CHAPTER I.

Produced by Simon Tarlink, Juliet Sutherland and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at

http://www.pgdpcanada.net

[Illustration: handwritten inscription--your obedient servant,

Maria Brooks.]

GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXIII. PHILADELPHIA, AUGUST, 1848. NO. 2.

THE LATE MARIA BROOKS.

BY RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD.

[WITH A PORTRAIT.]

This remarkable woman was not only one of the first writers of her

country, but she deserves to be ranked with the most celebrated

persons of her sex who have lived in any nation or age. Within the

last century woman has done more than ever before in investigation,

reflection and literary art. On the continent of Europe an Agnesi, a

Dacier and a Chastelet have commanded respect by their learning, and a

De Stael, a Dudevant and a Bremer have been admired for their genius;

in Great Britain the names of More, Burney, Barbauld, Baillie,

Somerville, Farrar, Hemans, Edgeworth, Austen, Landon, Norman and

Barrett, are familiar in the histories of literature and science; and

in our own country we turn with pride to Sedgwick, Child, Beecher,

Kirkland, Parkes Smith, Fuller, and others, who in various departments

have written so as to deserve as well as receive the general applause;

but it may be doubted whether in the long catalogue of those whose

works demonstrate and vindicate the intellectual character and

position of the sex, there are many names that will shine with a

clearer, steadier, and more enduring lustre than that of MARIA DEL

OCCIDENTE.

Maria Gowen, afterward Mrs. Brooks, upon whom this title was conferred

originally I believe by the poet Southey, was descended from a Welsh

family that settled in Charlestown, near Boston, sometime before the

Revolution. A considerable portion of the liberal fortune of her

grandfather was lost by the burning of that city in 1775, and he soon

afterward removed to Medford, across the Mystic river, where Maria

Gowen was born about the year 1795. Her father was a man of education,

and among his intimate friends were several of the professors of

Harvard College, whose occasional visits varied the pleasures of a

rural life. From this society she derived at an early period a taste

for letters and learning. Before the completion of her ninth year she

had committed to memory many passages from the best poets; and her

conversation excited special wonder by its elegance, variety and

wisdom. She grew in beauty, too, as she grew in years, and when her

father died, a bankrupt, before she had attained the age of fourteen,

she was betrothed to a merchant of Boston, who undertook the

completion of her education, and as soon as she quitted the school was

married to her. Her early womanhood was passed in commercial

affluence; but the loss of several vessels at sea in which her husband

was interested was followed by other losses on land, and years were

spent in comparitive indigence. In that remarkable book, "Idomen, or

the Vale of Yumuri," she says, referring to this period: "Our table

had been hospitable, our doors open to many; but to part with our

well-garnished dwelling had now become inevitable. We retired, with

one servant, to a remote house of meaner dimensions, and were sought

no longer by those who had come in our wealth. I looked earnestly

around me; the present was cheerless, the future dark and fearful. My

parents were dead, my few relatives in distant countries, where they

thought perhaps but little of my happiness. Burleigh I had never loved

other than as a father and protector; but he had been the benefactor

of my fallen family, and to him I owed comfort, education, and every

ray of pleasure that had glanced before me in this world. But the sun

of his energies was setting, and the faults which had balanced his

virtues increased as his fortune declined. He might live through many

years of misery, and to be devoted to him was my duty while a spark of

his life endured. I strove to nerve my heart for the worst. Still

there were moments when fortitude became faint with endurance, and

visions of happiness that might have been mine came smiling to my

imagination. I wept and prayed in agony."

In this period poetry was resorted to for amusement and consolation.

At nineteen she wrote a metrical romance, in seven cantos, but it was

never published. It was followed by many shorter lyrical pieces which

were printed anonymously; and in 1820, after favorable judgments of it

had been expressed by some literary friends, she gave to the public a

small volume entitled "Judith, Esther, and other Poems, by a Lover of

the Fine Arts." It contained many fine passages, and gave promise of

the powers of which the maturity is illustrated by "Zophiel," very

much in the style of which is this stanza:

With even step, in mourning garb arrayed,

Fair Judith walked, and grandeur marked her air;

Though humble dust, in pious sprinklings laid.

Soiled the dark tresses of her copious hair.

And this picture of a boy:

Softly supine his rosy limbs reposed,

His locks curled high, leaving the forehead bare:

And o'er his eyes the light lids gently closed,

As they had feared to hide the brilliance there.

And this description of the preparations of Esther to appear before

Ahasuerus:

"Take ye, my maids, this mournful garb away;

Bring all my glowing gems and garments fair;

A nation's fate impending hangs to-day,

But on my beauty and your duteous care."

Prompt to obey, her ivory form they lave;

Some comb and braid her hair of wavy gold;

Some softly wipe away the limpid wave

That o'er her dimply limbs in drops of fragrance rolled.

Refreshed and faultless from their hands she came,

Like form celestial clad in raiment bright;

O'er all her garb rich India's treasures flame,

In mingling beams of rainbow-colored light.

Graceful she entered the forbidden court,

Her bosom throbbing with her purpose high;

Slow were her steps, and unassured her port,

While hope just trembled in her azure eye.

Light on the marble fell her ermine tread.

And when the king, reclined in musing mood,

Lifts, at the gentle sound, his stately head,

Low at his feet the sweet intruder stood.

Among the shorter poems are several that are marked by fancy and

feeling, and a graceful versification, of one of which, an elegy,

these are the opening verses:

Lone in the desert, drear and deep,

Beneath the forest's whispering shade,

Where brambles twine and mosses creep,

The lovely Charlotte's grave is made.

But though no breathing marble there

Shall gleam in beauty through the gloom,

The turf that hides her golden hair

With sweetest desert flowers shall bloom.

And while the moon her tender light

Upon the hallowed scene shall fling,

The mocking-bird shall sit all night

Among the dewy leaves, and sing.

In 1823 Mr. Brooks died, and a paternal uncle soon after invited the

poetess to the Island of Cuba, where, two years afterward, she

completed the first canto of "Zophiel, or the Bride of Seven," which

was published in Boston in 1825. The second canto was finished in Cuba

in the opening of 1827; the third, fourth and fifth in 1828; and the

sixth in the beginning of 1829. The relative of Mrs. Brooks was now

dead, and he had left to her his coffee plantation and other property,

which afforded her a liberal income. She returned again to the United

States, and resided more than a year in the vicinity of Dartmouth

College, where her son was pursuing his studies; and in the autumn of

1830, she went to Paris, where she passed the following winter. The

curious and learned notes to "Zophiel," were written in various

places, some in Cuba, some in Hanover, some in Canada, (which she

visited during her residence at Hanover,) some at Paris, and the rest

at Keswick, in England, the home of Robert Southey, where she passed

the spring of 1831. When she quitted the hospitable home of this much

honored and much attached friend, she left with him the completed

work, which he subsequently saw through the press, correcting the

proof sheets himself, previous to its appearance in London in 1833.

The materials of this poem are universal; that is, such as may be

appropriated by every polished nation. In all the most beautiful

oriental systems of religion, including our own, may be found such

beings as its characters. The early fathers of Christianity not only

believed in them, but wrote cumbrous folios upon their nature and

attributes. It is a curious fact that they never doubted the existence

and the power of the Grecian and Roman gods, but supposed them to be

fallen angels, who had caused themselves to be worshiped under

particular forms, and for particular characteristics. To what an

extent, and to how very late a period this belief has prevailed, may

be learned from a remarkable little work of Fontenelle,[1] in which

that pleasing writer endeavors seriously to disprove that any

preternatural power was evinced in the responses of the ancient

oracles. The Christian belief in good and evil angels is too beautiful

to be laid aside. Their actual and present existence can be disproved

neither by analogy, philosophy, or theology, nor can it be questioned

without casting a doubt also upon the whole system of our religion.

This religion, by many a fanciful skeptic, has been called barren and

gloomy; but setting aside all the legends of the Jews, and confining

ourselves entirely to the generally received Scriptures, there will be

found sufficient food for an imagination warm as that of Homer,

Apelles, Phidias, or Praxiteles. It is astonishing that such rich

materials for poetry should for so many centuries have been so little

regarded, appropriated, or even perceived.

[Footnote 1: Historie des Oracles.]

The story of Zophiel, though accompanied by many notes, is simple and

easily followed. Reduced to prose, and a child, or a common novel

reader, would peruse it with satisfaction. It is in six cantos, and is

supposed to occupy the time of nine months: from the blooming of roses

at Ecbatana to the coming in of spices at Babylon. Of this time the

greater part is supposed to elapse between the second and third canto,

where Zophiel thus speaks to Egla of Phraerion:

Yet still she bloomed--uninjured, innocent--

Though now for seven sweet moons by Zophiel watched and wooed.

The king of Medea, introduced in the second canto, is an ideal

personage; but the history of that country, near the time of the

second captivity, is very confused, and more than one young prince

resembling Sardius, might have reigned and died without a record. So

much of the main story however as relates to human life is based upon

sacred or profane history; and we have sufficient authority for the

legend of an angel's passion for one of the fair daughters of our own

world. It was a custom in the early ages to style heroes, to raise to

the rank of demigods, men who were distinguished for great abilities,

qualities or actions. Above such men the angels who are supposed to

have visited the earth were but one grade exalted, and they were

capable of participating in human pains and pleasures. Zophiel is

described as one of those who fell with Lucifer, not from ambition or

turbulence, but from friendship and excessive admiration of the chief

disturber of the tranquillity of heaven: as he declares, when thwarted

by his betrayer, in the fourth canto:

Though the first seraph formed, how could I tell

The ways of guile? What marvels I believed

When cold ambition mimicked love so well

That half the sons of heaven looked on deceived!

During the whole interview in which this stanza occurs, the deceiver

of men and angels exhibits his alledged power of inflicting pain. He

says to Zophiel, after arresting his course:

"Sublime Intelligence,

Once chosen for my friend and worthy me:

Not so wouldst thou have labored to be hence,

Had my emprise been crowned with victory.

When I was bright in heaven, thy seraph eyes

Sought only mine. But he who every power

Beside, while hope allured him, could despise,

Changed and forsook me, in misfortune's hour."

To which Zophiel replies:

"Changed, and forsook thee? this from thee to me?

Once noble spirit! Oh! had not too much

My o'er fond heart adored thy fallacy,

I had not, now, been here to bear thy keen reproach;

Forsook thee in misfortune? at thy side

I closer fought as peril thickened round,

Watched o'er thee fallen: the light of heaven denied,

But proved my love more fervent and profound.

Prone as thou wert, had I been mortal-born,

And owned as many lives as leaves there be,

From all Hyrcania by his tempest torn

I had lost, one by one, and given the last for thee.

Oh! had thy plighted pact of faith been kept,

Still unaccomplished were the curse of sin;

'Mid all the woes thy ruined followers wept,

Had friendship lingered, hell could not have been."

Phraerion, another fallen angel, but of a nature gentler than that of

Zophiel, is thus introduced:

Harmless Phraerion, formed to dwell on high,

Retained the looks that had been his above;

And his harmonious lip, and sweet, blue eye,

Soothed the fallen seraph's heart, and changed his scorn to love;

No soul-creative in this being born,

Its restless, daring, fond aspirings hid:

Within the vortex of rebellion drawn,

He joined the shining ranks _as others did_.

Success but little had advanced; defeat

He thought so little, scarce to him were worse;

And, as he held in heaven inferior seat,

Less was his bliss, and lighter was his curse.

He formed no plans for happiness: content

To curl the tendril, fold the bud; his pain

So light, he scarcely felt his banishment.

Zophiel, perchance, had held him in disdain;

But, formed for friendship, from his o'erfraught soul

'Twas such relief his burning thoughts to pour

In other ears, that oft the strong control

Of pride he felt them burst, and could restrain no more.

Zophiel was soft, but yet all flame; by turns

Love, grief, remorse, shame, pity, jealousy,

Each boundless in his breast, impels or burns:

His joy was bliss, his pain was agony.

Such are the principal preter-human characters in the poem. Egla, the

heroine, is a Hebress of perfect beauty, who lives with her parents

not far from the city of Ecbatana, and has been saved, by stratagem,

from a general massacre of captives, under a former king of Medea.

Being brought before the reigning monarch to answer for the supposed

murder of Meles, she exclaims,

Sad from my birth, nay, born upon that day

When perished all my race, my infant ears

Were opened first with groans; and the first ray

I saw, came dimly through my mother's tears.

Zophiel is described throughout the poem as burning with the

admiration of virtue, yet frequently betrayed into crime by the

pursuit of pleasure. Straying accidentally to the grove of Egla, he is

struck with her beauty, and finds consolation in her presence. He

appears, however, at an unfortunate moment, for the fair Judean has

just yielded to the entreaties of her mother and assented to proposals

offered by Meles, a noble of the country; but Zophiel causes his rival

to expire suddenly on entering the bridal apartment, and his previous

life at Babylon, as revealed in the fifth canto, shows that he was not

undeserving of his doom. Despite her extreme sensibility, Egla is

highly endowed with "conscience and caution;" and she regards the

advances of Zophiel with distrust and apprehension. Meles being

missed, she is brought to court to answer for his murder. Her sole

fear is for her parents, who are the only Hebrews in the kingdom, and

are suffered to live but through the clemency of Sardius, a young

prince who has lately come to the throne, and who, like many oriental

monarchs, reserves to himself the privilege of decreeing death. The

king is convinced of her innocence, and, struck with her extraordinary

beauty and character, resolves suddenly to make her his queen. We know

of nothing in its way finer than the description which follows, of her

introduction, in the simple costume of her country, to a gorgeous

banqueting hall in which he sits with his assembled chiefs:

With unassured yet graceful step advancing,

The light vermilion of her cheek more warm

For doubtful modesty; while all were glancing

Over the strange attire that well became such form

To lend her space the admiring band gave way;

The sandals on her silvery feet were blue;

Of saffron tint her robe, as when young day

Spreads softly o'er the heavens, and tints the trembling dew.

Light was that robe as mist; and not a gem

Or ornament impedes its wavy fold,

Long and profuse; save that, above its hem,

'Twas broidered with pomegranate-wreath, in gold.

And, by a silken cincture, broad and blue,

In shapely guise about the waste confined,

Blent with the curls that, of a lighter hue,

Half floated, waving in their length behind;

The other half, in braided tresses twined,

Was decked with rose of pearls, and sapphires azure too,

Arranged with curious skill to imitate

The sweet acacia's blossoms; just as live

And droop those tender flowers in natural state;

And so the trembling gems seemed sensitive,

And pendent, sometimes touch her neck; and there

Seemed shrinking from its softness as alive.

And round her arms, flour-white and round and fair,

Slight bandelets were twined of colors five,

Like little rainbows seemly on those arms;

None of that court had seen the like before,

Soft, fragrant, bright--so much like heaven her charms,

It scarce could seem idolatry to adore.

He who beheld her hand forgot her face;

Yet in that face was all beside forgot;

And he who, as she went, beheld her pace,

And locks profuse, had said, "nay, turn thee not."

Idaspes, the Medean vizier, or prime minister, has reflected on the

maiden's story, and is alarmed for the safety of his youthful

sovereign, who consents to some delay and experiment, but will not be

dissuaded from his design until five inmates of his palace have fallen

dead in the captive's apartment. The last of these is Altheetor, a

favorite of the king, (whose Greek name is intended to express his

qualities,) and the circumstances of his death, and the consequent

grief of Egla and despair of Zophiel, are painted with a beauty, power

and passion scarcely surpassed.

Touching his golden harp to prelude sweet,

Entered the youth, so pensive, pale, and fair;

Advanced respectful to the virgin's feet,

And, lowly bending down, made tuneful parlance there.

Like perfume, soft his gentle accents rose,

And sweetly thrilled the gilded roof along;

His warm, devoted soul no terror knows,

And truth and love lend fervor to his song.

She hides her face upon her couch, that there

She may not see him die. No groan--she springs

Frantic between a hope-beam and despair,

And twines her long hair round him as he sings.

Then thus: "O! being, who unseen but near,

Art hovering now, behold and pity me!

For love, hope, beauty, music--all that's dear,

Look, look on me, and spare my agony!

Spirit! in mercy make not me the cause,

The hateful cause, of this kind being's death!

In pity kill me first! He lives--he draws--

Thou wilt not blast?--he draws his harmless breath!"

Still lives Altheetor; still unguarded strays

One hand o'er his fallen lyre; but all his soul

Is lost--given up. He fain would turn to gaze,

But cannot turn, so twined. Now all that stole

Through every vein, and thrilled each separate nerve,

Himself could not have told--all wound and clasped

In her white arms and hair. Ah! can they serve

To save him? "What a sea of sweets!" he gasped,

But 'twas delight: sound, fragrance, all were breathing.

Still swelled the transport: "Let me look and thank:"

He sighed (celestial smiles his lips enwreathing,)

"I die--but ask no more," he said, and sank;

Still by her arms supported--lower--lower--

As by soft sleep oppressed; so calm, so fair,

He rested on the purple tapestried floor,

It seemed an angel lay reposing there.

And Zophiel exclaims,

"He died of love, or the o'er-perfect joy

Of being pitied--prayed for--pressed by thee.

O! for the fate of that devoted boy

I'd sell my birthright to eternity.

I'm not the cause of this thy last distress.

Nay! look upon thy spirit ere he flies!

Look on me once, and learn to hate me less!"

He said; and tears fell fast from his immortal eyes.

Beloved and admired at first, Egla becomes an object of hatred and

fear; for Zophiel being invisible to others her story is discredited,

and she is suspected of murdering by some baleful art all who have

died in her presence. She is, however, sent safely to her home, and

lives, as usual, in retirement with her parents. The visits of Zophiel

are now unimpeded. He instructs the young Jewess in music and poetry;

his admiration and affection grow with the hours; and he exerts his

immortal energies to preserve her from the least pain or sorrow, but

selfishly confines her as much as possible to solitude, and permits

for her only such amusements as he himself can minister. Her

confidence in him increases, and in her gentle society he almost

forgets his fall and banishment.

But the difference in their natures causes him continual anxiety;

knowing her mortality, he is always in fear that death or sudden

blight will deprive him of her; and he consults with Phraerion on the

best means of saving her from the perils of human existence. One

evening,

Round Phraerion, nearer drawn,

One beauteous arm he flung: "First to my love!

We'll see her safe; then to our task till dawn."

Well pleased, Phraerion answered that embrace;

All balmy he with thousand breathing sweets,

From thousand dewy flowers. "But to what place,"

He said, "will Zophiel go? who danger greets

As if 'twere peace. The palace of the gnome,

Tahathyam, for our purpose most were meet;

But then, the wave, so cold and fierce, the gloom,

The whirlpools, rocks, that guard that deep retreat!

Yet _there_ are fountains, which no sunny ray

E'er danced upon, and drops come there at last,

Which, for whole ages, filtering all the way,

Through all the veins of earth, in winding maze have past.

These take from mortal beauty every stain,

And smooth the unseemly lines of age and pain,

With every wondrous efficacy rife;

Nay, once a spirit whispered of a draught,

Of which a drop, by any mortal quaffed,

Would save, for terms of years, his feeble, flickering life."

Tahathyam is the son of a fallen angel, and lives concealed in the

bosom of the earth, guarding in his possession a vase of the elixir of

life, bequeathed to him by a father whom he is not permitted to see.

The visit of Zophiel and Phraerion to this beautiful but unhappy

creature will remind the reader of the splendid creations of Dante.

The soft flower-spirit shuddered, looked on high,

And from his bolder brother would have fled;

But then the anger kindling in that eye

He could not bear. So to fair Egla's bed

Followed and looked; then shuddering all with dread,

To wondrous realms, unknown to men, he led;

Continuing long in sunset course his flight,

Until for flowery Sicily he bent;

Then, where Italia smiled upon the night,

Between their nearest shores chose midway his descent.

The sea was calm, and the reflected moon

Still trembled on its surface; not a breath

Curled the broad mirror. Night had passed her noon;

How soft the air! how cold the depths beneath!

The spirits hover o'er that surface smooth,

Zophiel's white arm around Phraerion's twined,

In fond caresses, his tender cares to soothe,

While either's nearer wing the other's crossed behind.

Well pleased, Phraerion half forgot his dread,

And first, with foot as white as lotus leaf,

The sleepy surface of the waves essayed;

But then his smile of love gave place to drops of grief.

How could he for that fluid, dense and chill,

Change the sweet floods of air they floated on?

E'en at the touch his shrinking fibres thrill;

But ardent Zophiel, panting, hurries on,

And (catching his mild brother's tears, with lip

That whispered courage 'twixt each glowing kiss,)

Persuades to plunge: limbs, wings, and locks they dip;

Whate'er the other's pains, the lover felt but bliss.

Quickly he draws Phraerion on, his toil

Even lighter than he hoped: some power benign

Seems to restrain the surges, while they boil

'Mid crags and caverns, as of his design

Respectful. That black, bitter element,

As if obedient to his wish, gave way;

So, comforting Phraerion, on he went,

And a high, craggy arch they reach at dawn of day,

Upon the upper world; and forced them through

That arch, the thick, cold floods, with such a roar,

That the bold sprite receded, and would view

The cave before he ventured to explore.

Then, fearful lest his frighted guide might part

And not be missed amid such strife and din,

He strained him closer to his burning heart,

And, trusting to his strength, rushed fiercely in.

On, on, for many a weary mile they fare;

Till thinner grew the floods, long, dark and dense,

From nearness to earth's core; and now, a glare

Of grateful light relieved their piercing sense;

As when, above, the sun his genial streams

Of warmth and light darts mingling with the waves,

Whole fathoms down; while, amorous of his beams,

Each scaly, monstrous thing leaps from its slimy caves.

And now, Phraerion, with a tender cry,

Far sweeter than the land-bird's note, afar

Heard through the azure arches of the sky,

By the long-baffled, storm-worn mariner:

"Hold, Zophiel! rest thee now--our task is done,

Tahathyam's realms alone can give this light!

O! though it is not the life-awakening sun,

How sweet to see it break upon such fearful night!"

Clear grew the wave, and thin; a substance white,

The wide-expanding cavern floors and flanks;

Could one have looked from high how fair the sight!

Like these, the dolphin, on Bahaman banks,

Cleaves the warm fluid, in his rainbow tints,

While even his shadow on the sands below

Is seen; as through the wave he glides, and glints,

Where lies the polished shell, and branching corals grow.

No massive gate impedes; the wave, in vain,

Might strive against the air to break or fall;

And, at the portal of that strange domain,

A clear, bright curtain seemed, or crystal wall.

The spirits pass its bounds, but would not far

Tread its slant pavement, like unbidden guest;

The while, on either side, a bower of spar

Gave invitation for a moment's rest.

And, deep in either bower, a little throne

Looked so fantastic, it were hard to know

If busy nature fashioned it alone,

Or found some curious artist here below.

