At last, all Paris was thrown into commotion by the murder of a Colonel Belleville, an officer who had served with distinction in the grand army, and who was found dead, one morning, in a room at house number 96 Rue La Harpe. The only mark of violence discovered by the surgeons was a dark, purple spot, about the size of a five-franc piece, on the left temple. The police were apprised that, on the morning of the day before, a slight young man, with fair hair and polished address, giving his name as Adolph Belmont, had hired the room at number 96 Rue La Harpe, and paid a week's rent in advance. It further appeared that, in the evening, just after the close of the performances at the opera, this young man had come home in company with an officer of the army. After the lapse of about an hour, the young man, Belmont, left the house, telling the porter he should return in a few minutes. But he never reappeared. About ten o'clock in the morning, the porter went up to his room, and found the door locked. He knocked and called, without receiving any answer. Looking through the keyhole, he saw the feet and legs of a man, in military boots and pantaloons, lying on the floor. Much alarmed and disturbed, he sought out a commissary of police, and that functionary, breaking open the door, discovered the body of Colonel Belleville. This tragedy excited an unusual sensation. Even the emperor heard of it, and, from his private purse provided a large sum of money to be paid as a reward to the discoverer of the perpetrator of this fearful crime.

Not many days after this occurrence, and while it yet remained shrouded in mystery, another murder roused the excitable population of Paris to a frenzy of anxiety and horror. An army commissary, named Captain Eugene Descartes, was found dead in his lodgings, in the Rue Richelieu, with the same fatal purple mark on the left temple.

Yet a third murder was perpetrated in the Boulevard des Italiens. A banker, named Monval, was, in this instance, the victim. His left temple bore the fatal discoloration of the size of a five-franc piece; but, although he had a large sum of money on his person, and wore a costly watch and many valuable trinkets, and though articles of high price abounded in his sumptuously-furnished apartment, not an article, as his steward testified, was missing.

On the morning of the announcement of this last crime in the Moniteur, the minister of police received a summons from the emperor to attend him. He found him in his private cabinet, pacing to and fro in high excitement. His face was more colorless than ever, except that an angry hectic spot burned upon each cheek. As the minister entered, the emperor turned upon him, and exclaimed,—

"Fouche, what is the meaning of all this? Is this Paris, and are we living in the nineteenth century? It appears that there is no security for life in our capital. Mr. Fouche, if such crimes can be committed with impunity, there is an end of all things; and if you cannot ferret out the perpetrators of such atrocities as these, it is time for you to vacate your position. I must appoint a new minister of police."

"Sire," replied the minister, "how much time will you give me to discover the assassin?"

"One week," replied the emperor.

"I thank your majesty," replied the minister, bowing. "In one week, you shall have the assassin's head, or my resignation."

"Good," said the emperor; "and to stimulate the activity of your people, I hereby authorize you to offer a reward of twenty thousand francs, for the detection of the assassin of the Rue La Harpe, the Rue Richelieu, and the Boulevard, if it prove, as I imagine, that one individual perpetrated these crimes, or five thousand francs each, if there were three criminals. Good day, Mr. Fouche; let me have a report of your doings without delay."

The secret of Mr. Fouche's confident promise to detect the assassin was the reliance he placed in the activity, daring, and intelligence of Pierre Lacour. He sent for him, and related his conversation with the emperor, enlarging on the munificent reward promised by Napoleon.

"I am poor," said Lacour, "but higher motives than hopes of reward stimulate me to perform this duty. Yet, should I be successful, a sum of money like this would enable me to wed one, who, though I voluntarily offered to release her from her engagement has loved me as well in my misfortunes as in happier times. In one week, therefore, Mr. Fouche, I will enable you to redeem your pledge to the emperor."

Four days passed away, and yet the minister of police heard nothing from Lacour. But the young man had not been inactive; and once or twice he had obtained, what he considered, traces of the person calling himself Belmont, the supposed assassin of the Rue la Harpe, and, by presumption, of the other murders; but these traces led to no result.

Whether in search of diversion, or that a vague hope whispered to him that he might obtain some intelligence by so doing, Lacour, on the fifth night after his interview with the minister, went to a masked ball at the grand opera house, in the costume of an officer of the Fusilier Guard, which chance led him to select. Weary of the noise and confusion, sad and discouraged, he had withdrawn from the crowded circle of dancers, when some one touched him on the shoulder.

"Captain Lassalle," said a sweet musical voice, "you are known, though the uniform you wear is not that of your own corps."

Lacour turned with the intention of correcting the mistake, when a secret impulse restrained the disavowal. The person who addressed him was a slight young man, fashionably dressed, with no other disguise than a half-mask of black velvet, which did not conceal his light hair.

"I perceive you know me," said Lacour, favoring the mistake; "though you have the advantage of me. I cannot possibly conjecture whom I am addressing."

The masked laughed lightly.

"Perhaps it would be of no use for me to unmask," was the reply; "but if I tell you I have something of importance to communicate to you—something in reference to your application to the emperor for preferment, you may be disposed to listen to me."

"With all my heart."

"I see you are tired of this noisy scene," said the mask, "and so in faith am I. Besides, this is no place to talk of business. What say you to a moonlight walk to my lodgings, in the Rue Montmartre? There we can discuss our affairs over a glass of champagne."

"I will willingly accompany you," said Lacour, "if you will give me a few minutes to speak to a friend, with whom I had a previous appointment."

"Make haste, then," said the mask; "you will find me here for fifteen minutes."

Lacour hastened to the nearest post, and made himself known to the commandant.

"Quick!" said he, "I want a sergeant and a dozen gens d'armes. In fifteen minutes I shall leave the opera house, in company with a young man, for the Rue Montmartre. Let the squad follow us without appearing to do so. Keep in the shadow of the houses. We shall enter a house. As soon as the door has closed, demand instant admittance of the porter. Let the sergeant follow hard upon my heels, and wait outside the door of whatever room I enter. At a call from me, let him be ready to burst in and secure the person with whom I am in company."

As soon as he had given these directions, the police officer hastened back to the opera house, where the mask was still awaiting him. Arm in arm they left the hall, and chatting familiarly, entered the Rue Montmartre, and soon arrived at an old house of seven stories, to which they were admitted by the porter. Lacour's heart beat as he accompanied his guide, in the dark, up three pairs of stairs—but before he had reached the head of the third flight, he heard the street door open and shut below, and knew that the sergeant had obeyed his directions, and that help was at hand in case his suspicions proved true.

The mask opened the door of a room, and ushered in his guest. It was a small, boudoir-like apartment, and exquisitely furnished. Silken hangings fell over gold arrows, from the ceiling to the floor. Tapestry carpets, soft as velvet, covered the floor. Rich ottomans, superb mirrors, marble tables, and pictures, were crowded together. A soft light was diffused through the apartment by an alabaster shade-lamp. An intoxicating perfume loaded the atmosphere, and even oppressed the senses. Lacour, as he sank upon the sofa, felt overcome by a strange languor. The mask sat close beside him.

"Captain," said the mask, in a musical, insinuating voice, "have you ever loved?"

"Before I answer this question," replied Lacour, "I must first know what prompts you thus to catechize me."

"Because," replied the unknown, "I have deceived you—because I am a woman—one who has long known and loved you, till an uncontrollable desire to make this confession has compelled her to a step that you will blame, and, perhaps, despise her for."

Lacour was puzzled, and remained silent for a few moments.

"I see," said the mask, with a sigh, "you despise me for my very boldness. Yet, I am a lady of rank and reputation, and my affection for you is as pure as that of maiden can be."

"Fair lady," said Lacour, "if such you be indeed, you must permit me to request you to remove that envious mask."

"It may not be," replied the stranger, with a laugh. "Ask that, or presume to remove this shield, and I vanish like a fairy or a phantom. But if you promise to be very obedient, I may give you hopes of disclosing my face—perhaps my name—at our next interview. But in reward for your submission to my behest, I will allow you, like a benignant sovereign, to do homage to my ungloved hand."

She withdrew her kid glove, and presented, playfully, a hand so white, so delicately veined, and small, that Lacour could no longer doubt that he was addressing a lady. He raised the hand respectfully to his lips. But he felt now that his suspicions were groundless, and that he did wrong in deceiving a person, who, however romantic and unjustifiable her behavior might seem, was still one entitled to respect and honor. But as he was framing an apology for taking advantage of her mistaking him, the stranger suddenly sprang upon him like a tigress. The delicate hand he had just kissed now compressed his throat like an iron vice; the other suddenly brandished in the air a small silver hammer, while a fierce voice hissed in his ear, "Lassalle! your hour has come! Belleville, Descartes, and Monval, have gone before you to answer for their crimes. You are the fourth, and last. Die, villain!"

But Lacour struggled free, and shouted for help. The door fell with a crash; the soldiers poured in, and the female assassin was secured and disarmed. Eager to unravel the mystery, the police officer tore the mask from the face of the unknown, and recognized in the wild and inflamed features of the assassin of the Rue La Harpe, the Rue Richelieu, and the Boulevard des Italiens, his sister, Maria Lacour!

