NO'TH-EAST BY EAST.

Now Samson went down to Gaza,To buy up his goods for the season:Quoth Madame: 'Don't make a stay, Sir,And come back with some foolish reason.'

Old American Ballad.

Thouknowest,Diedrich, that it has long been settled that Noah landed in America, and that Mount Ararat is in the State of New-York. I am inclined to believe, from this undoubtedly genuine ballad, which I discovered in the lining of an old trunk in the garret of the principal inn at Ramapo, that the Jews resided here at a much later period of their history; but that has nothing to do with us at present. All that I wished to prove by the ballad is, that the great wielder of jaw-bones was hen-pecked. So was Cicero.[B]So was Mr. Liner. Mr. Liner was, beside, pullet-pecked. Miss Catharine pecked him. Not that Miss Catharine was by any means ill-natured; for I have seen her only 'grin a ghastly' when she met a rival belle better dressed; but she made her poor father keep his eyes open night after night, by pinching himself, and by wondering at her astonishing strength of limb, 'effera vis crurum,' as he delighted to call it. And when the old gentleman would hint to his daughter that he thought it high time to depart, she would meet his suggestion by a decided negative: 'Oh no! not yet, pa!' pronounced with that sweet asperity and bitter mellifluousness of manner, which we often notice in people whose toes have been trodden upon by a distinguished stranger, who apologizes. Metaphysically speaking, her tone was a cross between a smile and a snarl.

In the summer Miss Liner visited at the watering-places—Saratoga, Sharon, Rockaway—and returned fully impressed with the truth of a late traveller's remark: 'The social intercourse of American watering-places may be defined as follows: the gentlemen spitand the ladies spat.' She herself came home with no less than five quarrels on her hands, which she was heroical enough not to regret, when the five foes gave parties and left her out.

The first year or two of this kind of life was very pleasant; but as winter after winter rolled on its balls, and summer after summer found her haunting the same places, and she found herself still remaining Liner, a sigh, soft yet spiteful, escaped from her 'heaving breast.'

(Nota.—All breasts 'heave' in romances, as if they were Irishmen employed in coal-yards.)

'Why,' whispered she, softly, 'can I not find some one on whom I may lavish the treasures of affection that I have been hoarding for so many years?'

'There,' hissed she, spitefully, 'is that Henrietta Hoogeboom, not half so stylish as I am, and a miserable waltzer, and yet she is engaged!'

One young man, a foreigner from Tobolsk, encouraged by her bravos at his performances, did propose; but was indignantly refused. Old Mrs. Liner, who was a little à la Malaprop, said, crimson with rage, that she 'wouldn't make use of him as a foot-pad.' Had the youth from Tobolsk asked a few years later, he would have been accepted. A man can carry off any single woman, if he only chooses the right time. Drowning men are said to catch at straws. It may be so. We have never witnessed a drown, and cannot say: but spinsters about sinking into the vast profound of old-maidism do catch at straw men. This we can assert.

No good parti offered. Attention too began to be scanty. The world of beaux, empty-stomach'd as empty-hearted, rushed to her balls to enjoy the suppers, and to dance with newer belles. They were smiling but unsatisfactory. Now and then some eager débutant would claim her hand for a waltz, and lead her off in triumph, amid the sneers of the experienced. Pardon us, good friends, if we again recur to the romance, theanalysesof which we have been giving you:

'Theball room was bright and beautiful. Two thousand candles shone in the lofty rooms; two hundred belles flashed as they sidled in the waltz and simpered in the cotillion. The 'middle ages' line the walls; capped, sitting bolt upright, wide awake, smiling, but looking out like highwaymen for rich young men. Tarpenny descends from the dressing-room, and trembles. It is his fourth party. Simple-minded youth! He feels the arduous nature of his undertaking. He gives his hair the last adorning touch, thecoup de grâce; with hands glued to sides, he enters, fixes his eye upon the hostess, and rushes headlong at her. Politeness urges her to advance to meet him; self-preservation prompts her to avoid. Convulsively forward jerks his hand, eager for a shake; two taper fingers only, cautiously advanced, are feebly placed within his grasp. His friendly force betrays him; he shakes the air; loses his balance; hops upon one foot. While on the hop, his rosy facemeets a cognizant female eye. He bows upon one leg, totters still, and half falls against a man of muslin. He jumps away, muttering an indistinct 'Pardon!' With a hot, painful sensation in the face, he takes refuge behind a door, to emerge again when coolness brings relief, and the nose no longer glistens. He looks about him, and gallantly resolves to dance. Miss Liner meets his inquiring eye. When a little boy he had seen beaux about her. It was years ago. She is a belle. There can be no doubt about it. How lucky that she is not engaged! He sees distinction close at hand, and hurries to the hostess. She presents him. He stammers out the question. Miss Liner grumbles a 'Yes.' He leads her off in triumph. Short-sighted mortal!'

Mrs. Linerbegan to ask, 'Why don't the men come forrard?' and old Liner was heard to mutter: 'Quousque tandemCaty Linerabutêre patientiâ nostrâ?'

Another year, and the last faintsparkexpired.

