of Aaron Burr, is neutralised by the closing scenes of his versatile life-drama; and vituperation itself, as in the peerless tragedy that depicts, for all time, the forlorn decadence of unprincipled humanity, is hushed with pity before the desolate finale:

I have lived long enough; my way of life Is fallen into the sere and yellow leaf: And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,

I must not look to have.

The story yields its own moral; and the inferences of the preacher are gratuitous. Moreover our insight is too limited, our prejudice too emphatic, and our sympathies too narrow not to enforce upon consciousness the charge-"judge not;" and the more we know of the inward struggles, and the outward difficulties of individual men, the more human appears the poet's plea :

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone

Decidedly can try us;

He knows each chord, its various tone,
Each spring, its various bias;
Then at the balance let's be mute,

We never can adjust it;

What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.

Organization and circumstances enter too largely into the formative process, by which character is moulded for other than a philosophic mind to justly define its relative merit or defects; knowledge of life, to an unperverted heart, is the best teacher of charity; and if the dead past should ever be allowed to remain undisturbed, it is in reference to those whose career yields only a painful lesson and a deleterious precedent. But while, in these considerations, we find adequate reason for avoiding such a theme, a motive to examine it of no small importance arises when its historical relation seems likely to be misunder stood. The idea has been gravely propounded that Aaron Burr was the victim of political animosity; that a few incidents susceptible of diverse interpretations have been exaggerated into evi

dences of treason, profligacy and murder, and that herein consists the basis of his reputation, and the key to the riddle of his long social outlawry. A proposition like this challenges regard. We do not believe that human character is so completely at the mercy of public opinion, nor that a man of integrity cannot live down the slander which has no foundation but party spite. Our history is full of evidence that the essential in character ultimately triumphs over the casual in prejudice. Had there been any grand original quality in Aaron Burr's mind, its fruits would have survived to appeal in his behalf to posterity; had the absolute tendencies of his nature been candid, they would, in so long a career, have vindicated to the world his motives. It was, as we have seen, to the elements of of his character quite as much as to the events of his life that he owed his reputation. Society is indulgent enough to the overflow of ardent pas sion, whether in the form of love or ambition, where great services and high sentiment coexist; Nelson and Kean, Byron and Bonaparte win and hold admiration and sympathy, despite their errors; it was not so much what Burr did, or is supposed to have done, which, in the last analysis, caused him to be avoided and contemned; it was what he was. When he lay in his cradle, his mother wrote, "Aaron is very sly and resolute;" and eighty years after, when he was passing away, he spoke politely of dying "game;" herein we have the clew to the whole labyrinth of his existence; pluck, duplicity and engaging manners were his armour, creed, instincts, reliance; not without efficiency at crises and for temporary ends, admirable means of success in war and intrigue, but the most undesirable combination for permanent and satisfactory triumphs, alien to the manly trust, to the frank enjoyments and to the moral security wherein true fame and genuine love are forever entrenched. They account for all that Burr did and failed to do;-for his repute às a young soldier; his success in gallantry; his attainment of the second office in the gift of the people

I.

THE HALL.

"Such is the custom of Branksome hall." Lay of the Last Minstrel.

On a lofty hill, commanding a fine view of the noble James, stands the old house, "Rackrack Hall." It is one of the most ancient mansions in Virginia, and every thing about it reminds the visitor of former times.

As you advance toward it, all the life of cities disappears, and is forgottenthe hurry and bustle of the streets no longer echo even in the memory: you enter the great portal, standing hospitably open, and the present yields to the storied and attractive past. The men and women of another age smile on you from the walls-the great wide fire-places, if you go in winter, roar as they did in the elder day, before the invention of grates and flues-the warm cordiality of old and young as they advance to greet you, and press your hand, and smile, is the traditionary welcome of the ancient regime.

But in May, the fine old house is most attractive. Approach it on some balmy morning of the Month of Flowers; and the beauty of the scene will sink into your heart, becoming a portion of your memory. A thousand swallows circle gaily in the azure atmosphere, around the stacks of chimneys, and the drooping eaves; a dozen old dogs sleep calmly in the sunshine bathing the great portico; the freshest foliage clothes the great century oaks, through which runs the ocean breeze, with its whispered laughter; the oriole swings upon his bough and carols joyfully; all the wide landscape, and the good old mansion smile, as it were, clothed and embowered in flowers and sunshine.

