The practice of the best electricians has now long been to protect all angles and projections, the latter by a branch of the rod, and the former by running a line of rod over them, having at every few feet sharp points of an inch or two in length attached to and standing out at right angles with the rod. Indeed, some go even beyond this, forming points along the whole length of the conductors by notching the corners of a square rod with a chisel. Sometimes a rod is twisted for ornament, but with a loss for practical uses, for in a twisted rod the electrical current is retarded, and a portion of the charge is more liable to leave the conductor.

In England, during our Revolutionary war, an active scientific discussion was carried on as to whether the upper end of a lightning-conductor should be sharp or blunt. "The scientific aspect of the question soon became lost in political acrimony, those who, with Dr. Franklin, advocated sharp conductors, being classed with him and the Revolutionary party, while those who advocated blunt conductors were held to be loyal subjects and good citizens." There is a difference in the action of a sharp conductor and one with a blunt end or terminating in a ball. In the first the point silently receives the current, while in the other the opposite electricities of the rod and cloud may meet with explosion; but the building will not necessarily be injured from this cause. M. Michel proposed to combine the advantages of the two systems by having the rod terminate in a spherical enlargement from which should project points in various directions. This, he thought, would lessen the danger of fusion and control the current at distances where it might escape other forms of terminal. Some American electricians now use a modification of this form, surmounting the rod with a branching tip, while others prefer the single point. The latter is the form used in the American and British navies. The vane, with its appurtenances, is sometimes made the terminal of the conductor, and should at least always be connected.

The practice is also a good one of combining balustrades, finials and other metal-work at the tops of buildings with the system, by which protection is rendered more complete. Especially is it important to connect with a metallic roof at its lower edge, and with the gutters, unless the rain-conductors connect with the earth to its moist mass.

In regard to the material for conductors, copper is undoubtedly the best, but more expensive than iron. The latter is more liable to rust, and on account of its lower conductive power is more easily melted. An electrical explosion which only melts a copper wire would utterly destroy an iron wire of twice the diameter of the former. In being heated a rod contracts in length, and is then liable to fracture by the shrinkage, but if of sufficient size these results are not likely to occur. An iron rod, by successively receiving an electrical discharge, is sometimes reduced in size.

The conducting power of metals likely to be found in buildings is as follows: taking the power of lead as one, that of tin will be two—that is, tin conducts electricity twice as well as lead; iron, nearly two and a half times as well; zinc, four times; and copper, twelve times. From this comparison of conducting power the important fact will appear that when any two of these metals are used in the same line of conduction, the one of low power should be proportionately larger. Sir W.S. Harris—perhaps the best authority on lightning-rods in general—advises that the size of the rod, if of iron, should be three-fourths of an inch in diameter, although he admits that probably never in the experience of man has a rod half an inch in diameter been melted by an electrical discharge. He regarded the extent of surface rather than quantity of metal in the conductor as the measure of its power, while many other electricians hold the contrary opinion.

It is important that the conductor should form an unbroken line throughout its extent, otherwise there is danger that a portion of the charge may be diverted from it. For instance: a large barn struck not long since had a conductor at each of three corners. In order to maintain the uniformity of the four angles of the square hip roof, a rod was run from the main conductor down the fourth angle to the hip, where it terminated in an erect point. A heavy discharge struck the main rod at the cupola, and, descending, divided among the four branches. That on the short branch jumped from its end to the metal sheathing along the angle of the roof, which it followed to the gutter, passing along this to one of the conductors, doing some damage on the way. Had not the charge found a line of metal on which to continue its course from the end of the rod, it would have done greater damage, and most likely have set the building on fire.

Another point of importance is, that the connection of the joints of the rod be perfect, as explosions and fusion occur wherever the surface in contact is less than the size of the rod, unless the latter is much larger than necessary. The hook and the lap joints, if not very carefully made, are liable to this objection. The best connection, no doubt, is that of the screw coupling.

The insulation of the rod from the building is an expense not only without the least advantage, but the contrary. Harris (Thunderstorms, pp. 129, 131) says: "This practice is not only useless, but disadvantageous, and is manifestly inconsistent with the principles on which conductors are applied." Dr. Franklin says: "The rod may be fastened to the wall, chimney, etc., with staples of iron. The lightning will not leave the rod to pass into the wall through these staples. It would rather, if any were in the wall, pass out of it into the rod, to get more readily by that conductor to the earth." The practice may have gained vogue from an observance of the use of glass knobs as insulators of telegraph-wires. Many intelligent people have failed to apprehend the vast difference between the low tension of voltaic electricity and frictional electricity, lightning being in the nature of the latter. The fact that when lightning strikes the telegraph-wire it jumps from the wire to the posts, often tearing in pieces half a dozen in a row, ought to be conclusive in regard to insulating lightning-rods.

The same considerations will also effectually dissipate the fallacy by which the horizontal lightning-rod has duped so many people in certain portions of the West; for if the wire be cut off from the ground-connections (in which condition it accords with the conductor in question) the posts (which answer to the building thus "protected") must suffer still greater damage. So far from being insulated, the rod should be connected with all considerable masses of metal in the building, these having also a good connection with the earth. Frequently during a thunder-shower—sometimes even on the approach of one—all metallic objects will be electrified, and those of considerable size will often yield a spark; and this without the building containing these objects being struck. When struck, the larger masses of metal might occasion a dangerous explosion from induction, though at some distance from the rod: for this reason, as before stated, they should be connected with the ground. Being then liable to receive a part of the current from the conductor in case this be too small, they should be connected with it, as otherwise the current would cause damage in its passage. In a word, therefore, all metal bodies in a building should, as far as possible, be made a part of the system of conduction. This matter is not well understood generally. A dwelling in Boston having been struck by lightning a few years since, a neighbor remarked that "it was fortunate the lightning did not reach the gas-pipe, for it would then have gone all over the house." The fact was, that the bolt did not go more than five feet inside the house before it struck the pipe, and there all damage ended. The idea may be novel to most people, but if the gas-or water-pipes were carried above the roof to the usual height of lightning-rods, they would form a very efficient system of conductors so long as they were connected with the main pipes in the street. Knowing the destructive character of lightning when it passes through air, wood, brick, stone or other non-conductor, people are naturally fearful of allowing the current to run through their houses. But the lion and the lamb are not more different than are the disruptive discharge while passing through a non-conductor and the same current passing through a good conductor.

The system of lightning-conductors in use in the British navy goes through the woodwork of the vessel, the conductors sunk in the side of the masts connecting with the sea through the metal bolts in the hull. After the terrible charge of electricity had fallen on the Chichester, Captain Stewart wrote: "I examined the planks about the bolts, and found all quite fair and water-tight." (These "bolts" formed the lower part of the system of conduction, passing through the bottom of the vessel and connecting with the water.) After twenty-five years' use there had not, as we learn from the British Nautical Magazine for March, 1853, been a solitary instance of serious damage by lightning on ships fitted with these conductors, though many had been struck by heavy discharges. In our own navy the conductors pass from the upper part of the mast over the side of the vessel.

It is not, however, to advocate making the gas-and water-pipes the main lines of conduction that I have made these citations, but to remove in some degree the dread of "having the lightning come into the house." A better conductor would be the metal covering of the roof when such material is used. When a good metallic connection is made between a metal roof and metal rain-conductors, which, in their turn, are well connected with the earth, nothing further is needed for complete protection than a rod soldered to the roof for each chimney or other projection. But as the lightning is liable to melt the plate at the point where it enters, especially if the metal be tin or zinc, it is well to solder points at the angles. Some, "to make assurance doubly sure," carry the rods over the whole distance quite to the ground in addition. All authorities consider such a system as this to be as complete a defence against lightning as possible.

"If," says Harris, "a building or a ship were perfectly metallic in all its parts, no damage could possibly arise to it when struck by lightning, since the explosive action would vanish the instant the electrical agency entered the metal. In applying lightning-conductors, therefore, as a means of guarding against the destructive effects of lightning, our object should be to carry out this principle in all its generality, and bring the building or ship as nearly as possible into that state of passive electrical resistance it would have supposing the whole mass were iron throughout."

After the most careful and extended inquiry possible to him, it is the writer's conclusion that in nearly every case of serious damage by lightning to a building having conductors of any well-known system (except the horizontal, which is not a conductor at all in the usual sense of the word), the failure to protect has been on account of a defective ground-connection. The fact is the more surprising as this connection is so much within control and is the least costly part of the system. This fault has arisen from the failure of lightning-rod men, as well as owners of buildings, to apprehend what constitutes a ground-connection for electricity. If the eye sees the end of the conductor pass a short distance beneath the surface, all the connection necessary is thought to be effected, because "the ground is always wet enough in a shower." In the cities it is customary to connect the rod with the water-or gas-pipes in the street, which makes the conduction perfect. In the absence of these it is best to carry the rod to a well; and it is always desirable to enlarge the lower end of the conductor, which may be done by soldering it there to a sheet of copper. If the termination of the line cannot be carried to a well, it should be deeply buried in a bed of coke or charcoal that has been subjected to a red heat.

