Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XI.—April, 1851—Vol. II.

"On the eastern side of the street, and about midway between the arms of the river, stood the large, well-built mansion of Mr. Russell, the parish clergyman, almost hidden behind the branches of two magnificent elms of primitive growth. In the rear of the house was a lawn covered with apple-trees.

"It was about ten o'clock in the evening of the day mentioned in the preceding chapter, when a gentleman, closely enveloped in a long cloak that perfectly concealed his person, emerged from the tall forest-trees that skirted the river, and entered the orchard. At first, his step was rapid and bold, but as he neared the house, he walked with more caution; and on arriving at the garden-gate he paused, with his hand upon the latch, and looked cautiously around him. Having apparently satisfied himself that he was unnoticed, he passed noiselessly through the garden, and stepped over the little low stile that separated it from the house, stopped suddenly, and stamped his foot upon the ground. The earth beneath him returned a hollow sound, and the traveler, kneeling upon his right knee, commenced removing the rubbish that had been thrown so artfully over the spot as to elude the vigilance of any eye not acquainted with the premises. After he had cleared a space of about two feet in diameter, the clear moonlight disclosed the entire surface of a small trap-door, fastened by a strong padlock. He then pulled from his pocket a bunch of keys, tied together by a thong of deerskin, and, selecting the one that seemed to suit his purpose, applied it to the lock, which yielded readily to his hand. Lifting the door upon its rusty hinges far enough to admit his person, he placed his foot upon a short ladder, letting the heavy door gently down as he descended. The pit in which he had thus voluntarily shut himself was about six feet in depth, and walled in like a well. At the west side, and near the bottom, was a narrow channel or passage, of sufficient size to admit a full-grown man, running horizontally westward with side-walls, and covered with large, flat stones. Along this passage the mysterious night-wanderer crept softly until he came to another door, opening inward, and secured in a similar manner to the one that he had just passed. This he unlocked, and glided through the aperture, shutting and fastening the door carefully behind him. He was now in the cellar of the parsonage, which was so deep that he could stand upright without touching the timbers overhead. After groping about in the dark for some moments he discovered a small movable staircase standing against the wall, and leading perpendicularly upward. This he carefully ascended until he reached a third door, constructed of lighter materials than the others, which he easily raised with a slight pressure of the hand. He now found himself in a spacious closet, shut in with solid panels of oak. Letting the door noiselessly down, he stood a moment, and listened. Putting his ear to the wainscot, he could hear the indistinct murmur of voices in low but apparently earnest conversation. He heaved a deep sigh, and muttering to himself, 'I pray God it be not too late,' knocked distinctly with his heavy hand against the firm partition. The voices ceased, and he heard a light step cross the adjoining apartment, and then a knock against the wall corresponding to his own.

"'Who waits there?' inquired a voice from within.

"'Mr. Goldsmith,' responded the stranger.

"In a moment the door was partly opened from within by Mr. Russell, the proprietor of the mansion, who held a lighted candle in his hand, and who glanced stealthily into the closet, as if in doubt whether he could safely admit his visitor.

"'Thank Heaven!' exclaimed the clergyman, 'my expectations have not deceived me: you are with us at last.'

"'Ay, my son; the wanderer has returned. But you look pale – I am too late – tell me if he yet lives?'

"'He lives, but is fast sinking.'

"'And his mind?'

"'Is still wandering; but there are intervals – I should rather say glimmerings of reason; he spoke incoherently but a moment since; but he replied not to my words, and whether he was sleeping or waking I could not tell. His eyes were closed.'

"'I must see him: lead the way.' And opening wider the massive door, the gray-haired regicide entered the apartment of the invalid.

