perhaps, and decay. We are happy, our children are obedient and gay. But should Prue live until she has lost us all, and laid us, gray and weary, in our graves, she will have always one babe in her heart. Every mother who has lost an infant, has gained a child of immortal youth. Can you find comfort here, lovers, whose mistress has sailed away?"

I did not ask the question aloud, I thought it only, as I watched the youths, and turned away while they still stood gazing. One, I observed, climbed a post and waved his black hat before the whitewashed side of the shed over the dock, whence I supposed he would tumble into the water. Another had tied a handkerchief to the end of a somewhat baggy umbrella, and, in the eagerness of gazing, had forgotten to wave it, so that it hung mournfully down, as if overpowered with the grief it could not express. tranced youth still held the umbrella aloft. It seemed to me as if he had struck his flag; or as if one of my cravats were airing in that sunlight. A negro carter was joking with an apple-woman at the entrance of the dock. The steamer was out of sight. I found that I was belated and hurried back to my desk.

The en

Alas!

poor lovers; I wonder if they are watching still? Has he fallen exhausted from the post into the water? Is that handkerchief bleached and rent still pendant upon that somewhat baggy umbrella?

"Youth and beauty went to Europe today," said I to Prue, as I stirred my tea at evening.

As I spoke, our youngest daughter brought me the sugar. She is just eighteen, and her name should be Hebe. I took a lump of sugar and looked at her. She had never seemed so lovely, and as I dropped the lump in my cup, I kissed her. I glanced at Prue. The dear woman smiled, but did not answer my exclamation.

Thus, without travelling, I travel, and share the emotions of those I do not know. But sometimes the old longing comes over me as in the days when I timidly touched the huge East Indiaman, and magnetically sailed round the world. It was but a few days after the lovers and I waved farewell to the steamer and while the lovely figures standing under the great gonfalons were as vivid in my mind as ever, that a day of premature sunny sadness, like those of the Indian summer, drew me away from the office early in the afternoon: for fortunately it is our dull season now, and even Titbottom sometimes leaves the office by five o'clock.

Although why he should leave it, or where he goes, or what he does, I do not well know. Before I knew him, I used sometimes to meet him with a man whom I was afterwards told was Bartleby, the scrivener. Even then it seemed to me that they rather clubbed their loneliness than made society for each other. Recently I have not seen Bartleby; but Titbottom seems no more solitary because he is alone.

I strolled into the Battery, and as I sauntered about, Staten Island looked so alluring, tender-hued with summer and melting in the haze, that I resolved to indulge myself in a pleasure-trip. It was a little selfish, perhaps, to go alone, but I looked at my watch, and saw that if I should hurry home for Prue the trip would be lost; then I should be disappointed and she would be grieved. Ought I not rather (I like to begin questions which I am going to answer affirmatively, with ought,) to take the trip and recount my adventures to Prue upon my return, whereby I should actually enjoy the excursion and the pleasure of telling her, while she would enjoy my story and be glad that I was pleased? Ought I wilfully to deprive us both of this various enjoyment by aiming at a higher, which, in losing, we should lose all?

Unfortunately, just as I was triumphantly answering "Certainly not!" another question marched into my mind, escorted by a somewhat defiant ought.

"Ought I to go when I have such a debate about it?"

But while I was perplexed and scoffing at my own scruples, the ferry-bell suddenly rang, and answered all my questions. Involuntarily I hurried on board. The boat slipped from the dock. I went up on deck to enjoy the view of the city from the bay, but just as I sat down and meant to have said "how beautiful!" I found myself asking:

"Ought I to have come?"

Lost in perplexing debate I saw little of the scenery of the bay; but the remembrance of Prue and the gentle influence of the day plunged me into a mood of pensive reverie which nothing tended to destroy, until we suddenly arrived at the landing. As I was stepping ashore I was greeted by Mr. Bourne, who passes the summer on the island, and who hospitably asked if I were going his way. His way was toward the southern end of the island, and I said yes. His pockets were full of papers and his brow of wrinkles, so when we reached the point where he should turn off, I asked him to let me

alight, although he was very anxious to carry me wherever I was going.

