man, that's all—such as probably has Slavic Bad thing for the Raugraf. or Jewish blood in him. Pshaw! I said to my- Am Niederrhein, my friend? said I to myself. self. I am instinctively more than half a "Na- Your family has gone down stream. When I tive American ;" and quoting the blasé butcher knew about the Raugraves-the Wild Countswho found that "it was only a man killed”—they were "situate, lying, and being" on the "Pshaw! I thought it was a dog-fight!" Upon looking again, I said to myself, I have certainly seen him! He looks doggish enough. It may be a dog-fight after all; for the man's atmosphere and bearing made me feel combative! It may be a mistake, but I trust my instinct, and always grow fightful toward people who disgust me at sight. Upper Rhine. And, not to refer to Kohlrausch, even old Heinsius's dictionary says their families are long ago extinct. Ah! It popped into my head just as he made a ridiculous vulgar-foreign bow, and planting his hat, rim downward, on the piano-forte, and passing his clumsy hands through his glib (an enormous mass of tangled hair, the ornaI fell to work retracing one long train of rec- ment and defense, decus et tutamen, of the Irish ollections after another of my checkered city life kerne. See Notes to "Rokeby," also Somer's for five years back. I could not recall him. "Tracts," i. 578, and the curious fac-simile Public dinners, publishers' back-shops, eating wood-cuts. It is the presentation copy which saloons, newspaper offices, concerts, billiard-Walter Scott sent to Robert Southey that I am rooms, opera, orchestra-players, German polit-thinking of, now in the Library of the Connecical meetings, lager beer shops, chess-clubs, ticut Historical Society, at Hartford. So much Castle Garden, French Theatre, German Thea-hair made me also think, Wonder if he ever tre, hotel bar-rooms, street faces, great balls, private parties, Evenings-no trace; and still I said to myself, The dog! I have seen him before. What is he about? had plica Polonica? Excuse this long sprawling parenthesis, but what else could I do? I dislike foot-notes)—passing his hands through his glib, took his place on the piano-stool. PeekA little speech, it would seem; a Littella-bo! I thought, as little boys cry out when Shpeech, he calls it: "Ladeez and gentelmen, they find each other. Peek-a-bo! I see you! I vill preeface my Littell r-r-romance with a But it is no great discovery after all. This Littell Shpeech." is Agatha Martin's German teacher; no more. She told me she was studying with him. Jewish, decidedly. Stay!-no-Southern Germany. It is there that they say schpitz for spitz. Schleiermacher did so. He was one day at Halle blaming people for being under the dominion of bad habits, when one asked him why he was under the dominion of this one? "Am I?" said he-he had not known it. "I will leave it off, beginning with next Sunday," when he was to preach. And he did. Strong man, Schleiermacher. The hostess was near me. whispered. Did I mention the voice of the Freiherr? Its first sound had given me a second little start and puzzling untraceable reminder. Put your face within the top of an empty barrel and talk. It is a big, echoing, booming, pob-wobbling (this word describes it; no English word will. It is Coromantee. See Rev. Mr. Codfinder's Coromantee Dictionary, p. 3462) sort of sound; and thus talked the Baron; disproportionately; like "Who is he?" I a great bull-frog. He had also a furtive and restless and uncertain eye; an uneasy look; as if he would fain "Baron von Krautengarten; but he does not use the title. He was driven away by the rev-see whether some one might not be lying in wait olution of 1849. He brought a little money to this country; but he is a man of great force of character, and can not be idle. He is teaching music and German. He is only Mr. Krautengarten at present." for him. Charity would have dictated the suggestion that this arose from his fear of the agents of that successful and revengeful despotism from which he had fled. But in this particular-for this occasion only-Charity and I differed. The Freiherr's song was naught; a sentimental, lamentable High Dutch outcry against every thing in general, and sundry personal enemies, Meanwhile I was also hearing the Littell Shpeech. This informed the company that the shpeaker's ancestors, the Raugrafen, on the Lower Rhine (am Niederrhein, he said, inter-obscurely described, in particular; with many an jecting the German) had once gotten into a family snarl of the period; pending which the Raugraf, a fine young man, fell into the hands of the other Raugraf, a coarse old man, who inserted the youth out of hand into einem teuflischen Folterkammern, a diabolical torture-chamber, or dungeon, called der Teufelshenkershohle-the Devil's Executioner's Hole. Here the poor fellow, much annoyed by bugs and slugs and bats and rats, that nibbled his toes and bit him on the nose, sought to assuage his anguish by the composition of the r-r-romance which he, the Freiherr the Baron, that is to say--would now sing. Ach! and mein Herz!