GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XL. March, 1852. No. 3.

Contents

[Transcriber’s Notes] can be found at the end of this eBook.

A DACOTAH INDIAN COURTING.
Drawn by S. Eastman U.S.A. and Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by F. Humphry.

Boston Harbor.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XL. PHILADELPHIA, MARCH, 1852. No. 3.

GRANNY’S FAIRY STORY.

(FOR THE YOUNG FOLKS.)

There was a young woman so kind and sweet-tempered that every person loved her. Among the rest, there was an old witch who lived near where she dwelt, and with whom she was a great favorite. One day this old witch told her she had a nice present to give her. “See,” she said, “here is a barley-corn, which, however, is by no means of the same sort as those which grow in the farmer’s field, or those we give to the fowls. Now you must plant this in a flower-pot, and then take care and see what happens.”

“Thank you a thousand times,” said the young woman. And, thereupon, she went straight home, and planted the barley-corn the witch had given her in a flower-pot. Immediately there grew out of it a large, handsome flower, but its leaves were all shut close as if they were buds.

“That is a most beautiful flower!” said the woman, while she bent down to kiss its red and yellow leaves; but scarcely had her lips pressed the flower, than it gave forth a loud sound and opened its cup. And now the woman was able to see that it was a regular tulip, and in the midst of the cup, down at the bottom, there sat a small and most lovely little maiden; her height was about one inch, and on that account the woman named her Ellise.

She made the little thing a cradle out of a walnut-shell, gave her a blue violet-leaf for a mattress, and a rose-leaf for a coverlet. In this cradle Ellise slept at night time, and during the day she played upon the table. The woman had set a plate filled with water upon the table, which she surrounded with flowers, and the flower-stalks all rested on the edge of the water; on the water floated a large tulip-leaf, and upon the tulip-leaf sat the little Ellise, and sailed from one side of the plate to the other; and for this she used two white horse-hairs for oars. The whole effect was very charming, and Ellise could sing too, but with such a delicate little voice as we have never heard here.

One night as she lay in her bed, an ugly toad hopped into her through the broken window pane. It was a large and very hideous toad; and it sprang at once upon the table, where Ellise lay asleep under the rose-leaf.

“That would be, now, a nice little wife for my son,” said the toad, and seized, as she said it, the walnut-shell in her mouth, and hopped with it out through the window into the garden again.

Through the garden flowed a broad stream, but its banks were marshy, and among the marshes lived the toad and her son. Ha! how hideous the son was too; exactly like his mother he was, and all that he could say, when he saw the sweet little maiden in the walnut-shell, was “Koax! koax! breckke ke!”

“Don’t talk so loud,” said the old one to him, “else you’ll awake her, and then she might easily run away from us, for she is lighter than swans’-down. We will set her upon a large plant in the stream; that will be a whole island for her, and then she cannot run away from us; while we, down in the mud, will build the house for you two to live in.”

In the stream there were many large plants, which all seemed as if they floated on the water; the most distant one was, at the same time, the largest, and thither swam the old toad and set down the walnut-shell, with the little maiden upon it.

Early on the following morning the little Ellise awoke, and when she looked about her and saw where she was, that her new dwelling-place was surrounded on all sides by water, and that there remained no possible way for her to reach land again, she began to weep most bitterly.

Meanwhile the old toad sat in the mud and adorned the building with reeds and yellow flowers, that it might be quite grand for her future daughter-in-law, and then, in company with her hideous son, swam to the little leaf-island where Ellise lay.

She now wanted to fetch her pretty little bed, that it might at once be placed in the new chamber, before Ellise herself was brought there. The old toad bent herself courteously before her in the water, while she presented her son in these words—“You see here my son, who is to be your husband, and you two shall live together charmingly down in the mud.”

“Koax! koax! breckke-ke!” was all that the bridegroom could find to say.

And, therewith, they both seized upon the beautiful little bed, and swam away with it; while Ellise sat alone upon the leaf and cried very much, for she did not like at all to live with the frightful toad, much less have her odious son for her husband. Now the little fishes which swam about under the water, had seen the toad, and heard, moreover, perfectly well all that she said; they, therefore, raised their heads above water, that they might have a look at the beautiful little creature. No sooner had they seen her than they were, one and all, quite moved by her beauty; and it seemed to them very hard that such a sweet maiden should become the prey of an ugly toad. They assembled themselves, therefore, round about the green stalk from which grew the leaf whereon Ellise sat, and gnawed it with their teeth until it came in two, and then away floated Ellise and the leaf far, far away, where the toad could come no more.

And so sailed the little maiden by towns and villages, and when the birds upon the trees beheld her, they sang out—“Oh, what a lovely young girl.” But away, away floated the leaf always further and further. Ellise made quite a foreign journey upon it.

For some time a small white butterfly had hovered over her, and at last he sat himself down on her leaf, because he was very much pleased with Ellise, and she, too, was very glad of the visit, for now the toad could not come near her, and the country through which she traveled was so beautiful. The sun shone so bright upon the water that it glittered like gold. And now the idea occurred to her to loosen her girdle, bind one end of it to the butterfly, the other on to the leaf; she did this and then she flew on much faster, and saw much more of the world than she would have done.

But, at last, there came by a cock-chafer, who seized her with his long claws round her slender waist, and flew away with her to a tree, while on swam the leaf, and the butterfly was obliged to follow, for he could not come loose, so fast and firm had Ellise bound him.

Ah! how terrified was poor Ellise when the cock-chafer carried her off to the tree. But her sorrow over the little butterfly was quite as great, for she knew he must certainly perish, unless by some good accident he should chance to free himself from the green leaf. But all this made no impression upon the cock-chafer, who set her upon a large leaf, gave her some honey to eat, and told her she was very charming, although not a bit like a chafer. And now appeared all the other cock-chafers who dwelt upon this tree, who waited upon Ellise, and examined her from top to toe; while the young lady-chafers turned up their feelers and said, “She has only two legs! how very wretched that looks!” and added they, “she has no feelers whatever, and is as thin in the body as a human being! Ah! it’s really hideous!” and all the young lady-cock-chafers cried out, “Ah! it’s perfectly hideous!” And yet Ellise was so charming! and so felt the cock-chafer; but at last, because all the lady-chafers thought her ugly he began to think so too, and resolved he would have nothing more to do with her; “she might go,” he said, “wherever she liked;” and with these words he flew with her to the ground, and set her upon a daisy. And now the poor little thing wept bitterly, to find herself so hideous that not even a cock-chafer would have any thing to do with her. But, notwithstanding this decisive opinion of the young lady-cock-chafers, Ellise was the loveliest, most elegant little creature in the world, as delicate and beautiful as a young rose-leaf.

The whole summer through the poor little maiden lived alone in the great forest; and she wove herself a bed out of fine grass, and hung it up to rock beneath a creeper, that it might not be blown away by the wind and rain; she plucked herself sweets out of the flowers, for food, and drank of the fresh dew, that fell every morning upon the grass. And so the summer and the autumn passed away. All the birds which had sung so sweetly to Ellise, left her and went away, the trees lost all their green, the flowers withered, and the great creeper which, until now, had been her shelter, shriveled away to a bare yellow stalk. The poor little thing shivered with cold, for her clothes were now worn out, and her form was so tender and delicate that she certainly would perish with cold. It began also to snow, and every flake which touched her, was to her what a great heapfull would be to us, for her whole body was only one inch long.

Close beside the forest in which Ellise lay, there was a corn-field, but the corn had long since been reaped, and now, only the dry stubble rose above the earth; yet, for Ellise was this a great forest, and hither she came. So she reached the house of a field-mouse, which was formed of a little hole under the stubble. Here dwelt the field-mouse warm and comfortable, with her store-room full of food for the winter, and near at hand a pretty kitchen and eating-room. Poor Ellise stepped up to the door and begged for a little grain of barley, for she had tasted nothing for the whole day.

“You poor little wretch!” said the field-mouse, who was very kind-hearted, “come in to my warm room and eat something.” And when now she was much pleased with Ellise, she added, “you may if you like, spend the winter here with me; but you must keep my house clean and neat, and tell me stories, for I am very fond of hearing stories.”

Ellise did as the field-mouse wished, and, as a reward for her trouble, was made comfortable with her.

“Now we shall have a visit,” said the field-mouse to her one day. “My neighbor is accustomed to pay me a visit every week. He is much richer than I am, for he has several beautiful rooms, and wears the most costly velvet coat. Now if you could only have him for your husband, you would be nicely provided for, but he does not see very sharply, that’s one thing. Only you must tell him all the best stories you can think of.”

But Ellise would hear nothing of it, for she could not endure the neighbor, for he was nothing more nor less than a mole. He came, as was expected, to pay his respects to the field-mouse, and wore his handsome velvet coat as usual. The field-mouse said he was very rich, and very well informed, and that his house was twenty times larger than hers. Well informed he might be, but he could not endure the sunshine or the flowers, and spoke contemptuously of both one and the other, although he had never seen either. Ellise was obliged to sing before him, and she sang the two songs—“Chafers fly! the sun is shining!” and “The priest goes to the field!” Then the mole became very much in love with her because of her beautiful voice, but he took good care not to show it, for he was a cautious, sensible fellow.

Very lately he had made a long passage from his dwelling to that of his neighbor, and he gave permission to Ellise and the field-mouse to go in it as often as they pleased; yet he begged of them not to be startled at the dead bird which lay at the entrance. It was certainly a bird lately dead, for all the feathers were still upon him, it seemed to have been frozen exactly there where the mole had made the entrance of his passage.

Mr. Neighbor now took a piece of tinder in his mouth, and stepped on before the ladies, that he might lighten the way for them, and as he came to the place where the dead bird lay, he struck with his snout on the ground, so that the earth rolled away, and a large opening appeared through which the daylight shone in. And now, Ellise could see the dead bird quite well—it was a swallow. The pretty wings were pressed against the body, and the feet and head covered over by the feathers. “The poor bird has died of cold,” said Ellise, and it grieved her very much for the dear little animal, for she was very fond of birds, for they sang to her all through the summer. But the mole kicked him with his foot and said, “The fine fellow has done with his twittering now! It must indeed be dreadful to be born a bird! Heaven be praised that none of my children have turned out birds! Stupid things! they have nothing in the wide world but their quivit, and when the winter comes, die they must!”

“Yes,” returned the field-mouse, “you, a thoughtful and reflecting man, may well say that! What indeed has a bird beyond its twitter when the winter comes? he must perforce hunger and freeze!”

Ellise was silent; but when the others had turned their backs upon the bird, she raised up its feathers gently, and kissed its closed eyes.

“Perhaps it was you,” she said softly, “who sang me such beautiful songs! How often you have made me happy and merry, you dear bird!”

And now the mole stopped up the opening again through which the daylight fell, and then accompanied the young ladies home. But Ellise could not sleep the whole night long. She got up, therefore, wove a covering of hay, carried it away to the dead bird, and covered him with it on all sides, in order that he might rest warmer upon the cold ground. “Farewell, you sweet, pretty little bird!” said she. “Farewell! and let me thank you a thousand times for your friendly song this summer, when the trees were all green, and the sun shone down so warm upon us all!” And therewith she laid her little head on the bird’s breast, but started back, for it seemed to her as if something moved within. It was the bird’s heart; he was not dead, but benumbed, and now he came again to life as the warmth penetrated to him.

In the autumn, the swallows fly away to warmer countries; and when a weak one is among them, and the cold freezes him, he falls upon the ground, and lies there as if dead, until the cold snow covers him.

Ellise was frightened at first, when the bird raised itself, for to her he was a great big giant, but she soon collected herself again, pressed the hay covering close round the exhausted little animal, and then went to fetch the curled mint-leaves which served for her own covering, that she might lay it over his head.

The following night she slipped away to the bird again, whom she found now quite revived, but yet so very weak, that he could only open his eyes now and then, to look at Ellise, who lighted up his face with a little piece of tinder.

“I thank you a thousand times, you lovely little child,” said the sick swallow, “I am now so thoroughly warmed through, that I shall soon gain my strength again, and shall be able to fly out in the warm sunshine.”

“Oh! it is a great deal too cold out there,” returned Ellise, “it snows and freezes so hard! only just stay now in your warm bed, and I will take such care of you!”

She brought the bird some water to drink out of a leaf, and then he related to her how he had so hurt his wing against a thorny bush that he could not fly away to the warm countries with his comrades, and at last had fallen exhausted to the ground, where all consciousness left him.

The little swallow remained here the whole winter, and Ellise attended to him, and became every day more and more fond of him; yet she said nothing at all about it to the mole or the field-mouse, for she knew well enough already that neither of them could bear the poor bird.

As soon, however, as the summer came, and the warm sunbeams penetrated the earth, the swallow said good-bye to Ellise, who had now opened the hole in the ground, through which the mole let the light fall in. The sun shone so kindly, that the swallow turned and asked Ellise, his dear little nurse, whether she would not fly away with him. She could sit very nicely upon the swallow’s back, and then they would go away together to the green forest. But Ellise thought it would grieve the good field-mouse if she went away secretly, and therefore she was obliged to refuse the bird’s kind offer.

“Then, once more farewell, you kind, good maiden,” said the swallow, and therewith he flew out into the sunshine. Ellise looked sorrowfully after him, and the tears rushed into her eyes, for she was very fond of the good bird.

“Quivit! quivit!” sang the swallow, and away he flew to the forest.

And now Ellise was very mournful, for she hardly ever left her dark hole. The corn grew up far above her head, and formed quite a thick wood round the house of the field-mouse.

“Now you can spend the summer in working at your wedding-clothes,” said the field-mouse, for the neighbor, the wearisome mole, had at last really proposed for Ellise. “I will give you every thing you want, that you may have all things comfortable about you, when you are the mole’s wife.”

And now Ellise was obliged to sit all day long busy at her clothes, and the field-mouse took four clever spiders into her service, and kept them weaving day and night. Every evening came the mole to pay his visit, and every evening he expressed his wish that the summer would soon come to an end, and the heat cease, for then, when the winter was here, his wedding should take place. But Ellise was not at all happy to hear this, for she could hardly bear even to look upon the ugly mole, for all his expensive velvet coat. Every evening and every morning she went out at the door, and when the wind blew the ears of corn apart, and she could look upon the blue heaven, she saw it was so beautiful out in the open air, that she wished she could only see the dear swallow once more; but the swallow never came; he preferred rejoicing himself in the warm sunbeams in the green woods.

By the time autumn came, Ellise had prepared all her wedding-garments.

“In four weeks your wedding will take place,” said the field-mouse to her; but Ellise wept, and said she did not want to have the stupid mole for a husband.

“Fiddle-de-dee,” answered the field-mouse—“Come, don’t be obstinate, or I shall be obliged to bite you with my sharp teeth. Isn’t he a good husband that you’re going to have? Why, even the queen hasn’t such a fine velvet coat to show as he has! His kitchen and his cellar are well-stocked, and you ought rather to thank Providence for providing so well for you!”

So the wedding was to be! Already was the mole come to fetch away Ellise, who, from henceforth, was to live always with him. Deep under the earth, where no sunbeam could ever come! The little maiden was very unhappy, that she must take her farewell of the friendly sun, which at all events she saw at the door of the field-mouse’s house.

“Farewell, thou beloved sun!” said she, and raised her hands toward heaven, while she advanced a few steps from the door; for already was the corn again reaped, and she stood once more among the stubble in the field. “Adieu, adieu!” she repeated, and threw her arms round a flower that stood near her, “Greet the little swallow for me, when you see him again,” added she.

“Quivit! quivit!” echoed near her in the same moment, and, as Ellise raised her eyes, she saw her well-known little swallow fly past. As soon as the swallow perceived Ellise, he too, became quite joyful, and hastened at once to his kind nurse; and she told him how unwilling she was to have the ugly mole for her husband, and that she must go down deep into the earth, where neither sun nor moon could ever look upon her, and with these words she burst into tears.

“See now,” said the swallow, “the cold winter is coming again, and I am flying away to the warm countries, will you come and travel with me? I will carry you gladly on my back. You need only to bind yourself fast with your girdle, so we can fly away far from the disagreeable mole, and his dark house, far over mountains and valleys, to the beautiful countries, where the sun shines much warmer than it does here; where there is summer always, and always beautiful flowers blooming. Come, be comforted, and fly away with me, dear, kind Ellise, who saved my life when I lay frozen in the earth.”

“Yes, I will go with you,” cried Ellise joyfully. She mounted on the back of the swallow, set her feet upon his out-spread wings, bound herself with her girdle to a strong feather, and flew off with the swallow through the air, over woods and lakes, valleys and mountains. Very often Ellise suffered from the cold when they went over icy glaciers and snowy rocks; but then she concealed herself under the wings and among the feathers of the bird, and merely put out her head to gaze and wonder at all the glorious things around her.

At last, too, they came into the warm countries. The sun shines there clearer than with us; the heavens were a great deal higher, and on the walls and in the hedges grew the most beautiful blue and green grapes. In the woods hung ripe citrons and oranges, and the air was full of the scent of thyme and myrtle, while beautiful children ran in the roads playing with the gayest colored butterflies. But farther and farther flew the swallow, and below them it became more and more beautiful. By the side of a lake, beneath graceful acacias, there rose an ancient marble palace, the vines clung around the pillars, while above them, on their summits, hung many a swallow’s nest. Into one of these nests the bird carried Ellise.

“Here is my house,” said he, “but look you for one of the loveliest flowers, which grow down there, for your home, and I will carry you there, and you shall have every thing you can possibly want.”

“That would be glorious indeed!” said Ellise, and she clapped her hands together for very joy.

Upon the earth there lay a large white marble pillar, which had been thrown down, and was broken into three pieces, but between its ruins there grew the very fairest flowers, all white, the loveliest you would ever wish to see.

The swallow flew with Ellise to one of these flowers, and set her down upon a broad leaf; but how astonished was Ellise when she saw that a wee little man sat in this flower, who was as fine and transparent as glass. He wore a graceful little crown upon his head, and had beautiful wings on his shoulders; and withal he was not a bit bigger than Ellise herself. He was the angel of this flower. In every flower dwell a pair of such like little men and women, but this was the king of all the flower angels.

“Heavens! how handsome this king is,” whispered Ellise into the ear of the swallow. The little prince was somewhat startled by the arrival of the large bird; but when he saw Ellise, he became instantly in love with her; for she was the most charming little maiden that he had ever seen. So he took off his golden crown, set it upon Ellise, and asked what was her name, and whether she would be his wife; if so, she should be queen over all the other flowers—ah! this was a very different husband to the son of the hideous toad, and the heavy, stupid mole, with his velvet coat! So Ellise said yes, to the beautiful prince; and now, from all the other flowers, appeared either a gentleman or a lady, all wonderfully elegant and beautiful, to bring presents to Ellise. The best presents offered to her was a pair of exquisite white wings, which were immediately fastened on her; and now she could fly from flower to flower.

And now the joy was universal. The little swallow sat above in his nest, and sang as well as he possibly could, though at the same time he was sorely grieved, for he was so fond of Ellise that he wanted never to part from her again.

“You shall not be called Ellise any more,” said the flower-angel, “for it is not at all a pretty name, and you are so pretty! But from this moment you shall be called Maja.”

“Farewell! Farewell!” cried the little swallow, and away he flew again, out of the warm land, far, far away, to the little Denmark, where he had his summer nest over the window of the good man, who knows how to tell stories, that he might sing his Quivit! Quivit! before him. And it is from him, the little swallow, that Granny learnt all this wonderful history.

BELLE’S EYES.

Those eyes, they are so bright and blue,

They seem as if just bathed in dew,

And if they but reflect aright,

Thy heart must joyous be and bright,

Where cherished images must dwell,

Oh! number mine with thine, ma Belle.

“THE PAGE.”

Come listen, ladies! listen, knights!

Ye men of arms and glory!

Ye who have done right noble deeds,

Aye love the poet’s story.

As minstrels love the warriors bold,

And joyfully sing their fame,

O’er warriors’ hearts the poet’s tale

Shall peaceful triumphs claim.

From distant lands Arion came,

From wandering far and long,

With gifts and gold—for princely hearts

Denied no gift to song.

The song that cheered the saddest wo,

The tale that sings of youth,

Flowing sweetly, flowing on,

Through labyrinths of truth.

Rich tributes had been poured on him,

Arion far renowned,

And fair and gentle loved the rule,

Of one by nature crowned.

But what can gifts and what can gold,

Or Fame’s loud peal avail,

Wandering from his childhood’s home,

His own Corinthian vale?

LINES

WRITTEN ON ST. VALENTINE’S DAY.

———

BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.

———

Fair lady, on this day of love,

My spirit, like a timid dove,

Exulting flies to thee for rest,

And nestles on thy gentle breast.

Thou seemest of my life a part,

A haunting presence in my heart,

A glory in my day-dreams bright,

An angel in my dreams at night,

Like yon pure bow of airy birth

A vision more of heaven than earth.

Soft, lovely, beautiful, divine—

But wilt thou be my Valentine?

I’ve looked into thy deep eyes oft,

Where heaven seemed sleeping blue and soft.

I’ve gazed on all thy beauty long,

I’ve heard thy witching voice of song,

I’ve listened when thy deep words came

As if thy lips were touched with flame,

I’ve marked thee smile, I’ve marked thee weep.

I’ve blest thee in the hour of sleep,

I’ve felt thy heart beat wild to hear

Love’s cadence stealing on thine ear,

And I have been supremely blest

When thou wast folded to my breast,

And thy dear lips were pressed to mine—

But wilt thou be my Valentine?

