face, and for an instant I fancied the light of intellect shone across
those pale, wan features. But alas! if so, it faded like it came. In
another moment her eyes assumed their former vacant, yet sorrowful and
imploring expression, and turning away she began to sing a snatch of an
old song I had taught her in the days of our courtship.
“It flashed across me that, by singing the following verse, I might
possibly touch a link in her memory, and recall her to reason. I
mentioned it to the physicians. They implored me to do so. I obeyed.
“‘Who sang that?’ suddenly exclaimed the sufferer, starting half up in
bed, and looking eagerly around, ‘it seems, I do believe, as if it was
the voice of George,’ and lifting up her hand to command silence, she
bent her ear down to catch the sounds.
“There was not a dry eye in the room. My own tears came fast and thick;
and my utterance became so choked that I could not proceed.
“The hopes we had again entertained by her sudden question, seemingly so
rational, were the next instant dissipated, by her dropping her hand,
and sinking back upon the pillows, in a state approaching to
insensibility. Need I delay? From that stupor, gradually becoming deeper
and more profound, she never awoke; or rather awoke only in that better
world where she found relief from all her sorrows, and where, if earthly
suffering, or earthly purity can avail aught, she is now one of the
brightest of the redeemed.
“Ah! you may well shed tears. It were enough to make angels weep, that
death-bed! Night and day, in illness or health, here or in another
continent, that closing scene of her life has been present to me, urging
me on to avenge her wrongs.
“We buried her. Far away from the spot where she died, amid the green
old hills of her birth, and in the quiet, little church-yard where her
father and mother slept, we laid her down to her rest; and my last
prayer is that I too may be buried there, side and side with that sweet
suffering angel.
“I was from that moment her Avenger. I sought out her waiting woman
again, and learning from her all the information she could give me
respecting the retreat to which Conway had fled, I set out in his
pursuit. But her information was too scanty to avail me aught. Conway
had left her money enough to bear his victim to P——, and then, alarmed
at the catastrophe, fled she knew not whither. Once or twice since,
however, he had remitted her small sums of money by mail, enjoining on
her continued secrecy. The letters were post-marked New York.
“Thither I went. But all my enquiries were useless. After a search of a
month I was no nearer to the attainment of my object, than on the day
when I first set forth in pursuit of Conway.
“But did my zeal abate? How could it when that death-bed scene was
ringing its cry for vengeance night and day in my ears? No. I had stood
beside the grave of Isabel, and vowed to be her Avenger: I had repeated
that vow, night and morning since; and I would spend the last cent of my
fortune, and go to the uttermost end of the earth, but what I would yet
fulfil the oath.
“At length I obtained a clue to Conway’s retreat. He had sailed from New
York five months before for London, under an assumed name. I now felt
sure of my prey.
“On my arrival at that vast metropolis, I instituted a cautious enquiry
after his present abode, which I felt certain would ultimately place him
within my grasp. Meantime I began a course of daily practice at a
neighboring pistol-gallery, and soon became so proficient that I could
split a ball, at twelve paces, nine times out of ten, upon the edge of a
knife. Nor did I neglect fencing. I became by constant attention an
invincible swordsman.
“But months, aye! years elapsed, and still he evaded my grasp. He
hurried from one land to another, under a dozen disguises, but though
delayed by my anxiety to be perfectly certain of the road he had
adopted, I was ever like the blood-hound on his path. Fly where he
would, the AVENGER OF BLOOD was behind him. Thrice he flew to Paris,
once he hurried to Rome, twice he hid himself in the Russian capital,
four times he visited England under different names, two several times
he crossed and re-crossed the Atlantic, and once for nearly a whole
year, during which he went on a voyage to Calcutta, I almost lost sight
of him. But I recovered the clue at his return. Years had only whetted
my appetite for revenge. My determination was when I met him, to goad
him by insult into an honorable encounter, and if this could not be
done, to shoot him in the street like a dog.
“Fortune favored me at length. It was scarcely a month after his return
from the East Indies, when I learned that three days before he had set
out for Paris. Thither, like the angel of death, I pursued him.
