"I, Nicholas Baker, being very sicke in body, but of perfect memory, doe make, constitute, and ordaine this my last will and testament, revoking and disclayming all other wills by me made. Imprimis, I give my soule unto God my redeemer, and my body to bee decently buried in ye new church of Kighotan. Item, I give and bequeathe unto Mr. Jeremy Taylor, minister,[G] my cloath cloak, to bee delivered to him after my corpse carrying out of ye house."

From these extracts I learn these two facts, that there was a new church, already built, and that Mr. Jeremy Taylor was the minister, and the inference is a legitimate one, taking into consideration the instructions given to Governor Berkeley, and acted upon by him, to which reference is made above, that the old church now standing in Hampton, built in the form of a cross, and of brick, a drawing of which, accompanies this communication, was erected at some period about 1660, or between that and 1667. That it was not built before 1660, we have strong reasons to presume; and that it was built between that and 1667, we hope to show hereafter. In the time intervening between the murder of Charles the First and the restoration, there would have been no churches built, we presume, in the form of the cross—this the minions of Cromwell would not have allowed; nor for the worship and ritual of the Church of England, for the same reasons; and, moreover, the will above referred to, speaks of the church as being "ye new church of Kighotan."

The tower was an after thought, as we find from the vestry-book, now in the possession of the writer. The following bears date 2d day of March, 1761:

"Charles Cooper came into vestry, and agreed to do the brick work of the steeple, with good and well burnt bricks and mortar of lime, at least fifteen bushels of lime to every thousand bricks so laid. The said Cooper to find all materials necessary for building the said steeple, and all expenses what kind soever at his own proper cost. The said Cooper to give bond for the performance, agreeable to a resolve of the said vestry on the 6 day of February last."

And, on the 16th day of June, 1761, the record below is made in the vestry-book:

"Agreed that the steeple as before to be built, shall be joined to the west end of the church wall, and that an half brick be added to the thickness of the foundation of the said steeple up to the water table."

And, on the 14th day of July, 1762, the following record on the vestry-book will show its completion:

"Agreed, that Mr. William Westwood, and Mr. Charles Cooper, compute the number of bricks laid in the steeple wall, and if they two disagree, that they chuse a third person; and that this vestry hath this day received the said work, so as not to affect the counting or computing the number of bricks laid in the said steeple."

The occasion of building the tower is found in the extract following, made from the same source, and bearing date February 6, 1761:

"Whereas the late Mr. Andrew Kennedy, did by his last will and testament, devise to the parish of Elizabeth City, forty pounds sterling, to purchase a bell for the church of the said parish, provided the vestry, and churchwardens of the said parish, shall undertake to build a belfry for the same in twelve months after the said Alexander Kennedy's death; and this vestry, willing to embrace the said gift, have accordingly resolved," &c.

Now arises a question of some interest. The will of Nicholas Baker, made December 21, 1667, makes mention of "ye new church of Kighotan." Was there an old church of Kighotan? One older than this? We answer, yes! And now for the writer's reasons for arriving at this conclusion. From the old record of wills, deeds, &c., in the County Court office, and to which I have had access freely, through the politeness and kindness of Samuel Howard, Esq., the gentlemanly clerk of the court, I copy the following:

"In the name of God, Amen. I, Robert Brough, clerke of Kigquotan, in the county of Elizabeth Citty, being sicke and weake in body, but in perfect sense and memory, praised bee God for itt, this seven and twentyeth day of Aprill, in the yeare of our Lord God 1667, for the quieting of my conscience, desire to settle that estate it has pleased God to lend mee, in manner and forme following;—And first of all, I commend my soul into the hands of ye Almighty God my Maker, and my Saviour and Redeemer Christ Jesus, being confident through his meritts and blood shedd for mee, to be an inheritor with Him, His saints and angells of everlasting life. And my body unto ye earthe from whence it came, there to receive decent burial in the old parish church of Kigquotan aforesaid," &c.

"The old parish church of Kigquotan," and "ye new church of Kighotan," cannot be one and the same. We are then led to inquire, where was the old parish church of Kigquotan, and when was it probably built? The last branch of this question, we prefer answering first. By reference to the administration of Sir Thomas Yeardley (not Sir George Yeardley), we find that, in 1621, among several other Colonial enactments, provision is made for the erection of a "house of worship, and the separation of a burial ground on every plantation." We presume, therefore, that it was about this time (1621-2) that the first church of Kigquotan was erected, and we have not forgotten the churchwardens of 1644. And now, in answer to the other question—where was this church built?—we have only to turn our footsteps to the "Pembroke Farm" (the property of John Jones, Esq.), about one mile from the town of Hampton, and, as we there take our stand among the few remaining tombs, shout "Eureka, Eureka!" Whether the old parish church of Kigquotan was of wood, or of brick, we cannot at this day determine. "Like the baseless fabric of a vision" it has disappeared; but we opine it was wooden, from the fact, that the first church (and probably the second also) in Jamestown (both of which were destroyed by fire) was a wooden one; and the presumption is, the first brick church erected would be at the capital of the colony. However this may be, the burial ground at Pembroke could not have been simply a piece of ground, "bought with the field of Ephron the Hittite, for a possession of a burying place" for a family; but that it was a public cemetery, even that of the old parish church of Kigquotan, is evident from the character of the tombs which are still to be seen above the surface of the earth. That there are many covered over with the deposits of years, I have not the slightest doubt. Those tombs, we now see, give the best evidence, in their inscriptions, that those whose remains moulder beneath the moss-grown marbles, were not private individuals—not members of the family owning the estate—but men in public service, and who would not have been laid in an obscure private burial ground, when the church-yard of the new church of Kigquotan was but a mile distant from the spot. Moreover, it will be perceived by the inscriptions which we shall presently give, that one of the sleepers at Pembroke was "minister of this parish." Now, is it probable, that the minister of the parish would have been buried there, if it had not been a church-yard, when there was the new church of Kigquotan to receive his remains, as it was fifty-two years before, to receive those of Mr. Nicholas Baker? I have no doubt that veneration for the old cemetery, the site of the first church of the parish, caused many to bury their dead there, long after the present church-yard was opened. The oldest tomb we can find in the church-yard at Hampton, and standing in the northeast angle of the Cross, is to the memory of Captain Willis Wilson, who departed this life the 19th day of November, 1701. The latest date upon the stones at Pembroke is 1719. "The lapse of years, and the ruthless hand of time," have levelled those graves in "ye old parish church of Kigquotan;" but enough is left to the "tomb searcher," even in the inscriptions following, as he reads them by the slanting rays of the setting sun, and hears the low winds dirging in the pines, and the moaning and sighing of the distant waves, to lead him to say with Blair:

"The time draws on When not a single spot of burial earth, Whether on land, or in the spacious sea, But must give back its long-committed dust Inviolate; and faithfully shall these Make up the full account."

The following coats-of-arms and inscriptions, are taken from four black marble tablets, six feet high and three wide, lying in a field about one mile from Hampton.



"Here lies ye body of JOHN NEVILLE, Esq., Vice Admiral of His Majesty's fleet, and Commander in chiefe of the Squadron cruising in ye West Indies, who dyed on board ye Cambridge, ye 17 day of August, 1697, in ye ninth yeare of the Reign of King William ye third, aged 57 years."



"In hope of a Blessed Resurrection, here lies the body of THOMAS CURLE, gent.: who was born November 24, 1640, in the parish of St. Michaels, in Lewis, in the county of Sussex, in England, and dyed May 30, 1700.—When a few years are come then I shall goe the way whence I shall not return.—Job 16. 22."

A third inscription is as follows:

"This stone was given by his Excellency FRANCIS NICHOLSON, Esq., Lieutenant and Govenour Generall of Virginia. In memory of PETER HAYMAN, Esqr., grandson to Sir Peter Hayman of Summerfield, in ye county of Kent, he was Collector of ye Customs in the Lower District of James River, and went voluntary on board ye King's shipp Shoreham, in pursuit of a pyrate, who greatly infested this coast. After he had behaved himselfe seven hours with undaunted courage, was killed with a small shott ye 29 day of Aprill, 1700, in ye engagement he stood next ye Gouvenour upon ye quarter deck, and was here honorably interred by his order."

And the last, which speaks for itself—

"Here lyeth the body of the Reverend Mr. ANDREW THOMPSON, who was born at Stonehive, in Scotland, and was Minister of this Parish seven years, and departed this life the 11 of September, 1719, in ye 46 yeare of his age, leaving ye character of a sober religious man."

The above is followed on the tomb by a long Latin inscription, which has been so mutilated by some modern Goth, or Goths, that it is impossible to decipher it intelligibly.

We could fill pages with interesting memoranda from the history of old parishes in Virginia, but a few more, in relation to the present subject, must close our article at this time. Should this be received with favor, perhaps the writer may make more diligent efforts to rescue, from the perishing records of County Courts, and crumbling stones, and family relics, materiel for the future historian of the Church, to weave into his song of her progress in our "own green forest land," "from gloom to glory." A closer inspection of the records will doubtless enable him to trace an "unbroken succession," of parish ministers from 1621 to the present time. The following, however, is as near as can now be ascertained:—In 1664, Rev. Mr. Mallory; who was succeeded, in 1665, by Rev. Mr. Justinian Aylmere; succeeded, in 1667, by Rev. Mr. Jeremiah Taylor; succeeded, in 1677, by Rev. Mr. John Page, who left the colony about 1687; succeeded, in 1687, by Rev. Mr. Cope Doyley; in 1712, Rev. Mr. Andrew Thompson, who died 1719; in 1731, Rev. Mr. William Fife, who died in 1756; succeeded, in 1756, by Rev. Thomas Warrington, who died 1770; succeeded, in 1771, by Rev. William Selden, who either died, or resigned, in 1783; succeeded, in 1783, by Rev. William Nixon. The vestry-book here is defaced for some years, owing, I presume, to the fact that in the change in the Church, from that of England, to the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States, begun in 1783, consummated in 1787, and the first convention in Philadelphia, July 28, 1789, with Bishops presiding, of our own, this parish did not procure a minister during that period; but the following inscription, on a stone near the east entrance to the church, will show that very soon after the change spoken of above, the parish was blessed with regular rectoral services:

"Sacred to the memory of the Rev. JOHN JONES SPOONER, Rector of the Church in Elizabeth City County; who departed this life September 15, 1799, aged forty-two years."