Dove of my spirit! gentle dove,

That bring’st the olive-bough of love

To me when waters vast and dark

Are tossing wild beneath my bark,

Sweet queller of my bosom’s strife,

Blest haunter of each thought of life.

Dear brightner of my soul’s eclipse,

Sultana of my longing lips,

Queen-fairy of my fairy dreams,

Young Naiad of my soul’s deep streams,

Bright rainbow of life’s stormy day,

Lone palm-tree of my desert way,

Soft dew-drop of my heart’s one flower,

Young song-bird of my spirit’s bower,

My star when all beside is dim,

My morning prayer, my evening hymn,

My hope, my bliss, my life, my love,

My all of earth, my heaven above,

On lightning pinions wild and free,

My panting spirit flies to thee,

And worships at thy burning shrine—

But wilt thou be my Valentine?

“What do the Birds say?”

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,

The linnet, and thrush say, “I love, and I love!”

In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so strong;

What it says I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.

But green leaves and blossoms and sunny warm weather,

And singing and loving, all come back together.

But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,

The green-fields below him, the blue sky above,

That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he,

“I love my love, and my love loves me!”

LEORA.

A BALLAD OF SPAIN.

At her lattice sits Leora,

In the long and mellow June,

What time when whitely westward

Shines the round and pendent moon.

Sits she silent, sits she sadly,

With her head upon her hand,

Looking outward where the Ebro

Throws its ripples on the sand.

Never lighter blew the breezes

In the vales of Aragon,

Never smiled Hesperia’s heavens

With more lovely glories on.

Such an evening ’tis as gladdens

Cavaliers of sunny Spain—

Such an evening ’tis when maidens

Recount their loves again.

Now more restless grows Leora,

Fair Leora, gentle maid,

With sweet eyes so dark and fervent,

And each tress of nightly shade.

Heaves her bosom fast and wildly

Like a billow snowed with foam,

For there’s something boding tells her

That Almagro will not come.

Clouds are passing swiftly o’er her,

On her heart their shadows rest,

And the tear-drops from their fountains

Fall embittered to her breast.

Listens now she to the gallop

Of a steed adown the vale;

Now with hope her face is radiant,

Now with fear her cheek is pale.

But no lover rideth swiftly,

Swiftly to the trysting bower,

And Leora still is waiting

Through the long and dreary hour.

And the tears cease not to gather,

And the tears cease not to flow,

And she feels like one abandoned

On the haunted paths of wo.

Where a mountain streamlet gurgles,

From that watcher leagues away—

Where the hours amid the valleys

Listen to the waters’ play—

Faithless Almagro is breathing

Vows of deeply passioned love,

To a maiden on his bosom

In the sweetness of a dove.

And he tells her how he never

To another gave his heart,

Till her innocence is fallen

In the meshes of his art.

Till another than the midnight

Throws a darkness o’er her soul,

Leaving there a troubled fountain,

Leaving there a broken bowl.

Softly sigh the sleeping branches

On the bosom of the breeze,

Sweetly stars are gazing downward

To earth’s blue, unclouded seas:

And in fragrance dream the blossoms

Pure and taintless as before—

But heart-flowers have been gathered

That shall blossom nevermore.

Lowly westward walketh Dian,

On her watches with the night,

And the hours far have stolen

To the gateways of the light.

But, ah! wo is thee, Leora,

Though hopeless, hoping on,

Till Aurora up the Orient,

Rosy-fingered, leads the dawn.

But less wo is thee, Leora,

By thy lattice weary worn—

More’s the wo for thee, Estella,

When thou wakest at the morn.

SPECTRAL ILLUSIONS.

———

BY THOMAS MILNER, M. A.

———

A series of curious and interesting phenomena, involving the apparent elevation and approach of distant objects, the production of aerial images of terrestrial forms, of double images, their inversion, and distortion into an endless variety of grotesque shapes, together with the deceptive aspect given to the desert-landscape, are comprehended in the class of optical illusions. Different varieties of this singular visual effect constitute the mirage of the French, the fata morgana of the Italians, the looming of our seamen, and the glamur of the Highlanders. It is not peculiar to any particular country, though more common in some than others, and most frequently observed near the margin of lakes and rivers, by the sea-shore, in mountain districts and on level plains. These phantoms are perfectly explicable upon optical principles, and though influenced by local combinations, they are mainly referable to one common cause, the refractive and reflective properties of the atmosphere, and inequalities of refraction arising from the intermixture of strata of air of different temperatures and densities. But such appearances in former times were really converted by the imagination of the vulgar into supernatural realities; and hence many of the goblin stories with which the world has been rife, not yet banished from the discipline to which childhood is subject,—

“As when a shepherd of the Hebrid Isles

Placed far amid the melancholy main,

(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,

Or that aerial beings sometimes deign

To stand, embodied, to our senses plain)

Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,

The whilst in ocean Phœbus dips his wain,

A vast assembly moving to and fro,

Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.”

Pliny mentions the Scythian regions within Mount Imaus, and Pomponius Mela those of Mauritania, behind Mount Atlas, as peculiarly subject to these spectral appearances. Diodorus Siculus likewise refers to the regions of Africa, situated in the neighborhood of Cyrene, as another chosen site:—“Even,” says he, “in the severest weather, there are sometimes seen in the air certain condensed exhalations that represent the figures of all kinds of animals; occasionally they seem to be motionless, and in perfect quietude; and occasionally to be flying; while immediately afterward they themselves appear to be the pursuers, and to make other objects fly before them.” Milton might have had this passage in his eye when he penned the allusion to the same apparitions:—

“As when, to warn proud cities, war appears

Waged in the troubled sky, and armies rush

To battle in the clouds; before each van

Prick forth the airy knights, and couch their spears,

Till thickest legions close, with feats of arms

From either side of heaven the welkin rings.”

The Mirage of the Desert.

The mirage is the most familiar form of optical illusion. M. Monge, one of the French savans, who accompanied Buonaparte in his expedition to Egypt, witnessed a remarkable example. In the desert between Alexandria and Cairo, in all directions green islands appeared, surrounded by extensive lakes of pure, transparent water. Nothing could be conceived more lovely or picturesque than the landscape. In the tranquil surface of the lakes, the trees and houses with which the islands were covered were strongly reflected with vivid and varied hues, and the party hastened forward to enjoy the refreshments apparently proffered them. But when they arrived, the lake on whose bosom they floated, the trees among whose foliage they arose, and the people who stood on the shore inviting their approach, had all vanished; and nothing remained but the uniform and irksome desert of sand and sky, with a few naked huts and ragged Arabs. But for being undeceived by an actual progress to the spot, one and all would have remained firm in the conviction that these visionary trees and lakes had a real existence in the desert. M. Monge attributed the liquid expanse, tantalizing the eye with an unfaithful representation of what was earnestly desired, to an inverted image of the cerulean sky, intermixed with the ground scenery. This kind of mirage is known in Persia and Arabia by the name of Serab or miraculous water, and in the western deserts of India by that of Tehittram, a picture. It occurs as a common emblem of disappointment in the poetry of the orientals.

Atmospheric Illusion.

In the Philosophical Transactions for the year 1798, an account is given by W. Latham, Esq., F.R.S., of an instance of lateral refraction observed by him, by which the coast of Picardy, with its more prominent objects, was brought apparently close to that of Hastings. On July the 26th, about five in the afternoon, while sitting in his dining-room, near the sea-shore, attention was excited by a crowd of people running down to the beach. Upon inquiring the reason, it appeared that the coast of France was plainly to be distinguished with the naked eye. Upon proceeding to the shore, he found, that without the assistance of a telescope, he could distinctly see the cliffs across the Channel, which, at the nearest points, are from forty to fifty miles distant, and are not to be discovered, from that low situation, by the aid of the best glasses. They appeared to be only a few miles off, and seemed to extend for some leagues along the coast. At first the sailors and fishermen could not be persuaded of the reality of the appearance, but they soon became thoroughly convinced, by the cliffs gradually appearing more elevated, and seeming to approach nearer, that they were able to point out the different places they had been accustomed to visit, such as the Bay, the Old Head, and the Windmill at Boulogne, St. Vallery, and several other spots. Their remark was that these places appeared as near as if they were sailing at a small distance into the harbor. The apparition of the opposite cliffs varied in distinctness and apparent contiguity for nearly an hour, but it was never out of sight, and upon leaving the beach for a hill of some considerable height, Mr. Latham could at once see Dungeness and Dover cliffs on each side, and before him the French coast from Calais to near Dieppe. By the telescope the French fishing-boats were clearly seen at anchor, and the different colors of the land on the heights, with the buildings, were perfectly discernible. The spectacle continued in the highest splendor until past eight o’clock, though a black cloud obscured the face of the sun for some time, when it gradually faded away. This was the first time within the memory of the oldest inhabitants, that they had ever caught sight of the opposite shore. The day had been extremely hot, and not a breath of wind had stirred since the morning, when the small pennons at the mast-heads of the fishing-boats in the harbor had been at all points of the compass. Professor Vince witnessed a similar apparent approximation of the coast of France to that of Ramsgate, for at the very edge of the water he discerned the Calais cliffs a very considerable height above the horizon, whereas they are frequently not to be seen in clear weather from the high lands above the town. A much greater breadth of coast also appeared than is usually observed under the most favorable circumstances. The ordinary refractive power of the atmosphere is thus liable to be strikingly altered by a change of temperature and humidity, so that a hill which at one time appears low, may at another be seen towering aloft; and a city in a neighboring valley, may from a certain station be entirely invisible, or it may show the tops of its buildings, just as if its foundations had been raised, according to the condition of the aerial medium between it and the spectator.

Fata Morgana at Reggio.

Of all instances of spectral illusion, the fata morgana, familiar to the inhabitants of Sicily, is the most curious and striking. It occurs off the Pharo of Messina, in the strait which separates Sicily from Calabria, and had been variously described by different observers, owing, doubtless, to the different conditions of the atmosphere at the respective times of observation. The spectacle consists in the images of men, cattle, houses, rocks, and trees, pictured upon the surface of the water, and in the air immediately over the water, as if called into existence by an enchanter’s wand, the same object having frequently two images, one in the natural and the other in an inverted position. A combination of circumstances must concur to produce this novel panorama. The spectator, standing with his back to the east on an elevated place, commands a view of the strait. No wind must be abroad to ruffle the surface of the sea; and the waters must be pressed up by currents, which is occasionally the case, to a considerable height, in the middle of the strait, so that they may present a slight convex surface. When these conditions are fulfilled, and the sun has risen over the Calabrian heights so as to make an angle of 45° with the horizon, the various objects on the shore at Reggio, opposite to Messina, are transferred to the middle of the strait, forming an immovable landscape of rocks, trees, and houses, and a movable one of men, horses, and cattle, upon the surface of the water. If the atmosphere, at the same time, is highly charged with vapor, the phenomena apparent on the water will also be visible in the air, occupying a space which extends from the surface to the height of about twenty-five feet. Two kinds of morgana may therefore be discriminated; the first, at the surface of the sea, or the marine morgana; the second, in the air, or the aerial. The term applied to this strange exhibition of uncertain derivation, but supposed by some to refer to the vulgar presumption of the spectacle being produced by a fairy or magician. The populace are said to hail the vision with great exultation, calling every one abroad to partake of the sight, with the cry of “Morgana, morgana!”

Father Angelucci, an eye-witness, describes the scene in the following terms:—“On the 15th of August, 1643, as I stood at my window, I was surprised with a most wonderful, delectable vision. The sea that washes the Sicilian shore swelled up, and became, for ten miles in length, like a chain of dark mountains; while the waters near our Calabrian coast grew quite smooth, and in an instant appeared as one clear polished mirror, reclining against the aforesaid ridge. On this glass was depicted, in chiaro scuro, a string of several thousands of pilasters, all equal in altitude, distance, and degree of light and shade. In a moment they lost half their height, and bent into arcades, like Roman aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed on the top, and above it rose castles innumerable, all perfectly alike. These soon split into towers, which were shortly after lost in colonnades, then windows, and at last ended in pines, cypresses, and other trees, even and similar. This was the Fata Morgana, which, for twenty-six years, I had thought a mere fable.”

Brydone, writing from Messina, evidently in a dubious vein, states:—“Do you know, the most extraordinary phenomenon in the world is often observed near to this place? I laughed at it at first, as you will do, but I am now convinced of its reality, and am persuaded, too, that if ever it had been thoroughly examined by a philosophical eye, the natural cause must long ago have been assigned. It has often been remarked, both by the ancients and moderns, that in the heat of summer, after the sea and air have been much agitated by winds, and a perfect calm succeeds, there appears, about the time of dawn, in that part of the heavens over the straits, a great variety of singular forms, some at rest, and some moving about with great velocity. These forms, in proportion as the light increases, seem to become more aerial, till at last some time before sunrise they entirely disappear. The Sicilians represent this as the most beautiful sight in nature. Leanti, one of their latest and best writers, came here on purpose to see it. He says the heavens appeared crowded with a variety of objects: he mentions palaces, woods, gardens, etc., besides the figures of men and other animals, that appear in motion amongst them. No doubt the imagination must be greatly aiding in forming this aerial creation; but as so many of their authors, both ancient and modern, agree in the fact, and give an account of it from their own observation, there certainly must be some foundation for the story. There is one Giardini, a Jesuit, who has lately written a treatise upon this phenomenon, but I have not been able to find it. The celebrated Messinese Gallo has likewise published something on this singular subject. The common people, according to custom, give the whole merit to the devil; and, indeed, it is by much the shortest and easiest way of accounting for it. Those who pretend to be philosophers, and refuse him this honor, are greatly puzzled what to make of it. They think it may be owing to some uncommon refraction or reflection of the rays, from the water of the straits, which, as it is at that time carried about in a variety of eddies and vortices, must consequently, say they, make a variety of appearances on any medium where it is reflected. This, I think, is nonsense, or at least very near it. I suspect it is something of the nature of our aurora borealis, and, like many of the great phenomena of nature, depends upon electrical cause; which, in future ages, I have little doubt, will be found to be as powerful an agent in regulating the universe as gravity is in this age, or as the subtle fluid was in the last. The electrical fluid in this country of volcanoes, is probably produced in a much greater quantity than in any other. The air, strongly impregnated with this matter, and confined betwixt two ridges of mountains—at the same time exceedingly agitated from below by the violence of the current, and the impetuous whirling of the waters—may it not be supposed to produce a variety of appearances? And may not the lively Sicilian imaginations, animated by a belief in demons, and all the wild offspring of superstition, give these appearances as great a variety of forms? Remember, I do not say it is so; and hope yet to have it in my power to give you a better account of this matter.”

Ingenious as Brydone was, he here indulges a most unfortunate speculation, which, had he enjoyed the good fortune of personally observing the phenomenon, most likely, he would not have proposed. It is to be accounted for upon optical principles, which M. Biot, in his Astronomie Physique, thus applies, from Minasi’s dissertation upon the subject:—“When the rising sun shines from that point whence its incident ray forms an angle of forty-five degrees, on the sea of Reggio, and the bright surface of the water in the bay is not disturbed either by wind or current—when the tide is at its height, and the waters are pressed up by the currents to a great elevation in the middle of the channel; the spectator being placed on an eminence, with his back to the sun, and his face to the sea, the mountains of Messina rising like a wall behind it, and forming the back-ground of the picture—on a sudden there appear in the water, as in a catoptric theatre, various multiplied objects—numberless series of pilasters, arches, castles, well-delineated regular columns, lofty towers, superb palaces, with balconies and windows, extended alleys of trees, delightful plains, with herds and flocks, armies of men on foot, on horseback, and many other things, in their natural colors and proper actions, passing rapidly in succession along the surface of the sea, during the whole of the short period of time while the above-mentioned causes remain. The objects are proved, by accurate observations of the coast of Reggio, to be derived from objects on shore. If, in addition to the circumstances already described, the atmosphere be highly impregnated with vapor and dense exhalations, not previously dispersed by the action of the wind and waves, or rarified by the sun, it then happens that, in this vapor, as in a curtain extended along the channel to the height of above forty palms, and nearly down to the sea, the observer will behold the scene of the same objects not only reflected on the surface of the sea, but likewise in the air, though not so distinctly or well-defined. Lastly, if the air be slightly hazy and opaque, and at the same time dewy, and adapted to form the iris, then the above-mentioned objects will appear only at the surface of the sea, as in the first case, but all vividly colored or fringed with red, green, blue, or other prismatic colors.”

Aerial images of terrestrial objects are frequently produced as the simple effect of reflection. Dr. Buchan mentions the following occurrence:—“Walking on the cliff about a mile to the east of Brighton, on the morning of the 18th of November, 1804, while watching the rising of the sun, I turned my eyes directly to the sea, just as the solar disc emerged from the surface of the water, and saw the face of the cliff on which I was standing represented precisely opposite to me, at some distance from the ocean. Calling the attention of my companion to this appearance, we soon also discovered our own figures standing on the summit of the opposite apparent cliff, as well as the representation of a windmill near at hand. The reflected images were most distinct precisely opposite to where we stood; and the false cliff seemed to fade away, and to draw near to the real one, in proportion as it receded toward the west. This phenomenon lasted about ten minutes, till the sun had risen nearly his own diameter above the sea. The whole then seemed to be elevated into the air, and successively disappeared. The surface of the sea was covered with a dense fog of many yards in height, and which gradually receded before the rays of the sun.” In December, 1826, a similar circumstance excited some consternation among the parishioners of Miqué, in the neighborhood of Poitiers, in France. They were engaged in the exercises of the jubilee which preceded the festival of Christmas, and about three thousand persons from the surrounding parishes were assembled. At five o’clock in the evening, when one of the clergy was addressing the multitude, and reminding them of the cross which appeared in the sky to Constantine and his army, suddenly a similar cross appeared in the heavens, just before the porch of the church, about two hundred feet above the horizon, and a hundred and forty feet in length, of a bright silver color tinged with red, and perfectly well-defined. Such was the effect of this vision, that the people immediately threw themselves upon their knees, and united together in one of their canticles. The fact was, that a large wooden cross, twenty-five feet high, had been erected beside the church as a part of the ceremony, the figure of which was formed in the air, and reflected back to the eyes of the spectators, retaining exactly the same shape and proportions, but changed in position and dilated in size. Its red tinge was also the color of the object of which it was the reflected image. When the rays of the sun were withdrawn the figure vanished.

Spectre of the Brocken.

The peasantry in the neighborhood of the Harz Mountains formerly stood in no little awe of the gigantic spectre of the Brocken—the figure of a man observed to walk the clouds over the ridge at sunrise. This apparition has long been resolved into an exaggerated reflection, which makes the traveler’s shadow, pictured upon the clouds, appear a colossal figure of immense dimensions. A French savan, attended by a friend, went to watch this spectral shape, but for many mornings they traversed an opposite ridge in vain. At length, however, it was discovered, having also a companion, and both figures were found imitating all the motions of the philosopher and his friend. The ancient classical fable of Niobe on Mount Sipylus belongs to the same category of atmospheric deceptions; and the tales, common in mountainous countries, of troops of horse and armies marching and counter-marching in the air, have been only the reflection of horses pasturing upon an opposite height, or of the forms of travelers pursuing their journey. On the 19th of August, 1820, Mr. Menzies, a surgeon of Glasgow, and Mr. Macgregor began to ascend the mountain of Ben Lomond, about five o’clock in the afternoon. They had not proceeded far before they were overtaken by a smart shower; but as it appeared only to be partial, they continued their journey, and by the time they were half way up, the cloud passed away, and most delightful weather succeeded. Thin, transparent vapors, which appeared to have risen from Loch Lomond beneath, were occasionally seen floating before a gentle and refreshing breeze; in other respects, as far as the eye could trace, the sky was clear, and the atmosphere serene. They reached the summit about half-past seven o’clock, in time to see the sun sinking beneath the western hills. Its parting beams had gilded the mountain-tops with a warm glowing color; and the surface of the lake, gently rippling with the breeze, was tinged with a yellow lustre. While admiring the adjacent mountains, hills, and valleys, and the expanse of water beneath, interspersed with numerous wooded islands, the attention of one of the party was attracted by a cloud in the east, partly of a dark red color, apparently at the distance of two miles and a half, in which he distinctly observed two gigantic figures, standing, as it were, on a majestic pedestal. He immediately pointed out the phenomenon to his companion; and they distinctly perceived one of the gigantic figures, in imitation, strike the other on the shoulder, and point toward them. They then made their obeisance to the airy phantoms, which was instantly returned. They waved their hats and umbrellas, and the shadowy figures did the same. Like other travelers, they had carried with them a bottle of usquebaugh, and amused themselves in drinking to the figures, which was of course duly returned. In short, every movement which they made, they could observe distinctly repeated by the figures in the cloud. The appearance continued about a quarter of an hour. A gentle breeze from the north carried the cloud slowly away; the figures became less and less distinct, and at last vanished. North of the village of Comrie, in Perthshire, there is a bold hill called Dunmore, with a pillar of seventy or eighty feet in height built on its summit in memory of the late Lord Melville. At about eight o’clock of the evening of the 21st of August, of the year 1845, a perfect image of this well-known hill and obelisk, as exact as the shadow usually represents the substance, was distinctly observed projecting on the northern sky, at least two miles beyond the original, which, owing to an intervening eminence, was not itself at all in view from the station where the aerial picture was observed. The figure continued visible for about ten minutes after it was first seen, and was minutely examined by three individuals. One of these fancied that there was a projection at the base of the monument, as represented in the air, which was not in the original; but, upon examining the latter the next morning, the image was found to have been more faithful than his memory; for there stood the prototype of the projection, in the shape of a clump of trees, at the base of the real obelisk.

