Ralph yawns, laughs, and kicks his heels.

Then he rises; goes to the mantel-piece and gets a pipe; and begins to smoke—lazier than ever.

Mr. Jinks sets down his cup, and murmurs.

"Hey!" cries Ralph, sending out a cloud of smoke, "what are you groaning about, my dear fellow?"

"I want money," says Mr. Jinks.

"For what?"

"To buy a horse."

"A horse?"

Mr. Jinks nods.

"What do you want with a horse?"

"Revenge," replies Mr. Jinks.

Ralph begins to laugh.

"Oh, yes," he says, "we spoke of that; against Sallianna. I'll assist you, my boy. The fact is, I have caught the infection of a friend's sentiments on Sallianna the divine. I have a cousin who abominates her. I'll assist you!"

"No; that affair is arranged," says Mr. Jinks, with gloomy pleasure; "that will give me no trouble. That young man Verty is the enemy I allude to. I want revenge."

And Mr. Jinks rattled his sword.

Ralph looked with a mischievous expression at his friend.

"But I say," he observed, "how would a horse come in there? Do you want to run a-tilt against Sir Verty, eh? That is characteristic of you, Jinks!"

"No," says Mr. Jinks, "I have other designs."

"What are they?"

"You are reliable!"

"Reliable! I should say I was! Come, make me your confidant."

Mr. Jinks complies with this request, and details his plans against Verty and Redbud's happiness. He would ride to Apple Orchard, and win his rival's sweetheart's affections; then laugh "triumphantly with glee." That is Mr. Jinks' idea.

Ralph thinks it not feasible, and suggests a total abandonment of revengeful feelings toward Verty.

"Suppose I sent him a cartel, then," says Mr. Jinks, after a pause.

"A cartel?"

"Yes; something like this."

And taking a preparatory gulp of the rum, Mr. Jinks continues:

"Suppose I write these words to him: 'A. Jinks, Esq., presents his compliments to —— Verty, Esq., and requests to be informed at what hour Mr. Verty will attend in front of Bousch's tavern, for the purpose of having himself exterminated and killed? How would that do?"

Ralph chokes down a laugh, and, pretending to regard Mr. Jinks with deep admiration, says:

"An excellent plan—very excellent."

"You think so?" says his companion, dubiously.

"Yes, yes; you should, however, be prepared for one thing."

"What is that?"

"Mr. Verty's reply."

"What would that be, sir? He is not a rash young man, I believe?"

"No—just the contrary. His reply would be courteous and cool."

"Ah?"

"He would write under your letter, demanding at what hour you should kill him—'ten,' or 'twelve,' or 'four in the afternoon'—at which time he would come and proceed to bloodshed."

"Bloodshed?"

"Yes; he's a real Indian devil, although he looks mild, my clear fellow. If you are going to send the cartel, you might as well do so at once."

"No—no—I will think of it," replies Mr. Jinks; "I will spare him a little longer. There is no necessity for hurry. A plenty of time!"

And Mr. Jinks clears his throat, and for the present abandons thoughts of revenge on Verty.

Ralph sees the change of sentiment, and laughs.

"Well," he says, "there is something else on your mind, Jinks, my boy; what is it? No more revenge?"

"Yes!"

"Against whom, you epitome of Italian hatred."

Mr. Jinks frowns, and says:

"Against O'Brallaghan!"

"No!" cries Ralph.

"Yes, sir."

"I, myself, hate that man!"

"Then we can assist each other."

"Yes—yes."

"We can make it nice, and good, and fine," says Mr. Jinks, smacking his lips over the rum, as if he was imbibing liquid vengeance, and was pleased with the flavor.

"No!" cries Ralph again.

"Yes!" says Mr. Jinks.

"Revenge, nice and good?"

"Supreme!"

"How?"

"Listen!"

"Stop a moment, my dear fellow," said Ralph; "don't be hasty."

And, rising, Ralph went to the door, opened it, and looked out cautiously, after which, he closed it, and turned the key in the lock; then he went to the fire-place, and looked up the chimney with a solemn air of precaution, which was very striking. Then he returned and took his seat, and with various gurglings of a mysterious nature in his throat, said:

"You have a communication to make, Jinks?"

"I have, sir."

"In relation to revenge."

"Yes."

"Then go on, old fellow; the time is propitious—I am listening."

And Ralph looked attentively at Mr. Jinks.



CHAPTER LIII.

PROJECTS OF REVENGE, INVOLVING HISTORICAL DETAILS.

The companions looked at each other and shook their heads; Mr. Jinks threateningly, Ralph doubtfully. That gentleman seemed to be dubious of his friend's ability to prepare a revenge suitable to the deserts of O'Brallaghan, who had sold his favorite coat.

Mr. Jinks, however, looked like a man certain of victory.

"Revenge, sir," said Mr. Jinks, "is of two descriptions. There is the straight-forward, simple, vulgar hitting at a man, or caning him; and the quiet, artistic arrangement of a drama, which comes out right, sir, without fuss, or other exterior effusion."

And after this masterly distinction, Mr. Jinks raised his head, and regarded Ralph with pride and complacency.

"Yes" said the young man; "what you say is very true, my boy; go on—go on."

"Genius is shown, sir, in the manner of doing it—"

"Yes."

"Of working on the materials around you."

"True; that is the test of genius; you are right. Now explain your idea."

"Well, sir," said Mr. Jinks, "that is easy. In this town, wherein we reside—I refer to Winchester—there are two prominent classes, besides the English-Virginia people."

"Are there?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me—you mean—"

"The natives of the Emerald Isle, and those from the land of sour krout," said Mr. Jinks, with elegant paraphrase.

"You mean Dutch and Irish?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well; I understand that. Let me repeat: in the town of Winchester there are two classes, besides the natives—Dutch and Irish. Is that right? I never was very quick."

"Just right."

"Well, tell me about them, and how your revenge is concerned with them. Tell me all about them. Dutch and Irish!—I know nothing of them."

"I will, sir,—I will tell you," said Mr. Jinks, gulping down one-fourth of his glass of rum; "and, I think, by the time I have developed my idea, you will agree with me that the revenge I have chalked out, sir, is worthy of an inventive talent higher than my own."

"No, no," said Ralph, in a tone of remonstrance, "you know there could be none."

"Yes," said Mr. Jinks, modestly, "I know myself, sir—I have very little merits, but there are those who are superior to me in that point."

Which seemed to mean that the quality of invention was the sole failing in Mr. Jinks' intellect—all his other mental gifts being undoubtedly superior to similar gifts in humanity at large.

"Well, we won't interchange compliments, my dear fellow," replied Ralph, puffing at his pipe; "go on and explain about the Dutch and Irish—I repeat, that I absolutely know nothing of them."

Mr. Jinks sipped his rum, and after a moment's silence, commenced.

"You must know," he said, "that for some reason which I cannot explain, there is a quarrel between these people which has lasted a very long time, and it runs to a great height—"

"Indeed!"

"Yes; and on certain days there is a feeling which can only be characterized by the assertion that the opposite parties desire to suffuse the streets and public places with each other's gory blood!"

"No, no!" said Ralph; "is it possible!"

"Yes, sir, it is more—it is true," said Mr. Jinks, with dignity. "I myself have been present on such occasions; and the amount of national feeling displayed is—is—worse than mouldy cloth," observed Mr. Jinks, at a loss for a simile, and driven, as he, however, very seldom was, to his profession for an illustration.

"I wonder at that," said Ralph; "as bad as mouldy cloth? I never would have thought it!"

"Nevertheless it's true—dooms true," said Mr. Jinks; "and there are particular days when the rage of the parties comes up in one opprobrious concentrated mass!"

This phrase was borrowed from Miss Sallianna. Mr. Jinks, like other great men, was not above borrowing without giving the proper credit.

"On St. Patrick's day," he continued, "the Dutch turn out in a body—"

"One moment, my dear fellow; I don't like to interrupt you, but this St. Patrick you speak of—he was the great saint of Ireland, was he not?"

"Good—continue; on St. Patrick's day—"

"The Dutch assemble and parade a figure—you understand, either of wood or a man—a figure representing St. Patrick—"

"Possible!"

"Yes; and round his neck they place a string of Irish potatoes, like a necklace—"

"A necklace! what an idea. Not pearls or corals—potatoes!" And Ralph laughed with an expression of innocent surprise, which was only adopted on great occasions.

"Yes," said Mr. Jinks, "of potatoes; and you may imagine what a sight it is—the saint dressed up in that way."

"Really! it must be side-splitting."

"It is productive of much gory sport," said Mr. Jinks.

"Ah!" said Ralph, "I should think so. Gory is the very word."

"Besides this they have another figure—"

"The Dutch have?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"It is a woman, sir—"

"No—no," said Ralph.

"It is, sir," replied Mr. Jinks, with resolute adherence to his original declaration,—"it is Saint Patrick's wife, Sheeley—"

"Oh, no!" cried Ralph.

"Yes; and she is supplied with a huge apron full of—what do you think?"

"Indulgences?" said Ralph.

"No, sir!"

"What then?"

"Potatoes again."

"Potatoes! Sheeley with her apron full of—"

"Excellent Irish potatoes."

"Would anybody have imagined such a desecration!"

"They do it, sir; and having thus laughed at the Irish, the Dutch go parading through the streets; and in consequence—"

"The Irish—?"

"Yes—"

"Make bloody noses and cracked crowns, and pass them current, too?" asked Ralph, quoting from Shakspeare.

"Yes, exactly," said Mr. Jinks; "and the day on which this takes place—Saint Patrick's day—is generally submerged in gore!"

Ralph remained for a moment overcome with horror at this dreadful picture.

"Jinks," he said, at last.

"Sir?" said Mr. Jinks.

"I fear you are too military and bloody for me. My nerves will not stand these awful pictures!"