'Why is it Mrs. Liner,' quoth the father, as he was tying his night-cap strings, 'that our daughter cannot get a husband? I know very well that Erasmus says, in speaking of women,Nulla bona, Nullus beau; but we, thank God! are rich, and I am sure we all have tried hard enough. There was Shuffleshank, for instance. Did not we run after him at balls, plays, concerts, until I got the pleurisy, and you a bilious attack? And Catharine, poor soul! did she not dance after him until she wore herself down to a skeleton? and all for nothing? Something must be done, Mrs. Liner. Gad! I have a plan——' A rattling, reverberating snore completed Mr. Liner's paragraph; and soon the married noses, blended in harsh discord, pealed a lullaby through the bed-curtains. As to Miss Catharine, she looked upon the first part of the proverb, 'L'homme propose,' as an absurd and cruel fiction, invented by a tantalizing wretch. And when her cousin, Miss Frizzle—who like the Scythian in Elian was all face, and poor and ill-natured to boot—when Frederica Frizzle, whose physiognomical and moral qualifications were forcibly described by one of her friends as

'Nose carnation,Temper darnation!'

when Miss Frizzle, I say, engaged herself to her first offer, a nice musical young man, with the slightest possible moustache, then Catharine waxed gloomy, and her snowybatistewas bedewed with tears. As the poet hath it:

'Through fingers tinyStreamed the briny.'

We have now come to the beginning of our story. Miss Liner sits weeping upon the sofa, regretting Shuffleshank and her first offer from Tobolsk. It remains for us to see what was Mr. Liner's plan.

Thewind is East, what little there is,No'th-East by East, and the captain laysHis ship all lady-like in stays,Stripped as far as it decent is.For three points off her weather-bowThe curtain of mist that passed just nowHas shut the light out suddenly;The big bright Eye that over the seaIs rolling round unceasingly:A dim white-darkness spreads about,And sun, and moon, and stars are out,Alow and aloft; from Holmes's HoleTo a point in the east'ard not yet known;And where the White Bear, shook from the poleBy an avalanche, sits perched alone,Or floating down to the southern seaStalks round in sullen majesty,With a keen eye out for the wrecked that comeWith the breaking surge to his icy home;All over this waste of sea and landThe light is out—as an unseen HandHad drawn a curtain over at once,To cool it all for the summer months.The sea rolls lazily, and whist.As the motions of the whirling mist;A pantomime of air and sea,That hath a solemn witchery,Which puzzles the cock, who has the rightIf any one has, to know day-light;But tired at last, he gives up, dumbWith wondering when the morn will come;And after straining his lungs all day,Kicks up a row in his family.The porpoise out on the fishing groundWith a running start, comes upward-bound,Then skimming along the ocean's brim,And just in tone with its solemn hymn,He snorts and blows, with a careless flingOf his short bob-tail, as it suited himExceedingly, that sort of thing;Or, startled from her easy swing,The fluttering of a sea-bird's wing,The moaning cry of some lost bird,Or the dropping of a spar, is heard.And sudden, as from eternity,Quick to the eye and quickly missed,Just in and out of the driving mist,A something white moves slowly by,And you know that a ship is drifting nigh;A moment in, and a moment out,And then with the lull, a smothered shout,And all is dull and hushed againTo the still small talk of the mighty rain;Or the 'Graves,' that never can quiet beWhile a pulse is left in the heaving sea;The gossiping Graves, now off the leeYou may hear them muttering; either side,As the ship heaves round with the lazy tide;And weary and faint, as a sick man raves,Is the senseless talk of the gossiping Graves.Farther down in the outer bay,Knocking about as best they may,The ships that rounded the cape to-dayLie off and on, with a slow chasseé;All sorts of freight, from tar to teas,All manner of craft, that skim the seas:Some, just come in from an eastern cruise,Are big with the latest China news;Some, ballasted with golden sand,Are perfumed from Arabia's strand;Some with a crust from the Levant,And somewithout, are from Nahant;(Oh, sweet to them as Sabbath bellsWould be the ring of its rocky wells!)And many an enterprising NoahIs there, with latest news from shore;With pilot-boat so snug and taut,And motion of grace, like an æronautCaught in a cloud, when the wind is low,The sky above and the sea below:But sauciest, among them all,The harlequin of the mist-masked ball,And livelier than the fisherman,With jaunty roll the pinkie trimTurns up his tail to the Indiaman,(Either end is the same to him,)Or skips around the steamer that playsLike a thing bewitched in the general maze;Feeling about, as shy of her limbs,And careful and slow as a blind man swims.And many a turn-coat stomach below,That held out bravely until now,Rises with every swell of the yeastPeculiar to No'th-East by East.

The sea rolls lazily, and whist.As the motions of the whirling mist;A pantomime of air and sea,That hath a solemn witchery,Which puzzles the cock, who has the rightIf any one has, to know day-light;But tired at last, he gives up, dumbWith wondering when the morn will come;And after straining his lungs all day,Kicks up a row in his family.The porpoise out on the fishing groundWith a running start, comes upward-bound,Then skimming along the ocean's brim,And just in tone with its solemn hymn,He snorts and blows, with a careless flingOf his short bob-tail, as it suited himExceedingly, that sort of thing;Or, startled from her easy swing,The fluttering of a sea-bird's wing,The moaning cry of some lost bird,Or the dropping of a spar, is heard.And sudden, as from eternity,Quick to the eye and quickly missed,Just in and out of the driving mist,A something white moves slowly by,And you know that a ship is drifting nigh;A moment in, and a moment out,And then with the lull, a smothered shout,And all is dull and hushed againTo the still small talk of the mighty rain;Or the 'Graves,' that never can quiet beWhile a pulse is left in the heaving sea;The gossiping Graves, now off the leeYou may hear them muttering; either side,As the ship heaves round with the lazy tide;And weary and faint, as a sick man raves,Is the senseless talk of the gossiping Graves.