In northern latitudes the effects of atmospheric reflection and refraction are very familiar to the natives. By the term of uphillanger the Icelanders denote the elevation of distant objects, which is regarded as a presage of fine weather. Not only is there an increase in the vertical dimensions of the objects affected, so that low coasts frequently assume a bold and precipitous outline, the objects sunk below the horizon are brought into view, with their natural position changed and distorted. In 1818, Captain Scoresby relates that, when in the polar sea, his ship had been separated for some time from that of his father, which he had been looking out for with great anxiety. At length, one evening, to his astonishment, he beheld the vessel suspended in the air in an inverted position, with the most distinct and perfect representation. Sailing in the direction of this visionary appearance, he met with the real ship by this indication. It was found that the vessel had been thirty miles distant, and seventeen beyond the horizon, when her spectrum was thus elevated into the air by this extraordinary refraction. Sometimes two images of a vessel are seen, the one erect and the other inverted, with their topmasts or their hulls meeting, according as the inverted image is above or below the other. Dr. Wollaston has shown that the production of these images is owing to the refraction of the rays through media of different densities. Looking along a red-hot poker at a distant object, two images of it were seen, one erect and the other inverted, arising from the change produced by the heat in the density of the air. A singular instance of lateral mirage was noticed upon the Lake of Geneva by MM. Jurine and Soret, in the year 1818. A bark near Bellerire was seen approaching to the city by the left bank of the lake; and at the same time an image of the sails was observed above the water, which, instead of following the direction of the bark, separated from it, and appeared approaching by the right bank—the image moving from east to west, and the bark from north to south. When the image separated from the vessel, it was of the same dimensions as the bark; but it diminished as it receded from it, so as to be reduced to one-half when the appearance ceased. This was a striking example of refraction, operating in a lateral as well as a vertical direction.

Ignis Fatuus. This wandering meteor known to the vulgar as the Will-o’-the-Wisp, has given rise to considerable speculation and controversy. Burying-grounds, fields of battle, low meadows, valleys, and marshes, are its ordinary haunts. By some eminent naturalists, particularly Willoughby and Ray, it has been maintained to be only the shining of a great number of the male glow-worms in England, and the pyraustæ in Italy, flying together—an opinion to which Mr. Kirby, the entomologist, inclines. The luminosities observed in several cases may have been due to this cause, but the true meteor of the marshes cannot thus be explained. The following instance is abridged from the Entomological Magazine:—“Two travelers proceeding across the moors between Hexham and Alston, were startled, about ten o’clock at night, by the sudden appearance of a light close to the road-side, about the size of the hand, and of a well-defined oval form. The place was very wet, and the peat-moss had been dug out, leaving what are locally termed ‘peat-pots,’ which soon fill with water, nourishing a number of confervæ, and the various species of sphagnum, which are converted into peat. During the process of decomposition these places give out large quantities of gas. The light was about three feet from the ground, hovering over the peat-pots, and it moved nearly parallel with the road for about fifty yards, when it vanished, probably from the failure of the gas. The manner in which it disappeared was similar to that of a candle being blown out.” We have the best account of it from Mr. Blesson, who examined it abroad with great care and diligence.

Ignis Fatuus.

“The first time,” he states, “I saw the ignis fatuus was in a valley in the forest of Gorbitz, in the New Mark. This valley cuts deeply in compact loam, and is marshy on its lower part. The water of the marsh is ferruginous, and covered with an iridescent crust. During the day bubbles of air were seen rising from it, and in the night blue flames were observed shooting from and playing over its surface. As I suspected that there was some connection between these flames and the bubbles of air, I marked during the day-time the place where the latter rose up most abundantly, and repaired thither during the night; to my great joy I actually observed bluish-purple flames, and did not hesitate to approach them. On reaching the spot they retired, and I pursued them in vain; all attempts to examine them closely were ineffectual. Some days of very rainy weather prevented further investigation, but afforded leisure for reflecting on their nature. I conjectured that the motion of the air, on my approaching the spot, forced forward the burning gas, and remarked that the flame burned darker when it was blown aside; hence I concluded that a continuous thin stream of inflammable air was formed by these bubbles, which, once inflamed, continued to burn, but which, owing to the paleness of the light of the flame, could not be observed during the day.”

The ignis fatuus of the church-yard and the battle-field arise from the phosphuretted hydrogen emitted by animal matter in a state of putrefaction, which always inflames upon contact with the oxygen of the atmosphere; and the flickering meteor of the marsh may be referred to the carburetted hydrogen, formed by the decomposition of vegetable matter in stagnant water, ignited by a discharge of the electric fluid.

CAMPAIGNING STORIES.

NO. II.—THE CAPTIVE RIVALS.[^[1]]

———

BY THE AUTHOR OF “TALBOT AND VERNON.”

———

(Concluded from page 212, Vol. XXXIX.)

PART III.

I have not seen

So likely an embassador of love.

Merchant of Venice.

It gives me wonder, great is my content,

To see you here before me.

Othello.

The sun had not yet climbed the hills on the east of the valley, when Harding set forth on his uncertain mission; and not one of the indolent people of the country was any where to be seen. The houses were all closed—no smoke issued from their rude chimneys—no sound or motion broke the stillness. Apart from its solitude, however, it was a beautiful scene. The haziness of the evening before was now gone—the valley was refreshed by the dew of the night; and the reviving influence of the cool morning seemed to have had its effect upon the inanimate as well as the animate. The slope of the hills on the north, where the first rays of the sun rested for hours before they touched the southern plateau, was dotted here and there by straggling goats, browsing listlessly upon the scanty vegetation; while lower down the valley and along the banks of the little river, numbers of cattle were either standing patiently around the inclosures or wandering slowly away toward the hills. The river, silvered by the morning light, wound thread-like down the valley toward the west, and was visible even to the turn of the mountain miles away, where it enters the labyrinth of ridges in the neighborhood of Parras. There were no waving fields of grain; but the hedges were all green and fresh; verdure was springing even at that season, where the ground had been cleared of its products; and the evergreen trees, and groves of oranges which dotted the land imparted an aspect of fertile beauty. The shadows of the rugged hills were traceable along the ground, so clearly that the line of separation could be followed through the fields—one-half in sunlight, half in shade—the former gradually encroaching on the latter. There were no birds to cheer the solitude with matin songs; but so peaceful was the scene that even their presence might have seemed unwelcome.

Harding gazed about him as he crossed the bridge as if in search of the road. There were two paths; one leading along the front of several ranchos, and apparently taking him directly to the point he wished to reach. The other led away to the left, sweeping round the fields and avoiding the houses, with the danger of meeting their inmates. It was the latter that the count directed him to take; but for some reason best known to himself he followed the first, without heeding De Marsiac’s hail, and soon found himself riding slowly between two straggling rows of neat cottages. There was no one astir, however, and he had ridden nearly the whole length of the avenue without seeing any signs of life—when, judging himself to be out of view of Embocadura, he turned his horse in among the elms, and sprang to the ground.

Throwing his bridle-rein over a limb, he first carefully examined his pistols, and then loosening his sword in the scabbard, stepped out from the cover and approached the nearest cottage. It was not until he had knocked several times that any answer was returned. Then, however, the door was suddenly swung open, and he was confronted by one of those specimens of Mexican youth, whose faces combine in so remarkable a degree, great beauty with an expression of wicked cunning. He was a boy—perhaps eighteen years of age, with a slender figure, but evidently very active, and unless an exception to his race, capable of enduring great fatigue and privation. His eyes were dark as night, small, and keen; his nose thin and straight, his lips rather pinched, but red and clearly cut. The rest of his features were appropriate to these, and his complexion was rather lighter than the general hue of his people. He held a lareat coiled in his hand, and his goat-skin shoes were armed at the heel with enormous spurs.

“Buenas dias, Señor,” said he, in a clear, sharp voice, stepping back at the same time, in mute invitation to Harding to enter.

The latter returned the salutation and asked—

“On whose lands are these ranchos?”

“On those of La Señora Eltorena,” answered the boy, promptly.

“How far is it to Anelo?” he inquired.

“Twelve leagues, sir.”

Harding reflected for a moment, and then beckoned the boy aside. The latter gazed at him inquiringly; but drawing the door to, followed him to the place where his horse was standing.

“You see that horse?” said he.

“I do,” answered the boy “and a very fine one he is, too.”

“Could you ride him to Anelo and back,[^[2]] to-day?”

“How much money could I get to do it?” asked the youth, eyeing the officer as if to measure his liberality.

“Twenty dollars,” Harding answered; “or, if you do not find me on your return, you may keep the horse.”

“Agreed,” said the boy, promptly. “I’ll set out now.”

Harding took a blank leaf from his pocket-book and wrote a note to the commandant of a detachment of Texan rangers, whom he knew to be then foraging at Anelo, and handed it to the boy.

“You must be back before midnight,” said he; “and you may ask for me at the hacienda. My name is Harding.”

“And mine is Eltorena,” said the youth. “I am six months older than Margarita, and entitled to the name by the same right.”

His eyes glistened as he spoke with an expression so devilish, that Harding was half inclined to take back the note and discharge him. But while reflecting upon the words of the boy, the latter, as if divining his half formed intention, suddenly put spurs to his horse’s flanks and bounded away. Harding watched him until he had crossed the river, and avoiding La Embocadura by a wide circuit, was fast disappearing among the groves to the east.

Concluding that if he had made a mistake it was now too late to amend it, he turned on his heel, and was about to pursue his way toward Piedritas on foot, when his attention was arrested by a voice pronouncing his name.

“Señor Harding, let me speak with you for a moment.”

He turned, and beheld a female in the very bloom of mature womanhood—tall, elegantly formed, and possessing a countenance of singular force and beauty. She was standing near the door at which he had knocked, and he had no difficulty in determining from the resemblance that she was the mother of his messenger. He advanced with the ordinary salutation, and followed her within the house.

“I am perfectly well acquainted,” she commenced abruptly, without offering him a seat, “with the object of your visit to the hacienda. You are here to wed the daughter of the woman who calls herself the Señora Eltorena—”

“Calls herself!” repeated Harding.

“And you are doubtless like other men,” she continued, without noticing the exclamation, “more attracted by the property than the bride. Now, I wish to warn you that this estate, with all that the late Colonel Eltorena owned, belongs to his son—and mine—the youth whom you have just sent away; and that I hold General Santa Anna’s pledge to see him righted as soon as the army marches this way. So, if you marry her, it is with your eyes open.”

“You are mistaken, madam,” said Harding, after a pause given to surprise; “I am here on no such errand: I am, on the contrary,” he added, with a smile, “only a humble ambassador, suing for the lady’s hand in the name of another, more potent individual.”

“In the name of the murdering thief, De Marsiac?” she exclaimed.

“Even so,” Harding replied, “the very same, without mistake.”

“You are a strange ambassador,” she said, with a laugh. “But,” she continued, resuming her somewhat wild manner, “I warn him through you, as I have done to his face, that the man who marries that woman’s daughter, must take her portionless!”

“In that case,” said Harding, with another smile, “I doubt whether the count will care to take her at all. But enlighten me about your son’s title—it may be important to my principal.”

Her story was not an uncommon one, though it took a long time in telling; for she dwelt with painful emphasis upon some parts, and talked so incoherently upon others, that Harding was confirmed in his suspicion that her mind was, upon that subject at least, quite unsettled. She had been induced by the late Colonel Eltorena to go to his house, as his wife, under a promise that the actual ceremony should be performed by the first priest who came from Monclova or Saltillo. It was a remote district in which they lived, and they might have to wait for months before the expected visit would be made; and knowing this, and at the earnest solicitation of her lover, she consented to an arrangement, which was not so uncommon as it should have been. Wherever the common law prevails as it does in the United States, this would have been a legal marriage; and she solemnly protested that she so considered it upon the representation of the colonel himself. Two or three priests had passed that way within a few months; but upon various pretexts the ceremony was postponed.

At last, after about six months, the Colonel went to the city of Mexico on a visit, and returned with a wife! “The woman,” said the narrator, “who now calls herself La Señora Eltorena!” She, the deceived and betrayed, was generously offered an asylum in the rancho, where she had lived ever since; and six months after her ejectment from the hacienda by “the proud English woman,” her son was born. For eighteen years she had been suing for her rights; but superior influence with the corrupt judges of that unhappy land had foiled all her efforts; and in the meantime, she had lived in plain view of the hacienda, determined never to lose sight of her object, until she saw her son in possession. She had never been inside of its walls: “but,” said she, “I will be there—and soon! May God give me revenge upon the sorceress, who stole away my rights!”

“It is a very hard case,” said Harding, when she had finished, “but I fear like many other wrongs, it has no remedy.”

“There is one remedy,” said she, significantly, “when all others fail.” And drawing aside the end of her mantilla, she disclosed the hilt of a long, keen dagger. She drew it forth, ran her finger along its edge, smiled faintly, and replaced it in its sheath.

“Well, well,” said Harding, turning away, “I am warned at all events, and will take care that the count is enlightened, also. I must speed upon my mission. Good morning.”

She made no reply, and he passed out, taking his way toward the hacienda, which lay in view, about a mile distant. Turning to the right, he soon reached the bank of the river, and followed its rapid but even current, which ran sparkling beneath the court-yard wall. It was yet quite early; and as he reached the front of the mansion, his fear, that as yet no one would be astir, was confirmed. Returning again to the margin of the stream, he commenced pacing up and down the sward under a row of elms, with the intention of awaiting the rising of the family. He had made but two or three turns, however, and had halted, gazing about upon the still morning scene, when he thought he observed something like drapery pass across the arches in the wall, through which the river entered the inclosure. He advanced somewhat closer, and could distinctly see a pair of small feet tripping across the river on a footway made by placing large stones a step apart from bank to bank. He could not doubt that it was Margarita; but without going again to the front of the house, he knew of no means of ingress.

Casting his glance up and down the stream, to his delight, he discovered a small boat moored to the bank, and slowly swinging in the current. A moment sufficed to untie the rope which bound it, and in another, he was seated on its light planks, rapidly floating toward the arched passage. The waters, raised by the rains of the preceding day, left but scanty room beneath the masonry; but lying down in the bottom of the boat, and guiding her with his hands, he soon had the satisfaction to emerge within the inclosure. On rising again, he found himself between an extensive garden on one side and the offices of the mansion on the other. The former seemed to be a neglected wilderness of trees, and flowering plants and vines, but on reaching the footway over which the feet had passed, he discovered an opening to the labyrinth, in a broad, graveled walk, which wound away between rows of shrubbery, sparkling in the morning sunlight, and lost itself in the distance.

Turning the boat broadside against the stones, to prevent its floating away, he sprang to the bank and walked rapidly down the avenue. He discovered neither form nor sign of life for several minutes; but as he turned from the main walk into a smaller, which led away to the left, he saw directly before him, walking slowly toward the place where he stood, a young girl whose exquisite beauty well justified his eagerness. She was slightly above the medium height, slender, but well-proportioned, with a carriage erect and graceful. Her rich, brown hair was braided in masses over a forehead of the purest white, and drawn back loosely so as almost to hang upon her round, snowy neck. Her eyes were of the same color with her hair—a rich, dark brown; and their expression, though somewhat pensive, was yet sparkling and clear. A nose of the true Grecian model, a round, though not full chin, a small mouth with thin, curling lips, and cheeks now tinged by exercise in the cool morning air, completed a face which might well have attracted a man of less taste than the Count De Marsiac. To complete the picture, she had small, beautiful feet, such as a sultana might have envied; and her perfect, white hands, which now lay folded together in front, might have been a model for a sculptor. She wore a thin morning dress of the purest white, and as she walked slowly and unconsciously, it waved like gossamer about her person—revealing, perhaps, too much of its contour to please our northern prejudices, but still adding to its exquisite attraction.

Harding’s circumstances were so peculiar, that he was embarrassed for a moment, and could not determine how to meet her. She had not yet seen him, and acting upon the impulse of perplexity, he stepped within the cover of the shrubbery, and allowed her to pass without speaking. She went but a few steps, however, before he called—

“Margarita!”

She started at his voice, but turned and at once advanced to meet him. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, too, as she did so, and the hand she extended to him trembled from emotion. Harding could not know her feelings, and he had reason to doubt her truth; but, though he could not tell what it was, there was something in her look and manner as she met him which made him forget all suspicion. He took her hand in one of his, and placing the other about her waist, drew her to him, and—the love of a former time was renewed!

“We meet once more,” he whispered; it was all he could say.

“I feared we were parted forever,” she said, disengaging herself from his embrace, but still leaning on his arm.

“I thought you had forgotten me,” continued Harding.

“I am not sure but I ought to have done so,” she replied, with a smile which revealed how little she meant what she said. “But how is it that you are here?”

“I had forgotten,” answered he; “I am here as an envoy from another, to ask your hand in marriage!”

“You!” she exclaimed, drawing away from him. “From whom?”

“From his highness,” answered Harding, laughingly detaining her, “Eugene Raoul, Count De Marsiac!”

She gazed at him in surprise for a few moments; and then, catching the light of his smile, folded her hands upon his shoulder, looked archly into his eyes and said—

“If the envoy does not deem my hand a prize high enough to justify his preferring a claim on his own behalf. I must even listen to the overtures of his sovereign.”

“Then I must deliver my credentials,” said Harding, and drawing her to him, he kissed her upon both cheeks. “And now,” he continued, taking her hand, “my mission is ended; and in my own proper character I claim this hand as my own. Is it mine?”

“Forever,” she answered, and he was about to resume his “credentials,” when a rustling among the bushes attracted his attention; and before Margarita could disengage herself, Lieutenant Grant confronted them, and leveled a pistol at Harding’s breast!

“Traitor!” he shouted furiously; “you shall pay for this with your life!”

Margarita screamed loudly, and threw herself in front of her lover; but before Grant was aware of his intention, Harding drew his sword, and passing around her, threw himself upon him. He knocked the pistol into the air just as it exploded; and the next instant Grant was stretched upon the sward, bleeding profusely from a wound in the head given by the back of Harding’s sword! The latter drew the remaining pistol from the sash of the fallen lieutenant, and kneeling beside him raised him from the ground on his arm.

“Bring some water from the river,” he said to Margarita.

But as he looked up, he perceived that the party had been increased by one! A tall, handsome woman, of perhaps thirty-six, stood gazing sternly on the scene, while Margarita shrank back abashed. She had a face once evidently distinguished for its proud beauty, but now remarkable chiefly for the masculine strength of its expression. Her eye was of that deep blue, which oftener indicates coldness than tenderness; and her lips, now compressed and white, were full of fierce resolution. It was plain that a sneer was more natural to her than a smile, anger than affection. Her brow was high but narrow, and her nose a thin aquiline. It was not at all strange that she had been the dominant spirit in Colonel Eltorena’s household.

“What is this?” she commenced, in a voice of powerful compass, but no sweetness. “And who are you, sir, who dare to invade my private garden to brawl with my guests?”

“You know me full well, madam,” said Harding, irritated by her tone, “and I intend that you shall know me better. But this is no time to instruct you. Margarita, will you bring some water from the river?”

Margarita looked doubtfully at her mother; but at a wave of her hand, ran away toward the river. As she disappeared, her mother advanced closer to Harding, who was endeavoring to resuscitate Grant, and said—

“You are here, I suppose, sir, for the purpose of attempting to interfere with my domestic arrangements; but let me assure you that you shall hang to one of these trees rather than be even admitted within the house!”

“Your threats are brave enough, at all events,” said Harding, with a smile. “But do you not think it would better become a woman to assist me in a duty of humanity?”

“What does she know of humanity?” demanded a sharp female voice, close to the group; and on turning his head Harding saw the same woman, whose story of deception and betrayal had so much interested him two hours before.

“What do you here?” demanded the señora, with one of those scowling looks for which her face seemed made. “Must I have you, too, thrust from my gate!”

“Your gate!” hissed the woman, advancing nearer to the object of her hatred, and flashing insane glances from those wild, haggard eyes. “Your gate! Impostor, witch, begone! Must I have you thrust from my gate?”

There is something very appalling in the glance of an eye touched with insanity; and the Englishwoman shrunk from it, if not in fear, at least in dread. But, at the same moment, she saw Margarita returning with the water, and called to her—

“Go back, my daughter, and send some of the men here.”

“To thrust me forth from your gate, I suppose,” said the woman, advancing still closer, and fumbling with her right hand under the end of her mantilla.

“Yes,” said the señora fiercely; “will you go without violence?”

“No!” the maniac almost screamed. “No!” she repeated; and with the word, she suddenly drew her hand from its concealment, flourishing the dagger which she had shown Harding, and with a bound like that of a tiger, sprang upon her enemy and buried the steel in her heart! Harding dropped Grant, and rushed forward to prevent another blow, but his interference was too late! The señora screamed wildly, and with a convulsive gasp fell to the ground, quite dead!

Harding seized the arm of the murderess and easily wrested the dagger from her hand. Indeed, she made no resistance—the reaction of her excitement sapped away her strength; and, submitting without a word to all that Harding did, she seemed intent only upon the now fast stiffening corpse which lay before her.

