wmmmmmmmmmi^^ ^/tiu^s^. g]\ V ^ibvju'jf &i §o\x(^xt^^. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. Engi-BTHi.Hall. HE SUNNYSIDE BOOK _^ntl)ors : ^ BRYANT, CUETIS^ STEDMAN, BAYARD TAYLOR, HOWELLS, STODDARD, O'CON/t^OR, WM. ALLAN BUTLER; WiTK CHOICE PAPERS PKOJI IRVING. CiVrtists : WM. HART, HOAVS, DARLEY, NAST, CASILEAR. SMILLIE, SHATTUCK, McENTEE. BELLOWS, HUNTINGTON. '^:^S70y^ NEW YOEK G. P. PUTNAM & SONS Association Bdildinq, 23d Street 1871 T* r«' Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S70, by G. P. PUTNAM & SONS, In tlie OfRce of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. The New York Printing Company, 8i, 83, fznii S5 Ceyitre St.^ New York. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. vn. /HI. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. AUTHOR. AMONG THE TREES Bryant THE WIFE Geof. Crayon . . VENICE W. D. HowEi.LS PVCiK . 9 . 18 , 27 THE HISTORIAN OF MANAHATTA Irvino 33 DOBBS— HIS FERRY W. Allen Bdtler. A CONTENTED MAN Irving A BIRTH-DAY IN MARCH T. Buchanan Read. THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY Irving CHRISTMAS EVE CHANT Howard Glyndon. EARLY DAYS OF MANAHATTA D. Knickerbocker. THE ANGLER Geof. Crayon NAPOLEON AT GOTH A B.^yard Taylor .... THE BRIGANDS IN ITALY Irving THE PHANTOM W. D. O'Connor. . . THE KING'S SENTINEL R. H. Stoddard. ... CAPTAIN KIDD'S TREASURE Irving 37 46 .53 55 68 66 73 83 87 9i 100 106 OUR BEST SOCIETY G. W. Curtis 113 1 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 33. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 81. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 43. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. TTJ.USTRATIONS. abtjst. .Darley .Doplek PAGE ■; ^ . 10'^ .. 11" . 12/ . 13/ .. 14-^ . 15^ .. 17^ . 18^ .. 83-- . 25 i^ . 26"^ . 87^ . 28^ . 301^ . 31i- . 341/ . 36'/ .. 37^'b'=5^ .. 45 -- . 47^ .. 52"^ . 53'-' . 54 .. 55 . 58 . 62 . 63 .. 65 . 68 . 73 . 73'- . 74^^ . 76 . 80 . 81 . 82' . 86 .. 90 . 98"^ . 112 ■;^ . 133 '"' & 2. VIGNETTES IN TITLE. RURAL GROUP AN ANCIENT DANCE FOREST SCENE MOUNTAIN SCENE THE WIDOW AND HER SON DECORATING THE GRAVES THE OLD ORCHARD AT CUMMINGTON "THE BABBLING BROOK" ENTRANCE TO THE WOOD AT CUMMINGTON WOOD SCENE CUPIDS AND RINGS LOVE GUARDING THE HARP THE COTTAGE. . Casileak .Dopler .Huntington .. .Bellows . Hows . Do . Do . . Do . .HOPPIN . Chapman Wm Hart.. THE WIFE VENICE .J. D. Smillie. THE FRESCOES PIAZZA OF ST. MARK DOVES KNICKERBOCKER AND HIS NEIGHBORS THE HISTORIAN TAKING LEAVE .Darley . Do .D PLEK THE FAIRIES THE PORCH A FRENCHMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL WINDSOR CASTLE .Darley VIGNETTE MOONLIGHT RUINS THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY THE RUINS VIGNETTE . .Darley. . Do ." Do THE DUTCHMEN BUYING NEW AMSTERDAM VIGNETTE INITIAL .Darley . Chapman THE WATERFALL THE LUNCH THE ANGLERS THE TROUT STREAM VIGNETTE THE CASTLE PORCH THE BRIGANDS VIGNETTE . Casilear .Shattuck .Darley . Wm. Hart ..Darley .D.vrley THE PHANTOM HOLIDAY FISHING VIGNETTE .Nast .Darley . . Do THE SUNNYSIDE BOOK. AMONG THE TREES. [by WM. CULLEN BRYANT.*] Oh ye who love to overliang tlie springs, And stand by running waters, ye whose boughs Make beautiful the rocks o'er which they play, Who pile with foliage the great hills, and rear A paradise upon the lonely plain, Trees of the forest and the open field ! * Putnam's Magaziue, 1869. 10 THE SUKNYSIDE BOOK, Have ye no sense of being ? Does the air, The pure air, which I breathe with gladness, pass In gushes o'er your delicate lungs, your leaves. All unenjoyedy When on your Winter-sleep The sun shines warm, have ye no dreams of Spi'ing ? And when the glorious spring-time comes at last. Have ye no joy of all your bursting buds, And fragrant blooms, and melody of birds To which your young leaves shiver ? Do ye strive And wrestle with the wind, yet know it not ? EEL ye no glory in your strength when he. The exhausted Blusterex', flies beyond the hills, And leaves you stronger yet ? Or have ye not A sense of loss when he has stripped your leaves, Yet tender, and has splintered your fair boughs ? Does the loud bolt that smites you from the cloud And rends you, fall imfelt ? Do there not run Strange shudderings through j'^our fibres when the axe Is raised against you, and the shining blade Deals blow on blow, until, with all their boughs, Your summits waver and ye fall to earth ? AMONG THE TREES. Know ye no sadness when the hurricane Has swept the wood and snapped its sturdy stems Asunder, or has wrenched, from out the soil. The mightiest with their circles of strong roots, And piled the ruin all along his path ? Nay, doubt we not that under the rough rind, In the green veins of these fair growths of earth, There dwells a nature that receives delight From all the gentle processes of life. And shrinks from loss of being. Dim and faint May be the sense of pleasure and of pain, As in our dreams ; but, haply, real still. Our sorrows touch you not. We watch beside The beds of those who languish or who die, And minister in sadness, while our hearts Offer perpetual prayer for life and ease And health to the beloved sufferers. 11 But ye, while anxious fear and fainting hope Are in our chambers, ye rejoice without. The funeral goes forth ; a silent train 12 THE SUNNTSIDE BOOK. Moves slowly from the desolate home ; our hearts Are breaking as we lay away the loved, Whom we shall see no more, in their last rest. Their little cells within the burial-place. Ye have no part in this distress ; for still The February sunshine steeps your boughs And tints the buds and swells the leaves within ; While the sojig-sparrow, warbling from her perch, Tells you that Spring is near. The wind of May Is sweet with breath of orchards, in whose boughs The bees and every insect of the air Make a perpetual muimur of delight. And by whose flowers the humming-bird hangs poised AMONG THE TKEE8. 13 In air, and draws their sweets and darts away. The linden, in the fervors of July, Hums with a louder concert. When the wind Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime, As when some master -hand exidting sweeps The keys of some great organ, ye give forth The music of the woodland depths, a hymn Of gladness and of thanks. The hermit-thrush Pipes his sweet notes to make your arches ring. The faithful robin, from the wayside elm, Carols all day to cheer his sitting mate. And when the Aiitumn comes, the kings of earth. In all their majesty, are not arrayed 14 THE SmnSTYSIDE BOOK. As ye are, clothing the broad mountain-side, And spotting the smooth vales with red and gold. While, swaying to the sndden breeze, ye fling Your nuts to earth, and the brisk squirrel comes To gather them, and barks with childish glee, And scampers with them to his lioUow oak. Thus, as tlie seasons pass, ye keep alive The cheerfulness of nature, till in time Tlie constant misery wliich wrings the Iieart Relents, and we rejoice with you again, And glory in your beauty; till once more We look with pleasure on your vanished leaves, That gayly glance in sunsliine, and can hear. Delighted, the soft answer which your bouo-hs Utter in whisj^ers to the babbling brook. Ye have no history. I cannot know Who, when tlie hillside trees are hewn away. Haply two centuries since, bade spare this oak. Leaning to shade, with his irregular arms Low-bent and long, the fount that from his roots Slips through a bed of cresses toward the bay. I know not who, but thank him that he left AMOXG THK TREES. 15 16 THE SUNNYSIDE BOOK. The tree to flourish, where the acorn fell, And join these later days to that far time While yet the Indian hunter drew the bow In the dim woods, and the white woodman first Opened these fields to sunshine, turned the soil And strewed the wheat. An um-emembered Past Broods, like a presence, 'mid the long gray boughs Of this old tree, which has outlived so long The flitting generations of mankind. Ye have no history. I ask in vain Who planted on the slope this lofty group Of ancient pear-trees that with spring-time burst Into such breadth of bloom. One bears a scar Where the quick lightning scored its trunk, yet still It feels the breath of Spring, and every May Is white with blossoms. Who it was that laid Their infant roots in earth, and tenderly Cherished the delicate sprays, I ask in vain. Yet bless the unknown hand to which I owe This annual festival of bees, these songs Of birds within their leafy screen, these shouts Of joy from children gathering up the fruit Shaken in August from the willing boughs. Ye that my hands have planted, or have spared, Beside the way, or in the orchard-ground. Or in the open meadow, ye whose boughs With every summer spread a wider shade. Whose herd in coming years shall lie at rest Beneath your noontide shelter ? who shall pluck Your ripened fruit ? who grave, as was the wont Of simple pastoral ages, on the rind Of my smooth beeches some beloved name ? Idly I ask ; yet may the eyes that look Upon you, in your later, nobler growth, Look also on a nobler age than ours ; AMONG THE TKEES. 17 An age when, in the eternal strife between Evil and Good, the Power of Good shall win A grander mastery ; when kings no more Shall summon millions from the plough to learn The trade of slaughter, and of populous realms Make camps of war ; when in our younger land The hand of ruffian Violence, that now Is insolently raised to smite, shall fall Unnerved before the calm rebuke of law. And Fraud, his sly confederate, shrink, in shame, Back to his covert, and forego his prey. THE WIFE. [WASHINGTON IRVING.] j\^ " The treasures of the deep are not so precious As are the concealed comforts of a man Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air Of blessings, when I come but near the house. What a delicious breath marriage sends forth — The violet bed's not sweeter." MiDDLETON. I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man, and pros- trate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. ISTothing can be more touching than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and support of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bit- terest blasts of adversity. As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs ; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament THE WIFE. 19 of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sndden calamity — winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a bloom- ing family, knit together in the strongest affection. " I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, " than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man falling into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one ; partly becaiise he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend iipon him for sub- sistence ; but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to nm to waste and self-neglect ; to fancy him- self lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant. These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beau- tiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. " Her life," said he, " shall be like a fairy tale." The very difference in their characters produced an harmonious combination : he was of a romantic and somewhat serious cast ; she was all life and gladness. 1 have often noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form 20 THE SDNNYSIDE BOOK. contrasted finely with his tall manly person. The fond confiding air with which she looked np to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very helplessness. JSTever did a couple set for- ward on the flowery path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his property in large speculations; and he had not been married many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found himself redxiced almost to penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard countenance, and a breaking heart. His life was but a pro- tracted agony ; and what rendered it moi-e unsupportable was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife ; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saAv cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile Avill vanish from that cheek — the song will die away from those lips — the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow ; and the happy heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. "When I heard him through I in- quired, " Does your wife know all this ? " At the question he burst into an agony of tears. " For God's sake ! " cried he, " if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife ; it is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness ! " " And why not ? " said I. " She must know it sooner or later : you caimot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break upon THE WIFE. 21 lier in a more startling manner than if imparted by yourself ; for the accents of those we love soften the hai'shest tidings. Besides, yon are depriving yoiirself of the comforts of her sympathy ; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together — an nnreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that something is secretly preying upon your mind ; and true love will not brook reserve ; it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it." " Oh, but, my friend ! to think what a blow I am to give to all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! that she is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of society — ^to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity ! To tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which she might have continued to move in constant brightness — the light of every eye — the admiration of every heart! How can she bear poverty? she has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How can she bear neglect? she has been the idol of society. Oh ! it will break her heart — it will break her heart ! " I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively. " But how are you to keep it from her ? It is necessary she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alteration of jowr circumstances. You must change your style of living nay," ob- serving a pang to cross his countenance, " don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never placed your happiness in outward show — you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less splendidly lodged ; and surely it does not require a palace to be happy with Mary — " " I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, " in a hovel ! I could go down with her into poverty and the dust ! I could — I 32 THE SUKNTSIDE BOOK. could — God bless her ! God bless her ! " cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. " And believe me, my friend," said 1, stepping up, and grasping him warmly by the hand, " believe me she can be the same with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and triumph to her — it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of her nature; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves yorL for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies doi-mant in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. Ko man knows what the wife of his bosom is — no man knows what a minis- tering angel she is — ^until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world." There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and the figurative style of my language, that caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with ; and following up the impression I had made, I finished by persiiading him to go home and unburden his sad heart to his wife. I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude of one whose whole life has been a round of pleasures ? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark downward path of low humility suddenly pointed oiit before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so many galling mortifications, to which in other ranks it is a stranger. In short, I could not meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation. He had made the disclosure. " And how did she bear it ? " " Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all that had lately made me unhappy. But, poor girl," added he, " she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract ; she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation ; she suffers no loss of accustomed conveniences nor elegancies. When we come practi- THE WIFE. 23 cally to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty linraili- ations — -then will be the real trial.'' " But," said I, " now that yon have got over the severest task, that of breaking it to- her, the sooner you let the world into the secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying ; but then it is a single misery, and soon over, whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipa- tion, every hour in the day. It is not poverty so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse — the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to appear poor, and you disarm pov- erty of its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. Some days afterwards he called upon me in the evening. He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been biisied all day in sending out furniture. The new establishment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with the idea of hei'self ; it belonged to the little story of their loves ; for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he had leaned over tliat instrument, and listened to the melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this instance of romantic eal- lantry in a doting husband. He was now going out to the cot- tage, where his wife had been all day superintending its arrange- ment. My feelings liad become strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and, as it was a iine evening, I offered to accom- ]>nny him. 24: THE SXnsnSTYSIDE BOOK. He was wearied witli tlie fatigues of the day, and, as he walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. " Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips. " And what of her ? " asked I : " has anything happened to her ? " "What," said he, darting an impatient glance, " is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her wretched habitation ? " " Has she then repined at the change ? " " Eepined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good-humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her ; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort ! " " Admirable girl ! " exclaimed T. " You call yourself poor, my friend ; you never were so rich — you never knew the boundless trea- sures of excellence you possess in that woman." " Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day of real experience ; she has been introduced into a humble dwelling — she has been employed all day in arranging its miserable ecjuip- ments — she has, for the first time, known the fatigues of domestic employment — she has, for the first time, looked around her on a home destitute of everything elegant — almost of everything convenient ; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty." There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its appear- ance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage ; a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it ; and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grass- plot in front. A small vdcket gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, THE WIFE. 25 we heard the sound of music — Leslie grasped my arm ; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond. I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window and vanished — a light footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping forth to meet us : she was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair ; a fi-esh bloom was on her cheek ; her whole countenance beamed with smiles — I had never seen her look so lovely. " My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you are come ! I have been watching and watching for you ; and running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and I've been gathering some of the 26 THE SUNNYSIDE BOOK. most deli- cious straw- berries, for I know you are fond of them — and we have such excel- lent cream — and ev- erything is so sweet and still here — Oh!" said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly in is face, " Oh, we shall be so happy ! " Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom — he folded his arms around her — he kissed her again and again — he could not speak, but the tears gashed into his eyes; and he has often assured me, that though the world has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity. VENICE. [W. D. HOWELLS.*] Yes, I promised to write, hvit how shall I write to you, darling ? Venice we reached last Monday, wild for canals and for color, Palaces, prisons, lagoons, and gondolas, bravoes, and moonlight, All the mysterious, dreadful, beautiful things in existence. Fred had joined us at Naples, insuff'rably knowing and travelled. Wise in the prices of things and great at tempestuous bargains. Rich in the costly nothing our youthful travellers b\xy here. At a prodigious outlay of time and money and trouble ; Utter confusion of facts, and talking the wildest of pictures. Pyramids, battle-fields, bills, and examinations of luggage. Passports, policemen, porters, and how he got through his tobacco — Ignorant, handsome, full-bearded, brown, and good-natured as ever : Annie thinks him perfect, and I well enough for a brother. Also, a friend of Fred's came with us from Naples to Venice ; And, altogether, I think, we are rather agreeable people. For we've been taking our pleasure at all times in perfect good-humor, — Which is an excellent thing that you'll understand when you've travelled, Seen Kecreation dead-beat and cross, and learnt what a burden Frescos, for instance, can be, and, in genei'al, what an affliction Life is apt to become among tlie antiques and old masters. * Putnam's Mag., 1869. 28 THE STJNNYSIDE BOOK, Yenice we've thoroughly done, and it's perfectly true of the pictures — Titians and Tintorettos, and Palmas and Paul Veroneses Neither are gondolas fictions, but verities hearse-lite and swan-like Quite as the heart could wish. And one finds, to one's infinite comfort, Venice just as unique as one's fondest visiozis have made it : Palaces and mosquitos rise from the water together, And, in the city's streets, the salt sea is ebbing and flowing Several inches or more. — Ah ! let me not wrong thee, O Venice ! Fairest, foi'lornest, and saddest of all the cities, and dearest ! Dear, for my heart has won here deep peace from cruel confusion; And in this lucent air, whose night is but tenderer noonday. Fear is forever dead, and hope has put on the immortal ! — There ! and you need not laugh. I'm coming to something directly. One thing : I've bought you a chain of the famous fabric of Venice — Something peculiar and quaint, and of such a delicate texture That you must wear it embroidered upon a ilband of velvet. If you would have the efiect of its exquisite fineness and beauty. " Isn't it very frail ? " I asked of the workman who made it. VENICE. 29 " Strong enough, if you will, to bind a lover, signora," — With an expensive smile. 'Twas bought near the Bridge of Rialto. (Shylock, you know.) In our shopping, Aunt May and Fred do the talking : Fred begins always in French, with the most delicious effront'ry. Only to end in profoundest humiliation and English. Aunt, however, scorns to speak any tongue but Italian : " Quanto per these ones here ? " and " What did you say was the prezzo ? " " Ah ! troppo caro ! Too much ! No, no ! Don't I tell you it's troppo ? " All the while insists that the gondolieri shall show us What she calls Titian's palazzo, and pines for the house of Othello. Annie, the dear little goose, believes in Fred and her mother With an enchanting abandon. She doesn't at all understand them. But, she's some twilight views of their cleverness. Father is quiet. Now and then ventures some French, when he fancies that nobody hears him, In an aside to the valet-de-place — I never detect him — Buys things for mother and me with a quite supernatural sweetness. Tolerates all Fred's airs, and is indispensably pleasant. In spite of our fictions. Severed from his by that silence, my heart grew evermore anxious, Till last night when together we sat in Piazza San Marco, (Then when the morrow must bring us parting, — forever it might be) Taking our ices al fresco. Some strolling minstrels were singing Airs from the Trovatore. I noted with painful observance. With the unwilling minuteness, at such times absolute torture, All that brilliant scene, for which I cared nothing, before me : Dark-eyed Venetian leoni regarding the forestieri With those compassionate looks of gentle and curious wonder Home-keeping Italy's nations bend on the voyaging races. Taciturn, indolent, sad as their beautiful city itself is ; Groups of remotest English — not just the traditional Englisli (Lavish Milor is no more, and your travelling Briton is frugal), English, though, after all, with the Channel always between tliem. Islanded in themselves, and the Continent's sociable races : Country -people of ours — the New World's confident children, Proud of America always, and even vain of the Troubles 30 THE SUNNYSIDE BOOK. As of disaster laid out on a scale unequalled in Europe ; Polyglot Russians that spoke all languages better than natives ; White-coated Austrian officers, anglicised Austrian dandies, Gorgeous Levantine figures of Greek, and Turk, and Albanian — These, and the throngs that moved through the long arcades and Piazza, Shone on by numberless lamps that flamed round the perfect Piazza, Jewel-like set in the splendid frame of this beautiful picture. Full of such motley life, and so altogether Venetian. Then, we rose and walked where the lamps were blanched by the moonlight Flooding the Piazzetta with splendor, and throwing in shadow All the facjade of Saint Mark's, with its pillars, and horses, and arches ; VENICE. 3] But the sculptured frondage, that blossoms over the arches Into the forms of saints, was touched with tenderest lucence, And the angel that stands on the crest of the vast campanile, Bathed his golden vans in the liquid light of the moonbeams. Black rose the granite pillars that lift the Saint and the Lion ; Black sank the island campanili from distance to distance ; Over the charmed scene there brooded a presence of music, Subtler than sound, and felt, unheard, in the depth of the spirit. How can I gather and show you the airy threads of enchantment Woven that night round my life and forever wrought into my being. As in our boat we glided away from the glittering city ? Dull at heart I felt, and I looked at the lights in the water. Blurring their brilliance with tears, while the tresses of eddying seaweed, Whirled in the ebbing tide, like the tresses of sea-maidens drifting Seaward from palace-haunts, in moonshine glistened and daikened. THE HISTOETAIT OF MAl^AHATTA. [WASHINGTON IRVING.] IT was some time, if I recollect right, in the early part of the au- tumn of 1808, that a stranger applied for lodgings at the Indepen- dent Columbian Hotel in Mulberry street, of which I am landlord. He was a small, brisk-looking old gentleman, dressed in a rusty black coat, a pair of olive velvet breeches, and a small cocked hat. He had a few gray hairs plaited and clubbed behind, and his beard seemed to be of some eight-and-forty hours' growth. The only piece of finery which he bore about him was a bright pair of square silver shoe-buckles, and all his baggage was contained in a pair of saddle- bags, which he carried vmder his arm. His whole appearance was something out of the common run ; and my wife, who is a very shrewd body, at once set him down for some eminent country school- master. As the Independent Columbian Hotel is a very small house, I was a little puzzled at first where to put him ; but my wife, who seemed taken with his looks, would needs put him in her best chamber, which is genteelly set off with the profiles of the whole family, done in black, by those two great painters, Jarvis and Wood ; and com- mands a very pleasant view of the new groimds on the Collect, to- gether with the rear of the Poor House and BridcM^ell, and a full front of the Hospital ; so that it is the cheerf ulest room in the whole house. During the whole time that he stayed with us, we found him a very worthy good sort of an old gentleman, though a little queer in his ways. He would keep in his room for days together, and if any of the children cried, or made a noise about his door, he would bounce out in a great passion, with his hands full of papers, and say THE HISTORIAN OF MANAHATTA. 33 something about " deranging his ideas ; " which made my wife be- lieve sometimes that he was not altogether compos. Indeed, there was more than one reason to make her think so, for his room was always covered with scraps of pape]- and old mouldy books, lying about at sixes and sevens, which he would never let anybody touch ; for he said he had laid them all away in their proper places, so that he might know where to find them ; though for that matter, he was half his time worrying about the house in search of some book or writing which he had carefully put out of the way. I shall never forget what a pother he once made, because my wife cleaned out his room when his back was turned, and put everything to rights ; for he swore he would never be able to get his papers in order again in a twelvemonth. Upon this my wife ventured to ask him what he did with so many books and papers ; and he told her, that he was " seeking for immortality ; " which made her think more than ever, that the poor old gentleman's head was a Httle cracked. He was a very inquisitive body, and when not in his room was continually poking about town, hearing all the news, and prying into everything that was going on : this was particularly the case abont election time, when he did nothing but bustle about from poll to poll, attending all ward meetings, and committee-rooms ; though I could never find that he took part with either side of the question. On the contrary, he would come home and rail at both parties with great wrath — and plainly proved one day, to the satisfaction of my wife and three old ladies who were drinking tea with her, that the two parties were like two rogues, each tugging at a skirt of the nation ; and that in the end they would tear the very coat off its back, and expose its nakedness. Indeed he was an oracle among the neighbors, who would collect around him to hear him talk of an afternoon, as he smoked his pipe on a bench before the door ; and I really believe he would have brought over the whole neighborhood to his own side of the question, if they could ever have found out what it was. He was very much given to argue, or, as he called it, philosojoMze, about the most trifling matter; and to do him justice, I never know 34 THE SUNISTTSEDE BOOK. anybody that was a match for him, except it was a grave-looking old gentleman who called now and then to see him, and often posed him I'll lif/ _ in an argument. But this is nothing surprising, as I have since found out this stranger is the city librarian ; who, of course, must be a man of great learning : and I have my doubts if he had not some hand in the following history. THE HISTOEIAIT OF MANAHATTA. 