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ment with that adjective, both in number and person.

He followed the advice of Spifflikens. No one knew the world better than Spifflikens, and, therefore, Spifflikens must, of course, be right, so Slyder Downehylle became convivial. He slept by day and he frolicked by night. If this was not the long-sought "it," where could "it" be. Slyder Downehylle was merry-exceeding jocose. He was sometimes turned out of three theatres in one evening-he had fought in a ball-room-had thrashed several watchmen-had been honored with "private hearings" by the magistracy, and had been more than once almost beaten to a jelly. Slyder Downehylle earned the right and title to be known as a spirited youth, and so he was, generally. But, by dint of repetition, the blue began to disappear from this plum also the peach was no longer downy. If it had not been for the peach-brandy, what would have become of Slyder Downehylle? It was not, indeed, perfect bliss-Slyder was subject to headache in the earlier part of the day-yet it was as nearly "something to be happy with," as he had yet been enabled to discover.

It was a hard case, view it as you will. Mr. Slyder Downehylle wanted to be happy-he had the greatest disposition to be happy. He had tried every possible experiment in that direction that either he or Spifflikens could suggest; but yet he was a dejected man, even when tipsy twice-a-day. He could find no delight that was of a substantial character-nothing to which he could constantly recur without fear of disappointment and disgust—nothing that would wear all the week through and be the same to-day, to-morrow, and the day after that. It was in vain that he intermingled his pleasures-took them in alternation-over-eat himself in the morning and over-drank himself in the evening, or reversed the process, turning the bill of fare upside down. It came all to the same thing in the end. There must be something wrong-why could not Slyder Downehylle be happy? Who labored harder to boil down common-place and to extract from it the essence of felicity-to concentrate the soup of life, and to elicit essentials from their insipid dilution?

A man laughed in the play-houselaughed several times. What right

had he to laugh in that side-shaking manner? Slyder Downehylle could not laugh-he saw no particular joke that required it; but the man laughed again, and when Slyder requested him not to make a fool of himself, the man pulled Slyder's nose. Hope deferred engenders fierceness. Slyder quarrelled with the man about making so free with another person's nose, as if it were a bell-pull or a knocker. A nose is not much to be sure-many noses are not

but when a nose is constituted a point of honor, it expands to the dimensions of a geographical promontory-it is peninsular-it is a disputed territory, over which no one can be allowed to march, much less to make settlements upon it. Slyder Downehylle resolved to stand by his nose, and so he stood up to it, and a duel was the consequence -a duel, according to the barbarian custom of modern times, which was fought before breakfast. Who can be surprised that there is so much bad shooting extant on these interesting occasions? A gentleman, no matter how much of a gentleman he may be in proper hours, cannot reasonably be expected to be altogether a gentlemanaltogether himself-at such an uncivilized time of day. A man may be valiant enough after nine o'clock-when he has had his coffee and muffins-he may be able to face a battery in the forenoon, and ready to lead a forlorn hope when he has dined comfortably; but to ask one to get up to be shot at, in the gray of the morning-in the midst of fogs and all sorts of chilly discomfort, his boots and his trowsers draggled with dew, and himself unsustained by a breakfast, why the whole thing is preposterous? No man can be valiant unless he is warm, and as no man can be warm without his breakfast, it is a demonstrated fact that breakfast is itself valor, and that one may be frightened before breakfast, without the slightest disparagement to his character for courage. Master Barnardine was right when he refused to get up early to go to the gallows. There is a time for all things. But Slyder Downehylle was not more alarmed than was right and proper-not more, probably,than his antagonist. "How do they come on?" said the surgeon to Goliah Bluff, who acted as Slyder's second. The fourth shot had been interchanged and no blood drawn. "As well as could be ex

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

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

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

Spifflikens passed the bottle. Slyder Downehylle had never tried faro, but he did try it, and thought that he rather liked it. In short, it improved upon acquaintance. At length, he had reached the ultima Thule. The "something to be happy with " had, to all appearance, been found. Redheiffer was but a goose. He knew not where to look for the "perpetual motion"-the everlasting jog to the flagging spirit. But the top of our speed brings the end of the race. He who moves most rapidly, is the soonest at the close of his career. Faro is fickle, and Slyder Downehylle, in his zeal to pile enjoyment upon enjoyment-to be happy, if possible, with several things at a time-had unluckily a habit of not taking even his faro "plain;" he needed syrup also in that effervescing draught, and as his head became warm, the cool" amounts in his pockets melted away. Slyder Downehylle was a cashless man-his researches after felicity had not only proved unsuccessful, but had left him without the means of future progression. He was bemired halfway-swamped, as it were, in sight of port. Even Spifflikens cut him dead. The tailors desired no more of his custom-his apartments at the hotel were wanted. The "credit system" was out of fashion. Financiering had been clipped in its wings. How doleful looks the candle when capped with an extinguisher? The wounded squirrel drops from limb to limb. The world has many wounded squirrels, besides those that crack nuts to earn a living. Just such


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

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

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

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New Bedford, Mass.


I love ye, Mountains! for since earliest time,
When Tyranny hath bared his ruthless hand,
And through the valleys of the fated land,
Let loose the craven ministers of crime;
Crimsoned the sod, as 'twere in very mirth,

With blood of hoary sire, and generous youth,
And in GoD's name razed to the reeking earth,
The unstained altars of eternal Truth;
Your snow-capt crags, upon whose dizzy height
The daring vulture stays its weary flight;
Your dark recesses, where the black wolves den,
And outlaws dwell-more merciful than he-
Have been the refuge of unconquered men,
And home and citadel of Liberty.

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


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

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

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

Fugit hora brevis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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