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

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

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

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

Morris bowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You must regret to lose her."

"That admits no question, señor."

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

"What loss?"

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

"Decidedly," answered Morris.

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

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

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

Morena, taken by surprise, obeyed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Maria!" he exclaimed.

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

"Malediction!" cried the Mexican.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fire!" cried the mate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE STAGE-STRUCK GENTLEMAN.

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

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

_Waiter._ Here are your oysters, _gentlemen_; ("a slight shade of
irony in the emphasis.")

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

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

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

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

_O, Dii immortales!_ can these things be? In other words, _can_ such
_animals_ exist?

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

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

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

THE DIAMOND STAR;

OR,

THE ENGLISHMAN'S ADVENTURE.

A STORY OF VALENCIA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Clarence Landon," was the reply.

"Your birthplace?"

"London, England."

"Your age?"

"Twenty-five years."

"Occupation?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The brow of Rodrigo grew black as night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lady!" cried Landon, "for the love of that Being whom we both
worship, though in a different form, take pity on a wretched
fellow-being. Save me! save me!"

"You are accursed and condemned," she answered, rising and recoiling.

"I am! I am!--but you know my offence. If you ever loved yourself, you
know how to pardon it. Think of the horrid fate which awaits me, if
you are pitiless."

The lady paused and reflected, Landon watching the expression of her
countenance with the most intense anxiety. At length her brow cleared
up; there was an expression of sweetness about her rosy lips that
revived hope in the heart of the fugitive.

"I will save you if I can," she answered.

"Heaven's best blessing on you for the word!" exclaimed the
Englishman.

"But you have come to a dangerous place for shelter and safety," she
continued, sadly. "Do you know whose house this is? It is the dwelling
of my father, Don Rodrigo d'Almonte, the governor of Valencia."

Landon started back in terror, but he instantly recovered from that
feeling.

"You, then," he said, "are Donna Florinda, in praise of whose beauty
and goodness all Valencia is eloquent. I feel that I am safe in your
hands."

"I will never betray you," said the lady. "You are safe here. It is my
bed chamber," she continued, blushing; "but I resign it to you--sure,
from your countenance, that you are a cavalier of honor, who will
never give me cause to repent of the step."

"Be sure of that."

"Swear it," she said, "upon this trinket, which my father took from
your person in the hall of the Inquisition."

Landon took from Florinda's hand the diamond star given him by
Estella, and thus mysteriously restored, and pressed it to his lips.

"By this talisman," he said, "by this token, which I prize so highly,
I pledge myself not to abuse your confidence, but to repay the
priceless service you render me by a life of gratitude."

"You may remain here, then, for the present," said Florinda, "till I
can think what can be done for you."

"If I can only make my way to the house of the English ambassador,"
replied Landon, "I think I can count upon my safety."

Donna Florinda, after lighting a lamp, (for it was now nightfall,)
and setting upon a table some wine and fruit, left the chamber,
locking the door behind her.

Descending to the garden, she went directly to a secluded arbor,
embowered in foliage, at no great distance from the house.

"Cesareo!" she whispered.

A young cavalier, who was concealed in the arbor, instantly advanced,
and clasped her in his arms.

"Dear Florinda," he cried, "I feared that you would disappoint me. But
we have yet some happy moments to pass together."

"Not a moment, Cesareo," replied the lady; "my father will soon
return. I come to beg you to retire instantly, and await another
opportunity of meeting."

"You are anxious to get rid of me!" replied the cavalier.

"Not so; my father will soon return, and he will be sure to inquire
for me directly."

"Well, then," said the lover, "if it must be so, go you to the house,
and leave me the solitary pleasure of watching the window of the room
gladdened by your presence."

"No, no, Cesareo," cried Florinda, in terror, "that must not be."

As she said this, her eyes were instinctively turned to the window of
her room, and Cesareo's followed the same direction. The shadow of
Landon's figure, as it passed between the lamp and the window, was
seen defined distinctly on the curtain.

"By Heaven!" cried Cesareo, "there is a man in your bed chamber!"

"My father!" said Florinda.

"You told me in your last breath that he had not returned. You are
playing me false, Florinda. You have a lover, and a favored one."

"No, no!" cried the agonized girl. "It is nothing, believe me--trust
not appearances. I will explain all."

But at this moment the distant clang of trumpets and kettledrums was
heard, announcing the governor's return.

"I must begone!" cried Florinda; "believe me, I am faithful;" and with
these words she fled into the house.

"The dream is over!" said Cesareo. "But I will have vengeance on my
rival;" and he left the garden, muttering curses, and grasping the
cross hilt of his sword.

Florinda flew to her chamber.

"Fly!" she cried to Landon. "I have sheltered you at the risk of my
reputation--my father is returning, and you must leave this house. A
jealous lover may denounce me, and both of us be ruined forever.
Farewell; climb the wall at the back of the garden, and take refuge in
the next house. I will still watch over you."

Landon obeyed, and made his escape from the governor's garden just as
Don Rodrigo was entering his court yard. He crossed another small
garden, and entered a small house at the extremity, the door of which
was unbarred, and again found refuge in a room on the first floor,
where he concealed himself behind a screen.

He had not been here long before he heard footsteps entering the room,
and the voices of two persons in conversation, one of whom was
evidently a female, and the other an old man.

"Dear father!" said the female, "I am rejoiced to see that you are
returned. You never go forth in this city that you do not leave me
trembling for your safety."

"I have passed through much peril, Miriam," replied the man. "Snares
and violence have beset my path. I went to carry the gold and the
silver I had promised to Jacob, the goldsmith, when, lo! I was beset
by the ungodly rabble."

"Dear father!"

"Yea! and they dragged me to their place of skulls--even to their
accursed Golgotha, where the blood of mine only brother was drunken by
the ravening flames, and where thirty of our brethren perished because
they believed in the God of Abraham, and of Isaac, and of Jacob."

"And did they force you to witness the _auto da fe_?"

"They brought me to the place, Miriam--but there the spirit of
prophecy descended upon me, and I lifted up my voice and denounced
their abominations, even as the prophet of old did the iniquities of
the Egyptian king. And lo! Miriam, there was a miracle wrought. The
voice of Heaven spake in thunder to rebuke their impious
bloodthirstiness. The floodgates of heaven were opened, and the rain
descended in mighty torrents, and quenched the Moloch fires kindled by
the Christians. And a great wind arose, and the scaffold was
destroyed, and the goodly youth that stood thereupon was saved from
the death of fire as the multitude were scattered."

"And lives he, father?"

"I fear not," answered the old man, sadly. "For if he were not crushed
by the falling scaffold, yet verily the cruel swords of the troopers
and the men-at-arms must have sought out his young life."

At this moment, Landon stepped from his concealment.

"No, my friends," said he, "I yet live to thank Heaven for its
providential care. I have even found a friend in the household of my
bitter enemy, for Donna Florinda d'Almonte sheltered me, and commended
me to your roof."

He now had time to scan the persons of his hosts. The elder, Isaac,
the Jew, was, as we described him on his appearance in the plaza, a
man of venerable appearance, with a mild and noble countenance,
wearing the long beard and flowing robes of his race. His daughter,
Miriam, had the commanding beauty, the dark eyes, the flowing hair,
and the bold features of the daughters of Israel. She was richly clad
in robes of silk, and many a jewel of price gleamed in the raven
tresses of her hair.

"Thou art safe beneath this roof," said the Hebrew, "for Donna
Florinda, though the daughter of the man of tiger blood, hath yet
befriended us and ours, and for her sake as well as for thine, thou
art welcome."

Landon thanked his new friends for their hospitable pledges.

"I would fain," said the old Hebrew, "give thee garments more fitting
than the accursed robe that wraps thy youthful limbs. But of a truth I
have none of Spanish fashion, and the Jewish gabardine is almost as
fatal to the wearer as the robe of the _san benito_."