Soon spoke Phraerion: "Come, Tahathyam, come,

Thou know'st me well! I saw thee once to love;

And bring a guest to view thy sparkling dome

Who comes full fraught with tidings from above."

Those gentle tones, angelically clear,

Past from his lips, in mazy depths retreating,

(As if that bower had been the cavern's ear,)

Full many a stadia far; and kept repeating,

As through the perforated rock they pass,

Echo to echo guiding them; their tone

(As just from the sweet spirit's lip) at last

Tahathyam heard: where, on a glittering throne he solitary sat.

Sending through the rock an answering strain, to give the spirits

welcome, the gnome prepares to meet them at his palace-door:

He sat upon a car, (and the large pearl,

Once cradled in it, glimmered now without,)

Bound midway on two serpents' backs, that curl

In silent swiftness as he glides about.

A shell, 'twas first in liquid amber wet,

Then ere the fragrant cement hardened round,

All o'er with large and precious stones 'twas set

By skillful Tsavaven, or made or found.

The reins seemed pliant crystal (but their strength

Had matched his earthly mother's silken band)

And, flecked with rubies, flowed in ample length,

Like sparkles o'er Tahathyam's beauteous hand.

The reptiles, in their fearful beauty, drew,

As if from love, like steeds of Araby;

Like blood of lady's lip their scarlet hue;

Their scales so bright and sleek, 'twas pleasure but to see,

With open mouths, as proud to show the bit,

They raise their heads, and arch their necks--(with eye

As bright as if with meteor fire 'twere lit;)

And dart their barbed tongues, 'twixt fangs of ivory.

These, when the quick advancing sprites they saw

Furl their swift wings, and tread with angel grace

The smooth, fair pavement, checked their speed in awe,

And glided far aside as if to give them space.

The errand of the angels is made known to the sovereign of this

interior and resplendent world, and upon conditions the precious

elixir is promised; but first Zophiel and Phraerion are ushered

through sparry portals to a banquet.

High towered the palace and its massive pile,

Made dubious if of nature or of art,

So wild and so uncouth; yet, all the while,

Shaped to strange grace in every varying part.

And groves adorned it, green in hue, and bright,

As icicles about a laurel-tree;

And danced about their twigs a wonderous light;

Whence came that light so far beneath the sea?

Zophiel looked up to know, and to his view

The vault scarce seemed less vast than that of day;

No rocky roof was seen; a tender blue

Appeared, as of the sky, and clouds about it play:

And, in the midst, an orb looked as 'twere meant

To shame the sun, it mimicked him so well.

But ah! no quickening, grateful warmth it sent;

Cold as the rock beneath, the paly radiance fell.

Within, from thousand lamps the lustre strays.

Reflected back from gems about the wall;

And from twelve dolphin shapes a fountain plays,

Just in the centre of a spacious hall;

But whether in the sunbeam formed to sport,

These shapes once lived in supleness and pride,

And then, to decorate this wonderous court,

Were stolen from the waves and petrified;

Or, moulded by some imitative gnome,

And scaled all o'er with gems, they were but stone,

Casting their showers and rainbows 'neath the dome.

To man or angel's eye might not be known.

No snowy fleece in these sad realms was found,

Nor silken ball by maiden loved so well;

But ranged in lightest garniture around,

In seemly folds, a shining tapestry fell.

And fibres of asbestos, bleached in fire,

And all with pearls and sparkling gems o'erflecked,

Of that strange court composed the rich attire,

And such the cold, fair form of sad Tahathyam decked.

Gifted with every pleasing endowment, in possession of an elixir of

which a drop perpetuates life and youth, surrounded by friends of his

own choice, who are all anxious to please and amuse him, the gnome

feels himself inferior in happiness to the lowest of mortals. His

sphere is confined, his high powers useless, for he is without the

"last, best gift of God to man," and there is no object on which he

can exercise his benevolence. The feast is described with the terse

beauty which marks all the canto, and at its close--

The banquet-cups, of many a hue and shape,

Bossed o'er with gems, were beautiful to view;

But, for the madness of the vaunted grape,

Their only draught was a pure limpid dew,

The spirits while they sat in social guise,

Pledging each goblet with an answering kiss,

Marked many a gnome conceal his bursting sighs;

And thought death happier than a life like this.

But they had music; at one ample side

Of the vast arena of that sparkling hall,

Fringed round with gems, that all the rest outvied.

In form of canopy, was seen to fall

The stony tapestry, over what, at first,

An altar to some deity appeared;

But it had cost full many a year to adjust

The limpid crystal tubes that 'neath upreared

Their different lucid lengths; and so complete

Their wondrous 'rangement, that a tuneful gnome

Drew from them sounds more varied, clear, and sweet,

Than ever yet had rung in any earthly dome.

Loud, shrilly, liquid, soft; at that quick touch

Such modulation wooed his angel ears

That Zophiel wondered, started from his couch

And thought upon the music of the spheres.

But Zophiel lingers with ill-dissembled impatience and Tahathyam leads

the way to where the elixir of life is to be surrendered.

Soon through the rock they wind; the draught divine

Was hidden by a veil the king alone might lift.

Cephroniel's son, with half-averted face

And faltering hand, that curtain drew, and showed,

Of solid diamond formed, a lucid vase;

And warm within the pure elixir glowed;

Bright red, like flame and blood, (could they so meet,)

Ascending, sparkling, dancing, whirling, ever

In quick perpetual movement; and of heat

So high, the rock was warm beneath their feet,

(Yet heat in its intenseness hurtful never,)

Even to the entrance of the long arcade

Which led to that deep shrine, in the rock's breast

As far as if the half-angel were afraid

To know the secret he himself possessed.

Tahathyam filled a slip of spar, with dread,

As if stood by and frowned some power divine;

Then trembling, as he turned to Zophiel, said,

"But for one service shall thou call it thine:

Bring me a wife; as I have named the way;

(I will not risk destruction save for love!)

Fair-haired and beauteous like my mother; say--

Plight me this pact; so shalt thou bear above,

For thine own purpose, what has here been kept

Since bloomed the second age, to angels dear.

Bursting from earth's dark womb, the fierce wave swept

Off every form that lived and loved, while here,

Deep hidden here, I still lived on and wept."

Great pains have evidently been taken to have every thing throughout

the work in keeping. Most of the names have been selected for their

particular meaning. Tahathyam and his retinue appear to have been

settled in their submarine dominion before the great deluge that

changed the face of the earth, as is intimated in the lines last

quoted; and as the accounts of that judgment, and of the visits and

communications of angels connected with it, are chiefly in Hebrew,

they have names from that language. It would have been better perhaps

not to have called the persons of the third canto "gnomes," as at this

word one is reminded of all the varieties of the Rosicrucian system,

of which Pope has so well availed himself in the Rape of the Lock,

which sprightly production has been said to be derived, though

remotely, from Jewish legends of fallen angels. Tahathyam can be

called gnome only on account of the retreat to which his erring father

has consigned him.

The spirits leave the cavern, and Zophiel exults a moment, as if

restored to perfect happiness. But there is no way of bearing his

prize to the earth except through the most dangerous depths of the

sea.

Zophiel, with toil severe,

But bliss in view, through the thrice murky night,

Sped swiftly on. A treasure now more dear

He had to guard, than boldest hope had dared

To breathe for years; but rougher grew the way;

And soft Phraerion, shrinking back and scared

At every whirling depth, wept for his flowers and day.

Shivered, and pained, and shrieking, as the waves

Wildly impel them 'gainst the jutting rocks;

Not all the care and strength of Zophiel saves

His tender guide from half the wildering shocks

He bore. The calm, which favored their descent,

And bade them look upon their task as o'er,

Was past; and now the inmost earth seemed rent

With such fierce storms as never raged before.

Of a long mortal life had the whole pain

Essenced in one consummate pang, been borne,

Known, and survived, its still would be in vain

To try to paint the pains felt by these sprites forlorn.

The precious drop closed in its hollow spar,

Between his lips Zophiel in triumph bore.

Now, earth and sea seem shaken! Dashed afar

He feels it part;--'tis dropt;--the waters roar,

He sees it in a sable vortex whirling,

Formed by a cavern vast, that 'neath the sea,

Sucks the fierce torrent in.

The furious storm has been raised by the power of his betrayer and

persecutor, and in gloomy desperation Zophiel rises with the frail

Phraerion to the upper air:

Black clouds, in mass deform,

Were frowning; yet a moment's calm was there,

As it had stopped to breathe awhile the storm.

Their white feet pressed the desert sod; they shook

From their bright locks the briny drops; nor stayed

Zophiel on ills, present or past, to look.

But his flight toward Medea is stayed by a renewal of the tempest--

Loud and more loud the blast; in mingled gyre,

Flew leaves and stones; and with a deafening crash

Fell the uprooted trees; heaven seemed on fire--

Not, as 'tis wont, with intermitting flash,

But, like an ocean all of liquid flame,

The whole broad arch gave one continuous glare,

While through the red light from their prowling came

The frighted beasts, and ran, but could not find a lair.

At length comes a shock, as if the earth crashed against some other

planet, and they are thrown amazed and prostrate upon the heath.

Zophiel,

Too fierce for fear, uprose; yet ere for flight in a mood

Served his torn wings, a form before him stood

In gloomy majesty. Like starless night,

A sable mantle fell in cloudy fold

From its stupendous breast; and as it trod

The pale and lurid light at distance rolled

Before its princely feet, receding on the sod.

The interview between the bland spirit and the prime cause of his

guilt is full of the energy of passion, and the rhetoric of the

conversation has a masculine beauty of which Mrs. Brooks alone of all

the poets of her sex is capable.

Zophiel returns to Medea and the drama draws to a close, which is

painted with consummate art. Egla wanders alone at twilight in the

shadowy vistas of a grove, wondering and sighing at the continued

absence of the enamored angel, who approaches unseen while she sings a

strain that he had taught her.

His wings were folded o'er his eyes; severe

As was the pain he'd borne from wave and wind,

The dubious warning of that being drear,

Who met him in the lightning, to his mind

Was torture worse; a dark presentiment

Came o'er his soul with paralyzing chill,

As when Fate vaguely whispers her intent

To poison mortal joy with sense of coming ill.

He searched about the grove with all the care

Of trembling jealousy, as if to trace

By track or wounded flower some rival there;

And scarcely dared to look upon the face

Of her he loved, lest it some tale might tell

To make the only hope that soothed him vain:

He hears her notes in numbers die and swell,

But almost fears to listen to the strain

Himself had taught her, lest some hated name

Had been with that dear gentle air enwreathed.

While he was far; she sighed--he nearer came,

Oh, transport! Zophiel was the name she breathed.

He saw her--but

Paused, ere he would advance, for very bliss.

The joy of a whole mortal life he felt

In that one moment. Now, too long unseen,

He fain had shown his beauteous form, and knelt

But while he still delayed, a mortal rushed between.

This scene is in the sixth canto. In the fifth, which is occupied

almost entirely by mortals, and bears a closer relation than the

others to the chief works in narrative and dramatic poetry, are

related the adventures of Zameia, which, with the story of her death,

following the last extract, would make a fine tragedy. Her misfortunes

are simply told by an aged attendant who had fled with her in pursuit

of Meles, whom she had seen and loved in Babylon. At the feast of

Venus Mylitta,

Full in the midst, and taller than the rest,

Zameia stood distinct, and not a sigh

Disturbed the gem that sparkled on her breast;

Her oval cheek was heightened to a dye

That shamed the mellow vermeil of the wreath

Which in her jetty locks became her well,

And mingled fragrance with her sweeter breath,

The while her haughty lips more beautifully swell

With consciousness of every charm's excess;

While with becoming scorn she turned her face

From every eye that darted its caress,

As if some god alone might hope for her embrace.

Again she is discovered, sleeping, by the rocky margin of a river:

Pallid and worn, but beautiful and young,

Though marked her charms by wildest passion's trace;

Her long round arms, over a fragment flung,

From pillow all too rude protect a face,

Whose dark and high arched brows gave to the thought

To deem what radiance once they towered above;

But all its proudly beauteous outline taught

That anger there had shared the throne of love.

It was Zameia that rushed between Zophiel and Egla, and that now with

quivering lip, disordered hair, and eye gleaming with frenzy, seized

her arm, reproached her with the murder of Meles, and attempted to

kill her. But as her dagger touches the white robe of the maiden her

arm is arrested by some unseen power, and she falls dead at Egla's

feet. Reproached by her own handmaid and by the aged attendant of the

princess, Egla feels all the horrors of despair, and, beset with evil

influences, she seeks to end her own life, but is prevented by the

timely appearance of Raphael, in the character of a traveler's guide,

leading Helon, a young man of her own nation and kindred who has been

living unknown at Babylon, protected by the same angel, and destined

to be her husband; and to the mere idea of whose existence, imparted

to her in a mysterious and vague manner by Raphael, she has remained

faithful from her childhood.

Zophiel, who by the power of Lucifer has been detained struggling in

the grove, is suffered once more to enter the presence of the object

of his affection. He sees her supported in the arms of Helon, whom he

makes one futile effort to destroy, and then is banished forever. The

emissaries of his immortal enemy pursue the baffled seraph to his

place of exile, and by their derision endeavor to augment his misery,

And when they fled he hid him in a cave

Strewn with the bones of some sad wretch who there,

Apart from men, had sought a desert grave,

And yielded to the demon of despair.

There beauteous Zophiel, shrinking from the day,

Envying the wretch that so his life had ended,

Wailed his eternity;

But, at last, is visited by Raphael, who gives him hopes of

restoration to his original rank in heaven.

The concluding canto is entitled "The Bridal of Helon," and in the

following lines it contains much of the author's philosophy of life:

The bard has sung, God never formed a soul

Without its own peculiar mate, to meet

Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole

Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete!

But thousand evil things there are that hate

To look on happiness; these hurt, impede,

And, leagued with time, space, circumstance, and fate,

Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine and pant and bleed.

And as the dove to far Palmyra flying,

From where her native founts of Antioch beam,

Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing,

Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream;

So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert faring,

Love's pure, congenial spring unfound, unquaffed,

Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty and despairing

Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught.

On consulting "Zophiel," it will readily be seen that the passages

here extracted have not been chosen for their superior poetical merit.

It has simply been attempted by quotations and a running commentary to

convey a just impression of the scope and character of the work. There

is not perhaps in the English language a poem containing a greater

variety of thought, description and incident, and though the author

did not possess in an eminent degree the constructive faculty, there

are few narratives that are conducted with more regard to unities, or

with more simplicity and perspicuity.

Though characterized by force and even freedom of expression, it does

not contain an impure or irreligious sentiment. Every page is full of

passion, but passion subdued and chastened by refinement and delicacy.

Several of the characters are original and splendid creations. Zophiel

seems to us the finest fallen angel that has come from the hand of a

poet. Milton's outcasts from heaven are utterly depraved and abraded

of their glory; but Zophiel has traces of his original virtue and

beauty, and a lingering hope of restoration to the presence of the

Divinity. Deceived by the specious fallacies of an immortal like

himself, and his superior in rank, he encounters the blackest perfidy

in him for whom so much had been forfeited, and the blight of every

prospect that had lured his fancy or ambition. Egla, though one of the

most important characters in the poem, is much less interesting. She

is represented as heroically consistent, except when given over for a

moment to the malice of infernal emissaries. In her immediate

reception of Helon as a husband, she is constant to a long cherished

idea, and fulfills the design of her guardian spirit, or it would

excite some wonder that Zophiel was worsted in such competition. It

will be perceived upon a careful examination that the work is in

admirable keeping, and that the entire conduct of its several persons

bears a just relation to their characters and position.

Mrs. Brooks returned to the United States, and her son being now a

student in the military academy, she took up her residence in the

vicinity of West Point, where, with occasional intermissions in which

she visited her plantation in Cuba or traveled in the United States,

she remained until 1839. Her marked individuality, the variety, beauty

and occasional splendor of her conversation, made her house a favorite

resort of the officers of the academy, and of the most accomplished

persons who frequented that romantic neighborhood, by many of whom she

will long be remembered with mingled affection and admiration.

In 1834 she caused to be published in Boston an edition of "Zophiel,"

for the benefit of the Polish exiles who were thronging to this

country after their then recent struggle for freedom. There were at

that time too few readers among us of sufficiently cultivated and

independent taste to appreciate a work of art which time or accident

had not commended to the popular applause, and "Zophiel" scarcely

anywhere excited any interest or attracted any attention. At the end

of a month but about twenty copies had been sold, and, in a moment of

disappointment, Mrs. Brooks caused the remainder of the impression to

be withdrawn from the market. The poem has therefore been little read

in this country, and even the title of it would have remained unknown

to the common reader of elegant literature but for occasional

allusions to it by Southey and other foreign critics.[2]

In the summer of 1843, while Mrs. Brooks was residing at Fort

Columbus, in the bay of New York,--a military post at which her son,

Captain Horace Brooks, was stationed several years--she had printed

for private circulation the remarkable little work to which allusion

has already been made, entitled "Idomen, or the Vale of the Yumuri."

It is in the style of a romance, but contains little that is

fictitious except the names of the characters. The account which

Idomen gives of her own history is literally true, except in relation

to an excursion to Niagara, which occurred in a different period of

the author's life. It is impossible to read these interesting

"confessions" without feeling a profound interest in the character

which they illustrate; a character of singular strength, dignity and

delicacy, subjected to the severest tests, and exposed to the most

curious and easy analysis. "To see the inmost soul of one who bore all

the impulse and torture of self-murder without perishing, is what can

seldom be done: very few have memories strong enough to retain a

distinct impression of past suffering, and few, though possessed of

such memories, have the power of so describing their sensations as to

make them apparent to another." "Idomen" will possess an interest and

value as a psychological study, independent of that which belongs to

it as a record of the experience of so eminent a poet.

Mrs. Brooks was anxious to have published an edition of all her

writings, including "Idomen," before leaving New York, and she

authorized me to offer gratuitously her copyrights to an eminent

publishing house for that purpose. In the existing condition of the

copyright laws, which should have been entitled acts for the

discouragement of a native literature, she was not surprised that the

offer was declined, though indignant that the reason assigned should

have been that they were "of too elevated a character to sell."

Writing to me soon afterward she observed, "I do not think any thing

from my humble imagination can be 'too elevated,' or elevated enough,

for the public as it really is in these North American States.... In

the words of poor Spurzheim, (uttered to me a short time before his

death, in Boston,) I solace myself by saying, 'Stupidity! stupidity!

the knowledge of that alone has saved me from misanthropy.'"

[Footnote 2: Maria del Occidente--otherwise, we believe, Mrs.

Brooks--is styled in "The Doctor," &c. "the most impassioned and most

imaginative of all poetesses." And without taking into account _quaedam

ardentiora_ scattered here and there throughout her singular poem,

there is undoubtedly ground for the first clause, and, with the more

accurate substitution of "fanciful" for "imaginative" for the whole of

the eulogy. It is altogether an extraordinary performance.--_London

Quarterly Review._]

In December, 1843, Mrs. Brooks sailed the last time from her native

country for the Island of Cuba. There, on her coffee estate, Hermita,

she renewed for a while her literary labors. The small stone building,

smoothly plastered, with a flight of steps leading to its entrance, in

which she wrote some of the cantos of "Zophiel," is described by a

recent traveler[3] as surrounded by alleys of "palms, cocoas, and

oranges, interspersed with the tamarind, the pomegranate, the mangoe,

and the rose-apple, with a back ground of coffee and plantains

covering every portion of the soil with their luxuriant verdure. I

have often passed it," he observes, "in the still night, when the moon

was shining brightly, and the leaves of the cocoa and palm threw

fringe-like shadows on the walls and the floor, and the elfin lamps of

the cocullos swept through the windows and door, casting their lurid,

mysterious light on every object, while the air was laden with mingled

perfume from the coffee and orange, and the tube-rose and

night-blooming ceres, and have thought that no fitter birth-place

could be found for the images she has created."

Her habits of composition were peculiar. With an almost unconquerable

aversion to the use of the pen, especially in her later years, it was

her custom to finish her shorter pieces, and entire cantos of longer

poems, before committing a word of them to paper. She had long

meditated, and had partly composed, an epic under the title of

"Beatriz, the Beloved of Columbus," and when transmitting to me the

MS. of "The Departed," in August, 1844, she remarked: "When I have

written out my 'Vistas del Infierno' and one other short poem, I hope

to begin the penning of the epic I have so often spoken to you of; but

when or whether it will ever be finished, Heaven alone can tell." I

have not learned whether this poem was written, but when I heard her

repeat passages of it, I thought it would be a nobler work than

"Zophiel."

Mrs. Brooks died at Patricio, in Cuba, near the close of December,

1844.

I have no room for particular criticism of her minor poems. They will

soon I trust be given to the public in a suitable edition, when it

will be discovered that they are heart-voices, distinguished for the

same fearlessness of thought and expression which is illustrated by

the work which has been considered in this brief reviewal.

The accompanying portrait is from a picture by Mr. Alexander, of

Boston, and though the engraver has very well preserved the details

and general effect of the painting, it does little justice to the fine

intellectual expression of the subject. It was a fancy of Mr.

Southey's that induced her to wear in her hair the passion-flower,

which that poet deemed the fittest emblem of her nature.

[Footnote 3: The author of "Notes on Cuba." Boston, 1844.]

THE CRUISE OF THE RAKER.

A TALE OF THE WAR OF 1812-15.

BY HENRY A. CLARK.

CHAPTER I.

_The Departure of the Privateer._

It was a dark and cloudy afternoon near the close of the war of

1812-15. A little vessel was scudding seaward before a strong

sou'wester, which lashed the bright waters of the Delaware till its

breast seemed a mimic ocean, heaving and swelling with tiny waves. As

the sky and sea grew darker and darker in the gathering shades of

twilight, the little bark rose upon the heavy swell of the ocean, and

meeting Cape May on its lee-beam, shot out upon the broad waste of

waters, alone in its daring course, seeming like the fearless bird

which spreads its long wings amid the fury of the storm and the

darkness of the cloud.

Upon the deck, near the helm, stood the captain, whom we introduce to

our readers as George Greene, captain of the American privater, Raker.

He was a weather-bronzed, red-cheeked, sturdy-built personage, with a

dark-blue eye, the same in color as the great sea over which it was

roving with an earnest and careful glance, rather as if in search of a

strange sail, than in apprehension of the approaching storm. His

countenance denoted firmness and resolution, which he truly possessed

in an extraordinary degree, and his whole appearance was that of a

hardy sailor accustomed to buffet with the storm and laugh at the

fiercest wave.

It was evident that a bad night was before them, and there were some

on board the little privateer who thought they had better have

remained inside the light-house of Cape May, than ventured out upon

the sea. The heavy masses of black clouds which were piled on the edge

of the distant horizon seemed gradually gathering nearer and nearer,

as if to surround and ingulf the gallant vessel, which sped onward

fearlessly and proudly, as if conscious of its power to survive the

tempest, and bide the storm.

