of her father’s thoughts; it was there he felt most severely his wife’s
deficiency of duty. A mother’s watchful care is necessary for her
daughter’s welfare. No one but her can guard the mind, and guide it
through that ideal world, which the youthful imagination creates, and
wherein it wanders, bewildered by false hopes and illusive joys.
There is no country whose system of female education is free from error.
The elite of England and America select the fashionable boarding schools
for their daughters to finish their studies in; where, unfortunately,
the adornment of the person, and flippancy of manner, often supercede
the adornment of the mind. Can parents reflect that the conclusion of a
female’s education requires _their_ care the _most_, and that the
dashing boldness of manners, too often learned at a fashionable school,
is but the mask which covers ignorance, and bravados out the want of
merit? How much less estimable is the character of such a female than
the modest, timid, but firm being who has received and finished her
education under the watchful guidance of that mother’s eye, whose
anxious glance searches unto the soul of her charge, guarding it from
evils that threaten and too often besiege the senses, till confusion and
desolation leave the fair fabric a monument of ruins for parental
fondness to mourn over.
In France the convent is selected, in a measure secluded from the
influence of fashion: there the mind is more unfettered by folly, and
becomes prepared to receive necessary instruction. Hence they are more
capable of encountering the vicissitudes of life, and prepared for that
intercourse which French women are allowed in society. Thus their minds
become strengthened; no nation has produced so many celebrated women as
France.
An English husband condemned for treason will be allowed to linger in
prison, unless the entreaties and petitions of his wife and friends have
sufficient influence to procure his release; if they fail, she sinks
beneath the weight of her misfortunes, and an early grave yields repose
to the bruised spirit: not so with the French woman; it awakens all the
energies of her soul; every effort is made; every stratagem is resorted
to; the prison doors though barred, are still accessible to love,
artifice, and ingenuity, these combined, generally contrive to elude the
vigilance of the keepers; thus Madame Lavalette, Roland, and several
others, have given bright examples of what fortitude, education, and
energy may achieve; thus the Bastille’s dungeons have been insufficient
barriers to the influence of the French women.
As time passed on, the aspect of Mr. Worthington’s affairs seemed to
become less prosperous; day after day losses occurred, until at last his
bankruptcy served to convince his wife that his admonitions had not been
needless; remorse again visited the unhappy woman; she felt that her
husband’s forbearance had been great; and determined that the neglect of
her first born infant should be amply atoned for, by double attention to
the second, whose birth was now at hand.
After Mr. Worthington’s bankruptcy, it became necessary that he should
leave his native place, and enter into business where it might prove
more successful; he settled his wife in a small house till he should be
enabled to send for her, and for a short time enjoyed more comfort than
when splendor shone around them; they looked forward with hope and joy
to the time when they would behold a child that would be mutually
attached to each.
The infant was born; a lovely girl, but alas! its eyes were denied to
see the blessed light of heaven! _It was blind!_
The wretched, self-convicted, soul-struck woman dared not complain;
conviction of her errors bowed her spirit to the earth; what would she
not now have given to recall some years of her past life? But it was too
late, and the only resource now left her, was to submit with resignation
to her fate.
After Mr. Worthington had departed for the Island of Martinque, his wife
had to struggle for the maintenance of her children till he should be
enabled to establish himself in business; she proposed opening a
seminary, and called on some of those friends whose presence had often
enlivened her assemblies, and who had partaken of her hospitality. One
had just sent her children to Mrs. ——, who was all the ton. Another
thought it would be better style to have a governess in the house; and
if she thought she could take the entire charge of the children, she
would have no objection to give her the preference, if she could make
the terms very low; others were “not at home” when she called—while
some more candid than the rest—at once informed her, that any other
occupation would be more suitable to her as her former dislike to
children could not be so easily overcome; among them were those, who
with sneers, regretted the change in her circumstances.
Thus it is to live in the world without studying human nature. We will
be sure to find nought but disappointments, if we trust to those we meet
in the giddy throng of fashionable assemblies; they are like the fleecy
vapors that float over the blue expanse, their brightness is only the
reflection of the light by which they are surrounded, and their aspect
is as changing. The human family taken in the mass collectively, are
cold and senseless, the philanthropic sensations of the heart are
extinct, and an apathetic illusion usurps the place of the genuine
effusions of benevolence, with which the refined soul overflows when in
its unsophisticated state; it is in the domestic circles that friendship
is found, given, and reciprocated, it is there that the best human
feelings reign monarchs; but in the busy scenes of life, coldness, and
contempt are the answers to an appeal for compassion and humanity.
