tyrannical, without being a thief and a rob- | tain Fishley. ber. I really pitied Ham, and if he had not destroyed the letter, I should have gone to him. and begged him to retrace his steps. I knew him too well to take such a course now, and I lay thinking of his crime till, overcome with weariness, I went to sleep. IF CHAPTER VIII. MISS LARRABEE'S LETTER. I did not get up as early as usual the next morning, none of my tyrants were stirring in season to abuse me for lying abed so late; for they, like myself, had not retired until after midnight. The first thing that came to my mind in the morning was the scene I had witnessed in the post-office. The secret seemed to burn in my soul, and I wanted some means of getting rid of it. I actually pitied Ham, and would gladly have availed myself of any method of saving him from the crime of saving him from himself, rather than from the penalty of the offence, for even then the crime seemed to me to be worse than the punishment, and more to be dreaded. It was nearly breakfast time when Ham made his appearance, and I imagined that he had found some difficulty in going to sleep with the burden of his crime resting upon his conscience. Squire Fishley did not appear till the family were just ready to sit down at the table. He looked sleepy, stupid, and ashamed of himself, and Mrs. Fishley thought he must have taken cold. According to his custom, the ❘ senator said grace at the table, by invitation of his brother, who, however, never returned | thanks himself. I could not help keeping one eye fixed on the distinguished man, for so unusual an event as saying grace in that house did not fail to make an impression upon me. I noticed that he cast frequent glances at me, and very uneasy ones at that. Doubtless he felt that I could unfold a tale which was not exactly consistent with his religious pretensions. But, in spite of all I knew, I did not regard him as a hypocrite. I did not know enough about him to enable me to reach so severe a judgment. The shame and penitence he had manifested assured me he was not in the habit of getting intoxicated; and I was willing to believe that he had been led away by the force of circumstances a single time, and that the error would cure itself by its own reaction. "It's rather chilly this morning," said Cap “Buck, you may make a little fire in the stove." "It has cleared off pleasant, and it will be warmer by and by, when the sun gets up," added Mrs. Fishley, who always had something to say, on every possible topic that could be introduced, whether she knew any thing about it or not. I went to the store. In the open stove were the tindered remains of the letter Ham had burned. The sheet of paper had been entirely consumed; but the envelope, which he had destroyed afterwards, was only half burned. The right hand lower corner had apparently been wet, so that it resisted the action of the fire, and appeared to rise in judgment against the mail robber. The piece contained part of the last name of the superscription, with a portion of the town, county and state, of the address. Without any definite purpose in doing so, I put the remains of the envelope in my pocket. While I was making the fire, Miss Larrabee entered the store, and went up to the counter appropriated to the post-office. Ham whistled Yankee Doodle, which was patriotic enough, but out of place even in the shop, and sauntered leisurely over to wait upon her. I was astonished to see how cool he was; but I think the whistle had a deceptive effect. "Has that letter come yet?" asked Miss Larrabee; and her anxiety was visible in the tones of her voice. "What letter do you mean, Miss Larrabee?" asked Ham, suspending his whistle, and looking as blank as though he had never heard of it. "Yes; the letter from Ethan's folks." “I haven't heard anything about it before." "Well, you was a standin' here last night when I axed your father for it,” added Miss Larrabee, who thought the matter was of cor. sequence enough to have everybody take an interest in it. "I didn't mind what you said. So many letters come here, that I can't keep the run of them." "I've asked your father for't goin' on three times; and he said it would come in last night's mail. It must have come afore this time." "If it must, I suppose it has," replied Ham, taking a pile of letters from the pigeon-hole marked L. Having lighted the kindlings in the stove, "Ethan didn't make no mistake. "Taint like him to make mistakes. Do you think Ethan don't know where I live?" "I don't know anything about it, only that the letter isn't here." I stood up to observe the conduct of Ham. "I have." "Dear suz! What shall I do? When a body's made up her mind to go, it's desp'ate aggra At this trying juncture, Squire Fishley interposed, and, after some inquiries in regard to the responsibility of the parties, suggested that But Ham took down the L's again, and went his brother should lend the lady money enough through the pile once more. "None for Larrabee," he repeated, and then, for variety's sake, whistled the first strain of Hail, Columbia. 