35 As our lodger had been a long time with us, and we had never received any pay, my wife began to be somewhat uneasy, and curious to find out who and what he was. She accordingly made bold to put the question to his friend, the librarian, who replied in his dry way that he was one of the literati^ which she supposed to mean some new party in politics. I scorn to push a lodger for his pay ; so 1 let day after day pass on without dunning the old gentleman for a farthing : but my wife, who always takes these matters on herself, and is, as I said, a shrewd kind of a woman, at last got out of patience, and hinted, that she thought it high time " some people should have a sight of some people's money." To which the old gentleman replied, in a mighty touchy manner, that she need not make herself uneasy, for that he had a treasure there (pointing to his saddle-bags) worth her whole house put together. This was the only answer we could ever get from him; and as my wife, by some of those odd ways in which women find out everything, learnt that he was of very great connections, being related to the Knickerbock- ers of Scaghtikoke, and cousin-germ an to the congressman of that name, she did not like to treat him uncivilly. What is more, she even offered, merely by way of making things easy, to let him live scot-free, if he would teach the children their letters ; and to try her best and get her neighbors to send their children also : but the old gentleman took it in such dudgeon, and seemed so affi-onted at being taken for a schoolmaster, that she never dared to speak on the subject again. About two months ago, he went out of a morning, with a bundle in his hand, and has never been heard of since. All kinds of inquiries were made after him, but in vain. I wrote to his relations at Scaghtikoke, but they sent for answer, that he had not been there since the year before last, when he had a great dispute with the congressman about politics, and left the place in a huff, and they had neither heard nor seen anything of him from that time to this. I must own I felt very much worried about the poor old gentleman, for I thought something bad must have happened to him, that he should be missing so long, and never return to pay his bill. I there- 36 THE STJNNYSIDE BOOK. fore advertised him in the newspapers, and though my melancholy advertisement was published by several humane printers, yet I have never been able to learn anything satisfactory about him. My wife now said it was high time to take care of ourselves, and see if he had left anything behind in his room, that would pay us for his board and lodging. We found nothing, however, but some old books and musty writings, and his saddle-bags ; which, being opened in the presence of the librarian, contained only a few articles of worn-out clothes, and a large bundle of blotted paper. On look- ing over this, the libi'arian told us he had no doubt it was the treasure which the old gentleman had spoken about ; as it proved to be a most excellent and faithful History of ISTew Yokk, which he advised us by all means to publish : assuring us that it would be so eagerly bought up by a discerning public, that he had no doubt it would be enough to pay our arrears ten times over. Upon this we got a very learned schoolmaster, who teaches our children, to pre- pare it for the press, which he accordingly has done ; and has, more- over, added to it a number of valuable notes of his own.* * Prom the Lancllord's statement — prefixed to " Knickerbocker.'" DOBBS HIS FEERY. A LEGEND OF THE LOWER HUDSON. [WM. ALLEN BUTLER.] The days were at their longest, The heat was at its strongest, When Brown, old friend and true, Wrote thus, — " Dear Jack, why swelter In town, when shade and shelter Are waiting here for you ? Quit Bulls and Bears and gambling. For rural sports and rambling, Forsake your Wall-street tricks. Come without hesitation. Check to Dobbs' Ferry Station, We dine at half-past six." I went, — a welcome hearty, A. merry country party, A drive, and then croquet, A quiet, well-cooked dinner. Three times at billiards winner — The evening sped away. When Brown, the dear old joker, Cried, " Come, my worthy broker, The hour is growing late. Your room is cool and quiet, As for the bed, just try it, Breakfast at half-past eight." I took Brown's liand, applauded His generous care, and lauded Dobbs' Ferry to the skies. 38 THE SUNNYSrOE BOOK. A shade came o'er Ms features — " We should be happy creatures, And this a paradise, But, ah ! the deep disgrace is, This loveliest of places A vulgar name should blight : But, death to Dobbs ! we'll change it, If money can arrange it, So, pleasant dreams, — good-night ! " I could not sleep, but raising The window, stood, moon-gazing, In fairy-laud a guest ; " On such a night," et cetera — See Shakespeare for much better a Description of the rest — I mused, how sweet to wander Beside the river, yonder ; And then the sudden whim Seized me my head to pillow On Hudson's sparkling billow, A midnight, moonlight swim ! DOBBS HIS FEEEY. 39 Soon thought and soon attempted. At once my room was emptied Of its sole occupant ; The roof was low and easily, In fact, quite Japanese-ily : I took the downward slant, Then, without stay or stopping. My first and last eaves-dropping, By leader-pipe I sped. And through the thicket gliding, Down the steep hillside sliding, I reached the river's bed. But what was my amazement — The fair scene from the casement. How changed ! I could not guess Where track or rails had vanished. Town, Adllas, station, banished — All was a wilderness. Only one ancient gable, A low-roofed inn and stable, A creaking sign displayed, An antiquated wherry. Below it — " DoBBS His Ferry " — In the clear moonlight swayed. I turned, and there the craft was, Its shape 'twixt scow and raft was. Square ends, low sides, and flat. And, standing close beside me. An ancient chap who eyed me, Beneath a steeple-hat ; Short legs — long pipe — style very Pre-Bevolutionary I bow, he grimly bobs, Then, with some perturbation, By way of salutation. Says I, " How are you Dobbs ? " 4:0 THE STTNNYSIDE BOOK. He grum and silent beckoned, And I, in half a second, Scarce knowing what I did. Took the stern seat, Dobbs throwing Himself midships, and rowing, Swift through the stream we slid ; He pulled awhile, then stopping, And both oars slowly dropping, His pipe aside he laid. Drew a long breath, and taking An attitude, and shaking His fist towards shore, thus said : — " Of all sharp cuts the keenest, Of all mean turns the meanest, Vilest of all vile jobs, Worse than the Oow-Boy pillagers. Are these Dobbs' Ferry villagers A going back on Dobbs ! 'Twould not be more anom'lotxs If Rome went back on Rom'lus (Old rum-un like myself). Or Hail Cohunbia, played out By Southern Dixie, laid out Columbus on the shelf! "They say 'Dobbs' ain't melodious, Its ' horrid,' * vulgar,' ' odious,' In all their crops it sticks ; And then the worse addendum Of ' Ferry ' does oflfend 'em More than its vile prefix ; "Well, it does seem distressing, But if I'm good at guessing. Each one of these same nobs. If there was money in it. Would ferry in a minute And change his name to Dobbs ! DOBBS HIS FEKRY. 4:1 " That's it, they're not partic'lar, Respecting the auric'lar, At a stiff market rate, But Dobbs' especial vice is, That he puts down the prices Of all their real estate ! A name so unattractive Keeps villa-sites inactive. And spoils the broker's jobs; They think that speculation Would rage at ' Paulding's Station,' Which stagnates now at ' Dobbs'.' " ' Paixlding's ! ' — that's sentimental ! An old Dutch Continental, Bushwhacked up there a spell ; But why he should come blustering. Bound here, and fillibustering. Is more than I can tell ; Sat playing for a wager, And nabbed a British Major : Well, if the plans and charts From Andre's boots he hauled out, Is his name to be bawled out Forever, round these parts ? " Guess not ! His pay and bounty And mon'ment from the county Paid him off, every cent, While this snug town and station. To every generation, Shall be Dobbs' monument ; Spite of all speculators And ancient-landmark traitors, Who, all along this shore. Are ever substitutin' The modern highfahitin, For the plain names of yore. 42 THE SUNNYSIDE BOOK. " Down there, on old Manhattan, Where land-sharks breed and fatten, They've wiped out Tubby Hook, That famous promontory. Renowned in song and story. Which time nor tempest shook. Whose name for aye had been good, Stands newly-christened ' Inwood,' And branded with the shame Of some old rogue who passes By dint of aliases. Afraid of his own name ! " See how they quite out-rival Plain barnyard Spuytenduyvil, By peacock Biverdale, Which thinks all else it conquers. And over homespun Yonkers Spreads out its flaunting tail ! There's new-named Mount St. Vincent, Where each dear little inn' cent Is taught the Popish rites — Well, ain't it queer, wherever These saints possess the river They get the finest sites ! " They've named a place for Irving, A trifle more deserving Than your French foreign saints. But if he has such mention, It's past my comprehension Why Dobbs should cause complaints ; Wrote histories and such things About Old Knick and Dutch things, Dolph Heyligers and Rips, But no old antiquary Like him could keep a ferry, With all his authorships ! DOBBS HIS FEKRY. 43 " By aid of these same showmen, Some fanciful cognomen Old Oro'nest stock might bring As high as Butter hill is, "Which, patronized by Willis, Leaves cards now as ' Storm-King ! ' Can't some poetic swell-beau Re-christen old Orum Elbow And each prosaic bluff. Bold Breakneck gently flatter, And Dunderberg bespatter With euphony and stuff! " 'Twould be a magnwm opus To bury old Esopiis In Time's sepulchral vaults, Or in oblivion's deep sea Submerge renowned Poughkeepsie, And also ancient Paltz ; How it would give them rapture Brave Stony Point to capture. And make it face about ; Bid Bhinebeck sound much smoother, Than in the tongue of Luther, And wipe the Cattskills oiit ! " Well, DoBBS is DoBBS, and faster Than pitch or mustard-plaster Shall it stick hereabouts, While Tappan Sea rolls yonder. Or round High Torn the thunder Along these ramparts shouts. No corner-lot banditti. Or brokers from the City — Like you " — here Dobbs began ^ Wildly both oars to brandish, As fierce as old Miles Standish, Or young Phil. Sheridan, 44 THE SUNNYSIDE BOOK. Sternwards he rushed — I, ducking, Seized both his legs, and chucking Dobbs sideways, splash he went — The wherry swayed, then righted, While I, somewhat excited. Over the water bent ; Three times he rose, but vainly I clutched his form ungainly, He sank, while sighs and sobs Beneath the waves seemed muttered, And all the night-winds uttered In sad tones, " Dobbs ! Dobbs ! Dobbs ! " Just then some giant boulders Upon my head and shoulders Made sudden, fearful raids, And on my face and forehead, With din and uproar horiid, Came several Palisades; I screamed, and woke, in screaming. To see, by gas-light's gleaming. Brown's face above my bed — " Why, Jack ! what is the matter ? We heard a dreadful clatter And found yoii on the slied ! " It's plain enough, supposing You sat there, moon-struck, dozing, Upon the window's edge. Then lost yourself, and falling, Just where we found you, sprawling, Struck the piazza ledge ; A lucky hit, old fellow, Of black and blue and yellow . It gives your face a touch. You saved your neck, but barely. To state the matter fairly, You took a drop too much ! " DOBBS HIS FERET. I took the train next morning, Some lumps my nose adorning, My forehead, sundry knobs, My ideas slightly wandering. But, as I "Went, much pondering Upon my night with Dobbs ; Brown thinks it, dear old sinner, A case of " after dinner," And won't believe a word. Talks of " hallucination," " Laws of association," And calls my tale " absiird." Perhaps it is, but never. Say I, should we dissever Old places and old names, Guard the old landmarks truly. On the old altars duly Keep bright the ancient flames ; For me, the face of Nature, No luckless nomenclature Of grace or beauty robs ; No, when of town I weary, I'll make a strike in Erie, And buy a place at Dobbs ! 45 A OOI^TENTED MAK. [WASHINGTON IRVING.] IN the garden of the Tiiileries there is a sunny corner under the wall of a terrace which fronts the south. Along the wall is a range of benches commanding a view of the walks and avenues of the gar- den. This genial nook is a place of great resort in the latter part of autumn, and in fine days in winter, as it seems to retain the flavor of departed summer. On a calm, bright moniing it is quite alive with nursery-maids and their playful little charges. Hither also resort a number of ancient ladies and gentlemen, who, with laudable thrift in small pleasures and small expenses, for which the French are to be noted, come here to enjoy sunshine and save firewood. Here may often be seen some cavalier of the old school, when the sunbeams have warmed his blood into something like a glow, fluttering about like a frostbitten moth thawed before the fire, putting forth a feeble show of gallantry among the antiquated dames, and now and then eying the buxom nursery-maids with what might almost be mistaken for an air of libertinism. Among the habitual frequenters of this place, I had often remark- ed an old gentleman, whose dress was decidedly anti-revolutional. He wore the three-cornered cocked hat of the ancien regvme ; his hair was frizzed over each ear into ailes de pigeon, a style strongly savoring of Bourbonism ; and a queue stuck out behind, the loyalty of which was not to be disputed. His dress, though ancient, had an air of decayed gentility, and I observed that he took his snuff out of an elegant though old-fashioned gold box. He appeared to be the most popular man on the walk. He had a compliment for every old lady, he kissed every child, and he patted every little dog on the head ; for children and little dogs are very important members of so- A CONTENTED MAN. 47 ciety in France. I must observe, however, that he seldom kissed a child without, at the same time, pinching the nursery-maid's cheek ; a Frenchman of the old school never forgets his devoirs to the sex. I had taken a liking to this old gentleman. There was an habitual expression of benevolence in his face, which I have veiy frequently remarked in these relics of the politer days of France. The constant interchange of those thousand little courtesies which imperceptibly 48 THE SUNNYSIDE BOOK. sweeten life, have a happy effect upon the features, and spread a mel- low evening charm over the wrinkles of old age. Where there is a favorable predisposition, one soon forms a kind of tacit intimacy by often meeting on the same walks. Once or twice I accommodated him with a bench, after which we touched hats on passing each other ; at length we got so far as to take a pinch of snuff together out of his box, which is equivalent to eating salt toge- ther in the East ; from that time our acquaintance was established. I now became his frequent companion in his morning promenades, and derived much amusement from his good-humored remarks on men and manners. One morning, as we were strolling through an alley of the Tuileries, with the autumnal breeze whirling the yellow leaves about our path, my companion fell into a peculiarly communi- cative vein, and gave me several particulars of his history. He had once been wealthy, and possessed of a fine estate in the country, and a noble hotel in Paris ; but the revolution, which effected so many disastrous changes, stripped him of everything. He was secretly denounced by his own steward during a sanguinary period of the revolution, and a number of the bloodhounds of the Convention were sent to arrest him. He received pri\'ate intelligence of their approach in time to effect his escape. He landed in England without money or friends, but considered himself singularly fortunate in having his head upon his shonlders ; sevei-al of his neighbors having been guillotined as a punishment for being rich. When he reached Londou he had but a louis in his pocket, and no prospect of getting another. He ate a solitary dinner on beefsteak, and was almost poisoned by port Aviue, which from its color he had mistaken for claret. The dingy look of the chop-house, and of the little mahogany-colored box in which he ate his dinner, contrasted sadly with the gay saloons of Paris. Everything looked gloomy and disheartening. Poverty stared him in the face ; he turned over the few shillings he had of change ; did not know what was to become of him ; and — went to the theatre ! He took his seat in the pit, listened attentively to a tragedy of which he did not understand a word, and which seemed made up of fightiug. A CONTENTED MAN. 49 and stabbing, and scene-shifting, and began to feel his spirits sinking within him ; when, casting his eyes into the orchestra, what was his surprise to recognize an old friend and neighbor in the very act of extorting music from a huge violoncello. As soon as the evening's performance was over he tapped his friend on the shoulder ; they kissed