The Project Gutenberg eBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 5, November 1841, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 5, November 1841 Author: Various Editor: George R. Graham Release Date: April 30, 2021 [eBook #65198] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 Produced by: Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images generously made available by the Internet Archive (https://archive.org) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, VOL. XIX, NO. 5, NOVEMBER 1841 *** GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. Vol. XIX. November, 1841. No. 5. Contents Fiction, Literature and Articles The Ghost of Chew’s Wall The Rowsevillers.—No. II The Reefer of ’76 The Interesting Stranger Shakspeare.—No. III Wiccónsat The Moonlight Flitting A Chapter on Autography The King’s Bride Indian Traditions.—No. II Sports and Pastimes.—The Fowling-Piece Review of New Books Poetry, Music and Fashion The Pet Lamb Flight of the Birds Il Serenado di Venice Ephemera With Thee Sonnets I Never Have Been False to Thee Merry England Marriage Never Shall My Heart Forget Thee! Latest Fashions, November 1841 Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. A young lady sits under a tree and holds a lamb Eng. by H. S. Sadd, N.Y. The Pet Lamb Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine a watercolor painting of a tree on a hillside GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. VOL. XIX. PHILADELPHIA: NOVEMBER, 1841. NO. 5. THE PET LAMB. ——— BY ALEXANDER A. IRVINE. ——— I saw her in her artlessness All innocent and free, And playfully a favored lamb She fondled on her knee— She seemed a vision of a dream, A glory passing bright, A being clothed in loveliness As angels are in light! Her tresses sported round about Her snowy brow divine, As flowers of the daffodil Embrace a virgin shrine,— Such purity was nestled there, A Sybil’s it might be, Forever beaming placidly As starlight down at sea! Her smile it had a witchery To mortal ones unknown, A language in its mirthfulness Beyond a seraph’s tone: It was as if the soul had come From out its deep recess And chose a dwelling in her eyes, So pure their loveliness! And softly on her pearly cheek The dewy lashes lay; Her lips were parted temptingly To woo the breeze to stay; Her snowy neck all droopingly Defied the lily’s grace; Her dimpled mouth—I dreamt of heav’n In gazing on that face! She fondled artlessly her pet; She raised his tiny feet; And toyed the garland on his neck; And soothed him, when he bleat, So sweetly that I might not hear Unmoved that silver tone, But longed to leave my hiding place And woo her for my own. A shot re-echoed through the wood, I saw the smoky wreath— The lamb was bleeding in her lap The glancing ball beneath— I sprang and raised the sufferer And staunched the ebbing tide, And carefully I bound the wound, And sat me by her side. I quieted her quick alarm, I gently soothed her fears, And o’er the dying favorite We mingled tears with tears: I shared her grief, and calmed her woe, And blamed the sportsman rude— She raised her swimming eyes to mine And smiled her gratitude. She faintly smiled and dropped her gaze, Her passive hand I took, No word was spoke, we only heard The murmur of the brook; Her gaze was on the murdered lamb, Her heart was strangely moved— She sighed, and oh! the loss she felt, The void where once she loved. Again I soothed her maiden grief, And sighed whene’er she sighed, And with such winning sympathy Her starting tears I dried,— And when she ceased I sighed myself, And she besought to know All artlessly and innocent The secret of my woe. I told her it was all herself, That I had paused to gaze, And that her witching loveliness Would sadden all my days; And then I sighed, and looked away, And told her how I grieved, Not for myself, but for the pang Her gentle heart received. I asked her but to pity me, And told my grief to part— Her fingers trembled, and I heard The beating of her heart, And all dissolved in sympathy She yielded to my side— Was ever virgin love as thine? My Rosalie, my bride! THE GHOST OF CHEW’S WALL; A LEGEND OF GERMANTOWN. ——— BY OLIVER OLDFELLOW. ——— When a man becomes so far lost to a sense of self-importance, as not only to tell, but actually to write stories,—thus recording his turpitude in black and white—it is not to be presumed that slight consequences will deter him from his purpose. Indeed, it is rather to be supposed that he has made up his mind to despise public opinion, and to brave all indignation. His hand is sure to follow as his pen may lead, and whatever he may resolve, when the story is written, it is, somehow or other, sure to find its way into print. The best motives of a writer may therefore be mistaken, or his strongest resolves puffed to the winds by a single breath, so that it may well be supposed in what a predicament we were, when we found our best intentions frustrated, and had to encounter the wrath and tobacco smoke of our German neighbors, and were obliged to write this apologetic introduction, and all through a villanous blunder of our greedy devil. The facts are these. We sat down, a few evenings since, after enjoying a comfortable cup of pure Java,—which we still continue to enjoy, notwithstanding the anathemas of a fellow with a villanous name, of “bran bread” repute,—to commit to paper a few notes of a conversation which we had with a relative long since. Having unluckily fallen into a doze, our devil, who had been going about for more than an hour roaring for copy, took a peep into the sanctum, and, seeing how matters stood, slipt off the following article, “in the crack o’ a thumb,” by way of filling up an odd form, which, in an unlucky fit of liberality, we had resolved to squeeze into the present number. It may well be supposed that, before we had fairly rubbed our eyes open, the matter was blown to the world, and a whole avalanche of country cousins, who hail from Germantown, were down upon us. Of course we said at once that the article was not ours, as no man can be expected to acknowledge his guilt until it is proved upon