Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME 11. |
BY C. R. HANLEITER.
IP ©1 T Y. __
“ Much yet remains unsung.”
From the Savannah Republican.
OUR MESMERISM.
IT JOSEPH L. LOCKE) ESQ.
Like some rich pile, long dark and shrouded,
Beneath the unsmiling gloom of night,
The feelings of my soul were clouded,
Till wakened by thinecye’s dear light:
And now each impulse that hath slumbered
Unknown so long w ithin my heart.
The thoughts, the hopes, the prayers unnumbered,
At once to life and passion start.
The temple of my soul is pealing
With music, dearest, caught from thine,
And every wild impassioned feeling,
That warms thy heart first throbs in mine;
I look upon thine eye's wild splendor,
They speak forth thoughts that came from me;
And in reply I can but render.
Ideas fashioned forth by thee.
When first we met, ‘twas like the meeting
Os parted souls, that had been one;
When first you spoke, ‘twas like the greeting
Os some dear old remembered tone.
I gazed into thy dark eyes, glowing
With tight that passed ut once to mine.
And you returned it, dearest, knowing
That long before, I had been thine.
And from that hour, like moonlight stealing
Along some ruined shrine of old,
Each instant on her course, revealing
Corinthian beauties, with her gold j
So, by each others spirit gazing
(Jpaa the temples of our soul.
O'er buttress, shaft, and column blazing.
We read we loved—that was the w hole.
gliioirii T^lLlg-
A REVELATION OF A PREVIOUS
LIFE.
BY N. P. WILLIS.
Tlie death of a lady ina foreign land leaves
me at liberty to narrate the circumstances
which follow.
A few words of previous explanation,
however.
I am inclined to believe, from conversa
tion on the subject with many sensible |ier
sotts, that tlwre are few men who have not
bad, at different intervals in their lives, sud
den emotions, currents of thought, affections
of mind and body, which not only were
wholly disconnected with the course of life
thus interrupted, hut seemed to belong to a
wholly different being.
Perhaps I shall somewhere touch the
reader’s experience by describing rather
minutely, and in the first person, some sen
sations of this kind not unusual to myself.
Walking in a crowded street, for exam
ple, in [ieifect health, with every faculty
gaily alive, I suddenly lose the sense of
neighborhood. I see—l hear—but I feel
as if I bad liecome invisible where I stand,
and was at the same time present and visi
ble elsewhere. I know every thing that
passes around me, but 1 seem disconnected,
and (magnetically speaking) unlinked from
the human beings near. If spoken to at
such a moment, I answer with difficulty.
The person who speaks seems addressing
me from a world to which I no longer be
long. At the same time I have an irresisti
ble inner consciousness of being present in
another scene of every-day life—where there
aie streets and houses and people—where
1 am looked on without surprise as a fami
liar object—where 1 Imvejcarcs, fears, ob
jects to attain—a different scene altogether,
and a different life, from the scene and life
of which 1 was a moment before conscious.
I have a dull ache at the back of my eyes
for the minute or two that this trance lasts,
and then, slowly and reluctantly, my absent
soul seems creeping back, the magnetic links
of conscious neighborhood, one by one, re
attach, and I resume my ordinary life, but
with an irrepressible feeling of sadness.
It is in vain that I try to fix these shadows
as they recede. I have struggled a thou
sand times in vain to particularise and note
down wliat I saw in the strange city to which
1 was translated. The memory glides from
my grasp with preternatural evasiveness.
In a book called “ The Man of Two
Lives,” similar sensations to these are made
the basis of the story. Indeed, till I saw
that book, the fear of having my sanity sus
pected, scaled my lips on the subject.
I have still a reserve in my confession. I
have been conscious, since boyhood, of a
mental peculiarity which I fear to name
while I doubt that it is possessed by others
than myself—which I should not allude to
now, but that it forms a strange linkof iden
tity between me and another being to be
mentioned in this story.
I may say, also, without attaching any im
portance to it, except as it beais upon this
same identity, that, of those things which I
had no occasion to be or which I did,
as the common phrase is by intuition, draw
ing was the easiest and most passionately
followed of my boyish pursuits.