each other on each cheek, and the mu- sician took him home, and shared his lodgings with him. He had learned music as an accomplishment ; by his friend's advice he now turned to it as a means of support. He procured a violin, offered himself for the orchestra, was received, and again considered himself one of the most fortunate men upon earth. Here therefore he lived for many years during the ascendency of the terrible ISTapoleon. He found several emigrants living like him- self, by the exercise of their talents. They associated together, talked of France and of old times, and endeavored to keep up a semblance of Parisian life in the centre of London. They dined at a miserable cheap French restaurateur in the neigh- borhood of Leicester-square, where they were served with a caricature of French cookery. They took their promenade in St. James's Park, and endeavored to fancy it the Tuileries ; in short, they made shift to accommodate themselves to everything but an English Siinday. Indeed the old gentleman seemed to have nothing to say against the English, whom he aiBrmed to be hraves gens ; and he mingled so much among them, that at the end of twenty years he could speak their language almost well enough to be understood. The downfall of Napoleon was another epoch in his life. He had considered himself a fortunate man to make his escape penniless out of France, and he considered himself fortunate to be able to return penniless into it. It is true that he found his Parisian hotel had passed through several hands during the vicissitudes of the times, so as to be beyond the reach of recovery ; but then he had been noticed benignantly by government, and had a pension of several hundred francs, upon which, with careful management, he lived independently, and, as far as I coiild judge, happily. As his once splendid hotel was now occupied as a Mtel garni, he 4 50 THE STJNNYSIDE BOOK. hired a small chamber in the attic ; it was but, as he said, changing his bedroom up two pair of stairs — he was still in his own house. His room was decorated with pictures of several beauties of former times, , with whom he professed to have been on favorable terms : among them was a favorite opera-dancer, who had been the admiration of Paris at the breaking out of the revolution. She had been a jorote- gee of my friend, and one of the few of his youthful favorites who had survived the lapse of time and its various vicissitudes. They had renewed their acquaintance, and she now and then visited him ; but the beautiful Psyche, once the fashion of the day aud the idol of the parterre, was now a shrivelled little old woman, warped in the back, and with a hooked nose. The old gentleman was a devout attendant upon levees : he was most zealous in his loyalty, and could not speak of the royal family without a burst of enthusiasm, for he still felt towards them as his companions in exile. As to his poverty he made light of it, and in- deed had a good-humored way of consoling himself for every cross and privation. If he had lost his chateau in the country, he had half a dozen royal palaces, as it were, at his command. He had Versailles and St. Cloud for his country resorts, and the shady alleys of the Tuileries and the Luxembourg for his town recreation. Thus all his promenades and relaxations were magnificent, yet cost no- thing. When I walk through these fine gardens, said he, I have only to fancy myself the owner of them, and they are mine. All these gay crowds are my visitors, and I defy the grand seignior himself to display a greater variety of beauty. Nay, what is better, I have not the trouble of entertaining them. My estate is a perfect Sans Souci, where every one does as he pleases, and no one troubles the owner. All Paris is ray theatre, and presents me with a contiiaual spectacle. I have a table spread for me in every street, and thousands of waiters ready to fiy at my bidding. When my servants have waited upon me I pay them, discharge them, and there's an end : I have no fears of their wronging or pilfering me when my back is turned. Upon the whole, said the old gentleman, with a smile of infinite good-humor, when I think upon the various risks I have run, and the manner in A CONTENTED MAN. 61 which I have escaped them ; when I recollect all that I have suffer- ed, and consider all that I at present enjoy, I cannot but look upon myself as a man of singular good fortune. Such was the brief history of this practical philosopher, and it is a picture of many a Frenchman ruined by the revolution. The French appear to have a greater facility than most men in accommodating themselves to the reverses of life, and of extracting honey out of the bitter things of this world. The first shock of calamity is apt to over- whelm them, but when it is once past, their natural buoyancy of feel- ing soon brings them to the surface. This may be called the result of levity of character, but it answers the end of reconciling us to misfortune, and if it be not true philosophy, it is something almost as efficacious. Ever since I have heard the story of my little French- man, I have treasured it up in my heart ; and I thank my stars I have at length found, what I had long considered as not to be found on earth — a contented man. P. S. There is no calculating on human happiness. Since writing the foregoing, the law of indemnity has been passed, and my friend restored to a great part of his fortune. I was absent from Paris at the time, but on my return hastened to congratulate him. I found him magnificently lodged on the fii'st floor of his hotel. I was ush- ered, by a servant in livery, throiigh splendid saloons, to a cabinet richly furnished, where I found my little Frenchman reclining on a couch. He received me with his usual cordiality ; but I saw the gayety and benevolence of his countenance had fled ; he had an eye full of care and anxiety. I congratulated him on his good fortune. " Good fortune 1 " echoed he ; " bah ! I have been plundered of a princely fortune, and they give me a pittance as an indemnity." Alas ! I found my late poor and contented friend one of the rich- est and most miserable men in Paris. Instead of rejoicing in the ample competency restored to him, he is daily repining at the super- 52 THE SUKNTSIDE BOOK. fluity withheld. He no longer wanders in happy idleness about Paris, but is a repining attendant in the ante-chambers of ministers. His loyalty has evaporated with his gayety ; he screws his mouth when the Bourbons are mentioned, and even shrugs his shoulders when he hears the praises of the king. In a word, he is one of the many phi- losophers undone by the law of indemnity, and his case is desperate, for I doubt whether even another reverse of fortune, which should restore him to poverty, could make him again a happy man. A BIRTH-DAT I]^ MARCH. [t. BUCHANAN READ.* J UT of the white, beleaguering lines, Passing the pickets, beyond the pines. The herald March comes blustering down, Proclaiming the news o'er field and town, That Wintex", the stubborn, invading foe, Is hurriedly striking his tents of snow, Raising a siege which may cost his crown. A wonderful herald is this same March, With gusty robes and flashing hair ! How boldly, under the springtime arch, He wakes the world with martial air! And, while his winding clarion rings, What a list of natal days he brings ! Just a score of suns and three, On a beautiful isle in Manhattan bay. He blew to the four winds, far and free. And the southern birds came iip straightway. And the earliest flowers peered forth to see. And the brooks threw by their icy chains, Grazing abroad for April rains. And the buds looked out on every spray. And the soft south breeze came near to say Some flattering message it brought from May. All Nature, thrilling through and through. Pulsed and glowed with a pleasure new, As if aware that the wild March horn Announced the hour that you were born ! — Aware that God's benignant smile. Gladdening the land from shore to shore, Had fallen in grace on the lovely isle, * Putnam's Magazine, 1870. 54 THE SUKNTSIDE BOOK. Giving the flowers one lily more ! Giving the brooks a sister-tongue — A lovely mate to all sweet things — The dove and the wren, beside the door, While over the place the soft air sung, " For me another blue-bird sings ! " And, catching a gleam of the light, which shed A household sunshine o'er your birth. The angels of heaven looked round and said, " One of our sisters has gone to earth ! " And every time the loud month rings His third and twentieth clarion clear. They whisper, in groups, with folded wings, " This is the morn she left us here ! " Then circles the song in airier play. Cheering the high ancestral dome, " This is the beautiful blossoming day, That brings her one year nearer home ! " But yet so glad are the groups to know That something of heaven to earth is won. That while they guard your path below, They patiently wait your mission done. Then let the loud month blow at will. And Winter strike his tents anew ; May many a springtime find you still On earth — for it hath need of you ! ADTEI^TUEE OF THE LITTLE AI^TIQUAET. [GEOFFREY CRAYON.] MY friend, the Doctor, was a thorough antiquary; a little rusty, musty old fellow, always groping among ruins. He lelished a building as you Englishmen lelish a cheese, — the more mouldy and ciumbling it was, the more it suited his taste. A shell of an old nameless temple, or the cracked Avails of a broken-down amphitheatre, would throw him into raptures ; and he took more delight in these crusts and cheese-parings of antiquity than in the best conditioned modern palaces. He was a curious collector of coins also, and had just gained an accession of wealth that almost turned his brain. He had picked up, for instance, several Roman Consulars, half a Roman As, two Punics, which had doubtless belonged to the soldiers of Hannibal, having been found on the very spot where they had encamped among the Apennines. He had, moreover, one Samnite, struck after the Social War, and a Philistis, a queen that never existed ; but, above all, he valued himself upon a coin, indescribable to any but the initiated in these matters, bearing a cross on one side and a Pegasus on the other, and which, by some antiqiiarian logic, the little man adduced as an historical document, illustrating the progress of Christianity. All these precious coins he carried about him in a leathern purse, buried deep in a pocket of his little black breeches. The last maggot he had taken into his brain, was to hunt after the ancient cities of the Pelasgi, which are said to exist to this day among 56 THE SUNNTSIDE BOOK. the mountains of the Abruzzi ; but about which a singular degree of obscurity prevails. He had made many discoveries concerning them, and had recorded a great many valuable notes and memorandums on the subject, in a voluminous book, which he always carried about with him ; either for the purpose of frequent reference, or through fear lest the precious document should fall into the hands of brother anti- qiiaries. He had, therefore, a large pocket in the skirt of his coat, where he bore about this inestimable tome, banging against his rear as he walked. Thus heavily laden with the spoils of antiquity, the good little man, during a sojourn at Terracina, mounted one day the rocky cliffs which overhang the town, to visit the castle of Theodric. He was groping about the ruins towards the hour of sunset, buried in his reflections, his wits no doubt wool-gathering among the Goths and Romans, when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned, and beheld five or six young fellows, of rough, saucy demeanor, clad in a singular manner, half j^easant, half huntsman, with carbines in their hands. Their whole appearance and carriage left him no doubt into what company he had fallen. The Doctor was a feeble little man, poor in look, and poorer in purse. He had but little gold or silver to be robbed of ; but then he had his curious ancient coin in his breeches-pocket. He had, more- over, certain other valuables, such as an old silver watch, thick as a turnip, with figures on it large enough for a clock ; and a set of seals at the end of a steel chain, dangling half-way down to his knees. All these were of precious esteem, being family relics. He had also a seal-ring, a veritable antique intaglio, that covered half his knuckles. It was a Yenus, which the old man almost worshipped with the zeal of a voluptuary. But what he most valued was his inestimable collec- tion of hints relative to the Pelasgian cities, which he would gladly have given all the money in his pocket to have had safe at the bot- tom of his trunk in Terracina. However, he plucked up a stout heart, at least as stout a heart as he could, seeing that he was but a puny little man at the best of times. So he wished the hunters a " buon giorno." They returned ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUAET. 57 his salutation, giving the old gentleman a sociable slap on the back that made his heart leap into his throat. They fell into conversation, and walked for some time together am.ong the heights, the Doctor wishing them all the while at the bot- tom of the crater of Yesuvius. At length they came to a small osteria on the mountain, where they proposed to enter and have a cup of wine together ; the Doctor consented, though he would as soon have been invited to drink hemlock. One of the gang remained sentinel at the door ; the others swag- gered into the house, stood their guns in the corner of the room, and each drawing a pistol or stiletto out of his belt, laid it upon the table. They now drew benches roimd the board, called lustily for wine, and, hailing the Doctor as though he had been a boon companion of long standing, insisted upon his sitting down and making merry. The worthy man complied with forced grimace, but with fear and trembling ; sitting uneasily on the edge of his chair ; eying ruefully the black-muzzled pistols, and cold, naked stilettos ; and supping down heartburn with every drop of liqu.or. His new comi'ades, how- ever, pushed the bottle bravely, and plied him vigorously. They sang, they laughed ; told excellent stories of their robberies and combats, mingled with many ruffian jokes ; and the little Doctor was fain to laugh at all their cut-throat pleasantries, though his heart was dying away at the very bottom of his bosom. By their own account, they were young men from the villages, who had recently taken up this line of life out of the wild caprice of youth. They talked of their murderous exploits as a sportsman talks of his amusements : to shoot down a traveller seemed of little more consequence to them than to shoot a hare. They spoke with rapture of the glorious roving life they led, free as birds ; here to-day, gone to-morrow ; ranging the forests, climbing the rocks, scouring the val- leys ; the world their own wherever they could lay hold of it ; full purses — merry companions— pretty women. The little antiquary got fuddled with their talk and their wine, for they did not spare bum- pers. He half forgot his fears, his seal-ring, and his family watch ; even the treatise on the Pelasgian cities, which was warming under 58 THK SUNNTSIDE BOOK. him, for a time faded from his memory in the glowing picture that they drew. He declares that he no longer wonders at the prevalence of this robber mania among the mountains ; for he felt at the time, that, had he been a young man, and a strong man, and had there been no danger of the galleys in the back-ground, he should have been half tempted himself to turn bandit. At length the hour of separating arrived. The Doctor was sud J/"'/A //,% |\- ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY. 59 deiily called to himself and his fears by seeing the robbers resume their weapons, He now quaked for his valuables, and, above all, for his antiquarian treatise. He endeavored, however, to look cool and unconcerned ; and drew from out his deep pocket a long, lank leath- ern purse, far gone in consumption, at the bottom of which a few coin chinked with the trembling of his hand. The chief of the party observed his movement, and laying his hand upon the antiquary's