him. This, however, did not satisfy them, although they professed to have no difficulty in believing it, for they continued to smoke their pipes with such fury, and swore so stoutly in real jaw-breaking Dutch—for every mother’s son is German, even to the cut of his pantaloons—that we were glad to get off upon the condition of making a handsome apology, which we think we have now fully done. Among the many delightful villages in Pennsylvania, which owe their origin to German settlers, and maintain, amid surrounding improvements, the unchanged marks of ancestry, there is none more prominent than Germantown. It is but half an hour’s drive from Philadelphia, extending along the main road for more than two miles, with, for the most part, old- fashioned stone houses, which date prior to the revolution, sprinkled plenteously on both sides of the road, forming a village of most unconscionable length, but—like the pockets of most dandies of the present day—with no depth or body to support its extensive pretensions. It is famous in history, as being the ground of a battle during the struggle for independence, in which victory, though for a time doubtful, declared for the enemy, in consequence of the incompetency of an American officer. The present inhabitants are mostly the descendants of German families—true sprigs of the old branches, imitating most of the virtues of their forefathers, indulging in no luxuries, pursuing a rigid economy, and clinging with an unyielding regard to the money bequeathed them. Nor is this regard in any degree weakened by the devices of those who have recently settled in the village, and who vainly hope by improving their houses, fitting up their grounds, and clipping and beautifying their shrubbery, to induce an imitation of their example. The old-roof tree stands, as it stood half a century ago, and the very stones of the building, from between which the mortar has in many cases long since dropped, grin defiance on the passer by, who dares to harbor a thought of improvement or repair. The owner is content to live as his ancestors lived, but would like to die a little richer. The patrimony, amassed by the hand of unceasing toil, is religiously bequeathed from sire to son, together with the peculiar habits of thought and the superstitious sentiments of an age gone by. In many cases no education has been suffered to weaken or invade, and in others has been so slight as only to harmonize the mind with the general character of the place, which at best seems to belong more to a past generation than to the present. From these causes, things which better tutored minds scout with scorn, in the one case, are held as true as matters of religious belief, and in the other are only doubted, not disbelieved. In fact so thoroughly does superstition, and the gross follies which an intercourse with the world and education always dispel, prevail, that many of the inhabitants can tell you to a nicety when there will be a change of weather, by the belligerent attitude in which the moon turns up her horns when she grows restive, and that there will be company when the cat licks her paws, when a fork sticks up in the floor, or when the old cock brushes up his feathers and crows in the door-way. There are others who go still deeper into mysteries of this sort, and can predict to you a birth, a marriage, or a death, by the kinks in a cow’s tail; but as they are entirely beyond our depth, and seem to have this knowledge all to themselves, it may be well not to disturb them in their profound wisdom. Nevertheless, let no young man, who values the affections of any fair Dutch damsel in Germantown, venture to present her with a pair of scissors, unless he wishes to cut the sentimental cord that binds her to him. Thus much we feel in duty bound to record as a warning to young gentlemen, as many a man has lost the confidence and affections of his lady love in consequence of less matters than a pair of scissors. It might be expected that a village so contiguous to a great city, would soon lose these distinctive marks of character, and that the extravagance, follies and vices of the metropolis would be generally imitated. Not so, however. With very little exception, the place is as entirely distinct as if it were miles in the interior. The moral mantle of Germanism seems to hang like a cloud over the place, and, blended with the superstition of the portion of inhabitants spoken of, there is a high-toned morality so imbedded in the hearts of the people, that honesty and a strict regard to truth, next to making money and keeping it, may be considered the great texts by which they live. It will easily be understood that among a people thus constituted, a ghost has but to be seen by one of their number, and his appearance announced, to be generally dreaded. If he has been seen, there is an end of all doubting, and the only thing thereafter to be done, is to keep out of his way. There will be no use, in such a case, to multiply arguments about him, but every man must take care of himself. And, what may seem a little singular, a good sound-minded, rational apparition will, in all cases, most delight to visit a people who pay him so much deference; taking especial care to show himself off frequently, and in all manner of ways, that there may be no doubt that he does exist in one shape or another, and having established the matter to his own satisfaction, that it is better to range the upper world, where he can be seen, than to dwell below in the dark, damp ground of the tomb, where he cannot be seen, where his very existence may be doubted, and where, at the best, the quarters are most uncomfortably chilly,—we say a sane ghost, under such circumstances, would naturally grow familiar—or rather attempt to—and having sought out and established himself in comfortable quarters, and having enjoyed an oblivious nap during the day, would seek to regale himself in the evening, after his own will and pleasure, by little trips by moonlight, over the fields, around the old barns, and especially on the tops of the stone fences—if any there be—of the neighborhood. A ghost certainly has the