With these preliminaries, and probably
some similar experiences of his own, the
reader may haply form a woof on which to
embroider the following circumstances.
Traveling through Styria. some years since
I chanced to have, for a fellow-occupant of
the coups of a diligence, a very courteous
and well-bred person, a gentleman of Grata.
As we rolled slowly along on the banks ot
a jFatnUg iictospapc v : Brtootctir to Hiterature, agriculture, .fttecfwiwlca, 25Trurat(ou, jporelfiti atm Domestic *utrlUfictue, Set.
the Muer, approaching his native town, he
very kindly invited me to remain with him
a day or two, offering me as an inducement
a presentation at the soiree of a certain lady
of consequence, who was to receive, on the
night of our arrival, and at whose house I
should see some fair specimens of the beau
ty of Styria.
Accepted.
It was a lovely summer’s night, when we
strolled through the principal street, toward
our gay destination, and as I drew upon my
friend’s arm to stop him while the mililary
band of the fortress finished a delicious
waltz, (they were playing in the public
square,) he pointed out to me the spacious
balconies of the Countess’ palace, whither
we were going, crowded with the well-dress
ed company, listening silently to the same
enchanting music. We entered and after
an interchange of compliments with the
hostess, I availed myself of my friend’s se
cond introduction to take a stand in one of
the balconies besido the person I was pre
sented to, and under cover of her favor, to
hear out the unfinished music of the band.
As the eveuingdarkened, the lights gleam
ed out from the illuminated rooms more
brightly, and most of the guests desei ted the
balconies and joined the gayer circles with
in. The music ceased at the heat of the
drum. My companion in the balcony Was
a very quiet young lady, and like myselfshe
seemed subdued l>y the sweet harmonies
we had listened to, and willing to remain
without the shadow ot the curtain. We
were not alone there, however. A tall lady
of very stately presence, and with the re
mains of remarkable beauty, stood on oppo
site side of the balcony, and she too seem
ed to shrink from the glare within, and cling
to the dewy darkness of the summer night.
After the cessation of the music there was
no longer an excuse for intermittent con
versation, and starting a subject which af
forded freer’scope 1 did my (test to credit
my friend’s flattering introduction. 1 had
discoursed away for half an hour very un
reservedly before I discovered that, with
her hand upon her side, in an attitude of
repressed emotion, the tall lady was earnest
ly listening to me. A third person embar
rasses even the most indifferent. The con
versation languished, and my companion
rose and took my arm for a promenade
though the rooms.
Later in the evening my friend came in
search of me to the supper-room.
“ Mon ami /” lie raid, “ a great honor
has fallen out of the sky for you. lam sent
to bring you to the beau restc of the hand
somest woman ofStyria—Margaret, Baron
ess R , whose chateau I pointed out to
you in the gold light of yesterday’s sunset.
She wishes to know you— why, I cannot
wholly divine—for it is the first sign of or
dinary feeling that she has given in twenty
years. But she seems agitated, and sits
alone in the Qountess’ boudoir. Allons-y /”
As we made our way through the crowd,
he liastily sketched me an outline of the la
dy’s history.
“ At seventeen taken from a convent for
a forced marriage with the baron whose
name she bears; eighteen a widow, and,
for the first time, in love—the subject of her
passion a young artist of Vienna on his way
to Italy. The artist died at her chateau—
they were to have been manned—she had
ever since worn weeds for him. And the
remainder you must imagine—for here we
are!”
The Baroness leaned with hef* elbotv up
on a small table of or molu, and her position
was so taken that I seated myself necessari
ly in strong light, where her features were
in shadow. Still the light was sufficient to
show me the expression of her countenance.
She was a woman apparently about forty
five, of noble physiognomy, and a peculiar
fullness of the eyelid—something like to
which I thought 1 remember to have seen
in a portrait of a young girl many years be
fore. The resemblance troubled me some
what.