"Here comes Reuben," said Miriam. "Welcome home, dear brother."

A handsome youth of sixteen entered at this moment, and saluted his
father, his sister, and the stranger. He bore a bundle in his arms.

"I was charged," he said, "by the lady Florinda, to bear this packet
to the stranger I should find here. It contains a Spanish dress. She
bid me say," he continued, addressing Landon, "that when you have put
on these habiliments, you can repair with me to the governor's garden
at midnight. The waiting maid and confidant will conduct you through
the house to the street, and once there you can make your way to the
English ambassador's."

After thanking the youthful messenger, Landon was shown to an
apartment, where he was left alone to change his dress. Donna Florinda
had supplied him with a plain but handsome cavalier's suit, including
mantle, hat, and plume, and in addition to these, a good sword. Landon
hailed this latter gift with joy, and buckled the belt with trembling
eagerness. He drew the weapon, and found it to be a Toledo blade of
the best temper. He kissed the sword with ecstasy.

"Welcome!" he cried, "old friend! With you I can cut through odds, and
at least sell my life dearly, if I fall again into the hands of the
Philistines."

Returning to his new friends, he sat down to a hearty meal which they
had prepared for him, and to which he did an Englishman's justice. At
the hour of twelve, his young friend Reuben signified his readiness to
accompany him on his adventure.

"Farewell!" he cried; "I owe you a debt that nothing can repay. But
believe me that your kindness will always dwell in the heart of
Clarence Landon."

Reuben and the Englishman were soon in the governor's garden. It was
pitch dark, and they advanced cautiously, groping their way. All at
once Landon stumbled against some person.

"Is it you, Reuben?" said he, in a low tone.

But he was instantly grasped by the throat. Dealing his unknown
assailant a blow with his clinched hand, which made him release his
hold, the Englishman instantly drew his sword and threw himself on
guard. His steel was crossed by another blade, and a fierce encounter
ensued, the combatants being practised swordsmen, and guided, in the
dark, by what swordsmen term the "perception of the blade." Reuben had
made his escape, and gone to inform his father of this new disaster.
The struggle was brief, for the antagonist of Landon, closing at the
peril of his life, and being a man of herculean strength, wrested the
sword from the Englishman's grasp, and held him at his mercy.

"Now, dog!" whispered the victor, "have you any thing to offer why I
should not take your life as a minion of the tyrant Rodrigo?"

"I scorn to ask my life of an unknown assassin," replied Landon; "but
I am no minion of Rodrigo's, and I was even now seeking to escape his
clutches."

"If there was light here," said the stranger, "I could see whether you
lied, friend, by your looks. You may be palming off a tale upon me.
How did you propose to escape Rodrigo?"

"By making my way through his house," answered Landon.

"A likely tale. How are you to gain access to his house?"

"A waiting maid was to let me in."

"Well, I'll test your veracity. I have your life in my hands. You are
unarmed; I have rapier and dagger. The experiment costs me nothing."

"It would be idle in me to interrogate you," said Landon; "it would be
idle to ask who you are."

"I will answer you frankly," replied the stranger; "I am one of those
freebooters whose fortunes are their swords. If I were in Rodrigo's
power, my life would not be worth five minutes' purchase; and yet I am
seeking him to-night."

"You speak in riddles."

"Perhaps; but be silent now, if you value your life, and follow me."

The stranger, still retaining a firm grasp upon the luckless Landon,
approached a door which led into the governor's house, showing, in
their progress, a perfect acquaintance with the labyrinthian alleys of
the garden. They halted, and a female voice spoke in a whisper,
saying, "Here's the key."

The stranger grasped it, and dragging Landon into the house, instantly
locked the door behind him. A dark lantern was placed on the floor of
the corridor; the stranger told Landon to take this up, and precede
him up stairs. Landon obeyed, the stranger following close behind, and
giving him whispered directions as to his course.

Having reached a certain door, the stranger took the light and entered
a chamber, followed by the wondering Englishman. The walls of the room
were heavily draped, and upon a huge bed the governor of Valencia was
reclining, buried in a deep slumber.

"He sleeps!" whispered the stranger in the ear of Landon; "he sleeps,
as if he had never shed blood--as if the head of my brother had never
fallen on the block by the hand of his bloody executioner. He will
soon sleep sounder."

"What mean you?" asked Landon.

"Wait and see," was the reply.

The stranger cautiously lifted the light in his left hand, bending
over the sleeper, while with his right he drew a broad, sharp poniard
from his belt, and raised it in the act to strike. But just as it was
descending, Landon caught the assassin's arm, and shouted in his
loudest tones,--

"Don Rodrigo, wake!"

"Baffled!" cried the ruffian, with an oath. "You shall pay with your
life for interfering."

The governor sprang from his bed in time to witness the deadly
struggle between Landon and the midnight assassin. It was short and
decisive, for as the robber was aiming a blow at his antagonist, the
latter changed the direction, and it was buried to the hilt in his
own heart. He fell, and died without a groan. The noise of the
struggle had aroused the household, and the servants came pouring into
the room with lights, accompanied by Donna Florinda, who was agonized
with terror.

"Dear father!" she cried, rushing into the governor's arms, "what does
this mean?"

"It means," replied Don Rodrigo, "that this ruffian, who had sworn to
take my life because I had condemned his brother to death for manifold
misdeeds, has been slain in the attempt by this young man."

"And do you recognize your generous savior?" exclaimed the daughter.
"Behold! it is the young Englishman you condemned to perish at the
stake. O father!" And she explained the manner in which Landon had
been enabled to save the governor's life.

"Young man," said the governor, addressing Landon with deep emotion,
"a mightier Power than the hand of man is visible in this. For the
life you have saved I will repay you in the same manner. I insure you
a full and free pardon, and you shall not have it to say that Don
Rodrigo d'Almonte, bad as he has been represented, was a monster of
ingratitude."

And he kept his word. Landon soon after set sail for England, in
company with the Hebrew family who had sheltered him, and there, in
due time, was united to the lovely Miriam, with whose beauty he had
been impressed on first sight. In England, he rejoined Hamilton and
his Spanish bride, to secure whose happiness he had perilled his own
life; and he always preserved Estella's diamond star as a memorial of
his adventures in Valencia. Soon after his arrival he received a
letter from Donna Florinda, announcing her marriage to Cesareo, whose
jealousy had been so signally excited by Landon's shadow on the
window curtain. When Don Rodrigo died, he was buried with all the
honors due to a soldier, a governor, and an eminent member of that
mild and benevolent institution, the Spanish Inquisition.

THE GAME OF CHANCE.

CHAPTER I.

At nightfall, on an autumnal evening, when the stars were just
beginning to twinkle overhead like diamonds on a canopy of azure, two
young men were standing together, engaged in conversation on the steps
of the Black Eagle, a fashionable hotel in one of the principal
streets of the gay and celebrated city of Vienna. One of them wore the
rich uniform of an Austrian hussar; the other was clad in the civic
costume of a gentleman.

"So, all is completed at the ministry of war, except the signature of
the commission, and the payment of the purchase money?" said the
soldier.

"Exactly so."

"And to-morrow, then," continued the hussar, "I am to congratulate you
on the command of a company, and salute you as Captain Ernest
Walstein."

The last speaker was Captain Christian Steinfort, an officer who had
seen some two years' service.

"Ah! my boy!" continued he, twirling his jet black mustache, "your
uniform will be a passport to the smiles of the fair. But you already
seem to have made your way to the good graces of Madame Von Berlingen,
the rich widow who resides at this hotel."

"Bah! she is forty," answered Ernest, carelessly.