Farther down in the outer bay,Knocking about as best they may,The ships that rounded the cape to-dayLie off and on, with a slow chasseé;All sorts of freight, from tar to teas,All manner of craft, that skim the seas:Some, just come in from an eastern cruise,Are big with the latest China news;Some, ballasted with golden sand,Are perfumed from Arabia's strand;Some with a crust from the Levant,And somewithout, are from Nahant;(Oh, sweet to them as Sabbath bellsWould be the ring of its rocky wells!)And many an enterprising NoahIs there, with latest news from shore;With pilot-boat so snug and taut,And motion of grace, like an æronautCaught in a cloud, when the wind is low,The sky above and the sea below:But sauciest, among them all,The harlequin of the mist-masked ball,And livelier than the fisherman,With jaunty roll the pinkie trimTurns up his tail to the Indiaman,(Either end is the same to him,)Or skips around the steamer that playsLike a thing bewitched in the general maze;Feeling about, as shy of her limbs,And careful and slow as a blind man swims.And many a turn-coat stomach below,That held out bravely until now,Rises with every swell of the yeastPeculiar to No'th-East by East.

II.

'Tisthe morning hour by the Old South clock,But the light is hardly enough to mockThe candies lit in the breakfast-room:Ugh! ugh! Ugh! ugh!Nobody up, but the maid and groom,And not a spark to cheer the gloom:Ugh! ugh!Unless they get one up, those two,By the candles lit in the breakfast room.Is the day foggy and cold?Decidedly—both foggy and cold;And so for three long days shall be,While hangs this mist o'er land and sea;Three days and nights, like a frightful dream—Some say the earth is blowing off steam.Boston is up, and its noisy blareStrikes heavily on the muffled air;Like the growling of some savage beast,Hidden away at his morning feast:A faint, dull light is off the east,A trifle of cream, that mingles thereWith the milky hue of the thick, dull air;And by that light in the east, you guessThat the Sun is somewhere up to dress,But, held back by some fond caress,Has caught his night-gown over his head,And——Boston, breakfasted,Quite cool, thus knowingly looks up,One hand holding the coffee-cup,The other with the 'Morning Post'To 'calculate' how long, at most,'This heavy weather will hold on'—So, breakfasts, dines, and sups, Boston.Oh! pleasantreflectionsare every whereExcept in this cursed atmosphere;But nothing whatever, unless their priest,Disturbs your Boston phlegm the least;Not even a storm, No'th-East by East.

Is the day foggy and cold?Decidedly—both foggy and cold;And so for three long days shall be,While hangs this mist o'er land and sea;Three days and nights, like a frightful dream—Some say the earth is blowing off steam.

Boston is up, and its noisy blareStrikes heavily on the muffled air;Like the growling of some savage beast,Hidden away at his morning feast:A faint, dull light is off the east,A trifle of cream, that mingles thereWith the milky hue of the thick, dull air;And by that light in the east, you guessThat the Sun is somewhere up to dress,But, held back by some fond caress,Has caught his night-gown over his head,And——Boston, breakfasted,Quite cool, thus knowingly looks up,One hand holding the coffee-cup,The other with the 'Morning Post'To 'calculate' how long, at most,'This heavy weather will hold on'—So, breakfasts, dines, and sups, Boston.Oh! pleasantreflectionsare every whereExcept in this cursed atmosphere;But nothing whatever, unless their priest,Disturbs your Boston phlegm the least;Not even a storm, No'th-East by East.

III.

Theiron chariots bowling onFrom Albany and Stonington,Are chiming with their thousand wheels,And within, the living cargo reelsAnd nods about familiarly,Each to the other, as he were a brother,And all as the mist falls silently.Five hundred noses point ahead,And a thousand eye-lids closed, as deadAs already the silver coin had pressed,And sealed them in their final rest;So chill, from the mist of the neighboring deep,Is the nodding, nibbling, icy sleep;And dreams confusing go and come,Which blessings are and a curse to some;But all with a feeling of 'Devil-may-care,'Peculiar to the rail-road car,Or such as you fancy a witch's areOn a broom-stick ride in the midnight air;Some 'promenade all' at Symms's Hole,Or, 'Hands all around' at the Northern Pole;The spot, where the earth having come to a crisisThe Sun goes around on the tops of the ices,A weary Anchises;Ices, like Alps, of all shapes and devices;The pyramid, dome, the temple, and allThat seemed 'frozen music' to MadameDe Stael;While cluster of stars, with their beautiful eyes,Just peep in between, with a kind of surprise;Some fading, some flashing, all grouping anew,Like the lights of a city, when passing: in view,Or laughing young girls, all crowding for placesIn windows brim full of (God bless!) their sweet faces;And thus night and day, vis-à-vis to each other,Waltz round the horizon like sister and brother;While deep in the vault, with a hand unseen,(The 'unknown God' of the shifting scene.)From the morning of Time, one star has stoodAnd ruled that glittering multitude.Or, some may prefer, as it's here rather cold,To mount on a streamer of crimson or gold,And shooting off in a shaft of light,Ride tangent up to the top o' the night,And dip in the slant of the Sun, as heWheels up somewhere in the Indian sea;Or wink to the wink of a new-made star,Not yet rolled round, and 'caviareTo the general;' but here with a jarThat murders sleep, old Beelzebub,With a kind of 'hip-hurrah!' hubbub,A snort and a scream, has startled all;And the lady in the travelling shawlHas dropped her babe, too drugged to squall;And stiff as a shaking Quaker sitsThe gentleman in summer 'fits,'No'th-East by East, a point too far;His dream is true, that he left last nightNew-York, at eighty of Fahrenheit—And his coat in the baggage-car!But dreams must change; and now they wakeTo run on coffee and beef-steak;The latest 'Picayune,' and thenA southern climate, to read it in;A flower or two, a light and table,To make the thing more passable;A sea-coal fire, a Tremont-bath—All the dearcomfortsBoston hathIn such rich store; andher'sso much,No other rail-road leads to such:But some, with stubborn memoriesOf last night's ugly-sounding seas,The few, with stomachs out of tone,Dream every thing; but, senses gone,Have no distinct conception what,Save a fire, and a bed, and something hot,In (oh, so like a home to one!)The pleasant rooms at the Albion.