46 "But, Mr. Fishley, there must be a letter for me. Ethan writ me there was one comin'; and he said it would be here by to-day, for sartain," protested Miss Larrabee. "Mebbe it's got into some other hole." "Well, to please you, I'll look them all over; but I don't remember seeing any letter for you." "I tell ye it must have come afore now," persisted the venerable maiden. Ham whistled his favorite air as he went through all the letters in the pigeon-holes, from A to Z. He did not find it, and Miss Larrabee was in despair. She had made all her preparations to visit "Jim's folks," and had intended to start that day. "It's a shame!" exclaimed she. "I know Ethan sent the letter. He wouldn't play no sech trick on me. Them mail folks ought to look out for things better'n that." to enable her to make her journey. "I'd be much obleeged to you, Captain Fishley, if you'd do it," said Miss Larrabee, delighted with the suggestion. "I shan't be gone more'n a month, and when I come back I'll hand it to you. That letter must come to-day or to-morrow, and if you have a mind to, you can open it, and take the money out. It will save me the interest." "But suppose the letter has gone to the dead-letter office?" added the postmaster. "Sakes alive! I've got money enough to pay it, if the letter is lost. Why, Ethan's got more'n 'leven hundred dollars that belongs to me." "All right, Miss Larrabee," replied Captain Fishley, as he took out the money, and wrote a note for the amount. The worthy maiden of many summers put on her spectacles, signed the note, and counted the money. She was happy again, for the journey was not to be deferred. I think Ham was as glad to have her go, as she was to go. I could not help watching him very closely "If it didn't come, it didn't," added Ham, after his father and the squire left the store, to consolingly. "But I know it did come. Ethan must have put it in the post-office. 'Taint like him to say he'd do a thing, and then not do it. I almost know he sent the letter." At this point Captain Fishley and his brother entered the store, and Miss Larrabee appealed to him. The postmaster looked the letters over very carefully; but, as there was none for the lady, he couldn't find any. He was very sorry, but he displayed more philosophy than the spinster, and "bore up" well under the trial. "What on airth am I to do!" ejaculated Miss Larrabee. 86 "Here I've got all ready to go and see Jim's folks; but I can't go because I hain't got no money. When I set about doin' a thing, I want to do it." "People sometimes make mistakes in directing their letters, and then they have to go to the dead-letter office," suggested Captain Fish py. observe how he carried himself in his course. of deception and crime. I had never known. him to whistle so much before, and I regarded' it as the stimulus he used in keeping up his self-possession. "What are you staring at me for, Buck Bradford?" demanded he, as I stood gazing. across the counter at him. "A cat may look at the king," I replied,. stung by the harsh words, after I had cherished so many kind feelings towards him, though I forgot that I had not expressed them, since the affray on the road. "Do I owe you anything?" "Yes, I do. I owe you something on last night's account, and I'm going to pay it too,” he added, shaking his head at me in a threatening manner. I did not like his style, and not wishing to make a disturbance in the store, I said noth ing. I walked up to the stove, where I found that my fire was not doing very well, for my interest in the letter had caused me to neglect it. I put on some more kindlings, and then knelt down on the hearth to blow up the fire with my breath. Captain Fishley and the squire had left the store, and Ham and I were alone. I heard my youngest tyrant come from behind the counter; but I did not think anything of it. While I was kneeling on the hearth, and blowing up the failing embers with all my might, Ham came up behind me, with a cowhide in his hand, taken from a lot for sale, and before I suspected any treachery on his part, or had time to defend myself, he struck me three heavy blows, each of which left a mark that remained for more than a week. POETS' HOMES. BY THOMAS POWELL. Author of "The Blind Wife," "Florentine Tales," "Simon de IT T seems almost a misnomer to include Coleridge in a series like the present, since the author of "Christabel,” for the greater part of his tolerably long life of sixty-two years, can scarcely be said to have ever had a home of his own; for, after the first few years of his marriage, he left his wife and little ones to the care of Southey, and those who were willing to take charge of them. Wordsworth put Coleridge's character in a nutshell, when he said, I sprang to my feet; but the wretch had that "he was a man of unlimited resources. leaped over the counter, and fortified himself but who, when he found it was his duty to behind it. He looked as ugly as sin itself; but do the smallest thing, could not do it." Indeed. I could see that he was not without a presenti- of all the men of intellect I have ever known, ment of the consequences of his rash act. I Coleridge was to use a New England phrase do not profess to be an angel in the quality of the most shiftless. Before I give my permy temper, and I was as mad as a boy of fif-sonal recollections of the man, let me briefly teen could be. I inade a spring at nim, and was going over the counter in a flying leap, when he gave me a tremendous cut across the shoulder. sketch the facts of his life, that they may be the better understood. He was the son of a Devonshire clergyman of very moderate means, and born in St. Mary Ottery, October 21, 1772. He was sent, in his tenth year, to Christ Church School, London, a free academy, which has produced many eminent men, and is noted for the severity and excellence of its educational discipline. Here he met, as schoolmates, with Thomas Barnes, the "We are just even for what you gave me last greatest editor the London Times ever had; night," said he. 66 Not yet,” I added, leaping over the counter in another place; and, rushing upon him, I brought my weapon to bear upon his shoulders. "What are you