And Ralph shuddered; or perhaps chuckled.

"That is only half of the subject," Mr. Jinks said, displaying much gratification at the deep impression produced upon the feelings of his companion; "the Irish, on St. Michael's day—the patron saint of the Dutch, you know—"

"Yes."

"The Irish take their revenge."

And at the word revenge, Mr. Jinks' brows were corrugated into a dreadful frown.

Ralph looked curious.

"How?" he said; "I should think the Dutch had exhausted the power and capacity of invention. St. Patrick, with a necklace of potatoes, and his wife Sheeley, with an apron full of the same vegetables, is surely enough for one day—"

"Yes, for St. Patrick's day, but not for St. Michael's," said Mr. Jinks, with a faint attempt at a witticism.

"Good!" cried Ralph; "you are a wit, Jinks; but proceed! On St. Michael's day—the patron saint of the Dutch—"

"On that day, sir, the Irish retort upon the Dutch by parading an image—wooden or alive—of St. Michael—"

"No!"

"An image," continued Mr. Jinks, not heeding this interruption, "which resembles St. Michael—that is, a hogshead."

"Yes," laughed Ralph, "I understand how a Dutch saint—"

"Is fat; that is natural, sir. They dress him in six pair of pantaloons, which I have heretofore, I am ashamed to say, fabricated,"—Mr. Jinks frowned here,—"then they hang around his neck a rope of sour krout—"

"No, no!" cried Ralph.

"And so parade him," continued Mr. Jinks.

Ralph remained silent again, as though overwhelmed by this picture.

"The consequence is, that the Irish feel themselves insulted," Mr. Jinks went on, "and they attack the Dutch, and then the whole street—"

"Is suffused in gory blood, is it not?" said Ralph, inquiringly.

"It is, sir," said Mr. Jinks; "and I have known the six pair of pantaloons, made by my own hands, to be torn to tatters."

"Possible!"

"Yes, sir!" said Mr. Jinks, irate at the recollection of those old scenes—he had been compelled to mend the torn pantaloons more than once—"yes, sir, and the wretches have proceeded even to shooting and cutting, which is worthy of them, sir! On some days, the Dutch and the Irish parade their images together, and then St. Patrick and St. Michael are brought face to face; and you may understand how disgraceful a mob they have—a mob, sir, which, as a military man, I long to mow with iron cannons!"

And after this dreadful simile, Mr. Jinks remained silent, Ralph also held his peace for some moments; then he said:

"But your revenge; how is that connected, my dear fellow, with the contentions of Dutch and Irish?"

Mr. Jinks frowned.

"Thus, sir," he said; "I will explain." "Do; I understand you to say that these customs of the two parties were the materials upon which your genius would work. How can you—"

"Listen, sir," said Mr. Jinks.

"I'm all ears," returned Ralph.

"Three days from this time," said Mr. Jinks, "these people have determined to have a great parade, and each of them, the Dutch and Irish, to exhibit the images of the Saints—"

"Yes—ah?" said Ralph.

"It is fixed for the time I mention; and now, sir, a few words will explain how, without damage to myself, or endangering my person—considerations which I have no right to neglect—my revenge on the hound, O'Brallaghan, will come out right! Listen, while I tell about it; then, sir, judge if the revenge is likely to be nice and good!"

And Mr. Jinks scowled, and gulped down some rum. He then paused a moment, stared the fire-place out of countenance, and scowled again. He then opened his lips to speak.

But just as he uttered the first words of his explanation, a knock was heard at the door, which arrested him.

Ralph rose and opened it.

A negro handed him a note, with the information, that the bearer thereof was waiting below, and would like to see him.

Ralph opened the letter, and found some money therein, which, with the signature, explained all.

"Jinks, my boy," he said, laughing, "we must defer your explanation; come and go down. The Governor has sent me a note, and Tom is waiting. Let us descend."

Mr. Jinks acquiesced.

They accordingly went down stairs, and issued forth.

At the door of the tavern was standing a negro, who, at sight of Ralph, respectfully removed his cap with one hand, while the other arm leaned on the neck of a donkey about three feet high, which had borne the stalwart fellow, as such animals only can.

The negro gave Mr. Ralph a message, in addition to the letter, of no consequence to our history, and received one in return.

He then bowed again, and was going to mount and ride away, when Ralph said, "Stop, Tom!"

Tom accordingly stopped.



CHAPTER LIV.

EXPLOITS OF FODDER.

Ralph looked from the donkey to Mr. Jinks, and from Mr. Jinks to the donkey; then he laughed.

"I say, my dear fellow," he observed, "you wanted a horse, did'nt you?"

"I did, sir," said Mr. Jinks.

"What do you say to a donkey?"

Mr. Jinks appeared thoughtful, and gazing at the sky, as though the clouds interested him, replied:

"I have no objection to the animal, sir. It was in former times, I am assured, the animal used by kings, and even emperors. Far be it from me, therefore, to feel any pride—or look down on the donkey."

"You'll have to," said Ralph.

"Have to what, sir?"

"Look down on Fodder here—we call him Fodder at the farm, because the rascal won't eat thistles."

"Fodder, sir?" said Mr. Jinks, gazing along the road, as though in search of some wagon, laden with cornstalks.

"The donkey!"

"Ah?—yes—true—the donkey! Really, a very handsome animal," said Mr. Jinks, appearing to be aware of the existence of Fodder for the first time.

"I asked you how you would like a donkey, instead of a horse, meaning, in fact, to ask if Fodder would, for the time, answer your warlike and gallant purposes? If so, my dear fellow, I'll lend him to you—Tom can go back to the farm in the wagon—it comes and goes every day."

Tom looked at Mr. Jinks' legs, scratched his head, and grinning from ear to ear, added the assurance that he was rather pleased to get rid of Fodder, who was too small for a man of his weight.

Mr. Jinks received these propositions and assurances, at first, with a shake of the head: he really could not deprive, etc.; then he looked dubious; then he regarded Fodder with admiration and affection; then he assented to Ralph's arrangement, and put his arm affectionately around Fodder's neck.

"I love that animal already!" cried the enthusiastic Mr. Jinks.

Ralph turned aside to laugh.

"That is highly honorable, Jinks, my boy," he said; "there's no trait of character more characteristic of a great and exalted intellect, than kindness to animals."

"You flatter me, sir."

"Never—I never flatter. Now, Tom," continued Ralph to the negro," return homeward, and inform my dear old Governor that, next week, I shall return, temporarily, to make preparations for my marriage. Further, relate to him the fate of Fodder—go, sir."

And throwing Tom, who grinned and laughed, a piece of silver, Ralph turned again to Jinks.

"Do you like Fodder?" he said.

"I consider him the paragon of donkeys," returned Mr. Jinks.

And, hugging the donkey's neck—"Eh, Fodder?" said Jinks.

Fodder turned a sleepy looking eye, which was covered with the broad, square leather of the wagon-bridle, toward Mr. Jinks, and regarded that gentleman with manifest curiosity. Then shaking his head, lowered it again, remonstrating with his huge ears against the assaults of the flies.

"He likes you already! he admires and respects you, Jinks!" cried Ralph, bursting into a roar of laughter; "a ride! a ride! mount, sir!"

"Is he vicious?" asked Mr. Jinks.

"Hum! he has been known to—to—do dreadful things!" said Ralph, choking.

Mr. Jinks drew back.

"But he won't hurt you—just try."

"Hum! I'd rather test his character first," said Mr. Jinks; "of course I'm not afraid; it would be unnecessary for me to prove that, sir—I wear a sword—"

"Oh, yes?"

"But dangerous accidents have frequently resulted from—"

"Donkeys? you are right. But suppose I mount with you!" said Ralph, who had fallen into one of his mischievous moods.

"Hum! sir—will he carry double, do you think?"

"Carry double! He'd carry a thousand—Fodder would! Just get into the saddle, and I'll put my handkerchief on his back, and mount behind—I'll guide him. Come!"

And Ralph, with a suppressed chuckle, pushed Mr. Jinks toward the saddle.

Mr. Jinks looked round—cleared his throat—glanced at the expression of the donkey's eyes—and endeavored to discover from the movement of his ears if he was vicious. Fodder seemed to be peaceful—Mr. Jinks got into the saddle, his grasshopper legs reaching nearly to the ground.

"Now!" cried Ralph, vaulting behind him, "now for a ride!"

And seizing the reins, before Mr. Jinks could even get his feet into the stirrups, the young man kicked the donkey vigorously, and set off at a gallop.

Mr. Jinks leaned forward in the saddle with loud cries, balancing himself by the pummel, and holding on to the mane. Fodder was frightened by the cries, and ran like a race-horse, kicking up his heels, and indeed rendered Ralph's position somewhat perilous. But that gentleman was experienced, from earliest infancy, in riding bareback, and held on. He also held Mr. Jinks on.

The great swordsman continued to utter loud cries, and to remonstrate piteously. Only the clatter of his sword, and Ralph's shouts of laughter, answered him.

Still on! and in five minutes Fodder was opposite the store of O'Brallaghan.

A brilliant idea suddenly struck Ralph; with the rapidity and presence of mind of a great general, he put it into execution.

Fodder found one rein loosened—the other drawn violently round; the consequence was, that from a straight course, he suddenly came to adopt a circular one. Mr. Jinks had just saved himself by wrapping his legs, so to speak, around the donkey's person, when Ralph's design was accomplished.

Fodder, obeying the pull upon the rein, sweeped down upon O'Brallaghan's shop, and in the midst of the cries of babies, the barking of dogs, and the shrill screams of elderly ladies, entered the broad door of the clothes-warehouse, and thrust his nose into Mr. O'Brallaghan's face, just as that gentleman was cutting out the sixth pair of pantaloons for himself, in which he was to personate St. Michael.

