thing she touches; all signs of life are hidden beneath the noiseless veil she spreads. Immaculate, irresistible, and eternal, she possesses an awfulness and a grandeur which are special to herself; Nature has produced no counterpart of her; and it is perhaps as well that she has no sister, for, if the clouds had two unmarried daughters of her type, mankind would have hard work to get through the winters. The immensity of her power can, however, be judged only in her own chosen homes, and it is indeed well worth our while to visit them, for, of all material royalties, there is not one like hers.

And yet this splendid vestal is not invariably the mighty, ruthless, immutable sovereign that we behold on the mountains and at the poles. Like all other rulers, she has her weak moments. It is saddening to have to own that so superb a princess can ever change her glorious form, but the truth is evident she thaws! Her attributes of whiteness and eternity are, after all, mere questions of thermometer and position; they dazzle our bewildered eyes as we humbly gaze upon them on the summits of the Alps; they turn into dirty water in Pall Mall. We easily forget, when snow is sitting nobly on her throne, that the plebeian blood of rain and fog is running in her veins; but she herself, despite her majesty, is forced to own the lamentable fact as soon as she gets warm. How she must hate heat! To be glorious, brilliant, stainless snow, all grand and undefiled and beautiful, and then, because the sun shines out a little, to be obliged to vanish into puddle! What mockery of the greatness of this earth!

The notion that the moon influences our atmosphere is fully disposed of:

The notion that the moon exerts an influence on weather is so deeply rooted that, notwithstanding all the attacks which have been made against it since meteorology has been seriously studied, it continues to retain its hold upon us. And yet there never was a popular superstition more utterly without a basis than this one. If the moon did really possess any power over weather, that power could only be exercised in one of three ways-by reflection of the sun's rays, by attraction, or by emanation. No other form of action is conceivable. Now, as the brightest light of a full moon is never equal in intensity or quantity to that which is reflected toward us by a white cloud on a summer day, it can scarcely be pretended that weather is affected by such a cause. That the moon does exert attraction on us is

manifest—we see its working in the tides; but, though it can move water, it is most unlikely that it can do the same to air, for the specific gravity of the atmosphere is so small that there is nothing to be attracted. Laplace caloulated, indeed, that the joint attraction of the sun and moon together could not stir the atmosphere at a quicker rate than five miles a day. As for lunar emanations, not a sign of them has ever been discovered. The idea of an influence produced by the phases of the moon is therefore based on no recognizable cause whatever. Furthermore, it is now distinctly shown that no variations at all really occur in weather at the moment of the changes of quarter, any more than at other ordinary times. Since the establishment of meteorological stations all over the earth, it has been proved by millions of observations that there is no simultaneousness whatever between the supposed cause and the supposed effect. The whole story is a fancy and a superstition, which has been handed down to us uncontrolled, and which we have accepted as true because our

forefathers believed it. The moon exercises no more influence on weather than herrings do on the government of Switzerland.

THE London Spectator is eloquent and enthusiastic over Rip Van Winkle and Jef.

ferson's delineation of the character.

It is a little trying to have to wait for Rip's appearance so long after the curtain rises, but the delay has the merit of being filled with instruction. The play is remarkably well constructed in this respect: there is no confusion about it, the relative positions of everybody are clearly defined from the first, and we may contemplate Rip from the moment at which his face shows itself-beaming with the sweet, careless drollery, which instantly overthrows our compassionate and indignant sense of Gretchen's wrongs, and adds us to the party of the dogs and the children-without having any by-paths of attention to tread. There's not a word to be said for the morality of the piece; we give that up; and are glad to be Derrick, a regular stage out-and-outer, to abprovided with a bigly villainous person like sorb all our virtuous reprobation of evil, for we have not any for Rip. He is every thing that Gretchen calls him, and more-for Gretchen does not know of his unjustifiable talk about her to Derrick and Vetter-but we love him; his smile goes straight to our hearts; his laugh-can there ever have been such a laugh among the great actors who are the traditions of our time?-makes us laugh unconsciously with the oddest sense of unreasonable glee; and his first words make us understand what the Irish people mean by a voice that "would whistle the birds off the bushes." No truer words were ever spoken on the stage