* * * * *

But Maria Lacour died not on the scaffold. She was saved from that doom by unquestionable proofs of insanity. Her sad story was learned afterwards from various sources, and corroborated, in the most important particulars, by Captain Lassalle, who was arrested for a criminal offence shortly after the above incident, and made a full confession of his guilt. It appeared, then, that the house of the widow Lacour, a short time before the opening of our story, had been broken into by four villains, named Belleville, Descartes, Monval, and Lassalle. They were all men of bad habits, and urgently necessitous, but yet of decent education and family. Hearing a noise in the kitchen, Maria descended only in time to witness the death pangs of the mother. The three first-named ruffians, demons who had murdered to rob, wished to destroy this witness of their guilt, but the fourth interceded, and her life was spared. But the horror of the deed overthrew her reason. She fled from the house that night a maniac; whither she wandered, how she was cared for, for a long time was and must ever remain a mystery. She finally, it seems, became in a degree tranquillized, found her way to Paris, and there she supported herself by her extraordinary skill as an embroideress.

But it was conjectured that her memory of early events had gone. The casual sight of one of the assassins, all of whom had prospered and risen in the world, revived the recollection of that one fearful night of horror, and with it came to her disordered brain the thirst of vengeance. It did not appear that for a moment she had dreamed of appealing to the interposition of the law. To execute a summary vengeance, personally, was her terrible resolve. With a cunning that often supplies the loss of reason with the insane, she contrived snares, into which three of the assassins fell, and, with the singular implement her fancy had suggested, was the means of their death. Chance led to the failure of her plan for punishing the last of the assassins, Lassalle, and to her discovery by her brother.

Immediately after her arrest and examination, on proof of the condition of her mind, she was conveyed to a private asylum, and carefully attended to. Fortunately, her madness here assumed a happier phase. She took great pleasure in seeing her brother, and appeared to have forgotten that her mother was no more, asking him every day how soon their mother would come and take her back to the country. But the trials she had undergone had undermined her health. She sank very rapidly, and soon breathed her last.

Lacour only remained long enough in the service of the police to effect the arrest, and witness the condemnation of Lassalle, the last of the four assassins, who escaped the silver hammer of the maniac girl, to die by the hand of the executioner.

The sorrows he had experienced would have blighted the heart and sapped the life of Pierre Lacour, but for the love of one who had proved true to him through all his trials. Some months after the death of his sister, he married his faithful Estelle, and retired to a small and well-stocked farm, for which he was indebted to the generosity of the emperor; and he lived long enough, if not to forget his sorrows, at least to find consolation in the bosom of his family.



THE CHRIST CHURCH CHIMES.

It was a cold winter evening. The chill blast came sweeping from the chain of hills that guard our city on the north, laden with the cold breath of a thousand leagues of ice and snow. There was a sharp, polar glitter in the myriad stars that wheeled on their appointed course through the dark blue heaven, in whose expanse no single cloud was visible. Howling through the icy streets came the strong, wild north wind, tearing in its fierce frenzy the sailcloth awnings into tatters, swinging the public-house signs, and shaking the window shutters, like a bold burglar bent on the perpetration of crime. Then onward, onward it sped over the dark steel-colored bay, and out to the wild, wide, open sea, to do battle with the sails of the stanch barks that were struggling towards a haven.

But within, the good people of Boston were stoutly waging battle against the common enemy on this bitter Christmas eve. In some of the old-fashioned houses at the North End, inhabited by old-fashioned people, the ruddy light that streamed through the parlor windows on the street announced that huge fires of oak and hickory were blazing on the ample hearths. But in far the greater number of dwellings, the less genial, but more powerful anthracite was contending with the wintry elements.

In an upper room of an old, crazy, wooden house, a poor woman, thinly clad, sat sewing beside a rusty, sheet-iron stove, poorly supplied with chips. She had been once eminently handsome, and but for the wanness and hollowness of her face, would have appeared so still.

Two little boys, of eight and nine years of age, were warming themselves, or seeking to warm themselves, at the stove, before retiring to their little bed in a small room adjoining.

"Isn't this nice, mother?" said the younger, a bright, black-eyed boy. "Didn't I get a nice lot of chips to-day?"

"Yes, dearest, you are always a good and industrious boy," said the mother, snatching a moment from her work to imprint a kiss upon his forehead.

"Poor pa' will have a nice fire to warm him when he comes home," said the elder boy.

At this allusion to the child's father, the mother burst into tears. The countenances of both the children fell. They knew too well the cause of their mother's bitter sorrow—the same cause had blighted their own young hearts and clouded their innocent lives—their father was a drunkard! Hence it was that, bright and intelligent as they were, they could not go to school—they were too ragged for that—and their time was required on the wharves to pick up fuel and such scraps of provision as are scattered from the sheaves of the prosperous and prodigal. For this reason, too, the mother had carefully forborne to remind the children that this was Christmas eve. But they knew it too well, and they contrasted its gloominess and sorrow with the well-remembered anniversaries when this was a season of delight—the eve of promised pleasures, of feasts, of dances, and of presents. With this thought in their hearts they silently kissed their mother, and retired to their little bed, committing themselves to "Our Father who art in heaven," while the poor mother toiled on, listening with dread for the returning footsteps of her husband.

The husband and father, whose return was thus dreaded, had worked late at night in the shop of the carpenter who had given him temporary employment, and who was to pay him this evening. Five or six dollars were coming to him, more than he had earned honestly for a long while, and his hand shook with eagerness as his employer counted out his wages. As he put on his hat to leave the shop, he observed his fellow-workmen, who were all sober and steady men, eying him with sad, inquiring looks; he almost ran out of the shop.

"I know what they mean," he said to himself. "But what is it to them how I spend my money—the prying busy-bodies! I'm not a slave—I have a right to do what I please with my own. Whew! how cutting the wind is! A glass or two of hot whiskey toddy will be just the thing!"

Without one thought of his toiling wife and neglected children, the poor, infatuated man hastened towards a grocery with the intention of slaking his morbid thirst. At the moment his foot was on the threshold, out from the belfry of Christ Church, ringing clear in the frosty air, streamed a tide of sweet and solemn music. Simple, yet touching, was the melody of those sacred bells, chiming forth the advent of the blessed Christmas time. And as the song of the bells fell upon his ear, it awakened in the drunkard a thousand memories of happier, because better days. The comfortable dwelling, the quiet, neat parlor, with its Christmas dressings, the sweet face of his wife, the merry laugh of his bright-eyed children—all flashed back vividly upon his mind. He recked not of the bitter blast—he forgot his late purpose—he could wish those sweet bells to play on forever. But they ceased.

"It was a voice from heaven!" said the man, as the tears rolled down his cheeks. "Surely God has blessed those Christ Church chimes. I'll never more drink one drop. This money shall go to my family, every cent of it. It is not too late yet to buy provision for to-morrow, and some comfortable things for the children."

It was late that night when the watching wife heard the step of her husband on the staircase. It was as slow and heavy as usual; but how relieved, how astonished, how grateful she felt, when the door opened, and he came in, happy, sober, bearing a huge basket filled with provisions, and threw down a parcel containing stockings, comforters, and mittens for the children, not forgetting some simple Christmas wreaths, and some of those condiments which children love.

The next day was a happy one indeed for the mother and the little boys—a merry Christmas that reminded them of old times, and gave them assurance of a happy future. May we not hope that the effect we have attributed to the Christ Church chimes is not a solitary instance of the power of music?



THE POLISH SLAVE.

Gayly opened the bright summer morning on the gray feudal turrets of Castle Tekeli, the residence of the old Count Alexis Tekeli, that crowned a rocky eminence, and was embosomed in the deep secular forests of Lithuania. The court yard was a scene of joyous noise and gay confusion; for the whole household was mustering for the chase. Half a dozen horses, gaily caparisoned, were neighing, snorting, and pawing the ground with hot impatience; a pack of stanch hounds, with difficulty restrained by the huntsmen, mingled their voices with the neighing of the steeds, while the slaves and relatives of the family were all busy in preparation for the day's sport.

Count Alexis was the first in the saddle; aged, but hale and vigorous, he was alert and active as a young man of five-and-twenty.

"Where are my daughters?" he exclaimed, impatiently, as he drew on his buff gantlets. "The sun is mounting apace, and we should not lose the best portion of the day."

As if in reply to his question, a tall, dark-haired girl, of elegant figure and stately bearing, appeared by his side, and with the assistance of a groom, mounted her prancing gray palfrey.

"This is well, Anna," said the count. "But where is Eudocia? She must not keep us waiting."

"Eudocia declines to be of our party, father," replied the girl.

"Pshaw!" said the old man; "she will never have your color in her cheeks, if she persist in moping in her chamber, reading old legends and missals, and the rhymes of worthless minnesingers. But let her go; I have one daughter who can live with the hunt, and see the boar at bay without flinching. Sound, bugle, and forward!"

