me that the fault was his. The weapon, he said, had been deposited in the Library by a son of the old revolutionary soldier; and he added, that this son had informed him that the old man, who seems to have inherited something of the peculiar traits of his ancient race, having had this charge in his gun at the conclusion of the siege of Yorktown, where he was present with a New England regiment, had managed afterwards to avoid discharging or drawing it, and had left it by will to his eldest son to be kept loaded as it was; with the strange clause, that the charge "might sarve out a Beardsley, if it couldn't a Britisher."
The depositor, the Secretary further told me, had religiously kept the old gun, and, with a curious, simple strictness of adherence to the spirit of his father's directions, had oiled the lock, picked the flint, wired the touch-hole, and put in fresh priming, when he brought the weapon to the Library.
"I meant to have unloaded it, of course," pursued the excellent Secretary, "but it passed out of my mind."
A week or two afterwards, I found in one of those obscure columns of "minion solid," in which the great New York papers embalm the memory of their current metropolitan crime, the following notice:—
"We are informed that the burglar lately killed in an attempt to rob the ——— Historical Library has been found to be the notorious cracksman, 'Bill Young'; but that his real name was Isaac Beardsley."
Daylight and Moonlight.
Yesterday I saw the moon
Sailing high, but faint and white,
As a school-boy's paper kite.
I read a poet's mystic lay;
And it seemed to me at most
As a phantom, or a ghost.
Like a passion died away,
And the night, serene and still,
Fell on village, vale, and hill.
Like a spirit glorified,
Filled and overflowed the night
With revelations of her light.
Passed like music through my brain;
Night interpreted to me
All its grace and mystery.
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