than Gretchen's definition of "a jolly dog," and of the results to the wife and children of that tragic personage; but what becomes of their weighty effect when we see Rip and the children, and when Rip drinks his famous toast, with a serious, calm, and fascinating grace, as if he fulfilled a duty none the less agreeable for its sacredness? We don't defend ourselves, we only protest absurdly: "He isn't a jolly dog-a jolly dog is a vulgar beast he is Rip." Yes, that is just it-he is Rip, and everybody loves him, except Derrick,353 the big villain, who is sober and thrifty. And Rip is always tipsy, but infinitely charming; he is just a hopeless vagabond, without the faintest sense of duty, but full of the most enchanting humor; a ragamuffin, who is simply beautiful to look upon; a sot, with a world of gentleness and not a particle of principle in him, irradiated all through by such an exquisite light of drollery and shrewdness that our moral sense is blinded by it.

THE following "general order," published in the Pennsylvania Gazette, February 14, 1775, is an interesting centennial fact:

It having been found very inconvenient to persons concerned in trade, that the mail from "Philadelphia to New England" sets out but once a fortnight during the winter season, this is to give notice that the New England mail will henceforth go once a week the year round; where a correspondence may be carried on, and answers obtained to letters between Philadelphia and Boston in three weeks, which used in the winter to require six weeks.

By command of the postmaster-general:
WILLIAM FRANKLIN, Comptroller.

HE P

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of younger lineage, who came in with the Declaration, and with the visit of Washington, and with the War of 1812, if I remember right, and I doubt not with every other national event worth marking in so good a way.

The grandfathers always planted trees and protected them with severity, especially one who had a notion about English parklandscape. He looked after his saplings, his monarchs, and his copses, all over the great estate, with the eye of an artist and the rigor of an owner. Before he died, the place was a marvel of beauty; its soft slopes were adorned with a grace that made them famous.

But another grandfather, who had penetrated into the Old World as far as Holland, brought back notions about Dutch gardening which were nearly entirely opposite to those of the gentleman who had gone before. He got axes and began to hew right and left, and to plant a lot of trees of shorter kinds, and to make curious bush-houses and walks, which set the whole family by the ears.

But there was one onslaught upon the treasured trees that no one took offense atindeed, it was esteemed an honor that they should be so maltreated. The patriot army established their camp in such a way that it became necessary to cut a road for the transportation of supplies straight through the broad domain, taking in its course a magnificent grove. The thing was done with the hearty consent of the ardent rebel owners, and to this day they point to the honorable scar upon the place, and would like to believe that the trees did not grow again out of regard for the sacrifice; that the gods of the woods said, "Here is a tolerably heroic concession to love of country-suppose we make a monument to it by not making a monument at all!" So there are no trees whatever upon the old road, and romance is the richer for it.

But of the great elms, pines, sycamores, that tower up everywhere, a gazer can say nothing except in verse. Poetry demands poetry. The number of trees that have been made famous by divine imaginings are altogether too few, and these, for their shapes and heights, are worthy to swell the list. They rise out of groves as a man rises above his group of children, and their grand, green boughs of verdure swing in the strong wind with the same motion that a ship swings upon the sea; one beholds them far up in the air with something very like veneration.

The members of the Stockton family who emigrated from England were Quakers, and were strict members of the sect. Love stepped in, however, and made little work of overturning notions. Some of the marriageable men took Southern maidens to themselves for wives, though not until the house had become possessed of enormous tracts of land by purchase from William Penn.

Up to the time when Episcopalian girls began to marry the sons, the plain customs of the simpler religionists were naturally followed; but after the invasion matters took a kindlier aspect, and there was a very different sort of jollity, and a different sort of gravity, for that matter, in the hospitable mansion.

With a good old fidelity to family precedent, all the christenings, marriages, and funerals of the branch of the family that has occupied the house, took place in one of the main parlors, a room which it is not likely that one can enter without feeling the weight of its history. It is by no means a grand parlor, yet it has the air of immense dignity.