Amid the ringing of silver curb chains, the baying of hounds, and the enlivening notes of the bugle, the cavalcade and the train of footmen swept out of the court yard, and descending the winding path, plunged into the heart of the primeval forest. The dogs and the beaters darted into the thick copsewood, and soon the shouts of the huntsmen and the fierce bay of the dogs announced that a wild boar had been found and started. On dashed the merry company, Count Alexis leading on the spur. The lady Anna soon found herself alone, but she pressed her palfrey in the direction of the sounds of the chase as they receded in the distance. Suddenly she found herself in a small clearing, and drew her rein to rest her panting steed. She had not remained long in her position, when she heard, opposite to her, a crashing among the branches, and the next moment a huge wild boar, maddened with pursuit, and foaming with rage, broke into the opening and sprang directly towards her. Her horse, terrified at the apparition, reared so suddenly that he fell backwards, throwing his rider heavily, and narrowly missing crushing her. Springing to his feet, he dashed wildly away with flying mane and rein, while the lady lay at the mercy of the infuriated animal, faint and incapable of exertion.

At that critical moment, a young man, in the livery of the count, dashed before the prostrate form of the lady, and dropping on one knee, levelled his short spear, and sternly received the charge of the boar. Though the weapon was well directed, it shivered in the grasp of the young huntsman; and though he drew his short sword with the rapidity of thought, the boar was upon him. The struggle was short and fierce, and the young huntsman succeeded in slaying the monster, but not until he had received a severe wound in the arm from the tusks of the boar. Heedless of his sufferings, however, he ran to a neighboring rivulet, and filling his cap with water, returned and sprinkled the face of the fainting girl. In a few moments she revived.

Her first words, uttered with a trembling voice, were,—

"Where—where is the wild boar?"

"There, lady," said the huntsman, pointing to the grizzly monster. "His career is ended."

"And it is you who have saved my life," exclaimed Anna, with a grateful smile.

"I did my duty, lady," answered the huntsman.

"But who are you, sir? Let me, at least, know your name that I may remember you in my prayers."

"My name is Michael Erlitz; though your eyes, lady, may never have dwelt on one so lowly as myself, I am ever in your father's train when he goes to the chase. I am Count Tekeli's slave," he added, casting his eyes on the ground.

"A slave? and so brave—so handsome!" thought the lady Anna; but she gave no utterance to the thought.

At this moment the count rode up, followed by two or three of his retainers, and throwing himself from his horse, clasped his daughter in his arms.

"My child, my child!" he exclaimed; "thank God, you are alive! I saw your horse dash past me riderless, and flew to your assistance. But there is blood upon your dress."

"It is my blood!" said the slave, calmly.

"Yours, Michael?" cried the count, looking round him. "Now I see it all—the dead boar, the broken spear, your bleeding arm. You saved my daughter's life at the risk of your own!"

"The life of a slave belongs to his master and his master's family," answered Michael, calmly. "Of what value is the existence of a serf? He belongs not to himself. He is of no more account than a horse or a hound."

"Say not so," said Count Alexis, warmly. "Michael, you are a slave no longer. I will directly make out your manumission papers. In the mean time you shall do no menial service; you shall sit at my board, if you will; and be my friend, if you will accept my friendship."

The eagle eye of the young huntsman kindled with rapture. He essayed to speak, but the words died upon his tongue. Falling on his knees, he seized the count's hand, and pressed it to his lips and heart. Tekeli raised him from his humble posture.

"Michael," said he, "henceforth kneel only to your Maker. And now to the castle; your hurt needs care."

"Willingly," said the young man, "would I shed the best blood in my body to obtain my freedom."

"Ho, there!" said the count to his squire; "dismount, and let Michael have your horse; and bring after us Michael's dearly-earned hunting trophy. He has eclipsed us all to-day."

Michael was soon in the saddle, riding next to the lady Anna, who, from time to time, turned her countenance, beaming with gratitude, upon him, and addressed him words of encouragement and kindness; for her proud and imperious nature was entirely subdued and changed, for the time, by the service he had rendered her.

When the cavalcade reached the castle, they found the lady Eudocia, the count's eldest daughter, waiting to receive them. She heard the recital of the morning's adventure with deep interest; but a keen observer would have noticed that she seemed less moved by the recollection of her sister's danger, than by the present condition of the wounded huntsman. It was to her care that he was committed, as she was skilled in the healing art, having inherited the knowledge from her mother. She compelled Michael to give up all active employment, and, in the course of a few weeks, succeeded in effecting a complete restoration of the wounded arm.

Count Tekeli treated the young man with the kindness of a father, losing all his aristocratic prejudices in a generous sense of gratitude. Splendidly attired, promised an honorable career in arms, if he chose to adopt the military profession, his whole future changed by a fortunate accident, Michael was happy in the intimacy of the two sisters. He now dared to aspire to the hand of her whom he had saved, and whom he loved with all the intensity of a passionate nature. Thus weeks and months rolled on like minutes, and he only awaited the delivery of his manumission papers to join the banner of his sovereign.

One day—an eventful day, indeed, for him—he received from Eudocia, the elder sister, a message, inviting him to meet her in a summer house that stood in a small garden connected with the castle. Punctual to the hour named, he presented himself before her.

"Michael," said she, extending her hand to him, "I sent for you to tell you a secret."

Her voice was so tremulous and broken, that the young man gazed earnestly into her face, and saw that she had been weeping, and now with difficulty suppressed her tears.

"Nay," said she, smiling feebly; "it will not be a secret long, for I must tell it to my father as soon as he returns from court with the royal endorsement to your manumission. I am going to leave you all."

"To leave us, lady?"

"Yes; I am going to take the veil."

"You, so beautiful, so young! It cannot be."

"Alas! youth, beauty, are insufficient to secure happiness. The world may be a lonely place, even to the young and beautiful; the cloister is a still and sacred haven on the road to a better world."

"And what has induced you to take this step? I have not noticed hitherto any trace of sorrow or weariness in your countenance."

"You were studying a brighter page—the fair face of my sister. Start not, Michael; I have divined your secret. She loves you, Michael; she loves you with her whole soul. You will wed her and be happy; while I——" She turned away her face to conceal her tears.

The young man heard only the blissful prediction that concerned himself; he noted not the pangs of her who uttered it.

"Dearest lady!" he exclaimed, "you have rendered me the happiest of men;" and dropping on his knees, he seized her hand and covered it with kisses.

"Hark!" said Eudocia, in alarm; "footsteps! We are surprised; I must not be seen here!" and with these words she fled.

Michael sprang to his feet. Before him stood the younger daughter of Count Alexis, her eyes flashing fire, her whole frame quivering with passion. He advanced and took her hand, but she flung it from him fiercely.

"Slave!" she exclaimed, "dare you pollute with your vile touch the hand of a high-born dame—the daughter of your master?"

"Anna, what means this passion?" cried Michael, in astonishment.

"Silence, slave!" cried the imperious woman. "What ho, there!" she added, stamping her foot; "who waits?"

Half a dozen menials sprang to her call.

"Take me this slave to the court yard!" she cried vehemently; "he has been guilty of misbehavior. Let him taste the knout; and woe be to you if you spare him. Away with him! Rid me of his hateful presence!"

While Michael was subjected to this hateful punishment, the vindictive girl, still burning with passion, sought her sister. What passed between them may be conjectured from what follows.

Michael, released from the hands of the menials, stood, with swelling heart and burning brow, in one of the lofty apartments of the castle. He had felt no pain from the lash, but the ignominy of the punishment burned in his very soul, consuming the image that had been in his inner heart for years. The scales had fallen from his eyes, and he now beheld the younger daughter of the count in all the deformity of her moral nature—proud, imperious, passionate, and cruel.

A door opened—a female, with dishevelled hair, and a countenance of agony, rushed forward and threw herself at his feet, embracing his knees convulsively. It was Anna!

"O Michael!" she cried, "forgive me, forgive me! I shall never forgive myself for the pain I inflicted upon you."

"I have suffered no pain," replied Michael, coldly. "Or if I did, it is the duty of a slave to suffer pain. You reminded me this morning that I was still a slave."

"No, no! It is I that am your slave!" cried the lady. "Your slave—body and soul. Behold! I kiss your feet in token of submission, my lord and master! Michael, I love you—I adore you! I would follow you barefoot to the end of the world. Let me kiss your burning wounds; and O, forgive—forgive me!"

Michael raised her to her feet, and gazed steadily in her countenance.

"Lady," said he, "I loved you years ago, when, as a boy, I was only permitted to gaze on you, as we gaze upon the stars, that we may worship, but never possess. It was this high adoration that refined and ennobled my nature; that, in the mire of thraldom, taught me to aspire—taught me that, though a slave, I was yet a man. Through your silent influence, I was enabled to refine my manners, to cultivate my mind, and to fit myself for the freedom which bounteous Heaven had in store for me."

"Yes, yes!" replied Anna. "You have made yourself all that can render a woman happy. There is not a noble in the land who can boast of accomplishments like yours; and you are beautiful as a virgin's dream of angels."

"These are flattering words, lady."

"They come from the heart, Michael."

