
 
THE PHANTOM AT SEA. 89 
 
 The thunder sent forth peal after peal, and ; the 
 heaven was like i( a looming bastion fringed with 
 fire." On through the slanting rain sped the ship, 
 creaking and groaning, with its ribs warped and 
 its great oaken spine trembling. The sailors on 
 deck clung to the bulwarks ; and below not a soul 
 could sleep, for the thunder and the creaking of 
 cordage filled their ears. 
 
 At midnight the storm abated ; but the sea still 
 ran dangerously high, and the wind sobbed through 
 the rigging mournfully. The heaven was spangled 
 with tremulous stars, and at the horizon the clouds 
 hung down in gossamer folds God s robe trailing in 
 the sea ! 
 
 Toward morning the waves grew suddenly calm, 
 as if they had again heard that voice which of old 
 said, " Peace, be still !" There was no one above 
 decks, save the man at the wheel, who ever and 
 anon muttered to himself, or hummed bits of poetry. 
 He was a man in the mellow of life, in the Indian 
 summer of manhood, which comes a little while 
 before one falls " into the sere and yellow leaf." 
 Once he must have been eminently handsome ; but 
 there were furrows on his intellectual forehead not 
 traced by time s fingers. His eyes were peculiarly 
 wild and restless. 
 
 The slightest tinge of red fringed the East, and 
 4* 
 
90 THE PHANTOM AT SEA. 
 
 as the man watched it grow deeper and deeper, he 
 sang snatches of those odd sea-songs which Shaks- 
 peare scatters through his plays : 
 
 " The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I, 
 
 The gunner and his mate, 
 Loved Mall, Meg, and Marian and Margary, 
 
 But none of us cared for Kate. 
 For she had a tongue with a twang, 
 Would cry to a sailor, go hang ! 
 
 She loved not the savor of tar or of pitch, 
 Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang !" 
 
 Then his sonorous voice rang out these quaint 
 words to the night : 
 
 " Full fathom five thy father lies : 
 
 Of his bones are coral made : 
 Those are pearls that were his eyes : 
 
 Nothing of him that doth fade" 
 
 He abruptly broke off, and commenced : 
 
 " Break, break, break 
 
 On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
 And I would that my tongue could utter 
 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 O, well for the fisherman s boy, 
 That* he shouts with his sister at play ! 
 
 O, well for the sailor lad, 
 
 That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 
 
THE PHANTOM AT SEA 91 
 
 And the stately ships go on, 
 
 To the haven under the hill ; 
 But oh, for the touch of. a vanished hand, 
 
 And the sound of a voice that is still ! 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
 
 Will never come back to me." 
 
 Suddenly he paused, while a paleness like death 
 overspread his face ; the spokes of the wheel slipped 
 from his hold, and he called for help ; but the wind 
 went moaning through the shrouds, and drowned 
 his voice. The sea moaned and the ship drifted 
 with the wind. 
 
 " It comes again!" he cried; "the graveyard face ! 
 Go! I cannot bear those sad, reproachful eyes 
 those arms outstretched, asking mercy ! Send foul 
 fiends to torture me, and make my dreams hideous 
 nightmares, but not this beautiful form to mock me 
 with its purity, and kill me with its mild reproach. 
 It has gone. But it will come again ! It steals on 
 me in the awful hours of night, when the air seems 
 supernatural, and the mind is accessible to fear. It 
 stood by my hammock last night ; my conscious 
 soul looked through my closed eyelids, and sleep 
 felt its dreadful presence. If it comes again I will 
 throw myself into the sea ! Hush !" he whispered, 
 
92 THE PHANTOM AT SEA. 
 
 " it stands by the cabin door, so pale ! so pale ! 
 Come not near me, pensive ghost. Give me help, 
 somebody ! help ! help !" 
 
 He sunk down by the wheel. 
 
 The stars, at the approach of morning, had grown 
 as white as pond-lilies, and the wind had died away ; 
 but the same moan came up from the sea. On in 
 the morning twilight drifted the ship for an hour, 
 without a helmsman, save that unseen hand which 
 guides all things which balances with equal love 
 and tenderness a dew-drop or a world. 
 
VII. 
 

 I was not always a man of woe. 
 
 WALTER SCOTT. 
 
VII. 
 
 IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN. 
 
 Mr. Flint sips vino d oro The Stranger The Letter Mr. 
 Flint Outwitted Mr. Flint s Photograph The Madman s 
 Story The wrecked Soul How Mr. Flint is troubled by 
 his Conscience, and dreams of a Pair of Eyes. 
 
 THE same night on which Mortimer was writ 
 ing in the books of Flint & Snarle, Mr. Flint sat 
 in the library of his bachelor home, sipping a glass 
 of vino d oro ; and as the bells of Trinity Church 
 fell faintly on his ear, he drew a massive gold 
 watch from his fob, and, patting it complacently 
 on the back, scrutinized its face as if he would 
 look it out of countenance. Then he yawned a 
 couple of times and thought of bed. 
 
 " There s a gintleman without, sur," said Michel, 
 putting his comical head in at the library door, 
 
96 IN WHICH THEKE IS A MADMAN. 
 
 tl there s a gintleman without, sur," and he empha 
 sized the gintleman. 
 
 " What sort of a person, Michel ?" 
 
 (l A very quare one indade. Is Mr. Flint in ? 
 sez he. He is sur, sez 1. I want to see him, 7 
 sez he. Your kard, sur/ sez I. He stared at me 
 a minit, and laughed. Then, sez he, without the least 
 riverence for your worship, Give this to owld Flint? 
 And Michel, exploding with laughter, handed Flint 
 a knave of clubs very much soiled. 
 
 " Michel !" said Mr. Flint, drawing himself up to 
 his full altitude, kick him down the steps !" 
 
 " Thanks !" said a voice directly behind Michel, 
 who had retreated to the doorway. The voice was 
 so near and unexpected that Michel s crisp hair 
 stood on end with fright. 
 
 The door was thrown wide open, and a fine 
 looking man, with the bearing of a sailor, stood 
 between them. Mr. Flint turned as white as his 
 immaculate shirt-bosom ; and Michel, whose love 
 of fun had got the better of his scare, regarded 
 the intruder with a quizzical, inquiring air, pecu 
 liarly Irish. 
 
 "Michel," said Mr. Flint, "you may go." 
 
 That gentleman, not expecting such an order, 
 hesitated. 
 
 "Yes, sur." 
 
 " Michel/ said the stranger, "your master speaks 
 to you." 
 
IN WHICH THEEE IS A MADMAN. 97 
 
 Sure I heard him, sur." 
 
 Michel left the room and carefully closed the 
 door after him ; but Flint, who knew his inquir 
 ing proclivities, opened it suddenly, and found 
 Michel on all fours with his ear to the key-hole. 
 The door was opened so unexpectedly that the 
 listener did not discover the fact for the space of 
 ten seconds. When he looked up and beheld his 
 master, the intense expression of his face was su 
 perbly ludicrous. To say that he shot to the sub 
 terranean regions of the kitchen like a flash of 
 lightning, does not border on fiction. 
 
 The man laughed it was a low, peculiar laugh, 
 sadder than some men s tears. 
 
 "Flint!" 
 
 " Well. 1 
 
 Are you glad to see me ?" and the man re 
 peated his laugh. 
 
 lt No : you are a devil ! 
 
 " I have been away three years, as I promised you." 
 
 "Well, what do you want?" 
 
 " Money." 
 
 " Have I ever seen you when you did not ? " 
 
 No, Flint, you never did. But you saw me 
 once when I had an unstained soul when I could 
 have looked up to Heaven and said, I am poor, 
 Father, but I am honest. Have you enough 
 
98 IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN. 
 
 money to pay for a lost soul? Oh Flint, I am a 
 wrecked man ! If it had only been murder if I 
 had killed a man in the heat of passion but a 
 poor innocent babe in the cold snow ! The child ! 
 . the little babe ! Ah, Flint, I never see the white 
 snow coming down but I think of it. Those eyes 
 are always with me. They follow me out to sea. 
 They haunt me in the long watches. One night, 
 when a storm had torn our rigging to tatters, and 
 we heard the breakers on the lee-shore, I saw 
 her standing by the binnacle light, and, so help 
 me Heaven ! she had grown to be a woman. I faint 
 ed at the wheel. You heard of the shipwreck. 
 How could a ship keep clear of the rocks and the 
 helmsman in a trance ? Forty souls went down, 
 down! Hist! who said that? Not I. No, not I! 
 I am a maniac !" 
 
 " Don t go on that way," pleaded Snarle, giv 
 ing uneasy looks toward the door, which he re 
 gretted having locked. 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 "It is not pleasant." 
 
 "What isn t?" 
 
 " Your eyes your words. What can I do for 
 you ?" 
 
 The man s excitement lulled for a moment. He 
 replied, carelessly : 
 
IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN. 99 
 
 "I am not a chameleon; I cannot live on air; 
 I can earn no money. The elements are against 
 
 me storms and shipwrecks follow me I have 
 
 not found him yet," he said, abruptly. 
 "Who?" 
 "My boy." 
 
 Flint turned aside his head, and laughed quietly. 
 " I am tired of searching for him," said the man, 
 sorrowfully. "I am not going to sea any more." 
 After a pause "I wish to live among the fisher 
 men off Nantucket. You ask me what I want?" 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I want two or three hundred dollars to fit up 
 a fishing-smack. Give me this, and I will not trouble 
 you again. God knows I don t want to look on 
 your face !" 
 
 "And the letter will you give me the letter?" 
 " Yes ; when I take the money." 
 The man drew from his bosom several letters, 
 and selected one more worn and crumpled than 
 the rest. 
 
 Flint s eyes fed upon it. 
 
 "Of course," said Flint, "I have not such an 
 amount in the house. I have a hundred dollars 
 up stairs, and will give you a check for the remain 
 der. Will that do?"- 
 
 " No and yes ; but get the money, and I ll see." 
 Flint left him alone. From a safe in his bed- 
 
100 IN WHICH THEEB IS A MADMAN. 
 
 chamber he took a small bag of gold, and caressed 
 it for a moment very much as one s grandmother 
 would a pet cat; then he filled up a check, and 
 called Michel. 
 
 "Run to the police station, Michel, and tell Cap 
 tain L. to send me three or four men." 
 
 Michel shot down stairs, and his master followed 
 him leisurely, patting the gold-bag lovingly at every 
 other step. 
 
 "Does he think," said Flint s visitor to himself, 
 as the library door closed " can he think I would 
 part with this paper ? He, so full of worldly shrewd 
 ness, so simple ?" 
 
 After awhile the door opened. 
 
 "There!" gasped Flint, placing the bag on the 
 table before the man; "the letter! the letter!" 
 
 The stranger carelessly threw a rumpled paper 
 toward Flint, who grasped it convulsively. His 
 hand touched a bell-rope, and before the bell had 
 ceased tinkling, a heavy measured tramp came 
 through the entry. Four policemen entered the room 
 in single file, with Michel behind them making com 
 ical efforts to keep step. 
 
 " Arrest him ! cried Flint, hoarse with passion and 
 triumph, " he has extorted money from me!" 
 
 " Flint," said the man, walking toward him, " you 
 know that s a lie !" 
 
IN" WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN. 101 
 
 Mr. Flint retreated behind the policeman. 
 
 " This person," he cried, " is a stranger to me ; he 
 forced his way into my house and has threatened my 
 life. Arrest him quickly, for he is no doubt armed!" 
 
 * Gentlemen," said the strangsr, turning to the offi 
 cers, " Mr. Flint, I fear, has given you useless trouble. 
 Michel, more glasses !" 
 
 At this, that astonished individual went off like a 
 rocket. 
 
 " For the love you bear your good name," Mr. 
 Flint, he continued, "look at the paper which you 
 so innocently put in your pocket." 
 
 An idea struck Flint, which caused him to turn 
 pale. He tore open the letter ; but it was not the 
 one for which he would have given half his fortune. 
 Oh ! sagacious, wily, clear-sighted Mr. Flint ! 
 
 " You had better tell these gentlemen that you 
 have made a mistake, Flint. But, before they go, 
 they must have a glass of wine." 
 
 Michel had failed to appear with the extra glasses; 
 but the want of them was elegantly supplied by 
 three silver goblets which stood on the beau/ait. 
 And poor, collapsed Flint ! he could only bid the 
 officers go, with a wave of his hand. 
 
 They were alone. 
 
 The sailor, with a scornful curl in his lip, stood by 
 the chair of the merchant, whose dejected counte- 
 
102 IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN. 
 
 nance, taken in connection with his white cravat, 
 was delightfully comical. 
 
 "Flint," commenced the man, "your verdancy is 
 refreshing. Your sweet and child-like simplicity is 
 like a draught of your old wine it s rare, it s 
 rare." 
 
 If anything touched Flint, it was sarcasm. He 
 stood in dread of ridicule, as most men do whose 
 foibles and vices deserve lashing. 
 
 " Edward Walters !" he cried, springing to his feet 
 " you have outwitted me. Well, you are a knave ; it 
 is your pride to be one. Your companions will 
 shout to-night, in some obscure den of this city, 
 as you tell them of your ingenuity, and you will be a 
 hero among " 
 
 " Stop, John Flint ! For sixteen years to-night 
 my life has been as pure as a child s. The vices of 
 passion and avarice have not touched me. I have 
 borne a sorrow in my heart which shrunk instinc 
 tively from sin. During these years I have been 
 poor, very poor." The man paused. " There is a 
 link lost somewhere in my life was I an age in a 
 madhouse ? Let it go. I have loved my fellow- 
 man ; I have lingered at the hammock of a sick 
 mess-mate, and closed his eyes kindly when, he died ; 
 I have spoken words of cheer when my heart was 
 bitterness. I do not say this boastfully, for God s 
 
IN WHICH THEKE IS A MADMAN. 103 
 
 eyes are upon us all. I have done these things to 
 atone for the one great sin of my life, which has 
 stalked through memory like a plague. John Flint, I 
 have had the misfortune to know you for twenty 
 years, and during that time you never have, to my 
 knowledge, performed a single act worthy of being 
 remembered. You have a narrow, malicious mind ; 
 you have been tyrannical when you should have 
 been generous ; you have been the devil s emissary 
 under the cant of religion. You call Jesus master, 
 but you crucify him daily ! There is your photo 
 graph, John Flint !" 
 
 " You flatter me," remarked that personage, sar 
 castically; "but go on." 
 
 " It is seldom that a rich man has the truth spoken 
 to him plainly the poor man hears it often enough. 
 Consider yourself favored. You have called me a 
 knave. I will draw some pictures, and I wish you to 
 look at them : 
 
 " Many years ago, a seafaring man who had just 
 lost his ship in which his little fortune had been in 
 vested, returned to this city sick at heart, and weak 
 from a wound which he had received in the wreck. 
 He had battled many a year against misfortune, and 
 his utmost exertions had barely found bread for his 
 children. He owed money to a heartless and ex 
 acting man. He stood before his creditor and said, 
 
104 IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN. 
 
 I am beggared, but I will work for you. The mer 
 chant replied, * Come to my house to-night, and I will 
 find means by which this debt can be liquidated. 
 The sailor expected reproaohes and hard words ; so 
 he was surprised at the softness of this speech, and 
 his heart was full of gratitude. 
 
 " That night he sat in the parlor of the merchant, 
 who plied him with rare wines, until his mind went 
 from him. Then he made a proposal to the sailor, 
 who, if he had had his senses, would have felled him 
 to the floor. The merchant had been appointed 
 guardian to a motherless babe, which his brother, 
 dying, begged him to love and educate. His ship on 
 the sea, and the bales of merchandize in his ware 
 houses, were not enough to feed his hungry avarice. 
 He needs must have the little inheritance of the babe. 
 Well, while he was speaking, making artful pictures 
 in the eyes of his drugged dupe, the child ran into 
 the room, and twined her arms around the neck of 
 him who should have worshiped her. But he coldly 
 unclasped the little hands and pushed her from him. 
 John Flint, when that man, on Judgment Day, shall 
 cringe before the throne of God, the Evil Angel will 
 trample him down !" 
 
 Flint was as white as the marble mantel-piece on 
 which he leaned. Edward Walters stood a short dis 
 tance in front of him ; his eyes were fixed, and he 
 spoke like one who sees what he is describing. 
 
IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN. 105 
 
 " Then the man the merchant wrapped the child 
 in the sailor s cloak. In a few minutes the sailor 
 stood in the stormy street, with a frightened little 
 heart throbbing against his own. The cutting sleet 
 and snow beat in his face, and the wine made a veil 
 before his eyes. It was a fearful night. Not a 
 human form was to be seen ; the street lamps were 
 blown out, and the poor mariner drifted to and fro 
 like a deserted ship. He had become mad ; the 
 strange events had eaten into his brain. He wrapped 
 the babe closer in his cloak, and placed her in a door 
 way, out of the cold. He wandered from street to 
 street, then he sank down in the snow. When his 
 senses came to him he had been in a madhouse God, 
 how many years ! Was it ten ? The June wind broke 
 through the barred window ; it touched his fore 
 head, and it was like a human hand rousing one from 
 a dreamless sleep. One evening soon after, he stood 
 before the merchant, who was sipping his choice 
 cordials, as you were to-night, Flint, and the sailor 
 asked for the child. The man replied : The child is 
 dead ; you left it in the cold, and it died, or you 
 threw it into the river. I saw a body at the dead- 
 house, weeks afterward, which looked like the child. 
 You committed murder ; it was your own act. Sup 
 pose you were to be hung for it ! Have I a good 
 memory, John Flint?" 
 
 5 
 
106 IN WHICH THERE IS A MA1>MAN. 
 
 And the man turned his wild eyes on Mr. Flint, 
 who gave no other evidence of not being a statue 
 than a slight tremor of his upper lip. 
 
 " What did the madman say to the merchant ? 
 He took the cool, calculating villain by the throat, 
 and cried, Write me out, in your round, clerkly 
 hand, a fall avowal of your guilt in this matter, 
 or I ll strangle you ! The merchant knew he would, 
 so he wrote this document with trembling fingers, 
 and he signed it JOHN FLINT! 
 
 Then the sailor drew from his pocket an old 
 stained letter, and held it up to the light. He 
 looked at it sadly, and then his mind seemed to 
 wander off through a gloomy mist of memories, for 
 his eyes grew gentle and dreamy. 
 
