FEINBERG/WHITMAN LITERARY FILE BOOK FILE -- Specimen Days & Collect Manuscripts Original Printer's Copy Opp. 514-548
Box 24 Folder 7[*Crow*]
[*514*]
[*brev. caps*]
The Last Loyalist.

"She came to me last night,
The floor gave back no tread."  [*nonp*]

[*22*]     
The story I am going to tell is a traditional reminiscence
of a country place, in my rambles
about which I have often pass[e]'d the house, now
unoccupied, and mostly in ruins, that was the
scene of the transaction. I cannot, of course,
convey to others that particular kind of influence,
which is derived from my being so familiar with
the locality, and with the very people whose grandfathers
or fathers were contemporaries of the actors
in the drama I shall transcribe. I must hardly
expect, therefore, that to those who hear it thro'
the medium of my pen, the narration will possess 
as life-like and interesting a character as it
does to myself.
     On a large and fertile neck of land that juts
out in the Sound [which] stretch[ed]ing to the [?]          
east of New York city, there stood, in the latter
part of the last century, an old-fashion[e]'d country'-residence. 
It had been built by one of the first
settlers of this section of the New World; and its
occupant was originally owner of the extensive
tract lying adjacent to his house, and pushing into
the [very] bosom of the salt waters.
     It was during the troubled times which mark[e]d      '
our American Revolution that the incidents occurr[e]'d  '
which are the foundation of my story.--
Some time before the commencement of the war,
the owner, whom I shall call Vanhome, was taken
sick and died. For [years] some time before his death he had           
lived a widower; and his only child, [an only one], a lad    
of ten years old, was thus left an orphan. By
his father's will, this child was placed implicitly
under the guardianship of an uncle, a middle-aged
man, who had been of late a resident in the family.
   [As if to verify the truth of the ancient proverb,
which declares that evils, when once started on
their path, follow each other thick and fast,]--not
[*run in*]
His care and
interest, however,
were needed
but a little 
while.--
[*[neusa
come 
singly]*]
two years elaps[e]'d after the parents were laid away            '
to their last repose, before another grave had to
be prepared for the son--the [fair and lovely] child
who had been so haplessly deprived of their fostering
care.
     The period [had] now arrived when the great national 
convulsion burst forth. Sounds of strife,
and the clash of arms, and the angry voices of
disputants, were borne along by the air; and week
after week grew to louder and still louder clamor.
Families were divided; adherents to the crown,
and ardent upholders of the rebellion, were often
found in the bosom of same domestic circle.
Vanhome, the uncle spoken of as guardian to the
young heir, was a man who lean[e]'d to the stern,
the high-handed and the severe. He soon became 
known among the most energetic of the loyalists.
So [violent] decided were his sentiments, that, leaving the
estate which he had [so fortunately] inherited from
his brother and nephew, he join[e]'d the forces of                '
the British king. Thenceforward, whenever his
old neighbors heard of him, it was as being engaged
in the cruelest outrages, the boldest inroads,
or the most determin[e]'d attacks upon the army of
his countrymen, or their peaceful settlements.[*a lead*]   [*515*]

     Eight years brought the revel States and their
leaders to that glorious epoch when the last remnant 
of a monarch's rule was to leave their shores
-- when the last waving of the royal standard was
to flutter as it should be haul[e]'d down from the                     '
staff, and its place fill[e]'d by the proud testimonial                 '
of our warriors' success.
     Pleasantly over the autumn field shone the 
November sun, when a horseman, of somewhat
military look, plodded slowly along the road that
led to the old Vanhome farm-house. There was
nothing peculiar in his attire, unless it might be a
red scarf which he wore tied round his waist. --
He was a dark-featured, sullen-eyed man ; and as
his glance was thrown restlessly to the right and
left his whole manner appear[e]'d to be that of a                   '
person moving amid familiar and accustom[e]'d
scenes. Occasionally he stopp[e]'d, and looking                      '
long and steadily at some object that attracted his
attention, mutter[e]'d to himself, like one in whose                '
breast busy thoughts were moving. His course
was evidently to the homestead itself, at which in
due time he arrived. His dismounted, led his
horse to the stables, and then, without knocking,
though there were evident signs of occupancy
around the duilding, the traveler made his entrance 
as composedly and  boldly as though he
were master of the establishment.
     Now [it had happened that] the house being in
a measure deserted for many years, and the successful
termination of the strife rendering it probable 
that the Vanhome estate would be confiscated
to the new government,--an aged, poverty-stricken
couple had been encouraged by the neighbors
to take possession as tenants of the place.
Their name was Gills; and these people the trave[l]ler
found upon his entrance were likely to be
his host and hostess. Holding their right as they
did, by so slight a tenure, they ventur[e]'d to offer                           '
no opposition when the stranger signified his intention
of passing several hours there.
The day wore one, and the sun went down in
the west.  Still the interloper mads no signs of 
departing.  But as the [night fell.] gloomy and taciturn evening advanced, (whether the
darkness was congenial to his sombre thoughts, or
whether it merely chanced so,) he seem[e]'d to
grow more affable and communicative.  and informed Gills that he should pass the night there - tendering him at the same time amble renumeration, which the latter accepted with many thanks. -
'Tell me,' said he to his aged host, when they
were all sitting round the ample hearth, at the 
conclusion of their evening meal, 'tell me something
to while away the hours.'
'Ah! sir,' answered Gills, 'this is no place for
new or interesting events. [to happen.]  We live
here from year to year, and at the end of one, we
find ourselves at about the same place which we
filled in the beginning.'
'Can you relate nothing, then,' rejoin[e]'d the
guest--and a singular smile [ass[e]'d over his features;
'can you say nothing about your own place?
this house or its former inhabitants, or [the] former
history?'
The old man glanced across to his wife, and a
look expressive of sympathetic feeling started in
the face of each.
'It is an unfortunate story, sir,' said Gills, 'and
may cast a chill upon you, instead of the pleasant
feeling which it would be best to foster when in
strange walls.'
'Strange walls!' echoed he of the red scarf; and
for the first time since his arrival he half laugh[e]'d,
but it was not the laugh which comes from a 
man's heart.
'You must know, sir,' continued Gills, 'I am?
When
you
are

good

?[*516*]

myself a sort of intruder here. The Vanhomes
--that was the name of the former residen s and
owners--I have never seen; for when I came to
these parts the last [Vanhome] occupant had left, to join the
red-coat soldiery. I am told that he is to sail
with them for foreign lands, now that the war is
ended, and his property almost certain to pass
into other hands.'
   As the old man went on, the stranger cast down
his eyes, and listen[e]'d with an appearance of great
interest, though a transient smile, or a brightening
of the eye, would occasionally disturb the serenity
of his deportment.
   'The old [occupants] owners of this place,' continued
the white-haired narrator, 'were well off in the 
world, and bore a good name among their neighbors, 
The brother of Sergeant Vanhome, now
the only one of the name, died ten or twelve
years since, leaving a son-- a child so small, that 
the father's will made provision for his being
brought up by his uncle, whom I mention[e]'d but
now as of the British army. He was a strange
man, this uncle; disliked by all who knew him,
passionate, vindictive, and, it was said, very avaricious, 
even from his childhood.
 ' Well; not long after the death of the parents,
dark stories began to be circulated about cruelty,
and punishment, and whippings, and starvation, 
in[f]flicted by the new master upon his nephew.--
People who had business at the homestead would
frequently, when they came away, relate the most
fearful things of its manager, and how he misused 
his brother's child. It was half hinted that 
he strove to get the youngster out of the way, in
order that the whole estate might fall into his own
hands. As I told you before, however, nobody 
liked the man; and perhaps they judged him too
uncharitably.'
[*23*] 
   'After things had gone on in this way for some
time, a countryman, a laborer, who was hired to 
do farm work upon the place, one evening observed 
that the little orphan Vanhome was more faint
and pale even than usual, for he was always delicate, 
and that is one reason why I think it possible 
that his death, of which I am now going to
tell you, was but the result of his own weak constitution, 
and nothing else.
   'The laborer slept that night at the farm-house.
Just before the time at which they usually retired
to bed, this person, feeling [tired and] sleepy with
his day's toil, [took his light,] left the kitchen hearth, and wended his way
to rest. In going to his place of repose, he had
to pass a chamber--the very chamber where you,
sir, are to sleep to-night--and there he heard the 
voice of the orphan child, uttering half-suppress[e]'d
exclamations, as if in pitiful entreaty. Upon
stopping, he heard also the tones of the elder Vanhome, 
but they were harsh and bitter. The
[whacking] sound of blows followed. As each one
fell, it was accompanied by a groan or shriek; and
so they continued for some time. Shock[e]'d and
indignant, the countryman would have burst open
the door and interfered to prevent this brutal proceeding; 
but he bethought him that he might get
himself into trouble, and perhaps find that he
could do no good after all, and so he passed on to
his room.
   'Well, sir; the following day the child did not 
come out among the work-people as usual. He
was taken very ill. No physician was sent for
until the next afternoon; and though one arrived 
in the course of the [succeeding] night, it was too
late--the poor boy died before morning.143
33
429 ,
429
4719[*517*]
   'People talk[e]'d threateningly upon the subject, 
but nothing could be proved against Vanhome. 
At one period there were efforts made to have the 
whole affair investigate. Perhaps [such a preceeding] 
would have taken place, had not every 
one's attention been swallow[e]'d up by the rumors 
of difficulty and war, which [at that time] were 
beginning to disturb the country.
   'Vanhome join[e]'d the army of the king. His 
enemies said that he feared to be on the side of 
the rebels, because if they were routed his property 
would be taken from him. But events have 
shown, that if this was indeed what he dreaded, 
it has happen[e]'d to him from the very means 
which he took to prevent it.'
  The old man paused. He had quite wearied 
himself with so long talking. For some minutes 
there was unbroken silence.
   'Did you say that Vanhome had left this land 
and sail[e]'d for Europe?' at length asked the stranger; 
who, when Gills concluded, [had] raised his 
face, pale, and the [with] eyes glittering [like the one in] with a strange expression. 
[great perturbation.]
   'So we hear,' returned the old man.
   Again there was silence, which no one seemed 
inclined to break.