"You have told me what I am, lady. Now hear what I require in the woman I would wed. She must be beautiful, for beauty should ever mate with beauty; high born, for the lowly of birth are aspiring, and never wed their equals; yet above all, gentle, womanly, kind, forgiving, affectionate. No unsexed Semiramis or Zenobia for me."

"I will make myself all that you desire, Michael."

"We cannot change our natures," replied Michael, coldly.

"But you will forgive me?"

"I am not now in a condition to answer you. Smarting with indignation I can ill suppress, I cannot command the calmness requisite to reply in fit terms to the generous confidence of a high-born lady. Retire to your apartment, lady, for your father is expected momently, and I must see him first alone."

Anna kissed the hand of the slave, and retired slowly. A few moments afterwards the gallop of a horse was heard entering the court yard, and this sound was followed by the appearance of Count Alexis, who threw himself into the arms of Michael, and pressed him to his heart.

"Joy, joy, Michael!" he exclaimed. "You are now free—as free as air! Here are the documents; my slave no longer—my friend always. And as soon as you choose to join the service, you can lead a troop of the royal cavaliers."

Michael poured out his thanks to his generous master.

"And now," said the count, "to touch upon a matter nearer still to my heart. Since the adventure in the forest, I have loved you as a son. To make you such in reality would be to crown my old age with happiness. My daughters are acknowledged to be beautiful, fitting mates for the proudest of the land. I offer you the hand of her you can love the best; make your election, and I doubt not her heart will second my wishes and yours."

"My noble friend," said Michael, "I accept your offer gratefully. You have made me the happiest of men. You will pardon me, I know, when I confess that I have dared to raise my eyes to one of your daughters. Without your consent the secret should have been hidden forever in my own heart, even had it consumed it."

Count Tekeli shook the hand of the young man warmly, and then summoned his two daughters. They obeyed promptly. Both were agitated, and bent their eyes upon the floor.

"Count Tekeli," said Michael, speaking in a calm, clear voice, "I have a word to say to this your younger daughter, the lady Anna."

As her name was uttered, the young girl raised her eyes, inquiringly, to the face of the speaker.

"Lady, but now," said Michael, "you solicited my forgiveness on your knees."

"What!" cried the count, the blood mounting to his temples; "a daughter of mine solicit on her knees forgiveness of one so late my more than vassal—my slave! What is the meaning of this?"

"It means," cried Michael, kindling as he spoke, "that this morning, during your absence, count,—nay, a half hour before your return, this, your younger daughter, in a moment of ill-founded jealousy and rage, usurping your virtual rights,—rights you had yourself annulled,—doomed me to the knout!—yea, had me scourged by menials in the court yard of your castle!"

"How," cried the count, addressing his daughter, "dared you commit this infamy on the person of my friend—the savior of your life?"

"I did, I did!" cried Anna, wringing her hands.

"And you asked me to forgive you," said Michael. "You offered me your hand, and begged me to accept it. My answer is, Never, never, never! The moment you laid the bloody scourge upon my back, you lost your hold upon my heart forever! I were less than a man could I forgive this outrage on my manhood. I saved your life—you repaid it with the lash. It is not the lash that wounds, it is the shame. The one eats into the living flesh, the other into the living heart. Were you ten times more lovely than you are, you would ever be a monster in my eyes."

The tears that coursed freely down the cheeks of the lady Anna ceased to fall as Michael ceased to speak. A deep red flush mounted to her temples, and her eyes, so lately humid, shot forth glances like those of an angry tigress. She turned to the count.

"Father," said she, "will you permit a base-born slave to use such language to your daughter?"

"Silence!" said the old man. "His heart is nobler than yours. More measured terms could not have passed his lips. I should have despised him had he felt and said less. Get thee to thy chamber, and in penitence and prayer relieve thy conscience of the sin thou hast committed."

The lady Anna retired from the apartment with a haughty air and measured step.

"Lady," said Michael, approaching Eudocia, "between your sister and myself there is a gulf impassable. If ever I can forgive her, it must be when those sweet and tender eyes, that speak a heart all steeped in gentleness and love, have smiled upon my hopes, and made me at peace with all the world. Dearest Eudocia, will you accept the devotion of my heart and life?"

He took her hand; it trembled in his grasp, but was not withdrawn. She struggled for composure a moment, and then, resting her head upon his shoulder, wept for joy.

The nuptials of Michael and Eudocia were soon celebrated. A brilliant assemblage graced the old castle on the occasion; but long before the solemnization, the count's younger daughter had fled to a convent to conceal her anger and despair.



OBEYING ORDERS.

The "oldest inhabitant" perfectly remembers the Widow Trotter, who used, many years ago, to inhabit a small wooden house away down in Hanover Street, in somewhat close proximity to Salutation Alley. Well, this widow was blessed with a son, who, like Goldsmith, and many other men distinguished in after life, was the dunce of his class. Numerous were the floggings which his stupidity brought upon him, and the road to knowledge was with him truly a "wale of tears."

One day he came home, as usual, with red eyes and hands.

"O, you blockhead!" screamed his mother,—she was a bit of a virago, Mrs. Trotter was,—"you've ben gettin' another lickin', I know."

"O, yes," replied young Mr. Trotter; "that's one uv the reg'lar exercises—lickin' me. 'Arter I've licked Trotter,' sez the master, 'I'll hear the 'rithmetic class.' But, mother, to change the subject, as the criminal said, when he found the judge was getting personal, is there enny arrand I can do for you?"

"Yes," grumbled the widow; "only you're so eternal slow about every thing you undertake—go get a pitcher of water, and be four years about it, will ye?"

Bob Trotter took the pitcher, and wended his way in the direction of the street pump; but he hadn't got far when he encountered his friend, Joe Buffer, the mate of a vessel, issuing from his house, dragging a heavy sea chest after him.

"Come Bob," said Joe, "bear a hand, and help us down to Long Wharf with this."

"Well, so I would," answered Bob, "only you see mother sent me arter a pitcher o' water."

"What do you care about your mother—she don't care for you? Come along."

"Well," said Bob, "first let me hide the pitcher where I can find it again."

With these words he stowed away his earthenware under a flight of stone steps, and accompanied his friend aboard his ship. The pilot was urging the captain to cast off, and take advantage of the tide and wind, but the latter was awaiting the arrival of a boy who had shipped the day before, wishing no good to his eyes for the delay he had occasioned.

At last he turned to Bob, and said,—

"What do you say, youngster, to shipping with me? I'll treat you well, and give you ten dollars a month."

"I should like to go," said Bob, hesitatingly. "But my mother——"

"Hang your mother!" interrupted the captain. "She'll be glad to get rid of you. Come—will you go?"

"I hain't got no clothes."

"Here's a chestfull. That other chap was just your size; they'll fit you to a T."

"I'll go."

"Cast off that line there!" shouted the captain; and the ship fell off with the tide, and was soon standing down the bay with a fair wind, and every stitch of canvas set. She was bound for the northwest coast, via Canton, and back again, which was then called the "double voyage," and usually occupied about four years.

In the mean while, the non-appearance of Bob seriously alarmed his mother. A night passed, and the town crier was called into requisition a week, when she gave him up, had a note read for her in meeting, and went into mourning.

Just four years after these occurrences the ship returned to port, and Bob and his friend were paid off. The wages of the widow's son amounted to just four hundred and eighty dollars, and he found, on squaring his accounts with the captain, that his advances had amounted to the odd tens, and four hundred dollars clear were the fruits of his long cruise.

As he walked in the direction of his mother's house, in company with Joe, he scanned with a curious eye the houses, the shops, and the people that he passed. Nothing appeared changed; the same signs indicated an unchanging hospitality on the part of the same landlords, the same lumpers were standing at the same corners—it seemed as if he had been gone only a day. With the old sights and sounds, Bob's old feelings revived, and he almost dreaded to see, debouching from some alley, a detachment of boys sent by his ancient enemy, the schoolmaster, to know why he had been playing truant, and to carry him back to receive the customary walloping.

When he was quite near home, he said,—

"Joe, I wonder if any body's found that old pitcher."

He stooped down, thrust his arm under the stone steps, and withdrew the identical piece of earthenware he had deposited there just four years ago.

Having rinsed and filled it at the pump, he walked into his mother's house, and found her seated in her accustomed arm chair. She looked at him for a minute, recognized him, screamed, and exclaimed,—

"Why, Bob! where have you been? What have you been doing?"

"Gettin' that pitcher o' water," answered Bob, setting it upon the table. "I always obey orders—you told me to be four years about it, and I was."



THE DEACON'S HORSE.