O'Brallaghan staggered back—Ralph burst into a roar of laughter, and sliding from Fodder, ignominiously retreated, leaving Mr. Jinks and O'Brallaghan face to face.

The scene which then ensued is dreadful to even reflect upon, after the lapse of so many years. Fodder backed into the street immediately, but he had accomplished the insult to O'Brallaghan. That gentleman ran out furiously, shears in hand, and with these instruments it seemed to be his intention to sever the epiglottis of Mr. Jinks, or at least his ears.

But, as on a former occasion, when Mr. Jinks threatened to rid the earth of a scoundrel and a villain, the execution of this scheme was prevented by the interposition of a third party; so on the present occasion did the neighbors interfere and quiet the combatants.

Ralph perfected the reconciliation by declaring that Fodder was the most vicious and dangerous of animals, and that no one could rationally wonder at his conduct on this occasion.

O'Brallaghan thereupon observed that he despised Mr. Jinks too much to touch him, and would forgive him; and so he elbowed his way through the crowd of gossips and re-entered his shop, scowling at, and being scowled at by, the severe Mr. Jinks.

Ralph also embraced the opportunity to slip through the crowd, and hasten round a corner; having achieved which movement, he leaned against a pump, and laughed until two babies playing on the side-walk nearly choked themselves with marbles as they gazed at him. Then chuckling to himself, the young-worthy returned toward the tavern, leaving Mr. Jinks to his fate.



CHAPTER LV.

WOMAN TRAPS LAID BY MR. JINKS.

No sooner had O'Brallaghan retreated into his store, than Mr. Jinks cast after him defiant words and gestures, calling on the crowd to take notice that O'Brallaghan had ignominiously yielded ground, and declined his, Mr. Jinks', proposition to have a combat.

If any wonder is felt at Mr. Jinks' bravery, we may dispel it, probably, by explaining that Mr. O'Brallaghan had two or three months before been bound over in a large sum to keep the peace of the commonwealth against the inhabitants of the said commonwealth, and especially that portion of them who dwelt in the borough of Winchester; which fact Mr. Jinks was well acquainted with, and shaped his conduct by. If there was anything which O'Brallaghan preferred to a personal encounter with fists or shillelahs, that object was money; and Mr. Jinks knew that O'Brallaghan would not touch him.

Therefore Mr. Jinks sent words of defiance and menace after the retreating individual, and said to the crowd, with dignified calmness:

"My friends, I call you to bear witness that I have offered to give this—this—person," said Mr. Jinks, "the amplest satisfaction in my power for the unfortunate conduct of my animal, which I have just purchased at a large sum, and have not exactly learned to manage yet. We have not come to understand each other—myself and Fodder—just yet; and in passing with a young man whom I kindly permitted to mount behind me, the animal ran into the shop of this—individual. If he wants satisfaction!" continued Mr. Jinks, frowning, and laying his hand upon his sword, "he can have it, sir! yes, sir! I am ready, sir!—now and always, sir!"

These words were ostensibly addressed to Mr. O'Brallaghan, who was, in contempt of Mr. Jinks, busily engaged at his work again; but, in reality, the whole harangue of Mr. Jinks was intended for the ears of a person in the crowd, who, holding a hot "iron" in her hand, had run up, like the rest, when the occurrence first took place.

This person, who was of the opposite sex, and upon whom Mr. Jinks evidently desired to produce an impression, gazed at the cavalier with tender melancholy in her ruddy face, and especially regarded the legs of Mr. Jinks with unconcealed admiration.

It was Mistress O'Calligan, the handsome ruddy lady, whom we have met with once before, on that day when Mr. Jinks, remembering O'Brallaghan's incapacity to fight, challenged that gentleman to mortal combat.

Between this lady and Mr. Jinks, on the present occasion, glances passed more than once; and when—O'Brallaghan not appearing—Mr. Jinks rode away from the shop of the dastard, in dignified disgust, he directed the steps of Fodder, cautiously and gently, around the corner, and stopped before the door of Mistress O'Calligan's lodging.

The lamented O'Calligan was gone to that bourne which we all know of, and his widow now supported herself and the two round, dirty-faced young gentlemen who had choked themselves in their astonishment at Ralph, by taking in washing and ironing, to which she added, occasionally, the occupation and mystery of undergarment construction.

Thanks to these toils, Mistress O'Calligan, who was yet young and handsome, and strong and healthy, had amassed a very snug little sum of money, which she had invested in a garden, numerous pigs, chickens, and other things; and, in the neighborhood, this lady was regarded as one destined to thrive in the world; and eventually bring to the successor of the lamented O'Calligan, not only her fair self, and good-humored smile included, but also no contemptible portion of this world's goods.

O'Brallaghan's ambition was to succeed the lamented. He had long made unsuccessful court to the lady—in vain. He suspected, not without justice, that the graceful and military Mr. Jinks had made an impression on the lady's heart, and hated Mr. Jinks accordingly.

It was before the low, comfortable cottage of Mistress O'Calligan, therefore, that Mr. Jinks stopped. And tying Fodder to the pump, he pushed aside the under-tunics which depended from lines, and were fluttering in the wind, and so made his entrance into the dwelling.

Mistress O'Calligan pretended to be greatly surprised and fluttered on Mr. Jinks' entrance; and laid down the iron she was trying, by putting her finger in her mouth, and then applying it to the under surface.

She then smiled; and declared she never was in such a taking; and to prove this, sat down and panted, and screamed good-humoredly to the youthful O'Calligans, not to go near that pretty horse; and then asked Mr. Jinks if he would'nt take something.

Mr. Jinks said, with great dignity, that he thought he would.

Thereupon, Mistress O'Calligan produced a flat bottle of poteen, and pouring a portion for her own fair self, into a cup, said that this was a wicked world, and handed the flask to Mr. Jinks.

That gentleman took a tolerably large draught; and then setting down the bottle, scowled.

This terrified Mistress O'Calligan; and she said so.

Mr. Jinks explained that he was angry,—in a towering rage; and added, that nothing but the presence of Mistress O'Calligan had prevented him from exterminating O'Brallaghan, who was a wretched creature, beneath the contempt, etc.

Whereto the lady replied, Really, to think it; but that these feelings was wrong; and she were only too happy if her presence had prevented bloodshed. She thought that Mr. Jinks was flattering her—with more of the same description.

Thus commenced this interview, which the loving and flattered Mistress O'Calligan wrongly supposed to be intended as one of courtship, on the part of Mr. Jinks. She was greatly mistaken. If ever proceeding was calm, deliberate, and prompted by revengeful and diabolical intentions, the proceeding of Mr. Jinks, on the present occasion, was of that description.

But none of this appeared upon the countenance of our friend. Mr. Jinks was himself—he was gallant, impressive; and warming with the rum, entered into details of his private feelings.

He had ever admired and venerated—he said—the character of the beautiful and fascinating Judith O'Calligan, who had alone, and by her unassisted merits, removed from his character that tendency toward contempt and undervaluation of women, which, he was mortified to say, he had been induced to feel from an early disappointment in love.

Mistress O'Calligan here looked very much flurried, and ejaculated, Lor!

Mr. Jinks proceeded to say, that the lady need not feel any concern for him now; that the early disappointment spoken of, had, it was true, cast a shadow on his life, which, he imagined, nothing but the gory blood of his successful rival could remove; that still he, Mr. Jinks, had had the rare, good fortune of meeting with a divine charmer who caused him to forget his past sorrows, and again indulge in hopes of domestic felicity and paternal happiness by the larean altars of a happy home. That the visions of romance had never pictured such a person; that the lady whom he spoke of, was well known to the lady whom he addressed; and, indeed, to be more explicit, was not ten thousand miles from them at the moment in question.

This was so very broad, that the "lady" in question blushed the color of the red bricks in her fire-place, and declared that Mr. Jinks was the dreadfulest creature, and he need'nt expect to persuade her that he liked her—no, he need'nt.

Mr. Jinks repelled the accusation of being a dreadful creature, and said, that however terrifying his name might be to his enemies among the men, that no woman had ever yet had cause to be afraid of him, or to complain of him.

After which, Mr. Jinks frowned, and took a gulp of the poteen.

Mistress O'Calligan thought that Mr. Jinks was very wrong to be talking in such a meaning way to her—and the lamented O'Calligan not dead two years. That she knew what it was to bestow her affections on an object, which object did not return them—and never, never could be brought to trust the future of those blessed dears a-playing on the side-walk to a gay deceiver.

After which observation, Mistress O'Calligan took up a corner of her apron, and made a feint to cry; but not being encouraged by any consternation, agitation, or objection of any description on the part of her companion, changed her mind, and smiled.

Mr. Jinks said that if the paragon of her sex, the lovely Judith, meant to say that he was a gay deceiver, the assertion in question involved a mistake of a cruel and opprobrious character. So far from being a deceiver, he had himself been uniformly deceived; and that in the present instance, it was much more probable that he would suffer, because the lovely charmer before him cared nothing for him.

Which accusation threw the lovely charmer into a flutter, and caused her to deny the truth of Mr. Jinks' charge; and in addition, to assert that there existed no proof of the fact that she did'nt care much more for Mr. Jinks than he did for her—and whether he said she did'nt, or did'nt say she did'nt, still that this did'nt change the fact: and so he was mistaken.

Whereupon Mr. Jinks, imbibing more poteen, replied that assertions, though in themselves worthy of high respect when they issued from so lovely and fascinating a source, could still not stand in opposition to facts.

Mistress O'Calligan asked what facts.

Which caused Mr. Jinks to explain. He meant, that the test of affection was doing one a service; that the loving individual would perform what the beloved wished; and that here the beautiful Judith was deficient.

