his eye, in spite of itself, fell upon a portentous "Beware!" It was enough: he hurried on as though the devil were at his back. And although now and then accosted by a Bowery Boy with a rough hand, and run against in token of affectionate recognition by a big vagabond, Lankey, all things considered, made good speed; and, before he well knew it, was out upon the Avenue; and then he began to quake. He had not gone many steps in this direction when an arm was quietly thrust into his own; and he found himself marching abreast of a stranger. He looked around. The stranger was a short man in a dusty coat, with a red, blossomy nose. What was the stranger's business with Lankey Fogle? There was a mighty din upon the Avenue, and it was not easy to tell. The hard riders were coming in from Harlem, and the road roared with the spinning of wheels, and the air was thick with flying dust. There were men, solitary, in little gossamer-built sulkies, who seemed borne along on the air itself and men in couples in light wagons; and hard-drinking parties of four in barouches; and gentlemen far gone in close coaches; all in tremendous speed as if some great event were coming off immediately, a mile or two ahead, and they bound to be there at the peril of their lives. Then they were mightily bothered by men on horseback, who taking each the footpath at the side of the road, laid themselves out on their horses and swept everything clean before them. Then by great lumbering butcher-boys, who, on shambling cart horses, came down the Avenue in troops, allowing themselves to be tossed about the road like so many hulks fallen into an eddy they could not manage; scrambling hay-carts, with the hay off, returning, and running their scraggy poles and shelving into the ribs of travellers, without the slightest reference to utility or ornament. So, with all they had a hard time of it, Lankey and the stranger. But they had got by this time at the cross-road that strikes off to Cato's; and there began to be prospect of conversation; and happy that there was, for Lankey Fogle was smarting for it. "Sir!" said the stranger, turning full upon Lankey at a point where they began to have a glimpse of the Tower, "this is the most important event of your life!" Lankey did not deny it. "It involves the destiny," continued the stranger," the destiny, I say, of you and your posterity to the latest generation." The proposition was laid down and no one opposed it. "Whether the hopes of mankind are to be blighted by the course you shall adopt to-night, remains to be seen!" It did. "Remains to be seen," he resumed; "And how far you are worthy of the trust reposed in you-" Their noses were close together; and they watched each other like dogs. 66 By the confiding and generous Joseph." Lankey Fogle seized his hand. "I understand you," said Lankey— "enough said!" The stranger buttoned his coat and went into a small pot-house by the roadside. Lankey Fogle took the road again, as far as Cato's, and was forced to go in: it was not the Cato's of infancy, the Cato's governed by that venerable and worthy and dusky man, in his little cropped pate and clean apron: when stages from far countries (Rye, and Sawpitts, and Danbury, and Cross River), came jingling, with their merry chains, to the door; the driver dismounted, and the inside gentlemen dismounted, and there was a mighty bringing out of lemonade and crackers and sugar-biscuit to be tendered in the most gallant style, to the green-veiled beauties within. No, no, that Cato's was gone away; a great grave had been digged for that, a clean white cloth had been spread over it, and it was buried beyond resurrection. That Cato's had been launched on the stream of time and had gone backward, like an ark of peace and comfort, and true jollity, sailing to whence it could not return. But there stood the great white Tower over the way; reproaching it silently for parting company: for tavern and tower they had known each other from the corner stone: and Lankey Fogle hurried in, for he thought the old Tower somehow or other stooped his back to the very door of the new Cato's, to see what kind of nonsense could be going on there now that the old soul was gone. Lankey called for a small toddy, hotand-hot. The landlord brought it himself. "A queer night this," said the landlord. Lankey Fogle took a long pull. "A skimmery shimmery night, sir," pursued the landlord. Another pull toward the bottom. "The Shot-Tower has been busy as a bee all day to-day; and such a singing as he's kept up!" Lankey Fogle admitted it by his manner of setting down the glass. He went out very quietly, winking at the landlord in a sleepy way; at which the landlord, in turn, shook his head. As he got into the road again, a great hay-cart was passing, so high piled up, that the moon now abroad, seemed to be sleeping in its top among the fresh-mown blades. His heart sunk within him. He entered the great gate at the Mount Vernon school, where the trotting-course used to be. He passed through the orchard. There was a great shout be hind him; it was the city leaving off its work, with a cheer. There was a mighty blaze in the sky; the city lighting up for the night. How green the grass was!