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pected," replied Goliah; "they are approximating-the seconds don't have to dodge now, and the principals are not so likely as they were, to shoot off their own toes. Practice makes perfect. Gentlemen, are you ready?one, two, three!"-bang!-bang!-The man had winged Slyder, and both were glad-the one that it was safely over, so far as he was concerned, and the other that the affair was finished and no worse, so far as he was concerned. Further approximations might have been dangerous. But the result was a downright flying in the face of poetical justice, owing no doubt to the fact that poetical justice wisely lies abed till the last bell rings. But then, as Goliah Bluff announced to the parties belligerent, Slyder Downehylle was "satisfied," and who else had a right to complain? His nose was the feature most interested and it said nothing, "as nobody knows on "-for it was now a nose which, when regarded in its metaphysical and honorable aspect, notwithstanding its rubid tints, had not a stain upon its escutcheon. The bullet in its master's shoulder had been soapsuds to its reputation, and the duel had been brickdust to the lustre of its glory. Slyder Downehylle's nose actually "shone again," brighter than ever. His arm, no doubt, was in a sling-the same arm that had conveyed so many slings into him, to support him, comfort him and keep him up, but his nose was selfsustained; it had been proved to be a feature not to be handled with impunity. But what are noses, after all-what are noses in the abstract-noses individual ly considered? Slyder, in the end, did not care much who pulled his nose, so they did it gently.

He was engaged in solving a great moral problem. He left the longitude and the squaring of the circle to intellects of an inferior order. It was for him to determine whether it was possible to live upon the principal of one's health and capacities for enjoyment, without being restricted to such beggarly returns as the mere interest thereof. As for content-the "being happy with one's self," as Uncle John expressed it-this was a very flat sort of happiness in Slyder Downehylle's estimation, if, indeed, he ever placed it in that category at all. It was by no means strong enough for the purpose. Happy upon water!" I'll trouble you

for that pale brandy," said Slyder Downehylle. He desired that his existence should be one vast bowl of champagne punch-an everlasting mince pie-terrapins and turtle soup-gla ciers of ice-cream and cataracts of cognac, sunned by frolic and fanned by the breeze of excitement,—a “perpetual spree!" There were to be no shady sides of the way in his resplendent world.-How many practical philosophers have failed in the same pursuit! Is the aurum potabile never to be diacovered? Are we always to come down to the plain reality, at last? Downehylle could not endure the thought.— "More cayenne, if you please."

"Have you ever tried faro ?" whis pered Spifflikens;-"there's considerable fun at faro, when you are up to it."

Spifflikens passed the bottle. Slyder Downehylle had never tried faro, but he did try it, and thought that he rather liked it. In short, it improved upon acquaintance. At length, he had reached the ultima Thule. The "something to be happy with" had, to all appearance, been found. Redheif fer was but a goose. He knew not where to look for the "perpetual mo tion"-the everlasting jog to the flagging spirit. But the top of our speed brings the end of the race. He who moves most rapidly, is the soonest at the close of his career. Faro is fickle, and Slyder Downehylle, in his zeal to pile enjoyment upon enjoyment-to be happy, if possible, with several thing at a time-had unluckily a habit of not taking even his faro "plain;" he needed syrup also in that effervescing draught, and as his head became warm, the "cool" amounts in his pockets melted away.

Slyder Downehylle was a cashless man-his researches after felicity had not only proved unsuccessful, but had left him without the means of future progression. He was bemired halfway-swamped, as it were, in sight of port. Even Spifflikens cut him dead. The tailors desired no more of his custom-his apartments at the hotel were wanted. The "credit system" was out of fashion. Financiering had been clipped in its wings. How doleful looks the candle when capped with an extinguisher? The wounded squirrel drops from limb to limb. The world has many wounded squirrels, besides those that crack nuts to earn a living. Just such

a squirrel was Slyder Downehylle, compelled, before he reached the top of his aspiring hopes, to abandon every step that he had so toilfully surmounted.

How he now obtained anything to eat, is not exactly known. His mode of obtaining something to drink, is, if not original, certainly ingenious. He never goes to the pump, having no taste for hydraulics. Nor does he find water with a hazel twig. He has a more effective "twig" than that. He lounges in bar-rooms, and as his old acquaintances, searchers after happiness not yet brought up with a "round turn," go there to drink-a dry bar is a sad impediment to navigation-it is astonishing how very solicitous he becomes in reference to their health.

"How do ye do, Mr. Jones? I've not had the pleasure of seeing you for a long time. How have you been?" "Pretty well, Downehylle, pretty well-but excuse me-Bibo and I are going to try something."

