singularly agitated during her narrative; he now calmly opened his soul
to her. He kept nothing back; the catalogue of offences detailed to her
was an exact copy of the dark list that had been registered against his
name above. Twice she started as though an adder had stung her; but when
he informed her that his hand had never been stained with blood; and
that he had never appropriated to himself a dollar of the ill-gotten
wealth, she breathed freer, and as he concluded, a smile lit up her
heavenly countenance.
“Maurice,” said she, “I believe you—you have made a false move in life:
and I have been the innocent cause of it. It is not too late to repair
it—you must leave this bloody craft at the first port you make—the
busy times—the deeds of blood—the privateering and the blustering of
war will cover all, and in our little village we can peacefully linger
out our lives, and rejoice that the day of our sorrow is over.”
Colonel Howard now entered the cabin. He approved of the plan suggested,
and Fitzgerald joyfully consented to its being carried into execution.
The next day the brig made the land. The passengers of the foundered
ship were immediately sent on shore, with the exception of Colonel
Howard and his daughter; and upon the return of the last boat a letter
of thanks, signed by the passengers, with a draft for ten thousand
dollars, was handed to Fitzgerald.
He immediately sent an officer in disguise to New Orleans to get the
money; and at twelve o’clock, accompanied by the Howards, left the King
Fisher. He had left a letter in his signal book to the next in command,
surrendering up the brig, renouncing the service of the bucaniers, and
giving his portion of the spoils to the crew. His necessary clothing he
had packed with Colonel Howard’s. Upon reaching the shore, he bade the
officer of the boat to inform the second in command that he should be
absent for a few days, and that if he found it necessary to move his
berth he would find instructions for his guidance in his signal book. A
house was near at hand, the little party soon changed their apparel, and
procuring a conveyance, proceeded to a little village on the other side
of the island, whence in a fast sailing clipper they stretched over to
Pensacola. Having shaved off his ferocious whiskers and his long
soap-locks, which gave him the appearance of a nondescript animal,
somewhere between a man and a monkey, he dressed himself in the sober
attire of a citizen of this glorious republic, and in company with his
kind uncle and much loved cousin, proceeded by land to Belleview.
On the arrival of the party at the homestead, the fortunate Fitzgerald
became the husband of the true-hearted Mary; and old Fitzgerald and
Colonel Howard danced a hop waltz together, gout and all, on the
occasion. The wedding broke up at a late hour, and old Fitzgerald went
to bed tipsy, very much to the scandal of a total abstinence society, of
which he was an honorary member.
Fitzgerald and his domestic wife settled down upon the homestead, and in
a few months Colonel Howard and Major Fitzgerald were called to the
dread muster of the dead.
The property of the old, now became the property of the young; and the
broad lands and splendid mansion of Maurice Fitzgerald became the envy
and the pride of the village.
Of the King Fisher nothing was heard until after the war, when she was
found rotting upon a mud bank, near the place where her commander left
her. Her crew had deserted her, and the gallant gun brig never ploughed
the ocean furrow more.
Washington, November, 1840.
* * * * *
THE WATERS OF LETHE.
BY N. C. BROOKS, A. M.
Written for one in dejection.
“Oh, for a cup of the Waters of Lethe.” _Letter of a Friend._
Come, Peri, from the well,
Where cooling waters steep
The soul that’s bound by memory’s spell
In soft oblivion’s sleep.
The lethean power diffuse;
I could not wake again:
Pour o’er my heart its balmy dews,
And on my burning brain.
The plighted hopes of youth—
The perished joys of years—
Affections withered—slighted truth—
The sunlight dashed with tears—
The cloud, the storm, the strife,
I would recall no more,
And all the bitterness of life;
The lethean goblet pour!
Remembered tones of old—
Of friends in quiet sleep,
Make other eyes and tones seem cold,
And bid the lonely weep;
Come then, Oblivion, seal
All memory as I drink;
This tortured heart would cease to feel,
This fevered brain to think.
Baltimore, November, 1840.
