MANY strange and unforeseen events have overtaken and seriously damaged the prospects of various great monarchs, and indeed nipped their career in the very bud. At least, so it is written in history. But I venture to assert, that never until the history of General Roger Sherman Potter was given to the world, could there be found any record of a great monarch who had ruled supreme over a kingdom, won battles such as mankind never had dreamed of, and indeed gained so much glory that every general in the nation was envious of it, escaping, on a mule, from the country he had conquered, and leaving his army to the devil and the enemy. Your exacting critic may say, there is Napoleon! But I would have him bear in mind, that while Napoleon sent terror to the very heart of nations, the presence of General Potter was a sign of feasting and merriment, which things are blessings, mankind stand much in need of.

But why do I thus give way to my giddy brain? Why, too, should I thus rudely abandon my hero when on his return to the land where he drew his first breath, carrying with him no less than a multitude of laurels? Nay! though my few remaining locks are silvered with the frosts of four-score winters, and my almost palsied hand refuses to render me further service, I will not thus leave him to his fate. Having been ruler over Kalorama, I am sensitive of his virtues, and would give the world rather than have him damage his reputation. To enter New York, then, with his glories yet moist upon his garments, and give himself up to the follies of those who follow the trade of setting up heroes, would be to consign himself to an oblivion no man need envy. Being of a humane turn, I am resolved this shall not be, though it were necessary to invoke the power of the saints to prevent it.

In resuming, then, I will merely mention that General Potter and the critic arrived safe at Jolliffee, the former feeling a regret now and then for the loss of his kingdom, and the latter scarcely giving a thought to his Angelio. And, as heaven favors the vanquished, so they found in the harbor of Jolliffe a brig, which had therein sought shelter from a storm. Taking advantage of this fortunate circumstance-for the brig was bound to New York-they sold their mules, and with the price nicely in their pockets, proceeded on board and demanded passage for charity's sake. And when they discovered what manner of men they were, the captain treated them with great consideration, and not only gave them of his best cheer, but was delighted at the chance of doing so kind an act as that of rescuing them from the clutches of the enemy and conveying them safely to their homes. He also shared his wardrobe with the general; but all his efforts to cheer his drooping spirits failed. The loss of his kingdom was no trifling matter; but the sufferings he had endured cured him of his ambition for worldly glories. And although the passage to New York was long and tedious, he would sit for hours, alone, and without exchanging a word with any one. Then again he would mutter to himself, "Worldly grandeurs-oh! what are they? God disposes all things! perhaps I did not deserve the kingdom; and so His will be done." Again he would sit gazing for hours at the stars, and sigh as if the cares of his forlorn heart were too heavy for him to bear.

I remember that once, during one of these reveries, he called Mr. Tickler to him, saying, "Remember, my trusty friend, I do not mourn the loss of this kingdom because I am weak at heart, but that it is natural for a man to reflect on his losses. All I now ask is that heaven will save me from a watery grave, and see me safe home to my wife Polly."

When they arrived at New York it turned out that divers newspapers had made great victories of all his reverses. And this so delighted his whole host of admirers that no sooner had the news of his return got noised about than they ran mad to meet him, discharged numerous cannons, and indeed made so many demonstrations of joy that the whole city was on tip-toe to see him, and not a few otherwise sensible persons would have exchanged all their worldly goods for even a thread of his garments. A committee of faded heroes and highly flushed aldermen rushed to the Battery to pay him homage, and would have had him drawn through the city by the lean horses I have before described. But unlike another great hero I have in my eye, he yielded to the promptings of his modesty, took leave of Mr. Tickler with tears in his eyes, and with a little bundle under his arm, landed and walked quietly away. In fine, (and with reverence do I record it here to his credit) he shook his head, and when the committee of honor pressed upon him and seemed resolved that he should undergo no few ceremonies, he turned and addressed them thus: "Let me to my peace, gentlemen, for I am no fool. And if you be good and honest men, disturb not the peace of the community in this manner, but get to your homes; and if you cannot comfort your families, give what you can to the poor, and heaven will forgive you for your follies." Indeed, so firmly was he resolved to wash his hands of the world that no force of argument could have induced him to call upon Glenmoregain, whom he felt in his heart would be grievously disappointed that he had not returned with his pockets stuffed full of kingdoms.

And now, at early dawn of a November morning, a short, fat man, in tight-fitting garments and the hat of a priest, might have been seen stepping from on board a small schooner just arrived at Barnstable. His face was covered with a thick, coarse beard, his countenance wore a dejected air, and his raiment, if the hat be excepted, was shabby enough for a professional mountebank out of business. A chilly wind and a drizzling rain filled the heavens with gloom; mist-clouds rolled over the land; a gray fog trailed lazily along the harbor; the scudding clouds vaulted along the heavens as if driven by the furies; and, indeed, the drenched earth was bespread with a pall of gloom.

The dejected man-for such he seemed-adjusted the little bundle under his arm, looked confusedly upon each object that met his eye, and then picked his way, shivering, over the muddy road into the outskirts of the town, which was yet in a sound sleep. He was soon wet to the skin, and the great rain-drops that fell from his broad-brimmed hat added to the forlornness of his condition. The ducks by the roadside ran to their ponds quacking as he approached; and even the geese seemed to pity his condition, for they awoke to gabble him out a salutation, and having shook their feathers, they would sail in the same direction, so long as there was water, and then take leave of him with a loud gabbling. But this homage brought him no consolation: indeed, the bleak earth seemed sending a deeper chill to his heart; and the brown leaf that hung twirling and dripping from the almost naked tree by the roadside, invested his feelings with a deeper melancholy, for in it he read the sorrows of a dead summer.

Halting at the door of a little house, the roof overgrown with black moss, the windows filled with rags, and poverty written upon every shingle, he stood for several seconds hesitating and shivering. Now he fixed his eyes upon the ground and seemed giving his thoughts to the music of the rain-drops; now he turned his eyes sorrowfully upward, as if contemplating the driving clouds. And while I assert that not even the most keen-eyed observer of human things would have detected in this forlorn sojourner a professional warrior returning from the scene of endless victories, and now out of business, the reader, I am sure, will not be surprised when I inform him that this drenched traveler was no less a person than General Roger Sherman Potter, commonly called Roger Potter, the like of whose exploits modern history bears no record.

Having done ample penance in the storm, he shook the rain from his hat and knocked timidly at the door, to which he placed his ear and listened, as if counting with great exactness every second that intervened between its opening. Presently a little window at the side opened and a lean but well-browned face, framed in the grim border of a dusky night-cap, protruded. Then a sharp, shrill voice inquired, "Who's there?"

"Heaven be blessed, Polly, i............