On the shores of Long Island, where the ocean heaves in its wildest and most crystalline surf, a small cove had broken itself into the slopes of an irregular hill, after generations of beating storms and crumbling earth, taking a crescent shape, and forming one of the most picturesque bits of landscape to be found along the coast. The two points or promontories that stretched their green arms to the ocean, were clothed with thickly growing white pines, scattered with chestnuts, and a few grand old oaks. The country sloped beautifully down to this bright sheet of water, and swept around it in rocky points and broken groves, giving glimpses of rich grass-land, more luxuriantly cultivated than is usual to that portion of the island. As you looked on the scene from the water, a house was visible on the hillside, and came in full view as the shore was approached. It was a noble stone mansion, old as the hills, people were used to say, and solid as their foundations. The house had been a stately residence before the Revolution, and, without an earthquake or a ton of powder, would remain such for a century to come.

Whatever the body of the house had been in the good old times, when ornament was little thought of, it was now rendered picturesque by lofty towers, and additional wings with oriel windows and carved balconies in one direction; while the other wing clasped in a conservatory, of which nothing could be seen from the distance but wave upon wave of rolling crystal emerald, tinted like the ocean by the wealth of green plants they covered.

This was the residence Grantley Mellen had inherited from a maternal uncle just after his first struggle in life commenced. It was backed by many a fruitful field and broad stretch of timber-land, which altogether went under the title of Piney Cove.

Grantley Mellen, since he became possessed of the estate, had completed the work his uncle commenced when he built the two grand towers, and a more picturesque building could not well be imagined, with its broad lawn, its clumps of forest trees, and that magnificent ocean view, which was broken only by the pine groves on the two points.

This was by no means the only house visible from the cove. As you turned the southern point, a village was seen down the coast; and about half way between that and the pines was a wooden house, brown and weather-beaten, standing unsheltered on the bleak shore. Back of this house, shutting out all prospect but that of the ocean, was a tall cliff, covered with ragged yellow pines and stunted cedars, from which on stormy nights many a quivering flame had shot upward, luring ships to their ruin. Still, with this grim protest against the name looming behind it, the lonely old house was called "The Sailor's Safe Anchor," and was known all along the coast as a fishing-lodge and small tavern.

But once within the cove, you saw no sign of habitation save the mansion house and its appurtenances.

Grantley Mellen had been some weeks at the cove, renovating and preparing the house for the reception of his bride; for it was understood that he intended henceforth to make it his permanent residence. But the wedding-day was near, and he had gone up to the city, leaving the last preparations to the care of a singular class of household servants, one of his uncle's philanthropic importations from the South, where he had owned a plantation, and emancipated all its slaves except a half dozen, that would only accept liberty on condition that they might follow the old man to his northern home.

Grantley had accepted this sable household with the general inheritance; for, spoiled and pampered as family negroes are apt to be, they had proved generally faithful and obedient.

Though a very reverential and submissive person when her master was present, Clorinda, who had appointed herself housekeeper of the establishment, was apt to get on to a very high horse indeed when there was no superior authority to hold her in check; and, on this particular occasion, she was absolutely what she declared herself—"chief cook and bottle-washer."

This sable functionary was very busy two or three mornings before the time set for her master's wedding, not only in the general preparations for that event, but with a grand idea of her own, which she was earnestly carrying into effect. If the house was going into the hands of a new mistress, the colored persons of the establishment had resolved to commemorate the event in advance with a grand entertainment.

To this end, Clorinda, who appointed herself lady patroness in general, had betaken herself to Mr. Mellen's library with Caleb Benson, the high-shouldered, bald-headed occupant of "The Sailor's Safe Anchor," and the person whose prerogative it had been to supply fresh fish to the family at Piney Cove. Besides this, he performed a good deal of work in the grounds, and made himself generally useful.

