A PRAYER.

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BY J. B.

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Thou source of wisdom and of power,Thou God supreme, who from thy throne,On mankind dost thy blessings shower,Knowing all things, thyself unknown;Content to show thy heavenly care,(Oh bold presumption let me shun,)And be this still my only prayer,Thy will be done.I feel I’m weak, I know I’m blind,And evil prone to ask for good,Enlighten thou my darkened mind,My faith in thee be still renewed;Teach me, just God, to trust in thee,(Oh bold presumption let me shun,)A mortal’s prayer should only beThy will be done.Thou wilt not change thy just decrees,Always, eternal God, the same,If with thy will my prayer agrees,I need not then implore thy name;But should my heart with folly pray,(O bold presumption let me shun,)Kind Father teach my soul to sayThy will be done.

Thou source of wisdom and of power,

Thou God supreme, who from thy throne,

On mankind dost thy blessings shower,

Knowing all things, thyself unknown;

Content to show thy heavenly care,

(Oh bold presumption let me shun,)

And be this still my only prayer,

Thy will be done.

I feel I’m weak, I know I’m blind,And evil prone to ask for good,Enlighten thou my darkened mind,My faith in thee be still renewed;Teach me, just God, to trust in thee,(Oh bold presumption let me shun,)A mortal’s prayer should only beThy will be done.

I feel I’m weak, I know I’m blind,

And evil prone to ask for good,

Enlighten thou my darkened mind,

My faith in thee be still renewed;

Teach me, just God, to trust in thee,

(Oh bold presumption let me shun,)

A mortal’s prayer should only be

Thy will be done.

Thou wilt not change thy just decrees,Always, eternal God, the same,If with thy will my prayer agrees,I need not then implore thy name;But should my heart with folly pray,(O bold presumption let me shun,)Kind Father teach my soul to sayThy will be done.

Thou wilt not change thy just decrees,

Always, eternal God, the same,

If with thy will my prayer agrees,

I need not then implore thy name;

But should my heart with folly pray,

(O bold presumption let me shun,)

Kind Father teach my soul to say

Thy will be done.

GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.—NO. V.

According to Richardson, this bird breeds in all parts of the remote fur countries, from the 50th parallel to their most northern limits, associating much at this time with the ordinary tribe of ducks. It arrives in the United States, from the north, about the middle of October. The greater number of them congregate about the waters of the Chesapeake Bay, and the Susquehanna, Patapsco, Potomac, and James rivers. Some of them descend only to the Hudson and the Delaware, while others are found in the sounds and bays of North Carolina, and in most of the southern waters to the coast of the Gulf of Mexico. They feed upon a plant said to be a species ofvalisineria, which grows on fresh-water shoals of from seven to nine feet, in long, narrow, grass-like blades, four or five feet in length; the root white, somewhat resembling small celery. Wherever there is an abundance of this plant the Canvas-backs resort, either to make an occasional visit, or to take up their regular residence for the winter. The great abundance of this food in the waters of the Chesapeake, make those killed in that region to be most esteemed by epicures, possessing as they do, in a super-eminent degree, the rich, juicy tenderness of flesh, and delicacy of flavor which places the Canvas-back at the head of the whole family of ducks.

Wilson, who is quite enthusiastic in his account of this species of duck, describes its size and plumage as follows: The Canvas-back is two feet long, and three feet in extent, and when in good order, weighs three pounds; the bill is large, rising high in the head, three inches in length, and one inch and three-eighths thick at the base, of a glossy-black; eye very small; irides, dark-red; cheeks, and forepart of the head, blackish-brown; rest of the head, and greater part of the neck, bright, glossy, reddish-chestnut, ending in a broad space of black, that covers the upper part of the breast, and spreads around to the back; back, scapulars, and tertials, white, faintly marked with an infinite number of transversely waving lines or points, as if done with a pencil; whole lower parts of the breast, also the belly, white, slightly penciled in the same manner, scarcely perceptible on the breast, pretty thick toward the vent; wing coverts, grey, with numerous specks of blackish; primaries and secondaries, pale slate, two or three of the latter of which, nearest the body, are finally edged with a deep, velvety-black, the former dusky at the tips; tail very short, pointed, consisting of fourteen feathers, of a hoary-brown; vent and tail coverts, black; lining of the wing, white; legs and feet, very pale ash, the latter three inches in width, a circumstance which partly accounts for its great powers of swimming. The female is somewhat less than the male, and weighs two pounds and three-quarters; the crown is blackish-brown; cheeks and throat of a pale drab; neck, dull brown; breast, as far as the black extends in the male, dull brown, skirted in places with pale drab; beak, dusky white, crossed with fine waving lines; belly, of the same dull white, penciled like the back; wings, feet, and bill, as in the male; tail coverts, dusky; vent, white, waved with brown. The windpipe of the male has a large, flattish, concave labyrinth, the ridge of which is covered with a thin transparent membrane, where the trachea enters this it is very narrow, but immediately above swells to three times that diameter.

Considerable skill is required to enable the sportsmanto get within gun-shot of his favorite game. Not only are they extremely shy, but they possess such speed and agility in swimming and diving, as to render pursuit hopeless, when they are only wing-tipped by a shot. One of the most common ways of bringing them to within the range of a gun is bytolling. The gunner having affixed a red handkerchief, or other attractive object, to the back of a well trained dog, secrets himself on the bank, and the dog plays backward and forward on the margin of the stream. Impelled by curiosity, the ducks approach the shore, and the gunner shoots at them on the water, and as they rise. In very cold weather it is customary to make holes in the ice, directly above their favorite grass, and within gunshot of a hut, or place of concealment for the hunter, on the bank. Distressed by want of food, the game congregates about these openings, and falls a prey to its enemy.