A season or two ago a large barn in the vicinity of Boston was struck by lightning, and though there were rods at three of the four corners, three kine were killed by the discharge. The barn stood upon the side of a hill, having a cellar and sub-cellar, the bottom of the last being very moist. An ox stood in one corner, a cow in another and a heifer at a third, and each received a fatal stroke. On examination it was found that the rods entered the ground to the depth of only about one foot, and the soil, being dry, perfectly insulated them. Consequently, on the way to damp earth the currents jumped to the nearest conductors, which happened to be these unfortunate animals. In placing conductors it must not be forgotten that dry earth in general is not a conductor. Neither will any small quantity of surface water serve to check the rage of the electric stroke, unless there is a connection of moisture with the mass of moisture below the soil.

The depth to which lightning may penetrate before it is so dissipated as to lose its dangerous character is shown by the fulgurites, or "lightning-tubes," sometimes found in sandy soils. Their formation has been conclusively traced to disruptive electrical discharges from the clouds, which have melted the sand by the intense heat generated in passing through to a moist earth. These tubes generally divide into prongs, like a parsnip, as they descend. The inner surface is smooth and very bright. It scratches glass and strikes fire as a flint. They are sometimes found three inches in external diameter, and extending to a depth of thirty feet. In one instance five of these tubes were found in a single hill.

This tendency of certain localities to receive the electrical discharge is further illustrated by the number of times certain buildings in every considerable town have been struck. As before stated, the elevation of the structure does not seem to be the determining influence in directing the stroke, for the unfortunate edifice often stands much lower than some others in the vicinity which have always been struck. Numerous illustrations of this can be found in the records of European countries. Hollis Street Church in Boston has been struck several times, though the ground on which it stands is but little above the level of the sea, while the State-House, on the very apex of Beacon Hill, with great quantities of metal in surface and mass, is not known ever to have received a disruptive discharge. It has been supposed that the copper covering of the roof, including the gilded dome, its rain-pipes and four excellent lightning-rods, have had the effect of neutralizing the air about it by constant conduction of mild currents. Yet the rod on the spire of Somerset Street Church, nearby and eastward of the State-House, but lower, has been seen to receive a disruptive discharge. Bunker Hill Monument, about a mile north-west and some twenty feet higher, has several times received powerful discharges, which a good conductor has always carried harmlessly away.

There has also been observed a tendency of the current not only to strike certain buildings, but to enter the earth at a certain point whenever such buildings are struck. Some of our oldest and most successful appliers of rods believe that at certain points there are natural electric currents, or at least readier conduction for them than at others. Yet these points can become known only by repeated disasters. Lightning-rod men who are adepts in their business now take care to overcome adverse currents by enlarging the lower part of the conductors and by carrying them to greater depth.

Soon after the powder-magazine of the Boston Navy Yard was completed the neighboring residents grew fearful, and petitioned the authorities that it should be better protected from lightning. It had already four excellent rods, one at each corner of the building; but to these peaceful and unwarlike citizens every thunderstorm was a great battle in which their homes were in danger of destruction and their own lives in jeopardy. The result of their action was, that a trench four feet deep was dug entirely around the magazine, and in its bottom was laid a continuous line of sheet copper four inches in width: to this the plate of each rod was soldered, and then the soil was replaced.[6] No one could doubt now that the stealthy upward stroke would be caught and the mysterious earth-currents overcome. It is supposed that thenceforth the tremors of the good citizens ceased. The massive magazine with its fiery contents yet stands, though terrible peals of thunder have shaken it and fearful bolts have fallen near.

GEORGE J. VARNEY.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Among other beliefs in regard to lightning is that of the upward stroke. It has even found expression in the American Journal of Science and Arts. On careful consideration of the cases offered in support, both printed and unprinted, I find that every one is susceptible of a reasonable explanation without this theory.

[6] It is not usual that the body of moisture can be reached so near the surface, but this magazine is situated on low ground.



THE SEA'S SECRET.

Just as it is, it hath been, love, I know— So long ago That time and place have faded: I forget What rivers ran, what hills closed round us; yet Thus much my soul remembers: thou and I Saw the sun's rise and set, felt life slip by.

And then it was that first the deep-voiced sea Sang low to thee and me Its ancient secrets by the lonely shore; And we two watched the strange birds dip and soar Between the fading sea-line, far and dim, And the white dazzle of the sands' long rim.

All that thou saidst—all that we heard and told In some lost language old— Has perished like the speech; yet this remains: From the vast desert of the ocean-plains A great moon climbing, with a dull red glare Like smouldering fire, far up the purple air.

And then—I cannot grasp it—yet I know That something, long ago, Held fast thy soul to mine with cords of pain And marvellous joy, and love's sweet loss and gain. All save that love the years have swept away— A thousand years, a single yesterday!

But when my soul dreams, by the lonely sea, Back to eternity, I hear an echo, through its hollow moan, From those lost lives drowned in the centuries gone: I catch the haunting memory, and I know The secret that you told me long ago.

G.A. DAVIS.

It is not usual that the body of moisture can be reached so near the surface, but this magazine is situated on low ground.



DUNGENESS, GENERAL GREENE'S SEA-ISLAND PLANTATION.

Southernmost of those famed "Sea Islands" of Georgia, lying right in sight of Florida's northern shore, on the northern verge of the tropic border-land, Cumberland Island presents its beach-front to the ocean. It unites within itself all those attractions which have made Florida famous—all but river and lake: it has the balmiest climate in the South; the vegetation of its forests is semi-tropical; it has game in abundance. It has all these, and yet its territory is now a waste.

In November I visited it, and again in April, and later in August. To reach it one must go first to St. Mary's, the town farthest south on the Georgia coast, or to Fernandina, the northernmost city in Florida. In either case he will have to hire a boat and a boatman, and in either case he must carry with him his provisions.

St. Mary's in April is St. Mary's in August—a drowsy, quaint old town, warm in the daytime and cool at night; hot in the sunlight, but with cool sea-breezes. The streets of St. Mary's are her glory: they are one hundred feet wide, carpeted with a green sward smooth as a shaven lawn, lined with live-oaks and china trees. In April the latter are in full bloom, their lilac blossoms hanging in dense panicles, the green leaves flecking them just enough to afford contrast, and the sombre Spanish moss depending gracefully from every branch and limb. Great gaudy butterflies are continually hovering over them and fluttering uneasily from flower to flower, and gleaming humming-birds, our own Northern summer visitors (the Trochilus colubris), are flashing from tree to tree, now poised a moment in air, now sipping honey from the tiny cups.

From the lighthouse dome at Fernandina one can look over half the island, trace the white sand-beach miles to the south—follow it north till it curves inland where Amelia Sound, the mouth of the St. Mary's River, forms the harbor. Away north runs up Cumberland Beach, and among the trees and over a broad stretch of marsh gleam white the ruins of "Dungeness." West, again, one sees the gloomy pines of the main land, behind which the sun goes down, lighting gloriously the marsh and silver threads of the river.

Unlike the seasons of the North, there is here no perceptible line of demarcation between them. We cannot positively assert that spring has opened or summer or winter begun. As for autumn and harvest-time, the crops are being continually gathered in. So since the year came in I have seen various plants and shrubs in bloom that ought to open with spring. Up the Ocklawaha in January I saw the blackberry or dewberry in blossom; and ever since, along the St. John's in that month and February, on the banks of the St. Mary's in February and March, and even here, in Fernandina and St. Mary's, it is blossoming and bearing fruit. It is this week—the first week in April—that we obtained the first fruit for the table, buying it for ten cents a quart. It puzzles one to think of planting. When must he begin? Last Christmas one of our truck-farmers had a large crop of peas ready to harvest: a chance frost gobbled them up, however: now (April) peas and potatoes are in their prime.

By the middle of April the china trees have dropped their blossoms, and the streets beneath are strewn with withered flowers. The fragrance that filled the air has departed with the humming-birds and butterflies. The pomegranate still continues in bloom: its vividly-scarlet flowers have delighted us ever since the middle of March. The figs commenced leafing with the month: now they are green with broad leaves, and in the axil of each appears the rudiment of a fruit. They are grotesquely gnarled and twisted, taking most unthought-of shapes and positions. The mocking-birds have mated and begun the construction of their nests. Their music is delightful: nearly all the day long they sing, and sometimes in the night. It seems almost wicked—to mercenary man—to think that birds worth twenty-five dollars apiece are freely fluttering about unharmed. When the breeding season has opened, however, it will not close without some family of mocking-birds being made desolate, for the young Ethiopian hath an ear for music, and most eagerly seeketh the young bird in its downy nest, trusting to the unsuspecting Yankee for remuneration therefor.

The month went out in glorious style: every morning of its thirty days had opened with unclouded sky, and each night's sun went down with a blaze of glory that flooded the marshes with golden light and left painted on the sky clouds of royal purple and crimson. Two or three showers sprang upon us in the afternoon, ending after a stay of an hour or two, cooling the air and refreshing weary man most wonderfully. Plums and peaches are nearly grown and turning color. They afford another illustration of the dilatory motions of vegetation here. In January I left some plum trees in full bloom: returning a month later, I found the same trees still white with flowers. The peaches were pink with bloom in February and March, and even in April some blushing flowers appear.

This was Fernandina and St. Mary's in April: in August the latter town had changed but little. The streets were as green as in early spring: the flowers were fewer, but the air was heavy with the fragrance of crape-myrtle and orange. It was hot in the morning, but an early breeze from the ocean soon came in, blowing with refreshing coolness all day long. It was even pleasanter than in spring and winter, the air clearer and more bracing, and annoying insects had disappeared.