There are a score of engravings that illustrate scenes in the life of Washington, the experience of the rugged settlers of the country, and the battles of the early wars, that find welcome places upon such walls as these. For instance, in this old-fashioned parlor there is that florid picture of Washington surrounded by ladies and trampling upon flowers, riding on the Battery, with his head uncovered, and the old, wellknown look of supreme calm upon his broad features; also that Lexington battle-scene, with the handsome patriots fiercely loading and fiercely firing at a file of British a little below, while handsome, patient wives, young and old, come flying down to their goodmen's sides with outstretched arms, and with all the fire of love and agony in their blazing eyes; also the death-bed of Webster, shadowy and sad, with the grand figure of the dying man expounding yet a little more in the glow of the failing sun. In a little frame is a fine engraving of Commodore Stockton in full dress, erect, warlike, with his sword upon his left arm, and his huge gold epaulets swelling out a figure already fine and commanding.* This little picture of a warriorand a family warrior-suggests to one that wide-spread romanticism that is attached to what we may now safely call our old times. It is to be found in all of the old thirteen States, and it is sweetly and tenderly cherished, often with reminders that are homely, but always sincerely and lastingly. There is hardly a township, certainly no county, of two hundred years of age, that has not within its limits some ancient mansion set amid ancient trees, where live, in stinted grandeur, perhaps, some white-haired remnant of an old-time house, proud of some war-record made in the days of the Indian fights, or the Revolution, or the days of '12, or in the hot

*Commodore Richard Field Stockton was born under this roof in 1796. His career was specially interesting. He entered the navy in 1811 as a midshipman, and became the aid to Commodore Rodg ers on board the frigate President, winning honorable notice for gallantry in several battles while yet a mere boy. At nineteen years of age he was first-lieutenant of the Spitfire in the Mediterranean, and distinguished himself by boarding with a boat's crew an Algerine war-vessel. His life was a succession of daring and successful exploits. He was one of the first to advocate a steam-navy; he had given much attention to gunnery and naval architecture, and finally originated a war-steamer, which was built under his immediate supervision in 1844, and, although pronounced impracticable by the naval constructors, it proved to be superior to any war-vessel at that time afloat, and furnished substantially the model for numerous others, not only in this but in foreign countries. The next year he was sent to the Pacific, where, with a small force and amid many romantic and thrilling adventures, he conquered California, and established the government of the United States within her boundaries. He was afterward a member of the Senate of the United States, where, among many other noble deeds, he procured the passage of a law for the abolition of flogging in the navy.

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That one great, towering hero of armsthe hero whom we are now being taught to love and regard more deeply than ever-paid this house one of those consecrating visits of his, and left a glow behind him that shines in the venerable faces of the relators even to this day, when they allude to the general. The grandmother of the Revolution sent many letters to Washington, and when he achieved a success she wrote him an ode, which he invariably answered-sometimes in a jolly verse, but more frequently in a fair prose which did credit to his sense as well as his industry. It is indeed touching to learn of these little evidences that the anx ious and harassed general-in-chief was surrounded by a protecting and encouraging atmosphere of support. It must have been a grateful intrusion upon his rougher duties db when there arrived such reminders that the nicer sentiments of his friends were all alive, and that the struggle he was making was invested with something besides the hearty interest of men alone. That the secretly fore boding man needed all such sustaining is painfully clear; and that he could stop in the hurry of his camp, and with his own hand pen a reply to such kindly messages, is suf ficient proof that there were hidden places in his breast that craved a different solace from that he derived from the thanks of Congress or the praise of soldiers.