The most effectual way of bagging the Canvas-back, however, is by shooting it at night. The position of a flock having been previously marked, the sportsman takes to his skiff by moonlight, and by taking advantage of the shadow of the woody bank or cliff, paddles silently to within fifteen or twenty yards of a flock of a thousand, among whom he makes great slaughter. Killing them by night, however, soon causes them to abandon the place where they have been thus shot at. By continuing the bait for several days in succession, they may be decoyed to particular places, by seeds and grain, especially wheat.

In connection with the Canvas-back, we may notice the Pochard, or Red-Headed Duck, his near relative, and constant associate. Feeding upon the same kind of food, they become almost equal in size and flavor to the Canvas-back, and are, in fact, very frequently sold and eaten for the same. The sportsman, of course, cannot be deceived as to the real Canvas-back, yet it may not be superfluous to describe the plumage of the Pochard, that others may be enabled to detect this imposition.

The Red-head is twenty inches in length, and two feet six inches in extent; bill, dark slate, sometimes black, two inches long, and seven-eighths of an inch thick at the base, furnished with a large, broad nail at the extremity; irides, flame coloured; plumage of the head, long, velvety, and inflated, running high above the base of the bill; head, and about two inches of the neck, deep, glossy, reddish-chestnut; rest of the neck, and upper part of the breast, black, spreading round to the back; belly, white, becoming dusky toward the vent by closely marked, undulating lines of black; back and scapulars, bluish-white, rendered gray by numerous transverse, waving lines of black; lesser wing-coverts, brownish-ash; wing quills, very pale slate, dusky at the tips; lower part of the back and sides, under the wings, brownish black, crossed with regular zigzag lines of whitish; vent, rump, tail, and tail-coverts, black; legs and feet, dark ash.

Among epicures, the Pochard is ranked next to the Canvas-back. It is sometimes met with in the waters of North and South Carolina, and also in Jersey and New York, but always in fresh water, near the sea; in the waters of the Chesapeake it is most numerous. It is abundant in Russia, in Denmark, in the north of Germany, in England, Holland, France, and Italy. Their walk is awkward and difficult; their cry resembles the hollow hiss of a serpent; and their flight different, and more rapid, than that of the common wild duck; and the noise of their wings is different. In the London markets these ducks are sold under the name of Dun birds, and are deservedly esteemed. In England they are principally taken in decoys after the following manner. A pond is prepared for the Pochards, as well as for the others, and a situation is chosen which shall possess, in the most eminent degree, the three attractions of cover, quietness, and proximity to the feeding-ground. It is technically called a flight-pond, because the birds are captured when they are first on the wing; and the nets by which this is effected, are so placed as that they may act to windward of the birds—as ducks always fly to windward when they take the wing. The net is kept ready extended on the tops of the reeds, or other cover, upon poles, which, by means of a counterpoise at the bottom, can be easily erected, upon withdrawing the pins by which they are held down; when this is done, the poles rise and elevate the net to the height of about thirty feet; and this takes place just as the birds are alarmed and made to take the wing. They strike against the net, are thrown off their balance, and are thrown on the ground, which, all under the net, is formed into little pens or traps, into which the birds fall, and are unable again to take the wing. The numbers caught in this way, at one skillful application of the net, are often perfectly astonishing; and they tumble into the pens, one over the other, till the lower ones are killed, and sometimes pressed nearly flat with the burden of their companions. It is mentioned that, on some parts of the Essex coast, a wagon load of Pochards has been taken at one drop of the net.

The market of Philadelphia is very plentifully supplied both with Canvas-backs and Red-heads during the latter part of autumn and the winter. The price of the former varies from a dollar and a quarter per brace to three dollars. The latter seldom bring more than one dollar. All the hotels of note treat their guests frequently to Canvas-backs during the season; and private parties, where luxury is specially consulted, generally have the entertainment graced by a course of this highly valued game. European epicures have long envied the Americans the possession of this splendid bird; but lately the rapid intercourse by steamers between this country has enabled thebon vivantof London and Paris to enjoy the envied American luxury at home. Queen Victoria, we are informed, has tasted Canvas-backs at her own board.

The sub-genus, Clangula, embraces several species of ducks, small in size, but very active. They are found most abundantly in the northern parts of our continent, only appearing in the Middle States of the Union when they are driven from their habitations by the ice. The general characters of the sub-genus present a short and narrow bill; the feathers on the scapulars produced, pointed and apart from each other; the third quills passing over the primaries in the closed wing.

