The sides and the top were graced with pairs of modern 'galligaskins,' and also with many a fair coat, which was destined, ere long, to shine at some great muster of the 'bulwarks of our nation.' But time would fail us, were we to endeavor to relate the half of what graced the walls of that most memorable room. Let it suffice then, that it contained every imaginable article, from the elegantly turned leg of the magnanimous porker, who had ate and bled

"For his country and his country's cause,"

down to the simple, unpretending, half-baked pea nut-from the lofty plume which waves over the brows of our militia-I would say military chieftains'-down to the musical rattle, with which our chiefs in embryo are wont to beguile their infant hours. To make this dread array visible to mortal eyes, two marvelously yellow tallow candles, exalted on lofty stands of wood, gave forth a yellow flickering light, and as their flames flared at the motion of the admitted air, they gave a livid, sepulchral look to things around.

At our entrance, Dike hastened to light another of his exquisitely colored tapers, for mind you-he always proportioned the number of his lights to the number of his visitors; and the only reason why so many as two were radiating at our entrance was, that a certain customer of his, by name J. D. (reader! for the sake of euphony, pronounce it Jady,) who was much given to eating dried apples, and munching over cookies, pea-nuts, etc. was then bantering with him as to the number of pecan-nuts, which constituted a cent's worth— J. D., on the ground of his having traded there so much, averring that he ought to receive six, while Dike declared that so many would take off all the profits of his trade, (five was his regular number.)

A smile of pleasure lit up the features of our host as we entered, for few, that day, had honored his shop with their desired presence, and now, at prospect of a transfer of some cash into his own pocket, his heart beat with visible emotion.

"Good evening, Mr. Dike—a very fine evening," was our first salutation.

"Very fine," was the response, aud as if in confirmation of the truth of the remark, an extra blast of wind hurried past the window, causing the casement to rattle still more audibly.

We instinctively hurried to the stove, and as the exclamation "rather chilly," broke from our lips, a dozen fagots, prepared for the morrow's fire, were seen to enter the yawning mouth of that stove and disappear, much to the amazement of their owner. Amidst the noisy crackling of wood, which immediately ensued, there might have been heard a deep groan, or rather, what was meant for a groan. "Now fellows, what 'll we have," says Bill, as ranging round the stove, with our feet elevated to its very apex, we sat.

"I'll have a cigar," quoth Dick, and Dike was forthwith despatch'ed for a cigar, which when brought, Dick most humanely divided between himself and the above mentioned J. D.

"Now doctor! (we called the old man doctor sometimes,) we want a cent's worth of your best wine in three glasses, and here's the cash right down on the nail."

"And another cigar," says Dick. "Some of your best cookies."

"Also, several of your most luscious herrings."

We were all soon satisfied with what we called for, and there we sat, now sipping our wine, now picking the bones out of our cookies, and now luxuriating over our herrings. The doctor's heart expanded at the thought of the many cents soon to change owners, and he flew around, now reaching us our cent's worth of pea-nuts, now a half an ounce of lemon drops, and now warming us one of his delectable cookies, on the top of his stove.

Soon a song was called for, over which I, as chorister, presided, for be it known to all men-it is already known to most womenthat I am what is called, a natural singer-at least, no one ever presumed to say, that what little I do know, was ever drawn ex arte. Few, it was universally acknowledged, ever possessed the ability to melodize "like I did." The song was ended, and now the proposition was made, that we all contribute, and furnish, each, some story for the edification of the company.

"No sooner said

Than done, and round it went, and stories how
The dead were seen to rise, and how the shades
Of dear departed friends had risen from

The tomb, and how the ruler of the damn'd

Had stalked abroad, and seized upon those men
Who chanced to cross his path, and then with haste
Would hurry to the land, from whence no man
Returns, its secrets to disclose,"

were told by us.

I never have known so good a story-teller as Dick Harvey. We had all finished our parts, when he gave us an account of the "Invisible Steed." It is a simple story, and one which any imagination could excite, but, when told in his low tones, it thrilled through our breasts, and caused us to shudder at the bare recital.

He told how the Arch-Fiend was wont, in winter nights, to drive through the valley of the "sweet Connecticut," and though he went swifter than the lightning, still nothing could be seen to draw his swiftly-gliding sleigh, but on it went,

"Onward and yet onward hurrying
O'er the trackless waste of snow;"

and when he told how a certain man, who dared to cross his path, was caught up by him, and hurried away to the land of spirits, we involuntarily huddled nearer and nearer the stove, as if seeking safety by proximity to it.

The clock tolled ten-and eleven was struck before he finished, and when he stopped, not a word was spoken, but there we sat, fearing to break the silence, which had now become even fearful. At length, however, shaking off our fear, we rose, and having satisfied Dike for his refreshments, departed in dignified silence.

The door was barely closed, when we were startled by a loud laugh from Dick. "Egad!" said he, as soon as he could speak, "did you see the old fellow's eyes stick out, when I told how old Nick caught that poor sinner by the throat, and swung him over his shoulder? Why! I verily thought the old fellow would go crazy. And now, fellows," said he, "I havn't so bad an idea in my head." There might now be seen three persons walking slowly down the street of S two of them attentively listening to the other, and when he ceased talking, one who was quite near might have heard some hearty laughter, and perceived that they increased their speed.

As the beautiful Connecticut comes flowing on in its course, just before it reaches the town of S-, it inclines to the east, and having flowed in that direction for the space of a mile or more, it again resumes its southerly course. A short distance above this last-mentioned turn lies the village, which we ought perhaps to have told our readers ere this, is renowned for nothing, unless it may be for the intelligence and urbanity of its inhabitants. Situated on a hill, and considerably elevated above the level of the river, it quite overlooks it, and commands a most extensive view of its course in a southerly direction.