Captain Greene's eye was at length attracted by the threatening aspect

of the sky, and seizing his speaking-trumpet he gave the orders of

preparation, which were the more promptly executed inasmuch as they

had been anxiously awaited.

"Lay aloft there, lads, and in with the fore to'gallant-sail and

royal--down with the main gaff top-sail!--bear a hand, lads, a norther

on the Banks is no plaything! Clear away both cables, and see them

bent to the anchors--let's have all snug--lower the flag from the

gaff-peak, and send up the storm-pennant, there--now we are ready."

A thunder-storm at sea is perhaps the sublimest sight in nature,

especially when attended with the darkness and mystery of night. The

struggling vessel plunges onward into the deep blackness, like a blind

and unbridled war-horse. All is dark--fearfully dark. Stand with me,

dear reader, here in the bow of the ship! make fast to that halliard,

and share with me in the glorious feelings engendered by the storm

which is now rioting over the waters and rending the sky. We hear the

fierce roar of the contending surges, yet we see them not. We hear the

quivering sails and strained sheets, creaking and fluttering like

imprisoned spirits, above and around us, but all is solemnly

invisible; now, see in the distant horizon the faint premonitory flush

of light, preceding the vivid lightning flash--now, for a moment,

every thing--sky--water--sheet--shroud and spar are glowing with a

brilliancy that exceedeth the brightness of day--the sky is a broad

canopy of golden radiance, and the waves are crested with a red and

fiery surge, that reminds you of your conception of the "lake of

burning fire and brimstone." We feel the dread--the vast sublimity of

the breathless moment, and while the mighty thoughts and tumultuous

conceptions are striving for form and order of utterance within our

throbbing breasts--again all is dark--sadly, solemnly dark. Is not the

scene--is not the hour, truly sublime?

There was one at least on board the little Raker, who felt as we

should have felt, dear reader--a sense of exultation, mingled with

awe. It is upon the ocean that man learns his own weakness, and his

own strength--he feels the light vessel trembling beneath him, as if

it feared dissolution--he hears the strained sheets moaning in almost

conscious agony--he sees the great waves dashing from stem to stern in

relentless glee, and he feels that he is a sport and a plaything in

the grasp of a mightier power; he learns his own insignificance. Yet

the firm deck remains--the taut sheets and twisted halliards give not

away; and he learns a proud reliance on his own skill and might, when

he finds that with but a narrow hold between him and death, he can

outride the storm, and o'ermaster the wave.

Such were the thoughts which filled the mind of Henry Morris, as he

stood by the side of Captain Greene on the quarter-deck of the Raker;

as he stood with his left arm resting on the main-boom, and his

gracefully turned little tarpaulin thrown back from a broad, high

forehead, surrounded by dark and clustering curls, and with his black,

brilliant eyes lighted up with the enthusiasm of thought, he presented

a splendid specimen of an American sailor. The epaulette upon his

shoulder denoted that he was an officer; he was indeed second in

command in the privateer. He was a native of New Jersey, and his

father had been in Revolutionary days one of the "Jarsey Blues," as

brave and gallant men as fought in that glorious struggle.

"Well, Harry," said Captain Greene, "it's a dirty night, but I'll turn

in a spell, and leave you in command."

"Ay, ay, sir."

Captain Greene threw out a huge quid of tobacco which had rested for

some time in his mouth, walked the deck a few times fore and aft,

gaped as if his jaws were about to separate forever, and then

disappeared through the cabin-door.

Henry Morris, though an universal favorite with the crew and officers

under his command, was yet a strict disciplinarian, and being left in

command of the deck at once went the rounds of the watch, to see that

all were on the look out. The night had far advanced before he saw any

remissness; at length, however, he discovered a brawny tar stowed away

in a coil of rope, snoring in melodious unison with the noise of the

wind and wave; his mouth was open, developing an amazing

circumference. Morris looked at him for some time, when, with a smile,

he addressed a sailor near him.

"I say, Jack Marlinspike!"

"Ay, ay, sir."

"Jack, get some oakum."

Jack speedily brought a fist-full.

"Now, Jack, some _slush_."

Jack dipped the oakum in the slush-bucket which hung against the

main-mast.

"Now, Jack, a little tar."

The mixture was immediately dropped into the tar-bucket.

"Now, Jack, stow it away in Pratt's mouth--don't wake him up--'tis a

delicate undertaking, but he sleeps soundly."

"Lord! a stroke of lightning wouldn't wake him--ha! ha! ha! he'll

dream he is eating his breakfast!"

With a broad grin upon his weather-beaten face, Marlinspike proceeded

to obey orders. He placed the execrable compound carefully in Pratt's

mouth, and plugged it down, as he called it, with the end of his

jack-knife, then surveying his work with a complacent laugh, he

touched his hat, and withdrew a few paces to bide the event.

Pratt breathed hard, but slept on, though the melody of his snoring

was sadly impaired in the clearness of its utterance.

Morris gazed at him quietly, and then sung out,

"Pratt--Pratt--what are you lying there wheezing like a porpoise for?

Get up, man, your watch is not out."

The sailor opened his eyes with a ludicrous expression of fright, as

he became immediately conscious of a peculiar feeling of difficulty in

breathing--thrusting his huge hand into his mouth, he hauled away upon

its contents, and at length found room for utterance.

"By heaven, just tell me who did that 'ar nasty trick--that's all."

At this moment he caught sight of Marlinspike, who was looking at him

with a grin extending from ear to ear. Without further remark, Pratt

let the substance which he had held in his hand fly at Marlinspike's

head; that individual, however, dodged very successfully, and it

disappeared to leeward.

Pratt was about to follow up his first discharge with an assault from

a pair of giant fists, but the voice of his commander restrained him.

"Ah, Pratt! somebody has been fooling you--you must look out for the

future."

Pratt immediately knew from the peculiar tone of the voice which

accompanied this remark who was the real author of the joke, and

turned to his duty with the usual philosophy of a sailor, at the same

time filling his mouth with nearly a whole hand of tobacco, to take

the taste out, as he said. He did not soon sleep upon his watch again.

As the reader will perceive, Lieut. Morris was decidedly fond of a

joke, as, indeed, is every sailor.

The storm still raged onward as day broke over the waters; the little

Raker was surrounded by immense waves which heaved their foaming spray

over the vessel from stem to stern.

Yet all on board were in good spirits; all had confidence in the

well-tried strength of their bark, and the joke and jest went round as

gayly and carelessly as if the wind were only blowing a good stiff

way.

"Here, you snow-ball," cried Jack Marlinspike, to the black cook, who

had just emptied his washings overboard, and was tumbling back to his

galley as well as the uneasy motion of the vessel would allow; "here,

snow-ball."

"Well, massa--what want?"

"Haint we all told you that you mustn't empty nothing over to windward

but hot water and ashes--all else must go to leeward?"

"Yes, Massa."

"Well, recollect it now; go and empty your ash-pot, so you'll learn

how."

"Yes, massa."

Cuffy soon appeared with his pot, which he capsized as directed, and

got his eyes full of the dust.

"O, Lord! O, Lord! I see um now; I guess you wont catch dis child that

way agin."

"Well, well, Cuffy! we must all learn by experience."

"Gorry, massa, guess I wont try de hot water!"

"Well, I wouldn't, Cuff. Now hurry up the pork--you've learnt

something this morning."

Such was the spirit of the Raker's crew, as they once more stretched

out upon the broad ocean. It was their third privateering trip, and

they felt confident of success, as they had been unusually fortunate

in their previous trips. The crew consisted of but twenty men, but all

were brave and powerful fellows, and all actuated by a true love of

country, as well as prompted by a desire for gain. A long thirty-two

lay amidships, carefully covered with canvas, which also concealed a

formidable pile of balls. Altogether, the Raker, though evidently

built entirely for speed, seemed also a vessel well able to enter

into an engagement with any vessel of its size and complement.

As the middle day approached the clouds arose and scudded away to

leeward like great flocks of wild geese, and the bright sun once more

shone upon the waters, seeming to hang a string of pearls about the

dark crest of each subsiding wave. All sail was set aboard the Raker,

which stretched out toward mid ocean, with the stars and stripes

flying at her peak, the free ocean beneath, and her band of gallant

hearts upon her decks, ready for the battle or the breeze.

CHAPTER II.

_The Merchant Brig._

Two weeks later than the period at which we left the Raker, a handsome

merchant vessel, with all sail set, was gliding down the English

channel, bound for the East Indies. The gentle breeze of a lovely

autumnal morning scarcely sufficed to fill the sails, and the vessel

made but little progress till outside the Lizard, when a freer wind

struck it, and it swept oceanward with a gallant pace, dashing aside

the waters, and careering gracefully as a swan upon the wave. Its

armament was of little weight, and it seemed evident that its voyage,

as far as any design of the owners was concerned, was to be a peaceful

one. England at that time had become the undisputed mistress of the

ocean; and even the few splendid victories obtained by the gallant

little American navy, had failed as yet to inspire in the bosoms of

her sailors, any feeling like that of fear or of caution; and Captain

Horton, of the merchantman Betsy Allen, smoked his pipe, and drank his

glass as unconcernedly as if there were no such thing as an American

privateer upon the ocean.

The passengers in the vessel, which was a small brig of not more than

a hundred and forty tons, were an honest merchant of London, Thomas

Williams by name, and his daughter, a lovely girl of seventeen. Mr.

Williams had failed in business, but through the influence of friends

had obtained an appointment from the East India Company, and was now

on his way to take his station. He was a blunt and somewhat unpolished

man, but kind in heart as he was frank in speech.

Julia Williams was a fair specimen of English beauty; she was tall,

yet so well developed, that she did not appear slight or angular, and

withal so gracefully rounded was every limb, that any less degree of

fullness would have detracted from her beauty. She was full of ardor

and enterprise, not easily appalled by danger, and properly confident

in her own resources, yet there was no unfeminine expression of

boldness in her countenance, for nothing could be softer, purer, or

more delicate, than the outlines of her charming features. There were

times when, roused by intense emotion, she seemed queen-like in her

haughty step and majestic beauty, yet in her calmer mind, her retiring

and modest demeanor partook more of a womanly dependence than of the

severity of command.

Julia was seated on the deck beside her father, in the grateful shade

of the main-mast, gazing upon the green shores which they had just

passed, now fast fading in the distance, while the chalky cliffs which

circle the whole coast of England, began to stand out in bold relief

upon the shore.

"Good-bye to dear England, father!" said the beautiful girl; "shall we

ever see it again?"

"_You_ may, dear Julia, probably _I_ never shall."

"Well, let us hope that we may."

"Yes, we will hope, it will be a proud day for me, if it ever come,

when I go back to London and pay my creditors every cent I owe them,

when no man shall have reason to curse me for the injury I have done

him, however unintentional."

"No man will do so now, dear father, no one but knows you did all you

could to avert the calamity, and when it came, surrendered all your

property to meet the demands of your creditors. You did all that an

honest man should do, father; and you can have no reason to reproach

yourself."

"True, girl, true! I do not; yet I hate to think that I, whose name

was once as good as the bank, should now owe, when I cannot

pay--that's all; a bad feeling, but a few years in India may make all

right again."

"O, yes! but, father, it is time for you to take your morning glass.

You know you wont feel well if you forget it."

"Never fear my forgetting that; my stomach always tell me, and I know

by that when it is 11 o'clock, A.M., as well as by my time-piece."

"Well, John, bring Mr. Williams his morning glass."

Julia spoke to their servant, a worthy, clever fellow, who had long

lived in their family, and would not leave it now. He had never been

upon the ocean before, and already began to be sea-sick. He however

managed to reach the cabin-door, and after a long time returned with

the glass, which he got to his master's hand, spilling half its

contents on the way.

"There, master, I haint been drinking none on't, but this plaguey ship

is so dommed uneasy, I can't walk steady, and I feels very sick, I

does; I think I be's going to die."

"You are only a little sea-sick, John."

"Not so dommed little, either."

"You are not yet used to your new situation, John; in a few days

you'll be quite a sailor."

"Will I though? Well, the way I feels now, I'd just as lief die as

not--oh!--ugh"--and John rushed to the gunwale.

"Heave yo!" sung out a jolly tar; "pitch your cargo overboard. You'll

sail better if you lighten ship."

"Dom this ere sailing--ugh--I will die."

Thus resolving, John laid himself down by the galley, and closed his

eyes with a heroic determination.

Such an event, as might be expected, was a great joke to the crew--a

land-lubber at sea being with sailors always a fair butt, and poor

John's misery was aggravated by their, as it seemed to him, unfeeling

remarks, yet he was so far gone that he could only faintly "dom them."

His master, who knew that he would soon be well, made no attempt to

relieve him; and John was for some time unmolested in his vigorous

attempt to die.

He was aroused at length by the same tar who had first noticed his

sickness,

"I say, lubber, are you sick?"

"Yes, dom sick."

"Well, I expect you've got to die, there's only one thing that'll save

you--get up and follow me to the cock-pit."

John attempted to rise, but now really unwell, he was not able to

stir. His kind physician calling a brother tar to his aid, they

assisted John below.

"There, now, you lubber, I'm going to cure you, if you'll only foller

directions."

John merely grunted.

"Here's some raw pork, and some grog, though it's a pity to waste grog

on such a lubber--now, you must eat as if you'd never ate before, if

you don't, you are a goner."

John very faintly uttered, that he couldn't "eat a dom bit."

"Then you'll die, and the fishes will eat YOU."

John shuddered, "Well, I'll try."

So saying, he downed one of the pieces of pork, which as speedily came

up again.

"Now drink, and be quick about it, or I shall drink it for you."

With much exertion they made John eat and drink heartily, after which

they left him to sleep awhile.

The following morning John appeared on deck again, exceedingly pale to

be sure, but entirely recovered from his sea-sickness, and with a

feeling of fervent gratitude toward the sailor, who, as he fancied,

had saved his valuable life.

Nothing occurred to interrupt the peaceful monotony of life aboard the

little craft for the following ten days: before a good breeze they had

made much way in their voyage, and all on board were pleased with

prosperous wind and calm sea and sky.

On the morning of the following day, however, the cry from the

mast-head of "sail ho!" aroused all on board to a feeling of interest.

"Where away?"

"Right over the lee-bow."

"What do you make of her?"

"Square to'sails, queer rig--flag, can't see it."

"O! captain," said Julia, "can't you go near enough to speak it?"

"Of course I _could_, 'cause it's right on the lee, but whether I'd

better or not is quite another thing."

"The captain knows best, my dear," said the merchant.

"Certainly, but I should so like to see some other faces besides those

which are about us every day."

"If you are tired already, my pretty lady," said Captain Horton, "I

wonder what you'll be before we get to the Indies."

"Heigh-ho," sighed the fair lady.

"Mast-head there," shouted Captain Horton.

"Ay, ay, sir."

"What do you make of her _now_?"

"Nothing yet, sir; we are overhauling her fast though."

In a short time the top-sails of the strange vessel became visible

from the deck.

"Ah! she's hove in sight, has she?" said Captain Horton. "I'll see

what I can make of her," and seizing his glass he ascended the

fore-ratlins, nearly to the cross-trees, and after a long and steady

survey of the approaching vessel, in which survey he also included the

whole horizon, he descended with a thoughtful countenance, muttering

to himself, "I was a little afraid of it."

"Well captain," inquired Julia, "is it an English vessel?"

"May be 't is--can't tell where 't was built."

"Can't you see the flag?"

"Can't make it out yet."

"Captain Horton," exclaimed the merchant, who had been watching his

countenance from the moment he had descended the ratlins, "you _do_

know something about that vessel, I am sure."

Captain Horton interrupted him by an earnest glance toward Julia,

which the fair girl herself noticed.

"O! be not afraid to say any thing before me, captain. I am not easily

frightened, and if you have to fight I will help you."

The bright eyes of the girl as she spoke grew brighter, and her little

hand was clenched as if it held a sword.

Casting a glance of admiration toward the beautiful girl, Captain

Horton leisurely filled his pipe from his waistcoat pocket, and

replied as he lit it--

"Well, I'm inclined to think it's what we call a pirate, my fair

lady."

"A pirate," sung out John, "a pirate, boo-hoo! oh dear! we shall all

be ravaged and cooked, and eaten. O dear! why didn't I marry Susan

Thompson, and go to keeping an inn--boo-hoo!"

"John," said his master, "be still, or if you must cry, go below."

The servant made a manly effort, and managed to repress his

ejaculations, but could not keep back the large tears which followed

each other down his cheeks in rapid succession.

"Can't you run from her, captain?" asked the merchant.

"Have you no guns aboard?" inquired Julia.

"I see you are for fighting the rascals, Miss Julia, and I own that

would be the pleasantest course for me; but you see, we can't do it.

The company don't allow their vessels enough fire-arms to beat off a

brig half their own size--there's no way but to run for it, and these

rascals always have a swift craft--generally a Baltimore clipper,

which is just the fastest and prettiest vessel in the world, if those

pesky Yankees do build them--but the Betsy Allen aint a slow craft,

and we'll do the best we can to show 'em a clean pair of heels."

"You are to windward of them, captain," said Julia.

"Yes, that's true; but these clippers sail right in the teeth of the

wind; see, now, how they've neared us--ahoy!--all hands ahoy!"

"Ay, ay, sir."

"'Bout ship, my boys--let go the jibs--lively, boys; now the fore

peak-halyards. There she is--that throws the strange sail right

astern; and a stern chase is a long chase."

Three or four hours of painful anxiety succeeded, when it became

evident even to the unpracticed eyes of Julia and her father, that the

strange vessel was slowly but surely overhauling them. Yet the brave

girl showed none of the usual weakness of her sex, and even encouraged

her father, who, though himself a brave man, yet trembled as he

thought of the probable fate of his daughter. As for poor John, that

unfortunate individual was so completely beside himself, that he

wandered from one part of the vessel to the other, asking each sailor

successively what his opinion of the chances of escape might be, and

what treatment they might expect from the pirates after they were

taken. As may be imagined, he received little consolation from the

hardy tars, who, although themselves well aware of their probable

fate, yet had been too long schooled in danger to show fear before the

peril was immediately around them, and were each pursuing the duties

of their several stations, very much as if only threatened with the

usual dangers of the voyage. The unmanly fears of John even induced

them to play upon his anxiety, and magnify his terror.

"Why, John," said his old friend, who had so scientifically cured him

of his sea-sickness, and toward whom John evinced a kind of filial

reverence, placing peculiar reliance upon every thing said by the

worthy tar, "why, John, they will make us all walk the plank."

"Will they--O, dear me! and what is that, does it hurt a fellow?"

"O, no! he dies easy."

"Dies! oh, lud!"

"Why, yes! you know what walking the plank is, don't yer?"

"No I don't. O, dear!"

"Well, they run a plank over the side of the ship, and ask you very

politely to walk out to the end of it."

"O, lud! and don't they let a body hold on?"

"And then when you get to the end of it, why, John, it naturally

follers that it tips up, and lets you into the sea."

"And don't they help you out?"

"No, no, John! I aint joking now, by my honor; that's the end of a

man, and that's where we shall go to if they get hold of us."

"O, dear me! what did I come to sea for? Well, but s'posin you wont go

out on the plank, wouldn't it do just to tell 'em you'd rather not,

perlitely, you know--perliteness goes a great way."

"They just blow your brains out with a pistol, that's all."

"O, lud!"

"Yes, John, that's the way they use folks."

"The bloody villains! and have we all got to walk the plank? Oh! dear

Miss Julia, and all?"

"No, no, John, not her; poor girl, it would be better if she had"--and

the kind-hearted tar brushed away a tear with his tawny hand.

"What! don't they kill the women, then?"

"No, no, John, they lets them live."

A sudden light shone in the eyes of John; it was the first happy

expression that had flitted across his countenance since the strange

sail had been discovered, and the fearful word, pirate, had fallen

upon his ears.

"I have it--I have it!"

"What, John?"

But John danced off, leaving the sailor to wonder at the sudden

metamorphosis in the feelings of the cockney.

"Well, that's a queer son of a lubber; I wonder what he's after now."

John, in the meantime, approached Julia, and in a very mysterious

manner desired a few moments private conversation with her.

"Why, John, what can you want?" She had been no woman, if, however,

her curiosity to learn the motive of so strange a request from her

servant had not induced her to listen to him.

"Miss Julia," commenced John, "I've discovered a way in which we can

all be saved alive by these bloody pirates, after they catch us; by

all, I mean you and your father, and I, and the captain, if he's a

mind to."

"Well, what is it, John?"

"I'll tell you, Miss Julia. Dick Halyard says they only kill the

men--they makes all them walk the plank, which is--"

"I know what it is," said Julia, with a slight shudder.

"Well, they saves all the women, out o' respect for the weaker sex.

Now, Miss Julia."

"Why, John!"

"But I know it's so, 'cause Dick Halyard told me all about it; now you

see if you'll only let me take one of your dresses--I wont hurt it

none; and then your father can take another, and we'll get clear of

the bloody villains--wont it be great?"

Julia could not repress a laugh even in the midst of the melancholy

thoughts which involuntarily arose in her mind during the elucidation

of John's plan of escape; she could not, however, explain the

difficulties in the way of its successful issue to the self-satisfied

expounder, and finding no other more convenient way of closing the

conversation, she told him he should have a woman's dress, with all

the necessary accompaniments.

John was delighted.

"You'll tell your father, Miss Julia, wont you? O, Lud! we'll cheat

the bloody fellows yet; I'll go and curl my hair."

Julia returned to her father's side, and silently watched the strange

sail, which was evidently drawing nearer, as her dark hull had shown

itself above the waters.

"We have but one chance of escape left," exclaimed Captain Horton; "if

we can elude them during the night, all will be well; if to-morrow's

sun find us in sight, we shall inevitably fall into their hands."

Night gradually settled over the deep, and when the twilight had

passed, and all was dark, the lights of the pirate brig were some five

miles to leeward. Her blood-red flag had been run up to the fore-peak,

as if in mockery of the prey the pirates felt sure could not escape

them--and the booming noise of a heavy gun had reached the ears of the

fugitives, as if to signal their predestined doom. Yet the calm, round

moon looked down upon the gloomy waters with the same serene

countenance that had gazed into their bosom for thousands of years,

and trod upward on her starry pathway with the same queenly pace; yet,

perchance, in her own domains contention and strife, animosity and

bloodshed were rife; perchance the sound of tumultuous war, even then,

was echoing among her mountains, and staining her streams with gore.

[_To be continued._

THE SOUL'S DREAM.

BY GEORGE H. BOKER.

Like an army with its banners, onward marched the mighty sun,

To his home in triumph hastening, when the hard-fought field was won;

While the thronging clouds hung proudly o'er the victor's bright array,

Gold and red and purple pennons, welcoming the host of day.

Gazing on the glowing pageant, slowly fading from the air,

Closed my mind its heavy eyelids, nodding o'er the world of care;

And the soaring thoughts came fluttering downward to their tranquil nest,

Folded up their wearied pinions, sinking one by one to rest.