-how it sparkled and winked and laughed in the clear moonshine! But there was a shadow on it now-a huge shadow, made neither by man, nor house, nor tree: it was the dark side of the old Shot-Tower; and when Lankey looked up, how wickedly and wilfully, cool and self-possessed, that old white ghost of a Tower held himself! Not inquisitive, nor overbearing, but scandalously calm and indifferent. Lankey Fogle was alarmed, much more than if he had pitched himself head-foremost into Lankey's waistcoat, and offered downright fight; and when he saw in its shadow a figure leaning down and delving the earth-he leaped the fence! Was it to keep his appointment, or fly from it? Whichever it was, who could blame him? THE BALLAD OF DON RODERICK. BY S. WALLACE CONE. I. "My daughter," quoth Count Julian, " Need must that I should To guard the town of Ceuta against the Paynim foe: Don Roderick hath committed the fortress to my care, go And foul my shame if field were fought, and Julian were not there." "Now God and our dear Lady defend and help the right! And yet I would, my father, thou went'st not forth to night. I have a strange foreboding of some misfortune near, And tho' the field were fought and won, I would thou stayedst here." II. "Out, out on thee, Florinda-what folly, girl, is this? III. But lo! a plump of lances, with banners waving high, The warder gave the signal of foes approaching near, "What garrison is left us?" "Lady, but twenty men!" Away and man the ramparts! We'd meet them tho' but ten!" IV. "But with such odds, dear lady, is sure defeat and cheap!" "Now wherefore come yon lances, Sir Knight?" the lady cried, "And what may be your purpose in hostile guise that ride ?" V. "Hostile! nay trust me, lady, 'tis but our guise is so ;- VI. Right joyfully cried Cava-" Sir Knight, my father's hall He bowed him to his saddle, and hied him to the train, And down the hill they hurried, and pricked across the plain; VII. With trumpets loudly braying their proud and joyful notes, VIII. The monarch and his nobles, with love and courtesy, His couch she knelt beside it his barons watched around; IX. The gaping wound together she with her fingers pressed, And night and day together with eye that never slept, PART II. I. It was upon the morning of John the Baptist's day, And for his cure he thanked her-I wis she did not frown. "Thou cur'st," quoth he, "my body—yet sore thou woundest me! II. "The shaft it pierced my bosom, alack! thy lovely eyes III. "What," cried the shuddering maiden, "Is thus my care repaid? Oh! King, how have I wronged thee, that thou shouldst thus degrade? Part! part in peace, Don Roderick, and on my bended knee I'll pray that our dear Lady, this thought may pardon thee." "A larger boon then ask ye, for larger will we need, And the good saint must pardon, sweet wench, both thought and deed ; IV. "Oh king! oh king! bethink thee, Count Julian's good right hand This day is doing battle to guard for thee thy land! Bethink thee of thine honor! bethink thee of thy need, When wounded sore and helpless thou at his gates didst bleed! Bring not this foul dishonor upon my father's race! Part! part in peace, Don Roderick, and on my bended knee V. "Come," quoth the monarch, smiling, "no more, no more delay! Upon the field of battle deserted may'st thou bleed! An outcast from thy kingdom, from crown and hope exiled, Be thy false soul unshriven, thy traitor's grave defiled!" VI. Dark scowled the haughty monarch-he seized with ruthless hand, Forth from her weeping damsels he bore their hapless dame, Oh! when Count Julian heard it, a vengeful man was he; "God curse thee, thou false monarch! God curse thee ever more! VII. "I was thy truest soldier, I am thy deadliest foe; The vengeance of the Father shall lay the Monarch low. VIII. Fly fly, thou false king Roderick! Fly, fly, ye men of Spain! Count Julian dogs thy footsteps! your army strews the plain! Weep, weep, and beat your bosoms, ye who were wives this morn! Weep for your orphaned children, slaves to the Paynim's scorn! Wo to the noble's castle! wo to the hermit's grot! Wo to the stately city! wo to the herdman's cot! Weep for your blighted honor! weep for your country's loss! IX. It was upon the morning before the field of shame, X. Now cursed be the hour Count Julian turned to go |