As, like Hardicanute in the old ballad,

"Stately strode he east the wa', And stately strode he west,"

there entered a figure almost as grim and stern as himself. This was an old woman who now filled the office of housekeeper, having succeeded to full sway on the death of the countess, the young daughter of the count being unable or unwilling to assume any care in the household.

"Well, dame," said the count, pausing in his walk, and confronting the old woman, "how goes it with you, and how with Alvina? Still sorrowing over her mother's death?"

"The tears of a maiden are like the dews in the morning, count," replied the old woman. "The first sunbeam dries them up."

"And what ray of joy can penetrate the dismal hole?" asked the count.

"Do you remember the golden bracelet you gave your lady daughter on her wedding day?" inquired the old woman, fixing her keen, gray eye on her master's face as she spoke.

"Ay, well," replied the count; "golden gifts are not so easily obtained, of late, that I should forget their bestowal But what of the bawble?"

"I saw it in the hands of the page Alexis, when he thought himself unobserved."

"How!" cried the count, his cheek first reddening, and then becoming deadly pale with anger; "is the blood of the gitano asserting its claim? Has he begun to pilfer? The dog shall hang from the highest battlement of the castle!"

"May it not have been a free gift, sir count?" suggested the hideous hag.

"A free gift! What mean you? A love token? Ha! dare you insinuate? And yet her blood is——"

"Hush! walls have sometimes ears," said the old woman, looking cautiously around. "The gypsy child you picked up in the forest is now almost a man; your daughter is a woman. The page is beautiful; they have been thrown much together. Alvina is lonely, romantic——"

"Enough, enough!" said the count, stamping his foot. "I will watch him. If your suspicions be correct——" He paused, and added between his clinched teeth, "I shall know how to punish the daring of the dog. Away!"

The old woman hobbled away, rubbing her skinny hands together, and chuckling at the prospect of having her hatred of the young countess and the page, both of whom had excited her malevolence, speedily gratified.

Count Willnitz was on the eve of a journey to Paris with his daughter. They were to start in a day or two. This circumstance brought on the adventure we shall speedily relate.

Between Alexis, the beautiful page whom the late countess had found and fancied among a wandering Bohemian horde, and the high-born daughter of the feudal house, an attachment had sprung up, nurtured by the isolation in which they lived, and the romantic character and youth of the parties. About to be separated from his mistress for a long time, the page had implored her to grant him an interview, and the lovers met in an apartment joining the suite of rooms appropriated to the countess, and where they were little likely to be intruded upon. In the innocence of their hearts, they had not dreamed that their looks and movements had been watched, and they gave themselves up to the happiness of unrestrained converse. But at the moment when the joy of Alexis seemed purest and brightest, the gathering thunder cloud was overhanging him. At the moment when, sealing his pledge of eternal fidelity and memory in absence, he tremblingly printed a first and holy kiss upon the blushing cheek of Alvina, an iron hand was laid upon his shoulder, and, torn ruthlessly from the spot, he was dashed against the wall, while a terrible voice exclaimed,—

"Dog, you shall reckon with me for this!"

Alvina threw herself at her father's feet.

"Pardon—pardon for Alexis, father! I alone am to blame."

"Rise! rise!" thundered the count. "Art thou not sufficiently humiliated? Dare to breathe a word in his favor, and it shall go hard with thy minion. Punishment thou canst not avert; say but a word, and that punishment becomes death; for he is mine, soul and body, to have and to hold, to head or to hang—my vassal, my slave! What ho, there!"

As he stamped his foot, a throng of attendants poured into the room.

"Search me that fellow!" cried the count, pointing with his finger to Alexis.

A dozen officers' hands examined the person of Alexis, one of them, more eager than the rest, discovered a golden bracelet, and brought it to the count.

"Ha!" cried the count, as he gazed upon the trinket; "truly do I recognize this bawble. Speak, dog! when got'st thou this?"

Alvina was about to speak, and acknowledge that she had bestowed it; but before she could utter a syllable, the page exclaimed,—

"I confess all—I stole it."

"Enough!" cried the count. "Daughter, retire to your apartment."

"Father!" cried the wretched girl, wringing her hands.

"Silence, countess!" cried the count, with terrific emphasis. "Remember that I wield the power of life and death!"

Casting one look of mute agony at the undaunted page, the hapless lady retired from the room.

"Zabitzki," said the count, addressing the foremost of his attendants, "take me this thieving dog into the court yard, and lay fifty stripes upon his back. Then bear him to the dungeon in the eastern turret that overlooks the moat; there keep him till you learn my further pleasure."

The page was brave as steel. His cheek did not blanch, nor did his heart quail, as he heard the dreadful sentence. His lips uttered no unmanly entreaty for forgiveness; but, folding his arms, and drawing up his elegant figure to its full height, he fixed his eagle eye upon the count, with a glance full of bitter hatred and mortal defiance. And afterwards, when submitting to the ignominious punishment, with his flesh lacerated by the scourge, no groan escaped his lips that might reach the listening ear of Alvina. He bore it all with Spartan firmness.

Midnight had struck when the young countess, shrouded in a cloak, and bearing a key which she had purchased by its weight in gold, ascended to the eastern turret, resolved to liberate the prisoner. The door swung heavily back on its rusted hinges as she cautiously entered the dungeon. Drawing back the slide from a lantern she carried in her left hand, she threw its blaze before her, calling out at the same time, "Alexis!"

No voice responded.

"They have murdered him!" she murmured, as she rushed forward and glanced wildly around her.

The cell was empty. She sprang to the grated window. The bars had been sawn through and wrenched apart, with the exception of one, from which dangled a rope made of fragments of linen and blanket twisted and knotted together. Had Alexis escaped, or perished in the attempt? The moat was deep and broad; but the page was a good swimmer and a good climber, and his heart was above all proof. There was little doubt in the mind of his mistress that fortune had favored him. Sinking on her knees, she gave utterance to a fervent thanksgiving to the almighty Power which had protected the hapless boy, and then retired to her couch to weep in secret. The next day the castle rang with the escape of Alexis. Messengers were sent out in pursuit of him in every direction; but a fall of snow in the latter part of the night prevented the possibility of tracking him, and even the dogs that the count put upon the scent were completely baffled. The next day the count and his daughter started on their journey.

CHAPTER II.

For time at last sets all things even; And if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human power Which could evade, if unforgiven, The patient search and vigil long Of him who treasures up a wrong.

BYRON.

Years had passed away. The storm of war had rolled over the country, and the white eagle of Poland had ceased to wave over an independent land. Count Willnitz and his daughter had returned to the old castle; the former stern and harsh as ever, the latter completely in the power of an inexorable master. She had received no tidings of Alexis, and had given him up as lost to her forever. Her father, straightened in his circumstances and menaced with ruin, had secured relief and safety by pledging his daughter's hand to a wealthy nobleman, Count Radetsky, who was now in the castle awaiting the fulfilment of the bargain.

"Go, my child," said the count, with more gentleness than he usually manifested in his manner. "You must prepare yourself for the altar."

"Father," said the young girl, earnestly, "does he know that I love him not?"

"I have told him all, Alvina."

"And yet he is willing to wed me!" She raised her eyes to heaven, rose, and slowly retired to her room.

Louisa, the old woman presented in the first scene of our tale, decked the unfortunate girl in her bridal robes, and went with her to the chapel, where her father and Radetsky awaited her. An old priest mumbled over the ceremony, and joined the hands of the bride and bridegroom. The witnesses were few—only the vassals of the count; and no attempt at festivity preceded or followed the dismal ceremony.

Alvina retired to her chamber when it was over, promising to join her bridegroom at the table in a few moments. The housekeeper accompanied her.

"I give you joy, Countess Radetsky," said the old woman.

"I sorely need it," was the bitter answer. "I have sacrificed myself to the duty I owe my sole surviving parent."

The old woman rubbed her hands and chuckled as she noted the tone of anguish in which these words were uttered.

"I can now speak out," she said. "After long years of silence, the seal is removed from my lips. I can now repay your childish scorn, and bitter jests, by a bitterer jest than any you have yet dreamed of. Countess Radetsky——"

"Spare me that name," said the countess.

"Nay, sweet, it is one you will bear through life," said the hag, "and you had better accustom yourself early to its sound. Know, then, my sweet lady, that the count, my master, had no claims on your obedience."

"How?"

"He is a childless man. He found you an abandoned orphan. Struck with your beauty, he brought you to his lady, and, though they loved you not, they adopted you, with a view to making your charms useful to them when you should have grown up. The count has amply paid himself to-day for all the expense and trouble you have put him to. He has sold you to an eager suitor for a good round price. Ha, ha!"

"And you knew this, and never told me!" cried the hapless girl.

"I was bound by an oath not to reveal the secret till you were married. And I did not love you enough to perjure myself."

"Wretch—miserable wretch!" cried Alvina. "Alas! to what a fate have I been doomed! Ah! why did they not let me rather perish than rear me to this doom? My heart is given to Alexis—my hand to Radetsky!"

"Go down, sweet, to your bridegroom," said the old woman, who was totally deaf to her complaints, "or he will seek you here."