“It was the second night of my arrival at Paris, when I stepped into a
noted gambling-house in the Rue des ——. The apartment was brilliantly
lighted, and in the ostentatious luxury of its furniture reminded one of
a fairy palace. It was densely crowded. I sauntered up to a table where
they were playing _vingt et un_, and carelessly threw down a guinea upon
the chance. I won. I was about turning indifferently away, when an
individual approached the table, whom, even under his disguise, I
recognised, in a moment, to be Conway. He threw down his stake. At that
instant his eye caught mine. Never had I seen human countenance change
so fearfully as his did during the instant of recognition. It quivered
in every nerve. He turned paler than ashes. I looked at him, for a
moment, sternly and calmly. His eye fell before mine. In an instant,
however, he recovered, in a measure, his equanimity, and turning away
with an air of affected indifference, whistled a careless tune. I
stepped up to him.
“‘Dr. Conway,’ said I, ‘you are a scoundrel.’
“‘Sir, sir,’ stammered the abashed villain in French, affecting not to
know me, ‘you mistake your man. _I_ am Monsieur De Rivers, at your
service.’
“‘Monsieur De Rivers then, if you please,’ said I, tauntingly, ‘I
congratulate you on understanding a language which you affect not to be
able to speak.’ The villain crimsoned and was abashed. ‘But think not
you shall thus escape. _You are my man_; and without regard to the name
under which at present you choose to go, I pronounce you again to be a
scoundrel.’
“‘I—I,’ stammered Conway, ‘know you not. The gentleman is mad,’ he
said, with a faint smile of contempt, turning to the crowd which had now
gathered around us. A scornful look was the only reply. One of them even
went so far as to say, shrugging his shoulders,
“‘Sacre—why don’t you fight? Can’t you see the gentleman _means_ to
insult you.’
“‘Crazy, did you say, villain?’ I exclaimed, stepping up to Conway, ‘I
am sane enough to see that you are a coward as well as a scoundrel—do
you understand me now?’ and deliberately taking him by the nose, I spat
in his face.
“‘By God, sir,’ said he, his face blanched with rage, making him, for
one moment, forget his fears, ‘this is too much. I am at your service.
Here is my card. When shall it be?’
“‘The sooner the better,’ I hissed in his ear, as he turned to leave the
room. ‘Let it be to-night.’
“‘Gentlemen,’ interposed a French officer, whom I knew casually,
approaching us at my beck, ‘this matter had better be settled at once.
Had it not?’ he continued, turning to Conway, or rather to an
acquaintance of his, whom my enemy had singled out from the crowd as we
left the room.
“‘Yes! let it be at once—here,’ exclaimed Conway, almost foaming with
rage.
“‘At once then,’ said the two seconds, simultaneously, ‘step this way.’
“We followed as they lead; and passing up a staircase before us, we soon
found ourselves in a small, dimly lighted room, about twelve feet
square.
“‘We shall be free from observation here,’ said my second, as he closed
and double-locked the door.
“During this brief remark the other officer had been engaged in an
earnest conversation with his principal; and after a silence of some
minutes on our part, he crossed the room, and addressed a few words to
my second. After the other had ceased speaking, he continued silent for
a few minutes. At length, however, he said,
“‘Well, I will make your proposition;’ and turning to me he continued,
‘I suppose you are scarcely willing to apologise. The demand comes from
your opponent.’
“‘Never,’ said I.
“‘Then the affair must proceed.’
“‘Gentlemen,’ said Conway’s second, ‘how do you fight? As you are the
challenged party the choice is with you!’
“‘With pistols—at once—in this room,’ answered my second.
“I observed the cheek of Conway blanch at these words, and his eye
became wild and unsettled. He muttered something about the police, the
possibility of an interruption, and the unseasonableness of the hour.
Even his own second could not restrain an expression of disgust at his
cowardice.
“‘I can scarcely hold a pistol, much less hit a mark with one,’
whispered Conway to his second; but in the death-like silence the remark
was heard distinctly throughout the room.
“‘Sacre,’ muttered the officer addressed, but checking his anger, he
turned around, and asked our party if we should be put up across the
room.
“‘No,’ said I, ‘Dr. Conway has declared he knows nothing of the use of
the weapon I have chosen. Villain as he is, I do not wish to take
advantage of him. Let us fire across this table,’ said I, touching one
about four feet wide with my foot, ‘or if that will not suit him, we
will cut for the highest card, and the loser shall bare his breast to
the pistol of the other.’
“‘My God! do you mean to murder me?’ said Conway, trembling like an
aspen, and scarcely able to articulate.