Directly through the centre of the village lies a road, which having for many a mile run sociably along by the side of the river, now descends the hill and meets it by its banks. A few paces north of this point, frozen in by the ice, might be seen a ferry-boat, which during the warmer part of the year was wont to transport the good people of S, and also whatever travelers might chance to pass that way, from one bank of the river to the opposite. But now one would hardly need its aid, for the ever clear water of the Connecticut, hardened by the cold, presented a surface scarcely less firm and safe than that of the earth itself. The wind, as if dissatisfied with its quarters, was fast hurrying from the inhospitable regions of the north to a milder climate, and no path could be seen which presented so few obstacles to its course as that of the Connecticut, and as if aware of its superior advantages, the wind hurried on in that course with seemingly double force and velocity. The land was covered with its pure mantle of snow, which, it is well known, in New England affords a path but little less smooth than that of the frozen river itself.

It was the dead of night, and at the time of which we are now speaking there might have been seen a solitary figure, wending his way slowly through the street of S. He has now reached the

brow of the hill, and he forthwith commences descending the slippery road. There can be no mistake. It is Dike, the village tailor. With the furious north wind spending its force against his back, he is hastening to his solitary home, situated just at the foot of the hill. Grasped in one hand, a small trunk may be seen swinging at his side, and with the other buried in the folds of his cloak, he stalks along with most marvelous despatch. It is always customary to describe distinguished characters introduced to view, and we acknowledge our fault in not having, long ere this, presented our hero more distinctly to our reader's sight. The fact of it is though, we have tried several times to do it, but invariably failed. We have looked over all the metaphors and similes of Homer, Virgil, and Miltoncalled him every thing that is either horrible or unique, but were finally compelled to wind off with a most emphatic "whew! we can't describe him."

He has descended nearly half the hill, when there might also be seen descending from its summit, and momentarily increasing in speed, an article that without great difficulty could be considered as the car of the evil one himself. Something or somebody might also be seen upon it, guiding it as it went. Some persons will have it, that it was his Satanic Majesty, in propria persona.

It hurries on, and now, with the speed of the lightning, it is nearing the mortal frame of our friend Dike. But alas! he hears it not-wrapped in his cloak, he is deaf to the slight noise caused by its progress, but now, as it almost presses upon his heels, a fiendish yell is heard, and Dike, startled by the cry, as it were in symphony, yells forth a deep response, and with a frantic leap strives to avoid its touch. But alas! it is too late-he is met, and now, prostrate on that car, held down by the icy hands of its first occupant, he lies

"like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him."

It hurries on unretarded in its course, and now, aided by the north wind, may be seen gliding over the glassy surface of the Connecticut. Nor has it gone far before Dike's evil genius might have been seen to slide from off that car, apparently at the risk of his neck, but Dike himself still lies there, bound down as it would seem by an invisible power. With him as its occupant, it sweeps on, and soon in the dim moonlight is lost to our sight.

It is morning, and as the good people of Spass to their customary occupations, they marvel that the window-shutters of the store which was wont to contain all that is mortal of our friend are closed, and that they now do not see him at his wonted labors.

With a solicitude characteristic of small country villages, they communicate their apprehensions to each other, and exchange their mutual wonders' as to what has become of Dike. Nor does their

care vent itself solely in words. As one whispers the possibility of our friend being sick, they forthwith despatch a messenger to ascertain if this be the case. But no! the boy returns with the alarming intelligence that nothing has been heard of him since the previous day. To such a degree does this solicitude increase, that they soon assemble around our friend's shop door, towards which they ever and anon cast misgiving glances, indicative of certain suspicions that he may, after all, be no where else but in this, his accustomed

retreat.

It is soon resolved to enter this sanctum sanctorum "vi et armis." Axes and crowbars innumerable are immediately forthcoming, and they at once commence operations. Hardly had the door ceased shivering from the effects of the first blow, when, from within, a cry so shrill, so piercing, was heard to proceed, that many, startled, dropped their implements of warfare, and betook themselves at once to their heels with many compunctions of conscience. A few however remained firm and nobly persevered, redoubling their exertions as the cries became still more fearful. The door is at length open, and, headed by the parson, they are about to make a furious onset, when from out a heap of meal-bags in the farthest corner of the room, the pale corse of our old acquaintance, J. D. is seen slowly emerging. The cries of "here he is! here he is!" are now succeeded by still greater wonder and amazement, and as J. D. solemnly affirms that he as usual went to bed the previous night shortly after sundown, their wonder receives no diminution. Poor fellow! his mind is confused, and he forgets how he fell asleep in the corner there, nor does he know that Dick and Bill consigned him while in that state to the care of those bags.

But as yet, nothing is seen which can afford the least trace of Dike. His herrings and his licorice are safe, but where alas, is he? All are amazed, but though each will acknowledge his entire ignorance on the subject, still all are ready with their shrewd "guesses" as to his fate. One surmises that he has gone to the land of spirits by his own hand—another charitable soul suspects that he has taken 'leg-bail' by reason of certain debts which it is well known our hero owed to him, and which promised ere long to engender a rather uncomfortably close communion with the county sheriff, while the townclerk sagely gives as his opinion, that he has fled, chagrined, because that at a late freemen's meeting he was foiled in an attempt to elevate himself into the office of prime auctioneer to the citizens of S- or in other words, that he has "retired to private life in disgust." Notwithstanding their shrewd surmises, Dike as yet seems in a fair way of maintaining his incog. which they are now so anxious to penetrate. The night again sets in, but still all is as dark as ever on the now all-absorbing subject of his disappearance. The old men may now be seen with their lanterns taking an extra look into their pig-sties, and hen-roosts, to see that all is safe in that de