"It was a small but comfortable chamber, neatly carpeted, and furnished with a table (covered with writing materials and a few books), three large oaken chairs, and two beds, in one of which, with his face turned to the wall, as if to avoid the trembling rays of light that flickered upon the table, lay an old man, apparently about eighty-five years of age. As the evening was sultry, his only covering was a single linen sheet thrown loosely over him, from which his emaciated arm and small, livid fingers had escaped, and lay languidly by his side. His high, straight forehead, and calm features, which, from their perfect outline, neither age nor disease had robbed of their serene beauty, were pale as marble. The window was partly open to admit the cool air from the river, and the night breeze fanned gently the thin, snow-white locks that still lingered about his temples. The tall form of Goffe bent over him, long and silently, while he read with mournful earnestness the ravages of superannuation and disease in every lineament and furrow of the venerable face of his friend. Then, turning to the clergyman, who still remained standing by the table, he asked, in a voice choked with grief, while a tear sparkled in his bright eye, 'How long is it, my son, since he spoke intelligibly? Hath he inquired after me to-day?'

"'About one o'clock, when I brought him his simple meal, he roused himself for a moment, and demanded of me if 'I had seen his dear major-general;' but when I sought to prolong the conversation, and asked if he would see Goffe, his beloved son-in-law, he smiled, and said 'Yes;' but added, soon after, 'No, no: I have no son, and Goffe died long ago.''

"'Alas!' replied Goffe – seating himself, and motioning the clergyman to a seat that stood near him – 'alas! I fear that my fruitless journey hath taken from me the privilege I most prized on earth – the administering of consolation to the last moments of this more than father.'

"'You call it a fruitless journey, then? And did you hear no tidings of the long-lost son?'

"'None: I have ridden over ground where the sound of my very name would have echoed treason; I have sought him out among men who, had they known the name of the seeker, would gladly have bought the royal favor by seizing and delivering over to the hands of the executioner the wasted, life-weary regicide. I have this very day encountered the mortal enemy of me and my race; but my arm struck down the wretch, as it has stricken down many a better man in the days of the Protector. He paid the price of his mad folly in the last debt to nature.'

"'An enemy! and slain! Have you, then, been discovered?'

"'Ay, an enemy to God and man. But did I not tell thee that he was dead? Death is no betrayer of secrets: the hounds that scented my blood, bore off his mutilated remains, but they will gladly leave them in the wilderness to gorge the wolf and the raven.'

"'Who is this fallen enemy?'

"'Edward Randolph.'

"'Edward Randolph! Have you met and slain Edward Randolph?'

"'I have slain him. You look wild – you shudder. Dost think it a sin in the sight of Heaven to stop the breath of a murderer? You start at my words, and the minister of God may well shrink from the weapons which the servants of the Protector have grown old in wielding. But, Russell, Justice always bears a sword, and Oliver only taught us to employ it as the meanest viper that crawls will use his envenomed tooth, to protect his writhing shape from the foot that crushes him.'

"'The weapons of our warfare are not carnal,' interposed the clergyman.

"'Self-defense is the first law of our nature, Russell. But self-defense, when roused against a tyrant, or the minions of a tyrant, and in behalf of a goaded and maddened people, to inspire them with hope and freedom, and lift their eyes to the pure light of heaven, is the sentiment of a Christian patriot, and God will approve it. But let us awaken our aged friend, and try if we can marshal his scattered thoughts for a last conflict with the enemy of man.'

"He walked the room a moment, to banish, by more tranquil thoughts, the frown that still lowered upon his brow and the gleam that had lighted his dark eye – the reflex of many a bloody field; and walking slowly up to the bed of the sick man, stooped over him, and passed his brawny hand over the pale forehead of the sleeper. 'Awake, father, awake! – Dost thou not know that thy son has returned? Let me hear thy voice once again.'

"The invalid turned his face suddenly toward the light, and, opening his eyes, stared wildly at Goffe, but showed no signs of recognition.

"'Speak, Whalley: do you know me?'

"At the sound of his name, the old man started up, and rising upon his elbow, cried, in a voice that rang hollow as the echo of the sepulchre, 'Who calls Whalley? Was it my Lord Cromwell? Was it the Lord General? Tell him that I am ready with two hundred good troopers that carry pistols at their holsters and swords at their girdles.' Then raising his arm, with his small attenuated hand clenched as if it grasped the weapon of which he raved, he continued with increased energy, 'Up, my merry men! to horse! hew the roisterers down! – one more charge like that, and we drive them into the morass! – There again – it was well done – now they flounder man and horse in the dead pool – call off the men. They cry quarter – shame on ye – 'tis murder to strike a fallen foe! But I wander. Who called Whalley? Sure I have heard that voice ere this.'