"Why, ah-thank you-I don't care much if I do join. The pale brandyyes-that will answer," would be Slyder Downehylle's response under such circumstances, from which it is apparent that misfortune had somewhat impaired his sense of hearing.

Slyder Downehylle is supposed to be yet about town, looking earnestly for his undiscovered happiness. The last time he was seen by credible witnesses, they noted him busily employed in playing "All Fours," in front of John Gin's hostelry-a game probably selected as emblematic of his now creeping condition. He lounges no more in fashionable resorts. Cham

pagne punch is a mere reminiscence. His Havanas are converted into 'long nines,' and his bibulations are at two cents a glass, making up in piperine pungency what they lack in delicacy of flavor. He is sadly emaciated, and in all respects considerably the worse for wear, while a hollow cough indicates that his physical capabilities have proved inadequate to the requirements of his method of employing life, and are fast dropping to pieces. Slyder Downehylle is consequently more melancholy than ever. He is troubled with doubts. Perhaps he may have proceeded upon an error-perhaps the principle, the high pressure principle, of his action was not the right one. It may be that excitement is not happiness-that our pleasures are fleeting in proportion to their intensity-that indeed, if "life be a feast," the amount of satisfaction to be derived from it, is rather diminished than increased by swallowing the viands hastily and by having a free recourse to condiments, and that a physical economy is as wise and as necessary to well-being, as economy of any other kind. He is almost led to suppose that his "something to be happy with," is a fallacy; he never could hold it within his grasp, and he inclines to the belief that a man probably does well to have a home in himself, that he may not always be compelled to run abroad for recreation, or to appeal to his senses to give vivacity to the hour. If it were his luck to begin again, perhaps he might try the tack thus indicated. But that hollow cough!-Our experiences oft reach their climax too late; yet others may learn from the example of Slyder Downehylle.

THE MOUNTAINS.

I love ye, Mountains! for since earliest time,
When Tyranny hath bared his ruthless hand,
And through the valleys of the fated land,
Let loose the craven ministers of crime;
Crimsoned the sod, as 'twere in very mirth,
With blood of hoary sire, and generous youth,
And in God's name razed to the reeking earth,
The unstained altars of eternal Truth;
Your snow-capt crags, upon whose dizzy height
The daring vulture stays its weary flight;
Your dark recesses, where the black wolves den,
And outlaws dwell-more merciful than he-
Have been the refuge of unconquered men,
And home and citadel of Liberty.

New Bedford, Mass.

R. 8. S. ADOS.

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LA GRANDE BRETÊCHE.

A TALE.

On the outskirts of the small town of Vendome, situated on the banks of the Loire, stands an old, dark, high-roofed house, entirely insulated, without vicinage of any kind to disturb its seclusion. In front of this dwelling, is a garden terminating on the river's edge; but the box-wood, in time past carefully trimmed, which marked its walks and alleys, now grows in freedom; the hedge enclosures receive no care; the young willows born in the Loire, have rapidly increased in size; weeds in rich vegetation crowd the river slope; the fruit trees have remained unclipped for ten years, and have ceased to bear. The garden paths, once well sanded and gravelled, are grass-grown; in fact, their outlines are scarcely distinguishable.

It is easy, nevertheless, to discern from the hill-top strewn with the ruins of the ancient castle of the Dukes of Vendome, the only spot from which the eye can plunge into the recesses of the enclosure, it is easy, I say, to discern, that at some period of time more or less remote, it must have been the residence of some good old gentleman, fond of roses, dahlias-of horticulture, in a word and also, perhaps, addicted to good and luscious fruit. You can still see an arbour, or rather the remains of one, under which is a table which time has not entirely destroyed.

In the presence of this garden, which is no more, you divine the peaceful delights of country life, just as the epitaph on the dead may indicate the pursuits of the living; and, then, to complete the soft and melancholy impressions it awakens, you find on one of the walls a rustic sun-dial decorated with the familiar inscription:

Fugit hora brevis.

Of the house itself the roofs are crumbling, the shutters closed; the balconies are covered by thousands of swallows' nests; the doors are open;

high grass grows from the interstices of the stone steps; the iron work is rusted; the moon, the sun, winter, summer, have worn the wood, loosened the frames, dilapidated all. The silence of this forlorn mansion is only disturbed by birds, cats, rats, and mice, who go and come in freedom. An invisible hand has traced throughout the wordMystery!