“You will pardon me this freedom,” said
the Baroness with forced composure, “when
I tell you, that—a friend—whom I have
mourned twenty-five years—seems present
to me when you speak.”
I was silent, for I know not what to say.
The Baroness shaded her eyes with her
hand, and sat silent for a few moments, gaz
ing at me.
‘•You arc not like him in a single feature,”
she resumed, “ yet the expression of your
face, strangely, verjr strangely, is the same.
He was darker—slighter”—
“ Os my age I” I inquired, to break my
own silence. For there was something in
her voice which gave me the sensation of a
voice heard in a dream.
“ Oh God ! that voice ! that voice !” she
exclaimed wildly, burying her face in her
hands, and giving way to a passionate burst
of tears.
“ Rodolph,” she resumed, recovering her
self with a strong effort, “ Rodolph died with
a promise on his lips that death should not
divide us. And I have seen him ! Not in
dreams—not in reverie—not at times when
my fancy could delude me. I have seen
him suddenly before me in the street —in
Vienna—here—at home at uoonday—for
minutes together, gazing on me. It was
more in latter years that I have been visited
by him; and a hope has latterly sprung into
being in my heart—l know not now—that
in peraon, palpable and breathing, 1 should
again hold converse with him—fold him liv-
MADISON, MORGAN CODNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, APRIL 15, 18#
ing to my bosom. Pardon me ! You will
think me mad!”
I might well pardon her; for, as she talk
ed, a vague sense of familiarity with her
voice, a memory, powerful though indistinct,
of having before dwelt on those majestic
features.'en impulse of tearful passionate
ness to-rtlsh*toner embrace, well-nigh over
powered me. She turned to me again.
“ You are an artist?” said she inquiringly.
“ No; though intended for one, 1 believe,
by nature.”
“ And you were born in the year
“I was!”
With a scream she added the day of my
birth, and waiting an instant for my assent,
dropped to the floor and clung convulsively
and weeping to my knees.
“Rodolph! Rodolph!” she murmured
faintly, as her long grey tresses fell over her
shoulders, and her head dropped insensibly
upon her breast.
Her cry had been heard, and several per
sons entered the room. I rushed out of
doors. I had need to be in darkness and a
lone.
It was an hour after mid-night, when I
re-entered my hotel. A chasseur stood
sentry at the door of my apartment with a
letter in his hand. He called me by name,
gave me his missive, and disappeared. It
wt#from the Baroness, and rail thus:
“You did not retire from me to sleep.
This letter will find you waking. And 1
must write, for my heart and brain are over
flowing.
Shall I write to you as a stranger ? you
whom I have strained so often to my bosom
—you whom I have loved and still love with
the utmost idolatry of mortal passion—you
who have once given me soul that, like a
gem long lost, is found again, but in a new
er casket! Mine still—for did we not swear
to love forever ?
“ But I am taking counsel of my heart
only. You may still be unconvicted. You
may think that a few singular coincidences
have driven me mad. You may think that,
though born in the same hour that my Ro
dolph died, possessing the same voice, the
same countenance, the same gifts—though
by irresistible consciousness 1 know you to
be him —my lost lover returned in another
body to life—you may still think the evl
deuce incomplete—you may, perhaps, even
now, be smiling in pity at my delusion. In
dulge one moment.
“ The Rodolph Isenberg whom I lost,
possessed a faculty of mind, which, if you
are lie, answers with the voice of an angel
to my appeal. In that soul, resided, and
wherever it be, must note reside, the singu
lar power” . * * * #
(The reader must be content with my
omission of this fragment of the letter. It
contained a secret never before clothed in
language—a secret that will die with me,
unless betrayed by what indeed it may lead
to—madness ! As I saw it in writing—de
fined accurately and inevitably in the words
of another—l felt as if the innermost cham
ber of my soul was suddenly laid open to
the day—l abandoned doubt—l answered
to the name by which she called me—l Re
lieved in the previous existence of winch
iny w hole life, no less than these extraordi
nary circumstances, had furnished me with
repeated evidence. But, to resume the let
ter.)