 He spoke softly, almost tenderly : 
 
 " John Flint, you never saw me weep. Look at 
 me, then. I am thinking of an old country-house 
 which stood in a cluster of trees near a sea-shore. 
 It once held everything that was dear to me my 
 children. Three years ago I stood with my hand 
 on the gate, and looked into the little garden. It 
 had gone to waste ; the wind had beaten down the 
 flower frames; the honeysuckle vines were running 
 wild, and there was the moss of ten years growth 
 on the broken chimney-pots. The rain had washed 
 the paint off the house, and the windows were 
 rded up. There was something in the ruin and 
 
IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN. 107 
 
 stillness of the place which spoke to me. Twi 
 light added a gloomy background to the picture. 
 I broke the rusty fastenings of a side door, and 
 entered the deserted building. It may have been 
 fancy, but I saw two forms wandering from room 
 to room, and through the darkened entries; now 
 they would pause, as if listening for footsteps, then 
 they would move on again, sorrowfully, sorrow 
 fully. In the bedroom over the front door, I saw 
 the shadow of a little coffin ! She used to sleep 
 there. Where were my children ? Where was 
 trustful old Nanny, that she did not come to me ? 
 The house was full of strange shadows, and I fled 
 from it. 1 did not dare go to the village hard by. 
 There were too many who might have known me. 
 1 sat down in the quiet churchyard where my wife 
 had slept many a long year. I sat by a little mound 
 on which a wreath of flowers had been laid noth 
 ing remained of them but stems and the rotting 
 string that had bound them. It had a peaceful 
 look, the grave, and I wished that I had died when 
 my mound would not have been made longer than 
 the one at my side. What did the simple head 
 stone say? It said: LITTLE BELL ! that was all!" 
 
 The sailor grasped Flint s arm. 
 
 "Only little Bell! that was all. But it was all 
 the world to me ! What a tale it told ! What a 
 
108 IN WHICH THEKE IS A MADMAN. 
 
 tale of weary waiting, and despair, and death ! Did 
 her little heart wait for me! Did she sicken and 
 die when I did not come to her ? Aye, it said all 
 this and more. And my boy was he living? was 
 he searching for me ? No, not searching, for close 
 by my child s grave, a white stone had these words 
 carved on it :" and the man repeated them slowly, 
 
 SACRED 
 
 TO THE MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 OUR FATHER, 
 
 LOST AT SEA. 
 
 Not lost at sea/ he said, almost inaudibly, 
 "but lost! Ah, I could have died in that quiet 
 place, with the moonlight on me ! But I was startled 
 from my grief by the shouts of some men on the 
 roadside, and I turned and fled. Have you looked 
 at the picture, John Flint ?" 
 
 He spoke so mournfully, that Flint raised his lit 
 tle, sharp eyes, which all this time had been fixed 
 on the carpet; but he made no reply. 
 
 " I ll have none of your gold, man. I was weak 
 to want it. Give it to the poor. The shining round 
 pieces may fall like sunlight into some wretched 
 home. To me they are like drops of blood !" 
 
 And he pushed the gold from him, and went to 
 
IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN. 109 
 
 the window. He saw the dim eyes of Heaven look 
 ing down through the mist heard the murmurs of 
 the city dying away, and the calm of night entered 
 his soul. 
 
 " May you be a better man when we meet again," 
 he said, turning to Flint. 
 
 "But the letter," cried Flint, fearfully, "you 
 won t " 
 
 The sailor s lips curled, and something of his 
 former severity returned. 
 
 " Take off your sanctimonious cravat," he an 
 swered, " wrap charity around you like a robe, that 
 you may be pleasing in God s sight. You sent some 
 gold to convert the Hindoos the papers said so. 
 Why, man ! there is a Heathen Land at your door 
 step ! John Flint, good night !" 
 
 The merchant stood alone. 
 
 The night wind swayed the heavy curtains to 
 and fro, and half extinguished the brilliant jets of 
 gas. He threw himself into a chair, and a vision 
 of the Past rose up before him the terrible Past. 
 The ghosts of dead years haunted his brain, and 
 remorse sat on his heart, boding and mysterious, 
 like the Raven of the sweet poet 
 
 " That unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster 
 
 Followed fast, and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore!" 
 
110 IN WHICH THEEE IS A MADMAN. 
 
 That night, as we have said, he dreamt of two 
 blue, innocent eyes, which once looked confidingly 
 in his of two infant arms which encircled his neck. 
 Those eyes haunted him into the realm of sleep, 
 where myriads of little arms were stretched out to 
 him, and he turned restlessly on his pillow ! 
 
VIII. 
 
He trudged along, unknowing what he sought, 
 And whistled as he went, for want of thought. 
 
 DKYDEN. 
 
VIII. 
 
 MR. FLINT IS PERFECTLY ASTONISHED, AND MORTIMER 
 HAS A VISION. 
 
 The Light Heart A Scene The Sunny Heart A Dream 
 of Little Bell A Hint. 
 
 Now that Mortimer Walters had destroyed the 
 record of poor Snarle s guilt, he determined to be 
 no longer a subject of Flint s authority. He had 
 watched for months for an opportunity to become 
 possessed of the forged cheque ; and it was with a 
 heart as light as a singing bird s that he tripped 
 up the office stairs an hour before his time the next 
 morning. 
 
 Tim. was sweeping out. 
 
 Sleep had left no cobwebs in his young eyes ; but 
 when he saw Mortimer throw open the office door, 
 humming a light-hearted air, he rubbed his eyelids 
 with the sleeve of his dusty coat, as if it were a 
 question in his mind whether or not he was dreaming. 
 
 5* 
 
114: MORTIMER HAS A VISION. 
 
 " My last day here !" said Mortimer gaily to 
 himself. " Weary, tiresome old books ! my soul has 
 grown sick over you for the last time." 
 
 He brushed the dust from off the dull-looking 
 ledger, and went to work. " Won t I astonish him ?" 
 he thought, looking up ; and he laughed so pleas 
 antly that Tim, who was sweeping the rubbish into 
 a dust-pan, suspended operations, and expressed his 
 surprise in a somewhat dubious ejaculation : 
 
 "I vum!" 
 
 When Mr. Flint came in, he saw the same tall 
 form bending over the accustomed desk that had 
 met his eyes every morning for the last ten years; 
 but he did not see the heart that was leaping with 
 new life. And when, in his usual snarly way, he 
 gave Mortimer orders to make up certain invoices, 
 which would have employed the clerk till midnight, 
 he opened a brief conversation which ended in his 
 utter amazement. 
 
 " You will render Bowen & Gleet their account 
 current, and make up the pork sale ; it has been 
 standing open long enough. And," added Mr. Flint, 
 "fill up bills of lading for the D. D. coffee." 
 
 " I don t think I will," was the quiet reply. 
 
 Mr. Flint did not believe his ears. 
 
 " Mr. Walters !" 
 
 " Mr. Flint." 
 
MORTIMER HAS A VISION. 115 
 
 i( You will fill up those bills of lading imme 
 diately." 
 
 "I wont!" plumply. 
 
 This caused Mr. Flint to sink in a chair with 
 astonishment ; and Mortimer went on writing. 
 
 "Did you say that you wouldn t?" asked Mr. Flint, 
 looking at him. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "You did!" 
 
 " My year," said Mortimer, leisurely, " expires to 
 day, and with it, I arn happy to state, my connection 
 with Flint & Snarle." 
 
 Mr. Flint hunted twenty seconds for his lost voice. 
 
 " You insolent " 
 
 " Sir !" cried Mortimer, turning to him abruptly, 
 "until now I have borne your tyranny with meekness. 
 We are no longer employer and clerk. We are 
 man and man, with the advantage on my side. If 
 you apply an insulting epithet to me, I shall pull your 
 ears !" 
 
 O Tim, how you rubbed your hands, you little 
 villain ! How your limbs seemed to be receiving 
 a series of galvanic shocks from an invisible bat 
 tery ! How your eyes sparkled, and your procliv 
 ity for fight got uppermost, till you cried out, 
 " Pitch into him, old boy !" 
 
116 MOKTIMER HAS A VISION. 
 
 " Go !" hissed Flint, through his closed teeth ; 
 "go!" that was all the word he could master. 
 
 Mortimer passed out of the office. 
 
 The genial sunshine slid from the house-tops, and 
 fell under his feet ; a thousand airy forms walked 
 with him, and he felt their presence, though he could 
 not see them. 
 
 He wandered through the Park. April had 
 breathed on the cold ground, and the green grass 
 was springing up to welcome her. The leaves were 
 unfolding themselves, and the air was full of spring. 
 The fountain had thrown off its icy manacles, and 
 leaped up with a sense of freedom. 
 
 His dreamy eyes saw it all. The black shadows 
 had fallen from him; he had left them with Flint; 
 and a bright day had dawned within him and without 
 him. Everything was tinged with iridescent light, 
 for he looked at the world, as it were, through dew- 
 drops. Happy morning happy life! when one can 
 put aside the trailing vines of painful memory, 
 and let the warm sunshine of Heaven find its 
 way into the heart. 
 
 In this sunny mood he turned His way home 
 ward. He passed Mrs. Snarle on the stairs with 
 a smile ; he heard Daisy singing in the sitting- 
 room ; and he sat himself down in the yellow light 
 
MORTIMER HAS A VISION. 117 
 
 which streamed through the window of his bed-room, 
 making a hundred golden fancies on the worn 
 carpet : 
 
 " The shadows of the coming flowers ! 
 The phantoms of forget-me-nots, 
 And roses red and sweet !" 
 
 His eyes made pictures ; his fancy inverted the 
 hour glass of his life, and the old sands ran back ! 
 He floated down the stream of time, instead of on 
 ward. 
 
 The sunshine grew deeper and broader, and filled 
 the little room. Then it became condensed and 
 brighter. Gradually it moulded itself into form, and 
 little Bell, in her golden ringlets, stood at the side of 
 Mortimer. Her white hand touched his shoulder, and 
 he looked up not in surprise, but with tenderness 
 with the air of a man who can gaze with unclouded 
 eyes into the spiritual world and lose himself. 
 
 " I knew you were near," he said, dreamily. " I 
 thought you would come. You have something to 
 tell me. What is it, my little Bell ? Thus you stood 
 at my side, thus you looked into my eyes, the day on 
 which I told Daisy that I loved her. Thus you come 
 to me whenever the current of my life changes, 
 to love and advise me. What is it, Bell dainty 
 little Bell?" 
 
118 MORTIMER HAS A VISION. 
 
 A sunny lip rested on his for a moment. 
 
 " Be strong !" said little Bell. 
 
 A cloud of sun-light floated around Mortimer, 
 slipped down at his feet, and lost itself in the orange 
 stream which flooded the window. 
 
 "He is dreaming of Bell," said Daisy, as she bent 
 over him "dreaming of lost Bell !" 
 
 And she closed the door after her softly. 
 
 Then Mortimer s vision of sister Bell was a 
 dream ? Perhaps it was not. Perhaps this real 
 world is linked more closely to the invisible 
 sphere than in our guesses. It may be an angel s 
 hand which touches our cheek, when we think 
 that it .is only the breeze. i Quien sabe 1 Who can 
 say that in sleep we do not touch hands with the 
 spirits of another world the angels of hereafter? 
 And what may death be but an intellectual dream ! 
 Who knows ? 
 
 Nobody knows. " But," suggests the gentle reader, 
 " suppose you dispense with your Hamlet-like philo 
 sophy, and go on with your story, like the pleasant 
 author that you are, instead of putting us to sleep, 
 as you have your hero." 
 
 Reader, the hint -was merited. 
 
IX. 
 
My eyes make pictures when they are shut" 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
II. 
 
 DAISY AND THE NECKLACE. 
 
 Our petite Heroine How she talked to the Poets The 
 Morocco Case Daisy s Eyes make Pictures Tears, idle 
 Tears ! 
 
 MORTIMER was still sleeping an " azure-lidded 
 sleep," as Keats has it, when Daisy again came 
 softly to the door. 
 
 A pretty little woman was Daisy Snarle. 
 
 She had one of those faces which you some 
 times pass in the street and remember afterward, 
 ever connecting it with some exquisite picture, or, 
 if you happen to be in a poetical mood, a dainty 
 bit -of music. That face was very sweet in the 
 coquettish red and white " kiss-me-quick" which 
 used to shade it sunny mornings, when Daisy went 
 to market a very beautiful face when she looked 
 
122 DAISY AND THE NECKLACE. 
 
 up earnestly a very holy face when she sat thought 
 fully in her room at twilight. Her hair was dark 
 chestnut, and she wore it in one heavy braid over her 
 forehead. Her eyes were so gentle and saucy by 
 turns that I could never tell whether they were gray 
 or hazel ; but her smile was frank, her laugh mu 
 sical, and her whole presence so purely womanly, 
 that one could not but be better for knowing her. 
 Yet Daisy was not faultless. She had a wild little 
 will of her own none the worse for that, how 
 ever. She could put her foot down and a sweet 
 little foot it was ! a temptation of a foot, cased 
 in a tight boot high in the instep, and arched 
 like the proud neck of an Arabian mare, or the eye 
 brows of a Georgian girl. And then the heel of 
 said boot ! But I daren t trust myself further. 
 
 Daisy stood looking at Mortimer with her fond, 
 thoughtful eyes. Soon she grew tired of this, and, 
 placing a stool by his chair, sat down and com 
 menced sewing. From time to time she looked 
 up from her work and smiled quietly. 
 
 " How he sleeps !" said Daisy, with a low laugh. 
 " Will he be cross if I disturb him ?" and she 
 laughed again. i( I wonder," she said, at length, 
 "if a tiny song would awaken him?" 
 
 So she sang in a gentle voice those touching 
 lines of Barry Cornwall, commencing with 
 
DAISY AND THE NECKLACE. 123 
 
 " Touch us gently, Father Time ! 
 As we glide adown the stream." 
 
 She sang them bewitchingly. The music must 
 have stolen into Mortimer s dream, for he slept a 
 quieter sleep than before. Miss Daisy did not 
 like that, and pouted quite prettily, and shook her 
 finger at him. 
 
 " O, how tiresome you are !" she said. Then she 
 sewed for ten minutes quite steadily. 
 
 " I guess I ll arrange your books, Rip Van Winkle ! 
 and when you wake up, a half century hence, you 
 won t know them, they ll be in such good order!" 
 
 Arid facetious Miss Daisy broke out in such a 
 wild, merry laugh, that an early robin, perched on a 
 tree beside the window, ceased chirping, and listened 
 to her. 
 
 Her fingers grew very busy with Mortimer s 
 books. Having dusted them carefully, she com 
 menced to place them in an old black-walnut 
 book-case, which must have had an antique look 
 fifty years ago. And Daisy went on laughing and 
 talking to herself in a most comical manner. 
 
 " Here, Mr. Theocritus !" she cried, taking up that 
 venerable poet, and placing him upside down, " I ll 
 just set you on your head for absorbing all that 
 stupid boy s attention one live-long evening, when 
 I wanted to chat with him," 
 
124 DAISY AND THE NECKLACE. 
 
 An author is supposed to know everything about 
 his characters ; but I cannot tell why Daisy placed 
 Mortimer s poet in such an uncomfortable position, 
 unless she thought that the blood might run into 
 the head of Mr. Theocritus, and cause him to be 
 taken off with a brain fever ! 
 
 " And you, Mr. Byron," Daisy continued, " you re 
 a very wicked young fellow ! and 1 won t let you sit 
 next to Mrs. Hemans !" so she placed Plutarch be 
 tween them. " But you and Shelly," Daisy said, 
 resting her hand on Keats, " you are different sort of 
 persons ; you are too earnest and beautiful to be 
 impure ; and you shall sit side by side between 
 L. E. L. and our own Alice Gary. And Chatter- 
 ton ! poor boy Chatterton !" I ll place you in that 
 shadowy corner of the book-case, where the sun 
 shine never comes !" 
 
 So Daisy made merry or sad, as the case might 
 be, over her lover s few volumes ; and when she 
 had arranged them to suit her capricious self, she 
 kissed her hand to Tom Hood, and locked them 
 all poets, romancers, and historians in the black, 
 sombre old book-case. 
 
 Our friend Daisy was in one of those playful, 
 half-childish moods, which came upon her not un- 
 frequently. 
 
 Now she looked around the room for some other 
 
DAISY AND THE NECKLACE. 125 
 
 piece of useful mischief to do. She would turn 
 over Mortimer s papers. Ah, what made her blush 
 and laugh so prettily then ? It was only a sheet of 
 note-paper, on which Mortimer, in a dreamy moment, 
 had written her name innumerable times for know, 
 good world, that true love takes the silliest ways to 
 express itself. 
 
 Now she was curious. 
 
 She stood thoughtfully, with a small morocco 
 case in her hand. The reader has seen it once 
 in Flint s office. An undefined feeling stole over 
 her ; and it was some time before she thought of 
 opening the case. She did so, how r ever, and took 
 from it a pearl necklace of rare design and work 
 manship. The necklace was in three parts, linked 
 together by exquisitely carved clasps, from the 
 largest of which hung a 
 
 composed of smaller and more costly pearls. 
 
 " How beautiful !" and she grew more thoughtful. 
 Something within her recognized the jewels. It was 
 
126 DAISY AND THE NECKLACE. 
 
 not her sight, it was not her touch, but an intuitive 
 something which is finer and subtler than either. 
 
 " I have seen this somewhere somewhere," she 
 said ; " but where ?" 
 
 And she closed her eyes, as if the sunlight 
 blinded some timid memory that was stealing through 
 her brain. Her fancy painted pictures of strange 
 places and things. Now she saw a country-house, 
 among cool, quiet trees ; then a man dying some 
 one she loved but who ? Now she was in a large 
 city, and heard the rumbling of wheels and confused 
 voices. Now the snow was coming down, flake after 
 flake, and everything was white ; then it was night 
 dark, stormy, and dreadful and she was cold, bitter 
 cold ! Some one had left her in the white, clinging 
 snow, and she was freezing ! 
 
 Daisy opened her eyes. The snow and wind were 
 gone, and April s sunny breath blew shadows through 
 the open window. The house, the death, the storm 
 how were they connected with the string of pearls ? 
 And Daisy held the necklace on her finger-tips and 
 wondered. 
 
 " Somewhere, somewhere but where ?" 
 
 Daisy could not tell where. 
 
 " I may have seen one like it," Daisy thought- 
 " Perhaps this was Bell s, and these stones may 
 
DAISY AND THE NECKLACE. 127 
 
 have rested many a time on her little neck. I 
 wish I had known Bell ! ; 
 
 With this she placed the necklace in the case 
 again, and tears gathered in her eyes, she knew 
 not why. 
 
 " Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean." 
 
 She laid the box in the place where she had found 
 it, and thought she would not speak to Mortimer of 
 the necklace ; he might be displeased to have her 
 touch it. 
 
 Her paiety had given place to sadness, and when 
 she knelt by Mortimer s chair she could not help 
 sobbing. Mortimer awoke and bent over her. 
 
 " What, weeping, Daisy ?" 
 

 X. 
 
Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
 
 And the winter winds are wearily sighing : 
 Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
 And tread softly and speak low, 
 For the old year lies a-dying. 
 Old year, you must not die : 
 You came to us so readily, 
 You lived with us so steadily, 
 Old year you must not die. 
 He lieth still : he dothnot move : 
 
 He will not see the dawn of day, 
 He hath no other life above. 
 He gave me a friend and a true love, 
 And the new year will take em away. 
 Old year, you must not go : 
 
 So long as you have been ivith us, 
 Such joy as you have seen with us, 
 Old year, you shall not go. 
 He frothed his bumpers to the brim: 
 
 A jollier year we shall not see ; 
 But though his eyes are waxing dim, 
 And though his foes speak ill of him, 
 He was a friend to me. 
 