right, if any body has, of doing pretty much as he pleases, and of keeping out of the dust and gravel of a country side-walk, and of cutting up his antics, by way of recreation, on the top of a stone wall. At least these were the sentiments entertained by the ghost in question, and he took the liberty—unlike most politicians—of acting them out without regard to consequences. One morning, early in November, 18—, the inhabitants of the goodly village of Germantown were thrown into great consternation and dismay, by the important intelligence that a ghost had been seen the previous evening, perched upon Chew’s wall, dressed in white, and rattling a heavy chain, which some maintained he had been hung in, in consequence of some great crime. Some said that it was only a log-chain, which he intended to use, after his own fashion, on the first man he got in his clutches, while others, with a great show of reason, maintained that the chain was fastened around his own ankle, and that he was no less a personage than the ghost of the dead soldier who had deserted from the British during the revolution, and was accidentally shot during the battle of Germantown, while a prisoner in a baggage-wagon, as had been said, but who, it was very likely, had been murdered during the heat of the fray, by some enemy in his own ranks—a rival in love, perhaps, or an heir to some estate, who wished him out of the way. Be all this as it may, the ghost had been seen upon the wall, and he had a chain about him in some way, and some unheard of atrocity might confidently be looked for. The greatest mystery of the affair was that as soon as the rumor got on the wind, the man who had seen him was no where to be found, nor could any body tell who he was. Somebody had seen him, however, and that was enough, and any inhabitant of Germantown would as soon have doubted the existence of sour-krout—a belief of which substantial proof was given daily—as to have felt the least incredulity in regard to the ghost. Of course all the inhabitants put on the gravest looks possible, and kept a sharp look-out, but still nearly a week passed and no tidings of a renewal of the visit of his ghostship occurred. Sunday morning came, and the matter was duly canvassed before the church door, prior to the arrival of the minister. A great many solemn shakes of the head and knowing winks were given on the subject. It was formally resolved that fires had better be kept burning in all the ovens for a fortnight, though it was pretty generally agreed that the ghost had been taken unawares, and that, whatever his business to that place might be, by keeping off the wall for a week, it was a pretty good sign that he did not want to show himself, and therefore he would be more cautious in future. The ghost, notwithstanding all these sage conclusions, resolved to have his own way in the matter, and accordingly made his appearance that very evening—not in white, nor in the form of a man, but in black, and running on all fours, like a hyena, on the top of the wall, and even proceeded so far as to throttle a very inoffensive person, and one who never could have had any thing to do with the murder—if indeed the apparition was the ghost of the murdered soldier. The facts of this encounter are these. Christopher Burger (such was the name of the person throttled) or “Stoffel Burger,” as his German friends delighted to dub him in abbreviation, was a stout, square-built young fellow, of about twenty-two, who could do his day’s work, and dance the whole night through in the bargain, without thinking of fatigue. He had fallen in love, at a quilting party, with Miss Susan Hanz, a blooming Dutch damsel of seventeen summers; and, like a straight-forward business-like German, as he was, he resolved to make her his wife. She was, in fact, just the girl to inspire Christopher with the sentimental. Short, thick, and as elegantly shaped as a churn, with a full, round, saucy face, lighted up with a pair of brilliant black eyes, and with a foot, which, if it was not one of the smallest, could go through “a straight four,” or, for that matter, if occasion required it, a regular “hoe down,” with a grace that actually made Christopher’s heart leap, as if it was going to jump out of his mouth. Nor were these her only claims to regard. The fair Susan was an only child, and her father had the reputation of possessing more than one stocking full of the real currency, carefully stowed away in the large walnut chest under the bed. Two or three broad farms also claimed ’Squire Hanz as owner, and spread themselves out very temptingly before the eager eyes of “Stoffel.” And then, what a hand at baking hot cakes!—his mouth actually watered at the thought. Added to all this, he well knew that if he succeeded in winning the heart of the fair Susan, no obstacle would be placed in the way of his happiness by the ’Squire. In this matter the ’Squire was exceedingly liberal; he imposed but one condition upon his daughter in relation to the man of her choice, and that was, that “he must be of a good German family.” To “Stoffel” there could be no objection on this score. His very name carried the recommendation with it. Moreover, the ’Squire had never had brother or sister, and therefore there were no rascally cousins to be mining the fortress in his absence. Had there been any, with stout purses in their fists, the matter would not have been quite so positive; for, as an arrangement of convenience, and to keep the money from the hands of grasping strangers, every man in the village of which we write made it a point to marry his cousin—if he could get her—and, if the truth must be told, the strong voice of parental command was seldom wanting to strengthen his suit. Let it not be supposed, however, that a lady with such substantial claims had never been besieged with lovers. Such had been the case. But “Stoffel” having so far outstripped his rivals as to attain the honor of smoking a pipe alone with the ’Squire a few Sunday evenings previous to the time of which we write, the business was looked on as settled, and the whole bevy of Dutch beaux were off in the twinkling