* * * * *
YOO-TI-HU.
BY J. ROSS BROWNE.
I. The Consultation.
Yoo-ti-hu, the handsomest and sprightliest Page in the suite of
Pokatoka, King of Gazaret, imprudently fell in love with Omanea, the
flower of the king’s harem. Pokatoka, though sadly afflicted with
rheumatism, was partial to the amusements of the harem. It happened that
he had a slight suspicion of Yoo-ti-hu’s integrity, and this rendered
him perfectly miserable. Tally-yang-sang, Great Nazir, or Chamberlain of
the Harem, was sent for.
“Mirror of Vigilance,—Quintessence of Piety,—and Disciple of
Wisdom,”—such were the Grand Nazir’s titles, and so the king addressed
him.—“Well we know thy skill in affairs of the heart. Well we know thy
penetration is never at fault. We have required thy presence to demand
if thou hast noticed anything peculiar in the conduct of our peerless
Omanea, since the addition of Yoo-ti-hu to our suite?”
“There is a lone dove,” replied the Grand Nazir, in his own mysterious
way, “whose nest is in the grove of love. Even as this emblem of
tenderness awaits the coming of a prisoned mate, so pines in secret my
lady Omanea.”
“And by whom think you, wondrous Tally-yang-sang, is this change
effected?”
“Your mightiness would scarcely thank me if I made known my suspicions,
since they implicate your greatest favorite.”
“Ha! ’tis Yoo-ti-hu! I thought so! I knew it!—he shall die.”
“God is great,” muttered Tally-yang-sang.
“Let the page’s head be brought to me,” said the king, “as a token of my
displeasure.”
“With all my heart, sire. I dislike the youth, and your highness shall
be obeyed.” The Grand Nazir bowed very low, and left the audience
chamber.
II. The Three Wishes.
Yoo-ti-hu, being accidentally near, heard what had passed. In the
bitterness of despair, he rushed from the palace, and roamed to a
solitary retreat in the gardens.
“How miserable am I,” he cried, “to love so hopelessly and so madly.
Grant, oh, inventive genius! that I may evade the vigilance and
persecution of Tally-yang-sang. Grant that the fates may aid me in this
dilemma.”
“Yoo-ti-hu,” said a voice from the shrubbery, “thou hast incurred my
displeasure; but, nevertheless, since thou art in a dangerous situation,
I promise three such things as thou shalt choose.”
“Verily,” quoth Yoo-ti-hu, “thou art a bountiful genius; and it is a sin
to reject aid from so high a source. Know then, generous spirit, that I
have peculiar occasion for a bow and a quiver of arrows.”
“A modest request,” observed the Genius, “and fortunately, I have by me
such an one as no living archer ever shot with; for look you this way or
that, such are its virtues, that it will hit the mark exactly in the
centre.”
“Bless thee a thousand times!” cried Yoo-ti-hu in an ecstacy of joy;
“and since thou art so kind, I fancy I may crave a lute,—with which I
shall be satisfied, were it never so small.”
“Thou shalt have one, my son, of such exquisite tones, that when the
same is played, all living things shall skip and dance,—so pleasant is
the music.”
“Delightful!—excellent!” cried Yoo-ti-hu.
“What next?” said the Genius.
“Indeed, thou art too good,” replied Yoo-ti-hu; “I am going now to rove
the world as a simple minstrel. I shall live on birds, and amuse myself
with my lute,—so I need nothing more.”
“But, son, I solemnly swear thou shalt have three things, be they never
so costly.”
“Well, good Genius, since thou art so kindly disposed, I shall choose an
inexhaustible purse.”
“The very thing I have in my pocket,” quoth the Genius, and handing the
inexhaustible purse to Yoo-ti-hu, he disappeared immediately.