 Old year, you shall not die : 
 
 We did so laugh and cry with you, 
 I ve half a mind to die with you, 
 Old year, if you must die. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
X, 
 
 ST. AGNES EVE. 
 
 The Old Year St. Agnes Keats Poem The Circlet of 
 Pearls A Cloud The Promise Mrs. Snarle continues 
 her Knitting. 
 
 THE Old Year had just gone by the dear, sad 
 Old Year ! He died in the blustering wind, out in 
 the cold! He lay down in the shadows, moaned, 
 and died ! Something has gone with thee, Old 
 Year, which will never come again : kind words, 
 sweet smiles, warm lips ah, no, they will never 
 come again ! Hold them near your heart for love 
 of us, Old Year ! They came with you, they went 
 with you ! Kyrie elyson ! 
 
 " I wish you could tarry with us," said Morti- 
 
132 ST. AGNES EVE. 
 
 nier. " You were kind to us, merry and sad with 
 us." And he repeated the lines, 
 
 " Old year, you shall not die : 
 
 We did so laugh and cry with you, 
 I ve half a mind to die with you, 
 
 Old year, if you must die." 
 
 " To-night, Daisy, will be St. Agnes Eve, and if I 
 sell my prose sketch to Filberty s Magazine, I ll be 
 in a good humor to read you Keats poem." 
 . Since leaving Mr. Flint s employ, Mortimer had 
 entirely supported himself with his pen. His piquant 
 paragraphs and touching verses over the signature 
 of " II Penseroso," had attracted some attention ; 
 and he found but little difficulty in disposing of 
 his articles, at starving prices, it is true ; but he 
 bore up, seeing a brighter time ahead. He had 
 been so occupied in writing short stories and essays, 
 that his romance, which lacked but one chapter of 
 completion, was still unfinished. 
 
 Filberty s Magazine paid him so generously for 
 the prose article, that he could afford to devote 
 himself to a task which did not promise immediate 
 profit. He completed the novel at sundown that 
 clay; and after supper Daisy reminded him of his 
 promise to read Keats "Eve of St. Agnes." 
 
 " I sometimes think," said Mortimer, as good Mrs. 
 Snarle seated herself in a low rocking-chair, pre- 
 
ST. AGNES EVE. 133 
 
 paratory to a dose, while Daisy sat on a stool at his 
 feet, " I sometimes think that this poem is the most 
 exquisite definition of one phase of poetry in our 
 language. Musical rylhm, imperial words, gorgeous 
 color and luxurious conceit, seem to have culminated 
 in it. And the story itself is so touching that it 
 would be poetical even if narrated in the plainest 
 prose. How surpassingly beautiful is it, then, worked 
 out with all the richness of that sweetest poet, 
 who, in intricate verbal music and dreamy imagery, 
 stands almost alone !" 
 
 Mrs. Snarle s head was inclined on one side, and 
 the whole pose of her form was one of profound 
 attention. 
 
 She was fast asleep. 
 
 The busy knitting-needles were placid in her mo 
 tionless fingers; and Pinky, the kitten, was spinning 
 a yarn on her own account from the ball in Mrs. 
 Snarle s lap. 
 
 "Who was St. Agnes?" asked Daisy. 
 u She was a saint who suffered martyrdom for 
 her religious views during the persecution of the 
 Christians in the reign of the Emperor Diocletian. 
 But let us read the poem, which will make her more 
 immortal than her heroism." 
 
 Mortimer opened the book, and his voice touched 
 the verse with new music for Daisy s ears. Now 
 
134 ST. AGNES EVE. 
 
 his tones would be low and sad, as he read of the 
 old Beadsman, who told his beads in the cold night 
 air, 
 
 "While his frosted breath, 
 Like pious incense from a censer old, 
 Seemed taking flight for heaven." 
 
 Then his voice grew as tender as a lover s, when he 
 came to the place where Porphyro, concealed, be 
 holds Madeline as she disrobes : 
 
 " Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
 Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; 
 Loosens her fragrant boddice ; by degrees 
 Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees." 
 
 u How few poets know how to handle color !" said 
 Mortimer. " Azure, red, orange, and all poetic hues 
 are mixed up in their pictures like a shattered rain- 
 bow! But how artist-like is Keats! His famous 
 window scene has not been surpassed : 
 
 "A casement high and triple-arched there was, 
 
 All garlanded with carven imageries 
 
 Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 
 
 And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
 
 Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
 
 As are the tiger-moth s deep-damask 1 d wings; 
 
 And in the midst, mong thousand heraldries. 
 
 And twilight saints and dim cmblazonings, 
 
 A shielded scutcheon blush d with blood of queens and kings. 
 
 " Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, 
 And threw warm gules on Madclir.e s fair breast, 
 
ST. AGNES EVE. 135 
 
 As down she knelt for heaven s grace and boon : 
 
 Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together pressed, 
 
 And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
 
 And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
 
 She seemed a splendid angel, newly dressed, 
 
 Save wings, for heaven!" 
 
 " Is it not exquisite ?" asked Mortimer, looking 
 in Daisy s face. 
 
 She nodded assent. 
 
 Mortimer fixed his eyes on a psarl necklace 
 which gently clasped the girl s neck, and started. 
 The cross undulated on her bosom, which rose and 
 fell like two full white roses in the wind. 
 
 " Where did you get that ?" and Mortimer laid 
 his hand on her arm nervously. 
 
 "It was a freak," said Daisy, blushing. Are 
 you angry ?" 
 
 " Not angry, Daisy." 
 
 " But you look so." 
 
 " Do I ? I am not. I grow unhappy when I see 
 that necklace." 
 
 "It was Bell s, then? / 
 
 " Yes no don t ask me, Daisy." 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 A shadow came over Mortimer s face. 
 
 That morning Daisy had been tempted to open 
 the morocco case, and a desire to clasp the white 
 necklace on her neck became irresistible. Some 
 thing drew her to it, and the same feeling of mys- 
 
136 ST. AGNES EVE. 
 
 tery and longing which stole on her \vhen she first 
 held the circlet in her hand while Mortimer was 
 sleeping, overpowered her. Almost unconsciously 
 t she fastened the gold clasp, and when the little 
 ~- cross sunk down on her bosom, her heart grew 
 lighter, and she went over the house singing like a 
 canary. She wore it the whole day, pausing at 
 times in her household duties to admire the pearls. 
 * After a while she forgot its existence, and her in 
 tention to replace it before Mortimer returned. 
 
 When Mortimer s eye caught sight of the neck 
 lace, Daisy was much embarrassed, for she could, in 
 no intelligible way, account for having taken it. 
 Mortimer was equally pained. He had unwillingly 
 become possessed of the ornament, and saw no 
 means by which he could return it to Mr. Flint 
 without acknowledging that he had also taken the 
 check. He dreaded to make so humiliating a con 
 fession, and, perhaps, he stood a little in fear of 
 Mr. riint s anger. The circumstance had caused 
 him many moments of anxiety, and an unpleasant 
 thought came to him, as he saw the purloined neck 
 lace on Daisy s innocent bosom. 
 
 "But you a-e angry?" said Daisy, looking up 
 with dimmed eyes. 
 
 "No, pet." 
 
 " Then you will kiss me?" said Daisy, in a most 
 winning way. 
 
ST. AGXES EVE. 137 
 
 Mortimer did what most every one would have 
 done * in the premises" an act which was quite 
 sufficient to make one break that part of the com 
 mandment which refers to envy. Surely a man 
 would be inhuman not to, having once seen Daisy 
 Snarle ! 
 
 " I am not angry, but pained ; I cannot tell you 
 why. I wish you to promise me something-." 
 
 "I will. What is it?" 
 
 " That you will not doubt me, whatever may 
 occur in connection with this necklace that you 
 will love me, though I may be unable to explain 
 condemning circumstances, or dispel the doubts of 
 others. 5 
 
 " I promise that. But how strange," thought 
 Daisy. " I am sorry that I was so childish as to 
 take the necklace. Put it away, Mortimer, and 
 forget that I did so." 
 
 Mortimer s cheerfulness returned, and he xom- 
 menced reading the poem at the place where he 
 had interrupted himself. Just as he finished the 
 last verse, telling how, ages long ago, 
 
 " The lovers fled away into the storm," 
 
 Mrs. Snarle awoke with a jerk, and went to knit 
 ting as though she had been doing nothing else the 
 whole evening a harmless subterfuge peculiar to 
 old people. 
 
 6* 
 
XI, 
 
Of making many books there is no end. 
 
 ECCLESTASTES XII V 12. 
 
II, 
 
 MORTIMER HA3 AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GREAT 
 PUBLISHER, AND MR. FLINT MAKES A DISCOVERY. 
 
 H. H. Hardwill, Publisher Criminal Literature Allitera 
 tive Titles Goldwood Poor Authors A Heaven for 
 them in the Perspective Flint s Discovery, and the Horns 
 of his Dilemma. 
 
 MORTIMER looked up and read the sign " H. H. 
 Hardwill, Publisher." His heart half- failed him, and 
 he stood looking in the large, book-filled window, 
 with that romance which was to startle the literary 
 world folded quietly under his arm, like any com 
 mon paper. What kind of a man is Mr. Hardwill ? 
 he thought. Is he a large man, with a heavy watch- 
 chain, or a thin, sky-rockety piece of humanity, 
 dressed in black, and tipped off with red hair ? 
 Was he a cold, cast-iron man, like Flint ? or a 
 
142 MORTIMER S INTERVIEW WITH HARD WILL 
 
 simple, sorrowful one, like Snarle that was ? But 
 this last idea melted of itself. How could the famous 
 publisher resemble the poor, unobtrusive Snarle ? 
 He, Mr. Hardwill, who received notes from the great 
 Hiawatha, and hob-nobbed with Knickerbocker Ir 
 ving ; he, who owned a phial of yellow sand, 
 which had been taken from a scorching desert 
 with an unpronounceable name, and presented to 
 him by the Oriental Bayard; he, who chatted with 
 genial Mr. Sparrow-grass God bless him ! (Spar 
 row-grass,) and joked with Orpheus Stocldard, he 
 like simple Snarle ? Pooh ! 
 
 " Is Mr. Hardwill in ?" asked Mortimer. He came 
 near adding, " the great publisher." 
 
 The clerk, to whom his eyes looked, said he believed 
 lie was, and went on calling off from a slip of paper : 
 
 " Murdered Milkmaid/ two copies ; Bloody 
 Hatchet, twelve copies ; c The Seducer s Victim, 
 thirty copies ; The Young Mother, five copies ; 
 The Deranged Daughter, seven copies ; Hifiluten 
 and other poems, one copy." 
 
 * Can I speak with him ?" ventured Mortimer, as 
 the clerk, who was calling off the criminal litera 
 ture, paused for breath. 
 
 " The Merry Maniacs, ten copies Yes, sir ; but 
 he s engaged. Wait awhile," continued the clerk, as 
 Mortimer turned to go. " The Wizard of Wehaw- 
 
MORTIMER S INTERVIEW WITH HARDWILL. 143 
 
 kin, six copies ; The Phantom of Philadelphia, 
 twelve copies, etc., etc." 
 
 So our author seated himself on a case of book S) 
 and looked at the wall of volumes which encom 
 passed him. Somehow or another, it suggested the 
 Great Wall of China and the Cordilleras. He could 
 give no reason why. No more can I. Perhaps he 
 felt that light literature, paradoxical as it may seem, 
 is always heavy, and so his mind ran on the pro 
 digious freaks of man and nature. 
 
 After the clerk had finished calling off from the 
 slip of paper, that promising young gentleman sud 
 denly discovered that Mr. Hardwill was not en 
 gaged, and offered to conduct our friend into his 
 august presence. Mortimer gathered up his heart, 
 as it were, and his loosened manuscript at the same 
 moment " Her heart and morning broke together !" 
 and followed the clerk through an avenue of 
 literature, to a snug inner office that literary Se- 
 bastopol, which is forever being stormed by seedy 
 poets and their allies, historians, romancers, and 
 strong-minded Eves. 
 
 Could it be possible ? 
 
 Was that middle-sized, dark-eyed, light-haired, 
 pleasant-looking man the Napoleon of publishers ? 
 However, there was something shrewd in his dark 
 eye, or rather eyes for he had two of them and a 
 
144 MORTIMER S INTERVIEW WITH HARDWILL. 
 
 certain expression of the mouth, which seemed full 
 of dealings with the worjd. 
 
 " Is this Mr. Hard will ?" asked Mortimer. 
 
 " Yes, sir. Will you be seated ?" 
 
 " I have a romance/ commenced Mortimer, with 
 hesitation, "which I would offer you for publication. 
 I have written it carefully, and 1 think it possesses 
 several new features " 
 
 Here his voice broke down, for he felt those dark, 
 scrutinizing eyes in his face ; besides, the intense 
 attention with which he was listened to disconcerted 
 him. Mr. Hardwill came to his relief. 
 
 " What is the title of your book ?" 
 
 " It is called Goldwood. " 
 
 " That is not. happy." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 " No," said Mr. Hardwill, " it should be something 
 striking something to catch the eye in an adver 
 tisement. For instance, the the " 
 
 " Frantic Father," suggested Mortimer, quietly ; 
 and he gazed at the carpet to keep from smiling. 
 
 Mr. Hardwill eyed him, and displayed his white 
 teeth. There was a little satire in our author s re 
 mark which pleased Mr. H., who could not be hired 
 to read the spasmodic books which he published. 
 It was policy in him to cater for that largest class of 
 readers whose tastes are morbid or inflamed, and he 
 did so. 
 
MORTIMER S INTERVIEW WITH HARDWILL. 145 
 
 Mortimer had thrown aside his timidity. He gave 
 a concise sketch of the plot, touching here and there 
 on some supposed-to-be felicitous incident, and grew 
 so autorially eloquent over his romance, that the 
 careful Mr. Hardwill requested Mortimer to leave his 
 manuscript with him, saying : 
 
 I cannot give you much hope. I have more 
 books ready for press than I can well attend to. If 
 you will call on me the latter part of next week, you 
 shall have my decision." 
 
 With these words, spoken in an off-hand, business 
 like way, Mr. Hard will made a bow, which said, as 
 kindly as such a thing can be said, " You needn t 
 stay any longer." 
 
 Mortimer returned his bland smile frankly, and 
 retired, though he would fain have called Mr. Hard- 
 will s attention to that delightful and exciting scene 
 in which Mr. Adine St. Clair meets Arabella Clemen 
 tina after an estrangement of two weeks ! but he 
 didn t. He again threaded his way through the 
 labyrinth of literature, and the last sound which fell 
 on his ear, as he turned from the bookstore into 
 the street, was, 
 
 " The Ruined Cigar Girl, twenty copies !" 
 
 " What on earth could anybody want of a Ruined 
 Cigar Girl, or a Young Mother ? " and Mortimer 
 laughed outright. 
 
146 MORTIMER S INTERVIEW WITH HARDWILL. 
 
 The wand of Prospero is neither more cunning 
 nor more powerful than the pen of a well bred 
 author. It creates something out of nothing, (more 
 frequently nothing out of something), changes time, 
 place, and human nature ; it lifts up the blue roofing 
 of ocean, and gives you a glimpse of fish-life ; and 
 deeper still, shows you the coral forests of the 
 Naiads, and their aquatic palaces. It draws back the 
 curtain of cloud-land, and feeds your fancy with forms 
 that never have been, and never will be ; summons 
 spirits from the air, and gives melodious voices to all 
 vernal things. 
 
 Pleasant magician that waves this wand ! what 
 curious people are walking in the chambers of your 
 brain ! What dreams are yours, and what cruel 
 cuts this real world sometimes gives you ! You 
 have no right to be here, poor devil ! You are 
 somewhat misplanted ; you belong to some sphere 
 between earth and heaven, and not very near 
 either. That such a place is provided for you I 
 am certain. There it is that all your books will run 
 through countless editions ; there it is you can afford 
 to hire some one to write your autograph for be 
 sieging admirers, and feed, as you should, 
 
 " On the roses, and lay in the lilies of life." 
 
M K. FLINT MAKES A DISCOVERY. 147 
 
 But I was speaking of pen-magic. It is not my 
 present mood to do anything fantastical in that 
 way. I only wish to give you a sight of Mr. 
 Flint, as he appeared one afternoon some months 
 after Mortimer had left his office. He was stand 
 ing in that inner-room of his counting-house to 
 which I have introduced the reader. I change my 
 mind he was not standing. He had just thrown 
 himself into a chair, in which he did not seem 
 at all easy. 
 
 I take peculiar delight in placing Mr. Flint in 
 uncomfortable positions. 
 
 He was surprised, alarmed, and angry. He missed 
 the forged check and the morocco case which he 
 had watched so many years. That they had been 
 purloined, he could not doubt, and his keen thought 
 fell on Mortimer. The loss of the check troubled 
 him ; he liked to look at it occasionally, for Snarle s 
 sake ; but the necklace that gave him strange 
 alarm. 
 
 " Snake !" he hissed, " you have crawled into my 
 affairs, and I ll tread on you tread on you and kill 
 you ! You stole the check to save Snarle s name ; 
 and the necklace why did you steal that ? Was it 
 valuable ? Yes, that is it. I ll grind you in the 
 dust. I ll put you in a prison, and let your brain 
 less father look at you through the bars !" 
 
148 MR. FLINT MAKES A DISCOVERY. 
 
 This humane idea caused Mr. Flint to rub his 
 dry hands, and chuckle violently. 
 
 " But" here Mr. Flint s countenance fell. " If I 
 do this, won t Walters ruin me with that unfortunate 
 letter ? O, I was a fool to write it ; yet he would 
 have murdered me if I had not. 
 
 And Mr. Flint thought and thought. 
 
 To obtain the letter was impossible. Walters 
 might have left the city ; even if he had not, there 
 was a method in his madness which Flint knew he 
 could not circumvent. He could not lose such a 
 chance of crushing Mortimer as presented itself; and 
 yet to attempt it while Walters had possession of 
 the letter was unwise. 
 
 Mr. Flint was in a brown study. 
 
 He walked up and down his sanctum solemnly, 
 neglecting to watch Tim and the book-keeper who 
 had succeeded Mortimer. An half hour passed, and 
 still he continued his walk and reverie, without any 
 visible intention of stopping. His face lights up ; he 
 rubs his knuckles with ecstacy. He has got it ! 
 got it at last. He will have Mortimer arrested ; 
 he will have Mortimer s name suppressed, or give 
 the newspapers a fictitious one. This will shield 
 him from Walters, whose heart lie will wring some 
 of these days. Ah ! that will be revenge. 
 