“I am sorry for her,” she murmured; “I am sorry for her—but she would have it, and I cannot bring her to life.”

She burst into tears, and threw herself to the ground—uttering the most terrible imprecations of God’s vengeance upon herself, mingled with curses of the late Colonel Eltorena, and incoherent references to his perfidy. Harding was at a loss how to act—so strangely embarrassing was the wild scene in which he found himself.

The question was soon decided for him. He heard the approach of several armed men, walking with quick steps along the path, and, the next moment, Count De Marsiac suddenly entered the little area.

“Villain!” he exclaimed, striding toward Harding; “you have deceived me, and shall die the death!”

“Back, sir!” shouted the lieutenant fiercely, presenting the point of his sword. “If there is a greater villain than yourself here, the devil must be present in person!”

The count recoiled from the blade, and furiously ordered his men to fire upon the audacious American; but two of them, who had been busied with Grant, now sprang upon him from behind, and, after a sharp struggle, overpowered and bound him.

“I will dispose of you after awhile,” said De Marsiac, when he saw him hors du combat. “Leave him where he is,” he added to his men; and proceeding to give his orders with clearness and rapidity, the scene was soon broken up. Grant was restored to consciousness and again made a prisoner; the body of the señora was removed by the women summoned for the purpose, the murderess was taken into custody, and the whole party repaired to the house. Of this, De Marsiac at once took possession as if he were already its master; Margarita was confined to her own chamber, and Harding was thrust into a small, dingy room, and left alone, with those unpleasant companions, his own thoughts.

——

PART IV.

All in the castle were at rest;

When sudden on the windows shone

A lightning flash, just seen and gone.

Rokeby.

’Tis to be wished it had been sooner done;

But stories somewhat lengthen, when begun.

Byron.

It wanted yet an hour of noon, when, excepting the occasional clash of arms in the court-yard, where De Marsiac had quartered his men, all sounds in the mansion ceased. The room in which Harding found himself imprisoned, had but one small window, and this was protected by strong, vertical iron bars, in the fashion of the country. The only door opened upon a corridor, along the stone pavement of which the prisoner could distinctly hear the footsteps of a sentinel, approaching and receding, but never quite going beyond earshot. As if to secure him, beyond the possibility of escape, another armed man passed, from time to time, before the window, looking curiously in at each return, and never disappearing for more than five minutes. Harding, as the reader has perceived, was a decidedly brave man; but when he reflected upon the meaning of these precautions, and the character of the man into whose power he had fallen, he could not avoid some apprehension as to his fate. Fatigue, however, soon overcame his fears, and the drowsy monotony of noonday conquered his wakefulness. Seating himself in the deep window, he leaned his head against the bars and slept.

When he awoke, the sun was declining toward the horizon, and the shadows of the trees were lengthening along the hills. He aroused himself and looked about him. His window commanded a view of the garden, in which he had met Margarita, and a part of the river, along which he had entered. The waters had subsided since morning, and the arches under the wall were proportionably more open; but escape in this direction, even had he been able to break his prison, was cut off by two sentinels who stood upon the river-bank, and never, for a moment, turned their eyes from his window.

None but those who are deprived of it, can fully appreciate the blessing of freedom; but even their hopelessness may be deepened, by the view of waving fields and clear sunlight, when they feel that it is not for them that they wave and shine. Harding turned away from the window, sick at heart, and with rapid and impatient strides paced up and down the narrow floor. As he passed the door for the fourth or fifth time, he heard voices without, as if in altercation, and the next moment, a heavy step coming along the corridor.

“What do you want here?” roughly demanded a voice, which Harding at once recognized as that of the count.

“I was taking the Americano something to eat,” timidly answered the smaller of the voices, before in altercation.

“Let him pass,” the count ordered the sentinel; and then added, aloud, as if on purpose to be heard within, “and tell the Americano that he had better eat heartily, for it will be his last meal!”

“Si, señor,” said the boy, and at the same moment the door was cautiously opened, so as to preclude all chance of escape, and the peon entered, bearing a small waiter, on which were placed some articles of food.

Harding turned away, in no mood for eating—though he had tasted nothing since morning. He had heard De Marsiac’s threat, and the character of his enemy left him little reason to doubt that he would put it into execution. He had hoped that his messenger would return from Anelo in time to save him; but now all prospect of that seemed cut off; for he knew that the count was not a man to delay when he had once taken his resolution. As this thought flashed across his mind, he wheeled suddenly round, determined to rush forth and try the chances of a fight; but before he could do so, the door was drawn violently to, and hastily bolted.

“The señor will eat something?” said the boy, timidly.

“Set it down, then, and begone!” answered the prisoner, pointing to a wooden bench at the side of the room.

“The count told me to say you had better eat heartily,” said the peon, “as this will be your last meal; and,” he continued, in a lower voice, pointing to a roll of bread, “you must break this bread, even if you don’t eat it.”

The gesture and tone attracted Harding’s attention. He approached the bench and raised the roll, while the boy, repeating his injunction, went back to the door, and was cautiously let out. The lieutenant waited until the bolts were drawn again, and then broke the bread. A small slip of paper fell to the floor; and, on raising it, he found the following hopeful, though unsatisfactory words:

“Will you pay me the twenty dollars, or shall I keep the horse?”

“It would be cheaper,” muttered Harding, perversely, “to let him keep the horse, if he has ridden him thirty leagues already. But,” he added, a suspicion flashing across his mind, “that is impossible! I ought to have known the young scoundrel would betray me—and this is only a cruel ruse of De Marsiac!”

He turned the paper over as he spoke, and his eye caught these words written on the reverse:

“I will be with you by 9 o’clock—McCulloch.”

“I did the boy injustice,” was his first thought; “he shall have both the money and the horse.” And seating himself on the bench, he followed the count’s well-meant advice, and was soon refreshed by a hearty meal.

It is wonderful how much the state of the stomach has to do with the moods of the mind. Indeed, the two organs seem to be inter-reactive; and I believe some physiologists now contend, with great plausibility, too, that the brain is really the digestive organ. If this theory be true, mental distress must be only another name for dispepsia; and—though I have seen men who ate like anacondas, when under great affliction—I am strongly inclined to endorse the speculation. At all events, Harding was “a case, or subject, in point;” for, but a few minutes before, when he was apprehending many certain and uncertain evils, from the resentment of the count, he had not the least desire for refreshment; but, on the first glimpse of hope, he had an appetite like a soldier escaped from a beleaguered city. And, no sooner was the inner man replenished, than—on the aforesaid principle of inter-reaction—his spirits rose almost to the point of absolute content. Most axioms are tautological; but none is more so than that which asserts that “man is a strange animal.” The word “strange” might be advantageously and conveniently left out.

So thoroughly had the important act of receiving his rations reinvigorated the captive, both corporeally and mentally, that, when he resumed his walk up and down the floor, he dismissed all anxiety about his own fate, and began to speculate in reference to the condition of his fellow-prisoner, Grant. From regret that he had been compelled to strike him, his mind wandered to a more pleasing subject of contemplation—he began to long for some information about Margarita; how she was treated by the ruffian count, and, more particularly—for love is always egotistical—how she viewed his captivity; and finally, whether she had not forgotten her grief for her murdered mother, in devising means of giving him his liberty. These, or such as these, are often very pleasant fancies—the misfortune is, that, in most cases, they are only fancies, and are occasionally rather rudely dispelled.

So it was, at all events, with Harding; for, just as he had reached that supreme apex of egotism, to which lovers so easily attain—where one’s mistress is not supposed to know that there is any thing, or anybody else in the world, about which, or whom, she can think—when he was recalled to more substantial realities, by hearing the count, in loud, stern tones, giving a rapid and ominous command.

“Close the gates and bar them—muster the company, with loaded muskets, and bring out the prisoners!” Such was the significant order of a man who was never known to stop at half-measures!

“McCulloch will be too late, at last!” exclaimed Harding, halting suddenly, and dashing his hand violently against the wall. The dinner had lost its virtues, for his heart sank even below its former point of depression. And, in truth, his apprehension was far from groundless. De Marsiac was incensed beyond bearing, by the consciousness that Harding had overreached him. His suspicions were first aroused by observing him take a road to Piedritas, different to the one he had pointed out. He had watched him until he halted among the elms, and had seen him dispatch the messenger for assistance. He was ignorant, however, of his point of destination—supposing that the nearest American force was at Monclova, about sixty leagues[^[3]] distant. This supposition would give him at least forty-eight hours, in which to prepare for the reception, should soldiers be sent, or, at least, to retreat into the mountains. The interview between Margarita and Harding, had also been watched by some one of the household; and when the count came in great haste after his prisoner, this unwelcome news had met him at the threshold. A man of his violent temper could not have brooked this under any circumstances, least of all, when he possessed, as did the count, ample and ready means of vengeance.

While the unfortunate prisoner was running these comfortless circumstances over in his mind, the door was suddenly thrown open, and several men rushed upon him and threw him to the floor. Almost before he was aware of their object, his arms were drawn forcibly back and pinioned behind him. They then lifted him to his feet, and unceremoniously marched him out upon the corridor. Here he found Grant, securely pinioned like himself, and held by two rancheros, one on each arm.

“This is a pretty predicament you have brought us into,” said the younger, sullenly; “We’re to be shot, I suppose.”

“Very probably,” answered Harding, scarcely able to resist, even in that serious moment, an inclination to smile at Grant’s disconsolate look. “But how came you here?”

“I escaped from Embocadura about the same time with you, and was in the garden to learn your treachery and—”

“And to get that blow on the head,” interrupted Harding, feeling again an impulse to jest.

“I’ll settle that score with you hereafter,” said Grant, his eyes flashing fire.

“By ‘hereafter,’ I suppose, you mean in the next world,” said Harding, with a bitter smile. “But, seriously, Grant, this is no time for the indulgence of such feelings; we have probably not long to live, and ought to be thinking of more important matters. I am heartily sorry for the blow, as well as for my insincerity—will you forgive it?”

“With all my heart,” answered the other warmly; and each made a gesture, as if to join hands; but the cords bound them too closely.

“We can do but one thing, Grant,” said Harding, with feeling, “and that is, die like Christian men—and brave men,” he added, after a pause; “for these cursed rancheros ought not to see any weakness in Americans.”

“They shall see none in me,” said Grant, firmly, “though I do think it hard to be sacrificed in this way!”

“One of the chances of war, Grant—only one of the chances of war,” said Harding, sturdily; and, at the same moment the count, for whom the men seemed to have been waiting, appeared on the corridor and waved his hand. The files turned away with their prisoners, and marching around the building, soon gained the bank of the river. Here they halted again, awaiting the approach of the count, who, like most men when assuming a fearful responsibility, seemed to act with much less than his usual prompt rapidity. The sun had already set, and there was only left the short twilight of that latitude before the falling of night, which must suspend the bloody act, perhaps forever.

But a few minutes were lost, however, when De Marsiac came hastily round the building, accompanied by ten of his rancheros with trailed arms. At a gesture from him the prisoners’ guards resumed their march, and crossing the river on the stepping-stones, before mentioned, soon gained the little open space where Harding had met Margarita. Selecting two trees which stood near each other, the count ordered his captives to be lashed securely to them; and then drawing his men some five paces off, gave the preliminary commands to a cold-blooded murder.

“Keep a strong heart, Grant,” said Harding, endeavoring to sustain his younger comrade in the awful hour. “Don’t let your courage fail now—it is too late!”

“This is a mere assassination,” said Grant, grinding his teeth.

“And will be speedily avenged,” added Harding, “more speedily than the vindictive scoundrel now thinks!”

De Marsiac caught these words, and paused. For a moment he seemed to hesitate whether to proceed. But his nature was too obstinate to admit more than a passing thought of change in his purpose; and without further noting the words of Harding, he resumed his attitude of command. While he seemed to hesitate, his men had brought their guns to the ground—and they were now to be brought up again by the successive movements of the manual. The delay arising from this cause, probably saved the lives of both the prisoners.

A quick, light footstep was heard rapidly approaching along the main walk, and a moment afterward, Margarita, accompanied by one of her women, rushed into the area and threw herself, without hesitation, between the prisoners and their executioners.

“Count!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing fire, and her voice attesting the extremity of her emotion, “is this the way you keep your promises with one to whose hand you aspire! Down with your arms, miscreants, and begone! I am mistress here!”

A slight sneer curled the haughty lip of the count; but, considering his vengeance snatched from him for the present, he gave his men the order to ground their arms, but to stand firm. Assuming, then, the most insinuating address in his power—and he was far from ungraceful—he approached the incensed girl, and drew her aside.

“Margarita,” said he, taking her hand, “you must pardon an act which is prompted only by love for yourself; and you must not judge too harshly of one who feels that the dearest price of earth has been unfairly snatched from his grasp. Both these men have been instrumental in blasting my hopes of obtaining this hand; I feel that while they live, I can never rebuild the vision I have indulged—perhaps their death may not assist me—but,” and he raised himself suddenly to his full height, and spoke in a deep, determined tone, the meaning of which she knew too well, “I shall at least be avenged!”

“What do you mean?” she asked, trembling.

“I mean,” he replied, calmly, “that since my hopes are wrecked at any rate, their death will give me revenge, without harm to my interests—they must die!”

“And dare you think that I would marry one whose hands were bloody with such a deed?” she asked, proudly.

“Listen to me,” said he, laying his hand on her arm; “my hands are not now bloody—yet you reject me. If I spare these men, you will reject me still—and I shall lose my revenge, and not gain your love.”

“Perhaps—” she commenced, but paused.

“If you will be mine,” he interrupted, perceiving that the moment had arrived, “both these men shall be sent back, unharmed, to the American army—and I shall be not only the happiest of men, for the requital of my love, but will also be saved, what I feel would be a great crime!”

“If you know it to be a great crime, why commit it?” she asked.

“Ah, Margarita! you little understand man’s feelings. But come,” he added, suddenly, “time presses—I cannot wait. You reject me—they must die!”

He turned away as he spoke, as if to resume his commands; but Margarita called him back.

“If I consent,” she commenced, with hesitation, “when will you demand the fulfillment of my promise?”

“To-night,” he replied; “so soon as Father Aneres can be brought from La Embocadura!”

“Why such haste?” she demanded. “Will not to-morrow be quite soon enough? Remember, my mother was only buried to-day!”

“A few hours can make no difference in that matter,” he replied, “but might in another view. I must have your hand to-night, or these men must die now.”

It was a terrible alternative. But Margarita had seen Harding’s messenger, and knew that McCulloch, with his Rangers, might be expected within three hours. The only question was, whether she could find excuses enough to delay the ceremony for that length of time. Could she do so, she was safe; but—and it was a terrible thought—should De Marsiac use his power to hasten it, she was lost! But, running over in her mind all the plausible reasons she might give for an hour’s delay, and especially reflecting upon the consequences of a refusal, she at length determined to consent.

“I can do no more,” she said.

“Then I understand you to consent?” he asked.

“I do,” she replied, “on the condition that you send these unfortunate men to their army immediately.”

“As soon as you are mine, they shall set out,” said the count; and Margarita was obliged to be satisfied with his pledge. He at once ordered the prisoners unbound, and taken back to their temporary prisons; and walking beside his intended bride, he followed the little procession to the house, and at once gave orders to summon the priest.

The presence of a clerical functionary, in the house of such a man as De Marsiac, was not so remarkable as at first view it would seem; for, independent of the almost complete degradation of that order in that part of Mexico, there was another reason for the opportune appearance of one of its members. The count, anticipating the possibility of gaining some advantage in the events about to happen, had manifested one of the most valuable characteristics of a great general—preparing himself to make the utmost of whatever success might be given him. He had summoned Father Aneres to Embocadura, for the very purpose for which he now called him to Piedritas.

The padre exhibited the three peculiarities of the priesthood in that country, excepting, indeed, well-shaped hands and feet, they were the only remarkable points about him: he possessed a rotund corporation, a full nether lip, and a small, twinkling, black eye. He was above the ordinary level referred to, however, for the grossness of his aspect was rather that of easy self-indulgence, than of positive sensuality. Indolence filled up the space in him, which, in his brethren, it usually shared with a cruel and rapacious depravity.

He entered the hacienda within an hour after the dispatch of De Marsiac’s messenger—a promptitude for which he received from none there, excepting the count, any of the good wishes usually bestowed upon such occasions on men of his profession. To Margarita, especially, his coming was unwelcome in a very high degree; for, though but an hour remained before the period fixed for McCulloch’s arrival with his Rangers, this was space enough for one so determined as the count, and far too much for her to dispose of in specious delays.

This was soon manifested, indeed, by the unannounced entrance of De Marsiac, who demanded that the ceremony should proceed forthwith. She informed him that she had but now commenced her preparations; and rashly said, that she would be quite ready at the end of an hour.

“See that you are so, then,” said he, peremptorily; “for I will not be cajoled into another minute’s delay. I shall be here again precisely at nine o’clock; and if you are not ready then, I shall shoot the prisoners, and compel you to redeem your pledge afterward.”

She was about to make an angry reply; but, reflecting that he was fully capable, if incensed more than he seemed already, of dragging her at once to the altar, she suppressed her indignation, and replied as calmly as possible—

“Do you not think, count,” said she, “that such language is unbecoming at such a time—and to me?”

“If,” said he, softening at once, approaching her and taking her hand, “if you treated me with the confidence which I feel I deserve, no one could be more gentle and affectionate than I would be. But you leave no room for gentleness. Even now, you are endeavoring to gain time in order that you may be rescued by American soldiers. But—be at once undeceived—these soldiers cannot arrive here sooner than the day after to-morrow, and then they will find the place vacant.”

Margarita’s heart sank within her, though she had seen Harding’s messenger, and trusted his report. She knew not to what expedient one so adroit as her persecutor might resort, to delay the march of the rangers, or lead them astray; and her imagination at once conjured up twenty plans by which he might secure his object. She made no reply, however, other than to assert that he was mistaken in her motives, and request that he would leave her to her preparations.

“Very well,” said he, “I will return at nine o’clock.”

As soon as his step ceased to be heard, Margarita summoned the two confidential women who were most about her person, and a council was held upon the ways or means of escaping or gaining time. But, fertile as is woman’s wit, no feasible plan was suggested. Escape from the house was impossible, for the count had every avenue guarded; the priest was inaccessible, for he was completely under De Marsiac’s influence; even her own men could not be depended upon, for the few who were in the hacienda were overawed by the rancheros of her persecutor. The only alternative was to stand obstinately silent at the altar; and yet by this course, she inevitably sacrificed two lives—one of them dearer to her than her own. Her position was terribly embarrassing; for, if she should refuse to consent until her lover was murdered, she could not even then be sure that the count would not force her to yield afterward; making thus a bloody, and unavailing sacrifice.

In the midst of their deliberations—if a hopeless search after desperate expedients could be so called—a light knock was heard at the door, and on being opened, it admitted Harding’s trusty messenger, Margarita’s half-brother. He paused at the threshold and gazed about him. It was the first time he had ever been admitted into the private apartments of a place which he had been taught to consider his own, and the gleam of his dark eye would have betrayed his thoughts to any one less preoccupied than Margarita. The expression soon faded away, however, and without salutation he advanced to Margarita, and abruptly asked—

“Are you about to marry Count De Marsiac, willingly?”

“Why do you ask?” Margarita inquired.

“I wish to prevent it,” he replied calmly.

“How can you do so?”

“By gaining time, till the Texanos come,” he answered.

“If you can do this,” said Margarita, eagerly, “your reward shall even exceed your own expectations.”

“My reward does not depend upon you,” he coldly replied. “It is quite as much to my interest to prevent the marriage, as it can be to yours.”

“How can that be?” interposed one of the women.

“That will be explained hereafter,” the young man replied. “If you will follow my directions the marriage shall be prevented.”

“What do you wish me to do?” asked Margarita.

“Only to delay your preparations as long as you can, and if the Texans do not arrive before the hour—”

“Nine o’clock is the time,” interrupted Margarita, “and it wants but half an hour of it, now.”

“I know,” said the other, “but linger as long as possible. Do not tempt the count to any violence; when you can delay no longer, go to the altar, and you will understand what I mean.”

There was no alternative but to trust him; and Margarita did so the more willingly, because he dictated the only course she could see open to her—procrastination, in the hope of relief. His motives were plain enough, though she could not fathom them. He claimed the hacienda as his own, but he knew that if it once fell into the hands of a man, whose grasp was as tenacious as that of the count, his title would have but small chance of successful assertion, and he was therefore interested in preventing his union with Margarita.

In the mean time, the good Padre Aneres was seated in one of the southern wings of the hacienda, recruiting his energies, after an exhausting journey of two miles from Embocadura. The robes and appointments of his clerical office were arranged with a neatness which scarcely distinguished his personal appearance; for he was about to celebrate a sacrament, which he viewed as hardly less important than the last unction administered to the dying—to which, indeed, it furnished no indistinct parallel. Preparatory, however, to the performance of the ceremony, he was fortifying himself with a liberal supply of delicate viands—that to which he applied himself most frequently being a large silver bowl of red Parras wine.

He had been thus agreeably occupied for half an hour or more after his arrival, and having recovered his breath, began to feel comfortable again, when a hasty but timid knock was heard at the door. The worthy padre pushed the bowl of wine a little farther from him, hastily swallowed the morsel in his mouth, and having settled himself in an attitude of meditation, gave a gentle invitation to enter. The door was pushed timidly open, and the young messenger presented himself, in most singular plight. His clothes were studiously disarranged; his hair was disheveled, and covered with dust and ashes, while his eyes gave signs of recent violent weeping.