"I am only strolling about," I answered as I clambered carefully out of the wagon.

66

Strolling about?" asked he in a bewildered manner, "do people stroll about nowadays?

66

"Sometimes," I answered, smiling, as I pulled my trousers down over my boots, for they had dragged up as I stepped out of the wagon, and beside, what can an old bookkeeper do better in the dull season than stroll about this pleasant island and watch the ships at sea?"

Bourne looked at me with his weary eyes.

"I'd give five thousand dollars a year for a dull season," said he, "but as for strolling, I've forgotten how."

As he spoke his eyes wandered dreamily across the fields and woods, and were fastened upon distant sails.

"It is pleasant," he said musingly, and fell into silence. But I had no time to spare, so I wished him good afternoon.

"I hope your wife is well," said Bourne to me, as I turned away. Poor Bourne ! He drove on alone in his wagon.

But I made haste to the most solitary point upon the southern shore, and there sat, glad to be so near the sea. There was that warm sympathetic silence in the air that gives to Indian-summer days almost a human tenderness of feeling. A delicate haze, that seemed only the kindly air made visible, hung over the sea. The water lapped languidly among the rocks, and the voices of children in a boat beyond rang musically, and gradually receded until they were lost in the distance. It was some time before I was aware of the outline of a large ship drawn vaguely upon the mist, which I supposed at first to be only a kind of mirage. But the more steadfastly I gazed, the more distinct it became, and I could no longer doubt that I saw a stately ship lying at anchor not more than half a mile from the land.

"It is an extraordinary place to anchor." I said to myself, "or can she be ashore ?"

There were no signs of distress; the sails were carefully clewed up, and there were no sailors in the tops nor upon the shrouds. A flag, of which I could not see the device or the nation, hung heavily at the stern, and looked as if it had fallen asleep. My curiosity began to be singularly excited. The form of the vessel seemed not to be permanent, but within a quarter of an hour I was sure that I had seen half a dozen different ships. As I gazed I saw no more sails, nor masts, but

a long range of oars, flashing like a golden fringe, or straight and stiff like the legs of a sea-monster.

"It is some bloated crab or lobster magnified by the mist," I said to myself complacently.

But at the same moment there was a concentrated flashing and blazing in one spot among the rigging, and it was as if I saw a beatified ram, or, more truly, a sheepskin splendid as the hair of Berenice.

"Is that the golden fleece?" I thought. "But surely Jason and the Argonauts have gone home long since. Do people go on gold-fleecing expeditions now?" I asked myself in perplexity. "Can this be a California steamer?"

How could I have thought it a steamer? Did I not see those sails "thin and sere?" Did I not feel the melancholy of that solitary bark? It had a mystic aura; a boreal brilliancy shimmered in its wake, for it was drifting seaward. A strange fear curdled along my veins. That summer sun shone cool. The weary, battered ship was gashed as if gnawed by ice. There was terror in the air, as a "skinny hand so brown" waved to me from the deck. I lay as one bewitched. The hand of the ancient mariner seemed to be reaching for me like the hand of death.

Death? Why, as I was inly praying Prue's forgiveness for my solitary ramble and consequent demise, a glance like the fulness of summer splendor gushed over me; the odor of flowers and of eastern gums made all the atmosphere. I breathed the orient and lay drunk with balm, while that strange ship, a golden galley now, with glistening draperies festooned with flowers, paced to the measured beat of oars along the calm, and Cleopatra smiled alluringly from the great pageant's heart.

Was this a barge for summer waters, this peculiar ship I saw? It had a ruined dignity, a cumbrous grandeur, although its masts were shattered and its sails rent. It hung preternaturally still upon the sea, as if tormented and exhausted by long driving and drifting. I saw no sailors, but a great Spanish ensign floated over, and waved, a funeral plume. I knew it then. The armada was long since scattered, but floating far

"on desolate rainy seas,"

lost for centuries, and again restored to sight, here lay one of the fated ships of Spain. The huge galleon seemed to fill all the air, built up against the sky like the gilded ships of Claude Lorraine against the sunset.