 It may strike the ingenious reader as strange that 
 
MR. FLINT MAKES A DISCOVERY. 149 
 
 Mortimer, having charge of Flint & Snarle s books, 
 never came across his father s name. This would 
 have been the case, and somewhat interfered witn 
 our novel, if Mortimer, when he applied for a clerk 
 ship with the firm, had not given Mr. Flint all the 
 particulars of his life. For reasons best known 
 to himself, Mr. Flint took every opportunity to 
 strengthen Mortimer in the belief of his father s 
 death, and every precaution to keep Walters from 
 meeting him. Once, indeed, they stood face to face 
 in the office ; but, taking into consideration the num 
 ber of years they had been separated, and the cir 
 cumstances under which they met, it would have 
 been most strange if a recognition had taken place. 
 As to Mr. Snarle, being profoundly ignorant of 
 Mortimer s early history, he could throw no light 
 on Mortimer s mind ; and everything worked to 
 Flint s satisfaction. Every circumstance seemed to 
 mould itself to his will. 
 
 There is an evil spirit, and a very powerful one, 
 that holds the wires which move some of us puppets. 
 The good are made to take the humblest seats 
 in the world s Synagogue, and the wily and the evil- 
 hearted are clothed in purple, fed on honey, and 
 throned in the highest places. There will be a sur 
 prising revolution some of these times. 
 
 As Mr. Sparrowgrass would say, a revolution is 
 " a good thing to have in the country." 
 
XII, 
 
Why, true, her heart was all humanity, 
 Her soul all God s ; in spirit and inform, 
 Like fair. Her cheek had the pale, pearly pink 
 Of sea-shells, the world s sweetest tint, as though 
 She lived, one -half might deem, on roses sopped 
 In silver dew ; she spoke as with the voice 
 Of spheral harmony which greets the soul, 
 When, at the hour of death, the saved one knows 
 His sister angel s near : her eye wa3 as 
 The golden pane the setting sun doth just 
 Imblaze, which shows, till heaven comes down again, 
 All other lights but grades of gloom ; her dark, 
 Long rolling locks were as a stream the slave 
 Might search for gold, and searching find. 
 
 FESTUS. 
 
. Ill, 
 
 WH AT DAISY DID. 
 
 The Arrest Doubt and Love Daisy and the Necklace 
 The Search The heart of Daisy Snarle. 
 
 IN an upper room of a miserable, dingy house 
 which faced the spot where the old Brewery used 
 to stand, Edward Walters sat one January evening 
 reading the Express. There was one paragraph 
 among the city items which he had read several 
 times, and each reading seemed to strengthen a 
 determination which had, at the first perusal, grown 
 up with him. 
 
 "Right or wrong, I ll do it!" 
 
 With which words he folded the paper, and placed 
 it in his pocket. 
 
WHAT DAISY DID. 
 
 Daisy, too, read the paragraph that night, and 
 the blood rushed into her cheeks, then left them very 
 pale. 
 
 It was simply a police report such as you read 
 over your morning coffee, without thinking how 
 many hearts may be broken by the sight of that 
 little cluster of worn-out type. A young man, 
 no name given, recently a clerk in the house of 
 Messrs. Flint & Snarle, had been arrested on the 
 charge of stealing a case of jewels from his em 
 ployers. 9 
 
 Daisy, with dry eyes, read it again and again. 
 Dark doubt and trusting love were at conflict for 
 a moment ; for doubt had pride for its ally, and love 
 was only love. But the woman conquered. Morti 
 mer, who had been arrested early in the forenoon, 
 found means to send Daisy a note, in which he 
 simply said " I am charged with stealing the neck 
 lace, but I am as guiltless of the crime as you, 
 Daisy." 
 
 Mrs. Snarle came in the room while our little 
 heroine held the note in her hand. 
 
 " Mother," said Daisy, averting her head, " Morti 
 mer will not come home to-night " 
 
 With this she threw the note into the fire, and 
 left Mrs. Snarle alone, before the good lady asked 
 any questions. 
 
WHAT DAISY DIP. 155 
 
 " That s very odd !" soliloquized Mrs. Snarle, 
 briefly; 
 
 " You tell me that you are innocent," said Daisy, 
 looking at a small portrait of Mortimer which hung 
 over the fire-place " I do not question, I only be 
 lieve you !" 
 
 And then Daisy did a very strange thing, and yet 
 it was very like Daisy. She untied the brown 
 ribbon which bound her dark lengths of hair, allow 
 ing them to fall over her shoulders ; then she braided 
 the string of pearls with her tresses, and brought 
 the whole in a beautiful band over her forehead. 
 And she looked like a little queen with this coronal 
 of jet and pearl shading her brows. 
 
 Daisy next picked the jewel-case to pieces, and 
 threw the minute shreds into the street. This was 
 scarcely done, when the door-bell rang impatiently. 
 
 The girl peeped from the window. 
 
 The two men at the door-step were not to be 
 mistaken. Daisy s fingers trembled as she undid the 
 fastenings of the door. 
 
 " We have orders to search this house, miss," 
 said one of the officers, touching the vizor of his 
 cap respectfully. 
 
 Daisy choked down a sob, and led them with an 
 unnatural calmness from room to room. 
 
156 WHAT DAISY DID. 
 
 Every place in the little house was investigated, 
 but in vain ; no necklace was to be found. Yet 
 twice the breath of one of the searchers fell on the 
 pearls in Daisy s hair. The two officers left the 
 house in evident chagrin. 
 
 When they had gone, the girl sat on the stairs 
 and sobbed. 
 
 Happily for her wishes, Mrs. Snarle had been 
 absent during the search ; and thus far had been 
 kept in ignorance of Mortimer s disgrace. But 
 Daisy could not hope to keep it a secret from her 
 long, for they both would probably be summoned 
 as witnesses in open court. The thought of giving 
 evidence against Mortimer went through Daisy s 
 heart like an intense pain. It terrified her, and 
 her warm little heart was floating on tears all 
 day. 
 
 The cloud which had fallen on her seemed to 
 have no silver lining ; all was cold, black and sun 
 less. But there is no mortal wound to which some 
 unseen angel does not bring a balm 
 
 "There are gains for all our losses!" 
 
 Daisy remembered Mortimer s words : Promise 
 that you will not doubt me, whatever may occur in con 
 nection with this necklace that you will love me, 
 
WHAT DAISY DID. 157 
 
 though I may be unable to explain condemning cir 
 cumstances, or dispel the doubts of others" and the 
 words came to her freighted with such hope and 
 tenderness, that her sleep that night was deep and 
 refreshing. Doubt had folded its wings in the 
 heart of Daisy Snarle. 
 
XIII 
 
LUDWICK. Now here s a man half ruined by ill luck, 
 As true a man as breathes the summer air. 
 
 LAUNCELOT. IlllucTc, erratic jade! but yesterday 
 She might have made him king f 
 
 OLD PLAY. 
 
XIII. 
 
 IN THE TOMBS. 
 
 The Author s Summer Residence The Egyptian Prison 
 Without and Within A Picture Sunshine in Shadow 
 Joe Wilkes and his unique Proposal Gloomy Prospects 
 The face at the cell-window. 
 
 THERE is not a pleasanter place in the world for 
 a summer residence than Blackwell s Island! The 
 chief edifices are substantial, and the grounds are 
 laid out with exceeding care. The water-scape is 
 delightfully invigorating, and the sojourners at this 
 watering-place are not of that transient class which 
 one finds at Nahant, Newport, and other pet re 
 sorts. Indeed, it is usual to spend from six to eight 
 months on the " Island," and one has the advantage 
 of contracting friendships which are not severed 
 at the first approach of the " cold 
 
 7* 
 
162 IN THE TOMBS. /*"" 
 
 particulars of which "cold term," see that funny 
 old savant of Brooklyn Heights, who has a facetious 
 way of telling us that it has been raining, after the 
 shower is over. Bless him ! 
 
 Such institutions as " Blackvvell s Island" are god 
 sends to the literati. A poor devil of an author, 
 who has a refined taste for suburban air, but whose 
 finances preclude his dreaming of Nahant, has only 
 to mix himself up in a street fight, or some other 
 interesting city episode, to be entitled to a country- 
 seat at the expense of his grateful admirers ! Owing 
 to a little oversight on his part, the author of this 
 veracious history took a passage for "Black well s 
 Island" a trifle earlier in the season than he had 
 anticipated ; and it is at that delightful region these 
 pages are indited. 
 
 But the Tombs heaven save us from that ! 
 
 There are many pleasanter places in New-York 
 than the Tombs ; for that clumsy piece of Egyptian 
 architecture its dingy marble walls, its nail-studded 
 doors and sickening atmosphere is uncommonly 
 disagreeable as a dwelling. Many startling tragedies 
 have been enacted there scenes of eternal farewells 
 and lawful murders. I could not count on my 
 fingers the number of men who have entered its 
 iron gates full of life, and come out cold, still and 
 dreadful ! 
 
IN THE TOMBS. 103 
 
 It was here that Mortimer was brought. 
 
 Within, all was sombre and repulsive. Without, 
 there was hum of voices, and the frosty rails which 
 ran in front of the prison creaked dismally as the 
 heavy freight cars passed over them ; but these 
 sounds of life were not heard inside. 
 
 The cell of Mortimer and its occupants, the morn 
 ing after his arrest, presented a scene of gloomy 
 picturesqueness. 
 
 Through a grated window, some six feet from 
 the stone floor, a strip of sunshine came and went, 
 falling on Mortimer, who leaned thoughtfully against 
 the damp wall. The room, if we may call it one, 
 was devoid of furniture, with the exception of a 
 low iron bedstead, whose straw-stuffed mattress and 
 ragged coverlid suggested anything but sleep. Daisy 
 Snarle was standing with downcast eyes near the 
 door which a few minutes before had closed on its 
 creaking hinges, and outside of which the jailor 
 stood listening. 
 
 The long, dark lashes were resting on her cheek ; 
 the pearls of the necklace, which gleamed here 
 and there in the queenly braid, looked whiter by 
 contrast with Daisy s chestnut hair. In one hand 
 she had gathered the folds of her shawl, the other 
 hung negligently at her side. From beneath the 
 skirt of her simple dress, peeped one of the loveliest 
 
164: IN THE TOMBS. 
 
 feet ever seen, and her whole attitude was uncon 
 sciously exquisite. She had just ceased speaking, 
 and the faintest possible tinge of crimson was on 
 her cheeks. 
 
 " Daisy, you are one of God s good angels, or you 
 would never have come to me in this repulsive 
 place." 
 
 .Daisy s eyes were still bent on the floor. 
 
 " Speak to me again, Daisy," said Mortimer, taking 
 her hand. " Your voice gives me heart, and your 
 words make me forget everything but you." 
 
 Daisy lifted her dreamy hands, and said, softly : 
 "They could not find it." 
 
 " Could not find what, Daisy ?" 
 
 " The necklace," said Daisy, smiling. 
 
 " No," she continued, in a low, musical voice, 
 " they searched in all the rooms, in all the trunks 
 turned over your papers and mother s work-basket 
 but they could not find it." 
 
 And Daisy smiled again. 
 
 " Where was it, Daisy ? " 
 
 "Here!" 
 
 And Daisy, smiling all the while, lifted Morti 
 mer s hand in hers, and placed it on the braid of 
 hair. 
 
 Mortimer started. 
 
 "O, Daisy! Daisy! why did you do that?" 
 
IN THE TOMBS. 165 
 
 The little foot tapped gently on the stone floor. 
 
 Because," said Daisy, dropping her eyes, " be 
 cause, when I read your note yesterday, I doubted 
 you for a moment : but when J looked at the por 
 trait in your room, I believed you; and I hid the 
 necklace in my hair, and came to ask your par 
 don." 
 
 " Let any misfortune come to me, darling !" 
 said Mortimer, touched with this ingenious act, 
 "let come what will, I am strong! As sure as 
 little Ball looks down from Heaven, you do not 
 wear a stolen necklace. How it came into my 
 hands I cannot tell, without wronging the dead. 
 But, Daisy, it was imprudent for you to run this 
 risk." 
 
 " Oh, no ; they hunted for something hidden, and 
 could not see what was before their eyes, 5 replied 
 Daisy, giving a quick, low laugh, and then she grew 
 thoughtful again. 
 
 " But if they had seen it, Daisy ?" 
 
 Well." 
 
 "You would have been implicated in this un 
 happy affair to your certain ruin, without benefiting 
 me. You must leave the necklace here." 
 
 " But I wont !" 
 
 This time the pretty little foot was set firmly on 
 the flagging. 
 
166 IN THE TOMBS. 
 
 The jailor, who had been an attentive listener to 
 the foregoing conversation, thrust his hands into 
 the capacious pockets of his overcoat with the 
 bearing of a man who is completely satisfied. 
 
 "I knowed it," he said, emphatically; "the boy 
 is misfortunate somehow, and the young girl s a 
 trump she is. Lord help em ! But time s up, and 
 I must stop their talk." 
 
 With this the man tapped on the door. Mortimer 
 held Daisy in his arms for a moment, and then sat 
 down on the bed. 
 
 Daisy was gone, and it seemed as if the sunlight 
 had gone with her, the cell grew so gloomy to the 
 prisoner. 
 
 "Young man," said the jailor, with a solemn look, 
 " the young lady is very unprudent to go circum 
 venting round with that necklace twisted up on the 
 top ov her skull she is." 
 
 Mortimer groaned. 
 
 " You heard all, then, and you will betray us !" 
 
 ( Part ov what you say is true," returned 
 the man, bluntly, " and part isn t. I heard yer 
 talk, but my name isn t Joe Wilkes ef I blow on 
 yer !" 
 
 Mortimer looked at the ruddy, honest face of Joe 
 Wilkes, and gave him his hand. 
 
 " I believe you, my good man." 
 
IN THE TOMBS. 167 
 
 That individual appeared to be turning some 
 thing over in his mind which refused to be turned 
 
 o 
 
 over. 
 
 "Them keys, young man," he said at length, 
 drawing forth from his pocket a bunch weighing 
 some four pounds, * opens the door at the end ov 
 the passage, and this one opens the street gate ; 
 now jist take that bit ov wood and bang me on one 
 side ov my hed not savagely, you know, but jist 
 enough to flatten me, and make me look stunned- 
 like " 
 
 At this novel proposition Mortimer broke into a 
 loud laugh, but Mr. Wilkes was in earnest, and in 
 sisted on being "flattened." 
 
 " I couldn t think of it, Mr. Wilkes!" cried Morti 
 mer, weak with laughter ; ll I couldn t strike you 
 systematically ; I should be certain to demolish your 
 head." 
 
 And Mr. Wilkes retired, perforce, with the air of 
 an injured man. 
 
 Mortimer sat on the edge of the bed reflecting on 
 the strange chain of circumstances which had placed 
 him in his present position, and boldly facing the 
 fact of how little chance he had of escaping Mr. 
 Flint s malice. The excitement attending his arrest 
 had passed away, and the reality of his utter help 
 lessness came full upon him. For himself he dreaded 
 
168 IN THE TOMBS. 
 
 little, for no punishment for a supposed crime, how 
 ever disgraceful, could make him guilty ; but a 
 prolonged imprisonment would leave Daisy and Mrs. 
 Snarle without means of support. This caused him 
 more anxiety than the thought of any suffering at 
 tendant on his conviction. 
 
 More than this troubled him. Tt was Daisy s 
 devotion. He had, indeed, wished her to believe 
 him innocent, but his generous mind revolted at 
 holding her to promises made in happier moments. 
 He could not make Daisy his wife while a 
 blemish remained on his honor ; and the circum 
 stances relative to the forged check, with which 
 the reader is conversant, he could not think of 
 revealing, for Snarle s dying words haunted him 
 strangely. 
 
 While Mortimer was thus meditating, two hands 
 grasped the iron bars of the window, which was 
 directly opposite the bed, and a moment afterwards 
 a man s head threw a shadow into the cell. 
 
 Mortimer, absorbed in thought, had failed to no 
 tice it. 
 
 The first expression of the face was that of mere 
 curiosity ; this was followed by a startled look, and 
 then an intense emotion distorted the features. The 
 face grew deathly pale, and the eyeballs glowed 
 
IN THE TOMBS. 169 
 
 into the cell, more resembling those of a wild-cat 
 than a human being s. 
 
 A deep groan came from the window, and the 
 head disappeared instantaneously. 
 
 Mortimer looked up and glanced around the nar 
 row room suspiciously, and then smiled to think 
 how his fancy had cheated him. 
 
 The face was Edward Walters. 
 
XIV. 
 
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 
 
 IL PENSEROSO. 
 
XIV. 
 
 A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING. 
 
 The Strange Visit The Lawyer Walter and Mr. Flint The 
 Clouds A Strip of Sunshine Mortimer. 
 
 ABOUT two hours after the incident related at 
 the close of our last chapter, Edward Walters 
 stepped from the door of Mrs. Snarle s house, waving 
 his hand kindly to Daisy, who stood on the steps, 
 and watched him till he turned out of Marion- 
 street. 
 
 But we must turn back a little. 
 
 After leaving the Tombs, our friend went in 
 search of Mortimer s residence, actuated by an im 
 pulse which he neither attempted to control nor 
 understand an impulse like that which had 
 prompted him to visit the prison. He was led into the 
 little parlor by Mrs. Snarle, to whom he represented 
 
174 A CLOUD WITH A SILVEE LINING. 
 
 himself as one deeply interested in the misfor 
 tunes of Mortimer, and desirous of assisting him. 
 His own astonishment surpassed that of Mrs. Snarle, 
 when he found her entirely ignorant of the arrest. 
 While he was speaking, and Mrs. Snarle who 
 stood with her hand on the back of a chair, from 
 which she had just risen was regarding him with 
 a vacant stare, Daisy stepped into the room, without 
 knowing that it was occupied. 
 
 Edward Walters ceased speaking, and fixed his 
 eyes on what, to him, seemed an apparition. He 
 had seen that pale, pensive face in his dreams for 
 years. It had followed him out to sea, and in far 
 lands where he sought to avoid it. He arose from 
 the sofa, and approached Daisy with hesitating steps, 
 as if he were afraid she would vanish into thin air 
 before he reached her. Daisy shrunk from him, and 
 looked inquiringly at her mother. Walters laid his 
 hand on the girl s arm. 
 
 " Sometimes," he said, looking her full in the 
 eyes " sometimes the mind wanders back to child 
 hood, and we have visions of pleasant fields and famil 
 iar places. Something we had forgotten comes back 
 to us in shadow voices, faces, incidents ! Did you 
 ever see a snow-storm in your thought?" 
 
 Daisy started as if in sudden pain. 
 
A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING. 175 
 
 Walters watched the effect of his question with 
 unconcealed emotion. 
 
 " Yes," said Daisy, lifting up her eyes wonder- 
 ingly. 
 
 " I knew it," said the man, abstractedly, taking 
 Daisy s hand. 
 
 The girl drew back in fear, and Mrs. Snarle step 
 ped hetween them. 
 
 " My words seem strange, lady ; but I knew her 
 when she was a babe." 
 
 And he turned his frank face to Daisy. 
 
 What do you know of me?" cried Daisy, grasp 
 ing his arm eagerly. 
 
 " Everything." 
 
 " O, sir, do not deal in mystery ! If you know 
 aught of this child s life, in mercy speak !" arid 
 Mrs. Snarle caught his hand. 
 
 " I can tell nothing now." 
 