This morning Benson had come up to the house at Miss Clorinda's special request, in order to assist in the literary department of the coming entertainment. Neither Clorinda nor any of her dark compeers could read or write, but invitations must be sent out after the most approved fashion; and Clorinda had a fancy that the neighborhood of so many books would be a great help, so she led Caleb with august ceremony into the spacious library, and laid a quantity of pink note-paper and yellow envelopes, all covered and embossed with silver, on the table before him.

"Jes set down, Mr. Caleb, and write dem tings out special," she said, rolling up a great leathern chair, and patting its glossy green cushions enticingly. "Set down, Caleb, an' write, for I know yer kin."

Caleb laid his cap on one chair, and his stout walking-stick across another. Then he rubbed the hard palms of his hands fiercely together, and sat down on the edge of Mr. Mellen's chair, that threatened to roll from under him each moment.

"Now, Miss Clo, what is it you want of me? I'm on hand for a'most anything."

"I knows you is, and ales wuz, Caleb; that's why I trusted yer wid de delicatest part ob dis entertainment. 'Member its premptory to de weddin'."

"Preparatory, isn't that the correct word, Miss Clo?"

"Well, take yer chice, if you ain't suited, Caleb Benson."

"Wal, wal; don't git out to sea afore the tide's up, old woman."

"Ole woman! Ole woman yerself, Caleb Benson!" retorted Clorinda.

"Jes so!" answered the fisherman, seizing upon the largest steel pen to be found, and grinding it on the bottom of a bronze inkstand. Clorinda put both hands to her mouth, and would have cried out; but, remembering how few teeth she had to be set on edge, thought better of it, and stood in glum silence while Caleb made his preparations.

That remarkable functionary had a piece of business before him which threatened to task the resources of his genius to their full extent, but he was not the man to shrink from the responsibility which his desire to retain a high place in the powerful Clorinda's good-will had induced him to accept.

"Now, then," said Caleb, giving his chair another hitch, dipping his pen afresh into the inkstand, and holding it suspended over the paper, with a threatening drop slowly collecting on the nib. "Now we'll get under weigh just as soon as you give the signal."

"Tak car ob de ink!" shrieked Clorinda, pulling the paper from under his hand in time to preserve it from the great blot of ink that descended on the table-cover instead. "Dat's a purty splotch, now, ain't it; yer a nice hand, Caleb Benson!"

"Taint much, nobody'll ever notice it," said Caleb, wiping it off with his coat-sleeve. "Don't raise a breeze about nothin', Clorindy."

"Don't talk to me 'bout breezes," she retorted, in an irritated tone, for Clorinda, I am sorry to say, had not even a fair portion of the small stock of patience which usually falls to our sex. "I 'clar to goodness dere ain't nothin' so stupid as a man. I jis hate de hull sect like pison, I duz."

"Oh, no you don't, Clorindy," he replied, "you hain't got so old yet but what you can hold your own with the youngest of 'em when there's a fancy mulatter chap round."

"What doz yer mean by ole!" cried Clorinda. "I tells you what, Caleb Benson, ef yer only undertuk this job to be a aggrawatin' and insultin' me, you and I's done! I ain't gwine to stand sich trash, now I tells yer! Is dis yer thanks fur all I'se done? Who got ye de run ob de house, I'd like to know; who sot ye up for selling better fish than anybody in de neighborhood; who nebber said nothin' when de soap-fat all disappeared, and you said it had melted in de sun; who fixed up mince-pies fur you; who—"

There is no telling to what extent Clorinda might have carried her revelations, but the old man interrupted her with all the excuses he could think of at so short notice.

"I was just funning, Clorindy; don't go off the handle. In course I want to obleege you. Thar, thar! Now what do you want to have wrote? We ain't going to quarrel—old friends like us."

"Ain't we!" cried Clorinda, folding her arms. "Then jis you keep a civil tongue, dat's all. Times is changed, and der's a new misses a comin'; but you may all onderstand dat I rules de kitchen yet, and I'se gwine to."

"Sartin, sartin! Wal now, about these here billet ducks," said Caleb, cunningly; "I must hurry up, you see, or I shan't get round afore night."