Alvina descended to the banquet hall, uncertain what course to pursue. Escape appeared impossible, and what little she knew of Radetsky convinced her that he was as pitiless and base as her reputed father. She sank into a seat, pale, inanimate, and despairing.

At that moment, ere any one present could say a word, a man, white with terror, rushed into the hall, and stammered out,—

"My lord count!"

"What is it, fellow? Speak!"

"The Cossacks!" cried the man. And his information was confirmed by a loud hurrah, or rather yell, that rose without.

"Raise the drawbridge!" cried the count. "Curses on it!" he added, "I had forgotten that drawbridge and portcullis, every means of defence, were gone long ago."

"The Cossacks are in the court yard!" cried a second servant, rushing in.

"A thousand curses on the dogs!" cried Radetsky, drawing his sword. "Count, look to your child; I will to the court yard with your fellows, to do what we may."

By this time the court yard of the castle was filled with uproar and turmoil. The clashing of swords was mingled with pistol shots and groans, the shouts of triumph and the shrieks of despair. Alvina, left alone by her father and Radetsky, trembled not at the prospect of approaching death; she felt only joy at her deliverance from the arms of a hated bridegroom. But when the crackling of flames was heard, when a lurid light streamed up against the window, when wreaths of smoke began to pour in from the corridors, the instinct of self-preservation awakened in her breast, and almost unconsciously she shrieked aloud for help.

Her appeal was answered unexpectedly. A tall, plumed figure dashed into the room; a vigorous arm was thrown around her waist, and she was lifted from her feet. Her unknown preserver, unimpeded by her light weight, passed into the corridor with a fleet step. The grand staircase was already on fire, but, drawing his furred cloak closely around her, the stranger dashed through the flames, and bore her out into the court yard. Almost before she knew it, she was sitting behind him on a fiery steed. The rider gave the animal the spur, and he dashed through the gate, followed by a hundred wild Cossacks, shouting and yelling in the frenzy of their triumph.

Gratitude for an escape from a dreadful death was now banished from Alvina's mind by the fear of a worse fate at the hands of these wild men.

"You have saved my life," she said to her unknown companion; "do not make that life a curse. Take pity on an unfortunate and sorely persecuted girl. I have no ransom to pay you; but free me, and you will earn my daily prayers and blessings."

"Fear nothing," answered a deep and manly voice. "No harm is intended thee; no harm shall befall thee. I swear it on the word of a Cossack chieftain."

Alvina was tranquillized at once by the evident sincerity of the assurance.

"You are alone now in the world," pursued the stranger "I strove to save your bridegroom, but he fell before I reached him."

"I loved him not," answered Alvina, coldly; "I mourn him not."

"You may hate me for the deed," said the stranger, "and I would fain escape that woe; but here I vouch it in the face of heaven, Count Willnitz fell by my hand. My sabre clove him to the teeth. Years had passed, but I could not forget that he once laid the bloody scourge upon my back."

"Alexis!" cried Alvina, now recognizing her preserver.

"Yes, dear but unfortunate girl," cried the Cossack leader, turning and gazing on the young girl, "I feel that thou art lost to me forever. I have slain thy father. Love for thee should have stayed my hand; but I had sworn an oath of vengeance, and I kept my vow."

"Alexis," whispered Alvina, "he was not my father. He was my bitterest enemy. Nor am I nobly born. Like you, I am an orphan."

"Say you so?" shouted the Cossack. "Then thou art mine—mine and forever—joy of my youth—blessing of my manhood!"

"Yes, thine—thine only."

"But bethink thee, sweetest," said the Cossack; "I lead a strange wild life."

"I will share it with thee," said Alvina, firmly.

"My companions are rude men."

"I shall see only thee."

"My home is the saddle, my palace the wide steppe."

"With thee, Alexis, I could be happy any where."

"Then be it so," said the Cossack, joyously. "What ho!" he shouted, at the top of his ringing, trumpet-like voice. "Comrades, behold your hetman's bride!"

From mouth to mouth the words of the Cossack chieftain were repeated, and oft as they were uttered wild shouts of joy rose from the bearded warriors; for they had loved the gallant Alexis from the moment when, a wayworn, famished, and bleeding fugitive, he came among them. They galloped round and round the hetman and his fair companion in dizzying circles, like the whirling leaves of autumn, firing their pistols, brandishing their lances and sabres, and making the welkin ring with their terrific shouts. Alvina clung, terrified, to the waist of her lover, and he finally silenced the noisy demonstrations by a wave of his hand. Then, under his leadership, and in more regular order, the formidable band of horsemen pursued their march to those distant solitudes where happiness awaited their chieftain and his bride.



MARRIED FOR MONEY.

"Jack Cleveland!" exclaimed a fast young man in a drab driving coat with innumerable capes, (it was twenty years ago, reader, in the palmy days of Tom and Jerry and tandem teams,) as he encountered an equally fast young man in Cornhill; "what's the matter with you?"

"It's all over, Frank; I've gone and done it."

"Gone and done what, you spooney?"

"Proposed."

"Proposed what?—a match at billiards, a trot on the milldam, or a main of cocks?"

"Pooh!—something more serious," said Cleveland, gravely; "I've offered myself."

"Offered yourself? To whom?"

"Widow—Waffles—shy name—never mind—soon changed—one hundred and fifty thousand—cool, eh?—age forty—good looks—married for money—sheriff would have it—no friends—pockets to let—pays my debts—sets me up—house in Beacon Street—carriage—can't help it."

"You're a candidate for Bedlam," said Frank; "I've a great mind to order you a strait jacket."

"Be my bridesman—see me off—eh?" asked Cleveland.

"Yes, yes, of course—it will be great fun."

And so it was. Jack Cleveland was united to the widow Waffles in Trinity Church, and a smashing wedding it was. The party that followed it was, to use Cleveland's own expressions, "a crusher—all Boston invited—all Africa waiting—wax lights—champagne—music—ices—pretty girls—a bang-up execution."

During the honeymoon Jack Cleveland was all attention to his bride, (il faut soigner les anciennes,) but he promised to indemnify himself by taking full and complete liberty so soon as that interesting period of time had been brought to a close. Besides, his chains sat lightly at first; for the widow was one of those splendid Lady Blessington kind of women, who at forty have just arrived at the imperial maturity of their charms, and she was deeply enamoured of the young gentleman whom she had chosen for her second partner in the matrimonial speculation. Moreover, she paid the debts of the fast young man with an exemplary cheerfulness. The only drawback to this gush of felicity was that her property was "tied up;" not a cent could Cleveland handle except by permission of his lady. Then she kept him as close to her apron strings as she did her Blenheim spaniel; she required him to obey her call as promptly as her coachman. Galling to his pride though it was, he was even forced to go a shopping with her; and the elegant Cleveland, who once thought it degrading to carry an umbrella, might be seen loaded with bandboxes, or nonchalantly lilting bundles of cashmere shawls. The only difference between Mrs. Cleveland's husband and her footman was that he received wages; but then the footman could leave when he chose, and there the parallel ended. Jack's habits had to submit to a rigid and inexorable censorship. "Those odious cigars" were prohibited, and then "his list of friends" was challenged. Frank Aikin, the bridesman, was tolerated the longest of all, and then he was "bluffed off" by Mrs. Cleveland, who determined to make her husband a domestic man. It was the old story of Hercules and Omphale modernized to suit the times.

Jack began to think the happiest day of his life had made him the most miserable dog alive, and, like Sir Peter Teazle, "had lost all comfort in the world before his friends had done wishing him joy." But his debts were paid—that was a great consolation. Several streets in Boston, which were blocked up by creditors, as those of London were to the respected Mr. Richard Swiveller, were now opened by the magic wand of matrimony. He could exhibit his "Hyperion curls" in Washington Street, without any fear of a gentle "reminder" in the shape of a tap upon the shoulder.

One morning, however, a lady was ushered up into the splendid drawing room in Beacon Street, being announced as Madame St. Germain. She was a showy French woman, about the same age as Mrs. Cleveland, and the latter waited with some curiosity to learn the object of her visit.

"You are Mrs. Cleveland, I believe," said the French woman.

Mrs. Cleveland bowed in her stateliest manner.

"You have undertaken, I learn, to pay the debts of Monsieur Cleveland, contracted before your marriage."

Mrs. Cleveland bowed again.

"I hold a note of his drawn in my favor for a thousand dollars, payable at sight, with interest, dated two years back."

"What was it given for?" asked Mrs. Cleveland, with some asperity.

"Pardon me, madam—I cannot state that without the permission of your husband."

Mrs. Cleveland applied her hand vigorously to a bell-pull communicating with her husband's dressing room.

He made his presence in a splendid robe de chambre and a Turkish cap with a gold tassel.

"This woman," said his better half, "says you owe her a thousand dollars."

"Monsieur cannot deny it," said the French woman, fixing her keen black eyes on the thunder-struck Cleveland.

"It's all right—pay her up!" said Mr. Cleveland.

"Not till I know what the debt was incurred for."

"I can't tell you," said Mr. Cleveland.

"I insist," said Mrs. Cleveland, stamping her foot.

"Then I won't tell—if you die!" said the rebellious Cleveland.