And then to the right of the door entering from the east, another bearing the following:

"Departed this life, January 17, 1806, the Rev. BENJAMIN BROWN, Rector of Elizabeth City Parish, aged thirty-nine years."

On November 17, 1806, the vestry elected the Rev. Robert Seymour Sims, and August 11, 1810, they elected the Rev. George Holson. During the last war with Great Britain (1813), Hampton was sacked, its inhabitants pillaged—one of its aged citizens sick and infirm, wantonly murdered in the arms of his wife—and other crimes committed by hireling soldiers, and by brutalized officers, over which the chaste historian must draw a veil. The church of God itself was not spared during the saturnalia of lust and violence. His temple was profaned, and His altars desecrated. What British ruthlessness had left scathed and prostrate, was soon looked upon with neglect. The moles and the bats held their revels undisturbed within its once hallowed courts, and the "obscene owl nestled and brought forth in the ark of the covenant." The church in which our fathers worshipped, stabled the horse and stalled the ox. The very tombs of the dead, sacred in all lands, became a slaughter ground of the butcher, and an arena for pugilistic contests. A few faithful ones wept when they remembered Zion, in her day of prosperity, and beheld her in her hour of homeless travail, and to their cry, "How long, oh Lord how long!" the following preamble, accompanying a subscription list, tells the story of her woes, and breathes the language of her returning hope:

"Whereas, from a variety of circumstances, the Episcopal Church in the town of Hampton, is in a state of dilapidation, and will ere long moulder into ruins, unless some friendly hand be extended to its relief, and in the opinion of the vestry, the only method that can be pursued to accomplish the laudable design of restoring it to the order in which our forefathers bequeathed it to their children, is to resort to subscription; and they do earnestly solicit pecuniary aid from all its friends in the full belief, that an appeal will not be made in vain. And hoping that God will put it into the hearts of the people to be benevolently disposed toward our long neglected Zion."

This bears date April 28, 1826.

A committee of the citizens of Hampton was appointed to wait on the venerable Bishop Moore, "to solicit his advice upon the best manner of repairing the Protestant Episcopal Church in Hampton, and beg of him his particular aid and patronage in carrying into effect the same." The letter below will show how that "old man eloquent," felt on the subject. It is not among the Bishop's published letters, and is without date:

"MY DEAR BRETHREN:—My long confinement at the north prevented my reception of your letter, until very lately; and the feebleness of my frame, since my return, must apologize to you for any apparent neglect which has attended my reply. It will afford me the greatest pleasure to assist you with my counsel in the reorganization of your church, and with that purpose in view, I will endeavor to visit Hampton in a short time, of which you shall be duly notified, when we can converse at large on the subject proposed for my consideration. To see that temple repaired in which the former inhabitants of Hampton worshipped God, and to see you placed under the care of a faithful and judicious clergyman, will inspire my mind with the greatest delight. May the Almighty smile on the proposed design, and carry it into full and complete effect. Believe me, gentlemen, very affectionately, your friend and pastor,

RICHARD CHANNING MOORE."

The citizens and friends of the church were blessed with the energetic aid of the Rev. Mark L. Chivers, chaplain at Fortress Monroe, who for several years officiated once on each Sabbath in Hampton. It is not saying too much when we assert that mainly through his efforts, the church was resuscitated. The present rector, the writer of this, with pleasure makes this acknowledgment.

With the zeal and energy which were brought to bear, the results were most favorable; and on Friday morning, the 8th of January, 1830, a crowd might have been seen wending its way to those venerable walls. A rude staging was erected for the prominent actors, and on that platform knelt a white-haired soldier of the cross, the venerable Bishop of Virginia, his face radiant with "faith, hope, and charity." The ritual of the church was heard once more in that old pile, and in answer to the invitation, "Oh, come, let us sing unto the Lord, let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation," there might soon have been heard those beautiful words:

"And wilt thou, O Eternal God, On earth establish thy abode? Then look propitious from thy throne, And take this temple for thine own."

In the archives of the church the event is thus recorded:

"Know all men by these presents, that we, Richard Channing Moore, D.D., by Divine permission, Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the Diocese of Virginia, did consecrate to the service of Almighty God, on Friday, January 8th, in the year of our Lord 1880, St. John's Church, in the town of Hampton, Elizabeth City County. In which church the services of the Protestant Episcopal Church are to be performed agreeably to rubrics in such case made and provided. It is always to be remembered, that Saint John's Church thus consecrated and set apart to the worship of Almighty God, is by the act of consecration thus performed, separated from all worldly and unhallowed uses, and to be considered sacred to the service of the Holy and undivided Trinity.

"In testimony whereof, I have on the day and year above written, subscribed my hand and affixed my seal.

[Seal.] RICHARD CHANNING MOORE."

The Rev. Mr. Chivers having resigned his afternoon appointment, after officiating for sixteen years, and ministering to them in their day of destitution, the Rev. John P. Bausman was elected Rector in 1843, and resigned in 1845; the Rev. William H. Good was elected in 1845, and continued until the close of 1848; and the parish remained without regular rectoral services, until the 1st of January, 1851, when the writer took charge; since which time an organ (the first one) has been put up, new pews have been added, and money enough obtained to make permanent and comfortable repairs. If the design of the true friends of the church, to make it a temple in which generations to come may worship God in comfort, fail, the fault and the punishment will lie with those who "knew their duty and did it not."

FOOTNOTES:

[C] De Quincey.

[D] See Wilberforce's History of the American Church.

[E] Burke Hist. Va.

[F] Stanton's Church Dictionary.

[G] This Jeremy Taylor was very unlike his illustrious namesake, the Bishop of Down and Conner, for I find by the records, that he was any thing else but a man of "holy living," whatever else he might have been when "dying." J C. M.



BROODING-PLACES ON THE FALKLAND ISLANDS.

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL FROM THE GERMAN.

By the name of "brooding-places," the navigators of the south seas understand places selected by various sea-fowls, where they in common build their nests, lay their eggs, and bring up their young. Here they assemble in immense masses, and in the laying out and construction of these places, exhibit great caution, judgment, and industry.

When a sufficient number have assembled on the shore, they appear first to hold a consultation, and then to set about executing the great purpose for which they have come together. First, they choose out a level spot of sufficient extent, often of four or five acres, near the beach. In this they avoid ground that is too stony, which would be dangerous to their eggs. Next, they deliberate on the plan of their future camp, after which they lay out distinctly a regular parallelogram, offering room enough for the brother and sisterhood, somewhere from one to five acres. One side of the place is bounded by the sea, and is always left open for entrance and exit; the other three sides are inclosed with a wall of stones and roots.

These industrious feathered workers first of all remove from the place all obstacles to their design; they take up the stones with their bills and carry them to the boundaries to compose the wall. Within this wall they build a perfectly smooth and even foot-path some six or eight feet wide, which is used by day as a public promenade, and by night for the back and forward march of the sentinels.

After they have in this way completed their embankments on the three landward sides, they lay out the remaining part of the interior into equal little quadrangles, separated from each other by narrow foot-paths, crossing at right angles. In each crossing of these paths an albatross builds his nest, and in the middle of each quadrangle, a penguin, so that every albatross is surrounded by four penguins, and every penguin has albatross on four sides as neighbors. In this way the whole place is regularly occupied, and only at some distance are places left free for other sea-fowl, such as the green comorant and the so-called Nelly.

Though the penguin and albatross live so near and in such intimacy they not only build their nests in very different fashions, but the penguin plunders the nest of its friend whenever it has an opportunity. The nest of the penguin is a simple hollow in the ground, just deep enough to keep its eggs from rolling out, while the albatross raises a little hill of earth, grass, and muscles, eight or ten inches high, with the diameter of a water pail, and builds its nest on the top, whence it looks down on its next neighbors and friends.

None of the nests in the entire brooding-place is left vacant an instant until the eggs are hatched, and the young ones old enough to take care of themselves. The male bird goes to the sea for fish, and when he has satisfied his hunger hurries back and takes the place of the female, while she in turn goes in pursuit of food. Even when they are changing places, they know how to manage it so as not to leave their eggs for a moment uncovered. When, for instance, the male comes back from fishing, he nestles close beside the female and gradually crowds her off the nest with such care as to cover the eggs completely with his feathers without exposing them to the air at all. In this way they guard their eggs against being stolen by the other females, which are so greedy to raise large families that they seize every chance to rob the surrounding nests. The royal penguin is exceedingly cunning in this sort of trick, and never loses an occasion that is offered: In this way it often happens that the brood of this bird, on growing up turns out to be of two or three different species, a sure proof that the parents were no honester than their neighbors.