“Oh, padre!” he exclaimed, in evident distress, throwing himself at the good Father’s feet. “Peccavi! Peccavi! I have sinned! I have sinned! O, Father! Hear me, and forgive.”

The worthy priest was startled at this exhibition of grief, so much more intense than he was accustomed to see; for the penitent beat his breast, and humbled himself upon his knees in the most abandoned manner.

“Calm yourself, my son,” said the pastor, “and remember that mercy may be extended to the guiltiest of mortals.”

“Confiteor! Confiteor!” rapidly continued the sinner. “Oh, padre! Pity and forgive! Peccavi! Peccavi! O, Miseracordia!”

“Entrust your sin to the Representative of Heaven,” gently urged the Father, “and never despair of God’s mercy.”

“Not here! O, not here!” exclaimed the youth, springing to his feet and rushing to the door. “There are spies here—ears listening for the confession, which must be given to you alone.”

“Who dares to penetrate the secrets of the Confessional?” demanded the padre, his little black eyes twinkling with indignation.

“The count and his spies,” answered the youth. “We must leave the house—we must go forth into the night, for my soul is burthened with sin, and the load must be lifted. Come!” He seized the confessor by the robe and dragged him toward the door, sobbing “Peccavi! Peccavi!” all the time.

“But, my son,” hesitated the priest, “the count is—”

“Come—come—come!” repeated the penitent, impatiently; a part of his grief giving way before his haste to be absolved. “We can return before you will be wanted. I cannot endure to wait! O, pity and forgive!”

The good Father, like most indolent men, was very slow of decision at all times; and now he was carried away by the torrent of grief, and the impatience for absolution, which seemed to flow from the consciousness of some great crime. Half inclined to refuse, and yet too undecided to act with promptness, he suffered himself to be dragged from the room, and through the door into the open air. Here they were brought to a sudden halt: a ranchero stepped before them, and presented his musket. But such an indignity at once restored the Father to his dignity.

“Who dares to obstruct a son of the church in the discharge of his duty to Heaven?” he indignantly demanded. “Out of the way, false man of blood; and let the confessor and his penitent pass out from among the oppressors of God’s people!”

This vigorous speech was not particularly appropriate to the occasion, nor was it thoroughly understood by him to whom it was addressed. Neither was it such as was likely to move one of De Marsiac’s ordinary followers; for the rancheros generally stood more in awe of their leader’s displeasure, than of the wrath of Heaven; and it is probable that but few of the desperadoes would have hesitated to bayonet the Pope, himself, had the count so commanded. But this sentinel seemed to be of a more reverential nature; for no sooner did he recognize the priest and his companion, than he raised the point of his bayonet, shouldered his musket, and allowed them to pass.

This disobedience of his captain’s orders—remarkable for its want of precedent among De Marsiac’s banditti; was not the only singular circumstance about the accommodating sentinel, as the reader will soon observe. The young penitent disappeared among the shades of night with his confessor, whom he hurried on faster, probably, than he had ever walked before. He directed his course to a little group of ranchos, which stood directly south of the hacienda. Having entered one of these, and remained five minutes—it seemed that his sin was not long in the confessing or absolution, notwithstanding his overwhelming distress—for at the end of that time he issued forth alone, with a well-pleased smile upon his lip, and elasticity restored to his bearing. From the door of the rancho he took his way north-ward again; verging obliquely to the right, however, until he reached the bank of the river, nearly a quarter of a mile east of the hacienda. At this point, a grove of small trees sheltered the bank, and through them passed the road up the valley to Anelo. The youth paused as he gained the shadows, and gave a low, clear whistle. It was answered from the river-bank; and in a moment afterward, a man emerged from the covert, and approached the messenger.

A whispered consultation ensued between the pair, but of brief duration; for Eltorena seemed in haste.

“Keep due south,” said he, as he prepared to return, “until you reach Martiniez’ avenue—then turn west, until you are opposite the south entrance, and approach cautiously.”

With those words he turned away; and retracing his steps with great rapidity, soon came in view of the sentinel, who had permitted him to pass.

“Quien va la?” hailed the latter, presenting his musket. But Eltorena only answered by a low whistle, and boldly advanced. As he approached, the sentinel again shouldered his piece, and a consultation ensued between them, also—the youth pointing out the direction which he had indicated to his confederate at the river, and then passing into the mansion. The sentinel resumed his pace up and down his post—pausing from time to time with his ear bent toward the east, as if waiting for some expected sound. But every thing was as still as a summer night in the north; and though the moon was now rising over the eastern hills, there was not a moving thing perceptible to the eye.

While these things were going on without, the hour appointed for the ceremony of marriage was fast approaching; and one of the parties, at least, was filled with anxious fears. Margarita had delayed her preparations as much as possible; but the assistance of her women, with which it would have been more politic to have dispensed, had, even against her will, so expedited them, that she was fully ready at the time. Nor, had it been otherwise, was the count disposed to permit any further procrastination; for, punctually to the minute, he knocked at her door, and, without waiting a summons to enter, threw it open and stepped across the threshold.

“I am glad to see you ready,” said he, throwing as much kindness into his manner as his consciousness of wrong permitted. “Come, the chapel is prepared, and the padre awaits us.”

“Count,” said the intended bride, trembling with apprehension, but anxious to make another effort for delay, “cannot this ceremony be as well performed to-morrow? I do not like this indecent haste.”

“It must be performed to-night—now,” he replied calmly. “If you refuse, you know the alternative. I will not be trifled with.”

“I am not trifling with you, indeed,” said she hurriedly. “But reflect—my mother is scarcely cold in her grave!”

“The better reason why you should observe her wishes,” De Marsiac replied. “I have considered all that, and find no reason to change my mind. If you intend to redeem your pledge at all, it is as well to-night as to-morrow. If you are willing to sacrifice your friends, los Americanos, your refusal to-night will only give me my revenge sooner!”

His course of argument was too direct and forcible to be oppugned; Margarita rose as its meaning reached her, and signified her willingness to go at once to the altar. The count turned to one of his followers and said—

“Go to Father Aneres, and tell him that we will be ready by the time he can reach the altar.”

The man approached the door of the room where we have seen the good padre recruiting his exhausted strength. He was met at the door by young Eltorena, dressed in a white cassock, and holding a censer in his hand, as if in attendance upon the priest.

“The good Father,” said the young man, “is in his closet, but will meet them in the chapel in five minutes.”

The man returned to his master, and the procession at once marched toward the chapel. A room fitted up for this purpose is to be found in almost all the larger haciendas of that part of Mexico—its size and splendor depending upon the wealth and piety of the proprietor. That at Piedritas had been somewhat neglected of late, but was still a respectable chapel. It was separated from the priest’s room—where Eltorena had sought the padre—by two partitions, between which was the private closet; and leading out of this was a door which opened behind the altar. It was through this door that Father Aneres was to enter for the performance of the momentous ceremony. But the reader already knows that the good Father was not within, and therefore could not come forth.

The procession entered the chapel in the following order. The count, holding the unwilling hand of his trembling bride, was succeeded by the two women, accompanied by his trusty lieutenant, who was to “give the bride away.” Then came three files of rancheros with trailed arms—a desecration which the good Father, timid as he was, would not have permitted. Behind these, each between two soldiers, who jealously watched them, came Harding and Grant—borne in the procession, like the prisoners of ancient Rome, to grace the triumph of the conqueror! Then followed the remainder of the count’s band of free-companions, numbering, in all, about twenty. All the domestics of the family crowded in after, and the door was taken in charge by the trusty sentinel who had disobeyed his orders!

The count dragged his bride to the chancel-rail, and, leaving her there for a few moments supported by her women, took upon himself the duties of master of the ceremonies. He placed his two prisoners directly behind the bride, well guarded however, so that they would have the satisfaction of seeing without the power of interfering. Behind them he ranged his followers in a compact mass, and directing the peons to seat themselves in the rear, he ordered the sentinel to close the door, but not to leave it. Returning then to the chancel-railing, he resumed his place beside Margarita, and took her cold and trembling hand in his.

Although these dispositions consumed full ten minutes, when he returned to his place, the priest still delayed his coming. The count, however, fiery and impetuous as he was, waited patiently for a period quite as long; when, finding that the door still remained closed, he began to knit his brows and mutter angry threats. These signs encouraged Margarita, for they indicated delay, if not deliverance; and she had even the audacity to smile in De Marsiac’s face.

“Antonio,” said the latter furiously, “go to Father Aneres and tell him that we are waiting for him—impatiently!”

The man addressed sprang to the door and attempted to open it, but it did not yield to his efforts.

“It is fastened on the outside,” he said. But, at the same moment, the door behind the altar was heard to swing upon its hinges, and a slow, heavy step was placed upon the short stairway which led up to the platform.

“The old dotard is coming at last,” muttered the count, not observing the ominous report of his messenger. He laid aside his gold-laced cap, which hitherto he had kept upon his head, and resuming Margarita’s hand, placed himself before the railing and looked up.

It was not the priest who stood at the altar! A tall, heavily-armed man—evidently an American—rose suddenly from his cover, and, leveling a pistol at De Maniac’s breast, gave his war-cry of “Texano! Texano!” At the same moment the closed door was thrown open, and a band of near twenty men filed speedily in and brought their carbines to bear upon the rancheros—while a detachment, equally strong, rushed in from the priest’s room, and marched past their leader—who was none other than McCulloch of the Texan Rangers! A glance passed between Harding and Grant—each understood the thought of the other—and, as if by pre-concert, they broke away from their guards, sprang upon the count, and, before his men could interfere, dragged him, a prisoner in his turn, within the chancel! Scarcely giving him time to speak, two of the rangers hurried him away through the priest’s room, and delivered him in charge to the guard stationed at the door.

“Lay down your arms!” shouted McCulloch, through the din which now arose—chiefly from the domestics—“and every man’s life shall be spared. But the ranchero that holds his arms one minute, shall hang to the first tree that’s tall enough to stretch him.”

The word “Texano” had already half accomplished the conquest; the captivity of their leader weakened their resolution, and this threat, which every Texan was, in the estimation of a Mexican, fully capable of executing, completed the discomfiture. Each ranchero threw down his arms with an alacrity which seemed to indicate that they were growing hot in his hands, and the two detachments of rangers marched in and made them all prisoners, without the least resistance.

“There’s one good job well done, boys,” said McCulloch, “and all the better done because we have spilt no blood.”

Turning then to Harding, who was supporting Margarita upon his arm, while Grant stood moodily aside, he said—cordially receiving the hand extended to him—

“We were very nearly too late, at last—though, thank God! not quite. I had information from your messenger, since we entered the hacienda, that the bandit, De Marsiac, designed to take your lives, even after he had obtained the hand which was to be their ransom.”

“I doubt not,” said Harding, frankly; “if my friend Grant and I see to-morrow morning, we shall owe the sight to your promptness in attending my call. You must be satisfied with our gratitude until the chances of war shall enable us to discharge the obligation in kind.”

“If the only mode of payment,” said the captain with a smile, “is rescuing me from a scrape like this, I hope you may never have a creditor more pressing than I.”

“I do not know,” said the ranger lieutenant, Gillespie, coming forward with the open manner of the soldier; “I think, if the prize, at the outcome, were as great as it seems to be in this instance, Captain McCulloch would have no special objection to dangers quite as imminent.”

He looked at Margarita as he spoke—for she still hung upon Harding’s arm. The captain laughed at what he considered a compliment both to himself and the lady; a round of introductions ensued, and congratulations, with jests and pleasant laughs—during which the prisoners were marched off and confined, and the hacienda reassumed its aspect of dreamy quiet.

“Gentlemen,” said Margarita, when a pause at last broke the round of felicitations, “you have ridden far and hard, and must be both fatigued and hungry. Will you not partake of some refreshment?”

“With the utmost pleasure,” answered McCulloch; “but I must first see my men quartered.”

“I have already given orders for their accommodation,” said Margarita. “Since I may soon be under their escort, it becomes me to consult their comfort.”

“Under their escort!” exclaimed Harding.

“Yes,” she replied. “Since my mother’s death this is no longer a fit residence for me. I have many relatives in Saltillo, and it is thither that I wish to go. When you return to the United States,” she added, in French, observing Harding’s doubtful look, “I shall be your companion—if you desire it.”

He could only reply by another look, of a different meaning, when McCulloch asked—

“What will become of the hacienda in your absence? I have seen too much of the steward system in this country, not to regret the absence of the proprietor from every fine estate.”

“I shall give it to one,” she replied, “who, though he already claims it unjustly, has, by his services this night entitled himself to even a greater reward. I mean the young man who led you hither.”

“And his mother,” suggested one of the women, who did not quite relish the generous proposition.

“She is a confirmed maniac,” said Margarita with a shudder, “and this is only a stronger reason why I should do as I say. She will be a burthen upon her son, and it is but just that he should have the means of supporting her.” This closed the discussion, and the party adjourned to supper.

On the following day the prisoners were mustered by the order of McCulloch—as they supposed, for the purpose of being treated as their countrymen had so often treated his; that is, being hung like traitors, or shot by platoons—but really for the purpose of being released. De Marsiac, however, as a man who might do the Americans some injury, was retained a prisoner of war. All the rest, much to their surprise, were dismissed with an admonition not to be found again in arms. The captain judged, very correctly, that taking their parol would be an unmeaning ceremony.

About an hour afterward, the cavalcade set out for Saltillo, by way of Anelo and Capellania—a long route which McCulloch’s orders compelled them to take. Margarita, with a generosity which my readers may be disposed to call romantic, but which was, after all, scarcely more than justice—had conveyed the Hacienda de los Piedritas to her half-brother, who had so richly deserved his reward. The sacrifice was small, too, for she had, still remaining, possessions ample even for that country of overgrown individual fortunes.

Three days brought them to the handsome city of Saltillo, where Margarita found a refuge among her many relatives. De Marsiac was reported at headquarters and sent to the rear; while Harding and Grant—wiser if not better men—rejoined their companies, and resumed their duties. The events of their captivity seemed to have cured the latter of the pleasant malady which had afflicted him; and the pair became, in a short time, as inseparable as ever. They visited Margarita together, and though the younger winced a little, when by any chance the subject of his hallucination was referred to, on the whole he bore his disappointment with a good grace.

The battle of Buena Vista closed the campaign in that part of the country; and shortly afterward the regiment to which they were attached was discharged. Before their return home, however, the ancient rivals returned to Saltillo—where, in the handsome cathedral, Harding and Margarita were united in marriage. And, a pleasant memento of rather uncertain times, the officiating priest was the worthy Father Aneres, who had figured in the history of Harding and Grant while they were “Captive Rivals!”

DEI GRATIA, REX.

———

BY W. E. GILMORE.

———

King “by the grace of God!” where is the token

By which we know thy right it is to reign!

Jehovah’s will, of old, in words was spoken,

Who heard His voice thy sovereignty proclaim?

No! thou art king, not by “the grace of God,”

But usurpation only—guiltless he

That doth resist thy claims, and, though in blood

Poured out like water, rids the earth of thee!

OUR CHILDHOOD

———

BY JANE GAY.

———

How brightly did the summer’s sun

Wake up the dewy morn,

And chase the misty shadows from

The cot where we were born;

It stood amid the peaceful hills

Where worldlings never rove,

The violet-spotted earth around—

The glorious sky above.

Two tall elms were its sentinels,

With arms uplifted high;

And these were all we needed, save

The watchers of the sky;

And while amid the thick, green leaves

The moonbeams dallied bright,

The stars looked down on us at play,

Oft on the summer night.

O, every month of childhood’s years,

How well do I remember,

With all their smiles and fleeting tears,

From New Year’s till December;

No care or burden had we then—

No life-lines on the brow;

We knew it not—I wonder if

We’re any wiser now.

Were we not with ye, brothers, when

With spade or hoe ye sped

To dig the homely artichoke

From out its winter bed?

Or when, with boyhood’s free, glad shout,

Ye ran with pole and hook,

To draw the golden-spotted trout

From out the alder-brook?

Ay, ay! and I must tell it, too,

Ye’d sometimes play the churls;

And cry, when we would run away—

“Mother, call back the girls!”

And then came tasks of knitting-work

For us, and dreaded patch,

With sullen faces, till we thought

To try a knitting match.

The summer days were ne’er too long

For busy life like ours;

For every hill had berries then,

And every meadow, flowers.

And joyfully, when school was done,

We’d stay to glean our store;

For though we loved the school-book well,

We loved the free hills more.

And very pleasant ’mid those hills

September’s sun did shine,

As we went forth to gather grapes

From many a loaded vine;

And while October’s gorgeous hues

Of red and gold were seen;

We searched for chestnuts in the wood,

Or pulled the winter-green.

And when November’s winds came chill

With icy sleet and rain,

We knew the old brown barns were filled

With stores of golden grain;

And what cared we how bleak or cold

The wintry storms might rise—

Our dreams were of Thanksgiving-days,

And all their wealth of pies.

Though ye have left the homestead now

Grave men to walk among,

Yet while our sire and grandsire live—

Brothers, ye still are young!

Nor, sisters, is it time for us

Life’s lantern dark to trim,

Our own dear mother has not yet

Sung her half-century hymn!

And while our childhood’s guardians live

To bless the passing years,

’Twere more than vain in sad regrets

To waste Life’s precious tears;

Yet if our summer sky is fair,

And green our summer bowers,

We know that many walk the earth

With sadder hearts than ours.

I’LL BLAME THEE NOT.

———

BY J. A. TINNON.

———

I’ll blame thee not—for I can love,

Another eye as bright as thine,

A form as fair, and ne’er regret,

This worship at a faithless shrine.

I’ll blame thee not—love fond and true

May still be won in beauty’s bowers,

Though I may never dare again,

To wear a wreath of fading flowers.

I’ll blame thee not—for thoughts of love

And thee no more my bosom fill;

And of that dream there lingers scarce

One trace of its deep burning thrill.

I’ll blame thee not—I smile to see

The golden vision pass away,

When its bright tints a mask have been

To hide a heart of common clay.

I’ll blame thee not—for I, perchance,

May learn the trick of gladness well,

And none shall mark upon my brow

A trace of joy or pain to tell.

I’ll blame thee not—for I will care

No more to bind a restive heart,

Though every joy my life can know

Should with its passion-dream depart.

LAW AND LAWYERS.

———

BY JOHN NEAL.

———

“Once more into the breach, dear friends:

Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the bends!”

With all my heart, Graham! But inasmuch as the lecture you want a copy of has never been reduced to writing, though portions have appeared from time to time in the newspapers of the day; and I have no notes worth referring to, I dare not pretend to give you the language I employ; for, between ourselves, that depends upon the weather and the House, to say nothing of my temper at the time. For example; if I see before me a goodly proportion of what are called the learned, or the educated, I never mince matters—I never talk as if butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth, but go to work with my sleeves rolled up, as if I heard a trumpet in the hollow sky. In other cases, where the great majority of my hearers happen to be neither learned nor educated—though there may be a sprinkling of both—I am apt, I acknowledge, to wander off into familiar every-day illustrations—perhaps into down-right story-telling, or what my brethren of the bar would be likely to denominate unprofessional rigmarole. But the substance of my preaching for many years upon this subject, and the “thing signified,” and the general arrangement, under all sorts of provocation, I think I may venture to promise you.

Bear in mind, I pray you, that phantoms under one aspect, may be more terrible than giants, cased in proof, under another. Every great mischief, being once enthroned or established, is a host of itself.

In the open field, lawyers are not easily vanquished—out-manœuvered or overborne. Walled about, as with a triple wall of fire—or brass?—high up and afar off, their intrenchments are only to be carried by storm. They must be grappled with, face to face. No quarter must be granted—for no quarter do they give—no mercy do they show, after their banners are afield. “Up, guards! and at ’em!” said Wellington, at the battle of Waterloo; and so say I! whenever I see my brethren of the bar rallying for a charge.

They will bear with me, I hope—as I have borne with them for twenty-five years; for, while I complain of their unreasonable ascendency throughout our land, of their imperious, overbearing, unquestioned domination, I acknowledge that, constituted as we are—We, the People—we cannot do without them—and the more’s the pity. Law we must have, and with it, as if by spontaneous generation—lawyers, till Man himself undergoes a transformation, and his very nature is changed. Both are necessary evils—much like war, pestilence, and famine, or lunatic-asylums, poor-houses, and penitentiaries; or apothecaries’ shops, with their adulterous abominations; and every other substitute for, and abridgment of, human liberty, human happiness, the laws of health, or the instinct of self-reliance. If men will not do as they would be done by; if they will not be “temperate in all things”—then they deserve to be drugged, and blistered, and bled here by the doctors, and there by the lawyers, till they have come to their senses, or can no longer be dealt with profitably by either; for, although every man, according to the worthy Joe Miller, may be his own washerwoman—at least in Ireland—it is very clear that in this country, he might as well undertake to be his own jailer, as his own lawyer.

I would go further; for, like the illustrious Hungarian, I desire to conciliate and satisfy, not the few but the many; not only my brethren of the bar, but everybody else worth satisfying; I would even admit—and how could I well go further, and “hope to be forgiven?”—that, in view of Man’s nature, as developed by our social institutions, Law and Lawyers both, may be, and sometimes are, under special circumstances, not only a necessary evil, but a very good thing. There! I have said it—and let them make the most of it. I mean to admit all I can—and much good may it do them! But then, I would ask, if we may not have too much, even of a good thing?