"I shall trouble you, ma'am, to leave my house," said the irritated mistress of the mansion. "Not one farthing on that note do you get out of me."

"Then I shall be under the unpleasant necessity of taking legal measures to obtain the debt," said the French woman, rising. "Mr. Cleveland, I wish you very much happiness with your amiable lady."

There was a storm—a regular equinoctial gale—after the departure of Madame St. Germain. Mrs. Cleveland was very provoking, and Mr. Cleveland indulged in epithets unbecoming a scholar and a gentleman. That night the "happy couple" luxuriated in separate apartments. The next day came a lawyer's letter, then a civil process, and finally Mr. John Cleveland was marched off to Leverett Street jail, where, after giving due notice to his creditor and obtaining bail, he was allowed the benefit of the "limits," with the privilege of "swearing out," at the expiration of thirty days.

Jack engaged lodging at a little tavern, on the limits, where he found Frank Aikin, who had run through his "pile," and a few kindred spirits of the fast young men school enacting the part of "gentlemen in difficulties." Cigars, champagne, and cards were ordered, and Jack became a fast young man once more. Towards the small hours of the morning, he forgot having married a widow, and thinking himself a bachelor, he proposed the health of a certain Miss Julia Vining, which was drank with three times three. The next morning, he sat down to a capital breakfast, with more fast young men, and for a whole week he enjoyed himself en garcon, without once thinking of the forsaken Dido in Beacon Street.

One day, however, when he had exhausted his cash and credit, and a racking headache induced him to regret the speed of his late life, a carriage rattled up to the door of the tavern, his own door was shortly after thrown open, and a lady flung herself into his arms. Mrs. Cleveland looked really fascinating.

"Come home, my dear Jack," said she, bursting into tears; "I've been so lonely without you."

"Not so fast, Mrs. Cleveland," said the young gentleman, as he perceived his power. "I'm very happy where I am. I can't go back except on certain conditions."

"Name them, dearest."

"I'm to smoke as many cigars as I please."

"Granted."

"Not to carry any more bandboxes or tomcats."

"Granted."

"To give a dinner party to the 'boys' once in a while."

"Granted—granted. And I've paid your note, and opened a cash account for you at the bank."

"You are an angel," said Cleveland; "and now it's all over—that note was given Madame St. Germain for tuition of a young girl, Miss Julia Vining, whom I educated with the romantic notion of making her my wife, when she should arrive at a suitable age, at which period she ran off with a one-eyed French fiddler, and is now taking in sewing at 191st Street, New York."

The happy pair went home in their carriage, and we never heard of any differences between them. Mrs. Cleveland wears very well, and Mr. Cleveland is now an alderman, remarkable chiefly for the ponderosity of his person, and the heaviness of his municipal harangues. "Sich is life."



THE EMIGRANT SHIP.

On a summer's day, some years ago, business brought me to one of the wharves of this city, at the moment when a ship from Liverpool had just arrived, with some two hundred and fifty emigrants, men, women, and children, chiefly Irish. Much as I had heard and read of the condition of many of the poor passengers, I never fully realized their distresses until I personally witnessed them.

Under the most favorable circumstances, the removal of families from the land of their birth is attended by many painful incidents. About to embark upon a long and perilous voyage, to seek the untried hospitalities of a stranger soil, the old landmarks and associations which the heartstrings grasp with a cruel tenacity are viewed through the mist of tears and agony.

The old church—the weather-worn homestead—the ancient school house, the familiar play ground, and more sadly dear than all, the green graveyard, offer a mute appeal "more eloquent than words." But when to these afflictions of the heart are added the pangs of physical suffering and privation; when emigrants, in embarking, embark their all in the expenses of the voyage, and have no hope, even for existence, but in a happy combination of possible chances; when near and dear ones must be left behind, certainly to suffer, and probably to die,—the pangs of separation embrace all that can be conceived of agony and distress.

The emigrant ship whose arrival we witnessed had been seventy odd days from port to port. Her passengers were of the poorest class. Their means had been nearly exhausted in going from Dublin to Liverpool, and in endeavors to obtain work in the latter city, previous to bidding a reluctant but eternal farewell to the old country. They came on board worn out—wan—the very life of many dependent on a speedy passage over the Atlantic. In this they were disappointed. The ship had encountered a succession of terrific gales; it had leaked badly, and they had been confined, a great part of the voyage, to their narrow quarters between decks, herded together in a noisome and pestilential atmosphere, littered with damp straw, and full of filth.

What marvel that disease and death invaded their ranks? One after another, many died and were launched into the deep sea. The ship entered Fayal to refit, and there that clime of endless summer proved to the emigrants more fatal than the blast of the upas-poisoned valley of Java. The delicious oranges, and the mild Pico wine, used liberally by the passengers, sowed the seeds of death yet more freely among their ranks. On the passage from Fayal, the mortality was dreadful, but at length, decimated and diseased, the band of emigrants arrived at Boston.

It was a summer's day—but no cheering ray of light fell upon the spires of the city. The sky was dark and gloomy; the bay spread out before the eye like a huge sheet of lead, and the clouds swept low and heavily over the hills and house tops.

After the vessel was moored, all the passengers who were capable of moving, or of being moved, came up or were brought up on deck. We scanned their wan and haggard features with curiosity and pity.

Here was the wreck of an athletic man. His eyes, deep-sunken in their orbits, were nearly as glassy as those of a corpse; his poor attire hung loosely on his square shoulders. His matted beard rendered his sickly, greenish countenance yet more wan and livid. He crawled about the deck alone—his wife and five children, they for whom he had lived and struggled, for whose sake he was making a last desperate exertion, had all been taken from him on the voyage. We addressed him some questions touching his family.

"They are all gone," said he, "the wife and the childer. The last one—the babby—died this mornin'—she lies below. They're best off where they are."

In another place sat a shivering, ragged man, the picture of despair. A few of his countrymen, who had gathered round him, offered him some food. He might have taken it eagerly some days before. Now he gazed on vacancy, without noticing their efforts to induce him to take some nourishment. Still they persevered, and one held a cooling glass of lemonade to his parched lips.

Seated on the after hatchway was a little boy who had that morning lost both his parents. He shed no tear. Familiarity with misery had deprived him of that sad consolation.

We passed on to a group of Irishmen gathered round an old gray-haired man lying at length upon the forward deck. One of them was kneeling beside him.

"Father, father!" said he, earnestly, "rouse up, for the love of Heaven. See here—I've brought ye some porridge—tak a sup ov it—it will give ye heart and life."

"Sorrow a bit of life's left in the old man any how. Lave him alone, Jamie."

"Lift him ashore," said the mate—"he wants air."

The dying man was carefully lifted on the wharf, and laid down upon a plank. His features changed rapidly during the transit. His head now fell back—the pallid hue of death invaded his lips—his lower jaw relaxed—the staring eyeballs had no speculation in them—a slight shudder convulsed his frame. The son kneeled beside him; closed his eyes—it was all over. And there, in the open air, with no covering to shield his reverend locks from the falling rain, passed away the soul of the old man from its earthly tabernacle.

The hospital cart arrived. Busy agents lifted into it, with professional sang froid, crippled age and tottering childhood. But all the spectators of this harrowing scene testified, by their expressions, sympathy and sorrow, one low-browed ruffian alone excepted.

"Serves 'em right ——d ——n 'em!" said he, savagely. "Why don't they stay at home in their own country, and not come here to take the bread out of honest people's mouths?"

Honest, quotha? If ever "flat burglary" and "treason dire" were written on a man's face, it stood out in staring capitals upon that Cain-like brow.

But there were lights as well as shadows to the picture. Out of that grim den of death, out of that floating lazar house, there came a few blooming maidens and stalwart youths, like fair flowers springing from the rankness of a charnel. Their sorrows were but for the misfortunes of others; and even these were a while forgotten in the joy of meeting near and dear relatives, and old friends upon the shore of the promised land. They went their way rejoicing, and with them passed the solitary ray of sunshine that streamed athwart the dark horrors of the emigrant ship, like the wandering pencil of light that sometimes visits the condemned cell of a prison.



THE LAST OF THE STAGE COACHES.

A FRAGMENT OF A CLUB-ROOM CONVERSATION.

"Did you ever," said the one-eyed gentleman, fixing his single sound optic upon us with an intensity which made it glow like one of the coals in the grate before us, "did you ever hear how I met with this misfortune?"

"What misfortune, sir?"

"The misfortune which made a Cyclops of me—the loss of my left eye."

"Never, sir. Pray how was it?"

"Put out by the cinder of a locomotive," growled the one-eyed gentleman, seizing the poker and stirring up the fire viciously. "Bad things these railroads, sir," he added, when he had demolished a huge fragment of sea coal. "Only last week—little boy playing on bank in his father's garden—little dog ran on the track—boy went down to call him off—express train came along—forty-five miles an hour and no stoppages—ran over boy and dog—agonized parents sought for the remains—nothing found except one shoe, the buckle of his hatband, and brass collar of the dog."

"Extraordinary!"

"No, sir; not extraordinary," said the one-eyed gentleman. "I maintain it's a common occurrence. Sir, I keep a railroad journal at home, as large as a family Bible. It is filled with brief accounts—brief, mind you—of railroad accidents. Next year I shall have to buy another book."