It is not only interesting but instructive and even touching to watch from a little distance the life and movements of these brooding-places. You can then see the birds walking up and down the exterior path or public promenade in pairs, or even four, six, or eight together, looking very like officers promenading on a parade day. Then all at once, the whole brooding-place is in continuous commotion, a flock of the penguins come back from the sea and waddle rapidly along through the narrow paths, to greet their mates after this brief separation; another company are on the way to get food for themselves or to bring in provisions. At the same time the cove is darkened by an immense cloud of albatrosses, that continually hover above the brooding-place, descending from their excursions or mounting into the air to go upon them. One can look at these birds for hours, and not grow weary of gazing, observing and wondering at their busy social life.



ARIADNE.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

BY E. W. ELLSWORTH.

I.

[Scene, part of the island of Naxos. Enter, sundry Dryads, habited as fair young maidens adorned with flowers, and bearing in their hands branches of trees.]

Dryad: We shadowy Oceanides, Jove's warders of the island trees, The tufted pillars tall and stout, And all the bosky camp about, Maintain our lives in sounding shades Of old aeolian colonnades; But post about the neighbor land In woof of insubstantial wear: Our ways are on the water sand, Our joy is in the desert air. The very best of our delights Are by the moon of summer nights. Darkness to us is holiday: When winds and waves are up at play, When, on the thunder-beaten shore, The swinging breakers split and roar, Then is the moment of our glory, In shadow of a promontory, To trip and skip it to and fro, Even as the flashing bubbles go. Or on the bleaker banks that lie, For the salt seething wash, too high, Where rushes grow so sparse and green, With baked and barren floors between. We glance about in mazy quire, With much of coming and retire; Nor let the limber measure fail, Till, down behind the ocean bed, The night dividing star is sped, And Cynthia stoops the marish vale, Wound in clouds and vigil pale, Trailing the curtains of the west About her ample couch of rest. Thus, nightly on, we lead the year Through all the constellated sphere. But more obscure, in brakes and bowers, During the sun-appointed hours, We lodge, and are at rest, and see, Dimly, the day's festivity, Nor hail the spangled jewel set Upon Aurora's coronet; Nor trail in any morning dew; Nor roam the park, nor tramp the pool Of lucid waters pebble cool, Nor list the satyr's far halloo. Noon, and the glowing hours, seem Mutations of a laboring dream. Yet subject, still, to Jove's decree, That governs, from the Olympian doors, The populous and lonely shores, We do a work of destiny; When any mortal, sorely spent, Girt with the thorns of discontent, Or care, or hapless love, invades, This ancient neighborhood of shades, Our gracious leave is to dispense, Of woods, the slumbrous influence; The waverings and the murmurings Of umber shades and leafy wings; Through all the courts of sense applying, With sights, and sounds, and odorous sighing, To the world-wearied soul of man, The gentle universal Pan— As now we must: the roots around, Of forests clutch a certain sound Of weary feet; go, sisters, out: Some one is pining, hereabout.

II.

[Another part of the Island. Enter Ariadne.]

Ariadne: Here, in the heart of this sea-moated isle, Where we, but last night, made a summer's lodge Of transient rest from many pendulous days Of swinging on the sick unquiet deep, Why left he me, so lone, so unattended? What converse had he with felonious Night, That underneath her dark consenting cloak, He stole unchallenged from his Ariadne? If, out of hope, I cannot answer that, Slant-eyed Conjecture at my elbow stands, To whisper me of things I would not hear. Ah me, my Theseus, wherefore art thou gone! Ah me, my Theseus, whither art thou gone! Oh how shall I, an unacquainted maid, So uninformed of whereabout I am, And in a wild completely solitary, Hope to find out my strangely absent lord! Sadness there is, and an unquiet fear, Within my heart, to trace these hereabouts Of idle woods, unthreaded labyrinths, Rude mannered brooks, unpastured meadow sides, All vagrant, voiceless, pathless, echoless, Oh for the farthest breath of mortal sound! From lacqueyed hall, or folded peasant hut,— Some noontide echo sweetly voluble; Some song of toil reclining from the heat, Or low of kine, or neigh of tethered steeds, Or honest clamor of some shepherd dog, Laughter, or cries, or any living breath, To make inroad upon this dreariness. Methinks no shape of savage insolence, No den unblest, nor hour inopportune, Could daunt me now, nor warn my maiden feet From friendly parle, that am distract of heart, With doubt, desertion, utter loneliness. Death would I seek to run from lonely fear, And deem a hut a heaven, with company. Yea, now to question of my true heart's lord, And of the ports and alleys of this isle, Which way they lead the clueless wanderer To fields suburban, and the towers of men, I would confront the strangest things that haunt In horrid shades of brooding desolation: Griffin, or satyr, sphinx, or sybil ape, Or lop-eared demon from the dens of night, Let loose to caper out of Acheron. Ah me, my Theseus, wherefore art thou gone! Who left that crock of water at my side? Who stole my dog that loved no one but me? Why was the tent unstruck, I unawaked, I left, most loved, and last to be forgotten By much obtaining, much indebted Theseus? Left to sleep on, to dream and slumber on; Nothing to know, save fancies of the air, While he, so strangly covert in his thoughts, Was softly stirring to be gone from me. Ah me, my Theseus, whither art thou gone! Hast thou, in pleasant sport, deserted me? Is it a whim, a jest, a trick of task, To mesh me in another labyrinth? Could Theseus so make mirth of Ariadne? Unless he did, I would not think he could. And yet I will believe he is in jest. More false than that, he could not be to me, Since false to me, to his own self were false. Now do I hold in hope what I have heard, That love will sometimes cunning masks put on, Speak with strange tongues, and wear odd liveries, Transform himself to seemings most unlike, And still be love in fearful opposites. So may it be, but my immediate fear Jostles that hope aside, and I remember Of what my tutor AEtion did forewarn me. Oh fond old man! if thou didst know me here, Thou wouldst move heaven and earth to have me home. Much was his care of my uncaring youth, And, with a reverend and considerate wit, He curbed the frolic of my pupilage, Less by the bridle, than the feeding it With stories ending in moralities, With applications and similitudes Tacked to the merest leaf I looked upon, Till, so it was, we two did love each other, The sage and child, with mutual amity. Oft, hand in hand, we passed my father's gate, At evening, when the horizontal day Chequered his farewell on the western wall; Shying the court, where, for the frolic lords, Under the profaned silence of the rose, The syrinx, and the stringed sonorous shell, Governed the twinkling heeled Terpischore. We softly went and turned towards the bay, And found another world, contemplative Of shells and pebbles by the ocean shore. I do remember, once, on such an eve, Pacing the polished margin of the deep, We found two weeds that had embraced each other, And talked of friendship, love and sympathy. My pupil sweet, said he, beware of Love: For thou wilt shortly be besieged by him, From the four winds of heaven, because thou art Daughter of Minos, and already married To expectation of a royal dower. But O beware! for, listen what I say, By strong presentments I have moved thy father Bating a fair and well intending nay, To leave thy love to thine unmuffled eye. This is rare scope, my girl, O use it rarely, Be slow and nice in thy sweet liberty, And let discretion honor thee in choice. For love is like a cup with dregs at bottom! Hand it with care, and pleasant it shall be— Snatch it, and thou may'st find its bitterness. And now, my soon, my all sufficient lord, How shall I answer old Sir Oracle? It is too true that I have snatched my love, And taste already of its bitterness. But trifle not with love, my sportful Theseus. Affection, when it bears an outward eye, Be it of love, or social amity, Or open-lidded general charity, Becomes a holy universal thing— The beauty of the soul, which, therein lodged, Surpasses every outward comeliness— Makes fanes of shaggy shapes, and, of the fair, Such presences as fill the gates of heaven. Why is the dog, that knows no stint of heart, But roars a welcome like an untamed bear, And leaps a dirty-footed fierce caress, More valued than the sleek smooth mannered cat, That will not out of doors, whoever comes, But hugs the fire in graceful idleness? Birds of a glittering gilt, that lack a tongue, Are shamed to drooping with the euphony Of fond expression, and the voice beneath The russet jacket of the soul of song. What is that girdle of the Queen of Love, Wherewith, as with the shell of Orpheus, Things high and humble, the enthroned gods, And tenants of the far unvisited huts Of wildernesses, she alike subdues Unto the awe of perfect harmony? What else but sweetness tempered all one way, And looks of sociable benignity? Which when she chooseth to be all herself, She doth put on, and in the act thereof, Such thousand graces lacquey her about, And in her smile such plenitude of joy— The extreme perfection of the divine gods— Shines affable, as, to partake thereof, Hath oftentimes set Heaven in uproar. By these, and many special instances, It doth appear, or may be plainly shown, That, of all life, affection is the savor— The soul of it—and beauty is but dross: Being but the outer iris—film of love, The fleeting shade of an eternal thing. Beauty—the cloudy mock of Tantalus; Daughter of Time, betrothed unto Death, Who, all so soon as the lank anarch old Fingers her palm, and lips her for his bride, Suffers collapse, and straightway doth become A hideous comment of mortality. Know this, my lord, while thou dost run from me, The tide of true love hath its hours of ebb, If the attendant orb withdraw his light; And though there be a love as strong as death, There is a pride stronger than death or love; And whether 'tis that I am royal born, Or kingly blooded, or that once I was Sometimes a mistress in my father's court, I have of patience much—not overmuch— And thou hadst best beware the boundary. Oh thou too cruel and injurious thorn! What hast thou done to my poor innocent hand! Thou art like Theseus, thou dost make me bleed; Offenceless I, yet thou dost make me bleed. This scratch I shall remember well, my lord! Deceiver false! deserter! runaway! My quick-heeled slave! my loose ungrateful bird! Where'er thou art, or if thou hear or no, Know that thou art from this time given o'er, To tarry and return what time thou wilt. It is most like that thou dost lurk not far, In twilight of some envious cave or bower. Well, if thou dost—why—lurk thy heart's content. Poor rogue! thou art not worth this weariness. I will not flutter more, nor cry to thee. Since thou art fledged, and toppled from the nest, Go—pick thy crumbs where thou canst find them best.