Till a deep, o'ermastering slumber seemed to wrap my very soul,

And a gracious dream from Heaven, treading lightly, to me stole:

Downward from its plumes ethereal, on my thirsting bosom flowed

Dews which to the land of spirits all their mystic virtue owed.

And when touched that potent essence, Time divided as a cloud,

From the Past, the Present, Future rolled aside oblivion's shroud;

And Life's hills and vales far-stretching full before my vision lay,

Seeming but an isle of shadow in Eternity's broad day.

On the Past I bent my glances, saw the gentle, guileless child

Face to face with God conversing, and the awful Presence smiled--

Smiled a glory on the forehead of the simple-hearted one,

And the radiance, back reflected, cast a splendor round the throne.

Saw the boy, by Heaven instructed through earth's mute, symbolic forms,

Drinking wisdom with his senses, which the higher nature warms;

Saw that purer knowledge mingled with the worldling's base alloy,

And the passions' foul impression stamped upon his face of joy.

O, I cried to God in anguish, is this boasted wisdom vain,

For which I, by night and sunshine, tax my overwearied brain;

Till, alas! grown too familiar with the thoughts that knock at Heaven,

I would further pierce the mystery than to mortal eye is given?

Is the learning of our childhood, is the pure and easy lore

Speaking in a heart unsullied, better than the vaunted store

Heaped, like ice, to chill and harden every faculty save mind,

By the hand of haughty Science, sometimes wandering, sometimes blind?

But no answer reached my senses; for my feeble voice was lost,

When the Future came in darkness, like a rushing armed host;

Shouting cries of fear and danger, shouting words of hope and cheer,

Racking me with threat and promise, ever coming, never here.

Then my spirit stretched its vision, prying in the doubtful gloom,

Half a glimpse to me was given o'er Time's boundary-stone--the tomb.

With a shriek, like that which rises from a sinking, night-wrecked bark,

Burst my soul the bounds of slumber, and the world and I were dark!

While the dull and leaden Present on my palsied spirit pressed,

Till the soaring thoughts rose upward, bounding from their earthly rest;

Shaking down the golden dew-drops from their pinions proud and strong,

And the cares of life fell from me, fading in the realm of Song.

THE MAID OF BOGOTA.

A TALE FROM COLOMBIAN HISTORY.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.

Whenever the several nations of the earth which have achieved their

deliverance from misrule and tyranny shall point, as they each may, to

the fair women who have taken active part in the cause of liberty, and

by their smiles and services have contributed in no measured degree to

the great objects of national defence and deliverance, it will be with

a becoming and just pride only that the Colombians shall point to

their virgin martyr, commonly known among them as La Pola, the Maid of

Bogota. With the history of their struggle for freedom her story will

always be intimately associated; her tragical fate, due solely to the

cause of her country, being linked with all the touching interest of

the most romantic adventure. Her spirit seemed to be woven of the

finest materials. She was gentle, exquisitively sensitive, and capable

of the most true and tender attachments. Her mind was one of rarest

endowments, touched to the finest issues of eloquence, and gifted with

all the powers of the improvisatrice, while her courage and patriotism

seem to have been cast in those heroic moulds of antiquity from which

came the Cornelias and Deborahs of famous memory. Well had it been for

her country had the glorious model which she bestowed upon her people

been held in becoming homage by the race with which her destiny was

cast--a race masculine only in exterior, and wanting wholly in that

necessary strength of soul which, rising to the due appreciation of

the blessings of national freedom, is equally prepared to make, for

its attainment, every necessary sacrifice of self; and yet our heroine

was but a child in years--a lovely, tender, feeble creature, scarcely

fifteen years of age. But the soul grows rapidly to maturity in some

countries, and in the case of women, it is always great in its youth,

if greatness is ever destined to be its possession.

Dona Apolenaria Zalabariata--better known by the name of La Pola--was

a young girl, the daughter of a good family of Bogota, who was

distinguished at an early period, as well for her great gifts of

beauty as of intellect. She was but a child when Bolivar first

commenced his struggles with the Spanish authorities, with the

ostensible object of freeing his country from their oppressive

tyrannies. It is not within our province to discuss the merits of his

pretensions as a deliverer, or of his courage and military skill as a

hero. The judgment of the world and of time has fairly set at rest

those specious and hypocritical claims, which, for a season, presumed

to place him on the pedestal with our Washington. We now know that he

was not only a very selfish, but a very ordinary man--not ordinary,

perhaps, in the sense of intellect, for that would be impossible in

the case of one who was so long able to maintain his eminent

position, and to succeed in his capricious progresses, in spite of

inferior means, and a singular deficiency of the heroic faculty. But

his ambition was the vulgar ambition, and, if possible, something

still inferior. It contemplated his personal wants alone; it lacked

all the elevation of purpose which is the great essential of

patriotism, and was wholly wanting in that magnanimity of soul which

delights in the sacrifice of self, whenever such sacrifice promises

the safety of the single great purpose which it professes to desire.

But we are not now to consider Bolivar, the deliverer, as one whose

place in the pantheon has already been determined by the unerring

judgment of posterity. We are to behold him only with those eyes in

which he was seen by the devoted followers to whom he brought, or

appeared to bring, the deliverance for which they yearned. It is with

the eyes of the passionate young girl, La Pola, the beautiful and

gifted child, whose dream of country perpetually craved the republican

condition of ancient Rome, in the days of its simplicity and virtue;

it is with her fancy and admiration that we are to crown the _ideal_

Bolivar, till we acknowledge him, as he appears to her, the Washington

of the Colombians, eager only to emulate the patriotism, and to

achieve like success with his great model of the northern confederacy.

Her feelings and opinions, with regard to the Liberator, were those of

her family. Her father was a resident of Bogota, a man of large

possessions and considerable intellectual acquirements. He gradually

passed from a secret admiration of Bolivar to a warm sympathy with his

progress, and an active support--so far as he dared, living in a city

under immediate and despotic Spanish rule--of all his objects. He

followed with eager eyes the fortunes of the chief, as they fluctuated

between defeat and victory in other provinces, waiting anxiously the

moment when the success and policy of the struggle should bring

deliverance, in turn, to the gates of Bogota. Without taking up arms

himself, he contributed secretly from his own resources to supplying

the coffers of Bolivar with treasure, even when his operations were

remote--and his daughter was the agent through whose unsuspected

ministry the money was conveyed to the several emissaries who were

commissioned to receive it. The duty was equally delicate and

dangerous, requiring great prudence and circumspection; and the skill,

address and courage with which the child succeeded in the execution of

her trusts, would furnish a frequent lesson for older heads and the

sterner and the bolder sex.

La Pola was but fourteen years old when she obtained her first glimpse

of the great man in whose cause she had already been employed, and of

whose deeds and distinctions she had heard so much. By the language

of the Spanish tyranny, which swayed with iron authority over her

native city, she heard him denounced and execrated as a rebel and

marauder, for whom an ignominious death was already decreed by the

despotic viceroy. This language, from such lips, was of itself

calculated to raise its object favorably in her enthusiastic sight. By

the patriots, whom she had been accustomed to love and venerate, she

heard the same name breathed always in whispers of hope and affection,

and fondly commended, with tearful blessings, to the watchful care of

Heaven. She was now to behold with her own eyes this individual thus

equally distinguished by hate and homage in her hearing. Bolivar

apprised his friends in Bogota that he should visit them in secret.

That province, ruled with a fearfully strong hand by Zamano, the

viceroy, had not yet ventured to declare itself for the republic. It

was necessary to operate with caution; and it was no small peril which

Bolivar necessarily incurred in penetrating to its capital, and laying

his snares, and fomenting insurrection beneath the very hearth-stones

of the tyrant. It was to La Pola's hands that the messenger of the

Liberator confided the missives that communicated this important

intelligence to her father. She little knew the contents of the billet

which she carried him in safety, nor did he confide them to the child.

He himself did not dream the precocious extent of that enthusiasm

which she felt almost equally in the common cause, and in the person

of its great advocate and champion. Her father simply praised her care

and diligence, rewarded her with his fondest caresses, and then

proceeded with all quiet despatch to make his preparations for the

secret reception of the deliverer. It was at midnight, and while a

thunder-storm was raging, that he entered the city, making his way,

agreeably to previous arrangement, and under select guidance, into the

inner apartments of the house of Zalabariata. A meeting of the

conspirators--for such they were--of head men among the patriots of

Bogota, had been contemplated for his reception. Several of them were

accordingly in attendance when he came. These were persons whose

sentiments were well known to be friendly to the cause of liberty, who

had suffered by the hands, or were pursued by the suspicions of

Zamano, and who, it was naturally supposed, would be eagerly alive to

every opportunity of shaking off the rule of the oppressor. But

patriotism, as a philosophic sentiment, to be indulged after a good

dinner, and discussed phlegmatically, if not classically, over sherry

and cigars, is a very different sort of thing from patriotism as a

principle of action, to be prosecuted as a duty, at every peril,

instantly and always, to the death, if need be. Our patriots at Bogota

were but too frequently of the contemplative, the philosophical order.

Patriotism with them was rather a subject for eloquence than use. They

could recall those Utopian histories of Greece and Rome which furnish

us with ideals rather than facts, and sigh for names like those of

Cato, and Brutus, and Aristides. But more than this did not seem to

enter their imaginations as at all necessary to assert the character

which it pleased them to profess, or maintain the reputation which

they had prospectively acquired for the very commendable virtue which

constituted their ordinary theme. Bolivar found them cold. Accustomed

to overthrow and usurpation, they were now slow to venture property

and life upon the predictions and promises of one who, however perfect

in their estimation as a patriot, had yet suffered from most

capricious fortunes. His past history, indeed, except for its

patriotism, offered but very doubtful guarantees in favor of the

enterprise to which they were invoked. Bolivar was artful and

ingenious. He had considerable powers of eloquence--was specious and

persuasive; had an oily and bewitching tongue, like Balial; and if not

altogether capable of making the worse appear the better cause, could

at least so shape the aspects of evil fortune, that, to the

unsuspicious nature, they would seem to be the very results aimed at

by the most deliberate arrangement and resolve. But Bolivar, on this

occasion, was something more than ingenious and persuasive, he was

warmly earnest, and passionately eloquent. In truth, he was excited

much beyond his wont. He was stung to indignation by a sense of

disappointment. He had calculated largely on this meeting, and it

promised now to be a failure. He had anticipated the eager enthusiasm

of a host of brave and noble spirits ready to fling out the banner of

freedom to the winds, and cast the scabbard from the sword forever.

Instead of this, he found but a little knot of cold, irresolute men,

thinking only of the perils of life which they should incur, and the

forfeiture and loss of property which might accrue from any hazardous

experiments. Bolivar spoke to them in language less artificial and

much more impassioned than was his wont. He was a man of impulse

rather than of thought or principle, and, once aroused, the intense

fire of a southern sun seemed to burn fiercely in all his words and

actions. His speech was heard by other ears than those to which it was

addressed. The shrewd mind of La Pola readily conjectured that the

meeting at her father's house, at midnight, and under peculiar

circumstances, contemplated some extraordinary object. She was aware

that a tall, mysterious stranger had passed through the court, under

the immediate conduct of her father himself. Her instinct divined in

this stranger the person of the deliverer, and her heart would not

suffer her to lose the words, or if possible to obtain, to forego the

sight of the great object of its patriotic worship. Beside, she had a

right to know and to see. She was of the party, and had done them

service. She was yet to do them more. Concealed in an adjoining

apartment--a sort of oratory, connected by a gallery with the chamber

in which the conspirators were assembled--she was able to hear the

earnest arguments and passionate remonstrances of the Liberator. They

confirmed all her previous admiration of his genius and character. She

felt with indignation the humiliating position which the men of Bogota

held in his eyes. She heard their pleas and scruples, and listened

with a bitter scorn to the thousand suggestions of prudence, the

thousand calculations of doubt and caution with which timidity seeks

to avoid precipitating a crisis. She could listen and endure no

longer. The spirit of the improvisatrice was upon her. Was it also

that of fate and a higher Providence? She seized the guitar, of which

she was the perfect mistress, and sung even as her soul counseled and

the exigency of the event demanded. Our translation of her lyrical

overflow is necessarily a cold and feeble one.

It was a dream of freedom--

A mocking dream, though bright--

That showed the men of Bogota

All arming for the fight;

All eager for the hour that wakes

The thunders of redeeming war,

And rushing forth with glittering steel,

To join the bands of Bolivar.

My soul, I said, it cannot be

That Bogota shall be denied

Her Arismendi, too--her chief

To pluck her honor up, and pride;

The wild Llanero boasts his braves

That, stung with patriot wrath and shame,

Rushed redly to the realm of graves,

And rose, through blood and death, to fame.

How glads mine ear with other sounds,

Of freemen worthy these, that tell!

Ribas, who felt Caraccas' wounds,

And for her hope and triumph fell;

And that young hero, well beloved,

Giraldat, still a name for song;

Piar, Marino, dying soon,

But, for the future, living long.

Oh! could we stir with other names,

The cold, deaf hearts that hear us now,

How would it bring a thousand shames,

In fire, to each Bogotian's brow!

How clap in pride Grenada's hands;

How glows Venezuela's heart;

And how, through Cartagena's lands,

A thousand chiefs and hero's start.

Paez, Sodeno, lo! they rush,

Each with his wild and Cossack rout;

A moment feels the fearful hush,

A moment hears the fearful shout!

They heed no lack of arts and arms,

But all their country's perils feel,

And sworn for freedom, bravely break,

The glitering legions of Castile.

I see the gallant Roxas grasp

The towering banner of her sway;

And Monagas, with fearful clasp,

Plucks down the chief that stops the way;

The reckless Urdaneta rides,

Where rives the earth the iron hail;

Nor long the Spanish foeman bides,

The stroke of old Zaraza's flail.

Oh, generous heroes! how ye rise!

How glow your states with equal fires!

'Tis there Valencia's banner flies,

And there Cumana's soul aspires;

There, on each hand, from east to west,

From Oronook to Panama,

Each province bares its noble breast,

Each hero--save in Bogota!

At the first sudden gush of the music from within, the father of the

damsel started to his feet, and with confusion in his countenance, was

about to leave the apartment. But Bolivar arrested his footsteps, and

in a whisper, commanded him to be silent and remain. The conspirators,

startled, if not alarmed, were compelled to listen. Bolivar did so

with a pleased attention. He was passionately fond of music, and this

was of a sort at once to appeal to his objects and his tastes. His eye

kindled as the song proceeded. His heart rose with an exulting

sentiment. The moment, indeed, embodied one of his greatest

triumphs--the tribute of a pure, unsophisticated soul, inspired by

Heaven with the happiest and highest endowments, and by earth with the

noblest sentiments of pride and country. When the music ceased,

Zalabariata was about to apologize, and to explain, but Bolivar again

gently and affectionately arrested his utterance.

"Fear nothing," said he. "Indeed, why should you fear? I am in the

greater danger here, if there be danger for any; and I would as soon

place my life in the keeping of that noble damsel, as in the arms of

my mother. Let her remain, my friend; let her hear and see all; and

above all, do not attempt to apologize for her. She is my ally. Would

that she could make these _men_ of Bogota feel with herself--feel as

she makes even me to feel."

The eloquence of the Liberator received a new impulse from that of the

improvisatrice. He renewed his arguments and entreaties in a different

spirit. He denounced, in yet bolder language than before, that

wretched pusillanimity which quite as much, he asserted, as the

tyranny of the Spaniard, was the cause under which the liberties of

the country groaned and suffered.

"And now, I ask," he continued, passionately, "men of Bogota, if ye

really purpose to deny yourselves all share in the glory and peril of

the effort which is for your own emancipation? Are your brethren of

the other provinces to maintain the conflict in your behalf, while,

with folded hands, you submit, doing nothing for yourselves? Will you

not lift the banner also? Will you not draw sword in your own honor,

and the defence of your fire-sides and families. Talk not to me of

secret contributions. It is your manhood, not your money, that is

needful for success. And can you withhold yourselves while you profess

to hunger after that liberty for which other men are free to peril

all--manhood, money, life, hope, every thing but honor and the sense

of freedom. But why speak of peril in this. Peril is every where. It

is the inevitable child of life, natural to all conditions--to repose

as well as action, to the obscurity which never goes abroad, as well

as to that adventure which forever seeks the field. You incur no more

peril in openly braving your tyrant, all together as one man, than you

do thus tamely sitting beneath his footstool, and trembling forever

lest his capricious will may slay as it enslaves. Be you but true to

yourselves--openly true--and the danger disappears as the night-mists

that speed from before the rising sun. There is little that deserves

the name of peril in the issue which lies before us. We are more than

a match, united, and filled with the proper spirit, for all the forces

that Spain can send against us. It is in our coldness that she

warms--in our want of unity that she finds strength. But even were we

not superior to her in numbers--even were the chances all wholly and

decidedly against us--I still cannot see how it is that you hesitate

to draw the sword in so sacred a strife--a strife which consecrates

the effort, and claims Heaven's sanction for success. Are your souls

so subdued by servitude; are you so accustomed to bonds and tortures,

that these no longer irk and vex your daily consciousness? Are you so

wedded to inaction that you cease to feel? Is it the frequency of the

punishment that has made you callous to the ignominy and the pain?

Certainly your viceroy gives you frequent occasion to grow reconciled

to any degree of hurt and degradation. Daily you behold, and I hear,

of the exactions of this tyrant--of the cruelties and the murders to

which he accustoms you in Bogota. Hundreds of your friends and

kinsmen, even now, lie rotting in the common prisons, denied equally

your sympathies and every show of justice, perishing, daily, under the

most cruel privations. Hundreds have perished by this and other modes

of torture, and the gallows and garote seem never to be unoccupied.

Was it not the bleaching skeleton of the venerable Hermano, whom I

well knew for his wisdom and patriotism, which I beheld, even as I

entered, hanging in chains over the gateway of your city? Was he not

the victim of his wealth and love of country? Who among you is secure?

He dared but to deliver himself as a man, and as he was suffered to

stand alone, he was destroyed. Had you, when he spoke, but prepared

yourselves to act, flung out the banner of resistance to the winds,

and bared the sword for the last noble struggle, Hermano had not

perished, nor were the glorious work only now to be begun. But which

of you, involved in the same peril with Hermano, will find the friend,

in the moment of his need, to take the first step for his rescue? Each

of you, in turn, having wealth to tempt the spoiler, will be sure to

need such friendship. It seems you do not look for it among one

another--where, then, do you propose to find it? Will you seek for it

among the Cartagenians--among the other provinces--to Bolivar

_without_? Vain expectation, if you are unwilling to peril any thing

for yourselves _within_! In a tyranny so suspicious and so reckless as

is yours, you must momentarily tremble lest ye suffer at the hands of

your despot. True manhood rather prefers any peril which puts an end

to this state of anxiety and fear. Thus to tremble with apprehension

ever, is ever to be dying. It is a life of death only which ye

live--and any death or peril that comes quickly at the summons, is to

be preferred before it. If, then, ye have hearts to feel, or hopes to

warm ye--a pride to suffer consciousness of shame, or an ambition that

longs for better things--affections for which to covet life, or the

courage with which to assert and to defend your affections, ye cannot,

ye will not hesitate to determine, with souls of freemen, upon what is

needful to be done. Ye have but one choice as men; and the question

which is left for ye to resolve, is that which determines, not your

possessions, not even your lives, but simply your rank and stature in

the world of humanity and man."

The Liberator paused, not so much through his own or the exhaustion of

the subject, as that his hearers should in turn be heard. But with

this latter object his forbearance was profitless. There were those

among them, indeed, who had their answers to his exhortations, but

these were not of a character to promise boldly for their patriotism

or courage. Their professions, indeed, were ample, but were confined

to unmeaning generalities. "Now is the time, now!" was the response of

Bolivar to all that was said. But they faltered and hung back at every

utterance of his spasmodically uttered "now! now!" He scanned their

faces eagerly, with a hope that gradually yielded to despondency.

Their features were blank and inexpressive, as their answers had been

meaningless or evasive. Several of them were of that class of quiet

citizens, unaccustomed to any enterprises but those of trade, who are

always slow to peril wealth by a direct issue with their despotism.

They felt the truth of Bolivar's assertions. They knew that their

treasures were only so many baits and lures to the cupidity and

exactions of the royal emissaries, but they still relied on their

habitual caution and docility to keep terms with the tyranny at which

they yet trembled. When, in the warmth of his enthusiasm, Bolivar

depicted the bloody struggles which must precede their deliverance,

they began indeed to wonder among themselves how they ever came to

fall into that mischievous philosophy of patriotism which had involved

them with such a restless rebel as Bolivar! Others of the company were

ancient hidalgos, who had been men of spirit in their day, but who had

survived the season of enterprise, which is that period only when the

heart swells and overflows with full tides of warm and impetuous

blood.

"Your error," said he, in a whisper to Senor Don Joachim de

Zalabariata, "was in not bringing young men into your counsels."

"We shall have them hereafter," was the reply, also in a whisper.

"We shall see," muttered the Liberator, who continued, though in

silence, to scan the assembly with inquisitive eyes, and an excitement

of soul, which increased duly with his efforts to subdue it. He had

found some allies in the circle. Some few generous spirits, who,

responding to his desires, were anxious to be up and doing. But it was

only too apparent that the main body of the company had been rather

disquieted than warmed. In this condition of hopeless and speechless

indecision, the emotions of the Liberator became scarcely

controllable. His whole frame trembled with the anxiety and

indignation of his spirit. He paced the room hurriedly, passing from

group to group, appealing to individuals now, where hitherto he had

spoken collectively, and suggesting detailed arguments in behalf of

hopes and objects, which it does not need that we should incorporate

with our narrative. But when he found how feeble was the influence

which he exercised, and how cold was the echo to his appeal, he became

impatient, and no longer strove to modify the expression of that scorn

and indignation which he had for some time felt. The explosion

followed in no measured language.

"Men of Bogota, you are not worthy to be free. Your chains are

merited. You deserve your insecurities, and may embrace, even as ye

please, the fates which lie before you. Acquiesce in the tyranny which

offends no longer, but be sure that acquiescence never yet has

disarmed the despot when his rapacity needs a victim. Your lives and

possessions--which ye dare not peril in the cause of freedom--lie

equally at his mercy. He will not pause, as you do, to use them at his

pleasure. To save them from him there was but one way--to employ them

against him. There is no security against power but in power; and to

check the insolence of foreign strength you must oppose to it your

own. This ye have not soul to do, and I leave you to the destiny you

have chosen. This day, this night, it was yours to resolve. I have

periled all to move you to the proper resolution. You have denied me,

and I leave you. To-morrow--unless indeed I am betrayed

to-night"--looking with a sarcastic smile around him as he spoke--"I

shall unfurl the banner of the republic even within your own province,

in behalf of Bogota, and seek, even against your own desires, to

bestow upon you those blessings of liberty which ye have not the soul

to conquer for yourselves."