"Then you are a decided enemy of railroads?"

"Decided!" said the one-eyed gentleman. "Their prevalence and extent is a proof that the age is lapsing into barbarism. Ah! you remember the stage coaches?"

"Certainly."

"Well, sir," said the one-eyed gentleman, warmly, "travelling was travelling in those days; sir, it was a pleasure. The coaches were fast enough for any reasonable man; ten miles an hour, including stoppages. Ah!" he added, smacking his lips, "what a fine thing it was to start on a journey of a glorious October morning, when every thing looked bright and smiling! You mounted to the box or the roof, well wrapped up in your greatcoat and shawl, with your trunk safely strapped upon the rack behind. The driver was a man of substance—solid, of a gravity tempered with humor, a giant in a brown box-coat, with gray hat and mittens. How he handled the ribbons and took his cattle through Elm Street! How the long bridges rumbled and thundered as we bowled along away, away into the country! The country! it was the country then; inhabited by country people, not peopled with a mixed society of farmers and cits, six o' one and half a dozen of t'other. How nicely we glided along! There were birds, in those days, singing by the roadside; now the confounded locomotives have scared them all off. By and by we came to a tavern. Out rushed a troop of hostlers and keepers skilled in horse flesh. The cattle were just allowed to wet their lips, water was dashed on their legs and feet, and then, after the parcels and papers had been tossed off, away we went again. Five miles farther on, we pulled up to change. The fresh team was led out, bright, shining, and glittering, in tip-top condition. The driver descended to stretch his legs and personally superintend the putting to of the fresh horses. When he mounted the box again, his experienced eye glanced rapidly at the team, and then, with an 'all right—let 'em go!' we were on the road once more."

The one-eyed gentleman paused, after this flow of eloquence, and gazed pensively into the midst of the glowing coals. After a few moments' silence, he resumed:—

"Rather a singular occurrence happened to me last year on the 14th of October, about half past twelve, P.M. I am thus particular about dates, because this event is one that forms an era in my life. I had been driving across the country in my gig, to visit a friend who had recently moved upon a farm. The localities were new to me, and the roads blind. Guideboards were few, and human beings fewer. In short, I got astray, and hadn't the remotest conception of what part of the country I was in. It was a cold, cloudy day, with a sort of drizzling Scotch mist that wet one to the bone. I plodded along in hopes of soon reaching some tavern, where I could bait my horse and get some dinner for myself. All at once, at a turn of the road, just after having crossed the Concord River, I perceived a stage coach coming towards me. I had heard no noise of wheels or horses' feet; but there it was. The road was narrow, and the coachman pulled up to let me work my way past. The vehicle was a queer old affair, that looked as if it had been dug out of some antediluvian stable yard. The curtains were brown with age and dust, and riddled with holes; the body was bare and worm-eaten, and the springs perfectly green with mould. The horses were thin and lank, and the harness in as sorry a condition as the coach. The driver's clothes, which were very old fashioned, hung about him in loose folds, and he gazed upon me with a strange, stony stare that was absolutely appalling; yet his lips unclosed as I worked past him, and he exclaimed in a harsh, croaking voice, 'One eye!' Thereupon two or three queer people poked their heads out of the coach window. There was one old woman with false teeth, in an unpleasant state of decay, and a voice like a parrot. 'One eye!' she shrieked, as she gazed on me with an eye as stony as the coachman. A pale, simpering miss smirked in my face, and cried, 'One eye!' and a military gentleman, with a ghastly frown, hissed forth the same words. I should have scrutinized the queer coach and the queer people closer, had not my horse—my good, old, quiet, steady horse—seized the bit in his mouth and started off at a dead run. I tried to saw him up, but it was no use; he ran for a couple of miles, and did not slacken till he had brought me to the door of an old, decayed tavern, where I resigned him to the charge of a lame hostler, and made my way into the house in search of the landlord. I found him at last—a poor, poverty-pinched man, who had been ruined by the railroad. He complained bitterly of the hard times. 'But,' said I, 'you must have some custom; the stage coaches——' 'Bless your soul,' replied he, 'there hasn't been a coach on this road for fifteen years.' 'What do you, mean?' said I; 'I met a coach and passengers two miles back, near the river.' The landlord turned pale. 'What day is this?' he asked. 'The 14th of October.' 'The 14th of October!' cried the landlord; 'I remember that date well. That day, fifteen years since, was the last trip of the old mail coach. It left here, with Bill Snaffle, the driver, and three insides, a military man, an old woman, and a young lady. They were never heard of after they left here. Their trail was followed as far as the bridge. It is supposed that the horses got frightened at something, and backed off into the Concord River. But I have heard,' added the landlord, in a hollow whisper, 'that on this anniversary the ghost of that coach and company may be seen upon the turnpike. More, I will tell you, in confidence, that I have seen them myself.' After this I was convinced that I had been favored—if favor it may be called—with a spiritual visitation."

The one-eyed gentleman looked me full in the face, as if to say, "What do you think of it?" It was useless to argue with him; so I only shook my head. He nodded his in a very mysterious manner, and fell to poking the fire with redoubled activity; and I bade him good night, and left him to pursue his occupation.



THE SEXTON OF ST. HUBERT'S.

A STORY OF OLD ENGLAND.

CHAPTER I.

THE QUEEN OF THE MAY.

In a remote region in the northern part of England, the people still cherish an attachment to old usages and sports, and hold the observance of Christmas, May-day, and other time-honored festivals, a sacred obligation. One village, in particular, is famous for its May-day sports, which, as the curate is a little withered antiquary, are conducted with great ceremony and fidelity to old authorities. The May-pole is brought home, garlanded, and decked with ribbons, to the sound of pipe and tabor, surrounded by a laughing throng of sturdy yeomen and buxom maidens. It is erected on the great green, in the centre of the village, to the universal delight of old and young, and the dancing commences round it with high glee. The scene presented is like that described by Goldsmith,—

"Where all the village train, from labor free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree; While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old surveyed; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round."

It was a delightful spring, that of 17—, and a softer sky never before smiled upon the village-green of Redwood, upon the 1st of May; and among the merry damsels dancing round the May-pole, no heart was happier, and no step was lighter, than that of Margaret Ellis, who, for the first time, joined in the sports of the day. She was a child of May, and this was the sixteenth anniversary of her birthday. A gay brunette, her sparkling eyes had all the fire and the mirth of the sunny and passionate south, while no lighter or more delicate foot than hers could have been found upon the merry green. A rich bloom mantled on her cheek, her lips were fresh and red, and her regular teeth, displayed as she panted in the dance, were white as unsullied snow. A tight little bodice, and a milk-white frock, set off the charms of her person in the best manner. Then there was an air of gayety and innocence about her which delighted every good-natured observer; and all the villagers allowed that Margaret Ellis deserved the tiara of flowers that crowned her Queen of the May. She blushed at the tokens of good will and approbation, as she placed her hand in that of a young and rustic stranger, who led her off triumphantly at the head of the dancers. The youth was fair-haired, ruddy, athletic, and active; and those who saw them in the dance could not help acknowledging that they were a lovely pair.

There was one who regarded them with eyes of jealous displeasure. This was a man of forty, of a handsome face and figure, but swarthy, dark-haired, and melancholy. He bent over the seat upon which old Farmer Ellis and his dame were seated, and whispered, "Do you know the young man who is dancing with your daughter?"

"Ah! he be a right good young mon, I warrant me," said the dame. "He do come fra the next county. William Evans, he calls himself."

"He calls himself!—umph!" muttered the person who had first spoken. "But what do others call him? Who knows any thing about him? Who can vouch for his character? I would not suffer a daughter of mine to be gadding about, and dancing with a stranger."

"Whoy, for the matter o' that," said Farmer Ellis, "you were nought but a stranger yourself, when you first did come to see us, Maister Pembroke. We didn't know you were the sexton of St. Hubert's. And yet you turned out a right good friend to me, mon; for when ye first knew me, things were deadly cross wi' me. What wi' the rot among my sheep, and the murrain among my cattle, I were all but ruined. Short crops and a hard landlord are bitter bad things. But you were the salvation of me, and I'll work my fingers to the bone, but what you shall have your own again, John Pembroke."

"There is one way in which you can liquidate your debt."

"Name it, Maister Pembroke," said the farmer, eagerly.

"No matter," muttered the sexton, and a hollow sigh escaped his lips. "I had an idea, but it is gone. Touching the stranger, in whom you both repose such confidence. In what manner does he earn his daily bread?"

"Whoy," said the farmer, "in the way that Adam did, mon. He do say he is a gardener."

"A likely tale!" ejaculated the sexton. "Look at his hands. Why, his fingers are delicate and white. Your gardener has horny fingers, and a palm of iron."

"Dang it! so they be!" cried Ellis. "Well, I never noticed that afore. Whoy, dame, he may be an impostor And though he be so cruel koind, and deadly fond of the girl, now, he may forsake—may——"

"Look at, them, now," said the sexton of St. Hubert's. "See how he grasps her hand; and how, as he whispers his soft, insinuating flattery in her ear, she blushes and smiles upon him. Damnation!"