"But in fine preservation, and a beauty for all that," said Captain
Steinfort. "The Baron Von Dangerfeld was desperately in love with her;
but within a few days, the widow seems rather to have cut him. You are
the happy man, after all."

"Undeceive yourself, my dear Christian," said Ernest, blushing; "I
have only flirted with the handsome widow. My hand is already engaged
to a charming girl, Meena Altenburg, the playmate of my infancy,
adopted and brought up by my good father. I am to marry her as soon as
I get my company."

"And what is to support you, Captain Ernest?"

"My pay, of course, and the income of the moderate dowry my father,
who is well enough off for a farmer, proposes to give his favorite.
So, you see my lot in life is settled."

"Precisely so," replied the captain. "But since you are free this
evening, I engage you to pass it with me. Have you got any money about
you?"

"A good deal. Besides the price of my company, which is safely stowed
away in bank notes in this breast pocket, I have a handful of ducats
about me, with which I propose purchasing some trinkets for my bride.
But I have a gold piece or two that I can spare, if----"

"Poh! poh! I'm well enough provided," answered the captain. "You know
this is pay day. Come along."

"But whither?"

"You shall see."

With these words, the captain thrust his arm within that of his
companion, and the pair walked off at a rapid rate. After passing
through several streets, Steinfort halted, and rang at the door of a
stately mansion. It was opened by a servant in handsome livery, and
the young gentlemen entered and went up stairs.

Walstein soon found himself in a scene very different from any of
which he had ever dreamed of in his rustic and simple life upon his
father's farm. Around a large table, covered with cloth, were seated
more than a dozen persons of different ages, all so intent upon what
was going forward, that the captain and his friend took their seats
unnoticed. At the head of the table sat a man in a gray wig, with a
pair of green spectacles upon his nose, before whom lay a pile of
gold, and who was busily engaged in paying and receiving money, and in
giving an impetus to a small ivory ball, which spun at intervals its
appointed course. Walstein soon learned that this was a
_rouge-et-noir_ table. The gentleman in the gray wig was the banker.

"Make your game, gentlemen," said this individual, "while the ball
spins. Your luck's as good as mine. It's all luck, gentlemen, at
rouge-et-noir. Rouge-et-noir, gentlemen, the finest in all the world.
Black wins; it's yours, sir--twenty ducats, and you've doubled it.
Make your game--black or red."

"Try your fortune, Ernest," said the captain. Ernest mechanically put
down a few ducats on the red.

"Red wins," said the banker, in the same monotonous tone. "Make your
game, gentlemen, while the ball rolls."

Why need we follow the fortunes of Ernest on this fatal evening, as he
yielded, step by step, to the seduction to which he was now exposed
for the first time in his life? Long after Steinfort left the gambling
house, he continued to play. His luck turned. He had soon lost all his
winnings, and the money set apart for his bridal presents. Still the
ball rolled, and he continued to stake. He had broken the package of
bank notes, the money he had received from his father for the
purchase of his commission; and though he saw bill after bill swept
away before his eyes, he continued to play, in the desperate hope of
winning back his losses. At length his last ducat was gone. He rose
and left the room, the last words ringing in his ears being,--

"Make your game, gentlemen, while the ball rolls."

Despairing and heart-stricken, the young man sought his hotel and his
chamber. On the staircase he encountered Madame Von Berlingen, but he
saw her not. His eyes were glazed. He did not notice or return her
salutation. He threw himself upon his bed without undressing, and
towards morning fell into an unrefreshing and dream-peopled slumber.

When he arose, late the next day, he looked at himself in the glass,
but scarcely recognized his own face, so changed was he by the mental
agonies he had undergone. When he had paid some little attention to
his toilet, he received a message from Madame Von Berlingen,
requesting the favor of an interview in her apartments. He
mechanically obeyed the summons, though ill fitted to sustain a
conversation with a lady.

The widow requested him to be seated.

"Mr. Walstein," said she, with a smile, "you are growing very
ungallant. I met you last night upon the staircase; but though I spoke
to you, you had not a word or a nod for me."

"Last night, madam," answered the unfortunate young man, "I was beside
myself. O madam, if you knew all!"

"I do know all," replied the lady.

"What! that I had been gambling--that I had thrown away--yes, those
are the words--every ducat of the money my poor father furnished me
with to purchase my commission?"

"Yes, I know all that. But the loss is not irreparable."

"Pardon me, madam. My father, though reputed wealthy, is unable to
furnish me with a similar sum, even if I were base enough to accept it
at his hands."

"But if some friend were to step forward."

"Alas! I know none."

"Mr. Walstein," said the lady, "I am rich. A loan of the requisite
amount would not affect me in the least."

"O madam!" cried the young man, "if you would indeed save me by such
generosity, you would be an angel of mercy."

"What is the amount of your loss?" inquired the lady, calmly, as she
unlocked her desk.

"Three thousand ducats," answered Ernest. "But I can give you no
security for the payment."

"Your note of hand is sufficient," said the lady, handing the young
man a package of notes. "Please to count those, and see if the sum is
correct. Here are writing materials."

Ernest did as he was bid--counted the money, and then sat down at the
desk.

"Write at my dictation," said the lady.

Ernest took up a pen and commenced.

"The date," said the lady.

Ernest wrote it.

"Received of Anna Von Berlingen the sum of three thousand ducats."

Ernest wrote and repeated, "three thousand ducats."

"In consideration whereof, I promise to marry the aforesaid Anna Von
Berlingen."

"To marry you?" exclaimed Ernest.

"Ay--to marry me!" said the lady. "Am I deformed--am I ugly--am I
poor?"

"I cannot do it--you know not the reason that induces me to refuse."

"Then go home to your father and confess your guilt."

Ernest reflected a few moments. He could not go home to his father
with the frightful tale. It was a question between suicide and
marriage--he signed the paper.

"Now then, baron," said the widow to herself, as she carefully secured
the promise, "you cannot say that you broke the heart of Anna by your
cruelty. Take the money, Ernest," she added aloud; "go and purchase
your commission."

Ernest obeyed. His dreams of yesterday morning had all been dissipated
by his own act; he felt a degraded and broken-spirited criminal. He
had sold himself for gold.

CHAPTER II.

"Here comes Captain Ernest!" cried a youthful voice. And a beautiful,
blue-eyed girl of nineteen stood at the garden gate of a pretty farm
house, watching the approach of a horseman, who, gayly attired in a
hussar uniform, was galloping up the road. At her shout of delight, a
sturdy old gray-haired man came forth and stood beside her.

"Captain Ernest!" he repeated. "That sounds well. When I was of his
age, I only carried a musket in the ranks. I never dreamed then that a
son of mine could ever aspire to the epaulet."

Ernest, waving his hand to Meena Altenburg and his father, rode past
them to the stable, where he left his horse. He then rushed into the
farm house where his father met him.

"What is the meaning of this, boy?" he said. "How wild and haggard you
look! And you have avoided Meena--and this, too, upon your wedding
day."

"My wedding day--O Heavens! I shall die," said the young man, sinking
into a seat.

As soon as he could collect himself, he told his father that he could
not marry Meena, and the reason--he had pledged himself to another.
The old man, who was the soul of honor, burst forth in violent
imprecations, and drove him from his presence. As he left the house,
the unfortunate young man encountered a person whom he at once
recognized as the Baron Von Dangerfeld, the reputed suitor of Madame
Von Berlingen.

"I have been looking for you, Captain Walstein," said the baron,
sternly.

"And you have found me," answered the young man, shortly.

"Yes--and I thank Heaven you wear that uniform. It entitles you to
meet a German noble, and answer for your conduct."

"I am answerable for my conduct to no living man," retorted Ernest.

"You wear a sword."

"Yes."