“ And now that we know each other a
gain—now that I can tell you by name, as
in the past, and be sure that your inmost
consciousness must reply—a new terror
seizes me ! Your soul comes back, youth
fully and newly clad, while mine, though of j
unfading freshness and youthfulness within, j
shows to your eye the same outer garment !
grown dull with mourning and faded with i
wear of time. Am I grown distasteful ? Is
it with the sight only of this new body that
you look upon me I Rodolph ! spirit that
was my devoted and passionate admirer!
soul that was sworn to me forever!—am I
—the samq Margaret, resound and recog- ;
nised, grown repulsive ? Oh God ! VVliut
a bitter answer would this be to my pray
ers for your return to me 1
“ I will trust in Him whose benign good
ness smiles upon fidelity in love, I will
prepare a fitter meeting for two who parted
as lovers. You shall not nee me ugain in |
the house of n stranger and in a mourning
attire. When this letter is written 1 will de
part at once for the scene of our love. 1
hear my horses already in the court-yard,
and while you read this I am speeding swift
ly home. The bridal dress you were se
cretly shown the day before death came be
tween us, is still freshly kept. The room
where we sat—the bowers by the stream—
the walks where we projected our sweet
promise of future—they shall all be made
ready. They shall be as they were ! And
I—ch Rodolph, I shall be the same ! My
heart has not grown old, Rodolph! Believe
me. lam unchanged in soul ! And 1 will
strive to be—l will strive to look—God help
me to look aud be—as of yore !
“ Farewell now! I have horses and ser
vants to wait on you till I send to bring you
to roe. Alas, for any delay ! but we will
pass this life and all other time together.—
We have seen that a vow of eternal union
may be kept—that death cannot divide those
who will love forever 1 Farewell now !
Margaret.”
Circumstances compelled me to read this
letter with but one feeling, exquisite pain!
Love lasts till death, but it is mortal ! The
affections, however intense and faithful, (I
now knew,) are part of the .gprishable coil,
forgotten in the grave. With the memory
of this love of another life, haunting me
through my youth, and keeping its vow of
visitation, I had given the whole heart of
my second youth to another. Affianced to
her, waited for by her, bound to h*c by vows
which death had not divided, I had bat one
course to pursue. 1 left Gratz in an hour,
never to return.
A few days since I was walking alone in
the crowded thoroughfare of the city where
1 live. Suddenly my sense of presence there
fell off me. I walked on, but my inward
sight absorbed all my consciousness. A
room which was familiar to me shut me in,
and a bed hung in mourning became appa
rent. In another instant a figure laid out in
a winding sheet, and partially covered with
a velvet pall, grew distant through the dim
ness, and in the low laid head I recognised,
what a presentment had already betrayed
to me, the features of Margaret Baroness
R . It will be months before I can see
the announcement of her death. But she
is dead.
THE BEGGAR AT THE BARRIERE
DE PASSY.
FROM THE FRENCH.
Many years since, when I was a young
inan about twenty years of age, I used very
frequently to spend Sunday with my moth
er, who resided at Versailles, this being the
only day of the week on which I could leave
Paris. I generally walked as far as the
Barriere, and thence I took a seat in one of
the public carriages to my mother’s house.
When I happened to be too early for the
diligence, I used to stop and converse with
a beggar, whose name was Anthony, and
who regularly took his station at the Bar
riere de Passy, where, in a loud voice he
solicited alms from every oue who passed
with a degree of perseverance that was re
ally astonishing. I generally gave him a
trifle without inquiring whether he deserv
ed it or not, partly because I had got into
the habit of doing so, and partly to get rid
of his importunities. One day in summer,
as 1 waited for the diligence, I found An
thony at his usual post, exertingfiis accus
tomed form of petition—“ For the love of
Heaven, bestow your alms on a poor man—
Messieurs, Mesdames, the smallest trifle
will be gratefully received.”