   Presently, the stranger signified his intention of 
retiring for the night. He rose, and his host took 
a light for the purpose of ushering him to his 
apartment.
  [ 'What of this chamber which you mentioned?' 
said the traveler, pausing as he stood with his 
back to the fire and looking not into the face of 
the old man, but as it were into vacancy.
   The host started, and it was evident the question 
had awakened agitating thoughts in his mind[;]. 
[for his face blanched a little, and his glance turned 
feverishly from object to object.]
   'It is said,' answer[e]'d he, in a low, [stealthy] timid tone, 
'that the spirit of the little orphan [child] haunts 
that chamber in the silent hours of night.'
   The stranger wheeled, and looked full into the 
face of the speaker. A convulsive spasm passed 
over his features, and from his eyes came the 
flashing of condensed rage and [hideous] terror.
   'Hell!' uttered he, furiously, 'am I to be taunted 
by ghosts, and placed amid the spectres of puling 
brats? Find me, [library thief] villain !—find me some 
other sleeping place; else will I ----." [have you dragged 
forth and lashed—lashed before the whole regiment!']
   His cheeks were white with excitement; ferocity 
gleamed in ever look and limb; and the frightened 
Gills and his wife shrank back in very fear 
that he would do them some bodily harm. [They 
thought him mad; his words were so incoherent 
and strange. But no quicker passed away is the 
lightning's flash—]not in the [swiftest] night-storm 
does a cloud flit more quickly over the face of the 
moon[—] than was the cleaning up of the stranger's 
countenance, and the clothing of his [face] aspect again 
in its former [mantle of] indifference.
   'Forgive me!' said he, with a bland smile, 'I 
am too hasty. In truth, I have a horror of these 
superstitious stories; they fret me. But no matter. 
Do not think I am so silly as to fear this child-spirit 
you have spoken of. Such nonsense is for 
the ignorant and the credulous. Again I ask pardon 
for my rudeness. Let me now be shown to 
this chamber—this haunted chamber. I am weary. 
Good night, mistress!'
   And without waiting for an answer, he of the 
red scarf hastily pushed the old man through the 
door, and they passed to the sleeping room.]
   When Gills return[e]'d to his accustomed situation 
in the large arm-chair by the chimney hearth, 
his ancient help-mate had retired to rest. With 
the simplicity of their times, the bed stood in [a 
kind of alcove, just out of] the same room where 
the three had been seated during the last few 
hours; and now the remaining two talk[e]'d together 
about the singular events of the evening. As 
the time wore on, Gills show[e]'d no disposition to 
leave his cozy chair; but sat toasting his feet, and 
bending over the coals—[*(run in next*] [an enjoyment that was to 
his mind very pleasant an satisfactory.][*518*]
[*run in*] 
Gradually the insidious heat and the lateness of 
the hour began to exercise their influence over 
the old man. The drowsy indolent feeling which 
every one has experienced in getting thoroughly 
heated through by close centact with a glowing 
fire, spread in each vein and sinew, and relaxed its 
tone. He lean[e]'d back in his chair and slept.
For a long time his repose went on quietly and 
soundly. He could not tell how many hours 
elaps[e]'d; but a while after midnight, the torpid 
senses of the slumberer were awaken[e]'d by a startling 
shock. It was a cry as of a strong man in 
his agony--a shrill, not a very loud cry, but fearful, 
and creeping into the blood, like cold, [sharp,] polish[e]d 
steel. The old man raised himself in his 
seat and listen[e]'d--at once fully awake. For a
minute, all was the solemn stillness of midnight. 
Then rose that horrid tone again--wailing and
wild, and making the hearer's hair stand on end. 
[As it floated along to the chamber--borne through
the darkness and stillness--it brought to the mind 
of Gills thoughts of the cowlings of damned 
spirits, and the death-rattle of murdered men, and 
the agonies of the drowning, and the [hoarse] croak 
of the successful assassin.]
[He sat almost paralyzed in his chair. Then 
came an interval; then another of those terrible
shrieks.] [*run in*] One moment more, and the trampling 
of hasty feet sounded in the passage outside. 
The door was thrown open, and the form of the 
stranger, more like a corpse than living man, 
rushed into the room.
['He is there!' said the quivering wretch, pointing
with his finger; and speaking in low hoarse
tones; 'he is there, in his little shroud!  And he
smiled and looked gently upon me and those blue
eyes of his--O, how much sharper than a thousand
frowns!'
The man  shook, like one in a great ague, and
his jaws clashed against each other.]
'All white!' [continued] yell'd the [miserable,] conscience
stricken creature; all white, and with the graveclothes
around him!  One shoulder was bare, and
I saw,' he whisper[e]'d, 'I saw blue streaks upon 
it.  It was horrible, and I cried aloud.  He stepp[e]'d
toward me!  He came to my very bed-side; his
small hand [was raised, and] almost touch[e]'d my
face.  I could not bear it, and fled!'
The miserable man bent his head down upon
his bosom; convulsive raftlings shook his throat;
and his whole frame waver[e]'d to and fro, like a
tree in a storm.  Bewilder[e]'d and shock[e]'d, Gills
look[e]'d at his apparently deranged guest, and 
knew not what answer to make, or what course
of conduct to pursue.
[*[run in next]*]
['Do you not believe it?' furiously exclaimed the
stranger, with a revulsion of feeling, in consistence
with his character; do you think me a [child] coward, to be
frightened by a bugbe? Come!' continued he,
seizing the alarmed old, man by the shoulder;
'come hither, and let your own eyes be blasted
with the sight!'
And dragging the unresisting Gills, he strode
to the door, and dashed it open with a loud and
echoing sound.
The house was one of that old-fashioned sort,
still to be met with occasionally in country villages, 
the ground floor of which was comprised of
two rooms, divided by a hall--the door of each
room being off against the other; so that the old
man and his companion had a full view of the
adjoining apartment.  Though there was no light
there, Gills fancied he could see everything distinctly.][*519*]

    [In one corner stood the bed from which the 
stranger had started--its coverlet and sheets all 
tumbled and half dragged down on the floor. A 
few feet on one side of its head, was the hearth-stone; 
and the sight thereon, as Gills strained his 
eyes to behold it, was drunk in with chilling terror. [to his heart.]
    Upon that hearth-stone stood the form of a boy, 
some [ten] eleven years old. His face was wan [and ghastly,] 
but very beautiful: his hair was light and wavy; 
and he was apparelled in the habiliments of the 
tomb. As the appalled Gills looked he felt that the 
eyes of the pale child were fixed upon him 
and his companion--fixed, not as in anger, but 
with a gentle sorrow. From one shoulder the 
fearful dress had fallen aside, and the appearance 
of gashes and livid streaks was visible.
    'See you?' harshly shrieked the stranger, as if 
maddened by the sight; 'I have not dreamed--he 
is there, in his snowy robes--he comes to mock 
me. And look you!' he crouched and recoiled, 
'does he not step this way again? I shall go mad! 
If he but touches me with that little hand, I am 
mad! Away, spectre! [boy-phantom, away!] or I 
die too upon this very floor!']  [*[run after]*]
[*¶*]    [And] thrusting out his arms and his extended 
fingers, and bending down his eyes, as men do 
when shading them from a glare of lightning--[he] the stranger 
stagger[e]'d from the door, and in a moment further, 
dash[e]'d madly through the passage which led 
through the kitchen into the outer road. The old 
man heard the noise of his flying footsteps, sounding 
fainter and fainter in the distance, and then, 
retreating, dropp[e]'d his own exhausted limbs into 
the chair from which he had been arous[e]'d so terribly. 
It was many minutes before his energies 
recover[e]'d their accustomed tone again. Strangely 
enough, his wife, unawaken[e]'d by the stranger's 
ravings, still slumber[e]'d on as profoundly as ever. 
[*a lead*]
    Pass we on to a far different [and almost as 
thrilling a] scene--the embarkation of the British 
troops for the distant land whose monarch was 
never more to wield the sceptre over a kingdom 
lost by his imprudence and tyranny. With 
frowning brow and sullen pace, the martial ranks 
moved on. Boat after boat was filled; and as 
each discharged its complement in the ships that 
lay heaving their anchors in the stream, it return[e]'d 
and was soon filled with another load. 
And at length it became time for the last soldier 
to lift his eye, and take a last glance at the broad 
banner of England's pride, which flapp[e]'d its folds 
from the top of the highest staff on the Battery. 
[Proud spectacle! May the flag which was planted 
in the place of the blood-red cross, waft out to the 
wind for ages and ages yet--and the nations of 
earth number not one so glorious as that which 
claims the star-gemmed symbol of liberty for its 
token!
[*¶*]    As the warning sound of a trumpet called together 
all who were laggards--those taking leave 
of friends, and those who were arranging their 
own private affairs, left until the last moment--a 
single horseman was seen furiously dashing down 
the street. A red scarf tightly encircled his waist. 
He made directly for the shore, and the crowd 
there gather[e]'d started back in wonderment as 
they beheld his dishevell[e]'d appearance and his 
ghastly face. Throwing himself violently from 
his saddle, he flung the bridle over the animal's 
neck, and gave him a cut with a small riding 
whip. He made for the boat; one minute later, 
and he had been left. They were pushing the 
keel from the landing--the stranger sprang--a 
space of two or three feet already intervened--he 
struck on the gunwale--and the Last Soldier of 
King George had left the American shores.520    Bryan

brev. cap head

[A tradition of Long Island, from the "Democratic Review."]
Wild Frank's Return.  [By W. Whitman.]
   As the sun, one August day some fifty years ago,
had just pass'd the meridian of a country town in the
eastern section of Long Island, a single traveler came
up to the quaint, low roof'd village tavern, open'd
its half-door, and entered the common room.  Dust
cover'd the clothes of the wayfarer, and his brow was
moist with sweat.  He trod in a lagging, weary
way; though his form and features told of an age not
more than nineteen or twenty years.  Over one
shoulder was slung a sailor's jacket, and in his hand
he carried a little bundle.  Sitting down on a rude
bench, he told a female who made her appearance
behind the bar, that he would have a glass of brandy
and sugar.  He took off the liquor at a draught:
after which he lit and began to smoke a cigar, with
which he supplied himself from his pocket--stretching
out one leg, and leaning his elbow down on the
bench, in the attitude of a man who takes an indolent
lounge.
   "Do you know one Richard Hall that lives somewhere
here among you?" said he.
   "Mr. Hall's is down the lane that turns off by that
big locust tree," answer'd the woman, pointing to
the direction through the open door; "it's about half
a mile from here to his house."
   The youth, a minute or two, puff'd the smoke
from his mouth very leisurely in silence.  His manner
had an air or vacant self sufficiency, rather
strange in one of so few years.
   "I wish to see Mr. Hall," he said at length.--
"Here's a silver sixpence, for any one who'll carry a
message to him."
   "The folks are all away.  It's but a short walk,
and your limbs are young," replied the female, who
was not altogether pleased with the easy way of
making himself at home, which mark'd her shabby
looking customer.
[run in]   That individual, however, seem'd to give small
attention to the hint, but lean'd and puff'd his cigar-smoke
as leisurely as before.
   "Unless," continued the woman, catching a second
glance at the sixpence; "unless old Joe is at 
the stable, as he's very likely to be.  I'll go and find
out for you."  And she push'd open a door at her
back, stepp'd through an adjoining room into a yard,
whence her voice was the next moment heard calling
the person she had mention'd, in accounts by
no means remarkable for their melody or softness.
   Her search was successful.  She soon return'd
with him who was to act as messenger--a little,
wither'd, ragged old man--a hanger on there, 
whose unshaven face told plainly enough the story
of his intemperate habits--those deeply seated habits,
now too late to be uprooted, that would ere long
lay him in a drunkard's grave.  The youth inform'd
him what that required service was, and promis'd him
the reward as soon as he should return.
   "Tell Richard Hall that I'm going to his father's
house this afternoon.  If he asks who it is that
wishes him here, say the person sent no name,"
continued the stranger, sitting up from his indolent
posture, as the feet of old Joe were about leaving
the door-stone, and his blear'd eyes turned to catch
the last sentence of the mandate.
    "And yet, perhaps you may as well," added he,
communing a moment with himself: "you may
tell him his brother Frank, Wild Frank, it is, who
wishes him to come."
[*521*]

   The old man departed on his errand, and he who
call[e]'d himself Wild Frank, toss[e]'d his nearly smoked
cigar out of the window, and folded his arms
in thought.
   No better place than this, probably, will occur
to give a brief account of some former events in
the life of the young stranger, resting and waiting
at the village inn.  Fifteen miles east of that inn
lived a farmer named Hall, a man of good repute,
well off in the world, and head of a large family.
He was fond of gain--required all his boys to labor
in proportion to their age[,]--and his right hand-man,
if he might not be called favorite, was his eldest son
Richard.  This eldest son, an industrious, sober-faced
young fellow, was invested by his father with the 
powers of second in command; and as strict and
swift obedience was a prime tenet in the farmer's
domestic government, the children all tacitly submitted
to their brother's sway--all but one, and that
one was Frank.  The farmer's wife was a quiet
woman, in rather tender health; and though for all 
her offspring she had a mother's love, Frank's kiss
ever seem[e]'d sweetest to her lips.  She favor[e]'d him
more than the rest--perhaps, as in a hundred similar
instances, for his being so often at fault, and so often 
blamed.  In truth, however, he seldom receiv[e]'d
more blame than he deserv[e]'d, for he was a capricious,
high-temper[e]'d lad, and up to all kinds of mischief.
From these traits, he was known in the 
neighborhood by the name of Wild Frank.
   Among the farmer's stock there was a fine young 
blood mare--a beautiful creature, large and graceful, 
with eyes like dark hued jewels, and her color
that of the deep night.  It being a custom of the 
farmer to let his boys have something about the farm
that they could call their own, and take care of as
such, Black Nell, as the mare was called, had somehow
or other fallen to Frank's share.  He was very 
proud of her, and thought as much of her comfort as
his own.  The elder brother, however, saw fit to
claim for himself, and several times to exercise, a
privilege of managing and using Black Nell, notwithstanding
what Frank consider'd his prerogative.
On one of these occasions a hot dispute arose, and,
after much angry blood, it was referr[e]'d to the farmer
for settlement.  He decided in favor of Richard, 
and added a harsh lecture to his other son.  The
farmer was really unjust; and Wild Frank's face
paled with rage and mortification.  That furious
temper which he had never been taught to curb, now
swell[e]'d like an overflowing torrent.  With difficulty
restraining the exhibition of his passions, as soon as
he got by himself he swore that not another sun
should roll by and find him under that roof.  Late at
night he silently rose, and, turning his back on what
he though an inhospitable home, in mood in which
the child should never leave the parent[i]al roof, bent
his steps forward toward the city.
   It may well be imagined that alarm and grief pervaded
the whole of the family, on discovering Frank's
departure.  And as week after week melted away and
brought no tidings of him, his poor mother's heart
grew wearier and wearier.  She spoke not much, but
was evidently sick in heart.  Nearly two years had
elaps[e]'d, when about a week before the incidents at
the commencement of this story, the farmer's family
were joyfully surprised by receiving a letter from the
long absent son.  He had been to sea, and was then
in New York, at which port his vessel was just arrived.
He wrote in a gay strain; appear[e]'d to have 
lost the angry feeling which caused his flight from
home; and said he heard in the city that Richard
had married, and settled several miles distant,
where he wished him all good luck and happiness.
Wild Frank wound up his letter by promising, as
soon as he could get through the imperative business
of his ship, to pay a visit to his parents and native
place.  On Tuesday of the succeeding week, he
said he would be with them.[*522*]