shoulder, " Harkee ! Signor Dottore ! " said he, " we have drunk together as friends and comrades ; let us part as such. We understand you. We know who and what you are, for we know who everybody is that sleeps at Terracina, or that piits foot upon the road. You are a rich man, but you carry all your wealth in your head : we cannot get at it, and we should not know what to do with it if we could. I see you are uneasy about your ring; but don',t. worry yourself, it is not worth taking; you think it an antique, but it's a counterfeit — a mere sham." Here the ire of the antiquary rose : the Doctor forgot himself in his zeal for the character of his ring. Heaven and earth ! his Yenus a sham ! Had they pronounced the wdf e of his bosom " no better than she should be," he could not have been more indignant. He fired up in vindication of his intaglio. "N^ay, nay," continued the robber, "we have no time to dispute about it ; value it as you please. Come, you're a brave little old sig- nor — one more cup of wine, and we'll pay the reckoning. No com- pliments — you shall not pay a grain — you are our guest — ^I insist upon it. So — now make the best of your way back to Terracina ; it's growing late. Buono -siaggio ! And harkee ! take care how you wander among these mountains,— you may not always fall into such good company." They shouldered their guns ; sprang gayly up the rocks ; and the little Doctor hobbled back to Terracina, rejoicing that the I'obbers had left his watch, his coins, and his treatise, unmolested : but still indignant that they should have pronounced his Yenus an impostor. The improvisatore had shown many symptoms of impatience during this recital. He saw his theme in danger of being taken out of his 60 THE SUNNYSIDE BOOK. hands, which to an able talker is always a grievance, but to an impro- visatore is an absolute calamity : and then for it to be taken away by a Neapolitan was still more vexatious ; the inhabitants of the difPe- rent Italian States having an implacable jealousy of each other in all things, great and small. He took advantage of the first pause of the Neapolitan to catch hold again of the thread of the conversation. " As I observed before," said he, " the prowlings of the banditti are so extensive ; they are so much in league with one another, and so interwoven Avith various ranks of society " " For that matter," said the Neapolitan, " I have heard that your government has had some understanding with those gentry; or, at least, has winked at their misdeeds." " My government ? " said the Roman, impatiently. " Ay, they say that Cardinal Gonsalvi — " " Hush ! " said the Roman, holding up his finger, and rolling his large eyes about the room. " Nay, I only repeat what I heard commonly rumored in Rome," replied the Neapolitan, sturdily. " It was openly said, that the Car- dinal had been up to the mountains, and had an interview with some of the chiefs. And I have been told, moreover, that, while honest people have been kicking their heels in the Cardinal's antechamber, waiting by the hour for admittance, one of those stiletto-looking fel- lows has elbowed his way through the crowd, and entered without ceremony into the Cardinal's presence." " I know," observed the improvisatore, " that there have been such reports, and it is not impossible that government may have made use of these men at particular periods : such as at the time of your late abortive revolution, when your carbonari were so busy with their machinations all over the country. The information which such men could collect, who were familiar, not merely with the recesses and secret places of the mountains, but also with the dark and dangei-ous recesses of society ; who knew every suspicious character, and all his movements and all his lurkings ; in a word, who knew all that was plotting in a world of mischief ; — the utility of such men as instru- ments in the hands of government was too obvious to be overlooked ; ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUAKY. 61 and Cardinal Gonsalvi, as a politic statesman, may, perhaps, have made use of them. Besides, he knew that, with all their atrocities, the robbers wei-e always respectful towards the Church, and devout in their religion." " Religion ! religion ! " echoed the Englishman. " Yes, religion," repeated the Roman. " They have each their patron saint. They will cross themselves and say their prayers when- ever, in their mountain haunts, they hear the matin or the Ave-Maria bells sounding from the valleys ; and will often descend from their retreats, and run imminent risks to visit some favorite shrine. I re- collect an instance in point. " I was one evening in the village of Frascati, which stands on the beautiful brow of a hill rising from the Campagna, just below the Abruzzi Mountains. The people, as is usual in fine evenings in our Italian towns and villages, were recreating themselves in the open air, and chatting in groups in the public square. While I was con- versing with a knot of friends, I noticed a tall fellow, wraj^ped in a great mantle, passing across the square, but skulking along in the dusk, as if anxious to avoid observation. The people drew back as he passed. It was whispered to me that he was a notorious bandit." " But why was he not immediately seized ? " said the Enghshman. " Because it was nobody's business ; because nobody wished to incur the vengeance of his comrades ; because there were not sufficient gendarmes near to insure security against the number of desperadoes he might have at hand ; because the gendarmes might not have re- ceived particular instructions with respect to him, and might not feel disposed to engage in a hazardous conflict without compulsion. In short, I might give you a thousand reasons rising out of the state of our government and manners, not one of which after all might ap- pear satisfactory." The Englishman shrugged his shoulders with an air of contempt. " I have been told," added the Roman, rather quickly, " that even in your metropolis of London, notorious thieves, well known to the police as siich, walk the streets at noonday in search of their prey, and are not molested unless caught in the very act of robbery." 62 THE SUKNTSrDE BOOK, The Englishman gave another shrug, but with a different expression. " "Well, sir, I fixed my eye on this daring wolf, thus prowling through the fold, and saw him enter a church. I was curious to wit- ness his devotion. You laiow our spacious magnificent churches. The one in which he entered was vast, and shi-ouded in the dusk of evening. At the extremity of the long aisles a couple of tapers fee- bly glimmered on the grand altar. In one of the side chapels was a votive candle placed before the image of a saint. Before this image the robber had prostrated himself. His mantle partly falling off from his shoulders as he knelt, revealed a form of Hercu- lean strength ; a stiletto and pistol glittered in his belt ; and the light falling on his countenance, showed features not unhandsome, but strongly and fiercely characterized. As he prayed, he became vehe- mently agitated ; his lips quivered ; sighs and murmurs, almost groans, burst from him ; he beat his breast with violence ; then clasped his hands and wrung them convulsively, as he extended them towards the image. ISTever had I seen such a terrific picture of remorse. I felt fearful of being discovered watching him, and withdrew. Short- ly afterwards I saw him issue from the church wrapped in his man- tle. He recrossed the square, and no doiibt retiirned to the moim- tains with a disburdened conscience, ready to incur a fresh arrear of crime. OHEISTMAS-EYE CHANT OP THE BRETON PEASANTS. [HOWARD GLYNDON.*] T was a dim, delicious night ; The earth, close wrapt in ermined white, Lay languid, in the misty light. The circling spheres were all in tune. And, in their midst, the Empress Moon Was brightening to her highest noon. It was the night when Bethlehem's star Guided the sages from afar. It was the night when shepherds heard The reverent air by music stirred. It was the night of old renown, When wondering angel-eyes looked down. To see Christ's head, bare of its crown. Within the manger laid ! There is a sound of thronging feet — Whab youthful crowds are in the street ! They go out from the stifling town, They seek the white and lonely down, They walk in silence, till they find A spot where four roads straitly wind. Where four roads meet, about a place Made sacred by the Cross's grace. There, men and maids, in separate file, J)o range themselves, nor speak the while. ♦ Putnam's Magazine, 1869. 64 THE SUNNYSIDE BOOK. Nor break the charm, by gest' or smile, Till — sudden breaks upon the air A sound of singing, strong and clear — Thus chant the hardy Breton youths : — I. What is new upon the earth ? What fresh wonder goeth forth, That its ways are full of pilgrims And its dwellings full of mirth ? II. Sounds of gladness on the air ! Happy faces everywhere ! Tell us, oh ! ye silent virgins ! Wherefore is the night so fair ? Then, silver-soft, the girlish voices rise, And with the sweetness of their meek replies, Upon the frosty air breed melodies : — III. Lo ! the sacred hour is near ! What was darkened, now is clear. Christ is coming ! Raise your voices — Say, Farewell, to Doubt and Fear ! Resounding throiigh the darkness, the}i. Peal the deep voices of the men, Who i-aise the soleimi song again : — IV. Why is all the world abroad. Raising midnight prayers to God, Till the censered air is heavy With its supplicating load ? Then clearer, purer, richer, rise The hidden maidens' sweet replies. Like wonders out of mysteries :^ V. Lo ! the Prince of Peace is born ! Lo ! on high the star of morn ! And it shall not fade forever, Nor its brilliancy be shoi'n. CHKISTMAS-EVE. Then, in concord perfect, sweet. Tones of youths and maidens meet ; And they gladly sing together, This aiispiciovis hour to greet : — VI. Sing, to-night — for Christ is born ! Lo ! on high the star of morn ! And it shall not fade forever, Nor its brilliancy be shorn. VII. Sing ! deliverance from our woes, By the blood that overflows And renews the Son of Adam — He no longer bui'dened goes. VIII. Sing ! because it is His feast ; Join the Princes of the East, Bring Him gifts amid rejoicings — He will smile upon the least ! IX. Sing ! while Christmas crowns ye weave ; On the Cross a garland leave. Lo ! the World's one Virgin-Mother Heals the hurt that came of Eve ! 65 EA.ELY DAYS OF MAI^^AHATTA, OR NEW YORK. [dIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.] IT having been solemnly resolved that the seat of empire should be removed from the green shores of Pavonia to the pleasant island of Manahatta, everybody vfas anxious to embark under the standard of Oloffe the Dreamer, and to be among the first sharers of the pro- mised land. A day v^as appointed for the grand migration, and on that day little Communipaw vpas in a buzz and a bustle like a hiA^e in swarming-time. Houses vpere turned inside out and stripped of the venerable furniture v^hich had come from Holland ; all the com- munity, great and small, black and vphite, man, woman, and child, was in commotion, forming lines from the houses to the water side, like lines of ants from an ant-hill ; everybody laden with some arti- cle of household furniture ; while busy housewives plied backwards and forwards along the lines, helping everything forward by the nimbleness of their tongues. By degrees a fleet of boats and canoes were piled up with all kinds of household articles : ponderous tables ; chests of drawers resplen- dent with brass ornaments ; quaint corner cupboards ; beds and bed- steads ; with any quantity of pots, kettles, frying-pans, and Dutch ovens. In each boat embarked a whole family, from the robustious burgher down to the cats and dogs and little negroes. In this way they set off across the mouth of the Hudson, under the guidance of Oloffe the Dreamer, who hoisted his standard on the leading boat. This memorable migration took place on the first of May, and was long cited in tradition as the grand moving. The anniversary of it EAELY DAYS OF MANAHATTA. 67 was piously observed among the " sons of the pilgrims of Commnni- paw," by turning their houses topsy-turvy and carrying all the furni- ture through the streets, in emblem of the swarming of the parent hive ; and this is the real origin of the universal agitation and " mov- ing " by which this most restless of cities is literally turned out of doors on every May day. As the little squadron from Communipaw drew near to the shores of Manahatta, a sachem, at the head of a band of warriors, appeared to oppose their landing. Some of the most zealous of the pilgrims were for chastising this insolence with powder and ball, according to the approved mode of discoverers ; but the sage Oloffe gave them the significant sign of St. Nicholas, laying his finger beside his nose and winking hai-d with one eye ; whereupon his followers perceived that there was something sagacious in the wind. He now addressed the Indians in the blandest terms; and made such tempting display of beads, hawks'-bells, and red blankets, that he was soon permitted to land, and a great land speculation ensued. And here let me give the true story of the original purchase of the site of this renowned city, about which so much has been said and written. Some affirm that the first cost was but sixty guilders. The learned Dominie Heck- welder records a tradition* that the Dutch discoverers bargained for only so much land as the hide of a bullock would cover ; but that they cut the hide in strips no thicker than a child's finger, so as to take in a large portion of land, and to take in the Indians into the bargain. This, however, is an old fable which the worthy Dominie may have borrowed from antiquity. The true version is, that Oloffe Van Kortlandt bargained for just so much land as a man could cover with his nether garments. The terms being concluded, he produced his friend Mynheei' Ten Broeck, as the man whose breeches were to be ^^sed in measurement. The simple savages, whose ideas of a man's nether garments had never expanded beyond the dimensions of a breech clout, stared with astonishment and dismay as they beheld this bulbous-bottomed burgher peeled like an onion, and breeches * MSS. of the Rev. John Heckweldor ; New York Historical Society. 68 THE STJNNYSrDE BOOK. after breeches spread forth over the land until they covered the ac- tual site of this venerable city. This is the true history of the adroit bargain by which the island of Manhattan was bought for sixty guilders ; and in corroboration of it I will add, that Mynheer Ten Breeches, for his services on this memo- rable occasion, was elevated to the office of land measurer ; wliich he ever afterwards exercised in the colony. EARLY DATS OF MANAHATTA. 