EPITAPH ON A BARREL OF FLOUR.

THOU art departed!-gone the way of all

The things of earth. Peace to thy quiet manes!
We deeply grieve; and many a tear shall fall

In thy remembrance: we sorrow for the pains
With which thou didst so oft the stomach wrong;
We weep to think that thou shouldst last so long!

Thou wert a fruitful source of many ills,

Of which our tortured bodies sore complained;
And all those frequent heavy doctor's bills,

That always kept our slender purses drained:
To thee we owed, beyond the slightest question,
Our head-aches, night-mares - blues, and indigestion.

Thou wert most stubborn! -never wouldst thou shape
Thyself to crust or cake, or any thing

That's eatable; and many a luckless scrape

Upon my housewife-sister's guests wouldst bring;
For spite of all the care she could bestow,
Whene'er she cut her cake, she found it dough.

No fire so hot, could bake thee into bread;

The seven-times' heated' furnace' lurid blast
Thou didst defy the oven's glowing bed:

The cooks, confounded, all declared at last,
Should they thy loaf in Ætna's crater throw,
Even then, thou wouldst come out but heavy dough!'

I'm not o'er-dainty in my daily diet,

As many landlord's know, or ought to know;
For I have paid outrageous bills in quiet,

Through all the States, from Maine to Mexico.
For hunger often makes the trav'ller prize
What all the chemists ne'er could analyze.

I've lived in steam-boats, if you 'll call it living,
Where travellers are oft obliged to cope
With strangest compounds; stewards often giving
To passengers what they should save for soap.

I never question; 'tis a dangerous habit:

A cat tastes best when you suppose it rabbit.

I've lived in Southern inns; and there I ate
A dubious manufacture, miscalled bread;
"T was

'bread by courtesy;' whose clammy weight
Upon the o'ercharged stomach lay like lead;
And e'en like the coiled incubus oppressed it,
Defying every effort to digest it!

In tough ship-biscuit, GRAHAM's saw-dust bread,
I've had some sad experience in my day,
And rough's the food on which I've often fed;
But as for thee, in justice let me say,

Of all the fare I've known, from last to first,
Thou wert the roughest, toughest, soggiest-worst!
Brimfield, August, 1841.

F.

THE BURNING OF THE SHIPS.

A STORY OF THE REVOLUTION.

IN TWO PARTS.-PART I: CHAPTER FIRST.

ON a bright morning in May, 1778, a young man, dressed in the uniform of the Continental service, was seen walking slowly along the high-road leading from the interior of New-Jersey toward the village of Bordentown, and about two miles from that place. His gait I have said betokened no great haste; on the contrary he stopped repeatedly to gather wild flowers, which he tore in pieces without remorse or ruth. His walk was to and fro before the opening of a shaded by-path, leading through a wood that skirted the high-road; and ever and anon, as he passed that retired path, he cast an anxious and eager gaze along its narrow vista. I would have waged any sum that he expected some one from that direction; but whom? Gentle reader, if you guess not already, you will be at no loss when I describe the outward appearance of that youth. He was tall, erect, well proportioned in figure, with an open and expressive countenance and healthy complexion, browned by exposure to the sun; in fact, the very man to be in love with some romantic country girl, against the unreasonable wishes of her friends, and in defiance of the stern commands of a proud and ambitious or mean and money-seeking father. Were I writing a fictitious tale, such a man should have been my hero, and I consider myself fortunate in finding him ready furnished to my hand. For though common enough in novels and other fictitious and unprofitable stories, this sort of character is hard to find in real life.

Our youth thus continued to pace backward and forward, to the great damage of the aforesaid wild flowers and his fingers' ends, (which he gnawed as if the arrival of his sweet-heart depended upon the annihilation of the same,) for the space of half an hour, though in his estimation it was a half day at least, or some period of duration between that and eternity. But he did not wait in vain. Suddenly he quickened his pace, turned rapidly down the shaded by-path into the wood, trampling unheeded whole beds of violets and arbatus in his course. It would have puzzled an indifferent observer to guess the cause of that sudden impulse. But lovers, as all who have acted in that capacity know, are

* NEARLY seventeen volumes of the KNICKERBOCKER have appeared since this admirable tale was written for its pages; and there are few of our readers, numbering thousands now where they counted hundreds then, who will not here peruse it for the first time. Its publication has been often urged upon us within the last two years, even by time-honored subscribers, who had themselves failed to obtain it entire; and we confess that at length we turn even from present liberal stores to comply with these repeated requests, with a gratification which we are sure will be shared by all our readers. We may add here, that we have so often borne cordial testimony to the excellences of the Society of Friends, that it is deemed quite unnecessary to state that no offence is intended toward the religious sect whose early strait-lacedness only is here pleasantly satirized.