As you turn a corner of the road, passing the base of a huge hill of granite all overgrown with ivy and scrub oak, the deacon's house comes full in sight. It is a quaint old edifice of wood, whose architecture proclaims it as belonging to the ante-revolutionary period. Innocent of paint, its dingy shingles and moss-grown roof assimilated with the gray tint of the old stone fences and the granite boulders that rise from the surrounding pasture land. The upper story projects over the lower one, and in the huge double door that gives entrance to the hall there are traces of Indian bullets and tomahawks, reminiscences of that period when it was used as a blockhouse and served as a fortalice to protect the inhabitants of the surrounding district, who fled hither for protection from the vengeful steel and lead of the aborigines. On one side of the mansion is an extensive apple orchard of great antiquity, through which runs a living stream, whose babble in the summer solstice, mingled with the hum of insects, is the most refreshing sound to which the ear can listen. On the other side is one of those old-fashioned wells, whose "old oaken bucket" rises to the action of a "sweep." Two immemorial elm trees, in a green old age, shadow the trim shaven lawn in front. Opposite the house, on the other side of the road, is a vast barn, whose open doors, in the latter part of July, afford a glimpse of a compact mass of English hay, destined for the sustenance of the cattle in the dreary months of winter. We must not forget the huge wood pile, suggestive of a cheerful fireside in the long winter evenings.

But where is the deacon's horse? Last year, and for the past twenty years preceding, you could hardly pass of a summer evening, without noticing an old gray quietly feeding by the roadside, lazily brushing off, with his long switch tail, the hungry flies that fastened on his flanks. The landscape is nothing without the old horse. The deacon reared him on the homestead. When a yearling he used to come regularly to the back door and there receive crusts of bread, crumbs of cake, and other delicacies, the free gifts of the children to their pet. He was the most wonderful colt that ever was—as docile as the house dog. When stray poultry trespassed on the grounds, he would lay his little ears back, and putting his nose close to the ground, curling up his lips and showing his white teeth, drive the marauders from the premises with such a "scare," that they would refrain from their incursions for a week to come. But he was incapable of injuring a living thing.

When old enough for use, he submitted to the discipline of bit and bridle without a single opposing effort. And what a fine figure he made in harness! How smartly he trotted off to church carrying the whole family behind him in a Dearborn wagon! How proud was his carriage when he bore the deacon on his back!

The old man once made a long journey on horseback, to visit a brother who lived in the northern part of New England. A great portion of the way there was only a bridle path to follow through the woods, and this was frequently obstructed by fallen trees. When the impediment was merely a bare trunk, the gallant gray cleared it gayly at a flying leap; when the tree was encumbered with branches, he clambered over it like a wild cat. Once the deacon was obliged to dismount, and crawl on his hands and knees through the dense branches; the sagacious horse imitated his example, and worked his way through like a panther.

But age came upon the good gray. His sight began to fail—his knees to falter. His teeth were entirely worn away.

After a bitter struggle the deacon concluded to replace him by a younger horse. Life had become a burden to the old family servant, of which it was a mercy to relieve him. Yet, even then, the deacon was reluctant to give a positive order for his execution.

One day he called his eldest son to him.

"Abijah," said he, "I'm going over to W., to get that colt I was speaking about. While I am gone I want you to dispose of the poor old gray. I shouldn't like to sell him to any body that would abuse him."

He could say no more—but Abijah understood him. When his father had gone, he went into the meadow, and dug a deep pit, beside which he placed the sods at first removed by the spade. He then carefully loaded his rifle and called to the old gray. The poor animal, who was accustomed to obey the voice of every member of the family, feebly neighed and tottered to the brink of the pit. The young man threw a handkerchief over the horse's eyes, and placing the muzzle of the rifle to his ear, fired. The poor old horse fell, without a groan, into the grave which had been prepared for him. With streaming eyes, Abijah threw the earth over the remains of his playmate, and then carefully replaced the sod.

When the deacon returned with his fine new horse, he manifested no elation at his purchase, nor, though he perceived that the stall was empty, did he trust himself to make any inquiries respecting the old gray. Only the family noticed, that in the course of the afternoon, in wandering through the meadow, he came upon the new-made grave, and though the sods had been carefully replaced, he evidently noticed traces of the spade, and suspected the cause, for he tried the soil with his foot, and was also observed to pass the back of his hand across his eyes. But he never alluded to his old servant.

If there be men who can smile at the grief of a family for the loss of an animal who has been long endeared to them by service and association, be assured that their hearts are not in the right place; and that they are individuals who would exhibit a like callousness to the loss of human friends.



THE CONTRABANDISTA.

A TALE OF THE PACIFIC COAST.

Night was setting in—a clear, starlight night—as a small armed brig was working her way into a little bay upon the western coast of Mexico. She was a trim-built craft, and not too deeply laden to conceal the symmetry of her dark and exquisitely-modelled hull. The cleanness of her run, the elegance of her lines, the rake of her slender masts, and the cut of her sails, showed her, at a glance, to be a Baltimore-built clipper—at the time of which we speak—some years ago—the fastest thing upon the ocean. She was working to windward against a light breeze, and hence was unable to exhibit any thing of her qualities, though a seaman's eye would have decided at a glance that she could sail like a witch. The Zanthe, for that was the name inscribed in gilt letters on her stern and sideboards, might have been a dangerous customer in a brush, for her armament consisted of ten brass eighteens, and her crew of sixty picked seamen—an abundance of men to work the brig, and serve her batteries with satisfaction and credit.

Not to keep the reader any longer in suspense with regard to her character and purpose, we will inform him that the Zanthe was a smuggler, and for some years had been engaged in the illegal game of defrauding the revenue of the Mexican republic. She was commanded by a Scotchman named Morris, and her first mate was a Yankee, answering to the hail of Pardon G. Simpkins, as gallant a fellow and as good a seaman as ever trod a plank. It was her custom to land contraband goods at different points upon the coast where lighters were kept concealed, and where the merchandise was taken charge of by the shore-gang, a numerous and well-appointed body of picked men, mounted and armed to the teeth, and provided with a large number of mules for transporting the goods into the interior. The merchandise, lightered off from the brig, was hidden in the chaparral, if it came on shore before the mule trains were ready, and it was piled up with combustibles, in such a manner that, should the vigilantes surprise them in sufficient numbers to effect a seizure, and overcome resistance, a match thrown among the booty secured its destruction in a few moments. A smoke by day and a fire by night, upon the shore, was the signal for the brig to approach and come to anchor.

The Zanthe, as we before said, slowly worked her way to her anchorage. One by one, her white sails, on which the last flush of the sunset fires had just faded, were all furled, and, her anchors dropped, she swung round with the tide, and rode in safety. A Bengola light was displayed for a moment from the foretop, and answered by another from the shore.

"All right, cap'n," said the mate, walking aft to where Morris was standing, near the wheel. "The critters have seen us, and that are firework means that there aint no vigilantes round abeout. I spose we shall hev the lighters along side airly in the mornin'."

"Yes," said the captain. "I wonder whether Don Martinez is with the shore gang."

"Not knowin', can't say," replied the mate. "Most likely he is, howsomdever—'cause our cargo is vallable, and he'd be likely to look after it."

"You know, Pardon," said the captain, "this is to be our last voyage."

"Edxactly," answered the mate.

"And I hope it will turn out well for the owners. For my part, I'm tired of this life. Circumstances induced me to adopt it; but I can't say that in my conscience I have ever approved it."

"Why, cap'n, you astonish me!" exclaimed the mate. "You don't mean to say that you think it's any harm to cheat the greasers."

"Yes I do," replied the captain, shaking his head. "And I think the aggravation of the offence is, that I am an adopted citizen of the republic of the stars and stripes. I am engaged in defrauding the government of a sister republic."

"A pretty sort er sister republic," replied the mate, disdainfully. "A poor, miserable set of thievin', throat-cuttin', monte-playin', cattle-stealin', bean-eatin' griffins. If our government had had any spunk, we'd have pitched into 'em long ago. And it was only because they're weaker than we be, that we haven't licked 'em into spun yarn."

"But suppose, Pardon, we should be (a chance that, thank Heaven, has never yet occurred) overhauled by one of their revenue cutters."

"The little Zanthe could walk away from her like a racer from a plough horse."

"But, supposing we were surprised, and lay where we couldn't run."

"Cap'n," said Pardon, glancing along the grim batteries of the Zanthe, "do you see them are lovely bull dogs? And them are sturdy Jacks what's a sittin' on the breeches of the guns? What on airth was they made for? A couple of broadsides, starboard and larboard, would settle the hash of the smartest revenue cutter that ever dipped her fore foot in the water."

"And the after thought would never trouble you, Pardon?"

"Never! 'shelp me, Bob," replied the mate, energetically. "Greasers isn't human bein's. Besides, it's all fair play, life for life, and the gentleman with the single fluke tail take the loser. Haint they set a price on our heads? Eight thousand dollars on your'n, and five thousand on mine? I never was worth five thousand down at Portland; but if they've marked me up too high, it's their own look out. They'll never be called upon to pay it. But this sellin' a fellur's head standin', like a lot of firewood, is excessively aggravatin', and gets a fellur's mad up. But, hallo, cap'n, here comes a shore boat. I'll bet it's Don Martinez."

A row boat, manned by eight Mexicans, with a muffled figure in the stern sheets, now pulled out for the brig, and soon lay alongside. On being challenged, a preconcerted watchword was given in reply, and the oars being shipped, a couple of boat hooks held the boat fast at the foot of the starboard side-ladder. This done, the person in the stern sheets arose and prepared to ascend the brig's side.