-in short, what I have heard country folks call "a lurry." There was something ridiculous in singing sentiment in that great roaring, extravagant pedal-bass of a voice; and at the best, most German men's singing is curiously over-seasoned with grunts and gutturals. But all the rest of the people were deeply moved, pretty much in proportion to their non-understanding of the German tongue. The hostess, whose strong shrewd sense did not permit her to be much enraptured, preserved a decent gravity, and on seeing the laugh in my eyes shook her pretty head at me with so much meaning that I was fain to exclaim with the rest as the Freiherr stinted in his song, How beautiful! | scarcely be prevailed upon to write it out for There is very much that is noble about And so retiring!" How affecting! me. "Where does the Baron live?" I inquired of him. my fair entertainer. "Do you know," said she, "nobody knows. Poor man! He must be very proud, or very melancholy about his home and friends; for he seems to avoid all intimate acquaintances, and he stays entirely alone, except when he is giving lessons, or when he very rarely goes into society." I sympathized in a proper manner with the sorrows of this hapless exile; and at the end of the Evening I departed. I was excessively puzzled, notwithstanding my recollection which somehow seemed not to solve my query, Where have I seen him? I meditated a moment. "I wish, Miss Mar tin, you would let me be present at your next lesson. If I am satisfied with the Baron's instructions I will gladly take a course or two to refresh my pronunciation." She looked a little surprised, but I preserved an entirely serious face, and she consented. The lesson was next day. I was quite punctual. The Baron was also prompt in appearing; and although when Miss Martin presented me I endeavored to be as cordial as the case would admit, I thought the exiled noble seemed a little uneasy; and he bestowed upon me more than one of his furtive glances. The lesson duly commenced, and I found no disagreeable em And the more I dwelt upon the sad fate of this heart-broken stranger the less sorrow I felt for him, and the more dislike; doubtless an in-ployment in gazing upon Miss Martin's face-in human state of mind, but not avoidable by me. And so I still pored over my recollections, and rooted about in the caverns of memory with that painful, obscure conviction, known to most persons, of being within easy arm's-length of the required remembrance, if one only knew which way to stretch out one's hand into the dark for it. A couple of days afterward I called on magnificent Agatha Martin. On my way I met young Henry Silkie, a good fellow-now of Sinchaw and Silkie, jobbers. In the course of a brief conversation, watching closely and enjoying deeply the quick and flashing intelligence of her great dark eyes, the happy smile with which she seized every new portion of knowledge, the dainty delicacy of her perfect hand, the atmosphere of loveliness that radiated from her. The Freiherr did as well, perhaps, as most teachers of German. A little dunderheaded possibly; not a very highly-educated German; and it was easy to see that his success lay in the ready perceptions and correct and retentive mind of the pupil. After all it is the scholar who "Queer thing about Agatha Martin!" ob- teaches. served Silkie. "No! What?" "They say she's going to have that German teacher, Mr. Crowd-in-garden, or something." "Mr. Krautengarten ?" "Yes." "Whew!" I said; but enlarged on the topic no further except briefly to discredit it. But I had not seen her, until the Evening, for six months and more. That is a long time. Women are strange beings, even the loveliest of them. Sce Titania. Mr. N. Bottom, the worthy weaver, is a personification of the delusions that women too often only wake out of to find themselves not freed from, but securely married to, some sordid mechanical fellow with an ass's head. So I thought I would go and see. "How do you prosper in German, Miss Agatha ? Wie gehts?" "A little in reading and writing," she said; "but not much to speak, or to speak of." "May I see that exercise?" "Certainly;" and she handed it to me. looked cursorily over it and returned it. Still, as before, I was annoyed with the dimmest of remembrances of the Baron, which I could by no possible effort fix or follow. But I cared not so much for that. I was also investigating a problem of much deeper interest to me, though for no very good reason that I could | have named, to wit, whether Agatha could possibly be bending from her sphere toward this