To which the beautiful Judith, with a preparatory caution to the young O'Calligans, replied by saying, that she had never been tried; and if that was all the foundation for such a charge, the best way to prove its falseness was to immediately test her friendship.

At this Mr. Jinks brightened up, and leaning over toward the ruddy-faced Judith, whispered for some minutes. The whispers brought to the lady's face a variety of expressions: consternation, alarm, doubt, objection, refusal. Refusal remained paramount.

Mr. Jinks imbibed more poteen, and observed, with dignity, that he had been perfectly well aware, before making his communication, that the protestations of the lady opposite to whom he sat were like those of ladies in general, calculated to mislead and deceive. He would therefore not annoy her further, but seek some other—

Incipient tears from the lady, who thought Mr. Jinks cruel, unreasonable, and too bad.

Mr. Jinks was rational, and had asked a very inconsiderable favor; his beautiful acquaintance, Miss Sallianna, would not hesitate a moment to oblige him, and he would therefore respectfully take his departure—for some time, he was afraid, if not forever.

Mr. Jinks had played his game with much skill, and great knowledge of the lady whom he addressed. He brought out his trump, so to speak, when he mentioned Miss Sallianna, and alluded to his intention never to return, perhaps.

The lady could not resist. The moment had arrived when she was to decide whether she should supply the youthful O'Calligans with a noble father and protector, or suffer them still to inhabit the dangerous side-walk in infant helplessness, and exposed to every enemy.

Therefore the fair Mistress O'Calligan found her resolution evaporate—her objections removed—she consented to comply with Mr. Jinks' request, because the object of her affections made it—yes, the object of her affections for many a long day, through every accusation of cabbaged cloth, and other things brought by his enemies—the object of her ambition, the destined recipient of the garden, and the chickens, and the pigs, when fate removed her!

And having uttered this speech with great agitation, and numerous gasps, Mistress O'Calligan yielded to her nerves, and reposed upon Mr. Jinks' breast.

Fifteen minutes afterwards Mr. Jinks was going back to Bousch's tavern, mounted on Fodder, and grimacing.

"She'll do it, sir! she'll do it!" said Mr. Jinks; "we'll see. Look out for gory blood, sir!"

And that was all.



CHAPTER LVI.

TAKES VERTY TO MR. ROUNDJACKET.

As Mr. Jinks went along, thus absorbed in his dreams of vengeance, he chanced to raise his head; which movement made him aware of the fact that a gentleman with whom he was well acquainted rode in the same direction with himself—that is to say, toward Bousch's tavern.

This was Verty, who, absorbed as completely by his own thoughts as was Mr. Jinks, did not see that gentleman until Cloud very nearly walked over the diminutive Fodder.

Mr. Jinks laid his hand on his sword, and frowned; for it was one of the maxims of this great militaire, that one is never more apt to escape an attack than when he appears to hold himself in readiness, and seems prepared for either event.

Verty did not consider himself bound, however, to engage in a combat at the moment; and so with grave politeness, bowed and passed on his way.

They arrived at the tavern nearly at the same moment.

Ralph was sitting on the porch, inhaling the fresh October air, gazing at the bright waves of the little stream which sparkled by beneath the willows; and at times varying these amusements by endeavoring to smoke from a pipe which had gone out, He looked the picture of indolent enjoyment.

Within a few feet of him sat the ruddy, full-faced landlord, as idle as himself.

At sight of Mr. Jinks and Verty, Ralph rose, with a smile, and came toward them.

"Ah! my dear Jinks," he said, after bowing to Verty familiarly, "how did you get out of that scrape? I regret that business of a private and important nature forced me to leave you, and go round the corner. How did it result?"

"Triumphantly, sir!" said Mr. Jinks, dismounting, and, with great dignity, entrusting Fodder to a stable-boy, lounging near; "that hound, O'Brallaghan, knew his place, sir, and did not presume to complain—"

"Of Fodder?"

"Of anything, sir."

"The fact is, it would have been ridiculous. What had he to complain of, I should like to be informed. So he retreated?"

"He did, sir," said Mr. Jinks, with dignity, "amid the hisses of the assembled crowd."

"Just as I suspected; it would take a bold fellow to force such a Don Quixote and Dapple, as yourself and Fodder!"

"Yes; although I regretted," said Mr. Jinks, with great dignity, "the accident which occurred when we set out, I rejoice at having had an occasion to inform that Irish conspirator and St. Michael-hater, that I held him in opprobrious contempt."

And Mr. Jinks glanced at the landlord.

"He was making the breeches for St. Michael, whom he is to represent," said Mr. Jinks, "day after to-morrow; and I have not done with him—the Irish villain!"

Mr. Jinks looked again, significantly, at the host.

That gentleman had not lost a word of the conversation, and his sleepy eyes now opened. He beckoned to Mr. Jinks. A smile illumined the countenance of the worthy—the landlord was a German;—the plot against Irish O'Brallaghan was gaining strength.

The landlord rose, and, with a significant look, entered the house, followed by Mr. Jinks, who turned his head, as he disappeared, to cast a triumphant look upon Ralph.

No sooner had he passed from sight, than Ralph turned to Verty, who had sat quietly upon Cloud, during this colloquy, and burst into laughter.

"That is the greatest character I have ever known, Verty," he said; "and I have been amusing myself with him all the morning."

Verty was thinking, and without paying much attention to Ralph, smiled, and said:

"Anan?—yes—"

"I believe you are dreaming."

"Oh, no—only thinking," said Verty, smiling; "I can't get out of the habit, and I really don't think I heard you. But I can't stop. Here's a note Redbud asked me to give you—for Fanny. She said you might be going up to old Scowley's—"

"Might be! I rather think I am! Ah, Miss Redbud, you are a mischievous one. But why take the trouble to say that of the divine sex? They're all dangerous, scheming and satirical."

"Anan?" said Verty, smiling, as he tossed Ralph the note.

"Don't mind me," said Ralph; "I was just talking, as usual, at random, and slandering the sex. But what are you sitting there for, my dear Verty? Get down and come in. I'm dying of weariness."

Verty shook his head.

"I must go and see Mr. Roundjacket," he said.

"What! is he sick?"

"Yes."

"Much?"

Verty smiled.

"I think not," he said; "but I don't know—I havn't much time; good-bye."

And touching Cloud with the spur, Verty went on. Ralph looked after him for a moment, twirled the note in his fingers, read the superscription,—"To Miss Fanny Temple,"—and then, laughing carelessly, lounged into the house, intent on making a third in the councils of those great captains, Mr. Jinks and the landlord.

We shall accompany Verty, who rode on quietly, and soon issued from the town—that is to say, the more bustling portion of it; for Winchester, at that time, consisted of but two streets, and even these were mere roads, as they approached the suburbs.

Roundjacket's house was a handsome little cottage, embowered in trees, on the far western outskirts of the town. Here the poet lived in bachelor freedom, and with a degree of comfort which might have induced any other man to be satisfied with his condition. We know, from his own assertion, that Roundjacket was not;—he had an excellent little house, a beautiful garden, every comfort which an ample "estate" could bring him, but he had no wife. That was the one thing needful.

Verty dismounted, and admiring the beautiful sward, the well tended flowers, and the graceful appendages of the mansion—from the bronze knocker, with Minerva's head upon it, to the slight and comfortable wicker smoking-chairs upon the porch—opened the little gate, and knocked.

An old negro woman, who superintended, with the assistance of her equally aged husband, this bachelor paradise, appeared at the door; and hearing Verty's request of audience, was going to prefer it to Mr. Roundjacket.

This was rendered unnecessary, however, by the gentleman himself. He called from the comfortable sitting-room to Verty, and the visitor entered.



CHAPTER LVII.

CONTAINS AN EXTRAORDINARY DISCLOSURE.

Roundjacket was clad in a handsome dressing-gown, and was heading, or essaying to read—for he had the rheumatism in his right shoulder—a roll of manuscript. Beside him lay a ruler, which he grasped, and made a movement of hospitable reception with, as Verty came in.

"Welcome, welcome, my young friend," said Roundjacket; "you see me laid up, sir"

"You're not much sick, I hope, sir?" said Verty, taking the arm-chair, which his host indicated.

"I am, sir—you are mistaken."

"I am very sorry."

"I thank you for your sympathy," said Roundjacket, running his fingers through his straight hair; "I think, sir I mentioned, the other day, that I expected to be laid up."

"Mentioned?"

"On the occasion, sir—"

"Oh, the paper!" said Verty, smiling; "you don't mean—"

"I mean everything," said Roundjacket; "I predicted, on that occasion, that I expected to be laid up, and I am, sir."

This was adroit in Roundjacket. It was one of those skillful equivocations, by means of which a man saves his character for consistency and judgment, without forfeiting his character for truth.

"Well, it was very bad," said Verty.

"Bad is not the word—abominable is the word—disgraceful is the word!" cried Roundjacket, flourishing his ruler, and suddenly dropping it as a twinge shot through his shoulder.

"Yes," assented Verty; "but talking about it will make you worse, sir. Mr. Rushton asked me to come and see how you were this morning."

"Rushton is thanked," said Mr. Roundjacket,—"Rushton, my young friend, has his good points—so have I, sir. I nursed him through a seven month's fever—a perfect bear, sir; but he always is that. Tell him that my arm—that I am nearly well, sir, and that nothing but my incapacity to write, from—from—the state of my—feelings," proceeded Roundjacket, "should keep me at home. Observe, my young sir, that this is no apology. Rushton and myself understand each other. If I wish to go, I go—or stay away, I stay away. But I like the old trap, sir, from habit, and rather like the bear himself, upon the whole."

With this Mr. Roundjacket attempted to flourish his ruler, from habit, and groaned.

"What's the matter, sir?" said Verty.