Or, some may prefer, as it's here rather cold,To mount on a streamer of crimson or gold,And shooting off in a shaft of light,Ride tangent up to the top o' the night,And dip in the slant of the Sun, as heWheels up somewhere in the Indian sea;Or wink to the wink of a new-made star,Not yet rolled round, and 'caviareTo the general;' but here with a jarThat murders sleep, old Beelzebub,With a kind of 'hip-hurrah!' hubbub,A snort and a scream, has startled all;And the lady in the travelling shawlHas dropped her babe, too drugged to squall;And stiff as a shaking Quaker sitsThe gentleman in summer 'fits,'No'th-East by East, a point too far;His dream is true, that he left last nightNew-York, at eighty of Fahrenheit—And his coat in the baggage-car!

But dreams must change; and now they wakeTo run on coffee and beef-steak;The latest 'Picayune,' and thenA southern climate, to read it in;A flower or two, a light and table,To make the thing more passable;A sea-coal fire, a Tremont-bath—All the dearcomfortsBoston hathIn such rich store; andher'sso much,No other rail-road leads to such:But some, with stubborn memoriesOf last night's ugly-sounding seas,The few, with stomachs out of tone,Dream every thing; but, senses gone,Have no distinct conception what,Save a fire, and a bed, and something hot,In (oh, so like a home to one!)The pleasant rooms at the Albion.

IV.

Allnight long, in the outer bay,The ships have rocked with the lazy sea,Off and on, with a slow chasseé,And all night long, on top of the mist,The stars have danced unceasingly,And the moon has smiled her prettiest;Yet not one ray has wandered by:Oh! when shall we have a brighter sky!The wind is light and the light is dim,But a single star worn pale and slim,As though the journey had wearied him,Has just come down from Heaven, to sayThat the Sun is coming up this way,With promise of a gala-day.Great wonder had been, up there, he says,That Boston lay so long in a haze;And strange they hadn't invented a way,Some patent or other, to blow it away;No'th-East by East had gone ashoreBelow, some twenty leagues or more;He had weathered the Cape about midnight,And was taking a nap, to come up bright;An hour, or two at the most, and heWould bring the bloom of the orange-tree,And swear it was just from Florida,Caught last night at the fall of the dew;He left as the stars came out of the blue,And shunning the breath of the land, by seaHas kept all fresh it fragrancy.Thus spake, or looked the star, and soonThe air is soft as a breeze in June;The sun comes down by way of the moon,And all the sister stars and brothers,And other lights, if thereareothers,Mars, and his Tiger,[C]allare out;And right glad they look, as about to shout,At sight again, their right good willOn Boston heights and Bunker Hill:And Bunker Hill's great Orator,'[D]Catching a ray from every star,Binds him a chaplet of Thirteen,And silent, smiles upon the scene.The mists have gone off silently,And scarcely whispered their good-bye;They have crept away with a stealthy roll,Like the gathering of a noiseless scroll;You may see them yet, as they glide away,And hang their curtains about the bay;While the pointed seas flash out between,Like the spears of a host, in battle seen;Or lift their white caps, one by one,A welcome to the rising sun:A moment's hush, on sea and air,Still, as an angel passing were,To bid them breathe a silent prayer,And then, all free and gloriouslyThe Sun comes mounting from the sea,As lightning had sprang sudden there,And lingered in the atmosphere!Again the languid pulses startLike a rush of joy to a weary heart,That hardly hath left a hope for such,So mild its quick but gentle touch:And now it clasps in warm embraceAll living things, and face to faceAnd lip to lip, shall cling all day,Still giving life, unceasingly.Beneath the clear unclouded skyAll quiet and still the islands lie,Like monsters of the deep, couchant;And farther out is cool Nahant,A finger pointing the sea aslant;The light-house top, and Nix's Mate,And tall ships moving by in state,With top-sails and top-gallants bentTo catch each wandering breeze that's sent;Some, just come in from Labrador,Sweep by with the nod of an emperor;And some are there, have dipped their sparsIn waters that flash back of starsA sky-full from each wave that swellsIts mounting crest in the Dardanelles;Some, that have iced them at Cape Horn;And some dash in, with topsails tornIn some such trifling matter asA rough-and-tumble at Hatteras;And some, still warm from southern seasAnd cotton bags, hail out, 'Balize;'A long procession, dashing on,Like the march of men to a clarion.They may do these things in ItalyIn a different way; but enough for meThe off-hand manner, the tone, the style,The 'keeping' of all, and the glorious smileOf earth and air, and sky and sea,So gayly decked and brilliantly;Why, Heaven has left a door ajarThis side the world, to show how fairMay be a land, and sky, and air,Where bold and free are 'heart and hand'—And such is this, our glorious land!Beside, your Greece and Rome, and allWho hold themselves so beautiful,Have no such charming mists as these,No climate changing with each breeze;And nothing to compare, in the least,With a Boston storm,No'th-East by East.