"Whoy, John!" exclaimed Dame Ellis; "what would the rector say to hear thee? Thou art surely distraught."

And now, as Margaret, flushed and panting with exercise, was suffering her partner to lead her towards her seat, her father beckoned her to approach.

"Come hither, girl," said he. The smiling maiden obeyed. "Margaret," said the old man, "thou knowest I love thee. I ha' always been cruel koind to thee, and so has thy mother, girl. If any harm was to happen to thee, I should take it desperately to heart. I should, indeed. It would kill thy father, Margaret. Now, William Evans may be a good young man, and he may not; but we must beware of strangers. Wait till we have tried him a bit. Many a handsome nag turns out a vicious one. So it be my pleasure, and the dame's, that thou dost not dance any more to-day wi' William Evans; and even if he speaks to thee, be a little offish loike to him."

The poor girl sighed. "I hope, sir," said she, glancing at the sexton, "that no person possessed of an unhappy and suspicious temper has been prejudicing you against poor William. I hope Mr. Pembroke——"

"Hush, girl—hush!" cried Ellis. "Doant thee say a word against that man. But for him we mought all ha' been beggars. Do as I bid thee, girl, and doan't thee ask no questions; for you know I've got no head to argury."

Margaret slowly sank into a seat. The sexton leaned over her, and addressed to her some commonplace remarks, to all of which she returned answer in monosyllables. When the music recommenced a lively air, William advanced, and solicited her hand for the next dance. Poor Margaret bent her eyes upon the ground, and falteringly refused. Thinking he could not have heard her rightly, Evans again asked the question, and received, a second time, the same answer. For a moment his countenance expressed astonishment; the next there was a look of grief, and then his lip curled, and drawing himself up proudly, he stalked away. He was followed by the sexton of St. Hubert's, who overtook him, and laid his hand upon his shoulder. William turned fiercely, and endeavored to shake off the grasp.

"Young man," said the sexton, "you are discovered!"

"Discovered!" exclaimed William. "What do you mean?"

"You understand me," said the sexton; "your manners, your language, your figure, contradict the story you have fabricated. Margaret shall never be your victim. With her your boasted arts are valueless!"

"If you were a gentleman——" said William.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the sexton of St. Hubert's. "Is this the resentment of a rustic? Go, young man; you have exposed yourself."

"Remove your hand!" said the young man; "and think it unusual forbearance on my part, that I do not chastise you as you deserve. We shall meet again, and with a sterner greeting." So they parted.

CHAPTER II.

THE GYPSY CAMP.

The clear, unshadowed sun, as it declined towards the western verge of the horizon, shone brightly upon the gypsy encampment, a few miles from Redwood. The wandering tribe had displayed their proverbial taste, in their selection of a spot wherein to pitch their tents. A green and glossy pasture was partly surrounded by a luxuriant forest of ancient oaks, which supplied the crew with firewood; while a beautiful and clear stream, the pride and boast of the county, curved into the waving grass land, and kept it ever fresh and verdant. Here and there its silvery bosom reflected a small tent, or the figure of an idler, bending over the bank, with fishing rod in hand, a perfect picture of patience and philosophy. Half a dozen tents served to accommodate the gregarious fraternity; and though the sail cloths which composed them were worn and weather-beaten, yet their brown hues harmonized well with the rich tints of the landscape, and showed distinct enough against the dark background of the forest. As the shades of the evening darkened the ancestral trees, a line of fire was lit up, the flames of which glared ruddily against the huge trunks of the woodland, and played and flickered in the rippling stream. Huge kettles, suspended on forked sticks, were beginning to send up a savory steam; and several swarthy beings, lounging round the fires, occasionally fed them, or basking in the blaze, watched the bubbling of the caldrons with intense anxiety. Even the king of the gypsies observed the preparations for supper with an eager air, which ill assorted with his lofty forehead and reverend white beard. Every moment some stroller would come in with a pilfered fowl, or a basket of eggs; and each addition to the feast was hailed with shouts of applause by the swarthy crew.

Somewhat remote from this scene of bustle and noise, at the door of a small tent, sat two female gypsies. One of these was the queen, an aged crone, who, though bent with age and care, and wrinkled by time and the indulgence of vehement passions, yet prided herself upon the unfrosted darkness of her raven tresses, which fell over her shoulders in profusion. A turban of rich crimson cloth crowned her head, and a shawl of the same color and material was wrapped around her shoulders. Her skinny hands were supported by a silver-headed staff, which was covered with quaint carvings. Her gown was of dark serge, and her shoes were pointed, and turned up in the Oriental fashion, and garnished with broad silver buckles. She sat apart, and the rising moon shone down upon her dusky figure, and threw her wild features into bold relief. At her feet sat a beautiful girl, with dark Grecian features, and a full, voluptuous form. She, too, had long, flowing, raven tresses, into which were twisted strings of pearl. From a necklace of topaz hung a little silver crucifix, resting upon a full and heaving bust, to which was fitted a close jacket, made of deep-blue cloth, and fastened together with loops and silver buttons. Her soft and round arms were naked, save at the shoulders, and her wrists were encircled with tarnished gold bracelets. Her white petticoat was short enough to display a well-turned ankle, and a small foot, encased in neat black slippers. Her features, dark and sun-browned, showed to more advantage in the pale moonlight than they would have done in the broad blaze of day. The gypsy girl sat at the feet of the queen, and looking up in her face, listened attentively to her discourse.

"Myra," said the queen of the gypsies, "do you love him yet?"

"Love him!" repeated the girl. "Yes, mother—passionately. To obtain his hand—his heart, I would peril every thing!"

"Strange and mysterious passion!" said the crone, "which defies reason and law. Many years agone I loved with the same intense devotion. The same fiery blood courses in your veins; the same contempt of obstacles. Yet the man I loved was nobler and prouder than the sexton of St. Hubert's. We lived among the Gitanos of Spain, when we were wedded. Five sons I bore to the partner of my cares. Where are they? One followed his father to the gibbet; a second hurled defiance at his enemies, as he perished in the flames of an auto da fe; the third and fourth died in the galleys; the fifth—the fifth, Myra—my best beloved, my brave, my beautiful, received his death wound in defending me from outrage. You are his child! Judge, then, how I love you, my daughter. You love the sexton of St. Hubert's—he shall marry you."

"Ah, mother!" said the gypsy girl, "I fear me he is lost. He is the accepted lover of Margaret Ellis. She did love a young stranger; but the sexton of St. Hubert's has Farmer Ellis in his debt, and threatened to throw him in jail, if the latter did not grant him the hand of his daughter. He has done so, and the wedding day is fixed. Alas! before he saw his May-day queen, he loved me, and promised to marry me. Often beneath that very moon, mother, has he sat and told me his love. When I smiled at his protestations, he would speak of his wealth, and tell me of hidden stores of gold, for a thrifty and a rich man is the sexton of St. Hubert's. I do not love him less because he does not frown upon our wandering tribe, but has lax principles that suit the fiery passions of our race. I know not in what consists the art by which he won me; it is enough for me to know that I am devoted to him. Alas! that knowledge is too much, since he has owned the fascination of the Queen of the May."

"Enough said, daughter!" cried the crone. "Before the altar he shall marry you. He shall love you better than he loves the May queen. What are her attractions when compared to yours? Praise from the old is little to the young; yet let me say that I have wandered east and west, north and south; have seen the Georgian and Sicilian maids, have seen the dark-haired girls of Naples, and the donnas of Madrid; yet never did these aged eyes rest on a finer form or face than yours, my daughter."

The gypsy girl smiled.

"Ay," said the old woman, "now you look lovelier than ever. That smile is like a sunbeam to my heart; it thaws the frost of age. Believe me, Myra, the sexton of St. Hubert's shall adore you."

"Then you must have love charms," said the gypsy girl, blushing.

"Love charms I have," said the old woman, "and those of wondrous potency. We are a favored race, Myra. Descended from the old Egyptians, we inherit their mysterious learning. To a few among us, the queens and magi of our tribes, there has come down a knowledge of charms and medicine, and some of the secrets of astrology. Go, Myra; leave me. I will provide for your peace. Yes, yes, I have love charms. I have them!"

The gypsy girl smiled, rose, kissed the hand of her grandmother, and then bounded away like a fawn.

"Poor child!" muttered the old woman, when alone; "she must not die of a broken heart. Love charms, did she say! Yes—I have them for fools; but the love charm I shall use to give her joy is poison. The betrothed bride of the sexton of St. Hubert's lies ill of an unknown malady. The physicians cannot do her good, for she is sick of a wounded heart. To-night the sexton of St. Hubert's, who has faith in my skill, comes to seek a remedy. He shall have one. Does he think to spurn the poor gypsy girl? He is mistaken. He plighted his troth to her in the silence of the forest; they broke a piece of gold across a running brook; they swore truth and fidelity! One has broken the oath, but it shall be sworn anew. None but Myra shall wed the sexton of St. Hubert's!"

CHAPTER III.

RETRIBUTION.