Hardly had these words been spoken, when the guitar again sounded from

within. Every ear was instantly hushed as the strain ascended--a

strain, more ambitious than the preceding, of melancholy and indignant

apostrophe. The improvisatrice was no longer able to control the

passionate inspiration which took its tone from the stern eloquence of

the Liberator. She caught from him the burning sentiment of scorn

which it was no longer his policy to repress, and gave it additional

effect in the polished sarcasm of her song. Our translation will

poorly suffice to convey a proper notion of the strain.

Then be it so, if serviles ye will be,

When manhood's soul had broken every chain,

'T were scarce a blessing now to make ye free,

For such condition tutored long in vain,

Yet may we weep the fortunes of our land,

Though woman's tears were never known to take

One link away from that oppressive band,

Ye have not soul, not soul enough to break!

Oh! there were hearts of might in other days,

Brave chiefs, whose memory still is dear to fame;

Alas for ours!--the gallant deeds we praise

But show more deeply red our cheeks of shame:

As from the midnight gloom the weary eye,

With sense that cannot the bright dawn forget,

Looks sadly hopeless, from the vacant sky,

To that where late the glorious day-star set!

Yet all's not midnight dark, if in your land

There be some gallant hearts to brave the strife;

One single generous blow from Freedom's hand

May speak again our sunniest hopes to life;

If but one blessed drop in living veins

Be worthy those who teach us from the dead,

Vengeance and weapons both are in your chains,

Hurled fearlessly upon your despot's head!

Yet, if no memory of the living past

Can wake ye now to brave the indignant strife,

'T were nothing wise, at least, that we should last

When death itself might wear a look of life!

Ay, when the oppressive arm is lifted high,

And scourge and torture still conduct to graves,

To strike, though hopeless still--to strike and die!

They live not, worthy freedom, who are slaves!

As the song proceeded, Bolivar stood forward as one wrapt in ecstasy.

The exultation brightened in his eye, and his manner was that of a

soul in the realization of its highest triumph. Not so the Bogotans by

whom he was surrounded. They felt the terrible sarcasm which the

damsel's song conveyed--a sarcasm immortalized to all the future, in

the undying depths of a song to be remembered. They felt the

humiliation of such a record, and hung their heads in shame. At the

close of the ballad, Bolivar exclaimed to Joachim de Zalabariata, the

father:

"Bring the child before us. She is worthy to be a prime minister. A

prime minister? No! the hero of the forlorn hope! a spirit to raise a

fallen standard from the dust, and to tear down and trample that of

the enemy. Bring her forth, Joachim. Had you _men_ of Bogota but a

tithe of a heart so precious! Nay, could her heart be divided amongst

them--it might serve a thousand--there were no viceroy of Spain within

your city now!"

And when the father brought her forth from the little cabinet, that

girl, flashing with inspiration--pale and red by turns--slightly made,

but graceful--very lovely to look upon--wrapt in loose white garments,

with her long hair, dark and flowing, unconfined, and so long that it

was easy for her to walk upon it[4]--the admiration of the Liberator

was insuppressible.

"Bless you forever," he cried, "my fair Priestess of Freedom! You, at

least, have a free soul, and one that is certainly inspired by the

great divinity of earth. You shall be mine ally, though I find none

other in all Bogota sufficiently courageous. In you, my child, in you

and yours, there is still a redeeming spirit which shall save your

city utterly from shame!"

[Footnote 4: A frequent case among the maids of South America.]

While he spoke, the emotions of the maiden were of a sort readily to

show how easily she should be quickened with the inspiration of lyric

song. The color came and went upon her soft white cheeks. The tears

rose, big and bright, upon her eyelashes--heavy drops, incapable of

suppression, that swelled one after the other, trembled and fell,

while the light blazed, even more brightly from the shower, in the

dark and dilating orbs which harbored such capacious fountains. She

had no words at first, but, trembling like a leaf, sunk upon a cushion

at the feet of her father, as Bolivar, with a kiss upon her forehead,

released her from his clasp. Her courage came back to her a moment

after. She was a thing of impulse, whose movements were as prompt and

unexpected as the inspiration by which she sung. Bolivar had scarcely

turned from her, as if to relieve her tremor, when she recovered all

her strength and courage. Suddenly rising from the cushion, she seized

the hand of her father, and with an action equally passionate and

dignified, she led him to the Liberator, to whom, speaking for the

first time in that presence, she thus addressed herself:

"_He_ is yours--he has always been ready with his life and money.

Believe me, for I know it. Nay, more! doubt not that there are

hundreds in Bogota--though they be not here--who, like him, will be

ready whenever they hear the summons of your trumpet. Nor will the

women of Bogota be wanting. There will be many of them who will take

the weapons of those who use them not, and do as brave deeds for their

country as did the dames of Magdalena when they slew four hundred

Spaniards".[5]

"Ah! I remember! A most glorious achievement, and worthy to be writ in

characters of gold. It was at Mompox where they rose upon the garrison

of Morillo. Girl, you are worthy to have been the chief of those women

of Magdalena. You will be chief yet of the women of Bogota. I take

your assurance with regard to them; but for the men, it were better

that thou peril nothing even in thy speech."

The last sarcasm of the Liberator might have been spared. That which

his eloquence had failed to effect was suddenly accomplished by this

child of beauty. Her inspiration and presence were electrical. The old

forgot their caution and their years. The young, who needed but a

leader, had suddenly found a genius. There was now no lack of the

necessary enthusiasm. There were no more scruples. Hesitation yielded

to resolve. The required pledges were given--given more abundantly

than required; and raising the slight form of the damsel to his own

height, Bolivar again pressed his lips upon her forehead, gazing at

her with a respectful delight, while he bestowed upon her the name of

the Guardian Angel of Bogota. With a heart bounding and beating with

the most enthusiastic emotions--too full for further utterance, La

Pola disappeared from that imposing presence, which her coming had

filled with a new life and impulse.

[Footnote 5: This terrible slaughter took place on the night of the

16th June, 1816, under the advice, and with the participation of the

women of Mompox, a beautiful city on an island in the River Magdalena.

The event has enlisted the muse of many a native patriot and poet, who

grew wild when they recalled the courage of

"Those dames of Magdalena,

Who, in one fearful night,

Slew full four hundred tyrants,

Nor shrunk from blood in fright."

Such women deserve the apostrophe of Macbeth to his wife:

"Bring forth men children only."]

It was nearly dawn when the Liberator left the city. That night the

bleaching skeleton of the venerable patriot Hermano was taken down

from the gibbet where it had hung so long, by hands that left the

revolutionary banner waving proudly in its place. This was an event to

startle the viceroy. It was followed by other events. In a few days

more and the sounds of insurrection were heard throughout the

province--the city still moving secretly--sending forth supplies and

intelligence by stealth, but unable to raise the standard of

rebellion, while Zamano, the viceroy, doubtful of its loyalty,

remained in possession of its strong places with an overawing force.

Bolivar himself, under these circumstances, was unwilling that the

patriots should throw aside the mask. Throughout the province,

however, the rising was general. They responded eagerly to the call of

the Liberator, and it was easy to foresee that their cause must

ultimately prevail. The people in conflict proved themselves equal to

their rulers. The Spaniards had been neither moderate when strong, nor

were they prudent now when the conflict found them weak. Still, the

successes were various. The Spaniards had a foothold from which it was

not easy to expel them, and were in possession of resources, in arms

and material, derived from the mother country, with which the

republicans found it no easy matter to contend. But they did contend,

and this, with the right upon their side, was the great guaranty for

success. What the Colombians wanted in the materials of warfare, was

more than supplied by their energy and patriotism; and however slow in

attaining their desired object, it was yet evident to all, except

their enemies, that the issue was certainly in their own hands.

For two years that the war had been carried on, the casual observer

could, perhaps, see but little change in the respective relations of

the combatants. The Spaniards still continued to maintain their

foothold wherever the risings of the patriots had been premature or

partial. But the resources of the former were hourly undergoing

diminution, and the great lessening of the productions of the country,

incident to its insurrectionary condition, had subtracted largely from

the temptations to the further prosecution of the war. The hopes of

the patriots naturally rose with the depression of their enemies, and

their increasing numbers and improving skill in the use of their

weapons, not a little contributed to their endurance and activity. But

for this history we must look to other volumes. The question for us is

confined to an individual. How, in all this time, had La Pola redeemed

her pledge to the Liberator--how had she whom he had described as the

"guardian genius of Bogota," adhered to the enthusiastic faith which

she had voluntarily pledged to him in behalf of herself and people?

Now, it may be supposed that a woman's promise, to participate in the

business of an insurrection, is not a thing upon which much stress is

to be laid. We are apt to assume for the sex a too humble capacity for

high performances, and a too small sympathy with the interests and

affairs of public life. In both respects we are mistaken. A proper

education for the sex would result in showing their ability to share

with man in all his toils, and to sympathize with him in all the

legitimate concerns of manhood. But what, demands the caviler, can be

expected of a child of fifteen; and should her promises be held

against her for rigid fulfillment and performance? It might be enough

to answer that we are writing a sober history. There is the record.

The fact is as we give it. But a girl of fifteen, in the warm

latitudes of South America, is quite as mature as the northern maiden

of twenty-five; with an ardor in her nature that seems to wing the

operations of the mind, making that intuitive with her, which, in the

person of a colder climate is the result only of long calculation and

deliberate thought. She is sometimes a mother at twelve, and, as in

the case of La Pola, a heroine at fifteen. We freely admit that

Bolivar, though greatly interested in the improvisatrice, was chiefly

grateful to her for the timely rebuke which she administered, through

her peculiar faculty of lyric song, to the unpatriotic inactivity of

her countrymen. As a matter of course, he might still expect that the

same muse would take fire under similar provocation hereafter. But he

certainly never calculated on other and more decided services at her

hands. He misunderstood the being whom he had somewhat contributed to

inspire. He did not appreciate her ambition, or comprehend her

resources. From the moment of his meeting with her she became a woman.

She was already a politician as she was a poet. Intrigue is natural to

the genius of the sex, and the faculty is enlivened by the possession

of a warm imagination. La Pola put all her faculties in requisition.

Her soul was now addressed to the achievement of some plan of

co-operation with the republican chief, and she succeeded where wiser

persons must have failed in compassing the desirable facilities.

Living in Bogota--the stronghold of the enemy--she exercised a policy

and address which disarmed suspicion. Her father and his family were

to be saved and shielded, while they remained under the power of the

viceroy, Zamano, a military despot who had already acquired a

reputation for cruelty scarcely inferior to that of the worst of the

Roman emperors in the latter days of the empire. The wealth of her

father, partly known, made him a desirable victim. Her beauty, her

spirit, the charm of her song and conversation, were exercised, as

well to secure favor for him, as to procure the needed intelligence

and assistance for the Liberator. She managed the twofold object with

admirable success--disarming suspicion, and under cover of the

confidence which she inspired, succeeding in effecting constant

communication with the patriots, by which she put into their

possession all the plans of the Spaniards. Her rare talents and beauty

were the chief sources of her success. She subdued her passionate and

intense nature--her wild impulse and eager heart--employing them only

to impart to her fancy a more impressive and spiritual existence. She

clothed her genius in the brightest and gayest colors, sporting above

the precipice of feeling, and making of it a background and a relief

to heighten the charm of her seemingly willful fancy. Song came at her

summons, and disarmed the serious questioner. In the eyes of her

country's enemies she was only the improvisatrice--a rarely gifted

creature, living in the clouds, and totally regardless of the things

of earth. She could thus beguile from the young officers of the

Spanish army, without provoking the slightest apprehension of any

sinister object, the secret plan and purpose--the new supply--the

contemplated enterprise--in short, a thousand things which, as an

inspired idiot, might be yielded to her with indifference, which, in

the case of one solicitous to know, would be guarded with the most

jealous vigilance. She was the princess of the tertulia--that mode of

evening entertainment so common, yet so precious, among the Spaniards.

At these parties she ministered with a grace and influence which made

the house of her father a place of general resort. The Spanish

gallants thronged about her person, watchful of her every motion, and

yielding always to the exquisite compass, and delightful spirituality

of her song. At worst, they suspected her of no greater offence than

of being totally heartless with all her charms, and of aiming at no

treachery more dangerous than that of making conquests, only to deride

them. It was the popular qualification of all her beauties and

accomplishments that she was a coquette, at once so cold, and so

insatiate. Perhaps, the woman politician never so thoroughly conceals

her game as when she masks it with the art which men are most apt to

describe as the prevailing passion of her sex.

By these arts, La Pola fulfilled most amply her pledges to the

Liberator. She was, indeed, his most admirable ally in Bogota. She

soon became thoroughly conversant with all the facts in the condition

of the Spanish army--the strength of the several armaments, their

disposition and destination--the operations in prospect, and the

opinions and merits of the officers--all of whom she knew, and from

whom she obtained no small knowledge of the worth and value of their

absent comrades. These particulars, all regularly transmitted to

Bolivar, were quite as much the secret of his success, as his own

genius and the valor of his troops. The constant disappointment and

defeat of the royalist arms, in the operations which were conducted in

the Province of Bogota, attested the closeness and correctness of her

knowledge, and its vast importance to the cause of the patriots.

Unfortunately, however, one of her communications was intercepted, and

the cowardly bearer, intimidated by the terrors of impending death,

was persuaded to betray his employer. He revealed all that he knew of

her practices, and one of his statements, namely, that she usually

drew from her shoe the paper which she gave him, served to fix

conclusively upon her the proofs of her offence. She was arrested in

the midst of an admiring throng, presiding with her usual grace at the

tertulia, to which her wit and music furnished the eminent

attractions. Forced to submit, her shoes were taken from her feet in

the presence of the crowd, and in one of them, between the sole and

the lining, was a memorandum designed for Bolivar, containing the

details, in anticipation, of one of the intended movements of the

viceroy. She was not confounded, nor did she sink beneath this

discovery. Her soul seemed to rise rather into an unusual degree of

serenity and strength. She encouraged her friends with smiles and the

sweetest seeming indifference, though she well knew that her doom was

certainly at hand. She had her consolations even under this

conviction. Her father was in safety in the camp of Bolivar. With her

counsel and assistance he would save much of his property from the

wreck of confiscation. The plot had ripened in her hands almost to

maturity, and before very long Bogota itself would speak for liberty

in a formidable _pronunciamento_. And this was mostly her work! What

more was done, by her agency and influence, may be readily conjectured

from what has been already written. Enough, that she herself felt that

in leaving life she left it when there was little more left for her to

do.

La Pola was hurried from the tertulia before a military court--martial

law then prevailing in the capital--with a rapidity corresponding with

the supposed enormity of her offences. It was her chief pang that she

was not hurried there alone. We have not hitherto mentioned that she

had a lover, one Juan de Sylva Gomero, to whom she was affianced--a

worthy and noble youth, who entertained for her the most passionate

attachment. It is a somewhat curious fact, that she kept him wholly

from any knowledge of her political alliances; and never was man more

indignant than he when she was arrested, or more confounded when the

proofs of her guilt were drawn from her person. His offence consisted

in his resistance to the authorities who seized her. There was not the

slightest reason to suppose that he knew or participated at all in her

intimacy with the patriots and Bolivar. He was tried along with her,

and both condemned--for at this time condemnation and trial were words

of synonimous import--to be shot. A respite of twelve hours from

execution was granted them for the purposes of confession. Zamano, the

viceroy, anxious for other victims, spared no means to procure a full

revelation of all the secrets of our heroine. The priest who waited

upon her was the one who attended on the viceroy himself. He held out

lures of pardon in both lives, here and hereafter, upon the one

condition only of a full declaration of her secrets and accomplices.

Well might the leading people of Bogota tremble all the while. But she

was firm in her refusal. Neither promises of present mercy, nor

threats of the future, could extort from her a single fact in relation

to her proceedings. Her lover, naturally desirous of life,

particularly in the possession of so much to make it precious, joined

in the entreaties of the priest; but she answered him with a mournful

severity that smote him like a sharp weapon,

"Gomero! did I love you for this? Beware, lest I hate you ere I die!

Is life so dear to you that you would dishonor both of us to live? Is

there no consolation in the thought that we shall die together?"

"But we shall be spared--we shall be saved," was the reply of the

lover.

"Believe it not--it is false! Zamano spares none. Our lives are

forfeit, and all that we could say would be unavailing to avert your

fate or mine. Let us not lesson the value of this sacrifice on the

altars of our country, by any unworthy fears. If you have ever loved

me, be firm. I am a woman, but I am strong. Be not less ready for the

death-shot than is she whom you have chosen for your wife."

Other arts were employed by the despot for the attainment of his

desires. Some of the native citizens of Bogota, who had been content

to become the creatures of the viceroy, were employed to work upon her

fears and affections, by alarming her with regard to persons of the

city whom she greatly esteemed and valued, and whom Zamano suspected.

But their endeavors were met wholly with scorn. When they entreated

her, among other things, "to give peace to our country," the phrase

seemed to awaken all her indignation.

"Peace! peace to our country!" she exclaimed. "What peace! the peace

of death, and shame, and the grave, forever!" And her soul again found

relief only in its wild lyrical overflows.

What, peace for our country! when ye've made her a grave,

A den for the tyrant, a cell for the slave;

A pestilent plague-spot, accursing and curst,

As vile as the vilest, and worse than the worst.

The chain may be broken, the tyranny o'er,

But the sweet charms that blessed her ye may not restore;

Not your blood, though poured forth from life's ruddiest vein,

Shall free her from sorrows, or cleanse her from stain!

'Tis the grief that ye may not remove the disgrace,

That brands with the blackness of hell all your race;

'Tis the sorrow that nothing may cleanse ye of shame,

That has wrought us to madness, and filled us with flame.

Years may pass, but the memory deep in our souls,

Shall make the tale darker as Time onward rolls;

And the future that grows from our ruin shall know

Its own, and its country's and liberty's foe.

And still in the prayer at its altars shall rise,

Appeal for the vengeance of earth and of skies;

Men shall pray that the curse of all time may pursue,

And plead for the curse of eternity too!

Nor wantonly vengeful in spirit their prayer,

Since the weal of the whole world forbids them to spare;

What hope would there be for mankind if our race,

Through the rule of the brutal, is robbed by the base?

What hope for the future--what hope for the free?

And where would the promise of liberty be,

If Time had no terror, no doom for the slave,

Who would stab his own mother, and shout o'er her grave!

Such a response as this effectually silenced all those cunning agents

of the viceroy who urged their arguments in behalf of their country.

Nothing, it was seen, could be done with a spirit so inflexible; and

in his fury Zamano ordered the couple forth to instant execution.

Bogota was in mourning. Its people covered their heads, a few only

excepted, and refused to be seen or comforted. The priests who

attended the victims received no satisfaction as concerned the secrets

of the patriots; and they retired in chagrin, and without granting

absolution to either victim. The firing party made ready. Then it

was, for the first time, that the spirit of this noble maiden seemed

to shrink from the approach of death.

"Butcher!" she exclaimed, to the viceroy, who stood in his balcony,

overlooking the scene of execution. "Butcher! you have then the heart

to kill a woman!"

These were the only words of weakness. She recovered herself

instantly, and, preparing for her fate, without looking for any effect

from her words, she proceeded to cover her face with the _saya_, or

veil, which she wore. Drawing it aside for the purpose, the words

"_Vive la Patria!_" embroidered in letters of gold, were discovered on

the _basquina_. As the signal for execution was given, a distant hum,

as of the clamors of an approaching army, was heard fitfully to rise

upon the air.

"It is he! He comes! It is Bolivar! It is the Liberator!" was her cry,

in a tone of hope and triumph, which found its echo in the bosom of

hundreds who dared not give their hearts a voice. It was, indeed, the

Liberator. Bolivar was at hand, pressing onward with all speed to the

work of deliverance; but he came too late for the rescue of the

beautiful and gifted damsel to whom he owed so much. The fatal bullets

of the executioners penetrated her heart ere the cry of her exultation

had subsided from the ear. Thus perished a woman worthy to be

remembered with the purest and proudest who have done honor to nature

and the sex; one who, with all the feelings and sensibilities of the

woman, possessed all the pride and patriotism, the courage, the

sagacity and the daring of the man.

TO THE EAGLE.

BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

Imperial bird! that soarest to the sky--

Cleaving through clouds and storms thine upward way--

Or, fixing steadfastly that dauntless eye,

Dost face the great, effulgent god of day!

Proud monarch of the feathery tribes of air!

My soul exulting marks thy bold career,

Up, through the azure fields, to regions fair,

Where, bathed in light, thy pinions disappear.

Thou, with the gods, upon Olympus dwelt,

The emblem, and the favorite bird of Jove--

And godlike power in thy broad wings hast felt

Since first they spread o'er land and sea to rove:

From Ida's top the Thunderer's piercing sight

Flashed on the hosts which Ilium did defy;

So from thy eyrie on the beetling height

Shoot down the lightning-glances of thine eye!

From his Olympian throne Jove stooped to earth

For ends inglorious in the god of gods!

Leaving the beauty of celestial birth,

To rob Humanity's less fair abodes:

Oh, passion more rapacious than divine,

That stole the peace of innocence away!

So, when descend those tireless wings of thine,

They stoop to make defenselessness their prey.

Lo! where thou comest from the realms afar!

Thy strong wings whir like some huge bellows' breath--

Swift falls thy fiery eyeball, like a star,

And dark thy shadow as the pall of death!

But thou hast marked a tall and reverend tree,

And now thy talons clinch yon leafless limb;

Before thee stretch the sandy shore and sea,

And sails, like ghosts, move in the distance dim.

Fair is the scene! Yet thy voracious eye

Drinks not its beauty; but with bloody glare

Watches the wild-fowl idly floating by,

Or snow-white sea-gull winnowing the air:

Oh, pitiless is thine unerring beak!

Quick, as the wings of thought, thy pinions fall--

Then bear their victim to the mountain-peak

Where clamorous eaglets flutter at thy call.

Seaward again thou turn'st to chase the storm,

Where winds and waters furiously roar!

Above the doomed ship thy boding form

Is coming Fate's dark shadow cast before!

The billows that engulf man's sturdy frame

As sport to thy careering pinions seem;

And though to silence sinks the sailor's name,

His end is told in thy relentless scream!

Where the great cataract sends up to heaven

Its sprayey incense in perpetual cloud,

Thy wings in twain the sacred bow have riven,

And onward sailed irreverently proud!

Unflinching bird! No frigid clime congeals

The fervid blood that riots in thy veins;

No torrid sun thine upborne nature feels--

The North, the South, alike are thy domains.

Emblem of all that can endure, or dare,

Art thou, bold eagle, in thy hardihood!

Emblem of Freedom, when thou cleav'st the air--

Emblem of Tyranny, when bathed in blood!

Thou wert the genius of Rome's sanguine wars--

Heroes have fought and freely bled for thee;

And here, above our glorious "stripes and stars,"

We hail thy signal wings of LIBERTY!