"Very well--if you refuse to give satisfaction for the injury you have
done me, in robbing me of my mistress, I will proclaim you a coward in
the presence of the regiment upon parade."

"O, make yourself easy on that score, baron," answered Ernest. "Life
is of too little worth for me to think of shielding it. If you will
step with me into the shadow of yonder grove, we can soon regulate our
accounts."

The two men walked silently to the appointed spot, and without any
preliminary, drew their swords and engaged in combat. The struggle was
not of long duration, for Ernest wounded his adversary in the sword
arm, and disarmed him.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked.

"I must be so for the present," replied the baron, sullenly. "When I
recover, you shall hear from me again."

"As you please," said Ernest, coldly. "In the mean time, suffer me to
bind up your arm."

The young man bandaged the wound of his adversary, and as he faltered
from the loss of blood, led him towards the farm house. As they
approached it, two ladies advanced to meet them--one of them was
Meena, the other Madame Von Berlingen.

"Dangerfeld wounded!" cried the latter, bursting into tears--"O, I
have been the cause of this: forgive me--forgive me, Dangerfeld, or
you will kill me."

"You forget, madame, that you belong to another."

"I am yours only--I can never love another. Nor does the person you
allude to," added the lady, turning to Ernest, "cherish any attachment
to me."

"My only feeling for you, madame," said Ernest, with meaning, "would
be gratitude, were a certain paper destroyed."

"What is the meaning of all this?" asked the father of Ernest, coming
forward.

"It means," said Ernest, tearing to atoms the promissory note he
received from the widow's hands, "that I had very ugly dreams last
night--I dreamed that I played at rouge-et-noir, and lost all the
money you gave me to purchase my commission with, and then that I made
up the loss by promising----"

"Hush!" said the widow, laying her finger on her lips.

"Then it was all a dream," said the old man.

"Look at my uniform," replied the captain.

"And what did you mean in the story you told me just now?" asked the
old man.

"Forget it, father," said Ernest. "Dear Meena, look up, my love. It is
our wedding day; and if you do but smile, I'm the happiest dog that
wears a sabre and a doliman."

That very day two weddings were celebrated in the farm house, those of
Captain Ernest Walstein with the Fraulein Meena Altenburg, and Baron
Von Dangerfeld with the yet beautiful and wealthy widow. The captain
never tried his luck again at any GAME OF CHANCE.

THE SOLDIER'S SON.

Many, many years ago, at the close of a sultry summer's day, a man of
middle age was slowly toiling up a hill in the environs of the
pleasant village of Aumont, a small town in the south of France. The
wayfarer was clad in the habiliments of a private of the infantry of
the line; that is to say, he wore a long-skirted, blue coat, faced
with red, much soiled and stained; kerseymere breeches that were once
white, met at the knee by tattered gaiters of black cloth, an old
battered chapeau, and a haversack, which he carried slung over his
right shoulder, on a sheathed sabre. From time to time, he paused and
wiped the heavy drops of perspiration that gathered constantly upon
his forehead.

"Courage, François, courage," said the soldier to himself; "a few
paces more, and you will reach home. Ah, this is sufficiently
fatiguing, but nothing to the sands of Egypt. May Heaven preserve my
eyesight long enough to see my home--my wife--my brave boy Victor,
once more! Grant me but that, kind Heaven, and I think I will repine
at nothing that may happen further."

It will be seen from the above, that François Bertrand belonged to the
army which had recently covered itself with glory in the Egyptian
campaign, under the command of General Bonaparte, a name already
famous in military annals. He had fought like a hero in the battle of
the Pyramids, when the squares of the French infantry repulsed the
brilliant cavalry of Murad Bey, and destroyed the flower of the
Mamelukes by the deadly fire of their musketry. Wounded in that
memorable battle, he was afterwards attacked by the ophthalmia of the
country; but his eyesight, though impaired, was not yet utterly
destroyed. Honorably discharged, he had just arrived at Marseilles,
from Egypt, and was now on his way home, eager to be folded in the
arms of his beloved wife and his young son. So the soldier toiled
bravely up the hill, for he knew that the white walls of his cottage
and the foliage of his little vineyard would be visible in the valley
commanded by the summit.

At length he reached the brow of the hill, and gazed eagerly in the
direction of his humble home; but O, agony, it was gone! In its place,
a heap of blackened ruins lay smouldering in the sunlight that seemed
to mock its desolation. Fatigue--weakness--were instantly forgotten,
and the soldier rushed down the brow of the hill to the scene of the
disaster. At the gate of his vineyard, he was met by little Victor, a
boy of ten.

"A soldier!" cried the boy, who did not recognize his father. "O sir,
you come back from the wars, don't you? Perhaps you can tell me
something about my poor papa?"

"Victor, my boy, my dear boy! don't you know me?" cried the poor
soldier; and he strained his son convulsively in his arms.

"O, I know you now, my dear, dear papa," said the boy, sobbing. "I
knew you by the voice--but how changed you are! Why, your mustaches
are turned gray."

"Victor, Victor, where is your mother?" gasped the soldier.

"Poor mamma!" said the boy.

"Speak--I charge you, boy."

"She is dead."

"Dead!" François fell to the ground as if a bullet had passed through
his brain. When he recovered his senses, he saw Victor kneeling beside
him, and bathing his head with cold water, which he had brought in his
hat from a neighboring spring. In a few words, the child told him
their cottage had taken fire in the night, and been burned to the
ground, and his mother had perished in the flames.

A kind cottager soon made his appearance, and conducted the
unfortunate father and son to his humble cabin. Here they passed the
night and one or two days following. During that time, François
Bertrand neither ate nor slept, but wept over his misfortune with an
agony that refused all consolation. On the third day only he regained
his composure; but it was only to be conscious of a new and
overwhelming misfortune. His eyesight was gone. The agony of mind he
had suffered, and the tears he had shed, had completed the ravages of
his disorder.

"Where are you, Victor?" said the soldier.

"Here, by your side, father; don't you see me?"

"Alas! no, my boy. I can see nothing. Give me your little hand. Your
poor father is blind."

The agonizing sobs of the boy told him how keenly he appreciated his
father's misfortune.

"Dry your eyes, Victor;" said the soldier. "Remember the instructions
of your poor mother, how she taught you to submit with resignation to
all the sufferings that Providence sees fit to inflict upon us in this
world of sorrow. Henceforth you must see for both of us; you will be
my eyes, my boy."

"Yes, father; and I will work for you and support you."

"You are too young and delicate, Victor. We must beg our bread."

"_Beg_, father?"

"Yes, you shall guide my footsteps. There are good people in the world
who will pity my infirmities and your youth. When they see my ragged
uniform, they will say, 'There is one of the braves who upheld the
honor of France upon the burning sands of Egypt,' and they will not
fail to drop a few sous into the old soldier's hat. Come, Victor, we
must march. We have been too long a burden on our poor neighbor.
_Courage, mon enfant, le bon temps viendra._"

And so the boy and his father set forth upon their wanderings. Neither
asked alms; but when seated by the roadside, under the shadow of an
overhanging tree, the passer-by would halt, and bestow a small sum
upon the worn and blind soldier. Victor was devoted to his father, and
Heaven smiled upon his filial affection. Though denied the society and
sports so dear to his youth, he was always cheerful and happy in the
accomplishment of his task. Often did his innocent gayety beguile his
father into a temporary forgetfulness of his sufferings. Then he would
place his hand upon the boy's head, and stroking his soft, curling
locks, smile sweetly as his sightless eyes were turned towards him,
and commence some stirring narrative of military adventure.

In this way, days, weeks, months, and even years rolled by. They were
every where well received and kindly treated; and all their physical
wants were supplied. But the old soldier often sighed to think of the
burden his misfortunes imposed upon his boy, and of his wearing out
his young life without congenial companionship, without instruction,
without a future beyond the life of a mendicant. He often prayed in
secret that death might liberate, his little guide from his voluntary
service.