With a mind forlorn and desolate, Mrs. Worthington sought consolation
from her children. The cherub smiles of one yielded it; but the early
affections of the other had been blighted by its mother’s neglect, and
it sheltered itself among strangers. It was no longer swayed by the same
gentle passions, but fierce and uncontrolled, they became an ocean of
contending emotions.
Adela, at the age of sixteen, eloped with a young man, whose worthless
character precluded any chance of felicity for the unhappy girl, and
added to the tortures of the miserable parents: but the winning
softness, and amiable disposition of the sightless Isabella, made ample
amendment for all her mother’s misfortunes. With calmness and
cheerfulness she bore her calamity: “What,” said she, “though darkness
is over those veiled orbs; my _mind’s_ vision sees beyond this world,
the mental light that flashes through the long vista of existence,
gleams with brilliance to direct my course. Why should I sigh to
_behold_ this world? Do I not enjoy the delightful fragrance of the
earth’s flowers, and am I not nourished by its fruits? Do I not possess
the affections of those I love, and has not the philanthropy of man
instructed (us children whose existence is one still night of calm,) in
reading, working, and employing ourselves usefully, so that we feel not
that the light of day is darkened from our view?”
And truly might it be called useful, for by her efforts she had
supported her mother during a long sickness. The physician, Dr. Morris,
that attended Mrs. Worthington, beheld the beauty of Isabella; respect
and humanity first guided him to the assistance of a lovely, interesting
creature, who deprived of one of the most essential faculties of our
nature, exerted those she still possessed for the support of her mother.
Her progress in music had been so rapid that before she had been two
years under the instruction of one of the directors of the institution
for the Relief of the Blind, she was even enabled to fill the situation
of principal chorister in a church. _That_ respect soon ripened into
love, and she only waited the return of Mr. Worthington to bestow her
hand on one altogether worthy of the amiable girl.
The many years that passed with Mr. Worthington, wherein all his efforts
proved unsuccessful, finally broke his spirits. Every prospect of
raising his family to their former splendor proved unavailing; the
separation from his wife had not been felt by him as severely as it
would have been, had not her conduct, during the early period of their
marriage, alienated his affections; thus those disappointments, which at
the time he deplored, proved to be mercies, that in the end were as
beneficent as the morning and evening dew which temporises the soil for
the fruits it is hereafter to produce.
The final blow was yet to come. He had determined on returning to his
native land, and settling in some humble manner of life—when a letter
arrived, informing him that his daughter Adela was not expected to live.
He immediately arranged his affairs, and departed for those shores which
blighted hopes had driven him from in despair.
The sun was about to set, as Dr. Morris sat by the bedside of the dying
Mrs. Worthington. Isabella knelt by the side of her mother, and breathed
a secret prayer, that the spirit of her parent might be permitted to
remain on this earth till the return of her father. Every knock at the
door for the last three weeks, had awakened in her bosom a throb of
expectation, hoping it might be him. An awful pause ensued, as her last
wish and prayer ascended to heaven; it was interrupted by the heavy
breathing of the sufferer; when a step was heard approaching the door,
it opened, and her father stood there. A shriek from her mother
acquainted her, whose eyes were denied the sight of him, that it was him
to whom she owed her being, that had come.
“My prayer is heard,” said she, “father let your daughter receive a
second blessing, He who is in heaven, ‘the Father of all,’ has already
blessed me, by your presence. Mother rejoice, our prayers are heard; and
if it is His will that you should soon return to your heavenly home, you
can bear with you the last embrace of him you so wished to see, to be
assured you die with his blessing on your head.”
“Bless you, my child! bless you, my wife! but there is _one_ that craves
_your_ blessing, Maria, if you have yet the strength: it is indeed,
needed.” He waited not for a reply, but left the room, to which in a few
moments he returned, bearing in his arms the wasted and almost inanimate
form of Adela; the last effort of nature gave almost supernatural
strength to the mother; she caught her child in her arms, they were
folded in one long embrace: the spirits of both departed together.