The poet sees in thee a type sublime

Of his far-reaching, high-aspiring Art!

His fancy seeks with thee each starry clime,

And thou art on the signet of his heart.

Be _still_ the symbol of a spirit free,

Imperial bird! to unborn ages given--

And to my soul, that it may soar like thee,

Steadfastly looking in the eye of HEAVEN.

_FIEL A LA MUERTE, OR TRUE LOVE'S DEVOTION.

A TALE OF THE TIMES OF LOUIS QUINZE.

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF "THE ROMAN TRAITOR," "MARMADUKE

WYVIL," "CROMWELL," ETC._

(_Continued from page 12._)

PART II.

The castle of St. Renan, like the dwellings of many of the nobles of

Bretagne and Gascony, was a superb old pile of solid masonry towering

above the huge cliffs which guard the whole of that iron coast with

its gigantic masses of rude masonry. So close did it stand to the

verge of these precipitous crags on its seaward face, that whenever

the wind from the westward blew angrily and in earnest, the spray of

the tremendous billows which rolled in from the wide Atlantic, and

burst in thunder at the foot of those stern ramparts, was dashed so

high by the collision that it would often fall in salt, bitter rain,

upon the esplanade above, and dim the diamond-paned casements with its

cold mists.

For leagues on either side, as the spectator stood upon the terrace

above and gazed out on the expanse of the everlasting ocean, nothing

was to be seen but the saliant angles or deep recesses formed by the

dark, gray cliffs, unrelieved by any spot of verdure, or even by that

line of silver sand at their base, which often intervenes between the

rocks of an iron coast and the sea. Here, however, there was no such

intermediate step visible; the black face of the rocks sunk sheer and

abrupt into the water, which, by its dark green hue indicated to the

practiced eye, that it was deep and scarcely fathomable to the very

shore.

In places, indeed, where huge caverns opening in front to the vast

ocean, which had probably hollowed them out of the earth-fast rock in

the course of succeeding ages, yawned in the mimicry of Gothic arches,

the entering tide would rush, as it were, into the bowels of the land,

roaring and groaning in those strange subterranean dungeons like some

strong prisoner, Typhon, Enceladus, or Ephialtes, in his immortal

agony. One of these singular vaults opened right in the base of the

rock on the summit of which stood the castle of St. Renan, and into

this the billows rushed with rapidity so tumultuous and terrible that

the fishers of that stormy coast avowed that a vortex was created in

the bay by their influx or return seaward, which could be perceived

sensibly at a league's distance; and that to be caught in it, unless

the wind blew strong and steadily off land, was sure destruction.

However that might be, it is certain that this great subterranean

tunnel extended far beneath the rocks into the interior of the land,

for at the distance of nearly two miles from the castle, directly

eastward, in the bottom of a dark, wooded glen, which runs for many

miles nearly parallel to the coast, there is a deep, rocky well, or

natural cavity, of a form nearly circular, which, when the tide is up,

is filled to over-flowing with bitter sea-water, on which the bubbles

and foam-flakes show the obstacles against which it must have striven

in its landward journey. At low water, on the contrary, "the Devil's

Drinking Cup," for so it is named by the superstitious peasantry of

the neighborhood, presents nothing to the eye but a deep, black abyss,

which the country folks, of course, assert to be bottomless. But, in

truth, its depth is immense, as can easily be perceived, if you cast a

stone into it, by the length of time during which it may be heard

thundering from side to side, until the reverberated roar of its

descent appears to die away, not because it has ceased, but because

the sound is too distant to be conveyed to human ears.

On this side of the castle every thing differs as much as it is

possible to conceive from the view to the seaward, which is grim and

desolate as any ocean scenery the world over. Few sails are ever seen

on those dangerous coasts; all vessels bound to the mouth of the

Garonne, or southward to the shores of Spain, giving as wide a berth

as possible to its frightful reefs and inaccessible crags, which to

all their other terrors add that, from the extraordinary prevalence of

the west wind on that part of the ocean, of being, during at least

three parts of the year, a _lee_ shore.

Inland, however, instead of the bleak and barren surface of the ever

stormy sea, indented into long rolling ridges and dark tempestuous

hollows, all was varied and smiling, and gratifying to every sense

given by nature for his good to man. Immediately from the brink of the

cliffs the land sloped downward southwardly and to the eastward, so

that it was bathed during all the day, except a few late evening

hours, in the fullest radiance of the sunbeams. Over this immense

sloping descent the eye could range from the castle battlements, for

miles and miles, until the rich green champaign was lost in the blue

haze of distance. And it was green and gay over the whole of that vast

expanse, here with the dense and unpruned foliage of immemorial

forests, well stocked with every species of game, from the gaunt wolf

and the tusky boar, to the fleet roebuck and the timid hare; here with

the trim and smiling verdure of rich orchards, in which nestled around

their old, gray shrines the humble hamlets of the happy peasantry; and

every where with the long intersecting curves, and sinuous irregular

lines of the old hawthorn hedges, thick set with pollard trees and

hedgerow timber, which make the whole country, when viewed from a

height, resemble a continuous tract of intermingled glades and

copices, and which have procured for an adjoining district, the well

known, and in after days, far celebrated name of the Bocage.

Immediately around the castle, on the edge as it were of this

beautiful and almost boundless slope, there lay a large and well-kept

garden in the old French style, laid out in a succession of terraces,

bordered by balustrades of marble, adorned at frequent intervals by

urns and statues, and rendered accessible each from the next below by

flights of ornamented steps of regular and easy elevation; pleached

bowery walks, and high clipped hedges of holly, yew and hornbeam, were

the usual decorations of such a garden, and here they abounded to an

extent that would have gladdened the heart of an admirer of the tastes

and habits of the olden time. In addition to these, however, there

were a profusion of flowers of the choicest kinds known or cultivated

in those days--roses and lilies without number, and honeysuckles and

the sweet-scented clematis, climbing in bountiful luxuriance over the

numberless seats and bowers which every where tempted to repose.

Below this beautiful garden a wide expanse of smooth, green turf,

dotted here and there with majestic trees, and at rarer intervals

diversified with tall groves and verdant coppices, covered the whole

descent of the first hill to the dim wooded dell which has been

mentioned as containing the singular cavity known throughout the

country as the "Devil's Drinking Cup." This dell, which was the limit

of Count de St. Renan's demesnes in that direction, was divided from

the park by a ragged paling many feet in height, and of considerable

strength, framed of rough timber from the woods, the space within

being appropriated to a singular and choice breed of deer, imported

from the East by one of the former counts, who, being of an

adventurous and roving disposition, had sojourned for some time in the

French settlements of Hindostan. Beyond this dell again, which was

defended on the outer side by a strong and lofty wall of brick, all

over-run with luxuriant ivy, the ground rose in a small rounded knoll,

or hillock of small extent, richly wooded, and crowned by the gray

turrets and steep flagged roofs of the old chateau d'Argenson.

This building, however, was as much inferior in size and stateliness

to the grand feudal fortalice of St. Renan, as the little round-topped

hill on which it stood, so slightly elevated above the face of the

surrounding country as to detract nothing, at least in appearance,

from its general slope to the south-eastward, was lower than the great

rock-bound ridge from which it overlooked the territories, all of

which had in distant times obeyed the rule of its almost princely

dwellers.

The sun of a lovely evening in the latter part of July had already

sunk so far down in the west that only half of its great golden disc

was visible above the well-defined, dark outline of the seaward crags,

which relieved by the glowing radiance of the whole western sky,

stood out massive and solid like a huge purple wall, and seemed so

close at hand that the spectator could almost persuade himself that he

had but to stretch out his arm, in order to touch the great barrier,

which was in truth several miles distant.

Over the crest, and through the gaps of this continuous line of

highland, the long level rays streamed down in the slope in one vast

flood of golden glory, which was checkered only by the interminable

length of shadows which were projected from every single tree, or

scattered clump, from every petty elevation of the soil, down the soft

glimmering declivity.

Three years had elapsed since the frightful fate of the unhappy Lord

of Kerguelen, and the various incidents, which in some sort took their

origin from the nature of his crime and its consequence, affecting in

the highest degree the happiness of the families of St. Renan and

D'Argenson.

Three years had elapsed--three years! That is a little space in the

annals of the world, in the life of nations, nay, in the narrow

records of humanity. Three years of careless happiness, three years of

indolent and tranquil ease, unmarked by any great event, pass over our

heads unnoted, and, save in the gray hairs which they scatter, leave

no memorial of their transit, more than the sunshine of a happy summer

day. They are, they are gone, they are forgotten.

Even three years of gloom and sorrow, of that deep anguish which at

the time the sufferer believes to be indelible and everlasting, lag on

their weary, desolate course, and when they too are over-passed, and

he looks back upon their transit, which seemed so painfully

protracted, and, lo! all is changed, and _their_ flight also is now

but as an ended minute.

And yet what strange and sudden changes altering the affairs of men,

changing the hearts of mortals, yea, revolutionizing their whole

intellects, and over-turning their very natures--more than the

devastating earthquake or the destroying lava transforms the face of

the everlasting earth--have not been wrought, and again well nigh

forgotten within that little period.

Three years had passed, I say, over the head of Raoul de Douarnez--the

three most marked and memorable years in the life of every young

man--and from the ingenuous and promising stripling, he had now become

in all respects a man, and a bold and enterprising man, moreover, who

had seen much and struggled much, and suffered somewhat--without which

there is no gain of his wisdom here below--in his transit, even thus

far, over the billows and among the reefs and quicksands of the world.

His father had kept his promise to that loved son in all things, nor

had the Sieur d'Argenson failed of his plighted faith. The autumn of

that year, the spring of which saw Kerguelen die in unutterable agony,

saw Raoul de Douarnez the contracted and affianced husband of the

lovely and beloved Melanie.

All that was wanted now to render them actually man and wife, to

create between them that bond which, alone of mortal ties, man cannot

sunder, was the ministration of the church's holiest rite, and that,

in wise consideration of their tender years, was postponed until the

termination of the third summer.

During the interval it was decided that Raoul, as was the custom of

the world in those days, especially among the nobility, and most

especially among the nobility of France, should bear arms in active

service, and see something of the world abroad, before settling down

into the easier duties of domestic life. The family of St. Renan,

since the days of that ancestor who has been already mentioned as

having sojourned in Pondicherry, had never ceased to maintain some

relations with the East Indian possessions of France, and a relation

of the house in no very remote degree was at this time military

governor of the French East Indias, which were then, previous to the

unexampled growth of the British empire in the East, important,

flourishing, and full of future promise.

Thither, then, it was determined that Raoul should go in search of

adventures, if not of fortune, in the spring following the signature

of his marriage contract with the young demoiselle d'Argenson. And,

consequently, after a winter passed in quiet domestic happiness on the

noble estates, whereon the gentry of Britanny were wont to reside in

almost patriarchal state--a winter, every day of which the young

lovers spent in company, and at every eve of which they separated more

in love than they were at meeting in the morning--Raoul set sail in a

fine frigate, carrying several companies of the line, invested with

the rank of ensign, and proud to bear the colors of his king, for the

shores of the still half fabulous oriental world.

Three years had passed, and the boy had returned a man, the ensign had

returned a colonel, so rapid was the promotion of the nobility of the

sword in the French army, under the ancient regime; and--greatest

change of all, ay, and saddest--the Viscount of Douarnez had returned

Count de St. Renan. An infectious fever, ere he had been one year

absent from the land of his birth, had cut off his noble father in the

very pride and maturity of his intellectual manhood; nor had his

mother lingered long behind him whom she had ever loved so fondly. A

low, slow fever, caught from that beloved patient whom she had so

affectionately nurtured, was as fatal to her, though not so suddenly,

as it had proved to her good lord; and when their son returned to

France full of honors achieved, and gay anticipations for the future,

he found himself an orphan, the lord in lonely and unwilling state of

the superb demesnes which had so long called his family their owners.

There never in the world was a kinder heart than that which beat in

the breast of the young soldier, and never was a family more strictly

bound together by all the kindly influences which breed love and

confidence, and domestic happiness among all the members of it, than

that of St. Renan. There had been nothing austere or rigid in the

bringing up of the gallant boy; the father who had at one hour been

the tutor and the monitor, was at the next the comrade and the

playmate, and at all times the true and trusted friend, while the

mother had been ever the idolized and adored protectress, and the

confidante of all the innocent schemes and artless joys of boyhood.

Bitter, then, was the blow stricken to the very heart of the young

soldier, when the first tidings which he received, on landing in his

loved France, was the intelligence that those--all those, with but one

exception--whom he most tenderly and truly loved, all those to whom he

looked up with affectionate trust for advice and guidance, all those

on whom he relied for support in his first trials of young manhood,

were cold and silent in the all absorbing tomb.

To him there was no hot, feverish ambition prompting him to grasp

joyously the absolute command of his great heritage. In his heart

there was none of that fierce yet sordid avarice which finds

compensation for the loss of the scarce-lamented dead in the severance

of the dearest natural bonds, in the possession of wealth, or the

promise of power. Nor was this all, for, in truth, so well had Raoul

de Douarnez been brought up, and so completely had wisdom grown up

with his growth, that when, at the age of nineteen years, he found

himself endowed with the rank and revenues of one of the highest and

wealthiest peers of France, and in all but mere name his own

master--for the Abbe de Chastellar, his mother's brother, who had been

appointed his guardian by his father's will, scarcely attempted to

exercise even a nominal jurisdiction over him--he felt himself more

than ever at a loss, deprived as he was, when he most needed it, of

his best natural counsellor; and instead of rejoicing, was more than

half inclined to lament over the almost absolute self-control with

which he found himself invested.

Young hearts are naturally true themselves, and prone to put trust in

others; and it is rarely, except in a few dark and morose and gloomy

natures, which are exceptions to the rule and standard of human

nature, that man learns to be distrustful and suspicious of his kind,

even after experience of fickleness and falsehood may have in some

sort justified suspicions, until his head has grown gray.

And this in an eminent degree was the case with Raoul de St. Renan,

for henceforth he must be called by the title which his altered state

had conferred upon him.

His natural disposition was as trustful and unsuspicious as it was

artless and ingenuous; and from his early youth all the lessons which

had been taught him by his parents tended to preserve in him

unblemished and unbroken that bright gem, which once shattered never

can be restored, confidence in the truth, the probity, the goodness of

mankind.

Some ruder schooling he had met in the course of his service in the

eastern world--he had already learned that men, and--harder knowledge

yet to gain--women also, can feign friendship, ay, and love, where

neither have the least root in the heart, for purposes the vilest,

ends the most sordid. He had learned that bosom friends can be secret

foes; that false loves can betray; and yet he was not disenchanted

with humanity, he had not even dreamed of doubting, because he had

fallen among worldly-minded flatterers and fickle-hearted coquettes,

that absolute friendship and unchangeable love may exist, even in

this evil world, stainless and incorruptible among all the changes and

chances of this mortal life.

If he had been deceived, he had attributed the failure of his hopes

hitherto to the right cause--the fallacy of his own judgment, and the

error of his own choice; and the more he had been disappointed, the

more firmly had he relied on what he felt certain could not change,

the affection of his parents, the love of his betrothed bride.

On the very instant of his landing he found himself shipwrecked in his

first hope; and on his earliest interview with his uncle, in Paris, he

had the agony--the utter and appalling agony to undergo--of hearing

that in the only promise which he had flattered himself was yet left

to him, he was destined in all probability to undergo a deeper,

deadlier disappointment.

If Melanie d'Argenson had been a lovely girl, the good abbe said, when

she was budding out of childhood into youth, so utterly had she

outstripped all the promise of her girlhood, that no words could

describe, no imagination suggest to itself the charms of the mature

yet youthful woman. There was no other beauty named, when loveliness

was the theme, throughout all France, than that of the young betrothed

of Raoul de Douarnez. And that which was so loudly and so widely

bruited abroad, could not fail to reach the ever open, ever greedy

ears of the vile and sensual tyrant who sat on the throne of France at

that time, heaping upon his people that load of suffering and anguish

which was in after times to be avenged so bitterly and bloodily upon

the innocent heads of his unhappy descendants.

Louis had, moreover, heard years before, nay, looked upon the nascent

loveliness of Melanie d'Argenson, and, with that cold-blooded

voluptuary, to look on beauty was to lust after it, to lust after it

was to devote all the powers his despotism could command to win it.

Hence, as the Abbe de Chastellar soon made his unfortunate nephew and

pupil comprehend, a settled determination had arisen on the part of

the odious despot to break off the marriage of the lovely girl with

the young soldier whom it was well known that she fondly loved, and to

have her the wife of one who would be less tender of his honor, and

less reluctant to surrender, or less difficult to be deprived of a

bride, too transcendently beautiful to bless the arms of a subject,

even if he were the noblest of the noble.

All this was easily arranged, the base father of Melanie was willing

enough to sell his exquisite and virtuous child to the splendid infamy

of becoming a king's paramour, and the yet baser Chevalier de la

Rochederrien was eager to make the shameful negotiation easy, and to

sanction it to the eyes of the willingly hoodwinked world, by giving

his name and rank to a woman, who was to be his wife but in name, and

whose charms and virtue he had precontracted to make over to another.

The infamous contract had been agreed upon by the principal actors;

nay, the wages of the iniquity had been paid in advance. The Sieur

d'Argenson had grown into the comte of the same, with the

governorship of the town of Morlaix added, by the revenues of which to

support his new dignities; while the Chevalier de la Rochederrien had

become no less a personage than the Marquis de Ploermel, with a

captaincy of the mousquetaires, and heaven knows what beside of

honorary title and highly gilded sinecure, whereby to reconcile him to

such depth of sordid infamy as the meanest galley-slave could have

scarce undertaken as the price of exchange between his fetters and his

oar, and the great noble's splendor.

Such were the tidings which greeted Raoul on his return from honorable

service to his king--service for which he was thus repaid; and, before

he had even time to reflect on the consequences, or to comprehend the

anguish thus entailed upon him, his eyes were opened instantly to

comprehension of two or three occurrences which previously he had been

unable to explain to himself, or even to guess at their meaning by any

exercise of ingenuity. The first of these was the singular ignorance

in which he had been kept of the death of his parents by the

government officials in the East, and the very evident suppression of

the letters which, as his uncle informed him, had been dispatched to

summon him with all speed homeward.

The second was the pertinacity with which he had been thrust forward,

time after time, on the most desperate and deadly duty--a pertinacity

so striking, that, eager as the young soldier was, and greedy of any

chance of winning honor, it had not failed to strike him that _he_ was

frequently _ordered_ on duty of a nature which, under ordinary

circumstances, is performed by volunteers.

Occurrences of this kind are soon remarked in armies, and it had early

become a current remark in the camp that to serve in Raoul's company

was a sure passport either to promotion or to the other world. But to

such an extent was this carried, that when time after time that

company had been decimated, even the bravest of the brave experienced

an involuntary sinking of the heart when informed that they were

transferred or even promoted into those fatal ranks.

Nor was this all, for twice it had occurred, once when he was a

captain in command of a company, and again when he had a whole

regiment under his orders as its colonel, that his superiors, after

detaching him on duty so desperate that it might almost be regarded as

a forlorn hope, had entirely neglected either to support or recall

him, but had left him exposed to almost inevitable destruction.

In the first instance, not a man whether officer or private of his

company had escaped, with the exception of himself. And he was found,

when all was supposed to be over, in the last ditch of the redoubt

which he had been ordered to defend to the uttermost, after it had

been retaken, with his colors wrapped around his breast, still

breathing a little, although so cruelly wounded that his life was long

despaired of, and was only saved at last by the vigor and purity of an

unblemished and unbroken constitution. On the second occasion, he had

been suffered to contend alone for three entire days with but a

single battalion against a whole oriental army; but then, that which

had been intended to destroy him had won him deathless fame, for by a

degree of skill in handling his little force, which had by no means

been looked for in so young an officer, although his courage and his

conduct were both well known, he had succeeded in giving a bloody

repulse to the over-whelming masses of the enemy, and when at length

he was supported--doubtless when support was deemed too late to avail

him aught--by a few hundred native horse and a few guns, he had

converted that check into a total and disastrous route.

So palpable was the case, that although Raoul suspected nothing of the

reasons which had led to that disgraceful affair, he had demanded an

inquiry into the conduct of his superior; and that unfortunate

personage being clearly convicted of unmilitary conduct, and having

failed in the end which would have justified the means in the eyes of

the voluptuous tyrant, was ruthlessly abandoned to his fate, and

actually died on the scaffold with a gag in his mouth, as did the

gallant Lally a few years afterward, to prevent his revelation of the

orders which he had received, and for obeying which he perished.

All this, though strange and even extraordinary, had failed up to this

moment to awaken any suspicion of undue or treasonable agency in the

mind of Raoul.

But now as his uncle spoke the scales fell from his eyes, and he saw

all the baseness, all the villany of the monarch and his satellites in

its true light.

"Is it so? Is it, indeed, so?" he said mournfully. And it really

appeared that grief at detecting such a dereliction on the part of his

king, had a greater share in the feelings of the noble youth than

indignation or resentment. "Is it, indeed, so?" he said, "and could

neither my father's long and glorious services, nor my poor conduct

avail aught to turn him from such infamy! But tell me," he continued,

the blood now mounting fiery red to his pale face, "tell me this,

uncle, is she true to me? Is she pure and good? Forgive me, Heaven,

that I doubt her, but in such a mass of infamy where may a man look

for faith or virtue? Is Melanie true to me, or is she, too, consenting

to this scheme of infamous and loathsome guilt?"

"She was true, my son, when I last saw her," replied the good

clergyman, "and you may well believe that I spared no argument to urge

her to hold fast to her loyalty and faith, and she vowed then by all

that was most dear and holy that nothing should induce her ever to

become the wife of Rochederrien. But they carried her off into the

province, and have immured her, I have heard men say, almost in a

dungeon, in her father's castle, for now above a twelvemonth. What has

fallen out no one as yet knows certainly; but it is whispered now that

she has yielded, and the court scandal goes that she has either wedded

him already, or is to do so now within a few days. It is said that

they are looked for ere the month is out in Paris."

"Then I will to horse, uncle," replied Raoul, "before this night is

two hours older for St. Renan."

"Great Heaven! To what end, Raoul. For the sake of all that is good!

By your father's memory! I implore you, do nothing rashly."

"To know of my own knowledge if she be true or false, uncle."

"And what matters it, Raoul? My boy, my unhappy boy! False or true she

is lost to you alike, and forever. You have that against which to

contend, which no human energy can conquer."

"I know not the thing which human energy cannot conquer, uncle. It is

years now ago that my good father taught me this--that there is no

such word as _cannot_! I have proved it before now, uncle abbe; I may,

should I find it worth the while, prove it again, and that shortly. If

so, let the guilty and the traitors look to themselves--they were

best, for they shall need it!"