squatty, frowzle-headed, canaster-smoking High Dutch Endymion? It must be confessed that my heart sunk within me as I watched. Yet I could not have said in words what it was: something in their intercourse not precisely like that of ordinary pupil and teacher-a shade more of confidingness in her; a quiet air of interest, perhaps; an evident respect, as for a hero. Dear me! I thought; if you could have seen his little exhibition at the Evening! And what is there in him? But woman is an epitome of mankind, like Dryden's "man so various." Her first hero is very probably a wooden head. It is from the worI ship of stocks and stones that mankind creeps upward to that of heroes and gods and God. Each of us can remember Miss A, of whom every one properly said, How could she fancy him! He isn't half good enough for her. "Very good German, Miss Agatha; and a very good translation you make. He gives it to you in. manuscript to give you practice in German handwriting, I presume?" "Partly, no doubt," said the honest Agatha. "But he could not give it to me in print, I suppose? Has the Baron published his Memoirs ?" "Oh!" I exclaimed, discovering a new light. "That is his personal experience, is it?" Never mind, I said to myself as the lesson concluded, here's at you, frowzle-headed hero! And bowing, I administered a compliment on Mr. Krautengarten's skill in instruction. "Yaez," he said, "Mees Martin will soon shpeak Doitsch" (so, broadly and distinctly) very vell." "Yes. It is really very affecting. He would". I further intimated my deep interest in the series of personal adventures, with an account of which he had favored Miss Martin. I spoke with great gravity, but though the German gentleman, unversed in the feeling of English, did not mistrust any thing, Agatha did, as I saw by a dubious glance at me. The Baron replied, "Yaez; I suffered much. I fought so well as I could. I sometime vonder I am alive to tell of so many dangers." "It is wonderful," I said, assenting blandly. "But dangers sometimes seem to make life long, as fire case-hardens steel. You do not seem-pardon me-more than thirty-five, and yet your very interesting narrative begins at twenty. So you must be seventy-three years old, since you first published your very interesting memoir in 1788." The sweet manner and odd matter of my observations made Agatha look more puzzled than I had ever conceived that any one person could look. My extreme and deferential politeness seemed to perplex the Baron also, for he answered, visibly annoyed, however, I was walking homeward some time after these things, not exactly late one night, but very early next morning, slowly and meditatively. Passing Mr. Martin's house I paused a moment, for no particular reason except that Agatha lived there, and with idle attention I scanned the broad stone front, the windows, the heavily arched and deeply recessed door. This last seemed ajar. Passing up the front steps, I found that it was so. Glancing along the street I saw some one leisurely approaching. I stepped softly and quickly to meet him, and said, without stopping to chatter, "My friend, will you run round to the police-station in the next street but one, and tell them I've caught some burglars in Mr. Martin's house, No. 135 Street?" And I showed him the house. "Yaez," he replied, in a preternatural deep voice, and set off. "Sir, you joke. I understand you not." "Allow me," I replied, with possibly a more exquisite blandness than before. And drawing from my pocket a small and dingy book in mot- The Baron! And at that moment the misstled calf binding, with a green label on the back ing link of associations fell into place; the longand red edges, I opened it at a mark and hand- sought-for circumstances flashed into my mind: ed it to the Baron von Krautengarten with a Police court; charge, swindling a landlady, in sweet smile and a bow, pointing to a title, un-character of a Hungarian exile; sentence, three der which, in small type, were the words "Erst ausgegeben, 1788"-First put forth, 1788. The Baron glanced at the title, looked furiously at me, dashed the book violently down, and, I thought, was inclined to make a scene. But I left off looking polite, and silently gazed upon him with eyes that must have expressed something of the angry contempt which was hot and bitter within me; for he was cowed at once, muttered something about not having any "combat" before ladies, and about seeing me else where. And he took himself off in a most hurried and unheroic manner, which would, in fact, have been totally sneaking had the Baron been a detected impostor. months on the Island. It was a sufficiently clear recollection. I wish, thought I, there were a more trusty messenger. But there was not. The case admitted of no delay; and relying on my strength and skill, long trained in boxing and athletics, I