"Petticoats, by thunder!" muttered the mate. "What does this mean, cap'n?"

Captain Morris was evidently surprised at the sex of his visitor, but he assisted and welcomed her on board with the frank courtesy of a seaman. The light of a battle lantern that stood upon the harness cask, displayed the dark but handsome features of a young Mexican senorita, whose small and graceful hand, sparkling with rings, gathered her silken rebosa around her symmetrical figure, in folds that would have enchanted an artist.

"Senor captain," said she, "I bear you a message from Martinez. He bade me tell you to land half your cargo here to-morrow, as before agreed upon. The remainder goes to Santa Rosara, fifty miles to the northward, where he awaits you with a chosen band."

"Senorita," replied the captain, with hesitation, "it were ungallant to express a doubt. But ours is a perilous business, and on the mere word of a stranger—though that stranger be an accomplished lady——"

"O, I come furnished with credentials, senor," interrupted the lady, with a smile; "there is a letter from Martinez."

Captain Morris hastily perused the letter which the lady handed him. Its contents vouched for her fidelity, and, intimating that the lady was a dear friend of his, and likely to be soon intimately connected with him, committed her to the charge of the captain, and requested him to bring her on to Santa Rosara on board the brig.

Morris immediately expressed his sense of the honor done him, and escorted the senorita below, where he abandoned his state room and cabin to her use. Pardon G. Simpkins walked his watch in great ill humor, muttering to himself incessantly.

"What in the blazes keeps these here women folks continually emergin' from their aliment and mixin' into other spheres? They're well enough ashore, but on soundin's and blue water they beat old Nick. And aboard a contrabandista, too! It's enough to make a Quaker kick his grandmother. Howsomdever, Morris is just soft-headed fool enough to like it, and think it all fine fun. I shouldn't wonder if he was ass enough to get spliced one of these days, and take his wife to sea. I think I see a doggarytype of myself took as mate of a vessel that sails with a cap'n's wife aboard."

And, chuckling at this idea, he put an extra quid in his mouth, and ruminated in a better frame of mind.

In the morning, Mr. Simpkins turned out betimes to prepare for the landing of a portion of the cargo; and he was busied in this duty, when an incident occurred that might well have startled a less ready and self-possessed man than the mate of the Zanthe.

Suddenly rounding the headland on the north, a cutter, with the Mexican flag flying at her mizzen peak, and the muzzles of her guns gleaming through the port holes, came in view of the astonished mate. She stood into the bay, till within rifle shot of the bow of the Zanthe, when she dropped her sails and came to anchor.

As she accomplished this manoeuvre, the mate mustered the crew, run out his guns, which were all shotted, and then quietly roused the captain and brought him on deck.

"That looks a little wicked, cap'n," said the mate, pointing at the revenue cutter.

The captain shook his head.

"Now, cap'n," said the mate, briskly, "just speak the word, and I'll give him my starboard battery before the slow-motioned critter fires a gun."

"No, no," said the captain; "wait!"

Mr. Simpkins looked fixedly at the captain, thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his pea jacket, and sitting down on the breech of a gun, whistled Yankee Doodle in such slow time that it sounded like a dead march.

In another minute, a barge was lowered from the side of the Mexican cutter, and manned with armed sailors, while an officer in uniform took his seat in the stern sheets.

The barge pulled alongside, Captain Morris neither hailing nor offering to take any action in the premises. Leaving only a boatkeeper in the barge, the Mexican officer, followed by his crew, sprang up the ladder, and bounding on deck, struck his drawn sword on the capstan, and announced the Zanthe as his prize.

"To whom shall I have the honor of surrendering?" asked Captain Morris, touching his hat.

"My name," said the officer, glancing from a paper he held in his hand, as he spoke, "is Captain Ramon Morena, of the Vengador cutter. You, I presume, are Captain Morris, of the Zanthe."

Morris bowed.

"And you are Pardon G. Simpkins, I suppose," said the Mexican, addressing the mate.

"Pardon G. Simpkins—five thousand dollars," replied that gentleman.

"Captain Morena," said Morris, "before we proceed to business, do me the favor to walk into my cabin. While we are below," he added, "I trust your men will be ordered not to maltreat my poor fellows."

The Mexican captain glanced, with some surprise, at the formidable array of men upon the deck of the Zanthe, and then, after a few words in Spanish to his boat's crew, followed the captain and mate into the cabin.

Captain Morena was a very fine looking man of thirty, with magnificent hair and mustaches, and wore a very showy uniform. He threw himself carelessly upon the transom, and laid his sword upon the cabin table, while Morris and the mate seated themselves on camp stools.

"Senor capitan," said Morris, "I trust, though it be early in the day, that you have no objection to take a glass of wine with me."

The Mexican assented to the proposition, and the steward produced a bottle, glasses, and cigars.

"Your health, capitan," said Morris, with a courteous smile; "and may you ever be as successful as on the present occasion."

"Muchas gracias senor," replied the Mexican; "you bear the loss of your brig very good humoredly. What may she be worth?"

"She cost thirty thousand dollars in Baltimore," replied Morris.

"You must regret to lose her."

"That admits no question, senor."

"But that is of minor importance, compared with your other loss."

"What loss?"

"The loss of your life. I fear nothing can save you or your friend here. Yet, perhaps, intercession may do something. I suppose you would prefer being shot to hanging from the yard-arm."

"Decidedly," answered Morris.

"Or working for life on the highway, with a ball and chain, you would think preferable to both."

"Cap'n Morris," said the mate, speaking in English, "it strikes me that our friend in the hairy face is a leetle grain out in his reckoning; 'pears to me, that instead of our bein' in his power, he's in ourn. Just say the word, and I'll gin the Vengador a broadside that'll sink her in the shiver of a main topsail."

"You are right, Pardon," said the captain, smiling; "the gentleman has missed a figure, certainly. Captain Morena," he added, speaking in Spanish, "you have made a small mistake; you are my prisoner, sir. Nay, start not; you are completely in my power. Dare but to breathe another word of menace, or offer to resist me, and the Vengador shall go to Davy Jones. Pass me that sword."

Morena, taken by surprise, obeyed.

"Gi' me his toastin' fork, cap'n," said the mate, "and I'll lock it up in my state room;" which was done almost as soon as said.

"And now, Captain Morena," said Morris, "just walk on deck and explain matters to your people, and then I'll show you how fast a Yankee crew and Mexican lightermen can unload a contrabandista."

They adjourned to the deck, and the Mexican captain was compelled to remain an inactive witness, while boat load after boat load of contraband goods was landed under his own eyes, and the very guns of his cutter. When the work was finished, Captain Morris approached Morena, and said,—

"Captain, I have a word to say to you. I am going up the coast fifty miles, to land the remainder of my cargo at Santa Rosara. Give me your word that you will not follow and molest me, that you will not breathe a word of what you have seen and heard, and I will restore your sword and release you on parole."

The revenue captain gave the required pledge, and his sword was restored; after which his men were permitted to man the barge.

"And now, captain, one bumper at parting," said the hospitable Morris. "The steward has just opened a fresh bottle, and besides I have a pleasant surprise for you."

As they entered the cabin, Morena started back and uttered an exclamation as his eyes fell on the beautiful face and graceful figure of the Mexican senorita, who had taken her seat at the table.

"Maria!" he exclaimed.

"Yes," replied the lady, with sparkling eyes and heightened color. "I have escaped your power. The man who basely sought to coerce my inclinations has been baffled, and ere another sun has set, I shall be the bride of the smuggler Martinez."

"Malediction!" cried the Mexican.

"Come, come, cap'n," said the mate, "take a horn, and settle your proud stomach."

"Never," said the Mexican. "A curse on all of ye!" and he sprang to the deck, threw himself into his barge, and was soon aboard of the cutter.

As the clipper brig, with all her canvas set, and her larboard tacks aboard, bowed gracefully to the freshening breeze, and bowled away under the stern of the Mexican cutter, the mate said to the captain,—

"Cap'n, I wish you'd just let me give that fellur a broadside, if it was only just to clean the guns, afore I run 'em in."

"No, no," replied the captain, smiling, "honor bright, my boy. We'll keep our word to him."

"That's more than he'll do to us," answered the mate, "or I don't know the natur of a greaser. One broadside from our starboard battery would settle him, and save all future trouble, and make every thing pleasant and comfortable on all sides."

But Captain Morris would not listen to reason, and so the guns were secured, and the ports closed, and the little Zanthe went bounding on her course to Santa Rosara.

She came to anchor in a deep bay which she entered at nightfall, and almost immediately a shore boat, under the command of Martinez, boarded the brig. The meeting between the smuggler and his bride was so affectionate, as to call a tear even into the eye of Mr. Pardon G. Simpkins. The smuggler laughed loudly when he heard of the discomfiture of Captain Morena, the discarded suitor of the senorita Maria.

The next day all hands were employed in landing the remainder of the cargo, and at night a very worthy and accommodating priest came off from the shore, and united Martinez and Maria in the bonds of holy matrimony. The nuptials were celebrated with great rejoicings and revelry, and the fun was kept up till a late hour of the night, when the happy couple retired to the cabin.