While Anthony was in this manner pour
ing his acclamation into the ears of every
one who came within the reach ofhis voice,
a middle aged man of respectable appear
ance joined us. Hebad a pleasant express
ion of countenance, was very well dressed,
and it might be seen at a glance that he was
a man in good circumstances. Here was a
fit buhject for the beggar, who quickly made
his advances, proclaiming in a loud Voice bis
poverty, and soliciting relief.
“ You need not be a beggar unless yoii
please,” replied the gentleman, “ when you
can have an income of ten thousand crowns.”
“ You are pleased to jest, sir,” answered
Anthony.
“By no means,” said the gentleman; “ I
never was more serious in my life. Listen
to me, my friend. You perceive that lam
well dressed, and I tell you that I have ev
ery thing that a reasonable man need de
sire.”
“ Ah ! sir, you are o fortunate man.”
“ Well, but my friend, I would not have
!>cen so isl bad sat and begged as you ate
doin[.”
“ I have no other means of gaining my
living.”
“ Arc you lame 1”
“ No, sir!”
“ You are not blind, or deaf, and you cer
tainly are not dumb, as every passer by can
testify. Listen: I shall tell you my history
in a few words: Some fifteen or twenty
years ago I was a beggar like yourself; at
length 1 began to see that it was very dis-
f raceful to live on the bounty ofothers, and
resolved to abandon this shameful way of
life ns soon as I possibly could. I quitted
Palis—l went ir.to the provinces—begged
f,r old rags. The people were very kind to
me, and in a short time I returned to Paris
with a tolerably large bundle of rags of ev
ery description. I carried them to a paper
maker/ who bought them at a fair price. I
Went on collecting, until to my great joy my
finances enabled me to purchase rags, so
that I was no longer to beg for them. At
length, by diligence and industry, I became
rich enough to buy an ass with two pan
niers, and this saved me both time and la
bor. My business increased ; the paper
makers found that t dealt honestly by them;
I never palmed off had rags for good ones;
I prospered, and see the result—in [dace of
being a poor despised beggar, I have ten
thousand crowna a year, and two houses in
one of the best streets of Paris. If, then,
my friend, you can do no better begin as a
rag merchant, and here,” he continued, “ is
a crown to set you up in your new trade; it
is more than 1 had ; and in addition, please
take notice, that if I find you here another
Sunday, I shall report yoii to the police.”
On saying this, the old gentleman walked
off, leaving Anthony and myself in h state
of great surprise. Indeed, the beggar had
been so much interested in the history he
had heard that he stood with open mouth
and eyes in mute astonishment, nor had he
even power to solicit alms from two well
dressed ladies who passed at that moment,
I could not help being struck with the
story, but, I bad no time to comment on it,
as the diligence had arrived, in which I seat
ed myself, and pursued my way. From
that period I lost sight of the beggar; wheth
er the fear of the police, or the hopes of
gaining ten thousand crowns a year, had
wrought the change, I was not aware; it is
sufficient to say, that fro.n that day forward
he was never seen at the Barriere.
Many years after, it happened that busi
ness called me to Tout's. In strolling
through the city I stepped into a booksel
ler’s shop to purchase anew work that had
made some noise, I found there four young
men, all busily employed, while a stout,
good looking man was giving them orders,
as he walked up and down with an air of
importance. 1 thought I had seen the face
of the bookseller before, but where, I could
not for the moment tell, until he spoke, and
then I discovered him to be my old friend
Anthony. The recognitioh was Mutual; he
grasped my hand, and led me through his
shop into a well furnished parlor; he lav
ished every kindness on me; and finally,
gave me his history from the time we part
ed at the Barriere. With the crown of the
strangei he began, as be bad advised him, to
collect rags; he made money ; he became
the partner of a paper manufacturer; mar
ried his daughter; in short, bis hopes were
fulfilled; his ambition gratified, and he could
now count his income at ten thousand crowns.
He prayed every day for blessings on bis
benefactor, who had been the means of rais
ing him from the degraded condition of a
common beggar. Anthony is so convinced
of the evil and sin of idleness, and of sub
sisting on the alms of others, that, while
liberal and kind to those wlio are willing to
work, no entreaties, no supplications, ever
prevailed on him to bestow a single sou on
those who would not help themselves.