Heaven! in mercy, veiled the sight of so much misery from Isabella; she
felt that a solemn scene had passed in her presence, but she knew not
the full extent of its horrors.
It was the last trial Mr. Worthington had to endure. The union of
Isabella with Dr. Morris banished every solicitude; and taught him that
the goodness of God is shown most conspicuous, when by granting those
wishes that seem opposed to _His_, our _folly_, and His _wisdom_ is
manifested.
December, 1840.
* * * * *
TO THE PINE ON THE MOUNTAIN.
BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON.
Thou giant Pine of patriarchal years,
O’er the rock helm of the stern mountain bending,
As watching yon glad river, which appears
Like a bright dream through bowers of beauty wending.
Mocking thy bleak and solitary pride
With warm and flowery scenes, and soft wings gleaming,
Bright fountains laughing on the mountain’s side,
’Neath bow’rs of blossom’d vines, profusely streaming.
And sigh’st thou o’er those visions of delight,
As my lone bosom o’er the glowing treasures
Which live in fancy’s realm before my sight,
Mocking my spirit with ideal pleasures?
Or art thou holding converse with the wind,
Waving majestic assent to some story
Of mournful interest, how thy stately kind
Have perish’d from the places of their glory?
Or are ye talking of the noble race
Stately as thou, with the wind’s freedom roaming;
Who o’er these mountains once pursued the chace,
Or stem’d the river at its spring tide foaming?
Oh knew I all the legends of the past!
With life and love, and death and sorrow teeming,
On which thou hast looked down, since first the blast
Play’d with thy plumes, in morning sunlight gleaming.
Thou’st seen the free born hunters of the wild,
Chasing the fleet deer in his antler’d glory;
Or with his chosen maid, rich nature’s child,
Breathing in whispers love’s ungarnish’d story.
And thou hast seen him on the mountain path,
Victor and vanquish’d, fleeing and pursuing,
Conquer’d and writhing with vindictive wrath,
Or agonising o’er his nation’s ruin.
While the fierce conqueror gaz’d with gloating eye
On mangled forms, in mortal anguish lying;
Or where the wigwam’s flame was wreathing high,
Showing its inmates, wild with terror flying.
Seemed he not king-like, with his plumy crown,
And like a tiger, streak’d with hideous painting!
With hand that sought no treasure but renown,
And heart that knew no fear, and felt no fainting.
Full many a time, perchance beneath thy shade,
The youthful sachem stood with pride surveying
His wide domains, and the soft valley’s shade,
Where through the bowers his dark-eyed love was straying.
Yet sometimes still there comes a wasted form,
With locks like thine, by many winters faded;
Well has he brav’d the battle, and the storm,
The sachem whom thy youthful branches shaded.
Ye are a noble pair, ye stand the last,
Each of a noble race; and ye are staying
Magnificent mementoes of the past,
Glorious and wonderful in your decaying.
And thou dost toss thy branches to the wind,
And sigh sad dirges of thy perished glory;
And he is brooding, with a saddened mind,
Over a perish’d nation’s wrongful story.
A few more years, and the wild eagle’s wing
Shall seek his long-lov’d rest with mournful screaming;
A few more years, and no dark form shall cling
To this stern height of perish’d glory dreaming.
And who will mourn when thou art lying low,
And o’er thy shattered limbs green mosses creeping;
What noble heart will melt with generous woe,
When the last warrior of his race is sleeping?
Liberty, December, 1840.
* * * * *
THE REEFER OF ’76.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR.”
THE RESCUE.
“God bless you!” said my old schoolmate, Harry St. Clair, to me, on a
bright morning in April, 1776, as I shook his hand for the last time,
and leaping into the stern-sheets of the boat, waved my hand in adieu,
and bade the crew, with a husky voice, give way. I could scarcely trust
myself to look again at the group of old classmates crowding the
battery, for a thousand memories of the past came crowding on me as I
gazed. The tears, despite myself, welled into my eyes. Determined that
no one should witness my emotions, I turned my face away from the crew,
affecting to be engaged in scanning the appearance of the brigantine
destined to be my future home, the Fire-Fly.