"I felt badly at the moment," said Roundjacket; "the fact is, I always do feel badly when I'm confined thus. I have been trying to wile away the time with the manuscript of my poem, sir—but it won't do. An author, sir—mark me—never takes any pleasure in reading his own writings."

"Ah?" said Verty.

"No, sir; the only proper course for authors is to marry."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Yes: and why, sir?" asked Mr. Roundjacket, evidently with the intention of answering his own question.

"I don't know," replied Verty.

"Because, then, sir, the author may read his work to his wife, which is a circumstance productive of great pleasure on both sides, you perceive."

"It might be, but I think it might'nt, sir?" Verty said.

"How, might'nt be?"

"It might be very bad writing—not interesting—such as ought to be burned, you know," said Verty.

"Hum!" replied Roundjacket, "there's something in that."

"If I was to write—but I could'nt—I don't think I would read it to my wife—if I had a wife," added Verty.

And he sighed.

"A wife! you!" cried Mr. Roundjacket.

"Is there anything wrong in my wishing to marry?"

"Hum!—yes, sir; there is a certain amount of irrationality in any body desiring such a thing—not in you especially."

"Oh, Mr. Roundjacket, you advised me only a few weeks ago to be always courting somebody—courting was the word; I recollect it."

"Hum!" repeated Roundjacket; "did I?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, sir, I suppose a man has a right to amend."

"Anan, sir?"

"I say that a man has a right to file an amended and supplemental bill, stating new facts; but you don't understand. Perhaps, sir, I was right, and perhaps I was wrong in that advice."

"But, Mr. Roundjacket," said Verty, sighing, "do you think I ought not to marry because I am an Indian?"

This question of ethics evidently puzzled the poet.

"An Indian—hum—an Indian?" he said; "but are you an Indian, my young friend?"

"You know ma mere is, and I am her son."

Roundjacket shook his head.

"You are a Saxon, not an Aboriginal," he said; "and to tell you the truth, your origin has been the great puzzle of my life, sir."

"Has it?"

"It has, indeed."

Verty looked thoughtful, and his dreamy gaze was fixed upon vacancy.

"It has troubled me a good deal lately," he said, "and I have been thinking about it very often—since I came to live in Winchester, you know. As long as I was in the woods, it did not come into my thoughts much; the deer, and turkeys, and bears never asked," added Verty, with a smile. "The travellers who stopped for a draught of water or a slice of venison at ma mere's, never seemed to think anything about it, or to like me the worse for not knowing where I came from. It's only since I came into society here, sir, that I am troubled. It troubles me very much," added Verty, his head drooping.

"Zounds!" cried Roundjacket, betrayed by his feelings into an oath, "don't let it, Verty! You're a fine, honest fellow, whether you're an Indian or not; and if I had a daughter—which," added Mr. Roundjacket, "I'm glad to say I have not—you should have her for the asking. Who cares! you're a gentleman, every inch of you!"

"Am I?" said Verty; "I'm glad to hear that. I thought I was'nt. And so, sir, you don't think there's any objection to my marrying?"

"Hum!—the subject of marrying again!"

"Yes, sir," Verty replied, smiling; "I thought I'd marry Redbud."

"Who? that little Redbud!"

"Yes, sir," said Verty, "I think I'm in love with her."

Roundjacket stood amazed at such extraordinary simplicity.

"Sir," he said, "whether you are an Indian by blood or not, you certainly are by nature. Extraordinary! who ever heard of a civilized individual using such language!"

"But you know I am not civilized, sir."

Roundjacket shook his head.

"There's the objection," he said; "it is absolutely necessary that a man who becomes the husband of a young lady should be civilized. But let us dismiss this subject—Redbud! Excuse me, Mr. Verty, but you are a very extraordinary young man;—to have you for—well, well. Don't allude to that again."

"To what, sir?"

"To Redbud."

"Why, sir?"

"Because I have nothing to do with it. I can only give you my general ideas on the subject of marriage. If you apply them, that is your affair. A pretty thing on an oath of discovery," murmured the poetical lawyer.

Verty had not heard the last words; he was reflecting. Roundjacket watched him with a strange, wistful look, which had much kindness and feeling in it.

"But why not marry?" said Verty, at last; "it seems to me sir, that people ought to marry; I think I could find a great many good reasons for it."

"Could you; how many?"

"A hundred, I suppose."

"And I could find a thousand against it," said Roundjacket. "Mark me, sir—except under certain circumstances, a man is not the same individual after marrying—he deteriorates."

"Anan?" said Verty.

"I mean, that in most cases it is for the worse—the change of condition.

"How, sir?"

"Observe the married man," replied Roundjacket, philosophically—"see his brow laden with cares, his important look, his solemn deportment. None of the lightness and carelessness of the bachelor."

Verty nodded, as much as to say that there was a great deal of truth in this much.

"Then observe the glance," continued Roundjacket, "if I may be permitted to use a colloquialism which is coming into use—there is not that brilliant cut of the eye, which you see in us young fellows—it is all gone, sir!"

Verty smiled.

"The married man frequently delegates his soul to his better half," continued Roundjacket, rising with his subject; "all his independence is gone. He can't live the life of a jolly bachelor, with pipe and slippers, jovial friends and nocturnal suppers. The pipe is put out, sir—the slippers run down—and the joyous laughter of his good companions becomes only the recollection of dead merriment. He progresses, sir—does the married man—from bad to worse; he lives in a state of hen-pecked, snubbed, unnatural apprehension; he shrinks from his shadow; trembles at every sound; and, in the majority of cases, ends his miserable existence, sir, by hanging himself to the bed-post!"

Having drawn this awful picture of the perils of matrimony, Mr. Roundjacket paused and smiled. Verty looked puzzled.

"You seem to think it is very dreadful," said Verty; "are you afraid of women, sir?"

"No, I am not, sir! But I might very rationally be."

"Anan?"

"Yes, sir, very reasonably; the fact is, you cannot be a lady's man, and have any friends, without being talked about."

Verty nodded, with a simple look, which struck Mr. Roundjacket forcibly.

"Only utter a polite speech, and smile, and wrap a lady's shawl around her shoulders—flirt her fan, or caress her poodle—and, in public estimation, you are gone," observed the poet; "the community roll their eyes, shake their heads, and declare that it is very obvious—that you are so far gone, as not even to pretend to conceal it. Shocking, sir!"

And Roundjacket chuckled.

"It's very wrong," said Verty, shaking his head; "I wonder they do it."

"Therefore, keep away from the ladies, my young friend," added Roundjacket, with an elderly air—"that is the safest way. Get some snug bachelor retreat like this, and be happy with your pipe. Imitate me, in dressing-gown and slippers. So shall you be happy!"

Roundjacket chuckled again, and contemplated the cornice.

At the same moment a carriage was heard to stop before the door, and the poet's eyes descended.

"I wonder who comes to see me," he said, "really now, in a chariot."

Verty, from his position, could see through the window.

"Why, it's the Apple Orchard chariot!" he said, "and there is Miss Lavinia!"

At this announcement, Mr. Roundjacket's face assumed an expression of dastardly guilt, and he avoided Verty's eye.

"Lavinia!" he murmured.

At the same moment a diminutive footman gave a rousing stroke with the knocker, and delivered into the hands of the old woman, who opened the door, a glass dish of delicacies such as are affected by sick persons.

With this came a message from the lady in the carriage, to the effect, that her respects were presented to Mr. Roundjacket, whose sickness she had heard of. Would he like the jelly?—she was passing—would be every day. Please to send word if he was better.

While this message was being delivered, Roundjacket resembled an individual caught in the act of felonious appropriation of his neighbors' ewes. He did not look at Verty, but, with; a bad assumption of nonchalance, bade the boy thank his mistress, and say that Mr. Roundjacket would present his respects, in person, at Apple Orchard, on the morrow. Would she excuse his not coming out?

This message was carried to the chariot, which soon afterwards drove away.

Verty gazed after it.

"I say, Mr. Roundjacket," he observed, at length, "how funny it is for Miss Lavinia to come to see you!"

"Hum!—hum!—we are—hum—ah—! The fact is, my dear Verty!" cried Mr. Roundjacket, rising, and limping through a pas seul, in spite of his rheumatism—"the fact is, I have been acting the most miserable and deceptive way to you for the last hour. Yes, my dear boy! I am ashamed of myself! Carried away by the pride of opinion, and that fondness which bachelor's have for boasting, I have been deceiving you! But it never shall be said that Robert Roundjacket refused the amplest reparation. My reparation, my good Verty, is taking you into my confidence. The fact is—yes, the fact really is—as aforesaid, or rather as not aforesaid, myself and the pleasing Miss Lavinia are to be married before very long! Don't reply, sir! I know my guilt—but you might have known I was jesting. You must have suspected, from my frequent visits to Apple Orchard—hum—hum—well, well, sir; it's out now, and I've made a clean breast of it, and you're not to speak of it! I am tired of bachelordom, sir, and am going to change!"

With these words, Mr. Roundjacket executed a pirouette upon his rheumatic leg, which caused him to fall back in his chair, making the most extraordinary faces, which we can compare to nothing but the contortions of a child who bites a crab-apple by mistake.

The twinge soon spent its force, however; and then Mr. Roundjacket and Verty resumed their colloquy—after which, Verty rose and took his leave, smiling and laughing to himself, at times.

He had reason. Miss Lavinia, who had denounced wife-hunters, was about to espouse Mr. Roundjacket, who had declared matrimony the most miserable of mortal conditions; all which is calculated to raise our opinion of the consistency of human nature in a most wonderful degree.



CHAPTER LVIII.

HOW MR. RUSHTON PROVED THAT ALL MEN WERE SELFISH, HIMSELF INCLUDED.

Leaving Mr. Roundjacket contemplating the ceiling, and reflecting upon the various questions connected with bachelorship and matrimony, Verty returned to the office, and reported to Mr. Rushton that the poet was rapidly improving, and would probably be at his post on the morrow.