III. Tally-yang-sang in a Plight.
Yoo-ti-hu seated himself on the steps of a fountain to admire his bow
and his lute. Tally-yang-sang, chancing to roam in the vicinity, espied
the page, whereupon he assumed a very severe countenance, and
approaching the spot, spoke thus: “Yoo-ti-hu, thou art an unfaithful
wretch! Thou hast betrayed the confidence of thy king. Thou hast entered
his harem and stolen the heart of Omanea! Know, then, that I am
commanded to carry him thy head, as a slight token of his displeasure.”
“Verily, great and worthy nazir,” quoth Yoo-ti-hu, “I can show thee
pleasanter sport than that. Seest thou yon Bird of Paradise, with
plumage more bright than the colors of Iris? Behold, your highness, how
I shall shoot him!” Yoo-ti-hu drew his bow—shut his eyes—and let fly
an arrow. The bird fell quivering among the bushes. Tally-yang-sang was
no less pious than philosophical, and this feat surprised him
exceedingly. With curiosity depicted in his countenance, he walked
forward to where the bird had fallen.
“A little farther,” said Yoo-ti-hu.
“Here?”
“Still farther.”
“Here, then.”
“On.”
“Now?”
“Yes—there lies the bird. But tell me,” said Yoo-ti-hu, with a boldness
that surprised the Grand Nazir, “dost thou certainly mean to carry my
head to the king?”
“God is great,” quoth Tally-yang-sang.
“And Mahommed is his Prophet!” added Yoo-ti-hu; with which he started up
such a tune on his lute, as caused the venerable chamberlain to skip and
dance like one possessed of the devil.
“The spirit of Ebris seize thee!” roared Tally-yang-sang, capering about
among the bushes, and leaving a strip of skin on every thorn, “the devil
take thee for a musician!” and on he skipped and danced till the tears
ran down his cheeks—the blood streamed from his jagged and scarified
limbs—and his capacious breeches were completely torn from his legs.
Yoo-ti-hu continued the music with unabated ardor. Tally-yang-sang
forgot his orisons and paternosters; and up and down—left hand and
right hand—ladies chain—balancee—reel—jig—and Spanish waltz, danced
the bare-legged amateur, roaring with pain, and uttering horrible
imprecations.
“God is great?” quoth Yoo-ti-hu.
“His curse be on thee!” roared Tally-yang-sang.
“Music hath charms,” said Yoo-ti-hu.
“Exercise is the staff of life,” philosophised Yoo-ti-hu.
“Blast it!” shrieked Tally-yang-sang.
“Piety is pleasant,” moralised Yoo-ti-hu.
“Damnable!” roared Tally-yang-sang.
Yoo-ti-hu perceived the vigor departing from the limbs of the Great
Nazir, whereupon he struck up a still livelier air. Tally-yang-sang
curvetted and pranced—whirled hither and thither his bare spindles, and
leaped madly among the thorns. In an agony of pain he cried, “Dear,
gentle Yoo-ti-hu,—I beseech thee to stop!”
“Verily,” quoth Yoo-ti-hu, “I value my head.”
“I shall not harm a hair,” groaned Tally-yang-sang.
“Words are cheap,” said Yoo-ti-hu.
“But I swear—I solemnly swear!” piteously cried Tally-yang-sang.
“By what?”
“By the Prophet!”
“Nay.”
“By God himself!”
“Swear by thy beard!”
“Never!”
“Then dance!”
Another good hour did Tally-yang-sang caper about, roar and blaspheme,
till cruelly excoriated from head to foot.
“Do you swear?” asked Yoo-ti-hu.
“I do.”
“By that which is sacred?”
“By my beard!”
In a truly pitiable condition the Grand Nazir limped toward the palace.
Yoo-ti-hu followed—admiring the bandy and scarified legs of the great
Tally-yang-sang, and muttering benedictions on the genius.
IV. Yoo-ti-hu in Danger.
The great rajas, moguls, and lords of Gazaret, belonging to the court of
Pokatoka, had sallied out with the king, to take a stroll in the royal
gardens.
“Ho!” cried Yptaleen, high master of the festivities, “what fantastic
clown comes hither?”
“An Egyptian dancer,” quoth the king.
“A self-punished Musselman,” added a raja.