about, you villain?" demanded Captain Fishley, returning to the store at this moment. He seized me by the collar, and being a powerful man, he wrested the cowhide from my grasp, and before I could make any successful demonstration, he laid the weapon about my legs, till they were in no better condition than 'T'had left Ham's the evening before. Charles Lamb, the most exquisite of philosophical humorists; and, towards the close of his term, with Leigh Hunt. This school, which was founded by Edward VI. of England, son to Henry VIII., preserves all the fashions of that period. The scholars are compelled, even to this very hour, to wear the dress of that time — yellow stockings and breeches, with buckle-shoes, and a long, blue surtout, which reaches to their ankles. The cap is a little yellow one, so outrageously ugly that most of the Christ Church scholars carry it in their hands or pockets, preferring to walk "I'll teach you to strike my son!" said he, bareheaded, in all weathers, through the streets breathless with excitement. "He struck me," I flouted. of London. Yet, so admirable is the training, and so thorough the education, that parents "No matter if he did; you deserved it. Now consider it a privilege to get their sons admitted go to the barn, and harness the horse." I saw the squire coming into the store. I was overpowered; and, with my legs stinging with pain, I went to the barn. [TO BE CONTINUED.] into the institution, where they are provided with everything, including a small sum per week for pocket money. I have often heard Coleridge tell strange stories of this college; for it deserves, to all intents and purposes, that honorable title. Some of them he delighted to tell "over and over again," as illustrating the peculiarities of Dr. Bowyer, the far-famed head master of the school, and one of the most erudite scholars of the age. The following was one of Coleridge's favorite anecdotes. I will not attempt to give you any of those discursive asides and parenthetical episodes with which the "old man eloquent" was in the habit of interlarding, interrupting, and embroidering his smallest recitals, for it would require an explanation to disentangle it from what Lamb used to call the "interregnums of Coleridgian lucidity." I will, therefore, strip it of all exuberant foliage, and give it in its bare proportions. Among the scholars was the son of a poor clergyman, who rejoiced in the name of Simon Jennings. He was of so dismal and gloomy a nature, that he had been nicknamed by his companions Pontius Pilate. One morning he went up to Dr. Bowyer, and said, in his usual whimpering manner, "Please, Dr. Bowyer, the boys all call me Pontius Pilate." If there was one thing old Bowyer hated inore than a false quantity in Greek or Latin, it was the habit of nicknaming. Rushing down among the scholars, from his pedestal of state, with cane in hand, he cried, in his usual voice of thunder, "Listen, boys; the next time I hear any of you say Pontius Pilate, I'll cane you as long as this cane will last. You are to say 'Simon Jennings, and not Pontius Pilate.' Remember that, if you value your hides." Having said this, Jupiter Tonans remounted Olympus, the clouds still hanging on his brow. now wound up to something above the boiling point. "What do you mean?" And, as he said this, he again instinctively grasped his cane more furiously. "Yes, doctor. You said, we were always to call Pontius Pilate Simon Jennings. Didn't he, Sam?" appealed the unfortunate culprit to Coleridge, who was next to him. The great poet, that was to be, said nought; but old Bowyer, who saw what a fool he had to deal with, cried, somewhat unadvisedly, perhaps, "Boy, you are a fool! Where are your brains?" Poor Dr. Bowyer for a second time was floored; for the scholar said, with an earnestness which proved its truth, but to the intense horror of the learned potentate, – "In my stomach, sir." Coleridge, in his quiet style, used to add, "That is not the only instance I have known of Matter triumphing over Mind;' stomach over brain; stupid boy over Bowyer." The doctor always respected that boy's stupidity ever after, and dealt gently with him, as though half afraid that a stray blow night be unpleasant. How true it is what Euripides says, "Against stupidity the very gods fight unvictorious." And I advise every one to avoid stupidity, as they would morphine, or nitroglycerine. IN OUR PRIVATE THEATRICALS. BY DAVID GRAFTON. the summer of the year 1850 I spent a few weeks most pleasantly in the city of Boston, as a welcome guest of Mr. Albert Mortimer, with whom, for many years, my father, a cotton factor, residing in Charleston, South Carolina, had been engaged in numberless business transactions. Here I became acquainted with my dear friend Henry, the eldest son of my kind and hospitable host. Both Henry and myself were passionately fond of the stage; and, though we had the good sense not to aspire to the professional honors of him "who struts his hour thereon, and then is heard no more," yet, during my visit, we both took prominent parts in private amateur dramatic performances, given in the large parlor of Mr. Mortimer's elegant mansion, and to us was awarded the highest meed of praise. In short, we were considered the stars of the occasion, and as such shone most brilliantly, The simple-minded Christchurchian said, as at least in the estimation of our lenient critics. he rubbed his well-belabored back, "I only did Harry and I were so much pleased with each as you told me." other, that, albeit he was a "Massachusetts "Did as I told you?" roared old Bowyer, man" and I a hot-headed Carolinian, a warm