As the ape approached him with his mutilated burden, the sailor shrunk aghast to the rod, and rather gliding than clambering down it, hurried at once home—dreading the consequences of the butchery, and gladly abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude about the fate of the Ourang-Outang. The words heard by the party upon the staircase were the Frenchman’s exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the fiendish jabberings of the brute. I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have escaped from the chamber, by the rod, just before the breaking of the door. He must have closed the window as he passed through it. He was subsequently caught by the owner himself, who obtained for him a very large sum at the _Jardin des Plantes_. Le Bon was instantly released upon our narration of the circumstances (with some comments from Dupin) at the _bureau_ of the _Préfet de police_. This functionary, however well disposed to my friend, could not altogether conceal his chagrin at the turn which affairs had taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or two, in regard to the propriety of every person minding his own business. “Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to reply. “Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience. I am satisfied with having defeated him in his own castle. In truth, he is too cunning to be acute. There is no _stamen_ in his wisdom. It is all head and no body—like the pictures of the goddess Laverna—or at least all head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good fellow, after all. I like him especially for one master stroke of cant, by which he has attained that reputation for ingenuity which he possesses. I mean the way he has ‘_de nier ce qui est, et d’expliquer ce qui n’est pas_.’” Philadelphia, March, 1841. * * * * * AN APRIL DAY. The spring has come, the low south wind Is breathing sweet,— The showers are patt’ring in the wood, Like fairy feet. Hark! in yon silent grove a bird Pours out its lay,— Such strains, I ween, have not been heard For many a day. The feath’ry clouds scud o’er the sky, The sun between,— A thousand rain-drops glisten bright, Upon the green. And such is life—an April morn, A changing sky,— To mingled joy and grief we’re born, And born to die. A. A. I. Philadelphia, March, 1841. * * * * * TO THE ÆOLIAN HARP. Say magic strain—from whence thy wild note straying? Comes it in sadness, or in raptured glee? Art thou a thing of earth, that sweetly playing, Blends in each fitful blast, so tenderly?