St. Mary's is intimately connected with Cumberland Island in history. In the war of 1812 the island was taken, and the slaves were offered their freedom by Admiral Cockburn; but such was their attachment to the place and their masters that but one availed himself of this opportunity to escape. At Point Peter, where the main land of Georgia terminates in the marshes of St. Mary's, a fight occurred, and there are yet the remains of an earthwork thrown up by the Americans to repulse the British fleet in its advance on St. Mary's.

The oldest inhabitant of St. Mary's, who is said to have scored a century, old "Daddy Paddy"—a negro who bears in his face the tattooing of his native Africa—participated in that fight. He lives in a little cabin on a street by the wharf, and devotes his time to fishing, at which he is very expert. Upon being questioned regarding the fight, he seemed rather hazy as to dates, but was positive as to the time he first saw America: "De wah ob de rebenue was jes' clar' peace when I land at Charleston from Afriky. Was young man den, jes' growd. No, sah, nebah saw Gin'l Wash'tun, but heah ob him, sah: he fout wid de British, sah, an' gain de vic'try at New Orleans, sah."

"That was General Jackson, uncle."

"No, sah! Gin'l Jackson mout ha' ben thar, but Gin'l Wash'tun, he hab a han' in it. Yes, sah, I'se de fust settlah, sah: was in St. Mary's afo' a street was laid out [in 1787], an' 'twas all bay-gall an' hammock."

The Indian name of Cumberland Island was Missoe ("beautiful land"), and this was changed when Oglethorpe visited the island, at the request of an Indian chief who had received some kindness from the duke of Cumberland. It is related in an old English record, of which I have seen a copy, that the duke was so well pleased at this evidence of good-will that he caused a hunting-lodge to be erected there, and named it Dungeness, after his country-seat, Castle Dungeness, on the cape of Dungeness in the county of Kent. From that time until the breaking out of the Revolution it was "owned successively by peers of the British realm."

The island is eighteen miles in length and from half a mile to three miles in breadth. The soil is sandy, adapted to the culture of cotton, corn, potatoes, etc.: pomegranates, olives, dates, figs, limes, lemons, oranges and melons yield abundant crops. The great frost of 1835, which extended over the entire peninsula of Florida, destroyed the fine groves of orange trees: at one time this fruit was shipped in schooner-loads, and from one tree three thousand oranges have been gathered. The forest trees are live-oak, cedar and a few pines. A most interesting fact in the history of the island is found in its chronicles, for here were obtained the timbers for the Constitution (Old Ironsides), that noble frigate so well known to every American. Some of the stumps of the indestructible live-oak from which the timber was cut for her ribs may yet be seen. Deer, raccoons, bear and 'possum are abundant in the thick forest. The climate is temperate and healthy: many of the former slaves live to a great age. The island has never been afflicted by fever: while the town of Brunswick, to the north, and Fernandina, just across the channel to the south, have been scourged by Yellow Jack, Cumberland has ever remained untouched. St. Mary's, across the marshes on the main land, also boasts this immunity.

The creeks of the marshes swarm with fish of every sort, and there are oyster-beds containing large and toothsome bivalves. With 'possums and 'coons, fish and oysters, is it strange that Cuffie clung to his old home long after his master had left it? is it a matter of wonder that there yet remains a remnant of the old slave population, houseless and poverty-stricken, clinging to the island that once gave them so delightful a home? At the close of the war, it is related, Mr. Stafford, proprietor of the central portion of the island, burned his negro houses to the ground, telling his people to go, as he had no more use for them nor they for him. Cumberland to-day is nearly depopulated, the fertile cotton-and corn-fields run to waste, and wild hogs and half-wild horses roam over the pasture and scrub that cover once-cultivated fields.

The history of this island commences with that of Georgia. We read that in 1742 the Spaniards invaded Georgia and landed on the island. With a fleet of thirty-six sail and with more than three thousand troops from Havana and St. Augustine, they entered the harbor of St. Simons, north of Cumberland, and erected a battery of twenty guns. General Oglethorpe, with eight hundred men, exclusive of Indians, was then on the island. He withdrew to his fort at Frederica, and anxiously awaited reinforcements from Carolina. By turning to account the desertion of a French soldier he precipitated the attack of the Spaniards, and on their march to Frederica they fell into an ambuscade. Great slaughter ensued, and they retreated precipitately. The place of conflict is to this day known as "Bloody Marsh." The Spaniards retreated south along the coast in their vessels, and on their way attacked Fort William, at the southern extremity of Cumberland Island, but were repulsed with loss. This fort, which was constructed, I think, by Oglethorpe, is placed on the extreme southern end of Cumberland in a map of the island made in 1802. Even then the fort was half submerged at high water, and at the present day its site is far out in the channel. The water of the river-mouth is constantly encroaching upon the land, and the ruins of a house once standing upon the southern point may be seen, it is said, beneath the water at low tide. Old Fort William has been seen within the memory of residents of St. Mary's, but likewise beneath the waves.

About 1770 that rare naturalist and botanist, William Bartram, landed here and traversed the island, being set across to Amelia Island (Fernandina) by a hunter whom he found living here. He was then at the commencement of his romantic journeyings among the Seminole Indians up the St. John's River, then running through a wilderness. Another fortification, Fort St. Andrew, situated on the north-west point of the island, may still be traced by the ruins of its walls. A well is known there into which, it is said, the English threw ten thousand pounds in silver upon the approach of the Spaniards. In this way, by vestiges of foundation-walls, are indicated the various settlements of the island—mansions and cabins that have passed away, leaving no other sign but these sad memorials of the past.

At the conclusion of peace, and immediately after the close of the Revolution, the southern portion of Cumberland Island came into the possession of General Nathaniel Greene. It is said by some to have been presented to him by the State of Georgia in connection with the beautiful estate of Mulberry Grove, where he removed with his family and took up his residence. His lamentably premature death prevented the consummation of his design to build here a retreat in which to spend the hot summer months. He had resided but a year upon his estate of Mulberry Grove, and had hardly commenced to beautify and adorn this chosen residence of his maturer years, when a sun-stroke cut him down in the prime of his life.

The general had selected the site of the mansion to be built at Dungeness, and had planned the grounds, laid out a garden—which subsequently became famous for its tropical products and roses—and had lined through the forests of live-oak those avenues which have since grown to such magnificent proportions. As has been related, he did not live to see the completion of his work, but died almost at its very inception. In 1786 the year of his death, the foundation-walls were laid of the mansion-home of Dungeness, but the building was not finished till 1803. Even after it had been occupied for years, and during the sixty years and more it was used as a residence by the descendants of General Greene, there remained a few unfinished rooms. A tradition in the family to the effect that some great misfortune would befall it if the building were finished prevented, it is said, its completion. In the early part of the present century it was the most elegant residence on the coast.

A mound of shells, the accumulation of centuries and the result of countless Indian feasts, rose high above the southern marsh of Cumberland. A forest of live-oaks surrounded it on three sides, and at its feet ran the broad creek which wound through the marsh for miles, seeking the Sound at a point opposite the Florida shore. Here, for ages of time, the Indians of the South had resorted to feast upon the oysters with which the creek was filled. The Creek Indians—the most honorable with whom the United States ever had dealings, from whom sprang the Seminoles, and who occupied the entire territory of Georgia and Carolina at the period of the white man's advent—were the last who aided in the erection of this monument to a race now passed away. The summit of this shell-mound was levelled for the site of the house, and a terraced area of an acre or more constructed with the shells. Upon this base, raised above the general level of the island, its foundations were laid. It was four stories in height above the basement, and from cellar-stone to eaves was forty-five feet. There were four chimneys and sixteen fireplaces, and twenty rooms above the first floor. The walls at the base were six feet in thickness, and above the ground four feet. They were composed of the material known as "tabby," a mixture of shells, lime and broken stone or gravel with water; which mass, being pressed in a mould of boards, becomes when dry as hard and durable as rock. The walls are now as solid as stone itself. The second story above the terrace contained the principal rooms: the room in the south-east corner was the drawing-room in the time of the Shaws and the Nightingales. The room immediately back of the drawing-room, in the north-east corner, was the dining-room: a wide hall ran through the centre, upon the opposite side of which were two rooms, used respectively as school- and sewing-room. Above these apartments, in the third story, were the chambers. That directly above the drawing-room is the most interesting of all, for it was occupied by General Harry Lee, who was confined there by sickness, and there died. The interior of the house corresponded with its exterior in beauty of finish and magnificence of decoration and appointments.

Enclosed by a high wall of masonry (the "tabby" just described) was a tract of twelve acres devoted to the cultivation of flowers and tropical fruits. This wall, now broken down in places and overgrown with ivy-and trumpet-vines, yet divides the garden from the larger fields once devoted to cotton and cane. The gardener's house was next the mansion, and joined to it by this high wall. The garden lay to the south, reaching the marsh in successive terraces. On and about the semicircular terrace immediately around the house were planted crape-myrtle, clove trees and sago-palms: some yet remain to indicate what an Eden-like retreat was this garden of spices and bloom half a century ago. The first broad terrace, which ran the entire length of the garden-wall east and west, was divided by an avenue of olives, which separated in front of the house, leaving a space in which were two noble magnolias. A broad walk ran from the house to the lower garden, which was divided from the other by a thick-set hedge of mock-orange: in this garden was another walk bordered by olives. This space was entirely devoted to flowers: on each side was a grove of orange trees, and in the lower garden were the fig, India-rubber and date-palm, the golden date of Africa. Of trees there were the camphor tree, coffee, Portuguese laurel, "tree of Paradise," crape-myrtle, guava, lime, orange, citron, pomegranate, sago-palm and many others whose home is in the tropics. The delicious climate of this island, several degrees warmer than that of the main land in the same latitude, enabled the proprietors of this insular Paradise to grow nearly all the fruits of the torrid zone.