   Within half an hour after the departure of Old
Joe, the form of that ancient personage was seen
slowly wheeling round the locust-tree at the end of
the lane, accompanied by a stout young man in
primitive homespun apparel.  The meeting between
Wild Frank and his brother Richard, though hardly
of that kind which generally takes place between
persons so closely related, could not exactly be call[e]'d
distant or cool either.  Richard press[e]'d his brother
to go with him to the farm house, and refresh and
repose himself for some hours at least, but Frank
declined.
   "They will all expect me home this afternoon,"
he said, "I wrote to them I would be there to-day."
   "But you must be very tired, Frank," rejoin[e]'d
the other; "won't you let some of us harness up and
carry you?  Or if you like--" he stopp[e]'d a moment,
and a trifling suffusion spread over his face; "if you
like, I'll put the saddle on Black Nell--she's here at
my place now, and you can ride home like a lord."
   Frank's face color[e]'d a little, too.  He paused for
a moment in thought--he was really foot-sore, and
exhausted with his journey that hot day,--so he accepted
his brother's offer.
   "You know the speed of Nell, as well as I," said
Richard; "I'll warrant when I bring her here you'll 
say she's in as good order as ever." So telling him
to amuse himself for a few minutes as well as he
could, Richard left the tavern.
   Could it be that Black Nell knew her early master?
She neigh[e]'d, and rubb[e]'d her nose on his shoulder;
and as he put his foot in the stirrup and rose on
her back, it was evident that they were both highly
pleased with their meeting.  Bidding his brother
farewell, and not forgetting Old Joe, the young man
set forth on his journey for his father's house.  As
he left the village behind, and came upon the long,
monotonous road before him, [who shall say but that
his mind began to meditate on the reception he
should meet with?] he thought on the circumstances
of his leaving home [;] and he thought, too, on
his course of life, how it was being frittered away
and lost.  Very gentle influences, doubtless, came
over Wild Frank's mind then, and he yearn[e]'d to
show his parents that he was sorry for the trouble
he had cost them  He blamed himself for his former
follies, and even felt remorse that he had not acted
more kindly to Richard and gone to his house.  Oh, 
it had been a sad mistake of the farmer that he did
not teach his children to love one another.  It was 
a foolish thing that he prided himself on governing
his little flock well, when sweet affection, gentle
forbearance, and brotherly faith, were almost unknown
among them.
   The day was now advanced, though the heat
pour[e]'d down with a strength little less oppressive
than at noon. Frank had accomplish[e]'d the greater
part of his journey; he was within [three] two miles of his 
home. The road here led over a high, tiresome hill,
and he determin[e]'d to stop on the top of it and rest
himself, as well as give the animal he rode a few
minutes' breath.  How well he knew the place!--
And that mighty oak, standing just outside the
fence on the very summit of the hill, often had he
reposed under its shade.  It would be pleasant for a
few minutes to stretch his limbs there again as of
old, he thought to himself; and he dismounted from
the saddle and led Black Nell under the tree.--
Mindful of the comfort of his favorite, he took from
his little bundle, which he had strapped behind him
on the mare's back, a piece of [small,] strong cord,
four or five yards in length, which he tied to the[*523*]

bridle, and wound and tied the other end, for security,
over his own wrist; then throwing himself at
full length upon the ground, Black Nell was at liberty
to graze around him, without danger of straying 
away. 
[Mennig?]
   It was a calm scene, and a pleasant.  There was
no rude sound--hardly even a chirping insect--to
break the sleepy silence of the place.  The atmosphere
had a dim, hazy cast, and was impregnated
with overpowering heat.  The young man lay there
minute after minute, as time glided away unnoticed;
for he was very tired, and his repose was sweet to
him.  Occasionally he raised himself and cast a
listless look at the distant landscape, veil[e]'d as it
was by the slight mist.  At length his repose was 
without such interruptions.  His eyes closed, and
though at first they open[e]'d languidly again at intervals,
after a while they shut altogether.  Could it be
that he slept?  It was so, indeed.  Yielding to the
drowsy influences about him, and to his prolong[e]'d
weariness of travel, he had fallen into a deep, sound slumber.
Thus he lay; and Black Nell, the original cause of
his departure from his home--by a singular chance, 
the companion of his return--quietly cropp[e]'d the
grass at his side.
   An hour nearly pass[e]'d away, and yet the young
man slept on.  The light and heat were not glaring
now: a change had come over earth and heaven.--
There were signs of one of those [sudden] thunderstorms
that in our climate spring up and pass over so
quickly and so terribly.  Masses of vapor loom[e]'d up
in the horizon, and a dark shadow settled on the
woods and fields.  The leaves of the great oak rustled
together over the youth's head.  Clouds flitted swiftly
in the sky, like bodies of armed men coming up to
battle at the call of their leader's trumpet.  A thick
rain-drop fell now and then, while occasionally hoarse
mutterings of thunder sounded in the distance:  yet
the slumberer was not arous[e]'d.  [Lo! in the Eastern
world you may see men steeped in lethargy while a 
mightier tempest gathers over them.  Even as the 
floods are about to burst--as the warning caution is
sent forth--they close their eyes, and dream idly, and
smile while they dream.  Many a throned potentate,
many a proud king with his golden crown, will start
wildly in the midst of the thundercrash and the
bright glaring of the storm, and wonder that he saw
it not when it was coming.]
   It was strange that Wild Frank did not awake.
Perhaps his ocean life had taught him to rest undisturbed
amid the jarring of elements.  Though the
storm was now coming on in its fury, he slept like a 
babe in its cradle. Black Nell had ceased grazing,
and stood by her sleeping master with ears erect, and
her long mane and tail waving in the wind.  It[*524*]

seem'd quite dark, so heavy were the clouds.  The 
blast blew sweepingly, the lightning flash'd, and the 
rain fell in torrents.  Crash after crash of thunder 
seem'd to shake the solid earth.  And Black Nell, 
she stood now, an image of beautiful terror, with 
her fore feet thrust out, her neck arch'd, and her 
eyes glaring balls of fear.  At length, after a dazzling 
and lurid glare, there came a peal—a deafening 
crash—as if the great axle was rent.  God of Spirits ! 
the startled mare sprang off like a ship in an ocean-storm !  
Her eyes were blinded with light ; she 
dashed madly down the hill, and plunge after plunge 
—far, far away—swift as an arrow—dragging the 
hapless body of the sleeping youth behind her !
   In the low, old-fashion'd dwelling of the farmer 
there was a large family group  The men and 
boys had gather'd under shelter at the approach of 
the storm ; and the subject of their talk was the return 
of the long absent son.  The mother spoke of 
him, too, an her eyes brighten'd with pleasure as 
she spoke.  She made all the little domestic preparations 
—cook'd his favorite dishes—and arranged for 
him his own bed, in its own old place.  As the tempest 
mounted to its fury they discuss'd the probability 
of his getting soak'd by it ; and the provident 
dame had alroady selected some dry garments for a 
change.  But the rain was soon over, and nature 
smiled again in her invigorated beauty.  The sun 
shone out as it was dipping in the west.  Drops 
sparkled on the leaf-tips,—coolness and clearness 
were in the air.
   The clattering of a horse's hoofs came to the ears 
of those who were gather'd there.  It was on the 
other side of the house that the wagon road led ; and 
they open'd the door and rush'd in a tumult of glad 
anticipations, through the adjoining room to the 
porch.  What a sight it was that met them there ! 
Black Nell stood a few feet from the door, with her 
neck crouch'd down ; she drew her breath long and 
deep, and vapor rose from every part of her reeking 
body.  And with eyes starting from their sockets, 
and mouths agape in stupifying terror, they behold on 
the ground near her a mangled, hideous mass—the 
rough semblance of a human form—all batter'd, and 
cut, and bloody.  Attach'd to it was the fatal cord, 
dabbled over with gore.  [Fearful and sickening was 
the object.]  And as the mother gazed—for she could 
not withdraw her eyes—and the appalling truth came 
upom her mind, she sank down without shriek or 
utterance, into a deep, deathly swoon.[*Winters*]
[*525*]

[*brev: caps*]
The Boy-Lover.

   LISTEN, and the old will speak a chronicle for the 
young!  [*run in*] 
   Ah, youth! thou art one day coming to be old, 
too.  And let me tell thee how thou mayest get a 
useful lesson.  For an hour, dream thyself old.— 
Realize, in thy thoughts and consciousness, that vigor 
and strength are subdued in thy sinews—that 
the color of the shroud is liken[e]'d in thy very hairs— 
that all those leaping desires, luxurious hopes, beautiful 
aspirations, and proud confidences, of thy younger 
life, have long been buried, (a funeral for the better 
part of thee) in that grave which must soon close 
over thy tottering limbs.  Look back, then, through 
the long track of the past years.  How has it been 
with thee?  Are there bright beacons of happiness 
enjoy[e]'d, and of good done by the way?  Glimmer 
gentle rays of what was scatter[e]'d from a holy heart?  
Have benevolence, and love, and undeviating honesty 
left tokens on which thy eyes can rest sweetly?  
Is it well with thee, thus?  Answerest thou, it is?  
Or answerest thou, I see nothing but gloom and shatter[e]'d 
hours, and the wreck of good resolves, and a 
broken heart, filled with sickness, and troubled among 
its ruined chambers, with the phantoms of many 
follies?
   O, youth! youth! this dream will one day be a 
reality—a reality, either of heavenly peace, or agonizing 
sorrow.
   And yet not for all is it decreed to attain the neighborhood 
of three-score and ten years—the span 
of life.  I am to speak of one who died young.  Very 
awkward was his childhood!—but most fragile and 
sensitive!  So delicate a nature may exist in a rough, 
unnoticed plant!  Let the boy rest;—he was not 
beautiful, and droop[e]'d away betimes.  But for the 
cause—it is a singular story, to which let crusted 
worldlings pay the tribute of a light laugh—light 
and empty as their own hollow hearts. 
   [The sway of love over the mind—though the old 
subject of flippant remarks from those who are too 
coarse to appreciate its delicate ascendency—is a 
strange and beautiful thing.  And in your dream of 
age, young man, whsen I have charged you to 
dream, sad and desolate will that trodden path appear, 
over which have not been shed the rose tints 
of this Light of Life.
   Love! the mighty passion which, ever since the 
world began, has been conquering the great, and 
subduing the humble—bending princes, and mighty 
warriors, and the famous men of all nations, to the 
ground before it.  Love! the delirious hope of youth, 
and the fond memory of old age.]  Love! which, 
with its cankerseed of decay within, has sent young 
men and maidens to a long[e]'d-for, but too premature 
burial.  Love! the child-monarch that Death itself 
cannot conquer; that has its tokens on slabs at the 
head of grass-cover[e]'d tombs—tokens more visible 
to the eye of the stranger, yet not so deeply graven 
as the face and the remembrances cut upon the 
heart of the living.  Love! the sweet, the pure, the 
innocent; yet the causer of fierce hate, of wishes 
for deadly revenge, of bloody deeds, and madness, 
and the horrors of hell.  Love! that wanders over 
battlefields, turning up mangled human trunks, and 
parting back the hair from gory faces, and daring 
the points of swords and the thunder of artillery, 
without a fear or a thought of danger.
   Words! words!  I begin to see I am, indeed, an 
old man, and garrulous!  Let me go back—yes, I 
see it must be many years!
[*a lead*][*526*]