The wind is light and the light is dim,But a single star worn pale and slim,As though the journey had wearied him,Has just come down from Heaven, to sayThat the Sun is coming up this way,With promise of a gala-day.Great wonder had been, up there, he says,That Boston lay so long in a haze;And strange they hadn't invented a way,Some patent or other, to blow it away;No'th-East by East had gone ashoreBelow, some twenty leagues or more;He had weathered the Cape about midnight,And was taking a nap, to come up bright;An hour, or two at the most, and heWould bring the bloom of the orange-tree,And swear it was just from Florida,Caught last night at the fall of the dew;He left as the stars came out of the blue,And shunning the breath of the land, by seaHas kept all fresh it fragrancy.Thus spake, or looked the star, and soonThe air is soft as a breeze in June;The sun comes down by way of the moon,And all the sister stars and brothers,And other lights, if thereareothers,Mars, and his Tiger,[C]allare out;And right glad they look, as about to shout,At sight again, their right good willOn Boston heights and Bunker Hill:And Bunker Hill's great Orator,'[D]Catching a ray from every star,Binds him a chaplet of Thirteen,And silent, smiles upon the scene.The mists have gone off silently,And scarcely whispered their good-bye;They have crept away with a stealthy roll,Like the gathering of a noiseless scroll;You may see them yet, as they glide away,And hang their curtains about the bay;While the pointed seas flash out between,Like the spears of a host, in battle seen;Or lift their white caps, one by one,A welcome to the rising sun:A moment's hush, on sea and air,Still, as an angel passing were,To bid them breathe a silent prayer,And then, all free and gloriouslyThe Sun comes mounting from the sea,As lightning had sprang sudden there,And lingered in the atmosphere!Again the languid pulses startLike a rush of joy to a weary heart,That hardly hath left a hope for such,So mild its quick but gentle touch:And now it clasps in warm embraceAll living things, and face to faceAnd lip to lip, shall cling all day,Still giving life, unceasingly.Beneath the clear unclouded skyAll quiet and still the islands lie,Like monsters of the deep, couchant;And farther out is cool Nahant,A finger pointing the sea aslant;The light-house top, and Nix's Mate,And tall ships moving by in state,With top-sails and top-gallants bentTo catch each wandering breeze that's sent;Some, just come in from Labrador,Sweep by with the nod of an emperor;And some are there, have dipped their sparsIn waters that flash back of starsA sky-full from each wave that swellsIts mounting crest in the Dardanelles;Some, that have iced them at Cape Horn;And some dash in, with topsails tornIn some such trifling matter asA rough-and-tumble at Hatteras;And some, still warm from southern seasAnd cotton bags, hail out, 'Balize;'A long procession, dashing on,Like the march of men to a clarion.

They may do these things in ItalyIn a different way; but enough for meThe off-hand manner, the tone, the style,The 'keeping' of all, and the glorious smileOf earth and air, and sky and sea,So gayly decked and brilliantly;Why, Heaven has left a door ajarThis side the world, to show how fairMay be a land, and sky, and air,Where bold and free are 'heart and hand'—And such is this, our glorious land!Beside, your Greece and Rome, and allWho hold themselves so beautiful,Have no such charming mists as these,No climate changing with each breeze;And nothing to compare, in the least,With a Boston storm,No'th-East by East.

FROM THE FRENCH.

Oneof the hobbies cherished in the most especial manner by the good citizen of Paris, is Philosophy; not that he takes delight in the cultivation of wisdom, or makes the study of nature his pursuit: but when things go well with him in the world; when his fortune has reached the limit of his desires; when age has abated the ardor of his passions, and in the bosom of his family he finds himself surrounded with every comfort and luxury that heart could wish; he fancies himself beyond the common accidents of life; he becomes a philosopher. His philosophy is his pet, his play-thing, his hobby-horse upon which he gets astride, and gambols like a frolicsome child. Should his wife scold, should his roast-beef be burnt, should a sudden shower break up a party of pleasure, he alone preserves his equanimity; is smiling, soothing, and consolatory; he is a philosopher. Philosophy is his sovereign panacea; with the understanding that no precautions have been neglected to secure him as far as possible against the weightier mishaps of life. His houses and furniture are insured, and his money, instead of being exposed to the hazards of joint stock companies or rail-roads, is safely invested in the royal funds.

Monsieur d'Herbois was a happy example of this consolatory system, and seemed to have been sent into the world expressly for the purpose of sounding the praises of philosophy, without ever being obliged to test its efficacy in his own case. Wealthy by a paternal inheritance, which thrift on his part had increased, he had early in life married the woman of his choice; and his only son, about twenty-two years of age, was now in his turn about to espouse a young lady, whose character, fortune, and family all exactly suited the fortunate father. And so Monsieur d'Herbois, a man of a naturally placid and even temper, was now busying himself in preparing the dower, or if you please the appanage of Gustavus, with the benignity and disinterested solicitude of a sage.