A little tongue of land runs from the garden into the marsh, an elevation of the original shell-mound, covered with oaks hung with long gray moss. This was called "The Park," and here the inhabitants of this favored estate would resort for recreation in the afternoon and evening. Near this strip of land, beneath the shade of an immense live-oak, luxuriates a clump of West India bamboo, said to have originated from a single stalk brought here by General Lee. The feathery lances clash and rattle with all the wild abandon characteristic of them in their native isles. I have not seen a more perfect group outside the islands of the Caribbean Sea.

From the walls of the second story—if you wish to view the wide-extended prospect to the south you must clamber there—you can look across three thousand acres of salt marsh to Fernandina and St. Mary's, along the river and beach, across miles of ocean. Ivy climbs the corner wall of the ruins and covers garden-wall and trees. Ruin everywhere stares you in the face: on every side are deserted fields and gardens—fields that employed the labor of four hundred negroes; fields that were fertile and yielded large crops of the famous "Sea-Island cotton." Bales from this estate were never "sampled." The Sea-Island cotton that took the prize at the World's Fair in London was raised on this island.

East of the garden, stretching toward the ocean-beach, is the olive-grove. Seventy years ago the first olive trees were imported from Italy and the south of France. They grew and flourished, and years ago this grove yielded a profit to its owners. In 1755, Mr. Henry Laurens of South Carolina imported and planted olives, capers, limes, ginger, etc., and in 1785 the olive was successfully grown in South Carolina; but probably there is not at the present day a grove equal in extent to this. It was estimated that a large tree would average a gallon of oil per year: there were eight hundred planted and brought to a flourishing and profitable stage of growth. There are several hundred now, scattered through a waste of briers and scrub and overgrown with moss.

But the avenues? In the hottest day there are shade and coolness beneath the intertwined branches of the live-oaks that arch above them. The eye is refreshed in gazing down these vistas over the leaf-strewn floors of sand. The sunshine sifts through the arch above, flecking the roadway with a mosaic of leaves and boughs in light and shade. From the limbs hang graceful pennons of Spanish moss, festooned at the sides, waved by every wind, changing in every light. Grapevines with stems six inches in diameter climb into the huge oaks and swing from tree to tree, linking limb with limb: the tree-tops are purple with great fruit-clusters. To the whole scene the dwarf palmetto gives a semi-tropic aspect. There are no signs of life, save a lizard darting over the leaves, stopping midway to look at you with bright eyes. In the evening the squirrels come out in countless numbers, and their crashing leaps may be heard in all directions; bright cardinal-birds, Florida jays and gay nonpareils enliven the gloom; the jays chatter in the branches and mocking-birds carol from the topmost limbs. It is one of the joys of earth to walk through the Grand Avenue of Dungeness at sunset.

There were, when the estate was in prosperous condition, eleven miles of avenues, seven miles of beach, eight miles of walks and nine miles of open roads. Grand Avenue, running midway the length of the island, was cleared eighteen miles, to High Point. There are now but three miles cleared, but you can look straight down beneath the arch of live-oaks for more than a mile of its length. From the Sound to the beach, crossing Central Avenue, ran River Avenue for a distance of about a mile.

This live-oak forest, which covers several thousand acres, is densely filled with scrub palmetto, impenetrable almost, and so difficult to pierce that the deer with which the forest swarms choose the old paths and roadways in their walks from sleeping- to feeding-grounds. The hunters take advantage of this, and after starting their dogs in the scrub post themselves on the main avenues where the paths intersect, and shoot the deer as they jump out. The deer of the island are estimated by thousands, and a State law which prohibits the hunting of deer with dogs, except with the owner's permission, has aided in their increase. Halfway up the island are numerous ponds, to which ducks resort in the winter in vast numbers. Bear are plentiful in the deep woods, and their tracks, with those of the deer in greater abundance, are often found crossing the abandoned fields.

Three hundred feet in width, hard as stone, shell-strewn, between wind-hollowed sand-dunes and foaming surf, this beach of Cumberland stretches for twenty miles. The sands that border it are covered with a network of beautiful convolvulus, tufts of sea-oats with nodding plumes, and picturesque clumps of Spanish bayonet (Yucca gloriosa) with pyramids of snowy flowers. This and the prickly pear suggest the climate of the tropics. I find them on the sandhills bordering the ocean-beach, the wind-swept dunes between the "beach-hammock" and the hard sand of the wave-washed beach. They are called barren by many, these sandhills of the Atlantic coast, but I never find them so. To me they are always attractive, whether I am traversing the sand-slopes of Cape Cod or the similar ones of Florida. Even the grasses possess a character of their own—gracefully erect, tiny circles traced about them where the last wind has caused them to brush the sand. Here too are grasses rare and beautiful—the feathery fox-tail, the tall, loose-branched sea-oats, and many others with names unknown, which you may see ornamenting the famous palmetto hats.

So fascinating are these sand-dunes that one wanders among them for hours, following in the paths worn by the feet of cattle which roam these hills and the neighboring marsh in a half-wild state. Sometimes the banks will shelve abruptly, hollowed out by the wind, and one can look down into a hole ten or twenty feet deep, arched over by thorn-bushes, grapevines and a species of bay. These sand-caverns are of frequent occurrence. There are clumps of scrubby oak completely covered with scarlet honeysuckle and trumpet-flower. While seeking to investigate one of these I startled a hen-quail, which, after whirring rapidly out of sight, returned and manifested much anxiety by plaintive calls. This is a queer place for quail: in the neighborhood of old fields, where they can easily run out and glean a hasty meal from weeds and broken ground, is their chosen place for a nest.

Along the surface of the sea long lines of pelicans pursue a lumbering flight; graceful terns (sea-swallows) skim the waves; a great blue heron stalks across the hard sand, majestic, solitary and shy of man's approach; and dainty little beach-birds, piping plover in snowy white and drab, glide rapidly past the surf-line. A mile below Beach Avenue is a high sandhill shelving abruptly toward the beach, half-buried trees projecting from its western slope: it is now known as "Eagle Cliff," so called by the proprietor of Dungeness from the fact of my shooting an eagle there one day in November.

In the beach-hammock are the same wind-hollowed hills, rooted into permanence by twisted oaks and magnolias. Upon their limbs in April the Spanish moss and air-plants were just blossoming, the former into little star-like, hardly-discernible flowers, the latter throwing up a green stem with a pink terminal bud, which in August had burst into a spike of crimson flowers. Curious lichens cover the rough trunks of these oaks—some gray, some ashy-white, some pink, some scarlet like blotches of blood. The Mitchella, the little partridge-berry, is here in bloom, and has been since the year came in.

The marsh that borders the beach-hammock and spreads a sea of silvery green before the mansion is not barren of attractions. Inquisitive and faint-hearted fiddler-crabs are darting in and out of their holes in the mud: an alligator now and then shows a hint of a head above the water of the creek, along whose banks walk daintily and proudly egrets and herons robed in white, and from the reeds of which myriads of water-hens send up a deafening chatter.

Midway between the mansion and the beach, in the southern corner of the orchard of olive trees, which overhang and surround it, is the graveyard of the family. It is the last object to which in this narrative I call attention, but to the visitor it is the most interesting, the fullest of memories of the past. By a winding and secluded path from the deserted garden, along the banks of the solitary marsh, beneath great water-oaks hung with funereal moss, one reaches this little cemetery, a few roods of ground walled in from the adjoining copsewood—

A lonesome acre, thinly grown With grass and wandering vines.

Three tombs and three headstones indicate at least six of the graves with which this little lot is filled. In one of these graves rest the bones of her who shared the fortunes of the gallant general, the "Washington of the South," when he rested after the last decisive battle and retired to his Georgia plantation. In another lies buried his daughter, and in another the gallant "Light-Horse Harry," who so ably assisted him at Eutaw Springs—the brave and eloquent Lee. Upon the first marble slab is engraven, "In memory of Catherine Miller (widow of the late Major-General Nathaniel Greene, Commander-in-Chief of the American Revolutionary Army in the Southern Department in 1783), who died Sept. 2d, 1814, aged 59 years. She possessed great talents and exalted virtues." Phineas Miller, Esq., a native of Connecticut and a graduate of Yale College, who had been engaged by General Greene as law-tutor to his son, managed the widow's estates after the general's death, and later married her. His grave is here, though unmarked by any stone.

And this name revives the memory of one of the greatest inventions of the eighteenth century. Eli Whitney, the inventor of the cotton-gin, was born in Westborough, Massachusetts, December 8, 1765. In 1792 he obtained a position as tutor to the children of a Georgia planter, but owing to the imperfect postal regulations his letter of acceptance was not received, and on arriving in Savannah he found his place occupied by another. Without means or friends, he was in great want, when his circumstances became known to Mrs. Greene (then residing at Mulberry Grove), who, being a lady of benevolent heart, invited him to make her house his home until he should find remunerative employment.