From the great portico you look upon the wide expanse of the great river, flowing calmly to the sea like a moving

mirror, or breaking into golden ripples, as the wind ruffles it. The snowy sails of vessels glitter in the sun, as they fly along, like water-fowl with outstretched wings; the waves lapse with a gentle murmur on the grassy shores; and the fleecy clouds of May float slowly over field and river to the far horizon.

Let us enter the old hall. No obstacle prevents us. The great door stands hospitably open; it is scarcely closed at night. The house is of great extent, and built without regard to what is now considered symmetry. Unlike many city mansions, Rackrack Hall is not ashamed to possess individuality. It has wings, and innumerable nooks and passages, and staircases; many generations of the family combined to make it what it is.

The floors are of polished oak; the balustrade of the great staircase of the same wood, and curiously carved. You may still observe the gashes made by Arnold's troopers, when they stopped here in '81, and hacked it wantonly with their sabres. The ceilings are surrounded with wooden cornices, and above the great wide fire-places, and narrow mantel-pieces, the wainscotting stretches up unbroken; the chisel of the skilful builder having decorated it with fruits and flowers, and more than one grim face, half-man, half-lion, which looks down still with a stony, changeless stare, upon the beholder.

The furniture is of walnut chiefly, and old fashioned. On the old tables, lie old, plainly bound volumes, of the greatest authors. On the antique sideboard is the worn family plate stamped with the family coat of arms.

I propose tracing a few brief sketches of some of the curious objects at Rackrack Hall. Perhaps the topic may interest some readers-those who still cling to whatever illustrates the past. Alas! it is rapidly disappearing; these old haunts where something truly Virginian still lingers, are crumbling beneath the

finger of time, or what is worse, innovation. They are becoming gradually modernized-they are ashamed of the past, and emulous of the fashions of the present. The dark polished oak is hidden by a gaudy carpet; the dim old portraits are replaced by "landscapes," which glare on the eye with the intensest brilliancy; the great fire-places make way for grates or flues; Virginia is growing to be the honest old Virginia no longer. The old country customs are thrown aside for city fashions; good taste and cordiality yield to frippery and form!

But I digress from my subject; I will not to-day write a moral discourse on the unhappy change going on around us. At Rackrack Hall at least, old things remain unchanged and here let us linger for an hour or two. Let us look at the portraits hanging high up on the walls-they are, many of them, curious, and will repay our attention.

The portraits hang in the antler-decorated "hall"-the great dining roomthe drawing room-everywhere. They are so many volumes of the Rackrack annals.

In old days the fashion was more observed than at present-I mean of perpetuating beloved faces on canvass. The eldest son, who went to attend his terms at Oxford, or Cambridge, was instructed to bring back his portrait by the most celebrated artist; and the pleasing duty seems to have seldom been neglected. Vandyke, Sir Peter Lely, and Sir Joshua Reynolds painted many of those portraits now hanging on the walls of Virginia houses; and though the canvass

may have cracked, and the colors assumed the mellow hue of age-yet, there we have yet the faces of the ancestors we have heard of; they smile, or frown-are comely or the reverse, but they live for us still, as they lived in the far past.

The pictures at Rackrack Hall are a whole family history in themselves. They are silent now, and uncommunicative: the lips never open to relate their histories; the hands never move; the eyes never flash: the old Rackracks of other days look down in serene carelessness upon their descendants, and refuse to gratify the most exacting curiosity. But their lives are not wholly forgotten. The memories of the aged have perpetuated their faults or their virtues. Anecdotes without number have been handed down; and the gray haired servants will beguile hours for you, if you will listen, with what the "old people" of the family said and did.

The squire himself is a high authority on such subjects. You have only to get him into an antiquarian mood, or arouse a portion of his family pride, and he will tell you a thousand stories, or true histories; to each portrait on the extensive walls will be affixed forever in your memory, an anecdote, a tradition, or a biography. I shall strive to speak of one or two of these portraits, whose histories as I heard them, are interesting or instructive.