There was in the house a "Signer." It would not have been complete without him Richard Stockton had a smooth, finely-col ored portrait taken of himself, with his face wrought wonderfully high on the canvas, position that enabled the painter to make a tremendous deal of his body, and, when the British entered the town and overran the Stockton place, they cut the throat of the painting in lieu of that of the real gentle man, who was absent. This barbaric injury

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Richard Stockton had rendered himself ex cessively obnoxious to the British by his participa tion in the Declaration of Independence. It is sai that he was at first doubtful of the policy of scre a course, but in the end cordially supported movement. He was appointed the same year of a committee to inspect the Northern Army & report its condition to Congress, and, after his re turn to New Jersey, was captured by the enemy te and confined in the common prison in New Yatf Congress interfered and procured his exchange, b the severity of the treatment to which he had been subjected was the cause of his death, which o curred in 1781. He was one of the most brilli lawyers at the American bar, and one who wo never engage in a cause except upon the side d Justice and honor. He was of the notable seve who composed the first class that graduated fr Princeton College on the memorable day when Ret Aaron Burr was elected its president. He studi law with Judge David Ogden, of Newark. In he visited England, where he was the recipient distinguished courtesies, and where he succeed in performing valuable services for the provi of New Jersey. Upon his return he was escor with great ceremony to his residence by the ple, by whom he was much beloved. He was ch ly afterward made a member of the gover council of New Jersey, and appointed Judge d Supreme Court. His son Richard (the father of commodore), born in this house in 1764, was tinguished lawyer and statesman. For more th

inevitably suggesting as it does a real act upon the flesh, lends a very curious interest to the placid and handsome face as it gazes down a little superciliously, one may fancy, upon a poor generation who run no risks, and who are not called upon to jeopardize their heads for their country's sake.

Alas for human vanity! how quickly does this treasure, the "Signer," come to the surface in all chat in these old houses! How softly yet how plainly is the pearl dropped Into the stream of talk, and how delightful s the satisfaction when the visitor, startled by the brilliant fact, awakens and says with true reverence, "Ah, tell me tell me bout him!"-gently running ashore upon his uriosity, and at once sticking there in spite f himself! He knows that there is enough o hear, yet, being too ignorant to draw out he tale, simply arouses all his faculties, and arns how the man dared at Philadelphia, ad the wife dared by post, and the daughers dared by postscripts, and the sons red by oaths, and by whipping out old words that had done bloody work on the order long before. Indeed, a "Signer" is a and figure, and to pose a little in his shadv does not come amiss in the bravest of s descendants; to be sure, every act must le a little before his one act, yet there is weeping mother to-day who treasures rhaps a cap with a shattered visor, and a sty sword, and a letter of praise from "the "mmander of his corps," as she does her e, who does not think twice lest she wronglly award the meed of praise for the sake love.

Bound up with the events of the Stockton nily is the Princeton College. The influce of the one runs all through the other, fed there is a little back-light thrown upon e venerable school from the private house, d in a very curious way, too. When the ad regulars approached the town, young nis Stockton, naturally dwelling upon segats, bethought her of Whig Hall, one of two great fraternity buildings of the colhe.

There is another fraternity building, _d, impenetrable, Doric, like the first, and is said that no man, living or dead, ever at into both structures. The secrets of h are rigidly kept, and the archives must in the closets. But it occurred to the turesome young lady that the Britishers, ugh by no means women, should not be mitted at least to act like men. So, in the d of night and quaking with fear of paits as well as rebels, for she would be likely make but a sorry face were she detected er mingled sin and heroism, she obtained bittance to the gloomy hall, and, with bated

arter of a century he was at the head of the of New Jersey, and was esteemed one of the t eloquent orators of his day. He was in Con8 for many years, and was several times talked or the presidency. In 1825 he was a commiser from New Jersey to negotiate the settleet of an important territorial controversy beon that State and New York, and penned the osed agreement appended to the report. He an elegant gentleman of the old school, witty charming in conversation, and abounding in iniscences of wild scenes of terror, of which destruction of his father's carefully-chosen and ly library in this ancient dwelling was but one any.

breath, it may be hoped, stole every file and scrap of paper she could find, made off with them, and hid them effectually.

After the storm had blown over, the unhappy Whigs raised a hue and cry, for it was reasonably clear that the bistory of all their enormous transactions was afloat in the air. But forward came sweet Miss Annis, with every thing complete, inviolate.

It is to be fancied, however, that the unlucky Whigs, instead of being transported with joy, were dashed into the bottomless pits of consternation—although they doubtless smiled-for had not their papers been in the hands of one of the whispering kind? There was no guarantee-there could be none

that she had not "peeked." What did they do? They lamented a while, and then acted like diplomats. They begged Miss Annis to become a Whig! Magnificent concession-not to the sex, but to gaunt suspicion ! She laughed with delight, and they made her a member in very hot haste, lest she should run off and tell her neighbors all about it, and blow the venerable society, with its relics and ceremonials and all its appurtenances, into the sky.