"'It is your son: it is Goffe.'

"'Peace, man! I know thee not. There was a Goffe, who stood once by my side in the armies of the Protector, and who sat with me in judgment upon the tyrant; but he was attainted of high-treason, and hanged – or, if not, he must have died in the tower. My memory is poor and treacherous; I am old, sir; but you look – "

"'Hear me, father. Do you remember under whose charge the Stuart was placed at Hampton Court?'

"'Do I remember it!' quoth he. 'Ay, do I, as if it were but a thing of yesterday. Yesterday! better than that. Sir, I have forgotten yesterday already: my thoughts live only in those glorious days; they are written on the tablets of the brain as with a diamond. But what was I saying? It has escaped me.'

"'The Stuart, father – '

"'Who had the Stuart in charge at Hampton Court? I had him, and thought the game-bird would sooner have escaped from the talons of the falcon when poised on the wing, than he from me. But some knave played me false, and for love or gold let the tyrant slip through my hands. And, sir, to own the truth, he was a princely gentleman; and after his escape he wrote me a loving letter, with many thanks for my gentle courtesy and kindly care of him. Yet his phantasy was ever running upon trifles: for in that very epistle he begged me to present in his name a trumpery dog as a keep-sake to the Duke of Richmond. Had it not been for such light follies and an overweening tyranny, he might have ruled England to this hour.'

"Goffe now perceived that he had hit upon the right vein, and proceeded to ply him with reminiscences of his earlier manhood.

"'Had you e'er a wife?'

"'The wife of my youth was an angel. What of her, but that she is dead, and I desolate? Or who are you, that venture to thrust my grief upon me unasked. You tread upon the ashes of the dead!'

"'Pardon me: I wound, that I may heal. Had you ever a daughter?'

"'I had several, but I can not recall their names. Yet I am sure there must have been more than one.'

"'Was not one of them made by your consent the wife of William Goffe?'

"'Yes – why yes: Frances was the wife of Goffe – a gallant officer, and a faithful servant of God and the commonwealth. I mind him well now. He was a host in battle, but something rash, and of a hot temper. I thought to hear of his death at the end of every conflict with the cavaliers. He would ride a furlong in front of his troop in the rage of pursuit, if ever the enemy broke rank and fled.'

"'What became of him?'

"'He died – no – it has all come back to me now. He came with me to America, and here in the rocks and caverns of this wilderness he has helped to hide me, with the tenderness of a bird for its unfledged young, through this my second infancy.'

"'Do you not know me now?' asked Goffe, affectionately taking his hand.

"The old man fixed his mild blue eye, already beaming with the rays of returning intelligence, full upon the anxious face of his fellow-exile, and gazed long and intently, as if he would have read in his features some sign of an attempt to practice upon his credulity. Then the color came back in a momentary glow to his cheeks, and tears flowed copiously over them, as he threw his arms around the iron form of Goffe, and smiled faintly as he faltered, 'Alas the day – that I should live to forget thee, my more than son!'

"The empire of reason was restored: and although afterward it sometimes lost its sway in the chaos of the dim and shadowy images of the past, yet from that time to the day of his death, the jealous glance with which he followed the steps of the companion of his earlier and more prosperous days, as he moved noiselessly around the room – the warm grasp of the hand – the subdued patience of the sufferer – the oft-repeated endearing appellation 'my son – my son' – were constant witnesses to the faithfulness of memory, when kindled and kept in exercise by gratitude and love."

Parnassus in Pillory, by Motley Manners, Esq. (published by Adriance, Sherman, and Co.), is a satire of great pretension and considerable success upon several of the most eminent living American poets. Mr. Manners has some sharp weapons in his armory, which he flourishes with the skill of an adroit fencing master, but in most cases, they gleam idly in the air without drawing blood. His happiest hits are usually harmless, but now and then they damage himself while his antagonist escapes. On the whole, the author's forte is poetry rather than satire, and punning more than either. In this last accomplishment, we admit his "proud pre-eminence."