'My friend,' said he to Monsieur Durand, who was not a philosopher, 'I shall give to Gustavus my house at Sussy. I well know that this will be a great sacrifice, and that we cannot pass the summers there any more, because it is possible that my wife cannot agree on all points with her daughter-in-law; but we love Gustavus so dearly!—and beside, one must be a philosopher. We shall therefore live in Paris on the second floor; the first will be occupied by the young folks. My wife grumbles a little at this; but says I to her: 'My dear, suppose some unexpected calamity should occur, to sweep away all our property?—what would then become of us? Then we should have to climb up into the garret, and would beforced to summon up all our philosophy, of which we shall scarcely stand in need, merely to ascend a few additional steps. Thales of Miletus acted in this manner, one of the seven wise men of Greece, who endured all sorts of troubles without complaint, and in fact defied all mankind to disturb the serenity of his soul and the tranquillity of his spirit.'

'And do you give the same defiance to men as Thales did?' asked Monsieur Durand.

'To be sure I do. You, my friend, ought to know whether I have not the right to do so. Have you ever known me to depart from my principles?'

'I know,' replied M. Durand, 'that during the time since you and I left college together, which is now upward of thirty years, I have never known you to be afflicted with any personal misfortune; and if Thales of Miletus, whose story I do not now remember, was always as lucky, his philosophy would not have cost him more than yours does.'

'To speak candidly,' replied M. d'Herbois, with a good-natured-smile, 'I think that I am a little more of a philosopher than Thales himself was; for I have never been inconsistent with my professions, although a husband and a father, while Thales was a bachelor.'

'But still,' said his friend Durand to him, 'you have never been put to the test.'

'Let the test come; I am ready.'

'Suppose your wife should prove false to you, or your son not turn out in accordance with your expectations?—do you think you would support these misfortunes with the constancy of Job?'

'Of Thales, my dear friend, of Thales, if you please; do not confound them:

'For all events the wise man is prepared.'

Thus said a poet who talked Greek, and not an Arab like your Job.'

M. d'Herbois, proud of Thales, of himself, and of philosophy, proceeded to make careful preparations for the nuptials of his well-beloved son; and already in his mind's eye beheld himself dandling his little grand-children that were to be.

One morning he was about entering the apartment of Gustavus, for the purpose of consulting him on the purchase of some jewels, intended as a present for the bride. The chamber of the young man was situated at one end of the room of M. d'Herbois. The entrance to it was through this latter, and also by a private staircase, which allowed the young man to go in and out without disturbing any body. D'Herbois, just as he was about turning the handle of the glass door, the curtain of which was on his side, checked himself, on hearing the sound of voices. His son, he found, was not alone.

'Oh, ho!' thought he, 'Gustavus is perhaps bidding farewell to the bachelor's life. Can he be consoling some little beauty, who is reminding my young master of his broken vows?'

He raised the corner of the curtain, and was a little tranquillized.The companion of Gustavus was a man. 'May be it is a creditor,' thought he; 'but this is a lesser evil.'

He placed himself so as to see and hear what was going on. Opposite to him, in the middle of his son's room, stood a man of about the age of M. d'Herbois, gray-headed, with a sharp and crafty expression of countenance, and person enveloped in a large farmer's riding-coat.

'My dear Peter,' said this person, 'listen to me——'

'Peter?' replied d'Herbois junior; 'you are mistaken, Sir; my name is Gustavus.'

'I am not mistaken, for all that,' continued the stranger; 'listen to me, I entreat you, my good Sir; I am about to communicate a piece of news which fills me with joy; my only fear, (and I confess it is a natural one,) is that it will not give you as much pleasure.'

'Go on, Sir,' said Gustavus; 'nothing that is agreeable to an honest man can give me pain; speak out.'

The man, whose presence singularly annoyed M. d'Herbois, deliberately took a seat, and commenced thus:

'You know, my good Sir, that it is now about twenty years since Madame d'Herbois gave birth to a son. On account of the weak state of her health, she was not able to afford him nourishment herself. A nurse was sought for, and it was my wife, Margaret Pithou, of Pontoise, who was selected.'

'Ah! you are then my foster-father,' cried Gustavus, with open arms; 'walk in, walk in; my father and mother will be delighted to see you.'

'Softly! softly!' said Pithou; 'neither Monsieur nor Madame d'Herbois must know that I am here, or have spoken with you, until we have had a little explanation together, and you know all.'

'Until I know all! What is it, then, Monsieur Pithou? Pray go on,' said Gustavus, impatiently.

'Patience, my good Sir; you shall hear all in good time.'

The more interesting and mysterious this conversation became, so much the more immovable did his philosophy hold Monsieur d'Herbois, who scarcely dared move, or even breathe.

'My wife and I,' continued Pithou, drawling out his words, 'like most of our neighbors, were at that time dealers in a small way in cattle. But provided the murrain did not get among the beasts, and our cows kept healthy, we managed in one way or another to make both ends meet at the end of the year. We were young then, and had one child, a few months older than the son of Monsieur d'Herbois.'

'Than me?' exclaimed Gustavus.

