s
done so accordingly.

There is a peculiar charm, we think, in having related to us, for the
first time, in the shape of history, what we remember to have read and
talked over as the news and gossip of the day. We seem to be present at
the making of history. We see facts, as the death of princes, which made
so much stir and confusion, sink into the commonplace of the historical
record; while anecdotes, which were repeated and forgotten, may stand
forward as instructive proofs of the temper of the times, and the spirit
of the past age. More than one such anecdote we think we could select
from the pages before us; but it is possible we might draw them from a
purer source than the work of M. Louis Blanc, to which our readers will
perhaps think that we have already given more than sufficient space.

FOOTNOTES:

{A} _Histoire de Dix Ans_, 1830-1840. Par M. LOUIS BLANC.

{B} As well it might, if he had been clambering over barricades in those
hot days of July; for the three glorious days were remarkable for their
heat.

A NIGHT ON THE BANKS OF THE TENNESSEE.

"Can you tell us how far we are from Brown's ferry?" said I to a man,
who came suddenly and silently upon us from a narrow side-path.

We were on the banks of the Tennessee: the evening was drawing in; the
fog, that hung over land and river, was each moment thickening. The
landscape had a wild chaotic appearance, and it was scarcely possible to
distinguish objects at five paces distance.

The horseman paused some moments before answering my question. At last
he replied, accompanying his words with an ominous shake of the head--

"To Brown's ferry? Perhaps you mean Cox's ferry?"

"Well, then--Cox's ferry," said I, rather impatiently.

"Ay, old Brown is dead," continued the man, "and Betsy has married young
Cox. Ain't it him you mean?"

"That we know nothing about," replied I; "but what we wish to learn is,
whether we are far from the ferry, and if this is the right road to it."

"Ah! the way to the ferry--that's the rub, man! You're a good five miles
off, and might just as well turn your horse's head another way. I guess
you're strangers in these parts?"

"Heaven preserve us!" whispered my friend Richards, "we are in the hands
of a Yankee; he is guessing already."{A}

Meantime the horseman had drawn nearer to us, in spite of the thorns and
of the wet boughs, that each moment slapped and slashed him across his
face; and he was now close to our