But it fled, for now a black flag fluttered at the mast-head-a long low vessel darted swiftly where the vast ship lay; there came a shrilling, piping whistle, the clash of cutlasses, fierce ringing oaths, sharp pistol cracks, the thunder of command, and over all the gusty yell of a demoniac chorus,

"My name was Robert Kidd, as I sailed." -There were no clouds longer, but under a serene sky I saw the bark moving with festal pomp, thronged with grave senators in flowing robes, and one with ducal bonnet in the midst, holding a ring. The smooth bark swam upon a calm like that of southern latitudes. I saw the Bucentoro and the nuptials of Venice and the Adriatic.

Who were those coming over the side? Who crowded the boats, and sprang into the water? men in old Spanish armor, with plumes and swords, and bearing a glittering cross? Who was he standing upon the deck with folded arms and gazing toward the shore, as lovers on their mistresses and martyrs upon heaven? Over what distant and tumultuous seas had this small craft escaped from other centuries and distant shores? What sounds of foreign hymns, forgotten now, were these, and what solemnity of debarkation? Was this grave form, Columbus?

Yet these were not so Spanish as they seemed just now. This group of sternfaced men with high peaked hats, who knelt upon the cold deck and looked out upon a shore which, I could see by their joyless smile of satisfaction, was rough, and bare, and forbidding. In that soft afternoon, standing in mournful groups upon that small deck, why did they seem to me to be seeing the sad shores of wintry New England? That phantom-ship could not be the May Flower!

I gazed long upon that shifting illusion. "If I should board this ship," I asked myself, "where should I go? whom should I meet? what should I see? Is not this the vessel that shall carry me to my Europe, my foreign countries, my impossible India, the Atlantis that I have lost?"

As I sat staring at it I could not but wonder whether Bourne had seen this sail when he looked upon the water? Does he see such sights every day, because he lives down here? Is it not perhaps a magical yacht of his? and does he slip off privately after business hours to Venice, and Spain, and Egypt, perhaps to El Dorado? Does he run races with Ptolemy, Philopater and Hiero of Syracuse, rare regattas on fabulous seas? VOL. IV.-4

Why not? He is a rich man too, and why should not a New York merchant do what a Syracuse tyrant, and an Egyptian prince did? Has Bourne's yacht those sumptuous chambers, like Philopater's gallery, of which the greater part was made of split cedar, and of Milesian cypress; and has he twenty doors put together with beams of citron-wood with many ornaments? Has the roof of his cabin a carved golden face, and is his sail linen with a purple fringe?

I suppose it is so, I said to myself as I looked wistfully at the ship which began to glimmer and melt in the haze.

"It certainly is not a fishing smack?" I asked doubtfully.

And

No, it must be Bourne's magic yacht; I was sure of it. I could not help laughing at poor old Hiero, whose cabins were divided into many rooms with floors composed of mosaic work of all kinds of stones tessellated. And on this mosaic the whole story of the Iliad was depicted in a marvellous manner. He had only gardens "of all sorts of most wonderful beauty. enriched with all sorts of plants, and shadowed by roofs of lead or tiles. besides this, there were tents roofed with boughs of white ivy and of the vine, the roots of which derived their moisture from casks full of earth, and were watered in the same manner as the gardens. were temples, also, with doors of ivory and citron-wood, furnished in the most exquisite manner, with pictures and statues, and with goblets and vases of every form and shape imaginable.”

There

"Poor Bourne!" I said, "I suppose his is finer than that which is a thousand years old. Poor Bourne! I don't wonder that his eyes are weary, and that he would pay so dearly for a day of leisure. Dear me! is it one of the prices that must be paid for wealth, the keeping up a magic yacht?"

Involuntarily I had asked the question

aloud.

"Do

"The magic yacht is not Bourne's," answered a familiar voice. I looked up and Titbottom stood by my side. you not know that all Bourne's money would not buy the yacht?" asked he. "He cannot even see it. And if he could, it would be no magic yacht to him, but only a battered and solitary hulk."

The haze blew gently away as Titbottom spoke, and there lay my Spanish galleon, my Bucentoro, my Cleopatra's galley, and Columbus's Santa Maria, and the Pilgrim's May Flower, an old bleaching wreck upon the beach.