One day, François was seated alone on a stone by the roadside, Victor
having gone to the neighboring village on an errand, when he suddenly
heard a carriage stop beside him. The occupant, a man of middle age,
alighted, and approached the soldier.

"Your name," said the stranger, "is, I think, François Bertrand."

"The same."

"A soldier of the army of Egypt?"

"Yes."

"And that pretty boy who guides you is your son?"

"He is--Heaven bless him!"

"Amen! But has it never occurred to you, my friend, that you are doing
him great injustice in keeping him by you at an age when he ought to
be getting an education to enable him to push his way in the world?"

"Alas! sir, I have often thought of it. But what could supply his
place? and then, who would befriend and educate him?"

"His place might be supplied by a dog--and for his protector, I,
myself, who have no son, should be glad to adopt and educate him."

His son's place supplied by a dog! The thought was agony. And to part
with Victor! The idea was as cruel as death itself. The old soldier
was silent.

"You are silent, my friend. Has my offer offended you?"

"No sir--no. But you will pardon a father's feelings."

"I respect them--and I do not wish to hurry you. Take a day to think
of my proposition, and to inform yourself respecting my character and
position. I am a merchant. My name is Eugene Marmont, and I reside at
No. 17 Rue St. Honoré, Paris. I will meet you at this spot to-morrow
at the same hour, and shall then expect an answer. _Au revoir._" He
placed a golden louis in the hand of the soldier, and departed.

A little reflection convinced Bertrand that it was his duty to accept
the merchant's offer. But cruel as was the task of reconciling himself
to parting with his son, that of inducing Victor to acquiesce in the
arrangement was yet more difficult. It required the exercise of
authority to sever the ties that bound the son to the father. But it
was done--Victor resigned his task to a little dog that was procured
by the merchant, and after an agonizing farewell was whirled away in
Marmont's carriage.

Years passed on. Victor outstripped all his companions at school, and
stood at the head of the military academy; for he was striving to win
a name and fortune for his father. The good Marmont, from time to
time, endeavored to obtain tidings of the soldier; but the latter had
purposely changed his usual route, and, satisfied that his son was in
good hands, felt a sort of pride in not intruding his poverty and
misfortunes on the notice of Victor's new companions. The boy,
himself, was much distressed at not seeing or hearing from his father;
but he kept struggling on, saying to himself, "_Courage, Victor--le
bon temps viendra_--the good time will come."

On the death of Marmont, he entered the army as a sub-lieutenant, and
fought his way up to a captaincy under the eye of the emperor. At the
close of a brilliant campaign he was invited to pass a few weeks at
the chateau of a general officer named Duvivier, a few leagues from
Paris. The company there was brilliant, composed of all that was most
beautiful, talented, and distinguished in the circle in which the
general moved. But the "star of that goodly company" was Julie
Duvivier, the youthful and accomplished daughter of the general. Many
distinguished suitors contended for the honor of her hand; but the
moment Victor appeared, they felt they had a formidable rival. The
belle of the chateau could not help showing her decided preference for
him, though, with a modesty and delicacy natural to his position, he
refrained from making any decided advances.

One night, however, transported beyond himself by passion, he betrayed
the secret of his heart to Julie, as he led her to her seat after an
intoxicating waltz. The reception of his almost involuntary avowal was
such as to convince him that his affection was returned. But he felt
that he had done wrong--and a high sense of honor induced the young
soldier immediately to seek the general, and make him a party to his
wishes.

He found him alone in the embrasure of a window that opened on the
garden of the chateau.

"General," said he, with military frankness, "I love your daughter."

The general started, and cast a glance of displeasure on the young
man.

"I know you but slightly, Captain Bertrand," he answered, "but you are
aware that the man who marries my daughter must be able to give her
her true position in society. Show me the proofs of your nobility and
wealth, and I will entertain your proposition."

"Alas!" answered the young soldier in a faltering voice, "I feel that
I have erred--pity me--forgive me--I was led astray by a passion too
strong to be controlled. I have no name--and my fortune is my sword."

The general bowed coldly, and the young soldier passed out into the
garden. It was a brilliant moonlight evening. Every object was defined
as clearly as if illuminated by the sun's rays. Removing his chapeau,
that the night air might cool his fevered brow, he was about to take
his favorite seat beside the fountain where he had passed many hours
in weaving bright visions of the future, when he perceived that it was
already occupied. An old man in a faded military uniform sat there,
with a little dog lying at his feet. One glance was sufficient--the
next instant Victor folded his father in his arms.

"Father!" "My boy!" The words were interrupted by convulsive sobs.

After the first passionate greeting was over, the old man passed his
hand over his son's dress, and a smile of joy was revealed by the
bright moonbeams.

"A soldier! I thought I heard the clatter of your sabre," said the old
man. "Where did you get these epaulets?"

"At Austerlitz, father--they were given me by the emperor."

"Long live the emperor!" said the old man. "He never forgets his
children."

"No, father. For when he gave me my commission, he said, thoughtfully,
'Bertrand! your name is familiar.' 'Yes, sire--my father served under
the tricolor.' 'I remember--he was one of my old Egyptians.' And
then--father--then he gave me the cross of the legion--and told me,
when I found you, to affix it to your breast in his name."

"It is almost too much!" sighed the old soldier, as the young officer
produced the cross and attached it to his father's breast.

"And now," said the young man, "give me your hand as of old, dear
father, and let me lead you."

"Whither?"

"Into the saloon of the chateau, to present you to General Duvivier
and his guests."

"What! in my rags! before all that grand company?"

"Why not, father? The ragged uniform of a brave soldier who bears the
cross of honor on his breast is the proudest decoration in the world.
Come, father."

Leading his blind father, young Bertrand reëntered the saloon he had
so lately left, and went directly to the general, who was standing,
surrounded by his glittering staff.

"General," said he, "_here_ is my title of nobility--my father is all
the wealth I possess in the world."

Tears started to the general's eyes, and he shook the old soldier
warmly by the hand. Then beckoning to Julie, he led her to Victor, and
placed her trembling hand in his.

"Let this dear girl," said he, "make amends for my coldness a moment
since. A son so noble hearted is worthy of all happiness."

In a word, Captain, afterwards Colonel, Bertrand married the general's
daughter, and the happiness of their fireside was completed by the
constant presence of the good old soldier, to whose self-denial Victor
owed his honors and domestic bliss.

TAKING CHARGE OF A LADY.

The steamer Ben Franklin--it was many years ago, reader--was just on
the point of leaving her dock at Providence, when a slender, pale
young man, with sandy whiskers and green eyes, who had just safely
stowed away his valise, honorably paid his fare, and purchased a
supper ticket, and now stood on the upper deck, leaning on his blue
cotton umbrella in a mild attitude of contemplation, was accosted by a
benevolent-looking old gentleman, in gold-bowed spectacles, upon whose
left arm hung a feminine, in a bright mazarine blue broadcloth
travelling habit, with a gold watch at her waist, and a green veil
over her face, with the (to a timid young man) startling question
of,--

"Pray, sir, will you be so kind as to take charge of a lady?"

The slender young man with the blue cotton umbrella blushed up to the
roots of his sandy hair, but he bowed deeply and affirmatively.

"We were disappointed in not meeting a friend, sir," continued the
benevolent-looking old gentleman, "and so I had to trust to chance for
finding an escort to Fanny. Only as far as New York, sir; my daughter
will give you very little trouble. She's a strong-minded, independent
woman, sir, and abundantly able to take care of herself; but I don't
like the idea of ladies travelling alone. If the boat sinks, sir,
she's abundantly able to swim ashore. Good by, Fanny."