But she stood firm against all temptation during her brief career, and they tell stories of the delight with which she used to receive deputations from the club, and, leading them away from her curious companions, listen with ostentatious delight to their "society secrets," which they told her as in honor bound.

Upon a few little quiet annals such as these does the romance of the house rest. There is a good, strong list of very prominent men-men of the professions and men of war-who give it its honor, and its personal graces are plenty enough. There are many such grave and retired spots all up and down the Atlantic coast, perched upon headlands looking far off upon the sea, or standing upon the brow of wooded hills, showing broad and pillared fronts to the country around and below, or half hiding, as the Stockton House does, in the midst of a town, with the world's people at its very gates. Search for them, friend stroller, and fill up your book with rare notes, and walk awhile in the atmosphere of your country's earlier history-it is amazingly good for one dizzied with change and progress.

SUSANNE GERVAZ;

A MAID OF THE GEVAUDAN.

A STORY IN THREE CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER III.

THE report was soon circulated that Cos

terousse and his man Perondi had quarreled, and the cause of the quarrel was said to be money. What remained a more absorbing and far less agreeable topic was the increasing intimacy between Susanne and Perondi. The peasants were furious, and the report ere long reached M. d'Estérac, who had just arranged a hunting-party to meet at Jacques Boucard's house, up to this time locked.

On the same day Susanne left home and

began her wanderings. A white frost silvered the fern; the thrushes were grouped on the ash-trees, and the jays flew from tree to tree, fluttering their blue feathers in the sunshine. The girl went as usual toward the farm-house of Anselme Costerousse, her eyes fixed before her, but her ears listening. When she thought that she heard the steps of a shepherd or wood-cutter, she glided behind a bush, and evidently wished to conceal her movements. All at once Matteo Perondi came out of a thicket and stood before her, the place being midway between the "Priest's Inclosure" and the farm. He was the picture of passionate love.

Susanne," he said, "I am going in three days. This evening I intend to settle my business with Costerousse, and, if he don't act as he ought to, enough said! And now -I am not going alone-am I to live or die ?"

He stopped, breathing heavily. His eyes were hollow and his cheeks burning. She made no reply, and turned away indifferently —at which his love seemed to become a wild sort of frenzy.

"You trifle with me!" he cried, "and think you can brave me! I am as crazy as you are! You shall not escape me! I would rather have you hate me than despise me in this way! I am lost!-this is worse than death!"

He seized her arm violently. At the same moment a carbine-shot was heard in the thicket, and a bullet flattened itself on the treetrunk above them.

"That was meant for me!" exclaimed the Piedmontese; "why did it miss me?"

"Go-go away, quick!" cried Susanne, with sudden excitement.

"Shall I see you again?"

"Yes."

He fled, and Susanne hastened to the spot from which the shot had issued. It had been fired by Pierre Vialat, who hated Perondi bitterly.

"Wretch ! so you tried to kill me!" Susanne exclaimed.

"To kill you!-no, Susanne! Didn't you see that my ball struck ten feet above your head? I intended to warn that scoundrel what he had to expect and he had caught hold of your arm! O Susanne! think what you are doing! As to this Piedmontese, if I meet him alone, I'll settle my account with him!"

"I order you not to touch him !" cried Susanne, with violence.

"Ah! you love him!-this is frightful!" be added; "her weak-headedness has turned in that direction !-Susanne," he continued, addressing her directly, "you have friends, true friends, as much mortified as I am. They sent me to say-"

"Friends? Whom do you mean?

“M. d'Estérac, and his brother-in-law, M. de Ribière, and madame. They are at the hunting-lodge."

"I will go there!" she exclaimed, and went along rapidly, followed by Pierre. She soon reached the house, and entered proudly, with her head erect-Pierre whispering to the company what had just occurred. Madame de Ribière shook her head.