Such was the state of St. Renan's affections and his hopes when he

left the gay capital of France, within a few hours after his arrival,

and hurried down at the utmost speed of man and horse into Bretagne,

whither he made his way so rapidly that the first intimation his

people received of his return from the east was his presence at the

gates of the castle.

Great, as may be imagined, was the real joy of the old true-hearted

servitors of the house, at finding their lord thus unexpectedly

restored to them, at a time when they had in fact almost abandoned

every hope of seeing him again. The same infernal policy which had

thrust him so often, as it were, into the very jaws of death, which

had intercepted all the letters sent to him from home, and taken, in

one word, every step that ingenuity could suggest to isolate him

altogether in that distant world, had taken measures as deep and

iniquitous at home to cause him to be regarded as one dead, and to

obliterate all memory of his existence.

Three different times reports so circumstantial, and accompanied by

such minute details of time and place as to render it almost

impossible for men to doubt their authenticity, had been circulated

with regard to the death of the young soldier, and as no tidings had

been received of him from any more direct source, the last news of his

fall had been generally received as true, no motive appearing why it

should be discredited.

His appearance, therefore, at the castle of St. Renan, was hailed as

that of one who had been lost and was now found, of one who had been

dead, and lo! he was alive. The bancloche of the old feudal pile rang

forth its blithest and most jovial notes of greeting, the banner with

the old armorial bearings of St. Renan was displayed upon the keep,

and a few light pieces of antique artillery, falcons and culverins and

demi-cannon, which had kept their places on the battlements since the

days of the leagues, sent forth their thunders far and wide over the

astonished country.

So generally, however, had the belief of Raoul's death been

circulated, and so absolute had been the credence given to the rumor,

that when those unwonted sounds of rejoicing were heard to proceed

from the long silent walls of St. Renan, men never suspected that the

lost heir had returned to enjoy his own again, but fancied that some

new master had established his claim to the succession, and was thus

celebrating his investiture with the rights of the Counts of St.

Renan.

Nor was this wonderful, for ocular proof was scarce enough to satisfy

the oldest retainers of the family of the young lord's identity; and

indeed ocular proof was rendered in some sort dubious by the great

alteration which had taken place in the appearance of the personage in

question.

Between the handsome stripling of sixteen and the grown man of twenty

summers there is a greater difference than the same lapse of time will

produce at any other period of human life. And this change had been

rendered even greater than usual by the burning climate to which Raoul

had been exposed, by the stout endurance of fatigues which had

prematurely enlarged and hardened his youthful frame, and above all by

the dark experience which had spread something of the thoughtful cast

of age over the smooth and gracious lineaments of boyhood.

When he left home the Viscount de Douarnez was a slight, slender,

graceful stripling, with a fair, delicate complexion, a profusion of

light hair waving in soft curls over his shoulders, a light elastic

step, and a frame, which, though it showed the promise already of

strength to be attained with maturity, was conspicuous as yet for ease

and agility and pliability rather than for power or robustness.

On his return, he had lost, it is true, no jot of his gracefulness or

ease of demeanor, but he had shot up and expanded into a tall,

broad-shouldered, round-chested, thin-flanked man, with a complexion

burned to the darkest hue of which a European skin is susceptible, and

which perhaps required the aid of the full soft blue eye to prove it

to be European--with a glance as quick, as penetrating, and at the

same time as calm and steady as that of the eagle when he gazes

undazzled at the noontide splendor.

His hair had been cut short to wear beneath the casque which was still

carried by cavaliers, and had grown so much darker that this

alteration alone would have gone far to defy the recognition of his

friends. He wore a thick dark moustache on his upper lip, and a large

_royal_, which we should nowadays call an _imperial_, on his chin.

The whole aspect and expression of face, moreover, was altered, even

in a greater degree than his complexion, or his person. All the quick,

sparkling play and mobility of feature, the sharp flash of rapidly

succeeding sentiments, and strong emotions, expressed on the ingenuous

face, as soon as they were conceived within the brain--all these had

disappeared completely--disappeared, never to return.

The grave composure of the thoughtful, self-possessed, experienced

soldier, sufficient in himself to meet every emergency, every

alternation of fortune, had succeeded the imaginative, impulsive ardor

of the impetuous, gallant boy.

There was a shadow, too, a heavy shadow of something more than

thought--for it was, in truth, deep, real, heartfelt melancholy,

which lent an added gloom to the cold fixity of eye and lip, which had

obliterated all the gay and gleeful flashes which used, from moment to

moment, to light up the countenance so speaking and so frank in its

disclosures.

Yet it would have been difficult to say whether Raoul de St. Renan,

grave, dark and sorrowful as he now showed, was not both a handsomer

and more attractive person than he had been in his earlier days, as

the gay and thoughtless Viscount de Douarnez.

There was a depth of feeling, as well as of thought, now perceptible

in the pensive brow and calm eye; and if the ordinary expression of

those fine and placid lineaments was fixed and cold, that coldness and

rigidity vanished when his face was lighted up by a smile, as quickly

as the thin ice of an April morning melts away before the first

glitter of the joyous sunbeams.

Nor were the smiles rare or forced, though not now as habitual as in

those days of youth unalloyed by calamity, and unsunned by passion,

which, once departed, never can return in this world.

The morning of the young lord's arrival passed gloomily enough; it was

the very height of summer, it is true, and the sun was shining his

brightest over field and tree and tower, and every thing appeared to

partake of the delicious influence of the charming weather, and to put

on its blithest and most radiant apparel.

Never perhaps had the fine grounds, with their soft mossy sloping

lawns, and tranquil brimful waters and shadowy groves of oak and elm,

great immemorial trees, looked lovelier than they did that day to

greet their long absent master.

But, inasmuch as nothing in this world is more delightful, nothing

more unmixed in its means of conveying pleasure, than the return,

after long wanderings in foreign climes, among vicissitudes and cares,

and sorrows, to an unchanged and happy home, where the same faces are

assembled to smile on your late return which wept at your departure,

so nothing can be imagined sadder or more depressing to the spirit

than so returning to find all things inanimate unchanged, or if

changed, more beautiful and brighter for the alteration, but all the

living, breathing, sentient creatures--the creatures whose memory has

cheered our darkest days of sorrow, whose love we desire most to find

unaltered--gone, never to return, swallowed by the cold grave, deaf,

silent, unresponsive to our fond affection.

Such was St. Renan's return to the house of his fathers. Until a few

short days before he had pictured to himself his father's moderate and

manly pleasure, his mother's holy kiss and chastened rapture at

beholding once again, at clasping to her happy bosom, the son, whom

she sent forth a boy, returned a man worthy the pride of the most

ambitious parent.

All this Raoul de St. Renan had anticipated, and bitter, bitter was

the pang when he perceived all this gay and glad anticipation thrown

to the winds irreparably.

There was not a room in the old house, not a view from a single

window, not a tree in the noble park, not a winding curve of a

trout-stream glimmering through the coppices, but was in some way

connected with his tenderest and most sacred recollections, but had a

memory of pleasant hours attached to it, but recalled the sound of the

kindliest and dearest words couched in the sweetest tones, the sight

of persons but to think of whom made his heart thrill and quiver to

its inmost core.

And for hours he had wandered through the long echoing corridors, the

stately and superb saloons, feeling their solitude as if it had been

actual presence weighing upon his soul, and peopling every apartment

with the phantoms of the loved and lost.

Thus had the day lagged onward, and as the sun stooped toward the west

darker and sadder had become the young man's fancies; and he felt as

if his last hope were about to fade out with the fading light of the

declining day-god. So gloomy, indeed, were his thoughts, so sadly had

he become inured to wo during the last few days, so certainly had the

reply to every question he had asked been the very bitterest and most

painful he could have met, that he had, in truth, lacked the courage

to assure himself of that on which he could not deny to himself that

his last hope of happiness depended. He had not ventured yet even to

ask of his own most faithful servants, whether Melanie d'Argenson, who

was, he well knew, living scarcely three bow-shots distant from the

spot where he stood, was true to him, was a maiden or a wedded wife.

And the old servitors, well aware of the earnest love which had

existed between the young people, and of the contract which had been

entered into with the consent of all parties, knew not how their young

master now stood affected toward the lady, and consequently feared to

speak on the subject.

At length when he had dined some hours, while he was sitting with the

old bailiff, who had been endeavoring to seduce him into an

examination of I know not what of rents and leases, dues and droits,

seignorial and manorial, while the bottles of ruby-colored Bordeaux

wine stood almost untouched before them, the young man made an effort,

and raising his head suddenly after a long and thoughtful silence,

asked his companion whether the Comte d'Argenson was at that time

resident at the chateau.

"Oh, yes, monseigneur," the old man returned immediately, "he has been

here all the summer, and the chateau has been full of gay company from

Paris. Never such times have been known in my days. Hawking parties

one day, and hunting matches the next, and music and balls every

night, and cavalcades of bright ladies, and cavaliers all

ostrich-plumes and cloth of gold and tissue, that you would think our

old woods here were converted into fairy land. The young lady Melanie

was wedded only three days since to the Marquis de Ploermel; but you

will not know him by that name, I trow. He was the chevalier only--the

Chevalier de la Rochederrien, when you were here before."

"Ah, they _are_ wedded, then," replied the youth, mastering his

passions by a terrible exertion, and speaking of what rent his very

heart-strings asunder as if it had been a matter which concerned him

not so much even as a thought. "I heard it was about to be so shortly,

but knew not that it had yet taken place."

"Yes, monsiegneur, three days since, and it is very strangely thought

of in the country, and very strange things are said on all sides

concerning it."

"As what, Matthieu?"

"Why the marquis is old enough to be her father, or some say her

grandfather for that matter, and little Rosalie, her fille-de-chambre,

has been telling all the neighborhood that Mademoiselle Melanie hated

him with all her heart and soul, and would far rather die than go to

the altar as his bride."

"Pshaw! is that all, good Matthieu?" answered the youth, very

bitterly--"is that all? Why there is nothing strange in that. That is

an every day event. A pretty lady changes her mind, breaks her faith,

and weds a man she hates and despises. Well! that is perfectly in

rule; that is precisely what is done every day at court. If you could

tell just the converse of the tale, that a beautiful woman had kept

her inclinations unchanged, her faith unbroken, her honor pure and

bright; that she had rejected a rich man, or a powerful man, because

he was base or bad, and wedded a poor and honorable one because she

loved him, then, indeed, my good Matthieu, you would be telling

something that would make men open their eyes wide enough, and marvel

what should follow. Is this all that you call strange?"

"You are jesting at me, monseigneur, for that I am country bred,"

replied the steward, staring at his youthful master with big eyes of

astonishment; "you cannot mean that which you say."

"I do mean precisely what I say, my good friend; and I never felt less

like jesting in the whole course of my life. I know that you good folk

down here in the quiet country judge of these things as you have

spoken; but that is entirely on account of your ignorance of court

life, and what is now termed nobility. What I tell you is strictly

true, that falsehood and intrigue, and lying, that daily sales of

honor, that adultery and infamy of all kinds are every day occurrences

in Paris, and that the wonders of the time are truth and sincerity,

and keeping faith and honor! This, I doubt not, seems strange to you,

but it is true for all that."

"At least it is not our custom down here in Bretagne," returned the

old man, "and that, I suppose, is the reason why it appears to be so

extraordinary to us here. But you will not say, I think, monsieur le

comte, that what else I shall tell you is nothing strange or new."

"What else will you tell me, Matthieu? Let us hear it, and then I

shall be better able to decide."

"Why they say, monsiegneur, that she is no more the Marquis de

Ploermel's wife than she is yours or mine, except in name alone; and

that he does not dare to kiss her hand, much less her lips; and that

they have separate apartments, and are, as it were, strangers

altogether. And that the reason of all this is that Ma'mselle Melanie

is never to be his wife at all, but that she is to go to Paris in a

few days, and to become the king's mistress. Will you tell me that

this is not strange, and more than strange, infamous, and dishonoring

to the very name of man and woman?"

"Even in this, were it true, there would be nothing, I am grieved to

say, very wondrous nowadays--for there have been several base and

terrible examples of such things, I am told, of late; for the rest, I

must sympathize with you in your disgust and horror of such doings,

even if I prove myself thereby a mere country hobereau, and no man of

the world, or of fashion. But you must not believe all these things to

be true which you hear from the country gossips," he added, desirous

still of shielding Melanie, so long as her guilt should be in the

slightest possible degree doubtful, from the reproach which seemed

already to attach to her. "I hardly can believe such things possible

of so fair and modest a demoiselle as the young lady of d'Argenson;

nor is it easy to me to believe that the count would consent to any

arrangement so disgraceful, or that the Chevalier de la Rocheder--I

beg his pardon, the Marquis de Ploermel, would marry a lady for such

an infamous object. I think, therefore, good Matthieu, that, although

there would not even in this be any thing very wonderful, it is yet

neither probable nor true."

"Oh, yes, it is true! I am well assured that it is true, monseigneur,"

replied the old man, shaking his head obstinately; "I do not believe

that there is much truth or honor in this lady either, or she would

not so easily have broken one contract, or forgotten one lover!"

"Hush, hush, Matthieu!" cried Raoul, "you forget that we were mere

children at that time; such early troth plightings are foolish

ceremonials at the best; beside, do you not see that you are

condemning me also as well as the lady?"

"Oh, that is different--that is quite different!" replied the old

steward, "gentlemen may be permitted to take some little liberties

which with ladies are not allowable. But that a young demoiselle

should break her contract in such wise is disgraceful."

"Well, well, we will not argue it to-night, Matthieu," said the young

soldier, rising and looking out of the great oriel window over the

sunshiny park; "I believe I will go and walk out for an hour or two

and refresh my recollections of old times. It is a lovely afternoon as

I ever beheld in France or elsewhere."

And with the word he took up his rapier which lay on a slab near the

table at which he had been sitting, and hung it to his belt, and then

throwing on his plumed hat carelessly, without putting on his cloak,

strolled leisurely out into the glorious summer evening.

For a little while he loitered on the esplanade, gazing out toward the

sea, the ridgy waves of which were sparkling like emeralds tipped with

diamonds in the grand glow of the setting sun. But ere long he turned

thence with a sigh, called up perhaps by some fancied similitude

between that bright and boundless ocean, desolate and unadorned even

by a single passing sail, and his own course of life so desert,

friendless and uncompanioned.

Thence he strolled listlessly through the fine garden, inhaling the

rare odors of the roses, hundreds of which bloomed on every side of

him, there in low bushes, there in trim standards, and not a few

climbing over tall trellices and bowery alcoves in one mass of living

bloom. He saw the happy swallow darting and wheeling to and fro

through the pellucid azure, in pursuit of their insect prey. He heard

the rich mellow notes of the blackbirds and thrushes, thousands and

thousands of which were warbling incessantly in the cool shadow of the

yew and holly hedges. But his diseased and unhappy spirit took no

delight in the animated sounds, or summer-teeming sights of rejoicing

nature. No, the very joy and merriment, which seemed to pervade all

nature, animate or inanimate around him, while he himself had no

present joys to elevate, no future promises to cheer him, rendered

him, if that were possible, darker and gloomier, and more mournful.

The spirits of the departed seemed to hover about him, forbidding him

ever again to admit hope or joy as an inmate to his desolate heart;

and, wrapt in these dark phantasies, with his brow bent, and his eyes

downcast, he wandered from terrace to terrace through the garden,

until he reached its farthest boundary, and then passed out into the

park, through which he strolled, almost unconscious whither, until he

came to the great deer-fence of the utmost glen, through a wicket of

which, just as the sun was setting, he entered into the shadowy

woodland.

Then a whole flood of wild and whirling thoughts rushed over his brain

at once. He had strolled without a thought into the very scene of his

happy rambles with the beloved, the faithless, the lost Melanie.

Carried away by a rush of inexplicable feelings, he walked swiftly

onward through the dim wild-wood path toward the Devil's Drinking Cup.

He came in sight of it--a woman sat by its brink, who started to her

feet at the sound of his approaching footsteps.

It was Melanie--alone--and if his eyes deceived him not, weeping

bitterly.

She gazed at him, at the first, with an earnest, half-alarmed,

half-inquiring glance, as if she did not recognize his face, and,

perhaps, apprehended rudeness, if not danger, from the approach of a

stranger.

Gradually, however, she seemed in part to recognize him. The look of

inquiry and alarm gave place to a fixed, glaring, icy stare of unmixed

dread and horror; and when he had now come to within six or eight

paces of her, still without speaking, she cried, in a wild, low voice,

"Great God! great God! has he come up from the grave to reproach me! I

am true, Raoul; true to the last, my beloved!"

And with a long, shivering, low shriek, she staggered, and would have

fallen to the earth had he not caught her in his arms.

But she had fainted in the excess of superstitious awe, and perceived

not that it was no phantom's hand, but a most stalwort arm of human

mould that clasped her to the heart of the living Raoul de St. Renan.

[_Conclusion in our next._

THE BLOCKHOUSE.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

Upon yon hillock in this valley's midst,

Where the low crimson sun lies sweetly now

On corn-fields--clustered trees--and meadows wide

Scattered with rustic homesteads, once there stood

A blockhouse, with its loop-holes, pointed roof,

Wide jutting stories, and high base of stone.

A hamlet of rough log-built cabins stood

Beside it; here a band of settlers dwelt.

One of the number, a gray stalwort man,

Still lingers on the crumbling shores of Time.

Old age has made him garrulous, and oft

I've listened to his talk of other days

In which his youth bore part. His eye would then

Flash lightning, and his trembling hand would clench

His staff, as if it were a rifle grasped

In readiness for the foe.

"One summer's day,"

Thus he commenced beside a crackling hearth

Whilst the storm roared without, "a fresh bright noon,

Us men were wending homeward from the fields,

Where all the breezy morning we had toiled.

I paused a moment on a grassy knoll

And glanced around. Our scythes had been at work,

And here and there a meadow had been shorn

And looked like velvet; still the grain stood rich;

The brilliant sunshine sparkled on the curves

Of the long drooping corn-leaves, till a veil

Of light seemed quivering o'er the furrowed green.

The herds were grouped within the pasture-fields,

And smokes curled lazily from the cabin-roofs.

'T was a glad scene, and as I looked my heart

Swelled up to Heaven in fervent gratitude.

Ha! from the circling woods what form steals out

Strait in my line of vision, then shrinks back!

'The savage! haste, men, haste! away, away!

The bloody savage!' 'T was that perilous time

When our young country stood in arms for right

And freedom, and, within the forests, each

Worked with his loaded rifle at his back.

We all unslung our weapons, and with hearts

Nerving for trial, flew toward our homes.

We reached them as wild whoopings filled the air,

And dusky forms came bounding from the woods.

We pressed toward the blockhouse, with our wives

And children madly shrieking in our midst.

But ere we reached it, like a torrent dashed

Our tawny foes amongst us. Oh that scene

Of dread and horror! Knives and tomahawks

Darted and flashed. In vain we poured our shots

From our long rifles; breast to breast, in vain,

And eye to eye, we fought. My comrades dropped

Around me, and their scalps were wrenched away

As they lay writhing. From our midst our wives

Were torn and brained; our shrieking infants dashed

Upon the bloody earth, until our steps

Were clogged with their remains. Still on we pressed

With our clubbed rifles, sweeping blow on blow;

But, one by one, my bleeding comrades fell,

Until my brother and myself alone

Remained of all our band. My wife had clung

Close to my side throughout the horrid strife,

I, warding off each blow, and struggling on.

And now we three were near the blockhouse-door,

Closed by a secret spring. My brother first

Its succor reached; it opened at his touch.

Just then an Indian darted to my side

And grasped my trembling wife"--the old man paused

And veiled his eyes, whilst shudderings shook his frame

As the wind shakes the leaf. "I saw her, youth,

Sink with one bitter shriek beneath the edge

Of his red, swooping hatchet. Turned to stone

I stood an instant, but my brother's hand

Dragged me within the blockhouse. As the door

Closed to the spring, and quick my brother thrust

The heavy bars athwart, for I was sick

With horror, piercing whoops of baffled rage

Echoed without. Recovering from my deep,

O'erwhelming stupor, as I heard those sounds

My veins ran liquid flame; with iron grasp

I clenched my rifle. From the loops we poured

Quick shots upon the foe, who, shrinking back,

To the low cabin-roofs applied the brand--

Up with fierce fury flashed the greedy flames.

Just then my brother thrust his head from out

A loop--quick cracked a rifle, and he fell

Dead on the planks. With yells that froze my blood,

A score of warriors at the blockhouse-door

Heaped a great pile of boughs. A streak of fire

Ran like a serpent through it, and then leaped

Broad up the sides. Through every loop-hole poured

Deep smoke, with now and then a fiery flash.

The air grew thick and hot, until I seemed

To breathe but flame. I staggered to a loop.

Dancing around with flourished tomahawks

I saw my horrid foes. But ha! that glimpse!

Again! oh can it be my wavering sight!

No, no, forms break from out the forest depths,

And hurry onward; gleaming arms I see.

Joy, joy, 't is coming succor! Swift they come,

Swift as the wind. The swarthy warriors gaze

Like startled deer. Crash, crash, now peal the shots

Amongst them, and with looks of fierce despair

They group together, aim a scattered fire,

Then seek to break with tomahawk and knife

Through the advancing circle, but in vain,

They fall beneath the stalwort blows of men

Who long had suffered under savage hate.

Hunters and settlers of the valley roused

At length to vengeance. With a rapid hand

The blockhouse-door I opened and rushed out,

Wielding my rifle. Youth, this arm is old

And withered now, but every blow I struck

Then made the blood-drops spatter to my brow,

Until I bathed in crimson. With deep joy

I felt the iron sink within the brain

And clatter on the bone, until the stock

Snapped from the barrel. But the fight soon passed,

And as the last red foe beneath my arm

Dropped dead, I sunk exhausted at the feet

Of my preservers. A wild, murky gloom,

Filled with fierce eyes, fell round me, but kind Heaven

Lifted at length the blackness; on my soul

The keen glare fell no more, and I arose

With the blue sky above me, and the earth

Laughing around in all its glorious beauty."

[Illustration: The Departure

From H. C. Corbould. Drawn with alterations & engraved by Geo. B.

Ellis Engraved expressly for Graham's Magazine]

THE DEPARTURE.

BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.

[Entered According to Act of Congress in the year 1848, by EDWARD

STEPHENS, in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the United

States for the Southern District of New York.]

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

CHAPTER I.

Oh do not look so bright and blest,

For still there comes a fear,

When hours like thine look happiest,

That grief is then most near.

There lurks a dread in all delight,

A shadow near each ray,

That warns us thus to fear their flight,

When most we wish their stay. MOORE.

Far down upon the Long Island shore, where the ocean heaves in wave

after wave from the "outer deep," forming coves of inimitable beauty,

promontories wooded to the brink, and broken precipices against which

the surf lashes continually, there stood, some thirty years ago, an

old mansion-house, with irregular and pointed roofs, low stoops,

gable-windows, in short, exhibiting all those architectural

eccentricities which our modern artists strive for so earnestly in

their studies of the picturesque. The dwelling stood upon the bend of

a cove; a forest of oaks spread away some distance behind the

dwelling, and feathered a point of land that formed the eastern circle

down to the water's edge.