III.

Once more, once more, O yet again once more, Spent is my breath with fear and weariness! Vain toil it is to track this tangled wild— This rank o'ergrown imprisoned solitude— Whose very flowers are fetters in my way; Where I am chained about with vines and briers, Led blindfold on through mazes tenantless, And not a friendly echo answers me. Oh for a foot as airy as the wing Of the young brooding dove, to overpass, On swift commission of my true heart's love, All metes and bournes of this lone wilderness: So should I quickly find my truant lord. But, as it is, I can no farther go. What shall I do? despair? lie down and die? If I give o'er my search I shall despair, And if I do despair, I quickly die. Avaunt Despair! I will not yet despair. Begone, grim herald of oblivious Death! Strong-pinioned Hope, embrace thy wings about me; Shake not my fingers from thy golden chain. Oh still bear up and pity Ariadne! Alas! what hope have I but only Theseus, And Theseus is not here to pity me. Ah me, my Theseus, whither art thou gone! Thou dost forget that thou hast called me wife, And with sweet influence of holy vows Grappled and grafted me unto thyself. Oh how shall I, not knowing where thou art, Be all myself—thou dost dissever me. Yonder I'll rest awhile, for now I see, Through meshes of the internetted leaves, A little plot, girt with a living wall; A sylvan chamber, that the frolic Pan Has built and bosomed with a leafy dome, And windowed with a narrow glimpse of heaven. Its floor, sky-litten with the noontide sun, Shows garniture of many colored flowers, More dainty than the broidered webs of Tyre; And all about, from beeches, oaks and pines, Recesses deep of vernal solitude, Come sounds of calm that woo my ruffled spirits To a resigned and quiet contemplation. Yond brook, that, like a child, runs wide astray, Sings and skips on, nor knows its loneliness; A squirrel chatters at a doorless nut: A hammer bird drums on his hollow bark; And bits of winged life, with aery voices, Tinkle like fountains in a corridor. Fair haunt of peace, ye quiet cadences, Ye leafy caves of sadness and sweet sounds, That have no feeling nor a fellowship With the rash moods of terror and of pain, I did not think ye could, in such an hour, So steal from me, as in a sleep, a dream— What is't that comes between me and the light? Protect me, Jove! Lo, what untended flowers, That all night long, like little wakeful babes, Darkly repine, and weep themselves asleep, In the orient morning lift their pretty eyes, Tear smiling, to behold the sun their sire Enter the gilded chambers of the east— Strange droopingness! What quality of air?

[Ariadne falls asleep.—Enter, the Dryads, as before.]

1st Dryad: Sprinkle out of flower bells Mortal sense entrapping spells; Make no sound On the ground; Strew and lap and lay around. Gnat nor snail Here assail, Beetle, slug, nor spider here, Now descend, Nor depend, Off from any thorny spear.

2d Dryad: So conclude. Whatever seems, We have her in a chain of dreams.

3d Dryad: As fair as foreign! Who is here In disarray of princely gear? Here were a lass whose royal port Might make an awe in Heaven's court; But sorrowing beauty testifies In tears that journey from her eyes, To touches of interior pain; And on her hand a sanguine stain. Hair unlooped and sandals torn, Zone unloosened from its bourne; Surely some wandering bride of Sorrow.

4th Dryad: So let her sleep, and bid good morrow.

1st Dryad: But, sisters, me it doth astound, What maid it is that we have bound, And Bacchus not, nor Ceres found.

2d Dryad: Bacchus has gone to Arcady; Where certain swains, that merry be, Have found a happy thunder stone, That Jove has cast the vale upon; So take occasion to be blest, And Bacchus was invited guest. His shaggy crew have helped the plan. Silenus made the pipes of Pan, The Satyrs teased the vines about, And Bacchus sent a lubber lout, Who lurked, and stole, ere wink of moon, The heedless Amalthea's horn. Now all are gone to Arcady, Head bent on rousing jollity. Now riot rout will be, anon, That shall the very sun aston, By waters whilst, and on the leas, Under the old fantastic trees. The oldest swain with longest cane, And sad experience in his brain, On such mad mirth shall fail to wink, And grimly go aside to think.

3d Dryad: But, cedar-cinctured sister, say, What news has winged our Queen away?

2d Dryad: Ceres has gone to see the feast Made by the King of all East; Who breasts a beard so black and fair; And breathes a wealth of gorgeous air, Now all divided with Gulnare— Whose odorous train came up from far, Last night, at shut of evening star, And filled, with pomp majestical, The gardens and the palace hall. So Ceres runs to give them aid, In likeness of an Indian maid— Presents them each a dove apiece, And wishes blessing and increase.

3d Dryad: Hark! hark! I hear her rolling car. Our Queen is not so very far.

4th Dryad: Now make your faces long, I ween Here comes our sweet majestic Queen.

[Enter Ceres, in likeness of a stately woman, bearing poppies and ears of wheat in her hands, and crowned with a wreath of flowers and berries.]

Ceres: What! loose, and chatting here at play, All in the broad and staring day! Why children! this is something queer!

1st Dryad: But, mistress, see the sleeper here.

Ceres: A fair excuse, I own, the sight! Theseus deserted her last night.

2d Dryad: How knew you that, my lady dear?

Ceres: Well sought—for I was far from here: Whiles o'er the crisp Ionian main I shook the winnowed dragon rein—

3d Dryad: Invented error! Sister! fie! Our Queen has trapped you in a lie.

2d Dryad: A lie!

Ceres A lie?

3d Dryad: Deceit forgets How Truth is always trailing nets. While you, sweet Empress, berry crowned, Were on the Ionian westward bound, Our sister puffed you towards the east, With words about a wedding feast.

Ceres How thin a bubble blame may be! I sought for doves in Italy; But orient was my main intent, And on an Indian nuptial bent.

2d Dryad: Now honey-lips, the lie is where?

4th Dryad: She weeps—

2d Dryad: Fool fingered thing!—

Ceres Forbear. Whiles o'er the crisp Ionian main I shook the winnowed dragon rein, A Triton clove the wake behind, And, with a hailing will, did wind Such parley through his crankled horn, As all the air was echo torn. I stayed—he told what did betide Of truant Theseus and his bride; Which having heard, I did repair Unto that subterranean lair Wherein the dreadful Sisters three Vex out the threads of destiny, But they were sorely overtasked; So techy, too, that when I asked If he could not be plagued for this Unloving piece of business, With knots and burs upon his thread, They would not speak, nor lift the head: Yet saw I how his flax did run Smoothly, and much is yet unspun.

4th Dryad: Sweet Queen, adieu—come, let's away, We keep no sunshine holiday.

Ceres Stay, children, stay. Poor things! I do remember me, How I did seek Proserpine. We must not leave her thus forlorn: Auroral grace in her is born, And, rarer else, the finest sense Of feeling and intelligence. Mortals of such ethereal grain Are quickened both for joy and pain; Theirs is the affluence of joy, And pain that sorely doth annoy. And, therefore, if we leave her thus, To find the truth of Theseus, She will, with such a madness burn, And do herself so sad a turn, As that the very thought erewhile, Will drive us all to quit the isle.

1st Dryad: Alack! O no! What must be done?

Ceres Go, you, and you, and every one— To stay such heart distracting harm, Go, each bring flowers upon her arm: Pink, pansy, poppy, pimpernell, Acanthus, almond, asphodel.

[The Dryads disperse and gather flowers with which they return to Ceres.]

Ceres Now all join hands; [They join hands.] Fair fall the eyes Of any weary destinies! I bruise these flowers, and so set free Their virtue for adversity. Then, with my unguent finger tips, Touch twice and once on cheeks and lips. When this sweet influence comes to naught, Vexed she shall be, but not distraught. And now let music winnow thought: Bucolic sound of horn and flute, In distant echo nearly mute. Then louder borne, and swelling near, Make bolder murmur in her ear.

2d Dryad: See, see, what change is in her face:

Ceres Break hands, the lady wakes apace.

[Ceres and the Dryads loose hands and disappear.]

IV.

Ariadne: I dreamed a dream of sadness and the sea, And I will turn again, if yet I may, To where the rolling rondure of the deep Broadly affront the sky's infinity. Sleeping or waking, knew I naught but this; Sorrow and Love, above a desolate main, From the sheer battlements of opposite clouds, Kissed, and embraced, and parted company.... This is the self-same bay where we put in, Yonder the restless keel did gore the sand. There was the sailor's fire, and up and down, Are scattered mangled ropes, splinters, and spars, Fragments and shreds—but ship and all are gone. Here is my wreath. How brief, since yester eve, Then, when the sun, like an o'erthirsty god, Had stooped his brows behind the ocean brim, And the west wind, bearing his martial word, The limber-footed and the courier west, Went smoothly whist over the furrowed floor, To bid the night, then gazing up the sphere, Advance his constellated banners there, I leaned above the vessel's whispering prow, With an unusual joy, and drink, from out The heaven of those true repeated depths, Infinite calm, as though I did commune With the still spirit of the universe. So leaning, from my hair did I unwind This chain of flowers, and dropped it in the sea; Blessing that twilight hour, the port, the bay, The deep dim isle of interlunar woods, My love, and all the world, and naming them Waters of rest—now lies my garland here. What words are these thus furrowed on the shore? These are the very turns of Theseus' hand:

If from thy hook the fish to water fall, Think not to catch that fish again at all.