turned to enter into the silent house to bag a burglar. What followed is far longer to tell than it was to happen. I ascended the steps quickly and softly. As I pushed open the door scream upon scream came terribly from within. I sprang forward. As I flung back the inner door, forgetting to be noiseless, the screams hushed with a choking sound, and there was a When he was gone Agatha asked me, all in moment's stillness. Burglars are a quick-eared a flutter, "Pray what is it? How savage you look!" "Oh! not much. I could not bear to see you so imposed on. It is simply this: Our friend the Baron made the narrative his own by the wise man's method of conveyance only." tribe. The fellow had heard me. As I placed my foot upon the lower stair something fell heavily upon the floor above. I gazed for an instant intently upward. Some white thing, dimly seen, moved in the air above the stairhead. I felt that the fellow was there, was aiming something to throw down and rake the stairway. As I dropped quickly on one knee and bowed low, whiz! crash! and a great heavy pitcher, or slop-jar, dashed into frag And I showed her in my book her wonderful exercise all printed out at full length in an uncommonly neat German "long primer," but with a hero of a different name. It was a story by Heinrich Zschokke, written during those ear-ments upon the marble hall floor. It would ly wanderings of his with strolling actors; it had first appeared in some miserable little German paper, and was reprinted only in a recent edition of Zschokke's works, where I, a special admirer of his, had read it. I have yet, or had, the Korrespondez, or Blatt, or something, which belonged to the Baron, containing the story as VOL. XXVII.-No. 161.-Xx have killed me. Up I sprung, and down sprung he from his coign of vantage. Midway we met, and I delivered him a heavy, lightning-swift, straight right-hand hit, aimed with good boxer's instinct, and so desperately given that it knocked him backward upon the stairs. I sprang upon him—(a burglar, like a mad dog, must be slain if meddled with at all)-caught | his throat, and knocked his head on a stairedge with a bang that might have split a ten-pin ball. Yet the hard-headed rascal was scarcely stunned, though I felt him slippery with his blood. He struggled smartly, and getting my hand in his mouth by (his) good fortune, made his fangs meet handsomely in the ball of my thumb. As we kicked and squirmed in grim silence I thought I heard some faint moan above, It might be Agatha strangling for what I knew. I don't think any ten men would have handled me at that moment. With a jerk I tore all loose; with a guess and a gripe, fortunately both correct, I seized my attached friend at throat and waistband, and, with one tremendous wrench, flung him past me and downward. He struck heavily and lay still. I leaped up into the broad upper hall. The gaslight was turned down, burning low, and a faint smell of chloroform was in the air. At the far end of the hall lay something white. I stepped across and raised it from the floor. I knew it was Agatha, though I could not well distinguish her features. I knew her room, for I had serenaded her. I was not sorry that it was my duty to lift her lovely, helpless form, and carry her into her own chamber. I laid her down and covered her up, sprang out, yelled up stairs, Bridget! Molly!" and turned to find Mr. Martin. The second room I entered was his. A small blue jet of almost lightless flame burned from the wall-fixture, and the atmosphere was heavy with chloroform. I turned the light to its full strength. The master of the house was just beginning to recover from the stupor of the burglar's drug. I caught a glass from the wash-stand, filled it with water, and unceremoniously doused him with it. He fumbled under his pillow for a pistol as he came to. "It's I, Mr. Martin-Harry Johnston. You'd better see to Agatha. I must step round to the police station." He sprang up, was half dressed in an instant, and went into his daughter's room. Returning, he said, "She's doing pretty well-feels a little faint. Come back, will you?" "Yes." And I was going down stairs, when heavy feet came up the outer steps. "There's the police, now," I said, and ran down to meet them. If I had not caught hard at the balustrade my bull-headed friend would have been more or less revenged, for I stumbled over him where he lay at the stair-foot, and barely saved myself from a fall as the officers entered. "You're long enough, Captain Norris," I said, recognizing their leader in the half light from the upper hall. "A little job here for you." "Hallo, Mr. Johnston, that you! Long? Just happened past, that's all, and caught Billy the Dutchman outside on the keen jump. So I hived him and looked out for open doors. Got him all safe outside there. Did you send for