This intelligence was received with a growl, which had become, however, so familiar an expression of feeling to the young man, that he did not regard it.

"Well, sir," said Mr. Rushton, "what news is there about town?"

"News, sir? I heard none."

"Did'nt you pass along the streets?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you met nobody?"

"Oh, yes; I met Ralph, and Mr. Jinks, and others."

"Jinks! I'll score that Jinks yet!" said Mr. Rushton; "he is an impertinent jackanapes, and deserves to be put in the stocks."

"I don't like him much," said Verty, smiling, "I think he is very foolish."

"Hum! I have no doubt of it: he had the audacity to come here once and ask an opinion of me without offering the least fee."

"An opinion, sir?"

"Yes, sir; have you been thus long in the profession, or in contact with the profession," added Mr. Rushton, correcting himself, "without learning what an opinion is?"

"Oh, sir—I think I understand now—it is—"

"A very gratifying circumstance that you do," said Mr. Rushton, with the air of a good-natured grizzly bear. "Well, sir, that fellow, I say, had the audacity to consult me upon a legal point—whether the tailor O'Brallaghan, being bound over to keep the peace, could attack him without forfeiting his recognizances—that villain Jinks, I say, had the outrageous audacity to ask my opinion on this point, and then when I gave it, to rise and say that it was a fine morning, and so strut out, without another word. A villain, sir! the man who consults a lawyer without the preparatory retainer, is a wretch too deep-dyed to reform!"

Having thus disposed of Jinks, Mr. Rushton snorted.

"I don't like him," Verty said, "he does not seem to be sincere, and I think he is not a gentleman. But, I forget, sir; you asked me if there was any news. I did hear some people talking at the corners of the street as I passed.

"About what?"

"The turn out of the Dutch and Irish people the day after tomorrow, sir."

"Hum!" growled Mr. Rushton, "we'll see about that! The authorities of Winchester are performing their duty after a pretty fashion, truly—to permit these villainous plots to be hatched tinder their very noses. What did you hear, sir?"

"They were whispering almost, sir, and if I had'nt been a hunter I could'nt have heard. They were saying that there would be knives as well as shillalies," said Verty.

"Hum! indeed! This must be looked to! Will we! The wretches. We are in a fine way when the public peace is to be sacrificed to the whim of some outlandish wretches."

"Anan?" said Verty.

"Sir?" asked Mr. Rushton.

"I do not know exactly what outlandish means," Verty replied, with a smile.

A grim smile came to the lips of the lawyer also.

"It means a variety of things," he said, looking at Verty; "some people would say that you, sir, were outlandish."

"Me!" said Verty.

"Yes, you; where are those costumes which I presented to you?"

"My clothes, sir—from the tailor's?"

"Yes, sir."

Verty shook his head.

"I did'nt feel easy in them, sir," he said; "you know I am an Indian—or if I am not, at least I am a hunter. They cramped me."

Mr. Rushton looked at the young man for some moments in silence.

"You are a myth," he said, grimly smiling, "a dream—a chimera. You came from no source, and are going nowhere. But I trifle. If I am permitted, sir, I shall institute proper inquiries as to your origin, which has occasioned so much thought. The press of business I have labored under during the last month has not permitted me. Wretched life. I'm sick of it—and go to it like a horse to the traces."

"Don't you like law, sir?"

"No—I hate it."

"Why, sir?"

"'Why!'" cried Mr. Rushton, "there you are with your annoying questions! I hate it because it lowers still more my opinion of this miserable humanity. I see everywhere rascality, and fraud, and lies; and because there is danger of becoming the color of the stuff I work in, 'like the dyer's hand.' I hate it," growled Mr. Rushton.

"But you must see many noble things, sir, too,—a great deal of goodness, you know."

"Well, sir, so I do. I don't deny it. There are some men who are not entirely corrupt,—some who do not cheat systematically, and lie by the compass and the rule. But these are the exceptions. This life and humanity are foul sin from the beginning. Trust no one, young man—not even me; I may turn out a rogue. I am no better than the rest of the wretches!"

"Oh, Mr. Rushton!"

"There you are with your exclamations!"

"Oh, I'm sure, sir—"

"Be sure of nothing; let us end this jabber. How is your mother?" said Mr. Rushton, abruptly.

"She's very well, sir."

"A good woman."

"Oh, indeed she is, sir—I love her dearly."

"Hum! there's no harm in that, though much selfishness, I do not doubt—all humanity is narrow and selfish. There are some things I procured for her."

And Mr. Rushton pointed to a large bundle lying on the chair.

"For ma mere!" said Verty.

"Yes; I suppose that, in your outlandish lingo, means mother. Yes, for her; the winter is coming on, and she will need something warm to wrap her—poor creature—from the cold."

"Oh, how kind you are, Mr. Rushton!"

"Nonsense; I suppose I am at liberty to spend my own money."

Verty looked at the lawyer with a grateful smile, and said:

"I don't think that what you said about everybody's being selfish and bad is true, sir. You are very good and kind."

"Flummery!" observed the cynic, "I had a selfish motive: I wished to appear generous—I wished to be praised—I wished to attach you to my service, in order to employ you, when the time came, in some rascally scheme."

"Oh, Mr. Rushton!"

"Yes, sir; you know not why I present that winter wardrobe to your mother," said the lawyer, triumphantly; "you don't even know that it is my present!"

"How, sir?"

"May I not stop it from your salary, I should like to know, sir?"

And Mr. Rushton scowled at Verty.

"Oh!" said the young man.

"I may do anything—I may have laid a plot to have you arrested for receiving stolen goods," said the shaggy cynic, revelling in the creations of his invention; "I may have wrapped up an infernal machine, sir, in that bundle, which, when you open it, will explode like a cannon, and carry ruin and destruction to everything around!"

This terrific picture caused Verty to open his eyes, and look with astonishment at his interlocutor.

"I may have bought them in to spite that young villain at the store. I heard him," said Mr. Rushton, vindictively—"yes, distinctly heard him whisper, 'There's old Rushton again, come to growl, and not buy anything.' The villain! but I disappointed him; and when he said, "Shall they be sent to your office, sir?" in his odious obsequious voice, I replied, 'No, sir! I am not a dandy or fine gentleman, nor a woman;—you, sir, may be accustomed to have your bundles sent—I carry mine myself.' And so, sir, I took the bundle on my shoulder and brought it away, to the astonishment of that young villain, who, I predict, will eventually come to the gallows!"

And the lawyer, having grown tired of talking, abruptly went into his sanctum, and slammed the door.

Verty gazed after him for some moments with a puzzled expression—then smiled—then shook his head; then glanced at the bundle. It was heavy enough for two porters, and Verty opened his eyes at the thought of Mr. Rushton's having appeared in public, in the town of Winchester, with such a mass upon his back.

"He's very good, though," said Verty; "I don't know why he's so kind to me. How ma mere will like them—I know they are what she wants."

And Verty betook himself to his work, only stopping to partake of his dinner of cold venison and biscuits. By the afternoon, he had done a very good task; and then mounting Cloud, with the bundle before him, he took his way homeward, via Apple Orchard.



CHAPTER LIX.

THE PORTRAIT SMILES.

Our fine Virginia autumn not only dowers the world with beautiful forests, and fresh breezes, and a thousand lovely aspects of the beautiful world—fine golden sunsets, musical dawns, and gorgeous noontides full of languid glory;—it also has its direct influence on the mind.

Would you dream? Go to the autumn woods; the life there is one golden round of fancies, such as come alone beneath waning forests, where the glories of the flower-crowned summer have yielded to a spell more powerful, objects more enthralling—because those objects have the charm of a maiden slowly passing, with a loveliness a thousand times increased, and sublimated, to the holy skies.

Would you have active life? That is there too—the deer, and sound of bugles rattling through the trees, and rousing echoes which go flashing through the hills, and filling the whole universe with jubilant laughter. Every mood has something offered for its entertainment in the grand autumns of our Blue-Ridge dominated land: chiefly the thoughtful, however, the serene and happy.

You dream there, under the boughs all gold, and blue, and crimson. Little things which obscured the eternal landscape, pass away, and the great stars, above the world, come out and flood the mind with a far other light than that which flowed from earthly tapers and rushlights. The heart is purer for such hours of thought; and as the splendid autumn marches on with pensive smiles, you see a glory in his waning cheek which neither the tender Spring, nor the rich, glittering Summer ever approached—an expression of hope and resignation which is greater than strength and victory. Ah, me! if we could always look, like autumn, on the coming storms and freezing snows, and see the light and warmth beyond the veil!

Verty went on beneath the autumn skies, and through the woods, the rustle of whose leaves was music to his forest-trained ear; and so arrived at Apple Orchard as the sun was setting brightly behind the pines, which he kindled gloriously.

Redbud was seated at the window; and the kind eyes and lips brightened, as the form of the young man became visible.

Verty dismounted and entered.

"I am very glad to see you!" said Redbud, smiling, and holding out her small hand; "what a sweet evening for your ride home."

Redbud was clad with her usual grace and simplicity. Her beautiful golden hair was brushed back from the pure, white forehead; her throat was enveloped in a circlet of diaphanous lace, and beneath this, as she breathed, the red beads of the coral necklace were visible, rising and falling with the pulsations of her heart. Redbud could not have very readily explained the reason for her fancy in wearing the necklace constantly. It was one of those caprices which every one experiences at times;—and so, although the girl had quite a magazine of such ornaments, she persisted in wearing the old necklace bought from the pedlar. Perhaps the word Providence may explain the matter.

To the girl's observation, that he had a fine evening for his ride homeward, Verty replied—Yes, that he had; that he could not go by, however, without coming to see her.