“‘Murder you! No, miscreant, though _you_ have murdered one dearer to me
than life—one, whom friendship, if not gratitude should have
preserved—one who now lies in her early grave; while you, for years
since her death, have been insulting man and God by your continued
existence.
“‘What do you choose?’ asked my second sternly, as soon as I had ceased,
‘it were better for all that this matter should be closed at once.’
“‘We cut for the chance,’ said Conway’s second.
“The cards were brought, shuffled, and placed upon the table. I signed
to Conway to take one. He stepped hurriedly up, and with a trembling
hand, drew. It was a king. A smile of sardonic triumph lighted up every
feature of his countenance. My second looked aghast. Yet, in that
moment, my confidence did not forsake me; not a nerve quivered, as I
advanced proudly to the table and drew my card. _It was an ace._
“‘Oh! my God, it is all over,’ almost shrieked the miserable Conway,
flinging his card down in despair, ‘is there no hope?’ he said, turning
wildly to his second, ‘oh! shew me a chance,’ he continued, addressing
me, ‘for my life. Don’t murder me in cold blood. Don’t—don’t—don’t,’
and he fell on his knees before me, raising his hands imploringly to me,
while the big drops of sweat rolled from his face.
“‘Take your place across the table,’ said I sternly to him, ‘put a
pistol into his hands. Villain as he is, he is too miserable a coward to
be shot down unresisting—though he would have granted me no such favor
had the chance been his.’
“They placed him in his position. No words were spoken. Not many seconds
elapsed before the word was given, and we both fired simultaneously. I
felt a slight, sharp puncture in my side; and I knew I was wounded. But
as the smoke wreathed away from before me, I beheld Conway leap toward
the ceiling convulsively, and fall, the next instant, dead across the
table. He had been shot through the heart. Isabel was AVENGED.
“I fled from Paris. I reached here, saw you, have adjusted my affairs
under your supervision, and am dying of that wound.”
Reader, that night he expired.
D.
Philadelphia, December, 1840.
* * * * *
LANGUAGE OF THE WILD FLOWERS.
BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH, M. D.
_I. Solanum Dulcamara._ Deadly Nightshade.
DEATH.
I hear thy step afar—
I see the flashing of thy blade
Out-blazing like a meteor star,
Thine eyes are peering from the shade,
Burning with smouldering flame;
Thy voice is as a woman’s wail,
Thy face is bloodless all and pale,
A mockery to fame.
Thou sportest thee a shad’wy robe—
Thy fingers grasp an air-built globe—
A mighty scorn is on thy lip,
Haught skeleton!
Thy wrath is straining on the slip
Unearthly one!
Fire leaves thy nostrils—plague thy breath;
Fear is thy handmaid—thou art Death!
Smile not so grimly—though an hour
May find me powerless in thy pow’r,
And subject me to thy control,—
’Twill be my body—not my soul,
There victor, I defy thee.
For though thou mayest seize my form,
Devote my body to the worm—
And all the grave’s corruption—HE,
The maker both of thee and me,
Decreeth to deny thee
Presumptuous one! all power to inherit,
That portion of his breath which is my spirit.
_II. Sambucus Canadensis._ Elder.
BE COMPASSIONATE.
The wind blows cold—yon poor, old man
Seeks pity for his woe,
For naught hath he to bear him on,
Though a long, long way to go,
All houseless, homeless, weak and tired,
While friends are far away,
His clothes are tattered—locks are white—
Oh! pity him, I pray.
His wife is dead—his children gone,
He knoweth not where but far;
The sun’s bright light he seeth not,
Nor light of moon nor star.
For God hath taken sight away,
Hath bent him as you see;
And made his limbs as thin and weak
As those of a withered tree.
A very little from your wealth,
Some coppers more or few’r—
Will get him a morsel of bread to eat,
And cannot make you poor.
Give alms! the memory will be
A balm unto thy heart,
A spring to thy limbs—a sight to thine eye—
And joy to ne’er depart.
Oh! curl not thy proud lip, nor turn
Thy form away in pride;
As _he_ is, _you_ may be e’er long,
When woes of life betide.
Then as a wearied, blasted man,
From door to door you go—
You’ll think with tears of when you scorned
The humble blind man’s woe.
_III. Juniperus Virginiana._ Cedar.
WINTER.