Next day, when the same class was reciting the Catechism, a boy of a remarkably dull and literal turn of mind had to repeat the Creed. He had got as far as "suffered under," and was about popping out the next word, when Bowyer's prohibition unluckily flashed upon his obtuse mind. After a moment's hesitation, he blurted out, "suffered under Simon Fennings, was cruci— " The rest of the word was never uttered, for Bowyer had already rushed upon him, and the cane was descending upon his unfortunate shoulders like a Norwegian hailstorm, or an Alpine avalanche. When the irate doctor had discharged his cane storm upon him, he cried, "What do you mean, you booby, by such blasphemy?” and sincere attachment sprang up between us, that lived unimpaired, even through the exciting events of the late war, of which how ever in this sketch of the reminiscences of bygone years, I have nought to say. At the period to which I refer - eighteen years ago I was a student of the South Carolina College, making a pleasure tour north during vacation. Harry was preparing for entrance into Yale, but, on account of the friendship we had contracted each for the other, determined to apply instead for admission to my class in the college in Columbia, South Carolina. The December following found Harry a classmate of mine; the Christmas holidays saw him a guest of my father's, in Charleston; and January, 1851, found us in Columbia, members of the junior class, roommates, and sworn friends. During the entire term of the Sophomore year, Allen Halonquest, a native of Columbia, had succeeded in maintaining his position as "first honor man," and it had never entered the remotest corner of the brain of any member of our class, that any new comer could wrest from his grasp the anticipated prize. What was our astonishment, then, when, from the very outset, Harry Mortimer fully equalled, if not surpassed, Halonquest in the brilliancy of his recitations. The maximum number was nine; but a professor was allowed to add a plus (+) where the recitation was particularly fine, and even an extra plus in case of extraordinary brilliancy. Halonquest was a scholar of great attainments, and a hard student withal; but, though to all outward appearance a refined gentleman, as well as a handsome one, he was a man of vindictive temper, and entirely devoid of principle. He of course conceived a deadly hatred of his rival, which was strengthened and confirmed by the following incident. One day the class had assembled in the recitation-room of Dr. Francis Lieber, who, even at that time, had won a reputation as one of the greatest scholars in the world on his branches History and Political Economy. The recitation comprised fifteen pages of the text-book, Tytler's Universal History; but the students who contended for the honors almost invariably embodied a vast amount of collateral reading in their recitations. Dr. Lieber's plan was to call on a student, close the book, give him his subject, and allow him to treat it as best he could. On this day, the first man called on was Halonquest, who, on the subject being given, arose and recited for twenty minutes, in a style such extraordinary brilliancy that the entire class applauded, my friend Harry loudest of all. Dr. Lieber was so much pleased that, contrary to the established usage, he complimented Halonquest, and told him that his mark was nine and two plusses, whereupon the class applauded again. The next name called was Henry Mortimer; and, as he arose and stepped forward to hear the subject, a derisive and triumphant smile played around the lips of young Halonquest. When Mortimer began, there was such a dead silence that one might have heard the dropping of a pin; and, as his clear, sonorous voice poured forth, in the richest and most eloquent language, a masterly essay on the subject, in all its bearings, together with a minute relation of all historical incidents even indirectly bearing thereupon, Dr. Lieber himself was lost in rapt attention and admiration. Harry recited for forty minutes, when the bell rang, and it was time to close. But Dr. Lieber bade him proceed, and for twenty minutes longer he held the class spell-bound. When he took his seat the applause was immense; and Dr. Lieber, with characteristic brevity, simply remarked, "Mr. Mortimer, I give you ten.". When Dr. Lieber was questioned by the Faculty as to the reason by which he had been induced to give a mark not allowed by the rules of the college, he replied, "When a gentleman gives me all that is in the text-book, I mark him nine; when he adds a good deal of collateral information, nine plus, or perhaps nine and two plusses; but, when a student tells me something that I did not know myself, I give him ten!" It may interest the reader to know that this incident did really happen, and that the "ten mark" now stands on the college book as characteristic of Dr. Francis Lieber. Notwithstanding the unreasonable prejudice that existed in South Carolina, at the time I speak of, against northern men in general, and Massachusetts men in particular, the ladies of Columbia, who are noted for their good sense as well as for their beauty, freely and cheerfully welcomed my friend Harry into the circle of their acquaintance; and, in less than six months after he entered the college, it was whispered about that the belle of Columbia, Miss Minnie De Ban, looked with a favorable eye upon the marked attention of the new "first honor man." There was an institute for ladies, located in a beautiful spot called Banahamville, about four miles from Columbia. Miss De Ban was a student in said institute, and had been as |