Clorinda forgot her injured feelings in excitement about the party, and ordered him to commence work without farther delay.

"Wal," said Caleb, spreading out the paper again, "I'll leave a blank for the names, that'll save trouble. I reckon you want somethin' like this—'Miss Clorindy and Miss Victory's compliments—'"

"What's Vic got to do wid it, I'd like to know?" Clo burst in; "it's my party, just 'member dat. It's enough to hev her company, widout her settin' up for a hostage."

"Any thing to suit," said Caleb, patiently. "Wal, then I'll say that Miss Clorindy hopes to have the pleasure of Mr. so and so's company, and wants to see you to a little tea drinkin' this evening."

"Lord!" cried Clo. "If ye hain't got no more larnin' dan dat, I'd better find somebody else! Do yer tink I got pink paper and silver-sprigged 'welopers to write sich trash on? Tea drinkin' indeed! Why dis here's to be a rigler scrumptious, fash'nable 'tainment! I want yer to say, 'Miss Clorindy consents her most excruciating compliments, and begs to state that, owing to de 'picious ewent ob de master's weddin', she takes dis opportunity to 'quest de 'stinguished company ob Mr. Otheller Jones for dis evenin', to a reparatory 'tainment; and she would furder mention dat dare will be plenty ob weddin'-cake, wid a ring in it, ice cream in pinnacles, red and white, and a dance in de laundry to fiddles.' Dar, dat's somethin' like."

"Yes," said Caleb, quite breathless; "now tell it to me as I get ahead, 'cause it's a mighty long rigmarole."

"Oh," added Clorinda, "den at the bottom you must put—' P. S.—Yaller gloves and 'rocur pumps, if convenient.'"

That last touch of elegance quite upset Caleb, and he began to think that if Clorinda was black, and couldn't write her name, she really was a wonderful woman. Clo was so softened by his applause that they got on very harmoniously, and the invitations were written out in Clorinda's peculiar phraseology and in Caleb's largest hand. As it was an affair of importance, he put capitals at the beginning of nearly every word, sometimes in the middle and altogether the writing made such a show, that Clorinda was delighted.

"Don't forget de P. S.," said she.

"Yes," said Caleb, making a tremendous flourish. "P. S.—Yaller gloves and 'rocur pumps, if convenient."

Clo inspected the first note as carefully as if she could read, expressed her approbation, and urged him on, till, with much labor, Caleb completed the requisite number, put them safely in their gorgeous envelopes, and directed them to the persons Clorinda mentioned.

"Now, jis be as quick as you kin," she said; "I'se got to go back to see to tings—can't trust dat Vic, no how! Wal, I guess Mr. Dolf'll see de difference 'tween folks and folks."

Benson knew that Dolf, Mr. Mellen's own man, was a special weakness of Clorinda's, though it was only her reputation for accumulated wages which induced that dashing yellow individual to treat her with any attention.

Caleb received his last instructions, and started on his mission, which was successfully fulfilled. Then he took his way homeward after going back to the house to acquaint Clorinda with the result, which was equal to her expectations, and that was saying a great deal.

As he approached the little tavern, he saw a gentleman standing on the steps, with a colored servant guarding a pile of guns, fishing-rods, and other tackle, with which idle men frequently came down from the city to endure Caleb's humble fare for a while, and gratify their masculine propensity for destruction.

But this gentleman was a stranger to Caleb, and he looked at him enviously, though with the approbation which his appearance would have elicited from more refined judges.

"I suppose you are Caleb Benson," the gentleman said, throwing away the end of a cigar, as the old man mounted the steps.

"Wal, they call me so, sometimes," replied Caleb; for the instincts of his New England birthplace had not deserted him, and he never answered a question in a straightforward manner, if he could help it.

"Some friends of mine told me I could find very comfortable quarters with you," pursued the stranger. "I have run down to see the place, and take a day's duck shooting. I want to engage rooms, and leave my traps here, so that I can come over whenever I feel like it."