of an eye, like a flock of partridges when they have been shot at. Christopher, thus having “a fair field and all the favor,” was not the man to neglect the advantage; so that, on the Sunday night in question, if an inquisitive eye had been placed at the key-hole of the ’Squire’s parlor door, he might have been seen, or heard, actually (we hope the ladies will skip this passage)—we say he might have been seen kissing Susan in the dark. Atrocious as this conduct was, however, on the part of “Stoffel,” we are bound, in recording a true narrative, to say that the lady was not to be frightened at trifles; so, instead of screaming out, and thus rousing the ’Squire and his blunderbuss, she took the matter coolly, and, resolving not to be outdone in civilities, gave him as good as he sent, and, throwing her arms around his neck, kissed him!! These, of course, are little attentions, on the part of lovers, which should not be wantonly, and without purpose, revealed to “the cold and heartless world,” and we only mention them to show that Christopher was a fellow with a pretty stout heart, and thus prepare our readers for the horrible outrage upon a brave man we are about to record. And considering, too, that all our lady readers have skipped the last passage, and are waiting breathlessly, we proceed. It was now past twelve o’clock—we are ashamed to record it—for Christopher, whatever wrong he committed in going to the ’Squire’s every Sunday evening, when he returned, his conscience, on that score, was generally clear enough, as it was Sabbath no longer. We say it was past twelve, and Christopher set out for home. He had feasted on the best the ’Squire’s cellar afforded, and had made way with more than one mug of his best cider. The parting scene, on the part of Christopher, had been unusually tender. He was naturally an ardent lover, and the cider by no means decreased the strength of his attachment. He had used every argument to bring Susan to the point of acceptance—still she was coy. Yet Christopher was a man of discernment, and thought that a lady who would throw her arms around his neck and kiss him in the dark, (bless us! what will the ladies say to this?) could have no serious objection to him at bottom, and so, on the whole, he was in a very pleasant mood with himself, and with all mankind and womankind in the bargain, as gentlemen usually are when the lady has been kind, and the parting kiss has been freely given. He felt unusually happy, and could not restrain the kind feelings which bubbled up to his very lips and found vent in snatches of songs. He was rapidly approaching the wall—still he thought nothing of ghosts or hob-goblins, but was ruminating very intently upon the charms of the substantial little Dutch beauty, and was going over in his mind, very pleasantly, her qualifications to make him a happy man. He might be said to be in that state, when a man is walking yet dreaming. He was picturing a neat stone house, with every useful article of furniture bought and paid for, and with a horse and cow that he could call his own. Milk punch, too, naturally enough popped into his head, and then out again, to make room for thoughts of hot cakes swimming in butter. His song, however, still went on, as the music was not so difficult of execution as to require much thought in its performance—when the conclusion of a stanza seemed suddenly to have been frozen on his lips, and he started back with the ejaculation— “Mine Got! vat ish dat? der spooke—der divel!” The cause of his alarm the reader will understand, and so did “Stoffel.” He had heard it rumored that a ghost in white had been seen airing himself upon Chew’s wall, and he was not the man to scoff at rumor, and, even if he had been, there was the identical thing before him, slightly changed in appearance, it is true, not in white, nor sitting erect, but in black, running along the wall towards him, like a hyena or a bear; and, sure enough, as if to establish his character beyond the possibility of a doubt, rattling his chain with a clangor truly appalling. In any other situation Christopher, perhaps, would have run, but in the present instance his limbs refused to do their work, his knees knocked together, his teeth set to chattering, and he seemed rooted to the spot. Nor can it be supposed that he was a coward, as we think the contrary has been clearly demonstrated in his valiant exploits in courting. The ghost, however, as if to settle the difficulty, to clear all doubt in the mind of Christopher, and to prevent any more profane exclamations, coolly descended from the wall, and before he knew where he was, knocked him down “with one blow of his tail,” as was afterwards affirmed. “So,” said the ghost, “your time has come to die!” “Mine Got, nay—I be’s—so young—and pin—tink—to git—marry,” chattered the horror-stricken Dutchman. “You are going to get married; ha! who do you think will have you?” “ ’Squire—Hanz—Sus, me tinks.” “When you marry her you will be a dead man,” said the ghost in a hollow, sepulchral voice, “and unless you stay away from ’Squire Hanz’s two months from this time, remember I have warned you! you are a dead man! Beware!” and having released his throat from a loving squeeze, vanished, as Christopher asserted, “in de ground.” When he arose, his brain whirled, and his memory was confused; the sun was just peeping over the hills, and a group of astonished neighbours were around him. Christopher told his story, and related the adventure exactly as it had occurred, excepting what related to Susan, that he kept close in his own bosom—why? we cannot say. Some believed him, but others, of the most knowing, shook their heads—guessed he had drank too freely of the ’Squire’s cider, and wondered how he knew “the ghost vanished in the ground when he was lying on his face in the dirt.” Christopher asserted, and swore Dutch to substantiate it, that he “had been choked on the back of his neck until he saw stars,” and that after that the ghost disappeared, and he knew nothing more of the matter until he found the mob around him. This was conclusive! And as the contagion spread, it was ascertained