seem that the time of the legend was that of Elizabeth, though we consider it to be much earlier)-he, Tobias, would have knighthood as a thing of course. The heart of the Mayor of Hole-cum-Corner beat high as he preceded the Spaniard up the three steps of the Mansionhouse. It was remarkable, that the illustrious guest, as he crossed the threshold, observed, that "the weather was hot, but that probably it would be cooler in the evening." This being translated to the Mayor, he bowed, and said he should like to see the face of that man who would dare to doubt it. Another moment, and the Spaniard would reach the dining-hall; he, however, stopped short, and as a particular favour requested that he might be permitted to wash his hands. The Spaniard retired, and for one minute, and only one, did Tobias quit his post, the door of an ante-room through which the magnificent foreigner must pass. The door opened-the Spaniard appeared,-but, oh, horror! there, bowing him along, was another Tobias-no doubt the self-same drunkard of the highway; the knave who cudgelled Bridget; the curse and libel of Aconite's life. Again did Tobias feel that he was invisible, and thus he followed the crowd into the dining-hall, -the demon, the ghost of himself, smirking and bowing, and looking loftily around, doing the needful honours to the mighty foreigner. Who shall tell the anguish at the heart of Tobias, as he saw his accursed similitude take his station behind the chair of the Spaniard; beheld him smiled upon by his guest, and at length, with gentle, courteous violence, forced into a seat beside him? The dinner-would we could do fitting honour to the storks, cranes, swans, porpoises, and all the other delicacies of those primitive days— passed off with abounding content. Happiness glistened in the greasy face of many a denizen of Hole-cum-Corner; and Tobias, invisible as he was, was tortured by the praises that fell from many a former enemy, made his foe by the Demon at the top of the table. Forget and forgive," cried one townsman, as he tossed off his cup; "Tobias is a noble fellow, when all's done."-" His heart's in the right place," remarked another, "for he has dined us like kings." These were flattering words, yet were they daggers to Tobias, fearful of some new prank on the part of his diabolical representative-some infamous act that should again plunge him twenty fathom deep in obloquy. There was a pause; and though Tobias felt himself a shade, he sweated again as his demon likeness rose and begged to give a toastthe health of the Spaniard. This the false Tobias did in a speech of unwrinkled eloquence; dwelt upon every known and unknown virtue of the princely guest, with such fervour, such passionate admiration, that the whole meeting were breathless with astonishment, and, the oration ended, more than one townsman declared the Mayor was not a man, but an angel. Now, indeed, the true mayor would have been too well reconciled to fortune, had the demon disappeared, and he could have asserted his own likeness. At this moment, a face turned from the table, and looking up at Tobias, asked in a low voice, "Will you buy the cloak now?" "No! exclaimed the true Tobias, startled at his own voice; whilst shouts of "Silence!" rang through the hall. The Spaniard rose-stroked his beard, put his hand upon his heart, said at least ten words, cast his eyes to the ceiling, and sat down again, amidst a torrent of applause. Still Tobias fixed his eyes upon his infernal resemblance, still heoh was there ever such villany-such inhospitable felony? Whilst the Spaniard was on his legs, the Mayor of Hole-cum-Corner seated beside him, took up a knife, and severed a bright blue ribbon. circling the Spaniard's neck, a ribbon from which depended the Order of the Zebra, an order composed of richest diamonds, the stripes in rubies. Of this magnificent jewel did the demon-mayor possess himself, and, as if nothing at all had happened, put it in his righthand breeches-pocket! Faithful Alonzo! Intrepid Ximenes! Stout-hearted Gonzago! Valorous Toboso! Ye, all chamberlains to the princely Spaniard, saw the felony, and without a word, drew your Ferraras, and fell upon the mayor. In an instant, the Order of the Zebra was snatched from the culprit's pocket, and his guilt made manifest to the assembly; whereupon some called for halters, whilst some insisted on a stake and hurdle. The false mayor was consigned to gaol, and the true Tobias hugged himself on his invisibility. The Spaniard took horse for London, as a particular favour requested the head and quarters of the Mayor of Hole-cum-Corner, which request was in the most handsome manner granted by the queen then reigning. Execution was done upon the Demon functionary. The real, invisible Tobias beheld the execution. As the culprit was led to the block, the old familiar voice of the tempter asked of the true Mayor, "Will you buy the cloak now?" Here was a dilemma! If Tobias refused, the Demon would vanish, and he be made to suffer for his crime. He paused! "Will you buy the cloak now?" was repeated. "No," answered the stout Tobias. He preferred the consciousness of innocence though stained with the odium of guilt, to the outside appearance of virtue with inner hypocrisy. No," repeated Tobias, and he instantly expected the Demon to vanish. To his surprise, however, the false Tobias was beheaded, and most scrupulously quartered. From that moment, the tempter appeared not to Tobias, who clothed himself in weeds, put a scallop in his cap, and like a virtuous pilgrim, passed beyond the seas. A story ran that Gaffer Nimmington, the victim of Tobias, had sold himself to the fiend for revenge upon the Mayor, who, in his turn, was punished for his hasty sentence upon Gaffer-a sentence passed upon appearance! Tobias died far, far away; yet, was it the faith of many generations, that, in the likeness of a gray gander, did their ancient Mayor watch over and protect the town of Hole-cum-Corner. IS THERE AN UNBELIEVER! BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY, ESQ. Is there an unbeliever! One man who walks the earth And madly doubts that Providence He robs mankind for ever Of hope beyond the tomb ; In manhood's loftiest hour, In health, and strength, and pride, Climb nature's granite tower, Where man hath rarely trod : And will he then, in such a scene, Deny there is a God! Yes, the proud heart will ever Prompt the false tongue's reply! An Omnipresent Providence Still madly he'll deny. But see the unbeliever Sinking in death's decay; And hear the cry of penitence! He never learnt to pray! THE PICKER AND PILER.