Ticknor, Reed, and Fields have issued a new edition of Twice Told Tales, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, with an original preface, and a portrait of the author. The preface is highly characteristic, and will be read with as much interest as any of the stories. Mr. Hawthorne presents some details of his literary autobiography, in which he relates the ill success of his first adventures as an author, with irresistible unction and naïvete. He claims to have been for a good many years the obscurest literary man in America. His stories were published in magazines and annuals, for a period comprising the whole of the writer's young manhood, without making the slightest impression on the public, or, with the exception of "The Rill from the Town-Pump," as far as he is aware, having met with the good or evil fortune to be read by any body. When collected into a volume, at a subsequent period, their success was not such as would have gratified a craving desire for notoriety, nor did they render the writer or his productions much more generally known than before. The philosophy of this experience is unfolded by the author without the slightest affectation of concealment, or any show of querulousness on account of its existence. On the contrary, he views the whole affair with perfect good humor, and consoles himself in the failure of large popularity, with the sincere appreciation which his productions received in certain gratifying quarters. They were so little talked about that those who chanced to like them felt as if they had made a new discovery, and thus conceived a kindly feeling not only for the book but for the author. The influence of this on his future literary labors is set forth with his usual half-comic seriousness. "On the internal evidence of his sketches, he came to be regarded as a mild, shy, gentle, melancholic, exceedingly sensitive, and not very forcible man, hiding his blushes under an assumed name, the quaintness of which was supposed, somehow or other, to symbolize his personal and literary traits. He is by no means certain that some of his subsequent productions have not been influenced and modified by a natural desire to fill up so amiable an outline, and to act in consonance with the character assigned to him, nor even now could he forfeit it without a few tears of tender sensibility."

Time the Avenger is the title of Mrs. Marsh's last novel, reprinted by Harper and Brothers. It is intended as the sequel to "The Wilmingtons," and like that powerful story abounds in vivid delineations of character, and natural and impressive developments of passion. With a more reflective character than most of the former productions of the author, the style is equally vigorous and sparkling with that of the admirable works which have given her such a brilliant celebrity.

The Educational System of the Puritans and Jesuits compared, by N. Porter, Professor in Yale College (published by M. W. Dodd) is an historical and argumentative treatise discussing the origin, influence, and prevalence in this country of the two systems. The views of the author are presented with discrimination and force, and well deserve the attention of the friends of religion and education.

George P. Putnam has issued the second part of The Girlhood of Shakspeare's Heroines, by Mary Cowden Clarke, containing The Thane's Daughter, in which the early history of Lady Macbeth is described in an ingenious and lively fiction. The story does great credit to the author's power of invention, and is executed with so much skill, as in some degree to atone for the presumptuousness of the enterprise. The volume is embellished with a neat engraving of "Cawdor Castle."

Munroe and Francis, Boston, have published a volume of Poetry from the Waverly Novels, containing the poems scattered through the Waverly Novels, which are supposed to be written by Sir Walter Scott, and which are ascribed by him to anonymous sources. The volume will be welcomed by every lover of poetry and of Scott, not only for the agreeable associations which it awakens, but for the numerous delicious morceaux which it has preserved.

A new edition of Essays and Reviews by Edwin P. Whipple, has been issued by Ticknor, Reed, and Fields, comprising the contents of the former edition, with a Review of Dana's Poems and Prose Writings, and one or two less elaborate papers. These volumes present the character of the author as an acute and enlightened critic in a very favorable light. With a familiar knowledge of the lighter portions of English literature, a healthy relish for the racy varieties of a wide range of authors, a sensitive taste which is none the less accurate in its decisions for being catholic in its affinities, a peculiar facility in appreciating the point of view of the writers under discussion, and a richness, point, and beauty of expression rarely combined in any department of composition, Mr. Whipple has attained a deserved eminence as a critical authority, which is certainly not surpassed in the field of American letters, and with but few exceptions, by any writer in the English language.