   It was at the close of the last century.  I was at
that time studying law, the profession my father
follow[e]'d.  One of his clients, was an elderly widow,
a foreigner, who kept a little ale-house, on the
banks of the North River, at about two miles from
what is now the centre of the city.  Then, the
spot was quite out of town, and surrounded by
fields and green trees.  The widow often invited
me to come and pay her a visit, when I had a 
leisture afternoon--including also in the invitation,
my brother, and two other students who were in my
father's office.  Matthew, the brother I mention,
was a boy of sixteen; he was troubled with an inward
illness--though it had no power over his temper,
which ever retain[e]'d the most admirable placidity
and gentleness.  He was cheerful but never
boisterous, and every body loved him; his mind
seem[e]'d more develop[e]'d than is usual for his age,
though his personal appearance was exceedingly
plain.  Wheaton and Brown, the names of the 
other students, were spirited, clever young fellows,
with most of the traits that those in their position of
life generally possess.  The first was as generous
and brave as any man I ever knew.  He was very
passionate, too, but the whirlwind soon blew over,
and left everything quiet again.  Frank Brown was
slim, graceful and handsome.  He profess[e]'d to be
fond of sentiment, and used to fall regularly in love
once a month.
   The half of every Wednesday we four youths
had to ourselves, and were in the habit of taking a
sail, a ride, or a walk altogether.  One of these afternoons,
of a pleasant day in April, the sun shining, 
and the air clear, I bethought myself of the widow
and her beer--about which latter article I had made 
inquiries, and heard it spoken of in terms of high
commendation.  I mention[e]'d the matter to Matthew 
and to my fellow students, and we agreed to
fill up our holiday by a jaunt, to the ale-house.  Accordingly,
we set forth, and, after a fine walk, arrived
in glorious spirits, at our destination.
   Ah! how shall I describe the quiet beauties of
the spot, with its long low piazza looking out upon
the river, and its clean homely tables, and the tankards
of real silver in which the ale was given us, 
and the flavor of that excellent liquor itself.  There
was the widow; and there was a sober, stately old
woman, half companion, half servant, Margery
by name; and there was (good God! my fingers
quiver yet as I write the word!) young Ninon,
the daughter of the widow.
   O, through the years that live no more, my
memory strays back, and that whole scene comes
up before me once again--and the brightest part
of the picture is the strange ethereal beauty of
that young girl!  She was apparently about
the age of my brother Matthew, and the
most fascinating, artless creature I had ever
beheld.  She had blue eyes[,] and light hair, and an
expression of childish simplicity[,] which was charming
indeed.  I have no doubt that ere half an hour
had elapsed from the time we enter[e]'d the tavern,
and saw Ninon, every one of the four of us loved
the girl to the very depth of passion.
   We neither spent so much money, nor drank as
much beer, as we had intended before starting from
home.  The widow was very civil, being pleased to
see us, and Margery served our wants with a deal
of politeness--but it was to Ninon that the afternoon's
pleasure was attributable; for though we
were strangers, we became acquainted at once--the
manners of the girl, merry as she was, putting entirely
out of view the most distant imputation of indecorum--
and the presence of the widow and Margery,
(for we were all in the common room together,
there being no other company,) serving to make us
all disembarrass[e]'d and at ease.[*527*]

   It was not until quite a while after sunset, that
we started on our return to the city.  We made several
attempts to revive the mirth and lively talk that
usually signalized our rambles, but they seem[e]'d
forced and discordant, like laughter in a sick room.
My brother was the only one who preserved his usual 
tenor of temper and conduct.
   I need hardly say that thenceforward every Wednesday
afternoon was spent at the widow's tavern.
Strangely, neither Matthew[,] or my two friends, or
myself, spoke to each other[,] of the sentiment that
filled us, in reference to Ninon.  Yet we all knew
the thoughts and feelings of the others; and each,
perhaps, felt confident that his love alone was unsuspected
by his companions.
   The story of the widow was a touching yet simple
one.  She was by birth a Swiss.  In one of the
cantons of her native land, she had grown up, and
married, and lived for a time in happy comfort.  A 
son was born to her, and a daughter, the beautiful
Ninon.  By some reverse of fortune, the father and
head of the family had the greater portion of his
possessions swept from him.  He struggled for a 
time against the evil influence, but it press[e]'d upon 
him harder and harder.  He had heard of a people
in the western world--a new and swarming land--
where the stranger was welcom[e]'d, and peace and
the protection of the strong arm thrown around him.
He had not heart to stay and struggle amid the
scenes of his former prosperity, and he determin[e]'d
to go and make his home in that distant republic of
the west.  So with his wife and children, and the
proceeds of what little property was left, he took
passage for New York.  He was never to reach his
journey's end.  Either the cares that weigh[e]'d upon
his mind, or some other cause[,] consign[e]'d him to a
sick hammock, from which he only found relief
through the Great Dismisser.  He was buried in
the sea, and in due time his family arrived at the
American emporium.  But there, the son too sickened
--died, ere long, and was buried likewise.--
They would not bury him in the city, but away--
by the solitary banks of the Hudson; on which the
widow soon afterwards took up her abode.
   Ninon was too young to feel much grief at these
sad occurrences; and the mother, whatever she
might have suffer[e]'d inwardly, had a good deal of
phlegm and patience, and set about making herself
and her remaining child as comfortable as might be.
They had still a respectable sum in cash, and after
due deliberation, the widow purchas[e]'d the little quiet
tavern, not far from the grave of her boy; and of
Sundays and holidays she took in considerable
money--enough to make a decent support for them
in their humble way of living.  French and Germans
visited the house frequently, and quite a number
of young Americans too.  Probably the greatest
attraction to the latter was the sweet face of Ninon.
   Spring passed, and summer crept in and wasted
away, and autumn had arrived.  Every New Yorker
knows what delicious weather we have, in these
regions, of the early October days;  how calm, clear, 
and divested of sultriness, is the air, and how decently 
nature seems preparing for her winter sleep.
   Thus it was of the last Wednesday we started on
our accustomed excursion.  Six months had elapsed528

since our first visit, and, as then; we were full of the
exuberance of young and joyful hearts.  Frequent
and hearty were our jokes, by no means particular
about the theme or the method, and long and loud
the peals of laughter that rang over the fields or along
the shore.
   We took our seats round the same clean, white
table, and received our favorite beverages in the same
bright tankards.  They were set before us by the
sober Margery, no one else being visible.  As frequently
happen'd, we were the only company.--
Walking and breathing the keen fine air, had made
us dry, and we soon drain'd the foaming vessels, and
call'd for more.  I remember well an animated chat
we had about some poems that had just made their 
appearance from a great British author, and were
creating quite a public stir.  There was one, a tale 
of passion and despair, which Wheaton had read,
and of which he gave us a transcript.  Wild, startling
and dreamy, perhaps it threw over our minds
its peculiar cast.
   An hour moved off, and we began to think it
strange that neither Ninon or the widow came into
the room.  One of us gave a hint to that effect to
Margery; but she made no answer, and went on in
her usual way as before.
   "The grim old thing," said Wheaton, "if she
were in Spain, they'd make her a premier duenna!"
   I ask'd the woman about Ninon and the widow.
She seemed disturb'd, I thought; but making no
reply to the first part of my question, said that her
mistress was in another part of the house, and did 
not wish to be with company.
   "Then be kind enough, Mrs. Vinegar," resumed
Wheaton good-naturedly, "be kind enough to go
and ask the widow if we can see Ninon."
   Our attendant's face turn'd as pale as ashes, and
she precipitately left the apartment.  We laugh'd
at her agitation, which Frank Brown assign'd to
our merry ridicule.
   Quite a quarter of an hour elaps'd before Margery's
return.  When she appear'd, she told us briefly
that the widow had bidden her obey our behest, and
now, if we desired, she would conduct us to the
daughter's presence.  There was a singular expression
in the woman's eyes, and the whole affair began
to strike us as somewhat odd; but we arose, and
taking our caps, follow'd her as she stepp'd through
the door.  [run in]
   Back of the house were some fields, and a path
leading into clumps of trees.  At some thirty rods
distant from the tavern, nigh one of those clumps,
the larger tree whereof was a willow, Margery stopped,
and pausing a minute, while we came up, spoke
in tones calm and low:
   "Ninon is there!"
[*529*]

   She pointed downward with her finger.  Great 
God!  There was a grave, new made, and with the 
sods loosely join[e]'d, and a rough brown stone at each 
extremity!  Some earth yet lay upon the grass near 
by.  If we had look[e]'d, we might have seen the 
resting place of the widow's son, Ninon's brother— 
for it was close at hand.  But amid the whole scene 
our eyes took in nothing except that horrible covering 
of death—the oven-shaped mound.  My sight 
seemed to waver, my dead felt dizzy, and a feeling 
of deadly sickness came over me.  I heard a stifled 
exclamation, and looking round saw Frank Brown 
leaning against the nearest tree, great sweat 
upon his forehead, and his cheeks bloodless as 
chalk. Wheaton gave way to his agony more fully 
than ever I had known a man before; he had fallen 
—sobbing like a child, and wringing his hands.  It 
is impossible to describe the suddenness and fearfulness 
of the sickening truth that came upon us like 
a stroke of thunder.
   Of all of us, my brother Matthew neither shed 
tears, or turned pale, or fainted, or exposed any other 
evidence of inward depth of pain.  His quiet pleasant 
voice was indeed a tone lower, but it was that 
which recall[e]'d us, after the lapse of many long minutes, 
to ourselves.
   So the girl had died and been buried.  We were 
told of an illness that had seized her the very day 
after our last preceding visit; but we inquired not 
into the particulars.
[*a lead*]
   And now come I to the conclusion of my story, 
and to the most singular part of it.  The evening 
of the third day afterward, Wheaton, who had wept 
scalding tears, and Brown, whose cheeks had recover[e]'d 
their color, and myself, that for an hour 
thought my heart would never rebound again from 
the fearful shock—that evening, I say, we three 
were seated around a table in another tavern, drinking 
other beer, and laughing but a little less cheerfully, 
and as though we had never known the widow 
of her daughter—neither of whom, I venture to affirm, 
came into our minds once the whole night, or 
but to be dismiss[e]'d again, carelessly like the remembrance 
of faces seen in a crowd.
   Strange are the contradictions of the things of 
life!  The seventh day after that dreadful visit saw 
my brother Matthew—the delicate one, who, while 
bold men writhed in torture, had kept the same placid 
face, and the same untrembling fingers—him 
that seventh day saw a clay cold corpse, [shrouded 
in white linen, and] carried to the repose of the 
church yard.  The shaft, ranking far down and 
within, wrought a poison too great for show, and the 
youth died.[—W. Whitman.][*Miller*]
[*530*]
[*brev: caps*]

THE CHILD AND THE PROFLIGATE.

[BY WALTER WHITMAN.