I hold that we may; and I appeal for proof to the countless volumes of law which cannot be understood by any but lawyers; nor by any two of them alike, till every other word, perhaps, in a long paragraph has been settled by adjudication—two or three different ways—after solemn argument.

I appeal to what is called the administration of justice, by jury-trial, in our courts of law, where twelve ignorant, unreasoning men, got together, nobody knows how—hit or miss—are held to be better qualified—being bound by their oaths to think alike in most cases, and to return a unanimous verdict, whether or no—than Lord Chancellor Bacon himself, or Chief Justice Marshall would be, to settle any and every question, however new, and however abstruse and complicated, upon every possible subject that may happen to be brought before them for the first time in all their lives! And this, without any previous knowledge on their parts, or any other preparation by the lawyers who are to enlighten them, than may have been made the night before, by “reading up,” or “stuffing” for the occasion.

I appeal, moreover, to the testimony of the sufferers themselves—parties, they are technically called—who, after being scorched, and sifted, and harassed, and pillaged, under one pretence or another, year after year, and within an inch of their lives; or driven well-nigh distracted by the vicissitudes and anxieties incident to every well-managed law-suit, where “good pickings” are to be had, or by that hope-deferred “which maketh the heart sick,” begin to get their eyes opened, and to see for themselves, and are sometime ready to acknowledge for the help of others, who are elbowing their way up—or down?—to see the elephant, that when they pass over the threshold of those gambling-houses, that are established by law, under the name of Courts of Justice, and put up their stakes, they will find three times out of four—perhaps nineteen times out of twenty—that when the raffle comes off at last—with the jury-box—it is to decide, not which of the two parties litigant—plaintiffs or defendants—but what third party—the lawyers—shall sweep the board.

And I might appeal to the swarming thousands of our younger professional brethren, who, ashamed to beg, afraid to steal, and too lazy to work, instead of following the business of their fathers, taking their places, and maintaining themselves honestly, give way to a foolish mother, or sister, or to some greater simpleton still more to be pitied, or to a most unhealthy ambition—that of being an Esquire, and a pauper, with very white hands, who, having studied law, will have to be provided for at last by marriage, or office; and with that view have literally taken possession of our high places, our kneading-troughs and our bed-chambers—after the fashion of their predecessors in Egypt.

Nay, more—I am ready to acknowledge, and I do for myself, my executors, administrators and assigns—or publishers—hereby acknowledge, and I hope with no unbecoming nor uncourteous qualification, that, taken together, as a power, body, or estate, the Lawyers of our land are to the full as honest—and as trustworthy—by nature—as any other power, body or estate among us, of equal numbers, wealth, dignity, or intelligence; notwithstanding the opinion so generally entertained, and so often expressed, to their disadvantage, in the plays and farces, or newspapers and story-books of the day, (not always, nor altogether synonymous, I hope;) but no honester, and no more trustworthy; for, although I believe—and I mean just what I say—that no great advocate, in the popular sense of the words, can be an honest man, however conscientious he may be out of court, or in other business; and however anxious he and others may be to distinguish between the Advocate and the Man—as if a lawyer were allowed two consciences to practice with, and two courts—one above and the other below—to practice in; yet I believe that a great Lawyer, or Jurist, like Sir Matthew Hale, or Chief Justice Marshall, or Chancellor Kent, or any one of a score that might be named, or Judge Parsons, being translated to the bench, from the corrupting influences and stifling atmosphere below, may be a very honest man; just as I believe—and I don’t care who knows it—that silver spoons and watches left within striking distance of an attorney at law—I am only supposing a case—may be safe, “notwithstanding and nevertheless.”

By nature, I say, and not by education, habit, or association at the bar. Away from the bar, I acknowledge the integrity of my brethren as equal to that of any other class whatever. And this being admitted—what more would they have? Would they claim to be honester and more trustworthy than any other class, either by education or nature?

But observe; though ready to acknowledge their honesty, by nature, as men; or rather, while I acknowledge that they are, to the full, as honest as other men are by nature—but no honester; and as trustworthy in all other relations, apart from law—as good but no better, I maintain that they are constantly exposed to such disqualifying temptations, and to such disastrous influences peculiar to their profession; that they have established a code of morals for themselves, as lawyers, which would not be allowed to them as citizens; and which, if openly avowed and persisted in, by brethren out of the profession, would be sure to send them to the penitentiary; that they have altogether too much power in this country—a power out of all proportion to their numbers, their talents, their intelligence, their virtues, and their usefulness; and that, instead of being chosen for lawgivers throughout our land, in a proportion varying from three-fifths to nearly seven-eighths, in all our legislative bodies, they are the very last persons among us to be intrusted with the business of legislation—having a direct personal interest in multiplying our laws—in altering them—and in making them unintelligible to all the rest of the world.

Not satisfied with their pay, as legislators, for making the law, varying from two to ten dollars a-day—with washing and mending, where washing and mending are possible—they require, as lawyers, from twenty-five to one hundred dollars a-day for telling, or rather for guessing what it means.

And what is the result? Just this. That a privileged body, anointed for office and power, who, but for the blindness and prodigal infatuation of the People, would often be the nobodies of every productive or efficient class, are enabled to fare sumptuously every day, wear purple and fine linen—at the expense of others—all their lives long; and to carry off all the honors from every other class of the community. Think of this, I pray you; and bear with me, while I proceed with my demonstration.

That they have learned to reverence themselves, and all that belongs to them, I do not deny; but then, if it is only themselves, and not the image of God—if it is only what belongs to themselves and to their estate, or craft, as lawyers, and not as Men, they so reverence—in what particular do they differ from other self-idolators?

Are We, the People, to be concluded by their very pretensions? Are We to be estopped by the very deportment we complain of? Because they are exacting and supercilious, and self-satisfied, and arrogant, and overbearing, are we to be patient and submissive? Are we to be told, if not in language, at least by the bearing and behavior of these gentry, that, inasmuch as all men may be supposed to be best acquainted with themselves, therefore Lawyers are to be taken by others at their own valuation?

Let it be remembered that they who properly reverence themselves, always reverence others. But who ever heard of a Lawyer with any reverence—worth mentioning—for anybody out of the profession? This, to be sure, is very common with ignorant and presumptuous men. It is the natural growth of a narrow-minded, short-sighted, selfish bigotry. A mountebank or a rope-dancer will betray the same ridiculous self-complacency, if hard pushed. Were you to speak of a great man—Kossuth, for example—in the presence of a fiddler, who had never heard of him before, he would probably crook his right elbow, and cant his head to the left, as if preparing to draw the long bow, or go through some of the motions common to all the great men he had ever been acquainted with, or heard of, or acknowledged, before he questioned you further.

It would never enter his head that a truly great man could be any thing but a fiddler; a Paganini dethroned perhaps—like Peter the Great in a dockyard—or that “any gentleman as was a gentleman,” could ever so far forget himself in his company, as to call a man great who was no fiddler.

“What do they say of me in England?” said the corpulent, half-naked savage that Mungo Park saw stuffing for a cross-examination under a bamboo tree in Africa.

Just so is it with our brethren of the bar. Law being the “perfection of Reason,” and her seat “the bosom of God,” they, of course, are the expounders or interpreters of both; a priesthood from the beginning, therefore, with the privilege and power of indefinite self-multiplication. The sum and substance of all they know, and all they care for under Heaven, if they are greatly distinguished, being Law, what else could be expected of them? If they are great lawyers they are never any thing else—they are never statesmen, they are never orators—they are never writers. Carefully speaking, Daniel Webster is not a great lawyer—nor is Henry Clay—nor was Lord Brougham; but they were advocates, and orators and statesmen. Sir James Scarlett and Denham were great lawyers, before whose technical superiority and sharp practice Lord Brougham quailed and shriveled in the Court of King’s Bench. But when they encountered each other in the House of Commons—what a figure the two lawyers cut, to be sure, in the presence of the thunderer! They were phantoms, and he the Olympian Jove. William Pinkney was a great lawyer; but for that very reason he was out of place in the Senate chamber, and made no figure there.

But even for this they have a justification—or a plea in bar. The law is a “jealous mistress,” we are told, and will endure no rival; a monarch “who bears no brother near the throne.” And well do they act upon this belief; and well do they teach it by precept and by practice; for few indeed are they, even among the foremost, who have gathered up, in the course of a long life, any considerable amount of miscellaneous knowledge, notwithstanding the reputation they sometimes acquire, in a single day, by their insolent questioning of learned, shy and modest professional men, or experts, after they have once got them caged and cornered, and tied up hand and foot in a witness-box, and allowed to speak only when they are spoken to; there to be badgered for the amusement of people outside, more ignorant, if possible, than the learned counsel themselves; but incapable of seeing through the counterfeit, which, while it makes them laugh, makes the “judicious grieve;” and mistaking for cleverness and smartness the blundering audacity of an ignorant and garrulous, though privileged pretender, who does not know that it often requires about as much knowledge of a subject to propound a safe and proper question, as to answer it: nor that the veriest blockhead may ask twenty questions in a breath, which no mortal man could ever answer, and would not even try to answer, unless he were a still greater blockhead.

And now, having swept the stage fore and aft, and secured, as I trust, a patient hearing from the profession, let us go to work in earnest.

I maintain that among the popular delusions of the day, there is no one more dangerous nor alarming than that which leads our People to believe that they constitute a republic and that they govern themselves, merely because they are allowed to choose their own masters; provided they choose them out of a particular class—that of the lawyers.

At the opening of every great political campaign, we hear a great deal about the privileged classes; the ruffled-shirt and silk-stocking gentry: and sometimes men prattle about the aristocracy of talent, or the aristocracy of wealth—but who ever heard any complaints of our legal aristocracy—an oligarchy rather—for they make all the laws, they expound all the laws, and they hold all the offices worth having—in perpetuity.

And whose fault is it? If the People are such asses, why should they not be saddled and bridled, and ridden in perpetuity? It is their nature. They are prone to class-worship, and to family-worship—to self-depreciation, and to a most incapacitating jealousy of one another. Even in the day of the elder Adams, it was found that the office of a justice of the peace, like that of a legislator, was well-nigh hereditary in New England. Having anointed the father, how could they help anointing the son?—or the daughter’s husband, if the father had no son?

And now, let us look at the consequences. From Aristotle down to the last elementary writer on Government, it has been every where, and at all times, acknowledged, that every possible kind of sway upon earth, between Despotism and Anarchy, may be resolved into three elements of power, differently combined, or combined in different proportions. These elements are: 1. The Legislative, or law-making power; 2. The Judicial, or law-expounding power; and 3. The Executive, or law-enforcing power.

Taken together we have what is called the Sovereign Power. The power of making laws, of saying what they mean, and of carrying them into execution being all that is ever needed for government.

And this, the Sovereign Power, may be concentrated in one person, whence we have the Czar, the Sultan, or the Autocrat; or it may be confined to a few—as in Sparta, or Genoa, or Venice, or Poland—constituting either an Aristocracy or an Oligarchy; or it may be distributed among the people equally, as at Rome or Athens at particular periods of their history, when they were a tumultuous unmanageable Democracy: or unequally, as in England, or in these United States, thereby constituting a Limited Monarchy, or a Representative Republic, pretending to a balance, by the help of a King or President, a House of Lords, or a Senate, and a House of Commons or a House of Representatives, and a Judiciary, more or less dependent upon the Executive.

Of all these different systems the worst by far is an Oligarchy—or the government of a privileged few—no matter whether elective and shifting, or permanent, provided that, as a body or estate, they are allowed by common consent to make the laws—to expound the laws—and to carry the laws into execution, by holding all the offices worth having, from that of the monarch or president, down to that of a clerk or sergeant-at-arms.

True it is, that by no human contrivance can the three elements of power above mentioned, be kept entirely separate—for they will run into each other—as where the Supreme Executive is allowed a veto, or required to sanction a law: and where the Senate, as a branch of the Supreme Legislative power, intermeddles with the appointing power of the Executive under the name of confirmation; and where the Supreme Judiciary, after being appointed by the Executive and confirmed by the Senate, are made dependent upon that other branch of the Supreme Legislative power for the payment of their salaries—the House originating all money bills and voting supplies—turn about, in their capacity of Supreme Judges, and are allowed to unsettle, if they please, by their interpretation, whatever the Supreme Legislative power may choose to enact for law.

But although these three elements can never be wholly separated—it does not follow that men, who desire to be well-governed, should not try to separate them and to keep them separated as far as they can. Still less, that because they cannot be wholly separated, they shall therefore be encouraged to run together and to crystalize into a mischief that may never be resolved again but by the process of decomposition.

And now, I contend that, in effect, We, the People of these United States, are governed by an Oligarchy; and that, by being allowed to choose our own masters—provided we choose them, or at least, a large majority of them, out of a particular class—we are blinded to the inevitable consequences: till we mistake words for things, and shadows for substances: and that our mistake is all the more dangerous and alarming that we cannot be persuaded to treat the matter seriously.

I contend, moreover, that, inasmuch as the Lawyers of our land make all the laws; and as Judges expound all the laws, and as office-holders carry all the laws into execution, therefore they constitute of themselves the Sovereign Power.

Are the facts questioned? In the Massachusetts legislature, we have had two hundred and sixty lawyers out of three hundred and fifty members; and in congress we had not long ago, the same number, two hundred and sixty lawyers out of two hundred and ninety-seven members—the balance being made up in this way. Manufacturers and farmers, fifteen: Merchants, one: Unknown, (being mechanics or preachers, or something of the sort,) twenty-one. Perhaps there may be some error here, as I find the only note I have upon the subject so blurred, that I am not sure of the figures; but the fact on which I rely is too notorious to be questioned. Every body knows that lawyers constitute a large majority in all our legislative bodies, and have done so for the last fifty years; and that they make about all the speeches that are made there, or supposed to be made there, and afterward reported by themselves for the newspapers. Can it be doubted therefore, that they as a body do in fact and in truth constitute our supreme legislative power—thereby absorbing to themselves just one third part, and by far the most important part of our whole sovereignty as a people.

As little can it be seriously questioned that, inasmuch as all our judges, from the highest to the lowest are lawyers; or ought to be, as they are always ready enough to acknowledge—they constitute the supreme judiciary; another third part of our whole sovereignty as a people.

And now let us see how the account stands with the Executive Power. Are not our presidents, and have they not been from the first—with only three exceptions out of twelve—lawyers? And our vice presidents; and all our secretaries of state; and most of our secretaries of war, and of the navy; and about all our foreign ministers; our chief clerks, our post-master generals; our collectors; our land agents; and even a large proportion of our foreign consuls—have they not always been, and are they not always with an ever increasing ratio—Lawyers? And if so, what becomes of the other third part of our whole sovereignty as a people—the Executive Power? It is in the hands of the lawyers; and as three thirds make a whole—out of the courts of law, I mean—does it not follow that the whole sovereign power of this mighty people—of this great commonwealth of republics—this last refuge of the nations is in the hands of our lawyers, hardly a fraction of the whole?

Oh! but we have nothing to fear. Lawyers are always at loggerheads. They are incapable of working together, even for mischief. Granted—and there, let me tell you is our only safety, and our only hope. But, suppose they should wake up to a knowledge of their own strength—and of our weakness—who shall say that they must always be incapable of conspiring together? And if they did—when should we begin to perceive our danger? Would they be likely to tell us before-hand? Or would they go on, year after year, quietly absorbing office, power, and prerogative, as all such bodies do; until they had become too strong for the great unreasoning multitude. With public opinion—with long established usage in their favor—with a sort of hallucination, hard to be accounted for in a jealous people; acquainted with history, what have they to fear? Neither overthrow nor disaster—till the people come to their senses and wake up, and harness themselves; and then, they are put upon trial, as with the voice of many thunders; and instantly and forever dethroned, as by an earthquake.

But you do not see the danger. Granted. And this very thing is what I complain of. Did you see the danger there would be some hope of you; and it would soon pass away forever.

But suppose we take another case for illustration. Suppose that three-fifths of all our law-makers were soldiers instead of lawyers. Suppose that all our judges from the highest to the lowest were soldiers; and that all our presidents, and secretaries, and foreign ministers, and collectors, and consuls—with here and there an exception—were all soldiers; most of them experienced soldiers—veterans; and the others, conscripts or new levies—what would be the consequences, think you? How long should we be at peace with the rest of the world? How long would Cuba, Mexico, or the rest of North and South America be unattempted? Would not our whole sea-coast, and all our lakes and rivers, and all our frontiers be fortified and garrisoned? Would there not be great armies constantly marching and counter-marching through our midst? Would not our very dwelling-houses and churches be wanted for barracks—and if wanted, would they not be taken by little and little?

Would not all our young men be mustering for the battle-field? Would not foolish mothers, and sisters, and sweet-hearts, be urging them to try for a shoulder-knot or a feather, as the only thing on earth to be cared for by a young man of spirit and enterprise?

Look at Russia. The military have dominion there—and all the rest of the world are slaves. The greatest men we have, not bearing a military title, would be overlooked by the emperor, while any thing in the shape of a general, though he never “set a squadron in the field,” and was never heard of beyond the neighborhood of a militia muster, would be fastened on horseback, and have thousands and tens of thousands, from the harnessed legions of the north, passed in review before him. What wonder that in such a country, the very nurses of the bed-chamber; yea, the very bishops of the land have military titles, and are regularly passed up through successive grades, from that of a platoon officer to that of a colonel, and perhaps to that of a field-marshall, by the emperor himself.

Yet soldiers are at least as trustworthy, are they not—as lawyers?

Take another case. It will not be denied, that physicians on the whole, are about as intelligent and trustworthy as lawyers. Now, let us suppose that, instead of being as in the Massachusetts legislature, eighteen to two hundred and sixty—in a body of two hundred and ninety-seven; they should happen to be two hundred and sixty physicians, to eighteen lawyers, and that in our other legislative bodies they should constitute a majority of the members: that all our presidents, and secretaries, and foreign ministers, and chief clerks, and post-masters, and collectors, and consuls, were physicians; or as many as are now lawyers: and that all the laws were made subject to the decision of a bench of doctors, eminent for the knowledge of medicine, and for nothing else—what, think you, would be the situation of our people under such an administration? Would any mortal man dare to refuse any pill the president might offer? Would not our dwellings and churches be converted—not into barracks, but hospitals? Would not millions be lavished upon theories, and experiments, and preparations for pestilence? Would not the whole country be divided into contagionists, and non-contagionists—parties for, and parties against the yellow fever and the cholera? Would not platforms be established, and pledges required, and offices filled—here by the believers in allopathy, and there by the disciples of homeopathy? To-day, by the rain-water, screw-auger, and vegetable doctors; and to-morrow, by the unbelievers in lobelia, bella-donna, and pulverized charcoal, or infinitesimal silex? In a word, if the government were allowed to have its own way—and after they were established as the lawyers are now, how could you help it?—would not the president, and all his secretaries be obliged to prescribe for the sovereign people—or suffering people—gratuitously; and would not the whole country be drugged, and physicked, and bled and blistered—samewhat as they are now—and would not all our finest young men be rushing into the apothecary shops, and lying-in hospitals, and clinical establishments for diplomas—to qualify them for the business of legislation, and for holding office?

And again. Suppose we had as many preachers of the Gospel for lawgivers—for presidents, secretaries, ministers, etc., and for judges—what would be our situation? However they might differ among themselves upon the minor points of their faith and practice, would they not combine together? And would it not be their duty to combine, for the establishment of whatever opinion they might all, or a great majority of them, have agreed to uphold, as vital to Christianity? And how could we help ourselves? And what would become of our ambitious young men, or still more ambitious daughters? And what—I beseech you to think of this—what would become of the right we now claim of judging for ourselves upon all subjects, that in any way belong to our everlasting welfare? Yet these men are honest, and taken together, are they not as trustworthy and conscientious under all circumstances, think you, as our present masters, the lawyers? And if so, would they—or would the physicians, or the soldiers be a whit more dangerous? Answer these questions for yourselves.

But I have not finished. I hold that the professional training of a lawyer disqualifies him for the very business, which might be entrusted with comparative safety to the soldier, the physician, or the preacher.

And wherefore? Because it substitutes a new law for the law of God. He that by his professional adroitness can secure the escape of the bloodiest and most atrocious criminal from justice, in spite of the clearest proof, obtains a reputation, and with it correspondent advantages in wealth, influence, and power, which under no other circumstances could he obtain. It is the worst cases, whether criminal or civil—cases which he gains in defiance of law, and against evidence—which give a lawyer reputation. To win a cause which every body says he ought to win, that never gives a man reputation, and is therefore committed to the nobodies below him. But, if there be a case beyond the reach of hope or palliation; clear and conclusive against the party, so that our very blood thrills when he is mentioned, and no human being supposes he can get clear; still if he does get clear—no matter how—by browbeating or bothering witnesses; by bamboozling the jury, and misrepresenting the evidence under the direction of the court; or by down-right bullying; the advocate is complimented by his brethren of the bar, and even by the bench; for his learned, ingenious, and eloquent, and faithful vindication of his client; and he goes forth, carrying with him these trophies,—and others, it may be—dabbled and stained with blood, like the murderer’s knife, with “the gray hair stickin’ to the haft,” only to be retained in advance by every desperate ruffian, and every abandoned wretch, who may happen to hear of the result, and to have the where-withal to secure his timely co-operation.