She was as beautiful a craft as ever sat the water. Her hull was long
and low, of a mould then but lately introduced. There was no poop upon
her quarter deck, nor was she disfigured by the unsightly forecastle
then in use. Never had I seen a more exquisite run than that which her
glossy hull developed; while her tall, rakish spars, tapering away into
needles, and surrounded by their cobweb tracery of ropes, finished the
picture. She was, indeed, all a sailor’s heart could desire. When I
stepped upon her decks my admiration increased to a ten-fold degree. She
had seemed from the water to be a craft of not more than a hundred tons
burthen; but the illusion vanished on ascending her side, when you found
yourself on board of a brigantine of not less than thrice that size. Her
well-scraped decks; her bright burnished binnacle; the boarding-pikes
lashed to the main-boom; the muskets placed in stands abaft the
main-mast; the nicety with which even the smallest rope was coiled down
in its place; the guns ranged along on either side under her bulwarks,
and especially the air of neatness, finish, and high discipline
perceptible about her, convinced me that I was embarking on board a
man-of-war of the highest professional character. In fact I knew Captain
Stuart’s reputation to be that of a rigid disciplinarian.
“Mr. Parker—glad to see you,” said my superior, as I touched the deck
and raised my hat, “you are punctual, but allow me,” said he, turning to
an officer on his right hand, whom I knew to be his lieutenant, “to
present you to Mr. Lennox—Mr. Lennox, Mr. Parker.”
The usual salutations were exchanged; the boat was hoisted in; and I
dove down into the mess-room to stow away my traps. It was full of
officers. The second lieutenant, the purser, and my three fellow reefers
greeted me heartily, as they rose from a long, narrow table, on which
was a formidable display of salt junk and old Jamaica.
“Just in time, Parker,” sang out my old crony, Westbrook, “we’re
stiffening ourselves to keep up against the fog outside. Push the
bottle, Jack—a cut of the junk for Parker—and as there’s nothing like
beginning right, here’s a jolly voyage to us.”
The toast had just been drunk, amid a whirlwind of huzzas, when the
shrill whistle of the boatswain shrieked through the ship, followed by
the hoarse cry, “all hands on deck, ahoy!”
In an instant the gun-room was deserted, and we were at our several
posts; while the gallant brigantine echoed with the tramp of the crew,
the orders of the first lieutenant, and the monotonous creaking of the
windlass, as the anchor was being hove up to the bows.
By the time the anchor was catted the morning sun was just beginning to
struggle over the heights of Long Island; and as the mists upon the
water curled upward in fantastic wreaths beneath his rays, the head of
our brigantine began slowly to incline from the breeze. In another
instant, as her sails filled, the water could be heard rippling under
the cut-water. Then as a sudden puff of wind pressed her down toward her
bearings, and we shot rapidly ahead, the bubbles went whizzing along her
sides, and eddying around her rudder, swept away astern in a long and
glittering wake.
I stood, after the bustle of making sail was over, gazing on the scenery
around me, with feelings such as I had never experienced before. It was
to be my first voyage in a man-of-war: I would soon, doubtless, imbrue
my hands in the blood of my fellow men; and I myself might never return
alive from my cruize. I could not help, therefore, being filled with
strange and new emotions, as I leaned over the taffrail, gazing on the
now fast-receding town, and recurring, again and again, to the many
happy days I had spent in my native city, and to the dear faces there
which I might never see again. But gradually these feelings were lost in
the admiration enkindled in my bosom by the beauty of the surrounding
scenery.
It was indeed a glorious sight which opened around me. Right in the wake
of the brigantine lay the city, still partly shrouded in the morning
mists; while the back-ground was filled up by a range of uplands,
through which a narrow opening disclosed where the Hudson rolled his
arrowy course. To the right lay Governor’s Island, the East River, with
its shipping, and the verdant shores of Long Island; while on the left
rose up the bluff highlands of Staten Island, emerging, as it were, from
a cloud of mist, and crowned with antique farm-houses, rich fields of
verdant grass, and here and there a strip of woodland, as yet sparsely
decked with its new-found leaves. Directly ahead were the Narrows, with
the frowning heights on either hand; while a white, glittering line on
the horizon without, and the long, undulating swell, heaving in through
the streight, betokened our near approach to the ocean. A few sails
flashed in the distance. All was still, beautiful, and serene.