The first species which presents itself to our notice is the common Golden Eye, known to many of our gunners by the name of the Brass-Eyed Whistlers. The latter name it derives from the noisy whistling of its short wings, as it rises when flushed. It does not appear to possess any audible voice, and never utters a cry, or a quack, when disturbed. Easy of approach, they are nevertheless exceedingly difficult to kill, as they dive with such dexterity at the flash of a gun, or the twang of a bow, as to set at defiance the Aborigines, who have ascribed to them supernatural powers, and named them the Conjuring, or Spirit Duck. The Golden Eye has been the subject of much diversity of opinion among naturalists, and we therefore the more readily give place to Wilson’s accurate description of his plumage. The Golden Eye is nineteen inches long, and twenty-nine inches in extent, and weighs, on an average, about two pounds; the bill is black, short, rising considerably up in the forehead; the plumage of the head, and part of the neck, is somewhat humid, and of a dark green, with violet reflections, marked near the corner of the mouth with an oval spot of white; the irides are golden-yellow; rest of the neck, breast, and whole lower parts, white, except the flanks, which are dusky; back and wings, black; over the latter, a broad bed of white extends from the middle of the lesser coverts to the extremity of the secondaries; the exterior scapulars are also white; tail, hoary brown; tail-coverts, black; legs and toes, reddish-orange, webs very large, and of a dark purplish-brown; hind toe, and exterior edge of the inner one, broadly finned; sides of the bill, obliquely dentated; tongue covered above with a fine, thick, velvety down, of a whitish color. The full plumaged female is seventeen inches in length, and twenty seven inches in extent; bill, brown, orange near the tip; head, and part of the neck, brown, or very dark drab, bounded below by a ring of white, below that the neck is ash, tipped with white; rest of the lower part, white; wings dusky, six of the secondaries and their greater coverts, pure white, except the tips of the last, which are touched with dusky spots; rest of the wing coverts sinereous, mixed with whitish; back and scapulars, dusky, tipped with brown; feet, dull orange; across the vent a band of sinereous; tongue, covered with the same velvety down as the male. The young birds of the first season very much resemble the females, but may generally be distinguished by the white spot, or at least its rudiments, which marks the corner of the mouth, yet in some cases even this is variable, both old and young male birds occasionally wanting the spot.

Its flesh is well flavored, and it is equally common, in the winter season, in all the coasts of the United States. It is essentially a water bird, and walks with extreme difficulty. The birds known in the Carolinas by the name of Dippers, and in Pennsylvania and New Jersey by the appellation of Butter Box, belong to the Clangula, and are known by the specific name of Spirit Ducks, which they have acquired by successful evasions of the bullet and the arrow. They are even more difficult to bag than the Golden Eye, for when wounded with shot, they conceal themselves with great art beneath the water, remaining submerged to the bill until they fall into the jaws of a hungry pike, or are abandoned by the disappointed sportsman.

Of all the Clangulas, however, the most rare and most valued is the beautiful species whose representation we have given above. It is not unfrequently found off the coasts of New England, where the elegant crescents and circles of white which ornament its neck and breast have gained for it the proud title of The Lord, and, on the shores of Hudson’s Bay, the Painted Duck. It swims and dives well, has a whistling note, flies swift and to a great height, but always takes to the water on the report of a gun, as its most secure and natural element. Its flesh is extremely good, far superior, as game, to the Wild Duck.

SINGLETON SNIPPE.

WHO MARRIED FOR A LIVING.

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BY JOSEPH C. NEAL.

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“Used to be—”

We have, as a general rule, an aversion to this species of qualifying phraseology, in which so many are prone to indulge. It seems to argue a disposition like to that of Iago, who “was nothing if not critical;” and it indicates a tendency to spy out flaws and to look after defect—a disposition and a tendency at war, we think, with that rational scheme of happiness which derives its comfort from the reflection of the sunny side of things. “It was”—“she has been”—“he used to be”—and so forth, as if all merit were a reminiscence—if not past, at least passing away. Is that a pleasure? Would it not be quite as well to applaud the present aspect, and to be satisfied with the existing circumstance, instead of murmuring over the fact that once it was brighter?

But yet there is a difference⁠—

Yes—decidedly—the matter here is beyond the possibility of a dispute.

There is a difference—lamentable enough you may term it, between the Singleton Snippe that was, and the Singleton Snippe that is.

The Singleton Snippe that was, is not now an existence; and the probabilities are that he never will be again. Nothing is stable in this world but instability; and the livery-stable of to-day is converted into something else on the morrow, never more to be a stable, unstable stable. And so with men as well as with horses—for this perpetual revolution of human affairs goeth not backwards, except when the rope breaks on an inclined plane, making it a down-hill sort of a business. Snippe is on the down-hill—rather.

The Singleton Snippe that is, stands picturesquely and pictorially before you—patiently, as it were, and on a monument.

And now, was there ever—we ask the question of those who remember Snippe in his primitive and natural state—was there ever a merrier fellow than the said Singleton Snippe, in the original, if we may term it so—before the said Singleton was translated into his present condition, and became tamed down from his erratic, independent eccentricities to the patient tolerance of the band-box and the bundle? Who, thus remembering and thus contrasting Singleton Snippe as he was, with the Singleton Snippe as he is now portrayed, could possibly believe that there are processes in life—chemistries and alchemies—which could bring the man of to-day so diametrically opposite to the same man of yesterday; and cause the Singleton Snippe of the past to differ with such strangeness from the Singleton Snippe of the current era? Two Snippes, as plain as may be; but legally and responsibly the same Snippe. There was Snippe the bold—Snippe the reckless—Snippe the gay and hilarious—scoffing, joking, jeering Snippe—Snippe that was always on hand for mischief or for fun—Snippe, with the cigar in his mouth, or the champagne glass in his grasp—yes, that very Snippe whom you have so often heard in the street, disturbing slumber by the loud and musical avowal of his deliberate determination not to “go home till morning,” as if it would, barring the advantage of the daylight, be any easier to him then, and whose existence was ever a scene of uproar and jollity, except in the repentant intervals of headache and exhaustion. And then, besides his ornamental purposes, he was such a useful member of society, this Singleton Snippe, in the consumption of the good things of this life at the restaurants and in the oyster saloons.