 And with this he abruptly put on his hat, strode 
 into the hall and out of the front door, waving his 
 hand to Daisy, who, as we have said, stood on 
 the steps, and watched him till he was out of sight. 
 
 We will leave Mrs. Snarle and Daisy to their 
 astonishment, and follow on the quick footsteps of 
 our marine friend, to whom that day seemed crowded 
 with wonderful events. 
 
 It did not take lonsr for Walters to reach Wall- 
 
176 A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING. 
 
 street, where he disappeared in one of those many 
 law offices which fringe that somewhat suspected 
 and much-abused locality. On the door through 
 which Mr. Walters passed was a tin sign, bearing, 
 in gilt letters, 
 
 J. G. BURBANK, Attorney at Law. 
 
 What transpired between him and that gentle 
 man we will leave to the surmises of the reader. 
 After being closeted for an hour in a room whose 
 only furniture consisted of one or two green baize- 
 covered tables, piled with papers, and a book-case 
 crowded with solid-looking volumes, our friend turned 
 his thoughtful face toward the office of Messrs. Flint 
 & Snarle. 
 
 Mr. Flint looked up from his writing, and found 
 Edward Walters quietly seated beside him. They 
 had not met since the interview we described at 
 Mr. Flint s house ; and the captain s presence at 
 the present time was not a thing to be desired 
 by Mr. Flint. The visit looked ominous. Whatever 
 doubts he entertained respecting its object were im 
 mediately dispelled. 
 
 " I read the arrest in yesterday s paper," said 
 Walters. 
 
A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING. 177 
 
 Flint, with an effort, went on writing. 
 
 " And this morning I visited the boy in his cell." 
 
 " Well !" cried Flint, nervously. 
 
 " And I found my son, John Flint !" 
 
 Mr. Flint found himself cornered, and, like a rat 
 or any small animal, he grew cowardly desperate. 
 
 " You found a thief, sir a miserable thief." 
 
 We will do Mr. Flint the justice to say that he 
 considered Mortimer in that light. 
 
 O 
 
 " I am not sure of that, 1 was the calm reply. 
 " A man may be in prison, and yet be no felon ; 
 and I should doubt the guilt of any man whom 
 you persecuted. Bat I did not corne here to quarrel. 
 The boy is my son, and he must be released." 
 
 " Must be, Mr. Walters !" 
 
 " 1 think I said so." 
 
 Flint regarded him with his cold, cynical smile. 
 
 " John Flint, there is nothing I would not do to 
 serve the boy. There is nothing I will not do to 
 crush you if you persist in convicting him. I do not 
 know that he is innocent I do not know that he is 
 worthy of my love. I only know that he is my child." 
 
 There was an agony in the tone with which these 
 words were spoken that was music to Mr. Flint. He 
 smiled that undertaker s smile of his. 
 
 " The law must take its course," he said. " It 
 is impossible to stop that" 
 
 S 
 
178 A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING. 
 
 "Not so. The examination takes place this after 
 noon. If you do not appear against him, Morti 
 mer will be discharged. You have forgotten that I 
 have the letter" 
 
 11 Stop !" cried Flint, as Walters turned to the door, 
 and he assumed his usual, fawning, hypocritical air. 
 
 " If I do as you wish, what then?" 
 
 "You shall have the letter." 
 
 " What assurance have I of that ?" 
 
 " My word." 
 
 " Is that all ?" said Flint. " Would you take mine, 
 in such a case ?" 
 
 " No," replied Walters, with delightful candor. 
 " Your word is worthless. Mine was never broken. 
 Do we understand each other?" 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " There must be another stipulation." 
 
 " What is it ?" 
 
 " You are not to mention my name to Morti 
 mer. He does not know of my existence." 
 
 " I shall not be likely to meet him," returned 
 Flint, a little surprised. " I thought you had seen 
 him." 
 
 " I did through the bars of his cell." 
 
 And Mr. Flint was left alone in no enviable state of 
 mind. So absorbed was he in his disappointment, 
 that Tim several times that afternoon whistled 
 snatches from "Poor Dog Tray," with impunity. 
 
A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING. 179 
 
 The twilight came stealing into the room in which 
 Mrs. Snarle and Daisy were sitting. The food on the 
 supper table remained untouched. Neither of them 
 had spoken for the last half hour ; the twilight grew 
 denser and denser, and the shadows on their faces 
 deepened. Daisy had told her mother all the search, 
 of the officers for the necklace, her visit to the 
 Tombs, and Mortimer s protestation of innocence. 
 Mrs. Snarle never doubted it for a moment ; but 
 she saw how strong their evidence might be against 
 him. 
 
 " God only knows how it will end, Daisy." 
 
 "As God wills it, mother !" 
 
 As these words were said, a shadow fell across the 
 entry, and a pair of arms was thrown tenderly around 
 Daisy s neck. 
 
 " Mortimer !" 
 
XV. 
 
QUIN. Is all our company here? 
 
 MID-SUMMER S NIGHT DREAM. 
 
XV. 
 
 IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES. 
 
 A Picture The Lawyer s Note Mr. Hardwill once more 
 The Scene at the Law Office Mr. Flint Hors du Combat 
 Face to Face. 
 
 " MORTIMER!" 
 
 That was all Daisy said. 
 
 The candles were lighted, the dim, sad twilight 
 driven out of the room, and a happy trio sat 
 around the supper table. Mrs. Snarle smoothed her 
 silk apron complacently ; Daisy s eyes and smiles 
 were full of silent happiness ; and Mortimer, in 
 watching the variations of her face, all so charming, 
 forgot the misfortunes which had so recently threat 
 ened him. 
 
 Daisy gave Mortimer an account of the unknown s 
 strange visit; and, inexplicable to himself, Morti- 
 
184 IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES. 
 
 mer connected it in some way with his unex 
 pected release. 
 
 Soon after Mrs. Snarle had retired, the lovers 
 sat in the little room, which was only lighted by 
 a pleasant fire in the grate. Wavering fingers of 
 flame drew grotesque pictures on the papered walls ; 
 then a thin puff of smoke would break the en 
 chantment, and the fire-light tracery fled into the 
 shadows of the room. 
 
 It was a delicate picture. 
 
 Mortimer was sitting at Daisy s feet, playing with 
 the fingers of a very diminutive and dainty hand ; 
 Daisy was bending over him; and as the glow from 
 the fire came and \vent in their eyes, one could see 
 that a long brown tress of Daisy s hair rested on 
 Mortimer s. 
 
 What if their lips touched ? 
 
 " O !" cried Daisy, drawing back, " a note was 
 left here this afternoon, while you were in " 
 
 "The Tombs," finished Mortimer, smiling. 
 
 " Yes," replied Daisy. I was afraid to open it, 
 though." 
 
 " Were you ?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, laughing. "I thought it might 
 be from that charming young lady whom you assisted 
 to cross Broadway last month ; and of whom you 
 
IMPOETANT DISCLOSURES. 185 
 
 speak so pleasantly when I am the least bit out of 
 humor." 
 
 And the girl looked at him quizzically with her 
 impudent eyes. 
 
 Mortimer, by kneeling close to the fire, was ena 
 bled to read the note. 
 
 " That is strange read it, Daisy." 
 
 Daisy read : 
 
 " SIR, By calling at my office, No. Wall- 
 street, to-morrow, at 4 P. M., you will learn something 
 of importance. It is necessary that Mrs. Snarle and 
 her daughter should accompany you. 
 " Respectfully, 
 
 "J. C. BURBANK, 
 
 " Attorney at Law." 
 
 About the same hour that evening, Mr. Flint 
 received a communication of similar import, after 
 reading which, he said : 
 
 " Hum !" and thrust the note into his vest- 
 pocket. 
 
 Hum, indeed, Mr. Flint. There was something in 
 store for you. 
 
 The next morning Mortimer bethought himself 
 of his " Romance," and directed his steps toward the 
 sanctum of Mr. Hardwill. 
 
 He found that gentleman talking with three new 
 8* 
 
186 IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES. 
 
 geniuses in pantelets, who were attempting to con 
 vince the great Pub of his mistake in refusing to 
 " bring out" a pregnant-looking manuscript which 
 the authoress was holding in her hand with a ten 
 derness that was touching to behold. 
 
 When they had retired, Mr. Hardwill extended his 
 hand to Mortimer. 
 
 " Sharp young man," he said, displaying his white 
 teeth. " You didn t wish to appear anxious about 
 your book ; I was on the point of sending for 
 you. You were to have called on me three days 
 since. Well, sir, I like the story." 
 
 Mortimer bowed. 
 
 " Did you read it all, sir ?" 
 
 " I ? Not a line of it," returned Mr. Hardwill. 
 " I never look at anything but the size of the manu 
 script." 
 
 " Then you buy by the weight" said Mortimer, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Not precisely. I never publish anything of less 
 than four hundred pages. As to weight, I some 
 times find a MS. of the right size altogether too 
 heavy; but yours is not, my reader says." 
 
 " Your reader, sir ?" 
 
 u Yes, I am a mere business man," quoth Mr. 
 Hardwill, explanatorily. "I seldom read rny publi 
 cations. I merely sell them sometimes I don t do 
 
IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES. 187 
 
 that. I have a reader who looks over sizeable MSS., 
 and I abide by his judgment." 
 
 " Ah !" 
 
 <: He is a man of fine scholarship and literary at 
 tainments." 
 
 Mr. Hardwill might have added " and has the 
 sway of The Morning Rabid and The Evening 
 Twilight, " but he did not. 
 
 Arrangements were made to publish " Goldwood," 
 with the euphonious and " striking title" of " Pickle- 
 beet Papers." Now, whether " Picklebeet" was a 
 vegetable in vinegar, or the name of some charming 
 country-place, I cannot say ; but " Picklebeet/ 
 whatever it was, had as much to do with the con 
 tents of the book as the biography of my reader s 
 grandmother. 
 
 On what terms the " Picklebeet Papers" were 
 published, concern neither the reader nor myself; 
 but, while remarking, en passant, that the book, ow 
 ing to some extraordinary freak on the part of the 
 public, never went to a " second edition," we will fix 
 the hands of the city clock to suit ourselves. 
 
 It is 4 P. M. 
 
 Without further preamble, we will lead the reader 
 (mine, not Mr. Hardwill s) to Mr. Burbank s law 
 office, at which place the threads of our story be 
 come somewhat disentangled. We are not sorry at 
 
188 IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES. 
 
 this, (we doubt if the reader is,) for there is a satisfac 
 tion in rounding off a plot in coming to the last 
 page, where the author can write " FINIS" which no 
 one but a scribbler may know. But this pleasure 
 is not a little touched with regret, as he sweeps 
 the carefully- moved images from the chess-board of 
 his brain, and tells you in those five letters that 
 the game is finished. 
 
 The personages in the law office are not strangers 
 to us, if we except the lawyer. 
 
 Mrs. Snarle and Daisy, with their veils down, are 
 sitting in the back part of the room, and Morti 
 mer stands behind them, speaking in a low voice 
 to Daisy. 
 
 Edward Walters is seated at a desk, the screen 
 around which prevents him from being observed by 
 the first-described group. 
 
 Mr. Burbank, a dark-eyed, large-mouthed man, oc 
 cupies a table in the centre of the apartment, near 
 which is a chair for Mr. Flint, who has not yet made 
 his appearance. 
 
 This was the position of the parties on Mr. Flint s 
 entrance. 
 
 The merchant gave the lawyer three bony fingers, 
 bestowed a stiff, surprised bow on Mortimer, and 
 glanced suspiciously around him, evidently not lik 
 ing the company he was in. 
 
IMPOETANT DISCLOSURES. 189 
 
 Mr. Flint glanced inquiringly at the lawyer. 
 
 " As all the parties concerned in this meeting 
 are present," commenced the devotee of Blackstone, 
 " I will at once proceed to business. You are too 
 much of a business man, Mr. Flint, to require a pre 
 lude to interrogations which will explain them 
 selves." 
 
 Mr. Flint looked very doubtful. 
 
 The lawyer ran his fingers through a crop of 
 shaggy hair with professional dignity. 
 
 " It is something over twenty years since your bro 
 ther, Henry Flint, died, is it not ?" 
 
 The merchant nodded. 
 
 " He left no heirs I believe/ continued the 
 lawyer, with a delightful appearance of hesitation. 
 
 " He left one child," said Flint, nervously. Mr. 
 Flint did not like the turn which the conversa 
 tion was taking. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! A daughter, if I remember correctly. 
 Let me see, Maude Flint was the name." 
 
 (This slight dialogue caused Daisy s breath to 
 come and go quickly.) 
 
 " Maude Flint !" she whispered hastily to Mortimer. 
 " Listen ! M. F., the initials in the necklace !" 
 
 " I drew up the will at the time," said Mr. Bur- 
 bank, thoughtfully ; " but my memory has been tasked 
 with more important things." 
 
190 IMPOKTANT DISCLOSUKES. 
 
 He turned abruptly to Mr. Flint. 
 
 " What became of this child Maude ?" 
 
 " Died," returned Flint, briefly, with an uncom 
 fortable air. 
 
 " And the property ?" 
 
 " Came to me the child having no other rela 
 tive," said Flint, rallying. 
 
 The lawyer was silent for a moment. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Flint, suppose I should tell you that 
 your brother s child is still living, what would you 
 say?" 
 
 " I should say, sir," cried the startled merchant, 
 springing to his feet, " I should say, sir, that it was a 
 lie! I see through it all. This is a miserable con 
 spiracy to force money from me. Your plot, sir, is 
 transparent, and I see that snaky individual crawling 
 at the bottom of it." He pointed at Mortimer. 
 "But it won t do!" he thundered, "it won t do!" 
 
 " Of course it won t for you to get in a passion. 
 The man who gets into a passion," continued Mr. 
 Burbank, philosophically, " never acts with judgment. 
 And what is the use, Mr. Flint? I am acquainted 
 with all the circumstances of the child s disap 
 pearance ; indeed, I have a full account of them in 
 your own handwriting." 
 
 Mr. Flint turned white. 
 
 " This letter, which I shall give you by and by," 
 
IMPORTANT DISLOSURES. 191 
 
 said the man of law, "divulges a plot of villainy 
 which heaven happily thought fit to prostrate ; and I ll 
 prove the truth of what I say." 
 
 And the lawyer motioned for Daisy to approach 
 him. 
 
 She did so, mechanically. 
 
 " This lady," said Mr. Burbank, smiling blandly, 
 " is my first witness. Will you raise your veil ?" 
 
 Daisy complied with the request, and looked Mr. 
 Flint in the face. Flint turned his eyes on her with 
 such earnestness that she shrunk back. Then he 
 staggered to a chair, and exclaimed involuntarily : 
 
 " So help rne God, it is Henry s child !" 
 
 Edward Walters rested his hands on the desk, and 
 looked over the baize screen. 
 
 Mortimer stepped to Daisy s side. 
 
 "This necklace," he said, in a trembling voice, 
 " I return to the owner. It was my misfortune 
 to take it by mistake, and it is happiness to re 
 turn it to one who does not require any proof of 
 my innocence." 
 
 Daisy pressed his hand. 
 
 "Let me go!" exclaimed Mr. Flint. 
 
 "Presently, Mr. Flint. You must first witness 
 the denouement of our little drama." 
 
 With this the lawyer turned to Mortimer, and 
 handed him a paper. 
 
192 IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES. 
 
 "What this fails to explain relative to your 
 father, you must seek from his own lips." 
 
 " My father ! his lips !" repeated Mortimer, be 
 wildered. 
 
 He opened the paper. 
 
 " My father ! where is he ?" 
 
 " Mortimer !" cried Walters, pushing aside the 
 screen. 
 
 And they stood face to face. 
 
XVI. 
 
Our revels now are ended : these our actors, 
 As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
 Are melted into air, thin air : 
 And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, 
 The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
 And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
 Leave not a rack behind! 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
XVI. 
 
 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA. 
 
 Clap-TrapJohn Flint The Old House by the Sea- 
 Joe Wilkes Strephon and Chloe Tim Enjoying Him 
 selfEdward Walters and Little Bell A Last Word. 
 
 IT is an artistic little weakness we scribblers have 
 of seducing our dramatis personae into tableaux 
 vivants, and deserting them abruptly. In a story of 
 this kind, which depends rather on action than 
 fine writing for interest, this species of autorial clap 
 trap is very effective, if cleverly done. So we will 
 make no excuse for leaving nuestros amigos at the 
 lawyer s office, and drawing a green curtain, as it 
 were, on the actors of this humble comedy. 
 
 Some six years are supposed to have elapsed since 
 the drop-scene fell on our last act. 
 
196 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA. 
 
 From this out our story is rather a pantomime 
 than a play. We give pictures and figures, instead 
 of dialogues and soliloquies. Will the reader follow 
 us? 
 
 I. 
 
 Time has not touched Mr. Flint gently. His hair 
 is grayer, his step more feeble, and his eyes have 
 a lack-lustre look. His cravat is whiter and stiffer, 
 if possible, than ever; and he looks more religious. 
 God grant that he is so. But we doubt it. For to 
 such as he, nor April, with its purple-mouthed violets, 
 nor red ripe summer, with its wealth of roses, nor 
 the rich fruit-harvest of autumnal suns, bring wis 
 dom s goodness. The various months teach him no 
 lesson. Let him go. He came like a shadow into 
 our plot, so let him depart. He is not a myth, how 
 ever, but flesh and blood mortality ; and though we 
 have only outlined his weakness his love of gold, 
 his cold, intriguing spirit yet the sketch is such 
 that, if he looks at it, he w r ill have the felicity of 
 seeing himself as others see him ! 
 
 II. 
 
 It is a day in June, an hour before sunset. The 
 lanes leading to an old house situated between Ivyton 
 and the sea, are fringed with pink peach blossoms, 
 
THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA. 197 
 
 and the air is freighted with their odors. The 
 violets, with dew in their azure eyes, peep from 
 every possible nook ; and those sweet peris of the 
 summer wood, wild roses, are grouping everywhere. 
 Surely Titania has been in this spot, breathing ex 
 quisite beauty upon the flowers, or, perhaps, Flora s 
 dainty self. The blue-bells, these yellow-chaliced 
 butter-cups, are fit haunts for fairies, and, per 
 chance, wild Puck, or Prospero s good Ariel has 
 been slumbering in them. But let us draw near to 
 the fine old house which stands in this new Eden. It 
 was here that we first met the little castle-builders 
 the child Bell and Mortimer. The place is not 
 changed much. The same emerald waves break on 
 the white beach ; the same cherry-trees are spreading 
 their green tresses, and the simple churchyard sleeps, 
 as it used, in sunshine and shadow. 
 
 The house has been newly painted, and the fresh 
 green blinds make one feel a sense of shade and 
 coolness. The garden in front has been re-made 
 with a careful eye to its old beauties. The white 
 pebbled walks, the strawberry and clover beds, the 
 globes of pansies, and the clambering honey-suckle 
 vines, are all as they were years ago. Even the 
 groups of wild roses, by the door, bud and bloom 
 as if the autumn winds had never beaten them down. 
 