Too well my thought unlocks these cruel lines. Oh drench of grief! I thank ye, piteous powers, Who sent not this without forewarning drops. Oh miserable me! distressful me! Despised, disdained, deserted, desolate: Oh world of dew! Oh morning water drops! Lack-lustre, irksome, dull mortality! Oh now, oh now, that heaven all is black, Wherein the rainbow of my joy did stand! Oh love! oh life! oh life entire in love! All lost, all gone, or just so little left As is not worth the care to throw away! All lost, all gone, wrecked, rifted, sunk, devoured: Wrecked with false lights on Theseus' rocky heart! Oh man, perverse, dry-eyed, untender man, Enchanting man, so sleek so serpent-cold! Was it for this that thou didst swear to me, By all the gods in the three worlds at once, That thou didst love distractedly, and I, With certain tender and ingenuous tears, Did presently confess to thee as much? Was it for this, that I, who had a home, Like an Elysium in the lap of Crete, Did beckon buffets, and, for thee, did dare The rough unknown and outside of the world? Was it for this that thou didst hither bring me, Unto this isle of thorny loneliness, And, in the night, without foreargued cause, Any aggrievance, any allegation, Didst, like a coward traitor, run from me? Thou man of snow! thou art assailed by this— Be sure of it—thou art begrimed as black As if thou hadst been hanged a thousand years Under the murky cope of Pluto's den. Oh agony! but thou shalt know my soul, Which gropes for daggers at the thought of this. Yea, from the day-beams of adoring love, Goes headlong to as vast a reprobation. Thou, Theseus, wast a cloud, and I a cloud, Quickened from thee with such pervading flame, As that thou canst not now so part from me Without the fiery iterance of my heart. Hear, hear me, love, who on the swathed tops Of ribbed Olympus, and thy steadfast throne, Dost sit the supreme judge of gods and men, And bear within thy palm the living bolt, High o'er the soiled air of this wan world; Look on yon helot wretch, and, wheresoe'er, Coursing what sea, or cabled in what port, The greatness of thine eye may light on him, Crush him with thunder! Thou, too, great Neptune of the lower deeps, Heave thy wet head up from the monstrous sea; Advance thy trident high as to the clouds, And with a not to be repeated blow, Dash the sin-freighted ship of that rash man! And thou, old iron-sceptred Eolus, Shatter the bars of thine enclosed winds; Unhinge the doors of thy great kennel house, And 'twixt the azure and the roaring deep Cry out thy whole inflated Strongyle— Cry ruin on that man! But wherefore, thus, Do I invoke the speedy desolation Of any mighty magisterial soul, Whose will is weaponed with the elements! For oh— Let the great spies of Jove, the sun and moon, The stars, and all the expeditious orbs That in their motions are retributive, Look blindly on, and seem to take no note Of any deep and deadly stab of sin— Let vengeance gorge a gross Cerberean sop, Grovel and snore in swinish sluggardness, Yea, quite forget his dagger and his cup— It is enough, for any retribution, That guilt retain remembrance of itself. Guilt is a thing, however bolstered up, That the great scale-adjusting Nemesis, And Furies iron-eyed, will not let sleep. Sail on unscarred—thou canst not sail so far, But that the gorgon lash of vipers fanged Shall scourge this howler home to thee again. Yes, yes, rash man, Jove and myself do know That from this wrong shall rouse an Anteros, Fierce as an Ate, with a hot right hand, That shall afflict thee with the touch of fire, Till, scorpion-like, thou turn and sting thyself. What dost thou think—that I shall perish here, Gnawed by the tooth of hungry savageness? Think what thou list, and go what way thou wilt. I, that have truth and heaven on my side, Though but a weak and solitary woman, Forecast no fear of any violence— But thou, false hound! thou would'st not dare come back, Thou would'st not like to feel my eyes again. Go get thee on, to Argos get thee on; And let thy ransomed Athens run to thee, With portal arms, wide open to her heart— To stifling hug thee with triumphant joy. Thou canst not wear such bays, thou canst not so O'erpeer the ancient and bald heads of honor, That I would have the back or follow thee. Let nothing but thy shadow follow thee; Thy shadow is to thee a curse enough; For thou hast done a murder on thyself. Thou hast put on the Nessus' fiery hide. Thou hast stepped in the labyrinths of woe, And in thy fingers caught the clue to Death. What solace have the gods for such as thou, That is not stabbed by this one thrust through me? From this black hour, this curse anointing hour, The currents of thy heart are all corrupt; The motions of thy thoughts are serpentine; And thy death-doing and bedabbled soul Is maculate with spots of Erebus. Aye me!—and yet—Oh that I should say so! Thou wast a noble scroll of Beauty's pen, Where every turn was grandly charactered. Hadst thou a heart—but thou hadst no such thing— And having none, it was not thee I loved; Only my maiden thoughts were perfect, Theseus. O no, no, no, I never did love thee, Thou outside shell and carcase of a man. And I—what was it thou didst take me for? A paroquet of painted shallowness? A silly thing to whistle to and fro, And peck at plums, and then be whistled off? Oh, Theseus, Theseus, thou didst never know me— In this unworthy clasp of woman's mould, This poor outside of pliant prettiness, There was a heart and in that heart a love, And in that love there was an affluence Full as the ocean, infinite as time, Deep as the spring that never knew an ebb. Too truly feeling what I left for thee, And with what joy I left it all for thee, And how I would have only followed thee, With soul, mind, purpose, to the far world's end, I cannot think on thee as thou deservest, But scorn is drowned in a well of tears; I will go sit and weep.—

Note.—Theseus, a Grecian hero, according to ancient fable, made an expedition into Crete for the purpose of destroying the Minotaur, a monster which infested that island. While there he made love to Ariadne, (daughter of Minos the king of Crete) who returned his affection, assisted him in accomplishing the object of his expedition, and sailed with him on his return to Athens. She was, however, abandoned by Theseus at Naxos, an island in the AEgean sea held sacred to Bacchus. Bacchus received Ariadne hospitably, but afterwards he too ran away from her. We suspect (as perhaps our poem sufficiently indicates) that the root of Ariadne's misfortunes lay in certain infirmities of temper, which rendered her at times an uncomfortable companion.



THE FALLS OF THE BOUNDING DEER.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

"Good news! great discovery! new falls!" broke out in full chorus, boys and girls, at a party given by Jobson, in Monticello.

"How did you happen to find them, Mayfield?" asked Allthings.

"I was fishing, and came upon them all at once. I heard a roar of some waterfall or other, and the first I knew, I saw the chasm immediately below me!"

"What was their appearance?"

"There were two falls quite precipitous, and two basins. From the second basin the stream ran very smooth and placid again through a piece of woodland."

"Good!—great!—new falls!" came anew the chorus.

"What is the name of the falls, Mayfield?" inquired Allthings once more.

"The people thereabouts call them Gumaer's Falls."

"Horrid!—too common!—awful! Sha'n't have such a name!" was again the chorus.

"Let's give them a new one at once."

"Well, begin."

"Let us call them the Falls of the Melting Snow," suggested the sentimental May Blossom.

"That would do in the spring, when the snow is really melting," said Joe Jobson, a plain, practical young fellow, who never had a gleam of fancy in his life; "but there's no snow there now, I reckon."

"What a heathen you are, Jobson!" broke in honest Allthings (who always spoke out); "the name applies to the water, not the snow!"

"Why not the name of the Falls of the Silver Lace?" asked the tall, superb Lydia Lydell, who was also given to poetry.

"Was there ever any lace made there?" again remarked Jobson.

"I move we call them by an Indian name," said Job Paddock, the schoolmaster, who was deep in Indian lore. "Let us call them The Kah-youk-weh-reh Ogh-ne-ka-nos, or, The Arrow Water, or The Water of the Arrow; just as you fancy."

"Kaw—what?" again interrupted Jobson; "a real queer name that—Kah-you-qweer-reh Oh-cane-my-nose!"

"Do hold your tongue, Jobson!" said Claypole, "you are enough to drive one crazy!"

"Mr. Jobson is not much inclined to poetry, I believe," lisped May Blossom, with a smile dimpling her beautiful mouth.

"Poetry is well enough in its place," grumbled Jobson; "in speaking exercises, and so on; but what's poetry to do with naming falls of water, I should like to know?"

"Let us call them Meadow Brook Falls," said beautiful Annie Mapes.

"There's no meadow in sight, and your brook is a torrent," said Mayfield.

"Well, what shall we call them?" burst out once more the full chorus.

"I think the best way is to go and see them first;" again grumbled Jobson, not much relishing the idea of all the company turning against him.

This was really the most practical remark yet made, as none of the assemblage had seen them but Mayfield, who absolutely declined suggesting any name, and accordingly Jobson's idea was instantly adopted.

The next day was settled upon for the jaunt, and consequently the company assembled at an early hour to start.

It was as bewitching an autumn day as ever beamed on the earth, such an one as Doughty loves to fasten upon his glorious canvas. It would have glittered with golden splendor, had it not been toned down by a delicate haze, which could scarcely be seen near by, but which gradually thickened on the distant landscape until it brushed away the outlines of the mountain summits, so that they seemed steeped in a delicious swoon.