Was not that a Snippe—something like a Snippe?

But, alas for Snippe, the last representative of the illustrious firm of “Tom & Jerry.” Who is there now—now that Snippe is withdrawn as a partner from the establishment—to maintain the credit of the house? Snippe is snubbed—snubbed is Snippe. Well, well, well—let the watchmen—sweet voicesof the night—rejoice in their boxes, if they will, over their pine kindlings, and their hot sheet-iron stoves—rejoice in their cosy slumbers, that the original Snippe no longer molests their ancient, solitary reign, by uncouth noises, preliminary, symphonious, and symptomatic to a row. And let the cabmen—want a cab, sir?—be merry, too, with rein in hand, or reclining against the friendly wall, that they are no more to be victimized by the practical jocularities of the school of Singleton Snippe. What relish have they for the gracefulnesses of existence—its little playful embellishments, that bead and dimple the dull surface of the pond into the varieties of playful fantasy.

Such as these would describe a boy of the superlative order of merit, as “one that goes straight home and never stops to play on the road;” and we all know that Singleton Snippe never went straight home in the whole course of his experience.

Home!

Home, it should be understood, so much vaunted by the poets, and so greatly delighted in by the antipodes to Snippe, is regarded in quite a different light—humdrummish—by the disciples of Snippeism. Home, according to them, is not so much a spot to retire to, as a place to escape from—a centre of rendezvous, no doubt, with the washerwoman, the bootblack, and other indispensable people of that sort. Snippe’s new clothes were always sent home; and long bills, provocative of long faces, were apt to follow them with the certainty of cause and effect. But to stay at home himself—what—Snippe?—He stay at home? He was called for occasionally at that point—his breakfast was taken there, when any degree of appetite remained from the preceding night; and a note would eventually reach its destination if left for him there. But it required a very unusual conjunction of circumstances to find Singleton Snippe at home more frequently than could be helped. Home, in Snippe’s estimation, was the embodiment of a yawn—he never heard of it without the most extended of gapes. He could not speak of it without opening his mouth to the extent of its volume; and Snippe’s mouth is not a diamond edition, but rather an octavo, if not rising to the dignity of a quarto, at least when he is drinking. “Home!” said he; “home’s a bore. What fun is there at home, except dozing over the fire, or snoring on a sofa?”

Home, indeed!—Talk to Snippe about staying at home, if you would risk a home-icide. To be sure, when too ill to run about, Singleton Snippe remained unwillingly at home, as if it were a hospital; and he staid at home once for the space of an evening, merely to try the experiment, when he was in health; but before he went to bed, Snippe had thoughts of sending for the Coroner, to sit upon his body, but changed his mind and brewed a jorum of punch, which, after he had shod the cat with walnut shells, somewhat reconciled him to the monotone of domestic enjoyment. But Snippe never stayed at home again, not he. Home is where the heart is; and Snippe’s heart was a traveler—a locomotive heart, perambulating; and it had no tendencies toward circumscription and confine. That put him out of heart altogether.

Wherever any thing was going on—“a fight or a foot-race,” according to popular phraseology, which thus distinguishes the desirable in the shape of spectacular entertainment—there was Snippe, with his hat set knowingly on one side, to indicate that if others felt out of their element on the occasion, he, Snippe, was perfectly at home under all circumstances—the more at home, the more singular the occasion, and the more strange the circumstance; and his hat was the more knowingly set on to indicate the extent of his superiority to vulgar prejudices. It was the hat of a practical philosopher—of a thorough bred man of the world, who could extract sport from any thing, and who did not care, so that the occurrence afforded excitement, whether other people thought it reprehensible or not. Yes, yes—there is much in a hat—talk of your physiognomy and your phrenology—what are they as indications of character, feeling, and disposition, compared to the “set” of one’s beaver? Look at courage, will you, with its hat drawn resolutely down upon its determined brow. Dare you dispute the way with such a hat as that? The meek one and the lowly, with his hat placed timidly on the back of his head, does not every bully practice imposition there? Hats turned up behind, indicate a scornful indifference to public opinion in all its phases—say what you will, who cares? While the hat turned up before, has in it a generous confidence, free from suspicion of contempt. Nay, more—when science has made a further progress, why should not the expression of the hat afford knowledge of the passing mood of mind in its wearer, the hat shifting and changing in position as the brain beneath forms new combinations of thought? Let the shop-boy answer; does he not discover at a glance, from the style in which his master wears his hat at the moment, whether he, the subordinate, is to be greeted with scoldings and reproaches, or with commendations and applause? Does not the hat paternal forbode the sunshine or the storm; and as the pedagogue approaches school, where is the trembling truant who does not discern “the morn’s disaster” from the cocking of that awful hat? There cannot be a doubt of it. The science of the hat yet remains to be developed; and deep down in the realms of ignorance are they who have not reflected yet upon the clue afforded by the hat to what is passing in the soul of him who wears it.

Thus, you could distinguish Singleton Snippe’s hat at a horse-race, at a riot, or at a fire—equally delighted was that hat at every species of uproar—in the street—the lobby—the bar-room, or wherever else that hat could spy out “fun,” the great staple of its existence, with this advantage, that it had an instinct of peril, and could extricate itself fromdanger without the slightest ruffling of its fur. Snippe was wise—Snippe preferred that all detriments should fall to the share of others, while the joke remained with him.