that the ghost had been exceedingly obliging, and had appeared in a variety of forms and costumes “to suit customers.” A stout troop of good wives roundly asserted that he had crossed the road in the form of a white calf, as they were proceeding to meeting, and that when they screamed out he disappeared. One had seen him in the habit of an old woman, dangling a great bunch of keys at her girdle, but it was plain he was no old woman at all from the whisker on one side of his face, which proved him to be the dead soldier. Moreover, he kept rattling the keys with tremendous fury, and held up his forefinger significantly; as much as to say “if you disturb me I’ll knock you down.” Another averred that as she was walking along, she heard a terrible flapping of wings, and looking up she saw, what at first appeared to be a flock of wild-geese, but they quickly changed into boys, and in an instant all vanished but one, and he was a man with a long white flowing robe, with which he took good care to cover his head, so that she could not see whether he had whiskers or no, and therefore could not say whether it was the dead soldier or not. In short, nearly all the old women had seen him, or had a ghost story to tell, which answered the same purpose, so that the good Dutchmen shook their heads to no purpose, for the more they shook them the more confused they became. The consequence was, that after the existence of the ghost was thus substantiated, he resolved to confirm the testimony by taking up his quarters for the winter at once. This he did by establishing himself in a neat two story brick house, which was formerly located at the place now called “The Seven Oaks.” Thus having made himself perfectly at home, and we presume feeling himself so, for no body pretended to disturb him in his selected quarters, he took his recreations in various ways. Sometimes he would appear with a winding sheet around him, and a flame of fire coming out of his mouth, then he would walk inhabited like a bear, or he might be seen in the form of a dragon with a huge tail. To vary the entertainments, he would appear with horrible horns on his head, and a tail like a fish, and would go sweeping over the ground as if he were gliding in water. He appeared, too, at various places, though his favorite resort was the top of the stone wall, which he would often bestride, as if it were a full-blooded charger, and would go whistling down the wind,—stone wall and all. What rendered this last feat the more surprising was, that when morning came the wall looked as unmoved as if nothing had happened, but the ghost was nowhere to be found. It could not be supposed that things should continue in this state forever. Accordingly a number of the more aged inhabitants having put their heads together, it was thought advisable to devise some energetic measures to relieve themselves of his ghostship. Whereupon every man stuck his pipe in his mouth, and set to smoking and thinking with great energy and decision. After due reflection, various measures were proposed, but none so feasible as that proposed by ’Squire Hany, who having a pipe about a foot longer than any of the others, came to the sagest conclusion. His proposal was in substance, that a meeting be called on the next evening, and that a committee should be appointed to watch the ghost, and if possible, to shoot through him with silver bullets; when, it was affirmed, he would dissolve into thin air at once. And lest the ghost should be aroused to commit some deed of dire interest, as soon as the news of these hostile proceedings reached his ears, it was thought advisable that all the inhabitants should close their doors at sundown, nail horse shoes over them, and, to save candles if not their necks, they should go to bed at dark. A large meeting of the indignant inhabitants, in accordance with this decision, assembled at “The Green Tree,” when, after calling “Stoffel Burger” to the chair, the following resolutions, which had been drawn up with great care and precision for the occasion, were unanimously adopted:— [1]“Resolved, That a committee of eight be appointed to shoot the ghost.” “Resolved, That Stoffel Burger be chairman of the committee to point him out, so that the silver bullets be not thrown away, and also, to save powder, that nobody shall shoot the ghost till they see him.” To the first branch of this resolution Stoffel felt inclined to demur, and said that as he had already been choked by the ghost, he would rather not get in his clutches again. The meeting, however, had made up their minds—as most town meetings generally do—before hand, and would hear of no excuse. It was therefore further “Resolved, That the meeting defray the expenses of the committee, provided they follow instructions, and that all the inhabitants be commanded to nail horse shoes over their doors, so that the ghost may be shot down without mercy.” We said the resolutions were unanimously adopted, but there was one young gentleman who, in the outset, stoutly opposed them, but who, nevertheless, afterwards gave them his hearty support. He was a good looking fellow, about five feet ten in height, with a piercing black eye, a most intelligent face, and a whisker trimmed with such exquisite taste that every girl of the village would take a peep out of the corner of her eye and admire them while passing. His tongue, too, was as slippery as an eel, and he could say the softest and most honied words in a way that actually put the stout Dutch phrases completely out of tune. Nevertheless, he spoke German like a book, and no man could exceed him in driving a bargain, so that, having come from a German settlement in the east, he went by the name of “The Dutch Yankee.” He never obtruded his advice in any case, and only suggested in this, “whether these hostile proceedings might not inflame the anger of the ghost, and lead to hot work.” The valor of the meeting, however, was too highly inflamed to listen for a moment to prudential hints, when they had the iron argument of horse shoes ready in case of danger, so that after selecting the committee and charging them to “be true