   Among the victims of the passion for strong 
drink, the greater part become so, I have observed, 
not from any ignorance of the danger of 
the path they pursue, but from weakness and 
irresolution of mind.  To the abstemious it is 
almost impossible to convey any idea of the 
strength of the desire, formed, after a while, in 
a habitual drinker.  No one can know, except 
he who has realized it himself.  The world 
points with contempt at the inebriate, and laughs 
him to scorn that he does not turn from the error 
of his ways.  But oh, if the agony of his 
struggles could be seen—if the vain and impotent 
efforts he makes to disentangle himself from 
the thraldom of his tyrant—if the sharp shame 
the secret tears, the throes of mortification and 
conscious disgrace—were apparent to those who 
condemn so severely, one little drop of sorrow 
might certainly be mingled with their anger.
   Now and then, though rarely, it does happen 
that something occurs which turns the tide and 
converts the drinker with the feelings I have 
mentioned into a reformed man.  And it is 
strange to observe how small and trivial are frequently 
the causes of this change.  A word 
merely, or an unimportant action, or a casual 
incident not out of the ordinary routine, forms 
the starting point whence the hitherto miserable 
one commences a reformation which ere 
long presents him to the world with a clearer 
head and a purer soul.  Such a word, it may be 
—such an incident—stirs up the fountains of 
thought, brings back memories long past away, 
and awakens the man to beautiful and pathetic 
recollections of an earlier and more innocent 
age.  Thus fully awakened, and with the genial 
influence of the time in all its sway over him, 
if the crisis turns for good, it will surely be consummated 
for good.  But should it turn to wickedness 
again, God have mercy on the ill-fated 
being!
   The incidents of my little narrative are simple 
and unromantic enough, and yet I hope they 
will not be found without interest.  I tell no 
tale of fiction either.  There are those now in 
this metropolis who will peruse the story and 
acknowledge in their own minds consciousness 
of its unadorned truth.]
   Just after sunset, one evening in summer— 
that pleasant hour when the air is balmy, the 
light loses its glare, and all [things] around is imbued 
with soothing quiet—on the door step of 
a house there sat an elderly woman waiting the 
arrival of her son.  The house was in a straggling 
village some fifty miles from New York 
city.  She who sat on the door step was a widow; 
her [net] white cap cover[e]'d locks of gray, 
and her dress though clean, was exceedingly 
homely.  Her house—for the tenement she occupied 
was her own—was very little and very 
old.  Trees cluster[e]'d around it so thickly as almost 
to hide its color—that blackish gray color 
which belongs to old wooden houses that have 
never been painted; and to get in it you had 
to enter a little ricketty gate and walk through 
a short path, border[e]'d by carrot beds and beets 
and other vegetables.  The son whom she was 
expecting was her only child.  About a year 
before, he had been bound apprentice to a rich 
farmer in the place, and after finishing his daily 
task he was in the habit of spending half an 
hour at his mother's.  On the present occasion 
the shadows of night had settled heavily before 
the youth made his appearance.  When he did, 
his walk was slow and dragging, and all his 
motions were languid, as if from great weariness.  
He open[e]'d the gate, came through the 
path, and sat down by his mother in silence.[*531*]

"You are sullen to-night, Charley," said the
widow, after a moment's pause, when she found
that he return[e]'d no answer to her greetings. 
   As she spoke she put her hand fondly on his
head; it seem[e]'d moist as if it had been dipp[e]'d 
in the water. His shirt, too, was soak[e]'d; and 
as she pass[e]'d her fingers down his shoulder she
felt a sharp twinge in her heart, for she knew [*Lewis*]
that moisture to be the hard-wrung sweat of severe
toil, exacted from her young child (he was 
but thirteen years old) by an unyielding task
master. 
   "You have worked hard to-day, my son."
   "I've been mowing."
   The widow's heart felt another pang. 
   "Not all day, Charley?" she said, in a low
voice; and there was a slight quiver in it. 
   "Yes, mother, all day," replied the boy; 
Mr. Ellis said he couldn't afford to hire men, 
for wages are high. I've swung the scythe
ever since an hour before sunrise. Feel of my hands."
   There were blisters on them like great lumps. 
Tears started in the widow's eyes. She dared
not trust herself with a reply, though her heart 
was bursting with the thought that she could 
not better his condition. There was no earthly
means of support on which she had dependence
enough to encourage her child in the wish she
knew he was forming-- the wish not uttered for
the first time-- to be freed from his bondage,
   "Mother," at length said the boy, "I can 
stand it no longer. I cannot and will not stay
at Mr. Ellis's. Ever since the day I first went
into his house I've been a slave; and if I have 
to work so much longer I know I shall run off
and go to sea or somewhere eles. I'd as leave
be in my grave as there." And the child burst
into a passionate fit of weeping. 
   His mother was silent, for she was in deep 
grief herself. After some minutes had flown, 
however, she gather[e]'d sufficient self-possession
to speak to her son in a soothing tone, endeavoring 
to win him from his sorrows and cheer
up his heart. She told him that time was swift
--that in the course of a few years he would be 
his own master-- that all people have their troubles-- 
with many other ready arguments which, 
though they had little effect in calming her own 
distress, she hoped would act as a solace to the 
disturb[e]'d temper of the boy. And as the half 
hour to which he was limited had now elaps[e]'d 
she took him by the hand and led him to the 
gate, to set forth on his return. The youth 
seemed pacified, though occasionally one of 
those convulsive sighs that remain after a fit of 
weeping, would break from his throat. At the 
gate he threw his arms about his mother's neck; 
each press[e]'d a long kiss on the lips of the other
and the youngster bent his steps toward his
master's house. 
   As her child pass[e]'d out of sight the widow
return[e]'d, shut the gate and enter[e]'d her lonesome
room. There was no light in the old cottage
that night-- the heart of its occupant was 
dark and cheerless. Love, agony, and grief, 
and tears, and convulsive wrestlings were there. -- 
The thought of a beloved son condemned to labor-- 
labor that would break down a man-- struggling
from day to day under the hard rule of a 
soulless gold-worshiper; the knowledge that
years must pass thus; the sickening idea of her
own poverty, and of living mainly on the grudged
charity of neighbors-- thoughts, too, of former
happy days-- these rack[e]'d the widow's heart
and made her bed a sleepless one and without
repose.532

   The boy bent his steps to his employer's, as
has been said.  In his way down the village
street he had to pass a public house, the only
one the place contain'd; and when he came off
against it he heard the sound of a fiddle--
drown'd, however, at intervals, by much laughter
and talking.  The windows were up, and
the house standing close to the road, Charles
thought it no harm to take a look and see what 
was going on within.  Half a dozen footsteps
brought him to the low casement, on which he
lean'd his elbow and where he had full view
of the room and it's occupants.  In one corner
was an old man, known in the village as Black
Dave--he it was whose musical performances
had a moment before drawn Charles's attention
to the tavern; and he it was who now exerted
himself in a violent manner to give, with divers
flourishes and extra twangs, a tune very popular
among that thick lipp'd race whose fondness
for melody is so well known.  In the middle of
the room were five or six sailors, some of them
quite drunk, and others in the earlier stages of
that process, while on benches around were
more sailors, and here and there a person dress'd
in landsmen's attire.  The men in the middle
of the room were dancing; that is, they
were going through certain contortions and
shufflings, varied occasionally by exceeding
hearty stamps upon the sanded floor.  In short
the whole party were engaged in a drunken frolic,
which was in no respect different from a 
thousand other drunken frolics, except, perhaps,
that there was less than the ordinary amount of
anger and quarreling.  Indeed every one seem'd
in remarkably good humor.
   But what excited the boy's attention more
than any other object was an individual, seated
on one of the benches opposite, who, though
evidently enjoying the spree as much as if he
were an old hand at such business, seem'd in
every other particular to be far out of his element.
His appearance was youthful.  He might
have been twenty-one or two years old.  His
countenance was intelligent and had the air of
city life and society.  He was dress'd, not gaudily,
but in every respect fashionably; his coat
being of the finest broadcloth, his linen delicate
and spotless as snow, and his whole aspect that
of one whose counterpart may now and then be
seen upon the pave in Broadway of a fine afternoon.
He laugh'd and talk'd with the rest,
and it must be confess'd his jokes--like the
most of those that pass'd current there--were
by no means distinguish'd for their refinement
or purity.  Near the door was a small table,
cover'd with decanters and [with] glasses, some
of which had been used, but were used again
indiscriminately, and a box of very thick and
very long cigars,
   One of the sailors--and it was he who made
the largest share of the hubbub--had but one
eye.  His chin and cheeks were cover'd with
huge, bushy whiskers, and altogether he had
quite a brutal appearance. [run in]
   "Come, boys," said this gentleman; "come,
let us take a drink! I know you're all a getting
dry," and he clench'd his invitation with an appaling
oath!
   This politeness was responded to by a general
moving of the company toward the table holding
the before mention'd decanters and glasses.
Clustering there around, each one help'd himself
to a very handsome portion of that particular
liquor which suited his fancy; and steadiness
and accuracy being at that moment by no means
distinguishing traits of the arms and legs of the 
party, a goodly amount of the fluid was spill'd
upon the floor.  This piece of extravagance excited
the ire of the personage who gave the
"treat;" and that ire was still farther increas'd
when he discover'd two or three loiterers who
seem'd disposed to slight his request to drink.
Charles, as we have before mention'd, was
looking in at the window.
   
[*533*]

   "Walk up, boys! walk up!  If there be any 
skulker among us, blast my eyes if he shan't go 
down on his marrow bones and taste the liquor 
we have spilt!  Hallo!" he exclaim'd as he 
spied Charles: "hallo, you chap in the window, 
come here and take a sup."
   As he spoke he stepp'd to the open casement 
put his brawny hands under the boy's arms, and 
litted him into the room bodily.
   "There, my lads," said he, turning to his 
companions, "there's a new recruit for you.— 
Not so coarse a one, either," he added as he 
took a fair view of the boy, who, though not 
what is called pretty, was fresh and manly looking 
and large for his age.
   "Come, youngster, take a glass," he continued.  
And he poured one nearly full of strong 
brandy.
   Now Charles was not exactly frighten'd, for 
he was a lively fellow, an had often been at 
the country merry-makings an at the parties of 
the place; but he was certainly rather abash'd 
at his abrupt introduction to the midst of strangers.  
So, putting the glass aside, he look'd up 
with a pleasant smile in his new acquaintance's 
face.
   "I've no need of anything now," he said, 
"but I'm just as much obliged to you as if I 
was."
   "Poh! man, drink it down," rejoin'd the 
sailor; "drink it down—it won't hurt you."
   And, by way of showing its excellence, the 
one-eyed worthy drain'd it himself to the last 
drop.  Then filling it again he renew'd his 
efforts to make the lad go through the same operation.
   "I've no occasion.  Besides, my mother has 
often pray'd e not to drink, and I promised 
to obey her."
   A little irritated by his continued refusals, the 
sailor, with a loud oath, declared that Charles 
should swallow the brandy, whether he would 
or no.  Placing one of his tremendous paws on 
the back of the boy's head, with the other he 
thrust the edge o the glass to his lips, swearing, 
at the same time, that if he shook it so as 
to spill its contents the consequences would be 
of a nature by no means agreeable to his back 
and shoulders.
[*Run 
in*]
   Disliking the liquor, and angry at the attempt 
to overbear him, the undaunted child lifted his 
hand and struck the arm of the sailor with a 
blow so sudden that the glass fell and was 
smash'd to pieces on the floor: while the brandy 
was about equally divided between the face of 
Charles, the clothes of the sailor, and the sand.  
By this time the whole of the company had their 
attention drawn to the scene.  Some of them 
laugh'd when they saw Charles's undisguised 
antipathy to the drink; but they laugh'd still 
more heartily when he discomfitted the sailor.  
All of them, however, were content to let the 
matter go as chance would have it—all but the 
young man of the black coat, who has been 
spoken of.
   What was there in the words which Charles 
had spoken that carried the min o the young 
man back to former times—to a period when he 
was more pure and innocent than now?  "My 
mother has often pray'd me not to drink!"— 
Ah, how the mist of months roll'd aside, and 
presented to his soul's eye the picture of his mother, 
and a prayer of exactly similar purport!  
Why was it, too, that the young man's heart 
moved with a feeling of kindness toward the 
[somewhat] harshly treated child?  [Was it that 
his associations had hitherto been among the 
vile, and the contrast was not so strikingly 
great?  Even in the hurried walks of life an 
business may we meet with beings who seem to 
touch the fountain of our love, and draw forth 
their swelling waters!  he wish to love and to 
be beloved, which the forms of custom and the 
engrossing anxiety for gain so generally smother, 
will sometimes burst forth in spite of all obstacles;] [*534*]
                                                                [*Baker*]