“True,” said a grand mogul, “for behind him walks his koran bearer.”
“Rather a shia with his talisman,” observed a lord of Gazaret.
“Or a sooni,” whispered a pious Mohammedan.
“A blood-stained spirit of Ebris,” remarked a famous Astrologer.
“Hush!” exclaimed Yptaleen, “by all that is terrible!—by monkin and
nakir! ’tis Tally-yang-sang, grand nazir of the harem!”
And Tally-yang-sang it was, whose woeful figure approached the pageant.
“Mirror of Piety!” cried the king, “what means this outlandish freak?
Methinks it ill becomes thee to tramp about, bare-legged and bloody,
after this fashion. Propriety of conduct, and delicacy, should
distinguish a master of the harem; and I much regret that thou hast
infringed, not only on these, but on the laws of decency.”
“Sure, mighty monarch of Gazaret,” replied Tally-yang-sang, wringing his
hands and smiting his breast, “thy page deals with the devil; for,
verily, he hath a lute of such bewitching tones, that, when the same be
played, I could not help skipping and dancing among the bushes till my
bones creaked—my head whirled, and I was flayed and excoriated within
an inch of my life—as your highness may see.”
“Tally-yang-sang,” said the king gravely, “thy character is
impeached—thou hast spoken of impossibilities; in fact, thou hast
lied.”
“By all that is solemn, I have spoken the truth,” cried the grand nazir.
“And nothing but the truth?”
“As I live!” protested Tally-yang-sang.
“Then Yoo-ti-hu shall lose his head.”
“Nay,—I have sworn on my beard to save it.”
“Generous Tally-yang-sang!” cried Pokatoka, “thou art too lenient of
offence. Nevertheless, Yoo-ti-hu shall be punished.”
“Certainly,” said Tally-yang-sang, “it was my design to have him
decently flayed to death.”
“Which shall be done,” quoth the king, “if thou provest the offence.”
Without further delay the bare-legged and excoriated Tally-yang-sang led
the way to the palace; and caliphs, rajas, moguls and lords of Gazaret,
followed admiringly in the rear.
V. The Trial and its Effects.
The grand council-chamber of the palace was presently crowded with
courtiers, officers of the guard, sicaries, mandarins, and pashas,—at
the head of whom, seated by his queen, and attended by a magnificent
suite of pages sat Pokatoka, King of Gazaret. At a desk, immediately
under the throne, sat a venerable Arabian writer, versed in
hieroglyphics, and ready to take the minutes of the whole proceedings.
Ranged around, stood a number of beautiful Circassians, Georgians,
Nubians, and Abyssinians—slaves and witnesses from the king’s harem;
but the diamond of these gems was Omanea, arraigned on charge of having
unlawfully bestowed her heart on Yoo-ti-hu. The fact is, Tally-yang-sang
was determined that the lovers should both be condemned, and had thus
prepared matters for the prosecution. In order to establish the truth of
his charge, he remained—much to the edification of the young slaves by
whom he was surrounded—in the same plight in which the king had met
him.
“Quintessence of piety and disciple of wisdom,” said the king, “proceed
with thy charge.”
“Know then, courtiers, rajas, mandarins and officers of the guard,”
quoth Tally-yang-sang, “that Yoo-ti-hu hath stolen the heart of Omanea,
and that his highness, the king, commanded me to rid the offender of his
head. This very evening I roamed in the royal gardens, meditating on the
most agreeable plans of decapitation, when I espied the wicked
Yoo-ti-hu. Having lured me into a horrid bush, he struck up a tune on
his lute—the infernal strains of which caused me to dance till I was
fairly torn to shreds—as you all may perceive. Then—”
“Stop there!” cried Pokatoka, “this story of the lute must be
established ere you proceed farther.”
“I solemnly beseech your mightiness to take my word,” groaned
Tally-yang-sang, eyeing the lute with horror,—“Do, Great King of
Gazaret! and the blessings of heaven be on thee!”
“Nay,” cried the king, “we must have a fair and impartial investigation.