If your curiosity should urge you to inspect this house on the street side, you will discover a large door, the top of round form, in which the children of the country have made innumerable holes. I subsequently learned that this door had not been opened for ten years. Through these irregular openings you may remark the perfect harmony existing between the front on the garden, and that on the court yard.

Clumps of grass are scattered over the pavements; enormous crevices furrow the walls; creeping ivy ornaments the copings. The door-steps are dislocated; the bell-rope is rotted; the gutters broken; all around is void, desolate, and silent. This mansion is an enigma of which no one knows the solution. It bears the name of La Grande Bretêche, and was formerly a small fief.

During my stay at Vendome, the romantic view of this singular house became one of my liveliest pleasures. It was something better than a ruin. To a ruin are attached historical recollections, known facts, the authenticity of which contemplation cannot reject; but, in this habitation still erect, and yet in the progress of self-destruction, there was a secret, an unknown, undiscovered design; at least, the whim of some eccentric fellow-being.

More than one evening, my steps led me to the wild hedge which protected the enclosure; then, in defiance of its prickly thorns, I made my way into this garden without an owner, into this property which was no longer either public or private; and I would there

• From the French (varied and adapted) of Balzac. VOL. XIII.-NO LXY. 34

remain for whole hours contemplating its disorder. I would not, for the sake of learning the true story to which doubtless was owing the strange scene before me, question the townspeople; for there my imagination indulged itself in vague romance; and, had I known the motive, perhaps a trivial one, of its forsaken state, I might have lost the unexpressed poetry in which I revelled.

In this retreat, as I have said, I passed much of my time: I found in it the sanctity of the cloister, the peace of the grave-yard, without the dead who speak to you from their tombstones; rural life was there with its serene repose, its measured tranquillity.There I often wept; there no emotion of gaiety was possible. I have been shaken by sudden terror by the whirring passage of the hurried woodpigeon above my head. The soil is moist; you must guard against the lizard, the viper, and other tribes of noxious life whose home you invade. You must not dread the cold; in a few moments you will find its icy mantle fall unbidden on your shoulders. Place, circumstances, and disposition of mind at the time, increased my natural susceptibility. I would have trembled at a shadow. One night that I had fashioned out a tale, a drama associated with the dreary locality, the mere rustling of an antique weather-vane startled me. It struck me as the moaning of the desolate mansion.

I returned to my inn with gloomy thoughts. After supper my landlady entered the room with an air of mystery, saying:

"M. Regnault is here, sir!"
"Who is M. Regnault ?"

"The gentleman does not know M. Regnault? Indeed!" And she went

out.

A moment after her departure a man of very ordinary appearance entered the apartment.

"To whom, sir," said I, "have I the honor of speaking?"

He sat down, placed his hat on the table, and replied, rubbing his hands: "I am, sir, M. Regnault." I bowed.

"I am the notary of Vendome."
"Well, sir!" exclaimed I.

"A moment, sir! I am told that you are in the habit of occasionally walking in the garden of la Grande Bretêche.

"Yes, sir."

"I do not wish to accuse you of a crime, but in the name and as executor of the late Countess de Merret, I must request you to discontinue your visits. You are a stranger, and may not be supposed to know the reasons which I have for abandoning to ruin the best house in Vendome. Its state may excuse your curiosity, but representing the injunctions of the late proprietor, I have the honor to repeat that you are requested never again to place your foot in that garden. I, myself, since the opening of the will, have never entered the house. We merely numbered the doors and windows, so as to fix the amount of taxes due to the State, and these are paid by me annually out of funds appropriated for the purpose."

"May I ask what motives occasioned this singular arrangement?"

"Sir," replied he, "you shall know all I know. One evening, now ten years ago and more, I was sent for by the Countess de Merret, then residing at her Chateau de Merret. The message was delivered by her maid, who is now a servant in this inn. You must know that a short time previously the Comte de Merret had died in Paris. He perished miserably, the victim of incessant dissipation. On the day of his departure from Vendome, the Countess abandoned Grande Bretêche. It was said that she had caused all the furniture to be burned on the lawn. For about three months the Count and his wife had lived in a strange manner. They denied themselves to all visitors, and occupied different parts of the house. After her husband's departure the Countess was only to be seen at church; she declined all communication with her friends, and was already an altered woman the day she left la Grande Bretêche for Merret. was very ill, and had doubtless despaired of her health, for she died without seeking medical advice. Many here thought that she was not quite right in her head. My curiosity was greatly excited on learning that Madame de Merret required my professional assistance; but I was not the only one who knew it; the same evening, although it was late, it was reported about the town that I was called to Merret. The maid answered my questions vaguely; she said, however, that

She

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