Ma©©E IL IL mY „
A PAPER ON THE THEORY OF
CATS.
UY JONATHAN OI.UBUCK.
Os all the animals which share the earth
with man, the most singular, the most mys
terious, the most fourfill, is the cat. lam
not learned upon their original
(She is, by general consent, 1 lielieve, of the’
feminine gender.) By turning over an en
cyclopaedia, I could probably make a parade
of erudition. But 1 am not ambitious of
being erudite. 1 have not to inquire what
role the cat displayed in ancient history—
whether Moses or Nebuchadnezzar had any
thing to do with her—if she was known to
the Chinese dynasties of Hia of Song—
whether she has appeared on a public stage,
like the lion and elephant—whether she has
founded an empire, like the wolf, or saved
one, like the goose. It is the cat of the
present day with which I have to do—dis
connected from history, and in her own ex
traordinary character.
\Vhat is her chai actei ? Is she a friend or
an enemy ? Is she good or bad I Who can
tell 1 Who has fully made up his mind 1
Who has not doubted, and debated, and
fluctuated ? Amid more prominent topics
of attention, we have overlooked this crea
ture. She has sneaked through the world
for a thousand or two years, and skulked out
of public notice behind barrels and in cel
lara. She has Wrapped hcfaelf up in a mys
tery, and eluded culin and thorough investi
gation. Now that other and more impor
tant affairs are disposed of—now that Ame
rica and powder are discovered, and the re
formation is completed, and the reform bill
passed, and Poland divided, and Napoleon
gone, it is time to examine into the nature,
intentions, habits, and occupations of that
most wonderful of the companions of man.
Although I shall not seek into the histori
cal accounts of the cat, or waste time in
genealogical researches, 1 cannot pass silent
ly over the fact that there’ is something sus
picious, equivocal end unearthly about her
origin, Where did she come from ? What
has she done in the world ? What was she
made for ? What arc her views ? Did any
one ever see her face among the tenants of
Paradise ? Traditionary accounts of her are
dark and solemn. She has stolen into this i
world in no honest way. She has had to do i
with people not to be mentioned. Her real !
character came out in the ancient ages. She I
used to sit on coffins-—to suck the breath out j
of babies—to attend the midnight orgies of !
witches and wizards. There are dim sto
ries afloat of her past deeds: how people,
even adults—for she did not always confine
herself to infants—have awakened in the
middle of the night, and found one of these
animals seated silently of) their breast, with
those two great round green eyes gazing in
to their face. How corpses have been shut
and locked in rooms, the windows fastened,
fireboards carefully put up at the fireplaces,
and thus left all night ; and how, when the
people went into the apartment the next
morning, out scrambled a huge black cat
having entered, heaven-only knows how,
and disappeared in the same way. This is
the part which tradition assigns her from
the earliest ages ; and she has performed
feats under very peonliar circumstances!!
She has been found in strange places arid
extraordinary company. I say nothing of
Doctor Faustus. There are many things
long spoken of—in an under tone—at mid
night firesides, by half expiring lights, which
have not been regularly collected and in-
j NUMBER 3.
WM. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
quired into ! I should be sorry to trump up
old accusations against one now generally
received in society, but my ojnnion w, that
this lady bos had a great friend, whose inti*
rnacy does tiot reflect much credit upon her
in the present enlightened age : and this I
say, firmly, if all my children have their
breaths sucked for it this very night!! It is
not any ordinary danger that can drive me
from What I consider my duty. Besides, I
suspect the intimacy spoken of, may have
cooled off with the feudal system. The
general education of all classes, at this day,
makes tome people (no name,) rather care
ful • / /
Whatever htay have been the past life of
the cat, there certainly rests upon her this
indefinable odium. How unlike is her re*
putation to that of his good matured and
lionest friend, ike dog ! Os the latter, what
heroic and noble deeds are related ! How
he Imssßrcdthe master that was drowning
him, and licked the band that had shot him
in the act of his duty ! How many skulking
robbers he has arrested*—hotv lie has fought
and died in defence of those he loved ! How
many children lie has dragged out of ponds
and rivers! What is there in man superior
to his courage—his forgiveness—his mag
nanimity-—his fidelity—hia sagacity—his
gratitude 1 How beautiful, too, he often is!
What a face he has. sometimes, when lie
looks into his master’s eyes for approbation!
Give him but a smile—a word—a caress,
and all his faithful services ate more than
repaid, and lie would meet death, in its di
rect form, at the slightest token of your will!
Motv he enters into the habits of his mas
ter ! How he learns and accommodates
himself to his ways! You cannot make
him so happy as in allowing him to serve
you; and, when job die, he dies of grief
on your grare!
Who eversawfl cn/do any of these things?
She lives only set herself. Her heart is en
tirely cold. HVr affections arc interested
and temporary. She has little part or sym
pathy in your enjoyments. She pUrrt w lien
you rub her bark, hut scratches you if you
do not rub it in the right place, ti e per
forms you no service, but the and uel one of
torturing little mice. The ferocious wretch!
She likes comfort, too. No sly tnonk ever
stretched himself in quiet before the com
fortable blaze; and fed on the fat and cream
of the land with more hearty zest* But you
get no thanks—and you scarcely,” with alt
your raresses, bolster up anything like a real
acquaintance With the creature. She Ires
her owh secret haunts where yon cannot
trace her. She flies you when she is full.
She cannot conceal the ingratitude of her
cold and lonely nature.- She communes
with, you know not whom, in strange hours
and places. Now you find her watching on
the house-roof. Well! What lias she to do
there ? Go down into the cellar an hour af
ter to search for Something thrown aside
amid old lumber and you behold her two
great green eyes, all fiendish light and fire,
blazing on you from the innermost recess of
the darkest hole—in unreachable places—
ulone—crouching, waiting. What the deuse
has any honett person to do there 1 You be
hold her aomethnes stealing silently, steal
thily, like someone on a guilty and mysteri
ous mission, amid the cobweb-hung beams
of the garfet, and, if have a room de
toted to yourself—a pantry with sweet
meats and treasures—all the keys in Chris
tendom won’t keep her from a secret, close,
thorough scrutiny, till she knows what every
jar, and pot, and pan, and escretoire contains
as well as dm Are these the manners
of a straight-forward, open-minded animal?
You never see the dog poking and peeping,
and starting and Watching, and stealiug in
and out of these holes and coiners. You
can’t heat him into one of them. He’s afraid.
So should 1 be* So would every honest |>er
son he!
I was vetjr much struck with the super
natuial curiosity of the cal last evening. I
had been writing for several days with more
thaii my usual diligenee, and among other
papers upon my table lay the manuscript of
this very essay, (which I am resolved you
shall publish in spite of the very devil him
self.) Being tired, as the shadows of even
ing lowered, I withdrew’ my chair against
the Wall, closed my eyes and composed my
self for a sleep. The fire burned brightly,
and though the lamp was not brought in,
the coals rendered the objects of the room
visible. I was just sinking into a doze
when a slight rustling noise awakened me,
and I perceived that a large, dark-colored
cat had leaped cautiously upon the table
from the sofa. As 1 opened my eyes he had
just alighted with his face turned a little
away from the place where 1 sat. The door
had been accidentally left ajar, and the crea
ture had entered ana was proceeding in her
customary examination, under the impres
sion, l felt convinced by her manuer, that
there waa no one present. At first she did
not move. She had landed on three legs
and had not yot put down the fourth. She
waited a few moments, as motionless and
still as any of the surrounding inanimate
objects. She then turned her head at the
looking-glass—then at the door—then took
a searching, close, guilty survey around,
without perceiving me, or perharts believing
mo asleep. Then commenced the examina
tion of the papers, etc., on the table. She
looked into ir.y manuscripts—turned them
over with hei toot, trod carefully across the
ink, scrutinized and left untouched the w'a
’ set-box, and examined with the most ah-