One day, while this lady was engaged in working a sort of embroidery called "tambour-work," she complained to young Whitney that the frame she was using was too rough and tore the delicate threads. Anxious to gratify his benefactress, Whitney quickly constructed a frame so superior in every respect that she thought it a great invention. It chanced shortly after that a party of gentlemen, many of them old friends and officers who had served under General Greene, met at her house, and were discussing the merits and profits of cotton, which had been lately introduced into the State. One of them remarked that unless some machine could be devised for removing the seed it would never be a profitable crop (the cleaning of one pound of cotton being then a day's work). Mrs. Greene, who heard the remark, replied that a young man, a Mr. Whitney, then in her house, could probably help them. She then sent for Whitney, introduced him, extolled his genius and commended him to their friendship. He set to work under great disadvantages, having to make his tools, and even his wires, which at that time could not be had in Savannah. By Mrs. Greene and Mr. Miller he was furnished with abundant means wherewith to complete his machine. It was first exhibited privately to a select company, but it could not long remain a secret, and its fame, which spread rapidly throughout the South, was the cause of great excitement. The shop containing the model was broken open and the machine was stolen: by this means the public became possessed of the secret, and before another could be made a number of machines were in successful operation.

A partnership was entered into between Miller and Whitney, and in 1793 a large area was planted with cotton in expectation that the new gin would enable them to market it at little expense. In 1795 their shops, which had been removed to New Haven, were destroyed by fire, thus reducing the firm to the verge of bankruptcy. The faith and energy of Mr. Miller are well shown in the following letter, written from Dungeness to Whitney in New Haven: "I think we ought to meet such events with equanimity. We are pursuing a valuable object by honorable means, and I believe our measures are such as are justified by virtue and morality. It has pleased Providence to postpone the attainment of this object. In the midst of all the reflections called up by our misfortunes, while feeling keenly sensitive to the loss, injury and wrong we have sustained, I feel an exultant joy that you possess a mind similar to my own, that you are not disheartened, that you will persevere and endeavor at all hazards to attain the main object. I will devote all my time, all my thoughts, all my exertions, all the fortune I possess and all the money I can borrow, to compass and complete the business we have undertaken; and if fortune should by any future disaster deprive us of our reward, we will at least have deserved it."

While thus embarrassed information came from England that the cotton cleaned by their gins was ruined. Whitney nearly gave way under the strain, and wrote to Mr. Miller at Dungeness: "Our extreme embarrassments are now so great that it seems impossible to struggle longer against them. It has required my utmost exertions to exist, without making any progress in our business. I have labored hard to stem the strong current of disappointment which threatens to carry us over the cataract, but have labored with a shattered oar, and in vain unless some speedy help come. Life is short at best, and six or seven of its best years are an immense sacrifice to him who makes it."

Returning South, he constructed a new model (it is said at Dungeness), with the object in view so to improve upon the old one as to remove the seed without injury to the staple. It was first tried in the presence of Mrs. Greene and Mr. Miller, but found lacking in an important particular. Mrs. Greene exclaimed, "Why, Mr. Whitney, you want a brush," and with a stroke of her handkerchief removed the lint. Comprehending her idea at once, he replied, "Mrs. Greene, you have completed the cotton-gin."

With the further fortunes of the brave inventor we have no more to do, as that part of his history intimately connected with Dungeness ends here. His subsequent trials, disappointments, triumphs, all the world knows. His friend and partner, who so nobly sustained him, lies buried here, so tradition says, having died in 1806 of lockjaw caused by running an orange-thorn through his hand while removing trees from Florida to Dungeness.

Near the tomb of Mrs. Miller is another: "Sacred to pure affection. This simple stone covers the remains of James Shaw. His virtues are not to be learned from perishable marble; but when the records of Heaven shall be unfolded it is believed they will be found written there in characters as durable as the volumes of eternity. Died January 6th, 1820, aged 35 years." And by the side of this latter another marble slab, with this inscription, which explains itself: "Louisa C. Shaw, relict of James Shaw, Esq., and youngest daughter of Major-General Nathaniel Greene of the Army of the Revolution. Died at Dungeness, Georgia, April 24th, 1831, aged 45 years."

This ends the record of the residence of the family of General Greene at Dungeness. That they made it their home for many years is evident—that they removed here soon after the death of the general is probable. In the division of General Greene's possessions Dungeness became the property of Mrs. Shaw, his youngest daughter: she, dying childless, left it to her nephew, Phineas Miller Nightingale. Mrs. Nightingale, wife of the grandson of General Greene, to whom this property was given, was daughter of Rufus King, governor of New York, and granddaughter of Rufus King, minister to Great Britain during the elder Adams's administration. The Nightingales, descendants of General Greene, remained in undisturbed possession until the late war, dispensing unbounded hospitality at their princely mansion. During the war the house was occupied by Northern troops until its close, when, through the negligence of some negro refugees, it was burned. Its ruins alone testify to the wealth of former years which now is departed, and the broad acreage of untilled fields and the ruined negro cabins cry out loudly for those who will never return to bless them.

Let us turn once more to that cemetery in the olive-grove. Another stone claims our attention, a tablet to the memory of him who pronounced those glowing words, "First in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen:" "Sacred to the memory of Gen. Henry Lee of Virginia. Obiit 25 March, 1818, aetat. 63." In 1814, General Lee was injured by a mob in Baltimore, and never recovered. Early in 1818 he arrived at Dungeness from Cuba, whither he had gone to regain his health. He landed from a schooner at the river landing, a weak, decrepit old man, in whom it would have been difficult to recognize the dashing Light-Horse Harry of the Revolution. A grandson of General Greene's, Phineas Miller Nightingale, was loitering near the landing. Calling him, General Lee learned who he was, and despatched him to his aunt, Mrs. Shaw, with the intelligence of his arrival. "Tell her," said he, "that the old friend and companion of General Greene has come to die in the arms of his daughter."

A carriage was sent for him, and he was installed in the southern chamber above the drawing-room, and everything done to alleviate his pain that the kindest forethought could suggest. He lingered here some two months, and then passed away, and was buried in the family burying-ground. His only baggage at the time of his arrival was an old hair-covered trunk nailed round with brass-headed nails.

An anecdote is preserved in the family relating to the general's residence there. One of the servants, Sara by name—commonly called "the Duchess" from her stately demeanor—incurred his ill-will. General Lee once threatened to throw his boot at her, and the Duchess turned upon him and replied, "If you do I'll throw it back at you." This answer so pleased the old general that he would afterward permit no other servant to wait upon him.

Some years after his death a stone was placed above his grave by his son, General Robert E. Lee, who a few months prior to his death visited his father's grave in company with his daughter.

* * * * *

These are some of the associations that cluster about the ruins of Dungeness, giving to those ivy-grown walls, to forest and shore, an interest which mere attractions of scenery and climate could not awaken.

FREDERICK A. OBER.



OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

"WESTERN MEMORABILIA."

One of the pioneers of the old-book trade in New York was William J. Gowans, whose career as a dealer in old and rare books covered a period of nearly fifty years, and brought him into a contact more or less intimate with all the literary and many of the other notables of his day. Gowans had some literary aspirations, and in his old age projected a book which he proposed to call Western Memorabilia, and which was to consist of sketches and reminiscences of the famous men he had met in his career. This book was never published—somewhat to the loss of American literature, I am inclined to think after perusing some of its scattered fragments which have recently come into my possession. These are full of detail, and, as throwing light on the characters of some persons of whom far too little is known, are certainly worthy of preservation.

On Poe I find the following notes: "The characters drawn of Poe by his various biographers and critics may with safety be pronounced an excess of exaggeration, but this is not to be much wondered at when it is considered that these men were his rivals, either as poets or prose-writers, and it is well known that such are generally as jealous of each other as are the ladies who are handsome of those who desire to be considered so. It is an old truism, and as true as it is old, that in the multitude of counsellors there is safety. I therefore will show you my opinion of this gifted but unfortunate genius: it may be estimated as worth little, but it has this merit: it comes from an eye-and ear-witness, and this, it must be remembered, is the very highest of legal evidence. For eight months or more, 'one house contained us, us one table fed.' During that time I saw much of him, and had an opportunity of conversing with him often; and I must say I never saw him the least affected with liquor, nor ever descend to any known vice, while he was one of the most courteous, gentlemanly and intelligent companions I have ever met. Besides, he had an extra inducement to be a good man, for he had a wife of matchless beauty and loveliness: her eye could match that of any houri, and her face defy the genius of a Canova to imitate; her temper and disposition were of surpassing sweetness; in addition, she seemed as much devoted to him and his every interest as a young mother is to her first-born. During this time he wrote his longest prose romance, entitled the Adventures of Arthur Gordon Pym. Poe had a remarkably pleasing and prepossessing countenance—what the ladies would call decidedly handsome. He died after a brief and fitful career at Baltimore, October, 1849, where his remains lie interred in an obscure burying-ground."

Of Simms he writes, under date of Oct. 15, 1868: "To-day I had the pleasure of a call from William Gilmore Simms, the novelist. He is quite affable in conversation, and apparently well stocked with general information, which he can impart with fluency. He appears somewhat downcast, or rather, I should say, has a melancholy cast of countenance: he is advanced in years, with a profusion of hair around his face, chin and throat—is apparently between sixty and seventy years of age. I requested him to enroll his name in my autograph-book, which he did with readiness. He remarked that he was often requested to do so, especially by the ladies. I replied that this was a debt which every man incurred when he became public property either by his words, actions or writings. He acquiesced in the justice of the remark. Mr. Simms was in search of a copy of Johnson's History of the Seminoles, to aid him in making a new book. He was accompanied by Mr. Duykinck."