'You shall see. As ill luck would have it, a speculator came down from Paris, with plenty of money, and established himself at Pontoise; bought up the finest cows, built large stables, raised the price of hay and feed; and in short, broke up all the small dealers like us; for the veal and mutton of this Parisian were always the fattest and brought the best prices. One bad year ruined us. My wife took it sadly to heart, and fell ill; her poor foster child felt theeffects of her malady; we dared not say any thing, lest it should be taken from us; in fine, my wife and the child of Monsieur d'Herbois both died on the same night. My poor Peter!' continued Pithou, addressing Gustavus, 'my poor Peter, I was then indeed in a situation to excite pity: nothing left me, no wife, no money, plenty of debts, and an infant in the arms, which looked up to me for support. A thought from heaven suddenly seemed to strike me. Said I to myself, 'The rich are placed here to succor the poor, and render them assistance; but as they are often hard-hearted, selfish, and avaricious, we must have recourse sometimes to stratagem to obtain from their credulity what their indifference refuses.' In pursuance of this idea, I gave out every where that my son was dead, and sent you, my own offspring, to M. d'Herbois, under charge of cousin Potard, who was herself the dupe of my trick. Yes, you are my own son Peter! my dear Peter!'

At the conclusion of this strange story, Pithou arose, drew Gustavus to him, kissed his forehead, his eyes, his hair, and bedewed the young man, who seemed lost in amazement, with paternal tears. 'How otherwise, my dear child,' said he, 'could you have wished me to have acted?' The time passed with Monsieur d'Herbois has procured for you the advantages of a good education, and beside that, has been so much exemption from suffering for you. In truth, when I examine my motives, and think seriously of my conduct, I cannot repent of it. Since then, fortune has been more propitious to me. I came to Paris, engaged in trade, and as others have done before me, have made a handsome fortune. You see that I am too honest to allow you to profit by the riches of M. d'Herbois; we will confess all to him. Adieu, my dear Peter! I have full proofs of what I have told you; I am going to get them, and will take them myself to M. d'Herbois.'

So saying, Pithou again embraced Gustavus, and departed by the private stairs.

Monsieur d'Herbois, upon whom not a word of this conversation had been lost, knew not what to do or think. What! Gustavus, his son! the child of whom he had not lost sight for twenty years; whom he loved more than ever parent loved a son; for whom he had deprived himself of so many comforts; who bore his name; Gustavus to be called Peter! Peter Pithou! to be the son of another! Monsieur d'Herbois was astounded, and in the utmost consternation ran to seek his wife.

'Madame!' cried he, 'Madame d'Herbois, I have no longer a son; my son has been dead for twenty years!'

Madame d'Herbois was a woman of a lively disposition, who knew her husband well, and did not always take his words literally.

'You frightened me,' said she to him, laughingly; 'but as you say that Gustavus has been dead for twenty years, I reassured myself when I thought of the good appetite he had at breakfast this morning.'

'Gustavus is not my son, Madame!'

'What do you mean by that, Sir?'

'Good heavens, Madame, you do not comprehend me! I mean that he is no more your son than he is mine. Poor Gustavus died while nursing; we have got the son of Pithou, Peter Pithou!'

The amazed couple then recalled all the details of the early infancy of Gustavus. He had, in fact, been placed at nurse at Pontoise, and the child had been brought home in consequence of the death of his nurse, Margaret Pithou. All that Pithou had related had the appearance of truth; perhaps, alas! was true.

Gustavus at this moment entered his mother's apartment, and M. d'Herbois now for the first time remarked that the young man did not resemble him as much as he had formerly fancied; in fact, he had neither the same eyes, the same features, nor the same figure. M. d'Herbois also mentally observed that the voice of Gustavus had the same tones as that of Pithou. Gustavus, embarrassed by his secret, knew not how to commence the painful disclosure; his eyes filled with tears; he turned from M. d'Herbois toward his wife, without daring to address or embrace either of them.

'Come to my arms!' passionately exclaimed Madame d'Herbois; 'come here, my child; we know every thing; but you are, yes, you are my son; I feel it in my love! I feel it in my heart! Come to me, my dear son!'

'You know every thing?' said Gustavus; 'has Pithou, then, already brought his proofs?'

'No, my child, but your father overheard it all.'

A domestic entering, announced to M. d'Herbois that a person was waiting to see him in his study.

'It is that Pithou,' said he, as he left the mother and son dissolved in tears.

In the study he found his friend Durand.

'My good friend,' said Durand to him, 'as you are about marrying your son, I thought you would like to have this beautiful cameo that I have recently met with. I think it the finest I have ever seen. Look at it; and it is not dear either.'

'To the devil with your cameo, and with the wedding, and with my son too!' cried d'Herbois, beside himself with passion.

'Hey day! what's the matter now?' inquired Durand; 'has Gustavus been getting into any scrape?'

'There is no such person as Gustavus. I have no longer any son; there is only one Pithou; confounded be the whole race! one Peter Pithou!'

D'Herbois then recounted to his friend the sad discovery he had just made.

'Well, well,' said Durand, coolly, 'this is not so bad after all; the matter may be amicably settled; M. Pithou will doubtless listen to reason. He will possibly consent to leave Gustavus the name which he has hitherto borne; and since you possess the affections of the young man, what difference, after all, does it make to you?'

'What difference does it make to me!' replied M. d'Herbois, in a fury. 'What difference? I have lost my son, my blood, my life!They have left me in his stead the descendant of a Pithou! And do you ask me whatdifferencedoes it make!'