69 The land being tlms fairly purchased of the Indians, a circum- stance very unusual in the history of colonization, and strongly illustrati\'e of the honesty of our Dutch progenitors, a stockade fort and trading-house were forthwith erected on an eminence in front of the place Avhere the good St. ISTicholas had appeared in a vision to Oloffe the Dreamer, and which, as has already been observed, was the identical place at present known as the Bowling Green. Around this fort a progeny of little Dutch-built houses, with tiled roofs and weathercocks, soon sprang up, nestling themselves under its walls for protection, as a brood of half -fledged chickens nestle under the wings of the mother hen. The Avh<3le was surrounded by an en- closure of strong palisadoes, to guard against any sudden irruption of the savages. Outside of tliese extended the corn-fields and cabbage- gardens of the community ; with here and there an attempt at a to- bacco plantation ; all covering those tracts of country at present called Broadway, Wall street, William street, and Pearl street. I must not omit to mention that in portioning out the land, a goodly "bowerie" or farm was allotted to the sage Oloffe in consideration of the service he had rendered to the i:)ublic by his talent at dreaming ; and the site of his "bowerie " is known by the name of Kortlandt (or. Cortlandt) street to tlie present day. And now -the infant settlement having advanced in age and stature, it was thought high time it should receive an honest Christian name. Hitherto it had gone by the original Indian name Manna-hata, or as some will have it, " The Manhattoes ; " but this was now decried as savage and heathenish, and as tending to keep iip the memory of the pagan brood that originally possessed it. Many were the consultations held upon the subject, without coming to a conclusion, for though everybody condemned the old name, nobody could invent a new one. At length, when the council was almost in despair, a burgher, remark- able for the size and squareness of his head, proposed that they should call it ISTew Amsterdam. The proposition took everybody by sur- prise ; it was so striking, so apposite, so ingenious. The name was adopted by acclamation, and 'New Amsterdam the metropolis was thenceforth called. Still, however, the early authors of the province 70 THE SUNNYSIDB BOOK. continued to call it by the general appellation of " The Manhattoes," and the poets fondly clung to the euphonious name of Manna-hata ; but those are a kind of folk whose tastes and notions should go for nothing in matters of this kind. Having thus provided the embryo city v?ith a name, the next was to give it an armorial bearing or device, as some cities have a rampant lion, others a soaring eagle ; emblematical, no doubt, of the valiant and highflying qualities of the inhabitants : so after mature delibe- ration a sleek beaver was emblazoned on the city standard as indicative of the amphibious origin, and patient, persevering habits of the New Amsterdammers. The thriving state of the settlement and the rapid increase of houses soon made it necessary to arrange some plan upon which the city should be built ; but at the very first consultation held on the subject, a violent discussion arose ; and I mention it with much sorrowing as being the first altercation on record in the councils of New Amsterdam. It was, in fact, a breaking forth of the grudge and heart-burning that had existed between those two eminent burghers. Mynheers Tenbroeck and Ilardenbroeck, ever since their unhappy dispute on the coast of Bellevue. The great Hardenbroeck had waxed very wealthy and powerful, from his domains, which em- braced the whole chain of Apulean mountains that stretched along the gulf of Kip's Bay, and from part of which his descendants ha-\^e been expelled in latter ages by the powerful clans of the Joneses and the Schermerhornes. An ingenious plan for the city was offered by Mynheer Harden- broeck, who proposed that it should be cut up and intersected by canals, after the manner of the most admired cities in Holland. To this Mynheer Tenbroeck was diametrically opposed, suggesting in place thereof, that they should run out docks and wharves, by means of piles driven into the bottom of the river, on which the town should be built. '•• By these means," said he, triumphantly, " shall we rescue a considerable space of territory from these immense rivers, and build a city that shall rival Amsterdam, Venice, or any amphibious city in Europe." To this proposition, Hardenbroeck (or Tough Breeches) EAELY DAYS OF MANAHATTA. 71 replied, with a look of as much scorn as he could possibly assume. He cast the utmost censure tipon the plan of his antagonist, as being preposterous and against the very order of things, as he would leave to every true Hollander. " For what," said he, " is a town without canals ? — it is like a body without veins and arteries, and must perish for want of a free circulation of the vital fluid." Ten Breeches, on the contrary, retorted with a sarcasm upon his antagonist, who was somewhat of an arid, dry-boned habit ; he remarked, that as to the circulation of the blood being necessary to existence. Mynheer Tough Breeches was a living contradiction to his own assertion ; for every- body knew there had not a drop of blood circulated through his wind- dried carcass for good ten years, and yet there was not a greater busybody in the whole colony. Personalities have seldom much effect in making converts in argument — ^nor have I ever seen a man con- vinced of error by being convicted of deformity. At least such was not the case at present. H Ten Breeches was very happy in sarcasm. Tough Breeches, who was a sturdy little man, and never gave up the last word, rejoined with increasing spirit — Ten Breeches had the advantage of the greatest volubility, but Tough Breeches had that invaluable coat of mail in argument called obstinacy — Ten Breeches had, therefore, the most mettle, but Tough Breeches the best bot- tom — so that though Ten Breeches made a dreadful clattering about his ears, and battered and belabored him with hard words and sound arguments, yet Tough Breeches hung on most resolutely to the last. They parted, therefore, as is usual in all arguments where both parties are in the right, without coming to any conclusion — but they hated each other most heartily forever after, and a similar breach with that between the houses of Capulet and Montague did ensue between the families of Ten Breeches and Tough Breeches. I would not fatigue my reader with these dull matters of fact, but that my duty as a faithful historian, requires that I should be particu- lar — and in truth, as I am now treating of the critical period, when our city, like a young twig, first received the twists and turns which have since contributed to give it its present picturesque irregularity, I cannot be too minute in detailing their first causes. 72 THE STJNNYSIDE BOOK. After the unhappy altercation I ha\e just mentioned, I do not find that any thing further was said on the subject worthy of being record- ed. The council, consisting of the largest and oldest heads in the community, met regularly once a week, to ponder on this momentous subject ; but, either they were deterred by the war of words they had witnessed, or they were naturally averse to the exercise of the tongue, and the consequent exercise of the brains — certain it is, the most pro- found silence was maintained — the question as usual lay on the table —the members quietly smoked their pipes, making but few laws, without ever enforcing any, and in the mean time the affairs of the settlement went on — as it pleased God. As most of the council were but little skilled in the mystery of combining pot-hooks and hangers, they determined most judiciously not to puzzle either themselves or posterity with voluminous records. The secretary, however, kept the minutes of the council with tolerable precision, in a large vellum folio, fastened with massy brass clasps ; the journal of each meeting consisted but of two lines, stating in Dutch, that " the comicil sat this day, and smoked twelve pipes on the affairs of the colony." By which it appears that the first settlers did not regulate their time by hours, but pipes, in the same manner as they measure distances in Holland at this very time — an admira- bly exact measurement, as a pipe in the mouth of a true-born Dutch- man is never liable to those accidents and irregularities that are con- tinually putting our clocks out of order. In this manner did the profound coimcil of New Amsterdam smoke, and doze, and ponder, from week to week, month to month, and year to year, in what manner they should construct their infant settlement ; meanwhile, the town took care of itself, and, like a sturdy brat which is suffered to run about wild, unshackled by clouts and banda- ges, and other abominations by which your notable nurses and sage old women cripple and disfigure the children of men, increased so rapidly in strength and magnitude, that before the honest burgomas- ters had determined upon a plan, it was too late to put it in execu- tion — whereupon they wisely abandoned the subject altogether. ' This day dame Nature seem'd in love, The lusty sap began to move ; Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines, And birds had drawn their valentines. The jealous trout that low did lie. Rose at a well-dissembled flie. There stood my friend, with patient skill, Attending of his trembling quUl." Sir H. Wotton. T is said that many an nnliicky urchin is induced to run away from his family, and betake himself to a seafaring life, from reading the history of Robfnson Crusoe ; and I suspect that, in like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral streams with angle-rods in hand, may trace the origin of their passion to the seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton. I recollect studjdng his "Complete Angler" several years since, in company with a knot of friends in America, and moreover that we were all com- pletely bitten with the angling mania. It was early in the year ; but as soon as the weather was auspicious, and that the spring began to melt into the verge of summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into the country, as stark mad as was ever Don Quixote from reading books of chivalry. 74 THE RtTNTSrVSIDE BOOK. One of our party had equalled the Don in the fulness ol hie equipments, being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. He wore a broad-sldrted fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred pockets ; a pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters ; a basket slung on one side for fish ; a patent rod, a landing-net, and a score of other in- conveniences, only to be found in the true angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, he was as great a matter of stare and won- derment among the country folk, who had never seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad hero of La Mancha among the goatlierdf of the Sierra Morena. Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the highlands THE ANGLEE. 75 of the Hudson; a most unfortunate place for the execution of those piscatory tactics which had been invented along the velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was one of those wild streams that lavish, among our romantic solitudes, unheeded beauties enough to fill the sketch-book of a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap down rocky shelves, making small cascades over which the trees threw their broad balancing sprays, and long nameless weeds hung in fringes fi'om the impending banks, drip- ping with diamond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret along a ravine in the matted shade of a forest, filling it with mur- murs ; and, after this termagant career, would steal forth into open day with the most placid, demure face imaginable ; as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, after filMng her home with up- roar and ill-humor, come dimpling out of doors, swimming and courtseying, and smiling upon all the world. How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such times, through some bosom of green meadow-land among the mountains : where the quiet was only interrupted by the occasional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle among tlie clover, or the sound of a wood-cutter's axe frOm the neighboring forest. For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport that required either patience or adroitness, and had not angled above half an hour before I had completely " satisfied the sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Walton's opinion, that angling is something like poetry — a man must be born to it. I hooked myself instead of the fish ; tangled my line in every tree ; lost my bait ; broke my rod ; until I gave up the attempt in despair, and passed the day under the trees, reading old Izaak ; satisfied that it was his fascinating vein of honest simplicity and rural feeling that had bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. My compan- ions, however, were more persevering in their delusion. I have them at this moment before my eyes, stealing along the border of the brook, where it lay open to the day, or was merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern rising with hollow scream as they break in upon his rarely-invaded haunt ; the kingfisher watching 76 THE SUNNTSIDE BOOK.. them suspiciously from his dry tree that overhangs the deep black mill-pond, in the gqrge of the hills ; the tortoise letting himself slip sideways from off the stone or log on which he is sunning himself ; and the panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they approach, and spreading an alarm throughout the watery world around. I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching and creeping about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely any success, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lubberly country urchin came down from the hills with a rod made from a branch of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, as Heaven shall help me ! I believe, a crooked pin for a hook, baited with a vile earth-worm — and in half an hour caught more fish than we had nibbles throughout the day ! But, above all, I recollect the " good, honest, wholesome, hungry " repast which we made under a beech-tree, just by a spring of pure sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill ; and how, when it THE ANGLER. 77 was over, one of the party read old Izaak Walton's scene with the milkmaid, while I lay on the grass and bnilt castles in a bright pile of clouds, until I fell asleep. All this may appear like mere egotism ; yet I caimot refrain from uttering these recollections, which are passing like a strain of music over my mind, and have been called up by an agreeable scene which I witnessed not long since. In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beautiful little stream which flows down from the Welsh hills and throws itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted to a group seated on the margin. On approaching, I found it to consist of a veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The former was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes very much but very carefully patched, betokening poverty honestly come by and decently maintained. His face bore the marks of former storms, but present fair weather ; its furrows had been worn into an habitual smile ; his iron-gray locks hung about his ears, and he had altogether the good-humored air of a constitutional philosopher who was disposed to take the world as it went. One of his companions was a ragged wight, with the skulking look of an arrant poacher, and I'll warrant could find his way to any gentleman's fish-pond in the neighborhood in the darkest night. The other was a tall, awkward country lad, with a lounging gait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. The old man was busy in examining the maw of a trout which he had just killed, to discover by its contents what insects were seasonable for bait ; and was lecturing on the subject to his companions, who appeared to listen with infinite deference. I have a kind feeling towards all " brothers of the angle," ever since I read Izaak Walton. They are men, he affirms, of a " mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit ;" and my esteem for them has been increased since I met with an old " Tretyse of fishing with the Angle," in which are set forth many of the maxims of their inoffensive fraternity. " Take good hede," sayeth this honest little tretyse, " that in going about your disportes ye open no man's gates but that ye shet them again. Also ye shall not use this forsayd crafti disport for no covetousness to the encreasing and 78 . THE SDNNTSrOE BOOK. sparing of your money only, but principally for your solace, and to cause the helth of your body and specyally of your soule."