The winter has come, and the skaters are here
With a falchion of steel
On each manly heel,
To strike the ice with a stroke of fear;
And to make the victim the story tell,
With a voice as clear as a tinkling bell.
The winter has come, and he howls at the door,
And puffing his cheeks,
He whistles and shrieks,—
A shriek of ill-will to the suffering poor,
That maketh the widow clasp her sons,
And huddle together her shiv’ring ones.
The winter has come, and the sorrow besides,
And the poor man’s breast
Can know of no rest,
While his life’s troubled torrent onward glides,
But when ’tis exhausted, the poor will share
A place with the rich, and no winter is there.
Philadelphia, December, 1840.
* * * * *
MY PROGENITORS.
BY S. W. WHELPLEY, A. M.
Mr. Lowman in his treatise on the civil government of the Hebrews,
remarks, that their careful attention to genealogy was a distinguishing
trait in their national policy. From considering the Hebrews who glory
in their descent from the most renowned patriarchs, I was led to reflect
on the probable influence which the same custom would have upon other
nations. Indeed I have often admired the general indifference of mankind
to the names and history of their ancestors; especially considering the
veneration which all men feel for every thing that wears the marks of
antiquity.
From a few obvious principles I shall endeavor to state the benefits
which I consider would result to mankind from the universal prevalence
of the custom of keeping an exact genealogy in families. It would be a
perpetual source of entertainment and pleasure. Who would not feel
gratified to look back upon the line of his ancestors, and see their
names, characters, occupations, place of residence, and time when they
lived? They would also open numerous and extensive sources of friendly
attachment, by closing the ancient alliances of interest, honor,
consanguinity and friendship, which subsisted between our forefathers,
who perhaps fought side by side in battles, ploughed the seas together,
or shared the common danger of exploring and settling new countries.
Genealogical study would operate as a stimulus to laudable ambition, and
would enkindle a sense of honor. If a man’s ancestors were mean and low,
he would often be struck with the animating thought of raising the
reputation of his race. If they were high and honorable, he would, at
times, be jealous of their honor, and feel strongly prompted to emulate
their virtues.
Could every man trace back his line, it would level many useless
distinctions; for it would appear, that some who are ostentatious of
their descent and blood, have beggars, bandits, and the humblest
cottagers for whole series of links in their chain. That others who are
now low and indigent, could look back to lords, princes, and monarchs,
who dwelt in “cloud-capt towers and gorgeous palaces.” In fine, it would
appear that the descending line of generations is ever wavering, now
elevated, now depressed. The grandfathers and grandchildren of lords may
have been porters, footpads, or slaves.
The other evening, while investigating a knotty point, I prosed myself
into a deep sleep, and dreamed out the sequel. It would be better for
many metaphysicians, moral philosophers, and writers of all classes, if
they did the same.
I thought I was still pondering on the subject of Genealogy, and
considering with what curiosity and pleasure I could look back on the
line of my ancestors to the grand progenitors of our race, when suddenly
there appeared before me a winged fantastic figure, answering in some
measure to the description of Iris. Her flowing robes were of various
and varying colors; her eye was penetrating but never fixed; and her
aspect might be compared to the shade and light wandering over the folds
and margin of a summer cloud. I knew her instantly to be one of the airy
powers that preside over dreams.
She informed me that she was empowered to give me a view of _my
ancestors_, and bade me attend her. Not knowing whither she intended to
conduct me, or in what form of vision I was to be enwrapt, a chill of
terror and ineffable awe rivetted me to the spot. Turning eastward she
beckoned me with her hand, and with easy volition, we rose to the region
of the clouds. We continued to move with inconceivable speed, till the
Atlantic rolled beneath our feet, and we directly alighted on Plinlimmon
in Wales.
I was now a little recovered from my surprise, and was delighted to see
_the venerable seat of my forefathers_. I could evidently discern the
meanderings of the Severn and Dee, although by distance diminished to a
thread. Numberless villages and flourishing farms lay extended in
various directions, and I looked with great curiosity over the rocky
hills and blue ridges, where a hardy race of men were once able to
resist the impetuous armies of the Henrys and Edwards.
Here my conductress presented me with a perspective of most wonderful
powers. It would not only magnify objects to their natural size, but
this it would do even at any assignable distance. Within the external
tube was a sliding barrel, graduated into sixty circles. My guide
informed me that a circle denoted a century, and that when the barrel
was drawn to the first circle, I might look back one century; and so of
all the rest.