Yoo-ti-hu, thou art commanded on pain of loosing thy head to strike us a
tune on thy lute!”
“For God’s sake,” implored the grand nazir, “since ye must hear it, I
pray and beseech ye to bind me to a post.”
Exactly in the middle of the court stood a post, ornamented with divers
beautiful designs, carved in wood and in gold; and to this was the
chamberlain firmly tied.
“Truth is mighty,” quoth the king, “and will out. So proceed Yoo-ti-hu,
in the name of God and Mahommed, his Prophet!”
Yoo-ti-hu forthwith struck up his liveliest air; and lords, rajas, and
moguls; sages, philosophers and mamelukes; officers of the guard,
sicaries and mandarins; slaves, young and lovely, and old and ugly;
disciples of Mahommed; priests, friars, saints and heretics; pages,
trainbearers, and virgins of incense—sprang to their feet and danced
hither and thither—hornpipe, jig and merry reel—in such glee and
confusion as were never heard of before or since. The venerable writer
had leaped from the desk—the decrepit Pokatoka from his throne; the
sharp-featured old queen from her chair of dignity and joined in the
general melee. But the groans of the gouty—the blasphemies of the
pious—the laughter of the young—and the remonstrances of the sage,
were all drowned in the lusty roars of Tally-yang-sang, who cruelly
bruised his head against the post in trying to beat time—tore the live
flesh from his back so eager was he to dance—and uttered a horrid
imprecation at every ornament on the post.
“Yoo-ti-hu! Yoo-ti-hu!” cried the breathless Pokatoka.
“Yoo-ti-hu!” screamed the dancing queen.
“Yoo-ti-hu! Yoo-ti-hu!” was echoed and re-echoed around by the nobles
and courtiers; and to and fro they skipped, as Yoo-ti-hu plied his
merriest tunes—the floor groaning—the perspiration streaming from
their cheeks; and their breath failing at every jump.
“Dear, pleasant, Yoo-ti-hu,” cried the king, in the heat of a Spanish
jig, “I do beseech thee to stop.”
“A thousand seguins for silence!” groaned a gouty raja, prancing high
and low in a German waltz.
“I am shamed—disgraced forever!” muttered an Arabian astrologer, in the
middle of a Scotch reel.
“Yoo-ti-hu—the devil seize thee!” shouted a pious Musselman.
“Have mercy!” cried a blasphemous heretic.
“Mercy! mercy!” echoed the dancers one and all—“Do, gentle Yoo-ti-hu,
have mercy, and cease thy accursed music!”
“Pardon him! pardon him!” roared the magnanimous Tally-yang-sang—his
ribs rattling frightfully against the post; “in the name of the prophet
pardon him ere I bruise myself into an Egyptian mummy!”
“Yoo-ti-hu cease! thou art pardoned!” cried the king, in a piteous tone,
“my seal—my life on it thou shall not be harmed!”
“Very well,” said Yoo-ti-hu, still striking his lute; “but I must have
Omanea as a bride.”
“Thou shalt have her!—take her!—she is thine!” shouted the rheumatic
monarch.
“Thy oath on it,” quoth Yoo-ti-hu.
“By all that’s sacred—by my beard she is thine!”
Yoo-ti-hu ceased—the dancers, groaning and breathless, returned to
their seats—the grand nazir was taken from the post in a pitiable
plight—and the pious Musselman ejaculated—“God is great!”
* * * * *
An Arabian historian says that Yoo-ti-hu having espoused Omanea, carried
his bride to the kingdom of Bucharia, of which, in the course of time,
he became the king; and with his inexhaustible purse built a palace of
gold, wherein he reigned for half a century, the mirror of monarchy, and
the admiration of mankind.
Louisville, Kentucky, December 14, 1840.
* * * * *
LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’S PORT-FOLIO.
THE AVENGER.
“Slave, I have set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the die.”