Halleck is thus introduced: "On a certain occasion I was passing a Roman Catholic church in New York: seeing the doors open and throngs of people pressing in, I stepped inside to see what I could see. I had not well got inside when I beheld Fitzgreene Halleck standing uncovered, with reverential attitude, among the crowd of unshorn and unwashed worshippers. I remained till I saw him leave. In doing so he made a courteous bow, as is the polite custom of the humblest of these people on taking their departure.

On the subject of compliments paid him for poetical talents, Mr. Halleck once said to me, 'They are generally made by those who are ignorant or who have a desire to please or flatter, or perhaps a combination of all. As a general thing, they are devoid of sincerity, and rather offensive than pleasing. There is no general rule without its exception, however, and in my bagful of compliments I cherish one which comes under that rule, and reflecting upon it affords me real pleasure as it did then. On a warm day in summer a young man came into the office with a countenance glowing with ardor, innocence and honesty, and his eyes beaming with enthusiasm. Said he, "Is Mr. Halleck to be found here?" I answered in the affirmative. Continued he, with evidently increased emotion, "Could I see him?"—"You see him now," I replied. He grasped me by the hand with a hearty vigorousness that added to my conviction of his sincerity. Said he, "I am happy, most happy, in having had the pleasure at last of seeing one whose poems have afforded me no ordinary gratification and delight. I have longed to see you, and I have dreamt that I have seen you, but now I behold you with mine own eyes. God bless you for ever and ever! I have come eleven hundred miles, from the banks of the Miami in Ohio, mainly for that purpose, and I have been compensated for my pains."'

"Mr. Halleck told me that he had been solicited to write a life of his early and beloved friend Drake. 'But,' said he, 'I did not well see how I could grant such a request: I had no lever for my fulcrum. What could I say about one who had studied pharmacy, dissection, written a few poems, and then left the scene of action? I had no material, and a mere meaningless eulogy would have been out of the question.'

"In personal appearance Halleck was rather below the medium height and well built: in walking he had a rather slow and shuffling gait, as if something afflicted his feet; a florid, bland and pleasant countenance; a bright gray eye; was remarkably pleasant and courteous in conversation, and, as a natural consequence, much beloved by all who had the pleasure of his acquaintance. But to that brilliancy in conversation which some of his admirers have been pleased to attribute to him in my opinion he could lay no claim. His library was sold at auction in New York on the evening of October 12, 1868. If the collection disposed of on that occasion was really his library in full, it must be confessed it was a sorry affair and meagre in the extreme. In surveying the collection a judge of the value of such property would perhaps pronounce it worth from one hundred and twenty-five to one hundred and fifty dollars. The books brought fabulous prices—at least ten times their value. The company was large, good-humored and just in the frame of mind to be a little more than liberal, doubtless stimulated to be so from a desire to possess a relic of the departed poet who had added fame to the literature of his country. The following are the names of a few of the books and the prices they brought: Nicholas Nickleby, with the author's autograph, $18; Bryant's little volume of poems entitled Thirty Poems, with the author's autograph, $11; Campbell's Poems, with Halleck's autograph, $8.50; Catalogue of the Strawberry Hill Collection, $16; Barnaby Rudge, presentation copy by the author to Halleck, $15; Coleridge's Poems, with a few notes by Halleck, $10; Fanny, a poem by Mr. Halleck, $10. The sum-total realized for his library was twelve hundred and fifty dollars."

Aaron Burr is the subject of some interesting reminiscences: "Shortly after I came to New York, Aaron Burr was pointed out to me as he was slowly wending his way up Broadway, between Chambers street and the old theatre, on the City Hall side. I frequently afterward met him in this and other streets. He was always an object of interest, inasmuch as he had become an historical character, somewhat notoriously so. I will attempt to describe his appearance, or rather how he appeared to me: He was small, thin and attenuated in form, perhaps a little over five feet in height, weight not much over a hundred pounds. He walked with a slow, measured and feeble step, stooping considerably, occasionally with both hands behind his back. He had a keen face and deep-set, dark eye, his hat set deep on his head, the back part sunk down to the collar of the coat and the back brim somewhat turned upward. He was dressed in threadbare black cloth, having the appearance of what is known as shabby genteel. His countenance wore a melancholy aspect, and his whole appearance betokened one dejected, forsaken, forgotten or cast aside, and conscious of his position. He was invariably alone when I saw him, except on a single occasion: that was on the sidewalk in Broadway fronting what is now the Astor House, where he was standing talking very familiarly with a young woman whom he held by one hand. His countenance on that occasion was cheerful, lighted up and bland—altogether different from what it appeared to me when I saw him alone and in conversation with himself. Burr must have been a very exact man in his business-affairs. His receipt-book came into my possession. I found there receipts for a load of wood, a carpenter's work for one day, a pair of boots, milk for a certain number of weeks, suit of clothes, besides numerous other small transactions that but few would think of taking a receipt for. The book was but a sorry, cheap affair, and could not have cost when new more than fifty cents."

Edwin Forrest is thus mentioned: "At the time when Forrest was earning his reputation on the boards of the Bowery Theatre I was connected with that institution, and of course had an opportunity of seeing him every night he performed. Mr. Forrest appeared to be possessed of the perfection of physical form, more especially conspicuous when arrayed in some peculiar costumes which tended to display it to the best advantage. He had a stentorian voice, and must have had lungs not less invulnerable than one of Homer's heroes. He had a fine masculine face and prepossessing countenance, much resembling many of the notable Greeks and Romans whose portraits have come down to our time, and a keen intellectual eye. His countenance at times assumed an air of hauteur which doubtless had become a habit, either from personating characters of this stamp or from a consciousness of his merited popularity. He left the impression on the beholder of one intoxicated with success and the repletion of human applause. He kept aloof from all around him, and condescended to no social intercourse with any one on the stage, and appeared to entertain a contempt for his audience.... He has now lost that mercurial, youthful appearance which was then so conspicuous, and which doubtless aided in laying the foundation of his widespread reputation. He was then straight as an arrow and elastic as a circus-rider, the very beau-ideal of physical perfection: now he bears the marks of decay, or rather, as is said of grain just before harvest, he has a ripe appearance. If he would consult his renown he would retire from the stage, and never set foot upon it again."

The fragments also contain notes on Bryant, Parton, Mrs. Siddons and several eminent divines and journalists. Of the latter class the fullest relate to James Gordon Bennett, founder of the Herald, and his coadjutor, William H. Attree. The following are extracts: "I remember entering the subterranean office of Mr. Bennett early in the career of the Herald and purchasing a single copy of the paper, for which I paid the sum of one cent only. On this occasion the proprietor, editor and vender was seated at his desk busily engaged in writing, and appeared to pay little or no attention to me as I entered. On making known my object in coming in, he requested me to put my money down on the counter and help myself to a paper: all this time he continued his writing operations. The office was a single oblong, underground room. Its furniture consisted of a counter, which also served as a desk, constructed from two flour-barrels, perhaps empty, standing apart from each other about four feet, with a single plank covering both; a chair, placed in the centre, upon which sat the editor busy at his vocation, with an inkstand by his right hand; on the end nearest the door were placed the papers for sale. I attribute the success of the Herald to a combination of circumstances—to the peculiar fitness of its editor for his position, to its cheapness, and its advertising patronage, which was considerable. In the fourth place, it early secured the assistance of William H. Attree, a man of uncommon abilities as a reporter and a concocter of pithy as well as ludicrous chapters greatly calculated to captivate many readers. In fact, this clever and talented assistant in some respects never had his match. He did not, as other reporters do, take down in short-hand what the speaker or reader said, but sat and heard the passing discourse like any other casual spectator: when over he would go home to his room, write out in full all that had been said on the occasion, and that entirely from memory. On a certain occasion I hinted to him my incredulity about his ability to report as he had frequently informed me. To put the matter beyond doubt, he requested me to accompany him to Clinton Hall to hear some literary magnate let off his intellectual steam. I accordingly accompanied him as per arrangement. We were seated together in the same pew. He placed his hands in his pockets and continued in that position during the delivery of the discourse, and when it was finished he remarked to me that I would not only find the substance of this harangue in the Herald the next day, but that I would find it word for word. On the following morning I procured the paper, and read the report of what I had heard the previous evening; and I must say I was struck with astonishment at its perfect accuracy. Before Mr. Attree's time reporting for the press in New York was a mere outline or sketch of what had been said or done, but he infused life and soul into this department of journalism. His reports were full, accurate, graphic; and, what is more, he frequently flattered the vanity of the speaker by making a much better speech for him than he possibly could for himself. Poor Attree died in 1849, and is entombed at Greenwood."

It is probable that other fragments of this work are in existence, and if so it is hoped that the publication of these will tend to their discovery.

C.B.T.



CONCERNING NIGHT-NOISES.

Many a time these summer nights am I startled out of my midnight sleep by a conversation like the following as two friends pause on the corner beneath my suburban window:

"Well, good-night."

"Good-night."

"Hold on a moment. I want to—"

"Oh yes. Rely on me. Do you think he will—"

"He promised."