We left the village, trotted up hill and down, and skimmed over flats, until we arrived at the long descent of a mile, beginning at the log-hut of old Saunsalis, and ending in Mamakating Hollow at the outskirts of Wurtsboro'. Here we turned short at the left, and pursued our way over a narrow country road through the enchanting scenery of the Hollow toward our destination. After passing farm-houses peering from clumps of trees, meadows, grainfields, and woodlands, we came to a by-road leading through a field. Here the little brook (Fawn of the "Bounding Deer") sparkled by our track, crossing in its capricious way the road, thereby forcing us to ford it, and then recross its ripples. We now came to the end of our road; and alighting, we tied our steeds to the willows and alders scattered along the streamlet's bank. Each one (laden with the pic-nic baskets) then hastened onward, for the low deep bleat of the "Deer" was sounding in our ears. We directly came to a sawmill, with a high broken bank in front. Over this impediment our path lay, and over it must we go. Accordingly we did go; and, descending the other side, the "Deer" was before us. An amphitheatre of towering summits saluted our eyes, clothed with wood and steeped in grateful shade. The gleam of the waterfall cut like a scimetar on our sight, flashing through its narrow cleft, whilst the bleating of the "Bounding Deer" was louder and sweeter. A beautiful place for our pic-nic—a mossy log or two by the streamlet, and a delicious greensward. The ladies busied themselves in unpacking the baskets, whilst the "boys" distributed themselves about the rocks. Forms were soon seen dangling from cedar bushes, and treading carefully among clefts and gullies. Some sat where the silver spray sprinkled their faces—some clambered the rocks jutting over the higher Fall—some scaled the still loftier summits. All this time the organ of the cascade was sounding like the deep strain of the wind in a pine forest.

In about a half hour our pic-nic table was spread with various viands, the table composed of boards spread upon two of the mossy logs, the boards being the product of a sawmill hard by.

The company seated themselves, and immediately a desperate charge was made by the whole force upon the eatables and drinkables, and immense havoc ensued. An entire route having been at length effected, again the vexed question of the name to be given to the "Fall" was brought on the tapis.

"Let us call them the Falls of Aladdin," said enchanting Rose Rosebud, lifting her azure eyes to the jewelled autumn foliage that glittered around.

"The Falls of the Ladder!" caught up Jobson: "the very name!—why, it describes the Falls exactly! I wonder we haven't thought of that name before. The water looks like a ladder exactly, coming down them big rocks."

"I'll tell you what," said Paddock, "I've now been all about the cataract, and seen it at all points. I've hit upon the very name, I think. What say you to the Falls of the Bounding Deer?"

"But where's the Deer?" grumbled Jobson, now thoroughly out of humor from the contempt with which his last observation had been treated.

"Do be quiet, Mr. Jobson," chimed in the girls, "and let us hear what Mr. Paddock urges in favor of his beautiful name."

"See," said Paddock, pointing upward, "see where the upper Fall bounds from yon dark cleft of rock, and, gathering itself in that basin for another effort, gives another leap down its path, and then, gathering itself once more in the lower basin, shoots away to the protecting woods!"

"Capital name! Just the thing, Mr. Paddock!" again broke out the chorus of girls, like a dangling of silver bells.

"The Falls of the Bounding Deer be it then!"

The name being thus satisfactorily settled, we all commenced scrutinizing more closely the lovely lair of the "Bounding Deer."

A dazzling display of tints was on the thickly mantling trees, changing the whole scene into a gorgeous spectacle. The most striking contrasts—the richest colors glowing side by side, flashed upon the delighted vision every where.

The elm dripping with golden foliage from head to foot, in a way which only that most beautiful tree can show (the drooping naiad of the brook), shone beside the maple in a splendid flush of scarlet—the birch, garbed in the richest orange, bent near the pine gleaming with emerald—the beech displayed its tanny mantle by the dogwood robed in deepest purple, whilst every nook, crevice, shelf, and hollow of the umber banks and gray rocks blazed with yellow golden rods and sky-blue asters.

How beautiful, how radiant, how glorious, the American foliage in autumn! No pen, unless dipped in rainbows, can do it justice. And, amidst this brilliant beauty, down her pointed rocks, down flashed the "Bounding Deer," white with the foam of her eager and headlong speed.

The boys now prepare for another excursion amongst the rocks of the "Falls."

Some climb the dangling grape vines; some clutch the roots of the slanting pine trees; and some find footing in the narrow fissures. Soon the gray rocks and yellow banks are scattered over with them. Ascending the very loftiest pinnacle by the roots of trees and the profuse bushes, the scene was wild, picturesque, and romantic in the extreme. A little below, bristled the points of the rocks with cedars, dwarf pines, and towering hemlocks shooting from the interstices. At one side, through its deep gully, flashed the "Bounding Deer"—the waters pouring in its first deep dark basin, cut in the granite like a goblet, thence twisting down in another bold leap into the second basin. Not a foam flake was on the surface of either sable cup, nothing but the wrinkles produced by the ever circling eddies. Below—past broken edge, grassy shelf, yawning cleft, and jutting ledge, was the broad deep hollow through which the "Deer" (mottled with sunshine and shadow) leaped away to the woods beyond, whilst in the meadow was seen the little "Fawn" tripping along its green banks until lost in the verdure of the valley. Add to these, the glittering tints that had been showered from autumn's treasury, and the effect was complete. But, where are the girls?

"Oui, oui!" exclaimed the Count de ——(a French nobleman of illustrious descent, and a most amiable, intelligent, and accomplished gentleman), "where de demoiselles—I no see 'em!"

"The what?" asked Jobson.

"De demoiselles; de—de—what you call 'em, Monsieur Job?"

"Girls," answered Jobson.

"Non, non, non,—fie, Monsieur Job,—no girl; dey are—a—a—a—"

"Ladies, Count, you mean," answered Allthings.

"Oui, oui, oui—de ladees—pas la-bas, pas la-bas! They must be—a—a—noyees—what you call when you fall dans l'eau and mourez—eh?"

"Drown," returned Allthings.

"Oui, Monsieur Allting—drown."

"Sure enough," ejaculated Jobson, looking down through the branches, "the girls are not there! Where can they be?"

"O ciel!—noyees!—noyees!" shouted the Count, plunging down the bank. "Mon Dieu!—ces demoiselles dans les eaux!—au secours!—au secours!"

The last we saw of the excellent Count he was going down the steep bank on the sliding principle, shouting with all his might, and presenting a rare sight of "ground and lofty tumbling" quite edifying to behold.

We now all looked. True, the deep hollow beneath was quite forsaken. No ladies were there to be seen. Marvelling somewhat at the sudden disappearance, we all descended from our respective perches by the ladders formed of the branches, roots and tough grape vines, and set foot upon the hollow where our dinner had transpired. Looking around at the banks by which we were surrounded, we at length saw the girls emerge from a twisted ravine at the lower part of the hollow scarcely discernible from the foliage with which it was roofed, and found from the wreaths of moss, ground pine and wild flowers in their hair and around their persons, that they had been also making explorations, although in a lower region than ours.

The Count now rejoined the party, after having peered most anxiously and at various points into the lower basin to find the drowned ones, all clustered together upon the short velvet sward near the streamlet, and Paddock was called upon for one of his Indian legends.

He said he knew one relating to this very spot, and accordingly commenced:

"In the old times, before the foot of the white man had startled the beaver from the stream, or his axe sent the eagle screaming with rage from his aerie on the lofty pine tree, there dwelt a tribe by these waters, an offshoot of the powerful Mohawks. They were called the tribe of the Deer, and had for their chieftain "Os-ko-ne-an-tah," meaning also the Deer. He had one daughter, beautiful as the day, who was named "Jo-que-yoh," or the Bluebird, for the melody of her voice. Jo-que-yoh was affianced to a young brave of her father's tribe named "To-ke-ah," or the Oak. They were tenderly attached to each other. Often when the moon of the summer night transformed these rugged rocks to pearl and this headlong torrent to plunging silver, did the two seat themselves by the margin of this very basin, and while Jo-que-yoh touched with simple skill the strings of her Indian lute, To-ke-ah sang of love and the sweet charms of his mistress. In the war-path the young brave thought only of her, and the scalps he took were displayed to her sight in token of his prowess. In the chase, he still thought of her solely, and the gray coat of the deer and the brindled skin of the fierce panther were laid at her feet. The vest of glossy beaver fur which encompassed her lovely form was the spoil of his arrow. And the eagle plume which rose gracefully from her brow was plucked by his hand from the wing of the haughty soarer of the clouds, that his unerring bow had brought to the dust. Time passed on—the crescent of Jo-que-yoh's beauty was enlarging into the full height of maiden grace, and the tall sapling of To-ke-ah's strength maturing into the size and vigor of his manhood's oak. Another moon, and he was to lead Jo-que-yoh as his bride to his lodge. The happy day at length arrived, and as soon as the first star trembled in the heavens, the joyous ceremonial was to take place. Sunset came, steeping the scene around in lustrous gold, and Jo-que-yoh, arrayed by the maidens of her tribe, sat in the lodge of her father awaiting the star that was to bring her love to her presence. Blushing and trembling she saw "Kah-quah" (the Indian name for the sun) wheeling down into the crimson west, and now his light was hidden. Blushing and trembling, she saw the sweet twilight stealing over the endless forests, and now the star—the bright star of her hope, came creeping, like a timid fawn, into the purple heavens. She heard a footstep, she turned—"To-ke-ah," trembled on her lips. But it was not To-ke-ah. It was Os-ko-ne-an-tah, her father, decked in all his finest splendor, to give away the bride. To-ke-ah she knew had departed in the afternoon upon a neighboring trail for a brighter eagle plume to adorn the brow of his lovely bride on this the evening of their bridal. Something has detained him, but he will soon come. She fixed her large dark elk-like eye upon the star. Momentarily it brightened and again another footstep. It was the maiden she had dispatched upon the rocks to watch for her the approaching form of To-ke-ah. Large and brighter grew the star, but still the absent came not. A shuddering fear began to creep into her bosom. Nothing could detain the absent from her but one reason—death! Larger and brighter grew the star until now it flashed like the eye of To-ke-ah from its home in the heavens. Still the absent came not. Tears began to flow, and she at length started in wild fear from her couch of sassafras to the towering rock to see if she could not behold the approaching shape of To-ke-ah. By this time the sky was sparkling with stars, and a feeble light was shed upon the forests. She saw the pointed rocks around her—she saw the two leaps of the torrent through their rugged pathway—she saw the still black basins on which the stars were glittering, but no To-ke-ah. "To-ke-ah! To-ke-ah! Jo-que-yoh awaits thee!" she cried, but she heard only the plunging of the torrents, and the song of the whippowill wailing as if in echo to her woe. Tremblings seized her limbs, her heart grew sick, and she was nigh swooning upon the rock, when she saw a form hurrying from the woods where the trail began. "To-ke-ah!" she shrieked joyfully, "I have been sad without thee!" and she was about casting herself into the arms of the form, when she found it was the youth who had accompanied To-ke-ah in the chase.