Do you suppose any true love is in

nus got seven dollars for "The Animated Skeleton," which made exactly twelve pages, and twenty-one lines-which last, by the way, ought to have been paid for as a whole page, if the editor had had any honor in him, but he had not-and he had to exist on that sum for an entire month, which, when the price of meals was deducted, left but a small margin for clothes and pocket money. Very soon, also, Mynus's invention gave out. This was what the editor said; but I will maintain to my dying day, that Mynus can write a better story at this moment than any man in the United States. I have a tale in my desk this present hour-a tale of his I beg you to understand-entitled The Phantom Telescope, which I will back for originality and power, against any story that Poe ever wrote, or Hawthorne ever will write. However that may be, Mynus cut Literature for ever. It was, he said, a paltry and ungrateful profession. Editors did not appreciate genius when they met it; in addition to which, they were, as a general rule, the meanest, most dishonest, and most ignorant of mankind. Of publishers he had a similarly just opinion. A publisher was a middle man, standing between the author and the public, and living on the plunder of both. Let him but once grow rich, Mynus would say, and he would crush all such vermin into the minutest dust of infamy!

Mynus took his departure from the realms of fiction, with a shilling in silver, three cents in coppers, and an invention. These constituted his entire capital. The shilling and the coppers were immediately available, but the invention, though containing the germ of illimitable wealth, must lie dormant without capital to set it going. Mynus had offered it to three speculators and capitalists already, but from that ignorant blindness which hovers over persons connected in any way with trade, they failed to see its practicability. Perhaps when Mynus is dead, some fool will get hold of it, and fatten on its results.

CHAPTER II.

AN AUTHOR'S HOME.

MYNUS lived in Elizabeth street. You have never. perhaps, been in that locality. If not, I will describe it to you. Not that I have ever been there myself, but Mynus has given me a very fair idea of it. Elizabeth street is a horrid place. It is chiefly devoted to foreigners, children and unwholesome Irish women, who occupy

themselves with abusing each other in cellars. Brutal German shoemakers inhabit the basements-I may remark en passant that the German shoemaker is the greatest dun in existence, at least so Mynus says-washerwomen, orphan seamstresses, and old clothes resuscitators, generally occupying the upper floors. A Dutch grocery, of course, looms at either corner, where at night a red, unwholesome light glares out upon the dark street, and shrieks and blasphemies, and cries of murder echo along the stones.

Mynus had a poor room in the house of a costumier, a large red-faced Falstaffian Israelite, who made his living by supplying one of our theatres with certain articles of stage wardrobe. He made calico doublets trimmed with yellow woollen braid, that looked by gaslight like silken apparel decorated with gold. His Roman helmets were wonderfully classical and effective, the head-pieces being generally constructed of old boot-tops, shaped and varnished, with an arched piece of wood fastened on top, which was adorned with copper leaf that at night shone with much splendor, on the heads of supernumeraries. Sometimes Mynus's landlord would have to make a coat for the chief actor, and then he would take great pains indeed. He would be seen running about in fat haste, with little pen and ink sketches of the garment in his pockets, picking up bugles here and silver cord there, and imitation point lace in another place. And then there would be tremendous sewing and basting, altering and fitting, and infuriate messages from the chief actor to hurry up this coat for dress rehearsal, until at last the costumier's triumph would be complete by seeing in the play bill:

"COSTUMES BY MR. SOLLERMAN ISAACS."

It was here that Mr. Belisarius Mynus had a miserable attic, for which he was popularly supposed to pay the weekly sum of two dollars. Like many other popular suppositions, this, however, was a delusion; and at the time I speak of Mynus had actually accomplished the neverto-be-forgotten achievement of running in debt to a Jew, to the amount of fourteen dollars and twenty-seven cents. The odd cents were on account of three glasses of brandy and water, and a paper of tobacco supplied to Mr. Mynus on the occasion of his having a literary party.

The whole house reeked of theatres. If any waste paper was huddled away

in

corners, it was sure to be a mass of old play bills. Gaudy colored prints of favo