[and kindled by one who, till the hour, 
was unknown to us, will burn with a permanent 
and pure brightness !]
   Charles stood, his cheek flush'd and his heart 
throbbing, wiping the trickling drops from his 
face with a handkerchief.  At first the sailor, 
between his drunkenness and his surprise, was 
much in the condition of one suddenly awaken'd 
out of a deep sleep, who cannot call his consciousness 
about him.  When he saw the state 
of things, however, and heard the jeering laugh 
of his companions, his dull eye, lightning up with 
anger, fell upon the boy who had withstood him.  
He seized Charles with a grip of iron, and with 
the side of his heavy boot gave him a sharp and 
solid kick.  He was about repeating the performance 
—for the child hung like a rag in his 
grasp—but all of a sudden his ears rang, as if 
pistols were snapp'd close to them; lights of 
various hues flicker'd in his eye, (he had but 
one, it will be remember'd,) and a strong propelling 
power caused him to move from his position 
and keep moving until he was brought up 
by the wall.  A blow, a cuff given in such a 
scientific manner that the hand from which it 
proceeded was evidently no stranger to the pugilistic 
art, had been suddenly planted in the 
ear of the sailor.  It was planted by the young 
man of the black coat.  He had watch'd with 
interest the proceeding of the sailor and the boy 
—two or three times he was on the point of interfering, 
but [and] when the kick was given, his rage 
was uncontrollable.  He sprang from his seat in 
the attitude of a boxer—struck the sailor in a 
manner to cause those unpleasant sensations 
which have been described—and would probably 
have follow'd up the attack had not Charles, 
now thoroughly terrified, clung around his legs 
and prevented his advancing.
   The scene was a strange one, and for the time 
quite a silent one.  The company had started 
from their seats, and for a moment held breathless 
but strain'd positions.  In the middle of the 
room stood the young man, in his not at all ungraceful 
attitude—every nerve out, and his eyes 

flashing brilliantly.  He seem'd rooted like a 
rock; and clasping him, with an appearance of 
confidence in his protection, hung the boy.
   "[Dare] You scoundrel!" cried the young 
man, his voice thick with passion, "dare to 
touch the boy again, and I'll thrash you till no 
sense is left in your body!"
   The sailor, now partially recover'd, made 
some gestures of a belligerent nature. 
   "Come on, drunken brute!" continued the 
angry youth; "I wish you would!  You've not 
had half what you deserve!"
   Upon sobriety and sense more fully taking 
their power in the brains of one-eyed mariner, 
however, that worthy determined in his 
own mind that it would be most prudent to let 
the matter drop.  Expressing therefore his conviction 
to that effect, adding certain remarks to 
the purport that he "meant no harm to the 
lad," that he was surprised at such a gentleman 
being angry at "a little piece of fun," and so 
forth—he proposed that the company should go 
on with their jollity just as if nothing had happen'd.  
In truth, he of the single eye was not 
a bad fellow at heart, after all; the fiery enemy 
whose advances he had so often courted that 
night, had stolen away his good feelings and set 
busy devils at work within him, that might 
have made his hands do some dreadful deed had 
not the stranger interposed.[*535*]

   In a few minutes the frolic of the party was 
upon its former footing.  The young man sat 
down upon one of the benches, with the boy by 
his side, and while the rest were loudly laughing 
and talking they two convers'd together— 
The stranger learn'd from Charles all the particulars 
of his simple story—how his father had 
died years since—how his mother work'd hard 
for a bare living—and how he himself, for many 
dreary months, had been the servant of a hardhearted, 
avaricious master.  More and more interested, 
drawing the child close to his side, the 
young man listen'd to his plainly told history 
—and thus an hour pass'd away.
   It was now past midnight.  The young man 
told Charles that on the morrow he would take 
steps to relieve him from his servitude—that for 
the present night the landlord would probably 
give him a lodging at the inn—and little persuading 
did the host need for that.
   As he retired to sleep very pleasant thoughts 
filled the mind of the young man—thoughts of 
a worthy action performed—thoughts, too, newly 
awakened ones, of walking in a steadier and 
wiser path than formerly.
   That roof, then, sheltered two beings that 
night—one of them innocent and sinless of all 
wrong—the other—oh, to that other what evil 
had not been present, either in action or to his 
desires!

   Who was the stranger?  To those that, from 
ties of relationship or otherwise, felt an interest 
in him, the answer to that question was not pleasant 
to dwell upon.  His name was Langton— 
parentless—a dissipated young man—a brawler 
—one whose too frequent companions were rowdies, 
blacklegs and swindlers.  The New York 
police offices were not [altogether] strangers to 
his countenance; [and certain reporters, who notice 
the proceedings there, had more than once, 
received a fee for leaving out his name from the 
disgraceful notoriety of their columns.]  He had 
been bred to the profession of medicine; besides, 
he had a very respectable income, and his house 
was in a pleasant street on the west side of the 
city.  Little of his time, however, did Mr. John 
Langton spend at his domestic hearth; and the 
elderly lady who officiated as his housekeeper, 
was by no means surprised to have him gone for 
a week or a month at a time, and she knowing 
nothing of his whereabout.
   Living as he did, the young man was an unhappy 
being.  It was not so much that his associates 
were below his own capacity—for 
Langton, though sensible and well bred, was 
not highly talented or refined—but that he lived 
without any steady purpose, that he had no one 
to attract him to his home, that he too easily allowed 
himself to be tempted—which caused his 
life to be, of late, one continued scene of dissatisfaction.  
This dissatisfaction he sought to 
drive away [(ah, foolish youth!)] by the brandy 
bottle, and mixing in all kinds of parties where 
the object was pleasure.  On the present occasion 
he had left the city a few days before, and 
was passing his time at a place near the village 
where Charles and his mother lived.  He fell 
in, during the day, with those who were his 
companion of the tavern spree; and thus is happen'd 
that they were all together.  Langton hesitated 
not to make himself at home with any associate 
that suited his fancy.[*536*]

     The next morning the poor widow rose from 
her sleepless cot; and from that lucky trait in 
our nature which makes one extreme follow another, 
she set about her toil with a lighten'd 
heart. Ellis, the farmer, rose, too, short as the 
nights were, an hour before day; for his god 
was gain, and a prime article of his creed was 
to get as much work as possible from every one 
around him.  [He roused up all his people, and 
finding that Charles had not been home the preceding 
night, he muttered threats against him, 
and calling a messenger, to whom he hinted 
that any minutes which he stayed beyond an 
exceeding short period would be substracted 
from his breakfast time, despatched him to the 
widow's to find what was her son about.
     What was he about?  He had a beautiful 
dream—and thus it was in seeming.
     With one of the brightest and earliest rays of 
the warm sun, a gentle angel entered his apartment, 
and hovered over him, and looked down 
with a pleasant smile, and blessed him.  And 
the child thought his benefactor, the young man, 
was nigh, sleeping also.  Noiselessly taking a 
stand by the bed, the angel bent over the boy's 
face and whispered strange words into his ear; 
it seemed to him like soft and delicate music.  
So the shape, pausing a moment, and smiling 
another and doubly sweet smile, leaned again 
to the boy's lips and touched them with a kiss, 
as the languid wind touches a flower.  He seemed 
to be going now, and yet he lingered.  Twice 
or thrice he bent over the brow of the young 
man, and went not.  Now the angel was troubled; 
for he would have pressed the young man's lips 
with a kiss, as he did the child's—but a spirit 
from Heaven, who touches anything tainted by 
evil thoughts, does it at the risk of having his 
breast pierced with pain, as with a barbed arrow.  
At that moment a very pale, bright ray 
of sunlight darted through the window and settled 
on the young man's features.  Then the 
beautiful spirit knew that permission was granted 
him; so he softly touched the young man's 
face with his, and swiftly departed upward.]
[*run 
in*]
     In the course of the day Ellis was called upon 
by young Langton, and never perhaps in his 
life was the farmer puzzled more than at the 
young man's proposal—his desire to provide for 
the widow's family, a family that could do him 
no pecuniary good, and his willingness to disburse 
money for that purpose.  [In that department 
of Ellis's structure where the mind was, 
or ought to have been situated, there never had 
entered the slightest thought assimilating to 
those which actuated the young man in his benevolent 
movements.  Yet Ellis was a church 
member and a county officer.]
[*run 
in*]
     The widow, too, was called upon, not only on 
that day, but the next and the next.
[*¶*]     It needs not that I should particularize the 
subsequent events of Langton's and the boy's history 
—how the reformation of the profligate 
might be dated to begin from that time—how 
he gradually severed the guilty ties that had so 
long galled him—how he enjoyed his own home 
again—how the friendship of Charles and himself 
grew not slack with time—and how, when 
in the course of seasons he became head of a 
family of his own, he would shudder at the remembrance 
of his early dangers and his escapes.  
[Often, in the rustle of day and the silence of 
night, would he bless the utterance of those 
words, "My mother prayed me not to drink!" 
     Loved reader, own you the moral interwoven 
in the simple story?  Let your children read it.  
To them draw forth the moral—pause a moment 
ere your eye wander to a different page—and 
dwell upon it.]               [Columbian Magazine for Oct.][*537 Mearris*]

[*brev: caps*]

LINGAVE'S TEMPTATION. 
[BY WALTER WHITMAN.]
"Another day," utter'd the poet Lingave, as
he awoke in the morning, and turn'd him drowsily
 on his hard pallet, "another day comes out, 
burthen'd with its weight of woes. Of what use 
is existence to me? Crush'd down beneath the 
merciless heel of [P]overty, and no promise of 
hope to cheer me on, what I in prospect by a life neglected, and a death of mistery?"
The youth paused; but receiving no answer to 
his questions, thought proper to continue the 
peevish soliloquy, [without waiting any further.] 
[*run in*] "I am a genius, they say," and the speaker
smiled bitterly, "but genius is not apparel and 
food. Why should I exist in the world, unknown, 
unloved, press'd with cares, while so many 
around me have their souls can desire? I behold
the spleddid equipages roll by-- I see the
respectful bow at the presence of pride-- and I 
curse the contrast between my own lot, and the
fortune of the rich. The lofty air-- the show of 
dres-- the aristocratic demeanor-- the glitter of 
jewels-- dazzle my eyes; and sharp-tooth'd envy 
works within me. I hate they haughty and favored
ones. Why should my path be so much
rougher than theirs? Pitiable, unfortunate man 
that I am! to be placed beneath those whom in 
my heart I despise-- and to be constantly tantalized 
with the presence of that wealth I cannot
enjoy! [*run in *]
And the poet cover'd his eyes with his hands, 
and wept from very passion and fretfulness. 
O, Lingave! be more of a man! Have you
not the treasures of health and untainted propensities, 
which many of those you envy never
enjoy? Are you not their superior in mental 
power, in liberal views of mankind, and in comprehensive
intellect? And even allowing you
the choice, how would you shudder at changing, 
in total, conditions with them! Besides, were
you willing to devote all your time and energies, 
you could gain property too: squeeze, and toil, 
and worry, and twist every thing into a matter of 
profit, and you can become a great man, as far 
as money goes to make greatness. 
Retreat, then, [M]an of the [P]olish'd [S]oul, from 
those irritable complaints against your lot--
those longings for wealth and puerile distinction, 
not worthy your class. Do justice, philosopher, 
to your own powers. While the world runs after 


[*538*]

its shadows and its bubbles, (thus commune in 
your own mind,) we will fold ourselves in our 
circle of understanding, and look with an eye of 
apathy on those things it considers so mighty 
and so enviable.  Let the proud man pass with 
his pompous glance—let the gay flutter in finery— 
[*Gal, 9 - Morris*]
let the foolish enjoy his folly—and the beautiful 
move on in his perishing glory; we will gaze 
without desire on all their possessions, and all 
their pleasures.  Our destiny is different from 
theirs.  Not for such as we, [are] the lowly flights 
of their crippled wings.  We acknowledge no 
fellowship with them in ambition.  We composedly 
look down on the paths where they walk, 
and pursue our own, without uttering a wish to 
descend, and be as they.  What is it to us that 
the mass pay us not that deference which wealth 
commands?  We desire no applause, save the 
applause of the good and discriminating—the 
choice spirits among men.  Our intellect would 
be sullied, where the vulgar to approximate to it, 
by professing to readily enter in, and praising it.  
Our pride is a towering, and a thrice refined 
pride. 
     When Lingave had given way to his temper 
some half hour, or thereabout, he grew more 
calm, and bethought himself that he was acting a 
very silly part.  He listen'd a moment to the 
clatter of the carts, and the tramp of early passengers 
on the pave below, as they wended along 
to commence their daily toil.  It was just a [one] [A] 
sunrise, and the season was summer.
[*run 
in*]
    A little canary bird, the only pet poor Lingave 
could afford to keep, chirp'd merrily in its cage 
on the wall.  How slight a circumstance will 
sometimes change the whole current of our 
thoughts!  The music of that bird, abstracting 
the mind of the poet but a moment from his sorrows, 
gave a chance for his natural buoyancy to 
act again.
     Lingave sprang lightly from his bed, perform'd and 
his ablutions and his simple toilet [in short order] 
—then hanging the cage on a nail outside the 
window, and speaking an endearment to the 
songster, which brought a perfect flood of melody 
in return—he slowly passed through his door, 
descended the long narrow turnings of the stairs, 
and stood in the open street.  Undetermin'd as 
to any particular destination, he folded his hands 
behind him, cast his glance upon the ground, and 
moved listlessly onward.[*539*]

[*12/Grahaw*]