ED. KNICKERBOCKER.

blessed with a special keenness of vision, or a peculiar instinct, teaching them with the certainty of demonstration the approach of that object dearer to them than life.' The waving of a shawl, the glancing of a riband t rough trees, which no human vision under other circumstances could penetrate, is enough, and was for our hero. They met; there was a taking hold of hands and a kiss, followed like all stolen kisses by a conscious and half-guilty look around, to be sure no envious eye gazed upon the scene. This ceremony performed, the gentleman drew the lady's arm within his, and the happy pair, leaving the path, walked to a clump of pines, under which they found, upon an old log, a rural and lover-like seat.

But why this mysterious meeting in the loneliness of the silent wood? Can that erect and noble bearing belong to some proscribed outlaw, endeared by his misery and his guilt to the gentle lady? Can that open and engaging countenance cover the false heart and base purposes of a villain? Or, less guilty if not less miserable, is poverty his only but unpardonable crime in the eyes of a hard-hearted father? Surely, some unexplained, some horrible obstacle disturbs as usual the never smooth course of true love;' else why this secret meeting beneath the deep shadow of yonder ever-greens, with no better seat than a gum log, instead of comfortably courting on the parlor sofa, or behind the more congenial concealment afforded by the honeysuckles that twine so gracefully over the nice summer-house at the foot of the garden?

Were mine a tale of the imagination, I would reserve the developement of this mystery for the last chapter. But I write history, and must tell truth as I go along. The gentleman I have said was a soldier. The lady, I must now inform the reader, was Quaker, by the world so called.' It was against the testimony of early Friends' to paint likenesses, and the rule was not so often infringed in the time of Emma Richie's youth as it is at this day. I cannot therefore give a minute description of her appearance, without drawing upon fancy for the materials, which I am determined not to do in this true story. I only know, as all will take for granted, that she was beautiful, and that her complexion was of the transparent kind usually attendant upon light hair and eyes. But her hair was brown, and her eyes of a color so dark that they were generally supposed to be black. The hair, as it curled naturally over her white and rounding forehead, was surpassingly beautiful, but like all other beauty proved a source of serious trouble to its possessor. It had long been a cause of uneasiness of mind to all the straight-haired members of the women's meetings, and was finally declared to be against the discipline by that body. A delegation of two old Friends was sent to treat' with her parents about the matter, and authorized to set it straight. The father declared that he had nothing to do in the business; the mother professed 'great concern on her mind; but the hair contumaciously continued to curl, and it was shrewdly guessed by many that no very effectual measures were ever taken to reform the beautiful error.

There was an air of real or affected demureness about Emma's mouth, which but for the contradiction of her eyes, would have given too prim

an expression to her face. As it was, her friends were often puzzled to determine when she was in fun or earnest, sober or mischievous. But her smile left no longer room for doubt. It shed over her face a joyous but sweet and composed expression that was perfectly irresistible. It broke upon her features like a June sunbeam upon the fields of green grass and yellow grain and waving forests, or like that beautiful and gladdening effect of early day, before his rays have reached the valleys and the plain, which the prophet so poetically terms 'the morning spread upon the mountains.' These particulars are to a great extent matters of record. The curling hair appears to have been the subject of grave discussion at more than one meeting of business; and the case of two young men is also recorded, who were 'dealt with for too frequent gazing' at the same, and the appurtenances thereunto belonging, during silent meeting, instead of directing their attention to some more profitable subject. The young men pleaded guilty, and submitted to treatment;' urging as some palliation the strength of the temptation and the weakness of poor humanity. Upon acknowledging that they were 'sorry they had disobliged Friends,' the culprits were reädmitted into favor.