The first faint streaks of dawn were beginning to appear in the east, when the ever vigilant ear of the mate, who never took a wink of sleep while the brig was lying on shore, detected the cautious plunge of oars, and soon he descried a barge pulling towards the brig.

"Catch a weazle asleep," said the Yankee to himself; "these greasers don't know as much as a farrer hen." And without arousing the captain, he quietly mustered the crew, and with as little noise as possible, the guns were run out upon the starboard side, which the boat was fast approaching.

A moment after he hailed. No answer was given, but the light of the lanterns flashed on the arms of a large body of men, and the mate recognized the figure of the captain of the Vengador in the stern sheets.

"Sheer off," shouted the mate, "or by the shade of Gin'ral Jackson, I'll blow you all to Davy Jones."

"Pull for your lives," shouted the voice of Morena; and the boat bounded towards the brig.

"Fire!" cried the mate.

Crash went the guns! The iron hurtled through the air, and the splintering of wood, as the metal struck the barge, was distinctly heard amid the groans and shrieks of the vigilantes.

In one moment it was all over. Morris and Martinez rushed to the deck.

"What's the matter, Pardon?" asked the former.

"Nothin', cap'n—cap'n, nothin'," answered the mate. "Only there aint quite so many greasers in the world at present, as there was five minutes since. Morena broke his parole, and tried to board us by surprise, and I gin' him my starboard battery—that's all."

"Then I'm off for blue water!" cried the captain.

"And I for the mountains!" said Martinez. "The mules are all packed and the horses saddled. The vigilantes must wear sharp spurs if they catch us."

It was a hurried parting—that of the smuggler and his bride with the captain and mate of the Zanthe. But they got safely on shore, and the whole band effected their escape.

The Zanthe spread her wings, and some days afterwards was crossing the equator. She was never known again as a free trader. The captain and mate had both "made their piles," and after arriving at the Atlantic states retired from sea. Pardon G. Simpkins took up his residence in Boston, and during the late war with Mexico, was very prominent in his denunciations of that republic, and very liberal in his donations to the Massachusetts regiment, to the members of which his parting admonition was, to "give them greasers fits."



THE STAGE-STRUCK GENTLEMAN.

Few amateurs of the drama have passed through their town lives, without having been, at some one period of their career, what is called stage struck, afflicted with a maniacal desire to make a "first appearance," to be designated in posters as a "YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF THIS CITY," in connection with one Mr. Shakspeare, the "author of certain plays." The stage-struck youth is easily recognized by certain symptoms which manifest themselves at an early stage of the disorder. He is apt to pass his hand frequently through his "horrent locks," to frown darkly without any possible reason, and to look daggers at his landlady when invited to help himself to brown-bread toast. His voice, in imitation of the "Boy," the "Great American tragedian," alternates between the deep bass of a veteran porker and the mellifluous tenor of a "pig's whisper." He is apt to roll his eyes quickly from side to side, to gasp and heave his chest most unaccountably. He reads nothing of the papers but the theatrical advertisements and critiques. He has an acquaintance with two or three fourth-rate stock actors and a scene shifter, and is consequently "up" in any amount of professional information and slang, which he retails to every one he meets, without regard to the taste or time of his auditors. Have you seen the new drama of the Parricidal Oysterman? If you have, you must agree with him it is the greatest affair old Pel. has ever brought out; if you have not, you must submit to his contemptuous pity for your ignorance. For a person who passes his evenings in the society of books and friends, or in the country, the stage-struck gentleman has the most profound contempt. How one can live without nightly inhaling the odor of gas and orange peel, is to him a mystery inexplicable. He is aided and abetted in his practices by the sympathy and example of other stage-struck youths, all "foredoomed their fathers' soul to cross," all loathing their daily avocations for the time being, all spending their earnings, or borrowings, or stealings, on bits of pasteboard that admit them to their nightly banquet. The stage struck always copy the traits of the leading actor of the hour, whoever he may be, and grunt and bluster in imitation of "Ned"—meaning Forrest—or quack and stutter a la "Bill"—that is, Macready—as the wind of popular favor veers and changes. It is curious, at a representation of the "Gladiator," to winnow these young gentlemen from the mass by the lens of an opera glass. There you may see the knit brows, the high shirt collars, the folded arms, the pursed-up lips, the hats drawn down over the eyes, that are the certain indications of the stage-struck Forrestians.

If, after the performance, fate and a designing oysterman place you in the next box to three or four of these geniuses, you will, unless very much of a philosopher, be disgusted, for the time being, with human nature. Their paltry imitations, their miserable brayings, their misquotations from Shakspeare, their mendacious accounts of interviews with the "Boy," will be enough to drive you mad. Some such thing as the following will occur:—

Waiter. Here are your oysters, gentlemen; ("a slight shade of irony in the emphasis.")

Stage-struck Youth, No. 1, (in a deep guttural tone.) "Let em come in—we're armed!"

Stage-struck Youth, No. 2, (to waiter.) "Red ruffian, retire!"

Stage-struck Youth, No. 3, (to Stage-struck Youth, No. 4.) "How are you now, Dick?"

Stage-struck Youth, No. 4. "Richard's himself again!"

O, Dii immortales! can these things be? In other words, can such animals exist?

It has been calculated by a celebrated mathematician, that out of every fourteen dozen of these stage-struck young gentlemen, one actually makes a first appearance. This event causes an enormous flutter in the circle of aspirants from which the promotion takes place. As the eventful night approaches, the most active and enterprising among them besiege the newspapers with elaborate puffs of their confrere, a column long, and are astonished and enraged that editors exclude them entirely, or exscissorize them to a dozen lines. Of what importance is the foreign news, in comparison with the first appearance of Bill Smithy in the arduous character of Hamlet? Has Colonel Greene no sympathy with struggling genius? Or is it the result of an infernal plot of the actors to put down competition, and sustain a professional monopoly?

The stage-struck young gentleman has passed through the fiery ordeal of "rehearsals," has been duly pushed and shaken into his "suit of sables," glittering with steel bugles, his hands have been adorned with black kids, his plumed hat rests upon his brow, his rapier dangles at his side. The curtain goes up and he is pushed upon the stage. His first appearance is the signal for a thundering round of generous applause, in which his faithful fellow-Forrestians are leading claquers. But the audience soon discover that he is a "guy" escaped from the surveillance an anxious mother. The stage-struck young gentleman is "goosed." Storms of hisses or bursts of ironical applause greet every sentence that he utters, and the curtain finally falls on his disgrace. This generally cures the disease of which we have been speaking. A night of agony, a week of pain, and the young gentleman, disenchanted and disenthralled, looks back upon his temporary mania with feelings of humiliation and surprise, cuts his aiders and abettors, and betakes himself seriously to the rational business of life.

But there are some stage-struck gentlemen whom nothing can convince of their total unfitness for the stage. You may hiss them night after night, you may present them with bouquets of carrots, and wreaths of cabbage leaves and onions, and leather medals, and services of tin plate; and if you find them "insensible to kindness," you may try brickbats—but in vain. They will cling to the stage for life—living, or rather starving, as attaches to some theatre, the signal for disturbance whenever they present themselves; detected by the lynx eyes of the public, whether disguised as Roman citizens or Neapolitan brigands, and severely punished for incompetency by heaped-up insult and abuse. These men live and die miserably; yet, doubtless, their lives are checkered with rays of hope; they regard themselves as martyrs, and die with the secret consciousness that they have "acted well their parts."



THE DIAMOND STAR;

OR,

THE ENGLISHMAN'S ADVENTURE.

A STORY OF VALENCIA.

In a fine summer night in the latter half of the seventeenth century, (the day and year are immaterial,) Clarence Landon, a handsome and high-spirited young Englishman, who had been passing some time in the south of Spain, was standing on the banks of the Guadalquiver, in the environs of the ancient city of Valencia, watching with anxious eyes the fading sails of a small felucca, just visible in the golden rays of the rising moon, as, catching a breath of the freshening western breeze, they bore the light craft out upon the blue bosom of the Mediterranean. Though the scene was one of surpassing beauty, though the air was balmy, and came to his brow laden with the fragrance of the orange, the myrtle, and the rose, the expression of the young man's face was melancholy in the extreme.

"Too late!" he muttered to himself; "too late! It is hard, after having ventured so much for them, that I should have been baffled in my attempt to escape with them. However, they are safe and happy. If this breeze holds, they will soon pass Cape St. Martin. Dear Estella, how I value this pledge of your friendship and gratitude."

And the young man, after raising to his lips a small diamond star, attached to a golden chain, deposited the trinket in his bosom, and then, with a parting glance at the distant vessel, turned homewards in the direction of the city gates.

Absorbed in his own reflections, he did not notice that his footsteps were dogged by a tall figure, muffled in a black cloak, which pursued him in the moonlight, like his shadow, and left him only when he entered his posada.