Hour after hour the poet walk[e]d along--up this street and down that--he reck[e]d not hoe or where.  And as crowded thoroughfares are hardly the most fit places for a man to let his fancy soar in the clouds--many a push and shove and curse did the dreamer get bestow[e]d upon him.  
The booming of the city clock sounded forth the hour twelve--high noon.
"Ho ! Lingave ! cried a voice from an open basement window as the poet pass[e]d.
He stopp[e]d, and then unwittingly would have walk[e]d on still, not fully awakened from his reverie.
"Lingave, I say!" cried the voice again, and [*belongs*] the person to whom the voice [attached], stretch[e]d his head quite out into the area in front, " stop, man.  Have you forgotten your appointment ?"
" Oh ! ah!" said the poet, and he smiled unmeaningly, and descending the steps, went into the office of Ridman, whose call it was that had startled him in his walk.
Who was Ridman ?[--]While the poet is waiting the convenience of that personage, it may be as well to [explain]. describe him.-
Ridman was a money-maker.  He had much peuetration, considerable knowledge of the world, and a disposition to be constantly in the midst of enterprise, excitement, and stir.  His schemes for gaining wealth were various ; he had dipp[e]d into almost every branch and chanel of business.  A slight acquaintance of several years standing, subsisted between him and the poet.  The day revious a boy had call[e]d with a note from Ridman to Lingave, desiting the presence of the latter at the money-maker's room.  The poet return[e]d for answer that he would be there.  This was the engagement which he came near breaking.  
Ridman had a smooth tongue.  All his inge-

540

nuity was needed in the explanation to his companion
of why and wherefore the latter had been 
sent for.
   It is not requisite to state specifically [the nature      2
of] the offer made by the man of wealth to
the poet.  Ridman, in one of his enterprises,
found it necessary to procure the aid of such a 
person as Lingrave--a writer of power, a master
of elegant diction, of fine taste, in style passionate
yet pure, and of the delicate imagery that
belongs [only] to the children of song.  The youth
was absolutely startled at the magnificent and
permanent remuneration which was held out to
him for a moderate exercise of his talents.
   But the nature of the services required!  All 
the sophistry and art of Ridman could not veil
its repulsiveness.  The poet was to labor for the
advancement of what he felt to be unholy--he
was to inculcate what would lower the perfection
of man.  He promised to give an answer to the 
proposal the succeeding day, and left the place.
   Now during the many hours there was a war
going on in the heart of the poor poet.  He was
indeed poor; often, he had no certainty whether
he should be able to procure the next day's
meals.  And the poet knew the beauty of truth,
and adored, not in the abstract merely, but in
practice, the excellence of upright principles.
   Night came.  Lingave, wearied, lay upon his
pallet again and slept.
   The misty veil thrown over him, the spirit of
poesy came to his visions, and stood beside him,
and look'd down pleasantly with her large eyes,
which were bright and liquid like the reflection
of stars in a lake.541

Virtue, (such imagining, then, seem'd conscious
to the soul of the dreamer,) is ever the 
sinew of true genius. Together, the two in one, 
they are endow'd with immortal strength and
approach loftily to Him from whom both spring. [*run in*]
Yet there are those that having great powers,
bend them to the slavery of [W]rong. God forgive
them! for they surely do it ignorantly or
heedlessly, Oh, could he who lightly tosses
around him the seeds of evil, in his writings, or 
his enduring thoughts, or his chance words--
could he see how, haply, they are to spring up
in distant time and poison the air, and putrify
and cause to sicken-- would he not shrink back
in horror? A bad principle, jestingly spoken-- a 
falsehood, but of a word-- may taint a whole nation! [*run in*]
Let the man to whom the [G]reat [M]aster has
given the might of mind, beware how he uses
that might. If for the furtherance of bad ends, 
what can be expected but that, as the hour of the 
closing scene draws nigh, thoughts of harm done
and capacities distorted from their proper aim, 
and strength so laid out that men must be worse
instead of better through the exertion of that 
strength-- will come and swarm like spectres
around him? 

"Be and continue poor, young man," so taught
one whose counsels should be graven on the
heart of every youth, "while others around you
grow rich by fraud and disloyalty. Be without
place and power, while others beg their way upward. 
Bear the pain of disappointed hopes,
while others gain the accomplishment of theirs
by flattery. Forego the gracious pressure of a 
hand for which others cringe and crawl. Wrap 
yourself in your own virtue, and seek a friend
and your daily bread. If you have, in such a 
course, grown gray with unbleached honor, bless
God and die."
When Lingave awoke the next morning, [there
was no vacillating in his mind about the answer
he should make to Ridman.] He despatch'd [that
answer,] and then plodded on as in the days before.
[*his answer, to his wealthy friend,*]

[*542*]       [*Mennig*]

[*[?] :
   Cap head*]
LITTLE JANE.—"Lift up!" was ejaculated as a 
signal—and click! went the glasses in the hands 
of a party of tipsy men, drinking one night at the 
bar of one of the middling order of taverns.  And 
many a wild gibe was utter'd, and many a terrible 
blasphemy, and many an impure phrase sounded 
out the pollution of the hearts of those half-crazed 
creatures, as they toss'd down their liquor, and 
made the walls echo with their uproar.  The first 
and foremost in recklessness was a girlish-faced, 
fair-hair'd fellow of twenty-two or three years, 
They called him Mike.  He seem'd to be look'd 
upon by the others as a sort of prompter, from whom 
they were to take cue.  And if the brazen wickedness 
evinced by him in a hundred freaks and remarks 
to his companions, during their stay in that 
place, were any test of his capacity—there might 
hardly be one more fit to go forward as a guide on 
the road of destruction.                                                    [*run in*] 
   From the conversation of the party, it appear'd 
that they had been spending the early part of the 
evening in a gambling house.
   A second, third and fourth time were the glasses 
fill'd; and the effect thereof began to be perceived 
in a still higher degree of noise and loquacity 
among the revellers.  One of the serving-men 
came in at this moment, and whisper'd the barkeeper, 
who went out, and in a moment return'd 
again.
   "A person," he said, "wish'd to speak with Mr. 
Michael.  he waited on the walk in front."
   The individual whose name was mention'd, made 
his excuses to the others, telling them he would be 
back in a moment, and left the room.  As he shut 
the door behind him, and stepp'd into the open air, 
he saw one of his brothers—his elder by eight or ten 
years—pacing to and fro with rapid and uneven 
steps.  As the man turn'd in his walk, and the glare of 
the street lamp fell upon his face, the youth, half-benumb'd 
as his senses were, was somewhat startled 
at its paleness and evident perturbation.
   "Come with me!" said the elder brother, hurriedly, 
"The illness of our little Jane is worse, and I 
have been sent for you."
   "Poh!" answered the young drunkard, very 
composedly, "is that all?  I shall be home by-and-by."      [*run in*]
   And he turn'd back again.
   "But brother she is worse than ever before.— 
Perhaps when you arrive she may be dead."
   The tipsy one paus'd in his retreat, perhaps 
alarm'd at the utterance of that dread word, which 
seldom fails to shoot a chill to the hearts of mortals.  
But he soon calm'd himself, and waiving his hand to 
the other:
   "Why, see" said he, "a score of times at least, 
have I been call'd away to the last sickness of our 
good little sister; and each time it proves to be nothing 
worse than some whim of the nurse or physician.  
Three years has the girl been able to live very heartily 
under her disease; and I'll be bound she'll stay 
on the earth three years longer."
   And as he concluded this wicked and most brutal 
reply, the speaker open'd the door and went 
into the bar-room.  But in his intoxication, during 
the hour that follow'd, Mike was far from being at 
ease.  At the end of that hour, the words, "perhaps 
when you arrive she my be dead," were not 
effaced from his hearing yet, and he started for home.  
The elder brother had wended his way back in 
sorrow.[*Keen*]    [*543*]

Let me go before the younger one, awhile, to a 
room in that home. A little girl lay there dying.--
[She was quite rational.] She had been ill a long 
time ; so it was no sudden thing for her parents, and 
her brethren and sisters, to be called for the witness 
of the death agony.  [*run in*]
The girl was not what might be called beautiful. 
And yet, there is a solemn kind of loveliness that 
always surrounds a sick child. The sympathy for 
the weak and helpless sufferer, perhaps, increases it 
in our ideas. The ashiness, and the moisture on the 
brow, and the film over the eye-balls--what man 
can look upon the sight, and not feel his heart awed 
within him ? Children, I have sometimes fancied 
too, increase in beauty as their illness deepens. [The 
angels, it may be, are already resting them with the 
garments they shall wear in the Pleasant Land.]
Beside the nearest relatives of little Jane, standing 
round her bedside, was the family doctor. He 
had just laid her wrist down upon the coverlid, and 
the look he gave the mother, was a look in which 
there was no hope.
"My child !" she cried, in uncontrollable agony, 
"O ! my child !"
And the father, and the sons and daughters, were 
bowed down in grief, and thick tears rippled between 
the fingers held before their eyes.
Then there was silence awhile. During the 
hour just by-gone, Jane had, in her childish way, 
bestow[e]'d a little gift upon each of her kindred, as a 
remembrancer when she should be dead and buried 
in the grave. And there was one of these simple 
tokens which had not reach[e]'d its destination. She 
held it in her hand now. It was a very small, 
much thumbed book--a religious story for infants, 
given her by her mother when she had first learn[e]'d 
to read.
While they were all keeping this solemn stillness 
--broken only by the suppress[e]'d sobs of those who 
stood and watch[e]'d for the passing away of the girl's 
soul--a confusion of some one entering rudely and 
speaking in a turbulent voice, was heard in an adjoining 
apartment. Again the voice roughly sounded 
out ; it was the voice of the drunkard Mike, and 
the father bade one of his sons go and quiet the intruder.
    "If nought else will do," said he sternly, "put 
him forth by strength. We want no tipsy brawlers 
here, to disturb such a scene as this !"
    For what moved the sick girl thus uneasily on her 
pillow, and raised her neck, and motion[e]'d to her 
mother? She would that Mike should be brought 
to her side. And it was enjoin[e]'d on him whom the 
father had bade to eject the noisy one, that he should 
tell Mike his sister's request, and beg him to come 
to her,
    He came. The inebriate--his mind sober[e]'d by 
the deep solemnity of the scene--stood there. and 
leaned over to catch the last accents of one who, [in 
ten minutes more,] was soon to be with the spirits of heaven.  [*run in*]
    All was the silence of deepest night The dying 
child held the young man's hand in one of hers ; 
with the other, she slowly lifted the trifling memorial 
she had assign[e]'d especially for him, aloft in the 
air. Her arm shook--her eyes, now becoming 
glassy with the death damps, were cast toward her 
brother's face. She smiled pleasantly, and as an 
indistinct gurgle came from her throat, the uplifted 
hand fell suddenly into the open palm of her brother's, 
depositing the tiny volume there. Little Jane 
was dead.
From that night, the young man stepped no more 
in his wild courses, but was reform[e]'d.--[Walter 
Whitman.][*544*]

DUMB KATE. 
[*brev: caps*]
[AN EARLY DEATH.]
[By Walter Whitman.]
[BY WALTER WHITMAN.]