Elements of Analytical Geometry and of the Differential and Integral Calculus, by Elias Loomis, Professor in the University of New York (published by Harper and Brothers) presents the principles of the sciences treated of, with a precision of statement and clearness of illustration, without sacrificing any thing of scientific rigor, which make it an admirable text-book for the college student, as well as a facile guide for the mathematical amateur. The happy manner in which the knotty points of the Calculus are unraveled in this treatise presents a strong temptation to plunge into the time-devouring study.

Harper and Brothers have published Wallace and Mary Erskine, being the second and third numbers of Mr. Abbott's popular series of Franconia Stories.

The City of the Silent, by W. Gilmore Simms, is the title of an occasional poem delivered at the consecration of Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C. Its felicitous selection of topics, and classic beauty of expression, entitle it to a high place in the current poetry of the day, and amply sustain the reputation of the distinguished author. The notes exhibit a rich store of curious erudition.

The Shipmaster's Assistant and Commercial Digest, by Joseph Blunt, is published by Harper and Brothers, in the fifth edition, although such changes have been introduced as to render it in fact a new work. It presents a complete digest of the laws of the different States of the Union, relating to subjects connected with navigation; a systematic arrangement of the acts of Congress in regard to the revenue and commerce; a view of the different moneys and weights and measures of the world, besides an immense amount of information, under appropriate heads, on the various points of marine law and commercial regulations that can interest an American shipmaster.

Three Leaves from Punch

THE AFFAIRS OF GREASE

Fat cattle did not sell well this year. Their ever-obesity seems to have been one of the causes of their going off so heavily – which is no wonder. Fat oxen can not be expected to be brisk. Now, this truth has been brought home to graziers, perhaps they will abandon the system of fattening animals so enormously; which is the merest infatuation.

THE WAR ON HATS

Every one knows that Punch has lately been knocking the modern hat upon the head with his playful, but powerful bâton. War to the hat is happily superseding, on the Continent, the rage for making war on crowns alone; and, indeed, we had so much rather see the military employed abroad in a crusade against hats than in the work of carnage, that, by way of giving employment in a good cause, to a brave soldier, we invest with full powers against hats the renowned General Hatzoff.

PEACE OFFERING

The Crystal Palace may be looked upon as a noble Temple of Peace, where all nations will meet, by appointment, under the same roof, and shake each other by the hand. It is very curious that one-half of Mr. Paxton's name should be significant of Peace. We propose, therefore, that over the principal entrance there be erected in large gold letters, the following motto, so that all foreigners may read it as a friendly salute on the part of England:

"Pax(ton) Vobiscum."

THE BEST LAW BOOK

We find there has been recently advertised a Law Book under the promising title of Broom's Practice. This is just what is wanted in the law; the Broom happens to be a good one, for a little practice with such an implement may have the effect of operating a sweeping reform.

JUSTICE FOR BACHELORS

"Dear Mr. Punch,

"I am a bachelor, and my friends, I believe, allow that, in the main, I am a tolerably good-natured fellow – but just look here! I was invited a few days ago to spend a week at a country house, and here I am; but I must confess that I was a little put out when taken to the very top of it, and told that this was my bedroom. I have since been led to suppose that unmarried men must expect to sleep in the worst rooms there are; for see – this is the bedroom of a married couple, friends of mine. Now – confound it! I say the comfort is monstrously and unfairly disproportioned. The ladies – bless them! – ought, of course, to be made as cosy as possible; no man could object to their having their nice little bit of fire, and their dear little slippers placed before it, with their couches, and their easy chairs, &c. – of course not – but that is no reason why we single men should be treated like so many Shetland ponies. There is no fireplace in my room, and the only ventilation is through a broken window. As far as the shooting, the riding, the eating and drinking go, I have nothing whatever to complain of. But I want to know why – why this mature female always answers my bell, and that great brute Snawkins (whose mind, by-the-by, is not half so well regulated as mine) – merely because he is a married man – has his hot water brought by this little maid! I don't understand it. You may print this, if you like; only send me a few copies of Punch, when it appears, that's a good fellow, and I will carelessly leave them about, in the hope that Mrs. Haycock may see them; and by Jove! if the hint is not taken, and my bedroom changed – or, at least, made more comfortable – I'll – yes – (there's an uncommonly nice girl stopping here) I'll be hanged if I don't think very seriously of getting married myself.