 We shall accuse the reader with having a bad 
 
198 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA. 
 
 memory, if he does not recognise Joe Wilkes in the 
 stalwart form and honest face of the gardener, who 
 occupies himself with tying up a refractory vine, 
 which persists in running wild over the new sum 
 mer-house. It is he, indeed the whilome jailor of 
 the Tombs, who has laid aside his ponderous prison- 
 keys, and taken up the shovel and the hoe. 
 
 III. 
 
 Two persons are standing at the " round window/ 
 where Bell and her brother used to linger, dreamily, 
 in the twilights of long ago. The rays of the set 
 ting sun glance over the waves, and fall on the faces 
 of Mortimer and Daisy Daisy Snarle no more, but 
 little Maude Walters. Their honey-moon has been 
 of six years duration, and to such as they, that sweet 
 moon of tenderness never wanes, but runs from full 
 to full never new and never old ! Strephon woes 
 Chloe as of yore. The lover, as in some antique 
 picture, is ever kneeling at the feet of his mistress, 
 and she, through the gathering of years, looks down 
 on him with the olden tenderness and the April 
 blushes of womanhood ! To such as they, life plays 
 on a dulcimer. The golden age is not dead to 
 them. They see the shepherd Daphnis seated on 
 the slopes of ^Etna, and hear him pipe to the nymph 
 Eschenais. This " bank-note world," to them, is 
 
THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA. 199 
 
 Arcady, and their lives are sweet and simple as 
 pastoral hymns ! 
 
 But we, the author of this MS,, are growing pas 
 toral ourselves, and Heaven forbid that we should 
 venture into a field which one of our poets has re 
 cently brought into disrepute by his indifferent blank 
 verse. 
 
 Mortimer, leaning on the sill of the window, is 
 looking at Daisy, who stands a little in the back 
 ground, with that kissable white hand of hers shad 
 ing the sun from as dangerous a pair of black eyes 
 as ever looked " no" when they meant " yes." She 
 is watching a speck of a boat, which is dancing up 
 and down on the waves like a cork. Mortimer has 
 just brought a telescope to bear on the distant ob 
 ject, and we, with that lack of good-breeding which 
 has characterized all romancers from time imme 
 morial, will look over his shoulder. The delighted 
 occupant of the boat is that audacious fellow, Tim, 
 who has taken a trip up to Ivyton from the great 
 city, to spend a week with " Mr. Mortimer." It 
 may be well to say that Tim Timothy Jones, Esq., 
 Mr. Reader has ceased to have a proclivity for 
 the " machine ;" and now-a-days, the City Hall alarm 
 bell never disturbs his equanimity. Indeed, he is 
 so metamorphosed by time and a respectable tailor, 
 that the gentle reader stands in some danger of not 
 
200 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA. 
 
 recognizing him at all. Hence the above formal 
 introduction. Just notice the set of those cream- 
 colored pants, falling without a wrinkle over those 
 mirror-like patent leathers, and the graceful curve 
 of that Shanghai over the hips! Just notice! And 
 more than all, that incipient moustache, which only 
 the utmost perseverance on the part of Tim and 
 Mr. Phalon has coaxed out into mundane existence ! 
 The writer of this veritable history has a great 
 mind to drown Tim for his impudence ; but as that 
 young gentleman has a good situation in a Front- 
 street commission-house, he refrains, for a capsize 
 a mile from land would considerably interfere with 
 Young America s prospects. 
 
 IV. 
 
 CAPTAIN EDWARD WALTERS sits on the door-step 
 of the old .house ; and through a curtain of honey 
 suckle vines, which he draws aside, is watching 
 the fawn-like motions of 
 
 " A six years loss to Paradise !" 
 
 Is it little Bell come back again? It is very like 
 her. Walters thinks so, as the child runs from 
 flower to flower like a golden-belted bee, and a mist 
 comes over his fine eyes, and he can scarcely see 
 his grandchild for tears. 
 
THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA. 201 
 
 His lips move, and perhaps he is saying : <l Little 
 Bell! Little Bell!" 
 
 And he thinks of the angel whom he left years 
 ago, playing on the partarre, in front of the gate. 
 He hears her clear, crystal laugh, and sees her 
 golden ringlets floating among the flowers, and can 
 not tell if they be curls or sunshine ! 
 
 The child in the garden resembles the dead Bell 
 as one white lily does another. She has the same 
 wavy tresses, shading the same dreamy eyes, with 
 their longing, languid expression. Her form has 
 the abandon of childhood, with a certain shadow of 
 dignity that is charming. She is very fragile and 
 spiritual ; and it seems to us as if Heaven, in mould 
 ing the child, had hesitated whether to make her 
 an Angel or a Flower, and so gave her the better 
 parts of each! 
 
 Let us take one more look at her sweet young 
 face 
 
 "A thing of beauty is a joy forever! 
 
 Its loveliness increases ; it will never 
 
 Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 
 
 A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
 
 Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing." 
 
 Little Bell holds an armful of lilacs against her 
 bosom; and, with her eyes running over with child 
 ish merriment, trips toward the house ; but two arms 
 
 9 
 
202 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA. 
 
 stretching out from the vines catch her. She utters 
 a pretty scream, and then sits quietly on Walters 
 knee. He kisses her laughingly ; but his face grows 
 serious as his eyes fall on a string of almond-shaped 
 pearls which encircle the child s delicate neck ; on 
 the innocent white bosom Jies a 
 
 It is DAISY S NECKLACE ; that is WHAT CAME OF 
 IT ; and here, gentle reader, is 
 
 THE END OF THE CHAIN. 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
DON SEBASTIAN. You have no plot. 
 
 FABRIC 10. But such characters ! and every one is as true 
 
 as truth: copied right of from nature. 
 DON SEBASTIAN. Badly done, sir Poet. 
 
 LOPE DE VEGA. 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 " WHAT a mournful glory falls upon the October 
 woods ! It seems as if a broken rain-bow were 
 strained through a sieve of gray clouds, and sprinkled 
 over the crisp leaves. Ochre, vermillion, dappled 
 russet, and all rare tintings ! And then the wind 
 that rushes so gloriously through the woodlands, 
 bearing with it a rich, earthy smell, and scattering 
 the purple wealth, the hoarded gold of the autumnal 
 days! Pleasant Forest, with your oaken harps! 
 Pleasant little Town, lying quietly in sunshine and 
 moonlight how sad I was to leave ye ! Pleasant 
 River, that stealest up from the sea, past the fort 
 
206 EPILOGUE. 
 
 and into the old weather-beaten seaport town 
 crawling lazily among the rotting piers of deserted 
 wharves, then gliding off through the shaky bridge, 
 squirming and curveting into a world of greenery, 
 like a great serpent with an emerald back ! And 
 the girls ! Village belles, rustic flirts eyes, lips, 
 shady curls, white hands, little feet, enchanting 
 pouts ah, me ! 
 
 " Pleasant it was when woods were green, 
 And winds were soft and low " 
 
 This rhapsodical soliloquy was interrupted one 
 fine October morning, two days after my return 
 from the sea-side, by a voice there was no mistaking. 
 It was Barescythe, who startled Mrs. Muggins with 
 the following pertinent inquiry : 
 
 * Prolific producer of sea-prodigies, is Ralph at 
 home ?" 
 
 I could not see Mrs. Muggins face, for that good 
 soul was standing at the foot of the stairs; but I 
 knew her feelings were injured, and I hastened out 
 of my room to prevent any verbal combat that might 
 ensue. 
 
 MRS. MUGGINS, (after a long silence, and with 
 some asperity) " What, sir ?" 
 
 BARESCYTHE, (petulantly) "Is Ralph in, Sycorax?" 
 
 What reply the " relick" of Joshua Muggins might 
 
EPILOGUE. 207 
 
 have made to this interrogation, is only to be 
 imagined ; for I immediately " discovered" myself, to 
 use a theatrical phrase, and led my solemn friend 
 from hostile ground. 
 
 " My dear Barry," said I, after greeting him cor 
 dially, "you shouldn t" 
 I "Shouldn t what?" 
 
 " Call Mrs. Muggins names." 
 
 l( Sycorax ? She deserved it. Women are Cleo- 
 patras until they are thirty, then they are old 
 witches with broomstick propensities ! Don t in 
 terrupt me. Don t speak to me." 
 
 I choked down a panegyric on Woman, for I 
 knew that Barry was thinking of a cold, heartless 
 piece of femininity that, years and years ago, forgot 
 her troth to an honest man, and ran away with a 
 moustache and twenty-four gilt buttons. I could 
 never see why he regretted it, for Mrs. Captain 
 Mary O Donehugh never stopped growing till she 
 could turn down a two hundred weight; and she. 
 looks anything but interesting, with her long file of 
 little O Donehughs nascent captains and middies 
 in the bud ! 
 
 I knew that Barescythe was not in a mood to 
 be critically just, yet, for the sake of turning his 
 thoughts into different channels, i glanced signifi- 
 cantlv at the MS. under his arm. 
 
208 EPILOGUE. 
 
 "My Novel," I ventured. 
 
 " Like the man in the play," said Barescythe, 
 "the world should ask somebody to write it down 
 an ass !" 
 
 With which, he threw the manuscript on the 
 table before me. 
 
 His remark was uttered with such an air of logic, 
 that I nodded assent, for I never disagree with lo 
 gicians. 
 
 "The world is wide-mouthed, long-eared, and 
 stupid it will probably like that affair of yours, 
 though I doubt if the book sells." 
 
 And Barry pointed to the curled up novel on the 
 table. 
 
 I bowed with, "I hope it will." 
 
 " The world," he continued, " that gave Milton 
 10 for Paradise Lost, ought surely to be in 
 ecstacies over DAISY S NECKLACE." 
 
 " Barry," said I, somewhat nettled, " is it my good 
 nature, or your lack of it, that seduces you into 
 saying such disagreeable things ?" 
 
 * Neither, Ralph, for I no more lack good nature 
 than you possess it. But we wont quarrel. I am 
 is ore because the day of great books has gone by ! 
 Once we could boast of giant minds : we have only 
 pigmies now." 
 
 "But let them speak, Barry. There may be some 
 
EPILOGUE, 209 
 
 among us that are not for a day. Who foresaw in 
 the strolling player, in the wild, thoughtless Will 
 Shakspeare of Stratford-upon-Avon, the Dramatist 
 of all time ? Your pet Homer was a mendicant. 
 Legions of our best poets were not acknowledged, 
 until the brain that thought, was worn out, the hand 
 that toiled, cold, and the lips that murmured, pa 
 tient forever ! 
 
 So angels walked unknown on earth, 
 But when they flew were recognized ! 
 
 What if my poor story is stale and flat beside the 
 chef-d oeuvre of Sir Walter Scott s genius ? Barry, 
 there is a little bird in our New-England woods 
 known only by its pleasant chirp ; yet who would 
 break its amber bill because the nightingales in 
 eastern lands warble so deliciously ?" 
 
 Barry laughed. 
 
 " There you come, Ralph, with your bird-conceits! 
 You flap the wings of some thread-bare metaphor 
 in my face, and I cannot see for the fealhers ! You 
 are not a man to argue with. Poetical men never 
 are: they make up in sentiment what they lack in 
 sense ; and very often it happens that a bit of poetry 
 is more than a match for a piece of logic. No 
 more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me. Your book 
 
210 EPILOGUE. 
 
 is a miserable one. All your voluble ingenuity can 
 not controvert that." 
 
 Barry s better nature had slipped out of him for 
 a moment into the sunshine, like a turtle s head ; 
 but it slipped back again, and the speech that com 
 menced with a laugh ended with a snarl. 
 
 " It shows," he said, rumpling the manuscript 
 with a careless hand, " a want of Art. The con 
 struction of the tale is crude : the characters are 
 all old friends with new names broken-down stage- 
 horses with new harnesses and the prose through 
 out is uneven. How can it be otherwise, since it 
 is only an intolerable echo of Hood, Dickens, and 
 Charles Reade? Your want of artistic genius is 
 shown in taking three chapters to elaborate "little 
 Bell," who has no kind of influence in working out 
 the plot, and who dies conveniently at Chapter III. 
 Your imitative proclivities are prominent in the 
 chapter headed A Few Specimens of Humanity. 
 Was ever anything more like the author of The 
 Old Curiosity Shop V Your short, jerky sentences 
 are modeled after Reade s Peg Woffington, and 
 Christie Johnstone, or any of Dumas thefts. As 
 to the plot, that is altogether too improbable and 
 silly for serious criticism. And then the title, 
 Daisy s Necklace Betsy s Garter! " 
 
 * Ah, Barry, this is only Fadladeen and Feramorz 
 
EPILOGUE. 211 
 
 over again ! Do you remember that after all the 
 strictures of the eastern savant, Feramorz turned 
 out to be not only a Poet but a Prince ? I could 
 take you to be * Blackwood slashing an American 
 book, rather than a Yankee editor looking over a 
 friend s virgin novel. You are like all critics, 
 Barry. They ignore what might please them greatly 
 if they had not their critical behavior on, and grow 
 savage over that part of an author which they should 
 speedily forget like a dog on a country highway, 
 that turns up his cold nose at the delicate hedge- 
 blossoms, and growls over a decayed bone ! So you 
 find nothing to admire in my sixteen chapters ?" 
 "Not much." 
 
 " Then say a good word for that little." 
 " There are some lines, Ralph, some whole para 
 graphs, may be, that would be very fine in a poem ; 
 but in an every-day novel they are strikingly out 
 of place. Your jewels, (heart-jewels I suppose you 
 call em,) seem to me like diamonds on the bosom 
 of a calicoed and untidy chambermaid. That senti 
 mental chapter with The Dead Hope caption, 
 is quite as good as your blank verse, and I would 
 wager a copy of Griswold s * Poets of America, 
 against a doubtful three-cent piece, that you wrote 
 it in rhyme it s not very difficult, you know, to 
 turn your poetry into prose. You needn t stare. 
 
212 EPILOGUE. 
 
 In a word, your book is as tame as a sick kitten 
 I hate kittens : there s something diabolical in a 
 yellow cat !" 
 
 I nipped a smile in the bud, and said, quietly : 
 
 " I intended to write a tame, simple domestic 
 story. The facts are garnered from my own ex 
 perience, and- " 
 
 "Garnered from your maternal grandparent, Ralph! 
 Very much I believe it. Very much anybody will. 
 It s a wonder to me that you didn t call the book 
 Heart-life by an Anatomy !" 
 
 " I will acknowledge, Barescythe, that I nave not 
 done my best in this affair. * Yet consider/ as Fa- 
 bricio says in the play, twas done at a sitting : a 
 single sitting, by all the saints ! I will do better 
 when I have those pistoles, and may use time. 7 
 Local tales of this school have been popular. I 
 wrote mine to sell." 
 
 "But it wont." 
 
 Why ?" 
 
 " Let s see. How many sunsets have you in 
 the book?" 
 
 " Not many, I think." 
 
 "That was an oversight. There should be one 
 at the end of each chapter twenty sunsets at 
 least. Then you have no seduction." 
 
 "A seduction? horrified. 
 
EPILOGUE. 213 
 
 "Of course. What modern novel is complete 
 without one ? It gives a spicy flavor to the story. 
 People of propriety like it. Prim ladies of an un 
 certain age always dote on the gallant, gay Lo 
 thario, and wish that he wasn t so very wicked !" 
 
 And Barry raised his eye-brows, and broke out 
 in such a clear, bell-like, canorous laugh so con 
 tagious in its merriment, that I joined him ; and I 
 fancied 1 heard Mrs. Muggins beating a hasty re 
 treat down the front stairs. It seems improbable to 
 me that Mrs. Muggins had been listening at the 
 key-hole of my door respectable Mrs. Muggins. 
 
 " Then, sir," said Barry, re-assuming his mock- 
 serious air, " there should be a dreadful duel, in 
 which the hero is shot in his hyacinthine curls, 
 fails mortally wounded, dripping all over with gory 
 blood, and is borne to his ladye-love on a shutter ! 
 You have none of these fine points. Then the 
 names of your characters are absurdly common 
 place. Mortimer Walters should be Montaldo St. 
 Clare : Daisy Snarle, (how plebeian !) should be Ger 
 trude Flemming : John Flint, Clarence Lester, and 
 so on to the end of the text. How Mrs. Mac Ele 
 gant will turn up her celestial nose at a book written 
 all about common people !" 
 
 "Mrs. Mac Elegant be shot!" I exclaimed. I 
 used to be sweet on Mrs. Mac Elegant, and Bare- 
 
214 EPILOGUE. 
 
 scythe has a disagreeable way of referring to that 
 delicate fact. " It was not for such as she I wrote. 
 I sought to touch that finer pulse of humanity which 
 throbs the wide world over. The sequel will prove 
 whether or not I have failed." 
 
 Barry laughed at my ill-concealed chagrin. 
 
 < Barry," said I, carelessly, meditating a bit of 
 revenge, and unfolding at the same time a copy of 
 trie Morning Glory, "did you write the book criti 
 cisms in to-day s paper?" 
 
 " Yes," returned Barry, coloring slightly. 
 
 "They are very fine." 
 
 Barry s blood went up to his forehead. 
 
 * So consistent," I continued, " with what you 
 have been saying. I have neither read The Scaven 
 ger s Daughter? nor The Life of Obadiah Zecariah 
 Jinkings ; but, judging from the opinion here ex 
 pressed, I take them to be immortal works. I could 
 never be led to think so by reading the extracts you 
 have made from the volumes, for the prose is badly 
 constructed. Indeed, Barry, here s a sentence which 
 lacks a personal pronoun and a verb." 
 
 I see what you are aiming at," replied Bare 
 scythe, sharply. " You twit me with praising these 
 books so extravagantly. I grant you that worse 
 trash was never in type, (DAISY is not printed yet, 
 
EPILOGUE. 215 
 
 you know,) but will you allow me to ask you a 
 question ?" 
 
 " Si usted gusta, my dear fellow." 
 
 "Do you think that Gabriel Ravel, at Niblo s, 
 turns spasmodic summersets on a chalked rope for 
 the sake of any peculiar pleasure derived therefrom ?" 
 
 " Why, Barry, I can scarcely imagine anything 
 more unpleasant than to be turned upside down, 
 fifteen feet from maternal earth, with an undeniable 
 chance of breaking one s neck, on a four-inch rope. 
 But why do you ask ?" 
 
 " M. Ravel distorts himself for a salary, and no 
 questions asked. I do the same. I throw literary 
 summersets for a golden consideration. It is a very 
 simple arrangement" here Barescythe drew a dia 
 gram on the palm of his hand " Messrs. Printem, 
 & Sellem (my thumb) give us, The Morning Glory/ 
 (my forefinger) costly advertisements, and I, Bare- 
 scythe, (the little finger) am expected to laud all 
 the books they publish." 
 
 Out of respect to Barescythe, I restrained my 
 laughter. 
 