Just observe how this affair is managed. If a father should give aid and comfort to a child, after she had been guilty of murder; if a husband should open his doors to a wife, or a daughter to her father, at dead of night; or furnish a horse, or money, or a mouthful of bread, or a cup of cold water, or the means of escape to a beloved brother, hunted for his life, with the avenger of blood at his heels, time was, when they were all accessories after the fact, and were treated as murderers or principals, whatever might be the offense, and put to death accordingly; and even yet, although that most barbarous law has undergone a few changes, so that in some portions of our country, they who stand in the relation of husband and wife, or parent and child, may help one another when fleeing for their lives; yet no other man, woman, or child can do it, in the whole community, but at the risk of death or imprisonment for life—except he be a lawyer, and the prisoner’s counsel. And then he may, and he not only may, but he is expected and required to do so: in other words, to aid and comfort, counsel and help the prisoner, heedless of all consequences, here and hereafter. And for this, he may receive the very gold which has been wrenched from the grasp of the murdered man; or the bank bills that are glued together by his heart’s blood; and nobody shall dare to question his integrity, or to have any secret misgivings about his honesty or conscientiousness—if it can be helped.

Let me not be misunderstood. I do not deny that the worst of criminals are to be tried fairly. I acknowledge, moreover, that they cannot be tried fairly with men of the law against them, unless they have lawyers to help them: and that it is as much a part of the law that they shall be tried in a certain way, and proved guilty in a certain way, for the satisfaction of the world, as that they shall be punished at all; and that, if it were enough to be satisfied of another’s guilt as a murderer, to justify us in putting him to death, without going through the regular forms of law, then might we run him up at the next yard-arm, or tree branch, or lamp-post; on happening to see the bloody act perpetrated with our own eyes.

But how should we know even in such a case, that “the man was not beside himself;” or that the homicide was not justifiable, or at least excusable? He may have acknowledged his guilt. And what if he has? He may have been mistaken; for such things have happened, and murders which never took place—though intended—have been acknowledged, and the missing parties have re-appeared after a long while, and explained the mystery. Or he may have been deranged; or being accused, and as it were enmeshed by a web of circumstances, he may have been led away like the son, who charged himself and his aged father, in Vermont, with the murder of a poor helpless creature, who was afterward found alive, by the instinct of self-preservation; hoping to lengthen, if not to save his life, at least until his innocence might be made to appear; and believing his father guilty.

To prove all these things there must be a trial, and a public trial; otherwise, whatever may be the result, he will not be proved guilty, according to the law and the evidence; nor could he be justly condemned; and there would be no safety for others.

No matter how clear his guilt may be; nor how bad his character may be; the greater his guilt in the judgment of those who decide against him before trial, and without evidence upon oath, or sifting, or cross-examination—the more precious to him and to all, is the privilege of being put to death according to law. The fewer his rights, the more sacred they are. The more decided and overwhelming the evidence against him, the more necessary it is to wall him round about, as with a sword that turneth every way, against the influence of public opinion. It was in this way that the elder Adams reasoned, when he undertook the defense of the British officer, charged with the murder of Boston citizens, at the outbreak of the revolutionary war—and triumphed.

And how shall this be done without the help of a Lawyer? Law, living a science, complicated, and full of mystery and fear, how is the poor criminal to prepare himself? How is he to defend his few remaining rights? And how is he to bear up against the ponderous and crushing weight of public opinion? He cannot. The thing is impossible. He must have help; and that help must be a lawyer; and that lawyer must be not only faithful to him, but unable to take advantage of, or to betray him, if he would; otherwise the culprit will never trust him, and his life will be at the mercy of the prosecutor, generally chosen for his knowledge of the law, and for his adroitness in making “the worse appear the better reason.”

Well, then, a lawyer must be allowed to the greatest criminal—and the greater criminal he is, the more lawyers he ought to be allowed—if able to pay for them! or if the court, in consideration of his deplorable and hopeless guilt, or the atrocious character of the charge against him, be willing to assign them.

And now—being assigned, or otherwise engaged, what shall the honest lawyer do? He must be faithful to his client, happen what may—but is he required to lie for him? to foreswear himself? As “the indiscriminate defender of right and wrong,” to borrow the words of Jeremy Bentham, “seeking truth in the competition of opposite analogies,” according to Blackstone, shall he undertake to get the fellow clear—to bring him off—against law, and against evidence? If such be the meaning of that faithfulness to his client, what becomes of his faithfulness to God?—to his fellow man—to himself? And yet, where is the great Advocate who does not glory in doing just this? and who has not gained his whole reputation by just such cases, and no others?

There stands the murderer, with garments rolled in blood. There stands his counsel, giving him aid and comfort, under the sanction of law, with his right hand lifted to Heaven, and swearing to a belief in the utter groundlessness of the charge, and calling upon Jehovah himself to witness for him, that he speaks the truth! Such things have happened, and are happening every day; and these honest lawyers are still suffered to go at large, unrebuked and unappalled: nay, worse—for by these very practices they get famous and grow rich and secure the patronage—that’s the very word—the patronage of all the inexorable and shameless villains and cut-throats in the community.

But if the lawyer may not do these things honestly, what may he do for the help of his client?

He may lay his hand reverently upon the statute book. He may show that the law does not reach the case charged upon the prisoner at the bar, and that he must therefore go free—though his right hand be dripping and his garments be stiffened with blood.

He may show that the only witness against him is unworthy of belief, on account of self-contradictions, or utter worthlessness; or that he has become disqualified, by the commission of some offense that incapacitates him for life; and, by producing the record of his conviction, he may oblige the court to let the prisoner go free. All this he may do, and still be an honest man.

Yet more. Having satisfied himself of the innocence of the accused; or of the probability that the witnesses are mistaken, or dishonest, or that they have conspired together to destroy a fellow creature, doomed to death by public opinion without proof; he may put forth all his strength, and appear in “panoply complete,” heedless of all consequences, to save him—provided only that he sticks to the truth, and is honest in what he says or does. I care not how eloquent he may be, nor how able or ingenious—the more eloquent and able and ingenious the better, and I shall reverence him all the more as an Advocate and as a Man.

But I do insist upon it, that he shall not be allowed to forget every thing else—and every other obligation—and every other law, whether divine or human, for the sake of his client; and that if he does, he shall be held answerable for the consequences, and be punished, as he deserves, with a burst of indignation—a general outcry of shame on thee for a traitor!—a traitor to thyself, to thy Maker, and to thy brethren at large, under pretence of being faithful to a murderer whom it would be death, perhaps, for his own mother to help or comfort in any way.

I would even allow him to urge upon the jury, not only in such a case, but in every case where the punishment might be death, to bear in mind, that no matter how perfectly satisfied they may be of the prisoner’s guilt; still, if he has not been proved guilty, by unquestionable evidence, or by unimpeachable witnesses, according to law, they are bound by their oaths to return a verdict of not guilty; and if they do not, they themselves are guilty of murder.

Otherwise they would sanction the most dangerous of Lynch-laws; those which are executed under the forms of justice, and in mockery of all human right.

If satisfied of the prisoner’s guilt, they must have seen the murder perpetrated with their own eyes; and they must have known that there was no excuse for it, and no palliation: and in that case, instead of relying upon questionable testimony from others, it would be their duty to leave the jury-box and go into the witness-box, and allow others to judge of the truth of their story, and of the soundness of their conclusions.

And I would allow the accused the benefit of every flaw on the statute, of every error in the forms of procedure, and of every reasonable doubt. I would even suffer him to array as many young and pretty women as he could entrap into the witness-box fronting the jury—although, perhaps, I might object to their appearing in tears or in mourning, like the Ionians and Greeks and Irish, lest, peradventure, the tables should be turned, as where an Irish barrister, pleading the cause of a little orphan, with the mother and all the rest of the family standing about with handkerchiefs to their eyes, held up the boy in tears. The jury, overcome with sympathy and compassion, were about rendering a verdict at once, and were only delayed by a question from the opposite counsel—“My little fellow,” said he, “what makes you cry?”—“He pinched me!” was the answer, and a verdict was rendered accordingly—as the Irish only are allowed to do it—by acclamation.

And I should not stop here. I would go further. For the purpose of fixing forever and ever the responsibility of a decision upon each of the twelve jurymen—I would have them polled, and questioned separately, and man by man (if permitted by the law,) and not lump their verdict, as they generally do, hit or miss: and I would call upon each to remember that if he erred in pronouncing the judgment of death—of death here, and it might be of death hereafter, he alone would be accountable—for he, alone, might interpose if he would, and arrest that judgment of death, and send the prisoner back to his family—a living man: and I would so picture his own death-bed to every man of that jury, if I had the power, that he should hear himself shrieking for mercy, and see and feel and acknowledge by his looks, that if he betrayed the awful trust, or trifled with it, by deference to others, he himself would be a man-slayer, and utterly without excuse here and hereafter, in this world or the next.

All this I would do, or try to do: for all this might be done by the honest lawyer without a violation of God’s law. But, as I have said before, I would not have him “play falsely,” nor yet “foully win.” I would not have him brow-beat nor entrap honest witnesses. I would not have him guilty of misrepresenting the evidence nor the law “with submission to the court.” I would not have the opposite counsel insulted, nor the bench quarreled with—if it could be helped—

“——For even in the tranquilest climes

Light breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes.”

Nor everlasting speeches made, with continual asseverations and solemn appeals to the by-standers and the public; as if the question of life and death were a game of chess for the amusement not only of those who are engaged in it, but for all who may happen to be near and looking on at the time.

And I would have the dignity of the profession upheld by courtesy and gravity and self-possession—by varied learning—by the utmost forbearance—by very short speeches—by the greatest regard for truth, and by unquestionable conscientiousness under all circumstances.

Were this done, the Bar would be sifted and purged and purified to some purpose. Nineteen twentieths of the rabble rout who mistake themselves, and are mistaken by others for lawyers, would vanish from the face of the earth—and the profession would then be not only respectable, but worth following; though, in my judgment, lawyers would still be the last among us to be intrusted with a disproportionate share of Legislative or Executive power; though, from the nature of things they would be likely to monopolize the whole Judiciary power.

That our leading Advocates will not relish this doctrine, I know. In theory, they may approve—but in practice, when they and their interest, and their professional pride are once engaged, they will never yield. Always taking it for granted that their client tells the truth—in proportion to the fee; and always determined to prevail, if they can, right or wrong, their reformation will depend, not upon themselves, but upon others—upon the People at large; for whenever the People say that a professional acquaintance with law shall be a disqualification for the business of law-making, and no great recommendation for office, then will the lawyers of our country begin to mind their own business, and cease to be mere politicians, clamoring, open-mouthed, for office all their lives long.

And here, lest I may forget them in the proper place, allow me to illustrate the disposition of the People to see fair play, by two or three—Joe Millers, which I never lose an opportunity of telling under this head. They show that my brethren of the bar sometimes get their “come ups” where they least expect it—and very much to the satisfaction of the multitude.

It is told of Jere. Mason, and of some forty others at home and abroad, that on being assigned for counsel to a sad wretch whose case he found to be hopeless, he went to his cell, and after hearing his story, became satisfied that the poor fellow would swing for it, if tried; and so, seeing a sort of window open, high up and far above the prisoner’s reach if unhelped, he suggested to him that there was a beautiful prospect to be seen from that window—perhaps “the high-road to England,” which the amiable Dr. Johnson said was the finest prospect a Scotchman ever sees—and then, seeing the prisoner’s eyes begin to sparkle, he offered himself as a sort of ladder or look out, and standing with his back to the wall, and letting the man climb over him, he never looked up till it was too late, and the man had disappeared—whereupon he returned to the court-room, and on being questioned, acknowledged that he had given the fellow the best advice he could—which advice must be a secret from everybody, since it was the privilege, not of the counsel, but of the client.

All this, you see, was according to law, if not in fact, at least in principle. A Lawyer might do this—and escape scot-free, as if it were only a good joke: while a brother of the prisoner, or a father, might have been sent to the scaffold.

Another, for the truth of which I believe I may vouch, because I had it, I think, from the lawyer himself, may serve to show that such faithfulness to clients may sometimes meet with an appropriate reward. A member of the Down East bar was called upon to save a man charged with passing a large amount of counterfeit money. After a long and severely contested trial, our “learned, eloquent, and ingenious” brother got him clear—chiefly by dint of protestation, coupled with a personal knowledge of the jury. On being discharged, the accused tipped him a wink in passing out, and our learned brother followed him to the lobby. There they stopped—the liberated man overwhelmed with thankfulness, and speechless with emotion; being a father, perhaps, with a large family, or a man of hitherto irreproachable character, who never knew how much he was to be pitied till he heard the speech of his lawyer. Unable to speak—he seized his hand—slipped something into it—and turned away, with a word or two, almost inaudible, about the inadequacy of the acknowledgment, and disappeared forever. Whereupon, our eloquent, able, and most ingenious friend, who was a little shy of opening the parcel in the presence of a bystander, withdrew to another part of the house, and ascertained—perfectly to his own satisfaction, he would have you believe—that he had been paid in the same sort of money which he had been laboring all day to show that the accused never had any thing to do with. And now, on the whole—was not this a capital joke?—a just retribution, and exceedingly well calculated to make a lawyer insist upon being paid before-hand, whatever might be the “contingent fee” afterward.

Once more—for I do not like being misrepresented in the newspapers upon this particular point—being sensitive perhaps about Joe Miller; and, for that reason, always acknowledging my indebtedness to him and to his fellow-laborers, the newspaper people, who never tell a story without spoiling it, or making it look strange: there is a story told in England, upon which a play has been founded, to this effect. A lawyer was called to see a man charged with sheep-stealing. After a brief consultation, he saw clearly that, upon the evidence before him, there was no possibility of escape. And then, too—probably—the wretch was very poor, being only a sheep-stealer, and not a murderer, nor forger, nor house-breaker, nor highwayman, and of course, would have to be satisfied with poor counsel. Whereupon the learned gentleman thought proper to ask him if he had ever been deranged.

“Deranged?”

“Flighty—you understand?”

“Oh—yes—to be sure: all my family on my father’s side have been very flighty—very.”

“That’ll do, my friend; that’s enough. You are charged with stealing sheep—you know.”

The fellow began to roll his eyes and look savage.

“When you are called upon to plead—you know what that is?”

“To be sure I do.”

“Well, then, just plead to the indictment by saying baa-aa!”

So said—so done. The prisoner was arraigned. The indictment was read over to him very slowly as he sat with his head on one side, looking as sheepish as possible. And when they had got through, and he was called upon to say guilty or not guilty, he answered, by saying baa-aa!

The court being rather astonished, interfered, and told him what he was required to do; but still he answered nothing but baa! Read over the indictment again, said the judge, and read it very slowly. The clerk obeyed, and when he had got through, and was again required to say guilty or not guilty, he answered, as before, nothing but baa-aa-aa!

A jury was then impanneled to see if he stood mute “by the visitation of God.” After looking at his tongue—and his eyes—and feeling his pulse, they returned a verdict in the affirmative. The man was forthwith discharged; and the lawyer followed him out, and touching him on the elbow, held out his hand—baa-aa-aa!—baa-aa-aa! said the sheep-stealer—and vanished.

But enough on this point. If I were to write a book, I should not be able to do more than I have done already, so far as the legal and professional doings of my beloved brethren are concerned.

It remains now, that I should say something very briefly, of the disastrous consequences flowing from their political power.

In the first place, it lures all our young men—the silliest as well as the cleverest—who desire to live without work, and to be provided for at the public charge, to betake themselves to the law. It is not only the high-road—but the only high-road to political power. No other profession has a chance with that of the law; and everybody knows it and feels it when broad awake and thinking, instead of dozing. Hence the profession is over-crowded, over-burthened—overwhelmed—and literally dwarfed into comparative nothingness, apart from political power; having not a tittle of the social power it would be fairly entitled to if it were not so adulterated and diluted.

In the second place, we have that national reproach—the instability of our legislation—the perpetual change, that no sober-minded business-man is ever able to foresee or provide against.

And this I aver to be the natural, the inevitable consequence of having for our legislators, men who have a direct personal interest in multiplying or changing our laws, and in making them unintelligible to others.

Let us take one of our young attorneys, and follow him up, year by year, and step by step, to the Halls of Congress, and see how he gets there, and what he is bound to do—for he can do nothing else—after he gets there.

In the first place, it should be borne in mind, that the lawyers we send to our legislative bodies, are not often the able, nor even the ablest of their class—I speak of them as lawyers only, and not as Orators, or Statesmen, or Scholars. They cannot afford to serve the people for the day wages that your stripling, or blockhead of an attorney, who lives only from hand to mouth, would snap at. He who can have a hundred dollars for a speech, will never make speeches at two or three dollars a-day, in our State Legislatures, nor be satisfied with eight dollars a-day in Congress.

And these youngsters of the bar, these third and fourth-rate lawyers, who are held to be good enough for legislators, because they cannot support themselves by their profession, how are they trained for that business?

You first hear of them in bar-rooms and bowling-alleys; then at ward-caucuses; and then at all sorts of gatherings where they may be allowed to try themselves and their hearers; and then at conventions or town-meetings: and then, after being defeated half a dozen times, perhaps, till it is acknowledged that if they are not elected, they are ruined forever, they get pushed, head-foremost, into the State Legislature.

And once there, what shall they do?—how shall they manage to become notorious—or distinguished? They must contrive to be talked about in the newspapers; to be heartily abused by somebody, that they may heartily be praised by somebody else belonging to another perish. Their names at least will be mentioned, and grow more and more familiar every day to the public ear, until they become a sort of household words; or it may be a rallying cry, by the simple force of repetition, like proverbs, or slang-phrases. “Why do you take every opportunity of calling yourself an honest man?” said a neighbor to another of doubtful reputation. “Why, bless your simple heart,” was the reply, “don’t you see that I am laying a foundation for what is called public opinion; and that after a few years, when my character is fairly established, the origin of the belief will be forgotten.” So with your newspaper characters. Idols of the day—at the end of a few months, at most, they are dust and ashes; and the people begin to wonder at themselves that they should ever have been made such fools of.

But how shall they manage to be talked about in the newspapers, and most gloriously abused? There is only one way. They must make speeches—if they cannot make speeches, they may as well give up the ghost, and be gathered to their fathers; for most assuredly, (whatever may be their worth, or strength, or talents, in every other way,) if they cannot make speeches, not a man of them will ever be remembered—long enough to be forgotten. And they must make long speeches—the longer the better; and frequent speeches—the more frequent the better; and be their own correspondents and report themselves for the newspapers, with tart replies and eloquent outbreaks, and happy illustrations, never uttered, nor dreamt of till the unpremeditated battle was over, like some that were made by Demosthenes himself, years after the occasion had passed by, and there was nobody alive to contradict him; or like the celebrated oration of Cicero against Cataline.

But they cannot make speeches about nothing at all—at least such is my present opinion—it may be qualified hereafter, and I am well aware that common experience would appear to be against me, and that much may be said upon both sides, as well as upon neither side, in such a question. They must have something to work with—and to talk about: something, too, which is likely to make a noise out of doors; to set people together by the ears; to astonish them, and to give them a good excuse for fretting, and scolding, and worrying. In other words, they must introduce a new law—the more absurd the better—or attack an old law, the older the better; and seek to modify it, or to change or repeal it.

And what is the result? Just this; that every Legislative Hall in the land, from the least to the greatest, from the lowest to the highest, becomes a debating-school; and the business of the whole Country is postponed, month after month, and year after year, to the very last days of the session, and then hurried through—just a little too late, wherever the national honor is deeply concerned, as in the case of French spoliations, and other honest debts owed by the Government to the People—with a precipitation so hazardous and shameful, that much of the little time left in future sessions must be employed in correcting the blunders of the past: and all for what?—merely that the Lawyers may be heard month after month, and have long speeches that were never delivered, or when delivered, not heard, reported piecemeal, and paragraph by paragraph, in perhaps two or three thousand newspapers—that are forgotten before the next sun goes down, and literally “perish in the using.”

Nor does the mischief stop here. The whole business of the country is hung up—and sessions protracted for months—and millions upon millions wasted year after year, of the people’s money, upon what, after all, are nothing more—and there could not well be any thing less—than electioneering speeches.

And then just look at the character of our legislation. Was there ever any thing to be compared with it, for instability, for uncertainty, for inadequacy, for superabundance, and for what my Lord Coke would call a “tending to infiniteness!” I acknowledge, with pride, that our Revised Statutes, all circumstances taken into consideration, are often quite remarkable for the common sense of their language, and for clearness—wherever common sense and clearness were possible under the established rules of interpretation. But generally speaking, what is it? “Unstable as water—thou shall not excel!” is written upon the great body of our statute law, year after year, and generation after generation.

And what are the consequences? Nations are “perplexed by fear of change.” Better stick to a bad law, than keep changing a good. The clock that stands still (to borrow a happy illustration) is sure to be right twice every twenty-four hours; while that which is always going, may always be wrong.

Let us apply this. We are now waiting and hoping for a change of the tariff: and the more general and confident the expectation of a change among business-men, whatever that change may be—up or down—higher or lower—the more certainly will it put a stop, or greatly embarrass for a time, the whole business of the country. And why? If it be generally believed that the tariff is to be lowered, the dealers everywhere begin to run off their stocks, to offer longer credits and better terms; and however unwilling, shrewd cautious men may be about over-purchasing with such a prospect before them, there will be found others, commercial gamblers, or trading adventurers, who always profit by such occasions to go ahead of their fellows; for what they gain is their own, and what they lose, is their creditors’. And universal overtrading is the consequence here—and stoppages there—till the mischief corrects itself or dies out. Business no longer flows in its accustomed channels. It has fallen into the hands of comparative stock-jobbers and lottery-dealers: and a general bankruptcy often follows.