Occasionally, however, the measured sound of oars would give token of a
passing fishing boat, or a snatch of a drinking song would float from
some craft idly anchored in the stream. A few gulls screamed overhead. A
flock of smaller water-fowl wheeled and settled on a strip of white,
sandy beach just outside the Narrows. The surf broke with a hollow roar,
in a long line of foam, along the neighboring coast; while out on the
sea-board hung a dim haze, undulating slowly beneath the sun’s rays as
he rose, blood-red, in the eastern horizon.
“A fine breeze for our first day’s cruize,” said Westbrook, “and, faith,
a deuce of a one it will be, if we should happen to be caught by one of
King George’s frigates, and either be strung up for rebels at the yard
arm, or stifled to death in one of his cursed prison hulks. What think
you of the prospect, comrades, isn’t it pleasant?”
“Pleasant do ye call it?” said Patrick O’Shaughnessy, a reefer of about
my own age, who was a dangerously late emigrant to the colony, “shure,
and it is rayther at my father’s hearth I would be, in dear, ould
Ireland, afther all, if we’re to be thrated as rebels the day.”
“Your father’s hearth, Pat,” said Westbrook, “and do you really mean to
say that they have such things in Galway, or wherever else it was that
you were suffered to eat potatoes in ignorance, until your guardians
brought you out here on a speculation.”
“By St. Patrick, your head must be hard,” said the irritated reefer,
“and it’s well that my shillelah isn’t on the wrist—”
“Pshaw! now you’re not angry, comrade mine,” said Westbrook, laughing
good-humoredly, but repenting already of his reckless speech, “come,
we’ve got a long cruize before us, and we shall have enough of quarrels
with those rascally British, without getting up any among ourselves,”
and he frankly extended his hand.
“Shure, and it’s a gentleman ye are, Misther Westbrook, and I’d like to
see the spalpeen that says ye aint,” said O’Shaughnessy, grasping the
proffered hand, and shaking it heartily.
“Yonder are the white caps of the Atlantic, rolling ahead,” said I, as
we stretched past Sandy Hook, and beheld the broad ocean opening in all
its vastness and sublimity before us.
We were now fairly afloat. At that time the enterprise in which we had
embarked was one of the greatest danger, for not only were we liable to
the usual dangers of nautical warfare, but we were, as yet, uncertain in
what manner we should be treated in case of a capture. But we were all
confident in the justness of our country’s cause, and being such, we
were prepared for either fortune.
Nearly a week elapsed without anything occurring to dissipate the
monotony of our voyage, excepting a momentary alarm at the appearance of
a frigate, which we at first took to be an English one, but which
subsequently turned out to be a Frenchman. Meanwhile, we were not
without many a merry bout in the gun-room, and over our salt junk and
Jamaica, we enjoyed ourselves as hilariously as many an epicure would
over his Burgundy and turtle-soup. The jest went round; the song was
gaily trolled; many a merry story was rehearsed, and anticipations of a
successful cruize were mingled with determinations to bear the worst, if
fortune should so will it. Under the broad flag of New York, we were
resolved “to do or die,” against the prouder ensign of an unjust, and
tyrannical king.
We had run down well nigh to the Windward islands, and were beating up
against a head wind, when we spoke a French merchantman, who informed us
that he had passed a rich Indiaman, but the day before, bound from
London to Jamaica. After enquiring the course of the Englishman, our
skipper hauled his wind, and bidding the friendly Gaul, “_un bon
voyage_,” we steered away in pursuit of our prize. Night settled down
upon us before we caught sight of her; but still crowding on all sail we
kept on in our way.
It was about eight bells in the middle watch, and I was on the point of
preparing to go below, after the relief should have been called, when I
thought I heard a rattling of cordage down in the thick bank of fog to
leeward. I listened attentively, and again heard the sound distinctly,
but this time it was like the rollicking of oars.
“Hist! Benson,” said I to the boatswain, who was standing near me at the
moment, “hist! lay your ear close to the water here, and listen if you
do not hear the sound of oars.”
The old fellow got into the main chains, and holding on with one hand to
them, cautiously leaned over and listened for several minutes.