But at last, a change reached even unto the hat of Snippe—change comes to all; a change, singularly enough, that took all other change from the pockets of Snippe. He was obliged to discover that the mere entertainments of life are not a commodity to live upon, and that however pleasant it may be to amuse one’s self, the profits therefrom accruing, do not furnish continued means of delectation and delight. Snippe neglected his business, and consequently, his business, with a perversity peculiar to business, neglected Snippe—so that Snippe and Snippe’s business had a falling out.

“This will never do,” declared Snippe, after deep reflection on the subject of ways and means—“never do in the world.”

But yet it did do—did do for Singleton Snippe, and effectually broke him up in the mercantile way, which involved all other ways; and so Mr. Snippe resolved to make the most available market that presented itself for the retrieval of past error. Snippe resolved to marry—advantageously, of course. Snippe was not poetical—he had no vein of romance in his constitution; he could live very well by himself, if he only had the means for that purpose; but not having the means, unfortunate Snippe, he determined to live by somebody else, living of some sort being a matter of necessity in Snippe’s estimation, though no other person could discover what necessity there was for the living of Snippe. The world might revolve without a Snippe; and affairs generally would work smoothly enough, even if he were not present. Snippe labored under a delusion.

But still—not having much of philosophy in his composition to enable him to discover that, so for as the general economy of the universe is concerned, it was no matter whether Singleton Snippe obtained a living or not; and lacking the desire, if not also the ability, to work out that living by his own energies of head and hands, Snippe, according to his own theory, having too much of proper pride and of commendable self-respect to engage in toil, though some of the unenlightened gave it the less respectful designation of laziness, which, perhaps, is a nearer relative to the pride of the Snippes than is generally supposed—Snippe, as already intimated, made up his mind to marry as aforesaid—upon the mercantile principle—bartering Snippe as a valuable commodity, (without regard to the penal enactments against obtaining goods on false pretences) for a certain share of boarding and lodging, and of the other appliances required for the outfit and the sustenance of a gentleman of wit and leisure about town—Snippe offered to the highest bidder—Snippe put up, and Snippe knocked down—going—gone!

Now although there are many who would not have had Singleton Snippe about the premises, even as a gift, and would have rejected him had he been offered as a Christmas-box, yet there was a rich widow, having the experience of three or four husbands, who did not hesitate on the experiment of endeavoring to fashion our Snippe into the shape and form of a good and an available husband. Mrs. Dawkins was fully aware of the nature of his past life, and of the peculiarities of his present position. She likewise formed a shrewd guess as to the reasons which impelled him to seek her well-filled hand, and to sigh after her plethoric purse—Snippe in search of a living; but confident in her own skill—justly confident, as was proved by the result—to reduce the most rebellious into a proper state of submissiveness and docility, she yielded her blushing assent to become the blooming bride of Singleton Snippe, and to undertake the government of that insubordinate province, the state of man.

“I shall marry Mrs. Dawkins,” thought Snippe; but, alas! how mistakenly; “I shall marry her,” repeated he, “and, for a week or two, I’ll be as quiet as a lamb, sitting there by the fire a twiddling of my thumbs, and saying all sorts of sweet things about ‘lovey,’ and ‘ducky,’ and so forth. But as soon after that as possible, when I’ve found out how to get at the cash, then Mrs. Dawkins may make up her mind to be astonished a little. That dining-room of hers will do nice for suppers and card parties, and punch and cigars—we’ll have roaring times in that room, mind I tell you we will. I’ll have four dogs in the yard—two pinters, a poodle, and a setter; and they shall come into the parlor to sleep on the rug, and to hunt the cat whenever they want to. A couple of horses besides—I can’t do without horses—a fast trotter, for fun, and a pacer, for exercise; and a great many more things, which I can’t remember now. But Mrs. Dawkins has a deal to learn, I can tell her. There’s nothing humdrum about Singleton Snippe; and if she did henpeck my illustrious predecessors, she has got to find the difference in my case.”

So Snippe emphasized his hat plump upon his brow, and looked like the individual, not Franklin, that defied the lightning.

“And I shall marry Singleton Snippe,” also soliloquized Mrs. Dawkins, “who is described to me as one of the wildest of colts, and as being only in pursuit of my money. Well, I’m not afraid. A husband is a very convenient article to have about the house—to run errands, to call the coach, to quarrel with work-people, and to accompany me on my visits. Everybody ought to have a husband to complete the furniture; and as for his being a wild colt, as Mrs. Brummagem says, I should like to see the husband of mine who will venture to be disobedient to my will when he has to come to me for every thing he wants. I’ll teach Mr. Singleton Snippe to know his place in less than a week, or else Mr. Singleton Snippe is a very different person from the generality of men.”

Thus Singleton Snippe and Mrs. Dorothea Dawkinsbecame one, on the programme above specified; and thus Mr. Singleton Snippe, whose last dollar was exhausted in the marriage fee, was enabled to obtain a living. Poor Snippe!