And as he uttered these words, the simple and tender glances of the two young persons encountered each other; and they both smiled.

"You know you are not very well," added Verty; "and I could'nt sleep well if I did not know how you were, Redbud."

The girl thanked him with another smile, and said:

"I believe I am nearly well now; the cold I caught the other day has entirely left me. I almost think I might take a stroll, if the sun was not so low."

"It is half an hour high—that is, it will not get cool until then," Verty said.

"Do you think I would catch cold?" asked the girl, smiling.

"I don't know," Verty said.

"Well, I do not think I will, and you shall wrap me in your coat, if I do," she said, laughing.

In ten minutes, Redbud and Verty were strolling through the grove, and admiring the sunset.

"How pretty it is," she said, gazing with pensive pleasure on the clouds; "and the old grove here is so still."

"Yes," Verty said, "I like the old grove very much. Do you see that locust? It was just at the foot of it, that we found the hare's form, when Dick mowed the grass. You recollect?"

"Oh, yes," Redbud replied; "and I remember what dear little creatures they were—not bigger than an apple, and with such frightened eyes. We put them back, you know, Verty—that is, I made you," she added, laughing.

Verty laughed too.

"They were funny little creatures," he said; "and they would have died—you know we never could have got the right things for them to eat—yes! there, in the long grass! How Molly Cotton jumped away."

They walked on.

"Here, by the filbert bush, we used to bury the apples to get mellow," Verty said; "nice, yellow, soft things they were, when we dug them up, with a smell of the earth about 'em! They were not like the June apples we used to get in the garden, where they dropped among the corn—their striped, red sides all covered with dust!"

"I liked the June apples the best," Redbud said, "but I think October is finer than June."

"Oh, yes. Redbud, I am going to get some filberts—will you have some?"

"If you please."

So Verty went to the bushes, and brought his hat full of them, and cracked them on a stone—the sun lighting up his long, tangled curls, and making brighter his bright smile.

Redbud stooped down, and gathered the kernels as they jumped from the shell, laughing and happy.

They had returned to their childhood again—bright and tender childhood, which dowers our after life with so many tender, mournful, happy memorials;—whose breezes fan our weary brows so often as we go on over the thorny path, once a path of flowers. They were once more children, and they wandered thus through the beautiful forest, collecting their memories, laughing here, sighing there—and giving an association or a word to every feature of the little landscape.

"How many things I remember," Verty said, thoughtfully, and smiling; "there, where Milo, the good dog, was buried, and a shot fired over him—there, where we treed the squirrel—and over yonder, by the run, which I used to think flowed by from fairy land—I remember so many things!"

"Yes—I do too," replied the girl, thoughtfully, bending her head.

"How singular it is that an Indian boy like me should have been brought up here," Verty said, buried in thought; "I think my life is stranger than what they call a romance."

Redbud made no reply.

"Ma mere would never tell me anything about myself," the young man went on, wistfully, "and I can't know anything except from her. I must be a Dacotah or a Delaware."

Redbud remained thoughtful for some moments, then raising her head, said:

"I do not believe you are an Indian, Verty. There is some mystery about you which I think the old Indian woman should tell. She certainly is not your mother," said Redbud, with a little smiling air of dogmatism.

"I don't know," Verty replied, "but I wish I did know. I used to be proud of being an Indian, but since I have grown up, and read how wicked they were, I wish I was not.

"You are not."

"Well, I think so, too," he replied; "I am not a bit like ma mere, who has long, straight black hair, and a face the color of that maple—dear ma mere!—while I have light hair, always getting rolled up. My face is different, too—I mean the color—I am sun-burned, but I remember when my face was very white."

And Verty smiled.

"I would ask her all about it," Redbud said.

"I think I will," was the reply; "but she don't seem to like it, Redbud—it seems to worry her."

"But it is important to you, Verty."

"Yes, indeed it is."

"Ask her this evening."

"Do you advise me?"

"Yes. I think you ought to; indeed I do."

"Well, I will," Verty said; "and I know when ma mere understands that I am not happy as long as she does not tell me everything, she will speak to me."

"I think so, too," said Redbud; "and now, Verty, there is one thing more—trust in God, you know, is everything. He will do all for the best."

"Oh, yes," the young man said, as they turned toward Apple Orchard house again, "I am getting to do that—and I pray now, Redbud," he added, looking toward the sky, "I pray to the Great Spirit, as we call him—"

Redbud looked greatly delighted, and said:

"That is better than all; I do not see how any one can live without praying."

"I used to," Verty replied.

"It was so wrong."

"Yes, yes."

"And Verty gazed at the sunset with his dreamy, yet kindling eyes.

"If there is a Great Spirit, we ought to talk to him," he said, "and tell him what we want, and ask him to make us good; I think so at least—"

"Indeed we should."

"Then," continued Verty, "if that is true, we ought to think whether there is or is not such a spirit. There may be people in towns who don't believe there is—but I am obliged to. Look at the sun, Redbud—the beautiful sun going away like a great torch dying out;—and look at the clouds, as red as if a thousand deer had come to their death, and poured their blood out in a river! Look at the woods here, every color of the bow in the cloud, and the streams, and rocks, and all! There must be a Great Spirit who loves men, or he never would have made the world so beautiful."

Verty paused, and they went on slowly.

"We love him because he first loved us," said Redbud, thoughtfully.

"Yes, and what a love it must have been. Oh me!" said the young man, "I sometimes think of it until my heart is melted to water, and my eyes begin to feel heavy. What love it was!—and if we do not love in return, what punishment is great enough for such a crime!"

And Verty's face was raised with a dreamy, reverent look toward the sky. Youth, manhood, age—if they but thought of it!—but youth is a dream—manhood the waking—age the return to slumber. Busy, arranging the drapery of their couches, whether of royal purple or of beggar's rags, they cannot find the time to think of other things—even to listen to the grim breakers, with their awful voices roaring on the lee!

So, under the autumn skies, the young man and the maiden drew near home. Apple Orchard smiled on them as they came, and the bluff Squire, seated upon the portico, and reading that "Virginia Gazette" maligned by Roundjacket, gave them welcome with a hearty, laughing greeting.

The Squire declared that Redbud's cheeks were beginning to be tolerably red again; that she had been pretending sickness only—and then, with a vituperative epithet addressed to Caesar, the old gentleman re-commenced reading.

Redbud and Verty entered; and then the young man held out his hand.

"Are you going?" said the girl.

"Yes," he said, smiling, "unless you will sing me something. Oh, yes! let me go away with music in my ears. Sing 'Dulce Domum' for me, Redbud."

The young girl assented, with a smile; and sitting down at the harpsichord, sang the fine old ditty in her soft, tender voice, which was the very echo of joy and kindness. The gentle carol floated on the evening air, and seemed to make the autumn twilight brighter, everything more lovely—and Verty listened with a look more dreamy than before.

Then, as she sung, his eye was turned to the picture on the wall, which looked down with its loving eyes upon them.

Redbud ceased, and turned and saw the object of his regard.

"Mamma," she said, in a low, thoughtful voice,—"I love to think of her."

And rising, she stood beside Verty, who was still looking at the portrait.

"She must have been very good," he murmured; "I think her face is full of kindness."

Redbud gazed softly at the portrait, and, as she mused, the dews of love and memory suffused her tender eyes, and she turned away.

"I love the face," said Verty, softly; "and I think she must have been a kind, good mother, Redbud. I thought just now that she was listening to you as you sang."

And Verty gazed at the young girl, with a tenderness which filled her eyes with delight.

"She will bless you out of Heaven," he continued, timidly; "for you are so beautiful and good—so very beautiful!"

And a slight tremor passed over the young man's frame as he spoke.

Redbud did not reply; a deep blush suffused her face, and she murmured something. Then the young head drooped, and the face turned away.

The last ray of sunlight gleamed upon her hair and pure white forehead, and then fled away—the day was ended.

Verty saw it, and held out his hand.

"We have had a happy evening, at least I have," he said, in a low voice; "the autumn is so beautiful, and you are so kind and good."

She did not speak; but a faint wistful smile came to her lips as she placed her hand softly in his own.

"Look! the picture is smiling on you now!" said Verty; "you are just alike—both so beautiful!"

"Oh!" murmured Redbud, blushing; "like mamma?"

"Yes," said Verty, "and I saw the lips smile when I spoke."

They stood thus hand in hand—the tender mother-eyes upon them: then he turned and went away, looking back tenderly to the last.

Had the dim canvas smiled upon them, as they stood there hand in hand—a blessing on them from the far other world?



CHAPTER LX.

THE LODGE IN THE HILLS.

Sitting by the crackling twigs which drove away the cool airs of the autumn night with their inspiring warmth, the young man, whose early fortunes we have thus far endeavored to narrate, leaned his head upon his hand, and mused and dreamed.

Overhead the shadows played upon the rafters; around him, the firelight lit up the wild and uncouth interior, with its sleeping hounds, and guns, and fishing-rods, and chests; on the opposite side of the fire-place, the old Indian woman was indulging, like Verty, in a reverie.

From time to time, Longears or Wolf would stir in their sleep, and growl, engaged in dreaming of some forest adventure which concerned itself with deer or other game; or the far cry of the whip-poor-will would echo through the forest; or the laughter of the owl suddenly come floating on, borne on the chill autumn wind.

This, with the crackle of the twigs, was all which disturbed the silence of the solitary lodge.

The silence lasted for half an hour, at the end of which time Verty changed his position, and sighed. Then looking at the old woman with great affection, the young man said:

"I was thinking who I was; and I wanted to ask you, ma mere—tell me."

The old woman looked startled at this address, but concealing her emotion with the marvellous skill of her people, replied in her guttural accent—

"My son wants to know something?"

"Yes, ma mere, that is it. I want to know if I really am your son."