To the right as you enter, you see a dark, frowning countenance, with beetling brows and stern eyes. This is worthy Sir Gabriel Rackrack of the time of Charles I., an inveterate cavalier, and devotee of royalty, and his order. He was a fierce old trooper, fond of war and wassail, and of every other stimulating liquid and pursuit. He could drink more than any other man of his day. If "sack and sugar" were a "fault," heaven help the roystering Sir Gabriel! In spite of his dark and ferocious looks he was married five times-four of his wives being belles of the court, and the scions of the noblest families. There seems little reason to doubt the extraordinary influence over women which he possessed. He married every one of his

wives without the least trouble; and, one and all, they were wholly and profoundly devoted to the beetle-browed worthy. From all the accounts, they seem to have regarded him with that fearful fondness, which a turtle dove, were she to mate with a hawk, might be supposed to feel towards her fierce companion. But the wives of the worthy knight-these tender doves-seem to have pined away, from the date of their marriage. It was not charged that he treated them with cruelty-he was simply too ferocious, and the "nerves" of the young ladies, doubtless, yielded in the struggle. He erected splendid monuments over each of them-and looked about for a new wife.

With his eldest son, and legal heir, the knight was wont frequently to quarrel. This eldest son resembled his father in character. He would never yield anything. He was relentless in his animosities. He once drew his poniard, it is said, and swore that he would plunge it into the paternal breast, if another word of insult was addressed to him. Sir Gabriel's mustache curled up to his eyes at this-it was the fashion to twist this ornament in that direction at the period he smiled in a pleasant way-was far from displeased: and in the end, slapped Tom on the back and swore he was a "chip of the old block-a true Rackrack;" after which, father and son emptied a bottle of strong waters very amicably, and arm in arm went to scrutinize the condition of the stables and dog-kennels.

Sir Gabriel, like many of his class at the period, fell in battle. He bit the dust at Marston Moor, cursing Noll Cromwell, as a child of the Devil, and predicting that in the end that "lowbred carle" would hang as high as Haman, of whose fate he had heard the chaplain speak. As we know, this prophecy very nearly came true.

Sir Gabriel is affectionately remembered as the greatest swearer of the family. Some of his oaths, displaying great ingenuity and fertility of invention, have descended to the present time. He must have been a haughty, profane, bloody, Godless old reprobate. His countenance

presents an extremely ferocious appear. It exhibits a man-eating expres→

ance.

sion, even on canvass. He wears steel armlets-a breastplate of the same me tal; and his gauntleted hand grasps the hilt of his sword. The dark face is shrouded, or framed rather, in the profuse curls of a powdered peruke, and the pointed beard, cut as we see it in the portraits of Charles the Martyr, reposes on a frill of costly lace.

Young ladies gallanted by prim and simpering young gentlemen from town have been known to stand before the por trait of Sir Gabriel, and clasping their hands in a wild and ecstatic manner exclaim, "Oh! what a handsome man! If I only knew such a person now, I'd lose my heart with him directly!"-an expression of opinion thought to have been extremely agreeable and pleasing to the smooth-chinned, simpering young dan dies, drawling out their languid senten> ces, and looking at the fierce old soldier of the Civil Wars through their quizzing glasses. In his day, whilst "in the flesh," it is not too much to say that the worthy knight would have contracted to put to route a score of these gentlemen. In fact it is a family tradition that such

game" was peculiarly acceptable to Sir Gabriel in his rough humours. He would read Harry Hotspur's description of the popinjay who came to him on the battle field, and discoursed upon the qualities of gunpowder, with an appreciation and entertainment, which displayed itself in great haw-haws. He insulted many such dandies at the court of Charles, and had his brow slashed by the most effeminate and delicate-looking of them all;-you may see the scar in the portrait. From admiration of this gentleman's prowess, he courted and married his sister, the Lady Arabella Villiers-a name still perpetuated in the family.

But I linger too long upon the portrait of Sir Gabriel-the worthy occupies too much space in my idle sketch. The temptation was great, however. Few such characters remain-a very fortunate cîrcumstance. From the histories of those who once lived, we deduce matter for reflection. The traits in good Sir Gabriel's