 He went on, with a ruthful face : 
 
 " Here is * The Life of Jinkings the life of a 
 puppy I an individual of whom nobody ever heard 
 till now, a very clever, harmless, good man in his 
 way, no doubt, the big gun of a little village, but 
 
216 EPILOGUE. 
 
 no more worthy of a biography than a printer s 
 devil !" 
 
 With which words, Barescythe hit an imaginary 
 Mr. Jinkings in the stomach with evident satis 
 faction. 
 
 " Yet I am called upon to tell the world that this 
 individual, this what do you call him ? Jinkings 
 is one of the luminaries of the age, a mental Her 
 cules, a new Prometheus the clown! Why on 
 earth did his friends want to resurrectionize the in 
 sipid incidents of this man s milk-and-water existence ! 
 If he made a speech on the introduction of a 
 Town-pump, or delivered an essay at the Bell 
 Tavern it was very kind of him, to be sure : but 
 why not bury his bad English with him in the 
 country church-yard ? I wish they had, for I am 
 expected to say that ten thousand copies of the 
 work have been sold, when I know that only five 
 hundred were printed ; or else Messrs. Printem & 
 Sellem withdraw their advertisements, in which 
 case my occupation s gone ! And this Scavengers 
 Daughter a book written by a sentimental school 
 girl, and smelling of bread-and-butter see how I 
 have plastered it all over with panegyric !" 
 
 " And so, Barry," I said, with some malice, "}^ou 
 wantingly abuse my book, because I cannot injure 
 you pecuniarily." 
 
EPILOGUE. 217 
 
 "Perhaps I do," growled Barescythe. "It is a 
 relief to say an honest thing now and then ; but 
 wait, Ralph, till I start The Weekly Critique, then 
 look out for honest, slashing criticism. No longer 
 hedged in by the interests and timidity of the 
 proprietors/ I shall handle books for themselves, 
 and not their advertisements 
 
 Friendly to all, save caitiffs foul and wrong, 
 But stern to guard the Holy Land of Song. " 
 
 " What a comment is this on American criticism ! 
 O, Barry, it is such men as you, with fine taste and 
 fine talent, who bring literature into disrepute. Your 
 genius gives you responsible places in the world of 
 letters, and how you wrong the trust !" 
 
 " Thank you," returned Barescythe, coldly, " you 
 blend flattery and insult so ingeniously, that I hesi 
 tate whether to give you the assurance of my dis 
 tinguished consideration, or knock you down." 
 
 " Either you please, Barry. I have spoken quite as 
 honestly, if not so bluntly as you ; and I regret that 
 I have so little to say in favor of your inconsistent 
 criticism. I am sorry you dislike my novel, but " 
 
 I looked toward the chair in which Barescythe 
 had been sitting. 
 
 He was gone. 
 
 I was not surprised, for Barry does few things 
 
218 EPILOGUE. 
 
 " after the manner of men," and a ceremonious de 
 parture is something he never dreams of. 1 sat 
 and thought of what had been said. I wondered 
 if we were the dregs of time, the worthless leaves 
 of trees that had borne their fruit if there were 
 none among us, 
 
 " Like some of the simple great ones gone 
 Forever and ever by !" 
 
 And lastly, I wondered if any of our city papers 
 had such a critical appendage as T. J. Barescythe. 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 219 
 
 IT is pleasant to have your friend Mr. Smith 
 pat you patronisingly on the back, and say, " My 
 dear fellow, when is your book coming out?" 
 
 Of course, you send Mrs. Smith a copy after 
 that and all Mrs. Smith s relations. 
 
 "DAISY S NECKLACE" is nearly ready. The fol- 
 lowing advertisement, which I cut from " The Even 
 ing Looking Glass" of last Thursday, illustrates the 
 manner in which " my publishers," Messrs. 
 Printem & Sellem, make their literary announce 
 ments : 
 
 " We have in Press, and shall publish in the 
 course of a few days, a New Work of 
 rare merit, entitled 
 
 DAISY S NEGELACE, 
 
 &nU tojmt came of it. 
 A THRILLING NOVEL, SURPAS- 
 
 ing, in pathos and quiet satire, 
 the most felicitous efforts of Dickens ! ! 
 
 PRINTEM & SELLEM, 
 
 Publishers." 
 
220 EPILOGUE. 
 
 That was rather modest and pleasant ; but it is 
 pleasanter than all to have an early copy of your 
 book placed on the breakfast-table, unexpectedly, 
 some sunshiny morning to behold, for the first 
 time, the darling of your meditation in a suit of 
 embossed muslin. How your heart turns over if 
 you are not used to the thing. How you make 
 pauses between your coffee and muffins, to admire 
 the clear typography, the luxurious paper, the gold 
 letters on the back ! 
 
 Messrs. Printem & Sellem sent me two out-of- 
 town papers, containing notices of " DAISY." These 
 notices were solicited by advance copies of the work, 
 for the purpose of being used in the publication 
 advertisement. It is curious to remark how great 
 minds will differ. 
 
 [From the Blundertown Journal. ] 
 "NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 " DAISY S NECKLACE, AND WHAT CAME 
 OF IT. New-York : Printem and 
 Sellem. 
 
 THIS production is an emanation 
 from the culminating mind of glorious 
 genius ! Nothing like it has been pro 
 duced in this century. It possesses all 
 the fine elements of Dickens novels, 
 without any of their numerous defects. 
 
EPILOGUE. 221 
 
 Its scope, its pathos, and wit, is* be 
 yond all praise. Our Britannic breth 
 ren will no longer ask, Who reads 
 an American book? For we can re 
 ply, < The World ! 
 
 " We learn, from good authority, that 
 the publishers have received orders for 
 twenty thousand copies of the work, in 
 advance of its publication. We have no 
 doubt of it ; for Daisy s Necklace will 
 shed new lustre on the name of Ameri 
 can Literature 1 Envious authors will 
 abuse the work. As the immortal Goethe 
 says, f De gustibus non est disputan- 
 dum / Our rush of advertisements pre 
 vents us from making voluminous ex 
 tracts from the novel ; this, however, 
 would be useless, as everybody will 
 read it for themselves. 
 
 " Orders addressed to HIGGINS & Co., 
 of this town, will be promptly filled." 
 
 I should take the editor of the " Blundertown 
 Journal" to be a man of cultured taste, apprecia 
 tive and discriminating. The second review was 
 not quite so " favorable," and can scarcely be called 
 " a first-rate notice." 
 
 * Barescythe says, that the wrong verb used in this paragraph is what edi 
 tors call " a typographical error." 
 
222 EPILOGUE. 
 
 [From the Frogpond Gazette.] 
 " DAISY S NECKLACE" is the silly 
 title of an absurd novel about to be is 
 sued by Printem & Sellem, of New- 
 York. From the fact that the author s 
 name is withheld from the title-page, 
 we infer that he had some friends 
 some few who were not wholly willing 
 that he should make a donkey of him 
 self. We have read a great deal of 
 trash in our day; but Daisy s Neck 
 lace is the king of all vapid novels, 
 sentimental in sentiment, flaccid in 
 fiction, and entirely intolerable from be 
 ginning to end. The first forty pages 
 put us to sleep. We advise all druggists 
 to keep the book for sale, as an ano 
 dyne. 
 
 " The binding is good, and that is 
 all the praise we can give so contemp 
 tible an abortion. A reading public 
 that tolerates a novel like this, must be 
 made up of very good-natured persons 
 assinine in temperament, and mentally 
 obtuse. 
 
 This work, we presume, is written 
 by that much-abused and prolific myth 
 < a young gentleman of this city/ 
 distinguished, of course. We believe 
 that he writes all of Printem & Sellem s 
 books. At all events, those enterpris- 
 
EPILOGUE. 223 
 
 ing gentlemen always have a start 
 ling novel in press, from his immor 
 tal pen. What a long string of sins 
 these gentlemen have to answer for ! 
 What a commotion there would be 
 among the shelves of their book-store, 
 if dead authors could come back and 
 reclaim stolen property 1 If the shade 
 of Lindley Murray could stalk among 
 them! 
 
 " For our part, we had rather see 
 the Hudson River Bailroad s list of 
 dead and wounded/ than Printem & 
 Sellem s list of Popular Publications T 
 But it is consoling to know that books 
 like Daisy s Necklace/ in spite of pur 
 chased puffery/ find their level at last 
 as linings for portmanteaus and third- 
 rate trunks. We shall make cigar-light 
 ers of our copy, and thank the stars 
 that we were not born a book-making 
 genius 1" 
 
 Not a line quoted to prove the justice of the un 
 strained censure ! I could not account for the malig 
 nant personality of this critique, until Barry informed 
 me that my publishers never advertised their books 
 in the columns of the " Frogpond Gazette." This, of 
 course, explained it. I only wish I had the stub 
 born editor of the "Frogpond" at arm s length, I 
 would try the consistency of his ears. 
 
224 EPILOGUE. 
 
 I was somewhat astonished, the next day, to find 
 how ingeniously Messrs. Printem & Sellem made 
 the adverse criticism subservient to their interests. 
 My lucubration was out. 
 
 The " Post" said so ; the " Morning Rabid" said it ; 
 the " Evening Looking-Glass" said it ; and a host of 
 small fry echoed the important fact. I unfolded 
 " The Rabid," and beheld the following advertise 
 ment : 
 
 " PUBLISHED THIS DAY, 
 
 A Novel of Unprecedented Power, entitled, 
 
 DAISY S NECKLACE, 
 
 AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 rnilE < FROGPOND GAZETTE, 
 (high authority), in a long review 
 of this work, says : Daisy s Necklace 
 is the King of all Novels. 
 
 1 The Blundertown Journal* (also 
 high authority) remarks : 
 
 This Book is an emanation from the 
 culminating mind of glorious genius ! 
 
 1 Nothing like it has been produced 
 in this century / 
 
 1 It has all the fine elements of 
 Dickens 1 Novels, without any of their 
 numerous defects / 
 
EPILOGUE. 225 
 
 Our first edition (20,000 copies) is 
 exhausted, and we beg our friends to 
 have patience for a few days. 
 
 WANTED, 4,000 Agents to sell the 
 above work ! ! 
 
 PRINTEM & SELLEM, 
 
 Publishers" 
 
 " Four thousand agents !" quoth Barry, looking 
 over my shoulder ; " I rather think it would take 
 forty thousand to sell an edition of DAISY ! " 
 
 I laughed at my irate friend, and, igniting a fresh 
 regalia, crossed my feet on the mantelpiece, and re 
 marked, composedly, 
 
 " Now for the Critics !" 
 
 FINIS. 
 
ERRATUM. 
 
 THE Greek of my book-making genius, Ralph Esq., 
 
 seems decidedly rusty. He has evidently given his lexicon an 
 icy shoulder. Will the intellectual and erudite reader substitute 
 kyrie eleyson for kyrie elyson on page 131 ? 
 
C_A.TA_:LOGTJE 
 
 DERBY & JACKSON S PUBLICATIONS, 
 
 By MARION HARLAND, 1 vol. 12mo., 384 pp., nineteenth thou 
 
 sand, ............................................... $1 25 
 
 TUE SAME full gilt sides and edges, ........................... 2 25 
 
 THE SAME Turkey morocco, and antique, ...................... 3 50 
 
 THE HIDDEN 
 
 By MARION HARLAXD, Author of " Alone," 1 vol. 12mo., 
 
 434 pp., seventeenth thousand, ................ ........ 1 25 
 
 THE SAME full gilt sides and edges, ........................... 2 25 
 
 TUE SAME Turkey morocco and antique, ..................... 350 
 
 ALONE" and " HIDDEN PATH" are two of the most successful 
 works issued from the American press. The stories are 
 interesting ; the language pure ; the plot natural and inte 
 resting ; and the moral excellent. Rival editions have 
 been published, with great success, in England, France, 
 and Germany. 
 
 TUE B^LIOOJT TRAVELS OF 
 
 Merry and his Young Friends, over various Countries of 
 Europe, by PETER PARLEY, with eight illustrations, 1 vol. 
 12mo., 312 pp.. ................ ...................... 1 00 
 
 TUE SAME full gilt sides and edges, ........................... 150 
 
 GILUEUT 
 
 lures and Travels in Foreign Parts, by PETER PARLEY, 
 
 eight Illustrations, 1 vol. 12mo., 295 pp.. ................. 1 00 
 
 THE SAME full gilt sides and edges, .......... . ................ 1 
 
 %* The world-wide reputation of PETER PARLEY as an inte 
 resting and instructive writer for the young, is a suffi 
 cient guarantee of the excellence of the above two 
 volumes. 
 
DERBY & JACKSON S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 Retail. 
 
 or, Experiences or ^trt and 
 
 Nature, by HEXRY WARD BEECHER, one elegant 12mo. vol., 
 
 359 pp.. twenty-fifth thousand, ........................ $1 25 
 
 THE SAME full gilt sides and edges, .................. . ....... 2 25 
 
 THE SAME Turkey morocco antique, with portrait, .............. 350 
 
 counTsnip ^urn ITS COJTSE- 
 
 quences, by HENRY WIKOFF, a true account of the Author s 
 Adventures in England, Switzerland, and Italy, with Miss 
 J. C. Gamble, of Portland Place, London, 1 elegant 12mo.. 
 cloth, ............................................... 1 25 
 
 " The extraordinary sensation produced in literary circles 
 by Mr. Wikoffs charming romance of real life, is 
 exhausting edition after edition of his wonderful book. 
 The ladies are sure to devour it. It is better and 
 more exciting than any modern romance, as it is a 
 detail of facts, and every page proves conclusively 
 that the plain, unvarnished tale of truth is often stran 
 ger than fiction." 
 
 CHILD, 
 
 By HARRIETT A. OLCOTT, a thick 12mo., 504 pp., .......... ) 25 
 
 This is a charming and intensely interesting story ; the 
 incidents are novel, and effectively managed ; the moral, 
 unexceptionable. Says the Detroit Daily Jldvei tizr.r 
 " This book starts off with its chapter first, and intro 
 duces the reader at once to the heroes and incidents of 
 the really charming story. He will speedily find himself 
 interested as well by the graceful style and the skill with 
 which the different scenes are arranged, as by the beauty 
 of the two principal characters, and the lessons of loving 
 faith, hope, and patience, which will meet him at the 
 turning of almost every leaf. 
 
 THE TOIICIILIG-IIT; or, Through the Wood, 
 
 By H. A. OLCOTT, 12mo., ............................... 1 25 
 
 FEMALE LIFE AMOJTG THE 
 
 I vol. 12mo., with a view of Salt Lake City, by MARIAH 
 
 WARD, 450 pp., ...................................... 1 00 
 
 %* The above is a narrative of many years personal expe 
 rience by the Wife of a Mormon Elder, recently from 
 Utah. The book is full of disclosures of the suffer 
 ings and indignities endured by Females in the Mor 
 mon Country. It has created an intense excitement, 
 and is selling with great rapidity. 
 
DERBY & JACKSON S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 Authentic HUtory of the Memorable Achievements of tbe 
 American Army, under Andrew Jackson, before New 
 Orleans, in the Winter of 1814-15, by ALEXANDER 
 WALKER. With a frontispiece, 12mo., ................ $1 25 
 
 LOJT& LOOK ^HE^tO; or, the First 
 
 Stroke and the Last, by A. S. ROE, 1 vol. 12mo., 411 pp., ____ 1 25 
 
 JKOWTJOY; or, Tve been Think- 
 
 ing, by A. S. ROE, 1 vol., 12mo., 327 pp., ............ ____ 1 00 
 
 TO LOVE ^jrn TO BE LOJTEO; 
 
 Time and Tide, or Strive to Win. by A. S. ROE, two vols. in 
 one, 433 pp., ........................................ l 25 
 
 Mr. ROE S works are characterized for their charming sim 
 plicity and purity. They have a freshness and natu 
 ralness but seldom found in works of this kind. The 
 impression of the story is admirably calculated to 
 inspire the young with sentiments of self-reliance, 
 honor, and integrity, and to produce charity and a 
 good feeling in all. They have been published in 
 Europe, with great success ; and they are spoken of by 
 eminent critics, as works of very high order, and posi 
 tive merits. 
 
 SMITH 
 
 1 vol. 12mo., illustrated, 326 pp., ............... 1 25 
 
 The Louisville Journal says " Our readers need no 
 introduction from us to Bell Smith. Her own 
 brilliant pen, and her own sparkling, witching, 
 and delightful style have so often graced the columns 
 of this paper, and have made so many friends and 
 admirers for her, that we need say but little toward 
 creating a demand for this charming volume. But 
 some tribute is, nevertheless, due to Bell Smith 
 for the real pleasure she has imparted in every 
 chapter of her book, and that tribute we cheerfully 
 pay. Her admirable powers seem so much at home 
 in every variety and phase of life, that she touches 
 no subject without making it sparkle with the lights 
 of her genius." 
 
 The volume has a steel portrait of the English Belle at 
 Paris ; also, of Rachel, <&c., &c., <fec. 
 
DERBY & JACKSON S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 Stoks nf Siiitmrair 
 
 Re toil. 
 
 WIDOW* REDOTT PAPERS, 
 By FRANCES M. WHITCIIER. With an introduction by ALICE 
 B. NEAL, one vol. 12mo., with eight spirited illustrations, 
 fourteenth thousand, ................................ $1 25 
 
 DOWN E4ST; or, Portraiture of 
 
 Yaukee Life, 1 vol. 12ino., illustrated, 384 pp.,. . ........... 1 00 
 
 THE LIFE *&JTD SJLYIJTG-S OF MRS. JPfl{. 
 
 tington, by B. P. SHILLABER, 1 vol. 12mo., forty-three illus 
 
 trations, twentieth thousand, ......................... 1 25 
 
 TIKE SPdiRROW&RdiSS PAPERS, 
 
 By FREDERICK S. COZZENS, illustrated by Darley, 1 vol. 12mo. 1 00 
 
 THE PUDDLEFORD PAPERS; or, Stray 
 
 Pictures in the Wilderness. 12mo., illustrated (in press),. ... 1 00 
 
 THE BUJTSRY PAPERS; or, Irish Echoes, 
 
 by JJHN BROUGHAM, 12mo., illustrated, ................... 1 00 
 
 Itenkri 
 
 LIFE OF JSEJTJ. 
 