"Father," said the lady in the blue habit, in a deep and mellow
baritone,--rather a queer voice for a woman, though,--"a parting
salute!" She threw back her veil, displaying a pair of piercing black
eyes, kissed the paternal cheek, veiled the black eyes a moment with a
lace-bordered handkerchief, as her sire descended the gang plank,--his
exit being deprived of dignity by the sudden withdrawal of the
board,--and then placed her arm within that of the sandy-haired young
gentleman, and began walking him up and down the promenade deck.

"Isn't this delightful?" said she. "O, what can exceed the pleasure of
travelling, when one has a sympathizing friend as a companion!" And
she rather pressed the arm of her companion. She was strong-handed as
well as strong-minded.

Mr. Brown, for that was the name of the timid young gentleman with the
sandy hair and the blue cotton umbrella, was not particularly
susceptible, for he had already lost his heart to a sandy-haired young
lady, who resided in New York; and, besides, he didn't like
strong-minded women; so he asked, very unromantically, but sensibly,
if the happy parent of the lady in the blue habit had purchased her a
ticket.

"I believe--I am certain that he did not," was the reply. "Father is
so forgetful!"

"I'll do it myself then, ma'am--if you'll excuse me a moment. What
name?"

"Brown," said the lady.

"My own name!" cried the young man.

"Is it possible?" cried the blue beauty. "What a coincidence! How
striking! charming!"

She made no offer of money, and Brown invested his own funds in a
passage and supper ticket.

"You dear creature!" cried the lady, when he handed them to her, "you
are very attentive. But there was no necessity for this supper ticket.
I am the least eater in the world."

She said nothing about the cost of the tickets; and how could Brown
broach the subject?

"There's that bell, at last!" she cried, when the supper bell rang;
"do let's hurry down, Brown, for people are so rude and eager on board
steamboats, that unless you move quick you lose your chance."

Brown was hurried along by his fair friend, and she struggled through
the crowd till she headed the column and got an excellent seat at the
table. Our sandy-haired friend had exalted opinions of the delicacy of
female appetites; he had never helped ladies at a ball, or seen them
in a pantry at luncheon time, and fancied they fed as lightly as
canary birds. He was rather glad to hear Fanny make that remark about
the supper ticket on the promenade deck. But now he found she could
eat. The cold drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead as he
watched the evidences of her voracity. She was helped four times, by
the captain, to beefsteak--no miniature slices either, but huge, broad
cubes of solid flesh. A dish of oysters attracted her eye, and she
gobbled them up every one. Toast and hot bread disappeared before her
ravenous appetite. Sponge and pound cake were despatched with fearful
celerity. She took up the attention of one particular nigger, and he
looked weary and collapsed when the supper was finished.

Yet, after all this, Fanny paraded the deck, and had the heart to talk
about the "orbs of heaven," and Shelley, and Byron, and Tennyson, and
Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Fanny Ellsler, and Schiller. Brown was very
glad when she retired to the lady's cabin.

The morning he rose late, purposely to avoid her till the boat touched
the wharf. He engaged a carriage and hunted up the lady's baggage;
fortunately there was not much of it. This done, he escorted her on
shore, and handed her into the coach.

"Now, then," said the one-eyed driver,--he had recently lost his eye
in a fight, on the first night of his return from Blackwell's
Island,--"where away? Oyster House, Merrikin, or Globe?"

"Where are you going, madam?" asked Brown.

"Where are _you_ going?" asked the lady.

"To the American, ma'am."

"What a coincidence!" exclaimed the lady, rolling up her black eyes.

"American House, driver."

"All right--in with you!" cried the one-eyed man, as he pitched Brown
headlong into the coach, slammed the rickety door on him, sprang to
his box, and lashed his sorry steeds into a gallop. In due time they
arrived, and a room was engaged for the lady, and one for her
cavalier.

Brown went up town as soon as he had dressed, to see his sweetheart,
taking particular care to say nothing of his namesake, the fair Fanny.

The next day he was promenading Broadway with Miss S., when he was
confronted, opposite St. Paul's, by a furious man, with black
whiskers, who halted directly in his path.

"Do you call yourself Brown?" asked the furious man, furiously.

"That's my name, sir," said the sandy-haired young gentleman, meekly.

"It's _my_ name, sir," shouted the furious man. "John Brown. Now you
know who I am. Do you know Mrs. Brown?"

"I don't know," stammered the unfortunate young man with sandy hair.

"Who did you come from Providence with? answer me that!" roared the
furious man, getting as black as his whiskers with apoplectic rage.

"I--I took charge of a lady, certainly," stammered the guiltless but
confounded young man.

"You took charge of Mrs. Brown, sir--Fanny Sophonisba Brown, sir, who
has left my bed and board without provocation, sir,--_vide_ the
Providence papers, sir,--left me, sir, because I didn't approve of her
strong-minded goings on, sir, her woman's-rights meetings, sir, and
her nigger colonizations, sir, and her--but that's enough, sir."

Here Miss Sumker, who was a mild, freckled-faced girl, dropped the arm
of her companion, and meekly sat down on a doorstep, and covered her
face with a handkerchief.

"Mr. Brown, sir!" cried our poor young friend, finally plucking up a
spirit.

"Go it, lemons!" shouted a listening drayman, as he hung over the
scene from one of his cart stakes.

"Captain Brown," suggested the furious man, with smothered rage.

"Well then, _Captain_ Brown," said Brown, 2d., spitefully, "the lady
you allude to is a total stranger to me. She was put under my care by
a benevolent-looking old gentleman, with gold-bowed spectacles, and
she has already cost me ten dollars, money advanced on her account."

"All persons are forbidden to trust the same, as I will pay no debts
of her contracting," said the furious man, with gleams of unmitigated
ferocity and savage exultation.

"Then I'm done brown, that's all," said the young man, gloomily. "As
for Mrs. Fanny Sophonisba Brown, I never want to see her face again.
She is at the American House, and you can recover her by proving
property and paying charges. And, for my part, I hope I may be kicked
to death by grasshoppers if ever I take charge of a lady again."

This was the largest speech, probably, that the sandy-haired young man
had ever made in his life. It was a regular "stunner," though. It
convinced Miss Sumker, who had for a moment thought of withdrawing the
light of her freckles from him forever, and who now hastened to
replace her arm in his; and it convinced Captain Brown, who became
suddenly as mild as moonbeams, shook his new acquaintance by the hand,
and declared him a "fine young fellow."

But the drayman was disgusted at the affair ending without a fight,
and expressed his feelings, as he laid the lash across his horse, by
the single exclamation, "Pickles!" thereby insinuating that the
nauseous sweetness of the reconciliation required a strong dash of
acidity to neutralize its flavor.

The captain regained his strong-minded wife, and our sandy-haired
friend went home with Miss Sumker, metamorphosed into Mrs. Brown,
having "taken charge" of her for life.

THE NEW YEAR'S BELLS.

How the wind blew on the evening of the 31st December, in the
year--but no matter for the date. It came roaring from the north,
fraught with the icy chillness of those hyperborean regions that are
lost to the sunlight for six months, the realm of ice-ribbed caverns,
and snow mountains heaped up above the horizon in the cold and
cheerless sky. On it came, that northern blast, howling and tearing,
and menacing with destruction every obstacle that crossed its path. It
dashed right through a gorge in the mountains, and twisted the arms of
the rock-rooted hemlock and the giant oak, as if they were the twigs
of saplings. Then it swept over the wild, waste meadows, rattling the
frozen sedge, and whirling into eddies the few dry leaves that
remained upon the surface of the earth. Next it invaded the principal
street of the quaint old village, and played the mischief with the
tall elms and the venerable buttonwoods that stood on either side like
sentinels guarding the highway. How the old gilt lion that swung from
the sign post of the tavern, hanging like a malefactor in irons, was
shaken and disturbed! Backwards and forwards the animal was tossed,
like a bark upon the ocean. Now he seemed as if about to turn a
somerset and circumnavigate the beam from which he hung, creaking and
groaning dismally all the while, like an unhappy soul in purgatory.
The loose shutters of the upper story of the tavern chattered like
the teeth of a witch-ridden old crone. But cheerful fires of hickory
and maple were burning within doors; a merry group was gathered in the
old oak parlor, and little recked the guests of the elemental war
without. In fact, they knew nothing of it, till the driver of the
village stage coach, making his appearance with a few flakes of snow
on his snuff-colored surtout, announced, as he expanded his broad
hands to the genial blaze, that it was a "wild night out of doors."