Not many years since--and yet long enough to 
have been before the abundance of railroads, 
and similar speedy modes on conveyance-- 
the trave[l]lers from Amboy village to the metropolis 
of our republic were permitted to refresh 
themselves, and the horses of the stage 
had a breathing spell, at a certain old-fashioned 
tavern, about half way between the two 
places. It was a quaint, comfortable, ancient 
house, that tavern. Huge buttonwood 
trees embower[e]'d it round about, and there 
was a long porch in front, the trellis[e]'d work 
whereof, though old and mouldered, had been, 
and promised still to be for years, held together 
by the tangled folds of a grape vine 
wreath[e]'d about it like a tremendous serpent.
How clean and fragrant everything was 
there ! How bright the pewter tankards wherefrom 
cider or ale went [rolled] [through the lips] into 
the parched throat of the thirsty man ! How 
pleasing to look into the expressive eyes of 
Kate, the landlord's lovely daughter, who kept 
everything so clean and bright !
Now the reason why Kate's eyes had become 
so expressive was, that, besides their 
proper and natural office, they stood to the 
poor girl in the place of tongue and ears also. 
Kate had been dumb from her birth.  [*run in*]
Everybody loved the helpless creature 
when she was a child. Gentle, timid and 
affectionate was she, and [delicately] beautiful 
as the lillies of which she loved to cultivate so 
many every summer in her garden. Her 
[brown] light hair, and the like-color[e]'d lashes, so 
long and silky, that droop[e]'d over her blue 
eyes of such uncommon size and softness-- 
her rounded shape, well set off by a little 
modest art of dress--her smile--the graceful 
ease of her motions, always attracted the admiration 
of the strangers who stopp[e]'d there, 
and were quite a pride to her parents and 
friends.  [*run in*]
Dumb Kate had an education which rarely 
falls to the lot of a country girl. She had 
been early taught to ready, and nothwithstanding 
her infirmity, [had] most of [those] the usual lady=like accomplishments 
[*[only]*] [which usually fall to the lot of the 
daughters of wealth and prosperity.]
How could it happen that so [innocent and] 
beautiful and inoffensive a being [was made to] should 
taste, even to its dregs, the bitterest [cup of] unhappiness ? 
Oh, there must indeed be a mysterious, 
unfathomable meaning in the decrees 
of Providence, which is beyond the comprehension 
of man : for no one on earth less deserved 
or needed 'the uses of adversity' than 
Dumb Kate.
Love, the mighty and lawless passion, came 
into the sanctuary of the maid's pure breast, 
and the dove of peace fled away forever. 
[What heart, what situation in life is superior 
to love? Even this young country girl, retired 
from the busier and more exciting scenes 
of existence, was made to know the sweet 
intoxication, as well as the madness, that 
comes with the attacks of that boy-conqueror.]
[*¶*] One of the persons who had occasion to 
stop most frequently at the tavern kept by 
Dumb Kate's parents was a young man, the 
son of a [gentleman] wealthy farmer, who own[e]'d [a handsome] an 
estate in the neighborhood. He saw 
Kate, and was struck with her [beauty and] 
natural elegance. Though not of thoroughly 
wicked propensities, the [merit] [*[temptation]*] fascination of so find a 
prize made this [man] youth determine, [without intending 
marriage] to gain her love, and if possible,[*New York
July, 1850*][*545*] 

to win her to himself. At first he hardly 
dared, even [to] amid the depths of his own soul, to entertain 
thoughts of vileness [or harm] against one so 
confiding and childlike. But in a short time 
such feelings wore away, and he made up his 
mind to become the betrayer of poor Kate. [*[and]*]
[As the girl's evil genius would [*[deemed to]*] have it, the 
youth [*[man]*] was handsome and of most pleasing 
address. He laid his plans with the greatest 
art. That efforts of wickedness triumphed. 
It is needless to transcribe the progress of 
this devil in angel's guise. He had] He was a good-looking fellow and had made 
but too sure of his victim. Kate was lost !
[Look not with a frown, rigid moralist !  Give 
not words and thoughts of contempt, you 
whose life has been pure because it has never 
been tempted, or because you had the wisdom 
of the serpent to resist temptation ! There 
is an Eye which looks far beneath the surface 
of conduct, and forgives and pities the infirmities 
of mortal weakness. To that Eye, it 
not seldom appears that they upon whom the 
world has placed its ba[r]n, are the fittest for entering 
the abodes of heaven itself--while 
others, to whom men look up with reverence 
and admiration, might make their appropriate 
[home amid spirits of darkness.]
[*Bryan*]
The [successful] villain came to New York 
soon after, and engaged in a [respectable] business 
which prosper[e]'d well, aad which has no 
doubt by this time made him what is call[e]'d a 
man of fortune.
Not long did sickness of the heart wear 
into the life and happiness of Dumb Kate. 
One pleasant spring day, the neighbors having 
been called by a notice the previous 
morning, the old church-yard was thrown 
open, and a coffin was borne over the early 
grass that seem[e]'d so delicate with its light 
green hue. There was a new made grave, 
and by its side the bier was rested-- while 
they paused a moment until holy words had 
been said. And idle boy, call[e]'d there by curiosity, 
saw something lying on the fresh 
earth thrown out from the grace, which attracted 
his attention. A little blossom, the 
only one to be seen around, had grown exactly 
on the spot where the sexton chose to 
dig poor Kate's last resting place. It was a 
weak but lovely flower, and now lay where 
it had been carelessly [thrown] tossed amid the coarse 
gravel. The boy twirl[e]'d it a moment in 
his fingers-- the bruised fragments gave out 
a momentary perfume, and then fell to the 
edge of the pit, over which the child at that 
moment lean[e]'d and gazed in his inquisitiveness. 
As they dropp[e]'d they were wafted to 
the bottom of the grave. The last look was 
bestow[e]'d on the dead girl's face by those 
who loved her so well in life, and then she 
was softly laid away to her sleep beneath that green grass covering. - [to that repose which, 
after life's fitful fever, comes so sweetly.] 
Yet in the churchyard on the hill is [Dumb] 
Kate's grave. There stands a little white 
stone at the head, and [the grass] verdure grows richly 
there ; and gossips, sometimes of a Sabbath 
afternoon, rambling over that gathering 
place of the gone from earth, stop awhile and 
on over the [poor] dumb girl's hapless story.A leaf of

6

One crooked thurn[*Price*]
[*545A*]
 [Address] Talk to an Art: Union,  [*brev caps*]
[*vous ital*] (Extracts - 1839 - Long: Island)

It is a beautiful truth that all men contain 
something of the artist in them.[--] And 
perhaps it is [sometimes] the case that the 
greatest artists live and die, the world and 
themselves alike ignorant what they possess. 
Who would not mourn that an ample 
palace, of surpassingly graceful architecture, 
fill[e]'d with luxuries, and [gorgeously] 
embellish[e]'d with fine pictures and sculpture, 
should stand cold and still and vacant, 
and never be known or enjoy[e]'d by its owner ? 
Would such a fact as this cause your 
sadness ? Then be sad. For there is a 
palace, to which the courts of the most 
sumptuous kings are but a frivolous patch, 
and, though it is always waiting for them 
not one [in thousands] of its owners ever 
enters there with any genuine sense of its 
grandeur and glory.
[* ¶ [¶] *]   I think of few heroic actions, which cannot 
be traced to the artistical impulse. He 
who does great deeds, does them from his innate 
sensitiveness to moral beauty. Such men 
are not mer[e]ly artists, they are also artistic material. 
Washington in some great crisis, 
Lawrence on the bloody deck of the Chesapeake, 
Mary Stewart at the block, Kossuth 
in captivity, and Mazzini in exile.---all 
great rebels and innovaters, [especially if 
their intellectual majesty bears itself with 
calmness amid popular odium or circumstances 
of cruelty and the infliction of suffering,] 
exhibit the highest phases of the 
artist spirit. [A sublime moral beauty is 
present to them, and they realize it. It may 
almost be said to emanate from them.] The 
painter, the sculptor, the poet, express heroic 
beauty better in description ; [for description 
is their trade, and they have learned 
it.] [But] the others are heroic beauty, 
the best belov[e]'d of art
[*¶*]    Talk not such much, then, young artist, of 
the great old masters, who but painted and 
chisel[l][e]'d. Study not only their productions. 
There is a still better, higher school for him 
who would kindle his fire with coal from 
the alter of the loftiest and purest art. It is 
the school of all grand actions and grand 
virtues, of heroism, of the death of patriots 
and martyrs---of all the mighty deeds written 
in the passages of history---deeds of daring, 
and enthusiasm, [and] devotion, and fortitude. 
[Read well the death of Socrates,]

[*372*][Starting from Daun]
[Song of Myself]Winters 546 [551]

[in NY Evening Post]
[--pub. April 1842
? abt 1842]     

[???w:] [?]

BLOOD-MONEY. 
"Guilty of the [B]ody and the [B]lood of Christ."

Of olden time, when it came to pass
That the [B]eautiful [G]od, Jesus, should finish his
work on earth,
Then went Judas, and sold the [D]ivine youth
and took pay for his body. 

Curs'd was the deed, even before the sweat of [*like*] 
the clutching hand grew dry; 
And darkness frown'd upon the seller of the [a Son]
of God,
Where, as through [E]arth lifted her breast to throw
him from her, and [H]eaven refused him,
He hung in the air, self-slaughter'd.

The cycles with their long shadows have stalk'd 
silently forward
Since those ancient days; many a pouch enwrapping 
meanwhile
Its tee, like that paid for the [S]on of Mary. 

And still [Again] goes one, saying, 
"What will ye give me, and I will deliver this man
unto you?"
And they make the covenant, and pay the pieces
of silver. [*2*]

Look forth. [D]eliverer,
Look forth, [F]irst [B]orn of the [D]ead,
Over the tree tops of the Paradise. 
See thyself in yet continued bonds: 
Toilsome and poor thou bear'st man's form again, 
Thou art reviled, scourged, put into prison,
Hunted from the arrogant equality of the rest: 
With staves and swords throng the willing servants
of authority,
Again they surround thee, mad with devilish spite,
Toward thee stretch the hands of a multitude, like
vultures' talons: 
The meanest spit in they face, they smite thee 
with their palms: 
Bruised, bloody, and pinion'd is thy body, 
More sorrowful than death is thy soul. 

Witness of [A]nguish, [B]rother of [S]laves, 
Not with thy price closed the price of thine
image: 
And still Iscariot plies his trade.
PAUMANOK

[*April, 1842*]
[*547 [552]  [N Y Tribune
                           June  14, 1850]*]
[*Morris*]

[*brev. caps*]
WOUNDED IN THE HOUSE OF FRIENDS.

   "And one shall say no to him, What are these wounds in  [*nonp*]
thy hands?  Then he shall answer, Those with which I was 
wounded in the house of my friends."—Zechariah, xiii, 6.
[*[P?] 
       [B?]*]
   Iv thou art balked, O Freedom, 
The victory is not to thy manlier foes; 
From the house of [thy] friends comes the death stab.

   [Vaunters of the Free, 
Why do you strain your lungs off southward?  
Why be going to Alabama?  
Sweep first before your own door; 
Stop this squalling and this scorn 
Over the mote there in the distance; 
Look well to your own eye, Massachusetts— 
Yours, New-York and Pennsylvania; 
—I would say yours too, Michigan, 
But all the salve, all the surgery 
Of the great wide world were powerless there.]

   Virginia, mother of greatness, 
Blush not for being also mother of slaves.  
You might have borne deeper slaves— 
Doughfaces, crawlers, lice of humanity— 
Terrific screamers of freedom, 
Who roar and bawl, and get hot i' the face, 
But, were they not incapable of august crime, 
Would quench the hopes of ages for a drink— 
Muck-worms, creeping flat to the ground, 
A dollar dearer to them than Christ's blessing; 
All loves, all hopes, less than the thought of gain; 
In life walking in that as in a shroud:  
Men whom the throes of heroes, 
Great deeds at which the gods might stand appal'd 
The shriek of the [a] drown'd [world], the appeal of women, 
The exulting laugh of untied empires, 
Would touch them never in the heart, 
But only in the pocket.

   Hot-headed Carolina, 
Well may you curl your lip; 
With all your bondsmen, bless the destiny 
Which bring you no such breed as this.

   Arise, young North!  
Our elder blood flows in the veins of cowards— 
The gray-hair'd sneak, the blanch'd poltroon, 
The feign'd or real shiverer at tongues 
That nursing babes need hardly cry the less for— 
Are they to be our tokens always?

[   Fight on, band braver than warriors, 
Faithful and few as Spartans; 
But fear not most the angriest, loudest malice— 
Fear most the still and forked fang 
That starts from the grass at your feet.
                                                  WALTER WHITMAN.][*548
[553]
(brev: cups*]

Sailing Down the Mississippi, at Midnight[!]
Vast and starless thr pail of [He]eaven
Laps on the trailing pall below ;
And forward, forward, in solemn darkness, 
As if to the [S]ea of the [h]ost we go.

Now drawn nigh the edge of the stream, [*river*]
Wierd-like creatures suddenly rise
Shapes that fade, dissolving outlines
[*B*] [That b]affle the gazer's straining eyes.

Towering upward and bending toward,
Wild and wide their arms are thrown,
Ready to pierce with forked fingers
Him who touches their place upon. [*realm*]

Tide of youth, thus thickly planted,
Whilte in the eddies onward you swim,
Thus on the shore stands a phantom army,
Lining forever the channel's rim.

Steady, [H]elmsman ! you guide the immortal,
Many a wreck is beneath you piled,
Many a brave yet unwary sailor
Over these waters has been beguiled.

[*Nor is it*] [Not] the storm or the scowling midnight,
Cold, or sickness or fire's dismay
[*Nor is it*] Not the reef or [the] treacherous quicksand
Will peril you most on your twisted way.

But when there comes a voluptuous languor
Soft the sunshine, silent the air,
Bewitching your craft with safety and sweetness,
Then young pilot of life beware.
[Walt Whitman]

[*258+36=548 774 288*]
[*258+33=774 774 8514*]