It was a fierce and stormy night. The wind howled around the houses of Redwood, and wherever a shutter had lost its fastening, it flapped to and fro with a frequent and alarming sound. The rain, too, descended in torrents, and flooded the streets of the village, while ever and anon heavy peals of thunder and vivid flashes of lightning increased the terror of the night. In the house of Farmer Ellis a few persons were assembled to witness the bridal of the sexton of St. Hubert's. The bridegroom was as one excited by wine, for there was a wild radiance in his eyes and an unwonted smile upon his lips, and he occasionally gave utterance to some jest, and when it failed of producing the expected mirth, his own laugh sounded hollow and strange. The bride, too, so pearly pale, in her white dress, with white roses in her hair, seemed like the bride of Corinth in the German tale. A few of the guests, huddled anxiously together, whispered among themselves, "It is a churchyard bridal."

Still the cake and wine went round, and the strange laugh of the bridegroom was more frequent. The night wore on, and the arrival of the clergyman was prolonged far beyond the expected time. At length he came, and the ceremony was about to take place, when the bride suddenly sank in the arms of her companions. They raised her, and applied the usual remedies resorted to in cases of fainting, but the vital spark itself had fled.

In the depth of a stormy night, the sexton of St. Hubert's sought the queen of the gypsies. He was mounted on an active horse, and accompanied by the sheriff of the county and a few resolute men, well mounted and armed to the teeth. As he approached the river which bounded the gypsy camp upon one side, the sexton looked in vain for a guiding light—no fires blazed upon the green, no hidden glare was reflected in the mirror of the stream. Still he spurred on his horse, and followed hard by his companions, gallantly forded the stream and crossed the open meadows. The tents had all been struck, and no sound was heard in that deserted place, except the rushing of the boisterous wind and the tinkling of the raindrops as they fell upon the river. The parties reined up their horses, and the sexton and the sheriff held a brief conference together. While they were yet conversing, a broad and brilliant blaze shot up from the centre of the forest, illuminating a wide and well-trodden path which led directly to the light. The first flash of radiance dazzled the eyes of the horsemen, but when they became accustomed to the glare, they beheld distinctly several wild forms lounging around the fire, evidently unconscious of the approach of danger.

"Now is our time, my lads," said the sheriff, in a low tone. "Forward, and we shall have them all."

Every rowel was instantly employed, and the party pushed forward at a gallop. Bowing their heads to avoid the swaying branches, they bent over their horses' necks in the intense ardor of pursuit. The sheriff and the sexton rode side by side, and had nearly attained their object, when their horses fell suddenly, and threw them to the ground with violence. In fine, the whole party had stumbled upon pitfalls dug for them, and not a horseman of the troop escaped an overthrow. While they were rolling on the ground, entangled in the stirrups, and receiving severe injuries from the struggling horses, a shrill cry arose from the depth of the woods, and a dozen stout ruffians set upon them, seized, and pinioned them. The sexton and the sheriff were conducted by two of the gang to the presence of the gypsy queen, who sat upon a rude form raised upon the trunk of a huge oak, and sheltered by an ample awning of oiled cloth. The sheriff's followers were borne away in another direction. The wild woman and her wilder attendants were perfectly distinct in the ruddy firelight, though the whole scene had, to the eyes of the victims, the appearance of a vision of night.

"Well, sirs," said the queen, "you came to see us, and you have found us. Have you not some message for us? You myrmidon of the law, have you no greeting for the queen of the gypsies?"

The sheriff looked at the queen and then at her attendants. They were fierce-looking, unshorn fellows, with butchers' knives stuck in their rope girdles, and seemed but to await a nod from her tawny majesty to employ their formidable weapons.

"Have you nothing for us?" asked the dark lady.

"Nothing," said the sheriff, faintly.

"Ho, ho!" laughed the wrinkled crone. "The man of law is forgetful. You, Dommerar, search him, and see if he speaks the truth."

A sandy-haired little fellow advanced at the summons, and rifled the pockets of the sheriff with a dexterity which proved him an adept in the business. A teacher of music would have envied his fingering. Having caused the pockets of the sheriff to disgorge, he thus, in the canting language, enumerated their contents:—

"The moabite's ribbin runs thin, (the sheriff's cash runs low.) He has no mint, (gold,) and only a mopus or two."

"Fool!" said the queen, "has he no paper?"

"Ay, ay, missus, here's his fiddle," (writ,) was the answer.

"Give it me," cried the queen. "Here, you patrico, our eyes are bad. Read this scrawl, and acquaint us with the contents."

The patrico, or hedge priest, a fellow in a rusty, black suit, with a beard of three weeks' growth, bleared eyes, and a red, Bardolph nose, took the writ, which he had more difficulty in reading than Tony Lumpkin, when he received the letter of Hastings. At first, he held it upside down, then reversed it, looking at it at arm's length, and then gave it a closer scrutiny. He finally gave it as his opinion, that it empowered the queer-cuffin (so he termed the sheriff) to seize upon the so called queen of the gypsies, accused of the crime of murder, and also to apprehend her followers. When he had concluded, the old crone snatched the writ from his hand, and, tearing it to pieces, flung the fragments into the face of the sheriff.

"Take him away," said she, "and leave us alone with the sexton of St. Hubert's. Guard him well, for we wish to show him how we administer justice among us. We will be judge and jury, and our upright man shall be the executioner."

She waved her tawny hand with the air of a princess dismissing her courtiers, and her mandate was obeyed. She was left alone with the sexton of St. Hubert's. Looking him steadily in the face, she said,—

"John Pembroke, I give you joy of your marriage."

"Wretched woman!" said the sexton, "you poisoned her. By your hand she died."

"You are mistaken," answered the old woman, with a bitter smile. "She is not dead, but sleepeth. You see the devil can quote Scripture. It was my first intention to have poisoned her; but my second thoughts were better. So, instead of the medicine you sought, I gave you a powerful narcotic, which has thrown her into a deep sleep. She lies, at this moment, you know, in the chapel of St. Hubert's. There are flowers on her coffin, and there is a shroud around her. If I am not very much mistaken, about this hour she awakes."

"And perishes! Fiend in human shape, how you have deceived me! At this hour, remote from help, my Margaret is dying."

"She is not your Margaret, neither is she dying," said the crone. "Listen to me. I sent a trusty messenger to him that Margaret loves—to him who loves her fondly and faithfully—and if all things have gone as well as I anticipate, by this time she is in his arms. The draught she drank is harmless."

"Cursed deceiver!" cried the sexton, struggling frantically to free himself from the ligatures which bound him. "You have done an accursed deed. You have deprived me of my betrothed bride."

"Your betrothed bride!" said the queen of the gypsies. "Behold her!" She waved her hand, and Myra stood before the sexton of St. Hubert's. "There she stands," said the gypsy. "Have you forgotten that your troth is plighted to her? The bride and the priest are ready. Man of guilt and passion, wed her you may, wed her you must!"

"Never!" cried the sexton. "When I sought your lawless crew to indulge my love of revelling and pleasure, the person of Myra lighted a fire in my breast. But it was an unholy flame. I will never marry her. Let her live—live to be branded with infamy and disgrace!"

"Ha!" cried the crone, rising from her seat. "Is it so? Speak, Myra! child of my heart, is it so?"

The gypsy girl clasped her hands together, and hung her head in shame. Her cheeks were suffused with crimson; then they became deadly pale, and she sank lifeless on the ground.

"You have killed her!" shrieked the gypsy queen, "and dearly shall you rue it."

She placed a whistle to her lips, and blew a shrill blast. But she received a far different answer than she had anticipated; for one of the sheriff's men had succeeded in escaping from the hands of the gypsy crew, and galloped to the neighboring town, where a troop of horse was quartered. The commanding officer instantly repaired to the gypsy camp, where he arrived in time to apprehend the crew before they had committed any act of violence. The sexton of St. Hubert's did not long survive this night, and Myra became a maniac. The fate of the lovers we shall next describe.

When the lover of Margaret received the message of the queen of the gypsies, he repaired to the spot where his mistress lay, to all appearance, in the arms of death. But life had not departed; and even as he hung gazing over her, a faint color mounted to her cheek, and her bosom began to heave beneath her white garment. He raised her in his arms, bore her to the air, and she revived. When her senses were fully restored, she consented to guard against another separation by marrying her lover and savior. William had provided a humble post-chaise to convey his bride far from the scene of her past perils and temptations. They journeyed by slow stages to the north, and at the close of a few days entered a romantic village. The lover bridegroom pointed out a gray and noble old pile, the turrets of which rose lofty above the waving trees of an ancient park. He asked if she should like to visit it. She replied in the affirmative, and they drove, unchallenged, through the gateway and along a noble avenue shaded by huge oaks. When they reached the portals of the building, the post-boy stopped the horses, dismounted, threw open the door of the chaise, and let down the steps. William lifted his companion from her seat in his arms.

"Margaret," said he, "look up. This is Woodley Castle, and you are Lady Armitage."



JACK WITHERS.