to their country in this sudden and trying emergency, and to meet promptly the next evening and perform their duty,” the meeting adjourned. On the following evening the committee accordingly met at “The Green Tree,” armed to the teeth, each man having, in addition to his musket charged with the fatal bullet, a long butcher knife to be ready for extremities. The host of “The Green Tree” was in excellent spirits, and the committee resolved at once to be so too if it could be done by dint of good liquor. So in order to be prepared for the fierce encounter, and to strengthen his nerves, each man knocked off his half-pint at the outset. And as the generous inhabitants had agreed to pay expenses, there could be no harm, so thought both the committee and the host, in drinking another, and as each felt braver the more he drank, the experiment was repeated in homœopathic doses until the hour of twelve, when, we will venture to assert, a stouter hearted set of men never set out on a perilous expedition. It is strange, however, how soon the cold wind of a winter night will unstring the nerves and set the teeth to chattering, for no sooner were the valiant committee within sight of Chew’s wall, and had been a little chilled through with the night breeze, than each man was seized with a tremendous shivering of cold, and each feeling weaker than the other, it was with great difficulty that they could get on, for want of a leader. It was stoutly maintained that “Stoffel” should go before, as he was commissioned by the meeting to point out the ghost. To this Stoffel agreed, but maintained that he could not show him to the committee, unless they were with him. It was finally settled that no man should have the honor of going alone, but that they should all march up abreast, and at the signal given fire a platoon into him. So they set up at once a terrible yelling, in order that the ghost might see that they were in earnest and prepare for the consequences. Whether it was that the ghost heartily despised their bullying mode of procedure, and determined to show that there was no flinching on his part, by meeting them more than half way, or that the heads of the committee were rather giddy with having been confined in the close air of a bar-room for so many hours, and had thus caused them to miscalculate distances; certain it was, that before they were aware of their position, Stoffel espied the ghost and pointed him out at not more than thirty yards distance. Every man instantly cocked his musket, and affirmed that it was moving, and that owing to the dreadful proximity of the ghost, every thing else was dancing around them. Accordingly they instantly poured a dreadful volley into the offender and took to their heels. Whether the ghost was hit or not, it was clearly ascertained the next morning that the committee had succeeded in putting two silver balls into a great, ugly old post, which had long been a serious annoyance, and had split the rails of a contiguous fence most shockingly. There were not wanting those who were severe and uncharitable enough to say that the committee had got a little drunk, and had fired at the post. This, however, was deemed a gross slander, and it was unanimously agreed that if the ghost had stood where the post was, he would have had a ball through him to a certainty. As for “Stoffel,” having done this daring deed, nobody caught him passing the wall for some weeks after, and he gave people pretty clearly to understand that he did not intend to for some weeks to come. What tended to confirm the inhabitants in the opinion that the vigilant committee had extirpated the dreaded visitant, and that there was nothing like silver bullets and horse shoes to quiet ghosts, whether in doors or out was, he did not appear on the wall—when, unluckily for our friend “Stoffel” and his milk punch and hot cakes, “The Dutch Yankee,” who possessed the true blood, succeeded in winning the heart of the fair Susan, and actually eloped with the bouncing little Dutch beauty, much to the amazement of the ’Squire, and the horror of the astounded “Stoffel,” and actually carried the enormity so far, as to write “Stoffel” an invitation to the “home-bringing,” a month or so afterward; coupling the request with a promise that the ghost should not be allowed to disturb him either in passing or repassing Chew’s wall without due revenge. “Stoffel” did not like the tone of the invitation, or considered that his valor in courting and shooting ghosts was established, so he declined. That the ghost still held his quarters privately somewhere in the neighborhood, and enjoyed many a pleasant little trip by moonlight for his own private gratification after that, was not doubted by the good people of the village, although he only condescended to show himself to particular favorites, by occasional glimpses when passing the wall. Lately, however, he has been more chary of his visits, and it is supposed that the rail road rather interfered with his calculations, and that the eternal whizzing of steam and the ringing of bells, rendered his quarters uncomfortable—particularly since his house has rudely been pulled down over his head, and a new one erected on the same site, without regard to his convenience. There were not wanting people who pretended to laugh at the whole affair after the elopement and marriage of the fair Susan, and it was maintained that the Yankee was often seen to twist his face and laugh to himself, when he was ploughing up the old ’Squire’s ground. Yet nobody in Germantown, who had heard the clanking of the chain, ever ventured to doubt the existence of the ghost, and if any of our readers are inclined to disbelieve the story, the horse shoes can yet be seen nailed over some of the doors, and the bullet holes can yet be shown in the posts by the road side,—some of the inhabitants having dug the bullets out with the characteristic reflection, “that it was a pity that good silver should be thrown away, even after ghosts.” G. [1] Note. This, of course, all occurred before the Germantown Telegraph was started, or we should refer to the files of that valuable paper