"Is not the brave here?" asked the youth, with astonishment; "I left him at the first leap of the torrent, searching for the eagle-nest that is in the cleft of the rock!"

With a wild scream Jo-que-yoh rushed away again to her wigwam; with a wild scream she asked for To-ke-ah, and no answer being returned, she darted to her canoe fastened in the cave above the upper leap.

"I go for To-ke-ah!" she screamed, as she seized the paddle and unfastened the willow withe, and the canoe darted into the stream directly towards the bend of the torrent. The star-light displayed her slender form to the agonized sight of her father, plunging down the foaming cataract, and she was seen no more! The canoe overturned, emerged into the basin, and dashed down the curve of the second plunge. The father, followed by those present, rushed down the precipice to the basin below, and there were the fragments of the canoe floating around in the eddying waters. A light shape was also seen in the dark pool, and leaping in, Os-ko-ne-an-tah dragged to the margin the drooping form of his daughter. She was dead! A stream of blood poured from her fractured temple, and the father held in his arms only the remains of the loved and still lovely Jo-que-yoh. But a warrior now came rushing down the rocks with "Jo-que-yoh! Jo-que-yoh!" loud upon his tongue. It was To-ke-ah. He had wandered farther than he thought, and hurrying home had found the wigwam of Jo-que-yoh empty. Dashing down the precipice in his mad search, he now came upon the sorrowing group. "Jo-que-yoh! Jo-que-yoh!" he screamed, tearing the dead from the arms of the father, but Jo-que-yoh did not answer. "Jo-que-yoh!" said the proud forest man, bending his head aside in his uncontrollable grief; "I am lost without thee!" But no Jo-que-yoh spoke. She had gone to the far land of the happy in search of To-ke-ah.

Then took To-ke-ah the lifeless maiden in his arms and cast himself prostrate on the earth.

"To-ke-ah!" said the father, "a great warrior should not weep like the deer in his last agony. Rouse thee! it is Os-ko-ne-an-tah that speaks!"

But To-ke-ah answered not. He only lay and shuddered.

"Shall the tall tree of my tribe turn to a willow?" again asked Os-ko-ne-an-tah, and this time sternly. "Rise, bravest of my people, behold! even the maidens see thee!"

But To-ke-ah answered not. He only lay and shuddered.

Then bent Os-ko-ne-an-tah over both and essayed to take from To-ke-ah the form of Jo-que-yoh. But the moment the father touched his daughter, To-ke-ah leaped to his feet with Jo-que-yoh in his arms, and pealing his war-hoop, flourished his keen hatchet over the head of the father.

"Go!" shouted he, whilst his eye flamed madly in the light of the pine torches that now kindled up the scene. "Go! Jo-que-yoh is mine. In death as in life, mine and mine only!" and again he threw himself, still holding her to his heart, headlong on the earth.

Then went Os-ko-ne-an-tah sadly from the spot, followed by all his people. Still lay To-ke-ah there, grasping the form of his dead bride. The bright star glittered above the two, and then grew pale in the advancing dawn, but still he stirred not. Brightly rose the sun, striking the scene into sudden joy, but still he stirred not. Noon glowed, and then the sunset fell, but To-ke-ah still lay there with the dead one in his arms. Night darkened. Again the star stole out in the red twilight, again grew bright and gleamed above the spot where To-ke-ah rested, but still no motion there. Once more rose the sun, and his first beam rested on To-ke-ah, but still there he lay with the dead one lying on his bosom.

At last he rose, and delving a grave in the sod with his knife and tomahawk, deposited therein the form of the maiden, and refilling it with his hands, stretched himself upon the mound. Os-ko-ne-an-tah had in the mean while often approached him, but the moment he appeared, up sprang To-ke-ah with his threatening tomahawk, and only when the father left, did that tomahawk sink, and the Brave again resume his posture. Eight days and nights passed, the most tempting food and the coolest water were placed near him upon the rocks, but still he stirred not. Food and water were untouched. At last, at the close of the ninth day, a thunder-cloud heaved up its black form in the west. Forth rushed the blast, out flashed the lightning, and the thunder was terrible to hear. But in the pauses of the storm there came a strain of guttural music from the grave of Jo-que-yoh—it was the death song of To-ke-ah. Short and faint and broken to the listening ear of Os-ko-ne-an-tah came the song, and at length it ceased. Cautiously approached the father with a torch, for even then he expected to see the flash of To-ke-ah's hatchet over his head. Cautiously he approached, but the form stretched above the grave of his daughter, was motionless. Cautiously he bent over him, and then he turned him with a sudden movement, so that he could look upon his face. To-ke-ah was dead! The faithful warrior had departed in the shadowy trail where Jo-que-yoh had gone, and both were now engaged in the feast of the strawberry in the bright hunting grounds of Hah-wen-ne-yo.

When morning came the grave of Jo-que-yoh was opened by Os-ko-ne-an-tah, and the form of To-ke-ah, still arrayed in the weapons of a chief, was deposited in a sitting posture by her side. Again was the grave closed, and often did the young men and the maidens of the tribe repair thither, the first to celebrate the praises of To-ke-ah, and the latter to sing the virtues of Jo-que-yoh.

Paddock ceased amidst the plaudits of the company.

"He must have been a great fool to starve himself to death," said Jobson, "when he could have killed himself in a shorter time with his hatchet, or even by drowning himself in the pool!"

"What a barbarian you are, Jobson!" said Allthings, "every thing is matter of fact with you. Do be still!"

"Well, but I don't see the common sense," persisted Jobson, "if he was determined to kill himself, of leaving all the pies and things that they brought him, and starving himself and getting wet in the bargain, when he had a shorter way of doing the job!"

"Suppose you go and ask him, Jobson!" said Paddock, smiling; "I don't know his reasons, if he had any. At all events, I tell the tale as I heard it, and can't alter it!"

The Count had listened to the story with all his ears, but evidently, from his imperfect knowledge of the English language, without half understanding it.

"Pauvre demoiselle! so she did a—a—a—what ye call dat, (making as if pitching headlong,) a—a—a—"

"Tumble!" ejaculated Jobson.

"Oui, oui, oui, toomball, toomball down de—down de roches—roches, pauvre demoiselle! did she se blesser?"

"She went down the torrent, Count, in her canoe and was dashed to death!" exclaimed little Annie Mapes.

"Oh, oh, pauvre demoiselle!" answered the Count, sorrowfully. "The lovaire did courir from her—ah—ah—pauvre demoiselle!"

"No, no, Count!" returned Annie impatiently, "her lover did not forsake her. She thought he was dead, and went in her canoe after his body!"

"Pauvre demoiselle! and did she trouver him?"

"No. She was killed, and her lover had been detained in the chase, and he came afterwards and found her dead, as Mr. Paddock has just said!"

"Oui, oui, oui, me understand, he try to run away and fall down—me understand—oui, oui, oui—me understand."

"No, no, Count, you are all wrong; he starved himself to death from grief for her loss!"

"Oui, oui, me understand; he try to run away—fall down—get no food in de roches—but he sing to keep courage up—oui, oui, me understand—bootiful story, bootiful story, Monsieur Paydook! vrai bootiful indeed! He lay there long temps—six, eight, ten day, you say! and den he sing, sing, sing, to keep courage up, for want of food! Bootiful story, bootiful story!"

Finding it was in vain to enlighten the Count, Annie gave over her task, and the Count kept repeating, as if to himself: "Oui, oui, bootiful story, Monsieur Pay-dook, bootiful story! bien bootiful story indeed! pauvre demoiselle! pauvre demoiselle! Joe—what you call it. She too good for Monsieur Took Ear. He run away—he fall down—he sing. She die to get rid of him. (Shrugging his shoulders and grimacing most laughably.) He run away—he fall down—he sing! pauvre demoiselle!"

"I think he must have been crazy!" said Jobson, "not to eat when he could get a chance, and he hungry too, lying there a week or more; and only think, on the damp ground all this time. I wonder he didn't catch the rheumatism!"

"No crazy, Monsieur Jobsoon! no crazy! he sing to keep courage up. I sing sometime to keep courage up ven I think of la belle France—of Paris! Bootiful story, Monsieur Paydook! vrai bootiful story! Mooch oblege, mooch oblege!"