'Patience, patience, my good Sir! Have you not always loved him until now as if he were your son? Have not your paternal bowels yearned toward him, as if in fact he had been Gustavus and not Peter? Take my advice, my friend; arrange this matter with Pithou. The young man will never lose the affection he bears you, and it will be Pithou, and not you, who will have the worst of the bargain.'

'The wretch!' continued d'Herbois, pacing the room with hurried strides; 'to have played the fool with me in this manner! to have trifled thus with my affections! But there are laws against crimes like this! Thank Heaven! we live in a civilized land; we have the code; the substitution of children is punishable in France; I will invoke the law; I will bring the culprit before the tribunal, and he shall receive the reward of his guilt.'

'But consider,' replied Durand; 'there were many extenuating circumstances in this offence of Pithou. He was suffering from want; his mind was distracted by grief for the loss of his wife. To be sure, nothing can justify a crime; but if any thing could excuse one, would it not be the anxiety of a father to save his child from imminent death? Beside,' continued Durand, 'observe the conduct of this man. As soon as he becomes wealthy, and is able to provide for him, he comes to reclaim his son. He is not willing that he should enjoy any longer the advantages of your wealth; he does not even wait until his child has consummated an advantageous marriage. All these circumstances would plead strongly in favor of Pithou, in a court of justice. And, in fact, the offence is not the complete substitution of a child; it is merely a temporary one; and the court would probably adjudge Pithou to pay to you the expenses of the education of Gustavus, or Peter; this would be all.'

But poor M. d'Herbois would not listen to his friend. He gave himself up to all the violence of his passion, and began already to feel in his heart a strange aversion to a son, whom until now he had so tenderly loved.

'Yes, yes,' said he, 'he has the very voice and look of Pithou; his gestures, his walk. No doubt this Peter Pithou junior will turn out a rogue, like his father.'

'But only one word,' said Durand; 'take my advice; marry Gustavus, who is not to blame in this matter, and buy this beautiful cameo. You will never get another such a chance.'

'I beg you, Sir, to hold your tongue about that cursed cameo!' said d'Herbois, sternly, to his friend.

'But remember, my good Sir, you are a philosopher, and have defied the whole world to disturb the serenity of your soul, or the tranquillity of your spirit.'

'Philosopher! when I have lost my only child!'

'You have lost nothing. Gustavus is in good health. As for the one that died twenty years ago, you have never known him; in fact, have scarcely seen him. Beside, where is the merit andadvantage of philosophy, if it is not able to console you under afflictions; to moderate grief, and impart to the mind the calmness requisite to diminish evil, and enable you to arrive at truth?'

Instead of making answer, the philosopher burst into tears; two briny streams flowed down his cheeks, attesting the vanity of his stoicism, and the superiority of Thales of Melitus over Thales of Paris.

'Ah ha!' exclaimed M. Durand, on witnessing the deep humiliation of his friend, 'have I then conquered your philosophy? But cheer up! Lapierre! Lapierre! come this way.'

Lapierre entered; he had laid aside his livery, and had on still the farmer's large coat.

'Here is Pithou, and there is no other; it is Lapierre, my valet. The claim he sets up for your son is all a matter of moonshine. I was acquainted with all the circumstances, and laid my plans accordingly. The true Pithou is still at Pontoise, employed in fattening calves. He has married a second time, has a score of children, and has no thoughts of coming here to claim a son who is none of his. And now, Monsieur Philosopher, is it thus you put in practice the professions you are daily preaching? Is it thus you exemplify the maxims of the great Thales? Let but misfortune touch your little finger, and you are beside yourself: you examine nothing, neither the truth, nor even the probability of a thing; and before the slightest proofs are laid before you, you withdraw your affections, almost discard your child, and are eager to send a man off to the galleys! And yet one of the maxims of Thales was, 'Never decide any thing rashly.'

M. d'Herbois, confused and crest-fallen, hung down his head, and by his silence confessed that the trial had been too severe for his philosophy. Being, however, fortunately possessed of a large stock of good-nature, which is sometimes better than philosophy, he did not think it worth his while to quarrel with his friend. Poor Gustavus alone suffered from the trial. M. d'Herbois from that time forth could no more trace in his features that resemblance to himself of which he had formerly been so proud; and when the young man spoke, 'That is not my voice,' said he to himself; 'it is the very tone of Pithou.'

And so Gustavus, although suitably married, did not get possession of the country-house at Sussy, which was so agreeable to M. d'Herbois during the summer season. Neither did the old folks discommode themselves in town, and the young couple resided on the second floor.

Convinced in this manner of the vanity of his philosophy, M. d'Herbois quietly resumed his position as father and husband. 'It is impossible,' said he, 'to preserve one's serenity, if our happiness is placed upon objects out of ourselves, and depends upon a wife or child. So when the mother of Thales besought him to marry, the sage replied, 'It is not yet time.' After a while she renewed her entreaties; 'It is now too late,' said Thales.

In our days, the philosophy of most people commences the day after marriage.

Writtenduring the difficulties of the boundary question in Maine, when SirJohn Harvey, Governor of the provinces of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia was deterred from actual hostility by the judicious conduct of GeneralScott, his personal friend.Prescott'snoble work of 'Ferdinand and Isabella' had just appeared, and the 'Crayon Papers' were in course of publication.

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