Every body liked Jack Withers. He was a handsome, active young fellow of five-and-twenty, of a good family, an orphan, who came into possession of thirty thousand dollars when he came of age. In this age of California gold, when fortunes are made by shovelling dust, and the wonders of Aladdin's treasure house are realized by men of no capital but pickaxes and muscles, thirty thousand dollars does not seem a prodigious sum. Yet our great-grandfathers retired from business on that amount, and were thought, at least, comfortably well off; and even nowadays, thirty thousand dollars, judiciously managed, will keep a man out of the poorhouse, and give him a clean shirt and a leg of mutton for his lifetime. But poor Jack was not a judicious manager, and a tandem team and champagne suppers, with a shooting-box and turf speculations, soon made ducks and drakes of a little fortune. Thus at twenty-five, our friend Jack was minus; or, in the elegant phraseology of the day, "a gentleman at large with pockets to let."

When a man's riches have taken wings and vamosed, when all his old uncles are used up, and he has no prospective legacy to fall back upon, he is generally cut by the acquaintances of his prosperous days. The memory of "what he used to was" is seldom cherished, and the unhappy victim of prodigality discovers to his sorrow, that

"'Tis a very good world that we live in, To lend, or to spend, or to give in; But to beg, or to borrow, or get a man's own, 'Tis the very worst world, sir, that ever was known."

Jack, however, was not destined to drink the cup of this bitter experience. He was just as popular and just as much courted without a penny in his pocket, as he was when he possessed the means to be extravagant, when he

"Spread to the liberal air his silken sails, And lavished guineas like a Prince of Wales."

The secret of his prodigious popularity was his obliging disposition. His time and talents—and he had plenty of the former, and no lack of the latter—were always at the service of his friends; and though the idlest dog in the world when his own affairs were in question, in the cause of his friends he was the busiest man alive. Thus he fairly won his dinners, his rides, his drives, and his opera tickets—they were trifling commissions on his benevolent transactions.

"Jack," one fellow would say, "my horse is too confoundedly high strung, and only half broke. He threw me yesterday."

"I'll ride him for you, Bill," would be the ready reply; "give me your spurs, and I'll give him a lesson."

And away he would go, without a thought of his neck, to mount a restive rascal that had half killed the rough rider of a cavalry regiment.

"Jack," another would say, "I've got an awkward affair on hand with Lieutenant ——; he fancies I've insulted him, and has thrown out dark hints about coffee and pistols."

"Make yourself perfectly easy, my boy; I'll bring him to reason or fight him myself."

So Jack had his hands full of business. Well, one dreary, desolate afternoon in March, when the barbs of all the vanes in the city were looking pertinaciously eastward, and people were shivering over anthracite grates, Jack Withers "might have been seen," as James would say, seated in the little back parlor of the coffee room in School Street, sipping Mocha with his particular friend Bill Bliffins, who had an especial claim upon his kindness, from the fact that he had already extricated Bill from scrapes innumerable.

Mocha is a great prompter of social and kindly feelings, and prompts, in tete-a-tetes, to that unreserved confidence on one part, and that obliging interest on the other, which unite two congenial and kindred spirits in adamantine bonds.

"Jack," said Bill, smiting the marble table emphatically, "you are my best friend."

"Pooh, pooh! you flatter me," said Jack, blushing like a peony; "I've never done any thing for you."

"Yes, you have, and you know it," persisted Bliffins. "Didn't you fight Lieutenant Jenkins, of the Salamander, when I ought to have fought him myself? Haven't you endorsed my notes when nobody else would back my paper?"

"I'll do it again, my boy," said Jack, with a gush of enthusiastic feeling.

"Ahem! your name on short or long paper isn't exactly what it used to be," said Bill, rather unfeelingly, perhaps.

"True, true," returned Jack, in a more subdued tone; "I haven't got many friends left in the synagogues."

"But what you have done, Jack," continued Bliffins, with enthusiasm, "emboldens me to trespass yet further on your patience."

"With all my heart," said Jack; and there was no reservation implied in the hearty tone in which the words were uttered.

"Then listen to my story, as the postilion of Longjumeau sings. Hear me for my cause, and be silent that you may hear."

"I'll be mute as the codfish in the House of Representatives."

"Well, then," said Bill, in a solemn tone, "I'm dead broke."

"Dead broke?"

"Yes; I'm running on my last hundred."

"Impossible!"

"True, though, for all that. Yet my circumstances are not so desperate, either. There's a vacant clerkship in the secretary of state's office; and the governor has been sounded, and I think he might be disposed to give it to me."

"Go to him at once, then, my dear boy. If he wants any reference, send him to me. I'll endorse your character, as I used to your paper when my name was worth something on 'change. Go to him at once."

"It's easy to say it, Jack; but the fact is, that I have such a confounded hesitating address that I fear I should make an unfavorable impression, and ruin my cause; whereas, if a plausible, voluble fellow like yourself could get his ear and plead for me, my appointment would be certain. Now will you——"

"Call on the governor? With all my heart—consider the thing settled."

"That's not all; you must be my advocate in another quarter. I'm over head and ears in love with Juliet Trevor—Trapp & Trevor—W. I. Goods, wholesale. You know the firm?"

"Like a book."

"I want you to see the girl and the old people; I haven't confidence to propose in person. You can do it for me?"

"With all my heart. I give you joy of the clerkship and the girl—they're yours."

"I'm eternally obliged, Jack."

"Not the least, my boy—always ready to serve my friends. By the way, have you got any money about your clothes? I invited you to take coffee, but I forgot my purse in my other trousers—no change, you know."

"There, get this V changed," said Bliffins, handing him a bank note.

Jack took the note and walked up to the counter.

"Coffee and pie for two, my dear" said he to the attendant. "It's all right—you know me—pay next time—Withers and friend. Come, Bill, I've fixed it."

"But the change!" said Bill.

"Never mind the change—morrow do as well. By, by,—au revoir."

"Remember the governor!"

"All right, my boy."

"And Juliet!"

"Make yourself easy."

So they parted. The next day, Jack sent in his card to the governor at the Adams House, and followed the pasteboard before the message could be returned. The governor received his visitor with his usual urbanity.

"Good quarters, governor!" said Jack, looking round him as he dropped into a rocking chair, and tapped his boot with his walking stick. "Chief magistrate of the commonwealth—well lodged—people pay—all right."

The governor was much amused at the coolness of his guest, and waited patiently to learn his business. He was not kept long in suspense.

"Governor," said Jack, "I come to solicit your favor not on my behalf, but in the cause of friendship—sacred friendship—holy bond of two congenial hearts, &c.—but you know all that. My friend, sir, William Bliffins—unfortunate young man—reduced in circumstances—good family—good blood—grandfather in the revolution—soil of Bunker Hill irrigated with the blood of Bliffins—but you know all that—run through his fortune—on the town—not a penny—hard case."

"Do you solicit charity, sir, for your friend?"

"Not exactly—official favor—vacant clerkship—secretary's office—make him comfortable—but you know all that."

"Really, sir, you run on at such a rate——"

"Way I've got—few leading points all you want—time precious—money (old saw)—Bliffins—clerkship—don't you take?"

"I think I recollect the name, now. But I must inquire into the character of the applicant. How did he lose his fortune?"

"Unbounded benevolence—heart like an ox—bigger—endorsing notes for friends—founding hospitals for indigent Africans—temperance movement—philanthropy expensive—but you know all that."

"The office in question requires a good penman. Can your friend write well?"

"Splendid hand—copperplate—currente calamo—shine in your eyes."

"Have you a specimen of his penmanship?"

"Cords at home—some in pocket. Here you have it! no, that's my washerwoman's bill. Ah, here it is!" and Jack pulled out a crumpled note, and placed it before the governor.

The governor scanned the document curiously, and with great difficulty deciphered the following words, which he read silently:—

"Dear Jack,—Fashion has been beaten, and I lost on the mare. I shall back Tom Hyer to the extent of my pile. He is training finely. Bricks has a couple of Santa Anna's game cocks for me, on board the Raritan, at Lewis's wharf. Can you run down and get 'em from the steward? Yrs, &c."

The governor smiled as he handed back the note, but made no remark.

"Where can I communicate with you, sir?" he asked.

"Dog and Thistle, Blackstone Street. I'll write my address."

So Jack wrote his address card, (by the way, he wrote a splendid hand,) and took his leave of the governor.

From the Adams House he posted to Louisburg Square, where the Trevors were living in great style. Slightly acquainted with Miss Trevor, he found no difficulty in being admitted to her presence. After rattling over a few commonplace topics, he came to the object of his mission.

"Have you seen Bliffins lately?"

"Not very," replied the fair one, languidly.

"Dying, ma'am, dying."

"Is it possible? What's the matter, sir?"

"Love—desperation—patience on a monument couldn't sit there forever—heart ache—only one thing to save him."

"Indeed! and what is that?"

"He loves you, madam, passionately, devotedly, enormously—Petrarch, Abelard, lukewarm lovers in comparison. Throws himself at your feet—save him!—marry him quick! or you'll lose him!—say yes."

"Sir, my father will communicate with you," said the lady, rising to terminate the interview.

"Dog and Thistle, Blackstone Street," said Jack, and bowed himself away.