_Shakspeare._
“I feel that I am dying,” exclaimed the sick man, gazing wistfully
toward the window, “and it seems good to me that it should be so. Lift
me up a little that I may look upon this April morn, and throw back the
curtains that I may feel the sweet breath of heaven once more upon my
brow,—there, that will do, God bless you all.”
The speaker was in the last stage of his disease. His eye was sunken,
his voice was feeble, his lips were bloodless, his emaciated fingers
looked like talons, and his originally handsome countenance, now hollow,
pale, and ghastly, seemed already as the face of a corpse. At times his
features would twitch convulsively. He breathed quick and heavily.
The balmy air of a spring morning stealing soothingly across his
forehead, and tossing his long dark locks wantonly about, appeared for a
while to kindle up the fading energies of the dying man, and turning
with a faint smile toward me, he said,
“I promised you my history, did I not? Well, I will tell it now, for I
feel my sands are running low, and the cistern will soon be broken at
the fountain. I have no time to lose; move nigher, for my voice is weak.
Put that glass of wine close at your elbow,—I shall want my lips
moistened, for my tale is long.
“Do you know what it is to be young? Ah! who does not? Youth is the
heaven of our existence. Every thing then is full of poetry. It is the
time for love, and song, and more than all for hope. This glorious
morning is a type of our youth. The birds sing sweeter than ever; the
winds have a music as of heaven; the distant tinkle of the streams is
like a fountain-fall in moonlight, and the whole earth seems as if it
were one cloudless Eden, where life would pass like a dream of sinless
childhood. Poetry! did I say? oh! what is like our youth for that? But
more than all, aye! more than music, or beauty, or even those childish
dreams, is the poetry of a first pure love! I see by your countenance
that you have known what that is. God help me! it has been at once the
bliss and the bane of my existence.
“I left the University rich, accomplished, and not without academic
fame. My parents were dead, and I had but few relations. Life was before
me where to choose. I had every thing to make me happy, but—will you
believe me?—I was not so. There was a void within me. I longed for
something, and scarcely knew what. It was not for fame, for I had tasted
of that, and turned sickened away; it was not for wealth, for I enjoyed
enough of that to teach me, it would not satisfy my craving; it was
neither fashion nor ease, nor the popularity of a public man; no, from
all these I turned away athirst for higher and loftier things. What
could it be? At length I learned. My life is dated from that moment.
“It was about a year after I had graduated, when, sick of the world and
its emptiness, I left the city, in early summer for a stroll through the
mountains of the interior. You have often seen the hills of the
Susquehanna: well, I cannot stop to describe them. I was enraptured with
their beauty, and determined to loiter among them until September, and
so dismissing my servant, I took lodgings in a quiet country inn, and
assumed the character of a mountain sportsman. But I delay my story.
Hand me the wine and water.
“It was on a sporting excursion that I first saw my Isabel! Oh! if ever
the ideal beauty of the ancients, or the dreams we have in childhood of
angels’ faces, were realised in a human countenance, they were in that
of Isabel. There was a sweetness about it I cannot describe; a purity in
every line which breathed alone of heaven. Do you not believe that the
face is the impress of the mind; that our prevailing thoughts gradually
stamp themselves on our countenances, and that the sinless child and the
haggard felon alike carry the mark of their characters written upon
their brows? You do. Yes! God branded Cain as a murderer, but it was
only the brand of his wild, terrible, agonising remorse.
“From the first moment of my seeing Isabel, I felt that I had met with
that for which I had so long sought. The void in my bosom was satisfied.
I had found something holier and brighter than I had deemed earth could
give birth to, and I almost worshipped the ground where she trod. I
loved her with all the poetry and fervor of a first love. She did not
seem to me like others of her sex. There was a holiness cast around her
like the mantle of a seraph, which awed the beholder into a reverential
love. And oh! what bliss it was to gaze upon her face, to hear her
lute-like voice, and to feel that I breathed the same air with herself.
“Isabel was the daughter of a village clergyman, who had been poor
without being dependent. Her mother had been dead for many years; and
her father had followed his wife but a few months before I first met
Isabel.