"I want to know,—mean to have a good long shute do you!" said Caleb. "Wal, I guess I could fix you up, if you ain't too particular."

"I am not at all particular what I pay," replied the gentleman; "I suppose that is satisfactory."

"I ain't going to say 'tain't," returned Caleb, his eyes beginning to twinkle at the prospect of a liberal guest, who meant to come frequently.

"I reckon you'd like to see what I can do in the way of rooms, Mr., Mr.——Wal, I don't think I quite ketched your name."

"Mr. North," said the stranger, smiling at the man's shrewdness.

He stood for a few moments talking with Caleb, and though the old fellow was not easily pleased, he was quite fascinated by the stranger's manner; and, having a very vague idea of princes, was almost inclined to think that this splendid-looking creature might be one who had strayed over from his native kingdom on a fishing excursion.

"Now let me see the rooms," said Mr. North. "I suppose my man may as well carry the traps up stairs now—the place is certain to suit me."

Caleb looked at the stylish colored individual who was leaning, in a graceful attitude, over the luggage, and a brilliant idea struck him.

"I say you," he called, "I've got a ticket that'll just suit you, Mr.——What's your name?"

"If you are redressing me," replied the sable gentleman, majestically, "my name is Mr. Julius Hannibal."

"Want to know!" said Caleb. "Wal, here's an invite that was just meant for a fine-looking chap like you."

Caleb drew one of the notes from his pocket, and held it out. Hannibal took it with considerable dignity, doubtful how to receive such unceremonious compliments.

"You are in luck, Ju," said his master. "What's it all about, Mr. Benson?"

"Why, Mr. Mellen—he's one of our rich men down here—is going to be married this week, so his servants thought they'd have a blow-out to-night, for fear they wouldn't get the chance after the new mistress comes."

"Go, by all means," said North, almost eagerly. "Make all the friends you can, Ju, for we shall be here a good deal—go, certainly."

Hannibal drew himself up, bowed to his master, and said to Caleb in a stately way——

"I shall be most happy to mixture in the festive throng, but would most 'spectfully state to Miss Clorindy that morocur pumps is banished from polite society, and only patting leathers is worn—but these is trifles."

North took the note from his servant's hand, and could not repress his merriment as he read it; but Caleb received that as a compliment, and looked so conscious, that it was easy to discover what share he had taken in the matter.

"Pinnacles of ice cream, and a dance in the landing," read Mr. North. "Why choose the landing, Mr. Benson?"

"Laundry, laundry! I guess it's blotted a leetle."

"Oh yes—I see! Upon my word, quite magnificent! So Mr.—Mellen, did you call him?—is to be married this week. Well, well, that fate overtakes most of us, sooner or later. We will go up stairs now, if you please, Mr. Benson."

The old man led the way up to the room, which was kept in readiness for visitors of importance, and which had been made quite comfortable by the various articles of furniture that the different occupants had presented to Caleb, on leaving his house.

The bargain was not a difficult one, as Mr. North appeared quite willing to pay Benson his own price, and the old fellow was only in doubt as to the extent to which he might safely carry his extortion.

When they went down stairs again, the steamboat had just come in to the landing, and Dolf, Mr. Mellen's man, was making his way to the tavern, having come to the island to see that the house was in readiness, and dazzle the eyes of the females by the wonderful new clothes which had fallen to his share of the wedding perquisites.

"That's just the ticket," said Caleb; "Mellen's man'll take you over to the place, Mr. Julius, and set you a goin'. I'm going there myself now, but you'll have to fix your master up first, so you can come with Dolf."

While Julius was going through the ceremonies of an introduction, Mr. North called him away, and seemed to be giving him some very particular directions. When he came back, Dolf, who was greatly rejoiced at this acquisition, said, anxiously,

"Won't he let you go?"

"Of course," answered Hannibal, but a little uneasily. "It was only about a fishing-rod I left behind."