** BY N. P. WILLIS, ESQ. THE nature of the strange incident I have to relate, forbids me to record either place or time. On one of the wildest nights in which I had ever been abroad, I drove my panting horses through a snow-drift breast-high, to the door of a small tavern in the Western country. The host turned out unwillingly at the knock of my whip-handle on the outer door, and, wading before the tired animals to the barn, which was nearly inaccessible from the banks of snow, he assisted me in getting off their frozen harness, and bestowing them safely for the night. The "bar-room" fire burnt brightly, and never was fire more welcome. Room was made for me by four or five rough men who sat silent around it; and with a keen comprehension of "pleasure after pain," I took off my furs and moccasins, and stretched my cold-contracted limbs to the blaze. When, a few minutes after, a plate of cold salt-beef was brought me, with a corncake, and a mug of "flip" hissing from the poker, it certainly would have been hard to convince me that I would have put on my coats and moccasins again to have ridden a mile to Paradise. The faces of my new companions, which I had not found time to inspect very closely while my supper lasted, were fully revealed by the light of a pitch-pine knot, thrown on the hearth by the landlord; and their grim reserve and ferocity put me in mind, for the first time since I had entered the room, of my errand in that quarter of the country. The timber-tracts, which lie convenient to the rivers of the West, offer to the refugee and desperado of every description a resource from want, and (in their own opinion) from crime, which is seized upon by all at least who are willing to labour. The owners of the extensive forests destined to become so valuable, are mostly men of large speculation, living in cities, who, satisfied with the constant advance in the price of lumber, consider their pinetrees as liable to nothing but the laws of nature, and leave them unfenced and unprotected, to increase in size and value till the soil beneath them is wanted for culture. It is natural enough that solitary settlers, living in the neighbourhood of miles of apparently unclaimed land, should think seldom of the owner, and in time grow to the opinion of the Indian, that the Great Spirit gave the land, the air, and the water, to all his children, and they are free to all alike. Furnishing the requisite teams and implements, therefore, the inhabitants of these tracts collect a number of the stragglers through the country, and forming what is called a "bee," go into the nearest woods, and, for a month or more, work laboriously at selecting and felling the tallest and straightest pines. In their rude shanty at night, they have bread, pork, and whiskey, which hard labour makes sufficiently palatable; and the time is passed merrily till the snow is right for sledging. The logs are * To pick and pile, in America, is to burn and clear forests. then drawn to the waterside, rafts are formed, and the valuable lumber, for which they have paid nothing but their labour, is run to the cities for their common advantage. The only enemies of this class of men are the agents, who are sometimes sent out in the winter to detect them in the act of felling or drawing off timber; and in the dark countenances around the fire, I read this as the interpretation of my own visit to the woods. They soon brightened and grew talkative, when they discovered I was in search of hands to fell and burn, and make clearing for a farm; and after a talk of an hour or two, I was told in answer to my inquiries, that all the "men people" in the country were busy "lumbering for themselves," unless it were the "Picker and Piler." As these words were pronounced, a shrill neigh outside the door announced the arrival of a new-comer. "Talk of the devil-" said the man in a lower tone, and without finishing the proverb, he rose with a respect which he had not accorded to me, to make room for the Picker and Piler. A man of rather low stature entered; turning to drive back his horse, who had nearly followed him in, I observed that the animal had neither saddle nor bridle. Shutting the door upon him without violence, he exchanged words with one or two of the men, and giving the landlord a small keg which he had brought, he pleaded haste for refusing the offered chair, and stood silent by the fire. His features were blackened with smoke, but I could see that they were small and regular, and his voice, though it conveyed in its deliberate accents an indefinable resolution, was almost femininely soft and winning. "That stranger yonder has got a job for you," said the landlord, as he gave him back the keg and received the money. Turning quickly upon me, he detected me in a very eager scrutiny of himself, and for a moment I was too much thrown off my guard to address him. "Is it you, sir?" he asked, after waiting a moment. "Yes; I have some work to be done hereabouts; but you seem in a hurry. Could you call here to-morrow?" "I may not be here again in a week." "Do you live far from here?" He smiled. "I scarce know where I live; but I am burning a piece of wood a mile or two up the run, and if you would like a warmer bed than the landlord will give you-" That personage decided the question for me, by telling me in so many words that I had better go. His beds were all taken up, and my horses should be taken care of till my return. I saw that my presence had interrupted something, probably the formation of a "bee;" and, more willingly than I would have believed possible an hour before, I resumed my furs and wrappers, and declared that I was ready. The Picker and Piler had inspired me, I knew not why, with an involuntary respect and liking. "It is a rough night, sir," said he, as he shouldered a rifle he had left outside, and slung the keg by a leathern strap over the neck of his horse; "but I will soon show you a better climate. Come, sir, jump on !" |