* I thought that 1 could perceive in the veteran angler before me an exemplification of what I had read ; and there was a cheerful contentedness in his looks that quite drew me towards him. I could not but remark the gallant manner in which he stumped from one part of the brook to another ; waving his rod in the air, to keep the line from dragging on the ground or catching among the bushes ; and the adroitness with which he would throw his fly into any par- ticular place ; sometimes skimming it lightly along a little rapid ; sometimes casting it into one of those dark holes made by a twisted root or overhanging bank, in which the large trout are apt to lurk. In the mean while he was giving instructions to his two disciples ; showing them the manner in which they should handle their rods, fix their flies, and play them along the surface of the stream. The scene brought to my mind the instructions of the sage Piseator to his scholar. The country around was of that pastoral kind which Walton is fond of describing. It was a part of the great plain of Cheshire, close by the beautiful vale of Gessford, and just where the inferior Welsh hills begin to swell up from among fresh-smelling meadows. The day, too, like that recorded in his work, was mild and sunshiny, with now and then a soft-dropping shower, that sowed the whole earth with diamonds. I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was so much entertained that, under pretext of receiving instructions in his art, I kept company with him almost the whole day ; wandering along the banks of the stream, and listening to his talk. He was very communi- cative, having all the easy garrulity of cheerful old age ; and I fancy was a little flattered by having an opportunity of displaying his pisca- tory lore ; for who does not like now and then to play the sage ? * From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more industrious and devout employment than it is generally considered. — "For when ye purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge ye will not desyre greatlye many persons with you, which might let you of your game. And that ye may servo God devoutly in sayinge effectually your customable prayers. And thus doying, ye shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, as ydelnes, which is principall cause to induce man to many other vices, as it is right well known." THE ANGLER. 79 He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had passed some years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah, where hf> had entered into trade, and had been ruined by the indiscretion of a part- ner. He had afterwards experienced many ups and downs in life, until he got into the navy, where his leg was carried away by a can- non-ball, at the battle of Camperdown. This was the only stroke of real good fortune he had ever experienced, for it got him a pension, which, together with some small paternal property, brought him in a revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this he retired to his native vil- lage, where he lived quietly and independently ; and devoted the re- mainder of his life to the " noble art of angling." I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent good-humor. Though he had been sorely buffeted about the world, he was satisfied that the world, in itself, was good and beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used in different countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with candor and kindness, appearing to look only on the good side of things : and, above all, he was almost the only man I had ever met with who had been an unfortunate adventurer in America, and had honesty and magnanimity enough to take the fault to his own door, and not to curse the country. The lad that was receiving his instructions, I learned, was the son and heir apparent of a fat old widow who kept the village inn, and of course a youth of some expectation, and much courted by the idle gentlemanlike personages of the place. In tak- ing him under his care, therefore, the old man had probably an eye to a privileged corner in the tap-room, and an occasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense. There is certainly something in angling — if we could forget, which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures iuflicted on woi-ms and insects — that tends to produce a gentleness of spirit and a pure serenity of mind. As the English are methodical even in their recreations, and are the most scientific of sportsmen, it lias been reduced among them to perfect rule and system. Indeed, it is an amusement peculiarly adapted to the mild and highly-cultivated 80 THE SUNNYSIDE BOOK. scenery of England, where every roughness has been softened away from the landscape. It is delightful to saunter along those limpid streams which wander, like veins of silver, through the bosom of this beautiful country; leading one through a diversity of small home scenery ; sometimes winding through ornamented grounds ; sometimes brimming along through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled with sweet-smelling flowers ; sometimes venturing THE ANGLEK. 81 in sight of villages and hamlets, and then running capriciously away into shady retirements. The sweetness and serenit}' of nature, and the quiet watchfulness of the sport, gradually bring on pleasant fits of musing; which are now and then agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird, the distant whistle of the peasant, or perhaps the vagary of some fish, leaping out of the still water, and skimming transiently about its glassy surface. " When I would beget content," says Izaak Walton, " and increase confidence in the power and wis- dom and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadoAvs by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other little living creatTires that are not only created, but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the God of Nature, and therefore trust in him." I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of those ancient champions of angling, which breathes the same innocent and happy spirit : — ^^^^\l..^."e,. 82 THE SUNNYSIDE BuOK. " Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink Of Trent or Avon, have a dvrelling-placo, Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink, With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace ; And on the world and my Creator think : While some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace, And others spend their time in base excess Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness. " Let them that will, these jjastimes still purs-.-.c. And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill ; So I the fields and meadows green may view. And daily by fresh rivers walk at will. Among the daisies and the violets blue. Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil." * * J. Davors. J^APOLEOl^ AT GOTIIA. [bayard TAYLOR.]* I. • We walk amid the currents of actions left undone, The geruis of deeds that wither, before they see tlie sun. For every sentence vittered, a million more are dumb : Men's lives are chains of chances, and History their sum. II. Not he, the Syracusan, but each empurpled lord Must eat his banquet \inder the hair-suspended sword ; And one swift breath of silence may fix or change tlie fate Of him whose force is building the fabric of a State. III. Where o'er the windy uplands the slated turrets shine, Duke August ruled at Gotha, in Castle Friedenstein, — A handsome prince and courtly, of light and shallow heart. No better than he should be, but with a taste for Art. IV. The fight was fought at Jena, eclipsed was Prussia's siin, And by the French invaders the land was overrun ; But while the German people were silent in despair, Duko August painted pictures, and curled his yellow hair. Now, when at Erfurt gathered the ruling royal clan. Themselves the humble siibjects, their lord the Corsican, Each bade to ball and banquet the sparer of his line : Duke August with the others, to Castle Friedenstein. * Putnam's Magazine. 84 THE SUNNYSIDE BOOK. VI. Then were the larders rummaged, the forest-stags were slain, The tnns of oldest vintage showered out their golden rain; The towers were bright with banners — but all the peojile said : "We, slaves, must feed our mastei- would God that he were dead ! ' VII. They drilled the ducal guardsmen, meii young and straight and tall. To form a double column, from gate to castle- wall ; And as there were but fifty, the first miist wheel away, Fall in beyond the others, and lengthen the array. VIII. " Parhleu ! " Napoleon muttered : " Your Highness' guards I pidze, So young and strong and handsome, and all of equal size ! " "You, Sire," replied Duke August, "may have as fine, if you Will twice or thrice repeat them, as I am forced to do ! " IX. Now, in the Castle household, of all the folk, was one Whose heart was hot within him, the Ducal Huntsman's son; A prond and bright-eyed stripling; scarce fifteen years he had. But free of hall and chamber : Duke Aiisfust loved the lad. He saw the forceful homage ; he heard the shouts that came From base throats, or unwilling, but equally of shame : He thought : " One man has done it — one life would free the land. But all are slaves and cowards, and none will lift a hand ! XI, " My grandsire hugged a bear to death, when broke his hunting-spear ; And has this little Frenchman a muzzle ] should fear? If kings are cowed, and princes, and all the land is scared. Perhaps a boy can show them the thing they might have dared ! " XII. Napoleon on the morrow was coming once again (And all the castle knew it), without his courtly train ; NAPOLEON AT GOTHA. 85 And, when the stairs were mounted, there was no other road But one long, lonely passage, to where the Duke abode. XIII. None gviessed the secret purpose the silent stripling kept. Deep in the night he waited, and, when his father slept, -Took from the rack of weapons a musket old and tried, And cleaned the lock and barrel, and laid it at his side. XIV. He held it fast in skimber, he lifted it in dreams Of sunlit mountain-forests and stainless mountain-streams ; And in the morn he loaded — the load was bullets three : " For Deutschland — for Duke August — and now the third for me ! " XV. "Wliat ! ever wilt be hunting? " the stately Marshal cried ; " I'll fetch a stag of twenty ! " the pale-faced boy replied, As, clad in forest color, he sauntered through the court. And said, when none could hear him : " Now, may the time be short ! " XVI. The corridor was vacant, the windows full of sun ; He stole within the midmost, and primed afresh his gun ; Then stood, with all his senses alert in ear and eye To catch the lightest signal that showed the Emperor nigh. XVII. A sound of wheels : a silence : the muffled sudden jar Of gviards their arms presenting : a footstep mounting far. Then nearer, briskly nearer — a footstep, and alone ! And at the farther portal a2:)peared Napoleon ! XVIII. Alone, his hands behind him, his firm and massive head With brooded plans iiplifted, he came with measured tread : And yet, those feet^had shaken the nations from their poise, And yet, that will to shake them depended on the boy's ! 86 THE SUNNYSIDE BOOK. XIX. With finger on the trigger, the gun held hunter-wise, His rapid heart-beats sending the blood to brain and eyes. The boy stood, firm and deadly — anotlier moment's space, And then the Emperor saw him, and halted, face to face. XX. A mouth as cut in marble, an eye that pierced and stung As might a god's, all-seeing, the soul of one so young: A look that read his secret, that lamed his callow will. That inly smiled, and dared him his purpose to fulfil ! XXI. As one a serpent trances, the boy, foi-getfcing all. Felt but that face, nor noted the harmless musket's fall ; JSTor breathed, nor thought, nor trembled ; but, pale and cold as stone, Saw pass, nor look behind him, the calm Napoleon. XXII. And these two kept their secret ; but from that day began The sense of fate and duty that made the boy a man ; And still he lives to tell it, — and, better, lives to say : " God's jiurposes were grander : He thrust me from His way I " THE BEIGAISTDS IN ITALY. IN the nioniiug all Avas bustle in the inn at Terracina. The pro- caccio had depai'ted at daybreak on its ronte towards Rome, bnt the Englishman was yet to start, and the departure of an English equipage is always enough to keep an inn in a bustle. On this occa- sion there was more than usual stir, for the Englishman, having much property about him, and having.been convinced of the real danger of the road, had applied to the police, and obtained, by dint of liberal pay, an escort of eight dragoons and twelve foot-soldiers, as far as Fondi. Perhaps, too, there might have been a little ostentation at bottom, though, to say the truth, he had nothing of it in his manner. He mo\ed about, taciturn and reserved as usual, among the gaping crowd ; ga^'e laconic orders to John, as he packed away the thousand and one indispensable conveniences of the night ; double-loaded his pistols with great sang froid, and dejDosited them in the pockets of the car- riage ; taking no notice of a pair of keen eyes gazing on hiin from amono- the herd of loiterina; idlers. The fair Venetian now came up with a request, made in her dulcet tones, that he woidd permit their carriage to proceed under protection of his escort. The Englishman, who was busy loading another pair of pistols for his servant, and held the ramrod betweeii his teeth, nod- ded assent, as a matter of course, b\it without lifting \ip his eyes. The fair Venetian was a little piqued at M'hat she supposed indiffer- ence : — " O Dio ! " ejaculated she softly as she retired ; " Quanto sono insensibili questi Inglesi." At length off they set, in gallant style. The eight dragoons pranc- 88 THE 8UNNYSIDE BOOK. ing in front, the twelve foot-soldiers marching in rear, and the car- riage moving slowly in the centre, to enal)le the infantry to keep pace with them. They had proceeded but a few hundred yards, when it was discovered that some indispensable article had been left behind. In fact, the Englishman's purse was missing, and John was despatched to the inn to search for it. This occasioned a little delay, and the carriage of the Venetians drove slowly on. John came back out of breath and out of humor. The purse was not to be found. His mas- tei- was irritated ; he recollected the very place where it lay ; he had not a doubt the Italian servant had pocketed it. John was again sent back. He returned once more without the purse, but with the land- lord and the whole household at his heels. A thousand ejaculations and protestations, accompanied by all sorts of grimaces and contor- tions — " No purse had been seen — his excellenza must be mistaken." " No — his excellenza was not mistaken — the purse lay on the mar- ble table, under the mirror, a green purse, half full of gold and sil- ver." Again a thousand grimaces and contortions, and vows by San Gennaro that no purse of the kind had been seen. The Englishman became furious. " The waiter had pocketed it — the landlord was a knave — the inn a den of thieves — it was a vile country — he had been cheated and plundered from one end of it to the other — but he'd have satisfaction — he'd drive right off to the police." He was on the point of ordering the postilions to tiirn back, when, on rising, he displaced the cushion of the carriage, and the purse of money fell chinking to the iloor. All the blood in his body seemed to rush into his face. — " Curse the purse," said he, as he snatched it up. He dashed a handful of money on the ground before the pale cringing waiter, — " There, be off ! " cried he. " John, order the postilions to drive on." About half an hour had been exhausted in this altercation. The Venetian carriage had loitered along ; its passengers looking out from time to time, and expecting the escort every moment to follow. They had gradually turned an angle of the road that shut them out of sight. The little army was again in motion, and made a very picturesque THE BEI&AiroS IN ITALY. 