Glance, with tear in eye, if tears you have, at the portrait of the parties now first laid before the public—note it in your books, how sadly Singleton Snippe is metamorphosed from the untamed aspect that formerly distinguished him in the walks of men, and tell us whether Driesbach, Van Amburg, or Carter, ever effected a revolution so great as we find here presented. Observe the bandbox, and regard the umbrell’—see—above all—see how curiously and how securely Singleton Snippe’s hand is enfolded in that of Mrs. Singleton Snippe, that she may be sure of him, and that he may not slip from her side, and relapse into former habits—“safe bind, safe find,” is the matrimonial motto of Mrs. Singleton Snippe. Moreover, in vindication of our favorite theory of the expression of the beaver, mark ye the drooping aspect of Snippe’s chapeau, as if it had been placed there by Mrs. Snippe herself, to suit her own fancy, and to avoid the daring look of bachelor, which is her especial detestation.

Snippe is subdued—a child might safely play with him.

And now, curious psychologist and careful commentator on the world, would ye learn how results apparently so miraculous, were effected and brought about? Read, then, and be wiser.

Snippe has his living, for he is living yet, though he scarcely calls it living—but Mrs. Snippe firmly holds the key of the strong-box, and thus grasps the reins of authority. The Snippes are tamed as lions are—by the mollifying and reducing result of the system of short allowances. Wonderful are the effects thereof, triumphant over Snippes—no suppers, no cards, no punches, and no cigars. The dogs retreated before judicious applications of the broom-handle; and it was found a matter of impossibility to trot those horses up—the arm of cavalry formed no branch in the services of Singleton Snippe.

Foiled at other points, Mr. Snippe thought that he might at least be able to disport himself in the old routine, and to roam abroad with full pockets in the vivacious field of former exploit; and he endeavored one evening silently to reach his hat and coat, and to glide away.

“Hey, hey!—what’s that?—where, allow me to ask, are you going at this time of night, Mr. Snippe?” cried his lady in notes of ominous sharpness.

“Out,” responded Snippe, with a heart-broken expression, like an afflicted mouse.

“Out, indeed!—where’s out, I’d like to know?—where’s out, that you prefer it to the comfortable pleasures of your own fireside?”

“Out is nowhere’s in particular, but everywhere’s in general, to see what’s going on. Everybody goes out, Mrs. Snippe, after tea, they do.”

“No, Mr. Snippe, everybody don’t—do I go out, Mr. Snippe, without being able to say where I am going to? No, Mr. Snippe, you are not going out to frolic, and smoke, and drink, and riot round, upon my money. If you go out, I’ll go out too. But you’re not going out. Give me that hat, Mr. Snippe, and do you sit down there, quietly, like a sober, respectable man.”

And so, Mr. Snippe’s hat—wonder not at its dejection—was securely placed every evening under Mrs. Snippe’s most watchful eye; and Mr. Snippe, after a few unavailing efforts to the contrary, was compelled to yield the point, to stay quietly at home, his peculiar detestation, and to nurse the lap-dog, and to cherish the cat, instead of bringing poodle and setter into the drawing-room to discontent the feline favorite.

“I want a little money, Mrs. Snippe, if you please—some change.”

“And, pray, allow me to ask what you want it for, Mr. Snippe?”

“To pay for things, my dear.”

“Mr. Snippe, I tell you once for all, I’m not going to nurture you in your extravagance, I’m not. Money, indeed!—don’t I give you all you wish to eat, and all you want to wear? Let your bills be sent to me, Mr. Snippe, and I’ll save you all trouble on that score. What use have you for money? No, no—husbands are always extravagant, and should never be trusted with money. My money, Mr. Snippe—mine—jingling in your pockets, would only tempt you to your old follies, and lead you again to your worthless companions. I know well that husbands with money are never to be trusted out of one’s sight—never. I’ll take better care of you than that, Mr. Snippe, I will.”

If Singleton Snippe ever did escape, he was forthwith brought to the confessional, to give a full and faithful account of all that had occurred during his absence—where he had been—whom he had seen—what he had done, and every thing that had been said, eliciting remarks thereon, critical and hypercritical, from his careful guardian; and so also, when a little cash did come into his possession, he was compelled to produce it, and to account for every deficient cent.

No wonder, then, that Singleton Snippe underwent

“A sea change,Into something quaint and strange.”

“A sea change,

Into something quaint and strange.”

He married for a living, but while he lives, he is never sure whether it is himself or not, so different is the Singleton Snippe that is, from the Singleton Snippe that was.

If you would see and appreciate differences in this respect, it would not be amiss to call upon the Snippes, and to observe with what a subdued tranquilized expression, the once dashing, daring Snippe now sits with his feet tucked under his chair, to occupy as little room as possible, speaking only when he is spoken to, and confining his remarks to “Yes, Ma’m,” and “No, Ma’m.” Mrs. Snippe has “conquered a peace.”

THE OATH OF MARION.

A STORY OF THE REVOLUTION.

———

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.

———

(Concluded from page 99.)

Our fortress is the good greenwood,Our tent the cypress tree;We know the forest round us,As seamen know the sea.We know its walls of thorny vines,Its glades of reedy grass,Its safe and silent islandsWithin the dark morass.Song of Marion’s Men.

Our fortress is the good greenwood,

Our tent the cypress tree;

We know the forest round us,

As seamen know the sea.

We know its walls of thorny vines,

Its glades of reedy grass,

Its safe and silent islands

Within the dark morass.

Song of Marion’s Men.