Upon this she drew the barrel to the second circle, and presented me the
instrument, impatient to try its astonishing powers. Looking through it
I saw a face of things entirely new. James the I. had just ascended the
throne of the United Kingdoms. I was looking around to observe the
appearance of the country which had flourished long under the happy
reign of Queen Elizabeth. My guide asked me if I could discern a cottage
at the foot of the mountain. “That,” said she, “is the dwelling of your
ancestors in the male line.” The moment I espied the cottage, which was
low and poor, an aged man came out. His figure was tall and erect—his
head quite gray—his look was grave, forbidding, and shaded with
melancholy.
My conductress succinctly told me that he had long since buried his
wife, and all his children, excepting one son, who was then at sea—that
his father was killed in battle, and that his grandfather had emigrated
when a youth from Germany. Without further words she took from me the
perspective, and the scene of modern times changed.
We immediately mounted on the wing, and again moved eastward. As we
passed over London I was not a little gratified by a transient glance of
that majestic city, the noblest in Europe, and most commercial in the
world. The forest of towers, the waters, all white with sails, and the
country all covered with villages, by turns caught my eye; but I
travelled too much in the manner of young noblemen, who take the tour of
Europe, to make very particular remarks; since our route from Plinlimmon
to the banks of the Danube took up but about five minutes. We now stood
on a rising ground, having on our right the city of Presburgh, and on
our left majestically rolled the Danube. The country appeared beautiful,
but I noticed, with regret, various vestiges of tyranny and misery in
the appearance of an abject multitude.
The fantastic power now drew out the third circle, and looking through
the perspective I beheld a scene in the reign of Maximillian the I. The
comparison was truly at the expense of the present day: a bold and manly
race appeared, in general of larger size and nobler form. Their thoughts
seemed full of freedom, and their general air was martial and
independent. With something that appeared like the first dawn of modern
refinement, there was a strong tinge of unpolished and simple manners.
While I stood in high expectation every moment of seeing another of my
ancient fathers, there appeared a royal personage at the head of a
splendid retinue of chariots and horsemen. It was the emperor
Maximillian himself, who, at that time was at Presburgh, and was on a
party of pleasure that morning on the banks of the Danube. I gazed at
his majesty, who was a man of uncommonly fine presence, and said, how
happy should I be should he prove to be the man I am in quest of.
My guide soon dashed my hopes, by desiring me to observe the coachman of
the last carriage,—“That,” said she, “is the man!” I began to fear that
my blood
“Had crept thro’ scoundrels
Since the flood.”
I observed that I had always understood my ancestors were from Germany,
but never knew till now that they were _coachmen_—she smiled and bade
me not be disheartened. He was a perfect Scythian, and seemed to look
like one of the vilest of the human race; there being not discernible in
his features any sentiments of honor or humanity. “He is,” continued my
guide, “the son of a Tartar by a German mother. His father was one of
the wandering tribes that dwelt, at times, near the Bosphorus in
Circassia, and on the borders of the Caspian sea.” I wanted no more,
but, delivering her perspective, I stepped back into 1840, and was more
than ever struck with the wide difference which the flight of three
centuries had made in one of the most warlike nations of the world.
Germany! how art thou fallen? Thy councils are divided—thy heroic
spirit fled—thy warriors are become women! I consoled myself, however,
that my father was a German coachman in the fourteenth, and not in the
nineteenth century.
We rose once more, and passed over rivers, solitudes, morasses, forests,
lakes and mountains, and at length alighted on an eminence near the
mouth of the river Wolga. My guide, not leaving it optional, drew the
glass to the sixth circle. I shivered in every nerve to think that my
forefathers for such a period of years, had lived in the dreary regions
of mental darkness. But could they have been tossed less at random, or
enjoyed a milder sky in any of those countries where Rome had once
displayed her eagle?
The Wolga is one of the largest rivers in the world. It rises in the
Russian empire, and receiving a multitude of tributary streams, it winds
a course of three thousand miles, and pours an immense volume into the
Caspian sea. Through its whole course, it is said, there is not a
cataract. It rolls majestically, with gentle current, through extensive,
rich and beautiful plains, diffusing every where luxuriant vegetation
and exhaustless abundance. Near the sea, it branches and forms a number
of pleasant and beautiful islands.