for a full report of the proceedings, and thus save ourselves a vast deal of trouble in copying a vile, old, dusty, Dutch manuscript. FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS. ——— BY MRS. E. C. STEDMAN. ——— Speed on! speed on, to your Southern home, Ye who ’mid the fleecy clouds may roam! The hoarse voice of Winter comes fast on the breeze— Its roaring is heard in the tops of the trees, And swift as your flight, is the march of Time— Away, away, to a milder clime! Ye’re wearied with seeking in vain for food, ’Mid the leafless boughs of your native wood; And here will ye carol your songs no more, Till the reign of the winter-king is o’er; Till Spring, in new beauty, comes dancing on, And ascends flower-crowned to her vernal throne. But your voices shall gladden the fairy bowers Of the genial South, through these winter hours, Where your golden wings may unfettered rove Through the flowery dell, and the orange grove; Or bathe in the spray of those crystal streams, Which forever glide free in the sun’s glad beams. Then away! ere hastens cold winter’s night; He who watcheth the sparrow, directs your flight: We envy your freedom, ye songsters fair! And fain would fly, too, from this piercing air; But the Power divine, which doth bid you roam, Binds us, and our joys, to a Northern home. But, thanks to that Power! from the frosts of Grief— From the Winter that blighteth Affection’s leaf; From the chilling blast of Misfortune’s breath, The ransomed spirit may flee at death, To a clime where perpetual Summer reigns O’er the fadeless flowers of celestial plains. THE ROWSEVILLERS.—No. II. THE CAPTAIN’S COURTSHIP. The cloth had just been removed, at my second dinner with the club, when the President called on a Mr. Rowley for a story. He tossed off a tumbler of Port—to clear the cobwebs, as he said, from his throat—and began. “You all know I am a lawyer, and that men who would be witty have a way of quizzing our profession by saying that we cannot tell a story without dragging in our craft. I have no objection to the notion of these smart gentlemen, and shall not even trouble myself to refute them, but go on with my story. “When I was a student, just after the close of the late war, I used to pay occasional visits to Mount Holly, which was even then a passable county town, and remarkable for its pretty girls, its gay winters, and the quantity of wine drunk by its bar. There wasn’t a lawyer in the place who couldn’t carry his two bottles, and as for wit, these barristers were famed for it from Cape May to Hackensack. But it is not so much with the Mount Holly bar as with Captain Slashbey, one of the clients of the wittiest member there, that my story has to do. “I first met the gallant captain on a hunting excursion into the pines. He was a portly little gentleman, with a rubicund face, a constant flow of humor, and an opinion of his own good looks rather singular, I must say, at forty-five. He had very short legs and a very round person, and altogether reminded you of a fat pigeon walking upright. He had been in the service during the war, and at the reduction of the army, finding himself pretty well in debt, and without a sous in his pockets, had settled at Squankum, a place in the very heart of the cedar swamps. And very convenient it was for Slashbey, for, like Galway, in Ireland, a sheriff’s writ hadn’t been seen there in the memory of man. It was once attempted to execute a capias there, but the forgemen and squatters rose in a mass, and though the light horse were ordered out, the arrest had to be given up. Now the captain was a popular man in Squankum, and therefore was as safe as in a sanctuary. He thirsted now and then, it is true, for the good things of civilized life afar off, and would often make a dash into Mount Holly, like a guerilla, taking care, however, to retreat before his creditors had wind of his approach. But at length he grew tired of this life,—I’ll thank you for the bottle—and determined to extricate himself from it by marrying an heiress; for the captain was a gallant man, you must know, and, like Will Honeycombe, had a high notion of his own powers. “There was a merry little vixen at the county town—a gay witty black-eyed rogue as ever lived—who was, in the captain’s opinion, the very pattern for a wife. She would have made an anchorite forswear his creed, and was besides an heiress to a very pretty fortune. Undaunted by the crowds of suitors for her hand, Slashbey determined to enter the lists, nothing doubting, on the faith of certain smiles with which she always welcomed him, that he would carry off the prize. He began his preparations like a Napoleon. He bought a new pair of buff cassimeres, endued a shining blue coat with metal buttons, and ordered a wig from the most fashionable perruquier in Philadelphia, for unluckily the captain was as bald as a cannon ball. Thus accoutred, he laid regular siege to his charmer, dancing her and sleighing her whenever he could venture out of his cedar swamps without being chased by a bailiff. The heiress smiled on the captain, her suitors cursed the lucky rival, and Slashbey spent his time betwixt studying his glass and singing ‘none but the brave deserve the fair.’ “It was just when he thought he was on the point of success that a grand ball was given at ——, and the captain, determining to carry his charmer by assault, forgot his usual prudence and escorted the heiress in his gig. Never did the little fellow look more gallant. I was at the ball, and faith! could scarcely keep my eyes off him. His wig was curled irresistibly, his new coat shone with resplendent lustre, his cassimeres fit him as a mould does a bullet, and he sported his new buff gloves with more vanity than a rider does his colors at a race. But, alas! his glory was destined soon to wane. One of his rivals, whose nose the captain had valorously pulled, determining on revenge, had informed the sheriff of Slashbey’s whereabouts, and just as he was leading his charmer triumphantly to the dance, the myrmidons of justice pounced on him, and after a desperate struggle he was secured, on the charge of an assault and battery. But this was not the worst. Before the court opened the next day, a dozen writs in civil suits had been lodged against his body. The captain was beside himself. He trembled at the exposé of his affairs—he trembled for his heiress. “‘We could laugh this battery out of court,’ he said; ‘but what the devil can I do with these creditors? I’m a ruined man. And to come just now, the infernal rascals! Oh, Anna Matilda!’ he exclaimed with a love-lorn look of his crow-feet eyes, ‘it’s all up with you and your fortune now. What would the fellows of the tenth say if they heard of it?’ “‘Cheer up,’ said his attorney laughingly; ‘your case will come up among the first, and we may yet find a way to get you off. It’s all the result of envy. These young boys can’t endure that Mars and Apollo should meet together in your person,’ and the barrister winked wickedly to me, as Slashbey, marshalled by the sheriff, preceded us into the hall of justice. “It was with a rueful countenance that he took his seat in the court. The room was densely filled with the usual motley assemblage at a county sessions. Loafers half in rags, and shopmen in the latest cut, portly farmers with huge mud-stained boots, and drovers carrying heavy loaded whips, here a sober Quaker with a broad-rimmed beaver, and there a gay young lawyer with more wit than briefs, long men and short men, fat ones and lean ones, some with merry round faces, and others with countenances as sour as crab-apples, officers and loungers, attorneys and clients, filled up every vacant space outside the bar, whiling away the time until the appearance of the judge, by speculating on the prospects of a crop, or discussing the points of a case set down for trial at the term. At length his honor made his appearance, and, bustling and bowing through the crowd, assumed the bench, wiped the perspiration from his rubicund face, coughed with judicial gravity, and ordered the crier to open the court. That high functionary accordingly started to his feet, and in a nasal twang mumbled over a formula which no one could hear distinctly, but which appeared to be a recapitulation of the iniquities of those in authority generally, and of his honor in particular, as it ended with a hope that God would save the commonwealth and the honorable court. After the crier sat down, a very lean man, with a very sharp nose, and a very squeaking voice, called out ‘John Smith,’ whereupon a little fat man jumped up and said ‘here;’ but the clerk, without seeming to notice him, went on and called Joseph Thomson, Zerubabel Thomson, Joab Johnson, and the Lord knows how many more Thomsons and Johnsons, all of whom severally jumped up and said ‘here.’ Then, the jury being empannelled, the case came on, and the attorneys got into towering passions, and seemed as if they could have eaten each other up, while the jury smiled and nodded, and their foreman—the little fat man—stroked his chin and looked extremely wise. After this was gone through with, there was a general buzz through the room, when suddenly the judge cried ‘order,’ and then the sheriff cried ‘order,’ and the sleepy constables and tipstaves opened their eyes and echoed ‘order’ more lustily than either; whereupon his honor turned over one or two big books bound in white calf,—ah! this is prime Port—consulted his notes for a moment, and then proceeded to sum up the evidence and charge the jury. “The next case was that of Slashbey—and the same formality was gone through with until about half of the jury had been sworn, when the attorney-general rose to acquaint the court that the panel was exhausted and that therefore he prayed a tales from the lookers on. These few and simple words of the attorney-general acted on the spectators like the upsetting of a crowded bee-hive. Instantly there was a great rush towards the door. Drovers and farmers, shopmen and gentlemen, staid Quakers and burly topers, all started in the race at once, tumbling and scrambling over each other in their haste to reach the entrance, while the tipstaves shouted ‘order’ until they were hoarse, and the sheriff and his deputies sprang to the door in order to close it before the egress of their prey. It was a moment of general confusion, and Slashbey was forgotten in the mêlée. Even the judge had eyes only for the scrambling fugitives. “‘Now,’ said I, nudging Slashbey, who sat by me not far from the casement; ‘now’s your time—clear the window at a leap—my horse Thunderer is fastened not twenty yards off—ride like the devil, and don’t draw rein till you get to Squankum.’ “Slashbey understood my plan as readily and rapidly as I had conceived it, and, just waiting to see that the coast was clear, he placed his hands on the sill, and, portly as he was, shot through the open window like a bomb, unseen by all except his honor, who caught sight of the fugitive’s coat tails as they disappeared outside. “ ‘An escape!’ shouted the judge, starting to his feet; ‘sheriff, your prisoner. The captain’s off.’ “On the instant the talesmen were forgotten, and sheriff, deputies, tipstaves and freeholders turned around, with open mouths and curious eyes. It was a minute or more before the matter could be explained, and by that time I saw that Slashbey had got mounted. I shouted ‘stop thief’ at this, and sprang out of the window, as if in pursuit, followed by the sheriff and his constables, tumbling helter-skelter over each other after me. The officers no sooner caught sight of the fugitive than they roared lustily to stop him, while the sheriff bawled for the ‘posse comitatus’ like a bull of Bashan. It was no time to respect property, so I followed the example of the officers, and sprang on the first steed I came across, eager to see the fun. “The court house stood nearly at the opposite end of the village, from that out of which led the road to Squankum, and when I mounted my horse, Slashbey was scouring down the main street some hundred yards ahead. Before a minute, however, the sheriff and his pack were in full cry at the fugitive’s heels, while as many of the spectators as could find horses and vehicles started off, a few to aid the law, but mos...