Emma's dress comported with the rules of her Society, and was as fine in its texture, as neatly fitted to the figure, and had received as much care in its arrangement, as ever was bestowed on the dress of a fashionable belle, or the strictest member of the Society of Friends. In this there was no non-conformity to rules, which although they proscribe all gay colors, cannot alas! divert the woman's attention from her attire. The fault is not in the rules, which are excellent, but the passion exists in the female bosom and must have indulgence. Refuse her the colors of the rainbow, forbid her to deck her person in its dyes, and she will devote equal attention in devising herself dresses out of white muslin, drab merino, and fawn-colored silk.

Emma's consisted of a white silk bonnet, very small, and close to her face, tied with white riband; white muslin gown, and a white crape shawl around her shoulders, and gathered up so as to show the graceful rounding of her figure. The only colored article upon her person was a pink riband, which she wore around her neck; an indulgence for some reason allowed to the young members, while all other colors are most especially eschewed. Even this is not recommended, but only permitted, and that much against the weight upon the minds of the strictest of the sect. If they can, the young friends are advised to do without the indulgence; but if that is impossible, a pink riband, provided it be not too long, is allowed in consideration of the weakness of the younger sisterhood. Some of the other rules concerning dress are apparently less reasonable. Why the women are allowed to dress in black, while that color is denied the men, is incomprehensible. But that man who would presume to clothe his shoulders in a black coat, might as well deny the inspiration of George Fox. A set of heterodox Quakers exists in the neighborhood of Boston. The principal point in which they differ from the Society, and the only one by which they can be outwardly distinguished, is that of being addicted to black coats. But my reader must be anxious to hear what is going on all this

while between the lovers. I give notice that I mean to detail no private conversation, except what concerns the story, and which he has therefore a right to know. The rest I shall consider sacred.

'But what in the world kept you so long?' inquired the lover.

'Indeed I could not help it, William. We are to have the English Friends at dinner, and mother wanted my aid. I should not have got off at all, if she had not sent me to neighbor Comstock's for a basket of Fifth-month dukes.'

What in the name of nonsense are they?'

"That is the way with you world's people. You are so given to the heathenish appellation of days and months, that you cannot understand a christian language.'

If your eyes would keep your counsel, Emma, you might make a capital quiz; but they always tell the truth. But what do you mean by Fifth-month dukes?'

'Cherries that ripen in the fifth-month, by the world's people called 'May dukes.''

'Nonsense!'

'I see thee thinks us fools; but in truth we are not so very particular. But friend Comstock is a little more so than the rest of us. He does not feel easy to call one of Heaven's gifts after a heathen idol.'

'Friend Comstock is right then, and consistent. You would not call the month after the heathen god, and why should you the fruit? Is it not quite as absurd to say Fifth-month,' as 'Fifth-month dukes?' The only difference is, that you are used to the first and not to the second.'

'I would not have said a word to thee, William, about the foolish cherries, had I supposed they would have put thee in such a pet. But if thee will promise to be pleased again, I'll adopt friend Comstock's expression, since thee prefers it. I am always glad to oblige thee.'

Well, no matter, Emma. I'm a fool, and you shall say what you please. Here is a little present for you. You must wear it for me. I bought it of a French pedler. It was the prettiest he had.'

"I'll keep it for thy sake, William; but only think of my going to meeting with a blue riband round my neck! What could I say to old Friends? If it were pink, now!'

'Why so? Is it less

gay ?'

'Oh! pink is the color of the rose, thee knows.'

'And blue that of the sky. But why are you so fond of drab? That

is not the color of the rose!'

'Oh! drab is the natural color of the wool.'

Did you ever see a drab sheep, Emma?'

'Well, I don't know what is the reason; and farther, I don't care. Early Friends wore it, and we choose to.'

'Exactly; and you have given the only good reason I ever heard yet; you choose to. In a free country it is unanswerable; but it is only so as far as you do choose, and should not operate upon those who do This only convinces me of what I have often told you, that you are the veriest slaves in Christendom. That invisible pope, the weight of the meeting, holds you in more than inquisitorial awe. You must

not.