"Oh, then he'll do it. Well, then, good—"

"Good-night, good-night."

"Wait an instant. But how shall I—"

"... Now you understand?"

"Oh yes. Good-night."

"Good-night."

"Good-night."

After these exclamations, uttered with piercing distinctness, have been exchanged, the belated revellers from some club or whist-party or an evening at the theatre in town terminate their sweet sorrow at parting by going their several ways to their different homes, where, no doubt, on retiring to rest they sink at once into blameless slumber, ignorant of the fact that for me they have murdered sleep.

I had gone to bed betimes, wornout with hard mental labor: I had hoped for a night's repose to recruit my energies for the morrow. This sleep I craved was no luxurious indulgence of pampered inclination, but my stock in trade—my bone, my sinew, my heart's courage, my mental inspiration, the immediate jewel of my soul.

Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing: 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my NIGHT'S SLEEP Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.

But let me now repose again: tenderly entreated, softly courted, sleep may return. There are many specifics for bringing slumber to mutinous eyelids. Let me remember what they are.

First. To think of the wind blowing on a field of grain. Watch with your mind's eye the long wavy undulations, the golden sheen which takes the light. What a dreamy, exquisite rhythm! (Still, I don't sleep.)

Second. Repeat the multiplication-table backward, from twelve times down to twice. (Hopeless, the only result being to render my mathematical powers acutely, preternaturally awake, so that I begin to estimate the magnitude of my summer expenses.)

Third. Try to decide where to spend the August vacation. I am thinking of Lake George, the Saguenay, Sea Girt, the White Mountains, when all at once I begin to yield drowsily to the influence of long conversations about nothing which take possession of my mind—mere gibberish, strings of words without sense. Thank Heaven, I am off! I am actually going to sleep. Not yet!

Down the street comes a man with an accordion. He is playing "Annie Laurie." Every now and then he strikes a wrong note. Excruciating agony! Did he render it correctly it might blend with a romantic dream, but when he insists on flatting persistently, as for bonnie Annie Laurie he offers to lay him down and die, who is to bear it? And why does he not consummate the proffered sacrifice by dying at once? I would cheerfully bury him. He passes slowly, lingeringly, seeming to pause outside of my window, as if my casement enshrined that form like the snowdrift and that throat like the swan's. But, although he vanishes finally, the street has become alive. Two men pass in deeply-interesting conversation, one of them assuring the other that he has not done "a stroke's work" in two years. He is maudlin, of course. "A stroke's work"? And as if any man could expect to find work and to do it after keeping such hours as these!

And now comes "the whistler." I had been expecting him. He is to-night whistling airs from Pinafore. The Pirates, thank Heaven! furnishes him no airs. He whistles—let me confess, reluctant although I am to do it—he whistles to perfection. There is nothing experimental, nothing tentative, in his notes, which come clear, sharp, in perfect time and tune.

The clock strikes two. It is the voice of doom, for presently the 2.19 freight-train will thunder slowly through our end of the town. It renders my case utterly hopeless. One might as well expect to sleep in momentary expectation of the Juggernaut. I know its every sound: I can feel the bridge at —— Junction, five miles away, tremble under it. I listen and wait, every nerve on edge. A mile and a half the other side of our station the engine will first snort, then begin a series of shrieks—shrieks suggestive of warning, imminent danger, supreme peril, the climax of a tragical catastrophe. For at least five minutes shall I be compelled to listen while the engineer—if it be a real living engine-man who impels this chorus of fiends—runs the full scale of his shrill tooting, perhaps deeming it essential to the safety of the town, which ought to be asleep, or to the dignity of his long, creeping train of coal- and freight-laden cars.

Even the Juggernaut passes: it is gone. I emerge, faint and wornout from the trial. Now that it is toward three o'clock, everybody except the policeman in bed, and no more trains to come until after five, one might suppose there was some chance for an interval of peace, of repose. I get up and walk about a little in order to feel, with the opportunity, the inclination for slumber. Yes, it will come....

Scarcely have I ventured to close my eyes again before there begins a chirp, a twitter, a general thrill of sound. All the birds are awake, and are soon in full chorus. Presently a flush of color will run around the horizon, and it will be dawn. The actual night has flown. I can hear Smith, our grocery-man around the corner, setting off into the country for his milk and eggs. Several marketcarts are abroad.... There goes an extra train, shrieking direly along the curve.

It is actually growing light. With the first gleam of day my excellent aunt—who embodies all my future expectations of wealth—sleeping in the next chamber, turns in her bed, yawns loudly and unreservedly, gets up and takes an observation, opening and closing her shutters with a bang. By breakfast-time my revered relation becomes a respectable and no longer a riotous member of society, but during the early morning hours her inventions for disturbing her neighbors are ingenious and diabolical.

By five o'clock the morning-trains begin, followed at half-past six by fifty factory-whistles. The children are awake and stirring. The housemaid is banging her utensils on piazza and in hallway: the cook is flirting with the milk-and butter-man at the back gate, and exclaiming "Oh Laws!" to some news or pleasantry of his. The licensed venders are abroad. There are all sorts of cries. It is less than an hour to breakfast. The night is lost: one foolish, intolerable noise has spoiled all.

L.W.



TABARIN, THE FRENCH MERRY-ANDREW.

The French word tabarin is almost obsolete, and its English synonym, merry-andrew, is not much in vogue, but as they are andronymics, to coin a word, embalming the memories of two famous charlatans, they possess an abiding interest apart from all question of their use or disuse.

Andrew Borde and Tabarin were both charlatans and both famous, but here all resemblance between them ceases. The former was a witty and eccentric quack, who travelled about from place to place and country to country selling drugs and practising medicine in fairs and marketplaces, where his glib tongue readily gathered crowds and earned him the nickname which has since passed current in English as a generic term for buffoons of all sorts and conditions. The tenth volume of the Extra Series of the Early English Text Society is wholly devoted to Borde, and well repays perusal, although probably few who read it will agree with Mr. Furnivall, the editor, that "any one who would make him more of a merry-andrew than anything else is a bigger fool than he would make Borde."

Tabarin, however, was a veritable and inimitable clown, and his name has figured in French literature both as a proper and a common noun almost from the day that he and his partner, Mondor, set up their booth on the Pont Neuf. They began their sale of ointments and liniments in Paris about the year 1618, attracting custom by their absurd dialogues in the vein of the circus-clown and ring-master of to-day. Occasionally they left the city to try their luck in the provinces, but during most of their career they were to be found on the bridge near the entrance to the Place Dauphine. Tabarin retired from the business about 1630, but his partner continued at the old stand with a new clown, who must have been either less witty or more obscene than Tabarin, for in 1634 Mondor was abated as a nuisance by the authorities.

Tabarin was blessed with a wife and daughter: his wife's name was Francisquine; his daughter married the celebrated buffoon Gaultier Garguille. The story goes that when he left Mondor he bought a small country-place near Paris, where he passed his latter days comfortably on his earnings. There are two traditions current as to the manner of his death: according to one, he was killed by some noblemen in a hunting quarrel; according to the other, he died from the effects of heavy drinking for a wager. He is said to have styled himself Tabarin because he usually appeared in a little tabard, called in Italian tabarrino, but his true name and his nationality are alike unknown.

Tabarin's pleasantries, as jotted down by members of his audiences, have been given to the world at divers times in various forms, and have latterly been collected and published in a body with those of his less successful rival Grattelard; but very few of them are suited to nineteenth-century taste, and most of them are gross to the last degree. Some of the presentable ones are here given, and may serve as specimens of his manner, though they will scarcely account for his reputation:

Tab. Who are the politest people in the world, master?

Mon. I've travelled in Spain, Italy and Germany, and I assure you that the French nation is by all odds the most courteous. They are the only people in the world that kiss and compliment, and above all take off hats.

Tab. Take off hats! If that's courtesy I don't want any of it.

Mon. Taking off hats, Tabarin, is an ancient custom originating among the Romans. It is done in token of good-will.

Tab. So you say taking off hats is the pink of politeness? Now, if that's so, do you want to know who I think are the politest people?

Mon. Yes: who?

Tab. Why, our Paris street-thieves, for they don't stop at taking off hats, but take cloaks off too.

* * * * *

Tab. Master, why don't they let women take orders?

Mon. Because the sex is frail, Tabarin, and not worthy to conduct the services of the Church, which are sacred mysteries.

Tab. Humbug! It's because they always will have the last word, so it wouldn't do to let them give the responses. Why, the services would never end.

By similar logic Tabarin demonstrates, among others, the following propositions:

An ass is a better linguist than his master, because he understands when he is spoken to, while his lingo is all lost upon the man.

A fiddler has the hardest lot of all mankind, because his life depends upon a bit of wood and a piece of cord, for all the world like a malefactor's.

Cut-purses are the most liberal of all men, for they not only empty their own purses, but those of other people.

If you put a miller, a tailor, a bailiff and an attorney in a bag, the first thing to come out will be a thief.

The most wonderful gardener and the most wonderful tree in the world are respectively Jack Ketch and the gallows tree, because when the hangman plants that unpleasant vegetable it bears fruit the same day.

If you see six birds on a tree, and shoot three, there will be none left, for of course the remaining three will fly away. This last jest is so trite to-day as to be absolutely threadbare.