But on--on sped the wild wind, driving the snow flakes before it as a
victorious army sweeps away the routed skirmishers and outposts of the
enemy. Away went the night wind on its wild errand, reaching at last a
solitary cottage on the outskirts of the village. Here it revelled in
unwonted fury, ripping up the loose shingles from the moss-grown
rooftree, and forcing an entrance through many a yawning crevice.

The scene within the cottage presented a strange and painful contrast
to the interior of most of the comfortable houses in the flourishing
village through which we have been hurrying on the wings of the cold
north wind. The room was scantily furnished. There were two or three
very old-fashioned, rickety, straw-bottomed chairs, an oaken stool or
two, and a pine table. The hour hand of a wooden clock on the mantel
piece pointed to eleven. A fire of chips and brushwood was smouldering
on the hearth. In one corner of the room, near the fireplace, on a
heap of straw, covered with a blanket, two little boys lay sleeping in
each other's arms. Crouched near the table, her features dimly lighted
by a tallow candle, sat a woman advanced in life, clad in faded but
cleanly garments, whose hollow cheeks and sunken eye told a painful
tale of sorrow and destitution. Those sad eyes were fixed anxiously
and imploringly upon the stern, grim face of a hard-featured old man,
who, with hat pulled over his shaggy gray eyebrows, was standing,
resting on a stout staff, in the centre of the floor.

"So, you haven't got any money for me," said the old man, in the
harshest of all possible voices.

"Alas! no, Mr. Wurm--if I had I should have brought it to you long
ago," answered the poor woman. "I had raked and scraped a little
together--but the sickness of these poor children--poor William's
orphans--swept it all away--I haven't got a cent."

"So much the worse for you, Mrs. Redman," answered the old man,
harshly. "I've been easy with you--I've waited and waited--trusting
your promises. I can't wait any longer. I want the money."

"You want the money! Is it possible? Report speaks you rich."

"It's false--false!" said the old man, bitterly. "I'm poor--I'm
pinched. Ask the townspeople how I live. Do I look like a rich man?
No, no! I tell you I want my dues--and I will have 'em."

"I can't pay you," said the woman, sadly.

"Then you must abide the consequences!"

"What consequences?"

"I've got an execution--that's all," said the hardhearted landlord.

"An execution! what's that?"

"A warrant to take all your goods."

"My goods!" said the poor woman, looking round her with a melancholy
smile. "Why I have nothing but what few things you see in this room.
You surely wouldn't take those."

"I'll take all I can get."

"And leave me here with the bare walls."

"No, no! you walk out of this to-morrow."

"In the depth of winter! You cannot be so hardhearted."

"We shall see that."

"I care not for myself; but what is to become of these poor children?"

"Send 'em to work in the factory."

"But they are just recovering from sickness; they are too young to
work. O, where, where can we go?"

"To the poorhouse," said the landlord, fiercely.

The poor woman rose, and approaching the landlord's feet, fell upon
her knees, clasped her hands, and looked upward in his stern and
unrelenting face.

"Israel Wurm," she said, "has your heart grown as hard as the nether
millstone? Have you forgotten the days of old lang syne? O, remember
that we were once prosperous and happy; remember that misfortune and
not sin has reduced me and mine to the deplorable state in which you
find us. Remember that my husband was your early friend--your
schoolfellow--your playmate. Remember that when he was rich and you
poor, he gave you from his plenty--freely--bountifully--not gave with
the expectation of a return; his gifts were bounties, not loans."

"Therefore I owed him nothing," said the obdurate miser, turning away.

"You shall hear me out," said the woman, starting to her feet. "I ask
for a further delay; I ask you to stay the hard hand of the law. You
profess to be a Christian; I demand justice and mercy in the name of
those sleeping innocents, my poor grandchildren, whose father is in
heaven. You _shall_ be merciful."

"Heyday!" exclaimed the miser; "this is fine talk, upon my word. You
_demand_ justice, do you? Well, you shall have it. The law is on my
side, and I will carry it out to the letter."

"Then," said the outraged woman, stretching forth her trembling hand,
"the curse of the widow and the orphan shall be upon you. Sleeping or
waking, it shall haunt you; and on your miserable death bed, when the
ugly shapes that throng about the pillow of the dying sinner shall
close around you, our malediction shall weigh like lead upon you, and
your palsied lips shall fail to articulate the impotent prayer for
that mercy to yourself which you denied to others. And now begone.
This house is mine to-night, at least. Afflict it no longer with your
presence. Go forth into the night; it is not darker than your
benighted soul, nor is the north wind one half so pitiless as you."

With a bitter curse upon his lips, but trembling and dismayed in spite
of himself, Israel Wurm left the presence of the indignant victim of
his cruelty, and turned his footsteps in the direction of his home.
His _home_! It scarcely deserved the name. There was no fire there to
thaw his chilled and trembling frame--no light to gleam athwart the
darkness, and send forth its pilgrim rays to meet him and guide his
footsteps to his threshold. No wife, no children, waited eagerly his
return. It was the miser's home--dark, desolate, stern, and repulsive.
Its deep cellars, its thick walls held hidden stores of gold, and
notes, and bonds, but there were garnered up no treasures of the
heart.

The miser's path lay through the churchyard, a desolate place enough
even in the gay noon of a midsummer day, now doubly repulsive in the
wild midnight of midwinter. The wall was ruinous. The black iron
gateway frowned, naked and ominous. The field of death was crowded
with headstones of slate, and innumerable mounds marked the
resting-place of many generations. The snow was now gathering fast
over the dreary and desolate abode, as the miser stumbled along the
beaten pathway, bending against the blast and drift. A strange
numbness and drowsiness crept over him. He no longer felt the cold; an
uncontrollable desire of slumber possessed him. He sat down upon a
flat tombstone, and soon lost all consciousness of his actual
situation.

Suddenly he saw before him the well-known figure of the old sexton of
the village, busily occupied in digging a grave. The winter had passed
away; it was now midsummer. The birds were singing in the trees, and
from the far green meadows sounded the low of cattle, and the tinkling
of sheep bells. Even the graveyard looked no longer desolate, for on
many of the little hillocks bright flowers were springing into bloom
and verdure, attesting the affection that outlived death, and
decorating with living bloom the precincts of decay.

"My friend, for whom are you digging that grave?" asked Israel.

The sexton looked up from his work, but did not seem to recognize the
spokesman.

"For a man that died last night; he is to be buried to-day."

"Methinks this haste is somewhat indecorous," said Israel Wurm.

"O, for the matter of that," said the sexton, "the sooner this
fellow's out of the way the better. There's nobody to mourn for him."

"Is he a pauper, then?"

"O no! he was immensely rich."

"And had he no relations--no friends?"

"For relations, he had a nephew, who inherits all his property. The
young dog will make the money fly, I tell you. As for friends, he had
none. The poor dreaded him--the good despised him; for he was a
hardhearted, selfish, griping man. In a word, he was a MISER," said the
sexton.

"A miser," faltered the trembling dreamer; "what was his name?"