It was several days after the events of the last chapter, and the scene was one of wild and woodland beauty. Huge cypresses rose on every hand, festooned with parasite plants; broad glades opened here and there in all directions; and vast arcades stretched off in the distance, groined and vaulted like a Gothic minster. It was just such a spot as Robin Hood might have chosen in old Sherwood. Here were gnarled monarchs of the forest which had braved the lightnings and the storms of a thousand years: here were natural bowers, formed by the interlacing branches of the trees, such as fair Rosamond might have been sheltered in: here were vines, drooping from the huge branches, like curtains, or hanging in festoons across the way, like the draped banners of a mighty host. The whole scene was full of picturesque beauty. And the effect was heightened by fires, which, glimmering here and there between the trees, cast wild and flickering shades along the sward, and gave the prospect the air of an enchanted forest. Fragrant plants filled the evening atmosphere with delicious perfume—the laurel, the shrub, and, more exquisite than all, the sweet-scented jessamine.

This, as the reader may have imagined, was Marion’s celebrated camp at Snow Island. It was a piece of high river swamp, nearly altogether enclosed by water, and defended by its natural position from surprise and siege alike. Here, after his famous expeditions, he was accustomed to retire and recruit his men, exhausted by the long and rapid marches, often sixty miles a day, which they had been called on to endure. Perhaps the great secret of this renowned partisan’s success, next to his indomitable courage, which reminds us of that of a knight of chivalry, was the care which he took to give his followers sufficient rest between his enterprises. His maxim was to lie low and feed high until the hour came to strike; but then his motions were as rapid, and the blow he struck as decisive as the thunderbolt.

The present occasion was one of those on which his men, having returned from a successful expedition, were resigning themselves, like true soldiers, to the pleasure of the moment. The sentinels were indeed posted at the outskirts: but inside the camp itself was universal wassail and song. The reins of discipline seemed, for the time, to have been relaxed. The different messes were gathered together over their meals: the cheerful cup circulated from hand to hand: and many a merry jest was told, or lyric of war or love was sung by those jovial boon companions.

One of these groups seemed even more merry than the rest. It was composed of about a dozen men, prominent among whom was Preston’s serjeant, Macdonald, who acted as the director of ceremonies for the time being, and saw especially to the circulation of the cup.

“Keep it up, boys.” he said, handing around the bottle, “it isn’t often we get such real old stuff as this, for it’s not every day we have the rifling of a rich Tory’s cellars, as we had last week. A short life and a merry one, is my motto. Hillo! my excellent friend, Jacob, why don’t you drink? You needn’t sit showing us your teeth all the time, though they are so handsome. Comrades, here’s the health of Jacob Snow—that’s you, my old chap, I suppose—he serves as pretty a mistress as there is in the thirteen colonies, and boasts a shin-bone that curves like a reaping-hook. Jacob Snow, standing, egad!”

“Lor, Massa Macdonald, I’m deeply obligated for dis honor,” said the old butler, for it was indeed he. “I am discumfounded for words to distress my feelings.” Here he laid his hand on his heart.

“That’s it—blaze away, old fellow,” said the serjeant, slapping him on the back, “I knew you could talk as glib as a parson. So you were at Mrs. Blakeley’s when we were before that place, were you? You remember my sending in for my baggage!”

“Gor Amighty, yes!” said old Jacob, full of reverential admiration. “And you’se de gentleman too dat shot Lieut. Torriano at three hundred yards. Yaw! yaw! yaw! dat made ’em furious. Major Lindsay said you were an Injun, and no better dan a cannon-ball—he, yaw!”

“Ha! ha! A cannibal, you mean, my old brave, I suppose. But that hitting of the lieutenant was atrifle to the way I served Major Gainey. Wasn’t it, lads?”

“Ay, was it!” echoed half a dozen voices, “Tell it to him—tell it.”

“Shall I?” said the serjeant, addressing Jacob with something of drunken gravity; for the whole party, by this time, had done ample justice to their flagons.

Old Jacob nodded, and Macdonald begun.

“Well, then, you must know, my jolly old blade—but fill your cup again, and drink perdition to the Englishmen—that a party of us had a brush down by Georgetown, not long ago, with some of the British regulars, who were killing beeves at White’s Bridge. We soon whipped the red-coats, and then chased them toward the town. But their friends there, hearing the firing, came swarming out like bees, and so we went at it again, hip and thigh as the good book says, and for a while it was the toss of a sixpence which should win. We fought a pretty smart bit of the day: but at last the red-coats gave ground again. I had noticed among them an officer whom I took for Major Gainey, a fellow that had the impudence to boast he’d carry Marion a prisoner on his saddle into Georgetown: and so I singled him out, resolving to try his pluck, and comb him down a spell. But no sooner did he see me, coming down on Black Bess, than he clapped spurs to his horse—and a cursedly good one it was—and made straight for the town, like an old woman who sees a mad-dog. Down the road we went, clattering and thundering; but devil a bit for a long while could I gain on the major. I might have cut down half a dozen strapping fellows as I dashed along, but I had made up my mind to have nothing short of the leader himself. Old Black Bess did wonders that day! The trees and fences shot past, as if running a race. The major’s blooded horse went as I never saw a beast go before, but I was close behind, and beginning to gain on him. We were now almost at the entrance of Georgetown. Still I held on, whooping to old Bess like a mad devil, as I was. Just as I reached Richmond fence, I lapped the quarter of the major’s horse, and with a lunge ran my bayonet into his back. The major had turned around, frightened half to death, lifting up his hands beseechingly; and I thought I had him sure, till the cursed bayonet came off, and left me only the gun. I was mad enough at having lost him, yet I could not help laughing as I saw him go down the streets of Georgetown, the bayonet still sticking in him, like a skewer into a trussed fowl. I hauled up, and came off safe; and that’s the last we’ve heard of Major Gainey.”