 Written by Himself, beautifully illustrated, 1 vol. 8vo., 550 pp. 2 00 
 
 LIFE OF G-EJTER**!, FRAJTCIS JW^SIIOJT, 
 
 by W. GILMORE SIMMS, 1vol. 12mo., profusely illustrated,. . 1 25 
 
 LIFE OF GEJT. Jr.THJ[jriEL G- RE EWE, 
 
 by W. GILMORE SIMMS, 1 vol. 12mo., illustrated, 350 pp.,. ... 1 25 
 
 LIVES OF THE SIGNERS OF THE DE- 
 claration of American Independence, with a Sketch of the 
 Leading Events connected with the Adoption of the Arti 
 cles of Confederation, and the Federal Constitution, by 
 B. J. LOSSIXG, steel frontispiece, and fifty portraits, 
 1 vol. 12mo., 1 00 
 
DERBY & JACKSON S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 LIFE OF JOHN CHARLES FREMONT, 
 
 By JOHN BIGELOW (Editor of the New York Evening Post), 
 with an accurate Portrait on Steel and eight illustrations. 
 12mo., ............................................. 1 00 
 
 LIFE OF J^MES 
 
 Late Minister to England, and formerly Minister to Russia, 
 Senator and Representative in Congress, and Secretary of 
 State. Including the most important of his State Papers. 
 By R. G. HOKTON (Literary Editor of the New York Day- 
 Book}, with Portrait on Steel, 12mo., 400 pp., ........... 1 00 
 
 LIFE OF GEN. DANIEL 
 
 Of the Virginia Line of the Army of the United States, with 
 Portions of his Correspondence. Compiled from authentic 
 sources, by JAMES GRAHAM, 12mo.. 47 G pp., ............. 1 25 
 
 LIFE OF GEORGE WASHINGTON, 
 
 12mo., cloth, gilt, ................................... l 25 
 
 LIFE OF NAPOLEON SON^P^RTE, 
 
 12mo., cloth, gilt, ...................................... 1 25 
 
 LIFE OF CHRIST ^IND HIS APOSTLES, 
 
 By REV. J. C. FLEKTWOOD, a new edition, muslin. 12mo ...... 1 25 
 
 LIFE OF GEN. S^M HOUSTON, 
 
 The only Authentic Memoir of him ever published, 1 vol 
 
 12mo., illustrated, 400 pp., ........................... & ^ 
 
 LIFE OF GEN. 
 
 By WILLIAM COTTER, 12mo., illustrated, ........... - ... 1 25 
 
 LITRES OF EMINENT 
 
 Together with a Collection of Anecdotes, Descriptions, &c., 
 relating to the Mechanic Arts, illustrated with fifty engrav 
 ings, 1 vol. 12mo., 500 pp., ...................... 
 
 PIONEERS OF 
 
 America, containing Lives of Columbus, Vespucius, De 
 Soto. Raleigh, Hudson, Smith, Standish, Arabella Stuart, 
 Elliott and Penn. One elegant volume, 12mo., six illus 
 trations, over 400 pp., ................................ 1 25 
 
DERBY & JACKSON S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 Lions, Elephants, and other Wild Animals, Edited by BAYARD 
 
 TAYLOR, thick 12mo., colored illustrations, 629 pp., . ..... $1 50 
 
 ^ADVENTURES IJT THE JTOtt- 
 
 them Wilds ; or, a Tramp in the Chateauguay Woods, over 
 Hills, Lakes, and Forest Streams, by S. H. HAM.MOXD, 1 ele 
 gant 12mo. volume, with four colored illustrations, . ..... 1 00 
 
 " A book that will be greeted by sportsmen and eagerly 
 read by the lovers of romantic adventure. Such 
 readers will envy the author s happiness when they find 
 him pulling up the simple, uneducated trout from 
 those secluded lakes, tipping over the deer at every 
 shot, snuffing the fresh breezes of those old primeval 
 mountains and hills, and listening to the music of the 
 wild, wild woods." 
 
 TETJE JLJfTEI&IC^ljr GIFT HOOK ; a Perpe 
 tual Souvenir. With six elegant steel engravings, viz. : 
 " The Marriage of Washington," " Goddess of Liberty," 
 " Portrait of Washington," " Portrait of Daniel Webster." 
 " Spirit of 76," " Portrait of Martha Washington." Toge 
 ther with " Washington s Farewell Address," " Constitution 
 of the United States," and the " Declaration of Independ 
 ence," 1 vol., cloth, gilt back, ......................... 1 00 
 
 THE SAME full gilt sides and edges, .......................... 1 50 
 
 " The volume is thoroughly American in subject and 
 sentiment, and a product of American talent and 
 genius that will be prized by all true Americans." 
 
 THE EjrCH^tjrTED BEAUTY, and Other 
 
 Tales, Essays, and Sketches, by Dr. WM. ELDER, 1 vol. 12mo., 1 00 
 " Dr. Elder is one of the wittiest, jolliest, and the most 
 genial of philanthropists, who never permits his preju 
 dices, if he has any, to interfere with his humor, and 
 always looks on the bright side of things while exhibit 
 ing their dark sides." 
 
 32.ATTLES, 
 Adventures, from the earliest periods to the present time, b.y 
 JOHN FROST, LL.D., 1 vol. 12mo., with numerous illustra 
 tions. over 400 pp.,. ................................. 1 25 
 
 Thai work is full of thrilling adventures, stirring inci 
 dents -and sufferings, of the brave soldiers and heroes 
 who pledged their all for American Independence and 
 Liberty. 
 
DERBY & JACKSON S PUBLICATIONS. 9 
 
 Retail. 
 
 THE C-REEJT JftOUJTT+fljr THIEVE I- 
 
 lers Entertainment, by JOSLA.H BAKXES, Sen., 1 vol. 12rno., 
 
 colored frontispiece, 360 pp., .......................... 1 00 
 
 " This is a very pleasant book. The plan of it, if not 
 new, is just as well carried out. Five r six r half-a- 
 dozen travellers meet at an indifferent tavern in an 
 indifferent part of Vermont, upon a seriously unplea 
 sant day, and to pass away the dull hours, they fell to 
 story-telling. So agreeable became the diversion that 
 not only the evening of the first day, but as the follow 
 ing morning was conveniently stormy, the second day 
 is consumed in similar diversions." 
 
 YOUJT& JLJ:r S OH^r BOOK; an Offer 
 
 ing of Love and Sympathy, 1 vol. 12mo., elegantly illus 
 
 trated, 442 pp., .................................... 1 25 
 
 THE SAME full gilt sides and edges, ........................... 2 00 
 
 " This is a cluster of luxuriant and beautiful things, and 
 many of them come from some of the most gifted wri 
 ters in the country, among whom we may mention Dr. 
 J. W. Alexander, W. C. Bryant, John Neal, Epes Sar- 
 geant, Mrs. Sigourney, &c., &c. 
 
 THE tt^ijrsow* ^noirjrn THE TT*JHI$; 
 
 or. Rays of Hope and Beauty for Tho.^e who Mourn, by 
 ROSALIE BKLL, 1 vol. 12mo., .............. . , ........ 75 
 
 ments ; or, Tales of City and Country Life, by JANE C. CAMP 
 
 BELL, 1 vol. 12mo., gilt back, 350 pp., .................. 1 00 
 
 " The object of this work is to add a salutary check to 
 the money-loving, money-getting spirit of the age. 
 Some of the narratives are intensely interesting. No 
 one can rise from the perusal of Catherine Clayton 
 without feeling a higher reverence for character, prin 
 ciple, honor, as exhibited in the Clintons, and a 
 deeper contempt for the ignorant, purse-proud, unprin- 
 * cipled Archers. The moral tone and effect of the 
 book are excellent." 
 
 JTJriE AJTI9 JT, 
 
 1 vol. 12mo., 350 pp., ............. ..................... 1 00 
 
 This unpretending volume, which has been so much ad 
 mired, has worked its way " gradually, but surely." 
 jind will be found sidf3 by side with the most prominent 
 literature of *he day. 
 
10 DERBY & JACKSON S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 Ret 
 
 TIKE JTEWSBOY, 
 
 By MBS. E. OAKES SMITH, 1 vol. 12mo., illustrated, 525 pp., . . 1 25 
 
 " The Newsboy 7 is a good book. Its moral is wholesome. 
 Its lesson is good." New Yoik Daily Times. 
 
 11 It has all the merits of the Lamplighter, and is, from the 
 first to the last, intensely interesting." Philadelphia 
 Saturday Mail. 
 
 " None but a woman with womanly instincts could spread 
 such delicate pictures on a canvas." Albany Express. 
 
 " It has pathos, and reality of hope and fear, joy and sor 
 row, rarely met with in the world of romance." N. 
 Y. Democrat. 
 
 "Bob is bound on his way to immortality with the living 
 creations of Fielding, and Scott, and Dickens, and 
 Cooper, and Irving." U. S. Journal. 
 
 I.1JLJT; or, the Parsonage 
 
 of Beech Glen, by MRS. E. OAKES SMITH, illustrated, ........ 1 00 
 
 " It compels the reader to linger over its pages." N. Y. 
 Tribune. 
 
 " More powerfully written than any recent work of fiction." 
 
 N. Y. Day Book. 
 
 " Another story of exquisite beauty graceful and fasci 
 
 nating." Phila. News. 
 " Altogether it is a remarkable book." N. Y. Christian 
 
 Enquirer. 
 No romance deserves a more wide-spread popularity." 
 
 Providence Post. 
 
 11 Striking truths boldly represented." Rural New Yorker. 
 " Springing from a heart overflowing with love and 
 
 sympathy." Pittsburgh Visitor. 
 " Strange scenes, powerful dialogue, and exquiaite imagery." 
 
 Transcript. 
 " We know of one woman who says it is a brave book." 
 
 Boston Commonwealth. 
 
 THE HE^HT OF JVttABEL, 
 
 1 vol. I2mo., _____ ................................... 125 
 
 This romance has created more of a " furore " in literary 
 circles, than any volume published for a long time, 
 
DERBY & JACKSON S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 11 
 
 , THE 
 
 ter ; or, Getting Along, a Book of Illustrations, by CAROLINE 
 
 CHESEBRO , 1 vol. 12mo., 640 pp., . . .................... 1 25 
 
 " Every chapter is replete with wisdom, and brilliant in, 
 gems of poetic beauty. We do not know when we 
 have seen a book of so much depth and so little pre 
 tence. The author is capable of the largest range of 
 physical investigation, and the most effective deliver 
 ances of its results. Hawthorne is the only writer of 
 fiction in this country who outranks the author of 
 Susan, in his own vein." 
 
 ; or, the World Overcome, 
 
 By CAROLINE CHESEBKO , 1 vol. 12mo., ................... 1 25 
 
 J1IJT CONFESSION; the Story or a Wo- 
 
 man s Life, , 1 vol., 12ino., 327 pp., ...................... 75 
 
 1 00 
 
 GREECE ^ND THE GOLDEJT HORN, 
 
 By the late STEPHEN OLIN, D.D., with an Introduction by the 
 REV. DR. McCLiXTOGK. 1 vol. 12mo., illustrated, ...... .... 
 
 " The deep concern in the public mind, which recent 
 occurrences in the East have rekindled, cannot fail to 
 create a general desire to read this volume." 
 
 DERBY & JACKSON S 
 
 With Steel Illustrations. 12 Vols. 
 
 1 JOHJTSOJT S R1SSE 
 las. 
 
 2 JDJC^V SHIFT S 
 
 of a Tub. 
 
 SSTERJTE S SEJTTI- 
 mental Journey. 
 
 4 HOGWS 
 
 Bard and Forest Minstrel. 
 
 5 LOCKE OJI* THE 17JT- 
 
 dcrstanding, and Bacon s Essays. 
 
 6 CHRIS TI^^T POETS 
 
 of England and America. 
 
 MINIATURE CLASSICS. 
 
 I8mo. Each, 60 Retail 
 
 1 GREGORY CH^P- 
 
 pone and Pennington on the Mind. 
 
 SBE^ITTIE S JHTIVr- 
 
 strel and Bloomfield s Farmer s 
 Boy. 
 
 9 THE SORROWS OF 
 
 Werter. 
 
 1O 
 
 Hymns. 
 
 11 THE LETTERS 
 Laurence Sterne. 
 
 12 S+inn^TH POEJfIS 
 
 and llolidav Recreations. 
 
12 DERBY & JACKSON S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 $m liknrtt nf itjrahrti fuimi 
 
 Retail. 
 
 GIL, BL*S, new edition, 1 vol. 12mo., cloth, illustrated, .... 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Cloth, gilt sides and edges, .. 2 00 
 
 QUIXOTE, ................................... 125 
 
 Do. do. do. Cloth, gilt sides and edges, . . 2 00 
 
 WIGHTS, ............................... 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Cloth, gilt sides and edges, . . 2 00 
 
 CRUSOE, ............................ 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Cloth, gilt sides and edges, . . 2 00 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE *&BBEJT, . ............. 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Cloth, gilt sides and edges, . . 2 00 
 
 SCOTTISH CHIEFS, do. do., ................ 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Cloth, gilt sides and edges, . . 2 00 
 
 TH^nnEUS OF W^RS^IW, ............ . ..... 125 
 
 Do. do. do. Cloth, gilt sides and edges,.. 200 
 
 SWISS FAMILY ROBIJTSOJT, ............... . 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Cloth, gilt sides and edges, . . 2 00 
 
 PILGRIM S PROGRESS, . ...................... 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Cloth, gilt sides and edges,.. 200 
 
 VIC^IR OF W^IKEFIELD ^JTD RASSE- 
 
 las, (two in one), 12mo., cloth, illustrated, ................ 1 25 
 
 THE SAME cloth, gilt aides and edges, ......................... 2 00 
 
 P^UL 4&jrn VIRGINIA, ^jrn THE 
 
 Exiles of Siberia, two in one, 12mo., cloth, illustrated, ..... 1 25 
 
 THE SAME cloth, gilt sides and edges, ......................... 2 00 
 
 GULLIVER S TRAVELS, 
 
 Complete, by DEAN SWIFT, 12mo., cloth, illustrated, ........ 1 25 
 
 ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, 
 
 By ANNE RADCLIFFE, 12mo., cloth, illustrated (in press) ---- 1 25 
 THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO, 
 
 By ANNE RADCLIFFE, 12mo., illustrated (in press), .......... 1 25 
 
 TRISTJLM SHINDY diJTI) SENTIMENTAL 
 
 Journey, by LAURENCE STERNE, 12mo., cloth (in press), ..... 1 25 
 
 JTEW EJTGL*jrn BOYS; or, The Three 
 
 Apprentices, by A. L. STIMSON, 1 elegant 12mo. volume, 
 
 illustrated, ......................................... 1 25 
 
 LIFE IN tfJUERIC^t, 
 
 By UARRY PEXCILIJSR, 1 elegant 12mo,, colored illustrations, 1 00 
 
DERBY & JACKSON S PUBLICATIONS* 13 
 
 ReUiL 
 
 S POETICAL WORKS, 
 
 Containing Paradise Lost, and Night Thought* ; a new edition, 
 
 1 vol. 12mo., cloth, gilt, with portrait, .............. .*. . . 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Gilt sides and edges, ....... 2 00 
 
 LIFE, GEJTIS J[jri> BEAUTIES OF 
 Shakspeare, by REV. WILLIAM DODD, six fine engravings, and 
 
 a portrait, 1 vol. 12um, cloth, gilt, .................... 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Cloth, gilt side* and edges, . . 2 00 
 
 tiEJtivijrs POETICAL WORKS, 
 
 An entire new edition, illustrated with Bteel engravings, 1 vol. 
 
 12mo., cloth, gilt, .................................... 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Cloth, gilt sid *ud **#es, . . 200 
 
 SIOWITT, COOK ^jrn J^^JDQJ*** PO- 
 
 ttical Works ; a new edition, 1 vol. 12mo., clotfc, gilJ, ....... 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Cloth, gilt aide* and edges, . . 2 00 
 
 BURNS POETICAL WORKS, 
 
 With Life, Glossary, and Notes ; a new edition, 1 vol. 12mo., 
 
 cloth, gilt, with portrait (from new plates), .............. 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Gilt sides and edges, , , . 2 00 
 
 COWPER S COMPLETE POETICAL 
 Works, with Life ; a new edition, 1 vol. 12mo., cloth, gilt, 
 with portrait, ....................................... 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Gilt sides and edges, ....... 2 00 
 
 COLERIDGE S POETICAL WORKS, 
 
 New edition, 1 vol. 12nio., cloth,. ... ........ ............ 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Cloth, full gilt, ............ 200 
 
 POPE S POETICAL WORKS, 
 
 New edition ; with Life of the Author, 1 vol. 12mo., cloth, 
 
 gilt, with portrait, .................................... 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Gilt sides and edges, ........ 200 
 
 POETICAL WORKS, 
 With a Sketch of his Life; 1 vol. 12ino., embellished with 
 
 steel portrait, cloth, gilt, ........... ............... 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Gilt sides and edges, ...... 2 00 
 
 JflOORE S POETICAL WORKS, 
 
 An entire new edition, 1 vol. 12mo., with portrait, cloth, gilt. 1 25 
 Do. do. do. Gilt sides and edges, ....... 2 00 
 
 KIRK WHITE S POETICAL, WORKS, 
 Memoirs and Remains, with an Introduction, by Rv. JOHN 
 
 TODD ; portrait, 12mo., cloth ; .......................... 1 25 
 
 Do. do. do. Cloth, full gilt, ..... , ...... 200 
 
DERBY & JACKSON S PUBLICATIONS. 15 
 
 RAP&IJTGS UNVEILED, 
 
 By REV. H. MATTISON, .................................. 75 
 
 The great delusion of the nineteenth century is here 
 exposed ; the Origin, History, Theology, and Philoso 
 phy of certain communications with the Spirit World, 
 by means of " Spirit Rapping " mediums, &c., is laid 
 plainly before the people. 
 
 IF* E BSTER S F AM I L Y E NC YC L O- 
 
 psedia of Useful Knowledge ; or. Book of 7,223 Receipts and 
 
 Facts, a whole library of subjects useful to every indivi 
 
 dual, illustrated with nearly one thousand engravings, 
 
 1 vol. 8vo., 1.238 pages, illuminated backs, ..... . ........ 3 00 
 
 HANNAH MORELS COMPLETE WORKS, 
 
 2 vols. 8vo., ........................................... 3 00 
 
 TUB SAME in library style, .................................. 350 
 
 LA YARD* S POP ULAR DISCO SERIES 
 
 at Nineveh, 1 vol. 12mo., illustrated, 3GO pp., ............. 1 00 
 
 STEJPHEJ*-* EGYPT AND THE HOLY 
 Land, containing Maps and Engravings, nearly 500 pp., 
 
 2 vols. 12mo., ____ ...................... ............ 2 00 
 
 THE SAME 1 vol. 12mo., ..... ................................ 2 00 
 
 HYDRAULICS AND ME- 
 
 chanics, containing Descriptive and Historical Accounts of 
 Hydraulic and other Machines for Raising Water, with 
 Observations on various subjects connected with the 
 Mechanic Arts, illustrated by nearly three hundred engrav 
 ings, 1 vol. 8vo., 608 pp., .............................. 250 
 
 CAM I 9 FIRES OF THE RED MEN; or, a 
 
 Hundred Years Ago, by J. R. ORTON, 1 vol. 12mo., 400 pp., 
 
 illustrated, ......................................... l 25 
 
 This Historical Romance is calculated to increase the 
 desire for historical reading ; and, it must be admitted 
 that, if romance, founded on facts, is interspersed, it 
 can but have a beneficial influence. 
 
 DREAMS AND REALITIES IN THE 
 Life of a Pastor and Teacher, by the Author of " PARISH 
 
 SIDE," 1 vol. 12mo. } 439 pp., ............... - ........ :. 1 00 
 

^^ 
 
 *e ,ast date stainpwl below . 
 
M269793 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY