Chapter I: HAD a vision, love, last eve, (3)

He was leaving the room, when Harson laid his hand on his arm, and said: 'No, no; don't go, Dick; I can't spare you.' Turning to Rust he added: 'There are no secrets between this man and me, and I don't intend that there shall be. So, what you have to say, you must speak out before us both, or keep it to yourself.'

Rust eyed him for a few moments in silence, with his thin lips closely compressed, and then looked on the floor, apparently making up his mind. At length he said, in a slow tone: 'So you _will_ have him here, will you? Well, be it so. Should what I say hit hard, thank yourself that one more knows it than is necessary!'

He went to the table and took up a letter, which he handed to Harson. 'Did you write that?'

Harson opened it, and ran his eye over it. 'I did,' said he. 'How came _you_ by it?'

'No matter. You'll find that out, some day; but not now. I may have borrowed it, I may have found it, or bought it, or begged it, or stolen it. Michael Rust, you know, is not too good to do any thing. I think you hinted something of the kind in it.'

Harson passed the letter to Holmes, who seating himself, deliberately perused it, and turned it over, and examined the back, with a kind of habitual caution. There was a smile upon his lips, as he read it, that puzzled Rust. 'It's not at all improbable that he _may_ have stolen it,' said he, folding it up, and returning it to Harson. 'The language is free, but no doubt it is deserved.'

Rust's eyes fairly shot fire, as they encountered the calm, steady gaze of the old lawyer. But he could not look him down, and he turned away and said:

'I'm not fond of law, or there is that in that letter which, if revenged in a court of justice, would fall heavily upon the writer of it.'

'Perhaps so, perhaps so,' said Holmes, in reply.

'Well, Sir, I'll not waste time about this matter, but will state why I sent for you; which was, not to ask favors, but to warn you against the consequence of your own acts. For weeks, a man whose gray hairs might have brought him prudence, has been at work in the dark, tracking my footsteps, prying into my actions; throwing out insinuations against me; asserting nothing openly, but doing every thing in secret; working with the vilest tools, and frequenting the haunts of the very offscouring of the earth. It was a noble pursuit,' said he, bitterly, 'and it was worthy of the person upon whom I was at last able to fix it. That person was _you_,' said he, pointing to Harson. 'Stop, Sir!' said he, seeing that Harson was going to speak, 'stop, Sir. Your turn will come. Hear what _I_ yet have to say. I have told you what you have done; I have told you too that I hated law; but if you think that I am the man to be hunted down like a beast, and branded in the eyes of the world, with impunity, you don't know Michael Rust.'

Harson's fingers had gradually closed, until his fist grew into a form not unlike the head of a sledge-hammer; and for a short time it was a matter of no small doubt whether it would not light upon the sharp, fierce face that glared upon him. But a cautioning glance from Holmes called him to himself; and he replied in a manner which, if less to the point, was at least more peaceable: 'What I _have_ done, I will abide by; what I _intend_ to do, you'll find out, and that soon. Take your own course, and I'll take mine. If you are innocent, you'll not be injured; if you are not, you'll get your deserts.'

Rust bit his lips at this quiet answer. 'Perhaps,' said he, in a low, sneering tone, 'since you seem to be so anxious to pry into my conduct, you may obtain more authentic information by applying to me in person; and perhaps you will not object to make my misdeeds, of which you hint so freely, known to _me_, who certainly am interested in learning what they are.'

Harson drew Holmes to the other end of the room, where they whispered together for some moments; after which, Holmes turned to Rust, and said:

'Your name, I think, is Michael Rust?'

'That _is_ my name,' replied Rust, bowing stiffly.

'And you accuse Mr. Harson of having endeavored to injure your character?'

'I do,' replied Rust.

'Perhaps your memory may lead you astray, and his remarks and allusions may refer to another than yourself.'

Michael Rust turned from him with a contemptuous smile; and then tapping the letter with his finger, said: 'Ink never forgets. Henry Harson and his friend may both vary their story, but this is always the same, and the slanders once uttered against me _here_, are here still unchanged and unsoftened.'

'Against _you_?' repeated Holmes. 'Read it again. _You_ are not even mentioned in it.'

Rust glanced at it; and the lawyer thought that for a moment he observed a change in his features. If so, it was but momentary; for he answered in the same low tone, though perhaps with even more of a sneer:

'It was a trap, was it? Pah! a child could see through it! It alludes to one _Henry Colton_. The charges are made against _him_. I'll save you the trouble of farther manoeuvering to obtain information on that point, by informing you that Henry Colton and Michael Rust are one. I'll inform you too that you knew it before you came here. If you wish it, I'll give you the same admission in writing.'

'I accept your offer,' said Holmes, quietly. 'There's paper,' said he, pointing to the table; 'write it on that.'

Rust cast an angry glance at him, and seemed to hesitate; but he saw that he was watched narrowly, and must not shrink. So he sat down and scrawled something, which he pushed to Holmes.

Holmes read it over slowly: 'Alter _that_; the wording is not clear,' said he, pointing out a paragraph which did not suit him.

Rust took up the pen and altered the phrase.

'Perhaps _that_ will do?' said he, again handing it to Holmes.

'That's just what I want,' replied the lawyer, running his eye over it, and apparently weighing every word. 'But you are very forgetful. You haven't signed it.'

Rust took the paper and signed his name to it. 'I hope you are satisfied. I suppose you have me now,' said he, with a sneer.

'I think I _have_,' replied Holmes, folding up the paper, and putting it in his pocket. 'Have you any farther remarks to make to Mr. Harson or myself? What you have done has been of much service, and will save us a great deal of trouble.'

'None,' replied Rust; 'I sent for _him_,' said he, pointing to Harson, 'to let him know that I was aware of his proceedings, and to warn him that I was prepared to defend myself; and that if he persisted in his attacks upon me, he would do so at his peril.'

'It is well,' said Holmes. 'It's frank in you, and no doubt Mr. Harson feels grateful. And now that you have finished, perhaps you will listen to a strange tale, which I am going to narrate to you. I wish you to pay particular attention, as you may find it interesting. It's quite romantic, but strictly true.'

'Once upon a time,' (that's the way stories begin, I think,) 'there were two brothers living at a place far from this city; the names of whom were George and Henry Colton. The former received a large property from a distant relative; while the means of the latter were limited; so much so, that but for the liberality of his elder brother, he would have found it utterly impossible to live, in the style and manner in which he always did and still is accustomed to live.'

'Well, Sir, does this refer to me?' said Rust; 'and if it does, and is true, what then?'

'I have not finished,' replied Holmes. 'You shall hear the rest. Shortly after the accession of George Colton to this property, he married; but previous to doing so, to secure his brother against want, he settled upon him property sufficient to produce him a handsome income.'

'Well, Sir,' said Rust, 'what then?'

'You shall hear,' replied Holmes. 'By this marriage George Colton had two children, who in the course of law would have inherited his entire property, had they been living at the time of his death. These children had reached the ages of two or three years, when they were lost in a very singular manner. They had been left alone by their nurse, in a room in their father's house; and when she returned, after the lapse of a very few minutes, they were gone; and from that day to this their parents have had no tidings of them. Search was made in every direction; rewards were offered; persons were employed in all parts of the country, and descriptions of the missing children were placarded in every quarter. No one was more earnest and untiring in his efforts to find them than Henry Colton, the younger brother; for he remembered only his brother's past kindness; entirely forgetting, that if these children were dead he would, in all probability, receive his brother's vast property. But he was equally unsuccessful with the others. By degrees, hope grew fainter, and the efforts of all, except this noble younger brother, relaxed; but he travelled, wrote, had agents employed in every direction, and, I am told, is still endeavoring to unravel this mystery. And now,' said he, in a low, stern tone, 'shall I tell you the reason why he failed? It was this. The agents employed by him were put on a false scent; and although a high reward was offered for the discovery of the children, a higher one was paid for keeping the place of their concealment undiscovered. Shall I tell you,' added the lawyer, in the same tone, 'who paid the bribe? That same noble Henry Colton, the younger brother; and what's more, that same man sometimes bore the name of Michael Rust. All this can be proved beyond the shadow of a doubt, and will be, in a court of justice, if we are compelled to do it.'

The lawyer paused, and looked Rust steadily in the face.

'Well, Sir,' said Rust, 'part of what you say is true. I know that the children were lost, I know that I did what I could to find them. As to the rest, it is false, and I care nothing for it. They are dead, I fear.'

'Not quite,' replied Holmes. 'One of them is already rescued; so that Michael Rust's hopes and schemes are thwarted; and his only chance to escape the arm of the law is to give up the other, or to tell where he is.'

Rust turned toward him, and looking him steadily in the face, said: 'Well, Sir, if this be true I'm glad of it; but if some designing scoundrel is desirous of palming off his own brats on an honest man, to swindle him out of his property, let him beware, lest he run his legs into shackles. For my part, I've no doubt that the whole tale is a fabrication of that old man's,' said he, pointing to Harson, 'got up for no honest purpose.'

'That's false!' replied Holmes, sternly. 'Lie as you will; deny as stoutly as you please; I tell you that what I have said is true, and that you are the man.'

Rust grew deadly pale, but said nothing.

'And I tell you again,' said Holmes, in the same stern voice, 'that your only hope of escaping punishment is in giving up the remaining child, or in giving such information as may lead to his discovery. Do that, and we will show you all the favor we can.'

'Nay, more,' added Harson. 'We will never let it be known what you had to do with it. We'll let it be supposed that the children were stolen, and found. We will keep it quiet, won't we, Ned?' said he, walking up to the lawyer, and laying his hand on his shoulder.

'You've said so, and your promise must be kept,' replied Holmes. 'I shouldn't have made it. But you must decide at once.'

Michael Rust had sat as still as a statue, merely turning his eyes from one to the other, as they spoke.

'Have you done?' asked he, in a voice as quiet and composed as if the threats just uttered had no reference to himself.

'You have heard all that we have to offer,' said Holmes.

'You're very kind,' replied Rust; 'you're _very_ kind; but you don't _know_ Michael Rust. He accepts favors from no man. There, there--go! He values your threats and promises alike; and neither the one nor the other will turn him one inch from his own course, to aid you in your dishonest purpose. It's against his conscience. Good morning. Our interview is ended, I think. I'm sorry to see gray hairs so steeped in depravity.'

'Michael Rust,' said Holmes, turning to him, 'you have sealed your own doom. I'm glad you've rejected our offers, and I now withdraw them. You're unworthy of them; and you shall have no other grace than what the law extends to a felon.'

Rust bowed. 'You're kind. I shall not trouble you to repeat the offer. As for the grace extended to felons, I believe there is a law which makes a conspiracy to defraud, a felony likewise. It takes three to make a conspiracy, in law; but I have no doubt you have abettors. Perhaps you had better examine the matter. I wish you good morning, gentlemen; I wish to be alone.'

Rust sat without moving, until the sound of their footsteps descending the stairs was lost, and then he sprang to his feet.

'Now then,' exclaimed he, 'I know where I am! Now I can see where to strike. Ha! ha! We'll see who conquers, Harry Harson or Michael Rust--a desperate man, who has no alternative but to succeed or die. Ho! ho! I know where the mine is to be sprung; and I will countermine!'

Listless, desponding, and irresolute as to his course, as he had been before his interview with Harson, all trace of it had disappeared now. He had decided upon the steps to be taken; and, desperate as they were, he was not the man to hesitate. The anxiety which had borne him down, disappeared as he ascertained the extent of his danger, and was able to nerve himself to cope with it; and his manner was not only cheerful but merry, and his eye shone with a self-confidence not unlike that of a gladiator preparing for a conflict in which he or his adversary must perish.

Lingering in his office only long enough to give his two visitors time to get some distance off, he put on his hat, locked the door, placed the key over it, so that Kornicker might know where to find it, and sallied out into the street.

A LOVER'S RECOLLECTIONS.

COULD'ST thou but know how dark and drear my days, though few, have past
Since o'er my once light heart Despair his gloomy shadow cast;
Without one joy to cheer me here, and not a hope on high,
The only prayer I offer there, to be allowed to die;
Could'st thou but know the anguish which my tortured heart must hide,
While gazing on thee smiling still, in youth and beauty's pride,
While listening to thy thrilling voice until my burning brain
Is maddened with the withering thought that _I_ must love in vain!

Thou would'st forgive me that I dare in hopelessness reveal
The fierce and frenzied agony of soul thou wilt not heal;
Thy gentle breast would pity one whose brimming cup of woe
Has gathered deeper bitterness from passion's scorching glow.
I thought that even charms like thine my sered heart could not move,
That sorrow's strength had steeled it long against the might of love;
That that last pang, of all the worst, could never more be mine,
And beauty's power so long defied, I should not bow to thine.

But oh! that cold sad freedom lost, I would not now regain!
Far dearer to my soul I hold the love thou wilt disdain;
Still on mine ear thy gentle voice in silent music falls,
Bathing my heart as moonlight bathes some donjon's craggy walls;
Still can I gaze in thought into those bright bewildering eyes,
Within whose heavenly depth enshrined Love's mighty shadow lies;
Still hang upon those lips which poured their melody of tone,
And breathed a softness on my heart, until that hour unknown.

W. C. S. B.

SONNET.

TO THE REV. HENRY W. BELLOWS, NEW-YORK.

LO! where it stands, the green life-giving tree,
Mid the pure garden of thy noble faith,
Where thou, unwearied, tread'st the onward path,
And Moses and Elias talk with thee.
Droop we beneath the cloud despondingly,
Thy voice its cheering influence imparts,
And we arise, and, girding up our hearts,
Go forth in hope to win eternity.
Behold! to thee is given a tongue of fire!
Thou speakest wisdom to the ear of youth,
And age takes counsel from thy lip of truth,
And each with trust thy teaching doth inspire.
By this we know the light thou hast divine--
Oh! may our darkened souls new lustre gain from thine!

_New-York, Nov., 1843._
MARY E. HEWITT.

WIDOWS.

'Desrobbons ici la place d'un conte.'--MONTAIGNE.

FULLER says, in his '_Holy State_,' that 'the good widow's grief for her husband, though real is moderate;' and it is our object to illustrate the old divine's text by two famous and most ancient stories; but we would in the first place offer a few remarks upon the species _widow_.

If widow be derived from the Latin _viduus_, void, then Mr. Weller the elder's pronunciation, vidder, is the most etymological. We are, however, far from sharing that gentleman's feelings toward those ladies, cleverest of their class. We love widows. We gain by their loss. And the _void_ to us and we fear to them is any thing but an 'aching void.'

In society a Miss is, not to make a pun, amiss. Your sixteens and seventeens are always at sixes and sevens among the men. They are so walled about by what is _proper_ and what is not _proper_, that they can do nothing but sit bolt upright with their arms folded. Their sitting, walking, riding, dancing, talking, are all carefully graduated to the _proper_. They start when you speak to them, as a pigeon does when it sees a hawk, and take hold of a man's arm as though he were made of phosphorus; and are bound to look silly, and take refuge under mamma's wings, if the air be tainted by the ghost of a possible impropriety. In Spanish society young ladies are danced with, but never spoken to; but no more of them:

'Non ragionam di lor; ma guarda e passa.'

But a widow, as soon as the becoming sorrow is over, which soon takes place, is always gay, always charming:

'JEPPO. La princesse est reuve, Maffio.
MAF. On le voit bien à sa gaiete.'

In the first place, the widow _sait vivre_. She knows how to talk to men and how to treat them. In the second, she does what she pleases, and Miss Scandal has to shriek, 'How improper!' in a whisper. In the third place, she never grows old. A spinster is on the wane at five-and-twenty, and at forty, even Echo would be afraid to answer her, for fear she should consider it an offer; but a widow at thirty is on the 'wax,' and in her prime at forty; at least so says the song. We wonder that all women do not wish they were born widows; and that failing, and the occasion presenting itself, do not emulate the fifty Misses Danaus, in the mythology, who in their haste to become widows, stabbed their husbands on the wedding night.

The Rev. Dr. Sterne remarks, that 'the Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.' Bereaved married people must be shorn lambs. We have heard widowers a fortnight after the sad event humming _Gai! Gai! de profundis!_--and widows finding the breeze of a most comfortable temperature, and keeping up a cheerful liveman-loving spirit behind their impenetrable black veils, just as the sun shines as brightly as ever behind the darkest thunder-cloud.

The first tale is that of the Matron of Ephesus, told with infinite spirit by La Fontaine in his Contes. He took it from Boccaccio. It is to be found in Petronius, who had it from the Greeks. They borrowed it from the Arabians, who in their turn owe it to the Chinese. Du Halde has it in his version. The origin of most of our every-day stories is as completely hidden in the obscurity of by-gone ages as the name of the inventor of the plough. Who in Heaven's name was the father of jokes? Was Joseph Miller the Joseph who found favor in the eyes of the facile Fatima? Did Pharaoh write facetiæ? Or did Job edit a jest-book? Or was the husband of Eve the great first wag; and must we not consider Joseph a misnomer for Adam?

Once upon a time there lived in Ephesus a lady renowned for her beauty and for her wit, but most of all for her intense affection for her husband. Mothers cited her as an example to their daughters, and husbands were forever singing her praises to their wives. In short, the town esteemed itself lucky in possessing within its walls such a model of virtue. But alas! the husband died. Far from being consoled by a will full of legacies in her favor, the widow abandoned herself to the most distressing grief, and sobbed and groaned so bitterly and so loudly, that all the neighborhood was in tears. Frantic with her loss, she resolved to descend into the tomb with her husband, and to die upon his body. A faithful maid-servant accompanied her, after trying in vain to bring back her mistress to the love of life. She wished to feed her eyes to the last upon the bier of the deceased, and this was the only aliment she intended to allow herself. One day passed in sighing and weeping, and her grief omitted nothing which is necessary in such cases.

Another dead body was lodged not far from this tomb, but very differently. His monument was a gallows, and himself his only epitaph--a warning to all thieves! A soldier watched him night and day, and was threatened with instant death if the body were removed. During the night, the sentinel perceived to his great surprise a light flashing through the crevices of the tomb, and stealing toward it, heard many soft _oh's_ and _alas's_. Entering, he was amazed to see two pretty women in tears, and inquired politely what motive could induce them to inhabit so melancholy an abode? The widow did not of course deign to answer, but the servant explained to him that they had resolved to starve themselves to death for love of the deceased. The soldier explained as well as he was able what life was, and asked leave to take his supper in their presence, if they would eat nothing themselves. They gave him permission. Animated by the beauty of the lady, and assisted by the maid, who began to tire of starvation, he pleaded so warmly and so well, that the dame consented by degrees to forget her _mort_, and to bestow herself upon him. Just as they had ratified the compact by a kiss, under the very nose of the defunct, he heard a noise without, and rushing to his post, found the body gone! Overwhelmed with shame and fear, he returned to the tomb, acquainted the ladies with the fate which awaited him, and bade adieu to his bride.

'What!' said the servant, 'shall we allow you to be hung for such a trifle? No! No! One body is like another. Let us hang up our old master. No one will know the difference.'

The mistress consented; the 'dear departed' was suspended in the place of the thief; and the soldier left the guard-house for the palace of the Matron of Ephesus.

The other story is from the Zadig of Voltaire, and illustrates the same characteristic trait.

One day Zadig's wife Azora returned from a walk, swelling with rage. 'What is the matter, my dear?' said Zadig; 'what can have happened to put you so beside yourself?'

'Alas!' said she, 'you would be as indignant as I am, if you had only seen what I have witnessed. I went to console the young widow Cosron, who not long since erected a tomb to her husband near the brook which flows through yonder meadow, and vowed to the gods to remain at the tomb so long as the waters of the stream should flow by it.'

'There is an estimable woman for you!' said Zadig; 'she sincerely loved her husband.'

'Ah!' replied Azora, 'if you only knew what she was doing when I visited her!'

'Well, what? sweet Azora!'

'She was laboring to turn the course of the stream!' Azora was so vehement in her condemnation of the young widow's conduct, and overwhelmed her with so many hard names, that Zadig was displeased with so great a parade of virtue.

He had a friend named Cador, who was one of those young men whom his wife thought better behaved and more moral than most others. He made him his confidant, and promised him a large sum if his plan succeeded.

When Azora, who had been passing a day or two at the house of a relation, returned to town, the servants in tears announced to her that her husband had died suddenly the night before, and had been buried that morning in the tomb of his ancestors at the bottom of the garden. She raved, tore her hair, and called the gods to witness that she would not survive him.

That evening Cador asked permission to see her, and they wept together. The next day they shed fewer tears, and dined together. Cador informed her that his friend had left him the greater part of his property, and hinted that it would be his greatest happiness to share it with her. The lady wept, grew angry, but allowed herself to be appeased. The conversation became more confidential. Azora praised the defunct, but confessed that he had many faults from which Cador was exempt.

In the midst of the supper, Cador complained of a violent pain in his liver. The anxious lady rang for her essences, thinking that perhaps one among them might be good for the liver-complaint. She regretted deeply that the great Hermes was no longer at Babylon; she even deigned to touch the side where Cador experienced such intense pain. 'Are you subject to this cruel complaint?' said she, compassionately. 'It sometimes nearly kills me,' replied Cador, 'and there is only one remedy which soothes it, and that is to apply on my side the nose of a man who died the day before.'

'That is a strange remedy!' said Azora.

'Not so strange,' he answered, 'as Dr. Arnoult's apoplexy-bags.'[A]

[Footnote A: Dr. ARNOULT was a Babylonian of those days, who pretended to cure all diseases by means of a bag suspended about the neck of the patient.]

This reason, and the great merit of the young man, decided Azora. 'After all,' said she, 'when my husband passes from the world of yesterday into the world of to-morrow over the bridge Tchinavar, the angel Asrael will not refuse to admit him because his nose is a little shorter in the second life than in the first.'

So taking a razor in her hand, she went to the tomb of her husband, bathed it with her tears, and approached to cut off his nose as he lay extended in the coffin. Zadig sprang up, holding his nose with one hand, and seizing the razor with the other. 'Madam!' he cried, 'say no more against the widow Cosron! The idea of cutting off my nose is quite equal to that of turning a water-course!'

And that is the end of our other story.

The most sincere of us, alas! are always hypocrites, but never so much as when we bring our grief before the eyes of the world.

'De quelque désespoir qu'une âme soit atteinte
La douleur est toujours moins forte que la plainte
Toujours un peu de faste entre parmi les pleurs.'

LITERARY NOTICES.

ETIQUETTE; OR A GUIDE TO THE USAGES OF SOCIETY; WITH A GLANCE AT BAD HABITS. By Count ALFRED D'ORSAY. Number Six of the 'Brother Jonathan' Monthly Library. New-York: WILSON AND COMPANY.

WE opened this little work with avidity. It is the production of one whose fame, as an accomplished leader and arbiter in fashionable life, has preceded it for some years throughout the United States, and may well impart to it the weight of grave authority. We read it to the close without interruption, and with the greater interest, from finding in it, as we went on, much more than a bare list of rules of intercourse; and we rose from our chair, gratified by the perusal; full of good feeling toward its author; and with a passage from the divine JEREMY TAYLOR hovering in our thoughts. This is it:

'THE Greek that designed to make the most exquisite picture that could be imagined, fancied the eye of Chione, and the hair of Poegnium, and Tarsia's lip, Philenium's chin, and the forehead of Delphia; and set all these upon Melphidippa's neck, and thought that he should outdo both art and nature. But when he came to view the proportions, he found that what was excellent in Tarsia did not agree with the other excellency of Philenium; and although singly they were rare pieces, yet in the whole they made a most ugly face.'

Now it is the exactness of proportion, and what the painters call the _good keeping_ of a picture, that in real life designate the well-bred man. It is that quiet exemption from unnecessary display or prominence, in any single feature of character, while all are beautifully sustained; it is that style of existence which in the Venus de Medicis makes her appear to the eye to enlarge as you approach near and more near that miracle of art; it is that nice adaptation of conduct to momentary occasion, dictated by a cool judgment, a determined will, perfect self-possession, and a kind heart; that mark the character and manners, and give a tranquil and yet pervading and an unforgotten charm to the intercourse of the true and well-born gentleman:

----'it is not in the power of monarchs
To make a Gentleman, which is a substance
Only begot of Merit.'

Count D'ORSAY has this innate perception throughout his chapter on Conversation, and he has well illustrated it in that on Dress; indeed throughout his work he writes _as from a_ SOURCE: 'It is bad taste to dress in the extreme of fashion; and, in general, those only do so who have no other claim to distinction; leave it, in these times, to shopmen and pick-pockets. Avoid wearing jewelry, unless it be in very good taste, and then only at proper seasons. This is the age of Mosaic gold and other trash; and by dint of swindling, any one _may_ become 'flashy' at a small expense. Recollect that every shop-boy can coarsely imitate your 'outward and visible sign' if he choose to save his money for that purpose. If you _will_ stand out in 'high and bold relief,' endeavour to become eminent for some virtue or talent, that people may say, 'There goes the _celebrated_ (not the _notorious_) Mr. So-and-so.' In the same chapter are some valuable hints on dress to the other sex, too applicable, alas! too applicable! As our life is not long enough to do anything but praise them, we beg to refer our fair readers to the work itself; the whole of which they may read with advantage, and we doubt not with pleasure. We were much struck by the noble author's chapter on DINNERS in several of its passages, one or two of which we are disposed to cite. The following is eminently just: 'Well-bred people arrive as nearly at the appointed dinner hour as they can. It is a very vulgar assumption of importance purposely to arrive half an hour behind time; beside the folly of allowing eight or ten hungry people such a tempting opportunity of discussing your foibles.'

With _us_ indeed, this 'vulgar assumption of importance' on an occasion of dinner is rarely imagined, and would never be tolerated at all; but we have among us some men of genius, (Heaven save the mark!) to whom the flight of time seems never to be a matter of account. We remember having had our whole dinner spoiled (except the game, which providentially was not put down) by one of this class to whom the entertainment was given; and when at last, after being sent for, he made his appearance two hours beyond time, he remarked very blandly, 'I thought the hour upon your card was five o'clock.' The clock was striking SEVEN while he spoke!--yet it was impossible to look into his face and not forgive him. But the annoyance _of the guests_ is not much less than this to the host, when, as is too frequently the case with us, they are kept waiting on their part an unreasonable time beyond the hour fixed for the repast. They have arrived in due season, have paid their compliments, and are ready for your soup; and Time wears leaden wings until they are seated and occupied with it. It is also at all times to be considered, that _Lunch_ is by no means in America a thing of course; and a man may easily, with the kindest intentions in the world, by mere want of punctuality in his establishment, disarrange the gastric juices of eight or ten of his best friends!!

'Nothing indicates a well-bred man more than a proper mode of eating his dinner. A man may pass muster by _dressing well_, and may sustain himself tolerably in conversation; but if he be not perfectly 'au fait,' _dinner_ will betray him.' How true! How infallible has this criterion ever been! We were surprised at the following observation, coming from such a source: 'It is a matter of regret that table napkins are not considered indispensable in England; for with all our boasted refinement, they are far from being general. The comfort of napkins at dinner is too obvious to require comment, while the _expense_ can hardly be urged as an objection. If there be not any napkins a man has no alternative but to use the table-cloth, unless (_as many do_) he prefer his pocket handkerchief--a usage sufficiently disagreeable.'

Shade of GRAMMONT! can it be, that at any table in England at which this true gentleman, this accomplished nobleman 'observed of all observers,' this cynosure, could be induced to sit, there can remain such a vestige of barbarism as this want implies, and this high authority establishes? No table napkin! No 'alternative but the table-cloth or the pocket handkerchief!' Good Heavens! can it be a possible thing, that these 'haughty Islanders' should rail at us upon both shores, come over the sea and compose their 'Notes on America' at tables where they have been invited as honored guests, and friends, and then go home to deliver their venom, and make market-money out of their coarse detraction of the domestic manners of their hosts, and spitting-boxes alike of their stomachs and their printing-presses; and this at a time when it is their practice to defile, with their soiled fingers, the drapery that covers a board that should be sacred in the eyes of all Christian men, as it is in those of the Mussulman and the Moor! Oh England! England! and yet, Fatherland! Fatherland!----to think, that from thy prolifick and exhaustless bosom, thou shouldest send forth, almost in the same season, to us, warmed into life and golden being, the gentle, the accessible, the illustrious MORPETH--whose visit hath left a trace of light along the path he trod upon our shores--and that the same Sun should, 'kissing carrion,' give motion from Thee to these maggots of a dead dog! that crawl their way across the same blue deep to mark us with their slime! But enough of this; at least we use napkins at our dinners throughout the Union, thank GOD!

Two other short extracts shall be made, in order to establish with our readers the author's right to the rank he holds in society:

'THERE is no better test of a man's claim to be considered '_a Gentleman_,' than a scrutiny of his conduct in money transactions. A man may possess rank and fashion, and, by an assumed frankness of character, deceive the multitude; but the moment his purse is invaded, if he be not of the true caste, he will display the most contemptible meanness; he will take advantage of the liberal; _evade_, by every miserable subterfuge, the claims of those he dares not oppress, and unblushingly _defy_ those unfortunate persons whose poverty is likely to prevent the due assertion of their rights. Such a man may possess station in society--he may be an 'élégant'--he may be a _prince_!--_but if he be not honest, he is not a gentleman_.'

'Gentility is neither in birth, manner, nor fashion--but in the MIND. A high sense of honor; a determination never to take a mean advantage of another; an adherence to truth; delicacy and politeness toward those with whom you may have dealings--are the essential and distinguishing characteristics of a GENTLEMAN.'

The work concludes with an admirable and elaborate analysis of the WALTZ; and it is with earnest pleasure that we recommend it as a whole to the readers of the KNICKERBOCKER.

SINCE preparing the preceding notice for the press, the following _Rules à la D'Orsay_, adapted to the meridian of New-York, have been handed to us under the highest fashionable sanction, to be appended to the future American editions of this interesting production. We leave to the publishers the charge of arranging them under the various heads to which they respectively belong.

'I. If your entertainer hand you his box, help yourself immediately to snuff with the fore-finger and thumb of the left hand; close the box at once and return it him with a demonstration of thankfulness for the compliment he has paid you. There is no need, if you should not be in the practice of regaling yourself in this way, to taste the snuff; you need raise the pinch only once to your olfactories, and may then let it fall. Neither affect the mastery of the box, by offering it to any one else; or by passing it round the table without an intimation from your host. Never breathe over it; nor, while you aspire to the character of a gentleman, SMELL from it and say, that 'you wish you could indulge yourself in this way.'

'II. Instruct your servants, that at all times before _the course of_ GAME be served upon your dinner-table, every dish of Vegetables be removed from the apartment. There are among us, grave men and of honest extraction who are yet capable of eating cooked vegetables even with Game; and who, with sallad at hand, and a woodcock before them extended upon his proper toast, would yet, (if permitted to practice such an enormity,) ask the servant for a potatoe without a sense either of humiliation or of remorse!!

'III. Abjure all dinner-communion whatever with the host, who, for the second time, places you at his table upon a cushionless chair; the bottom of which is formed of those hexagons of misery made out of split rattan, and known in New-York by the appropriate title of Cain-bottoms, doubtless in honor of the first murderer of man: the most charitable construction that can be placed upon such conduct being, that your entertainer compasses your death during the ensuing winter:

'You're there in double trust:
First as his Friend; his Entertainer, oft;
Strong both against the deed. And he, your Host;
Who should against the sharp Wind close the door,
Not _bare the knife_ himself!'

'IV. Never again send a card of invitation to the young person--gentleman we could never call him--however great 'his expectations' may be, who at your ball or evening party where ladies are your guests, has had the insolent temerity of lighting his cigar before leaving the house.

'V. Until you thoroughly understand, and can gracefully accomplish in perfect time, the varied steps of the Waltz, never venture upon the experiment, even of _a single tour_, with one of those precious beings, whose feet are formed to touch the earth only _par courtoisie_; for--shall I tell you?--the very hyena might have uttered cries of real grief, during more than one morning last winter, over the bruised and discolored spots--traces of the last night's movement--upon a small, plump, eloquent foot, where the instep fades with a quick descent into the narrow and imperceptible plain, and the heel is lost at the moment an upright posture is assumed: and over which nature, until then, had gazed, entranced by the dimpling and ever-varying beauty of her Work!

'Practise yourself until perfect with some female professional Teacher, who can describe to you the effects of your _gaucherie_, and instruct you how to remedy it; or if, as is the case with many a worthy young man well received in society, you be come of a numerous, clumsy family, go it often with some of your strong-armed maiden aunts, or good-natured sisters, who can honestly and vigorously kick you in return, and break you in by degrees; and teach you feelingly what you are; and what pain you may impose, and absolute lameness you may inflict, upon that irradiation of light and joy, which, (as no language _can_ express the pleasure that she gives,) we call by the pain she sometimes causes; and, in our tears, have named her WO-MAN!

'VI. Do not entertain the thought, that as a young gentleman 'of large expectations;' or from your being one of those 'admirable waltzers;' or one of that class of favored persons whom for whatever cause, the ladies rank immediately next the music when they tell the _père de famille_, or the future manager, 'We must immediately engage So-and-so's band, and here is a list of the indispensable _beaux_ without whom our party will be a failure'----do not, although your name be first upon that list, imagine you have nothing more to do, than go to the ball; enjoy yourself as much as you can; leave a card during one of the three following days; give a passing recognition in the street to the lady of the house; and then cut the family like a watering-place acquaintance until they give a ball again, or new-year's day come round to prove you ready for another night of pleasure. Leave such a course to the half-bred vulgarian. It is the part of the true gentleman on the contrary, after observing the other forms of etiquette toward a family whose hospitality he has chosen to accept, to take opportunities occasionally at the houses of their mutual acquaintance to renew his cheerful compliments to the lady, as he meets her undergoing the routine--alas! how often the laborious, the devoted, the unsatisfactory routine--of attending night after night upon those in whom her maternal wishes are centered and at stake! Do not believe, (if you require an incentive,) that this will be lost to you. It is among those amenities of life in which pleasure increases as the heart dispenses it. Your bosom's lord shall 'sit more lightly on his throne' for this employment of his gracious faculties; and--for there are many attentions that the sex love to see exercised toward each other--Eyes shall follow you approvingly, that may contain _the untold treasure of your future hope_.'

BANKRUPT STORIES. EDITED BY HARRY FRANCO. 'THE HAUNTED MERCHANT.' In one volume, pp. 381. New-York: JOHN ALLEN, 139 Nassau-street.

SOON after the work entitled 'Harry Franco' had made its appearance, we took the liberty to send it, together with several other late publications of the day, to our eminent contributor, Mr. WASHINGTON IRVING, then at his charming 'Sunnyside Cottage' on the Hudson. In acknowledging his reception of the books, he took especial occasion to speak of 'Harry Franco' as a work replete with natural description and quiet humor; and on learning that the author was a regular correspondent of the KNICKERBOCKER, he added: 'Cherish him; he is a writer of excellent parts, and great promise.' 'The Haunted Merchant' was soon after commenced in these pages; and after gradually increasing in interest, until the interval of a month in its publication was deemed by many readers a very painful _hiatus_, it was suddenly suspended by the author, owing to overwhelming business avocations, which engaged his undivided attention. When, after many months, he was once more in the enjoyment of the necessary leisure to finish the work, it was not deemed advisable to resume it at so late a period in the KNICKERBOCKER, but to complete it in a volume, in which it should form the first of a series of 'Bankrupt Stories;' and this is the volume before us, more than two-thirds of which will be entirely new to our readers. We have once or twice referred to the work, while in the process of publication in numbers; but having re-perused it entire in its present form, we cannot resist the impulse to counsel our readers to secure the enjoyment of the same pleasure. Aside from the numerous 'palpable hits' at men, manners, and customs, in our commercial metropolis, there is in the story itself, in its incidents and characters, a pervading interest, which increases, not fitfully, but in regular and natural progression, to the dénouement. The curiosity of the reader, stimulated but not satisfied, continues unabated to the end; an opinion on which we pledge our critical judgment, and the correctness of which we desire our readers themselves to test in the only way in which it can be tested. Meanwhile, leaving the story untouched, we proceed to select a few of the 'palpable hits' to which we have adverted, which we shall arrange under indicative heads, after the manner of certain of our English contemporaries:

FASHIONABLE PHYSICIANS: SEALING-WAX.

'WITH his accustomed ingenuousness, Jeremiah proceeded directly to the house of Doctor Smoothcoat when he went in pursuit of a physician, for he knew that that personage was celebrated for his high charges, and he thought than no physician could have the conscience to value his services at a higher rate than the rest of the faculty unless he were conscious that they were worth more to the patient; and as there were many other simple-minded people beside Jeremiah, Doctor Smoothcoat had a good many rich patients who enabled him, by their contributions, to live in great magnificence, and occasionally to refresh himself by a visit to Europe, which brought him more patients than even his high charges, for a European reputation is a great help to one's progress in the New World.

'Jeremiah's heart sank within him when he reached the doctor's house, and was informed that the great man was out on a professional visit; he waited a long time expecting him to return, and at last came away without seeing him, but left a note on his office-table requesting him to call at Mr. Tremlett's house. He sat by the old gentleman's bed-side until past midnight watching with great anxiety, but no physician came; and then, growing alarmed, he went again in search of Doctor Smoothcoat. This time he found the professional gentleman at home, but he was astonished to learn that he had been for more than an hour in bed and asleep. How could he sleep when a patient lay sick almost unto death, waiting for his assistance?

'But the Doctor said he had not received a call.

''Did you not get the note that I left for you?' asked Jeremiah.

''The note!' said the Doctor; 'I have received no communication from you.'

''But I left one upon your office-table,' said Jeremiah.

''Oh! ah! I do remember that I observed a bit of paper lying there directed to me, but I did not think that it could be of any moment,' said Doctor Smoothcoat; 'gentlemen having communications to make to me usually seal their letters with wax.'

''Wax!' exclaimed Jeremiah, with unusual warmth; 'wax! O, true; it should have been wax; and here it is sealed with a wafer; and it has not been opened! Well, well, I am very sorry. But, surely the life of a human being is of more consequence than a bit of wax!'

'The doctor thought otherwise. He had not been to Europe for nothing. Moreover, he was a conservative, and consequently a great stickler for forms. So wicked a departure from established usages as sealing a note to a person of his consequence with a wafer, was not to be lightly passed by. He understood the full importance of wax.'

WRITING A LOVE-LETTER: COUNTERFEIT EMOTION.

'JOHN, after he had retired to his chamber, sat down and penned a few but expressive lines to Fidelia, in which he told her in simple language, without adornment or exaggeration, that he loved her, and that on his return he should call upon her to learn from her own lips whether or not she could love him in return. Never before had he expressed himself on paper so easily, so feelingly, and so much to his own satisfaction. After he had written his letter he read it over and over again; delighted at the true expression of his own feelings, and wondering at his success in a style of composition which he had then attempted for the first time. Those who feel can write feelingly; but counterfeit feelings on paper, like counterfeit laughter, or counterfeit tears, affect nobody, because feelings lie deeper than the eye or the ear, and like can only affect like; as the devil could not tempt St. Anthony, although he has tempted so many sham saints before and since his time; and the angel could find shelter with no man but Lot in all Sodom, because Lot alone of all its inhabitants partook of the angel's nature.'

A 'GOOD MAN,' AS THE WORLD GOES.

'MANY people looked upon Mr. BATES as a very excellent person, as indeed he was; for he had always paid his debts, a great thing assuredly in a community where a neglect to do so is looked upon as an odious offence, without any consideration of the debtor's misfortunes or ability; but then it must be remembered that nobody would have trusted Mr. Bates beyond his known ability to pay; he had robbed no man of his money, an unusual thing in those days, when even governments and independent states set examples of dishonesty; he had never cheated government out of a penny, although it is right to say that he had never been intrusted with any of the nation's funds; he had run away with no man's wife, which was a greater merit in him, since he would not have looked upon it as an unpardonable offence if any body had run away with his; he had never accepted office of a party and then proved traitorous to those who placed him in power; a rare virtue in him, since he saw so many examples around him, and heard them spoken of as good jokes rather than as black crimes.'

DEAD HONORS TO DEAD MEN.

'WHEN a rich man dies, everybody says: 'Is it possible!' as though it were quite an impossible thing for audacious DEATH to grapple with a man of wealth: when a lawyer dies, all the courts adjourn with complimentary speeches, and Justice sheathes her terrible left-handed sword and pockets her scales for a whole day; as though lawyers were so exceedingly rare that the loss of one deserved to be wept as a public calamity: and when a merchant dies, all the ships in the harbor hoist their flags half-mast, out of respect to his memory; as though the business of merchandising was one of such exceeding honor to humanity that the bare accident of being connected with it conferred such peculiar merit upon a man that his loss called for a public demonstration of grief. This last compliment was paid to Mr. Tuck; and while there was but one pair of eyes that wept a tear at his funeral, there were hundreds of yards of bunting, of all possible colors and combinations, drooping from the half-mast-heads of innumerable sea-going crafts at the wharves, and in the river, and bay, out of respect to his memory.'

A QUAKER DAMSEL AMONG THE WORLD'S-PEOPLE.