89 appearance as it wound along at the bottom of the rocks, the morn- ing sunshine beaming upon the weapons of the soldiery. The Englishman lolled back in his carriage, vexed with himself at what had passed, and consequently out of Inimor with all the world. As this, however, is no uncommon case with gentlemen who travel for their pleasure, it is hardly worthy of remark. They had wound up from the coast among the hills, and came to a part of the road that admitted of some prospect ahead. " I see nothing of the lady's carriage, sir," said John, leaning down from the coach-box. " Pish ! " said the Englishman, testily ; " don't plague me about the lady's carriage ; miist I be continually pestered with the concerns of strangers 'i " John said not another word, for he understood his master's mood. The road grew more wild and lonely ; they were slowly proceeding on a foot-pace up a hill ; the dragoons were some distance ahead, and had just reached the summit of the hill, when they uttered an excla- mation, or rather shout, and galloped forward. The Englishman was roused from his sulky revery. He stretched his head from the car- riage, which had attained the brow of the hill. Before him extended a long hollow defile, commanded on one side by rugged precipitous heights, covered with bushes of scanty forest. At some distance he beheld the carriage of the Yenetians overturned. A numerous gang o£ desperadoes were rifling it ; the young man and his servant were overpowered, and partly stripped ; and the lady was in the hands of two of the ruffians. The Englishman seized his pistols, sprang from the carriage, and called upon John to follow him. In the mean time, as the dragoons came forward, the robbers, who were busy with the carriage, quitted their spoil, formed themselves in the middle of the road, and taking a deliberate aim, fired. One of the dragoons fell, another was wounded, and the whole were for a mo- ment checked and thrown into confusion. The robbers loaded again in an instant. The dragoons discharged their carbines, but without apparent effect. They received another volley, which, though none fell, threw them again into confusion. The robbers were loading a 90 THE SUNNYSIDE BOOK. second time when they saw the foot-soldiers at liand. " Scampa via ! " was the word : they abandoned their prey, and retreated np the rocks, /£- the soldiers after them. They fonght from cliff to cliff, and bush to bush, the robbers turning every now and then to fire upon their pursuers ; the soldiers scrambling after them, and discharging their muskets whenever they could get a chance. Sometimes a soldier or THE BRIGANDS IN ITALY. 91 a robber was shot down, and caine tumbling among the cliffs. The dragoons kept firing from below, whenever a robber came in sight. The Englishman had hastened to the scene of action, and the balls discharged at the dragoons had whistled past him as he advanced. One object, however, engrossed his attention. It was the beautiful Venetian lady in the hands of two of the robbers, who, during the confusion of the fight, carried her shrieking up the mountain. He saw her dress gleaming among the bushes, and he sprang up the rocks to intercept the robbers as they bore off their prey. The rug- gedness of the steep, and the entanglements of the bushes, delayed and impeded him. He lost sight of the lady, but was still guided by her cries, which grew fainter and fainter. They were off to the left, while the reports of muskets showed that the battle was raging to the right. At length he came upon what appeared to be a rugged foot- path, faintly worn in a gully of the rocks, and beheld the ruffians at some distance hurrying the lady up the defile. One of them, hearing his approach, let go his prey, advanced towards him, and levelling the carbine which had been slung on his back, fired. The ball whiz- zed through the Englishman's hat, and carried with it some of his liair. He returned the fire mth one of his pistols, and the robber fell. The other brigand now dropped the lady, and drawing a long pistol from his belt, fired on his adversary with deliberate aim. The ball passed between his left arm and his side, slightly wounding the arm. The Englishman advanced and discharged his remaining pistol, which wounded the robber, but not severely. The brigand drew a stilettcj and rushed upon his adversary, who eluded the blow, receiving merely a slight wound, and defended him- self with his pistol, Avhich had a spring bayonet. They closed with one another, and a desperate struggle ensued. The robber was a square-built, thick-set man, poAverful, muscular, and active. The Englishman, thoxxgh of larger frame and greater strength, was less active, and less accustomed to athletic exercises and feats of hardi- hood, but he showed himself practised and skilled in the art of defence. They were on a craggy height, and the Englishman perceived that his antagonist was striving to press him to the edge. A side-glance 92 THE SUNNYSIDE BOOK. showed him also the robber he had first wounded, scrambling up to the assistance of his comrade, stiletto in hand. lie had in fact attained the summit of the cliff, he was within a few steps, and the English- man felt that his case was desperate, when he heard suddenly the re- port of a pistol, and the ruffian fell. The shot came from John, who had arrived just in time to save his master. The remaining robber, exhausted by loss of blood and the violence of the contest, showed signs of faltering. The Enghshman pu.rsued his advantage, pressed on him, and as his strength relaxed, dashed him headlong from the precipice. He looked after him, and saw him lying motionless among the rocks below. The Englishman now sought the fair Yenetian. He found her senseless on the ground. With his servant's assistance he bore her down to the road, where her husband was raving like one distracted. He had sought her in vain, and had given her over for lost ; and when he beheld her thus brought back in safety, his joy was equally wild and ungovernable. He would have caught her insensible form to his bosom had not the Englishman restrained him. The latter, now really aroused, displayed a true tenderness and manly gallantry, which one would not have expected from his habitual phlegm. His kind- ness, however, was practical, not wasted in words. He despatched John to the cai'riage for restoratives of all kinds, and, totally thought- less of himself, was anxious only about his lovely charge. The oc- casional discharge of firearms along the height, showed that a retreat- ing fight was still kept up by the robbers. The lady gave signs of reviving animation. The Englishman, eager to get her from this place of danger, conveyed her to his own carriage, and, committing her to the care of her husband, ordered the dragoons to escort them to Eondi. The Yenetian would have insisted on the Englishman's get- ting into the carriage ; but the latter refused. He poured forth a torrent of thanks and benedictions ; but the Englishman beckoned to the postilions to drive on. John now dressed his master's wounds, which were found not to be serious, though he was faint with loss of blood. The Yenetian car- riage had been righted, and the baggage replaced ; and, getting into THE BEIGAKDS m ITALY. 93 it, they set out on their way towards Fondi, leaving the foot-soldiers still engaged in ferreting out the banditti. Before arriving at Fondi, the fair Venetian had completely recover- ed from her swoon. She made the usual question, — " "Where was she ? " " In the Englishman's carriage." " How had she escaped from the robbers ? " " The Englishman had rescued her." Her transports were unbounded; and mingled with them were enthusiastic ejaculations of gratitude to her deliverer. A thousand times did she reproach herself for having accused him of coldness and insensibility. The moment she saw him, she rushed into his arms with the vivacity of her nation, and hung about his neck in a speechless transport of gratitude. Never was man more embarrassed by the embraces of a fine woman. " Tut ! — tut ! " said the Englishman. " Tou are wounded ! " shrieked the fair Yenetian as she saw blood upon his clothes. " Pooh ! nothing at all ! " " My deliverer ! — my angel ! " exclaimed she, clasping him again round the neck, and sobbing on his bosom. " Pish ! " said the Englishman, with a good-humored tone, but look- ing somewhat foolish, " this is all humbug." The fair Yenetian, however, has never since accused tlie English of insensibility. THE PHANTOM. [W. D. o'cONNOR.]* He drew hei' closer to him, and kissed her forehead. She sat quietly, with her head on his shoulder, thinking very gravely. " I feel queerly to-day, little Netty," he began, after a short pause. " My nerves are all high-strung with the turn matters have taken." " How is it, papa ? The headache ? " she answered. " Y-e-s — n-o — not exactly ; I don't know," he said dubiously ; then, in an absent way, " it was that letter set me to think of him all day, I suppose." " Why, pa, I declare," cried N"etty, starting up, " if I didn't forget all about it, and I came down expressly to give it to you ! Where is it? Oh! here it is." She drew from her pocket an old letter, faded to a pale yellow, and gave it to him. The ghost started suddenly. " Why, bless my soul ! it's the very letter ! Where did you get that, Nathalie ? " asked Dr. Eenton. " I found it on the stairs after dinner, pa." " Yes, I do remember taking it up with me ; 1 must have dropped it," he answered, musingly, gazing at the superscription. The ghost was gazing at it, too, with startled interest. "What beautiful writing it is, pa," murmured the yoimg girl. " Who wrote it to you ? It looks yellow enough to have been writ- ten a long time since." " Fifteen years ago, ISTetty. When you were a baby. And the hand that wrote it has been cold for all tliat time." * Putnam's Magazine. THE PHANTOM. 95 He spoke with a solemn sadness, as if memory lingered with the heart of fifteen years ago, on an old grave. The dim figure by his side had bowed its head, and all was still. " It is strange," he resumed, speaking vacantly and slowly, " I have not thought of him for so long a time, and to-day — especially this evening — I have felt as if he were constantly near me. It is a singu- lar feeling." He put his left hand to his forehead, and mused — ^his right clasped his daughter's shoulder. The phantom slow^ly raised its head, and grazed at him with a look of \mutterable tenderness. o " Who was he, father ? " she asked with a hushed voice. " A yoimg man — an author — a poet. He had been my dearest friend, when we Avere boys ; and, though I lost sight of him for years — he led an erratic life — we were friends when he died. Poor, poor fellow ! Well, he is at peace." The stern voice had saddened, and was almost tremulous. The spectral form was still. "How did he die, father?" " A long story, darling," he replied gravely, " and a sad one. He was very poor and proud. He was a genius — that is, a person without an atom of practical talent. His parents died, the last, his mother, when he was near manhood. I was in college then. Thrown upon the world, he picked up a scanty subsistence with his pen, for a time. I could have got him a place in the counting-house, but he would not take it ; in fact, he wasn't fit for it. You can't harness Pegasus to the cart, you know. Besides, he despised mercantile life — withoiit reason, of course ; but he was always notional. His love of literature was one of the rocks he foundered on. He wasn't successful ; his best compositions were too delicate — fanciful — to please the popular taste ; and then he was full of the radical and fanatical notions which infected so many people at that time in New England, and infect them now, for that matter ; and his sublimated, impracticable ideas and principles, which he kept till his dying day, and which, I confess, alienated me from him, always staved off his chances of success. Consequently, he never rose above the drudgery of some employment 96 THE SinSTNYSIDE BOOK. on newspapers. Then he was terribly passionate, not without cause, I allow ; but it wasn't wise. What I mean is this : if he saw, or if he fancied he saw, any wrong or injury done to any one, it was enough to throw him into a frenzy ; he would get black in the face and abso- lutely shriek out his denunciations of the wrong-doer. I do believe he would have visited his own brother with the most unsparing invec- tive, if that brother had laid a harming finger on a street-beggar, or a colored man, or a poor person of any kind. I don't blame the feeling ; though with a man like him, it was very apt to be a false or mistaken one ; but, at any rate, its exhibition wasn't sensible. Well, as I was saying, he buffeted about in this world a long time, poorly paid, fed, and clad ; taking more care of other people than he did of himself. Then mental siiffering, physical exposure, and want killed him." The stern voice had grown softer than a child's. The same look of unutterable tenderness brooded on the mournful face of the phan- tom by his side ; but its thin shining hand was laid upon his head, and its countenance had imdergone a change. The form was still un- defined ; but the features had become distinct. They were those of a young man, beautiful and wan, and marked with great suffering. A pause had fallen on the conversation, in which the father and daughter heard the solemn sighing of the wintry wind around the dwelling. The silence seemed scarcely broken by the voice of the young girl. " Dear father, this was very sad. Did you say he died of want ? " " Of want, my child, of hunger and cold. I don't doubt it. He had wandered about, as I gather, houseless for a couple of days and nights. It was in December, too. Some one found him, on a rainy night, lying in the street, drenched and burning with fever, and had him taken to the hospital. It appears that he had always cherished a strange affection for me, though I had grown away from him ; and in his wild ravings he constantly mentioned my name, and they sent for me. That was our first meeting after two years. I found him in the liospital — dying. Heaven can witness that I felt all my old love for him return then, but he was delirious, and never recognized me. And, JS'athalie, his hair — it had been coal-black, and he wore it very THE PHANTOM. 97 long, he ^wouldn't let them cut it either ; and as they knew no skill could save him, they let him have his way — his hair was then as white as snow ! Grod alone knows what that brain must have suffered to blanch hair which had been as black as the wing of a raven ! " He covered his eyes with his hand, and sat silently. The fingers of the phantom still shone dimly on his head, and its white locks drooped above him, like a weft of light. " What was his name, father ? " asked the pitying girl. " George Feval. The very name sounds like fever. He died on Christmas eve, fifteen years ago this night. It was on his death-bed, while his mind was tossing on a sea of delirious fancies, that he wrote me this long letter — for to the last, I was uppermost in his thoughts. It is a wild, incoherent thing, of course — a strange mixture of sense and madness. But I have kept it as a memorial of him. I have not looked at it for years ; but this morning I found it among my papers, and somehow it has been in my mind all day." He slowly unfolded the faded sheets, and sadly gazed at the wri- thig. His daughter had risen from her half-recumbent posture, and now bent her graceful head over the leaves. The phantom covered its face with its hands. " What a beautiful manuscript it is, father ! " she exclaimed. " The writing is faultless." " It is, indeed," he replied. " Would he had written his life as fairly ! " ' " Read it, father," said Nathalie. " No — but I'll read you a detached passage here and there," he answered, after a panse. " The rest you may read yourself some time, if you wish. It is painful to me. Here's the beginning : — " ' My Dear Chaeles Renton : — Adieu, and adieu. It is Christ- mas eve, and I am going home. I am, soon to exhale fromj m^y flesh, like the spirit of a hroJcen flower. ExultemMs forever ! ' * •» * « * * * " It is very wild. His mind was in a fever-craze. Here is a pas- sage that seems to refer to his own experience of life : — " ' Tour friendship was dear to rne. I give you true love. 7 98 THE StnsnSTYSrDE BOOK. StocJcs atid retwrns. You are rich, Mtt I did not wish to he youv bounty'' s pauper. Gould I heg f I had my work to do for the world, but oh ! the world has no ^place for sotds that can only love and suffer. How many miles to Babylon? Threescore and ten. Not so far — not near so far ! Ash starvelings — they Jmow. I wanted to do the world good and the world has hilled ot.