"Israel Wurm," replied the sexton.

Graveyard and sexton faded away; in their place arose a splendid grove
of trees--a clearing--a village school house. Two boys were sauntering
along the roadside, engaged in serious, childish talk. One was fair,
with golden locks; the other dark-haired and grave of aspect. Israel
started, for in the latter he recognized himself--a boy of fifty years
ago.

"Israel," said the golden-haired boy, "it's 'lection day to-morrow;
we'll hire Browning's horse and chaise, and go to Boston, and have a
grand time on the Common, seeing all the shows."

"You forget, Mark," said the dark-haired boy, sadly, "that I have no
money."

"What of that?" replied the other; "I have a pocket full; and what's
mine is yours, you know. Come, cheer up, you'll one day he as rich as
I am; and then it will be your turn to treat, you know. I can afford
to be generous, and so would you be, if you had the means."

Then the shadow passed from the face of the dark-haired boy, and a
smile lighted up his countenance, and the two schoolfellows passed on
their way together.

Grove and school house passed away, melting into another scene like
one of the dissolving views. Israel stood before a huge illuminated
screen, in the midst of a gaping company of sight seers. He could see
nothing but a confused mass of heads, vaguely lighted by the rays
from that vast screen. It was some kind of an exhibition.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said a strange voice issuing from the
darkness, "we shall show you the wonders of the oxy-hydrogen
microscope; natural objects magnified five thousand times. Look and
behold the proboscis of the common house fly."

Israel gazed with the rest, and soon a huge object, resembling the
trunk of a monster elephant, appeared on the illuminated disk. It
passed away.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said the voice, "look well to the
illuminated screen. What do you see now?"

"Nothing!" was the universal and indignant answer.

"I thought so," replied the voice. "Yet you have before you a miser's
soul magnified five thousand times; a million such would not produce
an image on the screen."

The illuminated disk grew dark and disappeared; then a lurid light
seemed to fill all space; and soon huge billows of flames rolled
upward, and writhed and twisted together like a myriad of gigantic
serpents. Shrieks and howls of anguish issued from the fiery mass, but
above all was heard the startling clangor of a bell.

"Halloo! who's this?" cried a voice that evidently issued from a set
of powerful human lungs. The miser felt himself roughly shaken by the
shoulder, and awoke.

"What's the noise?--fire?" he asked; for the bell he had heard in his
dream now jarred upon his waking senses.

"Fire! no!" said the man who had awakened him--the butcher of the
village. "It's the boys ringing in the new year. By the way, I wish
you a happy new year, Mr. Wurm."

"A happy new year, Mr. Wurm," said the schoolmaster for he, too, was
present.

"A happy new year," said Farmer Harrowby.

"And a happy new year" chorused a dozen other voices. It was great fun
wishing a miser a happy new year.

"Thank you, neighbors; I wish you a thousand," replied Israel,
cheerfully.

"How came you asleep there?" asked Farmer Harrowby. "Why, you might
have perished in the drift."

"I was overcome by drowsiness," answered Israel. "I was very cold; I'd
been to make a call on Widow Redman, and the poor soul was out of
wood. By the way, farmer, the first thing after sunrise, I want you to
be sure to gear up your ox team, and take a cord of your best hickory
and pitch pine to the widow."

"And who'll pay me?" asked the farmer, doubtfully.

"I will, to be sure," answered Israel. "Have not I got money enough?
Here--hold your hand;" and he put a handful of silver in the farmer's
honest palm. "And you, Mr. Wilkins," he added, addressing the butcher,
"take her the best turkey you've got, and half a pig, with my
compliments, and a happy new year to her."

"And how about that execution?" asked the constable, who was round
with the rest, 'seeing the old year out and the new year in.'

"Confound the execution! Don't let me hear another word about it,"
said Israel, magnanimously. "And now, neighbors," he added, "I owe you
something for your good wishes; come along with me to the Golden Lion,
and I'll give you the best supper the tavern affords. Hurrah! New year
don't come but once in a twelvemonth."

We will be bound that a merrier party never left a churchyard, even
after a funeral, nor a merrier set ever sat down to a festal board,
than that which gathered to greet the hospitality of Israel Wurm. In
the course of the evening, an old Scotch gardener gave it as his
opinion that the "miser was _fey_." (When a man suddenly changes his
character, as when a spendthrift becomes saving, or a niggard
generous, the Scotch say that he is _fey_, and consider the change a
forerunner of sudden death.)

"No, my friends," said Israel, overhearing the remark, "I am not
_fey_; and I mean to live a long while, Heaven willing, for I have
just learned that the true secret of enjoying life is to do good to
others. I had a dream to-night which has, I trust, made me a wiser and
better man. The miser lies buried in yonder churchyard; Israel Wurm, a
new man, has risen in his place; and as far as my means go, I intend
that this shall be a happy new year to every one of my acquaintances."

Israel was as good as his word, and never relapsed into his old
habits. The widow and the orphan children were provided for by his
bounty; he gave liberally to every object of charity. Hospitals,
schools, and colleges were the recipients of his bounty; and when he
died, in the fulness of years, the blessings of old and young followed
him to his last resting-place in the old churchyard where he had
dreamed the mysterious dream, and been awakened to a better life by
the pealing of the NEW YEAR'S BELLS.

THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.

"O, this is beautiful--beautiful indeed!" cried a young and silvery
voice, musical as fairy bells heard at midnight. "How white this snowy
drapery hangs upon the roofs of these bright palaces!" and the
speaker, a gay boy, danced trippingly along, following in the
footsteps of an old, gray-bearded man who was tottering before him.

The old man turned. "You call that snowy drapery beautiful?" said he.

"Yes--it is like the raiment of a bride," said the boy.

"To me it seems a shroud thrown over the grave of buried hopes,"
answered the old man.

"But what are these joy bells ringing for?" said the boy.

"For a death and for a birth!" replied the old man.

"You speak riddles."

"I speak truth. The same sounds have a different import to different
ears. To mine there is a death knell in these tremulous vibrations of
the air."

"You are very old, father--and age has cankered you."

"A twelvemonth since, young child of Time," replied the old man, "I
was like you."

"A twelvemonth! Your back is bent, your locks are silvery, your voice
is tremulous. How is this?"

"Wrinkles and gray hairs are the work of sorrows, not of years. Eyes
that are weary of the sight of suffering grow dim apace."

"But hark!" said the youth. "Hear you not that music--the peals of
laughter that come from yonder illuminated house? It is a wedding
festival."

"Yes," replied the old man, sadly. "A twelvemonth since, I heard the
same sounds in the same house. There was music and feasting--it was,
as now, a wedding festival. Where is the bride? Go to yonder
churchyard. You will find her name inscribed on a simple stone. If you
pass out of the city to the north, you will see some huge buildings of
brick, towering upon an eminence. If you linger by the garden wall you
will hear shrieks and curses, the howls of despair, the ravings of
hopeless lunacy. The husband is there--the victim of his own evil
passions--a raving maniac."

"Away with these croaking reminiscences!" cried the younger voice.
"Let the music peal--let the dance go on. The wine is red within the
cup."

"Yes--and the deadly serpent lurks below."

"Then the world is all desolate!" cried the New Year.

"No! there are green spots in the desert!" said the Old Year; "but
beware of deeming it all fairyland! But a little while and you will
follow me. But the end is not here--after Time, Eternity! There
suffering and sin are unknown. There each departed spirit, after
making the circuit of its appointed sphere, shall rise to a higher and
a higher, while boundless love and wisdom illuminate all, radiating
from a centre whose brightness no human senses can conceive."

The old man was gone. The joyous bells had rung his requiem. The young
heir was enthroned--and with mingled hope and foreboding commenced the
reign of 1853.