With narratives like these the night passed; the old butler listening with open mouth and ears. At length, toward midnight, the tread of a horse’s feet was heard, and directly a clear, commanding voice called Macdonald by name.

“The captain, by the Lord!” exclaimed the serjeant, jumping up as if struck by an electric shock. “Here he is at last, alive and sound, which I began to fear for—Huzza! But stop. Now, Jacob Snow, Esq., deliver your mission. Stand up like a man, as I do, and don’t sway about like a pine tree in a hurricane. Captain, this gentleman,” continued the speaker, his voice getting thicker and thicker, “has a message for you from Miss Mowbray, but he’s too cursedly drunk to know it.”

At these words our hero, who was regarding the group with a look of silent rebuke, turned suddenly on the old butler, who was, if truth must be told, the only sober one of the party. A flash of joy lit up Capt. Preston’s face as he extended his hand for the supposed letter. Old Jacob, who had no missive of that character to deliver, but who had come wholly on his own responsibility, hesitated what to say. While the two parties are thus regarding each other, we will explain the incidents which had brought them thus unexpectedly together.

Capt. Preston had found great difficulty in regaining the camp, in consequence of Major Lindsay having left word of the place, where he had sought refuge, with some Tories in the neighborhood. These men, anxious to secure so redoubtable a leader, had immediately stationed patrols at all the usual outlets of the swamp, and thus twice had our hero been driven back into its recesses, once narrowly escaping death. At length, however, in the dead of night, he had succeeded in eluding his enemies, and gained the high-road. His flight, however, had led him into a district full of Tories, and he was forced to travel with great caution, and make a long circuit, in order to return to the camp. Meantime his absence there had occasioned much alarm, especially among his troop; and Macdonald had intended, if he did not appear by the ensuing morning, setting forth to make inquiries respecting him, fearing he was dead.

The old butler had been in the camp two days. He had attended his mistress to Georgetown, and was the only one who suspected the true state of Kate’s heart. He loved that fair creature with the blind devotion a dog shows to its master; and he had long been fully satisfied that her affections were given to Preston. Of our hero he had some such idea as the old romancers had of a Paladin of former days, looking on him as capable of doing any deed, no matter how impossible. To old Jacob it seemed only necessary that Preston should know of Kate’s danger, in order to rescue her. Accordingly, when he found the marriage actually resolved on, and the day fixed, he stole out of Georgetown, and made the best of his way to Marion’s camp.

Here the news of Preston’s absence fell on him like a thunderbolt. But he knew that no one else could assist him; and moreover he held Kate’s secret too sacred to be imparted to others. Meantime, he found amusement in listening to the tales of the soldiers, and he was never happier than when, with mouth wide open, he sat devouring some story of the war. He implicitly believedevery thing he heard, and thought with humble vanity what a sensation he would create in the kitchen at Blakeley Hall, when he rehearsed there those tales; for Jacob, in his lowly way, was a sort of Froissart, and, with the unctuous old canon, thought nothing so “honorable and glorious as gallant feats of arms.”

Preston now drew the butler aside, and said,

“Have you the letter here?”

“Please, massa,” said the old fellow, determined to blurt through the business with a round falsehood, since he could think of nothing else just then that would serve his turn, “Please, massa, dat was a cursed lie in Sarjeant Macdonald—I nebber had a letter from Miss Kate, but I hab one lily message from her. She is in Georgetown, in a polemic—either she must marry Major Lindsay, or Mr. Mowbray be hung.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Preston, “What is it you say? Trifle not with me,” he said sternly, seizing the slave by the collar.

“As true as dare is a heaven above,” said the old butler trembling, and half frightened out of his wits; “what I say is de Gospel truth.”

He then proceeded to give Preston a more detailed account of affairs, so far as they were known to him, adhering generally to the truth, except in roundly asserting that Kate had sent him.

Preston’s heart throbbed when he heard this. Kate loved him, then, after all. Hope whispered to him a bewildering dream; for if she could be rescued, what happiness might be his. But then came the thought—how was this to be effected? Kate was at Georgetown, a post of considerable strength, and no succor could reach her, unless by stratagem; yet with time this might be effected. But in what manner could the vigilance of guards be surmounted, and the prizes carried off—for it was necessary to rescue her father as well as herself? Suddenly the voice of old Jacob aroused him from the train of thought into which he was plunged.

“Dere is lily time left, sar,” he said, “for I hab waited here two days. To-morrow night it will be too late, for den de wedding is to take place.”

“To-morrow night!” said Preston aghast—for now he heard, for the first time, of the period fixed for the marriage. “God of heaven! it is already too late—she is lost for ever.”

He turned his face, tortured with anguish, up to the moon, which was sailing, full and bright, through the blue depths of air. How calm and unruffled was that silvery planet? Ages ago it had shown thus, equally cold and unsympathizing. It had seen the sacrifice of Jeptha’s daughter; it had beheld the fugitive Pompey; it had gazed on Zenobia, when a crownless queen; it had looked down on pestilence, and war, and human misery in every shape—and still it held on its course, the same cold, unfeeling orb, mocking at man and his agony. Preston turned away and groaned. Heaven as well as earth seemed without hope.

——

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