But suppose the tariff about to be raised—and the belief to be universal. The ultimate consequences are the same, so far as the regular business of the country is concerned. Manufacturers and jobbers hold back; they refuse to sell on six months—they shorten the period of credit—and require acceptances in town—as being, on the whole, better than to demand higher rates in advance of old customers. Purchasers may be eager—but what can they do. They are obliged to wait—and live on from hand to mouth—till the question has been settled. And so with every other great leading law, affecting any great commercial, farming, or manufacturing interest of the country. The legislation of a land is a type of itself. How can our other great institutions be safe and lasting if our legislation be unstable?

That our legislation is unstable and changing and fluctuating, who will deny? What great system of national policy have we ever pursued steadily beyond the terms of two or three of our political chief-magistrates—a paragraph at most, in the long History of the World?

And how should it be otherwise? Lawyers with us are Conveyancers and Notaries and Special-Pleaders: and Conveyancers and Notaries and Special-Pleaders over sea are always, and in our country, almost always paid by the page; and a certain number of words, you know, constitute a page at law. Again—so sure is it that a lawyer shall not only be heard, but paid for his “much speaking,” that I do believe people are often better satisfied to lose a case with a long speech, than to gain it by a short one. This may appear somewhat startling; but let us see if, on the whole, it be not substantially true and no paradox.

A man goes to consult a lawyer—you see how careful I am to distinguish between the two—and states his case. The lawyer hears him patiently through—having already touched the fee—and tells him, without opening a book, or lifting his spectacles, or moving from his chair, that the question lies in a nut-shell; and that if his view of the law should be sustained by the court, of which he cannot be sure, it may be settled easily and at once. Well—the case in due time goes up. The jury are empanneled; a great speech is brewing on the opposite side; you can hear the whiz of preparation in the very breathing of the Adversary; but up rises our friend—by the supposition a very clear-headed, able and honest lawyer—and so states the principle of law upon which he depends, that the court rules in his favor, no speeches are made, and the jury are discharged. And now comes the tug of war. The client begs a moment of the lawyer’s time, and asks what’s to pay: “Fifty dollars.” “Fifty dollars!—why, sir—pulling out his watch—you were not more than—” The lawyer bows, and on turning away with a stately air, as of one who truly respects himself, and will not suffer the dignity of the profession to be trifled with nor tarnished, is stopped by—“I beg your pardon, squire—there’s the money. Good morning.” And off goes the client, who has gained the cause, to complain of the lawyer for extravagance or extortion; saying that “the case was plain as a pike-staff—any body might have managed it—could have done it himself and without help—nothing but a word or two for the court—never opened his mouth to the jury—and then, whew! what do you think he had the conscience to charge? why, fifty dollars!—would you believe it! Very well—much good may the fifty dollars do him; it is the last he’ll ever see of my money, I promise you.”

And now let me suppose that, instead of going to the last mentioned, honest lawyer, he had gone to some other. He is heard, to be sure, but with visible impatience: he is continually interrupted and questioned and cross-questioned, by the half hour. The learned gentleman has a very large snuff-box on the table before him—two or three very large portfolios, and at least a wheelbarrow load of papers tied with red tape. He takes off his spectacles and snuffs, and wipes them with his glove and snuffs, and replaces them and snuffs; now he lifts them and looks under them, and now he lowers them and looks over them steadfast and solemn, though troubled and perplexed, with his mouth screwed up, and making faces at his client all the time: he shakes his head and jumps up, and takes a pinch, and then shakes his head and sits down, and takes another pinch: with a huge pile of authorities before him, and ever so many lying open, and having secured a retainer, at last he tells his client to call on the morrow at 11¼ o’clock precisely. The client, awe-struck at the vastness of that legal erudition he has been favored with a few glimpses of, steals away on tip-toe, rubbing his hands with delight and astonishment, and talking to himself perhaps all the way down stairs and into the street. After three or four consultations the case comes on for trial. The Adversary goes at the jury head-first, with a speech varying from two hours to two days. Of course, it will require from two hours to two days to answer it—and every thing must be answered, you know, whether it has to do with the question or not—as in the passage between Tristram Bulges and John Randolph, about the buzzard, or bald-eagle, I forget which; for after all, there is no great difference between them, as I have heretofore found to my cost; or as in that between Webster and Hayne about poor Banquo’s ghost, in the Senate chamber. And now, having insulted the witnesses, and the court, and the opposite counsel, and tired the jury by an everlasting speech, when they were already more than half asleep; or by arguing questions of law and fact wholly supposititious, for the benefit of his younger brethren and the by-standers—the case goes to the jury, under the charge of the court perhaps, and is lost. But who cares?—not the client; for when told that he has a hundred dollars to pay, instead of fifty as before, he calls it dog-cheap, and insists upon paying more, and why? Because that lawyer had made the case his own—and he goes about saying, “Didn’t he give it to ’em!—bench, bar and jury!—didn’t he acknowledge they were all a set of nincompoops!—and didn’t he lather my adversary and my adversary’s counsel, and all his witnesses, little and big, and especially the women and children, beautifully!—handsomely!—and isn’t he the man, therefore, not only for my money, but for the money of all my acquaintances who may ever want a zealous and faithful lawyer to manage their business for them!”

This, though sufficiently absurd, I acknowledge, is nevertheless true: and happens continually at the bar. I do not say that in terms a client would prefer a long speech to a verdict; I only say that such is the fact, although he may not always know it himself, in many a troublesome case. And so with litigants generally; having once entered the “sacred precincts” of a law-temple, and breathed the fiery atmosphere, and had their names called over in a crowded court-room, and thereby having become famous in their own little neighborhoods, and in the judgment of their friends and witnesses, people of large experience and authority, how are they ever afterward to forego the pleasure? If they win the first throw, of course they can afford to throw again: if they lose, they must throw again, the blockheads! to get back what they have lost, when, like other gamblers, they promise to stop.

Can it be wondered after all this, that words are multiplied in our laws, from sheer habit, as well as from a sort of professional pride, until a mere English reader, however familiar with the spoken language and with the best writers of the language, both at home and abroad, such as Bacon and Bolingbroke and Hooker and Swift, or Edwards, or Channing, or the writers of the Federalist, or Franklin, and half a hundred more I might mention, would be unable to make head or tail of one paragraph in three; and few men of business would be willing to hazard any considerable investment upon his own understanding or interpretation of any passage in any new law.

Talk of the dead languages! The deadest of all the languages I know, or ever heard of, is the language of the law! Ask our friend, the learned blacksmith, and I will abide by the answer. Nobody, not trained to the business of interpretation—as a dragoman—or lawyer, would ever think of trying to understand a new law without help. And even with help—it is a plague and a mystery till the true meaning has been settled—settled!—by adjudication: that is, by others in authority, the priesthood and the patriarchs, who, under the name of judges, are paid for all the thinking, as lawyers are paid for all the talking to no purpose, permitted at law: for, be it known to all whom it may concern, that is, to all the non-lawyers of our land, that no private interpretation of law is of any authority at law: nor is the right of private judgment recognized or allowed or tolerated or endured in courts of justice! You must believe at your peril. You must teach as you are taught; and grow to the opinions or moulds about you as a cucumber grows to a bottle; for such is the law, and with most of the profession, all the law, to say nothing of the Gospel; for that, perhaps, would be out of place here.

And now, inasmuch as almost every word of importance in our language has more than one meaning, it follows, that in proportion as you multiply words in a law, or in a legal instrument, you multiply the meanings, and the chances of mistake, and of course, I may as well say it, of litigation: and the mere habit of multiplying words as conveyancers and special-pleaders and speech-makers, being not only a professional habit, as every body knows, but characteristic of the profession, it may be, and often is, continued from habit, long and long after it may cease to appear advantageous or profitable; as in the business of legislation, or in dealing with a jury, where the lawyer is not paid by the page, but by the day or the trick. And why? Perhaps my friend Joe may be permitted to answer. A tailor, while cutting a coat for himself, was seen to slip a fragment of the cloth into his cabbage-drawer. Amazed at such a procedure, a new apprentice took the liberty of asking why he did it. “To keep my hand in,” was the answer.

Just so is it with the lawyer. He would use more words than are either necessary or safe, merely to keep his hand in, if for no other reason. Just compare a contract entered into between shipping-merchants for the sale of a cargo, or between other men of business, railroad contractors, or stock-dealers, involving the outlay of millions, perhaps, with a deed of trust drawn by a thoroughbred conveyancer, or with articles of co-partnership by any thing alive in the shape of an attorney-at-law, if you wish to see the difference between the language of lawyers, and men of business and common sense.

By this, I would not be understood to say that some lawyers are never needed for putting the language and meaning of parties into shape; nor that “I. O. U.” would be a model for a charter-party, or a church settlement; for I acknowledge that the chief business of the world cannot be carried on safely without lawyers. I only say, that we have too many of them; and that they are encouraged to intermeddle more than is good for themselves, or us, with every sort of business and branch of the Lex mercatoria, and the Lex non scripta.

Another reason why the people are not allowed to have the laws of their own Country in their own language, but in that of the learned few—like the Bible for the Roman Catholics—notwithstanding the ridiculous parade of publishing all the laws in thousands of our newspapers in a year—a better hoax, and a better joke by far than the celebrated bequest of a guinea, toward paying off the national debt of our mother country—that mother of Nations, so cleverly represented by Victoria, just now—is, that we may not be able to judge for ourselves; and that no law shall be of any private interpretation; for if it did, the people would soon be independent of most lawyers; and then, what would become of the superannuated, and the helpless, the fledglings, and the understrappers? They would have to rely for support in their old age upon the interpretation of themselves, and of their own cramped penmanship, instead of the legislative enactments.

But, say certain of my brethren, the law, after all, is a great science, and the profession worthy of profound respect. It is over-crowded to be sure; and some, it must be acknowledged, do not succeed at the bar, and after trying it for a while are obliged to leave it, or starve. Granted—but what does that prove? Can those who do not succeed be greater blockheads, or greater knaves than many others that do? And may it not be just possible, if they, who do not succeed in the profession are otherwise distinguished, that they had too much self-respect, or conscientiousness, or what may be called honesty? Thus much by way of a protestanda—or the “exclusion of a conclusion,” according to my Lord Coke.

And now, with all seriousness, what more shall be said? I have shown: 1.—That my brethren of the bar enjoy a very dangerous and altogether very disproportionate power as the law-makers, the law interpreters, and the law enforcers. 2.—That however honest they may be by nature; and however honest in all the other relations of life; and that they are so, I acknowledge with pleasure; yet, as Lawyers, they have a code of morals peculiar to themselves, making it their duty to league with knaves, and cheats, and murderers, and house-breakers, and to furnish them with aid and comfort, for pay; in other words, for a share in their profits, and this duty is of such a nature as to lead them continually astray, to blind their reasoning powers, to darken their consciences, until they are incapable of distinguishing between truth and falsehood, or right and wrong in the defense of their clients; and that under pretense of being faithful to them, they become after a while too unfaithful to everybody else, even to themselves, and to their Maker; and that therefore they are not trustworthy as legislators. 3.—That in consequence of their position as the holders of political power, too large a portion of our young men—our intellectual strength and hope, is diverted into that particular profession, to the injury of every other, and especially to the business, and laboring, or productive professions. 4.—That another evil is our superabundant legislation—the instability of that legislation—the prodigious cost of so many debating societies maintained at the public charge, under pretence of law-making all over the land; whereby the public business of the whole country is delayed, month after month, and year after year; and sometimes never done—or if done at all, is done at last in such a hurry, and after such a slovenly fashion, that when the law-makers are called together again, a large portion of the little time they are enabled to set apart from electioneering, is spent in patching up and explaining the laws of a previous session; here, by taking a piece off the bottom and sewing it on the top, as the Irishman lengthens his blanket; and there, by taking out a piece of the same, to patch a hole with: and that therefore, notwithstanding a multitude of glorious exceptions to be found, year after year, in the senate chambers and representative chambers of our country, Lawyers are never to be trusted in the making of laws; and that, if it were not for the simple fact that, as judges, they are the only authorized expounders of the law, they ought not to be trusted even with the wording of a statute.

And now, what more? We are all ambitious—lawyers above all the rest of the world in this country. Not one but labors—if we may believe his mother and sister, or his betrothed—not one “but labors with the nightmare meanings of Ambition’s breast”—not one who does not feel—

“How hard it is to climb

The steep where Fame’s proud temple shines afar!”

and therefore it is, that the whole country is groaning under their oppression—over-burthened with law—and taxed, and trapped, and crushed, and trampled on by lawyers.

But, if instead of this unhealthy ambition—this boyish uneasiness and appetite for notoriety, which three times out of four will be satisfied with the title of esquire, there should arise the unconquerable spirit of one created for dominion, with the holy instincts of a reformer, and anxious from the first hour of his revealed strength, to be the friend of the Fatherless and the Widow, of the Wronged and the Suffering—the champion of the poor and the helpless—the refuge of the hunted and betrayed upon earth—let him devote himself to the study and practice of the law, and of nothing but the law, in its vast and magnificent comprehensiveness; let him consecrate himself with prayer, and praise, and thanksgiving and sacrifice—let him go up to the temple with humility and reverence, and godly fear; and let him take possession “of the purple robe and diadem of gold,” as of right, and though his life may be a continual warfare, and he may die in the harness at last, and upon the battle-field, as Pinkney and Emmett, and others have died before him—for

“He, who ascends to mountain-tops shall find

The loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow,

Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow

Contending tempests on his naked head.”

Yet will he die the death of the righteous, and never be forgotten: and whole communities will pass by his grave, generation after generation, saying to one another as if speaking of a personal friend, “that although he was a great man, and a great lawyer, and perhaps a statesman, he was a good neighbor, and a good citizen, a good husband and a good father; and therefore a good Christian, doing justly, walking humbly, and loving mercy to the last.”

And would not such a death, my dear G——, be worth living for? And such a reputation worth dying for?

ELPHOLEN. A FRAGMENT.

———

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

———

Where many cedars shade Igondo’s shelf,

Like towering Dukes of Edom crowned with plumes;

Where seven rivers to an awful gulf

Fall, with much foam, from Himalaya’s flooms;

And where, from Baal-Phaxi’s caverned rooms,

Through ice-arched galleries pours tumultuous Ulf,

Are built across a swarthy savage glen,

The gates which bar the land of Elpholen.

Above all mountains, clouds, and smoking isles,

From one huge base three stately hills arise;

A wall extends from them a thousand miles,

Steep and unbroken, builded to the skies,

Higher than even the gray-winged condor flies;

And compasseth, with rocks and snowy piles

A table land, both wide and wonderful,

And only by that gated pass accessible—

Crossing a frightful plain which the sun scorches,

Which plain is full of chasms and trap-dykes,

Scoriæ, cinders, and dry river gorges,

With timber petrified, basaltic spikes,

And lava-ponds, with hard, black, stony surges

We reached the shaded pass below the peaks,

And paused to hear the roar of plunging Ulf,

And the seven rivers, far within the gulf.

Up that defile, with fear and silent wonder,

We rode; our horses seemed but two small mice.

The rivers in the gulf gave forth large thunder,

And rocks, above the clouds, fell, bounding thrice,

With uproar, from the grim cliffs, cracked asunder.

Aloft, like Anakim, with helms of ice

The mountains raised their huge Plutonic shoulders,

Clothed in Titanic mail of ore and boulders.

Three Prophets of grand stature and bald brows

Sat by the gates. They were much older than

The river Nile. One of deep eyes arose

And said: “Speak unto us what manner of man

Thou art, O, hero; if of some fierce clan

Hyperborean, or of pagan Huns?”

He of the icebergs spoke with rhetoric fit

In words and figures following, to wit;

. . . . . .

The Prophet said, “Here shalt thou rest this night

While the sun sleeps in hollow Erebus;

And as the hours pass on in silent flight

All known philosophy will we discuss.

But thou, O wizard Etheuòlymus,

To Himmalaya’s broken pinnacle

Fly with this young esquire, that he may see

All kingdoms on the continent that be.”

Then, with the wizard in a flying mist,

I rose along the sides of that steep cone:

’Twas like an iron trunk of girdle vast;

The moon’s full globe upon all cities shone;

Tyre, by the waters; glimmering Ascalon;

The City of the Magians, girt with fire;

And in the East we saw those mountain ranges

Which separate the Nile from sacred Ganges.

Alas! all earthly things have been revised

Even Learning’s careful patron and Protector,

The Inquisition, is disorganized.

The world is round, and has a Radius Vector;

There’s not a ghost on duty, nor a spectre;

Sinbad is dead, and almost any loafer

Can go, in steamers, round Cape Horn to Ophir.

Then, on the blackness of the Night’s deep chasm,

The anchored earth lay, floating, like a floor:—

Beneath, the shadow and the veiled phantasm

Their local habitation had of yore;

But each veiled shadow, and each dreadful phasm

Rose with the night, above the western shore—

When, through the void, all flame and ruddy gold

The Day-god’s cavalcade, descending, rolled.

Without the continent, old Ocean’s torrent

Extended to the earth’s remotest verge:

Both jovial Tritons, and the Powers abhorrent,

Were seized of provinces upon the surge;

And from Arcturus to the Southern gorge

Black tempests bearing old Eolus’ warrant

Patrolled the seas in search of ships or steamers

Breaking the closes of the ocean emirs.

Through the dense night, archangels of strong wing,

From heaven roving, saw the earth’s vast plane—

The kingdoms of the Pole, all glimmering—

The twisted rivers, and the enfolding main—

The shining gulfs which dent the Indian chain,

And smiled to see the hollow planets swing

Above that dim abyss within whose core

Were hooked the world’s deep sunken anchors four.

Large breakers tumbling on the Arabian shoals,

With wooded regions by the Caucasian gaps—

The town of Ebony, the land of Gholes,

(Which are omitted in the modern maps)—

All these I saw; and hills with misty caps,

Where dwell the Glactophagi—blameless souls:

The wizard spoke—I was with awe oppressed:

The words like ghosts rose from his sounding chest—

“These mountains I have watched a thousand years;

And I have writ one thousand solemn books:

Who reads them shall be wise! Hell’s fiercest Peers

Have oft essayed to burst these bolted rocks;

And, under Baal-Phaxi’s deepest blocks,

Mines they have digged, and loaded, and exploded.

Yea, Mogophur, the Lord of Babylon,

Came with his captains and a countless rabble on—

“Of spearmen, chariots, and Tartarian riders,

Whose faces were the likeness of a flame,

And elephants crept through the pass like spiders,

And the whole College of Magicians came,

Who caused sharp earthquakes and much whizzing flame

By means of diagrams, and long dividers,

And thus exclaimed each iron-harnessed savage,

‘The unseen land of Elpholen we’ll ravage.’

“I did but ope one solemn book, and say:

‘O, ye Hydraulic Goblins of the mountains,

At once your tunnels, pumps, and flooms let play;

And loose old Himmalah’s rock-bound fountains.’

Then rivers of cold foam and spouting spray,

And cataracts which broke the cliffs away,

Burst from the mountains’ inner reservoirs.

’Twas very good to see those watery Druids

Destroy that haughty host, with roaring fluids!”

. . . . . .

But now, those noisy trumpeters, the Hours,

Blew the reveillé through the camps of morn:

Now storm-girt Taurus raised his icy horn,

Like blazing silver, o’er the mists and showers;

And sunlight struck the unclouded mountain towers,

Which ranged the circuit of that snowy wall:

We then rode down a chasm from the gates,

And entered Elpholen’s enchanted states.

To a wild amphitheatre we rode,

Begirt with precipices. From an astounding

Cavern in the mountain-side, there flowed

A river deep and broad; but the surrounding

Dark hollows echoed not a single sounding;

For silently it moved—we only heard

At times the plunging of some dull cascade

Far up the tunnel, like a cannonade.

Full many other rivers cross those lands,

Some, from the eternal snows come pouring;

Some, roll around the chasms, in foaming bends;

Some, through the hills, a ragged highway boring,

Rush to the valleys, with an angry roaring,

And hurry onward to the ocean sands;

But many a cataract and runlet trickles

Down from the glaciers, making huge icicles.

We moved along by wooded peaks and crags,

Carvéd with images and hieroglyphs,

Ruffling their scales and quills like golden flags,

And, pawing their odd cubs, the hippogriffs

Rolled in their nests, upon the shady cliffs;

And in the glens, both bears and royal stags,

With lazy lions, goats, and yawning leopards

Like cattle lay, and children were their shepherds.

Along through ancient forests, vast, and slumbrous,

Roes, of the mountain, grazed beside the springs,

And often rose some bird of plumage cumbrous

Unto the branches, folding his wide wings.

There, too, were tombs of certain wizard-kings—

Antediluvians of visage sombrous—

And holy men, before their moss-grown crypts,

Studied in awful Syriac manuscripts.

Beyond, there dwelleth an immortal folk,

About a stream, which to a lake enlarges:

Pine hills curve greenly round, and groves of oak,

Sometimes they rested on the river marges,

Sometimes they plowed the lake in hollow barges,

And sometimes, on the altars made sweet smoke,