The old woman turned her eyes from Verty.

"The fawn knows the deer, and the bear's cub knows his fellows," continued Verty, gazing into the fire; "but they laugh at me. I don't know my tribe."

"Our tribe is the Delaware," said the old Indian woman evasively—" they came from the great woods like a river."

"Like a river? Yes, they know their source. But where did I spring from, ma mere?"

"Where was my son born?"

"Yes, tell me everything," said Verty; "tell me if I am your son. Do not tell me that you love me as a son, or that I love you as my mother. I know that—but am I a Delaware?"

"Why does my son ask?"

"Because a bird of the air whispered to me—'You are not a Delaware, nor a Tuscarora, nor a Dacotah; you are a pale face.' Did the bird lie!"

The old woman did not answer.

"Ma mere," said Verty, tenderly taking the old woman's hand and sitting at her feet, "the Great Spirit has made me honest and open—I cannot conceal anything. I cannot pry and search. I might find out this from some other person—who knows? But I will not try. Come! speak with a straight tongue. Am I the son of a brave; am I a Delaware; or am I what my face makes me out—a Long-knife?"

"Ough! ough! ough!" groaned the old woman; "he wants to go, away from the nest where he was warmed, and nursed, and brought up. The Great Spirit has put evil into his heart—it is cold."

"No, no," said Verty, earnestly—"my heart is red, not white; every drop of my life-blood is yours, ma mere; you have loved me, cherished me: when my muscles were soft and hot with fever, you laid my head upon your bosom, and rocked me to sleep as softly as the topmost bough of the oak rocks the oriole; you loved me always. My heart shall run out of my breast and soak the ground, before it turns white; yet, I love you, and you love me. But, ma mere, I have grown well nigh to manhood; the bird's song is changed, and the dove has flown to me—the dove yonder at Apple Orchard—"

"Ough!" groaned the old woman, rocking to and fro; "she is black! She has made you bad!"

"No, no! she is white—she is good. She told me about the Great Spirit, and makes me pure."

"Ough! ough!"

"She is as pure as the bow in the cloud," continued Verty; "and I did not mean that the dove was the bird who whispered, that I was no Delaware. No—my own heart says, 'know—find out.'"

"And why should the heart say 'know?'" said the old woman, still rocking about, and looking at Verty with anxious affection. "Why should my son seek to find?"

"Because the winds are changed and sing new songs; the leaves whisper, as I pass, with a new voice; and even the clouds are not what they were to me when I ran after the shadows floating along the hills, and across the hollows. I have changed, ma mere, and the streams talk no more with the same tongue. I hear the flags and water-lilies muttering as I pass, and the world opens on me with a new, strange light. They talked to me once; now they laugh at me as I pass. Hear the trees, yonder! Don't you hear them? They are saying, 'The Delaware paleface! look at him! look at him!'"

And crouching, with dreamy eyes, Verty for a moment listened to the strange sob of the pines, swaying in the chill winds of the autumn night.

"I am not what I was!" he continued; the world is open now, and I must be a part of it. The bear and deer speak to me with tongues I do not understand. Ma mere! ma mere! I must know whether I am a Delaware or pale face!—whether one or the other, I am still yours—yours always! Speak! speak with a straight tongue to your child!"

"Ough! ough! ough!" groaned the old woman, looking at him wistfully, and plainly struggling with herself—hesitating between two courses.

"Speak!" said Verty, with a glow in his eye, which made him resemble a young leopard of the wild—"speak, ma mere!—I am no longer a child! I go into a new land now, and how shall it be? As a red face, or a long knife—which am I? Speak, ma mere—say if I am a Delaware, whose place is the woods, or a white, whose life must take him from the deer forever!"

The struggle was ended; Verty could not have uttered words more fatal to his discovering anything. He raised an insuperable barrier to any revelations—if, indeed, there existed any mystery—by his alternative. Was he a Delaware, and thus doomed to live in the forest with his old Indian mother—or was he a white, in which case, he would leave her? Pride, cunning, above all, deep and pure affection, sealed the old woman's lips, if she had thought of opening them. She looked for sometime at Verty, then, taking his head between her hands, she said, with eyes full of tears:

"You are my own dear son—my young, beautiful hawk of the woods—who said you were not a true Delaware!"

And the old woman bent down, and with a look of profound affection, pressed her lips to Verty's forehead.

The young man's face assumed an expression of mingled gloom and doubt, and he sighed. Then he was an Indian—a Delaware—the son of the Indian woman—he was not a paleface. All the talk about it was thrown away; he was born in the woods—would live and die in the woods!

For a moment the image of Redbud rose before him, and he sighed. He knew not why, but he wished that he was not an Indian—he wished that his blood had been that of the whites.

His sad face drooped; then his eyes ware raised, and he saw the old woman weeping.

The sight removed from Verty's mind all personal considerations, and he leaned his head upon her knee, and pressed her hand to his lips.

"Did the child make his mother weep," he said; "did his idle words bring rain to her eyes, and make her heart heavy? But he is her child still, and all the world is nothing to him."

Verty rose, and taking the old, withered hand, placed it respectfully on his breast.

"Never again, ma mere" he said, "will the wind talk to me, or the birds whisper. I will not listen. Have I made your eyes dark? Let it pass away—I am your son—I love you—more than all the whole wide world."

And Verty sat down, and gazed tenderly at the old woman, whose face had assumed an expression of extraordinary delight.

"Listen," said Verty, taking down his old violin, with a smile, "I will play one of the old tunes, which blow like a wind from my childhood—happy childhood."

And the young man gazed for a moment, silent and motionless, into the fire. Then he raised his old, battered instrument, and began to play one of the wild madrigals of the border.

The music aroused Longears, who sat up, so to speak, upon his forepaws, and with his head bent upon one side, gazed with dignified and solemn interest at his master.

The young man smiled, and continued playing; and as the rude border music floated from the instrument, the Verty of old days came back, and he was once again the forest hunter.

The old woman gazed at him with thoughtful affection, and returned his smile. He went on playing, and the long hours of the autumn night went by like birds into the cloudland of the past.

When the forest boy ceased playing, it was nearly midnight, and the brands were flickering and dying.

Waked by the silence, Longears, who had gone to sleep again, rose up, and came and licked his master's hand, and whined. Verty caressed his head, and laying down his violin, looked at the old Indian woman with affectionate smiles, and murmured:

"We are happy still, ma mere!"



CHAPTER LXI.

MISTRESS O'CALLIGAN'S WOOERS.

It will be remembered that Mr. Jinks had summed up the probable results of his deep laid schemes that morning when he returned from Mistress O'Calligan's, in the strong and emphatic word-picture, "there will be gory blood, sir!"

Now, while these words, strictly construed, are, perhaps, ambiguous, from a certain redundancy in the arrangement, still, there is little difficulty in determining what Mr. Jinks meant. Death and destruction dwelt in his imagination, and held there a riotous carnival; and to such a pitch of delight was our friend elevated by the triumphant anticipation of revenge upon O'Brallaghan, that he stalked about during the remaining portion of the day, talking to himself in the heroic vein, and presenting the appearance of an imperial grasshopper, arrived at the summit of felicity.

But Mr. Jinks was not idle; no one knew better than himself that vigilance was the price paid for success; and to vigilance our conspirator added cunning—in which noble trait he was by no means deficient.

We have seen how, on returning from the heroic attack upon the peace-bound O'Brallaghan, Mr. Jinks threw out a series of observations which attracted the attention of the landlord at the tavern; and we have further seen these two gentlemen retire together into the hostelry, with significant looks and mutterings. Of the exact nature of that interview we cannot speak, having nowhere discovered any memoranda to guide us, in the authentic documents from which this history is compiled.

But results define causes; and from after events it is not improbable that Mr. Jinks made an eloquent and stirring oration, addressed after the manner of all great orators to the prejudices of the auditor, and indicative of Mr. Jinks' intention to overwhelm, with defeat and destruction, the anti-Germanic league and pageant, on St. Michael's day.

That day was very near, as we have seen; but twenty-four hours remained for the conspirators to act in; and Mr. Jinks determined not to lose the opportunity to perfect and render satisfactory his bloody revenge.

Many things conspired to put him in high spirits, and arouse that heroic confidence felt by all great men in undertaking arduous affairs. The landlord had been so much pleased with Mr. Jinks' patriotic ardor in the German cause, that he generously hinted at an entire obliteration of any little score chalked up against the name of Jinks for board and lodging at the hostelry; this was one of the circumstances which inspirited Mr. Jinks. Another was the possession of a steed—a donkey, it is true, but a donkey out of a thousand, nee pluribus impar, and not unworthy of a knight in a great and exciting contest.

Thus it happened that when, upon the following morning, Mr. Jinks arose, assumed his garments, and descended, his face was radiant with anticipated triumph, his sword clattered against his slender legs with martial significance, and his brows were corrugated into a frown, which indicated ruin to all those opposed to him.

Mounted upon Fodder, who was sleek and in high spirits, owing to a good night's rest and a plentiful supply of his favorite provender, Mr. Jinks remained for a moment irresolute before the door of the hostelry, revolving in his mind various and conflicting thoughts of love and war.

Should he go on his handsome animal, and enact the little drama, which he had arranged in his mind, with Miss Sallianna at the Bower of Nature? Should he, on this morning, advance to victory and revenge in that direction? Or should he go and challenge his enemy, Verty, and make his name glorious forever?

These conflicting ideas chased themselves through Mr. Jinks' mind, and rendered him irresolute.

He was interrupted in the midst of them by a voice, laughing and sonorous, which cried from the direction of the gateway:

"Hey, there! What now, Jinks'? What thoughts occupy your mind, my dear fellow?"

And Ralph came out from the yard of the tavern, mounted upon his handsome animal, as fresh and bright-looking as himself.