"Pardon me, my child!" she said, now I understand every thing. Your deep love for that poor young man-the horrible catastrophe-the cruel scenes which have dethroned your intellect-these have left you but one idea, one luminous point in the general chaos-to show that Jacques was innocent! Attracted by the vague hope of discovering at the scene of the crime some trace of the real assassin, you have persisted in haunting the vicinity, and have there met this man Perondi. You perhaps fancy him the guilty one-your poor brain takes suspicion for evidence! You seek proofs, but do you know, my child, the dunger you expose yourself to?"

"Why not this evening? "Perhaps," she said, feverishly, and, leaving the apartment abruptly, she disappeared. "It is a miracle!" exclaimed Madame de Ribière.

"Alas, no!" returned her husband; "it is merely a dream of this poor girl. She is possessed by a fixed idea-her monomania reasons admirably up to a certain point, but then a single word, a breath, again obscures all!"

As he spoke, a pure and musical voice was heard singing beneath the window

"These mountains will not let me see

They will not let me see my lover!"

M. d'Estérac remembered that wild song when Susanne escaped from him into the Margeride. He hastened to the window. She was passing along the terrace, and her beautiful eyes flashed as she gazed at him over her shoulder. He saluted her with a wave of the hand and turned to his comparion.

"Ribière," he said, "I told you a year ago that Jacques was innocent. I now tell you that Susanne is not insane!"

Let us now follow the young girl. Where was she going? What was her design? She scarcely knew, but a secret voice whispered that the supreme hour was approaching.

In spite of the November chill, the day had been beautiful. The sun was smiling; the country seemed deserted; Susanne encountered not a single human being; but, as she approached the spot where she was accustomed to meet Perondi, he issued from, a

"crying, 'Down with her! It was for love of her that Jacques murdered Simon!""

The Piedmontese shrunk back, but Susanne caught him by the arm, and they thus reached Jacques Boucard's house.

"I remember this place," she said, dreamily; "it was here that he was arrested, and I was confronted with him; they followed him with cries of hatred; they made me lie and dishonor myself!"

The Piedmontese did not raise his eyes from the ground. His brows were knit, and he remained silent.

"Here they found the footprints under the window," she went on; "they said they were of different sizes, but that was a mere fancy. There is the room where-under a lounge-they found-what was it they found? Oh, yes, a bloody belt."

The man again shrunk from her, and she wandered on, Perondi mechanically following her. The sun was now near the horizon. Dark clouds had risen, and chased each other across the sky, driven by the chill wind of the autumn evening. The red light bathed the summits of the pines, and threw long shadows on the mountain. All at once the path which they were following stopped at a rough wall, overshadowed by cypress-trees they had reached the "Priest's Inclos ure."

Susanne entered the inclosure through a breach in the wall, rather dragging Perondi than merely leading him. His strength seemed exhausted. His limbs shook under him, and he closed his eyes, as though to shut out some horrible vision. At the end of the inclosure, at a few paces from the wall, was seen a slight swelling of the earth upon which had been erected a cross of black wood. The girl dragged Perondi to the spo

he moved like a machine rather than a man The shadows of the great cypress-trees slept like a mourning-veil over the place-there was a noise of wings in the air above-theft night-birds began to utter their funereal cries

"This is the Priest's Inclosure,'" said br Susanne. "Do you see this cross of black wood? It marks the spot where Simon Ver non fell under the blows of his assassins."

Perondi trembled from head to foot, and his pale face grew livid. He uttered a gasp but, making a violent effort, exclaimed hoarse ly and threateningly :

Why have you brought me here? Wh do you want? What have I to do with Sted 'Priest's Inclosure,' or the murder of Simb Vernon ?"

His eyes blazed, and he looked at the gi with the expression of a wild beast. S seemed to feel her danger, and said, coolly

Nothing. I have brought you here make you understand that I, too, hold this country in horror. Do you think I lo forward to happiness in the midst of the scenes that I wish to spend years of t ture surrounded by such terrors? I will le , them forever."

"Leave them!" cried Perondi, sudde flushing as he gazed at her. "But not alo She fixed her eyes upon him, and