By this time the sun was setting, and the hollow was filled with sweet rosy light. Every leaf flashed, and the "Bounding Deer" was tinged with the beautiful radiance. Soon the light crept up, leaving the bottom of this huge rocky chalice in shadow, whilst the rim was encompassed with rich brilliance. The sun poured down one stream of glory through a cleft in the bank or side of this Titan Goblet, like the visioned future which glows before the sight of happy youth, and then vanished. The gold rim vanished also; still there appeared to be no disposition among the party to leave the scene. Twilight began to shimmer, and now the stars trembled forth from the dusky sky. At last night settled on the landscape, and the girls expressed a wish to see the hollow lighted up with torchlight. Scattering ourselves amongst the trees of the bank, some splinters of the pitch pine were procured, and matches kindled each splinter into thick crimson flame. I clambered up as far as the basin of the first "bound" of the "Deer," and looked down to enjoy the scene. Scores of dark red torches were flashing in every direction, disclosing faces, forms, water, trees and grass, in broken fitful glances and in the most picturesque manner. Sometimes a deep light caught upon the edges of a hemlock, then upon the form of some graceful girl, then upon a huge rock, like the gleaming of stormy lightning, whilst the "Deer" bounded down, tawny as the shell of the chestnut. I looked at the basin at my foot. There were a score too of stars glittering there, but amidst them all was one large clear orb burning with pure and steadfast lustre. It was doubtless the star of Jo-que-yoh, and forthwith I named the basin the "Bath of the Star!" and the lower pool—oh, that shall be called "The Ladies' Mirror."

Soon after I descended and once more mingled with the party. Merry song and talk again winged away the hour, until a pale radiance on the highest cliffs gave token of the moon. Soon up she came—that hunter's moon! moon of October! and, like a golden shield, impended from the heavens. And how she kindled up the scene, that lovely moon of the hunter! And by her delicious light we left the hollow, put our steeds in motion, passed through the meadow, skimmed over the valley road, and then turned to the right, up the turnpike leading over the "Barrens," homeward.

How fragrant were the odors of the pine in the pure dry air, as we slowly toiled up the ascent of a mile towards the hut of old Gaunsalis, and then up and down over the hills, as the yellow bird flies, we travelled homeward. Past "Lord's Pond," through the turnpike gate, down the Neversink Hill, up the opposite one we went until we saw, gleaming in the heavenly moonlight, the welcome roofs of Monticello.



From Bentley's Miscellany.

LEOPARDS.

ZOOLOGICAL NOTES AND ANECDOTES.

"Where sacred Ganges pours along the plain, And Indus rolls to swell the Eastern Main, What awful scenes the curious mind delight! What wonders burst upon the dazzled sight! There giant palms lift high their tufted heads, The plantain wide his graceful foliage spreads; Wild in the woods the active monkey springs, The chattering parrot claps her painted wings; 'Mid tall bamboos lies hid the deadly snake, The tiger crouches in the tangled brake; The spotted axis bounds in fear away; The leopard darts on his defenceless prey, 'Mid reedy pools and ancient forests rude, Cool peaceful haunts of awful solitude!"

There is no class of animals which combine in such a marked degree, beauty of form, with a wily and savage nature, as that to which the Leopard tribe belongs. The unusual pliability of the spine and joints with which they are endowed, imparts agility, elasticity, and elegance to their movements, whilst the happy proportions of their limbs give grace to every attitude. Their skins, beautifully sleek, yellow above, and white beneath, are marked with spots of brilliant black, disposed in patterns according to the species; nor are these spots for ornament alone; as was remarked by one of the ablest of the writers in the "Quarterly," the different and characteristic markings of the larger feline animals, bear a direct relation to the circumstances under which they carry on their predatory pursuits. The tawny color of the lion harmonizes with the parched grass or yellow sand, along which he steals towards, or on which he lies in wait to spring upon, a passing prey; and a like relation to the place in which other large feline animals carry on their predatory pursuits, may be traced in their different and characteristic markings. The royal tiger, for instance, which stalks or lurks in the jungle of richly-wooded India, is less likely to be discerned as he glides along the straight stems of the underwood, by having the tawny ground-color of his coat variegated by dark vertical stripes, than if it were uniform like the lion's. The leopard and panther again, which await the approach of their prey, crouching on the outstretched branch of some tree, derive a similar advantage, by having the tawny ground-color broken by dark spots like the leaves around them; but amidst all this variety, in which may be traced the principle of adaptation to special ends, there is a certain unity of plan, the differences not being established from the beginning. Thus the young lion is spotted, during his first year, with dark spots on its lighter ground, and transitorily shows the livery that is most common in the genus. It is singular that man has, in a semi-barbarous state, recognized the same principle as that which constitutes these differences, and applied it to the same purpose. It is well-known that the setts, or patterns of several of the highland tartans were originally composed with special reference to concealment among the heather. And with the Highlanders, perhaps, the hint was taken from the ptarmigans and hares of their own native mountains, which change their colors with the season, donning a snow white vest when the ground on which they tread bears the garb of winter, and resuming their garments of grayish brown when the summer's sun has restored to the rocks their natural tints.

There are three species sufficiently resembling each other in size and general appearance, to be confounded by persons unacquainted with their characteristics, namely, the leopard, the panther, and the jaguar. The precise distinction between the first two, is still an open question, although the best authorities agree in considering, that they are distinct animals; still confusion exists. An eminent dealer in furs informed us, that in the trade, panther skins were looked upon as being larger than leopards', and the spots more irregular, but the specimens produced were clearly jaguar skins, which made the matter more complicated.

The panther, Felis pardus, is believed to be an inhabitant of a great portion of Africa, the warmer parts of Asia, and the islands of the Indian Archipelago; while the leopard, Felis leopardus, is thought to be confined to Africa. The jaguar, Felis onca is the scourge of South America, from Paraguay almost to the isthmus of Darien, and is altogether a larger and more powerful animal than either of the others. Though presenting much resemblance, there are points of distinction by which the individual may be at once recognized. The jaguar is larger, sturdier, and altogether more thickset than the leopard, whose limbs are the beau ideal of symmetry and grace. The leopard is marked with numerous spots, arranged in small irregular circles on the sides; the ridge of the back, the head, neck, and limbs, being simply spotted, without order. The jaguar is also marked with black spots, but the circles formed by them are much larger, and in almost all, a central spot exists, the whole bearing a rude resemblance to a rose; along the back, the spots are so narrow and elongated, as to resemble stripes. The tail of the jaguar is also considerably shorter than that of the leopard, which is nearly as long as the whole body.

Leopards and panthers, if taken quite young, and treated with kindness, are capable of being thoroughly tamed; the poet Cowper, describes the great difference in the dispositions of his three celebrated hares; so it is with other wild animals, and leopards among the rest, some returning kindness with the utmost affection, others being rugged and untameable from the first. Of those brought to this country, the characters are much influenced by the treatment they have experienced on board ship; in some cases they have been made pets by the sailors, and are as tractable as domestic cats; but when they have been teased and subjected to ill-treatment during the voyage, it is found very difficult to render them sociable; there are now (September, 1851) six young leopards in one den at the Zoological Gardens: of these, five are about the same age, and grew up as one family; the sixth was added some time after, and being looked upon as an intruder, was quite sent to Coventry, and even ill-treated by the others; this he has never forgotten. When the keeper comes to the den, he courts his caresses, and shows the greatest pleasure, but if any of his companions advance to share them with him, he growls and spits, and shows the utmost jealousy and displeasure.

In the same collection, there is a remarkably fine, full-grown leopard, presented by her Majesty, who is as tame as any creature can be; mutton is his favorite food, but the keeper will sometimes place a piece of beef in the den; the leopard smells it, turns it over with an air of contempt, and coming forward, peers round behind the keeper's back to see if he has not (as is generally the case) his favorite food concealed. If given to him, he lays it down, and will readily leave it at the keeper's call, to come and be patted, and whilst caressed he purrs, and shows the greatest pleasure.

There were a pair of leopards in the Tower, before the collection was broken up, which illustrated well the difference in disposition; the male, a noble animal, continued to the last, as sullen and savage as on the day of his arrival. Every kindness was lavished upon him by the keepers, but he received all their overtures with such a sulky and morose return, that nothing could be made of his unreclaimable and unmanageable disposition. The female, which was the older of the two, on the contrary, was as gentle and affectionate as the other was savage, enjoying to be patted and caressed by the keeper, and fondly licking his hands; one failing, however, she had, which brought affliction to the soul of many a beau and lady fair; it was an extraordinary predilection for the destruction of hats, muffs, bonnets, umbrellas, and parasols, and indeed, articles of dress generally, seizing them with the greatest quickness, and tearing them into pieces, almost before the astonished victim was aware of the loss; to so great an extent did she carry this peculiar taste, that Mr. Cops, the superintendent, used to say that she had made prey of as many of these articles as there were days in the year. Animals in menageries are sometimes great enemies to the milliner's art; giraffes have been known to filch the flowers adorning a bonnet, and we once saw a lady miserably oppressed by monkeys. She was very decidedly of "a certain age," but dressed in the extreme of juvenility, with flowers and ribbons of all the colors of the rainbow. Her complexion was delicately heightened with rouge, and the loveliest tresses played about her cheeks. As she languidly sauntered through the former monkey house at the gardens, playfully poking the animals with her parasol, one seized it so vigorously that she was drawn close to the den; in the twinkling of an eye, a dozen little paws were protruded, off went bonnet, curls and all, leaving a deplorable gray head, whilst others seized her reticule and her dress, pulling it in a very unpleasant manner. The handiwork of M. Vouillon was of course a wreck, and the contents of the reticule, her purse, gloves, and delicately scented handkerchief, were with difficulty recovered from out of the cheek pouch of a baboon.