In an opposite direction, and curving in a green sweep with the shore,

was a fine apple-orchard, and that end of the old house was completely

embowered by plum, pear and peach trees, that sheltered minor thickets

of lilac, cerenga, snow-ball and other blossoming shrubs. In their

season, the ground under this double screen of foliage was crimson

with patches of the dwarf rose, and the old-fashioned windows were

half covered with the tall graceful trees of that snow-white species

of the same queenly flower, which is only to be found in very ancient

gardens, and seldom even there at the present time. In front of the

old house was a flower-garden of considerable extent, lifted terrace

after terrace from the water, which it circled like a crescent. The

profusion of blossoms and verdure flung a sort of spring-like glory

around the old building until the autumn storms came up from the ocean

and swept the rich vesture from the trees, leaving the mansion-house

bold, unsheltered and desolate-looking enough.

The cove upon which this old house stood looked far out upon the

ocean; no other house was in sight, and it was completely sheltered

not only by a forest of trees but by the banks that, high and broken,

curved in at the mouth of the cove, narrowing the inlet, and forming

altogether a sea and land view scarcely to be surpassed.

The mansion-house was an irregular and ancient affair enough, everyway

unlike the half Grecian, half Gothic, or wholly Swiss specimens of

architecture with which Long Island is now scattered. Still, there

was a substantial appearance of comfort and wealth about it. Though

wild and of ancient growth all its trees were in good order, and

judiciously planted; well kept outhouses were sheltered by their

luxurious foliage, and to these were joined all those appliances to a

rich man's dwelling necessary to distinguish the old mansion as the

country residence of some wealthy merchant, who could afford to

inhabit it only in the pleasantest portion of the year.

It was the pleasantest portion of the year--May, bright, beautiful

May, with her world of blossoms and her dew-showers in the night. The

apple-orchard, the tall old pear-trees and the plum thickets were one

sheet of rosy or snow-white blossoms. The old oaks rose against the

sky, piled upon each other branch over branch, their rich foliage yet

blushing with a dusky red as it unfolded leaf by leaf to the air. The

flower-garden was azure and golden with violets, tulips, crocuses and

amaranths. In short, the old building, moss-covered though its roof

had become, and old-fashioned as it certainly was in all its angles,

might have been mistaken for one of the most lovely nooks in Paradise,

and the delusion never regretted.

I have said that it was spring-time--the air fragrance itself--the

birds brimful of music, soft and sweet as if they had fed only upon

the apple-blossoms that hung over them for months. Yet there was no

indication that the old house was inhabited. The windows were all

closed, the doors locked, and the greensward with the high box

borders, covered with a shower of snowy leaves that had been shaken

from the fruit-trees. Still, upon a strip of earth kept moist by the

shadows from a gable, was one or two slender footprints slightly

impressed, that seemed to have been very recently left. Again they

appeared upon a narrow-pointed stoop that ran beneath the windows of a

small room in an angle of the building, and from which there was a

door slightly ajar, with the same dewy footprint broken on the

threshold. Within this room there was a sound as of some one moving

softly, yet with impatience, to and fro--once a white hand clasped

itself on the door, and a beautiful face, flushed and agitated,

glanced through the opening and disappeared. Then followed an interval

of silence, save that the birds were making the woods ring with music,

and an old honeysuckle that climbed over the stoop shook again with

the humming-birds that dashed hither and thither among its crimson

bells.

Again the door was pushed open, and now not only the face but the

tall and beautifully proportioned figure of a young girl appeared on

the threshold. She paused a moment, hesitated, as if afraid to brave

the open air, and then stepped out upon the stoop, and bending over

the railing looked eagerly toward the grove of oaks, through which a

carriage-road wound up to the broad gravel-walk that led from the back

of the dwelling.

Nothing met her eye but the soft green of the woods, and after gazing

earnestly forth during a minute or two she turned, with an air of

disappointment, and slowly passed through the door again.

The room which she entered was richly furnished, but the upright

damask chairs, the small tables of dark mahogany, and two or three

cushions that filled the window recesses, were lightly clouded with

dust, such as accumulates even in a closed room when long unoccupied.

There was also a grand piano in the apartment, with other musical

instruments, all richly inlaid, but with their polish dimmed from a

like cause.

The lady seemed perfectly careless of all this disarray; she flung

herself on a high-backed damask sofa, and one instant buried her

flushed features in the pillows--the next, she would lift her head,

hold her breath and listen if among the gush of bird-songs and the hum

of insects she could hear the one sound that her heart was panting

for. Then she would start up, and taking a tiny watch from her bosom

snatch an impatient glance at the hands and thrust it back to its

tremulous resting-place again. Alas for thee, Florence Hurst! All this

emotion, this tremor of soul and body, this quick leaping of the blood

in thy young heart and thrilling of thy delicate nerves, in answer to

a thought, what does it all betoken? Love, love such as few women ever

experienced, such as no woman ever felt without keen misery, and

happiness oh how supreme! Happiness that crowds a heaven of love into

one exquisite moment, whose memory never departs, but like the perfume

that hangs around a broken rose, lingers with existence forever and

ever.

Florence loved passionately, wildly. Else why was she there in the

solitude of that lone dwelling? Her father's household was in the

city--no human being was in the old mansion to greet her coming, and

yet Florence was there--alone and waiting!

It was beyond the time! You could see that by the hot flush upon her

cheek, by the sparkle of her eyes--those eyes so full of pride,

passion and tenderness, over which the quick tears came flashing as

she wove her fingers together, while broken murmurs dropped from her

lips.

"Does he trifle with me--has he dared--"

How suddenly her attitude of haughty grief was changed! what a burst

of tender joy broke over those lovely features! How eagerly she dashed

aside the proud tears and sat down quivering like a leaf, and yet

striving--oh how beautiful was the strife!--to appear less impatient

than she was.

Yes, it was a footstep light and rapid, coming along the gravel-walk.

It was on the stoop--in the room--and before her stood a young man,

elegant, nay almost superb in his type of manliness, and endowed with

that indescribable air of fashion which is more pleasing than beauty,

and yet as difficult to describe as the perfume of a flower or the

misty descent of dews in the night.

The young girl up to this moment had been in a tumult of expectation,

but now the color faded from her cheek, and the breath as it rose

trembling from her bosom seemed to oppress her. It was but for a

moment. Scarcely had his hand closed upon hers when her heart was free

from the shadow that had fallen upon it, and a sweet joy possessed her

wholly. She allowed his arm to circle her waist unresisted, and when

he laid a hand caressingly on one cheek and drew the other to his

bosom, that cheek was glowing like a rose in the sunshine.

For some moments they sat together in profound silence, she trembling

with excess of happiness, he gazing upon her with a sort of sidelong

and singular expression of the eye, that had something calculating and

subtle in it, but which changed entirely when she drew back her head

and lifted the snowy lids that had closed softly over her eyes the

moment she felt the beating of his heart.

"And so you have come at last?" she said very softly, and drawing back

with a blush, as if the fond attitude she had fallen into were

something to which she had hitherto been unused. "Are you alone? I

thought--"

"I know, sweet one, I know that you will hardly forgive me," said the

young man, and his voice was of that low, rich tone that possesses

more than the power of eloquence. "But I could not persuade the

clergyman to come down hither in my company. Your father's power

terrifies him!"

"And he would not come? He refuses to unite us then--and we are

here--alone and thus!" cried Florence Hurst, withdrawing herself from

his arm.

"Not so, sweet one, your delicacy need not be startled thus. He is

coming with a friend, and will stop at the village till I send over to

say that all is quiet here. He is terribly afraid that the old

gentleman may suspect something and follow us."

"Alas, my proud old father!" cried Florence, for a moment giving way

to the thoughts of regretful tenderness that would find entrance to

her heart amid all its tumultuous feelings.

"And do you regret that you have risked his displeasure, which, loving

you as he does, must be only momentary, for one who adores you,

Florence?" replied the young man, in a tone of tender reproach that

thrilled over her heart-strings like music.

"No, no, I do not regret, I never can! but oh, how much of heaven

would be in this hour if he but approved of what we are about to do!"

"But he will approve in time, beloved, believe me he will," said the

young man, clasping both her hands in his and kissing them.

"Yes, yes, when he knows you better," cried Florence, making an effort

to cast off the shadow that lay upon her heart, "when he knows all

your goodness, all the noble qualities that have won the heart of your

Florence."

As Jameson bent his lips to the young girl's forehead they were curled

by a faint sneering smile. That smile was blended with the kiss he

imprinted there. It left no sting--the poison touched no one of the

delicate nerves that awoke and thrilled to the fanning of his breath,

and yet it would have been perceptible to an observer as the glitter

of a rattle-snake.

"I am sure you love me, Florence."

"Love you!" her breath swelled and fluttered as the words left her

lips. "Love! I fear--I know that all this is idolatry!"

"Else why are you here."

"Truly, most truly!"

"Risking all things, even reputation, for me, and I so unworthy."

"Reputation!" cried Florence, her pride suddenly stung with the venom

that lay within those honied words. "Not reputation, Jameson; I do not

risk that; I could not--it would be death!"

"And yet you are here, alone with me, beloved, in this old house."

"But I am here to become your wife--only to become your wife. I risk

my father's displeasure--I know that--I am disobedient, wicked, cruel

to him, but his good name--my own good name--no, no, nothing that I

have done should endanger that."

The proud girl was much agitated, and the dove-like fondness that had

brooded in her eyes a moment before began to kindle up to an

expression that the lover became earnest to change.

"You take me up too seriously," he said, attempting to draw her toward

him, but she resisted proudly. "I only spoke of _possible_ not

probable risk, and that because the clergyman would be persuaded to

come down here only on a promise that the marriage should be kept a

secret till some means could be found of reconciling the old

gentleman, or at any rate for a week or two."

"And you gave the promise," said Florence, while her beautiful

features settled into a grieved and dissatisfied expression. "You gave

this promise?"

"Why, Florence, what ails you? I had no choice. You had already left

home, and he would listen to no other terms."

"A week or two--our marriage kept secret so long," said Florence in a

tone of dissatisfaction. "You did well to say I was risking much for

you. My life had been little--but this--"

"And is this too much? Do you begin to regret, Florence?"

Nothing could have been more gentle, more replete with tenderness,

ardent but full of reproach, than the tone in which these words were

uttered. Florence lifted her eyes to his, tears came into them, and

then she smiled brightly once more.

"Oh! let us have done with this; I am nervous, agitated, unreasonable

I suppose; of course you have done right," she said, "but at first the

thoughts of this concealment terrified me."

"Hark! I hear wheels. It must be the clergyman and Byrne," said

Jameson, listening.

"And is a stranger coming," inquired Florence, "any one but the

clergyman? I was not prepared for that!"

"But we must have a witness. He is my friend, and one that can be

trusted. You need have no fear of Byrne."

"They are here!" said Florence, who had been listening with checked

breath, while her face waxed very pale. "It is the step of two persons

on the gravel. Let me go--let me go for an instant, this is no dress

for a bride," and she glanced hurriedly at her black silk dress,

relieved only by a frill of lace and a knot or two of rose-colored

ribbon.

"What matters it, beautiful as you always are."

"No, no, I cannot be married in black--I will not be married in

black," she cried hurriedly, and with a forced effort to be gay; "wait

ten minutes, I will but step to the chamber above and be with you

again directly."

Florence disappeared through a door leading into the main portion of

the building, while Jameson arose and went out to meet the two men,

who were now close by the stoop, and looking about as if undecided

what door to try at for admission.

"Let us take a stroll in the garden," he said, descending the steps,

"the lady is not quite ready yet; how beautiful the morning is," and

passing his arm through that of a man who seemed some years older than

himself, and who had accompanied the clergyman, he turned an angle of

the building. The clergyman followed them a pace or two, then

returning sat down upon the steps that led to the stoop and took off

his hat.

"This is a singular affair," he muttered, putting back the locks from

his forehead and bending his elbows upon his knees, with the deep sigh

of a man who finds the air deliciously refreshing, "I have half a mind

to pluck a handful of flowers, step into my chaise and go back to the

city again; but for the sweet young lady I would. There is something

about the young man that troubles me--what if my good-nature has been

imposed upon--what if old Mr. Hurst has deeper reasons than his

pride--that I would not bend to a minute--and he gives no other reason

if they tell me truly. This young man is his book-keeper, and so his

love is presumptuous. Probably old Hurst has imported a cargo of

aristocratic arrogance from Europe, and the young people tell the

truth. If so, why I will even marry them, and let the stately

gentleman make the best of it. Still, I half wish the thing had not

fallen upon me."

Meantime the bridegroom and his friend walked slowly toward the water.

"And so you have snared the bird at last," said Byrne.

"I did not think you could manage to get her down here. When did she

come?"

"Yesterday," said Jameson.

"Alone?"

"Quite alone; her father thinks her visiting a friend."

"But _you_ left the city yesterday."

"Yes."

"And not with her?"

"She came down alone--so did I."

"But directly after--ha!"

Jameson smiled, that same crafty smile that had curled his lips even

when they rested upon the forehead of Florence Hurst.

"And did she sanction this. By heavens! I would not have believed

it--so proud, so sensitive!"

"No, no, Byrne, to do Florence justice, she supposes that I came down

this morning; but the old house is large, and it was easy enough for

me to find a nook to sleep in, without her knowledge."

"But what object have you in this?"

"Why, as to my object, it is scarcely settled yet; but it struck me

that by this movement I might obtain a hold upon her father's family

pride, should his affection for Florence fail. The haughty old don

would hardly like it to be known in the city that his lovely

daughter--his only child--had spent the night alone, in an old

country-house, with her father's book-keeper."

"But how would he know this; surely you would not become the

informant?"

"Why, no!" replied Jameson, with a smile; "but I took a little pains

to inquire about the localities of this old nest up at the village.

The good people had seen Miss Hurst leave the stage an hour before and

walk over this way. It seems very natural that he may hear it from

that quarter."

Byrne looked at his companion a moment almost sternly, then dropping

his eyes to the ground, he began to dash aside the rich blossoms from

a tuft of pansies with his cane.

"You do not approve of this?" said Jameson, studying his companion's

countenance.

"No."

"Why, it can do no harm. What would the girl be to me without her

expectations. I tell you her father will pay any sum rather than allow

a shadow of disgrace to fall upon her. I will marry her at all

hazards; but it must be kept secret, and in a little time some hint of

this romantic excursion will be certain to reach head-quarters; and I

shall have the old man as eager for the marriage as any of us, and

ready to come down handsomely, too. I tell you it makes every thing

doubly sure."

"It may be so," said the other, in a dissatisfied manner.

"Well, like it or not, I can see no other way by which you will be

certain of the three thousand dollars that you won of me," replied

Jameson, coolly.

Byrne dashed his cane across the pansies, sending the broken blossoms

in a shower over the gravel-walks.

"Well, manage as you like, the affair is nothing to me, but it smacks

strongly of the scoundrel, Herbert, I can tell you that."

"Pah! this little plot of mine will probably amount to nothing. The

old gentleman may give in at once to the tears and caresses of my

sweet bride up yonder. Faith, I doubt if any man could resist her."

"More than probable--more than probable!" rejoined the other; "but I

should not like to be within the sight of that girl's eye if she ever

finds out the game you have been playing."

"Yes, it would be very likely to strike fire," replied Jameson,

carelessly; "but she loves me, and there is no slave like a woman that

loves. You will see that before the year is over, every spark that

flashes from her eyes I shall force back upon her heart till it burns

in, I can tell you. But there she is, all in bridal white, and

fluttering like a bird around the old stoop. Come, we must not keep

her waiting!"

Meantime, Florence Hurst had entered a little chamber, where, nineteen

years before, she first opened her eyes to the light of heaven. It was

at one end of the house, and across the window fell the massive boughs

of an old apple-tree, heaped with masses of the richest foliage, and

rosy with half-open blossoms. A curtain of delicate lace fluttered

before the open sash, bathed in fragrance, and through which the rough

brown of the limbs, the delicate green in which the rosy buds seemed

matted, gleamed as through a wreath of mist.

The night before Florence had left a robe of pure white muslin near

the window, exquisitely fine, but very simple, which was to be her

wedding-dress. It was strange, but a sort of faintness crept over her

heart as she saw the dress; and she sat down powerless, with both

hands falling in her lap, gazing upon it. For the moment her intellect

was clear, her heart yielded up to its new intuition. Her guardian

spirit was busy with her passionate but noble nature. She felt, for

the first time, in all its force, how wrong she was acting, how

indelicate was her situation. It seemed as if she were that moment

cast adrift from her father's love--from her own lofty

self-appreciation. The heart that had swelled and throbbed so warmly a

moment before, now lay heavy in her bosom, shrinking from the destiny

prepared for it. Just then the sound of a voice penetrated the thick

foliage of the fruit tree, and she started up once more full of

conflicting emotions. It was Jameson's voice that reached her as he

passed with his friend beneath the fruit trees. She heard no syllable

of what he was saying, but the very tone, as it came softened and low

through the perfume and sweetness that floated around her, was enough

to fling her soul into fresh tumult. How she trembled; how warm and

red came the passion-fire of that delicate cheek, as she flung the

black garment from off her superb form, and hurried on the bridal

array. It was very chaste, and utterly without pretension, that

wedding-dress, knots of snowy ribbon fastened it at the shoulders and

bosom, and the exquisite whiteness was unbroken save by the glow that

warmed her neck and bosom almost to a blush, and the purplish gloss

upon her tresses, that fell in raven masses down to her shoulders.

She took a glance in the old mirror, encompassed by its frame-work of

ebony, carved and elaborated at the top and bottom into a dark

net-work of fine filagree; she saw herself--a bride. Again the wing of

her guardian angel beat against her heart. The unbroken whiteness of

her array seemed to fold her like a shroud, and like that thing which

a shroud clings to, became the pallor which settled on her features;

for behind her own figure, and moving, as it were, in the background

of the mirror, she saw the image of her lover and his friend, talking

earnestly together. The friend stood with his back toward her, but

_his_ face she saw distinctly, and that smile was on his lips, cold,

crafty, almost contemptuous. Was it Jameson, or only something mocking

her from the mirror? She went to the window, drew aside the filmy

lace, and looked forth. Truly it was her lover; through an interstice

of the apple boughs she saw him distinctly, and he saw her--that

smile, surely the gloomy old mirror had reflected awry. How brilliant,

how full of love was the whole expression of his face. Again her heart

lighted up. She took a cluster of blossoms from the apple-tree bough,

and waving them lightly toward him, drew back. She left the room,

fastening the damp and fragrant buds in her hair as she went along,

for somehow she shrunk from looking into the old mirror again.

Now the guardian angel gave way to the passion spirit. Florence

entered the little boudoir, trembling with excitement, and warm with

blushes. The room was solitary, and she stepped out upon the

stoop--for her life she could not have composed herself to sit down

and wait a single instant. The clergyman was there sitting upon the

steps, thoughtful, and evidently yielding to the doubts that had

arisen in his kind but just nature too late. He arose as Florence came

upon the stoop, and slowly mounting the steps, took her hand and led

her back into the room.

"My dear young lady," he said very gravely, "I would hear from your

own lips what the impediments to this marriage really are. I scarce

know how to account for it. Nothing has happened to change the aspect

of affairs here; but within the last hour I have been troubled with

doubts and misgivings. Has all been done that can be to obtain your

father's consent?"

"I believe--I know that there has," replied Florence, instantly

saddened by the gravity of the clergyman.

"And his objections arose purely from pride--aristocratic pride?"

"I never heard any other reason given for withholding his consent,"

replied Florence. "To me he never gave a reason. His commands were

peremptory."

"And you have known this young man long?"

"I was but fifteen when he first came into my father's employ."

"And you love him with your whole heart?"

Florence lifted her eyes, and through the long black lashes flashed a

reply so eloquent, so beautiful, that it made even the quiet clergyman

draw a deep breath.

"Enough--I will marry them!" he said firmly. "I only wish the young

man may prove worthy of all this--"

His soliloquy was cut short by the appearance of Jameson and his

friend.

They were married--Florence Hurst, the only daughter and heiress of

the richest merchant in New York, to Jameson, the protegee and

book-keeper of her proud father.

They were married, and they were left alone in that picturesque old

country-house. And now, strange to say, Florence grew very sad; and as

Jameson sat by her, with one hand in his, and circling her waist with

his arm, she began to weep bitterly.

"Florence, Florence--how is this! why do you weep, beloved?"

"I do not know," said the bride, gently; "but since the good clergyman

has left us, my heart is heavy, and I feel alone."

"Do you not love me, Florence? Have you lost confidence in me?"

Florence lifted her eyes, shining with affection, and placed her hand

in his.

"But this secrecy troubles me. Let us tell my father at once," she

said, earnestly.

"But I have promised, shall I break a pledge, and that to the man of

God who has just given you to me forever and ever. Florence?"

"Surely his consent may be obtained. He said nothing of concealment to

me."

"And did you talk with him?" questioned Jameson, maintaining the same

tone in which his other questions had been put, but with a certain

sharpness in it.

"A little. He questioned me of the motives which induced my father to

oppose our marriage."

"And that was all?"

"Yes; you came in just then, and the rest seems like a dream."

"A blessed, sweet dream, Florence, for it made you my wife," said

Jameson.

Still Florence wept. "And now," she said, lifting her eyes timidly to

his, "let us return to the city; while this secrecy lasts I must see

you only in the presence of my father."

"Florence, is this distrust--is it dislike?" cried Jameson, startled

out of his usual self-command.

"Neither," said Florence, "you know that. You are certain of it as I

am myself. But I am your wife now, Herbert, and have both your honor

and my own to care for. My father has no power to separate us now, so

that fear which seemed to haunt you ever is at rest. But it is due to

myself, to him, and to you, that when you claim me as your wife, he

should know that I am such, though he may not approve."

Florence said all this very sweetly, but with a degree of gentle

firmness that seemed the more unassailable that it was sweet and

gentle. Before he could speak she withdrew herself from his arm, and

glided from the room. When quite alone, Jameson fell into an

unpleasant reverie, from which her return in the black silk dress,

with a bonnet and shawl on, aroused him.

"Come," she said, with a smile and a blush, "let us walk through the

oak woods, and across the meadows, we shall reach the village almost

as soon as the good clergyman and your friend. The reverend gentleman

will take care of me, I feel quite sure, and you can manage for

yourself. Here we must not remain another moment."

"Florence!"

"Nay, nay--whoever heard of a lady being thwarted on her

wedding-morning!" cried Florence--and she went out upon the stoop.

Jameson followed, and seemed to be expostulating; but she took his arm

and walked on, evidently unconvinced by all that he was saying, till

they disappeared in the oak woods.