Tabarin's wits were not exhausted by this kind of buffoonery. He issued comic proclamations and almanacs, and even produced short farces in which his wife performed with him. From one of these farces Moliere is supposed to have borrowed the ideas for his sack-scene in the Fourberies de Scapin.

La Fontaine stole one of Grattelard's dialogues bodily, and converted it into the celebrated fable of The Acorn and the Pumpkin. Grattelard was contemporary with Tabarin, as remarked above: he and his partner, Desiderio Descombes, sold quack medicines at the north end of the Pont Neuf. The dialogue in question follows, at least so much of it as is in point, and will serve as tailpiece to the specimens of Tabarin's wit:

Grat. I had a great discussion this morning with a philosopher, trying to prove to him that Nature often makes great mistakes.

D. D. No, no, Grattelard: everything that Nature does is done for the best.

Grat. Just wait now: let me tell you how I had to give in.

D. D. Well, how was it?

Grat. We were walking in the garden, and pretty soon we came across a tremendous pumpkin, as big as a Swiss drum. "There!" said I: "Nature has no better sense than to hang a great thing like that on such a slender vine that the least breeze can break it off."

D. D. Then you blamed Nature in the matter of the pumpkin?

Grat. Yes, for of course there ought to be some proportion inter sustinens et sustentum; but, by Heavens, I soon changed my mind, for just as I was passing under a great oak tree down fell an acorn and struck me on the nose. Of course I had to admit that Nature was right, after all, for if she had put a pumpkin up there I should have been in a pretty pickle.

D. D. Yes indeed, Grattelard: you would have cut a fine figure drinking out of a bottle with your nose in a sling.

Grat. By the Georgics of Virgil, 'twould be all up with spectacles for my old age.

Tabarin was the first of the series of clowns that enlivened the streets of Paris for two hundred years, or, at any rate, the first to attain celebrity: Bobeche in our own century was the last. He made a great noise in his day, but nothing keeps his memory green except the Bobeche of Offenbach's Barbe-Bleue. Tabarin, however, has a new lease of life in two of the handy little-volumes of the Bibliotheque Elzevirienne.

S.E.T.



A LEGION OF DEVILS.

"Everybody knows," said Beppo, my Roman model, "that the English are mad, signor. For has not the padre told me so? and does he not say that the fires of Purgatory burn within them? Else why do they roll about in a tub of water every morning, if not to cool their vitals? It is an insult to an Italian to wash him: we only wash dead bodies;" and Beppo draws his huge frame up to its full height, while his black eyes flash, and I mentally acknowledge him and his begrimed rags picturesque if filthy.

"Si, si, they are all mad," he continues, "and they keep horses and dogs as mad as themselves; and they ride out, dressed in the very color of the flames of Purgatory, to run screaming and shouting after poor foxes over the Campagna, notwithstanding the Holy Father has rigorously prohibited that sort of insanity, and has placed his gendarmerie purposely to stop it. But who can stop il diavolo e gli suoi angeli? Why, signor, if they want foxes, I myself, Beppo Donati, would catch them any number for a paul or two. But they are all mad, all mad. And the dogs, it is well known how they became possessed; for," lowering his voice and coming nearer me, "I myself saw the arch-fiend himself and his legions enter them bodily. I will tell the signor how it was.

"The signor has been in the Catacombs of the blessed martyrs, but cannot know as much about them as myself, who was custodian for many a year in the dangerous and least frequented ones; and it was there that I received the hurt that caused me to turn model. Many are the hours I have passed in the remote ones lying miles away from the Eternal City, where the only available entrance was a tortuous, chimney-like hole almost filled with rubbish, and so insignificant in appearance that it had remained concealed by a few bushes from the time it was last used by the blessed martyrs themselves till to-day.

"To descend this aperture, signor, one struggles along with much difficulty: lying on one's chest, and with a lighted taper in one hand, the other holding a rope that has been made fast to a tree outside, one slides down by degrees feet foremost. The passages are usually narrowed and choked by the rubbish, and descend nearly perpendicularly to where, lower down, they open wider and your feet touch steps cut roughly in the rock; but you must not trust them, for the soft stone will crumble with your weight. After descending some sixty or seventy feet you suddenly bump against an old stone doorway, and you are at the bottom. But on passing the doorway your position is even worse, as the stagnant pools of muddy water reach up to your knees, and the passages are too low to admit of your standing upright, while you stretch your taper into a thick darkness that closes over everything a few yards distant and prevents your seeing anything but the horizontal niches in tiers, one above the other, where the mortal remains of the beatific lie surrounded by the symbols of the faith they died for. Here they keep their vigil century after century over our Holy City, while they await their glorious resurrection.

"I have been miles under the Campagna in these subterranean cemeteries. No one has yet ascertained their entire extent. They branch out in every direction, and the ramifications are so countless—not only on a level, but in stories underlying one another—and so many of them have fallen in or been filled with water, that no successful attempt has ever been made to follow them to their extremities. Nor can it be found out whether they communicate with one another or remain as they were originally, distinct from each other.

"You have heard, signor, that the early Christians celebrated the feasts of the Church by visiting the then newly-decorated and consecrated subterranean cemeteries, and that on one of these occasions, when a large crowd of persons had entered to celebrate a festival, it occurred to the ruling authorities that the opportunity might be advantageously used to lessen by so many the troublesome and ever-increasing population of the new faith. Accordingly, a number of huge stones were brought and the entrance built up and rigidly guarded till all the unfortunate prisoners had died a martyr's death.

"After that, to guard against a repetition of such an act, various apertures of exit were made, and may now be frequently found on the Campagna, where, when one's foot sinks into a doubtful-looking hole filled with rubbish, one knows it penetrates to the depths beneath. Secret passages were also made to debouch in the private houses of well-known Christians or buildings set apart for Christian worship; and it was from one of these walled-up doorways that I, Beppo Donati, myself saw un miracolo performed and a legion of devils let loose.

"It was in the church of St. Prassede. St. Prassede, the signor knows, was one of the daughters of the senator Pudens mentioned by St. Paul as sending his greetings to Timothy. The present church stands on the site of the very house once inhabited by this Christian family, and in the dark crypt under the high altar there is a walled-up doorway with the sign of the cross upon it. The crypt was originally the cellar of the ancient house, into which debouched one of the secret entrances to the Catacombs: at one extremity of the crypt is the doorway in question, now strongly built up, with the cross impressed in its superficial stucco.

"For many centuries the subterranean excavations behind the crypt have been haunted by the Evil One and his coadjutors, who break forth from time to time in unearthly noises, racings, scamperings, moanings and yellings, and scarcely a man, woman or child in the vicinity but has heard them with their own veritable ears. Many special services of exorcism have been performed in the church above to meet the occasions as they might arise, but with no permanent effect. And, signor, notwithstanding the cloud of witnesses that can testify to these supernatural sounds, the city contains sceptics, and none more determined than the learned Father Xavier of the Holy Propaganda.

"The day of the miracle that I am about to tell you of was a dark, wet Thursday in November, when my wife Teresina and myself attended high mass at St. Prassede, in honor of Teresina's festa. At the conclusion of the mass strange sounds were heard behind the walls of the crypt, and more especially at the back of the walled-up door. Gasps, yellings, scamperings, and then a cessation, and again a repetition of the same unearthly sounds with increased vehemence. Sometimes they would seem to recede till they died away in the distance, and then come rushing as if a whole legion of the enemy were close at hand. From the body of the church the crypt is approached by an open passage down a wide flight of steps immediately in front of the high altar, and the walled door, as well as the whole of the crypt, can be distinctly seen from the top of the steps. When the mysterious noises were first heard most of the congregation had retreated precipitately to the doors, but some of the more pious or venturesome—among whom were Teresina and myself—had remained, and were leaning over the balusters while the padre descended with his attendants to perform the special service appointed for the occasion. The exorcism took effect, for the noises, from being very uproarious, suddenly ceased altogether, and the arch-fiend seemed pacified, if not utterly routed, until at the close of the service, a bell was rung as appointed in the office. The sound of this bell had the effect of increasing the demoniac uproar to such a degree that the padre officiating was fain to hurry through the rest of the service as best he could and beat a precipitate retreat, with the acolytes, bells and all, to the sacristy.

"Teresina and myself had fled to the door of the church, where we stationed ourselves in a convenient place for a start when the occasion might require it. We had not been there long when we saw Father Xavier—the sceptic I told the signor about—enter the church with two assistants armed with crowbars and pickaxes, and proceed immediately to the crypt, where no doubt could exist as to the noises at that moment, as the yellings, scamperings and scramblings were loud enough in all conscience. The sacristan came out from the body of the church and suggested another exorcism to the reverend father, who answered that he preferred the pickaxe, and, turning to beckon to his workmen, found they had fled. Nowise daunted, the reverend gentleman took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and went to work with a will, making the vault re-echo with his blows. This operation, while it had the effect of thinning the audience still further in the church, where Teresina and I lingered, certainly abated the noises behind the door, until the padre's blows, continuing with unabated energy, effected a breach where the very head and claws of the Evil One himself were actually to be seen protruding through the aperture: in one moment more the whole troop of the enemy had dashed through the opening, upset the padre, and were in full career through the church, from whence the whole assembly took flight into the streets, uttering frantic shouts and seeking safety in the houses. The legionaries of Satan had it all to themselves, and continued their career until they arrived at the place where the English keep their hounds, where, with a tremendous yell, they leaped over the gate and disappeared in the kennels.