me?" "Billy the Dutchman ?" I queried. They dragged him in. It was the Baron. "Yes," I said. "Sent Billy himself, if this is Billy; he was on guard outside, and I didn't know him. He did not mean you should have the news so soon, I imagine. But here's another for you, Captain." Two of the men had already lifted my antagonist to a sitting posture on the stairs, and one raised his head. "Some one's hit him in the face with a stone, I should think," said the officer, inspecting a very bloody visage. "I caught "My fist, I guess," I answered. him with a very neat straight right-hander.” "Maybe," said the policeman, dubiously. "But if that's the doin's of your fist, mister, you needn't put yourself out to hit me.' "Get some cold water, will you ?" said Norris, and with much trouble we brought the fellow again to a consciousness of this present world. "It's that blessed Yellow Jack," said Norris, with evident satisfaction, as the application of the water revealed an uncommonly ugly and damaged phiz. Agatha was dreadfully startled again next morning at finding about her all the bloody finger-marks which I had left on her white raiment, and she was ill a few days with the fright and agitation of the affair. But no other harm was done, and nothing was lost. It was a narrow escape enough, however. Jack had about him Mr. Martin's very well stored pocket-book, and two gold watches. But if I had not come in upon the horrible mulatto scoundrel! Chloroform usually stupefies, but as is the case with opium, there are some who are made unnaturally wakeful by it. Billy the Dutchman-(burglers and thieves, like actors and authors, monks and nuns, have professional names; this was the Baron's name "in irreligion")—had well "comatosed" Mr. Martin, but in repeating the experiment on Agatha a few minutes afterward he awakened her. She had jumped out of bed and reached the hall, but the fellow caught her there, possibly only intending to silence her for his own safety. Her own small strength could certainly not have saved her from any violence which he might have intended, and she fainted when he choked her and dropped her to pay attention to me. The Baron and his mulatto mate are at Sing Sing. It is almost a pity that my story can not have its natural ending, viz.: a marriage between Agatha and me her preserver. But I did not marry her, for reasons which I will present in logical order: 1. I did not want to marry her, because: a.) She was my cousin, and we had been brought up together almost like brother and sister. b.) I had been married two years, and Agatha had been bridemaid at the wedding, and godmother to our child. 2. She did not wish to marry me, because: a. and b.) As above, mutatis mutandis, and c.) She was engaged to be married to my most intimate friend. THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON. Fist to the Battle of Bennington! Stalwart in body and lion in heart The heroes that bore in that battle their part. Oft did my grandsire tell the strife Till the winter storm with the sounds grew rife. The wind shrieked wild with the tones of fear, 'Twas at the close of a summer's day; All through the hours from early morn And naught of tidings e'er touched my ear I watched, as I said, by my cabin door, A deer was grazing down toward the brink My sire was leaving the lot on the hill; And he told how Burgoyne had come up the lake, Taken Old Ty, and with twofold might As deep I listened my veins grew hot, The kine-bell changed to the weapon's clank, And full in the midst was John Arnold's tread, And I sprang to my feet with a ringing cry, I took down the king's arm, the rust I cleared, Till its barrel like silver smooth shining appeared; Left to my father the rifle to slay The venison or panther chance prowling that way; Clasped to my bosom my boy and wife, Then pointed my way toward the region of strife. Three days did I tramp by the moss on the bark, The little Walloomsack rippled along, Hasty tramplings of men were there; The flag of my country high streaming in air. Old Stark was galloping to and fro; "There stand the red-coats! we'll smite 'em well, And drive back the hounds to their kennels in hell. "None but cowards will slink away! Sons of brave sires wilt fight to-day? "For victory's banner shall fly o'er me, A shout rolled upward of fierce acclaim; As blinked in the distance the red-coat ranks, We stormed the heights where the Hessians stood, Not a cannon did give us aid As on us their deadliest batteries played. We swept the fierce Indian-a yelping pack- But all in vain, for bold Warner too Bearskin helmet and plumed cap fell, The musket-ball hissed and the rifle-ball sang, I saw through the black smoke the red-coats reel, My wife seemed saying, "John Arnold fight on!" With a shout that shook the sunset sky, "And Molly's no widow!" laughed he with a will. |