Landon spent some time in his room in reading and arranging letters and papers; and when the clock of a neighboring cathedral sounded the hour of eleven, threw himself upon his bed without undressing, and was soon asleep. From a disturbed and unrefreshing slumber, crowded with vexatious visions, he was suddenly and rudely roused by a rough hand laid upon his shoulder. He started upright in bed, and gazed around him with astonishment. His chamber was filled by half a dozen sinister-looking men, robed entirely in black, in whom he recognized, not without a shudder, the dreaded familiars of the Holy Office, the officials of the Inquisitorial Tribune. His first impulse was to grope for his arms; but his sword and pistols had been removed. A rough voice bade him arise and follow, and he had no choice but to obey the mandate. Preceded and followed by the familiars, who were all armed, as he judged by the clash of steel that attended each footstep, though no weapons were apparent, he descended the staircase, came out upon the street, and was conducted through many a winding lane and passage to a low-browed arch, which opened into the basement story of a huge embattled building, that rose like a fortress before him. The conductor of the band halted here, and knocking thrice upon an oaken door, studded with huge iron nails, it was opened silently, and the party entered a dark, subterranean passage of stone, lighted only by a smoky cresset lamp swinging in a recess.

After passing through this corridor, Landon was conducted into a huge vaulted hall, dimly illuminated by the branches of an iron chandelier, by whose light he discovered in front of him a raised platform, on which were seated three men, robed in black, while before them, at a table, sat two others, similarly attired, with writing implements before them. On the platform was planted a huge banner, the blazon on the folds of which was a wooden cross, flanked by a branch of olive and a naked sword, the motto being, "Exurge, Domine, et judica causam tuam." Rise, Lord, and judge thy cause. It wanted neither this formidable standard, nor the implements of torture scattered around, to convince the young Englishman that he stood in the halls of the Inquisition.

After being permitted to stand some time before the judges, that his mind might be impressed with the terrors of the place, the principal Inquisitor addressed him, demanding his name.

"Clarence Landon," was the reply.

"Your birthplace?"

"London, England."

"Your age?"

"Twenty-five years."

"Occupation?"

"I am a gentleman of fortune, with no pursuit but that of knowledge and pleasure."

"You are accused," said the judge, "of having aided and abetted a countryman of yours, named Walter Hamilton, in seducing and carrying off Estella Martinez, a lady of a noble house, and a sister of St. Ursula. How say you, guilty or not guilty?"

"I am not guilty—I am not capable of the infamy with which you charge me."

"He refuses to confess," said the judge, turning to a familiar, the sworn tormentor. "We must try the question. Sanchez, is the rack prepared?"

The man addressed was a brawny, muscular ruffian, with a livid and forbidding countenance, whose dark eyes sparkled with pleasure as he bowed assent to the interrogation.

"Hold!" cried Landon. "The truth can no longer harm any but myself; and though you may inflict death upon me, you shall not enjoy the fiendish satisfaction of mutilating my limbs with your horrid enginery. I did aid Hamilton, not indeed in ruining an injured maiden, but in rescuing from the thraldom she abhorred a lovely lady whom Providence formed to make the happiness of an honorable man. By this time Estella is a happy bride."

"Her joys will be shortened," said the inquisitor, frowning. "They cannot long elude the power of Rodrigo d'Almonte, at once judge of the Holy Office and governor of Valencia."

"Moderate your transports, governor," replied the Englishman, boldly; "the fugitives are beyond your reach. This very night a swift-winged felucca bore them away from these accursed shores, to a land of liberty and happiness."

The brow of Rodrigo grew black as night.

"Insolent!" he answered; "you have outraged and set at naught the authority of church and state; your life shall pay the forfeit."

"Be it so," replied Landon, folding his arms; "but let me tell you, that for every drop of blood shed, my country will demand a life. The cross of St. George protects the meanest subject of the English crown."

Rodrigo d'Almonte made no reply, but waving his hand, Landon was removed from the tribunal and thrown into a dungeon on the same floor with the hall of torture.

* * * * *

Towards the close of a sultry summer day, the narrow streets of Valencia wore an aspect of unusual activity and life, filled, as they were, with representatives of every class of citizens. The tide of human beings seemed to be setting in one direction, towards a plaza, or square, in the centre. The Alameda was deserted by its fashionable promenaders; and young and old—all, indeed, who were not bedridden—were at length congregated in the square. The attraction was soon explained; for in the centre of the plaza was seen a lofty platform of wood, on which was erected a stout stake or pillar, to which was affixed an iron chain and ring. Around this were heaped, to the height of several feet, huge fagots of dry wood, ready for the torch. A large body of men-at-arms kept the crowd back from a large open space around the platform. These preparations were made, so the popular rumor ran, for the punishment of a young Englishman, who had aided a Spanish nun in the violation of her vows.

The numerous bells of the city were tolling heavily; and at length, after the patience of the populace had been nearly exhausted, the head of a column of men, marching in slow time, was seen to enter upon the plaza. First came the governor's guard, their steel caps and cuirasses and halberds polished like silver. After these, walked the officials of the Inquisition, and some friars of the order of St. Dominic, surrounding the unfortunate Landon, who wore the corazo, or pointed cap, upon his head, and the san benito, a robe painted all over with flames and devils, typifying the awful fate which awaited him. He ascended the scaffold with a firm step, while the cortege ranged themselves around it; and the governor of Valencia, mounted on a splendid barbed charger, and wearing his inquisitorial robes over his military uniform, rode into the square, amid the vivas of the crowd and the presented arms of the troops, and made a sign for the ceremony to proceed.

As an officer, appointed for the purpose, was about to read the sentence, a great tumult arose in the square, and attracted the attention of all the spectators.

"What is the meaning of this, Alvarez?" asked the governor, addressing one of his lieutenants.

"The people, please your excellency, have got hold of Isaac, the rich Jew, and insist on his beholding the august spectacle of the auto da fe."

"The unbelieving dog has never liked these brave shows," answered the governor, with a grim smile, "since his well-beloved brother, Issachar, expiated his heresy on this spot in the great auto, when we burned twenty of his tribe before the king. Beshrew my heart! he abuses my clemency in permitting him to hold house and gold here in Valencia. He shall behold the execution! Make room there, and drag him into the heart of the hollow square."

The cruel order was obeyed; and the old Jew, who was a mild and venerable-looking man, was forced into the centre of the plaza, whence he could have a full view of the horrid scene about to be enacted.

But the indignities to which he had been subjected aroused a latent spark of fire even in the soul of the aged Hebrew. He lifted up his voice and cried aloud:—

"Spaniards! Christians! are ye men, or are ye brutes? Fear ye not the vengeance of Heaven, when ye enact deeds that would make the savage blush? Think ye that Heaven will long withhold its vengeance from atrocities that cry aloud to it night and day—that the innocent blood ye have spilt will sink, unavenged, into the earth? Fear and tremble, for the hour of wrath and woe is at hand!"

The energy and eloquence with which he spoke sent a strange thrill of terror through the crowd. The governor, alone insensible to fear, shouted from his saddle:—

"Tremble for yourself, Isaac! for, by the rood! if you dare question the justice of the Holy Office, you shall share the fate of yonder prisoner."

"I fear not the wrath of man," replied the Jew; "fear you the wrath of Heaven!"

And at this moment, as if in vindication of his words, a heavy clap of thunder, that shook the city like the discharge of a park of artillery, broke upon the ear; and one of those sudden storms, so common in southerly latitudes, rolled up its dark masses of clouds, and the light of day was suddenly quenched, as in an eclipse. Vivid flashes of lightning lit the upturned and terror-stricken faces of the cowering multitude. At the same time, the wind howled fiercely through the streets that debouched upon the plaza, and tore the plumage that waved and tossed upon the helmets of the soldiery.

"Executioner!" roared the governor, whose high, stern tones of military command were heard above the roar of the sudden tornado, "do your duty! Set fire to the fagots!"

The order was obeyed; the torch was applied, and already a quivering, lurid flame shot up at the feet of the luckless Landon, when the storm burst forth with ungovernable fury. The scaffolding was blown down, the fragments scattered, and the rain, descending in torrents, instantly quenched both torch and fagot. The vast crowd was thrown into utter confusion; the terrified horses of the cavalry plunged madly among the footmen; hundreds fell and were trampled under foot; and prayers, shrieks, and imprecations filled the darkened air.

Landon was unhurt amid the wreck of the sacrificial pyre. A ray of hope shot up in his heart. Scrambling out of the ruins, unobserved and unpursued, he fled down the nearest lane with the utmost speed. Anxious to obtain shelter, he, without even a thought, climbed a garden wall; once within which he was safe, for a moment, from pursuit. Rushing through a shaded alley of the garden, he found himself at the door of a large and splendid house. Almost without a hope of finding it yield, he tried the handle, and the door opened. Silently and swiftly he ascended a large, stone staircase, and took refuge in the first apartment which he found before him. A beautiful young girl, the only occupant of the room, starting at the fearful apparition of a stranger flying for his life, in the robe of the san benito, fell upon her knees and crossed herself repeatedly, as her dark eyes were fixed in terror on the intruder.