The next day Jack and Bill were again seated together in a small room at the Dog and Thistle, waiting the result of the obliging operations of the former. In a few moments a waiter brought in a note, superscribed John Withers, Esq. Jack tore it open, and read as follows:—

"Sir,—In answer to your application yesterday, I am sorry to return you an unfavorable reply; but the chirography of the person you recommended, to say nothing of other considerations, unfits him for the vacancy in question. Having made inquiries with regard to yourself, and finding that you are in circumstances which might render employment acceptable, while your conduct proves that you have sincerely repented of the follies of your early years, I have concluded to request your acceptance of the office yourself. If you accept the offer, please report yourself to-morrow.

"Yours, respectfully, —— ——, "Governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts."

"You're an impostor!" shouted Bliffins. "Is this your friendship?"

"I can't help it," said Jack, ruefully. "I'm innocent—I did the best I could for you."

"How did he know any thing about my penmanship?"

"I showed him this note," said the unhappy Jack, producing the document.

"That note? You've ruined me! Do you know what it was about?"

"I'd forgotten."

"Why, it was all about horseracing, pugilism, and cock fighting, you jackass!"

"Letter for Mr. Bliffins!" said the waiter, entering with another epistle. Bliffins read it aloud.

"Mr. William Bliffins.

"Sir: In answer to application of your friend, yesterday, for daughter's hand, have to reply for daughter, and say that the honor is respectfully declined. Had you obtained the office you applied for, might have treated with you. Daughter requests me to say that she could not have done so in any case.

"Your ob't servant, J. TREVOR."

"P.S. Please hand the enclosed to Mr. Withers."

The "enclosed" was an invitation to a grand ball given by the Trevors on the ensuing night.

After overwhelming his friend with anathemas, Bliffins rushed wildly from the Dog and Thistle, and enlisted in the second dragoons.

Jack Withers, who had never before looked out for number one, now became so "obliging" as to take care of that neglected personage. He became a praiseworthy clerk, and a steady man of business. He went to the ball and polked himself into the good graces of Miss Juliet Trevor. The old gentleman and lady smiled upon their loves, and in due time he was united to the object of his affections, securing thereby a handsome and amiable wife, and an independent fortune, which she insisted on settling upon her husband on the wedding day. There is no fear of Jack's relapsing into his old habits of extravagance; and while he is still as popular as ever, he never neglects his own affairs for those of other people.



THE SILVER HAMMER.

The sun was sinking in the west, and gilding with its slant beams a pastoral landscape, as a young soldier, weary and footsore, slowly toiled along a lonely road that ran parallel with the course of the bright and winding Seine. A dusty foraging cap rested on his dark locks, and his youthful form bent beneath the weight of a well-filled knapsack. Pierre Lacour had served with honor in that glorious little band of heroes, which, under the leadership of the youthful Bonaparte, had crossed the snow-clad Alps, and fallen like an avalanche upon the plains of Lombardy, sweeping before it the veteran troops of Austria, and astonishing all Europe by unparalleled audacity and unexampled success. Pierre had marched farther on that day than he had ever done while following the colors of his regiment—but he was on his way home, and he longed to see his mother, his fair young sister Maria, and a lovely maiden, named Estelle, dearer to his heart than all beside. They had news of his coming,—at least, Maria and his mother had,—and he had sent them in advance, by a sure hand, a large amount of money, his share of the spoils of battle honorably won—enough, in short, to give a dowry to his sister, and enable him to demand the reward of all his toils and dangers—the hand of his betrothed.

His heart beat quick as he climbed the last vine-clad hill which separated him from his native valley. A few steps more would bring him to the summit, whence his eye would rest on the neat whitewashed cottage, with its surrounding palings, and trim garden; and there, perhaps, at the rustic gate, he should see the well-known figures of his mother and sister. Far as he had travelled, he sprang up the ascent with a buoyant step, and soon gained the eminence. The cottage lay full in view, but though it was the usual hour for preparing the evening meal, no blue smoke wreath curled upward from the chimney. A vague presentiment of evil weighed upon his heart. Hastening to dispel the dark and chilling fears that came thick upon him, he hurried down the slope, and soon passed through the garden and stood within the cottage. He called aloud—no voice responded to his cry. He rushed into the little room, which served at once for kitchen and parlor. It was empty—no fire burned upon the hearth. The humble furniture was in strange disarray. The casement, which looked out upon the garden was shattered. The walls and floor were charred and blackened with smoke, as if the house had taken fire and been saved with difficulty. Pierre sprang up stairs. In neither of the chambers could he find the loved ones whom he sought—only the same scene of confusion and desolation. Turning in dismay from the spectacle, he rushed out of the cottage to make his way to the nearest neighbors, and inquire into this appalling mystery. As he hurried along—his brain whirling, his footsteps uncertain and unsteady—he stumbled against an aged man of venerable appearance, who was coming in the opposite direction. The young soldier halted, and touching his cap, begged pardon for his involuntary rudeness.

"My poor Pierre," said the old man, "I know too well the cause of your forgetfulness."

The soldier looked up and recognized the familiar and benevolent features of the good priest of the village, his old tutor and pastor.

"Father," he said, pointing to the cottage, "you have been there—you know all—tell me—where are they?"

The old man's eyes filled with tears, as he shook his head, and laid his hand kindly on the young man's shoulder.

"Pierre," said he, "you have read 'whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth?'"

The soldier bowed his head.

"Pierre," exclaimed the good priest, "let us sit down on this bank. You are a good and brave boy. You can face danger, and I have sought to furnish you weapons to wage war against sorrow and trial."

"You have been a father to me, sir," replied the young soldier, complying with the invitation of his pastor, and taking a seat beside him. "I will endeavor to listen calmly to all you have to communicate. Where are my mother and sister?"

"Pierre," said the old man, "arm yourself with all your fortitude. You will never see your mother more till you meet her in that happier world, where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest."

Pierre groaned deeply, and covering his face with his hands, rocked his body to and fro as he burst into an agony of tears. The priest sought not to interrupt him, but turned away his own weeping countenance, for the anguish of the youth was too painful to contemplate.

At last the poor soldier looked up and spoke again: "What of my poor sister?"

"I know nothing," replied the priest; "she is gone whither, none can tell. A great crime has been committed. By whom, none knows, save God and the perpetrator thereof. You sent home a large sum of money to your mother. She was so overjoyed at your good fortune, that she made no secret of its reception, though I cautioned her against speaking of it. A fortnight ago, the village was alarmed by the cry of fire. Your cottage was seen to be in flames. The neighbors hastened thither and extinguished the blaze. In the smoke and confusion it was not perceived at first that murder, as well as incendiarism, had done its foul work." The priest paused, overcome with agitation.

"On! on!" shouted Pierre, "I can bear it all now!"

"Your poor mother was the victim," continued the priest; "she lay on the hearthstone dead and bleeding. Her bureau had been broken open and rifled of its contents."

"My sister! my sister!" cried the soldier.

"She was gone. The whole surrounding country was searched, but nothing was discovered."

"Maria! Maria! could gold have tempted you? No! no!—dog that I am, to suspect you! Misery has driven me mad!" cried the soldier, dashing his hand against his forehead.

"The whole dreadful crime," said the old priest, "is shrouded in a mystery as appalling as death itself. But God does not permit such deeds to slumber undetected or unavenged. Sooner or later they are brought to light."

"May I prove the instrument of detection!" said the soldier. "Some of the coins that I sent my poor murdered mother were marked—I could recognize them again. Father, you shall take me to my mother's grave. One prayer there—one word with Estelle—and then I will go to Paris; it is the resort of every criminal, and thence it sends forth its crime-blackened ruffians to desecrate this fair earth with horror. Come, father, come—my mother's grave—lead me there at once!"

* * * * *

Years passed away. Save by two or three persons, the crime which had desecrated the hearthstone of a humble village home was forgotten in those great historical events, of which Europe and France were then the theatres. In those days of bloodshed and battle, of victory and triumph, Pierre Lacour, who had commenced his military career as a brave young soldier, might have risen to the highest honors, had he followed the victorious eagles of his emperor. Why might not he rise as well as Murat, Ney, Lannes, or a hundred others? The epaulets of a colonel, nay, the baton of a marshal of France, were prizes within the reach of the lowliest, provided he had the head to plan and the heart to execute daring and chivalric deeds. But his heart no longer bounded like a war horse to the charge of the trumpet and the roll of the drum. He lived for one purpose—to discover the assassin of his mother and the sister, of whom nothing had been heard since the dreadful night of murder and conflagration. To facilitate his purposes, he had procured himself to be enrolled in the unrivalled police force of Fouche. That wily minister had no more able assistant under his command, and none in that fraternity (of which many were miscreants, who had purchased impunity for crime by selling the lives and liberties of former accomplices and comrades) who could compare with him for purity of life and elevation of motive. To punish evil for the sake of society, was the aim of the young police officer. None more untiring or intelligent than he in ferreting out the perpetrators of deeds of violence. In the criminals whose arrest he effected, and whose conviction he secured, he expected, constantly, to find some cognizant of the offence which had thrown so black a shadow over his life. He read with eager avidity the dying confessions of the condemned. He caught eagerly every syllable that fell from the lips of men, who, standing on the brink of eternity, seemed to be impressed with the necessity of revealing truth. But for years his expectations were baffled.